Left Over

Chapter 2

Jeonghan woke up to three things:

1. A killer headache.

2. The scent of… was that vanilla?

3. And a ceiling painted a suspicious shade of red.

He blinked.

Twice.

Then sat up—too fast. The room spun.

“What the hell…?” he croaked.

Petals. Everywhere.

Red roses scattered over silk sheets, a glowing red lamp in the corner, and a heart-shaped mirror on the ceiling that made him choke on his own breath.

“…Did I die and wake up in a romance-themed hell?”

He looked down.

Silk pajamas. Not his. Definitely not his.

And beside the bed—a man sitting calmly on the couch, scrolling his phone like it was just another Tuesday.

Jeonghan froze.

“…What the f—”

The man looked up.

Calm. Bored. Unbothered.

"You're awake. Good. I was going to throw water on your face in ten minutes.”

Jeonghan stared at him. “Who are you?!”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Jeonghan scrambled to the edge of the bed, clutching the sheets like a grandma protecting her virtue. “Wait—did we—? Did I—? Did you—? Did we?!”

Seungcheol deadpanned. “You threw up on me.”

“…Oh.”

“You passed out.”

“Okay…”

“I carried your drunk ass out of a bar, booked a hotel room, and you begged me to stay because you thought I smelled like a pine tree.”

Jeonghan’s soul left his body.

“No,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Seungcheol replied flatly.

“I did not say that.”

“You also called me Tom. Multiple times.”

Jeonghan covered his face with both hands. “Oh my god.”

“You tried to wash your hair with hand soap.”

“Please stop.”

“You cried about being a supporting character.”

“I SAID STOP.”

Seungcheol shrugged, leaning back into the couch with all the grace of someone who was not personally victimized by a bottle of bourbon and a flower-themed hotel room.

“I didn’t know someone could cry, puke, and flirt in the same ten-minute window,” he said dryly. “But here we are.”

Jeonghan groaned so loudly, the room echoed.

“Okay, okay, I get it, I’m an embarrassment to society—can I leave now?”

“You don’t know where you are.”

“I’ll GPS it.”

“You don’t have your phone.”

Jeonghan paused. “Oh god. My phone. My bag. My dignity.”

Seungcheol gestured to the small table beside the couch. “There. I picked them up for you while carrying you. Like the gentleman I am.”

“…Do you want a medal?”

“No. Just an apology for ruining my favorite suit.”

Jeonghan blinked at him.

Then slowly, like a cursed video playing back in reverse—it hit him.

The drink.

The mafia Netflix joke.

The puking.

The crying.

The confession.

"—Why did I wake up after seven years—"

The mirror.

The pine tree smell.

The cuddle.

Jeonghan turned so red, even the red lighting looked pale compared to his face.

“OH MY GOD,” he shouted, jumping out of bed and pacing in circles. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD.”

“Careful,” Seungcheol said calmly. “There’s a petal in your hair.”

Jeonghan ran to the mirror. Sure enough, a rose petal clung to his bangs like a mocking reminder of last night’s chaos.

“I’M NEVER DRINKING AGAIN.”

Seungcheol stood, brushing his pants. “You said that five times last night. Right after asking for a sixth glass.”

“Stop exposing me.”

“You also tried to flirt with a coat rack.”

Jeonghan turned to the door, grabbed his bag, and practically ran to escape—but Seungcheol beat him to it.

Blocking the door with a single arm.

Jeonghan’s breath hitched.

“What—what now?” he stammered.

Seungcheol tilted his head. “You didn’t give me your name.”

“Huh?”

“Last night. You gave me everything else. Puke. Drama. Existential dread. But not your name.”

Jeonghan blinked. “Yoon Jeonghan.”

A slow nod. “Choi Seungcheol.”

“I remember,” Jeonghan muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Seungcheol stepped aside. “I can drop you off. Unless you want to disappear into a dumpster behind the building. You did say that too.”

“…You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “You act all cold, but you stayed. You cleaned me up. You even brought my bag.”

“So?”

“So you’re a softie in a mafia suit.”

Seungcheol smirked. “And you’re a hurricane in human form.”

They stared at each other.

A strange silence settled between them.

Not awkward.

Not tense.

Just… full of the possibility that maybe this wasn’t the end of the chaos. That maybe Jeonghan’s worst night might’ve dropped him into something new.

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “Fine. You can drive me.”

“Gee, thanks for the honor.”

He was still red in the face, but now, Jeonghan was smiling too.

It had been two weeks since Jeonghan last saw Seungcheol.

Two full weeks of awkwardly lingering on the edge of his phone screen, hovering over Seungcheol’s contact. They exchanged contact when he dropped off Jeonghan that day.

He tried to think of calling him once, or typed out a message that read “Sorry I christened your suit with my stomach” but deleted it before hitting send.

Because what do you say to someone whose chest you cried on and then puked on, all in the span of ten minutes?

Nothing. You say nothing.

So instead, Jeonghan buried himself in job-hunting.

Or at least tried to.

Turns out, being unconscious for seven years with no degree, no recent work experience, and a long medical history didn’t make you the hottest hire on the market.

He had walked in and out of cafés, bookstores, even convenience stores—anywhere, really—just hoping to get a foot in the door. But rejection after rejection chipped away at him. Every “we’ll call you back” was a lie. Every sympathetic look just reminded him how far behind he’d fallen.

He used to be good at things. Journalism, writing, communication—he had dreams. Now, he was a blank slate with a fragile body, a restless mind, and nothing to show for it except a folder full of failed attempts.

His parents told him to rest. “Take it slow,” his mother said, cupping his face like he was still a boy. “You just woke up. Give yourself time.”

But Jeonghan didn’t want time. He’d lost seven years of it. He wanted motion, purpose, a routine. Anything but this—this stale limbo where the world kept moving, and he stayed exactly where he was.

So, when he ran into Mingyu and Wonwoo on a cold Thursday night outside a 24-hour mart, Jeonghan did what he did best.

Even though it's them while holding hands. Laughing. Being so lovey-dovey.

Mingyu's jacket draped over Wonwoo’s shoulders like it used to drape over his.

He smiled.

“Small world,” he greeted, even though his insides were collapsing.

Mingyu blinked. “Jeonghan?”

Wonwoo gave a courteous nod.

“Out for groceries?” Jeonghan asked, hands shoved in his coat pockets to hide the way they trembled.

“Yeah,” Mingyu said slowly. “You look… tired. Are you okay?”

Jeonghan gave a short laugh. “Job hunting’s exhausting.”

Mingyu’s expression softened. “You’re job hunting?”

Wonwoo spoke up this time. “Isn’t it too soon?”

“It’s never too soon when you feel seven years behind,” Jeonghan said breezily, then motioned toward their bags. “Anyway, don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He just walked away.

And ended up back at the same bar from two weeks ago, nursing a glass of something stronger than his usual and wishing it burned more.

Jeonghan wasn’t sure how long he sat there.

Maybe an hour. Maybe ten years again.

He didn’t cry. He just sat, stared at the liquor bottles lined on the back wall, and thought about all the versions of himself that would never exist.

The journalist with his first book out.

The son who graduated college.

The boyfriend who came back from a trip with sand in his shoes and a stupid story to tell.

He was all of them and none of them at once.

His head drooped forward slightly. Just a few more sips, and maybe the ache would dull. Just a few then—

Someone brushed past him and knocked into his elbow, tipping his glass forward and splashing amber all over the counter and himself.

“s**t,” the man muttered.

Jeonghan blinked blearily and looked up.

Dark eyes. Black suit. And an unmistakable expression of irritation and regret, or maybe a man who just found himself on the receiving end of a second-round disaster.

“Oh,” Jeonghan squinted.

Seungcheol stared.

“You.”

They both said it at the same time.

Jeonghan chuckled first. “Hi. Again. Didn’t puke this time. Yet.”

Seungcheol blinked slowly like he was computing a very difficult equation. “You’re drunk.”

“Just emotionally seasoned,” Jeonghan quipped.

“You reek of whiskey and bad decisions.”

“And you reek of judgment and expensive cologne.”

Seungcheol sighed. A long, slow one. The kind tired teachers made when students submitted blank homework.

“Let me guess,” he said flatly. “Life’s still kicking you around.”

Jeonghan gave a sad smile. “Worse. Life’s ghosting me.”

Seungcheol hesitated. For a moment, he looked like he was going to walk away. But then—again, just like last time—he didn’t.

“I’m not letting you vomit on me again,” he said simply, grabbing a napkin and dabbing the counter dry.

Jeonghan put a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear I’ve grown.”

Seungcheol raised a brow. “As what you've said last time, you were passed out for seven years. That doesn’t count as character development.”

Jeonghan giggled. It was a soft, broken giggle, the kind that came with too many bruises on the inside. “You’re mean.”

“Heard that a lot. Something new?”

“A cute one?”

“No comment.”

Another giggle. Another deep sigh.

Jeonghan leaned his chin on his palm and squinted at Seungcheol. “What are you even doing here? You look like a CEO to me so shouldn’t cold CEOs be sipping wine in penthouses or yelling at interns?”

“Needed air,” Seungcheol muttered. “And I don’t yell. I just talk with authority.”

“You helped me, though,” Jeonghan said suddenly. “Last time. I think. I was sobbing and snotty and pathetic, and you… stayed.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked. “Yeah. You also vomited on a two-thousand-dollar suit.”

“Still sorry about that,” Jeonghan said sheepishly. “I meant to say thanks. And maybe pay for dry cleaning.”

“I burned it.”

“Oh.” Jeonghan winced. “ What a waste of money but it's yours so, fair.”

Seungcheol finally looked at him directly and the edges of his eyes softened. Just a little. Not enough to melt his cold exterior, but enough to reveal the person underneath.

“Come on,” he said.

Jeonghan blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re not walking home in this state. Again.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You couldn’t even walk straight last time.”

“That’s unfair. Gravity betrayed me.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes but tugged gently at Jeonghan’s wrist. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, are you adopting me?” Jeonghan asked, wobbling off the stool. “Because I come with emotional trauma and medical bills.”

Seungcheol didn’t answer. Just steadied him with a hand to his lower back and led him out the door.

The night air hit Jeonghan like a slap and a lullaby all at once—cool and sharp enough to sting his senses back into focus.

He blinked at the blur of neon lights and passing cars as Seungcheol led him gently toward the familiar matte-black SUV parked along the curb. Of course his car was black. Sleek, intimidating, expensive—just like him.

Jeonghan stumbled once on a loose tile. Seungcheol caught him without comment.

“That was the sidewalk’s fault,” Jeonghan muttered.

“Everything’s someone else’s fault with you,” Seungcheol said, but there was no real bite behind it.

They slid into the car—Jeonghan in the passenger seat this time, eyes squinting against the dome light. He slouched back dramatically and let out a sigh loud enough to echo in the silence.

“Your car smells like money,” he said, nose twitching. “Like rich leather and secrets.”

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He just started the engine and pulled into the street, his left hand on the wheel and the right resting near the gear, flexing slightly. His posture was straight, tense—but not uncomfortable. Just used to being in control.

Jeonghan watched him out of the corner of his eye. “You really didn’t have to send me home again. I mean it.”

“You were drunk again.”

“But I wasn’t sobbing this time.”

“Progress,” Seungcheol murmured.

Silence settled between them like fog—thick, quiet, but not quite suffocating. Just more like present.

It gave Jeonghan too much time to think.

About the way Seungcheol showed up again, unprompted. About the strange tightness in his chest that wasn’t from alcohol. About the way Seungcheol’s profile looked under the streetlights—sharp and serious, the kind of man who probably wore wristwatches worth more than Jeonghan’s current bank balance.

He didn’t know why it made him feel like crying again.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a while, softer now, “I remembered.”

Seungcheol glanced at him, just briefly. “Remembered what?”

“Last time. At the bar. I woke up with a headache and a stranger’s business card in my pocket. But I didn’t remember your face. Not until just now.”

Seungcheol made a low hum in response.

“You were… gentle,” Jeonghan admitted, eyes turned toward the window. “Even when I was falling apart. You let me cry like a total mess and didn’t ask questions. You just… sat there.”

Seungcheol’s hands tightened around the wheel just slightly.

“I don’t know why you did it,” Jeonghan added. “But thank you.”

Silence again. A red light stopped them mid-road, casting a crimson glow over the dashboard.

“I didn’t do it for thanks,” Seungcheol said at last. “You looked like someone who hadn’t had a safe place in a long time.”

Jeonghan blinked.

The light turned green.

“I didn’t have one,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “For seven years, I was asleep. And now I’m awake, but… everything’s moved on. Everyone’s living. Mingyu... moved on as well. My parents look at me like they’re afraid I’ll break. And every company I apply to looks at my resume like it’s a bad joke.”

“You’re not.”

Jeonghan scoffed. “I’m a ghost, Seungcheol. A glitch in someone else’s life. My body’s changed. My friends have changed. I’m still twenty-one in my head, but the mirror keeps lying to me.”

Seungcheol didn’t interrupt. He just kept driving, smooth and steady, like he knew Jeonghan needed to say it out loud.

“I feel like I’m constantly apologizing,” Jeonghan whispered. “For existing. For waking up. For being behind. For wanting things I have no right to want anymore.”

“Yfou have the right to want anything,” Seungcheol said quietly.

They pulled up to the side of a quieter street this time. Not Seungcheol’s condo, not Jeonghan’s house either. A rest stop park with a few benches and a small overlook. The kind of place people went to breathe when life got too loud.

Seungcheol cut the engine.

For a second, Jeonghan thought he was going to say something serious. But then—

“You puked on me,” Seungcheol said, deadpan.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. Then he laughed. Really laughed. It came out cracked and sharp, but real.

He wheezed. “God. I’m so sorry. That suit probably cost more than my future as you keep bringing that up every business that we have.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Seungcheol muttered.

“I cried on you first, though. I think that balances out.”

“You owe me a drink that doesn’t end up on my clothes.”

Jeonghan grinned. “You’re still here.”

“Yes, I’m still here,” Seungcheol echoed.

They sat like that for a while, parked under the soft hum of streetlights, surrounded by the distant rustle of wind and the occasional whir of a passing car.

Then Jeonghan’s voice, a little rough: “Why are you still here?”

Seungcheol turned to him. Their eyes met in the dim light.

“Because you looked like you were waiting for someone to stay,” he said simply. “So I did.”

Jeonghan swallowed hard. His throat burned more than the whiskey.

“That’s dangerous, you know,” he whispered. “I’m broken.”

“Most people are.”

“I’m lost.”

“I’ve got GPS.”

Jeonghan let out a shuddering breath. “You’re not supposed to be this kind.”

“I’m not kind,” Seungcheol replied. “I’m just stubborn.”

“And yet you stayed.”

“I'm telling you,” he said softly, “I don’t leave things behind.”

The words slipped into Jeonghan’s chest like a warm stone in cold hands.

He didn’t say anything more. Just nodded slowly and turned back toward the window, watching the wind shuffle the leaves on a distant tree.

When Seungcheol dropped him off at his house fifteen minutes later, Jeonghan got out without a word.

But halfway to the door, he stopped. Turned around.

“You don’t have to save me,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“I know,” Seungcheol replied.

Jeonghan smiled, tired and sincere. “But thank you for trying anyway.”

He disappeared behind the gate before Seungcheol could say anything else.

Then, it had been a week since that night. And while Jeonghan hadn’t quite put himself back together, he was at least picking up the pieces.

It started small.

He got out of bed every morning before ten. Not because he wanted to, but because the sunlight pooling on his sheets had begun to feel less like an accusation and more like an invitation. He made himself coffee—bitter, black, the way he used to drink it before the coma, even though the taste now carried the ghost of hospital waiting rooms and sleepless nights. He watered the row of houseplants his mother had lined up on his windowsill, their leaves waxy and resilient under his hesitant touch. "Something alive to keep you company," she’d said, and Jeonghan hadn’t missed the way her voice trembled.

He even started journaling, a habit he’d once mocked as self-indulgent. The pages were uneven, ink smudged from pauses too long to be thoughtful. Half-formed confessions littered the lines:

I don’t know who I am anymore. The old me liked bitter coffee and loud music and kissing boys who smelled like cigarettes. What do I like now?

Do I like jazz? I think I might. Or maybe I just like the way it fills the silence.

I saw a cat today. It looked at me like it knew. I cried for twenty minutes.

It was ridiculous. And raw. And the closest thing to honesty he’d managed in months.

His parents noticed. They still hovered—still insisted on driving him to appointments, still called twice a day even when he was just in the next room—but the panic in their voices had dulled. His mother smiled again, really smiled, the way she used to when Jeonghan would sneak home past curfew, all flushed cheeks and poorly hidden laughter.

But the outside world wasn’t as forgiving.

Resumes vanished into the void of unanswered emails. Phone calls ended with polite variations of "We’re looking for someone with more… recent experience." One interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman with a mouth like a papercut, had leaned across the desk and asked, "Given your medical history, can you handle high-pressure environments?"

Jeonghan hadn’t argued. He’d just stood up, left his half-finished water bottle on the table, and walked out.

Then, on a Tuesday so bright it felt like a lie, his phone lit up with a name he hadn’t seen in months.

Mingyu [10:34 AM]

hey… jihoon told me you’ve been job hunting.

my friend’s looking for a part-time writer for his photography blog. pays like s**t but the work’s easy. if you want it, it’s yours.

Jeonghan stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Mingyu had always been like this—kind in a way that didn’t demand gratitude, offering help like it was nothing, like Jeonghan hadn’t once shattered them both.

Jeonghan [10:35 AM]

i’ll take it.

Mingyu [10:35 AM]

really? he wants someone with your voice. nostalgic but not sappy. light but not shallow. i told him you’d be perfect.

Jeonghan [10:37 AM]

thanks, gyu. seriously.

are you free? let me buy you coffee.

The café was tucked into an alleyway, the kind of place that existed just outside the city’s memory—sun-bleached wooden tables, ferns spilling from rusted tin cans, the air thick with the scent of roasted beans and vanilla. A place for secrets and second chances.

Jeonghan arrived early. He ordered mint tea instead of coffee, just to prove to himself he could.

Mingyu arrived ten minutes later, all easy grins and effortless grace, his hair longer now, curling at the nape of his neck. The silver hoops in his ears caught the light as he turned, and Jeonghan felt something ache behind his ribs. Not jealousy. Not regret. Just the quiet recognition of a wound finally scabbed over.

Wonwoo had been good for him. Jeonghan could see it in the way Mingyu carried himself now—less restless, less like he was trying to outrun his own shadow.

They hugged, brief and careful, and it didn’t hurt the way Jeonghan had braced for.

"You look good," Mingyu said, pulling back to study him. His thumbs brushed Jeonghan’s wrists, just once, like he was checking for a pulse. "Healthier."

Jeonghan smirked. "You look like someone who doesn’t cry in the shower anymore."

Mingyu laughed, bright and startled. "I don’t."

They talked. About the blog job—a passion project for a travel photographer who wanted prose to match his visuals. About Jeonghan’s disastrous interviews ("She asked if I’d ‘fully recovered’—like I’d been a f*****g virus."). About Mingyu’s upcoming move in with Wonwoo, the way he’d started collecting vinyl records because "he makes me like quiet things now."

It was warm. It was nostalgic. It was safe.

When Mingyu offered him a ride home, Jeonghan said yes without thinking.

Across the street. Seungcheol wasn’t waiting.

He’d told himself that three times already as he sat in his car outside the bookstore, nursing an iced Americano that had gone watery in the heat. He wasn’t waiting for Jeonghan.

He’d just needed a break from the clinic, from the suffocating silence of his apartment, from the way his thoughts kept circling back to that night—to the weight of Jeonghan’s body against his, the damp press of his tears through Seungcheol’s shirt.

(He wasn’t waiting.)

Then the café door swung open, and Jeonghan stepped out, laughing—really laughing, head thrown back, one hand braced on Mingyu’s arm like it belonged there.

Seungcheol went very still.

He knew Mingyu, of course. Knew the shape of him in Jeonghan’s stories—the ex who’d loved him too gently to keep him, the one Jeonghan still measured all other loves against. Seeing them together now was like watching a scene from a memory he wasn’t part of. Mingyu opened the car door for Jeonghan, a habit so ingrained it was muscle memory, and Jeonghan slid into the passenger seat without hesitation, still talking, still glowing.

Seungcheol’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. The ice had melted completely.

He didn’t follow them. He just sat there, long after the car had disappeared, wondering why the sight of Jeonghan happy—truly happy—felt like losing something he’d never had.