Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the start of Haechan's first college semester, which meant a full week of unskippable orientation lectures and painfully long campus tours. It already felt like the longest week of his life, and he was ready to be done with it before it had even properly started. Haechan had a reputation for being the last one to show up but the first one to leave—no matter the event—so naturally, he made sure orientation was no different.

The only saving grace was that his best friend Jeno was there to suffer with him. When Haechan found out they'd both been accepted to the same college (after making sure every single application they submitted was identical, just in case), he'd immediately launched into a relentless campaign insisting they had to be roommates.

Jeno wasn't thrilled about the idea at first. He argued that maybe it was time for Haechan to branch out, meet other people, and expand his social circle.

Haechan had rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck because he couldn't care less. He'd been perfectly content having only Jeno as his main person for most of his life, and while Jeno had other friends, Haechan knew he was always first in the lineup.

But that loyalty came at a price. Because soon enough, Jeno brought up a favor. Or maybe a suggestion. Or possibly a full-blown threat— Haechan still wasn't sure which, only that he had no idea how to wriggle out of whatever deal Jeno had in mind.

"Haechan." Jeno exhaled, heavier than he probably meant to. "You have to try out for the volleyball team. That's, like... your whole personality back then."

He dropped into the chair across from Haechan at the kitchen island, resting his elbows on the counter like he was settling in for an argument.

Haechan scoffed, looking personally offended. "I haven't played since junior year."

Jeno's mouth twitched into something between a pout and a smirk, like he was already dreading the effort it would take to convince him. "Okay, but I'm not kidding. You were good—really good. Despite..." His eyes flicked down Haechan's frame before finishing, "...being peculiarly small."

That earned him a snack thrown straight across the counter. Jeno caught it without looking, which only annoyed Haechan more.

"Ugh, Jeno..." he groaned, dragging out his whine, knowing how much Jeno hated when he pulled the childish, avoid-the-topic routine. "Why do you even care if I join?"

"Because," Jeno said, pausing like he was carefully constructing a winning argument, "it was the happiest I've ever seen you. I bought the whole 'I'm quitting to focus on my SATs' excuse back then, but now? That's not in the way anymore."

Haechan leaned back, mulling it over despite himself. He did love playing volleyball—loved it so much it almost hurt to admit how much he missed it.

Back in school, he'd basically been the star of the team, famous for being the most light footed guy on the court while still carrying ninety percent of their win streak on his back. Maybe he'd be below par now, but God, he'd loved every second of it.

"Ugh, fine, I'll think about it! But only because you said I have to if we're gonna be roommates." He jabbed a finger in Jeno's direction, like he was furious, but the lack of bite in his voice gave him away.

Jeno grinned—too wide, the kind of smile that made his eyes disappear into happy crescents. "Good. Now no one will see I have a loser roommate who plays Overwatch twenty-five hours a day."

The smack to Jeno's chest was instant.

When Haechan had told Jeno he'd "think about it," in Jeno's mind it apparently meant decision finalized. By the next day, his best friend had already "accidentally" forwarded him the volleyball tryout schedule, complete with a star emoji next to the date.

Which was how Haechan found himself standing in the middle of the campus gym almost two weeks later, the squeak of sneakers echoing off the polished floor and the faint smell of sweat and sports tape hitting his nose.

He kept telling himself he wasn't nervous, that he'd been good once— but the way his palms grew clammy and his brain kept spiraling through a hundred reasons to just turn around suggested otherwise. His confidence wavered further when he spotted Jeno in the bleachers, flashing a quick thumbs-up.

Supposedly, he was there for moral support. Realistically, Haechan was starting to suspect he'd come purely to watch him crash and burn.

Before he could make a break for it, a sharp whistle split the air, freezing him in place. The coach was already calling players to gather for a quick introduction before starting the tryouts. Haechan's heart slammed against his ribs, hard enough that he half-expected to keel over right there on the court.

He couldn't remember ever feeling this overwhelmed on a court before. Maybe it was the unfamiliar gym, or the rows of new faces he had to skim through, but something about it made his thoughts spiral in a way they hadn't in years.

Mostly, it was because he hadn't been alone in a crowd like this in a long time. Jeno had always been there— not just nearby, but next to him, within arm's reach. Having him all the way up in the bleachers felt weirdly suffocating, as if the few feet of distance meant he had to face the whole thing entirely on his own.

"You."

The coach's voice cut through his thoughts like a slap of cold water. Haechan's head shot up, eyes locking with the coach as he tried (and failed) to swallow discreetly. The man was pointing at him.

"Me?" Haechan pointed to himself like there was a chance the coach meant the air behind him.

"Are you in the right place?" the coach asked—not mean, just... like he was double-checking if Haechan had wandered in here looking for the cheerleading tryouts.

Haechan gave a dry cough, scanning the group for backup. His gaze landed on a boy across the court who was grinning like he'd just spotted a rare animal. The boy shook his head slowly, clearly entertained by Haechan's confusion. Great. An audience.

"Yes?" Haechan said, but it came out more like a question his brain hadn't approved. "This is the volleyball tryouts?"

Before the coach could reply, another voice piped up from the back. "Nah, dude, this is the chess club. We just use volleyballs for cardio."

A few chuckles broke out. Haechan turned his head just in time to see the source— the same guy that was looking at him weird before, leaning on his knees like he had all the time in the world. He winked. Haechan immediately decided he didn't like him.

The coach's smile was polite but had this I already know you're going to be a handful energy to it. In Haechan's mind, the man had just filed him under people I'll be yelling at by week two.

Haechan felt like screaming, but his face betrayed him with a reluctant, almost polite smile— like he'd just been told to say cheese at gunpoint.

The whistle blew again, snapping everyone into motion. Haechan fell into step with the rest, rolling his shoulders like this was just another day on the court. And normally, this was where he thrived—on a court, with a ball in the air and no one questioning if he belonged there.

But the coach's earlier are you in the right place? moment had lodged itself in his brain like a bad song. Now, every time someone glanced his way, he wondered if they were picturing him holding a pom-pom instead.

It didn't help that the "tryouts" were more like a public execution. There were only three of them actually trying out—him, a tall beanpole who looked like he'd wandered out of a basketball court, and a guy who looked like he'd been spiking balls since birth considering how large his biceps were, not that Haechan was looking though. The other six guys were already in team jerseys, clearly sizing up the new blood.

And of course, the chess club guy. Still wearing that smug little half-grin like he was the protagonist of this whole thing, headband holding back his dark hair as if he'd just stepped out of a sports drink commercial. He moved like someone who already knew he was in charge, and honestly, Haechan couldn't decide if it was annoying or... actually, no, it was just annoying.

The warm-up went smoothly enough. Jog a few laps. Stretch. Pretend you weren't the new guy everyone was sizing up. Then came the drills, and that's when things got interesting—mainly because the headband guy, clearly the captain, was calling out instructions like they were plays in some deranged game show.

"Banana split!" he shouted.

Half the team immediately sprang into a perfectly coordinated movement while Haechan froze, scanning the court for either a dessert or an explanation.

His brain, unhelpfully, decided to picture himself sitting cross-legged in the middle of the gym with a sundae, which was definitely not what the coach wanted. By the time he realized he was supposed to move, everyone else had already executed the play.

"Hey, new guy," the headband captain called out. "You waiting for sprinkles too?"

That was it— any ounce of respect he might've had for this guy evaporated on the spot. He nearly rolled his eyes into next week before remembering the entire court had just witnessed him standing around like an extra in the wrong movie.

What the fuck is this guy even talking about?

Haechan swore he'd never heard a single human being yell "banana split" with that much conviction, let alone use it as a serious command on a volleyball court.

Was this a thing he'd been missing his whole life? Had his old coach been deliberately holding him back from reaching his true potential? The worst thing is that no one seemed fazed and just brushed it off like it was normal.

Without a word, Haechan slid into an open spot at the front left, trying to look like he knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't about to give them more reason to think he was clueless, especially since everyone else moved like they'd been born knowing the drill.

The coach launched into his spiel, explaining how they'd start with serves and digs before moving deeper into the tryout. Then, like he'd just remembered there were more important things to do, he waved a hand at the team to handle the rest themselves.

Apparently, "breaking the ice" was better done without him hovering, so he headed for the sidelines, rifling through a stack of paperwork while the players warmed up to each other.

Easy, Haechan thought. Confidence wasn't exactly in short supply with him— something Jeno found deeply irritating. But what made it worse for everyone else (again, Jeno in particular) was that Haechan had every reason to back it up.

His thoughts were interrupted again when a ball smacked down right in front of him, close enough to make him stumble back like it was a live grenade. His heart nearly shot out of his chest.

"You good?" a voice called. Haechan looked up to see one of the team members, freakishly tall and the type to have to bend down to enter a doorway, walking over.

"Mark, give the kid a break," the guy added over his shoulder.

Haechan's gaze followed the name to the opposite side of the court, where Mark, headband and smug grin in place, was already laughing way too hard for someone who had not actually done anything impressive.

So his name is Mark. Of course. Like a stupid middle aged white dad who drives a minivan.

"I'm Johnny," the tall guy said, noticing where Haechan was looking. "And he's..." Johnny's eyes shifted toward Mark. "...annoying. Ignore him."

Haechan nodded politely, "I'm Haechan." he said simply, fighting the urge to ask "Is this guy always this insufferable?"

Johnny smiled briefly and picked up the ball that had rolled to his feet, tossing it back to Haechan. "So... I guess you're up first, Haechan."

"Let's go, new kid," Mark yelled, smirk plastered on like he owned stock in the court. Haechan caught it, tried not to visibly flinch, and pretended his brain wasn't already spiraling through ways to make this guy trip over his own ego.

Haechan gripped the ball, took a deep breath, and tossed it up. Small hands, big dreams, right? The ball sailed neatly over the net, just out of reach of the nearest teammate. It landed deep in the backcourt, catching one of the guys off guard enough that his sneakers squealed as he scrambled to dig it up.

"Nice serve," the guy called with a grin, tossing the ball back.

Haechan didn't want to keep the spotlight any longer than he had to, but rules were rules. They'd missed the first serve, which meant the ball was still in his hands, and now there was an unspoken challenge hanging in the air.

He bounced the ball once, twice, like he had all the time in the world, even though he absolutely didn't. He was just trying to calm his nerves from the sudden tension rising in the air. Then, without overthinking it, he sent the ball flying.

This time, they got it up and the rally kicked in without warning. No gentle warm-up passes, just instant, full-speed chaos.

Sets were crisp, spikes cracked against the court, sneakers squealed, and someone on the far side actually dove for a ball like they were auditioning for a sports anime.

It didn't take long for Haechan to clock the hierarchy here. Most of them were clearly seasoned, moving like they'd been playing together for years. Then there were the other two tryout guys, whose main strategy so far seemed to be "run where the ball probably is." Not that he was judging. (He was definitely judging.)

The rest of the so-called tryouts were basically just... a full game. No drills, no awkward "introduce yourself to the team" circle, not even a water break. The coach parked himself at the sideline now, arms crossed saying nothing, like he was conducting some silent reality show audition in his head.

And not that anyone was asking, but Haechan thought he was doing pretty well for a first impression—maybe a second, if you counted the humiliating coach call-out earlier. Sure, he wasn't in peak condition, and a few swings didn't have quite the bite he wanted, but after years of not playing like this, he felt alive.

Plus, judging by the couple of guys who were still figuring out which side of the court they were supposed to be on, he definitely wasn't the weakest link. Which, honestly, was all he needed for his ego to start humming again.

"All right, that's it for today," the coach finally said after match point—unsurprisingly courtesy of Mark's team. Ugh.

"Thanks for coming to the tryouts," he said, his smile about as lively as a math textbook. It was aimed at the three of them he'd pulled aside—Haechan included.

That was it? No Welcome to the team, no You were so good out there, not even a I've never seen such raw, natural talent in my life. Okay, that last one was a stretch, but still—what was this supposed to mean? That he didn't make the cut? That he did? That he'd been drafted for a completely different sport and no one told him?

"Haechan."

He blinked, realizing the coach had said his name for what felt like the second time. Somewhere between his internal award acceptance speech and mild panic spiral, the other two guys had already started making their way toward the exit.

"Yes, coach."

"See you at practice next week."

Oh.

As the reality sank in that he was officially on the team— Haechan's brain promptly short-circuited. Sure, he'd only agreed to try out so Jeno would stop pestering him and secure him as his roommate. Was he confident he'd make it? Absolutely. Cocky, even.

But now that he had, it hit him— he'd never actually thought about it past this point.

Suddenly, a tidal wave of inconvenient realizations came crashing in. This meant actual practices. Talking to people who weren't Jeno. Participating in things that didn't involve flopping onto his bed the second he got home. His soul shriveled a little.

He nearly growled before a light push on his left shoulder pulled him out of it. He turned and found Johnny standing there, a slight grin plastered on his lips.

"Congrats, Haechan. We should get drinks after this, get to know the team. Whaddya say?"

Haechan hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Jeno, who was still parked on the bleachers like the world's most invested stage mom. Jeno mouthed Just go, way too enthusiastically for Haechan's comfort.

Honestly, he wasn't sure if Jeno wanted him to make friends or was just thrilled at the thought of getting rid of him for a few hours.

But fine— he guessed if he wanted to survive on this team, he'd have to start by learning their names. Which, now that he thought about it, he absolutely didn't know any. Except for Johnny. And, unfortunately, Mark.

"Sure," he said.

-

Johnny picked a nearby self owned restaurant tucked between a laundromat and some questionable karaoke bar, the kind of spot you’d miss if you blinked. The kind of place you’d only know about if someone dragged you there once, then swore it was the best kept secret in town.

Only four of them actually showed up, which suited Haechan fine. Johnny, Doyoung, and… Mark. He slid into a seat beside Johnny, who immediately claimed the tongs that were set on the table. Doyoung sat across, carefully scanning the menu, picking which menu set they should order. Which, of course meant that Mark was directly across from Haechan. Of course. Because the universe clearly had a sense of humor.

"So, Haechan,” Doyoung began once everyone had their waters, his tone smooth but not unkind. He leaned back in his chair like this was some casual interview. “Did you play in high school? You kinda surprised most of us back there.”

The compliment hit harder than it probably should have, and Haechan could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward before he reeled them in. Finally a normal interaction for the day.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “But I haven’t been active since junior year.”

Johnny whistled softly, eyebrows raised. “So you’ve just been sitting on talent this whole time? Man, some of us grind every week just to keep up.”

Haechan scratched the side of his finger, pretending to study the steam curling up from the broth. “Something like that,” he muttered, not sure whether to take it as a compliment or pressure.

Doyoung let out a small laugh, enjoying how flustered Haechan looked with the compliments.

Mark, who had been mostly silent since they sat down, suddenly scoffed for no apparent reason. Haechan’s eyes flicked to the man across from him—quiet now, but still carrying the smug of someone who had terrorized him on the court just hours ago.

The table stilled for a beat before Mark leaned back in his chair, chopsticks tapping against his bowl. “Huh. I still think your blueberry pancake could use more work.”

Haechan’s brows knit instantly. Blueberry pancake? Was Mark… expanding the invisible food menu from earlier? He hadn’t even recovered from “banana split” and now this?

His gaze darted around the table, waiting for someone—anyone—to laugh or explain. But Johnny was too busy drowning beef slices, and Doyoung looked like he hadn’t even registered what was said. Either they didn’t hear it, or they were letting him suffer on purpose.

When his eyes landed back on Mark, the guy was clearly suppressing a grin. Meanwhile, Haechan’s brain was spiraling because what if this wasn’t a joke? What if this was an actual volleyball thing he’d somehow missed?

“…my what?” he finally blurted, a few seconds too late.

Mark tilted his head, lips quirking like he’d been waiting for that exact response. “Your serve,” he said casually, as if obviously Haechan should’ve known. “Kinda flat. Needs more spin. Like a pancake.”

Now, Haechan was pretty sure Mark was demented in some ways, the type of guy who would show up to practice in mismatched socks and call it strategy. It wasn’t even the blueberry pancake specifically though, seriously, what the hell— but the way he said it, like it was some serious matter. Haechan couldn’t decide if Mark was actually mocking him or just inventing a secret language made of diner specials. Either way, the man wasn’t wired right.

Johnny, on the other hand, nearly lost it— he snorted mid-sip, coughing into his sleeve as his glass of water rattled against the table. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, shoulders shaking while he muttered something about “blueberry pancake, that’s crazy.”

Doyoung’s reaction was the opposite. He set his chopsticks down with a sharp little clink and leaned back like a weary parent, eyes flicking between Mark and Haechan. The look on his face said really Mark? and the longer it lingered, the more it seemed aimed at both of them—Mark for being ridiculous, and Haechan for entertaining it.

“…you’re insane,” Haechan muttered under his breath, deciding it was safer not to press further.

But judging by the smug glint in Mark’s eyes, that was exactly the reaction he wanted. Johnny was already snorting into his drink, nearly choking when he tried to stifle it. Doyoung, meanwhile, just sighed through his nose and reached for the ladle like he’d rather drown himself in broth than witness another round of Mark’s nonsense.

“Don’t encourage him,” Doyoung said flatly, as if Mark’s entire personality hinged on people giving him the attention he craved.

Mark only grinned wider, chopsticks spinning idly between his fingers. “What? I’m just saying, man’s got potential. Just needs some… flavor.”

Haechan stared at him, still half-tempted to check if anyone else at the table spoke the same language as Mark. Doyoung, without missing a beat, waved Mark off with his chopsticks in a sharp little flick—like he was telling Haechan not to waste his energy.

The conversation drifted back into easier territory, circling around classes, old matches, and the coach’s strange quirks. The air around the table felt lighter, almost like it had softened, carrying a warmth that crept in without Haechan noticing at first. He realized somewhere between laughing at Johnny’s story and nodding along to Doyoung’s dry remarks that he didn't feel much like an outsider.

An hour slipped by before any of them noticed, and eventually they agreed to call it a night. Johnny excused himself to the bathroom, Doyoung was already up front at the counter insisting on paying, and just like that Haechan found himself stuck alone at the table with Mark while waiting for the other two.

“So…” Mark finally broke the silence, eyes darting everywhere but at him. “Are you always this tense?”

Haechan scoffed, an automatic sound, sharp and defensive. “You don’t even know me,” he shot back, leaning into his chair as if to put distance between them.

The words came out harsher than he intended, but Mark didn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched like he had been waiting for exactly that reaction, like he had been prodding the whole night just to hear Haechan snap.

Seriously, what was this guy’s problem? From the second they’d met, it felt like Mark had zeroed in on him, pushing buttons Haechan didn’t even realize he had. And fine, maybe it worked— maybe he was tenser than he wanted to admit.

“Oh, but I really want to.” Mark said, too casually that Haechan’s throat decided to betray him, closing up like he’d just swallowed a pebble. He doubled over with a cough, hand flying to his chest as if the force could knock the air back in.

“What?” he croaked, finally managing to swallow down the ache in his throat, fingers rubbing at his sternum like that would erase the humiliation. His gaze dragged back to Mark, who looked way too entertained by his near-death experience.

“What?” was all Mark said, a grin hidden behind the cup he brought to his mouth for a sip.

Haechan narrowed his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw his chopsticks at Mark or just get up and leave, but either way, the smug look on his face made Haechan’s blood boil.

By the time Johnny strolled back from the bathroom and Doyoung reappeared with the receipt, Haechan still felt that irritation buzzing under his skin. He pushed back his chair a little too quickly before following them out into the night.

The cool air should have calmed him down, but it didn’t. Instead, all he could think was how Mark somehow managed to get under his skin without even doing much. It was infuriating. Haechan clenched his fists in his pockets, vowing that next time he wouldn’t let him get to him.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since Haechan joined the volleyball team, and honestly, he couldn't say he wasn't having fun. The schedule shifts, the extra practices— he slipped into it like it was second nature, almost like his body had been waiting for this routine.

But if he was being completely honest? Two weeks of being around Mark was enough to drive him halfway insane. Somehow the guy had made it his personal mission in life to poke, prod, and wring reactions out of him.

And the worst part? Nobody else seemed to care. To the rest of the team, it was just "Mark being Mark" which meant harmless jokes, dumb banter to lighten the mood. Harmless, his ass. Haechan could argue it was psychological warfare.

Of course Jeno was the one who had to endure Haechan's rants after every practice, which gave him a whole new set of things to care about. Now that he'd managed to drag Haechan out more, he had to suffer (not really) through hearing about how Mark apparently made it his mission to torment his best friend every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

And while Haechan swore up and down that Mark was actually insane, Jeno only seemed more amused by the whole ordeal. Maybe even a little smug, like he was enjoying watching someone else get a taste of Haechan's own medicine.

"So, what did your boyfriend do to you today?" Jeno asked the second Haechan kicked off his shoes and dropped to the floor between their beds. Haechan never sat on his mattress with outside clothes, a habit Jeno had long stopped questioning.

Haechan narrowed his eyes. He already knew who that referred to, and he was really starting to suspect Jeno enjoyed this. Because what do you mean he asked before Haechan even opened his mouth?

"Jeno, he's crazy." Haechan groaned, dragging a hand down his face like reliving it alone was painful.

"Why?" Jeno turned fully in his chair, abandoning his half-finished assignment. The grin tugging at his mouth told Haechan everything— he was already too entertained.

Haechan's head snapped up, eyes wide, hands already midair as if preparing evidence. "This—this man. We're scrimmaging, right? Normal drill. Everyone's doing fine. Then, out of nowhere, he yells—" He shot to his feet, pointing across the room like he was back on the court.

"'CHEESECAKE!'" His voice cracked halfway through.

Jeno blinked, then snorted. "...Cheesecake?"

"Yes, cheesecake!" Haechan's pitch shot higher. He began pacing, hands flapping in disbelief. "Like—like what am I supposed to do with that? Is it a set? A block?"

He turned sharply, mimicking Mark with an obnoxious deep voice. "'Nah, dude, it's all about the consistency of the cheesecake, means soft start, strong finish. Like the crust and filling. Think about it.'"

Haechan clutched his chest, fake-panting. "Like that was supposed to clear things up."

Jeno was openly laughing now, watching Haechan throw his whole body into this retelling.

"And everyone else?!" Haechan jabbed a finger at the imaginary teammates around the room. "They just—nod. Like it makes sense. Like oh yes chef, got it chef. And I'm standing there wondering if I should dig, spike, or preheat the oven!"

Jeno nearly choked trying to hold back his laugh. "Wait, wait—so what was it supposed to mean?"

"I don't know!" Haechan threw his arms up. "Apparently it means push forward on defense or something insane. But he couldn't just say that like a normal human being, no. He had to ruin cheesecake for me forever."

He collapsed back onto the floor, throwing himself flat on his back like he had survived war. His chest rose dramatically, as if he had spent all his energy simply telling the story.

"The worst part is, he called me a burnt cheesecake. Which I assume meant my game needs more work," Haechan huffed, throwing an arm over his eyes like the sheer insult was too much to bear.

He would argue, if anyone asked, that burnt cheesecake was actually superior— creamier, richer, the kind of dessert people lined up for. But saying that out loud would feel like giving Mark a win, and Haechan refused to hand him that satisfaction.

Jeno, smiled down at him, shook his head. "Dude... you have no idea how happy this makes me."

Haechan shot him a betrayed glare from the floor. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Because for once, you're the one getting roasted." Jeno shrugged. "Mark's doing God's work."

Haechan groaned loudly, dragging a hand over his face. "I hate both of you."

Jeno just grinned wider, clearly satisfied, before swiveling back toward his desk. "Anyway, you better get it together. Your first friendly game is in two weeks."

Haechan froze on the floor, suddenly less concerned about Jeno's betrayal and more about surviving a real game with Mark yelling dessert names loud enough for a gym full of people to hear.

-

It was Thursday, which meant laundry day for Haechan. He always swore Thursdays were perfect— quiet enough that the laundromat wasn't overrun like weekends, but close enough to the end of the week that his clothes never had the chance to pile too high.

Tonight, though, he was running later than usual. His sacred 6 p.m. ritual had been hijacked by a group discussion that dragged on well past dinner, his classmates cornering him for input the second he was free. Skipping three evenings a week for volleyball practice made him a prime target whenever they could catch him, and honestly, the guilt didn't help.

So after a quick meal to shut up his stomach, he finally hauled his overflowing basket to the laundromat. The place was nearly empty, just the low hum of dryers in the back and the faint smell of detergent clinging to the air.

As Haechan shoved a bundle of clothes into the washer, the front door creaked open behind him. Quiet steps that barely registered— he barely glanced up. There'd been a dryer ticking down at ten minutes when he came in; probably just someone waiting on that.

Much to his dismay, peace had not been an option these past few weeks. Because the moment he turned to his back, he was met with the last person he wanted to be stuck with alone.

Leaning casually against the row of dryers, was Mark. Arms folded, head tilted, smirk already in place— as if he'd been waiting for Haechan to turn his back.

"You've got to be kidding me," Haechan muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

"Nope," Mark drawled. "I'm just as real as it gets."

The laundromat had been his safe Thursday ritual—his quiet, his peace. And now? Peace was ruined. Haechan vowed never to be this late again if it meant steering clear of Mark.

He rolled his eyes, brushing past him toward the token machine, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But if there was one thing he knew about Mark, it was that the guy never quit until he got what he wanted.

"You always do your laundry on Thursdays?" Mark asked, trailing after him with steps a little too eager, like some oversized puppy.

The machine clinked and spat out tokens into Haechan's hand. He turned— and nearly collided with Mark, who was standing far too close for comfort. Haechan immediately stepped back, brows knitting. Annoyance already brewing in his chest.

"We don't really have to talk."

"But I want to." Mark leaned one shoulder against the token machine, eyes fixed directly on him.

A faint heat crept up Haechan's cheeks before he quickly shook his head, as if he could rattle the feeling loose.

"Yeah, well... I don't, so." It was probably the lamest comeback he could manage, but it was that or nothing. He spun back toward his machine.

"Why not?" Mark pushed off the machine and trailed after him, undeterred.

"Because I like my silent laundry routine," Haechan muttered, shoving the tokens into the slot a little harder than necessary.

Mark had claimed the top of the machine right next to where Haechan was loading his clothes, his legs dangling lazily. "Aren't you excited to talk to me, though?"

Haechan scoffed, nearly spilling his softener at the sheer audacity. This guy had spent weeks making his life hell, and now he had the nerve to sit there and ask that?

He focused harder on his routine— unscrewing the cap, pouring in the extra softener he always carried because the laundromat's free stuff was a crime against humanity. At least the lavender scent gave him something sane to hold onto.

"No," he said flatly after a beat.

"Damn." Mark let out a long, exaggerated sigh, heavier than it had any right to be. "Guess it's just me then."

Haechan's eyes shot up to Mark, who was keeping a maddeningly straight face making it impossible to tell if he was serious or just screwing with him. Like always.

"Don't act surprised now. It's not like you were exactly nice to me on court either," Haechan bit back, refusing to let Mark's fake disappointment shake his perception of him.

Mark didn't flinch. He only kept that smug little smile, holding Haechan's gaze like he had all the time in the world.

Haechan suddenly became aware of just how close his face was to Mark's— closer than it had ever been before.

Against his better judgment, his eyes flicked over Mark's features, and immediately he hated himself for it. Up close, Mark's face was annoyingly sharp, like he'd been carved by someone with way too much free time.

It was the kind of face you'd expect to see on the lifeguards by the pool during summer— the kind that made people purposely almost drown just to get a minute of his attention.

Haechan immediately kicked those thoughts away the second he realized he was basically ogling Mark. Ew, by the way.

He now also realized a second too late that they hadn't looked away. Mark's gaze stayed fixed on him, steady, almost curious, and for some reason Haechan couldn't seem to break it either. His throat felt dry, like his body had forgotten the command to move.

Then, with a quiet chuckle and a shift of his lips, Mark muttered, "Cute."

Haechan's eyes shot wide open. Had he heard that right? Was his brain finally short-circuiting from dealing with Mark too much? Maybe Jeno was onto something when he half-jokingly diagnosed him with schizophrenia.

Heat crept fast up his neck, blooming across his cheeks and ears which was already a dead giveaway. He tore his gaze away, coughing into his fist like that could somehow mask the betrayal of his own body.

Shit. If Mark caught even an ounce of this, he'd never let him live it down. And judging by the smug silence hanging between them, he already had.

"What?" Haechan blurted, aiming for casual indifference but landing somewhere between strangled and squeaky. The crack in his voice sealed his doom.

"Oh," Mark tilted his head, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug as he pointed toward Haechan's washing machine— which, by the way, hadn't even started its cycle yet.

"I was talking about these," he said, barely containing a laugh.

Haechan's eyes snapped to where Mark was pointing, and the gasp that escaped him could've been heard across the street. He slammed the lid of the washer shut with a thud that echoed through the laundromat.

"You're sick," he spat, still reeling.

Because of course, of all things— Mark had spotted the one piece of clothing that should've never seen the light of day.

His bear-print boxers. A cursed birthday gift from Jeno, opened in front of family and friends to loud laughter, and yet somehow spared from the trash pile because, well... they were stupidly soft. Too soft to throw away. And now here they were, mocking him under Mark's stupid grin.

Haechan was mortified, if that was even possible now after everything else Mark had already put him through these past weeks. He couldn't decide which was worse: the fact that Mark had just seen his stupid only-for-home boxers, or the humiliating split second where he actually thought Mark was calling him cute.

Meanwhile, Mark was doubled over, laughing far too loudly for the almost-empty laundromat, his hand slapping against his thigh like he was trying to keep himself from falling over.

Looks like Mark won. Again. By getting exactly the reaction he wanted.

Dick.

Haechan huffed in defense, as if that could erase the sheer humiliation currently carving itself into his soul. Nope. Not happening. Not tonight, Satan. His fingers hastily jabbed at the buttons until the machine roared to life, and stalked off toward the bench pressed against the wall.

Dropping into the seat, he squeezed his eyes shut, praying to whatever higher power might be listening that this moment would fast-forward itself into oblivion.

He cracked one eye open, then the other, when the silence stretched a little too long. Mark, for once, hadn't followed him.

Instead, he was unloading his dryer, which had beeped finished at least five minutes ago. Relief washed over Haechan in a heavy sigh. Maybe God was finally taking pity on him. Maybe he was free.

That hope lasted exactly ten seconds.

Mark appeared with his laundry basket, dragging it right over and plopping down next to him like they'd made prior arrangements.

"You just don't know when to quit, huh?" Haechan muttered, already surrendering to the inevitable.

"Nope."

Haechan nodded once, lips pressed thin in mock defeat.

And of course, Mark started folding his clothes—meticulous, one shirt at a time, which could only mean one thing. He was staying. For the entire wash cycle.

Haechan let out the loudest, most exaggerated groan of his life, making sure Mark heard every ounce of suffering in it.

"Haechan," Mark called, completely ignoring the groan that had just left him. "Are you always like this on dates?"

"What?" Haechan choked, air catching in his throat.

Mark didn't answer right away, he just stared at him with that infuriatingly blank face, shrugged, and went back to folding.

"I know you heard me."

"I—I..." Haechan's tongue tripped over itself, because how was he supposed to respond to something that insane?

Finally, he managed, "What are you even talking about?"

"A date," Mark said simply, eyes never leaving the t-shirt in his hands. "You know, when two people hang out and spend quality time together."

Of course he had to define it. Of course.

Haechan forced himself to sit up straighter, pushing down the panic before it leaked onto his face. "What kind of lame dates are you going on that happen against the other person's will?"

Mark smirked then, finally lifting his gaze back to him. "The special ones always start that way."

"You're actually crazy," Haechan muttered under his breath, though Mark clearly heard it. "You're literally folding your boxers in front of me."

"And you're watching." Mark's reply came quick, smug curling at the edge of his mouth. "Consider it a teaser."

Haechan blinked, brain short-circuiting. This guy was deranged. Like, actual batshit. Who says things like that with a straight face? Heat shot straight up Haechan's neck, faster than before, betraying him instantly. He whipped his gaze away, refusing to let Mark see just how red he'd gotten.

Mark was... shameless. Completely, utterly shameless. He had no filter, no embarrassment, no sense of what normal people should or shouldn't say. And the worst part? He always said it with that calm, unbothered tone— like he wasn't even joking, like he actually believed this was fine.

"A teaser for what, you sicko?" Haechan huffed, blatantly annoyed to the max. At this point, he wasn't even sure punching Mark would calm him down anymore, it might just fuel his stupid satisfaction.

Mark, of course, kept that infuriating small smile plastered on his face while tucking his now neatly folded laundry into his basket. He finished faster than expected, which—thank God—meant Haechan's suffering had an expiration time.

"Well, I better get going," Mark announced casually, walking toward the exit and leaving Haechan's question dangling in the air, unsolved and probably meant to haunt him.

"Fucking finally," Haechan muttered under his breath, though his chest was still tight with leftover irritation.

"Okay, sunbear," Mark sing-songed, just as the glass door swung open. He didn't even spare Haechan a backward glance.

Haechan froze.

Did Mark just—? Did he just give him a nickname? A nickname based on...

His eyes flicked to his machine, the one that was still running and currently holding the cursed bear-print boxers. That psycho just gave him a nickname based on his underwear.

His jaw dropped. His whole soul felt embarrassed. Sunbear? Was that supposed to be cute? Funny? Insulting? What the hell was that?

By the time the door closed, Haechan was left sitting in his humiliation stew, regretting life altogether.

Chapter Text

Haechan had been staring at the locker room wall long enough to memorize every chip in the paint. At this point, if someone quizzed him on it, he'd ace it. His body was technically at practice, but his brain was still parked at the laundromat, running the most humiliating rerun of his life on an endless loop.

The scene had replayed in his head all night, loud enough to keep Jeno awake too. Haechan spent hours pacing and ranting about how Mark was clearly trying to embarrass him, his voice climbing higher each time he brought it up.

Jeno, meanwhile, just sat there on his bed, lips pressed together to stop himself from blurting the one thought circling in his head— that maybe Mark wasn't trying to humiliate Haechan at all.

Not yet, Jeno thought, amused as he watched his friend tie himself in knots.

Haechan was really starting to lose his mind more than he'd like to admit. And it was bleeding into his ability to function as a normal human being. Not only did every single dessert (his favorite treat) now remind him of Mark, but the constant awareness that Mark could whip out the boxers-print story at any given time was haunting him. He was already calculating more executions than Dumb Ways to Die.

Haechan finally dropped his bag on the bench with a thud, tying his shoelaces a little harder than necessary. He could feel the stare before he even looked up.

Sure enough, Mark was leaning against the wall, towel around his neck, smirk locked and loaded.

"You look ready to cry already," Mark drawled. "And practice hasn't even started."

"Cool observation. Write it in your diary," Haechan shot back without glancing up, focusing way too intently on the knot in his laces.

Mark tilted his head, grin widening. "So defensive. Did you miss me that much?"

Haechan groaned, standing to his feet and brushing past him toward the court. "I'm ignoring you."

"Good luck with that."

And from the sound of Mark trailing after him, clearly amused, Haechan realized that brushing him off only added fuel to the fire.

Although Haechan managed to dodge Mark most of practice, his brain wouldn't shut up long enough to keep him on track. Which, of course, opened the door for Mark who apparently thought it was his divine duty to provide live commentary every single time Haechan so much as mistimed a set.

At this point, he was starting to realize it wasn't random, that Mark was saving the stupid dessert commentary exclusively for him. Which was basically bullying, if you asked him.

Haechan figured he must've personally offended Mark in a past life and this was his payback. Honestly, given how things were going in this life, he was pretty sure his past self hadn't exactly been an inspiring person either. Probably some guy who tripped kids on the playground or stole bread from grandmas. Maybe even double-parked a chariot, who knew.

And also maybe it was just his paranoia talking, but he swore Johnny nearly pulled a muscle trying not to choke on his own laughter every time Mark opened his mouth.

"Careful, Haechan," Johnny called, grinning. "Sounds like you're Mark's favorite."

Haechan nearly gagged, shuddering so hard it felt like his skin was trying to crawl right off his body. As much as he loved attention and praise, this was more disturbing than flattering. It made him want to walk off the court, maybe off the planet, maybe even straight into witness protection with a new name and a forged passport.

Nonetheless, Haechan somehow managed to keep it together until the end of practice. Barely.

By the time practice ended, he felt like a wrung-out towel— heavy, damp, and kind of pathetic. Haechan was dragging his bag behind him like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Thankfully, Doyoung took one look at him and offered a ride, saving him from the sticky, snail-paced campus bus. Haechan pretended to hesitate at first, like he actually had the energy to debate it, but honestly? He'd been ready to throw himself at Doyoung's car keys the second the words left his mouth.

He told Haechan to wait out front while he went to get his car, which was parked way too far for anyone's convenience. Haechan nodded, more than fine with staying put, but once Doyoung disappeared down the hall, the quiet pressed in on him.

So instead of loitering by the doors like some lost puppy waiting for pickup, he drifted toward the vending machine, figuring at least he could kill the silence with a drink.

He was kinda thirsty anyway. And sure, maybe it was unhealthy that his first instinct was soda instead of water, but that wasn't really his fault. Somehow, soda always felt more hydrating. He was sure that his brain believed the fizz worked harder. Honestly, science should back him up on that one.

Which was exactly why the vending machine ate his last dollar.

"Perfect," Haechan muttered, forehead nearly bumping the glass as he pressed both palms against it like grief alone might shake the can free.

That was when he heard a snicker off to the side—quiet, but way too familiar. His head snapped around, and sure enough, Mark was there, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets, face flat with boredom... except Haechan would've bet anything that laugh came from him.

Haechan exhaled through his nose, shoulders sagging. God really was testing his limits on a daily subscription plan.

"I'll give you a dollar if you stop ignoring me," Mark said with a grin spreading at the corner of his lips, clearly entertained.

Haechan scoffed. He was thirsty, sure, but not desperate enough to entertain Mark, not when it meant handing him the satisfaction of winning. He knew he was being petty, and that maybe there was a slim chance Mark actually wanted to help.

But come on, this was Mark. If Haechan knew anything, it was that the guy's brain was a 24/7 factory for dumb schemes. And Haechan trusted his instinct. His perfectly correct, flawless, always-right instinct.

Mark clicked his tongue, slow and mocking, like he was grading Haechan's stubbornness on a scale of one to pathetic. But that didn't mean he didn't enjoy it.

"Guess not," Mark said, slipping the dollar into the machine anyway.

And then—of course—the soda bottle dropped instantly, smooth and obedient, like it was scared to disappoint Mark of all people.

He was too tired to even react. Of course the soda leapt into the tray the second Mark touched the machine. Honestly, his whole life felt like one long setup for Mark to get a front-row seat to his misery. Maybe he should just embrace it.

He wanted to argue, to point out that technically this was still his soda, half his dollar was probably still rattling around inside that cursed machine. But he could already hear the nonsense Mark would throw back. Something like making him cup his hands so Mark could pour half the soda into them. Or worse. And Haechan wasn't about to stick around to find out.

So, still stubbornly committed to ignoring Mark, he turned on his heel with a sigh, soda-less and dignity-less, hoping the universe would cut him one break before making his way outside.

"Haechan."

Mark stepped up beside him, holding out the Coke bottle like it was some kind of peace offering. No smirk this time, just a flat smile, unreadable, that made Haechan itch to figure out what game he was playing.

"See you Monday, sunbear."

Just when Haechan almost thought Mark was being normal for a split second, of course he had to prove him wrong. He was just biding his time, plotting, probably rubbing his hands together in secret like some villain waiting for the perfect opportunity to ruin him.

"Don't call me that." Haechan hissed, eyebrows knitting together in frustration.

Mark ignored the warning completely. "So you're done ignoring me, then?" 

"Yeah, fine, whatever. Just don't call me that, okay?" Haechan tried to sound firm, but it came out closer to desperate begging, which only made him want to punch himself in the throat.

"Why not?" Mark tilted his head, faux innocence painted across his face.

"Why not?" Haechan echoed, voice climbing half an octave. His eyes darted around like someone might be lurking behind a tree with a microphone. "What are you gonna say if people hear you?"

"I don't know," Mark mused, lips twitching. "That we've seen each other's underwear?"

Haechan's soul practically evacuated his body.

"Are you insane?!" he barked, hands flying out before he caught himself. He clamped his mouth shut immediately, positive the entire campus had just heard that.

"It's not like I'm lying," Mark shrugged, raising a brow as if he was the one being reasonable.

"Don't make it sound like something it's not, you absolute freak," Haechan bit out, feeling his ears burn so hot he swore he could fry an egg on them.

"What does it sound like then, Haechan?"

"It sounds like you should shut up before I tape your mouth shut." Haechan snapped, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Weirdly enough I'd like that."

What the fuck.

His own reaction surprised him this time, because the word hit harder than it should have, curling in Haechan's chest before he could stop it. His ears went hot. Blushing. Actually blushing for absolutely no reason at all. All over a stupid comment, from the stupidest guy alive.

Thankfully, by the time Haechan's brain was beginning to malfunction, Doyoung's car was already pulling up, headlights cutting across the lot like a rescue signal. Relief washed over him— finally, a lifeline out of this disaster. 

He quickly snatched the bottle that Mark was still holding out to him without a word, mumbling something that wasn't quite "thanks" and wasn't quite "screw you," then all but sprinted toward Doyoung's car like the ground was on fire. 

Behind him, Mark was grinning smugly, satisfied with the reaction he'd gotten.

"Are you okay?" Doyoung asked as soon as Haechan shut the door, harder than anyone ever needed to shut a car door, like he was trying to punish it for existing.

Haechan's head snapped around instantly, panic written all over his face as if Doyoung had caught him red-handed doing something illegal. God forbid he'd noticed the faint blush still clinging to his cheeks, or worse, guessed why it was there. 

He nodded too quickly, blinking like rapid fire as if he could physically blink the heat in his stomach away.

Thankfully, Doyoung wasn't the type to pry and right now, Haechan couldn't have been more grateful. Because if Doyoung had so much as raised an eyebrow, he was one hundred percent sure he would've spilled everything, including details he definitely didn't want to explain.

The car eased out of the lot, headlights cutting across the dark road. For a while, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the low buzz of the radio. Looking for anything to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts, Haechan turned the soda bottle over and over in his hands, the cool plastic his only weak attempt at steadying himself.

Then casually, cutting the silence, Doyoung asked, "How are you holding up with the team so far? Everything settling in okay?"

That question made Haechan pause, a little taken aback, before he started carefully crafting a good-enough answer. He considered just nodding, tossing out a safe, generic "good" and leaving it at that. But the words stuck, heavy on his tongue. 

Haechan's thumb drifted over the soda bottle in his lap, before scratching the side of his finger restlessly, the nervous tell Jeno always mocked him for, and realized that staying quiet was almost harder than saying something. 

"Yeah," he started, too quickly. He swallowed, forcing himself to slow down. "I mean, mostly. Practice is fine, everyone's fine." He stared out the window, the passing streetlights flickering over his face. 

Then, after a beat, he muttered, "Except Mark."

That earned him the tiniest side glance from Doyoung, hands steady on the wheel, lips twitching like he'd expected that answer all along. 

"Mark, huh?"

Haechan groaned, tipping his head back against the seat like the ceiling might give him strength. "He's—he's like... allergic to leaving me alone. It's constant. Every second is something with him." He waved a hand vaguely, as if Mark's entire existence could be summed up in one frustrated gesture.

Doyoung didn't laugh, but his smile said enough. "Sounds about right."

"Is he always like that? How the hell did you guys survive him?"

Doyoung's grip on the wheel tightened slightly, eyes flicking toward Haechan. "You know... I think Mark's only like that when it comes to you."

Haechan snorted, rolling his eyes so hard it practically hurt. "Yeah, sure," he muttered under his breath, because obviously that wasn't the case. 

Doyoung glanced at him from the corner of his eye, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I mean, I don't know. He acts a little different around you, doesn't he?"

"Different? Nah. You're imagining things," he said, forcing his voice casual. He almost laughed at the hypocrisy, as if he isn't embarrassingly the one obsessively analyzing Mark's every move long after practice had ended. Mark thrived on chaos, and Haechan happened to be the easiest spark in reach.

Doyoung's smile didn't waver, just a soft, knowing tilt of his head. 

Haechan's hands fidgeted in his lap now, twisting the edge of his sleeve. "Mark's just... annoying," he muttered, too fast, too sharp, like saying it louder could somehow make it true.

Doyoung glanced at him, lips twitching with amusement. "That's one way to put it."

Haechan didn't answer, instead staring way too intently at the bottle in his hands, wondering what on earth Doyoung was getting at. Surely not what he thought, right?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to quiet his runaway thoughts. Of course, the harder he tried, the faster they multiplied. He could practically hear an imaginary scoreboard in Mark's head, each flinch, blush, and sigh racking up points like some cruel championship.

He glanced out the window, watching streetlights smear into streaks, and silently begged the universe to either explain Mark's obsession with his misery or at least make him stop thinking about what Doyoung had just said before he lost what little sanity he had left.

-

The next day, Haechan spent the entire Saturday drowning his thoughts in video games and dumb YouTube videos. Somehow, he even helped Jeno fold his laundry—miracle of the century—just to keep busy and, more importantly, to avoid that one thought that had been lingering in his mind since Doyoung dropped him off after practice.

Of course, he kept catching himself thinking about Mark. Not unusual, except now it felt... different. Doyoung's comment about how Mark acted differently around him had unloaded a truckload of question marks he had no answers to.

He didn't want to read too much into it. Obviously, Doyoung was probably just messing with him, maybe even in on whatever this whole thing was. Whatever it was, Haechan decided it was safer to keep it internal. Telling Jeno about it felt like confirming his own thoughts, and he was fairly certain his brain was gaslighting him enough as it was.

So when Jeno invited their classmate Jaemin over to hang out, Haechan was oddly insistent on going, which was unusual because he usually had a million excuses to avoid socializing. The three of them ended up in the middle of the dorm, sitting cross-legged on the floor with instant ramen bowls that Jaemin had thoughtfully brought along.

"Should we watch a movie?" Jaemin asked, eyes flicking between Jeno and Haechan.

"Sure," Jeno said, already reaching for the remote.

Haechan, however, wasn't really paying attention. His chopsticks dipped in and out of the bowl almost mechanically as his eyes stared past the ramen at nothing in particular. Both of his friends noticed, their brows slightly furrowed in concern.

"Helloooo," Jaemin called, waving a hand annoyingly close to Haechan's face.

"You haven't touched your ramen," Jaemin said, voice slicing through his thoughts. His eyes were equal parts curious and nosy as he studied the zoned-out mess across from him. "Is everything okay?"

Haechan waved him off, burying himself in stirring the noodles with his chopsticks. Of course, that only made Jaemin pay closer attention. Because the only plausible explanation for a neglected ramen was that he had problems. 

"Yeah, I was just... I hadn't really slept last night." he said, more to prove he wasn't completely losing it than to actually answer Jaemin.

"Why? You've been zoning out since I've been here. Another second of you staring into the void and I'm calling the nurse." Jaemin said as he finishes his leftover noodles.

Haechan leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms like a shield. He was absolutely crafting an excuse in his head, something believable, airtight. Late-night project? Food poisoning? Alien abduction? Anything to get Jaemin off his back—

But before he could pick one, Jeno beat him to it.

"He's having boyfriend problems."

The way both their heads snapped around could've broken necks— Haechan's glare radiating pure betrayal, Jaemin's eyes shining like he'd just stumbled across an unlocked diary.

"Boyfriend problems?" Jaemin perked up, his whole face lit up way too much for someone supposedly worried.

Honestly, the kid was more nosy than concerned. The only reason they were even friends in the first place was because Jaemin had been surgically glued to Jeno since week one and apparently, being Jeno's friend meant being Haechan's too. Which was not something Haechan had signed up for, thank you very much.

Haechan nearly choked on his own outrage. Boyfriend problems? He didn't even have a boyfriend. Unless, of course, you counted late-night reruns of his own humiliation at practices— then sure, he was basically in a committed relationship with stress.

"No," he snapped, sitting up straighter. "There's no boyfriend, okay? I was just—" His brain scrambled for an excuse, anything, "—gaming. All night. Jeno's just bored and making up lies."

"Gaming," Jaemin repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it suspicious.

"Yes," Haechan said, shoving a massive bite of ramen into his mouth to shut himself up. "Why do you make it sound like that's illegal?!" His voice cracked halfway through, which was deeply unfair.

"So when can I meet this mysterious boyfriend that had you up all night, hm?" Jaemin prodded again, completely ignoring the excuse Haechan had just thrown out.

Haechan’s jaw dropped. "Don’t even think about it."

"Since when are you so possessive, Haechan?" Jeno drawled, smirking like he was savoring every second of humiliating him in front of the campus gossip. He might as well have stripped Haechan naked while he was at it.

Haechan let out a scandalized scoff, clutching his chest like he’d just been accused of murder. "Possessive?! There isn’t even a boyfriend."

"So when you said, ‘Don’t even think about it,’ you were meaning... what?" Jaemin prodded, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"The captain of your volleyball team?" Jeno added, smirk widening so far it practically split his face.

"Dating one of the team? That’s so messy!" Jaemin gasped, utterly enthralled by what he clearly considered the gossip of the century.

"Jeno....." Haechan whined, knowing exactly how to make Jeno stop teasing him. Kind of like his personal safe word, in a way. 

Both Jeno and Jaemin laughed, clearly entertained by Haechan’s pout and the way he swayed his shoulders in obvious discomfort. It didn’t help that they also found it ridiculously cute.

"Wait," Jaemin paused, eyes flicking up like he was scanning his brain for missing files. "Isn't Mark Lee the captain of the volleyball team?"

Haechan and Jeno exchanged a confused glance. Sure, Jaemin was a walking gossip, but the fact that he already knew Mark’s name felt a little suspicious. Not that Haechan was surprised— Mark probably had the reputation of a popular fuckboy on campus. Beyond practice, though, Haechan hadn’t really heard anything else about him.

"Yeah."

"So he's really your boyfriend then?" Jaemin asked, but the shift in his expression made the question feel heavier than usual.

"He isn’t my boyfriend," Haechan said firmly, cutting off the assumption before it could gain traction.

"That's a relief," Jaemin said, nodding like he’d just received crucial intel, which only made Haechan and Jeno exchange another confused glance.

"Why? Do you know something?" Jeno asked, eyebrows raised, voicing the question both of them were thinking.

"It’s just that he’s been... around, you know?" Jaemin said, a little too casually, as if the detail didn’t fully register the way Haechan felt it. "I think I saw him with one of our classmates at a bar last week... or maybe it was someone else. Not entirely sure."

"I wouldn’t be surprised, he’s very flirty," Jeno smirked, glancing at Haechan, who had gone noticeably quiet. "Right, Haechan?"

Haechan shook his head, trying to play it off, but a weird little pang hit him anyway. Not disappointment, exactly— more like the sudden awareness that Mark existed outside of his little bubble, moving through the world in ways Haechan hadn’t really considered. It was just... surprising, that's all.

"More annoying than flirty, actually," Haechan muttered, refusing to let his spiral slip out again tonight.

"Do you guys have something going on, though?" Jaemin asked, eyes narrowing slightly, clearly piecing things together. It was a little weird for Jeno to bring up Mark out of nowhere, especially when Haechan had just claimed he wasn’t even his boyfriend.

"No," Haechan said, a little too quickly, too sharply.

"Not yet," Jeno added, earning a sharp glare from Haechan and a small pillow tossed straight at his face.

"I'm done with you both. Go make out somewhere else," Haechan muttered, heading toward the kitchen. He claimed he was getting a drink, but really he just needed a breather, a few stolen seconds away from the teasing, the questions, and the unexpected information bomb Jaemin had dropped.

As he opened the mini fridge in their dorm, the first thing he saw was the Coke bottle from yesterday, untouched. His hand reached for it almost automatically, fingers brushing the cool plastic.

Haechan let his mind wander, thinking maybe he was just one of the people Mark liked to tease, the kind of person Mark could annoy endlessly for fun. And what Doyoung was initiating is merely one of Mark’s flirty games, meant for anyone, not him in particular. So that meant he wasn’t special, right? 

He hated even admitting that, because that meant acknowledging Mark had been flirting, in some way, and that only made him more confused. No, he wasn’t flirting— Mark was just a bitch, and that was that, he told himself.

To push the thoughts away, Haechan decided he’d just drink the soda and throw it out before it had any more chances to haunt him by sitting in the fridge. He chugged down the soda way too quickly before noticing a scribble at the side of the bottle.

He pulled the bottle away, now that the drink was half gone, he could see clearly that there were in fact writing he hadn't noticed earlier. He turned the bottle for a better look at it, eyes widening before gasping way too loud at what he discovered.

010-XXXX-XXXX - call me :)

It was Mark's phone number, written in black marker staring back at him.

Chapter Text

Monday practice was supposed to be routine— drills, sweat, the usual exhaustion, maybe even a stolen nap if coach turned his back long enough. Normally, Haechan liked losing himself in the rhythm of it, because at least on the court he could prove he was sharp, reliable, not the type to slip. 

But today his focus wouldn't stay put. No matter how many times he dragged his mind back to the ball, it slipped again, circling the one thing he was determined not to think about— and of course the idiot responsible for it all was only a few meters away, loud and impossible to ignore.

He never lost focus in practice, not even when Anna Olson was out here hollering dessert names. But now? Now his timing was off, his head was scrambled, and it felt like the universe was ruining the one thing he actually had under control. And if he couldn't even hold it together on the court, then what did he have left?

It was embarrassing being this worked up over a couple of numbers scribbled on a bottle— numbers he'd already memorized from reading them one too many times.

And it's not like the thing was even lying around anymore. The second the weight of it hit him, he'd shoved the thing deep into his closet, buried between stacks of folded shirts so Jeno wouldn't sniff it out, like some incriminating piece of evidence. Out of sight, out of mind— that was the plan, at least.

Mark hadn't even mentioned it. Not once. No wink, no dumb joke, not even a throwaway line to let Haechan know it wasn't just in his head. He'd just kept on being his usual loud, irritating self, tossing comments left and right like nothing had happened. And maybe that was what got to Haechan the most, because if Mark wasn't thinking about it at all, then maybe it really had been nothing. 

So, in his infinite wisdom, Haechan came up with the perfect plan: just stop giving Mark any reaction at all. Because if Mark wasn't going to bring it up, then why should he?

Which was why, when Mark bumped his shoulder during the water break, Haechan simply stepped aside without so much as a glance, eyes fixed on the cooler like it was the most fascinating object in the gym. 

When they rotated off court, Mark made a beeline for him, plopping down on the bench with all the confidence of a guy who thought he was welcome everywhere. His towel landed on the spot between them, like he was claiming territory. With reflexes only slightly less graceful than a startled cat, he shot up so fast the bench squeaked in protest.

"Oh, uh, I gotta... stretch," he blurted.

Stretch what? His pride? His will to live? Didn't matter. He swung himself into a dramatic forward lunge like he was auditioning for a yoga video. He assumed that if there was an audience, they would've gasped at the sheer childishness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mark's face flicker—half confusion, half amusement—before Mark blinked at the empty space beside him.

And that was pretty much how the rest of practice went: dodging, ducking, pretending to be busier than he was. By the end of practice, Haechan felt like he'd run twice as hard, not because of the drills, but because avoiding Mark took every ounce of focus he had.

He barely made it halfway out of the gym before Mark was jogging after him. "How long is this one gonna take?" he asked, like someone used to Haechan's moods. But there was something different in his voice today— charged, a little uneasy, like he was worried this round might last longer than usual.

And maybe he should be. Because Haechan hated how Mark always seemed so sure he'd give in eventually, and worse, he wasn't wrong. He did always end up entertaining Mark's antics, feeding that stupid ego of his.

"What's this? Silent treatment? Should I be keeping score or something?"

Haechan didn't look at him, tightening his grip on his bag strap like it might drag him faster toward the door. "No."

Mark leaned in a step closer, lowering his voice with exaggerated seriousness. "Nah, seriously. Did I miss, like, your birthday or something? Is that why you're mad? Because if so, I can totally bake a cake. Might be a little burnt, though."

Haechan fought the twitch in his mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "I'd rather choke."

Mark let out a laugh, quick and surprised, like he'd been waiting for that crack in Haechan's armor all day. "There he is."

Haechan hated how relaxed Mark seemed, like handing over his number was just some throwaway joke. Meanwhile, Haechan was stuck replaying it like an idiot, dissecting every possibility until his brain felt fried. Was Mark expecting him to text first? Was it supposed to be some kind of dare? A test? A prank? 

The more he thought about it, the more it made no sense, and the fact that Mark wasn't even flinching about it drove him insane. Wasn't Mark supposed to be the one sweating bullets, checking his phone every two seconds, wondering if he'd gone too far?

The perfect comeback hit him five seconds too late, which was exactly five seconds after he'd already turned his back. By then, the moment was gone, and all he could do was keep walking, letting the silence do the talking for him.

The rest of the week wasn't much better.

On Wednesday, when he felt Mark making his way too near during warm-ups, Haechan dramatically pulled out his math textbook, flipping pages like he was about to ace an exam no one else had heard of. Coach yelled at him to put it away, but hey, better running extra laps than small talk with Mark.

Friday was worse, if that was even possible, when he ended up crouched in a bathroom stall for twelve whole minutes, brightness turned down to zero as he scrolled through memes like he was hiding from the FBI— mostly just to make sure Mark didn't catch him before they all left for practice. Twelve minutes of dead leg circulation was a small price to pay to stay off Mark's radar long enough to breathe like a normal human being.

By the time the week ended, Haechan felt wrung out, like avoidance itself had been cardio. Which was why, when Saturday rolled around and Jeno dragged him to some off-campus party, Haechan thought it might actually be a good reset. It didn't help that his weekend plans were emptier than his fridge, and not wanting to look like the loser he is, he figured why the hell not, right?

The place was already packed when they showed up—music blasting through the walls, colored lights strobing like someone had gone wild with a disco starter kit, and the faint smell of popcorn mixing with cheap beer. People were pressed shoulder to shoulder, cups in hand, yelling over the music like that somehow counted as a conversation.

Haechan wrinkled his nose but stuck close to Jeno, who was cutting through the crowd like he had VIP access. They weaved past bodies, catching waves and half-shouted greetings from people Haechan definitely did not know, until Jeno finally steered them into the kitchen—the universal safe zone of every house party.

"I can't believe I actually dragged you out on a weekend," Jeno said once they'd scored drinks.

"Yeah, well, I kinda need it," Haechan muttered before taking a cautious sip.

Jeno smirked, looking way too pleased with himself. "About time. I was starting to think you'd spend the rest of college married to your computer chair playing games."

"You're just mad I'm better than you," Haechan shot back, shoulder bumping him with a smirk.

"You wish." Jeno rolled his eyes, but then something over Haechan's shoulder caught his attention. His expression shifted—first surprise, then barely contained amusement.

"Hey." Jeno nudged him, tilting his chin toward the living room. "Isn't that your boyfriend?"

Haechan wasn't in the mood to correct him. Jeno only ever meant one person, every single time, and judging by how he bulldozed through every denial Haechan had ever thrown at him, he wasn't about to stop now.

His eyes (against his will) slowly swept the living room, slipping through the blur of bodies until they landed on the one person he'd spent the entire week successfully dodging. Of course Mark was here. It wasn't surprising— Haechan had already planned to ignore him here too, and the fact that he already thought about it made him feel... pathetic.

Mark stood a few feet away, laughing too loud at someone's joke, and for once it wasn't his usual cocky grin. This was different— open, easy, the kind of smile that made his whole face light up. Haechan's brain stuttered, registering it as kind of cute before he could shove the thought into the shredder. But whatever warmth had almost sparked there short-circuited when his gaze caught on Mark's hand, casual and sure, slipping around a girl's waist like it belonged there.

Woah.

Haechan wasn't prepared for the wave of uneasiness that hit his chest. His eyes snapped back to his cup like he'd just witnessed a crime scene— something he wasn't supposed to see. Or maybe something he didn't really want to.

Jeno, of course, caught the shift instantly. "Why do you look like you just swallowed a lemon?"

"I don't," Haechan shot back too fast. He waved his cup like it was a prop in his defense. "This is literally me having fun."

"Uh-huh," Jeno said, unconvinced. "You glaring at your drink like it owes you money is definitely the definition of fun."

Haechan ignored him, tipping his cup back again. If he just kept drinking, maybe he'd eventually stop thinking. Or breathing. Either worked, honestly.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Jeno pressed. Which, fine, was fair. He'd been suspiciously nice about not pointing out how Haechan had skipped his almost-daily Mark complaints this week.

"I tell you everything, Jeno." The lie came out too easy, and Haechan instantly hated how guilty it felt sitting in his chest. He just didn't want to unpack that mess right now. Not with a brand-new one already clawing at his brain.

"I dunno, man. You've been kinda weird." Jeno shrugged, sipping from his almost-empty cup.

Haechan didn't answer. Didn't know how to. He stared hard at his drink instead, like it held the script he needed, until Jeno nudged him again.

"Hey. Let's just have fun tonight, okay?"

That made Haechan crack a smile. It was small, barely there, but the comfort hit him anyway. Jeno was the kind of person you could always fall back on. He never pried too hard, never pushed more than Haechan could handle, just showed up and made it feel less like the world was out to get him. 

He told himself he wasn't going to let what he saw ruin his night. He lied, obviously. But if he was going to lie to himself, might as well double down. And what better way to drown thoughts at a party than by drinking?

The bass thumped through the floor, laughter carried over the music, and before long, someone was dragging a table out for beer pong. Jeno perked up instantly, already halfway there, and Haechan—against his better judgment and already lightheaded from the cheap alcohol—followed without much resistance.

The crowd swarmed in fast, packed so tight it felt like the living room had shrunk to half its size. Someone shoved a half-full cup into Haechan’s hand, and he didn’t even question it— just tipped it back and let the buzz settle heavier in his head.

What started as him heckling from the sidelines, narrating throws like it was the NBA finals instead of a beat-up living room with peeling paint, somehow turned into him being dragged into the next round. Half-conscious and more than a little reckless, he didn’t bother resisting.

The place erupted when Haechan sank his last shot, the noise ricocheting off the too-small kitchen walls. The air was hot, sticky with laughter and beer, but Haechan barely noticed— he was grinning, lightheaded, floating on the sudden ease of it all.

Jeno slapped him on the back, nearly sending him into the table. “Look at you,” he shouted over the music. “Whole week acting like a hermit, and now you’re the life of the party. Who even are you?”

Haechan rolled his eyes, though the smile refused to fade. “Relax. I’m not about to start hosting karaoke nights.”

“Good,” Jeno shot back with a laugh. “Nobody wants to hear that.”

Haechan snorted, still grinning, the warmth of the win and the alcohol making everything feel a little lighter. The crowd finally started to scatter, cups getting refilled, the table cleared for the next group. He leaned back against the counter, chest still buzzing, when he noticed Mark, who was close enough that Haechan should’ve felt it, but somehow he hadn’t until now.

“What are you doing here?” Haechan blurted, words spilling out sharper than intended.

Mark tilted his cup, not even pretending to play it cool. “Watching you,” he said easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze flicked over Haechan, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I’ve never seen this version of you before. This Haechan is so fun.”

Haechan squinted at him, words slipping out before he could stop them. “Well, don't get used to it.” 

He pushed off the counter like he was making some kind of dramatic exit, only for the floor to tilt underneath him. His foot caught, balance vanished, and he pitched forward—

Mark’s hand shot out, steady and sure, catching him right before his face could meet the sticky kitchen tiles.

“Got you,” Mark muttered.

Haechan jerked his arm back like Mark’s touch burned, stumbling the other way instead. Which, surprise, ended with him plopping gracelessly on the floor anyway. He mentally cursed himself, but his brain was too fogged with alcohol to throw his usual walls back up in front of Mark. 

Mark looked down at him, a grin tugging at his lips. "Look at you. Can’t even stand up straight and still being stubborn."

The words barely registered through the haze in Haechan’s head, though. All he caught was the way Mark was crouching now, hand back on his arm, pulling him up with infuriating ease.

And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just Mark being too close, but for one dizzy second, Haechan forgot he was supposed to be avoiding him.

“I’m taking you back to your dorm,” he added, already shifting his arm like he was ready to haul Haechan out of there.

“No!” Haechan slurred, pushing weakly at his chest. “Jeno— where are you? Help me...” His words tripped over themselves, equal parts plea and protest, and he sounded more like a lost kid than someone trying to shake Mark off.

Mark blinked at him before laughing outright, the kind that curled his shoulders forward. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, eyes crinkling as he watched Haechan’s tipsy pout. “I didn’t know you get this cute when you’re drunk.”

Haechan groaned, trying to glare but failing miserably when his head lolled against the wall instead. Mark reached out on instinct, steadying him before he could slide down.

“I need Jeno,” Haechan mumbled suddenly, voice whining and thin. “Where’s Jeno? He has to—” He stopped mid-sentence, blinking up at Mark like the thought had escaped him entirely.

Mark’s brow arched as he glanced around the crowded room, the music and laughter washing over them. “Jeno?” he asked, trying to place the name he’d heard earlier. 

And almost like the universe had been listening, Jeno appeared from the kitchen, still nursing his drink. He stopped short when he saw Haechan practically slumped against Mark’s side, eyes narrowing just a little.

"Haechan are you okay?" Jeno quickly made his way to his friend, voice concerned but a flicker of smirk was tugging at his lips seeing how Mark was witnessing the most clingiest version of Haechan. He was sure Haechan would sue him for letting this happen.

"Are you Jeno?" Mark asked. Jeno nodded.

"I'm Mark," Mark introduced himself, eyes flicking to Haechan to make sure he was steady. “I’m on his team,” he said. “Just figured I should get him back to his dorm before he collapses here.”

Haechan blinked up at Mark, trying to process the words, but his brain was stubbornly fuzzy. “I... I’m fine,” he slurred, though the sway in his legs begged to differ.

Mark crouched slightly, steadying him with a hand at the small of his back. “I think you’re done for the night,” he said, voice calm but teasing. “Come on, I’ll get you back.”

Jeno’s grin widened, more amused than concerned. “Yeah, probably for the best. Honestly... he listens to you more than me anyway.” He leaned back, giving them space. Mark shot him a quick, confused look at that, but didn’t ask anything.

Haechan didn’t even remember climbing into Mark’s car, let alone ending up in a diner with lights so bright it felt like someone had yanked his eyeballs into the sun. He slumped in the booth, hands pressed against the table like they could somehow hold up his wobbling head. 

Across from him, Mark lounged like the chaos of the party had never happened, flipping through the menu with a casual ease that made Haechan’s brain stumble over itself.

“You okay?” Mark asked casually, glancing up from the menu.

“I—yeah,” Haechan slurred, though his voice wobbled despite the word. “Just... bright.” He squinted again, attempting to shield his eyes from the fluorescent lights with one hand while the other continued holding up his own head.

"You should eat something," Mark said, and Haechan wasn't sure if it was delusion or the alcohol, but he was pretty sure his eyes were telling him Mark was smiling in front of him.

"Why are you doing this?" Haechan asked, more to himself than anyone. 

Because really, why the hell was Mark here? Taking care of him, making his chest feel all weird in a way Haechan was 99% sure was just drunk thoughts. Why wasn’t he back at the party, yelling over music and chaos like a normal person? Why was he here, insisting on food and making sure Haechan didn’t faceplant, instead of... you know, doing whatever that hand on that girl earlier had suggested?

“What do you mean?” Mark asked, but he wasn’t looking annoyed. Just patient.

“You won’t care if I pass out drunk,” Haechan muttered, rolling his eyes even though his brain felt like mush. “You’re confusing.”

Mark didn’t answer right away, just let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth before he said carefully, “Sure I do.”

“Why?” Haechan asked, blurting it out despite the haze clouding his brain.

“Well, then I’d have to start looking for someone else who actually liked me,” Mark said, casually, like it was a completely normal fact of life.

Haechan scoffed, letting his head crash into the table, comfy in the defeat of it all. “Like you could find any."

Mark laughed— the same laugh he’d worn at the party, the one that had Haechan’s brain short-circuiting more than he cared to admit before saying, “Who needs affection when I could have blind hatred from you?”

This time, Haechan felt heat creep up his neck and cheeks. He buried his face into his arms, trying desperately to hide the blush. Gosh, he should never let himself slip like this— not when being this vulnerable in front of Mark was apparently too dangerous for him.

The smell of fries and burgers hit him, and Haechan realized too late that Mark had already taken care of ordering for both of them. Plates slid onto the table, steaming and way too bright under the fluorescent lights.

Haechan squinted, propping his head up with both hands, poking at the food like it was some weird science experiment, while Mark ate like nothing was on his mind, glancing up every now and then to make sure Haechan didn’t do anything too stupid. The diner buzzed quietly around them, dishes clinking, people talking softly, and somehow it felt kind of nice. His head was starting to feel less fuzzy and heavy, and for once, Mark didn’t feel like a pain in the ass. He was just... there.

"Hey," Haechan suddenly called, voice a little higher than he intended. Mark looked up immediately, eyebrows raised.

"Do you, like... I don’t know... have a crush on me or something?" Haechan added, spilling the words out without any of his usual defensive shields. It came out sloppy, hiccuped even, and he immediately regretted nothing.

Mark’s lips twitched as he fought back a grin, glancing down at the table like he was trying to hide a blush. Haechan squinted at him through the bright diner lights, trying to read the expression, and felt his chest tighten.

"I don’t want to tell you when you’re this drunk,” Mark said finally, voice low but steady, eyes locking with Haechan’s just for a heartbeat before darting away.

"I’m not drunk!" Haechan insisted, hiccuping in protest, swaying slightly in his seat. "I’m... totally fine. Totally. See?" He gestured vaguely at the empty diner around them, the clatter of dishes and muted chatter barely registering in his foggy brain.

Mark shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck like he needed to keep himself grounded. The corners of his mouth still lifted, amused, patient, and slightly exasperated all at once.

"Let’s get you to your room before more things come out of your mouth that you’ll regret," Mark said, sliding the check across the table and standing.

Haechan blinked, watching him, a small frustrated 'tsk' escaping despite himself. He was the one usually quick to back down, but now it was Mark stepping back first. For the first time, Haechan felt the strange mix of power and panic that came with actually wanting to see where this would go— and knowing Mark could just walk away if he wanted.

He let the tension settle for a heartbeat, the smell of greasy diner fries and coffee filling the air, and realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t hate that Mark was being the responsible one.

Haechan swayed slightly as they reached his front door, fumbling for the keys. “I—I got it,” he slurred, waving a hand like he could magically make the lock cooperate.

Mark didn’t even blink, just rested a steady hand on Haechan’s back. “Sure,” he said, voice calm but amused. “I’ll just be here in case the door attacks you.”

Haechan groaned, trying to fit the key in with more determination than skill. His hands shook, and the key kept slipping. “I said I’m fine!” he protested, though his words came out uneven, like a hiccup mixed with a whine.

“You’re doing great,” Mark said, a teasing lilt in his voice, crouching slightly so their eyes were almost level. “Really. Maybe the door just wants a kiss first.”

Haechan blinked, cheeks heating, and muttered something incomprehensible before finally getting the key halfway in. He stumbled, and Mark caught his elbow, steadying him without any effort.

“I can handle it from here. You should go,” Haechan mumbled, finally pushing through the doorway.

“Okay,” Mark said, hesitating for a beat, debating whether to linger or respect whatever unspoken boundary there was. But before he could decide, Haechan was halfway through slamming the door shut in his face, and Mark managed to yell, “Text me if anything!”

Haechan froze. The words hit him like a splash of cold water. Text...? Using the number he’d slipped him a week ago? Mark had just said it out loud, casually acknowledging the elephant in the room like it hadn’t been haunting Haechan every second for the past week.

He swallowed hard, blinking at the closed door as his mind scrambled. His chest thumped, and suddenly the world felt way too quiet for how loud his thoughts were screaming.

Haechan stumbled into the middle of his dorm, dropping onto the floor without even taking off his shoes. He let his head lol against the wall, arms splayed like some tragic hero from a bad drama, overthinking everything and nothing all at once.

A part of him panicked like a fire alarm blaring in an empty house, shrill and relentless, yelling Don’t text him, idiot! It reminded him that the alcohol was still fogging his brain, making every thought feel wobbly and fragile. The second it wore off, he’d probably crawl under his blanket and groan at himself for weeks, imagining Mark rolling his eyes at whatever nonsense he’d sent. 

But the other part, the one dulled by alcohol and blissfully ignoring all social protocols, shrugged like it had no idea why he even cared. What’s the worst that could happen? it whispered. He could ignore you? He could think you’re pathetic? Big deal. That voice was annoyingly calm, like it had the wisdom of someone who’d already survived every awkward moment imaginable— and right now, Haechan kind of wanted to follow it.

Still partly dazed, he fumbled for his phone, fingers trembling before he let any spiral get the best of him. He typed in Mark’s number carefully, staring at the screen like it held the answers to the universe, and finally sent a quick, casual message.

Haechan: thanks Mark.

He leaned back against the wall again, closing his eyes, letting the weight of his own audacity settle in. It felt ridiculous. And also kind of freeing.

His phone buzzed a minute later, cutting through the fog in his head. He grabbed it almost too quickly, fingers fumbling as he opened the message. The screen lit up.

Mark: goodnight, Haechan :)

Haechan blinked at the message, chest tightening like someone had pressed pause on his heartbeat for a second. His lips twitched into a grin he didn’t try to hide, and for a fleeting moment, everything—the week, the party, the embarrassment—faded into a quiet, dizzy sort of happiness.