Chapter Text
The music was too loud for Seonghwa’s taste.
Bass thudded through the floor, lights blinking in frantic colours that left afterimages across his vision. He wasn’t the type to go out drinking—not really. Most nights, when his shift ended at the café, he preferred to return to his small apartment, cook something simple, and maybe sketch recipes in the margins of his worn-out notebook.
But tonight wasn’t about him.
San had insisted, and Seonghwa could rarely say no to San. His best friend was glowing with excitement, tugging him along like the world was made to celebrate him.
“Come on, Hwa, just for one night!” San shouted over the music, grinning so brightly it rivalled the neon lights.
Seonghwa tugged his knit sleeves over his hands, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. His white sweater was soft, fragile compared to the sharp colours and sequins flashing around him. He looked like he’d stepped out of the wrong world and into this one by mistake.
“You’re doing the face,” San teased, leaning close. “The ‘I want to leave already’ face. Don’t make me drag you onto the dance floor.”
Before Seonghwa could protest, Wooyoung appeared at San’s side, his arm wrapping easily around San’s waist. Together, they were radiant—confident, inevitable, like two halves of a story written long ago.
“Let him breathe,” Wooyoung said with an indulgent smile, before turning to Seonghwa. His gaze was warm, genuine. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to San… and to me.”
Seonghwa softened despite himself. “Congratulations,” he said quietly, meaning it. “You two look… happy.”
Wooyoung’s grin widened. “We are.” He squeezed San closer, his whole body speaking the truth. Then he glanced around the crowded room. “There’s someone we want you to meet.”
Seonghwa blinked. “…Meet?”
“Yeah. My best friend. He’s around here somewhere…” Wooyoung craned his neck. Then San spotted someone in the crowd and waved enthusiastically.
That was the first time Seonghwa saw Kim Hongjoong.
He was striking even from across the room—platinum hair falling in neat, styled layers, a dark jacket draped over his frame like it belonged on a runway, chains catching the stray light. His glasses reflected the neon, hiding his eyes for a moment.
But when the glass caught the angle just right, Seonghwa saw them.
And that’s what unravelled the image.
They were red at the rims, glassy, like he’d been crying not long ago. His shoulders were tight, his steps precise in a way that felt less like confidence and more like control threatening to snap.
Hongjoong looked… put together. Perfect. Untouchable.
And yet, undone.
San’s arm went around him in greeting. “Joong! There you are! Meet my best friend, Seonghwa.”
Seonghwa offered a polite bow. “Nice to meet you.”
Hongjoong’s gaze flickered to him, then away, too quickly. Like looking at Seonghwa hurt. His voice was rough when he finally replied, “Yeah. You too.”
The noise of the bar swallowed the moment, but Seonghwa was left with a strange tug in his chest—curiosity, sympathy, something nameless.
He was still thinking about it hours later even when he was tipsy, when he found Hongjoong stumbling past him, nearly tripping over a chair.
“Careful,” Seonghwa said automatically, reaching out to steady him.
Hongjoong blinked, unfocused. Up close, Seonghwa could smell the alcohol on his breath, bitter and sharp. His pale hair was slightly mussed now, the neat image cracking. His lips parted on a small laugh, fragile and broken.
“You…” Hongjoong whispered, his voice slurred. “You’re… nice.”
Seonghwa froze, startled by the words. No one had said that to him in a long time.
“You’re San’s friend, right?” Hongjoong continued, swaying slightly. “Lucky him. I… I lost my best friend tonight.”
Seonghwa frowned. “…Lost?”
But Hongjoong only laughed again, hollow, pressing his forehead briefly against Seonghwa’s shoulder as if needing something steady.
Something inside Seonghwa tightened. Against his better judgment, he slipped an arm around the smaller man, guiding him outside into the cool night air.
Away from the noise, Hongjoong’s voice was quieter, raw.
“I was gonna propose,” he admitted suddenly. His words spilled out, unfiltered. “Had the ring and everything. But he’s… he’s engaged already. To someone else.”
Seonghwa’s heart twisted. He didn’t know this man—not really. And yet, sitting here beside him, it was impossible not to feel the weight of his grief.
“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa said softly. And he meant it.
Hongjoong gave a bitter laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
Seonghwa hesitated, then answered, “No. But I know what it feels like to lose something you wanted.”
Their eyes met in the shadows, just for a second. And for that fleeting moment, the rest of the world went quiet.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ 🐿 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
The night air was bracing, sharp enough to sober a person halfway. Seonghwa helped Hongjoong into a cab despite his quiet protests, rattling off his address with the practiced habit of someone who rarely splurged on taxis but knew he had no choice tonight.
By the time they stumbled into his tiny apartment, Hongjoong’s weight was slumped against him, soft with exhaustion. Seonghwa’s place wasn’t much—just a clean space, a small kitchen, a worn couch and a bed tucked into the corner. Compared to the sleek, expensive jacket Hongjoong wore, it looked almost embarrassingly modest.
“Sorry it’s… small,” Seonghwa murmured as he set his bag aside.
Hongjoong glanced around with unfocused eyes, then shook his head. “It’s warm.” His voice cracked on the word. “That’s enough.”
Something in Seonghwa’s chest tightened. He fetched a glass of water, pressing it gently into Hongjoong’s hands. Their fingers brushed; Hongjoong’s skin was cool.
“You should lie down,” Seonghwa said softly.
“I don’t want to be alone.” The confession slipped out before Hongjoong could stop it, raw and trembling. His grip on the glass tightened.
Seonghwa hesitated only a moment before nodding. He guided Hongjoong to the bed, sitting beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. For a while, silence filled the room—only the sound of their breathing.
Then, carefully, as though afraid he’d be pushed away, Hongjoong leaned into him. His forehead found Seonghwa’s shoulder, the same way it had outside the bar, and stayed there.
“You’re too kind,” Hongjoong whispered.
Seonghwa’s hand lifted, hovered, then settled against his back in a gentle circle. “Maybe you just needed kindness tonight.”
When Hongjoong lifted his gaze, their eyes met in the dim light. There was no mistaking the loneliness swimming there, or the silent plea not to be left alone. Seonghwa’s breath caught.
The kiss was feather-light at first, a tentative brush of lips. Seonghwa froze, startled by the fragility of it—like touching spun sugar cotton candy. Then Hongjoong pressed in again, rougher this time, with the kind of need that left no space for hesitation.
It wasn’t fire. It was ache.
Hongjoong kissed like someone drowning, clinging for air. And Seonghwa kissed back like someone willing to be the shore. His hands lifted uncertainly, hovering before settling at Hongjoong’s waist, grounding him.
The jacket slipped from Hongjoong’s shoulders in the shuffle, sliding to the floor with a muted whisper. Chains clinked softly as Seonghwa helped him with the layers, his touch careful, every movement slow—an unspoken question in each one. Is this okay?
“Yes,” Hongjoong breathed against his mouth, voice breaking.
The night blurred into fragments, etched sharp in Seonghwa’s mind: The tremor of Hongjoong’s breath when Seonghwa smoothed his hair back with gentle fingers. The faint taste of salt, whether from alcohol or tears, Seonghwa couldn’t tell. The way Hongjoong’s hands curled into his sweater, clinging so tightly the knit stretched, as though letting go would shatter him. The soft plea, whispered between kisses, “Don’t leave me.”
Seonghwa’s chest ached at the words. He didn’t promise anything—he couldn’t. But he held him tighter, as if that could be enough for now.
When they finally stilled, Hongjoong lay curled against him, head on his chest, the rhythm of his breathing gradually slowing. Seonghwa traced gentle circles on his back through the thin fabric, eyes fixed on the ceiling, wide awake.
He should’ve felt regret. Instead, all he felt was a fragile fullness he didn’t have a name for.
Morning light crept pale and soft through the blinds. Seonghwa stirred, arm reaching for the warmth beside him—
Empty.
His breath caught.
The sheets were smooth, untouched except for the faint imprint of someone having slept there. On the chair, carefully draped, was the black jacket. Expensive, perfect, foreign in his small room.
Seonghwa sat up slowly, his fingers brushing the fabric. The silence pressed heavy around him.
The man who kissed him like a secret was gone.
All that remained was the jacket.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ 🐿 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
The morning after was quiet in a way that pressed on Seonghwa’s chest.
He sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the jacket left behind. The fabric was smooth under his fingertips, expensive in a way that didn’t belong in his little apartment. A single thread of pale hair clung to the collar, the only evidence that the man from last night had been real.
No note. No number. Nothing but silence.
Seonghwa told himself it was fine. It was one night. Nothing more.
And yet, when he hung the jacket carefully in his closet, he couldn’t bring himself to treat it like something borrowed. It felt… heavier than that.
The weeks blurred. Work at the café filled his days, the familiar rhythm of grinding coffee, steaming milk, and scribbling down recipes in the margins of his notebook. But something was off.
The exhaustion was different—bone-deep, lingering. The nausea came in waves, uninvited. He tried to ignore it, until the morning he found himself sitting on the cool bathroom tiles, staring at the small test strip in his hands.
Two lines.
The world tilted.
For a long time, he just sat there, the hum of the fan too loud in his ears. He thought of his mother—the way she worked double shifts, the way she smiled through exhaustion, the way she’d raised him alone. He thought of the space where a father should’ve been, and how it had left him aching as a boy.
He looked at the strip again. His throat tightened.
“…Hello,” he whispered, voice unsteady.
Ridiculous. But once he said it, the tears came hot and fast. He pressed a hand over his mouth, laughing softly through them. “Hi, little star.”
The name fit. The feeling did, too.
For a few days, he wavered. His mind circled the same questions: What if I can’t provide? What if I’m not enough? What if this ruins everything?
But every time doubt crept in, he pictured the child—his child—looking up at him with eyes that deserved the world. And the fear began to turn into something steadier.
Resolve.
“I’ll give you the best life I can,” he whispered one night, sitting at the edge of his bed with his hand pressed flat against his stomach. The apartment was dim, quiet except for the hum of the fridge. “Even if it’s just me. Especially if it’s just me.”
The words came easier each time he said them, like a vow strengthening with repetition.
“You’ll never feel unwanted. Not once.”
He thought of the jacket hanging in his closet, the life it represented—wealth, power, someone untouchable. And for the first time, he realized he didn’t need any of that.
What he needed was here.
What mattered was here.
The tiny heartbeat, not yet formed but already changing everything.
Seonghwa wiped his eyes, sat up straighter, and let out a slow, steady breath. His life would be different now. Harder, maybe. Lonelier. But not empty. Never empty.
And as the pale morning light slipped through the blinds, catching on the forgotten jacket in the closet, Seonghwa whispered his final vow.
“I’ll make sure you’re loved, little star. Twice as much.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆ 🐿 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
For days after the test, Seonghwa carried the secret like a flame cupped between his hands—fragile, glowing, his alone. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the other half of the story.
His child deserved to know where they came from. Even if Hongjoong didn’t care, even if he never wanted to see them again, at least the truth would exist. At least Seonghwa could say, I tried.
The jacket in his closet seemed to stare at him every morning, silent and accusing. A reminder of a man who had kissed him like he was drowning, then vanished without a trace.
Finally, one grey afternoon, Seonghwa pressed his palm to his stomach—still flat, still unchanged—and whispered, “You deserve this chance.” Then he pulled the jacket from the hanger, folded it neatly into its garment bag, and left for the city.
The Kim headquarters was a building designed to impress: all glass and steel, its surface reflecting the sky as though it owned it. Seonghwa stood across the street for a long time, clutching the strap of his bag, trying to muster courage. His sweater felt too soft, too plain. He imagined people inside wearing clothes that cost more than his monthly rent.
But he’d already come this far. He couldn’t turn back.
Inside, the lobby was vast and cold, polished floors echoing under his careful steps. The receptionist looked up, perfectly composed.
“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“I—” Seonghwa swallowed, tightening his grip on the garment bag. “I need to speak with Mr. Kim. Kim Hongjoong.”
Her eyes flickered, practiced smile never faltering. “And you are?”
“Park Seonghwa. Just… someone returning something. And I…” He hesitated. How did you explain the rest? “I have something important to tell him.”
She tapped a few keys, then lifted her gaze. “Mr. Kim is unavailable. But his brother can see you.”
Before Seonghwa could protest, she was already calling someone down.
The man who entered was nothing like Hongjoong.
Sharp suit, polished shoes, eyes cool as stone. He carried himself with the kind of authority that made Seonghwa want to shrink back into the lobby floor.
“You asked to see my brother?” His voice was clipped, efficient.
Seonghwa bowed quickly, fumbling with the garment bag. “Yes. I—I have his jacket. From a few weeks ago.” He offered it forward like proof he wasn’t lying.
The man’s expression didn’t soften. He accepted the bag with a curt nod, setting it aside on the receptionist’s desk. “And what else?”
Seonghwa hesitated. His heart hammered, but he forced himself to speak. “I… I think I might be pregnant. And I believe it’s his.”
For the first time, something flickered in the man’s eyes—but it wasn’t surprise. More like weariness, irritation smoothed over by practice.
“I see,” he said flatly. “You should know, people come here with stories like that more often than you’d imagine.”
Seonghwa blinked. “Stories?”
“Claims,” the man corrected, his voice cold. “Women. Men. People who think they can gain something by attaching themselves to my brother’s name. It’s… predictable.”
“I’m not—” Seonghwa’s throat closed, stung by the implication. “I’m not here for money. I just thought—he should know. That’s all. My child deserves at least that much.”
The man studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp enough to cut. Seonghwa held his gaze, even as his palms grew damp.
Finally, the man exhaled, slow and measured. “My brother is in a fragile state right now. He doesn’t need more complications in his life. If what you’re saying is true—and I am not saying it is—then the best thing you can do for him is leave him out of it.”
The words landed like stones in Seonghwa’s stomach.
He felt his face heat, shame curling in his chest. But more than that—disappointment. Not in himself, but in the fact that this was the wall his child would face if he tried to reach out to the other half of who they were.
“I understand,” Seonghwa said quietly. His voice cracked, but he kept it steady.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded scrap of paper, the ink smudged slightly from where he’d held it too tightly on the way over. He placed it on the desk between them.
“That’s my number,” he said. “If… if he ever wants to know. About me, or the child.” His throat tightened. “If not, I’ll handle it on my own.”
The man didn’t reach for the paper. He only gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. “Then have a good afternoon, Mr…?”
“Just Seonghwa,” he murmured, bowing again before turning toward the doors.
Outside, the winter air bit against his skin. Seonghwa stood on the sidewalk, staring at the reflection of the building in the glass. His eyes stung, but he refused to cry here, in front of strangers.
He pressed a hand to his stomach instead, taking a steadying breath.
“I guess it’s just us,” he whispered. His voice was soft, but firm.
The words steadied him.
He might have been turned away, dismissed as another “problem” to be solved, but that didn’t change the truth inside him. Didn’t change the tiny life that would soon depend on him.
He would not let his child feel the absence he had felt his whole life.
Even if he had to do it alone.