Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m gonna die alone.” Matthew wails dramatically, flopping face first towards the sofa. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hanbin rolls his eyes. “I told you I got a friend who’s interested in you! I think you’ll really get along with him, Matt. Just one date, one date! Then you can decide whether you wanna keep seeing him or not.”

“But I don’t want your friend, I want Gunwook.” Matthew grumbles, voice muffled by the cushion he’s lying face down on.

They are currently seated around the coffee table of Matthew’s living room for their scheduled weekly hangout, with Hanbin and Ricky trying to convince Matthew to agree to a blind date with Hanbin’s ‘hot, mysterious, and definitely gay’ friend (Hanbin’s words). The TV is playing some random Netflix show they put on but haven’t watched a single second of since it started. Usually, there would be six of them, but Gyuvin has class that’s running late and Hao still has violin classes to teach. As for Gunwook… Well, Matthew would rather not think about it.

“Well, too bad. He’s busy fucking his girl of the week.” Ricky chimes in, deadpan as always.

Damn it, Ricky. Thanks for rubbing that in my face. Matthew finally picks his head up enough to pull the cushion from under him and flings it at Ricky, earning an indignant sputter from the Chinese native. “What? Am I wrong? Listen, I’m not saying you’re dumb for falling for the straightest dude in the world–”

“Yes, you are.” Matthew squints at him.

“Okay, fine, I kinda am,” Ricky chuckles, moving to sit right by Matthew’s head on the sofa. “But don’t you think it’s time? You’ve been in love with him for what, four years now? You deserve someone who actually returns your feelings.” 

Hanbin leans back in the recliner, facing the other two on the sofa. “Ricky’s right, you know, Matt? You don’t deserve to live the rest of your life waiting on someone who won’t give you what you deserve.” 

Matthew turns to lie on his back, head resting against Ricky’s thigh. He shuts his eyes tight and sighs, “That’s the worst part. He does give me what I deserve… He just doesn’t have any feelings for me.”

“And don’t you think that’s a little weird?” Hanbin ponders. “Normal friends don’t act like that with each other.”

“Yeah, they do. You used to act the same way with Hao hyung!” Matthew counters, trying to dig up any excuse to explain Gunwook’s behaviour. 

“That’s because I had the fattest crush on him, Matthew! But Gunwook’s straight, the only reason I can think of to explain why he acts the way he does with you is so he can keep you wrapped around his finger.”

“He’s just very caring… And a little touchy, I guess,” Matthew defends. “He’s been like that with me since day one, I can’t just tell him to stop.”

Both Ricky and Hanbin know they can’t deny that, because it’s true. Anyone who doesn’t know them personally would think they were dating with how special Gunwook treats Matthew. Gunwook would go to the ends of the universe and steal a damn star for him if it meant Matthew would be happy, and the fact that Matthew is the only person he’d do this for makes it even more noticeable. 

The two had met at Ricky’s birthday party, instantly clicking with each other. They had talked all through the night, separated from the rest of the party crowd in the safety of Ricky’s bedroom balcony. From that night on, they had been inseparable. 

After a brief pause, Ricky finally breaks the silence, “Hyung, it’s not like we’re asking you to tell him to stop whatever weird ass behaviour he’s got going on with you, we just want you to realise that while it is true that he treats you differently, it’s all platonic.” 

Matthew rolls his eyes and looks up at Ricky, eyebrows stitched together in a frown, “You think I don’t know that? It’s not like I’m trying to fool myself into thinking he feels something for me. It’s just-...” Matthew pauses to collect his thoughts before continuing, “Is it selfish of me to say that I like pretending he feels the same way? Because that’s the only way I’ll ever know what being with him feels like.”

“Matthew, that’s not healthy–”

“I know…” Matthew huffs, not having enough energy to argue. 

“You gotta stop this, Matthew. The longer you let your feelings fester, the more you’re going to get hurt,” Hanbin argues, brows furrowed and lips downturned. Matthew knows this look. It’s the same disapproving look he gave Matthew when he found out the latter had let Gunwook go and respond to a booty call on his own birthday, ultimately breaking his own heart. That’s another story for another day, though. “Listen, I’m not trying to talk shit about him but you do know he’s never gonna change, right? He doesn’t do relationships, you of all people should know this.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just let him consume you like this while he’s out there living his life unaffected.” Ricky chided.

“I know.”

“He’s out there fucking some random girl he picked up from some fratboy party, while you’re over here pining like an obedient little puppy waiting for its master.”

“I know! I know, god, I know how pathetic I am. How the fuck did I even end up like this?” Matthew huffed, gripping his hair. “You both know it’s basically no use for me to try to go on dates anymore, anyway. Every relationship I’ve ever been in has ended terribly.”

Ricky scoffs out a bitter laugh, “And whose fault is that?”

Matthew finally sits up and turns to face Ricky, shocked at his tone. He doesn’t like where the conversation is going but he asks regardless, “What are you trying to say?”

“Every time we think you’re starting to finally get somewhere with someone, all he has to do is say ‘Hyung, I don’t think he’s right for you’ or ‘Hyung, I have a bad feeling about him’ and you just listen to him! And you wonder why all your past relationships were messy,” Ricky lets out a humourless laugh. “You keep prioritising his opinions over your exes’. You even prioritise his opinions over ours! When are you going to stop letting Gunwook have so much control over your relationships when he doesn’t even have the right to meddle in the first place?”

“He doesn’t meddle.”

“He does, Matthew, and you know it. Literally anyone can see he’s weirdly possessive over you. He gets to sleep with different people every other week but you don’t get to be in a relationship? How is that fair?” Hanbin adds, getting increasingly frustrated.

“The only reason he does this is because he’s selfish. He wants you to look at nobody else but him, and don’t even try to deny it because you know I’m right,” Ricky lifts a finger at Matthew right as his mouth opens to let out a protest. “He gets upset whenever you start talking to someone else and does everything in his power to stop you from getting further and you let him! Why, hyung?”

Ricky finally stops his nagging when he sees the state Matthew’s in. Matthew is hunched over with his head in his hands, his demeanour exhausted and low-spirited. If Matthew had known this hangout would have turned into an impromptu intervention, he would’ve faked being sick to avoid them - not that it would have worked, anyway.

Ricky wraps an arm around Matthew’s hunched shoulders and starts gently rubbing his arm, placating. “I’m not trying to be mean by laying this all out on you but I’m just trying to get you to understand, hyung… I don’t think you realise just how much he’s hurting you.”

“Who’s hurting Matthew hyung?” A voice calls out from the front door.

Matthew takes his hand off his face, looking past Ricky’s shoulder at the very man they’ve been talking about. He sees Gunwook kicking his shoes off and padding towards the living room where they’re all gathered. Matthew looks back at both Ricky and Hanbin in panic before asking, “How long have you been standing there?”

“I just got here, why? Who were you talking about? Why don’t I know anything about this? Are you seeing someone?” Gunwook questions.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s with the interrogation?” Hanbin retorts, sitting up to look at Gunwook properly.

Matthew finally takes this time to fully take in the sight of Gunwook. He’s dressed in a simple black tank top that shows off his well-toned arms and grey sweatpants that leave essentially nothing to the imagination. No wonder girls and boys alike drop like flies at his feet at the mere sight of him – Matthew included. His cheeks are flushed, hair messy like someone had run their fingers through his hair all night. Blotches of red bloom across his neck and chest sporadically, making Matthew’s chest tighten with that white-hot burn; a mixture of hurt and jealousy that he’s definitely not a stranger to. 

It’s clear just what he’s been up to prior to his arrival. Matthew avoids Gunwook’s fiery eyes, Hanbin and Ricky are right; there’s no reason for the younger to be so worked up over Matthew potentially seeing someone else, anyway. After all, they’re just friends.

Gunwook ignores Hanbin, his eyes never leaving Matthew.

“Hyung, answer me, are you seeing someone?” Gunwook insists, walking over to where Matthew was sitting.

“No, I’m not. It’s nothing,” Matthew dismisses, still refusing to meet Gunwook’s eyes. Matthew has the tendency to run away from conflict and Gunwook knows this, so he walks right up to where the older of the two was sitting, blocking him from getting away.

“If it’s nothing then why won’t you tell me?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell you! Just leave it, Wookie, please?” Matthew pleads, finally meeting Gunwook’s gaze. 

Gunwook scans his face, and Matthew knows he doesn’t believe him but he relents, anyway, nodding while sighing, “Fine.”

“Why are you here? I thought you said you couldn’t make it.” Matthew mumbles, averting his gaze from Gunwook’s intense stare.

“You know how it is, she passed out after the first round so I had to leave before she woke up.” Gunwook shrugs, stretching his arms while heading to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “She was boring, anyway. Way too vanilla for my liking.”

Matthew feels another pang in his chest at his response, bringing his knees up and hugging them to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. He’s gotta be a masochist for constantly putting himself through the pain of having to listen to Gunwook’s sexual endeavours. 

Ricky scrunches his nose in disgust, gagging, “No, we don’t know how it is, actually, because we’re decent human beings who don’t treat others like our own personal disposable sex toys. You’re disgusting.” 

“Hey, it’s not like I’m the only one taking pleasure from it. All my partners have given rave reviews about my services,” Gunwook chuckles. “Call it mutualism symbiosis.”

“You’ve basically slept with half of Seoul, at this rate, Gunwook. Don’t you think it’s time to settle down?” Hanbin replies, tired of Gunwook’s behaviour.

“And essentially throw my life away? Ha! No, thanks,” Gunwook guffaws, walking back to the living room and sitting down next to Matthew, throwing his arm around the smaller man. “Just because you choose to be boring with your husband doesn’t mean I gotta be, too.” 

The way Gunwook spits out the word ‘husband’ makes Matthew flinch, and with one glance at Hanbin, anyone could tell he didn’t appreciate it, either.

“I really don’t like the way you’re talking about Hao.” Hanbin glares at Gunwook, visibly annoyed. 

“Oh, come on, Hanbin hyung, you know I didn’t mean it like that… I love Hao hyung and you know it! Just stop your nagging and continue living your ‘perfect boyfriend’ life and I’ll live mine. Besides, half of Seoul is an exaggeration, anyway. It’s probably closer to, like, zero point zero zero zero three percent.” Gunwook winks, head thrown back in carefree laughter like he’s got nothing on his shoulders, unaware of the tension building in the room.

God, Matthew fucking hates this. Why did he have to go and fall for Gunwook of all people? Can you really blame him, though? When Gunwook isn’t talking about his hookups, though, there are the tender little moments they share just between the two of them that are enough to completely disarm him. 

When it’s just the two of them, Gunwook turns into something reminiscent of a hungry lion-turned-docile. He treats Matthew with the same gentleness as a sculptor does their creations. Sometimes, Matthew finds himself questioning whether Gunwook really doesn’t have feelings for him with the way the latter acts around him. But every time Matthew feels there might be the slightest chance that the other might feel the same way, any ounce of hope gets shattered when he finds Gunwook spending his night in another person’s bed.

Matthew shrinks further away from Gunwook, choosing to press closer against Ricky, which doesn’t go unnoticed. Gunwook takes Matthew’s hand and intertwines their fingers together, grip soft as ever. What’s supposed to be a soothing gesture only fosters a heavy feeling in his chest that won’t go away, like a heavy boot had stood on it and refused to step off. 

“Hey, I’m sorry, hyung. Did I say something to make you upset?” Gunwook murmured, tightening his arm around Matthew’s shoulder to pull him back closer to him. Matthew shakes his head despite the tight twisting in his heart, and lets himself be pulled closer to Gunwook.

Having heard and seen their silent exchange, Ricky shakes his head and scoffs, “God, you’re a fucking idiot, Geon. And you are too, hyung.”

“Ricky.” Matthew warns, sending the other a glare. Ricky rolls his eyes and stands up, heading towards the door.

Gunwook brings both his hands up in confusion and looks around. “Hey, don’t call Matthew hyung an idiot!” He calls out, his face resembling that of an angry teddy bear. “And what did I do?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Ricky murmurs, putting on his shoes. “I’m out, gotta pick Gyuvin up from class. We’re having dinner right after, though, do you guys wanna come?”

“Nah, I’ll be waiting for Hao to finish teaching, anyway. Guess, I’ll be heading out, too.” Hanbin steps up from the armchair and follows Ricky’s footsteps towards the front door. “Have fun, you two. And Matt, please, for the love of god, consider my offer, yeah?”

“What is he talking about?” Gunwook’s head whips back towards Matthew, brows knit together in confusion.

“Ignore him.” Matthew sighs, looking back towards the TV where it had now been showing the ‘Are you still watching?’ prompt on Netflix. 

He can tell Gunwook wants to pry, and he silently prays to whatever gods are listening to him that the taller of the two wouldn’t keep asking. There’s a beat of silence before Matthew turns to Gunwook, only to find him already staring at him, scrutinising every nook and curve of his face, trying to find an answer. The two spend another beat just looking at each other, tension so palpable you could cut it with a butter knife. There’s a mixture of confusion, uncertainty - and is that a hint of hurt? - swirling in Gunwook’s eyes, and Matthew wants nothing more than to blurt everything out, but he can’t. 

When the front door clicks shut, signalling the others’ departure, a thick, suffocating silence engulfs them.   

Gunwook finally breaks the silence, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “You don’t tell me anything anymore.” Matthew’s lips part ever so slightly in shock, not expecting those words laced with so much hurt to come out of Gunwook’s mouth. “Did I do something? Why have you been acting differently with me?”

“You didn’t, and I haven’t!” Matthew blurts out, desperate to keep Gunwook from feeling that way. “I-... It has nothing to do with you, okay?” 

It has everything to do with you.

“So there is something going on?” Gunwook presses, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Not really?” Gunwook gives an unamused look towards Matthew, not buying anything he’s saying right now. “Look, if it was serious I would have told you by now, but it’s not, so please, let’s just move on. What do you wanna watch?”

Matthew tries to subtly change the subject but it doesn’t work. Gunwook presses further, “If someone is hurting you like Ricky hyung mentioned then it is serious, hyung. Just tell me who it is and I’ll handle it.”

“It’s no one, Wookie, I promise you,” Matthew wants to scream ‘It’s you!’ to his face, but he stops himself. “Just trust me on this, please.” Matthew begs, his voice laced with exasperation.

Gunwook is unconvinced, but finally agrees to let it go. Matthew sighs in relief and puts on an episode of Single’s Inferno. They’re still tangled closely together on the sofa, Gunwook’s arms tightly wrapped around Matthew like the elder would float away if he didn’t hold onto him. 

As the night wears on, Matthew’s eyelids grow heavier, and with a simple glance at him, Gunwook gets the hint. He shuts off the TV and effortlessly picks the smaller man off the sofa, heading towards his own bedroom, not forgetting to bring both their phones with him to charge overnight.

Too tired to protest, Matthew mumbles, “You don’t have to carry me, you know? I’m a big boy.”

“Whatever you say, ‘big boy’.” Gunwook chuckles fondly, his gaze radiating with deep affection and tenderness. 

Even in his sleepy haze, Matthew feels his pulse quicken at the sight. If he really doesn’t feel the same way, why does he look at me the way I look at him? Gunwook gently places Matthew on his bed, not forgetting to tuck him in.

With a quick glance around the room, Matthew realises he wasn’t in his own bed. “Wait, why am I in your room?”

“I just wanna hold you tonight,” Gunwook murmurs, slipping under the covers right beside him.

“Don’t do that…” Matthew trails off before he can even process the words tumbling out of his mouth. Only now does he realise how right Ricky had been about how much he’s hurting. The ropes of this false hope he’s tied so tightly around his heart had started to dig into the flesh, forming wounds that have since been left untreated, and the heavy weight of his unrequited feelings had started to gnaw at the exposed flesh, leaving nothing in its wake. 

“Do what?” Gunwook asks, lying on his side to get a proper look at the smaller man. He pulls Matthew closer and closer and closer until he’s nothing but drowning in Gunwook’s scent, Gunwook’s presence, Gunwook’s entire being.

Gunwook encompasses all of Matthew’s senses, leaving no room to breathe. But even as he’s pressed against the very neck someone else had been leaving love bites on, even as he’s breathing in the barest hint of someone else’s fragrance he doesn’t recognise, even as his heart breaks with every breath he takes, he decides to indulge himself and revels in Gunwook’s tight hold. Matthew opts to just ignore Gunwook and pretend to be asleep.

Just then, right as he teeters on the brink of sleep, he hears it. The faintest whisper, laced with conviction and certainty, “I love you, Matthew hyung, more than anything. I hope you know that.”

Choking back tears, Matthew screws his eyes shut in hopes that he will drift off to sleep quicker. Then as Gunwook’s breaths begin to even out as he slips off towards a deep slumber, Matthew chooses not to say it back.

The next morning, as soon as he wakes up, Matthew grabs his phone, silently thanking Gunwook for remembering to charge it, and unlocks it. Before he can back out, he hastily types a message and sends it to Hanbin. 

hambean hyung 🐹🫘

don’t forget to think about my offer

ok??????

or else…

ykw fuck it

tell your friend to text me if he’s still interested

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew finds himself in a dilemma. He’s half-tempted to just ignore it and pretend nothing ever happened. It’s barely been an hour since he woke up and he’s already regretting sending that damn text to Hanbin. 

Hanbin’s response had been instant. Matthew hadn’t even had the chance to swipe out of their chatroom before the typing bubble had showed up.

hambean hyung 🐹🫘

finallyyyyyyy!!!!11!!1!!!!1!!1!!!!1!!

i’m texting him rn!!!!!

oh and hao says hi

Before he could even type out a response, he gets another text from Hao.

haoneul hyung 🎻

holy fucking shit you actually agreed…………

good for you!!!

i’m proud of you baby 👶 

thanks hyung🥹 

And now, just under an hour later, a text from an unknown number taunts Matthew from his lockscreen, engaging in a silent staring contest with him. Right as his finger hovers over the notification banner he catches a whiff of breakfast being made just outside his bedroom door. His stomach grumbles at the aroma, seemingly calling out to the kitchen. He decides to get up, tossing his phone somewhere on the bed and pads toward his bedroom door, yawning as he rubs his eyes to rid the remaining fatigue.

Right across his bedroom is the kitchen, where Matthew is greeted with the sight of Gunwook’s broad back hunched over the stove through the wall divider separating his living area from the kitchen. His apartment is by no means big. Being a university student, it’s not like he can afford anything bigger than a one-bedroom apartment, anyway. He’s lucky enough to even have a bedroom in his apartment for the price, when most of his friends live in studio apartments or university dorms. That’s the reason his apartment has become the designated hangout place whenever they have their weekly hangouts.

Matthew walks over to peek over Gunwook’s shoulder, catching sight of a stack of lopsided pancakes, with the one at the very bottom looking suspiciously blackened. His scrunches his face at the misshapen, lumpy pancakes before looking up to meet Gunwook’s petulant gaze.

“Don’t judge! I know they don’t look as good as yours…” Gunwook pouts, pointing the spatula he has in his hand towards Matthew.

Matthew raises both hands in the air. “I didn’t say anything,” He singsongs, walking over to the kitchen island and sitting down on one of the stools, resting his head on the smooth surface with his arm cushioning his head.

Gunwook glances back at him with a raised brow, before turning to put his focus back on his pancakes. “You sleep good?”

“Hm?” Matthew mumbles, lifting his head a bit to look at Gunwook before plopping back down onto his arm. “Oh, yeah. Thanks for the cuddle.”

“Does that mean you’re feeling better?” Matthew ignores this. Gunwook turns off the stove, placing the last pancake on the very top of the (uneven) stack of pancakes.  He brings the plate and a bottle of maple syrup over towards the island, standing across from where Matthew is gazing at him through his lashes. “I wanted to add fruit and chocolate chips but you didn’t have any in your fridge.”

“Yeah, I gotta go grocery shopping soon…” Matthew muses, reaching for the maple syrup and pouring an obscene amount over the pancakes.

“Hey, hey, hey! That’s enough!” Gunwook exclaims, stealing the bottle away from the elder. Matthew giggles out an apology, grabbing one of the forks Gunwook prepared and cuts into the stack, taking a bite. “So…? What’s the verdict?”

Matthew keeps his expressions as unreadable as possible, holding back his laughter at Gunwook’s hopeful yet anxious face. “Tastes like shit.”

Gunwook’s face falls and Matthew bursts into a fit of laughter, hunching over the countertop while he clutches his stomach. The younger of the two pads around the island and starts tickling the elder, caging him in between his arms to stop him from getting away. Matthew squirms and squeals, hands trying to stop Gunwook’s from his unrelenting attacks to no avail. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Matthew wheezes out in between laughter, tears pooling in his eyes as Gunwook’s hands finally slow to a full stop, choosing to rest on the countertop on either side of Matthew’s torso. 

When Matthew finally stops laughing, he wipes his tears away and looks up at Gunwook, only now realising how close the latter was standing. He could feel Gunwook’s breath fan ever so softly across his face, and he’s looking at Matthew with those tender and loving eyes yet again. Matthew feels his pulse quicken as Gunwook lifts his hand up to cup the former’s cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear that hadn’t been wiped off. 

“I love hearing you laugh,” Gunwook breathes, his voice fond as ever. There’s a soft smile grazing his face, the type of smile that comes straight from the heart, and Matthew hears his heart beating in his ears. “If I could listen to only one sound for the rest of my life, it’d be your laugh.”

Gunwook then walks back to where he initially stood, taking large bites of his warm, fresh off the stove pancakes, calm and collected like he didn’t just drop an entire nuclear bomb on Matthew’s chest. 

Matthew still hears a ringing in his ears as he tries to collect and compose himself. He finds himself feeling a mixture of anger and the tiniest bit of resentment. Why does Gunwook always do this to him? Make him feel like he’s the only person in the entire universe only to then leave and sleep with another person like it’s no big deal?

Quite frankly, Matthew is tired. And in his spite, he blurts out, “I’m going on a date.”

Fuck, you’re an idiot. Why’d you say that?! Matthew turns his attention back to their breakfast after catching a glimpse of Gunwook’s shocked face. Despite his inner turmoil, he tries his best to stay nonchalant as he hears the gears turning in Gunwook’s head.

“Is this the same guy that Ricky said was hurting you last night?” Gunwook questions, his tone accusatory.

“No, of course not. He’s…” Matthew trails off, not knowing how to explain. He doesn’t even know the guy’s name yet! “He’s Hanbin hyung’s friend, and he thinks we’d get along well together, so I figured, you know, why not?

“Why?” Gunwook asks, catching Matthew off guard at the sudden question.

“What do you mean ‘why’?” 

“Why’d you agree to it?”

“Because I’m fucking lonely, Gunwook. That’s why,” Matthew sighs. He’s tired of being the only one on the seesaw with no one on the other hand to balance it out. “And it’s about time, anyway. It’s been what, more than a year? Since I last had a boyfriend.”

“You’re not lonely. You’ve got me.” Gunwook exclaims, his voice increasing in volume as they speak.

“No, Wookie. It’s different, and you know it! Is it a crime for me to want to fall in love? To want someone who loves me for me and actually cherishes me and doesn’t take me for granted?”

Gunwook scoffs, “I do all of that, already!” 

“God, you don’t get it, do you?” Matthew groans, exasperated.

“What? I’m just saying you don’t need anyone else when you’ve got me!” Gunwook argues. Matthew knows just how stubborn Gunwook can be, but he didn’t know it got to this extent.

“Easy for you to say, you’re busy fucking a different person every other night while I’m here rotting in my own pity,” Matthew spits out. 

Realising he can’t win this argument, Gunwook gives in. “When is it?”

“When is what?”

“Your date.”

“I don’t know yet, we haven’t gone through the details–”

“I’m going, too.” Gunwook interjects, his voice had a tone of finality, like nothing can change his mind. Matthew looks at him like he’d just grown a foot out of his forehead, then breaks out into a fit of laughter.

“You’re funny,” says Matthew, shaking his head. It is only when he catches sight of Gunwook’s straight (no pun intended) face he realises he’s being serious. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

“Yes, I am, hyung. I’m not joking around. I need to know if this guy is right for you.” Gunwook argues, his tone petulant like a kid throwing a fit.

“You’re being ridiculous. You’re not coming with me.”

“But why?”

“Why?” Matthew laughs out in disbelief. “Because I’m a grown man, Wookie! I can date whoever I want, whenever I want, and you’re not stopping me.”

“Whatever.” Gunwook rolls his eyes and stomps towards the front door, abandoning what’s left of their now-cold-and-soggy breakfast.

Matthew scoffs incredulously, “Are you seriously sulking right now? You’re actually leaving?”

Gunwook ignores him, making a show out of putting his shoes on, making sure to be as noisy as possible to make a statement. 

Matthew follows him to the front door, arms crossed in front of his chest, unamused. “You’re acting like a child right now.”

As Gunwook slips on his second shoes, he looks up to glare at Matthew. “Goodbye, hyung.”

And with that, he swings open the front door and slams it shut, leaving Matthew gaping in disbelief. He takes a minute to fully process what the fuck just happened and shakes his head, walking back towards his bedroom in a daze.

He hears his phone ding! and reaches for it to see an incoming text from Hanbin.

hambean hyung 🐹🫘

uhhh why did gunwookie just call me to curse at me and call me an idiot? 

>:[

grrr

what happened? 

ugh he’s unbelievable🙄

i told him i had a date right?

he said he wanted to come with me on the date and i said no duh?????

he started sulking and stormed out of my apartment hhhhhh

LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOAKSALSKDJALSKDJASJHASDHAIDEASKDJL

hyung………

IM CRYIGN REAL TEARS WHAT THE FUCKJSDLKS

HAO IS LAUGHING TOO

OH I GOTTA CALL RICKY 😭😭 

He’s glad his friends find this so fucking funny. Matthew glares at his phone screen and lets out a sigh. A moment later he gets another text.

hambean hyung 🐹🫘

EMERGENCY GROUP FACETIME NEOOOOOOOW!!!

A second later he gets an invite to a group facetime. Matthew braces himself for what’s to come, because he knows his friends can be absolute fucking dickheads. He answers the call.

“Matthew, what the fuck! Tell us everything!” Gyuvin’s face takes up the entirety of his tile as he cackles. 

Matthew groans, flopping back down towards his bed. “I see the whole gang is here.”

“Yeah, except for that overgrown manchild! What do you mean he stormed out of your apartment?!” Hao asks, voice laced with incredulity.

“Fuck, I don’t even know! One minute I was telling him I agreed to go on a date with Hanbin hyung’s friend, the next he’s telling me I don’t need to go on a date and if I do, he wants to come with me,” Matthew explains. “Then when I told him he couldn’t come with me, he just upped and left! He was stomping all around my apartment, too!”

A chorus of laughter rings out from his phone, and he finds himself laughing along at how ridiculous the entire situation is. 

“God, what a baby! I can’t believe he’s actually sulking… I didn’t know what I did when he called me to tell me I’m an idiot. Never would I have thought it was because I set Matt up on a date, good lord.” Hanbin shares, giggling along with Hao.

“I told you he’s weird. Why’d he even get upset at you going on a date, anyway? He needs to realise that he can’t have you at his every beck and call forever,” Ricky’s disembodied voice adds. “Also, why wasn’t I made aware that you finally agreed to meet hyung’s friend?” 

Gyuvin nods his head in agreement, pointing at the camera. “Yeah! Why didn’t you tell us?!”

“I didn’t even think it through. I don’t know what came over me, I just woke up and sent Hanbin hyung a text without thinking,” Matthew sighs, rubbing his face. The lingering feeling of regret over sending that text brewing in the back of his mind.

“Ah, ah, ah! No take backs!” Hanbin tuts, waving his finger over the camera. “Anyway, how is it so far? Are you liking Jiwoong?”

Ah, so that’s his name.

“I know he can be a bit of a dry texter, but he’s super charming in real life, I promise! I wouldn’t have introduced you to him if I didn’t feel like you guys wouldn’t get along. I only want the best for my Mashu!” Hanbin continues.

“Yeah, about that… I haven’t looked at his messages yet.” Matthew grimaces, smiling guiltily at his phone where he sees his friends all looking at him in disapproval.

“Well, then get off this damn call and respond to him, dumbass! I’m hanging up! Bye!”

And within a couple of seconds, all his friends hung up and he’s left with nothing but silence. The anxiety creeps in once again as he swipes down on his phone to look at the notification centre. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, hyping himself up to finally muster up the courage to glance at the text preview from the unknown number.

Unknown number

Hi Matthew, this is Jiwoong.

Hanbin gave me your number, hope that’s alright with you.

Damn, Hanbin wasn’t lying when he said this guy’s a dry texter. He shrugs and saves the number under jiwoong (hyung?) . He takes another deep breath before opening the chatroom. Here goes nothing.

jiwoong (hyung?)

hi jiwoong! :) 

Hanbin gave me your number, hope that’s alright with you. ↲

yess that’s alright with me!

umm i noticed you call hanbin hyung “hanbin”

are you his age?

↳ yess that’s alright with me!

I’m glad.

↳ are you his age?

I’m older. I was born in ‘97.

How about you? I take it you’re younger since you call him “hyung”.

oh shit sorry! I didn’t know you were older!

i was born in ‘02!

i should call you hyung too then hehe :) 

↳ oh shit sorry! i didn’t know you were older!

No worries :) 

Huh, finally a smiley. Matthew feels a tiny bit reluctant at the fact that they’re five years apart but decides to get over it. Whatever, fuck it. If Hanbin hyung thinks we’d get along then I trust him. He taps on Jiwoong’s contact and edits his contact name.

jiwoong hyung :) 

And yes, please feel free to call me hyung.

okii!!

jiwoongie hyung

hehe

You’re cute :) 

I’m sorry I’m not a good texter, by the way. I guess I’m more of an old-fashioned, face-to-face kind of guy.

lmao hyung

you’re not even that old😭 

why do you talk about yourself like you’ve been alive since the prehistoric ages

Who says I wasn’t?

🧌 

uhh

interesting choice of emoji loool

Hm? Is that not a caveman?

HYUNG 

ARE YOU SERIOUS LKDJASLK

THAT’S A TROLL!!!!

OKAY FINE I BELIEVE YOU 

YOU AAAARE OLD

CAREFUL WITH YOUR EYESIGHT GRANDPA

Oh…

Maybe I do have to check my eyesight LOL

Also, what does LKDJASLK stand for? I’m sorry I don’t know the slang kids are using these days…

Matthew bursts out in laughter before he even realises it. Being a ‘97 liner isn’t even that old, anyway, yet he finds himself feeling endeared by the way the older man texts, and before he knew it, they were texting all through the entire day. It wasn’t until it started getting dark that he realised they’ve been talking for 8 hours. 

He curses, getting up off the bed to turn on the lights around his apartment. He heads over to the kitchen, catching sight of the half-uneaten stack of pancakes left on the countertop. He sighs and places it inside the fridge as he scans for food he can eat. When he doesn’t find anything, he opts for the ever-so-trusty packet of instant ramyeon.

He snaps a picture and sends it to Jiwoong.

Jiwoong hyung :) 

[photo attached]

ughhhh completely forgot to go grocery shopping today😭 

so i’m stuck with ramyeon

#unilife

Let me take you out for a meal then :) 

My treat, of course :)  

For the first time in a long, long while, Matthew feels his heartbeat quicken caused by someone who isn’t Gunwook. A smile creeps into his face as he types out his reply.

jiwoong hyung :) 

i’d love to!

i got classes every mon, tue, thurs, and fri tho

so i’m available either on the weekends or wednesday!

whichever works best for you :D

How about Wednesday, then?

I don’t think I can wait until next Saturday to see you :) 

Matthew blushes, banging his hand on the dinner table and swinging his feet. He takes another slurp of his ramyeon and composes himself.

jiwoong hyung :) 

sure! 

are you thinking lunch or dinner?

We can go for lunch, that way we’ll have more time to spend together :) 

If that’s okay with you, of course! 

No pressure.

okiii!! i don’t mind at all!!

Good :) 

Does a late lunch at around 2pm sound good to you?

sounds perfect🥰 

They continue talking through the late hours of the night and into the early hours of the next morning. When Matthew sees the time, he curses, remembering he’s got a 9am class that morning. He bids Jiwoong good night, but not before he sends a selfie.

jiwoong hyung :) 

it was nice talking to you today hyung!

we’ll talk again tomorrow hehe 

or i guess later since it’s technically tomorrow already

this is me btw hehe😋

You’re stunning, Matthew...

Really, I mean it.

hyuuuuung stopppppp

😳😳

stunning’s a bit of an exaggeration don’t you think?

now it’s your turn!!! how can i make sure you aren’t a serial killer huh??? 

aren’t you gonna send a selfie back?

it’s only fair yk >:[

quick before i fall asleep!!

Is this good enough?

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew goes to class groggy and grumpy. He barely caught enough sleep as he spent the night tossing and turning, going into full blown gay panic. Why the fuck didn’t Hanbin tell him how hot and sexy and scrumptious-looking Jiwoong is? It didn’t help that the selfie Jiwoong sent had essentially been panty-droppingly, leg-spreadingly, back-archingly ravishing. 

Matthew finishes his 9am class in a daze, unable to focus on whatever gibberish his lecturer and droned on and on about. What had been 3 hours of class felt like an eternity, and he breathes out a sigh when he finally spots Gunwook, Ricky, and Gyuvin seated around on the grass, shaded by a big tree located to the side of their university’s courtyard. He takes a seat next to Gunwook and throws his bag haphazardly on the ground next to him. 

Gunwook has his legs outstretched in front of him, both hands placed on the grass behind him, holding himself up. Matthew wastes no time to lie down right next to him and rests his head on Gunwook’s right thigh. Gunwook lifts his hand up off the grass and wipes it on his shirt, running his fingers through the smaller man’s hair, the action so natural it almost feels like muscle memory.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to graduate. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.” Matthew groans, closing his eyes and feeling the sun sneaking through the cracks of the tree’s foliage dance on his skin. 

“You’re one to talk. You graduate soon, while the three of us basically have forever left to go.” Gyuvin grumbles, absentmindedly playing with Ricky’s meticulously styled hair. Ricky tuts and removes the former’s hand from his hair, intertwining their fingers instead.

“Enough about that, we wanna know more about your lover boy,” Ricky wiggles his eyebrows teasingly, grinning wide like a predator who had just caught sight of its prey. “Tell us everything!”

“Shit!” Matthew shoots up in response, frantically digging through his bag to fish for his phone, unaware of Gunwook’s increasingly sour mood. As he fumbles with his phone, he groans, “I completely forgot to text him back.”

“Who are you- Oh, you mean Hanbin hyung’s ‘friend’,” Gunwook spits out, his voice filled with barely concealed irritation.

Matthew ignores him, opening his message with Jiwoong.

jiwoong hyung :)

Matthew?

I didn’t scare you away, did I?

LOL

I’m starting to think I really did scare you away…

hyung!!!! omg i’m soooo sorry!!!

i fell asleep right after you sent your selfie and i had an early class this morning so i didn’t get the chance to reply 😖😖 

you didn’t scare me away i promise!!!

you look good!!

like super good

like 

the sexy superstar actor kind of goodlooking

omg 

i can’t believe i just typed that omg i’m so sorry i’ll shut up now omg

Matthew wishes the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. He feels the effects of his embarrassment heating up his cheeks as he pulls at his hair. Gyuvin takes the time to snatch his phone from where it was laying on his lap and reads their messages. 

“Hey! Give that back!” Matthew yells, trying to wrestle his phone out of Gyuvin’s long, long arms. Damn it, why do I gotta be so fucking short?  

“Oooh, you look good, super good! Like the sexy superstar actor kind of good looking~” Gyuvin says in a high pitched squeaky voice, trying to imitate Matthew (and failing horribly, if Matthew says so himself).

“There’s no fucking way you said that, hyung,” Ricky giggles, reading his messages along with Gyuvin. Matthew finally manages to wrench his phone out of their hands, his face a bright shade of red from the physical exertion and embarrassment.

“Don’t tease me,” Matthew whines sitting back down and putting his head back in his hands. “I don’t even know why I fucking said that, oh my god.”

Throughout the entire exchange, Gunwook stays silent. Matthew is hyper aware of the younger’s gaze fixed on him, calculating, like he’s trying to deduce something. He once again ignores it and looks back at his phone when it dings, signalling an incoming message from Jiwoong. Without realising it, a smile worms its way to his face as he sees the notification coming. 

jiwoong hyung :) 

That’s completely fine, Matthew :) How was class?

Also, I can't say I’ve ever been told I’m the “sexy superstar actor kind of good looking”.

I’m very happy hearing it from you, though.

It’s very flattering that someone as pretty as you thinks so highly of me ;)

Matthew can feel Gunwook reading his texts over his shoulder, and hears the latter scoff. When he turns towards Gunwook, he sees the younger rolling his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t tell me you’re falling for that stupid shit,” Gunwook scoffs, barely able to contain how annoyed he is. “Where did Hanbin hyung even meet him? He sounds boring.”

“You haven’t even met him yet, Wookie,” Matthew scolds. “Give him a chance, please? For once, I have a good feeling about this.”

“What makes him so different from the others, anyway? I bet he isn’t even that special.” Gunwook grumbles, this time leaning against Matthew while he grabs the latter’s hand and guides it to his hair, asking for headpats. Despite himself Matthew feels his heart swell with fondness. As much as he denies it, he loves it when Gunwook acts all clingy with him, it reminds him of a puppy begging for pets. He gives in and starts petting Gunwook’s hair.

“Well, first of all, he’s hot as shit. Like…” Matthew trails off, scrolling up his messages to show the other three the selfie Jiwoong sent him, then continues, “Way out of my league.”

Gunwook takes one glance at the picture and closes his eyes in defiance. “He’s ugly.”

“Tsk, that’s a lie and you know it. He’s fucking hot as fuck like… You get why I gay panicked real bad, right?” Matthew turns to Ricky and Gyuvin who are both gaping at his phone.

“Holy fucking shit, hyung. You definitely hit the jackpot with this one,” Gyuvin whistles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where does Hanbin hyung find these kinds of people? I want one.”

Ricky lightly pinches his upper arm, sending him a cold glare. “Go on, then. Go ask him to introduce you to another friend of his if you really want to.”

“You know I’m just kidding, Rik,” Gyuvin giggles, pressing a light peck towards his boyfriend’s cheek, earning another shove that held no weight behind it. “But I’m serious, Matt hyung. You can’t fuck this up.”

“If anyone’s gonna fuck up it’s that fugly motherfucker. You’re the one who’s way out of his league, hyung, not the other way around,” Gunwook adds, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Stop calling him ugly, Wookie,” Matthew lightly smacks the younger’s forehead. “We’re meeting up this Wednesday, and I’m losing my fucking mind. What do I wear?”

“Don’t worry! Ricky will help you! Right, Rik?” Ricky nods as Gyuvin turns to look at him. “And I’ll also be there for moral support! I’m sure Hanbin hyung and Hao hyung would love to be there to doll you up, as well.” 

“I’m gonna make you serve major cunt, hyung. You don’t even have to worry about anything. I can even bring a few of my clothes for you to try,” Ricky assures him, already brainstorming what outfits and what makeup looks he’ll try on Matthew.

“I’m so excited!” Gyuvin squeals, squeezing Matthew’s free hand. “Will you be there, too, Gunwook? For moral support?”

Gunwook sits up, giving them a tight, sarcastic smile. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” He grits out. “I’m out, gotta make it to Mr. Shin’s lecture.”

“But that lecture isn’t until 30 minutes from now?” Matthew points out, having memorised each other's schedules. He reaches out to hold Gunwook’s hand, stopping him from getting up. 

“Got a pre-class meeting.” Gunwook simply responds, pulling his hand away from Matthew's grip and flinging his backpack over one shoulder, briskly walking away.

“What the fuck even is a pre-class meeting?” Gyuvin asks, face scrunching up in confusion.

Matthew stares at Gunwook’s back, walking further and further away from them. “Fuck if I know,” He shrugs, diving back into his phone to respond to Jiwoong’s texts.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Before he knows it, Wednesday rolls around and Matthew feels like he’s about to shit bricks. He’s lucky he’s got a small army of people helping to make him look at least a little bit more presentable for his date with Jiwoong. Matthew sits right in front of his vanity as Ricky skillfully works on his makeup with practiced ease. Hao is standing behind him, styling his hair to perfection. Gunwook is seated with his legs crossed on the edge of Matthew’s bed, looking at him through the mirror while Hanbin is seated by the top of the bed, resting against the headboard. Gyuvin hovers around Matthew, occasionally leaning closer to take a closer look at the work done by his boyfriend. It’s a bit overwhelming, but he’s grateful, regardless.

It’s only 12PM which means Matthew’s still got 2 hours left and he hopes and prays to whatever deity is listening that time would move slower just for him. As he stares into his own reflection, he can see the nerves swimming in his expression. It’s only natural that he’s nervous, it’s been more than a year since his last date and it was an absolute failure. Since then, he promised himself he would never let his friends set him up on a date ever again, but here he is, watching himself get dolled up for yet another date set up by Hanbin. He tries to calm his breathing, his heartbeat reaching a million miles an hour while a raging storm settles in the pit of his stomach.

Out of all the dates he’s been on, he thinks he is the most scared at fucking up this date with Jiwoong. Truth of the matter is, Matthew’s track record with relationships hasn't been that great to begin with. It’s not like his past attempts had ended horribly, it’s just that he experiences a lot of self-doubt and insecurity, leading to him giving up before the relationship even had the chance to start. It also didn’t help that Gunwook always seemed to find something wrong with his previous prospects that made him get the ick every single time. Maybe the guys were right, he had been letting Gunwook have too much control over his relationships.

Matthew shakes his head, trying to get rid of the thought. He can’t help but let his insecurity cloud over him. He’s gotten a lot better over the years when it comes to his confidence – regularly working out with Gunwook to improve his physique, switching out his glasses for a pair of contacts, and revamping his entire wardrobe. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still feel insecure. Hanbin had failed to tell Matthew how effortlessly charming Jiwoong is, despite his boomer-like texting. And on top of that, to make matters worse, Jiwoong looks like an absolute sex god and is an entire five years older than Matthew. He assumes with that age gap comes an endless amount of experience, which only makes him feel even more like he’s treading on dangerous waters. How did Jiwoong even agree to go on a date with him? If he finally meets Matthew in real life, would he still be interested in someone as inexperienced and boring as he is?

The sight of Gunwook getting up from his bed and walking towards him through the mirror breaks him out of his reverie, and he sees the younger man hovering around him to his left. “I can practically hear your thoughts, hyung. Don’t worry about it, okay? Anyone who meets you are bound to fall in love with you.” He reassures, squatting down next to Matthew while he puts a reassuring hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Wookie.” Matthew sends him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, turning back towards his reflection. Even with the younger man’s reassurance, he still feels tense. 

The anxiety gnaws at his bones, and his self-doubt crawls deep into the pits of his chest as a plethora of ‘what if’s echo in his mind. What if Jiwoong finds Matthew weird, boring, annoying? What if Jiwoong gets tired of how shy and awkward Matthew is in real life compared to texts? What if Jiwoong realises that he is in fact way out of Matthew’s league and leaves halfway through the date? Jiwoong is so incredibly handsome and what is Matthew compared to him? He finds it hard to wrap his mind around the fact that Jiwoong agreed to this date.

Still, despite the rush of anxiety Matthew’s currently feeling, something in the deep parts of his heart feels a little like a spark of excitement. They’ve been texting every day for five days straight, and in those five days he’s grown to let himself feel a sense of hope. The hope that maybe this time, it’ll be different; that it’ll finally work out well for him. He feels like he got along super well with Jiwoong despite the fact that they’ve only been talking through text, and he can only hope their interactions will be as smooth-sailing and seamless in real life.

Ricky and Hao are basically halfway done, and he feels a little nervous seeing his own reflection. He has never put this much effort into looking good before, and he feels unfamiliar in his own skin. “Hao hyung, don’t you think that’s too much hair product?”

“Nope,” Hao quickly shuts down. “Just trust me, Matthew. You want to look scrumptious, don’t you?”

“I mean, I guess… But I feel like I’m looking a little too scrumptious?” Matthew says, unsure of himself.

“Well, that’s the point! Jiwoong would be dumb as fuck not to eat your ass by the time the night is over.” Hao states like it’s the most normal thing to say. 

“Hyung! It’s the first date! They’re definitely not at ass-eating levels yet.” Gunwook sputters, finally getting up from where he’s squatting to glare at his hyung.

“And why are you getting worked up?” Hao raises his brow at him. “You’re not the one whose ass is getting ate.”

“Wookie’s right, hyung. I don’t even wanna think about a kiss let alone getting my ass ate on the first date!” Matthew sputters.

Ricky scoffs, “I’d be offended if he doesn’t at least offer to eat your ass with this makeup and the outfit I got prepared for you. What a waste of effort.”

“I’m not getting my ass ate and that’s final!” Matthew insists, crossing his arms while giving both Ricky and Hao a warning look.

“Boo, you’re boring.” Hao sticks his tongue out at Matthew through the mirror before he continues working on his hair.

“Tsk, hyung!” Gunwook whines at Hanbin while pointing at Hao, expecting the elder to reprimand his boyfriend.

“Just ignore him, Gunwook.” Hanbin laughs, going back to doom scrolling on Tiktok. Gunwook rolls his eyes and playfully shoves at Hao and Ricky, earning a hit on his head with a hairspray bottle by Hao and a kick from Ricky.

“Ricky, I don’t think I need this much makeup…” Matthew grabs Ricky’s wrist, stopping his ministrations.

“Hyung, stop overreacting. I’m literally giving you a no-makeup makeup look right now, it’s nowhere near the douyin look I usually do!” Ricky yells, exasperated. “I’m just trying to bring out and accentuate your features, trust me!”

Matthew can’t deny the fact that he looks better than ever, and Ricky’s right; the makeup he’s putting on his face right now has all been applied in light layers, not working to cover his skin but to enhance it, bringing out his sharp features. 

Hanbin finally looks up from his phone, and speaks up, “Don’t complain, Matthew. You look amazing. You’ll definitely be thanking us later.” He flashes a smile that’s half reassuring, half teasing.

“What do you mean ‘us’? You’ve done nothing to help, so far.” Matthew jabs jokingly.

“Hey, I basically made the biggest contribution out of everyone here! I introduced you to Jiwoong hyung.”

“And I still haven’t gotten the chance to sock you right in the face for not telling me how hot he is, by the way.” Matthew huffs, glaring at him.

“That’s not true! I told you time and time again that he was extremely hot!”

“Yeah, but not otherworldly, ravishing, heavenly, drop dead gorgeous?!”

“He’s not even that attractive, anyway.” Gunwook interjects, rolling his eyes.

“You’re just jealous Matthew hyung has his eyes on someone else other than you.” Gyuvin teases, and the room falls silent, save for Gunwook’s sputtering.

“N-No, I’m not!” Gunwook denies. “I literally do not care.”

“Yeah, and pigs can fly, Wookie,” Gyuvin giggles, using the nickname Matthew calls him. “It’s okay to admit you’re jealous.”

“Whatever. Don’t listen to a word he says, hyung.” Gunwook grumbles, facing Matthew. 

Despite himself, Matthew feels a small smile creeping up his face, his heart warming at the thought of Gunwook being jealous that he’s going on a date with someone else. Before that thought could even fester, he gets a light shove from Hao. He meets Hao’s eyes in the mirror, seeing the disapproving look from the elder. Matthew instantly collects himself and clears his throat, clearing his mind along with it. It’s not that Gunwook is jealous, per se... but Matthew can tell Gunwook doesn’t love the idea of him going on a date with Jiwoong. Although they haven’t known each other as long as he has known the rest of the boys, they’ve grown the closest, and Gunwook’s just protective. Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.

With another hour left to spare, Ricky and Hao finally finish dolling him up. Matthew stands in front of his full-length mirror, his eyes nearly popping out of its sockets as he sees the finished product. Both Hao and Ricky are standing on either side of him, smiles wide and satisfied, admiring their work. 

Matthew’s hair is styled to perfection, slightly curled and fluffed up, making him look extra cuddly. His makeup leaning more towards natural than bold, yet the way it accentuates his features make him look almost ethereal. His outfit is a mixture of his daily wear and something out of his zone. He’s wearing a white cropped top, falling right below his belly button, and a pair of bootcut jeans sit low on his hips, hugging just the right curves and making his ass look extra perky. The band of his Chrome Hearts underwear that Gunwook gave him peeks above the waistline of his jeans, and he’s left with a tiny sliver of skin right in between the hem of his top and the band of his underwear.

“Hyung… You look absolutely delicious,” Gyuvin grins, turning Matthew to face him to fully admire him. “Like, I’d eat you alive right now.”

Hanbin nods in agreement, jaw dropped in awe. “It’s not like you weren’t attractive before. You were already good looking, anyway, but this… This is an entirely different level of good looking. You did an amazing job, babe.” Hanbin compliments, heading over to Hao to give him a peck on his temple.

“Hey, I contributed to this, too!” Ricky protests.

“Why? Do you want a kiss from me, too?” Hanbin playfully purses his lips, chasing Ricky around the room.

“Hey! No kissing my boyfriend!” Gyuvin shouts, wrestling Hanbin before they both flop towards the bed, laughing loudly amongst themselves.

“Do you guys really think so?” Matthew finally asks shyly, looking back towards the mirror.

“Would we ever lie to you? You look fucking amazing, baby.” Hao assures him with a wave of his hand, putting his arm around Matthew’s shoulder as he meets his eyes through the mirror.

Matthew bites his lip, still feeling a little unsure of himself. He doesn’t usually put this much effort into looking good for his dates. He would opt for something more casual and comfortable, so he isn’t used to seeing himself look so… polished. He feels his heart quicken as he imagines Jiwoong’s reaction. Would he like it? Would he think it’s too much? It’s just a casual lunch, after all. 

As Matthew looks around the room, he finally looks at his friends’ reactions. Both Hao and Ricky are practically bouncing off the walls, excited and proud of the result of their efforts, while Hanbin and Gyuvin give him thumbs up and constant compliments, but it’s Gunwook’s reaction - or lack thereof - that catches his attention. 

Gunwook is silent, yet his gaze shows something else. He’s sitting on the foot of Matthew’s bed, eyes fixed on him. There’s something unreadable in his eyes, like he’s not just looking but he’s seeing Matthew for the very first time, scrutinising. Matthew finds himself shifting uneasily under Gunwook’s stare, feeling his heart race a little faster at the intensity of his gaze. It’s different to the fond stare he’s used to, this time it’s stronger, deeper, like he’s staring into the very depths of Matthew’s soul.

“What do you think, Wookie?” Matthew finally breaks the silence, unaware of just how alert the others have been of the tension between them.

“You look…” Gunwook trails off breathily, tone distracted like his mind is somewhere else. “Different.”

“That’s it?” Matthew asks, moving closer towards Gunwook, almost challenging him. “Just different?”

“Yeah.” Gunwook clears his throat, looking away. 

Matthew frowns. Gunwook’s detached and disengaged tone is a complete contrast to the intensity of his gaze. Matthew decides not to pay attention to it. He is going on a date with someone, after all. He has no time to waste on Gunwook. Despite this, he feels his heart clench at the fact that Gunwook hadn’t complimented the way he looked like he usually would.

Ricky, ever so perceptive of his best friend’s thoughts, cuts in, “You look absolutely beautiful, hyung. Jiwoong is going to fall for you the second he sees you.”

Matthew nods and smiles weakly as his eyes drift back to Gunwook who’s still looking away, mind elsewhere. There’s something off about Gunwook, and there’s a nagging feeling in his heart that won’t go away. His heart is telling him to check on Gunwook and make sure he’s okay, completely forgetting about Jiwoong. 

As Matthew reaches out towards and moves closer to Gunwook, the younger man stands abruptly barely looking into his eyes when he says, “Good luck on your date. Call me if you need anything.”

Matthew silently watches as Gunwook briskly walks past him and out his apartment. Before he can dwell on it, Hanbin pats his shoulder. “It’s fine, he’s just sulking because you’re going on a date like he always does. I’ll check on him after this.”

Matthew nods absentmindedly. He looks at the time, 13.17. “I guess, I’ll be heading out. It’s better to be early than late.” Matthew says, unfocused. “Thanks again, guys. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“Hey, you’ve got this!” Gyuvin reassures. “Now go out there and knock his socks off!”

“Knock his socks off? Who even says that nowadays?” Ricky frowns at his boyfriend.

Matthew lets out a giggle and takes a deep breath. With a final goodbye, he heads towards the restaurant he and Jiwoong had agreed on. He still feels nervous, but with his friends' support, he feels a little lighter. As he nears the restaurant, Gunwook lingers in the back of his mind. Something about his reaction today was different. It wasn’t like all the other times he had been disapproving of Matthew’s dates. But as the restaurant finally comes into view, he wills himself to ignore the thought.

Matthew reaches the restaurant right as a familiar face walks to the front door from the opposite direction. Within a second, he feels his pulse jumping and before he could do anything, the man looks up and their eyes meet. 

For a second, Matthew’s brain stops working.

There he is, the Kim Jiwoong. He was dressed in a loose fitting white button up with two of the top buttons unbuttoned. Straight cut jeans emphasise his long, long legs, topped with a black belt. His blond hair is slicked back with a few loose strands falling over his forehead. He sees recognition flicker in the man’s eyes before his lips stretch into an easy smile, rendering Matthew speechless. God, he’s even hotter in real life, what the fuck do I do?!

Matthew shoots back a smile - that looks more like a grimace - and meets Jiwoong halfway, stopping just outside the front door of the restaurant. The place they had decided on was a small, yet cozy restaurant that served an array of rice dishes. Small enough for them to have to sit close to each other, which was what Jiwoong was aiming for. 

“Matthew, right?” Jiwoong takes the initiative to break the silence, and Matthew just about dropped to his knees.

Jiwoong’s voice had a smooth, deep timbre. Enough to make Matthew absolutely weak at the knees.

“Yeah, hi! That’s me.” Matthew giggles nervously, inwardly cursing himself for being so awkward. “It’s so nice to finally see you in person, Jiwoong-ssi.”

“So formal, all of a sudden?” Jiwoong raises his brow, chuckling. “I thought I told you to call me hyung.”

“Right! Sorry, I…” Matthew lets out a nervous laugh, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “To be completely honest here, I’m like, super nervous right now.”

“Well, don’t be. Just act like I’m an old friend. There’s no need to be nervous around me.” Jiwoong says smoothly, tucking a piece of stray hair back behind Matthew’s ear. “Shall we go in?”

Matthew stops himself from gaping like a fish and nods, unable to speak as Jiwoong guides him inside the restaurant with a gentle yet steady hand against the small of his back.

They get seated at a bar table by the back corner of the restaurant, the space barely big enough for the two of them, causing them to sit with their sides touching, leaving no room between them. They order their food and fall to a slightly awkward silence. Once again, Jiwoong breaks the silence.

“I’m really excited for today, you know,” Jiwoong smiles with an effortless kind of grace, his cheek resting against his left hand, body facing slightly to the right towards Matthew.

“Me too,” Matthew manages to squeeze out, his voice barely above a whisper. But Jiwoong’s smile doesn’t falter, and there’s a warmth in his gaze that somehow calms Matthew’s nerves.

Their food arrives a few moments later, and as they talk over lunch, their conversation trips up at first. While trying so hard not to say the wrong thing, Matthew ends up barely speaking, making Jiwoong take control of most of the conversation. They go over the basics, even though they’ve already talked about it through text, and Matthew asks Jiwoong more about his work – Jiwoong had actually been a freelance actor, which was funny since Matthew had called him a sexy superstar actor a day after they started talking. 

Jiwoong seems to be very much in his element as he talks about his work. He’s clearly passionate about what he does, which makes him even more attractive in Matthew’s eyes. As Jiwoong continues, he cracks a joke once in a while, breaking any and all tension that had been there between them moments prior. Matthew finally feels the ice melting bit by bit, and finds himself getting more comfortable as the night progresses. 

Matthew becomes more animated and talkative, and Jiwoong smiles fondly at Matthew’s little anecdotes. It’s not like Matthew had forgotten about Jiwoong’s looks, he’s still deeply aware of how handsome Jiwoong is, and he feels his heart skip whenever their eyes meet for a second too long. But Matthew kind of likes the undivided attention Jiwoong is giving him. Even as he digs into his meal, his eyes never leave Matthew for more than a second. Matthew’s not used to this much attention, but he isn’t complaining.

When they finally reach the topic of hobbies, Matthew takes a second to collect his thoughts. It’s not like he doesn’t know what to say, he just doesn’t want to sound lame. So after a while, he finally answers, “Nothing fun, really. I mostly just go to the gym or play games… oh! I also collect pokemon cards!

Matthew wishes he would disintegrate on the spot. He can’t believe he just told Jiwoong he collects pokemon cards. Jiwoong’s going to think he’s an absolute fucking loser. 

“That’s cool! Tell me more about it.” Jiwoong praises, lifting his spoon to take another bite of his food.

“Really?” Matthew breathes out, taken aback at Jiwoong’s response. He can tell Jiwoong is confused by the way he tilts his head to the side.

“What do you mean?” Jiwoong asks after swallowing his food.

“You don’t think it’s… I don’t know, lame?” Matthew winces, not meeting Jiwoong’s gaze.

“Matthew,” Jiwoong starts, placing a hand on Matthew’s knee. “You could talk about counting sheep and I’d still be interested. I would listen to you talk about anything, I always wanna hear about what you wanna say.”

It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to overly impress, Jiwoong’s voice sounds as genuine and earnest as can be, which makes Matthew blush a bright shade of red.

“Ugh, you can’t just say that.” Matthew whines, hands covering his face.

Jiwoong laughs softly as he pulls Matthew’s hands away from his face. “Hey, none of that. You’re cute when you blush.”

Matthew softly shoves at Jiwoong’s shoulder, bashful. He then goes on an entire monologue about pokemon cards, with Jiwoong asking the occasional question here and there, nodding whenever it’s needed, and responds with the same level of enthusiasm as Matthew. When the younger man realises their food had long been finished and he’s still going on about those damn cards, he stops himself abruptly and smiles sheepishly.

“Why’d you stop?” Jiwoong asks. His hand was comfortably intertwined with Matthew’s, rubbing his knuckles ever so softly without Matthew even realising.

“I didn’t want to bore you…” Matthew laughs shyly, embarrassed that he had left himself get so lost in talking about pokemon cards that he didn’t even realise it had been a whole 30 minutes. He even failed to realise Jiwoong’s hand in his, which he’s now almost too hyper aware of.

“Do I look bored to you?” Jiwoong made it a point to widen his eyes and smile exaggeratedly, earning a light punch from Matthew. “You don’t have to be nervous about anything around me, I don’t bite – unless you ask really politely.”

Matthew’s brain short-circuits at the sudden flirty comment. It catches him so off guard he feels like he just got whiplash. He can tell Jiwoong finds his reaction amusing, with the smug smile currently grazing his face. The red shade in Matthew’s face deepens as his mouth opens and closes trying to find the correct response.

He opts for, “Oh. Uh-... I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good to know.” Jiwoong smiles. “Should we head elsewhere, then?”

Still in a daze, Matthew agrees, letting himself be led to the cashier where Jiwoong pays. Matthew tries to protest, but the older man insists, and he finally relents, thanking him shyly. They choose to head to the Han River, picking a spot right by the river to catch the best view of the sunset. The sun doesn’t set until two hours from now, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the both of them.

Their conversation flows seamlessly, like they’ve known each other for ages. It helps that Jiwoong is extremely charming, leading the conversation in a way that isn’t too domineering but enough to help Matthew along whenever he can’t find the right words to say. 

Matthew soon realises Jiwoong is way more flirtier and magnetic in real life than he is through text. There are moments where he feels like he’s about to combust with how hot his cheeks feel at Jiwoong’s flirty comments, especially when the older man would shoot him an amused smile every time he manages to fluster him. Jiwoong is smooth, effortless in the way he flirts, and Matthew feels so out of depth, but he figures he needs to fight back and not let the older man win.

Jiwoong leans back on his hands, hair flowing in the wind. The shine of golden hour hits his face just right, and it takes Matthew’s breath away. Matthew doesn’t realise he’s practically gaping at Jiwoong before the latter laughs, reaching over to pinch his cheek. 

“God, you’re even cuter in person,” Jiwoong smiles fondly. “You don’t even need to try, do you? I’m sure you use your cuteness to your advantage.”

Matthew scrunches his face at the comment. “Nuh uh!”

“Really? Just how many other men have you charmed with your cuteness, Seok Matthew?” 

“Just you, Kim Jiwoong.” 

The tension between them starts to bubble as they stare at each other, Jiwoong pleased at Matthew’s growing boldness.

“Good boy.” Jiwoong smirks, fluffing Matthew’s hair. The latter flushes yet again and looks away. “You know, I’m really glad Hanbin set us up. I never would’ve thought we’d get along so well, especially with how bad I text.”

Matthew laughs at that. “You’re not that dry of a texter…” Jiwoong shoots him a look. “No, really! You’re not dry, you just text like a boomer.”

“Thanks.” Jiwoong replies, deadpan.

“No, but it made things more interesting, in my opinion.” Matthew hums, absentmindedly playing with the grass by his feet.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re super different in real life, which served as a pleasant surprise.”

Jiwoong raises an eyebrow at Matthew, leaning closer. “Really? How so?”

“Well… You’re a lot more…” Matthew pauses, debating whether or not he should mention it. Fuck it, we’re going full throttle , he thinks. “You’re a lot flirtier in real life.”

“Am I now?” Jiwoong replies, his voice deepening ever so slightly. There’s a glint of mischief in Jiwoong’s eyes and it makes Matthew’s head spin. “Guess I’ll keep flirting with you since it’s such a pleasant surprise.”

“You should.” Matthew smirks, leaning even closer. “I might even take you up on that offer.”

“Hm? What offer?” Jiwoong questions as his gaze drops to Matthew’s lips and back up.

The action doesn’t go unnoticed and Matthew’s smirk widens before he answers with a single word, “Biting.”

Jiwoong’s eyes widened for a split second, clearly surprised at Matthew’s sudden boldness. But once he composes himself his smile widens, lowering his voice in a teasing tone. “Well, you’re gonna have to ask politely.”

The tension between them grows, and they barely notice the sun setting in front of them, too engrossed in each other’s presence. The atmosphere between them is charged in a way that wasn’t before, and Matthew can almost feel the electric static between them. 

“I’m liking this bold side of you, Matthew. I’m curious as to what other sides you’ve got that you haven’t shown me yet.” Jiwoong continues after a beat of charged silence.

“Well then, I guess, you’re gonna have to stick around because I haven’t even started yet.” Matthew challenges.

“I’m liking the sound of that.” Jiwoong replies earnestly.

Something about the way he said it and the way he’s looking at Matthew feels genuine. Even despite their flirty exchange, Matthew feels something softer clench at his heart, and his chest feels like it’s about to burst with how happy he feels. Hanbin was right about Jiwoong. They do get along really well, and they connected in a way that Matthew never thought they would, especially with the five year age gap between them. But Jiwoong brings out a different side of him – one that’s bolder and more confident, nothing like the shy, insecure person he usually is when meeting new people. Matthew likes it. Matthew likes him.

And just like that, the sun set completely, leaving them in the smooth, silvery glow of the moon. They decide to go home, with Jiwoong offering to send Matthew home. As they continue to talk on their journey back to Matthew’s place the heavy, flirty energy between them shifts into something lighter, softer. Matthew is no longer the nervous mess he was at the start of the day, and talking with Jiwoong feels more natural than ever.

Half an hour later, they reach the entrance of Matthew’s apartment lobby. Facing each other, none of them wanted to make the first move to leave. They stay smiling at each other, something soft and tender sparking between them. Matthew makes the difficult move to finally end their date.

“I guess it’s time for me to head back up then.” Matthew says with a heavy heart, not wanting this day to end.

“Yeah…” Jiwoong trails off, his radiant smile never faltering. They both feel the other waiting for the same thing, but neither brave enough to make the first move.

“I’ll just…” Matthew points towards the lift, finally forcing his feet to move. Jiwoong nods, feet planted on the floor.

The lift dings, indicating its arrival. Matthew steps inside and waves at Jiwoong as the doors close. He taps his feet, feeling impatient. He’d hoped he had enough time to run to his apartment and out to his balcony to catch Jiwoong leaving. And as the doors open to his floor, he does exactly that.

He haphazardly takes off his shoes and runs to his bedroom balcony, catching Jiwoong just in time.

“Jiwoon hyung!” Matthew calls out, unable to properly say his name with the ‘g’ due to his slight accent.

Jiwoong looks up in surprise, turning to face Matthew. “Yeah?”

“I had a lot of fun today! Text me when you reach home!” Matthew shouts.

“I will!” Jiwoong yells back, before shooting Matthew another blinding smile and disappearing around the corner. 

Matthew sighs and just about melts onto his floor. This date couldn’t have gone any better. He has never felt this way with any of the dates he’s been on, and he finds himself not thinking about Gunwook for the first time ever. He smiles and reaches for his phone, chuckling at the plethora of messages from his groupchat with the guys.

binneul’s babies👨‍🍼👶🐣

hambean hyung 🐹🫘: HELLOOOOO WHERE IS MASHU

gyuberz 🐶: ARE YOU DEAD DO YOU NEED HELP?

gyuberz 🐶: HYUNG!!!!!!

gyuberz 🐶: PLEASE TELL ME YOU’RE ALIVE

shenrikz 🐈: stop spamming the damn gc gyub

gyuberz 🐶: me when a bad bitch tells me to do something 🫡

shenrikz 🐈: god you’re so annoying

hehe

heheheheheheh

i just got home

too tired tho i’ll tell you all about it tomorrow

love you guys

wookiebear 🐻💛: love you too hyung, rest well

gyuberz 🐶: oh so noooooow you wanna show up🙄🙄 

shenrikz 🐈: gyub

gyuberz 🐶: 🫡🫡🫡 

Matthew smiles at Gunwook’s response and plugs his phone to his charger, leaving towards his bathroom to shower. When he finishes he sees a new text from Jiwoong.

jiwoongie hyung :) 

Just arrived home :) 

I had an amazing day with you.

Can’t wait to see you again.

Good night, Matthew, hope you dream of me as I’ll dream of you ❤️

night hyungie! i loved spending the day with you💙💙 

can’t wait to see you too!!!

rest well hyung!!!

He regrets not kissing Jiwoong, but chooses not to dwell on the fact. He’ll have more chances, anyway. With a calm heart, Matthew falls into a deep sleep, and although he did not dream of the older man with the dreamy eyes and kissable lips, he still had one of the best sleeps he’s had in a long time.

The next morning, as he’s getting ready for class, he hears the bell ring. Matthew’s brows furrow in confusion, he hadn’t expected any guests today, especially right before class. The only other person he’d think would visit would be Gunwook, as they would sometimes head to campus together when their schedules start at the same time. But Gunwook has a 12PM class on Thursdays, whereas Matthew has 9AM class, so why would Gunwook be ringing his doorbell.

“Wookie? Is that you?” Matthew calls out as he pads towards his front door. When he opens the door, he’s met with the sight of Jiwoong and his eyes widen in shock. “Jiwoon hyung? What are you–”

He feels a pair of lips press against his, and without hesitation, Matthew wraps his arms around Jiwoong’s neck, while the latter rests his hands on the former’s hips. When they pull away, Matthew can’t contain his smile, and breaks out into a grin, hiding in the crook of Jiwoong’s neck.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve kissed you last night.” Jiwoong laughs, hugging Matthew.

“Hyuuung,” Matthew whines, face still hidden. “God, I look terrible right now. I’m heading to class.”

“You look beautiful, regardless.” Jiwoong reassures, pulling Matthew’s face from his neck and placing another soft kiss against his lips. “Do you want me to walk you to class today?"

Matthew smiles bashfully, standing on his tippy toes to kiss Jiwoong again, and again, and again. “If you don’t mind.”

And just like that, they fall into each other’s rhythm. Hands intertwined and hearts beating in perfect tandem.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

A few weeks pass by in a flash and things have been going better than Matthew expected. Usually, around the two-week mark is where his relationships falter, but with Jiwoong, it’s been different in the best way possible. They had officially become boyfriends after the three-week mark, and Jiwoong makes him feel carefree, like there’s nothing to hide, like there’s nothing to be scared of, completely untethered to whatever doubts and insecurity he had. It makes him feel simultaneously giddy and nervous; how quickly he feels comfortable with the elder. Matthew doesn’t know if he’s falling quite just yet, but he’s definitely on the right track.

Not to mention, Jiwoong has basically blended in with his friend group, almost like he’s always been part of them. Things have been so seamless, and it helps that Jiwoong has an air of effortlessness that allowed his friends to get along with him as well as he does. Hao and Hanbin were already friends with him, anyway, and getting acquainted with Ricky and Gyuvin felt as natural as breathing. Gunwook, on the other hand, was a tough nut to crack.

The group is back at Matthew’s apartment for yet another weekly hangout and Jiwoong is there again; he had joined the weekly hangouts prior and have even joined them for meals during their lunch breaks on campus. They exchange funny anecdotes and stories, sharing snacks as they catch up. Matthew’s living room is crowded yet cozy, with a big couch placed right at the middle that easily fits five or more people, and a large rectangular coffee table that’s always cluttered with fried chicken, tteokbokki, or whatever snacks they’ve decided to order, and the same TV that always plays something none of them are paying attention to. The atmosphere is warm and intimate, and if Matthew had been less perceptive, he would have missed the slight stony mood radiating off of Gunwook in small waves.

They are spread all across the room, with Matthew and Jiwoong sitting close to each other on the sofa, their sides pressed together and arms wrapped around each other. It’s one thing that Matthew has noticed about Jiwoong – he’s big on physical touch, but so is Matthew, so it checks out. The feeling of the other’s touch on his skin grounds him, making the rest of the world fade into the background like it’s just the two of them. 

Jiwoong is playfully bickering with Gyuvin who was sitting on the floor right by the coffee table, digging into the box of soy garlic chicken wings they’d ordered. Jiwoong laughs along when Ricky takes his side instead of his own boyfriend’s, which earns a playful warning. Hao and Hanbin are in theIR own little world, curled up on the other side of the sofa where they’re giggling over something on Hanbin’s phone. Gunwook is sitting alone in the armchair to Matthew’s left, nursing a beer in his hand and looking gloomy as ever. 

Matthew can’t help but feel a little annoyed, even if he did feel the slightest hint of worry. Gunwook was his best friend, why couldn’t he be a bit more supportive in his romantic endeavors? The rest of the boys have warmed up to Jiwoong relatively easily, while he’s the only one who has proven to be difficult. It doesn’t help that the younger is doing nothing to hide his irritation towards Jiwoong. Matthew thought after a few hangouts that Gunwook would start warming up to the older man, but to no avail. It has gotten to the point where Jiwoong himself even noticed and asked Matthew about it. 

It’s not like Gunwook had been overly rude to Jiwoong or anything, but it’s more of the way he spoke – or rather, barely spoke – to the elder that had made him feel like he’d done something wrong. Matthew is quick to reassure him that he’s done nothing wrong, that Gunwook just sometimes has trouble getting used to new people, but after a few weeks, it’s starting to get old.

Matthew watches Gunwook from the sofa, subtly kicking his foot to get Gunwook’s attention. He gives the younger a questioning look, to which he responds with a shrug. Matthew rolls his eyes and lets out a huff, turning back to his friends as Jiwoong continues bickering with Gyuvin over some K-Drama he doesn’t know about. He can see that everyone is having a good time, so why can’t Gunwook do the same? 

“Hyung, can I set your Switch up? Let’s play Mario Kart!” Ricky grins, already reaching towards the Nintendo Switch placed atop the media console.

“You don’t even have to ask, Ricky.” Matthew sighs fondly, seeing how excited Ricky and Gyuvin become as the loading screen pops up.

After a few rounds of losing, Gyuvin huffs and hands the controller to Matthew, “Hyung, you play. I can’t keep playing with that cheater.”

“Babe, just because I’m better than you doesn’t mean I’m cheating.” Ricky complains, rolling his eyes. “Jiwoong hyung, do you wanna play with Matthew hyung?”

Before Jiwoong could even agree and get up to reach for the controller, Gunwook gets up and snatches it from Ricky’s outstretched hand. “I’ll play with Matthew hyung.” He simply barks out, still moody.

“Yeah, sure, go ahead. I prefer watching, anyway.” Jiwoong offers a smile that doesn’t get returned, Gunwook simply stares at him blankly.

“No one asked.” Gunwook mutters under his breath, earning a kick from Matthew.

“Be nice.” Matthew warns, shooting an apologetic smile towards Jiwoong. The older man gives him a brilliant smile in return, and wraps his arm tighter around the smaller man’s shoulders.

Gunwook sees this and rolls his eyes, opting to sit on the floor in between Matthew’s legs, unwilling to lose to Jiwoong’s touchiness. He rests one elbow on Matthew’s knee, feigning nonchalance as he subtly looks at Jiwoong to see his reaction. When he sees nothing but a kind smile, he inwardly scoffs and returns back to the screen where he’s customising his Mario Kart character.

Matthew on the other hand is confused. Of course, Gunwook has always been touchy with him in the first place, but regularly glancing back at Jiwoong, as if he’s scoping out the older’s reaction was just weird. What was he trying to do, make Jiwoong jealous? Gunwook’s behaviour makes Matthew’s head spin, and he’s tired of it. He makes a mental note to confront the younger man about his behaviour when he gets the chance. 

As the game progresses, Jiwoong would cheer whenever Matthew wins a round, giving him a celebratory kiss on the cheek, which only makes Gunwook’s jaw tighten. Matthew notices and figures he’s only upset because he lost, and pats his head, telling him he’ll let him win on the next round, earning a chorus of laughter from around the room. Even as Gunwook wins the next few rounds, the tension in his brows and the stiffness in his posture doesn’t leave, and Matthew leans forward to take a better look at his best friend.

“Hey, you okay?” Matthew asks softly, voice barely above a whisper. Gunwook looks up at him, and the elder feels his breath hitch when he underestimates how close their faces are at each other. His eyes flit mindlessly towards the younger’s reddened lips from where he’d been biting them, and move back up towards his eyes.

Gunwook only hums in response, looking away and throwing his controller onto Jiwoong’s lap, stalking quietly back towards the armchair, sitting down with his arms crossed without saying a word. Jiwoong offers a quiet ‘thanks’ towards Gunwook, turning towards the TV to customise his Mario Kart character. Gunwook then scoffs quietly when he sees the older man’s character choice. Did he really just use Mario? How fucking boring.

Matthew’s eyes don’t leave Gunwook, feeling a strange weight on his chest. He can feel the heavy tension between him and his best friend, but he doesn’t know how to – or if he even wants to – address it. He doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Jiwoong breaks him out of his reverie, telling him the round is starting.

As they play together, they don’t stop touching each other – a shove to the shoulder, a hand playfully covering the other’s eyes, another hand reaching out for the other’s controller, falling into each other’s shoulder as they laugh, and more. Jiwoong shoots him an easy smile, but despite this, Matthew can’t get over the underlying tension he feels radiating off Gunwook. Every time he glances back at the younger man, he’s already staring back with that same intense stare he saw the day he was preparing for his first date with Jiwoong. He tries to shake the heavy feeling off, but it only gets worse. 

Gunwook has always been an open book to him, and Matthew knows him like the back of his hand. So why was he so unreadable to him right now?

Matthew decides not to let it overtake his thoughts, focusing back on the game. But as much as he tries to, he fails miserably, because he can tell Gunwook is starting to pull away from the group, becoming more distant with every passing moment. He’s sure something’s wrong now, because his best friend has never acted this way, not even around his previous dates. 

When the round ends, Matthew gives his controller to Hanbin, who jump up at the chance to go against Jiwoong. As the two start their back and forth, he turns back to Gunwook, who’s now busy scrolling through his phone. He gets up and sits on the arm of the armchair, placing his hand on the younger’s forehead, worried that his behaviour might be because he was coming down with a cold. “Wookie, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, whatever, just continue playing your game.” Gunwook grumbles, eyes never leaving his phone to meet Matthew’s eyes.

Matthew tries to pry, but he knows that Gunwook has completely withdrawn from the conversation, and when he gets in this mood, nothing could ever infiltrate that stubborn head of his. He just wants to understand his friend’s mind, to know how to make things better and make things the way it used to be between them. A sense of concern crawls into his chest, he can’t help but feel like there’s been a shift between their dynamic, and not the good kind.

The unease he feels deep inside of his chest fades ever so slightly, replaced by a thick cloud of annoyance. Matthew finally finds someone he’s happy with, and Gunwook can’t seem to be bothered to be happy for him? When he goes out to sleep with another person every night, Matthew never complains, but the second he finds someone, Gunwook gets bitter? He gives up and walks back to the sofa, plopping back down next to Jiwoong.

The rest of the evening drags on, but the underlying heaviness in his chest lingers. He wonders if the rest of the guys notice the tension between himself and Gunwook, and when he sees them regularly glancing between them, he knows that they do. Gunwook’s usual playful and teasing demeanour has become more clipped, his comments short and tense whenever Jiwoong tries to start a conversation. Matthew notices the way the younger’s eyes flick in between him and Jiwoong, and the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. It’s the same look he knows he has whenever he sees Gunwook with his girl of the night, it was… 

No. It can’t be. There’s no way he was jealous, right? He’s straight after all. Maybe Matthew’s just not over him like he thought he was, maybe there’s a small part of his heart still waiting for the other to return his feelings, to feel jealous seeing him with someone else the same way he feels. It’s just him being delusional. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing else.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Despite Gunwook’s iciness towards him, Jiwoong doesn’t give up trying to get along with Gunwook. He’s Matthew’s best friend, after all, and he wants to get along with all of his friends. He’s not the type to shy away from confrontation, especially when it’s for the good of the situation to help smooth things over and benefit all parties involved. And right now, he knows for sure that he can’t let whatever tension he’s got going on with Gunwook fester and turn into something worse.

Jiwoong keeps thinking back to all the times they’ve hung out, which had been a lot by this point. He tries to wrack his brain for something, a reason that might have made Gunwook dislike him. But as much as he tries to filter through his memories, he comes out empty handed. So it must’ve had more to do with Matthew, right? 

It’s the only explanation that makes sense in his head. Gunwook’s demeanour towards Jiwoong has been consistently cold, even when the other guys had been warm and welcoming. And he sees it in Gunwook’s eyes, that weird possessive glint whenever he sees him crowd around Matthew, almost like he’s threatened by Jiwoong’s very presence. Like he’s scared that Jiwoong might snatch Matthew away from him. 

When Gunwook quietly slips out of the living room and onto the balcony, Jiwoong decides it’s time to act. “Hey, I’m just gonna go and get some fresh air, okay?” Jiwoong whispers to Matthew.

“Yeah, go ahead! Do you want me to come with?” Matthew asks, looking up at him as he stands to head towards the balcony.

“Nah,” Jiwoong answers. “You stay here.”

Matthew nods and turns back towards Hao, engrossed in a funny story about one of his students. Jiwoong walks towards the balcony where Gunwook is, leaning against the railing on his elbows as he stares out into the city. The cool air bites at his skin as he steps out, and the younger one turns to face him, his eyes widening in shock before masking it into a neutral expression within a split second.

“You mind if I join you?” Jiwoong treads carefully, he doesn’t want Gunwook to up and leave.

Gunwook takes a moment to respond, cracking open a new can of beer. “Do whatever you want.” 

Jiwoong nods, and leans his back against the railing. He closes his eyes, letting the wind flow through his air. Despite the chilly weather, the silence between them is thick and hot, overwhelming to the point where it makes it hard to breathe, almost. Jiwoong is determined, however, and faces Gunwook, who still has his eyes fixed on the cityscape.

“I’ve, uh,” Jiwoong starts, unsure how to go about the topic. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Gunwook stays silent, taking another sip from his freshly opened can of beer, and Jiwoong can tell this is going to be harder than he thought. The younger’s walls are tall and fortified, and he knows it’s going to take ages and a lot of effort to try and bring them down.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… You’ve been sorta cold towards me,” Jiwoong laughs uncomfortably, his hand rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I just wanted to know if I did something wrong. You know, to try and fix things.”

“Have I now?” Gunwook challenges, voice flat and devoid of any emotion. Jiwoong’s smile falters, but he’s persistent.

“Yeah, and I get the feeling Matthew has noticed, too. And you know, it’s okay if you’re not the biggest fan of me… I just wanted to at least get along and act civilly for Matthew’s sake.” Jiwoong continues, and he knows he struck a chord when he sees Gunwook’s jaw clench.

Again, Gunwook stays silent, so Jiwoong goes on. “I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us, I’m sure you know I’m not going to just steal him away from you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What you do with him is none of my business, I don’t care.” Gunwook cuts off abruptly, body posture tensing.

“It’s natural to feel worried. I know you’ve been friends with Matthew for years–”

“Best friends,” Gunwook corrects, giving him a sharp glare.

“Right, best friends… I’m not here to come in between the two of you, I hope you know that. I respect your friendship with him, and I won’t meddle, I promise.”

“Whatever, it’s nothing personal, alright? I just have a hard time warming up to new people.”

Jiwoong raises an eyebrow at Gunwook. Finally, the slightest little crack in his armour. What he’d said basically confirms his suspicions. He thinks back to all the times he’s caught Gunwook’s gaze towards Matthew linger a beat too long, to the times he’s seen that air of possessiveness whenever Jiwoong sits too close to Matthew, all the times he’s caught him staring at Matthew with the kind of softness and tenderness that isn’t normal between just friends. It has nothing to do with him, it has a lot to do with Matthew. Jiwoong nods, finally adding two and two together.

“Ah, I see…” Jiwoong hums, nodding at his newfound deduction. “I guess it has more to do with Matthew, right?”

Gunwook’s head whips toward his direction, his expression laced with confusion. Jiwoong catches the brief moment he catches the younger off guard, and he feels even more confident now that he’s right. 

“Matthew?” Gunwook repeats, unsure of what Jiwoong is trying to imply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” Jiwoong pauses to collect his thoughts. He wants to go about this as carefully as possible to avoid things getting worse between them. “It’s just, I know I basically came out of nowhere, and you knew him first. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes here but, I have a feeling the reason you don’t like me is because I like him too. And there’s nothing wrong with us liking him!”

“Like him too?” Gunwook repeats again, his head spinning. Jiwoong inwardly curses at himself, thinking he’d just fucked things up for the worse. Gunwook squints at him, leaning closer. Jiwoong stands his ground, not letting himself feel intimidated by the younger. “What, you think I’m–” Gunwook sputters incredulously. “You think I have feelings for Matthew?”

The question lingers in the air as Jiwoong scans his face for any sign of vulnerability. All he sees is confusion and disbelief, making him believe he’d read everything wrong. “Well, uh, I mean…”

“No,” Gunwook laughs, stepping back to run his fingers through his hair. “No, no, no, you got it all wrong. I don’t have any feelings for Matthew hyung, alright? I’m straight.” Gunwook emphasises the final word.

“Oh.” Jiwoong answers dumbly, hoping this didn’t just make Gunwook retreat further away than he already has. “I’m sorry, I just thought…”

“What, you thought just ‘cause the entire friend group is gay that I can’t be straight?”

“No! Not at all! It’s just,” Jiwoong groans and puts his hand against Gunwook shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I completely misread the whole thing.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have anything to worry about, alright? I’m not gonna steal your man.”

“No, that’s not what I’m worried about. Again, I just want to understand why you don’t like me so much, and I want us to get along for Matthew’s sake, alright?”

“You can’t come in here and expect me to be all buddy-buddy with you in an instant. Just because the other guys took to your liking doesn’t mean I have to match their pace. I told you it takes me a while to warm up to someone, so I’d like it if you’d just back off and let me handle things at my own pace, will you?” Gunwook rants, finger poking at Jiwoong’s chest.

“Right, of course,” Jiwoong relents. He wants to press further, because he knows there’s something Gunwook is still hiding. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t believe Gunwook, but the younger one has proven to be more stubborn than he thought, so to avoid any more animosity, he backs off. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Gunwook doesn’t respond, and turns back towards the cityscape. Jiwoong hovers for a moment, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment from the younger, but when he doesn’t receive one, he heads back inside. 

The weight of the conversation lingers heavily in his chest. He knows there’s something more to it than what Gunwook had chalked it up to, and he’s desperate to see what it is. But he figures some things are better left unsaid, and decides to let it go for now.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Throughout Gunwook and Jiwoong’s conversation out on the balcony, Matthew keeps glancing back at them, worried that something ugly might happen between them. He debates going over just to make sure everything’s fine between the two, but Hao stops him.

“Hey, don’t worry about them, alright? Let them figure it out.” Hao says, offering a reassuring smile.

“I don’t know, hyung. Did you all notice how Gunwook’s been acting tonight? He’s been… I don’t know, different,” Matthew begins, eyes flitting back to the two figures on the balcony. “He’s never acted like this before with any of my exes. Do you think he noticed something off about Jiwoong? Should I stop seeing him?”

“Oh, my god, hyung. There you go again, letting him meddle in your relationships.” Ricky complains. “He’s just being immature, okay? There’s nothing wrong with Jiwoong hyung. He’s literally only salty that you’ve barely paid attention to him all day. You need to let yourself make your own judgement when it comes to relationships, hyung. Don’t let Gunwook cross that boundary.”

“Right, you’re right,” Matthew sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t help but worry, though.”

“We know,” Hanbin replies. “But Gunwook’s a big boy. Let him figure things out on his own, okay?”

Matthew only nods in response, his mind clouded over in concern. The boys try to distract him, and he plays along, but he can’t ignore the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something’s not quite right. 

After a few moments, Jiwoong finally comes back. He comes back looking distant, like his head is somewhere else, and Matthew wants nothing more than to know what went on in that balcony.

“Hey, you okay?” Matthew asks, taking a hold of Jiwoong’s hand.

This seems to break Jiwoong out of his reverie, and he shoots his lover a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Matthew is unconvinced, and he looks back towards the balcony where Gunwook was still standing. He decides he’s going to talk to Gunwook. “I’ll go check up on Gunwook.”

“Go ahead.” Jiwoong smiles, always so radiant, before he naturally slips back into conversation with the rest of the boys.

“Wookie?” Matthew calls out as he steps out into the balcony, sliding the door closed behind him.

“Hyung,” Gunwook breathes, like he’s shocked Matthew was there. “Is everything okay?”

“I should be the one asking you that, shouldn’t I?” Matthew smiles softly, leaning sideways against the railing to take a proper look at Gunwook. 

“I’m fine, why does everyone keep thinking that I’m not?” Gunwook pouts, hands subconsciously seeking out Matthew’s intertwining their fingers like it’s as natural as breathing.

“Maybe because you’ve been sulking all day? You’ve barely spoken a word with me!”

“Yeah? And who’s fault is that?”

“Wookie…” 

“Whatever, I’m fine, alright? And I wasn’t sulking.” The tone in Gunwook’s voice is final, like there’s no room for argument.

Matthew doesn’t buy it. “Gunwook… please,” He begins, his voice soft but firm. Then he continues, “Tell me what’s going on.”

Gunwook looks away, and for a moment, they are engulfed by a heavy silence. He turns away from Matthew, seeing Jiwoong conversing and laughing with the boys like he’d been here forever.

“He’s just… I don’t know, there’s something off about him.” Gunwook mumbles, looking back towards Matthew.

Matthew’s brows stitch together in confusion. “How so?”

“I don’t know, whatever, forget it.” Gunwook snaps, his tone clipped. “Go back to your date or whatever, I don’t care.”

“Wookie, why are you acting like this?” Matthew tries to reach out, and for the first time since they’ve been friends, Gunwook avoids his touch. There’s a pang in his chest as his hand falls back to his side, gnawing at his heart.

“I’m not acting like anything,” Gunwook spits, his voice laced with frustration. “I just don’t understand how easy you are with him.”

There’s a beat of silence. Matthew blinks, as something uncomfortable twists in his chest. “What do you mean, ‘easy’?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” Gunwook mutters, rolling his eyes. “You’ve never been so quick to fall for someone before, so why now? Why him?”

“Isn’t that a good thing? I should be the one asking you what you have against him!” Matthew argues, his voice raising in volume. “For once, someone likes me for me, Wookie. He appreciates me and he makes me happy. I finally have someone who gives me what I deserve and doesn’t give me false hope. Don’t I deserve to be happy, Wookie? Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Hyung,” Gunwook says, his tone defeated, like he’d lost all will to fight. “I’m sorry, okay? You’re right. Ignore me.”

“No, Wookie,” Matthew replies, voice also softening. “I’m not going to ignore you. I just want to know why you’ve been acting like this.”

For a few minutes, neither of them speak. The weight of their unspoken words hang in the air, almost suffocating the two. They stay like that for a long moment, just looking at each other, looking for the right words to say. 

Finally, Gunwook speaks up, his voice small, insecure. “I just don’t want to lose you, okay?”

Matthew is taken aback, unsure if he even heard him right. Before he could even answer, though, Gunwook abruptly makes the move to walk past him and back inside. With one last glance towards him, he says, “I gotta go. Forget I even said anything.”

“No! Wookie, wait!” Matthew stops him just in time as Gunwook’s hand touches the door handle, but the latter rips his hand off of his grip and walks past the living room towards the front door.

“Gunwook? Where are you going?” Hanbin asks, as the rest of the group’s eyes follow him.

“Hana called, I’m heading over to her place.” Gunwook states plainly.

“You’re abandoning us for a damn booty call? Really?” Gyuvin laughs, but gets no response. 

They watch as Gunwook leaves the apartment in silence, and the once lively atmosphere now grows heavy. Jiwoong looks back to where Matthew is standing, his demeanour resigned and exhausted, like something had just pulled the life out of him.

Even as he rejoins the group and feels Jiwoong’s hands around him, the shadow of Gunwook’s pained expression imprints itself behind his eyelids, and he can’t seem to think about anything other than Gunwook for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

After the conversation at Matthew’s apartment, Gunwook has been avoiding the elder like the plague. He’s not angry at Matthew, far from it. He’s more embarrassed than anything. He hadn’t even meant to say it, it just slipped out before he could even stop himself. And now he’s scared that Matthew thinks he’s a pathetic, whiny baby who’s overly attached to his best friend. And to top it all off, he’s also embarrassed that it’d been so obvious that he’s avoiding Matthew, because now everyone knows just how affected he was over their little argument – if you could even call it that.

Gunwook tries his best to be as unnoticeable as possible, wearing dark and baggy clothing as he moves across campus, but with his build, it’s practically almost impossible. It’s like if a grizzly bear tried to hide behind a bamboo tree; completely pointless. He feels Matthew’s presence before he hears him, and just as he’s about to turn to check if it really is his hyung, he hears a voice call out to him, “Gunwook! Wait!” But Gunwook keeps going, quickening his pace with his head down, pretending he didn’t hear him.

He knows he’s being childish, he knows he’s being immature, but he can’t help it! The memory of him blurting out those words to Matthew is burned into his head, and he groans and cringes in embarrassment every time he’s reminded of it. Gunwook can’t get over the shocked look that had flooded Matthew’s face, followed by the softening of his eyes, gazing at him with something that looked like pity. Ugh, you’re a fucking idiot, Gunwook, he shakes his head, trying to get rid of the mental image.

It doesn’t help that Gunwook is the type to avoid confrontation altogether, so he continues avoiding Matthew; refusing to answer his texts and calls, running the other way when he sees the elder on campus grounds, making sure to walk a different path home every single day to make sure he doesn’t run into him. Every single time he ignores Matthew, or sees the pained look on the latter’s face whenever he avoids his gaze and walks the other way, his guilt grows, and now he feels he’s gone too far to try and go back and pretend nothing happened.

So what does he do? He continues avoiding Matthew. There’s a small part of his brain that fears one day Matthew would get tired of this entire situation and stop talking to Gunwook altogether, and it would have been his own fault. But being non-confrontational, Gunwook wouldn’t know how to address the problem, anyway. And again, it wasn’t like it was even a problem, per se… It was just him being stupid and beating himself up over the embarrassment of having let slip to Matthew that he’s scared of losing him to his new boyfriend. How pathetic.

But what is Matthew if not his best friend, and what is he if not persistent. So as much as Gunwook avoids him, he calls and texts just as much. And when he’s determined, Matthew is pretty damn good at being persistent, unrelenting in his efforts to try to get Gunwook to talk to him again. 

my mashu hyungie💛🦊

wookie it’s getting old now :/

i know exactly why you’re avoiding me

you think i don’t know you well enough?

STOP LEAVING ME ON READ!!!

look there’s nothing to be embarrassed about okay

ugh it’s better to have that conversation irl

you’re so fucking annoying oml PLEASE JUST ANSWER ME

park gunwook.

Oh, no, not the full name. A chill runs through his spine, and Gunwook is half tempted to reply at that moment, but he refuses to show Matthew he’s intimidated. So he doesn’t respond. At this rate, it’s no longer his embarrassment and guilt stopping him from talking to Matthew, it’s now a matter of pride.

my mashu hyungie💛🦊

okay i see how it is

you wanna stay stubborn huh?

>:[

>:[[[[[[

grrrrrrrrrr

wtv 

just you wait

Gunwook is already dreading whatever Matthew’s got planned, but he tries to take his mind off it, and heads towards the library. It’s currently some time around 3PM, and Matthew has classes until 6 today, so he should be safe for the next few hours. He chooses a seat by the huge almost-floor-to-ceiling window and delves into the reading his lecturer had assigned.

He doesn’t realise how much time has passed until he spots a familiar figure through the window. What the fuck is Jiwoong even doing here? He gets his answer when he sees Matthew jogging towards the taller man with the most vibrant smile he’s come to know and love, a slight skip in his step. Gunwook’s eyes don’t leave the two even for just a second, not even when he sees his best friend standing up on his tippy toes to give his boyfriend a kiss, not even when he sees Matthew intertwine his fingers with the elder, swinging their arms as they walk off campus. 

Gunwook rolls his eyes and scoffs, so much for being annoyed at me, he seems pretty damn fine from what I’m seeing. How can Matthew be so at ease with Gunwook’s absence? Yeah, sure, the only reason they haven’t been speaking was because of Gunwook himself, but so what? Shouldn’t he feel the slightest bit upset? Not that he wants Matthew to be upset because of him. Whatever, point is, Matthew looks way better than he thought he would, so that must mean he’s okay with not talking with Gunwook, right?

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Ricky deadpans.

“I’m an idiot?” Gunwook repeats.

“Well, who the fuck else would I be referring to, Gunwook. You’re a fucking idiot!” Ricky emphasises, slapping Gunwook upside the head.

His friends are currently holding an intervention right in his cramped dorm room. He doesn’t even know how they even got access to his room, but you can never know just how far Gyuvin can get away with things. 

All he knew was that as soon as he arrived at his dorm and opened his door, multiple pairs of hands grabbed him and threw him against his own bed, rendering him trapped in his own room. And now Gunwook is cornered into the wall, as Hao, Hanbin, Ricky, and Gyuvin crowd around him. 

“So let me get this straight. You first started avoiding him because you were embarrassed that you told him you didn’t want to lose to Jiwoong–” Hao begins, rubbing his forehead.

“I’m not scared of losing to Jiwoong, I’m scared of losing Matthew to Jiwoong.” Gunwook interjects, correcting him.

“Fine, whatever. And now, instead of ignoring him because of your own embarrassment, you’ve gone into ignoring him because you’re salty that he doesn’t seem upset over the fact that you’re ignoring him..?” Hao lays it out, the rest of the boys look at him like he’d just grown another head.

“Not like that…” Gunwook trails off, face flushing from the embarrassment of his own ridiculousness.

“It is exactly like that, Gunwook! Oh my god, you’re actually insane.” Ricky barks out a laugh in disbelief. “And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“What conclusion?” Gunwook inquires, head tilting.

“That Matthew is somehow unaffected by you ignoring him.” Ricky explains exasperatedly, snapping his fingers as if it would make Gunwook understand quicker.

“I don’t know, I saw him with Jiwoong the other day and he seemed fine to me.” Gunwook shrugs, crossing his arms across his chest indignantly.

“Do you even hear yourself, right now?” Ricky laughs humourlessly. “You do know you’re being absolutely ridiculous, right?” 

“My feelings are valid!” Gunwook exclaims, starting to get annoyed.

“No, not this time. I’m telling you once again, you’re a fucking idiot.” Ricky rolls his eyes, still not believing how someone can be so fucking dense.

“Hyung!” Gunwook whines at Hanbin, trying to seek shelter from Ricky’s endless nagging. 

“Gunwook… I can’t even defend you this time because this is just…” Hanbin doesn’t even know how to describe the situation. “Look, what is it about Matthew getting in relationships that make you feel so threatened?”

“I don’t feel threatened.”

“Gunwook.” Hanbin states sternly, straight straight into Gunwook’s soul. “You literally just said you’re scared of losing Matthew to Jiwoong. You do know that just because Matthew is in a relationship doesn’t mean he’ll automatically forget about you, right? What is it that you’re so worried about?”

“I know that! But I just.. I don’t know.” And Gunwook is telling the truth. He doesn’t know why he gets so fucking worked up every time Matthew starts seeing someone. 

“Are you worried that he’s gonna spend less time with you?” Hao suggests, also trying to understand what is going on in their youngest’s head.

“I don’t know, maybe? Not really…”

“You never acted this way when we used to go on dates, why do you react like this when it’s Matthew?” Hanbin supplies.

“Maybe because he’s my best friend? And I don’t want to see him get hurt?”

“None of us do, Geon. Matthew’s our friend too, but we let him make his own choices,” Hanbin sighs, shifting closer towards Gunwook. “He’s an adult, in fact, he’s three years older than you. You don’t need to keep breathing down his back and seeing his partners as guilty until proven innocent. You need to let him make his own judgement.”

For a moment, Gunwook doesn’t respond. He knows they’re right, but he’s annoyed at the fact. He knows it’s unfair to Matthew whenever he doesn’t give the elder’s boyfriends a chance. But he doesn’t even truly know himself why exactly he acts the way that he does. He couldn’t care less when Hanbin started seeing Hao, or when Gyuvin started seeing Ricky. So why is it so much of a problem when it’s Matthew?

“I’m still embarrassed, though. I shouldn’t even have said what I said. And now he’s going to think I'm a clingy baby.” Gunwook groans, pouting as he plays with his pillow.

“Let’s be so for real here, he probably already thinks that way.” Ricky teases, earning a jab to his shoulder.

“Fuck you!” Gunwook spits. “I don’t want hyung to think I’m not happy for him, because I am!”

Ricky shoots him a look, not buying his words. Gunwook gives him another shove.

“No, I'm serious! I’m super happy, extremely happy, even. Fucking elated!” Gunwook’s voice raises in volume, yet there’s not a single hint of genuineness in it. He can tell the rest of the boys don’t believe him, and he doesn’t even believe himself, yet he presses on, “I don’t want to get in the way of him being happy with Jiwoong if that’s what he truly wants, I can’t help it, though. I don’t know why I’m so bothered.”

“Why don’t you know? It’s obvious, you’re jealous.” Gyuvin casually drops, earning a snort from Ricky. 

“Jealous? Me? Yeah, fucking right. I’m not jealous!” Gunwook vehemently denies, shaking his head. Gyuvin doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“Yes, you are, and that’s okay!” Gyuvin insists, eyes widening in sincerity as he places his hand on Gunwook’s knee. The latter swats his hand away as if it had burned him and shakes his head.

“No! I-I’m not! Why the fuck would I even be jealous of Jiwoong, anyway?” Gunwook scoffs. As fucking if!

“I never said you were jealous of Jiwoong hyung, I just said you were jealous.” Gyuvin points out, wiggling his eyebrows in the way Gunwook hates so much.

“Whatever, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gunwook rolls his eyes, not having the energy to fight back. No one can ever win an argument with Gyuvin, so he figures it’s not worth the energy. 

Before the intervention could continue further, a gentle knocking comes from his door. Gunwook looks around at the rest of the guys in alert, is that Matthew?

“Oh, Matthew. How nice of you to come!” Gyuvin singsongs and walks towards the door.

“Wait! Is that really–?”

“Uh, who are you?” Gyuvin asks the girl currently standing outside of Gunwook’s door.

She’s beautiful, straight hair cut into a bob that accentuates her sharp features. Eyes wide and doe-like, sparkling even in the dim hallway lighting. She’s dressed in a low-cut, V-neck cropped top, her shorts resting just below her hip bones, showing off a tattoo on her right hip. It’s clear that she’s dressed with an ulterior motive.

“Is Wookie here?” She asks, her voice soft and sweet.

“Uh…” Gyuvin replies, he looks back towards Gunwook, who’s already right behind him.

“Hey,” Gunwook smoothly greets, the rest of the boys look at each other and roll their eyes. They know this voice; it’s the voice he uses to pick up girls.

“Hi, Wookie.” She practically purrs, placing her hand on his chest. “You busy tonight?”

“No, but I have a feeling I will be.” Gunwook smirks flirtatiously, leaning against the doorframe.

“Okay, now that’s our cue to leave!” Ricky throws Gunwook a tight smile, and smiles politely to the girl, before pulling Gyuvin out the door. Hao and Hanbin follow closely behind. 

Hao gives him one final look and sternly reminds him, “Call. Matthew.” And with that, they leave.

Gunwook ignores him and turns his attention back to the girl. “Why don’t we take this inside, hm?”

“Thanks, Wookie.” She giggles, sauntering in like she owned the place. Gunwook feels a pang in his chest at the nickname, getting reminded of Matthew all over again.

“Don’t call me that.” Gunwook plainly states. “What was your name again?”

The girl shoots him a glare, annoyed. “Seriously, Gunwook? We’ve fucked three times and you still don’t remember my name?” 

Gunwook smiles sheepishly, falling naturally on his knees right between her legs. He presses soft, wet kisses on the inside of her thigh, moving further up before his teeth meets her zipper, pulling it down with his mouth. “I’m sorry, baby… Let me make it up to you?”

And as they exchange body heat into the early hours of the morning, Gunwook still doesn’t bother to learn her name.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

It’s been almost two weeks since he last spoken with Gunwook and frankly, Matthew is fucking sick of it. He decides to take matters into his own hands and stomps his way to Gunwook’s dorm. The moment he reaches his door, he brings his hand up to knock but the door flings open before he could. A disheveled girl steps out of the room, her top worn inside out and her shorts unbuttoned.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Park Gunwook!” She shouts, pointing a finger at Gunwook.

“That’s what you said last time, baby, yet you still came back for more, didn’t you?” Gunwook sighs, voice disinterested and still heavy with sleep. 

Matthew takes the time to look past her and into the room, where Gunwook is in bed under a pile of messy sheets, presumably still naked. The girl screeches a string of profanities at him, to which he doesn’t even respond. When the girl finally turns and sees Matthew, her face twists into a sneer.

“Oh, so now you’ve started sleeping with boys, too? Wouldn’t be surprised, you probably ran  out of girls to fuck.” She spits out venomously, storming off while not bothering to stay to hear Gunwook’s response.

“What do you mean, ‘boys’?” He sees Gunwook’s head lift in confusion and peek out from under the covers. The latter’s eyes widen in surprise before he scrambles up and out of bed, covering himself with his sheets. “Hyung?”

“Gunwook.” 

“What are you doing here?” Gunwook approaches him, trying to use his body to block the entrance. 

Matthew shoves past him without waiting for an invitation and moves to sit on the bed but stops himself. He doesn’t know just what kind of shit went on on that bed. He shudders at the thought and turns his attention back to Gunwook, who’s looking everywhere around the room but him.

“What? You can’t even look at me?” Matthew pressed, getting more annoyed by the second. Gunwook is still stubborn, and Matthew looks at him, scrutinising his every move. It’s that familiar expression; the one Gunwook used to see all the time, the one that always made him feel at ease. But now, all it does is make him feel like he’s been caught in the act, like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar.

He’s determined, like always, but there’s a softness to him now that Gunwook hasn’t seen before. Maybe it’s the weight of how badly he’s been trying to get through to Gunwook. Maybe it’s just the quiet understanding of someone who’s known him for a while. Either way, Gunwook isn’t sure whether he should feel relieved or trapped.

“Look, Wookie… I just,” Matthew sighs, giving a small shrug. His eyes soften as he meets Gunwook’s gaze, his expression calm but firm. “I just need to talk to you.”

Gunwook knows he’s being ridiculous, knows that he’s stalling for basically no reason at all. He just can’t help but feel embarrassed about being so vulnerable with Matthew about his emotions when he never has before. Matthew always seems to be able to read right through him without Gunwook having to say a single word, so the fact that he actually did express his feelings that night during their hangout, Gunwook doesn’t know how to react.

“Hyung,” he starts, trying to gather his thoughts. But everything he wants to say gets stuck in his throat. The words are there, but they’re tangled with his own unfounded anxiety. “I’m sorry about what I said, okay? I don’t wanna make things weird between us.” 

Matthew steps closer, closing the gap between them, but not too close. He doesn’t invade Gunwook’s personal space, but it’s clear that he’s not backing down either. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look disappointed. Just… patient.

“Wookie, look,” Matthew says softly, his voice almost a whisper, “You didn’t make things weird at all.” He gives a small laugh, but it’s not mocking. It’s the kind of laugh that comes when someone’s trying to make the other person feel at ease. “I know you’re avoiding me. I know why. But I don’t want you to think that you have to hide from me or feel embarrassed about what you said. I’m still your best friend. That hasn’t changed. I’m just trying to understand where that came from.”

Gunwook feels his chest tighten at the words. Now he just feels stupid. Why did he even take so long to talk to Matthew, anyway? He should’ve known Matthew would be understanding; as he always is with Gunwook.

“I don’t know why I even said it, to be honest. I know I won’t lose you but,” Gunwook says before he can stop himself. The words spill out, raw and unfiltered, like he’s been holding them back for too long. He looks at Matthew, his heart racing, desperate to say more but unsure of how. “I know you being with Jiwoong won’t change a thing about our friendship, but… I don’t know, just forget it.”

Matthew’s face softens even more. His eyes soften, and for a moment, there’s no judgment. No confusion. Just understanding.

“Wookie… You’re not going to lose me,” Matthew says, his voice steady, but there’s something comforting in the way he says it. “I know this whole thing with Jiwoong is new and… I’ve never been this way with anyone ever. But I really like him, Wookie, and you’re still my best friend. You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Ugh, that sounds awful.” Gunwook jokes, rolling his eyes playfully. Matthew’s jaw drops in fake offence. Matthew steps closer to Gunwook and punches him in the shoulder earning a yelp from the taller of the two.

“Fuck you, fine. Whatever, I’ll let Jiwoong steal me away from you, then.” Matthew huffs, nose pointed in the air in defiance. 

“No!” Gunwook protests, wrapping his arms around Matthew and picking him up with ease, making Matthew shriek in laughter. “No one is allowed to take you away from me.”

“Put me down, you freak!” Matthew cackles, pounding his fists on Gunwook’s back, having been thrown over the latter’s shoulder. 

Gunwook brings him over to his bed and throws himself on it, bringing Matthew along with him. Matthew screams in disgust and rips himself away from the younger’s grasp, scrambling to get away. “What?” Gunwook asks, still clueless.

“You’re fucking disgusting, Wookie. Why the fuck would you put me on the same bed you just fucked some random girl in like a minute ago.” Matthew shudders in disgust, swatting at his clothes as if to dust off any dirt that might’ve stuck to his clothes. He then looks down to where Gunwook had his sheets wrapped around him and groans, “And you’re still naked!”

“Right,” Gunwook chuckles. “I’m clean, though! I had a shower and everything, I was hoping I’d get another round in but she’s fucking crazy, man. Asking me to be all exclusive and shit, I kicked her out before she spewed out any more nonsense.”

Gunwook sees something unreadable flash across Matthew’s eyes – something that looks a bit like… hurt? Sadness? – and it sends a jolt right through his chest, and he gets the feeling he’s responsible for it even though he can’t quite put a finger as to why that is. Before he could say anything to try and alleviate the heaviness he feels rolling off of Matthew in waves, Matthew turns to leave.

“I guess I’ll leave then,” Matthew says, his voice oddly quiet. “Let you clean your room and everything.”

“Are you okay?” Gunwook finally musters up, feeling like he’d already fucked up again when they’d just made up.

“Yeah! Just remember to answer my texts this time.” Matthew playfully glares at him, leaving his dorm and closing the door behind him.

Gunwook should feel at ease now that they’re back to speaking terms, but he can’t shake off the feeling that he had still done something wrong.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The first time they hang out again with just the two of them, they’re at a small coffee shop near campus. Matthew’s smile is a little brighter, his laugh a little easier. Gunwook finds himself relaxing, the tension that had knotted up inside him a week ago had eased as they interacted like normal. There are no awkward silences, no moments of hesitation. It’s like they’re picking up where they left off, even though it still feels a bit fragile. But it’s comfortable, and that’s all that matters.

And for a while, everything seems perfect. They talk about everything and anything like they usually do, and it’s almost like nothing happened between them. Not like anything really happened between them – it was Gunwook being his moody little self. Gunwook can’t help but feel a little lighter, like he’s starting to remember how easy it used to be to just be around Matthew. He laughs more, his smile more genuine than it’s been in weeks. He almost forgets Jiwoong’s very existence.

But of course, nothing ever stays that simple for long.

It happens the next time they hang out. They’re at the same coffee shop again, a cozy little corner booth where they always sat; they’ve deemed it their spot, just for the two of them. They’ve just finished their drinks, and Matthew is halfway through telling Gunwook a story, angrily ranting and venting about his ridiculous classmate who had accidentally deleted their group work two days before submission when his phone buzzes. Matthew’s face brightens as he looks down at the screen.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta take this,” he says, an apologetic smile forming on his lips. “It’s Jiwoong.”

Gunwook feels the familiar irritation flicker to life inside him, like an old wound he thought had healed. Jiwoong. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He should be happy for Matthew. He should be happy that Matthew has someone who cares about him, but every time Jiwoong’s name pops up, he’s reminded that he has to share Matthew now. 

And Gunwook doesn’t like sharing.

Matthew gets up and steps outside to take the call. Gunwook watches him go, his fingers tapping against the edge of his cup in a rhythm that matches his restless thoughts. It’s not like he wants to be selfish, but every time Matthew’s attention shifts, even if it’s just for a moment, Gunwook feels a little further away. He knows it’s ridiculous, knows that it’s just a call from Jiwoong, that he should just let it go, but it gnaws at him, that little voice in the back of his mind telling him that he should try and keep Matthew to himself.

When Matthew finally comes back, his face is still warm with that smile, and the moment is different now, tainted just a little bit by the intrusion.

They pick up their conversation where they left off, but Gunwook can’t quite focus, silently sulking. His eyes drift over to Matthew’s phone, the screen locked now, but he can’t stop thinking about the fact that they’ve barely had any time to talk uninterrupted. It’s not like it’s Matthew’s fault, he’s just doing what any boyfriend would do, answering Jiwoong’s calls, but it still annoys him. Gunwook can’t help the tiny bit of jealousy that gnaws at him, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

It doesn’t stop there, though It happens again. And again. And again.

Each time, it’s the same. Every hangout session, it feels like Jiwoong is somehow always there, always interrupting. Sometimes it’s a quick text that pulls Matthew’s attention away and other times, it’s a full-blown phone call. Sometimes, Matthew even invites him over to their hangouts which annoys Gunwook to no end. It’s not like Matthew invites him without Gunwook’s knowledge, anyway. He always asks permission and the latter agrees out of formality, but Gunwook doesn’t think he’d actually invite Jiwoong?! They’re supposed to hangout, just the two of them. Why can’t Matthew honour that?  Gunwook tries to tell himself that Matthew has a life outside of him. That he’s allowed to be with Jiwoong, just like he’s allowed to spend time with Gunwook. But the more it happens, the more it starts to get under his skin.

It’s not even that he doesn’t like Jiwoong. He barely knows the guy, really, nor does he even attempt to get to know the guy. He’s partially – mostly – at fault since every time Jiwoong tries to get to know him, he shoots him down without a second thought, much to Matthew’s dismay. “Wookie, can you at least try to look like you don’t hate the guy?” Matthew would ask him, irritated at the younger’s behaviour. Gunwook doesn’t hate him, but every time Matthew’s phone buzzes, Gunwook feels that irritation creep in, the same feeling of being second that he can’t shake, no matter how hard he tries. He isn’t used to being second, especially not to Matthew, and he tells himself it’s nothing, just a passing feeling, but it lingers.

The next time it happens, they’re at the park. It’s a nice day, the kind of sunny afternoon that Gunwook used to cherish. Matthew has been talking about some new movie he watched with Jiwoong, his hands animated as he recounts every scene in ridiculous detail, know the younger wouldn’t go and watch it, anyway. Gunwook listens, smiling. He loves listening to Matthew talk, loves to just sit and stare as the elder talks about anything and everything, to watch him as he talks about something he’s passionate about, seeing how gesticulative and excited he gets about whatever it is he’s talking about. Gunwook doesn’t always understand what he’s talking about, but he sure does love listening to him, and if he could, he would choose to only listen to Matthew’s voice for the rest of his life.

Then, Matthew’s phone rings again.

Gunwook sighs inwardly, trying to mask his annoyance with a smile. He watches as Matthew looks at the caller ID and then answers, his voice taking on that soft tone that Gunwook has come to recognise as Matthew's talking-to-Jiwoong voice. Gunwook doesn’t even try to hide the frown that slips onto his face this time. Matthew’s back is turned to him as he speaks into the phone and Gunwook can’t help but feel the familiar sense of frustration bubble up in his chest. He grips his hands together tightly, forcing himself to stay calm, but the irritation is there, sharp and bitter.

Matthew’s voice drifts back to him. "Yeah, I’ll be over in a bit, I’ll just walk Gunwook back to his dorm… I miss you too. See you soon, okay?”

The words are simple, innocent, but they feel like a knife to Gunwook’s chest. Matthew hangs up and turns back to Gunwook, that smile back on his face, but it’s different now. Gunwook can see the way Matthew’s eyes flicker with that question, wondering if he’s okay. And maybe Matthew does notice the change, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, Gunwook speaks up.

“What do you mean you’ll drop me off at my dorm?” Gunwook asks, irritation clear in his voice. Matthew looks at him for a beat, and then as he opens his mouth to answer, Gunwook cuts him off, standing up to walk away. “If you wanted to get rid of me so badly then I guess I’ll go. Have fun with Jiwoong.”

“No, Wookie… That’s not what I meant.” Matthew sighs, grabbing a hold of Gunwook’s hand and intertwining their fingers to keep him there, still sitting down.

“What do you mean, ‘that’s not what you meant’? You literally said you’ll walk me back to my dorm and go to him. So let’s go.”

“We can stay, if you want.” Matthew says, but Gunwook feels himself get even more annoyed. 

“Do you want to?” Gunwook presses, finally facing back towards Matthew.

“Of course, I do.” 

“Then why do you keep letting him interrupt our hangouts? There hasn’t been a single time where we’ve hung out that he didn’t interrupt in some way. You literally see him all the time, and he can’t let me have just a few hours with you?”

“Wookie,” Matthew starts, standing up to meet the younger’s eyes easier. “I literally see you more than I see him.”

“Why does that even matter?” Gunwook grumbles, his fingers still intertwined with Matthew.

“Gunwook,” Uh oh, not the government name. “How many times do I have to tell you no matter what my relationship is with Jiwoon hyung, you’re still my best friend, and that’s never going to change!”

“But–”

“No buts! Please, Wookie. I don’t know how else to get this through your head but I’m happy, Wookie! I finally have someone I like who genuinely likes me back, and it hurts when I see you so distant and so disapproving of him when he’s done nothing to warrant this behaviour! I know it’s a little bit hard to get used to, and I know it takes a while for you to warm up to people. But I’ve sat through so many times when you’d ditch me for a fucking hookup, Gunwook, and I let it happen every single fucking time because I wanted you to be happy.” 

When Matthew’s voice cracks at the last sentence, Gunwook feels his heart crack along with it. He isn’t aware that he’d been doing the very same thing he’s annoyed at Matthew for doing right now, except he’s a million times worse. When the elder’s eyes start watering, Gunwook feels his chest constrict, inwardly cursing for causing this by being so selfish. 

Matthew continues with a stuttered breath, “I let you ditch me countless times for a measly fuck, Gunwook, and I never said a fucking word. I’ve never once done the same since I got with Jiwoon hyung. So I’m asking you once again, Gunwook. Why can’t you just be happy for me? Why do you get to leave me in the middle of a hangout for a booty call and I can’t answer a fucking phone call from my boyfriend?”

The truth is, Gunwook is torn. He’s happy that Matthew finally has someone who appreciates just how amazing he is as a person. He’s happy that Matthew is happy with Jiwoong. But every time their hangouts are interrupted, a part of him can’t help but feel... left out. Forgotten, even. He thinks maybe it’s because he’s so used to being Matthew’s priority that he sees whatever stealing Matthew’s attention from him a threat But sometimes, when he’s sitting there, watching Matthew’s face light up with the words he shares with Jiwoong, it feels like Gunwook is just a shadow in the background, a friend who will now always come second.

Gunwook realises that he really doesn’t have the right to feel this way, however, since he’s been doing the same to Matthew all these years without even thinking how it has been affecting the elder. 

“Hyung…” Gunwook falters, his heart heavy with the guilt of unknowingly hurting Matthew all this time. Gunwook pulls the elder into a hug and apologises, “I’m sorry, I’ll do better. I’m sorry I never realised just how selfish and hypocritical I’m being when I’ve been doing the same to you.”

“Thank you for the apology,” Matthew sniffles into Gunwook’s chest, blinking away the tears that had welled up. “Let’s just move on, okay? And promise you’ll try to get along with Jiwoon hyung this time.”

With a heavy heart, Gunwook agrees, “Fine, I promise.”

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The apartment is buzzing with laughter and chatter, the air light with the energy of their usual group hangout. Matthew is lounging on the couch resting against Jiwoong, his legs stretched out in front of him as he engages in a lively conversation with Gyuvin. Hao and Hanbin are sitting together in the armchair, with Hao sitting on Hanbin’s lap. Ricky is sitting on the floor next to them, scrolling through his phone while occasionally chiming in with something witty. Gunwook is perched on the arm of the couch, sipping his drink and listening, trying to keep his mind off of everything that’s been swirling around in his head.

Everything feels normal, for the most part. 

He’s conversing with Jiwoong for once, trying his best to make it up to Matthew, earning a bright smile from the elder. Gunwook feels his heart sigh at the sight, satisfied at the thought that he’s making Matthew happy, even though it’s hard for him to act all buddy-buddy with the person stealing his hyung away from him. Jiwoong’s laugh comes a little too easily when everyone is joking around, and Gunwook tries to hold himself back from rolling his eyes, pretending to laugh along. 

It’s then that Jiwoong excuses himself to the bathroom, and Gunwook doesn’t think anything of it. But when he gets up to get himself another drink, his eyes catch a glimpse of something he thinks he shouldn’t have seen, but thanks the lord he did. Right there, a message on Jiwoong’s locked phone is a notification. A message from someone named Hyerin. The words leap out at him like a slap to the face.

I miss you oppa, when can I see you again?

Gunwook’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes widen as his pulse begins to race, every part of his body going still. His mind starts to reel, the words on the screen seeming to echo in his head. Hyerin. He doesn’t know who she is, but one thing is painfully clear; Jiwoong is hiding something.

For a moment, his hands tremble slightly as he looks at the message. The anger that has been brewing inside him for days now flares up, hot and sharp. He feels a strange rush of satisfaction, like some twisted confirmation that his gut feeling was right all along. Jiwoong is the bad person Gunwook has been suspecting he is. Jiwoong is messing around behind Matthew’s back.

But that satisfaction is quickly overshadowed by a deep, burning rage.

He grips the empty can in his hand tighter, squeezing it, his jaw clenched so hard it almost hurts. His eyes flicker toward the hallway where Jiwoong went, the sound of the bathroom door closing echoing faintly in the distance. His hands move quickly now, driven by a sense of urgency and disbelief. He pulls out his own phone, taking a quiet, discreet photo of the message. The flash is off, and the angle is just right, no one will know what he’s done.

Gunwook’s mind is reeling. His heart pounds in his chest, and for a moment, it feels like he can’t breathe. He’s angry. So angry. Not just at Jiwoong for betraying Matthew, but at himself for feeling so damn powerless. He’s supposed to be Matthew’s best friend. He’s supposed to protect him. But instead, all he’s done is stand by, watching everything unravel while Matthew remains blissfully unaware.

Should I tell him now? He thinks, the thought resembling a sharp knife twisting in his gut. He wants to confront Jiwoong right here and now. He wants to yell, to demand answers. But he knows that would only make everything worse. If he’s going to tell Matthew, he needs more. He needs more proof. He needs to make sure that what he’s seen is real before he says anything.

With shaking hands, Gunwook locks his phone and brings it to the kitchen where he disposes of his crushed can and opens another. His pulse is still racing, and the anger in his chest hasn’t subsided as he looks at the picture he took, reading the words over and over again to make sure he read it right. 

He can’t just sit by and do nothing. Not when he knows the truth now.

Gunwook’s mind works through the possibilities as he sits back on the couch. He feels like he’s carrying something heavy in his hands now, something he can’t ignore. The image of the message from Hyerin is burned into his mind. The more he thinks about it, the more convinced he becomes that Jiwoong is hiding more than just a simple friendship.

He glances around the room again. Matthew is laughing with Hao, the sound of their conversation so carefree. How could you do this to him? Gunwook thinks bitterly. How could you hurt him like this?

When Jiwoong finally returns from the bathroom, his eyes meet Gunwook’s for a brief second before he slides back into his seat next to Matthew. He engages Gunwook in another conversation, picking up where they left off when he’d left for the bathroom, and Gunwook tries his best to keep his face neutral, but the anger is still simmering under the surface. He wants to lash out. He wants to confront Jiwoong and rip this all to shreds, but he knows he can’t. Not yet.

Not without more proof.

As the hangout continues, Gunwook’s mind is elsewhere. Every time Matthew laughs, every time Jiwoong smiles at him, he feels like screaming out into the world, confronting Jiwoong in front of everyone to get it all over with. The weight of the knowledge that Jiwoong might be cheating on Matthew lays on him like a cannonball, heavy and unrelenting. He can barely focus on the conversation around him, the words mixing together in his mind like garbled gibberish. All he can think about is that message, the confirmation that something isn’t right, that his best friend is being lied to.

Gunwook just hopes that when the truth comes out, he’s doing the right thing.

Matthew’s voice suddenly pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Hey, are you okay?” He asks, having moved from his position to stand behind Gunwook, the elder’s hands resting on both his shoulders.

Gunwook jerks slightly, startled by the question, but he quickly masks his discomfort with a smile. "Yeah, I’m fine," he says, his voice a little too quick, a little too stiff.

Matthew tilts his head, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He doesn’t seem convinced. "You sure? You’ve been kind of... off tonight. You’re not really joining in, and you’ve been glaring at Jiwoong a lot. I thought we talked about this."

Gunwook freezes, feeling the heat of Matthew’s gaze on him. He opens his mouth to respond, to brush it off, but his throat feels tight. There’s a part of him that wants to scream, It’s Jiwoong, hyung. He’s not who you think he is, but he knows he can’t. Not yet. Not without more proof. So, he swallows the words and forces a smile, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“I’m just tired,” he says quickly, shrugging. “Probably need some rest. It’s been a long week.”

Matthew seems to buy it, nodding slowly, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He gives Gunwook a final glance, his expression soft, and with a pat to Gunwook’s shoulders, his attention shifts back to the group. But Gunwook feels the weight of Matthew’s gaze lingering, like the question isn’t entirely resolved. Matthew knows something’s off, but he doesn’t press it. Not yet, at least.

Gunwook feels a pang of guilt, but the rage and frustration inside him are much louder. He can’t stop watching Jiwoong, whose every movement seems to draw Gunwook’s eyes like a magnet. Every time Jiwoong looks at his phone, Gunwook feels the knot in his stomach tighten. 

And then it happens.

Jiwoong’s phone buzzes again, and without missing a beat, he picks it up, unlocking it effortlessly. He doesn’t glance at anyone in the room, just casually opens the message and answers it as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. Gunwook watches, his blood boiling as Jiwoong responds without hesitation, typing away, completely at ease. Jiwoong’s reaction, so calm, so unbothered by the fact that everyone’s in the room, makes him even angrier. How could he just respond to the text in front of everyone like it’s normal? Like he can get away with it?

Matthew, still unaware of the conversation unfolding right in front of him, laughs along as Ricky and Gyuvin bicker like they usually do, his laughter light and carefree. After what feels like an eternity, Jiwoong finally puts his phone down, sliding it into his pocket with a small stretch. His demeanour hasn’t changed, he’s still as easygoing as ever, laughing and joking with the group. But Gunwook can’t shake off the image of that damn message from whoever this Hyerin person is. 

His anger hasn’t subsided, not even a little. In fact, it’s only grown. His gut tells him something is seriously wrong, that Jiwoong is hiding something from Matthew. But no matter how much Gunwook watches, no matter how closely he scrutinises Jiwoong’s every move, he can’t find a a single crack in his shiny armour. Jiwoong is smooth, too smooth.

As the hangout winds down and the others start heading out, Gunwook finds himself alone with Matthew in the living room. Jiwoong had left earlier because he “had work tomorrow”. Who’s to know he isn’t running off to see this Hyerin he was speaking to? The air feels heavy, and the silence between them is almost unbearable. 

“So…” Matthew says, looking up from his phone. “You still seem a little off. You sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting strange all night.”

“I’m good, really,” Gunwook says, trying to keep his voice steady, but it feels like a lie. He doesn’t know how to make it sound more convincing, but he forces himself to smile. “Just tired. Think I’m gonna crash here if that’s okay with you.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push any further. He nods, still looking concerned but not quite convinced. “Alright, do you wanna go and shower first? I’ll stay back and clean this up.” Matthew offers, pointing at the stack of empty takeout boxes on the table.

Gunwook nods stiffly, swallowing the lump in his throat. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just mutters, “Yeah. Thanks.”

Matthew looks at him for a moment longer, his look inquisitive, but he doesn’t press. He goes back to his phone, typing a quick message to Jiwoong. Gunwook watches him, feeling the weight of his own silence. It’s as though every moment spent not telling Matthew feels like a betrayal. But he can’t tell him just yet. Gunwook knows there’s something off about Jiwoong. The message he saw, the way he responded without a second thought, it all points to just how much of an asshole he is with complete disregard to Matthew’s feelings. But right now, Gunwook feels like he’s in the dark, grasping for any shred of evidence that will prove what he already suspects. 

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

It’s been a few days since that night at Matthew’s apartment, and Gunwook still can’t shake off the feeling of Jiwoong’s potential betrayal. It gnaws at him, festers in his mind like an infection he can’t ignore. Every time he sees Matthew smile so softly whenever he’s on the phone with Jiwoong, something ugly twists inside his gut, and it’s more than just petty jealousy. It’s like he’s watching a car crash he can’t look away from, knowing the impact will be devastating. He’s tried to push the thoughts aside. He’s tried to distract himself by hanging out with his friends or focusing on his studies, but it’s always there, lurking in the back of his mind. 

The tension is unbearable as Gunwook sits across from Matthew at his apartment, both of them nursing half-empty cups of coffee as they play on Matthew’s Nintendo Switch. It’s a casual hangout, nothing out of the ordinary, but Gunwook feels anything but at ease. His leg bounces restlessly under the table, his eyes darting around the room as he tries to find something, anything, to distract himself, but it’s useless. 

Matthew notices the shift in his demeanour almost immediately. He’s always been good at reading Gunwook, and this time is no different. He tilts his head, looking at him with an expression that’s half-concern, half-curiosity.

“Hey,” Matthew says softly, setting his coffee down. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird for days now.”

“I think Jiwoong is cheating on you,” Gunwook blurts out, his voice sharp and strained, like he’s barely holding it together.

Matthew’s expression falters for a split second, surprise flashing across his face before his brows furrow in frustration. “What? Gunwook, what are you talking about?”

Gunwook doesn’t know what came over him. He wasn’t supposed to say it like that. He wasn’t supposed to say anything at all. But it’s out now, hanging in the air like a thick cloud. He feels his chest tighten, the words catching in his throat as he tries to explain, to make Matthew understand.

“I saw something on his phone the other night,” Gunwook continues, his voice low but steady. “A message from someone named Hyerin, and it was kinda… it just didn’t sit right with me.”

Matthew blinks, clearly trying to process the information. “Hyerin? Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.” Gunwook’s hands clench into fists, frustration lacing his words. “I don’t know who she is, but the way Jiwoong reacted when he saw her message… It was like nothing. Like it was no big deal. And I just… I don’t know, hyung. It just doesn’t feel right. He’s hiding something. He’s lying to you.”

Matthew’s expression shifts again, his face a mix of disbelief and hurt. “Wait a second,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his tone more serious now. “You think Jiwoon hyung is cheating on me based on one message? And the way he acted about it?”

Gunwook nods vigorously, his emotions spilling out of him faster than he can control. “Yes! It just… it feels wrong. How could he act so calm about it? He’s supposed to be your boyfriend, hyung. And I know you trust him, but I don’t. There’s something off about him, something I can’t ignore anymore.”

Matthew sits back, his fingers rubbing his temple, a slight frown tugging at his lips. There’s a long silence between them, and Gunwook feels like the weight of his words is too much to bear. He wants to take them back, to retract everything he just said, but he knows he can’t. The truth is out now, and there’s no way to undo it.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Matthew finally says, his voice quiet, almost distant. “Gunwook, I know you care about me, but accusing Jiwoon hyung of something like this without even knowing the whole story feels wrong. You’re my best friend, and I trust you, but I also trust Jiwoon hyung. I don’t think he’s the kind of person who would cheat on me. He wouldn’t do that.”

Gunwook’s heart drops at Matthew’s words. He hadn’t expected Matthew to just accept what he said, but he hadn’t expected this much faith in Jiwoong, either. The thought that Matthew could be so blind to the possibility of betrayal stings like a slap to the face. He doesn’t know how to respond. All the words he had been holding back, all the arguments, all the suspicions, suddenly feel irrelevant.

“Hyung, I–” Gunwook starts, but he’s cut off as Matthew raises a hand, silencing him.

“I get it,” Matthew says, his voice soft but firm. “I know you’re looking out for me, but I can’t just take your word for something like this. I need to trust Jiwoon hyung, just like I trust you. I mean you said so yourself! His reaction to the text wasn’t like he was being overly suspicious or anything, it wasn’t like he was trying to hide from us, right? It could’ve been nothing.”

Does he really not see what Gunwook sees? Does he really think everything is fine?

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Gunwook mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, the anger now replaced by something deeper. 

Matthew’s expression softens, though there’s a touch of sadness in his eyes. “I know you don’t, and I appreciate that, but let’s not jump into conclusions, alright? If you’re right, I’ll deal with it, but until I see some actual proof, I can’t just blindly believe in anything you say, Wookie.”

Gunwook nods, feeling a strange mixture of relief and frustration. He’s not ready to let this go. Not by a long shot. But for now, he has no choice but to accept Matthew’s decision.

“Okay,” Gunwook says quietly, his eyes cast down at the table. “Okay, I get it. I just… I just want you to be happy.”

Matthew leans forward, placing a hand gently on Gunwook’s. “I know, Wookie, but I need you to trust me, too. I’ve got this, okay?”

Gunwook looks up at Matthew, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. It hurts, but he can’t fight it. For now, all he can do is wait. Wait for the truth to come out, if it ever does. He has to trust Matthew’s judgment, even if it feels like he’s about to watch his best friend walk straight into the eye of a hurricane.

Deep down, Gunwook knows he won’t stop looking out for Jiwoong. Not until he’s sure.

The moment Gunwook shares what he’s been holding onto, the weight in his chest lightens, only to be replaced by something worse. The frustration is gnawing at him, an insistent, prickling sensation that he can’t ignore. So he decides to open up to the rest of his friends, he’s hoping for a little bit of validation, or at least some support. But instead, he’s met with the same dismissal.

Hao is the first to speak, leaning back into the couch with a shrug. “Geon, are you sure you’re not just overreacting? I mean, people message other people all the time. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? Jiwoong hyung’s always been pretty open about stuff. If he were cheating, wouldn’t Matthew have noticed by now?”

Gunwook’s stomach churns at Hao’s words. It feels like a blow to the gut, like his worst fear is being brushed off. “I’m not just overreacting, hyung. I saw it with my own eyes,” he snaps, his frustration creeping into his voice. “I don’t know what else I need to say.”

Gyuvin, ever the peacemaker, looks between Gunwook and the others, his brows furrowed as he tries to understand. “I don’t know, man. You’re really sure about this? I get that you’re concerned, but it’s pretty serious to accuse someone of cheating without proof. Especially with Matthew hyung involved.”

Gunwook shakes his head, his mind racing. “I don’t know, maybe he just knows how to cover his tracks. But I saw how calm he was about the message, Gyuvin. No one who’s innocent would be that chill.”

Hanbin, who had been sitting quietly up until this point, finally speaks, his voice measured but firm. “Geon, wouldn’t it be the other way around? He’s chill because there’s nothing to hide. If he were truly guilty, he would be acting suspicious, no? It sounds like you’re just... jealous of the attention Jiwoong hyung’s getting.” he says, his tone more critical now.

The words hit Gunwook like a punch to the chest. His mouth opens and closes, as if searching for a response, but all he feels is this sudden, overwhelming tide of anger. Why can’t any of his friends take this seriously? Matthew might be getting cheated on and Hanbin just reduced it to something petty.

“I’m not jealous!” Gunwook snaps, leaning forward. “I’m concerned. I’ve been Matthew hyung’s best friend for how long? And I’m not just going to sit around while Jiwoong might be lying to him. Do you guys even care about him enough to notice when something’s off?”

Ricky, who’s been quiet this whole time, speaks up, his voice firm. “Gunwook, you’re not the only one here who cares about Matthew hyung, okay? But I think we should wait before we start accusing people of some really serious shit.”

“Whatever,” Gunwook mutters, his voice quiet now, the anger slowly draining out of him. “Fuck you guys, I’m out.”

Hao lets out a heavy sigh, as Gunwook heads out of Hao and Hanbin’s shared apartment. “Gunwook, don’t take this as a personal attack against you. You have to understand you can’t just go around assuming things about Jiwoong without concrete proof, especially without telling Matthew.”

“But I did talk to him,” Gunwook retorts, frustration creeping back into his voice. “And he didn’t listen. He’s so convinced that Jiwoong is perfect. He won’t even consider the possibility that he might be wrong.”

Hanbin shakes his head, his expression softening, though still firm. “Look, Gunwook, we’re on your side, but you’ve got to understand that Matthew is his own person. He’s the one in that relationship, not us. If there’s an issue, he has to address it.”

Gunwook's frustration has been building for days, turning into a gnawing, insistent force that won't leave him alone. Despite the calm words of his friends and Matthew’s reassurances, something inside of him tells him he’s not wrong. But every time he tries to share his suspicions, he’s met with doubt, dismissal, and, worst of all, indifference. No one believes him. And Matthew? He’s too blind to see what’s right in front of him.

So Gunwook takes matters into his own hands. He begins to snoop. It’s a line he’s never crossed before, but the desperation to protect his best friend, to prove that something’s wrong, drives him to it. He stalks all of Jiwoong’s social media, trying to catch him in the act of something shady, yet to no avail. And then, by pure luck, it happens.

Gunwook is on his way back from campus one afternoon, lost in his spiraling thoughts, when he spots Jiwoong. At first, he thinks nothing of it, until he notices the girl standing next to him. She’s laughing, too close to Jiwoong, leaning in with that kind of intimate familiarity that makes Gunwook’s chest tighten. His stomach turns as he watches them interact, her hand brushing against his arm as she speaks to him with a warmth that feels… wrong. Too intimate. He freezes in place, unable to look away.

Jiwoong laughs and gives her a soft, affectionate smile. Gunwook feels his chest flare up in that familiar heat of anger. His heart picks up pace, and his hands begin to tremble, though he can’t fully comprehend why. The way they’re standing so close, the way their eyes lock, it doesn’t look like the friendly bond Gunwook assumed they shared. It looks… romantic.

His mind races. So I was right.

Everything that he’s been feeling, this gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut, comes crashing into focus. He’s not wrong. This is proof. Gunwook’s gaze narrows as he watches them interact; the playful touches, the way Jiwoong looks at her with that softness that he only ever sees directed at Matthew. It makes his blood boil.

How could he do this to Matthew? Right in front of his university building, no less? 

Gunwook checks the time, it’s 14:56 – four minutes until Matthew ends class and potentially sees the scene. The anger surges in his veins, a hot, vicious wave that makes his whole body tremble. He watches as the girl stands so close to Jiwoong, his arm around her shoulders now, as they share a laugh. They lean in to talk to each other, her fingers brushing his shoulder. It’s all wrong. This is all wrong.

Gunwook can feel his jaw tightening, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turn white. He wants to scream. He wants to march up to them, accuse Jiwoong of betraying Matthew right there in the open. He wants to tear them apart, make Jiwoong face the consequences of his lies, but instead, he stands there frozen, unable to move, every part of him wanting to confront them, but his body refusing to cooperate. Gunwook’s fingers itch to pull out his phone, to snap a picture, to have something concrete to show Matthew, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

They don’t notice him. Jiwoong and the girl continue their conversation, laughing, smiling at each other. It’s almost like they’re in their own world. When the pair starts to walk away, still talking quietly to each other, Gunwook finally forces himself to move. His legs feel heavy, and his mind is still racing, but the anger doesn’t dissipate. If anything, it’s worse now. The anger in his chest builds to a point where it feels like his blood is boiling, and when he sees Jiwoong lean in and plant a soft kiss on the girl’s cheek, something inside him snaps. It’s the final straw.

Gunwook’s body reacts before his brain can catch up.

He stomps over to them, his fists clenched at his sides, his heart pounding in his ears. Every step feels heavy, like he’s being held down by weights, and all the rage he’s been holding in for days bubbles to the surface. He doesn’t even think about what he’s doing. He doesn’t care about the consequences anymore.

When Jiwoong sees him approaching, his face lights up with that same relaxed, carefree smile he’s always had. "Gunwook, hey–"

Before Jiwoong can finish his greeting, Gunwook’s fist is already in the air, his knuckles connecting with Jiwoong’s face with a sickening thud. The force of the punch knocks Jiwoong back, his head snapping to the side, and for a split second, the world around them goes silent.

Gunwook doesn’t stop. His anger takes over completely, and before Jiwoong can regain his balance, Gunwook throws another punch, landing it right on Jiwoong’s jaw. Jiwoong stumbles, more in shock than pain, before he finally gets ahold of himself and holds Gunwook’s hands back from throwing another punch.

"You think you can just cheat on hyung and get away with it?!" Gunwook yells, his voice raw with fury. He pulls back for another punch, his breath coming in sharp, angry gasps. But Jiwoong’s hand shoots up, grabbing his wrist and yanking him away. The punch misses, and instead, Gunwook’s arm is wrenched to the side.

"Have you fucking lost your mind?! What are you talking about?" Jiwoong grunts, his voice filled with disbelief as he pushes Gunwook away. His expression is a mixture of shock and confusion, but there’s no fear in his eyes.

Gunwook pulls back, his chest heaving with rage, and then he swings again, aiming straight for Jiwoong’s stomach, but Jiwoong’s reflexes are sharp. He ducks under Gunwook’s arm and retaliates, tackling Gunwook to the ground. There’s a small crowd forming around them now, trying to figure out what’s happening. They twist and tumble on the ground, trying to get as many punches in.

And then, through the haze of anger and adrenaline, a familiar voice cuts through.

"Stop!" Matthew’s voice is sharp, and it cuts through the chaos like a knife. Gunwook doesn’t even register the sound of his name at first, too consumed by his rage. But then, suddenly, Matthew is there, between them, pushing against both of them with surprising strength.

"Gunwook, stop!" Matthew repeats, shoving at Gunwook when he tries to land another punch.

Gunwook’s chest is heaving, his breath ragged as he stares at Jiwoong, his eyes burning with fury, but Matthew’s presence grounds him. 

"Gunwook, what the fuck are you doing?" Matthew demands, his voice shaky with disbelief. "Why the hell did you hit him? What is going on?"

Gunwook struggles against Matthew’s grip, his body still trembling with the adrenaline, but his words are sharp and bitter. "I saw him, hyung. I saw him with that girl, and they’re all over each other, he even kissed her cheek! He’s cheating on you!"

Matthew’s eyes widen, and for a second, Gunwook can see the shock in his best friend’s face. He expects anger, denial, or even confusion, but he doesn’t expect the hurt that flashes in Matthew’s eyes.

"What?!" Matthew asks, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "That’s his cousin, Gunwook!"

Gunwook stops struggling against Matthew’s hold, blinking as his mind slowly catches up to what Matthew’s saying. His heart starts to slow, the rush of anger dissipating as the reality of his mistake sinks in.

"Cousin?" Gunwook repeats, his voice softer now, confused. "Wait… what?"

Matthew looks over at Jiwoong, who’s still standing there, wiping the blood from his lip, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and frustration, the girl – who had turned out to be his cousin – dusting off his clothes from the dirt that had stuck to it in their tussle. He glances back at Gunwook with a sharp, almost accusing look.

"Yeah, Hyerin’s my cousin, dumbass," Jiwoong says, his voice tight, still trying to catch his breath. "You punched me because of my cousin?"

Gunwook’s mind races. Hyerin is his cousin? His stomach sinks with the realization. Everything he saw suddenly makes a lot less sense. He wasn’t cheating on Matthew. He wasn’t betraying him. Matthew and their friends had been right; Gunwook had misinterpreted everything, and now his body is stiff with shame.

"I… I’m sorry," Gunwook mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know what to say now, doesn’t know how to take back what he’s done. He looks at Jiwoong, his hand still throbbing from the punch he landed, and the shame is overwhelming.

Matthew, still holding him back, gives him a hard look. His eyes are burning with a type of anger and disappointment that Gunwook had never seen before. "Gunwook, what the fuck were you thinking? I told you to trust me. Why would you just assume–"

Matthew pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to compose himself. He’s still visibly hurt, but he sighs, rubbing his temples. "Hyung, Hyerin noona, I’m so sorry. Do you still wanna come over?"

The words sting more than Gunwook expects. He knows Matthew is angry at him, but he never thought he’d ignore Gunwook in Jiwoong’s favour like this. For a moment, there’s only silence. Gunwook can feel the awkward tension in the air as he stands there, trying to come to terms with everything that just happened. His anger has turned into embarrassment and regret, and it’s eating him up inside.

"I think…" Jiwoong says, his voice still tight from the earlier confrontation. "I think I’ll just go home, you go ahead and take care of Gunwook. I’ll call you later, yeah?"

Matthew’s face is tight with frustration as he watches Jiwoong and his cousin prepare to leave. He stands there, stiff, his arms pressed tightly by the sides of his body. He wants to say something, anything, to make this situation feel better, but the words won’t come. Instead, he just stares as Jiwoong turns to him, almost as if he’s waiting for something.

When Jiwoong leaves without another glance, Matthew turns sharply and storms off toward his apartment. Gunwook, standing off to the side, watches helplessly as Matthew walks away. His stomach churns with guilt, and despite everything inside of him urging him to give Matthew space, he can’t help but fall into step behind him. His steps are slower, quieter, like a lost puppy trailing after the one person he wants to fix things with.

The silence between them is suffocating. Gunwook opens his mouth once, twice, but every time he tries to speak, the words get stuck in his throat. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid that if he speaks, it’ll make everything worse. He can’t even bring himself to say "I’m sorry," because it feels like it’s not enough. It doesn’t change what he did, doesn’t take away the hurt he caused. He just keeps following Matthew, like he’s waiting for some sign that everything will be okay, even though deep down, Gunwook knows it’s not that simple.

Matthew’s pace is fast, and Gunwook has to quicken his steps just to keep up. His mind is a mess of conflicting emotions. He feels guilty. He feels stupid for jumping to conclusions. He feels frustrated with himself for not seeing the situation clearly. But above all, he regrets not listening to Matthew.

When they reach Matthew’s apartment building, Matthew stops abruptly, his back still to Gunwook. The silence stretches between them, so thick and heavy it almost feels like it has a weight. Matthew doesn’t even acknowledge Gunwook’s presence, but the way his shoulders are tensed, the way his jaw is set, says everything Gunwook needs to know.

"Hyung," Gunwook says softly, his voice trembling, but Matthew doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even flinch at the sound of his name. "Please, can we talk?"

Matthew doesn’t turn around, his back still stiff, his posture rigid. Gunwook’s hands tremble, and he reaches out to close the distance between them. 

“Hyung,” he says again, this time a little louder with his hand on the elder’s shoulder, still filled with uncertainty. “I–”

“What?” Matthew’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and brittle, full of frustration and anger. Gunwook flinches at the tone, his chest tightening. He wants to take back everything he’s done, but the words are stuck in his throat. How can he even begin to fix this? “What more could you possibly want from me, Gunwook?”

“I... I’m sorry, hyung,” Gunwook stutters, the words coming out in a stumbling rush. “I was trying to protect you.”

Matthew’s silence stretches on, but his shoulders seem to tighten even more. Gunwook can’t tell if Matthew’s listening or if he’s just trying to hold himself together, but either way, Gunwook has to make the elder believe him. 

“I was wrong,” Gunwook says, his voice cracking with the weight of the guilt. “I should have trusted you, but I didn’t. I just... I thought I knew better. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Matthew finally turns around, his face tight with anger. The intensity of his gaze hits Gunwook like a physical blow. He opens his mouth to speak, but then just shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. There’s disbelief in his eyes, but also hurt; a deep, painful hurt that Gunwook hasn’t seen in him before.

“Sorry?” Matthew repeats the word, scoffing. “Is that really all you have to say for yourself? Sorry? After everything you’ve done, all you have to offer is sorry?”

Gunwook’s heart sinks. He knows Matthew has every right to be angry. He’s hurt him in the worst possible way. But still, hearing Matthew say that feels like a punch to the gut. It’s not just the anger in his voice, it’s the disappointment. 

“I thought I was protecting you,” Gunwook says again, his voice shaking now, a tremor he can’t control. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought–”

Matthew cuts him off, his voice rising with frustration. “You thought you were protecting me? By doing what? By jumping to conclusions even after I asked you not to? By going behind my back and making decisions for me like I can’t handle my own life?” His eyes are wild now, the anger and hurt all tangled together. “You think you know what’s best for me? You think I don’t have enough sense to figure things out on my own? Do I look that fucking stupid to you?”

The accusation stings, sharper than any punch could be. Gunwook flinches, but doesn’t back down. “Of course not, hyung! You’re the smartest person I know, it’s just when I saw him with her, I... I just couldn’t stop myself. I thought I was protecting you, hyung. You’re my best friend, and I couldn’t just stand by and watch you get hurt by someone you trust.”

Matthew laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and almost self-deprecating. “You really thought that was protecting me? By punching Jiwoong like some kind of child? Do you even hear yourself, Gunwook?” His voice rises with every word, and Gunwook winces, unable to stop himself from feeling the sting of Matthew’s anger. It feels like the raw edge of a wound, and Gunwook’s the one who inflicted it.

“I’m not a child, Gunwook!” Matthew continues, his voice getting louder now, the frustration pouring out in waves. “I can handle my own relationships. I don’t need you to fix everything for me. I don’t need you to be the one making decisions for me, deciding who I should trust and who I shouldn’t! I get to make those choices, not you!”

Gunwook feels the sting of those words hit him like a slap, and it feels like his chest is caving in. “I know,” he says hoarsely, his voice breaking under the weight of the guilt. “I know you can handle yourself, hyung. I just... I don’t know what I was thinking. I... I was scared that Jiwoong would hurt you.”

Matthew’s expression softens, but only for a moment, before the bitterness creeps back in. “You think I’d let someone hurt me? You’ve known me for how long, Gunwook? And you think I can’t tell if something’s off with my own boyfriend?” His voice trembles now, Gunwook can tell he’s tired.

“Hyung, I–” Gunwook tries to interrupt, but Matthew holds up his hand, cutting him off once again.

“You didn’t trust me,” Matthew says, his voice low now, but it carries so much weight. “You thought I couldn’t handle my own relationship, like I’m incapable of knowing when something’s wrong, but you’re wrong, Gunwook. You’ve made it worse.”

Gunwook’s chest tightens at the words. He hadn’t realised just how deep his mistake had cut until now. He’s betrayed Matthew’s trust in a way that feels irreparable. He’s shattered something that used to be so solid between them, and he doesn’t know how to glue the pieces back together.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Gunwook says, his voice barely audible, like he’s not sure if it’s even worth saying anymore. “I just... I couldn’t stand the thought of you being hurt, but I was wrong. I was stupid, and I didn’t think things through.”

Matthew’s eyes flicker with something – something like disbelief, mixed with sorrow – but it’s hard to say for sure. “You didn’t think it through?” he repeats, but this time his voice cracks. “I trusted you, Gunwook. I thought you trusted me too. But now...” He pauses, his face pale, and it looks like the weight of the situation is finally crashing down on him. “Now I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” Gunwook whispers, his voice shaking. “I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry. I should’ve done better. I was wrong, hyung. I was so wrong.”

Matthew’s face softens for a moment, but it’s fleeting, almost like a mask that slips away before Gunwook can really see it. The hurt in his eyes is more painful than any anger could be. “Just leave, Gunwook,” Matthew says quietly. “I don’t want to talk to you for a while.”

Gunwook feels the air is being sucked out of him. “Please, hyung,” he says, his voice breaking. “Please don’t say that. I will do anything to make it right. Please just– just give me a chance to prove I can be trusted again. I know I fucked up. But I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Matthew looks away, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. His shoulders slump in resignation, and Gunwook watches as his best friend retreats further and further away from him, piece by piece.

“I just... I need time. I can’t do this right now.” Matthew says softly, so quietly that Gunwook can barely hear him. 

Gunwook nods, his throat tight with emotion. “Okay,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll give you all the time you need. I’m sorry, hyung. I’m so sorry.”

There’s a long, painful silence. Matthew stands still for a moment longer, his eyes distant, before the door shuts quietly behind Matthew, and Gunwook stands there, frozen, staring at the empty space between them. The world feels unbearably quiet, and the guilt weighs down on him like a crushing tide. He knows it’s not over, but the fear of losing Matthew, of losing the one person he cares about more than anyone else, makes him feel like he’s sinking. He doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know if he can. But all he can do now is wait. Wait and hope that Matthew will see through the mistakes and understand that he never meant to hurt him.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows across the park. Matthew sits nervously on a bench, hands clasped tightly together, his fingers twitching with anxiety. He had hoped, prayed even, that things wouldn’t fall apart. But deep down, he feared this moment was inevitable. When Jiwoong had asked to meet, Matthew had hoped that maybe they could fix things, but now that he’s sitting here, waiting, his stomach churns. He stares at the gravel beneath him, trying to focus on anything but the fact that everything was about to change.

Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate. Matthew looks up and sees Jiwoong standing a few feet away, his posture tense. He’s wearing a jacket that’s too big for him, his hair messy, as though he’s been running his hands through it in frustration – far from the clean, polished look he always has. His face is bruised, with a darkening mark near his jaw, a subtle reminder of the fight. But there’s something else in Jiwoong’s eyes; a weariness, a deep sadness that Matthew can’t ignore.

Jiwoong stands there for a moment, as if unsure of how to proceed. He looks at Matthew, his gaze unreadable, and for a moment, they simply stand there in silence. The air between them feels heavy, thick with everything that hasn’t been said.

“Hey,” Jiwoong finally says, his voice softer than usual, rough around the edges.

Matthew’s heart skips a beat. “Hey,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. He wants to reach out, to touch him, to make sure this isn’t really happening, but he’s afraid that it might push Jiwoong further away.

There’s another silence, and this one feels different – awkward, heavy with the weight of everything that’s happened. Matthew shifts uncomfortably, not sure what to say. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Jiwoong sits down next to him, the space between them a strange gap that neither of them knows how to cross. He seems small in the silence, and Matthew can’t help but notice how much the bruises on his face contrast with the light in his eyes, the way Jiwoong tries so hard to seem okay.

“How… how are you?” Matthew asks, his voice tight.

Jiwoong shrugs slightly, a faint, bitter smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It’s just a bruise. I’ll be fine.” He hesitates before adding, “I’m just… tired, you know? Tired of this.”

Matthew’s stomach churns. “I’m sorry, Jiwoong. I never wanted you to get hurt. I swear, I never thought it would turn out like this.”

Jiwoong’s gaze shifts away, staring ahead, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “It’s not your fault, Matthew. It’s not.” He pauses for a long moment, like he’s debating whether to say more. Finally, he exhales slowly, unable to stall any longer. “I didn’t want it to end up like this. But… I think we both know this isn’t working.”

Matthew feels his breath catch. “What are you saying? Jiwoon hyung–”

Jiwoong turns toward him, his eyes clouded with a mix of sadness and resolve. “I can’t keep ignoring the elephant in the room, Matt. This…” He trails off, unable to finish his sentence.

Matthew shakes his head, unable to process the words. “What do you mean? Please… please, don’t say that. We can fix this.”

Jiwoong looks down at his hands, his voice lower now. “Matthew, I–” He swallows hard. “I don’t want to get in between your friendship with Gunwook. He’s never going to accept me, you know that. And I know he means a lot to you, I just don’t want to be the one to come between you two. I don’t want to be the reason you lose him.”

Matthew’s chest tightens, a lump forming in his throat. “No,” he says quickly, panic rising in his voice. “No, that’s not true. Whatever is going on with him, I’ll talk to him! I can fix it, I promise. I’ll tell him to stop meddling and he’ll start being nicer to you. I care about you. I don’t want to lose you, hyung, please.”

“I know you don’t,” Jiwoong says, but his voice is filled with an undeniable sorrow. “But I can’t stay in something where I’m constantly fighting for a place in your life.”

“Please, don’t do this,” Matthew begs, his voice shaking now. He reaches out, his fingers trembling as he touches Jiwoong’s arm. “We can talk to Gunwook. I swear, I’ll fix things with him. I’ll make sure he never hurts you again. We don’t have to do this. I…” love you, hyung. The words hang heavy in the air, never reaching its intended recipient.

Jiwoong’s eyes soften with understanding, like he knows the inside of Matthew’s heart, but there’s no hesitation in his voice when he speaks. “I know.” He takes a deep breath, his fingers brushing against Matthew’s hand for a brief, painful moment, and then he stands up, stepping back slightly. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, but he doesn’t let them fall. “Goodbye, Matthew. I… I hope you find happiness, okay?”

Then, as if giving Matthew one last piece of him, he takes a few steps forward and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Matthew’s lips.

It’s brief, tender, filled with a love that’s been overshadowed by something neither of them could control. And then, as quickly as it started, Jiwoong pulls away, his eyes lingering for one final moment.

“I’m sorry,” Jiwoong whispers before walking away. His steps slow but steady, disappearing into the distance.

Matthew stands there, watching him go, the world around him blurring as the tears finally fall. His chest feels hollow, as if every piece of him has been ripped away. The sun sets, casting everything in a wash of gold and purple, but Matthew doesn’t notice. He doesn’t notice anything but the emptiness of being left behind.

And in that moment, he knows. He’s lost Jiwoong.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew trudges into Hao and Hanbin's apartment, his steps dragging like his entire body has been weighed down by something heavy and unrelenting. He knows he can’t go back to his own apartment, not in this state. The heartbreak… It’s fresh, gnawing at him from the inside. His chest feels tight, as if the walls around him are closing in, and the sting of Jiwoong’s departure lingers like a dull knife sawing back and forth and ripping through soft skin. He feels like a shell of himself, torn between wanting to fix everything and realizing how much of it might already be broken beyond repair.

Hanbin is sitting on the sofa when the bell rings. Thinking Hao had forgotten his keys, Hanbin walks over to the front door, opening it to see Matthew. The moment he sees Matthew’s face, his brow furrows in concern, already sensing that something is wrong.

“Matt?” Hanbin asks, his voice light but laced with worry. “What happened?”

Matthew stands there for a moment, trying to find his voice, but the words stick in his throat. He blinks rapidly, pushing back the tears that threaten to fall, but it doesn’t stop the rush of emotion flooding through him. His hands tremble at his sides.

“Jiwoon hyung... Jiwoon hyung broke up with me,” Matthew says finally, his voice raw and thick with emotion. He takes a shaky breath, looking down at the floor like he can avoid the pain if he just doesn’t look at it. “And it’s all because of Gunwook.”

Hanbin’s eyes widen, his expression softening as he leans forward, wrapping the sobbing man in his arms, bringing him over to the sofa. “What? What do you mean? How is this Gunwook’s fault?”

Matthew collapses onto the sofa beside Hanbin, his hands wringing together as he tries to put words to everything that has been swirling inside his head. “Gunwook– he thought Jiwoon hyung was cheating on me, and he kept saying things, and I told him to trust me. I never asked for any of it. He couldn’t just trust me, he just had to get involved.”

He shakes his head, his voice faltering. “Gunwook had seen a text from Jiwoon hyung’s cousin and immediately thought he was cheating, and when he saw them he beat hyung up.”

Hanbin listens in shock, unaware that Gunwook had gone through such lengths. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Matt. Do you want me to talk to him?”

Matthew scoffs, shaking his head bitterly. “If he didn’t listen to me, what makes you think he’ll listen to you?”

Hanbin sighs, leaning back into the couch, letting the silence hang between them for a moment. “Matt…”

Matthew shakes his head, tears starting to fall again, though he wipes them away furiously. “I just... I trusted him. I trusted him, hyung. And now everything feels like it’s falling apart.”

Hanbin pauses for a long moment, his eyes soft with understanding. “I know it’s tough, but you can’t lose sight of what you have with Gunwook. He’s your best friend, Matt. I know it’s hard right now, and I don’t know if things will go back to normal between you two, but... please don’t shut him out completely. He’s sorry for what happened, and I’m sure he never meant for it to get this far.”

Matthew’s chest tightens at Hanbin’s words, but the anger is still there, simmering just beneath the surface. He can’t help but feel betrayed by the person he’s always relied on, the person who’s supposed to have his back. 

“I don’t know, hyung,” Matthew whispers, his voice strained. “I didn’t think he’d go this far.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and unresolved. Hanbin stays quiet for a moment, letting Matthew process everything.

Just then, the door opens with a faint creak, “Hanbin hyung, I got Hao hyung’s tupperwares.” 

Matthew looks up at the familiar voice, half-expecting it to be Hao, but he knows that voice. Then, he sees Gunwook coming in from the hallway leading to the front door, his eyes darting between Matthew and Hanbin, looking hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know what to do. Matthew’s pulse quickens. The moment he sees Gunwook, it’s like the floodgates open again. The frustration, the hurt, the anger… Everything comes rushing back.

“Hyung?” Gunwook asks, his voice low and uncertain, as if he knows he’s walking into something dangerous. “What are you doing here? What happened?

Matthew stands up immediately, his body stiffening. “What happened?” he spits out, his words sharp and cold. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You ruined everything.”

Gunwook flinches at the venom in Matthew’s words, but he doesn’t move. He’s trying to stay calm, but his eyes betray his anxiety. “Hyung, I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says quietly. “What happened–”

“You wanna know what happened?” Matthew interjects, his voice trembling with frustration. “You didn’t trust me. You didn’t trust my judgment, Gunwook. And now look at what’s happened! Jiwoong’s gone, and it’s all your fault!”

Gunwook looks like he’s been punched in the chest, his face tightening with the weight of Matthew’s words. “Hyung, please. I never wanted this.”

Matthew shakes his head, his heart aching with the distance that’s grown between them. “Don’t fucking lie to me, this was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? For us to break up and for you to have me all to yourself.”

Gunwook’s shoulders slump, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to say something else, but the words die on his lips. He doesn’t know how to fix this.

The silence in the room is thick, the kind of silence that sucks all the air around them like a vacuum, leaving them gasping for air. Matthew’s words are still ringing in Gunwook’s ears, louder than anything he could possibly say to defend himself. 

“You’ve done this before, Gunwook,” Matthew says, his voice shaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Every time. You’ve been the reason my relationships fall apart. Your possessiveness, your constant need to control everything. You never let me make my own decisions, you always get involved when it’s not your place. Every time I’m happy with someone, you come along and ruin it.”

Gunwook feels his pulse quicken, his heart racing as the weight of Matthew’s words settle into him. 

“Hyung, that’s not true,” he protests, his voice tight, trying to keep the frustration at bay. “I just– I'm looking out for you. I’m worried about you.”

Matthew shakes his head bitterly, his eyes filled with an emotion Gunwook can’t quite decipher; hurt, anger, maybe both. 

“Looking out for me?” Matthew scoffs, the words dripping with disbelief. “By pushing people away before they even have the chance to get to know me? I’m a grown-up, Gunwook. I can make my own decisions.” He takes a step closer, the distance between them growing smaller. “But you don’t trust me. You never did.”

Gunwook’s chest tightens, the familiar heat of frustration rising in him. He wants to scream at Matthew, tell him that everything he’s been doing is out of love, that he was just trying to protect his best friend, but something about Matthew’s cold expression makes him freeze. It’s too much. And in his anger, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. The words slip out before he can stop them.

“That’s not fair, hyung.”

“That’s not fair?” Matthew repeats incredulously. “Then how is it fair to me, Gunwook? Every single time I meet someone there’s always something wrong about them in your eyes, and you always drive them away from me!”

“So what? You can just go out and find another boyfriend, easy,” Gunwook mutters, his voice sharp. “You don’t need me to fix things for you, right?”

“Gunwook…” Hanbin warns, not liking where the conversation is going.

Matthew freezes, his face hardening as his eyes lock onto Gunwook.

“You think it’s that easy? You think it’s that simple for me?” His voice cracks, and for the first time, Gunwook can see the vulnerability beneath the anger. “You think I can just move on, like you? You? Who sleeps with someone new every other night? I can’t just replace people like that. I can’t just act like no one matters to me. Not everyone is like you.”

Gunwook feels the sting of Matthew’s words, feels something inside him twist in response. His stomach churns with frustration, and in the heat of the moment, his own hurt and defensiveness cloud his judgment.

“And how is that my fucking problem?” Gunwook snaps before he can even think, moving closer so he’s standing right in front of Matthew. “It’s not my fault you’re so fucking unlikable.”

“Gunwook!” Hanbin’s voice booms.

Silence.

The cruel words hang in the air, uttered before he could even process the weight of them. Gunwook feels his breath catch in his throat as the shock of what he just said hits him like a freight train. He watches Matthew’s face go pale, his eyes widening with disbelief, before the words sink into the thick silence that follows.

There’s no sound. No movement. Just the echo of Gunwook’s words hanging in the air like smoke. Matthew’s eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open as if he’s trying to find words, but none come. The room feels like it’s caving in on itself. Gunwook feels his heart start to race, his body freezing in place, his mind spinning with the realisation of what he just said.

“Hyung…” Gunwook begins, but his voice cracks, the weight of his words hitting him with full force. “I– fuck … I didn’t mean that, okay? I was angry, I didn’t mean what I said. Please… I don’t even know why I said it.” 

His voice breaks as he tries to reach out to Matthew, but Matthew takes a step back, his body stiff, like he’s suddenly a stranger. Matthew’s eyes don’t leave his, the thick hurt evident, the betrayal visible in the way his entire body seems to close off. The air between them is dense, suffocating, and Gunwook can see it in Matthew’s eyes – the trust and care between them, broken just like that.

Matthew says silent, frozen in his pain. Gunwook’s throat tightens, panic rising inside him. He stumbles over his words, trying to take them back, but nothing seems to come out right. 

“Hyung, please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear. I don’t know why I said that, I wasn’t thinking. You’re my best friend. You’re everything to me. Please, just…”

But Matthew doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head, his face scrunched up into a sob, his body collapsing in on itself as if he’s shutting down completely. Gunwook can see the wall between them going up, brick by brick, and it’s killing him. The thought that he may have just ruined everything – everything he’s ever known, everything they’ve ever shared – it’s too much to bear.

Gunwook opens his mouth to apologise again, but the words get stuck. He’s suffocating on them, on the guilt, on the realisation that he may have just destroyed the one good thing he has in his life.

“Geon, I think you should leave. I’ll take care of him, okay?” Hanbin finally breaks the silence, his voice soft but stern, his hands firmly pushing at Gunwook towards the front door.

The room feels colder now, the distance stretching between them like an abyss. Gunwook wants to fix it. He wants to take everything back. But there’s no way to undo the damage. The words are out there. He’s hurt Matthew, and no matter how hard he tries, nothing can erase what he said. As he’s led out the door, Matthew looks at him one last time, his eyes filled with hurt, with disappointment, and with something that cuts deeper than any anger.

Gunwook feels like the floor is slipping out from under him. He stands there, frozen, watching Matthew turn and walk away, his back to him as he heads towards Hao and Hanbin’s bedroom. He lets Hanbin push him out the door and with a final “I’ll text you,” the sound of the door closing echoes in the empty silence.

Now Gunwook is alone. Alone with the weight of everything he’s destroyed. Alone with the shattering realisation that he might have just lost the most important person in his life, all because of something he can never take back.

Chapter Text

“It’s over. Jiwoon hyung… he broke up with me.” Matthew bites his lip, still trying to fight the urge to break down. His voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. 

They’re at Hao and Hanbin’s place, the sunlight peering into the living room, casting long shadows across the space through the blinds. Matthew sits on the sofa next to Hao, his hands gripping the cushion below him, fingers digging into the fabric as if it might hold him together. His shoulders are slumped, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He tries not to think about the argument he and Gunwook had afterwards, trying his best to push the memory into the deepest pits of his mind. However, the echoing of Gunwook’s voice is relentless, bouncing off the walls of his brain and repeating itself like a chant, making sure Matthew would never forget it.

Finally, Ricky is the one to break the silence. “But I thought things were going well?”

Matthew stares at the floor, his breath shaky. His heart is heavy, and his throat tightens every time he tries to say something. He doesn’t know where to begin, or how to explain what happened. “It was…”

“Then? He just broke up with you? Like, out of nowhere?” Gyuvin asks, his eyes softening with sympathy.

Matthew shakes his head, the pain settling deeper into his chest. “No… It wasn’t out of nowhere. He…” Matthew tries to keep it together but a choked sob claws its way out of his throat, his tears flowing like a broken dam. 

His friends are around him within a blink of an eye, Hao’s arms are wrapped around him in a tight hug and Ricky’s hands are running through his hair while Gyuvin rubs his back in an attempt to soothe him. Matthew tries to stop crying, he does, but all the pent up anger, frustration, sadness, and especially hurt pour out of him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. If he’s being completely honest, all this pain is coming more so from his argument with Gunwook than it is from his breakup with Jiwoong. 

“You don’t have to tell us if you’re not ready.” Ricky soothes, helping him wipe away his tears.

“No, it’s just… I don’t even know where to start.” Matthew hiccups in between tears. The boys stay silent, letting Matthew speak when he’s ready. “I don’t know if you guys know but Geon had come to me one day to tell me that he thinks Jiwoon hyung was cheating on me.”

The boys exchange glances above Matthew’s head, already not liking where the story is going. “He told us too, but we told him to let you handle it.” Ricky says, and Matthew’s head shoots up at that.

“Did he? Fuck, I told him the same thing!” Matthew frowns in disbelief, why would Gunwook even do that? “I asked him right after, you know? Jiwoon hyung… And he told me from the get go that it was all a misunderstanding, that Hyerin noona is his cousin visiting from the States, but of course, it didn’t stop there.” 

“What did he do…?” Hao asks, already dreading the answer.

“I guess it was partially my fault for not telling him that I had already known who Hyerin noona came to be–”

“No, none of this is your fault, hyung. I’m sure Gunwook did some really stupid fucking shit but that’s on him, not you.” Ricky interjects, and Matthew sighs, finding that hard to believe.

“No, if I had told him… Maybe then none of this would have happened. Maybe I’d still be with Jiwoon hyung and Gunwook and I would still…” Matthew trails off, shaking his head before he spills any more. “Anyway, Jiwoon hyung and Hyerin noona had been waiting for me outside of class, but I guess Gunwook saw them and thought that it confirmed his suspicions that Jiwoong was cheating. So he…”

“He…?” 

“He went over and beat Jiwoon hyung up.”

A beat of silence. Then, the three yell in unison, “What?!” 

“Yeah…” Matthew grimaces, trying to blink away the image of seeing Gunwook punching Jiwoong.

“Gunwook beat Jiwoong hyung up? Are you being for real?” Hao asks, unable to wrap his head around what he had just heard.

Matthew nods slowly, his hands trembling as he recalls the scene. “Yeah. He… he saw Jiwoong with Hyerin noona, they were just waiting for me, that’s all. But Gunwook… he got it in his head that Jiwoon hyung was hiding something from me, that he was cheating on me. And he– he just… he snapped.”

There’s a shift in the room, as the friends exchange stunned looks. Gyuvin’s face falls into a frown, and Ricky leans forward, his voice low with disbelief. “Wait, let me get this straight. So Gunwook beat Jiwoong hyung up because he thought he was cheating on you? Just because he saw Jiwoong hyung with a girl who happened to be his cousin?”

Matthew nods again, his voice shaky. “Yeah. Gunwook was furious. He didn’t even ask Jiwoong what was really going on. He just… went after him. I was there, I saw it happen. I was able to get him to stop but by then, it was too late.”

Hao’s face twists with anger, his voice low and filled with disbelief. “That’s insane. He hurt him over something so stupid? Just because of a misunderstanding?”

Matthew wipes at his eyes, still struggling to process everything. “God, why didn’t I tell him that Hyerin noona was hyung’s cousin?”

“No, hyung. Even so, he still had no right to beat someone up over a mere assumption. He’s out of his fucking mind.” Ricky assures, shaking his head in disbelief.

Hao nods in agreement, his voice gentle but firm. “Matthew, don’t blame yourself. Gunwook did what he did because of his own jealousy and rage. You didn’t do anything to make him hurt Jiwoong hyung. None of this is your fault.”

Gyuvin, who has been quietly listening, places a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t cause it. Gunwook’s stupidity, that’s on him. Not you, and not Jiwoong hyung.”

Matthew’s breath hitches as the tears threaten to spill over again. He looks at his friends, their eyes full of support. He doesn’t feel quite as heavy, not yet, but their words help. They help more than he thought they would.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” Matthew whispers, his voice cracking. “It feels like everything’s falling apart.”

“Have you talked to Gunwook after all of this?”

If he counts their argument as talking then yeah, they have, but Matthew’s not gonna tell them about that.

“No…” Matthew sighs, like just the thought of Gunwook physically hurts him. “I don’t even know what to say to him. I don’t think I’m ready.”

“What about Jiwoong hyung? You could always try to explain your side of things, convince him that you can make it work?” Hao suggests.

“I tried,” Matthew shakes his head, his heart squeezing in his chest at the memory. “I begged and pleaded but I think this whole thing with Gunwook, it… It’s like a ticking time bomb, you know? It’s not like Gunwook has been particularly nice and welcoming to hyung, and I think that whole thing was the nail in the coffin. He said he’s tired of constantly trying to prove himself worthy to be in my life or something like that, and I guess I’m not worth fighting for, anyway. If I were hyung I’d do the same.”

“Don’t say that, hyung! Well, it’s his loss, anyway! You’ll find someone else who will fight for you, I know it!” Gyuvin soothes, his voice laced with determination and conviction, but the echoing Gunwook’s voice seems to resurface yet again, hindering him from believing Gyuvin’s words.

Matthew huffs out a humourless laugh, his eyes downcast as he shakes his head. “You guys know it’s not that easy and besides… it’s not like I’m likable, anyway.”

His friends are stunned into silence, but Ricky immediately pipes up to shoot his insecurities down. “What happened, hyung? It’s been a while since I’ve heard you say something like this… Did Jiwoong hyung say this to you?”

“No, it wasn’t him.” Matthew answers without thinking.

“So someone did say that to you?” Ricky points out. 

Shit. How is Ricky always so quick to catch onto these things?

“No!” Matthew denies quickly, but the boys don’t buy it. “No one did, okay? I don’t know, forget–” He’s cut off by a noise coming from the hallway leading out into the front door. Gunwook is there, and Matthew feels a sense of deja vu wash over him, like he’s reliving the night of their argument in the same exact position at the same exact location. Matthew immediately turns to Hao. “I thought it was just us today?”

“Sorry, he was with me and I didn’t know you were here…” Hanbin admits. “But it’s fine, right? We can just have our weekly hangouts right now!”

Hanbin puts an arm around Matthew, placating. 

“I gotta go.” Matthew mutters. 

He hears his friends calling out to him, urging him to come back, but he can't bear it. Every word feels like a weight on his chest, suffocating him. Without a second thought, Matthew rushes past Gunwook, his breath shallow and ragged, desperate to escape the suffocating tension. His legs move on their own, pushing him away from the pain. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t dare to. As he reaches the door, his hand trembles on the handle, and with a force that leaves his heart aching, he slams it behind him. The sound echoes in the silence, but inside, it’s deafening. His heart screams for Gunwook, pulling him back, begging Matthew to stay, to make things the way they were; but he’s already gone, already too far to turn back.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook doesn’t mean to overhear. He follows Hanbin through the front door, casually trailing behind, still caught up in some half-forgotten conversation. They’d been joking about something stupid; food cravings, maybe, or that awful new song Gyuvin keeps playing on loop. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy. But when he nears the living room, Gunwook pauses in the hallway. He hears voices – more specifically, Matthew’s voice – and something in the tone makes his chest tighten. It’s quiet, but strained – Low. Tired. Wounded. He leans back against the wall, just out of sight, and tells himself he’ll walk away in a second.

“I tried,” Matthew is saying, and the pain in his voice stops Gunwook cold. “I begged and pleaded, but I think this whole thing with Gunwook, it… it’s like a ticking time bomb, you know?”

Gunwook’s breath catches. He hadn’t realised the damage had cut this deep. He stares blankly at the floor, the words echoing in his mind. Ticking time bomb. That’s what Matthew sees when he looks at him now. Not a friend. Not someone to rely on. Just something dangerous, unstable, waiting to explode.

“It’s not like Gunwook has been particularly nice and welcoming to hyung,” Matthew continues, and Gunwook flinches, even though he can’t say it’s untrue. “And I think that whole thing was the nail in the coffin. He said he’s tired of constantly trying to prove himself worthy to be in my life or something like that…”

Gunwook’s breath catches. He’d convinced himself that the way he was acting towards Jiwoong was harmless, that it was just discomfort or protective instinct, but deep down he knows better. He hadn’t tried to get along. He hadn’t even tried to hide his resentment. And the worst part is, it wasn’t even really about Jiwoong, it was about the way Jiwoong fit into Matthew’s life so effortlessly, in all the ways Gunwook didn’t know how to. So instead of reaching out, he shut down. He distanced himself. And now, in the wake of it all, watching Matthew unravel in the ruins of something he helped destroy, Gunwook feels sick with the realisation that he never once made Jiwoong feel welcome. And worse – he never once made Matthew feel safe to love Jiwoong without worry.

“And I guess I’m not worth fighting for, anyway,” Matthew adds quietly. “If I were hyung, I’d do the same.”

That last line breaks something in Gunwook. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall, jaw clenched. He can feel Hanbin shooting him a concerned look, but he ignores it. How did things get to this point? And now… now Matthew thinks he’s not worth it.

Gyuvin’s voice comes through loud and clear. “Don’t say that, hyung! Well, it’s his loss, anyway! You’ll find someone else who will fight for you, I know it!”

Then Matthew laughs, bitter and joyless. “You guys know it’s not that easy. And besides… it’s not like I’m likable, anyway.”

The world stills.

Gunwook blinks, disoriented, like the room’s shifted around him. His body goes cold. It takes him a second to even process the words. It’s not like I’m likable, anyway.

And suddenly, he’s back in that moment – the fight, the way the words had slipped out in a moment of frustration. It’s not my fault you’re so unlikable. He’d seen the hurt in Matthew’s eyes the second he’d said it. He tried to take it back, but he’d shut down, buried it, hoping it wouldn’t matter to Matthew, but it did. Of course it did, and now he’s hearing the aftermath. Matthew believes it. He believes that about himself.

Because of him.

Ricky is speaking now, cautious and confused. “What happened, hyung? It’s been a while since I’ve heard you say something like this… Did Jiwoong hyung say this to you?”

“No, it wasn’t him,” Matthew answers.

“So someone did say that to you?”

Gunwook’s stomach sinks. He knows where this is going.

“No!”

The panic in Matthew’s voice is clear, his heart clenching at the fact that even after he’d caused so much hurt towards Matthew, the elder still chooses to be kind and not tell their friends that Gunwook had been the one to say it. That’s when Gunwook shifts without thinking, just enough to make a sound. The shuffle of his foot on the wooden floor gives him away. Silence falls in the living room like a dropped glass.

He steps forward before he can talk himself out of it, guilt rising in his throat like bile. Matthew turns the moment he sees him, voice sharp and guarded.

“I thought it was just us today?” Matthew asks Hao quietly, like he doesn’t want Gunwook to hear.

Gunwook’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Hanbin tries to smooth things over. “Sorry, he was with me and I didn’t know you were here… But it’s fine, right? We can just have our weekly hangouts right now!”

But nothing feels fine.

Matthew looks like he’s on the verge of falling apart, and Gunwook knows he’s the reason. Not Jiwoong. Not anyone else. Him.

“I’ve gotta go,” Matthew mutters, and Gunwook moves toward him instinctively.

“Hyung–”

But it’s useless. Matthew doesn’t even spare him a glance. He brushes past like Gunwook’s not there, like he’s invisible. Gunwook catches a glimpse of his face – eyes hollow, jaw clenched, expression unreadable – and it makes something twist violently inside him. The others are calling after him, trying to stop him, but Gunwook stays rooted to the spot. His chest aches as he watches Matthew cross the room with stiff, desperate strides. At the door, Matthew pauses. His hand trembles on the knob. For half a second, Gunwook dares to hope.

But then the door slams. Loud. Final.

And just like that, he’s gone.

The sound reverberates through the flat, but to Gunwook, it might as well be a gunshot. It rattles something loose inside him. He stares at the door like if he looks long enough, it might open again, but it doesn’t. He thinks about following him. He should. He wants to. But what would he even say? Sorry I made you hate yourself? Sorry I said the one thing I should’ve never said, and now you’re walking around thinking you’re unworthy of being loved? He stands there, fists clenched, surrounded by friends who don’t say a word. 

In the quiet, Matthew’s words repeat in his head like a cruel echo.

It’s not like I’m likeable, anyway.

And the worst part is knowing those words came from him first.

He finally exhales, his shoulders slumping as if a wave of exhaustion is crashing over him. The air feels thick, like something is holding him back from saying what he knows has to be said. But it’s the only way forward.

"It was me," he says, his voice low and hoarse. It sounds foreign even to him.

The others turn to him instantly, confusion flashing across their faces, but it’s Hao who speaks first, his brow furrowing. “What?”

“Gunwook…” Hanbin reaches out, putting a hand on his shoulder as if asking if he really wanted to do this.

Gunwook’s stomach churns as he glances between them, his heart pounding in his chest. The words are thick, stuck in his throat, but they need to come out. It was me. He swallows, forcing the admission out despite the way it feels like shards of glass scraping along his insides.

“I… I was the one who told him he was unlikable.” The words land in the room like a bomb, and for a long moment, everything falls utterly still.

Hao blinks, his mouth slightly open, clearly not understanding. "What?" He repeats, shaking his head in disbelief, as if trying to make sense of it. 

"There’s no way you actually said that to him, Geon," Gyuvin scoffs incredulously, still not believing such words could be said to Matthew by Gunwook of all people.

“Please tell me you didn’t actually say that to him…” Ricky fumes, his eyes already burning with pure wrath.

Gunwook looks down at his hands, ashamed of himself, but he knows he can’t hide from it any longer. “I don’t know,” he mutters, his voice faltering. “I don’t know what I was thinking… He was saying all this shit about me, saying how I keep ruining all his relationships and I… I got angry. So, I said it and I don’t even know why. It was the worst thing I could’ve said, and I didn’t even mean it. But now… now I’ve ruined it.”

The others are frozen in shock, taking in his words, but it’s Ricky who snaps first. His face twists with anger and hurt, and he steps forward, grabbing Gunwook’s shirt in his fists, his voice rising in volume with every word.

“You got angry?” Ricky laughs, but it’s devoid of any humour. “It’s the fucking truth! You always meddle into his relationships and push everyone away before they could even try to get close to him, and you fucking know it!”

“No, I don–” Gunwook tries to deny weakly, but deep down he knows both Matthew and Ricky are right.

“No?!” Ricky exclaims, his voice cracking with emotion. “Are you fucking stupid, Gunwook? Don’t even try to deny it! So you ruin his relationship, and now you’ve made him feel like he’s not worthy of receiving love. Good fucking job, Geon, some fucking friend you are!”

Gunwook flinches, every word cutting into him deeper than he ever thought possible. “I didn’t mean it, hyung–”

“Don’t even try to justify it!” Ricky interrupts, his voice laced with frustration. “How could you say something like that? To him of all people? After everything he’s done for you? How do you think that made him feel? Huh? How could you do that to him?”

“I know I fucked up, okay? You think I don’t fucking know that? Matthew hyung’s my best frien–” Gunwook starts before he is interrupted once again.

“And he was my friend first! If I had known you’d hurt him this much I wouldn’t have let Gyuvin introduce you to him! His life would’ve been so much better without you in it!” 

The words hit Gunwook like a punch to the chest, clean, brutal, and impossible to dodge. Ricky’s voice rings in his ears long after it’s gone, each syllable carving deeper into the shame he’s already drowning in. His life would’ve been so much better without you in it. The sentence loops in his mind like a curse, cruel not because it’s loud, but because it might be true. For a moment, Gunwook can’t breathe. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, his mouth dry, his heartbeat deafening. The guilt curdles into something uglier – self-loathing, maybe. Because this isn’t just about what he did. It’s about who he is, and the thought that Matthew might’ve been happier if they’d never met… that thought splits his chest wide open.

“Rik…” Gyuvin placates, trying to get his boyfriend to calm down.

“Don’t defend him!” Ricky growls, glaring at Gyuvin.

Ricky’s chest heaves with the force of his anger, and Gunwook can feel the weight of it pressing down on him. He doesn’t deserve the sympathy or the understanding, he knows that. He can barely look Ricky in the eye. What could he say to make things right?

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Gunwook whispers, his voice barely audible now. “I thought it was just… I was scared of losing him to someone else, and now I’ve lost him anyway, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Ricky shakes his head, clearly too angry to listen to any more excuses. “You don’t just say something like that and expect it to be fine,” he mutters, turning away in disbelief. “You don’t do that to someone you care about. Especially Matthew hyung.”

Gunwook’s heart sinks even further, and for a moment, the room feels like it’s spinning around him. He wants to reach out, to say something that will make everything better, but nothing seems like it can make up for the pain he’s caused.

Hao, who has remained quiet up until now, finally speaks, his voice a little softer but still filled with confusion. “Gunwook, you… you never used to go this far with any of his exes. Why now? Matthew told us you had gone and punched Jiwoong and we warned you, didn’t we? We warned you to let Matthew handle it and now you’ve gone and made things worse than we could have imagined…”

“I don’t know,” Gunwook admits, his voice cracking. “I don’t know, hyung, I don’t know.”

Silence falls over them once more save for the sounds of Gunwook’s quiet sniffles, and this time it’s heavy with something darker – disappointment, anger, and regret. Gunwook knows he can’t take back what he’s done and said. He’s left Matthew to carry the weight of his insecurities and fears. He doesn’t even know where to begin to apologise, or if he even deserves the chance. He barely has a moment to absorb the weight of his actions before Ricky’s voice rips through the silence like a storm.

“Do you know he’s in love with you?” Ricky’s words come out like a whip, each syllable sharp and unforgiving.

Gunwook stares at Ricky, his heart leaping into his throat as he struggles to process the words. “What?” His voice cracks, disbelief and confusion tangled in his throat.

Hanbin immediately steps in, his expression tense, trying to stop Ricky before things go too far. “Ricky–!”

But Ricky’s anger has already taken over, and he doesn’t let Hanbin’s warning stop him. His eyes are blazing with fury, locking onto Gunwook with a look that could burn through him.

“Matthew hyung is in love with you, you idiot!” Ricky shouts, his voice breaking with frustration. “He has been in love with you for years!”

Gunwook freezes. His body goes cold, the world around him slowing as the words sink in. He stares at Ricky, his mind scrambling to process what he’s just heard. Matthew? In love with him? All this time? His chest feels tight, like he can’t breathe, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s just imagining it, but Ricky’s expression is raw, his eyes filled with the kind of pain that Gunwook knows is far from exaggerated. This isn’t a joke. This is real.

“Wait, no, that’s–” Gunwook stammers, his voice faltering. He doesn’t know what to say. He feels like he’s drowning in the sheer weight of it. Then he asks dumbly, “If he was, why would he go on dates with other people?”

“God, you really are a fucking idiot!” Ricky snaps, stepping forward, furious. “Because you’re straight, dumb fuck, why else? He’s been trying to get over you all these years but every time he tries, you pull him right back in! And now look–” He jerks his chin towards the door, still half-ajar, still humming with Matthew’s absence. “Look what you’ve done.”

Gunwook’s lips part, but nothing comes out. His lungs feel too tight. His hands tremble.

Ricky steps closer, eyes sharp and merciless. “Imagine spending years in love with someone– Years! And the one thing they finally say that sticks in your head is that you’re unlikable. Not ‘I love you’. Not ‘thank you’. Just that you’re hard to love. Can you even begin to understand what that does to a person?” He takes one last, searing step forward. “Are you actually that fucking dense, Gunwook?!”

Gunwook feels like he’s been hit in the chest, like a punch that knocks the air out of him. His hands tremble as he tries to wrap his mind around what Ricky’s saying. All these years, all this time, Matthew had feelings for him? He’d never realised. 

“I… I didn’t know,” Gunwook murmurs, barely audible. He looks down, guilt surging through him, suffocating him. “I thought he was… I thought we were just close. I didn’t know he felt that way…”

Ricky scoffs, sharp and bitter. “Of course you didn’t! Because you were too busy being selfish. Too caught up in your own bullshit to notice what was right in front of you.”

Gunwook flinches. The truth of it cuts too cleanly to argue with.

“You think being close means you get to have him without giving anything back? That you get to act like you’re his world, and still walk off with whoever catches your eye that night?” Ricky steps forward, voice rising. “You ditched him constantly for hookups, for parties, for anyone who showed you even half a smile and you always expected him to be there when you came crawling back.”

Gunwook opens his mouth, but no words come.

“Don’t act surprised now,” Ricky continues, his voice trembling with frustration. “You know what you were doing. Maybe not consciously. Maybe you never meant to hurt him. But you liked having him there, didn’t you? Liked knowing that no matter how many times you bailed, he’d still be waiting. Still listening. Still loving you.”

“That’s not true–” Gunwook starts, but it’s too weak.

“You didn’t mean to,” Ricky mocks. “That’s always your excuse. But that doesn’t make it okay. You’d cancel plans with him the second something better came along, and then what? Text him at 2AM like nothing happened? You treated him like a fucking safety net, Gunwook. Like he was there to catch you every time you got bored or lonely or needed someone to make you feel special.”

Gunwook’s chest aches. His fingers twitch at his sides. He’s never seen Ricky this angry, not like this. Not on Matthew’s behalf. And it hurts more than he can admit.

“He was special to me,” he says, but the words fall flat.

Ricky shakes his head, voice quieter now but sharper. “Then you should’ve acted like it. Not just when it was easy. Not just when it made you feel good. You made him feel like he almost mattered. Like he was almost enough. And that’s the worst kind of cruelty.”

The silence after that feels absolute.

Gunwook’s mouth is dry. “I just… I didn’t think he’d take things the wrong way. I thought that’s just… how we were.”

“He didn’t take things the wrong way, Gunwook, he knew that that was just how you behaved, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s not how you behave with the rest of us. You said things to him that people don’t say to people who are ‘just friends’. You held him like it meant something. You told him he was the only one who really knew you. You called him ‘home’.” His voice breaks. “You called him ‘home’ and then treated him like a spare room.”

Gunwook sways where he stands, breath shallow, like something inside him is cracking open, like his legs are about to give out.

“Ricky, I think he understands–” Hanbin tries to chime in but Ricky holds a hand up towards him, telling him to stop.

“You don’t get to act like that and then say ‘we were just friends’. You don’t get to keep pulling him in, acting like he’s your person, and then turn around and fuck someone else.”

“I didn’t know,” Gunwook says again, voice barely audible.

Ricky’s eyes narrow. “You did. Maybe not in full. Maybe not consciously, but a part of you knew. A part of you liked it, having someone love you like that, need you like that. You just didn’t want to face what it meant.”

Gunwook’s vision blurs, hot and sharp. “I thought he was just always there because… because we were best friends…”

“Even when you didn’t deserve it. He made time for you. Made space for you. And you–” Ricky points a shaking finger toward him “–you took everything. You took his love, his patience, his forgiveness. And you gave him nothing real in return.”

Gunwook swallows, throat thick with guilt.

“I just thought…” He trails off. There’s no good ending to that sentence.

“You thought he’d never leave,” Ricky says flatly. “You thought you could keep hurting him and he’d still be there. And honestly? He would’ve. He would’ve stayed if you hadn’t finally shattered him.”

The words land hard. They don’t feel exaggerated. They feel exact. Gunwook can see it, moments he never thought twice about, moments he thought were harmless because they came from a place of comfort, not romance, but comfort is still a promise when it’s given so intimately, and to Matthew, it meant something.

“And you?” Ricky continues. “You walked away every single time, from every one of those moments like they were nothing, because to you, they were nothing. But to him? They were everything. Every soft word, every late-night confession, every time you made him feel like he was the only one who mattered… he clung to that, Gunwook. He built his hope around it, and you kept feeding it, even if you didn’t realise. You let him believe, even when there was nothing real behind it for you.”

Gunwook covers his face with both hands. He feels nauseous. Like the floor is tilting underneath him.

“He deserves someone who doesn’t make him feel like loving is a punishment,” Ricky finishes, quieter now, but the words land like a stone in Gunwook’s chest. “And maybe it’s too late, but for his sake… I hope he doesn’t come back this time.”

Gunwook doesn’t say anything.

He can’t.

Because he knows Ricky’s right.

And that’s what hurts most of all.

“I didn’t mean it,” Gunwook whispers, his voice barely above a rasp. “I never meant to hurt him. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know I was leading him on like that.”

Ricky lets out a harsh laugh, though it’s filled with more pain than anything else. “It doesn’t matter, Gunwook. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know. You did it. You made him believe he was unlovable, that he was wrong for feeling the way he did about you, and now he’s the one carrying all of that. You think you’re the only one who’s been hurting? He’s been carrying that weight on his own for years.”

Gunwook’s throat tightens painfully, and the truth of it stabs deeper than he ever thought possible. The realisation is like a sharp blade twisting in his chest. Matthew had been in love with him all this time and Gunwook had been too blind to see it, too wrapped up in his own selfishness to notice. The room feels suffocating now, the weight of Ricky’s words pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. The anger, the disappointment, the hurt; it all feels like a tidal wave crashing over him, and he’s powerless to stop it.

Gunwook drops to the edge of the couch, his hands covering his face as his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. He wants to break down. He wants to scream, to cry, to apologise, but nothing feels like it can make this right. The damage is done. Matthew is gone, and it’s his fault. He’s the reason.

“I–” Gunwook starts, but the words catch in his throat again. He can’t say anything that will make this better, and that realisation hits him harder than anything Ricky could throw at him. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to make him believe I never meant to hurt him.”

Ricky stops, breathing heavily, glaring at Gunwook with a mixture of frustration and something like pity. “I don’t know if you can fix it, Gunwook. You need to make him see how sorry you are. You better beg for his forgiveness.”

Gunwook nods numbly, the gravity of the situation sinking in like a stone in his chest. He’s ruined it. He’s ruined everything. And now the only thing left is to find a way to make it right, or at least, to try. 

Hao steps forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough, Ricky,” he says, his tone calm but firm. “We all know Gunwook messed up. We all know he hurt Matthew. But yelling at him isn’t going to fix anything.”

Ricky’s eyes flash with frustration, but he falls silent. He’s still angry, but he knows Hao is right. There’s no point in yelling anymore.

Hao turns to Gunwook, his gaze soft but stern. “Gunwook, you need to understand something. You hurt Matthew in a way that can’t be undone. But if you want to make it right, if you want to fix this, you have to take responsibility. You can’t just stand here and feel sorry for yourself. You need to act. You need to show Matthew that you’re willing to fight for him.”

Gunwook’s heart sinks. He knows Hao is right. He knows he can’t just sit back and wallow in guilt. But what does that even look like? How can he fix something that’s already broken?

Hanbin speaks up next, his voice just as calm as Hao’s, but with an added warmth. “Hao’s right. You’ve made mistakes, Gunwook, but what matters now is what you do moving forward. If you want to fix this, you have to put in the effort. You can’t just expect it to magically get better. You need to show Matthew that you care.”

Gunwook nods, feeling the weight of Hanbin’s words settle over him. He’s been selfish, hiding behind his own fears and insecurities. He’s been too scared to admit his feelings, too scared to risk losing what he already had. But now it’s too late for that. Matthew is gone, and it’s his fault.

“I… I don’t know how to fix it,” Gunwook admits, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands clenched at his sides. “It feels like… everything’s already broken. How can I even begin to make it right?”

“Start with an apology,” Hao responds, his voice steady but carrying a certain weight of authority. “You need to own up to what you did, no matter how hard it is. Matthew needs to hear you say it. He needs to know you see how wrong you were. Not just in words, but in actions. Don’t just tell him you’re sorry. Show him.”

Gunwook nods, but the weight of the task ahead of him feels insurmountable. He’s terrified. He’s always been scared of the possibility of losing Matthew, but now, after everything he’s done, it seems like a distant dream. He’s not sure Matthew would even believe him if he tried.

“Apologies don’t fix everything,” Hanbin says, his voice cutting through Gunwook’s spiralling thoughts. “They’re important, yes. But actions speak louder. If you want Matthew back, if you want him to believe in you again, you need to show him that you’re willing to make changes. That you’re willing to put in the effort.”

Gunwook can’t look them in the eye. He’s too ashamed, too filled with guilt. He wants to say something, to beg for their understanding, but the words don’t come. He’s lost in his own self-loathing, but the reality is, no one else can fix this for him. It’s his mess, and he’s the only one who can clean it up.

“It’s going to take time,” Hao continues, his voice softening a little. “It’s not going to be easy, and Matthew may not forgive you straight away, but you can’t give up. You have to keep trying. You owe it to him to do everything you can to make things right.”

Gunwook feels a wave of nausea rise in his throat. He knows they’re  right. The worst part is, he’s not even sure if he deserves to be forgiven. Not after everything he’s said to Matthew. Not after all the times he’s pushed him aside, made him feel unworthy.

“I… I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me,” Gunwook murmurs, his voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t think he’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

“You’ll never know unless you try,” Hao says, his voice soft but resolute. “Matthew deserves more than just silence. He deserves an explanation. He deserves you to fight for him.”

The room is silent for a moment, the weight of Hao’s words hanging heavily in the air. Gunwook feels something shift within him. There’s a spark of determination, small but growing, somewhere deep inside. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly how to fix this. Maybe he doesn’t even know if Matthew will forgive him. But he can’t give up. He won’t.

Hanbin looks at him, his expression softer now, but there’s still that hint of seriousness in his eyes. “We’re all here for you, Geon.”

Gunwook nods, swallowing thickly. He knows what he has to do, but the thought of trying to fix things feels impossible. How can he repair something so shattered? How can he undo the damage he’s done?

Gyuvin chimes in, his voice light but laced with sincerity. “It’s like trying to glue something back together,” he says with a small shrug. “It’ll never be the same as it was, but if you try, at least it’s worth something, yeah?”

Gunwook turns to look at Gyuvin, surprised by the weight behind his words. There’s a truth in them that he hadn’t considered before. Maybe it’s not about fixing everything perfectly. Maybe it’s about showing Matthew that he’s willing to try, that he’s willing to fight for him, even if it’s not perfect. Ricky is the first to leave, with Gyuvin trailing quietly behind him. His heart hurts at the fact that he not only hurt Matthew, but as a result, hurt all his friends in the process. Ricky can’t even look him in the eye anymore, but Gyuvin gives him a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, smiling tightly before he jogs to keep up with his boyfriend’s pace. Hao and Hanbin offer to let him stay over, but Gunwook declines with a quiet thanks, choosing instead to return to the silence of his own dorm room.

Gunwook sinks deeper into the silence of his room as the hours crawl on. His body is heavy, like his guilt has rooted itself into every muscle and bone. He sits on the edge of his bed, fingers loosely tangled in his lap, eyes vacant as thoughts pull him further into the past. The realisations keep coming, sharp and unrelenting. He starts thinking about all the nights he left Matthew behind.

How many times had he cancelled plans with him last-minute because he was meeting someone else? How many times had he texted, “Sorry, hyung. Rain check?” with no explanation, knowing Matthew would never ask? He’d just say “Okay” and leave it there. Never protest. Never press. Never let the disappointment show, but now, Gunwook can see it. Every soft “okay” held a thousand unsaid things buried underneath. Every moment he’d brushed Matthew off was another tiny fracture in something precious. Something he didn’t even realise he was breaking.

There were nights – so many nights – when he’d visit Matthew’s apartment late, flushed and triumphant, buzzing with shallow satisfaction from a fleeting hookup. Matthew would still be awake, curled up in the corner of the couch with a blanket over his lap and a cup of tea long gone cold. Gunwook would saunter in, hair still a mess, sometimes with a mark on his neck, and launch into stories without hesitation.

He winces now, physically flinches at the memory. He can see himself; smirking, oblivious, leaning against the kitchen counter as he detailed the night’s events with crude enthusiasm, expecting a laugh, a reaction, anything. And Matthew? Matthew would give a polite smile, maybe a half-hearted chuckle, and then go quiet. Always quiet. Always just… fading into the background.

Gunwook had chalked it up to Matthew being shy. Or maybe a little uptight. He told himself Matthew didn’t like talking about sex, that he just got awkward with those kinds of conversations. He never pushed him to open up, never asked how he felt. It was easier that way – easier to remain blind to something deeper. More comfortable to let Matthew’s silence be a mystery instead of a mirror, but now, looking back with clearer eyes, he sees it for what it really was.

Matthew wasn’t uncomfortable with the topic. He was uncomfortable with Gunwook. Or rather, with the role he was being forced to play. The best friend. The confidant. The person who had to sit there and nod along while the boy he loved casually spoke about kissing someone else. Touching someone else. Wanting someone else. Gunwook had done it again and again. Not out of cruelty, but out of sheer, unthinking selfishness. He thought they were close enough to share everything. He thought it was honesty. He thought it meant something, that he trusted Matthew with those details, but he never once asked himself if Matthew wanted to carry them. 

He groans and buries his face in his hands, a fresh wave of guilt crashing over him.

He remembers one night in particular – maybe the worst of them all. It was the end of the semester, the dorm halls buzzing with exams and late-night stress. Matthew had asked if they could hang out, just the two of them, like they used to. Gunwook had promised he’d be there. “After dinner,” he’d said. “Just give me an hour.”

And then a hookup texted. Some stranger from an app, someone Gunwook barely remembers now. He hadn’t even thought twice. He went. No explanation. No apology. Just left Matthew waiting without even shooting him a text. When he came back hours later, Matthew was gone. The blanket on his bed was folded neatly. The cup was washed and turned upside down on the rack. There was a note on the table, “good luck on your finals tomorrow!! you’ll do great :) – M”

He’d smiled at the time, warmed by the thoughtfulness. Now, it feels like a punch to the gut.

Matthew had been trying so hard to still be good to him. To still be present. To still love him through the disappointment. Gunwook wonders now, how long had Matthew been doing that? How many notes? How many quiet kindnesses? He never saw any of it clearly. Not until tonight. He thinks about all the times he went out on Friday nights and knocked on Matthew’s apartment drunk, sprawling on the floor, laughing loudly as he told Matthew about some new person he’d met. He thought they were bonding. He thought he was being open. But Matthew had always looked a little tired. A little dimmed. Gunwook just hadn’t cared to notice.

He covers his face again, the silence in the room suddenly unbearable. The truth of it all is crushing.

Gunwook had dangled himself in front of Matthew over and over again – carelessly, foolishly, selfishly – and then wondered why he always felt like Matthew was slipping away.

He thinks about the way Matthew looked at him. The way his gaze lingered a bit too long when Gunwook was talking. The way he always turned his body to face him, even in a crowded room. The way he remembered little things; what Gunwook liked on his ramen, how he hated the sound of his phone alarm, that he needed two spoons of sugar in his tea on stressful days. All the little acts of love. All the quiet, unspoken ways Matthew had been trying to tell him.

He stands and paces the room, unable to sit still anymore. The walls feel too tight. The air too thick. He opens the window slightly, letting in the late night chill. The breeze prickles against his skin, and he welcomes it. The sting reminds him that this isn’t just about regret. It’s about recognition. About finally seeing the truth in Matthew’s silence. The sadness in his smiles. The pain he swallowed every time Gunwook came home glowing from someone else’s touch, and suddenly, the thought hits him like a knife to the chest: Matthew thought he wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t worth choosing, because time and time again, Gunwook chose someone else.

Not because they meant more. Not because they were better.

But because he didn’t realise what was right in front of him.

And it’s not like he could give Matthew the kind of love he wanted and deserved, anyway. Gunwook is straight.

He finally lays down on his bed, gripping the edge of the mattress like he might fall off the earth. His voice, when he speaks aloud to no one, is hoarse. “I’m so fucking stupid…”

He feels sick.

Then, a knock comes gently, like the tap of a fingertip against glass.

It breaks through the silence that’s settled thickly over the room, dragging Gunwook from the pit of his own thoughts. He blinks, lifting his head slowly, the soft hum of his desk lamp buzzing faintly beside him. His body is stiff, sore, like he’s been laying in the same position for hours. Maybe he has. He doesn't even remember laying down. The cold tea on his desk confirms it: time has slipped past him without notice.

Then comes the knock again.

Three distinct taps. Not urgent, but firm. Familiar.

Gunwook stands, legs heavy, and crosses the tiny dorm room. The soles of his feet press into the laminate floor like they’re underwater. The hallway light seeps under the door frame in a warm, golden band. He doesn’t think. He just reaches for the handle and pulls the door open.

Matthew is standing there.

For a second, Gunwook thinks he might be hallucinating, but the sight of him is so vivid, so detailed; down to the slight crease in his hoodie, the way his hair falls over his forehead, the familiar way his mouth tugs into a neutral line when he’s unsure how to start.

Gunwook’s breath catches. All the guilt, all the shame, everything he’s been avoiding by staring blankly into his cold tea, comes crashing into him like a wave.

“Hyung! I’m so sorry,” he blurts, and the words are immediate, desperate. He steps back as if to let the apology flood the space between them. “Hy–Hyung, I’m sorry. I was stupid. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t realise– please, just… please forgive me.”

Matthew meets his eyes calmly.

“Okay,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Gunwook freezes. The word hangs in the air like a dropped coin.

“…What?”

“I forgive you,” Matthew repeats, soft but unwavering. “It’s okay.”

Gunwook stares at him, overwhelmed by confusion. Forgiveness should be harder than this. Shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t there be more anger? Or at least a pause, a moment of hesitation? But Matthew says it like it’s already been done.

Still, he steps aside to let him in, and Matthew walks into the room like he’s done it a hundred times before – calm, at home. Like nothing has changed. He glances around the dorm, gaze catching on the scattered notebooks, the empty mug. His fingers brush across the desk surface with quiet familiarity.

“You still don’t finish your tea,” he says, almost teasingly.

Gunwook gives a breathless laugh, his chest tightening. “Some things don’t change.”

Matthew turns back to him, faint smile on his lips. “Some things do.”

Gunwook doesn’t know what to do with the ease between them, so he gestures to the bed, and they sit, side by side. The room feels softer now, warmer. Like they’ve stepped into a version of reality where nothing ever went wrong.

But Gunwook’s heart won’t settle.

“I thought you might hate me,” he says honestly.

“I don’t,” Matthew replies. “I just… needed space.”

Gunwook nods. “I didn’t handle things well.”

Matthew doesn’t argue. His silence says enough.

“I miss you,” Gunwook says. His voice is quiet now, almost reverent. “I miss talking to you. I miss knowing you’re okay.”

“I’m not really okay,” Matthew answers, looking down at his hands. “But I’m trying to be.”

The words sit heavy in the space between them.

“I didn’t realise how much I was hurting you,” Gunwook says. “With the things I said. With how I acted. I thought I was just being honest, you know? Just being me. But I see it now. Every time I ditched you for some random hookup, every time I bragged about it after… You’d just go quiet. I thought you were uncomfortable with the topic, but you weren’t. You were hurt.”

Matthew finally looks at him. There’s something tired in his expression, something older than both of them. “You were my best friend,” he says. “You still are. But being around you, listening to all that… it started to feel like I didn’t matter. Like I was just… there. Convenient. Disposable.”

Gunwook swallows hard. His throat is raw with guilt. “It was never like that,” he says. “You’re the most important person in my life, hyung.”

Matthew gives him a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “It’s okay. I get it now. You weren’t trying to hurt me. You were just being you. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

They sit in silence again. It stretches, but neither of them fills it. The dorm glows gold around them, still and quiet.

“I want to fix this,” Gunwook says eventually. “Whatever I can. I’ll do anything.”

Matthew’s gaze meets his again. “It’s not about fixing things, Gunwook. Sometimes… sometimes the damage just exists. You can’t undo it. You can only try to be better moving forward.”

Gunwook nods, slowly. “I still want to be in your life,” he says. “I want to be the friend you deserve.”

Matthew’s smile softens. “Okay. Let’s try.”

Relief blooms in Gunwook’s chest like a second heartbeat, but then the room begins to shift.

The warmth cools. The golden glow dims. The air thickens around them.

Matthew’s smile fades.

“Do you remember that night?” he asks.

Gunwook blinks. “What night?”

“The one where I asked if we could hang out, and you said you’d be back in an hour?”

His gut twists.

“I waited for three.”

The light flickers.

“I made your favourite instant noodles. You didn’t come home. I found out later you left with someone else and you didn’t even tell me.”

Gunwook tries to speak, but the words won’t come.

Matthew doesn’t look at him now. His voice is calm, almost too calm. “Do you remember telling me about the girl you hooked up with in the library stairwell?”

“I–”

“You laughed about it. Said she was loud, and the echo made it better. I didn’t even react. Just nodded. Like always.”

The air grows colder. A breeze whispers through the dorm even though the windows are closed.

“I didn’t sleep that night,” Matthew says. “I told myself I was just tired. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t mean to make me feel like nothing.”

“I didn’t,” Gunwook chokes. “I swear I didn’t–”

“But you did.”

When Matthew turns to face him again, something is wrong. His eyes are flat. Hollow. His skin slightly grey. The shadows under his eyes stretch too deep. It’s not anger. It’s plain emptiness. And it’s terrifying.

“I kept every little thing you gave me. Every cancelled plan. Every ‘sorry, maybe next time’. I stacked them up like a wall. Told myself if I built it high enough, I wouldn’t feel it anymore.”

Gunwook shakes his head, dropping to his knees. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it hurt you that much–”

“You never bothered to ask.”

Cracks form in the ceiling. The floor begins to tremble. Gunwook falls back onto his bed, holding on for dear life when the room starts shaking violently.

“You only hold on when something’s already slipping away,” Matthew says, stepping toward the door, though now it looms impossibly tall, stretched and warped like a funhouse mirror.

“No,” Gunwook begs. “I’m sorry. I know now, I swear–”

Matthew stands by the door, now fully a shadow of himself. “You only want to fix it now that it hurts you.”

“No! That’s not–”

“Where were you when I needed you?” Matthew’s voice distorts, growing louder, colder. 

Gunwook covers his ears. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

The room explodes into noise; memories, voices, cracks of laughter turned cruel. The walls crack. The bed falls through the floor. The window shatters. Matthew turns his back.

“Don’t leave!” Gunwook screams. “Please!”

“You never stayed when it mattered,” Matthew whispers.

The door slams shut.

His body jerks forward violently, like he’s been pulled out of water. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is – can’t tell if he’s still in the dream or if the dream has followed him here. His breath comes in short, sharp bursts. His throat burns. Sweat clings to his skin despite the chill in the air. The dorm room is silent. Still. Intact. Matthew is gone – not because he left, but because he was never here. Gunwook stays there for a long time. Breathing. Remembering. Regretting. The dream wasn’t just guilt. It was truth.

Gunwook stays on the bed. His limbs are heavy, bones filled with lead. The weight of the dream lingers, not like a memory but like a truth that’s finally come home. Every word Matthew said still echoes in his skull, rattling like loose change in a hollow space.

You only hold on when something’s already slipping away.

You never bothered to ask.

You only want to fix it now that it hurts you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it out. But it doesn’t leave. If anything, it settles deeper. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, curled up with his knees to his chest, fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt like they’re the only thing anchoring him to this plane of reality. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The dream feels longer than his whole life. Eventually, he forces himself to move. Not because he wants to, but because staying still feels like giving in to something worse. Gunwook eventually slips into sleep, but it offers no peace – his body tenses and shifts, even unconsciousness can’t quiet the storm clawing at his chest.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook’s days blur together. He goes to class, he eats when he remembers to, and he showers only when the heaviness in his chest gets too loud, but no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself, Ricky’s words keep echoing in his mind, louder than any lecture, more suffocating than any silence. “Imagine being in love with someone for years and hearing them say you’re unlikable.” The line slams into him again and again like a tide that refuses to recede. He’s never been able to forget Matthew’s expression; blank, then hollow, then completely unreadable as he walked away.

Gunwook keeps expecting the ache to dull, but it doesn’t. The dorm room is quiet, save for the hum of the radiator and the distant shuffle of someone walking past in the corridor. But inside his head, everything is far too loud. Ricky’s words echo endlessly, looping with brutal clarity, refusing to be shaken off. “He’s been trying to get over you for years.” “Imagine being in love with someone and hearing them say you’re unlikable.” Gunwook buries his face in his hands, but it doesn’t help. He sees Matthew anyway.

Not the Matthew who stood in the doorway last night with a guarded smile and bruised silence. The Matthew who waited. Who laughed at Gunwook’s jokes even when they weren’t funny. Who always had two convenience store iced coffees ready, one sweet, one bitter, without needing to ask which one Gunwook wanted. He remembers the way Matthew looked when he thought no one was watching; head tilted slightly as he listened, the small crease between his brows when he was trying to hold in a comment, the soft pull of his lips when Gunwook said something ridiculous. All of it comes back with devastating clarity, but coloured now by something Gunwook hadn’t seen before. Or hadn’t let himself see.

He feels sick.

The guilt is an iron weight on his chest, pressing heavier with every breath. How could he have missed it? How could he have been so fucking careless? All those nights he’d come back drunk and smiling, telling Matthew about the guy he’d met at the bar, the one with the lip piercing or the perfect jawline. Matthew had just nodded, sometimes teased him, sometimes laughed. But he always looked away. Gunwook remembers now; vivid, nauseating moments when he’d caught that flicker of something in Matthew’s eyes and had never stopped to think about what it meant. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to.

He’s not sure what’s worse: the fact that he was blind to it, or the fear that maybe, deep down, some part of him knew.

That thought claws at him more than anything else. Because now, as he retraces every moment – every brush of Matthew’s hand, every shared hoodie, every stupid late-night chat about nothing – it all feels like it’s taken on new meaning. Like it’s been recontextualised in the harsh, unforgiving light of truth. And worse, Gunwook can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop seeing Matthew.

In class, his mind drifts. Someone calls his name, and it takes him a full beat too long to respond. He laughs at the wrong time. His notes are a mess. He hears the faint rustle of pages beside him and turns instinctively, half-expecting to see Matthew slouched in the seat next to his. He isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. But the absence hits like a punch to the ribs.

That night, he lies awake staring at the ceiling, lit faintly by the glow of the streetlamp outside. His chest tightens with every breath. He replays the last few months, the last few years, dragging each memory out and turning it over like a stone in his hand. He remembers teasing Matthew in the laundry room, flicking water at him while they fought over detergent. The way Matthew had grinned, rolled his eyes, shoved him back gently but firmly. Gunwook had laughed, feeling the thrill of being close to someone who understood him without needing to explain himself. He’d thought that was what friendship was – easy, warm, comfortable. But now?

Now he sees how Matthew’s smile wavered just slightly when Gunwook said he’d rather spend the night with someone else. He sees how Matthew always picked the spot next to him when they sat down to eat, how he lingered when they hugged goodbye, how he always asked, Are you getting home safe? with the kind of concern that went beyond casual affection. And Gunwook? He’d taken all of it for granted. Every small gesture. Every late-night favour. Every second chance.

It’s not just guilt anymore. It’s something colder, deeper, something he doesn’t want to name, because the worst part – the part that makes his stomach twist – is that now, he’s started to notice things that shouldn’t matter. He thinks about how Matthew’s laugh catches in his throat when he’s caught off guard, how the curve of his smile sits unevenly on one side. He remembers the way Matthew looked when he was tired, eyes rimmed red, hoodie pulled low, curled into the end of the sofa like he was trying to disappear into it. He remembers thinking it was kind of… endearing.

He’s haunted, not just by what he’s done, but by what he’s never considered before. What if it wasn’t one-sided? What if he did feel something and just buried it deep? What if every time he asked Matthew to come over, every time he slung an arm around his shoulders, every time he crashed on his bed after a night out… what if that meant something more? Not to Matthew. To him.

No. That’s not possible.

He paces the room. He’s straight. He’s always been straight. He’s had girlfriends. He’s never felt anything else. Not like this. Not this tightening in his chest, this sense of something fragile and sharp blooming in his ribs whenever he thinks about Matthew now. That’s not how it works. That’s not what this is.

He’s just… shaken. That’s all. It’s Ricky’s words, lingering and invasive, making him second-guess everything. Gunwook sits up suddenly, breathing hard. His room is stuffy. He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated. It’s not real. This feeling, this weight… It’s just guilt. That’s all. He hurt his best friend, and now he’s hyper-fixating on it. Twisting every memory, every moment, into something it never was. It’s like when you learn a new word and suddenly hear it everywhere. Confirmation bias or whatever. It doesn’t mean anything.

But then he sees Matthew again. Not in person, just in his mind; like a ghost that won’t leave him alone. He sees the way Matthew used to lean into him when he laughed, the way his gaze lingered a little longer when he thought Gunwook wasn’t looking. He hears the soft, tired voice on the phone late at night, saying, You always call me when you’re drunk. You know that, right? with a smile in his tone, even though now Gunwook realises that maybe he was waiting for something more.

He slams the heel of his palm against his forehead. Stop.

But the thoughts don’t stop.

He tries to keep busy. Joins a study group. Goes to the gym. Scrolls through dating apps even though he doesn’t message anyone. He needs to prove something to himself, needs the reassurance that this isn’t what it feels like. That Matthew is just his friend. Was his friend. That whatever this strange, rising ache in his chest is, it’ll pass. He tells himself it’s just guilt. Just habit. Just loneliness.

And yet…

Every time he walks past the coffee shop where they used to study, he glances inside, hoping. Every time someone laughs with a familiar cadence, he turns his head. Every time his phone buzzes, he hopes it’s a message from Matthew. And when it isn’t, he hates how hollow he feels.

He wants to call him. To apologise again. To say something – anything – that might fix this. But he knows he doesn’t have the right. Not anymore. Not after everything.

So he lies back down, eyes wide open in the dark, haunted by the weight of things he never said and the terrifying, unfamiliar shape of the feelings rising in his chest.

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything.

But he doesn’t believe it.

Not really.

The guilt gnaws at him, but worse than that is the confusion. Everything feels warped now. Every memory he has of Matthew is laced with something new, something he never noticed before. The way Matthew would always laugh a little too late at his jokes, like he was more focused on watching Gunwook than actually listening. The way his shoulders tensed whenever Gunwook talked about a hookup. The quiet sacrifices, the cancelled plans Matthew would never complain about, the way he was always just… there. No matter how badly Gunwook treated him, he stayed. He doesn’t even realise he’s crying until a tear lands on his wrist.

You only want to fix it now that it hurts you.

Matthew’s voice, from the dream. Or maybe memory. Or both. 

The silence feels louder now. Gunwook sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, breathing slow and uneven. The dorm room is dark save for the glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. His phone lies face down on the desk. Still. Quiet. It’s been hours, maybe longer. He hasn’t moved. The thought replays over and over, looping like a broken tape in his head. He hears it in Ricky’s voice, low and trembling with fury. He hears it in Matthew’s silence, the absence of him. It gnaws at him. Crawls under his skin. Matthew, his best friend, the one person who’s always been there. In love with him.

It doesn’t make sense. And yet… it does. In the worst, most unbearable way, it does.

Gunwook stands suddenly. The room tilts for a moment before righting itself. He crosses to the fridge and yanks it open. Cold air spills out, brushing his legs. There’s a six-pack of beer he never touched, a bottle of soju someone left behind after a party, half a bottle of cheap vodka. He doesn’t think. He just grabs everything and drops it onto his desk.

He pours the soju into a chipped mug – he doesn't bother looking for a proper glass – and downs it in one go. It burns going down, sharp and fast, but not enough. Not nearly enough. The vodka comes next. Then the beer. The bitter taste lingers at the back of his throat, but he welcomes it. Anything to drown out the noise.

His phone buzzes once. He flinches, nearly knocking over the bottle. Heart lurching in his throat at the possibility it might be Matthew, but of course it isn’t Matthew. It’s Hanbin. Just a text: You okay? Need anything?

Gunwook stares at the screen, thumbs hovering. He types: I’m fine. Deletes it. Tries again: Don’t worry about me. Deletes it again. Then finally settles on nothing at all. He lets the phone fall to the bed. He pours another drink. Time slips. Somewhere between the third beer and the rest of the vodka, the floor feels uneven under his feet. His head buzzes, warm and sluggish. He finds himself laughing – dry and bitter – as he stares at the half-empty bottle in his hand.

“I’m straight,” he mutters to no one. “I’m fucking straight.” But the words feel heavy on his tongue. He shakes his head hard enough to blur his vision.

He grabs his phone again. Opens his messages. Matthew’s name stares back at him. Untouched. The last text Matthew sent was a week ago, before it drowns in hundreds of texts from himself, sending one apology after another. His fingers move before he can stop himself.

hyung

mashu hyungie

im sotry

He sends it. And then another.

i dint meam to hyrt you

Then another.

idk what i was thinkibg

And another.

pls answrr me

please ghyungie

i miss u

my mashu hyugie

im sorru

No reply.

Gunwook bites the inside of his cheek. He tries calling. The phone rings once. Twice. Four times. Then voicemail. He hangs up before it goes through.

He dials again. And again. No answer.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His voice cracks. He’s dizzy now, swaying where he sits. The rain’s started outside. He can hear it tapping against the window, soft at first, then heavier.

Maybe he should go to sleep. Just crash and let the alcohol knock him out, but the thought of closing his eyes and seeing Matthew again – Matthew looking at him with that empty, broken expression – makes him feel sick. So instead, he stands. His jacket is somewhere on the floor. He doesn’t bother with it. He just grabs his keys, stumbles into his shoes, and yanks the door open. The rain hits him immediately. Cold. Sharp. Soaking through his clothes in seconds. He doesn’t care. He walks.

He doesn’t think about where he’s going, not really. His feet know. It’s stupid, it’s reckless, it’s fucking humiliating, but he goes anyway. The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional car hissing past. The world is slick and grey, the glow of traffic lights blurring into the downpour. Gunwook walks through puddles, doesn’t even flinch when a wave of water splashes up his leg.

He’s soaked to the bone by the time he reaches Matthew’s building. His shirt clings to his skin. His hair drips into his eyes. His phone is still clenched in one fist, screen damp and smudged. He blinks up at the window he knows is Matthew’s. Second from the left. Always slightly cracked open for air, even in winter. The lights are off.

“Matthew hyung!” he shouts.

His voice cracks. The rain swallows it. He staggers closer to the building, plants his feet on the pavement, and yells again, louder this time.

“Matthew hyung!”

Still nothing.

He fumbles with his phone again, tries calling once more. It rings. Goes to voicemail. He shouts up at the window again, voice hoarse and desperate. “I’m sorry, okay?! I didn’t mean what I said!”

The rain pours harder. His voice feels like it’s breaking with every word.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you! I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter! You’ve always mattered! You–” He stops, choking on the rest. His breath catches in his throat. “Please just– just talk to me. Please.”

The silence from above is deafening. A window opens, but not Matthew’s. An old woman peers out, frowning.

“It’s 2AM, young man!” she calls down. “Go home!”

Gunwook bows awkwardly, mumbling an apology, waiting for her to go back inside before trying again. He plants himself again under Matthew’s window, still staring up.

“Hyung!” he says this time, louder. “Please. I’m here. Just… please listen to me.”

Gunwook sinks to the curb, legs folding beneath him. His head drops to his knees. The alcohol buzz is fading into a numb ache, and the cold creeps in through his soaked clothes. His hands shake as he grips his phone again, typing one last message he knows won’t get a reply.

hyung pls im outsidr

He hits send. Then presses the phone to his forehead, letting it rest there like a prayer. Matthew still doesn’t come to the window. Gunwook stays there in the rain, shivering and alone. He’s far too drunk for the rain to sober him up, and he’s always been stubborn, anyway. So with the added courage from the alcohol, he stays determined, shouting one more time.

The rain shows no mercy. It beats down from a charcoal sky, unrelenting, each drop cold enough to bite. It slicks Gunwook’s hair to his forehead, pools beneath his collar, soaks through every thread of clothing until he’s nothing but skin and shame and shivers. He’s lost track of how long he’s been standing here, how long it’s been since he sent that last message into the void. There’s no reply. Just the sound of rain hitting pavement, the occasional far-off hiss of tyres cutting through puddles, and his own heartbeat, loud and frantic like it’s trying to escape him.

He stares up at the window. The same one he’s always looked at from the street, back when Matthew used to wave down at him from behind the glass, eyes crinkled, mouth shaped in a grin that made everything feel a little warmer.

Now it’s just glass. Cold, dark, and closed.

“Hyung!” Gunwook’s voice breaks as it leaves his throat, hoarse from drink and desperation. “You’re not unlikable!”

The words ring out, sharp and jagged in the stillness. He sways on the spot, catching himself on the lamppost, head swimming from the alcohol, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Something in him has snapped free, spilling out into the night, messy and raw.

“You’re not,” he says again, louder this time. “You’re not fucking unlikable!”

The rain drips down his temples, into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink it away.

“You- God- you’re… you’re the most important person in my life, Matthew.” His voice wavers, trembling. “You’re– fuck, you’re the only one who actually gets me. Like really gets me. You see me when no one else does. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

He wipes at his nose, rain-slick fingers clumsy.

“You remember things no one else would ever bother with. Like how I hate tomato chunks in pasta. And that I always need to sleep with one foot out of the blanket. You remember my mum’s birthday even though you’ve never met her.” He lets out a wet, bitter laugh. “You remembered when I had that stupid interview for the part-time job and wished me luck, even when we weren’t really talking.”

His chest heaves. “You always remember me. Even when I forget myself.”

He looks up again, voice rising.

“You’re not unlikable, hyung! You’re fucking amazing! You care too much and love too hard and you never ask for anything in return.” His voice cracks. “You let people take from you over and over and you still smile like you’re not breaking. You listen to all my shit and hold it like it’s not heavy.”

He steps forward, hands balled into fists at his sides. “You let me cling to you. All those nights I showed up drunk or broken or angry, you always let me in. Always. You’d make tea. You’d put on that dumb playlist with all the soft songs you know I like. You’d talk to me like I mattered.”

He swallows against the lump in his throat.

“You know how many people have done that for me? None. Not a single one. Except you.”

His breath comes in unsteady bursts now, fogging the cold air.

“You always notice when I’m lying. And you never call me out in front of other people, you just… wait. You wait until we’re alone and then you ask me what’s really wrong. And you don’t push. You never push. You just wait.”

He looks down, voice softening.

“And I hate that I made you feel small. Like you weren’t enough. Because you’re everything, hyung. You’re fucking everything.”

He pauses, rubbing his sleeve across his face even though it’s soaked through. His words slur, lose their edges, but the meaning still bleeds through, thick and full of everything he’s never said.

“You’re more than just nice or kind or smart or– whatever. You make people feel safe just by being in the room. And your laugh– fuck, I love your laugh. It makes me feel like the world isn’t ending.”

A sob punches out of him, quick and sharp. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Maybe I did. Maybe I just ignored it, because it was easier. Because I’m a coward, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

He steps back out into the middle of the street, arms stretched toward the window.

“But it’s already ruined, isn’t it?”

He shouts it, not caring anymore if anyone hears. Not caring about anything except the cold silence in that room above him.

“I miss you, hyung. I miss you so fucking much. I can’t stop thinking about your smile, or your hands, or how your voice sounds when you say my name like you mean it– like it’s something worth saying.”

His knees nearly give, but he stumbles back to the curb, collapsing to sit in the puddles without thought. His whole body shakes, not just from the cold now, but from something deeper, lodged inside his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, a whisper this time. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Then: light.

Soft and sudden.

One of the windows glows to life, the pale yellow of a bedside lamp flooding the second floor. Gunwook lifts his head slowly, heart caught somewhere between his throat and stomach.

The curtain twitches.

And then it opens.

Matthew pokes his head out, bleary-eyed and dishevelled, his hoodie hood falling back from his damp curls as he blinks down into the rain.

His eyes go wide in shock and disbelief.

“Gunwook?!” His voice slices through the downpour, sharp with disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing in the rain?!”

Gunwook stares up at him, lips parted, rain dripping from his lashes.Gunwook doesn’t move. Just sits there on the kerb, rain washing down his face like it’s trying to rinse him clean of everything he’s ever done wrong.

Matthew’s voice, raw and incredulous, cuts through again. “Gunwook, what the fuck– are you drunk?!”

Gunwook blinks up at him, like the question surprises him. He opens his mouth, stammering through a half-hearted, “No– no, I’m not–”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Matthew snaps, vanishing from the window with a furious rustle of curtains.

But Gunwook doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, but the alcohol’s made him too heavy, too numb to follow through with any real reaction. His head tilts back again, gaze fixed on the now-empty window, voice cracking against the downpour.

“You’re likable,” he slurs, pointing at the building like he can reach Matthew through the bricks and glass. “You’re so fuckin’ likable it makes my chest hurt. You laugh at my dumb jokes even when no one else does. You always let me pick the movie even when you hate my taste. You bought two copies of that photobook I liked ‘cause I spilled coffee on mine.”

He grips his knees, lurching forward slightly. “You know how to make people feel seen. Really seen. Like you look at me and I feel like I exist. That’s rare, hyung. That’s fuckin’ rare.”

Somewhere above, a light turns on in another window. A woman’s voice calls out, sharp with irritation. “Yah! Shut up! It’s two in the morning!”

Another window claps open. “Take your drama somewhere else!”

But Gunwook doesn’t care. He’s too far gone, lost in everything he never meant to say, everything he shouldn’t say.

“You’re the kindest person I know!” he shouts, undeterred. “You always split your umbrella even when it means your shoulder gets soaked! You carry extra plasters in your wallet just in case I get blisters! You make me tea when I can’t sleep, and you hum while you wait for the kettle and– and– fuck, hyung, do you know how cute it is?!”

The door to the building slams open, heavy and fast.

Matthew comes storming out, hoodie tugged tight over his head, feet shoved into half-laced trainers. He’s soaked before he even reaches the pavement, glaring up at Gunwook with a look that’s equal parts disbelief, fury, and something that looks too much like pain.

“You are absolutely drunk,” Matthew hisses, eyes scanning Gunwook’s soaked frame. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You could’ve caught hypothermia out here!”

Gunwook lifts his head, gaze unfocused but earnest. “You came down…”

“Of course I fucking did, you lunatic!” Matthew throws up his hands. “You’re out here yelling all this shit in the rain like some tragic K-drama lead!”

Gunwook grins, wide and unsteady. “Did you hear the part about your tea?”

Matthew stares at him like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

Gunwook leans forward again, still seated in a puddle. “You always pick the onions out of my food ‘cause you know I hate them. You send me good luck texts before my exams, even if we haven’t spoken in days. You wait for me when I’m late even though I’m always late, and you never complain. Who does that? Who does that?! You’re not unlikable. You’re everything.”

“Gunwook.” Matthew’s voice is low now. Firm. “You need to get up. We’re going inside.”

Gunwook shakes his head, eyes glassy. “I’m not finished-”

“I don’t care!” Matthew’s voice breaks slightly. “You’re soaking, you stink of alcohol, and you’re making a fucking scene!”

Gunwook blinks, like the words are trying to push their way into his foggy mind but bouncing off the edges.

Matthew crouches beside him now, fingers tight around Gunwook’s arm. “Get up. Please.”

A neighbour’s window slams shut with a bang. Another shouts something about calling security.

Gunwook sways where he sits. He wants to stay here forever, shouting all the things he should’ve said sober, but Matthew’s hand is warm and firm around his wrist, and Gunwook’s resistance slips through his fingers like rainwater.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Okay…”

Matthew sighs through his teeth, drenched to the bone now too, but still steady.

He pulls Gunwook up.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

By the time they reach the front door of his apartment building, Matthew’s soaked clean through, his trainers squelching with every step. He half-drags, half-guides Gunwook along the corridor towards the lift, heart pounding not just from the cold or the awkwardness of the situation, but from the sheer, unbearable presence of Gunwook beside him, drenched, rambling, eyes unfocused and glassy with drink, yet somehow more tender than Matthew’s ever seen him.

Gunwook doesn’t stop talking. He’s babbling again, words slurring together but still understandable, still cutting straight through Matthew’s attempts to tune him out.

“I like your smile,” Gunwook mumbles as he stumbles down the hall. “Not just when you laugh, but that tiny one you do when you’re reading something dumb. Like that one time you found a typo in that chemistry textbook and couldn’t stop giggling.”

Matthew clenches his jaw. “Gunwook,” he mutters warningly, fumbling for the elevator button with his free hand. His other is braced under Gunwook’s arm, holding him upright. “Stop.”

But Gunwook only leans more heavily against him, eyes bright despite everything. “You always remember my birthday. And you get me dumb little things I didn’t even know I wanted. Like that sea salt chocolate you found on sale last year. You said it reminded you of me, salty but weirdly sweet.”

Matthew exhales sharply, waiting for the elevator to arrive. “Gunwook, just shut up, okay?”

“Even when you’re mad,” Gunwook slurs as the elevator finally dings, doors opening. Matthew hauls him inside. “You still make me tea.”

Matthew turns his head. Gunwook is right behind him, impossibly close, his breath hot against the side of Matthew’s neck despite the rain. His eyes shine, bloodshot and wild, like he’s trying to memorise every detail of Matthew’s face.

“You’re funny,” Gunwook says, almost breathless. “In that quiet way. Like you say these one-liner things and they stay with me for days. And you’re smart, not in a show-offy way, just quietly clever. You read all this weird stuff and quote books no one’s ever heard of, and somehow it makes sense when you say it. It’s… cool.”

Matthew blinks, stunned silent for a moment. The weight of Gunwook’s arm wrapped around his waist, the weight of those words – drunken or not – press into him like a vice.

“You’re kind, too,” Gunwook continues, undeterred by the lack of response. “Not just to me, to everyone. You always look out for the ones no one else notices. You notice things, hyung. Even when you don’t say anything, I can tell. You see everything.”

He tries to pull away again, tries to turn and break the contact, but Gunwook just tightens his grip.

“And your laugh, fuck, I love your laugh. I hear it so often, but every time it comes out, it’s like sunshine. It’s like you forget for a second to hold back, and it’s just… real. Makes me wanna laugh too, even if I don’t get the joke.”

Matthew’s throat feels tight. He doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t know what to say. He knows Gunwook’s drunk. He knows none of this should matter, but it does. It always has, and that’s the problem.

“Gunwook,” he says, voice firm but quiet. “You’re drunk.”

Gunwook doesn’t move. “You don’t even know what you mean to people,” he says, like he hasn’t heard. “You don’t realise how easy it is to… to fall for someone like you. And yeah, I didn’t mean it when I said you’re unlikable, I promise. I keep thinking about you. About everything.”

Matthew forces a bitter laugh. “That’s the alcohol talking.”

“No,” Gunwook says, shaking his head too hard. “No, it’s not. It’s me. It’s just– fuck, hyung, you’ve always been special. And now I can’t stop seeing it. You’re in my head. Everywhere.”

His voice cracks at the edges, growing more frantic. “You remember when I got sick during exam week, and you came over with meds and soup even though you had your own revision to do? Or– or when I forgot my umbrella and you showed up out of nowhere just to walk me home, didn’t even say anything, just held it over both of us and smiled like it was nothing?”

Matthew’s jaw clenches. His heart is hammering.

Gunwook presses his forehead to Matthew’s shoulder. “You’ve always been there. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I fucked up. You stayed. Who does that? Who the fuck stays through all that?”

Matthew finally twists away, breaking the contact. He turns sharply, chest heaving, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to say these things to me when you’re drunk, Gunwook.”

Gunwook looks hurt; childish and confused, like he doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. The elevator finally arrives on Matthew’s floor and he drags the taller boy to his apartment, fiddling with his keys before he finally unlocks the door. “But it’s true.”

Matthew bites the inside of his cheek, ushering him inside before someone else hears. The hallway’s quiet for now, no more shouting neighbours, no more open windows, but his nerves are frayed to the edge, and Gunwook’s praise is cutting far deeper than it should.

“That’s not the point!” Matthew’s voice rises unintentionally, sharper than he means, but he doesn’t take it back, because if he lets this continue, he’s going to break, and he can’t do that. Not again. Not for words that might mean nothing in the morning.

Gunwook, undeterred, leans against the wall for support and keeps going, voice weaker now but still filled with raw conviction.

“I love the way you make playlists for people. Like, full-on themed ones. You made me that one for when I couldn’t sleep, remember? Said it was ‘just in case’ I ever got too in my head. Who does that, huh? Who thinks of that?”

“Stop,” Matthew whispers, throat tight.

“You’re always kind, but sometimes I think you care too much about other people. Even when they don’t deserve it. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

Matthew’s hands tremble. He wants to scream. To cry. To laugh at how impossibly cruel the universe is, dangling this moment in front of him now, of all times, when it means nothing. When Gunwook won’t even remember.

“You’re not just likable,” Gunwook murmurs again, his tone almost reverent now. “You’re amazing.”

Matthew closes the door behind them and spins to face him. “Stay here,” he says firmly. “By the door. Don’t move. You’re dripping everywhere.”

He begins to strip off his hoodie, soaked through and clinging to his skin. He needs to run to the back and grab towels, spare clothes, anything to make sense of this mess, but the moment he peels his wet hoodie off, Gunwook moves. An arm wraps clumsily around Matthew’s waist from behind. Wet fabric clings between them, cold and damp, but the touch is firm. Bare hands against bare waist.

“Wait,” Gunwook says, voice low, thick with something Matthew doesn’t want to name.

Matthew freezes. Half naked, heart racing. Gunwook's hand is against the small of his back, grounding him in a way that makes his skin prickle. He doesn’t dare turn his head.

“Gunwook,” he warns, but it comes out more like a plea; quieter than he means it to. 

And behind him, Gunwook is still holding on, still looking at him like he's the only thing that makes sense. He pulls away from Gunwook’s hold, but before he can take even a step toward the hallway, Gunwook’s arm tightens around his waist again – strong, unrelenting, despite the slight tremble in his limbs from the cold. Matthew tenses, his breath catching, and before he can even protest, Gunwook turns him around, forcing him to face him.

The air between them shifts.

Matthew’s hands automatically brace against Gunwook’s chest to put distance between them, but it’s useless. He’s so close, so unbearably close, and Matthew can’t look away. Gunwook’s eyes are glossy, half-lidded, but utterly sincere. There’s no smug grin, no teasing glint, none of the usual boyish charm he throws around so carelessly. Just this open, bare look like he’s stripped himself down to the softest, most breakable parts of him, and now he’s holding them out in the dark for Matthew to see.

Matthew’s heart pounds. Hard. It physically hurts.

“Hyung,” Gunwook says, voice thick and hoarse, like every word is fighting through some invisible weight pressing down on his chest. “Most of all… you’re so pretty.”

Matthew blinks. His mouth parts, breath coming shallow.

“So pretty,” Gunwook repeats, quieter now, gaze flicking over Matthew’s face like he’s trying to memorise every freckle, every line, every tired shadow beneath his eyes. “So pretty it hurts.”

Matthew wants to scoff. He wants to say something dry or dismissive or cold – anything to protect himself from the blow of that line. But he can’t. His chest aches too much, like someone’s pressing a fist to his sternum and won’t let up.

“Gunwook…” he breathes, warning in his voice, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

“I mean it,” Gunwook insists, voice trembling now. “I never said it before. Not like this. But I always thought it. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, or when you’re really listening and your brows do that little pinch thing. And your voice, hyung. It’s low and calm and… it makes everything feel safe. It makes me feel safe.”

Matthew’s fingers curl into the wet fabric of Gunwook’s shirt. He tries to push, to create even a bit of space between them, but Gunwook doesn’t budge. He’s warm, too warm, and the heat of his breath fans across Matthew’s cheek.

“You don’t even realise, do you?” Gunwook whispers. “How much you make people want to stay. I didn’t realise either. I was too busy chasing everything else..”

“Stop,” Matthew whispers. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Gunwook insists again, more urgently. “I do, hyung. And I know I’ve been shit to you. I know I took you for granted, I know I left and came back like you’d just always be there… but it wasn’t ‘cause you didn’t matter. I was just fucking stupid. You mattered too much. You still do.”

Matthew shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight, as if that’ll block out the words. As if that’ll stop his chest from tightening even further. He doesn’t want to hear this, not like this. Not when it’s soaked in alcohol and late-night desperation. Not when it sounds so real it’s killing him.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he says, voice cracking. “Tomorrow you won’t even remember saying this.”

“Hyung…” Gunwook breathes, the word falling from his lips like something fragile, like if he doesn’t say it now, it’ll vanish forever.

Matthew doesn’t answer. He’s still trying to gather himself, still standing there in the entryway of his flat, soaked to the bone with Gunwook's heavy arm wrapped around his waist. His clothes cling to him like second skin, water dripping down his hair, his jaw, his neck. He’s cold, shaking slightly, but not from the rain. Before he can step away, before he can even think, Gunwook pushes him. Matthew stumbles, his back hitting the wall with a dull thud. He’s about to protest, about to tell Gunwook to let go, to get inside properly and dry off before he gets sick, but then Gunwook’s hands come up, gentle but insistent, framing his face.

And then he kisses him.

It happens all at once, like a crash. Gunwook leans in and presses his lips to Matthew’s without hesitation, and Matthew goes still. His breath catches in his throat, eyes going wide, the wet fabric of their shirts plastered together as Gunwook’s mouth meets his. It’s not slow, not gentle; it’s needy, messy, wet from the rain and trembling from the cold, but it’s real, and that’s what makes Matthew’s chest seize.

For one breathless moment, everything stops. No rain. No wind. No neighbours. No warnings. Only this. Gunwook is kissing him. Gunwook, his best friend, is kissing him, and it’s not a dream. It’s not some lonely, bitter fantasy dredged up from the pit of Matthew’s chest. It’s real, and for the briefest, most dangerous moment, Matthew kisses him back. His hands find the front of Gunwook’s shirt, gripping tightly like he’s afraid of falling. He leans into it, parting his lips slightly, breath mingling with Gunwook’s as their tongues meet, dancing in tandem with each other. He lets himself feel everything he’s buried for years; all the longing, the yearning, the pain. He tastes rainwater and vodka and something uniquely Gunwook, and it makes his head spin.

He tells himself it’s wrong. Gunwook is drunk. He’s drenched and shivering and not thinking straight. This isn’t real. This can’t be real, but Matthew’s heart doesn’t care. Not when he’s spent years wondering what this would feel like. Not when every drunken laugh, every late-night text, every touch that lingered just a second too long led to this moment. It hurts, but it also feels like breathing for the first time.

Then, Gunwook pulls back, barely, lips brushing Matthew’s like he can’t bear to lose contact. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy with drink, pupils unfocused.

And then he says it.

“God, hyung,” he mumbles, slurring softly as his eyes close, leaning his forehead against Matthew’s shoulder. “I wish you were a girl.”

Matthew’s breath catches. A flash of silence hits, sharp and immediate. His entire body stiffens like someone just slapped him. The words hang there, suspended in the air between them. 

I wish you were a girl.

Matthew feels the blood drain from his face. He hears the rain again, louder now, as if the sky itself is mocking him. The warmth from the kiss vanishes, replaced by a cold so deep it feels like it’s soaked into his bones. He pulls back slightly, only enough to look at Gunwook’s face. The boy’s eyes are still closed, his expression soft and unguarded in the haze of alcohol. He doesn’t even realise what he’s said, but Matthew hears it. God, he hears it. It’s the kind of thing that guts you in one blow.

I wish you were a girl.

Of course. Of course that’s what this is. Of course Gunwook, even in his drunken mess of a state, can only want Matthew if he’s someone else. Someone more acceptable. Someone easier to love. Someone not him. He tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a wheeze, thin and brittle, like glass cracking under pressure. His stomach churns, his chest tightens, and all he wants to do is disappear. He should push Gunwook away. He should tell him to sleep it off, to forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t move. His heart is still racing – stupid, traitorous thing – because even after that, even after those words, some part of him still wants this. Still wants Gunwook. Still wants to believe he didn’t mean it.

Gunwook leans in again, forehead pressing to Matthew’s. His grip is loose around Matthew’s waist, but still firm enough to hold him there. Matthew closes his eyes, trying to breathe. He ries to stop the tears that are building in the corners of his eyes, uninvited. This is everything he’s ever wanted, twisted into something cruel. Something almost right. Almost. He reaches up, gently placing his hand against Gunwook’s chest, pushing him away, but it’s weak. His limbs feel heavy, his heart even heavier. Matthew stares at him through his lashes – their foreheads still touching – at the boy who has unknowingly held his heart in the palm of his hand for years, and all he can think about is how much it hurts to be almost loved.

When Gunwook leans in for another kiss, Matthew finally snaps.

He shoves Gunwook off him with more force than intended, the sudden motion catching the boy off guard. Gunwook stumbles back, blinking in a daze, and Matthew sees confusion cross his face but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not when his heart is thudding like it’s about to burst, not when his entire body trembles with rage and humiliation and grief.

“Don’t–” he chokes, voice cracking like ice. “Don’t touch me.”

A cold wash of reality crashes over him, sobering and brutal. The fucking kiss and then that. That. He can still feel Gunwook’s lips on his, he still feels the warmth that bloomed in his chest before it was doused by a sentence that cut deeper than anything ever has. He turns and bolts, unable to take another second of it. He doesn’t care that he hasn’t fully stripped yet, that he’s dripping all over the floor. He doesn’t even care if Gunwook follows, he just needs to get away. 

Matthew rushes into his room, slamming the door shut behind him, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. His hands shake violently as he pulls off his boxers and pyjama shorts, his eyes already blurring with tears. He dries himself off and dresses up in a frenzy, rubbing at his skin like he can scrub away the entire night, like he can erase the way it felt to be wanted and discarded in the same breath, and then he sinks onto the edge of his bed, towel clenched between his fists, and cries. He tries to be quiet. He bites down on the sleeve of his pyjamas, muffling the choked sobs that rack his chest, but it’s too much. It’s always been too much.

Why would he do that? Why would Gunwook say all those things, kiss him like that, hold him like that, only to wish he were someone else? Why show up in the rain, shouting at his window like something out of a bad film, pouring his heart out with that stupid, desperate face, just to make it all meaningless with one thoughtless, drunken line?

It’s cruel. So cruel.

Matthew feels like an idiot. For believing – even for just a second – that it could’ve meant something. That maybe, just maybe Gunwook saw him. Really saw him. But of course he didn’t. Gunwook has never seen him the way Matthew sees him. Eventually, the tears slow to a sniffle. His chest still aches, but the sobs have emptied him out. He stands on shaky legs, drying the last of the water from his hair. He tells himself to pull it together, to go back out there and deal with whatever mess Gunwook has left behind.

When he steps out into the hallway, his heart sinks. Gunwook is sprawled by the front door, out cold, half-slumped against the wall, his head tilted awkwardly, mouth parted in a light snore. His clothes are still soaked through, puddles forming beneath him on the hardwood floor. Rainwater seeps into the rug. Matthew just stands there for a moment, staring. The frustration comes back in waves, curling bitter in his gut.

“You’re unbelievable,” he whispers under his breath, wiping at his cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie.

But even now – even after everything – his feet move toward him. He wipes Gunwook down with a towel, gently brushing his soaked fringe away from his forehead. His fingers are careful, almost adoring. It's ridiculous. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should let him wake up cold and miserable, let him deal with the consequences of his own stupid decisions, but Matthew can’t help himself. He dries every inch of him with the same care he always has, like a ritual he’s performed too many times. He peels the wet shirt off him, tugging carefully at his arms, trying not to jostle him too much. Gunwook murmurs something unintelligible, his face twitching like he’s dreaming, but he doesn’t wake.

Matthew’s eyes sting again. He bites his lip to keep from crying, but the tears come anyway, silently falling as he works. The towel soaks some of them up before they can drop onto Gunwook’s skin. He’s never been able to leave Gunwook alone. By the time he’s done, Gunwook looks slightly less miserable. Still passed out, still damp and reeking of alcohol, but at least no longer lying in a puddle. Matthew stares at him for a long time. He wants to hate him. He wants to. Instead, he presses the towel to his own eyes again and cries in silence. Not the same broken sobs as before; these are quieter, lonelier, he kind that settle deep into your bones.

Eventually, he musters the strength to drag Gunwook up. He slips an arm under Gunwook’s, lifts with everything he has, nearly stumbling under the boy’s weight. Gunwook mumbles something incoherent, his head falling against Matthew’s shoulder, completely deadweight, but Matthew doesn’t stop. Step by step, he carries Gunwook down the hall and into the bedroom. His muscles ache by the time he gets him to the bed, practically dropping him onto the mattress. Gunwook lets out a groggy grunt, rolls onto his side, and immediately starts snoring again. Matthew stands there for a while, staring down at him. He still looks so stupidly beautiful, even like this; hair damp, lips swollen, lashes clumped from the rain. It's unfair.

“I hate you,” Matthew whispers, voice cracking. “I fucking hate you, Gunwook.”

He lingers. Just stands there, staring. The kind of stare that hurts behind the eyes. God, he wants to lie down next to him. He wants to press his face into Gunwook’s back like he used to, feel his warmth, pretend everything is fine, pretend that kiss never happened, that the words "I wish you were a girl" never left his mouth. But he can’t. He physically can’t, because it’s not just pain tonight – it’s humiliation, it’s betrayal, it’s something raw and awful and so loud he feels like he’s vibrating with it. His heart breaks again, like it hasn’t already broken a hundred times over, and Gunwook just sleeps. Peacefully. Like he hasn’t wrecked him.

Matthew swallows hard and takes a step back. He forces himself to leave the room, one slow step at a time. No goodnight. No staying to watch over him like he always does. No lying in bed with the boy who always made it feel like they were the only ones in the world – until he didn’t. He grabs a blanket and pillow from the closet, drops them on the couch, and settles in for a sleepless night, tears hot against his cheeks. He doesn’t even bother trying to stop them this time.

Then he turns and leaves. The floorboards feel colder than usual beneath his feet, or maybe it’s just him; numb in places he didn’t know could go numb. He clutches the pillow tighter to his chest as he makes his way to the sofa, the soft fabric doing nothing to comfort him. Every inch he puts between himself and the bedroom feels like a wound widening, like something precious being lost for good. He used to joke that Gunwook’s bed was half his anyway, that he should start paying rent for how often he stayed over, and now he can’t even bring himself to look back at the door, terrified that if he does, he’ll crumble and crawl in beside him like nothing’s changed, but everything has.

Back in the living room, he grabs a spare blanket, curls up on the couch, and pulls the covers tight around himself. The cushions are cold and damp from his wet hair, but he doesn't care enough to dry it. He turns his face into the pillow and lets the tears come again, slow and quiet. He doesn’t know when sleep finally finds him. Only that it feels like sinking into something dark and bottomless, a place where Gunwook’s kiss still lingers and his voice still cuts through the silence like a blade.

And all he can do is lie there, shaking, as it all plays on repeat behind his closed eyes, wondering when – or if – this pain will ever let him go.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook wakes to the harsh, punishing light of morning leaking through the blinds. His head feels like it’s been split in two, skull throbbing with a dull, insistent ache that pulses behind his eyes. His tongue is dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his throat burns as though he swallowed sandpaper. For a moment, he lies still, disoriented, the cotton of unfamiliar sheets brushing against his skin. The ceiling above him isn’t the one he’s used to. This isn’t his room.

He blinks, trying to piece together why everything feels so wrong. And then it hits him. The soft beige walls, the fluffy queen bed, the faint smell of cedar and lemon from the diffuser on the bedside table. Matthew’s apartment. Gunwook’s breath catches in his throat. He’s in Matthew’s apartment, and he remembers nothing. Not how he got here. Not what he said. Not what he did. His pulse quickens with dread as possibilities start flooding in. Did he call Matthew? Did he show up here like some lunatic? Why is he even in Matthew’s bed?

Then he sits up too quickly. A wave of nausea crashes over him like a tidal wave, and he barely stumbles to his feet before the world tilts sideways. His heart pounds erratically in his chest as his stomach twists violently. He lurches out of bed and stumbles across the room like a drunk marionette, limbs uncoordinated, guided only by a desperate instinct to find the bathroom.

He makes it just in time, his knees hitting the floor tiles, he hunches over the toilet and retches. His body empties itself in painful, heaving spasms that leave him trembling and cold with sweat. The acrid taste of bile scorches his throat as his hands grip the porcelain like a lifeline. His mind is blank with the hangover fog, but panic starts to bleed in slowly, clawing its way up through the haze.

He drags himself to the sink and splashes cold water on his face, gripping the edges of the basin to steady himself. The reflection staring back at him in the mirror is a mess; bloodshot eyes, skin pale and drawn, his hair in disarray, soaked clothes wrinkled and clinging. He looks like someone who’s hit rock bottom. What the hell did I do? He stumbles back into the bedroom, the weight of everything he can’t remember pressing on his chest like a cinder block. Guilt tightens its grip on him, suffocating. Something awful happened; he can feel it in his bones. Something irreversible.

Every step feels like he’s trudging through sludge, head pounding like someone’s taken a hammer to the inside of his skull. His mouth tastes like bile and regret, and his stomach still twists uneasily despite being empty. The apartment is quiet, eerily so, and the low light spilling through the curtains does little to soften the harshness of the hangover gripping him like a vice.

He makes it back to the bed – Matthew’s bed – and freezes at the sight waiting on the bedside table; a glass of water sits there, half empty, condensation clinging to the glass in a trembling sheen. Beside it, two painkillers rest on a folded piece of paper. Only then does he realise he’s dressed in a completely different set of clothes from the day before, meaning Matthew had dried him up and taken care of him, going as far as to change his clothes for him. Gunwook’s chest tightens. He knows this routine. He’s seen this scene before, Matthew looking after him, even when he shouldn’t have to, but this time, something’s off.

He reaches for the note, already knowing it won’t be what he wants it to be. Matthew always leaves something kind. A teasing line. A doodled smiley face. Sometimes even a little heart if he’s feeling bold. Something warm. This one isn’t. The handwriting is the same, but the message is clinical. Detached.

take the meds. lock the door when you get out and leave the key where you usually do.

No jokes. No warmth. No “You’re lucky I still like you” scribbled at the bottom. Gunwook stares at the words, the paper trembling slightly in his fingers. A sour weight settles in his stomach, heavier than anything he drank last night. It's not what the note says, it’s what it doesn’t. No concern. No softness. Not even irritation masked in affection. Just a cold instruction. He feels it like a slap. Even when Matthew was angry, even when Gunwook had been at his most thoughtless, his most selfish, there had always been something gentle in the way Matthew treated him. Something forgiving. But this…

This is the note you leave someone you’re done with.

Gunwook lowers himself onto the edge of the bed slowly, like moving too quickly might shatter him completely. The folded note sits in his lap. His hands tremble. His throat is dry and tight and aching. The pills are there, the water’s there, and somehow it all makes him feel lonelier than if the room were completely empty. Whatever happened last night… Matthew still cared enough to make sure he wouldn’t suffer through the hangover.

Gunwook stares at the pills in his hand a moment longer, then downs them with a gulp of lukewarm water. They catch in his throat for a second before sliding down, bitter and dry. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, forcing himself to his feet. His legs feel unsteady, like they’ve only just remembered how to function. Despite the ice in Matthew’s note, a stubborn part of him clings to hope. Maybe he’s still here. Maybe he’s just in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or–

“Hyung?” he calls out, voice hoarse and cracking. “Matthew hyung?”

Silence answers him. The kind that rings loud in your ears, oppressive and hollow. Still, Gunwook tries again, moving slowly through the apartment. “Hyung… are you here?”

No reply.

He pads through the hallway, peeking into the kitchen. Nothing. The bathroom door is open, dark and empty. His heart begins to sink, a creeping tightness winding its way into his chest. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting; for Matthew to come around the corner and act like everything’s fine? To scold him gently for being an idiot? To forgive him again? But the flat stays quiet, as if holding its breath.

Gunwook finds himself in the living room next, and that’s when he sees it – the couch. The pillow is still there, indented from someone’s head, and the blanket lies tangled and rumpled on one end, clinging to the edge like it had been kicked off in the night. Matthew had slept here. Gunwook’s breath catches. He just stands there for a moment, staring. It shouldn’t mean so much – just a pillow, just a blanket – but it does. It hits him like a kick to the gut.

Matthew had taken the couch. Even after everything, all the pain he had caused him, he still gave Gunwook the bed, because of course he did. That’s just the kind of person Matthew is. Always looking after him. Always putting him first. Even when Gunwook hurts him. Gunwook swallows thickly and lowers himself to the edge of the couch, pressing a hand to the pillow as if it’ll still be warm. It’s cold now, meaning Matthew has since been long gone.

And the couch – this couch – used to be something temporary. Something they only used when they both passed out watching films, when neither wanted to move. More often than not, they’d end up tangled together on the bed. Not even in a romantic way, just a closeness that had always felt natural. Easy. He remembers how Matthew used to tease him for being a bed hog, how Gunwook would bury his freezing feet under Matthew’s legs in winter, how he never felt the need to explain himself when they shared that space, but now, Matthew had made a choice. The bed was no longer a place they shared. It was a boundary. A quiet declaration that something had changed.

Gunwook squeezes his eyes shut. The room feels too quiet, too heavy. The pillow is just fabric and stuffing, but it feels like evidence. Of Matthew’s pain. Of Gunwook’s failures. He runs a hand through his hair, gripping the roots until it hurts.

Why the hell did I come here? What did I say? What did I do?

Gunwook sits, silent and small in the stillness of Matthew’s living room, the crumpled note balanced between his fingers. His legs bounce restlessly, but his body feels too heavy to move, like gravity is working harder against him today. The words on the note blur slightly as he stares. Take the meds. Lock the door when you get out. Leave the key where you usually do. They echo hollowly in his head, as though someone else read them aloud in Matthew’s voice, only without the warmth it usually carried. It's curt and distant. It feels like the opposite of every gentle thing Matthew has ever offered him.

He knows he should listen, but something in him resists the simplicity of those instructions, the finality of them. The couch dips beneath his weight as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the note like it might change if he stares long enough. It doesn’t. It just sits there, plain and final, like a door closing in his face.

He exhales shakily and looks around the room. It’s the same space he’s been in a hundred times; worn but warm, lived-in in a way that always made him feel at ease. Matthew’s guitar leans against the wall, the strings probably a little out of tune. There’s a sweater draped over the back of the armchair, the sleeves folded neatly like Matthew always does. And on the dining table, one of those tiny ceramic dishes Matthew keeps for his rings and watch, still sitting just where Gunwook remembers it, but it all feels different now. Quiet, yes, but not the comfortable kind. Not the kind that comes after laughter or soft conversations. This is the kind of silence that screams.

He rises to his feet, slowly, limbs still sore from sleeping on the floor. His head pulses with a dull throb and his stomach flips again. He’s dehydrated, nauseous, still hungover, and yet all he can feel is the ache in his chest. The mess of last night presses in on him, but his memory is patchy at best. It’s all just blurred noise; rain, shouting, the echo of Matthew’s voice above him. And then… nothing. Just a wall of black.

He glances towards the front door, where his shoes sit neatly side by side, like someone placed them there after taking them off for him. He imagines Matthew, soaked and tired and furious, still kneeling to pull off Gunwook’s drenched shoes because Gunwook was too drunk to do it himself. Still caring. Still looking after him. Gunwook’s chest tightens. Gunwook leans back, dragging the blanket across his lap, more for comfort than warmth. It doesn’t smell like Matthew anymore. Maybe it’s been washed too many times, or maybe his senses are too dulled. Still, he pulls it closer.

He reads the note again.

Lock the door when you get out.

There’s no feel better soon, no text me when you’re home safe, no lingering softness. Gunwook should be grateful Matthew left him anything at all. After the stunt he pulled last night – whatever that may have been – it’s more than he deserves, and yet, he’s never heard Matthew like that before. Not just the note. The silence. The absence. The feeling of no longer being welcome in a place that once felt like a second home. The ache it leaves behind is startling in its depth.

Gunwook tells himself again: He wants space. You should go. He stands. Crosses to the counter. Places the note down carefully, like returning something valuable he broke. He pads to the front door, then pauses, the key already in his hand. His fingers clench around it. Something makes him hesitate.

He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. The note had been clear – cold, even. Not cold in tone, exactly, but in its unfamiliar absence of warmth. Take the meds. Lock the door when you get out and leave the key where you usually do. No name. No “feel better” or “call me later.” Gunwook’s chest tightens. He doesn’t remember what he did. That’s the worst part. He woke up disoriented in Matthew’s bed, with no idea how he got there, just the lingering sickness in his gut and a hollow echo in his head. His last memories are hazy; something about being at home, then drinking, a lot. Alone? He doesn’t even know. Everything after that is just… blank.

And now, here he is. In Matthew’s apartment. Alone. Gunwook looks down at the key still curled in his fist. He should leave. He knows that. It’s the one thing Matthew’s note had made unmistakably clear. No room for argument. No room for him, but something in him resists. There’s a knot in his chest that won’t come undone, a restless, gnawing unease. What did he do? What did he say? What version of himself did he unleash last night, the one he can’t even remember now? Whatever it was, it must’ve been bad enough for Matthew to not even want to be here when he woke up.

Still, the thought of walking out the door, of not seeing Matthew, of not asking, not explaining, feels unbearable. He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes and exhales shakily. His mind scrapes for answers, for anything, but the fog won’t lift. The key weighs heavy in his hand. Gunwook pictures Matthew coming home later and finding nothing. Just the meds taken, the door locked behind him. Maybe that’s what he wants; a clean slate, an exit, but Gunwook isn’t ready for that. Can’t accept it. Not without knowing. Not without saying something, even if he doesn’t know what yet.

He places the key back on the counter slowly, like it might explode if he moves too fast. Then he lowers himself onto the couch with a groan, his body still sore and heavy from whatever happened the night before. He waits. Gunwook doesn’t even know what for; an explanation, a confrontation, something. Anything that might help him fill the blank spaces in his mind. He waits, hoping Matthew will walk through the door and at least yell at him, because that would mean he cares. That would mean Gunwook still matters enough to be angry at.

The apartment is too quiet. He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking toward the closed bedroom door like it might offer clues. But of course, it doesn’t. The silence only makes the unease louder. He looks toward the door again, as if Matthew might appear. But the stillness is unrelenting. He waits. Every passing minute stretches into a small eternity. The guilt coils tighter. The silence sharpens. He replays everything he can remember, which is not nearly enough. Then he replays it again, wishing something would slot into place, some memory, even a flash.

Nothing.

It’s like trying to reconstruct a ruined house from splinters. Part of him debates leaving anyway. Matthew’s note had been direct. Maybe the kindest thing he could do now is respect that boundary and go, but something stubborn inside him claws at the thought. He can’t walk away. Not like this. Not without a fight. Not without answers. This is the one chance he has to at least try to make things right between him and Matthew, to get him to listen, to beg him for forgiveness like Ricky told him to.

So he stays.

And he waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

Chapter Text

The door unlocks with a metallic click, and Gunwook’s head snaps up from where he’s been slumped on the sofa, body heavy with the weight of waiting. His legs have gone pins and needles from sitting still so long, and there’s a stale taste in his mouth from the glass of water he hasn’t touched. He scrambles upright, heart leaping like it’s seen salvation.

Matthew steps in, umbrella dripping water onto the floor, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He’s wrapped in that oversized coat he always wears in the rain, the one Gunwook used to tease him about. But there’s nothing familiar in the way he looks at Gunwook now.

“You’re still here,” Matthew says flatly, like he’s commenting on a stain that won’t come out.

Gunwook tries to smile, but it falters almost immediately. “Hyung, please. I know you want me to leave, but I couldn’t. I needed to talk to you.”

Matthew doesn’t reply, doesn’t so much as blinks in his direction. He sets the umbrella aside, peels off his jacket with slow, deliberate movements, like even acknowledging Gunwook’s presence is exhausting.

“Hyung, please,” Gunwook says, stepping forward. His voice is unsteady, too soft. “I want to apologise.”

“You already said sorry,” Matthew says, tone clipped as he tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl on the counter. They land with a sharp clatter that makes Gunwook flinch. The sound echoes louder than it should in the quiet flat, like the punctuation at the end of a sentence that doesn’t want to be revisited. “And then I told you to leave.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” Gunwook says quickly, stepping forward. His stomach feels tight, knotted in a way that makes it hard to breathe properly. “I didn’t mean what I said that day. You were saying all these things and I– I got angry, and I wasn’t thinking and I said something cruel. But that’s not how I feel about you. It never was.”

Matthew finally turns to face him, the look in his eyes feels like a slap, cold and clean and merciless. Gunwook actually takes half a step back, like his body recognises something his mind still can’t name.

“Is that all?” Matthew asks, and his voice is flat in a way that sounds anything but empty.

Gunwook blinks. “Uh…”

It comes out unsure, faltering. He hates how pathetic it sounds. He hates how unsure he feels. Matthew’s face doesn’t change. If anything, it seems to harden further. There’s a flicker of something in his expression – something sharp and raw and fleeting, like disappointment dressed up as indifference – but it vanishes almost as soon as it appears. His gaze cuts away from Gunwook like it’s too tiring to look at him anymore. Then he just walks past Gunwook into the kitchen. Like none of it matters. Like Gunwook hasn’t been sitting here all day trying not to throw up from the sick weight of guilt in his stomach.

“You should go,” Matthew says without turning around.

The words land with a dull thud in Gunwook’s chest. He doesn’t move, he can’t. He grips the hem of his jumper so tightly his knuckles go pale.

“Not until you tell me what’s really going on,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. There’s something thick in his throat. His ears feel hot.

He follows Matthew’s back into the kitchen. “I woke up here and you were gone. You won’t even look at me properly. Did something happen last night?”

Matthew opens the fridge and stares into it like it’s going to save him. He doesn’t speak for a long moment.

“You were piss drunk,” he says finally, like it should be obvious. “Of course you don’t remember anything.”

Gunwook flinches again, this time not from the volume but from the emptiness of Matthew’s voice. It’s not cruel. It’s worse; it’s completely void, but Gunwook knows. He knows something happened. Matthew’s never like this with him, not even when they’re fighting. Not even when they were screaming at each other that night, ugly words spilling out too fast to take back. That was still them. This isn’t. Gunwook follows him in, his heartbeat climbing up into his throat.

“Then tell me,” he says, voice low but shaking. “Did I say something? Do something? Why are you like this?”

The fridge slams shut with a hollow bang. Gunwook startles. Matthew’s jaw is set tight, his back a rigid line. For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

“I said it doesn’t matter,” he snaps.

“But it obviously does,” Gunwook fires back, frustration bubbling up like it’s been simmering under the surface all day. “You’re pissed at me, and it’s not just about what I said during the fight. You’re avoiding me. You’ve been avoiding me since I woke up here. You can’t even stand being in the same room with me.”

Matthew turns slowly, as if he’s forcing himself to. He rests both hands against the counter behind him, like he needs the support to stay standing.

“This,” he says, voice low, “is exactly why I didn’t want you to stay. You just don’t know when to leave things alone.”

Gunwook shakes his head. “I can’t leave it alone. Not when you’re like this. Not when I feel like I’ve lost you and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

Matthew looks at him for a long time, and in his silence, Gunwook sees everything he doesn’t say. His shoulders are tight with restraint. His mouth is a hard, thin line. There’s a flicker in his eyes – pain or rage or something deeper – and it almost cracks through, almost showing itself, but Matthew doesn’t break. He just exhales slowly through his nose.

“You didn’t lose me,” he spits. “You threw me away.”

Gunwook reels like he’s been punched. “What?”

“That day,” Matthew says, and now his voice is cruel, brittle and sharp and laced with venom he can’t hide anymore. “You said I was unlikable–” His voice hitches and he swallows it down, fists curling against the counter. “You didn’t just say something cruel, Gunwook. You said something true.”

“No,” Gunwook says, stomach lurching. “No, of course it isn’t, I didn’t mean it. I was angry and–”

“But you still said it,” Matthew cuts in. “Who even says such a thing in the heat of the moment? Maybe it’s something you’ve thought about me this whole time, you just didn’t realise it.”

“No, hyung, it’s not–”

Matthew laughs bitterly, wiping a hand down his face. “Gunwook, just– leave, please.”

“I didn’t come here to hurt you more,” he says, voice barely audible now. “I came here because I hate how we left things. Because I care about you. You’re my best friend.”

Matthew flinches. It’s the first time Gunwook’s ever seen someone flinch from that word.

“Best friend,” Matthew repeats like it’s a joke. “Right.”

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating.

Gunwook stares at him, heart pounding. “Why are you looking at me like that? What happened last night?”

Matthew won’t answer. Just turns away again, shoulders set, spine a taut line of tension.

Gunwook steps closer, too close. “Hyung,” he says, desperate now. “Please just talk to me.”

“I am talking to you,” Matthew says without turning. “You just don’t want to hear it.”

“I do,” Gunwook insists. “I want to make things right.”

“You can’t,” Matthew snaps, finally spinning around to face him. His voice is raw now, eyes shining with something unspoken. “It’s not fair that you get to stand there and not remember, while I–” He cuts himself off, voice breaking, shoulders drawing in like he’s bracing against a blow. “You should go.”

Gunwook doesn’t move. “What do you mean, ‘not remember’? Hyung, what happened last night?”

Matthew doesn’t look at him anymore. He can tell the elder is crying by the way his shoulders start to shake, and he begs and prays and pleads to the gods to make it all better, but the small sound of Matthew’s quiet sobbing and stuttered breaths is enough to entirely destroy his being.

“Please,” he begs. “I’m begging you, Gunwook. Just leave.”

Silence.

Gunwook wants to speak. Wants to scream. Wants to go back in time and make it so none of this ever happened, so Matthew never looked at him like this. Like he’s a stranger, or something unbearable.

“I just…” His voice cracks. “I just want us to be okay again.”

Matthew’s expression softens for a heartbeat – almost. There’s something painful there, something almost fond, but it dies before it fully surfaces.

“So do I,” he whispers. “But we’re not.”

He turns and walks away. Gunwook doesn’t stop him. He just stands there, surrounded by silence and the ghosts of a night he can’t remember, heart heavy with the feeling that he’s lost something he still doesn’t understand. 

Gunwook doesn’t remember leaving the apartment. One moment, Matthew is turning away from him like he’s nothing, like he’s never been anything, and the next, he’s standing outside in the corridor, staring at the closed door like it might open again. Like Matthew might take it all back, but the silence behind it is absolute. He lingers a moment longer, fingers curled into fists at his sides, heart hammering in his chest, not with anger, not even with shame anymore, just a hollow, helpless ache. Then he turns and walks.

The lift feels too slow, so he takes the stairs, needing movement, needing to burn through the crackling panic tightening every muscle in his body. By the time he hits the ground floor, his legs are shaking. The building feels too still, too quiet, like the whole world is holding its breath and waiting for him to admit he’s ruined everything.

Outside, the rain has stopped, but the air is thick with leftover dampness, the sky grey and heavy. Gunwook doesn’t know where he’s going. He just walks, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head low. His shoes slap against the pavement, too loud in the afternoon. He feels like he’s wearing someone else’s body; clumsy, off-balance, numb in places he didn’t know could go numb.

He walks until the city starts to blur. The streets are familiar, but they feel foreign now. A convenience store he and Matthew used to stop at after late-night study sessions. A bus stop where they sat in the summer, sweating in the heat, sharing an iced drink and laughing at something dumb one of them said. A narrow alleyway where Matthew once slipped on black ice, and Gunwook caught him mid-fall, the two of them collapsing in a pile of startled laughter. All these places feel like echoes now. Echoes of something bright and easy and warm that he’s managed to destroy without even knowing how. He stops at a small park tucked behind an apartment complex and sits heavily on a bench, elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his scalp.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

He wants to go back. Not just to this morning or last night, but all the way back to before the fight, before he said something unforgivable, before he knew that Matthew felt something more than friendship. Hell, he wanted to go back to the day he found out about Matthew going on a date with Jiwoong. Maybe then he’ll be supportive, maybe then he wouldn’t fuck things up beyond repair.

Or maybe it started even before that. Maybe this has been building for a long time, and Gunwook just refused to see it. He scrubs his hands over his face. His skin feels clammy, his mouth tastes like regret. He remembers the way Matthew looked at him, like just looking at him had physically hurt, like whatever Gunwook might say next could only make it worse, and it probably did. 

I didn’t mean it, Gunwook thinks to himself, but that doesn’t matter now. Matthew doesn’t believe him. He won’t even talk to him, won’t even look at him properly, and whatever happened last night… he doesn’t know. He’s too afraid to fill in the blanks. The way Matthew recoiled, the look in his eyes when he asked, “Is that all?” has haunted him all day. It’s still haunting him now.

He said something. Did something. Something Matthew isn’t willing to repeat, because maybe saying it out loud would break something for good. The worst part is, Gunwook doesn’t even trust himself not to have messed it up that badly. He stares down at his trainers, scuffed and wet from the night before. They feel like the only real thing tethering him to the ground.

Matthew is his best friend. Has been for years. His hyung. His anchor. The one person who’s always looked out for him, even when Gunwook was too stubborn or thoughtless to realise it. And now… he might have ruined that beyond repair.

What if there’s no going back?

The thought settles over him like a weight. He lets it, too tired to fight it anymore. He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens their messages. The last few are from him. Blurry texts from last night, half-formed thoughts, typos, a stupid voice memo he doesn’t even remember sending, and before that, silence. An argument left unfinished. He scrolls back, back to when things were easy. Back to when Matthew sent him pictures of his lunch and bad memes. When they stayed up texting about dumb TV shows or crammed for exams over video call. When Gunwook didn’t have to second guess every word, every glance, every breath.

How did it all fall apart so fast?

He presses the phone to his forehead and exhales slowly. If he could trade anything to take it back, he would. If he could just sit across from Matthew again without this wall between them – this awful, invisible thing neither of them knows how to name – he’d give anything for that, but he doesn’t even know what he's trying to fix anymore. All he knows is that Matthew's not going to make it easy, and maybe he doesn’t deserve easy. Maybe he doesn’t deserve forgiveness at all.

A pair of kids run past, shrieking with laughter, their trainers splashing through a puddle near the swing set. Gunwook watches them, detached, like he’s behind glass. He used to laugh like that with Matthew, used to say whatever came to mind, unfiltered, unafraid. Now every word feels like a landmine. He wonders what Matthew’s doing right now. If he’s pacing the apartment, furious. If he’s curled up on the sofa, trying to forget Gunwook ever existed. If he’s… God, for the briefest second, Gunwook lets himself think that maybe Matthew is hurting too. Not that he wants that, exactly. He just doesn’t want to be the only one who feels like the floor’s been pulled out from under him.

It’s selfish, and Gunwook knows it. Matthew has every right to be done with him. He warned him, he told him to leave, told him not to come back, told him there was nothing to fix, but Gunwook doesn’t know how to stop trying. He slumps back against the bench, looking up at the sky. The clouds haven’t moved. The whole day feels like it’s stuck in pause.

“Matthew hyung…” he whispers, voice cracking. The word tastes wrong in his mouth now, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

He wants to go back to the rooftop they used to sneak onto during summer nights, lying on the concrete and talking about nothing for hours. He wants to go back to the ramen shop down the street where they’d always argue over spice levels. He wants to go back to Matthew looking at him with warmth instead of hurt, trust instead of distance. He wants a do-over, but time doesn’t work like that, words can’t be unsaid, and whatever happened last night – whatever Gunwook did, whatever he said – there’s no way to erase it now.

The cold follows him as he walks aimlessly, clinging to the back of his neck and wrapping around his shoulders like punishment. He continues walking without direction, down streets he half-recognises, through alleys that smell of oil and wet concrete, past couples laughing outside cafes and groups of friends smoking and shivering in the spring chill. The city moves around him like it’s forgotten his name. His hands are deep in his pockets. He feels the shape of his phone against his thigh but doesn’t take it out. There’s no one to call. No one who’d want to hear from him.

It hits him somewhere near the river. He’s standing by the railing, watching the way the water breaks in slow ripples under the bridge, the wind biting at his cheeks. He feels hollow. Like something’s been scooped out of him and replaced with nothing but static. He’d always thought of himself as someone who could make things right if he just tried hard enough. If he apologised the right way, said the right words, but nothing he says touches the weight between him and Matthew now. It’s not just about what he said during the fight or what he doesn’t remember from the night before. It’s about everything. All of it.

He hurt Matthew. Not just with words. Not just with a thoughtless comment. He’s been hurting him for years , hasn’t he?

Gunwook swallows hard and presses his forehead against the cold metal of the railing. When he closes his eyes, memories flood in uninvited. Matthew’s laughter, wide and easy. The way he used to light up when Jiwoong texted him, how he used to wait outside Matthew’s classes with coffee, or how he always had spare gloves to lend. Gunwook had hated that, the way Jiwoong looked at Matthew like he was made of light and that Matthew let him. He sees it now for what it was. Not protectiveness but petty possessiveness.

He hadn’t even tried to hide his dislike. Not even when Matthew had asked him – begged him – to be nice. And then that day… Gunwook clenches his jaw. He doesn’t even remember anymore how it all happened. All he knows is that he didn’t ask questions, didn’t wait, just acted out of anger and impulsiveness and righteousness, like he was doing Matthew a favour. Turned out she was Jiwoong’s cousin. He still remembers the split lip. Jiwoong’s furious, stunned expression. The moment Matthew found out what happened. The way he looked at Gunwook like he didn’t know him anymore.

Everything had unravelled after that.

And he still thought he could be the one to make Matthew happy? He thought he’d be better off without Jiwoong, and now look at him. Look at Matthew. Look at where they are. Gunwook’s legs give out and he sinks onto the bench behind him. There’s no one around to see. He stares out at the water, his throat dry, eyes stinging. He can’t fix this, not really. Matthew’s never going to look at him the same way. The friendship they had is gone, and maybe that’s fair, maybe he never deserved it to begin with.

But–

Maybe there’s still something he can do. The thought creeps in quiet and unwelcome, but once it’s there, it sticks. Jiwoong.

Gunwook almost laughs out of sheer ridiculousness. He doesn’t even know where the guy lives, doesn’t have his number. They’ve never had a real conversation that didn’t involve tense silences or thinly veiled contempt. Jiwoong probably hates him. Rightfully so, but still… he’d been good to Matthew. Gunwook sees that now, in all the places he never wanted to look. The way Matthew had held onto Jiwoong like he held all the warmth in the world. The way he’d spoken about him with a softness that was rare. The way his smile used to reach his eyes more often back then.

Gunwook hadn’t just ruined their relationship. He’d ruined Matthew . Took the one person who made him feel loved and safe, and shoved him out of the picture like he had the right. He doesn’t know how to make that right, doesn’t even know if it’s possible, but he has to try. Even if it makes him feel sick. Even if Jiwoong slams a door in his face. Even if Matthew never finds out about it.

Maybe he deserves to be happy. Even if it’s not with me.

The words come to him like a whisper, and he hates them, because they make his stomach churn and his throat close up, but they’re true, and they’re the first selfless thing Gunwook has thought of in weeks. He stands up slowly, legs stiff from the cold. The wind’s picking up now, and he doesn’t have a coat, but he doesn’t care. He pulls out his phone. He figures Hanbin would be kind enough to let him get Jiwoong’d number. Gunwook scrolls through his contacts, thumb hovering uncertainly, then finally lands on Hanbin. If anyone might understand, even a little, it’s him. He hesitates for a moment before typing out a message:

hyung do you have jiwoong’s number?
i need to talk to him
it’s important

He sends it before he can change his mind, screen trembling in his grip. The response comes quicker than he wanted it to.

hanbin hyung

uhh you okay?
what do you need jiwoong’s number for?

please hyung
i don’t have time for questions
just
i need his number please?

Hanbin replies with a final, fine, and sends him Jiwoong’s contact. The number taunts him in his face, his thumb hovering over the number but not having enough courage to do anything with it. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and starts walking again, heart pounding like it’s trying to outrun him. Ignoring Jiwoong’s number feels like it’s searing the side of his skin through his pocket. He fishes his phone back out and saves it, then immediately regrets doing so, heart stuttering like he’s just committed a crime. His thumb hovers over the contact, then pulls back. Then hovers again.

He can’t bring himself to press “message”. The idea had seemed so clear earlier; do the right thing, apologise, give Matthew something good back, but now that the number is real, the weight of it settles in his chest. This isn’t just about a text. It’s everything it represents. A name that’s become synonymous with guilt. A face he only ever saw in anger or jealousy. A boy he treated like a threat because he was too proud, too selfish, too blind to see what he was really doing. He sighs and decides to walk back to his dorm, heavy and dejected.

What is he even supposed to say?

hey, sorry I beat the shit out of you because I thought you were cheating on matthew even though you weren’t, and also sorry for every time I looked at you like you didn’t belong? also can you maybe take him back because I don’t know how to love him the way he deserves to be loved?

He scoffs aloud at the ridiculousness of it– of himself. Even if Jiwoong did pick up or reply, what would come of it? He probably changed numbers ages ago, or blocked Gunwook already, preemptively – not that he’d have Gunwook’s number anyway. Or maybe he’ll read the message, laugh, and toss his phone into the river. Honestly? Gunwook wouldn’t blame him. 

By the time he reaches his dorm, he flops onto his bed like his body had lost all its bones and scrolls to the contact again, opening the message window. It stares back at him, blank and waiting. The cursor blinks. So does he. He tries typing something, anything, but he comes up with nothing..

hi

Backspace.

it’s gunwook

Delete.

i know i’m the last person you want to hear from but–

No. He deletes the entire thing and locks his phone with a frustrated breath. His hands are shaking a little. He’s not sure if it’s from the cold or something else. What is he so afraid of? Maybe it’s that texting Jiwoong makes everything too real. That by reaching out, he’s not just acknowledging what he did, he’s also accepting that there’s no undoing it. No magical reset button, no version of this where things go back to normal. Not with Matthew. Not with Jiwoong. Not with himself. It means admitting he ruined something irreparable. That he hurt people – good people – not out of malice, but out of some childish need to control the narrative of Matthew’s life, like he knew better, like he could protect him by deciding who he should and shouldn’t love.

He rubs a hand over his face. Every second that ticks by feels heavier. The streets outside are quiet now. The cafes are closing. The students are filtering home. Gunwook stays where he is, still and silent, letting the silence stretch between him and the phone in his lap. There’s a dull ache in his chest that won’t go away. It’s not dramatic like guilt in movies. It’s low and persistent, like a bad tooth or a bruise that’s been there too long. He thinks about Matthew’s face earlier, the distance in his eyes, the way his voice sounded like he’d finally stopped hoping for anything from Gunwook, like he’d given up.

And really… what has he ever given Matthew, besides reasons to regret knowing him? Maybe this is the only thing he can offer now. A single, quiet act of reparation. One small effort to take responsibility. He unlocks his phone again and stares at the chat room with Jiwoong, because if there’s even the smallest chance that Jiwoong could forgive him enough to come back into Matthew’s life and make it all better again, then Gunwook is going to chase it, no matter how far he has to go. Even if it kills him a little.

hey jiwoong
jiwoong hyung, sorry
this is gunwook
can we talk?

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook feels stupid. He’s been standing in front of the building for nearly thirty minutes, hood up, hands stuffed deep in his pockets like that’ll make him invisible. A few people have come and gone, some students, a middle-aged woman walking a tiny dog in a pink jumper, a man dragging a suitcase who gave Gunwook a suspicious once-over. No one’s said anything, but the longer he lingers, the more out of place he feels. This part of town is quieter than he remembers but tonight the silence feels suffocating. The lobby is warm and softly lit through the glass, a stark contrast to the cold wind biting at his fingers. 

When the front door of the apartment building finally slides open, Gunwook nearly jumps. Jiwoong steps out of the lobby and peeks out at him, dressed in loose black trousers and a faded grey hoodie, his hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. He stops when he sees Gunwook. No words, no expression, just a quiet, unreadable pause. Gunwook’s heart thuds in his chest, loud enough to drown out the silence. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. What is he even supposed to say? Hey, it’s been a long time. Sorry I rearranged your face a few weeks ago. Jiwoong just looks at him for a beat longer, then turns around without a word and walks back toward the lift.

It takes Gunwook a second to realise he’s meant to follow.

The ride up is excruciating. Jiwoong stands on the other side of the lift, arms folded, gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the door. Gunwook shuffles awkwardly, fingers twitching at his sides. The hum of the lift is the only sound between them. He catches a glimpse of Jiwoong’s reflection in the brushed steel walls, still calm, still unreadable. There’s no tension in his body, no anger either, but that only makes it worse somehow. It’s the indifference that burns. Like Gunwook doesn’t even warrant being hated anymore.

When they step out on the seventh floor, Jiwoong leads the way down the hall, unlocking his apartment with smooth, practiced ease. He pushes the door open and gestures inside, still silent, still giving Gunwook nothing. The place smells faintly like clean laundry and citrus shampoo. It’s tidy, not in a cold, impersonal way, but lived-in. Familiar. There’s a pair of house slippers by the entrance, a canvas bag hanging on the back of a chair, a mug half-full of what looks like lukewarm tea on the coffee table. Gunwook hovers by the door, unsure whether he’s supposed to come in or just say what he came to say and leave.

Jiwoong walks past him, heads straight for the kitchen, and sets the kettle on without comment. The click of the switch feels absurdly loud. Gunwook finally steps inside, closing the door softly behind him. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move past the threshold. The air is heavy, thick with everything unspoken. Jiwoong opens a cupboard, pulls out a second mug, drops in a teabag. Still hasn’t said a word.

Gunwook clears his throat. “I, uh… I didn’t mean to just message you out of the blue like this.”

Jiwoong doesn’t look at him, just shrugs one shoulder. “But you did.”

That lands heavier than expected. Gunwook swallows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He feels small in here, smaller than he thought he would. Jiwoong’s apartment is bigger than he expected; open, quiet, with high ceilings and soft lighting that pools gently across clean hardwood floors. The space is tastefully minimalist, but not cold; everything feels deliberate, lived-in, effortlessly neat in a way Gunwook never managed even on his best days. There’s a quiet elegance to it, like Jiwoong curated every corner of his life for peace. Gunwook, by contrast, feels like chaos with a pulse. Like noise dropped into a room made for silence. He’s never felt more out of place, more aware of the way his presence throws off the balance. Jiwoong sets the two mugs down, finally turns to face him fully. He doesn’t smile but doesn’t frown either, he just studies Gunwook for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“You coming in or are you just gonna stand there?” he asks, voice quiet, even. Again neither warm, nor cold. Just… neutral.

Gunwook nods stiffly, stepping further inside. His throat is dry. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest. He takes the seat Jiwoong gestures toward, still bracing himself for the inevitable conversation, but for now, they sit in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, surrounded by the quiet hum of electricity and all the history neither of them wants to name.

Gunwook clears his throat, gripping the mug between both hands as Jiwoong pours the boiled water into it like it’ll ground him. The silence stretches too long, taut and unbearable. He forces a shaky smile. “Your place is… nice,” he says, glancing around for something to focus on that isn’t Jiwoong’s face. “Bigger than I thought it’d be.”

Jiwoong doesn’t look up. Just hums, a low, noncommittal sound as he pours water into his own mug. “Mm.”

Gunwook shifts on the kitchen stool, the leather squeaking under him. “You, uh… live alone?”

“Yeah,” Jiwoong says shortly, eyes still fixed on his tea like it holds more interest than anything Gunwook could offer.

“Must be nice,” Gunwook continues, trying not to wince at how his voice wavers. “Quiet. Peaceful.”

“It is.” The response is clipped, almost mechanical.

Gunwook lets out a soft, nervous laugh, hoping it comes off casual. “You decorate it yourself?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at the tastefully arranged bookshelves and the framed prints on the wall.

Jiwoong finally looks at him then, not with interest but something closer to mild curiosity. “Mostly.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Gunwook takes a small sip from his mug just to keep from blurting something else out. He’s already regretting every word. Every tick of the wall clock above the kitchen doorway echoes like a drumbeat in his head, a countdown to the moment he either speaks or completely unravels. Jiwoong doesn’t say a word, just stands across from him, one hand lifting his mug to his lips and the other resting on the kitchen island like he has all the time in the world. His face is unreadable, but his eyes – sharp and watchful – don’t miss a thing. Gunwook knows he’s being studied.

“I didn’t come here to talk about your apartment,” Gunwook blurts, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, eyes fixed on a faint stain in the island between them. “I mean. It is nice. But that’s not why I’m here.”

He risks a glance up. Jiwoong arches a brow, taking a slow sip of his tea without breaking eye contact. “Really? I would have never guessed,” he says mildly, as though Gunwook’s presence in his apartment is still a mystery. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, more like faint amusement, as if he’s enjoying how uncomfortable Gunwook is.

“No,” Gunwook mutters, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. He presses the mug into his knee, trying to keep still. “I, um. I came to apologise.”

Jiwoong’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes now. Something that says finally. Still, he doesn’t speak and nods slightly, encouraging him to continue, watching Gunwook squirm like he deserves to. He exhales shakily. 

“What I did back then – what I said, what I assumed – it was wrong. It was so, so fucking wrong. I thought…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “No, there’s no excuse. I thought I was protecting Matthew hyung, but I wasn’t. I was just being a dick. I didn’t like you, and I didn’t even try to hide it, and that’s–” He breaks off, frustration rising. “That’s on me. All of it.”

Still, Jiwoong says nothing. He just sips his tea, his expression unreadable but faintly amused, like he’s watching someone fumble through a school presentation. Gunwook swallows, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck.

“And the thing with your cousin… I didn’t know she was your cousin. I didn’t even ask. I just… I saw you guys, and I ran with it, and you got hurt. Badly.” Gunwook’s voice lowers. “I can’t take that back, but I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, Jiwoong hyung.”

For a moment, Jiwoong says nothing. He just comes around the island and sits one stool away, tea balanced in one hand, and studies Gunwook with that same unreadable expression. Gunwook shifts under the weight of it, half-expecting a sarcastic remark, a cold dismissal, or even a demand that he leave, but instead, Jiwoong exhales quietly, sets his mug down on the counter, and nods once.

“Okay,” he says simply.

Gunwook blinks. “Okay?”

“I accept your apology.” Jiwoong shrugs a little, eyes steady. “You were a prick, yeah. But it’s been a while. I moved on from it a long time ago. You’re the one who’s been dragging it behind you like a corpse.”

Gunwook feels something loosen in his chest, something he didn’t realise he’d been holding that tightly. Relief mixes with a pang of guilt that Jiwoong had to move on alone, while he was busy pretending it had never happened. He nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Thanks.”

Jiwoong’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Is that all?”

The question hits harder than it should. Gunwook stiffens, the answer hovering just behind his teeth. He could lie. Say yes. Say that’s all he came here for; an overdue apology and nothing more, but the words don’t come. Instead, his fingers twitch against the side of the mug, and he looks away, jaw tight, because the truth is, it’s not all. He didn’t come here just to apologise. Not really. The real reason is something much harder to admit. Something that feels almost shameful in the face of Jiwoong’s calm composure. Gunwook shifts again, struggling to find the words, to find the right words. He came here hoping that if Jiwoong could forgive him, and maybe could give Matthew something back. Maybe Matthew could get a little piece of happiness again.

The longer he hesitates, the more pathetic the request feels. What right does he have to ask Jiwoong to do anything for Matthew, especially after what he did to him? Isn’t it enough that Jiwoong even let him in the door? His chest tightens, fingers curling around his knees. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t know if he has the courage to ask, but something twists in his gut, forcing him to do it. Not when Matthew’s face still won’t leave his mind. Not when the memory of that flat, tired look in his eyes still sits in Gunwook’s chest like a bruise.

He exhales shakily, lifting his gaze to meet Jiwoong’s. “There is… something else.”

Jiwoong raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak. Just waits, hands loosely clasped between his knees, as if he’s watching a show that hasn’t quite gotten interesting yet.

Gunwook swallows. “It’s about Matthew hyung.”

That gets a reaction. Jiwoong’s expression flickers and it’s subtle, but Gunwook catches it. His lips press together slightly. “What about him?”

“I know it’s not really my place to say anything,” Gunwook starts, already fumbling over his words, “And I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear this from, but… I think–” he hesitates, rubs a hand over his jaw. “I think you should give him another chance.”

Jiwoong blinks. For the first time since Gunwook arrived, he looks genuinely caught off-guard. “What?”

Gunwook powers through, heart hammering now. “He still cares about you. I know you two broke up because of what I did, and I don’t expect you to forget what I did and how I behaved towards you just because I apologised. But… Matthew hyung didn’t deserve to lose you. It wasn’t his fault. He kept asking me to be nicer to you, he– he defended you, even when I didn’t listen. And then I went and ruined everything.”

There’s a pause. Jiwoong’s brows knit slightly, like he’s trying to piece together if this is a joke. “You’re telling me to get back together with your best friend.”

“I’m telling you he doesn’t deserve to be miserable because of me,” Gunwook says, more quietly this time. “I hurt both of you. And I get it now, like, really get it. I was selfish and jealous and possessive, and I didn’t even understand why back then. But you didn’t do anything wrong. I just… hated the idea of someone else making him happy.”

The admission hangs in the room like a confession in a church, and Gunwook doesn’t dare look up at Jiwoong, not yet. His pulse rings in his ears. “But it wasn’t your fault. Or his. You two were good together. And I know I might be too late saying this now, but… if there’s even a small chance you could talk to him… I think you should. For his sake.”

Jiwoong doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches out, tense and unreadable, and Gunwook finally forces himself to look up. Jiwoong is still watching him, frowning now. Not angrily, but with something like disbelief. He looks like he doesn’t quite know what to make of any of this.

“I know I’ve done enough damage,” Gunwook says, voice softening again. “But I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to fix it. And I know I can’t undo everything, but if there’s even a small way to give something back to him, I want to try.”

Another beat of silence. Jiwoong leans back slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s searching Gunwook’s face for the catch. “You really care about him, huh?”

Gunwook lets out a breath, almost a laugh, but it’s too bitter to be funny. “Yeah. I do.”

The silence between them stretches unbearably long, and Gunwook finds himself hyper aware of everything; his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, the faint hum of the fridge, the distant sound of traffic beyond the windows. He wishes Jiwoong would say something, even a scoff, a laugh, a “you’re insane”, but Jiwoong just sits there, expressionless, and Gunwook feels the pressure in his chest coil tighter with every passing second.

He risks a glance. Jiwoong hasn’t moved much, but his gaze is fixed on Gunwook like he’s still trying to make sense of what just happened. His brow is faintly furrowed, not in anger exactly, but in something that looks like surprise stitched together with wariness. Gunwook wonders if Jiwoong even believes him, and wonders if he’s already written it off as some guilt-ridden performance. 

Still, the longer Jiwoong stays quiet, the more doubt creeps in. Gunwook shifts slightly, hating how exposed he feels under that calm, analytical stare. The room is too neat, too quiet, too much. He feels like a stain on clean fabric, like he shouldn’t be here at all, but he can’t take it back now. He meant what he said – every bit of it – even if it makes him look pathetic.

He runs a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. “I know you don’t owe me anything. You probably think I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have. I just… couldn’t keep doing nothing. Not after everything.”

He doesn’t know what he expects, maybe a retort, a sigh, a shrug. Maybe for Jiwoong to say something sharp, something coolly dismissive, but there’s still nothing. Just the quiet rhythm of breathing, Jiwoong’s eyes on him like a weight he can’t shrug off. Gunwook bites the inside of his cheek, the anxiety in his gut churning so badly he almost regrets coming here at all. Not because he doesn’t mean it, but because Jiwoong’s silence feels so final, so immune to whatever olive branch he’s trying to extend. It’s like tossing a match into water. Maybe he should’ve written it all in a text instead. Maybe Jiwoong is just sitting here out of politeness, waiting for him to give up and leave.

Still, he doesn’t leave. He stays rooted to the spot, heart thudding against his ribs like it’s trying to crawl out. Maybe this is what taking accountability really looks like; sitting in the discomfort, letting someone look at you and decide whether or not you’re worth forgiving. Maybe it’s about offering something without knowing if it’ll be accepted. For the first time in a long time, Gunwook is willing to sit in that uncertainty, even if it burns, and beneath the nerves, beneath the self-loathing, there’s still that fragile hope. Hope that Jiwoong might see what he means. That maybe he’s not too late. That maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined everything beyond repair.

Then, finally, Jiwoong exhales. It’s soft, almost inaudible, but to Gunwook it’s eruptive. He watches as Jiwoong leans back in his seat slightly, stretching his legs out like he’s just come to the end of some internal decision-making process. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost resigned. 

“You’re a good kid, Gunwook,” he says, tone deliberately even. “You’re just… stupid.”

The words hit harder than Gunwook expects. Not because they’re mean – they aren’t, not really – but because they’re true. Raw and unvarnished in a way that leaves no room for denial. For a second, Gunwook stares at him, mouth parting on reflex, some protest rising in his throat, but it dies there. What could he possibly say to refute it? That he’s not a kid? That he’s not stupid? All evidence points to the contrary. So instead, he just swallows hard and lowers his gaze.

“I deserve that,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

A breath of something that could almost be laughter slips from Jiwoong’s mouth, quiet and dry. “Yeah,” he says, not unkindly. “You kind of do.”

Gunwook lets himself sit with that. The honesty of it. The strange relief of not being let off the hook too easily. Jiwoong’s not trying to make him feel better, and somehow that helps. It grounds him. It reminds him that this isn’t about getting comfort or absolution, it’s about owning what he did, no matter how long it takes to make up for it. If that’s even possible.

Jiwoong stands slowly, stretching his arms behind him with a faint sigh, as if the conversation has taken something physical from him. The emotional labour, the old wounds, the sheer awkwardness of having Gunwook sitting here in his living room after everything that happened… It can't be easy. Gunwook watches him carefully, expecting the subtle cue that it’s time to leave. The curt nod toward the door, the way people usually end things when they’ve had enough. But Jiwoong surprises him.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, gaze fixed on some point near the wall, avoiding Gunwook’s eyes.

It takes a moment to register. Gunwook stares at him, unsure if he heard correctly. When the meaning settles in, something tight in his chest loosens, just a little. He straightens in his seat, voice cautious. “You will?”

“I said I’ll think about it.” Jiwoong’s eyes flick over to him, sharp and clear. “I don’t think I’m even in a place to approach him. I, too, really hurt him, you know?”

Gunwook exhales, nodding, trying not to let the quiet surge of hope show too clearly on his face. “That’s… Not more than me, probably.”

Jiwoong lifts an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking faintly. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

“Yeah…”

The words linger longer than they should. They settle in Gunwook’s chest like a quiet reprimand. He nods again, a little slower this time, and rises from his seat. There’s nothing more to say. He’s said what he came here to say, and Jiwoong has heard him. That’s more than he could have asked for when he was pacing outside the apartment, debating whether to even go through with it.

Without a word, Jiwoong walks with him to the door. There’s no dramatic parting, no lingering pause that begs for something else to be said. Just the quiet ritual of seeing someone out. Gunwook steps into the hallway, pausing just long enough to glance back.

“Thanks,” he says softly. It carries a lot more than just gratitude for the tea or the conversation. It’s thanks for not slamming the door in his face, for listening at all, for maybe being willing to do this one thing for Matthew.

Jiwoong gives a small nod, hand on the door. “Don’t do anything else stupid on the way home.”

There’s no bite to it, just tired humour, but Gunwook feels the weight behind the words anyway. He nods once, not trusting himself to speak again without his voice shaking, and starts down the corridor. The door closes behind him with a soft, definitive click. As he walks toward the elevator, he feels something he hasn’t in days. Not peace, exactly, but relief. Something like air returning to lungs that have been starved too long. Nothing is fixed yet, but at least now, the pieces aren’t scattered so far apart that they can’t be picked up.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

It’s a quiet evening, the kind that stretches thin and slow. The television hums softly in the background, casting flickering light against the walls of Matthew’s flat, but he isn’t really watching. The sitcom laugh track feels jarring against the hush of the room, too loud in contrast to his own thoughts. He sits curled into the corner of the sofa, one hand loosely cradling a half-full mug of tea gone cold, eyes drifting across the screen without really seeing. It's been like this more often lately, his apartment too silent, his mind too loud.

He almost doesn’t hear the knock at first. It comes lightly, a few firm raps on the door, and then quiet. His brow furrows. He isn’t expecting anyone. For a moment he just stares toward the hallway, wondering if he imagined it. The knock comes again, just as calm, just as certain and definitely real. He sets his mug down and rises slowly, a strange flutter starting in his chest. No one ever just shows up.

When he opens the door, he finds Jiwoong standing there. Neatly dressed, composed as ever, a neutral expression on his face that doesn’t give anything away. There’s a soft smile, no tension either, and the steady gaze of someone who’s come here with a reason. Matthew’s breath catches slightly, surprise washing through him. It’s been more than a month since they last saw each other, and the sight of Jiwoong now, framed by the doorway and the soft glow of the hallway light, knocks the wind out of him more than he wants to admit.

For a few seconds, they just stare at each other. Matthew’s fingers tighten slightly on the doorknob, uncertainty darting across his face. Jiwoong doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to say that something’s changed. Still, Matthew’s voice feels stuck in his throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. “Jiwoon hyung.”

Jiwoong nods once, an almost imperceptible motion. “Hi.”

It’s such a simple word, but it echoes strangely in Matthew’s chest. He swallows, glancing past Jiwoong like he expects someone else to be there – Gunwook, maybe, even though he refuses to admit it – but it’s just Jiwoong. Calm, still, and stable. Matthew steps back slowly, holding the door open. “Come in,” he says, though it sounds more like a question.

Jiwoong steps inside without hesitation, toes off his shoes neatly by the door. He doesn’t speak right away, just takes in the apartment with quiet familiarity, like cataloguing what’s changed and what hasn’t. Matthew trails behind him, heart beating a little too fast, unsure whether this is something good or something terrible. He still doesn’t know why Jiwoong is here, and that makes it worse.

The silence stretches as Jiwoong walks toward the living room, eyes flicking to the discarded blanket on the sofa, the half-watched show still running in the background. He doesn’t comment on any of it. Just stands there, like he’s waiting for something. Matthew joins him slowly, arms crossed over his chest now, protective. “Um,” he says, voice cautious. “Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

Jiwoong looks at him properly then. And for a brief second, Matthew thinks he sees something flicker in those dark eyes – something like hesitation, maybe even guilt – but it’s gone too quickly to be sure. “No, I just came to see you,” Jiwoong says quietly.

Matthew blinks, caught off-guard. The words hang in the air between them, heavier than they should be. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. He just stares, pulse thudding in his ears. And just like that, the silence becomes harder to bear than anything else. Jiwoong shifts on his feet, his calm exterior flickering at the edges. 

“I was nearby,” he says, though they both know it’s a flimsy excuse. The kind you say when you’ve rehearsed the moment a hundred times in your head but now that it’s real, the words feel too big in your mouth. Matthew lets out a quiet breath, still watching him, unsure whether he wants to close the distance or widen it. 

“You came all this way just to say hi?” he asks, not unkind, but not quite believing it either.

Jiwoong’s mouth twitches at that, not a smile, exactly, but close. “Not just that,” he admits. He glances around the room again, maybe to avoid meeting Matthew’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About… everything.” His voice dips lower on the last word, like even saying it aloud brings weight he can’t quite carry. Matthew finally moves, walking past him toward the kitchen just to have something to do with his hands. He opens the fridge, then closes it again without taking anything out. 

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” he says, back still turned. His voice is steadier than he feels. “Because ‘everything’ covers a lot of ground.”

Jiwoong doesn’t dance around it for long. After the silence settles once more between them and Matthew continues to avoid his eyes, he exhales slowly and gets to the point. “I ran into Gunwook,” he says, voice steady but cautious, like he’s gauging the weight of the words as they land. “Or, well. He found me, actually.” 

That admission hangs in the air, brittle and sharp, and Matthew stills completely, his shoulders tensing even though he tries to hide it. Matthew looks away, toward the muted TV screen where a sitcom laugh track rolls over a scene he isn’t watching. He doesn’t want to react, he doesn't want Jiwoong to see that the name alone is enough to stir something restless in him. 

“Oh,” he says finally, like it means nothing. Like it’s just small talk. But his fingers curl slightly around the edge of the counter. “Okay.”

Jiwoong doesn’t press him on the lack of reaction. He just nods slowly and moves to lean against the wall, arms folded. “He apologised,” he says simply. “For what happened between me and you. For everything, really.” His tone is even, not trying to convince, not pleading, just laying facts out one at a time. “I didn’t expect it. Not from him.”

Matthew lets out a breath that’s closer to a scoff than a sigh. He’s quiet for a moment, then asks, without looking at him, “Did he mean it?” The words come out more bitter than he intends, but he doesn’t take them back. He’s not sure he knows how to believe in Gunwook’s sincerity anymore.

“Yeah,” Jiwoong says after a beat. “I think he did. He was… nervous. I’ve never seen him like that.” There’s a faint edge of amusement in his voice now, like the memory of Gunwook being visibly uncomfortable is still playing in his head. “Didn’t even know how to make small talk. Just stood there shifting his weight like he thought I’d punch him in the face.”

The mental image makes Matthew wince, but he doesn’t comment on it. He feels like he’s balancing on a wire, like any wrong step will send the conversation toppling into places he’s not ready to go. “So you forgave him?” he asks finally, though he isn’t sure why it matters. Maybe he just wants to know if Gunwook got off easy.

“I did,” Jiwoong replies. “But… that wasn’t really the point of him being there. He didn’t come just to apologise to me, not really.” He straightens slightly, eyes fixed on Matthew now. “He asked me to talk to you.”

Matthew’s head jerks up at that, finally looking at him properly. “What?” he says, the word sharp and brittle. “He– why?” He sounds more caught off guard than angry, but the line between the two is thin and wavering.

“He said he wanted to give you something good again,” Jiwoong replies, watching Matthew closely. “Said you’ve been through enough. That you deserved someone who cared about you. Someone who wouldn’t hurt you like he did.” There’s a strange note in Jiwoong’s voice as he repeats it, part disbelief, part something softer. “It was… kind of a mess, honestly. But he meant it.”

Matthew doesn’t speak. He just stands there, every word echoing somewhere deeper than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Gunwook had gone so far, not for himself, but for Matthew, and he doesn’t know what to do with the ache it leaves behind.

Matthew feels like he’s sinking. Jiwoong’s words swirl around in his head long after they’re spoken, but it’s not the apology that catches on the edges of his thoughts, it’s the implication beneath it. That Gunwook had come all this way, awkward and nervous and genuine, just to shove Matthew back into someone else’s arms. That he’d gone through the trouble of seeking out Jiwoong not because he was jealous or conflicted or wanted to fix something between them, but because he wanted to do right by Matthew. It should be noble, it should feel like kindness, but instead, it hurts.

Because it means Gunwook didn’t feel anything; he didn’t feel the weight of the kiss or the crackling tension of that awful, drunken night. Not even the sharp silence that followed. He just forgot it all, filed it away with whatever haze he’d drowned himself in. Matthew had spent days trying not to think about it, failing miserably. Replaying the moment on loop like he could edit out the ending, wondering if it had meant something, anything, but it hadn’t. Not to Gunwook. That truth lands heavier than any apology could.

Now here Jiwoong is, calm and collected, offering him the very thing he thought he wanted; comfort, familiarity, someone who has always been good to him. Someone who’s never made him feel like a burden or a mistake. Matthew should feel relieved, hell, he should feel grateful, but all he can think about is that Gunwook pushed him in Jiwoong’s direction like it was some sort of solution. He’d held that kiss like it was glass, fragile and sharp in his hands, while Gunwook had let it slip through his fingers without even noticing. He knows he was the one who pushed Gunwook away, but somewhere deep inside his heart, he had wished Gunwook would magically remember that night and whisk him away, like some sort of fairy tale. This isn’t a fairy tale, however. This is real life.

He doesn’t know what hurts more, the fact that Gunwook doesn’t remember, or the idea that even if he did, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Maybe it had only ever mattered to him. Maybe he was just foolish enough to think there was something under the surface that wasn’t really there. Or worse, maybe there was, and Gunwook was too determined to stamp it out before it could take shape. Matthew clenches his jaw and looks away from Jiwoong, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes.

He hates that he’s still hoping. Even now, even after everything. Some part of him is still waiting for Gunwook to burst in, to take it all back, to say it did mean something, that he was scared, not indifferent, but that part is quieter now, beaten down by the echo of Gunwook’s silence, by the way he chose to apologise from afar instead of facing him again. Maybe that’s all the answer Matthew needs. Maybe this is what closure looks like, someone else picking up the pieces because the one who broke them can’t bear to touch them anymore.

Matthew forces a smile, but something inside him turns over painfully. It’s a quiet twist of the gut, the sort that doesn’t show on his face but leaves an ache blooming somewhere behind his ribs. He hears himself say, “That’s nice of him,” in a voice that feels far away, like someone else is speaking for him. Hollow, a mimicry of gratitude. He doesn’t meet Jiwoong’s eyes.

He knows Jiwoong hears the emptiness anyway. The elder’s gaze lingers, quiet and searching, and the pause that follows says more than anything. He’s not the kind of person to push, not unless he has to, but Matthew knows that look, knows Jiwoong’s patience is just another way of giving people room to trip over their own silence.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Jiwoong says, watching him carefully.

Matthew shakes his head. “I’m not.” 

The words fall flat between them, bare and unadorned. He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t explain how it all makes too much sense now. How Gunwook's awkward tension the morning after had been guilt, not confusion. Or how the sudden distance had felt less like rejection and more like someone quietly shutting a door they didn’t want to admit had ever been opened.

Jiwoong nods slowly, thoughtful. “Did something happen?” he asks, voice gentle but pointed. “Before he came to see me, I mean.”

Matthew hesitates. Just for a second. Long enough that he knows Jiwoong sees it, but he pastes another smile onto his face, small and composed. “No,” he lies.

He doesn’t know why he said it. Maybe it’s easier. Maybe he doesn’t want to drag the kiss into the light, doesn’t want to give it a name, doesn’t want Jiwoong to look at him differently. Maybe he’s still protecting Gunwook, even now. Or maybe it’s himself he’s trying to protect… From pity, from judgement, from the risk of hearing Jiwoong tell him that it meant nothing after all. Jiwoong tilts his head slightly, studying him again like he’s trying to read a language written in tension and forced ease. 

“Okay,” he says after a moment. He doesn’t press, but his eyes narrow just a little, like he knows there’s something missing and is choosing not to call it out.

Matthew suddenly feels tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that sinks into the bones and stays there. A weariness that comes from pretending too long, from holding things in that were never meant to be carried alone.

He walks a few steps away, pretending to check the kettle even though he has no intention of making tea. It’s just something to do with his hands. Something to stop him from shaking. “So he really asked you to come?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.

Jiwoong nods. “Yeah. Said you deserved better than what you’ve been getting from him. That he messed everything up.”

Matthew lets out a soft, humourless breath. That sounds like Gunwook. The guilt, the grand gestures, the way he always thinks the fix is about undoing damage instead of actually sitting in it. He probably thought sending Jiwoong was some kind of kindness. A way to patch things up, restore some old version of Matthew that didn’t ache when he heard Gunwook’s name.

“And you just… came?” Matthew asks, still not looking at him.

Jiwoong leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed. “I didn’t come for him,” he says simply. “I came for you.”

That makes Matthew pause. He turns, finally looking at Jiwoong properly, and something in his chest tightens because that’s the kind of thing Jiwoong always says easily, and it’s direct and sincere but it still feels heavy in the air, like it demands more than Matthew is ready to give. He nods again, slow, unsure. 

“Thanks,” he says softly, and this time it’s not hollow. Just hesitant and guarded. He doesn’t know what he’s thanking him for – showing up, not asking questions, still caring? – but it’s the only word he can offer right now.

Jiwoong’s expression softens just a little, but he doesn’t push further. He doesn’t ask why Matthew lied, doesn’t ask what really happened between him and Gunwook. He just stays where he is, quiet and steady, like he’s waiting for Matthew to decide how much he wants to give, and Matthew, still reeling from everything unspoken, isn’t ready to give any more. At least not yet. He doesn’t say anything else, watching the steam curl from the top of his untouched mug and lets the silence hang between them. Jiwoong, ever patient, doesn’t push, just watches him with the same calm composure he always has, and then, gently, he speaks. 

“His apology felt real,” he says, voice low but certain. “A little awkward, sure. But it wasn’t fake. You could tell he meant it. It’s not easy for someone like Gunwook to swallow his pride like that and come clean.”

Matthew presses his lips together, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. He doesn’t doubt the sincerity of the apology. Gunwook, for all his flaws, has never really known how to lie when it matters, but the problem wasn’t just the apology or what led to it. Jiwoong just doesn’t understand – can’t understand – because he wasn’t there for what came after.

“Don’t feel like you have to keep being angry at him on my behalf,” Jiwoong adds, voice quieter now. “It’s not a burden I want you to carry.”

Matthew looks up at that, eyes meeting Jiwoong’s. There’s something kind in his expression, something genuine and understanding, but it also stings in a way Matthew can’t explain. He’s not angry at Gunwoon on behalf of Jiwoong, or at least not anymore. He was, once, but that rage has long since burned out, reduced to nothing but ash. What remains now has nothing to do with Jiwoong at all.

He opens his mouth, considers explaining. Telling Jiwoong that the fight, the breakup, the bruises… those weren’t the end of it, that after Jiwoong was gone, things didn’t settle, they spiralled. Gunwook pushed, and pushed, and pushed. And then stumbled into places that Matthew wishes he could forget. Places like that night by his front door, that kiss that should never have happened. The messy, aching fallout of something neither of them were ready to name, but he doesn’t say any of it.

Instead, Matthew forces a faint smile and says, “Gunwook’s always been like that. Earnest. Stupid. Reckless.”

Jiwoong huffs a soft laugh at that. “Yeah. He really is.” His tone isn’t mocking, if anything, it’s almost fond. Like he recognises the same stubborn loyalty in Gunwook that once made him weary. “But maybe he’s still growing. We all are, I guess.”

Matthew exhales slowly, feeling something loosen in his chest. Jiwoong means well. He always has. And he’s not wrong, people do grow. Maybe Gunwook is trying, but the thought brings no comfort. If anything, it deepens the ache because Gunwook trying to grow now doesn’t erase what’s already broken. Doesn’t take back the hurt, or the silence, or the way Matthew’s feelings were left in the dark to rot.

“He never really thinks about consequences,” Matthew murmurs. “Just jumps in and hopes it’ll all work out.”

Jiwoong nods, thoughtful. “I got that sense. He was so focused on making things right, I think he forgot that some things can’t be fixed with just an apology.”

Matthew flinches at that. It’s true, and worse, Gunwook had tried to fix it in the only way he knew how; by pushing Matthew back towards Jiwoong, like that would balance the scales, like Matthew was a puzzle piece he’d knocked loose and now wanted to snap back into place. As if it were that easy.

“He still cares about you, you know,” Jiwoong says after a pause. “I think… in his own way, he always has.”

That lands uncomfortably in Matthew’s chest. He doesn’t want to think about how Gunwook cares. Not when it’s so different from how he wanted him to. 

“Yeah,” he says, almost absently. “He cares. Just…”

Jiwoong studies him for a moment. “Not the way you wanted?”

Matthew stiffens. He quickly masks it with a shake of his head. Jiwoong is still watching him, sharp, perceptive, and unflinching. The air between them shifts, not tense exactly, but taut with something unspoken, something Matthew doesn’t want to name. Jiwoong’s question lingers between them like a thread pulled too tight, and Matthew knows if he lets Jiwoong keep pulling, the whole thing will unravel.

So he does the only thing he can think to do. He leans in and kisses him.

It’s abrupt. Messy. Not gentle, not sweet. Just desperate. A knee-jerk reaction to the spiralling conversation, a fumbling grasp for silence, a means of saying stop without having to form the words. His hand finds the fabric of Jiwoong’s shirt, clutches it like a lifeline. The kiss doesn’t ask for permission, doesn’t offer an explanation. Instead, it's a distraction, a denial in disguise. For a second, Jiwoong doesn’t move or kiss him back, and Matthew braces for the rejection, for the gentle but firm hand that will push him away and ask what are you doing? But it doesn’t come. Instead, Jiwoong exhales into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed, and leans into it like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than even he realised.

When he kisses back, it’s with a fervour that surprises Matthew; slow but full, deliberate, like Jiwoong is pouring every unspoken word from their shared past into this single moment. His hand slides up to Matthew’s jaw, anchoring him there, and for a while, the world shrinks to the sound of breath and the soft press of mouths, the tension folding into heat. There’s a sense of familiarity to it that hurts more than it soothes. Like slipping into an old shirt and realising it still fits, even after everything.

Matthew knows Jiwoong feels it too, that this kiss isn’t about rekindled love or fresh beginnings. It’s about everything they’ve tried to leave behind. Jiwoong is too smart not to recognise it for what it is; a smokescreen, a redirection. He knows this is Matthew saying don’t ask me that again, without actually saying it. Still, Jiwoong lets it happen. He lets the kiss linger, breathes into it like it’s not the wrong thing at the wrong time. Maybe he’s tired too; tired of talking, tired of analysing, tired of navigating the fragile web of Matthew’s grief and Gunwook’s guilt and his own uncertain place in the aftermath.

When they finally break apart, Matthew stays close, forehead brushing against Jiwoong’s jaw. His eyes are shut, like if he doesn’t open them, none of it will catch up to him. His chest is tight with things unsaid, but for once, he’s grateful for the silence. Jiwoong’s hand slips from his jaw, but he doesn’t move away. When Matthew dares to open his eyes, he finds Jiwoong looking at him like he’s trying to read between the cracks. Not judging or angry, just… aware.

“Matt…” Jiwoong murmurs finally, soft enough it’s almost a sigh. 

Matthew swallows hard and says nothing. He doesn’t have the words, and Jiwoong doesn’t ask for them. Instead, he chooses to lean back into a kiss, pulling Jiwoong down the hallway and into his bedroom. The apartment is dim, shadows cast long by the soft light bleeding in from the street outside. Everything feels slower, heavier, like time itself is thickening around them. Jiwoong follows without question, without hesitation, but Matthew can feel the tension laced through his steps, the quiet understanding of what this is. 

Inside the room, Matthew doesn’t bother turning on the light. He lets the dark do what he’s been trying to do all evening; blur the edges, quiet the noise, smother the ache of everything left unsaid. He reaches for Jiwoong without thinking, pulling him close, dragging him into the kind of kiss that tastes like memory and regret. Clothes come off in fragments; shirts tangled, fingertips fumbling, jeans half-peeled, breaths short and uneven. There’s no grace to it, no build-up, just urgency. Matthew tries to convince himself that this is exactly what he wants, the weight of Jiwoong’s hands grounding him, the press of another body against his own, wiping out the ghost of the one he keeps seeing in his mind.

Jiwoong kisses his collarbone, slow and steady, and Matthew’s eyes flutter shut, but all he can see is Gunwook’s face, half-lit in the glow of the streetlamp, rain sliding down his cheeks, lips parted like he’s about to say something but never quite does. Matthew swallows hard. He digs his nails into Jiwoong’s back, trying to force the image away, but it lingers stubbornly. Gunwook’s voice. Gunwook’s warmth. Gunwook’s mouth on his, confused and breathless and real.

Jiwoong moves over him like he still knows how Matthew likes to be touched, like his body hasn’t forgotten what made him fall apart before. For a second, Matthew lets himself preten that it’s working, that the sound he makes when Jiwoong’s lips brush the curve of his throat isn’t a hollow echo of the one Gunwook drew from him, just once, in the dark. He wants to believe that the pounding of his heart is for Jiwoong. That this is about wanting, not forgetting.

But it is about forgetting.

Every kiss, every touch, every slow drag of Jiwoong’s mouth along his skin is a futile attempt to overwrite that moment by his front door; Gunwook’s startled breath, his trembling hands, the unbearable silence that followed. The memory is sharp and relentless, cutting through the haze, refusing to be buried no matter how desperately Matthew claws at the sheets, at Jiwoong, at the lie he’s built around himself like armour.

He turns his face into the pillow, eyes burning. Jiwoong’s hand settles on his waist, steady, patient, and it feels kind in a way that only makes it worse. Matthew wants to cry, but he doesn’t. He holds it in like he always does. He lets Jiwoong kiss him again, lets him touch him like they’re writing something new instead of redrafting old pain, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t empty him. It doesn’t quiet the echo of Gunwook’s name pounding in his chest like a second heartbeat.

When it’s over, he lies there in the dark, Jiwoong’s arm draped over his waist, their breathing gradually syncing in the silence of the room. His body feels satiated, but his mind won’t stop spinning. He doesn’t look at Jiwoong, he just closes his eyes and pretends, again, that this is what he needed. That Jiwoong’s touch is enough to erase the memory of Gunwook’s lips on his.

It isn’t. It never was.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook sits on the armrest of Hao and Hanbin’s couch, a half-empty beer can cradled loosely in his hand, and watches the others drift around the room like pieces in a well-practised routine. It’s strange being in someone else’s space. Familiar faces, familiar laughter, but without the usual comfort of Matthew’s apartment, where Gunwook had once known every mug in the cupboard and which blankets Matthew hoarded like secrets. Here, everything feels borrowed. The cushions don’t sag the same way. The air smells like incense instead of citrus laundry softener. And Matthew… Matthew doesn’t belong here either, but he fits somehow, legs tucked under him on Hao’s rug, Jiwoong’s arm slung across the back of the sofa behind him like it’s always been there.

Gunwook doesn’t know how to look away. He tells himself it’s just curiosity. After all, he hadn’t expected Matthew and Jiwoong to patch things up so quickly, so neatly. It’s like watching a sequel to a film he missed the ending of, suddenly they’re back together, and everything is better than before, if not perfect. Jiwoong leans in close when Matthew speaks, and Matthew doesn’t flinch. He smiles, he laughs, he rests his hand casually on Jiwoong’s knee when making a point about something Gyuvin said. From the outside, they look good. They look solid. 

He catches Gyuvin watching them too, lips pursed thoughtfully around his straw, but the moment Gunwook meets his eyes, Gyuvin quickly looks away, pretending interest in Hanbin’s exaggerated story about their professor. Ricky isn’t even trying to hide his caution; he keeps darting glances between Jiwoong, Matthew and Gunwook, like he’s waiting for something to crack beneath the surface. Hao, ever the host, smiles a bit too widely as he offers snacks and refills drinks, and Hanbin hovers beside him like a second heartbeat, loud and constant. They’re all doing their part to hold the atmosphere together, but Gunwook can see the eggshells beneath their feet. Still, nothing shatters.

Gunwook isn’t sure why he feels… displaced. Maybe it’s because he thought he’d feel relief seeing Matthew happy, maybe he expected to feel lighter knowing Matthew had someone to lean on again, but all it does is make his stomach turn with something too bitter to name. He keeps telling himself this is what he wanted. That’s why he went to Jiwoong in the first place. That’s why he apologised, why he tried. Yet every smile that Matthew gives to Jiwoong feels like it tears something small and soft inside him. 

It’s not his place to say anything, he knows that, and Matthew hasn’t looked at him once tonight. Not the way he used to. So Gunwook jokes when he's supposed to, joins in on conversations, even tosses a harmless jab in Jiwoong's way that earns him a smirk. He plays his part, the loyal friend, the one who’s moved on, who’s grown, but deep down, he knows he hasn’t. Not in the way that matters because he can’t stop watching Matthew’s hand curl so easily against Jiwoong’s thigh. Can’t stop wondering why it bothers him so damn much.

They look fine. Better than fine, even, and that’s the most damning part, because if they’re doing fine, then what does that make him? Just the guy who messed everything up, who finally stepped back and found out the world didn’t stop turning without him. As the night rolls on, the laughter around him getting louder, more relaxed, Gunwook forces another smile and tells himself again and again that this is what he wanted, even though he knows – somewhere deeper than he’d ever admit – that it isn’t.

Gunwook laughs when Jiwoong makes a jab about his terrible beer-pouring skills, and it doesn’t even feel forced. Their banter is light, casual, the kind of easy joking that once would’ve shocked everyone in the room. Jiwoong smirks, tossing back a witty reply, and Gunwook rolls his eyes in mock offense, tossing a pretzel at him. The others visibly relax at the exchange, like it’s confirmation that things aren’t going to explode tonight. Gunwook plays into it, knowing they’re all watching. Maybe he’s even trying to convince himself it’s real, that he can handle this, that he doesn’t mind. That he can get along with Jiwoong and smile while doing it. And for the most part, he can.

Underneath the surface, there’s a constant thrum of tension, like the low hum of static in his ears. No matter how easy the conversation is, no matter how many jokes are exchanged or how many beers are shared, Gunwook is still aware of one glaring thing: Matthew hasn’t looked at him once. Not even in passing, not even accidentally. It’s like he’s become invisible to him, reduced to background noise in a space they used to share so closely. It’s not the silence that hurts the most; it’s the precision of it, the pointed avoidance that confirms what Gunwook already knows. Matthew is done with him.

Gunwook can’t stop glancing his way, even though it’s pointless. His eyes keep drifting to the way Matthew tilts his head back when he laughs, to the familiar shape of his smile, to the slope of his shoulders as he leans into Jiwoong’s side. Every small gesture feels like a reminder of everything Gunwook threw away without realising it. He thinks maybe he’d feel better if Matthew looked at him with anger, if there was a flicker of resentment or even disdain, but there’s nothing. Just absence. Matthew doesn’t acknowledge him, doesn’t laugh at his jokes, doesn’t even react when Gunwook mimics Ricky’s bad impression of their old music theory professor; a bit that used to make Matthew laugh until he cried.

It’s the kind of silence that feels deafening. The kind that doesn’t just come from lack of words, but from the deliberate withholding of them, and it messes with Gunwook more than he wants to admit. He tries to focus on the group instead, leaning into a conversation with Hanbin about an upcoming gig, nodding along as Hao offers to lend them his speaker system. He nods, he contributes, he smiles, but his mind is still in that corner of the room where Matthew sits with Jiwoong, legs tangled comfortably, voices low and private.

There’s a moment when he thinks Matthew might finally look over. Jiwoong nudges him with his elbow, and Matthew lifts his head, scanning the room and Gunwook holds his breath. But Matthew’s gaze glides right past him, lands on Gyuvin instead, and he says something that makes Gyuvin snort and swat at him. Gunwook exhales quietly, masking it behind a sip of beer, and tries not to let it get to him. He tells himself it’s fine. That he doesn’t need to be seen. That it’s enough just to be here, to be tolerated, to be civil.

Yet, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s fading out of focus in a picture he used to be part of. Everyone else seems to be adjusting, moving on, filling the gaps left behind by the chaos of the last few weeks. Even Jiwoong – who should, by all rights, still hate him – can look at him and laugh, but not Matthew, not even once. Maybe it’s what he asked for when he pushed Matthew back into Jiwoong’s arms, but it doesn’t make it any easier to sit across the room and pretend it doesn’t ache every time Matthew’s laugh belongs to someone else.

By the time the night winds down, and the group starts gathering their things to leave, Gunwook feels hollow. He’s said all the right things, worn the right expressions, even made Jiwoong laugh a couple of times. It’s Matthew’s silence that rings the loudest in his ears. The version of normal they’ve all created tonight doesn’t include him in the same way it used to, and he’s starting to realise, maybe it never will again.

Gunwook doesn't let it get to him. If anything, the cold shoulder only hardens his resolve. He’s tired of being treated like a ghost in rooms where he used to belong. Tired of everyone pretending everything's fine when it’s clearly not, and most of all, he’s tired of letting Matthew pretend he doesn’t exist, like their entire friendship – everything they used to be – never mattered. So when he spots his chance, he takes it. Jiwoong isn’t there for once, and the hangout’s back at Matthew’s place, the apartment that used to feel like a second home. The familiarity of it tugs at something in his chest, but he pushes it down. This time, he’s not going to be passive.

He walks in like he owns the space – like he used to – though the air feels heavier than it once did. Everyone else settles into their usual spots, but Gunwook makes a beeline for the couch, and sits right beside Matthew without hesitation. There's the barest shift in Matthew’s posture, subtle but unmistakable, like his whole body is trying not to acknowledge Gunwook’s presence. Gunwook notices, but doesn’t back off. Instead, he pours him a drink without asking, the way he used to, and sets it gently on the table in front of him. No reaction.

He picks out Matthew’s favourite snacks next – without asking, without hesitating – and places them neatly between them. Still nothing. Not a word, not a glance. Gunwook keeps glancing at him from the corner of his eye, hoping, waiting, but Matthew’s gaze is fixed on Ricky and Gyuvin’s conversation like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. Gunwook’s jaw tightens, and he doesn’t know whether it’s frustration or heartbreak. Maybe both.

In a final attempt, he stands up briefly and goes to the corner where the extra blankets are kept. He knows exactly which one to grab; Matthew’s old favourite, the faded one with the soft fleece edges that only comes out in colder weather. He brings it back and drapes it over Matthew’s legs like muscle memory, like a habit that never left his hands. It’s the gentlest act he’s capable of. But Matthew doesn’t even flinch. He keeps talking, keeps laughing, keeps ignoring.

Gunwook sits there, hands curled tightly around his own drink, and for a moment he’s not even sure what he feels anymore. The rejection stings, sure, but there’s something deeper beneath it. A grief that doesn’t have clean edges. This isn’t just losing a friend. It’s losing the rhythm of someone’s presence. Losing a version of himself that only ever existed beside Matthew.

The others must feel the tension, even if no one says anything. Ricky glances between them a few times, brows creased. Hao, too, watches Gunwook with something close to sympathy. And Hanbin, who’s always been the most sensitive to these things, shifts uncomfortably on the floor cushion and tries to steer the conversation to safer territory. It’s no use. Gunwook can feel the eyes. The pity. He hates it. He hates that even Jiwoong, sometimes, looks at him with that same quiet softness, like he’s something broken trying to stitch itself back together. Gunwook doesn’t want sympathy. He doesn’t want people to look at him like he’s trying and failing. He wants Matthew to look at him like he used to; with annoyance, fondness, anything. He wants to be seen again, wants to claw his way out of the silence Matthew keeps burying him under.

So he sits there, unmoving, determined. If Matthew’s going to keep pretending nothing happened, then fine. Gunwook can pretend too, but he won’t disappear. Not again. He’s not going to let this end in silence. Not without a fight.

Gunwook waits. He doesn’t move when the others begin gathering their things; Ricky heading out first with Gyuvin trailing along, yawning loudly as he pulls on his hoodie. Hanbin and Hao linger by the door, still chatting about some movie, and Hanbin pauses just long enough to shoot Gunwook a look. It’s not pitying this time, more like... wary encouragement. Gunwook nods at him, and Hanbin gives the faintest tilt of his head before following the others out. Then the door closes, and it’s just the two of them. The apartment falls quiet. Familiar, and yet completely foreign.

He doesn’t ask if he can stay. He just starts gathering the empty bottles and bowls, stacking them with practiced ease. There was a time when this was routine; when he didn’t need to ask, when Matthew would nudge him with a knee and they’d clean up together, laughing as they argued over who left the hot sauce out. Now, Matthew says nothing. He simply moves around Gunwook, silent and efficient, like he’s doing it all alone, but he doesn’t tell him to leave either, and that’s enough of an invitation for Gunwook to keep trying.

He carries dishes to the sink and fills it with warm, soapy water. The silence buzzes in his ears. His heart is pounding so loudly it makes his hands shake, but he forces himself to breathe, to move carefully. When Matthew brushes past him to grab the trash, their arms barely touch, and it’s enough to make Gunwook flinch inwardly. He doesn’t let it show. He can’t afford to, not now.

“So,” he says finally, voice low and tentative, like testing the weight of it in the air. “Your new hair looks good.” It’s the safest thing he can think of, even though he hates how it sounds coming out of his mouth. Like he’s talking to a stranger. Like he doesn’t already know what Matthew’s hair looks like under every light, wet, dry, tousled from sleep.

Matthew doesn’t respond at first. Just ties the bin liner with an impatient twist of his wrist and walks to the front door to toss it out. Gunwook stays rooted by the sink, hands still wet, the sponge limp in his grip. He stares at the suds, willing them to swallow up the knot in his chest. When Matthew comes back, there’s still no reply, until he says, flatly, “Thanks.” No eye contact. No inflection. Just that.

Gunwook winces. He dries his hands on the dish towel slowly, carefully, trying to find something else to say. “I saw you fixed the hinge on the cabinet,” he says, nodding towards the corner by the stove. “It used to squeak like crazy. Drove you mad.” He offers a tiny smile, like he’s trying to hand Matthew a memory, an olive branch wrapped in familiarity.

Matthew shrugs. “I got tired of hearing it.” He’s rinsing out the snack bowls now, back to Gunwook like a closed door, but he hasn’t told him to stop talking. He hasn’t walked away. And that, more than anything, is what keeps Gunwook standing there, hoping and trying. Trying not to fall apart from the weight of how far they’ve drifted. There’s a beat of silence after that, and Gunwook grips the edge of the counter, his palms clammy. 

“I miss this,” he says quietly, unable to help it. “Being here. With you.” His voice nearly cracks on the last word, but he swallows it down fast, eyes locked on Matthew’s back, waiting for something. A flinch. A sigh. Anything.

Matthew doesn’t answer at first. He keeps drying the same bowl like he’s forgotten how to stop, shoulders slightly hunched, his face unreadable. Gunwook watches him in silence, uneasy. The urge to say something – anything – crawls under his skin like static, but every word he rehearses in his head sounds wrong. He doesn’t want to mess this up again.

Eventually, Matthew sets the bowl down. He turns slowly, leans against the sink, arms folded across his chest in that familiar, distant way. “You miss this?” he repeats, the question flat, almost rhetorical.

Gunwook nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. I miss you.”

That draws a flicker from Matthew – a tightening in his jaw, a flick of the eyes – but it disappears just as quickly. “Right,” he says. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“I’m not trying to act like things can just go back to how they were,” Gunwook continues, fumbling. “I know they can’t. I just… I wanted to be here tonight. Help clean up. Like before.”

Matthew gives a short, humourless laugh. “You think folding a blanket and doing dishes makes up for everything?”

“No. Of course not.” Gunwook’s voice is low, careful. “I just didn’t want to keep walking away from you.”

Matthew leans his head back against the cupboards and exhales through his nose. “You really don’t get it,” he says, not unkindly, just tired. “You think the problem was that fight, or Jiwoong, or whatever. But it’s not just that.”

Gunwook glances up at him. “Then what is it?”

Matthew pauses. Then, after a moment, shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.” His voice is quieter now. “It’s over.”

Gunwook wants to press – wants to ask, what doesn’t matter? What’s over? – but something in Matthew’s tone tells him not to. There’s a line here, drawn in quiet pain, and Gunwook’s already crossed too many. So he doesn’t ask, he just stands there, letting the silence settle thick between them again.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me if you’re not ready,” Gunwook says after a beat. “I just… want you to know that I’m still here. Even if you don’t want me to be, even if you hate me.”

Matthew doesn’t respond right away. He pushes off the counter, walks across the room to stack the remaining glasses on a shelf. Gunwook thinks the conversation is over – another attempt shut down – but then Matthew speaks again, voice even and quiet.

Matthew’s gaze flicks back to him, sharper now. “I don’t hate you.”

Gunwook blinks. “You don’t?”

“I wish I did.” The admission is soft. Painful. “It’d be easier.”

That hits like a punch to the gut. Gunwook nods slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. “I get that.”

Another pause. Then Matthew says, very quietly, “You hurt me.”

Gunwook’s head snaps up. “I know.” His voice is strained.

Silence falls again. Matthew doesn’t answer right away. He just watches Gunwook, gaze unreadable. Then, finally, he says, “I’m not angry anymore.”

Gunwook blinks. “You’re not?”

Matthew shakes his head, slow and tired. “I’m just tired.” His voice cracks and his breath hitches. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Gunwook.”

“I want you to know I’m sorry.” The words come out fast, before Gunwook can stop them. “And not just to ease my guilt. I’m sorry for everything. For being careless. For pushing you away. For not listening when it mattered.”

Matthew looks at him for a long time. “You’re still an idiot,” he mutters.

Gunwook manages a small, crooked smile. “I know.”

The silence that follows isn’t quite comfortable, but it’s not hostile either. Just cautious. Treading old ground with new feet. Eventually, Matthew moves past him to the living room to collect some stray glasses, and Gunwook follows, helping out in wordless tandem like they used to.

When it’s all done and Gunwook reaches for his jacket, he hesitates. Matthew doesn’t say anything. He just walks past him, not towards the door, but into his bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. Gunwook steps into his shoes slowly, and though Matthew doesn’t come back, he doesn’t close the door either. It stays open, just a little, and for now, that’s enough.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

It’s past midnight when Gunwook finds himself lying on his bed one night, phone balanced on his chest, thumb lazily scrolling through his photo gallery without purpose. He’s not really looking for anything, just trying to distract himself from the ache he’s been carrying, dull and persistent like a bruise that never quite heals. His thumb stills when he reaches a screenshot dated from two summers ago. A meme. A dumb, ridiculous meme Matthew had sent him back then; some overdramatic K-drama character sobbing in the fluorescent light of a convenience store aisle, face twisted in agony beneath a caption that read, "me when 7-Eleven runs out of mint choco banana kick." It’s so stupid. So Matthew. The kind of thing they used to laugh at for far too long, sending it back and forth with worse captions each time. Gunwook doesn’t laugh now, but he stares at the image, unmoving, some part of him aching at the sight of something that once came so effortlessly.

His thumb hovers over the share icon for a long time. He tells himself not to do it. It’s pointless. It’s been weeks since Matthew last said more than a forced greeting to him, let alone looked him in the eye. There’s a wall between them now, built from silence and avoidance and a pain Gunwook still can’t name properly. The thought of sending anything, even something as light as this, feels like stepping onto fragile ice. The impulse – the need to reach out, to try – wins. With barely a second thought, Gunwook hits send. No message. No context. Just the meme. He tosses the phone onto the bed like it’s burned him, rolling over with his face pressed into the pillow. Regret coils in his chest almost immediately. He shouldn’t have done that. What if Matthew thinks he’s making fun of him? Or worse… What if he just ignores it?

He tells himself not to check. That if Matthew doesn’t reply, it’s better not to know. He buries himself under his blanket, squeezes his eyes shut like that’ll stop him from thinking. Eventually, curiosity gnaws its way through his resolve. He reaches for the phone with one hand and glances at the screen, already bracing for disappointment. Then he sees it. Three minutes ago, a message. “lol” Just that. No punctuation. No elaboration. It might as well have been a love letter, the way Gunwook’s chest stutters around the weight of it.

He stares at the message for longer than he probably should, heart thudding somewhere high in his throat. Reads it once, twice, a third time just to make sure he isn’t imagining things. It’s not a long message. It’s not even warm,  but it’s something. A sign that Matthew saw it, acknowledged it, didn’t block his number or leave him on read. Somehow, that’s enough to make Gunwook’s lips twitch, something like a hesitant smile trying to surface. He almost types a reply. His fingers hover over the keyboard, eager to say something, anything, but he stops himself. Don’t ruin it. Don’t push. Let it breathe. So instead, he locks his phone, sets it face down, and lies back with the smallest bloom of cautious relief unfolding in his chest.

Things don’t change overnight. Gunwook doesn’t expect them to, but after that, there are little moments that feel like pebbles shifting at the base of a landslide. Small things. He reacts to a story Matthew posts on his private, an unflattering shot of Gyuvin passed out on the sofa, chips crumbled all over his shirt. Gunwook sends a laughing emoji, not expecting anything in return, but Matthew replies with a crying-laughing one. A few days later, at Hao and Hanbin’s place, Matthew hands him a can of soda wordlessly while they’re all lounging in the living room. Their fingers brush. Matthew doesn’t pull away.

They don’t speak. Not really. Not in the way they used to, but they start to share space again. Gunwook shows up to group hangouts a little earlier, helps Hanbin carry drinks from the kitchen without needing to be asked. Sometimes he’ll crack a stupid joke, and though Matthew doesn’t laugh, Gunwook swears he sees his mouth twitch – just a little – before he looks away. It’s not warmth, not yet, but it’s not ice, either. In the absence of rejection, Gunwook starts to allow himself to hope, just the tiniest bit.

One night, they’re all watching a movie at Hao’s and someone tosses Gunwook a bag of crisps while he’s got both hands full. “Mashu, help a guy out,” he blurts instinctively, the nickname slipping out before he can think better of it. There’s a beat of stillness, but then Matthew catches the bag mid-air and drops it beside him without comment. No pointed avoidance, just… cooperation. Gunwook thanks him quietly and Matthew doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t look annoyed either. It’s a simple exchange, one anyone else would overlook, but Gunwook clings to it like a lifeline.

And then, little by little, things begin to shift. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the quiet comfort of familiar routines cautiously returning. A shared glance. A passed drink. A smile barely caught in time. It’s not what they had before. Not even close, but it’s something real, something tender. Gunwook doesn’t let himself imagine anything beyond this but for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel like an outsider orbiting someone he used to know. He feels seen. He feels like maybe, just maybe, they’re building something again, even if it’s something new.

So it continues that way, all the way through the next few weekly hangouts at Matthew’s place. It’s been a while since things started easing between them, but the first that actually feels relaxed. There’s music playing softly from someone’s playlist, bowls of snacks littered across the coffee table, and everyone’s sprawled around like they’ve done this a hundred times – which they have. Gunwook finds himself wedged between Gyuvin and the armrest, legs tangled awkwardly on the rug, and he doesn’t even mind. Matthew isn’t avoiding him anymore. They’d spoken earlier, something casual about drink flavours and the lack of ice, and it hadn’t felt tense. Gunwook had managed to make him laugh – a real laugh, not the tight polite kind – and for the first time in what felt like ages, the air didn’t feel like it was holding its breath.

Then Jiwoong shows up a little late, and everything tilts just slightly. The door clicks open, and Matthew’s head lifts instantly, eyes lighting up in a way Gunwook has never seen directed at him. Jiwoong grins as he kicks off his shoes, and Matthew’s already on his feet before Gunwook can blink, tugging him in by the wrist and kissing him hello like no one else is in the room. It’s a quick kiss, soft and easy, but something in Gunwook’s stomach coils anyway. He forces his gaze to the screen, tries to pretend he doesn’t hear the smile in Matthew’s voice when he asks if Jiwoong wants a drink or how his class went. It’s not like it’s new. He’s seen them together plenty of times before, but something about it now, in the context of what he knows, makes it feel sharper. Like he’s looking at something from the outside that he hadn’t realised he wanted to be inside of.

The hangout drifts on like normal. Ricky and Gyuvin start play-fighting over some stupid game score, Hanbin ends up as referee, and Hao keeps stealing snacks from everyone’s bowls with that innocent grin of his. Gunwook talks when he’s spoken to, even manages to get a joke or two in, but every so often his eyes flick over to Matthew, who’s curled up next to Jiwoong on the sofa, their legs tangled, Jiwoong’s hand resting comfortably on Matthew’s thigh. They look so comfortable. Like they fit, like there’s never been a version of this group where they weren’t like this, and still, Gunwook can’t shake the way his chest feels like it’s folding in on itself.

He tells himself he’s just adjusting. That he’s still raw from everything that happened, and seeing Matthew happy – really happy – should be enough, but it isn’t. Not when Jiwoong leans in to whisper something in Matthew’s ear and Matthew snorts, nudging him away with a playful roll of his eyes as his face flushes a pretty red. Not when Matthew gets up to grab a drink and Jiwoong casually slaps his ass as he walks by, eyes gleaming with mischief. The group laughs, Matthew flips him off fondly, but Gunwook feels something cold bloom in the pit of his stomach. It’s not jealousy, not exactly. He doesn’t think so. It’s more complicated than that. More fragile.

Because ever since that night – the night Ricky told him the truth – Gunwook has been seeing him differently. Not just as his best friend, not just as the person who knows all his favourite songs and exactly how he takes his ramyeon, but as someone who once saw him clearly enough to fall in love. That knowledge had cracked something open in Gunwook, and it hasn’t closed since. He thinks about it at night, and the more time he spends around him, the more that thought creeps back in: what if I could’ve loved him too?

Lately, it’s started feeling less like a what if and more like a quiet maybe. A subtle shift he can’t quite ignore. He watches the way Matthew throws his head back when he laughs, the way he tucks his knees up when he’s tired, the way he always notices when someone needs a refill or a blanket or a break from the noise. He starts remembering all the times Matthew had touched him, looked at him, cared for him, wondering how much of it he’d been blind to, and worse, wondering what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been.

Gunwook doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know if it’s guilt, or longing, or some messy blend of both, but it’s there now, stuck under his skin like a splinter. He finds himself seeking Matthew out more, watching him when he thinks no one’s looking, catching himself hoping Matthew will laugh at something he says, touch his arm in passing, let their eyes meet across the room like they used to. Those moments are rare, and when they come, they’re fleeting, because Matthew has someone now. And Gunwook? He’s the one who missed it. The one who had everything and didn’t know what it meant until it was too late.

So he sits quietly in the corner, drink sweating in his hand, pretending he’s fine. Pretending the noise and warmth of the room is enough, but all the while, his eyes keep drifting back to the space beside Jiwoong, to the soft way Matthew looks at him, to the place Gunwook used to be. And for the first time, he wonders if maybe, if he’s brave enough, if he lets himself feel it fully… he could love Matthew back. Not out of guilt, not because he should, but because maybe he wants to.

Gunwook doesn’t let himself spiral that night, not outwardly, at least. He smiles when someone makes a joke, nods along to a conversation he’s not really listening to, makes sure to help clean up like he always does. By the time he gets home, his whole body feels tense with something he can’t name. Restlessness, maybe, frustratio, or maybe just that cold, empty ache in his chest again. He lies on his bed staring at the ceiling for a while, trying not to think about the way Matthew’s hand had lingered on Jiwoong’s shoulder. Trying not to think about how soft his voice had gone when he said Jiwoong’s name. Trying not to think about how it used to sound just like that when he said his.

Eventually, he stops trying. It’s too late anyway. Whatever could’ve been between them – if it ever could’ve existed – is long gone. Matthew’s moved on and he’s happy. Gunwook missed his chance. So instead of drowning in that realisation, he does what he’s always done best: distract himself with a hookup.  So he gets dressed, throws on something that makes him look good; tight black jeans, a fitted shirt that clings to the shape of his shoulders. He runs a hand through his hair, not even bothering to style it much, just enough to look put together. He heads out with a mission, feet carrying him straight to the bar near campus. The one with dim lights and a loud enough crowd that nobody asks too many questions. The one he knows is popular with guys who don’t care about names or pasts, just glances and touches and what comes after.

Gunwook’s no stranger to attention. He’s always known he’s good-looking, and he’s learned over the years how to handle it when guys hit on him. Usually, he turns them down with a sheepish smile, a casual “thanks, but I’m straight” as he backs away. But tonight, he’s not saying no. Tonight, he wants to say yes. He’s curious, and he knows this is something easy, something that doesn’t carry weight or history or the aching silence that comes with Matthew. He wants to feel wanted. Even if it’s by a stranger. Especially if it’s by a stranger.

The bar is loud, pulsing with neon light and low bass that rattles in his ribs. Gunwook steps inside and lets the atmosphere wrap around him, hoping it’ll dull the weight pressing against his chest. He heads straight for the bar, orders a drink – something strong, something fast – and downs it in a few gulps. The burn in his throat is sharp, grounding, and it steadies him enough to look around. The crowd is thick tonight, bodies shifting and swaying to the music, groups laughing too loud over the music, others folded close in shadowed corners. It should be easy. Just pick someone. Smile. Say yes.

His eyes sweep the room, scanning for potential; someone tall, confident, preferably older, someone who’s the complete opposite to Matthew. He sees a guy in a tight mesh shirt dancing with his friend, another in a leather jacket watching the room with a calculated kind of cool. A third sits alone at the bar, stirring a drink absently, legs crossed like he’s waiting to be approached. Gunwook considers it. Any of them. He could do this. He could walk over, introduce himself, pretend like his head isn’t full of someone else.

But none of them hold his attention long enough. His gaze keeps drifting, mind wandering in spite of himself. He leans against the bar and watches the crowd with a kind of detachment, like he’s not even really here. The music bleeds into white noise. People blur together. His second drink sits untouched beside him.

Then, he sees him.

At first, it’s just a glance. A silhouette on the other side of the room, not too tall, shoulders familiar in a way that tightens something in his chest. Gunwook’s eyes catch on the soft brown hair, the curve of a smile thrown at someone across the table. The stranger’s laughter is easy, his posture relaxed, and there’s something about him… something bright, warm, and radiant. Like him. It hits Gunwook before he can stop it, the stranger reminds him of Matthew.

He doesn’t even realise he’s staring until the guy turns and catches him. Their eyes meet. Gunwook should look away, but he doesn’t. The stranger tilts his head slightly, caught off guard by the attention, and then… smiles. Just a little. Bashful, like he’s flattered. His eyes drop, then flicker back up beneath dark lashes, testing the waters. It’s enough to jolt Gunwook from whatever haze he’d fallen into.

His stomach twists. Not because he’s been caught, but because for a moment, he let himself imagine it was Matthew. For a moment, he looked at a stranger and thought, what if, and worse– he wanted it to be him. Even now, as the stranger raises a hand in a tentative wave, Gunwook’s heart isn’t racing with excitement. It’s aching with something quieter.

Still, he lifts a hand in return. His lips tug into a polite smile, automatic. He tells himself it’s fine. This is what he came here for, right? Someone easy, something else, but as the guy begins making his way across the room, Gunwook suddenly feels uncertain. The weight in his chest hasn’t gone anywhere. And it’s not because of nerves, it’s because this isn’t what he wants, not really.

The stranger is too close too quickly, already smiling up at him with something hopeful in his expression, and Gunwook pastes on a smile of his own, because he doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore. The stranger stops in front of him with a hesitant smile, not quite sure if he should be this bold, but clearly too curious to resist. He leans in just enough for his voice to cut through the pulsing bass of the music. “Hi.”

Gunwook tilts his head, already smiling, already turning on the charm like a reflex. “Hey,” he says, voice rich and easy. He lets his gaze sweep over the boy; toned body under a soft sweater, flushed dimpled cheeks, wide eyes that catch the light just right. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lets the silence stretch, like he’s memorising something worth keeping. “You always greet strangers like they might disappear if you blink too fast?”

That earns him a small laugh, a hand nervously running through thick hair. “No. I, uh… don’t usually walk up to people at all.” The boy bites his lip like he regrets admitting it. “But you were staring.”

Gunwook grins, leaning a little closer like he’s letting the guy in on a secret. “Caught me.” He lifts his drink lazily, takes a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. “I’ve got a bit of a problem, actually.”

The guy blinks, surprised. “What kind of problem?”

Gunwook sets his glass down and says, in that same low, teasing tone, “You. You walked in and now I can’t seem to look anywhere else.” His smile curves at the edges, just shy of smug. “You’re dangerous.”

The stranger’s face breaks into a smile, teeth catching his lower lip like he’s trying not to let it widen too much. “That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” Gunwook arches a brow, shameless. “Because I haven’t even told you how you’ve got the kind of face that makes people write poetry they’ll never admit to. I’m holding back, trust me.”

The boy laughs – really laughs this time – and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Charming,” Gunwook corrects with a wink. “But I’ll let you call it ridiculous if that makes it easier to handle.”

The guy looks away for half a second, flustered, then back again. “Do you talk like this to everyone?”

Gunwook shrugs, eyes gleaming. “Only when I’m hoping they’ll stay a little longer.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, a flicker of something warmer behind the flirting now. The stranger licks his lips like he’s about to say something else, but Gunwook leans in again, this time letting his shoulder brush lightly against the other’s. 

“So…” he murmurs, voice soft enough to be felt more than heard, “are you staying?”

The guy looks up at him, cheeks still tinged pink, but his smile is more certain now. “Maybe.”

Gunwook lets that hang between them with a quiet laugh, satisfied. “Good. I was hoping for maybe.”

They end up tucked into a quieter corner of the bar, the crowd thinning around them, the music still loud but less demanding now. The stranger has grown bolder; he laughs easier, touches Gunwook’s arm when he leans in, holds his gaze longer between sips of his drink. There’s a moment where their knees bump under the table and the boy doesn’t move away. Instead, he lets his leg linger, gaze flicking down to where they touch before lifting back to meet Gunwook’s eyes. His smile is slow, almost sly now, and Gunwook feels something flutter low in his stomach.

When they finally leave, it’s the stranger who takes Gunwook’s hand first, fingers warm and sure. He doesn’t ask. Just gives his hand a light tug as they step out into the cool night, the city buzzing around them like it doesn’t notice anything different. Like it doesn’t see the way Gunwook glances over at him, curious and nervous all at once. The stranger hails a cab with practiced ease, opens the door for Gunwook like it’s nothing, and slides in beside him, thigh pressed to thigh. They don’t say much on the ride, there’s no need to. Everything they need to say is already there, in the silence, in the shared glances, in the way their fingers find each other again and stay linked until the taxi stops.

His apartment is clean and warm, dimly lit, smelling faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. Gunwook barely has time to look around before he’s being gently pushed back against the door, the stranger’s mouth finding his in a kiss that’s softer than expected, but no less intense. It makes his head spin, wracking his brain for the reason why this feels so familiar; kissing by the front door. The boy kisses like he means it, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly where he wants it to go. Gunwook lets him, arms wrapping around his waist almost instinctively.

They stumble toward the bedroom between kisses, pausing only for breath, for quiet laughter when Gunwook bumps into the corner of a coffee table. “You good?” the stranger murmurs against his mouth.

“Yeah,” Gunwook breathes, grinning. “Your furniture placement isn’t, though.”

The stranger laughs again – god, that laugh – and draws him in for another kiss, deeper now. Gunwook melts into it, lets himself be pressed down onto the bed, the softness of the sheets a contrast to the rapid thud of his heart. Their mouths stay connected, fingers tugging at hems and belt loops and anything that keeps skin from skin. Somewhere in the haze, as the moment builds and clothes begin to loosen, Gunwook pulls back, just slightly, resting his forehead against the boy’s. 

“This is my first time doing it with a guy,” he murmurs, breath shaky. “I’m not sure what I’m doing… but I want to make you feel good.”

The stranger stills for only a second before his hand cups the side of Gunwook’s face, thumb brushing his cheek. His voice is low, gentle but sure. “Don’t worry,” he says with a smile that makes something in Gunwook’s chest ache. “I’ll take care of you.”

And he does. He kisses Gunwook again, slow and sure, easing him through the nerves with patient touches and murmured reassurances. He’s attentive and careful, never rushing, guiding Gunwook in a way that makes him seem more experienced than he had initially let on. Gunwook lets go of the thoughts spiralling in his head, lets himself be guided, lets himself feel, and in the quiet hum of breath and warmth, for a while, it’s easy to forget everything else. Just this moment. Just this boy. Just now.

“My name’s Gunwook, by the way. Just so you know whose name to scream.” Gunwook smirks cockily, as he follows the strangers guidance, kissing up his thighs.

The stranger laughs, moaning in between. “I’m Taerae.”

Chapter Text

“Fuck, Ma– Hyung,” Gunwook grunts, fucking into Taerae with no restraint. The elder is on his knees, pulled flush against Gunwook, his back pressed against the younger’s broad chest.

Taerae whines high in his throat, his head falling back against Gunwook’s shoulder as the latter presses open-mouthed kisses down the column of his exposed neck, biting and sucking as he leaves splotches of red in his path. “Just like that, Gunwook, fuck, I’m close!”

“Call me Wookie, hyung.” Gunwook pants, mouthing at Taerae’s earlobe. He knows it’s fucked up, asking another guy to call him by Matthew’s nickname while they’re fucking, but he can’t be bothered to think of its repercussions at the moment.

“Mm, Wookie, don’t stop!” Taerae moans, falling back on all fours as Gunwook lets him go, opting to hold onto his hips for leverage.

Being friends with benefits with Taerae has become Gunwook’s preferred way of shutting out the world these past few weeks. It’s easy and familiar. There’s no weight to it; just heat and distraction and the unspoken understanding that neither of them are looking for more. It started casually, like most things in Gunwook’s life do, but it stuck around because it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the hollow ache he feels every time he sees Matthew choosing to sit with Jiwoong instead of him, or the way silence stretches too long between them now. Taerae is kind, warm, and always ready with a joke or a teasing smile, and Gunwook likes the way being with him doesn’t demand anything he’s not ready to give.

It’s not about love, and they both know that. Taerae doesn’t pry when Gunwook shows up unannounced or when he ghosts for a couple of days before coming back with a kiss instead of an explanation. They don’t talk about feelings. They don’t talk about Matthew – hell, Taerae doesn’t even know of his existence. They meet up in dim corners, between hangouts, in the quiet of someone’s bedroom with the lights low. It’s become something of a pastime, a coping mechanism disguised as fun, and maybe it’s not the healthiest way to deal, but Gunwook’s never really been known for doing things the healthy way.

Gunwook knows now. He doesn’t need a label, doesn’t need to sit himself down in front of a mirror and say it out loud, but he knows. The pull he feels when Taerae leans in close, the heat that coils in his stomach when another guy flirts with him at a bar, the easy rhythm of pleasure when he’s tangled up in someone who isn’t a girl, it’s undeniable. And if being friends with benefits with Taerae wasn’t enough proof, the fact that he looks forward to it, seeks it out, craves it even… Well, that says everything. He's attracted to boys. He’s officially bisexual. It’s not confusion or curiosity anymore. It's a fact.

But realising it only complicates everything, because if this is who he is – if this has always been who he is – then what the hell does that say about the past? What does that say about Matthew? All those years Matthew loved him in silence, all those moments Gunwook let himself flirt and cling and laugh like he didn’t know – when maybe, deep down, he did. When maybe it wasn’t just Matthew’s heart on the line, maybe his was too. If he hadn’t been so damn blind, if he hadn’t taken Matthew’s affection for granted, would things have been different? Could he have seen it then and done something about it before it was too late?

That’s what fucks him up the most. Not the confusion, not the coming to terms with who he is, but the gnawing guilt that maybe he had something rare and beautiful in his hands and let it slip away because he wasn’t ready to face himself. And now? Now Matthew’s smiling at Jiwoong like he used to smile at him. Holding hands with someone else, kissing someone else, giving someone else all that quiet, careful love. Gunwook knows it’s selfish to be jealous. But he can’t help it, not when all he can think is, if I’d known sooner, would you still be mine?

Gunwook exhales sharply and shakes the thoughts from his head like water off his skin, scrubbing them away before they can settle too deep. He doesn’t want to think about the what-ifs, the regrets, the aching way Matthew’s name lingers like a bruise at the back of his throat. Not right now when Taerae’s all spread out, writhing underneath him. Gunwook lets himself fall back into that; into the comfort of easy touches and thoughtless kisses, of heat and rhythm and something close to distraction. Taerae shifts closer, fingers dragging lightly down his spine, and Gunwook lets his eyes close, breathing in the moment. It's not love, but it’s enough to shut the rest of the world out for now.

When they finish, it’s almost routine, rehearsed in that quiet, unspoken way that only comes with repetition. There’s no awkwardness, no fumbling. Just a shared glance, a breathless chuckle, and the smooth transition from bed to bathroom. They hop into the shower together like it’s muscle memory now, rinsing off the sweat and heat with casual flicks of water and half-hearted complaints about the water pressure. Gunwook rolls his eyes when Taerae steals the loofah first, and Taerae laughs when Gunwook retaliates by flicking cold water at him. It’s light, almost domestic, and if it weren’t for the lack of emotional weight, it might almost look like something else.

Back in the room, they change the sheets without needing to ask. Taerae tosses the pillowcases at Gunwook’s face, and Gunwook grumbles, but there’s no bite to it. They move around each other easily, joking about who snores louder or who stole more of the blanket last time they stayed over. There’s comfort in it, a rhythm they’ve built without trying too hard. It doesn’t feel like love – never has – but it feels like a kind of warmth, like a break from everything outside this room that feels too loud and too sharp.

They sit on the edge of the bed after, legs brushing, both of them towel-drying their hair. Gunwook checks his phone, pretends he’s not disappointed when the notifications are all from the group chat and not Matthew. Taerae notices – he always does – but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans back on his hands and hums a random tune, the kind that fills the silence without asking for anything back.

“Wanna order food?” Taerae asks after a moment, nudging Gunwook’s knee with his. “I’m craving fried chicken again. And no, I won’t apologise.”

Gunwook lets out a quiet laugh, grateful for the shift. “You never do.”

“I’m consistent. That’s gotta count for something.”

And it does, in a way. Taerae’s consistency is a balm for Gunwook’s chaos. He doesn’t ask for explanations when Gunwook gets quiet. Doesn’t try to fill the space with questions or expectations. Just shows up, again and again, ready to offer warmth, humour, and a place to crash when the silence in Gunwook’s head gets too loud. For now, that’s more than enough.

They eat sitting cross-legged on the floor, boxes of fried chicken spread open between them on the coffee table. Taerae’s already halfway through a drumstick, his fingers slick with sauce, when he says, mouth full, “Okay, this might actually be the best order we’ve ever made. Spicy garlic is elite.”

Gunwook chuckles around a mouthful of his own. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time,” Taerae counters, grinning, licking his thumb clean. He leans back against the couch and glances over. “You’ve got sauce on your lip, by the way.”

Before Gunwook can wipe it away, Taerae leans in and casually swipes it with his thumb, then pops it into his mouth with a smug little shrug, like it’s nothing. It’s the kind of flirty gesture that used to catch Gunwook off guard, but now he’s just... used to it. He laughs, shakes his head, and steals another wing before Taerae can hoard all the good pieces.

The conversation drifts to music, then classes, then whatever drama was going on in the group chat that morning. They’re relaxed, full, warm from the food and the lingering heat of their earlier mess. It’s quiet for a moment, peaceful, and in that space, with Taerae leaning close, still smiling like he belongs here, Gunwook lets himself pretend.

Pretend that this is easy. That maybe he could keep doing this, and it’d be enough. That maybe, just maybe, this feeling in his chest is something more than convenience and distraction. He looks at Taerae’s face, eyes crinkling as he makes fun of Gyuvin’s latest dating disaster, and something like fondness flickers.

“You should come to our hangout tomorrow,” Gunwook says before he can think better of it, dropping the words as casually as he can. “Everyone’s meeting up at Hanbin’s again. You’d probably get along with them.”

Taerae pauses for a beat, blinking. “Really?” He sounds a little surprised, but not opposed. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Gunwook says, trying to keep his voice light. “I mean, we’re already hanging out a lot. Might as well let you suffer through the group chaos too.”

Taerae grins, a little crooked. “Alright. Sounds fun.” But his gaze lingers on Gunwook for a moment too long, like he sees more than he’s letting on. Like he knows exactly why Gunwook extended that invitation, and who he’s really trying to get close to again.

Gunwook looks away, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm the apartment feels. He focuses on peeling open a new dipping sauce container, pretending his fingers aren’t fumbling slightly. 

“You don’t have to if it’s weird,” he adds quickly, his voice a little more careful now. “Just figured, you know, it could be chill. You’re easy to talk to.”

Taerae hums in agreement, stretching out his legs until his socked foot nudges against Gunwook’s. He doesn’t move it away. “Sure. I don’t mind meeting your friends.” He pauses, tilting his head. “What kind of chaos am I walking into though? Do I need to prepare myself emotionally?”

Gunwook chuckles at that, thankful for the deflection. “Nothing too crazy. Just your usual band of misfits. Hao and Hanbin are always trying to host like it’s some dinner party. Ricky brings whatever weird snack he’s obsessed with that week. Gyuvin never shows up on time. It’s mostly just people sitting on the floor eating too much and pretending we aren’t all emotionally constipated.”

He doesn’t mention Matthew. Not even in passing. The name hovers at the edge of his tongue, stubborn and heavy, but he swallows it down like a secret he isn’t ready to share. It’s easier that way, simpler to pretend Matthew isn’t the first person he thinks of when he imagines the group. Easier to pretend that bringing Taerae along won’t stir up anything at all.

Taerae lets out a soft laugh. “Sounds like a vibe.”

“It is.” Gunwook’s smile falters for a second. “Used to be more fun, though. Back when–” He catches himself. His mouth stays slightly open, as if the sentence forgot how to end. He swallows instead, reaching for another piece of chicken he’s not even hungry for. “Back when things were easier, I guess.”

Taerae watches him quietly. He doesn’t press. There’s a flicker of something thoughtful in his expression, but he keeps it to himself. Instead, he says, “You seem like someone who misses things a lot but doesn’t like admitting it.”

Gunwook snorts, grateful again for the way Taerae always seems to swerve just slightly away from the emotional core of a moment. “You make that sound like a personality flaw.”

“Not a flaw,” Taerae replies. “Just human.” He leans back against the cushions, arms stretched behind his head like he’s letting the tension slide off his shoulders. “Anyway, I’ll come. Should be fun watching you try to act normal around people who’ve known you forever.”

Gunwook lets himself smile again, even if it feels a little tight at the edges. He nods. “Yeah. You’ll fit in.”

But in the back of his mind, that lingering thought returns, this won’t be like introducing any random fling. Taerae might be casual, but Gunwook isn’t sure he is anymore. Not with the way his stomach twists at the thought of certain faces. Not with the way the group still feels a little incomplete. Not with the way his heart gives a dull, reluctant thud at the memory of someone else who used to sit on the floor beside him, laughing too loudly, stealing the last piece of fried chicken, and calling him Wookie .

He shakes the thought off with a forced grin and tosses a stray pillow at Taerae, who yelps dramatically before tossing it back. It’s easy, this thing they’ve got; no pressure, no expectations. Just late-night texts and tangled limbs and shared silence that doesn’t demand anything. Even as they settle into the usual rhythm, something about this invitation feels like a breach. Like he’s dragging two halves of his life too close together. And for what? To prove to himself he’s over it? To pretend he never cared in the first place?

Because if he lets himself linger too long on that memory – of Matthew curled up beside him, warm and familiar, head on his shoulder as they bickered over movie endings – it’ll undo him. It already is, in small, stupid ways he keeps trying not to name. The nickname. The ghost of a smile. The way he still sometimes checks his phone, half-hoping for a meme sent without context, the kind of inside joke that only the two of them would get.

And now he’s bringing someone new into that space. Someone who calls him Wookie too, but doesn’t know where it comes from. Someone who might sit beside him on the floor, oblivious to the weight that name carries in that room. It’s not Taerae’s fault, of course. It’s not even about Taerae. That’s what makes it harder. Gunwook can’t fault him for stepping into a space he doesn’t know is sacred, and he can't warn him without unravelling a truth he’s barely admitted to himself.

So he leans into the grin, into the ease of the moment, telling himself it’s fine. That it won’t matter. That this is just another night, another hangout, another step forward. But somewhere deep down, buried beneath all the denial and distractions, something starts to ache. Something like guilt and longing. Something like the quiet, unbearable truth that maybe he’s only just starting to figure out who he is, and the fact that maybe, he’s already too late.

He reaches for his phone without really thinking, thumb hovering over the group chat before he can talk himself out of it. The group’s last few messages are nonsense; Hanbin arguing with Hao about how durians don’t count as a gift and Ricky sending blurry photos of something suspiciously green and definitely inedible. Gunwook hesitates, rereading their banter with a half-smile, then types out a casual text.

binneul’s babies 👨‍🍼👶🐣

btw
is it cool if i bring a friend with me tomorrow?

shen gyuvin: ???
shen gyuvin: what friend???
kim ricky: ugh don’t tell me you’re bringing a fucking hookup
hanbin hyung: nah there’s no way
hao hyung: ofc you can!! yay new friends!

okay then haha
just wanted to make sure it’s okay
@my mashu hyungie💛🦊 it’s cool with you too right?

my mashu hyungie💛🦊: yeah ofc
hao hyung: what does he like? is he allergic to anything?
hao hyung: where are we hosting? matthew’s or ours?
my mashu hyungie💛🦊: i’m fine with anything
hao hyung: let’s do it at our place, i’ll cook!!
my mashu hyungie💛🦊: okay
kim ricky: okay
shen gyuvin: OKAY YAY SEE YOU AND YOUR NEW FRIEND GEON!!!

see you guys

Gunwook tries not to let it bother him when Matthew’s response to his text is short. There’s no warmth in it, no sign of any real interest or curiosity about who he’s bringing. The part of Gunwook that wants to hold onto that old closeness, the one that used to find comfort in their easy banter and inside jokes, tightens uncomfortably in his chest. He tries to brush it off, telling himself it’s just the way things are now, that he should feel grateful the elder is even still talking to him. Matthew’s been like this for weeks; interacting with him while still being distant and reserved, and Gunwook is supposed to be used to it by now. He isn’t, though. It still stings, a constant reminder that the friendship he once took for granted is now a fragile thing, teetering on the edge of something far more uncertain.

But then there's this strange, almost childish part of him that wants to make Matthew feel something. He’s not sure what it is – some mix of guilt and spite, or maybe something deeper he’s not ready to admit – but when he reads Matthew’s message, his stomach twists in a way he doesn’t want to acknowledge. He wants Matthew to care. He wants him to be bothered by the fact that Gunwook is bringing someone new into their space. He wants Matthew to feel possessive, to show that he’s not completely indifferent. The thought makes his heart race with a mix of frustration and confusion, but Gunwook quickly pushes it away. It’s ridiculous. Matthew has every right to be distant, to not care anymore. He’s not entitled to Matthew’s feelings, not when he’s the one who’s been so careless with them in the past.

Gunwook sighs, leaning back against his bed and staring at his phone screen. He has no reason to expect Matthew to be jealous, to suddenly flip a switch and act like nothing’s changed. The whole situation feels unfair, like he’s the one setting himself up for disappointment. Despite himself, a part of him holds onto that tiny thread of hope that Matthew will finally snap out of whatever funk he’s been in. He doesn’t know why he even wants that. It’s not like he’s asking for some grand romantic gesture, but the silence between them, the cold indifference, is almost worse than the anger or the hurt. He’s not sure what’s more painful; the distance between them or the fact that he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Either way, Gunwook knows he’ll have to see what happens tomorrow during the hangout. He can’t keep overthinking it, can’t keep playing the scenario over and over in his mind like he has some sort of control over it. The group will be there, Taerae included, and whatever happens, happens.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew hears the knock just as Gyuvin’s latest outburst drowns out the sharp clang of a Mario Kart crash. He doesn’t move. He stays exactly where he is; leaned against the kitchen counter, thumbs dragging over his phone screen like he hasn’t just checked the time for the third time in five minutes. Like he hasn’t been half-listening for that knock since Hao offered to host tonight’s hangout. Like he doesn’t care.

There’s a rustle at the door. Hanbin’s voice, bright, casual, and welcoming, and then footsteps. Two sets; one heavier, steady, familiar in a way that makes Matthew’s shoulders instinctively stiffen. The other set is lighter, a bounce to the stride that’s immediately noticeable. Brighter somehow, and less weighed down. Matthew doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Gunwook, and he doesn’t want to look up, not yet. He tells himself he’s doing it for the sake of indifference. That it’s just a coincidence, the way he happens to be scrolling through nothing. That it’s not petty. That it’s not personal.

Then he hears Gunwook's voice; soft, almost sheepish. “This is Taerae hyung. He’s a… new friend of mine.” The pause before friend snags Matthew’s attention like a hook in his side. It’s not a long pause, not obvious, but it’s there. Just enough space to make the word feel wrong in Gunwook’s mouth. Like he doesn’t know what to call him, or doesn’t want to admit it.

Matthew finally lifts his gaze, more curious than he means to be and his breath catches. Not because Taerae is particularly striking or loud or unexpected, but because for a disorienting second, Matthew feels like he’s looking at a different version of himself. Not a perfect mirror, but close. Close enough to make something cold curl in his gut. The same slim frame, the same casual slouch of someone who knows exactly how to hold their own in a room. Even the way Taerae stands next to Gunwook feels familiar, comfortably close. Like someone who knows they’re allowed to be there.

Matthew watches Gunwook shrug off his jacket with a practiced movement, sees the way Taerae automatically steps in to take it from him without being asked. Their shoulders brush. Gunwook doesn’t flinch or shift away. Taerae says something too low for Matthew to catch, and Gunwook laughs, real and easy. It’s a sound Matthew hasn’t heard from him in weeks. He doesn’t know what Taerae said, but he knows that tone, knows that laugh. He used to be the reason for it.

Taerae leans in just slightly as they speak, his voice light, animated. Gunwook’s head tilts toward him like a magnet, mouth tugging up at one corner. It’s an unconscious motion, the kind people make when they’re used to each other. When they share the same rhythm. Matthew’s chest pulls tight. Not with jealousy, exactly. It’s something quieter than that. More hollow. Like watching a scene he remembers all too well being rewritten with someone else in his place.

He looks away before either of them can catch him staring. Pretends the sharp twist in his stomach is nothing. Just hunger or caffeine withdrawal, but the truth sits heavy in his chest. There was a time – not long ago – when it had been him standing beside Gunwook like that. When he hadn’t even had to think about the space between them, because there hadn’t been any. When their closeness hadn’t needed explanation. Now, Matthew is watching from across the room like a stranger, and the person who used to see him better than anyone is laughing like he’s already found someone new to replace him.

Gunwook’s voice lifts over the hum of background noise, casual but warm. “Hyung, this is… well, everyone.” he says, guiding him forward with a hand lightly placed between his shoulder blades. 

There’s a low ripple of greetings. Hanbin is the first to grin and reach out for a fist bump, as always the designated welcoming committee. Gyuvin throws out a dramatic wave from where he’s half-curled on the floor with a controller, still locked in a heated race with Ricky. Jiwoong offers a soft smile and a polite nod. And Matthew? Matthew still doesn’t look. He tips his drink to his lips, even though it’s already empty, nodding along to whatever Jiwoong just said, pretending he heard it.

But he’s listening. God, of course he is.

He hears Gunwook’s voice move around the room, animated now, a little more sure of itself than when they first came in. He introduces Taerae one by one, giving off bits of detail, “Taerae’s a music major too… met in a composition class… he’s got this insane ear for melody, seriously…” It’s strange, hearing Gunwook talk about someone new like that; like he’s proud, like he wants them all to like him.

Matthew’s eyes stay trained on Jiwoong – kind, familiar Jiwoong, who’s asking him something about the new cafe by campus – but his focus is split, cracked clean down the middle. One half of him nods and hums in agreement, while the other half trails behind Gunwook and Taerae as they move through the room, like he’s got a wire in his chest pulling him along whether he likes it or not. Then all of a sudden they’re there, right in front of him.

He glances up a beat too late, just in time to find Gunwook already looking at him, expression unreadable. “This is Matthew hyung,” Gunwook says simply. No qualifiers. No joke to soften the edges. Just his name, laid bare. Matthew pushes a smile onto his face with all the strength of a well-trained reflex.

“Hey Taerae,” he says, casual, cheerful even, the way he always is when meeting someone new. He extends his hand without hesitation. “Nice to meet you.”

It’s almost convincing.

But then Taerae takes his hand with a firm grip and a glint in his eye that sends a bolt of unease down Matthew’s spine. His smile is friendly, but it holds something else; something just a little too knowing, a little too sharp. “Ohh,” Taerae says slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly, like he’s just solved a puzzle. “So you’re Matthew.”

The way he says it; it’s not dramatic, not confrontational. It’s light, but it lands like a pin dropped in a silent room. Matthew’s smile doesn’t falter, but it wavers at the edges, and he knows it. He can feel the heat touch the back of his neck, the sudden rush of blood behind his ears. 

“Guilty,” he says with a soft laugh, masking the thrum in his chest. “You’ve heard about me?”

Taerae just smiles, enigmatic, and lets go of his hand. “Well,” he says, and his eyes flick toward Gunwook before returning to Matthew. “Something like that.”

Matthew’s stomach tightens, but his grin holds. Barely. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but no one has to know that. Matthew sits down, eyes tracking the two of them as they move through the room. Gunwook doesn’t drift far from Taerae, doesn’t act like someone who just brought a friend along to hang out. There’s something easy in the way they move together; synchronised, natural. Like they’ve shared more than just a few late-night conversations. Like there’s history. Intimacy. Matthew knows that body language. He used to be part of it.

That’s what stings the most, the familiarity. The way Gunwook used to lean into him like that. The way they used to laugh, the private jokes, the unspoken understanding. For a moment, watching Taerae bump Gunwook’s shoulder with a smirk, Matthew feels like he’s watching a memory that doesn’t belong to him anymore. It’s like seeing a scene from his own life acted out by strangers.

He turns his attention back to the others, tries to pretend he doesn’t notice when Gunwook keeps looking over, but it’s impossible not to feel it; the shift. The absence of what used to be. Matthew laughs when he’s supposed to, nods when Jiwoong says something quiet against his ear, but his focus keeps slipping, because every time he glances up, he sees Gunwook’s eyes crinkling at something Taerae said. Sees that stupid fondness that used to be for him.

And for all his attempts to move on, for all the ways he’s tried to convince himself it doesn’t matter, something in him aches. Not with jealousy exactly, but something quieter, deeper. Like grief. Like watching someone take your place without even realising you’d left.

Matthew retreats to the kitchen not long after, claiming he’s refilling his drink, but really he just needs space, needs a moment to breathe. From the corner of his eye, he watches them. Gunwook and Taerae. The way they talk close, heads tilted in towards each other, like the rest of the world doesn’t quite matter, and it’s not like Gunwook doesn’t have other friends. He does. But Matthew’s seen how he is with them; how he keeps a certain distance, all rough charm and loud energy, never quite soft. Never like this .

It’s that softness that gets to him. The quiet attention, the way Gunwook leans down slightly to hear Taerae better even though the room isn’t that loud. The way Taerae bumps Gunwook’s arm and Gunwook grins like it’s the funniest thing that’s happened all day. It’s familiar, uncomfortably so. Matthew has seen that smile. He’s made Gunwook laugh like that. He’s stood that close, with barely an inch between them, and never questioned it.

Gunwook doesn’t act like this with anyone else. He doesn’t hover like that. Doesn’t let people into his space so easily, not even the others in their group. Except Matthew. Always Matthew. For as long as he can remember, there’s been an unspoken rhythm between them, an ease that came without asking. Now, seeing it mirrored with someone new, something about it feels off. Like Gunwook’s rewritten their story with another name.

He tries to shake the thought, tells himself he’s imagining it, reading too much into it, but when Taerae’s hand brushes Gunwook’s arm again – and lingers this time – and Gunwook doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, Matthew knows it’s not in his head. There’s something about their body language. The comfort, the quiet understanding in their glances. They move around each other like two people used to being connected. Not just friends. Something more. Something that reminds him of Hanbin and Hao; their kind of closeness, the type that makes you look away because you feel like you’re intruding on something sacred.

The irony tastes bitter. For all the time Gunwook spent brushing off Matthew’s closeness – never fully acknowledging it, never naming it – now here he is, doing the same things with Taerae like it’s nothing, like it’s always been allowed. That’s what stings the most. Not just the intimacy, but the ease of it. Like Gunwook doesn’t even realise how differently he treats him now. 

He sips his drink, the taste gone flat, and keeps his expression neutral. Jiwoong says something from beside him, maybe trying to pull him back into the moment, but it’s background noise now. All he can focus on is Gunwook’s voice, warm and low, murmuring something into Taerae’s ear. Something that makes Taerae smile, genuine and bright, and then nudge him playfully. It’s the same way Matthew used to laugh. The same way he used to lean in.

Maybe that’s what’s bothering him. It’s not just that Gunwook is acting different. It’s that he’s acting exactly the same. The same as he did with Matthew. All the little things – tilts of the head, quiet words, light touches – they were never casual. Matthew had thought they were special. Thought they meant something, even when Gunwook wouldn’t say it. And now… now he’s watching Gunwook give all of that away like it’s nothing, to some he’s barely known. Matthew forces himself to laugh at something Jiwoong says, but it comes out too late, too hollow. He doesn’t want to admit it hurts. That it feels like he’s watching someone else wear his skin. 

He tells himself he has no right to be bitter. He was the one who pushed Gunwook away – he knows that. But in his own defense, how could he not? Gunwook had been drunk, clumsy, and loud that night, stumbling into his apartment with rain-slicked hair and lips that found Matthew’s before either of them could make sense of it. And then he’d said it, slurred and stupid and unforgettable, I wish you were a girl. Matthew can’t unhear it. Can’t scrub it out of his memory no matter how hard he tries. So he did what he had to; he put up walls, drew lines, pulled back from the one person who made him feel everything too sharply. Because anything was better than being a mistake, a substitute, a stand-in for someone Gunwook could want without shame. Matthew thought keeping his distance would save them both, but he never expected this. He never thought Gunwook would just… give up. Would move on like it meant nothing. Like Matthew meant nothing.

Because Taerae isn’t just anyone. He’s eerily close to being a version of Matthew; same height, same build, same quiet way of smiling like he’s holding back a hundred thoughts. They even stand the same, a little slouched at the shoulders, like they’re used to shrinking into the background. It’s unsettling. Like watching someone else step into his place. Someone who doesn’t flinch. Someone who lets Gunwook in. And Gunwook, for his part, just follows the rhythm like he’s done it before – and he has done it before. With him.

It’s not the fact that Gunwook found someone else. It’s who he found. It’s how. The way he laughs with Taerae, low and fond. The way he lets Taerae tug on his sleeve, lean in too close, whisper something in his ear. It’s exactly what they used to do. Those little habits, the unspoken permissions between them, the casual touches that always lingered just a bit too long. They weren’t just friendship. Matthew knows they weren’t. So how can Gunwook copy and paste all of that onto someone else?

It makes Matthew feel like he’s losing his mind. Like maybe he was wrong this whole time. Maybe it was just friendship for Gunwook. Something repeatable. Replaceable. Something he could pull apart and hand off to the next boy who reminded him of Matthew. And Taerae… he fits too well. Too easily. Like he was made to slot into the space Matthew left behind.

It stings. More than Matthew wants to admit. Because if it was that easy for Gunwook to move on, maybe he never really cared the way Matthew thought he did. Maybe those glances, those moments they shared – Matthew clutching them like secrets – truly meant nothing. Or maybe they meant everything, and Gunwook got tired of waiting for Matthew to catch up. Tired of being pushed away, again and again, until someone else came along and let him be soft without question.

He hates the way his chest aches, how his throat feels too tight even though he hasn’t said a word. He’s never been the jealous type. Never let himself want anything too openly, but now, watching Gunwook smile like that, watching Taerae stand where he used to, something ugly coils in his stomach. He wants to look away, to pretend he doesn’t care, but he does. He does, and it’s written all over him, even if no one else sees it.

Matthew stares down into his drink, the fizz long gone, trying to will the bitterness away. It’s his fault. He knows it is, but that doesn’t make it easier to swallow. Doesn’t make it feel any less like a betrayal, even if Gunwook owes him nothing. He told himself it was for the best; stepping back, keeping Gunwook at arm’s length, but part of him always thought… maybe Gunwook would wait. Maybe he’d fight for them, even if Matthew never said the words. Maybe he wouldn’t let go so easily.

But he did, and Matthew’s left watching a new version of them take shape before his eyes, performed by someone else wearing his face.

Taerae slips into the group like he’s always belonged. It irritates Matthew more than he wants to admit, how effortless it is, how easily everyone welcomes him in. Within minutes, Taerae’s joking with Gyuvin, teasing Hao, laughing at Ricky’s terrible impressions. He even throws a few light jabs Hanbin’s way, which most people are too intimidated to do unless they’ve been around for months. Matthew watches it all unfold with the kind of detachment he’s perfected lately, arms folded, expression unreadable, but inside, his thoughts are loud.

The worst part of it all is that Taerae is charming. Matthew tries not to be swayed by it, but it’s hard when Taerae looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room, like he actually listens. Somewhere between Gyuvin’s overly dramatic reenactment of a Mario Kart crash and Hao threatening to revoke everyone’s snack privileges, Matthew finds himself laughing at something Taerae says. It’s a dumb joke, not even that clever, but the timing’s good and the grin Taerae flashes after is too disarming to ignore. For a few seconds, Matthew forgets to be on edge.

“So, is there like an initiation process to be part of this friend group?” Taerae asks, balancing a paper plate precariously in one hand while poking at a slice of tteokbokki with the other. “Or do I just keep showing up until everyone gives up and accepts me?”

Matthew doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting. “We usually make newcomers run a lap around the block in a hot dog costume.”

Taerae snorts. “Damn, you guys are more intense than I thought.”

Matthew finally glances his way. “You look like you’d actually do it.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d kill the hot dog strut,” Taerae replies without hesitation. “Bet I’d go viral.”

“You’d trip before you got out the door.”

“Only because you’d stick your foot out.”

Matthew shrugs innocently. “Who, me?”

“You’ve got that look, you know,” Taerae says, pointing his fork at him. “The silent menace vibe. Like the quiet guy in a high school drama who turns out to be secretly unhinged.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who showed up looking like Gunwook’s side character.”

“Please,” Taerae says with a grin. “If anything, he’s mine.”

That makes Matthew choke on his drink just slightly. He wipes his mouth and tries to hide the smile tugging at the corner of it. “You’re really full of yourself.”

“Confident,” Taerae corrects. “There’s a difference.”

Matthew shakes his head, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re weirdly fun for someone who clearly decided to hate me on sight.”

Matthew hums. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m frowning internally.”

Taerae grins wider. “Sure you are.”

For a second, Matthew forgets why he was supposed to keep his guard up. They’re bantering like old friends, easy and natural, with just enough sarcasm to keep it sharp. He doesn’t even notice how close they’ve leaned in, how much space they’ve carved out in the middle of the noise. It’s only when he catches Gunwook watching them from across the room, expression unreadable, that the moment cracks just slightly. 

Matthew straightens up, clears his throat, and says, “Go eat your food before Gyuvin steals it.”

Taerae only winks. “Yes, Captain.”

Before Taerae can fully retreat, Gyuvin wanders over, mouth already half-full of rice cake, and says with absolutely no awareness of the live wire he's about to touch, “You know, it makes sense Gunwook likes you. You’re basically Matthew hyung with a perm.”

The silence drops like a pin hitting ceramic.

Matthew blinks. Taerae freezes mid-step. Even Gyuvin, belatedly, seems to realise something’s off when the air around them doesn’t fill with laughter like he clearly expected.

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused. “It’s a compliment. You guys are, like, the same height and everything.”

Taerae recovers first, laughing just a beat too loud. “Guess that makes me the upgrade.”

Matthew forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite land. His gaze flickers to Gunwook again, whose jaw is visibly tight now, like he’s grinding his teeth behind the polite smile he’s trying to keep up.

Hanbin, bless him, senses the shift like a bloodhound. “Gyuvin, weren’t you just saying you wanted to challenge Hao to a rematch? You should drag Taerae in too. Three-way Mario Kart deathmatch. Make it happen.”

Gyuvin, happily distracted, brightens. “Oh yeah! Hyung, do you suck or do you secretly train in your spare time?”

“I was born drifting,” Taerae says, following him away.

Matthew stays rooted to the spot, still gripping his cup. The laughter resumes around him, the noise weaving itself back into place like nothing happened, but his stomach twists tight, because Gyuvin might be oblivious, but he wasn’t wrong.

He watches Taerae slide easily into the chaos, laughing like he’s always belonged. And for a second, Matthew wonders if that’s the whole point. If Gunwook didn’t just find someone similar, he found someone who could replace him.

Matthew busies himself with stacking empty cups near the sink, the clink of plastic against plastic grounding him in the moment. He wishes it would distract him from the sounds of the hangout, a steady stream of laughter and chatter coming from the living room. Taerae’s voice rises above the others, light and carefree, as though he’s been part of the group forever. It shouldn’t be there. Not when everything inside him is twisting, unraveling, and stretching thin. 

He doesn’t hear Gunwook enter at first. Not until the atmosphere shifts, just enough that it brushes against his skin. A quiet pressure in the air, like the space itself knows someone’s about to cross into it.

“Matthew hyung,” Gunwook says, his voice almost a whisper, something delicate about it, as though it’s not just a name but a fragile piece of glass. He doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds like someone Matthew doesn’t know anymore, but should.

Matthew doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to give Gunwook the satisfaction of catching him off guard. Instead, he focuses harder on scrubbing a cup that’s already clean, the cold water running in a steady stream over his fingers. “Kitchen’s off-limits unless you’re washing dishes,” he says, his tone light and nonchalant, like he’s used to this, like it doesn’t bother him. He can feel Gunwook’s presence now, so close it’s like a shadow pressing down on him, and it’s making him want to snap, to say something sharp just to push it away.

Gunwook exhales a soft, humourless laugh. “You always hide when you’re upset?”

“I’m not upset.”

“Then look at me.”

That makes Matthew pause. He places the cup down, carefully. Drags in a breath through his nose before finally turning around.

Gunwook’s standing closer than he expected, arms crossed, brow furrowed like he’s searching for the right words and keeps failing to find them. There’s frustration there. Matthew can’t tell if it’s aimed at him, or just leaking out of whatever unresolved thing they keep circling but never naming.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Gunwook says, his voice low, edged with something Matthew can’t quite place. Not frustration. More like... regret. Like there’s something left unsaid, something that’s been building between them for longer than Matthew’s willing to admit.

“Dangerous choice,” Matthew replies lightly, turning back towards the sink, giving the cup a quick rinse and setting it aside, the motion automatic. He can feel the weight of Gunwook’s gaze on him, even without looking, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

A beat passes before Gunwook moves closer, his footsteps barely audible on the tile floor. He doesn’t come right up to Matthew, just enough to exist at the edge of his awareness, like an unfamiliar scent that won’t leave. Close enough to make Matthew feel it, but far enough to leave room for whatever it is between them.

“It’s not like that with him,” Gunwook says, as if reading Matthew’s thoughts, or maybe just anticipating them.

Matthew’s hand freezes for a second, his knuckles brushing the smooth surface of the sink before he continues rinsing the cup. He doesn’t let himself react. “Didn’t ask,” he mutters, trying to sound indifferent. He can’t let this – whatever this is – get to him. 

Gunwook hesitates, the quiet stretching between them, and then he continues, almost as if the words are too heavy for him. “I saw your face. Earlier. When Gyuvin said that thing… and when Taerae hyung said that other thing.”

Matthew lets out a small, bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. Gyuvin’s not exactly known for reading the room, and as for Taerae, well… it’s whatever.”

Gunwook doesn’t respond with a joke. He doesn’t even look amused. His voice is soft, sincere in a way that Matthew doesn’t want to hear. “He’s not your upgrade. Or replacement. Or whatever you’re thinking.”

The words hit Matthew like a cold wave, and for the briefest moment, his hands stop moving. 

Gunwook’s voice softens again, almost too quiet for the space between them. “No one could ever replace you,” he says, the words drawn out, like they’ve been waiting for so long to be said. “You’re… it for me. You always have been.”

There’s something fragile about the way Gunwook says it, like it’s a confession, like it might shatter if Matthew breathes wrong. The words land with a heavy thud in Matthew’s chest, the impact knocking the air out of him. It’s not enough, but still, it cuts through everything, leaving him breathless for a moment. He swallows, forcing the lump in his throat down, and manages a small scoff. “You’re being dramatic,” he says, his voice flat, not wanting to give the words any more power than they deserve.

“I’m being honest,” Gunwook says, and this time, it’s not an accusation; it’s a simple, sad fact. He’s not looking for Matthew’s approval anymore. He’s just saying what’s been on his mind.

Matthew rolls his eyes, even though it doesn’t help. He shrugs, pretending like it’s no big deal. “Well, congrats on your personal growth,” he mutters, trying to brush it off. He can’t afford to let this in. 

But even as the words leave his mouth, he can feel the truth in them, in the tightness in his chest, in the way his heart races just a little bit faster every time Gunwook speaks like that. Why does he always do this? Why does he always say the things that make Matthew think that maybe, just maybe, he might feel the same?

Matthew turns away slightly, his back to Gunwook now, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter a little too tightly. “You should get back to your friend,” he says, trying to sound casual, like none of this matters.

Gunwook lingers a moment longer, like he’s waiting for something; an answer, maybe, or an invitation to stay, but there’s nothing left to say. 

“Yeah. Okay,” Gunwook says finally, and it’s not like the usual easy agreement between them. It’s softer, quieter, more uncertain. He doesn’t wait for Matthew to say anything else before stepping back, retreating without another word.

The silence in the kitchen feels heavier now, the space between them palpable, like an invisible thread stretching too thin. Matthew exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He feels like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

Alone again, he stares at the sink for a moment, the water still running, the noise almost too loud now. The smile that had crept up earlier, the one that shouldn’t have been there, has long since faded. And in its place, there’s only a hollow ache. Because Gunwook’s words, as easy as they sound, have the weight of a thousand unsaid things, and Matthew knows, no matter how much he wants to pretend otherwise, that this – this moment, this feeling – has never really gone away. It’s just been waiting for the right moment to break free.

Matthew takes a deep breath, as if he’s trying to exhale all the tension that’s been building up in his chest, and finally walks back into the living room. The noise of the room hits him instantly; the sound of them talking, laughing, the familiar crackle of a video game on the TV. His gaze immediately lands on Taerae and Gyuvin, still deep in their Mario Kart battle, the intense focus on their faces making Matthew almost smile. It’s such a stupid thing, a stupid game, but it’s nice to see that despite everything, some things haven’t changed.

He spots Jiwoong sitting casually on the couch, flipping through his phone with one leg crossed over the other. The space next to him is empty. For a moment, Matthew’s eyes flicker to Gunwook, who’s still standing near the kitchen doorway, talking quietly with Hao, probably trying to escape the tension of earlier. A strange feeling grips his chest; a mix of frustration and something darker, something he doesn't want to name.

Without thinking much more about it, Matthew strides over to Jiwoong, putting on the most exaggerated swagger he can muster. He glances over at Gunwook one last time – just to make sure – before purposefully lowering himself onto Jiwoong’s lap with a theatrical sigh, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The action is swift and deliberate, not leaving any room for hesitation. He settles in comfortably, pressing himself against Jiwoong’s chest with a playful smirk.

“Sorry,” Matthew says loudly, barely suppressing the grin that tugs at his lips, “but this seat is taken now.”

Jiwoong looks at him, wide-eyed for a moment, clearly taken by surprise. Then he lets out a laugh, clearly not minding the sudden intrusion, his arms coming up to loosely wrap around Matthew’s waist. “Guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Matthew kisses the side of his neck – slow and teasing, a bit over the top – and purposely tilts his head just so to make sure Gunwook can see, can notice. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, why he’s making such a show of it. Maybe it’s the spite that’s bubbling up inside him, the frustration of Gunwook so easily saying things that make his heart flutter, things that Matthew can never fully take in because they’re followed by the same cold distance. Maybe it’s because he’s tired of always being the one left behind, of always being the one who has to hide how much it hurts.

Just as Matthew is about to lean back into his little charade with Jiwoong, Taerae calls out from the other side of the room, his voice light and teasing. “Wookie, come join us for 3-player mode!”

Matthew's question slips out before he can stop it, “Wookie?” 

He’s not sure why he said it; maybe it’s the way the nickname rolls off Taerae’s tongue so casually, or the way Gunwook reacts to it, something about the whole thing feeling... off. His eyes flicker to Gunwook, trying to gauge his reaction, but he can’t read him in the moment, the sudden tightness in his chest making it harder to focus.

Taerae doesn’t even seem to notice the tension. He just grins and shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah, it’s my nickname for him,” he says, voice light and easy. The way he says it makes it sound so normal, like it’s something they’ve been doing for years, but the mention of ‘Wookie’ sends a sharp sting through Matthew’s chest, and he has to bite back the urge to snap.

Before he can collect himself, Gyuvin – ever the oblivious one – adds fuel to the fire. “Oh my god, you’re literally Matthew hyung’s carbon copy,” he says, laughing lightly, like it’s a joke, but Matthew’s stomach lurches, and his hand freezes where it’s gripping the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling too tight.

He can feel the weight of everyone’s attention now, but it’s Gunwook who’s on his mind. Gunwook’s gaze has shifted slightly, and Matthew doesn’t need to look at him to know it’s there; his eyes, unreadable but focused on him. The subtle way Gunwook tenses, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t even need to say anything. Matthew can feel it. The discomfort, the unsaid words.

It’s as if Gunwook can’t get far enough away from the conversation fast enough, but there’s a flicker of something in the air. A sense of distance, of something lost. The words Gyuvin said hang in the air longer than they should, settling like a weight in Matthew’s stomach. He shifts in Jiwoong’s lap, suddenly uncomfortable, but he doesn’t look away from Gunwook, doesn’t break the silent connection that still lingers between them.

For a second, he wonders if Gunwook knows how much it hurts, how much it always hurts. How it stings to hear someone else use that nickname, to watch Gunwook smile at someone else the way he used to smile at him. Matthew wants to brush it off, pretend like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t matter, but it does, it really does.

Then there’s a shift. Gunwook’s gaze flickers toward Taerae, and for a moment, Matthew is left alone with his thoughts, the sharp ache in his chest growing. Taerae is laughing, carefree and loud, and Gunwook’s focus is back on the game, but it’s like everything in the room is too quiet now, like the volume’s been turned down on everything except the way Matthew’s heart is hammering in his chest.

He feels like he’s drowning in the noise of his own thoughts.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, Gunwook doesn’t even look at him again, not once, not after Matthew’s question. It’s like it didn’t even matter to him, like the whole thing didn’t matter at all, and Matthew is left wondering why Gunwook keeps saying these things like what he said in the kitchen; why he keeps giving him these little moments, these little tugs at his heart, and then just walking away, leaving Matthew standing there, high and dry.

Matthew forces a smile onto his face, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and tries to focus on the game. But it’s hard. It's really hard when all he can think about is how it feels to see Gunwook so effortlessly happy with someone else.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook follows Taerae into his apartment, his mind still foggy from the night, from everything that had happened at Matthew’s place. It’s quieter now, the noise of the party fading as the door closes behind him. He doesn’t feel like talking, doesn’t feel like anything really, but Taerae’s presence, that endless energy of his, fills the space, drawing Gunwook in whether he wants it or not.

They settle on the couch, and Taerae’s not letting up, always too sharp for Gunwook’s comfort. He thinks about how easy it is to fall into this pattern with Taerae; how they joke, how they fuck, how everything about this arrangement should make him feel lighter, easier. But all he can think about is how Matthew’s eyes had stayed on him earlier. How everything with Matthew always feels... complicated.

“So it’s him, huh?” Taerae’s voice cuts through his thoughts, soft but probing, like he’s been waiting for the right moment to say it.

Gunwook frowns, trying to ignore the way his chest tightens at the question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, but even he knows it sounds weak, uncertain.

Taerae just shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “No wonder you picked me that night at the bar,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms as if he’s already figured it out. But Gunwook’s not ready to admit anything, not to him, not to anyone.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gunwook says, and he feels the lie settle in his gut, sharp and sour. He can feel Taerae’s eyes on him, waiting, like he’s just biding his time.

Taerae’s smirk doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens. “Oh, come on,” he says, leaning forward now, dropping his voice to a quieter, almost teasing tone. “Don’t tell me you don’t realise you moan out ‘Mae–’ all the time before you correct yourself to say ‘Taerae’ whenever we fuck.”

Gunwook freezes, the words slicing through him like a cold knife. His throat tightens, and for a second, he can’t breathe. The worst part is, he knows Taerae’s right. He has done it. He’s caught himself mid-groan too many times to ignore it. But hearing it out loud, hearing Taerae call it out like this, makes him feel like he’s been caught in a lie he didn’t even want to tell.

“Shut up,” Gunwook mutters, swallowing hard as the tension in his body spikes. His eyes flicker away, his heart hammering in his chest, but he doesn’t want to face the truth. Not yet. Not here.

“I’ve been dying to know who this mysterious ‘Mae’ is,” Taerae continues, his tone playful, but there’s an edge to it now, something cutting. “And then I meet sweet little Matthew. And Gyuvin was right, wasn’t he? I’m literally his carbon copy.” Taerae’s grin widens, and there’s a hint of mockery in his voice as he leans in even closer. “Is that why you tell me to call you ‘Wookie’ in bed? So you can pretend it’s him?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and loaded, and Gunwook’s chest tightens at the insinuation. His pulse spikes, and for a split second, he almost wants to lash out. He almost wants to yell, to make it stop, to make Taerae take it all back. But he doesn’t.

“I said shut up,” Gunwook repeats, his voice a little weaker now, a little more desperate.

Taerae watches him closely, an almost smug satisfaction curling the edges of his lips. “Come on,” he presses, a teasing edge to his voice, “You’re not fooling anyone, Wook. I can see it in your face.”

Gunwook doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to explain the mess of feelings inside him. Because the truth is, Taerae’s right. Everything has been wrong for a while now, and it’s not just about Taerae or the nights they share. It’s about Matthew, it’s always been about Matthew, even if Gunwook doesn’t want to admit it to himself, let alone anyone else.

“I’m not...” Gunwook starts, but the words catch in his throat. What is he supposed to say? That everything feels different with Matthew now? That every time he sees him, it’s like a goddamn ache he can’t shake off? It’s too complicated, too messy, and Taerae isn’t the person he wants to confess this to.

“You don’t have to say it,” Taerae says, voice softer now, almost knowing. “But I can tell, Wook. I can see it in the way you’re always looking at him. Hell, I noticed it the moment we started messing around. It’s not just about me, is it? You’re just filling the space. He’s the one you’re still thinking about.”

Gunwook’s stomach churns. He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to face it, but the words settle in his chest like a heavy weight. There’s too much truth in them, too much clarity, and it makes him want to run. He feels exposed, like Taerae can see right through him, and it’s too fucking much.

“I’m not thinking about him,” Gunwook says, but even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re a lie.

Taerae doesn’t press any further. Instead, he leans back, his gaze turning thoughtful, almost amused. “Alright, Wook,” he says softly. “But you know I’m not wrong.”

Gunwook doesn’t reply. He just stares down at his hands, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him. The laughter, the lightness, the freedom of the night... it all feels so far away now.

Taerae’s right. Maybe he is fooling himself.

Gunwook doesn’t move for a long while. Just sits there, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the muted television screen like it might give him something; clarity, maybe, or an answer. It doesn’t. His head’s too noisy, thoughts clashing like thunder. Static under his skin. The images on the screen blur in and out of focus, a mess of colour and motion that only reminds him of how chaotic everything feels inside.

Taerae’s still sprawled out on the couch beside him, one leg hooked over the armrest, thumb lazily clicking through channels like he’s watching paint dry. There’s no tension between them, no awkward air to cut through. That’s one thing about Taerae, he never pushes. Doesn’t ask for more than Gunwook can give. It’s what made him easy to fall into bed with, and easier still to keep around after.

“I think I messed things up with him,” Gunwook says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. The words come quiet, like they’ve been sitting on his chest for too long, pressing into his ribs every time he tries to breathe.

Taerae looks over without lifting his head. “Matthew?”

Gunwook nods, mouth tightening like he’s physically holding back the rest. “I don’t even know how. Like– I mean, I know I did, I just… I don’t remember what happened that night.” He exhales harshly, runs a hand through his hair. “I was drunk. I woke up in his bed, my head was fucking killing me, and he looked at me like– like I’d broken something we couldn’t glue back together.”

Taerae pauses on a channel for a second, then mutes it, turning his full attention toward him. “And you don’t remember anything?”

“Bits,” Gunwook admits. “I remember the rain. I remember shouting his name outside his building. I remember needing to see him, like I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t. But after that?” He shakes his head slowly. “Nothing. Just a blackout and this awful weight in my chest. Like something happened and no one’s telling me what. Like I hurt him and I don’t even know how.”

Taerae doesn’t speak right away. He lets the silence settle, not heavy, just present. Then, with a tone that’s more thoughtful than accusing, he says, “You think something happened between you two?”

Gunwook doesn’t answer at first. He just stares at the floor, jaw tight, hands clenched loosely between his knees. “I don’t know,” he says eventually. “I don’t know what I said. Or did. But it must’ve been bad. He looked at me like he didn’t know me anymore. Like he didn’t want to. Like I was someone else.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s like…” Gunwook trails off, swallows hard. “He’s trying to move on. And I can’t even blame him.”

Taerae’s brow arches faintly. “Is that why you’ve been acting like a ghost lately? All broody and silent and staring off into the middle distance like you’re in a drama?”

Gunwook huffs a laugh, but it’s hollow. “Well, that and realising I might like him. Too late, of course. Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t completely fuck it all up before figuring out my own feelings.”

Taerae drops the remote, finally sitting upright and facing him properly. “So you do like him.”

Gunwook lets out a breath like it hurts. “I think I always did. I just… I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was friendship. You know, protectiveness, loyalty, whatever. I thought I was just being a good friend. But it wasn’t. It was something else. And now, seeing him with Jiwoong again, watching him smile at someone else like that…” He swallows thickly, his voice going low. “It’s like someone’s squeezing my heart every time.”

There’s a beat of quiet, and then Taerae lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s rough.”

“Yeah.” Gunwook leans back, resting his head against the edge of the couch. “And I can’t even tell him. Not when I don’t know what I did. Not when he might hate me.”

Taerae’s quiet again, watching him. Then he says, almost too casually, “Well, at least now I know who ‘Mae’ is.”

Gunwook groans, dragging a pillow over his face like he can disappear. “Please shut up.”

“Nope. You’re emotionally compromised, which makes this prime teasing territory.”

“Literally kill me.”

Taerae laughs, light and easy, nudging Gunwook’s leg with his foot. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I don’t mind. I always figured you were fucking someone else in your head half the time. Doesn’t bother me. We both got what we wanted.”

Gunwook peeks out from under the pillow. “You’re a dick.”

“Yeah,” Taerae says with a grin, “but I’m a dick who’s actually kinda proud of you. You figuring out you like a guy? Especially that guy? Big growth moment, Wook.”

Gunwook doesn’t respond right away. He just sits there, letting the words settle around him. Something inside him aches; guilt, maybe, or regret. Or that familiar hollow space where Matthew used to be.

“Do you think he’d forgive me?” he asks, voice small. “If I tried to fix it. Even if I don’t remember?”

Taerae leans back again, gaze drifting back to the TV. “I think he’s already trying to move on, so… if you want a shot, you’ve gotta stop sulking and do something about it.”

“He was in love with me,” Gunwook says quietly, not looking up. “Matthew.”

Taerae blinks, then raises an eyebrow. “You think?”

“No,” Gunwook mutters. “I know. Ricky told me.”

Taerae sets his phone down, properly now. “Ricky told you Matthew was in love with you?”

Gunwook nods once. “Apparently everyone knew. Except me. I was so fucking blind to it.”

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “And I was such an asshole about it too. I’d hook up with people, brag about it to him like it was no big deal, and he’d sit there and smile like it didn’t tear him up. I didn’t even think about how much it must’ve hurt.”

Taerae doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just watches him. Then, dryly, “And now you’re doing the same thing with me.”

Gunwook stiffens, eyes flicking over in surprise. “No, it’s not the same– he’s moved on. He’s with Jiwoong now.”

Taerae lets out a low, incredulous laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

Gunwook frowns. “What?”

“No, like, actually. You’re so dense it physically hurts me,” Taerae says, sitting up a bit more. “He’s not over you, Gunwook. Not even close.”

Gunwook scoffs under his breath. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how he looked at Jiwoong. Like he–”

“Like he what?” Taerae cuts in. “Like he was trying really, really hard to feel something he doesn’t?”

Gunwook pauses.

“Maybe I wasn’t there when everything went down, but I have seen how he looks at you,” Taerae continues. “Especially when you’re not looking back. He’s got this... heartbreak-eyes thing going on. And when I got too close to you– God, the glare he gave me? I thought he was going to manifest psychic powers and launch me into traffic.”

Gunwook blinks, unsure whether to laugh or not. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Taerae says with a pointed look. “He looked ready to throw hands when I called you Wookie in front of him. His face did that twitchy thing people get when they’re trying not to cry in public.”

Gunwook winces. “Fuck.”

Taerae huffs. “Exactly. He’s not in love with Jiwoong. He’s trying to be. There’s a difference.”

Gunwook lets his head fall back against the sofa. “So what, I’ve messed him up twice now?”

“Not necessarily,” Taerae says. “But you’ve definitely got some soul-searching to do. Maybe an apology or two.”

Gunwook is quiet for a while. Then, low and bitter, “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t even know I could. He was just… always there, you know? My best friend. I didn’t think– I didn’t realise.”

“But you do now.”

“Yeah,” Gunwook says, voice tight. “Yeah, I do.”

Taerae nudges his knee against Gunwook’s. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Gunwook admits. “What can I do? He’s already trying to move on. I don’t want to drag him back into more of my mess.”

“You sure about that?” Taerae asks. “Because it kind of looks like he’s waiting for you to stop being an idiot and finally see him.”

Gunwook turns his head, frowning. “Why do you even care?”

Taerae shrugs. “I don’t. Not like that, anyway. But you clearly do. And honestly? I think he deserves more than to be your ghost story.”

Gunwook goes quiet again. The room feels heavier than it did before, the silence more weighted.

“I keep wondering,” he says slowly, “if I’d realised earlier… if I hadn’t been such a fucking coward about my own feelings…”

Taerae cuts in gently, “You can’t rewrite the past. But you can stop repeating it.”

Gunwook huffs out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “God, when did you get all wise?”

“Probably around the time I became your unofficial therapist,” Taerae smirks. “Don’t worry, I’ll start charging you soon.”

Gunwook lets out a real laugh this time. Still, the ache in his chest doesn’t lift.

He tips his head back again, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “What if I already missed my chance?”

Taerae nudges him again. “Then you find another way. But for what it’s worth?” He pauses. “I don’t think he’s gone. Not yet.”

And for the first time in days, Gunwook lets himself hope. Just a little.

Gunwook doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares blankly ahead, the muted flicker of the television painting his features in soft blues and greys. His chest feels too tight, like the weight of everything he’s tried to ignore is finally settling in all at once, and the worst part is Taerae’s right. Matthew is slipping away. Bit by bit, day by day, and Gunwook’s been standing still, frozen in place, too scared to chase after him.

“I don’t know how to even start,” he says eventually, voice rough with something that sounds dangerously close to defeat. “I don’t remember what happened, I don’t know what I said, and he won’t talk to me. Not really. I mean, he’s civil, but it’s like… he’s guarding himself. Like I’m someone he’s trying not to get hurt by again.”

“Then you apologise anyway,” Taerae replies, easy like it’s obvious. “Even if you don’t know exactly what for. Tell him you were drunk. That you don’t remember. That you’re sorry for whatever it was, and that you miss him.”

Gunwook shakes his head, eyes shutting. “What if that’s not enough?”

“Then it’s not,” Taerae shrugs. “But at least you tried. At least you gave him the choice.”

Gunwook chews the inside of his cheek. “You ever say something you didn’t mean when you were drunk?”

Taerae snorts. “Wook, I once told the cashier at a GS25 I’d marry her if she let me buy soju past curfew. So yeah.”

Gunwook actually laughs at that, short and sudden, caught off guard by the absurdity. It fades quick, but for a second, he’s lighter. “This is different.”

“I know,” Taerae says, more serious now. “But drunk thoughts aren’t always just drunk thoughts. Sometimes they’re the things we’re too afraid to say sober.”

Gunwook looks down at his hands. “You think I kissed him?”

Taerae’s eyes flick up, watching him carefully. “Do you think you did?”

“I don’t know,” Gunwook admits. “But it feels like something I’d do. I was a mess that night. I remember feeling like I was going to lose him. Like everything was slipping through my fingers and I couldn’t hold on.” He exhales. “Maybe I said something. Maybe I… tried something.”

Taerae raises a brow. “You think he’d be that upset over just a kiss?”

Gunwook doesn’t answer immediately. He turns the question over in his mind. Then, quietly, “If he thought it meant nothing to me… yeah.”

And there it is; the truth, sharp and painful. Matthew would be hurt if Gunwook kissed him without meaning it. Without being ready to stand by it. Without knowing why. That’s what makes Gunwook’s stomach twist; the idea that he might’ve taken something precious and turned it into something careless. Something that confirmed Matthew’s worst fears.

He rests his head in his hands. “God. I’m such an idiot.”

Taerae pats his shoulder with the kind of sympathy only someone completely detached from the drama can offer. “You are. But at least you’re a self-aware idiot now.”

“Wow,” Gunwook mutters. “Thanks for the support.”

“Anytime,” Taerae says with a grin, then shifts closer, his voice turning light, almost teasing. “In the meantime…”

His hand drifts, settling over Gunwook’s clothed crotch with deliberate ease.

“Wanna fuck the guilt out of your system?”

And if Gunwook selfishly says yes, well… nobody ever has to know.

Chapter Text

Summer break hits like a breath of fresh air after the relentless grind of lectures, assignments, and sleepless nights spent cramming for finals. The campus, once buzzing with stress and deadlines, now feels lighter, quieter… almost surreal. With an entire stretch of free time laid out before them like a blank canvas, it doesn’t take much convincing for the group to start tossing around ideas for a well-earned escape. Between shared group chats and half-serious suggestions, the plan comes together faster than expected. Ricky stumbles across a rental listing online; a sprawling beach house in Busan, just a stone’s throw from the shoreline, complete with a wraparound deck, sea views, and enough space for everyone. It looks almost too good to be true. But within days, it’s theirs. Bags are packed in a whirlwind of excitement, playlists are made, snacks are bought, and tickets for the train are in hand. As the train pulls away from the station, there’s a sense of anticipation in the air; freedom, adventure, and the promise of a summer they’ll never forget.

Matthew invites Jiwoong along without a second thought. It’s almost second nature, just a quick message in the group chat, Jiwoong hyung’s coming too. No one questions it. Jiwoong’s been around for a while now, not just as Matthew’s boyfriend, but as someone who’s become part of their circle in his own quiet way. He fits into the group’s dynamic effortlessly, slipping into conversations with that soft, knowing smile of his and an ease that makes it feel like he’s always been there. He doesn’t demand space, he just finds it, comfortably, naturally. By now, he’s practically a permanent member of their friend group.

Then there’s Taerae. It’s actually Gyuvin who brings him up. “You should invite him, Gunwook,” he says casually, nudging Gunwook with a grin. “He’s cool. I think it’d be fun if he tagged along.” 

There’s a beat of silence, then a chorus of agreement from the rest of the group; some nodding, some already tossing out jokes about how Taerae better be ready for the chaos. Gunwook just shrugs, clearly pleased, and shoots off a message. It all feels easy, unanimous, but beneath the surface, Matthew stiffens ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his smile in place and scrolls through his phone like he’s only half-listening. No one calls him on it – maybe no one even notices – but there’s a flicker of something there. Not disapproval exactly, more like uncertainty. Gunwook naturally seeks out Matthew’s reaction, tilting his head as if to ask if he’s okay with it. Matthew shoots him a smile that’s far from reassuring, but Gunwook nods regardless, inviting Taerae to their summer getaway.

The energy is borderline feral as they tumble into the house, bags thudding against the floors and voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of excitement. It’s the kind of arrival that can only happen after weeks of anticipation and a long train ride full of snacks, half-asleep heads on shoulders, and music passed between shared earbuds. The moment they cross the threshold, it’s like a dam breaks.

The beach house is huge, more than any of them had expected. Sunlight floods the open-plan living room through massive windows, casting golden pools across pale blue walls and soft white curtains fluttering slightly in the ocean breeze. The floors are smooth, sun-bleached wood that creaks under their steps, worn just enough to feel lived-in. There’s a faint scent of salt, citrus, and distant sunscreen. Every room looks like a promise of sleep-ins, spontaneous dance-offs, deep conversations whispered in the dark, and laughter loud enough to echo.

“I call the one with the balcony!” Gyuvin shouts the moment his sneakers hit the living room floor. He launches himself toward the hallway with wild abandon, backpack swinging behind him.

“Absolutely not!” Matthew yells after him, adjusting the duffel slung over his shoulder as he sprints after him. “You got the balcony last time!”

“Because I won last time,” Gyuvin fires back with a wicked grin, twisting around just enough to stick out his tongue before disappearing down the hallway.

“And we’re getting it again,” Ricky declares from the doorway, his voice cutting through the noise like a referee stepping into the ring. “I want the room with the ensuite.”

“Oh my god, you would,” Gunwook groans from the entryway, dropping his suitcase with a thud. He rolls his eyes dramatically but the smile tugging at his mouth gives him away.

“I’m just saying,” Ricky shrugs, folding his arms like he’s making a perfectly reasonable argument. He glances toward Gyuvin, now poking his head out of a doorway with suspiciously smug satisfaction. “I spend the most time in the bathroom. You all know this. It’s actually efficient.”

“That's not a good enough excuse,” Hanbin calls from the kitchen, already investigating the fridge like it holds the answers to life’s biggest mysteries.

“Babe,” Hao warns lightly, walking past with a single raised brow and a plastic bag of snacks tucked under one arm. “Don’t instigate. Not yet.”

“Too late!” Ricky’s voice echoes from somewhere deeper inside the house. 

“Okay, okay,” Gyuvin reappears in the hallway, breathless but grinning. “Let’s just do the obvious: Hao hyung and Hanbin hyung, Ricky and me, Matthew hyung and Jiwoong hyung…”

“Which leaves Gunwook and Taerae,” Ricky finishes, his voice gentler now as he looks toward the last two in the group.

“Perfect,” Gunwook says without hesitation, draping an arm over Taerae’s shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “As long as we don’t get the weird-smelling room, I’m good.”

“There’s a weird-smelling room?” Taerae blinks, alarmed.

“There always is,” Gyuvin says with solemn authority. “But that’s why we’re racing.”

Chaos breaks out again as they all scatter like contestants on a low-budget reality show. Doors swing open. Floors creak under running footsteps. There’s yelling, bargaining, and the sound of someone – not naming names Gyuvin – tripping over a poorly-placed suitcase.

Hao and Hanbin lock in the best-lit corner room within seconds, claiming it with matching smug smiles and the undeniable authority of a couple who’s been through more than one trip together. They move in with the quiet efficiency of people who’ve done this before, already laying their bags side by side at the foot of the bed.

“We’re not arguing. Seniority and all, we’re basically your parents,” Hanbin says, leaning in the doorway like a smug cat.

“Plus, I already unpacked,” Hao adds.

“Of course you did,” Matthew mutters as he strides past, eyes set on the master bedroom. “Okay, but this one has a balcony and a seating area–”

“That’s the master bedroom!” Gunwook calls out from the opposite end of the hallway, his tone a little tighter now. “You got that last time.”

“You both got it last time,” Gyuvin chimes in from the floor, where he’s half-sitting, half-collapsed in mock exhaustion. “You roomed together, remember?”

Matthew freezes for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder at Jiwoong, who has been quiet through most of the chaos, content to hover near the back with their suitcase in hand. Matthew’s fingers tighten on the doorframe of the master bedroom, just for a second, before he exhales and steps aside.

Taerae places a hand gently on Gunwook’s arm, his voice soft but steady. “It’s okay,” he says. “We can take the one near the kitchen.”

Gunwook sighs like the universe has betrayed him. “It’s not okay,” he pouts, but he doesn’t argue. Not really. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something unreadable as he glances at Matthew, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

Matthew watches all of it; Gunwook’s little sigh, Taerae’s hand on his arm, the ease between them that hasn’t quite settled into something defined yet. His smile stays on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Jiwoong says beside him, just loud enough for only Matthew to hear. He squeezes his hand once, gently. “Let’s just take the room near the patio.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Matthew says back, voice low.

“I won’t be,” Jiwoong says. “As long as it’s with you.”

Ricky pops his head out of the master bedroom just then, grinning. “Claimed this one. And it has two windows. Gyuvin, we’re vibing.”

“I’m only vibing if you don’t hog the blanket again,” Gyuvin replies from somewhere offscreen.

“I didn’t hog the blanket. You surrendered the blanket.”

“I woke up freezing!”

“Don’t be dramatic, who even freezes in the middle of summer.”

Eventually, they settle – ort of. Nobody’s truly satisfied with their room, but no one’s storming out either, and by group trip standards, that’s a minor miracle. The master bedroom goes to Ricky and Gyuvin, more out of strategy than fairness. Hao and Hanbin nest into the corner room like it was always meant for them. Jiwoong and Matthew quietly claim the room near the patio, and Gunwook and Taerae get the smallest one by the kitchen, which to their surprise has the softest mattress.

Bags hit the floor. Doors are closed, opened again, swapped, then closed for good. Someone – Hao, of course – starts putting together a cooking schedule on his Notes app, already muttering about portion sizes and who's not allowed to touch the frying pan after last year’s “incident.”

Outside, the sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the deck. The air turns gold, thick with the scent of sea air and evening warmth. Someone opens the sliding glass doors to let the breeze in. The house seems to sigh around them, like it’s been waiting for their noise.

As the evening light slants through the curtains in warm, syrupy bands, casting soft gold across the walls of the bedroom, it should feel peaceful– does feel peaceful, in the most technical sense. The breeze carries the faint sound of gulls and the smell of salt, while inside the house, someone clatters cutlery and someone else laughs too loudly at a joke only half-heard. From where he sits on the edge of the bed, Gunwook tries to soak it all in, to let the ease of the setting lull him into that lazy kind of happiness the others seem to be settling into without effort, but there’s a tightness in his chest, something unnamed and uninvited, coiled up behind his ribs like it’s been waiting for a quiet moment to make itself known. He watches the way the light shifts over the wood-grain of the floor, listens to Taerae humming under his breath while unpacking across the room, and tells himself – repeats it like a mantra – that everything is fine. He should be happy, and he is. Mostly.

It’s not anyone’s fault. That’s what Gunwook keeps reminding himself. It’s just how things go; things change and people change, but this is the first summer where Gunwook feels that change in a way that unsettles him. The room he’s in isn’t bad. Small, sure, and the mattress dips a little too much in the middle, but it’s cosy, and Taerae is good company; low maintenance, funny in a quiet, offbeat way. There’s nothing wrong, exactly, and still, when Gunwook thinks about how every summer before this one, he and Matthew would immediately toss their bags into the same room, claim the best beds, stake out their corners with inside jokes and familiar rhythms… the absence of it sits like a stone in his stomach. That ritual is broken now, without warning, like a song cut off mid-chorus. It shouldn’t bother him this much, but it does.

He’d seen it coming, of course. Matthew is with Jiwoong. As expected. As he should be. Gunwook knows that; rationally, logically, he knows. Matthew and Jiwoong are together, and of course Gunwook isn’t about to room with Matthew and leave Jiwoong and Taerae to pair off as strangers. It wouldn’t make sense, but understanding that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach. Doesn’t stop the sting that flares when he catches a glance exchanged between them across the dinner table or hears Matthew laugh at something Jiwoong whispered just for him.

Their friendship had never been simple, but it had always been strong. Even when they fought, there was never any real question that they’d come back to each other, but these past few months had tested that more than ever. They’d had that awful stretch of silence, weeks where every word between them felt brittle, strained. There had been distance, misunderstandings, too many things left unsaid. It was like trying to walk across cracked ice, not sure where the next step might break it completely. Lately, they’ve started talking again, really talking, not just the polite, surface-level stuff. There are glimpses of what they used to be, shared glances that say I remember this, don’t you? Gunwook clings to those glimpses more tightly than he wants to admit, but now, seeing Matthew laugh with Jiwoong across the table, seeing the way they naturally gravitate toward each other, Gunwook feels the fragility of it all. Like one wrong word could unravel everything they’ve carefully begun to rebuild. Like he’s a guest in a place he used to call home.

Gunwook leans back onto the bed, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Taerae throws a shirt into the open suitcase with a careless flick and glances over. There’s a knowing softness in his expression, like he sees something he’s choosing not to mention. Gunwook offers a weak smile, one that says, Don’t ask. I won’t say. And Taerae doesn’t. He just goes back to his unpacking, humming under his breath again. For that, Gunwook is grateful. He closes his eyes and tries to let the sounds of the house wash over him; Gyuvin and Ricky arguing about dish duty, Hao telling someone to use a cutting board properly, Hanbin laughing like he always does when no one expects it. It should feel like comfort. Familiar, warm, easy, and yet… there’s a sliver of distance now, like he’s watching it all from just a step behind, and tonight, in this too-quiet room with the mattress that dips too much in the middle and the unfamiliar shape of Taerae across the way, Gunwook lets himself feel it, just for a moment; the ache of things shifting, the quiet grief of something unspoken, slipping away.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning, the slow, rhythmic sound of Taerae unpacking his things. Gunwook hasn’t moved for a while, still sprawled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as though it might offer some answers. The weight in his chest hasn’t shifted, that quiet, gnawing emptiness that he can’t seem to shake. He feels foolish for being upset. After all, this is just another summer trip. He’ll get used to it. But right now, with the space between him and Matthew like an invisible gulf that refuses to close, it’s harder than he thought.

Taerae notices. He always does. The older man, who’s spent enough time around Gunwook to recognise when something isn’t quite right, stops unpacking and glances over with a look that is both knowing and exasperated. His lips twitch into a mischievous, knowing smile as he steps closer to the bed. 

"Stop pouting," Taerae says lightly, though the words are softened by humour.

Gunwook doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t have to justify this feeling, doesn’t have to explain the dull ache in his chest that’s become too familiar to ignore. Instead, he just shifts slightly, letting his eyes wander over to Taerae without meeting his gaze, too proud or too tired to admit anything out loud. He’d always thought that maybe time would heal this sort of thing. That he’d find his way back to how things were before, that Matthew would find his way back to him. But now, with each passing minute, it feels less likely.

Taerae doesn’t press him for an answer. He knows better. Instead, with a fluid motion, Taerae climbs onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. Gunwook remains still, even as Taerae’s fingers slide lightly down his chest, the touch almost hesitant at first. There’s a softness to the way Taerae moves, a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the tension Gunwook feels knotting in his own stomach. Taerae’s hand travels over his skin, fingers trailing along his bare chest, a quiet offering, something unspoken, as though it might be enough to distract him from the gnawing feeling that’s taking root deep inside him.

For a moment, the touch is soothing; Taerae’s warmth against his side, the quiet rhythm of his breathing as he leans closer. Gunwook’s breath hitches, and he allows his body to relax, just a little. Maybe it’s not the same as what he’s missing, but Taerae’s presence is undeniable. It’s different, yes, but it’s still something. And right now, something is enough to chase away the emptiness, if only for a moment. Taerae's fingers move more deliberately now, brushing over the contours of his chest, the trail of his touch like a lifeline, as though to remind him of the physical, the immediate, the present.

The air between them seems to shift, the space narrowing as Gunwook feels his pulse pick up. For a fleeting second, the ache subsides, the quiet sense of loss muffled by the closeness, by the softness of Taerae’s touch. Gunwook closes his eyes, fighting the urge to lean into it, to just let himself forget about the fact that Matthew isn’t here. That things have changed.

Taerae watches Gunwook quietly for a moment, as if waiting for him to speak, but when he doesn’t, his expression softens with understanding. He can tell what’s going on without needing Gunwook to say a word; knows why the younger is so restless, why his mood shifted so suddenly. It’s clear as day, Gunwook feels the absence of Matthew, and it’s heavier than anything Taerae can ignore. Still, he doesn’t want to leave things like this. Not with the silence hanging so thick between them, not when Taerae can feel how much it’s suffocating Gunwook, even if he’s trying to act like it’s nothing.

With a soft sigh, Taerae leans in a little closer. He’s close enough now to feel the tension in Gunwook’s body, to sense how taut it is, like he’s on the verge of something; whether it’s breaking or exploding, Taerae isn’t sure, but he knows that something has to change, and quickly.

"Do you want a distraction?" Taerae’s voice is low, steady as he asks, almost as though he’s waiting for Gunwook to deny him, or to tell him it’s not the right time. His fingers hover just over Gunwook’s chest, brushing lightly against his skin, offering him something; a way out of the silence, a way to forget the weight of everything for just a little while. 

Gunwook still doesn’t speak, but the way his eyes flicker, the way his chest rises and falls faster with the question, tells Taerae everything he needs to know. Then, just like that, Gunwook shifts slightly, his eyes never leaving Taerae’s. It’s a small movement, barely perceptible, but it’s enough for Taerae to know.

"Yes," Gunwook murmurs, the word escaping almost before he’s realised it. It’s so quiet, almost breathless, but it’s there, and the way he says it, the way his voice cracks just slightly… Taerae feels his own breath hitch in his throat.

Without another word, Taerae moves, closing the space between them in a fluid motion. His lips find Gunwook’s, and the kiss is messy from the start; desperate, raw, teeth clashing as if neither of them know what they’re doing but both are too caught up in the moment to care. There’s no softness, no slow build-up. It’s all immediate heat, a rush of lips, a tangle of hands and breathing, like they’re both starved for something to break through the tension that’s suffocating them.

Taerae’s hands slide up Gunwook’s chest, feeling the heat of his skin. He moves against him, urging him closer, and Gunwook responds in kind, his hands reaching for Taerae’s neck, pulling him in, deepening the kiss until they’re both gasping for air, tangled in the mess of their own desperation. It’s frantic, like they’re trying to outrun something, like they’re trying to outrun the emptiness that Gunwook feels, the absence of Matthew. That doesn’t matter right now. Nothing matters except the way their bodies fit together, the way they cling to each other, the desperate need for something to feel good, something to feel right.

Gunwook’s mind races, flickering between the heat of Taerae’s touch and the ghost of Matthew’s absence. It’s all jumbled, tangled up in his head, but it doesn’t stop him. Taerae feels so different from Matthew; so warm, so present, his movements eager and bold, and Gunwook finds himself leaning into it, letting himself forget, even for just a moment, the gaping hole that Matthew’s absence has left.

Just as things start to heat up, just as Taerae’s hands move lower, and Gunwook’s breath hitches with the growing intensity, there’s a soft knock at the door.

It’s hesitant at first, just a small tap, but it cuts through the moment like a shard of ice. Taerae freezes, his lips still hovering a breath away from Gunwook’s, as both of them instinctively look toward the door.

“Gunwook?” The voice that floats through is unmistakable, soft, careful. Matthew. Gunwook’s chest tightens immediately. His stomach churns, twisting with the sudden, sharp pang of reality.

Matthew’s voice is low, almost timid, the kind of voice he only uses when he’s unsure of something, when he’s treading on fragile ground. Gunwook’s body goes rigid, the heat between him and Taerae evaporating in an instant. His breath stalls. His heart hammers against his ribs, and for a moment, everything goes completely still.

Gunwook’s eyes dart toward Taerae, whose expression is unreadable. Taerae doesn’t move immediately, but he stills beside Gunwook, sensing the sudden shift in the air. Gunwook’s body tenses in response, the warmth from Taerae’s hands forgotten as he holds his breath for just a second longer. There’s a knot in his throat, one he didn’t even realise was there until now. The sound of Matthew’s voice is enough to stir it back up; sharp, clear, and full of the uncertainty that’s settled in the space between them over the past few months. The distance Gunwook thought he’d gotten used to suddenly feels far too wide.

“Yeah?” Gunwook’s voice comes out rough, almost strangled, and for a second, he hates himself for the way it sounds, but it’s all he can manage. His mind is still reeling, the kiss and the warmth from Taerae still lingering on his skin, but now there’s Matthew, outside the door. Matthew, who he hasn’t shared a room with, hasn’t shared a space with, in what feels like forever.

The knock lingers, and then Matthew’s voice comes through again, softer this time, but still carrying that cautious note. “Gunwook?” Matthew calls again, his voice sounding more hesitant now. "Can we... can we talk?"

Gunwook’s chest tightens even more, but he forces himself to swallow, to breathe steadily. His fingers still ache with the memory of Taerae’s touch, but now everything feels too raw, too exposed. The air is thick, but there’s also a yearning for something familiar, something that’s always been there between him and Matthew, even when things were at their hardest.

Taerae doesn't move, still sitting beside him on the bed, giving him the space to figure out what to do, what to say. Gunwook feels the weight of his gaze, but it’s not a pressure, Taerae isn’t asking for anything right now. There’s something more subtle there, a silent understanding.

“Yeah," Gunwook says again, this time with more steadiness, his voice hoarse but controlled. "I’ll be right there."

The silence in the room is heavy, and even though he’s aware of Taerae sitting beside him, it feels like all his attention is on the door. Gunwook takes a deep breath, gathering the strength to leave the comfort of the moment he was almost lost in with Taerae, but the pull toward Matthew is just as strong, because Matthew and him have always had their moments, their shared memories, those simple traditions that tied them together. Even now, when everything feels unsteady, those things haven’t changed. Or at least, Gunwook wants to believe they haven’t.

Taerae gives him a quiet nod, a small but understanding gesture. He stands up without another word, slipping out of the room with quiet ease, his footsteps soft and deliberate. Gunwook watches him go, the moment fading as quickly as it arrived, leaving behind only the quiet, the uncertainty, and the quiet, distant sound of Matthew’s presence outside the door. He stands in the middle of the room, frozen for a moment, staring at the door as Matthew’s soft, hesitant knock still lingers in his mind. The kiss with Taerae, the heat of the moment, it feels like a lifetime ago, but it’s still so fresh on his skin. He can’t ignore the way his chest tightens, the way his heart is still racing, even though everything has shifted back to its awkward, fragile state.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He feels the faint remnants of the kiss; lips swollen, breath still heavy. There’s no denying it. He looks exactly like someone who’d just been making out. His shorts hanging loosely as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry, and his hair... well, it looks like a tornado passed through it. Gunwook’s never been one to care about his appearance too much, but now, the image in the mirror is a stark reminder that he’s far from composed.

With a sigh, he grabs the nearest shirt and hastily pulls it over his head. It’s a half-hearted attempt at looking presentable, but he knows it won’t be enough to mask the evidence. The faint, lingering smell of Taerae’s cologne still clings to his skin, and he can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s going to be obvious, no matter how hard he tries, but there’s nothing he can do now. Matthew is waiting.

Gunwook stands for a moment, hands still halfway through his shirt, staring at the door. He can hear the muffled voices of the others in their rooms, the buzz of life continuing around him, but none of that matters right now. His mind is fixated on Matthew, and the familiar ache in his chest flares again. What the hell is this? Why does it feel like everything has been turned upside down in the span of a few minutes?

He quickly straightens his shirt, but as he looks at himself one last time in the mirror, the messy state of things makes him pause. His lips are still slightly swollen, a telltale sign of everything that just happened with Taerae, and then there’s the way his hair refuses to lie flat, the slight flush still on his cheeks. His thoughts flicker to Matthew’s voice, the softness, the uncertainty in it.

Matthew doesn’t know. There’s no way Matthew would suspect he and Taerae had been doing something unholy. He hasn’t said a word, not even a single hint that would suggest otherwise. Matthew still thinks he’s straight, still believes Gunwook is his bro, his friend, someone who’s just going through the motions of summer break like the rest of them. At least, that’s what Gunwook tells himself. As long as Matthew doesn’t see through him, as long as he keeps up this facade of normalcy, everything should be fine.

With one last glance at himself in the mirror, Gunwook gives a tight, self-conscious smile, even though no one is there to see it. He can’t help but feel ridiculous, silly for thinking that he can still keep everything in balance when his emotions are hanging by a thread, but there’s nothing else he can do but move forward, right? He runs a hand through his hair once more, smoothing it back as best as he can before walking toward the door.

He steps into the hallway, his steps heavy, but deliberate. As he gets closer to the stairs, he feels that knot in his stomach tighten again. Gunwook knows Matthew is waiting for him. He knows Matthew must have heard the subtle tension in his voice earlier, sensed something was off, but for now, he’s still clueless. That, Gunwook realises, is the only thing that’s keeping him sane.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, there’s Matthew, standing just outside, glancing down the hall as if waiting for him. Gunwook catches a flicker of suspicion in Matthew’s eyes as he looks him over, pausing just slightly when their gazes meet. The silence stretches between them for a beat too long, and Gunwook feels the weight of it, the way Matthew’s stare seems to linger a fraction longer on him, but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, Matthew smiles, a quiet thing that’s soft and unassuming, but still full of warmth.

 "Hey," Matthew says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it’s the kind of whisper that carries weight. He looks up at Gunwook, his gaze flickering between his face and the space between them. “Do you want to go with me? You know... like we always do. To the beach. It’s… I know it’s a bit late, but it’s tradition. We always do it during summer break.”

The words hang in the air, slow, tentative, as though Matthew is unsure whether Gunwook will even want to join him, given everything that’s changed, but there’s something in the request that feels like a lifeline; a small thread of normalcy in the middle of all this uncertainty. Gunwook doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, processing. The beach. That was something they did together every year. Just the two of them.

They would go late in the evening, when the sky darkened and the stars began to blink into view, and they would stand by the water, quiet for a while, just taking in the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. It wasn’t anything grand or spectacular, but it was something that belonged to them alone. They would make wishes, tossing a stone into the water, always in silence, always with the same unspoken understanding. It wasn’t a ritual, exactly, but it had become one, and it was theirs alone.

Gunwook feels his chest tighten again, but this time it’s different. The ache is familiar, like a muscle that’s been pulled but hasn’t healed yet. There’s a tenderness in Matthew’s eyes, a quiet hope there that reaches out, tugs at him.

“I miss it,” Matthew says, quieter now. “Miss you.”

Gunwook swallows, feeling the words settle like a stone in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do, but despite everything – the awkwardness, the space between them, the fragile ground they’re walking on – he knows he wants this. He wants to go with Matthew, to have that moment, to reconnect, even if it’s just for a little while.

He nods, slowly, his voice soft. “Yeah. Of course I’ll go.”

Matthew’s face lights up, the tension in his posture melting away, as if the weight of his own uncertainty is suddenly lifted. “Thanks,” he says, his smile shy but genuine. “I know it’s a bit... well, it’s not like it used to be, but I thought maybe we could… I don’t know, just take a minute to have something that’s ours again.”

Gunwook feels the tightness in his chest loosen slightly, his heart shifting with the simple, heartfelt gesture. “I’d love that,” he says quietly.

Matthew gives a small nod and turns to lead the way, and Gunwook follows him down the hall, past the quiet bedrooms, the low murmur of voices from the others still in their rooms, until they reach the front door. The cool night air greets them as they step outside, and the sky above is dotted with stars, soft and distant. It’s a clear night, the ocean stretching endlessly in front of them, the sound of the waves already filling the air with a soothing rhythm.

The beach is only a short walk away, and as they make their way there, it’s as though the distance between them begins to shrink with each step. There’s a silence, but it’s comfortable this time. Gunwook feels Matthew’s presence beside him, the weight of the past months hanging between them but somehow softened by the quietness of the night. It’s just the two of them, as it always used to be.

When they reach the water, they stop, standing side by side for a moment, watching the waves crash against the shore. The moonlight shimmers on the surface of the water, casting everything in a soft, ethereal glow. It’s peaceful and familiar, and for the first time in a while, Gunwook feels the tension in his chest start to ease. There’s something healing about being here with Matthew, even though things aren’t perfect.

Matthew reaches down, picking up a smooth stone from the sand, and without a word, he holds it out to Gunwook. His gaze flickers to Gunwook’s face, waiting for him to take it, to join him in this small tradition.

Gunwook doesn’t hesitate. He takes the stone from Matthew’s hand, his fingers brushing against Matthew’s just for a second. The contact is brief, but it feels like more than it is. They’ve been here before, so many times. This simple act – making a wish by the water – was their thing, something that had always anchored them, a quiet promise that no matter what, they’d always have this, even if everything else changed.

Gunwook closes his fingers around the stone, taking a deep breath. His wish is simple, though he doesn’t speak it aloud. It’s just for this moment to last a little longer, for the space between them to shrink just a little more, for the distance between his heart and Matthew’s to feel a little less cold.

He turns to Matthew, offering the stone back to him. “Your turn,” he says softly, the words filled with more meaning than he expects.

Matthew smiles, and for a moment, the world around them feels right again, like they’re just two friends – two people who know each other better than anyone else – standing by the ocean, sharing a quiet moment, and in that moment, despite everything, Gunwook allows himself to believe that they can find their way back to something that feels like the home he’d always known.

They sit in silence for a while after the stones have been thrown, after their wishes have sunk beneath the tide and joined all the others they’ve made over the years. The waves come and go with a rhythm that makes it feel like time isn’t quite real here, like this moment exists outside of everything else. Gunwook digs his fingers into the sand beside him. It’s still cool, damp from where the tide reached earlier. He watches the surf roll in, soft and foamy, and wonders if Matthew’s wish had anything to do with him.

Matthew exhales beside him, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, eyes fixed on the water. “It’s weird,” he murmurs. “This feels the same as it always has… and completely different at the same time.”

Gunwook nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence again, not heavy this time, just hesitant. Waiting.

“I missed this,” Matthew says eventually, so quiet Gunwook almost thinks he imagined it. “Not just the beach. You.”

Gunwook’s throat tightens. He swallows before he speaks. “I missed you too. More than words can ever say.”

There’s a beat where neither of them says anything. The waves roll in and out, a lullaby for all the things they’ve left unsaid. 

Finally, Gunwook turns his head just slightly toward him. “I’ve wanted to say something for a while,” he says. “But I didn’t know how to start. Still don’t, really.”

Matthew doesn’t look at him, but he nods, encouraging. Listening.

“I was an asshole,” Gunwook says simply. “I acted like I had everything figured out when I didn’t understand a damn thing. I thought Jiwoong was cheating, and instead of trusting you, I just… lost it. And then when everything blew up, when you and him broke up, I said things I didn’t mean.”

He pauses, voice growing quieter. “Things that still make me sick when I think about them.”

The silence that follows is thick, dense with the weight of everything unspoken, everything still lingering between them. The waves continue their slow, steady rhythm, but neither of them moves. Gunwook stares out at the horizon, his hands buried in the sand like he’s trying to ground himself, while Matthew sits perfectly still beside him, his expression unreadable. The wind brushes past, cold against their skin, but the real chill is the one sitting in the space between them; the ache of old wounds that haven’t quite scarred over.

“You’ve apologised enough, and I think I forgave you a while ago,” Matthew says softly. “Not for you – at first. For me. Because I couldn’t carry it anymore. But it still hurt. It still hurts.”

Gunwook nods. “I get that.”

“It wasn’t just that you did all of that,” Matthew continues, “It was that you did it. Of all people. My best friend. I trusted you more than anyone, and then it was like you just… didn’t see me. At all.”

Gunwook’s chest aches. He doesn’t have anything to say that can undo it, no defence, no excuses.

“I’ve been angry,” Matthew says, quieter now. “So angry. But underneath it, I’ve just missed you. Even when I tried to hate you, I missed you.”

Gunwook looks over at him, eyes wet in a way he doesn’t try to hide. “I missed you every day,” he says, voice hoarse. “I wanted to fix it, but I didn’t even know how to face you.”

They fall quiet again, but it feels different now. Like a bridge is being rebuilt, plank by plank.

“I don’t know if we can go back to what we were,” Matthew says eventually. “Too much has changed.”

“Yeah,” Gunwook agrees. “But maybe we don’t have to go back. Maybe we can start over.”

Matthew looks at him, eyes softer than they’ve been in months. “You think we can?”

Gunwook lets out a small, sad smile. “I don’t know. But I want to try.”

Matthew doesn’t answer right away, but his gaze lingers on Gunwook like he’s searching for something; maybe sincerity, maybe regret, maybe hope. Whatever it is, something in his shoulders eases. He looks out at the waves again, his voice quiet when it finally comes.

“Then we try.”

It’s not a dramatic promise. Not a sweeping declaration. Just three words, worn around the edges, but real and honest, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Gunwook breathes a little easier.

“Thank you,” he says, not looking at him. “For hearing me out. For still being here.”

Matthew chuckles, soft and dry. “You make it sound like I’m doing you a favour.”

“Aren’t you?” Gunwook replies, only half-joking.

Matthew huffs, nudges him gently with a shoulder. “You’re lucky I’m soft.”

Gunwook smiles, and this time, it reaches his eyes. “I know.” Then, quieter, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud, he adds, “That’s what I love most about you, I think.”

Matthew’s head turns, just slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to show he heard. The wind carries the words out to sea, but the weight of them lingers right there between them, suspended in the night air like salt and static. Gunwook doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t laugh to play it off. He just lets it sit, honest and fragile.

Matthew doesn’t respond, not immediately. His gaze flicks back to the water, mouth twitching like he’s holding something in or weighing what to say. The pause stretches long, but not uncomfortably so. Just full, like he’s letting the words settle before he touches them.

“You used to tease me for being too soft,” he says, his voice light.

Gunwook’s lips curve into a smirk, but it’s not teasing, not this time. “Yeah, well,” he says, his tone surprisingly tender, “I think I was just jealous.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Jealous?”

Gunwook nods, his gaze softening. “You had something I didn’t. Something real. You knew how to let people in. I didn’t know how to do that... I still don’t, but I’m learning. With you. Slowly.”

The air feels thick with honesty, the words hanging between them in a way that doesn’t need to be rushed. Matthew looks at him for a long moment, like he’s trying to read between the lines, trying to find some trace of that familiar Gunwook underneath all the softness.

“And now?” Matthew asks quietly, his voice almost a whisper over the sound of the waves.

Gunwook smiles, this time slower, deeper. “Now, I think I’m starting to get it.”

Matthew’s expression softens, his smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he bumps his shoulder gently into Gunwook’s again. “Good. About time.”

And in that moment, with the night stretching out around them, the distance between them feels a little smaller; still fragile, but real enough to hold onto. The weight of the past hasn’t disappeared, but for the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t seem quite so heavy.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The next morning, the sun greets the group like an old friend, warm and easy, stretching its fingers across the sky. The air smells of saltwater and freedom, and even though the group had stayed up late the night before, there’s a buzz of excitement this morning. It’s beach day, the kind of day that’s been talked about all week, the kind that doesn’t need planning, just the promise of sun and the sound of the ocean.

Everyone is sprawled out in the living room, gathering their things; swimsuits and towels, sunscreen and sunglasses. Gunwook grabs his beach mat and unceremoniously throws it on the floor before rummaging through his bag for his board shorts. Taerae, already in his trunks, is the first to run outside, heading straight for the sand with a loud whoop, only half-distracted by Ricky’s shout of “Hey, save some space for me, Taerae hyung!” 

The others follow soon after, peeling off clothes to reveal brightly coloured swimsuits. Gunwook notices Matthew from across the room, adjusting his sunglasses with that casual, almost careless grace that always makes Gunwook’s chest tighten in an unexpected way. For a split second, their eyes meet, just a flicker of a look, but Gunwook quickly looks away, swallowing the nerves that bubble up unexpectedly.

The beach is already bustling when they get there, but they manage to stake out a decent spot, laying down their mats and setting up their umbrellas. Ricky and Gyuvin are the first to dive into the water, splashing and kicking up waves like they're trying to prove something. Gyuvin, ever the competitive one, challenges Ricky to a race from one end of the beach to the other, and it’s all high-pitched laughs and playful insults. Gunwook watches them for a moment, the ease between them unmistakable. He looks to Matthew, whose eyes are focused on the waves with a certain kind of determination, but it’s not for anything like racing. Matthew’s always been the type to take his time, to enjoy the moment, even in the chaos of a group.

The volleyball net is up before long, and Hao – of course – instantly claims himself as team captain, an unspoken rule in their friend group. Hanbin is his usual steady self, already organizing the teams while Ricky bounces on his toes, ready to smash the ball like he’s in some Olympic final. Taerae’s been roped into playing, though he’s more focused on making sure his hair doesn’t get messed up than on the game. 

“I’m just here for the vibes,” he says, shrugging with a grin. 

It doesn’t take long for everyone to get into it, though. Gunwook, who’s never been much of a volleyball guy, tries to hide behind the net, half-watching, half-laughing as the ball is hit straight into the sand by someone’s wild swing. The game is chaotic, the sound of thudding balls and laughter blending into the rhythm of the ocean behind them.

Meanwhile, Jiwoong and Matthew are off by the water, both attempting to “surf” on the small waves, though it’s more of a comedy show than anything. Jiwoong manages to stay on his board for about three seconds before wiping out in an impressive display of flailing limbs. Matthew, determined as ever, tries to follow suit, only to lose his balance in a spectacular fashion, crashing face-first into the surf with a shout. 

“I should’ve stuck to my first instinct,” he mutters, pulling himself up from the water with an exaggerated groan. Gunwook chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he watches.

“You guys look like you’re fighting with the ocean,” Gunwook calls over, his voice loud against the sound of the crashing waves. Matthew shoots him a playful glare, wiping saltwater from his eyes. 

Jiwoong is already back on his board, laughing and egging Matthew on to try again. “Come on, you can do better than that!” Jiwoong shouts, his tone a little too teasing, but it only pushes Matthew to make another attempt. This time, he gets on the board, but as soon as he stands, the wave pushes him off again. 

“I hate this,” Matthew mutters, but there’s a smile creeping at the corners of his lips despite his frustration.

Meanwhile, a water fight breaks out between Gyuvin, Ricky, and Taerae, with water guns and makeshift splashes turning into full-on chaos. It’s all laughter and splashing, bodies darting around the beach, and for a few moments, no one really cares about anything else. Gunwook can’t help but join in, grabbing the nearest bucket of water and tossing it at Taerae, who yelps and retaliates with a stream from his water gun. In the madness, Gyuvin corners him, splashing a whole bucket of seawater over his head. “I didn’t even do anything!” Gunwook protests, but Gyuvin just grins, dripping with water himself.

When the water fight dies down, the group collapses onto their beach mats, all of them drenched and tired but content. The sound of the waves becomes a steady backdrop, blending with the quiet laughter and the occasional groan as people stretch out, soaking in the sun. “I think I deserve a nap after that,” Ricky says, wiping the saltwater from his brow. He’s already half-sitting, half-laying, eyes half-closed.

Gunwook can’t help but glance over at Matthew as he laughs, his golden skin catching the sunlight and making him look almost ethereal, like some sort of beach god. The way his smile stretches across his face, effortlessly wide and contagious, is enough to make Gunwook’s heart trip in his chest. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to notice these little things; the way the sunlight makes Matthew’s skin glow, the way his laugh rings out like a melody, the way his hair sticks out slightly, wind-blown and messy, as if he belongs here, in this moment, like he’s the only one who fits. Gunwook swallows the lump that starts to form in his throat, hating himself for noticing. He’s not supposed to feel like this. He’s not supposed to care.

Matthew’s easy laughter rings in Gunwook’s ears again as he talks to Jiwoong, who’s sitting too close for comfort. They’re so easy with each other, so comfortable. Every word, every glance between them is a reminder of what Gunwook lost, and god, the way Matthew’s head tips back when he laughs, how he reaches over to pat Jiwoong on the shoulder like he’s completely at ease, like they’ve never had a fight or a misunderstanding, is enough to make something sour twist in Gunwook’s stomach. He shoves the jealousy down, harder this time, like he’s pushing something heavy into the pit of his gut and hoping it won’t resurface. He doesn’t want to feel this way, doesn’t want to want something he can’t have, but every little thing – every smile, every soft exchange between Matthew and Jiwoong – just digs the knife deeper. It’s not supposed to hurt this much.

Taerae, who’s been lounging beside him, notices immediately. He’s always so damn perceptive, and Gunwook curses his luck. 

“Stop looking at him like that,” Taerae teases, poking his cheek with the lightest touch, his fingers warm and playful against his skin. “You’re obvious, you know?” His voice is teasing, but there’s something in the way he says it that makes Gunwook’s stomach tighten in frustration. 

He’s aware of every shift in Taerae’s body as the younger man leans in, getting closer, as if the proximity will somehow shield Gunwook from the growing ache in his chest. Taerae’s touch is casual – too casual – and Gunwook feels the heat rise to his face, both embarrassed and annoyed. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person who wears his emotions on his sleeve, but it’s so hard to control it, especially when every time he looks at Matthew, he feels like he’s being hit by something too heavy to hold.

“Shut up,” Gunwook mutters, even though it’s not the kind of response Taerae expects. The annoyance bubbles up in him, the annoyance that he can’t hide the fact that it shows on his face. That it shows in the way he clenches his jaw, or the way his eyes linger on Matthew just a bit too long. He can’t even disguise it. God, this is pathetic. He’s being ridiculous. He’s supposed to be fine with it. With Matthew being with Jiwoong. With everything being the way it is. But every time he looks at Matthew, something inside him crumbles just a little more.

Taerae’s lips curl into a knowing smile, his eyes glinting with mischief as he lies down next to Gunwook, his arm draped casually across his chest. “Oh, so now you’re embarrassed? That’s cute,” he says, his voice thick with something like amusement. Taerae’s touch becomes more deliberate as he leans in closer, nudging Gunwook with his shoulder, his cheek brushing against Gunwook’s arm in a way that makes his skin burn. “You’re not fooling anyone,” Taerae adds softly, but with a certain warmth that Gunwook isn’t sure how to interpret. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t make it too obvious.”

Gunwook doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to admit how damn obvious it is to everyone around him. That his jealousy, his frustration, is written all over his face, is hanging in the air like an elephant in the room that no one wants to address. The last thing he wants is for the group to know. For them to start looking at him differently. The whole damn situation already feels suffocating, like too many eyes are on him, too many expectations. He tries to distract himself, shifting uncomfortably, but the knot in his chest won’t let him relax.

Then, just when Gunwook is about to bury his face in his hands, he notices Ricky. Ricky, who’s been sitting with Gyuvin, is now glancing over at them with a frown, his brow furrowed in a way that tells Gunwook something is off. Gunwook tries not to make it obvious, but Ricky’s gaze lingers, sharp and piercing, his eyes narrowing as if he’s noticed something he shouldn’t have. Taerae’s clinginess is hardly subtle, and though he’s always been touchy with everyone, there’s something in the way he’s draped all over Gunwook right now that doesn’t sit right with Ricky. Gunwook knows that Ricky has always been perceptive – perhaps even more so than the others – and the last thing Gunwook needs is for him to ask why Taerae’s being so touchy with him when, as far as the group knows, Gunwook is still firmly in the “straight” camp.

He doesn’t know if it’s the lingering glance, or the way Ricky keeps turning his head just to check again, but Gunwook feels the pressure of it, the weight of his gaze, and suddenly everything seems far too tight. He tries to look away, focus on something – anything – else. He shifts uncomfortably again, pretending to fidget with his beach towel, hoping the situation will just disappear, but Ricky’s stare is unwavering.

Gunwook feels his chest tighten, suddenly aware of the tension creeping in. The last thing he needs is for Ricky to make some remark. The last thing he wants is for this whole thing to explode. He clenches his fists in his lap, trying to ignore the sudden heat rushing to his face, and yet, despite his best efforts, he can’t shake the feeling that Ricky knows. That he’s already pieced something together. The uncertainty gnaws at Gunwook as Ricky continues to look over, an inquisitive frown still firmly on his face.

As Ricky turns back to Gyuvin, Gunwook lets out a slow breath, hoping his unease isn’t as obvious as he thinks. Maybe Ricky won’t say anything. Maybe he’s just looking because he’s bored. Gunwook shakes his head, trying to clear the thought away. He really doesn’t need to add another worry to the list. The last thing he needs is for his entire facade to come crumbling down just because Taerae has a habit of being extra touchy, or because Gunwook can’t stop staring at Matthew like a damn idiot, but even as he tells himself this, he can’t help but feel the weight of Ricky’s gaze still burning into him.

Gunwook’s patience wears thin as he watches Taerae get even more touchy, his arm draped lazily around Gunwook’s shoulders, his cheek resting against his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Gunwook swallows the irritation rising in his chest. He knows Taerae means no harm, knows he’s just being his usual affectionate, playful self, but it’s starting to feel like too much. Especially with the way Ricky’s been looking at them. It’s making Gunwook hyper-aware of every little thing, the subtle glances, the way people are starting to pay attention to him and Taerae in a way that’s too obvious, too loud.

“Taerae hyung,” Gunwook says, his voice tinged with a bit more sharpness than he intended, “Can you lay off with the touchiness, at least in front of the group?” 

He tries to keep his tone neutral, but it still comes out like a command, something he immediately regrets. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s snapping, but it’s the only way to get Taerae to listen. He knows the elder doesn’t mean anything by it, but damn if it doesn’t feel like the whole world is watching him whenever Taerae’s so close.

Taerae raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint flickering in his eyes as he leans back a little, but not enough to break the contact entirely. “What? You worried someone might get the wrong idea?” His voice is light, but there’s something mischievous in his grin. “Is it because you don’t want your sweet Matthew to get jealous?” He pokes Gunwook’s cheek, his thumb brushing over it in a way that’s almost too deliberate.

Gunwook rolls his eyes, exasperated, but the heat in his chest isn’t just from frustration anymore. It’s the undercurrent of something deeper, something he can’t explain. His stomach churns, his thoughts scattered and tangled, and he opens his mouth to respond, but Taerae’s teasing smile has already taken the sting out of it.

“Fine,” Taerae says after a beat, leaning back and giving Gunwook the tiniest smirk. “I’ll back off. Don’t go getting all grumpy on me.” But he doesn’t stop grinning as he shifts his body, making space between them. He gives Gunwook a mock salute as if he’s indulging him, and though Gunwook feels a little lighter for it, there’s still a tightness in his chest that won’t go away.

Just as Gunwook’s starting to relax, his gaze lands on Matthew – who’s sitting a little further down, his eyes now fixed on Gunwook, a similar expression on his face. Matthew’s watching him, the way Ricky had earlier, a small frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. It’s the same piercing look, the same inquisitive glance that seems to see through Gunwook in a way that no one else does.

Gunwook feels his heart skip a beat, the warmth that had settled in his chest moments ago suddenly turning to ice. His body goes stiff. For a second, he doesn’t know whether to look away, to smile, to act like everything’s fine or let the silence between them grow. But before he can decide, Matthew’s lips curl upward in that smile, the one that always used to make Gunwook’s heart race, the one that had once made him feel like the world was right.

But this time, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The smile is there, sure, wide and bright, but it’s off. It’s not as easy, not as natural as it used to be. It’s almost like a mask, something Matthew’s putting on for everyone else, a smile he’s been forced to wear for too long. Gunwook can see it in the slight tension around his eyes, the way his shoulders are stiff, the subtle withdrawal in his posture. It’s not the same Matthew he’s used to, not the Matthew who would laugh at anything Gunwook said, who would tease him endlessly with no care in the world. No, this is someone who’s been hurt, someone who’s been carrying something for a long time, and Gunwook knows it’s because of him.

For a second, he wants to walk over to Matthew, ask if he’s okay, apologise again, say something to take the edge off the tension, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just holds Matthew’s gaze, unsure of what to say, unsure of what Matthew even wants from him.

Matthew’s smile lingers for another beat, still bright, still there, but somehow distant. Gunwook feels that distance like a chasm opening between them, and despite the smile, it feels like more of a goodbye than a greeting. Still, Matthew doesn’t break eye contact. He holds Gunwook’s gaze for just a moment longer, as if silently telling him that everything’s okay. Or maybe, that it’s going to be okay.

Gunwook can’t help but return the smile, though his own feels fragile, like something easily shattered. It’s a tight, small smile, not at all the carefree grin he used to share with Matthew on days like this, but he hopes it’s enough. He hopes Matthew sees it for what it is; a promise, even if it’s a broken one. He just hopes, more than anything, that Matthew doesn’t see how much Gunwook is falling apart inside.

Matthew looks away then, his smile fading as he turns back to Jiwoong, and Gunwook feels the knot in his stomach tighten. It’s too much, all of it; the teasing from Taerae, the weight of Matthew’s eyes, the weird, suffocating silence that always seems to follow after they’ve said something real, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He stays where he is, watching Matthew laugh with Jiwoong, trying to ignore the way it twists something inside him. Trying to pretend that it doesn’t hurt so much.

Matthew and Jiwoong get up from where they’re sitting, the remnants of their laughter still echoing through the air as they start to gather their things. Matthew shakes his head, still grinning, though it’s a little tired now, a little more worn.

“Yeah, I think we’re done for the day,” Matthew says, pushing himself up from the sand. “My arms are about to fall off from all that surfing.” He stretches dramatically, wincing when his shoulders crack, and Gunwook can’t help but glance at him. His body is lithe, golden under the sun, and for a moment, Gunwook wonders what it would feel like to reach out, to touch him; touch him with purpose, unlike all the other times he’s touched him.

“Same,” Jiwoong agrees, pulling his towel off the sand and flicking it over his shoulder. “I’m gonna head back with Matt. You guys can stay out here if you want. Don’t think we’re missing anything,” he adds with a cheeky grin, gesturing to the volleyball game happening on the far side of the beach.

Gunwook forces himself to smile, pretending that it doesn’t sting to hear Jiwoong say Matt like that, so casual, so familiar. His eyes flicker to Matthew again, and for a split second, he sees Matthew glance back at him. Just a brief moment, a silent exchange, and then Matthew turns away to collect his board, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Alright, we’ll see you guys later,” Matthew calls over his shoulder, his voice light, though there’s a weight behind it that Gunwook can’t quite place. Gunwook knows that tone. It’s the same one Matthew uses when he’s trying to sound normal, when he’s trying to keep things fine when they’re not.

And then, before Gunwook even realises it, he’s watching them walk back toward the beach house, and it’s like his body’s frozen in place. He has to force himself not to follow them, not to trail behind like some eager puppy.

He watches as they leave, his mind warring between wanting to keep his distance, to act like everything is fine, and the desperate urge to run after Matthew, to be near him, to not let him slip away again, but he knows better now.

“Come on, man,” he mutters to himself, exhaling sharply, a half-laugh slipping from his throat as if to convince himself. He stands up slowly, brushing the sand off his legs, his gaze still lingering on Matthew and Jiwoong as they fade further into the distance. He clenches his fists, taking a deep breath.

Act normal, he tells himself. Don’t be pathetic.

Gunwook sits for a moment, frozen just outside the beach house, squinting into the distance. The waves crash against the shore, the steady rhythm doing nothing to calm the tightness in his chest. He tries to convince himself that he’s just overthinking everything, that he’s fine. But when he feels the weight of it – the fact that Matthew's inside, and he's out here, lingering like some unwanted ghost – it’s hard to shake the feeling of being left behind.

He stands it for around fifteen minutes before he can’t ignore it anymore. The tension in his body is unbearable. He stands up abruptly, wiping sand from his legs, and mumbles to the group, “I’m gonna go grab drinks, towels, whatever. Need anything?”

The others don’t even look up, too caught up in their game, in their own little world. Ricky gives him a quick wave, but no one seems to care enough to ask where he’s going. Gunwook is relieved by that, relieved he doesn’t have to explain himself. He’s not sure why it feels so urgent, but all of a sudden, all he wants is to be inside, away from the crowd, away from the heat of the beach, away from everything.

He heads toward the beach house, keeping his pace steady but quicker than usual. There’s a buzz in his ears, a heat rising in his chest, a quiet impulse driving him toward the door. It’s stupid, but he feels like maybe if he just goes inside and grabs the stuff, it’ll take his mind off Matthew and Jiwoong. Maybe it'll give him the space he needs to calm down.

When he reaches the door, though, something feels off. The house is quieter than usual, and as he steps onto the porch, he hears faint sounds drifting through the open window, muffled but still audible. Gunwook hesitates, hand resting on the doorknob. For a moment, he debates whether or not to just walk in, pretend like he didn’t hear anything, but then the sounds grow clearer as he walks further into the house, and something about it makes his stomach twist.

It’s them. Matthew and Jiwoong.

Gunwook’s heart skips a beat, and before he can even think twice, he finds himself walking closer to the source, his body moving almost instinctively. The door to their room is cracked open just a little, not enough for him to get a full view, but enough to see silhouettes, enough for him to make out shapes through the dim light.

He can hear Jiwoong’s voice, low, playful, teasing, but it’s Matthew’s voice that cuts through Gunwook’s thoughts. Matthew’s voice is different here, softer, hushed in a way that feels more intimate than anything Gunwook has ever heard. He swears he can hear the faint tremble of Matthew’s breath, the way it catches as he reacts to Jiwoong.

His stomach drops as his gaze locks on them.

The scene in front of him isn’t one he should be witnessing. Matthew is against the wall, his shirt half-pulled off, his head tilted back as Jiwoong presses into him, their movements slow and deliberate. There’s something about the way Matthew’s eyes flutter shut, the way he exhales sharply, that sends a wave of heat through Gunwook’s body. A sickening realisation hits him, cold and sharp, just as his chest tightens painfully. He can’t look away, can’t pull himself from the sight, and for a second, it’s like the world has stopped. All the noise fades. All the laughter, all the lighthearted chatter from the beach, it all feels so far away.

Then Matthew moans softly – quiet, almost desperate – and Gunwook feels something inside of him snap.

His pulse is pounding in his ears now. He’s not sure when his hand went to the doorframe, when his fingers curled around it, but suddenly it’s as if he’s paralyzed. He’s so fucking close, closer than he should be, to something that he should never have seen, but now that he has, it’s like it’s burning itself into his memory. Every movement. Every soft sound Matthew makes. The way Jiwoong pulls him closer, the way Matthew responds without hesitation.

Gunwook feels his throat dry up, feels the burn in his stomach as jealousy twists deeper, hotter than he’s ever felt before. It’s the same kind of jealousy he tried to shove down all day, the kind that he told himself was stupid, childish. But it isn’t. It’s real, and it’s sitting heavily on his chest now, suffocating him, making his breath come too fast. Most of all, it’s the sick heat of arousal pooling in his belly as he watches the two, fingers gripping and skin slapping.

“Fuck, Jiwoon hyung! H-Harder, please!” Matthew keens high in his throat, his front pressed against the wall as Jiwoong thrusts into him from behind, one hand gripping his hip and the other around his neck for leverage, pulling him closer in tandem with every thrust.

“Desperate little bitch, huh? Had me lying about feeling tired just because you were hungry for my cock,” Jiwoong growls, his hand tightening around Matthew’s throat, the other hand slinking around his waist. 

Matthew gets pushed up against the wall with every thrust, letting out steady moans as he claws at the wall for purchase, trying to keep himself up. Jiwoong has him stood on his tippy toes, holding him up with just one arm as he drives into the younger harder with each thrust, Matthew’s cock rubbing against the wall every time Jiwoong drives deeper into him.  

They don’t know he’s there, he realises. They don’t know he’s watching, and in that moment, it’s like he’s paralyzed by the weight of it all. Matthew. Jiwoong. They’re together. They’re… this.

Gunwook hates himself for it, for still being here, still wanting something that’s never been his. He wants to leave, to turn and walk away, but his legs won’t move. His body refuses to listen. His gaze stays glued to the scene in front of him, unable to look away. His hand then starts inching towards his swim shorts, fingers slipping past the waistband and onto his rapidly hardening cock, already leaking with precum.

He stares at Matthew, the elder’s eyes half-lidded and unfocused, mouth hung open in a perfect ‘O’ as high whines and whimpers leave his lips. Matthew’s porcelain skin is scattered with uneven splotches of red, each one a testament to the trail of Jiwoong’s mouth, marking him in places Gunwook never thought he’d witness. Gunwook’s breath catches as he watches Matthew’s breath hitch and falter at a particularly hard thrust, his head dropping forward with a soft thud against the wall. His body jerks with every movement, muscles locking and twitching as if pulled by invisible strings. 

Gunwook never imagined he’d see Matthew like this, so raw and undone. It’s not right. He knows it’s wrong, feels the weight of that truth crushing down on him, but even as guilt gnaws at his insides, he can’t help but see how beautiful Matthew is in this state; vulnerable, wrecked, and helpless. A part of him hates himself for watching, for feeling this way, but another part of him is drawn to the rawness of it, to the way Matthew’s form trembles under Jiwoong’s touch. Even though it’s not by his doing, there’s something hauntingly perfect about this version of Matthew. Something that stirs something deep within Gunwook.

Then all of a sudden, Matthew screams, gasping as he reaches back to Jiwoong’s hip, his body shaking in pleasure. “Right there!” he gasps. “Please, hyung, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

“Yeah? You like that? Like the feeling of being split open on my fucking cock?” Jiwoong grunts, mouthing at Matthew’s earlobe. 

“I love it! Love your cock, hyung, nggh! So fucking big,” Matthew cries, sagging like a ragdoll as Jiwoong pulls out and throws him on the bed, out of sight, out of view.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, locked in place, his heart pounding, until he feels the telltale signs of an orgasm incoming as he continues to listen to Matthew’s moans. The white-hot coil deep in his abdomen tightens before he convulses, biting his arm to keep himself quiet as he comes to the sound of Matthew being taken apart by someone else’s cock. 

Post nut clarity really is a fucking bitch, as he stands there, chest heaving and hand sticky with cum. He listens to both Matthew and Jiwoong reach their climax as a rush of panic floods his veins, and he bolts. He turns and rushes back to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him – as softly and quietly as he could – his breath ragged in his chest.

Gunwook doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen in the empty. The image of Matthew and Jiwoong is burned into his mind, their bodies tangled together in a way that feels so intimate, so private, that he has no right even being there. He can’t look away from the image, even though he knows he should. His heart hammers painfully in his chest, a sick reminder of the betrayal that just happened – his betrayal.

For a split second, he feels something stirring in his gut. Something he’s not proud of. Something that feels foreign and dirty. His chest tightens, and his stomach churns as the adrenaline from being caught in that moment fades, replaced by an overwhelming wave of guilt and shame.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He leans back against the wall, eyes closing tightly, trying to push the feelings away, trying to pretend like it didn’t happen, but it did. Now that he’s here, away from the scene, it hits him all at once. The shame. The guilt. That sickening feeling in his stomach, twisting into knots. He remembers the sound of Matthew's voice, low and breathless, caught in the rhythm of something far too personal, and worse, he remembers the way his own body reacted to it. The way his pulse quickened, his breath shallow, when all he wanted to do was pull away.

But he didn’t. He stayed.

It was as if the sound of Matthew, broken and desperate, had drawn him in. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t ignore the undeniable pull. He had wanted to hear it, wanted to see it, but now, in the quiet aftermath, it feels wrong. So incredibly wrong.

“Fuck,” Gunwook mutters under his breath, wiping his hand on a spare towel and changing out of his soiled shorts, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration, as if somehow that could wipe the image from his mind. He feels like he’s about to be sick. His mouth is dry, his thoughts racing faster than he can process them. He shouldn’t have stood there. He shouldn’t have watched. He shouldn’t have gotten off to it.

He wasn’t supposed to have any of these feelings, wasn’t supposed to want to feel them, and definitely not now when Matthew has Jiwoong.

Yet... here he is. Staring down the dark, ugly reality of what he's done. The guilt is eating him alive, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, the shame making his skin crawl. What the hell kind of person does that? Watches his best friend, the person he’s supposed to trust, be taken apart by someone else? And not just that – what kind of person gets off on it?

He feels dirty, like he’s violated something sacred, something that was never meant for him to see. That voice, Matthew’s voice – there’s no mistaking it now – wasn’t meant for him. It wasn’t meant for someone who’s still trying to figure out why the hell he’s here, standing in this house with all these feelings that he doesn’t know how to handle. Gunwook presses his palms to his eyes, trying to steady himself, trying to shut out the guilt, the self-loathing that seems to have taken root inside him, but it doesn’t work. Nothing works.

His breath comes in shallow bursts, and for a moment, he wonders if it would be better if he just walked away; if he left, disappeared for a while, gave everyone the space they deserved without him, but even that thought feels cowardly because the truth is, he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to lose Matthew no matter how fucked up his feelings are, no matter how twisted everything has become.

Still, there’s a knot in his throat, and every time he breathes in, it tightens. He can’t shake it, can’t get rid of it. His mind keeps drifting back to Matthew, and everything he thought he understood, but now, it’s all blurred and confusing. He just wants it to stop. He wants to stop feeling like this, stop wishing for things that he can’t have. He wants to stop torturing himself, and yet, deep down, he knows that it’s already too late. The damage has been done. The line between friendship and whatever this is has already been crossed, and there’s no going back now.

Gunwook’s mind races as he hears the shower running from across the hall. It’s a small, insignificant sound, but to him, it feels like a hammer hitting his chest. He can't face them right now, not after what just happened, not after what he saw. The last thing he needs is to have Matthew’s warm eyes fall on him, or worse, for Jiwoong to notice his discomfort. It feels like the walls are closing in, suffocating him with guilt.

His skin prickles uncomfortably. He needs air, needs to get away from that house, from the echoes of what happened just moments ago. Gunwook doesn’t think. He just acts. His legs move before his brain can catch up, and before he knows it, he’s walking toward the front door and into the open air. The salty breeze hits him like a wave, cooling the panic that's burning in his chest. He forces his feet to move faster, just wanting to be out of sight. He doesn’t want them to see him. Doesn’t want Matthew to see him, because if he does, he knows that expression – the one that used to always be filled with trust and warmth – will be different now, and that thought alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

Gunwook’s breath is shallow, his face pale as he stumbles across the sand, trying to shake off the weight in his chest. He can still hear the shower running faintly behind him, as if it’s chasing him, following him everywhere. He makes his way toward the volleyball net, hoping to lose himself in the chaos of the game, in the noise of the group. Anything to drown out the image of Matthew’s face, scrunched up in pleasure, etched into the back of his eyelids like an unwanted scar. He can’t unsee it. He doesn’t want to, but at the same time, he wishes he could. The image burns itself into his memory with every step.

“Hey, you good?” Taerae’s voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him out of his head. Gunwook blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He doesn’t know what to say. His heart is pounding too hard, and he’s sure his face looks just as pale as it feels. Taerae is watching him closely, his eyes narrowed with concern.

“I’m fine,” Gunwook says too quickly, waving him off with a forced grin. He’s not fine, but he’s damn good at pretending he is. His voice cracks just a little, and Taerae seems to notice, but he doesn’t push.

“Uh huh,” Taerae replies skeptically, but doesn’t press. He shifts closer, leaning in like he’s about to say something, but then, with a small smirk, he changes the subject. “Want to play some volleyball? Gyuvin’s asking for a new opponent.”

Gunwook, relieved for the change in topic, gives a small nod. He needs the distraction. Needs to feel something other than the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him. “Yeah, sure. I need to get my mind off... stuff.”

Taerae doesn’t argue, just gives a knowing look. Without missing a beat, he slings an arm around Gunwook’s shoulders in an easy, familiar gesture, guiding him toward the volleyball net. Gunwook’s thankful for the touch, but it’s also a little too much, his nerves still frayed from the chaos in his head. He doesn’t pull away though, doesn’t want to seem like he’s being weird. Taerae doesn’t seem to mind. They’re a team, after all.

When they reach the net, Gyuvin looks up, a playful grin plastered across his face. “Finally! You’re playing with me, right?” he teases, shifting the ball between his hands. His usual energy is a welcome contrast to Gunwook’s stormy thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah, just try not to kick my ass this time,” Gunwook replies, trying to sound more confident than he feels. He steps onto the sand, shaking out his limbs as if he can shake off the last few lingering memories of Matthew and Jiwoong. The last thing he wants is to keep thinking about them, but it’s like trying to stop a flood with a single grain of sand. No matter what he does, no matter how much he pretends, he can’t seem to block out the image of Matthew, taken apart by someone else.

As the game begins, Gunwook tries to focus on the ball, on the feeling of the sand beneath his feet, on the sound of Gyuvin’s laughter echoing across the beach, but it’s hard. Every time he glances in the direction of the beach house, his thoughts immediately go back to the shower, to the sound of their voices– Matthew’s voice. He wants to forget, wants to move on, but it’s like a phantom, haunting him, every pass of the ball, every dive into the sand a distraction that only works for a few seconds at a time.

Gyuvin spikes the ball over his head, and Gunwook can’t help but flinch, barely managing to jump and get a hand on it. He manages to return it, but his reflexes are slower than usual, his focus shattered. Gyuvin gives him an exaggerated side-eye, but he doesn’t say anything, just laughs and calls out to Taerae to get ready for the next serve. Gunwook forces a smile, but it feels hollow. Taerae notices, of course, but doesn’t push. He just nods and gives him a soft, understanding look.

Gunwook tries to laugh it off, to pretend everything’s fine, but he knows it’s not. Nothing feels fine. The last thing he wanted was to be the kind of person who craved this kind of attention, the kind of attention that Matthew had been giving to Jiwoong. He hates himself for even thinking it, but the thought doesn’t leave him. It lingers, like smoke in the back of his mind, choking him with every breath.

Gunwook barely notices when Matthew and Jiwoong come back outside, freshly showered and looking like they just stepped out of an oasis. They’re both dressed in loose beachwear, hair still damp and glistening under the sun, and they make their way toward the shaded umbrella area, opting to stay out of the heat after just having gotten cleaned up. Gunwook tries not to look, but it’s like his gaze is magnetised to Matthew. It’s impossible not to notice him; the golden sheen of his skin, the soft waves of his hair sticking to his forehead, the way he laughs so easily with Jiwoong. Everything about Matthew is so effortlessly perfect, and Gunwook feels like he’s drowning in it, his throat closing up with guilt.

Matthew glances over at him after a beat, raising an eyebrow in Gunwook’s direction. It’s a familiar look, the one he always gives when he’s trying to make small talk, when he’s trying to act like nothing’s wrong. Gunwook wants to look away, but he can’t. His body moves on its own, and before he knows it, he’s already locking eyes with Matthew.

"Hey, Gunwook," Matthew says, the sound of his voice like a balm to Gunwook's frazzled nerves. "How’s the game going? You playing, or just spectating?"

Gunwook forces a smile, but it feels tight, as though his lips are being pulled against their will. He doesn’t want to respond. He wants to ignore Matthew, pretend like the past few minutes never happened, but that’s impossible. He can’t do that, not when Matthew is standing right there, smiling, trying to act like everything is fine between them.

“It’s fine,” Gunwook mutters, too clipped, his words sharp and tight. “Just… playing.”

Matthew’s expression falters for a second, but he quickly recovers, leaning back in his chair beneath the umbrella. “I thought you were good at this,” he says, a teasing lilt to his voice that Gunwook can’t bring himself to respond to. It’s too much. Every word Matthew says, every smile he flashes, makes Gunwook feel like his insides are twisted into knots. He knows Matthew doesn’t deserve this. It’s not his fault that Gunwook feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of his own actions, but the guilt keeps clawing at him, churning in his stomach like acid.

The silence between them stretches longer than it should. Gunwook knows it’s awkward, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. He tries to act like everything’s normal, like he’s not suffocating beneath the weight of what he’s seen, what he knows. But it’s impossible. Every time he looks at Matthew, he can’t stop thinking about how he looked earlier, his face contorted in pleasure as Jiwoong…

Gunwook’s stomach lurches, and he forces himself to look away. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t change anything. The image of Matthew, his face a mix of pleasure and vulnerability, is burned into the back of his mind like a brand. He can't shake it. It doesn’t matter how much he tries to focus on the game or the sounds of the beach or anything else, Matthew’s image stays with him, hovering just out of reach.

Matthew seems to sense the shift in the air. His gaze doesn’t leave Gunwook’s face, his eyes searching for something. Maybe an answer, maybe a hint of why Gunwook is acting this way. Maybe Matthew is hoping that Gunwook will break, that he’ll admit to the guilt eating him alive, but Gunwook doesn’t say anything. He can't. His throat feels thick, clogged with all the words he’s too afraid to speak.

He finally looks at Matthew, really looks at him, and for a moment, his heart aches. Matthew’s eyes are so open, so vulnerable in the soft light of the afternoon, and all Gunwook can think is how much he’s destroyed everything between them. It was him. It was all him.

“I… uh, I should probably go get more drinks,” Gunwook says, voice quieter than he intended. He stands up abruptly, the motion jerky, and starts to walk off before Matthew can say anything more. He feels like he’s suffocating. He needs to get away. He needs to distance himself, even though every part of him is screaming at him to stay.

“Gunwook…” Matthew’s voice reaches him just as he turns away, soft but strained.

Gunwook doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He won’t let himself. Not when everything is so wrong. Not when he knows he can’t handle being around Matthew right now, not when he’s caught between the past and the present, torn between guilt and something else he’s too scared to admit.

As he walks toward the house, Gunwook fights to steady his breath, but it’s impossible. The weight of his own actions, of what he’s seen and heard, presses down on him, and it’s all he can do to keep his head from spinning. When he steps inside, he slams the door behind him, the noise reverberating in the quiet hallway. He leans against the door, his hand pressed to his forehead, trying to steady himself.

He can’t face Matthew. Not like this. Not yet.

Gunwook is halfway to the fridge, reaching for a bottle of beer, his hands shaking more than he’d like to admit. He’s barely managed to pull himself together, though the weight of the image he can’t shake still lingers, haunting him in the corners of his mind. Just as he’s about to crack open the beer, he feels a presence behind him.

The air in the kitchen feels thick, too close, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. He can feel the quiet tension, like the moment before a storm. Slowly, Gunwook exhales and glances over his shoulder, his heart skipping when he sees Jiwoong leaning against the doorframe. His posture is casual, but there’s an edge to his smile that Gunwook can’t ignore. Jiwoong’s eyes are locked on him, as if reading something on Gunwook’s face that Gunwook can’t hide.

“Nice show earlier, huh?” Jiwoong’s voice is low, almost amused, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes. He takes a step closer, and Gunwook’s gut tightens. “Sorry you had to see that.”

Gunwook freezes, the words crashing into him like a wave. He can feel his pulse thudding in his ears, the blood rushing to his face. His body stiffens, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond. His mind is scrambling, his thoughts tangled in a web of guilt and confusion, but the words that finally escape him are clipped, tight with shame.

“I figured it out,” Jiwoong says, voice low, like he’s saying something mundane. “Took me a second, but yeah.”

Gunwook freezes. His knuckles tighten around the neck of the bottle, the cold glass biting into his fingers. He doesn’t answer. His mouth is dry, and the words he should say – apologies, excuses, explanations – are all choked somewhere behind his ribs.

Jiwoong takes a slow step into the kitchen, not threatening, just steady. There’s no malice in his expression. No smugness. Just a quiet, unsettling kind of understanding.

“You didn’t mean to watch, did you?” he asks, not accusing, just stating. “But you didn’t walk away either.”

Gunwook doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t nod either. He stares at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole.

“I’m not angry,” Jiwoong says after a beat. “I get it. Things are… complicated. For you.”

That stings more than it should. Gunwook winces, and Jiwoong notices.

“You think I don’t see it?” Jiwoong’s voice softens, almost kind. “The way you look at him when you think no one’s watching. The way your entire mood shifts when he laughs too loud at something I say.”

Gunwook finally looks up. “I didn’t– I don’t–”

Jiwoong just raises a hand, stopping him gently. “You don’t have to explain. You’re not ready. I know that. But you will be. Eventually.”

The words hit Gunwook like a blow, and for a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. His chest tightens, and he realises just how much he’s been avoiding this conversation. He wants to apologise, wants to tell Jiwoong how sorry he is for what he saw, for how messed up it all is. His throat tightens. There’s a strange ache blooming in his chest, part guilt, part shame, and part something he doesn’t have a name for yet.

“I just–” Gunwook starts, but the words die on his tongue. He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to steady himself, but it’s like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. “I feel disgusting.”

Jiwoong’s eyes flicker with something Gunwook can’t quite place – empathy, maybe? Or maybe something else, something that Gunwook doesn’t think he deserves. Jiwoong tilts his head, thoughtful, before speaking again.

“You’re not disgusting, Gunwook.” His voice is calm, even, like he’s been here before. “You’re just confused about your newfound feelings. And hurt. That’s not the same thing.”

Gunwook feels a tightness in his chest, the words somehow not providing the comfort he thought they might. He lets out a bitter laugh that doesn’t sound like him, not really. It feels too hollow. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting; maybe something more from Jiwoong, some kind of release for all the tension that’s built up in his chest over the last few days, weeks, months. Instead, all he gets is the empty air between them and the relentless hum of the fridge in the background.

“I’m not your enemy, Gunwook,” Jiwoong says finally. “I never was. But you should probably figure out who you’re actually fighting before you end up burning everything down again.” And with that, Jiwoong turns and walks out, leaving Gunwook standing in the kitchen with nothing but the buzz of the fridge and the sound of his own guilt clawing at his insides.

Gunwook watches him go, his back still stiff and his mind still a whirlwind. The weight of everything – his guilt, the image he can’t unsee, his complicated feelings for Matthew – presses down on him all over again. He wants to believe Jiwoong, wants to believe that everything is fine, that it’s not as bad as it feels, but deep down, he knows it’s not that simple. 

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The sun is long gone now, leaving only the faintest orange glow on the horizon, a dying ember on the edge of the sea. The night has fallen cool and quiet, but the warmth from the bonfire pushes back against the chill, crackling and popping with each shift in the wind. Gunwook sits in the sand, legs drawn up, his body leaning back against the base of a large rock, the sharp scent of saltwater still in the air. The fire casts long shadows on their faces, dancing as it flickers, and for a moment, it feels like everything is almost normal again, just like it was when they were younger before the complications, before everything started falling apart.

Around him, the others are sprawled out on beach towels and blankets, some sitting, some lounging, their figures silhouetted by the flames. Matthew is nearby, looking a little more at ease than he did earlier, though his smile still doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s roasting a marshmallow, but his focus seems to wander in and out, sometimes on the sugary treat he’s carefully turning over the fire, sometimes lost somewhere in the distance. The others, however, are more animated. Ricky is holding court, as always, cracking jokes that leave everyone howling with laughter, while Gyuvin and Taerae are deep in some debate about the best way to toast a marshmallow, their voices rising and falling in playful competition.

The beach is alive with the sound of splashing waves and the occasional burst of laughter. The music from the Bluetooth speaker floats in the background, blending with the natural rhythms of the night. It’s a mix of songs they all know, some old, some new, and it’s almost as if the music carries with it a sense of camaraderie that’s been missing. Even though Gunwook can’t shake the image of Matthew from earlier – still branded on the back of his eyelids – he finds it hard to ignore how different this feels from just a few days ago. There’s something about this moment, about the warmth of the fire and the shared silence between them, that makes him think maybe they can fix what’s been broken.

There’s beer and other alcoholic drinks being passed around, the bottles clinking together with every exchange, and some of the group have taken to picking at the leftover snacks, their fingers sticky with marshmallow goo and chocolate. Taerae is already making a mess of his shirt, smearing marshmallow across his chest while trying to make the perfect s’more. “Guys, seriously,” he says between laughs, “this is the wrong way to do it. You’re supposed to get the marshmallow golden not burnt.”

Gunwook can’t help but smile, a real one this time. It feels effortless, almost nostalgic, like something from a lifetime ago. The air is thick with warmth and the buzz of conversation, and for just this fleeting moment, it almost feels like nothing has changed. It’s a simple thing: laughter, music, friends gathering around a fire. 

But even in the midst of the laughter, even as the fire dances before him, Gunwook can’t stop his eyes from flicking over to Matthew, sitting a little too close to Jiwoong, their shoulders brushing with each shift in position. The way Matthew looks at Jiwoong – the way his smile lingers just a little longer, like there’s something more there than the easiness between the group – it makes something sharp twist in Gunwook’s gut. He tries to brush it off, to focus on the sound of Ricky’s voice or Taerae’s ridiculous antics, but the knot in his stomach refuses to loosen. He’s here with his friends, surrounded by warmth and noise, but all he can think about is how much he wishes he could erase the image of Matthew, undone and vulnerable, from his mind.

As the night deepens, the mood shifts slightly. The group moves from casual conversation to more rowdy, playful banter, passing around another round of beer and cracking open a bottle of something stronger. The bonfire flickers brightly, casting its warm glow on their faces, but the alcohol quickly warms them from the inside as well, making their movements looser, their laughs louder.

"Alright, alright," Ricky announces, a mischievous grin already spreading across his face as he pulls a bottle of tequila out of the cooler. "Let's play something. How about Never Have I Ever?"

There’s an immediate murmur of agreement from the group, everyone either nodding or half-drunkly slurring their approval. Ricky takes the first shot with exaggerated flair, tossing his head back like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Taerae, already buzzed, claps his hands together excitedly, practically vibrating with energy. “Ooh, this is gonna be fun,” he chirps.

They all sit in a loose circle around the fire, bottles in hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. The rules are simple, each person takes a turn saying something they’ve never done, and anyone who has done it takes a drink. It starts off lighthearted, easy.

"Never have I ever... gone skinny dipping," Gunwook says, his voice light as he raises his glass to take a shot, everyone watching him. A few groans follow, and Gyuvin laughs as he takes his turn, looking way too proud of himself.

“Okay, you’ve got us, Gunwook,” Gyuvin says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I have gone skinny dipping. That’s an easy one.” He shoots back his drink.

The shots go around, and the tone of the game stays casual, the questions light and teasing. But as the bottle empties, and as the alcohol sinks in, things start to shift. The questions become more daring, the laughs a little more raucous.

“Never have I ever... kissed someone of the same sex,” Matthew says, his words slightly slurred but not entirely unsteady. His gaze flicks toward Gunwook as he says it, but Gunwook doesn’t meet his eyes, instead glancing toward Taerae, who’s already busy reaching for his drink. It’s a subtle move, but it doesn’t escape Matthew’s notice. Matthew’s eyes meet his for just a second, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable there, before he shrugs it off and takes the shot without saying anything. Gunwook takes a shot when he makes sure Matthew isn’t looking.

His throat is warm from the alcohol, but it doesn’t stop the strange sense of unease that settles there. It’s a silly question, sure, but something about it feels loaded now. Matthew’s eyes drift away, focusing on the flames. Gunwook has to force himself not to think about the weight of Matthew’s words and stare.

“Never have I ever... gotten into a fight with a friend and regretted it immediately after,” Taerae chimes in, a playful grin on his face as he gives Gunwook a pointed look. It’s harmless enough – at least, that’s what Taerae means it to be – but the look in his eyes is sharp, cutting through the haze of alcohol.

Gunwook takes the shot, knowing that everyone’s eyes are on him. He shifts uncomfortably, and Ricky, sensing the tension, immediately breaks into a loud laugh, trying to ease the sudden awkwardness. “Okay, okay, too serious. Let’s make it fun again.”

But the game doesn’t quite recover from that. The circle grows quieter with each round, the drunken laughter less spontaneous, a little more forced.

“Never have I ever... been in love with someone I couldn’t have,” Jiwoong says after a few moments of silence, his tone low, quieter than usual. It’s a simple enough question, yet something about the way he says it makes everyone pause, like they’re waiting for something.

Gunwook freezes, the glass halfway to his lips, his hand stiff. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he suddenly wishes the fire would swallow him whole. His chest tightens, and he can’t help but look at Matthew out of the corner of his eye. Matthew’s staring into the flames, his eyes dull, but there’s a slight shift in the way his body sits, like he’s bracing for something. They both take a shot.

Ricky clears his throat and glances around, trying to smooth over the uncomfortable moment. “Okay, alright, let’s get back to the fun ones. Never have I ever... stolen a kiss from someone,” he suggests, and everyone laughs, the tension dissolving slightly, but for Gunwook, the damage is done. He’s not sure what happened – whether it was the alcohol, or the weight of the question Jiwoong asked, or the way Matthew had shifted next to him – but now, all he can think about is how he doesn’t know where to stand anymore.

The shots continue, the laughter grows louder, but Gunwook can’t help but feel that gnawing discomfort creeping up on him again. As the game continues, the tension doesn’t entirely fade. The drinks flow a little too easily, but beneath the laughter, beneath the buzz, there's an undercurrent of something heavier. Gunwook’s mind races, pulling him back to the words Jiwoong had said earlier in the kitchen, to the weight of Matthew’s smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The alcohol should’ve loosened him, should’ve made him forget for a little while, but instead, it only sharpens everything. The questions feel like barbs now, each one nudging at something deeper, something that Gunwook isn’t sure he’s ready to face.

“Never have I ever...” Taerae begins, looking around the circle with a teasing smirk. He makes a show of considering the next question, dragging it out for effect. “Had feelings for someone who doesn’t know how I feel.”

Gunwook’s stomach drops, and he immediately regrets taking the shot before thinking about it. He looks over at Matthew, who’s staring into his beer, absently swirling it with his finger. There’s a tense silence in the air, but Taerae’s just grinning, completely oblivious to the undercurrents he’s stirring.

“You’re making it so easy, hyung,” Ricky teases, nudging him with his elbow.

But Gunwook doesn’t respond, his eyes fixed on Matthew, who finally glances up at him. For a second, their eyes meet, and there’s something in Matthew’s gaze – something questioning. Gunwook quickly looks away, his throat tightening, his hand tightening around his glass. He wants to say something, to clear the air, but the words get stuck in his throat. What does he even say? How does he explain the mess that is his heart right now?

The game continues, but Gunwook doesn’t hear much of it anymore. The clink of glasses, the murmurs of the group, even the crackling of the fire all fade into the background. He’s too focused on Matthew, too caught up in the tangled mess of feelings he’s been trying to bury. And then, when Jiwoong speaks again, his voice cutting through the fog of alcohol, it feels like a punch in the gut.

“Never have I ever... been afraid of what someone might think if they knew the truth.”

The words hang in the air like a weight, pressing down on everyone. Gunwook freezes mid-sip, and the world seems to slow for just a second. He looks at Jiwoong, but it’s Matthew who catches his eye, their gazes meeting briefly before Matthew’s flicks away, the slightest frown pulling at his lips.

Gunwook can’t breathe. The words feel too close to home, and he can feel the heat creeping up his neck. His pulse is louder than the music now, and the alcohol that had felt warm and comforting just moments before now feels suffocating. The group is still laughing, still passing drinks around, but Gunwook is somewhere else, stuck in his own head, tangled in the mess of his feelings for Matthew.

“Gunwook,” Taerae says, nudging him again. “You okay? You’ve gone really quiet.”

Gunwook barely nods, his chest tight. He’s doing his best to hide how much he’s struggling, how the weight of the game, of the alcohol, of everything that’s been building up, is pressing down on him. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He stands up abruptly, feeling like he’s suffocating.

“I’m... I’m just going to grab another drink,” Gunwook mutters, his voice too rough, too quick. He doesn’t wait for anyone to respond, doesn’t care if they notice. He stumbles toward the cooler, hands trembling as he grabs another bottle, trying to find something to calm the storm in his chest.

When he turns back, Matthew is looking at him again. This time, there’s something softer in his eyes – concern, maybe – but it doesn’t make Gunwook feel better. It only makes him feel worse. He can’t look at Matthew. Not now. Not like this.

The laughter and chatter of the group continue, but Gunwook feels like an outsider. The questions in the game, the words that feel like knives, he can’t escape it. The alcohol doesn’t help. It never does. It just makes everything worse. His mind keeps returning to the memory of Matthew’s face, to the way he’d looked earlier in Jiwoong’s room, the way the firelight had danced across his skin, the sound of his breath, the way he looked so... wrecked.

And before he can feel that familiar burn of arousal grow deep in his gut, he leaves the bonfire and walks back inside the house without a word.

“Gunwook,” Matthew says again, this time standing up and following him. His steps are slow, hesitant, but Gunwook doesn’t want to face him. Doesn’t want to see that look in his eyes, doesn’t want to hear whatever Matthew has to say about the way he’s been acting.

“Hey,” Matthew’s voice is soft, but there’s a hint of something more in it now, something deeper. Concern, maybe, or maybe confusion.

Gunwook looks up, meets Matthew’s gaze for a moment, but his chest tightens so painfully that he quickly looks away. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up. Keep pretending everything’s fine.

“I’m fine, hyung,” Gunwook says, his voice clipped. “Just... been a long night, y’know?”

Matthew doesn’t move for a second, like he’s deciding whether to push or let it go. Then he huffs out a small laugh, more to himself than anything.

“I’m way too drunk for this,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His voice is rough around the edges, tired and real in a way Gunwook isn’t used to hearing. “I don’t wanna make you talk if you don’t want to.”

Gunwook feels his shoulders tense, the words snagging somewhere deep inside him. He wants to tell Matthew he’s not mad, that he’s just tired, that he’s scared of saying something he can’t take back. But he can’t seem to make anything come out.

Matthew shifts his weight, rocking back on his heels. “Look... screw this noise.” He jerks his thumb toward the bonfire and the loud, drunken chaos still going on around them. “You wanna come out back? Just us. Get some air. Maybe even laugh at how tragic we are.”

Gunwook hesitates, every instinct telling him to stay put, to keep his distance. But when he risks another glance at Matthew, he doesn’t see judgment in his face, just a worn-down sort of warmth, like he’s offering Gunwook an out.

Gunwook lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and nods. “Yeah... okay. Let’s go, hyung.”

Matthew flashes a small, relieved smile and lightly curls his fingers around Gunwook’s wrist. It’s casual, but the touch lingers a second longer than it should, and Gunwook feels the heat of it even after Matthew starts leading the way.

They slip around the side of the beach house, leaving the noise and the firelight behind. The back patio is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of a few scattered string lights and the vast silver wash of the moon overhead. The ocean hums in the distance, steady and familiar.

Matthew flops down onto one of the patio loungers with a heavy sigh, throwing an arm over his face like he’s already regretting how much he drank. “God, remind me not to let Ricky mix the drinks next time,” he groans.

Gunwook chuckles under his breath, feeling some of the tension bleed out of his muscles. He settles onto the lounger next to Matthew’s, sitting at first but then leaning back, stretching his legs out. The cool air hits his skin, and he finally, finally, feels like he can breathe again.

For a while, they just sit there, not saying much, letting the night settle around them. It’s comfortable, easy in a way Gunwook had forgotten they could be.

Then Matthew peeks out from under his arm, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “You know,” he says, voice light and teasing, “if you pass out before me, I’m totally drawing something on your face.”

Gunwook snorts. “You’d have to be awake long enough for that to happen, old man.”

Matthew chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Fair point.” He pauses, letting his hand fall away from his face. His eyes are clearer now, even if his smile is still a little crooked. “Kinda glad you came out here with me, though. Would’ve been boring by myself.”

Gunwook glances over at him, feeling the edges of something new –  something not quite so heavy – creep in between them, and finally, he doesn’t feel the need to run from it.

“Yeah,” Gunwook says quietly. “Me too.”

The waves fill the silence between them for a long moment, just steady enough to make it feel like time’s slowed down. Gunwook shifts a little, resting his arms behind his head, eyes fixed on the sky.

“You know,” Matthew says after a pause, voice quieter now, “I didn’t realise how much I missed this. Just... hanging out. Talking shit. Doing nothing.”

Gunwook turns his head slightly, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Yeah?” he says, more curious than skeptical.

Matthew nods slowly, the smile fading into something softer. “Yeah. I mean, we used to do this all the time, right? Sneak out, sit on rooftops or in the back of my mum’s car, just... be stupid and talk about nothing.”

Gunwook smiles faintly, the memory warming something in his chest. “You used to bring those awful snacks,” he says. “Like, the most radioactive-looking ramyeon I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey, don’t hate on a classic,” Matthew laughs, nudging Gunwook’s leg with his foot. “That ramyeon was amazing. You were just too classy to appreciate them.”

Gunwook laughs, a real one this time, the sound echoing slightly in the stillness. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re sentimental,” Matthew teases, but there’s something gentler behind the words. After a beat, he adds, “I mean it, though. I missed this. I missed you.”

Gunwook goes still. The words hit harder than he expects, mostly because they echo what he’s been too afraid to say himself.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice low. “Me too.”

He doesn’t look at Matthew, not right away. It feels like if he does, the words might disappear, or mean too much, but when he does glance over, Matthew’s already looking at him, that familiar expression on his face; part fond, part sad, like he’s trying to make peace with something that still lingers between them.

“I hate what happened to us,” Matthew says quietly. “Like one day we were everywhere together, and then the next it was like I didn’t even know how to talk to you anymore.”

Gunwook swallows hard. “It was all my fault,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry for ruining everything.”

“I thought I told you to stop apologising?” Matthew smiles, turning his head so he’s facing Gunwook. Then he says, “You know what’s funny? Even after everything, I still think you’re the one person I actually feel like myself around. Even when we’re just sitting here, not saying anything.”

Gunwook’s chest tightens at that; not painfully this time, just with the weight of everything left unsaid for too long. “I forgot how easy it used to be,” he murmurs.

“We can get some of it back,” Matthew says, his tone gentle. “It won’t be the same, but maybe that’s okay.”

Gunwook looks at him, really looks, and sees that Matthew means it. There’s no expectation, no pressure. Just the honest, open offer of something real. Something they both used to have, and maybe still do, in a different shape.

“Yeah,” Gunwook says, letting the weight in his chest ease a little. “I’d like that.”

They fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.

The air between them shifts; charged, crackling, thick with something unspoken but heavy enough that Gunwook feels it settle in his lungs. He notices it first, that slow, unmistakable pull, like gravity itself has turned traitor, conspiring to draw them closer. The space separating them suddenly feels far too small, far too fragile.

Gunwook dares a glance at Matthew, and he sees it, the way Matthew’s gaze lingers on him, intent and searching, almost hesitant but there, undeniable. His expression is open in a way Gunwook hasn't seen in a long time; soft at the edges, like he’s letting something slip through that he usually keeps locked away.

Neither of them speaks. Neither dares.

The ocean hums in the background, a low, steady rhythm that fills the silence stretching between them. The breeze stirs Matthew’s hair, brushing it across his forehead in a way that makes him look even more achingly boyish, familiar, close. Gunwook’s heart slams against his ribs, so loud he’s almost convinced Matthew can hear it too. His hands feel useless at his sides, every instinct screaming at him to do something – make a joke, say something dumb, break this before it breaks him – but he can’t move. He can only stare.

Matthew shifts. A small movement, almost imperceptible, the faintest lean forward, like he’s testing the weight of the moment between them. His knee brushes against Gunwook’s, light and accidental – or maybe not accidental at all – and Gunwook freezes, breath caught sharp in his throat.

He doesn’t pull away.

Neither does Matthew.

Instead, Gunwook feels himself tipping toward him, so subtly that he barely realises it’s happening until there’s less than a hand’s width between them. He can see the way Matthew’s lashes flutter with every shallow breath, the slight flush climbing up his neck, the way his mouth parts like he’s about to say something.

But he doesn’t.

And neither does Gunwook.

The world seems to narrow down to this: ;the shallow space between them, the tension stretched taut like a live wire, the unbearable anticipation of something inevitable. Every second drags out endlessly, and still, neither of them moves first.

Gunwook’s gaze flickers down, helpless, traitorous, to Matthew’s mouth, and when he looks back up, Matthew’s already watching him with that same unmistakable look, full of weight and question and want.

It would be so easy. So stupidly, dangerously easy.

He can feel it, the inevitable crash about to happen, the way the world seems to lean in around them, holding its breath–

And then–

The door creaks open behind them, sudden and loud in the stillness.

They jolt apart instantly, as if burned. Gunwook jerks back so fast he nearly knocks over the lounge chair, heat flooding his face. Matthew sits up too quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, his laughter sharp and too bright.

Taerae stands in the doorway, his expression flickers – brief confusion, then quick understanding – as he takes in the scene; Gunwook wide-eyed and tense, Matthew visibly rattled, the sharp, aching space now yawning between them.

An awkward beat of silence hangs in the air.

Taerae clears his throat first, offering a half-hearted grin. “There you guys are. Thought you got lost.” Taerae huffs out a laugh, his eyes not leaving Gunwook. “Ricky’s trying to get everyone to do shots again. Said it’s not a party until someone throws up.”

Matthew laughs – too loud, too forced – and rises to his feet with a casual stretch. “Better go save them before we have a full-blown disaster.”

He shoots Gunwook a fleeting glance – something raw, unreadable – before disappearing inside, the door thudding closed behind him.

Gunwook stays frozen, staring at the spot where Matthew stood, the echo of what almost happened still thrumming in his blood.

Taerae doesn’t move either, watching him carefully. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, full of pity. “Look, I’m all for messy gays, but I’m telling you, don’t do stupid shit,” he says.

Gunwook finally tears his gaze away from the door, feeling the words hit him like a punch to the gut.

Taerae steps closer, dropping his voice even lower. “Be grateful it was me who walked in and not Jiwoong hyung.”

The name drops heavy between them, a grim reminder of everything Gunwook is trying – and failing – not to feel.

Gunwook doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing he can say.

Taerae just shakes his head and heads back inside, leaving Gunwook alone on the patio, with nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the bitter taste of almost. 

Gunwook doesn’t move.

He stays there on the patio, still frozen in place like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened – what almost happened. The night air no longer feels fresh on his skin. It’s cold now, sobering, slicing through the haze of alcohol like a cruel wind. His heart is still hammering, but the rush of adrenaline has drained from him, leaving only a hollowness in its wake.

He rubs his hands over his face, digging his palms into his eyes like he can erase the image of Matthew’s face inches from his, the way his breath had hitched, the way time had slowed around them. What the fuck were you thinking? It wasn’t supposed to go like that. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. The guilt gnaws at him immediately, sharp and relentless. He doesn’t even know what, exactly, he would’ve done if Taerae hadn’t walked in – he doesn’t want to admit how far he would’ve let it go, how badly he’d wanted it.

And now?

Now he just feels like shit.

Gunwook leans back, staring up at the sky. The stars are still there, blinking faintly, oblivious to everything he’s spiralling through. He doesn’t know how long he sits there; ten minutes, an hour, maybe more. Long enough for the ache to settle into his limbs, for the weight of it all to sink so deep it feels permanent. He only notices how much time has passed when he finally looks around and realises the world has gone still. The laughter, the music, the distant calls from the beach – gone. The lights in the house are out. The bonfire, once a brilliant centre of chaos, is just a ring of glowing embers.

The house is quiet.

Everyone’s gone to bed.

His body aches as he stands, the joints in his knees stiff from sitting in the same position too long. He rolls his shoulders and stretches out his back, as if that will loosen the knot in his chest. It doesn’t.

The sliding door groans softly as he pulls it open and steps inside. The warm, dim interior feels like a different world now – one he no longer belongs in. He’s halfway down the hall when he sees him.

Matthew.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded, his head tilted slightly as he stares straight at Gunwook. Like he’d been waiting, or maybe he just couldn’t sleep.

They lock eyes, and for one long, breathless moment, the silence between them roars.

It’s different from earlier; less heat, more weight. Something bruised and uncertain stretches between them now, thick with questions neither of them wants to ask.

Gunwook doesn’t say anything.

Matthew looks away.

Without a word, he pushes off the counter and disappears down the hallway, quietly slipping into the room he shares with Jiwoong. The soft click of the door closing might as well be a gunshot.

Gunwook stands there in the dark, rooted to the spot, throat dry, guilt clawing at his insides.

As he turns towards his own room, footsteps shuffle quietly from the side hall. Taerae appears in the doorway, hair messy from sleep, hoodie half-zipped and slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t look surprised to see Gunwook still awake. Doesn’t look angry, either; just tired.

Their eyes meet for half a second.

Then Taerae exhales, shakes his head slowly, and mutters under his breath with a bitter little laugh, “I hate these gays.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, doesn’t need one. He disappears back into his room, the door gently shutting behind him and Gunwook is left alone, again.

Alone with the weight of what he almost did. Alone with the ache of what he still craves so badly.

Chapter Text

Matthew wakes before the sun has fully risen, the sky outside his window still dim and painted in soft, bruised hues of blue and grey. A salty breeze slips through the half-open glass, the kind that carries the faint scent of the sea and something faintly metallic, like the world is still exhaling from the night before. Jiwoong is curled against his side, one arm slung across Matthew’s waist, the other tucked beneath the pillow they’re sharing. His breath comes slow and even, a warm whisper against the fabric of Matthew’s T-shirt. The weight of him is grounding and familiar, but Matthew lies there stiffly, his limbs heavy, his mind racing like it didn’t get the memo that sleep was meant to fix everything.

He feels full to the brim with thoughts, with static. With memories and moments and things he’s trying very hard not to name. Last night stretches behind his closed eyelids like a film reel on loop, each frame louder than the last. The near-kiss. The way Gunwook had looked at him like he still belonged to him. The way Matthew had almost let him. He shifts carefully, reaching for the edge of the blanket and peeling it back with painstaking slowness. Jiwoong stirs, his brows twitching faintly, but he doesn’t wake. Matthew holds his breath as he lifts Jiwoong’s arm off his waist and slides out from under it. For a brief second, he stays frozen, perched on the edge of the bed, watching Jiwoong settle back into the sheets. Guilt tugs at his chest, quiet and persistent, but it’s not enough to make him lie back down.

The floor is cold beneath his bare feet as he steps into the hallway. Each creak of the old wooden boards makes him wince, but he doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t even really know where he’s going. It’s not about escape, and it’s not shame either, though the thought does cross his mind, uninvited and irritating. It’s something tighter and deeper. He needs space; a minute to remember who he is when no one is touching him, no one is watching him like they’re waiting for a reaction.

The house is still, tucked into that liminal hour where night hasn’t fully released its grip but morning is beginning to seep in through the cracks. The only sounds are the dull hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional shifting of wood, as if the house itself is stretching after sleep. Matthew moves down the stairs quietly, his fingertips grazing the railing, the walls. The air smells faintly of salt, old firewood, and leftover takeout. It's peaceful in a way that feels almost fake, like the calm before something breaks.

In the kitchen, light spills in through the slatted blinds, pale and uncertain, casting long, soft shadows across the tiled floor. It pools lazily over the counters, catching on crumbs and glass rings from last night’s drinks. Everything feels delicate, like one wrong word could knock the whole morning off balance. Matthew takes it all in with a strange sort of detachment, like he’s stepped into a memory he doesn’t fully belong to.

Then he sees Gunwook.

He’s standing by the stove, his broad back angled slightly to the side, shoulders hunched in a way that makes him look both taller and smaller than he actually is. His shirt clings to him in creases, rumpled and still damp around the collar, like he might’ve washed his face but forgot to towel off properly, or like he never got to bed in the first place.

The pan sizzles softly. The smell of butter and eggs fills the room, rich and nostalgic. It’s the exact kind Matthew used to crave after late nights out, when the two of them would stumble back into shared spaces; laughing, half-drunk, comfortably tangled in each other’s company. Gunwook always cooked when he couldn’t sleep, and Matthew always teased him for it, called him a housewife, a mum, a butler. Gunwook would roll his eyes but make the eggs anyway, scooping them onto Matthew’s plate first.

For a moment, Matthew doesn’t move. He just watches. The early light slants across the kitchen counter in long silver streaks, throwing sharp lines across Gunwook’s face when he finally glances over his shoulder. He looks tired. Really tired. Not just in the shadows under his eyes or the slight puffiness of his cheeks, but in the way his gaze lands on Matthew, soft and unreadable, like he’s trying to weigh whether this moment is safe. Whether they are safe.

Then, in a voice too casual to be accidental, Gunwook says, “Sit down, hyung. I’m making breakfast for you.”

Just like that, like they didn’t nearly kiss out on the patio last night. Like Taerae didn’t find them standing too close, breathing the same air, hearts banging in their chests like they were about to make a mistake. Like Gunwook hadn’t stared at Matthew like he wanted him – like he needed him – like he wanted something more than just eggs and silence. Matthew’s legs feel stiff beneath him, but they carry him forward anyway. Automatically, he slides onto a stool with slow, deliberate movements, the metal scraping faintly against the tile floor. His hands come to rest on the cool marble counter. Fingers laced tightly, knuckles white.

He doesn’t speak, because what is there to say? That he remembers the way Gunwook’s breath had caught just before their lips could meet? That he still feels it – that heat, that pull – buried under his skin like it never left? That he’s angry Gunwook’s pretending it meant nothing again? Or worse, afraid that maybe it really didn’t mean anything. The silence is sharp, too sharp, the kind that hums under the skin, electric and waiting to snap.

Gunwook stirs the eggs a little too vigorously. The spatula scrapes the pan. His movements are tighter now, controlled, but not relaxed. The way someone moves when they’re trying too hard to be casual. He doesn’t look at Matthew again.

Matthew watches him through half-lidded eyes, arms crossed now, chin resting on one hand. “Did you sleep?” he asks finally, the words brittle in the air.

Gunwook shrugs, not facing him. “A bit.”

Which means no.

Matthew nods slowly, though it’s not really an answer. He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t ask about the bottle Gunwook had taken from the bonfire table, or whether he stayed up thinking about the same things Matthew did.

He looks at the eggs. Then back at Gunwook.

“Why are you making them like that?” he says, quieter now. “You only ever made them that way for me.”

Gunwook pauses. Just a beat. Barely noticeable, but Matthew sees it. The brief hitch in motion. The way the spatula lingers mid-air before moving again.

“No reason,” he says.

Which means every reason.

Matthew presses his lips together, trying to steady the storm rising in his chest. He shouldn’t ask, not yet; the words are too raw, the question too fragile, but it claws at him anyway. Do you remember last night? Did it mean something to you too, or am I the only one still stuck there? He swallows hard and lets the quiet stretch out again, taut and uncomfortable.

Gunwook finishes cooking and plates the eggs, placing them down in front of Matthew with a fork tucked neatly beside the dish. No ceremony. No eye contact. Just a slight nod and a muttered, “Here.”

Matthew stares at the food, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He doesn’t touch it, because there’s a ghost of a moment still hanging in the space between them; a kiss that didn’t happen, a kiss that did happen but forgotten, a confession still unsaid, and it sits heavier than any breakfast ever could.

They eat in silence.

Not the kind that settles in easy, like a soft blanket between old friends. This one hangs heavy, like fog inside a sealed room; dense, unmoving, impossible to ignore. Every clink of cutlery feels louder than it should, each scrape of fork against plate echoing awkwardly off the kitchen walls. The only other sound is the low hum of the fridge and the rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock, marking each second that passes without a single word. Time feels thick, syrupy. Matthew chews slowly, mechanically, because he has to do something with his mouth, his hands, his eyes – anything other than look up and meet Gunwook’s gaze.

The eggs are good. Annoyingly good, actually. Soft in the middle, edges lightly crisped, with just the right amount of salt and cheese melted through. Gunwook always made them like this, perfect in that effortless, instinctive way that Matthew used to find stupidly endearing, but now? Now it just makes his stomach twist. It feels like a cruel joke, a quiet reminder of how well Gunwook knows him – used to know him – and how little he’s willing to acknowledge it anymore, like his hands remember more than his heart does. Matthew nudges a forkful across the plate, the yolk smearing into the white like a slow bleed, before finally bringing it to his mouth. He chews, then swallows. It tastes like nothing.

Gunwook sits across from him, bent low over his own plate like the posture might shield him from the weight in the air. His shoulders are drawn in, tense beneath the loose hang of his shirt, and his jaw grinds steadily as he eats with deliberate, robotic movements. His gaze is pinned firmly to the table, as though looking at Matthew might cause something to rupture. It’s not disinterest, it’s avoidance. A thick, defensive wall built from silence and restraint, and Matthew can practically see the effort it’s taking to hold it up. Like if Gunwook keeps his head down, keeps chewing, keeps pretending this is just another morning, the truth won’t catch up with them.

The silence between them isn’t peaceful. It’s taut and crowded, stuffed full with the ghosts of things neither of them wants to say. Matthew feels it pressing in from all sides, curling under his skin and knotting at the base of his spine. It’s there in the tiny muscle ticking in Gunwook’s jaw, in the way Matthew’s fingers twitch restlessly against the edge of the counter, in the thick, invisible line that slices the table in half like a boundary neither of them dares to cross. They used to sit side by side without a thought. Now, even a glance feels loaded. Every inhale feels like it carries a risk.

He keeps glancing up, just to check. To see if Gunwook’s cracked yet, if his eyes are giving anything away, but no, he stays in his silence like it’s safe there. Like nothing ever happened.

It’s exhausting.

He’s so sick of this. This weird, half-frozen limbo, like they’re suspended in a memory that refuses to die but also won’t move forward. They pretend to be fine, and then the pretending frays at the edges, and then they’re left staring at each other like strangers who once knew everything. Since when has he ever felt afraid to talk to Gunwook? To speak honestly? Not about his feelings, or at least, not the big ones. Those have always been tucked deep into the folds of his chest, locked behind ribs and rationality. But everything else? Stupid stuff, important stuff, real stuff… they used to talk like it was breathing. Like silence was what happened when the world ended.

Matthew clears his throat, setting his fork down with a soft clink. The sound feels louder than it should in the quiet. His fingers twitch once against the edge of the table, then still.

“Hey, about last night–”

“I know,” Gunwook says, cutting him off.

Too fast. Too smooth. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, script in hand.

Matthew frowns, caught off guard. “What?”

Gunwook doesn’t meet his eyes. He drags his fork along the rim of his plate, tracing invisible lines into porcelain. When he speaks, his voice is low and level, drained of any real inflection. “It didn’t mean anything.”

For a moment, Matthew forgets how to breathe.

The words hit like a slap; cold and dismissive, like being shoved back behind glass after thinking, just for a second, that he’d been let in. He blinks once, slowly. “Sorry– what?”

“It was a mistake, right?” Gunwook says, and this time he does look up, but only briefly. Just a flicker of eye contact before his gaze slides away again like it burns. “We were both drunk. You know how it is.”

Matthew stares at him.

Something inside him curls tight. Not anger, no, this is something worse. Something bitter and dull and hopeless. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. There’s a tremor building in his chest, a pressure right behind his sternum that feels like it might split him in two, and still, Gunwook won’t even look at him properly. He should’ve known. Should’ve expected it. Because this is what Gunwook does, isn’t it? He backpedals. Pretends. Turns moments into nothing the second they start to mean something. And Matthew… God, he let himself believe. Just for a second. The eggs. The soft smiles. The almost-kiss. He let himself imagine that maybe Gunwook felt it too.

Stupid.

If an almost-kiss is already a mistake in Gunwook’s eyes, then what would that other moment count as; the kiss they did share, drunk and reckless, pressed up against the hallway wall with their mouths tangled and breath hitching? What would that be to Gunwook? A glitch? An accident? A lapse in judgement he doesn’t even remember? Matthew swallows hard, the thought curling hot and sharp beneath his ribs. He can’t bring it up. Can’t risk offering that memory just to have Gunwook dismiss it, too. Can’t bear to watch something so real to him get tossed aside like it never happened. Better, maybe, to let Gunwook keep forgetting. Better than watching him remember and decide that that, too, meant nothing.

He forces his features into something neutral. Nods like he’s fine. Like he’s not fraying at the edges.

“Oh,” he says, voice thin. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

And that’s that.

Whatever it was – whatever it could’ve been – vanishes like smoke. The spell breaks. The air between them turns stale again, heavy with everything they don’t say. Matthew lowers his eyes to his plate, but he can’t bring himself to eat. The eggs are stone-cold now. The silence stretches long after the conversation ends, if it can even be called that. The eggs go untouched. Congealed yolk begins to dry at the edges of the plate, and the cheese turns rubbery where it’s cooled. Matthew stares at it like it might tell him something he doesn’t already know. His fork lies abandoned beside the plate, and there’s a weight in his chest; thick and sour, like he swallowed something that didn’t sit right. Not hunger or sadness, even. Just… absolute resignation.

Then Gunwook shifts in his seat. Leans back a little. Drags the silence back into something light.

“So, are we still doing burgers for dinner?” he asks, and his voice is bizarrely bright. Almost cheerful. Like the conversation that just gutted Matthew has already been scrubbed from his memory. “I think Gyuvin said he’s in charge of the grill, which is definitely a mistake. We’ll all get food poisoning.”

Matthew blinks. It knocks the breath out of him, how fast Gunwook’s tone changes, how casually he slips back into buddy mode, like this is just another morning in their shared timeline. Like this isn’t the first time they’ve spoken in weeks. Like he didn’t just look Matthew in the eye and call the almost-kiss a mistake, and that’s what gives Matthew whiplash. Not just the denial or the minimising, but the complete pivot into easy conversation, into comfort. Into we’re fine, right? as if ‘fine’ is even on the table anymore.

Matthew watches him, almost dazed. Gunwook doesn’t look like someone who just tried to erase a moment with a single sentence. He’s already half-smiling, like he’s waiting for Matthew to join in the joke. His chair creaks as he shifts his weight, lifting his water glass for a long sip like it’s a casual afterthought, not a mask, and maybe that’s what it is. A mask. One Gunwook’s learned to wear so well that even Matthew – who’s known him for years, who’s watched him through hookups and drunken breakdowns and late-night rants on the kitchen floor – can’t find the seams anymore.

Matthew’s throat tightens. His first instinct is to call him out. Are you serious right now? Do you think this is normal? Do you think this is okay? But the words sit heavy and unsaid on his tongue, thick as wet cement. He wants to break the surface, wants to shake him by the shoulders and demand honesty, but there’s a hollowness in him now, a tired ache that whispers, What would be the point? So he does what he’s been doing lately.

He plays along, because pretending is safer.

Matthew drags his lips into a wry smile. “Gyuvin’s grill privileges should’ve been revoked last summer.”

Gunwook grins, his whole face brightening like he’s grateful for the lifeline. “There were flames, hyung. Like, actual pillars of fire. He charred a sausage so badly Hanbin used it as a doorstop.”

And god, it’s so them; that rhythm, that banter, the lazy bounce of memories they used to toss back and forth like tennis balls. For a second, it feels so easy, so familiar, so themselves that it guts Matthew all over again, because even now, with everything wrecked beneath the surface, they can still fake it.

He huffs a soft laugh. “I remember that. Hao still brings it up when he’s drunk.”

He doesn’t know what this is anymore.

Not friendship, not really.

Not love, not openly.

It’s something in between. Some awful halfway house of memory and pretending. A performance for everyone else and, maybe worst of all, for each other, but before Matthew can sink too deep into it, before the quiet starts to feel too loud again, the hallway groans with the sound of slow, uneven footsteps. Followed by a long, theatrical groan. The kitchen door creaks open and Hao stumbles in like he’s just escaped the underworld. He’s wearing Hanbin’s hoodie – massive and swallowing him whole – hood lopsided, hair pointing in all directions, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. His hand is braced dramatically against the doorframe like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

“Ughhhhhh,” Hao groans with his whole chest. “Is this what death feels like?”

Gunwook barks a laugh. “You look like an unpaid intern in hell.”

“You smell like morning,” Hao mutters darkly, blinking against the kitchen light like it physically offends him. “God, why are you both vertical already? It’s six in the morning.”

“It’s nearly eight,” Matthew says, grateful for the shift in atmosphere, even if his stomach still knots under the table. “And this is what happens when you and Ricky play bartender.”

“That was his doing,” Hao says, staggering toward the counter like each step costs him a year off his life. “He’s trying to slowly poison me. First the drinks, then the karaoke. I think I sang 'Unholy' five times.”

Gunwook chuckles, slipping into the rhythm without missing a beat. “You tried to body-roll off the table.”

“You let me.”

“You threatened me with a ladle!”

Matthew watches them, watches how easily it all falls into place; the noise, the rhythm, the effortless way Gunwook plays normal, and he realises, with a sick twist of something bitter, that this is what they’re best at now: pretending nothing happened.

And god, Matthew’s getting better at it too.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook’s hands haven’t stopped trembling since the moment Matthew walked into the kitchen.

Not that it shows. He keeps them busy, moving in automatic motions; whisking the eggs with mechanical focus, pouring them into the pan like the sound of sizzling might drown out the thunder in his chest. He doesn’t look up or even glance sideways. Just stares at the stovetop as if the eggs might demand his undivided attention, as if this morning is like any other, as if he hadn’t spent the entire night staring at the ceiling with Matthew’s almost-kiss echoing in his mind like a bruise that never quite stops throbbing.

He’s not sure how long he stood in the kitchen before Matthew came in. Long enough for the first wave of panic to settle into a numb, uneasy readiness. He’s braced, tense from the neck down, every muscle coiled like a wire. He tells himself he just wants breakfast to be ready, but it’s not about the eggs. It’s not even about the awkward silence that’s been stretching itself tighter and tighter between them ever since Taerae walked in last night and snapped them apart like a twig.

It’s about waiting for Matthew to say something, anything, and now, he's here.

Gunwook hears the soft shuffle of bare feet on wood, the almost imperceptible drag of a chair against the floor. Feels it, even. Like a static charge in the air. Like a shift in gravity when someone steps into your orbit and suddenly your body remembers them in ways you didn’t permit it to. His back straightens before he can stop it. His grip tightens on the spatula. Still, he doesn’t turn, because if he sees Matthew’s face – if he sees pity, or regret, or worse, blank detachment – he doesn’t know what he’ll do. So he watches the eggs instead; swirls the pan, adds cheese like muscle memory alone is guiding him. He even toasts the bread and butters it exactly the way Matthew likes it, because some habits are hard to unlearn, even when they feel like they’re stabbing you in the ribs.

There’s a plate in front of Matthew now. Another in front of him. Two old friends, eating breakfast in the early morning light. Just like they used to. Except it’s not. It hasn’t been “just like they used to” for a long time.

The silence is unbearable.

It hums beneath everything. Under the scrape of fork against ceramic. Under the sound of Matthew shifting slightly in his seat. Under Gunwook’s too-casual sip of water. It’s not a silence you can fill with words, it’s the kind you build walls around. Gunwook’s mouth is dry. His pulse drums in his ears. His mind spins.

He’s going to bring it up. Of course he is. He’ll say last night was weird. That it didn’t mean anything. That he was caught up in the moment, that it was the alcohol, the summer, the mood. He’s going to look at me and say he regrets it. That it was nothing.

Gunwook presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Tries not to show anything, because he remembers it. Every second of it. The quiet crackle of the fire outside. The way Matthew had looked at him like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. The electric, painful closeness. The moment their noses nearly brushed. The way Gunwook had leaned in without even realising. The way it felt, like being pulled underwater and not minding if he drowned. He remembers all of it, and he remembers pulling away when Taerae’s voice cut through the night. He remembers the guilt that flared, and the wanting that stayed, and the realisation that, maybe, it had always been there, waiting for the courage to surface.

The worst part about it is, if it had been mere months ago but with the knowledge he has now, Gunwook would have welcomed it with open arms. If this was back when Matthew was still in love with him, maybe he would have kissed him breathless, but that’s not the case anymore. Matthew is not in love with him, hasn’t been for a few months now. Now, it’s gone. Burnt out. Snuffed like a candle with no wax left. Gunwook sees it in the way Matthew looks at Jiwoong. Not just fond. Not just easy. Soft. Like he wants to be seen. Like he’s okay, finally. He laughs more around him, and relaxes, and leans in, and Gunwook hates that it hurts, because he had years. Years, and he did nothing. He stood still while Matthew waited. Waited and waited until he stopped waiting altogether.

So if Matthew brings it up now – if he tries to have that conversation, the one where they pretend it was nothing or admit it was something but not enough – Gunwook can’t bear it. Not when Matthew will mean it. Not when Gunwook would be the only one left holding it like something sacred.

He has to beat him to it.

He has to be the one who says it was meaningless. Who brushes it off. Who acts like he didn’t stay awake thinking about the way Matthew’s breath had hitched when they were that close. If he lets Matthew say it first, it’ll wreck him.

So when Matthew finally clears his throat – soft, uncertain – Gunwook doesn’t even wait for the rest. He slices the silence open with the lie he’s been rehearsing all morning.

“Hey, about last night–”

“I know,” Gunwook says, cutting him off.

It’s too fast. Too smooth. Too clean. Like a door slamming shut before the cold can seep in, and it is rehearsed; has been, since the second he heard Matthew’s footsteps approaching the kitchen. Every version of this conversation has already played out in his head, looping on a cruel reel from the moment the sun cracked the sky. In some of them, Matthew laughs it off. In others, he’s uncomfortable, but the worst – the ones that gutted Gunwook most – were the ones where Matthew looked at him with pity. Where he said I didn’t mean to lead you on. Where he said It was a mistake before Gunwook could.

So he’s doing it first. Taking the hit on his own terms, because this – the dismissal, the shield, the lie – is the only version where he gets to walk away pretending his heart is still whole.

Across the table, Matthew blinks. “What?”

Gunwook doesn’t look up. His grip tightens around his fork, fingers tense, knuckles white. He presses the edge into a smear of egg yolk and starts drawing slow, aimless circles in the mess left on his plate. It’s an okay enough distraction, a way to stay grounded, because if he lets himself see Matthew’s face – really see it – he’ll hesitate, and hesitation is dangerous. Hesitation means honesty. Hesitation means what if.

His voice is flat when he speaks. Stripped of anything raw. It has to be. “It didn’t mean anything.”

There’s a stillness that follows. A suspended second that stretches too long, thick enough to drown in.

Gunwook feels it anyway, even without looking. The way the energy shifts. The subtle ache of something shattering, too quietly for sound.

“Sorry– what?” Matthew says. Softer this time. More careful, and Gunwook flinches at the tone. He knows that tone. He’s heard it in dreams, nightmares, regrets.

He swallows hard and forces himself to look up. Just for a second. Just enough to plant the final stake in whatever this is. Whatever it was.

“It was a mistake, right?” he says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t crack. “We were both drunk. You know how it is.”

And he hates the way his voice sounds. Too casual. Too easy. Like this is some joke they’ll laugh about later. As if he hadn’t nearly lost his breath when they leaned in on the patio, as if he hadn’t spent hours trying to piece together the exact shape of Matthew’s mouth from memory. He tears his gaze away before he can read Matthew’s face. Before he can make out if it’s hurt or confused – or worse, indifferent.

“Oh,” Matthew says, and it’s so quiet, so flat, it barely registers as sound. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Gunwook swallows. The words hit him with a thud in his chest, heavier than he expects. Like confirmation, or worse, like a punishment. No protest. No But I thought–  or Why are you saying this? Just polite acceptance. A nod and a retreat. The kind of conversation two strangers might have after bumping shoulders in the street.

Gunwook looks down at his plate, though there’s nothing left to see. Just cold eggs and a smear of something yellow and congealed, like even the food couldn’t hold itself together. He clenches his jaw. Counts the seconds in his head to keep from saying anything stupid. From doing something stupid. Because what was he expecting? A confession? For Matthew to reach across the table and admit he still felt it too? That maybe he never stopped loving him?

Don’t be ridiculous.

Gunwook saw the way Matthew held Jiwoong yesterday, how he moaned his name. Saw how easily he fit into someone else’s orbit. He’s not stupid. He knows Matthew’s in love – but not with him. Not anymore. Maybe he was once. Maybe there was a version of the world where they both said the right things at the right time, but this isn’t that world, and if this hurts – if it feels like something inside him is curling in on itself, small and bitter and burning – then that’s his own fault for hoping. He shoves the last bite of toast into his mouth just to have something to do. Something to chew on so he doesn’t choke on the silence.

And that’s that.

Because pretending it meant nothing is still easier than admitting it meant everything.

Gunwook doesn’t let the silence linger. If he sits in it any longer, he might start shaking again. The hollowness is already spreading in his chest like a slow leak, threatening to pull his entire ribcage inward. So he grabs the nearest lifeline he can find; normalcy, deflection, performance.

“So,” he says, tone light, just a bit too loud in the quiet room. “Are we still doing burgers for dinner?”

He keeps his gaze on the table, then lets it lift casually like this is nothing. Like that wasn’t a conversation that just stripped him raw. Like he didn’t just carve out a piece of himself and hand it over as if it meant nothing.

His voice comes out brighter than he expects. Almost cheerful. Almost believable. He leans into it. “I think Gyuvin said he’s in charge of the grill, which is definitely a mistake. We’ll all get food poisoning.”

The words fall easy, practiced. His own laugh feels hollow in his mouth, but he lets it out anyway. Keeps his expression light, his body relaxed. Pretends the air isn’t heavy with the wreckage of what he just said, and Matthew… doesn’t answer.

Gunwook risks a glance.

The look on Matthew’s face is enough to make his stomach drop. He’s blinking at him like he doesn’t recognise what he’s seeing, like Gunwook has flipped a switch too fast, jumped tracks mid-sentence, rewound the tape on a scene that wasn’t finished yet. That look – wide-eyed, guarded, a little stunned – hits Gunwook harder than he expects, because it’s working. The act is working, and that shouldn't make him feel worse, but it does anyway.

He watches Matthew’s throat move in a slow swallow, like he’s trying to force down the protest behind his teeth. For a second, Gunwook braces for it, for the confrontation, the Are you kidding me right now? he probably deserves, but it never comes. Instead, Matthew does exactly what Gunwook hoped and hated he would do.

He plays along.

“Gyuvin’s grill privileges should’ve been revoked last summer,” Matthew says, and it sounds almost like a joke, like an echo of something they used to be.

Gunwook latches onto it like a lifeline. “There were flames, hyung,” he says, smiling, grateful, desperate for the shift in tone. “Like, actual pillars of fire. He charred a sausage so badly Hanbin used it as a doorstop.”

The memory lands between them with a soft thud, and for the briefest moment, something flickers; familiarity, a shared rhythm, that old easy swing of banter they used to slip into without thinking. He sees the corner of Matthew’s mouth twitch upward, and it’s so them – so perfectly them – that it almost makes Gunwook sick, because underneath it, the truth still throbs like a bruise: he’s pretending. And Matthew is pretending, too. They’re both gripping the performance like a lifeline, even as it cuts their hands open.

Gunwook laughs again, too easily and brightly. He doesn’t let himself look too closely at Matthew’s eyes, afraid of what might be waiting there, because he’s not sure he can stand seeing the pain, or disappointment, or worse, indifference. 

So he lifts his water glass. Sips, nods, and breathes like nothing happened.

Like this is enough.

Like they’re still enough.

Even if the silence that follows tells him otherwise.

Gunwook doesn’t have time to spiral any further before a groan tears through the air like a warning siren.

“Ughhhhhh,” Hao moans, dragging himself into the kitchen like a ghost returning to haunt the living. “Is this what death feels like?”

Gunwook seizes the interruption like a life buoy. His relief is so instant, so visceral, it nearly makes him laugh, and so he does; too loud, too grateful.

“You look like an unpaid intern in hell,” he says, grinning as he turns to face him fully. Hao looks exactly how Gunwook feels inside – wrecked, messy, unraveling – but at least Hao has the excuse of too many shots and a karaoke mic.

“You smell like morning,” Hao mutters, shielding his eyes like the kitchen lights are personally attacking him. “God, why are you both vertical already? It’s six in the morning.”

“It’s nearly eight,” Matthew says from the other side of the table.

Gunwook can’t help but clock the strain in his voice, the slight tightness, but he doesn’t turn to look. He can’t afford to see it – not after what he just did. Not after how quickly he pivoted away from it. Besides, Hao is here now; a buffer, a break in the tension, a gift.

“And this is what happens when you and Ricky play bartender,” Matthew adds, and Gunwook wants to believe it’s real, the casualness, the banter. That maybe they can just keep moving like this. Maybe it didn’t land as hard as it felt. Maybe it’ll fade, like everything else they’ve left unsaid.

“That was his doing,” Hao groans, flopping toward the counter like gravity hates him. “He’s trying to slowly poison me. First the drinks, then the karaoke. I think I sang Unholy five times.”

Gunwook lets out another laugh. It feels easier this time. Lighter. The shift in atmosphere is like cracking open a window in a room full of smoke. “You tried to body-roll off the table.”

“You let me.”

“You threatened me with a ladle!”

And just like that, it’s happening again; his mouth moving faster than his brain, the jokes, the rhythm, the warmth he knows how to fake so well. Hao snorts, dragging his hands through his hair like it might tame the headache clinging to him. Matthew’s laughing too, but Gunwook doesn’t let himself look.

He knows exactly what this is: a scene, a distraction, a way to outrun the silence he left bleeding on the floor just minutes ago. He’s always been good at slipping into noise when things get too sharp, but even in the middle of the chaos, Gunwook feels it like a bruise under his skin; Matthew’s eyes on him, not angry, nor cold. Just... watching, and that hurts more than if he'd stormed out, because this is what they’re doing now, isn't it?

Pretending nothing happened.

And god, Matthew’s getting better at it too.

Gunwook doesn't know whether that should make him relieved – or ruin him completely.

Hao stumbles into the seat next to him, still rubbing his eyes. He glances between them, eyes slightly squinting in the harsh kitchen light. “What are you guys up to for today?” he mumbles, his voice rough from too much partying the night before.

Matthew shifts on his feet, his smile coming easily, almost too easily. “I think Jiwoon hyung and I are gonna check out the seaside market,” he says, his tone light, unaffected. It feels rehearsed, like he’s convincing himself as much as anyone else.

Gunwook, who’s been hovering near the counter, drying his hands off absently, suddenly feels the weight of his own exhaustion settle deeper into his bones. His body, already tired from the night before, seems to drag him into a lethargic, motionless state. Without a word, he shrugs, his voice flat. “I’ll probably just catch up on sleep,” he adds, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them. It’s too late now.

Matthew glances at him quickly, the flicker of something crossing his face before it’s gone, replaced by that same tight-lipped smile. It’s a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And that’s it.

Matthew doesn’t argue, doesn’t offer anything more. He just nods, like it’s perfectly normal for Gunwook to slip away from them again. It’s the same tired routine; pretend nothing happened, pretend things are still fine. Gunwook notices the way Matthew’s eyes linger on him, but it’s not the usual warmth, not the familiar affection he’s grown used to. This time, Matthew doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t say anything that might break the distance.

It’s almost worse than if Matthew had been angry. Worse than if he had screamed or stormed out, because at least that would mean something. At least it would be real. But this? This empty space between them? The way Matthew just accepts it, like he’s so practiced at pretending they’re okay, it almost feels like a knife twisting in Gunwook’s chest.

He can’t stay here any longer.

Without another word, Gunwook slips out of the kitchen, moving past Hao and Matthew without a second glance. He needs to escape, needs to hide from whatever this is now between them. He feels the sting of Matthew’s eyes on him as he leaves, but he doesn’t turn around.

Gunwook slips into the room as quietly as he can, careful not to wake Taerae. He’s already sinking, the weight of everything pressing down on him. His body is tired – his limbs heavy, like they don’t belong to him anymore – but his mind refuses to settle, refuses to stop turning over everything that happened in the past twenty-four hours. He crawls into the bed, the sheets warm but distant, as if they belong to someone else. He lies there, staring at the ceiling, his eyes not really seeing it. His chest is tight, his thoughts scattered, but none of it feels like it belongs to him. It's all Matthew’s fault, or maybe it's his fault. Maybe it’s both of theirs. Maybe it was always going to be this way.

He tries to force his body to relax, to slip into sleep, but the silence gnaws at him, and every time he closes his eyes, it just loops back to the conversation. The dismissal. Matthew’s empty smile. Gunwook can’t get rid of the way Matthew looked at him this morning, like everything was normal. Like the weight of what almost happened didn’t matter anymore, but then, after what feels like an eternity of restless thoughts, he feels a shift in the bed. Taerae stirs beside him, his breath soft but shifting. Gunwook can feel the warmth of him before he even opens his eyes. Then a low, half-amused voice floats out from the darkness.

“You’re a mess,” Taerae murmurs. “I can basically hear your thoughts from here.”

Gunwook swallows hard, fighting the lump in his throat. He stays silent, focusing on the ceiling, pretending not to hear the way Taerae’s voice cracks through the quiet of the room.

"God, I’m trying to sleep,” Taerae says, rolling over onto his side and blinking into the dim light. "But it’s like I can feel the weight of your thoughts pressing against me. It’s freaking me out, man."

Gunwook doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have the energy to say anything. He just keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest tight, trying to will his thoughts into silence.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” Taerae presses, his voice gentler now. “Did something happen while I was asleep?”

Gunwook swallows again. The lump is bigger now, thick and unrelenting. It catches in his throat, making it harder to breathe, harder to speak, but Taerae doesn’t let it go. He knows Gunwook better than anyone else, even in the short amount of time they’ve known each other. He knows when something’s eating at him, when Gunwook’s trying to hold back.

"Gunwook," Taerae says softly, and his hand brushes against his shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

For a long moment, Gunwook doesn’t answer. He stays still, refusing to speak, his mind racing, his emotions tangled in knots, but Taerae keeps pushing, and eventually, Gunwook feels the words break free.

“It was this morning,” he starts, his voice rough. "We were at breakfast... me and Matthew. And he–" Gunwook hesitates, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know why it’s so difficult to talk about this. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard to admit that everything’s falling apart. "He asked about last night. About... what almost happened. And I–"

Gunwook stops, his voice thick with something he can’t name. He clenches his jaw, trying to hold it together, but Taerae’s hand on his shoulder grounds him.

“What did he say?” Taerae asks quietly, his tone carefully neutral, waiting.

Gunwook inhales deeply. “I told him it didn’t mean anything. That it was a mistake. That we were both drunk, and... and it wasn’t real. I said it was nothing.”

Taerae doesn’t say anything for a beat. Gunwook can feel the quiet between them, like the room itself is holding its breath. 

Then, finally, in a tone dry enough to sting, Taerae laughs humourlessly, “And why the hell did you say that?”

Gunwook blinks. “Say what?”

Taerae sighs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s aging five years just from the conversation. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a dumbass. Thank god you’re hot and good in bed, or I’d have to start charging you for emotional labour.”

“Hey,” Gunwook mutters, but it’s half-hearted at best.

Taerae rolls onto his side to look at him properly, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to solve a particularly stupid riddle. “What did he say? After you dropped that bomb?”

Gunwook swallows, throat dry. “He agreed. Said ‘of course’. Like it was obvious.”

Taerae lets out a guttural groan and throws himself onto his back, arms flung wide like he’s being crucified by secondhand embarrassment. “Of course he fucking did. God. Are homophobic homosexuals a thing? Because I swear I’m becoming one just listening to this.”

Gunwook frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Taerae says, sitting up slightly, eyes wide and voice climbing into incredulous territory, “You two are so clearly in love with each other it’s physically painful to witness. And instead of doing literally anything about it, you tell him it meant nothing?”

Gunwook stiffens. “Well, he said it didn’t mean anything either–”

“Yeah, because you said it first, genius!” Taerae snaps. “He’s matching your energy, not being honest. That’s what people do when they think they’re about to get hurt, they lie first so it doesn’t sting as much.”

Gunwook looks away, jaw clenched. “You weren’t there.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Taerae agrees, voice calmer now, but firmer. “But I know what someone sounds like when they’re trying not to fall apart. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. You think I don’t notice that shit?”

Gunwook stays silent, the edges of his guilt curling in.

Taerae stares at him for a second longer, then mutters, “I swear to god, I should just lock the two of you in a closet until you figure your shit out. Maybe get Jiwoong hyung to help while I’m at it.”

Gunwook tenses. “Why bring Jiwoong into this?”

Taerae doesn’t flinch. “A. He’s hot. And B. He doesn’t deserve to also be used like a goddamn buffer just because you two are too scared to deal with your feelings. At least I knew what I was getting into with you, but him? I fucking doubt it.”

Gunwook turns to him, defensive. “You’re not a buffer–”

“Oh, come on, Wookie,” Taerae interrupts, softer now. There’s no accusation in his voice, just exhaustion laced in fondness. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend this is something it’s not. We both know what this is.”

Gunwook swallows hard. “I’m not trying to use you.”

Taerae offers him a small, crooked smile. “I know. But I’m using you too, so at least we’re even! Again, thank god you’re a good fuck, otherwise I would’ve been outta here with all the stress you’re putting me under for being the most emotionally constipated dumbass I’ve ever had the pain to witness.”

That gets the faintest huff of a laugh from Gunwook, bitter and grateful all at once.

“Right,” he says quietly.

They fall into silence again, but this time, it’s less sharp. Just two people lying beside each other, hearts frayed and borrowed, waiting for the mess they made to catch up. Taerae shifts beside him, the mattress creaking softly with the movement. He doesn’t speak right away, just stares up at the ceiling like maybe the answers will appear there if he squints hard enough. Gunwook stays still, his hands folded on his stomach, eyes fixed on the faint crack in the wall above the closet. It’s not comfortable, but it’s honest; this strange kind of almost-intimacy they’ve built out of quiet confessions, meaningless fucks, and half-laughed insults.

After a beat, Taerae exhales. “You know,” he says, voice low, “You’re not the first guy to hook up with someone just to feel something else.”

Gunwook turns his head, eyes narrowing. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Taerae says simply. “It’s supposed to make you realise you’re not special. You’re just scared, and I know how this ends.”

Gunwook’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.

Taerae watches him for a second longer, then adds, more gently, “You’re allowed to be scared, Wookie. You just don’t get to ruin someone else in the process, I’ve learned the hard way.”

The words land hard. Gunwook feels them settle in his chest, thick and unyielding. He doesn’t respond. 

“Anyway,” Taerae says, stretching and letting his arm fall lazily across Gunwook’s stomach, “If you ever grow a spine and decide to fix it, I fully expect front-row seats. Drama like this deserves popcorn.”

Gunwook breathes out a soft laugh through his nose, but his eyes stay on the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll let you know when I find the courage.”

Taerae hums. “Don’t wait too long. He’s not gonna sit around forever, you know.”

Gunwook nods faintly, but the weight in his chest only deepens. He knows. God, he knows.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The seaside market is alive in a way that feels almost theatrical, like the whole scene’s been rehearsed and staged just for them. Morning sunlight filters through tangled tarps and bright beach umbrellas, casting dappled patches across the walkway. The air hums with movement and noise; vendors hawking their wares in rapid-fire cadence, kids laughing as they chase each other between the stalls, the occasional bark of a dog weaving through legs and shopping bags. Wind carries the briny scent of the ocean, tangling with smoke from food stalls, the sweetness of grilled corn, fresh-baked hotteok, and sticky candied fruit. Everywhere is sound and colour and the low-grade chaos of summer. Matthew lets himself be swept up in it,  just for a moment. Lets the noise blur the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. Lets Jiwoong’s energy – bright, boundless, effortless – pull him forward like a tide.

Jiwoong is radiant here. He moves like he belongs in this kind of place, where everything is a little too loud and a little too much. His sunglasses are pushed into his hair, curls wild from the ocean breeze, and he’s licking powdered sugar off his thumb with a kind of casual sin that makes a vendor do a double take. He gestures wildly while describing some niche fish snack he used to eat as a kid, pantomiming the crunch with dramatic sound effects. Matthew watches him with a half-grin, nodding at the right moments, occasionally tossing back a dry comment that earns him a snort and a playful elbow to the ribs. They move together like they’ve done this before. Like there’s a version of the world where this is their every weekend; sunshine, markets, laughter, the echo of something almost real. Jiwoong drags him to a fruit stand and buys them a shared cup of freshly cut melon and pineapple, speared with flimsy toothpicks. He picks up a piece of melon and holds it out to Matthew with theatrical reverence.

“This,” he says solemnly, “Is peak melon. Melon at its final evolution, or whatever you Pokemon lovers say these days.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow but leans in to take the bite, catching the cold sweetness between his teeth. “You sound like you’re about to propose to it.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Jiwoong replies, eyes sparkling. “Melon’s never made me cry at 3 AM.”

Matthew laughs, a real one this time, and Jiwoong looks so smugly pleased with himself that it’s ridiculous. They drift further along the row of stalls, the sun hot on their backs, brushing shoulders now and then. Jiwoong pauses every few steps; smelling handmade soap, trying on a beaded bracelet, pretending to model a straw hat for Matthew’s judgment. It’s easy, in the way things are when you don’t look too closely. They slow near a stall strung with rows of handmade keychains – tiny plush sea creatures, crocheted goods, clay charms shaped like fruit and cartoon animals. The kind of place that’s half novelty, half nostalgia. Jiwoong immediately zeroes in on a blob-shaped orange thing with wobbly googly eyes and a questionable number of limbs.

“Oh my god, look at this one,” he says, lifting it between his fingers. “It’s giving… rare water-type energy.”

Matthew squints at it. “That looks like a stress ball that’s been through a particularly rough breakup.”

“No, no, it’s definitely a Pokemon,” Jiwoong insists, turning it to display its lopsided face like it’s proof. “You’ve never seen – uh – Blorptoad? It evolves from Moistlet. Water-ghost. Super rare.”

Matthew stares at him. “Blorptoad?”

Jiwoong nods solemnly. “Yup. Weak against electricity. Strong against commitment.”

Matthew snorts, shaking his head. “That’s not a real Pokemon.”

“It is! I had the card and everything. Special edition holographic. Came with a free therapy coupon.”

Matthew barks a laugh, real and loud, startling the vendor a little. “Oh my god, hyung. You’re so full of shit.”

Jiwoong grins, triumphant. “But you believed me for a second.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You said Moistlet, hyung. That should’ve been a red flag.”

They’re laughing now, leaning a little too close, the keychain still dangling between Jiwoong’s fingers like a peace offering or a trap. For a moment, it feels like the tension from earlier has dissolved in the sun and sea air, like maybe this day can still be salvaged into something simple and good, but even as Matthew laughs, some part of him stays tethered just outside the moment; watching himself, knowing that Jiwoong is trying, that he’s trying, and that sometimes trying still isn't enough.

Jiwoong catches his eye mid-laugh and something flickers across his face, brief and unreadable, before he drops the keychain back in the basket and nudges Matthew forward with a soft, “Come on. We still haven’t found the legendary fried mochi cart.”

Matthew follows, smiles, and laughs again, but something in his chest feels just a little off-kilter, like he’s playing a version of himself written in someone else’s script. They find the mochi cart tucked in a quieter corner of the market, half-shielded by a leaning umbrella and sandwiched between a stall selling wind chimes and another hawking knockoff sunglasses. The scent hits first; sugar and toasted rice, warm oil and something sticky-sweet that makes Matthew’s stomach rumble despite everything else twisting around inside it.

“There it is,” Jiwoong says with the reverence usually reserved for sacred shrines or top-tier barbecue. “The promised land.”

The cart itself is humble: a worn wooden setup with a tiny griddle, a glass display of different mochi fillings – red bean, peanut butter, Nutella, something suspiciously neon green – and a hand-painted sign that simply reads chapssaltteok - handmade. An older woman behind the cart greets them with a kind smile and quick hands. Jiwoong orders without hesitation, confidently pointing to two mochi with different fillings, then gestures for Matthew to pick the last. Matthew chooses the classic red bean, not trusting anything neon today. They take their paper trays and step to the side, the mochi still steaming slightly, dusted with a fine layer of roasted soybean powder. Jiwoong blows on his and takes a careful bite, then makes a noise so indecent it turns the head of a tourist walking past.

“Oh my god,” he moans, hand over his chest. “This is criminal. Actually arrest me.”

Matthew snorts and bites into his own, and for a moment, everything else goes quiet. It’s good. Chewy and warm, the bean paste just sweet enough, the outside perfectly crisped from the griddle.

“Okay, wow,” he says around a mouthful. “This is actually insane.”

“I told you,” Jiwoong says smugly, licking some of the powder off his fingers. “Peak mochi. Mochi at its final evolution.”

“Let me guess,” Matthew says, deadpan. “Evolved from Softboy. Type: sugar-fairy.”

“Exactly,” Jiwoong grins. “Weak against heartbreak. Strong against food critics.”

They eat leaning against a railing, looking out toward a sliver of sea glittering between buildings. For a few minutes, the world narrows down to just this; sun-warmed stone underfoot, the tang of salt in the breeze, sugar clinging to their fingertips, and Jiwoong’s shoulder occasionally brushing Matthew’s like punctuation in a conversation neither of them is speaking aloud.

Jiwoong turns to him, smiling still, but softer now. His hand brushes Matthew’s wrist. “You look happy,” he says.

Matthew’s heart jolts, but he recovers with a smile. “I am,” he says, and it’s almost true.

Jiwoong leans in, slow and natural, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. A kiss, here in the gold-washed market morning, tucked between booths of incense and polished seashells, and Matthew doesn’t flinch.

But he hesitates.

A blink. A breath. Not long enough to call attention to it, but long enough that Jiwoong feels it. Pulls back just barely. His eyes narrow, not unkind, just measuring.

Matthew covers it with a laugh – too light, too quick. “Sorry. Sticky fingers,” he jokes, holding up his mochi tray and fruit cup like it’s a shield.

Jiwoong smiles back, but it’s different now. Not gone, just dimmed. A quiet shift, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.

They keep walking. Jiwoong doesn’t reach for his hand again.

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but Matthew feels it like a cold draft through a closed window. The space between them stretches, not in distance but in intention. Jiwoong still laughs, still points out dumb t-shirts and fish-shaped lighters and little jars of sand art shaped like cats, but it’s looser now, performed. His smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes, and he doesn’t look at Matthew for as long as he used to, and Matthew, well, he can’t blame him.

That hesitation, that single moment. It had been less than a breath, barely a blink, but it had said everything. Jiwoong had leaned in, playful and soft, sugar still clinging to his lip, and Matthew had faltered. Pulled back, not in horror or revulsion, but in confusion. In mourning. His body moved before his mind caught up, and by the time he thought wait, no, Jiwoong was already pulling away. Now the silence between them is thick with knowing, and guilt. Because Jiwoong knows. Of course he does. He’s always been smarter than people give him credit for. He probably knew before Matthew did; maybe not the details, not the timing, but the truth of it. That Matthew’s heart had remained elsewhere. That it was still tethered to something he refused to look directly at. Someone.

Gunwook.

Matthew swallows hard, throat tight, breath catching in a way that has nothing to do with the heat or the walking. The guilt sits heavy in his stomach, curdling around the edges of the mochi. He knows he’s being cruel, knows it every time Jiwoong laughs and Matthew doesn't fully meet his eyes. Every time he lets Jiwoong brush against him and doesn't lean back in. Every time he lets this continue because it's easier than the alternative, because ending things would mean admitting it was never what Jiwoong deserved.

Jiwoong, who'd been patient with him. Who had cracked jokes and closed the distance. Who had kissed him like Matthew was something worth waiting for, and what had Matthew done? Let him wait. Let him hope. Let him try while still holding onto the ghost of a boy who had once drunkenly kissed him in the dark and then forgotten about it the next morning.

I’m using him, Matthew thinks, and the realisation is like stepping on a shard of glass barefoot; sudden, sharp, and impossible to ignore. He doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t know how to say, I’m sorry. It was never fair to ask you to wait while I tried to forget someone I never stopped loving. Because that’s the part that really guts him. Not just that he’s hurting Jiwoong; but that he still wants Gunwook. Even after everything. Even after the distance and the silence and the drunken kiss and another stupid half-kiss that ended before it could start.

He wants Gunwook, and that truth burns.

But it’s also the thing keeping him quiet, because saying it aloud would make it real. It would mean admitting he wasted Jiwoong’s time, his warmth, his effort. It would mean opening his hands and showing the mess he made, the one Jiwoong tried so hard to clean up without ever being asked, and Matthew doesn’t know how to do that. Not yet. So instead, he keeps walking. Keeps laughing when Jiwoong jokes, even though it sounds wrong in his own mouth. Keeps pretending this is still something salvageable. That they’re still two people at a market, not a boy dragging a breaking heart behind him and another who finally stopped trying to hold it.

Matthew notices it gradually, like watching the sun dip behind a cloud without realising it was ever bright. Jiwoong hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t pout or pull away. He doesn’t change his tone in any dramatic way, but something’s shifted. The brightness in him – so effortless just minutes ago – is dimmer now. Muted at the edges. He still jokes, still throws glances Matthew’s way, but it’s quieter. Like he’s not trying to get a laugh anymore, just filling space. There’s no more reaching for his hand, no more casual touches, no more momentum. Just the slow, inevitable drift of someone bracing for something they haven’t been told yet, but already know.

They pass a stall selling ceramic sea animals; clumsy-looking dolphins and glitter-painted turtles. Jiwoong picks one up, a blue whale with googly eyes, and holds it up. “Think this would look good on your nightstand?” he asks.

Matthew offers a tired smile. “Only if I want to be judged in my sleep.”

“Harsh,” Jiwoong says, putting it back with exaggerated care. “Googly Whale had dreams, you know.”

He’s trying. That’s the worst part. He’s still trying. Matthew chuckles softly, but the sound feels foreign in his mouth. Jiwoong doesn’t push the moment or nudge him or try for another bit. He just starts walking again, hands in his pockets now, sunglasses now shading his eyes even though the sun’s dipped behind some clouds, and Matthew can feel it; that soft, unbearable formality creeping in. Like Jiwoong’s decided not to hope anymore. Like he’s preserving his pride with carefully measured words and steady restraint. It’s not cold, exactly. Just… tired. It hits Matthew in waves; guilt, regret, the slow realisation that Jiwoong isn’t going to ask what that hesitation meant – not because he doesn’t want to, but because he already knows, and he’s giving Matthew the out. Giving him the silence to fill, if he wants to, but Matthew just can’t. So he just walks beside him, heart heavy, pretending they’re still in that bright, silly moment with the mochi and the fake Pokemon, pretending he doesn’t feel the distance thickening between every word.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Later that evening, the living room hums with a strange kind of quiet. Not silence – there’s laughter, the bright jingle of Nintendo Switch sound effects, the occasional curse when someone misses a Mario Kart drift – but it all feels like a cover. Like noise layered on top of something heavier. Matthew sits at the edge of the couch, a throw pillow hugged to his chest, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching. Jiwoong is on the floor a few feet away, legs folded neatly, laughing when Ricky smacks Gyuvin with a red shell, but the sound doesn't quite reach his eyes. It used to, Matthew thinks. Just hours ago, Jiwoong had been sunlight. Now there’s a film over it, something dulled, and the worst part is that Matthew knows exactly what dimmed it.

They haven't touched since the market.

Jiwoong hasn't reached for his hand again.

Matthew tells himself it's better this way. That distance is kinder than lies, but the guilt is a heavy, sour thing in his gut. Jiwoong had offered him everything – joy, attention, effort – and Matthew had accepted it like he deserved it. Like it wasn’t just a substitute for something else – for someone else – and now it’s catching up to him in the worst way: in the quiet.

Taerae’s voice cuts through the room, loud and obnoxious as ever. “Oh my god, Gyuvin, stop screen-looking, I swear–”

“I’m not!” Gyuvin yells, half-laughing, half-serious.

“Literally I just saw you lean into my half of the screen–”

“Because I’m invested in your downfall.”

It earns a few chuckles, the kind that ripple automatically, but none of it touches the undertow. Gunwook is sitting alone at the far end of the room, curled into one of the single armchairs, fiddling with something in his hands; maybe the drawstring of his hoodie, maybe just a loose thread. His gaze flicks toward Matthew, quick and sharp, then away. Matthew doesn’t look back. He doesn’t dare, but Jiwoong sees it. So does Taerae, pausing mid-game just a beat too long before glancing at the screen again like nothing happened.

Over by the kitchen counter, Hao leans in toward Hanbin, voice low. “Does it feel like something’s going on?”

Hanbin doesn’t take his eyes off the group. “It feels like a lot of things are going on.”

They watch the room like it's a stage play; the distance between Matthew and Jiwoong, the way Gunwook seems like he’s somewhere else entirely, the glances that shouldn’t mean anything but absolutely do. On the surface, everything’s fine. The game continues. The jokes land. Someone’s already talking about going for drinks tomorrow night, but beneath it, something’s unraveling, and Matthew can feel it in his chest; that slow, gnawing panic that maybe this is all going to implode, and worse, that it’ll be his fault when it does.

The house doesn’t fall apart all at once; it moves like normal, hums with the familiar rhythm of shared space. The kind of lull that follows a long day by the sea, where everyone’s sun-tired and just waiting for the next thing to happen, but even in the soft mundanity, there’s an edge to it and sharpness under the skin.

Gyuvin and Ricky ditch the Switch for a deck of cards and drag Taerae to the dining table, where they’re halfway into a loud, chaotic game of Uno. Ricky slaps a card down with a dramatic flourish. “That’s a quadruple plus-four, already! You can’t add to it, now fish,” he announces.

“You made that rule up ten minutes ago,” Taerae complains, squinting at him.

“I’m innovating,” Ricky replies.

“Revolutionizing cheating, more like.”

The banter is loud, fast, familiar, but everyone knows it’s compensating. The way Taerae keeps glancing toward the hallway. The way Gyuvin’s smile falters every time he looks in Jiwoong’s direction and sees how far he’s sitting from Matthew. In the kitchen, Hanbin and Hao are half-cooking, half-cleaning, turning leftovers into something snackable. Hanbin is at the stove with a spatula in one hand and a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Hao leans against the counter beside him, slicing up cucumbers with absent precision. They’re talking softly – something about a song they heard earlier, something about nothing – but their eyes keep drifting back to the living room, scanning for tension like it’s written on everyone’s faces.

Matthew sits on the couch still, curled slightly in on himself, like maybe if he stays quiet enough, still enough, he can keep from unraveling completely. He watches Jiwoong laugh at something Gyuvin says. It’s a good impression of joy. Polished, even… but Matthew knows what Jiwoong’s real laughter sounds like. This one has too much air in it. Too much effort. Gunwook wanders into the room at some point with a plate of cut fruit, offers it wordlessly to whoever’s closest, then sinks into the farthest chair again. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The silence around him is thick enough.

At one point, Jiwoong gets up to help Hao with the dishes, and Matthew’s eyes follow him without thinking. Just for a second. Just long enough for Gunwook to see. Taerae notices too – he always notices – and knocks his knee against Gunwook’s as he passes by, like a silent reminder, You’re bleeding through again.

And then there’s this moment: brief and sharp.

Matthew turns from the sound of the running sink and catches Jiwoong looking at him. Not angry, nor upset. Just… tired. The kind of tired you get when you know the answer but wish you didn’t. Jiwoong looks away a second later, says something to Hanbin with a smile, and that smile is convincing enough to fool most people, but not Matthew. Eventually, Hao flicks the kitchen light off and announces he’s going to shower. Gyuvin starts a heated debate over who should get the bolster tonight. People drift and lights dim. The day ends like any other, but in the quiet spaces between card slaps and laughter, glances and dishes clinking in the sink, something’s coming undone, and the worst part is, everyone knows.

The evening sinks further into stillness, the kind that doesn’t feel restful, just too quiet. Not peaceful, not soothing, just an echoing hush that wraps itself around the room like a weighted blanket. It settles between conversations, creeps along the corners of glances, fills up the space that used to be laughter. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t come from nothing being wrong, but from everyone pretending everything is right. The kind that fills the cracks people don’t talk about.

From his spot on the couch, Matthew watches the room dim in energy. The earlier chaos of card games and friendly banter has dwindled into tired murmurs. The TV is on low, playing some rerun nobody’s really watching. Ricky and Gyuvin have half-heartedly resumed their game of cards, but even they don’t seem invested, just shuffling through the motions. Someone yawns – Taerae, probably – and it breaks the silence for a moment before fading again. He stretches, arms reaching to the ceiling until his back cracks audibly. “I’m gonna brush my teeth,” he mutters to no one in particular, vanishing down the hall.

Jiwoong approaches then, calm and easy as always. His smile is there, half-curved and gentle, like it’s been softened by the day, but Matthew knows the difference. He sees it in the way Jiwoong’s shoulders slope a little more than usual, in the way he walks slower, as if his body’s holding the weight of something he hasn’t named aloud. It’s subtle, tucked neatly behind his usual polish, but Matthew sees it and even feels it like a thread pulled tight.

“I’m gonna go wash up,” Jiwoong says, voice light, practiced. “Think I’ll sleep early tonight.”

Matthew looks up, his own smile falling into place like second nature, like armour. “Tired?”

Jiwoong gives a soft hum of a laugh, the kind meant to brush past the question but not lie outright. “Yeah. Don’t know why. We didn’t even do much today.”

And there it is, quiet and plain. It shouldn’t land the way it does, but Matthew feels the words hit somewhere deep in his chest. Not because Jiwoong sounds upset, but because he doesn’t, because there’s no edge to it. No blame, just quiet honesty. A confession wrapped in nothingness, and Matthew knows why he’s tired. Of course he knows. Jiwoong has spent the whole day pouring energy into making things feel okay, into pretending nothing has changed, even when it obviously has.

He’s tired from carrying both of them.

Matthew feels the guilt bloom in his throat like something thick and unspoken but he swallows it down, the way he always does. He plays his part. “Rest, then,” he says softly. “You deserve it.”

It’s not enough. They both know it, but it’s what he has to give right now; safe words in a fragile moment. Jiwoong nods, eyes soft, but there’s a flicker of something there. Not disappointment or anger. Just... resigned acceptance. Like he’s already said goodbye in his heart, and now he’s just going through the motions of leaving. He turns slightly, like he’s about to step away. Matthew leans in, slow and instinctive, like muscle memory, like this is still something they do. Like he doesn’t know, even though he does. One hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against Jiwoong’s side, guiding them into the familiar space they’ve occupied so many nights before. It’s almost tender, the way he reaches up to press a goodnight kiss to Jiwoong’s lips.

But Jiwoong turns, just slightly. It’s not abrupt or full of anger and recoil, it’s more of a deliberate action. Calm like he’s already made his decision long before this moment arrived, and so, instead of the soft warmth of Jiwoong’s mouth, Matthew’s lips land against his cheek. Skin, cool and unmoving. He stays there a second too long. Just a second. Enough to make it clear he hadn’t meant to kiss Jiwoong anywhere else. Enough to make the silence that follows feel colder and tighter. There’s nothing dramatic or loud about this whole situation, but what makes Matthew’s heart clench is the way it feels absolutely final.

Matthew pulls back, and his hand hovers midair, fingers curled like they don’t know what they’re supposed to do now. The space between them crackles with quiet knowing. He lets his arm fall back to his side. His eyes lift to meet Jiwoong’s, and he doesn’t bother hiding it this time; doesn’t try to soften the guilt, or hide the way his heart is folding in on itself. The apology is already written into his face: small, tired, and real. Regret, not just for this moment, but for all the little ones before it. For every time he smiled when he didn’t mean it and for every kiss he leaned into while looking somewhere else in his heart.

Jiwoong looks at him for a long, quiet beat, and then he smiles.

The smile that adorns his face isn’t even fake or sad, it’s just full of acceptance. No blame, no bitterness. That’s what makes it worse. He doesn’t make it ugly. He doesn’t accuse. He just knows. He’s known for a while now, and this – this silent, softened resignation – lands heavier than any fight ever could.

Then he turns away.

Matthew’s breath catches. He watches Jiwoong retreat toward the hallway with the same kind of ache you feel in a dream, where everything slows down and you can’t stop any of it. Jiwoong walks with quiet purpose, socked feet silent against the wooden floor, posture pulled together even now, even like this. He reaches the doorway to their shared room. He pauses for a moment, and then glances back – not at Matthew, but at something beyond him.

Matthew follows the line of his gaze without thinking.

Gunwook.

He’s sitting alone in the corner armchair, slouched low, shoulders tense, phone resting loose in one hand, screen dark. His eyes are fixed. Locked onto Matthew like he hasn’t looked away in minutes. There’s no shock in his expression. No smugness. Just intensity. Raw and steady and unblinking.

Their eyes meet.

The air tightens.

Neither of them moves. Neither says a word. There’s nothing to say, not here, not now, not when everything is already trembling just beneath the surface. The whole room seems to pause with them; time suspended in this invisible thread of things neither of them can name. Jiwoong turns and disappears behind the bedroom door. It clicks shut with a softness that still feels loud, and Matthew finally exhales, long and quiet, almost like it hurts.

He doesn’t move.

Gunwook doesn’t either.

They just sit there in the stillness. Two people on opposite ends of the same unspoken thing. Not reaching. Just watching. Just waiting.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook sits there, eyes still on the place where Jiwoong disappeared, the space between the door and the soft creak of wood settling into an aching silence. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. A second? A lifetime? He forces himself to look away. He can feel his pulse thudding in his neck, like it’s trying to claw its way out. The quiet in the room is unbearable, thick with too much left unsaid, too much that he doesn’t want to deal with, but he doesn’t move. 

It’s then that Matthew stands. The shift in the air is subtle at first, a slight change in the way he carries himself. Like something’s pulled tight in his chest, like he’s trying not to let something spill out. He stands too quickly, his footsteps light but oddly strained, like he doesn’t want to make any sound. Gunwook watches, frowning, watching the small motions of Matthew’s body. He’s leaving the room, but it’s not like he’s walking toward the bathroom, like he would normally. No, this is different. Matthew walks toward the front door, then he opens it.

Gunwook’s stomach drops. He doesn’t stand, doesn’t make a move to follow, at least not right away. His heart beats too fast in his chest, rushing against his ribcage, like it’s fighting to break out. What the hell is Matthew doing? He’s walking outside. Not to the bathroom. He’s leaving the house.

Gunwook’s mind spins. He tries to block out the parts of him that want to demand – demand answers, demand to know why – but it doesn’t work. The noise is too loud. He’s aware of the way his legs feel heavy now, as if his body knows it’s supposed to follow, but his mind doesn’t catch up. He grips the armrest of the chair, fingers clenched into the fabric, grounding himself. Matthew’s footsteps fade in the distance, the door clicking softly as it shuts behind him. Gunwook knows he can’t just sit here. He knows he’s been sitting here for too long, pretending like everything’s fine, pretending like he’s fine, but he’s not fine, and Matthew, clearly, isn’t either.

Gunwook stands up in a single, jerky motion before his thoughts catch up. The room is spinning, each thought stuttering, short and sharp. His feet carry him before his head has a chance to follow. The cool night air greets him with a soft breeze, but it does nothing to ease the burning in his chest. He spots Matthew up ahead, walking slowly towards the ocean, his shoulders tense, stiff. He’s not even looking back. He doesn’t know Gunwook is behind him yet. He doesn’t care, probably.

Gunwook takes a step forward, then another. His breath is heavy, the sand beneath his feet too unstabls. He needs to say something, needs to stop this; stop himself, stop Matthew, stop whatever the hell this is before it drags both of them under, but the words, they don’t come. They never come. Instead, the only thing he can focus on is the fact that Matthew’s back is to him, that Matthew is walking away, and he doesn’t even know if he’s supposed to call out. He doesn’t know if Matthew wants him to follow, wants him to speak up. It’s ridiculous. All of it’s ridiculous.

Gunwook opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He’s too far behind, and the space between them stretches longer, unbearable. He’s going to let it happen. He’s going to stand here like a fucking idiot and watch Matthew slip away. He takes another step. His feet move faster now, against his will, against the thick pit of indecision gnawing at him, but just as his foot lands on the damp part of the sand, Matthew stops.

Gunwook freezes.

Matthew doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, shoulders hunched slightly, like he’s trying to pull himself together. He’s waiting. Waiting for something. Gunwook knows that much. The silence that stretches between them is suffocating. Gunwook feels like he’s suffocating. His pulse is so loud in his ears, he can barely hear the wind. He wants to ask, wants to demand what the hell is going on, but the question feels too big, too raw. 

Matthew’s shoulders drop. He exhales, slow and tired, like he’s been holding his breath for far too long.

Then, finally, finally, he speaks.

“Gunwook,” he says, his voice barely audible but it’s enough. It cuts through all the noise, all the questions.

Gunwook doesn’t answer right away. His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but it catches in his throat. Matthew’s back is still to him. There’s nothing left in his posture that suggests he’s expecting anything from Gunwook.

Just like that, it all falls apart.

Gunwook’s mouth goes dry. He can feel the words slipping away, lost in his throat, tangled in the mess of his thoughts. Matthew's voice hangs in the air, faint but there, and it’s like it’s slowly winding tighter around him, pushing him further into this place where everything is fog and confusion. His feet stay rooted to the ground, like he can’t quite bring himself to close the gap between them. Matthew doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around. He just stands there, waiting. And Gunwook, god, he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. He opens his mouth again, and the words feel foreign. Like they’ve been buried too long. Like they were never his to begin with. What does he want from me? he thinks. What does Matthew even want me to say?

The silence drags on. Too long. Too heavy. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, and Gunwook’s heart is beating way too fast in his chest, a staccato rhythm that doesn’t match the quiet around them. He shifts his weight, feels the sinking sand beneath his feet, feels the space between them, and it’s all so painfully clear: he doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. He doesn’t know what he wants, and sure as hell doesn’t know what Matthew wants.

“Matthew hyung…” The name slips out like a breath. A question. But it doesn’t go anywhere.

His chest feels tight, like something’s pressing in from all sides. He wants to ask him – ask him why. Why everything’s been so damn hard lately, why Matthew’s been pulling away, why it feels like they’re standing at the edge of some cliff and neither one of them knows whether to jump. Gunwook feels like he's in freefall, weightless, but without the thrill. Just falling.

But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t ask.

Matthew doesn’t turn around. Gunwook takes a step forward, but then his feet stop moving. He wants to reach out, grab his shoulder, spin him around, force him to look at him, to say something, but it’s like he’s locked in place, frozen by the fear that whatever he says next will break something beyond repair.

"I–" he starts again, voice breaking the stillness. “I don’t know…” His words trail off into nothing, hanging in the air between them. A moment passes, and he lets out a shaky breath, shoulders tense, then lets it go.

He should say something, right? He should at least try to explain, to ask for something, anything; reassurance, clarity, even just the smallest hint of what Matthew is thinking, but he’s scared. He’s scared that he’s too late, that whatever this is, whatever this has become, can’t be fixed with words anymore. He’s scared that if he pushes too hard, he’ll ruin whatever fragile thing is left between them.

So instead, he stays quiet, letting the words he can’t speak sit heavy in the space between them. It’s an awful silence. It stretches out, filled with all the things neither of them wants to say, all the things neither of them knows how to say. Gunwook’s heart pounds in his ears. His hands are shaking, clenched at his sides. It’s unbearable. The weight of it all is suffocating, like he’s being crushed under the unspoken tension, and he’s not sure how much longer he can stand it.

“Matthew hyung, I…” he tries again, but it’s no use. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say anymore. His voice falters. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

It’s almost pathetic. Pathetic that after everything, after all the time they’ve spent together, after all the feelings that have built up between them, this is where they are. Stuck, unable to talk, unable to move forward.

The silence drags on. Gunwook’s legs feel like lead, and he wonders if Matthew’s heart is beating the same frantic rhythm as his own. He wonders if Matthew feels this too; the heaviness of everything unsaid, the knowledge that they’re standing on the edge of something, and neither one of them knows if it’s worth jumping into. Gunwook doesn’t know why he follows. Just that Matthew walks out – quiet, head down, not saying a word – and something in Gunwook pulls taut and breaks. His legs move before his brain does. Matthew’s standing on the beach, where the sand meets the tide, bathed in the last blue scraps of daylight. The wind’s picked up. The sky’s dim and bruised-looking. Waves slam the shore a little harder than usual, like they’re angry too.

Gunwook walks up slow. Each step feels like stepping toward something irreversible.

“I–” Gunwook starts. Stops. He’s too aware of how loud his voice sounds over the waves. He tries again. “I saw you come out here.”

Matthew finally turns to face him. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes are sharp, like they’ve already seen the end of this conversation before it even begins.

Gunwook doesn’t know what to say. He never does, not when it matters. “I just wanted to check on you.”

Matthew scoffs. Just once. But it cuts deep. “Why do you keep doing this?”

Gunwook blinks. “Doing what?”

But even as he says it, he knows. He knows. He just doesn’t want to hear it out loud.

Matthew doesn’t give him the grace of pretending. “You show up,” he says, voice tight. “You say or do something that makes me believe you care. That you–” He swallows the rest. “And then you run.”

Gunwook’s heart stutters. “I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits. It comes out too honest, too raw. “I just– when I saw you with Jiwoong…”

“What?” Matthew cuts in, too fast, too sharp. “When you saw me with Jiwoong, what?”

Gunwook falters. He doesn’t know how to explain the way his stomach twisted, the way jealousy bloomed sharp and stupid in his chest like something he didn’t ask for. He doesn’t know how to say, I wanted to be him. Or maybe, I hated that it wasn’t me.

He says nothing.

Matthew’s laugh is bitter and tired. “You know how you act with me, right?” he says, stepping forward now, voice rising. “You know how that makes me feel, don’t you? How you treat me differently than the others?”

Gunwook opens his mouth, then shuts it again. His throat’s tight.

Matthew presses on, voice shaking now. “You look at me like– like you want something. You touch me like it means something. You wait for me. And then you remind me you’re straight and go cold like it was all in my head.”

Gunwook stares at him, eyes wide. The words land like punches.

“At least Jiwoong doesn’t lie to me about how he feels,” Matthew finishes, and there’s something small and exhausted in it. Not angry. Just done.

“I’m not lying,” Gunwook says, instinctive.

“Then say it,” Matthew snaps.

Gunwook’s mouth goes dry.

Say what, exactly? That he doesn’t know what this is? That he wants things he’s not supposed to want? That he’s terrified of what it means if he says yes? That something inside him shifts whenever Matthew laughs, or looks at him, or hurts? That all this time, he might’ve wasted the best thing that’s ever happened to him all because he’s too dumb to see what’s in front of him? That he took it all for granted? And now that it’s too late, he finally reciprocates his feelings?

He doesn’t say anything.

And Matthew sees it.

“That’s what I thought,” Matthew says softly, breaking. He turns, already walking away. Back toward the house, the noise, the others – anything but this.

Gunwook stays where he is. The wind bites colder now. The sea keeps crashing. Louder than before.

He doesn’t move. He just watches Matthew go.

And he hates himself for letting him.

Again.

Chapter Text

It starts with silence. The kind of quiet that hangs heavy in the morning air, when most of the house is still asleep and the sun is just starting to slip through half-drawn curtains. Gunwook’s been awake for a while, restlessly scrolling through his phone, doing everything he can to avoid thinking, or better yet, avoid feeling. Eventually, he gives up and slips out of the shared bedroom, hoping the cool morning air might clear his head.

He finds Taerae already in the kitchen of the beachhouse, shirt rumpled and hair sticking up on one side. He’s sipping coffee, leaning against the counter like he belongs there. When he looks up and sees Gunwook, he doesn’t say anything at first, just arches an eyebrow, like he’s been expecting him.

“You look like shit,” Taerae says casually, pushing the spare mug across the counter.

Gunwook grunts in response, accepting the coffee without meeting his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Taerae hums, not pressing. He never does. That’s what makes it easy, being around him. He doesn’t ask about the way Gunwook keeps checking his phone, or the way his knee won’t stop bouncing under the table. Doesn’t mention Matthew or Jiwoong or the storm that’s been brewing quietly inside him for days.

“You’re quiet,” Taerae murmurs as they step into their dim shared room, the one no one’s claimed because it’s stuffy and smells faintly of wood polish. He leans against the closed door, watching Gunwook with a casual sort of patience, like he already knows how this is going to go.

Gunwook shrugs, flopping back down onto the bed face first. “Just tired.”

Taerae doesn’t catch it. He lets it hit the bed and bounce off, too focused on Gunwook. “Tired, or thinking?”

Gunwook scoffs, but it’s half-hearted. He doesn’t want to talk about what he’s thinking. Doesn’t want to admit that all night he’s been watching Matthew with Jiwoong – how natural they look together, how Matthew smiles like the world doesn’t weigh heavy on his shoulders anymore. Gunwook had barely touched his drink, too busy stewing in the bitterness crawling beneath his skin. Taerae had noticed, of course. He always does.

Gunwook doesn’t answer, instead he closes the distance, slow and deliberate. “Can you help me shut my brain off for a bit?” he asks, voice low. “Just for a while?”

Taerae doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t move away either. Gunwook takes that as permission. His hands find Taerae’s hips, grounding him, pulling him back to something simpler. Something physical. Taerae lets him, and in turn he lets the noise in his head quiet under the weight of Taerae’s mouth on his, the scrape of teeth, the warm press of a body that doesn’t expect anything more from him.

Gunwook exhales shakily. It’s wrong, he knows. It doesn’t fix anything, but it’s something to hold on to. Something that doesn’t hurt right now. When Taerae kisses him, Gunwook kisses back hard, desperate for the distraction. Hands tug at clothes, mouths move with growing urgency. They collapse back onto the bed, tangled and breathless, chasing a moment of quiet in the noise.

Gunwook barely hears the door open over the sound of Taerae’s breath in his ear. They’re tangled on the couch in their room; hands pulling, mouths pressing, the heat between them momentarily blotting out everything else. There’s no plan, no thought, just the raw, desperate need to feel something other than the chaos that’s been eating him alive for days. Taerae’s laugh is low and breathless against his throat, a soft vibration that pulls a reluctant smile from Gunwook’s mouth, right before the sharp creak of the door cuts through the haze like a blade.

It’s not the kind of sound that’s meant to startle, but it does. A quiet, everyday noise that suddenly feels deafening in its finality. Gunwook doesn’t react at first. His brain scrambles to process it – maybe it’s just someone walking past, maybe they didn’t see – but then the footsteps stop. Abruptly. Right inside the room.

The moment fractures.

Gunwook freezes, the blood draining from his face. His breath catches in his throat, the tension snapping his spine straight beneath Taerae’s touch. Something primal and sick curls in his stomach. He knows – before he even turns – he knows this isn’t just anyone.

He turns his head slowly, heart pounding painfully loud in his ears, and dread sinks in like cold water. Ricky is standing in the doorway.

And he’s not moving.

His face is a thundercloud, unreadable in its intensity, but his eyes… his eyes are sharp and scalding. They flick from Gunwook to Taerae, landing for a beat too long on where Taerae’s hand is still gripping Gunwook’s waist, possessive and obvious. It’s not just surprise. It’s fury and betrayal. A protective storm held back by sheer force of will.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Not even Taerae dares break it. Gunwook sits up quickly, heart hammering, yanking his shirt down with shaky hands as if the sudden act of covering himself might undo what’s already been seen. It doesn’t. The room is still thick with the implication of what they were just doing, and the smell of sweat and heat clings to the air.

Taerae shifts beside him, expression unreadable now, body language quieting like he knows there’s no salvaging this. Gunwook doesn’t look at him. His eyes stay on Ricky because he already knows, this isn’t just anyone who’s caught them. This is Ricky. Matthew’s best friend. The one who’s always watched Gunwook like he was waiting for him to slip up.

And now he has.

And the fallout is just beginning.

Ricky doesn’t say anything right away, just stares at them with eyes like knives, jaw tight enough to crack. Gunwook feels like a kid caught sneaking out, only the consequences are so much heavier. Ricky’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, then cuts to Taerae. “Can you give us a minute?” His voice is calm, too calm, and that’s how Gunwook knows he’s seething. Taerae hesitates, eyes flicking to Gunwook for direction, but Gunwook gives a slight nod; silent permission or resignation, he’s not sure.

“Yeah,” Taerae says, rising smoothly, his tone neutral. “I’ll be outside.” He brushes past Ricky on his way out, not quite meeting his gaze, and closes the door behind him with a soft thud. It may as well be a gunshot.

The moment they’re alone, Ricky crosses the room in two strides. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t give Gunwook space to collect himself. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, arms folded across his chest like he’s holding himself back from throwing a punch. “You’ve been stringing Matthew along for years, Gunwook. Years. And now what– suddenly you’re into guys, and you don’t even think he deserves to know?”

Gunwook swallows, staring down at the floor. His palms are sweating. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he says, low. “I didn’t know. I only figured it out recently.”

“Bullshit,” Ricky snaps, voice rising. “You’ve known. Maybe not in words, but you’ve known. Don’t act like you haven’t been messing with his head this whole time.”

Gunwook looks up at that, something twisting in his chest. “I wasn’t trying to mess with him.”

“But you did,” Ricky cuts in. “He’s spent years trying to get over you. He finally finds someone who treats him right, someone who makes him feel safe, and you– what? You get jealous, you hit Jiwoong, and now this?” Ricky gestures toward the couch with a flick of his hand, disgusted.

Gunwook’s breath catches. “I didn’t mean to hit him,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “I thought he was cheating, he was with some girl–”

“Who just so happened to be his cousin, right?” Ricky snaps before Gunwook can finish. “You didn’t even ask. You just assumed, and then you hit him. You wanted him gone. You wanted him out of the picture because for once, Matthew was choosing someone who wasn’t you.” He shakes his head, scoffing. “You couldn’t stand it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Gunwook says, though even he doesn’t sound convinced. “I just –  I didn’t know what I was feeling. I panicked.”

Ricky’s laugh is bitter. “Panicked? Is that what you’re calling it now?” He steps closer, his voice low and sharp. “You’ve been stringing him along for years, Gunwook. You kept him close, just close enough, made him think maybe – maybe – he wasn’t imagining it. And now what? You’re sleeping with Taerae and still pretending this has nothing to do with Matthew?”

“I’m not pretending–” Gunwook starts, but Ricky talks over him.

“You treated him like he was yours. Always. Even when you were off with someone else, even when you said you didn’t do relationships. You made sure no one got close to him, like he was your fucking backup plan or something. And now you expect what? For us to be happy you’re finally admitting you’re into guys? Like that makes all of this okay?”

“I never said that!” Gunwook’s voice rises, defensive now. “I didn’t ask to feel this way. I didn’t plan for it. I’ve never–” He breaks off, jaw tight. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Ricky’s expression doesn’t budge. If anything, it hardens, the vein in his jaw twitching. “You didn’t know how to deal with it, so what– you made it his problem instead? Do you even hear yourself, Gunwook?”

“I didn’t know back then,” Gunwook blurts, looking up. His voice is strained, almost pleading. “I didn’t know he was in love with me. I swear I didn’t.”

“And what does that change?” Ricky snaps, incredulous. “What, that makes it okay? You think it erases the time you told him he was unlikable?” He takes a step back, like being this close to Gunwook is physically exhausting. “You crushed him, and you didn’t even notice.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Gunwook says, quieter now, the guilt a slow, spreading ache in his chest. “I didn’t know how he felt… I didn’t even know how I felt until recently.”

Ricky stares at him, disgust warring with disbelief. “So you only started caring once someone else did? That’s it, isn’t it? You only started looking at him differently when Jiwoong came along. When he saw something in Matthew and didn’t let go. Is that really the only reason you’re here now?”

Gunwook’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Ricky shakes his head slowly. “Jesus. You’re even more selfish than I thought.” His voice is bitter, but his eyes shine, like somewhere under the anger, there’s something that almost looks like heartbreak. “You don’t love him. You’re just afraid of losing him.”

Gunwook’s fists clench at his sides. “That’s not true,” he says, low but firm. “I do have feelings for him.” The words come out rushed, clumsy, but earnest. He meets Ricky’s eyes, trying to make him see it. “I didn’t realise it for a long time. But I care about him. I think– I think I’ve always cared more than I knew how to admit.”

Ricky exhales harshly, running a hand down his face like he’s too tired to even respond. “You think? Gunwook, this isn’t some theory you’re testing out. This is Matthew. He’s not some experiment you try and toss away when it gets too real.”

“I’m not using him as an experiment! If anything, I’m using Taerae hyung!” Gunwook bites back, louder now. “I’ve been trying to figure this out, alright? It’s not like it’s been easy for me either.”

Ricky scoffs, arms folded again. “Oh, poor you. Must’ve been so hard juggling all your flings while Matthew cried himself to sleep wondering why he wasn’t good enough.”

Something in Gunwook flares. “I know I hurt him,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep reminding me. You think I don’t feel like shit about it? That I don’t lie awake regretting every damn thing I said to him? I didn’t mean for any of it to happen the way it did!”

Ricky gives him a flat look. “Then why did you let it happen?”

Gunwook falters. His throat feels tight. “Because I was scared,” he admits, almost whispering. “Because I didn’t understand what I was feeling. Because I didn’t want to ruin us.”

“Newsflash,” Ricky says coldly. “You already did.”

Gunwook stiffens at that, then lifts his chin, anger simmering beneath his guilt. “Look, believe me or don’t. I don’t care. It’s not my job to convince you of my feelings. You’re not the one I have to explain myself to.”

Ricky narrows his eyes. “No. But I am the one who’s going to be standing between you and Matthew if you fuck this up again.” He turns for the door. “So you’d better figure out what the hell you want before you hurt him any worse than you already have.” Then he’s gone, leaving Gunwook in silence, breath shaky and heart hammering under the weight of everything Ricky’s said, and everything he still doesn’t know how to fix.

The silence left in Ricky’s wake is oppressive. Gunwook stays frozen for a long moment, barely breathing, as if moving would make everything that just happened more real. His pulse is loud in his ears. The air still feels heavy with Ricky’s accusations, with the disgust in his voice, the disbelief in his eyes. Gunwook squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He doesn’t want to replay the words, but they echo anyway, You don’t love him. You’re just afraid of losing him.

He wants to scream that it’s not true. That he does love Matthew. That maybe it took him far too long to realise it, but it’s been there, threaded through every interaction, every time he felt inexplicably drawn to him. But when he tries to summon proof, all he sees are the things Ricky said. All the damage he’s done. The cruel words. The way he used to brag about hookups to Matthew’s face without even thinking about how it might hurt. The jealousy he never admitted, the relationships he sabotaged out of spite or fear or something messier. All the times he let Matthew reach for him only for him to toss him away.

He sinks onto the bed, head in his hands. He’s never felt this pathetic. Not after any fight, any one-night stand, not even after waking up with a hangover and no memory of what he did. This – this hollow ache in his chest – is something else. It’s the weight of knowing he might have lost the one person who’s meant more to him than anyone else, and worse, he might deserve it, but he’s tired of running from the truth. Tired of pretending he’s fine while Matthew pulls further and further away. Tired of watching from the sidelines while someone else makes Matthew smile in the way he used to. He doesn’t want to be the reason Matthew stops believing in love. Doesn’t want to keep being the reason his relationships fail. The one constant in all of Matthew’s heartbreaks is him, and he finally understands why.

He’d spent so long thinking of himself as someone above it all. The fuckboy. The guy who didn’t need to get tied down by emotions or attachments. He was too cool for that, too in control. At least, that’s what he liked to tell himself. He’d built up this image, this persona that relationships were for the weak, for the people who couldn’t handle life on their own terms. He wasn’t like that. He could have anyone he wanted, when he wanted, and he did – often. But it was always on his terms. No one could make him care, make him settle, make him vulnerable. He was always the one who left, always the one who walked away before anyone could get too close. That was the key. Never let anyone in because if you did, if you let someone make you feel something, you were no longer in control, and Gunwook had never been one to lose control.

He’d perfected this approach. It was easy. He liked the thrill of the chase, the casual hook-ups that came with it. He liked the feeling of being wanted, but never needing anyone. It made him feel powerful, made him feel like he was always on top, always in command. Having feelings? That was for people who were too weak to take charge of their own lives. Who let their emotions make decisions for them, and Gunwook had never, ever let emotions dictate his actions. It was always about power, always about having the upper hand.

But it was all a lie.

A shield he’d wrapped himself in to keep from facing the truth: he was scared. Scared of what would happen if he actually let someone in, scared of what it would mean to care about someone. He'd been terrified of losing control, of letting someone else have that power over him. So he built walls – walls so high that not even he could see over them. And when it came to Matthew, he thought he had it all figured out. Matthew was his friend. He’d keep it casual, never letting the line blur, but that didn’t last. He couldn’t keep his feelings buried forever. Not when it came to Matthew. Not when he saw how good Matthew was with Jiwoong, how easy it was for him to smile and love someone else. The jealousy gnawed at him, ate him alive from the inside. He lashed out because he didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t know how to deal with the fact that Matthew was slipping away.

It wasn’t just jealousy. It was panic. Panic because for the first time, he didn’t have control. Matthew was getting away, and Gunwook was terrified of what that meant. So, he did what he always did: he reacted, he pushed back, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t push away his feelings for Matthew, no matter how much he tried, and that terrified him more than anything else because it meant that everything he’d built up, everything he’d convinced himself was true, was nothing more than a facade.

Not anymore.

Now, standing in the wake of everything he’d ruined, he knew. He knew that the image he’d worked so hard to maintain was nothing but a mask. He hadn’t been above relationships. He’d just been too afraid to fall. He wasn’t the guy who could sleep around and walk away without a second thought. He wasn’t the guy who could stand by and let someone else have Matthew. He was the guy who felt deeply and desperately, and he hated that it had taken him this long to admit it, to realise how much he’d messed up, but it was the truth now. He felt something for Matthew, and this time, he wasn’t going to hide from it. He was going to face it, no matter how much it terrified him because for the first time, he wasn’t going to run.

Gunwook sits up straighter, pushing his fingers through his hair, trying to quiet the storm in his head. He’s made a mess of things. He’s hurt Matthew, maybe beyond repair, but if there’s even the smallest chance to make it right, he has to take it. Not for Ricky’s approval, not to soothe his own guilt, but because Matthew deserves the truth. He deserves to hear it from Gunwook’s mouth. No more mixed signals. No more hiding behind denial or fear.

He doesn’t know how Matthew will react. He doesn’t know if forgiveness is even on the table. But he will come clean. He will tell him everything. About Taerae. About the confusion, the jealousy, the way his world’s shifted ever since the possibility of losing Matthew became real. And if nothing else, he wants Matthew to know that he’s not just some sudden whim or confused impulse. He’s it. The centre of everything Gunwook’s been too afraid to face.

And maybe – just maybe – proving Ricky wrong isn’t about changing Ricky’s mind. It’s about changing his own. Being brave enough to fight for what he wants for the first time. Being someone worthy of loving Matthew back.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew doesn’t mean to overhear.

He’s barely awake, hoodie half-zipped and eyes still adjusting to the morning light bleeding in through the windows. He’s heading down the hall toward his room after stepping out for water, not expecting to see anyone else up. The house is quiet; the kind of quiet that clings to sleep-heavy limbs and makes every creak of the floorboard feel like a violation. He’s rounding the corner when he hears voices, sharp and low, seeping through the barely cracked door of the guest room.

He doesn’t stop at first. He doesn’t mean to, but something in the tone – Ricky’s voice, tight and furious – makes him hesitate mid-step.

“You’ve been stringing Matthew along for years, Gunwook. Years. And now what– suddenly you’re into guys, and you don’t even think he deserves to know?”

Matthew’s feet go still.

His breath catches, body suddenly too alert for this early in the morning. Into guys. That’s what Ricky said. He shouldn’t be listening, he knows that, but it’s like his body forgets how to move. The words burrow under his skin.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Gunwook says. Matthew knows that voice too well; knows the guilt in it, the cracks he’s only heard once or twice. “I didn’t know. I only figured it out recently.”

And then Ricky again, cutting through like a blade. “Bullshit. You’ve known. Maybe not in words, but you’ve known.”

Matthew doesn’t need to hear more. His heart is pounding, blood rushing too fast in his ears. He backs away from the door slowly, careful not to let the floor creak beneath his heels. He shouldn’t have heard that – shouldn’t have had to hear it like that.

Gunwook. Into guys. The words echo in his chest like they’re trying to mean something more, but Matthew shoves them down, biting the inside of his cheek as he slips back toward his room. His hand fumbles with the doorknob. It’s like his brain’s too full, his thoughts bottlenecking into one blurred mess.

He slips back into his own room and sits as slowly as possible, not wanting to wake Jiwoong. The elder is still asleep in the bed behind him, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of someone blissfully unaware. The blankets are tangled around his legs, one arm draped over the empty space where Matthew had been lying minutes ago. The room is dim, morning light barely slipping through the edge of the curtains, and everything is still except for Matthew. He sits hunched over at the edge of the bed, hands buried in his hair, trying to breathe around the tight, aching knot in his chest.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care. He has Jiwoong. Sweet, attentive, unwavering Jiwoong who kissed him first, who texts him good morning every single day, who never once made him feel like he was too much or too hard to love. Jiwoong, who stayed when Matthew flinched away. Jiwoong, who gave him space without letting go, and yet here he is. Sitting on the edge of the bed they’d fallen asleep in just hours ago, heart pounding over words he wasn’t even supposed to hear.

That moment outside the guest room replays on a loop in his mind. Ricky’s voice, furious. Into guys. Gunwook’s voice, low and guilty. I didn’t know.

Matthew presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, like that’ll stop the ache behind them.

He keeps thinking about that night. The drunken kiss. The weight of Gunwook’s hands on him, the press of his mouth, the way his breath had stuttered like he couldn’t believe what he was doing, and then – god – those words.

"I wish you were a girl."

They’d clanged around in Matthew’s head for weeks after, ugly and sharp and impossible to forget. Gunwook probably didn’t even remember saying them, but Matthew did. He remembered everything.

He’d tried to laugh it off at the time, pretend it didn’t crack something deep inside him. He’d told himself it was just the alcohol, that Gunwook hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, but now – now after knowing what he knows – he didn’t know what to think. Because if Gunwook really was into guys, then what the hell was that? Some last-ditch effort to keep it hetero? A denial so loud it had to be spoken aloud? Or was it just another way to keep Matthew at arm’s length, even when he was kissing him?

The worst part – the thing Matthew can’t stop circling back to – is that apparently, all it took for Gunwook to figure himself out was Taerae.

Taerae.

Not the years Matthew spent carrying feelings in silence. Not the countless nights they’d stayed up talking until sunrise. Not the touch of knees under the table, the lingering glances, the shared beds on sleepovers that always felt like more than they were. None of that was enough to make Gunwook realise.

But Taerae – sweet, wide-eyed, open-hearted Taerae – touches him once, and suddenly Gunwook’s ready to question everything? Apparently, that’s what it took for Gunwook to finally admit something Matthew had been begging the universe to make true for years.

Matthew’s emotions surge – hurt, anger, betrayal – all cresting at once like a wave crashing over him before he has time to brace for impact. His hands tremble where they rest on his knees, fists clenched tight in the soft fabric of his sweats, knuckles bone-white with tension. He wants to scream. Or cry. Or throw something against the wall just to feel the sharp release of it, the echo matching the noise inside his head, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, frozen.

He feels blindsided. Like someone’s yanked the ground out from under him without warning, leaving him suspended in a freefall he hadn’t seen coming. He wasn’t prepared to hear this. Wasn’t ready to learn that Gunwook liked guys; not from Ricky’s voice slicing through the silence, not through the crack in the door as he passed by, and especially not like this: offhand, raw, too-late.

It’s not even the admission itself that stings the most. It’s what it means. That all this time, it wasn’t in his head. That the way Gunwook looked at him sometimes, hovered too close, got too jealous, meant something. That Matthew’s suffering – the nights he laid awake aching, questioning his worth, wondering if he was delusional – was rooted in something real. Something Gunwook was too much of a coward to face and admit. Matthew swallows hard, his throat tight with something that tastes like bitterness. He doesn’t want to feel this way. He doesn’t want to compare himself, to be angry at Taerae, who’s never done anything wrong, but he can’t help it because after everything – after all these years – he still wasn’t enough to be the reason Gunwook looked twice.

And it hurts. God, it hurts.

Worst of all is the guilt, because Jiwoong is sleeping in the bed behind him, and Jiwoong doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to be in love with someone who still flinches when Gunwook’s name is mentioned. Someone who still thinks about what could’ve been if Gunwook had pulled his head out of his ass just a little sooner. Someone who’s sitting here hurting over another boy, while Jiwoong is just a few feet away, dreaming with his whole heart.

Matthew scrubs a hand over his face, ashamed of himself. He thought he was past this. He thought he’d moved on. But the truth is, some part of him has always been waiting for this moment. The one where Gunwook finally says it, where the years of tension and confusion finally have a name, and now that it’s here, he doesn’t know what to do with it. All he knows is that it’s too late. Because Jiwoong is in his bed, and Gunwook is down the hall with a trail of destruction behind him.

And Matthew? He’s stuck in between. Not sure if his heart is breaking all over again, or if it ever really stopped.

The hurt claws at him, but the rage, when it comes, is slow and simmering. It coils deep in his chest, not quite ready to be unleashed. He doesn’t want to confront it, at least not yet. He’s too raw, too scattered. The last thing he wants is to march into another fight, another round of accusations and apologies and tears he swore he was done shedding.

Matthew walks away before he even realises he’s moving, feet carrying him in the opposite direction like instinct. He doesn’t make a sound, just eases one step, then another, until the raised voices dull behind the hallway wall. His chest is tight, stomach knotted like he’s been sucker-punched, and all he can think is I need to get out of here. He doesn’t stop to see if anyone notices him leaving. Doesn’t check if the creaky floor gives him away. All he knows is he can’t stay in this house, not when Gunwook’s voice is still ringing in his ears, not when Jiwoong is still asleep in that bed like everything between them is normal.

The morning air is crisp when he steps outside, the sun just barely rising over the horizon. It’s quiet in that way that feels sacred; waves rolling onto the shore in a slow, steady rhythm, birds beginning to stir in the trees. Matthew draws in a shaky breath, the salty breeze biting at his skin, and starts walking down the path that leads to the beach. His feet sink into the cold sand with each step, grounding him, but his head feels anything but clear.

He’s not sure what hurts more: the fact that Gunwook is into guys, or the fact that it took Taerae for that realisation to happen. Not him. Not the years they spent brushing too close to something that never had a name. Not the drunk kiss. Not the nights Matthew spent dissecting every glance, every touch, like they might hold some deeper meaning if he just looked hard enough. Apparently, none of that meant as much as a few hours tangled up with someone else. It’s laughable, really. All this time, Matthew thought he was the foolish one for holding on, but the truth is worse. He was right, and Gunwook just didn’t care.

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers trembling, biting back the sting in his eyes. Why now? Why is it only now that Gunwook is willing to admit something? Why is it only after Matthew’s finally tried to move on – finally opened himself up to someone else – that Gunwook decides to figure himself out? It feels cruel. Like a punishment. Like fate waited until the worst possible moment to dangle the one thing Matthew had always wanted just out of reach. He could still hear Gunwook’s voice in his head, hoarse and desperate, “I didn’t know. I only figured it out recently.” Rubbish. He’s known. He had to have known.

Matthew kicks at a shell in the sand, sending it skittering across the beach, the small impact too satisfying for how angry he feels. His thoughts spiral, all tangled threads he can’t unravel; hurt, confusion, guilt. Guilt because Jiwoong has done nothing wrong. Because Jiwoong deserves someone who isn’t haunted by another boy’s voice in the back of his mind. Matthew had told himself he was over Gunwook. Had repeated it so often it almost felt true, but the ache clawing at his ribs now proves otherwise.

And yet…he doesn’t want to face it. Maybe not ever, because if he does, then he has to admit how much power Gunwook still has over him. He has to admit that deep down, he’s still that boy who’d turn at the sound of Gunwook’s laughter in a crowded room, still the boy who let every glance feel like a promise. He doesn’t want to be that boy anymore. He wants to be someone who knows how to let go.

He pauses by the shoreline, letting the waves lap at his feet, eyes cast towards the horizon. The sky is streaked with pink and gold, too beautiful for how ugly he feels inside. He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to hold himself together, even as his heart threatens to break all over again. He wishes he could hate Gunwook. Wishes he could erase all the years, all the what-ifs, all the almosts, but feelings don’t vanish just because they’re inconvenient. They linger, they rot, and right now, they’re tearing him in half.

Matthew stands at the edge of the water, waves washing over his ankles as he stares out at the open sea like it might somehow hold an answer. He doesn’t know what to do. His thoughts are a riot, overlapping, contradicting, chasing themselves in circles. Part of him – an ugly, traitorous part – is rejoicing. Gunwook likes guys. Gunwook might even like him. After all these years of doubt, of unspoken longing and stifled feelings, there’s a part of Matthew that feels vindicated, like all his pain wasn’t for nothing. That all those moments, the tension, the near-misses – they weren’t imagined. That maybe, just maybe, Gunwook had been scared, not cruel. That maybe Gunwook had always felt something too. But as quickly as that thought forms, guilt snuffs it out. Because what feelings? What does that even mean anymore?

He wants to believe he’s moved on. He should have moved on. Jiwoong is kind. He’s stable. He’s open in the ways Gunwook never was. Jiwoong looks at him like he’s whole, not like a puzzle to be solved or something fleeting to be toyed with. So why does this hurt so much? If he were really over Gunwook, this wouldn’t feel like heartbreak all over again. The bitterness wouldn’t sit so heavy on his tongue. He wouldn’t be standing here, dissecting the possibility of feelings that maybe don’t even exist anymore. Except they do. Of course they do. Who is he kidding? They never left. They’ve just been lying dormant, waiting for the wrong moment to come clawing back to life, and yet, even now – especially now – he doesn’t know what to do with them.

The thought of breaking things off with Jiwoong makes his stomach twist. Jiwoong, who has done nothing wrong. Jiwoong, who’s been nothing but good to him, but how fair is it, staying with someone when your heart’s this tangled? Is it worse to stay and pretend, or leave and risk hurting someone who doesn’t deserve it? The idea of running back to Gunwook is equally terrifying because what would that even look like? After everything – after the jealousy, the silence, the cruel words, the selfishness – how is he supposed to just fall into his arms like nothing happened? Matthew isn’t sure he even can anymore. There’s too much bruised trust between them. Too many things that were never said. Too many wounds still raw.

He’s tired of being confused. Tired of being caught between the boy he never stopped loving and the boy who showed up when he needed saving. He wants to scream at Gunwook for taking so long, for waiting until Matthew had finally started stitching himself back together. He wants to yell at himself for how easily he’s unraveling. But mostly, he wants clarity. A sign. Anything to tell him which path to take. His heart is too heavy, and his head is too loud, and none of it feels fair. How is he meant to weigh love against pain? History against healing? Longing against loyalty?

He closes his eyes, shoulders rising with a sharp inhale. The sea breeze lifts his hair, cool against his flushed skin. He tries to breathe through the ache, tries to remind himself that he doesn’t have to decide everything right now. But that doesn’t stop the ache. It doesn’t quiet the questions. It doesn’t change the fact that no matter which way he turns, someone’s going to get hurt. Maybe even both of them. Maybe especially him.

The waves keep moving, careless and endless, and for the first time in a long time, Matthew feels small. Not in a self-loathing way, just… insignificant. Like all the chaos inside him is just one drop in a vast ocean. He wishes he could disappear into it. Just for a little while. Just until things make sense again. Because right now, they don’t. Right now, he’s stuck in a moment that feels impossible to crawl out of. Right now, he’s not sure who he’s supposed to be – Jiwoong’s boyfriend, Gunwook’s maybe, or just a boy trying not to drown in his own feelings.

And somewhere, beneath all the confusion, the truth burns quiet and cruel: that even now, even after everything, if Gunwook asked – really asked – Matthew doesn’t know if he’d be able to say no.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook slumps onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands, the door clicking shut behind him with a dull thud. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t eased since Ricky left. If anything, it’s worse now; simmering beneath his skin like a slow burn, impossible to shake. He can still hear Ricky’s voice echoing in his head, sharp and scathing and far too right for comfort. Everything he’d tried not to admit laid bare in minutes. Every excuse stripped down until all that was left was the truth he’s been running from.

He presses his thumbs into his temples, trying to will the world into slowing down. There’s a glass on the bedside table, half-full from earlier, and he drinks it just to feel the relief of something. It doesn’t help. Nothing does. The water sits uncomfortably in his stomach, doing little to take the edge off the guilt twisting inside him.

He’d been so careful for so long – so convinced that if he just didn’t name it, his feelings for Matthew – it couldn’t be real. That he could want whatever he wanted without consequences, without commitment. That he could pretend Matthew hadn’t ever meant more than the others, just because he never said it aloud, but now Ricky knows, and if Ricky knows… how much longer until Matthew does?

The door creaks again, and this time Gunwook doesn’t look up right away. He knows it’s not Ricky, he would’ve slammed the door, not opened it softly like that. There’s only one person who comes back without shouting.

Taerae steps inside, quiet as ever. “Hey,” he says, tone gentler than Gunwook deserves. “You alright?”

Gunwook lifts his head slowly, eyes bloodshot and jaw tight. “Not really,” he says hoarsely. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. He’s not alright, but he also doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to see the concern in Taerae’s eyes. Doesn’t want to pretend this – whatever this is between them – means enough to cushion the wreckage he’s created.

Taerae lingers by the door for a moment, like he’s weighing whether to come closer. Eventually, he does. Not all the way, just to the dresser, where he leans against it with his arms folded. “Ricky looked like he wanted to kill you,” he says mildly, trying to keep it light.

Gunwook lets out a humourless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. He probably should’ve.”

Silence stretches for a beat. Then Taerae speaks again, softer this time. “You wanna talk about it?”

Gunwook doesn’t answer. He just stares down at his hands, thinking about all the things he could say, all the ways he might explain it, but none of them feel right because how does he say it? That he’s scared shitless. That he’s spent years building walls just to stop himself from wanting something he already lost. That he doesn’t even know what he’s trying to fix anymore.

Taerae leans against the dresser, arms crossed. He doesn’t speak right away, which somehow makes the silence feel heavier. “He really let you have it, huh?”

Gunwook lets out a breath that’s more of a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Can’t say I didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” Taerae agrees simply. “You did.”

Gunwook flinches. It’s not cruel, the way he says it, just honest. Taerae’s never been one to sugar-coat the truth, and right now, Gunwook doesn’t think he could stomach it if he tried. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he mutters. “I didn’t even know what I was feeling until– until everything started falling apart.”

Taerae doesn’t move from his spot by the dresser, but his gaze sharpens, flicking over Gunwook like he’s trying to gauge just how much he can say without pushing too hard. Then he sighs, half exasperated, half resigned. “Look, I don’t want to say I told you so,” he says, “but I did. Repeatedly.”

Gunwook winces. “Yeah. I know.”

“You’re the most emotionally constipated person I’ve ever met,” Taerae says, not unkindly. “You’ve been in love with him for years, Gunwook. Everyone could see it– hell, even I could see it, and I wasn’t even there for half of it.”

Gunwook runs a hand through his hair, fingers knotting in frustration. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Taerae asks, tilting his head. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve spent years acting like he was just your best mate, while doing everything in your power to make sure no one else got close to him. You let him sit there thinking he was crazy for catching feelings when all the while, you were feeding into it; every look, every time you touched him, every time you got jealous and didn’t say why.”

Gunwook looks away, jaw clenched. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“I know that,” Taerae says, voice softening just a fraction. “But it still happened. You didn’t know how to handle what you were feeling, so you buried it and hoped it’d go away. And now you’re surprised it all blew up in your face?”

“I was scared,” Gunwook mutters, almost too low to hear. “I didn’t want to lose him.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Taerae says quietly. “He literally looks at you like you hung the stars by hand, and now…”

Gunwook’s breath catches. He hates how much that possibility terrifies him, how much it sinks its teeth into his chest and refuses to let go. “I just– I thought if I ignored it long enough, it’d stop. Or I’d stop. But then Jiwoong happened, and I–”

“Panicked,” Taerae finishes for him. “Yeah. You started seeing it. How someone else could love Matthew and treat him right and not spend years playing games with his heart. And instead of stepping back or owning up to it, you lashed out.”

Gunwook doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Every word feels like salt in an open wound, but he knows it’s the truth. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“But you did,” Taerae says again, softer this time. “And if you care about him – really care – you’ve got to stop thinking about what you want long enough to think about what he needs.”

Gunwook presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he can press back the guilt, the shame, the regret. But it’s all still there. Heavy. Suffocating. “Do you think he’s still willing to hear me out?”

Taerae pauses. “I think… he’s tired. And hurt. And confused. But if there’s still a chance, it’s not going to wait around forever. You need to figure out what you actually want, Gunwook. Not just what you’re afraid of losing.”

Gunwook nods faintly, but his chest feels hollow. 

Taerae stretches his arms above his head and exhales like he’s releasing the last bit of tension in the room. Then, casually – almost like he’s commenting on the weather – he says, “Well, I guess this means we’re no longer fuckbuddies.”

Gunwook blinks, caught off guard. “Hyung, I–”

But just as he opens his mouth to apologise, Taerae snorts and waves a hand, cutting him off. “Relax. It’s not a big deal. Seriously.” He tilts his head, eyes bright with mischief. “There were no feelings involved, remember? Mutual benefits. Simple stuff. It’s not like I was expecting you to run off into the sunset with me.”

Gunwook lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Still,” he murmurs, “I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird,” Taerae says easily, flashing a grin. “It was fun while it lasted. And hey, bonus, I got a new friend out of it. Even if that friend is a complete idiot.”

“Hey!” Gunwook protests, giving him a half-hearted glare.

Taerae just laughs, the sound light and warm in the quiet of the room. “You walked right into that one.”

Despite everything – the heaviness in his chest, the guilt still pressing down on his lungs – Gunwook smiles. It’s small, fleeting, but real. He’s not sure what he did to deserve Taerae’s unshakable chill, but he’s grateful for it. Grateful that, even after all the mess he’s made, there’s still someone in his corner who doesn’t look at him like he’s something to be fixed or condemned. Someone who sees all his flaws and still doesn’t turn away.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, glancing at Taerae. “For, you know… not hating me.”

Taerae shrugs like it’s obvious. “I’ve got a soft spot for idiots. What can I say?”

Gunwook huffs a laugh, and for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. Taerae’s presence doesn’t fix everything – nothing can, not yet – but it makes the silence less unbearable. The weight of his mistakes doesn’t vanish, but it’s a little easier to carry with someone beside him who isn’t trying to throw them back in his face.

Taerae gives Gunwook a side-eye, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe. “Come on, let’s feed that sad brain of yours. I make a mean scrambled egg.” His tone is light, a touch of mischief undercutting the weight of everything that had been said before.

Gunwook looks at him, unsure whether to laugh or just sink back into the couch. But the suggestion is an easy escape, and he feels the pull to do something normal, something that doesn’t require him to think too much about all the mess he’s in. So, he exhales a heavy sigh and pushes himself up, groaning as his bones protest the movement. “Fine. But if you ruin eggs, Taerae hyung, I’m never letting you cook again.”

Taerae raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Instead, he heads to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers for a pan with the same kind of purposefulness he usually reserves for searching for snacks. Gunwook follows, a little slower, his mind still buzzing with fragments of conversation, but the rhythm of doing something simple helps clear the fog. For a moment, all he’s focused on is the steady clink of utensils, the low hum of the fridge opening, the heat of the stove.

As Taerae begins cracking eggs into a bowl, humming a half-forgotten tune under his breath, Gunwook finds himself leaning against the counter, watching. His fingers drum lightly against the edge of the counter, a strange sense of quiet settling over him. He hadn’t realised how much he needed the distraction. The tension from earlier, the knot of guilt in his chest, the weight of his frustration with himself; it doesn’t disappear, but it softens for just a little while.

“Alright, I’m telling you,” Taerae says, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he whisks the eggs. “These eggs are going to change your life.”

Gunwook snorts but feels a little lighter. “Yeah, sure,” he says dryly. “I’ll believe it when I taste them.”

A few minutes pass in comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of a plate being set down or the sizzling of eggs in the pan. Gunwook grabs some bread, buttering it with automatic precision, his mind still circling back to the conversation. To Matthew. To Ricky. To everything he still hadn’t quite figured out. But for now, it’s just eggs. Just the mundane act of making breakfast with a friend who doesn’t ask too many questions.

The others start to trickle in slowly, one by one, still groggy from sleep. Jiwoong is the first to emerge, looking dishevelled, his hair messy and eyes half-closed as he stretches his arms above his head, yawning loudly. He makes a beeline for the coffee machine, already looking like he’s in desperate need of a caffeine fix. His footsteps are heavy, dragging a bit as though he’s still trying to wake up fully. When he finally gets his coffee, he takes a long sip, barely glancing at anyone before sitting down at the table.

Hao and Hanbin follow shortly after, entering together, clearly a little more alert. Hao’s already grinning, a quiet energy about him as he slides into the chair next to Jiwoong. Hanbin’s a little more reserved, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the food with a slight nod of approval. As a couple, they’ve always had an easy rhythm between them; Hao’s lightheartedness balancing Hanbin’s more grounded presence. They both seem relaxed, a stark contrast to the quiet unease still lingering in the room.

Ricky and Gyuvin come in next, the dynamics between them subtly different from the rest of the group. Ricky’s posture is rigid, shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets as he slides into his chair with quiet deliberation. He hasn’t said much, his gaze flicking between Gunwook and the others with a quiet wariness, the remnants of the earlier argument hanging over him like an invisible cloud. Gyuvin, as always, is a bit more open, though his concern for Ricky is clear in the way he lingers by his side, trying to make sure his partner is alright without pushing. He’s quieter than usual, though, as if the tension between the two has left a mark on him too.

Taerae’s in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the scrambled eggs, while Gunwook stands nearby, half-absent in his thoughts. The smell of the eggs fills the room, offering a faint sense of comfort amidst the heavy silence. They’re all settling into place, grabbing plates, and beginning to serve themselves, trying to distract themselves from the unspoken tension that still clings to the air. For a moment, it feels like everything might return to normal, even if it’s only for a brief time.

The eggs are surprisingly good, fluffy and light with the perfect balance of creaminess. No one’s said anything, but there’s an unspoken appreciation in the way they all tuck in, the food offering a distraction from the heavier feelings lingering between them. Taerae beams proudly, clearly pleased with himself for making a solid breakfast, as the others dig in, exchanging small talk as they pass around condiments and drinks. It’s a fleeting moment of normalcy, a fragile bubble that seems to soften the room.

Gunwook’s thoughts, however, keep drifting back to the earlier conversation with Taerae, his internal turmoil threatening to break through the calm. He glances around at his friends, and then it hits him: Matthew’s absence. The space where he should be sitting is glaringly empty, and for a moment, it takes Gunwook a few seconds to process. His mind races. Where’s Matthew?

The others seem to be realising it at the same time. Jiwoong looks up, blinking at the empty spot across from him. His expression shifts from mild confusion to concern. “Has anyone seen Matthew?” he asks, his voice still tinged with grogginess.

Taerae, ever the optimist, shrugs it off with a nonchalant smile. "Isn’t he still sleeping?" His voice carries a casual lilt, as though it’s the most natural explanation. “You know how he is when he’s tired, like a bear hibernating in that bed of his.”

The way Jiwoong frowns makes it clear that something’s not adding up in his mind. “No,” Jiwoong says, his tone quieter now, almost uncertain. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up.” He looks from Taerae to the others, his brow furrowing deeper. 

The room falls still. For a moment, no one says anything, the air thick with the sudden tension. The assumption that Matthew was just sleeping off whatever kept him from joining them now feels increasingly less plausible. If he wasn’t in bed, then where was he? Why hadn’t anyone heard from him?

Gunwook feels a tightness in his chest, a knot that’s slowly growing larger. He doesn’t speak, but his mind is racing, trying to make sense of everything. Had Matthew left? Gone somewhere on his own? The possibility sends an uncomfortable ripple through the group. The relaxed atmosphere they’d tried to maintain just minutes ago feels like it’s shattering, piece by piece.

Ricky leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he takes in Jiwoong’s words. He doesn't ask anything further, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture. He’s calculating now, as if trying to figure out what’s really going on. Even Gyuvin, who had been unusually quiet, looks up from his food, concern creeping into his expression.

Hao’s voice is soft but carries a hint of worry. “That’s odd,” he says, glancing at Gunwook, then back to Jiwoong. “Are you sure? I mean, he wasn’t out with anyone last night, right?” His tone is more cautious now, as though he’s thinking through the possibilities in real time.

Gunwook’s heart starts to beat harder. He wants to say something, to explain away the anxiety clawing at his chest, but words don’t come. He’s trapped in the thought of what Matthew might have done. Had he left? Gone for a walk? Did something happen that he didn’t know about?

It’s the quiet look that Gyuvin gives him that makes Gunwook shift uncomfortably. Gyuvin, always observant, has been unusually quiet since the moment the topic of Matthew came up. It’s almost like he’s waiting for Gunwook to say something, waiting for an explanation. Gunwook can feel his eyes on him, and it makes him self-conscious, like there’s something written all over his face.

Gunwook’s thoughts are interrupted as Hanbin speaks out, his voice quieter this time, attempting to soothe the growing tension. “Look, I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably just gone out for a walk or something. You know how he gets, needing a bit of space.” Hao offers a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s trying to sound confident, but there’s a trace of doubt in his voice.

Gyuvin nods in agreement, his usual quiet demeanour now tinged with something unreadable. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like Matthew hyung to disappear without saying anything, but sometimes he just needs some time to himself.” He glances at Gunwook again, the look lingering a little longer this time. Gunwook can’t help but feel a small pang of guilt.

Taerae, ever the optimist, chimes in, trying to ease the growing concern with a laugh. “Yeah, exactly! You guys are just overthinking it. Matthew’s probably out there right now, getting some fresh air or something. You know he’s like a cat, always disappearing for no reason, but always comes back eventually.” He flashes a grin, as though to make light of the situation, but his expression falters for just a second. 

Gunwook’s chest tightens as the words sink in. Part of him wants to agree, to believe that it’s nothing more than Matthew needing space, but another part of him – the part he’s been trying to ignore – won’t let him shake the feeling that something’s wrong. He doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, he lets the others continue talking, nodding along in silence. He’s not ready to voice his growing anxiety, not with the weight of the earlier conversation still hanging over him.

Jiwoong, after a few moments of hesitation, rubs his temples. “I’m sure you’re right. He’s probably fine.”

“Exactly,” Taerae says, trying to keep things light. “Let’s not turn this into a bigger deal than it is. I’m sure Matthew’s fine. Probably out getting a coffee or something.” He stands up from the table, pushing the moment of uncertainty away with a casual stretch. “And in the meantime, let’s eat! No sense in worrying ourselves into a panic before we’ve got any answers.”

The group, albeit still slightly uneasy, begins to settle back into a more comfortable silence. Gunwook, however, remains on edge. He watches as Taerae moves to clear the dishes, the conversation around him a blur. His gaze keeps drifting back to the empty space where Matthew should be sitting, and the absence feels like a physical ache.

His friends continue to talk, each of them offering some variation of the same semblance of normalcy, aside from Ricky who has basically shunned Gunwook’s very existence from his life. His mind travels back to Matthew, how he’s probably just taking some time for himself. It should comfort Gunwook, but instead, it makes him feel even more unsettled. He can’t shake the thought that Matthew’s absence is more than just a simple need for space. Something inside him tells him there’s more to the story. He doesn’t let his mind linger. Instead, Gunwook forces himself to focus on the conversation, even if his mind keeps drifting back to Matthew. Even if his heart is heavy with the unanswered questions he’s too afraid to ask.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Hours drag on, and the late afternoon light filters through the windows, casting long shadows on the walls of the house. It’s now unmistakably clear: Matthew hasn’t returned. The initial light-heartedness has worn off, and the easy banter of the morning has all but disappeared. The tension in the room is palpable, like the heavy stillness before a storm.

Ricky is the first to notice it, his face tightening as he checks the group chat one more time, his thumb hovering over the screen. No new messages from Matthew. He calls him, but it rings through to voicemail almost immediately. His stomach tightens, a gnawing sense of worry creeping up on him. He checks his phone again, just in case – maybe Matthew had messaged him privately – but there’s nothing. His hands tremble slightly as he drops his phone to the table, his gaze flickering to the others.

Taerae catches his eye, his face a mixture of confusion and concern. “Have you tried calling him? Maybe he’s just off the grid for a bit.” But even as the words leave Taerae’s mouth, there’s a hesitant quality to his voice. They all know that something’s off. No one wants to voice the growing fear that Matthew might have just left, but it’s there – gnawing at the edges of their minds.

Ricky, growing increasingly anxious, grabs his jacket. “I’m going to check the pier,” he says abruptly, his voice tight. “I’ll be back in a minute.” No one tries to stop him. They all feel it; the shift in the air, the way everything suddenly seems wrong. Without a word, Ricky heads out, and the others linger in the house, exchanging uneasy glances.

The house has fallen into a strained silence. The clink of cutlery, the hum of the fridge, and the low murmur of voices all seem too loud now, too real. Jiwoong, trying to mask his own worry, moves to the living room, plopping down on the couch. He stretches his legs out and leans back, trying to keep a cool exterior. But it’s obvious to anyone who looks at him that he’s not okay. His fingers tap restlessly on the armrest, and his eyes dart to the door every few seconds, as though willing Matthew to walk through it. He’s too good at hiding his emotions, too practiced at keeping up appearances, but his worry is leaking out in subtle ways.

Gunwook, for his part, has been quiet since breakfast. His earlier discomfort now festers into something more significant, a heavy weight in his chest that he can’t shake. He keeps glancing at the door, his mind racing. Where could Matthew have gone? What did he do? He wishes he could’ve asked him everything, wishes he could’ve just told him that he’s sorry, but the words feel impossible to form, stuck in his throat like an unspoken truth. He’s frustrated with himself. Why hadn’t he noticed sooner? Why hadn’t he asked the right questions?

By the time Ricky returns, the mood in the house is tense, charged with unspoken worry. The uneasy chatter in the kitchen dies down the moment he walks in, his face worried and anxious. He pauses, eyes scanning the room before he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not at the pier. Not anywhere near the shops, either.” He looks over at Gunwook, the question hanging in the air between them. Gunwook shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, but there’s nothing to say. He has no answers. There’s a cold edge to his voice, a quiet fury simmering just beneath the surface. He’s barely holding it together. It’s obvious to everyone now, this isn’t just about Matthew being MIA. Gunwook’s gut tells him that everything that happened earlier today, the fight, the tension, has something to do with this. 

Taerae, ever the optimist, forces a small smile. “He’ll turn up. He always does.” But even his usual confidence is faltering, the cracks in his calm veneer growing wider. “He just... probably needs some time. Maybe a bit of space.”

As the sky begins to turn golden and orange, the evening air cools and settles around Gunwook like a second skin. He steps outside without a word, moving almost instinctively, as if some part of him already knows where he needs to be. His eyes sweep over the familiar coastline, the waves lapping against the shore in rhythmic, soothing patterns, but nothing about the scene feels peaceful. His heart is beating faster now, his mind restless with unanswered questions.

He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going, doesn’t even glance back. There’s an undeniable urgency in his movements, something he can’t shake, a pull to find Matthew before the weight of the day becomes too much to bear. He’s not sure why he feels this way – this desperate need to search for someone who’s probably just walking around somewhere, taking some space – but the unease gnaws at him with every step.

The soft crunch of sand beneath his shoes is the only sound that fills the quiet as he walks along the shore, his gaze darting across the expanse of the beach. The air smells faintly of salt and seaweed, the occasional gust of wind rustling through his hair, but it feels all wrong. This is supposed to be a place of calm, a place for reflection, yet the farther Gunwook walks, the heavier the sense of impending dread becomes. Matthew isn’t here, and Gunwook doesn’t know where else to look.

His thoughts flicker back to the conversation with Taerae earlier. The way he had pushed him to face the truth, to acknowledge what had always been there between him and Matthew. He can still hear Taerae’s words, that calm but firm reminder that he’s been running from his feelings for far too long. Gunwook winces, but the sting of regret is sharp. 

Gunwook feels like he's been walking for hours, though it's only been minutes. His gaze shifts from the horizon to the shoreline, his mind running wild with possibilities. He wonders if Matthew is angry, hurt, or simply trying to escape. He wants to call out his name, but it feels pointless, like shouting into the wind. What would he even say if he found him?

The soft sound of a distant gull calls his attention, but it doesn’t do anything to calm his racing thoughts. He’s sure no one’s seen him leave, but that only deepens the tension in his chest. It’s as if by slipping away quietly, he’s already made things worse. He doesn't know what he’s expecting out here, what he hopes to find, but something in his gut tells him that if Matthew’s out here, somewhere, waiting for the chaos of the day to die down, he has to be the one to find him.

The golden light is now fading, the last vestiges of daylight slipping away, and Gunwook starts to feel a coldness seep into his bones. His footsteps slow as the air grows heavier, the sound of the waves no longer offering the same sense of comfort it once did. He stops for a moment, standing at the edge of the water, the foam lapping at his feet. A familiar ache spreads through his chest. He doesn’t know what to do next, doesn't know how to fix this, but the pull to keep moving forward is stronger than ever.

His gaze lifts to the horizon once more, but this time, something catches his eye, knees hugged to his chest, head bowed.

Matthew.

Gunwook’s footsteps slow as he nears the figure in the distance, his breath catching in his throat. His pulse quickens, but he’s careful to keep his steps light, as though trying not to disturb the fragile peace of the moment. The gap between them closes, the sound of the waves filling the silence, and yet the tension in the air feels thick, almost suffocating. He doesn’t say anything right away; part of him is afraid of breaking the stillness, another part unsure of what to even say.

As he draws closer, he notices Matthew’s posture, hunched and rigid. His shoulders are tense, his head slightly bowed, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on him. It’s a look Gunwook has seen too many times before, the same way Matthew used to close himself off from everything, trying to protect whatever was left inside, but now it feels different; more final, as though he’s been pushed too far.

For a moment, Matthew doesn’t turn around, doesn’t acknowledge Gunwook’s presence. It’s like he’s frozen in time, facing the ocean as if it might swallow him whole. Gunwook stands still behind him, watching for what feels like an eternity, fighting the urge to reach out and shake him, to demand an answer, to make Matthew look at him and see what’s been so painfully obvious for years.

The silence stretches, and Gunwook’s chest tightens, the words that have been bottled up for so long rising to the surface. His breath hitches as his mind floods with all the things he’s never said, the feelings he’s ignored, the moments he’s let slip by. What if it’s too late? What if Matthew’s already made up his mind about them, about everything? The thought of never getting this chance again fills him with dread, a cold chill creeping into his bones.

Finally, Matthew shifts, though it’s slow, almost reluctant, like he’s weighed down by something far heavier than the wind. He glances over his shoulder, just a fraction of a movement, but it’s enough. Gunwook’s heart leaps in his chest at the sight of Matthew’s tired eyes, the faint shadow of something broken in them. He wants to say so much, wants to reach out and pull him close, but all he can do is stand there, fighting the urge to collapse under the weight of his own guilt.

“Matthew hyung,” Gunwook finally says, his voice hoarse. The sound of his name in the quiet evening air feels strange, like it’s slipping through his fingers before he can grasp it. He wants to say more, to explain everything that’s been building up, but the words feel trapped in his throat. They’re all jumbled together, like a thousand different apologies, confessions, and regrets wrapped into one.

Matthew doesn’t respond at first. The silence between them is deafening, stretching on as if it’s become its own force. Gunwook feels the gap between them widening, not physically but emotionally. He wants to reach out, to fix things, but he’s unsure if Matthew even wants him to. The uncertainty gnaws at him, but he forces himself to take another step forward, driven by something deeper than the fear. If there’s any chance of making things right, he knows he has to try now.

When Matthew finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost lost in the sound of the waves. “Why did you have to make everything so complicated?” His words hit Gunwook like a punch to the gut, the rawness in his voice unraveling something inside him. He’s not sure if Matthew’s talking about the fight, about the confusion between them, or something else entirely, but it doesn’t matter. The pain is there, and Gunwook can’t ignore it any longer.

Gunwook’s brows knit together at the question that slips instinctively from his mouth. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice gentler this time, cautious like he’s approaching a wounded animal. He’s not even sure if he’s asking because he doesn’t understand or because he’s afraid to admit that maybe he does. The wind shifts slightly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, but Matthew doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch.

Matthew doesn’t answer. He just turns his gaze back toward the sea, shoulders slumping further, like the effort to keep standing is slowly becoming too much. There’s something so tired about the way he carries himself; something resigned, like this is the last conversation he ever wants to have, but somehow also the one he’s been dreading the most. The silence that follows is heavier than before. It presses down on Gunwook’s chest, each second stretching taut with the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Gunwook shifts his feet in the sand, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. The sight of Matthew so distant, so unreachable, stirs something deep and aching inside him. He wants to shake him, to tell him to yell or cry or scream or do anything except stand there like he’s given up, but Gunwook knows this isn't something he can fix with a few rushed apologies or half-formed feelings. He’s realising – too late, maybe – that some damage doesn’t come undone just because you’ve finally figured out how you feel.

Still, he takes a tentative step closer. The crunch of sand underfoot is the only sound for a beat, aside from the rhythmic crashing of the waves. “Matthew hyung,” he tries again, quieter now, more pleading, but Matthew remains still, his face turned toward the horizon, like he’s hoping the ocean can wash all of this away. Like if he waits long enough, maybe it will.

Matthew’s voice is cold but breaking; he’s hurt, but he’s trying to keep control. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his tone barely above a whisper, fragile with restraint. “Why hide this from me all this time?”

Gunwook feels like the breath is knocked out of him. He stares at the back of Matthew’s head, at the slope of his shoulders, hunched slightly like he’s bracing himself. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, caught between panic and guilt.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Gunwook says weakly, the lie barely holding shape even as it leaves his lips.

Matthew turns to him at last, not fully, but enough that Gunwook sees the hurt in his eyes – raw and quiet and barely contained. “Gunwook… Why didn’t you tell me you’re into guys?”

Just the sound of his name, said like that, undoing every wall he tried to build around himself. Gunwook’s defenses crack. He lets out a breath, shoulders sagging under the weight of it. “I was meaning to tell you, I promise, I just didn’t know how. I didn’t even understand what I was feeling myself… It’s all very new to me.”

Matthew cuts him off before he can say more, voice sharper now, wounded. “But what about me?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “What about me wasn’t enough for you to realise it? Why did it take someone else for you to suddenly figure out you like guys? Why did it have to be Taerae?”

Gunwook’s mouth goes dry. The question stings in places he didn’t even know could hurt. “It’s not like that,” he says, but even he can hear the hollowness in the words.

Matthew lets out a bitter laugh, short and humourless. “Isn’t it? Because I spent years being in love with you, Gunwook. Years waiting for you to see me. And now, after everything, you finally get there – but not because of me. Because of him.”

Gunwook stares at him, stunned, and  flinches like he’s been slapped, because that’s the first time Matthew has ever said it out loud. I spent years being in love with you. Not hinted. Not skirted around in silence. Said it plain, like a fact, like something he’s had to carry for far too long and no longer has the strength to keep inside, and the weight of it, hearing it from Matthew’s mouth directly, almost knocks the breath out of Gunwook. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He knows Ricky told him, but hearing Matthew say it – after all this time, after all the distance they’ve put between themselves – it makes something cave in his chest. His fingers twitch uselessly by his sides. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He wants to reach out, to say something that will make this right, but the truth is heavy in his mouth, and the damage has already been done.

Matthew sees it, the way he’s stunned into silence, and it just makes him angrier. “Don’t act surprised,” he says, voice trembling again. “You had to have known. There’s no way you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Gunwook blurts out, louder than he means to, desperate. “I swear, Matthew, I never knew.”

Matthew scoffs, turning away, jaw clenched. “That’s bullshit,” he says, hurt cutting through every syllable. “You had to know. Everyone else knew. Ricky knew. Gyuvin knew. Even Taerae knew, and he barely paid attention. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it– I was obvious. I never looked at anyone else the way I looked at you.”

Gunwook shakes his head, helpless. “I didn’t. I couldn’t let myself see it. I just–” His voice cracks. “I couldn’t imagine you loving me like that. I thought… I thought you were just nice to me. You were always so close, but it felt too far out of reach. Like it was impossible because we had been such good friends.”

Matthew turns back to him slowly, something unreadable in his eyes now. “And now what?” he asks. “You finally figured it out. Great. Good for you. But what am I supposed to do with that now?”

Gunwook doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how.

Gunwook shifts uneasily on his feet, eyes locked on Matthew’s but unsure whether he should hold the gaze or drop it. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, the words weak, inadequate. “I didn’t know what having feelings for someone felt like–”

“Don’t give me that,” Matthew cuts in, voice sharp now. “Don’t hide behind being clueless. I didn’t get the luxury of pretending I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t get to dismiss everything just because I suddenly couldn’t deal with it.”

“I’m not dismissing anything,” Gunwook insists, but the words sound hollow even to himself. He runs a hand through his hair, agitated, his heart racing in his chest like it’s trying to escape. “You don’t know what it was like for me. What it’s still like.”

Matthew laughs bitterly, the sound dry and humourless. “Oh, please. You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel confused? You think I don’t know what it’s like to look at someone you love every single day and pretend it’s just friendship? To get close to you, close, and still feel like I wasn’t allowed to want anything more? I lived in that feeling for years, Gunwook. And I still stayed. I stayed even when it hurt.”

Gunwook’s face twists in something like guilt, but it’s not enough. Not nearly.

“You don’t get to stand there and pretend you’re the only one who had a hard time,” Matthew continues, each word sharper than the last. “You didn’t even have the decency to be honest with me– not back then, not now. You let me twist myself into knots over you, and the whole time, you were what? Waiting for someone like Taerae to come along and flip the switch for you?”

“That’s not fair,” Gunwook says, quietly now. His shoulders are hunched, like the words are battering into him one by one. “It wasn’t just about Taerae hyung.”

“Wasn’t it?” Matthew’s voice cracks again, but he pushes through. “Because it sure feels like all it took was one guy flirting with you for you to finally go, oh, I guess I like boys after all. After I gave you everything I had, and got nothing back. Not even a real goodbye.”

Gunwook flinches. He has no idea what to say. His silence stretches too long.

And then Matthew asks, quietly but with a vicious edge, “If you’re capable of liking guys… why did you tell me you wished I was a girl?”

Gunwook freezes, eyes widening as if Matthew’s words knock the air out of his lungs.

“What?” he breathes.

Matthew’s gaze is steady, but it’s full of exhaustion and pain, like he’s been holding it in for far too long. “That night at my apartment,” he says, voice sharp but trembling at the edges. “You kissed me. You were drunk, and you kissed me. And then you pulled away, looked at me like I’d mattered, and said you wished I was a girl.”

Gunwook stares at him, stunned. “I… I kissed you?” he asks, and the disbelief in his voice isn’t defensive, it’s horrified. “Hyung, I don’t– I don’t remember that. At all.”

There’s a beat of silence. Matthew flinches, but not in surprise. He nods slowly, lips pressed together. “Yeah,” he mutters bitterly. “I figured. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Gunwook’s heart slams against his ribs. His mind reels, scrambling for any trace of that night, any slurred memory or hazy flicker of Matthew’s face, but it’s all a blur; just noise, alcohol, and the pressure of emotions he hadn’t dared put a name to, and now, he realises, he’s been walking around with the luxury of forgetting the very moment that changed everything for Matthew.

“Hyung, I– I swear to you, I didn’t know,” he says, desperate now. “I had no idea. I thought– I thought the first time something happened between us was when we almost kissed two nights ago on the patio. I didn’t know I’d already–” He cuts himself off, horrified. “God.”

Matthew’s expression twists, something between anger and grief. “Yeah, well. I didn’t get to forget it,” he says quietly. “I didn’t get to wake up the next day and move on like nothing happened. You kissed me, and made me feel disgusting. Like it was wrong of me to feel relief that you finally kissed me. And you said you wished I was someone else. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

Gunwook’s legs feel unsteady. He sinks down onto the sand without meaning to, like the weight of it all finally drags him down. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, softer now. “I didn’t know I did that. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then I’ll say it for you,” Matthew snaps. “You hurt me. Worse than anyone else ever has. Because I was in love with you, and you made me feel like the way I loved was something to be ashamed of.”

Gunwook takes a step forward, but Matthew steps back, eyes glassy. “Is that what I still am to you? Not good enough? Even now that you’ve figured it out, you still had to wish I was someone else?”

“No– Matthew hyung, no, I obviously didn’t mean what I said when I was drunk,” Gunwook rushes out, frantic, but Matthew cuts him off again.

“Then what did you mean?” Matthew demands. “Because I’ve spent every night since then wondering what it was about me that wasn’t enough. Was it my face? My body? My gender? Or was it just that you never really wanted me at all, just the idea of me, some version of me that was easier to love, easier to explain?”

Gunwook is speechless. The wind is picking up around them, the waves crashing louder now, but the roar in his ears is louder. His throat feels tight, like he can’t breathe, like the guilt is squeezing the air right out of his lungs.

“I would’ve loved you exactly the way you were,” Matthew says, brokenly, and that’s what finally kills him. “I did love you. But you–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just turns his face away, like even looking at Gunwook burns.

Gunwook’s breath catches in his throat. The weight of Matthew’s words settles on him like concrete, pulling him under, but there’s something clawing at his chest, something he can’t keep in anymore.

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts out. The words fall from his mouth like a confession, raw and trembling. “Matthew hyung, I’m in love with you. Now. I know that for sure.”

Matthew lets out a hollow laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s not amused, more like it’s all he has left before he crumbles. “Oh,” he says, his voice cracking with disbelief, “well, that’s great. Good for you. You figured it out.” He throws his hands up like he’s congratulating a child. “You finally know. Just a little too fucking late.”

Gunwook flinches. “I didn’t know how to– how to deal with it. With any of it. I was scared–”

“I wasn’t,” Matthew snaps, stepping closer now, eyes bright with fury and grief. “I wasn’t scared. I knew what I felt, and I wasn’t afraid of it. I wanted you to know, I wanted you to see me. But you didn’t, Gunwook. You looked right through me. And now you want to come back and say those words like they’ll fix everything?”

“I’m not saying it to fix everything,” Gunwook says, his voice rough. “I just– I need you to know.”

“Why?” Matthew bites back. “So you don’t feel guilty anymore? So you can walk away with some kind of closure?” His voice wavers. “Do you have any idea what it did to me? Loving you? Waiting for you to catch up? And then watching you turn to someone else and figure it out with them?”

Gunwook’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t have an answer. Not one that won’t make this worse.

Matthew exhales sharply, his jaw tight, eyes swimming. “I gave you everything I could. My time, my heart, my patience. And all I got back was silence. A drunken kiss you don’t even remember, and a wish that I was a girl.” His voice breaks again. “So yeah, Gunwook, I’m glad you’re in love with me now. Really. But I needed you to be in love with me then.”

Gunwook takes a step forward, his voice shaking but determined. “I’m not saying this just to make things right. I’m not saying it to win you back or to erase what I did, I know I can’t. I’m saying it because it’s true. I’m in love with you, Matthew hyung. It’s real.”

Matthew laughs again, but it’s more of a sob. “You don’t get to say that like it means something,” he says, voice trembling. “Not when you already broke me with your silence. Not when you kissed me and forgot it. Not when I gave you every sign in the world and you still didn’t choose me.”

“I’m choosing you now,” Gunwook says, helpless. “I know that doesn’t undo the past, but I’m not walking away from this, not from you. I can’t.”

“You should,” Matthew snaps. “If you really loved me, you’d let me go.”

“I can’t,” Gunwook says again, more desperate this time. “I’ve only just figured it out, hyung, and I don’t want to walk away from it anymore,” He cuts himself off, breathless, eyes wide with panic. “You’re the only thing that’s ever felt real.”

Matthew’s eyes shine, but not with hope. With fury. “You’re so selfish,” he spits. “You only want me when it hurts. When I’m already in pieces. Do you know what it’s like to be strung along for years, only for you to come back now, when I’ve finally started to move on?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Gunwook whispers.

“But you did,” Matthew growls, stepping forward until they’re chest to chest. “You did, over and over again, and it hurt more than anything because of all people, it was you.”

And then he’s hitting him, palms against Gunwook’s chest, not hard enough to injure but with all the frustration and pain he’s bottled up for years. “You don’t get to stand here and want me now,” Matthew cries, pushing him with every word. “You don’t get to say these things like they make a difference. You waited too long.”

Gunwook grabs his wrists before he can push again, holding them gently but firmly. “I know I fucked everything up,” he says, eyes wide with pleading. “But please… don’t shut me out.”

The wind howls between them, pulling at their clothes and hair. The clouds above are thick and bruised, and the waves crash louder behind them, wild and unforgiving. It’s like the whole world is raging with them, echoing the chaos neither of them can put into words. They stand there, breathless, face to face, hearts in their throats, everything between them raw and bleeding, and nowhere near repair. Matthew’s wrists tremble in Gunwook’s grip, but he doesn’t pull away. The sky rumbles above them, low and threatening, like even the heavens are warning them to stop before it’s too late. The wind tugs at Matthew’s shirt, cold and restless, whipping his hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink. His gaze burns straight through Gunwook.

“Let go,” he says, voice low and venom-laced, though it cracks at the edges. “Let me go, Gunwook.”

Gunwook shakes his head, barely holding himself together. “I can’t. I should have said it sooner, I know that, I know that, but I didn’t understand what I was feeling until it was too late. Please, hyung, just– don’t walk away from me. Not yet.”

The first drop of rain falls between them, hitting the sand like punctuation. Matthew’s chest heaves, and he twists his wrists, but Gunwook won’t release him. Thunder rolls in the distance, slow and menacing, and the clouds above break open a little more.

“You don’t get to say that now,” Matthew snaps, shoulders shaking. “You had years, Gunwook. I was right there. You had every chance. And now that I’ve finally started to bury it, you come digging it up again?”

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” Gunwook says, his voice cracking like the sky above them. “I didn’t know how to be this person.”

The wind kicks sand at their feet, and another drop lands, then another, until a light drizzle begins to fall. The sea is louder now, crashing into the shore like it’s trying to reach them, trying to tear something away.

“You think I knew right away?” Matthew cries, eyes wide and shining. “You think loving you didn’t confuse me? But I did it anyway. I chose you, even when it hurt. And you– you didn’t even see me.”

“I see you now,” Gunwook says, the words desperate, hoarse. “I do. I see everything.”

Matthew closes his eyes for a second, the rain catching on his lashes, his whole body quaking with exhaustion and rage. When he opens them again, it’s like something inside him has shattered.

“I used to dream of this,” he whispers. “You, telling me you loved me. That I wasn’t imagining it all. And now that it’s here, all I can think about is how late it is. How much I had to break to get here.”

Gunwook loosens his grip slightly, but still doesn’t let go. The rain falls harder now, soaking into their clothes, chilling them to the bone. Neither of them moves.

“I’m sorry,” Gunwook says again, quieter this time, like he knows it’s not enough.

Matthew lets out a long, shaking breath. “Me too,” he says. “Because even now, I still want to believe you.” He laughs bitterly. “And that’s what hurts the most.”

The storm rages on, louder and fiercer, the wind howling as if it’s trying to drown out everything else. The tension between Gunwook and Matthew thickens, crackling like static in the air. The raw, aching space between them is unbearable, and Gunwook feels like he’s suffocating, fighting to keep hold of Matthew, to make him understand.

“You don’t get to decide when it’s too late, Gunwook,” Matthew spits, his chest heaving with anger. “You never gave me the chance to say what I needed, to even try– when it’s been me this whole time!” His voice cracks, the hurt buried deep under layers of frustration. “And you come here now, telling me you love me, but what about all the time you wasted? All the things you didn’t do?”

Gunwook’s grip tightens on Matthew’s wrists, his pulse racing with everything he’s feeling but can’t say. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t– I didn’t know how to love you.”

Matthew’s face twists with disbelief. “You didn’t know how to love me?” His voice cracks with fury. “After all this time, after everything you’ve seen, you still don’t know? I’d never ask for anything grand from you, Gunwook. I just wanted you as you are.”

The wind picks up again, colder now, sending shivers down Gunwook’s spine, but the storm outside is nothing compared to the one tearing them apart inside. Gunwook’s mind is spinning, heart thundering in his chest, fighting with everything in him to get Matthew to see .

But Matthew just shakes his head, his eyes wild with something that looks like despair. “Don’t you dare try to fix this now,” Matthew warns, low and vicious. “Don’t try to make me believe this last-minute confession is going to fix everything.”

“I’m in love with you, hyung, I need you to believe me. I'm in love with you, I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you,” Gunwook repeats the five words like a chant. 

Matthew pulls at his wrists to get Gunwook to let go. “Let go of me, Gunwook!”

And then, in that one split second of uncontrollable frustration, of all their pent-up rage and pain colliding, Gunwook pulls at Matthew – hard – his chest slamming against his. Matthew stumbles slightly, and before he can respond, Gunwook grabs him by the collar, yanking him as he kisses him. It’s not soft, not gentle. It’s raw, urgent – almost violent.

Matthew’s lips crash against Gunwook’s with so much force, it’s like a fight, not a kiss at all. There’s no tenderness, no sweet release. Just the desperate clash of emotions, of frustration and hurt, slamming into each other. It’s messy; teeth scraping against lips, hands gripping at shoulders, their bodies pressed so close it’s almost suffocating. Gunwook feels the sting of Matthew’s anger through the kiss, the way his teeth graze against his bottom lip, how rough it is, like he’s trying to punish him for every single moment he’s held back.

Gunwook fights back, his hands gripping Matthew’s waist, trying to pull him closer, but Matthew just shoves harder, making it clear this isn’t some loving reconciliation, it’s a release. It’s them trying to make sense of everything they’ve kept buried. Gunwook feels the heat rising in his chest, a storm of his own rage and longing, a desperate need to be understood and maybe, in some small part of him, to show Matthew how sorry he is, how much he wants this, how much he’s always wanted this.

Even as the kiss deepens, even as their bodies press against each other in a frenzy of emotion, it’s not enough. It can’t fix the years they’ve lost, the damage done. It’s too tangled, too much pain wrapped in between every breath, every shift of their mouths, and finally, they pull apart, gasping for air, the silence between them louder than anything that came before. Gunwook’s eyes are wide, his chest heaving, as he stares at Matthew, unsure of what to say or how to make this right.

Matthew, too, is breathless, his hands still gripping Gunwook’s collar as his eyes flash with a mixture of raw anger and hurt. He’s trembling slightly, whether from the storm or from everything that just passed between them, Gunwook can’t tell, but when he looks at Gunwook, there’s no softness left in his gaze, only a coldness that cuts deeper than any of the words that have been said.

Matthew doesn’t speak at first, just stands there, eyes still locked on Gunwook, like he’s trying to decide what comes next. The rain falls heavier now, a steady drum on the sand, and Gunwook just stands there, waiting for the inevitable.

“Is this what you wanted, Gunwook?” Matthew finally asks, voice hoarse but resolute. "A mess? Because that's all we are right now." His voice is quiet but cutting, and Gunwook feels the weight of it in his bones.

Gunwook opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The weight of what they’ve done, of what’s been said and unsaid, hangs in the air between them like a thick fog, and for the first time, Gunwook isn’t sure if they’ll ever find a way out.

Gunwook watches Matthew pull away, his every movement seemingly more fragile than the last. The kiss lingers between them like a burning ache, but it’s quickly replaced by an overwhelming silence that presses in from every direction. The weight of everything that’s been said, everything that’s unsaid, bears down on him. He wants to reach out, to close the distance, but he knows it’s not that simple. He stands there, frozen, watching as Matthew’s shoulders shake, as his back faces him, leaving him with nothing but the cold wind and the crashing waves between them. His heart hammers in his chest, each beat full of regret, of a growing sense of losing something he doesn’t know how to hold onto. The world feels distorted, like nothing makes sense anymore, like the line between hope and despair has blurred completely.

Matthew’s voice is strained, cracking as he speaks, and it pierces Gunwook’s chest, each word heavier than the last. "I can’t… I’m still with Jiwoon hyung." The words land like a punch to the gut. Gunwook doesn’t know how to react. There’s no denying it; it’s the truth, and it burns. But what does that mean for them? What does it mean for him? For everything they could have been, should have been?

“I… don’t you get it?” Matthew continues, his voice breaking, and Gunwook feels like he’s drowning in the sound of it. “You can’t just... show up now, not after everything, after all of it... I’m with him.”

The words slice through the air, and Gunwook feels his stomach twist. His chest tightens, like his heart is being squeezed in slow motion, the pain spreading with every passing second. He wants to reach out, but he’s rooted to the spot, helpless.

Matthew’s back is still to him, his body tense, as if every inch of him is recoiling from Gunwook’s presence. He can see the way Matthew’s posture sags, how the weight of his own emotions is threatening to break him down, but Gunwook is too lost in his own head to do anything about it. All he can do is stand there, painfully aware of how badly he’s fucked up.

“I’m not trying to take you from him,” Gunwook says, and his voice cracks as the words tumble out. He doesn’t even know if Matthew is listening, but he has to say it. He has to make this clear. “I’m not… I just– Hyung, I want to make things right. I want to catch up on all the time we lost. All the missed chances. All the things I should have said before. I don’t want to keep living like this, with what-ifs and regrets. I want you. I just want us to be happy. The way we're meant to be. Please, just... let me make it right, let me prove it to you.”

The words feel raw, like a confession he’s been keeping inside for far too long. He stares at Matthew’s back, helpless, hoping that somehow the depth of his emotions will reach him. That somehow, this time, his voice will be enough, but even as the words escape him, he feels the heavy silence crash down around them again. Matthew still doesn’t turn around.

Gunwook’s hands shake at his sides, the anger and frustration still simmering inside him, but now it’s mingled with desperation. A deep need to fix this, to mend the distance between them. He wishes there were something more he could do, something beyond words that would make Matthew see, truly see, that he wants this. That he wants him.

"I’m not perfect," Gunwook continues, his voice quieter now, softer, almost pleading. "I’ve fucked up, I know that. I hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was feeling, what this was... until now. And I know it's too late for some things, but I don’t want it to be too late for us. Not like this. Not like–" He falters, frustration bubbling over once again, but he pushes it down. "Please, hyung, don’t shut me out. Not now. Not when I finally understand how much you mean to me."

Gunwook takes a step closer, but he’s still hesitant, not wanting to push too far. He’s already pushed too much, but his heart aches at the thought of losing Matthew for good, of never having the chance to make it right, to make him understand how deep his feelings run. He wants Matthew to know that this isn’t just about the moment, about the kiss or the fight. It’s about everything they could have been and everything they can still be, if only Matthew will let him in, but Matthew doesn’t move. He’s still facing away, his shoulders tense, his body rigid, like the weight of everything between them is holding him in place. Gunwook can see how badly this is hurting him. He knows it’s hurting him too, but the fear that maybe Matthew is too far gone, that maybe this is just another wound that’s too deep to heal, grips him with a tightness he can’t shake.

Gunwook takes another step forward, his breath catching in his throat. "I don’t know how to fix this, hyung. I don’t even know if I deserve another chance, but I’m asking for one anyway. Just one. Please, don’t walk away from me now."

The words sound clumsy to him as they leave his mouth. His heart is racing, and there’s a tightness in his chest that threatens to crush him. Gunwook feels like he’s fighting an uphill battle against all the mistakes he’s made, against everything he’s not been able to say, against the years of silence between them. He steps forward, but Matthew stays still as ever, his back still to Gunwook, the space between them feeling like an abyss that he can’t cross. Gunwook feels the weight of it like a physical force; like if he moves too quickly, it might all shatter. Like if he breathes wrong, it will all fall apart.

“I never meant to hurt you, hyung,” Gunwook continues, his voice trembling. “I’ve been such an idiot, trying to run from this, from you, because I was scared of what having feelings meant for me. But now... now I can’t stand not telling you how I feel. I don’t care if I messed up. I just need to fix this. Us.” He pauses, and the silence between them feels suffocating, but he pushes on, desperate to get it all out. “You don’t understand– this... this thing with you, it’s never just been about being ‘into guys.’ It’s about you. It’s about us. All I want is to go back, to fix everything I should have said years ago.”

The words feel raw in his mouth, but they’re the truth, the truth he’s buried for so long. His heart aches just saying them out loud. Matthew doesn’t respond. There’s a moment of tense silence where the only sound is the rush of the wind and the angry crash of the waves against the shore. Gunwook can feel the tension between them like an electric charge in the air, the weight of everything still unresolved hanging heavily.

Gunwook swallows hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, almost pleading. “I want to make it right. I want to be with you, Matthew hyung. For real. No more running, no more pretending. I want to catch up on everything we’ve lost, on all the time I wasted not telling you how I feel.” 

Matthew’s silence is unbearable. Gunwook feels like his chest might cave in with how heavy the air has become. He wants to reach out, to pull Matthew back into him, to make him see that he means every word, but he knows he can’t.

The wind picks up, howling in his ears as he stands there, waiting, hoping for Matthew to turn around, to say anything.

"I can’t just..." Matthew starts, his voice quiet, strained. "It’s not that simple, Gunwook. It wasn’t just about the kiss, or about who you are. It’s about everything we’ve been through. All the times you’ve hurt me. How can I just– how can I just trust you now?"

The raw hurt in Matthew’s voice cuts through Gunwook like a blade. His heart shatters, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t take back the things he’s said, the things he’s done, but he doesn’t want to give up on them. He’s tired of pretending to be okay, tired of living with the weight of what could have been. He wants it all, wants Matthew, and wants to be right with him.

“I know,” Gunwook says, his voice softer now, regret weighing heavily on every syllable. “I know it’s not simple. I know it’s complicated. But I want to try. I want us to try. And if you’ll let me, if you’ll give me the chance... I swear I’ll make it right. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you.”

The words hang in the air, fragile, like they could shatter any moment, but Gunwook doesn’t care anymore. He’s put everything out there, bare and raw. He’s willing to fight for this, for them . Even if it means starting over, even if it means having to earn Matthew’s trust from scratch, but the silence drags on, and with each passing second, Gunwook feels the weight of uncertainty pulling him down. Is it too late? Has he already lost him? He doesn’t know, but he knows he can’t give up. Not while there’s a chance.

Matthew stands still for a moment, his back turned to Gunwook, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of everything is crashing down on him. The wind howls around them, whipping up the sand and rain, but it only amplifies the heaviness that hangs in the space between them. Gunwook can feel it; feel the finality that’s slowly creeping in, despite the hope in his words.

“I can’t,” Matthew says, the words soft but final, breaking through the storm. His voice cracks just slightly, but it’s enough to make Gunwook freeze in place, his chest tightening. “I’ve been hurt too much, Gunwook. I don’t even know if I can trust you anymore.”

Gunwook’s breath catches in his throat. He takes a step forward, desperate, but Matthew shakes his head, not turning around to face him.

“You’ve changed,” Matthew continues, the words slicing through the air. “You’re not the person I fell in love with anymore. And I don’t know if I can keep holding onto someone who’s... not the same.”

The words cut deeper than Gunwook expected, deeper than he’s ready for. He feels a sharp ache in his chest, a physical pain that makes it hard to breathe. The rain hits his face like needles, cold and stinging, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the fact that Matthew is telling him he’s too late.

Gunwook’s voice trembles as he speaks, the panic bubbling in his throat. “I can change. I swear to you, I can go back to how things were, back to the person you loved. Back to Wookie, remember?” His words are a plea, a desperate grasp at the past, but Matthew doesn’t respond.

The silence is deafening, the storm around them only amplifying the heavy tension that hangs in the air. Gunwook’s heart is pounding, his thoughts scrambling to find something, anything, that might make Matthew see that he’s not too late, that it’s not over yet.

Matthew doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even move, his shoulders still tight with the weight of everything they’ve said, everything they’ve lost. “I can’t,” Matthew repeats, quieter this time, his voice breaking in a way that makes Gunwook’s heart shatter.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Matthew adds, the words quieter, more resigned. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Gunwook. And I can’t just... pretend everything’s fine. I can’t go back to how it was. Not after everything that’s happened.”

The rain beats harder against them, as though the sky itself is weeping for what’s been lost. Gunwook’s chest tightens with the realisation that the space between them has never felt bigger, and no matter how much he wants to bridge it, he’s not sure he can. He steps closer, but this time, he doesn’t reach out. He’s afraid that if he does, he’ll only push Matthew further away.

“I’m sorry,” Gunwook whispers, barely audible over the storm. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you like this. But please… don’t say it’s over. Not like this.”

Matthew doesn’t answer. His shoulders stiffen, and with one last, final look at Gunwook, he turns and walks away. Every step feels like a nail in Gunwook’s chest, a reminder of how far he’s pushed Matthew away. The rain starts to fall harder, a thick, relentless downpour that soaks them both instantly, but Matthew doesn’t slow down. He walks with purpose, not turning back.

Gunwook stands there, rooted to the spot, unable to move. The weight of everything that’s happened crashes down on him. His chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped their hands around his ribs, squeezing until he can’t breathe. His mind is a blur – he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to fix it. All the words he’s thrown out, all the apologies and explanations, now feel pointless. They’re lost in the rain, swallowed by the sound of the storm.

He wants to call out, to run after Matthew, but his body won’t obey. He’s frozen. Paralyzed by the sheer weight of the realisation that he might have lost Matthew for good. A horrible, bitter taste fills his mouth. He can feel the tension in his chest, the overwhelming ache of knowing that it could be too late for everything they could have been. Too late to fix all the years of distance and silence.

The rain pours down in sheets now, and Gunwook’s clothes cling to him, soaking him through. It doesn’t matter. The cold water numbs the physical sensation, but it doesn’t touch the feeling that’s burning through him. He feels as though the storm is inside him, the weight of his mistakes and regrets swirling like a vortex. Matthew’s footsteps fade away with each passing second, and Gunwook stands there, breathless, disoriented.

The thunder cracks in the distance, adding to the sense of finality in the air. Gunwook shudders, but it’s not just from the cold. It’s from the feeling that he might have just lost the most important person in his life. The one he’s been too scared to admit he was in love with, the one he’s been too stupid to treat the way he deserved, and now, it’s slipping away. He’s slipping away, and Gunwook can’t stop him.

His mind races through the words he said, the hurt that he caused, the things he should have said instead of the stupid, selfish things that slipped out in the heat of the moment, and Matthew… Matthew had been right, hadn’t he? He hadn’t seen him. Not the way he deserved.

Gunwook stands in the rain, feeling the cold seep into his bones, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the realisation that he might have already lost Matthew, and that’s the thing that’s sinking into his chest, sharp and heavy. The fact that it’s not just about loving Matthew, but about losing him now. For good.

No. He can’t. He won’t let it end like this. He’s made too many mistakes, but he’s determined to fix them. He’s determined to fix this. If Matthew walks away, then Gunwook will chase him until the last of his breath. He will fight for this. He has to. He can’t lose Matthew. Not like this.

The rain pours down harder, but Gunwook’s heart is already drenched in guilt, in sorrow, and in determination. He takes a shaky breath, swallowing back the panic rising in his throat. No. This isn’t over. Not yet. He won’t let it be. With every ounce of strength left in him, he begins to move, the cold rain mingling with the heat of his resolve. He’s going to fix this. He has to.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew trudges back towards the beachhouse, the rain now fully soaking him through. Each step feels heavier, like the storm in the sky is mirroring the one inside him. His clothes cling to his skin, the cold biting through, but it’s the numbness in his chest that makes it harder to move. Every drop of rain feels like a reminder of how everything’s slipping through his fingers.

He finally reaches the porch, his drenched form causing a few startled glances from the group gathered inside. The second they see him, they’re all over him; concerned, worried, and loud, asking him if he’s okay, but Matthew can’t muster more than a forced smile, and a small, off-handed shrug. He just says, “I’m fine. Lost track of time on the beach, got caught in the rain.”

They don’t buy it, of course. Hao steps forward first, eyes narrowed. “Matthew, you’re soaked through. What happened?”

“I just... needed some space,” he mutters, not wanting to explain any further. He can feel the weight of their gazes on him, but it feels like they’re a million miles away. The words he wants to say are lodged in his throat, but he doesn’t have the energy to voice them.

Gyuvin looks around, brow furrowing. “Have you seen Gunwook? He hasn’t come back yet either.”

Matthew hesitates. His throat tightens at the mention of Gunwook’s name, a deep ache settling in his chest. He forces himself to shake his head. “No. I haven’t seen him. I– don’t know where he went.” His voice sounds flat, distant even to his own ears.

There’s a pause, the group exchanging glances, but Matthew just can’t bear it anymore. “I need a shower,” he says, cutting through the silence. The words come out in a rush, and before anyone can say anything else, he turns on his heel and walks past them, heading straight for his room. He doesn’t wait for them to follow, doesn’t care what they think right now. All he wants is to get away, to be alone, to wash away the rain, the anger, and the mess inside his head.

As he climbs the stairs, the cold feeling of the water against his skin fades into the background, replaced by the weight of the silence he’s carrying with him. He knows this isn’t over, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

Matthew enters his room, the heavy weight of the situation still pressing down on him. But as soon as he steps inside, he freezes. Jiwoong is standing near the bed, gathering his things with slow, deliberate movements. The sight is unexpected, jolting him from his thoughts.

“Oh, you’re back,” Jiwoong says, his voice light, almost as if nothing is out of the ordinary. He doesn’t look up at first, continuing to fold his clothes with a casual ease that Matthew finds almost unnerving. His tone is quiet, calm, but there’s something underneath it; a layer of sadness, of understanding that Matthew can’t quite grasp yet.

Matthew stands there for a moment, unable to move, unsure of what to say. His heart races as confusion bubbles up in him. “Why are you packing?” he asks, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. There’s a knot in his chest, something cold and tight that only worsens as he watches Jiwoong move about the room, packing his things as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Jiwoong pauses for just a moment, his hands stilling before he lifts his head to meet Matthew’s gaze. He smiles then – softly, almost wistfully – but there’s something in his eyes that Matthew doesn’t recognise. It’s as if Jiwoong is already somewhere far away, his thoughts already detached from the room and the situation between them. The smile is there, but it’s dimmer than usual, tinged with a quiet kind of understanding that seems to go beyond the present moment.

“I don’t know what happened, but… I’m pretty sure I can make an accurate enough assumption,” Jiwoong says, his voice steady despite the calm weight in it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything to me.” His gaze flickers briefly to the side, but he doesn’t look away from Matthew, as if the unspoken words between them are already being shared without needing to be voiced.

Matthew’s chest tightens, his confusion deepening, and the atmosphere around him seems to thicken with the weight of everything left unsaid. “What do you mean, ‘It’s okay’?” he asks, his voice a little sharper now, the first hint of panic creeping in. “Hyung, why are you packing your stuff? What’s going on?”

Jiwoong’s smile doesn’t fade, but it softens. He sets the last shirt into the bag and zips it up before finally meeting Matthew’s eyes. “I know what’s happening, Matthew. I know where your heart is. And it’s not with me anymore.”

Matthew feels like the ground beneath him is slipping away. His heart stumbles in his chest, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, can’t bring himself to acknowledge the truth in Jiwoong’s words.

“You’re letting go, and I’m not going to stop you,” Jiwoong continues, his voice gentle, the sadness in it almost imperceptible but still there. “I won’t hold you back from whatever you’re meant to have. I won’t try to make you stay in something that isn’t right for you. You need to figure this out, and I can’t keep pretending that things are fine when they’re not.”

The words hit Matthew like a punch to the gut. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. His chest feels hollow, empty, the weight of guilt pressing on him harder than ever.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” Matthew finally manages, his voice strained. “I don’t know when everything changed... but I never wanted this.”

Jiwoong pauses, his back still to Matthew as he stands by the door, taking in a slow breath. He doesn't turn around to face him yet, but his voice is steady, unbroken, as if he’s made peace with what needs to be said.

“I know,” Jiwoong replies quietly, his tone almost gentle. “And I know you never wanted this. But Matthew...” He lets out a breath, as if gathering the courage to say what’s been lingering in the air between them. “I think we both knew, from the very start, that your heart was never fully mine.”

The words fall heavy in the room, hanging there between them. Matthew feels the weight of them, and it makes his chest tighten, his throat constrict with the force of the unspoken truth. It was never really his, was it? He’d never fully given himself to Jiwoong, not in the way Jiwoong deserved. But the realisation now stings more than ever.

Jiwoong doesn’t look back as he continues, his voice unwavering despite the quiet sorrow it carries. “I’ve always known, Matthew. I know you loved me, in your own way, but it wasn’t the same, was it?”

Matthew wants to say something, anything to explain, but he can’t find the words. How could he? Jiwoong is right, isn’t he? He’s known this for a while. He’s always known that part of Matthew’s heart has always belonged to someone else, someone who didn’t know how to love him back – or at least, not until now.

“I’ve always loved you, Matthew,” Jiwoong says, and for the first time, Matthew hears a crack in his voice. It’s so quiet, so subdued, but it’s there. “I’m not going to pretend I haven’t, but I also know when enough is enough.”

Matthew stands frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. He wants to beg, wants to make it all right, but something in Jiwoong’s voice – something in the way he’s speaking now – tells him that he’s already made up his mind.

“I love you so much,” Jiwoong continues, his voice soft, filled with a tenderness that makes Matthew ache. “But it’s because I love you that I have to let you go. You deserve to be happy. And if that means you have to figure things out with him...” He finally turns to face Matthew, his expression calm, but the sadness is undeniable in his eyes. “Then that’s what I want for you. I won’t keep you in a place where you’re not meant to be.”

There’s no anger in Jiwoong’s voice. No bitterness. Just an overwhelming sense of understanding that Matthew can’t even begin to comprehend. Jiwoong has already let go, and Matthew’s heart aches for that. How could he have missed how much Jiwoong truly cared? How could he have been so blind to this kind of love?

“I just want you to be happy, Matthew,” Jiwoong repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, the sincerity of his words wrapping around Matthew like a shroud.

Matthew’s breath catches in his throat. The weight of Jiwoong’s words crushes him, each syllable sinking deep into his chest, breaking him open. He’s heard Jiwoong speak with understanding before, with patience, but this is different. This is the finality, the quiet acceptance of something Matthew wasn’t ready to face. That Jiwoong loved him more than he was capable of understanding, and now, he’s letting him go; not out of anger, not out of bitterness, but because he loved him enough to know that Matthew’s heart wasn’t truly his to keep.

Matthew’s hands tremble, his chest tight as if his lungs can’t hold enough air to process the enormity of what’s happening. There’s guilt in every corner of his mind, every fibre of his being screaming that he should have realised sooner, should have been better, should have been enough for Jiwoong.

“I don’t deserve you,” Matthew whispers, his voice barely audible, cracking with the weight of the emotion pouring through him. His throat feels like it’s closing up, the tears threatening again, but he forces them back, clenching his fists to his sides. "I’m so sorry, hyung. I never wanted to hurt you."

Jiwoong shakes his head, a sad smile curling at his lips. “Matthew, please... you don’t need to apologise.” He moves closer, and even though there’s a soft, fragile look in his eyes, his touch is steady, like he’s always been there to hold Matthew up, even when Matthew hadn’t deserved it. “You never meant to hurt me. But... you deserve to be happy. And I can’t stand seeing you struggle with something that isn’t right.”

Matthew’s world feels like it’s crumbling. The man who has loved him, who has been there through every mess, every broken moment, is now letting go of the one person who needs him most, snd he doesn’t know how to reconcile that. How can he let Jiwoong walk away so easily when he’s been the one constant in his life?

"I’m so fucking sorry," Matthew says again, his voice broken, his heart twisting. His hands reach for Jiwoong, his arms pulling him into a desperate hug. It’s too much to let go of, too much to bear. “Please don’t leave me like this…”

Jiwoong holds him tighter, his grip steady, strong, like he’s trying to keep Matthew from falling apart. He doesn’t say anything for a while. He just holds Matthew, as though letting him cry is the only thing left that he can do for him. The words of reassurance, the understanding; all of it has been said, but now it’s just silence, and the sound of Matthew’s sobs, the rawness of it, as if his heart is cracking open right in Jiwoong’s arms.

“I know,” Jiwoong says softly, his voice strained with his own unshed tears, “I know it’s not easy. But I can’t keep holding on to something that isn’t meant to be. You have to find your way, Matthew. You have to be honest with yourself. You like the stability I give you, but your heart lies with him.”

Matthew’s heart shatters. He wants to fight, to make it right, to tell Jiwoong everything he  can to convince him that’s not true, but there’s nothing left to say. Jiwoong already knows the truth. He knows Matthew’s heart isn’t his, and yet, here he is, holding him even as Matthew’s rain-soaked clothes soaks through his own, comforting him through his mess, even as it breaks him to do so, and for the first time, Matthew feels what real love looks like. Not the selfish kind he had tried to hold onto, but the kind that lets go when it’s time, the kind that wishes for the other’s happiness even at the cost of its own.

Matthew pulls away, his face flushed with shame and grief. He looks at Jiwoong, at the man who has always been there, who has given him more than he ever deserved, and with a choked sob, he hugs Jiwoong one last time, desperately, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to hold onto. Jiwoong holds him back, as tight as he can, as if he’s trying to keep Matthew from slipping away entirely, even though he knows it’s inevitable.

“I’ll always be here for you, Matthew,” Jiwoong whispers, his voice thick with the weight of everything unsaid between them.

Matthew’s heart feels like it’s in pieces, but in this moment, with Jiwoong’s arms around him, it’s the only place he feels safe. He lifts his head slowly, his eyes searching Jiwoong’s face, taking in the tenderness that’s still there despite everything. There’s so much unspoken between them, so much rawness, but there’s also an undeniable softness; a kind of gentleness that Matthew hadn’t known he needed until now.

He hesitates for only a moment, and then, in a breathless, trembling motion, Matthew presses his lips to Jiwoong’s. It’s not a kiss of passion, not a kiss of desperation. It’s quiet, soft, and heartbreaking, filled with all the things they never said, all the things they couldn’t fix, but also with the hope that, maybe, in time, they could heal.

The kiss is slow, careful, like they’re both holding onto each other for the very last time, trying to savour the final piece of what they had. It’s not enough to make up for the lost time or the brokenness, but it’s everything they have left; this moment of quiet understanding, of sorrow, of regret, but also, somehow, healing.

Jiwoong kisses back, not with urgency but with a tenderness that makes Matthew’s chest ache even more. It’s like a promise without words, a silent recognition that while their time together is ending, it doesn’t erase what they once shared. And in this one simple, final kiss, Matthew feels the weight of it all; the love, the pain, and the quiet release that comes with knowing it’s time to let go.

When the kiss breaks, Matthew’s arms wrap around Jiwoong once more, pulling him in close, holding him like he’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice is thick with emotion as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But thank you, Jiwoon hyung… for everything.”

Jiwoong doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. He just holds Matthew tighter, as though he’s trying to keep him safe for as long as he can. The silence between them is comfortable now, filled with the weight of everything that’s been said and everything that’s been left unsaid. In that moment, the rest of the world fades away. There’s just the two of them, clinging to each other for however long they need, before Matthew has to face the reality of everything that’s changing.

For the first time in a long while, Matthew lets himself fall into the embrace, allowing himself to be held, knowing that, although this is goodbye, it’s also a beginning.

Chapter Text

The room is quiet in a way that feels almost deliberate, like it’s holding its breath. Morning light filters through the flimsy curtains, casting long, soft stripes over the rumpled sheets and the dent in the pillow where Jiwoong used to sleep. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, just faint traces of detergent and the salt-crusted air that clings to everything in this house. Matthew lies on his side, curled toward the empty space, his arm tucked beneath his head, breathing slowly, carefully, like any movement might shatter the thin illusion of stillness he’s wrapped himself in.

Jiwoong’s things are gone. A couple of T-shirts, a toothbrush, the little ceramic fox keychain he used to leave on the nightstand… it’s all been packed and cleared out with an almost painful neatness. There’s no mess, no trace of resentment, just absence, and that’s somehow worse. Matthew hadn’t expected a confrontation, but he hadn’t expected it to feel so final either. Jiwoong had smiled – sad, apologetic, that tired kind of kindness that always made Matthew feel a little ashamed – and said it wasn’t fair to any of them to pretend this was working. Not with the way things were. Not with Gunwook still a wound Matthew refused to let heal.

He’d wanted to argue but he hadn't because Jiwoong was right, and now… now he’s alone in a bed that still feels too warm on one side. Alone with the familiar ache that’s burrowed so deep into his chest it might as well be part of his anatomy. Alone with the knowledge that Gunwook finally said it – I’m in love you – and it didn’t fix anything. It only made it worse, because it came too late. Because it didn’t come with change. Because it didn’t erase the months, the years, of second-guessing and cold shoulders and gut-twisting moments where he thought maybe, only to be proven wrong. Again. And again. And again.

He swallows, but his throat is dry. The ceiling above him has tiny cracks, spiderwebbing from the corner of the light fixture. He stares at them like they mean something. Like they can explain how it’s possible to want something for so long, and then not know what to do when it’s finally in front of you, because it’s not really in front of him, is it? Gunwook said the words, yes, but love without consistency is cruelty. Love without accountability is manipulation. Gunwook has always known how to take from him – his time, his loyalty, his heart – and never once asked if he was ready to give it and Matthew had always given. Stupidly, willingly, because he thought maybe one day it would be enough.

It wasn’t. It never was.

He presses his fingers to his eyelids, slow and firm, until stars bloom behind the darkness. His chest feels hollow. Or maybe too full. It’s hard to tell the difference these days. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t even think he can. The grief has crystallised into something sharper, something that just sits there, gleaming behind his ribs. He hates that Gunwook still has the power to make him feel this way. He hates that a part of him still wanted to believe the confession last night could undo everything. That hearing “I love you” would be enough, but it’s not enough to be loved. He needs to be respected. He needs to be seen. And Gunwook… God, Gunwook only ever sees him when he’s slipping away.

The bed creaks as he shifts onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling again. Outside the window, waves crash distantly against the shore. Somewhere in the house, someone coughs – maybe Gyuvin, maybe Ricky – and then silence again. His friends are giving him space. They all know. He hasn’t said a word, but they know. Hao had offered him tea this morning, quietly, setting it by the door without pushing. Hanbin had avoided eye contact. Gyuvin had hugged him too tightly last night and whispered, “Don’t let him get away with this again.”

And Ricky… Ricky had looked at him like he wanted to say something, but then didn’t. Maybe because there’s nothing left to say. Not right now.

He wonders where Gunwook is. Wonders if he’s awake. Wonders if he’s with Taerae. The thought twists like rusted wire in his gut, but it’s dulled now. Less jealousy, more resignation. Taerae’s not the problem. He never was. Taerae was just there when Gunwook needed a distraction. A body to hide in, and that, more than anything, tells Matthew exactly how far Gunwook still has to go, because Gunwook thinks he’s in love. Maybe he is in love, but love without action is hollow. Love isn’t just late-night confessions and tragic timing. It’s showing up. It’s trying, even when it’s hard, and Gunwook… he’s never really tried. Not in the ways that matter.

Matthew breathes in deep, lets it out slowly through his nose. His fingers clench the edge of the duvet, knuckles tight against the white cotton. He thinks about leaving. About catching a bus back to the city, disappearing into his own routine again, pretending none of this happened. But he’s tired of pretending. Tired of swallowing his hurt just to keep things easy. Maybe this time, Gunwook can be the one left waiting. Left wondering.

Maybe this time, he doesn’t have to do the fixing.

He closes his eyes. Not to sleep – sleep feels like an impossible luxury – but to rest. To just be, in this quiet, aching space, where nothing is demanded of him except endurance. Where he can finally admit that loving Gunwook has always meant abandoning himself, and that he’s done doing that.

The longer he lies there, the more his thoughts turn inward, inevitably, unwillingly. Like muscle memory. Like an old wound begging to be picked open. He finds himself thinking about those moments. The ones that used to keep him up at night for an entirely different reason. The soft, stupid memories that once felt like proof, like hope back before he knew better. Back before everything had a shadow.

There was the time in second year when he’d sprained his ankle during that awful student showcase, and Gunwook had carried him all the way back to the dorms on his back. Not even letting him limp, just picked him up like it was nothing, muttering about how Matthew always pushed himself too hard. He’d been gentle then. Steady and teasing, sure, but in that way that made Matthew feel taken care of. He remembers the warmth of Gunwook’s arms around his thighs, the way he’d kept shifting him higher with one hand like he wasn’t heavy at all. Matthew had been mortified – and completely, hopelessly in love.

But the high had barely lasted the night, because by the next morning, Gunwook had vanished from the dorm without a word, and when he returned hours later, his shirt was on backwards and he had a love bite on his neck. He’d laughed when Matthew asked if he’d been out all night, and said something about this girl from SNU who could “do this thing with her tongue, bro, insane.”

Matthew had smiled. Nodded. Said nice. Then locked himself in the bathroom and cried so hard he threw up, and still, that moment – being carried, being looked after – had been enough to keep the hope alive for months. Or what about that night it had rained during the spring break before this one? Everyone else had gone out, and they’d ended up alone in the beach house they’d rented. It had started pouring suddenly, the kind of rain that made the air go still and the windows rattle. Gunwook had lit candles – actual candles – because the power kept flickering, and they’d sat on the couch playing cards and talking about the dumbest things. Favourite cereals. Bucket list concerts. What they’d do if they weren’t afraid.

Gunwook had said, “I think I’d be a good teacher, don’t laugh.”

Matthew hadn’t laughed. He’d looked at him, heart aching, and said softly, “You’d be great.” And Gunwook had gone all quiet, eyes flickering to his mouth for a split second too long.

That moment had felt like a turning point. A maybe. Matthew had lain awake after, stomach fluttering, daring to imagine that the almost-kiss he thought he saw might have been real, but then two days later, Gunwook had snuck off during a group hike and come back with lipstick on his collar. He didn’t even try to hide it. Just winked when Hanbin teased him and said, “Don’t wait up tonight.” And Matthew had felt so stupid. So invisible. As if none of it had meant anything. As if he’d imagined the whole connection from scratch.

Again.

And then there were the texts. Late at night, when Gunwook would message him something out of nowhere, thinking about that time you laughed so hard you snorted lol you were so cute or you’d look hot with a septum ring tbh. Always things no one else noticed. Things that made Matthew feel seen, like he mattered in a way that was separate from everyone else. Like Gunwook was paying attention, but the thing is, Gunwook always messaged him after something else didn’t work out. A girl ghosting him. A fight with someone. A hook-up who wasn’t who he thought they’d be. And Matthew? He was always the fallback. The safety net. The one who’d reply no matter what time it was.

Every moment that had once felt precious now reeks of context. Every kind gesture, every fleeting look, every inside joke… they’re all stained by what came after. Gunwook ditching him. Gunwook bragging about conquests. Gunwook choosing anyone else, every time, and acting like Matthew should just laugh it off.

It makes him sick, now. The way he used to search for signs. Like some pathetic detective trying to prove a theory no one else believed. He remembers the heat of Gunwook’s hand on the small of his back during a party once, just a split-second touch, grounding him in a crowd. He remembers replaying it in his head for weeks, wondering if it meant something. He thinks about all the moments he’s stored in the dusty attic of his mind. Like old love letters that were never actually written.

And he hates it.

He hates that he’s done this to himself. That he’s kept a catalogue of every kind word, every look, every accidental brush of fingers, like they were part of some cosmic pattern meant to reveal the truth that Gunwook had loved him back all along. That it was just bad timing. That he’d been waiting for the right moment, but the truth is so much simpler. Gunwook liked having him there. He liked being adored. He liked Matthew as long as Matthew didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t expect too much. Didn’t rock the boat.

And now, now he’s finally said he loves him, and Matthew still doesn’t know what to do with it, because all those moments are ruined. Because they don’t feel like love, not really. They feel like manipulation in hindsight. Like soft distractions from the uglier reality: Gunwook never chose him. Not once. Not when it mattered.

He exhales, slow and steady, eyes burning but dry. He’s tired of giving those memories power. Tired of wondering what could’ve been. The truth is, Gunwook might have loved him all along, but love means nothing if it only shows up when it’s convenient. Matthew rolls onto his side again, facing the wall this time. Away from the dent in the pillow. Away from the morning light.

He’s not sure what it’ll take to forgive Gunwook. Or if he even can. But he knows one thing with aching clarity:

He deserves more than memories that hurt.

He deserves more than almosts.

Still, despite everything – despite how so many memories are now weighed down by the aftermath – there’s one he can’t quite file away so easily. One that doesn’t fit as neatly into the box labelled lies he told himself, because there was one time. One night when Gunwook did choose him. When Matthew had asked – begged , really – and Gunwook hadn’t walked away.

It had been after a particularly brutal day. His project partner had bailed last minute, he'd failed a midterm, and worst of all, he'd gotten a voice message from his mum that left him shaky for reasons he still can’t put words to. It had just been too much at once. He remembers sitting at the foot of his bed, phone facedown, chest clenched tight like he couldn’t breathe properly, and for once, he hadn’t pretended. He’d let himself fall apart in front of Gunwook.

Gunwook had walked in halfway through it; hair wet from the shower, hoodie half-zipped, phone in hand, grinning about some girl who had just texted him to “come over if you're not busy.”

Matthew had been too tired to hide his tears, and even more tired of being alone in them. He’d looked up, voice small and already cracking, and whispered, Don’t go. Please. Just this once, can’t you stay?

And god, the shame of it, he remembers it so vividly. The way it felt like peeling his skin back. How pathetic he’d sounded even to himself, clutching onto the hem of Gunwook’s sleeve like a child. He hadn’t even known what he was asking for. Just… not to be left again. Not when everything already hurt.

Gunwook had paused. His expression had shifted – something unreadable flickering across his face – and then, gently, he’d set his phone down. Sat next to him. Wrapped an arm around his shoulder and tugged him in.

And then he’d said it, soft but sure, like it was a promise: “You don’t even have to ask. I’ll always choose you.”

Matthew had cried harder after that. Not from sadness, but relief. That night, they’d stayed up talking until three in the morning, wrapped in the quiet safety of shared space. Gunwook had let him vent, let him fall asleep with his head against his shoulder, and Matthew had believed, really believed, that things were changing. That maybe this time, it meant something. That maybe Gunwook had seen him for real.

He’d clung to those five words – I’ll always choose you – like they were a lifeline. Like they were finally his proof, but that was the last time Gunwook ever stayed like that. Every other time after, when things got hard or when Matthew’s emotions crept a little too close to the surface, Gunwook had an excuse. A party to go to. A girl waiting. A vibe to chase. The promise dissolved into background noise. And worst of all, Matthew never asked again. He learned not to. Learned that the more you ask, the worse it hurts when you’re denied.

So that one night. What did it mean, really?

Was it guilt? Pity? A fluke?

He turns it over in his mind like a coin with a worn face, trying to make out what side it landed on. But no matter how much he squints, the shine has dulled, because someone who always chooses you doesn’t have to be asked, and they don’t leave you to pick up the pieces alone.

There’s a knock on the door sometime past noon, gentle and hesitant. Matthew doesn’t move. He figures it’s Ricky, come to coax him into a walk or food or both, but he doesn’t have it in him to pretend like he’s okay enough for that. The knock comes again, a little firmer this time, followed by a voice low enough not to startle.

“It’s Hanbin.”

Matthew blinks at the ceiling. That’s unexpected.

The door creaks open slowly when he doesn’t answer. He hears soft footsteps on the wooden floor and then sees Hanbin’s familiar silhouette approaching, hair still mussed from sleep, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands.

“Hey,” Hanbin says, voice cautious. “I just… wanted to check in.”

Matthew closes his eyes. “You don’t have to, hyung.”

“I know,” Hanbin says gently, like he always does. “But I want to.”

For a moment, it’s just silence. The soft hum of the air conditioner. The distant crash of waves outside.

Hanbin sits down on the edge of the bed, not too close. He waits.

Matthew’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. “You know already, don’t you.”

“I’ve got bits and pieces,” Hanbin admits. “But I’d rather hear it from you. I don’t want to assume anything.”

Matthew swallows, throat tight. There’s a part of him that wants to say nothing. To keep it all buried where it can’t hurt as much, but Hanbin is kind and quiet and safe, so he talks.

He tells him about the past few nights. About the almost-kiss on the patio, about the way Gunwook had looked at him like he was something fragile and real, like maybe – for a second – it wasn’t one-sided. He tells him about how they were interrupted, about how Gunwook had brushed it all off after, said it didn’t mean anything. Didn’t mean anything. Those words still sting like salt on skin.

And then the next day, how he’d overheard Gunwook admit to Ricky that he’s into guys. That he’d been stringing Matthew along, all the moments Matthew had buried and explained away and convinced himself were nothing. Except now they weren’t nothing. Gunwook had felt something. Just not for him.

Hanbin listens, silent and still, his brows creased but never interrupting.

“And then,” Matthew says, voice thin, “He came after me.”

Hanbin glances at him, eyes soft.

“Said he’s in love with me.”

There’s a long pause. Matthew breathes in, then out.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits. “Like– after everything, how do I even trust that’s real? He didn’t say anything when it mattered. When I needed it. He just– he ran. Every time. And then now, all of a sudden, he loves me?”

He laughs, bitter and dry.

“It just feels like another mixed signal. Like it’s all just more of the same. And I’ve already spent years trying to guess what he means when he looks at me a certain way or touches me a certain way or tells me he missed me after hooking up with someone else the night before.”

Hanbin shifts slightly, but still says nothing.

Matthew blinks hard. “I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore. And it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets to say all of this now, when I’ve already ruined everything else because of him.”

Hanbin tilts his head, a gentle frown between his brows. “What do you mean?”

Matthew exhales slowly, like it’ll make the words easier. “Jiwoon hyung left.”

Something flickers across Hanbin’s face, surprise, maybe, or sympathy. He doesn’t ask why. Just waits.

“He knew,” Matthew says quietly. “He always knew I wasn’t fully over Gunwook. That I was… holding something back. And he was patient about it, and he gave me time, but eventually… it just wasn’t fair to him anymore. He deserved someone who could love him completely, and I couldn’t.”

He pauses, rubbing at his eyes. “So he left. And I get it. I really do. But now I’m just… here. Alone. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this.”

Hanbin finally speaks, his voice quiet and even. “I’m sorry, Matt. I can’t imagine how hard that is.”

Matthew nods once, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“And Gunwook?” Hanbin asks gently. “What do you want to do about him?”

Matthew goes still.

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “That’s the worst part. I don’t know. I’ve wanted him for so long it’s practically muscle memory at this point. But now that he’s finally saying the things I always wanted to hear… I don’t know if I believe him. And even if I did, I don’t know if I can go through all that again. What if it’s just another cycle? What if he leaves again the second it gets hard?”

Hanbin nods slowly. “It’s okay not to know.”

Matthew leans back into the pillow. Exhausted. Hollowed out.

Hanbin reaches out and squeezes his wrist gently, grounding. “Just so you know… whatever you decide, you’re not alone. We’ve got you. All of us.”

Matthew looks over at him, eyes glassy. “Thanks, Bin hyung.”

Hanbin smiles. “Anytime.”

They sit in silence for a little while longer, the weight of the conversation lingering between them like mist. And for the first time all morning, Matthew doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. Not entirely. There’s a hand on his wrist and a sliver of space to breathe.

It’s not clarity. But it’s a start.

When Hanbin leaves, the room settles back into that too-quiet stillness, the kind that feels thick in the air, like dust and regret. Matthew lies still, barely breathing, and watches the way the light from the window shifts across the ceiling; slow, creeping, indifferent. He’s not sure how long he’s been in this bed, or if he’s even slept since Jiwoong left. Time has folded in on itself, everything bleeding together in a haze of confusion, of pain, of too many thoughts crowding a brain that won’t shut up.

He keeps trying to make sense of it. Keeps turning it over in his mind like if he looks at the pieces long enough, they’ll finally fall into place. But every time he thinks he’s found the edges of the puzzle, something slips – some memory, some contradiction – and he’s back at the start. Back to Gunwook’s face, lit soft and silver in the moonlight on the patio. Back to that moment, so close, so devastatingly close to everything he’d ever wanted, and then the retreat. The silence. The rejection that carved straight through him like a blade.

It had meant nothing. That’s what Gunwook had said. It didn’t mean anything.

But the very next day, Matthew had heard it– heard him. That low, careful voice, the tremor in it, as he admitted to Taerae what Matthew had begged the universe to make true for years: I do have feelings for him. As if it had just occurred to him. As if it wasn’t something Matthew had laid bare through every look, every long night, every goddamn heartbreak.

So what was he supposed to believe? That Gunwook had suddenly realised? That the timing had just been cruelly off? Or that he’d known all along, and it just hadn’t been Matthew until he’d just started trying to move on? Because that’s what it feels like. No matter how many memories he scrapes together, no matter how many moments he revisits trying to find signs, the truth always circles back to that one unbearable possibility: that Gunwook did like boys. Just not him. But that’s not fair, is it? Because if that were true, if Matthew meant nothing to him, then why did he chase him? Why confess, I’m in love with you with eyes wide and desperate and hands trembling? Why now?

And god, why not sooner?

He closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through the ache spreading thick in his chest. He hates this limbo. Hates that even now, after all the damage, all the history, all the years of being strung along and overlooked and pushed aside, some part of him still aches for Gunwook. Still craves his voice, his warmth, the way it felt to be the centre of his attention, even if just for a fleeting moment.

There were so many of those. Moments where Gunwook had made him feel like he was the only person in the world that mattered. Like the time they skipped class to lie on the dorm roof and watch clouds roll by, Gunwook lying so close their arms touched the entire time, talking about nothing, laughing like they were invincible. Or the night Gunwook had picked him up without asking, just because Matthew sounded tired on the phone. They’d driven in silence, parked by the river, and sat side by side eating convenience store ramen under flickering streetlamps. No words. Just presence.

And the birthday gift – god. The fucking birthday gift. A signed photo of his favourite artist that Gunwook had tracked down for weeks. “You always say no one listens when you talk about music,” he’d said, pressing it into Matthew’s hands, eyes bright. “But I do.” And Matthew had wanted, more than anything, to kiss him then, but he hadn’t. Because Gunwook was straight. Because Gunwook would never see him like that.

Except he wasn’t straight, and now Matthew doesn’t know what to do with the leftover pieces of all those moments that once felt so sacred.

He remembers the other things too. The cracks in those memories. Like how, after every one of those nights, Gunwook always left. Always got a text. Always said, “She’s waiting,” with a smirk that never reached his eyes. Or worse, came back and sprawled out beside him detailing the night’s conquests like it was just a funny story they could laugh about. Like Matthew wasn’t there, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled to keep from crying.

Matthew had wanted so badly to believe him when he said he’ll always choose Matthew, but here they were, years later, and Gunwook had never chosen him. Not when it counted. Not until now, when the weight of his choices had already caused everything to collapse. Jiwoong was gone. The friendship between them lay shattered at his feet, and Gunwook was suddenly ready. Suddenly in love.

It feels like too little, too late.

Matthew lies in the bed, fists clenched into the sheets, and feels the ache settle into something sharper. Not rage nor grief. Something in between. Something that sounds like the echo of a door slamming shut behind him, something final.

He doesn’t know if he can let himself hope again. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, hands tangled in his hair like he’s trying to rip the thoughts from his skull. His mouth tastes like copper and regret, and no matter how many times he blinks, the sting behind his eyes doesn’t go away. His shirt is crumpled, clinging damply to his back, and the room smells faintly like yesterday; salt, sweat, and the kind of tension that used to end in sex. But not now, not anymore.

Taerae is quiet, curled in the armchair across from him, one leg pulled up, fingers tapping absently against the curve of his ankle. He hasn’t said much, not since Gunwook finished pouring it all out; the confession, the kiss that wasn’t a kiss, the lie he told, the truth he didn’t, the way Matthew looked at him like he was nothing, and how he probably deserved it.

Gunwook finally lifts his head and exhales, the sound shredded around the edges. “I’m such a dick,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, the worst kind of dick.”

Taerae blinks, unfazed. “You’re definitely a dick,” he says lightly. “But I don’t think you’re the worst kind.”

Gunwook scoffs, bitter. “Right. Because standing on someone’s heart for years and then handing it back cracked and half-beating isn’t peak asshole behaviour.”

Taerae shrugs one shoulder, unbothered by the harshness. “It’s definitely not great. But you’re not the only person in the world who’s hurt someone they cared about.”

“I lied to him.”

“You panicked.”

“I let him believe I didn’t feel anything. And then I turned around and said I loved him, like a complete fucking headcase.”

“You were scared.”

“I used you.”

Taerae finally looks up at that, eyes steady. “I let you.”

Gunwook shakes his head, disgusted with himself. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” Taerae agrees. “But it means I’m not mad about it. So you don’t have to keep punishing yourself on my behalf.”

Gunwook falls silent, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. His hands are shaking now, fingertips buzzing like they’ve lost their nerve endings. “He was in love with me for years,” he says quietly, “and I– I just left him hanging. I made him wait, like an idiot. And I kept coming back, every time, like it was nothing. I broke him. I broke him, Taerae.”

Taerae sets his foot down and leans forward, arms resting on his knees. “He’s not broken.”

Gunwook barks a laugh. “You didn’t see his face.”

“No, but I’ve seen yours,” Taerae says gently. “And it’s the same kind of heartbreak. Just mirrored.”

Gunwook turns away, throat tight. “That doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“No,” he repeats, louder this time. “It doesn’t. Because I’m the one who didn’t get it. I’m the one who told him it didn’t mean anything. I’m the one who only figured my shit out when it was too late. It doesn’t matter that I love him now. I ruined it.”

Taerae exhales, eyes softening. “You did mess up,” he says honestly. “And yeah, it’s not gonna be easy. But love doesn’t come with a scoreboard. You don’t lose points for getting there late.”

Gunwook drags a hand down his face. “Try telling that to Matthew.”

“I think he already knows,” Taerae says after a beat. “He just doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Gunwook swallows hard. “He told Jiwoong he wasn’t over me. That’s why they broke up. And now Jiwoong’s gone, and I’ve–” His voice cracks. “I’ve ruined everything. All because I couldn’t just admit it sooner.”

Taerae stands and crosses the room slowly. He sits beside Gunwook, not too close, just enough for him to feel the presence, the warmth of someone not running away. “You were figuring yourself out,” he says. “That’s not a crime.”

“I hurt him while I did.”

“Yeah,” Taerae admits. “But that doesn’t make your feelings any less real. Just… complicated.”

Gunwook looks down at his lap. “I always thought I had time. I thought I could stay safe, hide in what was easy. Girls were easy. Sex was easy. You were easy.” He glances at Taerae, who only nods, not offended. “But Matthew… he was real. And real scared the shit out of me.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment.

“I thought it would go away,” Gunwook admits. “The way I felt when he laughed. The way I’d stare at his hands when he talked. The way I wanted to kill every guy who made him smile just a bit too long. I thought it was just… obsession. Or habit. But it wasn’t. It never was.”

Taerae finally reaches out, resting a hand on Gunwook’s back. Not heavy. Just there. “You’re allowed to make mistakes,” he says. “Especially when you’ve spent your whole life pretending you weren’t allowed to feel something.”

Gunwook closes his eyes. “I don’t want him to forgive me just because I feel bad. I want to deserve it.”

“Then earn it,” Taerae says simply. “You don’t have to beg. Don’t chase him with apologies and drama and guilt. Just… be better. Do the work.”

Gunwook breathes out shakily. “What if he never takes me back?”

“Then you still become someone who could’ve deserved him,” Taerae says. “That’s still worth something.”

It’s quiet again. Gunwook feels the words settle in his chest like a weight he can actually carry. For the first time in days, something doesn’t feel hopeless.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

Taerae smiles faintly. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve still got a lot to fix.”

Gunwook huffs a laugh. “Yeah. No shit.”

They sit in silence a little longer, two boys wrapped in the consequences of choices they made with half-formed hearts, but something about the air feels clearer now. Not fixed. Not even close, but possible.

Gunwook sinks further into the mattress once the silence returns. His limbs feel too heavy for his body, like he’s wading through everything he’s ever done wrong just to sit upright. There’s a sour taste in his mouth that won’t leave, no matter how many times he swallows. “I don’t even know where to start ,” he says after a long moment, voice worn thin. “Like– I don’t think Matthew even wants to look at me, let alone hear whatever I have to say. How am I supposed to fix this when I’ve already fucked it so badly?”

Taerae exhales slowly, eyes trained on the floor. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s trying to find the right place to begin. Then he speaks, soft but steady. “You don’t start by fixing him. That’s not your job.”

Gunwook’s brow furrows. “I’m not trying to fix him, I’m trying to fix this. What I broke.”

Taerae glances up at him. “Right. But you can’t do that if you’re still broken too.”

Gunwook’s mouth opens, then closes again. He doesn’t know how to argue with that, not when it lands too close to the truth. He feels hollow in places that used to be loud – guilt chewing holes through all his self-defence. “So what, I just leave him alone?”

“No,” Taerae says gently. “You don’t disappear. But you don’t push, either. You give him space. You show up in the ways that matter. Quiet ways. Small ways. But mostly… you become someone he can trust again.”

Gunwook swallows around the knot in his throat. “How the hell do I do that?”

“You start by becoming the person you were when you were his best friend. The one who made him laugh so hard he cried. The one who stayed up until sunrise watching shitty sci-fi movies with him. The one who actually listened when he talked about the stuff that mattered.”

“Yeah, and then went out and slept with someone two hours later.”

“That part,” Taerae says, giving him a look, “You leave out.”

Gunwook huffs a breath that might be a laugh if it didn’t sound so bitter. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not,” Taerae says, and his voice is kind but firm. “You’re gonna have to eat a lot of shit for a while. He’s not going to trust anything you say right away. Maybe not for a long time. But if you’re serious about this – about him – then you show him with consistency. Not grand gestures. Just time. Effort. Growth.”

Gunwook leans forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars bloom behind them. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I even know how to be that person anymore.”

Taerae nudges his shoulder with his own. “Then now’s the time to figure it out.”

He lets that hang for a bit before continuing, quieter this time. “Look, you’re not the first guy who got scared of his own feelings and made shitty choices to avoid them. And you’re not the last. But the thing is, love isn’t a prize you win by proving how sorry you are. It’s a choice. Every day. And if you want a chance at that choice again, then you start by loving him in the way he needs. Not the way that’s easiest for you.”

Gunwook blinks at the floor, throat burning. “What if I’m not enough?”

“Then you keep becoming someone who is,” Taerae says simply. “Not just for him – for you , too. Heal the part of yourself that thought love had to be hidden. The part that ran every time something felt too good. Because even if Matthew never takes you back… don’t you wanna be someone you’re proud of?”

That catches Gunwook off guard. He thinks of all the nights he’s stood in the mirror, forcing a smirk onto his face before a party. All the mornings he’s woken up in someone else’s bed and felt nothing but cold. The times he laughed at Matthew’s jokes but left right after, like it was nothing. The thousand silent ways he’s made himself smaller to avoid looking at the truth of who he is.

“No one ever told me it was okay to feel this way,” he says quietly, voice almost breaking. “Not my family. Not my friends. It was always… joke about it. Avoid it. And if I did feel anything real, I buried it before it could ruin everything.”

Taerae places a steady hand on his back again. “And now you don’t have to.”

Gunwook nods, slow. It hurts, the way truth always does. Like peeling back skin just to see what’s underneath. But there’s a strange kind of relief too – admitting it. Letting it out.

“What if he moves on?” he asks suddenly, voice small. “What if someone else comes along and gives him what I couldn’t?”

Taerae tilts his head. “Then he deserves that happiness. And so do you. But at least you’ll know you tried. And maybe, in the process, you’ll find out you’re more than just the guy who ran.”

Gunwook closes his eyes, fighting the sting. “He was everything to me. Even when I didn’t realise it.”

“Then prove it,” Taerae says. “Not with flowers or desperate texts. Prove it by growing up . By staying. By choosing him even if he doesn’t choose you back right away. That’s what love really is.”

It’s quiet again. Gunwook breathes deep, the weight in his chest no lighter, but less suffocating somehow. Taerae’s words settle in his bones like a blueprint. He doesn’t know what the future looks like. Doesn’t know if Matthew will ever trust him again, or if Jiwoong will ever forgive him, or if he even deserves forgiveness. But for the first time, he feels like he has something to move toward.

“Thank you,” he says, barely audible.

Taerae just nudges his shoulder again, smiling. “Don’t thank me yet. Go make it mean something.”

Gunwook picks at a loose thread on the hem of his sleeve, watching it curl beneath his nail. The silence between them settles softly now, less tense, but still brimming with things unsaid. A sigh escapes him, quiet and shaky. “Do you think I should go to student counselling?”

Taerae chokes on a laugh, sudden and unfiltered. He turns to look at Gunwook with raised brows and a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You sound like a kid asking if he needs to go to the nurse's office because he got a papercut.”

Gunwook flushes. “I didn’t mean it like–  I just… I don’t know how else to start.”

Taerae softens immediately. “I know,” he says gently. “I know you didn’t mean it that way. It’s just…” He nudges Gunwook’s knee with his own, his voice fond now. “It’s kind of sweet, actually. Like this innocent part of you still thinks there’s a set of instructions for how to feel better. Like, step one: admit feelings. Step two: apologise. Step three: counselling.”

Gunwook huffs out a small breath, not quite a laugh, but not nothing either. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” Taerae says firmly. “Wanting help is never stupid. And if counselling feels like a place to start, then start there. If it helps, it helps. But healing isn’t one-size-fits-all, Gunwook. You don’t need to tick the right boxes to deserve peace.”

Gunwook swallows hard, eyes fixed on his lap. “But what if I don’t know how to heal? Like– what if I can’t figure it out? Every time something went wrong, every time I was scared or confused or… anything, Matthew was always there. He’d just– he’d know. He’d listen. Or talk until I stopped spiralling. Or distract me. Or force me to sit on the roof and look at the stupid stars until everything felt a little less awful. And now I don’t have him. I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do without him.”

There’s a pause, and when Gunwook finally looks up, Taerae’s expression has gone soft. Not pitying, just… deeply, achingly understanding.

“That’s not nothing,” Taerae says after a moment. “It’s terrifying, losing the one person who made everything bearable. Who made sense of the mess in your head. But Gunwook… healing isn’t supposed to be this graceful thing. It’s messy and slow and sometimes you feel like you’re getting worse before anything starts to get better.”

“But how do you start?” Gunwook asks, and it’s almost a plea. “Like, practically? What do you do?”

Taerae hums thoughtfully. “You try things. You write shit down. You go for walks even when it feels pointless. You talk to someone, even if it’s just a counsellor who’s paid to listen. You spend time with people who make you feel like a person again. And when none of that works, you keep trying. You keep choosing yourself, even when you don’t think you’re worth the effort.”

Gunwook stares at him, quiet. “But I don’t think I am.”

Taerae doesn’t flinch. “I know. That’s why it’s called healing. Not fixing.”

Gunwook looks down again, fingers curling tightly into his hoodie. He’s used to bruising himself with guilt, used to the sharp comfort of self-loathing. It’s easier to believe he’s the villain, the bad guy, the one who ruined everything, than to think he’s someone still deserving of a chance to be loved. Someone who could become better.

He speaks quietly, almost like he’s ashamed of the thought. “Matthew used to tell me I was a good person.”

Taerae smiles, a little sad. “You are.”

“I don’t feel like one.”

“Then work toward becoming someone you do feel like. Not for him. For you.”

The words wrap around Gunwook like something solid, something real. Not an easy fix, not a map, but a direction.

He sinks back into the cushions, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer clarity. “I think I’ll go to counselling,” he says eventually. “Not because I think it’ll fix everything. But… I need somewhere to start. Somewhere that’s not just me lying in bed wishing I could turn back time.”

Taerae nods, like he knew he’d get there on his own. “That sounds like a good first step.”

“I just– I wish he knew I was trying.”

“He will,” Taerae says. “Eventually. But right now? You try for you. You pick yourself up, even if he never looks your way again. Because if you don’t believe you’re worth the effort, how can you expect anyone else to?”

Gunwook exhales shakily, like some part of him is finally loosening after days of being wound too tight. “You should be a therapist.”

Taerae laughs. “God, no. I’m way too nosy and emotionally invested. But I am your friend. And that’s not going to change, no matter how long it takes for you to figure yourself out.”

Gunwook nods slowly, feeling the weight of that – how rare it is to be loved with no strings attached. Taerae has already seen him at his worst, already helped him climb out of the wreckage of their own story, and somehow he’s still here. Steady. Patient. Kind.

“I’m really sorry,” Gunwook says after a while. “For dragging you into all this. For… all the mess I made.”

Taerae rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. “Gunwook. I chose to be here. And if I didn’t want to be involved, I wouldn’t be. Don’t apologise for needing people.”

Gunwook wants to argue, but the words catch in his throat. So instead, he nods. He lets the silence settle again, not heavy this time, but gentle, like maybe the first stone has finally been laid. Like maybe, just maybe, the person he used to be – the one Matthew loved – is still somewhere inside him, waiting to be rebuilt.

And this time, he’s willing to try.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The lecture theatre is too bright for how numb Matthew feels. Overhead fluorescents hum like an ache he can’t shake off, and everything in the room feels a touch too sharp; the cold air, the shuffle of papers, the buzz of idle conversation. He’s sat near the back again, like always lately, a space carved out where he can exist without too many questions. His hoodie is drawn up over his head, headphones snug in his ears, but there's no music playing. The silence suits him.

He shows up. That’s about all he manages these days. His name gets called during roll, and he raises a hand without looking up. “Here.” He doesn’t need to say anything more than that.

He’s functioning, that’s what he tells himself. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats just enough to keep from fainting, turns up to class. He even answers texts, sometimes. Hao messages him most mornings, little check-ins disguised as memes or questions about lectures. Ricky, ever blunt, simply writes: u good? every couple of days. Matthew always replies the same way: im fine, just tired, and it’s not untrue. He is tired. Just not in the way they think.

They’ve noticed. Of course they have. Matthew doesn’t hover on campus with them after classes anymore. Doesn’t join their weekly group hangouts or sit on the deck with his legs slung over someone’s lap. He doesn’t ask about Gunwook or anything, really. When Ricky knocked on his door the second week after Jiwoong left, he cracked it open just wide enough to say, “I’m okay, I promise,” and smiled so weakly it made Ricky flinch. The next day, Ricky passed him a protein bar between classes without a word. Hao started bringing him coffee.

They’ve given him space, and Matthew is grateful for that, more than he knows how to say. He doesn’t want to explain it; the mess of feelings lodged in his chest like splinters, the almost-kiss, the actual drunken kiss, the almost-love, the not-quite-truth of Gunwook’s mouth on his and the burn of being told it meant nothing only for him to backtrack and say it meant everything.

The first few nights, he’d hoped Gunwook would just leave him alone. What did come – quietly, hesitantly – were texts. Not long ones, just a few words at a time.

wookiebear🐻💛 

hyung i’m sorry
i know i fucked up
im trying to be better for you i promise
i miss you
i love you matthew hyung

He doesn’t open them, not officially, but they sit on his lock screen like bruises. He reads them, over and over, with the brightness turned low and his thumb hovering like he might swipe them away. He never does. They stay there, frozen in time, remnants of someone who always took and never gave until it was too late.

The thing is, he wants to reply. He wants to scream, to cry, to ask, but his pride’s stitched together with all the nights Gunwook chose someone else. All the mornings he’d sit on the edge of their shared bed, waiting for Gunwook to stumble back from a hookup like nothing was ever wrong. All the times Gunwook looked at him like he mattered, only to talk about some girl a few hours later like Matthew wasn’t even there.

And Jiwoong. God. Jiwoong, who had held him so gently. Who had never once made him feel like he had to ask for love. Jiwoong, who left because he deserved more than the half-hearted version of Matthew still tangled up in someone else. That guilt lives heavy in Matthew’s ribs, a quiet truth he can’t ignore. He wasn’t fair to Jiwoong, but how could he have been, when every part of him was still shaped around Gunwook?

The class ends. Students shuffle out, voices rising in pockets of chatter. Someone waves to Matthew; he nods back, but doesn’t smile. He waits until the room clears before slowly packing up. The cold coffee in front of him stays untouched. He forgot it was there.

Outside, the campus is loud in a way that feels almost rude. Laughter, footsteps, the clang of someone’s bike chain. He walks with his hood up, eyes low, hoping no one stops him. They don’t. Hao sees him from across the quad and gives a little wave. Matthew returns it. Hao doesn’t come over, and he’s grateful for that too.

Back in his room, his half of the bed still neatly made, the other side stripped bare. Matthew lies back against the pillows and stares at the ceiling. The texts are still there on his phone, glowing softly. He knows what they say. He doesn’t need to read them again, but he does. He closes his eyes. Tries to remember what it felt like when things were easier. Before kisses meant confessions. Before silence felt like abandonment. Before love became a question he didn’t want to ask.

His phone vibrates again.

wookiebear🐻💛 

i hope you’re okay
i know you probably hate me
but i hope one day you’ll forgive me
even if you don’t
i’ll still be here for you
i’ll love you forever
even if it’s too late

He doesn’t open it. But he doesn’t delete it either.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook doesn’t mean to say yes.

He’s halfway through stuffing books into his bag after a long Thursday lecture when a classmate – someone from one of his gen-eds, a guy who drinks more than he studies and always smells like mint gum and sandalwood – claps him on the shoulder and says, “Hey, party tonight at Jiyoon’s. You coming?”

He opens his mouth to say no. It’s automatic by now; the rejections, the disappearances, the slow fade from a world that used to revolve around neon lights and loud bass and blurry kisses from people whose names he never learned.

But then he hears himself say, “Sure.”

And that’s how he ends up in a stranger’s living room at half-nine, pressed against a wall, wondering what the hell he’s doing here.

The music is pounding – some remix of a remix – and the lights are that nauseating brand of coloured that turns everyone’s faces an ugly shade of green or purple. The house is crowded. People spill into every corner, shouting over the music, drinks sloshing, limbs hanging over sofas. Laughter cuts through the chaos like a knife.

Gunwook slips through the crowd like a ghost. He grabs a can of beer from a counter just to have something in his hand and makes his way to the balcony, pushing open the sliding door and stepping into the cold night air. It’s quieter out here. Only a couple of people are smoking in the far corner, too busy in their own conversation to pay him any mind. He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping as the noise fades into the background. For a while, he just stands there, watching cars pass by below. His beer goes untouched.

“Mind if I join you?”

He turns, startled. A girl stands in the doorway, wrapped in an oversized faux-leather jacket, eyes lined sharp and lips curled in an amused smile. She’s beautiful in the way girls always are at these parties; glowy skin, perfect posture, a hint of mystery clinging to her edges.

Gunwook hesitates, then shrugs, gesturing to the empty space beside him. “It’s your party too.”

She steps into the cold without complaint, her boots clicking softly against the balcony tile as she comes to lean beside him on the railing. The night air gathers in the silence between them, crisp and dry, but not uncomfortable.

“You hiding or people-watching?” she asks, casting a glance over her shoulder at the noisy blur of limbs and laughter behind the glass.

He breathes out a dry laugh. “Neither. Just… breathing.”

“Mm.” She angles her body toward him slightly. “You’re not like the others inside.”

“I used to be.”

“Oh?” She smiles, a little more playful now. “You look like someone who knows how to have a good time.”

That earns a huff of breath from him, bordering on bitter. “I knew how to fake it.”

She chuckles softly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Well, fake or not, I bet it worked. You’ve got that whole quiet-and-damaged thing going on now. It’s kind of hot.”

Gunwook doesn’t respond right away. If this were a few months ago, he knows exactly how this would’ve gone. He’d have tilted his head just enough to look intrigued, let his lips twitch into a smirk. He’d have leaned closer and said something just suggestive enough to blur the lines, to test the water. She’d have laughed, and they’d both know what came next. The party would dissolve around them. He’d find the nearest empty room and lose himself in her for a night, or at least until the hangover hit.

But he’s not that guy anymore.

So instead, he looks away, back out over the railing, watching the occasional headlights streak past below. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

That throws her off for half a second. He doesn’t miss the subtle pause in her breath. Then she straightens slightly and nods, tone shifting. “You’re involved with someone else.”

He gives a half-smile, small and wry. “Something like that.”

She doesn’t push. Doesn’t laugh at him or roll her eyes or make some offhanded joke to mask the rejection. She simply crosses her arms and leans against the railing again, now shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Must be serious,” she says quietly.

“It was,” he murmurs. “Still is. Just… not in the way I wanted.”

She hums, thoughtful. “She break your heart?”

“It’s a he…” Gunwook’s voice is quieter now, like it might disappear in the wind. “And uh, no. I broke his.”

There’s a long silence after that. Not awkward, just heavy and weighted.

“You wanna talk about it?” she offers eventually. “I’ve got time.”

And he does.

He opens his mouth, and for some reason, the words come easier now. Maybe it’s the darkness, the anonymity of her presence, the lack of expectation. She’s not asking for anything from him, not even conversation, just offering a place to pour all the mess he’s been carrying.

So he tells her. Not everything, not the names, not the rawest parts, but enough. Enough to paint a picture of the boy who meant everything to him. Of the friendship they had and the blurred lines he couldn’t stop crossing. Of the selfishness, the confusion, the nights he drowned himself in strangers’ mouths and woke up emptier every time. Of the moment it all cracked, when he saw the look on Matthew’s face and realised, too late, that he’d lost something irreplaceable.

The girl listens. Really listens. No interruptions, no pitying coos, no performative nods. Just quiet, open silence. When he finally exhales, when it feels like there’s nothing left to say, she gives a small, thoughtful sigh.

“You know,” she says, “I don’t know you, and I don’t know him, but… it sounds like you loved him the only way you knew how. Which isn’t always the right way, but it’s still real, you know?”

Gunwook blinks, caught off-guard by the sincerity in her tone.

“Doesn’t mean he owes you forgiveness,” she adds gently. “But it also doesn’t automatically make you a villain. You’re human. Humans fuck up. What matters is what you do now.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” he admits.

“Then maybe don’t start with him. Start with yourself.” She looks up at him, eyes softer now. “You already said no to me. That’s something.”

Gunwook laughs, quiet and hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I wasn’t serious anyway. Just wanted to see where your head’s at.” She offers a smile, then bumps her shoulder against his. “It’s in a better place than most guys I meet at these things.”

He looks down at his untouched beer, condensation clinging to the side. “Still doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It never does at first, but hey, at least you’re trying.”

“Yeah… I guess that’s true.” Gunwook muses quietly, looking down at the crowd beneath him.

She straightens up, checks her phone. “You sure you don’t want me to call you a cab? Looks like this party isn’t your scene anymore.”

“I’m alright,” he says. “Didn’t drink much. I like walking home anyway.”

“Fair enough.”

Before she leaves, she opens her arms again; not asking this time, just offering, and this time, he accepts without hesitation.

The hug is warm, grounding. No sparks, no tension; just two people sharing a quiet, needed moment.

“Good luck,” she whispers into his shoulder. “I hope he sees how hard you’re trying.”

Gunwook closes his eyes for half a second and nods. “Thanks.”

He watches her go back inside before turning to leave the balcony, a little lighter than when he came. Something in his chest shifts. He doesn’t know what the next step is, but for once, that doesn’t terrify him. Maybe the first step… is remembering who he wants to be, and working towards that. 

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The laughter from the living room is muffled but constant, that familiar kind of chaotic energy only their group manages to sustain; half jokes, half bickering, all of it loud. It fills the apartment like it always does, echoing off the cheap walls, bouncing off open bottles and half-finished takeaway containers. But tonight, Gunwook isn’t in it. He lingers in the kitchen, one hand resting on the countertop as he stares into the open fridge without really seeing anything.

It’s not like he hasn’t tried. He shows up like normal, slips off his shoes, offers tired hellos and nods when Gyuvin shoves a drink into his hand. He even makes it as far as the couch before something inside him clenches too tight, and he mumbles something about being thirsty, retreating into the kitchen like a coward because Matthew isn’t here. Again.

It’s not a surprise, not really. No one mentions it outright anymore, but everyone notices. They always leave space on the couch where Matthew used to curl up. They don’t ask if he’s coming. And no one says anything when Gunwook doesn’t bring him up, either. It hangs in the air, the absence, loud in its silence. He feels it pressing in on him now; the weight of their glances, the quiet sympathy in Gyuvin’s smile, the way Hao keeps fiddling with his phone like maybe Matthew will text that he’s on his way.

Gunwook hates it.

He hates the way pity feels, how it clings to him like damp clothes. Hates the tension behind the eyes of people who used to make fun of him for being too brash, too stubborn, too wild. Now they look at him like a kicked dog. He’d take their insults back in a heartbeat if it meant not being pitied like this.

He’s about to pretend he needs to step outside – maybe go home early, maybe just breathe – when footsteps creak behind him. He braces automatically.

Ricky.

Gunwook doesn’t turn. Just keeps his eyes fixed on the fridge, its dim light glowing faintly.

Here it comes, he thinks. Another warning. Another line about how Matthew deserves better, how he blew it, how he always screws things up. He probably deserves it. He’s not sure he can survive hearing it again, but the words never come.

Instead, Ricky steps up beside him, leans casually against the counter, and says nothing for a moment. Then, in a voice gentler than Gunwook has heard in weeks, he murmurs, “You doing okay?”

Gunwook blinks. “What?”

“I asked if you’re okay.”

He turns his head slowly, unsure if he’s imagining it, but Ricky isn’t looking at him with that sharp, defensive stare he’s grown used to. His expression is still tired, yes, and wary, but there’s something softer threaded through it now. Something that throws Gunwook off balance.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically.

Ricky doesn’t answer. Just exhales through his nose and reaches out, slinging an arm around Gunwook’s shoulder, tugging him into a side hug that’s more solid than gentle. Gunwook stiffens.

“Sorry,” Ricky says simply.

Gunwook blinks, thrown. “What?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Gunwook just stares at him. The words don't land properly, don't settle the way it’s meant to. Ricky isn’t the one who needs to apologise, wasn’t that the whole thing? Wasn’t Gunwook the one who’s ruined everything?

He shakes his head slowly, still unsure. “Hyung, you don’t have to–”

“I do.”

Ricky’s voice cuts through, quiet but firm. He pulls back just enough to meet Gunwook’s eyes, and there’s something unsettling in how soft his expression is. No bite, no edge. Just something honest. Regret, maybe.

“I’ve been too harsh,” he says. “I… I shouldn’t have rushed to paint you as the villain. I was angry. Still am, if I’m being honest. But I should’ve handled it better.”

Gunwook opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The words are caught somewhere behind his teeth, thick and useless.

Ricky presses on. “Gyuvin’s been talking to me. Said I needed to pull my head out of my ass.” A faint smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Told me you’re hurting too. That maybe I should stop focusing on the stuff that made me angry and actually think about what this has been like for you.”

Gunwook’s fingers curl against the edge of the counter. Something stings behind his eyes, a familiar ache he’s kept buried for weeks.

“Figuring all this out – your feelings, your sexuality – it couldn’t have been easy,” Ricky says. “And I didn’t give you the space for that. I was too caught up in how much Matthew was hurting. I didn’t stop to think about how scared you must’ve been.”

Gunwook swallows, hard. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “I was scared. I didn’t know what the hell was happening. I thought maybe I was just–” He lets out a dry laugh. “Confused. Broken. I tried to push it down. Pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“But it did,” Ricky says gently.

“Yeah.” Gunwook nods. “It just… got louder. And then I kissed him, and I knew I wasn’t confused. I was just terrified.”

“I can’t pretend to know what that’s like,” Ricky says. “But I get being scared of your own feelings. Especially when the person you’ve fallen for is your best friend.”

Gunwook nods again, slower this time. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I saw you kiss him,” Ricky says, quieter now. “At the beach.” He pauses. “And all I could think about was how much it was going to wreck him. He looked so… lost. Like he’d finally got what he wanted, but it wasn’t safe. I wasn’t thinking about what that moment meant for you. I was just thinking about him.”

“That’s fair,” Gunwook murmurs. His voice cracks. “He’s your best friend. You were protecting him. I get it. I’d have done the same.”

“I know. But you’re my friend too. And I’m sorry I forgot that.” Ricky exhales. “You’re not a bad person, Gunwook. You’re just a kid, trying to make sense of something really fucking difficult. And maybe I should’ve given you a bit more lenience.”

Gunwook stares at the floor, blinking fast. The words hit harder than any shouting ever could.

“I really fucked up,” he says, voice small.

“Yeah,” Ricky replies, but his tone is soft, not sharp. “You did. You broke his heart.” He says it plainly, like it’s fact. “But you’re trying to make it right, I can tell. You’re still here. You didn’t run, even when it got uncomfortable. That matters.”

Gunwook breathes out, unsteady. Something in his chest finally begins to loosen.

“Doesn’t mean I forgive you fully,” Ricky adds with a small shrug. “Not yet. I still want to knock some sense into you most days. You were a fucking idiot.”

Gunwook lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh. “Thanks, hyung. I think.”

They stand there for a moment, silence stretching between them, the sound of the others laughing faintly in the living room.

“You’re not alone in this,” Ricky says eventually. “Even if it feels like you are.”

Gunwook nods, eyes fixed on the counter. “It does feel like that. Most of the time.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t let anyone in,” Ricky says, blunt as ever. “You bottle everything up and act like it’s your job to suffer in silence.”

“I don’t know how to do it any other way.”

“Well,” Ricky says, giving his shoulder one last squeeze, “Start with us. No pressure. No expectations. Just… don’t forget you’ve still got people in your corner.”

Gunwook’s throat tightens again, but this time it’s something warmer. Not guilt. Not shame. Something closer to hope.

“Thanks, hyung,” Gunwook nods slowly, not trusting his voice.

Ricky gives his shoulder one last pat before pulling away. “Come sit with us. You don’t have to say anything. Just… be there.”

And for the first time in weeks, Gunwook feels like maybe he can.

He follows Ricky back into the living room. The air is still tense in parts, still uncertain, but it doesn’t suffocate him like before, and when Gyuvin grins at him from the other side of the room, he feels a flicker of something warm stir inside him. It’s not forgiveness – not yet – but it’s something close.

Something like grace.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The room is quiet except for the soft crinkle of the crisp packet between them. Gunwook sits on the edge of his narrow dorm bed, knees drawn up, shoulders tight with tension. The harsh fluorescent light from the ceiling flickers faintly, casting cold, unforgiving shadows across the cramped space. Taerae sits beside him, back resting against the peeling wall, legs stretched out on the thin carpet. He picks at the crisps one by one, his presence calm but stead; not close enough for touch, but close enough to feel.

The rest of the dorm feels distant, as if the world beyond this small, cluttered room doesn’t exist. Gunwook’s laptop sits closed on the desk, textbooks piled haphazardly, evidence of a day ignored. Outside, the muffled hum of the campus at night seeps in through the slightly open window, but here, it’s just them and the silence; heavy, expectant, but not demanding.

Gunwook shifts uncomfortably, his knee knocking against the edge of the bed. “Do you ever just… wish you hadn’t met someone?”

Taerae doesn’t answer immediately. He crunches on another crisp, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling tiles. No need to ask who he means. He knows exactly.

Gunwook’s voice is low, tentative, almost like he’s scared of admitting it aloud. “Not because I regret it. I don’t. But… if I’d never met him, I wouldn’t know what it feels like when they leave.”

Taerae hums softly; not agreement, not disagreement. Just understanding.

Gunwook glances sideways at him, eyes tired. “That sounds stupid, right?”

“No,” Taerae says simply. “It’s honest.”

Gunwook exhales, a deep, hollow sound. “I thought I’d feel better by now. It’s been weeks. But everyone keeps looking at me like I’m fragile glass. And I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I messed everything up. I let it all fall apart. And I still miss him.”

Taerae nods slowly. “Of course you do.”

Gunwook swallows the lump in his throat. “He was my best friend. And I… I treated him like–” His voice breaks. “Even if he never forgives me, I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t, either.”

Taerae doesn’t contradict him. Instead, he says quietly, “I get it. A few years ago, I was in your shoes.”

Gunwook looks at him, surprise flickering beneath the fatigue.

“Not that I was in love or anything,” Taerae clarifies, “But because I lost someone important in a different way. Someone who mattered so much, I thought they’d be there forever. But they left, and it felt like losing part of myself.”

Gunwook’s gaze falls to his hands, resting on his knees. “What happened?”

“We just… drifted apart,” Taerae says. “He was the first person who really got me. We’d talk about everything… music, family, fears. He made me feel like being quiet wasn’t weird. But one day, I hurt him. Not on purpose, but I made him feel small, judged. And he stopped talking to me.”

Gunwook listens, the silence between them thick but not uncomfortable.

“I tried to fix it,” Taerae says, “But he never answered. After a while, I stopped trying. Not because I stopped caring, but because I realised I was doing it for me, not for him.”

Gunwook leans back against the wall, letting those words settle.

“So what did you do then?” he asks.

“I sat with it,” Taerae says simply. “With the guilt, the missing. I stopped looking for a quick fix and let it become part of me.”

Gunwook laughs bitterly. “That sounds awful.”

“It was,” Taerae admits. “But it changed me. Made me softer. Maybe wiser. More careful with people.”

There’s a pause, then Gunwook asks quietly, “Do you think I’ve changed?”

Taerae meets his eyes, weighing the question. “I think you’re still changing.”

Gunwook lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, a strange relief seeping through the tightness.

Taerae sets the crisp packet aside and sips water slowly. “You know,” he says, glancing at the ceiling, “You don’t have to be fixed to be worth loving.”

Gunwook turns sharply, startled by the weight of those words. His chest tightens; not with panic, but something gentler. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I wish someone had told me that,” Taerae replies. “And because it’s true.”

Gunwook stares at him, eyes red-rimmed and tired. “I keep trying to be the person Matthew would forgive. But I don’t even know who that is anymore.”

Taerae shakes his head. “Forgiveness isn’t a mask you wear. It’s not about pretending or acting right. It’s about facing the mess and still choosing to care. Whether Matthew forgives you or not… that’s his choice. But who you become after this? That’s yours.”

Gunwook lets the silence stretch out between them. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t reach out for Taerae, though part of him aches for some kind of contact. This isn’t that kind of moment. It’s something quieter, more fragile.

They sit like that, sharing the same space but not the same thoughts, their breaths mingling softly in the stale air of the dorm room. Gunwook doesn’t feel healed. But for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t feel empty either.

He just feels human.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook sits alone on the edge of his bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his phone in both hands. The dorm room is quiet this time of day; no voices in the hallway, no blaring music from the floor below. Just the faint hum of the mini-fridge and the occasional tap of his thumb as he swipes through his photo gallery.

He’s not sure why he opens it. Habit, maybe. Masochism, more likely. He scrolls slowly, the thumbnails blurring together until one catches his eye: a photo from late summer, the lighting a soft gold, the air behind them filled with that lazy, perfect stillness that only happens before things fall apart.

Matthew’s smiling. Really smiling; eyes creased, mouth open, head tilted slightly towards Gunwook like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. Gunwook remembers who took it; Ricky, probably, muttering something sarcastic while Gunwook made a joke loud enough to get Matthew to laugh like that. The memory doesn’t sting the way it used to. It just... settles. He taps the screen. Zooms in. Matthew’s mouth. His eyes. That joy. It used to be Gunwook’s favourite thing, knowing he could make someone that happy, that wanted, that seen. Now, he can’t even look at it for too long without something catching in his chest.

He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. The well inside him dried out somewhere between the third ignored message and the fight at the beach house. Now, there’s only silence, and a dull, pulsing ache where the guilt has rooted itself deep. He locks the screen. Sets the phone on his desk like it weighs more than it should.

Across the room, an old chain glints faintly from where it hangs off the corner of a corkboard. He gets up, walks over. The necklace is cheap; silver-toned, a little tarnished. The kind of thing you find in a pair set at a night market, two teens laughing too hard while pretending not to care what it means. The pendant is shaped like a key. Ornate, but still wearable, if not a little corny. He doesn't mind at all, if he’s honest. Matthew had worn the lock, and he the key. Gunwook remembers how they’d joked about it over bubble tea, Matthew rolling his eyes and saying, “Of course you’re the key, you’re the one who never shuts up.”

At the time, it was nothing. Now, it isn’t. He unhooks the chain and threads it around his neck. The key rests cold against his chest for a second before it warms to him, pressing into his skin like something waiting. It’s stupid, maybe, to wear it again, but he doesn’t take it off. Instead, he grabs his hoodie, slips on his shoes, and heads out. The air outside is crisp, the sun already dipping behind the buildings, dragging long shadows across the pavement. He walks without direction at first, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes trained on the cracks in the concrete.

It’s only when he rounds the corner by the student union building that he sees the sign: Student Counselling & Wellbeing Services – Walk-ins Welcome.

He stops.

His feet stay planted, but something inside him pulls back. He looks at the door, then the wide glass window beside it. Inside, a receptionist chats quietly with someone on a headset. There are chairs, soft lighting, a wall lined with plants that look plastic but comforting. Nothing about it is threatening, but Gunwook’s heart kicks anyway. He approaches slowly, standing just outside the door. There’s a pamphlet in a holder beside it. Struggling? You’re not alone. He picks one up, then another, flicking through the sections with growing detachment.

“Guilt.”
“Loss.”
“Anger.”
“Relationship trauma.”

He reads each header twice. Closes the pamphlet. Opens it again. He’s not ready. Not yet. He knows that, but for the first time, he doesn’t lie to himself about it. He folds the pamphlet carefully, tucks it into the inside pocket of his hoodie, and turns away.

On the walk back, the streetlights have started to flicker on. He passes two students holding hands, laughing over something too quiet to hear. Their joy isn’t a knife to his gut the way it might have been a few weeks ago. It just reminds him of something he once had. Something he lost. Back in his dorm room, Gunwook sits down again. The necklace shifts slightly against his chest. He presses his fingers to the key.

He used to think he had it, that he was the one with all the control. That if Matthew was the lock, then he must be the one who opened something in him. But now, he wonders if he misunderstood the metaphor all along. What if Matthew was never the one waiting to be unlocked? What if Gunwook had the key, but never knew how to use it? What if it wasn’t about control, but responsibility? About knowing when to be gentle, when to be honest, when to stop trying to force the door and simply knock?

He closes his eyes.

The image of Matthew’s smile is still sharp in his mind, but this time, he doesn’t push it away. He holds it. Not like a wound, but like a memory. Something he’s allowed to mourn without erasing.

He’s not better, he’s not fixed, but for the first time, he isn’t running from it.

He sits with the weight of what he did. The silence he caused. The echo of words he can’t take back, and he lets it be quiet, and in that quiet, something like understanding begins to settle; not forgiveness, not hope, but awareness.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The campus is buzzing, the way it always is midweek; students milling between buildings, coffee cups in hand, lecture notes clutched to chests or stuffed into backpacks. Gunwook stands just outside the library entrance, hands in his coat pockets, half-listening to the low hum of chatter and footsteps, but not really absorbing any of it. He’s not waiting for anyone. Not avoiding anyone, either. Just... existing. Letting the noise pass through him.

He hasn’t checked his phone in hours, doesn’t need to. The silence from Matthew has been consistent for weeks now. Maybe longer. Time folds strangely when you’re sitting with shame. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The air smells faintly like cold metal and the pine trees planted near the quad. He’s just about to head in when it happens.

Matthew.

Across the square, walking toward the engineering building with a takeaway cup in one hand and a notebook tucked under the other arm. He looks the same and not the same all at once. His hair’s shorter than Gunwook remembers. His jaw is tense. There’s a kind of armour to his walk now; measured steps, eyes forward, like he knows the world might try to knock him off course again but he won’t let it.

Gunwook’s breath catches in his throat. Not because he wasn’t expecting this, he knew he’d see Matthew eventually, but because this is the first time since everything collapsed that they’re within reach. Matthew’s walking straight ahead. He hasn’t seen him yet. Gunwook thinks about moving. About calling out. About crossing the space between them and saying something, anything. A joke, a question, an apology shaped like small talk. He doesn’t know what he’d say, only that part of him still burns with the desire to close that distance, but he doesn’t move.

He watches as Matthew looks up, mid-sip, and then their eyes meet.

It’s quick, but unmistakable. A second of direct contact. Neither of them flinches. Matthew doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t look away either. His face stays unreadable; blank, maybe, or just carefully neutral. No anger, no affection, no softness, but no avoidance either. That’s new. That’s... something.

Gunwook’s heart beats too hard for a moment, but he stays rooted to the spot. He doesn’t raise a hand. Doesn’t speak. He lets Matthew pass. Watches the back of him retreat, the collar of his jumper rising with the breeze, the edge of his sleeve flapping as he adjusts his grip on the cup. Gunwook keeps watching until he disappears around the far corner, swallowed up by the moving tide of students, and then, only then, does Gunwook let himself smile.

It’s small, barely there, but it’s real. He doesn’t chase or read into it, either. He knows what he wants. Of course he does, but he also knows he’s not entitled to it. Not to Matthew’s forgiveness. Not to his gaze or his smile. Not to the place in Matthew’s life he used to occupy like it was a given. He knows now that space isn’t owed – it’s granted, and sometimes, not granting it is the kindest thing a person can do for someone they’ve hurt. So he stays where he is, letting the echo of that moment settle in his chest. Like the ringing of a bell that no one else heard. 

This is restraint. Not the kind that grits its teeth and chokes on want, but the kind that says I see you and I’ll wait and I won’t press where it still aches. It’s progress, even if it hurts.

The key around his neck lies warm now, as if the metal has memorised his skin. He fingers it absently through his shirt, thinking again about the day they’d bought it. About how silly it had all felt, until it hadn’t. How back then, he’d laughed without understanding how much was being given to him in small, precious pieces. He didn’t know what to do with trust. Didn’t know how much weight a smile could carry until he made it disappear, but now he does.

Now, he lets Matthew go.

And in that act – in the not-doing, the not-chasing, the not-fighting for something that isn’t his to demand – Gunwook finds a strange kind of peace. Not the kind that feels good, but the kind that feels honest. He turns back to the library entrance and walks inside, the automatic doors parting with a soft whoosh. Behind him, the square keeps moving. Matthew is somewhere out there, living, breathing, hurting maybe, but not stuck. 

Gunwook lets the moment become part of the quiet.

And keeps going.

Chapter Text

Weeks later, it starts with Hao throwing a cushion at his head.

“Yah, baby gay!” he crows from the kitchen, where he’s currently burning the edges of a grilled cheese. “Come here and help me decide if this is dead or just ‘crispy’.”

Gunwook catches the cushion with a grunt and tosses it aside. “You do realise that’s a hate crime now, yeah?”

Hanbin pokes his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth. “He’s adapting so fast. Look at him go.”

Hao laughs. “Our little bisexual caterpillar, emerging from his chrysalis of denial and self-loathing.”

Gunwook groans, dragging a hand over his face as he sinks into the dented sofa. “I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” Hanbin says, voice muffled. “Don’t lie.”

They’re insufferable, but warm. Hao’s apartment has always had that lived-in feeling: faint smells of laundry and garlic, scuffed floors, old blankets draped over armrests. Gunwook used to crash here on nights he couldn’t be assed to walk back to his dorm after parties, back when he was still pretending the confusion gnawing at his chest was just loneliness or stress. Before all of… this.

“Seriously though,” Hanbin says once they’ve all settled; Hao perched on the kitchen counter, Gunwook on the couch, and Hanbin curled up like a cat at the other end. “How are you doing with it all?”

Gunwook raises an eyebrow. “With what?”

“Being bisexual,” Hao says bluntly, but not unkindly. “Or… figuring out you are.”

He stiffens slightly. Not defensively, just out of instinct. It still feels weird having people know. Not in a bad way, but in a raw way, like pressing on a bruise just to check if it still hurts.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Both Hanbin and Hao give him a look, the exact same unimpressed expression, like they practised it beforehand.

Gunwook sighs, leaning his head back against the sofa. “I mean it. It’s… strange. I don’t know. I don’t feel different. It’s not like I woke up and suddenly liked rainbows and… I don’t know, assless chaps.”

“I’m gay and I hate assless chaps,” Hao offers helpfully.

“Thank you for your service,” Gunwook mutters.

Hanbin nudges his leg. “So what’s strange about it?”

He hesitates. “I guess… I keep waiting for it to feel real? Like, I know it’s true now. It fits. But it’s also like I’ve spent so long telling myself I wasn’t… anything… that saying I’m bisexual out loud feels fake. Like I’m just copying someone else.”

“That’s pretty common,” Hao says gently. “Your brain’s playing catch-up. You can know something’s true and still not feel it yet.”

Gunwook picks at a loose thread on the sofa cushion. “When I was with girls, no one questioned anything. Not even me. I was just… doing what I was supposed to. Then the thing with Matthew hyung and then Taerae hyung happened and it was like, fuck, everything exploded at once. I don’t even know if I like labels. I just don’t want people looking at me and thinking I’m lying or confused or–”

“Gunwook,” Hanbin cuts in, quiet but firm, “You don’t owe anyone a label. You don’t owe anyone clarity, especially not when you’re still figuring it out for yourself.”

Hao nods. “Seriously. You could tell us you’re a bisexual potato and we’d still respect it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hanbin mutters. “I don’t respect root vegetables.”

That gets a small laugh out of Gunwook, his chest loosening just enough to breathe properly again. It’s easy to forget that being seen doesn’t have to mean being judged and that maybe people who know you after the worst can still care about you during it.

“I just feel like I’m late to the party,” he mumbles. “Everyone else had time to figure themselves out. I was busy pretending I didn’t feel anything.”

“You’re still a baby,” Hao coos, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “There is no party. Or if there is, it’s a long one, and no one arrives on time.”

Gunwook lets the words settle. He doesn’t always know how to talk about this stuff, not even with Matthew, back when Matthew still wanted to listen. It’s easier to focus on what he did wrong, what he should’ve said, how he ruined things. Sitting here, though, in a dim apartment where no one’s waiting for him to confess or beg or perform, he realises he can just… exist.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he says finally, and it feels like a confession. “To know what parts of me were real and what parts were… survival.”

Hanbin’s expression softens. “That’s heavy.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence. Hao slides off the counter, grabbing a packet of crisps from the shelf and tossing it to Gunwook before slumping next to him.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out,” he says. “You’re allowed to take your time. You’re allowed to fuck up, too. Doesn’t make you broken.”

Hanbin, ever the comfort ninja, leans in and gently nudges their shoulders together. “You don’t have to be fixed to be worth loving, you know.”

The words hit something in Gunwook that he didn’t know was aching.

He swallows. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, baby gay,” Hao says with a smirk, shoving a crisp in his mouth.

Gunwook’s hand rustles in the crisp packet for a long moment before he says, a little too casually, “Uhh… I’ve been meaning to go to counselling. On campus.”

The reaction is immediate. Hao straightens slightly, the teasing curve of his mouth smoothing into something more alert. Hanbin’s head lifts from where it had been tilted against the sofa back. For a beat, neither of them speaks.

“Hey,” Hanbin says gently. “Is everything okay?”

Gunwook doesn’t look at them. He shrugs. “I mean. Not really. Obviously.”

“You can talk to us, you know,” Hao says, quieter now. No mockery. Just concern. “We’re not professionals, but we’re here. Always.”

“I know,” Gunwook says, and he means it. “You guys have already done a lot. More than I ever expected.”

He lets out a slow breath. “It’s not about not trusting you. I just… I think I need to talk to someone who doesn’t know me. Who doesn’t already have some kind of image of who I’m supposed to be. I need someone who can actually tell me if I’m spiraling or being dramatic or avoiding something important.”

Hao nods slowly. “You want an outside perspective.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Hanbin says, settling back again. “That makes sense. Honestly, it’s a good call.”

“Yeah?” Gunwook glances over, surprised by how easily they take it. Part of him was braced for something else; more worry, maybe even pushback, but there’s no judgement in either of their faces.

“Yeah,” Hao confirms. “Like, don’t get me wrong, you can cry on our couch any time, but if it helps to have someone licensed and objective walk you through it, then do it.”

Gunwook picks at the edge of the crisp packet. “I’ve thought about it before. But I always made excuses. Too busy. Too tired. Didn’t want to explain stuff. Didn’t think it was that bad.”

“And now?” Hanbin asks, voice gentle.

He shrugs. “Now I feel like I’ve been carrying around a pile of broken glass and pretending it’s fine because I wrapped it in a T-shirt.”

“That,” Hao says, “is a disturbingly accurate metaphor.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve been getting better at those lately.”

They smile at him; not pitying, not condescending, just quietly proud, and for once, Gunwook doesn’t try to duck away from it.

“You want us to walk you there when you go?” Hanbin offers after a pause. “Or wait nearby?”

Gunwook shakes his head. “I think I want to do this part alone. Not because I don’t want you there. Just… I think it’ll mean more that way.”

Hao nods. “Fair.”

Another silence settles, but it’s not awkward. It’s just the kind that exists when nothing urgent needs to be said. Eventually, Hanbin gets up to continue his skincare routine, mumbling something about keeping his skin as plump as Hao’s ass. Hao rolls his eyes and turns the TV on low, something mindless and brightly coloured, and settles back beside Gunwook. Gunwook sits there with the faint hum of the television and the warm weight of Hao next to him, and thinks – maybe for the first time in months – that he’s allowed to do this at his own pace. That maybe figuring himself out doesn’t have to be dramatic or painful or fast.

It just has to be real.

And he’s getting there.

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Gunwook sits stiffly on the edge of a bean bag chair that swallows his entire frame. The waiting room is decorated to feel welcoming, maybe even fun, with warm-toned walls and pastel posters that spell out things like You matter here! and It's okay not to be okay. There’s a little coffee machine tucked in the corner beside a stack of mismatched mugs, a low shelf filled with tactile toys and fidget tools, and a muted TV playing a cartoon rerun for no one in particular, but none of it calms him.

If anything, it all feels slightly condescending. Like a kindergarten classroom pretending to be a lifeline. He knows that’s not fair, knows it's his own defences lashing out, his cynicism rising like a shield. He drags in a breath and pushes the thought aside. He’s not here to criticise. He’s here to learn. To change. To stop pretending like he has it all under control when every thought in his head is pulling him in a different direction.

The clock above the door ticks louder than anything else in the room, steady and unrelenting. Gunwook stares at the second hand as it lurches forward again. He’s lost count of how many times he’s gulped already, his throat dry despite the paper cup of lukewarm water he’s clutching.

Across the room, a girl with dyed green hair lounges on a couch, flipping through a graphic novel. She looks perfectly at ease, like she comes here often. Maybe she does. Maybe that’s what this is meant to be; a regular check-in, like brushing your teeth or stretching your muscles. Not a last resort, nor a surrender. There are a few other students too, some behind the front desk, laughing softly with each other in between sorting papers and calling out appointment names. Volunteers, probably. They look friendly and non-judgemental. Gunwook appreciates it, even if he doesn’t quite believe it yet.

He adjusts his hoodie sleeves for the third time and pulls out his phone. No new notifications from Matthew. No surprise there. Still, something stirs inside him; a flicker of need, or maybe hope, though it feels too fragile to name. Without thinking too hard, he opens his camera, angles it awkwardly to capture his nervous, tight-lipped face with the cheerful counselling room behind him, and snaps a quick photo. It’s not flattering. He doesn’t care.

He taps open Matthew’s chat. There are messages in there from weeks ago: memes, half-written apologies, things he never had the courage to send. He stares at the text box for a long moment, then types.

my mashu hyungie💛🦊

hi hyungie
i’m at the counselling centre hehe
just trying to make sense of all the mess in my head rn
hope it can help me understand things more
hope you’re feeling better too
i miss you as always

His thumb hovers over the send button.

He wishes more than anything that he knew how Matthew might respond. The old Matthew would have been proud of him, he thinks. Would’ve sent back a flood of emojis and something teasing but warm, like about time dumbass. But the current Matthew? The one with distant eyes and guarded silences? He doesn’t know.

Still, he sends it.

Then he lets the phone drop into his lap and exhales, long and slow. The kind of breath that tastes like salt, even though he hasn’t cried. He folds his arms over his stomach, suddenly aware of how tight everything feels; his hoodie, his chest, his thoughts.

His name still isn’t called.

Gunwook leans back, surrendering to the bean bag chair that’s been trying to eat him whole since he sat down. It sinks beneath him like memory foam, enveloping his body until he’s nearly flat. His knees stick up awkwardly, hoodie bunching at his shoulders, but for once he doesn’t care about looking ridiculous. His eyelids flutter and he lets them close, just for a moment, just until they call his name.

The ambient chatter fills his ears, like water around a shell. It’s almost peaceful if he doesn’t focus too hard, just lets it drift. Somewhere nearby, a student drops a fidget cube, the soft clatter echoing lightly. A breeze from the air conditioning unit brushes his jaw, cool and dry.

Then a vibration in his chest, faint yet familiar. He almost ignores it. Probably Gyuvin again, sending another TikTok of a recipe they’ll swear to cook together and absolutely never will. He shifts slightly, fingers curling over the shape of his phone where it rests under his hoodie. No urgency, just idle curiosity, but then something – some gut instinct, some pulse of intuition – tells him to look.

He draws the phone out lazily, unlocking it with a swipe. The notification bar lights up.

my mashu hyungie💛🦊 reacted ‘♥️’ to your message

His fingers fumble as he hurriedly opens his chatroom with Matthew and there it is. 

A single heart emoji on his selfie.

His breath catches mid-throat. He shoots upright so fast the bean bag squeaks beneath him. His fingers tighten around the phone like it might vanish if he blinks. He stares at the screen. It’s real, and it’s there. Not a reply or a paragraph. Not a joke or a jab. Just– 

♥️

A simple heart, but from Matthew, it feels monumental. Gunwook’s whole body goes still. Then, slowly, the weight begins to drain from his shoulders. Like sand tipping out of a cracked vase. One grain at a time. He hadn’t dared hope for a response, had braced himself for silence or worse, for being left on read, but somehow, this is gentler; softer than words. He doesn’t even know what it means. It might mean nothing. It might just be polite, or a sign of cautious support, or maybe a quiet I see you. Whatever it is, it’s enough.

It’s more than he deserves.

His eyes blur, just a little, though still no tears fall. He bites the inside of his cheek, grounding himself. His thumb hovers over the keyboard again, tempted to send something, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he just sits with it. He holds the phone against his chest, screen cooling slowly against his hoodie, heart thudding beneath it. His other hand strays absentmindedly to the chain around his neck: the little silver key that presses against his collarbone.

He touches the key now, thumb brushing its edge.

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe symbolic things like this don’t mean anything when you’ve hurt someone the way he has, but still, he likes the metaphor. The idea that he once held something important and sacred, and maybe, he can learn how to be worthy of it again.

Not to unlock Matthew, or to win him back, but to unlock himself. To become someone capable of real love, patience, and truth.

“Park Gunwook?”

His head snaps up at the sound of his name. A girl in a soft blue hoodie stands near the reception desk, smiling at him with a clipboard in one hand and a gentle sort of warmth in her expression that doesn’t feel forced. He swallows, pocketing his phone carefully before he rises to his feet.

He follows her down the hallway, her trainers making quiet scuffs against the laminate flooring. She doesn’t talk much, just small glances back to make sure he’s keeping up, and the occasional hum of reassurance. At the end of the hall, she stops outside a frosted glass door with a small plaque that simply reads J. Kang, Counsellor. She gives him one last encouraging nod before pushing it open.

Inside, the room is smaller than he expected. Cosy and minimal. A plain upholstered chair sits across from a sleek chaise longue, its cushions firm and inviting, like something out of an old film. There’s a low side table between them with a box of tissues, a few bottles of water, and a tiny potted succulent. It smells faintly of lavender.

Behind the desk, the counsellor rises to greet him. A woman, probably in her mid-fifties, with gentle eyes and lines etched deeply into the corners of her mouth, like kindness made permanent through repetition. Her cardigan hangs loosely off her shoulders, sleeves pushed up to the elbows.

“You must be Gunwook,” she says, her voice calm and steady, like the rest of the world moves too fast for her. “I’m Kang Jiwon. It’s lovely to meet you.”

He bows, a little too deeply. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“Please, sit wherever you feel comfortable.”

Gunwook gravitates toward the chaise longue automatically. It feels safer, somehow, having something behind him, room to fidget if he needs to. He sinks down, hands awkward in his lap as Jiwon settles into the chair across from him.

“So,” she says after a beat, folding her hands. “What brings you in today? How can I help?”

Gunwook opens his mouth. Closes it again. His tongue feels too big in his mouth, words lodged somewhere between confusion and embarrassment. What does bring him here? The mess in his head? The ache in his chest? The guilt? The weird disorienting pull of his own identity changing right under his feet?

“I’m… not really sure,” he admits finally, the words coming out like an apology. “I just– things have been kind of… all over the place. And I thought maybe… I don’t know. That maybe talking to someone would help.”

To her credit, Jiwon doesn’t bat an eye. “That’s perfectly okay,” she says gently. “You don’t need to have all the answers. Sometimes people come in not knowing what they need. We can just talk, if that feels easier.”

He nods, grateful. Even that tiny allowance makes his chest feel a little less tight.

There’s a pause, not awkward exactly, just a quiet moment where he realises he doesn’t actually know how to do this. How to talk without humour. Without alcohol. Without flinging some offhanded comment into the air and hoping no one looks too closely.

Jiwon notices his silence and leans slightly forward. “Would you like some water?”

He nods again, too quickly. “Yes, please.”

She passes him a cold bottle from the table, and he takes it gratefully, unscrewing the cap with fingers that still tremble just a little. The plastic crinkles as he takes a slow sip. He sets it down beside him, pressing his palms to his knees.

“I guess…” he starts, voice softer now, “I guess I should start with the beginning?”

Jiwon offers him a small, reassuring smile. “You can start wherever you want.”

That catches him off guard a little. He was expecting structure and firm expectations. Not… this. Not this slow, patient space where he doesn’t have to impress anyone. Where silence is allowed. Where he doesn’t have to perform.

He looks down at his hands, then back up at her. Her expression hasn’t changed. Still calm. Still waiting.

He takes a breath.

Then he begins.

“There’s this one friend,” he says. “Matthew hyung.”

Even just saying his name pulls something taut in his chest, but he presses on.

“He’s... I don’t know. He’s a friend I really admire. Like, really cherish. We’ve always been close. Unbelievably close. I can’t even explain it properly, we just clicked, right from the start. And I always thought it was just because I looked up to him. I do look up to him.”

His eyes flicker up to check her expression, but Jiwon remains quietly attentive, her face open and patient.

“He’s smart,” Gunwook continues, voice softening with something dangerously close to affection. “Charming. Friendly. The kind of person who walks into a room and just… makes it better. He’s the best person I know.”

He shifts on the chaise longue, his hands now wringing the hem of his hoodie.

“I didn’t realise it before but… I guess I treat him differently. Not on purpose, it’s just... natural. Like I can’t help it. He’s special. To me.”

There’s a strange sort of weight in his chest now, something raw and unfiltered. He presses forward anyway, riding the momentum.

“And I always found him cute,” he admits, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Which sounds weird now that I say it out loud. But I think that’s why I was always so touchy with him. Like I needed an excuse to be close, even if I didn’t realise why.”

His voice drops a little.

“Somewhere along the way, he fell in love with me. I didn’t know. I was stupid. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see it. He kept being there for me every time I got drunk, every time I made a mess of things, every time I needed someone. And I… I took all of that for granted.”

He swallows, his eyes flicking to the water bottle on the side table but not reaching for it.

“I’d sleep around, then go to him and brag about it like it was some badge of honour. Like I was doing something cool. Not realising I was hurting him with every story I thought was harmless. And then I’d go back to being all over him, touchy, flirty, like nothing was wrong. I kept his hopes up without meaning to. Kept pulling him close only to drop him all over again.”

Jiwon doesn’t interrupt. She nods slowly, like she’s heard this kind of ache before but still treats his version of it with care.

“I was so selfish,” Gunwook mutters, and the shame in his voice is sharp enough to draw blood. “He never complained. Never told me to stop. As long as I was happy, he just... let me be. Even when it hurt him.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his fingers now knotted together.

“But when he started talking to other people – like really talking – I’d just… lose it. I’d make sure whoever was flirting with him would back off. Sometimes I’d do it without even thinking. I thought I was just being protective, like a good friend, you know? Like, ‘Oh, no one’s allowed to hurt Matthew hyung on my watch.’”

A bitter laugh escapes him.

“But I think I was jealous. Even if I didn’t realise it at the time. Because I wasn’t supposed to be jealous, right? I’m straight. Or I was, I thought I was. Straight as a ruler, that’s what I always said.”

He finally reaches for the bottle, unscrews the cap again just for the distraction, then tightens it back up without taking a sip.

“But I’m not. I’m bi. And that… that kind of changed everything. Or maybe not changed, exactly. More like… explained it. Put things into perspective. I wasn’t just protective. I was possessive. I wasn’t just admiring him, I liked him. A lot. Maybe even loved him.”

He falls quiet, his chest rising and falling a little quicker than before.

Gunwook’s chest rises with a sharp inhale, fingers curling slightly against the sides of the chaise like he’s bracing himself. There’s a tremble in his voice now, no longer just guilt but grief, like something is breaking open inside him.

“And because I didn’t realise,” he continues, staring straight ahead at a vague point on the wall, “I hurt him. A lot.”

He doesn’t elaborate right away. His throat feels tight, like his body’s trying to stop the words from surfacing, but he forces them through anyway.

“I’ve done a lot of shitty things,” he says, quieter now, “but I think the turning point… the worst thing… was when I kissed him.”

His eyes dart up to meet Jiwon’s, as if to gauge whether she’s judging him yet, but her expression remains gentle, eyebrows faintly drawn; not in disapproval, but in concern.

“I didn’t even remember it happened,” he admits. “We had a huge fight beforehand. I got drunk. That’s what I do when things get hard, I drink until it all blurs. And apparently, that night, I showed up at his apartment and kissed him.”

Gunwook exhales through his nose, shakily, like he’s been holding that part in for too long. “But that’s not even the worst of it.”

He swallows hard.

“I told him I wished he was a girl.”

The sentence lands heavy between them. He feels it like a stone dropping into the quiet.

“I don’t even know why I said it,” he mutters, voice brittle. “I don’t remember saying it. But apparently I did. And… I guess even my subconscious was still trying to convince myself I was straight. Like, if he were a girl, then it would be okay. Then I could love him without it meaning anything different about me.”

He pauses, rubbing his palms against his thighs, suddenly hyperaware of how warm the room feels. He wishes he could disappear into the upholstery.

“But I fucked up,” he says, and this time, there’s no self-censorship, no hesitance. Just the barest, ugliest truth. “I fucked up real bad. Because after that… I started experimenting. Hooked up with guys. Just to see. Just to figure it out.”

He winces like even admitting that feels shameful.

“And turns out… I do like boys too. Not just girls.”

He says the word like it’s foreign on his tongue, like it still doesn’t quite feel real yet, but it doesn’t feel wrong either.

“And suddenly everything made sense. All the feelings I’d ignored. All the times I got jealous. All the moments I wanted to be near him and just assumed it was admiration.”

His eyes fall back to the floor, fingers now clenched in his lap.

“But realising that made it worse. Because if I’d known all along – if I hadn’t been so blind, or scared, or whatever – then maybe I could’ve just… been with him. From the start. Loved him the right way instead of dragging him through hell.”

He feels the sting behind his eyes and blinks it away, breathing slowly through his nose like that’ll steady him.

“I hurt him so badly. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it. Or if I even can.”

The room falls quiet again, not in a heavy way, but in the way that lets his words settle. Jiwon doesn’t speak right away, and Gunwook’s grateful for that. He needs a moment to just exist in the stillness, to not have to explain or justify or backtrack.

Eventually, she leans forward slightly in her chair, her voice calm but clear.

“Gunwook,” she says gently, “thank you for being honest. That’s not easy. And it takes a lot of courage to sit here and say all of that out loud.”

He doesn’t quite believe it yet, but he nods anyway.

“It sounds like you’ve been carrying this weight for a long time,” she continues. “Not just the guilt of what happened, but the confusion too. About who you are. What you feel. What that means.”

Gunwook nods again, more slowly this time. “Yeah.”

“And from what you’ve told me,” she adds, “it also sounds like you didn’t have the space – or the permission – to figure that out safely before now. So you did what a lot of people do. You ran from it. You denied it. You made mistakes.”

He swallows again, throat still dry despite the water he drank earlier. “That doesn’t excuse it, though.”

“No,” she says kindly. “It doesn’t. But understanding why you did something doesn’t mean you’re trying to excuse it. It means you’re trying to take responsibility. And that’s what you’re doing right now.”

Gunwook looks down again, the ache behind his sternum refusing to ease. “But I hurt him. Like, deeply. I can’t stop thinking about his face that night. About how broken he looked.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is small.

“What if he never forgives me?”

Jiwon considers that for a moment, then meets his gaze.

“Forgiveness isn’t something you can control,” she says softly. “It’s something he’ll have to decide for himself. But healing, your own healing, that starts here. With you being honest about who you are, and what you’ve done.”

She lets that sit for a beat before continuing.

“You’re not here to erase the past. You’re here to make sense of it. To figure out how to move forward, not by pretending it didn’t happen, but by making different choices now. Healthier ones.”

Gunwook draws in a slow, shaky breath. “I just don’t know where to start.”

“You already did,” the counsellor says. “You walked through my door.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, something eases at the base of his spine, like a tension he didn’t even realise he was holding is finally beginning to loosen.

Jiwon doesn’t push him. She simply offers a small nod of encouragement and takes a quiet breath before asking, “Gunwook… can I ask, do you know why you might have blocked yourself from exploring your sexuality sooner?”

Gunwook’s brows pull together, and for the first time since walking in, he hesitates; not because he’s afraid, but because he genuinely doesn’t know.

“I don’t think it’s because my environment isn’t safe,” he says after a pause, voice slow with thought. “I mean… it’s the opposite, actually. My entire friend group is gay. Or queer in some way. And they’re all so open about it, so supportive. Like Matthew hyung, Hanbin hyung, Hao hyung… even Ricky hyung, for all his attitude. They’ve never made me feel like I couldn’t be honest.”

He shifts in his seat, frowning to himself.

“So I don’t know why I was so… adamant about being straight. Why I kept sleeping around like I had something to prove.” His voice falters slightly. “I guess… maybe it’s just me. My own insecurities. Like I had to prove to everyone I was the man or something. That I could get girls. Be confident. Like that would make me… enough.”

Jiwon tilts her head slightly. “Enough for who?”

Gunwook’s lips press together. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t have a clear answer.

“No one ever asked me to be that guy,” he admits. “No one said I had to be a player, or flirt all the time, or talk about sex like it made me cool. But… I still did it.”

The quiet that follows is heavier this time; not awkward, just heavy with everything he doesn’t understand yet. Jiwon lets it settle before gently steering the conversation elsewhere.

“Tell me a bit about your family,” she says softly. “Your childhood. What were things like growing up?”

Gunwook exhales slowly. “It was… normal, I think. My parents are kind. My mum’s gentle, always cooking, always fussing. My dad’s funny, more reserved but warm. And my hyung is smart and quiet. Kind of a role model type. But never pushy.”

Jiwon nods. “Sounds like a loving household.”

He nods back. “Yeah. I mean, we’re not super affectionate or anything, but there was always food on the table. We ate dinner together. Went on trips when we could afford it. Celebrated birthdays. Nothing extreme, just… steady.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then leans forward slightly. “When you think about expressing emotion – especially vulnerability – how do you think your family responded to that when you were younger?”

Gunwook blinks, caught off guard. “Uh… I don’t know. We don’t really talk about feelings, I guess. Not in a bad way. Just… not really something we do.”

“Do you remember the last time you cried in front of them?”

He thinks for a long moment, brows drawing in. “I… actually don’t,” he says slowly. “Maybe when I was really little? Like, scraped my knee or something. But after I hit primary school, I don’t think I really did. I always thought… I needed to be strong. Especially for my mum.”

Jiwon’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“Hyung was the quiet one,” Gunwook explains, “and I was the loud one. The funny one. The one that kept things light. So I guess I thought… if I got sad, or if I struggled, it would just make things heavy. And no one needed that. So I didn’t.”

His voice trails off, and something fragile flickers behind his eyes. A thread of realisation that hadn’t been there before.

“I don’t think anyone ever told me not to cry,” he adds after a beat. “But I just… never did. Not in front of them. Not even when I was heartbroken. Not even after the fight with Matthew.”

Jiwon leans back gently, giving him space to breathe, to sit with the truth she’s just offered. “It sounds like somewhere along the way, you internalised the idea that your role was to keep things together. To be the easy one. The cheerful one. The one who didn’t burden anyone.”

Her voice is soft, but not fragile. It’s measured and warm, like it’s meant to land gently, without demanding a reaction, but it still hits something inside him, a part of him that has never been put into words before. Gunwook doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the floor, blinking slowly, hands limp in his lap like they’ve forgotten what to do with themselves. His mind buzzes with static. He’s not even sure what exactly he’s reacting to; her words, or the fact that they feel like they’ve been carved out of some part of him he never meant to show anyone.

He shifts, very slightly. “Maybe,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse. “Maybe that’s why I slept around so much, too.”

He swallows, his throat dry. “It’s easier to be wanted than to be known.”

As soon as he says it, it sits there between them. Heavy and true. He hadn’t even realised he felt that way until the words were already out, like they’d bypassed his logic completely and come straight from some buried place inside him. His chest tightens.

“Being wanted is simple,” he continues quietly, as if the momentum of saying it once makes it easier to keep going. “You don’t have to show anything real. You don’t have to explain yourself. You can be whoever they want you to be. For a night, for a few hours. And then you leave. Or they do. No mess.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter, empty. “But being known? That’s terrifying. That means letting people see the parts of you that aren’t charming. The parts that don’t make sense. The insecure shit. The fear.”

Jiwon nods slowly, and he can see that she’s really listening. Not judging. Just being there. It makes his throat feel even tighter.

“Somewhere along the line,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper, “I think I convinced myself that if I just kept things light – if I was the funny one, the flirty one, the one who always had something going on – then no one would look deeper. No one would notice that I didn’t really know who I was.”

He pauses, eyes burning, though there are no tears yet. “But Matthew hyung always looked. He always saw more. And I think that scared me.”

Jiwon’s voice is calm, unshaken. “Because he saw past the version of yourself you knew how to perform.”

Gunwook nods. Slowly. “Yeah. He saw the real me. And I think… I think I didn’t know how to handle that. Because if he saw me, and still cared about me, then I’d have to face the fact that I might want him to. And I wasn’t ready for that.”

There’s a silence that follows, but it isn’t empty. It’s dense. Reflective. Like the room is holding the weight of everything Gunwook’s never said out loud before.

Jiwon shifts slightly, but not to move things along. Just to settle into the space with him. “That’s a powerful insight,” she says gently, and it’s not a compliment. It’s a quiet acknowledgment of courage.

He lets out a long breath through his nose, leaning back against the chaise longue, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. His voice is still quiet when he speaks again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he says. “But maybe I did because I was too scared of what it would mean to care that deeply. Because what if he didn’t care back? Or what if he did and it changed everything?”

Jiwon doesn’t fill the space too quickly. She gives the silence its time to stretch and breathe, to soften the edges of his fear.

“Gunwook,” she says, and her voice is steady, “Fear of intimacy is more common than you think. Especially when we’ve spent a lot of time being rewarded for staying on the surface. For keeping people at arm’s length. Sometimes, it’s not even about rejection. Sometimes, it’s about not believing you deserve to be loved in that way at all.”

His lips part, and he’s about to say something – maybe deny it, maybe argue – but nothing comes because as much as he wants to say he knows he deserves love, some part of him has always flinched when it was offered too freely. Like he’d have to earn it first, prove himself first. Be perfect first, and Matthew never made him do that. He just gave, softly and steadilym until Gunwook’s silence became too loud to ignore.

“I think,” he starts, and his voice cracks slightly, “I thought if I just ignored it long enough, it would go away. The feelings. The guilt. The confusion.”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “It didn’t.”

“No,” Jiwon says gently, “it rarely does.”

He nods, like he knew that already. Like some part of him always has. He shifts again, arms crossed loosely now, not in defence but in comfort, like he’s trying to hold something in place inside himself.

“I don’t want to keep running from it,” he admits, and the words are heavy with something close to resolve. “I don’t know how to fix what I broke with him. But I want to stop pretending like it never meant anything. Because it did. It still does.”

Jiwon offers a soft smile, and for the first time since he entered the room, Gunwook feels something almost like relief. It’s faint, distant, but real. Like the first breath after holding it in too long, and somehow, in that quiet, painful honesty, he feels the slightest shift in himself; like the floor beneath him might still be solid, even if he’s only now learning how to stand.

He gives a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Didn’t think I’d be saying this kind of stuff in therapy.”

“But you are,” she says, her voice kind. “Which means you’re already doing the work.”

He nods again, slower this time, still staring at the carpet like it might offer some answers. He’s not crying. He doesn’t think he’s even close to crying. But there’s a pressure behind his ribs now that feels unfamiliar. Not panic, not guilt. Something more like… mourning. Like he’s grieving all the years he spent pretending he was fine. Pretending he didn’t want more than what he was letting himself have.

“Do you want to talk more about Matthew?” Jiwon asks after a while. “Or do you feel like you’ve said what you needed to for now?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, then shrugs. “I think I’ve only scratched the surface.”

“Well,” she says gently, standing as the timer buzzes softly from her phone, “we can keep going in our next session. If you want to come back.”

He looks up at her. There’s something steady in her face. Something warm.

“I think I do,” he says, surprising even himself.

She smiles. “Good. Then I’ll see you next week, Gunwook.”

As he stands and bows slightly, thanking her, he feels the weight again but this time, it feels a little more bearable. Like maybe he doesn’t have to carry all of it alone anymore.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The door shuts with a soft click behind him.

Gunwook stands in the corridor for a moment, unmoving. The air feels different here, somehow thicker now that the session’s over, like stepping out of a dream and back into something harder, colder. He turns slightly, sees the volunteer behind the desk glance up and offer a polite smile, but he doesn’t return it. Not because he’s ungrateful, just… spent. Completely and utterly wrung out.

He walks slowly, dragging his feet as if each step needs permission. The beanbag chairs in the waiting room are still there, the cartoon still plays on loop, the same green-haired girl is still flipping through her book, and it’s like nothing has changed, but inside him, something has.

Outside, it’s bright. The sun stings his eyes. He squints and fumbles in his hoodie pocket for his earbuds, plugging them in without choosing a song, just letting his music app shuffle blindly through his library. Whatever comes out is fine. He’s not trying to soundtrack the moment, just to drown out the noise of his own thoughts before they swell too loud again.

By the time he gets back to his dorm, the exhaustion hits in full. Not physical exhaustion – his body feels fine – but the kind of heaviness that settles behind his eyes and in his chest, weighty and slow. He tosses his phone onto the bed, shrugs off his hoodie, and flops onto the mattress without turning on the light.

It’s quiet. He likes it that way.

There’s a faint scent of laundry detergent clinging to his sheets, and for a moment he buries his face into the pillow just to ground himself in something familiar, but it doesn’t work. He still feels like he’s floating somewhere above his body, watching it all from a distance.

He replays the session again. And again. And again

Jiwon’s voice is still in his ears; gentle, patient, unflinching. The way she never once looked at him with pity. The way she asked questions not to corner him, but to understand him. The way she listened. He doesn’t think he’s ever spoken that much about himself in one sitting before. Not to anyone, and now it’s all out in the open; his confusion, his guilt, his years of pretending not to care. The messy, ugly parts of himself he usually keeps buried behind jokes and bravado and flirtatious smirks. He wonders what Matthew would say if he knew. He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling, one arm resting over his eyes.

Matthew.

That little heart emoji is still burned into his brain like a brand. It had been so simple, so small, and yet it had sent his entire body into freefall. He hadn’t responded to it. Hadn’t known what to say. Maybe Matthew didn’t want a conversation, maybe it was just a silent way of saying I see you. Or maybe it meant nothing at all, but he hopes it meant something.

He pulls his phone off the mattress and opens the chat again. The message is still there. His own selfie, awkward and unsure. The text below it, plain and honest, and beneath that, Matthew’s heart reaction.

He doesn’t type anything this time, just stares and lets the silence settle around him again. The sunlight slants through the blinds in golden stripes across the floor. It’s early afternoon. He should probably eat, drink something, be human again, but all he does is sink deeper into the bed, like if he lies still long enough, maybe the weight in his chest will finally start to dissolve. His thoughts flicker back to what Jiwon said about how he learned to be the easy one, the cheerful one, the one who didn’t ask for much.

Gunwook hadn’t realised how much of his identity was built around that. Being the fun friend. The one who always had a stupid joke, a dumb dare, a wink and a grin. If he was making everyone laugh, no one would look too closely. No one would ask why he never cried. Why he never opened up. Why he felt safest in chaos, in movement, in fleeting things. He preferred it that way anyway, it was easier to be wanted than to be known.

A faint knock on the dorm door startles him. He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and pads over to answer it. Gyuvin’s on the other side, holding two plastic cups of iced coffee and a paper bag that smells suspiciously like food from that one restaurant they used to frequent.

“I didn’t know if you’d eaten,” Gyuvin says. “Or if you wanted company. But, you know. I’m here.”

Gunwook blinks at him.

Then, without thinking, he pulls him into a hug.

Gyuvin makes a surprised noise but hugs back immediately, careful not to squish the bag between them. “Whoa, hey. You okay?”

“No,” Gunwook says, voice muffled against his shoulder. “But I think I will be.”

They stand like that for a while, and the silence this time isn’t heavy. It’s comforting and soft.

Healing.

They pull apart after a moment, Gunwook mumbling something about the coffee nearly getting squashed. Gyuvin just grins and hands it over wordlessly, the kind of effortless understanding that doesn’t need much explanation. He slips off his shoes and walks in like he owns the place, setting the takeout bag on Gunwook’s desk and plopping down on the bed without waiting to be asked.

Gunwook closes the door behind them and takes a sip of his drink. It’s sweet and cold and oddly grounding. He stands there for a second, letting the chill spread down his throat, then moves to sit beside Gyuvin on the bed, shoulder to shoulder.

“You wanna talk about it?” Gyuvin asks gently, not pushing, just offering.

Gunwook shakes his head. “Not really. I just wanna hang out with you for a bit.”

Gyuvin nods immediately, already reaching for the bag. “Good. ’Cause I brought loads of food.”

Gunwook huffs a small laugh and leans back on one hand while Gyuvin tears into the paper bag with the enthusiasm of someone who believes carbs are the answer to everything. They eat in easy silence for a while, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, shoulders bumping now and then. Gyuvin keeps the energy light; makes a few dumb jokes about how he bribed the restaurant staff to give him a free portion of kimchi jeon, complains about his group project like it’s a personal vendetta, reenacts a dramatic argument he had with his blender this morning. Nothing particularly profound, but it works. The heaviness in Gunwook’s chest loosens a little with every bite, every chuckle, every stupid voice Gyuvin pulls out of nowhere just to get him to smile.

It’s nice.

It’s normal.

It’s safe.

Gunwook doesn’t realise how much time has passed until the sun shifts through the window, casting longer shadows against the wall. He finishes the last bite of his food and brushes the crumbs from his hoodie. There’s a calm in the room now, a lull, and in that moment of quiet, something itches in the back of his throat; something he needs to say, even if he’s not sure he’s ready to hear the answer.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Is… is Matthew hyung doing okay?”

Gyuvin turns to look at him, his face gentler than usual. He doesn’t joke, doesn’t deflect. Just nods slowly. “Yeah. He’s doing a lot better, actually.”

Gunwook nods and looks down at his hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“He’s been spending more time with Ricky,” Gyuvin continues. “I think… it’s helped. Being around people who get it. Who’ve been through it too, in some way. He still gets quiet sometimes, but it’s not like before. He laughs more now.”

Gunwook’s throat tightens. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Gyuvin says. “He’s been healing, I think. In his own way.”

Gunwook nods, lips pressed into a thin line. It’s everything he wanted to hear, and yet there’s still a small ache there, somewhere under his ribs. He’s relieved Matthew’s doing better. Really, he is, but there’s something deeply sobering about knowing that someone is learning how to be okay without you.

Gyuvin watches him for a moment longer, then nudges him lightly with his elbow. “How about you? Did today help?”

Gunwook takes a slow breath. “Yeah. Yeah, it really did.”

It surprises him, how easy it is to say. How true it feels. “It was weird at first. I didn’t know what to say. But… she was nice. She didn’t judge. Just listened. Asked the right questions.”

Gyuvin leans his head back against the wall, looking over at him with a small smile. “I’m glad, Wook-ah. Seriously. That shit’s hard. Like, really hard. But you did it.”

Gunwook shrugs a little, a quiet flush rising to his cheeks. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

There’s a pause, soft and warm. Gunwook stares down at the empty pastry wrapper in his hand, folding it into a tight square just to give his fingers something to do.

“I said a lot of stuff I didn’t think I’d ever say out loud,” he murmurs.

Gyuvin doesn’t say anything, just nods slowly, giving him the space to continue if he wants. And Gunwook appreciates it. He’s not ready to rehash everything just yet, not out loud. Not while the wounds are still fresh from being named. But it’s enough to sit here, coffee half-finished, crumbs on the sheets, and someone next to him who cares enough to just be present.

“By the way,” he says, voice a little softer now, like he’s testing the waters, “Matthew hyung’s been asking about you, too.”

Gunwook’s breath catches, just for a second, barely noticeable to anyone who isn’t him. His fingers curl slightly where they rest on his lap, the echo of Gyuvin’s words reverberating in his chest like a bell.

He tries to keep his face neutral, fails. “He has?”

Gyuvin nods, a little more certain this time. “Yeah. Not like, all the time or anything,” he adds quickly, as if not to get Gunwook’s hopes too high. “But… enough. Like when we hang out, or when something reminds him of you. He’ll ask if I’ve seen you lately, if you’re doing okay.”

Gunwook swallows thickly, eyes fixed on the floor. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to carry the strange mixture of guilt and hope blooming quietly in his chest. That Matthew still cares – enough to ask, enough to wonder – that he hasn’t been completely written off. It settles something in him, and unsettles everything else.

He laughs under his breath, a little shaky. “He always did worry too much.”

Gyuvin hums in agreement. “Yeah, but it’s not just worry. He still cares, Wook. That’s not something that just disappears, even when things get messy.”

Gunwook nods, slow and thoughtful, his gaze faraway. “I don’t deserve it.”

Gyuvin sighs, nudging his foot gently. “I know you think that. But I don’t think it’s about who deserves what anymore. It’s about healing. For both of you.”

Gunwook doesn’t answer, not right away. He just sits with the words, letting them settle into the quiet. There’s a tremble somewhere beneath his ribs that won’t quite go away, but it’s different now. Not just shame or fear. There’s something warmer threaded through it, something fragile and flickering. Like the hope of possibility.

They fall into a quieter rhythm again, the kind where conversation comes and goes like waves lapping gently at the shore. Gunwook leans back against the wall, sipping the last of his coffee now that it’s mostly melted into sugar and ice. His fingers drum against the plastic cup, light and aimless.

“You think…” he starts, hesitating. “You think he’d ever want to talk again? Like, really talk?”

Gyuvin turns his head, lowering the arm from his eyes. He considers it for a beat. “I think he’s not ready right now,” he says honestly. “But I also think he hasn’t closed the door on you. Not completely.”

Gunwook nods, a tightness blooming behind his eyes. He blinks hard. “That’s fair.”

“You’re doing the work, Wook. That matters.”

Gunwook shrugs, but this time it’s not dismissive. More like he’s still learning how to accept kindness without flinching. “It’s a start, I guess.”

“A damn good one.”

They end up spending the rest of the afternoon there, curled up at opposite ends of the bed, sharing wireless earbuds and passing Gyuvin’s phone back and forth to show each other dumb videos. At some point, Gunwook starts talking about his classes again, about this one professor he can’t stand and this other one who’s secretly a genius. Gyuvin rants about his dorm neighbours and how one of them insists on singing at 2AM like he’s auditioning for a K-pop survival show.

And Gunwook laughs. Like, really laughs. It’s the first time all week it doesn’t feel forced. Eventually, Gyuvin starts yawning dramatically and claims one side of the bed like it’s a prize. Gunwook rolls his eyes and pretends to argue, but he lets him have it. They fall into an easy silence again, one that doesn’t beg to be filled, and when Gunwook closes his eyes for a moment, just to rest, he realises he doesn’t feel alone anymore. Not in the bad way. Not in the unbearable way. He’s still got a long way to go, still got guilt stitched into the lining of his chest, but for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel like he has to carry all of it by himself.

Gyuvin’s breathing slows beside him, light and even. Gunwook exhales softly, eyes flicking toward the quiet corner of the room where the light from the lamp posts outside pools on the floor like silver, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself believe – just for a moment – that things will be okay.

Gunwook reaches for his phone and opens his chatroom with Matthew, his heart pulsing at the little heart emoji attached to his selfie. He writes another message.

my mashu hyungie💛🦊

the counselling session today was… something
it opened my eyes on a lot of things
this healing thing might not be as hard as i thought lol
i hope things are going good on ur end
i hope healing is gentle with u
i miss u
maybe once i’m done with counselling and understand things better
we can talk again? talk about everything
only if u want tho hyung
anw good night hyungie
love u lots

gyub is snoring like a damn tractor ugh
hope u can sleep better than i will with gyub next to me🙄

If Gunwook had stayed up just a little longer, he might’ve heard the soft buzz of his phone on the bedside table. Maybe he would’ve seen the notification light up. Maybe he would’ve read Matthew’s message.

my mashu hyungie💛🦊

Replied to you:
↳ this healing thing might not be as hard as i thought lol
i’m proud of you wookie♥️

Chapter Text

wookiebear🐻💛

gyub is snoring like a damn tractor ugh
hope u can sleep better than i will with gyub next to me

Matthew snorts softly as he reads the last of Gunwook’s message spam. The ceiling above him is just a grey blur in the dark, and the only light in the room comes from his phone and the TV. The light from his phone paints his face in a cold, bluish wash, catching in the corner of his eyes and throwing faint shadows across the sofa. The air is still, except for the low hum of the fridge out in the kitchen and the steady sound of his own breathing. His hand is warm where it grips the phone, fingers curled loosely around it, thumb poised over the keyboard.

Gunwook’s name sits at the top of the chat like it’s been carved into the screen. Below it, the empty message bar blinks at him; steady, patient, almost mocking. He’s been staring at it for minutes. Too many minutes.

i miss u

Delete.

i really miss u wookie

Delete.

The third time he types it, the words look strange like they’re smaller, less certain. He doesn’t send it. The thought of those words sitting in Gunwook’s notifications makes his stomach tighten. Too much, too soon. Or maybe not soon enough.

The cursor keeps blinking.

He tries something else. “do u wanna meet up?” But even that feels loaded. Like an invitation to something he isn’t sure he’s ready for. He deletes that too, jaw tensing as his thumb hesitates over the backspace key.

The living room feels too quiet. He hears the faint rustle of his throw blanket when he shifts, the soft creak of his sofa. The phone’s warmth seeps into his skin, grounding him and unnerving him at the same time. His pulse is loud in his ears.

Finally, he types: i’m proud of you wookie❤️ 

It’s safe. Neutral. Impossible to misinterpret. Nothing in it that can be twisted into hope or heartbreak. Just an acknowledgment. Something that says I appreciate your effort without promising anything more.

He sends it before he can think twice, thumb pressing down fast and hard like ripping off a plaster. The message whooshes into the chat, and the sight of it there, sitting under his name, makes him feel exposed. He swipes out of the conversation immediately, flicking back to his home screen as if that can undo the fact that it’s gone.

He exhales slowly, sinking deeper into the sofa cushions. The blue light fades as the phone screen goes dark, leaving only the faint outline of his living room; the muted TV playing god-knows-what, the chair with clothes draped over it, the soft light coming from the kitchen.

Ricky is still there with him. Matthew can hear the muffled sound of something playing on his iPad from the couch, the occasional rustle as he shifts position. It’s comforting, having another body here, someone to fill the silence without demanding anything from it. Matthew closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the ghost of the words he didn’t send still heavy in his chest. i miss u. do u wanna meet up? They sit there like unspoken confessions, warm and restless, waiting for an opening he’s not ready to give.

Matthew realises he’s still holding his phone like it’s something breakable, the muscles in his hand tense. The screen has gone dark, reflecting the faint outline of his face, and he presses the lock button without really needing to. He shifts upright, trying to shake off the tightness in his chest, and forces out a laugh that sounds far too thin to be convincing. From the other side of the coffee table, Ricky glances up from where he’s half-slouched into the sofa cushions, iPad balanced on his knees. 

His eyebrows pinch together, suspicious in that way only someone who’s known him too long can manage. “What’s so funny?”

Matthew shakes his head quickly, stretching his legs out across the duvet in an exaggerated sprawl. “You should tell your boyfriend to stop terrorising Wookie with his snores.”

There’s a beat of silence before Ricky blinks, the confusion so clear Matthew almost hears it. “...Huh? Wookie?”

It takes him half a second too long to register what he’s just said. Heat rushes to his face, and he sits up straighter as though posture alone can cover the slip. “I mean– Gunwook,” he corrects quickly, voice tighter than he intends. “You know. He, uh, texted earlier. Said Gyuvin was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.”

Ricky’s gaze sharpens, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wait… You’re talking to him again?”

Matthew’s fingers fidget with the edge of his hoodie sleeve, thumb rubbing over a loose thread until it frays. “Sort of?” It comes out hesitant, as though the word itself might break if he puts too much weight on it.

“Sort of?” Ricky echoes, leaning forward now.

Matthew shrugs, eyes fixed on the coffee table instead of his friend. “It’s… mostly been him sending little updates. Stuff like, I don’t know, what he’s eating, something Gyuvin said, random photos. I didn’t reply for a while. Just… read them.” He pauses, picking at the thread until it snaps. “I’ve only started… responding. A bit.”

“Yeah?” Ricky says after a beat, one eyebrow lifted.

Matthew glances up briefly, then back down, his fingers finding another loose thread at the hem of his hoodie. “Yeah…” The word is quiet, stretched thin.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s enough to make Matthew’s skin prickle, like he’s been caught out in something, except there’s nothing here to be guilty about. Still, his chest tightens, and his leg starts bouncing under the blanket before he even notices. It’s ridiculous. Ricky isn’t judging him, he knows that, but the way his friend is just looking at him – steady, unflinching – makes it feel like every thought he’s been trying to keep folded away has just been unfolded in plain view.

He clears his throat, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “I mean, it’s not… anything big. Just little stuff. I’m not about to start sending heart emojis or… whatever.”

Ricky’s mouth curves, just enough to suggest he’s amused but trying to keep it in. “Right. Just little stuff.”

Matthew makes a face, leaning back as though putting physical space between himself and the conversation might make it less… exposing. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Ricky’s tone is all wide-eyed innocence, but the glint in his gaze gives him away.

Matthew drags a hand over his face. “That thing where you’re quiet but I can hear you thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Ricky says, which is exactly the kind of answer that tells Matthew he’s thinking plenty.

The corner of Matthew’s mouth twitches despite himself. “You’re a liar.”

“Maybe,” Ricky says lightly, still watching him, “but you’re the one who just called him Wookie without thinking.”

Matthew groans, tilting his head back against the sofa cushion. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Ricky leans back, crossing one leg over the other, but his voice loses the teasing edge. “You know… you deserve to give yourself another chance at being friends with him again.”

Matthew blinks at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean it,” Ricky says, meeting his eyes without wavering. “I’ve always taken your side. You know that. From the start, we were two peas in a pod before I even met Gyuvin. Hell, before Gyuvin even introduced Gunwook to us, I’ve always been on your team. And I was… probably too harsh on him because of that.” He pauses, letting the words hang. “I didn’t see the full story. I only saw the parts you could stand to tell me, and I filled in the rest with whatever made sense to me at the time.”

Matthew doesn’t answer, his fingers still worrying at the frayed hem of his hoodie, the fabric already starting to curl from his fidgeting.

Ricky exhales, softer this time. “But… from what I’ve heard from Gyuvin, Gunwook’s been putting in a lot of work. Not just to fix things with you, but to fix things with himself first. And that counts for something. Actually– it counts for a lot.”

The words land heavier than Matthew expects. He keeps his gaze on the coffee table, tracing the grain of the wood with his eyes, but his mind is elsewhere, circling around Ricky’s admission. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it before, that maybe Gunwook really is trying, but hearing it said out loud, especially from someone who’s always been firmly in his corner, makes it harder to dismiss.

For a moment, the room feels too still, the only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Matthew stays silent, processing, letting Ricky’s words settle in the spaces he’s been keeping closed off for months.

Ricky watches him for a beat, head tilted slightly, like he’s trying to work out the shape of Matthew’s thoughts. Then, in a voice softer than Matthew expects, he asks, “What’s going on in your head right now?”

Matthew huffs out something between a sigh and a laugh. “You really want to know?”

“Obviously. You’ve been sitting there looking like someone’s just told you your whole life was a dream,” Ricky says, but it’s gentle, not mocking. “Come on. Tell me.”

Matthew sits back against the sofa, the cushion giving way under his weight, and stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I just… it’s weird. A couple months ago, I didn’t even want to hear his name. And now–” He breaks off, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye, like it’ll help sort the words out. “Now when he sends me something small, like… a picture of a sandwich, or some dumb thing Gyuvin said it’s like… I don’t know. It doesn’t make me angry anymore. Sometimes it even… makes me smile.”

Ricky leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So you’re not mad anymore?”

Matthew lets out a humourless laugh. “That’s the thing. It’s not that simple.” His fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie now, winding it around and around. “I still remember everything. Every fight, every word that hurt. I’m not… magically over it. But I think–” He pauses, the thought settling like dust in his chest. “I think maybe we could have some kind of peace. Not what we had before, maybe not even close, but… something.”

There’s a flicker of relief in Ricky’s expression, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Matthew exhales slowly. “I don’t know if I can trust him the same way again. I mean, trust was the thing, right? Once it’s gone… it’s different. Even if you rebuild it, it’s not the same structure anymore. And that scares me. But at the same time…” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want to hate him forever either.”

Ricky’s quiet for a moment, letting the words settle between them. “That’s… actually a lot more honest than I thought you were going to be,” he says finally. “I figured you’d just shrug and pretend you didn’t care.”

“Yeah, well,” Matthew mutters, glancing at him, “you caught me in a moment of weakness.”

The corners of Ricky’s mouth twitch. “A good weakness, though. You’re allowed to miss someone and still remember why they hurt you. It’s not black and white.”

Matthew doesn’t respond right away. His phone is still warm in his pocket, the weight of the earlier text sitting heavy in his mind. Gunwook hasn’t replied yet, at least not that he’s seen, and part of him is almost glad. It gives him space to keep feeling like this without the complication of an actual conversation.

“Do you think it’s stupid?” Matthew asks suddenly. “That I’m even… opening the door a little?”

Ricky shakes his head. “Of course not. I think it’s brave.”

Matthew scoffs, but it’s softer than usual. “Brave? You think me replying with an emoji to a picture of his selfie is brave?”

“You replied with a heart emoji, didn’t you?” Ricky smirks.

Matthew sputters immediately, sitting up straighter. “What? No– well, not like a real heart, it was–” He stops, realising he’s only digging himself deeper, and groans. “It was the… you know, the little one with sparkles. That’s barely even romantic, it’s like… friendly admiration.”

Ricky’s smirk widens, shark-like. “Matthew, you do realise you’re terrible at lying to me, right?”

“I’m not lying,” Matthew insists, voice going embarrassingly high at the end. He rubs the back of his neck, heat crawling up to his ears. “It’s just… an emoji. It’s not that deep.”

Ricky tilts his head, unconvinced. “Mhm. Totally. You just happened to accidentally use a sparkly heart for the guy you’ve been telling me for months you never want to speak to again. Pure coincidence.”

Matthew glares at him, cheeks burning. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m reading it,” Ricky corrects, grinning now. “You’re the one twisting yourself in knots trying to downplay it.”

Matthew opens his mouth, ready to argue again, but then closes it with a frustrated huff. The truth is, Ricky’s not wrong; he had hovered over that heart emoji for longer than he wants to admit before sending it, debating whether it was too much, too obvious, too… him. But once it was sent, it felt right, like a small olive branch disguised in digital glitter.

“I think letting yourself even consider not being angry is brave,” Ricky says. “Holding onto resentment… it’s easy. It feels safe. You can wrap yourself in it and never risk anything again. But letting it go, even a little? That’s scary. And it takes work.”

Matthew sits with that for a moment, feeling the truth of it in the quiet. He doesn’t know yet if he’s ready to let go completely, but maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop gripping so tightly.

Ricky can read him like a book he’s read too many times. “I just think,” Ricky says, voice softening now, “that maybe you’re more ready to forgive him than you’re letting yourself believe.”

Matthew doesn’t answer. He’s not sure if he wants to. Instead, he leans back into the sofa, folding his arms like that might shield him from the weight of Ricky’s knowing look.

“Still,” Ricky adds casually, “next time, maybe go with a thumbs up. You know… if you don’t want me to point out that you’re clearly soft for him again.”

Matthew groans into his hands, but the corners of his mouth betray him, twitching upward despite himself.

Ricky smiles faintly. “Also… you went back to calling him Wookie again.”

Matthew’s ears burn instantly. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” Ricky says, leaning back, smug.

Matthew groans, grabbing a cushion and pressing it over his face to hide the inevitable flush, but beneath the embarrassment, there’s a strange, tentative warmth. Like the first weak light of morning creeping in under the curtains.

Ricky doesn’t push further, just lets the quiet settle between them, comfortable and unhurried. Somewhere in the background, the low hum of the fridge and the faint traffic outside fill the silence, grounding Matthew in the here and now. He focuses on the fabric of the cushion against his cheek, the faint scent of laundry powder, anything but the knot of feelings tightening and loosening in his chest.

Because underneath all the overthinking and the embarrassment, that warmth lingers; small, cautious, but stubborn. It’s not forgiveness, not yet, but it’s the first time in a long time that the thought of Gunwook doesn’t feel like a wound. 

And that alone feels like progress.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The counselling room is warm, but Matthew still feels the faint chill that always comes when he first sits down in here, like stepping into a place where the air knows your secrets. He perches on the same soft beige couch as always, knees angled slightly inward, hands resting loose but fidgety in his lap. Across from him, the counsellor has her usual notepad balanced on her knee, pen poised but never hurried. The window beside them lets in pale, late-morning light, softened by sheer curtains, casting faint shadows on the carpet.

They start the way they always do. Gentle, unthreatening questions, small steps toward the deeper things. “Any updates since our last session?” she asks, her tone warm but measured, like she’s already bracing for his answer.

Matthew hesitates, eyes flicking toward the framed print on the wall above her shoulder, as though the right words might be hiding there. “I’ve been… responding. Slowly. To Gunwook.”

Her smile is immediate but not intrusive. “That’s progress,” she says, and he can tell she means it. “How does it feel?”

He exhales, leaning back against the couch. “Like… dipping my toes in a pool I’m not sure I want to swim in. It’s cold at first, but then it feels nice, and then I panic because… what if the water’s still dangerous?”

The counsellor tilts her head, considering. “Dangerous in what way?”

Matthew shifts, fingers brushing over the seam of his jeans. “Not dangerous like… physically. Just… dangerous to me. My head. My heart.” He lets out a small laugh, but it sounds thin, hollow. “I guess I’m scared of falling in and realising I still can’t float. Or worse, that I’ll start trusting him again and then… get pulled under.”

She nods slowly, the pen in her hand unmoving. “It sounds like you’re afraid of repeating old hurt.”

“Yeah,” Matthew says softly. “Because I remember everything. The good parts, sure, but also the bad ones. And I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t think I could.”

The counsellor leans forward slightly, her expression intent. “And yet… you’re still dipping your toes in. That tells me there’s a part of you that wants to believe the water might be safe now.”

Matthew stares at the carpet for a moment, tracing the pattern in his head. “Maybe. I don’t know. I told my friend Ricky this the other day– Sometimes when he sends something silly, like a dumb selfie or a random picture of what he’s eating, it doesn’t feel… heavy. It just feels like… him. And I like that. I like that it doesn’t hurt in that moment.”

“That sounds like hope,” she says.

The word makes something tighten in his chest. He shakes his head, quick. “I wouldn’t call it hope. Hope feels… big. This feels smaller. Like– like holding a fragile cup of tea. You don’t want to spill it, but you also know it could go cold any second.”

The counsellor smiles faintly at the metaphor but doesn’t correct him. “It’s still something. What do you think has changed that allows you to respond now, when you couldn’t before?”

Matthew fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, pulling it down over his wrist. “Time, maybe. Or… maybe I’m just tired of carrying it all around. The resentment, the anger… it’s exhausting. I don’t want to hate him forever. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to go back to our old ways, either. I don’t know if I should.”

“Forgiveness doesn’t have to mean forgetting,” she says gently. “It’s about making peace with what happened so it doesn’t hold power over you anymore.”

Matthew doesn’t answer right away. His mind drifts, unbidden, to a memory from before everything went wrong: a quiet afternoon on the couch, Gunwook’s legs draped lazily over his, the smell of popcorn in the air. The way Gunwook had grinned at him, unguarded and warm, before tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth and missing entirely. They had laughed until their stomachs hurt.

The memory hits unexpectedly hard, the sweetness of it laced with an ache that feels like pressing on a bruise. He blinks, staring at the shadowed folds of the curtain, and realises his throat feels tight.

“You’re remembering something,” the counsellor says softly, reading his pause.

Matthew nods once, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Just… a good day. Before. And I hate that I miss it. Because missing it makes me feel weak, like I can’t stick to my own beliefs, almost.”

“Missing it makes you human,” she corrects gently. “You’re grieving a version of him – and of yourself – that existed before the hurt. That’s not weakness. It’s part of healing.”

He swallows, not trusting his voice right away. Eventually, he says, “It’s weird, though. Missing someone who’s still here. Who could just… text you.”

The counsellor’s pen stills against her notepad, her gaze resting on him with quiet curiosity. “If that’s what you feel,” she says after a moment, “why don’t you try reaching out more often? Not just answering when he sends something, but starting the conversation yourself?”

Matthew’s first instinct is to shake his head, and he does; small, sharp, almost automatic. “Because then it means… I’m asking for something. From him.”

Her brow furrows slightly, but her tone stays even. “And that’s a bad thing?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “It feels like giving him a chance to let me down again. Like I’d be opening this door wider, and I’m not ready to see what’s on the other side. If I wait for him to reach out, then at least I’m… safe. I’m in control of how far it goes.”

“So, there’s still a wall,” she says.

Matthew nods, eyes fixed on the hem of his sleeve. “I guess so. A big one. I don’t want him to think everything’s fine now, just because I can reply with a ‘lol’ or an emoji. That’s not… forgiveness. That’s me dipping my toes in.”

She tilts her head, almost smiling. “So you’re still testing the water without committing to the swim.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s quiet, a little sad. “Exactly. I just… I don’t know how to be around him without feeling all of it at once. The good stuff and the bad. They’re so tangled together now that I don’t know how to separate them. I’m scared if I let myself enjoy talking to him, I’ll forget why I was hurt in the first place. And I don’t want to forget, because if I forget… it could happen again.”

“That’s a very human way to protect yourself,” she says. “But holding on too tightly to the pain can keep you stuck, too. Sometimes, remembering isn’t the same as living in it.”

Matthew doesn’t answer right away. He thinks about the last time Gunwook made him laugh; a stupid meme, a badly timed text that had caught him off guard. He remembers how quickly he’d swallowed the smile, as if it were dangerous to let it stay.

“I guess I’m afraid that if I reach out,” he says finally, “it’ll be like telling him he’s forgiven. And I’m not ready to say that yet, I think.”

The counsellor’s voice softens, almost like she’s trying not to push too hard. “Forgiveness doesn’t have to be a gift for him. Sometimes it’s something you do for yourself, so you can move forward.”

The counsellor studies him for a long, quiet moment before speaking again. “Why are you so certain he’ll hurt you again? You talk about it like it’s inevitable. Doesn’t he deserve a little more credit than that?”

Matthew feels his chest tighten. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Because doesn’t he? Hasn’t Gunwook been trying – at least in these small, clumsy ways – to make things better? But the thought doesn’t come without another, heavier one.

He doesn’t have to dig far for proof. The memory surfaces easily, like it’s been waiting.

It had been one of those cold, grey evenings where the air in the dorm felt a little too still, and Matthew had found himself curled up on Gunwook’s bed while the younger boy scrolled aimlessly on his phone. He hadn’t meant to spill so much, but the words had been sitting in his chest for weeks – months, maybe – and Gunwook, at least back then, had been the person he trusted enough to let them out.

“I don’t know,” Matthew had said, voice soft, eyes fixed on the pattern of the blanket between them. “I’ve just been… really missing home lately. My mom, my dad, especially my sister. It’s weird, but sometimes I wake up and expect to hear them downstairs, like I never left Canada. And then I remember I’m here. It makes the mornings feel… heavy.” He’d glanced up at Gunwook then, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the ache in his chest. “But you make it easier. Just having you here, hanging out, making dumb jokes… it helps. I’m glad you’re here, Wookie.”

He hadn’t even finished taking the next breath before Gunwook, eyes still glued to his phone, snorted lightly. “Hyung, you have so many friends here already. You don’t need to feel homesick. You’re fine.”

The dismissal hit quick and sharp, but before Matthew could even process it, Gunwook’s phone chimed. His face lit up in a way it hadn’t during Matthew’s entire confession. “Oh hold on, I just got a message from… uh–” he’d grinned, almost sheepish but not enough to mask his excitement – “one of my hookups. I’m gonna head out, okay? You understand, right?”

Matthew had stared at him, caught between disbelief and something heavier, colder. His mouth opened, then closed, but no sound came out. He thought, in some distant, stunned part of his mind, that he’d said something important, something fragile, and Gunwook had stepped right over it without even noticing.

But Gunwook didn’t wait for a reply. He was already on his feet, tugging on a hoodie and grabbing his keys. “I’ll text you later!” he called over his shoulder, the door clicking shut before Matthew could even lift his gaze from the blanket.

The room had felt unbearably quiet after that, and his homesickness had multiplied tenfold.

Back in the counsellor’s office, Matthew swallows hard, forcing the memory down before it can sink its teeth in any deeper. His voice is steadier than he expects when he says, “Because I’m used to it. I’m used to him not realising when he’s hurting me.”

The counsellor tilts her head slightly, her gaze warm but unwavering. “That sounds like a wound you’ve been carrying for a long time,” she says gently. “And maybe it’s one of many. But Matthew… holding onto that resentment, keeping it alive because it feels like a shield, it’s only hurting you now. Not him.”

Matthew shifts on the couch, his arms folding tight across his chest like he’s bracing himself. “It’s not like I want to hold onto it. I just… I don’t know how to stop. If I let go of that… if I stop remembering the bad things, it feels like I’m giving him permission to do it again.”

She leans forward a little, her tone softening but not losing its firmness. “That’s the thing. Letting go doesn’t mean you forget, and it doesn’t mean you accept being hurt again. It just means you stop letting the past dictate every part of your present. You can’t control everything, especially not someone else’s choices. And the more you grip that fear of getting hurt, the more it keeps you from ever seeing who he might be now.”

Matthew bites the inside of his cheek, not ready to agree but not ready to argue either.

“Why don’t we look at it another way?” she continues. “You’ve given me examples of when he hurt you, often without realising. Can you think of times when he’s been amazing to you? When he’s gone out of his way, not because he had to, but because he cared?”

His first instinct is to say no, but the word gets stuck in his throat because he can think of one. More than one, actually, and like the bad memories, the good ones are sharp and vivid, though they cut differently.

It had been during his first semester, exam season chewing through his days and spitting them out in crumpled pieces. He’d been running himself to the ground, library to practice room to lecture hall, surviving on vending machine snacks, caffeine, and the stubborn conviction that he could sleep when it was over. That stubbornness had landed him in the hospital, his body finally cashing the debt his mind had been racking up. He hadn’t told anyone; he didn’t want the fuss, didn’t want the questions. It was embarrassing enough that he’d pushed himself to collapse.

But somehow, Gunwook had found him anyway. Matthew still doesn’t know how. He’d just been wheeled into a private hospital room, the faint antiseptic sting making his eyes water, when the door swung open and there he was; out of breath, hair mussed, like he’d run the whole way.

“What the hell, hyung,” Gunwook had said, but not angrily, more like he was too startled to pick a tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Matthew had muttered something about not wanting to bother him, but it hadn’t mattered. Gunwook had kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag on the chair, and claimed the narrow, uncomfortable sofa by the window like it was his own bed. And then he stayed.

All three days.

He refused to let Matthew eat alone, sitting beside the bed with a plastic spoon in hand, feeding him soup like he was five years old. He made sure water was always within reach, adjusting the pillows, brushing crumbs off the blanket. Even when Matthew insisted he was fine, Gunwook stayed close, helping him stand when he went to the bathroom, running a warm cloth over his face and neck, brushing his teeth for him the first night when he’d been too dizzy to do it himself.

The thing was Matthew hadn’t been completely useless. By the second day, the IV fluids and rest had done their job, and he’d started to feel more like himself. But there was something… intoxicating about the way Gunwook looked at him in those moments, unhurried, unguarded, like Matthew mattered in a way he hadn’t dared to imagine before. So he let himself be fussed over. He let Gunwook hold the spoon to his lips, fix his blanket, tuck his hair behind his ear. He acted sicker than he was, embarrassed even now to admit it.

And the strangest part? They’d barely known each other for a month. Barely enough time to call themselves friends. But something in those three days – the quiet, steady presence, the way Gunwook’s eyes softened when he thought Matthew was asleep – had sunk deep under Matthew’s skin.

If he had to pin it down, maybe that was when it started. The slow, irreversible falling.

Matthew blinks himself out of the memory, the faint antiseptic smell in his mind giving way to the warm, faintly floral scent of the counsellor’s office. She’s watching him, elbows resting lightly on the arms of her chair, head tilted just enough to show she’s listening without judgment.

“That was important to you,” she says gently, not as a question but as a statement. “Not just what he did, but how it made you feel: seen, cared for, safe.”

Matthew nods slowly, the word safe catching somewhere in his chest.

The counsellor leans forward a little, her voice still warm but carrying a firmer undercurrent now. “You know, Matthew… there’s a pattern I’m noticing. You keep yourself guarded, you keep control of the narrative. You pull back before someone else can hurt you, but… that control you’re clinging to? It doesn’t actually protect you. It just keeps you in a constant state of bracing for impact. And that’s its own kind of pain.”

He frowns slightly, shifting on the couch. “So you’re saying I should just… let my guard down and hope for the best?”

“I’m saying that being guarded isn’t the same as being safe,” she clarifies. “When you operate from that place – when every interaction is filtered through how do I protect myself? – you’re still letting the hurt dictate your actions. You’re not living in the moment. You’re living in anticipation of being hurt again.” She pauses, letting that sink in before continuing. “I think you’ve built an identity around being the one who was wronged, and I’m not saying that what happened to you wasn’t real or painful. But when you stay in that space too long, it becomes a lens that distorts everything. You start to define yourself by it.”

Matthew exhales, looking down at his hands, thumbs pressing into each other. He doesn’t like the word define. It feels like a judgement, but at the same time, there’s something uncomfortably familiar about what she’s saying, like she’s been watching him longer than these sessions have lasted.

“You’re not saying I’m making it up.”

“No,” she says quickly. “I’m saying you’re still holding it like a shield. And shields can get heavy. You’ve had moments with him, good ones, that you still remember vividly. But instead of letting them coexist with the bad, you’re holding onto the bad as proof that you need to keep defending yourself.”

He swallows. “Because if I don’t, I might get hurt again.”

“And if you do,” she replies evenly, “you’ll survive it. Just like you did before. Just like you are now. But keeping yourself in a constant state of defense isn’t keeping you safe, it’s just keeping you stuck.”

Matthew leans back into the couch cushions, staring at the soft beige fabric like it might offer an escape. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to accept that she’s right, but the words lodge somewhere deep anyway, heavy in a way he can’t quite shake.

The counsellor lets the silence stretch for a few beats, giving him space to sit with it. Matthew’s fingers curl into the edge of the cushion, his mind tugged in two directions; the instinct to reject her words outright and the uncomfortable recognition that they’ve hit too close to home.

“I don’t think you realise,” she says finally, her tone still calm but deliberate, “how much energy it takes to stay on guard like that. To constantly assess, to second-guess someone’s intentions, to anticipate the next wound. It’s exhausting. And while you’re doing all of that, you’re also keeping yourself from experiencing the fullness of the present. The good moments can’t land because part of you is already preparing for them to end.”

Matthew glances at her, brow furrowing. “So you think I’m… sabotaging myself?”

“I think you’re trying to protect yourself in the only way you know how,” she answers gently. “But the truth is, life, and relationships, don’t work in absolutes. You can’t engineer them to be risk-free. And when you hold onto the idea of I’m the one who got hurt, I have to make sure it doesn’t happen again, it becomes less about healing and more about maintaining a role. Even if that role keeps you lonely.”

Her words settle over him like a weighted blanket; not suffocating, but undeniable. Matthew stares at the muted pattern of the rug beneath his feet, and something in his chest twists. He doesn’t want to admit it, but the thought of putting the shield down, even a little, feels like unclenching a fist that’s been tight for years. There’s pain in the release, but also – maybe – a faint trace of relief.

“Let me reiterate my point, letting go doesn’t mean forgetting what happened,” she adds, softer now. “It means you stop letting it define every choice you make. It means you give yourself permission to see him as more than the worst thing he’s done to you… and to see yourself as more than the person he hurt.”

Matthew swallows hard, his throat tight. He doesn’t answer right away, because he’s not sure he can without something in him cracking open. But the counsellor doesn’t press; she just lets the silence breathe between them, like she knows some things can’t be rushed.

After a moment, she tilts her head slightly, studying him with that calm, steady gaze. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

Matthew’s answer is immediate, almost reflexive. “No,” he says, and it comes out firm enough that even he believes it for a second. “I got over it. Over the past few months.”

The counsellor nods, not questioning his tone, but there’s a faint flicker in her eyes, like she’s filing the answer away for later. “Then that’s the perfect time to move past this,” she says gently. “If the feelings are gone, what’s left is the story you’ve been carrying. And stories… they can be rewritten. You can decide what role he plays in your life from here on out, without the weight of old emotions tying you to the past.” 

Her words linger in the quiet that follows, wrapping around him in a way that feels both challenging and oddly freeing. It makes Matthew’s chest feel tight again but not with hurt this time. With the dizzy realisation that she might be right.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, and Matthew realises with a start that their time is almost up. He feels wrung out; not in the chaotic, overwhelmed way he sometimes does after counselling, but in a slower, deeper way, like someone’s finally drained water from a cup he didn’t know was overflowing. The counsellor closes her notebook with a quiet snap, offering him that same small, knowing smile she always does at the end of their sessions.

“You’ve been doing hard work today,” she says. “It’s not easy to examine these patterns, much less admit they exist. I’m proud of you for showing up, for being honest with yourself, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Matthew shifts on the couch, pulling at his sleeve. “I… guess that’s something,” he says, and the corner of her mouth lifts in faint amusement.

“It’s more than something. It’s progress. Keep in mind, letting go of that constant guard doesn’t have to be a leap. It can be a series of small steps. You’ve already taken one by responding to his texts.” She stands, a signal that the session is over, but her gaze stays kind, warm. “We’ll talk more next time.”

He nods, rising and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Outside, the air feels sharper than when he’d arrived, cool against his skin. He takes a deep breath before heading down the steps, feeling both heavy and light at once. The counsellor’s words echo in his mind about the shield, about the role he’s been clinging to. It’s not like he suddenly knows what to do next, but for the first time in a long time, the idea of loosening his grip doesn’t seem impossible.

Matthew walks home with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, the city’s low hum filling the spaces where his thoughts wander. Every few steps, fragments of the session float back to him; the counsellor’s steady voice telling him he can’t keep living behind a wall, that holding onto the role of the wronged party might feel safe but will never set him free. She’s right. If he wants to actually heal, he has to loosen his grip on the hurt. And it’s not like he’s still in love with Gunwook anyway. That part’s done. Over. Right? Yeah. Of course.

He exhales through his nose, almost convincing himself.

It’s only when he rounds the corner to his street that he remembers his phone’s been buried in his pocket the whole walk. Pulling it out, he lights up the screen, and the notifications on his homepage are enough to make him snort under his breath.

wookiebear🐻💛

OHNUYGOFD HYUNGHHFHJF
i mean
yeah thanks hyung lol
im vvvvvv calm rn😁
here’s some proof

hehe

lol is that the snorlax hoodie i gave u

YESYSHDGAHD
i mean yeah lol

ur cheeks r really red wookie
u feelin okay?

YES IM OJAUY
OLAY
OKAYU
OKAY
yeah i’m okay hyungie
i miss u hyung

A small, unwilling smile tugs at Matthew’s mouth, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a betrayal to let it stay there.

i know
me too.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Steam still clings to Matthew’s skin as he steps out of the bathroom, the mirror behind him a clouded blur. The air is thick with the faint, sharp scent of soap and something citrusy from his shampoo, and his hair drips onto the floor in lazy rivulets. He rubs a towel over it, the coarse fabric dragging through damp strands, shaking his head a little to coax out the water that refuses to leave. The flat is quiet except for the low hum of the heater, its warmth a steady pulse against the cool bite of the night air seeping in from the windows.

He moves slowly, not in any particular rush, the way someone does when they’re winding down after a long day or maybe preparing for something else entirely. His clothes are laid out neatly on the edge of the bed. He slips out of the bath towel and into them without ceremony, the fabric settling comfortably against his skin. Nothing flashy, nothing to give anything away; soft, well-worn, one that makes him feel comfy and pretty.

He sits at the edge of the bed for a moment, towel still draped over his head, rubbing at his hair until the strands are only damp instead of dripping. The faint scent of his shampoo lingers in the air. He swaps the towel for a comb, drawing it through his hair in slow, even strokes until it falls just right. A small dab of something from a jar on the nightstand follows, worked through with deft fingers, not quite styled but tamed enough to look intentional.

At the dresser, he uncaps a bottle, tips it into his palm, and smooths the cool liquid over his face. The faint tingling could be from the product or from the sudden temperature change against his skin. Another jar opens and he works it in with the same quiet thoroughness, pressing it into the curve of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the edges of his jaw. The routine is second nature, neither rushed nor indulgent, just enough to leave his skin soft and the faintest trace of fragrance behind.

When he’s done, he steps back toward the desk to check his phone again, hair falling neatly into place, skin still dewy from the last step of his routine.

The vibration of his phone lights up the room in short bursts from where it rests on the desk. He picks it up absently, thumb brushing across the glass. Gunwook’s name sits there, a small cluster of new messages beneath it. He catches snippets but before he can tap the chat open and type out a reply, the sharp chime of the doorbell cuts through the air.

The sound is sudden enough to pull his head up. For a second, he just stands there, phone still in hand, before setting it down beside the desk lamp. The carpet is soft under his bare feet as he pads through the living room, each step quiet, deliberate. He glances briefly at the door before unlocking it, fingers twisting the handle.

When it swings open, there’s someone standing there. The hall light falls over their face, catching in the warmth of their smile, and something in Matthew’s chest reacts instantly; an unguarded flutter, light and dizzy. It’s almost ridiculous, the way his pulse skips just from that expression alone. His stomach feels weightless, like he’s been tipped forward into something he hasn’t fully understood yet.

The man leans in, closing the small space between them, and presses a quick kiss to Matthew’s cheek. The touch is fleeting but leaves heat blooming under his skin.

“Ready to go?” he asks, voice low and easy.

Matthew nods without a word, the motion small but certain. He reaches for his keys from the hook by the door, the familiar jingle filling the quiet space between them. Stepping into his shoes, he works the heel down with the practiced ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. The man waits patiently, his presence filling the doorway, gaze steady and warm like he has all night to stand there.

Once Matthew steps out, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click, the man’s arm slides around his waist easily and naturally, like it belongs there. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing in the touch; it simply happens, and Matthew finds himself moving with it, letting the quiet pull guide him down the hallway. The world outside the apartment feels softer somehow, muffled under the hush of the late hour.

They fall into step like it’s the most natural thing in the world, their laughs matching without thought, conversation sparking almost immediately. It’s nothing monumental – small comments about the weather, a shared laugh over something trivial – but it flows so effortlessly that it feels like they’ve been doing this for years. Each exchange slides into the next without pause, the words weaving a comfortable thread between them, and Matthew can’t help but notice how easy it is to be here, in this moment, with him.

They step out into the cool night air, the faint hum of the city somewhere in the distance, and the man keeps him close as they walk toward the sleek car waiting at the curb. The arm at his waist is warm and steady, and Matthew doesn’t even think to break away from it.

If he weren’t so focused on him – on the easy way their steps sync, on the low comfort of being guided toward whatever comes next – he might have taken out his phone during the short elevator ride. He might have noticed Gunwook’s name sitting at the top of his notifications. Might have read the last message waiting for him: 

wookiebear🐻💛

hyungie, do u wanna meet up?

Chapter Text

Matthew spots him before he’s ready to.

From across the street, through the blur of passing cars and the chatter of strangers, Gunwook sits at one of the outdoor tables of the small restaurant they’d agreed on. It’s strange seeing him there, so ordinary, as if the months apart haven’t carved out a canyon in Matthew’s chest. He stops dead on the pavement, breath stalling, heart hammering with a violence that makes his throat feel tight.

Gunwook’s leaning back in his chair, broad shoulders relaxed, one long leg stretched out under the table. He’s scrolling absently on his phone, completely unaware of the storm brewing just a few metres away. The sight alone is almost unbearable. He’s filled out, more muscular than Matthew remembers, his jawline sharper, his features somehow older. Time has been generous to him. Too generous. Matthew feels the sting of unfairness; that Gunwook has managed to change in all the best ways, while Matthew has spent these months trying to stitch himself back together, piece by fragile piece.

He doesn’t move. His feet are rooted to the pavement, eyes glued to the boy who used to be his best friend, his everything, the boy who broke him in ways he still doesn’t have words for. Seeing him here, alive and radiant under the daylight, feels like reopening a wound he thought had scabbed over. The ache is immediate and unrelenting.

Matthew’s chest rises and falls unevenly as he tries to steady himself. It’s just Gunwook, he tells himself. Just Gunwook. But the mantra is hollow, because nothing about Gunwook has ever been just. He stares longer than he means to, long enough for the air to buzz with something unbearable, until Gunwook finally shifts in his seat and looks up.

Their eyes lock.

For a split second, everything stills. The world recedes into muffled sound and blurred colour, leaving only the two of them suspended in the space between their gazes. Matthew forgets to breathe. He doesn’t know what to expect – anger, indifference, the cold wall of distance they’ve built over these silent months – but he doesn’t expect the small, familiar quirk of Gunwook’s mouth as it curves into a smile.

It’s hesitant at first, then warmer, brighter, until it’s a full-blown grin that slices right through Matthew’s chest. His breath escapes in a quiet, shaky laugh, unbidden, and before he knows it his own lips are tugging upward. He hates how easy it is, how instinctive. His heart aches at the sight, because god, he’s missed that smile, missed the boy who could light up a whole room with it. It’s too much. Too much to see him again, too much to be met with such brilliance, as though no time has passed at all.

Gunwook raises a hand and waves him over, casual as anything, as though this is normal, as though Matthew’s world hasn’t tilted dangerously off its axis. The gesture punches the air from Matthew’s lungs, but his feet finally remember how to move. One step, then another, the space closing between them as his heart thrashes wildly against his ribs.

By the time he reaches the table, Gunwook is already standing, tall and solid, every inch of him more imposing than Matthew remembers. For a heartbeat they simply look at each other. Neither speaks. The air hums with all the words they’ve left unsaid, all the apologies and confessions and accusations that hang heavy between them.

Up close, Matthew sees more than the changes in muscle and bone structure. He sees the weariness around Gunwook’s eyes, the maturity in the set of his mouth. He looks older, even just in the span of a few months, but softer, too. As though the edges have been sanded down by time and pain alike. Matthew’s throat tightens. He wants to say something, anything, but words won’t come.

Then he does something he doesn’t plan, something reckless but desperately needed: he closes the final step of distance and folds himself into Gunwook’s arms.

The hug is immediate, bone-crushing. Gunwook doesn’t hesitate for a second, wrapping Matthew up and holding him like he’ll never let go. His arms are strong, steadier than Matthew remembers, pressing into his back with a force that’s both grounding and overwhelming. Matthew melts into it helplessly, inhaling the faint scent of soap and cologne clinging to Gunwook’s shirt, and it feels achingly like coming home.

He didn’t realise how much he’s starved for this; warmth, closeness, the comfort of belonging in someone’s arms. His chest heaves as he presses his face into Gunwook’s shoulder, blinking rapidly to keep tears from spilling. It’s too much, far too much, but he can’t pull away. Not when Gunwook’s holding him like this, not when every line of his body says I’ve missed you too.

And if Matthew thought he was the only one clinging so desperately, Gunwook proves him wrong. His grip is fierce, almost trembling, as though Matthew might vanish if he loosens even slightly. There’s no mistaking it. Gunwook is hugging him back just as tightly, if not tighter, pouring months of absence into the way his fingers press against Matthew’s spine.

Time stretches. The city hums around them, but Matthew feels cocooned in the circle of Gunwook’s arms, the noise reduced to a distant murmur. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, he lets himself believe nothing’s changed, that they’re still the inseparable pair who could find comfort in each other without complication. He lets himself believe in the illusion, even if it shatters the second they let go.

When at last they do loosen their hold, it’s reluctant, slow. Matthew steps back just enough to look at him properly. His chest is still tight, his pulse erratic, but there’s a clarity in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Gunwook’s smile lingers, softer now, tinged with something Matthew can’t quite name. Relief, maybe. Longing, perhaps.

Matthew swallows hard, trying to steady the mess of feelings swirling inside him. His heart is still aching, but beneath it there’s a fragile spark of hope, maybe, or the possibility of healing. He doesn’t know what comes next, but for the first time in months, standing here in front of Gunwook, he dares to think he might be ready to find out. 

They ease apart eventually, though it feels almost unnatural to put space between them again. Matthew clears his throat, fingers twitching uselessly at his sides, searching for something to do with his hands. He wants to speak, to bridge the silence, but every phrase that flits through his head sounds either too heavy or too shallow. How have you been? feels laughably small. I’ve missed you feels too much.

Gunwook beats him to it, shifting awkwardly and gesturing towards the table. “Shall we sit?” His voice is lower than Matthew remembers, steadier somehow, but tinged with the same familiar warmth that once made everything feel safe.

Matthew nods quickly, grateful for the excuse to retreat from the swell of emotion, and slides into the chair opposite. The air between them is thick with the weight of all they haven’t said, but neither seems brave enough to dive straight into it. Instead, they linger on safer ground.

“So…” Matthew starts, fiddling with the edge of the napkin laid neatly on the table. His voice cracks embarrassingly, and he clears his throat before trying again. “You’ve been… good?”

Gunwook’s lips twitch into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve been better, but… Same old.” He pauses, glancing at Matthew, and for a second their eyes meet before Matthew looks away. “You?”

Matthew hesitates. He wants to say he’s been working on himself, that he’s been trying to learn how to live without the constant ache of Gunwook shadowing his every thought. But all he manages is a tight shrug. “I’ve been… fine.”

The conversation stutters there, teetering on the edge of silence. It’s clumsy, all sharp corners and unsmoothed edges, nothing like the easy flow they used to have. Matthew feels like he’s speaking a language he’s forgotten, one that used to come as naturally as breathing when it came to Gunwook.

Before the silence can stretch too far, a shadow falls across their table. The waiter arrives, carrying two plates balanced effortlessly in his hands. “Here we are,” he says brightly, placing one dish in front of Gunwook and then the other in front of Matthew.

Matthew blinks down at the food, startled. It’s his favourite, his usual. The same dish he’s ordered every time they’ve ever come here together. His gaze flicks up in surprise, and he finds Gunwook watching him with a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

“I, uh…” Gunwook rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost boyish despite the broader shoulders and sharper features. “I ordered for you. Hope that’s alright. Just… figured nothing’s changed.”

Matthew stares at him, throat tightening. It’s such a small thing, ordinary on the surface, but it hits him with the force of a tidal wave. After everything, after months of silence and distance, he still remembered something as simple and intimate as his order. And not only remembered, but thought ahead, cared enough to make sure it was waiting for him when he sat down.

Something in Matthew’s chest swells, fragile and aching, like a balloon expanding against the cage of his ribs. He wants to scoff, to brush it off as nothing, but warmth seeps through him in spite of himself.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice softer than he intends.

Gunwook’s grin widens, relief flickering across his face as if Matthew’s gratitude means more than it should. “‘Course. Would’ve been weird seeing you eat anything else.”

Matthew huffs out a laugh, small but genuine, and shakes his head. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it loosens just enough for him to breathe easier. And in that moment, with the plate of his usual meal steaming gently in front of him and Gunwook’s eyes lingering on him from across the table, he realises with a pang that some parts of them have never really changed at all. 

The food gives them both a convenient excuse to retreat into silence again, the clink of cutlery filling the space that conversation can’t quite yet. Matthew keeps his head bent, pretending to be absorbed in his plate, but his eyes betray him, flicking up when he thinks Gunwook isn’t looking. Only, every time he does, he finds Gunwook already watching him, gaze steady and unreadable.

Heat prickles at the back of Matthew’s neck. He tries to cover it with a scoff, stabbing a piece of food a little too forcefully. “What?”

Gunwook shakes his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Just… you look good.” His eyes soften as he says it, and Matthew feels the words land heavier than they should. Then Gunwook leans back, gesturing vaguely to himself. “And I guess I’ve… changed a bit too, yeah?”

Matthew snorts, grateful for the chance to deflect. “A bit? Please. You’ve gone from lanky teenager to–” He waves his fork at him, mock-exasperated. “–whatever this is. Ripped out of nowhere.”

Gunwook’s ears tint pink at the tips, and he glances away, suddenly shy in a way Matthew doesn’t quite recognise. “Been hitting the gym a lot,” he admits quietly. “Helps. You know. With… tension.” He says the last word with a faint shrug, as though it’s self-explanatory, but there’s weight behind it, layers Matthew can’t quite peel back.

Matthew studies him, chewing slowly. Once, the tension in Gunwook’s life had been handled with impulsive choices, with nights spent chasing temporary comfort from random people at random parties. The way Gunwook says it now makes Matthew think he’s found another outlet, one that doesn’t involve one night stands and booty calls.

He nods, setting his fork down. “That’s… good. Healthy.” His tone is carefully neutral, but inside something twists, a strange mixture of relief and tenderness. It feels like proof that Gunwook’s grown, that he’s learning to leave old habits behind, the ones that had hurt them both in different ways.

Gunwook glances up again, their eyes meeting across the table. For a moment, neither looks away. Their eyes hold for a second too long, until Matthew breaks away, pretending to reach for his glass. He takes a slow sip of water, anything to ground himself, to steady the pounding in his chest. It’s ridiculous how just sitting across from Gunwook again can undo him so easily. Months of healing, of carefully built walls, and all it takes is one smile, one soft glance, to make him feel seventeen again.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it hums with something unspoken. Matthew catches himself sneaking another glance, and this time Gunwook doesn’t bother to look away. His mouth curves into that crooked smile Matthew remembers too well.

“What now?” Matthew mutters, trying not to squirm under the weight of it.

“I meant it when I said you’ve changed too,” Gunwook says, voice gentle. “Not just how you look. I mean… all of you. You carry yourself differently.”

Matthew blinks, thrown. Compliments from Gunwook had always come careless, tossed out with a teasing grin, but this one feels careful. “I… guess I had to.” He shrugs, feigning casual, though his pulse is a drum in his throat.

Gunwook nods, leaning back in his chair. For a moment he looks thoughtful, almost hesitant, like he’s deciding whether to cross an invisible line. Then, before Matthew can steer them back into safer waters, Gunwook exhales and says it.

“So,” he begins, tone deceptively light, though his eyes sharpen with interest, “I heard from Gyuvin you met someone?”

The words land between them like a spark, and Matthew freezes, fork hovering above his plate. His stomach flips, not just with nerves but with the strange ache of being seen.

The words catch him so off guard that for a heartbeat Matthew forgets how to breathe. I hear you met someone. It’s too familiar, like stepping into an old memory except those memories never ended well. His chest tightens before he can stop it, instinct screaming at him to brace for the usual blow.

Because every time, it had been the same.

He thinks of Jiwoong, of how excited he’d been to introduce him to Gunwook, nervous but hopeful that maybe this time Gunwook would approve, maybe this time he’d be supportive. But instead there had been that sharp little sneer, the arch of an eyebrow, the disbelieving chuckle. “Him? Really, hyung?” And then, as if on cue, the slow dismantling of every good thing Matthew had felt, until all he could hear in his head was Gunwook’s voice telling him he deserved better. 

And before Jiwoong, there had been others. Smaller crushes, fleeting dates, names barely worth remembering now, but Gunwook’s reactions had always been seared into his memory. A scowl here, a cutting remark there. Always disapproving, always convinced Matthew was making a mistake. He had never once celebrated Matthew’s happiness, never once just let him be.

So Matthew’s first instinct now is defense. His muscles tense, ready to shield himself, words bubbling at the back of his throat like armour: It’s none of your business. You don’t get to say anything this time. You don’t get to ruin this too.

But then he looks up.

And the Gunwook sitting across from him isn’t the one from those memories. He’s mature now, broader in the shoulders, posture straighter but softer somehow. His gaze isn’t sharp with judgement or laced with unspoken bitterness; it’s steady, patient, almost careful, like he knows Matthew might bolt at any second and he doesn’t want to scare him off.

Matthew swallows. The instinct is still there, clawing at him, but it feels misplaced now, like trying to fight a shadow that no longer exists. 

He dips his toes into the water, tentative. “Yeah,” he says finally, the word small but steady. He fiddles with his napkin, buying himself a moment before continuing. “I… met him a while ago, actually. Didn’t expect it. Just… happened.”

Gunwook leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, expression open, encouraging. It makes Matthew’s throat tighten, because when was the last time Gunwook ever let him talk about this without cutting him down?

“He’s… kind,” Matthew says, a faint smile tugging at his lips before he can stop it. Just thinking about the mystery man brings a strange warmth to his chest. “Makes me laugh. He actually–” He huffs, shaking his head. “He listens. Doesn’t make me feel like I’m too much. Or not enough.”

There’s a flicker in Gunwook’s eyes at that, something unreadable, but he doesn’t pounce on it. He just nods slowly, like he’s taking every word in.

“And he’s patient,” Matthew adds, braver now, because Gunwook still hasn’t shut him down. “He doesn’t mind when I… when I get nervous. Or when I overthink things. He just waits. Lets me figure it out.”

For a moment the table feels too quiet, the air too heavy. Matthew braces again, the old fear returning for just a second, waiting for the sneer, the inevitable dismissal.

But then Gunwook smiles. Not the smug, careless grin of their teenage years, not the half-hearted smirk he’d always thrown around as a shield. This one is real and gentle, almost bittersweet, but real.

“I’m happy for you,” he says. Simple words, but they land like something seismic in Matthew’s chest.

Matthew blinks, disoriented. “You… are?”

“Yeah.” Gunwook’s voice is low, sincere. “You deserve that, hyung. Someone who treats you right.”

Relief washes over him so suddenly it nearly knocks the breath out of him. His shoulders sag, tension bleeding from muscles he hadn’t realised were clenched tight. For the first time in years, he feels like he can actually talk about this part of his life with Gunwook without dreading the fallout.

His lips twitch into a small, tentative smile. “Thanks.” The word feels inadequate, but it’s all he can manage with his throat thick and his heart aching in ways he can’t name.

Across the table, Gunwook holds his gaze, and Matthew wonders if he feels the same shift. This strange new ground they’re standing on. Fragile, but hopeful. 

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Gunwook swallows the ache clawing up his throat, pressing it down where Matthew can’t see. His smile is careful, the kind you wear for someone you don’t want to scare away, and he knows it’s convincing enough because Matthew doesn’t flinch. But inside, everything feels like it’s tearing apart, piece by piece.

Matthew’s eyes glimmer as he speaks, his cheeks faintly pink, and Gunwook hates himself for noticing every little detail, for memorising it like it means something. It doesn’t. At least, not in the way he wants. That glow, that bubbling joy spilling out of Matthew, isn’t for him anymore. It’s for this man. This stranger.

He forces his body to stay still, to lean forward just enough to seem engaged. “So he makes you laugh a lot, yeah?” Gunwook asks, voice lighter than he feels, each syllable a performance.

Matthew brightens instantly, lips curving into a grin that hits Gunwook like a blow to the chest. “Yeah. He’s funny, but not in a… performative way. Just… effortless. You know when someone doesn’t even try, and they still manage to make you laugh until your stomach hurts?”

Gunwook does know. He knows exactly what that looks like because he’s seen it on Matthew before. He’s caused it before. The memory of Matthew bent over, wheezing with laughter at something ridiculous he’d said, flashes in his head so vividly it’s almost cruel. Back then, it had felt like nothing. Just Matthew being Matthew, warm and open and quick to laugh. Gunwook hadn’t realised it was special, hadn’t realised that not everyone got to see Matthew that way.

He forces a nod, even though his hands tighten around his water glass. “What else do you like about him?”

The question feels like a knife to the heart. He doesn’t want the answer. He doesn’t care. But he asks anyway, because it’s what Matthew deserves. For once, for someone to listen without tearing him down.

Matthew hesitates for a heartbeat, as if still bracing for the sneer that never comes. Then, cautiously, he lets himself smile again. “He’s… I don’t know. He notices me. I know that sounds stupid, but after spending so much of my life feeling invisible, like my feelings didn’t matter, it feels different. It feels… special.”

Gunwook feels the words like a punch, sharp and unrelenting. He keeps his face composed, nodding slowly as if in agreement, but his insides twist violently because Matthew’s right. He has gone so long unnoticed by everyone, but especially by him.

He should have paid attention. Should have seen the way Matthew always lingered just a second longer when their shoulders brushed, the way his eyes softened in moments no one else caught. Should have noticed the way Matthew’s laughter dimmed whenever Gunwook brushed him off, the way his expression shuttered when Gunwook talked about the people he was sleeping with. All the signs had been there, glaring, waiting for him to open his eyes.

But he hadn’t. He’d been blind – no, worse, careless. He’d basked in Matthew’s warmth, his devotion, his patience, and never once questioned what it meant, never once considered what it cost Matthew to give so much of himself away.

And now here Matthew sits, talking about another man who noticed all the things Gunwook ignored, who gave him the attention he’d been starved for. Gunwook forces himself to smile, to keep his tone light. “That’s not stupid. That’s… important.”

But guilt gnaws at him like an old wound torn open, because what right does he have to sit here now, pretending to care about Matthew’s happiness, when he’d spent years taking him for granted? When Matthew had been quietly offering tiny, fragile pieces of himself and Gunwook had crushed them underfoot without even realising?

He wants to say I’m sorry. Wants to grab Matthew’s hands and beg for forgiveness for not noticing, for being too wrapped up in his own recklessness to see what was right in front of him. But the words lodge in his throat, heavy and useless. Sorry won’t change anything. Sorry won’t undo years of neglect, won’t rewind time to the moment Matthew first looked at him with those bright, hopeful eyes and give him the chance to do it right.

Inside, the ache is unbearable. He wants so badly to go back to the nights when Matthew stayed up late just to keep him company, to the mornings when Matthew brought him coffee even though he always forgot to say thank you, to the quiet way Matthew had always stood by his side no matter how many mistakes he made. He wants to go back to the time when Matthew’s attention had belonged to him, when his laughter was aimed at him, when his love, unspoken but obvious, had been his to hold, if only he’d known to keep it.

If only he’d seen it then. If only he’d loved him back in the way he deserved. Maybe now they’d be sitting here as something more than fractured friends. Maybe Matthew’s blush would be for him. Maybe Gunwook wouldn’t be choking on the weight of regret, smiling through the sharp edge of his own guilt.

There’s nothing he can do to change it.

So instead, Gunwook sits there, pretending to be interested in the details of this new man, nodding and asking questions he doesn’t want the answers to. Every smile from Matthew makes the guilt sink deeper, every sparkle in his eyes a reminder of what Gunwook could have had, if only he’d realised sooner.

Gunwook nods again, fighting to keep the mask steady. He knows what Matthew sees: interest, approval, a safe space to share. What Matthew doesn’t see is the way Gunwook’s stomach churns, how his pulse hammers, how every soft detail about this new man feels like another nail sealing him out of Matthew’s world.

“And he likes me,” Matthew adds after a pause, eyes softening. “Like… there’s a difference between being attracted to someone and actually liking someone, you know?” He lets out a little laugh, shy and fond, and Gunwook feels it like a blade sliding in between his ribs.

He wants to stand up and leave, to put distance between himself and that look on Matthew’s face. The look of someone in the first bloom of love, someone who feels seen and cherished. He wants to run from it, because once upon a time, Matthew had looked at him like that.

Gunwook remembers the way Matthew used to light up when he walked into the room, as though everything else fell away. The way he’d hang on Gunwook’s words, even the stupid ones, like every careless comment mattered. The way his laughter had always come easier when it was Gunwook drawing it out of him.

And back then, Gunwook had thought nothing of it. He’d let it wash over him like it was guaranteed, like Matthew would always look at him like that. He hadn’t seen it for what it was. He hadn’t known how rare, how fragile, how precious it was.

Now, Gunwook has to sit here and pretend.

He pastes on another smile, softer this time, almost believable. “He sounds like a good person.” The words scrape his throat raw.

Matthew blinks, almost startled, as if he hadn’t expected support. “You… think so?”

“Yeah.” Gunwook’s voice is steadier than he feels. “I think you made the right choice.”

The relief that blooms across Matthew’s face is unbearable. His whole body seems to relax, the tension in his shoulders melting, his smile blooming wider, warmer. It should make Gunwook proud, should make him glad to know he’s done the right thing.

But it only makes the weight in his chest heavier. Because Matthew looks relieved, as if Gunwook’s opinion still mattered enough to shape how he feels. And yet, what good is that now? What use is his approval when Matthew has already found someone who can give him the things Gunwook never could?

He forces himself to stay put, to keep asking questions, to act the part of the supportive friend. “How did you two meet?” “What’s he studying?” “Have you introduced him to the others yet?” Each question tastes bitter, each answer chips away at him further. But Matthew beams through it all, glowing in a way Gunwook hasn’t seen in so long, and Gunwook tells himself this is enough.

That this is what letting go looks like.

That if he really loves Matthew – if he ever did – then he has to let him be happy, even if it isn’t with him.

So he listens. He smiles. He nods. And with every passing second, his heart hurts more than ever.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew hadn’t expected it. Not in the slightest.

He’d thought maybe the weekly hangouts would just ease back into their old rhythm; soft, gradual, like testing the temperature of water before slipping back in. But then Gunwook had leaned across the table two weeks ago, voice so casual Matthew almost missed the weight of it, and said, “You should bring him sometime. To the hangout. Introduce him to everyone.”

Matthew had frozen with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. His first instinct had been to deflect, to laugh it off, because the Gunwook he used to know would’ve said something crueler, something cutting – “Why waste time? He won’t last,” or “Don’t even bother” – but this new Gunwook had simply smiled like he meant it. Like he really wanted Matthew to share that part of his life. And Matthew, still half-skeptical and more than a little afraid, had nodded.

And now here he is. Three hangouts later, standing in front of Hanbin and Hao’s apartment door, his hands clammy, palms rubbing uselessly against his jeans as if friction could burn away the nerves buzzing under his skin. He tells himself it’s fine, that everyone in that room cares for him, that they’ll welcome his new… fling? Situationship? Date? That Gunwook’s invitation hadn’t been a trap, hadn’t been laced with hidden judgment. But the thought still rattles around his head like a marble loose in a jar: What if this goes wrong? What if Gunwook regrets asking? What if–

“Hey.” The taller man leans in, his presence grounding, a faint citrus cologne brushing against Matthew’s senses. He plants a kiss on Matthew’s cheek, warm and easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re more nervous than me.”

Matthew lets out a laugh, though it shakes in his chest. “I am.” He doesn’t bother denying it, because he’s right. His nerves aren’t about introducing this new man to his friends at all. It’s about the boy waiting on the other side of that door.

Before he can spiral further, the door opens. Hanbin’s grin beams out like a floodlight, his energy immediately pulling them inside, and Hao is right there too, warm and attentive, already offering to take their jackets, ushering them towards the living room where the rest of the boys are sprawled.

Matthew’s eyes scan the room instinctively, the way they always do, and land right where he knows they will: on Gunwook.

It’s almost laughable, how quickly the noise fades, how everything else becomes peripheral when their eyes meet. Gunwook is leaning against the arm of the sofa, one long arm draped over the backrest, casual in posture but alert in the way his gaze sharpens the second he notices Matthew. For a breath, it’s just them. Just the two of them locked in this charged silence, old history straining invisibly between them, neither breaking eye contact.

Matthew swallows, forces air into his lungs. He gestures towards the man at his side, his voice catching a little as he introduces, “Um, guys. This is Keeho.”

Keeho gives a polite bow, his natural charm bubbling up as he greets everyone in quick succession. Hanbin and Hao are exactly as expected; welcoming, loud, already pulling him into the orbit of the group with ease. There’s laughter, there’s movement, Keeho slots himself in without missing a beat.

But Matthew can’t tear his gaze away from Gunwook. His chest is tight, every nerve waiting, bracing, almost flinching in advance for the smirk, the side-eyed comment, the snide remark he’s been conditioned to expect. That cruel edge that had so often made Matthew shrink smaller in his own skin.

And then Gunwook smiles.

Not a mocking twist, not a backhanded grin, an actual smile. Wide and genuine, a flash of warmth that softens his whole face. His eyes crinkle at the edges, and for a moment Matthew sees not the boy who once hurt him, but the boy he used to trust more than anyone else. The one who would light up a room just by laughing, the one Matthew thought he’d lost.

The air leaves Matthew’s lungs in a rush he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His heart swells painfully, something fragile inside him loosening at the edges. Months – years, even – of carrying around dread and bracing for the worst, only to be met with this: Gunwook’s acceptance. Gunwook’s kindness.

He finds himself smiling back, tentative but real, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like maybe they’re both learning how to stand in each other’s orbit again without burning.

Still, the nerves don’t disappear entirely. As the evening begins to stretch out, Matthew stays attuned to every shift, every glance Gunwook makes. Keeho is chatting easily with Hanbin, cracking jokes that have Ricky in stitches, and Matthew should be relaxed, should be basking in how seamlessly Keeho fits in, but his focus drifts, again and again, back to Gunwook. Trying to understand this new version of him.

And every time he looks, Gunwook doesn’t shy away. He meets Matthew’s gaze head-on, steady, open. Sometimes he even holds it, that same small smile tugging at his lips, and it leaves Matthew’s chest aching with something he can’t quite name.

It’s not that the tension is gone. It lingers, in the pauses and the unspoken words. But for the first time in months, Matthew feels like maybe the ground between them is shifting, making space for something gentler. Something that doesn’t have to hurt.

It doesn’t take long before Keeho settles into the chaos of the group. If Matthew had worried about awkward silences, about Keeho standing off to the side while the rest of them tumbled over each other’s energy, he’d been worrying for nothing. Keeho has always been good at people; bright, witty, quick to jump into the flow without needing a map.

Taerae is the first to poke fun at him, some teasing remark about Keeho’s accent, and within minutes they’re volleying playful insults back and forth. Gyuvin joins in too, because of course he does, always ready to fan the flames. Keeho doesn’t back down, which only eggs them on, and suddenly the living room is echoing with laughter as Keeho insists he’s more fashionable than Taerae will ever be.

Matthew should be relieved. Watching it all unfold, he knows this is what he wanted: to bring Keeho here and have it not feel strange, to see his worlds merge without friction.

But then Gunwook leans forward, grinning, and tosses his own barb into the mix, and before Matthew can process it, Keeho is firing back at him too. They exchange sparks in an instant, banter sharp but easy, like they’ve known each other longer than a few minutes. Gunwook laughs, head thrown back, and Keeho mirrors it with that cheeky smile of his, and the sound fills the room like it belongs there.

It shouldn’t mean anything. Matthew knows this. It’s just two people joking, blending into the chaos like everyone else. But the sight of the easy way Keeho gravitates towards Gunwook and how Gunwook welcomes it without hesitation, sits strangely heavy in Matthew’s chest.

His past and his possible future, shoulder to shoulder, laughing like old friends.

It’s a bittersweet image.

Matthew forces a smile when Hao nudges him, asking if he wants another drink, but inside, something is tugging at him. A quiet, insistent pull he doesn’t dare acknowledge. He tells himself it’s just nerves, just the strange adjustment of seeing Gunwook like this; so open, so… good.

He should be happy. He is happy. Keeho fits. The boys like him. Even Gunwook, especially Gunwook, hasn’t shown a hint of the sharpness Matthew had braced for. This is all he could’ve asked for.

And yet.

Every time his gaze flickers across the room, he finds Gunwook again. Finds him mid-laugh, or leaning close to catch something Keeho says, or just sitting there with his eyes shining in that way Matthew used to secretly treasure.

It tugs harder at him.

He swallows against it, willing the knot in his chest to loosen. He tells himself this is what growth looks like. Two parts of his life meeting without combusting, proof that the distance and the pain and the long months of silence weren’t wasted.

But the truth hums underneath, quiet and dangerous: something in him still stirs when he looks at Gunwook. Something he doesn’t dare name.

So he laughs when Keeho pokes fun at him too, pretending the tug isn’t there. He leans into Keeho’s arm when it brushes against his, pretending his mind isn’t elsewhere. He joins in the noise, pretends everything is exactly as it should be.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The noise from inside is too much.

Gunwook had lasted longer than he thought he would smiling, laughing, throwing in jokes like it didn’t scrape raw at the edges of his chest every time Keeho leaned close to Matthew. He’d even surprised himself by meaning some of it. Keeho really is funny. The kind of funny that doesn’t just hit, but lingers, leaves people lighter. Even Gunwook had laughed without forcing it, and that’s what scared him the most.

Because the more he listens, the more he realises that Keeho is everything Matthew deserves.

So he excuses himself without drawing attention, slipping onto the balcony like a man seeking refuge. The air outside is cool against his skin, brushing through his hair, tugging some of the heaviness from his lungs. He leans back against the wall, tilts his head until it knocks lightly against the brick, and closes his eyes.

For just a moment, he lets himself drop the mask. No smile, no easy laugh. Just the ache of it all.

It’s almost worse that he finds Keeho fun. If Keeho had been unbearable, arrogant, smug, Gunwook could have written him off, could have wrapped himself in resentment and pretended he was protecting Matthew again. But Keeho isn’t like that. He’s genuine and warm. The kind of person who pays attention to Matthew, who listens.

The kind of person Gunwook should’ve been.

And that’s what burns, because when he watches Keeho slot so neatly into the group, when he catches the glow in Matthew’s cheeks every time Keeho speaks to him, it’s like looking at himself, but a better version. A version who didn’t waste years running from his own feelings, too scared, too selfish. Keeho is who Gunwook could’ve been if he’d only known how to try.

Gunwook’s throat tightens. He presses his palms against the railing, lets the night breeze sting his skin as though it might chase the thoughts away.

The sliding door creaks open behind him. He doesn’t turn immediately. The footsteps are light, and then a voice.

“Ah, hiding out here too?”

Gunwook cracks one eye open. Keeho steps onto the balcony, smile crooked, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s been here a dozen times before.

“Not hiding,” Gunwook mutters, straightening against the wall. “Just… air.”

Keeho chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, I get that. It’s a bit mad in there.” He comes to lean beside him against the railing, close but not intruding, as if he knows Gunwook needs space.

They stand like that for a moment, silence stretching, broken only by the muffled shouts of laughter spilling through the door. Then Keeho nudges him with his shoulder. “You’re quieter than I expected, you know. Thought you’d be more of a loudmouth, the way Matthew described you.”

Gunwook huffs, lips twitching despite himself. “Guess I’ve mellowed out.”

“Oh, mellowed out, have you? That’s one way to spin it.” Keeho grins, playful, and for a second it feels almost easy. 

But then Keeho’s grin softens into something more thoughtful. His voice dips lower, quieter. “Can I… ask you something?”

Gunwook tenses before he can help it. That tone drags at something deep in his memory, a balcony months ago, Jiwoong’s voice asking him straight to his face if he had feelings for Matthew. The panic that had clawed through him then, the denial that had wrecked everything after.

He shakes it off, grounds himself in the now. This is different.

“Sure,” he says, though his throat is dry.

Keeho takes a breath, fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. “It’s about Matthew. I really like him. Like… really like him. And I want to make things official, you know? But I don’t want to rush him, or scare him off. You’ve known him forever, so I figured maybe you’d know. What’s the best way to… I don’t know. Show him I’m serious?”

The words land heavy, heavier than Keeho could ever guess. Gunwook feels that sick twist in his stomach again, the deja vu so sharp it’s almost cruel. He remembers Jiwoong’s earnest face, remembers wanting to scream, he’s mine even though he’d never once had the courage to claim him.

But this isn’t then. And he can’t make the same mistake again.

So he swallows hard and forces the words out. “You don’t need to worry about scaring him. If you like him… just tell him. Straight up. Matthew hyung likes it when people are upfront and direct with their feelings. He deserves someone who isn’t afraid to mean it.”

Keeho tilts his head, studying him, as though searching for something between the lines. “You really think so?”

Gunwook nods. His chest is tight, but his voice doesn’t crack. “Yeah. He really likes you. I can see it. And… you’re good for him. He deserves someone like you.”

Saying it aloud feels like twisting the knife, but also like finally letting the blade sink all the way in.

Keeho lets out a small breath, half relief, half disbelief. Then his grin returns, brighter this time. “So what you’re saying is… I’ve got your approval?”

The words sting more than they should. Once, Matthew had sought Gunwook’s approval on everything: what shirt to wear, what song to put on repeat, whether some stupid meme was actually funny. And now, here’s Keeho, half-joking but not entirely, asking for that same thing.

Gunwook forces a laugh, though it comes out rough. “Yeah. You’ve got it.”

Keeho beams, clapping him on the back before pushing off the railing. “That means a lot, man. Seriously, thank you.”

Gunwook watches him disappear back inside, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone again, Gunwook lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes stinging from more than the wind.

Keeho has his approval. Matthew has someone who sees him. And Gunwook… well, Gunwook has nothing but the cool night air and the ache of what he’s already lost.

Chapter Text

Matthew is half-dressed when the knock on the door comes. He frowns, tugging his shirt over his head and padding across the small apartment in his socks, only to find Keeho already standing there, beaming like he’s brought sunshine in with him. “You’re early,” Matthew says, voice flat with disbelief. “So early. It’s five o’clock. Five.”

Keeho shrugs as if that explains everything and strolls in, tossing his shoes off by the door and making his way through the apartment before he enters Matthew’s bedroom, collapsing onto the bed as though it belongs to him. “I couldn’t help it. I was too excited.” He says it with such easy honesty that Matthew’s irritation wavers.

“That’s not an excuse,” Matthew mutters, shutting the door a little harder than necessary. “You were meant to be here at seven. That’s two hours from now. Two. Hours.”

Keeho props himself on his elbows, grin widening. “And you’re upset because… what? You don’t want to see me?”

Matthew rolls his eyes and stalks back towards the wardrobe, pretending to search for a shirt. “That’s not the point. The point is you’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously excited, yes,” Keeho fires back immediately, like he’s been preparing the line all afternoon. Matthew groans but can’t suppress the small tug of his lips, and Keeho catches it instantly. “Aha! That’s a smile.”

“It’s not,” Matthew says, clutching a hanger too tightly. His chest feels too warm, too full, like he doesn’t have the capacity for how easily Keeho slips past his guard.

The bed creaks as Keeho settles in more comfortably, one hand folded behind his head, watching Matthew with open amusement. “Go on then. Do your little fashion show. What’s it going to be tonight?”

Matthew pulls out two shirts, one light and crisp, the other darker, softer. He turns, holding them up. “Which?”

Keeho doesn’t even look at the shirts, eyes fixed shamelessly on Matthew’s bare torso. “Neither. You don’t need them. You look good as you are.”

Heat floods Matthew’s face so fast it makes him dizzy. He scowls to cover it and chucks the darker shirt straight at Keeho’s face. Keeho yelps, muffled by fabric, then laughs so loudly the neighbours must hear. “So violent! And here I was paying you a compliment.”

“That’s not a compliment, that’s you being annoying.”

“It’s both,” Keeho says, tugging the shirt down around his neck like a scarf. He smirks. “Seriously though, if you stay shirtless any longer, we might not end up going anywhere at all.”

Matthew’s ears burn crimson. “You– you are of no help!” He sputters, crossing the room in two strides and smacking Keeho lightly on the back of the head.

Keeho just cackles, catching Matthew’s wrist before he can pull away. In one easy tug, Matthew stumbles forward, losing his balance as Keeho drags him down onto the bed. Suddenly he’s sprawled across Keeho’s chest, blinking at the smug grin inches from his face.

“This is unfair,” Matthew mutters, struggling half-heartedly.

“Life’s unfair,” Keeho says, and before Matthew can retort, Keeho leans up and kisses him.

The world goes quiet. Keeho’s lips are soft, tasting faintly of mint, his hand gentle at the back of Matthew’s neck. For a moment Matthew lets himself melt into it, lets the fullness in his chest overflow, lets the heat rush through him until his fingers curl helplessly into Keeho’s shirt.

It could build, so easily. He knows it could, the promise sparking at the edges of the kiss. But with a desperate effort Matthew pulls back, breathless. “I have to get ready,” he says, voice barely steady.

Keeho groans theatrically, flopping back against the pillows with his arms spread wide. “Tragic. Denied.”

“You’ll live,” Matthew mutters, climbing off him with his heart hammering. He needs air, focus. He needs to get dressed before he combusts.

Keeho watches him with that same infuriating fondness, humming under his breath as Matthew pulls on the lighter shirt, the lightweight material hugging the curves of his torso in all the right ways. He fusses with his hair in the mirror, biting his lip. “Should I do it up or leave it down?” he asks, unable to stop himself from seeking Keeho’s opinion.

Keeho doesn’t hesitate. “Either. You look beautiful both ways.”

Matthew rolls his eyes but feels his cheeks warm in spite of himself, throwing an unamused look at the taller man through the mirror. “Shut up,” he mutters, throwing a hairbrush at him this time.

Keeho catches it one-handed, smirking. “You’re very aggressive today.”

“I wonder why,” Matthew says under his breath, turning back to the mirror before Keeho can see his ears burn again.

At last he deems himself presentable. Shoes on, jacket shrugged over his shoulders, he checks the time. “We’re actually way too early now, thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome,” Keeho replies cheerfully, hopping off the bed and joining him at the door. He looks infuriatingly proud of himself, as if arriving two hours early is some sort of achievement. 

They step into the hall, Matthew locking up behind them. Keeho laces their fingers together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, tugging him gently along. “Ready?”

“Depends,” Matthew says, narrowing his eyes. “Are you finally going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

Matthew groans, dragging his feet. “Keeho–”

“Not telling.”

“Just give me a clue–”

Keeho leans down mid-whine and kisses him, effectively shutting him up. Matthew makes a muffled noise of protest, then melts embarrassingly fast, his knees threatening to buckle. Keeho pulls away with a triumphant grin.

“You were saying?”

Matthew scowls, lips tingling. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Before Matthew can argue, Keeho delivers a final cheeky slap to his backside, earning a startled yelp that echoes down the hallway. Keeho’s laughter follows it, shameless and loud, and Matthew can only hide his face in his hands, grumbling as Keeho tugs him out into the early evening.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Matthew can’t remember the last time a date felt this easy.

The city is buzzing with its usual Friday evening hum, neon lights flickering across glass windows, the air thick with the smell of street food and exhaust fumes. Yet somehow, walking beside Keeho, it all feels quieter. Keeho’s hands swing at his sides, brushing against Matthew’s every so often like he’s doing it on purpose, but not in a way that feels overbearing. It’s casual and comfortable. almost too comfortable.

Matthew’s chest is full with it, a warmth that borders on unsettling. Because how can it feel so natural already? How can he laugh so easily when Keeho teases him about the way he drags his feet, or when Keeho bumps his shoulder every time the pavement narrows, like he’s making sure they’re still tethered? Everything feels seamless, and Matthew can’t help but think that maybe it’s a little too perfect.

He sneaks a glance at Keeho, who’s humming under his breath, eyes fixed forward with that infuriatingly calm grin. Keeho hasn’t told him where they’re going, only that it’s “a surprise” and that Matthew will “definitely love it.” He’s kept the destination close to his chest all evening, dodging every attempt at prying it out of him, and Matthew’s been whining on and off since they left his apartment. But even with the suspense, he can’t shake the way his stomach flips each time Keeho looks over at him like he already knows the secret’s worth the wait.

“Almost there,” Keeho says at last, his tone playful.

Matthew groans dramatically. “You’ve been saying that for the past ten minutes.”

“This time I mean it.” Keeho winks, and the sincerity behind it makes Matthew’s heart give a traitorous lurch.

Then Matthew sees it. The familiar glow of the sign, warm yellow letters against a pale wooden board, framed by fairy lights. The cafe’s windows are fogged slightly, but through the glass he can already make out the silhouettes of cats curled against cushions, tails flicking lazily as customers lean down to stroke them.

He freezes mid-step, breath catching in his throat.

Keeho notices instantly. “What?”

Matthew blinks, forcing a smile that comes easier than he expects. “It’s nothing. I just– I’ve been here before.”

Nostalgia sweeps through him like a tide. He hasn’t stepped foot in this place in what feels like forever, but the sight alone wraps around him like a blanket. He remembers the warmth of it, the quiet happiness that always accompanied afternoons spent here. He remembers laughter, inside jokes whispered over cups of coffee, the contentment of sitting in a corner booth while furry bodies brushed against their ankles. The memory is so vivid it makes his chest ache.

But as Keeho laces their fingers together and pulls him towards the door, Matthew recognises something else too. It feels familiar, yet different. The same cafe, the same promise of warmth, but this time it isn’t Gunwook at his side. It’s Keeho. That difference is sharp enough to make Matthew’s heart stutter.

Still, when Keeho beams at him like he’s proud of his choice, Matthew finds himself matching the expression, because no matter what ghosts linger here, he’s happy. He’s happy now.

Inside, the cafe smells faintly of coffee beans and cinnamon, underscored by that particular feline musk that somehow isn’t unpleasant. The bell above the door jingles as they step in, and instantly, three cats come padding over, winding around their legs with curious eyes. Keeho crouches to stroke one, his grin widening when the animal immediately leans into his hand. “See? They like me already.”

Matthew laughs, crouching too, letting a grey tabby nudge against his palm. “You bribed them before we came, didn’t you?”

“I’m just naturally loveable,” Keeho fires back, deadpan, and Matthew nearly snorts.

At the counter, Keeho doesn’t hesitate to opt for the unlimited-hours package, sliding his card over before Matthew can even reach for his wallet. “No time limit,” he says with a little flourish. “We’re here until they kick us out.”

“Show-off,” Matthew mutters, but his lips curve despite himself.

They find a corner table, though neither of them spends much time actually sitting. Cats clamber up their laps, paw at the strings of Keeho’s hoodie, curl themselves against Matthew’s hip until he’s forced to stay still so he doesn’t disturb them. The air is thick with purring, with soft laughter, with Keeho’s voice coaxing them closer.

Matthew finds himself relaxing, sinking into the easy joy of it. The stress that usually knots at his chest loosens, replaced with a giddiness he can’t quite contain. This, he realises, is what he’s been missing: moments that don’t feel like performance, moments where happiness is simple, and Keeho gives him that without even trying.

Then it happens.

A ginger cat slinks over, tail high, eyes gleaming. Matthew’s breath stumbles, because he recognises this one. Gamja. He remembers her quirks, remembers how she always ignored every other lap in the room in favour of Gunwook’s. How she’d sprawl across him shamelessly, purring like a motor, until Matthew teased that she was stealing his spot.

And now, just like before, Gamja leaps lightly into Keeho’s lap, circling once before settling there as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The sight hits Matthew like whiplash. His chest tightens, torn between laughter and the sting of deja vu. It’s uncanny, almost cruel in its familiarity. The same scene, the same cat, the same soft hum of contentment… only the boy beneath her has changed.

Keeho chuckles, scratching under Gamja’s chin. “Looks like I’ve been chosen.”

Matthew forces a laugh, the sound bubbling out more awkward than he intends. “Yeah. She, uh… she used to do that with–” The words stick in his throat, panic flashing as he realises what he’s about to confess. He swallows hard, cutting himself off. “Never mind. Just a coincidence.”

Keeho tilts his head, curious. “With who?”

Matthew shakes his head quickly, smiling a little too tightly. “It’s nothing important.”

Keeho studies him for a beat, like he doesn’t quite believe it, but lets it go with a shrug. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Relief floods Matthew’s chest, mixed with guilt. It shouldn’t feel like betrayal to think of someone else, not when Keeho is right here, making him laugh, making him feel seen. Yet the shadow lingers. 

Keeho doesn’t move even when Gamja settles heavier against his thighs, purring like she’s been waiting her whole life to claim him. He just leans back a little, resting an elbow on the armrest and shooting Matthew a smug grin. “Guess I really am irresistible.”

Matthew rolls his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile. “Don’t let it go to your head. She’s probably just desperate.”

Keeho gasps, feigning offence as he scratches Gamja’s chin. “You hear that, princess? He called you desperate. Don’t listen to him. You’ve got impeccable taste.”

Matthew watches the two of them, the way Keeho talks to the cat like she understands, the gentle way his fingers card through her fur. It’s stupid, but it does something to him, softens him further in ways he didn’t think possible. Keeho looks like he belongs here, like this is second nature. The image is so domestic it makes Matthew’s chest ache, makes him think of afternoons that used to look almost exactly like this. Only then, it was Gunwook’s laugh across the table, Gunwook’s hands covered in cat hair, Gunwook pretending to hate when Gamja claimed him but secretly loving every second.

The memory slides in uninvited, bittersweet and sharp around the edges. Matthew blinks hard, pulling his focus back to Keeho, who is oblivious to the storm flickering behind his smile.

Another cat, a little black-and-white one with a kink in her tail, clambers onto the table and immediately starts pawing at the straw in Keeho’s iced latte. Keeho lets out a laugh so rich and unguarded that Matthew feels himself dissolving into it.

“You’re gonna spill it,” Matthew warns, reaching to shoo the cat gently away.

“Relax. If she wants a sip, who am I to say no?”

Matthew snorts. “Pretty sure caffeine will kill her.”

Keeho makes a show of looking scandalised, clutching Gamja closer. “Murderer.”

Their laughter tangles together until Matthew is giggling helplessly, shoulders shaking as another cat weaves between his ankles. It feels ridiculous, almost childish, but in the best way. He can’t remember the last time something so small, so ordinary, left him this light.

Eventually they both sink into the sofa, surrendering their laps to whichever cats decide to make them home. A fluffy grey one curls against Matthew’s hip, vibrating with a steady purr that travels straight into his bones. Keeho watches him fondly, chin propped on his hand, and Matthew suddenly feels seen in a way that’s both comforting and terrifying.

“You look good like that,” Keeho murmurs.

Matthew blinks. “Like what?”

“Relaxed.” Keeho’s smile softens, losing some of its mischief. “It suits you.”

Heat creeps up Matthew’s neck. He ducks his head, stroking the cat’s back to give his hands something to do. Compliments always catch him off guard, but from Keeho they hit differently, heavier somehow, like he means every word. Matthew wants to believe him, wants to sit in that warmth without doubting it, but another memory slips through. Gunwook once said almost the same thing, voice low as they sprawled here on a rainy afternoon: You should smile more. It makes you look like yourself.

The ghost of it twists in Matthew’s chest.

He forces himself back to the present, back to Keeho’s steady gaze. “You’re just saying that because I’m covered in cats.”

Keeho laughs, reaching over to flick his sleeve where fur clings stubbornly. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it. But mostly it’s you.”

Matthew swallows around the lump forming in his throat. He doesn’t know how to answer that without tripping over his own feelings, so he lets the silence stretch, filled only by the steady hum of purring and the soft clink of cups from the counter.

Keeho fills it for him anyway, voice gentle. “Do you come here a lot?”

The question jolts him. He should’ve expected it, but it still feels like a spotlight. He hesitates, weighing honesty against the ache of what it would reveal. Finally, he shrugs. “I used to. Not so much lately.”

“Why’d you stop?”

Matthew fiddles with the hem of his sleeve, avoiding his eyes. Because every corner of this place has his shadow in it. Because being here without him felt like losing something twice. Aloud, he only says, “Just… got busy, I guess.”

Keeho doesn’t push. He just nods, letting the answer stand, and somehow that makes Matthew’s chest tighten even more.

To distract himself, Matthew picks up a feather toy from the basket beside the sofa and waves it lazily. Immediately, two kittens perk up and pounce, tumbling over each other in an uncoordinated mess. Matthew laughs, shaking the feather again and watching them scramble. Keeho joins in, dangling a toy mouse until Gamja swipes at it with surprising ferocity.

“Okay, she’s terrifying,” Keeho declares as Gamja nearly topples his drink in her enthusiasm.

“She’s just competitive,” Matthew counters, still giggling. “You’d lose to her in a fight.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d fight her. She owns me now.”

The banter flows so easily it feels rehearsed, though it isn’t. Matthew leans into it, leans into Keeho, their shoulders brushing as their laughter blends. For a fleeting moment, it feels like this is all there’s ever been; no history, no ghosts, just the simple joy of being here together.

But then another flicker of memory rises: Gunwook holding the same feather toy, pretending to be serious as he battled a trio of kittens, Matthew laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. The echo of it lingers like an aftertaste he can’t shake.

He pushes it down. This isn’t the past. This is now. Keeho’s warmth is real, his laughter alive, his presence steady in a way Matthew hadn’t realised he needed.

The evening drifts on, slow and unhurried, until the cafe feels like their own little bubble. Cats sprawl across every available surface, their soft breaths filling the quiet. Keeho shifts so that his knee knocks gently against Matthew’s, not quite deliberate, not quite accidental. Matthew lets it stay, lets the contact settle in his bones like a promise.

Maybe this is too perfect. Maybe it’s scary to feel this at ease, but as Matthew watches Keeho stroke Gamja’s fur with infinite patience, listens to the low hum of his voice as he murmurs nonsense to her, he decides that maybe perfect isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s something he’s allowed to hold onto, even if it doesn’t look the same as it once did.

When Keeho glances up and catches his eye, smiling like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, Matthew thinks for the first time in a long while, that he could get used to this.

By the time they leave the cafe, the sky has folded into night. The air outside is cool enough to nip at Matthew’s cheeks, but it’s softened by the warmth humming beneath his skin. His chest feels lighter than it has in weeks, maybe months. Keeho slips a hand to the small of his back as they walk, a touch so casual Matthew almost convinces himself it isn’t intentional, except the pressure stays, steady and reassuring, guiding him along.

The streets are quieter now, the buzz of traffic gentler, and Matthew falls into step beside Keeho with a comfort that surprises him. Normally he hates long walks at night, the way silence presses too close, but with Keeho there’s no weight in it. They fill it with half-serious jokes about the cats, debating which one was the cutest, though Keeho insists Gamja’s loyalty proves she’s superior.

“You’re biased,” Matthew says, bumping his shoulder against Keeho’s.

“Obviously. She chose me. I don’t make the rules.”

Matthew laughs, shaking his head. “Whatever. She’ll forget you in two days when someone else has better treats.”

“Rude. You think I don’t have staying power?” Keeho clutches his chest dramatically, staggering a step. “I’m crushed.”

“You’re dramatic.” Matthew fights a smile, but the corners of his mouth betray him. It’s so easy, this banter, like slipping into something that already knows the shape of him.

They wander until the streets open up into the wide stretch of the Han River. The city sprawls on either side, glowing with lights that ripple across the water’s dark surface. Towers rise against the night, their windows scattered with yellow squares, while bridges arch overhead like glowing ribbons. Matthew sucks in a breath, the beauty of it still managing to catch him off guard despite how many times he’s been here.

Keeho gestures toward a quiet spot near the railing where the view is clear. “Come on. Best seats in the house.”

They settle on the low wall, the cool stone seeping through Matthew’s jeans. For a while they just sit, watching the lights shimmer, listening to the soft lap of water against the shore. The quiet is companionable, threaded with the warmth of everything that’s passed between them tonight.

“Not bad, huh?” Keeho finally says, voice low.

“Not bad,” Matthew agrees, hugging his knees loosely to his chest. “I’ll give you that.”

Keeho leans back on his palms, face tilted to the night sky. “I always forget how pretty it is here. Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?”

Matthew hums, eyes tracing the reflection of headlights streaming across the bridge. “Yeah. But not in a bad way.”

Keeho glances sideways at him, smile tugging slow at his lips. “You always know how to put things.”

Matthew feels the warmth crawl up his neck, but he ducks his head, pretending to study the water. Compliments from Keeho shouldn’t hit this hard, but they do, every single time.

They lapse into silence again, but it isn’t heavy. If anything, it feels like a build-up, like the air itself is bracing for something. Matthew senses the shift in Keeho’s posture, the way his knee bounces once before stilling. His heart picks up, a nervous flutter he tries to ignore.

“So,” Keeho starts, clearing his throat. He doesn’t sound like himself; more tentative, less teasing. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Matthew glances at him, wary and curious all at once. “Yeah?”

Keeho scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Matthew’s face. “I mean, we’ve been doing this for a while. Dates, hanging out, whatever you want to call it. And I… I like it. I like you.” His laugh is soft, nervous. “And I guess I’m just wondering if you’d want to, you know… make it official.”

The words hang in the air between them, delicate and trembling like something fragile.

Matthew’s heart stutters, caught off guard even though maybe he shouldn’t be. He thinks of the cafe, of the cats curled against them, of Keeho’s laughter carrying him higher than he thought he could go. He thinks of the way the city lights glint in Keeho’s eyes right now, waiting, hopeful. His chest swells, full to the point of aching.

“Yes,” Matthew says before the hesitation can creep in. It comes out too fast, too sure, but he doesn’t take it back. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Keeho’s face lights up, a grin breaking wide and bright. “Yeah?”

Matthew laughs, nerves spilling out in the sound. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Keeho exhales, relief loosening his shoulders. He shifts closer, closing the small distance between them until their knees brush. His voice dips softer, gentler. “Can I…?”

Matthew nods before Keeho even finishes.

The kiss is unhurried, sweet, nothing like the charged, dizzying ones Matthew remembers from elsewhere in his life. This one is steady, warm, as if it’s meant to last. Keeho’s lips move against his with an ease that makes Matthew’s chest ache, that fills him with something so overwhelming he almost doesn’t recognise it.

When they part, Matthew stays close, foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling in the cool night air. He feels giddy, like the whole city has shifted just to make room for this moment. Matthew’s laugh is soft, shaky. His heart feels too big for his ribcage, full in a way that scares him but also feels right. For the first time in a long while, he lets himself lean into it completely, lets himself believe that happiness like this can be simple.

Keeho’s grin widens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Guess I owe Gunwook one.”

The name drops between them like a stone tossed into still water, rippling through Matthew’s chest. His brows furrow before he can catch himself. “What do you mean?”

Keeho shrugs, casual, though the admission is deliberate. “He’s the one who told me to go for it. To stop hesitating and just ask you to be official. Said I had nothing to worry about, that you really liked me. So… yeah. Guess I owe him.”

Matthew’s breath catches. For a moment, he can’t pin down what he feels. The emotions flicker too fast, too layered. Relief is the first to hit, sharp and bright. Relief that Gunwook is supportive, that he isn’t harbouring resentment or bitterness the way Matthew once feared. Relief that the tension that used to crackle between them, unpredictable and sharp-edged, has softened into something else entirely.

But right beneath that, tugging like an undertow, is something Matthew doesn’t want to name. The knowledge that Gunwook said those words, that he gave his blessing, feels final in a way nothing else has. It feels like a door closing with a quiet, decisive click. If Gunwook himself believes they’re past whatever they were, then maybe they really are. Maybe this is the sign Matthew has been waiting for; that it’s time to let go of the what-ifs, the half-buried memories, the ache he never fully wanted to confront.

His lips curl into a small smile, though it’s more fragile than before. “That… sounds like him.”

Keeho nudges his shoulder lightly, teasing. “See? Even your best friend ships us.”

Matthew huffs out a laugh, but it’s thinner, softer. “Yeah. Guess he does.”

And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe this is exactly how it’s meant to be: Gunwook cheering him on from the sidelines, a friend who has his back no matter what. That’s what they’ve always been, isn’t it? Friends. Complicated, messy at times, but still tied to each other. And maybe all the feelings he once carried – the longing, the jealousy, the painful hope – were just mistakes. Temporary slips in judgement.

He looks at Keeho again, at the warmth written so clearly across his face, and forces himself to focus on that. On the now. On the boy who chose him, who asked him to be official, who looks at him like the world narrows down to just this bench by the river. Matthew tells himself that’s enough. More than enough.

So when Keeho leans in again, brushing another kiss against his lips, Matthew lets himself melt into it. He pushes the tugging ache deeper down, burying it beneath the soft swell of affection and the promise of something uncomplicated. He’ll take this as his sign, his chance to move on, fully and finally, leaving everything else behind where it belongs: in the past.

Tonight is theirs, and Matthew decides, for both their sakes, not to look back.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

The evening is slow, lazy in a way Gunwook’s come to crave. He’s slouched on the floor of Ricky’s room, back propped against the bed, legs stretched out toward the coffee table. Gyuvin’s sprawled across the bed itself like a starfish, yelling every so often at the game blaring from the TV. Ricky sits cross-legged beside Gunwook, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face pale.

It’s comfortable, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask for effort. Gunwook likes these nights. No expectations, no heavy thoughts pressing down on him, just the familiar background noise of Gyuvin raging about a boss fight and Ricky humming under his breath at something on Twitter. Gunwook scrolls absently through his own feed, the world blurring into meaningless flashes of memes, news, and fan edits he doesn’t linger on.

Then Ricky’s voice cuts through, casual, almost careless. “Oh look.”

Gunwook blinks, head turning out of habit. “What?”

Ricky swivels his phone around so both Gunwook and Gyuvin can see. The screen shows a tweet, bright and impossible to miss: a photo of Keeho and Matthew, shoulders pressed close, Keeho kissing Matthew’s cheek mid-smile. The caption is short, loud, unambiguous: Finally mine ❤️ @pikashuuuu

For a split second, the world tilts.

Gyuvin lets out a low whistle. “Damn. So it’s official, huh?”

Gunwook doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on Ricky’s phone longer than it should, chest tightening with something heavy and sharp. He feels his throat go dry. Wordlessly, he unlocks his own phone, as if needing to confirm it wasn’t a trick of the light. But no, there it is, right at the top of his timeline, the same picture, the same caption, already racking up hundreds of likes and comments.

It shouldn’t hit this hard. He knew it was coming, anyone could see the way Matthew and Keeho had been circling closer and closer, the way Matthew glowed when Keeho was around, especially when Keeho asked for his advice. Gunwook had told himself he was prepared, that he’d accept it when it happened, that he’d smile and be supportive like any good friend would. But staring at the proof, at the picture of Matthew looking so damn happy in someone else’s arms, feels like swallowing glass.

He makes himself breathe. In, out. Just long enough to steady his hands so he can type.

happy for you guys @pikashuuuu @keehoes

The words look foreign, almost mocking, sitting there in the reply box. He stares at them for too long before finally pressing send.

The notification pings immediately: reply posted.

Gunwook sets his phone down on the table a little too carefully, as if afraid it might betray him by lighting up again with more reminders he doesn’t want. He leans back until his head thuds lightly against the edge of Ricky’s bed frame, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“You good?” Gyuvin’s voice cuts in, suspiciously casual.

“Yeah,” Gunwook says automatically, his voice flat. He forces a smile, tilting his head toward Gyuvin. “I’m happy for him. Really. Matthew hyung deserves it.”

Ricky glances up, eyebrows raised. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you moved on?” Gyuvin asks, blunt as ever. He’s still half-focused on his game, controller in hand, but his words hit straight on target.

Gunwook laughs, short and humourless. “Yeah. Of course I have. Things are good again. We’re good.”

It’s a lie, he knows it, and maybe they know it too. Ricky studies him a beat too long, like he’s trying to read between the lines, while Gyuvin’s character dies on screen because he’s distracted. Neither of them push, and Gunwook is grateful for that. He doesn’t think he has the strength to say anything more tonight.

Inside, though, the guilt gnaws at him. Regret, sharp and sour, coils tight in his chest. He thinks about all the chances he had, all the moments Matthew gave him; the way Matthew looked at him like he was enough, like he was waiting for Gunwook to just see him. And he hadn’t. He’d been too blind, too stupid, too wrapped up in his own confusion to notice.

Now it’s too late. Someone else noticed. Someone else claimed the smile that used to be his, the arms that used to reach for him first.

Gunwook tips his head back, staring at the ceiling until his eyes blur. He can still see the picture burned against his mind: Matthew’s grin, Keeho’s hand cupping his face like he belongs there. The kind of picture that screams permanence.

He swallows hard, forcing down the ache, and repeats the lie to himself like a mantra: I’m happy for him. I’m glad he found someone who loves him the way he deserves.

But the truth lingers anyway, heavy and merciless: it should have been him.

────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────

Hanbin and Hao’s apartment is buzzing in a way it only ever does when all of them are crammed inside together. The music is low, but the voices are loud, laughter bouncing off the walls, conversation overlapping in a chaos that somehow still feels like home. Gunwook squeezes himself onto the couch between Gyuvin and a pile of throw pillows, a plastic cup balanced in his hands. He likes the weekly ritual that keeps them together, no matter how busy life gets.

The doorbell rings mid-story, and the chatter shifts as Hanbin rushes to answer it. When Keeho and Matthew step inside, it’s different. The energy tilts, sharpens, like everyone has been waiting for this exact moment. And maybe they have.

Keeho has his arm slung casually around Matthew’s shoulders, but it’s Matthew’s grin that gives them away. It’s wide, helpless, the kind of smile that comes from being seen and wanted. The kind of smile Gunwook remembers too well.

A chorus of voices erupts; cheers, whistles, Gyuvin’s dramatic “Finally!” ringing above the rest. Ricky clinks his cup against Hanbin’s in mock solemnity. Hao beams and ushers them in like honored guests.

Someone shouts, “A toast!” and suddenly all eyes are on the new couple.

Keeho raises his drink with exaggerated flair. “To Matthew finally saying yes.”

“And to Keeho for finally having the guts to ask!” Hanbin adds, grinning. Cups lift, clink together, and the room bursts into laughter again.

Gunwook forces his legs to move, rising from the couch before he can second-guess it. He steps forward, smile carefully arranged on his face, and claps Keeho on the shoulder. “Congrats, hyung.” His voice is steady, even warm. Then he turns to Matthew. “I’m really happy for you both.”

Matthew’s eyes soften when they meet his, like the words mean more than just polite acknowledgement. He smiles, bright and genuine. “Thanks, Wookie. Seriously.”

The way he says it – seriously – lingers like a hook in Gunwook’s chest. He swallows it down, nodding once, then retreats back to the couch before anyone can notice how tight his throat feels.

Ricky and Gyuvin descend like chaos incarnate, thrusting fresh drinks into everyone’s hands. “No excuses tonight,” Ricky declares, topping off Gunwook’s cup before he can protest.

“It’s a celebration!” Gyuvin crows. “Our boy’s in love!”

Keeho and Matthew groan in unison, which only makes the teasing worse.

Gunwook lifts the cup to his lips but takes only the smallest sip, the burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. He rests the cup against his knee, fingers curled tight around the plastic. He’s hyper-aware of every ounce of liquid inside it, of how easy it would be to lose his grip. Not just on the drink, but on his words. On himself.

Gyuvin notices, of course. “You’re drinking like an old man,” he teases, leaning into Gunwook’s side. “Come on, Wook-ah, live a little.”

Gunwook shakes his head, managing a small smile. “I know my limits.”

“What limits?” Gyuvin scoffs, swigging from his own cup. “It’s one night. Nobody’s gonna remember what you say tomorrow.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Gunwook doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he shrugs, lifting his cup for show before setting it down mostly untouched on the table. Gyuvin makes a face but lets it go, distracted when Ricky yells for him to join a game of cards.

Gunwook stays put, anchored to the couch, his attention drifting – unwilling, but impossible to stop – to Matthew across the room.

He’s settled on the armrest of Keeho’s chair, legs draped over Keeho’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His cheeks are flushed pink, from the alcohol or the teasing or both, and his laughter spills out easily, unguarded. Every so often, Keeho leans in to murmur something against his ear, and Matthew tilts his head back, eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking with delight.

Gunwook’s chest tightens. It’s beautiful, in a way that hurts to look at.

He remembers when Matthew used to laugh like that with him, when the sound felt like a secret only they shared. Back then, he thought it would last forever, thought he had all the time in the world to figure himself out. He hadn’t realised how quickly time runs out until it was already gone.

Now Matthew is someone else’s, his happiness woven into a picture Gunwook isn’t part of.

Gunwook takes another careful sip of his drink, the bitterness grounding him. He tells himself it’s enough to see Matthew happy, to know he’s found something real. That’s what matters. That’s what he should focus on.

But when Matthew throws his head back and laughs at something Keeho says, the sound threading warm and golden through the room, it feels like a knife slipping between Gunwook’s ribs. He forces himself to smile anyway, because that’s what friends do. Because that’s all he’s allowed to be now.

Despite the room being alive with noise – Gyuvin arguing over the rules of cards, Ricky laughing so loudly it drowns out the music, Hanbin pretending to referee when he’s just as bad as the rest – Gunwook sits at the edge of it all, drink loose in his hand, gaze fixed stubbornly across the room.

Matthew is radiant tonight. There’s no other word for it. He’s glowing in that confident way people do when they’re exactly where they’re meant to be. His cheeks are still tinged pink, his lips curved into a smile that never seems to fade. Every so often, his head tips back and his laughter rings out, soft and musical, and Gunwook finds his own lips tugging upwards in response. Reflex, like muscle memory.

It should be enough watching him happy, watching him at ease. Isn’t that what everyone says love is supposed to be? Wanting someone else’s joy, even if it has nothing to do with you? Gunwook clings to that thought like it’s a lifeline, lets himself smile whenever Matthew does, lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that he’s part of the reason.

But the truth stings sharper than any comfort. Because the longer he watches, the clearer it becomes: Matthew should’ve been smiling like this with him. It should’ve been his arm Matthew leaned into, his words making him laugh until his eyes crinkled, his shoulder carrying the weight of Matthew’s trust. Instead, he’d hesitated, stumbled, let fear twist his heart until the chance slipped right through his fingers.

And now here he is, sitting on the sidelines, smiling through the ache of a heart that’s already cracked and doesn’t know how to heal.

He takes another sip from his cup, the taste bitter and thin. The warmth doesn’t spread far enough. It doesn’t drown out the sight of Keeho brushing Matthew’s fringe out of his face, doesn’t blunt the sound of Matthew’s laugh when Keeho cracks a joke.

Gunwook’s jaw tightens. He tells himself to look away, to focus on Gyuvin making a fool of himself with Ricky, to join in the chaos so his chest doesn’t feel so heavy. But he can’t. His eyes are drawn back, over and over, to the small, quiet moments unfolding just a few feet away.

Keeho presses a kiss against Matthew’s temple first, quick and almost absentminded, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Then, when Matthew tilts his head to look at him, Keeho closes the space and kisses him properly, lips brushing in a way that’s soft and sure and entirely theirs.

The sound in Gunwook’s ears cuts out.

It’s not jealousy, it’s something heavier and deeper, the kind of ache that settles in the bones. His stomach twists. His lungs feel too small. He can’t sit here, not when the sight of Matthew kissing someone else feels like a mirror shattering in slow motion, every shard glinting with the reminder of what he lost.

His hands tighten around the cup until the plastic creaks. He sets it down quickly before it can split, before someone notices.

The room is suddenly too warm, too loud, too suffocating. His chest pounds, a dull throb against his ribs, and he knows if he stays, if he watches another second, the mask he’s wearing will crack, and he can’t let that happen. Not here, not in front of Matthew.

So Gunwook pushes himself up, careful not to draw attention. He weaves past Ricky and Gyuvin’s game, past Hao topping up everyone’s drinks, past Hanbin who’s halfway through a story. No one stops him, no one even notices.

The balcony door slides open with a quiet scrape, and the rush of cool night air hits him all at once. Relief floods his chest as he steps outside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

The city stretches out beyond, a patchwork of glowing windows and streetlamps, the hum of traffic muted this high up. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn, grounding him in a way the cramped living room couldn’t.

Gunwook braces his hands against the railing, head tipping forward as he drags in a deep breath. The cool air fills his lungs, steadies the tremor in his chest. He closes his eyes, lets the noise from inside fade to a muffled blur.

For a moment, it’s just him and the night. The quiet hum of the city, the bite of the breeze against his cheeks, the slow, stubborn ache in his heart. He tells himself he’ll stand here just long enough to collect himself, long enough to stitch the mask back together before anyone notices he’s gone.

The balcony has become a strange kind of sanctuary for Gunwook. He never seeks it out on purpose, not really, but somehow it always finds him. Each gathering, each night too heavy with laughter or longing, he ends up here. Pretending the stars above might offer him answers he’s too afraid to ask for.

It feels like he’s been here a thousand times before, leaning against the cool railing, heart lodged too high in his chest. And, just like clockwork, the sound comes; the gentle scrape of the sliding door opening, the muted thud as it closes again.

Gunwook stiffens, bracing. Who is it this time? Gyuvin, with his endless chatter? Hanbin, carrying the weight of quiet understanding? He doesn’t turn, waiting for the voice that will tell him which mask he has to put on.

When it comes, soft and familiar, the syllables of his name rolling out in a way that makes something sharp twist inside him, Gunwook’s head whips around before he can stop himself.

Matthew.

He’s standing there in the dim light spilling from the apartment, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting. His steps are a little unsteady, the faint slur in his voice betraying how many drinks he’s had, but he’s steady enough to hold Gunwook’s gaze.

And God, he’s beautiful. More beautiful than Gunwook has any right to think.

“What are you doing out here, Wookie?” Matthew asks, words curling lazily into the night.

Gunwook clears his throat, forcing his eyes back toward the city skyline before he forgets himself. “Needed some fresh air,” he says simply, hoping the steadiness in his voice hides the storm in his chest.

Matthew hums, as though the answer makes perfect sense. He comes to stand beside him, shoulders nearly brushing, and for a while they share the silence. The muffled sound of laughter leaks through the door behind them, but out here the world feels smaller, softer, like they’ve slipped out of time altogether.

Then Matthew speaks again, voice lower, more deliberate. “I made things official with Keeho.”

Gunwook’s throat tightens. He hums, just enough to acknowledge it, though his fingers curl tightly against the railing.

“I’m really happy, Wookie,” Matthew continues. His words aren’t loud, but they’re threaded with warmth, with a kind of tenderness Gunwook hasn’t heard directed at him in a long time. He glances sideways, a faint smile tugging at his lips, eyes a little hazy from the alcohol but sincere all the same.

Gunwook swallows hard. The smile threatens to undo him, but he forces himself to answer, voice quieter than he intends. “I’m happy that you’re happy.”

And he means it. He means it so much it hurts.

Matthew shifts closer, the small space between them dissolving until Gunwook can feel the faint brush of his breath against his collar. Almost chest to chest now, Matthew tips his chin up, eyes searching his.

“Are you happy, Wookie?” he asks.

The question hangs between them like a blade.

Gunwook feels it slice clean through him. His instinct is to laugh it off, to tell the truth that has been gnawing at him for months, but Matthew is looking at him with such unguarded expectation, and Gunwook can’t add weight to those already-heavy shoulders.

So he lies. Again. “Yeah,” he says, and the word tastes bitter. “I’m happy.”

Matthew’s eyes soften. He smiles, small and relieved, like it’s exactly the answer he wanted. Then, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans forward until his forehead rests gently against Gunwook’s chest. His voice is muffled when he whispers, “I’m glad.”

Gunwook freezes. For a heartbeat, two, he forgets how to breathe. The warmth of Matthew’s skin seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, branding itself into his ribs, and it takes everything in him not to shatter.

Slowly, and so lovingly, he lifts his arms. He hesitates at first.  One breath, one heartbeat, one last chance to stop himself, but then the dam breaks, and he’s pulling Matthew into his embrace, holding him close like he’s something fragile and fleeting.

His hands splay across Matthew’s back, memorising the curve of his shoulders, the way he fits so perfectly against him. Gunwook closes his eyes, inhaling the faint scent of Matthew’s shampoo, the warmth of him, the impossible reality of having him here like this.

He knows he might never get this again. Knows that when the morning comes, Matthew will go back to Keeho, back to the happiness he deserves, but right now, just for this moment, Gunwook lets himself feel like Matthew’s his.

He holds Matthew tighter, committing the weight of him to memory, even as his heart cracks wider with every second.

Because this might be the last time he’ll ever get to know what it feels like to have the one he loves in his arms. 

Chapter Text

“Keeho hyung’s good for him.” His voice sounds flat. “That’s the problem.”

Gunwook sits on the sofa with his arms crossed tight, like he’s holding himself together. The leather under him creaks whenever he shifts, but otherwise the room is quiet. His counsellor is sitting opposite, notebook balanced on one knee, waiting. She doesn’t push him straight away, she never does. That’s the worst part, maybe. The silence feels heavier because it isn’t forced. She’s giving him space, but space only makes the ache louder.

He picks at a thread on his hoodie, eyes fixed on the floor. He’s been coming here long enough to know he’s supposed to elaborate, but today the words stick in his throat. They’ve been circling in his head all week, every time he’s seen Matthew smile at someone else, every time Keeho laughed and made the others laugh with him. He hasn’t found a way to untangle it. He isn’t sure there is a way.

His counsellor tilts her head, pen still. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” Gunwook mutters. His chest feels tight, like he’s swallowing glass. “He’s good for Matthew. He makes him happy. That should be what I want, right? For him to be happy. But every time I see it I feel like…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Like I’m being punished.”

She writes something down but doesn’t look away from him. “Punished for what?”