Left Over

Chapter 8

From that point on, things shifted.

Slow. Gentle. Sure.

Healing wasn’t a straight line. It never would be.

There were still mornings when Jeonghan would wake with his heart in his throat. Sometimes the past whispered cruel things into his ears while he brushed his teeth or walked to class.

But now, there was another voice. Louder. Steadier.

Seungcheol.

He became a constant—never overbearing, never demanding. Showing up with warm food after late classes, sometimes with an extra slice of cake just because Jeonghan once said he liked the frosting.

He never asked if Jeonghan was okay. He just acted like someone who already knew when Jeonghan wasn’t—and loved him anyway.

Sticky notes began appearing tucked Jeonghan’s books, inside his lunch box, on the inside of his laptop case:

“Drink water, or I’m breaking into your house with a hydration plan.” - (lovingly) cheol

“Your laugh should be copyrighted. I’d illegally download it.” – fermented ceo

Jeonghan started leaving post-its in return:

“Drinking water. Imagining you threatening to break our door down was motivation.” - scared of ur biceps (not rlly)

“Stop looking hot in suits. I’m trying to take notes, not fall in love.” - the person who's being courted

The exchange became their special extra language—quiet love letters passed through paper and tape, scattered between textbooks and coffee cups.

Even Seungkwan and Chan noticed.

“You’ve been smiling more,” Chan said one day over lunch, casually stabbing a piece of chicken with his chopsticks.

Jeonghan didn’t even look up from his tray. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have,” Seungkwan piped in, eyes narrowed. “It’s gross. You’re, like, soft now. What happened to the sharp-tongued menace we adopted?”

Jeonghan arched a brow. “I’m still that menace.”

“You are not,” Seungkwan declared, pointing an accusatory spoon at him. “You’re in love, hyung. You’re blushing while eating r****h. r****h! Do you know how embarrassing that is for the rest of us?”

“I’m not blushing,” Jeonghan muttered, though the tips of his ears said otherwise.

“Admit it,” Chan teased. “You're whipped.”

Jeonghan tried to roll his eyes—but ended up smiling instead. “Shut up.”

But he didn’t deny it. Because they were right.

He was in love. He admit that to his self already, fully, hopelessly, terrifyingly in love.

And with Seungcheol beside him—bringing him iced Americanos before tests even when Jeonghan insisted he didn’t need caffeine, cheering for him at school events, sitting beside him on Seungcheol's car just to listen to him ramble about ethics in journalism and media theory like it was the most interesting thing in the world—life stopped feeling like something he was chasing after.

It didn’t feel like he was constantly trying to catch up with everyone else anymore.

It felt like something he was living.

Actively, messily, beautifully living.

He laughed more. Slept better. Started walking to class with music in his ears again—old playlists he used to love, now with new meaning. He said “yes” to more things. Karaoke nights. Study groups. Midnight walks.

He even found himself humming sometimes, which made Chan look at him like he was witnessing a miracle.

“Hyung, you’re singing,” Chan said one night as they walked back from the convenience store, arms full of snacks. “Next thing I know, you’ll be applying to be an RA.”

Jeonghan snorted. “One step at a time, Channie.”

But even as he joked, there was a warmth in his chest that hadn’t been there before. A quiet kind of peace. Not because everything was fixed or perfect or finally figured out—but because someone had decided he was worth loving in the middle of the mess.

And when Seungcheol met him at the corner that night, kissed his forehead without needing a reason, and simply said, “Missed you today,” Jeonghan didn’t feel behind at all.

With Seungcheol, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Graduation Day

The auditorium swelled with celebration. A sea of navy caps shifted like waves under the harsh lights, while gold streamers fluttered from the rafters and cameras clicked with rapid bursts. Laughter bounced off the walls. Names were called. Applause thundered.

But to Jeonghan, it all sounded distant.

He sat frozen in the middle of the noise, fingers digging into the edge of his folding chair, breath shallow beneath the weight of the moment. His cap sat slightly askew, casting a shadow across his eyes.

His mind wasn’t in the room. It was everywhere else.

In the hospital ceiling he’d stared at for weeks. In the sound of missed lectures echoing through years he couldn’t reclaim. In the mornings where his body felt like concrete, and in the nights when hope was just a cruel joke.

He didn’t think he’d make it here.

“Yoon Jeonghan.”

His name cut through the fog like a thread of light.

He stood slowly, legs shaky beneath the heavy fabric of his gown. As he climbed the steps to the stage, he scanned the crowd—and found him.

Seungcheol stood at the back of the room, just beyond the velvet ropes, dressed in navy slacks and an open blazer over a cream-colored shirt. His arms were crossed, but his face was all softness.

And his eyes—God, his eyes were glassy and bright, like the moment itself was too full to contain.

Jeonghan’s throat closed. But he smiled, bowed, and accepted his diploma.

When it was over, when the last round of clapping began to fade into murmurs, he didn’t stay. He pushed through the tide of celebrating students and teary-eyed families. Programs fluttered through the air like confetti, but he didn’t even glance up.

He only looked for him.

And there Seungcheol was—waiting near the courtyard gate, as if he’d been standing still since the moment Jeonghan had left his chair.

Their eyes met. That was all it took. Jeonghan all but crashed into him, arms winding tightly around Seungcheol’s waist, face buried into his shoulder like it was muscle memory.

“You did it,” Seungcheol whispered, holding him close. “You really did it.”

Jeonghan’s voice cracked as he laughed. “No. We did.”

Seungcheol leaned back, brushing a curl of hair from Jeonghan’s forehead. “C’mon, I want to give you something. But not here.”

Jeonghan blinked. “Where are we going?”

Seungcheol smiled and laced their fingers together. “Somewhere quiet.”

They didn’t walk toward the afterparty or the family photos. Seungcheol led him through the side gate, past the maintenance sheds, past the sound of celebration, until they reached the back parking lot where Seungcheol’s black SUV sat beneath the shade of a giant oak.

He opened the passenger door.

“Get in.”

Jeonghan gave him a look. “Is this how people get kidnapped?”

“Only the pretty ones,” Seungcheol deadpanned, gesturing dramatically. “Now move, grad boy.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes but climbed in. Seungcheol slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door, muting the world.

For a moment, they just sat there. Breathing. And then Seungcheol reached toward the center console and pulled out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper.

“I was gonna wait until dinner. But you look like you’re about to emotionally combust.”

Jeonghan accepted it with curious fingers. When he unwrapped the paper, he found a box. Not fancy. Just a plain white one, soft at the corners like it had been in a drawer too long.

He opened it.

Inside, nestled against a swatch of navy velvet, was a ring.

But not a classic one. It wasn’t gold or silver.

It was... clay?

Jeonghan blinked. “Wait. Is this—?”

“From that pottery place,” Seungcheol said. “The one you dragged me to for that ‘art therapy’ date.”

Jeonghan barked a surprised laugh. “Where I made a bowl that looked like roadkill?”

“And I made a cup that collapsed into itself,” Seungcheol added. “Yeah. That one.”

The ring was uneven, slightly glazed, and had a little fingerprint pressed into one side.

“It’s not a proposal,” Seungcheol said quickly. “It’s just—something stupid. Handmade. Like us.”

Jeonghan looked down at it. His throat was tight again. “Why a ring?”

Seungcheol turned to face him fully, resting an elbow on the steering wheel. “Because you said something when we were there. You were laughing—kind of—but then you said, ‘Even if this all ends, I hope the dumb parts last the longest.’”

Jeonghan was silent.

“And I kept thinking about that. About the dumb parts. The burnt toast. Your mismatched socks. That time you cried over a video of a duck hugging a dog.”

“That was emotional.”

“I know. I saved it.”

Jeonghan blinked at him, biting his lip to keep the tears back.

“I don’t want perfect with you,” Seungcheol said. “I want real. I want to argue about takeout and forget our anniversary and then make up by dancing in the kitchen at midnight. I want all of it. With you.”

He took the ring gently and held it out. Not on one knee. Not with any music. Just a heartbeat away, breathless and quiet.

“Will you wear it?”

Jeonghan didn’t speak. He just nodded, eyes shining.

Seungcheol slipped it onto his finger.

It was crooked.

And it was perfect.

Jeonghan exhaled shakily, half-laughing. “You really are bad at romance.”

Seungcheol smiled. “That’s the deal, right? You talk. I listen. I love you. Badly, maybe—but I love you.”

Jeonghan leaned over and kissed him. “That’s my answer.”

Seungcheol blinked, frozen in place like he was processing what just happened—then broke into a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “God, Hannie…”

“I love you too, Mr. Fermented CEO,” Jeonghan giggled, clearly satisfied with Seungcheol’s reaction.

It wasn’t grand. But it was warm. Familiar. Full of everything they had lived through.

Jeonghan rested his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder, staring out through the windshield at the empty parking lot bathed in spring sun.

And in a car parked behind the noise of the world, where no one else was watching, Yoon Jeonghan—graduate, survivor, romantic—finally felt like he could breathe.

And stay.

With Seungcheol.

Three Years Later.

The morning sun spilled through the cozy white curtains. Dust particles danced in the light like drowsy stars, slow and unbothered, as if time had paused for a breath.

The apartment carried the faint, muddled scent of them—eucalyptus from the diffuser Jeonghan always forgot to refill, stale coffee in the pot neither had the heart to empty, and the sharper, cleaner scent of lemon—residue from Seungcheol’s obsessive late-night cleaning sprees when his brain wouldn’t shut off.

Outside, the City had already woken. The chorus of traffic buzzed and howled beneath their fifth-story window. Somewhere a vendor shouted over the morning chaos. But in their cocoon of linen sheets and drowsy affection, the world moved slower.

A single pale foot slipped from beneath the covers.

Then, with a groan that bordered on theatrical suffering, Jeonghan stirred.

“Ughhh... Why does morning always feel like betrayal?” he grumbled, voice thick with sleep, his face half-buried in the pillow.

A familiar chuckle greeted him.

“You say that every day,” came Seungcheol’s voice—warm, amused, and, infuriatingly, already wide awake.

“And every day, it’s true,” Jeonghan murmured dramatically. “Morning is capitalism’s most violent invention.”

Another chuckle, this one closer. Softer. Fond.

Jeonghan cracked one eye open and squinted into the golden light.

Seungcheol sat perched on the edge of the bed, cross-legged like a monk, glasses slipping halfway down his nose. He was already in a pressed white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the collar slightly damp where it clung to his still-cooling neck. He looked maddeningly put together for 7:43 AM.

“Why do you look like a walking résumé?” Jeonghan mumbled, dragging the blanket over his head like a cursed ghost. “We don’t have to be adults until at least ten.”

Seungcheol smirked, glancing at his phone. “Conference call in an hour. But they’ve already ambushed my inbox. It’s like watching piranhas eat each other.”

The phone buzzed. Again. And again.

“You know I can hear your emails having a breakdown,” Jeonghan said flatly. “Let them die with dignity.”

“They can die in hell,” Seungcheol muttered, and to Jeonghan’s mild shock, he actually tossed the phone aside. “I’m off-duty until nine. Let chaos reign.”

Jeonghan peeked out from under the blanket. “Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving boyfriend?”

Seungcheol turned, leaned down, and brushed his knuckles along Jeonghan’s cheek. His skin still held the fresh scent of bergamot and cedar from his morning shower, the kind Jeonghan would pretend to hate but always leaned into.

“The overachieving boyfriend realized he’d rather be here,” Seungcheol murmured, eyes soft. “You look too good in the morning to waste time on Outlook.”

Jeonghan’s lips twitched. “God, that was the cheesiest thing I’ve heard since... yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“You read a line from that webtoon. Don’t play dumb.” Jeonghan laughed into the pillow, then reached up and tugged at the collar of Seungcheol’s shirt. “You’re such a sucker for angsty boys in tight pants.”

“Only one angsty boy in boxers, actually.”

He leaned in, brushing their noses together before stealing a soft, lingering kiss. It tasted like sleep, like warmth, like the comfort of knowing someone’s breath before they speak.

“You always wear my shirt like you don't own a walk-in closet here,” Seungcheol whispered against his lips.

Jeonghan smirked sleepily. “You’re literally the one who dressed me last night. Or have you forgotten how you insisted I couldn’t walk?”

A groan rumbled from Seungcheol’s chest as the memory surfaced—hot, frantic, and utterly filthy. “You made sounds that should be illegal. I could still hear you in my dreams.”

Jeonghan arched a brow. “In your dreams, huh?”

Seungcheol dipped his head, voice husky. “You think I ever stop dreaming about you?”

Without warning, he slipped his hands under the blanket, gripping the hem of the Balenciaga shirt Jeonghan wore.

“Gonna peel you out of this,” he said lowly, “like the gorgeous banana you are.”

Jeonghan giggled but lifted his arms obligingly. “Peel carefully. I bruise easy.”

The shirt slid up, exposing inch after inch of glowing skin. Pale and soft, still warm from sleep, still holy in the way it made Seungcheol forget how to breathe.

He pressed a kiss just below Jeonghan’s bellybutton.

Then another.

A trail, slow and reverent, up his ribs, his sternum, the delicate slope of his collarbone. Until he reached his lips again.

“I’ll never get tired of looking at you,” Seungcheol whispered.

Jeonghan caught his face in his hands. “Then don’t. Stay here.”

No hesitation. “Always.”

Their lips met again—gentler this time. A conversation in touches. A question and answer in every kiss. Seungcheol shifted, sliding on top of him, his weight warm and grounding.

“I love mornings now,” Seungcheol murmured between kisses.

“You’re high on serotonin,” Jeonghan teased, threading his fingers into his hair.

“I'm high on you ,” Seungcheol corrected, and the way he said it—quiet, unsmiling—made Jeonghan pause.

He stared up at him, suddenly breathless. “Cheol...”

“Yeah?”

Jeonghan touched his cheek. “Sometimes I think... you were made for me.”

The silence that followed was thick with emotion, heavy with everything they didn’t say daily but felt constantly. Seungcheol pressed their foreheads together, nose brushing nose.

“I know I was.”

Their mouths crashed together again, but this time with need.

Want. Desperation.

The kind that only built after years together—after familiarity had turned into something deeper than lust, stronger than comfort.

Worship.

Seungcheol devoured him. Kissed him like a man starved.

Seungcheol could feel Jeonghan moving under him, his body soft and eager, like he was silently begging for more. Seungcheol kissed him deeper, his tongue sliding against Jeonghan’s in a slow, teasing pace that made him shiver.

When Seungcheol finally pulled back, his dark eyes swept over Jeonghan’s face—his fluttering lashes, his pink cheeks, his lips already red and wet from kissing. God, he’s so beautiful.

“Look at you,” Seungcheol murmured, his voice rough. He dragged his thumb over Jeonghan’s bottom lip, pressing just enough to make him gasp. “Already so pretty for me”

Jeonghan’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in Seungcheol’s hair. “Cheol—”

Seungcheol didn’t let him finish. He kissed him again, much harder this time, his hands sliding down Jeonghan’s sides, tracing every curve like he was learning him all over again. His touch was slow, delicate, as if Jeonghan was something precious and fragile.

He moved his lips down Jeonghan’s jaw, his throat, stopping where he could feel his pulse racing and couldn't help but leave a mark. “You taste so good,” he whispered before biting lightly, just to hear Jeonghan’s breath catch.

Jeonghan squirmed, his hips lifting, searching for friction. “Please—”

Seungcheol smirked, pressing him back down with a firm grip on his hip. “Patience, baby.”

Patience, yet he shoved down Jeonghan’s last piece of clothing, revealing his fully naked body.

What a sight to behold.

Jeonghan’s drowsy eyes like he'd drunk three bottles of soju. Agape lips with a heavy air leaving and sucking again, creating a nasty melody in Seungcheol’s ears. Man is down bad.

Seungcheol didn't wait any longer and went down. He took his time there, kissing and teasing—sucking marks on Jeonghan’s inner thighs, licking along his hips, driving him crazy until Jeonghan was twisting the sheets in his fists.

“Cheol, I swear—”

Seungcheol chuckled, low and dark, before finally giving him what he wanted. He wrapped his hand around Jeonghan’s length, stroking him just the way he liked.

Jeonghan arched off the bed with a broken moan. “f**k—”

Seungcheol watched, completely lost in the way Jeonghan fell apart—his chest rising fast, his thighs shaking, his voice breaking when Seungcheol twisted his wrist just right.

“You’re so perfect,” Seungcheol breathed, kissing him again, swallowing every sound. “So f*****g perfect for me.”

Jeonghan’s nails dug into his shoulders, his legs wrapping around Seungcheol’s waist like he never wanted to let go. “Need you—now—”

And who was Seungcheol to say no?

He reached for the lube, slicking his fingers before pressing one inside, slow and careful, watching every little reaction—the way Jeonghan’s breath hitched, the way his body trembled.

“That’s it,” Seungcheol murmured, curling his fingers before inserting another two fingers, making Jeonghan’s eyes roll back. “Just like that, Hannie. What a good pretty boy.”

Jeonghan was a mess under him—skin flushed, lips parted, completely lost in pleasure. Seungcheol had seen him like this so many times, but it still stole his breath.

When Jeonghan was ready—practically begging for more—Seungcheol hurriedly unzipped his pants and shoved them down along with his boxers, just enough for his thick, throbbing length to spring free. He messily poured lube over it, all while using one hand—because he hadn’t stopped pleasuring Jeonghan, his fingers still working deep inside him.

He began aligning his hardened tip with Jeonghan’s pink, glistening hole—so wet, so inviting. He rubbed the head against it gently, just enough to let Jeonghan know he was there. With his fingers still inside, he pushed in slowly, feeling Jeonghan clench and suck him in with every inch.

“f**k—Cheol,” Jeonghan whispered, voice thick with pleasure.

Seungcheol couldn’t help but smirk at the filthy sounds tumbling from Jeonghan’s lips, pride blooming in his chest knowing he was the reason. He was always greedy when it came to Jeonghan. He wanted more. He wanted to swallow every moan, to crash into him even deeper.

More reason.

More of Jeonghan—all of him.

“Mine,” Seungcheol growled before crushing their lips together in a sloppy kiss, moving in a rhythm that had Jeonghan clawing at his back.

Jeonghan could only moan in response, too far gone to speak, his body melting into every touch.

The weight of Seungcheol’s body pressing him into the mattress was familiar and very intoxicating. Jeonghan arched beneath him, gasping as Seungcheol’s hands now pinned his wrists, his lips trailing hot, biting kisses down his throat.

“f**k,” Seungcheol groaned, hips snapping forward, setting a relentless pace from the start.

Jeonghan could only cling to him, gasping with every deep, driving thrust. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the way Seungcheol’s voice broke when Jeonghan clenched around him—it was overwhelming, perfect.

Seungcheol watched him—lips parted, eyes shut in an overwhelming sensation. Then—

“f**k, you’re...” His words dissolved into a groan as Jeonghan moved his hips in sync with his, harder and faster, just to hear him break.

“I’m—ha—what?” Jeonghan taunted breathlessly, rolling his hips in a way that made Seungcheol’s fingers twist into the grip of his wrist.

Seungcheol suddenly crashed their mouths together, a bruising kiss unnoticed as they both finally lost control. He pressed Jeonghan deeper into the mattress like he's folding him. His thrusts were relentless—deep enough to steal the breath from Jeonghan's lungs.

“You’re mine, mine, mine, mine!” Seungcheol growled into his ear, and Jeonghan shuddered, arching up as heat exploded through him, spilling between their stomachs with a choked cry.

“God—hng!” Jeonghan moaned unconsciously, voice high and broken.

Seungcheol followed moments later after a few more deliberate thrusts. “s**t—yes... Hannie, you’re so—f**k—good.” His hips stuttered as he buried himself deep, forehead pressed against Jeonghan’s shoulder while he rode out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing, the distant hum of the city outside. Then Jeonghan grinned, still dazed, and nudged Seungcheol’s cheek with his nose.

“So much for your conference call.”

Seungcheol groaned, collapsing onto the bed beside him. “I hate you.”

Jeonghan laughed, tangling their legs together. “No, you don’t.”

And Seungcheol didn’t argue.

After a moment of gently cleaning and wiping Jeonghan like he was some sacred statue capable of healing, Seungcheol finally shifted and patted his thigh. “I’m making pancakes, I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Nooo,” Jeonghan whined, flopping his hand onto the bed. “You always burn it.”

“It’s my signature move,” Seungcheol said while putting a piece of clothing on his bottom, leaving his top fully naked, ready his way out. “You should be grateful I’m consistent.”

God, he’s all hot and bulky, yet he always has that default pout on his lips.

Jeonghan sat up slowly, hair a wild halo of chaos. “You’re like a romantic fire hazard.”

Seungcheol paused in the doorway, calling back with smug delight, “Better than being a pretentious editor with a God complex like your ex.”

Jeonghan’s head shot up. “He worked in publishing, not a cult!”

In their kitchen, it was a beautiful disaster.

An abandoned hoodie hung limply off a dining chair. A stack of unopened mail teetered dangerously beside a nearly wilted basil plant, whose leaves drooped like they’d given up on the concept of sunlight. Three mugs sat in the sink like they were having a reunion, and someone—probably Jeonghan—had left a spoon stuck inside an empty peanut butter jar.

Despite the mess, the room felt like home.

Seungcheol stood in the middle of it, half-awake, flipping pancakes with one hand and using the other hand to reply on work emails like it was second nature.

Then—shuffling.

Soft, dragging steps.

A blanket cocoon shuffled into the kitchen, mumbling indistinctly as it paused in the doorway. Jeonghan’s hair stuck out in five different directions. His face was creased from the pillow, lips pursed in sleepy disapproval at the brightness of the morning.

Jeonghan padded in barefoot and pressed himself against Seungcheol’s back, arms wrapping lazily around his waist. The blanket trailed behind him like a cape, dragging over the crumbs on the floor.

“Hmm, yeah. Burnt,” he mumbled into Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“Like I didn't already witness how your mouth would vacuum all the food that I served,” Seungcheol replied, “Even my d**k would agree,” grinning as he leaned back into the embrace just to earn a smack from Jeonghan.

But then they continued laughing. It was just their usual, silly morning afterall.

“I like this,” Jeonghan whispered, voice still gravelly with sleep. “You. Mornings. Domesticity. It’s giving… husband.”

Seungcheol snorted. “You say that until I ask you to clean the sink.”

“I’m here for the vibes, not the chores.”

“Ah yes, the aesthetic girlfriend experience,” Seungcheol teased, reaching for the plate. “You gonna help or just cling to me like a sleepy koala all morning?”

Jeonghan gave a satisfied sigh and squeezed him tighter. “Koalas are emotionally complex creatures. Look it up.”

Once the pancakes were plated and the coffee was poured, they settled at the counter—each with their own mug. Jeonghan’s was chipped near the handle, repaired with golden lacquer like a piece of accidental kintsugi art. Seungcheol’s mug, a gift from Seungkwan—now his cousin, Choi Hansol's boyfriend—bluntly read CEO of Nothing in bold font.

Between bites and slow sips, they lingered in easy conversation.

“I had a dream last night,” Jeonghan said between chews, “that I adopted a talking cat who ran for mayor.”

Seungcheol raised a brow. “Did he win?”

“Of course. His campaign slogan was ‘Nine Lives, One Vision.’ Iconic.”

“I’m starting to worry about your subconscious.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t dream it first.”

A quiet stretch passed, filled only with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of birds outside the window.

Then Jeonghan licked syrup from his thumb and asked, “Any plans tonight?”

Seungcheol glanced at him mid-sip. “Wasn’t sure if you had work.”

“I don’t. Joshua moved the interview tomorrow. I’m free.”

Leaning an elbow on the counter, Seungcheol tilted his head, smiling. “You wanna do something?”

Jeonghan shrugged, casual but with a playful glint in his eye. “Could be a movie. Could be you and me in the bathtub with too many candles. Could be pizza and that board game we never finish because you get competitive and accuse me of cheating.”

“That’s because you cheat,” Seungcheol retorted at the last part.

Jeonghan then raised one of his eyebrows while a smug smirk displaying, “I’m just resourceful.”

“You flipped the Monopoly board last time.”

“I was making a statement about late-stage capitalism.”

Seungcheol shook his head, laughing. “Bathtub sounds good.”

Jeonghan grinned, already victorious. “With bubbles?”

“As long as you don’t flood the floor again.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan sang, sliding off his stool to press a sticky kiss on Seungcheol’s cheek.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m devastatingly cute,” Jeonghan corrected, twirling dramatically back toward the hallway. “And I expect rose-scented candles. Don’t cheap out.”

Seungcheol called after him, “You better actually wash your hair this time!”

“You better shut up and adore me!” came the echoing reply from the bedroom.

And despite the pancakes, burnt crumbs, the dying basil, and the fact that neither of them had taken the trash out in four days, the apartment felt like a warm pocket of joy.

Not perfect.

But lived in.

Loved in.

The kind of morning that didn’t need a classic wealthy man routine—just waffles, coffee, and the person who made the whole mess worth waking up for.

And it felt like a declaration—a reminder of all the tragedy he’d been through: the cries, the pain, the doubt. But it doesn’t hurt as much now. Because beside him was someone he never thought he’d end up trusting after a random meeting at a bar—

Seungcheol.

The person who stayed, even if he was just a leftover.

Or maybe… Seungcheol never saw him that way at all—maybe to him, he was a freshly baked croissant.

Warm.

Delicate.

Layered.

Soft in the center, a little flaky on the outside, but every piece feels like comfort.

The End.