Left Over

Chapter 6

It had been three months, two weeks, and two days since Jeonghan learned the truth—the whole truth—about just how serious Seungcheol’s job really was.

And it was insane.

Because for the longest time, Seungcheol had made it look effortless. Like the most casual thing in the world.

Not once had he mentioned that he was the CEO of Cheonsa Holdings.

Not a CEO.

The CEO.

Of the empire that owned not just a mall, but the mall—the one with more levels than Jeonghan had emotional breakdowns, the one that held winter parades, hosted international tech expos, and had rooftop gardens so lush they looked like they came from a Miyazaki film.

All this time, Seungcheol had been coming home early like it was nothing. Answering calls on the first ring, sometimes before. Laughing at Jeonghan’s ridiculous messages like they were love letters. Showing up at his door with hot packs whenever the temperature dipped below mercy. Tucking him in without asking if he was staying—because Jeonghan always stayed.

And maybe deep down, Seungcheol had hoped he always would.

He had made it look so easy.

So steady.

So... human.

But then, something shifted.

The calls got longer—dragged into hours that used to belong to them.

The meetings bled into nights.

And dinner plans turned into soft apologies. “Maybe next time, Han.” Each one gentler than the last. Each one sharper than the one before.

And Seungcheol still replied. Always. Whether it was a selfie with the sun in his eyes or a message that just said “Good morningggggggg” with more g’s than Jeonghan had fingers, he replied. Even if the replies came slower now. He still tried.

But the weight behind them... it had changed. Like something in the air between them had cooled without either of them noticing.

Jeonghan told himself he understood. That this was what came with him dating someone who carried an empire on his shoulders.

But understanding didn’t numb the ache. It didn’t hush the echo of unread messages. Or soften the sting of missed glances across the room.

Because understanding isn’t immunity.

It doesn’t mean the silence doesn’t throb.

Doesn’t mean the soft neglect doesn’t settle under his skin like frostbite.

Jeonghan had always been good at brushing things off. Turning pain into punchlines. Flirting through silence. Teasing through tired smiles.

But lately...

Lately, something was crawling in. Quiet and slow and mean.

A whisper that slithered in when the night got too long:

You know what being left behind feels like. Don’t act like it can’t happen again.

And maybe the worst part wasn’t the fear.

Maybe it was how familiar it all felt.

Like a story he’d read before, and still didn’t know how to stop from ending the same way.

Which is how Jeonghan found himself standing at the front desk of Cheonsa Holdings—two perfectly boxed lunches in hand, heart beating far louder than it should’ve been, and wearing what he liked to call his best version of effort: a crisp white shirt that still smelled faintly of lavender softener, black skinny jeans that hugged his worry too well, and his favorite brown boots that always made him feel a little taller, a little braver.

He’d texted Seungcheol hours ago:

Jeonghan [11:42 AM]

did u eat already? 😗

made lunch

answer or i’m bringing it to your office

too late. i’m already outside

But Seungcheol hadn’t replied.

Not even a read receipt.

So here he was, forcing a polite smile at the receptionist who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Her voice was clipped, cool, and completely unimpressed.

“I’m sorry, sir. But without an appointment or a clearance from Mr. Choi, we can’t let you in.”

Jeonghan blinked, smile twitching. “What do you mean no clearance? I literally brought food. I’m not carrying a bomb, unless carbs count.”

The receptionist, all corporate stoicism and barely-there mascara, clicked her tongue. “I understand, but you’re not on the list of approved guests.”

“I’m his friend,” he emphasized, gesturing to the lunch bags like they were proof of devotion.

“Friend or not, we need confirmation.”

Jeonghan exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw ticking. “And if he was dying from low blood sugar and I had the only cure?”

“Then I suggest you call him,” she said flatly.

Jeonghan let out a dry laugh, leaning slightly over the desk. “Wow. What A customer service. Truly award-winning. Do you guys rehearse this level of charm?”

The tension was growing. Fast. Their voices rise in a matching rhythm. His smile was fraying at the edges, becoming more teeth than warmth.

And then—

The click of heels.

Sharp. Measured. Unapologetic.

The crowd around the desk seemed to freeze, like the temperature had dropped five degrees. Jeonghan turned toward the sound—and there she was.

She looked like she walked straight out of a high-budget CEO drama, but with even less fabric and twice the attitude.

Long, wavy blonde hair framed her face like silk armor. Her pencil skirt looked sprayed on. Her white blouse clung to her chest like it was scared to let go. And her lipstick—blood-red and precise—was painted like a warning. She didn’t need a name tag. She was the name tag.

The receptionist stiffened and whispered, “Ms. Lee…”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “Ms. Lee?”

The woman barely spared the receptionist a glance before her gaze landed on Jeonghan, raking over him with open scrutiny. Her arms crossed. Her perfume—intense and icy—seemed to fill the entire lobby.

“This man’s been causing a scene,” the receptionist said quickly. “He claims to be Mr. Choi’s... friend. But he has no record with us.”

Ms. Lee’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “Friend?” she echoed like the word tasted off. Her eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. “Again?” she muttered, a flicker of something dark curling in her tone. “Another one of those.”

Jeonghan’s brow shot up. “Those?”

She smiled, slow and syrupy. Poison disguised as politeness.

“Men who think wagging their tails at the CEO will get them something.”

There was a beat.

One of those slow seconds where time splinters. Something inside Jeonghan cracked, but didn’t show.

Not yet.

“I mean, really,” she continued, with a chuckle that didn’t touch her eyes. “You honestly think Choi Seungcheol’s into guys? How desperate can you—”

“Hey.”

The word cut like glass.

Jeonghan’s voice didn’t rise, but it sliced through the air like it belonged there.

“There’s a lipstick stain on your teeth,” he said coolly. “Did eating your makeup finally mess with your brain?”

The flinch was satisfying.

She blinked, stunned just long enough for the blow to land.

And Jeonghan smiled.

Not the charming one. Not the coy one.

This one was tired. Icy. Sharp-edged from holding in too much.

“Have a lovely day, Ms. Lee,” he said, stepping back, chin raised just enough to protect his pride. “Try not to choke on your ego.”

And then he walked out.

Head high.

Boots clicking.

Wind colder than before.

But the weight in his chest?

It tripled.

Because he hadn’t come here to fight. He came to see someone he missed. Someone who used to smile at him like the whole world could wait.

But the world hadn’t waited.

And Jeonghan couldn’t help but wonder—

Was Seungcheol just too busy?

Or had he finally decided that Jeonghan wasn’t worth penciling in?

That night, Jeonghan didn’t bring it up.

He curled into the familiar curve of Seungcheol’s couch, knees tucked in, remote in hand, eyes flicking through meaningless channels like they could drown out the ache he’d tucked beneath his ribs.

His back was to the door, but he didn’t need to look to know it was Seungcheol the moment he entered—the soft jingle of keys, the weary exhale that always followed.

Then—

A dip in the cushion.

A quiet shuffle.

And warmth.

A forehead pressed gently against his shoulder, like gravity had pulled them together, matching like a perfect puzzle pieces again.

“I’m dead,” he whispered, voice muffled by fatigue. “Please bury me with that strawberry jam you bought last week.”

Jeonghan didn’t respond. He just kept flipping through the channels, each switch faster, more dismissive than the last.

But Seungcheol noticed. Of course he did.

“Are you mad at me?”

Silence.

A beat passed, then another.

“You didn’t spam me today,” Seungcheol added, his voice softer now. “That’s how I know.”

Still, no reply.

So Seungcheol stayed close, pressing his body against Jeonghan’s like he was molding himself there. Like Jeonghan was the only safe place left in the world.

Which, in many ways, he was.

Eventually, Jeonghan exhaled. “Don’t rub your CEO germs on me. I might start giving a s**t about taxes.”

Seungcheol let out a quiet laugh—low, fond. “I’m serious. I missed you.”

“You should try replying next time, then.”

“I wanted to,” he murmured.

And that was it.

No excuses. No promises.

Just that.

They stayed like that, tangled in the quiet—knees brushing, foreheads resting, their breath syncing. Until sleep, gentle and unspoken, pulled them under.

Days faded. Weeks, too.

Back to the chaos.

Back to their kind of normal.

Jeonghan yelling about who left the bathroom light on. Seungcheol blaming the cat they didn’t have. Late-night karaoke with off-key duets and louder laughter. Cuddles that felt more like lifelines. Emotional CPR in the shape of soft touches and sarcastic banter.

And this time, when Jeonghan texted about lunch—

Jeonghan [11:48 AM]

lunch?

Seungcheol [11:48 AM]

meeting at 2. Come before that?

—Jeonghan smiled.

He wore the same outfit, the same hopeful grin.

But the second he stepped into the lobby—

Ms. Lee reappeared.

Like a glitch in a video game. Uninvited, unneeded, and still so full of herself.

“Back again?” she sneered.

Jeonghan sighed. “You’re like a side character that doesn’t know her arc ended ten episodes ago.”

“You need to leave.”

“Or what? You’ll hair flip me into a coma?”

“I’ll call security.”

“I dare you.”

And she did.

A guard approached—tall, built, clearly trained to toss out guys who brought food instead of clearance.

Jeonghan’s jaw tensed as the guard reached for him. His feet stayed planted, even as his heart pounded.

Then—

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HIM?!”

The entire lobby froze.

The elevator chimed.

And there he was.

Seungcheol, storming out like divine punishment in a charcoal suit, fury in every line of his face.

“Let him go,” he said, voice cold enough to silence the room.

The guard stiffened. “Sir—?”

“I said,” Seungcheol snapped, eyes locked on Jeonghan, “let. him. go.”

The hand on Jeonghan’s arm dropped instantly.

He was still trying to process what was happening when Ms. Lee stepped forward, smug deflating fast. “Sir—he was being difficult again, and—”

“Did I ask you?” Seungcheol cut in, voice like thunder.

Dead silence.

“I was speaking to him,” he said, stepping toward Jeonghan. “Are you okay?”

Jeonghan nodded, slow and unsure.

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered. Then he turned back to Ms. Lee, voice like ice. “Meet me in my office after work.”

“Sir, I didn’t—”

“I said after work.”

And just like that, Seungcheol didn’t give her another glance.

He took Jeonghan’s hand—firm, steady, warm—and walked him straight out of the building.

The restaurant was quiet.

Seungcheol ordered their food, but Jeonghan barely touched his. Just picked at it, ears tinged pink.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he muttered.

“She called you disgusting.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“But not by someone working under me.”

Jeonghan finally looked up, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “You standing up for me like that… kinda hot.”

Seungcheol let out a short laugh but didn’t smile. “I should’ve known how they were treating you.”

“You’re busy,” Jeonghan said.

“That doesn’t mean I should’ve let it happen.”

“You made up for it,” Jeonghan said, nudging him lightly. “Main lead energy. Could’ve won a Baeksang.”

Seungcheol finally smiled—small, sincere. “You okay?”

Jeonghan stared at him for a second, eyes softer than they’d been all day.

“I will be.”

Work was forgotten.

Paperwork left to gather dust.

Seungcheol didn’t let go of his hand on the walk back. Not even once.

Later, they lay curled up on the couch again—Jeonghan’s head resting against Seungcheol’s chest. The room was quiet, bathed in warm lamplight and the steady sound of hearts calming after chaos.

Then—

“Han.”

Jeonghan hummed softly.

“Will you let me court you?”

So simple.

So natural.

His breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to see Seungcheol’s face—not teasing, not playful. Just earnest. Steady. Sure.

“What?”

“I’m done waiting,” Seungcheol said gently. “Not because I’m impatient. But because I’m sure.”

Jeonghan blinked, heart skipping a beat.

“I’ve held back for months,” Seungcheol continued. “Because I didn’t want to push you. But Han… I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more.”

A pause. Quiet, but full.

“I want you. I want us.”

Silence.

Then—

A smile slowly bloomed on Jeonghan’s lips. Soft. Tender. The kind that could undo a person.

He leaned in, so slow, like it's already been tested and close enough their noses brushed.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But…”

Seungcheol tensed. “But?”

“Can you wait more than a year for an answer?”

A beat.

Before Seungcheol could respond, Jeonghan reached toward the small table center, grabbed his phone, opened something from his email, and turned the screen toward him.

“Congratulations! You are now enrolled in Aurelia State University!”

Seungcheol stared.

Then smiled—like sunrise breaking after a long, storm-dark night.

“A year? Are you kidding me?” he murmured. “That’s nothing, if it’s you.”

He pressed a kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead. Gentle. Steady. Sacred.

“I could never do this alone,” Jeonghan whispered in the smallest, most fragile voice. “And if not with you… then I don’t think I can at all.”

He curled closer, burying himself into Seungcheol’s warmth.

Two hearts.

Finally, finally beat in sync.