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MATCH POINT PT.2

pairing: boo seungkwan x f!reader

genre: badminton player!bsk, f2l, fluff, mild angst

description: a part of the 17 Seconds 2 Score collab! When a burst pipe leaves national athlete Boo Seungkwan temporarily homeless, the universe decides to have a laugh and send him to the one person he’s been too busy to see—his best friend. What should’ve been an easy, familiar arrangement turns strangely complicated; between his chaotic training schedule and the small ways you keep circling each other, nothing feels as simple as it used to. Living together blurs lines you’ve never questioned before. There's a net neither of you have crossed, but maybe it's time to break the match point.

warnings: suggestive, strong language, alcohol, physical exhaustion, slight injury they're still truly idiots

w/c: 22.7k Part 1

a/n: happy late birthday to seungkwan </3 and a late bday gift to myself as well because WHEW was this self indulgent? anyways, i love these two so much that i quite literally came back from the dead and am about to bury myself back in guys!! hope y'all enjoy :) rbs, comments and asks are always appreciated! <3 unbeta-d ayy we ballin

BOO SEUNGKWAN ARRIVES IN NINGBO AS KOREA’S TOP CONTENDER Seoul Sports Daily—Updated 10:42 AM KST

South Korean, world No. 1 Boo Seungkwan landed in Ningbo early Tuesday morning ahead of the 2025 Asian Badminton Championships, entering the tournament as the player to beat after a dominant start to the season.

Despite arriving on one of the earliest flights of the day, the 27-year-old looked composed as he passed through the international arrivals hall, greeting a small crowd of fans with a polite wave before joining his coaching staff.

A Season of Near-Perfect Form

Boo enters Ningbo following one of the strongest opening halves of any season in recent years, having claimed titles at both the All England Open and Swiss Open, and making back-to-back finals appearances across the European circuit. His consistency has secured him the world No. 1 ranking for the first time in his career, with analysts citing his precision and improved court coverage as the primary reasons behind his surge.

“His level this year has been unbelievable,” national team coach Baek Taeyang said. “He’s cleaned up his errors, he’s sharper at the net, and his stamina is better than ever. When Seungkwan is playing like this, he can beat anyone.”

Managing Expectations and Fatigue

Asked directly about the pressure of entering as the top seed, Boo only offered a faint, practiced smile.

“I try not to think about rankings too much,” he said. “You focus on what’s in front of you. One match at a time.”

Reporters also questioned both Boo and Coach Baek about fatigue, noting the tight tournament schedule that will begin past the Asian Championships.

Baek brushed off concerns. “Everyone is tired,” he said. “This part of the season is demanding for every athlete. What matters is that he’s mentally ready.”

Boo himself responded lightly when pressed about his workload.

“It’s been a long few weeks,” he admitted. “But that’s the job. You train, you travel, you adjust. Once the games start, everything else fades.”

Eyes on Ningbo

With several top players also in peak form, this year’s championship is expected to be one of the toughest fields of the season. Even so, most predictions place Boo at the top of the bracket, citing his confidence, momentum, and tactical discipline.

“Right now, he’s the most dangerous player in the draw,” said one international analyst. “Everyone else is chasing him.”

South Korea’s first-round match is set for Thursday, where Boo is expected to lead the lineup in the men’s singles.

The apartment has settled into a different kind of quiet since Seungkwan left.

You move through the day like you always do, going to work and coming back, but there’s an odd, hollow stillness every time you step outside.

You know he had to leave early. You know national team travel always means dawn flights and half-packed bags and rushing out before the sun fully rises. You know all of that. But waking up alone still felt like a dip in cold water. You weren’t expecting him to stay long enough for breakfast, but some part of you had imagined brushing your teeth while he tossed shirts into his suitcase, or making some tired joke about him wearing the wrong socks again. Instead, you’d rolled over to an empty space and the dip in his pillow almost non-existent.

He left you a note on the fridge, stuck under the same cat magnet you’ve had since college. A text too.

You tell yourself you’re just being ridiculous—oversensitive, maybe a little sleep-deprived—but there’s a small, persistent sting you can’t quite soothe. You replay fragments of the night before in your mind, trying to convince yourself you didn’t imagine reaching toward him, or that he didn’t notice if you did. The fear that you might have made things uncomfortable blurts into your thoughts at odd moments, like while you’re brushing your hair or waiting for the microwave to beep.

So when the article pops up in your notifications the next day, you hesitate to open it.

He looks exactly like he always does on travel days. Polished, calm, but a bit tired around the eyes. There’s a photo of him walking through the airport with a carry-on rolling behind him, another of him stepping into the venue with his coaches.

You slow down when you reach the paragraph about fatigue. The quote is familiar because it’s the kind of line he’s given since he was sixteen and someone first shoved a microphone in his face.

It’s been a long few weeks. You train, you travel, you adjust. Once the games start, everything else fades.

You know what he means. You’ve always known. When he’s working, everything else shrinks to the edges. People misunderstand that sometimes and assume he’s cold or rigid, but he’s not. He just burns at a pace that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

Still, the words land somewhere tender.

When you scroll back up to the pictures, a strange feeling catches you off guard—almost like your mind whispering that he should be here instead, sitting at your counter eating breakfast or lazing around on the couch. It’s not possessiveness, not really, just that brief, unwarranted tug of that’s my boy, followed immediately by the reminder that he isn’t, and that you have no business thinking something so careless in the first place.

You glance at the fridge again. The note hasn’t moved. You reach for it without thinking, then stop just before your fingers touch the paper.

You shouldn’t read into any of this. You know that, but still you stand there for another moment, and wonder if he feels any of this. If the tired look in his eyes was just fatigue, or if he left something unsaid too.

The team dinner stretches much longer than it needs to, mostly because everyone keeps drifting into small conversations and forgetting the time. Jungwoo is arguing with one of the girls from the mixed doubles team about who snores louder, Jeonghan keeps stealing food from the plate nearest to him, and a few of the younger ones are buzzing with the kind of energy only travel and nerves can create. It should feel exciting, the way it usually does before a tournament, but tonight Seungkwan feels strangely out of it.

He laughs when someone teases him about zoning out, but the smile doesn’t quite hold. He picks at his food, nods when he’s spoken to, and checks his phone once under the table. The last message between you is still the same, something short on both sides, polite in a way that feels unfamiliar. He locks the screen quickly, pretending he wasn’t hoping for something else.

When they finally head back to the hotel, he’s relieved. The hallway is dim when he reaches his room, and he sighs loudly upon shutting the door after bidding Jeonghan a good night.

Seungkwan sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before pulling out his racket. Changing the grip is part of his usual routine, something familiar and repetitive, but tonight his hands hesitate. He thinks of the morning he left. Were you mad at him? Was that why he wasn't receiving your random updates throughout the day?

His chest pulls a little at the memory, subtle and annoying, like a muscle he forgot he’d strained.

Once the new grip is in place, he tests the racket lightly. The room is too still. He crosses to the wall near the closet and taps a shuttle against it, soft and rhythmic. It’s something he’s done since he was young, a way to steady his thoughts, but it only seems to make the unease clearer tonight.

He thinks about calling you. Not for anything important, but maybe just to hear your voice for a minute.

But the thought of it makes his stomach tighten, because he’s suddenly aware of every small thing he might reveal without meaning to. So instead he sets the phone face-down on the bedside table and returns to the slow, repetitive sound of the shuttle tapping the wall.

Seungkwan keeps going until his arm begins to ache, and then a little more. He only stops once Jeonghan raps back in annoyance from the other side, grumbling loud enough for it to pass through the wall.

The sound snaps him out of it. He lowers the racket, suddenly aware of how long he’s been standing there and how restless he must seem. He mumbles an apology through the wall even though Jeonghan’s probably already half-asleep again, then returns to the bed and sits down heavily.

He reaches for his phone again out of habit, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before he unlocks it. Nothing new. No message from you. He scrolls up your chat anyway, just far enough to see the way the conversation used to look when you were both less careful with each other. It only makes him more restless.

He plugs his phone in, turns off the lamp, and lies back against the stiff hotel pillows. The ceiling is dark, the room too quiet, and his mind refuses to settle. He tells himself it’s just nerves for tomorrow. That he just needs to fall asleep, and once he steps on court everything will fall back into place.

You keep up with the tournament almost without meaning to.

It starts as a quick glance at the schedule before work, then a check while your coffee is cooling on your desk, and by mid-morning you’ve accepted that you’re not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. His first-round match begins just after eleven, and you tell yourself you’ll only look once, just to settle your nerves, but the point tracker refreshes faster than your rational brain, and soon you’re watching the little numbers climb like it’s second nature.

Seungkwan wins both sets easily with neat and clear margins of 21-12 and 21-9.

It should make you relax, but you stay on the page longer than necessary, scrolling through the brief match summary until there’s nothing left to read.

You try to refocus on work. You half-succeed. Your fingers move over your keyboard, but at the edges of your attention, you’re thinking about him in Ningbo, probably cooling down or sitting with his teammates, towel around his neck, hair damp. You wonder if he’s thinking about anything other than the next round. You wonder if he even has space in his head for much else. It’s not a fair question, so you don’t follow it too far and instead pull out your phone.

You wait a second, maybe out of habit, maybe out of nerves, before typing the same thing you’ve sent him after every early-round win since you were both teenagers.

Youwell done!! atb for the next one

You lock your phone, expecting nothing for the next hour. During tournaments he usually disappears into ice baths or physio or debriefs, so you slide your phone away and go back to pretending you’re productive. But it buzzes almost immediately.

Boo thank you!! just finished cooling down 🥲

You stare at the message for a second too long. He never replies this fast during championships. Your hands hover over the keyboard before you force them back down.

You good. don’t overdo it

Boo i never do 😇

You liar

There’s a pause, long enough that you assume the conversation’s done, until your screen lights again.

Boo are you on a break?

You glance around the office, everyone hunched over screens or tapping away at keyboards, the afternoon dragging in that familiar, sluggish way.

You not really. just sneaking a minute

Boo stop sneaking. go drink water or get back to work lol!

You worry about yourself

Boo i am!! i have a match tomorrow!!! also i’m drinking water RIGHT now

You roll your eyes at your phone, but your stomach does that embarrassing, traitorous flip anyway. You type back quickly before you can overthink it.

You good. stay hydrated and stop texting me go prepare or smth

His reply comes in less than a minute.

Boo can’t. im in the team bus, going back to the hotel lolz and texting you counts as recovery 👍

You shake your head, fighting a smile, but you don’t push the conversation further.

By the time you’re packing up to leave, the sun is low enough to tint the windows gold. You slip your phone into your bag, try not to replay the earlier messages, and head home with that odd mixture of pride and something heavier sitting under your ribs.

At home, the apartment greets you with the same quiet as before. You kick your shoes off, set your bag down, and walk straight to the fridge. The note he left is still there, the cat magnet holding it like a tiny weight. You touch the edge of the paper without meaning to, tracing the little uneven slant in his handwriting.

You shouldn’t miss him like this. Not after one night. Not when he’s done this trip a hundred times before. But the space between his last message and now feels wider than it should.

You heat up dinner, sit at the counter, and scroll through the tournament feed. Someone’s posted a short clip from his match—a clean drop shot near the net, the kind he only pulls out when he’s feeling sharp. He looks focused, steady, but there’s a brief moment as he walks back to position where his eyes flick toward something off-camera and his expression goes distant.

You know that look. He gets it when he’s thinking too far ahead.

Your phone lights again just as you’re setting it down. It’s Chan, calling instead of texting, which is never a good sign at this hour.

You answer with a cautious, “Hello?”

He doesn’t even say hi. “I want to die.”

You blink. “What happened now?”

“Everything,” he groans dramatically, the sound of him shuffling around in the background loud enough to tell you he’s pacing. “Work was hell, Vernon almost made me cry, my boss thinks I’m a robot, and I was this close—", you can practically see him pinching his fingers together “—to buying soju on the way home.”

You straighten up. “Chan.”

“But I didn’t!” he interrupts, proud. “I remembered I have dignity. And a liver. So I bought ice cream instead. Which means I’m being responsible. And since I’m being responsible, I deserve company. Your company.”

You sigh, already reaching for your keys even though you planned to stay in. “Where are you?”

“The park outside your building,” he says immediately, as if he knew you’d cave. “Hurry, my ice cream is melting. And also my will to live.”

You find him exactly where he promised, slumped dramatically on a park bench beneath the streetlamp, two convenience-store bags at his feet and a half-melted ice cream bar in his hand. His hair sticks up in three different directions, and he looks like the physical embodiment of a sigh.

He spots you and perks up immediately. “There you are! My emotional support human.”

“You called the right hotline,” you joke lightly, sitting beside him.

He shoves a second ice cream bar into your hand without ceremony. “Eat. Suffer with me.”

You unwrap your ice cream while he launches into a rapid-fire account of his awful day. Something about a coworker sending the wrong files, something about his boss asking him to redo a project at 5 p.m., something about the universe being personally against him.

You listen, nodding and making the appropriate sounds, letting his chaotic energy pull you out of your own head. At one point he gestures so wildly the rest of his ice cream falls off the stick and onto the ground.

He stares at it like he could burst into tears any moment. “This is what I get for trying.”

You shake your head. “We can get another one.”

“No,” he says firmly. “This is symbolic suffering.”

You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “Drama queen.”

Chan sighs loudly and leans back on the bench, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. For a while neither of you talk and just sit there eating, listening to the faint hum of cars passing on the nearby road. The air is warm, the park quiet, and it feels strangely grounding.

After a few minutes, he glances sideways at you. “So. You? How’s… life?”

You keep your gaze on the path, tracing a line with your shoe. “Fine.”

“That’s fake,” he says immediately, and when you don’t argue, he nudges your knee with his. “Come on. I had the worst day of my year and I’m out here trauma dumping. Your turn.”

You take a slow breath, staring at the small patch of grass in front of you. “It’s nothing serious. Just… weird. I don’t know.”

Chan gives you a moment, waiting for you to continue. When you don’t, he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“This is about Kwan, isn’t it?”

The question lands too cleanly. You blink at him, startled, and he lifts a brow like he’s been waiting for you to catch up.

"I mean," he continues, shrugging. "I did think that the two of you living together would've been a mistake."

Your head jerks up. “Okay, thanks—”

“No, not like that,” he says quickly, waving a hand before you can glare him into silence. “Not because I thought it would go bad. I just knew it would… do something. To both of you.”

You frown slightly. “Do what?”

Chan gives you a look that’s annoyingly gentle. “Make everything harder to ignore.”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going, voice softer than before. “I’ve known you both long enough to see when you’re pretending not to feel something. And the two of you have been pretending for so long I’m shocked the universe hasn’t tripped you on purpose yet.”

You stare at him, unsure what to do with the sudden weight in his words. He picks at the wrapper in his lap, lips pressing into a thin line before he speaks again.

“And honestly? I was surprised he even agreed to stay with you. He was kinda…" he mumbles quietly, "I dunno. He was trying to avoid you for a bit. Said he’d get too comfortable.”

“Too comfortable?” you repeat quietly.

“Yeah,” Chan says, nodding. “Because you make people feel like they can breathe a little easier. And he knew that. And he hated that. Because—” He stops, sighs dramatically. “Because he’ll kill me if I say it.”

You narrow your eyes. “Say it.”

Chan hesitates, then gestures vaguely, like the words are floating somewhere within arm’s reach. “Fine. But I want it on record that Kwan threatened bodily harm. With a racket.”

“Chan.”

He meets your eyes, resigned. “He liked you. Back in uni.”

Your heart stumbles.

“He told me not to say anything unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life dodging shuttlecocks. Very violent, that man, I'll tell you.”

You stare at him, barely breathing. “And now?”

Chan exhales through his nose, leaning back against the bench. “Now? I don’t know. But the way he looks at you hasn’t changed. And the way you’re acting right now tells me something definitely changed for you.”

You sit with that, the night humming softly around you. Chan nudges you again, gentler this time.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not telling you to confess. I’m not telling you to be dramatic. Just… stop pretending it’s nothing. It’s clearly not nothing.”

You swallow, hands tightening around the half-melted ice cream. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You could start by admitting you feel something,” Chan says simply. “Out loud. To someone. Even if it’s just me.”

For a moment, you don’t speak.

“I miss him.”

Chan smiles, small and relieved, like he’s been waiting all his life to hear you say that.

"Cool. You could tell him that too!"

"Hell no."

He groans like you’ve physically injured him. “Awesome. Fantastic. We’re back to square one.”

You frown. “There was never a square two.”

“I was so close,” he mutters, flopping back against the bench. “I thought we were making progress. I was practically a shareholder in your love life through uni, you know? I was so invested but nothing ever happened.”

“We don’t have a love life.”

“Exactly,” Chan says, pointing at you with his ice-cream stick. “And yet here I am, investing emotionally for the last five years or so, getting zero returns. Terrible market conditions. Maybe I am stupid after all."

You snort. “Seeing as it took you twenty-six years to realize, you definitely are.”

He shrugs, accepting it like a badge of honour. “Anyway, Kwan looked sharp today.”

"You watched?”

Chan gives you a flat, offended look. “Do you think you’re the only one who keeps up? Of course I watched. He barely broke a sweat.”

You roll your eyes but your chest warms a little. “Yeah. He played well.”

“And tomorrow’s draw isn’t bad either,” Chan continues, waving his stick like a pointer. “He’s got that Thai kid. Good defense, annoying footwork, but Kwan can take him.”

“I know,” you agree quietly.

Chan shoots you a sideways look. “Yeah, you know. You’ve probably already watched, like, ten clips.”

“Shut up.”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m making an observation.”

You’re about to argue when he adds, far too casually, “Also, if you’re too scared or stupid to call him, I’ll do it.”

Your entire body whips toward him. “You will not.”

Chan stands by it immediately. “I absolutely will. I’ll FaceTime him right now. I’ll pan the camera to you and everything.”

“Chan.”

You lunge when he starts tapping at his screen, but he twists away like the slippery little gremlin he is, holding the phone above his head. “Too late! Look at me go!”

“Chan!”

You grab at his wrist, and he’s laughing so hard he nearly drops the phone, but he still manages to hit the call button.

“End it! End it right now!” you hiss, trying to wrestle his arm down.

“No can do,” he wheezes. “The market demands results.”

“You’re deranged! Give it—”

You manage to hook your arm around his neck in a half–headlock, because desperation makes you resourceful. Chan yelps, still laughing, still trying to wiggle free.

Neither of you notice the ringing stops. Or that the call connects.

You only notice when a flat, unimpressed voice cuts through.

“…Are you both done?”

The two of you freeze, like deers caught in the headlights.

Slowly, so slowly that you can feel the humiliation rising from your neck, you both turn your heads toward the screen.

There he is.

Seungkwan sits propped up against a stack of hotel pillows, hair damp from a shower, wearing a loose cotton t-shirt that makes him look unfairly soft. The room behind him is dim, the lamp casting a warm, tired glow across his face, but none of that matters because of the expression he’s wearing.

His eyebrows are raised just a fraction, not in surprise, but in a quiet, exhausted disappointment that somehow feels worse.

He blinks once, and the silence stretches long enough for you to hear Chan swallow beside you. You awkwardly release him, and he straightens his shirt, clears his throat like a man regaining dignity that was never there to begin with, and then smiles brightly at the screen.

“Hey, Kwan!”

Seungkwan’s gaze shifts to him first. “Hi,” he says flatly. “Are you… okay?”

“Yeah, great,” Chan says. “Just enjoying life. Ice cream. Fresh air. Neck pain.”

Seungkwan stares at him for a second too long. Then his eyes slide toward you.

You offer a small, mortified wave. “Hi.”

His expression softens immediately, like someone rewired his entire face. “Hey,” he says, voice warming. "Didn’t expect to see you.”

“She attacked me,” Chan says unhelpfully.

You smack his arm. “Did not.”

“Oh? Because I distinctly remember—”

“Chan,” Seungkwan warns lightly, and Chan snaps his mouth shut, looking as chastened as someone like him can ever look.

There’s a pause, one that feels surprisingly comfortable after all the chaos, and then Seungkwan shifts a little in his seat, adjusting his phone.

“What are you two even doing outside this late?” he asks, tone edging back toward normal.

Chan perks up. “Stress relief.”

You nod. “He had a rough day.”

“I’m very delicate,” Chan adds. "But so did she."

Seungkwan’s eyebrows pinch together immediately, that slight, instinctive worry settling into his expression before he even speaks.

“You did?” he asks, "What happened?"

You blink. “Nothing serious. Just work.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little. You can see the shift in his posture, the faint tightening around his mouth, the way he leans a little closer to the screen like proximity might help. But maybe he realises that outside is not the best place to do this, so he doesn't push.

He exhales quietly. “Okay. As long as you’re alright.”

Chan makes a satisfied noise. “See? Emotional support athlete.”

Seungkwan’s lips twitch. “And emotional support idiot,” he adds, glancing at Chan.

“Hey!”

You laugh, the tension diffusing, and the conversation drifts into something easier. Chan tells Seungkwan about Jiwon's blind-date-gone-wrong, Seungkwan snorts and shares a story about Jungwoo forgetting his accreditation at the venue and trying to convince security he was “definitely a player,” which only made them more suspicious, and for a few minutes it feels natural—like the three of you are just hanging out instead of being in two different cities on a video call that should never have happened.

But eventually, you catch sight of the time on your lockscreen.

“It’s late,” you say, nudging Chan with your elbow. “Chan, he has a match tomorrow. Let him sleep.”

Chan nods solemnly, even though he looks like he’s barely listening. “You’re right. Athletes need rest.” He turns the phone back to himself. “Goodnight, Kwan. Crush it tomorrow. Don’t embarrass me.”

Seungkwan rolls his eyes, amused. “Goodnight, you two.”

Chan ends the call before anyone can say anything else and you barely breathe before he turns to you with a smug grin.

“You’re welcome,” he announces, stuffing the phone into his pocket like he just performed a public service.

You groan. “I actually hate you.”

You watch the Round of 16 on your television that afternoon, the match unfolding with the kind of control that never gives you much room to worry. Seungkwan looks composed from the first rally, not explosive but just efficient in the way top seeds usually are in early rounds. His opponent tries to force pace, but nothing really disturbs him. A few sharp smashes, some patient net work, one long rally that ends with him walking away before the shuttle even hits the floor. When he closes the second game by an almost identical margin as the first, you turn the TV off before the post-match interview can start.

He doesn’t message right away. He never does during tournaments. He has a whole checklist of things to do first—cooldown, press, physio, shower. You leave your phone facedown on the coffee table and go back to whatever you were doing before the match started, though you keep finding excuses to walk past it.

When it finally buzzes, it’s been almost an hour. Boo won :) You reply with a simple awesome!, short enough that it shouldn’t mean anything, but you reread it once as if you’re checking for tone before putting your phone away again.

He sees your message sitting on the bench in the locker room, hair still damp, one leg stretched out as a trainer works on his calf. He doesn’t let himself linger on it. There’s still recovery to finish and footage to glance at and another match tomorrow. Still, the corners of his mouth lift at your reply, quick and almost automatic, like it’s a habit he hasn’t bothered to break.

The quarterfinals make you sit up a little straighter. His opponent looks sharper than the last, the kind of player who tests footwork patterns more than brute strength. The rallies stretch a little too long for your liking, and you catch yourself tightening your grip on the cushion beside you a bit more often than you’d like. Seungkwan edges ahead near the end, takes the first set 21–16, and you settle a bit deeper into the couch without realizing.

The second set wobbles in the beginning, out of his balance and control. He sends a clear long, then clips the tape on a drop, then hesitates at the net in a way that he usually doesn’t. You can tell when he’s annoyed; there’s a way his shoulders square, like he’s trying to shut something out. But he steadies himself the way he always does—one long rally to reset, another to settle the pace, then finally a clean push that forces his opponent off his game. He closes it 21–19.

You stop focusing on the broadcast as soon as Seungkwan shakes hands with the umpire and walks off the court, throwing a small wave at the fans in the stands.

Seungkwan doesn’t text for a long time, and neither do you. He’ll be in the locker room again, probably annoyed at himself even though the scoreline was fine, and he gets overwhelmed after matches that he’s made silly mistakes in. Bombarding him with messages won’t make it any better, so you wait for him to reach out of his own accord.

Eventually, the text comes. Boo done for today. don’t know what that was… but uh you’re probably heading to sleep so good night :)

You you good? don’t worry about it you’ll do great

Seungkwan reads it sitting on his bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist, hair finally dry. For a second he almost replies, almost says something about how his mind wouldn’t shut up all match, how he kept thinking of everything and nothing at the same time, how Baek could tell from the first rally that something was off. But he deletes the half-typed message because sending it would make it feel more real than it already is, and sets his phone facedown, before switching the bedside lamp off.

His phone pings long after he’s fallen asleep.

You tomorrow’s a new day after all

You tune into the broadcast a few minutes before Seungkwan’s match, just in time to catch the tail end of the first semifinal. The hall is loud even through the broadcast, the kind of noise that only happens in late-stage tournaments with home-players. The scoreboard shows the result already sealed.

Wen Junhui, World No. 2 and the second seed in the championship, closed out a clean win, barely looking tired.

You watch him wave at the crowd before the camera cuts away. Somewhere behind the broadcast feed, in another tunnel, Seungkwan will hear that result. You wonder if it’ll sit heavy on him or if he’ll tuck it away the way he usually does, neatly, almost clinically, until it’s time to deal with it.

You lower the volume and wait for his match graphic to appear.

Seungkwan hears it in passing.

The announcement reaches him somewhere between stretching his quads and adjusting the sweat bands around his wrists, the staff member reading out the score as casually as if he were announcing the time. He nods once, not because he cares to acknowledge it, but because the information lands with the weight of something he can’t ignore even if he wants to.

“He won in straight games,” the staff adds, like the detail is a courtesy.

Baek doesn’t look up from the clipboard he’s been making notes on. “And that has nothing to do with your match,” he says, as though he’s swatting the thought away before it can settle.

Jeonghan, who is half-stretched across a foam roller near the benches, tilts his head toward them with a small, amused sigh. “For what it’s worth, he looked sharp,” he says, rolling onto his side to glance at Seungkwan. “But you always complain that he plays too aggressively anyway, so maybe that’s good for you.”

“I don’t complain,” Seungkwan mutters, rotating his ankle slowly, trying to ease the remaining heaviness in his left thigh. “I just… observe.”

Baek snorts softly. “You complain. Quietly.”

Jeonghan grins, pushing himself upright so he can grab a shuttle and toss it lazily from hand to hand. “Anyway, don’t think too hard about it. My match is after yours, so if you take too long, I’m blaming you for it.”

“You blame me for everything,” Seungkwan says, rolling out the stiffness in his calf again, hoping the movement will coax the tension into fading. It doesn’t, not completely. It sits there—nothing too alarming, but just a bit more weight than he wants in a semifinal.

“That’s because everything is always your fault,” Jeonghan shoots back lightly, before turning to Baek. “What time are they sending him out?”

“Ten minutes,” Baek says, finally glancing at the tournament official waiting near the door. “Which means you need to stop pretending you’re stretching and actually warm up.”

Jeonghan raises both hands in a half-surrender, half-mockery gesture. “I’ll start in a second. Watching him stress is entertainment.”

“I’m not stressed,” Seungkwan says, even though the tug in his left leg makes him shift slightly, his weight settling unevenly for a moment before he forces it back to neutral. Baek notices—it’s impossible for him not to—but he doesn’t say anything yet.

“Did you train too hard this morning?” Jeonghan asks, tossing the shuttle at his chest gently. “It’s written all over your face.”

“It’s fine,” Seungkwan replies, catching the shuttle and passing it back without looking at him.

Baek steps closer then, lowering his voice. “Don’t overthink. It’s not an injury. It’s fatigue. You know the difference better than anyone.”

“I do,” Seungkwan admits quietly, pulling his knee to his chest and holding it there long enough to breathe through the stretch. “Just… whatever, it’s alright.”

“That’s normal on day five,” Baek continues. “There’s no tournament where your legs feel perfect this late. You manage it and you play through it. Trust your timing.”

Jeonghan bumps his shoulder as he walks past. “Trust your timing,” he echoes in a teasing voice, “and then win quickly so I don’t get bumped into a late slot.”

Seungkwan huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh, more an acknowledgement that the noise around him is helping distract him from the noise in his own head.

The official gestures to Baek. “Five minutes.”

Baek nods, turning back to him. “Phone away, shoes tied, mind quiet. You know the routine.”

He does. He always does.

But when he reaches into his bag to tuck his phone into the inner pocket, the screen lights up with the first thing he’d read in the morning, and the one he hadn’t planned to see again before the match.

tomorrow’s a new day after all

The words sit there without urgency, without anything that should rattle him, yet somehow they soften something deep inside him in a way that feels dangerously close to distraction. He stares for a moment longer than he should, thumb hovering near the edge of the screen, the quiet in the locker room suddenly louder than any noise the crowd could make.

Baek calls his name again, gentler this time.

He slips the phone away.

Jeonghan taps his shoulder with the flat face of his racket. “Let’s go, superstar.”

Seungkwan nods and exhales slowly, hikes the straps of his kit higher on his shoulder, and steps toward the tunnel entrance.

Minghao gets called first.

The cheer that rises is clear and energetic, but not wild—home crowd, familiar face, simple as that. It fades into a comfortable buzz by the time the staff gestures for Seungkwan to step forward.

“Boo Seungkwan, South Korea.”

There’s applause. Polite, warm enough, not overwhelming. He’s heard colder in European halls and louder at home; this sits somewhere in the middle.

Seungkwan steps out with a small, polite smile, lifting his hand in a quick wave that lasts barely a second before he drops it again and heads to his side of the court. The crowd noise settles into something steady and unintrusive by the time he reaches his chair. He unzips his kit bag, sets his water bottle in the space beside it, drapes his towel neatly over the backrest, and pulls out the racket he’d already chosen in the locker room. The routine settles him more than anything else.

Across the net, Minghao stands at his baseline already adjusting his stance. They exchange a short nod before beginning warm-up. The strokes are standard: a few high clears to loosen the shoulders, some straight drives to check timing, a couple of controlled net shots to feel the tape, one or two relaxed drops that don’t reveal anything. Seungkwan tests a deeper lunge on a lift and feels that faint tug in his thigh again—nothing sharp, just present enough to remind him to watch his recovery steps. Minghao gives nothing away, each contact clean and economical, the kind of technical clarity that makes him difficult to read early on.

Soon enough, the umpire raises a hand to end the warm-up. Both players move toward the net for the toss. The coin arcs up, lands cleanly, and the umpire turns the disc in his palm.

Minghao wins.

He chooses to serve without hesitation. It makes sense for a technical player who likes to dictate pace early.

Their handshake is quick and professional, neither warm nor cold, just the kind exchanged between competitors who know each other’s games more than they know each other. They split off to their baselines again, toweling off once before stepping into their respective service courts.

The arena falls quiet instinctively, a soft hush falling over the stands as the umpire readies the match.

“Love all.”

Seungkwan shifts his weight slightly, between his feet. Draws in a slow breath, lets it out in huff. Minghao lowers his racket for a tight, precise low serve.

“Play.”

Minghao’s low serve skims just over the tape, tight and deliberate, forcing Seungkwan forward immediately. He gets under it cleanly enough, lifting high and deep to reset, but the shuttle comes back fast in the form of a flat drive that steals time from him, followed by a sudden drop that dies soft at the net. It’s not something that should concern him too much, but one rally in, and there’s already a sense that Minghao’s tempo sits slightly out of step with what Seungkwan has dealt with all week.

You lean forward on your couch without meaning to, fingers curling around the edge of your cushion

The next exchange stretches longer than an opening rally usually does. Clears drift deep on both ends, net shots traded cautiously, neither willing to overcommit too early. Then a diagonal lift drags Seungkwan into a corner he would rather not test yet. His calf tugs as he lunges, not sharply, not enough to break the shot, but enough to slow his recovery by a fraction. It’s small. Minghao sees it anyway. The shuttle comes back to the opposite corner, and the point slips before Seungkwan can fully reset.

The early points trade evenly after that. Seungkwan opts for a high serve when he gets the chance, sending the shuttle deep and buying himself a little more space, a little more breath. The rallies lengthen again, but this time he’s dictating some of them. A well-timed drop pulls Minghao forward. A crosscourt clear forces an awkward overhead. A push to the body earns a rushed return.

The scoreboard evens out, but it’s hard to miss where the effort lies. Minghao’s movements remain compact and economical, barely showing strain, while Seungkwan works harder to stay one step ahead, reading and adjusting but paying for every tight lunge with that same dull reminder in his calf.

Midway through the next rally, Minghao holds the shuttle just a beat longer at the net, the pause subtle enough to bait instinct. Seungkwan bites a half-step too early. The shuttle floats past his outstretched racket and lands cleanly on the line. He wipes his palm on his shorts once, breath steady, forcing the irritation down before it can take hold.

It’s still early. Still manageable.

What follows passes in a quiet, unforgiving stretch. Minghao finds a rhythm that presses Seungkwan backward, favouring late, deep corners that demand full extension before rising back into base. Each chase costs a little more than the last, and although they’re not enough to break him,they’re enough to tilt the game in increments that add up faster than he likes. By the time they reach the interval, the scoreboard reads 11–9.

Seungkwan sits with a towel over his face while Baek leans in close.

You watch in anticipation, hands clasped and hoping that whatever they’re talking about helps him out.

Seungkwan nods once on your screen and stands again when the umpire calls them back. The second half of the set moves quicker, points slipping away without offering him the space he needs to settle. Minghao stays unpredictable at the net, mixing short holds with tight pushes that force small, sharp corrections in footwork, the kind that never quite let rhythm form.

At 18-15, a net exchange ends with Minghao tumbling the shuttle so delicately over the tape that even lunging feels pointless. Seungkwan exhales through his nose, his jaw set. He isn’t out of this, not mentally, not tactically, but the set is slipping, point by point, through details that refuse to line up.

At nineteen, he forces a rally of his own. High clears, a deep lift, and a heavy smash down the line that pulls a gasp from the crowd. Minghao absorbs it, steady as ever, and answers with a tight spinning net shot that clips the tape on its way down.

At match point, the final rally stretches longer than it should. A diagonal chase, then another. Seungkwan’s calf tightens each time he tries to explode back into centre court. He reaches the last drop a split-second late and sends up a lift that hangs too long, too high. It’s predictable, and in hindsight, stupid. Minghao expects it and ends the game cleanly at the net.

21-17.

Seungkwan steps off the court with his shoulders still held high. From your couch, you exhale and sink back slightly, trying not to read too much into the way he’s been slower than usual. He’s come back from worse. He’ll manage it.

They don’t sit for long. The umpire signals the change of ends, and Seungkwan gathers his things with practiced ease before moving to the opposite side. By the time he sets his towel over the new chair, Baek is already there.

“Your length is fine,” Baek says quietly, eyes tracking the opposite baseline. “What’s hurting you is the first step. He’s pulling you forward too easily. Make him move first.”

Seungkwan nods once, rolling his ankle subtly to keep the calf loose.

“And his clears,” Baek continues. “They’re shorter today. Push him back. Take the early one. Don’t let him sit at the net.”

Another nod, slower this time, and more deliberate.

The umpire calls them back quickly. Minghao wipes his face and drifts toward the baseline with the same calm precision he’s played the entire first game with. Seungkwan stands a moment longer, rolling his shoulders back, adjusting his grip once before thwacking the side of his leg with the racket out of habit.

The second set begins on his terms. He steps in earlier, cuts off loose returns before they can settle, pushes Minghao back instead of letting himself be drawn forward. The rallies shorten, not because they’re rushed, but because space opens where it hadn’t before. A flat exchange ends sharply and wakes the hall. A deep serve forces a late return. Minghao still finds moments of brilliance, but they land inside rallies Seungkwan is already dictating.

You can see it even through the broadcast, the way the pace evens into something familiar, something controlled. This is the version of him you know best, measured and unyielding once he’s taken hold. At 15-11, he produces the point that finally shifts the atmosphere, a sudden burst of pace that ends with the shuttle slipping past Minghao’s reach. The reaction is louder this time. Even Baek’s posture relaxes by a fraction.

Seungkwan closes the set cleanly, without hesitation or much celebration.

21-18

The third set unfolds more cautiously than the second, as if both of them have agreed to slow the pace without saying so. Minghao keeps pressing and pulling Seungkwan across the court, and the rallies stretch until they settle into something almost methodical. Seungkwan adjusts where he can, stepping in early when the shuttle allows it, choosing placement over force, but the tightness in his calf makes itself known in small, persistent ways. It’s there when he pushes off, there when he recovers, a dull resistance that never sharpens but never fully recedes either.

As the game wears on, the effort shows more clearly. Between points, he shifts his weight carefully, rolls his ankle once, breath measured, expression unchanged. Minghao tests the same corners again and again, and Seungkwan answers almost intuitively, trusting habits built over years to carry him through what his body is quietly disputing.

The last stretch passes without much separation. A long rally tips in his favour, then another follows, and when the final point comes, it does so without flourish. Seungkwan steps forward for the handshake, his grip strong and face composed—although later, walking up to his coach, Seungkwan lets out the a long relieved sigh at making it to the finals—and only once he turns away does the weight of it settle fully into his leg, heavy and insistent, something he knows he’ll have to deal with later.

About two hours later, you notice that he still hasn’t texted you. Usually, there’s a message by now—be it a simple done, or a thumbs-up that indicates he’s through the hardest part of the day.

The dying sun’s light settles into the corners of your living room. You answer a few emails you’d meant to ignore, tidy without much intention, let music play low in the background. Ever so often, your attention drifts to your phone where it sits on the counter, face up, unmoving.

Physio crosses your mind at some point, and the thought sticks. It fits easily enough with what you saw on screen. It explains the silence too. Dinner comes and goes. You eat standing at the counter, scrolling idly through something you don’t remember later. Outside, the sky darkens in stages, the city lights flickering on one by one.

The call comes a little after ten.

You’re rinsing your glass at the sink when your phone lights up, his name filling the screen. You dry your hands quickly and answer before the sound can ring again.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he replies.

His voice carries the day with it, low and settled, tired. It slides into the space between you and stays there.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he says. “I got pulled into physio right after and then everything just… stacked up.”

“That makes sense,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “I figured you were tied up.”

There’s a small pause wherein you assume he’s shuffling through his suitcase for something.

“Yeah, I don’t know. My leg was acting up. Are you busy? I was going to text, but thought you wouldn’t see it or something…” Seungkwan trails off.

“Wouldn’t be doing things of much importance on a Friday night, would I?” You scoff, placing the glass back onto the drying rack before picking up your phone with damp hands and walking over to your room. “Good match though. Well done.”

“Thank you. Wasn’t a good one, though.” He mumbles.

You pause by the edge of your bed, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear as you unfold your duvet. “It was close,” you hum, because that’s the truth and because it’s the kind of thing he usually accepts. “Which I’m guessing made it entertaining for everyone who wasn’t emotionally invested.”

He lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”

“For the record,” you add, settling onto the mattress, “it was anything but entertaining for me.”

That gets a real huff out of him this time. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” you roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “You never are.”

He doesn’t argue. There’s a soft rustle on his end, like he’s shifting where he’s sitting. “It could’ve gone either way,” he says after a moment. “Margins were small.”

“Right…”

Another pause.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “are you feeling better?”

You hear him shift again, the soft sound of fabric brushing against the mattress.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I think so.”

Before you can reply, Seungkwan cuts in again. “Wait, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you, actually. I just keep forgetting. Lemme switch to a video call.”

“What is it?” You ask, your interest piqued as you wait for the video call request.

“The view outside my window,” he laughs, “Oh, you’d love it.”

When you accept the request, you’re greeted with darkness for a moment before the screen fills up with a stretch of concrete wall, close enough that you can make out uneven paint and a single narrow window that definitely doesn’t belong to his room.

You squint. “Is that… a wall?”

“Yes,” he says, sounding faintly offended. “That is my view.”

You blink. Then blink again.

“You’re kidding,” you say.

“I am not,” Seungkwan replies, offended on principle. “This is it. This is what I’ve been waking up to.”

You snort. “You paid for… a brick.”

“Multiple bricks,” he corrects. “Very exclusive. Very industrial.”

He flips the camera back around, settling it so his face fills the frame again. The hotel room behind him is dim and washed in that generic yellow light they always have.

“So,” you say lightly, “how’s life in your concrete-view penthouse?”

He huffs. “I was genuinely considering asking for another room, but imagine if it got out. South Korean player Boo Seungkwan fails to suck it up and settle for a mediocre room. It would look so bad on our country. So I let it go. It’s just—what, two more days? I’ll be fine.”

“You’re very patriotic,” you sigh.

“I try,” he nods solemnly. “For the people.”

The conversation drifts after that, unmoored from anything important. He tells you about how the hotel kettle keeps switching itself off halfway through boiling and then asks about the cat. You complain about how your neighbour’s alarm went off around eight times this morning. It’s easy, the way it always is when you talk about nothing.

At some point, Seungkwan stops talking and just listens.

On his screen, you’re lying on your side now, head sunk into your pillow, the phone propped just close enough that your face fills most of the frame. The room around you has disappeared into shadow. It’s always like this when you call late. He knows that. He’s seen you this way enough times for it to feel familiar rather than new.

Still.

It would’ve been funny under different circumstances—the dramatic lighting. Maybe he would’ve even said you looked weird, under different circumstances.

Except he misses you. Misses the way you ramble, eyes trained on anything but him, the way you tuck your chin into your chest when you’re cold. Misses the soft pause you always leave at the end of a thought, like you’re waiting to see if he’ll interrupt. Misses the small sounds you make when you’re thinking. The way your mouth curves before you laugh, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth it.

You trail off eventually, noticing his silence. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says easily, too easily. He clears his throat, shifts his weight. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

You squint at him, unconvinced, then shrug. “Rude. Why? Are you nervous for tomorrow?”

He scoffs lightly. “Me? Never. I’m the epitome of calm.”

“Liar.”

He smiles at that, quick and easy. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s just one of those stretches where your body reminds you it exists. Very rude of it, honestly.”

You hum, waiting. He knows you are.

“It’s fine,” Seungkwan adds, still light. “I’ve played on worse days. I’ll wake up, stretch, complain, do what I always do.”

“And?”

“And…” He exhales, the humour thinning out. “Okay, fuck you. Today shook me a bit. I honestly can’t afford to play like this tomorrow, so this stupid calf of mine better work things out.”

You watch him for a moment, the way he keeps his tone light like that’ll keep the thought from settling too deeply. Then you speak.

“Hey,” you say, loudly enough that it pulls his attention back to you. “You don’t suddenly forget how to play overnight.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable for a second.

“I know.”

“I mean it,” you continue. “I’ve seen you play on days where everything felt wrong and you still figured it out. Today wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad either. It just asked more of you.”

His shoulders ease by a fraction. “You trust me that much?” he asks, half-joking, half-serious.

“Always,” you reply without hesitation. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He sighs loudly. “Okay.”

“And,” you add, softer now, “you’re allowed to have an off day and still win the next one. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

That earns a small smile. “You’re very convincing.”

“I know,” you say, almost flippantly. “I’ve had years of practice watching you do this to yourself. It’s a lifelong subscription you’ve got on your hands, at this point.”

He laughs under his breath. “Lifelong, huh?”

There’s something in the way he says it, light but not careless, like he’s turning the word over in his mouth to see how it feels there. You smile into your pillow, the sound of it barely there.

“Is that a threat?” you murmur.

“Just surprised,” he replies. “Didn’t realise I’d locked you into that kind of commitment.”

“You didn’t lock me into anything,” you shrug with one shoulder. “I’ve been opting in for years.”

He goes quiet at that, not because he doesn’t have something to say, but because he’s choosing how much of it to let through. On the screen, his mouth curves into something small and thoughtful.

“Voluntary suffering,” he points out lightly.

“You make it sound so noble.”

“I think I’m supposed to apologise,” Seungkwan sighs dramatically. “For the long-term side effects.”

You hum, letting the silence stretch just enough. “You haven’t scared me off yet.”

“Good,” he says, a little too quickly. Then, slower, like he’s realising he’s said it, “I’d hate to start now.”

You shift on your side, the pillow rustling softly. “Well then, I can’t be the reason you don’t get enough sleep, can I?”

“I won’t be getting much anyways.” Seungkwan grumbles, making you shake your head.

“Please get some sleep. Don’t think too much. You’re going to be fine tomorrow,” you say finally, pausing to yawn “I know it.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And when you’re done,” you add, softer, “you can call me again.”

His smile lingers this time. “Deal.”

The living room is louder than it’s been in weeks. Shoes kicked off by the door, takeaway containers stacked precariously on the counter, drinks sweating rings into your coffee table. Jiwon’s phone keeps buzzing every ten minutes—texts from the asshole of a boyfriend you guys spent hours trying to convince her to break up with.

which she ignores with growing hostility as the match tightens. The TV volume is cranked just high enough that none of you miss the sound of the shuttle, but not enough to drown out the running commentary Chan insists on providing from the floor.

It’s just the three of you, but it feels like more. Too many limbs, too much noise, the air thick with that jittery, shared focus that only shows up when something really matters. World No. 1 versus World No. 2 is a final that—in any other sport—should’ve been fun, sharp, and something to admire. Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the couch with a beer clenched in your hand, fully aware that you’re one bad rally away from crushing the can without meaning to. Every long exchange tightens something in your chest. Every pause between points stretches a second too long.

“Jesus,” Chan mutters as the rally resets. “This is insane.”

Vernon doesn’t answer. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen like he’s afraid looking away will change the outcome. Jiwon swears a bit too loudly at Wen Junhui when he picks a point off Seungkwan and then apologizes softly to no one in particular.

On court, the second set is slipping from Seungkwan’s grasp in the form of Junhui’s aggressive style of playing.

He looks calm from a distance, almost mild, but every shot carries a bite. The smashes come fast and flat, placed with intent rather than show, and when a rally turns in his favour he lets out a sharp shout that cuts clean through the hall. It’s jarring every time, the sound too big for how still he looks right after, already resetting, already ready for the next point.

Seungkwan absorbs it the way he always does, shoulders rolling loose, breath measured, but the set keeps tilting anyway. Junhui presses the pace whenever he can, refusing to give away a single point.

Back in your living room, the mood shifts with the scoreboard.

“Okay, I don’t like this,” Jiwon says, voice tight, fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve. “One would think you’d get rid of Marín’s shouts but no, we’ve got our male equivalent here.”

Chan laughs in response, but there’s a nervous shake to his voice. “Yeah. Love the enthusiasm. Really adding years to my life.”

Junhui feeds off the momentum, the shouts coming sharper now, louder, like punctuation marks at the end of every point he wrestles away, and it starts to grate. Not in a way Seungkwan would ever show, not in anything as obvious as a look or a gesture, but rather in the tightening of his jaw, the fraction longer he takes to turn back to the baseline. The hall answers Junhui every time, home crowd surging with him, noise swelling when Seungkwan misses by inches, when a rally breaks the wrong way.

It’s exactly what Junhui wants.

Seungkwan knows that too. He breathes through it, lets his shoulders drop, forces his focus back to the shuttle in his hand instead of the sound behind him. He keeps his reactions small, contained, gives nothing away. Still, the irritation sits there, hot and insistent.

You tear your attention away from the screen in mild exasperation to clamp a hand down on Vernon’s knee before it can bounce its way through the coffee table. “If you shake the couch any harder,” you mutter, “I’ll genuinely smack you. Stop it.”

“Sorry,” he whines, not sounding sorry at all, knee resuming its movement the second you let go.

The rally ends badly. No one cheers in your living room. The commentators fill the space instead, voices brisk and neutral as they announce what all three of you already know. One set apiece.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Chan groans, dragging his hands down his face. “A third set? I’m not built for this.”

You don’t say anything. The tightness in your chest hasn’t eased, and sitting still suddenly feels impossible. You push yourself to your feet under the pretense of grabbing water, pacing the length of the room once, twice, letting the buzz in your limbs burn off just enough to be bearable.

Behind you, the broadcast cuts to Seungkwan walking back to his chair.

On court, he doesn’t look rattled. If anything, he looks more contained than before, the frustration packed down tight beneath routine. Towel up. Water. A brief nod to Baek as instructions come in low and clipped. He listens, eyes down, jaw set, fingers worrying the grip of his racket like he’s memorising it again.

The noise rolls around him, the home crowd loud and pleased, Junhui already loose, already smiling, already bouncing on his toes like the set has tilted permanently in his favour.

Seungkwan blocks it out.

He counts his breaths and adjusts his stance. Feels the heat in his calf, the burn in his lungs, and the irritation still buzzing under his skin.

When he stands for the decider, something in him sharpens.

This is where the match strips itself bare. No momentum to borrow. No margin to hide in. Just choice after choice after choice.

He steps back onto the court, eyes lifting to meet Junhui’s across the net, and for the first time since the shouts started, Seungkwan lets the edge settle fully into place.

Fine.

If it has to come down to this, then it will.

The umpire calls them back to the line, voice cutting clean through the din, and the decider begins without ceremony.

The opening rallies are tight, cautious in a way that feels almost polite, both of them probing for space that isn’t there yet. Seungkwan keeps his shots clean and purposeful, refusing the temptation to rush, letting Junhui make the first reach instead. His calf tugs when he pushes off hard, but it holds. He files the sensation away and keeps going.

Junhui takes the first point.

Seungkwan plays patiently, lifts deep, then steps in early to cut off the return. When the shuttle drops on Junhui’s side, he exhales sharply and lets his fist close once at his side, a small, controlled pump that’s more release than celebration.

Points trade back and forth, the scoreboard refusing to lean too far either way.

At seven-all Seungkwan forces a mistake with a sudden change of pace, an aggressive shot he hadn’t tried before, and earns another point. This time the reaction is the slightest lift of his chin, a fist pressed briefly into his thigh before he turns away. The sound he makes is soft and restrained, but it’s there.

Chan’s on his feet now without realising it, palms pressed together like he’s praying. “That’s my guy! That’s him, come on!”

You don’t say anything. You’ve stopped trusting your voice. Your fingers are locked together so tightly your knuckles ache, eyes fixed on the screen like blinking might cost him something.

At fourteen-all, Seungkwan wins a rally that feels like a statement. It starts neutral enough—three clears, a drive, a soft block—but then he changes the angle mid-exchange, slicing a crosscourt drop that pulls Junhui forward and wide at the same time. Junhui scrambles, barely gets a racket on it, and Seungkwan is already moving, stepping in to finish the point with a flat push into the open space.

The next few points are scrappy. Junhui answers with pressure, rushing Seungkwan deep and then back in quick succession, testing that first step, that recovery. Seungkwan adjusts on the fly—shortens his lunges, takes the shuttle earlier when he can, lifts higher when he needs time. At fifteen–sixteen, the rally goes long enough that your chest tightens just watching it, both men trading defence and attack until Junhui finally overreaches and sends the shuttle wide by a hair.

Chan makes a strangled noise behind you. Jiwon’s hand flies to her mouth. You don’t move at all.

Seungkwan takes the shuttle, turns it once between his fingers, and serves.

Junhui returns it aggressively anyway, stepping in and forcing the rally fast, and for a stretch the court feels too small for both of them. The points slip by in quick succession—one rushed exchange where Seungkwan’s block sits up just enough to be punished, another where Junhui guesses right at the net and takes it early.

17-18. Then 17-19.

Your stomach drops. Someone swears—maybe Chan, maybe you, it’s hard to tell. Seungkwan walks back to the baseline without looking anywhere but the floor, shoulders rising and falling once as he breathes through it. He wipes his hand on his shorts, nods faintly, and serves again.

Junhui earns match point with a flat, relentless rally, dragging Seungkwan wide before finishing into the open court. The hall reacts immediately. On your couch, no one speaks at all.

17-20. Match point.

You hear Vernon breathe in deep next to you. It’s almost done, almost gone.

Seungkwan watches as Junhui asks for a change of the shuttle, and doesn’t bother buying time.

When the shuttle reaches his side of the court, he exhibits no patience, just pure pressure. He pushes Junhui back, then cuts forward without hesitation, closing the space before it can open against him. The point ends fast, the shuttle skidding off the floor near the sideline.

18-20.

Seungkwan doesn’t celebrate. He barely reacts at all, just turns back to the baseline and asks for the shuttle.

Seungkwan stays inside the court, feet light despite the pull in his calf, timing his steps so he never has to chase more than he can afford. He forces Junhui to lift, then takes the shuttle high and early, guiding it down with control rather than power.

Maybe it’s overconfidence that gets to his opponent, because the point slips from his grasp again.

“Nineteen-twenty.” The umpire's voice rings loud over the silenced court.

He serves without delay. The rally opens fast—Junhui trying to seize it back, Seungkwan refusing to give ground. Junhui tries to slow it, dragging it longer by trying to bait him into clears and wider shots, but Seungkwan capitalizes on his hesitance and claims the next point.

“Twenty all.”

Your living room erupts.

Chan shouts something incoherent, already pacing, hands over his head. Vernon lets out a sound that’s pure relief, sinking back for a second before leaning forward all over again. You’re on your feet without remembering standing, heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s echoing, and think to yourself that Seungkwan should probably pay you for the heart problems he’s going to cause when you’re older.

The next few shots are brutal. Short, sharp exchanges with no wasted movement. Seungkwan presses the pace, takes the shuttle early, forces Junhui wide, then slams the door closed before he can recover.

The shuttle moves too fast to track cleanly, only the rhythm of it registering—forward, back, then suddenly nowhere Junhui wants it to be. Seungkwan manages to keep his shots controlled until the court feels bigger than it should.

Somewhere in it, the point breaks his way.

“Twenty-one, match point. Twenty.”

“Come on, come on, come on,” you mumble into your fist.

Seungkwan hears the call distantly and doesn’t look at the scoreboard again. Instead, he focuses on the shuttle in his hand, rolls it once between his fingers, and feels the texture of the cork against his skin. His calf tugs at his resolve, but he’s so close now.

He serves.

Junhui comes in hard, exactly as expected, trying to take the initiative before it can slip away. The return is flat and fast. Seungkwan stays inside the court, feet light, keeps the shuttle low, and refuses to lift unless he has to. The rally builds closer to the net, as he expected.

Junhui presses forward, looking to finish it early, and Seungkwan lets him—keeps the replies short and neutral, just enough to invite another step closer. The shuttle stays low, skimming tape height, both of them hovering in that narrow strip of court where reactions and racket control matter more than brute force.

Junhui plays it tightly.

Seungkwan steps in and shapes his racket like he’s done a thousand times before, shoulder opening, wrist loose, everything about the motion suggesting a backhand lift or a safe push back to the same side. He sees Junhui commit in that instant—the weight shift, the first step forward, already anticipating where the shuttle should go.

And Seungkwan holds. Just a second longer than comfortable.

Then he lets the shuttle brush off the strings and slide across the tape instead, soft and cruel, tumbling diagonally into the empty space on the other side of the forecourt.

For a heartbeat, it feels like muscle memory more than choice. A shot he learned when he was young, something he practiced thousands of times before perfecting it.

Junhui lunges anyway, too late, arm stretching where there’s nothing left to reach. The shuttle hits the floor with a muted thwack!

Seungkwan’s breath leaves him in a sharp rush before he can stop it. The sound follows, raw and unfiltered, tearing out of his chest as his fist drives up instinctively, every held-back thing breaking loose at once.

Only then does the noise hit him—the hall erupting, the pain in his calf flaring now that it doesn’t matter, the reality of it settling in as he bows his head and exhales hard before turning towards the net.

For you, it lands all at once.

You don’t realise you’ve screamed until your throat burns, the sound escaping out of you before you can stop it. Chan is clapping too, mumbling something loud but unintelligibly, pacing the length of the living room like he needs somewhere to put the energy. Vernon laughs, stunned, hands on his head as if he can’t quite believe what he just watched. Jiwon sinks back onto the couch, both palms over her face, shaking her head like she needs a second to come back into her body.

“Thank fuck.” Someone huffs out incredulously.

Your heart is hammering so hard it’s almost painful. You press a hand to your chest, breath unevenly, and think—absently, irrationally—that this man is going to be the death of you one day.

Junhui is already there.

There’s no bitterness in him, no sharp edge left over from the point. Just fatigue and respect, written plainly across his face. He reaches out, and Seungkwan meets him halfway, grip firm, eyes steady.

“Well played,” Junhui says, sincere and unguarded.

Seungkwan nods once. “You too.”

They separate to go over to the umpires, the formalities already waiting to claim the moment. Seungkwan moves through it on autopilot, shaking the umpire’s hand with the same steady grip he’s used all match.

Somewhere between the handshake and the applause, the thought slips in, clear and simple.

At least when he calls you tonight, it’ll be like this.

Seungkwan lets the phone rest in his palm for a moment after the call ends, the screen already dark but the afterimage of it still lingering somewhere behind his eyes. The room feels quieter than it did a minute ago, like the noise drained out all at once instead of fading properly, and he exhales through his nose, a smile tugging at his mouth before he can stop it.

That hadn’t gone how he thought it would.

He’d meant to call you alone. Not because the others aren’t important—God knows they are—but because there are some things that only ever settle when it’s just you on the other end, when he doesn’t have to keep pace with anyone else’s energy or fill the space with something clever. He’d pictured it clearly enough: you somewhere comfortable, him sitting back against the pillows, the day finally loosening its grip as he talked through it with you in that easy, meandering way you always fall into together.

Instead, the moment the call connected, the room had filled with voices he hadn’t expected. Chan, loud and immediate, already halfway into congratulations. Vernon hovering somewhere in the background, smiling like he was happy just to be there. Jiwon chiming in between them, warm and earnest and so genuinely proud it made his chest ache a little.

And then there was you.

You hadn’t said much at first, not over the others anyway, but he’d noticed you immediately—your face softer than the rest of the frame, your smile quieter, the way your eyes stayed on him even when someone else was talking. Everyone was congratulating him, telling him he’d played well, that it was insane, that they were proud, and all of it landed exactly as it should have.

It had made him smile like an idiot.

He’d felt it happen, the corner of his mouth lifting before he could stop it, warmth spreading through his chest in a way that had nothing to do with winning. Chan had probably noticed. Chan notices everything. But Seungkwan hadn’t cared, because at that moment, it hadn’t felt like something to hide.

The call hadn’t been private, but it had still been grounding. The noise, the overlapping voices, the chaos of it all hadn’t pulled him away from you the way he’d half-feared. If anything, it had made it clearer how instinctively his attention always finds you anyway, even when there are easier distractions right in front of him.

He rolls onto his side now, tucking the phone beside him on the bed, eyes drifting toward the dim glow of the curtains. His body is tired in that deep, earned way, but his mind feels lighter than it has all day, like something essential has been put back where it belongs.

Maybe it’s better it happened the way it did. If the call had gone the way he’d imagined—just the two of you, quiet, no witnesses—he might have said something stupid. Or honest. Or both.

He closes his eyes, grin still faintly there, and lets the quiet settle back in.

He’ll see you tomorrow anyway.

The problem with living alone, you decide, is that every tiny sound makes you fear for your life.

You’re in bed, winding down for the night and mindlessly scrolling on your phone when you hear the front door click open.

Your heart kicks once, sharp enough to make you swallow, and you slide off the mattress in one slow, careful motion. Your socks nearly betray you on the wooden floor, but you steady yourself on the edge of your desk, scanning the room for something that could pass as a weapon. You grab the first object that makes any vague sense: a rolled-up umbrella leaning against your dresser. It’s not intimidating, but it feels better than nothing.

You move toward the door quietly, the umbrella held in front of you like you’re about to duel a ghost, and each step makes you more aware of how ridiculous this is — right until you turn the corner into the living room.

And there he is.

Seungkwan stands in the entryway, one sneaker halfway off, hoodie bunched at the elbows, hair sticking up in tired directions from what was clearly a very bad nap. He freezes when he sees you poised with your umbrella like a budget action hero.

You stop too, mid-stride, the tension draining so quickly you almost feel lightheaded.

He blinks once, very slowly. “…You’re going to hit me with that?”

You lower the umbrella without answering, exhaling all at once as the leftover adrenaline burns out of your system. At this point, annoyance is easier to manage than the aftershock of fear.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” you say, voice sharper than you intend. “Or texted. Or knocked. Literally anything.”

He doesn’t rise to it. He just finishes toeing his other sneaker off, pushing them neatly to the side with a tired nudge before stepping fully into the living room, dragging behind him his suitcase and the bag resting on it.

You’re mid-nag, ready to lay it onto him again, when Seungkwan lifts the smaller bag slightly, enough for whatever’s inside to shift with a dull clink. It’s not a grand gesture—just a tiny, tired tilt of his wrist—but it’s so unmistakably him, this silent little hey-your-boy-did-it-again look, that it knocks the annoyance right out of you.

He isn’t grinning or doing that smug bounce he does when he’s really riding a win because he’s too worn down for that. But there’s something shy and proud tucked into the corner of his mouth, just enough to make you go soft.

You roll your eyes, because it’s easier than letting your face soften all at once. “Alright, champion. Very subtle. But congratulations.”

That earns the faintest smile, quick and tired, and maybe that’s what pulls you in.

You step forward and wrap your arms around him—more comfort than greeting, more congratulations than anything else. But the second your arms go around him, his go around you too, and he holds on with more strength than you expect.

It makes you pause. Then you relax into it, hand sliding up his back almost without thinking.

“You could’ve told me you were coming home today,” you say into his shoulder, your voice quieter without meaning to. “I could’ve picked you up, or something.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his hand resting against your back slips just slightly downward, his thumb brushing a slow line along your spine. It’s small, almost absent-minded, something he has never done in all the years you’ve known him. It’s gentle and warm and so instinctive that you’re not sure he even realises he’s doing it.

But you do.

You notice every second of it while trying very hard not to.

“I didn’t want to put you up to another task,” he says finally, his voice a low murmur near your ear. “You’ve been busy.”

“Still,” you whine, but it comes out softer than a complaint.

He gives a small laugh. His thumb traces another absent line against your back before he seems to realise it and slowly lets his hand settle again.

“I just wanted to get home as soon as possible,” he says. “That’s all.”

Home.

You wonder if he means the apartment or you.

You swallow around that and step back just enough to see his face, your hands still resting on his arms because you’re not ready to drop them, and he doesn’t seem in any rush either.

“Next time,” you say lightly, “you’re sending a text. Or I’m hitting you with the umbrella for real.”

“Okay, okay, alright.” He groans.

But he still hasn’t stepped back. He only shifts his weight slightly, your hands still resting on his arms, his still loosely around your waist. It’s not uncomfortable and that’s the problem. It feels too easy, too natural, the kind of closeness you fall into without thinking.

Eventually, he clears his throat and lets go first, slow enough that you feel the warmth of his palms trailing for a second longer than necessary. He bends to grab the trophy bag again, fingers brushing the handle like it’s more of an excuse than an action.

“I should… put this somewhere before I break it,” he says, lifting the bag a little.

He sets the bag on the shelf near the TV and unzips it just enough to slide the trophy out. It gleams under the warm living room light, catching the corner of your eye even though you try not to stare. He turns it over once in his hands, almost carelessly, then—without thinking too hard about it—places it on the empty space between your old photo frame and the plant you’ve been trying very hard not to kill.

You open your mouth to say something, maybe to remind him he still technically lives somewhere else, maybe to tell him not to unpack here like he’s moving in again, but the words don’t come out. He just steps back from the shelf and wipes his palm on his hoodie like the matter is already settled.

“Looks fine there, right?” he asks.

It looks like it belongs.

You’re not ready for the way your chest reacts to that—this stupid, hollow little tug you try to swallow down instantly. It’s ridiculous. It’s just a trophy. He’s left them in stranger places before. But this is different. This is in your living room, on your shelf, like his achievements are interwoven into your everyday life.

He’s not moving in. He’s not staying. You both agreed he’d go back to his own apartment once everything settled. This was temporary. Practical. Easy.

Except nothing feels easy right now. You can feel the edges of something warm and dangerous creeping up behind your ribs, something you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks, maybe months.

“Yeah,” you manage, voice steadier than you feel. “Fine.”

He glances at you, a little too perceptive for someone who’s been awake for way too many hours, and for a moment you think he’s going to ask what’s wrong. But then he just nods, like he trusts your answer without needing to dig deeper.

“It’ll only be there a few days anyway,” he says lightly, already turning toward his suitcase. “Didn’t feel like lugging it around. I’ll put it into the bigger box when I’ve bubble wrapped it.”

You nod again, but your stomach twists quietly. It shouldn’t make you stare at the trophy like it’s a piece of a future you have no right to imagine.

Instead of heading towards his room, Seungkwan slumps drops onto the couch with a soft, exhausted groan.

You hover for a second, unsure whether to sit or give him space, but he pats the cushion next to him without looking up.

You sit.

The couch dips slightly beneath his weight, and your knees almost touch. He leans back and closes his eyes for a moment, hand coming up to rub at his face. The hoodie pulls a little at the collar, exposing the faint line of his collarbone, and you force your gaze away before it can become a problem.

“It was hard,” he says quietly, still not looking at you. “This one. Harder than I thought.”

You shake your head with a small huff. “I can only imagine. Watching it stressed me out.”

Seungkwan lets out a tired chuckle but his thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.

He missed this. More than he should admit.

Hotels are loud, locker rooms are cold, and airplane seats are cramped. Next to him, you’re warm.

He’s missed your voice, despite calling you. He’s missed the sound of you moving around early in the morning, the sound of you humming to yourself while you hop around, rearranging the books in your shelves.

Mostly, he’s just missed you.

He wants to lean into you now, stupidly, like he used to when you were kids—head on your lap, blanket thrown over both of you, whining about homework or practice. The memory flashes through him too vividly, too easily. He nearly laughs at himself.

He’s twenty-seven. He can’t just fold into you like that anymore. It would be… weird. Too much and too telling.

But God, he wants to.

Seungkwan cracks an eye open and reaches for the easiest lifeline he has.

“Did I at least look cool?” he asks, voice dry, barely holding back a tired grin.

You snort. “You looked fine.”

“Fine?” he repeats, offended.

“Fine,” you confirm, folding your arms.

He shifts on the couch like he wants to straighten up but is too tired to commit to it. “I nearly died out there, you know.”

“You did not nearly die.”

“I did,” he insists weakly. “Emotionally.”

You give him a flat look. “I watched you. You were dramatic for like fifteen minutes and then you got it together.”

“That was the hardest fifteen minutes of my life.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really? Harder than the week you tried intermittent fasting?”

He sighs, unimpressed. “Why would you bring that up?”

You laugh—a real, unguarded one—and it brings a smile onto his face too. He watches you for a second too long before looking away, pretending to adjust the sleeve of his hoodie.

You nudge his knee lightly with yours. “You looked cool. Happy now?”

He nudges back. “Very.”

“Are you awake?” Seungkwan demands from outside your room, not even checking before he stomps in.

You jolt upright with a startled inhale, hair a mess, heart racing, only to groan and collapse straight back under your covers.

“Nope,” you mumble into your pillow. “Try again later.”

The mattress dips as he sits at the edge of your bed, and a hand tugs insistently at your duvet.

“Come on,” he complains. “I’m actually losing my mind.”

You tighten your hold on the duvet. “It’s eight in the morning, Seungkwan.”

“Exactly,” he snaps, though he sounds more tired than angry. “And Chan just texted me. He can’t make it for dinner anymore.”

You don’t move. “So?”

“So,” he repeats, tugging again, “he was the one who begged me to book that stupid place. Said he ‘needed a win’ this week. And now he has ‘other plans.’”

You sigh into your pillow. “Sorry for your loss.”

He exhales sharply, the way he does when he’s annoyed but trying not to make it a whole thing. “Then Jiwon cancelled. Something about her brother needing her to babysit. And Vernon says he ‘might have plans too’ but didn’t elaborate.”

You peel the blanket down just enough to glare at him with one eye. “Okay… and why am I awake for this?”

“Because,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I fought for that reservation. I’m not wasting it. You’re still coming with me.”

You blink slowly. Your brain is barely functioning.

“What?” you say.

“You heard me,” he mutters. “I’m not eating a three-course dinner alone. You’re coming.”

You stare at him—sleepy, annoyed, confused—and he just looks back, resolute in the way only Seungkwan gets when he’s already decided the outcome.

“Let me wake up first,” you say finally. “Please.”

“Fine,” he says, standing. “But not too long. I need to complain more and I’d rather you be conscious for it.”

You groan into your pillow as he leaves, muttering to himself down the hallway.

The rest of the day passes in a strange mix of normal and not. Seungkwan wanders around the apartment like he’s half-resting, half-restless, occasionally stopping by your doorway to complain about something irrelevant before disappearing again; you try to work, try to focus, try not to think about dinner, but every time you hear him moving in the kitchen or humming distractedly while folding laundry that isn’t his, something in you trips a little.

It’s ordinary in the way living together has become ordinary, except there’s a quiet awareness sitting between you now, something neither of you acknowledges but both of you keep circling around. By the time evening rolls in, you’ve changed outfits twice, he’s asked you what time you should leave at least three times, and the apartment feels almost too small with how aware you are of each other’s presence.

You step out of your room while tightening the clasp on your earring, smoothing your hair down with your other hand as you walk toward the hallway. Adjusting your sleeves, you look up to catch Seungkwan looking at you.

He’s standing by the door with his jacket halfway on, keys in hand, expression open in that unguarded second before he realises he’s staring. It isn’t dramatic, not a frozen moment, just a soft flicker of something warm and immediate in his eyes before he schools it away. His mouth parts a little—like he’s about to say something, maybe a compliment, maybe a teasing comment, you can’t tell—but the phone in his pocket starts ringing.

He glances down at the caller ID, frowns lightly, and answers. “Hello?”

A pause. “Yeah, this is Boo Seungkwan.”

You grab your purse and slip your shoes on while he listens, nodding slowly, brows knitting. He moves to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder.

You step out with him, and he keeps the phone pressed to his ear.

“Oh, already? I thought it wouldn’t be until next week.” “Right. Right, no, that’s good. It’s good.”

The hallway is quiet except for the low buzzing of the lights. You lock the apartment behind you while he listens.

“So everything’s fixed?” he asks as you both start walking toward the elevator. “The flooring too? And the AC?”

You press the elevator button, and he leans against the wall beside you, rubbing the back of his neck as the person on the other end keeps talking.

“Yeah, okay. Two days is fine,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll drop by to sign whatever’s needed.”

You suddenly feel a little sick. Two days. Not weeks. Not an undefined amount of time.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside while he wraps up and follows you. “Yes, thank you, I appreciate it. I’ll come by. Yeah. Good night.”

He hangs up just as the doors close.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

“That was my building manager,” he finally sighs, pushing his hair back. “My apartment’s ready. I can move back in two days.”

You nod once, trying to keep your face neutral, but you know the disappointment must show in the small ways you can’t control—your shoulders dropping just a fraction, your breath held too tightly before you let it out.

Seungkwan notices. Of course he does.

He opens his mouth like he might ask if you’re okay, but then he swallows the question, looking down at the floor instead.

The elevator dings.

He steps out first, then glances back, forcing a small smile.

“Come on,” he says, lifting his keys. “I’m driving. You’ll yell at the sat-nav five minutes in.”

You laugh quietly, enough for Seungkwan to relax. He slips an arm around your shoulders on the way to the elevator, not thinking, or pretending he’s not thinking about it. You let yourself lean into it for a heartbeat before pulling yourself back together.

“They’re seriously missing out,” he mutters as you walk. “Watch Jiwon complain later when she realises she could’ve had free dessert.”

You snort. “She absolutely will.”

He bumps your shoulder lightly, like he’s trying to bring things back to normal, like he can smooth out whatever shifted a few minutes ago. The elevator doors open, and he steps ahead to hold one side, nodding for you to leave first.

By the time you reach the car, the quiet between you has settled into something comfortable again, or at least something both of you are pretending is comfortable.

He hits the unlock button and the hazard lights blink once in the dim garage.

“Here,” he says, rounding the front and pulling open the passenger-side door for you. He doesn’t make a show of it and just waits, one hand braced lightly on the top of the door.

You slide into the seat, smoothing your outfit automatically before reaching for the seatbelt. Out of habit, you check your phone as you settle in, just to see the time, nothing more but when you’re about to slip it back into your purse the screen lights up.

It’s a chain of messages from Chan.

Chan have fun tonight ;) btw everyone bailed on purpose lol You bristle.

You why would you tell them anything…

Chan didn’t have to dummy everyone knows

You one of these days someone is going to find you dead in a ditch

You glare at the phone like he can feel it from wherever he is. Before you can type another threat, the driver’s side door opens and closes with a soft thud. You lock your phone so quickly you almost drop it.

Seungkwan buckles himself in, glancing over at you with an easy smile, completely oblivious to the small crisis sitting in your notifications.

“You good?” he asks, adjusting the mirrors out of habit.

You nod. “Yep.”

He hums, not fully convinced but not pushing it, then pulls out of the parking spot. The overhead lights pass in intervals across the windshield, cutting the silence in soft slices.

But soon enough, Seungkwan connects his phone to the car, scrolls through a few playlists, and settles on one you both used to blast on late-night drives during college. The first song barely starts before he sings the opening line just a little too loudly on purpose, and you pretend to complain, swatting his arm lightly while he grins and exaggerates the next note. By the time the chorus hits, you’ve joined in despite yourself, missing half the lyrics and blaming him for throwing you off. It’s stupid and easy and warm.

The music fades as he pulls up to the valet drop-off, headlights sweeping across the curved driveway. A valet jogs forward, and Seungkwan hands over the keys with a polite nod before circling the hood to open your door. You slide out, smoothing your outfit automatically.

Inside, the restaurant lobby is softly lit, all warm wood and low conversation, and the waitress greets you with a welcoming smile that carries a subtle assumption you both pick up immediately.

“Good evening. Table for two?”

She leads you to a table near the window, the city lights falling in patches across the floor. Seungkwan pulls out your chair before sitting across from you.

Dinner begins without ceremony. You choose quickly, he orders for both of you without thinking twice, and the waiter walks off with the kind of polite smile that assumes you’ve been doing this for years. Seungkwan leans back in his chair, tapping the edge of his glass with a relaxed hand, and the conversation drifts effortlessly—highlights from his week, something odd that happened at your office, a shared complaint about the weather.

None of it is important, and maybe that’s why it feels heavier beneath the surface. Everything is so normal tonight that you can’t help noticing the details: the way he looks at you when you’re talking, how his expression eases into something softer when he’s listening, how natural it is for his knee to nudge yours under the table when he’s teasing you about your drink choice.

At some point the food arrives, and you settle into a comfortable silence as you eat. The lighting is warm, the restaurant hums quietly around you, and the two of you sit across from each other like you’ve done this a hundred times.

Which you suppose you have. When Seungkwan excuses himself to reply to an urgent text from his coach, you take the moment to rope yourself back into line and try to convince yourself that you’re being too dramatic.

In your head, tonight feels too gentle. Like the universe is coddling you before letting you fall—the way families dote on old dogs for days before they put them down—extra treats, soft voices, extra patience—a tenderness that comes from bracing for a change they aren’t ready to name.

None of this should feel like that. Seungkwan is just moving back, and will go back to being only fifteen minutes away from you, like he’s been for the last few years. You’ll still be the one he texts important things to first, and he’ll still be the one to pick you up when you can’t bear to stand up.

When he’s in the country, he’ll still come over when he forgets to shop for groceries, and you’ll still end up watching movies together on his couch when both of you swear you’re too tired to talk. He’ll still drop by your place with iced coffee when your deadlines are killing you, and you’ll still drag him through department stores when he needs a new jacket and refuses to pick one himself.

All of that stays and survives. But even with all that, the night has a strange finality to it, a quiet sense of something closing, even though nothing is actually ending. You can feel the slip beneath your feet, the way your heart keeps trying to lean toward something you don’t know how to name out loud.

Because if nothing is changing outwardly, then the only thing shifting is inside you—and that realization feels too real and too impossible at the same time. You want him, want something more than the familiar closeness you've always shared. Best friends. But wanting it feels like crossing a line that’s been invisible and sacred since childhood. And the moment you imagine stepping over it, you can already feel how hard the fall could be.

So you sit across from him, listening to him ramble about something you mentioned earlier, nodding along, laughing in all the right places, and the whole time your mind is running two steps forward and one step back. He feels inches from you and miles at the same time, familiar in every way except the one you suddenly wish he’d be.

Later that night, it’s the dryness in your throat that wakes you up.

You sit up, blink at the dark, and feel around for your phone.

1:16 AM.

You pad out into the hall, rubbing your eyes, not expecting anything except maybe stubbing your toe on the corner of the cabinet you always forget is there.

But the lights over the kitchen island are on.

Seungkwan sits on one of the bar stools, slumped onto the quartz counter-top, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms.

He looks up when you step into the light

“Oh—” His voice sounds a bit groggy. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head, rubbing your eyes again. “Just thirsty.”

You grab a glass from the cupboard above the sink and fill it, the sound of running water soft in the otherwise quiet room. When you turn back, he’s watching you.

You lean against the island across from him. “Why are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You take a small sip of water. “Well, you drank like three cups of coffee. What were you expecting?”

“No, it’s not that.” he mumbles sheepishly. “Just… couldn’t.”

“You want tea?” He nods, almost gratefully.

You slip around the island to boil water. He stays on the stool, posture slack, hands resting loosely around each other on the stone surface.

You reach for the chamomile packets—the ones he always rolls his eyes at but drinks anyway—and tear one open. The kettle hums, low and steady, and as the steam begins to rise, your mind drifts in small, unhelpful circles.

You shouldn’t be thinking about anything except steeping time and whether this will calm him down enough to sleep, but your mind drifts anyway—to the trophy on your shelf, to the dinner that felt too much like a date, to the boy who’s taken up so much of your life since you were four.

Before you can stop yourself, the question slips out of you, quiet but too honest to take back.

“Do you really have to go?”

He hears it immediately.

His shoulders shift, and he turns on the stool—slowly, deliberately—rotating until he’s facing you fully.

“What?” he asks, not confused so much as careful.

You swallow, pretending to focus on the steam rising from the kettle, pretending you didn’t just peel back something neither of you has touched before.

“You know,” you say, trying to keep it light but failing a little, “back to your apartment. Back to… everything.”

Seungkwan studies you quietly, but focused enough for you to feel his gaze burn through you. It makes the room feel smaller, harder to breathe in.

Then he counters with a question of his own, with a tone that is neither teasing nor dismissive.

“Do you not want me to?”

You finally meet his eyes because avoiding them feels cowardly, and immediately regret it—not because he looks intense, but because he looks open. Tired, yes, but open in a way that reminds you of every version of him you’ve ever known: the boy who fell asleep on your couch after practice, the teenager who waited for you outside class, the adult who shows up at your door without warning just because he noticed you were having a bad week.

And now he’s sitting in your kitchen at one in the morning, asking you a question you don’t know how to answer without unraveling something neither of you has dared to touch.

You try for levity, even if it doesn’t quite land. “It’s just been… nice,” you say, the word feeling embarrassingly small for what you mean. “Having you here.”

“Nice,” he repeats, and the word sounds different in his mouth, like he’s turning it over, and checking it for hidden meanings. “Is that all?”

Your grip tightens around the handle of the mug, and you force yourself not to look away. It feels like the room has narrowed around the two of you, not claustrophobic, just close, as if the air has thickened with everything that’s gone unsaid these last few weeks.

“No,” you admit, quieter than you planned. “That's not all.”

Seungkwan doesn’t look away. If anything, he holds your gaze a little more firmly, like he’s trying to read the small shifts in your face, the things you’re not saying yet.

The silence stretches, not long or heavy, but expectant.

He clears his throat softly and leans forward. “Then what is it?” he asks, voice lowered, careful in a way that tells you he’s trying not to scare you off.

But you already feel the moment tipping too far, and your courage recedes. So you clear your throat and straighten, breaking eye contact as gently as you can.

“I’m—” You force a small laugh that sounds nothing like how you feel. “I’m just sleepy. Ignore me. I’m rambling.”

It’s a weak exit, but it’s the only one you can manage without your voice giving you away. You slide the mug across the island toward him, the warm ceramic brushing against his fingers.

“Here,” you say, stepping back. “Drink this and try sleeping again. I should… I should go too.”

You turn, desperate for the safety of darkness before you say something more that you can’t take back. But you’re no match for his reflexes.

Seungkwan’s hand wraps gently around your wrist before you even register it, slowly tugging you back. “Wait.”

His hand settles around your wrist like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, and somehow that makes you freeze more than if he’d grabbed you outright.

You look down at where his fingers circle your skin, warm and steady before turning just enough to meet his eyes.

He’s standing now, shoulders a little tense, hair mussed from running his hands through it, expression caught somewhere between worried and hopeful.

“I’m not trying to—” he starts, then stops, exhaling quietly. “Just… don’t go yet. I don’t want to go either.”

Your pulse kicks. “Seungkwan…”

The word lands in your chest like a soft blow. He doesn’t beg. He never needs to. But now he’s looking at you like he’s asking for something he isn’t sure he’ll get, and it makes something in you buckle.

“You’re tired,” you manage, trying to keep your voice steady. “You should sleep.”

“Yeah,” he says, barely more than a breath. “But it’s not going to happen if you walk away.”

The honesty in it pulls you a step closer before you realize you’ve moved.

“I don’t want this to get weird,” you whisper, though your body stays pressed in the space between him and the island.

“It won’t,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes your stomach flip.

His thumb strokes once, tender in a way that feels far too intimate for a kitchen at one in the morning.

You swallow. “I’m not running.”

“Good.” His breath shivers on the last syllable, and he steps closer. “Then tell me why you don’t want me to go.”

You hesitate for half a second, just long enough to feel your heart push forward—reckless, aching, and tired of pretending.

“I like having you here,” you say quietly. “I like you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, his expression changes—not shocked, not overwhelmed, just… gentled. Like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and finally lets it go.

“Oh,” he exhales softly.

You huff out a nervous laugh, already mortified. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” His voice warms, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Like I’m relieved?”

You blink. “Relieved?”

“Yeah.” He squeezes your hand once, not dramatically, just enough that you feel it all the way up your arm. “You’re not the only one who likes having the other person around.”

You groan quietly and hide your face in your free hand. “Can you not word it like we’re in middle school again?”

“We kind of are,” he says, amused. “You literally just confessed like someone who passed me a note under my desk.”

You try to pull your hand back, but he won’t let you—not tight, never tight, just firm enough to keep you from running away.

“Don’t tease,” you mutter.

“I’m not,” Seungkwan insists. “I just… I don’t want you to regret saying it. Or pretend you didn’t.”

You drop your hand from your face and meet his eyes again. He looks the way he always does when he’s telling you something important—steady, open, almost annoyingly sincere.

“I’m not taking it back,” you say. “I just didn’t expect to say it tonight.”

“Me neither,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I thought I’d… I don’t know. Drop a hint. A sign. Ease into it.”

“That’s not easing into anything,” you say, nodding toward your still-joined hands.

He glances down at them, then shrugs. “Couldn’t help it.”

You laugh quietly, breathlessly.

He shifts a little closer, careful but certain. “So what now?” he asks, voice gentle. “Because whatever this is… I want it. But I want you to want it without freaking yourself out.”

Your voice comes out low. “I’m not freaking out.”

“Liar.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I’m freaking out a little.”

He smiles at that—your favorite kind, the soft one that starts in his eyes and settles somewhere warm in his chest.

“Me too,” he says. “But I still want this, you.”

You step closer again, closing the last bit of space between you. “Okay,” you whisper.

This time, he’s the one whose breath catches.

“Yeah?” he asks softly.

“Yeah.”

He watches your face like he’s trying to memorize something he’s only just been given permission to see. His free hand hesitates in the air for a second—giving you every chance to step back—but you don’t move.

And when his fingertips finally touch your cheek, it’s barely anything. Just a warm, careful brush, like he’s afraid to startle you or himself.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

He notices. His thumb presses a little more firmly, tracing along the bone like he’s confirming you’re really standing here, saying the things he’s been thinking for weeks.

“Okay,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Okay.”

You lean into his hand before you can think better of it. A tiny motion, a betrayal, something your body chooses for you.

His smile widens almost helplessly.

Seungkwan doesn’t say anything right away. His thumb lingers at your cheek, then stills, like he’s realised how close this is getting before he’s decided what to do about it. His gaze flicks away for half a second, toward the darkened hallway, then back to you.

“There’s something I should probably say,” he mutters, not pulling away. “And I hate that I’m saying it now.”

You sigh, but there’s no real annoyance in it. “Seungkwan.”

“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “Terrible timing. Genuinely awful. I deserve to be judged for this.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I still have to go back, though.”

You nod, looking away in embarrassment. “I know. I was just being a bit… dramatic, I guess.”

“It’s alright,” Seungkwan reassures you, “I don’t think I would’ve handled it any better.”

“Honestly, I probably would’ve done worse,” he adds, shifting his weight a little but still not stepping away. “At least you said it out loud. I tend to just sit on things until they turn into insomnia.”

Letting go of you, he points at himself. “Exhibit A.”

You huff in amusement, waving him off, your hands quivering almost unnoticeably. But Seungkwan continues.

“I’ll still be around, and you can always come over. Yeah, I’ll be out of the country a lot, but that’s not changing, is it?”

Seungkwan says it gently, not like he’s trying to convince you of anything. “That part’s been true for years now,” he adds, shrugging a little. “Me leaving, me coming back, you pretending it doesn’t bother you, me knowing it does anyway.”

You sniffle softly. “Wow. Called out.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he replies, deadpan. Then, softer, “What I mean is that this isn’t suddenly different just because we finally said something stupidly honest at one in the morning.”

Your shoulders loosen a fraction, tension easing out of them in a way you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.

“And,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “you’re allowed to miss having me here without it meaning you’re asking for something unreasonable.”

You exhale slowly, nodding once.

There’s a brief pause in which Seungkwan waits for you to comfortably let your thoughts sink in. His, too.

“So,” he trails off, shifting back a little, giving you space without fully retreating.

“We should probably go to sleep.” You suggest.

He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t think that’s happening for me,” he admits, glancing toward the dark hallway. “At least not anytime soon.”

Sighing, you shake your head. “Shocking.”

“Truly,” he agrees. “But I’ll try. For our sake.”

He straightens a little, rolling his shoulders as if that might help, then pauses, like he’s remembered something important but harmless. “You, on the other hand, should actually go to sleep. You have work.”

You hesitate, then nod once, like you’re agreeing to something simple. “Okay. I’ll go.”

He lifts his mug, gesturing vaguely with it. “I’ll… finish this. Then I’ll go lie down and not sleep.”

“Sounds productive.”

“I’m a professional.”

You turn toward the hallway, but when you reach your door, you glance back without fully meaning to. He watches you with a faint, unguarded smile that feels new only because you’re finally allowing yourself to see it freely.

“Night,” you say.

“Night,” he replies.

And when you shut your door, it’s with the strange, buoyant sense that nothing dramatic has happened at all. Only that something has finally shifted into place.

You wake up to the sound of movement in the apartment, soft and familiar enough that it doesn’t startle you. A cupboard opening, the faint scrape of a chair against the floor, and Seungkwan’s voice mumbling to some song that’s been on repeat in his head.

It takes a few seconds for the memory of last night to settle back into place.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, Seungkwan is already there, hair sticking up in a way he hasn’t bothered to fix yet, hoodie abandoned with just his t-shirt from last night on. He’s standing by the counter, staring into the fridge like he’s hoping it might offer him something.

“Oh,” he says when he notices you, straightening a little. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, your voice still rough around the edges.

You hover for a second, unsure where to put yourself, then move past him to grab a glass of water. He shifts out of the way automatically, too quickly, and you both register it at the same time.

He clears his throat. “I was trying to decide if we have anything that counts as breakfast.”

“Ugh,” you groan. “Sorry, I was meant to go grocery-shopping yesterday afternoon. Forgot about it. I’m sure there’s something though.”

You lean in beside him, shoulder brushing his as you peer into the fridge together, the cool light washing over both of you. There’s a carton of eggs pushed to the back, a half-used bottle of milk, some wilting greens you’ve been meaning to do something with for days. Seungkwan hums thoughtfully, like he’s genuinely weighing options instead of stalling.

“Eggs are workable,” he says finally. “I’ve made worse breakfasts under more tragic circumstances.”

“Seungkwan, you could have the best ingredients and still make something only just consumable.” You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re going to have to eat omelettes with disgusting greens in them. No choices.”

“That’s alright,” he nods, ignoring the jab at his cooking skills. “I can make coffee instead. Now that, I can do better than you.”

You scoff, waving him off. “Go on.”

Seungkwan drags himself towards the espresso machine while you take the eggs and greens out. You reach back in on second thought to take out the orange juice as well, because you know he’ll think the coffee’s too heavy and want something more refreshing when he’s had less sleep. And that he’ll complain it’s too cold.

“Are you going to be packing up today?” You ask as you take out the cutting board to cut the greens into thin strips. “Need any help?”

“Not much,” he shakes his head, leaning against the counter. “It’s only clothes, and then just maybe double-checking some of the boxes.”

“Okay,” you say. “Still. If you want help.”

“Yeah,” he replies, then adds, almost reflexively, “I’ll tell you.”

The espresso machine whirs to life, low and steady, the sound settling into the room like background noise. You turn back to the cutting board. Seungkwan adjusts the cup under the spout, then nudges it again, like he’s not quite satisfied with where it’s sitting.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

It’s not uncomfortable exactly, just conspicuous. Like both of you are a little too aware of where the other is at all times You crack an egg into the bowl and a bit of the shell falls in. You sigh and fish it out with exaggerated patience.

“This is—” you start, then stop.

He glances over. “What?”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself. “This is a little weird.”

Seungkwan blinks, then breaks into a smile that looks equal parts relieved and sheepish. “Thank God you said it.” He scratches at the back of his neck, smile lingering but softer now. “I was starting to think it was just me.”

“It’s not,” you say quickly, then regret how fast it comes out. You turn back to the stove, busying yourself with the pan like it suddenly requires your full attention. “It’s just… different. This part.”

He hums, considering. You can feel his gaze on you without looking.

“Do we… need to talk about it?” he asks, tentative in a way you’ve almost never heard from him.

You pause, chopsticks hovering midair. “About what?”

When he doesn’t reply immediately, you turn slowly, heat rising up your neck. “Hold on. Are we not… I don’t know,” you mumble a bit shyly, “dating or something?”

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly, like he’s surprised you even said it. “I mean… what?”

“What?” You repeat, wishing you’d never said it at all.

“Shouldn’t I be taking you out before that?”

“You did,” you splutter out before breaking your gaze to flip the omelette. “Didn’t you? Yesterday was kind of a date, was it not?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, seeming to think for a moment. “I guess it was. But it wasn’t supposed to be one. We were supposed to go with the others.”

“So you’re not counting it as one?” You ask, and maybe it comes out a bit sharply because he scrambles to correct himself.

“No, I just— I should take you out on a date while calling it one, you know? Like, intentionally.”

You hum, “If you say so. I don’t mind.”

“Huh?”

“Seungkwan, don’t make me say it. Take the hint, please.”

“Listen, I genuinely don’t—”

“Just be my boyfriend already,” you say, then wince slightly. “Wow. That came out way more aggressive than I meant. We’ve just been wasting time.”

“Oh.” Seungkwan huffs out, surprised.

You nod once, eyes still on the pan, like if you look at him for too long you might lose your nerve. “Yeah. That. Officially. If you want.”

There’s silence for a few seconds—long enough for the eggs to start crisping up at the edges.

He lets out a soft laugh then, almost a little disbelievingly before pushing your mug a little closer to you.

“I do,” he says. Then, after a second, like he needs to say it again to make sure it sticks, “I really do.”

You glance over at him then, and he’s smiling in that way he does when he’s really happy and trying not to show it too much, eyes crinkling and body tense with held back excitement.

“I just didn’t want to rush you,” he adds. “Or mess it up by assuming.”

You nod, swallowing. “You’re allowed to assume a little.”

He smiles at that, small and fond. “Good to know.”

The quiet slips back in, but it’s different now. Thicker somehow. Charged, but not sharp. You slide the omelette onto a plate, set it aside, then reach for the pan again like you’ve forgotten what comes next.

Seungkwan watches you for a moment, clearly thinking. You can see it in the way his brows knit together, the way he rocks slightly on his heels.

“So,” he says eventually, tentatively again. “I have a suggestion.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow.

He exhales, then laughs at himself, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I think we’re both being weird because we don’t know how to act,” he says. “Which is… fair. But also kind of unbearable.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“So,” he continues, pushing through, “maybe we just… don’t overthink it? Like. Exposure therapy.”

You blink. “You’re applying sports psychology to this?”

“It works like magic,” he argues. “Anyway. I was thinking—”

He reaches out, stops himself halfway, then commits, gently taking your hand.

Your breath catches.

“—we just do this,” he finishes, quieter. “For a bit. While we’re doing normal things. So it stops feeling like a big deal.”

You stare at your joined hands, his warm and steady around yours, thumb resting where it fits too easily.

“…You’re holding my hand while I’m about to cook?” you ask.

He nods, very serious. “Yes.”

“This feels counterproductive. How am I supposed to hold the pan, the chopsticks, and your hand?”

His eyebrows furrow, the corners of his mouth slipping down a bit, and you instantly regret trying to be logical.

“Okay,” you nod solemnly. “Done.”

“Great!” Seungkwan says, clearly pleased.

You let him be for a few seconds before setting the chopsticks down, looking at the pan, your hands and then him. “Seungkwan, this is not very convenient.”

“Fine,” he sighs after a moment, letting you go with visible reluctance. “Do your thing.”

His hands immediately go into the pockets of his sweatpants like he doesn’t know what to do with them now. You finish plating the eggs, movements slower than usual, hyperaware of him hovering just behind you.

The second you set the pan aside, he reaches back out. No hesitation this time.

“There,” he says, pleased, lacing your fingers properly now. “See? Much better.”

Seungkwan shows up a few nights later with takeaway and no plan beyond staying a while. He shrugs his jacket off like it’s muscle memory and toes his shoes off into the corner they’re always in. You make space on the table, pass him a fork before settling back into the couch, pressed close enough to feel goosebumps from the breeze outside on his skin.

The evening unfolds without any particular direction. He’s come directly after training and almost inhales his food before you even choose a show to play—which, to be fair, you do take a while to decide.

“You always do this,” he complains, leaning back against the armrest, watching you scroll. “You ask for opinions and then ignore them.”

“Because your opinions are terrible,” you point out, not looking up.

“They’re not!” Seunkwan retorts.

“Seungkwan, you just put stuff on and zone out. You don’t really watch.”

He huffs in frustration before crossing his arms. “Fine, whatever. Choose something though.”

You laugh and lightly nudge his knee with yours. He nudges you back, just as casually.

You scoff, shifting away an inch, not enough to leave, just enough to test him, and he lets you go without comment. The distance doesn’t last. A moment later you drift back on your own.

He doesn’t make a thing of it. Just drops his arm around you loosely, his hand resting at your side as if to say stay without asking. You do.

The show starts playing to no one in particular. He finishes eating and sets the carton aside, wiping his hands on a napkin before leaning back, attention splitting between the screen and you, his thumb idly tracing the seam of your sleeve. You shift again, angling toward him this time, your knees brushing his thigh.

“Long day?” you ask.

“Kinda,” he hums. “I might actually pass out here.”

“Not much that’s new then,” you giggle, tipping your head back to look at him.

He’s already looking down at you, expression relaxed, mouth curved faintly like he’s amused but not trying to be. When your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. You stay like that for a few seconds, neither of you talking, the sound from the TV filling the space while he watches you like he’s deciding whether to say something.

You shift again, not away this time, easing in until your shoulder rests against his chest, your face tipped up toward his. He adjusts almost immediately, a small turn of his head that brings you into his space without rushing it, his breathing evening out as he settles.

“Hey,” he says quietly, almost reflexively.

“Yeah?” you reply, just as soft.

He doesn’t answer and just dips his head, close enough now that your noses nearly brush, close enough that you’re aware of it in a very simple way—that if either of you moved even a little, that would be it— when the doorbell rings.

You pull back with a short breath through your nose. “Of course.”

He leans back into the couch, blinking once. “Timing’s unreal.”

The second ring comes almost immediately, sharper too, and you’re already standing before either of you says anything else.

“I’ll get it,” you say, stumbling off the couch to reach the door before whoever’s behind it rings again.

When you open it, it takes you a second to register Jiwon properly. Her hair’s half pulled back, her eyes red from what looks like tears, and she’s gripping her phone like it’s the only solid thing she has. She looks at you, mouth opening like she means to say something, and nothing comes out.

“Hey,” you say immediately, the word coming softer than you intend. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, a quick, helpless movement. “Can I— can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping back without thinking. “Of course.”

She crosses the threshold and you shut the door behind her, the apartment suddenly becoming too quiet, and only then does she let out a sob that sounds like it’s been stuck in her chest for miles. You reach for her instinctively, a hand at her arm.

“What happened?” you ask again, slower this time.

“I just—” she starts, then stops, pressing her lips together like she’s trying to hold herself in place.

Seungkwan’s already up, concern written plainly across his face as he takes her in. “Jiwon?”

She swipes at her cheek, laughs once under her breath without humour. “I ended it. And then everything kind of… fell apart.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, guiding her toward the couch. “Okay. Sit. Just sit.”

Seungkwan hovers for a second, then moves toward the kitchen, coming back with water and setting it down within reach before lowering himself onto the floor instead of taking the space beside her. He doesn’t rush her.

The rest of the night settles into something slower. Jiwon talks in pieces, stopping when it gets too close, starting again when the silence presses. You stay close, knees angled toward her, fingers resting lightly at her wrist whenever her voice shakes. Seungkwan listens, occasionally cutting in when she spirals too far, but mostly he lets her talk herself tired instead of talked-through. At some point she stops mid-sentence, frowns like she’s lost the thread, then shakes her head.

“Sorry,” she says. “I feel like I’m just saying the same thing over and over.”

“It’s fine,” you tell her, adjusting the throw blanket around her shoulders. “That’s kind of how it goes.”

She huffs a quiet laugh at that, scrubbing her face again. “I’m exhausting.”

“You’re allowed to be,” Seungkwan says easily, reaching for the empty glass and standing. “Do you want tea or do you want to just… sleep?”

She considers it for a second, then sighs. “Sleep.”

“Alright,” you nod, already getting up. “You can sleep in my room if you want.”

She nods, already pushing herself up from the couch. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You walk her down the hall, pause while she rummages through your dresser for a spare toothbrush, and watch her disappear into the bathroom with a quiet, “I’ll be quick,” before the door clicks shut behind her. The sound of the tap turning on is soft but unmistakable, a marker more than a distraction, and when you head back toward the living room the apartment feels different again, the intensity of earlier fully spent.

Seungkwan is standing near the kitchen counter, jacket folded over one arm, keys and his phone int he other. He looks up when you come back with a small smile.

“She’ll be okay?” he asks. “Do you need anything?”

“No,” you sigh. “She just needs sleep.”

He nods, once. “Okay.”

For a moment neither of you moves. The dim lamp light spills around the room along with the muted sounds of Jiwon rinsing her mouth and shifting around in the bathroom.

“I should probably head out,” he says eventually, throwing one last look in her direction.

You frown slightly before nodding. Yes, he should. He could stay, but it seems best to go today.

When you walk Seungkwan to the door, he takes his time slipping his shoes back on, glancing once toward the hallway and then back at you. You linger close by before moving past him to open the door.

He straightens, hesitates, then stops just short of the threshold, like there’s something he means to say and hasn’t quite found yet.

You don’t give him the chance.

You step in and kiss him, brief and light, more impulsively than anything, your mouth barely there before you pull back again.

For a second he just looks at you in surprise.

Then he leans back in, slower this time, returning it with a little more certainty, like he’s making sure, like he doesn’t want to rush it but doesn’t want to leave it at that either. It lasts only a moment longer, enough to feel real before he draws away.

He exhales, quiet, almost a laugh, and steps back toward the hall with obvious reluctance.

“Good night.”

You nod, smiling softly. “Text me when you reach!”

“I will,” he promises, already halfway down the hall before he turns back once more to wave goodbye.

The elevator doors slide shut behind you with a soft thud, ending the last notes of the song from Seungkwan’s playlist playing in your mind.

You’re both quiet for a moment, catching your breath.

Seungkwan leans back against the wall, suit jacket folded over his arm, tie abandoned halfway through the night and stuffed somewhere in your clutch. His hair’s still neatly styled, but he looks barely minutes away from messing it all up. You smooth a hand down the skirt of your dress out of habit, palms still warm from his touch.

“Well,” he says finally, glancing at the floor number as it crawls upward, “I think that officially counts as us attending a wedding together.”

You hum. “We’ve done that before.”

“Not like that,” he says, mouth curving. “That was… very obvious.”

You glance at him with a grin. “You’re the one who dragged me out for the slow songs.”

“Let a man live, will you?” He grins back, reaching out for you again. “Admit it, that’s the most fun you’ve ever had at a wedding.”

You snort softly. “It was fun,” you admit, letting yourself be pulled in the last inch, your shoulder fitting easily against his chest. “Right up until I got kidnapped by the aunties.”

He groans, already resigned. “No way. Where was I?”

You shrug. “You were getting water. Or pretending to, maybe.”

“I would never abandon you,” he defends himself. “What did they ask you?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “If we were actually dating,” you say. “If this was a thing. And whether that’s why we looked so… settled.”

He makes a sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “That’s bold.”

“No, literally!” You agree, eyes widening. “It was almost like they just needed confirmation, they weren’t even asking, lowkey.”

Seungkwan huffs. “And?”

“And I said nothing useful,” you reply. “Just that we came together and had a good time. I don’t think either of us would like the earful we’d have gotten if our mothers found out through others.”

Seungkwan nods slowly, like he’s picturing it. “Yeah, that would’ve been… bad.”

The elevator gives a small chime as it reaches his floor. The doors slide open, and he moves first, grasping your hand and gently dragging you out behind him, your fingers warm and slightly sweaty in his, the motion casual, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

The hallway is quiet, lights dimmed low, and you keep talking as you follow him, the words tumbling out on leftover adrenaline.

“Also,” you add, because apparently you’re not done, “I forgot how dramatic our year was. Half those people haven’t changed at all. Did you see Minji’s face when the bouquet got tossed? You’d think she was practically waiting for someone to propose to her with the way she ran forward, but I found out later that she isn’t even dating.”

Seungkwan snorts, still tugging you along. “She’s been auditioning for that moment since we were seventeen.”

“I know,” you say. “And the way she kept looking around afterward like she’d done something embarrassing but couldn’t quite undo it. I almost felt bad.”

“Almost,” he echoes.

You pass two closed doors, your voices dropping naturally even though there’s no one else around. The sound of your steps softens.

“The speeches were cute though,” you continue. “I should’ve counted the number of times someone said ‘we’ve all been waiting for this day’.”

“I feel like—” Seungkwan mumbles, making you look up at him. It hits you—unhelpfully—how good he looks like this, collar open, tie gone, the night still clinging to him. It makes you feel a little unsteady, a little keyed up in a way that has nothing to do with the wedding. “—that’s something we’ll be hearing a lot too, when we tell people.”

You let out a quiet exhale. “God. Please no.”

He glances at you before punching in the passcode to his apartment. “I’m serious,” he says. “Everyone’s going to act like it’s been obvious forever.”

“That’s because it probably has,” you reply, nudging his arm lightly with your shoulder.

Seungkwan hums in agreement as the door unlocks with a soft beep before he pushes it open and steps inside first. You follow behind, being greeted by the smell of fresh paint that still hasn’t subdued.

He drops his car keys into the shallow dish by the door with a satisfying clink, then shrugs out of his jacket and leaves it draped over the chair before turning around to face you.

You slip your shoes off and line them up out of habit, smoothing your dress as you straighten. Lingering by the door for a moment longer, you finally walk up to him, to which he greets you with opened arms. He watches you the whole way, expression easy and fond, like this part of the night has been quietly waiting its turn.

Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a quick peck to your lips.

“Hungry?” he asks.

You laugh softly, the sound catching as he kisses you again, just as light. “No.”

“Sure?” Another peck, this one catching the corner of your mouth. “You barely ate.”

“I’m sure,” you say, still smiling, hands settling at his sides. “I’m good.”

Seungkwan hums, unconvinced. “Okay. I probably still have some of your clothes in my wardrobe if you want to change.”

You raise an eyebrow, glancing past him toward the hallway. “Have they been washed recently?”

He laughs softly, but before he can answer properly, his hand slips to your waist and pulls you in, the question dissolving between you. His mouth meets yours again, slower this time, less playful, like he’s already lost interest in finishing the conversation.

“Mhm,” he mumbles against your lips, distracted. “Yeah.”

You smile into the kiss, hands sliding up to rest around his neck, elbows fitting easily there like they belong. He tightens his hold at your waist, thumbs pressing in just enough to draw you closer.

His mouth is warm and deliberate as if he’s testing what you’ll give him and taking care not to rush past it. You tilt into him without thinking, breath stuttering when he shifts closer, when the line of his body settles flush against yours.

“Wait—” you murmur, not pulling away, just needing a second, your forehead brushing his.

He stills immediately. “Yeah?”

You shake your head, a quiet laugh slipping out of you, breath uneven. “No, I just—” You trail off, fingers tightening slightly at the back of his neck. “I need a second.”

He smiles softly at that, something tender flickering across his face, and presses a gentler kiss to the corner of your mouth, like he’s easing back in rather than stepping away. “Okay.”

The pause barely lasts, just enough for you to breathe him in, before his lips drift again—this time along the edge of your mouth, slow and unhurried, tracing the corner of your jaw. It sends a shiver through you, your grip tightening as he follows the line carefully, like he’s mapping it.

He murmurs your name near your ear, low and warm, breath ghosting over your skin, and it makes you tilt your head without realizing you’re doing it, offering him the space. He takes it gently, lips brushing your jaw again, then lower, never rushing, like he’s paying attention to every reaction you give him.

“Still okay?” he asks quietly, right there.

“Shit, um, yeah,” you breathe out, immediate and sure.

He lets out something like a laugh against your skin, relief threaded through it, and keeps one hand firm at your waist as you take a step back together, uncoordinated enough that you bump lightly into the edge of the couch.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be,” he replies just as quietly, forehead brushing yours. “You’re… really cute like this.”

You huff, embarrassed and pleased all at once and respond without thinking, arms locking more securely around his neck, bringing him closer because distance suddenly feels intolerable.

“God,” you murmur against his mouth, half a laugh, half something else.

He smiles into the next kiss, breath warm and uneven. “I know.”

It’s dizzying—the way he keeps kissing you like he’s trying to stay inside the moment, the way you keep leaning into it like stopping would be a mistake. His mouth drifts again, slower but more intentional than ever, catching at the corner of your lips, your jaw, lingering just long enough to make you feel it everywhere.

You stumble back another step and he goes with you immediately, the hallway blurring at the edges, your thoughts following suit, everything narrowing down to heat and closeness and the way he keeps touching you like he can’t quite help it.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and a little wrecked, thumb brushing your side like he needs to reassure himself you’re still there. “You’re driving me a little insane,” he says quietly, almost amused by it.

You laugh, breathless. “You started it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, lips already on yours again. “Worth it.”

tags: @fancypeacepersona @strawbabyz @bookyeom @eisaspresso @augustbutwinter

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