Chapter Text
Yeosang’s alarm went off at 6:00 AM sharp. Not because he wanted it to but because it had to. The bakery opened at seven, and he needed a solid forty minutes to mentally prepare himself for the day ahead. Even then, it usually wasn’t enough.
He sat up slowly, letting the silence of his apartment wrap around him. The tiny studio was neat, almost obsessively so everything folded, organized, untouched. It looked more like a showroom than a home. A half-finished bowl of ramen sat on the counter from the night before. He didn’t have the energy to clean it.
Yeosang shuffled into the bathroom and avoided the mirror. The black hair that framed his face had started to grow too long again, falling into his dark brown eyes. He needed a haircut. But that would mean going out, sitting in a chair, making small talk. The thought made his chest tighten.
The shower was scalding hot. It had to be, or he didn’t feel clean. When he dressed, he pulled his sleeves down far over his wrists and tugged his sweater into place like armor. He always wore long sleeves—even in the summer.
The bakery was only a ten-minute walk away, but he left early. It wasn’t that he liked being there. He just hated the anxiety of arriving even one minute late. He kept his eyes low as he walked, earbuds in, music playing so loud he could almost forget the real world. Almost.
Yeosang worked at Sugar & Steam, a quiet little bakery tucked between a laundromat and a florist. It smelled like cinnamon, yeast, and espresso. Most people found it comforting. To Yeosang, it was neutral territory tolerable because it was predictable.
He was a good worker. Polite, quiet, efficient. Customers didn’t remember his name, and he preferred it that way. He barely spoke unless necessary, and his boss, a tired woman named Hyejin, had long stopped trying to coax conversation out of him.
Everything changed the day he walked in.
It was Tuesday, just after the morning rush. The bakery was quiet again, just Yeosang, the hum of the fridge, and the smell of rising dough.
Then the door swung open, the bell chiming, and someone stepped inside like they owned the light that followed.
He was tall, sharp-featured, and wore an oversized black hoodie that did nothing to hide the confident swing in his step. His hair was also black, but styled messily, as if he’d just walked off a fashion shoot and couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His eyes dark brown, just like Yeosang’s scanned the counter until they landed on him.
Yeosang froze. He looked down immediately.
The stranger stepped up. “Hi,” he said, bright and warm.
Yeosang forced himself to look up.
“I’m Wooyoung,” the stranger said. “What’s your name?”
Yeosang blinked.
There was a pause. Wooyoung tilted his head, smiling like he already knew Yeosang’s name but wanted to hear it anyway.
“…Yeosang,” he mumbled.
“Nice to meet you, Yeosang. I’ll take an Americano and one of those, please.” He pointed to the almond croissants. “They look good. Did you bake them?”
Yeosang shook his head. “I just work front.”
“Well, you present them well.” Wooyoung winked.
Yeosang stared at him, baffled.
People didn’t talk to him like that.
They didn’t smile like that.
They didn’t care.
He gave Wooyoung his order, rang him up, and tried not to fumble the cup.
“See you tomorrow,” Wooyoung said as he walked out.
Yeosang blinked again. Tomorrow?
He brushed it off as meaningless small talk. Until the next morning, when the bell chimed again at 10:04 AM. The same hoodie. The same grin.
“Hey, Yeosang,” Wooyoung said like they were old friends. “Same order.”
The next day, same thing.
Then again.
And again.
Yeosang tried to ignore it. Tried not to look forward to that hour each morning when Wooyoung would show up, make some joke, ask some question, compliment his handwriting on the coffee cup. But something about the way Wooyoung smiled at him like he wasn’t strange or invisible—began to chip at the walls he’d so carefully built.
Still, he said almost nothing. Just “hi,” “thank you,” “have a good day.”
One morning, Wooyoung came in wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.
“You’re hiding,” Yeosang said before he could stop himself.
Wooyoung looked up, surprised, then grinned. “Am I that obvious?”
Yeosang nodded.
Wooyoung leaned in slightly. “Don’t tell anyone, but I had a photoshoot this morning. Couldn’t be recognized. You know, fans and all.”
Yeosang blinked. “You’re famous?”
Wooyoung laughed. “Something like that. I’m a model.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“No.”
“That’s refreshing.” Wooyoung smiled again.
Yeosang didn’t understand why someone like Wooyoung kept coming back. He was loud, dazzling, confident. He probably had a hundred friends, a wild nightlife, parties, flashing cameras. Yeosang had… a stack of used notebooks and a Spotify playlist called Noise to Drown Out Thoughts.
And yet, Wooyoung came back.
Every day.
And slowly, Yeosang found himself doing the unthinkable, waiting for him.
He started writing little notes on Wooyoung’s coffee cup: “have a nice day”, “don’t trip over your ego”, “don’t let the world wear you out.”
Wooyoung would laugh every time, responding with some dramatic line: “too late!”, “you wound me, Yeosang!”, “your handwriting is the highlight of my morning.”
Yeosang smiled once. Just once. And Wooyoung caught it like it was the rarest thing in the world.
But he didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push too hard.
Not yet.
That night, Yeosang stood in front of the mirror after his shift. Pulled off his sweater. Stared at the new bandages on his arms.
He hated this part.
The weakness. The shame. The hunger for pain because at least it made something real.
He closed his eyes and tried to pretend none of it existed. That the quiet wasn’t so loud. That Wooyoung’s laughter hadn’t stayed with him the whole day. That he wasn’t beginning to wish… for more.
But he didn’t deserve it.
Not someone like him.
Not when his skin told the truth his lips never would.
Not when he was barely holding on.
He turned off the light and crawled into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin. His phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.
[Unknown]: You forgot to write on my cup today. I’m devastated.
— Wooyoung
Yeosang stared at it, heart racing. Then turned the screen off.
He didn’t reply.
But he fell asleep holding the phone anyway.
———————
Yeosang didn’t sleep much.
He closed his eyes, but his mind kept circling the same thought: He noticed.
Of course Wooyoung noticed. That was the problem. People weren’t supposed to. Yeosang had spent years making sure of it being invisible, being unremarkable. He had folded himself into the background of life like a secret note in an old book.
And then he walked in, all light and noise and too-easy smiles.
By morning, the message was still there. He didn’t reply. He told himself it was better that way.
At the bakery, he went through the motions setting out trays, brewing coffee, pretending not to glance at the clock. He told himself Wooyoung might not come today. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe it wasn’t real.
But at 10:04, the bell chimed.
Yeosang didn’t look up.
He heard the footsteps, the grin in the voice. “No cup note today either? You’re killing me, Yeosang.”
He didn’t answer. Just took the order and moved like his body wasn’t his.
Wooyoung waited, but the silence held.
When Yeosang handed over the cup, their fingers brushed. He flinched.
Wooyoung’s smile dimmed. “Hey… are you okay?”
Yeosang stepped back. “You should stop coming here.”
It was soft. Almost inaudible.
Wooyoung blinked. “What?”
“I don’t want you here.”
He didn’t mean it. Not really. But the words came out like a defense mechanism with teeth.
Wooyoung stared at him for a moment. “Did I do something wrong?”
Yeosang shook his head, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just… leave me alone.”
The bakery was too quiet. The silence scraped at his ears. He kept his hands behind the counter, gripped them into fists to stop them from shaking.
Wooyoung didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Okay.”
He took the coffee and walked out.
No joke. No wink. No tomorrow.
Yeosang stood still for a long time after the door closed.
⸻
That night, he didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Just sat on the floor of his apartment with the lights off, the air stale and heavy.
He told himself it was good. He needed to push people away before they saw too much. Before they touched the fragile parts and realized how broken he really was.
But something in his chest twisted. Not guilt—he was used to that. This was something worse.
He reached for his phone. Opened it. Then closed it again.
He didn’t deserve kindness.
Didn’t deserve someone who smiled at him like Wooyoung did.
He stared at his reflection in the dark screen, saw the mess of his hair, the hollowness under his eyes, and whispered into the silence:
“Don’t come back.”
But part of him hoped he would.