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The gymnasium floor vibrated, a rhythmic tremor that traveled up through the soles of Hyunjin’s shoes and settled, buzzing, in his teeth.
"Again, from the top! I wanna see every count sharp and on beat!"
The coach’s voice was a whip crack, cutting through the heavy, humid air of the hall. Hyunjin reset his stance. It was muscle memory by now—a programmed sequence of tension and release. He locked his knees, arched his back, and let the familiar, porcelain smile glaze over his face. To the rest of the squad, to the coach, and eventually to the judges at the nationals six months from now, Hyunjin Hwang was the standard. The Prince. The unshakeable center.
But inside the ribcage, the rhythm was broken; a jagged beat in his chest.
The music blasted. Hyunjin moved. It was a blur of calculated kinetic energy, but his mind felt like it was floating three feet above his body, detached and heavy with static. The pressure of the upcoming competition didn't feel like adrenaline anymore; it felt like water filling a room, rising steadily past his ankles, his waist, his neck.
He landed a jump, the rubber soles squeaking against the polished wood. For a fraction of a second—a beat that didn't exist in the choreography—his balance wavered. A micro-stumble. Invisible to the untrained eye, but a glaring crack in the mirror to him.
"Enough. Break!"
Hyunjin exhaled, the sound sharp and ragged. He wiped a bead of sweat before it could trace the line of his jaw, staring at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. The person staring back looked perfect.
He hated him a little bit.
A towel landed on his shoulder, accompanied by the scent of citrus and sweat.
"You were lagging on the eight-count," Yeji murmured, her voice low enough to be lost under the chatter of the other members. She stood beside him, drinking water, her eyes watching him through the mirror. "Your mind drifted."
Hyunjin uncapped his water bottle, feigning nonchalance. "Just lack of sleep. Insomnia’s kicking my ass again."
Yeji didn’t look convinced. She knew the tell-tale signs of his burnout—the way his gaze lingered too long on empty spaces, the mechanical precision that lacked soul. But she also knew better than to pry when his walls were this high.
"Sure," she drawled, scanning the room. Her eyes narrowed playfully as they landed on a figure near the bench. "Speaking of people who are physically here but mentally elsewhere... look at our party boy."
Hyunjin followed her gaze. Donghyuck Lee was there, toweling off his neck, checking his phone with a focus that was uncharacteristic for someone who usually spent breaks flirting with the nearest breathing organism.
"He’s barely hanging out with us anymore," Yeji noted, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Always running off to the library. Or the north campus."
"The library," Hyunjin repeated, the absurdity of the word tasting dry on his tongue. "Right. Because he’s suddenly passionate about the Dewey Decimal System."
"Let’s bother him," Yeji suggested, her eyes glinting.
Hyunjin didn't have the energy, not really. But distracting himself with someone else’s drama was easier than drowning in his own silence. He pushed off the wall, sliding an arm around Donghyuck’s sweaty shoulders before the younger boy could escape to the locker room.
"Is sex with Jeno Lee that good?" Hyunjin whispered into Donghyuck’s ear, pitching his voice to carry that specific, teasing lilt that always got a reaction.
He felt Donghyuck stiffen under his arm. On the other side, Yeji leaned in, playing her part in their twin-like synchronicity.
"You haven’t even responded to the football captain you were eyeing," Yeji added, wiggling her eyebrows.
Donghyuck snorted, shoving Hyunjin’s arm off with a fluid, practiced motion. "It’s just... average," he replied, his tone too dismissive to be true. "Nothing special."
Hyunjin crossed his arms, leaning back. He studied Donghyuck—the defensive tilt of his chin, the way he was trying to protect a secret that was already spilling out of his pockets. It was fascinating, and wildly irritating. Donghyuck had found something interest enough that make his habit change, something that made him trade disco lights for library lamps.
"You’re dating him, aren't you?" Hyunjin pressed, his voice dripping with feigned curiosity.
"No, just... other things," Donghyuck muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
"Why so shy all of a sudden?" Yeji teased.
"I’m not shy. There’s nothing going on."
Hyunjin tilted his head, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. It was a mask, of course—a way to project confidence when he felt like a hollow shell.
"Fine, if it’s nothing," Hyunjin said, leaning in slightly, his expression shifting to mock seriousness. "That means I can flirt with him, right? Just to test if it’s really 'just average'."
He paused, letting the statement hang in the air, imagining the stoic, bespectacled face of the chemistry major.
"Without the glasses and that long coat... Jeno is actually quite handsome," Hyunjin observed, the comment rolling off his tongue casually.
He saw the reaction immediately. The muscle in Donghyuck’s jaw tightened. His tongue poked against the inside of his cheek—a tell.
Donghyuck reached out, patting Hyunjin’s cheek with a patronizing gentleness.
"Good try," Donghyuck said, his voice dropping, possessing a sudden, sharp edge. "But he’s mine. Find your own toy."
"We usually share, Hyuck," Yeji chimed in, clinging to Donghyuck’s arm, trying to diffuse the sudden spike in temperature.
"Sorry, not this time, sweetie," Donghyuck smirked, patting Yeji’s head before turning on his heel and marching toward the locker room.
Hyunjin watched him go, the smirk fading from his own lips the moment Donghyuck’s back was turned. The envy that washed over him wasn't about Jeno. He didn't want the boy. He wanted the certainty. He wanted the fire that made Donghyuck snap at his friends over a "nerd."
He wanted to feel something other than the crushing weight of being perfect.
"He really smitten, isn’t he?" Yeji laughed, but Hyunjin was already checking out, the static returning to his ears.
"Yeah," Hyunjin murmured, turning back to his reflection in the mirror. The Prince was still there, beautiful and composed, but the eyes were empty. "He found his toy. I guess I need to find mine."
The lecture hall exhaled.
It was a collective release of breath—two hundred students simultaneously snapping notebooks shut, zipping bags, and shuffling toward the double doors as if the air inside had suddenly turned stale. Communication 101. A mandatory credit, a requirement for graduation, and ironically, the place where Hyunjin felt the least capable of actual human connection.
He slung his bag over one shoulder, his movements fluid and practiced, designed to look effortless even when his muscles were screaming from the morning’s conditioning. He just wanted to leave. To dissolve into the campus crowd and let the noise drown out the buzzing in his head.
But the professor’s voice, amplified by the dying microphone, tethered him back.
"Partner assignments are posted on the board. Exchange contacts now. Do not wait until finals week."
Hyunjin suppressed a groan, letting his head tilt back just enough to stare at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling. One more thing. One more obligation to juggle between practice, appearances, and the precarious balancing act of his own sanity.
He scanned the list near the podium, his eyes skimming over names until they snagged on his own.
Hyunjin Hwang — Seungmin Kim.
He paused. The name was familiar, but in the way a piece of furniture in a waiting room is familiar—you know it’s there, you see it every day, but you never really look at it.
Seungmin Kim. One of the library fixtures. Hyunjin knew him as "another Asian kid on campus," a vague silhouette usually buried behind a stack of textbooks or a laptop screen. They shared a demographic and a general social circle, but their worlds were parallel lines that had never once threatened to intersect.
Until now.
Hyunjin turned, scanning the thinning crowd near the exit. It wasn't hard to find him. Seungmin was standing near the door frame, clutching a backpack strap with one hand, looking around with a calm, almost clinical expectancy. He didn't have the magnetic pull of the athletes or the loud presence of the theater kids. He was just present. Solid.
Hyunjin approached him, adjusting his mask of polite charisma.
"Seungmin Kim?"
The boy turned. His eyes, framed by simple wire-rimmed glasses, blinked once. "Hyunjin Hwang."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with zero fanfare. No widening of the eyes, no shift in posture that Hyunjin usually got from people who recognized the Cheer Captain. It was disarming.
"Looks like we're stuck together for the semester," Hyunjin said, flashing a small, rehearsed smile. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up with a dozen unread notifications he was actively ignoring. "We should probably exchange numbers. For coordination."
"Right."
Seungmin fished out his own device—a functional model, free of the cracks and scratches that marred Hyunjin’s. The exchange was clumsy. Their fingers brushed briefly as Hyunjin typed his digits into Seungmin’s keypad, a fleeting contact of cool skin against warm.
The silence stretching between them was thick, woven from years of non-interaction. It was the awkwardness of two people who technically should know each other but were practically strangers.
"I'm usually... pretty busy with practice," Hyunjin said, handing the phone back. It was a warning he gave everyone.
Don't expect him to answer fast. Don't expect him to do the heavy lifting.
Seungmin took the phone, his gaze dropping to the screen to save the contact. "I know. The competition is coming up, isn't it?"
Hyunjin blinked, surprised. "You follow cheer?"
"No," Seungmin answered simply, looking up. His expression was unreadable, neither friendly nor hostile. Just observant. "But you’re kind of hard to miss. You’re always... moving."
There was something in the way he said it—not as a compliment, but as a plain fact. Like Hyunjin was a taut wire vibrating in the wind, humming with a frequency that was exhausting just to look at.
"I'll text you about the topic selection later," Seungmin added, hoisting his bag higher on his shoulder. "I have a shift at the lab."
"Yeah. Sure."
Seungmin nodded—a sharp, efficient dip of his chin—and turned, merging into the stream of students flowing out into the corridor. Hyunjin watched him go.
Seungmin (Comm 101)
Hyunjin looked down at his phone, at the new contact saved. It felt mundane. A transactional relationship for a grade. It should have been nothing.
But as he walked out into the biting Michigan wind, Hyunjin felt a strange, quiet ache in his mind. For the first time all day, someone had looked at him and hadn't asked for a performance. Seungmin had just glanced at the stage scenery and walked past, uninterested in the show.
It was annoying. It was boring.
It was the most peaceful interaction he’d had in weeks.
The ceiling of Hyunjin’s apartment was a landscape of popcorn plaster and shadows. He had been staring at one specific crack for twenty minutes, tracing its jagged path with his eyes, wishing his brain would just shut up.
The phone pressed against his ear was the only thing grounding him to reality.
"You sound like a rubber band that’s been stretched for three weeks straight," Felix’s voice chirped from the speaker, disgustingly bright. In the background, there was a low rumble of laughter—Changbin. Of course. Felix was currently living in a bubble of domestic bliss, a sharp contrast to Hyunjin’s solitary confinement.
"I feel like one," Hyunjin admitted, his voice scraping against his throat. "Every time I land a stunt, I feel like my bones are going to rattle apart. And Yeji keeps looking at me like I’m a ticking bomb."
"That’s because you are, Jinnie." Felix didn't sugarcoat it. He never did. "You’re overthinking the choreography. You’re overthinking the competition. You’re overthinking breathing."
"Thanks. Helpful."
"I’m serious," Felix continued, the tone shifting from playful to practical. "You need a detox, babe. A full spiritual exorcism. Honestly? You’re giving me 'tragic Victorian widow' realness.”
Hyunjin rolled onto his side, curling into the duvet that smelled faintly of stale laundry detergent. "I can't exactly take a vacation, Lix."
"Not a vacation. A release." There was a pause, then the distinct sound of Felix shifting, probably curling up against Changbin. "Go out. Not to a mixer, not to a networking event. Go to a club where nobody knows you. Or go to some hookup app."
Hyunjin wrinkled his nose. "A hookup app? Really?"
"Yes, really. Find a stranger. Someone with zero connection to the squad, zero expectations, and zero interest in your tumbling pass. Just... get out of your head and into your body for a few hours. Sweat it out in a different way."
"That sounds... hollow."
“It’s called skincare, Jinnie. You’re treating your body like a museum exhibit—look but don't touch. Stop it. Go get some fingerprints on the glass. Ruin someone's sheets. Just stop being so... monastic."
Hyunjin didn't answer immediately. The idea sat heavy in his stomach, uncomfortable but strangely logical. A purge. A moment where he didn't have to be The Center.
Before he could argue, the door to his bedroom swung open.
Hyunjin flinched, the phone slipping slightly in his grip. Yeji stood in the doorway, bathed in the harsh yellow light of the hallway. She was dressed in a cropped denim jacket and a skirt that defied the Michigan chill, her hair pulled back in a high, aggressive ponytail.
"Senior party at the Delta house," she announced, leaning against the frame. "We’re leaving in ten. Get up."
Hyunjin squeezed his eyes shut. The thought of loud bass, cheap beer, and having to smile at upperclassmen made his headache spike.
"I’m sitting this one out," he mumbled, pulling the phone away from his ear. "Bye, Lix." He hung up without waiting for a response and tossed the device onto the mattress.
Yeji didn't move. The silence in the room grew sharp.
"You never skip the senior parties," she said, her voice losing its commanding edge, replaced by a thread of annoyance. "It’s good for networking."
"I’m tired, Yeji. Just... go without me."
He heard her shift her weight. The rustle of denim.
"First Donghyuck turns into a ghost, and now you," she scoffed, the frustration bubbling over. "Is everyone just deciding to have a secret life now? Did I miss the memo?"
Hyunjin opened one eye. Yeji looked… stranded. The other half of their dynamic duo, suddenly dancing solo.
"It’s not a secret life," Hyunjin lied, turning his back to her. "It’s just exhaustion."
"Right. Exhaustion."
The door didn't slam, but it clicked shut with a definitive, sharp sound that echoed finality.
Darkness reclaimed the room. Hyunjin lay there, the silence ringing in his ears. Felix’s words drifted back to him, dancing in the quiet.
He reached out, his hand fumbling in the dark until his fingers brushed the cold glass of his phone screen. He unlocked it, the blue light illuminating his face, casting deep shadows under his eyes. His thumb hovered over the app store icon.
Yeji was right. He was hiding. But maybe he needed to hide somewhere no one could find him.
The shower water had been scalding, but Hyunjin still felt cold.
He sat on the edge of the locker room bench, a towel draped over his head like a shroud, blocking out the harsh fluorescent hum of the gym. His muscles felt like overcooked pasta—loose, heavy, and threatening to disintegrate if he moved too fast. The burnout wasn’t just mental anymore; it had settled into his marrow, a dull ache that sleep couldn't fix.
With a groan that vibrated in his chest, Hyunjin pulled his phone from his bag. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb fracture across the top right corner that distorted the time. 5:48 PM.
His thumb hovered over the app store. It felt ridiculous. It felt desperate. But the alternative was going back to the apartment, listening to Yeji’s passive-aggressive silence, and staring at the ceiling until the sun came up.
He downloaded the app.
The setup was a blur of skipped bio sections and a profile photo chosen at random from his camera roll—one where half his face was obscured by shadow. He didn't want to be Hyunjin the Cheerleader. He just wanted to be a body.
He swiped. Left. Left. Left. Too loud. Too eager. Too much like someone he might run into at the cafeteria.
He stopped on a profile named "Alex." No bio, just a torso shot in a gym mirror and a height stat. 6’0. Decent enough. Safe. A blank canvas.
Match.
Hyunjin didn't bother with small talk. He needed a neutral ground. Somewhere sterile. Somewhere that didn't smell like his roommates' perfume or the lingering anxiety of his apartment. He opened a booking app and found a mid-range hotel three blocks from campus—The quiet one, he told himself. Room 214.
booked.
A notification banner slid down from the top of his screen.
>Seungmin (Comm 101) : I finished the draft for the intro. Do you want to meet at the café near the liberty building to go over the slides?
Hyunjin stared at the message. The academic world trying to claw its way back in. He felt a spike of irritation. He didn't have the bandwidth for slides. He didn't have the bandwidth for Seungmin Kim.
His brain, running on fumes and caffeine, performed a fatal, clumsy pirouette.
He copied the link of hotel address and the room number from the booking confirmation. The Kensington, Room 214.
He switched apps. His thumb, guided by muscle memory and exhaustion, tapped the most recent active conversation bubble on his screen. He pasted the text.
He hit send.
He watched the grey bubble turn blue, delivered. He tossed the phone into his bag, zip-locking the darkness inside. He didn't check the name at the top of the chat. He didn't wait for a reply. He just stood up, his knees cracking, and walked out into the cooling evening air.
-
Room 214 smelled of lemon polish and anonymity.
It was exactly what Hyunjin wanted. No lingering scent of Yeji’s perfume, no stale aroma of old gym socks, no memories attached to the beige wallpaper. He tightened the sash of the hotel-issued bathrobe, the coarse waffle fabric grazing his bare chest. He had showered twice, scrubbing his skin raw until he felt sufficiently detached from the person he was an hour ago.
He checked his reflection in the full-length mirror near the door. His hair was damp, swept back. His collarbones were exposed. He looked like someone waiting to be used, and for a fleeting, dark moment, the thought was comforting.
A knock came at the door.
Three measured, polite raps. Not the eager pounding he expected from a hookup app stranger, but Hyunjin didn't analyze it. He took a breath, plastered a smirk that didn't reach his eyes onto his face, and swung the door open.
"You found it fast—"
The sentence died in his throat, choked off by sheer confusion.
Standing in the hallway, bathed in the unflattering yellow sconce light, was not "Alex" with the gym selfie.
It was Seungmin Kim.
He looked jarringly out of place against the generic hotel carpet. He was wearing a thick, oversized windbreaker and clutching the straps of a backpack that looked heavy enough to contain bricks. Under one arm, a thick textbook was wedged—Principles of Effective Communication.
Seungmin blinked, his gaze traveling from Hyunjin’s damp hair down to the sliver of thigh exposed by the robe, then back up to his face. His expression wasn't scandalized; it was genuinely, painfully puzzled.
"Hyunjin?" Seungmin asked, adjusting his glasses. "I asked for a meeting spot. You sent coordinates to a hotel."
He paused, staring at Hyunjin’s bathrobe.
"Did I miss a memo where 'group study' implies renting a suite?"
The world tilted on its axis.
Hyunjin felt the blood drain from his face, pooling somewhere in his feet. The silence of the room suddenly felt deafening. His mind raced back to the grey bubble, the hurried copy-paste, the contact name he hadn't double-checked.
"Oh?" Hyunjin breathed out, a sound of pure horror. "Wait—Shit."
He scrambled back, spinning around to dive for the bed where he’d tossed his phone. He snatched it up, thumb trembling as he unlocked the screen to check the chat history.
Seungmin (Comm 101)
The text was there. Blue bubble. Delivered.
He stared at the screen, his face turned pale. "I sent it to the wrong person. God, I sent it to the wrong person."
"Wrong person?" Seungmin echoed.
Hyunjin looked up, panic seizing his chest. While he had been staring at his screen, Seungmin had stepped across the threshold. The heavy hotel door clicked shut behind him, sealing them both inside the lemon-scented quiet.
Seungmin didn't move further, but he was in. His eyes narrowed slightly, processing the visual data before him. The bathrobe. The dim lighting. The scent of a fresh shower.
"Yes! Wrong chat!" Hyunjin hissed, clutching the phone like a weapon. "Go home, Seungmin. Forget you saw this. Just—go."
He gestured wildly toward the door he couldn't reach, desperation clawing at his throat. But Seungmin didn't turn around. He just stood there, rooted to the spot near the entrance, his grip tightening on his backpack straps.
"You said you were drowning in practice," Seungmin said slowly, his voice level. It wasn't an accusation, which made it worse. It sounded like he was pointing out a missed step in a routine. A glaring continuity error in Hyunjin’s script. "You said you didn't have time to breathe."
"I don't," Hyunjin snapped.
"But you have time to... 'playing'?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and precise. There was no judgment in Seungmin’s tone, only a curiosity. Like he was watching a car run on fumes and wondering why the driver was still slamming on the gas pedal.
Hyunjin felt a crack in his chest. The shame he had been trying to outrun caught up to him, morphing instantly into a defensive, ugly anger.
"It’s not 'playing'," Hyunjin spat, his voice dropping an octave, harsh and raw. "It’s stress relief. It’s a detox. Because if I don't do something reckless, I’m going to shatter on that mats tomorrow."
He stood by the bed, his free hand raking through his damp hair, tugging at the roots.
"Just leave, Kim. This isn't your business."
The phone in Hyunjin’s hand buzzed, a harsh vibration against his palm.
He glanced down, his eyes stinging. A notification from the dating app. Alex has left the chat. Followed by a system message: User unmatched.
Hyunjin let out a dry, incredulous laugh. Of course. The universe wasn't content with just a mistake. It demanded a comedy of errors. The stranger had bailed, leaving him standing in a rented room in a bathrobe, facing his communication partner who was clutching a textbook like a shield.
"Well," Hyunjin muttered, tossing the phone onto the pristine duvet behind him. "Problem solved. No one is playing with anyone. You can go now."
But Seungmin still, didn't turn around.
Instead, the thud of his backpack hitting the carpet echoed through the room—a heavy, decisive sound.
Hyunjin watched, paralyzed by more confusion, as Seungmin’s fingers moved to the zipper of his windbreaker. The movement was stiff, mechanical. He peeled off the thick outer layer, then the sweater underneath, discarding them onto the armchair with a strange deliberateness.
Stripped of the bulky layers, Seungmin looked smaller. The white t-shirt hung loosely on his frame, exposing the sharp, pale lines of his arms. He looked less like the top student of the department and more like something breakable.
"If you just need a relief..." Seungmin started, his voice steady but thin, like a wire pulled taut. He took a step forward, invading the personal space Hyunjin had been trying to defend.
Seungmin looked up, his expression a mask of flat, unreadable calm. But Hyunjin’s eyes dropped lower, catching the betrayal of his body. Seungmin’s hands were clenched at his sides, his fingers digging into the denim of his jeans, twisting the fabric in a rhythmic, nervous spasm.
Twitch. Squeeze. Release.
"How about with me?"
The question hung in the recycled air, absurd and electric.
Hyunjin stared at him. His brain scrambled to find the script for this scene, but the pages were blank. This was an unscripted twist that threw the entire performance into chaos.
Why? Was it the pressure? Did the weight of academic expectations crush just as hard as the expectations of a cheering squad?
Hyunjin looked at those trembling fingers and saw a mirror of his own internal shaking.
Maybe Seungmin was just as desperate to feel something other than stress. Maybe the library was just another kind of cage.
"You..." Hyunjin started, his voice rough. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I do."
Seungmin closed the distance. He didn't wait for permission. He placed a hand on Hyunjin’s chest—his palm was clammy, hot—and pushed.
It wasn't a hard shove, but Hyunjin, unbalanced by shock, stumbled back until his calves hit the edge of the mattress. He sat down heavily, the springs creaking in protest.
Before Hyunjin could scramble away or find the words to stop this madness, Seungmin moved. He stepped between Hyunjin’s spread knees and, with a clumsiness that was almost endearing, climbed into his lap.
The weight of him was grounding. Solid. Real.
Hyunjin’s breath hitched as Seungmin settled, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against the thin waffle fabric of Hyunjin’s robe. Seungmin didn't look at him. He buried his face in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his nose cold against the heated skin.
He began to move his hips—a slow, experimental grind that sent a jolt of pure static straight to Hyunjin’s groin.
"Seungmin," Hyunjin warned, his hands hovering over Seungmin’s waist, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
Seungmin didn't stop. He pressed closer, inhaling sharply against Hyunjin’s pulse point. Then, he spoke, his voice muffled against Hyunjin’s skin, vibrating directly into his collarbone.
"Can I be the one..." Seungmin hesitated, shaking his head, the nervous tremor in his hands spreading to his shoulders. "Can you fuck me?"
Gravity shifted.
With a fluid motion born of core strength, Hyunjin gripped Seungmin’s hips and rolled them over. The mattress groaned under the redistribution of weight. The hotel bathrobe fell open, discarding the last barrier of anonymity, and Hyunjin pulled the white t-shirt up and over Seungmin’s head, tossing it blindly onto the floor.
Hyunjin lowered himself, his lips grazing the sharp line of Seungmin’s collarbone, tracing the dip of the sternum. He tasted salt and nervous energy. But when his hand drifted lower, seeking the warmth of a thigh to part them, Seungmin’s legs snapped shut.
It was a reflex. A biological barrier.
Hyunjin paused, pushing himself up on his elbows. Below him, Seungmin was a mess—a beautiful mess. His face was a deep crimson, flushed all the way to the roots of his hair. His eyes were squeezed shut so tight that creases formed at the corners, and his whole body was vibrating on a frequency of pure panic.
"You..." Hyunjin’s voice was a whisper, rough with sudden realization. "You’ve never done this, have you?"
Seungmin didn't answer. He didn't open his eyes. He just reached down, his hands fumbling with his zipper, desperate and clumsy, practically tearing at the denim to get it off. It was an answer in itself—a frantic, silent plea to get it over with before he lost his nerve.
Hyunjin reached for the foil packet on the nightstand, the sound of tearing plastic loud in the silence. He slicked his fingers, the cool gel warming instantly against his skin, and leaned down. Instinctively, he aimed for the mouth, wanting to becalm the distressed beneath him with something soft.
Seungmin jerked his head to the side, burying his face in the starch of the sheet.
"No kissing," he mumbled into the linen, his voice muffled but firm. "And this... just this once. I’m just helping you."
Helping. As if this were a charity case. As if they weren't both unraveling at the seams.
Hyunjin ignored the frantic energy radiating off the boy beneath him and pressed a thumb against the tight ring of muscle. Seungmin flinched violently, his breath hitching in a sharp, wet sound.
"Relax," Hyunjin murmured, his voice low, trying to soothe the trembling. He slipped one finger inside, stretching slowly. "You’re too tight. If I force it, you’ll get hurt."
"I don't care," Seungmin gasped, his hips bucking up against Hyunjin’s hand in a clumsy, desperate rhythm. It wasn't a seductive move; it was pure impatience. "It’s... it’s fine. Just do it. You’re taking too long analyzing everything."
Hyunjin paused, staring at the flushed of Seungmin’s neck. The irony was almost funny. "I’m not analyzing. I’m preparing. Unless you want to bleed on the hotel sheets?"
"I just want it to stop... the thinking," Seungmin babbled, his words running together, breathless and wrecked. "Just fill it up so I can stop thinking. Please."
That plea—raw and honest—snapped the last of Hyunjin’s patience.
Hyunjin withdrew his hand and settled between Seungmin’s legs. He guided himself slowly, respecting the tremor in the body beneath him. The entry was tight—a resistance that made Seungmin gasp, a sound that was half-pain, half-shock, cutting through the hum of the air conditioner.
Hyunjin stopped, waiting, giving him space to breathe, but Seungmin’s hips bucked slightly, an impatient, naive demand.
Hyunjin began to move.
He was a visual creature, trained to spot lines and angles, and he couldn't stop watching. He saw the flush spreading across Seungmin’s chest like spilled ink. He saw the damp hair sticking to a forehead that usually furrowed over textbooks. He heard the hitch in breathing, the broken, high-pitched noises that Seungmin tried to swallow but couldn't.
Seungmin’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. He caught Hyunjin staring—drinking in the sight of him like he was a rare, chaotic painting he wanted to memorize. Panic flared in Seungmin's eyes. Being perceived was apparently too much.
With a sudden, jerky movement, Seungmin pulled away, sliding forward until he slipped off Hyunjin completely.
Hyunjin froze, left hovering on his knees, staring at the empty space beneath him. He blinked, completely baffled. "Seungmin?"
But Seungmin didn't stop. He scrambled frantically on the sheets, twisting his body around until he was face-down. He buried his head deep into the hotel pillow, arms shielding his face, effectively cutting off all eye contact.
Yet—and this made Hyunjin’s jaw go slack—he didn't curl into a ball to hide. He kept his knees wide, his hips high and waiting in the air, offering himself up while refusing to be seen. It was a contradiction that made Hyunjin’s head spin. Seungmin hid like a child who believed that if he couldn't see the audience, the audience couldn't see him—even as he remained center stage.
Hyunjin let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, the sound wet and shaky. "You’re going to suffocate if you keep your head like that."
The response was a muffled groan. A hand reached back, blind and demanding, clawing at Hyunjin’s hip, digging nails into the skin. A silent request to make Hyunjin continue his movements.
It ended in a haze of friction and heat. The release was sharp, a white-hot spark that left them both gasping, collapsing into the mattress as the world spun back into focus.
But the moment the haze cleared, the walls came back up.
Seungmin was up before his breathing had even leveled. He dressed with the speed of a soldier retreating from enemy lines—pulling on the jeans, the t-shirt, the sweater, the windbreaker. Layer after layer, hiding the skin that Hyunjin had just mapped.
"Seungmin—"
"I have to go."
The door clicked shut.
Hyunjin lay alone in the center of the disheveled bed. The room was quiet again, smelling of lemon polish and sex. His body felt light, the physical tension finally snapped, but in his chest, a heavy, confusing knot of guilt began to form.
He felt satisfied, yes. But mostly, he just felt haunted.
Campus was a stage, and they were terrible actors.
They passed each other in the corridors with glazed eyes, treating the air between them as a vacuum. No nods. No smiles. Just the sterile, polite distance of two people who definitely hadn't seen each other naked three days ago.
But the tension was a live wire, humming under the floorboards.
It followed them all the way to the library, where the universe—in its infinite cruelty—decided they needed to finalize their presentation slides.
They sat at a long wooden table near the back, surrounded by the smell of old paper and dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun. Across from them, unfortunately, sat the campus’s most observant gossipmonger.
Renjun was typing furiously on his laptop, but every few minutes, his eyes would dart over the rim of his screen, landing on Hyunjin, then Seungmin, then back to Hyunjin. A small, knowing smirk played on his lips—the kind that made Hyunjin want to throw a heavy book at him. Beside him, Jeno sat like a statue carved from marble and apathy, headphones on, completely oblivious to the static in the air.
Then came the disruption.
"Hyunjin?"
The whisper was loud, theatrical. Hyunjin looked up to see Donghyuck standing there, looking between Hyunjin and the surrounding shelves with genuine bewilderment.
"Since when do you read?" Donghyuck asked, tilting his head. "I thought you were allergic to silence."
"I have a degree to earn, Hyuck,” Hyunjin deadpanned, trying to keep his voice low.
Donghyuck snorted, his gaze sliding to Seungmin, who was staring intently at a pie chart on his screen. "Right. Degree. Sure." He looked back at Hyunjin, a flicker of amusement lighting up his eyes. "Well, don't let the knowledge hit you too hard on the way out."
He tapped Jeno’s shoulder, and the statue came to life, following Donghyuck away without a backward glance. But the damage was done. The air felt thinner now, charged with the feeling of being watched.
"Let's just finish the demographic slide," Seungmin murmured, breaking the silence.
Hyunjin leaned in. He had to. The font size on Seungmin’s laptop was microscopic. He shifted his chair closer, his arm brushing against Seungmin’s sleeve.
The screen was displaying data on Interpersonal Communication Styles, but Hyunjin couldn't process a single word. His eyes drifted. They traced the line of Seungmin’s jaw, the slight bob of his throat as he swallowed, the pale skin of his neck disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
He remembered what that skin tasted like. He remembered the salt, the heat, the way a pulse had hammered frantically against his lips.
Hyunjin’s breath hitched. The memory was visceral, hitting him in the gut.
Seungmin froze. His fingers stopped hovering over the keyboard. He didn't look at Hyunjin, but the tips of his ears turned a bright, betraying red. He could feel it too—the gravity pulling them together, ignoring the laws of physics and propriety.
Abruptly, Seungmin slammed the laptop shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet zone.
"I..." Seungmin started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. "I forgot the source textbook. For the citations. It’s in my dorm."
Hyunjin blinked, pulling back. "We can just look it up online."
"No. It’s... a specific edition. Hard to find." It was a terrible lie. Flimsy as wet paper. Seungmin stood up, shoving his laptop into his bag with jerky movements. "We should go get it. It’s quieter there anyway."
Hyunjin looked at him. Really looked at him. He saw the tension in Seungmin’s shoulders, the way his eyes refused to meet Hyunjin’s. It was a risk. A trap? Or a white flag?
"Okay," Hyunjin said slowly, gathering his things. "Let’s get the book."
The walk to the dorms was silent. They didn't touch, didn't speak, just walked in a synchronized march of anticipation.
When they reached Seungmin’s room, the door had barely clicked shut before the facade crumbled.
There was no search for a book. There was no discussion of citations.
Seungmin dropped his bag to the floor and turned, grabbing the front of Hyunjin’s jacket. He didn't have the strength of an athlete, but the desperation gave him leverage. He shoved Hyunjin backward until his shoulder blades hit the wood of the door with a dull thud.
"Seungmin—"
Seungmin didn't let him finish. He buried his face in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, inhaling sharply, like a man surfacing for air. His hands clenched in Hyunjin’s shirt, pulling him closer, eliminating every millimeter of space between them.
Then, wet, hot lips pressed against the sensitive skin just below Hyunjin’s ear.
Hyunjin gasped, his head falling back against the door, his hands coming up to grip Seungmin’s waist instinctively.
"I thought," Hyunjin breathed, his voice wrecked, "you said once was enough."
Seungmin didn't stop. He sucked a mark into the skin, a possessive, hungry bruise, before murmuring against the pulse point, his voice vibrating through Hyunjin’s veins.
"I lied."
And as Hyunjin’s fingers tangled in Seungmin’s hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, he knew the truth. The script was torn in half. The curtain had fallen. The stage props has been change.
And Seungmin, was the one lighting the match.
It became a shadow play.
The choreography of their relationship—if one could even call it that—was rehearsed in the dark corners of the campus.
It happened in the dusty silence of the cheer equipment storage, amidst the smell of rubber mats and metallic pompoms. It happened in Seungmin’s dorm room during the narrow windows of time when his roommate, Jisung Han, was out chasing his own chaotic schedule. Sometimes it was frantic, a hurried release of tension with calloused hands and unzipped flies before rushing back to class.
And sometimes, when time was a luxury they decided to steal, they switched.
Like tonight.
The backseat of Hyunjin’s audi was not designed for sin, but they were rewriting the manual. The windows were fogged over, sealing them in a white, hazy capsule that separated them from the rest of the parking lot.
Hyunjin’s head was thrown back against the leather seat, his breath hitching in a ragged rhythm. Above him, Seungmin moved with a terrifying focus.
Seungmin navigated Hyunjin’s body not like a lover, but like a sculptor finding the fault lines in marble—firm, deliberate, and knowing exactly where to press to make him shatter.
"F-fuck... right there," Hyunjin gasped, his hands scrambling for purchase, finding the broad expanse of Seungmin’s shoulders.
Seungmin didn't speak. He just adjusted the angle of his hips, sinking deeper, hitting that internal sweet spot with a consistency that made Hyunjin’s vision blur. For someone who claimed to be inexperienced, Seungmin was a quick study. He learned the map of Hyunjin’s pleasure points and exploited them with a quiet intensity that bordered on arrogance.
Hyunjin’s grip on Seungmin’s shoulders tightened, his nails digging into the cotton of the t-shirt. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave that threatened to drown him. Instinct took over. He needed a gravity. He needed connection.
Hyunjin pulled Seungmin down, craning his neck, his lips seeking Seungmin’s.
The reaction was immediate.
Seungmin turned his head sharply to the side.
Hyunjin’s lips landed on a jawline instead of a mouth. It was a rejection so swift, so practiced, that it felt colder than the winter air outside. The boundary line was drawn in permanent ink.
Hyunjin let out a frustrated sound, half-groan, half-whimper, and buried his face in the crook of Seungmin’s neck. If he couldn't have the intimacy of a kiss, he would take the intimacy of skin.
He inhaled the scent of Seungmin—soap, old paper, and the musk of arousal. In a petty act of rebellion against the rules, Hyunjin opened his mouth and bit down on the soft skin where the neck met the shoulder. He sucked hard, intentionally leaving a mark, branding the pale skin with a violent shade of red.
Seungmin didn't pull away. He didn't complain. In fact, he leaned into it, his hips snapping forward with a sudden, jagged gasp, as if the pain grounded him.
Hyunjin released the skin, soothing the mark with his tongue, his mind reeling with the contradiction.
No kissing, Seungmin’s actions said. Don't get too close.
But he let Hyunjin leave bruises that would take days to fade. He let Hyunjin mark him for the world to see, as long as Hyunjin didn't try to taste the words he was holding back.
It was a paradox Hyunjin couldn't solve. Seungmin was a fortress with the front gate locked tight, but he had left the back door wide open, inviting Hyunjin in while pretending no one was home.
The studio was a white box of synthetic daylight.
The strobe flashed—a violent, rhythmic lightning that cut time into frozen slices. Hyunjin moved in the spaces between the clicks. Chin up. Shoulder dropped. A calculated pout. He was wearing the brand’s newest streetwear collection, layers of oversized denim and mesh that clung to him in the humidity of the set.
"Beautiful, Hyunjin. Hold that," Bang Chan’s voice came from behind the lens, authoritative and smooth.
Chan lowered the camera, stepping into the light. He wasn't just a photographer; he was an old habit. A familiar rhythm. He reached out, his hands settling on Hyunjin’s waist to adjust the drape of the jacket. The touch was firm, lingering a second longer than professional courtesy required. His thumb brushed the curve of Hyunjin’s hip bone through the fabric—a ghost of a memory from nights spent in Chan’s apartment, tangled in sheets and casual, uncomplicated pleasure.
Hyunjin leaned into it instinctively. It was easy. It was safe. It was a language he spoke fluently.
"Break time," Chan announced, winking at Hyunjin before turning to the crew.
The tension in the room dissolved. Hyunjin grabbed a water bottle, blotting his forehead with a tissue to save the makeup. Chan was beside him in an instant, leaning against the equipment table, his biceps flexing as he crossed his arms.
"You’re on fire today," Chan murmured, his smile crooked and charming. "Whatever you’re doing lately, it looks good on you."
Hyunjin laughed, a practiced, airy sound. He reached out, his hand landing on Chan’s forearm. The skin there was warm, tanned, and sturdy—muscle coiled tight under the surface. It was the texture of strength.
And suddenly, Hyunjin’s brain glitched.
His fingers twitched against Chan’s arm. The sensation was wrong. It was too hard. Too warm.
Unbidden, a phantom sensation overlay the reality. He remembered skin that was cooler to the touch. Paler. Softer, yielding under his grip but vibrating with a hidden, frantic energy. He remembered the way Seungmin’s shoulder blades felt sharp against his palms, fragile and human, not sculpted and assured like Chan’s.
Hyunjin pulled his hand back as if burned.
Why am I comparing them?
The thought soured his mood instantly.
His phone buzzed on the table, vibrating against the plastic surface.
Hyunjin glanced down.
Messages notification.
> Seungmin (Comm 101) : You're an imbecile.
: The concealer isn't working. It’s too high up. People are staring.
Hyunjin snorted softly. Hypocrite, he thought. You didn't stop me when I put it there.
Then, a third bubble appeared. An image.
Hyunjin tapped it open. It was a close-up selfie, cropped from the chin down. It showed the column of Seungmin’s pale neck, the collar of a button-up shirt pulled askew. And there, stark and violent against the milky skin, was a blooming purple bruise—a mark Hyunjin had painted with his own mouth just two nights ago.
The blood rushed in Hyunjin’s ears, a sudden, deafening roar. The sight of his own handiwork, displayed on a screen in the middle of a crowded studio, sent a jolt of heat straight to his groin.
It was a complaint, yes. But sending the photo? That was a taunt. That was Seungmin leaving the back door open again.
"Hey," Chan’s voice broke through the haze. He was watching Hyunjin closely, eyes dropping to the phone and then back up, sensing the shift in energy. "We wrap in an hour. Want to head back to my place? I picked up that wine you like."
It was the perfect offer. The easy exit. The detox Felix had talked about.
Hyunjin looked at Chan—handsome, willing, uncomplicated.
Then he looked at the phone screen, at the bruise on the neck of a boy who refused to kiss him.
"I can't," Hyunjin said, shoving the phone into his pocket. He didn't even sound sorry. "Something came up. Raincheck?"
Chan’s expression faltered for a second, surprised by the rejection, but he recovered quickly with a shrug. "Sure. Raincheck."
Hyunjin finished the shoot on autopilot. But the moment studio lights were turned off and the clothes catalogs were tidied up, he was out the door.
He didn't drive home. He didn't drive to a club.
His car ate up the asphalt, turning automatically toward the north campus dorms, drawn by a magnetic pull he was terrified to name but powerless to resist.
He was going to inspect his artwork.
-
The dorm room was quiet, save for the hum of a mini-fridge and the sound of Seungmin pulling his boxers back on.
Hyunjin lay on the narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling. The warmth that had engulfed them mere minutes ago was evaporating, replaced by the familiar, biting chill of reality. It was a ritual now.
The heat, the friction, the desperate, silent unraveling, followed immediately by the reassembly of walls.
He turned his head, his cheek pressing against the slightly scratchy pillowcase. His gaze drifted aimlessly until it landed on a shelf above the desk. There, tucked between a stack of heavy chemistry binders and a pencil holder, sat a small, brown plush dog.
It was ridiculously cute. Soft, fuzzy, with bead eyes that stared out into the room with permanent innocence. It looked so out of place in Seungmin’s sterile, academic sanctuary that Hyunjin almost laughed.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the air towards it.
"Cute," Hyunjin murmured, his voice rasping slightly. "I used to have a dog like that back in Korea. Kkomi."
Seungmin, who was buttoning his shirt with his back turned to the bed, paused. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes darting to the plushie and then quickly away, as if caught with contraband.
"It was a gift," Seungmin said curtly. "From my mom."
Hyunjin rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. He watched the curve of Seungmin’s spine disappear under the fabric of his shirt. He felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest—a hunger that had nothing to do with sex.
"I wish I had a giant version of it," Hyunjin said, the words slipping out before he could filter them. He let a bitter, sarcastic smile curl his lips. "You know, life-sized. Something soft I could actually hug when I’m exhausted..."
He paused, letting his eyes bore into Seungmin’s back.
"...since hugging you is apparently against the law."
The air in the room stiffened.
Seungmin didn't turn around. He finished buttoning his shirt, his movements becoming precise, mechanical. "Hyunjin," he said, his tone flat. "It’s getting late. Jisung might come back soon."
Dismissed.
The word wasn't spoken, but it hung there, heavy and suffocating.
Hyunjin sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached for his clothes, feeling a cold, heavy stone settle in his stomach.
He realized, with a terrifying clarity, that he was in trouble.
He liked this. He liked the way the room smelled like pencil shavings and Seungmin’s soap. He liked the way Seungmin made those small, suppressed noises in the back of his throat when he was close to the edge. He liked the quiet intensity of the boy who hid behind glasses and thick books.
But Seungmin... Seungmin treated this like a technical drill. A mandatory warm-up to clear his head. Execute the move, stick the landing, and walk off the mat without a backward glance.
"Okay," Hyunjin said, standing up and pulling his shirt over his head. "I’m going."
He watched Seungmin move to his desk, immediately opening a notebook, already moving on to the next task. He didn't look at Hyunjin. He didn't offer a goodbye.
As Hyunjin walked to the door, the insecurity clawed at his throat. He felt cheap. He felt like a dirty secret. Was he just a body? A convenient stress ball for one of the department’s top student? Or was it worse?
Did Seungmin look at him—Hyunjin the loud cheerleader—and feel disgust? Was the refusal to kiss him, the refusal to hold him afterward, a way to keep from being contaminated?
Hyunjin opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. He felt hollowed out.
He was the cheer captain, the visual center everyone wanted a piece of. But right now, walking away from room 309, he had never felt more like a disposable toy.
The mall was a sensory overload of artificial lighting and misguided ghosts.
Hyunjin sipped his iced americano, trying to hide behind his sunglasses, but it was a futile effort. He was walking next to Yeji, and together, they drew eyes like magnets. But today, the staring was justified for a different reason.
They stopped in front of UrbanPulse, the most popular teen clothing chain in the city.
There, plastering the entire left side of the glass display window, was Hyunjin.
It was the shot from the studio two weeks ago. In the photo, Hyunjin was glaring at the camera with a calculated, smoldering intensity, wearing a distressed denim jacket and silver chains. He looked untouchable. Expensive. A visual icon frozen in high definition.
"Look at that," Yeji hummed, tapping her manicured fingernail against the glass, right on Hyunjin’s printed cheekbone. "You’re literally stopping traffic, Jinnie."
Hyunjin shifted his weight, feeling a strange disconnect. The boy in the window looked confident. The boy standing on the linoleum floor felt like he was held together by caffeine and secrets.
"It’s just a campaign, Yeji," he muttered, adjusting his collar.
"It’s a statement," she corrected, turning to face him. She scanned him from head to toe, checking his outfit like a stylist. "By the way, Owen—the soccer captain—asked about you again. He wants to take you to his family summer vacation. On an expensive cruise. Can you imagine?"
Hyunjin sighed, stirring his straw. "Tell him I'm busy."
Yeji rolled her eyes, but her expression softened into something fiercely protective. She gestured grandly at the poster in the window.
"You need to stop hiding, whatever it is you're doing," she said, her voice cutting through the mall noise. "Look at this picture. This is where you belong. On display. Being admired."
She leaned in, lowering her voice, but the intensity remained.
"You’re the Prince, Hyunjin. You deserve someone who wants to show you off like this. Someone who puts you on a billboard, not someone who... I don't know, keeps you in the clearance section."
Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. The ice in his drink rattled.
Yeji didn't know. She couldn't know. She was talking about hypothetical losers, not a specific person. But her words were precision daggers hitting a bullseye she didn't even see.
Hyunjin looked at his own reflection in the glass, superimposed ghost-like over the confident model version of himself.
He thought of the fogged-up car windows. He thought of the hurried exits from Seungmin’s dorm before the roommate came back. He thought of the way Seungmin looked at him—with a terrifying caution, as if being seen with Hyunjin was a risk he calculated and decided wasn't worth taking.
"Yeah," Hyunjin choked out, forcing a brittle smile. "Billboard. Right."
Yeji patted his arm, satisfied. "Exactly. Don't settle for less, Jinnie. You have a high price tag. Don't let anyone treat you like a discount."
She turned to walk into the store, ready to critique the new arrivals.
Hyunjin lingered for a second longer, staring at the photo.
The Hyunjin in the window was loved by everyone.
The Hyunjin in the reflection felt like a dirty secret. And the difference between the two was starting to tear him apart.
Two weeks before Nationals, the air in Hyunjin’s apartment felt like pressurized helium.
He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by kinesiology tape and ice packs, nursing a shin splint that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Across from him, occupying the beanbag chair like a permanent fixture, was Seungmin.
Seungmin had come over an hour ago. He had walked in with a soft expression and a takeout bag of Hyunjin’s favorite soup, muttering something about Hyunjin needing to eat. It was a gesture of care. Hyunjin knew that.
But now, the soup was cold on the coffee table, and Seungmin was typing.
Click. Clack. Enter.
The sound of the mechanical keyboard was rhythmic, efficient, and utterly maddening.
Seungmin was hunched over his laptop, his glasses sliding down his nose, lost in a labyrinth of spreadsheets. Social Statistics. Or maybe Chemical Equilibrium. Hyunjin didn't know, and right now, he didn't care.
All Hyunjin saw was the back of a laptop screen. All he felt was the crushing weight of the upcoming competition, the silence of the room, and the agonizing distance of the person sitting three feet away.
Hyunjin wanted to be held. He wanted Seungmin to put the machine away, come down to the floor, and tell him that he wasn't going to fail. He wanted the physical reassurance that he mattered more than a p-value or a titration curve.
But Seungmin just kept typing.
The insecurity that had been festering for months—fed by the no-kissing rule, the hasty exits, the lack of labels—suddenly snapped.
Like the agonizing pop of a muscle pushed past its limit, tearing away from the bone after holding the weight for too long.
"Are you done?" Hyunjin snapped. The silence shattered.
Seungmin blinked, looking up from the screen, disoriented. "What?"
"If you just came here to mooch off my Wi-Fi and do homework, you could have stayed in your dorm," Hyunjin said, his voice rising, trembling with a pathetic mix of rage and exhaustion. He stood up, ignoring the sharp protest of his shin.
"I came to keep you company," Seungmin said, his voice mild, confused. "You said you didn't want to be alone."
"I’m not alone, am I? I’m with your laptop!" Hyunjin kicked a stray cushion, sending it skidding across the room. "Look at you. You can’t even look at me for five minutes without needing a distraction."
"Hyunjin, I have a deadline—"
"I have a deadline too, Seungmin! My whole life is a deadline right now!"
Hyunjin walked over and slammed the lid of Seungmin’s laptop shut. Seungmin recoiled, his hands pulling back as if bit.
"If you're just here to work, then leave," Hyunjin spat, the words pouring out like acid. "I’m not just an object you can use when you get bored of your numbers. I’m not just a warm body for when your brain gets too loud."
The room went deadly silent.
Seungmin sat there, frozen. The accusation hung in the air, ugly and unfair. Hyunjin saw the exact moment the words hit their target. Seungmin’s expression didn't crumble into anger. It fractured into something far worse.
Hurt. Pure, unmasked hurt.
His mouth opened slightly, as if to defend himself, but the words didn't come. Seungmin wasn't built for shouting matches. He was built for logic, and there was no logic in Hyunjin’s pain right now.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Seungmin nodded.
He didn't argue. He didn't yell. He simply packed his laptop into his bag. He put on his coat. He looked at Hyunjin one last time—a look of profound disappointment—and walked out the door.
The click of the latch was the loudest sound Hyunjin had ever heard.
A moment later, the door opened again. But it wasn't Seungmin returning.
Yeji stood there, her keys in hand, looking from the empty hallway to Hyunjin’s heaving chest. She must had seen Seungmin leave; she must had seen the slump of his shoulders.
"Hyunjin, is that Seungmin Kim coming out from our—hey, what’s wrong?"
The fight drained out of him instantly, leaving him hollow. Hyunjin crumpled. He didn't say a word, just let himself fall forward as Yeji rushed to catch him. He buried his face in her shoulder, sobbing—ugly, gasping sounds of regret.
"I ruined it," he choked out. "I ruined everything."
The next morning, Hyunjin blocked the number.
It was a defensive measure. A preemptive strike before Seungmin could reject him first. He deleted the chat history. He buried the memory.
But on the practice mats, gravity felt heavier. His jumps lacked height. His landings were heavy. He was the Center, the Prince, the Star.
But inside, the system was crashing.
Three days. Seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes… or something.
Hyunjin wasn't really counting.
Blocking the number was supposed to be a clean break—amputating the limb to save the body. But instead of relief, Hyunjin felt the phantom pain throbbing in every nerve ending. The silence in his pocket, where his phone usually buzzed with dry, logical texts about meeting spots, was louder than the cheer music blasting in the gym.
He had turned into a ghost on his own campus.
He took the long route to the cafeteria to avoid passing the Chemistry building. He stopped going to the coffee shop near the Liberty wing because he knew Seungmin had a shift at the lab nearby at 2 PM. He navigated the university map like a fugitive avoiding a dragnet.
But habits were harder to break than hearts.
It was Wednesday evening, raining—a miserable, gray drizzle that soaked into his bones. Hyunjin found himself standing under the awning of the North Library.
He hadn't meant to come here. He had meant to go to his apartment. But his feet, traitorous and programmed by months of routine, had walked him here on autopilot.
He stood in the shadows of a pillar, shivering in his damp hoodie, staring through the large glass windows of the reading room.
And there he was.
Seungmin was sitting at their table—the secluded one in the back corner. He was alone. His posture was perfect, back straight, head bent over a thick binder.
He looked fine.
He looked composed. He looked like a machine that continued to function perfectly even after a faulty part had been removed.
Hyunjin pressed his hand against the cold brick of the pillar, a bitter bile rising in his throat.
He wanted Seungmin to look devastated. He wanted to see slumped shoulders. He wanted to see Seungmin checking his phone, waiting for a text that would never come.
But Seungmin just turned a page. Calm. Unbothered.
"Pathetic," Hyunjin whispered to himself, the word misting in the cold air.
He was the one who had snapped. He was the one who had slammed the laptop. He was the one who had demanded to be more than a distraction.
So why did he feel like he was the one who had been discarded?
Inside the library, Seungmin suddenly looked up. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily, staring out into the dark, rainy window. For a second, his gaze seemed to lock directly onto the pillar where Hyunjin was hiding.
Panic, sharp and electric, seized Hyunjin’s chest.
He didn't wait to see if Seungmin saw him. He didn't wait to see the expression on that face.
Hyunjin turned and ran. He sprinted into the rain, splashing through puddles, letting the cold water mix with the hot, angry tears tracking down his face. He ran until his lungs burned, fleeing from the only person who could make him stop shaking, terrified that he had already been forgotten.
The bass in Felix’s apartment was loud enough to rearrange bone marrow.
It was a wall of sound—a remix of some 100 Billboard’s hit that Hyunjin had danced to a thousand times, but tonight, it just sounded like noise. The room was a kaleidoscope of spinning lights and sweaty bodies, a sea of people laughing, drinking, and existing in a frequency Hyunjin could no longer tune into.
He stood near the kitchen island, clutching a red solo cup that had been refilled three times with something that tasted like vodka and bad decisions.
"Hyunjin! Dance with us!" someone shouted—maybe Yeji, maybe another member of their team.
Hyunjin flashed a smile. It felt like plastic stretching over his skull. "In a minute," he lied, his voice lost in the drop of the beat.
He turned and stumbled toward the sliding glass door, needing air. The world tilted dangerously to the left, a symptom of the alcohol swimming in his empty stomach, but he managed to slide the door open and slip out onto the balcony.
The cold night air hit him like a slap, sobering and sharp. The noise of the party was muffled here, reduced to a dull thrumming against the glass.
Hyunjin slumped against the railing, staring out at the scattered lights of the city. He felt wretched. He felt heavy.
"You look like you’re about to jump, or puke. Or both."
Hyunjin didn't turn. He knew that raspy voice. Changbin leaned against the brick wall, a cigarette unlit in his hand, watching Hyunjin with the steady, grounding presence of a rock.
"Neither," Hyunjin slurred, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime for you lately," Changbin noted, stepping closer. He didn't mock, his tone was laced with genuine concern. "My Yongbok is worried. You’ve been a ghost all week."
"I’m not a ghost," Hyunjin whispered, his vision blurring. "Ghosts have unfinished business. I’m just... finished."
The dam broke without warning. It wasn't a cinematic tear. It was an ugly, burning pressure behind his eyes that spilled over before he could stop it. Hyunjin choked on a sob.
"Bin..." Hyunjin gasped, the name coming out wrecked.
Changbin was there in an instant, a warm hand on Hyunjin’s shoulder, anchoring him. "Hey, hey. Breathe. What is it?"
"I miss him," Hyunjin confessed, the words tumbling out, wet and pathetic. "I miss him so much it physically hurts. Like I tore a muscle I can't fix."
He didn't need to say the name. Changbin knew. Everyone knew, even if they pretended not to.
"Bin, I know I’m stupid," Hyunjin continued, turning to face his friend, tears tracking hot lines down his cold cheeks. "I know he only sees me as a fuck buddy. I know I’m just... warm body to him."
He tapped his chest, right over his heart, hitting it hard.
"He wouldn't even kiss me, Bin. Not once. We did everything else, but he wouldn't let me kiss him." Hyunjin let out a broken, hysterical laugh. "It’s like he was disgusted by me. Like I was good enough to fuck, but not good enough to taste. Like he didn't want to catch whatever... shallowness I have."
"Jinnie..."
"But the worst part?" Hyunjin wiped his face with his sleeve, sniffing loudly. "The worst part is that I don't care. I’d take the scraps. I’d take the silence. Because I think... no, I know. I love that damn nerd."
The confession hung in the cold air, heavy and absolute.
Hyunjin dropped his head, staring at his shoes, waiting for the lecture. He waited for Changbin to tell him to move on, to have some self-respect, to stop chasing a ghost.
"Bin?" Hyunjin murmured when the silence stretched too long. "Say something. Tell me I’m pathetic."
Changbin didn't answer.
Instead, a different voice cut through the wind—lower, steadier, and painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.
"You're not pathetic."
The world stopped spinning.
Hyunjin’s breath hitched in his throat, strangling a sob. His fingers went instantly numb. The red solo cup slipped from his loose grip, hitting the concrete balcony floor with a wet splat, splashing cheap vodka over his sneakers and the hem of his jeans.
He didn't look at the mess. He couldn't move.
He knew that voice. It was the frequency he had been trying to tune out for days, only to find it was the only sound he wanted to hear.
Slowly, with a heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs, Hyunjin turned around.
The air on the balcony shifted. Changbin was gone—slipped away into the thumping bass of the living room like a shadow granting them privacy.
Hyunjin stood frozen, his hand still suspended in the air where he had been gesturing his misery. The alcohol that had been warm and fuzzy a moment ago turned into ice water in his veins. Panic, sharp and instinctual, hijacked his legs.
He turned to run. To vault over the railing, to shove past Seungmin, to dissolve into the ether—anywhere but here.
But he didn't make it two steps.
A hand caught his wrist. It wasn't a bruising grip, but it was enough to stop his moves. Solid. Immovable.
"Don't," Seungmin said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the wind and the muffled music with clarity.
Hyunjin stopped, trembling, his back to Seungmin. He couldn't breathe. He waited for the rejection. He waited for Seungmin to tell him he was a loser, drunk, and delusional.
Instead, the grip on his wrist slid down, fingers lacing through Hyunjin’s cold ones. A gentle tug.
"Inside," Seungmin murmured. "Not out here."
They navigated the periphery of the party like ghosts, Seungmin leading Hyunjin down the hallway to the guest room—the quiet zone Felix reserved for casualties of the night. The door clicked shut, severing the noise of the world.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Hyunjin stood by the dresser, hugging himself, staring at the floorboards. "You heard," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"I heard."
Seungmin stepped closer. Hyunjin could see the tips of his sneakers entering his field of vision.
"I wasn't disgusted, Hyunjin," Seungmin said, the logic in his voice wavering, fraying at the edges. "I was terrified."
Hyunjin looked up, eyes red-rimmed and confused. "Terrified? Of what? I gave you everything."
"That’s why." Seungmin let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of frustration. "You’re Hyunjin Hwang. You walk into a room and the gravity shifts. Everyone wants you. Everyone watches you."
Seungmin took another step, invading Hyunjin’s orbit.
"I’m just... me. I knew if I let myself kiss you, if I let myself have that part of you... I would fall. And when you eventually got bored and moved on to someone brighter, I knew I wouldn't survive it. So I made a rule. No kissing. A safety measure to keep me from drowning."
Hyunjin stared at him. The absurdity of it. It was so painfully Seungmin—trying to put a hurricane inside a glass beaker and hoping it wouldn't shatter.
"You tried to choreograph a disaster?" Hyunjin asked, a wet, incredulous laugh bubbling up, sharp like broken glass. "You thought you could script this to keep it safe?"
"Yes."
"You idiot," Hyunjin choked out, grabbing the lapels of Seungmin’s jacket, pulling him down. "I was already at the bottom of the ocean from day one."
Seungmin’s eyes widened behind his glasses.
And then, Hyunjin kissed him.
It was a collision.
Hyunjin poured months of insecurity, longing, and frustration into the contact. And for the first time, Seungmin didn't turn away. He melted. He opened up, his hands coming up to cradle Hyunjin’s face, kissing him back with a desperate, starving intensity that shattered the last of Hyunjin’s defenses.
The world spun—literally. The alcohol and the adrenaline mixed into a potent cocktail, and the last thing Hyunjin remembered was the taste of Seungmin and the feeling of finally, finally coming home.
Light was a weapon.
It sliced through the curtains, stabbing Hyunjin directly in the eyes. He groaned, rolling over, his head feeling like it had been used as a drum set by a heavy metal band. His mouth tasted like cotton and regret.
He reached out, his hand seeking warmth.
Cold sheets.
Hyunjin’s eyes snapped open. The bed beside him was empty. The pillow was smoothed out.
Panic, cold and immediate, washed over the hangover. He left. Of course he left. It was the alcohol. It was a mistake. Seungmin had sobered up and realized he didn't want a mess like Hyunjin.
"No," Hyunjin whimpered, scrambling out of bed.
His stomach lurched violently.
He sprinted to the en-suite bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before his body purged the cheap vodka. He heaved, clutching the porcelain, tears squeezing out of his eyes from the exertion. He felt disgusting. He felt abandoned.
Then, the door creaked open.
"Hyunjin?"
Hyunjin froze, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't want Seungmin to see him like this—wretched and smelling of bile.
But Seungmin was already there. He knelt beside him, his face calm, holding a glass of water. Without a word, he reached out and gathered Hyunjin’s sweaty hair back from his forehead, his fingers cool and soothing against the feverish skin.
"I thought you left," Hyunjin croaked, tears spilling over again.
"I went to get water and aspirin," Seungmin said softly. He looked at Hyunjin—pale, shaking, hugging a toilet bowl—and a small, genuine laugh escaped him. It wasn't mocking; it was fond. "You look terrible."
"Shut up," Hyunjin sobbed, but a laugh bubbled up in his chest too, hysterical and relieved. "I thought you ran away."
"I’m not running anymore."
Seungmin hooked an arm around Hyunjin’s waist, hoisting him up with surprising strength. He guided him to the sink, where Hyunjin immediately reached for the faucet, desperate to scrub the feeling of sickness from his skin.
"Here," Seungmin said, rooting around in the vanity cabinet until he found a sealed spare toothbrush—Felix, the ultimate host, was always prepared. He tore the packaging open and handed it over, along with a tube of mint paste. "Get rid of the taste. You’ll feel better."
Hyunjin nodded mutely, accepting the offering like it was holy water. He scrubbed his teeth until his gums tingled and splashed freezing water onto his burning face, watching the redness in his eyes slowly recede in the mirror. When he finally felt human again—and confident that his breath wouldn't kill anyone—he turned off the tap and dried his face with a hand towel.
They walked out into the bedroom, the morning sun softer now. Seungmin picked up a folded pile of fabric from the dresser.
"Felix left this for you," Seungmin said, handing him an oversized black t-shirt. "He figured you wouldn't want to wear the vodka-soaked one."
Hyunjin looked down at his own chest. The shirt he was wearing was indeed stained, smelling faintly of alcohol and bad decisions. With a grimace, he grabbed the hem.
"Burn it," Hyunjin muttered, peeling the sticky fabric up and over his head. He balled up the ruined shirt and tossed it into the corner of the room, leaving him standing there in just his pants, shivering slightly in the cool morning air.
He reached for the fresh shirt Seungmin was offering.
"Since when..." Hyunjin started, his voice still raspy but clean, holding the clean cotton against his bare chest. "Since when do you know Felix? Enough to be at his birthday party?"
"We took a General Psych elective together freshman year," Seungmin explained, his tone casual as he watched Hyunjin try to unfold the shirt. "He invited me weeks ago. I wasn't going to come, but then... I heard you were going to be here."
Hyunjin paused. His hands shook—whether from the hangover or the revelation, he didn't know. He lifted the fresh t-shirt, struggling to find the armholes. His limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, like puppet strings that had been cut. He fumbled with the fabric, getting tangled in the simple cotton before he could even pull it down.
"Here, let me," Seungmin interrupted, stepping closer.
He gently pulled the shirt away from Hyunjin’s hands, tossing it onto the bed.
But instead of helping him dress, Seungmin’s hands lingered on Hyunjin’s now-exposed bare waist. The skin there was warm, and Seungmin’s palms felt grounding against the nervous flutter of Hyunjin’s stomach.
He guided Hyunjin backward until the back of his knees hit the mattress.
Déjà vu.
Hyunjin fell back onto the bed, looking up. But this time, there was no fear in Seungmin’s eyes. No trembling panic.
Seungmin climbed over him, bracing his weight on his arms. He looked at Hyunjin with a softness that made Hyunjin’s chest ache.
"Can I?" Seungmin whispered, leaning down.
"Yes," Hyunjin breathed, his hands finding purchase in Seungmin’s hair. "Always."
Seungmin didn't rush. He kissed Hyunjin’s eyelids, feather-light, before tracing the line of his jaw. But instead of burying his face in Hyunjin’s neck—his usual spot for desperate, hidden marks—he kept moving lower. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of Hyunjin’s throat, then his sternum, worshiping the skin like holy ground.
Hyunjin gasped as Seungmin’s mouth grazed his stomach, his muscles contracting reflexively.
Seungmin’s hands moved to the waistband of Hyunjin’s pants. There was no frantic tearing of fabric this time. He unzip the flies and peeled it along with Hyunjin’s boxers slowly, inch by agonizing inch, his eyes locked on Hyunjin’s, asking for permission with every movement.
When the fabric was finally gone, Seungmin didn't hesitate. He took Hyunjin’s cock into his mouth, enveloping him in a heat that made Hyunjin’s toes curl into the mattress.
Hyunjin threw his head back, a broken sound escaping his throat. He was unraveling, floating in a white-hot haze, until the pressure built too high, and he shattered, spilling over with a cry that he didn't bother to stifle. Seungmin tried to swallow it all, lapping over Hyunjin like he was a cat.
As the haze cleared, Hyunjin blinked, his chest heaving. He looked down. He was completely bare, exposed in the morning light, while Seungmin was still fully clothed in his jeans and sweater.
"Unfair," Hyunjin whined, breathless.
He sat up, grabbing the hem of Seungmin’s sweater. "Take it off."
Seungmin complied, but it was a clumsy, messy affair. Hyunjin refused to let go of him, his arms wrapped around Seungmin’s neck, peppering Seungmin’s cheeks with sticky, grateful kisses even as Seungmin tried to pull his arms out of the sleeves.
"Hyunjin, wait—my arm is stuck—" Seungmin laughed, the sound bright and uninhibited.
"Don't care," Hyunjin mumbled against his skin, dragging the sweater over Seungmin’s head.
When the clothes were finally discarded in a heap on the floor, Seungmin straddled Hyunjin’s hips again. Skin against skin. Warmth against warmth.
Hyunjin brought his hand to his mouth, licking his palm—wet and messy and shameless—before reaching down to wrap his fingers around Seungmin’s dick.
Seungmin’s breath hitched, his hips bucking forward instinctively. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the sound, a habit ingrained from months of secrecy.
But Hyunjin wasn't having it.
He pulled Seungmin down, capturing his lips in a bruising, deep kiss. He didn't want silence. He wanted everything. As his hand moved in a steady, slick rhythm, he felt the vibrations of Seungmin’s whimpers against his own tongue. He swallowed Seungmin’s moans whole, drinking in the sounds that used to be hidden behind fogged windows.
Seungmin was shaking, melting into the touch, until he finally broke, shuddering violently in Hyunjin’s arms.
As the aftershocks faded, Hyunjin tightened his grip and rolled them over in one smooth motion. The world tilted, and then Seungmin was on his back, sinking into the plush mattress with Hyunjin hovering above him, grinning like a fool.
They stayed like that for a long time, sharing soft, lazy kisses, letting the adrenaline settle into a warm, golden glow.
Eventually, the sticky reality became impossible to ignore. With a reluctant groan, they disentangled themselves for a quick, stumbling trip to the bathroom. They washed up in the warm light of the vanity, sharing a wet washcloth and tired, shy kisses, before diving back into the nest of blankets—clean, warm, and finally comfortable.
Afterward, tangled together in the morning light, Seungmin rested his chin on Hyunjin’s chest, tracing patterns on his sternum.
"I have a confession," Seungmin murmured.
Hyunjin hummed, lazily playing with Seungmin’s ear. "If you tell me you're actually a spy, I might believe you."
"No," Seungmin chuckled. “But, that must be fun,”
Then a beat of silence before Seungmin continue, "That first time... at the hotel."
"Yeah?"
"I wasn't a virgin."
Hyunjin paused, his hand stilling. "What? But you were shaking. You clamped your legs shut."
Seungmin hid his face in Hyunjin’s chest, his ears turning pink. "I had experience. Just... not like that. I’d never been the one receiving before. I didn't know what to do with my legs. Or my hands. I was terrified I’d do it wrong."
Hyunjin stared at the ceiling for a second, processing this new data point. Then, a grin spread across his face—wide and victorious.
"So," Hyunjin teased, squeezing Seungmin tight. "You were a bottom virgin. And you saved that for me?"
"Shut up," Seungmin groaned, but he didn't pull away. "Don't make it weird."
"Too late," Hyunjin kissed the top of his head. "It’s perfect."
The final toss was weightless.
For months, gravity had felt like a personal enemy, a force constantly trying to drag Hyunjin back to earth. But tonight, as he soared through the blinding white lights of the arena, suspended in the apex of the boy’s pyramid, he felt nothing but air.
He landed with perfect precision. The floor didn't vibrate with anxiety this time. It resonated with victory.
The roar of the crowd was a physical force, washing over the squad in a tidal wave of noise. Hyunjin stood at the center, chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes, his smile stretching so wide it made his cheeks ache.
He wasn't the "Prince" posing for a photo or reciting a script. He was just Hyunjin.
And inside his ribcage, the jagged beat that had plagued him for months finally smoothed out. It wasn't skipping anymore. It was a perfect, thundering syncopation—loud, alive, and entirely his own.
But as the team broke formation, hugging and screaming in a tangled mess of glitter and polyester, Hyunjin’s eyes immediately swept the stands.
He scanned the sea of faces—parents, students, judges. He looked for the glint of wire-rimmed glasses. He looked for the one person who would be sitting perfectly still amidst the chaos, probably analyzing the physics of a basket toss.
Nothing.
He scanned again, his heart stuttering in its rhythm. He saw Felix waving frantically. He saw Changbin flexing his biceps in support.
But no Seungmin.
The high of the performance drained away, leaving a familiar, hollow ache in his stomach. Maybe he got stuck at the lab, Hyunjin rationalized, forcing his smile to stay in place as Yeji tackled him in a hug. Maybe the noise was too much.
But the disappointment was a heavy stone in his shoe as he walked out of the arena an hour later.
The parking lot was cooler, the Michigan night settling over the asphalt. Hyunjin walked slowly, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, the adrenaline crash making his limbs feel like lead. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep.
He turned the corner of the row where he parked his car, head down.
Then he stopped.
Leaning against the driver’s side door of his Audi was a figure.
Seungmin was there, dressed in neat button-down and coat, looking entirely out of place in the grimy stadium lot. But he wasn't alone.
Occupying the space next to him—and effectively blocking the entire driver’s side door—was a dog.
Not a real dog. A plush dog. A gargantuan, absurdly large brown plush dog that was nearly the same height as Seungmin. It was slumped against the car, its bead eyes staring blankly at Hyunjin, its fuzzy paws dangling comically.
Seungmin had his arm wrapped around the toy’s neck to keep it upright, looking like a serious academic who had been taken hostage by a carnival prize.
Hyunjin blinked.
And blinked again, making sure that his exhaustion wasn’t finally causing hallucinations.
Seungmin cleared his throat. Even from this distance, Hyunjin could see the tips of his ears burning a violent shade of crimson. He looked terrified, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.
Hyunjin walked closer, the bubble of laughter starting to expand in his chest.
"You..." Hyunjin started, gesturing vaguely at the monstrosity. "What is this?"
Seungmin adjusted his grip on the plushie, his expression fighting to remain stoic despite the blush consuming his face.
"You said," Seungmin mumbled, his voice tight, "that you wanted something big and soft to hug when you were tired."
He patted the giant dog’s head awkwardly.
"Since hugging me was... strictly regulated before."
The laughter finally escaped Hyunjin. It echoed off the concrete, chasing away the last shadows of the last six months. His eyes stung, blurring the image of the boy and the bear-sized dog into a watercolor of happiness.
"You remembered," Hyunjin whispered, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
"It’s hard not to, when you say it like you want to leave me and go to the end of the world." Seungmin countered softly. He looked at Hyunjin, his gaze shifting from the ground to Hyunjin’s face. "Is it... too much?"
Hyunjin shook his head, stepping into the space between Seungmin and the plushie. He reached out, but his hands didn't go for the soft fur of the toy. They went for the lapels of Seungmin’s coat.
"It’s perfect," Hyunjin said, grinning until his eyes disappeared into crescents. "But I think I prefer hugging the person who gave it to me."
Seungmin let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since he bought the thing. "Good. Because this thing is heavy."
Hyunjin didn't wait. He pulled Seungmin in, burying his face in the crook of that familiar neck, inhaling the scent that grounded him more than gravity ever could. Then, he kissed him—right on the mouth because now he can, and right there in the parking lot, under the flickering lights.
"Woo! Get a room!"
Hyunjin broke the kiss, breathless, looking over Seungmin’s shoulder. Yeji and the rest of the squad were walking toward their cars, catcalling and whistling. Yeji was grinning, giving him a double thumbs-up, looking relieved to see her twin finally back on solid ground.
Hyunjin didn't flip them off. He didn't hide. He just waved, wrapped his arm around Seungmin’s waist, and pulled him closer.
"Let’s go to my place," Hyunjin said, glancing at the giant dog. "We’re going to need a bigger backseat."
Seungmin smiled—a real, unfiltered smile that reached his eyes. "I ran the numbers. It’ll fit."
(The pavement leading to the North Library was a gray ribbon stretching under the canopy of maple trees. It was a familiar path, one measured in steps and silence, usually broken only by the rustle of leaves or the distant hum of campus traffic.
Today, however, it was broken by Jeno Lee’s monologue on covalent bonds.
"The issue isn't the stability of the compound," Jeno said, his tone as steady and soothing as white noise. "It’s the reaction rate under variable temperatures. If I can't stabilize the heat source, the thesis is void."
Seungmin walked in the middle, nodding rhythmically. He understood the logic. He appreciated the structure.
On his left, Renjun let out a groan that sounded like a dying bagpipe.
"If you say the word about ‘polymer’ one more time, I’m going to throw myself into traffic," Renjun threatened, kicking a stray acorn with unnecessary violence. "Can we please discuss something that doesn't require a calculator?"
Jeno blinked, unbothered. "Like what?"
"Like real life. Like relationships," Renjun said, a wicked glint entering his eyes that usually signaled trouble. "Like how Mark is driving me insane."
Seungmin sighed internally, shifting his gaze to the treeline. From chemistry to Mark Lee. The spectrum of their conversations was wide, yet exhaustingly circular.
"He forgot your anniversary again?" Jeno asked, mild curiosity coloring his tone.
"No. He’s just… clingy. He’s like a giant, overgrown golden retriever in the living room," Renjun complained, though the fondness in his voice ruined the act. "But then we get to the bedroom, and suddenly he thinks he’s a lion. It’s whiplash, honestly."
Seungmin fixed his eyes on the horizon. He really didn't need the zoological classification of Mark Lee’s libido.
"But does he ever bottom?" Jeno asked.
Seungmin nearly tripped over his own feet. He looked at Jeno, but the chemistry major’s expression was unchanged—he asked about sexual positions with the exact same clinical detachment he used for thermodynamics.
Renjun hummed, tilting his head. "Maybe. With other people, in the past."
Seungmin frowned. He adjusted his glasses, the pragmatist in him unable to stay silent.
"Is it really that critical?" Seungmin asked, his voice cutting through the humid air. "The position, I mean. The physiological outcome is identical regardless of the vector."
Jeno and Renjun stopped walking. They turned to him in unison. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the sudden, mocking chirp of a bird.
Renjun’s eyes narrowed. A slow, Cheshire-cat smile spread across his face.
"You’ve never bottomed, have you?" Renjun purred.
Seungmin stiffened. "That’s irrelevant to the—"
"It’s good, you know," Renjun interrupted, leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You just lie back. You let go. It’s… not tiring."
Not tiring.
The words hooked into Seungmin’s brain like a burr.
They resumed walking, but Seungmin’s mind had drifted from the path. He wasn't a prude. He had experience. He had been with women; he had been with men. But in every equation, he had always been the active variable. The one in control. To him, sex was a function: input effort, create friction, achieve release. The outcome—the dopamine rush—was always the same regardless of the method.
But not tiring? That was a variable he hadn't tested.
And God, he was tired. Tired of grades, tired of expectations, tired of being the reliable one.
His pocket vibrated, a single, sharp buzz against his thigh distracting him from his thought. Seungmin pulled out his phone. A message notification floated on the lock screen.
>Hyunjin (Comm 101) : Here. Room 214. 8 PM. Door's unlocked.
Seungmin blinked.
The logistics of the meeting were supposed to be standard. Seungmin had proposed the café near the Liberty building—a neutral, public variable suitable for academic discussion. Hyunjin’s response, however, was a deviation from the protocol. He hadn't answered with a "yes" or "no." He had simply replied with an address and a room number.
Seungmin hypothesized, maybe it was a specific preference—perhaps a private study lounge or an upscale café the cheer captain frequented to avoid the general populace.
He tapped the notification. The maps app opened automatically from the address link Hyunjin had pasted. The red pin dropped onto the grid.
He frowned. He zoomed in.
That wasn't a café.
The Kensington.
It was a hotel. A mid-range, discreet hotel three blocks from the city center.
Seungmin stopped walking, the campus noise fading into a dull buzz. The data points rearranged themselves rapidly in his mind.
Hyunjin Hwang. The Prince of the Cheer Squad. Best friend of Donghyuck Lee—who was currently infamous for his escapades in library corners and parked cars. A boy who wore sweat and glitter like armor.
Hyunjin had sent him a hotel room number.
Logically, this was an error. A misfire. Or worse, it was a proposition.
Seungmin stared at the screen. He should be offended. He should be angry. He should be typing a scathing reply about professionalism and boundaries, then blocking the number immediately. Hyunjin was clearly mistaking him for one of his easy hookups, a "toy" to play with between practice sessions. It was insulting.
But then, Renjun’s voice echoed in his memory. You let go. It’s not tiring.
Seungmin feels his heavy backpack, filled with books he had already memorized. He thought about the three essays due next week. He thought about the endless pressure of his parents.
He looked at the red pin again.
Hyunjin was beautiful. That was an objective, empirical fact. He was shallow, yes. Loud in field, yes. But he was beautiful in a way that made you want to look at him until your eyes watered.
And Seungmin was just a curious person.
"Seungmin?" Jeno called out, noticing he had lagged behind. "You coming?"
Seungmin looked up. He thumbed the power button, turning the screen black. He didn't reply to Hyunjin. He didn't ask for clarification.
"Yeah," Seungmin said, adjusting his grip on his bag. He turned his body slightly, angling away from the library.
"You guys go ahead," he said, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the pulse hammering in his throat. "I just remembered… I have a group project meeting."
"At this hour?" Renjun asked, skeptical.
"It’s crunch time," Seungmin lied smoothly.
He turned right, walking away from the safety of the books and the silence. He started walking toward the city center. Toward Room 214. Toward a variable he had never bothered to solve, but suddenly—desperately—wanted to test.)