#salesjun

[kazcreates]

[ilinit]

You can NOT tell me that there isn't Jun-Ho in his lap.

[ilinit]

@mr-stendahl your story about Jun-Ho collecting his own Harem brought me back to my love for salesjun

I won't incorporate the omegaverse since it still isn't my favourite.

Uhm tags dead dove don't eat, porn, smut, age gap, underage, grooming.

Idk

The salesman registered very early that In-ho's brother showed interest in him.

First he thought it might only be a teenage crush - who vould blame the boy, he was fit and good-looking afterall - but Jun-Ho got bolder.

Unnessarily squeezing through him and the counter in the kitchen and then forgetting what he even wanted only the squeeze back. Not very subtle he thought.

Always choosing phallic shaped food and eating it completely wrong whenever In-ho stepped outside to take a call.

Accidentaly spilling things on his shirt so he had to take it off and so on.

The salesman was amused by the 16year old antics and his boldness but he didn't want to endanger his and In-Ho's friendship and he was already running out of excuses to tag along home with him.

So he slipped Jun-Ho a note with his address.

When Jun-Ho was finally in his apartment the salesman figured he wanted to find out what the boy was interested in.

He sat down on the sofa patting his knee so Jun-Ho would sit down there. Facing the tv. He moved his body closer against his back reaching for the remote and pkacing it in Jun-Ho's hands.

"You can choose what we watch. Make yourself comfortable. I want to know what you like."

His lips were very close to the young man's ear and he registered the red tint and how the hairs in his neck stood up.

But Jun-Ho's boldness came back and he slipped from the salesman's knee onto his lap, leaning into the older man.

To his surprise there is only gay porn available so he starts browsing the videos. Choosing what seems to be interesting from the thumbnail and getting bolder with his choices.

Meanwhile the salesman has his hands on his hips registering every slight movement. Memorizing what seems to be exciting Jun-Ho most.

And they are fully clothed during this. He always liked the power to have someone strip while keeping them clothed.

[jodiecomer4]

[everwhovian]

Haha, how about a story where teenage Jun-ho brings his boyfriend, the Recruiter, to meet his brother—who is totally against their relationship! We need some drama in the style of "You're not worthy of my brother's heart!" 😂

I started with In-ho glaring at The Recruiter and just being a menace... and then I ran off track and started exploring how Jun-ho and Seok-woo (Recruiter) even met, how they got together.... so imma leave you the link to the full fic 🤣

Somehow it also turned into fluff and wholesome... so much for drama

So you can read the fic on ao3 or how teen!juncriter got together and then how In-ho reacts on tumblr

[everwhovian]

“You're not worthy of my brother's heart!” | [ao3]

Teenage Jun-ho doesn’t expect to fall for the new transfer student, and he definitely doesn’t expect it to start with annotated books, stolen glances, and walks home that turn into something more...

Part 1 | Part 2

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Jun-ho sat on the low wall at the edge of the courtyard, backpack at his feet, knees drawn up loosely. The chatter of his classmates drifted around him – bursts of laughter, the metallic clatter of a soccer ball ricocheting off the fence – but he wasn’t really in it. Not today. His best friend was home sick, and without that anchor, the noise felt heavier than usual, like too many overlapping voices in a room with no air.

A group of girls across the yard spotted him, waving him over with bright smiles. They were nice enough, always had been, but Jun-ho only lifted his hand in a polite half-wave before holding up the book in his lap. An easy excuse.

He wasn’t even sure he liked the book. The pages smelled faintly of old dust and coffee, the kind of thing his brother left lying around his room when he came back from his shift. A detective novel, thick with underlined passages, tiny notes scrawled in the margins in In-ho’s precise handwriting. Jun-ho had swiped it half out of curiosity, half out of habit. Reading what his brother read made him feel a little closer, like he was peeking into a world that usually felt out of reach.

He smirked faintly, tilting the book so the girls could see the cover. Let them think he was absorbed, too busy to join. Truth was, he just wanted the quiet.

Jun-ho lowered his eyes to the book again, shutting out the noise of the courtyard. The story itself was fine, a typical mystery, but the real entertainment came from the notes squeezed into the margins.

In-ho had marked the pages like the author was under interrogation. A shaky alibi got a brisk underline and the words probable perjury? In cramped, impatient script. A neat arrow ran between two separate chapters, almost like he had been stringing red yarn between suspects on a corkboard. A whole paragraph about police procedure had a blunt verdict beside it: lazy police work.

Jun-ho couldn’t help grinning. Of course In-ho couldn’t just read a crime novel like a normal person. Even when he was supposed to be relaxing, he was still a detective. Still picking things apart, still catching what everyone else missed.

He flipped another page slowly, eyes drawn more to the handwriting than the printed text. It was strange how the notes made the book feel alive. Like he was sitting across from his brother while In-ho muttered criticisms under his breath, sharp and certain, the way he always did when he thought no one was listening.

It made Jun-ho feel like he was in on something private. Like for once he could see the way his brother’s mind worked, not from the outside, but right there in the middle of it.

He rested his chin in his hand, smiling faintly at the thought. Maybe being alone wasn’t so bad if it meant he could steal a little piece of In-ho’s world for himself.

Jun-ho was halfway down the page when his grin widened. The neat margin notes weren’t all In-ho’s after all. Tucked under the sharp handwriting was something looser, loopier, almost playful. Yuna’s, he realized after a moment. A smiley face beneath one of In-ho’s more sarcastic comments. A teasing “wow, you’re fun at parties” next to a whole rant about the weak motive .A tiny doodle of a heart next to lazy police work. She had even drawn a little stick figure detective, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.

Jun-ho snorted under his breath. He could picture it so clearly: Yuna leaning over the book one night, pen in hand, laughing to herself while In-ho pretended to be annoyed. The image made the pages warmer, like the book had stopped being just a story and turned into a record of them.

He was so caught up in it that he didn’t notice anyone approaching until a new voice broke the air right in front of him.

“What’s so funny?”

Jun-ho jerked his head up, startled. A boy stood there, tall, dark hair falling neatly across his forehead, his uniform still too crisp from being new. He had the kind of smile that looked effortless, like he was used to people paying attention when he walked into a room.

Jun-ho blinked once before recognition caught up. Seok-woo. The transfer student the homeroom teacher had introduced that morning.

The book sagged in Jun-ho’s hands as he scrambled for something to say. Nothing came out. He settled for the smallest tilt of his head, a quiet acknowledgment, hoping it would be enough to make the boy move on.

It wasn’t.

Seok-woo dropped down beside him like he owned the spot, the brick wall dipping slightly under his weight. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate, just stretched his legs out like he was settling in for the afternoon. The movement was so casual, so certain, that Jun-ho’s mind stuttered around it.

Then a hand darted out. The book was gone before Jun-ho even realized what happened.

“Hey –” The word slipped out sharp, more startled than angry.

Seok-woo ignored it completely. He leaned back, one elbow braced against his knee, and began flipping through the pages as if he had every right. His eyes skimmed the margins, pausing when he caught something interesting, lips quirking at the notes squeezed into the gaps between the printed lines.

Jun-ho felt his stomach twist. That wasn’t just any book. That was In-ho’s, and Yuna’s, and now Seok-woo’s fingers were smudging across all those private scraps of handwriting. He should’ve snatched it back. He should’ve said more than a weak hey. But he didn’t move.

Because Seok-woo glanced up then, and the look on his face knocked the breath right out of him.

A smirk, not mocking exactly, but sharp enough to make Jun-ho’s skin prickle. Like Seok-woo had already read more than the notes in the margins. Like he’d figured Jun-ho out in the span of a heartbeat.

Jun-ho froze under the weight of it. His chest felt tight, ears hot. The world narrowed to the shape of that smile, the dark line of hair falling neatly across Seok-woo’s forehead, the effortless confidence radiating off him in waves.

He was supposed to be the quiet kid, the one who kept to himself, who never gave anyone an opening. And here he was, caught, flustered, sitting still while a stranger took what was his without even asking.

Oh, shit. He was hot.

Seok-woo flipped through a few more pages, then glanced sideways with that infuriatingly smooth smile. “You always hide out here, or am I just lucky today?”

The words landed like a casual joke, but Jun-ho felt his stomach twist anyway. Lucky. Like Seok-woo had been looking for him. Which was ridiculous. He was just the quiet kid on the wall, the one everyone waved at politely before moving on.

He tried to shrug it off, but the warmth in his ears betrayed him instantly. That horrible heat climbing up the sides of his face, just like In-ho whenever Yuna teased him. And now here he was, doing the same thing, burning up in front of someone he’d only spoken two words to.

Seok-woo’s eyes flicked up again, catching the flush. His smirk deepened, sharp with amusement. He leaned in a fraction, close enough that Jun-ho forgot how to breathe. For a second Jun-ho thought he was going to say something, twist the knife deeper, make him squirm in front of half the courtyard.

But then Seok-woo only set the book back in his lap, fingers brushing the cover for a moment before pulling away. “Sorry,” he said, voice smooth, almost amused. “Didn’t mean to steal it.”

Jun-ho blinked down at the book, the sudden return almost disorienting. He curled his hands around it, holding it too tightly, like it was the only solid thing in reach

Seok-woo shifted, turning just enough to glance at him again, this time less sharp, more like he was genuinely curious. “Hey,” he said, tone easy, “what page are we supposed to do for Korean homework again? I didn’t catch it this morning.”

The question was ordinary. Normal. A lifeline thrown into the mess of Jun-ho’s head.

Still, his thoughts tangled hopelessly as he tried to answer. Why ask me? Why sit here, when he could’ve asked anyone? The girls across the yard would’ve tripped over themselves to help him, but Seok-woo was looking at him, waiting, like Jun-ho wasn’t just the quiet kid on the wall but someone worth asking.

His throat felt dry. He cleared it and forced the words out, hoping his voice didn’t betray the way his chest was still thrumming. He mumbled the page number for homework, and that should have been the end of it. Someone like Seok-woo didn’t waste time on kids like him. He was the kind of boy who drew attention without trying, who already had people leaning toward him in class, laughing too loudly at things he said. Jun-ho wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered stopping in the first place.

But then, the next morning, it happened again. Seok-woo caught his eye in the hallway and smiled like they’d known each other for years. Not a polite smile either, but a real one, easy and unforced. Jun-ho’s stomach lurched, convinced for a heartbeat that it wasn’t meant for him – until Seok-woo lifted his hand in a small wave.

And then in the cafeteria, with his tray balanced awkwardly between the crush of students, Jun-ho looked up to see Seok-woo doing it again. That same smile, that little wave across the room, as if he’d been waiting for Jun-ho to notice him.

Over the next few days it became a pattern. When the courtyard filled with noise, Seok-woo always ended up on the wall beside him, dropping down without asking, sliding into Jun-ho’s quiet like it belonged to him. Sometimes he teased, sometimes he just asked about classwork, but he was there. Always there.

The strangest part came later, when the last bell rang and Jun-ho shouldered his bag for the walk home. Seok-woo fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. At first Jun-ho kept glancing sideways, waiting for him to peel off at some other street, but he didn’t. He stayed. He carried Jun-ho’s books when his bag started to slip. He even remembered which corner Jun-ho’s house sat on.

Jun-ho couldn’t make sense of it. He kept waiting for the joke, the reveal that this was some long prank at his expense. But every time he looked at Seok-woo, there was nothing but that same infuriatingly easy smile, like being around Jun-ho was something he’d simply chosen.

And Jun-ho’s ears burned all over again.

The worst part was that it was impossible not to notice the way people reacted to Seok-woo. He didn’t even have to try. A word here, a lazy grin there, and suddenly the girls at the next table leaned closer, their laughter spilling too quickly, cheeks flushed before the punchline even landed. Even the teachers softened around him. He had that kind of pull, charming without effort, confident without arrogance. That was the worst part. He made it look natural.

Jun-ho noticed it the same way he noticed everything else: quietly, from the edges. He’d never pretended otherwise. Seok-woo was good-looking, objectively so. It wasn’t a mystery why people liked him. What was a mystery was why Seok-woo kept showing up beside him.

Jun-ho wasn’t the kind of person people noticed twice. He was polite, he did well enough in class, he existed somewhere in the middle of things. He didn’t say much unless he had to, and he never bothered forcing his way into conversations that moved too fast for him to catch. And yet, somehow, Seok-woo had decided that he was worth talking to. Worth smiling at. Worth sitting next to.

It didn’t make sense.

His best friend noticed it too. The day he came back, he jabbed Jun-ho in the ribs, grinning wide, eyebrows wiggling in a way that left no room for interpretation. “He’s looking again,” he whispered, voice low but smug.

Jun-ho’s ears betrayed him instantly, burning before he could hide it. “You’re imagining it,” he muttered, but that only earned him a laugh and an arm slung over his shoulder like a claim. Comfortable, familiar, the same gesture they’d traded for years, but now it felt exposed. Too visible.

He stared at the desk, willing the heat in his face to fade. It didn’t. His body had its own humiliating instincts, and the more he tried to ignore them, the worse they got.

When he finally looked up, the room seemed to tilt around him.

Seok-woo wasn’t talking to the girls anymore. He wasn’t even pretending to listen to the teacher. His eyes were fixed on them, on him. Or maybe not him exactly, but the line of his friend’s arm still draped across his shoulders, the easy press of closeness.

Jun-ho’s chest tightened, air thinning in his lungs. It should have been nothing, just a glance across the classroom, but it lingered too long. Too steady. When Seok-woo’s gaze finally lifted to meet his, a small smile curved at the corner of his mouth, quiet and unreadable, meant for no one else.

There was no reason for someone like Seok-woo to look at him that way. No reason for him to keep sitting beside him in the courtyard, or walking him home after class, or remembering the smallest things Jun-ho said in passing.

And yet he did.

Jun-ho knew Seok-woo was attractive. That wasn’t the confusing part. What he didn’t understand was why him. Why Seok-woo’s eyes always seemed to find him in a crowded room. Why his pulse stumbled every time it happened. Why the attention made him feel both nervous and seen in a way that no one else ever bothered to see him.

He couldn’t decide which unsettled him more: the not knowing why, or the quiet, traitorous part of himself that didn’t want it to stop.

The afternoon sun had already begun to dip when the final bell rang. Jun-ho waited by the school gates with his best friend, the kind of easy quiet between them that came from years of habit. They were halfway through some half-hearted conversation about homework when his friend’s tone suddenly shifted.

“Oh-ho,” he drawled, grin sharp as he nudged Jun-ho in the ribs again. “Look who’s heading this way.”

Jun-ho frowned, not even bothering to look. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.” His friend’s grin only widened. “He’s totally coming over here. I told you he likes –”

Jun-ho swatted him on the arm before he could finish. “Go home.”

His friend laughed, hands raised in mock surrender, but his eyes still gleamed with mischief. “Fine, fine. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He clapped Jun-ho once on the shoulder and started down the street, tossing a final, knowing grin over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

Jun-ho exhaled slowly, hoping the heat in his face would fade before anyone noticed. Of course, that was exactly when he heard footsteps behind him.

He didn’t even have to turn to know. His ears were already burning.

“Hey,” came the voice, smooth and unmistakable. “Heading home?”

He turned and, predictably, there was Seok-woo. The late light hit him just right, catching in his hair and turning the edge of his smile into something that looked unfairly easy.

“Yeah,” Jun-ho said, quieter than he meant to.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

Jun-ho shook his head, unable to think of a reason to say no. They fell into step, the sound of gravel crunching underfoot filling the silence between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly – just strange. He wasn’t used to company on the walk home.

After a few minutes, Seok-woo spoke again, tone casual but curious. “So. That guy you’re always with… your boyfriend?”

Jun-ho blinked, the words hitting harder than expected. “What? No. He’s just my friend.”

“Just a friend, huh?” Seok-woo’s grin turned sharper. “The way he looks at you, I wasn’t sure.”

Jun-ho stumbled over the edge of a loose paving stone, his face going hot all over again. “He doesn’t – It’s not like that.”

Seok-woo chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, I’m kidding. Kind of.” His eyes flicked sideways, teasing. “Guess that means you’re single then.”

Jun-ho nearly tripped again. “Why are you –”

“Just making conversation.” Seok-woo’s tone was innocent, but the look on his face wasn’t. He was enjoying every second of it.

Jun-ho pressed his lips together, staring straight ahead. He knew he shouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but his pulse wouldn’t calm down. It was humiliating, how easily Seok-woo could pull a reaction out of him, how every glance and smirk landed like a spark under his skin.

And then, as the houses began to thin and the street turned quieter, Seok-woo’s teasing faded. His voice softened, the easy arrogance slipping into something almost hesitant. For a while, the only sounds were the crunch of gravel and the distant echo of traffic. Jun-ho could feel Seok-woo watching him from time to time, but every time he looked over, Seok-woo’s gaze had drifted somewhere else – sky, trees, anything that wasn’t him.

They walked in silence, though Jun-ho wasn’t sure he could’ve spoken even if he wanted to. His thoughts kept snagging on the shape of Seok-woo’s smile, the way he’d looked at him when he said it.

When they reached Jun-ho’s street, he slowed. “This is me.”

Seok-woo nodded but didn’t move to leave. Instead, he reached into his bag, pulling out a small paperback. “Here,” he said, holding it out.

Jun-ho blinked. “What’s this?”

“Just… a book,” Seok-woo said, eyes darting briefly away. “You’re always reading those detective things. Thought you might like it.”

Jun-ho hesitated before taking it. The cover was simple, a worn crime novel with folded corners and a faint coffee stain near the title. He turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the edge – and froze when he noticed the handwriting in the margin. Tight, slanted notes in blue ink. Seok-woo’s handwriting.

He looked up sharply. “You wrote in it.”

Seok-woo rubbed the back of his neck again, looking everywhere but at him. “Yeah, uh… I guess I got carried away. It’s not spoilers or anything. Just… thoughts.”

Jun-ho stared at him, trying to find the right reaction. His chest felt too tight, his throat useless. He thought of me. He brought me something.

And then, worse – Why is that so cute?

“Thanks,” he said finally, quieter than intended.

Seok-woo’s mouth curved again, softer this time. “Anytime.”

He turned to go, and Jun-ho stood there with the book pressed against his chest, watching the space where Seok-woo had been until the sound of his footsteps faded down the street.

The cover still felt warm where Seok-woo’s hand had been.

The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded too loud in the empty hallway. The apartment was quiet; the kind of quiet that felt thick after a long day of noise. Jun-ho slipped off his shoes, careful not to scuff the floor, and started up the narrow stairs toward his room.

The book was still in his hand. He hadn’t let go of it once.

The cover pressed faintly against his palm, the corners worn smooth, the faint smell of paper and Seok-woo’s cologne clinging to it. It felt heavier than it should, like it carried something more than just pages.

He didn’t understand it.

He kept replaying the walk home, the teasing grin, the shift in Seok-woo’s tone when the street got quieter, the awkward way he rubbed the back of his neck before handing the book over. Every detail stuck to him.

Why him?

He couldn’t make sense of it. Seok-woo could talk to anyone, make them laugh without even trying. The girls in class hung on his every word. Even the teachers smiled when he spoke. People like that didn’t notice people like Jun-ho. Not really. They passed by, maybe remembered a name, a face – but not enough to stop.

And yet Seok-woo had.

Jun-ho paused on the landing, staring down at the book in his hands. The light from the window caught the faint ink bleeding through the page, lines of handwriting he hadn’t read yet. It was almost like holding something alive.

He didn’t know what any of it meant.

He couldn’t decide if it made his chest feel light or heavy. All he knew was that Seok-woo had given it to him, that for some reason he’d thought Jun-ho might like it. That thought alone sent another flush crawling up the back of his neck.

He tightened his grip on the book, exhaling slowly.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, though he wasn’t sure who he meant – Seok-woo for being confusing, or himself for letting it matter so much.

The hallway stretched quiet and dim around him. He stood there for another long moment before finally turning toward his room, the book still cradled close to his chest, as if letting it go might make Seok-woo disappear with it.

Jun-ho shut the door behind him and dropped his bag on the chair, the soft thud echoing in the quiet room. He sat on the edge of his bed and turned the book over in his hands for a long moment before opening it.

He told himself he’d just read a few pages. Enough to see what kind of story it was.

But his eyes kept skipping past the printed lines to the ink pressed faintly into the margins. Seok-woo’s handwriting trailed between paragraphs – neat at first, then loosening into something quicker, less careful. A small exclamation mark beside a line of dialogue. A note that read terrible alibi, but interesting character. Another in the corner: Bet you’d have figured this out already.

Jun-ho stared at that one too long. His thumb hovered over the ink like he might smudge it away.

He wasn’t really reading anymore. He was listening – to Seok-woo’s voice in his head, dry and teasing, as if he were sitting right next to him again, leaning in to make a joke about the detective’s incompetence. It was ridiculous how vivid it felt, how the simple scrawl of a pen could make the space beside him feel suddenly occupied..

The world outside blurred away. He didn’t hear the front door open. He didn’t hear the familiar sound of shoes on the floorboards, or the faint creak of the stairs.

“Jun-ho?”

In-ho stood in the doorway, halfway out of his jacket, brow arched. “You didn’t hear me come in?”

“No – sorry,” Jun-ho said quickly, shutting the book with a soft thud.

In-ho stepped closer, curiosity flickering across his face. “What are you reading?”

“Nothing. Just something from school.”

The words came out too fast, too defensive. In-ho’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

“From school, huh? You didn’t steal one of my books again, did you?”

Jun-ho frowned, clutching the novel tighter. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” In-ho said, shrugging lightly, a teasing lilt in his voice. “You used to. You’d sneak them off my shelf and then leave cookie crumbs in the pages.”

“I was twelve,” Jun-ho muttered.

“Still.” In-ho nodded toward the book. “You get this worked up about every homework assignment, or is that one special?”

“I’m not worked up,” Jun-ho shot back. He could feel it, though – the warmth crawling up his neck, reaching his ears.

In-ho noticed. Of course he did. He leaned against the doorframe, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re blushing. What is it, a love story?”

“It’s not,” Jun-ho said, too quickly. “It’s a crime novel.”

“Ah. The romantic kind of crime, then.”

“Hyung.”

“Alright, alright,” In-ho said, hands raised in surrender, though the teasing didn’t leave his eyes. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Don’t stay up too late solving mysteries.”

He left the door half open when he went, still chuckling to himself.

Jun-ho sat very still, staring down at the book in his lap. His ears were still burning. He tried to tell himself it was just because of In-ho’s teasing. But when he opened the book again and saw Seok-woo’s handwriting snaking through the page, he wasn’t so sure.

Bet you’d have figured this out already.

Jun-ho’s lips twitched before he caught himself. He sighed, pressing his palm flat against the page. “Shut up,” he muttered under his breath – though he wasn’t sure who he was talking to anymore.

When the apartment had finally gone still, Jun-ho lay in bed with the book open on his chest. He had tried to sleep, but the words kept tugging him back. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the sharp tilt of Seok-woo’s handwriting in the margins, looping across the pages like a secret meant only for him.

He told himself it was curiosity. Just curiosity.

He turned another page. The story itself was good – clever, even – but it was the notes that held him captive. The detective is missing the obvious. Too trusting. Reminds me of someone. Bet you figured it out by now.

He could almost hear Seok-woo’s voice, low and amused, right beside him. Every line sounded like it had been written with him in mind, and that thought sent something uneasy crawling through his chest.

He rolled onto his side, the light from his desk lamp pooling in soft gold across the sheets. The clock on the nightstand blinked past one, then two. He told himself just one more chapter at least five times.

By three, his eyes were heavy, but he still hadn’t stopped. He read until the ink began to blur, until the words tangled into each other, until exhaustion finally dragged him under with the book still open beside him.

The smell of coffee and fried eggs hung thick in the apartment when Jun-ho shuffled into the kitchen, hair still damp from a rushed shower, backpack slipping off one shoulder. Morning light spilled in through the window, catching on the steam rising from the pan and the quiet domestic rhythm of the room.

In-ho was already dressed for work, sleeves rolled up with practiced precision, tie hanging loose around his neck like he hadn’t quite decided whether to finish the knot or not. The newspaper lay folded beside his plate, untouched for once.

Yuna was there too.

She sat sideways on the counter near the window, one leg bent, the other swinging lazily, mug cradled between her hands. She must have come over early, the way she sometimes did when she wasn’t working, slipping into the apartment like she still lived there. She looked up the moment Jun-ho appeared, eyes warm and sharp all at once.

“Well look at that,” she said. “He’s vertical. Miracles do happen.”

Jun-ho hummed something noncommittal and reached for a glass, pouring himself water. The kitchen sounded normal. Too normal. The quiet clink of glass on counter. The low hiss of the stove. The faint rustle of paper as In-ho shifted.

“Morning,” In-ho said without looking up. “You sleep at all, or were you still buried in that book?”

Jun-ho took his time drinking, gaze fixed firmly on the counter. The cool water grounded him. He could feel Yuna watching him now, curiosity flickering bright.

“That’s a yes,” In-ho went on, the faintest grin threading through his voice. “So. What’s it about? You never told me.”

“Just a mystery,” Jun-ho said finally. “Nothing special.”

Yuna snorted softly. “That’s not the tone you use for nothing special.”

Jun-ho shot her a look. She raised her eyebrows innocently and took another sip of coffee.

“Boring?” In-ho asked, finally glancing over his shoulder.

Jun-ho shrugged, one shoulder lifting higher than the other. “Kind of.”

“And yet,” In-ho said, turning back to the stove, “you couldn’t put it down.”

“It helps me focus,” Jun-ho muttered.

Yuna leaned forward slightly, peering at him. “Focus on what, exactly? Ignoring the fact that you look like you slept maybe three hours?”

Jun-ho scowled. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do,” she said easily. “You get that faraway look. Like your brain’s still somewhere else.”

In-ho tilted his head then, studying Jun-ho in that quiet, assessing way that always made Jun-ho feel vaguely transparent. For a moment, Jun-ho braced himself, waiting for another question, another nudge in a direction he wasn’t ready to explain.

But In-ho only exhaled and turned the heat down under the pan.

“Alright, bud,” he said instead. “Try not to miss the bus.”

Relief hit Jun-ho so fast it almost made him dizzy.

He grabbed his bag before anyone could change their mind, slinging it properly over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

“Hey,” Yuna called.

Jun-ho paused, fingers curling around the handle.

She smiled at him, softer now, less teasing. “Eat something later, okay?”

He nodded, ears warming faintly. “Yeah.”

He slipped out into the cool morning air, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

Inside, Yuna hopped down from the counter and leaned her elbow against it, watching the spot where Jun-ho had been.

“That book matters,” she said lightly.

In-ho cracked an egg into the pan, eyes still on the stove. “Yeah,” he replied after a beat. “I figured.”

At school, the chatter hit Jun-ho like static. He slid into his seat before the bell and pulled the book from his bag, thumbing automatically to the folded corner he’d stopped at. The words still blurred beneath the familiar curl of blue ink.

Obvious foreshadowing. You’d see through this in a second.

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. It was ridiculous how easy it was to imagine Seok-woo saying it out loud.

A nudge to his ribs broke the thought. “Seriously?”

“Seriously what?” Jun-ho asked without looking up.

His best friend groaned, slumping across the desk dramatically. “Why are you so obsessed with books? It’s unhealthy.”

Jun-ho rolled his eyes and turned a page. “It’s called reading.”

“It’s called ignoring me,” his friend shot back. “You’ve been doing that since last semester.” He gave Jun-ho’s sleeve a tug, dragging out his next words in a whine. “Come on, pay attention to me instead.”

Jun-ho huffed, trying to hide the faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m fun.”

Jun-ho shook his head, finally glancing up – just to make his friend stop pouting – and then everything in him went still.

Across the room, Seok-woo sat at his desk, one arm hooked lazily over the back of his chair, a pen twirling between his fingers. He wasn’t talking, wasn’t even pretending to listen to the chatter around him. His gaze was fixed on Jun-ho.

It wasn’t intense, not exactly, but there was something in it that made Jun-ho’s breath catch. A quiet knowing, a kind of amusement that felt like it reached across the space between them.

And then, as if he’d been caught staring, Seok-woo tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curling just enough to look like a secret.

Jun-ho’s heart stuttered once, then twice. He dropped his eyes back to the page, pulse thudding so loudly he was sure his friend could hear it.

“See?” his friend muttered, elbow nudging him again. “You don’t even blink when I talk. You’re hopeless.”

Jun-ho didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

The note under his thumb read: You always get distracted at the best parts.

Jun-ho stuffed the book into his backpack so fast the zipper caught the edge of the cover. His ears were burning. He could still feel Seok-woo’s gaze on him, even when he didn’t dare look up again.

“Uh-oh,” his best friend sing-songed under his breath. “Somebody’s embarrassed.”

“Shut up,” Jun-ho muttered, tugging his bag upright like it could act as a shield. “Class is starting.”

His friend only grinned, leaning closer. “Relax, I’m not judging. Just saying, you’ve been acting weird ever since –”

“I said shut up.”

The words came out too sharp, but his friend only laughed, unbothered, and turned back toward the board. Jun-ho kept his head down, pretending to read his notes while his pulse refused to settle.

The rest of the morning dragged. Every lesson blurred together. His best friend, never one to let something go, found new ways to torment him in between. A whisper about crushes during math. A low hum of a love song when the teacher wasn’t listening. Each time, Jun-ho rolled his eyes, pretending to be above it, pretending the warmth climbing up his neck had nothing to do with anything.

He tried to focus. He really did. But every time the room shifted, every time someone laughed or passed by, he found his eyes drawn toward the same spot.

Seok-woo.

It was never intentional. He’d glance up to rest his eyes and there he was, leaning over his notebook, the sunlight catching in his hair, the faint crease between his brows when he was concentrating. Or he’d be half-turned in his seat, talking to someone, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth as if amusement came naturally to him.

Jun-ho noticed ridiculous things. The way Seok-woo’s pen always twirled twice before he started writing. The way he tapped his thumb against the desk when he was bored. How he laughed quietly, like he was trying not to draw attention even though people still turned to look.

He told himself it was just habit – he noticed things, that was all. That’s what he did. But somewhere between classes, it stopped feeling like observation and started feeling like something else.

By the time the final bell rang, Jun-ho couldn’t have said what any of his teachers had talked about. His notebook was a page of half-written sentences and idle doodles. The only thing that stuck was the faint image of Seok-woo’s smile when their eyes had accidentally met again, right before the bell.

Jun-ho shoved his books into his bag, trying not to think about it. But the warmth in his chest refused to fade, following him out the door and into the golden afternoon light.

Seok-woo was already outside.

He leaned against the chain-link fence by the front steps, one heel hooked lazily into the metal, gaze drifting over the crowd like he was just another student killing time. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. He didn’t look like he was waiting for anyone in particular.

Jun-ho knew better.

The second Seok-woo’s eyes found him, something in his expression shifted. Subtle, but unmistakable. His attention sharpened. The corner of his mouth lifted, slow and satisfied, like he’d been proven right about something.

Jun-ho’s ears warmed instantly.

Of course.

He told himself to keep walking at the same pace. Not to hesitate. Not to look like he’d noticed. His body betrayed him anyway, steps slowing by half a second, awareness narrowing until there was only Seok-woo and the way he pushed off the fence as if Jun-ho’s arrival had been the cue all along.

“Well,” Seok-woo said, falling into step beside him without asking, voice light and amused, “there he is.”

Jun-ho kept his eyes forward. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Seok-woo echoed, clearly entertained. “That’s it? After ignoring me all day?”

Jun-ho tightened his grip on his bag strap. “I didn’t ignore you.”

Seok-woo hummed thoughtfully. “That’s interesting, because from where I was sitting, Detective, you didn’t look my way once.”

The nickname landed with annoying precision. Jun-ho risked a glance before he could stop himself and immediately regretted it. Seok-woo was watching him openly now, head tilted, eyes bright with that infuriating mix of curiosity and confidence.

“I was… busy,” Jun-ho muttered.

“With what?” Seok-woo asked easily. “Cracking the case?”

Jun-ho exhaled through his nose. “Stop calling me that.”

“No,” Seok-woo said, without hesitation. “It fits.”

He leaned a little closer as they walked, not enough to touch, just enough that Jun-ho could feel him there. The warmth. The presence. Like Seok-woo knew exactly how much space to take up.

“You get that look,” Seok-woo went on. “Like you’re cataloguing things. Filing them away. Gathering evidence.”

Jun-ho’s ears burned hotter. He shifted his bag to his other shoulder, hoping movement might ground him. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Seok-woo asked, mild but clearly enjoying this. “Because it really looked like you were avoiding me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You totally were.”

Jun-ho shot him a look. “I was trying to focus.”

Seok-woo laughed under his breath. “On what? You haven’t looked focused since yesterday.”

Jun-ho stumbled over a crack in the pavement and recovered quickly, pulse spiking with embarrassment. He hated that Seok-woo noticed things like that. “You talk too much.”

“And yet,” Seok-woo said, smiling wider, “you keep walking with me.”

Jun-ho didn’t have an answer. The realization settled uncomfortably in his chest. He was still walking beside him. Hadn’t even considered stopping.

They moved on in silence for a few steps. Jun-ho tried to slow his breathing, tried to ignore how close Seok-woo was, how easily he matched his pace. Tried not to replay the day in fragments. The looks. The glances. The feeling of being seen without knowing why.

“So,” Seok-woo said eventually, tone casual again, though his eyes stayed sharp, “did you get any reading done today, or were you too busy pretending I don’t exist?”

Jun-ho scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re bad at lying,” Seok-woo replied. “Your ears give you away.”

Jun-ho lifted a hand instinctively, mortified. “They do not.”

Seok-woo’s grin widened, pleased. “They really do.”

Jun-ho ducked his head, heat flooding his face. He hated how easy this was for him. How Seok-woo could poke at him and get a reaction every time, like he’d already figured out all the weak spots.

They reached the corner where Jun-ho usually turned.

Seok-woo slowed.

The teasing didn’t disappear, but it softened, just slightly. Enough that Jun-ho noticed.

“So,” Seok-woo said, hands slipping back into his pockets, “same time tomorrow, Detective? Or are you planning on ignoring me again?”

Jun-ho hesitated, heart thudding harder than it had any right to. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”

Seok-woo smiled, quieter now. “Good.”

Jun-ho looked at him, unsure why that one word made his chest tighten the way it did, like it had hooked somewhere beneath his ribs and refused to let go.

“See you tomorrow,” Seok-woo added, already stepping back, the easy confidence sliding back into place like armor.

Then he turned.

Just like that, Seok-woo pivoted on his heel and headed off down the street, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders loose. A moment later, a quiet whistle floated back, tuneless but unbothered, like the world had neatly realigned itself and nothing more needed to be said.

Jun-ho stayed where he was, frozen, watching him go.

He didn’t know why he kept staring, why his eyes tracked the line of Seok-woo’s back until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. His chest still felt tight, warm in a way that made no sense at all, his ears prickling like they were trying to warn him about something he didn’t yet understand.

When he finally moved, it was all at once.

Jun-ho spun on his heel and bolted for home, sneakers pounding against the pavement as if running might burn the feeling out of his chest before it had time to settle in for good.

Of course, Seok-woo didn’t let it drop.

If anything, he seemed to make a game out of it, as if Jun-ho’s growing determination to pretend none of this was happening had become a challenge worth indulging. He found him in the hallways between classes, leaning against lockers with that infuriating ease, smiling like Jun-ho’s presence alone had been the highlight of his day. Sometimes he waved. Sometimes he just watched, eyes catching on Jun-ho from across the crowd and holding there a fraction too long, like he was waiting to see whether Jun-ho would look back this time.

Jun-ho almost never did.

He kept his gaze trained forward, on the tiled floor, on the back of the student walking ahead of him, on anything that wasn’t Seok-woo. He told himself it was easier that way. Safer. Because every time their eyes met, his heart betrayed him, skipping and stuttering like it had forgotten how to keep a normal rhythm. He hated how obvious his body was, how quickly warmth bloomed under his skin, how his ears burned whenever Seok-woo laughed somewhere nearby, even when the laugh had nothing to do with him.

Especially then.

It was getting ridiculous. He avoided Seok-woo’s looks like they were contagious, like one wrong glance might unravel him completely. He sat a little straighter in class, stared too hard at the board, filled the margins of his notebook with pointless lines and shapes just to keep his hands busy. Still, awareness followed him everywhere, a constant hum under his thoughts. He always knew where Seok-woo was. Always knew when he entered a room, when he left it, when his laughter cut through the noise like something bright and unavoidable.

His best friend noticed, of course. He noticed everything Jun-ho didn’t want noticed. The lingering looks Jun-ho didn’t return. The way he flinched when Seok-woo’s voice came too close. The way his ears gave him away every single time. Jun-ho endured the eyebrow wiggles, the exaggerated sighs, the whispered comments, and pretended they didn’t get to him. Pretended this was all very normal and not spiraling quietly out of control.

By the time he was nearly finished with the book, Jun-ho wasn’t sure which unsettled him more: the attention at school, or the notes waiting for him in the margins.

Somewhere past the halfway point, the handwriting changed.

The sharp sarcasm softened. The quick jabs at incompetent detectives gave way to something slower, more deliberate, like Seok-woo had stopped trying to be clever and started being honest instead. The notes lingered on certain lines, circled moments of hesitation, underlined quiet exchanges between characters.

I like this part.

This feels important.

He’s not wrong. Just scared.

Jun-ho found himself stopping more often, rereading those notes instead of the story, fingers hovering over the ink like he might feel something through the page. It gave him whiplash, the shift from teasing confidence to this strange sincerity tucked into the margins of a crime novel. It was… cute. There was no other word for it. And deeply, painfully confusing.

Because none of this lined up.

Seok-woo still had people orbiting him constantly. Girls clung to his arms in the hallways, laughing too loudly, finding excuses to touch his sleeve, his shoulder, his hand. Even some of the popular guys seemed to lose all common sense around him, posturing and joking too hard, desperate for his attention. Seok-woo thrived in the center of it, effortless and magnetic.

Jun-ho watched from the edges, the way he always did. He knew where he stood in that picture. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t charming. He didn’t shine. He existed quietly, carefully, content to be overlooked.

And yet Seok-woo kept finding him.

Kept choosing the empty seat beside him. Kept matching his pace on the walk home. Kept writing notes that sounded like they were meant to be read slowly, thoughtfully, by someone who would notice the difference.

Jun-ho closed the book one afternoon and pressed it flat against his desk, as if the weight of it might steady the uneven thud of his heart. His ears were warm again. Of course they were.

Why him?

The question echoed louder with every passing day, with every avoided glance and every smile he pretended not to see. And no matter how hard he tried to ignore Seok-woo’s attention, no matter how carefully he convinced himself this would pass, Jun-ho couldn’t shake the growing certainty that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to let him go quietly.

Seok-woo snapped first.

Jun-ho barely had time to register the hand closing around his wrist before he was being pulled sideways, the sudden change in direction knocking the breath out of him. The hallway noise blurred into a rush of voices and lockers and footsteps, and then the door of an empty classroom shut behind them with a soft but decisive click.

Jun-ho blinked.

Seok-woo stood in front of him, closer than he ever had been, chest rising a little too fast, eyes bright in a way that made Jun-ho’s brain short-circuit completely.

His ears went beet red.

“What the hell –” Jun-ho spluttered, instincts finally catching up as he lifted his hand and smacked Seok-woo’s arm, not hard but sharp enough to make the point. “Are you insane?”

“Ow,” Seok-woo said automatically, rubbing at the spot with a sheepish wince. “Okay, yeah, I deserved that.”

Jun-ho stared at him, heart hammering so loudly he was sure Seok-woo could hear it. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and dust, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows, catching on the empty desks. They were alone. Very alone. And Jun-ho had no idea what to do with that.

“You can’t just –” He gestured vaguely at the door, at Seok-woo, at everything. “Drag people into classrooms.”

“I know,” Seok-woo said quickly, hands lifting in surrender. His usual confidence had slipped, replaced by something awkward and almost nervous. “I just – I needed to catch you alone before school ended.”

Jun-ho crossed his arms, more to give himself something to do than out of actual anger. His ears were still burning. “Why.”

Seok-woo hesitated, then huffed out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because you’ve been avoiding me… again,” he said, not accusing, just stating it like a fact. “And because I like walking you home. But I needed to know something.”

Jun-ho’s stomach flipped.

“The book,” Seok-woo added, quieter now. “Are you… done with it?”

Jun-ho blinked again, thrown completely off balance by the shift. That was it? That was why he’d been kidnapped?

“Oh,” he said dumbly.

He thought of the folded corner near the end, the last few pages he’d been saving because somehow finishing it felt heavier than he’d expected. The murderer had been caught. The mystery almost unraveled. All that was left was some kind of resolution.

“I’m almost done,” Jun-ho said, tilting his head slightly. “Just a few pages left.”

Seok-woo’s shoulders eased, relief flickering across his face before he could hide it. He nodded once, then looked away again, fingers dragging through his hair in a way that felt strangely unguarded.

“Okay,” he said. “Good.”

Jun-ho watched him, confusion tightening in his chest. “Why does that matter?”

Seok-woo didn’t answer right away. He shifted his weight, gaze fixed on the floor like it held something very interesting. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, less teasing than Jun-ho was used to.

“Just… let me know when you’re finished,” he said. “Yeah?”

Before Jun-ho could respond, before he could ask what that meant or why Seok-woo suddenly looked like he’d said too much, Seok-woo stepped past him, opened the door, and slipped back into the hallway like nothing had happened.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jun-ho stood there alone in the empty classroom, heart racing, ears still burning, staring at the space where Seok-woo had been.

“What,” he muttered faintly, to no one at all.

He had no idea what any of that meant.

And somehow, that made finishing the book feel terrifying.

So, Jun-ho didn’t go to last period.

The decision wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t storm out or slam a door. He just… didn’t turn toward the classroom when the bell rang. His feet carried him the other way, down the quieter hall toward the empty rooms, heart thudding harder with every step as the reality of what he was doing caught up to him.

He’d never skipped a class before.

The thought sat heavy in his chest as he slipped into an unused classroom and closed the door softly behind him. He kept imagining a teacher noticing the empty seat, pausing mid-roll call, frowning at the list. Jun-ho wasn’t the kind of student who vanished. He was reliable. Predictable. Easy.

Maybe they’d just assume he was sick. Or pulled out for something administrative. He clung to that hope desperately.

Please don’t call anyone, he thought, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

Please don’t call Eomma.

Because Eomma would worry. And Eomma would ask questions. And Eomma would absolutely tell In-ho.

And Jun-ho did not want to explain to his hyung that he had skipped class to finish a book. Not this book. Not when he didn’t even understand why it mattered so much himself.

He sat at a desk by the window, sunlight spilling across the scratched surface, and pulled the paperback from his bag with hands that still felt faintly unsteady. He opened it where he’d left off, breath shallow, as if the story might slip away if he hesitated too long.

The ending came quietly.

The mystery resolved itself with careful logic, loose threads tied off one by one. The murderer was caught. Motives laid bare. Justice, in its own imperfect way, served. But threaded through it all was the small, understated love story that had grown alongside the investigation, tentative at first, then undeniable. It didn’t end grandly. It ended honestly.

Jun-ho felt something ache in his chest as he read the final pages.

Bittersweet. That was the word.

But even then, even at the very end, his eyes kept drifting away from the printed text and back to the margins. To Seok-woo’s handwriting, softer here, more careful. Fewer jokes. More pauses. One last note circled near the conclusion:

This part matters.

Jun-ho swallowed and turned the page.

That was when he noticed it.

Letters. Not words. Letters.

Certain ones were darker, pressed harder into the page, faintly boxed or underlined in a way that didn’t match the rest of the notes. His brow furrowed as he leaned closer, pulse quickening. That was new. Seok-woo didn’t usually do that. He wrote thoughts, not… whatever this was.

Jun-ho flipped back a page. Then another.

There were more.

The same thing. Isolated letters, scattered carefully across the chapter. Too deliberate to be accidental.

“What…” he murmured under his breath.

His heart began to race in earnest now, not with panic, but with something sharper. Focused. The same feeling he got when a puzzle finally started to reveal its edges.

Slowly, deliberately, Jun-ho dug through his backpack and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He smoothed the paper flat on the desk, then went back to the book, page by page, carefully copying down each highlighted letter in the order they appeared.

His handwriting grew tighter the further he got.

When he finally reached the last one, he sat back, staring at the line of letters on the page in front of him, breath shallow, ears warming all over again as the meaning began to settle.

Whatever Seok-woo had left for him in the margins…

It hadn’t just been thoughts.

Jun-ho copied the last letter down with a hand that had started to shake.

He stared at the line on the paper for a long moment, convinced he must have done it wrong. That he’d misread something. That the lack of sleep, the skipped class, the way his heart wouldn’t slow down had finally caught up with him.

Then he read it again. Slower this time.

The letters didn’t form a code. They didn’t spell out a confession in a single blunt line. They unfolded into something gentler than that, arranged so carefully it made his chest ache.

A quiet corner.

A borrowed book.

Two minds circling the same truth.

Jun-ho swallowed.

You notice what others miss.

You listen where others speak.

You see me.

His breath caught, sharp and sudden, like he’d been punched lightly just under the ribs.

Below it, written smaller, the handwriting unmistakably Seok-woo’s, the ink pressed into the page with hesitant care, was one last line. Not hidden. Not coded.

Just there.

I’ve been thinking about kissing you since the first moment I saw you.

Jun-ho’s ears went nuclear.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, as if that might stop the rush of warmth flooding his face, his neck, his chest. His heart was hammering now, fast and uneven, each beat loud enough that he was sure it could be heard through the empty classroom.

“No,” he whispered, though he didn’t mean it like rejection. More like disbelief. Like his brain was trying desperately to catch up with his body.

He looked back down at the book, at the margins he’d memorized over the past few days. The teasing comments. The thoughtful pauses. The sincerity that had crept in so quietly he hadn’t noticed until it was everywhere.

It wasn’t sudden.

It had been building this whole time.

The walks home. The attention. The way Seok-woo always looked at him like Jun-ho was worth slowing down for. The way he’d asked, carefully, whether Jun-ho was done with the book, like finishing it meant something irreversible.

Jun-ho pressed the book flat against the desk, fingers splayed over the cover, breathing hard.

He felt dizzy. Light. Terrified.

And unmistakably, undeniably seen.

“So that’s why,” he murmured.

The bell rang somewhere far away, echoing down the halls, but Jun-ho didn’t move. He stayed there, alone in the empty classroom, staring at Seok-woo’s handwriting like it had rewritten the rules of his world.

He’d skipped class for this.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt worth it.

Jun-ho stayed in the classroom far longer than he meant to.

The sun had shifted by the time he finally looked up from the desk, light slanting across the floor at a different angle, dust motes drifting lazily through it like the room itself had decided to slow down. The building sounded different now. Quieter. Hollow in a way that made his chest feel tight. Somewhere far away a door slammed. Footsteps echoed, then faded.

He realized, distantly, that school must be over.

A sharp twist of panic cut through him then. Seok-woo had waited before. He always waited. But not forever. Jun-ho had vanished without a word, skipped class like an idiot, stayed hidden with a book and a confession folded into its pages. Anyone would have assumed he wasn’t coming.

He stood too fast, chair scraping loudly, heart already racing. He shoved the book into his bag and hurried down the stairs, mind spinning with half-formed thoughts that all circled the same thing.

He’s gone. Of course he’s gone.

The afternoon air hit him as he stepped outside, warm and golden and unfairly calm.

And there he was.

Seok-woo leaned against the same damn fence like he did every day, one heel hooked into the chain links, shoulders loose, gaze drifting idly over the grounds as if he hadn’t been waiting at all. As if this was coincidence. As if Jun-ho hadn’t been on his mind the entire time.

Jun-ho stopped dead.

Heat rushed to his face so fast it made his vision blur. His ears went beet red instantly, burning like they were broadcasting every thought he was trying desperately to keep inside. He stood there, frozen, staring like Seok-woo might vanish if he blinked.

Seok-woo noticed him a second later.

His head turned. His eyes lit up. And that smirk spread slowly across his face, wider and more satisfied than it had any right to be, like he’d known Jun-ho would come eventually.

That did it.

Jun-ho moved before his brain could intervene.

He marched straight toward him, steps quick and determined, the book clenched in his hand like evidence he was finally done hiding. Seok-woo straightened, surprise flashing across his face just as Jun-ho reached him and shoved the book against his chest.

“Hey –” Seok-woo started, instinctively catching it.

Jun-ho grabbed his hand with the other one and pulled.

Hard.

Seok-woo stumbled forward, completely off balance, a startled laugh breaking from him as he scrambled to keep up. “Whoa – Jun-ho, wait–”

Jun-ho didn’t stop. He dragged him past the gate, away from the school, down the street toward somewhere quieter, somewhere empty. His heart hammered so violently it felt like it was shaking his ribs apart. His ears were on fire. His thoughts were a mess, crashing over each other in no useful order at all.

By the time they reached a stretch of road lined with trees and silent houses, Jun-ho finally stopped.

He let go of Seok-woo’s hand and immediately started pacing, running both hands through his hair, breathing too fast, trying to calm himself down. His chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the world for what he needed to say.

Behind him, Seok-woo recovered.

“Well,” Seok-woo said, voice sliding back into that familiar teasing tone like a shield snapping into place. “This is new. You usually just glare at me.”

Jun-ho didn’t turn.

Seok-woo leaned back against a tree, flipping the book open like it weighed nothing at all. “Kidnapping me off school grounds, Detective. Bold move.” He glanced down at the pages, lips curving. “Did you like the ending?”

Jun-ho stopped pacing.

Slowly, he turned.

Seok-woo was skimming the margins now, expression carefully casual, smirk in place but too tight at the edges. Jun-ho could see it now, clear as day. The teasing wasn’t confidence. It was defense. Armor.

“You get to the good part yet?” Seok-woo added, eyes flicking up briefly.

Jun-ho stared at him.

Just stared.

Something in Seok-woo’s expression flickered, uncertainty breaking through for half a heartbeat before the smirk reasserted itself. “You know,” he continued, clearly talking too much now, “you could’ve just told me you finished it. No need to–”

Jun-ho crossed the distance between them in two steps.

He grabbed Seok-woo by the front of his collar and yanked him forward.

Seok-woo’s breath hitched, eyes widening just enough for Jun-ho to see the shock there before Jun-ho kissed him.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t practiced. It was messy and urgent and driven by weeks of swallowed tension finally snapping. Jun-ho’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he might pass out, ears burning, grip tight like he was afraid Seok-woo might disappear if he let go. His thoughts dissolved completely, replaced by the heat of Seok-woo’s mouth, the startled sound he made against Jun-ho’s lips.

For a second, Seok-woo froze.

Then he melted into it.

His free hand came up instinctively, fingers curling into Jun-ho’s sleeve, anchoring himself. The book slipped from his other hand and thudded softly to the ground, forgotten. The kiss softened, deepened, turned into something real and careful and unmistakably mutual.

When Jun-ho finally pulled back, breathless and shaking, he stayed close, forehead almost touching Seok-woo’s.

“You’re an idiot,” Jun-ho said, voice unsteady, fierce and embarrassed and honest all at once.

Seok-woo laughed quietly, the sound warm and relieved, his own breath still uneven. “Yeah,” he admitted, eyes bright and unguarded now. “I was hoping you’d figure it out.”

Jun-ho’s ears burned hotter than ever.

This time, he didn’t try to hide it.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Part 2

[everwhovian]

Sneak peek || WIP Wednesday

Hey guys! I promised @jqntb that I’d post a little sneak peek of my upcoming 'you’re not worthy of my brother’s heart' fic, so here we go!

This fic really developed a mind of its own! I’m not entirely happy with the line delivery yet, but… it is what it is 😅

I’ll definitely be posting it in two parts. Part 1 will be Seok-woo and Jun-ho getting together, and part 2 will be Jun-ho introducing his boyfriend to In-ho 👀

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

In-ho let his gaze rest on him without apology. Years of habit took over, cataloguing details automatically. Too calm. Too comfortable in his own skin. The sort of boy who knew exactly what his smile did to people and used it without thinking twice. Confidence worn easily, like a jacket he’d learned early how to slip into. In-ho had met boys like that before. Men like that too. They moved through the world cushioned by their own charm, rarely realizing how much space they took up.

In-ho felt a flicker of something unpleasant twist low in his chest.

Jun-ho had brought a boy home.

Jun-ho had brought this home.

That thought alone made something tighten in him. In-ho had known for years who Jun-ho might love, had never once cared. He had told him so, quietly and firmly, when Jun-ho was still small enough to believe reassurance could fix everything.

But Jun-ho bringing anyone home meant something had shifted. It meant he wasn’t just growing anymore. He had grown. Quietly, without asking permission.

For a moment, In-ho’s mind betrayed him, slipping backward in time.

Jun-ho at seven, trailing behind him with a backpack too big for his shoulders. Jun-ho at ten, waiting up past his bedtime because In-ho had promised to come home before midnight. Jun-ho at thirteen, pretending not to care when In-ho missed a school event, pretending he hadn’t been watching the door.

It had always been like this. Jun-ho growing in increments In-ho didn’t notice until he turned around and realized something else had slipped out of reach.

And now he was dating.

In-ho exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You didn’t run,” he said at last.

Seok-woo looked up. “No, sir.”

That answer told In-ho more than the word itself.

In-ho folded his arms. “You know how you’re perceived.”

“Yes.”

“You know people respond to you easily.” In-ho watched closely for false modesty, for evasion. “You’re aware of what you look like. Of what that gives you.”

A faint twitch of Seok-woo’s mouth. Not pride. Recognition. “I am.”

Good. At least he wasn’t lying.

“And my brother,” In-ho continued, voice controlled, “is not like that.”

Something shifted then. Seok-woo’s attention sharpened, easy confidence dimming just a fraction.

In-ho leaned forward, palms flat against the table. “Jun-ho notices everything. He feels things deeply and quietly. He will make himself smaller before he ever demands space.” The words scraped on something raw as they left his mouth. “He has done that since he was a child.”

Seok-woo swallowed.

In-ho noticed.

“You don’t get to take that lightly,” In-ho said. “You don’t get to enjoy his affection without understanding its weight.”

“I wouldn’t,” Seok-woo said quickly, too quickly.

In-ho straightened, studying him. He had expected arrogance. Or dismissal. Or irritation at being challenged. What he found instead unsettled him more. The boy was tense now, holding himself together with effort rather than ease. The boy held his ground.

In-ho hadn’t expected that.

The worst part was the realization settling uncomfortably in his chest. He had expected to dislike this boy. To find something obvious to object to. Arrogance. Carelessness. A sense of entitlement.

Instead, he found… sincerity. Stubbornness. A kind of attention that looked uncomfortably like care.

It irritated him more than outright dislike would have.

“You’re not worthy of my brother’s heart,” In-ho said.

The words came out level and deliberate. Not a threat. Not an insult. A statement.

Seok-woo went still.

In-ho watched the impact ripple through him, the instinctive reaction tamped down by effort. Good. Anyone who couldn’t take that didn’t deserve to sit at this table.

“And yet,” In-ho went on, “you’re still here.”

“Yes,” Seok-woo said, voice quieter now. “Because whether I’m worthy or not isn’t yours to decide.”

In-ho’s gaze sharpened.

That, at least, was true.

“I don’t think I deserve him,” Seok-woo added after a moment. “But I want to be someone who does.”

In-ho held his stare.

He didn’t like this boy.

He also didn’t hate him.

That, In-ho suspected, was going to be the real problem.

[junh0lic]

The concept of guard Salesman and undercover Junho lives on..