Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Purple scars. Purple scars. Purple scars.

Bruises bloom across his skin like unwanted constellations. Sometimes he can’t help but think—if his body was meant to be a canvas for wonderful things, painted in beauty instead of pain, then why does the ache arrive uninvited? Why does it throb as if it belongs there?

Why did he choose to leave these bruises as they are, instead of covering them, instead of pretending they never happened?

They are proof.

Proof of something he went through. Proof of something he did to himself.

An evidence he does not know how to erase.

Purple scars. Purple scars. Purple scars.

They bloom underneath his skin in uneven shades of red and black, tangled together like something that went wrong. It is not pretty. It is not art. It looks like nerves struck in the wrong direction, like bleeding that never makes it outside. The more he stares at it, the more it feels like it deepens, as if attention alone feeds it.

Sometimes the pain is too much that it numbs itself. And when it does, he almost feels relieved.

But even when the feeling fades, the mark remains.

Even when it is only phantom, the pain still bleeds through.

Purple scars. Purple scars. Purple scars.

He has grown used to sitting on the stairs outside his door, keeping his breathing quiet, pressing his sleeve down so no one would see. He knows the routine by heart. The purple will turn green. The green will turn yellow. The yellow will fade.

That is how it is supposed to be.

But when was the last time he watched it fade completely?

Purple scars. Purple scars. Purple scars.

Purple, sometimes edged with red, sometimes brushed with blue. He thinks it would have been beautiful if it were only ink. If it meant something softer. If it meant someone.

Ink would mean his “fated one” was out there somewhere. Ink would mean that in this world, cruel as it can be, someone was meant to write on him gently instead of life marking him harshly.

Ink could be washed away with water. Even tears would blur it.

But no matter how much he cries, the purple does not disappear.

It should have.

It should have.

Purple scars. Purple scars. Purple… stars.

The star appears so suddenly that he almost thinks he imagined it.

A small purple star at the back of his hand, clean and deliberate. Not bruised. Not accidental. It looks like a stamp placed there with care, as if someone somewhere decided he deserved to see it.

As if it says, You’ve done well.

His tears stop before he notices. The tightness in his chest loosens in a way he cannot explain. After everything he has been feeling, after everything he has tried so hard to swallow quietly, maybe this is all he needed.

Purple ink, bleeding into his skin like a quiet kind of starlight.

In seventeen years of living, he has looked up at the night sky more times than he can count. Some nights felt heavy, colorless, almost suffocating. But tonight feels different.

There is one star that seems brighter than the rest.

And with a small, almost ridiculous laugh, he tilts his head back and asks—

“My soulmate… are you there?”

Soulmates are a reality people either cradle close to their chest or push away with trembling hands. There is no clean middle. You either love it, or you hate it—but love and hate are not opposites here. They exist independently. They coexist.

The love is easy to understand. The universe already decides who gets to be yours. Somewhere out there, someone is walking around with a piece of you written into their fate. The worst case is not heartbreak; it is not rejection, not even distance. The worst case is not knowing they ever existed. Or knowing they did, but too late—when they are already gone from this world before your time of meeting.

Most meet between fifteen and twenty. Old enough to know that the world is not kind, young enough to still believe it might be. Some are given more than one soulmate. Most are paired perfectly. And there are unfortunate cases who are given none at all. It is within this fragile age that you are still discovering yourself, still peeling back layers of who you are, and the universe decides, almost playfully: Why not let them discover the world with someone else too?

And because the universe insists on being creative, meeting one’s soulmate comes with ink.

Ink on skin.

Gunwook keeps staring at the back of his hand where the purple once bloomed. The space is blank now. Clean. Ordinary. As if nothing miraculous had ever touched it.

He would like to believe his soulmate did not erase it. At least, not immediately. He wants to believe the star faded the way ink is meant to fade—naturally, slowly. Because that is how it works. You can remove the ink your soulmate places on you, but removing yours will not erase theirs. Only when they choose to remove their mark will both disappear.

So Gunwook watched it fade.

The purple star stayed longer than a simple drawing should have. Longer than a bored sketch. Longer than a passing thought. Maybe, on that day, they both needed something small and gentle—a reminder stamped quietly onto skin: You are doing well. Very good. Keep going.

A simple star was enough to say that.

Gunwook has always been someone who observes carefully, quietly. He notices the way pages crease slightly. The way people hesitate before answering questions. The way ink settles into the faint lines of his own skin.

That star marked their day one.

And since then, there has been more.

His soulmate loves to draw roses.

Black ink curling into petals, precise and deliberate. Sometimes it is only one rose. Sometimes a small cluster. Sometimes simple hearts filled in completely, dark and unapologetic. The lines are confident, as if his soulmate never doubts his own hand. As if he draws often. As if he loves it.

Gunwook thinks his soulmate must love drawing in general—but perhaps he draws on skin because there is no canvas nearby. Because skin, after all, is a canvas too.

Right now, spirals are forming on the back of his hand. Ink looping into itself, lines leading nowhere and everywhere at once. They do not become anything recognizable, yet they are still beautiful. As if his soulmate is thinking while drawing, letting his mind wander and allowing his hand to follow.

Gunwook wonders if the spirals look better on his soulmate’s skin.

He has not written back.

Not even once.

The pen sits in his drawer, unused.

He has thought about it—about pressing ink into his own skin and knowing it would bloom onto someone else’s. He has imagined writing something simple. Hello. Or maybe drawing something small in return. But every time he hovers on the edge of doing it, something inside him tightens.

It is not that he dislikes the idea of a soulmate.

It is that it is too big.

Seventeen years of living without knowing who is meant to alter your life is one thing. Seventeen years of living and suddenly knowing that someone out there can reach you without touching you—that is another.

Ink feels harmless. But what it represents is not.

If he writes back, it becomes real.

And Gunwook is not sure he is ready for something that real yet.

He is not ready.

Seventeen years should be enough time to prepare for something the universe insists is inevitable. But seventeen is also all he has ever known. Seventeen is his entire existence—every mistake, every bruise, every quiet attempt at stitching himself back together. How can a lifetime feel both long and painfully short at the same time?

Maybe his soulmate does not need to meet him so soon.

Maybe his artist of a soulmate does not need to meet Gunwook yet. Not Gunwook who is still trying to fix his life piece by piece. Not Gunwook who rearranges his surroundings obsessively, straightening frames, organizing shelves, cleaning corners no one notices, as if making the outside better could slowly make the inside better too.

If he could polish the world around him, maybe he could become someone worth meeting.

Maybe seventeen is early.

Maybe his soulmate thinks so too.

Maybe he is just waiting for—

He exhales.

He is scared.

Out of all the excuses he arranges neatly in his head, fear is the only one that refuses to be disguised as anything else. He is scared of confronting the person fate has written for him. Scared of the word fate itself. What even is fate? A promise? A trap? A kindness disguised as inevitability?

And why does it feel so terrifying when all his soulmate has ever done is give him comfort?

The star had appeared on a day that felt unbearably heavy. The purple ink had stamped itself quietly against his skin, and his tears had stopped. His breathing had steadied. The dark had loosened its grip, even if only a little.

His soulmate did not know that.

The one drawing roses and spirals and hearts probably had no idea that somewhere, a boy sat on the stairs outside his door, muffling his own sobs, clutching at purple stars like they were lifelines.

And yet, ever since that moment, the stars in the sky look brighter.

Gunwook catches himself humming “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” some nights without realizing it. Like a lullaby meant for no one and someone at the same time.

He has started doodling stars in the margins of his notes more than necessary. On homework. On the edges of textbooks. On the corner of receipts. It is such a simple shape—a pentagon stretched into light. Almost careless.

But whenever his pen forms those five points, he cannot help but think of that specific purple star blooming against his skin. And it unsettles him how something so easy to draw could mean something so terrifyingly significant.

What does he even know about soulmates?

Everything he knows comes from books. Pages he can flip back to. Sentences he can reread until they feel safe and theoretical. He has no practical experience. No lived example he can observe up close.

No one his age has discovered theirs yet—not that he knows of. He seems to be one of the earliest. The only person he trusts who has a soulmate is his hyung, living almost a thousand kilometers away. Too far to knock on his door. Close enough to text.

Each passing day, the ink fades.

The roses soften. The spirals blur. The lines grow faint until they are only ghosts of what they were. And as he watches them disappear, guilt rises slowly from somewhere deep inside his lungs, climbing upward until it presses against his throat.

His soulmate keeps reaching out.

And he keeps staying silent.

The imbalance feels heavier than fear.

So before he can overthink it—before he can list reasons, rearrange doubts, convince himself to wait a little longer—he grabs his phone.

Because if he allows himself another minute, he might close the drawer again. He might let the pen remain untouched. He might let the fading ink become an excuse.

His fingers hover only for a second before he types:

Hanbin-hyung, can I ask you something?

Okay, he is exaggerating.

When he said his Hanbin-hyung lived a thousand kilometers away, it sounded more tragic than it actually was. Hanbin only lives in another city. Still the same country, same sky. Just far enough that spontaneous visits are impossible.

Hanbin and his soulmate decided to live together the moment they could. Gunwook remembers the way his hyung said it so simply: Of course we’re moving in together. As if fate, once accepted, becomes something gentle.

Right now, Gunwook is staring at his phone screen where Hanbin’s face takes up far too much space. His hyung’s head looks comically big because he insisted on bringing Gunwook along while they grocery shop. The camera shakes every few seconds as the cart rolls forward.

In the corner of the screen, Hao appears briefly, reaching to pick up a small bunch of grapes.

“Gunwook,” Hanbin says, adjusting the phone slightly so his face is centered again. “Why have you called? Is there something wrong?”

It is a valid question.

They do not usually call at this hour. Saturdays are for rest, or at least pretending to rest.

“…I’m about to do something,” Gunwook answers, eyes flickering down to his own reflection on the screen. “And I might need your advice on it.”

Hanbin’s expression shifts immediately. Softer. Knowing.

“If it’s about your mark,” he says, lowering his voice even though the grocery store hums around him, “I’ve been talking to you about it for a while. I told you—if you really want to do something, think about it for a week. Just a week.”

The wheels of the cart roll in the background. Hao’s voice drifts in faintly, asking something about cereal.

Hanbin continues, “It’s been a month now, Wook-ah. Are you ready?”

Gunwook swallows.

The question feels heavier spoken out loud.

He looks down at his hand resting on his desk. The skin is clean now, with no trace of previous drawings to be found. He presses his thumb lightly against the back of it, as if testing whether the ink might reappear under pressure.

He is still not ready.

“Hyung, what if… umm…”

“What if what?” Hanbin asks gently.

“What if I write something and it changes everything?”

Hanbin smiles a little at that. “It will change everything.”

Gunwook’s heart stutters.

“But,” Hanbin adds, shifting the phone so they pass through the produce section, “everything is going to change anyway. Whether you write or not.”

That is unfairly wise.

“Wook-ah,” Hanbin says again, more serious now. “What do you want to say to your soulmate? Let’s start from there.”

Gunwook stares at his hand.

What does he want to say?

Not an essay. Not a confession. Not something poetic like the roses he receives.

“…Hi.”

Hanbin’s smile widens, not mocking. Just fond.

“‘Hi’ is good,” he says.

Gunwook lets out a small breath that almost becomes a laugh.

“Do you have a pen with you?”

“Mhmm.” The sound leaves him unconsciously, because his fingers are already tightly wrapped around the black pen on his desk. He does not remember picking it up, but it has been there the entire time, pressed against his palm like it belongs there.

“Okay,” Hanbin says. “Tell me when you do it. I’ll stay on the line.”

The phone rattles suddenly.

“Wait—Gunwook, hold on.” Hanbin turns the screen briefly toward Hao. “My phone’s dying.”

“You said you charged it,” Hao mutters in the background.

“I did! I think.” Hanbin sighs dramatically before turning back to the camera. “Okay, Wook, if it dies, just call me back, okay? Or I’ll call you. Don’t overthink it.”

“Hyung—”

The screen freezes for half a second.

Then it goes black.

Gunwook stares at his own reflection in the dark screen.

“…Hyung,” he finishes quietly, though there is no one to hear it.

Silence fills his room.

Alright, fine. Another excuse.

Another perfectly reasonable interruption handed to him by the universe. A technical difficulty. A dying battery. A sign, maybe, that today is not the day.

He sets the black pen down.

He could wait until Hanbin calls back.

He could wait another week.

Another month.

Another year.

No.

If he waits for the perfect moment, he will never do it.

He reaches into his pencil case instead and pulls out a different pen.

Purple.

The color feels important. Intentional. Not accidental like black ink.

His hand trembles only slightly as he uncaps it.

He does not write Hi.

Not yet.

Instead, slowly, carefully—because he has drawn this shape so many times—he draws a star on the back of his hand.

Five points.

Clean lines.

A little uneven on the last stroke, but still recognizable.

The purple blooms against his skin, bright and deliberate.

He stares at it.

His heart pounds louder than it should for something so small.

‘I hope this reaches you,’ he thought as the ink began to settle. 

The simple act of writing drains him more than he expected.

It was only a star. Only a few words beneath it. But it feels as though he has run a marathon with his heart instead of his legs. His thoughts blur at the edges, the adrenaline fading into something heavy and warm, and before he realizes it, he is lying on his bed—still in the same clothes, purple ink drying quietly on his skin.

He does not remember closing his eyes.

He only remembers opening them.

The sky outside his window is dark.

For a split second, he does not know what day it is, what time it is, or where he is suspended between. His room is washed in blue-black shadows. The air feels thicker after an afternoon sleep—good, yet jarring. It is always like that. Rest that feels earned but leaves behind a dull headache as proof.

And the first thing—

The first thing he looks for—

Is his hand.

His heart wakes up before the rest of him does.

He lifts it toward his face, breath still uneven from sleep.

The purple star is still there.

And beneath it—

There is something new.

The handwriting is not his.

“SORRY.”

His stomach drops.

Below it, in slightly smaller letters:

“I didn’t know.”

He stares at the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something else if he blinks hard enough.

Of course his soulmate did not know.

Of course.

How would they? Park Gunwook has been silent for months. Watching roses bloom, and yet offering nothing back. Too much of a coward to let his presence be known. Too hesitant to disturb the fragile connection that already existed.

It took him months just to say Hi in the smallest way possible.

And now this.

Sorry.

I didn’t know.

His soulmate apologizing for something that was never their fault.

A part of him twists painfully at that. Because if anyone should be sorry, it should be him. Months may be short in the grand scheme of a lifetime, but in something as delicate as this, every moment feels significant. Every day of silence feels heavier in hindsight.

There is a selfishness in him he cannot ignore—the part that let their connection remain one-sided for so long. The part that wanted to receive comfort without offering anything in return.

And yet.

Despite everything.

His soulmate replied.

They saw him.

They acknowledged him.

He does not write anything back immediately. He lets the words sit there between them. Lets the ink settle into his skin and into his chest. The recognition alone feels overwhelming in the best way. To be noticed by someone he already feels inexplicably close to—someone he has never met, yet thinks of when he looks at the stars.

It is more than enough.

A smile spreads across his face before he can stop it. Wide. Uncontained. Almost boyish.

This is their first real interaction.

Not just drawings. Not just silent art.

Words.

Now the want to know more surges stronger than before.

What is their name?

What do they like, besides drawing roses and stamping stars onto skin?

Do they hum songs when they are alone? Do they stare at the sky too? Do they think about him as much as he has started thinking about them?

Most importantly—

Will they like him?

The thought makes his stomach flutter in a way that feels unfair. He has barely taken the first step and already he is worrying about whether he will be enough. Whether the real him—awkward, hesitant, still patching up the stray pieces of his life—will match whatever image his soulmate might have built in their mind.

He almost laughs at himself.

All this over a star and two apologies.

Oh, what love—or the possibility of it—can do to this poor, poor soul.

A knock interrupts his spiral of thoughts.

He knows it is his mother immediately. There is a specific rhythm to the way she knocks. Or maybe it is simply that her footsteps are a little louder than his father’s. The three of them are the only ones in this house; he has memorized the sounds of both.

“Gunwook, can I come in?”

His voice comes out rough when he answers, dry from sleep and disuse.

“It’s open.”

Not quite yes. Not quite no.

The door creaks.

His mother stands at the entrance, the hallway light behind her outlining her figure in gold against the darkness of his room. The contrast makes him squint slightly, his headache pulsing faintly from the abrupt wakefulness.

“Can I come closer?” she asks gently.

She never used to ask.

She would just come in, sit on his bed, smooth his hair back without hesitation. It used to be second nature. Something unquestioned. Something warm and automatic.

Now she asks.

And that subtle shift settles quietly in his chest.

She never had to ask.

He nods anyway, head still hazy—not only from sleep, but from the ink on his skin, from the apology written there, from the fragile thread that now undeniably connects him to someone else.

The star is still bright.

When he feels the mattress dip beside him, the foam sinking deeper under her weight, his mother begins speaking about ordinary things.

Small things.

Safe things.

As if she is laying down soft ground before stepping somewhere more fragile.

“You know I was knocking earlier and you wouldn’t answer,” she says lightly. “I figured you were asleep. You always sleep so deeply in the afternoons.”

He nods.

“And your hyung called too. He seems to be doing well. He talked for so long your father had to remind him to let me hang up.”

Gunwook hums in acknowledgement. Nods again. Lets the conversation move like it usually does—easy, unhurried. There is no nervousness in him. No alarm bells ringing. It is just him and his mother sitting in a dim room that still smells faintly of sleep.

Then she says it.

“You have nice writings on your skin.”

His breath stills for half a second.

She says it gently. Not accusing. Not prying.

“You already have a soulmate, huh.” There is wonder in her voice. A softness that makes him look down at his hand instinctively. “To think that you’re already old enough to have a soulmate.”

She studies the ink—the purple star, the unfamiliar handwriting that is clearly not his.

“Do tell me when you are to meet them, okay?” she adds, reaching for his hand.

Her fingers wrap around his, warm and slightly restless, as if she herself does not know what to do with the idea that her son now belongs partly to someone else in a way she cannot see.

“Okay,” he answers.

It comes out quiet. Automatic.

She squeezes his hand once more before asking, almost carefully, “Are you happy?”

The question startles him more than the rest.

Happy?

“I just want you to be happy,” she continues, voice dipping softer.

Why now? he wonders. What pushes her to ask these questions today, of all days? Why does it feel like she has been holding them in for a while?

She exhales slowly.

“Truthfully,” she begins, eyes still on his hand, “I always knew what those bruises were.”

His chest tightens.

“A mother always knows.” She attempts a small laugh. “You bruise too easily. You inherited that from me, after all.”

He lets out a breath that trembles despite himself.

“But you would keep the traces for as long as you could,” she continues, her tone no longer teasing. “Most of the time, you would hide them. Hoodies in summer. Long sleeves when it was too warm.”

Her voice wavers.

“I didn’t know what I could do.”

Something inside him fractures at that.

“Then I noticed how the bruises would fade,” she says, swallowing, “and there were drawings instead. Ink. You tried to hide them too, but you kept looking at them. As if you were afraid that if you didn’t look long enough, they would disappear before you had the chance to memorize them.”

She smiles through tears now.

“You were smiling, Gunwook. My baby was smiling.”

The words undo him.

“So how can I not be happy for him?”

The hug happens without announcement.

She pulls him into her, and it is so warm—so impossibly warm—that something in him gives way all at once. The walls he has carefully maintained, the quiet composure, the attempts at handling everything on his own—they collapse under the weight of her arms around him.

His tears come fast.

Too fast.

His head pounds from the sudden rush of it, breath breaking in uneven sobs. He buries his face into her shoulder, and he can feel the fabric of her shirt dampen just as his hoodie does.

Out of all days to have this conversation, it has to be today.

Today, when he has already written for the first time.

Today, when his soulmate has written back.

Today, when his heart is already stretched too thin with fear and hope and longing.

He cries harder.

He does not even know what he is crying for anymore. For the bruises she noticed but did not mention. For the guilt he has been carrying. For the relief of being seen. For the warmth of ink and the warmth of his mother’s arms overlapping in the same evening.

He does not know how long he cries.

Time dissolves.

All he knows is that every part of him feels like it is screaming—screaming to be released, to be understood, to finally exhale after holding his breath for years.

And in her embrace, for the first time in a long time, he lets himself.

“I’ll go freshen up.”

It is the excuse he gives when his mother finally stands and says dinner is ready. That had been her initial goal all along—to tell him the food is prepared and only Gunwook is missing from the table. Somehow it turned into tears and confessions and hugs that left both of them shaken.

He guesses food tastes better when tears are mixed into it anyway.

Makes it memorable, he thinks with a small, laughable huff to himself.

Now he is standing in the bathroom, the door closed behind him, fluorescent light too honest above his head. He stares at himself in the mirror.

His eyes are red. Not subtly red. Obviously red. The kind that tells anyone who looks that he has just been crying. His cheeks are flushed, nose slightly pink, lashes still damp.

He presses his lips together.

He tries so hard not to cry most of the time. He is already grown, isn’t he? Seventeen is not a child anymore. Seventeen should be composed.

And yet.

He is very much a crybaby.

He continues staring at himself longer than necessary. Too long. His gaze turns unfocused, mind drifting somewhere between embarrassment and quiet acceptance, when something catches his attention.

There is writing on his neck.

Black ink.

He blinks once, twice, leaning closer to the mirror as if it might disappear.

‘ROLEMODEL.’

It is written in a fancy script, the letters curved and deliberate, elegant in a way that feels intentional. The ink rests just below the line of his jaw, visible enough to be seen, hidden enough to be intimate.

It is so pretty.

So pretty against his skin.

Is his soulmate practicing fonts now?

The thought makes something warm bloom in his chest. Gunwook does not mind at all. In fact, he finds it beautiful. If his soulmate’s handwriting looks like this, then Gunwook is certain his soulmate himself must be just as beautiful as his works.

Right.

He did not take a picture earlier.

The realization hits him suddenly. In the storm of emotions, he forgot to document it.

He likes documenting things.

Moments that matter. Evidence that something real happened. Because what if he forgets one day? What if memory softens the details too much? A photo makes it concrete. A proof that it was there.

He leaves the bathroom in a hurry, padding back into his room to grab his phone, then returns just as quickly. The light flickers slightly when he re-enters, as if reacting to his urgency.

He takes a picture of the back of his hand first—even though the ink there is already faint from earlier washing and time. Then he angles his phone carefully for a mirror selfie, tilting his chin just enough so that ‘ROLEMODEL’ is visible along his neck.

He studies the photo.

He really does look good with it, huh.

There it is—that random burst of self-love he sometimes gets when staring at himself in the mirror. A near-narcissistic appreciation. He likes his jawline at this angle. Likes the way the script curves along his skin. Likes the softness in his expression that he rarely notices in candid moments.

But it is complicated.

Because when he is alone for too long, the mood can drop just as fast. He can go from admiring himself to picking apart every flaw, becoming one of the most pessimistic beings on planet Earth. The relationship he has with himself is never steady. It is a constant negotiation.

Still, he has learned to handle himself well enough.

At least, that is what he likes to think.

He takes pictures because once he washes it away, the ink will fade. There will be no evidence left. Skin returns to being only skin. Blank. Unmarked.

This will be remembrance.

He spends at least five more minutes simply looking at himself. Tilting his head. Tracing the air just above the letters without touching them.

Then he turns on the shower.

The water is lukewarm, just the way he likes it. Not too hot to sting. Not too cold to shock. It falls over his shoulders and down his spine, grounding him back into his body.

He watches as the water runs over the back of his hand first.

The purple star softens immediately, bleeding at the edges. The black apology blurs, ink surrendering to gravity. The colors mix with the water and slide down into the drain in thin streams of violet and grey.

It is oddly beautiful.

Purple and black swirling together before disappearing.

His skin becomes blank again. A clean expanse. Another canvas waiting for something new.

It is bittersweet watching it fade so easily. But he reminds himself—it is not the end. It is only the beginning of their interaction. Ink fading does not mean connection fading. It simply means there will be more.

He tilts his head under the spray, letting the water run over his neck.

He expects the same thing.

But when he glances at the mirror fogging up slowly from steam, the word is still there.

‘ROLEMODEL.’

The letters remain sharp. Untouched.

He frowns slightly.

Maybe it needs more time.

He stays under the water longer than necessary. He would not mind staying here forever, honestly. The bathroom floor looks oddly comfortable right now. His eyelids feel heavy from all the crying earlier. His body feels wrung out, like a towel twisted too tightly.

He could sit down.

He could sleep here.

But no.

Food is best enjoyed warm, just like water. And he should not make them wait any longer.

He turns the water off.

Dries himself slowly.

When he steps out and faces the mirror again—because it is instinct at this point, because the mirror is right there—he freezes.

The word is still there.

‘ROLEMODEL.’

Not smudged. Not faded.

Untouched by water.

He lifts his fingers and lightly traces near it, careful not to smear it, half-expecting it to come off onto his skin.

Nothing.

Maybe it is written with a permanent marker.

He tells himself it probably just needs three washes. Ink can be stubborn sometimes. It is not like he actively wants to remove it anyway.

He looks at it one more time.

And decides he will let it stay.

For as long as he likes.

The ink is very durable.

That is what Gunwook concludes after two full days of glancing at his neck in every reflective surface he passes. The word ROLEMODEL remains exactly as it was—sharp, elegant, unwavering. It survives showers. It survives sleep. It survives the collar of his uniform brushing against it absentmindedly.

Okay, but really—what kind of ink is his soulmate using?

Two days.

Two days since that word appeared.

Two days since the last writing.

And nothing.

His dearest soulmate has not contacted him again.

He tells himself he is not spiraling. He is only… concerned. There is a difference. Concern is calm. Rational. Spiral is dramatic.

He is only slightly worried.

Maybe his soulmate is busy. That is the logical explanation. People have lives. Classes. Responsibilities. Perhaps even their own overthinking sessions.

The positive side of him says his soulmate is shy.

The negative side whispers that maybe that was it. The first and final interaction. A polite apology. A gentle retreat.

No.

Gunwook decides he prefers the shy theory.

If he had known his soulmate would be this shy—shy like him—he would have made the first move months ago. He would have written something sooner. Something braver. Because truly, what does his soulmate have to be shy about? The drawings are beautiful. The roses, the spirals, the careful script on his neck—Gunwook likes looking at them. He admires them more than he probably should.

Maybe he should say that directly.

Yes.

That would be a good start.

So he picks up a pen.

Not to draw this time.

To write.

On the back of his hand, in careful strokes, he writes:

“Hello!”
“I like your doodles ^-^”

He stares at the words.

Why is he shaking?

It is only ink. Only skin. Only a message.

But his hand trembles so badly he almost ruins the smiley face. His fingers feel unfamiliar, as if he has never held a pen before in his life. His palms grow clammy. His pulse jumps into his throat.

This is ridiculous.

He is not in danger. There is no predator. No impending disaster. It is simply the natural human response to distress—except the “distress” is writing to his soulmate.

He presses his lips together and exhales slowly, as if that might calm the tremor.

Before he can even begin waiting for a response—before he can doom himself to staring at his skin for the next hour—he forces himself to focus elsewhere.

Assigned reading.

Twenty-six pages.

Only twenty-six.

So why does it feel endless?

He reads the same paragraph once. Twice. Three times. By the eighth attempt, the words blur together. He knows he is supposed to be understanding something important, something foundational about Aristotle and the study of the soul.

The soul.

Of course it has to be Aristotle today.

He almost laughs at the irony.

Is there no philosopher who specializes in soulmates? In ink and fate and ridiculous cosmic timing? He would gladly read that instead of case studies and metaphysical definitions that feel too broad to apply to his very specific situation.

His eyes drift down to the back of his hand every few seconds.

Nothing new.

His classmates usually mind their own business. They are not the type to pry. But the moment someone notices the writing on his skin—writing that is clearly not Gunwook-like, not his usual neat practicality—curiosity spreads like wildfire.

Soulmates are public interest.

“Congrats,” someone says casually as they pass his desk.

“Wow, finally,” another adds, grinning.

He nods politely.

“Thanks,” he repeats to every well-wisher.

Thanks for what exactly? For being bonded? For finally participating in something everyone else expects to happen anyway?

He keeps it simple.

Thanks.

He flips the page of his book.

Finally.

Finally past that never-ending paragraph that felt like it stretched into eternity. The rustle of paper feels like a small victory.

As a reward—because he deserves at least that much—he glances down at his hand.

And his breath catches.

There is something new.

The ink is fresh. Slightly darker than before.

“hi”
“sorry”

He stares at it longer than necessary.

His soulmate replied. Again apologizing.

For what? For taking two days? For existing? For breathing?

Gunwook doesn’t understand what there is to be sorry about, so he asks the simplest question he can manage.

“Why”

There’s a pause—brief, but long enough for his heart to begin making its own assumptions.

“haven’t you seen?”

Seen what?

Was he supposed to see something? Did he miss a sign? A hidden meaning? Another word somewhere on his skin that he failed to notice because he was too busy staring at himself like some self-absorbed fool?

“your neck”

His neck.

Gunwook instinctively reaches up, fingertips brushing over the place just below his ear where the ink rests like something sacred. What was on his neck is beautiful. The script is elegant. It looks intentional in a way that makes it feel permanent even if it wasn’t meant to be.

What could possibly be wrong with it?

Is he feeling guilty because he used stronger ink? Because it didn’t wash away like the others?

“it's pretty”

The reply comes so fast it almost startles him.

“NO.”

The boldness of it makes his shoulders stiffen.

“it's a tattoo T-T”
“I'm sorry”

A tattoo.

A tattoo?

Gunwook blinks at his reflection in the screen of his phone, fingers pressing harder against the letters as if they might suddenly confess something else under pressure. Was he even allowed to have a tattoo? Technically? Morally? Cosmically?

But then again, who would even know?

It isn’t strange for them to have writing appear on their skin. It’s common. It’s expected. Ink is part of their existence. And besides, the only people this truly concerns are him and the person on the other side of this invisible thread.

“are you still there?”
“we could have it removed IM SORRY”

The words form rapidly, urgently, crawling across his skin as if panic itself has turned into ink. The strokes overlap slightly near his forearm because they are written too quickly, too desperately. It reaches past his elbows now, climbing toward his biceps, as if his soulmate thinks that if he writes enough apologies, they might stack into forgiveness.

Gunwook just watches.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“we could have it removed if you don’t like it.”

Removed.

The idea settles strangely in his chest.

“|”

He writes a single vertical line.

It is meant to be a “No.”

He considers elaborating.

No, it’s fine.

No, I like it.

No, I want it to stay.

No, I don’t mind carrying something you chose for me.

But he stops himself.

If he says too much too early, it might scare the other person away. Or worse—it might reveal how quickly he grows attached to things that feel like affection.

Instead, he chooses something steadier. Something foundational.

“Before any of that, I'd like to know who you are.”

His heart is thumping so loudly it feels like it might imprint its rhythm onto his ribs permanently. His cheeks warm, the heat spreading to the tips of his ears. It’s ridiculous how flustered he is over words written in ink.

I want to get to know you more.

The thought slips into his mind before he can stop it, soft and helpless.

“OMG”
“081944419752”

Gunwook stares.

What?

Why is he giving him his contact number at a time like this? Is this panic? Is this overcompensation? Is this what someone does when they think they’ve ruined everything beyond repair?

“Not that.
Your Name.”

There is silence.

By now, his entire left upper limb is covered in writing. Apologies layered over questions, urgency overlapping with hesitation. It feels intimate in a way that’s hard to describe—like someone’s thoughts have physically chosen him as their landing place.

And then, as if the hand writing it is shaking, his wrist tingles. Wobbly, uneven letters appear, as though the person on the other end is too nervous to keep a steady grip on his pen—perhaps because his soulmate is writing with their less-dominant hand. 

Shen Quanrui.

Gunwook exhales.

It’s pretty.

Even the name is pretty.

He traces the characters lightly with his fingertip, not enough to smudge, just enough to feel the presence of it. He’s already far too gone—finding his soulmate adorable in every small action, in every typo, in every frantic apology. Somehow more beautiful than the star he saw that night, the one that felt like it belonged only to him.

Park Gunwook.

He writes his own name just below it, careful with each stroke. Steadier than he feels.

Now it isn’t a mystery anymore.

Now it’s reciprocal.

Shen Quanrui.
Park Gunwook.

That’s a start.

Shen Quanrui.

Shen Quanrui.

Shen Quanrui.

Is he even pronouncing it correctly in his thoughts? Does it matter if he isn’t, as long as he means it gently?

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, before his conscious mind catches up to his subconscious one, he looks down at the open page of his book and sees Quanrui’s name is written there too. Encircled. And around it, small stars scattered in uneven constellations. He must have written it absentmindedly. Or maybe not absentmindedly at all.

Maybe the stars are meant to revolve around something greater than themselves.

“Eomma, what would you do if I have a tattoo?”

He says it in the middle of dinner that same day—the day everything shifted quietly beneath his feet. The words come out almost casual, almost light, like he’s asking about the weather, but his chopsticks pause mid-air anyway.

The writing that once covered his entire left upper limb has already faded. His arm had been too full of black ink earlier, apologies and urgency layered over each other until it looked almost overwhelming. Water and time erased those easily enough.

But their names stayed.

He made sure of that.

It feels too precious to let disappear so soon.

He wouldn’t admit how many photographs he’s taken of his wrist—different angles, different lighting, with and without flash. If it were physically possible, he would frame it. A miniature frame fitted perfectly over that small stretch of skin, glass protecting the ink like it’s a museum piece.

But of course, that’s absurd.

He’ll have to wash it eventually.

“You’re asking me what would I do if you have a tattoo?” his mother replies, emphasis placed somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Yes.”

He keeps his voice steady.

“Do you like to have one?”

“I already have one. But it’s not mine.”

There’s a small silence at the table. The kind that isn’t tense, just curious.

“Okay,” she continues calmly. “Do you like it?”

He hesitates—not because the answer is unclear, but because saying it aloud makes it real.

“Well… umm yes. It’s pretty. It looks pretty on mine but it surely looks better on my soulmate, yeah.”

He doesn’t know why he adds that last part. Maybe to make it lighter. Maybe to deflect from how much it actually means to him.

“Would you like to keep it?”

The question lands gently, but it presses somewhere deeper than expected.

“It’s just that I don’t hate it, that Quanrui had it, but I—”

He inhales sharply, chest tightening in that familiar way when his feelings start outrunning his thoughts. He tries to organize them. Sort them. Make them presentable before offering them to the world.

“I… I do want to keep it.”

There. It’s out.

He stares down at his rice for a second longer than necessary.

“It’s not as if it is such a surprise to me. I have already seen it. I just didn’t know it was a tattoo. I didn’t know it would be so… permanent.”

That’s the word.

Permanent.

Maybe the whole soulmate concept isn’t as dire as people dramatize it to be. Maybe it isn’t some suffocating prophecy. But permanence is different. Permanence settles into the bones. Permanence feels heavier than ink that fades under warm water.

And having something etched onto his skin while he was asleep—without knowing—makes the reality sink a little too deeply inside him.

Why that moment?

Why while he was sleeping?

Why not tell him first?

He realizes, almost immediately, that he could simply ask.

He could write it down. He could ask Quanrui directly instead of spiraling in quiet hypotheticals.

He breathes again, deeper this time. Takes a sip of water because his throat suddenly feels dry. The coolness helps.

He takes another bite of his meal—sweet and sour pork glazed perfectly, white steaming rice soft and warm, egg drop soup gentle against his tongue.

Delicious.

He refuses to let his mood turn sour just because his thoughts are. The food is warm. The table is warm. The moment is warm. He holds onto that.

“It looks good, right?” he asks finally, gathering just enough courage to let the vulnerability show.

“Yes,” his mother answers without hesitation, smiling at him the way she always has. “It looks very beautiful on you.”

Beautiful.

He tells himself often not to mind what others say. Not to rely on validation. Not to hinge his self-worth on passing comments.

But maybe—just maybe—a deeper part of him has been craving exactly that all along. To be told directly that something about him is beautiful. To not always feel like he’s performing responsibility. To not always feel like everything he does is simply expected of him.

It feels different when someone you love says it.

It feels real.

He looks down at his wrist again.

The name resting there.

Because that’s just who he is—a living contradiction.

When they start talking outside of their skin—wait, that sounds incredibly wrong, but that is quite literally what it is—when they move, for the sake of convenience and sanity, to their phones, it becomes a steady stream of words. No more worrying about limited space on forearms. No more calculating how much ink can fit before it reaches the elbow. No more hesitating before showering because the water might erase something important.

Now, messages don’t fade unless deliberately deleted.

They don’t even use their actual phone numbers, even if Quanrui had already given his in a panic that one time. Gunwook learns that Quanrui lives in China, and he himself in Korea. Two different countries. Two different time zones. Two different lives that somehow intersect through ink and now Wi-Fi.

As for language, strangely enough, neither of them questions why they’re using English. It simply happens.

It’s easier. Neutral ground. A bridge neither of them owns but both can cross.

Ricky—because that is the name he asks Gunwook to call him by, even though the soft syllables of Quanrui still linger in Gunwook’s thoughts like something delicate and sacred—had reasoned it out one night.

“What if my soulmate was from another country?” he had typed. “It would be easier to just introduce myself that way.”

Logical. Practical.

Gunwook had pretended not to overthink how thoughtful that was.

So instead of international calls that cost more than they should, instead of awkward dialing codes and the fear of parents overhearing foreign numbers, they exchange contacts through social media. That’s what technology is for, isn’t it? To make processes easier. To shrink distances that once felt insurmountable.

It’s not like they’re living in the stone age, relying on messenger birds or lighting enormous fires on mountaintops just so another village can see the smoke and think, Ah, someone is signaling us. And from what old soulmate records say, back then only soulmates had that effortless communication. Everyone else had to endure silence and distance.

Perhaps that’s why technology evolved the way it did—humanity’s attempt to replicate what soulmates could already do.

Which is why, in this very moment, Gunwook finds himself in what can only be described as a heated argument with Ricky.

Not quite an argument.

More like damage control.

More like Gunwook trying to stop Ricky from doing something impulsive.

Ricky ⭐:
Please. Let me go to Korea.

Gunwook 💜:
Why???

Ricky ⭐:
Of course, to see you what else. And to apologize for the tattoo personally.

Gunwook 💜:
I told you it’s okay.

Ricky ⭐:
Do you not want to see me?

The question hits harder than it should.

Of course he wants to see him. More than anything, probably. More than he’d like to admit.

But it’s complicated.

Could he really stand face-to-face with Quanrui now, when he hasn’t even sorted himself out? When he’s still oscillating between confidence and doubt like a pendulum that refuses to settle?

Gunwook 💜:
I’m not ready. I’m still young.

Ricky ⭐:
We’re literally the same age, you’re turning eighteen soon.

Gunwook 💜:
I want to see you. But it may be too early.

There’s a pause. The typing indicator appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Gunwook’s heart mirrors it.

Ricky ⭐:
I just need a yes. Pretty please with a cherry on top <3

What the actual fu—

The moment he sees the picture, his entire nervous system malfunctions.

He actually throws his phone across the room.

It just leaves his hand as if his body decides it cannot physically hold that much beauty at once. The device hits the floor with a sound that is far too sharp for comfort, and Gunwook swears he hears a crack somewhere in that collision—either from the screen or from his sanity.

He scrambles to retrieve it, heart leaping into his throat, already imagining the horror of explaining to his mother why his phone shattered at dinner time because of a boy.

When he picks it up, he inspects it like a surgeon assessing a patient. Screen. Corners. Back casing. No visible damage.

Goodness.

Unfortunately, what greets him again is far more dangerous.

The photo is still there.

And so is the most ethereal human being he has ever seen in his entire life.

He stares.

What did he ever do in his past life to deserve this? Did he save a village? Donate an organ? Was he a saint in disguise? Because this feels like divine compensation.

He can already hear wedding bells ringing somewhere in the back of his mind. A full choir harmonizing in glorious surround sound. Petals dancing dramatically in slow motion as if the wind itself has decided to participate in this divine revelation. And there he is—in a cathedral that exists only in his imagination—standing before an invisible priest.

“Yes, Father, I do. In sickness and in health. In every part of life, I will do everything. Father, I do. Just pronounce us married already. I will kneel. I will bow. I will follow everything written on my skin.”

Alright.

That might be slightly overreacting.

But truly, what is the appropriate reaction to this kind of presence? This kind of face? This kind of composed, devastating beauty that somehow matches the bold permanence of the tattoo he wrote?

The tattoo suits him.

It was meant for him.

It was never meant for removal.

Ricky ⭐:
Gunwook, are you still there?

Oh.

Right.

Reality.

Gunwook inhales sharply and sits up straighter, as if Ricky can see his posture through the screen. He gathers what little dignity remains and decides, very rationally, that two can play this game.

If Ricky is going to weaponize visuals, then Gunwook will retaliate.

He opens his camera.

He adjusts the angle. Deletes the first one. The second. The third. He fixes his hair slightly. Tilts his chin. Grabs a prop or two. He tells himself he is doing this casually, that he does not care that much, that this is simply participation in a harmless exchange.

He cares.

He absolutely cares.

Finally, he sends it.

Gunwook 💜:
Is this considered a yes?

Five minutes of waiting.

The longest five minutes of his life.

He tries not to stare at the screen. Fails. Locks it. Unlocks it again. Checks if the message delivered. If it was seen. If Ricky is typing. If Ricky is breathing—

Ricky ⭐:
ABSOLUTELY
GUNWOOKKKKK

Gunwook exhales so forcefully he almost laughs.

Perfect.

Now they’re both dysfunctional.

Ricky ⭐:
I hope that you don’t mind me looking at you very RESPECTFULLY 😳

Oh, Ricky.

If only you knew.

If only you knew that Gunwook is currently staring at the screen with ears burning, heart racing, and dignity hanging by a thread.

Respectfully?

Gunwook is not surviving respectfully at all.

“So, hypothetically, if I knew someone who has a soulmate that got a tattoo but said soulmate didn’t know they had a soulmate and now this soulmate would want to meet the unknown soulmate because he really wants to make up for it, what would you do?”

Gunwook says it in one breath.

One continuous, spiraling breath that barely allows punctuation to exist.

They are in self-study period—the kind that is meant to be productive but is really just an institutionalized nap time. Afternoon light stretches lazily across their desks. A few students are asleep with their heads buried in crossed arms. Others scroll mindlessly. The air-conditioning hums like a lullaby.

“Yeah, hypothetically,” Matthew echoes, already suppressing a laugh that is too knowing.

“Yes,” Gyuvin adds dryly, leaning back in his chair. “We really do have our soulmates already for you to be asking us that.”

The sarcasm is not subtle.

“Just—what would you do?” Gunwook insists. He has asked this multiple times in multiple forms. Different wording. Same dilemma. It does not hurt to gather data. It does not hurt to crowdsource courage. Especially when Shen Quanrui is apparently very serious about booking a flight.

Matthew shrugs first. “I feel like I would be fine with it.”

He glances at his own skin, still untouched by soulmate ink. Blank. Open. Unclaimed. Ironically, he already has three tattoos decorating his body—each chosen, each intentional. Art as self-expression. He plans to get more. Soulmatism simply has not manifested for him yet, which he considers a blessing for now.

“So you’d be okay if someone just… permanently marked you?” Gunwook clarifies.

“If I liked it, sure,” Matthew says simply. “And if they meant well.”

Gyuvin exhales slowly.

“Me personally, I would pass out,” he says, firm and unyielding. “Tattoos are great. They’re art. They’re personal. But I wouldn’t like it if it wasn’t my decision. What if there comes a time where I hate it? What if I change? It’s irreversible.”

Irreversible.

The word sits heavy in Gunwook’s chest.

He nods thoughtfully, storing the data. Filing it away in the mental cabinet labeled: Reasons to Panic vs. Reasons to Breathe.

Then, because tension never survives long around them, he grins.

“Then Matthew becomes your soulmate, no? How fun is that?”

He laughs.

He dares laugh.

Gyuvin’s face goes wide-eyed, scandalized, as if Gunwook has just insulted his entire ancestry. Matthew just stares at him for a long second before muttering, “Bro.”

“Why don’t we try it?” Gunwook suggests, and there is something suspicious in the way he already has two pens in his hands.

“Yah, what are you doing?” Matthew tries to move away, but Gunwook is faster.

A straight line on Matthew’s arm.

A straight line on Gyuvin’s.

“There,” Gunwook says triumphantly. “Soulmates.”

He giggles, proud of his ridiculous experiment.

It is meant to be a joke.

Except, the ink does not look normal.

It looks… layered. As if another line exists directly beneath the one he just drew.

He frowns slightly.

“Wait.”

To test it further—because there is no way he’s letting this sit as a coincidence, not when something in him has already begun to piece things together a little too neatly—he leans toward Matthew and draws a small star on his cheek. And then slowly, because somehow he is quite afraid now, because his hands have already started betraying him with how they tremble at the thought of his theory being true, Gunwook turns to look at Gyuvin.

And what he sees there makes him drop his pen entirely.

Because the same star appears on Gyuvin’s cheek. Perfectly mirrored with Matthew’s own.

“No way,” Matthew breathes, already touching his face.

“No way,” Gyuvin echoes back. His phone already up, camera flicking between his own reflection and Matthew like proof might settle anything at all.

“No way,” Gunwook says too, finally, because what else is there to say when language has already failed twice before him. He’s only repeating them, but it feels necessary.

Because what?

This is more than just a funny prank fate decided to pull on this very afternoon, and the three of them are pointing at each other now like that identical Spiderman picture pointing at Spidermans that might have come from other Spider-verses.

The room feels suddenly very awake.

And the staring session does not stop. It lingers, stretches, turns almost unbearable, and now they are trying to cover their very-much shocked mouths at the discovery as if that might contain anything at all. They are all shaking, unmistakably so, but then Matthew and Gyuvin turn to him with reactions that are, somehow, even more absurd than before.

“There’s a ghost!” Matthew says, pointing at him, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

“Huh? Where? Where?” Gunwook says immediately, instinctively, grabbing both of them closer now, because if there is a ghost then why does it feel like it’s centered on him?

But Gyuvin doesn’t look away. He squints, then points, voice caught somewhere between accusation and disbelief. “A heart is forming on your cheeks.”

A heart is forming on his cheeks, is that so?

That can only be his Ricky’s doing.

And he tries—he really does try—not to smile like a fool at that realization. He even attempts to hold it back, pressing it down, containing it somewhere behind his teeth, but the laugh forms anyway, soft and helpless, and he tilts his head back to look at the ceiling of their classroom as if that might steady him, as if that might make him less obvious.

It doesn’t.

“Gunwook’s totally lost it.”

Maybe he has.

Yeah, he has a soulmate too.

And he is, quite undeniably, incredibly happy at the thought.

Somewhere, Ricky is probably smiling mischievously, probably proud of his timing. It does seem like something he would do, doesn’t it? Loving dramatic timings just enough to make everything feel a little more intentional, a little more like a scene meant to be remembered.

Gyuvin squints at him then, grounding the moment just slightly. “Alright. Your hypothetical self is so lucky to be love-filled, huh? While we both have a crisis in hand.”

Gunwook barely reacts, because when he looks down, there it is again.

A heart on his palms too.

Almost as if it is saying, quietly but clearly, my heart is yours, and eventually it shifts, softens into something more familiar—the usual doodles of Ricky that he so dearly loves, the kind he would recognize anywhere without needing to think twice.

Of course it would be like this.

And in the background, because his ears have always been sharp when it comes to things that interest him, even now, even with everything unfolding all at once, after both Matthew and Gyuvin have finally calmed down just enough to speak without stumbling over themselves, he hears Matthew say, almost thoughtfully:

“I think we could make it work with a Henna.”

And that… that makes Gyuvin flush.

Gunwook doesn’t interrupt. He just lets it sit there, lets everything settle into place in its own strange, overwhelming way.

Oh, the soulmate life, really.

They were insufferable.

Truly.

To the point that Gunwook sometimes questions his life decisions—specifically the one made on that very afternoon when he decided it would be funny to draw matching lines on their arms. He did not sign up to become the accidental catalyst of a soulmate revelation. He certainly did not sign up to be the designated third wheel in what is now an aggressively synchronized duo.

On the bright side, they already know they will be good to each other. The ink does not hesitate, and there is no stutter in fate.

On the darker side—if there is any darkness at all—it rests quietly on Gunwook’s shoulder. Because Gyuvin and Matthew are enjoying this. A lot. They do not overdo it in front of others, but when it is just the three of them, the subtle undeniable matching markings become their favorite party trick. 

There was even that time Gyuvin was out practicing, and Gunwook and Matthew were heading to the cafeteria when Matthew decided experimentation was more important than food.

“Let’s test it again,” Matthew had said.

Gunwook could already tell, even without seeing him, that Gyuvin was smiling ridiculously wide on the other side. The kind of smile that stretches into your cheeks until it almost hurts. How nice it must be, Gunwook thinks, to have your soulmate so near. 

Later, after physical education—basketball, though it was more chaotic shooting practice than an actual game—they return to their classroom after having their showers done. Not bothering to attend any of the club sessions at this time and just letting the time pass in their classroom just a few moments before they decided that when the sky turns orange enough, almost purple, they would go home, but for now, they were enjoying a drawing session on Gunwook’s skin, and by them, it means Matthew and Gyuvin.

Gunwook was simply on his seat, his arm laid out and simply lets them write on his skin to communicate with Ricky. It is easier that way. Ricky sees it immediately. Matthew, who once claimed to passively believe in fate, has now become its most enthusiastic intern. Once he discovered he had a soulmate, his excitement overtook any philosophical restraint.

Now, somehow, Matthew and Ricky are having a collaborative drawing session.

Cats.

Of course it is cats.

It starts on the arms—the main canvas, the traditional starting point. Lines forming carefully. Whiskers. Ears. A tail that curves just right. Gyuvin occasionally adds grass beneath it, and Ricky responds by shading. It becomes a sleeping cat by a patch of grass, soft and peaceful.

It almost looks like Gia.

From afar, Gunwook thinks it must look ridiculous: two teenage boys enthusiastically vandalizing a third one while the “third one” just sits there like a patient older brother at a kindergarten art class. Instead of the walls, they choose the only responsible person in the room.

He does not stop them.

He watches the final product instead.

The cat is adorable. There is something undeniably tender about their collaborative art.

“So about Ricky,” Gunwook starts, still staring at the cat.

Neither of them look up immediately.

“He’s coming to Korea.”

He says it casually.

As if the sentence is light.

As if it does not echo in his chest every time he repeats it in his mind. It still feels unreal, like something he read in a novel and not something that applies to him. It is so distant from his current reality that he can speak it without fully processing it. He estimates it will take approximately fifty-two business days for his brain to catch up with his mouth.

Matthew pauses mid-whisker.

Gyuvin slowly looks up.

“Ricky said it would be…” Gunwook swallows, the heaviness finally creeping into his throat. “…a little after the new year.”

There it is. Spoken into the room.

“A little after new year, huh?” Gyuvin leans back with an exaggeratedly smug grin, eyebrows lifting in theatrical mischief. “I wonder what’s the occasion~”

Gunwook narrows his eyes at him, but he can already feel the heat climbing up his neck.

“REALLY?”

Matthew doesn’t even bother saying it out loud. He writes it straight on Gunwook’s arm.

“What? Why?”

Ricky responds.

“You're coming here? - Matt”

“Oh that. Yes ^-^”

“NICE - Gyub”

That is how they communicate now. And yes, the name indicators are absolutely necessary. The first time Matthew and Gyuvin interfered, Ricky somehow knew. He said the penmanship looked different.

Apparently, you learn your soulmate’s handwriting faster than you learn their favorite color.

“Gunwook’s nervous HAHA - Matt”

“Don’t out me like that,” Gunwook says quickly, instinctively pulling his arms closer to his chest now as if proximity will prevent further betrayal.

The ink continues anyway.

“We really should make a gc, shouldn't we?” Matthew asks out loud this time, as if this realization has just occurred to him in this exact second.

“It should’ve been for a long time now,” Gunwook argues, though he knows full well Matthew prefers the dramatics of skin-writing.

There’s a brief pause. Then, in softer strokes, slightly smaller letters, almost tucked near his wrist—as if it’s meant for his eyes only—

“Cutee (˶>⩊<˶)”

Gunwook stares at it longer than necessary.

Now, who’s the one who’s cute?

His heartbeat does that thing again—unreliable, overly dramatic, louder than it has any right to be. He hates how easily Ricky can tilt his internal balance with just a few characters and doodles. It’s unfair. Completely unfair.

Gyuvin squints. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Gunwook answers too quickly.

Matthew narrows his eyes suspiciously. “If you say so~”

It’s really quite hard to keep track of time when there are things that keep you busy. When you need more time, it always feels like it runs too fast, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you try to hold it. But when you want it to pass—because you can’t wait for what comes after the small pocket of time you’re currently in—it slows down stubbornly, stretching itself thin, unmoved by whatever you do to rush it along. Why is that? Even if it is only a matter of perception and urgency, it never quite feels that simple when you’re the one standing inside it.

You might not notice how the once hellish heat of the sun is slowly replaced by gathering clouds until the sky has already turned grey. Other days, you won’t realize that the dry, heavy air has shifted into something cooler, touched by a different wind drifting in from the sea. You won’t notice that the sand you were carefully shaping into a sandcastle has, without you realizing it, turned into snow packed between your hands for a snowman. You won’t see how a Christmas tree glowing beneath one night sky is quietly replaced by fireworks splitting the darkness open, bright and loud, meant to drive away evil spirits and welcome a new year. And you don’t realize that the cake you once enjoyed for someone you love eventually becomes a cake prepared to celebrate your own birth.

“What would you wish for?” his mother asks, while the flame on the candle burns with a small but certain brightness.

For a year with less worries, he answers only in his mind, just as he leans forward and blows the flame away.

There are claps—so many claps—hands meeting hands again and again, mingled with hugs, kisses, and soft good wishes for another year he has existed on this earth. The room is warm with voices and laughter, and he stands there smiling, feeling the faint heat that still lingers—not from the candle anymore, but from the tiny cake with candles drawn on his skin, inked there just for this day. A cake he carries with him, as if the celebration is not only placed before him on a table, but also written directly onto him.

Happy Birthday.

Even this day feels like something he both loses and finds himself within, over and over again, as if every hour rearranges him into someone slightly different from the one who woke up this morning. And perhaps he will keep feeling that way until the day folds into night and the last greeting fades.

Happy. Yes, he is happy. He can admit that much, because it is a day meant for him, after all.

He’s also incredibly happy because just a few days after his own day of birth, Ricky would be flying to Korea. How wonderful is that? Wonderful to the point that he can’t seem to form a single coherent thought without feeling like he might throw up. Haha. These are just happy nerves, that’s all. Just excitement settling in places inside him that don’t quite know how to hold it properly. And even if he does throw up, there wouldn’t be anything there anyway because he didn’t eat breakfast. Even though he has been awake long enough for his stomach to reasonably ask for food—which it doesn’t usually do this early—but still. He’ll have to eat eventually. So technically, he’s fine.

It’s all right.
(It’s not.)

Ricky said his plane would land at around 6:30 in the morning, and of course his restless self decided that warranted a proper welcoming party. Not anything grand, just the three of them being there exactly when he steps out, exactly when his feet touch familiar ground. They woke up at 4 A.M. just to be safe because the drive would take about an hour, and it’s the airport—there’s always traffic, always some unpredictable delay. Better to be early than risk missing even a second.

Matthew and Gyuvin stayed over at the Park residence the night before so it would be easier to gather and leave together. They even tried to wind down like normal people. They played games—or rather, they watched gameplay because that was easier when sleepiness slowly creeps in but you refuse to admit it. They had midnight snacks too, just because they wanted to, like they weren’t supposed to wake up before dawn. As if they weren’t bracing themselves for something big. Besides, Matthew was going to drive anyway, so they let themselves linger a little longer in the night.

And then they were on the road.

Matthew in the driver’s seat.
Gyuvin in the passenger seat.
Gunwook in the back, where Ricky would sit beside him later.

Oh my god.

He tells himself he can calm down. He is definitely not nervous. He barely got any sleep, yes, but that’s irrelevant. The sky is still dark, his eyes feel heavy, and everything is quiet in that early-morning way that makes the world feel unfinished.

And then suddenly, at an intersection, there’s an incoming truck.

“OH MY GOD—”

“Matthew!!!!”

The car jerks into a full stop, tires gripping the road hard enough to make his heart slam against his ribs.

“I saw my life flash before my eyes, I’m not joking,” Matthew says, half-laughing, half-breathless, as if humor is the only reasonable response to almost becoming a tragic headline before sunrise. Thankfully, there were no cars tailing them from behind.

Alright.

So any lingering desire Gunwook had to fall asleep again vanishes instantly. If anything, he guesses he’ll be alive, alert, awake, enthusiastic for the remainder of this drive.

Matthew keeps laughing, trying to steady himself, hands firm on the steering wheel now. Gyuvin mutters something dramatic under his breath. Gunwook lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and tries to laugh too, even as his pulse slowly finds its rhythm again. A rap song plays softly in the background—one he told himself he would memorize the minute they got home. He listens to it now with strange clarity, every word sharp, as if almost-dying sharpened his hearing.

The sky is turning red. The sun begins its slow rise, bleeding warmth into the horizon while the scenery passes in a blur outside the window.

What an eventful start to the day.

Ricky ⭐:
The plane just landed.

The message arrives simply, almost casually, as if it doesn’t carry the weight of oceans crossed and months counted down. Gunwook reads it once. Then he relays it to the other two, his voice steadier than he feels.

“Ohh, are you excited?” Matthew asks, smiling in that way that suggests he already knows the answer.

“Mhmm.”

“Will you greet him with wide open arms when you see him?” Gyuvin adds, turning slightly in his seat, eyes glinting with mischief and something softer underneath.

“Mhmm.”

He has become a yes-man now. Every question is met with a thoughtful yet automatic hum of agreement, as if his vocabulary has temporarily abandoned him and left behind only affirmation. Yes, he’s excited. Yes, he’ll greet him properly. Yes, everything is fine. Yes, his heart is not threatening to leap out of his chest.

The conversation shifts, because it has to. There is only so much intensity a car can hold before it needs to breathe.

“Where do you guys want to eat later?” Matthew asks, already thinking ahead, already plotting the next movement in the day.

“I don’t really know. Not many places are open right now since it’s so early,” Gyuvin replies, glancing at the time.

“It’s too early for the mall too,” Gunwook adds, grateful for the practicality of the statement. Malls have opening hours. Feelings do not.

“Then we just go straight to Gunwook’s house, isn’t that right? Right, Gunwook?” Matthew turns his head slightly from the driver’s seat, just enough to look at him fully.

Inviting Ricky to his house. Immediately. On the first real, physical meeting after all the waiting and the writing on skin and the distance and the imagination.

The thought settles heavy and light at the same time.

“Well… I guess, yeah, sure. If Ricky’s okay with it.” His voice sounds neutral enough. Reasonable. That’s the key, isn’t it? As long as Ricky doesn’t feel uncomfortable. As long as everyone agrees. Especially Ricky. If Ricky doesn’t want to, they can scrap the idea entirely. They can search for an open café, a twenty-four-hour diner, anywhere that will take them in. If Ricky would rather sit somewhere public first. If Ricky needs space. If Ricky—

Ricky ⭐:
Already at baggage.

Gunwook stares at the screen again, the words almost too immediate. “Guys, Ricky’s already at baggage,” he says, and his throat feels oddly tight. “He said this is what he’s wearing.”

Ricky ⭐:

“Then let’s go welcome him,” Gyuvin says simply.

And just like that, the car doors open to a morning that feels entirely new.

Seeing someone on a screen and seeing them in person are two entirely different stories. On a screen, you can pause, you can zoom in, you can replay a smile until it feels almost yours. In person, there is no buffering, no adjustment of brightness, no preparing your heart for impact.

They were standing among a crowd at the arrival area, surrounded by families holding flowers, friends bouncing on their heels, drivers lifting name placards in the air. And Gunwook’s nerves were spiking in waves, sharp and constant, like something inside him was ringing without pause.

But it didn’t take long to find him.

After all, Ricky was wearing red.

Just like the picture he sent earlier that morning. Red like the dawn as the sun began to rise. Red like the trillions of cells fleeing from Gunwook’s heart at this exact moment. Red like the flush that had claimed the tips of his ears and decided to live there permanently.

His blond hair caught the airport lights in a way that made it look like gold—sometimes silver, depending on how the light struck him. Unreal. Untouchable. Like he had stepped out of something sacred and luminous.

He’s beautiful. Truly beautiful.

And yet he was walking toward Gunwook with a smile so wide and sincere that Gunwook’s own face mirrored it without permission. Ricky was so beautifully unreal that for a fleeting second Gunwook questioned whether he deserved something like this. Whether someone like Ricky could really be fated to him in this quiet, overwhelming way.

He couldn’t stop thanking his life.

“Gunwook…” Ricky said softly, eyes shining as he stopped in front of him.

Ah. This is real.

Not a hallucination stepping out of a phone screen. Not a dream conjured because he thought about Ricky too long before sleeping. Ricky is here. Real. Breathing. Warm—even if his fingertips were cold from the winter air outside.

Oh, goodness. He is real.

“Ricky. Welcome.”

Too formal. Far too formal for someone he talks to every day—on skin, on phone screens, in dreams that blur into mornings. But even so, he says it with a smile. A very teary one at that.

“You’re here! I can’t even believe my eyes right now.” His voice comes out breathless, followed by an equally breathless laugh.

“Is it bad that I’m missing you even though you’re right here in front of me?” Ricky asks, eyes already glassy.

Gunwook shakes his head immediately, because that is exactly what he’s feeling too. That strange ache of having waited so long that even fulfillment feels like longing. And whatever shared emotion they’re holding between them now—it feels like more than a simple fated connection. It feels chosen. It feels earned.

“Can we hug?” Gunwook asks, even though his hands are already hovering at Ricky’s sides. The only thing missing is permission.

Ricky doesn’t answer with words.

They step into each other.

They hug there in the center of everything—amidst people reuniting, amidst strangers brushing past, amidst the constant announcements echoing through the ceiling. And behind them, Matthew and Gyuvin are holding up a large banner that reads:

WELCOME TO KOREA, SHEN RICKY.

It helps that it’s made from a soft blanket. A greeting and a present all at once. Ricky will need the warmth in this cold. Matthew and Gyuvin themselves are suspiciously teary-eyed, though they pretend otherwise.

“You’re warm, Gunwook,” Ricky says, voice muffled against his chest.

Gunwook tightens his hold just slightly.

“Maybe… I really am made for you.”

He feels Ricky’s giggle vibrate against him, soft and bright.

If it sounds cheesy, it’s fine. They are allowed to be this way. In this small bubble of softness carved out in the middle of a crowded airport, nothing else exists but the two of them—holding on as if they’ve already decided they won’t ever let go.

“You know, it was easy to spot you since you have bright purple hair,” Ricky said, already settled beside Gunwook after carefully placing all his things in the back of the car, like he intended to stay for a long while and not just visit.

“Matches well with the yellow of your hair, doesn’t it?” Gunwook replied, trying to sound composed even though the proximity alone was enough to short-circuit him.

“Yeah, like ube and cheese,” Ricky said, laughing at his own joke.

The sound filled the car.

And goodness—it was too early in the morning for anyone’s humor to be functioning properly, least of all Gunwook’s. Something about the sleep deprivation, the adrenaline, the relief of finally having Ricky beside him instead of behind a screen, made everything ten times funnier than it should be.

He laughed. Loud.

“HAHAHA.”

“Okay, bro, you don’t have to laugh that hard,” Matthew said, glancing at them through the rearview mirror.

Gyuvin and Ricky both stared at Gunwook for half a second, visibly confused, before they, too, burst into laughter. It became contagious, uncontrollable, the kind that steals your breath and makes your ribs ache. The car didn’t even need music. It was already full—overflowing—with the sound of them.

Five minutes passed like that, though it felt longer when your lungs are scrambling for air and your diaphragm is protesting. Laughter drains the body more than people realize. It leaves you weak and lightheaded and strangely satisfied.

Eventually, it quieted.

The roads passing by the window became interesting again, blurred lines of buildings and early morning light, the sky still carrying traces of dawn. Gunwook focused on that view for a moment, trying to steady his loud, stubborn heartbeat.

Then he felt… Ricky’s head resting on his shoulder.

He went very still.

Ricky must have been exhausted. The flight, the time difference, the fact that it wasn’t even a time he would normally be awake—it made sense. Of course he was tired. Of course he would lean into the nearest comfort without overthinking it.

Gunwook let him.

Ricky could rest there for as long as he wanted.

“Do you want me to find somewhere we could eat?” Gyuvin asked softly from the front seat, voice lowered as if the car had transformed into something fragile.

But Gunwook was barely listening. He was looking at Ricky—the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks. The way his breathing had already deepened. His hands were so close to Ricky’s, only centimeters apart on the seat between them.

Gunwook wanted to intertwine their fingers. He really did.

But he decided against it.

Instead, he let their hands stay close enough to feel the warmth without crossing the invisible line. For now, that was enough.

“It’s alright,” Gunwook answered quietly. “From where we’re headed, it’s surely where Ricky would want to be right now.”

Ricky’s hair looked especially fluffy like this, slightly mussed from travel and sleep. Gunwook had to physically stop himself from reaching up to smooth it down—or maybe ruffle it just a little. Soon enough, without trying, his breathing began to match Ricky’s. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Even.

It’s nice.

It’s nice to see him like this.

It’s nice that he’s here.

Outside, the sky stretched wide and pale, morning settling fully into itself. And maybe, somewhere above that open sky, a star was still faintly shining.

Maybe even glowing purple.

The best thing one can do after a long stretch of tiredness is to simply lay, mindlessly and without guilt, on the fluffiest bed in existence. And Ricky was entirely, wholeheartedly glad that the mattress in the hotel room was exactly that: soft, warm, yielding in all the right places, as if it had been waiting specifically for him.

Gunwook had decided, very carefully and very responsibly, that Ricky would probably want to explore and familiarize himself with this unfamiliar land first. See the streets. Hear the language spoken around him. Maybe have a shared meal with the Park family after a few hours—dinner at the earliest, once everyone was rested and composed and properly awake.

But plans have a way of dissolving when exhaustion settles into your bones.

They laid down “just for a bit,” and the bed felt like the softest ground on earth, like clouds were invented solely for this moment. Matthew and Gyuvin had fallen asleep almost immediately—one dramatic sigh each and they were gone, as if someone had flipped a switch.

Gunwook remained half-awake.

Through the haze of his vision, he could see Ricky looking at him.

“The tattoo,” Ricky whispered, voice almost swallowed by the steady, comforting hum of the air conditioner. “It looks beautiful on you.”

His hand hovered just slightly above Gunwook’s neck—not close enough to touch, but close enough that Gunwook could feel the ghost of it. 

Gunwook reached up and met Ricky’s hand halfway, guiding it gently until Ricky’s fingers rested fully against his neck. If Ricky designed it, if Ricky etched it onto his own skin first, then Gunwook would let him see what it looked like mirrored.

Ricky traced the letters carefully as if they were fragile.

“Do you really not want it removed?” Ricky asked again, though his fingers moved like he already knew the answer.

“It is as if you’re asking if you want yourself removed from my life,” Gunwook said softly.

He brushed away a stray strand of blond hair from Ricky’s face so he could look at him properly. Close enough to count breaths.

“No,” Ricky murmured. “I just want to know what you would’ve liked.”

Gunwook let that sit for a second.

“I already had plans to get a tattoo before,” he admitted. “But I honestly think this is perfect.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He smiled, and this time their hands met fully in the whiteness of the sheets. Their fingers intertwined without hesitation. Ricky’s hands were no longer cold from travel or winter air; they were warm now, and Gunwook held onto them like something precious he had no intention of misplacing.

“Then I’m glad,” Ricky said.

His eyelids began surrendering to sleep, slowly, stubbornly. Not before he mumbled something soft, something blurred at the edges.

“Let’s get another one. Something we choose.”

The words slipped out absentmindedly. And then he was asleep.

Gunwook watched him for a moment longer.

“Mhmm,” he whispered back, even if Ricky couldn’t hear him anymore. “I would love that.”

Then he let his own eyes close, exhaustion finally claiming him too.

Welcome to my world, Quanrui.

It was a little before noon when they finally woke up, the sleepiness in their systems slowly fading yet still clinging stubbornly, like it refuses to let go without a small fight. A part of him wants to sink back into the mattress, to let the blanket swallow him whole again, but another, much larger part wants to begin the day properly—especially because Ricky is here. That alone feels like enough reason to sit up.

It proves even more true when Ricky, hair slightly tousled and eyes still soft from sleep, asks them, “Where do you suggest we eat?” with the prettiest smile, the kind that curves naturally and sincerely because the thought of food genuinely excites him.

Gunwook feels the hunger creeping into him too. It doesn’t announce itself with a dramatic grumble; it’s quieter than that. Just a steady awareness in his body that says: you haven’t eaten properly, and you should. Maybe it’s hunger. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s both.

So without much delay, they decide on a small food trip. But before anything adventurous, a proper meal. Something fitting for Ricky’s first day here. Something warm.

“It’s delicious!” Ricky exclaims the moment he takes a proper bite, and it genuinely feels like sparkles are flying around him. They’re seated at a booth—Gunwook beside Ricky on one side, Matthew and Gyuvin across from them—and the atmosphere is already lively despite the lingering sleepiness. Outside, the air is cold, the kind that makes your fingertips sting a little, so something warm and comforting is the only logical choice.

Gukbap.

Steam rises steadily from the bowls, fogging the space between them for a second before disappearing. The broth is rich, hearty, grounding. And in contrast to all that warmth, they pair it with something cold and fizzing—soda, the kind that goes lala zero pop when you open it, or more specifically, Chilsung Cider Zero, the bubbles sharp and bright against the tongue.

Because like soda, Gunwook wants to—no, he doesn’t want to. He needs Ricky to fill him up. Like my little soda pop.

What is he even saying?

Ricky is just enjoying his food. From here on out, that’s all that matters. Let Ricky enjoy more. He eats cutely. He drinks cutely. His eyes light up cutely at every new bite like he’s discovering something for the first time. And it’s even more adorable when he glances at Gunwook between bites, asking softly, “Are you enjoying your food?”

“Mhmm, I am,” Gunwook replies with a small, sincere smile.

“Of course you are,” Gyuvin laughs lightly from across the table, his spoon suspended mid-air as if he caught something unspoken.

“Ricky, if you want anything more, order whatever you want. It’s Gunwook’s treat,” Matthew adds, far too casually.

Ricky turns to Gunwook immediately, as if verifying a contract.

Gunwook just smiles, confirming it without hesitation. “Yes, order anything you want. Whatever makes you happy.”

And then, after a brief pause, he adds in a tone that tries to sound casual but is just a little too deliberate, “You know, here, if you showcase your aegyo enough, the owners might give you free food.”

“Is that true?” Ricky asks, suddenly intrigued, eyes widening slightly.

Across from them, Matthew and Gyuvin nod in suspiciously synchronized agreement, like those little bobbleheads you see on dashboards, overly enthusiastic and absolutely unreliable.

“Should I do it?” Ricky wonders aloud, visibly debating it, and he’s already shifting in his seat like he might stand up and perform in front of the entire restaurant when Gunwook reaches out quickly.

“Wait. Do it with me first. I want to see how it’ll go.”

There’s a pause. A tiny inhale.

“리키 배고파용~”

(I am in need of spare rations for I am quite famished.)

The delivery is devastating.

“You’re too cute, my heart can’t handle such cuteness,” Gunwook says immediately, half-hiding his reddening face with his hand while offering another piece of mandu toward Ricky as a reward, or maybe as an excuse. Because truly, the aegyo suggestion was never about free food. It was only ever about seeing this. About hearing that voice aimed at him.

Ricky smiles brightly, endearing and proud of his own performance, but before he takes the mandu from Gunwook’s chopsticks, he breaks into laughter—soft and slightly embarrassed after committing such an aggressive act of cuteness.

And Gunwook thinks, briefly and helplessly, that he would pay for this meal a hundred times over just to see that again.

“Awww,” Matthew and Gyuvin say in perfect chorus, completely and helplessly captured by Ricky’s brilliant display of weaponized cuteness.

“Could we keep him? We should just keep him,” Gyuvin declares immediately, already taking multiple pictures like this is documentation for legal ownership. In one swift motion, both he and Matthew stand and move to Ricky’s side, their expressions suddenly serious—far too serious for something so unserious—as if this is now official business.

They look at Gunwook with identical gravity.

“We keep Ricky,” Matthew says firmly.

“And Gunwook, you go there. Far, far away,” Gyuvin adds.

They link arms with Ricky before he can even process what’s happening, and Ricky, helpless in the middle of this coordinated abduction, lets himself be taken. He doesn’t even resist. Traitor.

Gunwook lets out a dramatic gasp so sharp it almost echoes.

“The betrayal! How dare you betray me after everything I’ve done for you!” His face is a masterpiece of disbelief and wounded pride, like steam is rising from him in anger—except the steam is actually coming from their gukbap, still hot and bubbling innocently between them. “I trusted you!” he exclaims in a voice that is loud but also hushed, as if he is losing his voice from the sheer devastation.

“You make this so easy,” Matthew says with a deceitful little laugh, fingers already comfortably intertwined with Ricky’s.

“You see, Ricky already promised himself to the both of us,” Gyuvin continues, stepping closer to Gunwook with a slow, ominous energy, as though bringing doom directly to his table. “So it would be nice if you just stay put.”

“You—” Gunwook sneers at him. Then, with the most pathetically wounded expression he can muster, he turns to Ricky. “Ricky, tell me this is all a lie. Tell me! Tell me!”

“Forgive me,” Ricky replies solemnly, without even the smallest sliver of doubt in his eyes, “but it’s true.”

Gunwook recoils as if struck.

“No, no, no, no. How could you do this to me?!” His cry rings out like a war cry from a fallen general, a man who has lost everything. He crumples dramatically toward the ground, vision blurred, hands clutching at nothing as the people he loves walk away from him in slow motion.

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

Clapping.

Actual clapping.

The few customers scattered around the shop are applauding. One of the staff members even gives them a thumbs up. “You guys were very good,” they say sincerely.

Gunwook rises from his crouched position like a tragic hero reborn, offering a theatrical bow while wiping imaginary stray tears from his cheeks. The four of them bow repeatedly, excessively, until the clapping finally fades.

And then, as if rewarded by the universe itself, another staff member approaches their table carrying an additional serving of mandu and four cans of Chilsung Cider Zero.

Performance art truly pays.

They settle back into their seats, still grinning from the absurdity of it all. Ricky turns toward Gunwook, expression softening. With a handkerchief in hand, he gently reaches up and wipes at the corners of Gunwook’s eyes, where traces of dramatic tears had stubbornly clung during the performance.

“You know I can never leave you,” Ricky says quietly.

“The same goes for me,” Gunwook replies, taking both of Ricky’s hands into his own, holding them firmly but tenderly. “I can never let you go.”

Ricky smiles then—wide, radiant, impossible—and it’s the kind of smile Gunwook can never quite brace himself for. It always hits directly.

Across from them, Gyuvin and Matthew have already resumed eating peacefully, fully accustomed to this sweetness. They are happy in their own ways too, comfortably sharing glances and bites of food, enjoying the bonus mandu like victorious co-conspirators.

“Though…” Ricky begins thoughtfully, glancing back at the memory of their earlier act. “It seems putting on a performance was more effective than aegyo.”

He looks at Gunwook again, eyes bright. “You acted well.”

Another recognition. With how dramatic he is, perhaps he was meant for the big screen. A tragic hero. A leading man.

“But I was thinking…” Matthew says suddenly, and the shift in tone is subtle but noticeable. The other three stiffen almost instinctively because when Matthew begins a sentence like that, there is always the possibility of disaster.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if it’s the four of us…”

“What?” Gunwook asks immediately, the word coming out before he can soften it, because perhaps what happened earlier was not entirely fiction. Not entirely a performance.

There is a flicker in the air.

But who knows?

That is a story for another day.

💜⭐