Archive of Our Own ^beta

Everyone and their mother knew Go Hyuntak was ferociously, pathetically, undeniably in love with Geum Seongje. It wasn’t even gossip at this point—it was common knowledge, like the sun rising or kids skipping class after lunch. He didn’t make it subtle. He didn’t even want to. His whole face gave him away, every time, every fucking time he saw Seongje across the street, across the city, across enemy lines. There was something so raw and unsparing about the way Hyuntak loved—like he’d taken every rule about pride and self-preservation and set them on fire. Like he knew this love would eventually gut him, eat him alive from the inside out, but he still opened his mouth and welcomed it in. Smiling. Bleeding. Alive.

And people never quite got it—why he was the one who fell first. Why the kid with the smart mouth and the cocky grin, who could joke his way out of a hospital bed and still talk shit while spitting blood, ended up catching feelings like it was nothing. Like it was inevitable. But the thing was, Hyuntak never stood a chance. Not when it came to him. Seongje, with his razor-blade tongue and eyes that never gave anything away, who wore indifference like armor but cracked, just slightly, when he thought no one was watching. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to be. He was the type of person who walked into a room and shifted it—made the air different, thicker somehow. Hyuntak wasn’t stupid. He saw it right away. Saw the weight in Seongje’s silence, the way he kept the world at a distance but still looked like he was always waiting for someone to step closer.

And Hyuntak did. God, did he. Over and over again. Loudly, recklessly, with all the intensity of someone who didn’t care about getting hurt. Because Seongje wasn’t just a boy. He was gravity. The quiet kind—the kind that pulled without warning. The kind that made you feel like everything else was background noise. He didn’t try to fix Hyuntak or calm him down or stuff him into a box. He let him be. Even when it was messy. Especially when it was messy. And for Hyuntak, who’d spent his whole life yelling just to be heard, that meant something.

But the part that nobody expected—hell, the part even Hyuntak didn’t see coming—was that Seongje fell too. Slower, maybe. Softer. But deeper. Like drowning with your eyes open. And it showed. Not in grand gestures or dramatic confessions, but in the small, precise things he didn’t say. In the way he’d text Hyuntak things like “you’re annoying” at 3AM and then stay up until 5 listening to him rant about nothing. In the way he remembered all of Hyuntak’s bruises, even the ones no one else noticed. They were both so bad at it—at loving. It came out wrong. Tangled. Competitive. Like everything was a game, a dare, a who-can-care-less contest. But it worked. God, it worked. They bickered like old men and flirted like it was warfare, but beneath it all, there was this stupid, aching sincerity they didn’t know what to do with. And so it came out crooked. Petty. But real.

And somewhere along the line, without even trying, they started to shift. To change. Like standing too close to a fire and coming away smelling like smoke.

Hyuntak, all impulse and heat, started learning restraint—not because he had to, but because Seongje never reacted the way others did. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t cower. He watched. Smirked. Waited. So Hyuntak learned to cool the blaze into something sharper. His anger didn’t vanish, but it focused. His words stopped bursting out like firecrackers and started landing like frostbite. And Seongje—cocky, cruel, detached—began slipping. Just a little. Laughing under his breath when Hyuntak got too worked up over something stupid. Poking at him on purpose just to see him flare. He still wore his pride like armor, still treated the world like it owed him a challenge worth his time—but around Hyuntak, the edges dulled. He didn’t pull away as fast. He lingered.

His guard stayed up, sure, but he’d crack it open just enough to let Hyuntak peek inside. And Hyuntak always did. Always stayed.

Their personalities, once total opposites, began to bleed into one another—slow and inevitable, like ink soaking into paper, impossible to undo. They mirrored each other’s habits. Picked up each other’s slang. Started fighting in the same rhythm. Even their friends noticed it—the way Seongje would say something bone-dry and Hyuntak would bark out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to both of them. Or the way Hyuntak would go quiet for a second too long, and Seongje would know. Would feel it. They weren’t sure when it started. Just that it did. Just that now, they weren’t sure where one ended and the other began.

They were tangled. Infected. Mutated versions of their former selves—flawed, jagged, and so, so full of something that couldn’t be named out loud. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But it was there. In the looks. In the silence. In the laughter. In every stupid text that said “shut up” but really meant “stay.” In every brush of the hand, every petty insult, every time they stood close enough that breathing felt like a choice.

And somehow, even with everything stacked against them—different schools, different lives, different damage—they kept showing up. For each other. In spite of it all. Because at the end of the day, whatever this was—this beautiful, infuriating, low-key toxic thing—they both knew it was real.

And real was enough.

The quiet that settled between them wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It just existed, heavy and full of things neither of them knew how to say without making it weird. Or worse—vulnerable.

Then, like he couldn't stand the tension another second, Hyuntak spoke.

"You know, Je..." Hyuntak’s voice slipped into the silence like he was sliding something sharp under soft skin—slow, deliberate, uninvited but impossible to ignore. It wasn’t loud. Barely above a murmur, actually. But it cut anyway, the kind of tone that meant he’d been thinking it for a while and just couldn't help himself anymore. "You’re actually kinda cute. Like, real cute. I mean, now that I’m really looking at you.”

The words hung there for a beat too long. Awkward, weirdly gentle, and way too sincere for someone who usually led with sarcasm or noise.

Seongje turned his head with the precision of a sniper, slow and suspicious, like he already knew whatever was about to come out of Hyuntak’s mouth next would make him want to punch something. His eyes narrowed. That classic expression—bored and deeply unimpressed—was already settling in, but underneath it, there was that flicker of something quieter. Amusement, maybe. Or confusion. Or disbelief. Mostly just a long, simmering what the actual fuck.

"The hell’s gotten into you, Go Hyuntak?” Seongje deadpanned, like it wasn’t even worth the energy of being surprised anymore. “Is this supposed to be another one of your mid-day love confessions, or are you just malfunctioning again?”

Hyuntak just smiled—but not in that usual smug, teeth-baring way that made Seongje want to slap the stupid off his face. This time, it was quieter. Gentler. No twitch in his brow, no sidelong glance. Just a steady, unshaken gaze like he wasn’t trying to prove anything. Like he didn’t need to.

“I’m just being honest,” he said with a shrug so nonchalant it practically dripped fake innocence. “No hidden agenda. Chill.”

But God, of course there was something deeper. There always was. You could hear it—buried just beneath the surface—in the way his voice dipped half a note too low. In the way his shoulders tilted forward slightly, like his body was betraying him. Like part of him was inching closer without meaning to. Like he was holding something back because if he said it out loud, it would mean too much. Be too much.

Seongje didn’t budge. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even frown. He just stared, stone-cold, deadpan—waiting. Daring Hyuntak to ruin it. To laugh. To toss out a “kidding!” or pick a fight just to wriggle out of the moment like he always did. But nothing came. No punchline. Just that stare. That goddamn look.

Something shifted. Barely. But enough.

And then suddenly—like something inside him snapped—Seongje lunged forward. His hand clutched Hyuntak’s shirt, fist twisting the fabric tight in one quick, heated motion, dragging him in like he’d had it. Like whatever line they’d been tiptoeing around had just disintegrated, and Seongje was so over pretending it wasn’t there.

“If you’re gonna kiss me,” he muttered, voice rough and low and dangerous, “then fucking do it already.”

Hyuntak stalled. Just for a split second. Not because he didn’t want to kiss him—hell no. And not because he was scared either. It was because Seongje actually said it. Out loud. With that same unbothered voice he used for everything, like he wasn’t asking for something fragile and irreversible. Like it wasn’t a cliff they were both standing on the edge of, pretending the fall didn’t matter. And that? That short-circuited Hyuntak’s entire system. His brain hiccupped. Froze. Like he’d been waiting for a punchline that never came. His heart jolted—one hard, ridiculous thump—like his body had heard the words before his mind could process them.

Then he blinked and did the only thing his idiot self knew how to do in moments like this: pretend he still had control.

“Who the hell said I was gonna kiss you?” he fired back, voice sharp but shaky at the edges—like someone trying to salvage the last remaining shards of pride before they crumbled completely. The words came fast, too fast to sound convincing. His eyes were wide, caught off guard, and yeah—there was a flush starting to creep up his neck, traitorous and obvious. But he was already grinning through it. Not the cocky, calculated kind of grin—this one was looser, breathless, like laughter slipping through cracks in the armor. Like he didn’t know what else to do with himself besides laugh and hope it masked how badly he wanted this.

And then it appeared—that godforsaken smile.

The one Seongje loathed with every fiber of his being. The one that looked like it belonged on someone too pretty to be a menace and too charming to be safe. All uneven teeth and mischief, softened by something irritatingly endearing underneath. It made Hyuntak look like the human embodiment of chaos wrapped in puppy eyes. Like he could ruin your entire week and then help you clean it up with a dumb grin and zero guilt. And the worst part? It worked. That smile always worked. Seongje’s chest pulled tight, like his heart clenched without permission, and God, he hated how familiar that reaction was.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no real venom behind it. Just the exhausted tone of someone who’d long made peace with the fact that Hyuntak would always be an enigma wrapped in absurdity. A migraine disguised as a person. A problem Seongje chose to keep choosing, over and over again. His voice was flat, detached, like the emotional equivalent of an eye roll—but even as he spoke, his hand betrayed him. It moved on instinct, reaching out and curling into the sleeve of Hyuntak’s shirt, tugging with a gentleness that didn’t match the tension still coiled in his body.

He pulled him in again—but this time, it wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t angry or desperate. It was careful. Deliberate. Like he was finally letting down whatever walls he’d built around himself without announcing it. His cheek pressed lightly against Hyuntak’s shoulder, his grip looking loose, relaxed even. But it was a lie. A cover. Because the way his fingers dug in just a little too tight told the real story.

He was holding on. Clinging, really. Not for show. Not out of pride. But because somewhere deep in that messed-up heart of his, something was unraveling—and he didn’t know how to explain it without falling apart.

Hyuntak smiled into Seongje’s hair like it was the most casual, normal thing in the entire universe. Like resting his chin there wasn’t intimate, like breathing the same air wasn’t something worth commenting on. No cocky quip. No smug jab. Just that easy, infuriatingly warm grin—the one that always came uninvited but never felt out of place.

And then, without a hint of hesitation, he said it.

“No, but really—Je... you’re cute.”

The words were muffled, his voice brushing softly against Seongje’s hair, teasing but weirdly genuine in a way that made them hit way too hard. “Like… actually cute,” he added, like he needed to clarify it wasn’t a joke. “You’ve got one of those smiles that makes people do really dumb shit.”

The silence that followed wasn’t long, but it was charged. Seongje didn’t move at first. But his whole body went rigid—shoulders tense, spine locked—like a startled animal realizing it had wandered into a trap. Slowly, like his limbs were weighed down by disbelief, he pulled back just enough to look at Hyuntak. His face shifted as he turned, and by the time their eyes met, Seongje’s expression had fully transformed into a mix of pure offense and total confusion.

He stared at him like Hyuntak had just announced something utterly unhinged. Like he’d said, “I’m running for president” or “I’ve been scouted by SM Entertainment.” That kind of whiplash.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Seongje asked, voice flat but laced with wariness. He blinked hard, like maybe if he closed his eyes for long enough, this moment would glitch and reset itself. “You’re not usually like this.”

His tone turned cautious, almost suspicious, like Hyuntak had just handed him a suspiciously sweet drink at a house party and said, trust me.

“Are you trying to give me a stroke?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “Is this how I go? You buttering me up before you emotionally assassinate me?”

Hyuntak burst out laughing—loud, unfiltered, and completely amused by the reaction. It wasn’t mean-spirited, but it was definitely mocking, as if he was enjoying watching Seongje squirm under the weight of something as simple as a compliment.

“I mean, yeah. Obviously,” he said between laughs. “That’s always been the plan. Death by compliments. Death by charm. I’ve been laying the groundwork for months now.”

Seongje rolled his eyes, but it was weak, lazy—like his brain was too scrambled to commit to the usual sass.

“I don’t think that’s how strokes work,” he mumbled, but the edge in his voice had dulled. It was quieter now, sitting somewhere in that blurry space between awkward disbelief and something warmer. Something soft, hesitant. Like part of him didn’t hate hearing it.

Hyuntak wasn’t finished. Oh no, not even remotely close. His voice still carried that casual smugness like he was lounging in the comfort of being a menace, but his eyes—sharp, glinting—were already gearing up for another round. “No, but seriously,” he said, drawling out each syllable like it was laced in honey, “you’re the cute one, Je. Not me.”

His grin curled wider—shameless, unfiltered, and entirely too pleased with himself. “Like, have you seen yourself? It’s honestly kind of unfair. Offensive, even.”

Seongje rolled his eyes so hard he practically saw the inside of his own skull, but the dryness in his voice didn’t quite mask the betrayal of his body. “Unfortunately,” he muttered, attempting to sound unbothered. But his ears were already selling him out—betrayal blooming in shades of pink, a slow, creeping flush that crawled up his neck like his entire bloodstream had been set on fire.

And Hyuntak, that goddamn walking felony of a man, noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Because that was the exact moment he leaned in, just a fraction closer, but enough to make the air shift. Enough to make Seongje’s breath stutter in his chest. His eyes didn’t waver, and his smirk faded—not entirely, but just enough to make room for something quieter, deeper. His voice lowered, dipped into that dangerous register reserved only for moments like this. Like he’d shed his usual mask and was speaking from somewhere just beneath the skin.

“Smile for me,” he said.

No punchline. No cocky laugh tucked behind the words. Just that simple, disarming request, dropped like a live grenade between them.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to build back some kind of emotional barricade, even as his pulse tried to hammer its way out of his neck. “And what do I get if I do?”he asked.

But Hyuntak didn’t miss a beat.

“A kiss,” he replied—too fast, too smooth, like he’d been sitting on that answer all damn day. “Deadass. Your lips are insane. Like. Scientifically engineered for kissing. NASA could run studies on them. Probably illegal to leave the house with a mouth like that.”

Seongje blinked.

His brain short-circuited. Like—did Hyuntak just say that with his entire chest? No shame? No buffer? Just raw flirtation dumped like a bucket of ice water over his already-overheating body?

Something inside his chest did a full somersault—an Olympic-level gymnastics routine of sheer emotional whiplash. His stomach twisted, not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that made it feel like gravity stopped working properly. A mixture of panic and giddy, slow-burning warmth spread through him like wildfire. It crawled up his spine, flared in his throat, made him acutely aware of every inch of his skin.

His ears were on fire. His whole face was probably glowing like a damn traffic light. God, why hadn’t he worn a hoodie? Or a ski mask? Or a full clown costume to distract from the fact that his body was absolutely betraying him in real time.

Hyuntak lit up like a damn firecracker. “Holy shit, your ears really do go red when you get flustered?” He started laughing, loud and delighted and completely unashamed. “That’s adorable. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Go die,” Seongje muttered, voice flat but clearly panicked, and shoved him away like he was radioactive. Like he could still salvage some dignity if he acted fast enough. He reached for his cigarette pack with trembling fingers and shoved one between his lips like it was the only thing keeping him from combusting on the spot.

He lit it with steady hands, even as his whole face betrayed him. The first drag came slow, practiced. The smoke curled past his lips like a quiet fuck you, like armor. Like he was daring Hyuntak to say something again.

And Hyuntak—god, he watched. Just watched. Eyes a little glassy, half-lidded, mouth parted. He didn’t even smoke, but in that moment, he almost wanted to start. Just to know what it felt like to breathe like that—cool and in control, while your whole body screamed.

“Please, Jejeee,” Hyuntak whined, voice shifting into something softer, sweeter, full of fake innocence and actual longing. “Just once. One real smile. The kind that lights up your whole face, not that sarcastic crap you keep giving everyone else. You usually tease me back when I’m like this.”

Seongje let out a low chuckle, something that hovered between a warning and amusement, sharp like the edge of a blade but quieter. “You’re actually insane,” he muttered, voice dragging, tired but not quite annoyed—more like he was resigned to the chaos in front of him.

But the wild part? He didn’t stop him.

And Hyuntak didn’t stop staring either.

His gaze lingered, burning in that way people look when they think they’re being subtle, but they’re not. Hyuntak wasn’t trying to hide it though—he never did. There was something shameless about the way he looked at Seongje, like he didn’t care if he got caught mid-thought, mid-fantasy, mid-whatever-this-was.

To Hyuntak, calling Seongje just good-looking was borderline criminal. No—offensively inaccurate, actually. Good-looking was something you said about some mediocre campus heartthrob who wore leather jackets and had three playlists titled “vibes.” Seongje? He was a goddamn design flaw in the universe. Beautiful in a way that made your stomach twist in protest and your chest ache like it was too full of something you couldn’t name.

His hair—dark, soft, slightly wavy—fell just a little too perfectly across his forehead like it didn’t know what to do with itself. It had that unruly, slept-on-but-still-stupidly-pretty kind of vibe, the kind you wanted to run your fingers through just to ruin. He wore glasses too, always perched neatly on his nose, but instead of making him look awkward or nerdy or remotely human, they just made everything worse. Sharper. Smarter. Sexier. Like he could ruin your entire academic career and then mansplain your own emotions back to you.

And then there was that smile. That infuriating, cocky-ass smile. Always smug, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he could see right through you and wasn’t impressed with what he found—but still entertained enough to keep watching. He’d say the most neutral thing, and Hyuntak would still want to punch him in the mouth. Or kiss it. Possibly both.

His eyes were too much and not enough at the same time—big, unreadable, thick-lashed things that looked like they were hiding the whole damn plot. Looking into them felt like trying to decipher poetry while drunk; it never ended well. But God, did Hyuntak keep trying. Like they’d open up one day and reveal something. Something honest. Something ugly. Something just for him.

His lips were full, almost pouty when he wasn’t talking, and Hyuntak hated how much he noticed that. Especially in the quiet moments—those in-between silences when Seongje wasn’t frowning or biting back some sarcastic remark. His mouth would just sit there, soft and pink and goddamn infuriating. His nose? Don’t even get him started. That thing was criminally symmetrical. The kind of nose that looked like it was carved out of spite to be perfect.

But what really did Hyuntak in—what truly annihilated him down to his rotten little core—was that one tiny mole under Seongje’s left eye. That stupid, insignificant dot. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have carried the weight of an entire religion. And yet…

And of course—of course—because the universe had zero chill and maybe even a personal vendetta, Seongje still had the faintest hint of baby fat in his cheeks. Not enough to make him look childish. Just enough to make him look dangerously soft when he wasn’t pissed off. It didn’t match his biting tongue or the look he gave people when they disappointed him. But maybe that’s why it worked. Maybe that contrast—the softness he didn’t mean to have and the sharpness he wielded like a weapon—was what made Hyuntak feel like he was constantly teetering on the edge of something he wasn’t ready for.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even survivable.

It was like some god had sat down, crafted Seongje from scratch, and added that one final touch with the petty intent of ruining Hyuntak’s self-control entirely.

Hyuntak hated it. Hated that every time he looked at Seongje, it felt like being hit by a train and then waking up begging for another round.

Whatever train of thought he’d been spiraling down—half-lust, half-existential crisis—snapped clean in half the moment Seongje’s voice cut through the haze. It was sharp, indifferent, the kind of tone that didn’t ask for attention but always got it anyway. Hyuntak blinked, like he’d just come to, and realized he had no idea how long he'd been staring or what exactly he’d been mentally constructing—probably something shameful. Something with hands. Too many hands.

“Delusional if you think I’ve ever flirted back with you,” Seongje muttered, voice laced with dry amusement.

Hyuntak scoffed and leaned back slightly, just enough to grin. “Oh, fuck off—you do flirt back, asshole. Like, constantly. Don’t gaslight me.” He jabbed a finger in the air like he was about to start a TED Talk on Seongje’s bullshit. “Confidence is hot, by the way. You should try it instead of walking around looking like a depressed raincloud with commitment issues.”

Seongje rolled his eyes with such theatrical exasperation it was a miracle they didn’t detach from their sockets entirely. He took a languid drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim light like it, too, was fed up with whatever alternate persona Hyuntak was trying on for size today. The smoke coiled lazily from his lips as he exhaled—slow, deliberate, like he needed every molecule of nicotine to shield himself from the sheer absurdity of this conversation.

“You’ve officially lost your mind,” he deadpanned, tone dripping with disdain. “Did Baku infect you or something? I explicitly told you to stop hanging out with that idiot.”

“Leave Baku out of your issues,” Hyuntak snapped, brows lifting with indignant fire. “I’m perfectly stable. You’re just violently allergic to basic human affection and the concept of being liked.”

Seongje’s lip curled. “Stop telling me to smile,” he muttered under his breath—almost too quiet, like it was an old argument they’d circled around one too many times. Like he was tired of being asked to be soft when softness didn’t come naturally.

“No,” Hyuntak said flatly. No hesitation, no grin. Just pure conviction. “I’m not stopping. I like seeing it. That soft-ass smile of yours. You’ve got one—I’ve seen it. And yeah, maybe you don’t hand it out easily, but I want it anyway. Show me.”

And then, without warning—without giving Seongje a single second to prepare—Hyuntak lunged forward again.

His hands came up fast, grabbing Seongje’s face like he’d been waiting hours to do it. Palms warm against his skin, fingers squishing Seongje’s cheeks together in a ridiculous grip that left no room for dignity. Their faces were so close it was unbearable, breath mixing, the scent of cheap cigarettes and whatever cologne Seongje was wearing clashing in the tiny space between them.

Seongje stayed rooted in place, unbothered by the heat crawling up his spine or the way the air between them felt thick with something dangerous—like a lit match hovering above gasoline. He just glared—cigarette still hanging loosely between his lips, brow furrowed in a way that screamed, “I should’ve let you walk into traffic when I had the chance.” He looked at Hyuntak like he was watching someone willingly drown in their own chaos, and maybe, deep down, he kinda was. Maybe he was tired of pulling him out, tired of being the shore Hyuntak kept crashing into, only to crawl back out and ask for more.

Hyuntak, in contrast, stood like the goddamn poster child of chaos in love. He just looked—right at him, with that infuriatingly smug little grin etched on his face like he had all the time in the world and Seongje was the only thing worth watching. Like he didn’t care that the air between them was thick enough to choke on. Maybe he didn’t. Because when it came to Seongje, Hyuntak had always been a little unhinged. Always willing to choke if it meant he'd get to see Seongje spit venom just to cover up how he burned underneath.

And God, did he burn. Hyuntak hated how every look from Seongje was its own brand of cruel—a glance like a slap, a sigh like a shove, a smirk like a hand slipping into his chest just to twist something vital. It was like Seongje knew exactly what he did to him and never let him forget it. Knew that Hyuntak didn’t sleep right when they fought, that he’d walk into rooms searching for his face before anyone else’s, that the sound of his laughter could haunt and soothe him in equal measure. He wanted to hate him for it. Wanted to tear that apathy off his face and make him feel something back. But Hyuntak also knew—deep down, dangerously so—that he wouldn’t survive Seongje loving him the way he loved Seongje. That if it ever happened, it’d wreck him. Turn him into something entirely unrecognizable. And yet, here he was, grinning like a man who didn’t mind the fall.

Seongje, of course, did not disappoint. “I’m not smiling just because you told me to, you insufferable little shit,” he muttered, each word dipped in dry sarcasm, his tone parched enough to rival a desert drought. But it didn’t hit like it used to. Not when his lips twitched right after, not when his eyes lingered a second too long, like he didn’t quite mean it or didn’t know how to anymore.

Hyuntak merely tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement, his shoulders lifting in a careless shrug. “You always end up giving me what I want anyway,” he said, like he was reciting a universal law. Like gravity. Like death and taxes. As if it was just a given—inevitable and unshakeable. As if he hadn’t just weaponized every glance and every silence between them, turning it into a slow burn that neither of them had the guts to smother.

That earned a sharp scoff from Seongje, who immediately jerked his head to the side like he couldn’t stand the sight of him. “Yeah? Well, not today,” he snapped, but his voice cracked slightly at the end—betraying a flicker of doubt or something far more inconvenient.

His eyes darted away, deliberately avoiding Hyuntak's face like it burned to look at it. He fixated on something—anything—behind him. A crack in the wall. A shadow in the corner. His own guilt, maybe. And when he spoke again, the words came not as a jab, but a confession slipped between clenched teeth. Bitter. Small. “My smile’s ugly anyway.”

Hyuntak went still.

Not angry still. Not calculating still. That kind of still when your brain trips and your heart just… drops. Like someone landed a sucker punch straight into his gut mid-sentence, like he’d just heard something he wasn’t ready for—something he didn't want to be true but sounded too practiced to be anything else. His brows furrowed slightly, his mouth opening a fraction before closing again.

“Who the hell told you that?” he asked, and there was an edge to his voice now. Not sharp. Just heavy. He was trying to stay calm. Trying not to let it show how deeply that single sentence had hit.

Seongje didn’t hesitate. “I did.”

Silence. Then, as if guided by a higher, pettier power, Hyuntak slapped him. Not a full swing, not harsh enough to bruise, but a deliberate, open-palmed smack across the cheek—enough to sting, enough to jolt Seongje back into the moment.

Seongje blinked, stunned, the cigarette he’d been toying with nearly slipping from his lips. “Ex-fucking-cuse me—?!”

“Geum Seongje,” Hyuntak said, deadly serious, like he was issuing a formal declaration of war. “You listen to me. And you listen good. Your smile—your smile—is the best goddamn thing on your criminally perfect face. And I am not, under any circumstance, going to stand here and let you trash it like it’s disposable. Like it means nothing. Who the hell do you think you are, huh? Who gave you the right to tear yourself down like that?”

The heat in his voice wasn’t anger anymore—it was desperation. He looked like he wanted to grab Seongje by the collar and shake the self-hatred out of him. Like the idea of Seongje believing he wasn’t beautiful physically pained him.

Seongje scowled, recoiling slightly as he yanked himself back with a scathing glare that didn't quite reach his eyes. “This is my face,” he hissed, like the words were forged in fire. “I’ll slander it however the hell I want. Go scream into a therapy office or something.”

But Hyuntak only leaned in closer—relentless, wide-eyed, and grinning like he’d just discovered the secret to eternal happiness lived in Seongje’s face.“Jeje,” he murmured, the name slipping past his lips like it was something sacred. Like it was a fucking gospel he’d devote his whole damn life to.“My love. My darling. My entire goddamn universe.” His voice broke into a shaky laugh, both awestruck and completely deranged. “Please—I am on my metaphorical knees here. I am begging you, with all the desperation of a man clinging to sanity, to look in a fucking mirror and try—just fucking try—to tell me you’re not the most stupidly gorgeous motherfucker cursed to exist on this stupid rock of a planet.”

Seongje jolted back as if the words had slapped him—not across the face, but directly into the core of his nervous system. It was the kind of blunt-force sincerity that didn’t just hit; it stuck, like a hot iron brand pressed into the side of his pride. His breath hitched, jaw clenching automatically like his body was preparing for a fight, or a kiss, or maybe something horrifyingly in-between. “Hyuntak. Oh my God. What the actual hell is wrong with you today?” he spat, voice climbing an octave despite his best efforts, eyes wide with a cocktail of horror, panic, and the earliest signs of catastrophic arousal. “Are you on drugs? Did you fall off something again? Blink twice if I need to call someone—or throw hands.”

He shot up to his feet, movements stiff and sharp like his limbs didn’t belong to him anymore. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like they didn’t know whether to punch Hyuntak or grab him by the collar and demand answers—or maybe worse, beg for more. There was a laugh—half-choked and brittle—that slipped out before he could stop it, dragging a sliver of teeth across his lower lip like maybe pain would ground him. But it didn’t. It only made him more aware of the fact that his body was heating up like a goddamn furnace. The laugh wasn’t cruel, just... stunned. Disoriented. Like he was watching himself glitch out in real time.

Hyuntak, meanwhile, was standing there with the most annoying combination of confidence and recklessness imaginable—his grin somewhere between unbothered and please institutionalize me. And then, in a move that should've earned him a punch but instead made Seongje’s breath catch in his throat, he stepped forward and hugged him again. No warning. No hesitation. Just walked up and wrapped those damn arms around him like he owned the place—like he owned him. Warm, uninvited, dangerously soft.

“Relax,” Hyuntak murmured, his voice low and close and too intimate, brushing against the shell of Seongje’s ear like sin wrapped in silk. “You’re being dramatic.”

Then—because Hyuntak was clearly allergic to boundaries and had the survival instincts of a brick—he started kissing him. Once. Then again. Then again. Each one quick and infuriatingly gentle, like punctuation marks in a language Seongje couldn’t read but his body knew by heart. The kisses were soft, insistent, bordering on tender—like Hyuntak was trying to write something on his skin with lips alone. Like he was spelling out stay in the only language he knew. Four kisses, then five. And Seongje? He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His body went taut with tension, every nerve standing on edge like they were waiting for a cue he hadn’t received. His chest rose and fell with tight, shivery breaths. The scent of Hyuntak’s cologne—sea-salted and sharp, like sunburned skin and waves crashing too close. It clung to him, ocean-washed and reckless, overwhelmingly him—was curling into his lungs like it had permanent residence there.

He wanted to shove him away. God, he wanted to. But the truth—the bitter, humiliating, bone-deep truth—was that some sick part of him craved it. The roughness. The heat. The way Hyuntak kissed like he was trying to ruin him. He couldn’t stand love, couldn’t believe in it, not when it looked at him too softly. But this? This messy, bruising hunger? He could survive on that. He wanted to be treated like something to be devoured. And he hated that.

“Are you done?” he muttered finally, voice low and a little breathless, cheeks glowing with the kind of blush that no amount of denial could mask. The cigarette between his fingers trembled slightly, its smoke curling into the air like a confession. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. Didn’t stop him.

“Nope,” Hyuntak murmured, barely giving Seongje room to breathe before stealing another kiss—quick, hungry, like he was addicted to the taste of him. “This,” he said between breaths, “is what scientists refer to as cuteness aggression. Like, I’m serious—no hyperbole, I genuinely believe I could devour you whole and achieve enlightenment right after. Nirvana, but it’s just me gnawing on your stupidly perfect face.” His voice was low, somewhere between a confession and a threat, dripping with a kind of reckless, feverish adoration that blurred the line between affection and insanity. His fingers hovered midair near Seongje’s cheek like he was internally debating whether to pinch it, slap it, or fucking bite it off.

Seongje didn’t even flinch. He just cocked one elegantly bored eyebrow, the embodiment of unbothered menace. “I’ll be the one who devours you instead.”

The silence that followed hit like a delayed explosion. Hyuntak staggered back with the dramatics of a Victorian widow, releasing a noise so violently confused it couldn’t decide whether it was a wheeze, a scream, or a laugh. “You—holy shit. You always—ALWAYS—find a way to make it sexual. Without fail. Cleanse your diasased little brain with bleach, you degenerate demon.”

“I meant it literally, genius,” Seongje deadpanned, not even blinking. “Like, Hannibal Lecter if he grew up in Busan. Full-course cannibal couture. Bones, marrow, cartilage. The whole fucking symphony. Maybe grilled over charcoal. Toss in some garlic, sesame oil, wrap it in lettuce with ssamjang. Little Korean BBQ moment, bitch.”

“You are genuinely deranged,” Hyuntak muttered, but the sigh that slipped out of him sounded nothing like exasperation. It was soft—disgustingly so—melting into a warmth that clung to his every syllable. His eyes, usually wild and twitchy with chaos, now simmered with something almost dangerously tender. “God, I should roundhouse kick your jaw into orbit. But I can’t, because unfortunately, I’m in love with your dumbass. So here we are.”

Seongje paused. Mid-eye-roll. Mid-breath. Just for a second—but a second too long. And that was all it took. That flicker of hesitation let the heat creep up his neck, betray him in high-definition. It bloomed red and furious across his cheeks, coloring the tips of his ears like a warning siren. Immediate. Undeniable.

Hyuntak saw it. Sensed it. Like a shark to blood in the water. His gaze sharpened, dialed in. His voice dipped—not into mockery, but something dangerously close to reverence. “Seriously?” he asked, slower this time. Almost reverent. “You get flustered that easily?”

Seongje looked like he was about to murder someone on the spot just to redirect the attention. “Say one more cringey thing and I will actually beat your ass,” he warned, teeth bared and deadly. “This is not a bluff. I’m not above violence.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” Hyuntak said, like he wanted to die. Like he was actively signing his own death certificate and handing Seongje the pen.

If Seongje had been holding anything—his phone, a ceramic mug, the delicate neck of some poor, unfortunate soul who had nothing to do with this psychosexual circus—he would’ve launched it with the kind of murderous precision that gets written into FBI case files. There was a barely-contained storm roiling just beneath the surface of his skin, electric and taut, making every muscle twitch with a kind of anticipation that wasn't entirely hate. His fingers flexed like they missed violence. Like they were nostalgic for it. His jaw clenched, visibly, painfully, in that way it always did when Hyuntak pushed him a little too far, danced a little too close to that invisible tripwire marked “do not test me unless you have a death wish.”

But.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t lash out. Didn’t grab Hyuntak by the collar and slam him into the nearest wall the way his body was practically vibrating to do. And somehow—somehow—that made him even more furious. Because instead of rage, instead of the glorious high of cathartic violence, what spilled out of him was something softer. Something dangerous. A twitch. A barely-there curve of the mouth. Not a smirk. Not a sneer. But a real, honest-to-god smile. Reluctant. Begrudging. So quiet it almost didn’t register. But it was there.

And it ruined everything.

Because Hyuntak noticed it.

Of course he did.

He went utterly still, like Seongje had pulled a knife on him and whispered something too beautiful to survive. His eyes widened just slightly, lips parting as though the air had left his lungs in a slow exhale, the moment catching on his tongue like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say. The usual chaos in his expression drained away, replaced by something rare—something reverent. Like he was seeing a comet crash through the atmosphere and land in his hands.

And then—before that moment could calcify, before Seongje could pull it back and bury it six feet under again—Hyuntak moved.

He stepped forward, all breathless urgency and no hesitation, and kissed him.

No smug grin, no snarky warning, no theatrics this time. Just—contact. Lips on lips. Gentle. Ridiculously slow. And somehow devastatingly intimate, despite the sheer absurdity of the moment. The kind of kiss that knocked the wind out of Seongje’s chest, that made time slow to a goddamn crawl.

And then—he bit him.

Not hard. Just enough for his teeth to catch on Seongje’s lower lip, tugging ever so slightly before letting go like it meant nothing. Like it didn’t just shatter Seongje’s last three brain cells into dust.

Hyuntak leaned back, eyes blown wide and glittering with a kind of manic affection like he’d just won the jackpot on a slot machine named Seongje's Dignity.

“That. That’s what I wanted,” he whispered, voice ragged with giddy satisfaction. “That smile. Holy fuck. That smile was the goddamn prize. I told you I’d kiss you. And guess what? I did. I won. You, Seongje. Jeje. Jejejejeje. Jesus Christ. Please—stop being so catastrophically adorable. Do you hear that?” He placed a hand on his chest, dramatically. “My heart is SCREAMING. It’s throwing furniture. It’s burning the house down. Over you.”

Seongje didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, still as stone, staring at Hyuntak like the man had just ascended into full-blown delusion. His brows were furrowed slightly, lips parted, and his expression teetered on the edge of total system failure. But if you looked close enough—if you really watched—there was a crackle behind his eyes. A faint, involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth that hinted at panic disguised as deadpan. Because here’s the thing: Seongje knew he was attractive. He wasn’t modest about it, either—he walked through life aware of the gazes, the comments, the lingering stares. His features were sharp, precise, sculpted into something that turned heads and silenced rooms. But adorable? No. Absolutely not. That label didn’t fit. That word, when hurled at him with such sincerity and chaos, made his entire body reject it on instinct. He was composed, poised, sometimes a little cruel—but never cute. And now this idiot was standing there, practically convulsing with infatuation, like Seongje was some kind of endearing anime boy you wanted to wrap in a blanket. It was blasphemous.

And yet... his ears were burning.

He reached out and smacked Hyuntak lightly on the forehead—though "lightly" might be generous, considering the exasperated snap in his wrist. It was a half-hearted attempt at knocking some sense back into him, or maybe into himself. A slap meant to say snap out of it—but instead it only seemed to make things worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

“You done, freak?” Seongje muttered, voice flat, brow furrowed in a lazy kind of irritation that felt more like a defense mechanism than actual annoyance.

Hyuntak blinked once. Then again, slower this time. Like he was swaying on the edge of delirium. Like he’d just taken a shot of something addictive and was only now starting to feel the high. He didn’t step back. Didn’t retreat. Just tilted his head slightly to the side, his lips parting with a small, breathy chuckle.

“I should be,” he whispered, voice wrecked soft—like velvet ruined by fire. It came out fragile, breathy, like the weight of his own confession was crumbling the syllables before they reached Seongje's ears. “But… look at you.”

The words shouldn't have felt like that. They shouldn't have landed like a blow to the ribs, sharp and reverent all at once. But the way Hyuntak said it? Like it hurt to say, like it was costing him something—Seongje felt it. Every syllable dragged nails across the walls of his chest, leaving something raw and trembling behind.

Hyuntak said it like look at you was the answer to everything that had been wrong with him. Like it wasn’t just a casual glance, but a resurrection. A rebirth. He looked at Seongje the way a drowning man looked at the surface—like he was terrified of what reaching for it would cost him, but more terrified of staying under. And yet, there was no hesitation in his gaze. No fear. Just this quiet, unbearable awe.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair how someone like Seongje—messy, stubborn, mouth like a blade—could be seen with that much reverence. Hyuntak's eyes held ruin in them. His mouth was parted like he was ready to speak more but knew that if he did, he might spill too much. Like if he blinked, the illusion would vanish, and Seongje would go back to being untouchable. Unreachable. Just another fever dream he wasn’t allowed to keep.

And maybe Seongje should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve smirked, tilted his head like he always did when things got too serious and too close. Should’ve shoved him again or muttered something cruel, something easy. A lifeline. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His hands stayed frozen midair, twitching with the weight of a choice he wasn’t ready to make, and his mouth was too dry to form the usual barb. He was still staring, still stuck in the wreckage Hyuntak left in his wake.

The thing is—Seongje was smiling again.

He didn’t even notice at first. It just slipped out, natural, involuntary, like his body had given up on pretending it wasn’t enjoying Hyuntak’s nonsense. His lips curved slightly, twitching at the corners as if his soul had forgotten to be annoyed. The moment was stupid, brief, probably irrelevant in the grand scheme of the universe—but not to Hyuntak.

Because the second that smile appeared, Hyuntak completely and utterly lost his goddamn mind.

Without warning—no breath, no signal, no damn build-up—Hyuntak surged forward like something feral finally breaking out of its cage. A man possessed. His movements were reckless, fluid with a kind of desperation that clung to him like static. His hand braced lightly against Seongje’s shoulder, grounding himself, before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Fast. Blisteringly fast. So fast that for a second, Seongje didn’t even process what the hell had just happened—just heat and skin and the unmistakable electricity of something forbidden brushing against him.

But that wasn’t even the end of it.

No, Hyuntak, ever the goddamn menace, took it one step further. Because of course he did.

His lips barely ghosted over Seongje’s cheek before his teeth followed—sharp, precise, and entirely too confident. A small bite, just a nip, right below the cheekbone. Not deep enough to leave a mark, but definite enough to make Seongje jolt backward like he’d been shocked. His breath caught in his throat, choked and raw, as his fingers instinctively came up to touch the spot.

“The fuck was that?!” Seongje practically exploded, voice cracking halfway through the word as his eyes went wide, feral, stunned—because what the actual fuck.

But Hyuntak?

Hyuntak had the audacity to look completely unfazed. Relaxed, even. He leaned back like nothing happened, like he didn’t just commit cheek-biting assault in broad daylight. His grin stretched lazily across his face, all wolfish charm and absolutely zero trace of shame. If anything, he looked satisfied. Like that bite had scratched an itch he’d been carrying for days.

“Sorry,” he said, slow and deliberate, his voice dipped low like honey left out in the sun too long—thick, hot, sticky. And then, as if the apology even meant a damn thing, he added with a shrug, “Had to. You’re edible.”

Edible.

He said it like Seongje was something decadent and sinful—like he wasn’t even talking about food but hunger. Real hunger. The kind that didn’t come from an empty stomach, but from something deeper, more guttural. A want that had teeth.

And Seongje hated—hated—the way his skin still buzzed from the contact. How his whole body felt like it had just short-circuited under Hyuntak’s stupid voice and stupid teeth and stupid hot breath.

He hated how much he didn’t hate it.

Seongje’s brain short-circuited. He opened his mouth—probably to curse him out, to tell him off, to assert dominance or whatever—but nothing came out. His thoughts were too scrambled, too wrapped around the sensation still lingering on his cheek. And then—then—Hyuntak leaned in again.

And this time, he didn’t stop at the cheek.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that Seongje could feel his breath against his skin, warm and slow, heavy with intention. The air between them turned thick, humid, intimate in a way that made Seongje’s chest ache. Hyuntak wasn’t even touching him anymore, not really, but his presence pressed in like gravity, like a weight, like a dare.

Seongje’s muscles tensed. His breath hitched. His eyes narrowed to slits, his chest rose in uneven bursts like he was trying to physically contain the absurd amount of chaos suddenly pounding through his veins. And still—still—Hyuntak smiled like he was winning. That curved, lazy, confident smirk that screamed: You want me to stop? Then fucking make me.

Seongje hated how much it was working.

He hated the smugness in Hyuntak’s expression, the way his eyes shimmered with mischief and hunger, the way his very existence felt like temptation carved into a boy’s body. He hated that every single thing about him—the cocky stance, the playful tone, the reckless bravery—was like a fire Seongje couldn’t help but stick his hand into.

‘Does this guy even realize he’s the cute one?’ Seongje thought, teeth clenched, trying so hard to hold on to even a shred of composure. It was a useless effort. Hyuntak was like a walking drug laced with sugar, static electricity, and the exact brand of chaos that made people lose their grip on reality. And Seongje? He wasn’t just high—he was overdosing, spiraling, plummeting with no parachute.

He didn’t even get the chance to recover.

Didn’t even get to curse under his breath before Hyuntak was back in his space again—closer this time, encroaching with that reckless kind of confidence only someone who had no concept of personal boundaries could possess. His presence was suffocating in a way that lit Seongje’s nerves on fire. There was no hesitation in his steps. No pause for breath. No room for retreat.

Seongje could feel the heat before he ever felt the touch. It was there in the space between them, sweltering and unspoken, like static just waiting for skin to complete the circuit. Hyuntak’s breath ghosted over his jaw, humid and slow, and it clung to him like the air before a monsoon—dense, electric, swollen with something about to split open. The kind of heat that makes your lungs feel too tight and your spine too aware, like your whole body already knows it’s about to be undone.

And then it came.

A kiss—not careful, not asking. There was no permission in it, no soft landing. It was open-mouthed and unapologetically wet, all possession and purpose. Hyuntak kissed him beneath the jaw, right where his pulse betrayed him with its rapid thrum. It was deliberate, cruel even, pressing into that sliver of skin that never got touched. The kind of place that made your knees stutter if you weren’t careful. Seongje wasn’t careful. He could feel it in the way his composure cracked just a little, in the way his throat flexed with a breath he wasn’t ready to take. Hyuntak didn’t just claim a piece of his body—he claimed time, silence, oxygen. Every inch of the moment bent toward him.

It should’ve been disgusting. It was disgusting. Or it should’ve been. This wasn’t how things worked. This wasn’t some twisted moment of romance. It was provocation. It was war disguised in intimacy. Seongje should’ve snapped back with violence, should’ve shoved him off and carved a line between them that said "never again." He should’ve thrown his elbow into the bastard’s chest and spat words sharp enough to draw blood.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he froze. Not in fear. Not even in surprise. But in something far more dangerous. He froze like someone trying not to move too fast, afraid the sensation might vanish if he breathed wrong. His breath hitched, tight and fast, and his fingers curled inward—no longer fists, but something messier. Something almost like need. Like memory. Like hunger so old it had started to rot.

The worst part? He leaned into it.

Just barely. But enough. Enough to make it real. Enough to tell the truth neither of them had the guts to say out loud—that this wasn’t new. That this had been building, festering under every insult, every glare, every step they took too close just to dare the other to flinch.

And neither of them flinched.

Hyuntak, emboldened by the lack of resistance—or maybe just too damn chaotic to care—didn’t hold back. He leaned in like he had every right to, like Seongje’s personal space was an outdated concept he didn’t subscribe to. His lips didn’t just hover; they stayed, settled, dragged down with the kind of unhurried confidence that spoke of danger. There was no rush, no hesitation—just that unbearable, slow descent down Seongje’s neck, like he was tasting something rare, like this wasn’t a tease at all, but indulgence, worship, a quiet, calculated kind of violence. Every movement was intentional, drawn out, like he knew exactly what he was doing and how devastatingly effective it would be.

And then—came the tongue.

Not sloppy. Not eager. Controlled. Cruel. A slow, maddening lick that traced the skin with an obscene kind of reverence, like he was cataloguing Seongje’s reaction for later torment. Just enough moisture to catch the air, to make the skin prickle and tighten. Just enough to remind Seongje that he was being tasted. Sampled. Owned. It wasn’t just contact—it was a brand. And somewhere deep in Seongje’s gut, something ignited. A low, smoldering burn that curled into his spine and clawed at his composure with every shallow breath he took.

He tried to will it away, but his body wasn’t listening. His heart was hammering, chest so tight it felt like a vice had locked around his ribs. His fists clenched at his sides, every inch of him strung up like piano wire, taut and threatening to snap. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loudly—because then—

Then came the suction.

It hit like a blow. A pull so deliberate, so obscene in its precision that it made his knees wobble slightly—just enough for Hyuntak to notice, surely. Lips sealed around that sensitive spot, teeth grazing, tongue pressing just beneath the surface. It was intentional, unmistakable. Not a mistake. Not a game. It was a mark, and Hyuntak made it with all the possessiveness of someone who knew exactly what strings to pull and how hard to tug. It wasn’t a kiss. It was claiming.

A sound broke free from Seongje before he could stop it. It wasn’t a gasp. It wasn’t a groan. It was something more raw, more fractured—like his throat couldn’t decide between protest and need. A ragged breath, shaky and too late to hide, stumbled into the open and hung between them like a confession.

His skin was scorching. Not from shame, not from embarrassment—but from want. From the twisted, sick anticipation that curled in his stomach like a blade made of fire. He hated the way it felt. Hated how badly he didn’t want it to stop.

“Don’t—don’t be a fucking pervert,” Seongje finally managed, voice barely more than a whisper. It cracked, wavered, like it couldn’t decide whether to land as a threat or a plea. It sounded like defiance, but it felt like surrender. And somehow, both tasted like defeat.

Hyuntak didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His mouth was already trailing lower, breath ghosting over the slope of Seongje’s collarbone. The fabric of his shirt strained under the pressure, warm lips brushing just beside it like Hyuntak was testing boundaries he had no intention of respecting.

Seongje’s jaw tightened.

His hands twitched at his sides, torn between decking the bastard and grabbing him by the shirt to pull him closer. His thoughts were a riot. The rational part of him—the part forged in blood, in violence, in endless bruised knuckles—was screaming to stop this now. To reassert control. To put this bastard on the floor.

But the rest of him?

The rest of him was hungry.

So hungry it hurt.

So he did what he always did when things got too real—he lashed out.

He shoved Hyuntak back, forceful, maybe a little desperate. A thud echoed between them as palms met chest and distance was finally—finally—restored. Seongje immediately slapped a hand over the now-throbbing spot on his neck, as if he could erase the evidence. As if hiding it could undo the fact that he let it happen. That he liked it.

“You’re seriously gonna stand there and act like I’m the one who made this sexual?” Seongje snapped, voice cracking like glass under pressure—too high, too breathless to be anything close to convincing. The words tumbled out like a poor excuse, scraped from the back of his throat in desperation. His fists curled at his sides, trembling—not from fear, not even from anger, but something messier. Something that ached in places he didn’t want to name. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, the fabric of his shirt clinging to the heat rolling off his skin. “Look at yourself, freak,” he spat, but even that insult sounded weak—like he was already half-defeated.

And Hyuntak?

Hyuntak just stood there.

Calm. Quiet. Beautiful in a way that pissed Seongje off more than it should’ve. He wasn’t ruffled. Wasn’t guilty. Wasn’t anything. He just watched, like a cat cornering something smaller. His smile curled up slow and sharp, not even trying to hide the smug satisfaction bleeding through it. His lips were swollen, kissed red and glistening, like he knew exactly what he’d done and wanted Seongje to remember. And then, the bastard had the audacity to lick them. A single, languid drag of tongue across mouth like he was savoring the taste of war. Or victory. Or Seongje.

“Oops,” Hyuntak said, all fake innocence, like he hadn’t just committed a war crime with his mouth. Like he hadn’t dragged Seongje into a battlefield made of skin and gasps and heat. Like his eyes weren’t still low-lidded and heavy with the kind of hunger that made Seongje want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. He stood there, painted in sin, looking like every bad idea Seongje ever swore he’d never entertain—and every single one he secretly craved.

Seongje didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat had closed up around the words, sealing them tight with embarrassment and something dangerously close to arousal. His palm shot up to cover his neck like it could somehow erase the heat blooming there. But it didn’t help. The skin beneath his fingers burned—raw, tingling, freshly bruised from Hyuntak’s mouth. His face felt hot enough to combust, ears flaming with humiliation. Or maybe anticipation. His body was a live wire, buzzing not with rage—but with restraint. A restraint so razor-thin, it trembled under the weight of what he wanted to do.

The hickey throbbed like a second heartbeat. Loud. Obvious. Shameless. A declaration carved in spit and teeth. It wasn’t just a bruise—it was a claim. A reminder that someone had kissed him there. Bitten him. Marked him. Like Seongje belonged to someone. Like Hyuntak had taken one look at him and decided, “Mine.” And what made it worse—what made it unbearable—was the part of Seongje that liked it. The part of him that leaned into it. That ached for it. That pulsed low in his gut, coiling tight, screaming for more.

He hated it. He hated that his legs still wobbled slightly with every step. That his breath still came short and sharp, not from effort—but from memory. He hated that Hyuntak’s gaze flicked down to his neck like an artist admiring their masterpiece. Like he knew. Like he was proud of what he’d done. And that grin—God, that smug, maddening grin—was still there, soft and slow and made of everything Seongje shouldn’t want.

And yet, he stood there—cocky, loudmouth, untouchable Seongje—completely undone. Like a man who’d been wrecked without even knowing when the war started. His defenses weren’t shattered—they were melted. Dripping down his spine in waves of shame and need. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to grab Hyuntak by the collar, slam him into the nearest wall, and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.

He wanted to feel that mouth again. On his throat. On his chest. Everywhere.

He wanted to tear Hyuntak apart—wanted to rip through that maddening calm, shatter it with his bare hands, just to remind himself that he still had teeth. That he could still bare them and bite back when cornered. There was something feral pulsing beneath his skin, something that clawed and screamed for dominance, a kind of desperation disguised as rage. He wanted to shove Hyuntak against the nearest wall—not for the thrill, not for the control—but for the illusion that maybe, just maybe, he could still be the one steering the wheel in this dizzying mess they called whatever this was. He wanted to crush something fragile just to feel solid again. Because everything—his grip, his breath, his sanity—was starting to slip like water through trembling hands, and Hyuntak was the reason for the spill.

He told himself it was about power. That if he bruised, bit, pushed, snarled—if he fought hard enough—he could keep his walls up and his heart untouched. That if he acted invincible, the cracks in his chest would seal up before anyone noticed he was bleeding from the inside. He wanted to prove to himself that he didn’t need anyone—that he could still be whole without someone else filling in the blanks.

But that was a lie, and he knew it. Knew it in the way his stomach twisted every time Hyuntak looked at him without flinching. Knew it in the way his breath caught when Hyuntak smiled—so soft, so maddeningly sure, like he wasn’t scared of anything that lived behind Seongje’s eyes. And god, he hated it. Hated how much it hurt to be seen. Hated how much it meant.

Because the truth—twisted up beneath the aggression, the sharp words, and the armor stitched from years of instinctual deflection—wasn’t that he didn’t want to fight.

No, he did. God, he craved the fight. Needed it like oxygen.

He wanted the clash, the chaos, the distraction of fists and fury. Wanted to spit venom and bare his teeth, to make sure no one got close enough to see how badly he was fraying underneath. Fighting was easier. Cleaner. Predictable. He knew how to hurt before being hurt. It made sense to him, like muscle memory—something to fall back on when the rest of the world felt too sharp, too close.

But buried beneath that was a different kind of desperation—one he didn’t know how to name. One he refused to look at directly, because it felt too raw. Too real.

Because even in the middle of every clash, every argument, every pointed silence, there was this quiet, unbearable ache that throbbed just beneath the surface. A part of him that kept hoping—stupidly, selfishly—that maybe someone would still see through the noise. That maybe someone would choose to stay anyway.

He wanted to fight.

But some part of him… wanted to be fought for.

And that was the worst part.

What he wanted was to be seen. Not just noticed, not just tolerated—but seen. Understood. Wanted in a way that didn’t demand an explanation. Loved in silence, without needing to perform for it. He wanted Hyuntak to reach out—to touch the jagged, rusted pieces of him without flinching. To run fingers over scars and splinters and still say, “You're not too much.” Because Seongje didn’t know how to ask for softness, and yet, god, he wanted it more than air.

He wanted Hyuntak to prove that love didn’t always come with conditions. That someone could choose him even when he didn’t make it easy. Even when he spit venom just to see if they’d flinch.

And that made it worse.

Because Hyuntak looked at him like he knew. Like he could read the fault lines in his chest and still chose to stay anyway. Like he saw through the bravado, the bitterness, the carefully constructed mask of indifference—and decided that none of it was enough to scare him off.

When Hyuntak smiled at him—smug, steady, annoyingly warm—it felt like both a challenge and a promise. Like he was saying, “I know what you are. I’m not going anywhere.”

And that was terrifying.

Because Seongje didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like. All he had were fragments—his mother’s silence, his father’s absence, the sting of being told he was too cold, too much, too difficult. He didn’t grow up with a map. Didn’t have the tools to name what sat inside him when Hyuntak got too close. All he knew was that it felt like swallowing a scream that refused to dissolve in his throat. That it made his hands tremble, not from fury, but from fear. That it left him aching in places he didn’t even know could hurt—this raw, stinging sensation like every nerve was waking up for the first time.

Dating Hyuntak felt like drowning in a storm he willingly stepped into. It was chaos and clarity in the same breath. It was violent waves and cold wind and the utter refusal to swim toward the surface—because some part of him wanted to sink in it. Wanted to see if someone would dive in after him.

And he hated that he wanted that. Hated that he wanted him.

But he did. God, he did.

And Hyuntak—goddamn him—knew. He always knew. He didn’t push, didn’t demand confessions or declarations. He just waited. Quiet. Steady. Infuriatingly unshaken. Like he could see that Seongje was built out of defense mechanisms and still chose to wait out the storm.

Because Hyuntak never needed him to say it.

He only needed him to stay.

And maybe that’s the cruelest thing of all.

Seongje stood utterly motionless, his mind suspended somewhere far from the room, far from reality—adrift in that thick fog of overthinking that crept in whenever he let his guard down for too long. His hand remained firmly clamped over the side of his neck, covering the dark, pulsing bruise that had bloomed there like a wildfire—Hyuntak’s mark, stark and vulgar against pale skin. He wasn’t even consciously aware that he’d been shielding it this entire time, as though his body had decided to preserve what little dignity he had left while his brain short-circuited into emotional static. The hickey throbbed faintly beneath his palm, a dull, persistent beat that seemed to echo the conflict surging beneath his ribcage. He felt absurdly exposed, like the imprint wasn’t just on his skin but etched somewhere far deeper, somewhere dangerously close to the things he tried so hard to lock away. He didn’t even notice Hyuntak’s presence until a hand sliced through his daze—waving lazily in front of his face, fingers brushing the edge of his vision.

His gaze finally sharpened, eyes snapping into focus as he blinked with a slow, almost robotic cadence. He turned to meet Hyuntak’s face, his expression unreadable and unimpressed, lips set in a tight line.

“…What are you doing?” he asked, tone flat, brow raised, like Hyuntak had just interrupted a funeral instead of his dissociation.

Hyuntak gave a tentative smile, one of those awkward little grins that didn’t reach his eyes but tried its best to soften the edges. There was a flicker of hesitation in his posture—shoulders slightly hunched, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, like he was preparing to be snapped at and was hoping to cushion the blow with humor. “Did I go overboard earlier?” he asked carefully, eyes flicking briefly toward the hand still covering Seongje’s neck. “With the kissing, I mean. Your neck’s been hurting, hasn’t it? You’ve been guarding it this whole time.”

Seongje’s response was instantaneous: a scoff sharp enough to slice through metal, paired with a scowl that could make grown men rethink their life choices. “Maybe don’t be such a damn pervert next time,” he said flatly, glaring at him like Hyuntak had just committed a war crime.

But even behind that wall of hostility, something flickered—a tension that wasn’t anger so much as confusion. Shame. Hunger. His skin was still burning where Hyuntak had kissed him, and he hated that it lingered. Hated that it felt branded, like proof that he’d let someone in. Like evidence of a softness he hadn’t meant to reveal. His words were a flimsy barricade, a last-ditch defense mechanism against the slow, creeping vulnerability curling in his stomach.

Hyuntak rolled his eyes, clearly unbothered by the verbal jab. He’d learned long ago how to decode Seongje’s emotional dialect, where affection sounded like insults and warmth manifested as violence. “I didn’t ask for a lecture in chastity,” he said dryly. “I asked if it hurts.”

“It throbs,” Seongje muttered through clenched teeth, lifting both eyebrows in a silent challenge. “You went too hard, dumbass. It feels like I got bit by a damn wolf. I have Union work tomorrow—you planning to explain why I’ve got your entire jawline tattooed on my neck?”

Hyuntak snorted, a low chuckle escaping as he shrugged with theatrical nonchalance.“Just slap some patch on it or something. Say it’s a bruise. Or—wait, even better—my mom’s got foundation or whatever that stuff is. I’ll steal it for you. She won’t notice.”

He said it all so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he belonged here, in Seongje’s personal space, in his life, in the heat of his breath. And before Seongje could think of a retort sharp enough to end the moment, Hyuntak stepped forward again—arms out, smile annoyingly boyish—and tugged Seongje into an embrace with zero hesitation.

He didn’t stop there. Without warning, he maneuvered them backwards until Seongje’s legs hit the couch behind him and he stumbled down gracelessly, landing with a frustrated grunt. Hyuntak followed, practically draping himself over Seongje like a weighted blanket with no regard for personal space. They were at Seongje’s place, yet Hyuntak acted like he owned the furniture—like every inch of this space had already adapted to fit his presence.

Hovering just above him, Hyuntak leaned in with a sly glint in his eye, lips curling into a wicked grin. “Or maybe don’t hide it at all,” he offered, voice honey-dipped and teasing. “Let everyone see. It suits you, y’know. Makes you look claimed.”

Seongje glared at him, completely deadpan, eyes full of disdain as if Hyuntak had just suggested he tattoo his name on his forehead. Without saying a word, he reached up and flicked Hyuntak right on the forehead—hard enough to make the boy flinch backward, blinking in surprise.

“I’ll buy a patch,” he muttered through his teeth, deadpan.

“Fine,” Hyuntak replied with an easy shrug, still smiling like he’d won.

A beat of silence fell between them. Not awkward. Not tense. Just still. Like the kind of silence that belonged between two people who didn’t need to fill the space with words anymore. Like time had stopped circling them for a brief second just to let them breathe.

And then, without asking, without warning, Hyuntak curled into Seongje again—like a gravity he couldn’t resist. He wrapped his arms tightly around him, pressing his forehead gently into the crook of Seongje’s neck. This time, the hold was different. It wasn’t playful or teasing. It was still. Earnest. Intentional. He closed his eyes as he breathed in slowly, deliberately, as though anchoring himself in the scent of the boy beneath him.

His breath was warm—so warm it made Seongje flinch. But he didn’t push him away. He didn’t fight it. He just sat there, rigid but not resisting, heart hammering behind his ribs like it wanted to claw its way out and demand answers he didn’t have.

“…But I’m glad,” Hyuntak murmured softly, voice muffled against his skin. “That you smiled earlier.”

Seongje’s breath caught in his throat. The mention of it—that moment—was enough to make his whole body tense again, like the memory was something shameful. Something dangerous.

“That wasn’t me,” he muttered, almost defensively. “Forget it ever happened.”

Hyuntak chuckled, the sound low and full of warmth, like he already knew better. Seongje could feel it—feel his chest tremble with laughter against him, feel the way his breath stuttered over his skin in little vibrations that felt far too tender to be allowed.

“Sure,” Hyuntak said with a soft hum, tone saturated with amusement. “Whatever you say.”