Chapter Text
Fatigue settled in Jisung’s bones. A double shift at Daldal Kopi was brutal enough, but covering for Felix pushed him to his limits. It was hard to say no to his friend, so he took the extra hours without complaint. Entering his apartment, all he craved was sleep. He showered, scrubbing away the lingering scent of roasted espresso beans and vanilla syrup. Stepping out, he barely dried his hair before dropping onto the mattress.
Then, his phone vibrated.
An unknown number lit up the screen. He stared at it. It was late, and he should ignore it, but curiosity won out. He answered, pressing the phone to his ear.
“I miss you... I really miss you.”
Jisung blinked. “Who is this?”
He didn’t recognize the voice at all. It was low, masculine, warm but raspy. Jisung had been single for too long; there was no one who would be pining for him right now.
“Don’t act like you forgot me already...”
The slurred vowels gave it away. The guy was drunk. Jisung stayed quiet, listening to the unsteady breaths through the receiver.
“Two weeks and you already deleted my number... can’t blame you. I did the same... but I have it memorized.”
The pieces clicked. A drunken night, an attempt to call an ex from memory, a slipped digit.
“I’m sorry,” Jisung blurted out. It was reflex. He wasn’t the ex, and he hadn’t done anything wrong, but years in customer service pushed the apology out.
The stranger ignored him. “I remember your number, favorite color, shoe size, and how you like your coffee—flat white with extra sugar. I always knew when the milk was running out. I restocked it so you could drink it the way you like it. I bought your favorite organic brand with exactly three-point-nine percent fat, even though it’s the most expensive shit on the dairy shelf... I did it all, but it was never enough.”
“Hey... you’re drunk,” Jisung pointed out.
The line went quiet before the tension spiked.
“I’m drunk because you fucking left me!” The voice cracked, raw and bitter. “But just say one word... and I can be back. Just let me know the door is open.”
Discomfort twisted Jisung’s stomach. He gripped the phone. From the sound of it, whoever this guy was pining for didn’t appreciate him. They shouldn’t get back together. But Jisung couldn’t play along. He couldn’t say ‘the door is open’ and set the stranger up for a brutal reality check once he sobered up. He swallowed, trying to figure out how to break the news without making things worse.
“I... I can’t take you back,” Jisung said, keeping his tone steady.
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the speaker. “You don’t mean that.” The stranger’s voice wavered. “I still love you. You know I do. Just tell me to come over.”
Jisung rubbed his temples. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t leave this guy spiraling. If he played along now, it would be cruel. If he hung up, the guy might do something stupid.
“Look,” Jisung sighed, staring at the ceiling. “You need to go to sleep. You’re wasted. We can talk tomorrow. Just... sleep it off.”
He hoped the suggestion would stick. By tomorrow, the alcohol would wear off, the guy would realize his mistake, or better yet, call his actual ex and sort their mess out without dragging a random barista into the crossfire.
“Tomorrow,” the voice repeated, a weak echo of its earlier intensity. “You promise?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. Go to sleep.”
Jisung didn’t wait for an answer. He hit the red button, dropped the phone onto the mattress, and buried his face in the pillow. Sleep pulled him under in seconds.
The peace didn’t last. A persistent vibration buzzed against the sheets, waking him up. He groaned, blindly grabbing the device. He pressed it to his ear without checking the screen.
“What!?” he snapped.
“You promised we’d talk.” The deep voice was still there, sounding just as stubborn.
Jisung squeezed his eyes shut. “I said tomorrow.”
“It’s a minute past midnight. It is tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I fucking meant.”
A short, bitter scoff echoed through the speaker. “You used to like my meticulousness.”
Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay, he thought, maybe you didn’t get dumped for no reason. Being a pedantic smartass at midnight while drunk and heartbroken was quite the combination. Still, despite his irritation, he couldn’t shake off a lingering sense of pity. The guy was pathetic, clinging to a phone call just to avoid being alone.
He shifted under the blanket, a new thought forming. He still had no idea who was keeping him awake. If they were going to play this game, he needed at least some context.
“Right. Meticulous,” Jisung muttered, keeping his voice even and unimpressed. “Okay, then. Since you know I deleted your number, tell me what to save you as. Let’s see if you’re sober enough to remember your own name.”
He held his breath, waiting to see if the guy would take the bait.
A shaky exhale crackled through the speaker.
“Minho,” the voice mumbled. “Save me as Minho. But... put the little white heart emoji next to it. Like you used to. Please.”
Jisung blinked at the ceiling. Minho. Okay, he had a name. And a massive dose of second-hand embarrassment. The raw desperation in Minho’s tone was so painfully pathetic that Jisung almost felt bad for tricking him.
“A white heart,” Jisung repeated, keeping his tone flat. “I don’t know. It’s tacky.”
“You’re lying,” Minho murmured, a weak scoff following his words. “You picked it yourself.”
“How about a pink one for a change?”
“Fine. Pink,” Minho breathed out. The faint sound of tapping echoed over the line. “I’m saving your number again, too.”
Panic flared in Jisung’s chest. He sat up, gripping the device. If Minho saved this random string of digits in his contacts, he wouldn’t just call tonight. He would call tomorrow, sober, fully believing he was dialing his ex. He would drag Jisung straight into the middle of his messy, unresolved breakup.
“Is the yellow heart still good for you?” Minho asked, oblivious to the crisis on the other end.
Jisung needed an out. He had to plant a clue, a glaring mistake for Minho to spot when the alcohol wore off and the hangover set in.
“Green,” Jisung blurted. “Use a green heart.”
The tapping stopped. “Green? But you hate green.”
Jisung swallowed, trying to sound casual. “Tastes change. You like something for a while, and then... you don’t.”
He winced the second the words left his mouth.
Silence hung over the line, tense and suffocating. When Minho finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
“Right.” The fragile hope drained from his tone, replaced by flat resignation. “Tastes change. Just like me, huh? I guess I’m just another thing you used to like, but don’t anymore.”
A knot twisted in Jisung’s stomach. He rubbed his eyes, fighting the urge to say something reassuring. He wanted to tell Minho to stop beating himself up over a guy who clearly wasn’t worth the headache. But he was trapped. He was playing the role of the ex—the very person who broke Minho’s heart. Offering sympathy right now would shatter the illusion, or worse, sound like a sick mind game.
“You’re overthinking,” Jisung said, forcing a heavy sigh to mask his own remorse. “You’re drunk and you’re spiraling. Drink a glass of water and go to bed.”
“Is that it?” Minho asked. “Just... go to bed?”
“Yes. Go to bed. I’m hanging up.”
He didn’t wait for another heartbreaking question. He tapped the red button, tossing the phone to the edge of the mattress, and let fatigue drag him to sleep.
The next day passed in a blur of espresso shots, clinking mugs, and Felix’s endless chatter. Jisung kept his phone in his apron pocket, half-expecting it to vibrate with an angry, sober apology or a string of confused texts. But the screen stayed blank. Radio silence. By the time he locked up the cafe and caught the bus back to his apartment, he figured Minho had sobered up, checked his call log, and realized his mistake.
Problem solved.
Later that evening, Jisung slouched on his couch, a bowl of popcorn resting on his stomach while some random movie played on the TV. He was just starting to zone out when his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
He leaned over and grabbed it.
Minho.
Jisung paused. He had saved the number—heart emoji and all—mostly out of morbid amusement. He stared at the glowing letters for a few seconds before swiping right.
“Hello?”
“Hwa... I was thinking.”
Hwa. So that was the elusive ex’s name.
The syllables dragged, thick and clumsy. Jisung held back a groan. “You’re drunk again. Why didn’t you call earlier, before you started drinking?”
A quiet rustle came through the speaker. “Didn’t have the courage.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Rejection,” Minho whispered, the word brittle and raw.
Jisung rested his head against the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. The guy sounded so defeated it was pathetic. “Look, you’ll move on,” he offered, trying for a detached tone. “You’ll find someone else to build a life with.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
“Why do you even care so much?” Jisung asked. His curiosity spiked. What made this Hwa guy so irreplaceable?
“How can you even ask that?” Minho’s voice cracked with a mix of hurt and disbelief. “We spent so much time together. We had good moments. We were so in love... until you just started pulling away.” He took a shaky breath, the sound wet and miserable. “I still don’t get it. Why did you leave? Because I don’t believe that bullshit excuse you gave me. That it just... faded.”
Jisung bit his lip, regret twisting in his gut.
“Tell me what I did wrong,” Minho pleaded. “I’ll fix it. I swear I’ll fix it.”
This was way above Jisung’s paygrade. He was a barista, not a couples therapist. He liked the gossip, sure, but this drama was getting too real, too messy. Minho needed closure, and Jisung couldn’t give it to him over a blurry phone call. They needed to sort this out between themselves.
“Stop,” Jisung interrupted, keeping his tone firm. “We’re not doing this over the phone. Not while you’re wasted.”
“Then when?”
“We need to talk in person. Face-to-face.”
“You wanna see me?” The desperate hope in Minho’s voice made Jisung wince.
“Tomorrow,” Jisung ordered. He needed Minho sober so he could finally point him to the real Hwa and wash his hands of this mess. “You call me tomorrow at noon. Not midnight. Noon. If you’re as meticulous as you claim, and if you actually care, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”
Silence stretched over the line.
“Noon,” Minho repeated.
“Yeah. Until tomorrow,” Jisung said, leaving no room for negotiation. “And Minho? Make sure you’re sober this time.”
He didn’t give Minho a chance to argue, hitting the red button to cut the call.