from my winter to your summer – PART TWO
SYNOPSIS — as winter gives way to spring, a burned-out university graduate unexpectedly finds himself working at a small flower shop café after a chance encounter during his father’s funeral slowly changes the course of his life.
⤷ pairing ⭑.ᐟ choi beomgyu x fem! reader
⤷ genres/tags ⭑.ᐟ slow burn, strangers to lovers, forced proximity, coworkers au, flower shop & cafe au, roommates au, hurt/comfort, ANGST (im sorry..), healing, mutual pining, yearning, found family
wc ⭑.ᐟ total 39,5k+
part one, 17,9k+ (click here for pt 1.)
part two, 21,6k+
⤷ warnings ⭑.ᐟ alot of grief, depression themes, financial struggles, unhealthy coping mechanisms (mostly smoking/alcohol), beomgyu gets chased/assaulted by debt collectors, blood/injury mentions, violence/themes of violence, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of death
⤷ taglist ⭑.ᐟ @woncheecks @fairfootedflekk @whoisgami @swangyu @bamgyt @flapsniffer4kook
The two weeks that followed were quiet in the best way. Beomgyu showed up for every shift, early and prepared, and somewhere between the morning rush and the afternoon lull he stopped looking like a guest in his own body.
Yeonjun took credit for this, loudly and often, claiming that his "mentorship" was the reason beomgyu no longer looked like he was attending his own funeral. He responded by learning how to make Yeonjun's coffee just bad enough to be annoying but not bad enough to warrant a remake.
Yeonjun called it betrayal at first. Then it just became typical.
The mornings always started with Y/n unlocking the cafe door, and beomgyu already waiting outside with two cups of coffee because he walked past the shop on his way from your grandparents' house anyway. Yeonjun would arrive ten minutes later, loud and complaining about the weather regardless of whether it was sunny or raining.
The three of you would set up together, unfolding chairs and arranging pastries and checking the flower buckets by the window, and by the time the first customer walked in the cafe already felt lived in.
Beomgyu learned the register faster than anyone expected. He learned the drink orders faster than that. By the end of the first week back, Yeonjun had stopped double checking his work, which was the highest form of praise Yeonjun knew how to give.
"You're still weird," Yeonjun told him one afternoon, watching beomgyu steam milk without looking at what his hands were doing. "But you're useful weird now." Beomgyu didn't look up.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
The flower shop side of the cafe stayed busy too.
Y/n handled most of the arrangements, but beomgyu started helping when things got overwhelming, handing her specific stems before she even asked.
He didn't know flower meanings the way you did, but he remembered which ones went together, which colors looked right under the window light, which ribbons Y/n reached for first.
Yeonjun called him a groupie. "A flower shop girl groupie," he clarified.
Beomgyu didn't look up from the ribbon he was tying. "Groupies follow bands."
"I'm following the coffee."
"You don't even drink coffee." Beomgyu paused. Set the cup down.
"Pastries then." Yeonjun just stared at him.
Y/n ignored those two from how often they bickered, just said thank you and moved on. But you noticed the way Beomgyu's shoulders straightened every time.
Soobin came by three times over the two weeks, always during the afternoon slow hours, always ordering the same iced Americano and sitting in the corner booth where he could see the whole room.
He didn't say much about Beomgyu's living situation mostly because he didn't know. Beomgyu hadn't told him about moving out of the apartment yet, and Y/n hadn't asked why. Some conversations were easier to delay than others. Soobin seemed to sense something had shifted though.
He watched Beomgyu move behind the counter with something like quiet relief, and when he caught Y/n's eye across the room he raised his eyebrows once, a silent question you pretended not to understand.
Yeonjun started noticing things too. Small things.
The way Beomgyu always made Y/n's coffee first even when other orders were waiting. The way he carried the heavy flower buckets without being asked but only when Y/n was the one who needed them. The way he stood a little closer to your side of the counter than his own.
"You know," Yeonjun said one evening while wiping down tables, "if you're going to be obvious about it, at least commit."
Beomgyu was restocking cups behind the counter and didn't look up. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Yeonjun stopped wiping and stared at him. "Oh my God. You're actually going to stand there and lie to my face?"
Beomgyu finally looked at him. "I'm not lying."
"You're deflecting. Which is basically lying but with better posture." Yeonjun pointed the rag at him. "I see you, Choi Beomgyu. I see everything."
Beomgyu stared at him for a beat, then the corner of his mouth twitched. Yeonjun caught it immediately. "There it is. You're smiling. I knew it."
"You're doing that thing where you pretend to be stoic but your face betrays you. It's tragic really. You'd make a terrible spy."
"I wasn't planning on becoming a spy."
"Good. Because you'd be fired on day one." Yeonjun leaned against the counter, grinning. "You'd walk into some secret facility and someone would hand you a coffee order and you'd just... make it. Out of habit."
Beomgyu shook his head, but the smile was still there, quiet and reluctant. "You're weird."
"I'm charming. There's a difference."
Yeonjun laughed, loud and bright, and Beomgyu's smile widened just a fraction.
Y/n pretended not to hear any of it. But you also started noticing things you couldn't unsee. The way Beomgyu's attention drifted toward you during quiet moments. The way he laughed, really laughed, at something stupid Yeonjun said and then looked at you immediately after, like he was checking if you were laughing too. You didn't know what to do with any of it, so you did what you always did. You smiled, handed him a rag, and told him to get back to work. He took the rag every time, and every time he stayed a little closer than before.
On this very slow afternoon, you were restocking the pastry display when Beomgyu appeared beside you again. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there watching your hands arrange the croissants in a neat row.
"You're doing it wrong," he said.
You glanced up. "I've been doing this for two years. I think I know how to arrange pastries."
"The crooked ones go in the front."
"Why would I put the crooked ones in the front?"
"So people take them first." He reached over and swapped a misshapen croissant to the front of the display. "Then the pretty ones stay for later. It's a basic strategy."
You stared at him. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"It's retail psychology."
"It's you making excuses for being lazy."
He picked up a pastry brush and tapped it against his palm. "I'm not lazy. I'm efficient, boss."
You snatched the brush from his hand. "You're annoying."
"And yet," he said, leaning one elbow on the counter, "you keep me around."
"For carrying heavy things?"
"For knowing where the backup coffee beans are."
He nodded slowly, like this was valuable information. "So my value to you is purely functional."
"No emotional attachment whatsoever."
He looked at you for a beat too long. "Liar."
You threw a napkin at his face. He caught it.
The bathroom door at the back of the cafe swung open and Soobin emerged, shaking water off his hands and looking mildly annoyed at the world. He spotted Beomgyu immediately and made a beeline for the counter.
"You," Soobin said, pointing. "Register. Now."
Beomgyu didn't move. "I'm not even on register today."
"I don't care. I need more coffee and one of those sliced cakes. The chocolate one." Soobin leaned against the counter, dragging a hand down his face. "I had a rough day, bro."
Soobin lifted his head just enough to glare at nothing. "My coworker heated up fish in the office microwave at ten in the morning. The entire floor smells like someone died."
Beomgyu stared at him. "That's it?"
"That's it? Gyu, the smell is in my clothes. In my hair. I can taste it." He shuddered. "I had to sit through a two hour meeting breathing through my mouth like an animal."
"You could have just opened a window."
"We don't have windows. It's a basement office." Soobin's voice cracked. "A basement office with a fish smell. I'm living in a nightmare."
Beomgyu finally pushed off the counter rolling his eyes while snickering and walked toward the register, taking his sweet time. Soobin watched him shuffle over like a man with nowhere to be.
"Why is it," Soobin said, "that when you're with her, you're suddenly all bright like you’re in sunshine and rainbows land?"
Beomgyu punched something into the register. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"But the second I show up, you turn into Eeyore." Soobin gestured at him. "Gloomy, bitchy, and depressed.
Beomgyu slid a cup across the counter. "Your coffee."
"Don't ignore me." Soobin grabbed the cup. "It's favoritism. Straight up fuckass favoritism and I see it."
Beomgyu finally looked at him. "You want the cake or not."
"I want the cake. But I also want an apology."
"You're not getting either if you keep talking."
Soobin gasped, one hand pressed to his chest. "You wouldn't dare."
Beomgyu walked to the pastry display and pulled out the last slice of chocolate cake, placing it on a plate with exaggerated care. He set it in front of Soobin without a word.
Soobin stared at the cake. Then at Beomgyu. "This doesn't fix anything."
"I'm eating it under protest."
Soobin shoved a forkful into his mouth, chewing aggressively while maintaining eye contact with Beomgyu the entire time. Beomgyu just stood there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
You busied yourself with the flower buckets by the window, pretending you hadn't heard any of it. But you were smiling, and when Beomgyu glanced over at you, he was too.
Hours later, the cafe was empty and the sun had started its slow dip toward the horizon. A pipe burst in the back room around four, nothing dramatic, just a persistent leak that made the floor wet and the whole place smell like old metal, so your grandfather called and said to shut it down early.
Yeonjun had never looked more relieved. "A plumbing emergency," he said, tying his apron string for the last time. "Finally, a real excuse to leave before seven."
The three of you moved through the closing routine in comfortable silence. Yeonjun wiped down tables while Beomgyu counted the register and you swept the floor near the flower buckets. It was peaceful in the way late afternoons could be, the kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled with conversation.
Yeonjun finished first, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door. "Alright losers, I'm out." He pointed at Beomgyu.
"Don't burn the place down." Then at you. "Don't let him burn the place down."
Yeonjun left with a wave, the bell above the door chiming once before the cafe fell quiet again. You finished sweeping while Beomgyu packed the last of the pastries into a box to donate. The light through the windows had turned into a softer golden glow that bathed the displayed flowers beautifully.
You leaned the broom against the wall and stretched your arms above your head. "Hey. You’re coming with me to the grocery store since we have time now."
Beomgyu looked up from the pastry box. "Okay."
No hesitation. He closed the box, wiped his hands on his apron, and untied it in one smooth motion. You grabbed your bag from under the register while he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. The two of you stepped out into the cooling evening air, the sky turning that soft blue just before dusk.
The grocery store was only a few blocks away, a mild crowd at this hour aside from a few exhausted parents and a man buying instant noodles in bulk. You grabbed a cart and headed toward the produce section, Beomgyu trailing behind with his hands in his jacket pockets.
Near the back of the store, a woman stood behind a small cart handing out tiny paper cups. Free samples.
Today it was some kind of dumpling situation, two flavors side by side, kimchi and japchae.
You grabbed a kimchi and popped it into your mouth. Beomgyu reached for the same. "No," you said, smacking his hand away. "Get the japchae."
"Because I want to try both but I don't want to take two."
"It's a free sample. You're not going to jail."
You ignored him and grabbed a japchae, chewing thoughtfully while Beomgyu watched you like you'd just performed a magic trick.
"Okay," you said, eyes widening. "That's actually really good." Beomgyu picked up a kimchi and ate it. His eyebrows lifted. "This one's better."
"No it's not." "It's significantly better." "You're lying."
He grabbed another japchae and held it out to you. "Try again." You took it. Chewed. "Okay fine it's good. But the kimchi is still better."
"You haven't even tried the kimchi a second time."
"I don't need to. I remember."
"That's not how taste works."
You snatched a kimchi from the tray and ate it just to prove him wrong. You chewed. Swallowed.
Beomgyu crossed his arms. "So we agree both are good."
"We agree both are good."
"But which one is better."
You looked at the tray. He looked at the tray. The sample woman was watching them with a small smile, clearly enjoying herself.
"Okay," you said. "We have money for one more."
"For the way back home," Beomgyu agreed.
"Kimchi," you said. "Japchae," he said at the exact same time.
You both turned to look at each other. "What," you said.
"The other one was definitely better," he said.
"You literally just said kimchi was also good. Not better. Also good."
"It's not the same thing and you know it."
The sample woman held out the tray. "I have two left," she said. "One of each." You and Beomgyu looked at the dumplings, then at each other.
"Fine," you said, grabbing the kimchi.
"Fine," Beomgyu said, grabbing the japchae.
You both ate in silence, chewing aggressively while maintaining eye contact. "Still think mine's better," he said with his mouth full.
"I can't hear you over how good my dumpling is." He swallowed.
"Wow how childish" You say as you stick your tongue out at him.
He did it right back, which was somehow even more childish, and then you both burst out laughing right there in the middle of the grocery store, the sample woman grinning at you both like she'd just watched her favorite drama.
The sample woman was watching the two of you with her hands clasped together. "You two are such a cute couple," she said, beaming.
Beomgyu didn't miss a beat. "Thank you."
You turned to look at him. He was already pushing the cart toward the rice aisle like nothing had happened. The sample woman winked at you as you caught up to him near the rice, shaking your head.
Your heart undeniably skipped a beat but you ignored it, you had to.
You slapped his back. "Come on. Let's find the rest of this list and get back. We're helping grandma and grandpa cook a feast tonight."
He rubbed his shoulder where you hit him but didn't complain. "What are we making?"
"Not sure yet. She said something about beef and dumplings."
"These ones won't be free samples, so don't get excited."
He pulled the list from your hand and scanned it. "You forgot the green onions."
"I didn't forget them. I was saving them for last."
He walked toward the produce section without another word, and you followed, still smiling, still ignoring the way your chest felt a little lighter than it had before.
"Beomgyu, stop slicing the scallions that thick. You're making them for giants at this point, not people."
Beomgyu looked down at the scallions, then back at your grandmother. "This is how I always cut them."
"Then you've been eating giant scallions your whole life. No wonder you're so tall."
He paused. "That's not how height works."
"Are you a nutritionist?"
"Then don't argue with me, Beombeom. Slice thinner."
The nickname had stuck since the first week he moved in.Your grandmother had been looking for her reading glasses and asked "Beomgyu, have you seen them?" but it came out jumbled, Beomgyu and Beom something else, and Beombeom just tumbled out.
She laughed at herself. Beomgyu stood there frozen, unsure how to react. But she kept using it, and after a while even your grandfather picked it up, and now it was just what they called him. He pretended to hate it (He didn't.)
You were across the kitchen chopping garlic, barely holding back a laugh. Beomgyu glanced at you. "You're not helping."
"I'm not a nutritionist either," you said. "So I have no professional opinion."
Your grandmother nodded approvingly. "See. She knows when to stay in her lane."
Beomgyu sliced the next scallion thinner, holding it up for inspection. Your grandmother squinted at it. "Better. Still ugly, but better."
"That's the nicest thing you've said about my cooking."
"Don't let it go to your head, Beombeom, you still cut the scallions unevenly."
Your grandfather walked in from the garden, a handful of fresh herbs in his fist. He set them on the counter and looked at Beomgyu's cutting board. "Who cut those?"
Your grandfather picked up a scallion slice and examined it like evidence from a crime scene. "These are uneven."
"I cut them thinner," Beomgyu said.
"Uneven and thin." Your grandfather dropped the scallion back onto the board. "That's worse than thick. At least thick is consistent."
Beomgyu looked at you. You shrugged. He looked at your grandmother. She was stirring the pot and pretending not to listen. He looked at your grandfather, who was already washing the herbs and humming to himself.
"I'm going to keep cutting scallions," Beomgyu said quietly. "And no one is going to tell me they're wrong."
"You're wrong," you said.
"I'm not no one. I'm your coworker and roommate."
"That's the weakest defense I've ever heard."
Your grandmother laughed, loud and warm, and your grandfather smiled into the sink.
Beomgyu kept cutting, but you saw the corner of his mouth turn up, just a little. He fit here. But that was the thing. He fit.
Your grandmother took over the stove, stirring the beef in the big cast iron pot while your grandfather moved behind her, reaching for spices on the top shelf without being asked.
They worked like a machine that had been running for decades, no wasted movement, no words needed. Just the quiet hum of two people who knew each other's rhythms better than their own.
You handed Beomgyu a bowl of mushrooms to slice. "These need to be thin. Actually thin. Not Beomgyu thin."
He took the bowl. "I'm starting to think you just like insulting me."
"I'm starting to think you just noticed."
Your grandfather snorted from across the kitchen. Beomgyu glanced at him, then back at you, then down at the mushrooms. He sliced them carefully, deliberately, each one uniform and neat. When he finished, he pushed the bowl toward you without a word.
You looked at the mushrooms. Then at him. "These are actually perfect."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm suspicious."
He picked up a mushroom slice and held it out to you. "Eat it."
"You want me to eat a raw mushroom?"
"I want you to admit I did a good job."
You took the slice from his fingers and ate it. "Fine. You did a good job."
"Don't let it go to your head."
Your grandmother reached over and flicked his ear. "No egos in my kitchen. Only vegetables."
He rubbed his ear but didn't complain. Your grandfather handed him a peeler and a basket of potatoes. "Make yourself useful. And try not to peel your own fingers off."
"I've peeled potatoes before."
"Have you peeled them well?"
Beomgyu took the peeler and got to work. The potatoes were small and knobby, awkward to hold, and you watched him wrestle with one for a moment before your grandmother clicked her tongue again.
"Like this." She took the potato and peeler from his hands, showing him the motion, quick and efficient. The skin came off in one long strip. She handed everything back. "Now you try."
He did. It came out acceptable. Not perfect, but acceptable. Your grandmother nodded once and turned back to the stove.
The kitchen filled with sounds after that. The sizzle of beef hitting hot oil, the rhythmic thunk of your grandfather chopping herbs, the scrape of Beomgyu's peeler against potato after potato. You moved between them all, washing what needed washing, handing over ingredients before anyone had to ask, wiping down the counter when it got too crowded.
At some point your grandmother started humming. An old song, something you'd heard a hundred times growing up. Your grandfather joined in after a while, not singing exactly but humming along, off key and unbothered. Beomgyu paused his peeling to listen.
"She does that," you said quietly. "When she's happy."
He looked at your grandmother's back, then at your grandfather's profile, then at you. "This is what it's supposed to feel like, isn't it."
You didn't ask what he meant. You already knew.
"Yeah," you said. "It is."
He went back to his potatoes. But his shoulders had dropped, that tension he always carried finally loosening, and when your grandmother turned around and pointed her spoon at him, telling him he missed a spot on the third potato, he didn't flinch. He just smiled and picked up the peeler again.
Later that night, the house had gone quiet.
The dishes were washed, the leftovers packed away, and your grandparents had retreated to their room an hour ago. Now you were in the kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile, assembling a tray of snacks like a woman possessed. Cheese crackers, apple juice, and a bowl of grapes. Perfect since you were rewatching The O.C. for the third time and tonight felt like a Summer episode kind of night.
You carried the tray upstairs, careful not to clink the glass against the plate. The hallway was dark except for the soft glow spilling from the crack of Beomgyu's door. His room was at the end of the hall, the one with the bay window that faced the garden, and through the gap you could hear him playing. It was quiet and slow. The notes drifted out like he was figuring them out as he went, not a song you recognized but a tune that felt familiar anyway.
You stopped outside his door. His cat was curled on the windowsill beside him, tail flicking lazily in time with the music. Beomgyu sat with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out along the cushion, the guitar cradled against his chest. His head was tilted down, hair falling over his forehead, fingers moving across the strings like they knew exactly where to go even when he wasn't looking.
The bruises on his face had faded to almost nothing now, just faint smudges of yellowish green that caught the lamplight. He looked peaceful.
You watched for a moment longer than you meant to. His cat noticed you first, ears perking up, tail stilling. Beomgyu looked up, following the cat's gaze toward the door.
You knocked softly. "Hey. I got snacks." You lifted the tray. "Can I come in?"
He didn't say anything for a second, just looked at you from across the room, guitar still in his hands. Then he nodded and shifted over on the window seat, making room. His cat meowed. "She says yes," he said.
You laughed and pushed the door open wider.
You stepped inside and settled onto the other side of the bay window, tucking your legs beneath you and balancing the snack tray between your bodies.
His cat immediately abandoned him to sniff at the crackers. "Traitor," Beomgyu muttered, and you laughed.
The guitar rested against his lap, his fingers still loosely curled around the neck. Scattered across the window seat beside him were sheets of paper covered in handwritten chords and lyrics crossed out and rewritten, some pages torn from notebooks, others just loose scraps with edges worn soft from being folded and unfolded too many times.
You picked one up without asking but he didn't stop you.
"Tried to." He shifted, suddenly self conscious, reaching for one of the pages like he might hide it. You pulled it out of reach.
"No, don't. I want to see."
"So?" You looked at the page in your hand, messy chords and half written lines, something about rain and tram tracks and a window facing the city. "I think they're good."
"You haven't even heard them."
"I don't need to. I can tell."
He stared at you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, and then he looked down at the guitar and started picking at a string. Not playing anything. Just fidgeting.
You set the page down and leaned back against the window frame, looking at him. The room was soft around you both, warm light from the lamp, the garden dark beyond the glass, his cat now curled between you like a furry paperweight.
"So," you said, smiling into the quiet. "I see we have a future musician in my house."
He snorted. "Future musician huh… that's quite generous of you."
"I'm being both." You nudged his knee with yours. "Play something for me, anything, I’m sure it will sound beautiful"
He looked at you for a long moment, guitar still in his hands, and then his fingers found the strings and he started to play. Soft and airy, you watched his hands move as his head tilted the way it did when he was concentrating, and when he glanced up at you halfway through, you were already smiling.
He didn't look away and neither did you.
The song faded into a gentle finish, his fingers stilling on the strings. The last note hung in the air for a second before disappearing into the quiet of the room.
"Well," he said, looking down at the guitar. "I have another one. It's kind of old, though."
He paused, like he was deciding whether to tell you. "Maze in the Mirror."
You tilted your head. "That sounds sad."
"Yeah..." He looked up at you. "It was written a long time ago. Different life."
He studied your face for a moment, then adjusted his grip on the guitar and began. It was slower than the first one, more deliberate, each chord carrying something heavier. The melody wound around itself like someone trying to find their way out of somewhere dark. You watched his fingers press and release, press and release, and you watched his face too, the way his jaw tightened slightly on certain notes, the way his eyes dropped to the strings like he was having a conversation with them.
His cat shifted in her sleep. The lamp flickered once. Beomgyu played, and you listened, and the house held both of you in its quiet.
He studied your face for a moment, then adjusted his grip on the guitar and began. The opening chords were familiar in a way you couldn't place, something about the melody pulling at the back of your memory.
Then he started singing, his voice was low and soulful. The lyrics fell out of him like they'd been sitting in his chest for too long, like he'd been waiting for a reason to let them go.
You watched his fingers move across the strings, watched his jaw tighten on certain lines, watched his eyes stay fixed on the guitar like looking at you would break something open he wasn't ready to show.
You knew this song was about his life before through the version he was singing right now, the way his voice cracked just slightly on the chorus, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed with each verse.
The last chord faded and the room went quiet. His cat stretched and yawned from the windowsill, unbothered by the weight of everything he'd just poured into the space between you.
You didn't say anything for a moment. Neither did he.
Then you reached over and picked up a cracker from the snack tray. "That was really good," you said, keeping your voice light even though your chest felt tight. "You should play more often."
He looked at you like he was waiting for you to say something else, something more deeper. But you just bit into the cracker and smiled, and after a second he let out a breath and smiled back.
"Pass the cheese," he said.
You handed him the plate happily.
Two months had passed since Beomgyu moved in.
Two months of morning coffee routines and grocery store bickering and late night guitar sessions that drifted through the hallway like a second heartbeat.
Two months of the house settling around him, absorbing him into its walls until it became hard to remember what it felt like before he was there.
The garden had fully bloomed into summer, the camellias long gone but the jasmine still climbing the fence, and the bay window in his room caught the afternoon light at an angle that made everything look golden and soft. He had stopped flinching at unexpected noises. He had started leaving his door open.
The debt collectors hadn't found him. He kept paying, small amounts each month from an account they couldn't trace to an address they didn't have, and for a while he let himself believe that was enough. That they would get tired or perhaps move on to someone else. He didn't want to talk about it. Not to Y/n, not to Soobin, not to your grandparents who had given him a key and a drawer in the kitchen and a place at the table like he'd always been there. He carried it the way he carried everything, quiet and close to his chest, and he told himself it was fine as long as no one else had to carry it with him.
The weekend had started like any other. Saturday morning, sunlight through the kitchen windows, your grandmother humming over a pot of rice while your grandfather read the newspaper at the table. You were still upstairs, probably still half asleep, and Beomgyu had offered to grab the mail from the box at the end of the driveway. Just a short walk. Just a quick errand. Something to do with his hands while the coffee brewed.
The mail was mostly junk– Flyers for pizza places, a coupon for a pharmacy he'd never visited, and an envelope that looked like a bill but wasn't his. He flipped through them walking back, barefoot on the warm pavement, and then he stopped.
One envelope was different,
Plain white with no return address.
Just his name written in black ink, block letters, no curves or loops. This came from someone who wanted to make sure he knew exactly who they were looking for.
Not the name on the lease. Not the name on any utility bill at this address. Just his name, written by someone who had found him anyway no matter how hard he tried this time.
The coffee inside him turned to ice. He stood there at the end of the driveway, the morning light warm on his shoulders, and he could feel the distance between this moment and the last two months cracking open like something fragile finally breaking. They knew. Somehow, they knew.
He slipped the envelope into his pocket and continued walking toward the house. His face didn't change nor did hands shake. He had spent years learning how to look fine when he wasn't, and that skill didn't leave just because he had somewhere safe to sleep now.
The kitchen smelled like sesame oil when he stepped inside, your grandmother handing him a cup of tea without asking while your grandfather grunted something that might have been good morning from behind his newspaper. You appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair messy and eyes still heavy, yawning into the sleeve of an oversized sweater that might have been his.
"Mail," he said, setting the stack on the counter. All of it. Except the one in his pocket.
You grabbed a flyer and squinted at it. "Pizza sounds good for dinner."
"It's nine in the morning," your grandmother said.
Beomgyu sat down at the table and drank his tea, nodding along to your grandfather's commentary on the weather while his knee bumped against yours under the table when you sat across from him, just because that was something he did now, something casual and warm that meant nothing and everything at once.
The envelope burned against his thigh but he didn't reach for it, not yet, not here.
Later, when the house went quiet and everyone had drifted to their own corners of the weekend, he would open it in his room with his cat curled on the bed and the window cracked open to let in the summer air. He would read whatever was inside, fold the paper back up, hide it somewhere no one would think to look, and go back downstairs like nothing had happened.
That was what he had always done.
But for now, he let his knee rest against yours, and he listened to your grandmother tell a story about the time your grandfather tried to fix the sink and flooded the entire laundry room, and he pretended the world outside this kitchen didn't exist. Just for a little longer.
The afternoon had melted into evening without him noticing, the golden light through the kitchen windows shifting to a softer blue as the house settled into that quiet hum before dinner.
Beomgyu had spent most of the day trying not to think about the envelope, helping your grandmother with the garden and then your grandfather with some minor repair in the shed, keeping his hands busy so his mind couldn't wander. But now dinner was over and the dishes were done and everyone had retreated to their own corners of the house, and there was nothing left to distract him.
He sat on the edge of his bed with the envelope in his hands, his cat curled at the foot of the mattress, the window cracked open just enough to let in the warm summer air and the distant sound of crickets.
His thumb slipped under the seal just as three knocks came at his door.
"Gyu!" Your voice, bright and urgent. "I need your help. Please."
He shoved the envelope under his pillowcase before his brain could catch up with his body, then crossed the room in three strides and pulled the door open. "What happened? Are you okay?"
You were standing in the hallway under the soft glow of the ceiling light, and you were very clearly okay. More than okay. You were wearing a white tube top that cinched at your ribs and fell into a soft ruffle at your waist, paired with a flowy matching skirt that made the whole thing look like a sundress when put together. Your hair was down, slightly curled at the ends, and you smelled like something floral and warm. In your other hand you held a burgundy top and a dark denim mini skirt, the hanger swinging slightly from your fingers.
You stepped past him into the room without waiting for an invitation.
"Okay, so Chaewon just texted and everyone's going to that new karaoke bar near Hongdae and I haven't seen them in forever so I said yes, but now I can't decide between these two and I need someone with working eyeballs to tell me which one doesn't make me look like I'm trying too hard."
The words registered somewhere in the back of his brain but they were taking their time reaching the front because the front was currently occupied with the way the white fabric sat against your shoulders, the way your collarbones caught the dim light from his lamp, the way your hair fell in soft waves instead of its usual messy bun or ponytail. He had seen you in aprons and oversized sweaters and pajamas at seven in the morning.
He had never seen you like this.
His ears went pink. He could feel them burning and there was nothing he could do about it except hope the lighting was too low for you to notice.
"The white one," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
You tilted your head. "You didn't even look at the burgundy one."
He looked at it. Briefly. Then back at you. "White."
"You're not even considering the other option."
"Because the other option isn't on you right now."
The words hung in the air between you but he didn't take them back, just stood there in his doorway with his arms crossed and his ears burning, watching your face for whatever came next.
You stared at him for a second, mouth slightly open, and then you looked down at yourself like you were seeing the white outfit for the first time.
"So," you said slowly, "you're saying the white one."
"I'm saying the white one."
"The white one that I'm currently wearing."
You laughed, a little breathless, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. His eyes followed the movement. "Okay," you said. "White it is.”
"So," you said, still holding the burgundy top, "do you maybe want to come? Chaewon said to bring friends. No matter who they are, like literally anyone. She once brought her cousin who didn't speak for three hours and everyone still had a good time.
The word landed somewhere in his chest, not hard enough to hurt but enough to notice because that's what he was, that's what he was supposed to be, and he wasn't sure why it made something in his stomach drop.
"I don't know," he said, looking away. "I don't really have anything to wear. And you know I'm not good with the whole socializing thing."
You waved your hand like that was irrelevant. "You can borrow something from my grandpa and besides you don't have to talk. You can just stand there and look mysterious, Everyone likes the mysterious guy."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing. Ella would lose her mind."
He didn't answer. You watched him for a moment, head tilted, and he could feel you trying to read whatever was happening behind his face. Then you shrugged and grabbed the burgundy top off his bed. "Okay. No pressure. But the offer's there."
She headed for the door, then paused, turning back. "For the record, I think you'd look fine in anything." And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving him alone with his cat and the unopened envelope on the nightstand and the strange hollow feeling in his chest that he refused to name.
The word came out before he could stop it. He heard your footsteps pause in the hallway.
Beomgyu stood up, crossed the room, and opened the door. You were still there, holding the burgundy top, looking at him with raised eyebrows.
"I'll come," he said. "Just give me five minutes to find something to wear."
Your eyebrows went higher. "Really?"
A slow smile spread across your face, the kind that made his stomach do something stupid. "Okay. Five minutes. I'll wait downstairs."
You turned and walked toward the stairs, and he watched you go, watched the white skirt sway with each step, and tried not to think about why he had changed his mind.
He could tell himself it was because you had asked. He could tell himself it was because he owed you for everything. He could tell himself a lot of things.
But the truth was simpler and uglier and he didn't want to look at it too closely. The truth was the thought of some guy at that bar seeing you the way he was seeing you right now, in that white outfit with your hair down and your smile easy, made something hot and restless coil in his chest.
He had no right to feel that way.
He was a guy with debt and a dead father and an envelope hidden under his pillow that he was too scared to open. But he was also a guy who couldn't stand the idea of you walking into that bar alone, so he would go.
He would stand in the corner and look mysterious or whatever you had called it, and he would make sure you got home safe, and that was all, that was enough, it had to be.
He closed the door and walked to his closet. His cat meowed at him from the bed. "Don't," he said, pulling open the closet door. She meowed again but he ignored her.
You were leaning against the car when he came out, scrolling through your phone, the white outfit glowing under the porch light. You looked up at the sound of the front door closing and your eyes did a slow scan from his boots to his face.
"Well, well," you said, pocketing your phone. "Who said you didn't have anything to wear?"
Beomgyu looked down at himself. Dark brown leather jacket, a plain white shirt underneath, dark baggy jeans that actually fit him properly for once. He had found the jacket in the back of his closet, something he hadn't worn since before his father disappeared, and the jeans were old but clean.
"That's Soobin's jacket, isn't it?"
His hand went to the collar. "Maybe."
"We lived together in college. Things got mixed up." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "He never asked for it back."
You tilted your head, still looking at him, and then you smiled the way you did when you were about to say something annoying. "You look good."
He scratched the back of his neck, heat creeping up his ears. "Thanks."
"Come on, let's go." You opened the driver's door and slid inside. He got in the passenger side, shutting the door behind him, and the car smelled like the air freshener you'd hung on the rearview mirror weeks ago, vanilla and clean.
You started the engine but didn't pull out yet, adjusting your mirrors out of habit. Beomgyu buckled his seatbelt and stared at his hands in his lap.
"Thank you," he said. "For driving, I mean. I would, you know, if I ever had the opportunity to learn…or even touch a car." His voice got quieter at the end, his jaw tightening as he looked down at his empty hands.
You didn't say anything for a moment, then you giggled soft and warm and reached over to ruffle his hair, his head bobbing with the motion as your fingers lingered for a second before pulling away.
"Don't worry about it," you said. "You always got me."
You smiled at him, easy and sure, like the words cost you nothing but meant everything. He stared at you for a second too long, felt his pulse trip over itself, and turned toward the window before his face could give him away.
"Okay," he said. "Let's go."
You put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway, Beomgyu watching the house disappear behind them with the envelope still on his nightstand and his cat probably sprawled across his pillow, but he didn't think about any of that, he just watched the streetlights blur past and tried to ignore how warm his head still felt where your hand had been.
The karaoke bar was tucked in a basement on a busy Hongdae side street, the entrance marked by a neon pink sign that flickered like it was about to give up. You led the way down the stairs with Beomgyu behind you, the thump of bass getting louder with each step until the door swung open and the room hit them both at once, dim lighting and the smell of buttered popcorn and someone absolutely butchering a 2000s ballad on the small stage near the back.
Your friends had claimed a long section of booths and mismatched couches pushed together near the windows, drinks already scattered across the low table and jackets draped over the backs of chairs. Chaewon spotted you first and waved both arms like she was signaling a rescue helicopter. "Finally! I was about to send a search party."
"Traffic," you said, sliding your bag onto an empty spot on the couch.
"It's ten at night," Ella said flatly. "There's no traffic."
"There's always traffic when I'm driving."
"Now that's just a skill issue, not a traffic issue."
You ignored her and turned to Beomgyu, who was standing slightly behind you like he was considering the nearest exit. The room had gone a little quieter, not silent but noticeably more aware, a few pairs of eyes doing the quick scan that happened whenever someone new walked in.
"Everyone, this is Beomgyu," you said. "He's my friend. And my favorite coworker."
Beomgyu gave a small nod. "Hi."
Chaewon leaned forward with her chin in her hand. "Favorite coworker. That's cute. Does Yeonjun know?"
"Yeonjun knows his place."
Sohee snorted from the corner. "Which is second place, apparently."
Beomgyu's shoulders relaxed a fraction. Taehyun, who was sitting next to Chaewon with an easy slouch, raised his drink in Beomgyu's direction. "Taehyun. Chaewon's boyfriend. She talks a lot but she means well."
"I don't talk a lot," Chaewon said. "I'm selectively verbal."
"You've never been selective a day in your life," Taehyun said.
She kicked him under the table and he didn't even flinch but smiled instead.
Kai leaned across Ella to wave at Beomgyu, all limbs and chaos. "I'm Kai. Ella's cousin. She told me you guys work at a flower shop slash cafe. That must be nice. Do you ever take home the flowers that are about to die? I feel like that's a job perk nobody talks about."
Beomgyu blinked. "Sometimes."
"Sometimes," Kai repeated, turning to Ella. "He said sometimes. That's so humble. I would take them every day. My room would look like a funeral."
"You would also forget to water them and they'd die faster," Ella said.
"Then what is the point?"
Kai opened his mouth, closed it, then grabbed another tangerine. "I'll get back to you on that."
Yujin waved from the far end of the couch, sandwiched between Sohee and Sungchan. "Ignore them. They're like this all the time. I'm Yujin. This is Sohee and Sungchan. We work together so we're basically trauma bonded."
Sohee gave a small wave, his expression friendly but lowkey like he was already halfway to sleep. "Don't let her scare you. She's the one who started the trauma bonding."
"I started it because you two are useless without me," Yujin said.
Sungchan didn't look up from his phone but raised a hand in Beomgyu's direction. "Sungchan. I'm the useless one she's referring to."
"You're not useless," Sohee said. "You just have nothing to say ninety percent of the time."
"That's called being smart," Sungchan said. "If you don't open your mouth, you can't say anything stupid."
Sohee considered this. "That's actually not wrong."
"It's not right either," Yujin cut in. "It's just an excuse to be antisocial."
Sungchan shrugged. "I'm okay with that.”
Yuna was curled at the end of the couch with a soda in her hands, not saying much, but she offered Beomgyu a small smile when he glanced her way.
You bumped your shoulder against his. "See? Not so scary."
"I wasn't scared. I just don't know why everyone here has so much energy."
"It's called being social. You should try it sometime."
"I am being social. I showed up, I'm standing here and I haven't walked out the door."
"That's the bare minimum and you know it."
He looked at you with that flat expression he did so well, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You invited me. You said I could stand in the corner and look mysterious."
"I lied. You have to actually interact now."
"That feels like a trap."
"It's not a trap, it's just what happens when you show up to things you know. People expect you to ‘participate.’"
"That wasn't in the job description."
"You don't have a job description. You're not employed here."
"Then technically I don't have to listen to you."
You narrowed your eyes at him and he just raised his eyebrows back with the smallest hint of a smile threatening his mouth, Kai watching the whole exchange like a tennis match.
He stared at you and you stared back until he finally sighed, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets before turning to face the group. "I'm Beomgyu. I work at a cafe. I don't sing."
Kai immediately pointed at him. "That's exactly what someone who can sing would say."
Beomgyu didn't blink. "Then I guess you'll never know."
Kai gasped. Ella kicked him. "Sit down."
Chaewon patted the empty space on the couch next to her. "Sit, sit. We're doing shots in ten minutes and I need someone to hold my hair back."
"I'm not holding your hair back," Taehyun said.
"I wasn't talking to you."
Beomgyu sat down on the edge of the couch, close enough to you that your shoulders almost touched. He didn't say much after that, just listened, watched, let the noise of the room wash over him while you laughed at something Ella said and Chaewon stole a fry off Taehyun's plate and Kai tried to convince everyone that he could sing, which based on the look on Ella's face, was a lie. But he was there, and when your knee bumped against his under the table he didn't move it away.
Chaewon passed out drinks and Taehyun queued up a song, some slow R&B thing that he definitely picked because Chaewon liked it. She rolled her eyes but she was smiling, and when he started singing she leaned her head against his shoulder like it was nothing, like that was just what they did.
Sohee and Yujin were in the middle of a heated debate about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich while Sungchan offered zero input, just nodding along like he was getting paid to be there.
Kai had migrated to the snack table and was building a small tower of tangerines.
Ella slid closer to you on the couch, lowering her voice. "He's cute."
"Don't play dumb. The coworker."
You glanced at Beomgyu. He was watching Taehyun sing with an unreadable expression, his hands resting on his knees, his whole posture careful like he was still figuring out how to exist in this room. "He's just a friend."
"I didn't say he wasn't." Ella popped a piece of popcorn in her mouth. "I just said he's cute. You're the one getting defensive."
"I'm not getting defensive."
"You're literally clenching your jaw."
You unclenched your jaw while Ella smirked. Goodness you hated her sometimes.
Yuna finally spoke up from the end of the couch, soft and quiet. "Beomgyu, do you sing?"
Everyone turned to look at him. He stiffened slightly. "Not really."
"I'm not a liar. I just don't sing in public."
"So you sing in private."
"That's not the same thing."
Kai abandoned his tangerine tower and pointed at Beomgyu. "That's exactly the same thing. Singing is singing. Location doesn't matter."
"Location absolutely matters," Beomgyu said.
"So if you were alone in a room with no one watching, you'd sing?"
"That's not what I said."
"That's what you implied."
"You're putting words in my mouth."
"I'm extrapolating." Kai looked around the table for support. No one gave it to him. "Fine. Be mysterious. See if I care."
Ella grabbed Kai by the back of his shirt and yanked him back to his seat. "Sit down. You're doing too much."
Kai looked genuinely hurt for half a second before he shrugged and grabbed another tangerine.
Taehyun finished his song and the room clapped, Chaewon loudest of all. He handed the mic to Sohee, who immediately passed it to Yujin, who passed it to Sungchan, who looked at it like it was a cursed object. "No," he said, and set it down.
"Cry about it," Sungchan replied.
The night rolled on like that, easy and loud and full of small moments that didn't mean much individually but added up to something warm. Beomgyu didn't talk a lot but he laughed once, quiet and real, when Kai tried to do a backflip off the couch and landed on Taehyun instead. He caught you looking at him and held your gaze for a second before looking away, but his ears were pink again and you pretended not to notice.
By 11:30 the place had shifted. The ballad singers had cleared out and someone had cranked the bass, the main area near the stage turning into an unspoken dance floor with bodies moving under the pulsing lights.
Your friends were scattered across the room now, Chaewon pulling Taehyun by the wrist toward the crowd while Yujin screamed along to a song neither of them knew, and Kai had somehow convinced Ella to stop judging him long enough to attempt whatever it was he was doing with his arms. Sohee and Sungchan had disappeared somewhere near the bar, and Yuna was swaying by herself near the speakers with her eyes closed, looking happier than you'd seen her all night.
You were standing near the edge of the dance floor with a warm drink in your hand that you'd been nursing for the past hour, watching everyone let loose while the bass vibrated through the floor and up your legs. Beomgyu leaned toward you, his mouth close to your ear so you could hear him over the music. "Bathroom."
You nodded and he slipped away through the crowd, his dark jacket disappearing between bodies and flashing lights until you couldn't see him anymore. Ella appeared at your side a moment later, grabbing your arm and yelling something about the chorus drop that you couldn't quite make out, but you let her pull you into the mess of it anyway, laughing as she spun you around under the neon glow.
Beomgyu pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, the bass fading slightly as he neared the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The air was cooler back here, less crowded, and he let himself exhale properly for the first time since they'd arrived.
He wasn't super drunk but the noise was starting to get to him, the press of bodies and the constant yelling over music, and he needed a minute to just stand still.
The bathroom was to his left but a sound came from somewhere else, a voice drifting through a window at the end of the hallway where the building opened up to a narrow alley. The window was old and wooden, the glass smudged with city grime, and it was cracked open just enough for the night air to slip through.
He recognized the voice before he saw the face. That calm, almost irritatingly ‘friendly’ tone that made his blood run cold. The older man from that night outside his apartment, the one with the scar through his eyebrow and the pitying smile.
Beomgyu's feet stopped moving. His chest tightened the way it always did when he thought about that night, the way his body remembered the pain before his brain could catch up.
He should go back to the dance floor and find you and pretend he hadn't heard anything. But something kept him there, frozen by the window, peering through the crack in the glass.
The alley was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb above a dumpster, and the older man was standing with two other guys Beomgyu didn't recognize.
They weren't threatening anyone tonight.
They weren't collecting debts or shaking down scared kids.
They were passing small wrapped packages between them like it was nothing, just another transaction on just another night. One of them handed over a roll of cash and the older man pocketed it without even looking down.
Beomgyu's hands started shaking but he pulled out his phone anyway, moving slowly, carefully, making sure the light from the screen didn't give him away.
He angled it through the crack in the window and pressed record. The video was grainy and dark but you could see enough, the exchange, the packages, the casual way they conducted business like they owned the alley.
He filmed for maybe twenty seconds, thirty, until the older man looked up and Beomgyu's heart stopped. But the man was just glancing at the fire escape, not the window, and Beomgyu slipped his phone back into his pocket and stepped away from the glass.
His legs felt unsteady as he walked back toward the crowd, his pulse loud in his ears. He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, his face neutral the way he'd learned to make it over years of hiding.
No one looked at him twice. No one followed him.
The music was still loud and the lights were still flashing and your friends were still dancing like nothing had happened because nothing had happened to them. He found you near the edge of the floor with Ella, your hair slightly damp at the temples and your smile wide, and something in his chest ached at how normal you looked, how untouched by the world he came from.
He didn't say anything, he just stood beside you and waited for you to notice him. When you did, you grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him into the mess of bodies but he shook his head, leaning close to your ear. "Not too late, okay? We should head out soon."
You looked at him for a second, studying his face, and he knew you could see something was off even if you didn't know what. But you just nodded and squeezed his wrist once before letting go. "Give me ten more minutes."
He nodded and stepped back toward the edge of the room, finding a spot against the wall where he could watch the door and the crowd and the alley window all at once. His phone was heavy in his pocket and the video was still there. He didn't know what he was going to do with it but for the first time in months he had something they didn't know he had, and that felt like power even if it also felt like fear.
By twelve thirty any plan of leaving early had gone out the window. Your friends were absolutely wrecked, Chaewon hanging off Taehyun's neck while he tried to keep her upright, Kai attempting to teach Ella a dance move that involved way too much hip for someone with his coordination, and Yujin screaming the lyrics to a song that wasn't even playing anymore. Even Yuna had loosened up, her arm around Sohee's shoulder as they swayed somewhere near the speakers.
You were drunk too, he could tell.
You were just the floaty kind of drunk where everything was funnier and brighter and your body moved without asking permission. You had both hands in the air and your head thrown back, laughing at something no one else could hear, and the white outfit you'd chosen was glowing under the lights like you were the only person in the room he could actually see.
He wasn't completely gone, not like Chaewon who was currently using Taehyun as a human railing, but he was definitely past the point of overthinking. The alcohol had smoothed out his edges, made the lights less harsh and the music less overwhelming, and somewhere between the second drink and the third time you'd grabbed his hand to pull him closer, he'd stopped caring about being careful. His hands had found your waist around the third track and they hadn't left since, your back pressed against his chest while you moved together like you'd been doing this for years instead of minutes.
You turned around to face him, your arms looping over his shoulders and your face way too close to his. "You know," you said, breathless and grinning, "we really should be going home soon."
"Yeah," he said, his voice lower than he meant it to be. "We should."
You tilted your head, your smile turning sly. "But why would we when we're having such a good time?"
Your hands slid down his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his shirt, and he swore his heart stopped. "You are having a good time, right?" You looked him up and down, slow and deliberate, like you were taking inventory of everything he was trying to hide. "Right, Beomgyu?"
He should say something clever. He should make a joke or deflect or do literally anything other than stand there with his hands burning where they were resting on your hips. But you were looking at him like that and your breath was warm on his jaw and the beat was thrumming through both of you and he couldn't remember why he was supposed to be careful.
"Yeah," he said, and his voice came out rough. "Let's enjoy ourselves."
Your smile widened and you pulled him closer, your body fitting against his like it was made to be there, and when you started moving again it was different than before.
His hands slid up your back and your fingers curled into his hair and neither of you were laughing anymore. The eye contact was too much and not enough, your gaze dropping to his mouth for half a second before snapping back up, and he saw the exact moment you decided to stop thinking about it.
You kissed him first. Or he kissed you. He couldn't tell anymore. All he knew was that your mouth was on his and his back was against the wall and your hands were in his hair and his hands were everywhere, your waist, your jaw, the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he was afraid you'd disappear.
You tasted like the sweet drink you'd been nursing all night and something else, something that was just you, and when you made a small sound against his mouth he thought he might lose his mind.
The music was still loud and the lights were still flashing and your friends were still dancing somewhere behind you but none of it mattered. You were kissing him like you'd been waiting for permission and he was kissing you like he'd finally stopped pretending he didn't want to.
Your teeth grazed his bottom lip and his breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your waist as you pressed closer, and closer, until there was no space left between you at all.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead against his, noses brushing. His hands were still on your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your white top like he was afraid you'd slip away. Your eyes were half closed, lips swollen, and when you let out a small breathless laugh he felt it against his mouth.
"Fuck," he murmured, barely audible over the music.
You laughed again, softer this time, and your fingers traced along his jaw. "Yeah."
He kissed you again before you could say anything else, slower this time but deeper, his hand sliding up your back to cup the back of your neck. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and when his tongue brushed against your lower lip you made a sound that went straight through him.
His other hand moved from your waist to your hip, then back to your waist, then down to your thigh, never staying in one place too long but never going anywhere he shouldn't. He didn't know the rules for this, had never really done this before, but your body was warm against his and you kept making those small sounds and he just wanted to keep hearing them.
You broke the kiss again, both of you breathing hard, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your noses touched, your breath mixing with his, and he could see the way your pupils were blown wide, the way your lip gloss had smeared, the way your hair had escaped from wherever you'd tucked it earlier.
"Beomgyu," you whispered, and his name in your mouth sounded different than it ever had before.
"Yeah," he said, his thumb tracing small circles on your hip.
You smiled, slow and a little dazed, and reached up to push his hair out of his face. It fell right back. You did it again. He caught your wrist gently and pressed a kiss to your palm, and your breath hitched the same way he had minutes ago.
"Your hair's a mess," you said.
You looked at each other for a second, then both laughed, quiet and drunk and something else, something that felt like falling. He kissed you again just because he could, just because you were right there and your mouth was warm and you kissed him back like you'd been waiting for it.
His hands stayed on your waist, your hips, the small of your back, everywhere but nowhere he shouldn't go, and when you bit his lower lip gently he made a sound that he'd be embarrassed about later but right now he didn't care.
What finally broke the moment wasn't either of them pulling away. It was Kai attempting another backflip off the couch, missing entirely, and landing sprawled across Taehyun's lap with his legs in the air like an overturned beetle.
Chaewon screamed with laughter while Ella just stood there shaking her head, and even Sungchan looked up from his phone for the first time all night.
You pulled back just enough to see what was happening, your body still pressed against Beomgyu's, his arms still loose around your waist. When you caught sight of Kai flailing on the floor you burst out laughing, the sound bright and breathless, and he couldn't help but laugh too because your laugh was contagious and the whole night had become something he didn't recognize anymore.
"Okay," you said, still giggling, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. "Okay, now it's time to go home."
"Yeah," he said, his chin resting on top of your head. "Let's go."
You stayed like that for a second longer, his arms around you and your face buried in his chest, neither of you in any real rush. Then you pulled back and looked up at him, your eyes still hazy and your smile still wide, and you reached out to smooth down his hair even though it was already a lost cause.
"Come on," you said, grabbing his hand. "Let's sober up a bit first."
He let you pull him through the crowd, his fingers laced with yours, and when you looked back at him over your shoulder he was already looking at you.
Soon enough he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, the street quiet except for the distant hum of summer crickets. Before you could reach for the door handle, his hand was over your mouth and his other arm was pushing you down, both of you ducking below the dashboard as his body angled itself over yours like a shield.
"What the–" you started, muffled against his palm.
"Shh." His voice was barely a breath, his face close to yours, eyes wide and focused on something outside the windshield. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."
You followed his gaze through the gap between the dashboard and the steering wheel. Three figures were standing near the front gate of your grandparents' house, their silhouettes dark against the porch light, one of them pointing toward the upstairs windows like they were trying to confirm something.
Your blood turned to ice. The alcohol in your system did nothing to dull the recognition. These were the men. The ones from his apartment. The ones who had left him bruised and bleeding on his own floor.
Beomgyu's hand slowly lowered from your mouth, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin. He pressed himself closer to you, his body blocking your view of the men outside, his forehead almost touching yours.
"Y/n," he whispered, and his voice was steadier than you expected, steadier than you felt. "I need you to listen to me, okay? I need you to quietly and secretly run toward the back gate and go inside the house from there. Do not make any noise and do not turn back around for me. Do you understand?"
You shook your head, your hands clutching at his jacket. "No, no, no, Beomgyu–"
"Hey." He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and you realized you were crying, hot tears spilling down your face that you hadn't even noticed forming. "This will all pass soon. I have something that can protect us in my phone, but right now I need you to be safe, okay? I'll handle this. I'll make sure to not disrupt your grandparents' sleep."
"Promise me," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Promise me you'll be okay. Please."
You held out your pinky, small and childish and desperate, and he looked at it for a second before wrapping his pinky around yours. His grip was warm and solid.
"I promise," he said. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and quick. "Go. Wait for my signal. Two minutes or when I blink like this." He blinked once, twice, a slow pattern you'd remember. "Be careful, Y/n."
You nodded, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "You too, Gyu."
He gave you a small nod and then you were moving, slipping out of the car as quietly as you could, crouching low as you made your way toward the back gate. You didn't look back. You couldn't. You just ran, barefoot on the cool grass, your heart pounding so loud you were sure the whole neighborhood could hear it.
Behind you, Beomgyu watched the three men until you disappeared around the corner of the house. Then he sat up slowly, opened the car door, and stepped out into the summer night.
He stepped out of the car and closed the door with a soft click, the sound barely audible over the crickets. The summer air was warm and thick, the kind of night that usually felt like a blanket, but right now it felt like a hand around his throat.
He didn't run. He didn't hide. He couldn't.
He just walked toward the front gate with his hands loose at his sides and his face blank, the same expression he'd worn the first time they'd found him outside his apartment.
The older man saw him first. He was leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed, the same scar cutting through his eyebrow, the same grey threading his dark hair. He didn't straighten up or act surprised. He just smiled, slow and pleased, like he'd been waiting for this moment all along.
"Well, well," he said, pushing off the wall. "The prodigal son finally comes out of hiding."
The other two turned. One of them was the younger man from that night, the one with the sharp jaw and the empty eyes who had grabbed Beomgyu's hair and yanked his head back. The third was someone new, bigger, broader, his face hard in the way that came from years of doing exactly this kind of work. They flanked the older man like shadows, not quite surrounding Beomgyu but close enough to make the message clear.
"We've been looking for you," the older man continued, stepping closer.
"You're harder to find than we expected. New address, new job, new little life tucked away in the nice part of town." He glanced up at your grandparents' house, at the warm light glowing in the upstairs window. "Cozy. Very cozy. You really think you could hide here forever?"
Beomgyu didn't answer. He just kept walking, slow and deliberate, angling his body so that his back was to the car and his face was toward the men. The movement was natural, unforced, like he was just shifting his weight. But he was turning them. Turning their faces away from the driveway, away from the passenger door, away from where you were supposed to be.
The younger man noticed something, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face, but before he could look behind him the older man spoke again.
"Cat got your tongue? That's not like you. Last time we talked, you had plenty to say. Something about not being your father's mistakes." He laughed, short and humorless. "Look where that got you. Running. Hiding. Playing house with some girl who doesn't even know what you are."
Beomgyu's jaw tightened but he didn't speak. His eyes flicked toward the house, toward the back gate, toward the window where he hoped you would stay safe.
He blinked. Once. Twice. A slow pattern.
The older man noticed his distraction and stepped directly into his line of sight. "I'm talking to you, boy. You think ignoring us is going to make us go away? You think moving out of that shithole apartment and shacking up with some rich girl's family means you don't owe us anymore?"
"It doesn't work like that," the younger man said, his voice soft and sharp at the same time. "You can run anywhere you want. Change your number. Change your name. We'll always find you."
Beomgyu's heart was pounding but his face stayed still. His phone was still in the car, sitting in the cup holder where he'd left it after filming in the alley, the video still there, the evidence that could end all of this.
But he couldn't use it now anyway. Not here. Not with you in the house and your grandparents asleep upstairs. He needed you safe first. That was all that mattered.
"I've been paying," he said finally, his voice low and steady. "Every month. I haven't missed a payment."
"Paying," the older man repeated, mocking. "You've been throwing scraps at us and calling it payment. You think that covers what your father owed? You think that covers the interest? The inconvenience of tracking you down?"
Beomgyu didn't answer. The older man stepped closer, close enough that Beomgyu could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes, the same smell from that night outside his apartment.
"Here's the thing, Beomgyu." His voice dropped, almost gentle, which made it worse. "We've been patient with you. Very patient. But patience has a price, and you're running out of time." He glanced toward the house again, his eyes lingering on the upstairs window. "Nice place. Shame if something happened to it. Or the people inside."
Beomgyu's hands curled into fists at his sides but he didn't move. He couldn't. Not yet.
"You stay away from them," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
The older man raised his eyebrows. "Or what? You'll call the police? You'll hire a lawyer with all that money you don't have?" He laughed again, soft and cruel.
"You're nothing, kid. You've always been nothing. The only reason you're still breathing is because we're generous."
The younger man shifted beside him, cracking his knuckles. "We could change that."
Beomgyu held his ground. His eyes flicked toward the house one more time. The upstairs window was dark now. You were inside. You were safe.
"Double," the older man said, holding up two fingers. "Double what you've been paying, starting this week. And if you try to run again, if you try to hide, we won't come looking for you." He smiled, and there was nothing friendly in it anymore. "We'll come looking for her."
Beomgyu's blood ran cold. He stared at the man, his face unreadable, but something behind his eyes shifted. Hardened.
"I'll have the money," he said quietly.
The older man studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Good. That's what I like to hear." He stepped back, gesturing to the other two. "See? He learns. Eventually."
The younger man didn't move. He was still watching Beomgyu with that empty stare, his head tilted like he was trying to figure out what made him tick.
"You know, I don't believe him," he said, not to the older man but to no one in particular. "He's got that look again. The one where he thinks he's smarter than us."
"I don't think I'm smarter than anyone," Beomgyu said.
"No, you definitely do." The younger man took a step closer, invading his space. "You think because you moved into this nice house with this nice girl that you're above all this. Like you're better than the rest of the filth we deal with." He reached out and flicked Beomgyu's collar the same way he had that night outside the apartment.
"You're not better. You're just luckier. And luck runs out."
Beomgyu didn't flinch. "Are you done?"
The younger man's eyes narrowed. The older man put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. "Easy. He's not worth it."
"He's never worth it," the younger man muttered, but he stepped back.
The older man turned to leave, then paused, looking over his shoulder at Beomgyu. "One more thing. That girl you're so concerned about. The one watching from the window." He nodded toward the house. "She seems nice. Pretty. Probably has a bright future ahead of her. It would be a shame if she got caught up in something she doesn't understand."
Beomgyu's blood boiled but he kept his face neutral. "She's not involved."
"She is now. You brought her into this the second you moved into her house." The older man smiled, thin and cold.
"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to come with us. Right now. We're going to have a conversation somewhere more private, and we're going to discuss a new payment plan. One that doesn't involve you hiding behind your girlfriend's family."
Beomgyu's heart dropped. "No."
The younger man grabbed his arm. Beomgyu wrenched it free, stepping back, his fists coming up before he could think about it. "I said no. You don't touch her. You don't talk about her. You don't even look at this house again."
The older man's expression shifted, something darker flickering behind his eyes.
"And what exactly are you going to do to stop us?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping low. "You're nothing. You have nothing. No money, no power, no backup. Just a girl who doesn't know what she's gotten herself into and a house full of old people who'll be dead before the decade's over." He tilted his head, mockingly sweet. "Is that really what you want to protect? A temporary situation?"
Beomgyu swung before he could think. His fist connected with the older man's jaw and the man staggered back, hand flying to his face, blood already seeping between his fingers. The younger man's eyes went wide for half a second before they turned cold, and then the bigger one was on Beomgyu, slamming him against the stone wall.
"You're going to regret that," the older man said, wiping the blood from his lip. He was smiling now, a thin red smear across his teeth. "You're going to regret that so much."
The bigger man's fist drove into Beomgyu's stomach and the air left his lungs in a rush. He doubled over, gasping, but the younger man grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.
"Look at me," he said. "Look at me when we're hurting you."
Beomgyu spat blood on the ground and didn't say a word.
The younger man hit him across the face, once, twice, and Beomgyu's head snapped to the side each time. His ears were ringing. His vision was blurry. He could taste copper on his tongue. But he didn't make a sound. He refused to make a sound because if he made a sound you would hear it and you were already scared enough.
"Still so quiet," the younger man murmured, almost admiring. "Still so stubborn. You know what I think? I think you like this. I think you like getting beat up because it's the only time anyone pays attention to you."
Beomgyu didn't answer. He just stood there, swaying, blood dripping from his split lip onto the collar of his white shirt.
The older man grabbed him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "This is the new payment plan," he said softly. "Every month, we come here. Every month, we take something from you. Money, blood, it doesn't matter to us. What matters is that you understand you belong to us now. Not to her. Not to this house. To us."
Upstairs, you watched from behind the curtain with your hand clamped over your mouth so hard your teeth were cutting into your palm. Tears were streaming down your face but you couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
Beomgyu was on his knees now, the bigger man's hand around his throat, and you could see the way his body was trembling, the way his hands were shaking even as he tried to push himself back up.
You wanted to call the police. You reached for your phone and realized it was still in the car as well. Beomgyu's phone was in the cup holder, you remembered suddenly, he had left it there when he got out.
You grabbed your keys and turned to run downstairs but then you saw it, a light flicking on in the house across the street. The neighbor's kid. 17 years old, home from school for the summer, always up late playing video games. His window faced the street.
The younger man pulled Beomgyu up by his jacket and shoved him against the wall, his forearm pressing across Beomgyu's throat. "Say something," he hissed. "Say something so I have a reason to keep going."
Beomgyu looked past him, past the wall, past the street, toward the dark window where he knew you were watching. His lips moved but no sound came out.
"What was that?" the younger man said, leaning closer.
Beomgyu smiled. It was small and bloody and barely there, but it was enough. "You're going to jail," he whispered.
The younger man's face contorted with rage. He drew back his fist and Beomgyu braced himself but the blow never came because the sound of sirens cut through the night, distant at first, then closer, then right around the corner. Blue and red lights flickered across the houses, across the trees, across the blood spattered on the grass.
The older man's head snapped up. The younger one swore. The bigger one was already backing away.
"Someone called the cops," the younger man hissed.
"We need to go. Now." The older man grabbed Beomgyu by the collar and shoved him to the ground. "This isn't over. You hear me? This isn't over."
They ran, but they didn't get far. Police cars blocked both ends of the street, officers pouring out with flashlights and radios, and within seconds the three men were on the ground with their hands cuffed behind their backs. The older man was still staring at Beomgyu when they pulled him up, his eyes cold and knowing, like he'd already figured out how to get out of this.
But Beomgyu didn't see that. He was on the ground, curled on his side, his face pressed into the cool grass. His right eye was swollen shut. His lip was split in two places. His ribs screamed every time he breathed. But he was alive, and you were safe, and the men who had been hunting him were in handcuffs.
An officer crouched down beside him. "Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened?"
Beomgyu opened his mouth but no words came out. Everything hurts. Everything was spinning. And then he heard your voice, calling his name from somewhere far away, and he tried to turn toward it but his body wouldn't cooperate.
The officer was saying something about an ambulance, about keeping him still, about not moving his neck, but Beomgyu wasn't listening anymore. He was thinking about the way you had smiled at him earlier, in the car, right before everything went wrong. He was thinking about the way you had said his name like it meant everything.
The last thing he saw before the world went dark was the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the window of your bedroom, and he hoped you weren't watching anymore. He hoped you had turned away. He hoped you didn't have to see him like this.
The days after that night blurred into something shapeless, something that didn't feel like time so much as a slow drowning. You sat in the same plastic chair beside Beomgyu's hospital bed for what could have been hours or days or weeks, you couldn't tell anymore.
The room was small and white and smelled like antiseptic and something floral from the arrangement someone had left on the windowsill, you couldn't remember who. Your grandparents had come and gone in shifts, your grandmother holding your face in her hands and telling you to eat something, your grandfather standing at the foot of the bed with his jaw tight and his hand on Beomgyu's ankle like he was trying to anchor him to this world.
You knew you looked terrible because you caught your reflection in the dark screen of your phone and barely recognized yourself. Your hair was tangled in a knot at the back of your head, your eyes were swollen from crying and lack of sleep, and you were wearing an oversized zip up hoodie over a faded sleep shirt with a cartoon character on it that you'd had since high school. The shorts you'd thrown on in the dark were wrinkled and uneven, and the sandals on your feet were from your grandmother's closet, one size too big and not matching anything else you had on.
You didn't care. You couldn't care. The only thing that mattered was the rise and fall of Beomgyu's chest under the thin hospital blanket.
He looked worse than you.
His face was a mess of purple and yellow bruises, his right eye still swollen shut despite the doctors saying the swelling would go down. There were stitches above his eyebrow and along his cheekbone, small black threads that stood out against his pale skin like cracks in porcelain. His left arm was wrapped in a cast from wrist to elbow, a clean white plaster that someone had written the date on in black marker.
He hadn't moved since they'd brought him in. Not once. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft beeping of the machines, the IV drip that fed him what he couldn't take on his own.
You held his hand. His fingers were cool and limp in yours, the same fingers that had played guitar in his room just a few nights ago, the same fingers that had brushed your cheek when you were crying in the car. You traced the lines of his palm, the calluses on his fingertips, the small scar near his thumb that he'd told you about once, from a knife accident when he was seventeen.
You wanted him to squeeze back.
You wanted him to open his eyes and look at you with that flat expression he did so well, the one that pretended he didn't care when you knew he did. You wanted him to say something annoying about your outfit or your hair or the way you'd been holding his hand for three days straight.
But he just lay there, and you just sat there, and the beeping of the machines marked the seconds like a clock you couldn't turn off.
You had talked to the police twice. Once on the phone, once in person, a detective with kind eyes and a notepad who asked you questions you could barely answer. You told him about the possible evidence on Beomgyu's phone from that night when he told you before making sure you were safe.
The detective had leaned forward at that, his pen pausing over the paper. "And you have this phone?" You nodded.
"Do you know the password?" You shook your head, and something in the detective's expression flickered, hope dimming into patience.
"Well. Let us know when he wakes up."
You held onto that word like a lifeline.
The nurses had stopped trying to get you to go home after the second day. They brought you coffee and sandwiches you barely touched, blankets you let fall to the floor, updates you absorbed without really hearing.
His vitals were stable. His brain activity was normal. He was just asleep, they said, his body giving him the rest he needed to heal.
You wanted to believe them, you wanted to believe that he was dreaming about something nice, something peaceful, something that didn't involve fists and blood and the sound of sirens. But you couldn't stop seeing him on the ground, curled on his side, his face barely visible under the bruises. You couldn't stop hearing the way the younger man had laughed, that empty hollow sound that had made your blood run cold.
So you held his hand and you waited, and you told yourself that waiting was something you could do, something you were good at, something that meant you hadn't given up.
On the third day, three knocks came at the door.
Soobin stepped in first, looking like he hadn't slept either. His eyes were red and he was holding a bouquet of flowers, the generic kind from the convenience store down the street, wrapped in plastic and tied with a rubber band.
Behind him was Yeonjun, uncharacteristically quiet, a wicker basket hanging from his arm filled with fruit and snacks and things you recognized as Beomgyu's favorites, the ones he always reached for during breaks.
Yeonjun took one look at you sitting there in your ugly sleep shirt with your tangled hair and your swollen eyes, and his face crumpled. He set the basket on the windowsill and crossed the room in three strides, pulling you up out of the chair and into a hug so tight you couldn't breathe. You didn't realize you were crying until you felt his shirt getting wet under your cheek.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough. "Hey, it's okay. We're here. We've got you."
Soobin set the flowers down on the bedside table and stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Beomgyu's face with an expression you couldn't read. He reached out and touched Beomgyu's ankle through the blanket, the same way your grandfather had done, like he was trying to remind him that people were waiting.
"I brought the fruit he likes," Soobin said, his voice thick. "The weird ones that nobody else eats. He's going to be so annoying about it when he wakes up."
"When," Yeonjun said, pulling back to look at you. He was crying too, you realized, tears streaming down his face that he didn't bother to wipe away. "Not if. When."
You nodded, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "When."
Soobin came around the bed and wrapped his arms around you both, the three of you standing there in the small white room with the beeping machines and the sleeping boy and the flowers that would wilt before he ever got to see them. You stayed like that for a long time, not talking, not moving, just holding on to each other because it was the only thing any of you could do.
When you finally pulled apart, you were all a mess, tear-streaked and red-eyed and exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleep. Yeonjun handed you a tissue from the box on the nightstand and you laughed, wet and broken, because of course he knew exactly where the tissues were, of course he'd already scanned the room for things you might need.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
"Okay. Soobin's going to stay with him and you and I are going to the cafeteria."
"You've been here for three days. You smell." He said it gently, not mean, and you laughed again because he was right and because laughing felt better than crying even if it hurt.
"I don't have anything else to wear."
"Then we'll go to your house and get you something."
"I can't bring myself to drive."
You looked at Beomgyu, at his swollen face and his casted arm and the slow rise and fall of his chest.
You didn't want to leave.
You wanted to be there when he opened his eyes.
But Yeonjun was right about the smell, and your body was shaking with exhaustion, and you hadn't eaten anything that wasn't coffee in three days.
"Okay," you said. "Okay."
Soobin pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, taking Beomgyu's hand in his, the way you had been doing for days. "I've got him," he said. "Go. Take a shower. Eat something. I'll call you if anything changes."
You nodded, letting Yeonjun guide you toward the door. You paused at the threshold, looking back at Beomgyu one more time, at the blue and purple bruises and the black stitches and the pale stillness of his face.
"I'll be back soon," you said, though you didn't know who you were saying it to, him or Soobin or yourself.
Then you walked out into the hallway, and Yeonjun put his arm around your shoulders, and the door clicked shut behind you.
Yeonjun kept his eyes on the road and the radio low, saying nothing. You watched the city gutter past the passenger window, the same streets you'd traversed a hundred times now rendered hollow and unfamiliar, like you were watching someone else's life through someone else's window.
When you pulled into the driveway, the house looked the way it always did at dusk, warm lights glowing behind the windows and the garden spilling over its edges, but something about it felt off now, too still, too quiet in a way that had nothing to do with the absence of noise.
Your grandparents were already on the porch, your grandmother's hand pressed to her mouth, your grandfather's arm wrapped around her shoulders. They didn't rush to meet you. They just stood there waiting, and that stillness was somehow harder than if they had run to the car.
Yeonjun walked you to the door, exchanging quiet words with your grandfather that you didn't bother to listen to. Your grandmother pulled you into a hug, her body small and warm against yours, and you let yourself lean into her for a second before pulling away.
"Go take a bath," she said softly. "Yeonjun will stay for dinner. We'll talk when you're ready."
You nodded and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, your feet dragging like they didn't want to carry you any further. The bathroom waited at the end of the hall, the same one you'd known since childhood, and you locked the door behind you before leaning back against it, eyes shut, letting the cool wood press into your spine.
The tub filled slowly, water drumming against water, the only sound in the room. You undressed without looking at the mirror, peeling off the wrinkled shorts and the faded sleep shirt and the sandals that belonged to your grandmother, letting them drop to the floor like remnants of a person you no longer wanted to be.
You sank into the hot water and let it burn.
And then the thoughts came.
You should have noticed the envelope.
You should have asked him about it that morning when you saw him slip it into his pocket, the way his hand moved too quickly, the way he wouldn't meet your eyes.
You should have pushed harder when he said he was fine, when he said not to worry, when he gave you that flat look that you knew by now meant he was lying through his teeth.
You should have stayed in the car.
You should have grabbed his phone sooner, run it inside, called someone, done anything other than stand there frozen behind the curtain like a coward.
You should have run out there.
You should have stood between him and those men even if it meant they hurt you too, because at least then he wouldn't have been alone on the ground, and at least then he would have known someone was there who wasn't just watching from a window.
The water was too hot and your skin was turning red but you didn't move. You just sat there, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the tiled wall.
You thought about the kiss.
You hadn't let yourself think about it since it happened. There had been too much else, too many sirens and hospital rooms and waiting, always waiting. But now, in the quiet of the bathroom with the steam rising around you, you couldn't avoid it anymore.
The weight of his hands on your waist. The way he had looked at you in that half dark before your mouth found his, like you were something he had spent a long time wanting and still could not quite trust to be real. The way he had said your name, not loud and not desperate, just low and certain, as if it were the only syllable his tongue knew how to form anymore.
You could not remember who leaned in first.
Maybe you. Maybe him. Maybe both of you at once, pulled together by something neither of you had been brave enough to name.
But you remembered the moment your lips touched his.
You remembered the way thinking stopped entirely, the way the rest of the world fell away and left only the shape of him, the heat of him, the quiet sound he made when your fingers curled into his hair.
You had wanted him for longer than you cared to admit. Maybe it started the first week he moved in, when you found him on the windowsill with his guitar and his cat curled beside him, the evening light turning everything soft and magical.
Maybe earlier, at the cafe, when he began making your coffee without being asked, sliding it across the counter like it was nothing when you knew it wasn't.
Maybe even further back, in the flower shop, when he walked in looking hollow and untouched and you gave him a discount on funeral flowers because something about his quiet devastation made you want to be gentle with him.
You didn't know when it started. You just knew it wasn't small anymore.
It wasn't a crush or a passing interest or the kind of thing you could laugh about with your friends over drinks. It was heavy and real and it had been sitting in your chest this whole time, waiting for you to notice.
And now he was in a hospital bed, and you were in a bathtub, and you had no idea if he felt the same way or if the kiss had just been the alcohol and the music and the moment.
You sank lower into the water until it touched your chin, and you let yourself cry again, because crying was the only thing your body seemed to know how to do anymore.
The water had gone cold by the time you finally stepped out, skin pruned and bones heavy. You dried off slowly, methodically, then pulled your grandmother's robe from its hook on the door, the fabric worn soft from years of use. For the first time since coming home, you stood before the mirror and looked.
Your face was blotched red, your eyes swollen nearly shut, your hair a tangled wreck spilling over your shoulders. You looked exactly like someone who had spent three days in a plastic chair waiting for a boy to wake up.
But beneath all of it, beneath the exhaustion and the grief and the guilt coiled tight in your chest, you were still there. Still the girl who had handed a stranger a discount on funeral flowers because his silence reminded her too much of her own. Still the girl who had offered him a room in her grandparents' house without asking permission, because the thought of him sleeping on that filthy couch made her chest ache. Still the girl who had fallen for him somewhere along the way, quietly and thoroughly, without ever finding the courage to say it out loud.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand and walked out of the bathroom. Yeonjun was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, his back against the wall, his phone in his hand. He looked up when he heard you, and something in his expression softened.
"No," you said. "But I'm clean."
He nodded like that made sense. "Your grandma made soup. You should eat something before we go back."
You opened your mouth to argue, to say you weren't hungry, to say you'd rather just go back now, when your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. Soobin's name flashed across the screen.
You answered before the second ring. "Hello?"
The words didn't register at first. They hung in the air like a foreign language, sounds you knew but couldn't quite translate. Then Soobin's voice cracked on the other end of the line, and you heard him exhale like he'd been holding his breath for days.
"He's awake," he said again. "He's asking for you."
You looked at Yeonjun. He was already watching you, his eyes wide, his body half turned toward the door. Your grandparents stood frozen by the stove, your grandmother's hand over her heart, your grandfather gripping the back of a chair.
"Go," your grandmother said, her voice thin and wet. "Go, go."
You both didn't need to be told twice. Yeonjun grabbed his keys from the counter, your grandmother's robe still hanging off your shoulders, your hair still dripping onto the floor. Yeonjun was already out the door, the car already running by the time you reached the driveway, and you didn't care that you were still wearing slippers, didn't care that you hadn't eaten, didn't care about anything except the fact that Beomgyu was awake and he was asking for you.
By the time you arrived, you didn't wait for Yeonjun to park. You were out of the car before it fully stopped, your grandmother's robe still wrapped around you, your slippers slapping against the hospital floor as you ran. The hallway stretched too long, the elevator took too long, and by the time you reached his door you couldn't feel your hands anymore.
He was sitting up against the pillows, his face a ruin of purple and yellow, the bruising spreading across his cheekbone like ink dropped into water. His right eye was still swollen but open now, just a slit, just enough to let the light in. The cast on his arm was the same stark white, the split on his lip still raw, his hair matted flat on one side from days of lying still. But his eyes were open. He was awake and he was looking right at you.
His voice was ruined, scraped raw and paper-thin, the sound of someone who hadn't spoken in days because he hadn't. But when he said your name, it came out the same way it had in the car that night, low and steady, like it was the only syllable his mouth still knew how to say.
You didn't move. You just stood there in the doorway, frozen, staring at him like you were seeing a ghost. Then your face crumpled and the sound that tore out of you was not a word and not a sob, something animal and raw, something your body had been holding behind a dam that finally broke.
Your legs folded beneath you and you went down hard on the cold tile floor, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins, forehead pressed to your knees. You wept like you had not allowed yourself to weep in front of anyone, ugly and helpless and completely undone, your shoulders heaving, your breath coming in jagged gasps that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.
Beomgyu said your name again, softer, but you couldn't look at him. You couldn't look at anyone. You just sat there on the floor with your grandmother's robe pooling around you and your heart cracking open and no idea how to close it back up.
Yeonjun came in behind you. You heard his footsteps stop, heard him take in the room, heard the small sound he made when he saw Beomgyu sitting up. "Hey, man," he said, his voice thick. "You look like garbage."
"I feel like garbage," Beomgyu said.
"Yeah, well." Yeonjun cleared his throat. "You're alive, so."
He didn't say anything else, just crouched beside you and pressed his hand to your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like a parent would, like someone who didn't have the right words but wanted you to know they were there anyway. He didn't tell you to stop crying or promise that everything would be okay, he just kept his hand there, steady and patient, while you fell apart on the hospital floor.
Soobin was in the corner, you realized dimly, his face pale and his eyes red. He gave you a small nod when you looked at him, something that might have been a smile if either of you had the energy for it. Then he looked at Beomgyu, and something passed between them, some wordless understanding that didn't need to be spoken out loud.
You don't know how long you sat there. A minute. Maybe more. Eventually the crying slowed to hiccups, and the hiccups slowed to shaky breaths, and you wiped your face with the sleeve of your robe and looked up.
Beomgyu was watching you. His good eye was glassy, his split lip trembling just slightly, and you realized he was crying too. Quietly, without sound, just tears tracking down his bruised cheeks and disappearing into the bandages on his jaw.
"You're such an idiot," you said, your voice cracking. "You know that? You're the biggest idiot I've ever met."
He blinked at you, his good eye still glassy, his split lip twitching like he was trying not to smile. "That's a strong statement coming from someone who showed up to the hospital in her grandmother's bathrobe."
You looked down at yourself, at the faded floral fabric and the slippers that were definitely not yours, and you laughed. It came out wet and ugly and probably insane, but you couldn't stop. "I didn't have time to change."
"You had time. You just didn't think about it."
"Because someone was in the hospital."
"Because someone was in the hospital," he repeated, softer now, and something in his expression shifted. "And you came anyway. Looking like that."
He studied you for a long moment, taking in the tangled hair and the swollen eyes and the robe that was swallowing you whole. "You look like you haven’t been sleeping well," he said.
You swallowed hard. "Because I've been sitting in a plastic chair for three days waiting for you to wake up."
He was quiet for a second. Then: "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
You laughed. It came out wet and broken and probably insane, but it was a laugh, and when Beomgyu smiled back at you, small and tired and real, you felt something in your chest loosen for the first time in days.
Yeonjun cleared his throat from somewhere behind you. "So, I grabbed your stuff while you were showering. You know. In case you wanted to stop looking like you went dumpster diving for half an airpod."
He held up a small duffel bag you didn't recognize, probably borrowed from your grandmother, and you took it without a word. Inside was a pair of sweats, a plain t-shirt, and your actual shoes. You wanted to hug him but you didn't have the energy. You just nodded and muttered something that might have been thank you and shuffled to the bathroom to change.
When you came back, Soobin was already grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "Work thing," he said, his jaw tight. "They said if I don't come in they're firing me, and I can't afford to get fired right now." He paused at the door, looking back at Beomgyu. "Don't do that again please."
"Almost die. It's exhausting and frankly rude. I had to cancel plans for this."
Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. "What plans?"
"Soobin shrugged into his jacket. "None of your business. The point is, don't do it again." He paused at the door, glancing back. "I mean it. You're a terrible patient and I don't have the patience for this a second time."
"You literally have the word patience in your name."
"Soobin pointed at him. "Don't use logic against me. I'm leaving." He left.
Soobin left. Yeonjun announced he was going to the cafeteria for the third time that day, something about needing real coffee and not the instant garbage they served on the patient floors, and then it was just the two of you.
Beomgyu lay propped against the hospital pillows, which slumped no matter how many times he adjusted them, his bruised face turned toward the window where the evening light had begun to fade. You sat in the plastic chair beside his bed, finally dressed in clean clothes, your damp hair swept back from your face and already drying in uneven waves. The machines beeped their quiet rhythms and the fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow, and for a long while neither of you filled the silence, both of you content to simply exist in the same room for the first time in days.
"You should eat something," Beomgyu said eventually, nodding at the basket of fruit on the windowsill.
"No, you should eat something."
"I'm attached to an IV. I'm being fed."
"That's not the same and you know it."
He didn't argue. He just looked at you, his good eye tracing your face like he was memorizing it, and you felt your cheeks warm under the attention.
"I'm glad you're okay," he said.
You frowned. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"
He was quiet for a moment. "When they were on top of me, I couldn't see you anymore. I didn't know if you'd made it inside. I didn't know if they'd seen you. I just kept hearing you scream my name and I couldn't tell if it was real or if I was imagining it."
You felt your throat tighten. "It was… real."
He was quiet for a moment. "And also when I woke up, you weren't here. Just Soobin. He said they made you go home. Said you hadn't left this room in three days and your body was giving out." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I thought maybe something had happened to you on your way out. Or after. I didn't know."
"Soobin should have led with 'she's fine.'"
"Soobin was too busy crying to lead with anything."
You almost laughed at that. Almost. "I'm fine. I'm here. I just look like garbage because I haven't slept."
"Well you have been sitting in a plastic chair for three days."
"That's exactly what I've been doing."
He nodded slowly, his good eye still fixed on your face. "I kept asking for you. Every time I woke up. They said you weren't there and I thought maybe you'd left. Like you'd seen enough."
"I know that now." His voice dropped lower. "But I didn't know then. And I kept thinking about those men in your front yard, and your grandparents in the house, and you somewhere out there alone, and I couldn't do anything because I couldn't even open my eyes."
You reached for his hand under the blanket. He let you.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said.
"You keep saying that but I don't think you believe it."
He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face. "I'm working on it."
The room fell silent again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came after something heavy, when words weren't enough and neither of you wanted to pretend they were. You pulled your knees up to your chest and rested your chin on them, watching him watch you.
"The evidence," you said. "On your phone. The detective said it could help. But he needs your password."
Beomgyu was quiet for a moment. Then: "It's your birthday."
"My password. It's your birthday." He looked away, his ears turning pink beneath the bruises. "I changed it a while ago. I don't know. It was easy to remember."
You stared at him. Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest, something that felt a lot like the opposite of loosening. "You made your password my birthday."
"It's six numbers. It's not that deep."
"I'm always lying," he said, and when he looked back at you there was something soft in his expression, something that made your breath catch. "You should know that by now."
You held his gaze, refusing to look away first. "We're going to get through this. We pinky promised, remember?"
His expression shifted, something warm flickering behind the exhaustion. He lifted his good hand and placed it over yours where it rested on the blanket. "Yeah," he said quietly. "We will."
The room seemed to shrink after that, the walls drawing closer, the hum of the machines fading into something distant and unimportant. You were both still looking at each other, neither of you willing to break whatever had settled between you, some thread pulled taut that had been fraying for weeks and was now seconds from snapping.
His thumb moved against your knuckles, slow and absent, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Like his body had decided something his mind hadn't caught up to yet. The calluses on his fingertips dragged across your skin, rough and warm, and you felt it everywhere, in your throat, in your stomach, in the space behind your ribs where your heart had started beating too fast.
Your breathing had gone shallow. You could hear it, the soft push and pull of air that seemed too loud in the quiet room, and you knew he could hear it too because his chest had stopped moving altogether.
He was holding his breath.
For what, you didn't know. For you to pull away. For you to say something. For you to do exactly what you were about to do.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Just for half a second. Just long enough for you to notice, just long enough for your pulse to trip over itself and stumble. Then back up, meeting your gaze again, and there was something different there now. Less guarded. More naked. Like he had stopped pretending he didn't want this.
You watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched the way his jaw tensed and relaxed, watched the bruises on his cheek shift with the motion. He was so close.
When had he gotten so close?
You could see the individual stitches above his eyebrow, the small scar near his hairline you'd never noticed before, the way his split lip was still raw at the corner. His breath fanned across your face, warm and unsteady, and you realized you had leaned in without meaning to, your body moving toward him like it knew something you hadn't admitted yet.
His hand tightened around yours. Not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just holding on, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this bed, this room, this moment.
Your free hand came up before you could think about it, your fingers brushing the edge of the bandage on his jaw. He didn't flinch. He just watched you, his eyes dark and heavy lidded, and when your thumb traced the line of his cheekbone he let out a breath that sounded almost like relief.
"Y/n," he said, and your name on his lips was barely a sound, more exhale than word, but it undid something in you all the same.
The space between you narrowed to nothing, his forehead almost touching yours, his nose brushing against your cheek. You could feel his heartbeat through his fingers where they were still tangled with yours, or maybe that was your own heartbeat, you couldn't tell anymore. Everything had blurred together, the line between him and you, between what you were supposed to do and what you wanted to do.
His eyes searched your face, looking for something, permission maybe, or confirmation, or just one last excuse to stop before it was too late. You didn't give him one. You just looked back at him, steady and certain, and let him see everything you'd been hiding.
The door swung open. Yeonjun stopped mid step, his arms full of cafeteria trays, his mouth half open around whatever word had been about to come next.
"Okay guys, I got a rice bowl, soup, these little side dish things, and–"
He looked at Beomgyu. He looked at you. He looked at the space between your faces, which was approximately two inches and shrinking.
"I knew it," he said, not even bothering to hide his grin. "I fucking knew it."
You yanked back like you'd been shocked, heat flooding your face, your hand slipping out of Beomgyu's. Beomgyu, to his credit, just sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow.
"You have the worst timing in the history of the world," he said.
"I have impeccable timing. I caught the thing I've been waiting to catch for weeks." Yeonjun set the trays down on the windowsill and crossed his arms, looking far too pleased with himself. "Lovebirds."
"We're not–" you started.
"You literally almost kissed. I saw it with my own two eyes. My eyes don't lie."
"Your eyes are deluded," Beomgyu said.
"My eyes are observant. There's a difference."
You buried your face in your hands, your ears burning, but you were laughing. You couldn't help it. The absurdity of it, the relief of it, the way everything had been so heavy for so long and now Yeonjun was standing there with cafeteria food and a smug expression like nothing in the world was wrong.
Beomgyu was laughing too, quietly, his shoulders shaking beneath the hospital gown, his good hand pressed over his mouth like he was trying to hide it.
Yeonjun watched both of you with a satisfied nod. "Eat your food. Then you can go back to almost kissing. I'll wait outside."
"Don't wait outside," you said.
"I'm absolutely waiting outside."
"Y/n." He grabbed a rice bowl and shoved it into your hands. "Eat. You look like a ghost. A very embarrassed ghost, but still a ghost."
You took the bowl, still laughing, still red in the face, and when you glanced at Beomgyu he was already looking at you, his good eye warm despite the bruises. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
The investigation took longer than anyone expected. The video on Beomgyu's phone was just the beginning. Once the police started digging into the debt collectors, they found a trail of illegal activity stretching back years: Drug distribution, extortion, assault charges from other victims who had been too scared to come forward.
The older man with the scar, the younger one with the empty eyes, the bigger one who never spoke much, all had records, warrants, connections to things much bigger than a dead man's unpaid loans.
Beomgyu sat in a small office downtown with a public defender your grandparents had helped him find, a tired woman in her forties who spoke slowly and didn't sugarcoat anything. She explained that under Korean law, he had three months from the date of his father's death to decide whether to accept the inheritance or refuse it. His father had left nothing but debt. No house, no savings, no assets of any kind. The choice was simple.
"So I just... sign this?" Beomgyu asked, staring at the paper.
"You sign that, and you're not responsible for a single won of what your father owed."
"That's it." She slid a pen across the desk. "Debt doesn't pass down like a curse, no matter how much those men wanted you to believe it did. They were counting on you not knowing the law. It happens more often than you'd think."
Beomgyu signed. His hand didn't shake.
The collectors were indicted a week later. The charges piled quickly, drug distribution, extortion, aggravated assault, and for the youngest one, an outstanding warrant for something far uglier, details the media was legally barred from printing. None of them would see the outside of a cell anytime soon.
During the first hearing, the older man caught Beomgyu's gaze from across the courtroom, that familiar scar cutting through his eyebrow, his expression unreadable. Beomgyu held his stare. He did not flinch. He did not look away first.
He realized later that he had not thought about that night the way he used to. The memory still lived somewhere in the marrow of him, would probably always live there, but it had lost its teeth. No more waking up with his heart already pounding. No more checking the street before stepping outside. It was just something that had happened to him. Not something that owned him.
Your grandparents had come to the hearing too, sitting in the row behind him, your grandmother's hand on his shoulder, your grandfather's jaw set in that stubborn way it got when he was angry on someone else's behalf. Soobin sat on his left, Yeonjun on his right, and you were next to Yeonjun, your fingers brushing against Beomgyu's under the armrest every time the judge spoke. When it was over, when the gavel came down and the collectors were led away in handcuffs, Beomgyu didn't say anything. He just stood up, turned around, and looked at all of you.
"Let's go home," he said.
Now in the present time, the cafe had surrendered to summer the way it always did, the air conditioner gasping in the window and the flower buckets demanding water twice as often, the heat leaching the life out of every petal within hours.
Tourists had discovered the place by now, lured in by the pink storefront and the handwritten signs and the rumor that a boy with a guitar sometimes sat on the back patio as the evening cooled. Beomgyu still refused to sing in public, but he played sometimes, quiet instrumentals that drifted through the open windows and made strangers linger at their tables long after their cups had emptied.
Yeonjun was behind the counter, aggressively wiping down the espresso machine like it had personally offended him. You were at the register, ringing up a customer who couldn't decide between two types of tea. Beomgyu was in the back, unloading a delivery of fresh flowers, his cast gone now, his bruises faded to nothing, his hair longer than it had been before, falling into his eyes the way it always did when he forgot to get it cut.
"Beomgyu!" Yeonjun yelled toward the back. "We're out of oat milk."
"We were out of oat milk yesterday," Beomgyu's voice drifted back.
"And we're still out today. That's a problem."
"That's your problem. I don't drink oat milk and you’re on cafe duty today."
"I'm a flower guy now." Yeonjun pointed at the flower buckets. "All you’re doing is just holding them."
"I'm unloading them. There's a difference." Beomgyu appeared in the doorway, a crate of hydrangeas balanced on his hip. "Also, we have oat milk in the back. You just didn't look."
"Why would I look in the back when the front fridge is right there."
"Because the front fridge has been broken for two weeks."
"It literally has. I put a note on it. Go look."
Yeonjun walked over to the front fridge, squinted at a piece of paper taped to the door, and turned back around. "That note says 'out of order' in handwriting that looks exactly like Y/ns."
"That's because I wrote it."
"So you're telling me I've been serving customers from a broken fridge for two weeks?"
"I'm telling you that you don't read notes, grumpy gramps."
Yeonjun threw his rag on the counter. "I hate it here."
"You love it here," you said without looking up from the register.
"I tolerate it here. Barely."
The customer left with her tea and the cafe settled into its familiar afternoon lull, sunlight slanting through the windows at that particular angle that made the dust motes look like floating gold, everything slower and softer as if the world had paused to catch its breath.
Beomgyu set the crate down and began arranging hydrangeas in the bucket by the window, his movements deliberate and unhurried, the same way he did everything now, no rush, no anxiety, just the quiet fact of being exactly where he was.
You leaned against the counter and watched him arrange the flowers, the way his fingers moved with that quiet care he didn't seem to know he had. He caught you looking after a moment and raised his eyebrows.
"You're doing that thing again."
"Where you stare at me like you’re expecting something… should I be scared?"
You smiled, small and easy. "Maybe I'm just admiring the view."
His ears went pink but he didn't look away. "The view is arranging hydrangeas."
"The view is very good at arranging hydrangeas."
He shook his head, ducking his face, but you caught the smile tugging at his mouth before he hid it. "You're impossible."
"And yet," you said, soft, "here you are."
He looked back at you then, properly this time, and something unspoken passed between you, some quiet understanding that had long since outgrown the need for language. Yeonjun made a retching sound from behind the espresso machine.
"You two are disgusting," he said. "Get a room."
"We have a room," Beomgyu said.
"Then use it. Some of us are trying to work."
"You're not working. You're just standing there."
Yeonjun gasped. "Mind you, I am employed. I have a paycheck and I have rights."
"Your rights don't include standing around while I do actual labor."
You laughed, and Beomgyu smiled, and the afternoon unfolded the way summer afternoons should, slow and syrupy and full of nothing that needed fixing. The flowers drank their water, the espresso machine hissed its steam, and the world beyond the windows continued its indifferent spin.
But inside this small shop with its lopsided chairs and its crooked signs and its three occupants who had stumbled into something resembling a family, everything had finally settled into its rightful place.
The bell above the door chimed.
Soobin walked in looking like he'd just run a marathon, his shirt untucked, his hair a disaster, his eyes wild with the particular brand of exhaustion that only came from dealing with corporate stupidity. He beelined for the counter, collapsed onto a stool, and dropped his head into his hands.
"Guys," he said, his voice muffled by his palms.
"You will not believe what my boss said to me today."
Oh right. And Soobin. We couldn't forget about Soobin either. The best friend who had been there from the beginning.
⤷ a/n: wanted to kms writing this oh mygod, please enjoy everyone.... I'm sorry for putting beomgyu through hell.... rip
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