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Chapter Text

The bass from the club’s speakers thrummed through Yeonjun’s chest, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in his head.

Or maybe that was the alcohol. 

He wasn’t sure anymore. 

All he knew was that the world was a blur of neon lights and too-loud laughter, and the weight of the night pressed down on him like a second skin.

He shouldn’t have come out. Not after what happened. Not after him .

But Soobin had insisted, his usual mischievous grin plastered across his face as he dragged Yeonjun out of his dorm. “You’re not going to sit in your room and mope over that one who didn’t see you're worth it,” Soobin had said, his voice light but firm. “You’re coming with me, and we’re going to make bad decisions.”

Yeonjun had laughed at the time, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Now, standing in the middle of the club with a drink in his hand, he wondered if forgetting was even possible.

The memory of his ex’s face—smiling, lying, cheating —flashed in his mind.

“He… he cheated on me. With some girl in the damn library.” Yeonjun’s voice cracked, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. He stared at the glass in his hand, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. “I—”

He couldn’t finish. The rest of the sentence lodged itself in his throat, bitter, and suffocating. Instead, he downed the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of the liquor sharp and grounding. For a moment, it drowned out the ache in his chest, the hollow feeling of being replaced , of being nothing.

The club’s music thrummed around him, the bass vibrating through his body, but it felt distant, like he was underwater. He didn’t know why he’d even come out tonight. 

To forget? 

To pretend he was okay? 

All he knew was that every laugh, every smile around him felt like a mockery of the storm raging inside him.

“You’re brooding again,” a voice purred in his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Yeonjun turned to see Soobin leaning against the bar beside him, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not brooding ,” he said, though the pout on his lips betrayed him.

Soobin raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Sure you’re not. You’ve got that whole ‘tragic romantic protagonist’ aura around you… Very dramatic. Very you .”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, I guess”

“Maybe I’m a little drunk right now…” Soobin said, leaning in closer. His breath brushed against Yeonjun’s ear as he added, “What about you?”

Flirting while drunk was nothing new for them. It was always there. A smile, the weight of a glance, the casual drape of Soobin’s arm over Yeonjun’s shoulders. It was easy, familiar , a game they played without ever crossing the line.

But tonight was different.

Maybe it was the way his ex’s betrayal still clawed at his chest, sharp and unrelenting. 

Maybe it was the way the word replaceable echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of how little he’d meant to someone who had meant everything to him. 

Or maybe it was the way Soobin looked at him tonight—like he saw him, really saw him , in a way no one else ever had.

Whatever it was, it made Yeonjun ache in a way he couldn’t ignore. 

He needed to feel something— anything —other than this hollow emptiness. He needed to feel like someone cared. Like someone wanted him. Like someone could look at him and see something worth loving, worth desiring.

And Soobin? 

Soobin had always been good at making him feel seen.

He turned to face Soobin fully, his expression deliberately unimpressed. “Ugh… I have terrible taste in friends.”

Soobin laughed, the sound low. “ Terrible taste, huh?” Soobin said, his gaze dropping to Yeonjun’s lips for just a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Funny, I was just thinking the opposite.”

Yeonjun’s breath hitched, but he recovered quickly, his smirk returning. “Flirting with me now? Desperate much?”

“Always,” Soobin said without missing a beat. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Yeonjun’s as he took the drink from his hand. “But you make it so easy.”

Yeonjun watched as Soobin brought the glass to his lips, his eyes never leaving his. The way he drank—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring it —was almost on purpose. Yeonjun’s throat went dry, and he quickly looked away, pretending to be interested in the crowd.

“You’re impossible,” Yeonjun muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his voice.

“And yet, here you are,” Soobin said, setting the glass down and stepping closer. “Still letting me steal your drinks. Still standing next to me. Still—”

“Still wondering why I put up with you,” Yeonjun interrupted, turning back to him with a raised eyebrow.

Soobin’s grin turned wicked. “Because you like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Same thing.”

Yeonjun opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his lips as Soobin leaned in, his face inches from him. For a moment, the noise of the club faded into the background, and all Yeonjun could focus on was the heat of Soobin’s body, the way his eyes seemed to see straight through him.

“You know,” Soobin said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “if you’re looking for a something like… I don’t know… A distraction, maybe, I’m more than willing to help.”

Yeonjun’s pulse quickened, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Oh? And what kind of distraction are we talking about?”

Soobin’s smile was all teeth. “The kind that involves my hands, your lips, and absolutely no feelings.”

Similar words had littered the chats between his ex and that girl. Plans for meetings, videos, photos—all exchanged with a casual cruelty that made Yeonjun’s stomach churn. There had even been a deal between them , a cold agreement that they didn’t have to worry about Yeonjun because he would never find out.

“He’s too trusting,” his ex had written, the words burning themselves into Yeonjun’s memory. “He’ll never suspect a thing.”

And he wouldn’t have. 

Not if he hadn’t gone to the library with Kai that day. Not if he hadn’t stumbled upon them by accident, their heads bent close together, their laughter sharp and intimate in a way that made Yeonjun’s chest ache.

He had stood there, frozen, as the pieces fell into place. The late nights, the excuses, the way his ex had grown distant—it all made sense now. And the worst part wasn’t the betrayal itself. It was the way they had talked about him, like he was nothing. Like he was disposable .

Focus on the present. 

He’s not here.

It’s over, okay?

Yeonjun laughed, though it came out more breathless than he intended. “Bold of you to assume I’d let you touch me.”

“Did I ask permission?” Soobin shot back, his fingers brushing against Yeonjun’s wrist.

The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a jolt of electricity through Yeonjun’s body. He told himself it was the alcohol, the music, the heat of the crowd.

“You’re trouble,” Yeonjun said, his voice low.

Soobin’s grin widened. “And you love it.”

Yeonjun didn’t have a response to that. Or maybe he did, but the words got lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Instead, he reached for Soobin’s drink, one he didn't know where it came from, and took a long sip, his eyes never leaving Soobin’s.

The air between them shifted, charged with something unspoken. Yeonjun could feel it , the pull of it, like gravity. He told himself it was just a game, just Soobin being Soobin . Trying to help, the shoulder he could rely on. 

Yeonjun doesn’t need to follow to accept the proposal of his drunk friend.

But when Soobin’s hand slid to his waist, pulling him closer, Yeonjun didn’t resist.

“Friends,” Soobin said, his lips brushing against Yeonjun’s ear. “We’re still just friends, right?”

Yeonjun’s breath hitched, but he managed a smirk. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just friends.”

Soobin’s smile softened, just a little. “This can be whatever you want it to be, okay?”

He nodded his head. 

But as Soobin’s lips found his, Yeonjun couldn’t help but wonder if they were lying to themselves.

Soobin had seen Yeonjun hurt before, but not like this . 

This pain was different—raw, jagged, and unrelenting. It clung to Yeonjun like a shadow, twisting in his chest and spilling out in ways he couldn’t control. 

Yeonjun was always the strong one, the one who wore confidence like armor, who laughed off vulnerability as if it were nothing. But tonight, that armor was gone. Tonight, he was shattered, a mess of emotions he couldn’t— or wouldn’t —hide.

Soobin watched him from across the room, his chest tightening with every unsteady breath Yeonjun took. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance between them and pull Yeonjun into his arms. 

But the space between them felt impossible to bridge, filled with words neither of them knew how to say.

He needed to do something. Anything .

But as the alcohol clouded his thoughts and the weight of Yeonjun’s pain pressed down on him, Soobin did the only thing his drunk mind could think of.

And it was reckless.

And it was selfish .

And it was everything they couldn’t take back .

A kiss could make your world turn upside down.

Soobin’s lips brushed against Yeonjun’s, just a soft touch, but it was enough. Yeonjun froze, and for a split second, neither of them moved. The touch was brief, barely there, but it was a spark that ignited something neither of them had expected.

And then, both burned.

The air between them was molten, a searing heat that seemed to radiate from their bodies as Soobin’s lips crashed into Yeonjun’s. 

It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t tentative—it was a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. Yeonjun gasped, the sound swallowed by Soobin’s mouth as he pressed closer, his hands gripping Yeonjun’s shoulders like he was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Soobin’s heart raced as he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding into Yeonjun’s hair, pulling him closer, unable to resist. Yeonjun’s lips parted in surprise, and the warmth of his breath against Soobin’s mouth sent a shiver down his spine. 

This wasn’t just a kiss— it was a desperate release, an unspoken understanding that had been building between them for far too long.

Yeonjun’s body was stiff at first, unsure, but slowly— slowly —he gave in. His hands moved. The kiss deepened, becoming messy, urgent. It was almost as if Soobin could feel Yeonjun’s heart beating in time with his own, the frantic pulse of two people who had crossed a line neither knew existed.

Soobin was aware of everything at that moment, the way Yeonjun’s breath hitched against his lips, the way his chest pressed against his, the way the kiss became more than just physical. 

It was emotional . It was a rush, an overwhelming wave of need and longing that neither of them had been able to name before now.

For a brief, impossible second, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them, and nothing else mattered.

Soobin’s kiss was relentless, a storm of emotion that left Yeonjun breathless. His lips moved with a fierce urgency, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of his feelings into that one moment. Yeonjun’s hands, trembling and unsure, found their way to Soobin’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor himself. 

But Soobin wasn’t letting him go— not now, not ever . His hand slid up Yeonjun’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between them.

Yeonjun’s mind was a whirlwind, a chaotic mess of emotions he couldn’t begin to untangle. But his body—his body knew exactly what it wanted. 

He kissed Soobin back with a desperation that surprised even himself, his lips parting as the kiss deepened, the rhythm becoming faster, more urgent. It was as if every ounce of pain, every betrayal , every moment of doubt had been leading to this—this explosion of raw, unfiltered passion.

Soobin’s breath was ragged against Yeonjun’s lips, his chest heaving as he pressed closer, his body trembling with the intensity of what he was feeling. 

He kissed Yeonjun like he was drowning, like Yeonjun’s lips were the only thing keeping him alive. And Yeonjun felt it too. The ache in his chest, the fire in his veins, the way his heart pounded in his ears like a drum. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel.

Soobin’s hand slid down Yeonjun’s back, pulling him even closer, until their bodies were pressed together so tightly that Yeonjun could feel the rapid beat of Soobin’s heart against his own. His touch was electric, sending shivers down Yeonjun’s spine as his fingers traced the curve of his waist, the dip of his hip. Yeonjun’s breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound that only seemed to spur Soobin on.

The kiss was everything— anger, pain, longing, desire —all of it poured into one searing moment. Yeonjun’s hands moved without thought, sliding up Soobin’s chest, over his shoulders, until they were tangled in his hair. He pulled him closer, his lips moving against Soobin’s with a kind of fierce desperation that left them both breathless. It was as if they were trying to erase every hurt, every betrayal, every moment of doubt with the heat of their mouths, the press of their bodies.

Soobin’s lips trailed down Yeonjun’s jaw, his breath hot against his skin as he pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck. Yeonjun’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping his lips as Soobin’s teeth grazed his skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to his core. 

His hands tightened in Soobin’s hair, pulling him closer, urging him on. He didn’t care about the noise of the bar, the people around them, the world outside this moment. All he cared about was the way Soobin’s lips felt against his skin, the way his hands burned where they touched him, the way his heart raced in his chest.

“Soobin,” Yeonjun gasped, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he was feeling. 

But Soobin didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop. 

His lips found Yeonjun’s again, kissing him with a kind of fierce determination that left Yeonjun dizzy. It was as if Soobin was trying to tell him everything he couldn’t say, every word he couldn’t find, with the press of his lips, the heat of his touch.

And then, finally, they broke apart, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they stared at each other, their chests heaving, their hearts pounding. The air between them was thick, charged with the weight of everything they hadn’t said, everything they hadn’t done. 

Yeonjun’s lips were swollen, his skin flushed, his entire body trembling with the intensity of what had just happened.

Soobin’s eyes were dark, filled with a kind of raw emotion that made Yeonjun’s chest ache. He reached up, his hand trembling as he brushed a strand of hair from Yeonjun’s face, his touch so tender it made Yeonjun’s breath catch. “Yeonjun,” he whispered, his voice rough, filled with a kind of desperation that made Yeonjun’s heart clench. “Just friends, right?”

Yeonjun’s throat tightened, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he looked at Soobin. 

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to put into words everything he was feeling.

But he didn’t need to. 

The way Soobin was looking at him, the way his hands trembled as they cupped his face, the way his lips still tingled from the intensity of their kiss—it was enough.

Oh, you are scared too. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Yeonjun allowed himself to hope.

“Let’s talk about this in your room, okay?”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Yeonjun felt Soobin’s hands settle on his waist, firm and possessive. The warmth of Soobin’s body pressed against his back, and before Yeonjun could say a word, he felt the soft brush of lips against the nape of his neck.

Yeonjun shuddered, a laugh escaping him—half from the unexpected sensation, half from the alcohol buzzing in his veins. It was new, this feeling, but not unwelcome. His hand instinctively found its way to Soobin’s head, fingers tangling in his hair as he spoke, his voice soft, almost teasing.

“Don’t do that,” Yeonjun murmured, though there was no real protest in his tone. “It tickles.”

Soobin didn’t listen. 

Of course, he didn’t, he’s drunk . 

Instead, he kissed the spot again, his lips lingering this time before his teeth grazed the skin, gentle but deliberate. Yeonjun’s breath hitched, a small whimper escaping him before he could stop it. It didn’t hurt—not really. It was strange, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. 

And so, Yeonjun let his eyes fall shut, surrendering to the sensation as Soobin continued to explore the curve of his neck, each kiss and bite sending shivers down his spine.

At some point, they turned to face each other, their lips meeting in a kiss that was slower, sweeter, but charged with a hunger that neither of them could ignore. The taste of each other was intoxicating, and the way their breaths mingled felt like sharing something far more intimate than air.

His fingers traced the line of Soobin’s jaw, rough with the faintest hint of stubble, before settling at the base of his neck. He tangled his fingers in Soobin’s hair, tugging gently, and felt a low hum of approval vibrate against his lips.

Yeonjun smiled into the kiss, a quiet, private thing, before nipping lightly at Soobin’s lower lip. It was a tease, a playful challenge, and Soobin responded instantly. His grip tightened, pulling Yeonjun even closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened, growing hotter, messier, as if they were both trying to pour every unspoken word, every hidden feeling, into that single moment.

There was something about this— this strange, intoxicating mix of tenderness and recklessness —that made Yeonjun’s chest ache in the best way. 

It wasn’t just physical; it was something deeper, something that made his heart race and his thoughts scatter. 

He could feel the heat of Soobin’s skin through his clothes, the way his pulse quickened under Yeonjun’s fingertips. It was as if they were connected in a way that went beyond touch, beyond words, beyond anything either of them could explain.

And when Soobin finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Yeonjun’s, his breath coming in ragged bursts, Yeonjun couldn’t help but laugh softly—a breathless, disbelieving sound.

“What?” Soobin murmured, his voice rough, his eyes searching Yeonjun’s face.

Yeonjun shook his head, his fingers still tangled in Soobin’s hair. “Nothing,” he said, though the way he looked at Soobin—like he was seeing him for the first time—said everything.

The buzzing of Yeonjun’s phone cut through the quiet of the room, sharp and insistent. He hesitated, his breath still uneven from the kiss, before pulling away from Soobin to glance at the screen. 

His stomach dropped.

It’s him.

Yeonjun stared at the name flashing on the screen, his chest tightening. He shouldn’t answer. He knew he shouldn’t answer. But something—curiosity, maybe, or the lingering ache of what they’d lost—made him swipe to accept the call.

“Hello?” Yeonjun’s voice was steady, but his heart was racing.

“Yeonjun,” his ex’s voice came through, soft and familiar in a way that made Yeonjun’s chest ache. “I… I miss you.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the phone. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he could say anything.

“I know I messed up,” his ex continued, the words spilling out in a rush. “I know I hurt you. But three years, almost four… that’s not something we should just throw away, right? We can fix this. We can—”

Yeonjun’s breath hitched as he felt Soobin’s lips brush against the side of his neck, warm and deliberate. He hadn’t even realized Soobin had moved closer, but now he was there, his hands sliding around Yeonjun’s waist, his mouth trailing soft, teasing kisses along Yeonjun’s shoulder.

“Yeonjun?” his ex’s voice came through again, hesitant now. “Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun managed, his voice strained as Soobin’s teeth grazed his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. “I’m here.”

Soobin’s hands wandered lower, his fingers skimming the hem of Yeonjun’s shirt before slipping underneath, tracing slow, deliberate circles on his stomach. Yeonjun bit his lip to stifle a sound, his free hand gripping the edge of the wall for balance.

“I just… I want to see you,” his ex said, his voice pleading. “Can we talk? Please?”

Yeonjun opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat as Soobin’s lips found the sensitive spot just below his ear, his breath hot against Yeonjun’s skin. It was a challenge, a game— I dare you to stay calm while I’m doing this.

“I—” Yeonjun started, but his voice broke as Soobin’s hands slid higher, his touch firm and unrelenting. He could feel Soobin’s smirk against his neck, the way his fingers pressed just hard enough to make Yeonjun’s breath hitch.

“Yeonjun?” his ex’s voice was tinged with concern now. “Are you okay?”

His ex would never imagine that Yeonjun is with someone else—not when it hasn’t even been a month since they broke up. 

He could never picture it, not really. And even if Yeonjun were with someone, the idea that it would be Soobin would never cross his mind. In his ex’s eyes, there had never been any signs, no hints that something simmered between them. 

Soobin was just the flirty, carefree friend—the one who teased Yeonjun too much, laughed too loudly, and lingered a little too long. Nothing more.

But more than that, his ex couldn’t fathom Yeonjun with someone else because Yeonjun had been his .

Devoted. Obedient. Dedicated. Yeonjun had poured everything into their relationship, into him , into the future they were supposed to build together. 

His ex had taken that for granted, had assumed Yeonjun would always be there, waiting, loyal to a fault. The idea that Yeonjun could move on so quickly, that he could lose himself in messy kisses and reckless touches with someone else, was unthinkable .

And yet, here he is.

The adrenaline of it all was intoxicating. 

The way Soobin looked at him. The way his hands felt on Yeonjun’s skin, as if he’d been waiting for this all along. The way every kiss , every touch , every whispered word made Yeonjun feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years.

It was reckless. 

It was messy. 

It was everything his ex would never expect from him.

And Yeonjun? He was starting to crave it.

“Fine,” Yeonjun choked out, his hand tightening around the phone. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. Not with Soobin’s lips on his skin, his hands mapping every inch of him like he was trying to memorize him. Not with the way his body was responding, betraying him with every touch, every kiss.

Yeonjun had known for a very long time that Soobin didn’t like his ex. Since their first meeting, something had felt off between them—a tension that neither of them acknowledged but that lingered like a shadow.

Yeonjun hadn’t interfered, hadn’t asked questions. 

But this? The way Soobin was trying to prove, in his own possessive way, that Yeonjun was with him now? That was new. 

Jealousy? Yeonjun didn’t think so. 

Soobin wasn’t the type to get jealous. Or, at least, he’d never shown it before.

Soobin’s hands slid up to Yeonjun’s neck, his fingers pressing gently but firmly, tilting Yeonjun’s head to the side to give him more access. His lips trailed along Yeonjun’s jaw, down to the hollow of his throat, and Yeonjun’s breath hitched. His heart was racing, his mind foggy, and he could barely focus on the voice coming through the phone.

“I’ll call you later,” Yeonjun managed to say, his voice steady despite the way his body was betraying him. He glanced at Soobin, who had paused mid-kiss to glare at him, and a small, mischievous smile tugged at Yeonjun’s lips. “But yeah, let’s meet tomorrow, near the same café as always.”

Soobin’s hands tightened on Yeonjun’s neck, his eyes narrowing. Yeonjun could feel the tension in his grip, the way his body stiffened against him. 

But Yeonjun wasn’t done . 

He tilted his head, meeting Soobin’s gaze as he added, “No, I don’t have plans for later. My classes start after three hours.”

That was it. That was the breaking point.

Soobin’s eyes darkened, and before Yeonjun could react, Soobin had snatched the phone from his hand. He didn’t even bother to end the call properly—he just tossed it onto the couch, the screen cracking slightly as it landed. Yeonjun opened his mouth to protest, but Soobin cut him off, his voice low and dangerous.

“You’re really spoiled child” Soobin said, his hands sliding down to grip Yeonjun’s waist. “Do you enjoy seeing me like this?”

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. “Like what?”

Soobin didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed him—hard, demanding, and full of all the frustration and possessiveness he’d been holding back. 

It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a claim, a declaration. 

His lips moved against Yeonjun’s with a fierce urgency, his hands gripping Yeonjun’s waist like he was afraid he might slip away. Yeonjun gasped into the kiss, his earlier defiance crumbling as he felt the heat of Soobin’s body pressing into his, the way his heart pounded against his chest.

Yeonjun’s hands instinctively went to Soobin’s shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he kissed him back with equal fervor. 

There was no teasing now, no games — just the two of them , caught in a whirlwind of emotion and desire. 

Soobin’s tongue brushed against Yeonjun’s, and a shiver ran down his spine, his knees going weak. He clung to Soobin, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts as the kiss deepened, consuming them both.

Soobin’s hands slid up Yeonjun’s back, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. His touch was electric, sending sparks through Yeonjun’s veins, and Yeonjun couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. All he could do was feel —the heat of Soobin’s skin, the way his lips moved with a desperate kind of hunger, the way his body seemed to fit perfectly against his own.

When Soobin broke the kiss, it was only to trail his lips down Yeonjun’s jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of his neck. Yeonjun’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping his lips as Soobin’s hands roamed lower, exploring every curve and dip of his body with a possessiveness that left him trembling.

“Soobin,” Yeonjun breathed, his voice barely a whisper. His hands tangled in Soobin’s hair, pulling him closer, needing more. But Soobin wasn’t done. He kissed his way back up to Yeonjun’s lips, his movements slower now, more deliberate, as if he was savoring every second.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless. Soobin rested his forehead against Yeonjun’s, his eyes still dark with emotion. “You’re not meeting him tomorrow,” he said, his voice firm.

Yeonjun didn’t answer— couldn’t answer . Instead, he kissed him again, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. His hands slid under Soobin’s shirt, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, and Soobin groaned, the sound sending a thrill through Yeonjun’s entire body.

Yeonjun laughed, a soft, breathless sound. “And why not?”

Soobin hesitated, his hands still gripping Yeonjun’s waist but his confidence wavering for the first time. He searched Yeonjun’s face, looking for something—reassurance, maybe, or a sign that he wasn’t crossing a line. 

“Because,” he said, his voice quieter now, “isn’t cheating a reasonable reason itself?”

Yeonjun’s laughter faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. He tilted his head, studying Soobin as if seeing him in a new light. “It is,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm.

The air between them shifted, the playful tension giving way to something heavier, more serious. Soobin’s hands loosened their grip, though he didn’t let go entirely. He looked away, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with his thoughts. 

“Then why are you still talking to him?” he asked, his voice low. “Why are you making plans to meet him?”

Yeonjun sighed, his hands sliding up to rest on Soobin’s chest. “It’s not what you think,” he said gently. “He’s not… we’re not like that anymore. It’s over, Soobin. It has been for a long time.”

“Then why? ” Soobin’s voice was sharper now, edged with frustration. “Why keep him in your life if it’s over? Why let him think there’s still a chance?”

Oh, right.

Yeonjun hesitated, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested against Soobin’s chest. “It’s complicated,” he said finally. “Just… Letting go completely isn’t easy.”

The words hit Soobin like a punch to the gut, though he didn’t let it show. 

Of course, it wasn’t easy. 

This wasn’t just some random person Yeonjun was talking about. This was his ex . Someone who had meant something to him, someone who still held a place in his life, even if it was just a small one. 

And Soobin? Soobin was just his friend . A friend who had foolishly let himself believe, even for a moment, that he could be more.

Soobin’s chest tightened, but he forced a smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Then, should we do dinner properly this time?” he said, his tone light, almost teasing. 

It hurt— God, it hurt —but he kept smiling because Yeonjun didn’t need to know how much it hurt. Yeonjun didn’t need to know that every word, every glance, every touch felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Yeonjun didn’t need to know how much it hurt to love someone who would never love you back the same way. He didn’t need to know that Soobin had been carrying this weight for longer than he cared to admit, burying it under jokes and casual touches and the pretense of indifference.

“So, dinner,” Yeonjun said, still smiling. “What are you planning to?”

As they walked to the kitchen, Soobin smile faded. 

He had known, of course, that this was how it would end. He had always known. 

Yeonjun wasn’t his to keep, wasn’t his to love in the way he wanted to. 

And maybe that was okay. 

Maybe he could live with that, as long as Yeonjun was happy. 

As long as he could still be there, even if it was just as a friend.

Even if it hurts.

Chapter Text

Soobin had greatly underestimated how quickly he could become addicted to Yeonjun. 

For years, Yeonjun had been a constant in his life— a familiar comfort. They had grown up side by side, their bond woven into the fabric of their daily lives. 

Soobin had assumed that adding a layer of intimacy to their relationship wouldn’t change much. After all, they already knew each other inside and out. How different could it really be?

But it was different. 

It was earth-shatteringly different. 

Now, Soobin felt like an addict, craving Yeonjun’s presence, his touch, his attention. 

He wanted more, always more . 

He wanted to carve his name into Yeonjun’s skin, to mark him in some way so that everyone would know Yeonjun had chosen him. 

He wanted the world to see them together and understand that they were more than just friends, even if it wasn’t entirely true. Even if, deep down, Soobin knew they were still just that: friends . 

Friends who kissed sometimes. Friends who blurred lines but never crossed them completely.

At every opportunity, he would press his lips to that spot just below Yeonjun’s ear, the one he knew made Yeonjun shiver. It was his little game , his way of teasing, of claiming Yeonjun’s attention even for a moment. Yeonjun would always laugh, surprised and flustered, but he never pulled away. 

He never told Soobin to stop. 

And that was the most addictive part —the way Yeonjun allowed it, the way he leaned into it, even if it was just for a second.

And in the dark, everything feels a little better.

It was something he had noticed over the years, something that had become part of their shared rituals. Watching movies at night wasn’t just about the film; it was about the way Yeonjun would curl up under a blanket, his body relaxed and his guard down. 

It was about the way the dim glow of the TV screen softened his features, making him look younger, more vulnerable . 

And now, when they kissed in that half-light, with the shadows wrapping around them like a secret, Yeonjun was different. Bolder. Freer.

In the darkness, Yeonjun’s hands would wander, slipping under Soobin’s pajama shirt to trace the lines of his skin. His touch was gentle but deliberate, his fingers pressing lightly, exploring, as if he was memorizing the feel of Soobin’s body. Sometimes, his nails would graze Soobin’s back, leaving faint trails that made Soobin’s breath catch. 

It was in those moments, with the world reduced to the faint hum of the TV and the warmth of Yeonjun’s body against his, that Soobin felt the most alive —and the most desperate.

Because he knew it couldn’t last. 

He knew that, eventually, the lights would come on, and Yeonjun would pull away, retreating back into the safety of their friendship. 

But in the dark, Yeonjun was his.  

In the dark, Yeonjun’s inhibitions melted away, and he became someone else entirely—someone who wasn’t afraid to touch, to want, to take. Soobin loved that version of Yeonjun, craved it even, but it was fleeting, like a dream that dissolved the moment he opened his eyes.

He remembered a night not so long ago. Maybe two weeks?

The movie played softly in the background, its flickering light casting shadows across the room. Yeonjun was curled up beside him, his head resting on Soobin’s shoulder, his fingers absently tracing patterns on Soobin’s chest. Soobin could feel the warmth of Yeonjun’s breath against his neck, the way his body shifted closer, seeking more contact. 

It was subtle, the way Yeonjun always initiated things in the dark, as if the shadows gave him permission to be bold.

Soobin turned his head, his lips brushing against Yeonjun’s temple. “You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, barely above a whisper. 

Yeonjun didn’t respond at first, but his fingers stilled on Soobin’s chest, and Soobin could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding his breath. 

Then, slowly, Yeonjun tilted his head up, his eyes meeting Soobin’s in the dim light.

There was something in his gaze, something raw and unguarded , that made Soobin’s chest tighten. 

Yeonjun’s hand moved to Soobin’s face, his fingers brushing against his jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of his lower lip. It was a gesture so tender, so intimate, that it stole Soobin’s breath. 

And then Yeonjun leaned in, his lips pressing against Soobin’s in a kiss that was soft at first, almost hesitant, but quickly deepened, fueled by the kind of hunger that only the darkness could bring.

Soobin’s hands moved to Yeonjun’s waist, pulling him closer. Yeonjun’s fingers tangled in Soobin’s hair, his nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and Soobin could feel the way Yeonjun’s body trembled against his, the way his breath hitched when his hands slid under his shirt, tracing the curve of his spine.

Yeonjun whispered against his lips, his voice trembling, and Soobin could hear the plea in it, the unspoken need. 

He kissed Yeonjun again, harder this time. 

But even as they kissed, even as their bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing, Soobin couldn’t shake the feeling that this was borrowed time. 

That, eventually, this would be a friendship and no more. 

No, don’t go that way.

Right now, Yeonjun was his . 

And for now, that was enough.

Soobin’s lips trailed down Yeonjun’s neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. Yeonjun’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in Soobin’s hair as a soft, involuntary sound escaped his lips. It was a sound that sent a jolt of heat through Soobin’s body, and he pressed closer, his hands sliding down to grip Yeonjun’s hips, pulling him into his lap.

Yeonjun went willingly, his legs straddling Soobin’s thighs, his body arching into the touch. His hands moved to Soobin’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if he was afraid Soobin might pull away. 

Why would he? Soobin wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not when Yeonjun was like this, so open, so vulnerable, so completely his.

Yeonjun whispered his name again, his voice trembling. 

He kissed Yeonjun again, slower this time, savoring every second, every breath, every heartbeat. 

He knew this moment was fragile , fleeting, like a dream that would dissolve the moment the lights came on. 

But time seemed to freeze, wrapping them in a bubble where nothing else existed—just the two of them, the warmth of their bodies, and the quiet hum of the world outside.

Yeonjun’s lips were soft against his, his touch hesitant but eager, as if he, too, was trying to hold onto this moment for as long as he could. Soobin’s hands roamed over Yeonjun’s back, his touch gentle but insistent, memorizing the feel of him, the way his body fit so perfectly against his own. 

He could feel the way Yeonjun’s heart raced, the way his breath came in short, uneven gasps, and it made his own chest ache with something he couldn’t quite name.

They kissed like that for what felt like hours, their movements slow and deliberate, as if they were both afraid to break the spell. There was no urgency, no desperation —just the quiet, aching need to be close, to feel, to exist in this space where nothing else mattered.

But as much as Soobin wanted to lose himself right there, a nagging thought lingered at the back of his mind, sharp and unrelenting. 

He might be a bad friend now. 

Because he loved Yeonjun more than he should. More than he had any right to.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath and making his chest ache. 

Does he love Yeonjun?

Not as a friend, not as someone he could share quiet moments and inside jokes with, but as something more. Something deeper. Something he couldn’t put into words.

And that made him a bad friend.

Because Yeonjun wasn’t his. Not really. Not in the way Soobin wanted him to be. 

Yeonjun was here, in his arms, his lips soft and warm against Soobin’s, his body trembling under his touch. 

But Soobin knew it wasn’t real. It wasn’t permanent . 

It was just a moment, a fleeting escape from the reality that waited for them outside this bubble.

Soobin’s hands tightened on Yeonjun’s hips, pulling him closer, as if he could somehow anchor him here, at this moment, where nothing else mattered. 

But even as he kissed Yeonjun again, slower, deeper, messy. Even if he tried to focus on the moans and breathless words Yeonjun spells on his ear, he couldn’t shake the guilt that gnawed at him.

He was a bad friend.

Because he wanted more. 

More than Yeonjun was willing to give. More than Yeonjun could give. 

And he knew it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to Yeonjun, who trusted him, who leaned on him, who let him in ways he didn’t let anyone else. 

But he couldn’t stop.

Not when Yeonjun’s hands were in his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he kissed him back with a quiet desperation that made Soobin’s chest ache. 

Not when Yeonjun’s breath hitched, his body arching into Soobin’s touch as if he couldn’t get close enough. 

Not when Yeonjun whispered his name, his voice trembling, pleading, because the kisses Soobin pressed to his inner thigh were driving him to the edge of madness. Not when the way Soobin had tied his hands—loosely, but effectively—left him unable to move, unable to do anything but writhe and beg. Yeonjun wanted to touch, to scratch, to bite, to leave marks on Soobin’s skin just as Soobin left them on his. 

But Soobin didn’t let him. Not yet .  

Instead, he kissed him again, his touch gentle but insistent, his lips trailing up Yeonjun’s thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make Yeonjun gasp. 

Soobin loved that sound, loved the way Yeonjun’s body arched toward him, loved the way his name fell from Yeonjun’s lips like a prayer.  

He knew he was being selfish.  

He knew he was crossing a line.  

But he couldn’t bring himself to care .  

Nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the future, not the lingering doubts that whispered in the back of his mind.

All that mattered was the way Yeonjun looked at him, the way his breath hitched, the way his hands clenched against the restraints as if he was fighting the urge to break free and pull Soobin closer.  

Soobin wanted to lose himself in this, in the heat of Yeonjun’s skin, in the way their bodies fit together like they were made for this, for each other.

He wanted to believe that this was real , that it meant something , that it wasn’t just another game they were playing.  

But deep down, he knew better. 

Soobin also discovered something about Yeonjun: he hated taking orders. 

Unless, of course, you forced him. 

And Yeonjun didn’t seem to mind being forced— not if it was done the right way . 

There was a thrill in it, in seeing Yeonjun’s resistance crumble, in watching him give in with a roll of his eyes or a reluctant smile. 

It was a game , one Soobin was all too eager to play.

Then, he discovered that he’s not only addictive to Yeonjun’s touch, but his voice. 

That was something else entirely.

Every time they were close—close enough to be entangled, their bodies pressed together, their breaths mingling—Yeonjun’s voice would drop into a tone that left Soobin utterly mesmerized. It was low, soft, and intimate , as if the words were meant for Soobin alone. 

He could listen to Yeonjun like that forever, and so he kept pushing, kept discovering new ways to draw that voice out . 

Little fetishes, little compliments, little provocations that turned Yeonjun into a trembling, breathless mess. Sometimes, Yeonjun would beg him to stop, his voice trembling, his hands clutching at Soobin as if he couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer. 

“It’s… It’s too much,” Yeonjun would murmur, his cheeks flushed, his breath uneven. 

But Soobin didn’t want to stop.  

He couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t just the way Yeonjun sounded. 

It was the way he said his name.

Soobin loved the way Yeonjun’s voice cracked when he was flustered, the way it wavered when Soobin’s hands wandered too far or his lips lingered too long. He loved the way Yeonjun’s breath hitched, the way his words stumbled and faltered, as if he couldn’t think straight when Soobin was this close. 

When Yeonjun said his name in that voice, it felt like a brand, searing itself into Soobin’s skin. 

It was as if, at that moment, nothing else existed. 

Not the world outside, not the people in it, not the complicated mess of their relationship. Just the two of them, and the way Yeonjun’s lips shaped his name like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Soobin.”

It was a plea, a prayer, a promise. It was everything.

And it drove Soobin wild. 

It made him crave more, made him want to drown in the sound of it, to lose himself in the way Yeonjun’s voice wrapped around his name like a caress. He would do anything to hear it again, to feel the way Yeonjun’s body reacted when he said it, to see the way his eyes darkened and his lips parted, as if he was just as lost in this as Soobin was.

Sometimes, Soobin would tease him just to hear it. 

He would press his lips to Yeonjun’s neck, slow and deliberate, savoring the way Yeonjun’s breath hitched and his body tensed under his touch. His hands would slide under Yeonjun’s shirt, fingers skimming over the warm, smooth skin of his waist, tracing the faint ridges of his ribs. Yeonjun would shiver, his hands gripping Soobin’s arms like he was holding on for dear life, his nails digging in just enough to leave marks.

“I want to hear it,” Soobin would whisper, his voice low and rough, his lips brushing against Yeonjun’s ear.

Yeonjun would try to resist, his jaw tightening, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “Stop,” he’d murmur, though his voice lacked conviction, his body betraying him as he leaned into Soobin’s touch.

But Soobin didn’t stop.

He would press closer, his lips trailing down Yeonjun’s neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. “Please,” he’d say, his voice a little sweeter this time, his hands tightening on Yeonjun’s waist.

And then, finally, Yeonjun would break. His voice would crack, soft and breathless, as he murmured his name.

It was like a spark igniting, setting them both on fire. 

Soobin’s name on Yeonjun’s lips was a catalyst, a trigger that sent heat coursing through his veins. 

He would kiss Yeonjun hard, his hands tangling in his hair, his body pressing him back against the nearest surface—a wall, a couch, whatever was close enough. Yeonjun would melt into him, messy, defenseless.

Soobin absolutely lost it, right there.

It was different , this power he had over Yeonjun, this connection that felt like it could consume them both.

In those moments, Soobin felt like he could conquer the world. Like he could do anything, be anything , as long as Yeonjun kept saying his name like that. 

But then the moment would pass, and Yeonjun would pull away, his smile soft but distant. 

And Soobin would be left standing there, his heart racing, his skin still burning from Yeonjun’s touch, wondering if any of it meant as much to Yeonjun as it did to him.

Friends, right? 

Friends do these things. 

These messy things are just things involved with the perks of being friends.

Just fucking friends.

Every time they crossed that line, every time their kisses shifted from slow and leisurely to something desperate and hungry, Soobin felt like the world had finally aligned. His hands would find Yeonjun’s waist, as if they had always belonged there, and he would lose himself in the rhythm of their bodies, in the heat of Yeonjun’s skin against his. 

It was intoxicating, this closeness, this connection . 

Soobin lived for it, craved it, needed it like air .

And afterward, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he couldn’t help but feel a strange, possessive pride. 

The faint scratches on his back, the small, neat marks left by Yeonjun’s nails digging into his skin. The occasional hickey on his neck or chest, a visible reminder of Yeonjun’s presence in his life. 

They were proof, in a way, that this was real. That Yeonjun had been there , that he had wanted Soobin enough to leave a mark.

It was messy, imperfect, and utterly consuming. 

Everything was new, but it all felt so right that Soobin couldn’t bring himself to question it. 

He didn’t stop to think that friends weren’t supposed to be like this—that he shouldn’t struggle to keep his hands to himself, always reaching for Yeonjun, always craving his closeness. Even something as simple as draping an arm over Yeonjun’s shoulders felt like a necessity, like a lifeline he couldn’t let go of.

He shouldn’t know Yeonjun’s skin so intimately, either. 

The faint scatter of freckles Yeonjun usually hid under makeup, but that glowed in the soft morning light, especially when he smiled, his hair a messy halo around his face. Soobin shouldn’t know how those freckles felt under his fingertips, or how Yeonjun’s breath hitched when Soobin traced them with his lips.

And he definitely shouldn’t know the taste of Yeonjun’s mouth— sweet and sharp , like the faintest hint of mint from the gum he always chewed, mixed with something uniquely him. 

Soobin shouldn’t know how Yeonjun’s lips felt against his own, how they softened and yielded, how they moved with a rhythm that made Soobin’s head spin. 

He shouldn’t know the way Yeonjun melted into him, his body going pliant, his hands gripping Soobin’s shoulders or tangling in his hair.

But he did. He knew it all.

He knew how Yeonjun loved to surrender control, how he trusted Soobin to set the pace, to guide him, to take the lead.

Sometimes, it was slow— agonizingly slow . Yeonjun’s lips would brush against his, light and teasing, pulling away just as Soobin leaned in for more. It was torture , the kind that made Soobin’s chest tighten, and his hands tremble with the effort of holding back. Yeonjun would bite his lower lip, his eyes glinting with mischief, and Soobin would groan, his patience fraying at the edges. 

“You’re impossible,” Soobin would mutter, his voice rough, and Yeonjun would laugh, low and breathless, before finally giving in, his lips meeting Soobin’s in a kiss that was deep and lingering and perfect.

Other times, it was frantic. Desperate . Yeonjun’s hands would clutch at him, his kisses urgent and hungry, as if he was afraid the moment might slip away. Their breaths would come in sharp, uneven gasps, their hearts pounding so loudly it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to the two of them. 

He would kiss Yeonjun until they were both dizzy, until the only sound in the room was the ragged rhythm of their breathing and the soft, broken noises Yeonjun made when Soobin’s hands wandered too far, when his touch grew too bold.

And then there were the moments in between— the quiet, stolen ones . 

When Yeonjun would rest his forehead against Soobin’s, his eyes closed, his lips swollen and his cheeks flushed, and Soobin would feel something so overwhelming it scared him. Something that made his chest ache and his throat tighten, something he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. 

In those moments, he would brush his thumb over Yeonjun’s cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent, and Yeonjun would lean into it, his breath hitching, his hands tightening on Soobin’s waist as if he never wanted to let go.

But he always did. Eventually, Yeonjun would pull away.

It was all so good. So perfect . Until it wasn’t.

Because, like a good friend , Yeonjun had added him to his social media. 

And, like a good friend , Soobin scrolled through it. 

He saw the photos, the updates, the little dates Yeonjun went on with other people. Coffee shops bathed in golden light, libraries with shelves stretching into infinity, trendy boulevards lined with twinkling lights.

Each post was like a page out of a modern romance novel—charming, picturesque, perfect.

And Soobin? He was just the friend.

The one who kissed the protagonist in the quiet moments, who knew every inch of his skin, who could make him laugh and gasp and forget the world for a while. 

But in the end, he wasn’t the one Yeonjun was writing the story about. 

He wasn’t the one Yeonjun would find true love with on one of those date nights, under the glow of city lights or the soft hum of a café.

He was just the friend. 

And it hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Oh, and let’s talk about Yeonjun’s ex.

A walking nightmare .

It didn’t matter where they were or what they were doing—he was always there, like a shadow that refused to fade. Just the week before, he’d made his presence known again, intruding on what should have been a perfect moment.

They’d been watching a movie together, sprawled on the floor of Soobin’s bedroom. The room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering screen as some forgettable action scene played out. Yeonjun’s head rested on Soobin’s shoulder, his breathing slow and steady, barely awake but still there, still his .

 It was a boring movie, and an even more boring day—exams loomed on the horizon, casting a dull haze over everything—but Soobin didn’t mind. Not really. 

Because they were together, and that made it bearable. More than bearable, even.

But then, the glow of Yeonjun’s phone cut through the dim light of the room, harsh and intrusive. A message notification lit up the screen, and Soobin felt Yeonjun tense beside him. Even before he saw the name, he knew.  

He always knew.

The name— that name , the pet name Yeonjun had once whispered with so much affection—still lingered there, stubborn and unyielding. A relic of a past that refused to stay buried.

Soobin’s jaw tightened as he watched Yeonjun’s expression shift, the soft contentment replaced by something more complicated. Something that made Soobin’s chest ache.

Yeonjun hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t want to look. Soobin could see it in the way his shoulders stiffened, in the way his breath hitched ever so slightly. 

But he couldn’t ignore it. He never could.

“You don’t have to answer,” Soobin said, his voice low, trying to keep the bitterness out of it.

Soobin hates it.

He hated the way Yeonjun’s attention would fracture, splitting between the warmth of Soobin’s body and the cold pull of the past. 

But what right did he have to complain? They were friends. Just friends.

Friends who spent nights at each other’s houses, sharing a bed and waking up tangled together. 

Friends who kissed in the middle of the night, their touches electric but fleeting, never holding hands because that was too intimate, too real. 

Friends who would never be more because neither of them dared to ask for more than what they already had.

And even if he knows all of it, Soobin hates to lose. 

So when Yeonjun would lie down on the bed, phone in hand, typing out another excuse for why he hadn’t answered the last calls (maybe, just maybe, Soobin had something to do with that), Soobin would follow. He’d climb onto the bed, his movements deliberate, his gaze fixed on the dip of Yeonjun’s hip where his shirt had ridden up.

He’d kiss the curve of Yeonjun’s hip, his lips soft but insistent, a contrast to the sharp edge of frustration simmering beneath his skin. Yeonjun’s reaction was always the same—surprised, but never saying no. 

He’d keep typing, his fingers moving across the screen, but his breath would quicken, his body tensing as Soobin’s lips brushed against his skin. 

It annoyed Soobin , the way Yeonjun could split himself like this, half here, half somewhere else. 

So he’d press harder, his kisses trailing upward, teasing, demanding attention.

He lingered there, his breath warm against Yeonjun’s stomach, his teeth grazing lightly, just enough to make Yeonjun’s breath hitch. 

But Yeonjun didn’t stop typing. His fingers still moved across the screen, the soft tap tap tap of his nails against the glass a maddening reminder that Soobin didn’t have his full attention.

Soobin’s hands tightened on Yeonjun’s waist, his fingers digging into the softness there as he pressed another kiss, higher this time, just below Yeonjun’s ribcage. He could feel the way Yeonjun’s body tensed, the way his breath stuttered, but still, the phone remained in his hands. Soobin’s lips trailed upward, slow and deliberate, mapping the planes of Yeonjun’s stomach, the dip of his collarbone, each touch a silent plea. 

Look at me. Focus on me. Stay with me.

When his lips brushed the hollow of Yeonjun’s throat, Yeonjun finally faltered. 

His fingers stilled on the screen, the faint glow casting shadows across his face. Soobin could feel the way Yeonjun’s pulse raced under his lips, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the distant hum of the movie still playing in the background.

“Soobin,” Yeonjun whispered, his voice trembling, and Soobin could hear the conflict in it, the pull between the past and the present. 

But Soobin was mad , even if he hasn’t had the right to. 

His hands slid up Yeonjun’s sides, pushing the fabric of his shirt higher, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below Yeonjun’s ear. He bit down gently, just enough to make Yeonjun gasp, and felt a flicker of victory when the phone slipped from Yeonjun’s fingers, landing softly on the bed.

But the victory was fleeting . 

Even as Yeonjun’s hands moved to Soobin’s shoulders, his fingers tangling in his hair, Soobin could feel the hesitation in his touch, the way his body still seemed half-present, half-lost in whatever message he’d been typing. 

It wasn’t enough. 

It would never be enough. 

Not when Yeonjun’s heart was still tethered to someone else, not when Soobin couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just a placeholder, a distraction.

Soobin’s kisses grew more insistent, his hands roaming over Yeonjun’s body with a desperation he couldn’t hide. He wanted to erase the distance between them, to pull Yeonjun back into the moment, to make him forget everything but the feel of Soobin’s hands, the heat of his mouth, the way their bodies fit together.

But then, a call. The sharp ringtone sliced through the quiet of the room, jarring and insistent. 

Soobin’s chest tightened as Yeonjun’s phone lit up, the screen glowing with a photo of his ex— that photo. The one where they were smiling, their faces pressed together, Yeonjun’s eyes bright with a happiness Soobin rarely saw now. 

It was a photo that belonged to a different time, a different life, but there it was, staring back at him like a taunt.

Yeonjun hesitated, his fingers hovering over the screen, his breath catching in that way it always did when his ex called. 

Soobin hates it.  

He hated the way Yeonjun’s body tensed, the way his eyes flickered with something Soobin couldn’t quite name— guilt? Longing? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to know. 

But he didn’t stop Yeonjun from answering. 

As soon as Yeonjun swiped to accept the call, his voice soft and tentative as he greeted his ex, Soobin moved. His lips found the curve of Yeonjun’s chest, pressing a kiss there, slow and deliberate. His hands slid down Yeonjun’s legs, his touch firm as he guided them to wrap around his waist, pulling Yeonjun fully on top of him. Yeonjun’s breath hitched, his free hand gripping Soobin’s shoulder for balance, but he didn’t stop talking.

Soobin didn’t care.  

He kissed Yeonjun’s chest again, his lips trailing higher, brushing over the sensitive spot just below his collarbone. He could feel the way Yeonjun’s body trembled, the way his voice wavered as he tried to keep his tone even, to pretend like nothing was happening. 

But Soobin knew better . 

He knew Yeonjun’s body too well now, knew exactly how to make him unravel.

His hands moved to Yeonjun’s hips, his fingers digging into the softness there as he pressed another kiss, this time to the hollow of Yeonjun’s throat. He could feel the way Yeonjun’s pulse raced under his lips, the way his breath came in short, uneven gasps. 

Soobin’s touch was relentless, his kisses trailing lower, his teeth grazing Yeonjun’s skin just enough to make him shiver.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Yeonjun murmured into the phone, his voice strained, and Soobin could hear the effort it took for him to keep his tone steady. 

It only spurred him on. 

His hands slid under Yeonjun’s shirt, his fingers tracing the lines of his ribs, his touch light but deliberate. He knew exactly where to touch , how to make Yeonjun’s breath catch, how to make his thoughts scatter .

Yeonjun’s grip on the phone tightened, his fingers trembling as he tried to focus on the conversation. But Soobin wasn’t letting him . His lips found the sensitive spot, his teeth grazing the skin there, and Yeonjun’s breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound escaping his lips.

“I—I’ll call you back,” Yeonjun stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, and Soobin felt a flicker of satisfaction as Yeonjun ended the call, the phone slipping from his fingers and landing softly on the bed beside them.

Then Yeonjun’s hands were in Soobin’s hair, pulling him closer, his lips crashing against Soobin’s in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and frustration. Soobin kissed him back, his hands roaming over Yeonjun’s body, his touch possessive, demanding .

He hated Yeonjun’s ex.

Hated the way his name still lingered in Yeonjun’s life, the way his presence still had a hold on him. 

But for now, Yeonjun was his . And Soobin would do whatever it took to keep it that way.

He hated Yeonjun’s ex. 

Hated the way Yeonjun’s voice softened when he spoke to him, the way his eyes flickered with something Soobin couldn’t quite name— nostalgia, regret, longing .

He wants to Yeonjun to focus on him. Even if it meant playing these kinds of dirty games. Even if it meant teasing, pleading, or tearing his own heart apart just for a few moments of Yeonjun’s undivided attention. 

Soobin wanted more— so much more —but if he couldn’t have it, then he would take this. 

He would take the stolen kisses, the quiet nights, the way Yeonjun’s body melted into his in the darkness. He would take whatever Yeonjun was willing to give, even if it wasn’t enough.

Being Yeonjun’s friend had never been a problem—until it was. Until his feelings started to grow, sharp and unrelenting, until they clawed at his chest and made it hard to breathe. 

Being friends had never been an issue—until he kissed him. That first kiss had been a mistake, a moment of weakness, but it had changed everything. It had awakened something in Soobin, something hungry and desperate, something that craved more than Yeonjun was willing to give.

And now, it was addictive. 

The way Yeonjun’s lips felt against his, the way he let Soobin have pieces of him that he had once given freely to his ex. It was maddening, the way Yeonjun had let his ex have so much—his love, his trust, his vulnerability —only for that man to throw it all away as if Yeonjun were replaceable .

But Yeonjun wasn’t replaceable. At least, to Soobin. He couldn’t think of a single thing about Yeonjun that could be replaced. 

Not because there wasn’t someone out there who laughed like him or looked like him or even kissed like him—but because no one else could ever be him. 

No one else could ever carry the weight of all the years they’d shared, all the memories they’d built, all the moments that had shaped them into who they were.

He knew the way Yeonjun’s laughter could light up a room, bright and unrestrained, the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh too, even if you didn’t know what was funny. 

He knew the way Yeonjun’s eyes softened when he was lost in thought, his gaze distant, as if he were somewhere far away, somewhere only he could go. 

He knew the way Yeonjun’s hands trembled when he was nervous, the way he’d fiddle with the hem of his sleeve or the edge of a book, his fingers restless and unsure.

He knew the way Yeonjun curled up under a blanket during movies, his guard down, his walls lowered, as if the darkness of the room gave him permission to be vulnerable. 

He knew the way Yeonjun’s voice would drop to a whisper when he was sharing a secret, the way his lips would curve into a small, private smile when he thought no one was looking.

And he knew the way Yeonjun kissed him in the dark—bold and free, as if the shadows gave him permission to be someone else. Someone who wasn’t afraid to let go, to lose control, to be messy and imperfect and real .

Soobin knew all of it. 

Every detail, every quirk, every flaw. He knew the way Yeonjun’s hair stuck up in the morning, messy and unkempt, and the way he’d try to smooth it down, embarrassed, even though Soobin thought it was endearing. 

He knew the way Yeonjun’s nose scrunched up when he was concentrating, the way he’d bite his lip when he was trying not to laugh. 

He knew the way Yeonjun’s voice would crack when he was tired, the way his eyes would light up when he was excited about something, the way his hands would flutter when he was trying to explain an idea.

Soobin knew it all. And he couldn’t imagine a world where any of it was gone.

Because Yeonjun wasn’t just someone Soobin had fallen for. He was someone Soobin had grown with, someone who had been there through every high and every low, someone who had seen him at his best and his worst and still stayed .

And now, tangled up in this messy, complicated, friends-with-benefits relationship, Soobin couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake. If he’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. 

If he’d risked something precious for something fleeting.

But even as the doubt crept in, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. 

Not when Yeonjun looked at him like that. Not when Yeonjun’s laughter filled the room. Not when Yeonjun’s hands found his in the dark, steady and sure, as if they belonged there.

Because Yeonjun wasn’t replaceable. Not to Soobin.

Yeonjun was irreplaceable . And Soobin would do whatever it took to make him see that. Even if it meant playing these games. Even if it meant breaking his own heart in the process.

Papers and textbooks were strewn across the coffee table, abandoned hours ago when the stress of studying had become too much. Now, the room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside and the occasional clink of glass as Beomgyu refilled their cups.

Soobin stared into his wine, swirling it absently, his thoughts a tangled mess. 

He hadn’t meant to say anything. 

He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to say it until the words were spilling out of him, raw and unfiltered. 

Beomgyu had listened without interrupting, his expression calm but attentive, as if he’d been expecting this all along.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Soobin admitted, his voice low and rough. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “I mean, I know it’s messed up. I know I shouldn’t be… doing what I’m doing. But I can’t stop. I can’t just sit back and watch him fall apart over someone who doesn’t even deserve him.”

Beomgyu leaned back on the couch, his arms crossed, his gaze steady. “So you’re, what? Playing the hero? Trying to save him from himself?”

“No,” Soobin said quickly, then hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just… I can’t stand seeing him like that. And when we’re together, when it’s just us, it’s like… it’s like he’s mine . Even if it’s just for a little while”.

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow, his tone dry but not unkind. “Sounds like you’re in pretty deep.”

Soobin let out a bitter laugh, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. “Yeah, I think I am. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a really, really bad thing.”

For a moment, Beomgyu was silent, his gaze thoughtful. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend like I have all the answers. But here’s what I know: you’re not a bad person for wanting him. And you’re not a bad person for wanting him to be happy. But if you’re just sticking around because you think you can fix him, or because you’re waiting for him to wake up one day and realize you’re the one he’s been looking for… that’s not fair. Not to him, and not to you.”

Soobin frowned, his chest tightening. “I’m not trying to fix him. I just… I want to be there for him. I want to be the person he turns to when things get hard. Is that so wrong?”

“No,” Beomgyu said simply. “But you’ve got to ask yourself: are you okay with being just that? A shoulder to lean on? A distraction? Because if you’re not, if you’re holding out for something more, you’re just setting yourself up for heartbreak.”

Soobin looked away, his jaw tightening. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but Beomgyu’s words hit too close to home. 

He was holding out for something more . He wanted Yeonjun to see him , to really see him, the way he saw Yeonjun. 

But he didn’t know if that would ever happen.

“What if I’m already in too deep?” Soobin asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if I’m already in love with him?”

Beomgyu sighed, leaning back again. “Then you’ve got a choice to make. You can keep doing what you’re doing, knowing it might never be enough. Or you can walk away. But either way, you’ve got to be honest with yourself—and with him. Because this, whatever this is, it’s not fair to either of you if you’re not on the same page.”

Soobin didn’t respond. 

The weight of Beomgyu’s words settled over him, heavy and suffocating.

He knew Beomgyu was right. He knew he couldn’t keep living in this limbo, caught between friendship and something more, between hope and heartbreak. 

But the thought of walking away, of losing what little he had with Yeonjun, was unbearable .

Beomgyu reached over, clapping a hand on Soobin’s shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying any of this to be harsh. But you’ve got to decide what you’re willing to live with—and what you’re willing to let go.”

Soobin nodded slowly, his throat tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak. 

He was in love with Yeonjun. 

And he didn’t know if that would ever be enough.

He was deep in his thoughts, but not too deep to not notice something… weird.

Soobin’s gaze lingered on Beomgyu’s neck, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the faintest hint of a mark peeking out from under the collar of Beomgyu’s shirt. It was subtle, barely visible, but Soobin knew what he was looking at. 

A hickey . 

And Beomgyu, of all people, had tried to cover it with makeup.

A slow grin spread across Soobin’s face as he leaned forward, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Hey, Beomgyu. What’s that on your neck? ”

Chapter Text

Beomgyu froze for a split second, his hand instinctively moving to his collar before he caught himself. His ears turned a faint shade of red, but his face remained as stoic as ever. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Soobin’s grin widened. “Oh, come on. Don’t be shy. It’s not every day I see you with a hickey. Who’s the lucky person?”

Beomgyu shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. “I said it’s nothing. Drop it.”

But Soobin wasn’t about to let this go. Not when Beomgyu was being so uncharacteristically flustered. 

He leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms, his expression smug. “Let me guess… Yesterday, when I went to see you, someone was here, right ? Someone you didn’t want me to know about.”

Beomgyu’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Soobin’s grin turned downright mischievous. “Oh, I see. It’s him, isn’t it? The only person you’d ever let do something like that. As far as I know, anyway.”

Beomgyu’s ears turned an even deeper shade of red, but his voice remained steady. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Soobin leaned forward again, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Because the only person I can think of who’d leave a mark like that on you is Taehyun. And if I’m right, that means you two are—”

“Enough,” Beomgyu snapped, cutting him off. But the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

Soobin laughed, leaning back again, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll drop it. For now. But you know I’m right. And you know I’m not going to let this go.”

Beomgyu sighed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrible at keeping secrets,” Soobin shot back, his grin never fading. “But don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”

Beomgyu rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of relief in his expression. “Just… don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? It’s complicated.”

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, the tension easing as the conversation shifted. 

But Soobin couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that lingered on his lips. 

He might not have all the answers when it came to his own messy feelings, but at least he wasn’t the only one with a complicated love life.

“So,” Soobin said after a moment, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “How long has this been going on?”

Beomgyu groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Oh, come on,” Soobin pressed, leaning forward again. “You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and expect me not to ask questions. Spill. How long?”

Beomgyu hesitated, his gaze flickering to the half-empty wine bottle on the table. “It’s… recent. And it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Soobin repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Beomgyu, you’re the most private person I know. If you’re letting someone leave marks on you, it’s a very big deal .”

Beomgyu’s ears turned red again, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed, leaning back on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s… complicated. Okay? It’s not like we’re together or anything. It’s just… something that happened.”

Soobin’s grin returned, wider than ever. “Something that happened, huh? Care to elaborate?”

Beomgyu shot him a glare, but there was no real anger behind it. “No. I don’t.”

Soobin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his expression a mix of curiosity and mischief. “Oh, come on, Beomgyu. You can’t just drop a line like that and expect me not to ask questions. ‘Something that happened’ ? That’s the most vague, cliché thing I’ve ever heard. Even I could come up with something better than that.”

Beomgyu groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Why do you even care? It’s not like it’s any of your business.”

“Because you’re my friend,” Soobin said, his tone softening just a little. “And because I’ve never seen you like this before. Beomgyu ‘I-don’t-have-time-for-relationships’ letting someone leave a hickey on his neck? That’s big news. I mean, come on. What happened to ‘emotions are a distraction’?”

Beomgyu’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for his wine glass, taking a long sip before setting it back down. “People change,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “And sometimes… things happen that you don’t plan for.”

Soobin’s grin faded slightly, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. “Yeah, I get that. Believe me, I do. But you’re not exactly the ‘go with the flow’ type, Beomgyu. So what’s really going on?”

Beomgyu hesitated, his gaze flickering to the window, where the city lights glowed faintly in the distance. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer. 

But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “It’s… Taehyun. Okay? It’s Taehyun. And before you say anything, it’s not what you think. It’s not… serious. It’s just… I don’t know. A moment of weakness, I guess.”

Soobin raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “ A moment of weakness? From you ? Now I really need details.”

Beomgyu shot him another glare, but there was no real heat behind it. “I’m not giving you details. It’s private.”

“Private?” Soobin repeated, his grin returning. “Beomgyu, you’re walking around with a hickey . That’s about as public as it gets.”

Beomgyu’s ears turned an even deeper shade of red, and he looked away, his expression a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “It’s not like I planned it, okay? It just… happened. And it’s not going to happen again.”

Soobin tilted his head, studying Beomgyu carefully. “You sure about that? Because the way you’re blushing right now makes me think you’re not exactly opposed to it happening again.”

Beomgyu groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You’re…”

“But seriously, Beomgyu. If it’s Taehyun, and it’s… whatever it is, why are you acting like it’s such a bad thing? He’s a good guy. And you’re… well, you’re you. If anything, I’m surprised it took this long.” Soobin studied him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “But sometimes… you’ve got to take a chance, you know? Even if it’s scary. Even if it’s messy. Because if you don’t… you might regret it.”

Beomgyu stared at his wine glass, his fingers tracing the rim absently. 

For a moment, he was quiet, his usual composure slipping just enough for Soobin to notice the cracks. Then, with a sigh that sounded more like a surrender, Beomgyu muttered, “I did it. That’s why I have the hickey in the first place.”

Soobin blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the admission. “ Wait, what?”

Beomgyu leaned back on the couch, his head tilting against the cushions as he stared up at the ceiling. His cheeks were flushed, and his words came out slower, looser, like they were slipping past his usual defenses. “I took the chance. I… I kissed him. And then… well, you can guess the rest.”

Soobin’s eyes widened, his grin returning in full force. “Beomgyu. Are you telling me you made the first move? Actually went for it?”

Beomgyu groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Shut up. I was drunk, okay? And he was… he was just there, and I… I don’t know. It happened.”

Soobin laughed, leaning forward with renewed interest. “Oh, this is gold. Beomgyu, the stoic, unflappable Beomgyu, getting swept up in a moment of passion. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Beomgyu shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted at best. “I said shut up. It was a mistake. A stupid, drunken mistake.”

Soobin’s grin softened, his tone shifting to something more sincere. “Was it, though? I mean, you’re the one who said you took the chance. Sounds to me like maybe it wasn’t all the wine talking.”

Beomgyu didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for his wine glass again, draining what was left of it in one long sip. When he set it down, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “It doesn’t matter”.

Then, with a small, reluctant smile, Beomgyu muttered, “You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Soobin laughed, leaning back on the couch. “Yeah, I’ve been told. But hey, at least I’m a pain in the ass who gives good advice.”

Beomgyu rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. “You’re lucky I’m too drunk to argue with you right now.”

Soobin grinned, reaching for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. “Lucky for you, I’m not. So, tell me more about this ‘drunken mistake.’ How did Taehyun react? Did he kiss you back? Did he—”

Beomgyu’s expression shifted, his eyes glazing over for a moment as if he were reliving the memory. 

There was something in his gaze— something soft, almost wistful —that Soobin recognized immediately. 

It was the same look Beomgyu got whenever Taehyun was involved, the one that made it painfully obvious how much he cared, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Beomgyu interrupted, his ears turning red again. He crossed his arms over his chest, his usual stoic mask slipping back into place, but it was too late. Soobin had already seen the crack in his armor.

“Oh, come on,” Soobin pressed, his grin widening. “You can’t just leave me hanging like that. I need details. Did he kiss you back? Was it good? Did he—”

“I said drop it,” Beomgyu snapped, but there was no real heat behind his words. If anything, he sounded more flustered than angry, which only fueled Soobin’s curiosity.

Soobin leaned back on the couch, his expression smug. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it. For now.”

But he had no intention of dropping it. 

Not when Beomgyu was being so uncharacteristically open. 

Not when there was a chance to finally get some answers about whatever was going on between Beomgyu and Taehyun. 

So he waited, sipping his wine and watching as Beomgyu drained his glass and reached for the bottle to pour himself another.

The more Beomgyu drank, the more his usual composure slipped. His cheeks were flushed, his movements a little slower, his words a little looser. Soobin knew he was walking a fine line—pushing too hard might make Beomgyu shut down completely—but he couldn’t resist. 

Not when Beomgyu was like this, so unguarded, so unlike himself .

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Soobin decided to try again. “So,” he said casually, swirling the wine in his glass. “Taehyun, huh?”

Beomgyu groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” Soobin said cheerfully. “Not a chance. So you might as well tell me. How did it happen? Was it romantic? Did he sweep you off your feet? Or was it more… spontaneous?”

Beomgyu shot him a glare, but there was no real anger behind it. If anything, he looked more exasperated than anything else. “It wasn’t romantic,” he muttered, his voice low. “It was… I don’t know. Stupid. Reckless. It just… happened.”

Soobin raised an eyebrow, his grin returning. “ Stupid and reckless , huh? That doesn’t sound like you”.

Beomgyu didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for his wine glass, draining what was left of it in one long sip.

Soobin laughed, leaning back on the couch. “I mean, that would be a start. But seriously, Beomgyu. You’re blushing. That’s not a ‘just good’ reaction. That’s a ‘I-can’t-stop-thinking-about-it’ reaction.”

Beomgyu’s ears turned an even deeper shade of red, and he looked away, his expression a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “It’s not like that. It was just… a kiss. That’s all.”

Soobin tilted his head, studying Beomgyu carefully. “You sure about that? Because the way you’re talking about it makes me think it was more than just a kiss.”

“And now… are you going to talk to him about it?” Soobin asked, his tone shifting to something more serious, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief.

Beomgyu remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the half-empty wine glass in his hands. The room felt heavier suddenly, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he let out a slow breath and muttered, “We were supposed to talk about it today…”

Soobin’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Wait. Let me get this straight. You were supposed to talk about it… and instead, you kissed. Again . And this time, you weren’t even drunk. Am I hearing that right?”

Beomgyu’s ears turned a deep shade of red, and he looked away, his voice tight. “It’s not like I planned it, okay? It just… happened.”

Soobin leaned forward, his grin widening. “Oh, come on, Beomgyu. You don’t just happen to kiss someone. Not someone like Taehyun. Not when you’ve been dancing around each other for years. So, what happened? Did he make the first move this time? Or was it you again?”

Beomgyu groaned, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. “Why does it matter? It’s not like it changes anything.”

“It changes everything ,” Soobin shot back, his tone playful but insistent. “Because if you’re kissing him sober , that means it’s not just a drunken mistake anymore. That means it’s real . So, tell me… how was it this time? Better than the first time? Worse? Did you finally stop overthinking and just… let yourself feel something?”

Beomgyu hesitated, his gaze flickering to the window, where the city lights glowed faintly in the distance. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer. But then, with a sigh that sounded more like a surrender, he muttered, “It was… different. Okay? It was different.”

Soobin’s grin softened into something more genuine. “Different how? Better? Worse? More intense?”

“Why are you like this?”

“Like what? Charming? Handsome? Incredibly insightful?”

“Insufferable,” Beomgyu corrected, but there was no real bite to his words.

Soobin laughed, leaning back again. “Admit it. You’d be lost without me.”

Beomgyu didn’t respond, but the look he gave Soobin was answer enough. For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air between them. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, Soobin reached for his phone, his grin turning downright devilish.

Beomgyu’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

Soobin grinned, tapping his phone screen with the enthusiasm of someone about to stir up chaos. Beomgyu’s eyes widened in panic as he realized what was happening.

“Soobin, don’t you dare—” Beomgyu lunged for the phone, but Soobin was faster, hopping off the couch and holding the phone just out of reach.

“Too late,” Soobin sing-songed, pressing the phone to his ear as it rang.

Beomgyu scrambled after him, his face flushed. “I swear, if you—”

“Shh!” Soobin held up a finger, his grin widening as Taehyun’s groggy voice came through the speaker.

“Soobin?” Taehyun’s voice was rough with sleep, barely audible over the rustling of sheets. “What’s going on? It’s… what time is it?”

“Late,” Soobin said cheerfully, ignoring Beomgyu’s frantic gestures to hang up. “But not too late for a little chat. Did something… interesting happen today? Something involving a certain someone who’s currently trying to strangle me?”

Beomgyu froze, his hands halfway to Soobin’s throat, his face turning an impressive shade of crimson. “Soobin, I’m going to kill you,” he hissed under his breath.

Taehyun paused, and Soobin could practically hear the gears turning in his sleep-addled brain. “Uh… what are you talking about?”

Soobin dodged another attempt by Beomgyu to grab the phone, spinning around with the agility of someone who’d spent years perfecting the art of being annoying. 

“Oh, come on, Taehyun. Don’t play dumb. Beomgyu’s here, looking like he’s about to spontaneously combust. Spill. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Taehyun said, though his voice wavered just enough to make Soobin’s grin widen.

“Really? Nothing?” Soobin pressed, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Because Beomgyu’s got this look on his face. You know, the one where he’s trying really hard not to murder me but also looks like he’s about to pass out from embarrassment. That’s not a ‘nothing happened’ look, Taehyun.”

Beomgyu made a strangled noise, lunging for the phone again. “Give me that!”

Soobin ducked, holding the phone high above his head. “Nope. This is too good.”

Taehyun sighed on the other end of the line, the sound muffled like he’d buried his face in a pillow. “Soobin, I’m tired. Can we do this tomorrow?”

“Nope,” Soobin said, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “This is important. Beomgyu’s over here acting all weird, and I need answers. So, what happened? Did you two… talk? Or was it more of a ‘no talking’ kind of situation?”

Beomgyu’s eyes widened in horror. “Soobin, I swear—”

“Shh, Beomgyu, the adults are talking,” Soobin said, waving him off.

Taehyun groaned. “First, I’m younger. Second, It’s not a big deal, okay? We just… hung out.”

“Hung out?” Soobin repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. “That’s it? Just… hung out ?”

“Yeah,” Taehyun said, though his tone was less convincing than a toddler trying to explain why the cookie jar was empty. “We talked. That’s all.”

Soobin raised an eyebrow, even though Taehyun couldn’t see it. “ Talked , huh? About what?”

“I don’t know,” Taehyun muttered. “Stuff.”

“ Stuff ,” Soobin echoed, his grin widening. “Very specific. Very enlightening. Thanks for clearing that up.”

Beomgyu finally managed to grab Soobin’s arm, yanking it down so he could hiss into the phone. “Taehyun, don’t say anything. He’s just being an idiot.”

“Hey!” Soobin protested, though he was still grinning. “I’m not the one who—”

Beomgyu clamped a hand over Soobin’s mouth, his face burning. “Taehyun, ignore him. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk later.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Taehyun’s voice came through, softer this time. “Beomgyu? Are you okay?”

Beomgyu froze, his hand still over Soobin’s mouth. “I… yeah. I’m fine. Just… Soobin being Soobin.”

Soobin pried Beomgyu’s hand off his mouth, gasping dramatically. “Rude. And here I was, trying to help.”

“You’re not helping,” Beomgyu snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Taehyun chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Sounds like you two are having fun.”

“Oh, we are,” Soobin said, grinning at Beomgyu’s glare. “Anyway, Taehyun, I was thinking… how about we all go out tomorrow? You, me, Beomgyu, and Yeonjun. There’s a new club downtown. What do you say?”

There was another pause, and then Taehyun’s voice came through, hesitant but curious. “Uh… sure. I guess. When were you thinking?”

“Tomorrow night,” Soobin said, his tone casual but his eyes gleaming with mischief. “It’ll be fun. Promise.”

“Yeah, okay,” Taehyun said after a moment. “I’ll see you then.”

Soobin hung up before Taehyun could say anything else, his grin widening as he turned to Beomgyu. “There. Problem solved.”

Beomgyu stared at him, his expression a mix of disbelief and horror. “You’re dead. As soon as I get my hands on you, you’re dead.”

Soobin laughed, leaning back on the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Oh, come on, Beomgyu. It’ll be fun. And who knows? Maybe you’ll finally get a chance to talk to Taehyun about… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at Beomgyu’s neck, where the faint mark was still visible.

Beomgyu groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Soobin shot back, his grin never fading.

The Club. Oh, that night.

Messy.

Across the crowded bar, Yeonjun and Beomgyu moved together on the dance floor—Yeonjun’s laughter ringing bright above the pulsing bassline, Beomgyu’s usually reserved demeanor softened by the glow of strobe lights and one too many drinks. The air thrummed with energy, all glittering cocktails and carefree bodies, but Soobin forced his gaze away.

Don’t watch.

He knew how this went. 

Yeonjun, radiant and effortless, would draw every eye in the room—not because he tried , but because he couldn’t help it. 

His joy was contagious, his charm a gravitational pull. Strangers leaned in to catch his jokes; hands reached to brush his waist as they passed. And Yeonjun would smile, polite but distant, his shoulders inching tighter with every unwanted advance.

Soobin’s fingers curled around his drink.

Then, like a magnet finding true north, Yeonjun’s gaze locked onto his across the chaos. His smile faltered—just for a second—before he ducked through the crowd, weaving toward Soobin with the quiet urgency of a fugitive.

“Hey,” Yeonjun breathed as he slid into the space beside him, close enough that their arms pressed together. His skin was warm from dancing, his pulse visible at his throat. “I, uh. Think I’m done with…” He gestured vaguely at the dance floor, where a group of disappointed onlookers still lingered.

Soobin didn’t ask. He just nudged his untouched glass toward Yeonjun. “Hydrate. You look like you ran a marathon.”

Yeonjun huffed a laugh, but his fingers trembled as they wrapped around the glass. “Shut up.”

Soobin watched him drink, the line of his throat working, and tried not to think about how easy it would be to close the scant distance between them. To tuck Yeonjun against his side and glare at anyone who dared look too long.

Instead, he smirked. “Miss me that much?”

Yeonjun elbowed him, but didn’t step away.

Soobin forced a smirk, leaning into Yeonjun's space with practiced ease. “You're hogging my drink,” he teased, voice dripping with false levity. A distraction—from the bartender's lingering gaze, from the group of girls whispering behind their hands, from the way every damn person in this club seemed magnetized to Yeonjun's orbit.

It wasn't fair. 

Beomgyu was right there —all sharp cheekbones and effortless grace, spinning some laughing stranger across the dance floor without a care in the world. 

Taehyun should be the one grinding his teeth raw watching how easily numbers got exchanged, how Beomgyu beamed at every new “friend” like they'd hung the moon. But no . Soobin was the one burning alive because Yeonjun had the audacity to lick condensation off the rim of his glass.

“Thirsty?” Yeonjun murmured, pushing the drink back with fingers that lingered just a second too long on Soobin's. His eyelashes cast shadows under the pulsing lights, his lips glossy from the cocktail. Every detail carved into Soobin's ribs like a knife.

The bartender materialized with a fresh glass, winking at Yeonjun. “On the house.” Soobin's grip tightened around his own drink. 

Why couldn't they see? Yeonjun wasn't flirting—that was just how he breathed, how he existed, open and warm and completely oblivious to the wreckage he left in his wake.

Soobin wanted to ruin him for it.

Wanted to drag him into some dark corner and bite that stupid, perfect mouth until Yeonjun forgot how to smile at anyone else. Until his gasps were loud enough to drown out the music, until his fingers left bruises in Soobin's hair, until everyone in this godforsaken club knew exactly whose…

“Earth to Soobin.” Yeonjun's knee bumped his under the table, jolting him back to reality. “You okay?”

No . 

He was so far from okay, he couldn't even see it on the horizon. 

But he'd choke on his own tongue before admitting it. “Never better,” Soobin lied, throwing back his drink like it could scorch the truth from his throat. The ice cubes clinked like a warning.

Somewhere behind them, Beomgyu whooped as Taehyun finally dragged him onto the dance floor. The crowd cheered. Yeonjun laughed, bright and careless, and Soobin's stomach twisted .

Friends didn't fantasize about marking up their best friend's neck where the whole world could see.

Friends definitely didn't get their hearts beating like crazy from the way said best friend's Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.

Soobin ordered another drink.

The fresh glass had barely touched the counter before Soobin reached for it. Ice clinked like a warning as amber liquid sloshed against the sides.

A hand closed over his wrist—warm, familiar . The contact burned through his sleeve.

“You should stop.” Yeonjun's voice was velvet-soft against his ear, too close and not close enough . “You're drinking more than usual.” A pause. The ghost of fingers tightening. “Did something happen?”

Soobin almost laughed. The sound stuck in his throat like broken glass.

Yeah. You. Me. This. 

The way you taste like home but won't let me stay.

Instead, he twisted his wrist free—too gentle, always too gentle with him—and mustered a smirk that felt like cracking porcelain. “Just enjoying the night,” he lied, watching Yeonjun's reflection in the liquor-streaked mirror behind the bar.

Why are they pretending?

He took another drink instead. Asking wouldn’t solve anything.

The burn down his throat was nothing compared to the one in his chest.

The glass was empty again. Soobin only noticed when the whiskey's fire crawled down his throat, hotter than it had any right to be. Fourth one? Fifth? The ice cubes rattled like bones as he set it down too hard.

Yeonjun's stare weighed on him, that look that always saw too much. “Soobin—”

“I'm fine.” The interruption came jagged, the words splintering between them. He gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where strangers' hands had lingered on Yeonjun's waist all night. “Go back to whatever—” His voice caught. “—or whoever's waiting for you. Don't waste your pity on me.”

The lie curdled on his tongue . But wasn't that their specialty?

Just friends who kissed like it meant something.

Just friends who touched like they were starving.

Just friends who kept pretending this didn't tear him apart stitch by stitch.

Yeonjun's fingers twitched toward him before curling into a fist at his side. The silence between them grew teeth.

Soobin signaled for another drink.

The whiskey glass felt dangerously fragile in Soobin's grip, as if his unraveling composure might shatter it before the alcohol could finish its job. Neon lights bled across the counter's polished surface, distorting reflections until even his own face looked unfamiliar… some hollow-cheeked stranger wearing his skin tonight.

He couldn't trace the exact moment the evening had soured.

Perhaps it had been watching Beomgyu lean into Taehyun's space three hours ago, that effortless intimacy of two people who'd long since stopped pretending. 

How Taehyun's fingers had absently traced the rim of his glass exactly twice whenever Beomgyu wandered off, some silent countdown until his return. How Beomgyu's gaze always found Taehyun through the crowd like a compass needle swinging north, even mid-conversation with admirers. 

No declarations needed. No frantic grasping. Just quiet , bone-deep certainty.

Or maybe it had been earlier, when Yeonjun had arrived at his apartment smelling like rain and that stupid bergamot shampoo his ex had always bought him. 

How Soobin had pretended not to notice the way Yeonjun's phone buzzed three separate times while they got ready, how his thumb had hovered over a notification before silencing it with that tight, practiced smile. 

The same smile he'd worn years ago when insisting “we're fine” as his relationship crumbled.

The glass emptied again. Ice cubes clinked like mocking laughter.

Soobin wasn't naive. 

He knew what they were— friends who kissed in shadows, who mapped each other's bodies with the desperation of men memorizing evacuation routes. 

But tonight, the illusion chafed like a poorly fitted suit. Every laugh Yeonjun gifted strangers, every casual touch he allowed, carved another fissure in Soobin's carefully constructed indifference.

Across the room, Yeonjun's head tipped back in laughter at some bartender's joke, the column of his throat exposed. Soobin's teeth ached with the memory of pressing there just last week, how Yeonjun had gasped his name like a revelation before carefully disentangling their limbs come morning.

“Another,” Soobin rasped, pushing the glass toward the bartender. His voice sounded sandpapered.

A warm hand closed over his wrist, again . “Binnie.”

Yeonjun's touch burned through his sleeve. 

Always so careful with that nickname; never in public, never where others might hear and question what it meant. The precaution might have hurt less if Soobin didn't know Yeonjun had once called his ex “love” in crowded rooms without hesitation.

“Really, I'm fine,” he lied, too sharply. 

Yeonjun's fingers tightened briefly before retreating. In the strobe lights, his expression flickered through emotions too fast to catch—concern, frustration, something dangerously close to guilt . “You're being unfair.”

Soobin almost laughed. 

Unfair? Unfair was Yeonjun's ex still having a key to his dorm after the breakup. 

Unfair was pretending their late-night fumblings didn't leave Soobin's sheets smelling like longing for days. 

Unfair was having to watch Taehyun accept a drink from Beomgyu with that quiet smile, knowing no amount of whiskey would ever let Soobin ask for the same feeling. That quiet, safe place to come back whenever he wanted to. 

The fresh glass trembled in his grip. He drank anyway.

Somewhere between the seven and sixth pour, the pain would blur into something manageable. Somewhere between “ just friends ” and “ never enough ,” he'd find the strength to walk away tonight without causing a scene.

But not yet.

Not while Yeonjun still stood this close, smelling like home and heartbreak in equal measure.

Soobin's words cut .

Not like a knife—clean and quick—but like glass shards dragged slow over skin. The way he said it, the way he wouldn’t even look at him—like Yeonjun was something contaminated. A problem . A weight dragging him down.

And that hurt.

Yeonjun’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. 

He should walk away. He should. But the alcohol in his veins burned hotter than his pride, and before he could stop himself, he grabbed Soobin’s arm, forcing him to turn.

“Why are you acting like this?”

His voice came out sharper than he meant, raw at the edges. Soobin’s eyes finally flicked to his—dark, guarded, angry—and Yeonjun hated how his stomach twisted at the sight.

“Does something happen?” he pressed, stepping closer. The club’s bass thrummed around them, but all he could hear was the uneven hitch of Soobin’s breath. “You’re drinking too much. You didn’t even dance . You’ve just been staring at Taehyun and Beomgyu all night like—”

Like you wish we were them.

The unspoken words hung between them, sharp as a blade.

Soobin’s jaw clenched. “You noticed that, huh?” A bitter laugh. “Funny. You never seem to notice anything else.”

Yeonjun recoiled like he’d been struck. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Soobin’s gaze dropped to Yeonjun’s lips—just for a second—before he wrenched his arm free. “Forget it.”

But Yeonjun couldn’t . 

Not when Soobin was like this —volatile, wounded , hurting—and acting like Yeonjun was the one who didn’t care.

“No,” Yeonjun snapped, crowding into his space. “You don’t get to say things like that and then shut down. If you’re mad at me, say it. If you’re jealous—”

“Jealous?” Soobin’s laugh was hollow. “Of what? Your ex? Taehyun and Beomgyu? Or just the fact that you can pretend this…” He gestured between them, “… doesn’t mean anything to you?”

Yeonjun’s breath caught.

Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it?

Soobin thought he was the one pretending.

The music swelled around them, bodies pressing close, laughter ringing too loud. But at this moment, it was just the two of them—too close and yet too far, caught in a cycle of push and pull, neither brave enough to say what they really meant.

Yeonjun exhaled, shoulders slumping.

“You’re an idiot,” he muttered, but there was no heat left in it. Just exhaustion. Just ache.

Soobin’s expression flickered—something vulnerable breaking through the anger—before he turned back to the bar, his voice barely audible over the noise.

“Yeah. I know.”

Silence, before any of them said something they both would regret. 

“Fine. I'm leaving.” Yeonjun's voice came out steadier than he felt. “Enjoy your night. Drink until you don't remember where you step. Or do whatever you want. I don't want to see you like this.”

He turned before Soobin could respond—before those dark, wounded eyes could make him hesitate—and strode toward the club's exit. The bass vibrated through the floor, laughter and shouts blending into white noise as he pushed through the crowd.

It wasn't just tonight.

Soobin had been off all week.

The memories flashed like broken glass as Yeonjun shoved open the heavy exit door, the cool night air slapping his heated face.

Waking to Soobin's arms already around him last Tuesday, sleep-warm and clinging like he was afraid Yeonjun might vanish before dawn. 3 AM texts that just said “you awake?” followed by thirty minutes of aimless talking about nothing and everything.

That ridiculous kitchen dance two mornings ago—Soobin spinning Yeonjun away from the stove, humming off-key against his neck like this was something they did, something normal, something real .

And then there was the kiss before the club.

Not the usual playful, heated thing they'd perfected over months. No—this had been different. Slowly, almost fearful, Soobin's hands trembling where they cradled Yeonjun's face. Like he was memorizing him. Like he thought it might be the last time.

Since when did Soobin doubt?

The crisp night air bit at Yeonjun's skin as he stormed down the alley, the club's pulsing music fading behind him. Then—footsteps.

Fast. Urgent.

His footsteps.

Yeonjun stopped dead, his breath fogging in the cold air. He shouldn't turn around. Shouldn't give in this easily. But his traitorous heart stuttered at the sound of Soobin chasing after him— really chasing him, for once.

When he turned, Soobin stood three paces away, chest heaving, his usually perfect hair mussed from running his hands through it. The neon sign above painted his face in streaks of red and blue, making his expression look raw and fractured.

Yeonjun's throat tightened. “What?”

Soobin opened his mouth. Closed it. The confident, sharp-tongued boy Yeonjun knew was nowhere to be seen—just this vulnerable stranger wearing his face.

“I'm right here,” Yeonjun said, softer now. The anger had drained away, leaving something aching and tender beneath. “Talk to me. Why are you so…” His voice caught. “Why do you look so lost ?”

The words hung between them, fragile as the ice cracking underfoot. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. Soobin's hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach out but forgot how.

Yeonjun took a step forward. “I'm your friend . Let me help.”

But even as he said it, they both knew—this thing between them had outgrown that simple word months ago.

The alleyway was quiet except for the distant pulse of the club’s bass, a fading heartbeat against the cold night. Neon signs painted the pavement in fractured colors—reds and blues that cut across Soobin’s face like bruises.

Yeonjun stared at him, his own breath uneven.

Why?

Why did Soobin flinch every time someone called them friends ? 

Why did his hands go rigid when Yeonjun laughed it off, when he said, “It’s fine”? 

They were friends. Weren’t they? Even after the kisses, even after the nights tangled in sheets, even after the way Soobin’s voice sometimes cracked when he said Yeonjun’s name like it was something fragile.

Friends.

The word tasted wrong now.

Yeonjun opened his mouth, the question balanced on his tongue—Why does it hurt you ? Why does it hurt me when I say it?—but Soobin spoke first.

“You don’t get it.” His voice was rough, scraped raw.

Yeonjun’s chest tightened. “Then make me.”

A beat. The wind hissed through the alley, carrying the scent of rain and distant cigarettes. Soobin’s jaw worked, his throat bobbing like he was swallowing glass.

“You really wanna know?” He laughed, hollow. “Fine. You’re right. We’re friends . That’s all we are. That’s all we’ll ever be, because you don’t—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because you can’t .”

Yeonjun’s pulse spiked. “Can’t what?”

Soobin’s eyes burned into his. “Can’t choose me .”

The words landed like a punch.

Yeonjun recoiled. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” Soobin stepped closer, his voice dropping to something dangerous. “You chose him first. Your ex. Even after everything he did, you still talk to him. You still smile at him. And then… there’s me. I’m just—” A sharp, bitter exhale. “ Convenient . The one you come to when you’re lonely, the one you kiss when it’s dark and no one’s watching. But when the sun’s up? We’re friends . Right?”

Yeonjun’s hands curled into fists. “You think that’s what this is? You think I’d—” His voice broke. “ God , you’re such an idiot.”

Soobin froze.

Yeonjun didn’t give him time to react. 

He closed the distance between them, grabbing the front of Soobin’s shirt, his fingers trembling. “You wanna know why I talked to my ex? Because he apologized . Because I needed to hear it, just once, so I could finally stop wondering if I was the one who ruined everything. And yeah, I smiled. Because I was relieved. Because for the first time in years , I didn’t feel like I was worth nothing .”

Soobin’s breath hitched.

Yeonjun barreled on, his voice cracking. “But you… you just…” He shoved at Soobin’s chest, half-hearted, his anger crumbling. “You don’t get to act like you’re some backup plan. You don’t get to pretend I don’t—”

Don’t what?

The words lodged in his throat.

Soobin’s hands came up, gripping Yeonjun’s wrists, not to push him away but to hold on. His eyes were wide, almost afraid. “Don’t what ?”

Yeonjun exhaled, ragged. “… Don’t care about you. More than I should.”

The admission hung between them, fragile as the silence after a gunshot.

Soobin’s grip tightened. “Prove it.”

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate.

He kissed him.

Not like before—not the playful nips that dissolved into laughter, not the testing brushes of lips that could be blamed on alcohol or poor judgment. This was devastation . This was truth .

Yeonjun’s hands fisted in Soobin’s shirt, dragging him closer, as if he could fuse their bodies together through sheer will. Teeth clashed, not in anger but in relief, in the dizzying realization that every unspoken word between them had finally broken free. 

Soobin tasted like whiskey and salt— had he been crying? —and Yeonjun drank him in like a man starved.

Soobin staggered back against the alley wall, the brick rough against his shoulders, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t . Not when Yeonjun was pouring every unanswered question into this kiss, every “Why do you look at me like that?” and “Why does it hurt when you call us friends?” and “Why can’t I breathe when you’re near me?”

And Soobin—

Soobin kissed him back like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

His hands, always so careful, so restrained, now cradled Yeonjun’s face with something close to reverence, his thumbs brushing the damp trails on Yeonjun’s cheeks. 

You’re here. You’re real. You’re mine, right? .

Yeonjun’s breath hitched as Soobin’s fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back, exposing his throat. Soobin’s lips followed, hot and desperate, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of his neck, right over the pulse point that had been fluttering wildly since the moment he turned around in this alley.

“Tell me again,” Soobin murmured against his skin, his voice wrecked.

And when Yeonjun finally pulled back, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with something unreadable, Soobin didn’t let him go. He kept him close, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the cold air.

“Say it again,” Soobin murmured.

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. “I choose you” A pause. Then, softer, “ Did you choose me? ”

Soobin’s chest ached.

He kissed him again, slower this time, savoring the way Yeonjun’s body molded against his, the way his fingers trembled where they clung to Soobin’s shoulders.

They were a mess .

They were perfect .

And for the first time in weeks, neither of them said “friends.”

“Good,” Yeonjun said against his lips. “Because you’re stuck with me now.”

Soobin laughed, wild and bright, and Yeonjun thought, Oh … This was what it felt like to stop running .

And oh—

Oh… This was the answer to everything.

The way Soobin’s body molded against his, the way his breaths came in ragged bursts between kisses, the way his hands trembled as they mapped Yeonjun’s spine like he was memorizing him. 

As if he’d spent years believing he was replaceable .

But now, no more doubts. No more “just friends.”  

Just this—the heat of their mouths, the slide of skin, the silent, desperate “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, lungs burning, Yeonjun laughed—soft, disbelieving.

Soobin’s lips curved against his. “What?”

Yeonjun brushed their noses together. “Nothing. Just… finally .”

Finally, no more pretending. No more fear.

Finally, the proof they’d both been starving for.

This —what they were to each other—could never be replaced.

The club’s strobe lights painted Taehyun in fractured colors—blue across his knuckles where they gripped his drink, red along the sharp line of his jaw. He wasn’t watching the dance floor. Wasn’t watching the girl Beomgyu had spun under the disco ball minutes ago, her laughter ringing bright and meaningless.

No.

Taehyun’s gaze was fixed on the alley door.

Where Soobin had stormed out.

Where Yeonjun had followed.

Where something was happening that would inevitably ripple back to them all.

Beomgyu materialized at his side, smelling like sweat and cheap vodka. “You’re brooding,” he observed, bumping their shoulders together.

Taehyun didn’t flinch. “I’m thinking.”

“Same thing.” Beomgyu swiped Taehyun’s untouched whiskey and downed it in one go. His throat worked, the hickey Taehyun had left earlier peeking above his collar. “They’ll figure it out.”

Taehyun’s fingers twitched toward his own neck, where Beomgyu’s teeth had marked him last night. “Will they?” 

Because Taehyun knew what it looked like—Soobin’s unraveling, Yeonjun’s desperate chase. Knew it intimately . The way want could curdle into something jagged when you refused to name it. 

The way silence could become a weapon .

Beomgyu turned, his back against the bar, eyes scanning the crowd. “Dunno. But they’ve got us as shining examples, right?” His grin was all teeth.

Taehyun snorted. “We’re a disaster.”

“Our disaster.” Beomgyu’s pinky hooked around Taehyun’s where it rested on the counter—a silent.

Taehyun exhaled through his nose.

They were a disaster.

In the way Beomgyu never asked for promises and Taehyun never gave them, yet somehow always ended up here: pressed together in the chaos, Beomgyu’s heartbeat loud against Taehyun’s palm.

On the dance floor, the girl waved at Beomgyu. He didn’t notice.

Taehyun smirked. “She’s waiting.”

Beomgyu’s thumb traced the inside of Taehyun’s wrist. “Let her.”

Their knees knocking together under the bar.

“You’re doing it again. Thinking too much,” Beomgyu murmured, his breath warm with alcohol.

Taehyun didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Someone has to.”

Beomgyu’s smile faltered. Just for a heartbeat. Then he was leaning in, his lips brushing Taehyun’s ear as the music swelled. “I’m fine.”

A lie . They both knew it.

Taehyun turned his head just enough to catch Beomgyu’s gaze. The club lights turned his irises into shattered glass—bright and sharp and wrong.

“You will be,” Taehyun said quietly. “Until you’re not.”

Beomgyu didn't need to look to know that particular set of Taehyun's tells. It was Taehyun's quiet anger, the dangerous kind that came wrapped in velvet.

Without ceremony, Beomgyu let his head drop onto Taehyun's shoulder, his temple pressing against the rigid line of muscle he found there. The contact was simple, but the language of it complex—an apology without words, a peace offering written in the warmth of skin.

Taehyun didn't soften immediately. Beomgyu could feel the resistance in the tendons beneath his cheek, the way Taehyun's breath caught just slightly before evening out. But then—slowly, almost reluctantly —the tension began to bleed from Taehyun's frame, his body responding to Beomgyu's silent plea before his mind had finished protesting.

Beomgyu felt the exact moment Taehyun's anger softened. He smiled against the familiar cotton of Taehyun's shirt, inhaling the scent of detergent and something uniquely Taehyun. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The weight of his head against Taehyun's shoulder said everything.

I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Even when you're angry.

Beomgyu kept his eyes closed. Let his head rest heavier against Taehyun, his temple pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. “Not mad?” he murmured, the words half-lost in the fabric of Taehyun's shirt.

Taehyun's fingers twitched around his untouched drink. “I'm always mad,” he said, but his free hand came up anyway, fingertips brushing the nape of Beomgyu's neck. A silent, I'm here .

Beomgyu smiled.

Because that was the thing about Taehyun—his anger was never just anger. 

It was worry folded into sharp edges, care disguised as gritted teeth. Beomgyu had learned to read it years ago.

Now, Beomgyu tilted his face just enough to nudge his nose against Taehyun's collarbone. “I'm listening,” he said, quiet enough that only Taehyun would hear. A concession. A promise .

Taehyun exhaled through his nose. “Prove it.”

So Beomgyu did.

He stayed.

No flitting off to charm the next stranger, no picking fights with guys who looked at Taehyun too long, no drowning himself in another round of shots just to feel something. Just this—the solid weight of Taehyun beside him, the smell of his detergent clinging to his clothes, the slow drag of his thumb along Beomgyu's hairline.

The music swelled. Someone shrieked with laughter. The bartender clinked glasses behind them.

Beomgyu didn't move.

Taehyun's fingers curled tighter in his hair, just for a second. Thank you .

Beomgyu pressed closer. Always .

While the club throbbed around them, while people came and went from the bar, while Soobin and Yeonjun fought and made up somewhere in the shadows—Beomgyu stayed right there. Head on Taehyun's shoulder. Breathing him in. Letting Taehyun's steady presence anchor him for once, instead of the other way around.

“You're heavy,” Taehyun grumbled, but his arm came up to wrap around Beomgyu's shoulders anyway.

Taehyun's thumb brushed absent circles against Beomgyu's arm.

Maybe , Beomgyu thought, this was enough.

“You’re glaring at the tequila like it insulted your ancestors,” he mused, chin propped in Taehyun's shoulder.

Taehyun didn’t turn. “It’s cheaper than the last place. Tastes like gasoline.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re making that face.” Beomgyu grinned, leaning closer until his breath ghosted over Taehyun’s cheek. “Or is it ‘cause I danced with that guy earlier?”

Taehyun stiffened. “You’re drunk.”

“Nope.” Beomgyu nuzzled against the warm cotton of Taehyun’s shirt, inhaling the scent of detergent and that faint cologne Taehyun pretended he didn’t own. “Just like you better than everyone else.”

A beat. Then Taehyun’s arm slid around Beomgyu’s waist, pulling him closer. “Too cheesy,” he muttered, but his thumb was already tracing absent circles against Beomgyu’s hip.

Beomgyu hummed, content. He knew this language—the way Taehyun’s scowl hid devotion, the way his silence screamed stay .

“You’re thinking too loud,” Taehyun grumbled.

Beomgyu tilted his head up. Taehyun’s profile was sharp under the neon lights, his lashes casting shadows down his cheeks. Beautiful . Always so damn beautiful. “Was just remembering,” Beomgyu murmured, “how you carried me home after that fight behind the 7-Eleven.”

Taehyun’s jaw twitched. “You had a concussion.”

“And you yelled the whole way.” Beomgyu grinned. “ ‘Never again, Beomgyu, I swear to god—’ ”

“Yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Beomgyu echoed, softer.

The music swelled around them, a pulsing beat that rattled the glasses behind the bar. Someone shrieked with laughter. A bottle shattered in the distance.

Taehyun didn’t flinch. Just held Beomgyu tighter.

And Beomgyu—

Beomgyu finally closed his eyes, letting the steady thud of Taehyun’s heartbeat drown out the noise.

Beomgyu's weight against his side was a familiar anchor.

“You don't fight often,” Taehyun said suddenly, his voice low beneath the music. 

Beomgyu blinked up at him, cheek still smushed against Taehyun's shoulder. “Hm?”

“That night behind the 7-Eleven.” Taehyun's thumb brushed over Beomgyu's hip where he knew the scar was—a thin, pale line from where the bottle had caught him. “You stepped in because those guys were harassing that college kid. Took three of them on without even throwing the first punch.”

Beomgyu's lashes fluttered, his smile softening at the edges. “You remember that?”

Taehyun scoffed. Like he could forget. Like he hadn't memorized every reckless, selfless moment of Beomgyu's life since they were nineteen. 

“You're sweet,” Taehyun muttered, as if it was an insult.

The words came out rougher than Taehyun meant them to. 

Because that was the thing about Beomgyu—he was all sunshine and open doors, the kind of person who'd give his last yen to a stranger and laugh about eating cup ramen for a week. The kind who'd step between a fight without a second thought, not because he liked violence, but because he couldn't stand seeing someone else hurt.

And Taehyun…

Taehyun was the one who patched him up afterward. Who pressed gauze to his split knuckles and bit back the “what were you thinking” because he already knew the answer.

Someone had to.

Beomgyu nudged his nose against Taehyun's jaw. “You're worrying again.”

“Someone has to,” Taehyun echoed aloud this time, wry.

Beomgyu's fingers found Taehyun's free hand, lacing their fingers together against the sticky bar top. His palms were always warm . Always steady. “I'm careful,” he said.

Taehyun raised a brow.

“Okay, you're careful for me,” Beomgyu amended, grinning.

The music shifted, something slower bleeding through the speakers. Around them, the crowd swayed—bodies pressing close, laughter turning drowsy with alcohol and the late hour.

Beomgyu didn't move to dance. Just tightened his grip on Taehyun's hand, his thumb tracing the calluses on Taehyun's knuckles. The ones from holding onto him too tight all these years.

Taehyun exhaled. Turned his head just enough to press his lips to Beomgyu's temple. A silent stay safe . 

Beomgyu leaned into it, his smile a secret against Taehyun's skin.

Beomgyu had always thought Taehyun looked like something carved from the night itself.

Not in the way people usually meant—dark and brooding and mysterious. No . Taehyun was the quiet solidity of night. The kind of steady presence that made you breathe easier, the kind of dark that cradled you instead of swallowing you whole.

Which was why it was so funny, really , that they were like this right now—tangled together at a club, of all places.

Beomgyu wanted to bottle this moment. Wanted to press it between the pages of his ribs and keep it forever.

Because Taehyun—

Taehyun was devotion in its purest form.

Not the loud, dramatic kind. Not the kind that wrote sonnets or screamed from rooftops. 

No, Taehyun’s love was in the way he always carried band-aids in his wallet because Beomgyu was a menace with paper cuts. In the way he’d wordlessly slide his jacket over Beomgyu’s shoulders when it rained, even if it left him shivering. In the way, he’d stayed up for three straight nights when Beomgyu had the flu, his textbooks abandoned on the floor as he pressed cold towels to Beomgyu’s forehead.

“You look horrible,” Beomgyu had croaked, blinking up at Taehyun’s exhausted face.

Taehyun had rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

But his hands had been gentle. Always so gentle.

Beomgyu tilted his head, studying Taehyun’s profile now—the sharp slope of his nose, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he looked down.

People always called Beomgyu the handsome one. The charming one. The sun .

Taehyun was the moon .

Beautiful in a way that didn’t blind you, in a way that didn’t demand you look but rewarded you when you did.

Beomgyu nudged his nose against Taehyun’s collarbone, grinning when Taehyun’s grip tightened reflexively. “You’re staring,” Taehyun muttered, though he didn’t pull away.

“Can’t help it,” Beomgyu said, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “You’re pretty.”

Taehyun scoffed, but Beomgyu felt the way his pulse jumped under his lips.

And wasn’t that a miracle? That after all these years, Beomgyu could still make Taehyun’s heart stutter ? 

That this man—this steady, unshakable force of nature —still wanted him, despite his recklessness, despite his chaos, despite the fact that Beomgyu would never be as careful with himself as Taehyun was with him?

Beomgyu closed his eyes, breathing him in.

He’d never been religious, but this—

This was the closest thing to prayer he knew.

And he knew they were just friends.

They'd always been just friends—even when Taehyun pressed him against the bathroom wall two nights ago, drunk on cheap sake and something far more dangerous. Even when Beomgyu had gasped Taehyun's name like a prayer, his fingers tangled in that stupidly soft hair no one else was allowed to touch.

Just friends.

The hickey was barely visible now, faded to a yellowish shadow beneath Taehyun's collar. Beomgyu's mouth watered anyway.

“Taehyun is very pretty”.

Taehyun's grip tightened—just for a second—before he forcibly relaxed his fingers. A silent don't .

Because that was their rule, wasn't it ? Just friends meant no flirting where people could see. No lingering touches in daylight. No acknowledging that Taehyun's bed still smelled like Beomgyu's cologne from last weekend, or that Beomgyu's phone had twelve unsent texts begging Taehyun to come over.

The thirteenth text simply read: we should talk about this

Taehyun had replied: no, we shouldn't

The music swelled around them, some overplayed pop song that had the crowd screaming along. Beomgyu watched a girl twirl under the disco lights, her laughter bright and carefree. 

He envied her .

Taehyun's voice cut through his thoughts. “You okay?”

Beomgyu forced a smile. “Always.”

A lie. They both knew it.

The club’s bassline thrummed through Beomgyu’s ribs like a second heartbeat, but all he could focus on was the heat of Taehyun’s palm against his. Their fingers had been tangled together for seventeen minutes now—Beomgyu had counted each agonizing, glorious second—and the contact burned hotter than any liquor sliding down his throat.

Taehyun wasn’t a touchy person.

Not like Beomgyu, who draped himself over friends and strangers alike with the ease of a sun-warmed cat. 

No, Taehyun’s affection was rationed carefully—a shoulder bump here, a fleeting pat on the back there. Never this. Never fingers interlaced tight enough to bruise, his thumb tracing idle circles over Beomgyu’s knuckles like he was memorizing the topography of him.

Beomgyu should say something.

A joke, maybe. Something to cut the tension coiling thick between them. But when he tilted his head up from where it rested against Taehyun’s shoulder, the words died in his throat.

Taehyun was already looking down at him.

The neon lights painted his face in fractured hues—blue catching the sharp angle of his jaw, red smudging the curve of his lower lip. His dark eyes held an expression Beomgyu had only seen in fragments before: in the split-second before Taehyun kissed him drunk two nights ago, in the way his hands had lingered when he bandaged Beomgyu’s scraped knee last month.

Want .

Raw and unhidden .

Beomgyu’s breath stuttered. He knew this dance. Knew the steps by heart—the way they’d orbit each other, closer and closer, until alcohol or poor judgment sent them crashing together. Knew how Taehyun would wake up tomorrow and pretend it never happened.

But the tequila in his veins wasn’t strong enough to blame tonight.

“Can I?”

The question slipped out before Beomgyu could stop it, barely audible beneath the music. He didn’t specify. Didn’t need to.

Taehyun’s fingers twitched against his.

For one endless moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—the heat of Taehyun’s thigh pressed to his, the hitch in his breathing, the way his gaze dropped to Beomgyu’s mouth like he was starving.

Then—

A nod.

Small. Almost imperceptible .

But it was enough.

Beomgyu leaned in slowly, giving Taehyun every chance to pull away. The first brush of their lips was feather-light, a question whispered into the scant space between them.

Taehyun answered by surging forward.

His free hand cradled Beomgyu’s jaw, calloused fingers tilting his face up as he kissed him deep and sure. There was no hesitation in the slide of his mouth, no trace of the careful restraint that usually kept them an arm’s length apart. Just heat, and hunger, and something terrifyingly close to love.

Beomgyu melted into it.

Every kiss before this had been a spark—bright and fleeting. This was the wildfire.

Taehyun tasted like the whiskey he’d been nursing all night, bitter and warm, and Beomgyu chased the flavor with a desperation that should have embarrassed him. He fisted his free hand in Taehyun’s shirt, pulling him closer until their chests pressed together, until he could feel the frantic rhythm of Taehyun’s heart against his own.

Distantly, he registered the catcalls from nearby patrons, the flash of someone’s phone camera. Normally, Taehyun would have flinched away—would have muttered “we shouldn’t” and put three feet of careful distance between them.

Tonight, he only growled—a low, possessive sound that vibrated against Beomgyu’s lips—and kissed him harder.

Beomgyu was drowning .

And God , he never wanted to come up for air.

When they finally broke apart, Taehyun didn’t go far. Just rested his forehead against Beomgyu’s, their breaths mingling in ragged sync. His thumb brushed the apple of Beomgyu’s cheek, wiping away the dampness Beomgyu hadn’t realized was there.

The kiss ended, but the world didn't right itself.

Taehyun's lips were still close enough that Beomgyu could feel the uneven puff of his breath—whiskey-warm and trembling slightly, like he'd just run a marathon instead of kissing his best friend in the middle of a crowded club.

Best friend .

The lie tasted bitter on Beomgyu's tongue.

They'd stopped being just friends two nights ago, when Taehyun had bitten his collarbone hard enough to bruise. When Beomgyu had retaliated by sucking that dark mark into the soft skin beneath Taehyun's jaw— mine, mine, mine —even though he had no right. Even though they'd never talked about what any of it meant.

And now this .

Now Taehyun's hand was still cradling Beomgyu's face like something precious, his thumb brushing away the tear Beomgyu hadn't realized escaped.

Beomgyu should say something. Should ask “what are we doing?” or “do you regret this?” or any of the other questions that had been rotting in his chest since Taehyun first kissed him drunk.

Instead, he laughed—bright and artificial, the way he did when strangers asked if he was okay after a fight—and tugged Taehyun's hand.

“Now, dance with me,” he demanded, injecting just enough playful whine into his voice. “You love to dance.”

The truth was this: Taehyun loved to dance.

So when Beomgyu tugged him onto the dance floor now—their kiss still burning on both their lips—he wasn't offering an escape. He was offering truth .

“Since when do you lie so badly?” Taehyun muttered as Beomgyu spun them into the crowd.

Beomgyu grinned, all teeth. “Who's lying?”

Because here was another truth: Beomgyu was okay with being friends.

Not because he didn't want more. God, he wanted . Wanted until his bones ached with it. 

But if all Taehyun could give him was shared breakfasts and movie nights and the occasional drunken mistake? Beomgyu would take it . Would stitch those moments into his ribs and call them enough.

Taehyun dipped him suddenly, one arm strong around his back. Beomgyu's laugh spilled out, bright and startled, as the club lights blurred overhead.

“You're ridiculous,” Beomgyu gasped when Taehyun righted him.

Taehyun's thumb brushed the hollow beneath Beomgyu's ear. “You love it.”

And wasn't that the problem?

Beomgyu loved everything about Taehyun.

The way he scowled at morning alarms. How he remembered everyone's coffee orders. That stupid, perfect concentration face he made while dancing.

The music shifted—slower now, a sultry R&B beat that had the crowd pairing off. Taehyun didn't step back. Just pulled Beomgyu closer until their foreheads touched.

“Still okay with just friends?” Taehyun murmured.

Beomgyu could taste the whiskey on his breath. Could feel the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his fingers where they gripped Taehyun's shoulders.

He was a terrible liar. So he didn't try.

“No,” Beomgyu admitted, quiet as a secret. “But I'll pretend if you need me to.”

Taehyun's exhale shuddered between them. Then—

“Don't.”

And kissed him again.