Archive of Our Own

Thud!

A dull thump rattles the ceiling above Daeyoung’s head. Then another, much sharper this time, sounds like a heavy box dropped onto the floor. He lifts his gaze from the notebook spread out in front of him and tilts his head, listening. The apartment is usually quiet since he moved in with his cousin, Sion, and sometimes it feels eerie to him, especially at night when Sion is away for work and the walls seem to hum with stillness. So the sudden noise from upstairs startles him.

Well, technically, Daeyoung doesn’t live alone. His cousin Sion, who is ten years older, shares the apartment with him, but because Sion works as a TV producer for entertainment and travel programs, he’s hardly ever home. One week he’s in another city, and the next he travels to another continent, usually gone for one or two weeks at a time, depending on the shoot. So his room always stays dark, his suitcase always waiting by the door, and most days it feels like the place belongs only to Daeyoung.

The occasional scrape of furniture keeps against the floorboards overhead. The unit above his has always been a mute ceiling, a blank, unbothered space. But now it breathes with life, and the sounds slip into his evenings like a reminder that someone new has moved in.

He tells himself not to care. It is not his business who comes and goes. But every time a chair drags too sharply or faint singing echoes through the ceiling, his mind strays upward before he can stop it. Finally a new neighbor, maybe a family, maybe someone his age, or maybe… oh, he tries not to think about it too much.

The days go on and he only grows more aware of it. The muffled footsteps late at night when he sits on the couch scrolling through his phone, the click of a door shutting at very odd hours, even the faint hum of a vacuum on one Sunday afternoon. The ceiling is pretty much alive, and with it, his curiosity.

It’s a Tuesday evening when his doorbell rings.

At first, he thinks it must be Sion forgetting his passcode again, but when he opens the door, the man standing across the threshold is no cousin of his.

The stranger looks older, maybe in his late twenties, Daeyoung guesses. He is slightly shorter than him but neatly dressed despite the casualness of the hour, carrying a paper bag in one hand and a polite, measured smile on his lips.

“Hello,” the man says with a polite bow, his voice low and calm. “I’m Yushi. I just moved upstairs.”

Daeyoung simply stares for a moment, his mind a blank slate interrupted by a sudden rush of awareness. So this is the person who has been living above him. The footsteps, the singing, the weight on the ceiling. It has a face now, and what a face: sharp, composed, mature and… nice. The kind of presence that makes him straighten without realizing.

“Oh… uh… hi,” he manages, words catching awkwardly in his throat. “I’m Daeyoung.”

Yushi’s smile deepens, enough to soften the formality of his posture. He holds out the bag, “Some fruit and snacks for a small hello to you, and maybe… an apology for the noise these past days.”

Daeyoung blinks at the offering, taken off guard. Who still does this? He can barely remember the last time anyone introduced themselves to a neighbor, let alone with actual gifts. But he accepts the bag with both hands, the weight of a pack of shine muscats and neatly packaged treats pressing warmth into his palms.

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” he says quickly, though his chest stirs a little bit. Gratitude, yes, but also the faint pressure of being noticed.

“I just wanted to,” Yushi replies simply. His gaze is steady, polite, but not cold.

Silence stretches for a beat too long, and Daeyoung suddenly feels hyperaware of his own posture—barefoot, hoodie thrown on carelessly, hair slightly messy from lounging. Next to Yushi’s composed appearance, he feels so young. Too young. Or maybe he actually is.

He clears his throat, forcing a small laugh. “Well… thank you, Sir—”

“Please, just Yushi.”

“Thank you, Yushi-nim. Welcome to the building, I guess.”

Yushi nods almost like a bow, his formality sitting oddly but not unkindly between them. “If there’s ever too much noise, just let me know.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

And then, as simply as he arrives, Yushi excuses himself and turns to climb back toward the upstairs unit. The moment ends as the door closes softly, but Daeyoung lingers a little longer in the hallway, staring at the paper bag in his hands.

Back inside, he sets the fruit on the counter, unable to resist a small smile tugging at his lips. He shakes his head quickly and dismisses it before it can grow.

Well, it’s nothing. Just a neighbor, just a polite introduction. But somehow, the ceiling above starts to feel different now.

Daeyoung grins faintly, “At least I got free snacks. Yay~”

***

The next few weeks fold into a pattern Daeyoung doesn’t really anticipate.

It starts with the small encounters in the elevator, which quickly become their strange little stage.

At first, Daeyoung steps inside and Yushi is already there, already dressed in pressed slacks, neat blazer, hair brushed into place, tie resting perfectly against a crisp white shirt. His gaze stays fixed on the screen above the door that counts down the floors. Neither of them speaks; only the hum of machinery fills the space.

But it’s hard not to notice.

Daeyoung tries not to stare through the mirrored wall. He’s never been the type to linger on appearances, but Yushi carries an elegance that’s impossible to ignore. His presence makes the narrow, mirrored elevator feel smaller, as though the air itself has to rearrange to fit him in.

By the second week, Daeyoung begins to catch the little details on him: the way Yushi’s tie is always straight, the sleeves of his shirts never wrinkled, the golden badge on the left lapel that quietly declares his profession—lawyer. Damn, this guy even has a cool job. Winning at life, huh. Then there’s the cologne, smells so subtle and clean. It lingers only if one pays attention, professional yet unpretentious. Daeyoung keeps his eyes fixed on the floor numbers, but some part of him stays aware of the fragile distance between them.

By the third week, ignoring it feels impossible.

Their eyes meet in the mirrored wall more often now, brief glances that end with Daeyoung giving a small, almost imperceptible nod. Yushi always returns it, his lips twitching toward a smile just as the doors slide open, and then they both leave without another word.

It grows from there… small increments, day by day.

One morning, as Daeyoung adjusts the strap of his bag, Yushi finally speaks, his voice quieter than intended.

“Early start?”

Daeyoung blinks, caught off guard, before answering. “Uhm… yeah.” A faint smile touches his mouth.

The next day, it’s Daeyoung’s turn.

“You work late, don’t you?” he asks, noticing the tired shadow under Yushi’s eyes.

“Sometimes,” Yushi admits, his voice carrying fatigue. “You notice?”

Daeyoung shrugs lightly. “We take the same elevator almost every day, Sir. It’s hard to not to.”

And there it is, the first trace of familiarity. It’s small but undeniable.

Soon, their rides fall into rhythm: a comment about the weather, a remark about the café’s long line, a shared glance when the elevator stalls mid-way and floods with noisy tenants, the two of them instinctively pressing into the corner together.

It’s not much, but in the stillness of their mornings, it’s enough. Enough to shift them from strangers into neighbors bound by a faint thread of recognition, one that seems to tighten each day they share that narrow, mirrored space.

Yushi finds himself waiting for it now. The moment the doors slide open, wondering if the tall boy will be there, if he will nod, if he will smile, if the faint trace of his cologne clinging to his oversized plaid shirt will still linger enough to catch.

Daeyoung, on the other hand, doesn’t dwell on it consciously. Yet when the elevator arrives empty, he feels it anyway. A small disappointment that leaves the ride a little colder, the silence heavier than usual.

He tells himself it’s just admiration. An appreciation for someone older who carries himself with quiet confidence. But the more it repeats, the more he realizes he’s waiting. For Yushi’s eyes to flicker toward him when their eyes met on the glass. For the subtle curve of a polite smile that never overstays its welcome.

And somehow, it’s enough to leave Daeyoung’s mind restless long after the elevator doors open.

***

Yushi isn’t expecting anyone this evening. The hours that lead him here are long and punishing, each stacked one against the other until the day feels like a string pulled too tight. By the time he returns home, he has already counted ten stops scattered across the city, each one draining his energy in a different way.

The morning began at court, where he stood through a preliminary hearing that lasted less than twenty minutes but demanded days of preparation beforehand. The case was adjourned to a later date, leaving him with the hollow sense of running in circles. From there he rushed to a client’s office downtown, listening patiently to their worries while his own schedule unraveled in the back of his mind. A deposition followed soon after, a long table, a stenographer tapping steadily, every question and every answer carefully weighed like stones placed on a scale.

By midday he found himself at the district clerk’s office, queuing under the hum of fluorescent lights, motions clutched in his hands. The wait was longer than the filing itself, and the fatigue of bureaucracy gnawed at him. From there, he crossed town again to sit in on a mediation session that stretched for hours without resolution, both parties stubborn, each word of compromise sliding off like water from stone. Evening came, but there was still an interview with a reluctant witness in a cramped café corner, a last check on discovery documents at the firm where the lights burned late, and finally the retrieval of binders so thick he could feel the ache in his arm as he carried them out into the night.

It’s the day that would flatten anyone else, but Yushi always pushes himself forward with the same persistence that defines him. Still, his body betrays the toll it takes. A faint crease has settled between his brows, etched by years of leaning too close over legal texts, by hours of frowning at clauses that bend meaning into ambiguity. His shoulders carry more than files; there’s an invisible weight in holding the faith of people who cannot fight their battles alone.

He knows it’s not wise to drag work home. He even told his younger colleagues that litigation wasn’t the sort of task one can scatter across a dining table like routine paperwork. Each document belongs to a larger structure, tied to testimony, precedent, and argument that needs a team’s collective eyes. Alone, he can accomplish little beyond reviewing, underlining, worrying. But Yushi is not built for stillness. The silence of an idle night unsettles him, leaves him restless, so he fills the hours with pages, pen marks, the illusion of progress. It’s not efficiency so much as an instinct to keep moving, to keep his hands busy even when exhaustion urges him to stop.

He’s still hunched over his desk, the string of an affidavit packet loosened beneath his fingers, when the sound interrupts him. It’s not the usual faint buzz of his phone announcing another rider downstairs, the one he barely registers anymore, but the clearer ring of the doorbell instead. He freezes, head lifting, the unexpectedness of it pulling him out of his tunnel of work.

When he opens the door, a presence fills the frame. A tall figure stands there in a dark blue training suit, fringe falling dangerously almost poking his eyes, in his hand dangling a plastic bag heavy with the scent and warmth of takeout containers.

It’s the neighbor from below.

Daeyoung.

“Good evening, Yushi-nim. I think this belongs to you,” Daeyoung says simply. His voice was soft, so sweet like honey.

Yushi blinks, confused.

For a moment, Daeyoung just looks at the shorter man standing there like a startled cat. He’s used to seeing Yushi in polished suits, hair neat, shoes shined, presence sharp and untouchable in the elevator’s narrow light. But now Yushi is wearing a loose shirt, too loose to the point it slides off to his left shoulder and Daeyoung can see his exposed sharp collarbone. His hair falls unstyled across his forehead, soft and delicate. He looks so different. Softer. So human in a way that makes Daeyoung’s throat feel oddly tight.

“Ah… thank you,” Yushi manages, finally taking the bag. Their fingers brush briefly, a small accident amplified in the quiet of the hallway.

The door shuts behind him, but the image lingers with Daeyoung’s figure standing there with a bag of food, dressed in something far too ordinary, leaving Yushi unsettled.

And then it happens again. The next night. And the one after. Another knock, another bag, the same boy waiting at his door as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Yushi blinks each time, trying to align the pieces. Delivery riders usually rotate endlessly through the building, yet somehow the task keeps circling back to Daeyoung. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t dare. Maybe Daeyoung is working a part-time shift. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Coincidence that feels too deliberate only because it repeats itself.

Whatever the reason, Daeyoung offers no explanation, and Yushi doesn’t press. Their conversations barely stretch past the exchange of the bag. Still, seeing him in a light colored hoodie or loose sweats, hair falling into his eyes, feels strangely dissonant against the polished version of him Daeyoung knows. It’s as though Daeyoung belongs to a softer, parallel world, one Yushi finds himself returning to night after night without meaning to.

“Sir, uh… you might want to check your delivery app,” Daeyoung remarks one evening. His tone holds no irritation. If anything, there’s the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Yushi blinks, hand tightening around the plastic handles as the words sink in. A thought pricks at him, small at first, then sharper. He unlocks his phone quickly, scrolling through the order details. There it is, mocking him in its simplicity: the right building, the right block, but the wrong floor entirely. His own carelessness has been sending dinner after dinner to Daeyoung’s door.

Heat floods his face instantly. For nearly two weeks he has half-convinced himself that Daeyoung is doing delivery work, filling in the gaps with his own assumptions, when in truth the mistake is his all along. The realization strikes with equal parts mortification and reluctant amusement.

He clears his throat, forcing a laugh that comes out awkward, scratching at the back of his neck as though the gesture might smooth over the embarrassment. “Ah… sorry. I usually use a different app, but I just installed the pink one and… apparently I put in the wrong floor. I thought you worked for the—uh, never mind.” His eyes flick sheepishly toward Daeyoung. “Sorry, boy, I’ll fix it later.”

Daeyoung raises a brow, almost savoring his discomfort. “So all this time… you thought I was delivering food for a living?”

Yushi winces, hand rising in protest. “I—well, not exactly, but… maybe a little. I’m not sure, but you kept showing up with my orders, I thought… what else could it be?” Another awkward laugh slips out, edged with self-deprecation. “Sorry. I really misunderstood. The mistake was mine.”

But he never actually fixed it.

And so, the visits continue.

Sometimes they talk about small, unimportant things: the weather, how late Yushi works, the taste of the food he’s ordered. Nothing heavy, nothing personal, but each phrase seems to linger longer than it should. Other times, Daeyoung finds Yushi clearly exhausted, dark circles pressing faintly under his eyes, his posture seems heavy as if the day has taken too much out of him. Daeyoung never pushes. He just accepts the silence, lets Yushi hand over the food with a tired smile, and disappears down the hall.

There are evenings when Yushi welcomes him while still on the phone, distracted but polite. He takes the bag with a small nod, murmurs a quick thank you, and closes the door immediately. Daeyoung’s curiosity rises unbidden, but the words stay locked behind his teeth. He notices instead: the glow of a laptop screen in Yushi’s apartment, the stacks of papers scattered carelessly across his table. Glimpses into a life he can only piece together in fragments.

The strangest part is how neither of them fixes it. Weeks pass, and still the address remains “wrong.” Yushi tells himself he’s too busy to update it, but deep down he doesn’t really want to. The thought of Daeyoung showing up at his door, even briefly, has become a routine in his evenings. And Daeyoung never presses the issue either, never insists on correcting it. If anything, his footsteps up the stairs have gained a kind of familiarity, like he doesn’t mind being the messenger at all.

Until one evening, after handing over yet another plastic bag, Daeyoung stays a little bit longer.

“You order takeout a lot,” he says lightly, eyes drifting past Yushi to the cluttered table visible from the doorway—coffee cans, disposable chopsticks, the faint scent of ramen broth and oily food still hanging in the air. “It’s bad for your health. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Yushi laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. But I’m too busy to even have time to eat. It’s much easier. Convenient.”

Daeyoung hesitates for a beat, then says, “How about I cook for you sometime? You know, it’s not healthy eating like this every day.”

Yushi blinks, caught off guard. His lips part, close again, before he finally nods. “If… you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I did,” Daeyoung replies, the corner of his mouth lifting in that faint way Yushi is beginning to recognize as his version of a smile.

***

The very next day, true to his word, Daeyoung appears at Yushi’s door. It is Saturday, fortunately, so neither of them has a schedule for the day. He arrives with the heavier, fuller weight of grocery bags in both hands, the earthy smell of fresh produce clinging to him. Vegetables, neatly bundled herbs, a package of beef, and a carton of eggs nestle carefully inside. It feels strangely intimate about it, as though he isn’t just a neighbor lending a hand but someone who belongs here, stepping across the threshold with his sleeves already half-rolled as if preparing to make himself useful.

In the kitchen, he moves with assurance, setting the bags down, rinsing his hands, and beginning to unpack with a rhythm. He looks so natural bending over the cutting board, knife in hand, the sound of blade meeting wood punctuated by the soft hiss of water from the sink. The fall of his hair slips easily across his forehead, catching streaks of the overhead light, and every so often, he brushes it back absentmindedly, only for it to tumble forward again.

Yushi sits at the counter, elbow resting on the cool surface, his chin propped in one hand as he pretends to glance at the phone he isn’t really reading. His eyes, almost against his will, keep drifting back to the sight in front of him. The focused set of Daeyoung’s brows, the sharp and graceful movements of his hands, the way the scent of garlic mingles with sesame oil as it blooms from the hot pan. It seems like Daeyoung is no longer just the college kid from the elevator who wears various plaid shirts in the morning, nor just the neighbor who returns takeout bags with politeness. Now, in this space, he’s filling Yushi’s kitchen with domestic sounds and the warmth of cooking, he starts to like… someone else.

Daeyoung isn’t just tall and handsome, Yushi realizes with a start. He is quite… beautiful. Beautiful in a way that feels grounding, a beauty that doesn’t dazzle so much as pull, reaching into corners Yushi never expected anyone to touch.

When Daeyoung glances up, perhaps sensing the weight of that gaze, his lips curve slightly in question.

“Is there something on my face, Yushi-ssi?”

His tone is light, but the honorific carries the polite distance of formality, a thin line between them that Yushi suddenly dislikes.

“Nothing,” Yushi says too quickly, eyes dropping to the marble counter as though it demands his full attention. His heartbeat betrays him, restless against his ribs, pressing hard as if it too wants to look.

Daeyoung lets out a short laugh and turns back to the cutting board, the green strands of spring onion curling neatly beneath the knife’s edge.

Yushi watches in silence before speaking again, his voice calm, “You don’t have to be so formal with me, you know.”

Daeyoung blinks, caught off guard. “Ah… sorry. It’s just… you seem quite older, it just feels natural to me.”

Yushi tilts his head, lips quirking faintly. “Then at least call me Hyung. That’s still polite enough, isn’t it?”

The knife stills. Daeyoung hesitates, then smiles, softening his whole expression. “…Hyung.” The word is quiet, almost shy on his tongue.

Something inside Yushi begins to unravel at the sound of it, the way it makes the space between them feel smaller and warmer. He leans back in his chair, feigning ease, though his chest still flutters. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Daeyoung chuckles, shaking his head as he turns back to the pan. “You’re more particular than you look… hyung.”

“And you’re cheekier than I thought,” Yushi replies, voice smooth and playful, though his gaze softens in a way he doesn’t often allow.

Yushi’s apartment is washed in a warmth that feels strangely domestic, the hiss of oil in the pan blending with the hum of the refrigerator. Yushi, who has never once imagined himself in such a setting, finds his eyes betraying him again and again, drawn to Daeyoung moving with an ease that makes him look like he belongs here. The younger boy stirs the pan with focus, his brow furrowed in a boyish way that reveals how seriously he takes even the smallest of tasks. It thickens the air as though this simple act cracks open a door to a life.

It happens while he lingers in that reverie, his eyes soft without permission, his lips tugging into tenderness. His phone shatters the fragile calm, vibrating insistently across the counter. The harsh sound cuts through the quiet backdrop of sizzling oil and Daeyoung’s soft movements.

Yushi tears his gaze from the boy at the stove, glances once at the screen, and a flicker of unease crosses his face, too quick to disguise.

The call doesn’t stop. The phone keeps rattle again and again, loud in its persistence. Daeyoung finally notices and turns with a soft smile. “It’s okay,” he says, tilting his head toward it, “you should answer it.”

But Yushi shakes his head almost immediately, the dismissal smooth but not too convincing. “It’s nothing. Probably spam.” His hand hovers near the device, then withdraws as though touching it might betray something more.

Daeyoung doesn’t press. His eyes linger instead, catching the way Yushi’s jaw slightly tightens, how his lashes lower as though to shield what stirs beneath the surface. He wants to ask, but the gap between their lives, their ages, and their boundaries, roots him to silence. So he turns back to the pan, focusing on the rhythm of stirring, forcing himself to listen only to the sound of sizzling oil and not to the heaviness settling between them.

***

On most mornings, Yushi drives to his office. His car is more than convenient, it’s a necessity, the easiest way to move between the courthouse, client meetings scattered across the city, and the endless shuffle of obligations. The car gives him efficiency, control, and it shields him from the chaos of the streets.

But today, his car sits in the repair shop, the left side scraped and dented so badly after someone clipped it in the parking lot the night before. He wasn’t even inside it when it happened, which somehow makes it worse. Handing it over to a mechanic for days feels like surrendering a piece of order he relies on, like losing the anchor that keeps his work-driven life intact.

So here he is at the bus stop, collar turned up against the morning breeze, fingers buried deep in his trouser pockets, telling himself this is just an inconvenience, a temporary disruption. Still, he wonders if fate hasn’t nudged him toward this unfamiliar corner.

“Yushi hyung?”

He turns, and the annoyance he has been nursing slips away almost instantly. Daeyoung is walking toward him, a backpack slung over one shoulder, plaid shirt sleeves tugged down to cover half his hands, hair falling into his eyes the way Yushi has come to prefer.

“Oh? Daeyoung,” Yushi says too quickly, scrambling for composure. “Morning.”

“You take the bus?” Daeyoung asks, amusement tugging at his expression.

“Not usually.” Yushi clears his throat. “Car’s in the shop. Someone hit it.”

Daeyoung’s brows knit with sympathy, his voice low and soft, “That sucks. Was it bad?”

“Just annoying. A dent, scratches. Nothing unfixable.”

“Guess it means we get to ride together,” Daeyoung says, almost gently.

The bus arrives then, groaning to a halt, and Yushi follows him on board, feeling the morning salvage itself from what should have been irritation.

They slide into the same row, shoulders brushing each time the vehicle jolts. Daeyoung sits loosely, chin propped on his hand, gaze soft but intent when it shifts toward Yushi.

“So you usually drive?” he asks.

“Mm. Easier with my schedule. Court, clients, all over the city. Saves me time.”

“Sounds busy,” Daeyoung murmurs, studying him openly. “Do you ever get a break?”

Yushi lets out a short laugh, humorless at the edges. “Not really. That’s what the car’s for, it keeps things manageable.”

“But also lonely,” Daeyoung says quietly, almost like it isn’t meant for Yushi to hear.

The words catch Yushi off guard. He has always equated solitude with safety, with control. Yet sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on this bus, he realizes he doesn’t mind the loss of control at all.

His gaze drifts. Daeyoung looks softer in daylight, sleeves bunched at his wrists, hair falling freely into his eyes. Adorable, almost vulnerable despite the sheer size of him.

“What about you?” Yushi asks, his tone gentler. “Always take this bus?”

“Yeah. This route is straight to campus. Cheaper than parking too,” Daeyoung replies with a small smile.

Yushi finds himself thinking how strange it is—that a dent in his car, a morning irritation, is the only reason he ends up here. Sitting next to Daeyoung, breathing in the same air, hearing his laugh mix with the clatter of the bus.

He steals glances until he gets caught, head snapping away, ears heating as he pretends to study the advertisement above the driver’s seat. But Daeyoung hasn’t turned for him; he’s offering his seat to an elderly man who has just stepped aboard. Yushi rises at the same time, insisting, but the old man chuckles and accepts, leaving the two of them standing awkwardly in the aisle.

“You should sit,” Daeyoung insists, half-playfully. “I’m young and strong. I can stand.”

Yushi narrows his eyes, lips twitching. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Daeyoung grins. “Taking the bus is already trouble enough for you. Better sit before your back aches later at the office.”

Yushi scoffs but lets himself sink into the seat, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

Daeyoung stays standing, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other braced lightly against Yushi’s seat. As the bus fills, shoulders press, bags bump, the air thickens with perfume, sweat, and the faint buzz of the tap machine. Daeyoung adjusts his stance protectively, angled to shield Yushi from the crush of strangers. His arm stretches higher, the fabric of his shirt tightening along his forearm, and Yushi’s gaze follows before he can stop himself.

From this angle, Daeyoung looks older, his frame broader, his posture steady, his jawline sharpened in profile. Yushi feels his breath falter, ears prickling with heat, chest caught in mix of embarrassment and gratitude. He quickly looks away, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

For the first time, he is grateful for the inconvenience, for the crowded bus, for fate tugging his car keys out of his hands. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he doesn’t want his car back so soon.

***

It has been days, and Yushi’s car repair is taking much longer than expected. When Daeyoung steps into the lobby of the building, the first thing that catches his eyes is the familiar outline of a figure he could recognize anywhere. The broad, straight line of Yushi’s shoulders, the particular way his head tilts slightly forward as though weighed down by thoughts no one else can see. Without giving himself time to reconsider, Daeyoung finds his steps trailing after him, in silence and almost hesitant, as though he is doing mischievous, though his heart beats quickly with nervous anticipation that makes him feel foolishly alive.

Just as Yushi enters the elevator, Daeyoung hurries, reaching out to stop the doors from closing and slipping inside at the very last second. He manages a small triumphant smile, but it vanishes instantly when Yushi turns at the sudden intrusion, startled enough that his back hits the metal wall of the lift with a sharp, echoing thud. The sound makes Daeyoung jolt in panic, and when he sees Yushi’s posture collapse halfway down the wall as though his legs have briefly given out, his stomach twists with fear.

“Hyung! Are you okay?!” he blurts, rushing forward with both hands outstretched to steady him, gripping his arm and shoulder in frantic concern. His voice rings with unfiltered alarm, as if that single misstep might have caused irreparable harm.

It takes several moments before Yushi draws in a steadying breath.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. “I’m just… tired.”

But his tone is so faint it hardly reassures Daeyoung. He can see the way Yushi’s hands tremble so hard. Just as relief begins to settle, something else catches his attention: an oversized brown envelope that has slipped from Yushi’s grasp and landed by his shoes. The flap is open, and a sheet of paper protrudes just far enough for him to glimpse a few bold, handwritten letters before his mind can process what they spell.

Before he can return it, Yushi reacts with startling swiftness. His hand darts down to snatch the envelope directly from Daeyoung’s fingers, clutching it tightly to his chest as though protecting something fragile. His movements are sharp and almost defensive, and for the briefest moment Daeyoung can only stare, caught off guard by the urgency in them.

“It’s a client’s case file,” Yushi says, avoiding his eyes, his voice aiming for calm but trembling with haste. “It’s very confidential, not something I can let anyone else see.”

The explanation is plausible, perhaps even reasonable, yet the way it is delivered carries a weight of unease that Daeyoung can’t quite shake. He nods, pretending to accept it without doubt, and steps back to give Yushi the space he clearly needs, though the image of that anxious look lingers stubbornly in his mind.

After that startling moment, silence stretches between them, dense and uncomfortable, and Daeyoung finds himself studying Yushi with a closeness. He realizes how different he seems now, like someone who carries an entire world of burdens behind his composed face. Usually, there would be light conversation filling this space, simple questions that feel almost routine like, How was your day? or, Did you eat? But tonight there is nothing, not even the faintest attempt to soften the air.

Daeyoung’s eyes drift upward, then back to Yushi, realizing with a strange ache that he isn’t watching the numbers blink their way upward as he always does. Instead, his gaze has fallen low, unfocused, fixed on the floor as though every thought in him is too far away to reach. The sight makes Daeyoung’s chest tighten. He wonders if it has been a bad day, if Yushi has faced a client who has taken too much from him, or if the case on his desk has grown too tangled to bear. There are a thousand questions forming at the back of his throat, each one begging to be asked, but the fragile quiet wrapped around Yushi feels sacred, like something he can’t bring himself to disturb.

And yet, standing there, he can’t ignore the pull he feels. The part of him that wants to step closer, to bridge the invisible distance and tell Yushi that he doesn’t have to keep it all inside, that he doesn’t have to carry whatever this is alone. He doesn’t, of course. He only clenches his hands at his sides and lets the questions dissolve, waiting for the right moment that might never come.

When the elevator finally stops at his floor, Daeyoung steps out reluctantly, his heart a few beats heavier than when he entered. He turns back, and their eyes meet for the briefest instant. Yushi’s lips curve into the faintest smile, a quiet flicker of reassurance, though it is gone almost as soon as it appears. Still, it lingers in Daeyoung like a warmth that refuses to fade, making him wonder what lies beneath the silence he isn’t yet allowed to touch.

***

In the days that follow, Daeyoung begins to notice something inside him that isn’t obvious enough for anyone else to catch, but to him it is unmistakable. Yushi feels harder to find, like a door that once stood slightly ajar has now been pressed quietly shut. Their paths, which once crossed in the lobby or the elevator with easy inevitability, now scatter into missed moments and empty spaces where Yushi should be.

The change unsettles him. Every time he returns from college or errands, his feet carry him unconsciously to the stretch of hallway where Yushi’s door stands, still and unyielding. He lingers there with his hands buried deep in his pockets, pretending to be lost in thought while his heart thuds nervously against his ribs. More than once, his hand hovers over the doorbell, but courage dissolves at the last second. The thought of disturbing Yushi, of being a nuisance when he already seems troubled, keeps him shut in silence.

It becomes a ritual to him, these fleeting pilgrimages to Yushi’s door. He walks past, turns back, walks past again, each time convincing himself that tonight might be the night he finally knocks. But he never does. Because the last thing he wants is for someone from next to Yushi’s door to report that he’s loitering suspiciously outside another resident’s apartment, especially Yushi’s. So after only a handful of days, he forces himself to stop, retreating to his own space with a heavy weight of unanswered questions pressing against him.

And yet, Yushi lingers in his thoughts. In the silence between his own breaths, in the distant chime of the elevator that makes him pause, listening to see if the glowing numbers will halt on Yushi’s floor. And if they do, his heart lifts with a question: will the one stepping out into the hallway be him? He wants to ask what’s wrong, what’s hurting him, but the words never find their way out.

The storm arrives without warning one night, slamming into the city with sheets of rain that blur the windows and rattle the steel of the apartment building. Thunder cracks like the sky splitting apart, and then—sudden darkness. The steady hum of electricity disappears as if someone has pulled the cord on the world.

Daeyoung sits alone in his living room, the pale glow of his phone flashlight painting uneven shapes across the bare walls. It should be fine. He has been through storms before. Power outages aren’t new. But when the battery icon dips red and the light grows dimmer with every passing second, the silence thickens, pressing against his ribs. Anxiety and loneliness—things he can usually shake off—crawl onto his shoulders like a weight he can’t hold by himself. Before he can reason with it, before his phone drops into complete darkness, there is only one thought, one name, one place pulling him to his feet.

He runs down the hall, breathing unevenly, until he is standing in front of Yushi’s door. His knuckles hover for a moment, trembling between hesitation and need, before he finally knocks.

When the door opens, the first thing he sees isn’t the room but Yushi himself, holding a single candle cupped carefully in his hand. Its soft golden flame wraps around him, painting warm light across the sharp lines of his face, catching the curve of his mouth, flickering in the depths of his eyes. Daeyoung almost forgets to speak. Yushi isn’t the composed man in crisp suits or the measured voice on calls; he is softer here, unguarded, his hair falling loosely, his features gentle in the glow.

“Hyung…” Daeyoung says at last, slightly breathless. “Mind if I… stay here for a while?”

Yushi nods once, a simple, wordless gesture that carries more comfort than any reassurance could. He steps aside as if this place has always been open to Daeyoung.

They end up on the sofa, the candle resting between them, more shadow than flame filling the room. At first, they speak easily, joking about how unreliable the building is, sharing small observations about the storm, about the taste of last night’s food, about the way rain sounds different on glass than on asphalt. Eventually, the words thin.

Their conversation stutters at times, broken whenever Yushi excuses himself for another quiet trip to the bathroom. Daeyoung finds himself staring at the flicker of the candle every time Yushi leaves, listening to the faint sounds of running water behind the door. When Yushi returns with a paler face, the silence presses heavier until words slowly resume again.

When Yushi rises again, muttering about the bathroom, Daeyoung’s unease sharpens. He has already counted these slips more than once, and each return only deepens the knot in his chest. When Yushi finally sinks back onto the sofa, the candlelight catches his face in a way that makes Daeyoung’s breath falter. His skin is pale, his features look sharper than usual, the lean lines of his face more pronounced. In that moment, the older man’s maturity feels less like strength and more like fragility laid bare.

“Hyung…” Daeyoung’s voice comes softer than he intended, it threaded with worry. “Are you okay?”

Yushi’s eyes flicker toward him, as if debating how much truth he’s willing to offer. “I think I just… ate something bad,” he admits. “Been throwing up a couple times. Probably food poisoning.” He glances away. “But it’s okay. Nothing serious.”

The casualness in his words does nothing to ease Daeyoung’s unease. His brows knit together, and he leans in instinctively. “Nothing serious? Hyung, you look like you’re about to collapse. Should I take you to the hospital? You don’t look fine at all.”

But Yushi only shakes his head. “It’s fine. I already feel a little better after some warm milk. And I don’t think I even have the strength to go anywhere.”

Daeyoung sits forward, his hands flexing against his knees as though bracing himself. “Then I’ll go with you. I can at least make sure you get there safely. If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you.”

A faint curve ghosts across Yushi’s lips, half disbelief. He chuckles.

“I don’t want to go,” he says, something tender beneath the refusal. His gaze lingers then, steady enough to feel like a confession. “Besides… you showing up like this already helps more than you think. I feel… lighter, somehow, just having you here.”

Daeyoung exhales, frustrated but soft. “I’ve told you too many takeouts aren’t good for your body. Or… how about this, I’ll make you some side dishes you can keep in your fridge starting tomorrow. Not much, but I can cook for you once a week at least.”

Yushi’s expression shifts, the faint smile fading more complicated. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, firmer this time. When Daeyoung opens his mouth to argue, he cuts him off. “Do you even have that kind of time? Aren’t you already drowning in assignments? I can’t let you stretch yourself thinner just because I don’t eat properly. I’m older than you, Daeyoung. I should be the one taking care of myself. Asking you to take on my burdens… it doesn’t feel right.”

There is no sharpness in his voice, but the candlelight betrays him, catching the hollowness in his cheeks even as he insists it is his duty to protect Daeyoung from even the smallest inconvenience.

Daeyoung frowns, caught between stubbornness and hurt. He hates when Yushi brings up their age gap like it’s a shield, as though responsibility can be measured by years alone. To him, it has nothing to do with age. It’s about wanting to be the one who cares, wanting to ease the weight Yushi carries, even if Yushi insists that he’s nobody to him.

The conversation softens back. Daeyoung fidgets with the hem of his shirt, hesitates, then glances at Yushi again, his voice tentative.

“So… are you really okay?”

Yushi blinks. “I said I’m okay. Why are you asking again?”

Daeyoung lowers his gaze, embarrassed by his own boldness. “No, I’m talking about… few days ago, in the elevator. I didn’t mean to—” He swallows hard. “I never got to say sorry. And then we didn’t see each other for days. I just kept thinking about it...”

Silence stretches, broken only by the storm outside. A strange smile tugs faintly at Yushi’s lips. He exhales, lets it fade, then shakes his head weakly as if deciding the thought is better left folded away in silence.

“You don’t need to apologize. Things like that happen sometimes. And… maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing? We’re here now, aren’t we?”

When words eventually thin because the quiet itself grows larger, neither of them rushes to fill it.

Then, in that half-lit silence, Yushi’s hand slightly brushes against Daeyoung’s. It’s not deliberate, just a slip when he moves closer, but the touch burns sharper than the lightning outside. He freezes, half-expecting Daeyoung to pull back. But Daeyoung doesn’t. He stays still, deliberately still, this kind of stillness speaks more loudly than words.

The spark travels from the point of contact to every part of Yushi, heat blooming in his chest in a way he can’t disguise. Their touch is no more than a fleeting brush of skin, it holds the gravity they’ve both been circling lately.

Daeyoung glances up and nearly unravels. Yushi’s face in the candlelight is impossibly beautiful, skin softened to gold by the flame, profile cut into shadow and glow, his lips parted slightly as if caught between words and silence. Daeyoung’s breath catches.

Neither of them moves closer, neither demands more. They just let their hands linger, testing how much warmth can pass between two people. The storm roars outside, thunder rattling hard the building, but there is only this spark humming between their skin within the small circle of candlelight, restrained, fragile, so achingly alive that Daeyoung thinks his heart might give everything away if he so much as breathes too loudly.

And Yushi, watching him through the dancing light, realizes the night could have remained nothing more than a blackout if not for the boy beside him. Daeyoung carries a brightness no storm can steal, a warmth that belongs to the curve of his smile, the cadence of his voice, the way his eyes bend into crescents when he laughs. To Yushi, Daeyoung is his own kind of sun, a singular sun that rises with every entrance, every grin, every eyesmile that lights him from within.

So even as thunder splits the sky and rain drums relentlessly against the windows, the night feels impossibly gentle. Because Daeyoung is here, close enough that Yushi can feel the warmth of his body even in the dark, and that glow is brighter than any light a candle could ever give.

So they remain sitting side by side, hands brushing in hesitant intervals—touching but not yet holding—every accidental spark turning into a choice not to move away. The candle flickers low, the storm rages on, but for Yushi, the only thing he feels is the fragile, heady warmth of Daeyoung’s nearness along with the terrifying, wonderful realization that he never wants it to end.

***

Nothing happened that night. No kiss, no embrace, no confessions, nothing that could be mistaken for something more. Just the closeness of two people sitting together while the storm rages outside. And yet, in the days that follow, their chemistry lingers in the air, stronger than before, as if that night has planted a seed that refuses to stop growing.

The change shows itself from the smallest and most ordinary places.

The elevator, for one. They play their parts as usual when it’s crowded with neighbors: Yushi calm and composed, Daeyoung politely reserved. But whenever their eyes meet by chance, a smile slips through, carrying a softness that wasn’t there before. Daeyoung begins to choose the narrow space beside Yushi, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush. Sometimes, just sometimes, the backs of their hands graze, the barest whisper of contact, and neither pulls away.

They will glance in opposite directions, pretending to watch the glowing numbers above the door, but the faint curve at their lips betrays them both.

It is on a late Friday night, long after most of the building has gone quiet, when the rhythm carries them once again into each other’s orbit. Yushi steps off the last bus of the evening, the one that rattles through the city with only a handful of passengers left inside, and across the road he spots Daeyoung already waiting under the streetlight. The boy raises a hand in greeting, his breath visible in the sharp air of late autumn, and Yushi, weary but warmed by the sight, lifts his own hand in return, a soft smile touching his lips as if the day’s exhaustion has momentarily loosened its grip.

The street is nearly deserted, the hush of the hour broken only by the distant hum of a motor somewhere down the road. Yushi glances once before stepping off the curb, his attention drawn instinctively toward Daeyoung, and it is in that exact moment that headlights flare too suddenly, too violently, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

The car barrels forward far too fast for the narrow road. There is no time to react, no chance to step back. The impact is brutal, a sickening force that knocks Yushi off his feet and drags him several meters before casting him to the side of the street. His body hits the ground with a thud, breath ripped from his chest, pain searing up his limbs, blood already warm against his temple where the pavement has split the skin.

Across the street, Daeyoung is frozen for a fraction of a second, horror carving his features stark and unguarded, before his legs move of their own accord and he is running, sprinting toward Yushi with a raw sound caught in his throat.

The car doesn’t slow. Its taillights vanish down the empty road, leaving the echo of its passing and the wreckage it has left behind.

Yushi lies sprawled on the roadside, his briefcase flung open, its contents scattered like fallen leaves across the asphalt. His chest rises in shallow, uneven breaths, his face slick with blood that trickles into his hairline, his body too heavy to move.

Daeyoung drops to his knees beside him, panic flooding every line of his body, his hands hovering as if torn between wanting to hold Yushi still and fearing that even the smallest touch might make things worse. His voice breaks as he calls out Yushi’s name, the sound urgent, desperate, as though sheer will alone might keep him awake.

“Hyung!!!”

Through the haze, Yushi forces his eyes open for a final, faltering glimpse. The world tilts and blurs, but Daeyoung’s face remains, etched into the fading edges of his vision—wide eyes filled with terror, lips moving around his name with a kind of helpless intensity that burns itself into Yushi’s mind.

It is the last thing he sees before darkness folds over him completely.

When Yushi wakes, the world greets him with a punishing brightness, the overhead lamps flooding his vision until he has to squeeze his eyes shut again, lashes fluttering as though trying to shield him from the intrusion. The air around him is thick with sterility, sharp with disinfectant, carrying that unmistakable hospital tang that seeps into the back of his throat and reminds him, in a way no words could, of where he is. A steady monitor beeps at his side, its rhythm both foreign and grounding, marking the simple, stubborn truth that he is still alive.

It takes a moment for his senses to align, to understand where one sound ends and another begins. Then, gradually, he registers a voice—a low, quiet voice that trembles at its edges with exhaustion.

Daeyoung.

He is speaking to someone else, his tone hushed but urgent, a current of restrained panic beneath each word. Yushi blinks until his vision clears enough to make sense of the figures in the room: Daeyoung standing by the foot of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, speaking to a man in uniform whose small notepad catches the cruel light each time his pen moves.

But it is not the officer who draws Yushi’s focus. It is Daeyoung, whose appearance seems jarringly out of place in this sterile room. His jeans dirt-stained and torn at the knee as if he had fallen to the ground hard, his hair messy, strands clinging damply to his forehead, his face shadowed with something more than fatigue. Yushi cannot piece together why he looks this way, but before he can even attempt to, Daeyoung turns, and in that single instant their eyes meet.

The reaction is immediate, visceral. Daeyoung moves forward in a rush, almost stumbling in his urgency to reach the bedside, the composure in his voice from moments ago shattering the second he sees Yushi’s eyes open.

“Hyung,” he breathes, and the sound of the word is thick, raw, like relief and fear tangled together. His hands hover for a moment over the bedrail before tightening on it as if to ground himself, his gaze flicking frantically across Yushi’s face in search of reassurance. “Are you in pain? Do you feel dizzy? Do you remember what happened?”

Yushi swallows, the motion rasping down a throat that feels painfully dry, as though every nerve in him resists the act of remembering. He searches inward, groping through the fog that presses thickly around his thoughts, but nothing comes easily. Instead, there are fragments, sharp, disjointed flashes that flare and vanish before he can hold them in place. The blinding burst of headlights, too close and too sudden, searing against his eyes. The violent jolt of his body yielding to impact, weightless and helpless in the instant of being thrown. The sense of falling, of the world tilting away from him, cold and unsteady.

Beyond that, emptiness. A great, impenetrable void where time collapses, where the continuity of moments has been stripped bare. He feels the futility of grasping at it, his mind pressing against a wall that refuses to yield, leaving only the echo of what he has lost. The harder he reaches, the further it slips, until he is left with a hollow stillness and the ache of knowing there should have been more.

“...that’s all I can remember.”

Daeyoung’s brows furrow sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line, and his expression unsettles Yushi, a storm gathering silently behind the younger man’s eyes. Confusion prickles at him, pulling his voice into the open.

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?” Yushi asks.

For a long, taut moment, Daeyoung says nothing. He only stares, his chest rising and falling with a heaviness that seems to carry words too sharp to release carelessly. Finally, he exhales, his voice low but edged with uncontainable. “I didn’t know until tonight… what you’ve been carrying all this time, hyung. What’s been happening to you.” He glances briefly at the officer still lingering by the curtain, then back at Yushi, his jaw tight. “I know this wasn’t just an accident.”

The words settle like ice against Yushi’s skin, though deep down he has already sensed the shape of them long before they are spoken aloud. Daeyoung’s voice cuts through the sterile quiet, quickening with urgency, unraveling as if carrying the weight of something long withheld. Piece by piece, the picture forms. The case—an ordinary contract dispute on the surface—where Yushi had stood as counsel for the defendant. The plaintiff had pressed for damages, claiming breach, but the court dismissed it outright, ruling that the claim carried no legal standing. In that moment, everything the plaintiff sought had slipped from his grasp.

And now, with the ruin of his case smoldering behind him, he had turned his anger elsewhere, fastening it onto Yushi as the face of his loss, the figure to blame when the law had offered him no ground to stand upon.

Yushi’s silence is confirmation enough. The memory is still vivid: weeks of preparation, endless stacks of evidence, the long arguments over jurisdiction and cause of action, only for the judge to strike it down at the threshold. It had been a technical victory, not even a trial, but he knows how devastating that can be to the losing side.

Daeyoung shakes his head slowly, the disbelief in his expression hardening, cooling into fury that gathers weight with every memory rushing back to him now in a sequence he cannot unsee. What at first had seemed like scattered, unrelated moments, odd fragments of behavior he had brushed aside, suddenly fit together with terrifying clarity, forming a chain he wishes he had noticed sooner.

It had begun months ago, when their strange little routine of takeout and chance encounters still felt harmless. He remembers the first time he cooked for Yushi, stepping into the apartment with a bag of groceries, nerves barely hidden under casual chatter. Somewhere in the middle of slicing scallions, Yushi’s phone had lit up again and again, buzzing against the counter with an insistence that broke the rhythm of the room. At the time, Yushi had laughed it off as spam despite his reaction being too tense as his fingers moved quickly to silence the screen as though it carried more than a harmless nuisance. Daeyoung hadn’t pressed, telling himself it wasn’t his place to pry, but now the image burns in his memory with new meaning.

And then there was the matter of the bus. Yushi, who carried himself with such neat precision, always seemed like the kind of man who would drive his own car, yet more often than not Daeyoung saw him waiting at the bus stop that morning. Yushi had brushed it off again, saying his car was “in the shop,” because someone scratched it the day before. Daeyoung, too caught up in their growing rhythm, didn’t think to question it further, didn’t wonder why someone with his means would resign himself to standing under flickering streetlamps, shivering at the tail end of autumn just for a seat on the last bus.

Then there were the subtler moments, ones that should have screamed louder in hindsight. The time in the elevator when Yushi startled at the sound of Daeyoung’s footsteps approaching, his eyes flicking to the mirrored wall with a tension that did not belong to someone merely tired from work. He had awkwardly smiled too quickly afterward, as though to erase what Daeyoung had seen, but the nervous edge lingered in the air like static.

Or that night when their apartment power went out and Daeyoung had stopped by Yushi’s unit with a flashlight, only to find him pale, trembling, and sick to his stomach. He had dismissed it as food poisoning that might be just because he ate it too late since the food arrived, but Daeyoung remembers the way Yushi looked so feeble that even the subtle creases on his face looked distinct and sharper than usual that night.

All those fragments, scattered across weeks that turned into months, come crashing together now under the sterile brightness of the hospital room. The threatening calls, the letters slipped into his mail box, the car vandalized until it was undrivable, forcing Yushi to take the bus. The poisoned food deliveries that could have taken his life quietly and invisibly, had he not been cautious or lucky. And finally, the violence of a car speeding down a nearly empty street, striking him down with the intent to finish what the smaller cruelties had only foreshadowed.

Daeyoung feels the fury claw at his chest, but beneath it simmers heavier guilt. Because all along, the signs had been there, curling at the edges of Yushi’s silence, showing themselves in brief, fragile cracks. He had been there, beside him, sharing meals and mornings and quiet exchanges, and still he had failed to see the truth forming in plain sight. The harassment hadn’t started yesterday, or last week, it had been unfolding steadily all this time, growing bolder, escalating with each ignored warning, and Daeyoung had not pieced it together until Yushi lies broken in a hospital bed, his body bandaged and his right arm encased in plaster.

He clenches his fists at his sides, his breath shallow, gaze burning as it falls over Yushi’s battered figure. The words he finally speaks are heavy, breaking the air like glass.

“...and now he tried to kill you, hyung.”

The truth, laid out like that, sits heavy between them. Yushi closes his eyes briefly, his breath shaky, his chest rising with the weight of acknowledgment. He had endured it silently, convinced it would fade with time, and now the evidence of his miscalculation lies plain in the wires and plaster binding him.

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he says at last, his voice softer than the beeping of the monitor, almost swallowed by the air. “My law firm has already taken action. The police knew, they had been monitoring. I thought… it will be handled.” His gaze flicks up to Daeyoung’s, a flicker of guilt in his tired eyes. “This was my responsibility, not yours, Daeyoung-ah. And I didn’t want you to carry something like this. You’re still—” He hesitates, searching for the right word and hating the way it tastes. “You’re young… This isn’t something you should be tangled in. It’s an adult’s problem, and I couldn’t let you get involved.”

The silence that follows is not the fragile quiet of earlier, but a dense, suffocating stillness. Daeyoung’s expression shifts, the disbelief giving way to something sharper, something that cuts deeper than anger. His eyes harden, but behind the anger is hurt and unshieled.

“You still see me as a kid,” he says finally, his voice low, controlled, but trembling faintly at the edges. “Even now. After everything.” His hand curls into a fist against the railing, the knuckles paling. “Hyung, look at me.”

And Yushi does.

“I may be just a college kid to you but technically, I’m an adult. I’m taller than you, stronger than you, if it takes me staying by your side every day, if it takes me not letting you out of my sight, I’ll do it. You think you’re protecting me by hiding this, but all you’re doing is pushing me away. And I—” His breath catches, a flicker of vulnerability surfacing before he forces steadiness back into his voice. “I won’t let you shut me out like that again. I won’t.”

Yushi’s lips part, caught between protest and apology, the words choking in his throat because none of them feel adequate, none of them hold against the intensity of Daeyoung’s gaze. The room hangs suspended in that moment, heavy with everything said and unsaid.

Then Yushi falters. His shoulders start to tremble, his face tightens as if to hold back, but the dam finally breaks. Tears spill, sudden and unstoppable, streaking down his cheeks with a rawness that makes Daeyoung’s heart lurch. The composed silence Yushi usually hides behind turns messy and broken this time. His breath hitching as though all the fear he’s carried alone has finally found a crack to escape through.

Daeyoung doesn’t hesitate. He reaches up, thumb brushing the wetness from the corner of Yushi’s eyes, wiping clumsily at the tears that only keep coming.

“Hyung…” he murmurs, his voice sounds aching. The sight guts him, the man who always seemed like a cool guy to him is now shaking under the weight he’s been hiding.

Without another thought, Daeyoung leans forward and gathers him carefully into his arms, mindful of the plastered arm pressed against his chest. Yushi resists for a heartbeat, stiff with the instinct to hold himself together, but then he sags against him, burying his face into Daeyoung’s shoulder, his quiet sobs dampening the fabric of his shirt.

Daeyoung tightens his hold, one hand cupping the back of Yushi’s head, the other braced around his back, steady and warm. His own chest aches with the realization, Yushi has been terrified, enduring all of this alone, and he’s only now letting it slip through the cracks.

“It’s okay,” Daeyoung whispers against his hair. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself anymore. I’m here. I’ll stay.”

And as Yushi shakes in his arms, Daeyoung realizes with startling clarity just how much the older man must have been afraid, so afraid that he chose silence over reaching out. It makes Daeyoung’s hold all the fiercer, all the warmer, a promise etched not in words but in the way he refuses to let go.

Then, Daeyoung exhales, his eyes flicking down at last to Yushi’s right arm, cocooned in plaster and immobilized against his chest. When he speaks again, his voice has softened, the anger has dimmed.

“So tell me, hyung,” he murmurs, lifting his eyes again to meet Yushi’s, his gaze unwavering, holding him captive. “What do we do now… with your hand like this?”

***

For the next week, or at least until the plaster wrapped around Yushi’s arm is finally removed, he stays in Daeyoung’s unit. The arrangement was justified by practicality more than anything else. It is easier for Daeyoung to prepare meals for him there, easier to keep an eye on him and make sure he does not push himself back toward the mountain of work waiting in his own apartment, easier to protect him from the very habit that drives him forward and wears him down all at once. Yushi has always leaned toward work until it consumes him, and Daeyoung knows this; to place him in a space where files and documents cannot reach is the only way to force him into rest.

Daeyoung falls into the role almost naturally, though Yushi never asked for it. He rises earlier than usual to prepare breakfast—soft rice porridge simmered with chicken and scallions, miso soup warmed just enough, tea steeped to the shade Yushi likes best. He fusses with the arrangement on the table, making sure the spoon is within easy reach of Yushi’s uninjured hand, making sure the dishes are neither too hot nor too cool. When Yushi sits, embarrassed at being doted on, Daeyoung waves off the protest with a firm shake of his head, as though to remind him that this is not optional.

Throughout the day, he moves with the awareness of someone who has decided, silently and stubbornly, that nothing will be allowed to trouble Yushi. He folds the blanket neatly after Yushi naps on the sofa, brews another pot of tea when he notices the cup empty, sets aside books and light novels on the coffee table in an attempt to distract him from the temptation of unfinished case files. When Yushi tries to sneak his phone open to check emails, Daeyoung intercepts it with a pointed look, muttering that lawyers on medical leave should act like they are on medical leave.

There is a softness to the way he helps with the smaller, humbler things too. He puts the spoon right on his left side before dinner, sleeves rolled up, humming under his breath as he chops vegetables; he lays out Yushi’s change of clothes on the bed each morning before he goes for the class, aware that one-handed fumbling through drawers would only frustrate him. And when evening comes, he brings over a wet towel and kneels without a word, gently wiping Yushi’s body part that he couldn’t reach with his own uninjured hand, fingertips brushing along the edge of the bandage as though any roughness might hurt.

At first, the days unfold quietly, marked only by the sound of simmering pots and the faint hum of the television that neither of them truly watches. But by the second day, there are moments that unsettle the calm. Each time Daeyoung helps Yushi wash his face or button his shirt, there is the faintest spark where their skin meets, as though the air has grown charged and does not know where else to place its electricity but in them. What should have been small, practical gestures begin to linger because something has been waiting too long beneath the surface.

The spark turns to flame, though perhaps it has been gathering quietly in the shadows of every glance and every touch they have shared until now. Daeyoung leans close, his hand rising with instinctive care to brush away the droplet of water that clings stubbornly to the curve of Yushi’s jawline while helping him wash his face, his touch feather-light yet impossibly present, as if even that small point of contact is more than he can properly hold. His breath hovers too near, and Yushi, in lifting his gaze at precisely that moment, finds their faces caught in a closeness that no longer feels casual.

The silence between them stretches taut, and the air itself seems to hesitate, waiting. For a long time, neither moves, and yet everything in them leans forward. Then Daeyoung bends the rest of the way, his lips brushing Yushi’s in a kiss so slight, so fragile, that it almost feels like a fleeting mistake that might vanish if either of them breathes too loudly. It is tentative, clumsy in its restraint, but still it lingers just long enough to make clear that it is real.

When Daeyoung pulls back just a fraction, the space between them feels like an ache, heavy and unfinished, his eyes flickering with panic as though he has crossed a boundary he was never meant to touch. But Yushi does not recoil, and does not turn away. Instead, he breathes out slowly and in that release, comes his answer. He leans in, closing the space that Daeyoung had left behind, pressing their mouths together again with calmness that carries none of the younger boy’s hesitation. His kiss is measured like it draws rather than startles, and when his lips part just slightly against Daeyoung’s, it feels like an unspoken reassurance: this is not a mistake, and you are not alone in wanting it.

The kiss deepens with the slow pull of lips and breath turning heavier, until Daeyoung feels the faint tremor of Yushi’s good hand curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt as if he needs something to hold on to. That single gesture loosens a knot he didn’t realize had been wound so tight, and it leaves his chest aching with a confusing mix of tenderness and want. He leans closer, eliminating the fragile space between them, his palm settling at Yushi’s waist, fingers spreading carefully as though testing the warmth of him, unable to resist touching more.

And Yushi answers.

Yushi would have shown more, he would have guided with the full weight of his experience, but his body reminds him of its limit, the cast anchoring one arm, keeping him from the freedom of touch he longs to give. So his mouth moves with practiced ease, coaxing Daeyoung to follow his lead, teaching him how to slow down and linger instead of rushing forward. His lips part just enough to invite, to guide the rhythm into fuller, and though Daeyoung is unsure at first, he learns quickly, his tongue brushing shyly against Yushi’s in a tentative graze that earns him a soft, escaping sigh. The sound rings in his ears, it’s intoxicating, and it sends a pulse through him that makes it impossible to think of anything else.

Their mouths find each other over and over with and grow heavier each time, each kiss layering warmth upon warmth. Daeyoung’s hand drifts upward until his fingers are framing Yushi’s jaw, he touches him with a reverence he didn’t know he possessed, his thumb brushing beneath the curve of his cheekbone in a motion that seems to ask for more.

Yushi leans into it, tilting toward the touch, and the kiss turns hungrier, and Daeyoung finds himself losing track of how long it has gone on, lost instead in the warmth of Yushi’s mouth, the rhythm of their breaths, the way their bodies angle closer and closer until there is nothing left in the room but heat.

Yushi shifts again, his cast knocking against the cool edge of the bathroom sink, and Daeyoung reacts instantly, his hands finding Yushi’s hips, steadying him, holding him close as though to say without words: I’ve got you, don’t be afraid. In the cramped space, their mouths collide once more, the kiss deeper this time, wetter, more open, tongues brushing in rhythms that drag them further in.

Daeyoung tightens his hold, lifting Yushi with surprising strength and settling him on the vanity cabinet, the porcelain cold against Yushi’s thighs, his oversized shirt sliding higher with the movement. The position tilts Yushi forward into Daeyoung’s reach, his legs bracketing Daeyoung’s waist, leaving no space between them.

The mirror above the sink catches the scene in fractured angles—Daeyoung’s reflection looming over Yushi, his own swollen lips pressed to the curve of Yushi’s mouth, to the hollow beneath his jaw. For the briefest second, Daeyoung sees himself there, sees the hunger written too clearly on his face, the reverence in every kiss he lays down. The sight only makes him tremble harder, as though witnessing proof of something so sinful.

Yushi’s good hand slides into his hair, tugging lightly, urging him on, and Daeyoung obeys without hesitation. His lips move from Yushi’s mouth down the slope of his throat, each kiss a mark of devotion, each press of heat mirrored in the glass behind him. Yushi tips his head back, exposing more of himself, trusting him.

The friction grows sharper where their bodies align, thin fabric doing little to blunt the heat. Yushi exhales in stuttering breaths, thighs parting instinctively against the edge of the cabinet, the angle drawing Daeyoung closer, urging him deeper into the kiss. Daeyoung pauses just long enough to lift his gaze, eyes wide, lips parted, silently asking permission.

Slowly, without a word, Yushi lifts both his legs, placing them carefully on either side of the cabinet, the gesture is like an unspoken invitation that leaves Daeyoung rooted in place, breath caught in his throat. Daeyoung can’t believe the view right before his eyes right now; the curve of Yushi’s swollen-parted lips, the sharp rise and fall of his chest, the cast awkwardly resting against porcelain, and the openness of his body, waiting for him.

“Daeyoung,” Yushi guides Daeyoung’s wrist to the heat between his thighs, “touch me…”

Daeyoung can feel it on his skin. Yushi’s arousal is already tense with need. “Hyung…” Daeyoung breathes against his skin as his hand finally moves with uncertain strokes that grow steadier with Yushi’s quiet encouragement.

The air thickens around them, every drag of their bodies making the cabinet tremble faintly against the wall. Daeyoung’s words still hang there, raw and unpolished, pulsing between them with every frantic grind of his hips.

“Hyung… I like you.” His voice breaks again, urgent, as though the weight of it can’t be held in anymore. “I really like you... a lot.” His lips graze along Yushi’s earlobe, shaky, like he’s terrified the silence that follows will crush him.

Yushi’s breath stutters, his lashes fluttering shut. The words cut deeper than the ache in his body, piercing through all the restraint he has tried to keep intact. His chest seizes with the urge to say it back, to match that honesty with his own. But the fear that his answer now would be tainted, born out of heat instead of truth.

So he doesn’t answer.

Instead, a low, strangled moan slips past his lips, unbidden, carried into the small space between Daeyoung’s ear and his neck. It vibrates soft and warm against his skin, a sound that makes Daeyoung shiver, his hips snapping forward harder.

“Ushi hyung…” Daeyoung gasps, as if that single sound is more than any words could give him. His grip tightens at Yushi’s waist, fingers digging into sweat-damp skin.

Another breathy moan spills out when Yushi arches beneath him, his body betraying what his mouth refuses to say. The sound curls hot into Daeyoung’s ear, feather-light and intoxicating, making his chest burn with fiercer than lust.

Yushi tilts his head back, throat bared, his lips parted around every broken sound that escapes him. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t risk a single word, but the chorus of moans he gives—raw, trembling, too close to pleading—becomes its own confession, one that only Daeyoung gets to hear this close.

Daeyoung presses his forehead against Yushi’s temple, swallowing down a groan. “Hyung don’t have to say it,” he whispers, breathless, chasing every twitch of Yushi’s body under him. “I can hear you.”

“Daeyoung,” Yushi whispers, “use me… here.” His palm slides down to his own thigh, fingers tightening gently against the muscle. “Finish here. It’s okay.”

And without thinking much, Daeyoung obeys.

He drags Yushi closer, sliding down until his hips slot between Yushi’s parted thighs. His arousal presses hot against the soft skin there, and when he thrusts forward, the friction makes his breath hitch sharply.

“Ugh…” he groans, grinding deeper, fucking into the narrow gap of Yushi’s thighs. The cabinet rattles under the rhythm, his movements messy, desperate, but each stroke finds more heat, more pressure.

Yushi steadies himself, one arm braced awkwardly with the weight of the cast, but his free hand slips down, fingers finding the hard length trapped between them. He guides Daeyoung closer, tighter, until the head of Daeyoung’s cock drags against him with every thrust.

“God—” Daeyoung chokes, biting down against Yushi’s shoulder.

“Shh,” Yushi murmurs, though his voice cracks around the sound, his own arousal leaking into his palm as he curls his fingers around both of them together. The slick slide makes it easier to move, stroking in time with Daeyoung’s desperate thrusts.

Daeyoung’s rhythm falters as the sensation overwhelms him, thighs squeezing, Yushi’s hand working them both, their cocks grinding together in tight, wet strokes. Yushi tilts his head back, a moan spilling out, high and broken, tickling Daeyoung’s ear like another kind of confession.

“Hyung… fuck, I can’t—” Daeyoung gasps, hips stuttering, every nerve set alight.

“Hhh… don’t stop,” Yushi breathes, his strokes quickening, urging them both over the edge. “Come with me, baby.”

The friction peaks, heat pooling too fast to hold back. Daeyoung buries his face against Yushi’s neck as he comes undone, spilling hot between Yushi’s thighs, the mess caught under Yushi’s stroking hand. The sight, the warmth, the sound of Daeyoung’s broken voice is enough to drag Yushi with his own climax tearing through, spilling over his knuckles and Daeyoung’s length, mixing between them.

Daeyoung slumps against him, breath still uneven, his forehead pressed to Yushi’s collarbone. His weight is heavy, but Yushi doesn’t mind. He strokes gently through Daeyoung’s damp hair with his good hand, fingertips brushing soothing patterns down the nape of his neck.

“Such a good boy.”

Daeyoung only hums in response, his voice low and drowsy, already half-lost to sleep with his lips still curved faintly against Yushi’s skin, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest settles into a slower rhythm, carrying the spent contentment that tugs at Yushi’s heart and makes him want to hold him there a little longer.

For a while, Yushi just holds him there, letting the silence settle. His own pulse takes time to even out, it’s the echo of Daeyoung’s words, the confession still hanging in the air. But when he’s sure Daeyoung is too drowsy to press him for more, Yushi leans down and whispers into his hair, barely louder than a breath and finally says, “I like you too.”

Daeyoung stirs just enough to register the words, his lashes fluttering as his eyes blink open, and without saying anything he leans in to press a long, lingering kiss against Yushi’s cheek. The touch is simple but it leaves Yushi’s skin burning, shyness curling through him even as a helpless smile tugs at his lips.

Daeyoung only grins in response, his eyes already slipping shut again, and Yushi lets out a soft laugh, brushing his thumb along the sharp line of Daeyoung’s jaw as though he can’t quite stop himself.

The moment stretches between them, tender and unhurried, until Yushi’s gaze drops to the sticky mess drying across their skin and a reluctant sigh escapes him. “We really should clean up…”

Daeyoung groans low in his throat, finally cracking one eye open with a smirk tugging lazily at his mouth. “Now I have to help clean you up again, huh?”

Yushi’s ears burn hotter at the teasing, and he mutters back, flustered, “Don’t say it like that, it’s your fault.” but Daeyoung’s sleepy laugh makes it impossible for him not to smile too.

The bathroom fills with soft laughter. Yushi shifts slightly, ready to climb down from the vanity, but before he can even do anything, Daeyoung already steps in closer, sliding hands to his waist and lifting him down with an ease that leaves no room for protest. Yushi’s feet meet the floor gently, his body guided down until he’s standing again, and for a moment he just looks at Daeyoung, embarrassed by how natural the gesture feels.

At this point, hasn’t Daeyoung already proven that he’s dependable enough? The thought of that slips in the way Yushi can’t deny it anymore, at least not after everything he’s done for him.

***

A week passes since Yushi has been staying with Daeyoung, being looked after day and night, and now it’s finally time for him to return to his own place. He has work coming up soon, and though Daeyoung asks more than once if it’s really safe for him to go back already, Yushi only gives him a steady look.

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to move back now, hyung?” Daeyoung asks, frowning as he watches Yushi pack a few things.

“It’s fine,” Yushi answers softly.

Apparently, the man who had threatened him has been caught and is now in police custody, and his company will handle the rest even though Yushi himself has no desire to press charges. Daeyoung doesn’t look fully convinced but nods anyway, still keeping his eyes on him.

Before they begin moving some of Yushi’s clothes and belongings back, Daeyoung asks again. This time is about the cast on his arm.

“When is your hospital appointment? For the cast,” he asks, glancing down at the white plaster.

“Tomorrow,” Yushi replies. “I’ll go by myself.”

Daeyoung shakes his head almost instantly. “No, I’ll take you before class. Don’t argue with me about it.”

Yushi doesn’t, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrays the way his chest softens at Daeyoung’s insistence. He just shrugs. “Alright, alright.”

By coincidence, that same evening Sion comes home after two weeks away on a shoot. He drags his suitcase down the hallway, tired but relieved to finally be back. When he reaches his door and pressing the code, he freezes. The lock clicks open too easily as if someone has already entered. Confused, he pulls the door and finds it already unlocked.

Before he can step inside, a stranger steps out. A man with his arm bound in plaster, moving carefully as if still recovering. Sion stares at him in shock, then glances back at the door number to make sure he isn’t standing in front of the wrong apartment. His brows furrow as he takes a cautious step back.

Yushi also freezes in the doorway, equally startled to see him. “Oh—” is all he manages before Daeyoung appears behind him, carrying a bag, only to stop dead when he sees his cousin standing there wide-eyed with his luggage still at his side.

The silence stretches, thick and awkward, until Sion finally speaks, his voice sharp with disbelief. “What is this, Daeyoung? Did you secretly rent out my room while I was gone?”

***

And from those significant events, a new routine settles between them. To the world outside, nothing has changed; the days pass as usual. But between Daeyoung and Yushi, there is a change, a secret understanding carried in the brush of fingers and the shared smiles that no one else notices. The secret of their closeness lingers in the small, stolen moments, known only to the two of them.

Every morning, the routine still hums like clockwork. The elevator dings, doors slide open without fanfare, Daeyoung will step inside, backpack on his shoulder, eyes forward, almost as if the world outside the elevator doesn’t exist. And Yushi is always already there, standing on the corner with a briefcase in his hand, and Daeyoung will timing himself perfectly so that he can slip in next to Yushi without drawing attention. He shifts just enough to occupy the narrow space beside him, shoulders brushing lightly and close, as if proximity alone could speak the words they want to say. Yushi rarely notices outwardly, but Daeyoung feels the subtle stiffening of his frame, the slight inhale of breath that betrays his awareness.

Their shoulders graze and carry a new gravity, fingers find each other behind their backs, curling together in secret, hidden from the neighbors who chatter and shuffle around them. The contact is brief and so subtle, but enough to send a small thrill through their mornings, a pulse of warmth that makes the ride feel infinitely longer than it actually is. They exchange no words, just fleeting glances or the faintest tilt of lips that almost become smiles. Even in the crowded elevator, in the middle of mundane routines, something private exists between them, and it’s an intimacy sewn into the rhythm of their days.

However, when they are alone, everything softens a lot. The fingers that intertwine secretly in public become bold and unrestrained. They embrace, lean into one another, and kiss passionately, lingering in much more intimate ways the elevator would never allow. In these private moments, the restraint of the elevator falls away, revealing the warmth and affection they have carefully tucked behind polite smiles and stolen touches. The contrast sharpens the sweetness of their closeness, making each brush of skin or whispered word feel like a small revelation.

Love, quiet and patient, pulses just beneath the surface of these daily encounters. Even in the most ordinary moment, even in the brief elevator rides that mark the start of each day, love waits, just one floor away.

- End -