Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Seattle, 2011.

The rain pounded against the window of Baekhyun’s cluttered bedroom like it had a personal grudge against the Pacific Northwest. At fifteen, Baekhyun Byun was the epitome of teenage awkwardness—skinny limbs, a mop of dark hair that never quite behaved, and a heart that beat triple-time whenever Chanyeol Park walked by in the school hallways. 

Chanyeol, the senior basketball star with that stupidly charming grin and ears that stuck out just enough to make him look approachable. Baekhyun had spent the last few months doodling “B + C” in his notebooks, fantasizing about some rom-com moment where Chanyeol would notice him, maybe ask him to prom or something equally ridiculous.

But tonight, prom was the last thing on his mind. He’d scored this weird antique clock at a garage sale earlier that day—brass gears, engraved with swirling patterns that looked like they belonged in a steampunk novel. “It’ll look cool on my desk,” he’d thought, ignoring the old lady’s cryptic warning about “timelines and regrets.” Now, as thunder rattled the house, he fiddled with it under his desk lamp, twisting the dials just to see if it worked.

A spark. A hum. The room spun like a bad carnival ride, colors bleeding into a vortex. Baekhyun’s stomach lurched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, whispering, “What the—”

When he opened them, the rain was gone. So was his bedroom. Instead, he was tangled in silk sheets that felt way too luxurious for his twin bed, in a room bathed in the soft glow of city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Los Angeles? The skyline screamed LA—Hollywood sign twinkling in the distance, palm trees swaying below. His body felt… wrong. Heavier, taller, more filled out. Panic rising, he bolted upright and caught his reflection in a mirrored wardrobe across the room.

Holy shit.

He was him, but not. Older. Like, adult older. Sharp jawline, styled hair, and—wait, were those abs under the thin tank top? He poked his stomach, bewildered, then glanced down. Oh god, he was in boxers that hugged… everything. This wasn’t his body. Or it was, but future him. Heart hammering, he swung his legs off the bed, feet hitting cool hardwood floors.

That’s when he noticed the man beside him.

Chanyeol. His Chanyeol? But older too—early thirties, broad shoulders rising and falling with sleep, dark hair tousled, a faint stubble shadowing his jaw. He was shirtless, the sheet draped low over his hips, revealing a trail of hair that disappeared tantalizingly southward. Baekhyun’s mouth went dry. This had to be a dream. A really, really vivid dream. Because no way was he in bed with his high school crush, who looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread for “Hot Business Dads.”

Wait—magazine? His eyes darted to the nightstand. A sleek phone, a half-empty glass of wine, and a framed photo: him—adult him—and Chanyeol, beaming in suits, rings on their fingers, under a banner that read “Mr. & Mr. Park-Byun, 2021.” 

Married? For five years? Baekhyun’s brain short-circuited. But then, dread hit. Next to the photo, a stack of papers: “Dissolution of Marriage.” Divorce. They were getting divorced?

“No, no, no,” he muttered, voice deeper than he remembered. This couldn’t be real. He needed to fix this—whatever this was. But first… Chanyeol stirred, rolling toward him with a sleepy groan that sent a shiver down Baekhyun’s spine.

“Baek?” Chanyeol’s voice cut through the dim light, rough from sleep but laced with an edge that made Baekhyun’s stomach twist. He propped himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Those deep brown eyes, the ones Baekhyun had daydreamed about in high school, now held a guarded coolness, like a wall had been built overnight—or over years, apparently. “What are you doing? Staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Baekhyun swallowed hard, his teenage brain scrambling for words while his adult body betrayed him with a flush of heat. “I… uh, just woke up. Weird dream or something.” He forced a smile, hoping it looked natural, but Chanyeol’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened, his jaw tightening as he glanced at the nightstand—right at those damning papers.

“Yeah, well, reality’s weirder,” Chanyeol muttered, sitting up fully now, the sheets pooling around his waist. He was still shirtless, his toned chest rising and falling with a sigh that screamed exhaustion. 

Baekhyun’s eyes dipped involuntarily, tracing the lines of muscle that spoke of gym routines and stress-relief workouts, but Chanyeol caught the look and snorted derisively. “Don’t. Just… don’t start with that now.”

“Start with what?” Baekhyun blurted, confusion mixing with the lingering thrill of being this close to his crush—no, his husband. But Chanyeol was already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to Baekhyun, broad shoulders tense.

“You know what. Acting all… whatever this is. Flirty or nostalgic or shit. It’s too late for that.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair, standing up with a stretch that made his boxers ride low, revealing the V of his hips. Baekhyun’s mouth went dry, but Chanyeol didn’t turn around. 

“The divorce papers are almost ready. Lawyer emailed last night—should have the final draft by end of day. We can sign tomorrow if you want to get it over with.”

The words hit like a slap, cold and final. Divorce? From this? Baekhyun’s heart plummeted, teenage infatuation clashing with the adult ache blooming in his chest. “Wait, Yeol—Chanyeol, hold on. We don’t have to—”

Chanyeol cut him off with a sharp laugh, devoid of humor, as he grabbed a robe from the chair and shrugged it on. “Don’t call me that. Not anymore.” His voice was distant, like he was already miles away, in some boardroom sealing deals instead of here, in their—his—bedroom. 

He headed toward the en-suite bathroom without a backward glance, flipping on the light that cast harsh shadows across the marble floors. “I’ve got an early meeting. Mergers don’t wait for… this.”

Baekhyun sat there, stunned, as the sound of running water echoed from the bathroom—Chanyeol brushing his teeth, probably already mentally drafting emails. The rejection stung, but it ignited something fierce in Baekhyun’s borrowed body: a mix of hurt, determination, and that undeniable pull. 

He wasn’t going to let this future crumble without a fight. Slipping out of bed, he padded toward the bathroom door, heart racing. Maybe he could charm his way in, turn the shower steam into something hotter. But as Chanyeol’s silhouette moved behind the frosted glass, humming a tune that sounded more resigned than joyful, Baekhyun knew it’d take more than teen charm to melt that ice.

Still, he pushed the door open a crack, steam billowing out like an invitation. “Chanyeol… can we talk? Like, really talk?” His voice trembled, but his eyes lingered on the outline of Chanyeol’s form under the spray—tall, powerful, water cascading down skin Baekhyun suddenly ached to touch.

Chanyeol paused, head tilting under the water, but his reply was clipped. “Not now, Baek. Work calls.”

The words hung in the steam-filled air like a barrier, unyielding and cold. Baekhyun lingered at the door, his fingers gripping the frame, heart pounding from a mix of rejection and that stubborn teenage determination bubbling up inside him. He could see Chanyeol’s outline through the frosted glass—tall, lean, water sluicing over muscles honed by years of corporate stress and occasional gym escapes. It was torture, this proximity without connection, his body still humming from the earlier wake-up haze. 

But Chanyeol didn’t invite him in, didn’t even glance back. Instead, the shower knob twisted off with a decisive squeak, and the glass door slid open.

Chanyeol stepped out, dripping and unapologetic, grabbing a towel from the rack. His eyes flicked to Baekhyun for a split second—dark, unreadable—before he wrapped the towel around his waist, water beading on his chest like forbidden invitations. “I mean it,” he said, voice low and edged with finality as he brushed past, their shoulders nearly touching. The scent of his body wash—something woody and masculine—wafted over, making Baekhyun’s knees weak. “We’ll talk later. Or not. Whatever.”

Baekhyun opened his mouth to protest, to charm, to something, but Chanyeol was already moving with efficient precision, like a man on a deadline. He strode into the walk-in closet, emerging moments later in tailored slacks and a crisp button-down, rolling up the sleeves to reveal forearms that Baekhyun couldn’t help but stare at. No words exchanged, no lingering touches. 

Chanyeol grabbed his watch from the dresser, fastened it with a click, then snatched his briefcase and phone. He paused at the bedroom door, back still turned. “Don’t wait up. Late night at the office—big merger closing.”

“Yeol, wait—” Baekhyun started, stepping forward, but Chanyeol was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that echoed through the loft. No goodbye kiss, no shared coffee. And from the kitchen sounds—or lack thereof—he hadn’t even bothered with breakfast. Just the faint beep of the front door locking, then silence.

Baekhyun stood there, alone in the massive apartment that screamed success but felt hollow. The city lights twinkled mockingly through the windows, dawn creeping in over LA’s sprawl. His—future his—body felt foreign again, clad only in those boxers, skin prickling from the chill of abandonment. “Okay,” he whispered to the empty room, running a hand through his hair. “Time to figure this shit out.”

He padded to the living room, the polished floors cool under his feet. The place was a far cry from his 2011 bedroom—minimalist chic, with a massive sectional sofa, abstract art on the walls, and a kitchen island that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. His magazine, apparently. Spotting a laptop on the coffee table, he flipped it open, the screen lighting up to a password prompt. 

“Crap.” What would adult him use? After a few failed tries—his birthday, Chanyeol’s name—he tried “chanbaek4ever” on a whim. Bingo. 

The desktop loaded: emails from work at the lifestyle mag, drafts of articles on “2026 Fashion Trends: Retro Revival” and celebrity gossip folders. But more importantly, a calendar app blinking with reminders: “Divorce Lawyer Mtg - 2 PM Tomorrow.”

Baekhyun’s stomach dropped. He scrolled through photos—happy ones from years ago, vacations in Hawaii, anniversaries with Chanyeol’s arm around him, grins wide. What went wrong? Digging deeper, he found the antique clock tucked in a drawer, looking exactly as he remembered, its gears still humming faintly. “You did this,” he muttered, turning it over. Engraved on the back: “To mend what time breaks.” 

Cryptic much?

As he rifled through drawers and cabinets—finding wedding bands in a jewelry box (why weren’t they wearing them?), half-packed boxes labeled “Chanyeol’s Stuff”—the pieces started clicking. 

Emails hinted at arguments: missed dinners due to Baekhyun’s deadlines, Chanyeol’s promotions pulling him away. They’d grown apart, careers swallowing the fun. But Baekhyun, with his fresh-eyed teen perspective, saw opportunity. He could fix this. Starting with… breakfast? No, something bigger. Charm offensive, phase one.

Grinning despite the ache, he headed to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for what looked like Chanyeol’s favorites (based on a sticky note: “Yeol’s protein shakes - boring”). 

Time to turn this loft into a trap of nostalgia and seduction. But first, clothes. Rifling through the closet, he picked something casual-sexy—a fitted tee and jeans that hugged his adult assets. 

Operation Save My Marriage,” he declared to his reflection. “Let’s do this.”

With Chanyeol gone, the loft felt like a blank canvas—his to explore, to plot on. Baekhyun wandered back to the bedroom, the morning light now streaming in, casting a golden hue over everything. He paused in front of the full-length mirror in the walk-in closet, finally taking a moment to really look at himself. Not just a quick glance in panic mode, but a proper study. His adult body stared back, and damn, if it wasn’t an upgrade that made his teenage self look like a rough draft.

He ran his hands over his arms, marveling at the smooth, milky skin that glowed under the light—paler and more flawless than he remembered from 2011, when acne and awkward tans from PE class were his norm. No blemishes, just soft, inviting perfection that begged to be touched. His fingers trailed down to his chest, slipping under the fitted tee he’d thrown on, feeling the subtle definition of muscles that weren’t bulky but toned, like he’d spent years perfecting a balance between desk work and whatever future workouts involved. 

Abs peeked out when he lifted the hem— not a six-pack, but a sleek, inviting plane that dipped into a V-line disappearing into his jeans. His legs were longer, stronger; his ass, when he twisted to check, was rounder, firmer, the kind that filled out denim just right.

And his face? God, his face. Sharp cheekbones, full lips that curved into a natural pout, eyes brighter and more expressive. His hair fell in soft waves, styled effortlessly. Everything was upgraded—from the subtle curve of his hips to the way his skin flushed pink at the slightest thought. He struck a pose, hips cocked, and laughed at his reflection. 

“Holy upgrade, Batman,” he murmured, voice still that deeper timbre that sent a thrill through him. “Fifteen-year-old me would kill for this. Hell, fifteen-year-old me is in this and still can’t believe it.”

But then, the laughter faded as his eyes drifted to the jewelry box on the dresser, the unpacked boxes in the corner. Chanyeol wanted to divorce this? Him? 

Baekhyun leaned closer to the mirror, tracing his jawline with a finger. “What’s wrong with you, Yeol?” he said aloud, half to himself, half to the absent husband. 

“Wanting to divorce a beauty like me? I mean, look at this skin—milky perfection. These lips? Made for kissing. This body? Built for… well, everything we’ve probably done a hundred times.” 

Heat crept up his neck at the thought, memories that weren’t his flashing vaguely—entwined limbs, heated breaths, Chanyeol’s hands everywhere. His body responded instinctively, a stir in his jeans that he ignored for now. Focus, Baek. “You’re an idiot if you let this go. But lucky for you, I’m here to remind you why you fell in the first place.”

Shaking off the self-admiration (okay, maybe lingering a bit longer on how his ass looked in those jeans), he turned his attention back to the plan. First, intel. He grabbed the laptop again, diving deeper into emails and photos, piecing together their life. Work emails from the magazine showed Adult Baek as ambitious, creative—articles on LA hotspots, interviews with rising stars. Chanyeol’s side? Snippets of business trips, late nights. No wonder things cooled. But Baekhyun, with his fresh crush energy, saw fixes everywhere: surprise dates, flirty texts, maybe a little seduction to thaw that ice.

He rummaged through the kitchen next, whipping up a quick breakfast for himself—avocado toast with future gadgets that toasted bread perfectly. As he ate, ideas brewed: hack into Chanyeol’s schedule, show up at his office with lunch? Or something steamier, like waiting in lingerie when he got home? 

Grinning, he texted from the phone (password same as the laptop—sentimental much?): “Missed you already. Let’s talk tonight? ❤️” No reply yet, but it was a start.

By mid-morning, fueled and fabulous, Baekhyun felt ready. Operation Save My Marriage was in full swing—he’d charm, tease, and seduce his way back into Chanyeol’s heart, one upgraded asset at a time.

He paced the living room, phone in hand, brainstorming like a mad scientist in a rom-com lab. 

Step one: Infiltrate Chanyeol’s office with a “surprise lunch” that screamed nostalgia—maybe pack those high school-style bentos with heart-shaped rice, or whatever future food trends allowed. 

Step two: Flirty texts throughout the day, escalating to something steamier by evening, like “Remember that time in the backseat? Let’s recreate.” 

Step three: Ambush him at home with dim lights, that milky skin on full display, and moves that would make his adult body proud. Yeah, that’d thaw the ice. Baekhyun smirked at the mental image, already feeling a stir of anticipation low in his belly.

But mid-plot, his phone buzzed insistently on the counter—a sleek, foldable thing that still blew his 2011 mind. He glanced at the screen: “Assistant - Mina.” Who? He swiped to answer, putting on his best adult voice. “Hello?”

“Baekhyun? Finally! Where are you?” The woman’s voice was crisp, professional, with a hint of exasperation. “The editorial meeting started fifteen minutes ago. We’re pitching the fall issue—‘Retro Revival: 2010s Fashion Comeback.’ You were supposed to lead on the K-pop influence segment. Everyone’s waiting, and the EIC is getting that look. You okay? This isn’t like you.”

Baekhyun’s stomach flipped. Work. Of course—Adult him had a job. At the magazine. With deadlines and meetings and… people expecting him to know shit about fashion trends from a decade he hadn’t even lived through yet. “Uh, yeah, I’m… running late. Traffic. Or something. Tell them I’ll be there in thirty?”

Mina sighed, the sound crackling through the line. “Fine, but hustle. And don’t forget the mockups on your drive—they’re due by noon. Oh, and that interview with the rising actor? Rescheduled to tomorrow. Call me when you’re en route.”

The call ended with a beep, leaving Baekhyun staring at the phone like it had betrayed him. “Crap,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. He’d been so focused on Chanyeol’s corporate grind that he’d forgotten his own. Features editor at a glossy lifestyle mag—glamorous on paper, but now it meant faking expertise in a world of deadlines and divas. What if he bombed? What if they figured out he was a fraud? But skipping wasn’t an option; ditching work might push Chanyeol further away, proving Adult Baek’s “career-first” flaws.

Rushing back to the closet, he swapped his casual jeans for something more office-appropriate: slim black pants that hugged his ass just right, a silk button-up that whispered against his skin, and a blazer for that boss vibe. A quick mirror check—hair tousled artfully, lips glossed—and he grabbed the laptop, keys, and a mysterious “mockups” folder from the desk. Heart racing, he hailed a ride via the phone app (self-driving cars? Future perks), sliding into the back seat as LA traffic swallowed him.

En route, panic mingled with excitement. This could be part of the plan—nail the job, show Chanyeol he could balance it all, then lure him into a post-work rendezvous. 

A sly text to Chanyeol: “Heading to the mag. Miss your face. Dinner later? My treat… and dessert. 😉” 

No reply yet, but the seed was planted. Operation Save My Marriage just got a side quest: Conquer the Office. If he could charm a boardroom of fashionistas, melting Chanyeol would be cake.

The self-driving car glided to a stop outside a sleek glass tower in downtown LA, the magazine’s logo gleaming like a beacon of glossy perfection. Baekhyun stepped out, smoothing his blazer and clutching the laptop like a lifeline. 

His heart raced—fifteen-year-old him had aced school presentations on Shakespeare, but pitching fashion trends from a future he barely understood? This was next-level improv. The lobby buzzed with creative types: baristas slinging matcha lattes, interns in oversized sunglasses, and walls plastered with covers featuring celebs he’d only seen in 2011 tabloids.

Mina, his assistant—a sharp-eyed woman in her twenties with a pixie cut and a tablet perpetually in hand—met him at the elevators. “There you are! The EIC is pacing. Come on.” She hustled him to the conference room, a sunlit space with a long table, mood boards pinned everywhere, and a dozen staffers mid-debate over holographic projections of runway shows.

“Baekhyun! Finally,” boomed the Editor-in-Chief, a formidable woman named Elena, with silver-streaked hair and a stare that could wilt silk. “We’re on the ‘Retro Revival’ pitch. Your segment on K-pop influences—let’s hear it. And make it pop; we’ve got clients from that new collab line dialing in.”

Baekhyun slid into a seat, flipping open the laptop to the mockups—digital sketches of outfits blending old-school vibes with modern twists. His mind blanked for a second, but then… inspiration struck. 2011 was his era. K-pop was exploding back then—Big Bang, Girls’ Generation, the Hallyu wave just hitting the US. What if he pitched it as “fresh” by drawing straight from his memories, acting like it was some unearthed gem?

“Alright,” he started, voice steady but laced with that teenage enthusiasm bubbling over. “Picture this: We’re not just reviving the 2010s; we’re reinventing them. Think early K-pop flair—bold colors, asymmetrical cuts, but with a twist. Like, remember those chunky sneakers from back in the day? Pair ‘em with holographic fabrics for 2026 edge. Or idols’ stage outfits: sequins on denim, finger hearts as prints. It’s nostalgic but now—fans will eat it up.”

The room went quiet, then murmurs rippled. Elena leaned forward, brows arched. “Chunky sneakers? That’s… ancient. But intriguing. Like a deep-cut reference. Go on.”

Emboldened, Baekhyun dove in, his “weird” acting kicking into high gear. He stood, gesturing wildly like he was back in drama club. “Okay, mockup one: Inspired by, uh, that 2011 vibe—baggy pants tucked into boots, oversized hoodies with pop-art logos. But add AR filters so readers scan the page and see virtual try-ons. And for the clients—” He nodded at the video screen where suited execs from a fashion brand watched. “—tie-ins with K-pop comebacks. Imagine merch that’s half-vintage, half-futuristic. It’s not retro; it’s rebooted.”

One client chuckled. “This feels offbeat, Baekhyun. Hoodies? In high fashion? But… it’s got this raw energy. Like you’ve tapped into some underground archive.”

Elena nodded slowly, a smile cracking her facade. “Exactly. It’s weird, but in a genius way. Like you’ve had a creative epiphany overnight. Love the enthusiasm—keep that fire for the write-up.”

Baekhyun blinked, suppressing a grin. Weird? Try time-traveled. His 2011 mind was spinning gold from what he knew best—teen trends that, in 2026, apparently screamed “innovative throwback.” 

He kept going, tossing in references to flip phones as accessory inspo (eliciting gasps of “brilliant kitsch!”) and even a nod to early social media dances as pose ideas for shoots. 

Staffers exchanged looks, whispering about his “new inspiration phase,” but the energy shifted—ideas flowed, laughs echoed, and by the end, Elena clapped him on the back. “This could be our biggest issue yet. Clients are sold. Take the afternoon to flesh it out.”

As the meeting wrapped, Mina pulled him aside. “What got into you? You’re like… reborn. Whatever it is, bottle it.”

Baekhyun winked, feeling a rush of triumph. “Just digging deep into the archives.” Inside, he was buzzing—nailing work meant proving to Chanyeol he could have it all. 

A quick check of his phone: Still no reply from Chanyeol, but that just fueled the fire. Time to escalate the charm. 

He shot off another text: “Killed it at work. Thinking of you in that suit… or out of it. Home soon? 🔥” 

Operation in motion—he’d turn this creative high into something sinfully seductive by nightfall.

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of emails and revisions—Baekhyun improvising his way through article drafts with more 2011 flair, which the team ate up as “vintage genius.”

By 5 PM, Elena waved him off with a “Great work today—take the evening off.” Perfect. Baekhyun bolted from the office, hailing another self-driving ride home, his mind racing with plans. 

Tonight: seduction central. He’d cook something romantic—maybe pasta, like in those rom-coms—set the mood with candles, slip into something skimpy, and remind Chanyeol exactly why divorcing him was the dumbest idea ever.

Back at the loft, he dove straight into prep mode. First, a quick shower to rinse off the office vibe, letting the hot water cascade over his milky skin, fingers lingering a bit too long as he imagined Chanyeol’s hands instead. Towel-dried and glowing, he raided the closet for “evening wear”: tight black briefs that left little to the imagination, topped with an oversized shirt—Chanyeol’s, actually, the scent of him clinging to the fabric like a tease. Then, the kitchen.

Cooking. How hard could it be? Adult him probably aced this stuff. Baekhyun pulled up a recipe on his phone—“Easy Romantic Carbonara”—and got to work. 

Boil pasta: check. Fry bacon: okay, but the pan spat oil like an angry cat, splattering his arms. Whisk eggs and cheese: fine, until he dumped in too much pepper, sneezing dramatically. 

“Come on, future kitchen gadgets, help a guy out!” he grumbled at the smart stove that beeped unhelpfully. By the time he mixed it all, the pasta was a gloopy mess—overcooked strands clumping with half-curdled sauce, bacon charred to crisps. Disaster. Smoke wafted from the pan, setting off a faint alarm that he waved away with a dish towel. “Shit, shit, not sexy!”

He was mid-struggle, elbow-deep in the sink trying to salvage the pot, shirt sleeves rolled up and flour dusting his cheeks like war paint, when the front door clicked open. Chanyeol. Early? Baekhyun’s heart leaped—opportunity!—but he froze as footsteps approached the kitchen.

Chanyeol appeared in the doorway, still in his business suit, tie loosened like he’d had a rough day. His eyes narrowed at the scene: the smoky haze, the ruined dinner, Baekhyun looking like a hot mess in his shirt. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Chanyeol’s voice was low, edged with confusion and irritation. He dropped his briefcase by the island, scanning the chaos. “You… cooked? Or tried to blow up the place?”

Baekhyun spun around, forcing a grin despite the flop. “Surprise! I was making dinner. For us. Romantic, right?” He wiped his hands on the towel, stepping closer, the oversized shirt riding up to flash a glimpse of those briefs. But Chanyeol didn’t bite—his gaze flicked to Baekhyun’s phone on the counter, buzzing with notifications.

“Yeah, about that.” Chanyeol pulled out his own phone, scrolling with a frown. “These texts? ‘Miss your face’? ‘Dessert’? ‘Thinking of you out of that suit’? What is this, Baek? You sound like a damn teenager. Horny and clueless.” He tossed the phone down, crossing his arms, that distant wall from morning firmly back in place. “We’ve been over this—flirty bullshit won’t fix what’s broken. The divorce is happening. Stop acting weird and just… sign the papers.”

The words stung, but Baekhyun saw the crack: Chanyeol’s eyes lingering on his exposed thighs, the flush creeping up his neck. 

Weird? Try time-traveled charm. Baekhyun sauntered closer, undeterred, the kitchen disaster forgotten as he pressed against the island, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Maybe I am acting like a teen—back when things were fun, hot, no walls. Remember that, Yeol? Before suits and deadlines stole us?” His hand reached out, fingers brushing Chanyeol’s tie, tugging lightly. “One night. Let me show you why we’re worth saving.”

Chanyeol’s breath hitched, jaw clenching, but he didn’t pull away. The air thickened, charged with tension that screamed possibility.

For a heartbeat, they stood there—Baekhyun’s fingers still tangled in Chanyeol’s tie, their faces inches apart, breaths mingling in the smoky kitchen haze. Chanyeol’s eyes darkened, flicking down to Baekhyun’s lips, then lower, tracing the way the oversized shirt skimmed his thighs. 

Baekhyun could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle shift in his stance that screamed want, even if his words fought it.

But then, Chanyeol sighed—a deep, resigned exhale that broke the spell. He stepped back, gently prying Baekhyun’s hand away, though his touch lingered a second too long. “Fine,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding Baekhyun’s gaze. “But not like this. Let me… let me cook the dinner. You clearly need help here.”

Baekhyun blinked, the rejection stinging but softened by the offer. “You? Cook? Since when—”

“Since always,” Chanyeol cut in, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips as he surveyed the disaster zone. “Go sit. I’ll handle it.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed to the bedroom, shedding his suit jacket on the way. Baekhyun watched, transfixed, as Chanyeol disappeared into the walk-in closet, emerging moments later in casual mode: soft gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, a fitted black tee that clung to his broad shoulders and chest like a second skin. No more corporate armor—just adult Chanyeol, tousled hair, bare feet, looking every bit the domestic god Baekhyun’s teen fantasies hadn’t even dared to conjure.

Chanyeol moved with efficient grace, rolling up his sleeves to reveal those veined forearms that made Baekhyun’s mouth water. He salvaged what he could from the mess—dumping the ruined pasta, rinsing pans—then raided the fridge like a pro. “Pasta’s out. How about stir-fry? Quick, easy, and won’t set off the alarms.” His voice was gruff, but there was a rhythm to it, a comfort that hinted at old habits.

Baekhyun perched on a barstool at the island, chin in hands, openly admiring. Damn. Adult Chanyeol was a masterpiece—tall, filled out in all the right places, muscles flexing under the tee as he chopped veggies with precise knife skills. The way he handled the wok, flames licking up as he tossed garlic and onions, the sizzle filling the air with savory promise… it was pornographic. 

Baekhyun’s eyes traced the line of his back, down to the sweatpants outlining his ass, thighs powerful from years of whatever future workouts he did. Heat pooled in Baekhyun’s gut, his body reacting to the sight, the scents, the casual dominance. “You’re… really good at this,” he murmured, voice husky, not hiding the drool-worthy stare. “Like, chef-level hot. How did I score a husband who cooks like this and looks like that?”

Chanyeol glanced over his shoulder, catching the blatant ogling, and snorted—though his cheeks tinted pink. “Flattery won’t change anything, Baek.” But he didn’t stop, adding strips of beef, soy sauce, veggies, the stir-fry coming together in a symphony of colors and aromas. Minutes later, he plated it with a flourish, sliding one over to Baekhyun. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

Baekhyun dug in, moaning around the first bite—the flavors exploding, tender and perfectly seasoned. “Oh god, Yeol, this is amazing. You’re amazing.” He licked his lips slowly, eyes locked on Chanyeol’s, turning the simple meal into foreplay. Chanyeol sat across from him, fork pausing mid-air, that tension creeping back in. Dinner might be served, but the night was far from over—Baekhyun could taste victory, one seductive glance at a time.

Dinner might be served, but the night was far from over—Baekhyun could taste victory, one seductive glance at a time.

They ate in a charged silence at first, forks clinking against plates, but Baekhyun couldn’t resist filling the air with light chatter—reminiscing about “old times” that were fresh in his 2011 mind, like high school basketball games and stolen glances in the halls. 

Chanyeol responded with grunts and half-smiles at first, but as the meal progressed, he loosened up, even chuckling at one of Baekhyun’s over-the-top impressions of a stuffy client. The stir-fry was devoured, plates cleaned, and for a moment, it felt almost normal—like the early days of their marriage, before the drift.

As Chanyeol pushed his plate away, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, Baekhyun seized the moment. He stood, gathering the dishes with a playful sway of his hips, the oversized shirt brushing teasingly against his thighs. “Here, let me help clean up. You cooked; it’s only fair.”

Chanyeol’s eyebrows shot up, his fork pausing mid-air as he stared at Baekhyun like he’d grown a second head. “Wait, what?” He set the fork down, leaning forward with a mix of suspicion and genuine surprise etching his features. “Since when do you offer to clean? Hell, since when do you even notice the mess? You’ve been acting off all day—cooking disasters, flirty texts, now this domestic bit? What actually got into you today, Baek? You plotting something? Trying to butter me up before dropping some bomb about the divorce?”

Baekhyun paused at the sink, turning on the water to rinse the plates, but his heart raced at the opening. He shot Chanyeol a coy glance over his shoulder, suds bubbling on his hands as he played innocent. “Plotting? Me? Nah, just… feeling nostalgic. Appreciative. Of you, this, us.” He dried his hands on a towel, sauntering back to the island, close enough that their knees brushed under the counter. Leaning in, he traced a finger along Chanyeol’s arm, voice dropping low. “Maybe I just want to show you how much I’ve missed this side of things. No plots—just me, wanting you.”

Chanyeol’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of heat there, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He didn’t move away, though, his hand twitching like it wanted to reach out. The kitchen still smelled of dinner, but the air hummed with something spicier now, Baekhyun’s plan edging closer to fruition.

Baekhyun held his breath, the tension coiling tighter as he waited for Chanyeol to crack—to pull him in, to give in to the heat simmering between them. But instead, Chanyeol’s expression shuttered, that flicker of desire snuffed out like a candle in the wind. He stepped back abruptly, creating a chasm of space at the island, his hand dropping to his side as if burned.

“Look, Baek,” Chanyeol said, voice rough and laced with exhaustion, rubbing his temple like the weight of the day—of them—was too much. “If this is some play to sway the settlement… you can have the house. The loft, the furniture, whatever. But the company shares? Those are mine. Don’t even dare look at that—I’ve built that from the ground up, and I’m not letting go.” His eyes hardened, a mix of defensiveness and finality that hit Baekhyun like a gut punch. It wasn’t just about assets; it was the wall slamming back up, higher than before.

Baekhyun’s flirtatious smile faltered, his hand hovering in the air where Chanyeol’s arm had been. “Yeol, that’s not— I’m not after—”

“Save it,” Chanyeol cut in, shaking his head. He pushed off the counter, shoulders slumping under an invisible burden. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’m going to sleep.” Without another word, he turned toward the bedroom, footsteps heavy on the hardwood, leaving Baekhyun standing there amid the half-cleaned dishes and fading steam.

The door clicked shut softly behind him, but it might as well have been a slam. Baekhyun deflated against the sink, the seductive high crashing into frustration. Tired? Yeah, right. But beneath the hurt, that teenage spark flickered—Chanyeol hadn’t said no to everything. The heat was there, buried under layers of resentment and fatigue. Baekhyun glanced at the bedroom door, a sly determination creeping back in. 

Maybe a little midnight visit could change the tune. After all, the night was young, and so was his resolve.

Baekhyun lingered in the kitchen a while longer, channeling his frustration into scrubbing the counters and loading the dishwasher with more force than necessary. He wasn’t a pro at this adulting stuff—back in 2011, his mom handled the messes—but he tried his best, wiping down surfaces until the place sparkled (mostly). The rhythmic motions helped calm his nerves, turning the sting of Chanyeol’s rejection into fuel. He wants me, Baekhyun thought, replaying that heated glance. He’s just too stubborn to admit it. With the kitchen passably clean, he flicked off the lights and headed to the bedroom, heart thumping with anticipation.

The door creaked open softly, and there was Chanyeol—fresh out of the shower, steam still curling from the en-suite bathroom like an invitation. He stood by the dresser, towel slung low around his hips, water droplets tracing lazy paths down his toned chest and abs. His hair was damp and tousled, sticking up in that effortlessly sexy way, and the scent of his body wash—fresh, masculine—filled the room. Baekhyun’s breath caught; adult Chanyeol post-shower was a vision, broad shoulders glistening, muscles shifting as he rummaged for sleep pants. He glanced up, surprise flickering in his eyes before settling into wary neutrality. “You’re still up?”

“Yeah, just… cleaning up,” Baekhyun replied, voice a tad breathier than intended. He forced a casual shrug, but his eyes devoured the sight, heat blooming low in his belly. Seduce him. Now. The plan reformed: slip into the shower himself, emerge all dewy and irresistible, then make a move that’d shatter those walls. “I’m gonna shower quick. Don’t fall asleep on me yet.”

Chanyeol huffed a noncommittal sound, turning away to pull on boxers and a loose tank, but Baekhyun caught the way his gaze lingered in the mirror’s reflection. Smirking inwardly, Baekhyun stripped off the oversized shirt right there—bold, teasing—revealing his milky skin and the tight briefs that hugged his curves. Chanyeol’s back tensed, but he said nothing, sliding under the covers with a pointed sigh.

Baekhyun darted into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. Hot water cascaded over him, soothing tense muscles, but as he lathered up, doubts crept in. His hands roamed his adult body—smooth, responsive, igniting sparks with every touch—but his mind? Still fifteen, a virgin who’d never even had his first kiss. Back home, crushes were doodles in notebooks, awkward hallway stares. 

Now, here he was, plotting to seduce his husband, a man who’d probably done things with this body that Baekhyun could only fantasize about. The steam thickened, mirroring the fog in his head. What if he messed up? What if Chanyeol laughed? Or worse, pushed him away for good?

The breakdown hit like a wave. Tears mixed with the shower spray, his chest heaving as sobs bubbled up. He slid down the tiled wall, hugging his knees, the water pounding relentlessly. “I’m just a kid,” he whispered, voice cracking. “How am I supposed to do this? I don’t even know how to kiss right.” 

The weight of the time jump crashed down—the divorce, the future, the ache of wanting Chanyeol so badly but feeling utterly unprepared. Minutes blurred; he cried it out, the steam hiding his vulnerability.

Eventually, he shut off the water, toweling dry with shaky hands. Emerging in just a towel, he found Chanyeol propped against the headboard, scrolling his phone, but those sharp eyes snapped up immediately. “Baek? You okay? You were in there forever.”

Baekhyun hesitated, eyes red-rimmed, the seduction plan crumbling under raw honesty. But maybe that’s what they needed—truth, or as much as he could give without spilling the time-travel beans. He crossed to the bed, dropping the towel shamelessly (hey, teen bravado had its perks), sliding under the sheets nude, close enough to feel Chanyeol’s warmth. “Not really,” he admitted, voice small. “But… can you just hold me? Please?”

Chanyeol’s surprise softened into something tender, hesitant. He set the phone aside, opening his arms with a sigh. “Come here.” Baekhyun curled into him, head on his chest, the steady heartbeat grounding him. 

No seduction tonight—just this, a crack in the ice that felt like progress. But as Chanyeol’s hand stroked his back, sparks reignited, hinting at more to come.

They lay there in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, the city hum outside a distant lullaby. Baekhyun’s nude body pressed against Chanyeol’s side, skin on skin, the warmth seeping in like a balm to his earlier breakdown. Chanyeol’s arm was loose around him at first, tentative, but as minutes ticked by, it tightened just a fraction—fingers tracing idle patterns along Baekhyun’s spine, sending shivers that had nothing to do with the AC. 

Baekhyun buried his face in Chanyeol’s chest, inhaling that fresh post-shower scent mixed with something uniquely him, his teenage heart fluttering wildly despite the adult intimacy.

After a while, the silence broke. Chanyeol cleared his throat, his voice rumbling low against Baekhyun’s ear. “You’ve been so weird today,” he murmured, almost to himself, his hand pausing mid-stroke. “All this… energy. The texts, the cooking attempt, offering to clean. It’s like you’re a different person. But somehow… it reminds me of high school. Back when everything was simpler, and you looked at me like I hung the moon.”

Baekhyun’s breath hitched, intrigue sparking like fireworks. He lifted his head, propping himself on one elbow to meet Chanyeol’s gaze—those deep eyes softened in the low light, a vulnerability peeking through the exhaustion. 

“High school?” he echoed, voice soft but eager, his mind racing. He remembers. He cares. This was gold—proof that the old spark wasn’t buried too deep. If Chanyeol was nostalgic, maybe Baekhyun could fan it into flames. “What do you mean? Like, specific stuff? Tell me more, Yeol. I… I want to hear.”

Chanyeol hesitated, his free hand coming up to rub his jaw, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, a faint smile tugged at his lips, distant but genuine. “You were this hyper kid, always buzzing around the halls with that big grin, doodling in class. Remember how you’d sneak notes into my locker? Cheesy stuff, like song lyrics or bad jokes. And the way you’d blush when I caught you staring during games… God, it was cute. Annoying sometimes, but cute. Today’s you—it’s got that same vibe. Reckless, flirty, no filter. I don’t know what’s going on, but… it’s throwing me off. In a good way? Maybe.”

Baekhyun’s heart soared, the words wrapping around him like a lifeline. He still cares. 

This wasn’t just pity; it was reminiscence, a door cracking open to the past they shared—the one Baekhyun was literally living. He had a chance; the marriage wasn’t doomed if Chanyeol could see the boy he fell for in the man he’d grown distant from. Grinning despite himself, Baekhyun shifted closer, his leg draping over Chanyeol’s under the sheets, skin brushing in a way that reignited those sparks. 

“Maybe I just needed a reminder too,” he whispered, fingers tracing Chanyeol’s collarbone lightly. “Of us. The good parts. We can get that back, you know. If we try.”

Chanyeol’s eyes searched his, a mix of doubt and longing flickering there. He didn’t respond right away, but his hand resumed its stroking, slower now, more deliberate—sliding lower to rest at the curve of Baekhyun’s hip. 

The air thickened again, charged with unspoken possibilities, and Baekhyun leaned in, testing the waters with a soft brush of lips against Chanyeol’s jaw. No rush, but the night held promise.

Chanyeol froze for a beat, his body tensing under Baekhyun’s touch like a string pulled taut, ready to snap. Baekhyun’s heart hammered—too far?—but then Chanyeol’s hand tightened on his hip, fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt through him. 

With a low growl that vibrated against Baekhyun’s skin, Chanyeol turned his head, capturing Baekhyun’s lips in a kiss that started tentative but deepened in an instant. It wasn’t gentle; it was hungry, demanding—Chanyeol’s tongue sweeping in, tasting, claiming, his free hand cupping the back of Baekhyun’s neck to pull him closer. 

Baekhyun melted into it, his body arching instinctively, hands fisting in Chanyeol’s tank as sparks exploded behind his eyes. The world narrowed to the heat of Chanyeol’s mouth, the scrape of stubble, the way their breaths mingled in desperate gasps.

When they finally broke apart, chests heaving, Baekhyun’s mind was a whirlwind. 

Oh my god, oh my god—that was my first kiss. With Chanyeol. My crush. Holy shit! 

Inside, he was screaming, a chaotic mix of joy and panic, his face flushing hot crimson as he tried to play it cool. But his body betrayed him—lips swollen, eyes wide and dazed, a shy grin fighting through the blush like a kid caught in the cookie jar.

Chanyeol pulled back just enough to study him, that signature smirk curling his lips—amused, a touch predatory, his thumb brushing Baekhyun’s bottom lip. 

“What now? Acting like a virgin all of a sudden?” he teased, voice husky and laced with laughter, his eyes darkening as they roamed Baekhyun’s flushed form. “Blushing like it’s your first time? Come on, Baek, we’ve done way more than this.”

Baekhyun’s blush deepened, his inner teen freaking out even more—He noticed! Play it off, idiot!—but the words ignited something bolder in him. He bit his lip, shifting to straddle Chanyeol’s lap under the sheets, skin sliding against skin in a way that made them both hiss. “Maybe I just forgot how good you are at it,” he whispered, voice breathy, leaning in to nip at Chanyeol’s earlobe. “Remind me?”

Chanyeol’s smirk widened into a full grin, hands sliding up Baekhyun’s thighs possessively. “Oh, I can do that.” The night was definitely promising more now—the ice wasn’t just cracking; it was melting fast.

Everything escalated in a blur of heat and urgency. Chanyeol flipped them with effortless strength, pinning Baekhyun beneath him on the soft sheets, his mouth descending in a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses—starting at Baekhyun’s collarbone, dipping lower to his chest, nipping at sensitive skin that made Baekhyun gasp and arch. 

Chanyeol’s hands roamed freely, gripping hips, thumbs circling teasingly, his breath hot against Baekhyun’s navel as he murmured praises like “So beautiful” and “Missed this.” The room spun with sensation, Baekhyun’s adult body responding eagerly, every touch igniting fire that pooled low and insistent.

But inside, Baekhyun’s mind was a screaming whirlwind. 

Oh my god, what should I do? This is happening—really happening! But I’m 15! Mentally, anyway. And Chanyeol’s 32, all grown up and… does that make him a pedophile? Wait, no—he thinks I’m 30, his husband! He doesn’t know! But I do, and this feels wrong, right? Or amazing? Crap, crap, crap—first kiss was one thing, but this? Am I ready? Do I even know what comes next? 

Panic clashed with the pleasure, his cheeks burning hotter than ever, body trembling not just from arousal but from the freak-out overload. He wanted it—god, did he want it—but the age gap in his head loomed like a neon sign, making him freeze up, hands hovering uncertainly on Chanyeol’s shoulders.

Chanyeol paused, lifting his head with a furrowed brow, noticing the shift. “Baek? You okay? You’re shaking.” His voice was rough, concern cutting through the haze, hand coming up to cup Baekhyun’s face gently.

Baekhyun swallowed hard, forcing a nod, but his inner turmoil raged on. Pull it together. He cares—use this. 

“Yeah, just… overwhelmed. In a good way.” He pulled Chanyeol back down for another kiss to buy time, but the doubt lingered, a knot in his chest that twisted tighter with every heated press of lips.

Chanyeol hummed into the kiss at first, his hands resuming their possessive glide over Baekhyun’s skin, but then he stilled again, pulling back with a furrowed brow. 

His eyes searched Baekhyun’s face, catching the subtle tremors, the way Baekhyun’s body tensed despite the arousal. “Okay, that’s enough,” Chanyeol said, voice dropping to a flat, guarded tone as he rolled off to the side, creating space between them. “Nice try, Baek. But you can’t hide it—the way your body’s reacting… like it disgusts me or something. Just… let’s sleep. We can deal with the lawyer tomorrow. Get this over with.”

The words landed like ice water, dousing the fire in an instant. Baekhyun’s eyes widened, propped up on his elbows as Chanyeol turned away, facing the wall with a heavy sigh, the sheets tugged up like a barrier. 

Disgust? No, no, no—it’s not disgust, that’s freaking out, okay? I’m mentally fifteen, you’re my crush, this is all too much too fast! 

Inside, Baekhyun was screaming, a whirlwind of panic and frustration churning in his gut. He wanted to shout it, to explain, to pull Chanyeol back and make him understand it was nerves, not revulsion. But what could he say? 

“Hey, time-traveled here from high school, virgin alert”? That’d shatter everything. His mouth opened, closed, words dying on his tongue as the silence stretched, heavy and awkward.

Instead, he flopped back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. The bed felt too big, the distance between them a chasm. But Baekhyun’s resolve flickered back—tomorrow wasn’t over yet. He’d find a way to bridge this, to show it wasn’t disgust. For now, though, sleep was a distant dream, his mind racing with plans and what-ifs.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, pulling Baekhyun from a fitful sleep. He groaned, reaching out instinctively for Chanyeol’s warmth—only to find the other side of the bed cold and empty. No indent in the pillow, no lingering scent beyond the faint trace on the sheets. 

“Yeol?” he mumbled, sitting up with a yawn, his adult body aching in ways his teen mind couldn’t fully process from the previous night’s emotional rollercoaster. The clock blinked 8:15 AM. Chanyeol had left early, probably for work, avoiding any awkward morning-after vibes.

Baekhyun swung his legs over the edge, padding naked to the bathroom for a quick splash of water on his face. His reflection stared back—still that upgraded, milky-skinned version of himself, but with tired eyes and a pout that screamed frustration. 

Last night was a mess. Not disgust, you idiot—freaking out! But how do I fix this without spilling the time-travel tea? Shaking it off, he threw on yesterday’s office attire (minus the blazer, opting for casual chic), and headed to the kitchen, stomach rumbling.

There, on the island, sat a covered plate: scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit, still warm from the oven. Chanyeol had made breakfast. Baekhyun’s heart twisted—a small gesture, but it screamed care, even amid the cold shoulder. Beside it, a note in Chanyeol’s neat scrawl: 

“Eat something. Lawyer meeting at 2 PM to finalize the papers. Meet me there if you want, or I’ll handle it. -C”

Finalize? Already? Baekhyun’s fork froze mid-air as he shoveled in a bite, the eggs tasting like ash now. Inside, panic surged: No way. Not after that kiss, that almost-more. He still cares—he made breakfast! I can’t let this happen. 

He scarfed the rest down mechanically, mind shifting gears from hurt to scheming. Jeopardize the meeting? Hell yes. But how? Show up unannounced, cause a scene? Hack the lawyer’s schedule? No, too risky. Something flirty, disruptive—remind Chanyeol of the spark without blowing his cover.

By 9 AM, he was out the door, hailing a self-driving ride to the magazine office, the LA streets blurring past as plots brewed. 

Option one: Crash the meeting dressed to kill, play the remorseful spouse with tears and hugs. 

Option two: Send anonymous flowers or a singing telegram mid-session—embarrassing but cute? 

Option three: Fake an emergency—call pretending to be from work, say Chanyeol’s needed urgently? 

He smirked at his reflection in the window, teen ingenuity firing on all cylinders. But deeper, doubt nagged: What if it backfires? What if he gets mad? No, push forward. This marriage—his future—was worth the chaos.

At the office, Mina greeted him with a stack of revisions, but Baekhyun’s focus was split, laptop open to “research” while he nodded through meetings. 

By noon, a plan solidified: He’d show up early, intercept Chanyeol outside the lawyer’s office, pull him into a private moment—maybe a kiss, a confession veiled in nostalgia. 

If that failed, improvise with dramatics. Operation Derail Divorce is go. The afternoon loomed, charged with potential disaster… or redemption.

By noon, Baekhyun had excused himself from a bland editorial brainstorm—muttering something about a “personal errand”—and bolted from the magazine office, heart pounding like a drum solo. 

Operation Derail Divorce was in motion. He’d show up at the lawyer’s office early, corner Chanyeol in the lobby or parking lot, pour out his “regrets” with that high school charm, maybe steal a kiss to reignite the spark from last night. If words failed, dramatics: tears, hugs, anything to make Chanyeol rethink signing those papers. The self-driving ride zipped through LA traffic, dropping him at a sleek downtown building with “Law Offices of Kim & Associates” etched in gold. 1:45 PM—plenty of time to intercept.

He paced the lobby, fiddling with his phone, rehearsing lines in his head: “Yeol, I can’t lose you. Remember high school? Let’s start over.” But as 2 PM neared, no Chanyeol. 

Baekhyun’s nerves frayed—had he gone in early? Screw it. He took the elevator to the fifth floor, slipping into the waiting area like he belonged. The receptionist eyed him curiously. “Mr. Byun? They’re already in session. Mr. Park said you’d be joining?”

Shit. Plan A failed—interception botched. Baekhyun forced a smile. “Yeah, late. Traffic.” She buzzed him in, and he entered the conference room mid-sentence, the door clicking shut behind him like a trap.

Chanyeol sat at a polished table, suited up and looking weary, flipping through documents beside a sharp-faced lawyer in her forties—Ms. Kim, presumably, with glasses perched on her nose and a no-nonsense vibe. Both heads snapped up at his entrance, Chanyeol’s eyes widening in surprise that quickly morphed to confusion. “Baek? What are you doing here? I thought you’d want to skip this—handle it remotely like you said.”

Baekhyun ignored the odd note in his voice, sliding into a chair across from them with feigned composure, though his palms sweated. Time for improv. He leaned forward, channeling every ounce of teen sincerity, eyes glistening with unshed tears (fake it till you make it). 

“Yeol—Chanyeol—I… I regret everything. I don’t want the divorce anymore. Last night, the kiss, the way you held me… it reminded me why we fell in love. High school crushes turned real. We can fix this. Therapy, dates, whatever. Just… don’t end us.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with awkwardness. Chanyeol blinked, mouth parting in shock, while Ms. Kim adjusted her glasses, her expression shifting from professional neutrality to barely veiled ridicule—a subtle eye-roll, lips pursing like she’d heard this a hundred times. 

Chanyeol recovered first, leaning back with a disbelieving scoff. “Are you serious right now? After all the back-and-forth, the cold shoulders, the arguments? You started this, Baek—you insisted on the divorce months ago. And now you pull this? It’s ridiculous.”

Ms. Kim cleared her throat, stacking papers with a crisp snap. “Mr. Byun, with all due respect, this does come across as… theatrical. But let’s clarify: it was you who initiated the proceedings and have been pushing to expedite. Your husband here—Mr. Park—has been cooperative, but you’ve made it clear you want to finalize and move forward quickly. If you’re having second thoughts now, that’s fine, but it doesn’t align with your previous instructions. Perhaps we can reschedule if needed, but you’ve been asking to speed this up—get the signatures today and file by week’s end.”

Baekhyun’s stomach plummeted, the plan crumbling like overcooked pasta. I started it? Insisted? Speed it up? He stared at Chanyeol, searching for that crack from last night—the tenderness, the nostalgia—but Chanyeol’s face was a mask of hurt and resignation, avoiding his gaze. “Yeol, please—”

“Enough,” Chanyeol cut in, voice firm but edged with something raw, like betrayal buried under exhaustion. “If you’ve changed your mind, say it. But I’m not dragging this out forever.” Ms. Kim slid the papers toward Baekhyun, pen in hand, the finality hanging like a guillotine.

Baekhyun sat frozen, mind racing for a Hail Mary—storm out? Fake faint?—but nothing came. 

The meeting dragged on in tense negotiations over assets (house to Baek, shares to Chanyeol), his pleas falling on deaf ears. 

By the end, papers half-signed (he stalled on the last page), the failure burned hot. As they left—Chanyeol trailing behind with a quiet sigh—Baekhyun’s resolve hardened. This wasn’t over. Time travel gave him an edge; he’d find another way, clock be damned.

**

The ride home was a suffocating silence, the self-driving car humming along LA’s bustling streets while Baekhyun stole glances at Chanyeol in the rearview mirror. Chanyeol stared out the window, jaw clenched, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on his knee.

The half-signed papers burned a hole in Baekhyun’s bag—like a ticking bomb he couldn’t defuse. I started this? Adult me wanted out? The revelation twisted in his gut, making his teen mind reel. How had things gone so wrong in 15 years? But he wasn’t giving up. Not when last night’s kiss still lingered on his lips, a promise unfulfilled.

They arrived at the loft without a word exchanged, the door unlocking with a soft beep that echoed too loudly in the tension. Chanyeol tossed his keys on the counter, shrugging off his suit jacket with a weary sigh, his back to Baekhyun. The air felt heavy, charged with unspoken accusations. 

Baekhyun hovered in the entryway, heart racing, searching for an opening. “Yeol, can we talk? Really talk? About last night, the meeting—”

Chanyeol whirled around, eyes flashing with a mix of exhaustion and anger that made Baekhyun flinch. “Enough of your bullshit, Baek!” His voice boomed in the open space, hands slicing the air for emphasis. “I don’t want to deal with your crazy anymore. One day you’re pushing for the divorce faster than I can blink—your idea, remember? Insisting we ‘end it quick’ because you’re ‘done’—and the next, you’re crashing the meeting with tears and high school nostalgia? What game are you playing? If this is some twisted way to get more in the settlement, just say it. I’m tired of the whiplash.”

Baekhyun’s mouth went dry, the words hitting like punches. My idea? Adult me screwed this up big time.

He backed against the wall, Chanyeol advancing with that frustrated energy, towering over him in a way that was equal parts intimidating and… hot, if he was honest. But the plan had failed, the charm offensive crumbled, and desperation clawed at him. No more lies, no more improv. He had no choice.

 “Yeol, wait—it’s not a game. I… I’m not who you think I am. Not exactly.” His voice trembled, teen vulnerability cracking through the adult facade. “I’m from 2011. Fifteen-year-old me. I time-traveled here—with that stupid antique clock. That’s why I’ve been acting weird, flirty like high school. Because to me, it is high school. You’re my crush, and this future? It’s a nightmare I’m trying to fix.”

The confession hung in the air like smoke, Baekhyun’s chest heaving as he waited for the fallout. Chanyeol froze mid-step, his expression shifting from anger to blank shock, eyes widening like he’d been slapped. His mouth opened, closed, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up that sounded more like a choke.

“What? Time travel? Baek, that’s… that’s insane. You expect me to believe you’re some kid version of yourself zapped from the past? Come on, this is low—even for whatever episode you’re having.” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, glancing back with a mix of pity and disbelief. “If this is a joke or a stall tactic, it’s not funny. We need help—therapy, maybe a doctor—not fairy tales.”

Baekhyun’s heart sank, but a spark of determination flickered. He doesn’t believe me. Of course not. But the truth was out, raw and vulnerable, and maybe—just maybe—it was the crack they needed. He stepped forward, grabbing Chanyeol’s arm, voice urgent. 

“I’m serious, Yeol. Test me—ask me something only 2011 me would know. Or check the clock; it’s in the drawer. Please, just… listen.” The loft felt smaller, the tension shifting from anger to something electric, uncertain. 

Chanyeol stared, frozen in place, the disbelief warring with a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. The loft felt smaller, the tension shifting from anger to something electric, uncertain. The night ahead promised revelations—or ruin.

For a long moment, Chanyeol just looked at him—really looked—his gaze sweeping over Baekhyun’s face like he was searching for cracks in a mask. Baekhyun held still, breath caught in his throat, willing him to see the truth in his wide, earnest eyes. 

The silence stretched, thick and probing, until Chanyeol’s expression softened just a fraction, the anger giving way to a puzzled frown. Without a word, he turned on his heel, striding toward the bedroom with purposeful steps that echoed off the hardwood.

Baekhyun blinked, confusion bubbling up as he trailed after him hesitantly. “Yeol? What are you—”

Chanyeol ignored him, rummaging through the nightstand drawer with a focused intensity, tossing aside a remote, some charger cords, and a half-empty bottle of lube before pulling out a small, velvet box. 

He flipped it open, revealing a delicate silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a musical note—simple, elegant, etched with tiny initials: “C & B.” Chanyeol held it up, dangling it between them like evidence in a trial, his eyes locking onto Baekhyun’s with a mix of challenge and dawning realization.

“Okay, if you’re really ‘2011 Baekhyun,’” Chanyeol said, voice low and steady, though it wavered at the edges, “tell me about this. Where did it come from? What does it mean? You gave it to me on our second anniversary— you should know every detail.”

Baekhyun stared at the necklace, heart sinking like a stone. It was beautiful, meaningful… and completely unfamiliar. 

His teen mind drew a blank—nothing from 2011 clicked with this future token of their love. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice small, shoulders slumping under the weight of the confession. “It looks nice? Like something from… a concert or whatever? But Yeol, that’s the point—I’m not your Baekhyun, not the 30-year-old one. I haven’t lived those years yet. The clock zapped me here, and I’m just trying to—”

Chanyeol’s hand lowered, the necklace swinging gently as his face paled, the curiosity morphing into something deeper: belief, laced with shock. He set the box down carefully, as if it might shatter, and stepped back, rubbing his jaw. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered, more to himself than Baekhyun. “You really don’t know. The real Baek—the one I’ve been married to—he’d never forget that. He bought it in Paris, during our our trip in 2023. He engraved it himself, said it represented our ‘harmony’ or some cheesy crap like that.” Chanyeol’s eyes met Baekhyun’s again, wide and searching, the anger gone, replaced by a stunned acceptance. “This… this isn’t you. Or it is, but… not my Baekhyun. What the hell is going on?”

Baekhyun exhaled in relief, the truth finally landing, even if it cracked open a whole new Pandora’s box. He moved closer, tentative, his hand reaching out. 

“I told you—time travel. That clock in the drawer? It’s the key. I can prove it more if you want. But Yeol, if you believe me now… help me fix this. Us. Before I have to go back.” The air hummed with possibility again, Chanyeol’s frozen stance thawing into reluctant intrigue, the path ahead uncertain but no longer blocked by doubt.

They spent hours that night testing Baekhyun’s claim, the loft transforming from a battlefield of emotions into an impromptu interrogation room lit by the soft glow of lamps and the city skyline beyond the windows. 

Chanyeol, still reeling but with that analytical business mind kicking in, fired off questions like a detective—details from their high school days that only the “real” teen Baekhyun would know. “What was the first thing you said to me in the hallway after that basketball game against Roosevelt?” Chanyeol asked, arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen island.

Baekhyun grinned, the memory fresh as yesterday. “I said, ‘Nice dunk, giant—too bad you tripped over your own feet celebrating.’ You laughed and called me a shrimp.” Chanyeol’s eyes widened, nodding slowly. 

More tests followed: the secret spot they used to sneak smokes behind the gym (even though Baek quit early), the embarrassing mixtape Baek made for Chanyeol’s birthday with cringy 2011 pop tracks. Baek aced them all, his teen knowledge a perfect match, while anything post-2011 drew blanks—like their college reunion or the Paris honeymoon. Chanyeol even dug out old photos from his phone, quizzing on dates and events, his disbelief crumbling with each correct (or hilariously wrong) answer.

By the time they collapsed onto the couch around midnight, takeout containers scattered from a stress-fueled dinner break, Chanyeol was convinced—or at least open enough to stop pacing. He rubbed his temples, a mix of awe and exhaustion etching his features. “This is nuts. Time travel? If it’s real… what do we do? Why are you here?”

Baekhyun, curled up beside him, knees drawn to his chest in that oversized shirt, felt a rush of relief mingled with curiosity. The tests had bonded them in a weird way—laughs over old stories, lingering touches when Chanyeol showed photos. But questions burned in his mind about the man he’d become, the one who’d pushed for divorce. 

“Yeol… tell me about adult me. The 30-year-old Baekhyun. What happened? Why did he want the divorce so bad? I need to know—to fix it, or understand why I’m here.”

Chanyeol hesitated, glancing away, but the vulnerability in Baekhyun’s eyes pulled him in. He sighed, leaning back, his hand finding Baekhyun’s knee almost absentmindedly, thumb circling soothingly. “Adult you… he’s ambitious, sharp as hell. Started as an intern at that magazine, climbed to features editor with killer articles—celebrity profiles, trend pieces that went viral. But success changed things. Long hours, travel, networking parties where you’d schmooze and come home late, smelling like wine and other people’s cologne. We drifted. Fights about priorities—you accusing me of being too buried in business deals, me saying you treated our marriage like a side gig.”

Baekhyun’s heart ached, picturing a future self so far from his current dreams. “And the divorce? He started it?”

Chanyeol nodded, voice rough. “Yeah. About six months ago, after a big blowout. You said we were ‘stagnant,’ that you needed space to ‘grow.’ Pushed for a quick split—no drama, just assets divided clean. But last night… with you acting all teen-flirty? It threw me. Reminded me of why I fell for you in the first place.” His hand squeezed Baekhyun’s thigh, heat creeping back into the touch, eyes darkening as they met.

Baekhyun blushed, shifting closer, the air thickening again. “So… adult me’s an idiot. But I’m here now. Maybe to stop this before it starts.” He leaned in, lips brushing Chanyeol’s in a tentative kiss that deepened quickly, hands exploring as the tests gave way to something more intimate.

The kiss ignited like wildfire, Chanyeol’s initial hesitation melting into fervor—his large hands sliding under Baekhyun’s shirt, fingers splaying across warm, milky skin, pulling him flush against his chest. Baekhyun’s heart raced, his teen mind overwhelmed by the rush, body responding with eager arches and soft whimpers that spurred Chanyeol on. 

Tongues tangled, breaths ragged, the couch dipping under their weight as Chanyeol’s lips trailed to Baekhyun’s neck, nipping lightly, drawing a gasp that echoed in the quiet loft.

But mid-kiss, as Baekhyun’s fingers tugged at Chanyeol’s shirt, Chanyeol froze suddenly, his grip loosening. He pulled back abruptly, eyes wide and conflicted, breath coming in heavy pants. 

“Wait—stop,” he rasped, hands moving to Baekhyun’s shoulders to gently but firmly create space. Baekhyun blinked up at him, dazed and flushed, lips swollen and confusion knitting his brows.

“Yeol? What’s wrong?”

Chanyeol sat up fully, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his face a storm of realization and self-reproach. “You said you’re from 2011… that means you’re just 15, right? Mentally, at least. In this body, but… shit, does that make me some old pervert now? Kissing a kid? Touching—” He gestured vaguely, cheeks tinting red as he scooted back, putting the couch cushion between them like a barrier. “This is messed up. I believe you about the time travel, but… we can’t. Not like this.”

Baekhyun’s blush deepened, a mix of embarrassment and frustration bubbling up—his inner teen thrilled at the kiss but now mortified by the halt. “No, wait—it’s not like that! This body is 30, yours too. It’s adult stuff. And I… I want it. You’re not a pervert; you’re my crush, just… older.” He reached out tentatively, but Chanyeol shook his head, standing up to pace, the moment shattered.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re you—the 15-year-old version in there.” Chanyeol pointed to his own head, then sighed, slumping against the wall. “We need to figure out the clock, get you back. Before this gets weirder.” 

The air cooled, intimacy on hold, but Baekhyun saw the care in Chanyeol’s eyes—the protectiveness that only deepened his crush. They sat there in the quiet aftermath, the couch a neutral ground between them, Chanyeol’s posture rigid but his gaze soft, like he was wrestling with a storm inside. 

Baekhyun pulled the oversized shirt down over his thighs, suddenly self-conscious, his flush fading into a shy awkwardness that felt all too teenage.

“Yeol…” Baekhyun started, voice small, breaking the silence as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m jealous of adult Baek, you know? You’re amazing—like, this grown-up version of my crush, all responsible and hot and… caring. It makes me miss my Chanyeol back home. The high school you. I can’t even figure out what you’d look like when we’re dating, or if we even do. But this? Seeing you now? It hurts a little, ’cause I want it so bad.”

Chanyeol’s expression softened further, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips despite the tension. He reached out, hesitating before settling for a gentle pat on Baekhyun’s knee—platonic, safe. “Kid… you’re killing me here. If you’re really 15 in there, we gotta keep this PG. But yeah, we dated. It started since I’m graduating from high school. It was good, for a long time.” He leaned back, eyes distant with memory. 

“We can talk about it more. And that clock? Let’s figure it out tomorrow. For now, get some sleep—on the couch if you want, or guest room. No funny business.”

Baekhyun nodded, heart swelling with a mix of longing and hope, curling up under a throw blanket as Chanyeol dimmed the lights. The night settled into quiet companionship, plans for the future—and the past—whispering in the dark.

By morning, the first rays of LA sun filtered through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the loft that felt like a tentative truce. Baekhyun stirred on the couch, blanket tangled around his legs, his adult body stiff from the awkward sleep. 

Across the room, Chanyeol was already up, brewing coffee in the kitchen, his back to Baekhyun as he moved with that familiar efficiency—sweatpants low on his hips, tank top rumpled from a night of tossing and turning in the guest room. The air still hummed with the remnants of last night’s revelations, the kiss, the halt, but the anger had evaporated, leaving a fragile understanding in its wake.

Baekhyun sat up, rubbing his eyes, voice groggy. “Morning, Yeol. Sleep okay?”

Chanyeol turned, two mugs in hand, sliding one across the island with a nod. “As okay as it gets after learning my husband’s a time-traveling teen.” His tone was lighter, a wry smile cracking through, but his eyes held that protective glint from before. 

They sipped in companionable silence for a bit, the coffee bitter and grounding, before Chanyeol set his mug down with a sigh. “Look, about the divorce… let’s put it on hold. At least until my Baek—your future self—returns. No point rushing papers if this is some cosmic fix-it mission. We wait, figure out the clock, get you back where you belong.”

Baekhyun’s heart leaped, relief flooding him like sunlight. “Really? You mean it?” He hopped off the couch, bounding over with that unfiltered teen energy, throwing his arms around Chanyeol in a hug that pressed their bodies close—too close, maybe, given last night’s boundaries. Chanyeol stiffened at first, then relaxed, his hand patting Baekhyun’s back awkwardly, a chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Yeah, kid. I mean it. But hands off—PG, remember?” He pulled back gently, though his fingers lingered on Baekhyun’s arms a second too long, eyes flicking down to that milky skin before snapping away. “Now, show me this clock. Let’s see if we can crack it.”

Baekhyun nodded eagerly, leading Chanyeol to the bedroom drawer where the antique clock sat, its brass gears dull but humming faintly, like it was alive. He pulled it out carefully, placing it on the bed between them as they sat cross-legged, the sheets still mussed from unspoken tensions. “This is it—the thing from the garage sale in 2011. I was messing with the dials during a storm, and boom, here I am. See these engravings? ‘To mend what time breaks.’ Cryptic, right?”

Chanyeol examined it closely, his business-sharp mind analyzing the mechanisms—twisting dials, tracing the swirling patterns with a finger. “Looks like some steampunk relic. Maybe it’s tied to phases or dates? You jumped 15 years forward—try setting it back?” 

They experimented together, hours slipping by in a mix of frustration and laughter: dialing to 2011 dates, holding it during a simulated “storm” with the shower running for thunder effects (which ended in a soggy mess and Baekhyun’s shirt clinging transparently, earning a flustered look from Chanyeol). Nothing worked at first—sparks flickered, the room hummed, but no vortex.

As midday approached, Chanyeol pulled out his laptop, researching antique clocks and time anomalies (mostly conspiracy forums and sci-fi wikis), while Baekhyun leaned over his shoulder, their proximity sparking accidental brushes that made the air thicken again. “What if it’s emotional? Like, I have to fix us first?” Baekhyun mused, his hand grazing Chanyeol’s thigh innocently—or not so innocently.

Chanyeol cleared his throat, shifting away with a smirk. “Maybe. But no shortcuts, pervert-in-training.” Despite the tease, his eyes held warmth, the hold on divorce a bridge they were building together. 

By afternoon, with no breakthrough, they decided to stop it first—the clock experiments yielding only faint hums and frustration, no time-warping sparks. Chanyeol leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes with a sigh, the laptop screen glowing with useless forum threads about “cursed antiques” and quantum nonsense. 

“This is going nowhere fast,” he muttered, glancing at Baekhyun, who was fiddling with the clock’s dials one last time, his brow furrowed in that adorable teen concentration. “I have work—a merger call I can’t skip. Wait for me till I get back? We can try again tonight. Text me if you need anything—food, whatever.”

Baekhyun looked up, nodding with a small smile that hid his disappointment. “Yeah, sure. Go be the big business boss. I’ll… hold down the fort.” He watched as Chanyeol stood, stretching those long limbs before grabbing his briefcase and phone, pausing at the door to ruffle Baekhyun’s hair like he was the kid he mentally was.

“Be good, shrimp.” The nickname from high school days warmed Baekhyun’s chest, even as the door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the vast loft.

The silence settled like a blanket, heavy but freeing. Clues, Baekhyun thought, eyes scanning the room. If the clock was the key, maybe adult him had hidden something—notes, diaries, anything about how this mess started. 

He started in the bedroom, rifling through drawers with methodical teen curiosity: socks, ties, a forgotten wallet with cards from places he’d never been. Nothing. The closet next—Chanyeol’s suits on one side, adult Baek’s trendy clothes on the other, all sleek and unfamiliar. He pocketed a cologne bottle for a sniff (smelled like success and regret), but no luck.

Moving to the living room, he flipped through bookshelves—magazines with adult Baek’s bylines, glossy covers screaming ambition. A coffee table drawer held remotes and coasters. Frustration building, he headed to the study, a small nook with a desk piled high with papers. 

Bills, work notes… then, tucked in a bottom drawer under a stack of old tax forms, a locked box. Interesting. Baekhyun jimmied it open with a paperclip (teen skills from school lockers coming in handy), heart racing as the lid popped.

Whoa. His eyes widened at the array—silicone toys in various shapes (one suspiciously phallic, vibrating when he accidentally switched it on), lube bottles in flavors he’d blush to name, leather cuffs with soft linings, and a blindfold that screamed “kinky nights.” 

A few polaroids slipped out too—faded but clear: adult Baek and Chanyeol, tangled in sheets, grins wicked and intimate, poses that made Baekhyun’s face burn hotter than a supernova. This is what we do? Or did? His body reacted instinctively, heat pooling despite his mental age, curiosity warring with shock. Adult me’s wild. No wonder things got complicated.

He snapped the box shut, shoving it back, but pocketed a small keychain vibe on impulse—for research?—mind spinning with questions for Chanyeol later. The find was a clue, alright: their marriage had passion, fire that burned out. Maybe reigniting it was the “mend” the clock meant. 

As the sun dipped lower, Baekhyun texted Chanyeol: “Found some… stuff. We need to talk. 😳” 

Baekhyun paced the living room, the pilfered keychain vibe burning a hole in his pocket like a guilty secret—What was I thinking?—his mind replaying the polaroids in vivid, embarrassing detail. The clock sat innocently on the coffee table, its hum a constant reminder of his ticking timeline. 

Minutes stretched into an hour, the city lights flickering on outside, when the door finally beeped open. Chanyeol stepped in, looking harried from his merger call, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loosened like a noose escaped.

“Baek?” Chanyeol called, spotting him mid-pace, his eyes narrowing with concern as he dropped his briefcase. “You okay? That text—sounded urgent.” But before Baekhyun could spill, Chanyeol held up a hand, pulling out his phone with a determined nod. 

“Hold that thought. I called your boss at the magazine—told her you’re down with some flu bug, can’t come in for the next week. Bought us some time to sort this clock mess without you blowing your cover at work. She bought it; said to rest up and send edits remotely if you can.”

Baekhyun’s eyes widened, relief mixing with that ever-present crush-flutter—Chanyeol thinking ahead, protecting him like this? It was peak husband material. “You did? Thanks, Yeol. That’s… smart. Gives us breathing room.”

Chanyeol shrugged, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the couch with a sigh, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, well, can’t have you fumbling through meetings like yesterday. Now, spill—what’d you find? Clues about the clock? Or something else?” His gaze flicked to Baekhyun’s flushed face, curiosity tinged with that protective edge, unaware of the “adult stuff” bombshell waiting to drop.

Baekhyun hesitated, sitting beside him—close but respecting the PG line—before pulling out the box from its hiding spot, lid cracked open just enough to hint at the contents. 

“Uh, yeah… about that. I was looking for clues around the house, and I found this in the study drawer. It’s… ours? Adult me’s, I mean.” He flipped it open fully, the toys and photos spilling into view, his cheeks igniting as Chanyeol’s eyes went wide, a choked laugh escaping before he schooled his expression.

“Shit, Baek—the toy box? You weren’t kidding about ‘stuff.’” Chanyeol’s voice was a mix of amusement and awkward heat, his hand reaching to snap the lid shut, but not before glancing at the polaroids with a nostalgic flicker. “That’s… private. Adult you and me—we had fun, okay? Before things went south. But you’re 15 in there—eyes off.” Despite the scold, his tone softened, a smirk tugging. “Any actual clues, or just raiding our secrets?”

Baekhyun bit his lip, shoving the vibe deeper in his pocket, mind racing. “Maybe? Like, if adult me was all… adventurous, what broke us? But yeah, no clock stuff. Sorry.” 

Chanyeol’s cheeks flushed a rare pink as he eyed the box, quickly shoving it back into the drawer with a firm click, his large frame shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “Right. Adventurous. That’s… one way to put it.” 

He cleared his throat, standing up to create some distance, busying himself with grabbing waters from the fridge. “We don’t need to dive into that now. Focus on the clock—tomorrow, we’ll hit up antique shops or something. For tonight, let’s just… chill. Keep it PG.”

That night, after a tense dinner of takeout Chanyeol had ordered (neutral ground: pizza, no romance vibes), the loft settled into a quiet hum. Chanyeol retreated to the study for a late work call, leaving Baekhyun alone in the bedroom with his thoughts—and the pilfered keychain vibrator still tucked in his pocket like a forbidden secret. 

The conversation about the adult stuff had danced around edges, Chanyeol’s cheeks flushing as he deflected with “That’s between married us—not kid you,” but Baekhyun’s curiosity burned hotter than ever. 

If adult me used this… maybe I need practice. Before the real deal. To ignite the heat, show Yeol I’m ready—mentally, at least.

Baekhyun locked the bedroom door, heart pounding like a drum in his chest, his teen mind a whirlwind of nerves and excitement. 

The keychain vibe was small, discreet—a sleek black bullet with a button that buzzed to life at a press, vibrating in his palm like a promise. He stripped off the oversized shirt, climbing under the sheets nude, the cool fabric against his milky skin sending shivers. 

Practice, he told himself, cheeks already flushing as he lay back, legs parting tentatively. The first touch of the vibe to his thigh was electric—a low hum that made him gasp, body jolting at the unfamiliar sensation. “Oh… wow,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut as he trailed it higher, exploring sensitive spots his 15-year-old self had only vaguely fantasized about.

The vibrations intensified as he pressed the button for a higher setting, a moan escaping his lips unbidden—deep, adult timbre clashing with his inner freak-out. This is what adult stuff feels like? No wonder they had a box full. 

Heat built quickly, his free hand roaming his chest, pinching nipples that hardened under his touch, imagining Chanyeol’s hands instead—those large, possessive ones from the kiss. “Yeol…” he breathed, the vibe dipping lower, circling his arousal with teasing pulses that had him arching off the bed, hips bucking instinctively. 

Sweat beaded on his skin, breaths coming in pants as pleasure coiled tight, his mind flashing to the polaroids: tangled limbs, wicked grins. I need this with him. To show I’m not just a kid.

It crested fast—too fast—waves crashing over him in a shuddering release that left him gasping, body trembling in the afterglow. He switched off the vibe, collapsing back with a dazed grin, chest heaving. 

Practice makes perfect. Now… how to get Yeol on board without crossing his ‘PG’ line? 

The door remained locked, the secret his for now, but the heat was ignited—in him, at least. Tomorrow, he’d push a little more, clock or no clock.

By morning, the loft was bathed in soft sunlight again, the clock on the nightstand still humming innocently like it hadn’t just witnessed Baekhyun’s private “practice session.” Baekhyun woke up alone, sheets tangled around his naked body, a faint buzz still echoing in his nerves from the night before. He stretched with a satisfied little moan, adult muscles pulling in ways that made him blush all over again.

Chanyeol was already dressed for the office—crisp white shirt, navy trousers hugging those long legs, hair styled back just enough to look effortlessly hot. He stood at the foot of the bed, coffee mug in hand, watching Baekhyun with that careful, protective gaze.

“Morning, shrimp,” he said, voice low. “I’ve got back-to-back meetings today, and tomorrow’s even worse—full day in the office plus a dinner with investors. I’ll be home late tomorrow night, probably after ten. You good holding down the fort again?”

Baekhyun sat up, letting the sheet slip just enough to tease. “Yeah… I’ll manage. Text me when you’re on your way back?”

Chanyeol’s eyes flicked down, then quickly away. “Will do. And remember—rest. No more raiding secret drawers while I’m gone.” He leaned in, pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Baekhyun’s forehead (so safe it was almost insulting), then grabbed his briefcase and left with a soft click of the door.

The moment he was gone, Baekhyun flopped back onto the pillows with a dramatic groan. “Ugh, PG boyfriend is the worst.”

He spent the first half of the day being responsible—sort of. Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with adult Baek’s laptop, he opened the magazine’s shared drive and started brainstorming ideas for next week’s issues. He jotted down notes in a fresh document titled “Baek’s Retro Revival 2.0”:

• 2011 throwback street-style shoot (baggy jeans, snapbacks, chunky sneakers—make it ironic-chic)
  
  
• Interview with a K-pop comeback group about “nostalgia marketing”
  
  
• “What if we did a whole spread called ‘Things 2011 Me Would Wear in 2026’?”
  
  

He even mocked up a few layouts, giggling at his own terrible Photoshop skills. “Adult me is gonna owe me big time for saving his job.”

Once the work brain was satisfied, curiosity took over.

Baekhyun started with the closet.

He slid the mirrored doors open and stepped inside like it was a treasure cave. Rows of clothes that screamed “successful magazine editor”: tailored blazers in every neutral shade, silk button-ups that felt like water against his skin, slim pants that made his ass look illegal. He tried on a few—slipping into a sheer black mesh top that left nothing to the imagination, then a cropped leather jacket over nothing at all. Twirling in front of the full-length mirror, he struck poses and whispered, “Damn… adult me had taste.”

Next came the jewelry drawer.

Delicate silver chains, a couple of chunky rings, and—tucked in the back—a thin gold bracelet with a tiny engraved plate: “Always yours, Yeol – 2021.” Baekhyun’s thumb rubbed over the words, chest tightening. He slipped it on; it fit perfectly.

Then the nightstand.

More “adult stuff” (he left the bigger toys untouched this time, cheeks burning), but also a small leather journal. Not a diary exactly—more like scattered thoughts. Adult Baek’s handwriting was neater than his teen scrawl, but the words felt familiar:

“Sometimes I miss when everything was easy. When Chanyeol looked at me like I was his whole world instead of just the guy who forgot our anniversary again. I started the divorce papers last night. I hate that I did. But I don’t know how to fix us anymore.”

Baekhyun’s throat closed up. He flipped the page.

“Found the old clock in storage today. Felt like it was staring at me. Maybe if I could go back… stupid thought.”

His fingers trembled as he closed the journal.

Underneath it lay a small velvet pouch. Inside: two matching silver rings—their wedding bands—tucked away like they were too painful to wear anymore.

Baekhyun sat on the edge of the bed, rings in his palm, the bracelet still on his wrist, wearing nothing but adult Baek’s sheer mesh top and the weight of everything he’d just discovered.

He whispered to the empty room, voice cracking with determination,

“I’m not letting him throw us away. Not when I’m right here.”

He slipped one of the rings onto his left ring finger, admiring how it caught the light.

“Operation Save My Marriage… Phase Two starts now.”

Baekhyun stared at the simple band for a long moment, thumb brushing over the cool metal. The journal entry kept replaying in his head—adult Baek’s quiet wish to go back, to change things, the clock staring at him like it heard the plea. A slow, hopeful smile spread across his face.

He wanted this too. He wanted to fix us so badly that the clock actually listened. That’s why I’m here. I’m the second chance.

The realization settled warm and bright in his chest. If he could make this future good again—if he could make Chanyeol fall in love with him all over, the way they were supposed to be—then the timeline would heal itself. He could go back to 2011, to his own time, and everything here would be fixed. Happier. Stronger. No divorce papers. No cold mornings. Just him and Chanyeol, the way it was always meant to be.

“I can do this,” he whispered to the empty room, clenching his fist so the ring pressed into his palm like a promise. “I’m gonna save us… and then I get to go home knowing we’ll be okay.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a happy blur of determination. He cooked dinner—real dinner this time—simple but heartfelt: grilled salmon, garlic rice, and roasted vegetables he found pre-cut in the fridge. It wasn’t perfect (a little too much salt on the fish), but it smelled amazing and looked like something a loving husband would make. He set the table for two, lit a couple of candles, and even folded the napkins into messy hearts.

When the food was done and Chanyeol still wasn’t home (the text said “home late tonight, don’t wait up”), Baekhyun took a long, steamy shower. He used the fancy body wash that smelled like Chanyeol’s favorite sandalwood, then slipped into one of adult Baek’s softest sleep sets—a loose white tank and matching shorts that rode high on his thighs, showing off miles of milky skin. He kept the wedding ring on. Added the gold bracelet too. The reflection in the mirror made his stomach flutter—soft, pretty, ready.

By 8:30 p.m. it was still early. Baekhyun crawled into their big bed, propped himself against the headboard with a pillow, and pulled the covers up to his waist. The ring glinted every time he moved his hand. He scrolled through old photos on the phone, heart squeezing at every picture of them smiling, kissing, laughing. He left the bedside lamp on low, golden light spilling across the sheets.

Now he just had to wait.

He practiced what he would say when Chanyeol walked through the door—soft, flirty, but honest. No more rushing. No more hiding. Just him, the boy who never stopped crushing on Park Chanyeol, ready to prove they were worth every single year.

The clock on the nightstand hummed quietly, almost like it approved.

Baekhyun smiled, eyes on the bedroom door, ring finger tracing slow circles on the empty side of the bed.

“Come home soon, Yeol,” he whispered. “I’ve got a future to save.”

Minutes ticked by. Then half an hour. The loft stayed quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and the faint tick of the antique clock on the nightstand. Baekhyun tried scrolling through more photos, tried replaying their conversations from last night, but his mind kept drifting.

Back to the box. Back to the toys.

Okay… let’s be real, he thought, cheeks already warming. 

To make Chanyeol fall in love with me again—really fall—sex is unavoidable. They were married for almost five years. They were very… into it. Like, really into it. Those pictures weren’t staged. If I want him to look at me the way he used to, I can’t just be the cute high-school version. I have to be able to handle… this body. Our body.

Curiosity killed the cat.

He slipped out of bed, padded barefoot to the study, and pulled the velvet box from the drawer again. This time he didn’t hesitate. His fingers brushed past the smaller bullet and closed around something thicker, heavier—a realistic silicone toy, veined and slightly curved, easily seven inches, with a suction base and a remote control. The weight of it in his palm made his stomach flip.

“I need this to practice,” he muttered to himself, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks burning. “I’m thirty now. This body knows what it wants. I just… have to catch up.”

Back under the sheets, he dimmed the lamp even lower, heart hammering so loud he was sure the neighbors could hear. He slicked the toy generously with lube from the bottle in the nightstand, the cool gel making him shiver. Lying on his back, knees bent and spread, he pressed the blunt head against himself, breathing slow and shaky.

“Just practice… just practice…” he whispered again, like a mantra.

The first push made him gasp—fuller than the little vibe, stretching him in a way that bordered on too much and not enough. He bit his lip hard, eyes fluttering shut as he worked it in inch by inch, the burn melting into a deep, throbbing pleasure that had his toes curling against the sheets.

“Oh fuck…” The words slipped out unfiltered, adult voice husky and wrecked. He twisted the base, angling it just right, and a broken moan tore from his throat. His free hand fisted the pillow, hips rolling up to meet each shallow thrust. The ring on his finger caught the low light every time he moved, a shiny reminder of exactly who he was doing this for.

He was so lost in it—sweat-slick skin, soft desperate sounds, the wet slide of silicone—that he didn’t hear the front door open.

Didn’t hear the keys drop on the counter.

Didn’t hear Chanyeol’s tired footsteps coming down the hallway, calling quietly, “Baek? I finished earlier than I thought—”

The bedroom door was wide open.

And Chanyeol stopped dead in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, eyes locked on the sight of his husband—his time-traveling, mentally-fifteen husband—spread out on their bed, fucking himself deep with the thick toy they used to play with together, moaning Chanyeol’s name like a prayer.

The air in the room went electric.

Chanyeol’s grip tightened on the briefcase handle until his knuckles turned white.

“Baekhyun…” His voice was rough, low, dangerous. “What the hell are you doing?”

Baekhyun’s eyes flew open, heart slamming against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack.

“Fuck—!” The curse ripped out of him, raw and panicked, as the thick toy was still buried deep inside, buzzing faintly on the lowest setting. His hand froze mid-thrust, thighs trembling, face burning hotter than the sun. I forgot to lock the fucking door. I fucking forgot.

He yanked the sheets up to his chest in a frantic scramble, but it was useless—the silicone base was still sticking out obscenely between his legs, the lube-slick shine impossible to hide. His voice cracked, high and mortified. “Yeol—shit, I— I thought you were coming home late!”

Chanyeol didn’t move at first. He just stood there in the doorway, briefcase hanging forgotten at his side, eyes dark and unreadable as they raked over the scene: Baekhyun flushed and sweaty, legs still spread under the thin sheet, the obvious bulge where the toy stretched him open, the wedding ring glinting on his finger like a taunt.

Then Chanyeol stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound. He set the briefcase down slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. His voice came out low, rough, edged with something dangerous and heated.

“Mind explaining what the hell you’re doing, Baekhyun?”

He took another step closer, tall frame casting a shadow over the bed. The air felt thicker, heavier, like the whole room was holding its breath. Chanyeol’s gaze dropped to the obvious shape under the sheet, then back up to Baekhyun’s wide, guilty eyes.

“You’re supposed to be the kid from 2011,” he continued, voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “The one who blushed at a single kiss. And now I walk in on you riding one of our toys like you’ve done it a hundred times?” He tilted his head, jaw tight. “So go ahead. Explain. Because right now I’m trying really fucking hard to remember why I told myself we had to keep this PG.”

Baekhyun’s mouth opened, closed, no coherent words coming out—just a soft, embarrassed whimper as the toy gave another involuntary buzz inside him, making his hips twitch. The ring on his finger suddenly felt burning hot.

“I… I was practicing,” he whispered, voice small and wrecked. “For us. Because… because if I want you to fall in love with me again, I have to be able to… handle this. Handle you.”

Chanyeol’s eyes flashed. He took one more step, now right at the edge of the bed, looking down at Baekhyun like he was both furious and starving.

“Practicing,” he repeated, the word dripping with disbelief and something darker. “With my toy. In our bed. While I was supposed to be at work.”

He reached down, fingers brushing the edge of the sheet, not pulling it away yet—just hovering, waiting.

“Show me,” he said quietly, voice like gravel. “Show me exactly how you were practicing… and then maybe I’ll decide whether to help you or spank the shit out of you for forgetting to lock the damn door.”

Baekhyun’s breath hitched, eyes wide and glassy as Chanyeol’s words sank in. The command hung heavy between them, thick with heat and authority. For a second his teenage brain screamed abort abort this is too much, but the rest of him—the 30-year-old body that clearly remembered every filthy night in this bed—throbbed with need.

He swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and slowly lowered the sheet.

The thick silicone toy was still buried inside him, glistening with lube, the base nestled between his spread thighs. Baekhyun’s hand trembled as he reached down, fingers wrapping around the base. He didn’t have to force anything. 

The moment he gave the slightest tug and push, his body reacted like it had done this a thousand times before—hips rolling up smoothly, inner muscles clenching and relaxing around the girth with practiced ease.

“Oh god…” he moaned, voice cracking into that deeper adult timbre as he started fucking himself on it again, slow and deliberate this time, letting Chanyeol see everything. The toy slid in and out with wet, obscene sounds, each thrust easier than the last, like his body was welcoming it home. No awkward fumbling, no painful stretch—just pure, instinctive pleasure that made his back arch and his milky thighs quiver.

“Fuck… it feels so good,” he gasped, eyes fluttering half-shut but still locked on Chanyeol’s face. “I didn’t even have to try… it just… knows what to do. Like it remembers you.”

He twisted the toy deeper, angling it perfectly against that spot that made stars burst behind his eyelids. A broken whine escaped him, hips stuttering up off the bed as slick sounds filled the room. His free hand clutched the sheets, wedding ring flashing every time he moved, the gold bracelet sliding down his wrist. Sweat beaded on his collarbones, sliding down his chest, nipples tight and flushed.

Chanyeol stood frozen at the edge of the bed, breathing hard through his nose, eyes dark and hungry as he watched every single thrust. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching out.

Baekhyun’s voice came out breathy and wrecked, almost pleading.

“See? I… I can take it. I can take you. My body already knows how to be good for you, Yeol… even if I don’t remember it yet.”

He pushed the toy in to the hilt, grinding down with a soft, filthy moan, thighs shaking as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his belly. His cock lay hard and leaking against his stomach, untouched, twitching every time the toy nudged that perfect spot.

Baekhyun bit his lip, eyes glassy, voice barely a whisper:

“So… are you just gonna watch? Or are you gonna help me practice for real?”

Chanyeol could not hold it anymore.

The briefcase hit the floor with a dull thud. In two long strides he was at the bed, towering over Baekhyun, eyes blazing with raw hunger that had finally burned through every last scrap of restraint.

“Fuck it,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Fuck the rules. Fuck ‘PG.’ You’re killing me.”

He grabbed Baekhyun’s wrist, the one still wrapped around the base of the toy, and pulled it away firmly. The thick silicone slid out with a wet, obscene sound that made them both groan. Chanyeol tossed the toy aside, not caring where it landed, and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Baekhyun’s hips.

His large hands gripped Baekhyun’s thighs, spreading them wider, thumbs digging into soft milky skin hard enough to leave marks. He stared down at the glistening, open hole his husband—his time-traveling, blushing, impossible husband—was presenting to him, chest heaving.

“Look at you,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to pinch a peaked nipple through the thin tank top. “Stretched so pretty for me already. This body really does remember, doesn’t it?”

Baekhyun whimpered, arching up desperately. “Yeol—please—”

Chanyeol didn’t make him beg twice.

He shoved his slacks and boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip—and lined himself up. The blunt head pressed against Baekhyun’s slick entrance, and with one slow, relentless push he sank inside, all the way to the hilt in one smooth thrust.

“Fuuuck,” Chanyeol groaned, forehead dropping to Baekhyun’s shoulder as he bottomed out. The heat, the tight clench, the way Baekhyun’s body welcomed him like it had been waiting years—it was too much. “So fucking perfect. Still so tight, even after everything.”

Baekhyun cried out, nails digging into Chanyeol’s back through his dress shirt, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The stretch was overwhelming, perfect, burning in the best way. His adult body knew exactly how to take Chanyeol—how to relax, how to squeeze, how to roll his hips up to meet every deep thrust.

Chanyeol started moving—hard, deep, possessive strokes that rocked the entire bed. Every snap of his hips punched a moan out of Baekhyun, the wedding ring on his finger digging into Chanyeol’s shoulder as he clung tighter.

“Mine,” Chanyeol growled against his neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “Doesn’t matter if you’re fifteen in that pretty head—you’re still my Baekhyun. This body is mine. This ass is mine.”

He angled his hips, hitting that spot dead-on with every thrust, making Baekhyun see stars. The sounds were filthy—skin slapping skin, wet squelching, broken moans and curses mixing together.

Baekhyun was shaking, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from the corners of his eyes. “Yeol—ah—fuck, I’m— I’m gonna—”

“Come,” Chanyeol ordered, voice dark and commanding. One big hand wrapped around Baekhyun’s neglected cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Come on my cock like a good boy. Show me how much you practiced for me.”

Baekhyun shattered with a scream, back bowing off the bed as he came hard, pulsing over Chanyeol’s fist and across his own stomach. His walls clenched rhythmically around Chanyeol, milking him, and it only took a few more brutal thrusts before Chanyeol buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, filling Baekhyun up in hot, thick spurts.

They stayed locked together, panting, sweat-slick and trembling. Chanyeol’s forehead rested against Baekhyun’s, both of them catching their breath in the heavy, sex-scented air.

After a long moment, Chanyeol let out a shaky laugh, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to Baekhyun’s temple.

“…We are so going to hell for this,” he murmured.

Baekhyun, still floating, just smiled dopily and tightened his legs around Chanyeol’s waist.

“Worth it,” he whispered, ring glinting between them. “Totally worth it.”

Chanyeol’s breathing was still ragged, chest pressed flush against Baekhyun’s as the last tremors of his orgasm faded. He stayed buried deep inside, unwilling to pull out just yet, savoring the warm, fluttering clench around him. Sweat slicked their skin, the room heavy with the scent of sex and sandalwood.

Then his eyes caught the glint.

The thin gold bracelet on Baekhyun’s left wrist—the one from their honeymoon, the one Chanyeol had fastened on him that night in Paris with a stupid, lovesick grin. And on Baekhyun’s ring finger… their wedding band. Shining. Claiming.

Chanyeol’s whole body stilled.

“…You’re wearing them,” he whispered, voice hoarse and raw. His thumb brushed over the bracelet, then slid down to the ring, tracing the cool metal like he couldn’t believe it was real. “Both of them. You found these too?”

Baekhyun’s eyes were soft, glassy with afterglow and something deeper. He nodded, biting his swollen lip.

“I did. They were in the drawer with the journal. I… I put them on because they felt right. Because I want to be yours again. The real way.”

Chanyeol’s throat bobbed. For a moment the weight of everything crashed back in—the time travel, the age gap, the divorce papers still sitting half-signed on the lawyer’s desk—but the sight of that ring on Baekhyun’s finger short-circuited every doubt.

Baekhyun gently took Chanyeol’s left hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the bare ring finger. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached over to the nightstand where he’d left the matching band earlier. The silver caught the low lamplight as he slid it slowly, reverently, onto Chanyeol’s finger.

It fit perfectly. Like it had never left.

“There,” Baekhyun whispered, voice trembling but sure. “Now we match again. Even if I’m still fifteen in here… this body, this ring, this bracelet—they all belong to you. And I belong to you too, Yeol. Past, present, future. Whatever timeline we’re in.”

Chanyeol stared at the ring now sitting on his hand, the one he’d taken off months ago when the fights got too loud. His eyes shimmered, something wet and vulnerable flashing across his face before he buried it against Baekhyun’s neck, arms wrapping tight around him.

“God, you’re going to ruin me,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You already are.”

He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the bracelet on Baekhyun’s wrist, then to the ring on his finger, then up to his lips—soft this time, no heat, just pure, aching tenderness.

“I don’t know what the hell we’re doing anymore,” he murmured against Baekhyun’s mouth. “But I know I’m not letting you go back until we fix this. Until you’re wearing this ring for real again. Until I’m wearing mine because I want to, not because the papers say I have to.”

Baekhyun smiled, legs still locked around Chanyeol’s waist, bodies still joined.

“Then don’t let me go,” he whispered back, forehead resting against Chanyeol’s. “Keep me. Love me. Let me love you the way adult me forgot how to.”

Chanyeol’s arms tightened, the rings clicking softly together as their fingers laced.

“Deal, shrimp.”

Outside, the antique clock gave a single, quiet hum—like it was finally, finally satisfied.

**

That weekend, the divorce papers stayed locked in the study drawer, untouched. The rings stayed on. And for the first time in months, the loft didn’t feel like a battlefield—it felt like home.

Saturday morning Chanyeol woke Baekhyun with soft kisses along his bare shoulder, the gold bracelet still on his wrist and the wedding band catching the sunlight.

“Get dressed, shrimp,” he murmured against his skin. “I’m taking you on a date. A proper one. The kind we never had time for before.”

Baekhyun’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. “The whole city? Future LA?”

Chanyeol grinned, already pulling him out of bed. “The whole damn city.”

They started with breakfast at a little Korean-fusion café in Koreatown—Chanyeol ordered for both of them like he’d done it a thousand times, and Baekhyun nearly cried when the tteokbokki tasted exactly like the street food he remembered from 2011, only better. “They still have this?!” he squealed around a spicy rice cake, making Chanyeol laugh so hard people turned to stare.

After that, Chanyeol drove them (in a sleek black electric car that drove itself half the time) all over the city like a personal tour guide.

Griffith Observatory first—because Baekhyun had always wanted to see the Hollywood sign up close. They stood on the overlook, wind whipping Baekhyun’s hair, Chanyeol’s arm slung around his waist as they looked out over the sprawling, glittering city.

“2011 me would lose his mind right now,” Baekhyun whispered, leaning back against Chanyeol’s chest. “This is insane.”

Chanyeol pressed a kiss to his temple. “2011 you is the one who dragged me here, technically. So thank him for me.”

They took selfies—hundreds of them—making stupid faces, kissing in front of the observatory dome, Chanyeol lifting Baekhyun bridal-style while he laughed and kicked his legs like a kid. The rings flashed in every photo.

Then Santa Monica Pier. They rode the Ferris wheel at sunset, the Pacific stretching out endless and pink-gold beneath them. Halfway up, Chanyeol pulled Baekhyun into his lap and kissed him slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant. When they got off, Baekhyun dragged him to the arcade and absolutely destroyed him at air hockey, yelling “Still got it!” while Chanyeol pretended to sulk and bought him a giant stuffed penguin as a consolation prize anyway.

Sunday was slower, softer.

They drove up the Pacific Coast Highway with the windows down, music blasting old 2011 playlists Baekhyun had demanded (“Big Bang still slaps, Yeol!”). They stopped at Malibu for lunch at a beachside shack, ate fish tacos with their feet in the sand, and Chanyeol kept feeding Baekhyun bites like he couldn’t stop touching him.

Later, they walked along Venice Beach—Baekhyun in sunglasses and one of Chanyeol’s oversized hoodies, looking every bit the tourist while secretly being the most important person in Chanyeol’s world. Street performers, muscle guys, rollerbladers—Baekhyun’s eyes were wide the whole time, pointing at everything like it was magic.

At one point he stopped dead in front of a mural of a giant clock and laughed so hard he had to hold onto Chanyeol’s arm.

“Even the universe is mocking us now.”

Chanyeol just pulled him close, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, “Let it mock. I’ve got you right here.”

By evening they were back at the loft, exhausted and sun-kissed, collapsed on the couch with takeout Thai food and a movie Baekhyun had never seen (some 2024 blockbuster that made zero sense to him). Baekhyun’s head rested on Chanyeol’s chest, fingers playing with the ring on Chanyeol’s hand.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” he admitted quietly. “Not when it feels like this.”

Chanyeol’s arm tightened around him, voice low and warm.

“Then don’t. Not until we’re ready. Both of us.”

He tilted Baekhyun’s chin up and kissed him—slow, sweet, full of promise.

The antique clock on the nightstand gave another soft, almost approving hum in the distance.

For the first time since the jump, Baekhyun believed—really believed—that when he finally went home, he wouldn’t be leaving anything broken behind.

He’d be leaving it better.

**

By Monday morning the loft felt different—lighter, warmer, alive again.

Chanyeol stood at the front door in his sharp navy suit, briefcase in one hand, the other cupping Baekhyun’s face as he kissed him slow and deep, like he was trying to memorize the taste.

“Text me when you get to the office,” he murmured against Baekhyun’s lips, thumb brushing the wedding band that now sat proudly on his finger again. “And don’t forget lunch. I’ll try to sneak out early if the merger call ends on time.”

Baekhyun smiled up at him, still in nothing but one of Chanyeol’s oversized button-downs, hair messy from last night’s activities. “I won’t forget. Go make that money, Mr. Park-Byun.”

Chanyeol’s eyes softened at the name. He stole one last kiss, then stepped out with a reluctant grin. “Love you, shrimp.”

The door clicked shut.

Baekhyun sighed happily, spinning once in the hallway like a lovesick idiot. He had twenty minutes before he needed to leave for the magazine. Enough time to shower, throw on one of adult Baek’s sleek outfits, and—

A low rumble of thunder rolled through the sky.

The lights flickered.

Baekhyun froze mid-step toward the bathroom. The antique clock on the nightstand began to hum—louder than it ever had before, gears spinning wildly, the same swirling engravings glowing faintly blue.

“No… not now—” His stomach dropped. “Not yet!”

Thunder cracked again, closer this time, shaking the windows. The air grew thick, electric, just like that stormy night in 2011.

Panic surged through him. He wasn’t ready. He needed more time—more mornings like this, more weekends, more of Chanyeol looking at him like he hung the stars.

But the pull was already starting, that sickening lurch in his gut, the room beginning to spin at the edges.

Baekhyun bolted to the kitchen island, grabbing the first thing he could find—a notepad and pen from the drawer. His hands shook as he scribbled as fast as he could:

“Future me —
 I fixed it.
 I wore our rings.
 I made him laugh again.
 I made him love us again.
 Don’t throw it away this time.
 Tell him every day that he’s still the same giant idiot I fell for in high school.
 And keep the clock safe.
 We’re going to be okay.
 — 2011 Baekhyun (the one who never stopped crushing on him)
 P.S. The toy box is in the study. You’re welcome.”

He tore the page off, folded it, and shoved it under the clock on the nightstand where adult Baek would definitely see it.

Thunder boomed again—so loud the windows rattled.

The room spun faster. Colors bled. Baekhyun felt himself being pulled backward, like gravity had flipped.

He clutched the edge of the nightstand, eyes stinging.

“Tell Yeol I love him—” he gasped, voice already fading. “Tell him I’ll see him in 2011… and make sure we get it right this time—”

A final crack of lightning flashed behind his eyelids.

Then everything went white.

Silence.

Adult Baekhyun Byun blinked awake in the same bed, same body, same loft.

But something was… different.

The sheets smelled like Chanyeol’s cologne mixed with sex and happiness. His left hand felt heavier. He lifted it—the weeding ring were back on his finger, warm and familiar, like they’d never left. The gold bracelet from Paris sat snug on his wrist.

He sat up slowly, heart hammering.

On the nightstand, the antique clock sat quiet for the first time in months.

And right beneath it, a folded note in handwriting that was unmistakably his… but younger. Messier. Full of hope.

Baekhyun’s fingers trembled as he opened it.

He read every word twice.

Then he laughed—soft, watery, relieved—pressing the note to his chest as tears slipped down his cheeks.

The front door beeped open.

Chanyeol’s voice called out, bright and warm like it used to be years ago.

“Baek? Babe, I forgot my charger—wait, why are you still in bed? You okay?”

Baekhyun looked up, eyes shining, the note still clutched in his hand.

He smiled, full and real and finally, finally at peace.

“Yeah, Yeol,” he answered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m more than okay.”

He slipped out of bed and walked straight into Chanyeol’s arms, burying his face in that broad chest, breathing him in like it was the first time all over again.

“I think… I just got the best second chance in the world.”

Chanyeol held him tighter, confused but already smiling, rings clicking softly together between them.

“Whatever it is,” he murmured into Baekhyun’s hair, “we’re keeping it this time.”

Outside, the thunder rolled away into the distance, the storm finally passing for good.

Adult Baekhyun clung to Chanyeol a moment longer, breathing him in, the note still crumpled warmly in his fist. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a little wet, but shining with something brand new—clarity, gratitude, and the kind of love that had been missing for too long.

“I’m back,” he said softly, voice steady. “The real me. And I remember everything.”

Chanyeol searched his face, then let out a shaky laugh and kissed him again—slow, deep, full of relief and promise. “Good. Because I missed you like hell.”

**

Baekhyun arrived at the magazine office that morning lighter than he’d felt in years. The sheer black mesh top he’d tried on during his “exploration” phase was now layered under a sharp blazer, the gold bracelet and both rings still on full display. He walked into the editorial meeting with a confidence that made Mina do a double-take.

“Baekhyun? You look… different. Glowy. Did that flu cure you with magic or something?”

He just grinned, sliding his laptop open. “Something like that.”

When it was his turn, he stood and pitched everything young Baekhyun had brainstormed over the week—the 2011 throwback street-style shoot, the K-pop nostalgia angle, the whole “Things 2011 Me Would Wear in 2026” spread. He spoke with the same bubbly enthusiasm young Baek had used, but now layered with five extra years of professional polish. The room went silent for a beat, then erupted.

Elena actually clapped. “This is brilliant. Fresh, fun, and commercial as hell. Where the hell did this come from?”

Baekhyun’s smile softened, thumb brushing the wedding ring on his finger.

“From someone who reminded me what it felt like to fall in love with the world again.”

He spent the rest of the day riding that high—approving mockups, texting Chanyeol silly selfies from the studio, feeling proud in a way he’d never expected. Proud of the awkward, lovesick fifteen-year-old who had jumped fifteen years into the future just to save them. Proud that kid had succeeded.

**

That night, Chanyeol came home just after nine, loosening his tie the second the door shut behind him. The loft smelled like the stir-fry Baekhyun had made (a much better attempt this time) and the sandalwood candle they used to burn on date nights.

“Baek?” he called, voice warm and tired.

“In here!”

Chanyeol stepped into the kitchen and stopped.

Adult Baekhyun stood at the island in one of his own soft white tanks and loose shorts, the gold bracelet gleaming on his wrist, the ring still proudly in place. He was plating dinner with a little hip sway, humming an old Big Bang song under his breath—the same one young Baek had blasted in the car that weekend.

Chanyeol’s briefcase hit the floor.

“You’re… really back,” he said, voice cracking just slightly.

Baekhyun turned, eyes sparkling. “Told you. The kid did his job.”

Chanyeol crossed the room in three strides and pulled him into a crushing hug, lifting him half off the ground. Baekhyun laughed, legs wrapping around his waist like muscle memory, arms looping around his neck.

“I read the note,” Chanyeol whispered into his hair. “Every word. He… he fixed us.”

“He did.” Baekhyun pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And now it’s our turn to keep it fixed. No more late nights that turn into weeks. No more forgetting why we fell in love. We do this right this time, Yeol. For him. For us.”

Chanyeol’s eyes were glassy when he nodded. “Deal.”

He kissed Baekhyun then—slow and sweet at first, then deeper, hungrier, hands sliding under the tank top to map warm skin like he was rediscovering every inch. Dinner was forgotten on the counter as Chanyeol carried him to the bedroom, rings clicking softly together every time their fingers laced.

Later, tangled and breathless under the sheets, Chanyeol traced the gold bracelet on Baekhyun’s wrist and whispered against his lips,

“Thank you, 2011 Baekhyun… wherever you are right now.”

Baekhyun smiled, pressing a kiss to the ring on Chanyeol’s finger.

“He’s probably waking up in his old bedroom, smiling at the ceiling, already planning how to ask you to prom.”

Chanyeol laughed softly, pulling him closer.

“Then let’s make sure that prom is one hell of a night.”

Outside, the antique clock sat quiet on the nightstand, gears still, engravings dark.

Its job was done.

The future was theirs to keep.

**

2011 – Seattle Suburbs

Baekhyun jolted awake with a gasp, heart hammering like he’d just sprinted the length of the basketball court.

His old room. The same creaky twin bed, the same faded Big Bang poster on the wall, the same pile of homework on his desk. Rain pattered softly against the window—the familiar Pacific Northwest drizzle that never quite stopped.

He sat up slowly, blinking at the gray morning light. His body felt… small again. Skinny arms, no defined chest, no gold bracelet on his wrist. The wedding ring was gone. Everything felt lighter. Younger.

But inside his chest there was this huge, warm, glowing thing—like he’d swallowed sunlight.

“A dream,” he whispered, voice cracking with sleep. “It was just a crazy dream…”

Except it didn’t feel like a dream.

He could still taste stir-fry and saltwater from the pier. Still feel big hands on his thighs, a deep voice growling “mine” against his neck. Still see the way Chanyeol’s eyes had looked at him when he slid that silver ring onto his finger.

Baekhyun scrambled out of bed so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. He yanked open his desk drawer, grabbed the first notebook he saw (the one with doodled “B + C” hearts on the cover), and flipped to a blank page.

His hand shook as he wrote:

“Time travel
 Antique clock
 2026 LA
 Married to Chanyeol
 Rings + bracelet
 Griffith Park sunset
 Toy box (don’t ask)
 He cooked for me
 We fixed it
 I fixed us
 Don’t mess it up this time
 Prom???
 I love him I love him I love him—”

The pen flew across the paper, words spilling out in messy, frantic handwriting. He wrote faster, desperate to trap every detail before it slipped away.

But the memories were already fading.

The sharp edges blurred first—the exact scent of Chanyeol’s cologne, the precise color of the sunset over the Pacific, the way the thick toy had felt stretching him open. Then the softer ones started dissolving too: the sound of Chanyeol’s laugh on the Ferris wheel, the warmth of his chest when they fell asleep tangled together, the look on his face when he read the note.

Baekhyun’s pen slowed.

He stared at the page, eyes stinging.

The words were still there, but they felt… distant. Like reading someone else’s diary. The vivid Technicolor movie in his head was turning into faded Polaroids, then watercolor smudges, then nothing but a soft, golden feeling left behind.

He dropped the pen.

“No… wait—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on, but it was like trying to grab smoke. The harder he reached, the faster it vanished.

By the time he opened his eyes again, all that remained was a warm, fuzzy certainty in his chest.

Something good was going to happen.

Something with Chanyeol.

He didn’t remember the future anymore. Didn’t remember the rings or the weekend dates or the way Chanyeol had moaned his name like a prayer.

But he remembered the feeling.

He remembered that he was loved.

And that he was going to love back—so hard it would rewrite everything.

Baekhyun closed the notebook gently, pressed it to his chest, and smiled at the ceiling, cheeks pink, heart full.

“See you soon, Yeol,” he whispered, just like he had in that other life.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

But somewhere, fifteen years away, two men wearing matching rings woke up smiling for no reason they could name.

And in this timeline, a fifteen-year-old boy with messy hair and doodles in his notebook had already started falling in love all over again.

This time, they were going to get it right.

FIN.