Archive of Our Own ^beta

—  Sally S, “Forbidden Desires”

The flight back home from Canada stretches on forever. Twelve hours pinned between sky and ocean, with nothing but the constant buzz of the engines to mark the passing time. Juntae ditches the airplane’s pop-down monitor with its endless list of movies in favor of pressing his forehead against the window now and then, watching the clouds drift like continents below him. Even that novelty wears thin somewhere over the Pacific. 

By the time the pilot announces their descent, he’s restless, stiff from sitting too long, and grateful that his mother insisted on business class: a wide seat that reclines into a bed, hot meals with real cutlery, and wine offered as if he’s older than he is.

She has always spoiled him in this way. Ever since he was little, she’s made sure the edges of the world never cut too sharply against him, giving him ease before he could even imagine what the harder version of life might have looked like.

He thinks of her often on flights like these. The way she raised him alone, moved through years that should have broken her, but never did—always working, always putting him first, carrying the burden of two parents without ever letting him feel the absence. He grew into comfort without realizing it was hard-won. She tied his ties, drove him to exams with a thermos of tea in the cupholder, stayed awake on the couch until he came home from reckless nights out he shouldn’t have been having. She is both his anchor and shelter, the reason his life has always been cushioned, and finally, the reason he never doubted where he belonged, even when kids back in middle school mocked him for having no father.

The truth is, he never cared. His father was a shadow, little more than a rumor. A man who left before he could make memories of him, a name his mother never spoke. On the rare occasion someone asked, Juntae would shrug, the answer already hard on his tongue: deadbeat. That was all he needed to know. He never asked about him and never will. Why go looking for someone who abandoned you, when the person who stayed was more than enough?

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Korea greets him in flashes of neon. The airport glass doors open to the familiar heat wave, the churn of travelers, the smell of coffee and fried food carried on the air.

From the back seat of the black sedan his mother sent, he watches Incheon unravel into highways, highways into bridges, bridges into the city he knows best. Seoul is as beautiful as he remembers. It's frenetic, crowded, and alive in a way no other city can be. He rests his head against the window and takes it in, the skyline flaring in the late evening sun.

It takes nearly an hour to reach Gangnam. By the time the car pulls onto his street, he’s craning his neck like a child, eyes searching for the shape of his home. He spots his mother already outside, waiting at the end of the driveway like she couldn’t stand to sit still any longer. He barely remembers to thank the driver before he’s out of the car, carry-on bumping against his ankle, arms already reaching. She envelopes him in a big hug that’s so warm and instantly homely, the smell of the lavender lotion she's always used clinging faintly to her skin.

“Three whole months,” she says, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, her hands framing his face like she can’t believe he’s here. “You’re not allowed to disappear from me even once.”

Her laugh breaks against his shoulder when he hugs her again, fierce enough that he almost forgets the long hours between Canada and home.

“I missed you so much, Mum.”

Juntae breathes out as she rocks him slightly, the way she used to when he was smaller. They stay like that long enough that the rest of the world blurs. He doesn’t notice the driver hauling his suitcases inside, doesn’t hear the trunk slam shut. It isn’t until he finally pulls back that he sees someone else quietly standing a step away, like they've been waiting for their turn. 

The sound that slips out of Juntae is more startled than he means it to be, half a laugh and half a sharp breath.

Tall. Pale-skinned. Black hair cut neatly, falling against his forehead. Worn blue jeans, a dark vest that clings to the line of his shoulders. He's not just good-looking — he’s striking, carelessly so, and without even trying. A small, gummy smile spreads across his face the moment their eyes meet, as if he finds Juntae’s surprise amusing.

Juntae stares a second too long before blurting, “What… did we get a new pool boy while I was gone?”

His mother smacks his arm with a scandalized gasp, followed by a burst of laughter. “Yah, don’t be ridiculous.” She loops her hand through the man’s arm with an ease that makes Juntae blink in quick succession, warmth softening her face. “This is Seongje. Remember? The man I told you I’ve been seeing.”

Juntae’s jaw falls open before he can catch himself, his gaze sweeping from the crown of Seongje’s head down to the sneakers at his feet and back up again. The longer he looks, the stranger it feels.

Six months ago, on one of their weekly FaceTime calls, his mother had leaned in close to the camera with a grin that made her look years younger. She told him she’d met someone at an art exhibition—an architect, she said, soft-spoken but funny, someone who noticed the small details and made her laugh until her ribs hurt. A man who sent her home with flowers after their first date, who left cards tucked into the mailbox, who called her just to say goodnight. Juntae had smiled at the screen, warmth pooling in his chest because she deserved all of that and more. For the first time in a long while, her eyes sparkled at the prospect of love. She was glowing, and he was glad for it.

But he had pictured a different kind of man. Someone with gray hair sprouting at his temples, maybe a little boring. A man who fit neatly into the picture of her age, who could play the part of a companion without disturbing anything else. He hadn’t imagined this.

A younger, beautiful man. Standing so casually at her side, shoulders loose, mouth curved into an easy smile.

“Whoa.” The sound tears out of him before he can rein it in, startled and awkward. He forces his mouth into a grin, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “This is him?”

His mother beams as if she’s been waiting for this reveal, holding tighter to Seongje’s arm. “Yes. This is him.”

Before Juntae can make sense of it, Seongje steps forward, closing the space between them with an ease that makes Juntae’s pulse quicken. He pulls Juntae into a welcoming side hug, scent unfamiliar but clean, and his voice comes out smooth, lightly amused.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Seongje says, warmth rolling off him in waves. “She’s been waiting to introduce us for months.”

“As have I,” Juntae manages, forcing the corners of his mouth higher. “Really glad to finally meet you.”

Seongje reaches for the handle of his carry-on. “I’ve got it.”

“It’s fine, I can—”

But the protest dies as Seongje ignores him with a slight grin, pulling the bag from him, then takes his mother’s hand as he leads them toward the house. Their eyes meet briefly in the motion, a quick look that lasts longer than it should. Seongje’s warm, unbothered smile lingers before he turns back to the door.

It's too easy, the way he smiles. Juntae can’t tell if it’s a charm or if this is simply who he is. He exhales, feeling a weird tension knot itself up in his shoulders, and follows them inside.

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The first shock of the day is simply realizing his mother has an insanely young boyfriend. He’s still trying to steady himself after that when the second one arrives, hours later, after dinner has come and gone.

The house has gone quiet, lights dimmed to a softer glow. Juntae steps out of the bathroom in choo choo train matching pyjamas, hair damp from the wash, towel in hand as he works at the water dripping down his neck. The travel fatigue has dissipated in the steam, leaving him drowsy but lighter. He’s bent over the mirror, ruffling his hair dry while trying to plug in the dryer, when a knock comes at the door.

“Come in,” he calls, not thinking much of it.

His mother slips inside, eyes bright, body leaning with a restless energy that makes her look younger than her years. She grins at him like she still can’t believe he’s really here. “I know it’s almost bedtime,” she says, a little sheepish, “but I just wanted to come check on you.”

“Bedtime, Mum? What am I, ten?” He laughs, and she laughs with him, brushing his shoulder affectionately as she comes closer.

When she reaches for the dryer in his hands, he lets her take it without protest. She flicks it on, guiding the warm air over his hair with so much tenderness. Juntae exhales, closing his eyes for a moment, sinking back into the familiarity. Her touch is grounding in a way nothing else is.

A few minutes later, his hair is dry, soft, and warm under her hands. She shuts the dryer off, sets it on the nightstand, then tugs at his wrist until he follows her to the edge of the bed. He lets himself be pulled, both of them sitting side by side like they always do whenever he’s back from Canada and she wants every detail of his life.

“So…” she starts, her voice lifting, eyes bright as she leans toward him, “what do you think of Seongje?”

She giggles right after asking, covering her mouth with her hand in mock-shyness, and for a moment, she looks like a high schooler confessing something forbidden.

Juntae can’t help it; he giggles too, leaning back on his palms, stretching the moment out like he’s weighing the question. “Well, he’s good looking,” he says at last, shooting her a teasing smile as he draws out the words. “You’ve got a good eye, Mum.”

She squeals at that, nudging him with her elbow, and he bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “No, seriously. During dinner, he was attentive. Kept topping up your water without you asking, and I saw him debone the fish just the way you like it before he passed it to you.” Juntae tilts his head, remembering. “He notices things. That’s a good trait.”

Her whole face lights up, and she makes a delighted sound that reminds him of the way she used to cheer for him at school events, unashamed and loud enough for everyone to hear. He laughs again just from seeing her like this, glowing in a way he hasn’t seen in years. It's a beautiful sight. 

But then he softens, just slightly, and asks, “You’re not worried? About the age gap?”

Instantaneously, her expression shifts from fond to serious. “No. Not even a little.” She pauses, eyes searching his face. “Does it bother you?”

Juntae shakes his head immediately, reassuring her. “No. It doesn’t, Mum. As long as you’re happy, nothing else matters.”

The seriousness bleeds away and the smile returns, this time wavering into something tender, almost overwhelmed. She cups his cheek briefly, and in that moment, he feels just how much she’s wanted this for herself, for him probably, and for their little family to finally feel whole.

Her hand lingers against his cheek for a moment longer before she pulls it back, her smile shifting into something almost nervous. “I actually waited until you were home to tell you,” she says, eyes darting briefly toward the door before returning to him. “Last week, I asked Seongje to move in. Just for the holiday, so we can all spend time together. With you around.”

It crashes through him like a gong, the sound so sharp and resounding he almost looks around to see if something’s actually ringing.

Move in?

Seongje?

For the whole holiday?

Juntae keeps his face still, the effortless calm of someone used to humoring people. Inside, his brain ricochets as his thoughts snarl and splinter. 

What the hell is she saying?  

Months of dating, a handful of dinners, and suddenly, the man is invited to take up space in their home. The only space that’s ever been solely theirs. People aren’t that simple. You don’t really know someone after a handful of seasons. For all he knows, Seongje could be anything—a liar, a manipulator, or even a sociopath wrapped in that easy smile. He could also be a scammer, someone circling his mother’s money, or worse, stringing her along for the thrill of it. Is it genuine, the way he looks at her? Or is it convenience dressed up as affection? The uncertainty knots in his stomach, leaving a bitter taste at the back of his tongue.

“I hope you don’t mind.” Her voice reels him back, soft and tentative, as she senses his silence. She shifts on the bed, her fingers fidgeting in her lap as she carefully searches Juntae's eyes. “We’re serious, he and I. And he’s been so excited to meet you, to bond with you. I wanted you both to have this time together.”

Stretching a little too long in the space between them is a pause. One that's beginning to get annoying the more Juntae reasons. But he knows his mother, and how quickly silence can make her panic. She has always been fragile beneath her strength, and he’s never wanted to be the cause of her unraveling, because he loves her so much. 

So Juntae does the only thing he can. He convincingly curves his mouth into a big, bright smile, one that could fool even the most skeptical person. It’s warm enough to soothe her, wide enough to erase her suspicion of his hesitation.

“Of course I don’t mind,” he lies smoothly, making sure to keep his voice calm and steady even as the clang of alarm keeps thrumming in his skull. “I’m glad, actually. I’m looking forward to spending the holiday together.”

Her relief is immediate. Her shoulders loosen, and her expression visibly melts back into tenderness. She squeezes his hand, grateful, as if he’s made this easier for her. He squeezes back, still keeping the mask of his smile on. Then she folds him into a hug, kisses his cheek goodnight, and tells him how happy she is to have him home again. 

“Tomorrow at breakfast,” she says brightly, “I want to hear all the new tales of Canada you’ve been saving up for me.”

She flicks off the main ceiling light on her way out, plunging the room into sudden dimness before the door closes behind her. The ensuing silence is uncomfortable.

Juntae sits there, jaw tight, until the sound of her footsteps fades down the hall. Then the smile he’d held for her disintegrates. What replaces it is heat, a simmering anger that coils tighter the longer he sits still.

The spiral returns with more teeth than before.

He isn’t angry about her having a boyfriend—not really. Not to mention that the boyfriend is younger. What needles under his skin, what won’t let him breathe properly, is the fact that she’s forced this arrangement on him. The entirety of his holiday, every single day spent under the same roof with this stranger. He pictures waking up to Seongje’s face at the breakfast table, crossing paths in the hallway, and bumping into him in the kitchen late at night. Over and over, until the three months are up and he’s back on a plane to Canada.

What if they don’t get along? What if it all collapses into a fight? And then his mother, caught in the middle, would be the one left hurt. That’s what he hates most, the idea that she’ll be caught between them and whatever scuffle they end up having.

And still, beneath all of that, a sharper thought cuts through: too young. Judging from his appearance, Seongje cannot be more than his late twenties. Early thirties at best. Which makes him, in Juntae’s eyes, far too young for his mother. Too young to understand her. Too young to deserve her years. Too young to be here, in their house, in her space, and in his space by extension.

The bitterness clings until he finally shoves his legs under the blanket and buries his face in the pillow, visibly throwing tantrums. He wills his brain to quiet and orders the noise to dull, because exhaustion is tugging at his body harder than anger is.

Eventually, travel fatigue wins. The last thing he feels before sleep drags him under is the restless churn of resentment still simmering in his chest.

Juntae shuffles out of his room with his hair sticking up in stubborn tufts, eyes still heavy, body moving like it hasn’t caught up with the time zone yet. He drops into a chair at the table just as the chef sets down steaming bowls of soup.

“Did you sleep well?” his mother asks immediately, watching him with a soft, indulgent smile. 

“Yeah,” Juntae mutters, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. “But I think the jet lag’s still fucking with me.”

He reaches for his glass, thirsty enough to drain it in one go, when movement catches the corner of his vision. Seongje appears from the far side of the house, dressed in nothing but a black tank, shorts, and flip-flops. Looking so casual, completely at home, and — unfortunately — beautiful.

For one startled second, all Juntae can think about is how good he looks. The way the tank clings to his shoulders, the bare ease of his skin, and the fact that he can walk in here like it’s nothing. His blood spikes before he can catch it, a hot rush he mentally dislodges immediately with a scowl. He’s supposed to be mad, furious that this man is in their house, not stare at him like an idiot.

“Hey, sweetie.” Seongje leans down to kiss his mother’s cheek, and she beams, her whole face lighting up at the small gesture. Juntae stares at them, wide-eyed, pulse skittering, unable to decide if it’s disbelief or disgust he feels. 

Then Seongje pulls out a chair and sits, turning that smile directly on him. “Good morning, Juntae. Sleep well? You look cute with your messy hair.”

Juntae blinks at the comment, the heat still crawling under his skin, and fires back before he can stop himself. “Cute isn’t really what I’m going for, thanks.” His tone lands dry and clipped, but light enough that it doesn’t sour the air.

His mother only chuckles, shaking her head at him, and turns back to her plate.

Juntae doesn’t let it drop. If Seongje thinks he’s going to sit here looking perfect in a tank and flip-flops, he might as well see what happens under pressure.

“So,” Juntae says, picking up his chopsticks and gesturing vaguely toward him, “how old are you anyway?”

“Thirty-two,” Seongje replies easily, not missing a beat.

Juntae raises his brows, humming like he’s surprised, though inside he’s grinding his teeth. He was right after all about Seongje's age range. Too young for his mother, but not young enough to be brushed off as a phase. Old enough to look serious.

“And your work? Mum said something about architecture.”

“That’s right,” Seongje replies, nodding. “I run my own small firm here in Seoul. Mostly residential, but I’ve been lucky enough to get a few commercial projects in the past year. Keeps me busy, but I love the problem-solving side of it.”

Of course he does. Juntae subtly rolls his eyes and stabs a piece of kimchi like it personally offended him.

“What about hobbies? When you’re not building people’s dream homes.”

“Music, mostly. I play a little guitar, nothing serious. I go to exhibitions whenever I can, and I like travelling when time allows. Sightseeing, finding new places. It keeps me grounded.” He shrugs lightly, sipping his water before adding, “Your mum and I go to shows together sometimes. It’s… nice, sharing that with her.”

There's a tightness in Juntae's jaw that he can feel with every word that comes out of Seongje's mouth. He meant to catch him off guard, meant to push him into fumbling an answer, maybe embarrass him a little in front of his mother. Instead, every response lands so polished and annoyingly put-together that it feels rehearsed. But worse than that, they don’t sound false. He talks like he actually likes her. Genuinely likes her.

Juntae doesn’t know what to do with these answers. They’re too smooth, slipping through every little trap he tried to set. He chews slowly, tasting nothing, resentment coiling in his gut. And yet, beneath the irritation, a thought he doesn’t want to admit pushes forward—maybe he’s being too harsh. Maybe he’s judging Seongje without giving him the smallest chance.

His eyes flick to his mother, and the sight stops him. Seongje's pushing her hair behind her ears so it doesn't disrupt her eating, and her smile is glowing. She laughs at something funny he whispers into her ears, and her eyes linger on him like they’ve found somewhere safe to rest. And more than anything, Juntae wants that for her.

He sighs into his food, quiet enough that no one notices. He’s not saying he’ll warm up instantly, but maybe for her sake, he can try. Be a little open-minded. See if this man can be tolerated, maybe even liked.

Before he can sink too deep in that thought, she beams across the table in a very bright voice. “Isn’t he wonderful? I told you he was.” She squeezes Seongje’s arm like she can’t hold it in, then looks at Juntae, waiting for him to agree.

He swallows hard, the knot in his chest tightening. Her happiness should make this easier. Instead, it makes his resentment sharper, because for once, he can’t tell if it’s directed at Seongje or at himself.

Juntae actually warms up faster than he expects himself to, if he's being honest.

Seongje turns out to be easy to be around. He doesn’t pry into Juntae’s space or speak over him. He never pushes, never tries too hard, and somehow that makes everything feel lighter. He’s respectful to both him and his mother, slipping into the household without disturbing its balance. More than that, he carries Juntae along in his own ways, making sure the holiday doesn’t sink into long stretches of boredom.

When they run errands, Seongje drives with one hand loose on the wheel, the other pointing at coffee stalls tucked between shops. He sings songs when traffic stalls, not quite a tune, just bits of melody that fade as quickly as they come. Sometimes he asks for Juntae’s opinion about a building they pass, whether he likes the windows and the color of the brick, and Juntae finds himself answering honestly, almost enjoying it.

At home, Seongje folds everyone's laundry after they've been pulled out of the dryer. He balances grocery bags in one arm while opening the door with the other, and he laughs with the house staff like he knows each of their names already. He doesn’t just slot himself in; he makes space for Juntae too, passing him a dish towel, inviting him to spend time in the makeshift home office they turned a room into, handing him a stack of folded shirts, asking him to come along for short drives to pick things up. Juntae follows, at first because it feels easier than refusing, but later because he wants to.

In the evenings, they talk. Sometimes it’s about films or music Seongje plucks clumsily on his guitar, or stories from when he was just starting out in architecture. Other times it’s nothing much at all, just small observations about the city, a joke tossed out when the news plays something ridiculous. The kind of conversation that drifts easily, one Juntae never expected to share with him.

He learns more than he meant to. Seongje likes his coffee black but can’t stand bitter melon. He collects postcards whenever he travels. He has a way of circling every story back to his mum—not in a heavy-handed way, but like she’s simply become the center of his orbit.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, the errands, the chores, and the chatter, all of the awkwardness burns away. The resentment he held at the start dissolves completely. He doesn’t just tolerate Seongje now. He likes being around him. Likes it more than he ever planned to.

The days blur into an easy rhythm. Sometimes it’s the three of them together, sometimes it's just him and his mother, sometimes it’s just him and Seongje, but the lines keep overlapping until it feels natural.

They go to an art show on a Saturday, his mum linking her arm through both of theirs as she pulls them from painting to painting, eyes lit up like a teenager. Another night, Seongje surprises them with tickets to a K-pop concert, and his mother screams lyrics beside him while Juntae laughs so hard his throat hurts.

On slower evenings, they squeeze into a small karaoke booth, where his mum picks all the ballads, Seongje croons in a surprisingly deep voice, and Juntae hams it up with dance tracks until they’re all breathless with laughter.

Hot afternoons belong to the pool. Sometimes it’s just sitting under umbrellas with drinks in hand, sometimes it’s Seongje tossing him into the water with a grin while his mother claps and cheers them on. Sunlight glints off the ripples, and laughter carries through the house in a way that makes it feel more alive than it has in years.

His mother beams through all of it. She keeps telling him how grateful she is that he and Seongje get along, how happy it makes her to see them together. Juntae smiles back, and it isn’t even a lie because he likes this. He likes Seongje’s ease, the way he never makes anything feel forced.

But beneath all of that, something else burns every day. Something he hasn’t admitted to himself. It isn’t just that Seongje is easy to like because of his mother, or because of the way he folds effortlessly into their lives. It isn’t just that he’s respectful, or attentive, or impossible to resent for long.

It’s that when Juntae is alone, when the laughter dies down and the house goes quiet, he finds himself thinking of Seongje. More often than he should. More often than he can excuse.

Like that one time at the pool. His mother had been drifting on an inflatable, sunglasses pushed high on her nose, nodding heartily to the music bleeding from the speakers. Seongje swam slow laps, his body cutting through the contained expanse of water, while Juntae sat on the edge with his feet in, phone in his hand, though the screen had gone black long ago.

He caught himself staring. First, at the rough stubble along Seongje’s jaw, the dark hair plastered wet against his forehead, the way his arms bunched and released with every stroke. Then at the water streaming down his chest when he climbed out, droplets clinging to the line of muscle before falling away. Sunlight caught on every curve, and the word that crashed into Juntae’s brain, uninvited and unwelcome, was manly.

Looking away wasn’t an option, even if he tried. Not when Seongje leaned over his mother’s float, dripping and flushed from the swim, and kissed her mouth in a slow, wet, unhurried way. His hand cradled her jaw, tilting her face up; her arms looped around his shoulders, pulling him closer until it was all lips and tongue.

Juntae should’ve looked away. Should’ve pretended to scroll and acted like he was giving them privacy. But his eyes locked helplessly on the movement of Seongje’s mouth, on the slip of tongue he caught before the inflatable rocked with the motion. His heart rate spiked so fast his Apple Watch kept vibrating against his wrist with a warning sign, and Juntae didn’t know if it was anger, jealousy, or something far worse.

And now it’s happening again.

His watch buzzes violently against his skin, and he knows his pulse has shot up. He’s right at the dining table, chopsticks hovering above his half-finished breakfast, while across the room, his mother is at the door with Seongje. She’s about to leave for a business meeting, heels clicking softly against the floor, bag slung over her shoulder.

Seongje’s arm is around her waist, and his mouth is on hers. But then his hand drifts lower, settling on her ass to pull her closer. 

Juntae's stomach clenches and he grimaces, heat licking up his spine. He tells himself it’s because it’s inappropriate. After all, no son wants to watch his mother get kissed like that. But the truth is messier, because no matter how hard he tries to look away, all he can focus on is Seongje’s mouth. The way it moves, the slow press and drag of it, and all the mechanisms it takes to engage in an act like kissing.

He doesn’t know why it unsettles him, why his body reacts like he’s been thrown off balance.

It should feel natural. It shouldn’t mean anything. Yet it twists in him anyway, leaving him restless and unable to catalogue the feeling into anything neat or safe. All he knows is he doesn’t like it.

Soon enough, she’s out the door, her heels clicking away down the front steps, and the sound of the car pulling out of the drive follows a moment later. Seongje strolls back to the dining table, reaching for the jug of orange juice. He pours himself a glass, condensation running down the side, and sits across from Juntae like nothing about the last two minutes was remarkable.

Juntae doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Seongje glances up and speaks.

“I was thinking of heading to the vinyl store in town to pick up a few records,” Seongje says, lazily swirling his glass before taking a sip. “I’ve got a player in my office that’s been begging to be used. You wanna come along? Unless you’ve got plans of your own.”

The words jolt Juntae, dragging him back to the table and the breakfast in front of him. His mouth is dry when he answers. “I don’t have plans,” he admits in a clipped tone, shrugging and picking at his rice as though the decision barely matters. 

“Sure. I’ll come.”

The truth is, he doesn’t know why he agrees. Maybe because he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. Maybe because he thinks the tightness in his chest will loosen if he spends more time with Seongje, if he can smooth this unsettled edge into something normal. Or maybe it’s just that saying yes feels easier than sitting alone with thoughts he doesn’t want to untangle.

They finish breakfast without much talk, plates carried off by the staff, and a few minutes later, they’re getting into Seongje’s car. The leather is warm from the sun, the radio low as they pull out of the driveway. The city stretches ahead, the glass towers of Gangnam giving way to side streets as Seongje turns toward town.

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Inside the record store, Juntae trails a step behind, letting Seongje take the lead. The walls are lined with rows of vinyls and CDs, dust and light mingling in the air, the soft crackle of some old track playing through the speakers. Seongje moves effortlessly through the aisles, his fingers skimming spines and pulling albums out one by one to show him.

“This one,” he says, tapping the sleeve of an old pop record. “Late ’90s. I must’ve played this to death when I was a kid.” He laughs, sliding it back into place before reaching for another. “And this…legendary ballads. My mum used to play it all the time when we drove long distances.”

Juntae nods, absorbing each word without much to add, because the truth is he knows nothing about music beyond the playlists his friends send him. Still, he listens, trying to memorize the names and years like they’ll matter later, like he’ll need them to understand something about Seongje that isn’t obvious on the surface.

When Seongje talks to the staff at the counter, Juntae stands off to the side and watches. The exchange is effortless. Jokes tossed back and forth, staff leaning in like they're drawn closer just by the gravity of his presence. There’s a magnetism to him, an aura that makes people want to give him their attention.

Juntae catches himself smiling, small and unguarded, as he watches the scene play out. It slips onto his face before he can stop it, and when he realizes, he looks quickly away, feigning interest in a row of records he can’t even read.

But his eyes flick back anyway, catching the way Seongje leans over the counter to show something to the staff, the line of his shoulders under his shirt, the shape of his mouth when he laughs. Something flutters in Juntae’s chest again, a rush that feels too familiar, dangerous in how easily it takes hold.

It seems as though Seongje had been asking the staff about something earlier, because now he's leading Juntae to a quieter corner tucked near the back of the store. The shelves are stacked high, the labels marked with neat Hangul characters.

“This,” Seongje says, stopping in front of a small section, “is Pansori.”

Juntae blinks in confusion.

“It’s traditional Korean music,” Seongje explains further, his fingers brushing along the cases. “Usually just one singer and a drummer. Old stories, folk tales, sometimes even satire. It’s raw, but powerful. Your mum loves it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Juntae says quickly, remembering. She used to play recordings at home sometimes, humming along while she cooked. The memory makes him shift, because hearing it from Seongje’s mouth now feels too intimate, like he’s reached into their private history.

Seongje pulls a CD from the top shelf, turning it over in his hands. “This one’s her favorite,” he says. “She told me once she listened to it on repeat in college. I want to play it again…for a special occasion.”

 “What occasion?” Juntae’s brow furrows.

Seongje looks up then, meeting his eyes, and for the first time since they walked into the store, his easy smile falters into something serious. He holds the CD between his fingers, almost like it’s an anchor, and exhales.

“Actually,” he starts, voice low, edged with hesitation, “this is the real reason I brought you out here today. I wanted to ask for your permission… to marry your mother.”

Seongje doesn’t pause after the words leave his mouth. He just keeps talking in words that sound like jargon to Juntae's ears. 

“I know it’s sudden,” he says, thumb brushing the corner of the CD case. “And I don’t want you to feel like I’m rushing anything. But I love her. More than I’ve loved anyone in my life. She’s—” he huffs a tiny laugh, eyes dipping for a second, “—she’s the person who makes me want to be better every single day. I’ve thought about this for months. I want to spend my life with her.”

His gaze lifts again, direct and open, as if that sincerity should be enough to smooth everything. “But she’s raised you alone all these years. You’re her whole world. I couldn’t ask her to marry me without asking you first.”

It’s a good speech. Too good.

And while he talks, Juntae’s brain is blaring alarms so loud he can hardly hear a word. 

Marry? 

Permission? 

Spend his life with her?  

Every phrase clatters like a hammer against metal, reverberating inside his skull. His palms go damp, his chest tightens, and the vibration of his watch feels like a warning siren against his wrist.

He can’t breathe around it, can’t think past the rush of fury and disbelief rising in him. Because Seongje isn’t just asking to date his mother anymore, or to spend a holiday in their house. He’s asking to take root, plant himself in their lives permanently, and change everything.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Juntae’s mouth feels dry, his chest still beating like a war drum, but he masks and morphs his face into a convincing smile, swallowing down the mess of heat clawing at him as he nods. “Yeah,” he manages, and the word comes out surprisingly even, even to his ears. “Of course. If that’s what makes her happy… then I think it’s a good idea.”

Relief blooms immediately across Seongje’s face. His shoulders loosen, his expression softens, and he exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for too long.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “That means a lot.” A pause precedes the next statement. “And I want you to know, Juntae… I’m not trying to step in and play the role of a father in your life. That’s not what this is. I just really want to be a part of you both. A family, if you’ll let me.”

Juntae keeps his smile fixed and keeps nodding like the words sink in clean. “Yeah,” he says again, warm enough to pass.

Seongje reaches forward then, pulling him into a hug, the CD still clutched lightly in one hand. Juntae lets himself be folded into it, his chin brushing against Seongje’s chest. He even lets out a small breathless laugh for effect, as though he’s touched.

But inside, beneath the mask, he’s seething. Every word from Seongje’s mouth still clangs in his skull, every promise about family and forever ringing like a warning bell. He presses his face briefly into the hug, trying to suppress the heat that tastes like bile in his throat.

Even during the drive back home, his mask doesn’t crack once. At the door, when his mother greets them, he smiles as though everything is fine.

But when night falls, and the house sinks into silence, he carries it with him into the dark—all of the seething, the alarms, the certainty that something has shifted permanently, and he doesn’t know how to live with it.

.

.

.

He’s in bed with the lights off, listening to the air conditioner fill the silence like static as he tries to will his brain to quiet. But sleep doesn’t come. Every time he closes his eyes, the day flashes back in jagged pieces: Seongje’s hand resting firm on his mother’s waist, the slide of his lips, the words in the record shop that clanged through Juntae’s skull like an alarm bell.

He turns over, presses his face into the pillow, but the thoughts only grow louder.

And somewhere in the thick of it, the shape of his anger shifts.

Because the truth, ugly as it is, is that he doesn’t actually care if Seongje marries his mother. The decision belongs to her. If he makes her glow like that, if he fills the house with laughter the way he’s seen these past weeks, then let her have it. Let her have him. Let her build the future she’s wanted for so long. That’s not what claws at Juntae’s chest.

What claws is everything else.

He thinks about Seongje in ways he has no business thinking about him. He notices things he shouldn’t. The scrape of stubble when the light hits his jaw. The way his shoulders flex when he pulls himself out of the pool, water spilling down his chest. The heat of his body pressed against him in a hug, the scent of his cologne, now so familiar it’s etched into Juntae’s head. And most of all, the mouth—Seongje’s mouth. 

Juntae presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, but the images still rise. Too many times now, he’s seen that mouth move against his mother's, kisses that start tender and cross into hungry territory. And every time, Juntae has told himself he hated it, that it unsettled him because it was inappropriate. But if that were true, he wouldn’t be lying here now, pulse quickening at the memory.

What unsettles him isn’t disgust, it’s that he’s imagined it for himself, more than once. Standing in the kitchen, sitting at the table, watching from the poolside—he’s caught himself fixated, his gaze snagging on Seongje’s lips, his mind imagining what it would feel like to be kissed in that slow and consuming way, as though the world outside that moment didn’t exist.

He's kissed boys before, plenty of them, messy and reckless, the way a hedonist college kid is supposed to: indulgence for the sake of it. But none of those memories hold a candle to the way his body reacts at the thought of being kissed by Seongje.

It’s insane. He knows it. Crazy to want something like this, crazier to admit it. But knowing doesn’t stop the wanting.

And finally, with the house dead quiet around him and his pulse still drumming like an alarm in his wrist, Juntae admits it to himself without flinching. He wants him. Not in any romantic way. He doesn’t care about candlelit dinners, whispered promises, or any of that bullshit. That’s not what’s driving him. What’s driving him is lust, raw and consuming. It’s wanting to taste him, to feel that mouth against his own, to find out what all that control would feel like if it was turned loose on him.

Seongje can marry his mother, can play the part of the perfect man, and can build her the life she deserves. Juntae won’t stand in the way of that.

But what he won’t keep lying about is this: he wants Seongje too. His mouth. His body. The parts of him that aren’t meant for Juntae, but have already wrapped too tightly around his mind and sunk their hooks too deeply to be shaken loose.

And once the thought crystallizes, he knows there’s no going back.

He shifts under the sheets, trying to will it away, but his body betrays him before he can clamp it down. Heat pools low in his stomach, his cock aching against the fabric of his pajamas. He curses under his breath, dragging a hand over himself in a quick, frustrated motion. The pressure spikes anyway, blood rushing in hot and restless, and he squeezes his eyes shut like that might drown it out. It doesn’t.

Juntae rubs over himself again, harder this time, then forces his hand to still. He won’t go further. Not tonight. Not until he sets the first seed of getting what he wants.

So he stays there, teeth gritted, hand still against the strain in his cock, chest rising and falling too fast. Caught between want and refusal. Caught in the mess of a hunger he can’t fight and needs to satisfy.

He doesn’t know how long he lies like that, strung tight, until finally exhaustion drags him under.

By the end of the week, Seongje proposes.

It happens in the house, in an intimate dinner he sets up himself. Candles glow along the table, the dishes arranged perfectly, with just the three of them in attendance. His mother laughs nervously when he gets down on one knee, her hand flying to her mouth in shock, and when he slips the ring onto her finger, her yes comes out teary and filled with certainty.

Seongje gifts her the pansori CD player afterward, presenting it in a ribboned box. She gasps in delight, pulling him into a hug so tight it nearly knocks her chair back. The dinner ends beautifully, laughter and warmth stitched through every word, and Juntae sits through all of it with a smile.

He is happy for her. Finding love wasn’t even on her bingo card this late in life, and yet here it is, shining in front of her. She deserves this joy. She deserves someone who makes her happy like that.

But it just so happens that it had to be Seongje. The kind of man who fits every physical checkbox Juntae has ever found himself drawn to. The pang of guilt at that thought comes in unwelcome. 

And yet it dies the minute the scene in front of him unfurls.

Dinner is over. Plates are being cleared by the staff. Juntae half-expects them to retire to the shared bedroom upstairs, already bracing himself for the sound of laughter and muffled voices carrying down the hall later. But instead, Seongje kisses her softly at the table, just long enough to make Juntae’s chest knot again, then murmurs that he’ll be up in an hour because he has some important work emails to send.

That stupid kiss.

It’s like a spark thrown against tinder. Juntae feels jealousy boil in him, rising too fast to hide. His hand tightens around his chopsticks until they tremble audibly against the edge of his plate.

His mother doesn’t notice. She beams, giddy, oblivious to the tension at her own table. “Goodnight, my babies,” she teases, circling the table to pull Juntae into a hug. She kisses his cheek, warm and unthinking, and sweeps upstairs with the glow of someone who’s just been handed the life she thought she’d missed.

Then it’s only the two of them. But almost immediately, Seongje disappears down the hall toward his office, leaving Juntae at the table with the hollow clatter of cutlery being cleared away. The silence swells until it feels unbearable. He stews in it, chewing on the inside of his cheek, legs bouncing under the table. Minutes stretch, heavy and restless, until his body betrays him again, and before he knows it, his feet carry him down the hall before his mind has fully decided.

Stopping in front of the door, Juntae lifts his fist before he can second-guess himself, then knocks. His knuckles rap against the wood louder than he meant to, nerves betraying him.

For a moment, silence holds.

Juntae stills, pulse thundering so hard he hears it in his ears. He stares at the grain of the door like it might offer him an excuse, any excuse, but none come. What is he even doing here? What can he possibly say if Seongje opens it— oh, just thought I’d drop by while you answer emails?

His hand lingers against the panel, warm from the knock, as the alarms start up in his head again. He should walk away. He should turn around, retreat to his room, bury himself under the sheets and pretend none of this happened.

But his feet won’t move. His body won’t listen.

On the other side, he hears the faint scrape of a chair, the creak of floorboards. Footsteps, coming closer. His breath catches, lodged tight in his throat. And then, the door handle turns.

The door swings open to Seongje, framed in the lamplight. His hair is slightly mussed from where he’d clearly been running his hands through it; he's no longer in the shirt he was wearing during the proposal, he's now bare-chested. He blinks, then offers a small, surprised smile.

“Hey…Everything alright?”

In response, Juntae nods quickly, his throat too tight for words, and gestures vaguely toward the office. “Can I… come in?”

“Of course,” Seongje says, stepping aside to hold the door open.

Walking past him, Juntae stops just a few steps in, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, while behind him, Seongje quietly shuts the door. 

Across the room, his shirt is slung lazily over the back of the swivel chair. Seongje goes for it, and button by button, he closes himself back up, and by the time he’s crossing back toward Juntae, the sight of bare skin has already burned itself into Juntae’s brain.

“You good?” Seongje asks, voice even, though with a curious edge. “Did you need something?”

“No.” Juntae shakes his head automatically.

Then, before he can swallow it back, he says, “Yes.”

Seongje pauses, waiting, nodding softly like he’s encouraging him to keep going.

And Juntae blurts it out, careless on the surface but pounding in his chest beneath: “I came for my own goodnight kiss.”

The next ten-ish seconds that follow after that is charged with a very awkward silence. 

Then Seongje lets out a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to dispel it. “What? Come on, don’t mess with me like that.” He shakes his head, half amused, half disbelieving. “You’re funny, you know that?”

But Juntae doesn’t laugh with him. He just tilts his head, making sure to keep his expression unbothered and his tone flat with insistence. “I’m not joking.”

That wipes the smile from Seongje’s face. His brows knit, and the chuckle he had earlier dies in his throat as he studies Juntae like he’s trying to decipher whether he means it.

“What do you mean?” he carefully asks. 

“I’ve been watching you give Mum goodnight kisses since I got back. Thought maybe I should get one too.” Juntae shrugs casually like he's making a very reasonable request. “Doesn’t have to be much,” he adds, leaning just enough on the word to make it sound both innocent and not. “A hug. A peck on the cheek. That’s all.”

The confusion on Seongje’s face lingers for a moment, but then it softens, melting away though not completely. He still looks uncertain, caught somewhere between suspicion and hesitation, but not enough to draw a line.

And that’s enough for Juntae. The flicker of reluctance only pleases him more, because it means his words worked. And the careful way he framed it as not quite a kiss, but nothing more than a hug and a peck…Harmless, rational, and very easy to agree to. 

He almost wants to laugh, because this is how persuasion works. You don’t walk in demanding the thing you want; you soften the ground first. Ask for something outrageous, knowing it’ll be denied, then retreat to the smaller, “reasonable” request you were aiming for all along. It’s called door-in-the-face. The human brain is wired for compromise; once you’ve refused someone, you feel an unconscious pull to give something back. A concession for a concession.

And Juntae’s concession? Seongje doesn’t even realize he’s already given Juntae exactly what he wanted from the start. 

“Alright,” Seongje says finally. “If that’s what you want.”

He steps closer, the warmth of him folding in as he leans down. His arms circle loosely around Juntae, pulling him into a brief, almost awkward embrace. Then his lips brush Juntae’s cheek, featherlight, gone before they’ve even registered.

It’s nothing. Totally innocent. A simple gesture that could pass without meaning or mention.

But for Juntae, it sparks like a live wire under his skin. His chest flutters, his stomach drops. By the time Seongje lets him go, his pulse is hammering, his face still angled faintly toward the ghost of the kiss, as though holding onto it longer might make it realer.

He smiles inwardly, then steadies himself, forcing the rush down before it betrays him. He pulls back just enough to look up at Seongje, his expression carefully schooled into warmth. 

“Congratulations again. Tonight was… really something. Mum's happy. You did well.”

“Thanks.” Seongje’s mouth tilts into a small, relieved smile, tension easing out of his shoulders.

“Goodnight,” Juntae adds in a light tone, before stepping back and heading for the door.

He waits until the door goes shut behind him, until his footsteps carry him halfway down the hall. Only then does the mask slip, the edges of his mouth curling up into a grin he can’t bite down as his chest churns with the memory of what just transpired, and the warmth of Seongje’s arms, and the brush of lips against his cheek.

Again…It’s nothing. 

But for Juntae, it’s everything. A seed planted, the first step, and the quiet thrill of knowing he’s already bent the night in his favor.

.

.

.

Juntae plays the long game because it's unwise to lay all the cards on the table. Hunting requires patience. Pounce too fast, and the prey bolts. But if you pace yourself, if you circle and stalk, if you make the steps small enough to look harmless, they’ll never realize how far they’ve wandered until it’s too late.

So he doesn’t ask for more. Instead, he lets it build.

The first night after the proposal, under the same guise, it’s the same as before: a brief embrace, a peck on the cheek, featherlight and perfunctory, like humoring a boy’s whim. Seongje pats his shoulder as he says goodnight. Juntae leaves buzzing, pulse drumming, the faint brush of lips replaying in his mind until it blurs into something bigger than it was.

The second night, he knocks again. There’s still a shadow of hesitation, but Seongje lets him in and indulges him. The hug is a fraction longer, his palm resting between Juntae’s shoulder blades in a soft hold before letting go. The kiss lands softer, close enough to the corner of his mouth that Juntae feels his breath warm against his skin. He pretends not to notice, though the current under his ribs begs him to.

By the fifth night, it’s no longer strange. The ritual has taken shape. Juntae slips inside without knocking or even needing to explain himself, and Seongje no longer asks why. This time though, he sits on the couch in the office, spends a little time, and harmlessly engages Seongje in conversations about his interests. When he's leaving, the hug graduates from a side hug to a full arm wrap. The kiss is also slower, deliberate in its lightness, and Juntae angles his face almost imperceptibly, close enough that if either of them shifted, it would no longer be a cheek at all.

And it continues. Night after night, a dance of patience and escalation, pulling Seongje deeper into the ritual without him ever noticing how much it’s changed. 

Each time, Juntae leaves the office with his mask perfectly in place, but the second the door clicks shut behind him, the grin wickedly breaks loose. Each night, he pushes the boundary a little further, carving out space that doesn’t belong to him but feels like it’s already his. 

The days that follow are swallowed by wedding talk. His mother doesn’t want anything sprawling, just something small and intimate, before Juntae has to fly back to Canada. She keeps repeating that she wants him there and won’t do it without him.

So afternoons dissolve into planning sessions at the dining table. She scrawls names onto notepads, holds up fabric swatches against the light, spends long calls coaxing florists into working miracles on short notice, and fusses over cake flavors sent by bakers. Through it all, Seongje remains a steady presence beside her, keeping her anchored, his hand slipping over hers whenever she falters.

Juntae joins in because he wants to. He teases her when she agonizes over flowers, exaggerates outrage when she says she doesn’t care what tuxedo he wears, and even throws out a few genuine suggestions when the decisions start to tangle. He wants her to be happy. That much is real.

And yet, every so often, when Seongje leans close to tuck her hair back or kiss her temple, the smallest pang twists through him. Guilt, like the strike of a match. His brain reminds him of the risk, whispers that if she ever found out what runs through his head at night, it would undo her.

But the guilt never lasts. It flares and dies as quickly as it comes. Juntae tells himself she won’t find out because he won’t let her. That whatever happens between him and Seongje belongs in its own sealed-off space, separate, with no bearing on her joy. That as long as her smile doesn’t dim, as long as she doesn’t see the truth, there is no harm.

And in that compartment, he thrives. He can be both the son who sits at the table picking between cake samples, and the boy who leaves Seongje’s office at night with his lips still tingling.

So while she dreams aloud about bouquets and table linens, Juntae dreams too. Not of her ceremony, but of his own strategy. The nightly ritual has softened ground that once felt impossible to step on. Now it’s time to scale higher, to tilt the game further, and take more. 

.

.

.

It doesn’t take long for the opportunity to present itself. After dinner one evening, as plates are cleared away and his mother moves toward the living room, Juntae leans back in his chair and glances across the table at Seongje.

“You free tonight?” he asks lightly, casual in a way that hides his actual intent. “I was thinking of heading into town for a bit. Do some sightseeing. You wanna come?”

Seongje looks up, faintly surprised, but his answer comes without hesitation. “Sure,” he says easily, already reaching for the glass of water in front of him. “I’ll drive.”

That quick and simple. An easy yes that almost makes Juntae laugh, except he doesn’t. He only nods, keeping his satisfactory grin tucked neatly inside.

“Cool,” he says instead. “Won’t be long.”

They split off to change. Nothing elaborate though, just clothes good enough to pass for a late evening out. When they regroup in the foyer, his mother is already there at the foot of the stairs with her phone in one hand. She takes one look at them side by side and her face softens into an indulgent smile.

“Going out together?” she asks in a bright tone. 

“Yeah,” Juntae answers smoothly. “Just a hangout. I’ll get you that chocolate cream cheese cookie you like on the way back.”

Her whole expression glows at that, as though the small promise is proof enough that her son and her fiancé are bonding even more than she’d hoped. “That’s my boy.” She waves her hand, phone still in her grip, unable to stop smiling. “Have fun, you two. And don’t come rolling in after midnight, hmm?”

If only she knew.

Juntae laughs with her, the picture of an easygoing son. “We’ll be back in time.”

She nods, mumbling something about replying to the baker's text under her breath as she wanders off toward the kitchen, already content. To her, this is nothing more than what it looks like: just the two most important men in her life spending time together.

But Juntae knows better. Beneath his calm smile, he knows it's the first real step toward something else entirely. Something sinister. 

Soon they’re out the door, night air warm on their faces as they head for the car. The house shrinks behind them, lights glowing softly in the windows as Seongje starts the engine. Juntae leans forward, plugs an address into the navigation, then sits back.

“Where to?” Seongje asks, glancing at the screen.

“Itaewon,” 

That earns him a skeptical look, faintly amused. “Itaewon? At this hour?”

“Yeah.” Juntae shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. It's somewhere fun. You’ll see.”

Seongje lets out a loud huff, but doesn’t press further. His hand settles firmly on the wheel as he drives them out of their suburban neighborhood in Gangnam, headlights cutting through the dark.

Juntae tells himself to keep his gaze out the window, but his eyes don’t listen. They have a mind of their own and right now, they're tracking the line of Seongje’s arm where the black shirt has been rolled to his elbows, veins visible on the surface, tendons flexing with every subtle adjustment of the wheel. A tightness knots in his chest, heat coiling low as he imagines what that strength might feel like gripping his hips instead of leather.

His gaze drifts upward, past the hollow of Seongje’s throat, up to the firm set of his jaw as he studies the beauty that is his side profile. His mouth is a distraction all its own — full, soft, and far too inviting, and Juntae’s tongue drags against the back of his teeth before he even realizes it. He swallows hard, but the thought is already there: he wants to taste it, wants to know what it feels like to be kissed with the same focus he’s seen aimed at his mother.

By the time his eyes flicker lower, they’ve landed on Seongje’s thighs, thick where they settle against the seat. The thought barrels in, uninvited but relentless—what it would feel like to have them caging him in, braced firm around him, pinning him down. Or better yet, to drop himself right into that lap, feel the heat of those thighs beneath him as he rides the length of it.

His mouth waters obscenely, and he turns quickly toward the window before his expression betrays him. Outside, the city unfurls in a blur of neon and headlights, but his pulse is still synced to the rhythm of Seongje’s hand flexing on the wheel.

“You always plan things this vaguely?” Seongje asks after a moment. His eyes stay on the road, but there’s a curve to his mouth that suggests he’s entertained by the secrecy of wherever it is they're going.

Juntae leans his temple against the window, lets his reflection grin for him. “Keeps life interesting.”

“Or suspicious,” Seongje teases as he counters lightly. He signals left, steering them through a mess of building traffic. “Most people say where they’re dragging me before we get halfway across the city.”

“Most people aren’t me.” Juntae tilts his head, giving him a sidelong glance that’s just shy of a challenge.

A deep laugh bursts out of Seongje, and Juntae feels it reverberate in the small space of the car. It needles him in a way he can’t admit. That laugh, as casual and unguarded as it is, has no business hitting him this hard.

For a while, they drive in comfortable quiet, the city sprawling brighter as they near Itaewon. Juntae pretends to scroll through his phone, though every few seconds his gaze strays back, watching the way Seongje’s brow furrows when he focuses, the little habit he has of drumming his fingers once against the wheel after every turn signal. Small things, details that root deeper in Juntae the longer he stares.

The drive winds down into Itaewon, neon bleeding across the windshield in streaks of pink and blue. Juntae doesn’t say a word as the navigation chirps its last instruction, only points forward when the glow of the destination swells into view.

Seongje slows, eyes narrowing at the massive sign that blazes above the parking lot. Bold Hangul, the letters pulsing to the beat of the bass already leaking through the walls.

His brows pull together as they roll closer. “A gay club?” The words slip out half-confused, half-scandalised, like he can’t quite believe it.

Juntae just smirks, sinking deeper into his seat as Seongje guides them into an open parking space. The engine kills and Seongje finally turns to him, bafflement still written across his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were coming to a place like this?”

Juntae shrugs loosely like it’s nothing. “For fun reasons. You wouldn’t have wanted to come if I’d told you from the start.” He lets the pause stretch, then adds, “Besides, I get lightheaded with alcohol sometimes. I wanted someone I trust to drive me home at the end of the night.”

That last sentence sticks like a dart. Seongje’s shoulders ease, the line of confusion in his expression softening as he takes his hand off the wheel. A sigh escapes him, like he’s choosing to let it go. “Fine. But next time? Tell me ahead.”

“Of course.” Juntae leans just slightly across the console, close enough that his cologne threads between them, and brushes a quick peck to Seongje’s cheek. He feels the faint give of skin and the warmth of it under his lips. “Next time, I promise.”

It’s nothing more than a flicker, harmless enough to pass as friendly, as their routine always has. Seongje rolls his eyes at him, before he lets out a small chuckle and leaves it at that.

They step out of the car, the music growing louder as they cross the lot. The entrance is flooded with color, a spill of bodies weaving in and out. At the door, security checks their IDs, hands back their cards, and waves them through.

Inside, the heat of the club swallows them whole, strobe lights cutting the dark, music blasting heavy enough to live inside their bones or give them a headache. 

Juntae doesn’t hesitate; he threads easily through the throng, holding Seongje by the wrist as he leads them to the long stretch of the bar glittering beneath overhead LEDs. They settle onto stools in front of the mixologist, who’s already juggling shakers, bottles flashing as they pour and spin.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender walks towards them, calling over the music.

Juntae tips his chin toward Seongje first. “You?”

Seongje clears his throat. “Just a simple cocktail. Nothing too heavy.”

“Got it,” the bartender nods. “And for you?” he turns his attention towards Juntae.

“Vodka gin.” 

The bartender whistles low. “Starting strong.”

Juntae smirks, sliding his elbows onto the bar. “Always.”

As the orders are mixed, Juntae leans back, watching the mixologist work while the light bounces sharply off Seongje’s jaw. He notices how stiffly Seongje sits, how his gaze darts briefly around the room, taking in the bodies moving too close, the neon spilling across sweat-slick skin. There’s something about his discomfort that makes Juntae’s chest tighten, though not in pity. More in possession.

When the glasses are finally set down in front of them, Juntae clinks his against Seongje’s. “To sightseeing.”

Seongje huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching, and taps their glasses together. “If that’s what we’re calling this.”

Juntae chugs his drink down in one go, the burn scorching down his throat, while his eyes flick sidelong, watching Seongje’s slower, more cautious sip.

He's on his third glass of gin, watching the pool on the dancefloor when Seongje leans in just slightly, voice raised to cut through the music.

“So… you frequent places like this often?”

Juntae quirks a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” He swivels his glass lazily in his hand, ice rattling. “A gay boy going to a gay club shouldn’t be that surprising.”

Seongje blinks at the bluntness, then nods, his lips curving slowly. “Fair enough.” His tone softens, genuine curiosity edging in. “Does your mum know?”

Juntae laughs, shaking his head like the answer should be obvious. “Yeah. Came out to her three years ago, right before I left for Canada the first time. She was… more accepting than I expected. Honestly, she’s been nothing but supportive. I know that’s not common here, not with how conservative people can be.” His chest tugs tight, just for a moment, at the memory and the vulnerability that he masks by taking another sip. “I’m lucky to have her.”

Something shifts in Seongje’s face then. A small, thoughtful smile, his gaze settling on the rim of his own glass before flicking back to Juntae. “That’s good. Really good. To have that kind of support…” He trails for a beat, then adds almost offhandedly, “When I was younger, I had a bit of a phase. Bi-curious, I guess you’d call it.”

The words crack through Juntae like a whip. His eyes widen before he can catch himself, pulse stuttering. Bi-curious? 

He forces his mouth into a casual tilt, but his voice comes faster, betraying a glimmer of eagerness. “You? Seriously?” He leans closer, studying Seongje’s expression for any hint of a joke. “Did you ever act on it?”

Seongje chuckles under his breath at Juntae’s wide-eyed look, lifting his glass for a sip before answering. “Thought about it, yeah. A few times.” His shoulders lift in a faint shrug, as though he’s confessing nothing more serious than trying a different haircut. “But I never went through with it. It was just… curiosity. That’s all.”

Curiosity…

It seems too soft for what they ignite. Juntae stares at him, pulse spiking again, the bass of the club suddenly indistinguishable from the thud in his own chest. Curiosity. The syllables lodge like hooks. His mind moves fast, racing past what Seongje meant into what he himself wants them to mean.

Though he masks it quickly, forces a smirk, swirling the ice in his glass as though the answer barely interests him. “Curiosity’s not a bad thing,” he says lightly, but his gaze lingers too long on Seongje’s mouth, on the way he shapes the word curiosity before it fades into the music.

Inside, though, the fire is already sparking. If Seongje once entertained the thought, even for a second, Juntae knows he can stretch that thread, pull it taut until it snaps exactly where he wants.

And the realization sends an intoxicating rush through him, like he’s stumbled on a secret weakness, a crack in Seongje’s armor only he can see. Suddenly, the night feels brighter, the music louder, the whole club nothing more than a backdrop for this single revelation:

Seongje has curiosity. And Juntae plans to make it his.

Conversation resumes between them as a third drink turns into a fourth, then a fifth for Juntae, his mouth curling at the faint twitch in Seongje’s brow as the bartender sets the sixth in front of him.

“Hey,” Seongje finally cuts in, wrapping a hand firmly around Juntae’s wrist before he can raise the glass again. His voice has to fight the music, but the edge is clear. “Slow down. You’ve had enough.”

Juntae turns his head lazily, lips pulling into a crooked smile, pupils blown just enough from the liquor to sell it. “What, worried about me?” His words slur faintly, though not enough to convince anyone who knows how steady he can be.

“I’m serious.” Seongje insists as he shifts closer, protective in a way that grates and thrills all at once.“You don’t want to black out here.”

But Juntae is already slipping off the stool, brushing Seongje’s grip away. “Relax,” he says, too brightly, too carelessly. “I’m not gonna die.”

And before Seongje can reel him back, Juntae is gone.

The dancefloor swallows him whole, neon skittering across sweat-slick bodies as the bass rattles his chest. Someone grabs at his wrist, another at his waist, and he lets them. He laughs too loudly, sways too close, his shirt clinging where a stranger dances against him.

It’s nothing. Just noise. Just bodies.

Except it isn’t.

Because the real game is still sitting at the bar.

Even through the flashing haze, he knows exactly where Seongje is — a dark silhouette hunched over his cocktail, gaze anchored to the floor like he’s pretending not to look. But Juntae notices anyway, the way his eyes haven't left him since the second he stepped off that stool.

Juntae lets one of the strangers spin him in close, chest to chest, their foreheads almost bumping with the wave of the crowd. He laughs, too loud, tilts his head back as if he’s losing himself in the music. But really, he’s measuring the angle, making sure the neon slashes across his jaw, twisting his body so Seongje can’t miss the arch of his back, the curve of his grin, and the way other boys' hands are on him.

Because desire isn’t handed over; it’s provoked. If you want someone to break, you don’t throw yourself at them. You make yourself scarce, divulge your value in glimpses, show them what it looks like when someone else has you, and you let the hunger do the rest. Watch them guard you more tightly than if you’d offered yourself freely.

It’s textbook jealousy induction. A scarcity effect, reverse projection, call it whatever you want. The point is simple: if Seongje wants to believe he’s unaffected, let him sit there and try, because what he's dismissed as harmless is already being claimed by someone else.

Juntae threads his fingers into the hair of the boy dancing with him, tugging him down like he's drunker than he is. He doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked past the boy’s shoulder, across the haze of lights and bodies, right onto Seongje.

Then he kisses him.

Hot, messy, all tongue, deliberate in the way it should look reckless. He makes it filthy on purpose, exaggerated enough to scorch from a distance.

And he times it, waits for the exact second Seongje lifts his glass for another sip, his jaw flexing tight, the twitch of his throat when he swallows. That’s when Juntae drags the kiss deeper, when he opens his mouth wider, making sure the whole show lands squarely in Seongje’s line of sight.

In his head, it's not the boy he’s kissing. It’s Seongje. 

And when he finally pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips curl into a nasty grin. Because he can already feel the shift, the way the game has tilted.

Seongje has seen. And once you’ve seen, you can’t unsee.

Juntae sways even harder, letting his balance slip like the ground’s being pulled from under him. A laugh bubbles from the boy holding him, but it dies quickly when Juntae’s weight tips them both. The boy curses, trying to steady him, and that’s all it takes.

From the bar, there’s the scrape of a stool and the sharp clatter of glass against wood.

Seongje.

He’s moving before Juntae even lifts his head, throwing bills onto the counter in a rush, wearing a worried expression on his face as he cuts through the crowd. By the time he reaches them, his arm is already wrapping around Juntae, pulling him tight and upright with a grip that brooks no argument.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice rough from having to shout over the bass. He doesn’t bother to look at the boy Juntae abandoned on the dance floor. His focus is locked solely on him. “I’m taking you home.”

Juntae sags into the hold, head dropping against Seongje’s chest, his grin hidden from view.

In seconds, Seongje is dragging him toward the exit, the music fading into muffled thumps as they burst into the humid night. At the car, he props Juntae against the door just long enough to fumble the keys, then lowers him carefully into the passenger seat. The seatbelt is dragged across his chest into the holder, Seongje’s knuckles brushing him only briefly before he shuts the door.

By the time Seongje rounds the hood and drops into the driver’s seat, his breath comes quick with exertion, his jaw set tight. He jams the key in, the engine growling awake, one hand braced hard on the wheel. “Christ,” he mutters, almost to himself, chest still rising fast. “You don’t know when to stop.”

The air inside the car feels humid. The blast of music from the club has muffled to a dull thud behind them, the neon outside bleeding pink across the windshield. Seongje is close, too close, his arm brushing Juntae’s when he shifts the gear, the heat of him still radiating from carrying him out.

And that’s when Juntae moves.

He leans in across the console, sloppy enough to pass as drunken instinct, sharp enough in intent to betray itself. His hand curls over Seongje’s shoulder, anchoring him, and before the older man can even turn, Juntae’s mouth is on his.

The kiss crashes in suddenly, fiercely, the taste of vodka and gin burning at the back of Juntae’s tongue as he pushes it against Seongje’s lips. 

For one suspended second, the world stills as Seongje goes frozen with shock. 

Juntae shuts his eyes and presses harder, tilting into him like he’s claiming territory, sealing the moment with a hunger that’s been festering too long to be contained.

Then it breaks.

A hand pushes at his shoulder, firm and startled, shoving him back until his shoulders hit the seat. Seongje’s face is right there in the spill of neon through the windshield, eyes wide, lips parted like he doesn’t even have the language for what just happened.

“What the hell—”

Juntae cuts him off with laughter. Loud, jagged, spilling out like the punchline of a cruel joke. He lets it sting, then drops it dead, letting his head loll to the side, mouth slack, body collapsing into a perfect mimicry of someone drunk past coherence.

Dead weight. 

Passed out. 

A puppet with its strings cut.

The silence that follows is brutal. Juntae can feel it thrumming through the air, heavy as a held breath. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t twitch a muscle. Just listens to the sound of Seongje’s breathing coming out in sharp, uneven bursts before he manages to drag his hands back to the wheel.

Minutes later, the car eases out of the lot as they make their way back home. Seongje doesn’t speak the entire drive. His grip on the wheel is iron-tight, jaw rattling with tension, every muscle telegraphing the storm raging inside him.

And Juntae, feigning unconsciousness, basks in it. His heart is still sprinting from the kiss, from the push, from the shock that had gone rigid in Seongje’s mouth. He doesn’t need words to know he’s unsettled him. He can feel it in the silence, in the way Seongje doesn’t even turn on the radio, in how he presses the accelerator too hard on empty streets. He knows this isn't something Seongje can scrub away. Heat like that always leaves residue.

By the time they pull into the driveway, the quiet has curdled into something fragile. Seongje circles the car, opens the passenger door, and gathers Juntae up into his arms with a muttered curse. He's so careful, almost tender, as he carries him inside, up the stairs, and into his room. The blankets are drawn up, tucked around him with surprising gentleness for someone who should be furious, then he exits the room.

Juntae waits. Counts to ten. Then let's his mouth curve into a slow, dangerous grin against the pillow.

Because now he knows. Seongje can shove, can retreat, can drown in silence, but he can’t unfeel what just happened. And that permanence is exactly the point.

.

.

.

.

Hours later, restless from having distorted sleep and frequent reawakenings due to the alcohol content he consumed in mildly large quantities earlier, Juntae pushes the covers off, padding into the hallway with the excuse of water in his head. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet as he moves through the dark, the familiar path lit faintly by the glow of a single wall sconce.

He doesn’t make it far. Halfway past his mother’s room, he hears a sound too soft at first to be certain, but he listens again and hears it clearly this time. A breathless little moan, stifled as though she’s trying not to let it carry. His whole body goes still, rooted in place.

The realization strikes like a fist in his gut. His mouth goes dry, his pulse hammering in his throat.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t, but he’s already leaning closer, pressing his ear against the doorframe before he can stop himself.

The sounds come muffled through the wood but no less distinct. The creak of the mattress, the rhythmic thud of movement, and her gasps rising, then breaking into something desperate. And beneath it all, he clearly hears Seongje’s voice come out with a guttural edge, hissing her name. 

Juntae grips the frame until his knuckles ache, torn between pulling away and listening some more. His stomach twists, bile threatening at the thought of his mother, but it’s tangled with something darker. Because his cock is already hard, straining against the thin fabric of his pajamas as his body betrays him. 

The disgust and rage should drown it out. It doesn’t.

Every moan carves itself into him, every rasp of Seongje’s voice scrapes at the back of his mind like barbed wire. The pictures form unbidden: Seongje’s body taut above hers, shoulders flexing, mouth parting with that same ragged sound. Pictures that slot too easily into the reel of memories he already carries. 

He staggers back from the door, dizzy, his heart sprinting. By the time he’s back in his own room, he’s trembling, fury and arousal indistinguishable in his veins. The door slams behind him, and he stumbles for the bed, collapsing into the mattress like it might swallow him whole.

His hand is on himself before he can think, shoving past the waistband, grip already tight and frantic. He strokes his cock hard, like he wants to scrub out the images, but only ends up dragging them deeper. The sounds replay in his head, warping and shifting until they bend away from the door and into him. Until the moan isn’t hers anymore, but his. Until it’s his name Seongje is saying, his body Seongje is moving against.

Juntae's hips jerk into his fist, the sheets snarling under him. He bites down on his wrist, muffling the noise, but when it rips out it’s still loud, ragged,—

“Seongje—”

The name spills out in a half-plea, half-gasp as he comes, spilling hot across his stomach and making a mess of himself, his body spasming before sagging back against the damp sheets.

He lies there, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling. Shame pricks at him for a heartbeat, sharp enough to sting, but it fizzles fast, leaving nothing behind. Nothing but a gnawing certainty curling with every breath: if he doesn’t have Seongje— if he doesn’t take him —this house will eat him alive.