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The rice cooker sings its usual offbeat jingle just as Gi-hun sets the table, a goofy little melody that always makes him smile. It’s nothing fancy today—just two sets of chopsticks, mismatched plates, and a pair of bowls that used to belong to his mother. The air smells of sesame oil and soy sauce, a scent that sticks to the walls and clothes and makes the apartment feel lived-in.
Their place isn’t big, but it breathes comfort—worn-in, familiar. Two mugs left to dry by the sink. A magnet from Jeju shaped like a tangerine, pinning a postcard from New York to the fridge—Ga-yeong’s latest school trip.
It’s almost seven. In-ho is late. It's not unusual, but long enough for the silence to start tugging at Gi-hun’s nerves. Long enough for him to glance at the clock, then at his phone, then back again.
He busies himself with the side dishes instead. Kimchi, cucumber salad, lotus root with just enough sweetness. Nothing fancy—just good food, made with care. He wants tonight to feel special. Because In-ho has been working late shifts all week. Because Gi-hun misses him. Because he’s had this little envelope burning a hole in his pocket since noon.
The sound of the front door unlocking cuts through the quiet. Gi-hun’s breath catches a little.
He expects a greeting—maybe a tired “I’m home,” mumbled into the hallway. But instead, there’s the soft thud of boots dropped too fast, and then arms wrap around his waist from behind. Strong hands settle low, anchoring him. A breath—sharp, nearly shuddering—escapes In-ho as he folds himself into the curve of Gi-hun’s back, burying his face in the slope of his neck.
“You’re home,” Gi-hun murmurs, letting the spatula clatter gently against the stovetop. He doesn’t need to see In-ho’s face to know the shape of it—creased with tension, drawn tight around the eyes.
In-ho doesn’t answer. Just holds on. Too tight, almost. Like if he lets go, the world might slip through his fingers. His nose presses behind Gi-hun’s ear, and he breathes in deep.
“I missed you,” he whispers at last, voice rough and muffled.
Gi-hun reaches down, laces their fingers together. “Long day?”
A nod. Lips find the skin behind his ear—a kiss, soft as a sigh. Another. Then In-ho shifts lower, resting his cheek against Gi-hun’s shoulder blade.
Gi-hun smiles faintly as he realizes In-ho must’ve been standing on his tiptoes before, just to reach him.
Still, In-ho doesn’t let go. His service weapon, still strapped to his thigh, nudges lightly against Gi-hun’s hip.
Usually, In-ho won’t touch him like this until he’s out of the uniform—until the gun is locked away, his uniform swapped for sweatpants and bare feet. Nights like this only happen after a day that brushes too close to the edge.
Gi-hun resumes plating the meat, slower than before. He doesn’t mind being held like this. He likes the weight of In-ho’s affection when it gets too heavy for him to carry alone.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks, careful.
Silence. Then, “Not yet.” The arms around him tighten. “Later.”
Gi-hun nods. “Okay.” A pause. “Are you hurt?”
Another breath. In-ho presses closer, silent for a beat too long. Then, “No. Not injured.”
“Alright,” Gi-hun says, voice lightening, warm. “Then let me go, so you don’t starve.”
But In-ho doesn’t budge.
Gi-hun tilts his head back slightly, smirking. “Unless you want to eat at the stove. Or with me on your lap.” He throws it out half-teasing, expecting a scoff, a roll of the eyes. Some grumbled “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But In-ho is quiet.
Then—soft, almost shy—“Would you?”
The silence after hangs for a beat too long. Gi-hun blinks. Then something in his chest goes warm and slow.
“..Yeah,” he says, voice low now. “Yeah. I would.”
He turns in In-ho’s arms and presses a kiss to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. It’s brief, almost chaste, but something in In-ho loosens at the touch—his shoulders dipping, the tightness at the corners of his mouth easing.
“Just a second,” he whispers, reluctant, like stepping away will shatter this fragile thing. Still, he pulls back. His strides are brisk as he crosses the room, disappearing into the bedroom. When he returns, the jacket and gun are gone—stashed away somewhere safe, out of sight, out of reach.
A moment later, he’s sinking into the chair. Gi-hun follows, graceful and easy, settling sideways in In-ho’s lap like he belongs there. His legs drape across In-ho’s thighs, one arm looped loosely around his shoulders. In-ho’s hand finds his waist, fingers splayed gently, holding him without hesitation.
They eat like that—quietly, unhurried. In-ho assembles each bite with care: a slice of beef dipped in sauce, folded into lettuce, rice tucked just so. He lifts them to Gi-hun’s mouth one at a time, and Gi-hun leans forward to take each offering, lips brushing fingers, eyes never quite leaving In-ho’s.
Outside, the world murmurs—cars sighing in the distance, the faint buzz of neon. But here, everything is still. Held.
In-ho eats too, though slower, distracted. He chews with the absent focus of someone running on fumes, his body going through the motions while his thoughts drift elsewhere. Still, when his gaze drops to the plates between them, to the meal Gi-hun made, there’s a softness there. Like he’s memorizing this. Holding it inside.
____________________________________________________________
The sound of the shower fades behind the door, steam curling lazily out into the hallway. Gi-hun waits on the couch, legs tucked under him, his hands warm from the dinner dishes and his chest warmer still from the way In-ho had looked at him before slipping away to clean up—like he needed the water to wash off more than just the day.
When In-ho returns, he’s in sweatpants, a towel slung over his shoulders. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead in lazy strands, a few drops of water tracing the line of his jaw. His skin is flushed, still warm from the shower, but the heat doesn’t hide the marks he carries from his years on the job.
Thin, jagged scars crisscross his arms, each one a silent reminder of the dangers he’s faced—scratches from a scuffle, a deeper scar on his shoulder where he took a bullet years ago. The most recent one, barely healed, sits just below his ribs, near his kidney donation scar.
He crosses the room without a word and sinks down beside Gi-hun like gravity’s pulling him toward him. Gi-hun lifts the edge of the blanket without needing to be asked. In-ho slides under it, their shoulders brushing, knees touching. For a moment, they just breathe.
Then In-ho speaks.
“There was a call today,” he says, voice low, threaded with the weight of what he’s still carrying. “Attempted robbery. But when we got there—someone pulled a gun. Took a hostage. It escalated fast.”
Gi-hun’s hand stills where it rests on his arm.
In-ho swallows hard, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “He had it pointed at a kid. She couldn’t have been older than Ga-yeong.”
A breath catches sharp in Gi-hun’s throat. The room seems to contract, smaller somehow. Closer.
“I thought—” In-ho’s voice fractures. He hesitates, trying to make the words less real by not saying them. “Just for a second, I thought.. what if I didn’t make it back to you?”
The confession hangs there, fragile as porcelain.
He exhales through his nose, like the act might blow the moment away. But it doesn’t. Gi-hun turns toward him, cups his face with both hands. His thumbs stroke the damp skin beneath In-ho’s eyes.
“You did,” he says, gentle but sure. “You always come back home.”
In-ho blinks, the memory too vivid, still pressing on his ribs like a bruise. “I kept thinking about the last thing I said to you this morning. How we fought last night.” He shakes his head. “I left in a rush. Didn’t kiss you goodbye.”
The fight had been about something stupid. Dishes, maybe. Or laundry. One of those fleeting domestic storms that feel big in the moment but vanish in hindsight.
“I know,” Gi-hun whispers. “I’m sorry.”
In-ho closes his eyes and leans into his hands. “It scared me. More than usual.”
A silence settles between them, but it isn’t empty—it’s full. Of the day they almost didn’t get. Of everything left unsaid.
“I needed to touch you,” In-ho murmurs. “Just to make sure you were real. That I made it. That this—” his hands gesture weakly at the space between them, “—was still here.”
His hands slide down In-ho’s bare shoulders, still warm from the shower, and brush against the cool metal resting on his chest. The dog-tags clink softly beneath his fingers, his wedding band threaded on the same chain, glinting faintly in the low light.
Gi-hun’s thumb moves over them, slow and reverent. He’s touched them a hundred times before, but tonight it feels different—like a prayer.
In-ho exhales, shudders once, then wraps his arms around Gi-hun again. Tight. Desperate. Like the world might break apart if he lets go.
His face buries in Gi-hun’s shoulder. He doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t need to.
They curl together on the couch like two commas in the same sentence—In-ho’s legs stretched out, Gi-hun sprawled half across him, warm and lazy and content. The TV hums in the background, some action movie crackling with gunfire and dramatic strings. Neither of them is really watching—until Gi-hun perks up, eyebrows lifted in recognition.
“..Wait, I know this one,” he murmurs, squinting at the screen. “Isn’t this that action film with—oh, yeah. That guy. What’s his name again?” He snaps his fingers lazily. “Lee Byung-hun.”
In-ho stiffens almost imperceptibly beneath him. Gi-hun props his chin on In-ho’s chest, eyes flicking between the screen and his husband’s face.
“Man, he’s handsome,” Gi-hun says, almost dreamily. “Like, really handsome. You know he kinda looks like you?”
That gets a reaction.
In-ho’s body tenses beneath him, like steel pulled taut. His jaw tightens, lips pressed into a sharp line.
“No, he doesn’t,” he says flatly.
Gi-hun snorts, oblivious. “No, c’mon—he totally does. That same broody thing. You could be his twin if you tried.”
In-ho’s arm stiffens around him. “I said he doesn’t.”
Gi-hun glances up, blinking at the sudden shift. “Hey. Are you—”
In-ho grabs the remote and kills the TV in a sharp flash of black, tossing the remote aside without looking.
Then In-ho moves.
He grabs Gi-hun by the hips and pushes him down flat onto the couch with a controlled, breathless urgency. Gi-hun lands with a soft “oof,” eyes wide as In-ho follows, bracing himself over him, his face storm-dark.
“Don’t compare me to anyone else,” In-ho says, voice low, almost a growl. “Not even him. Especially not him.”
Gi-hun swallows, breath catching—not afraid, never afraid, but startled. Thrilled. His heartbeat trips over itself. “Are you actually jealous right now?”
“Yes,” In-ho snaps, and leans down, crowding into the space between them like he’s going to devour him.
Gi-hun breathes a shaky laugh. “That’s so— hot.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I.”
He moves with purpose, fueled by a jealousy that’s already beginning to splinter into something deeper—need, reverence. He kisses Gi-hun hard enough to leave them both breathless, the type of kiss that devours everything in its path. It’s all hands and mouths, clothes shoved aside, gasps swallowed into skin. For a time, the world narrows down to just them—heartbeat and breath and heat.
Later, when the fire ebbs into embers, they lie tangled in each other’s arms, bare and quiet, their skin cooling but their closeness still burning steady. The city beyond the windows is silent, as if holding its breath with them.
Gi-hun’s voice breaks the hush—quiet, like it’s been waiting for the right moment.
“There was a letter today,” he murmurs, lips brushing the hollow of In-ho’s throat.
In-ho tilts his head slightly, still catching his breath. “Hm?”
“From the agency.”
That draws him back fast. In-ho’s arms tense instinctively, his eyes suddenly sharp in the soft dark. “A response?”
Gi-hun shifts, reaching down to the floor where their clothes are strewn in careless trails. From the pocket of his discarded pants, he retrieves a slightly crumpled envelope and lays it on In-ho’s chest like an offering. “Didn’t open it without you.”
In-ho stares at it for a beat, then sits up, heart caught in the cage of his ribs. His fingers tremble a little as he pulls the paper free, unfolding it with all the care of a sacred thing.
Gi-hun watches him. Watches every flicker of his expression, the way his lips part, the way the words sink in slow and bright.
A long breath leaves In-ho’s lungs. He looks up, eyes shining.
“They approved the home study,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Gi-hun’s grin breaks like sunlight through clouds. “Told you they would.”
He doesn’t get another word out before In-ho’s pulling him in, cupping his face, kissing him with a fierce gratitude. Gi-hun kisses him back, laughter caught in his throat, hands curling into his shirt like he’ll never let go.
“They said we could start looking at profiles next month,” In-ho murmurs, their foreheads pressed together.
Gi-hun nods, his voice thick now. “Yeah. I know. I lied—I read it three times already while I was waiting for you.”
In-ho lets out a breath of a laugh, brushing a thumb along Gi-hun’s cheek, tender. “Of course you did.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have.”
“Maybe,” he says, kissing him again—gentler this time, but just as sure.
Gi-hun leans into him, lets his hands explore again, one resting at the base of In-ho’s neck, the other splayed across his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath. “You’re gonna be the most overprotective dad in history.”
“Damn right I will,” In-ho says, and this time his voice cracks openly. “They’ll never know danger. Not if I can help it.”
Gi-hun kisses him again, this time soft and lingering, then pulls away to rest his head against In-ho’s shoulder. “And they’ll never know anything but love. Not with you around.”
They sit like that for a while—quiet, holding hands, eyes on nothing. The future hums gently between them, a thing not yet formed but felt all the same. Gi-hun’s thumb strokes the back of In-ho’s hand in idle patterns, and In-ho watches him like he’s the entire sky.
And then, with hesitant tenderness, In-ho asks, “Do you think Ga-yeong would want to visit again soon?”
Gi-hun lifts his head slightly, enough to smile against In-ho’s jaw. “She’s been asking every time we talk. She’s always wanted a sibling, you know.”
“She’ll be the best big sister,” In-ho murmurs, a soft certainty in his voice.
____________________________________________________________
The night deepens outside the windows, city lights blinking like distant stars, each one a quiet promise of beyond. Inside, the room is dim, the soft hum of the city a gentle murmur against the silence that holds them. Gi-hun is already stretched out on the bed, sprawled diagonally like a cat with no regard for boundaries. One leg kicks out from under the blankets, his hair a tangled halo of red against the pillow. He scrolls through his phone, eyes lazily drifting toward the hallway as he hears the familiar sound of footsteps returning from their nightly circuit.
In-ho appears in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light from the hallway, still in his T-shirt and boxers, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s just been pulled from some distant thought.
"You check the locks again?" Gi-hun asks, amusement in his voice.
"I always do," In-ho replies, the words coming out half-apologetic, half-defiant. His gaze softens, betraying a tenderness that only Gi-hun would notice.
Gi-hun chuckles, settling back against the pillow. "What’d you think was gonna happen? Someone scaling the fourth-floor balcony to kidnap me?"
"You’re irreplaceable," In-ho says, his tone deadpan, but his eyes speak the truth behind the joke. "I’m not taking chances."
Gi-hun smiles, warmth spreading through him. He shifts to make room as In-ho slides in beside him, the familiar weight of his presence pulling at his chest. He tugs the blankets over them, and without hesitation, In-ho scoots in close, tucking himself into Gi-hun’s side like he belongs there.
Gi-hun reaches for him, his hand instinctively finding its place against In-ho’s chest. He tucks himself closer, feeling the steady rise and fall of In-ho’s breath, a rhythm that feels like home.
A few minutes pass, the only sound their quiet breathing, before In-ho breaks the stillness, his voice low and warm. “Jun-ho wants to host dinner this weekend. Said it’s his turn.”
Gi-hun hums, nuzzling closer, still half-drowsy. “What’s he cooking?”
“He found a recipe online,” In-ho chuckles, “Which means you’ll be doing the cooking, and he’ll be pretending to help.”
Gi-hun snorts softly. “Classic Jun-ho.”
It’s their little tradition—weekend dinners that rotate between apartments, half-baked recipes, and stories that feel like family. A small thing, maybe, but steady and real.
Gi-hun shifts, propping himself up on his elbow to look at In-ho, his eyes sleepy but full of something else, something soft. “I was thinking.. maybe we could tell him about the letter this weekend.”
In-ho meets his gaze, a quiet understanding passing between them. “Yeah, he’ll be happy for us.”
Gi-hun’s hand rests on In-ho’s chest, his fingers curling lightly against his skin. “He’ll be excited. You know how much he loves the idea of family.”
“I do.” In-ho nods, his thumb brushing over Gi-hun’s ring. “As do I.”
There’s a long pause, comfortable and easy, before Gi-hun shyly speaks again. “Our anniversary’s coming up. In a couple weeks.”
In-ho smiles, pressing a kiss into Gi-hun’s hair. “I know. I already booked that rooftop place you like—the one with the fairy lights, and the weird dessert with flowers on it.”
Gi-hun pulls back slightly, eyes big. “You didn’t!”
“I did.” In-ho grins, his voice soft but playful. “I like it when you wear a suit. Makes me think about our wedding.”
Gi-hun laughs, his eyes softening with affection as he presses his face into In-ho’s chest. “I still can’t believe we’re married sometimes.”
“I believe it every day,” In-ho murmurs, his thumb tracing the ring on Gi-hun’s finger. “Every time you steal the blankets I remember the oath I took.”
Gi-hun snorts, looking up at him with a playful glint in his eyes. “I do not steal the blankets.”
“Yeah, you do.” In-ho chuckles, pulling him in closer. “I’ll let it slide though, because I’m still trying to figure out how you ended up with me.”
Gi-hun smiles, his heart swelling in a way that feels almost too big for his chest. “I don’t know.. but I’m glad I did.”
In-ho’s hand tightens around him, and they lie there in the quiet, wrapped in the warmth of each other. The city continues to move outside, but inside, it’s just the two of them, a space that feels like home. Whatever the future holds, they know they’ll face it together—one quiet night, one small moment at a time.
“Hey, what do you think about adopting twins?”
“Gi-hun.”