Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The “curse” — as Taesan has now dubbed it — doesn’t start with witches, or psychics, or supernatural ancient gods that hope to torment him for the rest of eternity, even though he’s pretty sure the most evil thing he’s ever done was accidentally land his grandmother in the hospital after she broke her rib trying to save him from a falling TV (a long story, really, but it was still an accident and he was just a kid! He can’t possibly be blamed for things he’s done when he could barely tell his left apart from his right). 

Then again, it would probably be better if there was a magical entity that actually cursed him, because that would mean Taesan would at least have someone to blame.

Instead, it all started on the morning after his 20th birthday.

No warning. No glowing marks on his palm. No prophetic dreams or shady old women whispering “You have been chosen” in spooky eerie voices. Just Taesan, waking up mildly hungover, brushing shoulders with his roommate in the hallway and promptly hearing—

Shit, I hope he doesn’t notice I used his toothbrush.

And even though Taesan may have had a bit of a headache from his birthday party last night, he was still sober enough to realize that his roommate clearly didn’t say the words out loud.

And it only got worse from there.

Every time someone touched him — elbow bump, hand brush, accidental tap while handing over a pen — their thoughts would just... spill out. Loud. Unfiltered. Unnecessary. Half the time it was useless stuff like “Did I leave the stove on?” or “What should I get for dinner tonight?” 

But the other half was worse: real, messy thoughts no one was ever meant to hear. The kind that exhausted him and made his skull feel too small for all the noise when none of it was even his own. It makes Taesan feel a little like a creep, to be so privy to the inner workings of other people’s minds, hearing things that were supposed to be kept secret.

So. Yeah. Curse felt like the right word.

It’s been a little over five months since then. Five long, overstimulating months of Taesan avoiding physical contact like it’s the plague — not that he was ever big on physical affection in the first place, but still. He’s learned to become quite skilled at dodging handshakes, weaving around crowded hallways like some kind of superhero parkour expert, and pretending he’s just really into personal space and hygiene. Which, to be fair, he kind of is now. Germs and thoughts — both highly contagious.

So when the start of the second semester rolls around, his main goal is to stay as invisible as possible. Granted, it isn’t really a difficult thing to achieve, especially given the fact that he has, like, two friends — and one of them is his roommate, whom he had eventually forgiven for that whole toothbrush fiasco.

And Myung Jaehyun, despite his tendency to leave his clothes everywhere and forget to wash the dishes and set off the fire alarm one too many times, is actually a much better roommate than Taesan could have asked for. Contrary to popular belief, Jaehyun isn’t always as boisterous and energetic as he acts on campus; he’s generally sweet and considerate and always leaves leftovers for Taesan when he knows Taesan’s too tired to cook for himself. And even though Taesan would never say it to Jaehyun’s face — because he knows the older boy would hold it over his head for the rest of their lives like the little shit he is — Jaehyun is admittedly Taesan’s closest friend, especially with how long they’ve known each other. 

Plus, Jaehyun’s also the only one to know about Taesan’s whole touch situation, so there’s that, too.

But, anyway. A new semester means new classes, meaning new people for Taesan to avoid. And unfortunately for him, one of those new classes is a general elective he somehow got roped into last minute: Introduction to Cognitive Science.

It wasn’t his first choice, or second, or even his fifth, but it fit perfectly into his schedule and there weren’t any mentions of group presentations in the syllabus, which automatically bumped it up about ten spots in his mental ranking. His other friend, Sungho, took this course last year, too, and he promised Taesan that the subject is honestly much more interesting than it seems.

So here Taesan is now: at the third row, rightmost seat. It’s close enough to the front that he can pay attention to the professor without major distractions, but not too close that the professor can easily spot him on the chance that Taesan does get a little distracted. It’s also quite close to the door, meaning that he can hopefully swerve in and out of the classroom without bumping into too many people and setting off a flurry of unwanted clamor in his head.

The classroom is a weird mix of majors — some from psychology, a few from computer scienc, plus one very tired-looking guy who doesn’t seem to realize that his shirt is inside-out, which is… concerning, but Taesan won’t judge. He zones out to the hum of shuffling notebooks and last-minute seat-scanning, scrolling mindlessly on his phone, until someone taps his table, grabbing his attention.

“Hi,” the guy greets once Taesan instinctively looks up, a soft smile across his face. His chest is heaving a little, like he might have run the way here, but his voice comes out steady and gentle. He’s also kinda pretty, Taesan thinks fleetingly as he takes in the guy’s long brown hair and square-rimmed glasses, in a very casual, campus crush kind of way. “Is this seat taken?”

And Taesan should say yes, because he really doesn’t want anyone sitting next to him — especially not someone who might accidentally graze his arm and flood his brain with thoughts about midterms, lunch plans, or god forbid, extremely detailed sexual fantasies that have Taesan wanting to projectile vomit his breakfast everywhere. Unfortunately for him, it has happened before; he gets that they’re all young adults, but really, some people are just straight-up freaky.

But then he meets the guy’s eyes — warm, curious, expectant — and for some reason, the word yes dies in his throat.

“…It’s all yours,” he hears himself say instead, scooting his bag onto the floor. Internally, he’s already bracing himself for impact. Maybe the guy will sit too close. Maybe his elbow will bump Taesan’s. Maybe he’ll start mentally screaming about his ex or whatever problem he’s currently facing, and Taesan will have to suffer through all of it in real time.

But the guy just nods, murmurs a quiet, “Thanks,” and slides into the seat beside him with the kind of calm that makes Taesan hold his breath a little.

He waits for it — the surge of noise, the mental images, the flood of words that aren’t his.

And yet…

Nothing.

Just silence.

For the first time in five months, someone’s brushing their arm against his, and all of Taesan’s thoughts are still evidently his own.

He blinks. Checks again by subtly knocking his knee against his new seatmate’s. Still nothing.

Which, of course, should be a good thing. It is a good thing. His mind is quiet. Peaceful, even with his seatmate occasionally bumping his foot into his.

But then he makes the mistake of looking over again. The guy’s fiddling with a pen now, scribbling something in the corner of his notebook. He’s biting his lip a little. Still panting lightly from the run. Still kinda pretty.

And Taesan realizes with slow, dawning horror that this might actually be worse.

Their professor arrives a few minutes late, middle-aged and slightly winded, with a flash drive in one hand and a coffee in the other. She speed-runs her introduction and launches straight into the syllabus, giving the standard overview of the course that’s expected during every first class of the semester.

And Taesan swears he tries to focus. Really. He sits up straighter, nudges his phone into his pocket, and squints at the PowerPoint as the syllabus pops up on the projector. Weekly lectures, required readings, midterm output, attendance policy — nothing too intense. He’s even starting to relax a little.

But then he feels his seatmate shift beside him. 

Just slightly — maybe to stretch, maybe to scratch his knee — but it’s enough that his elbow brushes against Taesan’s.

Immediately, Taesan flinches, so used to the instant wave of noise that his whole body tenses in anticipation.

Yet once again: silence.

Taesan frowns to himself. What the hell is going on?

He dwells over the possibilities. Did that simply not work? Was it too brief? Maybe he just imagined the contact. But no, he’s pretty sure there was at least some skin. Elbow to elbow. That usually does the trick.

So where was the mental noise? Where was the internal monologue about the professor speaking way too fast, or how this class better be easy, or something dumb and vaguely inappropriate?

Does this guy not have any thoughts? Taesan starts to think, slightly hysterical. Is there seriously nothing going on in that head of his?

He sneaks a glance at the guy — who’s now leaning back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest and nodding along as the professor explains the syllabus — and feels a prickle of unease. Either Taesan’s curse has miraculously lifted, or it’s just… taking the day off?

Or maybe it’s… broken? Broken, in a weird, selective, slightly terrifying kind of way?

To test it, he leans forward and taps the shoulder of the person in front of him.

“Hey,” he whispers, making sure to not draw too much attention to himself. “Do you happen to have a spare pen?”

The student, dressed in a dark hoodie and even darker eyebags, shakes his head apologetically, mouthing a soft “Sorry.”

Man, I hope this guy doesn’t try to copy off me, Taesan hears, clear as day, before the person turns his attention back to the professor and Taesan slouches back in his seat.

Right. So. Still cursed.

Taesan mumbles a quick thanks anyway, sighing internally, and nearly jumps when an actual pen suddenly appears in his peripheral vision.

His seatmate is holding one out, eyebrows raised in a polite offer. “Sorry, didn’t mean to overhear,” he says quietly. “But you can borrow mine, if you want.”

“Oh — thanks,” Taesan says, a little surprised. Their fingers brush briefly as the guy offers his pen, and still, there’s nothing.

No thoughts, no static, not even a whisper. Just complete and utter silence.

Taesan swallows hard, heart kicking up a gear. What is up with this guy?

The quiet is so jarring it actually distracts him more.

He misses the part where the professor explains her grading system, stays lost in his own thoughts through half a slide about neural networks, and loses the thread of a joke about Pavlov’s dog. His seatmate shifts again — leg bump this time, knee tapping against Taesan’s — and still, nothing. Not a single unspoken word. It’s like sitting next to a blackout zone in his otherwise constantly buzzing life.

He’s so distracted that he barely registers the professor raising her voice:

“—And although there’s no formal group project in this class, your midterm output will be done in pairs,” she says, adjusting her glasses. The class immediately breaks out in groans, complaints already on the tip of their throats, before the professor continues and adds, “Don’t worry, you’ll have the freedom to choose your partners and time to brainstorm ideas. The prompt will be given next week.”

Pairs. Of course, Taesan thinks with a barely resigned sigh. He’s never really liked working with other people, but pair assignments are usually infinitely better than group ones, so he hopes this one won’t be too bad.

The lecture winds down not long after, students rustling to pack their things and rush off to their next class. Taesan is still dazed, mentally unpacking the last hour of complete cognitive silence, when a voice interrupts his spiraling.

“Hey,” his seatmate says — and, god, Taesan’s getting really tired of referring to him as such in his head — gently tugging at the strap of his own backpack as he stands. “I know we don’t really know each other, but… would you wanna pair up for the midterm?”

Taesan stares up at him, the words slowly registering in his head. Once again, he should say no. He really, really should. This entire semester was supposed to be about keeping his head down and avoiding touch as much as possible, not partnering up with the one guy on campus whose skin makes him feel like someone hit a mute button on the universe.

But the guy is smiling at him again, a little lopsided and hopeful. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and adds, “Of course, you don’t have to decide right now. I just thought I’d ask.”

“…Sure,” Taesan hears himself say before his brain has time to catch up. What the fuck am I doing, he thinks in despair. What comes out of his mouth instead is: “I mean, yeah. I don’t mind us pairing up.”

His seatmate is positively beaming now. It’s so surprisingly bright, Taesan genuinely finds himself having to squint a little. “Cool! I’m Leehan, by the way. Marine Biology major.”

Taesan blinks. He’s never met someone of that major before. “Marine Biology?”

“Yeah,” Leehan laughs. “I needed an elective and thought this one sounded fun. Brains and how they work, you know?” He shrugs. “I figured it’d help with my research track.”

“That’s… actually kind of interesting,” Taesan says before he can stop himself. “Like, I didn’t think marine bio people would care about brains.”

The words come out clipped, a little awkward. God, kill him now. Can Leehan tell how perpetually uncool Taesan feels? It’s been so long since he talked to someone new, someone who isn’t Jaehyun or Sungho, and Taesan can feel the back of his neck start to grow hot.

But all Leehan does is grin playfully, seemingly oblivious to Taesan’s internal turmoil. “You’d be surprised. Personally, I find cephalopods to be much smarter than half the guys in my department.”

What the hell is a cephalopod, Taesan wants to scream, because not only is Leehan nice, and kinda pretty, he also seems smart — and Taesan would be lying if he said he isn’t attracted to men of high intellect. Outwardly, he huffs out a quiet laugh.

Then, like an afterthought, he adds, “Oh, um— I’m Taesan, by the way.”

Leehan turns to him, eyes crinkling with the beginnings of another smile. “Taesan,” he repeats softly, like he’s testing the name on his tongue. Then he tilts his head slightly, letting the words settle. “That’s a really pretty name. It suits you.”

Taesan thinks he feels his brain short-circuit.

He doesn't know what to say to that. He’s not even sure what that’s supposed to mean in this context — is it a flirt? Is it just a casual thing people say? Does Leehan say that to everyone?

And, usually, all Taesan would have to do is reach out and lightly touch the other person to know what’s actually on their mind. Yet when he stands and accidentally brushes against Leehan once more, all he hears is silence.

A few students begin trickling into the room — probably for the next class — and Taesan reaches for his things, suddenly aware of how long they’ve been talking.

“I’ll message you,” Leehan’s saying with a small smile, already halfway to the door. “We can talk about ideas for the midterm.”

Taesan nods. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

Leehan waves once, then disappears into the hallway crowd.

And Taesan sits there for a moment longer, staring blankly at the half-erased whiteboard, trying very hard not to smile.

Because none of this was part of his plan. Hell, it’s only after Leehan leaves does he realize he’s never even told the other boy his number.

And yet… for the first time in five months, Taesan finds himself actually looking forward to something.

The rest of the day passes in a blur.

Taesan floats through his classes like he’s on autopilot — present, but not really there. Embarrassingly, his thoughts keep circling back to Leehan, to that impossibly calm silence, to the soft curve of his smile and the way Leehan said his name like it meant something. It lingers longer than Taesan wants to admit, like a song stuck on loop.

By the time he’s back at his dorm, the smell of dinner wafting through the air, Jaehyun’s already sprawled out on the couch, eating straight from the takeout container and rambling about his day like usual — something about an overly strict professor and someone nearly spilling hot coffee all over him during lunch. Taesan nods at all the right times, tosses in a few well-placed hums, and stirs his food more than he actually eats it.

He doesn’t bring up Leehan. Or the silence. Or how strange it felt to sit next to someone and not want to crawl out of his own skin. It’s not like Jaehyun would react badly — he’d probably just tease Taesan relentlessly — but still. It’s too soon, too weird, too… something.

Besides, he doesn’t even know what this is yet.

By the next Monday, Taesan finds himself slipping into his Cognitive Science class five minutes earlier than usual. Not because he wants to see Leehan again — that would be weird — but just… you know. Better to be early than late. It’s efficient and responsible and completely normal, which are all things Taesan definitely is.

Leehan walks in two minutes before class is scheduled to start, hair still slightly damp like he showered in a rush. He offers Taesan a breathless smile before sliding into the seat next to him, and Taesan pretends he isn’t counting the seconds until their arms brush again.

The professor starts class with a curt greeting and a stack of printed reading materials. When she pulls up her presentation slides and introduces her first lesson, Taesan honestly hears approximately 10% of the rest of the lecture. Maybe less. Leehan’s elbow brushes his arm twice and his knee bumps Taesan’s once, and all Taesan can think about is how unnervingly quiet everything stays. He still hasn’t gotten used to it.

Before she dismisses them, the professor briefly explains how she’s decided that their midterm won’t be a written exam, but the paired project she mentioned last class, an assignment that’ll let them explore a topic of interest related to cognitive science.

“No pressure,” she reassures, though there’s a sort of wicked glint in her eye that makes Taesan believe she doesn’t actually mean that. “But I will be grading you based on originality, clarity, presentation, and the overall power of your insights. So make sure to pair up, think hard, and impress me.”

And then she’s gathering up her things and waving the class goodbye, and that’s when Leehan turns towards Taesan, nudging him with a half-smile.

“Hey,” the other boy says, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “You can completely say no to this, but would you like to grab lunch with me? We can brainstorm ideas for the midterm. Or, you know, just eat.”

Taesan opens his mouth, automatically conditioned to say no — or maybe something noncommittal and safe — but he pauses, weighing out his options. He still has a few hours to kill before his next class, so he’s certainly in no rush to get there. Plus, Leehan’s the only person he’s ever met so far who he can touch without the other boy projecting a torrent of unwelcomed thoughts into his head, and Taesan would be lying if he said his curiosity isn’t piqued.

So he agrees to Leehan’s lunch offer, trying his hardest to ignore the weird flutter in his chest when Leehan beams at him in response. Heartburn, maybe.

They end up at a noodle shop a short walk from campus, the kind of place Taesan usually avoids around this hour because it’s small and crowded and full of too many people at once. But with Leehan across the table from him, stirring broth with his chopsticks and asking whether Taesan prefers sweet or spicy food, he finds that all the background noise doesn’t seem to bother him at all. Taesan even finds himself relaxing, almost without meaning to.

“So,” Leehan starts between bites. “What’s your major, anyway? You don’t exactly give off future-neuroscientist vibes.”

Taesan snorts. “Music composition. And I’m also minoring in production.”

“Oh?” Leehan perks up. “Wait, that’s actually so cool.”

Raising an eyebrow, Taesan says, “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” Leehan refutes gently, eyes twinkling a little. “Just impressed. Although, I probably should have guessed your major was something music-related based on your headphones and the—” the other boy pauses, squinting at Taesan’s shirt— “what band is that, anyway? Does that say Nirvana?”

Taesan glances down, not even realizing that he has his Nirvana band tee on. Looking back up at Leehan, he narrows his eyes at the other boy suspiciously. “Are you telling me you’ve never heard of Nirvana?”

“I mean…” Leehan says sheepishly, “isn’t that the movie with, like, a lion and a witch and a closet or something?”

Taesan gasps. “That’s Narnia, you idiot!” he exclaims incredulously, but there’s a disbelieving sort of laughter in his voice and his tone comes out way too fond for someone he’s just met. Leehan’s laughing a little too, completely unbothered, and Taesan finds himself drawn to the sound, melodic and soft at all the right edges.

“Close enough,” Leehan says through his giggles. Taesan rolls his eyes, but his smile gives him away — small and unwilling and entirely amused.

“Not even remotely,” he still manages to argue, but all Leehan does is grin.

“Well, they both sound mythical,” Leehan defends, “I’m sure any other person would have gotten them mixed up, too.”

And Taesan continues to stare at him, utterly scandalized. He doesn’t care how cute Leehan is when he smiles, this is just plain offensive. “Seriously?” he asks. “So you’ve never heard of Smells Like Teen Spirit? Come As You Are? Literally the soundtrack to teenage angst?”

“What can I say,” Leehan shrugs. He takes another bite of his noodles, chewing thoughtfully before adding, “I’ve heard of the band itself, though. Like, in passing. I just wouldn’t be able to name any of their songs.”

Taesan shakes his head, equal parts amused and horrified. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, but he can feel the quirk of a smile forming on the corners of his lips and he has to duck his head a little in hopes of Leehan not noticing. “I’ve known you for thirty minutes, and you’re already the weirdest person I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Leehan says brightly, and Taesan doesn’t mean to laugh, but it escapes anyway — a startled, genuine sound that has Leehan’s grin growing even wider.

And it should be a little concerning, how Taesan finds himself letting his guard down so quickly, how he’s talking more than he usually does, how he’s not already coming up with several excuses to leave. But there’s something about Leehan that makes everything feel strangely safe. Even the silence in his head. Especially the silence.

Taesan doesn’t remember the last time he was able to go this long outdoors without hearing another person’s thoughts.

Their fingers brush when Taesan passes Leehan the napkins, and again — nothing. Just skin, warm and close.

Taesan doesn’t really know what’s going on, and frankly, he’s a little scared to find out. But when Leehan smiles at him like that again, he almost doesn’t care.

He doesn’t see Leehan again for the next few days. Not properly, anyway.

But he starts noticing him. Or maybe Leehan was always there, and Taesan just didn’t care enough to look. Either way, it’s a little jarring.

He spots him once in the cafeteria, laughing with a group of students Taesan doesn’t recognize. The next day, he spots Leehan in the hallway outside the lecture wing, crouched down to tie his shoelaces. They even bump into each other in the men’s bathroom, both doing the awkward not-quite-eye-contact thing that happens when you recognize someone but don’t know if it’s socially acceptable to talk while peeing.

Each time, they exchange a quick smile. Sometimes a hi, but nothing more.

Still, something about it lingers in the back of Taesan’s head, like a thread tugging loose.

It’s on a Friday night that Taesan’s phone lights up with an unknown number. The message is simple.

Unknown (8:21 PM):
hey! wanna meet up sometime this week to brainstorm for the midterm? 

i know it’s still a bit early, but i’d like to get started on it sooner than later if you’re okay with it :)

oh, and this is leehan btw! 🐙

Taesan stares at the texts for a full minute, fighting back the weird flutter in his chest. His response comes quickly.

Taesan (8:23 PM):
how’d you get my number?

and yeah, meeting up sounds good. when are you free?

Leehan (8:24 PM):

you’re roommates with myung jaehyun, right? 

turns out, he knows one of my friends, riwoo

actually i think they might be fucking

BUT anyway

i overheard him talking about you, and i managed to get your number from him… hope that’s okay!! 

oh, and i’m actually free next wednesday. would the evening work for you, like 5 pm-ish? 

Taesan stares as the barrage of messages come flooding in, one after the other. It sends a little thrill down his spine, and he has to resist kicking his feet and rolling over the bed because he’s a grown man and not some kind of middle school girl.

He doesn’t know why the idea of seeing Leehan outside of class makes his chest feel warm and a little restless. Doesn’t know why he types out a casual wednesday works, where do you want to meet? and then spends five whole minutes editing it before hitting send.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just the novelty of someone new. Someone quiet. Someone who, for some strange reason, doesn’t make his head ache with the weight of their mind.

Leehan’s reply comes just a second later, a simple we can meet at the library, can’t wait to see you :). Eventually, Taesan puts his phone down, face half-buried into his pillow and the corner of his mouth tugging up against his will.

It’s nothing. It’s just a paired project. Just some guy from his class.

And yet, for reasons he can’t name, Taesan’s heart hasn’t quite settled since his phone lit up.

Taesan spots Leehan first — curled up on a beanbag beside one of the far tables at the campus library, typing something on his laptop with a focused frown. There’s a disposable cup of iced coffee beside him and a paper napkin with what looks like a doodle of a weirdly detailed, anatomically accurate fish.

“Is that supposed to be a tuna?” Taesan asks as he approaches, dropping his bag into the empty seat.

Leehan startles, his laptop jostling from where it’s perched on his knees as he looks up, before flashing Taesan a bright grin. “I’m offended on behalf of that fish, actually,” he answers in lieu of an actual greeting. “It’s a goblin shark. But I’ll let that slide.”

Taesan squints. “Doesn’t look very goblin-y.”

“He’s shy,” Leehan says simply. “Give him a break.”

Huffing out a laugh, Taesan relents, leaning forward to peer at Leehan’s desktop screen. He’s a little surprised at how easy it is for him to be this close to someone, especially since Leehan’s still the only person he can’t hear in his head. “Okay, so where do we begin with this?”

Leehan flips his laptop toward him. “I made a list of ideas. We’re supposed to relate our interests to cognitive science, so I just noted down a bunch of stuff I’m really into.”

Taesan skims the bullet points, though half of it is completely unknown to him. Cephalopod cognition. Pattern recognition in aquarium fish. Empathy in dolphins. Animal consciousness and neural mapping. Manta rays and problem-solving. He whistles lowly under his breath.

“So you really are serious about this whole fish thing.”

Leehan shrugs, seemingly unabashed, but there’s the start of a pink tint high on his cheeks. Honestly, Taesan finds it awfully attractive of Leehan to be so passionate about something. In a place like college — especially now that they’re both in their third year and just three semesters away from graduating — where almost everyone complains about the increasing load of coursework and drones around the campus like undead zombies, it’s a nice change for once to be with someone who still has that same spark for their major.

“You know,” Leehan starts, breaking Taesan away from his thoughts, “we could do something on how animals learn — like maybe classical conditioning in marine life, or how octopuses solve puzzles? I think it might be fun.”

Taesan raises an amused brow. “You mean, you talk about sea creatures, and I try to keep up?”

Leehan seems to realize this belatedly, because his eyes widen, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry,” he says, voice sheepish as he scratches the back of his neck. “I get a little carried away when it comes to marine life. But, anyways– how about you? What are you interested in?”

Taesan pauses, chewing on his lip. “Well…” he starts, brows furrowing in thought. “Honestly, I’ve always been kind of fascinated by how music affects the brain. Like, why certain chord progressions can make people feel sad even if there aren’t any lyrics. Or how a melody can trigger a memory so vividly, it’s like you’re right back in that moment. And you know those annoying songs that get stuck in your head? There’s this theory that it happens because your brain is trying to resolve some kind of ‘loop,’ like it’s unfinished business.”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on the table now. “I just think it’s kind of… you know. Beautiful. That something invisible — sound and vibrations and all that — can physically change the way you feel or remember something. Even if we don’t always completely understand it.”

He doesn’t realize Leehan’s staring until they make eye contact, and Taesan feels himself flush all the way down to his neck.

“What?” he says, instantly on the defensive.

“Nothing,” Leehan replies easily, but there’s something soft in his voice. “You just… lit up for a moment there. It was nice to see.”

Taesan ducks his head again, suddenly very interested in the vinyl tiles of the library floor. “Shut up.”

“No, really.” Leehan insists, and Taesan can almost hear the smile in his voice. “You talk about music like it’s magic.”

“It is magic.”

“Have you always been interested in it, then?” Leehan asks thoughtfully. “Like, did you always want to major in music?”

Taesan shrugs, fiddling with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “Kind of. I mean, I spent a lot of my teenage years writing songs and learning to play different instruments. And once I got that down, I had fun making my own melodies, too. I guess I just like…” he hesitates, words catching in his throat. “...Creating something out of nothing, you know?”

He doesn’t mean to look back up — he’s starting to feel a little silly for sharing so much, something he rarely ever does with new people — but something about the silence that follows makes him glance at Leehan anyway.

And the look on Leehan’s face nearly knocks the breath out of him.

It’s not pity. Not amusement, either. It’s something quiet and soft and intense, and it makes Taesan’s heart lodge in his throat.

“That’s really beautiful,” Leehan says, and he sounds so sincere, so genuine, that Taesan has to look away again. “And super cool, if I’m being honest.”

Taesan swallows. His fingers itch to do something, but instead, he forces down a shaky breath and says, “So… music and fishes. How do we make that work for a project?”

Leehan leans back, grinning like he hasn’t just left Taesan internally combusting. “Sounds like the start of a really bad joke.”

“Please don’t say it.”

“A tortured poet with a pen to rival Shakespeare’s and an average guy with a concerning love for corydoras walk into a cognitive science class…”

“You need to stop,” Taesan groans, but he’s biting back a smile and he knows Leehan notices.

Leehan leans forward, elbows on the table, expression thoughtful. “Okay. How about this: we combine them. Like, how music affects animal behavior or cognition. Do certain sounds stress fish out? Calm them down?”

Taesan blinks. “Oh. Wait. That could actually work.”

“You think?” Leehan looks genuinely surprised, and just a little pleased.

“Yeah,” Taesan agrees, the gears already turning in his head. “We could test how different types of genres — like classical, ambient, or even high-BPM electronic stuff — influence fish movement or stress responses in a tank. And then relate that back to how sound patterns are processed neurologically, like... does it trigger fight or flight? Stillness? Curiosity?”

“You’re so hot when you get all academic,” Leehan sighs dreamily, and Taesan knows it’s a joke, knows that Leehan means nothing by it, but it still has his heart kicking up a notch. He shoves Leehan lightly, the other boy dodging it with a laugh, and that’s when Taesan realizes, almost with a start:

When was the last time he reached for someone first?

“Um,” he says intelligently, because suddenly he’s forgotten every retort sitting at the tip of his tongue. Clearing his throat, he pointedly ignores the almost tender way Leehan is looking at him and says, “Okay, so. You can handle the animal brain side. I’ll handle the sound. We meet in the middle.”

Leehan clasps his hands together in satisfaction. “Just like fate intended.”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“And you smiled just now, so I must be doing something right.”

And Taesan has to look down at his notes, fighting back the heat in his cheeks. God, he hates how easy Leehan makes this — how natural it all feels. Like they’ve been doing this forever when, really, they’ve only known each other for a mere week or so.

They end up staying until the library lights dim, talking about aquatic brains and soundwaves and the weird intersection of their two worlds. And when Leehan walks him out, brushing their shoulders together as they part ways, Taesan realizes something unsettling.

It’s not just the silence in his mind when they touch.

It’s the quiet way he almost doesn’t want to say goodbye.

Jaehyun’s already pulling on his third change of shirt over his head when Taesan mutters, “I thought you weren’t even gonna stay long.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jaehyun replies, inspecting his reflection in Taesan’s mirror with a frown. “If Riwoo sees me, I need to look good. Hey, do you think these jeans make my ass look flat?”

It’s a Saturday evening. There’s a party being held at Sungho’s place tonight, and Jaehyun’s been bursting all over their shared apartment in a whirlwind of hair gel, frantic energy, and the scent of overpriced cologne. Several of Jaehyun’s clothes are strewn all over the place — making it look like their place was just hit by a hurricane — and Taesan watches him from where he’s lounging on the edge of his bed, phone in hand and perfectly content to stay curled up where he is.

“Jaehyun,” Taesan interrupts another ten minutes later, when Jaehyun’s trying on his fifth outfit in the past half hour and Taesan can’t even tell where the floor begins anymore. “Hyung, you look fine, I promise.”

“I don’t want to look fine,” Jaehyun laments dramatically, tugging on another pair of pants. “I want to be the hottest person in the room!”

Taesan raises a brow, used to the other boy’s antics. “And you think being hot would make Riwoo instantly fall in love with you?”

“Well… no,” Jaehyun rolls his eyes. “Riwoo isn’t superficial like that. But it helps, okay? I want to be, like, hot and cool and sexy and mysterious—”

Taesan thinks back to just earlier that afternoon, when Jaehyun was sprawled on their living room couch in nothing but his underwear and eating ice cream straight from the tub. It’s a little crazy to think that this is the same guy. “You are literally none of those things.”

Groaning, Jaehyun flops face-first onto Taesan’s mattress, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes that already has Taesan dreading the words that’ll come out of his mouth. “You gotta come with me, Taesan,” Jaehyun says. Bingo. “Just for a bit. Please. I might die from cardiac arrest if I go without moral support.”

“To Sungho’s party?” Taesan frowns. “With all those people packed in one house? Where every five seconds I’ll be bumped into and bombarded by someone’s messy drunken thoughts?”

Jaehyun looks a little guilty as Taesan says this, but he persists (because of course he does), clasping his hands together and holding them above his head. “Please, please, Taesan-ah, I just need you to walk me there. Sungho said Riwoo’s already at the party, and I need him to see me, like, really see me. Physically, emotionally, carnally—”

“Okay, okay!” Taesan interrupts, breathing out a laugh in spite of himself at Jaehyun’s desperation. He gestures for Jaehyun to get off his bed, standing up as he says, “But I’m only walking you to the door, and then I’m going straight home.”

Jaehyun nearly throws himself at Taesan, his arms raised for what would have likely been a bone-crushing hug, before he remembers about Taesan’s stupid touch curse and immediately retracts. “Sorry,” Jaehyun smiles sheepishly. “But seriously, you’re a lifesaver and I love you.”

Taesan rolls his eyes, but even to him, it’s all fond edges and soft corners. “Let me just get changed first,” he tells Jaehyun, gesturing toward his pajamas.

He doesn’t think too hard about it — just pulls on the first black hoodie he sees draped over the back of his chair and the same pair of dark ripped jeans he’s already worn twice this week. His sneakers are by the door, half-unlaced from the last time he kicked them off, and he steps into them without bothering to fix it.

His hair’s a bit of a mess, flattened on one side from how long he’s been lying down, so he runs his fingers through it, squinting at his reflection in the dorm mirror. It sticks up in a few places, but he shrugs. Good enough.

Jaehyun, of course, watches the whole thing with a horrified expression. “You’re not even going to accessorize? Not even a ring? A single chain?”

“Hyung,” Taesan says flatly, zipping up his hoodie, “I’m walking you to the door, not modeling on a runway.”

“Still! This is honestly kind of offensive,” Jaehyun complains as he throws on a black leather jacket and checks his reflection one last time. “If I showed up in that exact outfit, people would think I got mugged on the way here.”

Taesan merely snorts, slinging his phone into his hoodie pocket. “Ready?”

Jaehyun nods, practically vibrating with nervous energy. “I think so. Wait, no. I think I might throw up.”

“Too late.” Taesan nudges the door open with his foot. “You wouldn’t want all your makeup to go to waste, would you?”

“God, I hate when you’re right,” Jaehyun groans as they both step out into the night.

The walk to Sungho’s place is comfortable, the city buzzing quietly around them as the evening breeze bites at their cheeks. But Taesan can tell Jaehyun is jittery — picking at his sleeves, adjusting his collar, messing with his hair every ten steps.

“Relax,” Taesan mutters. “You’re acting like you’ve never been to a party before.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never danced in front of Riwoo,” Jaehyun hisses. “What if I look stupid? What if I trip? What if I get sweaty and vomit and start stinking the whole place up?”

“You already smell like desperation,” Taesan says mildly, waving a hand. “And even if you do actually throw up, maybe your precious Riwoo would be too drunk to even notice you.”

“I am having a very vulnerable moment right now,” Jaehyun grumbles. “The least you could do is pretend to be nice.”

“I’m walking you there, aren’t I?”

“Under duress.”

“Because you begged.”

Jaehyun breathes out a strangled laugh, and it makes Taesan smile a little, too. He’s never met Riwoo, doesn’t really know the guy besides hearing his name once from Leehan’s earlier texts, so he can’t quite understand what Jaehyun is so nervous about.

“Can I…” Jaehyun speaks up after a beat of comfortable silence, fingers still twitching at his sides. “Can I hold your arm? Just until we get there.”

Taesan glances at him in surprise, a brow lifting. “You sure? You do know I’ll be able to hear whatever mess is swirling around in your head, right?”

“I literally do not care,” Jaehyun promises, already linking their arms. “I just need something solid to hold onto or I might actually collapse.”

Taesan doesn’t protest, finding comfort in Jaehyun’s touch, even when the stream of thoughts hits him instantly — a chaotic whirl of Riwoo Riwoo Riwoo, oh my God, I hope he notices me. Shit, did I forget to put on deodorant? Should I say hi first? What if he’s with someone else? Taesan’s so nice and so warm, oh wait he can hear this, that’s so weird—

And it’s loud, but not unbearable, because it’s just so Jaehyun. Taesan’s gotten used to the noise.

Sungho’s house is glowing at the end of the street like it’s on fire — music thumping, voices carrying, people already sprawled out onto the lawn. It’s a blur of pulsing lights and laughter spilling out the open door, and Taesan already feels himself tensing up at the sight.

“Okay,” Jaehyun breathes out, exhaling like he’s about to jump off a cliff. “Wish me luck.”

Taesan hums in lieu of an actual answer, squeezing Jaehyun’s arm once more before letting go. “Text me if you’re not coming home,” he says instead, and Jaehyun grins.

“You’re the best!” the older boy calls over his shoulder with a wave.

Taesan watches him disappear into the crowd, swallowed whole by the light and motion.

Taesan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, already turning to leave when—

“Taesan?”

He freezes.

Leehan is standing a few feet away, cup in hand, smile stretching across his face in that easy, sincere way that has Taesan’s stomach feeling like he might have gotten indigestion. And Leehan looks… Well, he looks good.

His hair’s been styled back a little, soft waves pushed off his forehead, like he put in effort but didn’t want it to look like effort. He’s wearing a black button-down rolled up to the elbows and tucked into fitted jeans, casual but clean — the kind of outfit that makes Taesan feel embarrassingly underdressed. There’s a silver chain around Leehan’s neck, catching the porch light when he shifts, and it draws Taesan in like a moth to a flame.

Taesan swallows, suddenly hyperaware of his posture, his clothes, the faded stain on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Leehan says, eyes twinkling with mirth as he steps closer.

His gaze flickers down — quick, almost unnoticeable, but Taesan catches the way Leehan’s eyes sweep over his hoodie, the rips in his jeans, his scuffed-up sneakers. It’s not judgmental, not exactly, but there’s something heated about it that makes Taesan’s pulse stutter.

Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light, because there’s no way Leehan’s checking him out right now. Taesan barely even tried tonight. He’s wearing the first thing he grabbed, didn’t even style his hair — just ran a hand through it and hoped for the best, because he certainly wasn’t expecting to run into Leehan here of all places.

Still, the warmth in his cheeks climbs higher, and it’s taking everything in him not to fidget under the attention.

“I’m not really… here,” Taesan says automatically, gesturing vaguely around him. “I was just dropping Jaehyun off.”

“Oh,” Leehan says, expression flickering into something that almost looks like disappointment. But it’s gone a split second later, and Taesan’s half-convinced he just imagined it. “So you’re not staying?”

Taesan shakes his head. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“That’s a shame.” Leehan takes a sip from his cup, then looks back at him, brows lifting with something close to mischief. “You came all this way, though. Wouldn’t hurt to stay for a bit, right?”

Taesan opens his mouth to protest — to say something like how he’s not dressed for a party, or that the walk back to his place really only takes ten minutes and he should seriously get going — but then Leehan tugs lightly at his sleeve, and Taesan feels the words die in his throat.

“Leehan, I don’t…” He hesitates, eyes darting to the crowd he can see past Sungho’s windows, the noise, the press of bodies. Someone brushes past his shoulder to get inside and he flinches, vision flashing white with a jumble of someone else’s thoughts — I need another drink / Man, where the hell is the bathroom in this place—

“I don’t know,” he finishes lamely, blinking those thoughts away. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

“Just for a little while?” Leehan coaxes, and there’s something so genuine in his voice that it makes Taesan falter. “I’ll stick by you the whole time, I swear. And we can leave whenever you want.”

We. For some absurd reason, Leehan wants him here. Leehan wants him to stay. Leehan wants his company even though Taesan’s sure he’s got several other friends he could be with instead.

And maybe Taesan should have said no, should have turned around and gone back the way he came. But then Leehan is smiling at him like that — soft and familiar in a way that makes something inside Taesan twist — and suddenly he’s following Leehan inside.

It’s bearable, at first.

Leehan stays true to his promise and remains by his side the whole time, navigating through the cluster of bodies with practiced ease. They find a quieter spot near the kitchen and talk for a while — about a documentary Leehan watched last night, about the latest individual assignment their cognitive science prof gave out earlier that week, about everything and nothing all at once.

And despite the thrumming beat of the music blasting through the speakers, and the smell of alcohol and sweat in the air, Taesan actually finds it quite nice.

Leehan makes Taesan laugh. A lot. It’s annoying how easy it is.

He doesn’t even realize how long they’ve been talking until Leehan tugs at his sleeve again, tilting his head toward Sungho’s living room.

“Come on,” Leehan says, grinning, eyes glinting like stars under the dim kitchen lights. “I wanna dance, and you’re coming with me.”

And Leehan’s already pulling him toward the pulsing crowd before Taesan even has a chance to say otherwise. Like an idiot with absolutely no self-preservation, he lets himself be dragged in.

Something in the air shifts the second they cross the threshold.

Inside, Sungho’s living room is positively vibrating. The bass thrums deep, crawling under his skin and settling in his ribs. Lights flash in jolts of blue and red and gold, slicing through the dark like camera shutters. There are bodies everywhere — moving, swaying, pressing close — a tide of people with nowhere to go but into each other.

At first, it’s manageable. Taesan sticks close to Leehan, lets the music drown out everything else. People’s limbs brush past him in flashes, making drunken thoughts spill through his mind unwanted, but it’s not unbearable, not yet. He’s even dancing a little, which is something he hasn’t done in a long time.

Leehan’s smiling at him again, wide and open and lit up like the room around them. He whistles teasingly when Taesan lets his body move to the beat, and it’s silly, and it’s just dancing, but there’s something about the way Leehan’s gaze rakes over his body that makes Taesan flush all the way down to his neck.

Suddenly, the hoodie feels too suffocating, and Taesan finds himself reaching up and tugging the zipper down halfway, breath catching at the feel of air on his collarbones, on the line of his bare chest.

It’s only when he glances back up that he realizes Leehan is watching him.

No — not just watching.

His gaze is steady, tracking every movement — from the way Taesan’s fingers drag down the zipper to the rise and fall of his chest. And when their eyes meet, Leehan doesn’t look away.

There’s something in his expression, something quiet and burning, that makes Taesan’s stomach twist, makes his fingers twitch with the sudden urge to do something stupid.

Taesan bites the inside of his cheek, turning his head just slightly, pretending to focus on the crowd. He tries not to think about the way his skin buzzes with Leehan so close. Tries not to imagine what would happen if Leehan leaned in, just a little closer.

He blames the heat. The noise. The alcohol he didn’t even drink.

And, God, Leehan’s still looking at him.

But then the moment is broken when a shoulder bumps harshly into Taesan’s back. A hand brushes his side. Another elbow grazes his arm.

And it starts.

A cluster of faint whispers at first, low and slippery, threading into the edges of his mind.

She’s so pretty / I think I might puke / Do I look okay? / God it’s so hot in here /  I think he’s looking my way / Do I kiss her now or—

Then louder. Stacking over each other. The music keeps playing and bodies continue to dance, pressing into every side of him. It makes all their thoughts claw for space inside his head, for room, until Taesan’s not sure which thoughts are his own and which are everyone else’s.

I think I drank too much / Am I imagining it, or is he checking me out? / I need some fresh air / Where’s my phone? / Who the hell stepped on my foot—

Taesan’s breath stutters, his vision starting to tilt. He feels the start of sweat beading at his temple — but not from the heat. It’s from the voices piling on top of each other, frenzied and drunk and messy.

He stumbles back a step. Then another.

“Taesan?” Leehan’s voice cuts through the chaos, clear and sharp and real. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Taesan barely gets the chance to shake his head before Leehan is moving — an arm curled tight around Taesan’s waist as he threads through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times. The proximity makes Taesan’s heart shake, and vaguely, he can smell the faint scent of Leehan’s cologne.

They push past the noise, past the bodies, out through the front door and into the night.

The cool air hits Taesan like a slap, but he’s grateful for it. His legs give out the second they reach the steps, and he sinks down, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he waits for his head to clear.

Leehan crouches beside him, not saying anything at first. Just… there. Close. Steady.

His hands find Taesan’s shoulders, and it’s the only touch Taesan doesn’t want to shake off.

“Breathe,” Leehan says quietly. “Just breathe, okay?”

Taesan’s first inhale is shaky. The second burns. The third is better. Little by little, the noise ebbs away — like a tide retreating from the shore, leaving silence in its wake.

His head is still spinning, but it isn’t as bad anymore, his vision steadying with each breath. He’s cold and clammy and too aware of the way his heart keeps trying to escape his chest. And yet, when Leehan shifts to properly wrap an arm around Taesan’s shoulders—

Taesan leans in.

And, honestly, he doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t really think about it. But his shoulder brushes Leehan’s. His forehead tilts, just slightly, toward the other boy’s collarbone. A subtle shift, like muscle memory or instinct.

And Leehan doesn’t pull away.

His hand stays on Taesan’s shoulder, warm and unmoving. No flood of thoughts. No mental screaming. No jolting static. Just soft, gentle silence — the kind that finally puts Taesan at ease.

And Taesan’s spent so long flinching away from people, from touch, from connection. Every time someone’s hand brushed his, it came with a tidal wave of noise he didn’t ask for. But now he has Leehan, with his soft smiles and gentle touch, and for the first time in forever, Taesan doesn’t want to move.

He lets his eyes slip shut.

Just for a second. Just to stay in this moment a little longer.

Because Leehan’s hand is still there. And everything is finally quiet.

Taesan doesn’t know how long he stays in Leehan’s arms — just that the night air is cool against his skin, and everything is quiet in a way that feels almost unreal. Like the world has gone still just for them.

But eventually, the moment shatters.

“Taesan?”

His name, sharp with worry, cuts through the hush. Taesan flutters his eyes open to see Jaehyun standing behind him by Sungho’s front door, wide-eyed and a little breathless, like he’d been running.

“What are you still doing here? I thought—” Jaehyun’s eyes flick between them, taking in the way Taesan’s curled against Leehan, the pale edge of sweat on his forehead. “Shit. What happened? Are you okay?”

Taesan shifts, suddenly aware of how close Leehan’s hand still is. He starts to move away on instinct, not wanting Jaehyun to get the wrong idea or anything. And when Jaehyun reaches out to steady him–

He flinches.

Just a little, before he mentally berates himself because it’s just Jaehyun, probably the only person besides Leehan whose touch doesn’t feel like a brand on Taesan’s skin.

But Jaehyun still freezes like he’s touched something scalding. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay,” Taesan mumbles quickly, gaze dropping to the ground. “You didn’t do anything.”

He can feel Leehan watching them. His expression is unreadable now, a crease between his brows, like there’s an unsaid question on the tip of his tongue.

“I–” Leehan speaks up then, voice quiet. “I’m the one who brought him in. He said he wasn’t staying, but… I convinced him. I’m so sorry.”

Jaehyun blinks, like he just remembered Leehan’s still here. Recognition flashes across his face as he says, “You’re Leehan. Riwoo’s friend.”

“Yeah.” There’s guilt flickering in his tone now, soft and sudden, and it makes Taesan’s heart ache a little. “I didn’t know– I should’ve been paying more attention.”

“Hey,” Taesan cuts in before the apologies can spiral, pulling himself upright. He tries to shoot Leehan a smile and hopes it doesn’t look like a grimace. “It’s not your fault, I swear. Honestly, I still had fun.”

Leehan doesn’t look too convinced, but Jaehyun steps in before the other boy can say anything, carefully hovering just close enough to Taesan to help without touching.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you home.”

Taesan hesitates, eyes darting toward Leehan for a split second. But Leehan urges him on, helping him up, and the exhaustion seems to catch up to Taesan all at once as he stands on unsteady legs.

He flashes Leehan a tired smile. “See you next week?” he asks, and there’s that flutter of satisfaction in his chest when Leehan’s face breaks out in a small grin.

“Definitely,” he says.

And then Jaehyun’s guiding Taesan down the steps, and Taesan doesn’t mind the touch this time.

The street is quieter now. The music inside Sungho’s house fades to a dull, distant thump. Taesan welcomes the cool air as it breezes through his hair, his heartbeat finally steady.

And the echo of Leehan’s hand still lingers — a phantom touch that Taesan can’t quite shake.

Taesan wakes up with a dull ache behind his eyes and the weight of last night still lingering somewhere in his chest, squinting at the morning sun as it filters through his curtains.

The apartment is quiet.

Which is already suspicious, because he lives with Jaehyun, and Jaehyun’s never quiet.

Reluctantly turning to his side to bury his face into his pillow, Taesan lets out a soft groan. His body feels like it’s made of lead — heavy and unwilling to move — and for a second, he debates going back to sleep and pretending the night before didn’t happen. But then his stomach lets out a pitiful growl, loud and demanding,  and he sighs in defeat.

He shuffles out of bed in his pajamas, feet dragging against the cold floor as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

Jaehyun is already there, sitting at the counter with his elbows propped on the surface, nursing a mug of instant coffee. He doesn’t say anything at first, but Taesan can feel the older boy watching him as he rummages through the cupboard, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Taesan grabs a bowl. Pours cereal. Opens the fridge for milk.

It’s only when he’s halfway through chewing his third spoonful that Jaehyun speaks — voice low and too casual to be casual at all.

“So… Leehan.”

Taesan freezes mid-bite.

“…What about him?”

Jaehyun shrugs nonchalantly, but the glint in his eye is merciless. “You tell me. I walked out Sungho’s door last night wondering if you’d already gone to bed, and instead I find you sitting on the porch in his arms.”

Taesan swallows. “It wasn’t like that,” he denies.

“Wasn’t it?” Jaehyun asks, eyebrows shooting up. “Because from where I was standing, it sure looked like you were letting him touch you.”

“That’s not–” A flush starts creeping up Taesan’s ears. It is way too early for this. “He was just… helping me.”

Thankfully, Jaehyun doesn’t ask what Taesan was even doing at Sungho’s party in the first place, when he’s made it clear he had no interest in going. Still, he has a sneaking suspicion Jaehyun already knows the answer. Which is never a good thing — because, as Taesan’s mentioned before, Jaehyun’s a little shit and likes to tease him like it’s second nature.

Jaehyun doesn’t look fully convinced. “You were leaning on him,” the older boy says, like he’s reading off a list. “You let him hold you. You didn’t flinch. You even looked… okay with it. And honestly, I’ve never seen you so comfortable with someone you just met.”

And, really, how is Taesan even supposed to reply to that?

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares down at his cereal like it might offer an excuse. Eventually, after a few more heartbeats of Jaehyun boring holes into the side of his head, Taesan breathes out a resigned sigh.

“He’s the only one,” he says finally, voice muffled as he shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

He watches as the words register in the older boy’s head, making him still in his actions.

“Wait…” Jaehyun frowns. “So you mean that—”

“Leehan,” Taesan clarifies softly, barely looking up. “He’s the only person I can touch without hearing anything.”

Jaehyun blinks. “Seriously?”

Taesan shrugs, clearly over this conversation and hoping Jaehyun can just move on already. “Yeah. I just– I haven’t figured out why, though.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Taesan’s starting to hope Jaehyun’s finally letting him eat in peace when—

“Oh my God,” Jaehyun gasps, eyes going dramatically wide, “you’re soulmates.”

“What– how the hell did you jump to that conclusion?”

“No, listen!” Jaehyun protests, eyes shining. It’s seriously too early for this. “This is literally, like, a K-drama plot. You can hear everyone else’s thoughts except his, right? So you flinch away from the rest of the world but find comfort in his touch, meaning you guys are destined!”

Taesan feels his eye twitch. “I do not find comfort in Leehan’s touch,” he says flatly. A blatant lie. One Taesan’s too scared to fully acknowledge. But Jaehyun doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, sure, so you were just leaning into him and letting him cradle your delicate little body like a damsel in distress—”

“I will throw this bowl at you.”

Jaehyun grins, unbothered. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be shy. You like him.”

“Jaehyun.”

“You like him.”

“I’m not awake enough for this conversation.”

“You like him so bad it’s actually embarrassing.”

“Why am I even roommates with you,” Taesan groans, grabbing his cereal in one hand and flipping the older boy off with the other. Jaehyun just cackles from where he sits at the counter.

“Leehan sooo likes you back, by the way!” Jaehyun calls out, and Taesan’s ears grow impossibly hot.

“I’m blocking you on everything!” he shouts back, the sound of Jaehyun’s laughter following him all the way to his room.

Taesan doesn’t expect to see Leehan when he walks into the classroom that Monday — at least, not already seated and looking like he’s been there for a while.

Leehan’s in his usual spot, notebook already open and pen twirling between his fingers. He seems a little lost in thought, eyes gazing out the window beside him. There’s a coffee cup on the table, though it remains untouched.

Taesan blinks. Weird.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in class so early,” he says as a greeting, sliding easily into his usual seat.

Leehan startles slightly, like he hadn’t noticed Taesan walk in. “Hi,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips — small and sheepish. “Actually, I… I wanted to talk to you.”

Taesan raises a brow. “About what?”

“You know…” Leehan starts, gaze dropping to the pen in his hands. “About the party. I’m so, so sorry for dragging you in. I feel like I forced you, and I haven’t been able to sleep because I kept wondering if you were mad at me. And if I’d just paid more attention, noticed how overwhelming everything was—”

“Leehan,” Taesan cuts in, voice light, though he can feel his brain turn a little fuzzy. Leehan couldn’t sleep because of him? “I’m fine, and I’m definitely not mad at you.”

“But—”

“You didn’t force me to stay,” he assures him, absentmindedly tugging the sleeves of his shirt down to his wrists. “I have free will, you know. I could’ve just left if I wasn’t enjoying myself.”

Leehan’s quiet for a second, eyes still on him.

“But you didn’t,” he says softly.

Taesan shrugs, trying to ignore the weird little skip in his chest. “Well. You looked like you were having fun.”

“Of course I was having fun,” Leehan says simply, the beginning of a smile curling slow at the edges of his lips. “Especially since I had you with me.”

And it’s the way Leehan says things like that so effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, that has Taesan ducking his head to hide the way pink blooms across his cheeks. He has to remind himself that it doesn’t mean anything — that Leehan’s just like this. Warm and flirty and stupidly charming without even trying.

Slowly, the room starts to fill, people filing in one by one. Someone accidentally drops a water bottle. Chairs scrape against the floor. And just before the professor walks in and pulls up the presentation slides, Taesan feels it — Leehan shifting slightly, almost imperceptibly, like his body instinctively leans toward him.

It’s barely an inch, but Leehan’s knee stays pressed against Taesan’s. Leehan doesn’t move away.

And Taesan doesn’t either.

By the time class ends, Taesan’s already planning to go straight to his dorm and collapse into bed. But then Leehan turns to him while they’re packing up, something hopeful tugging at his voice as he asks, “By any chance, are you free today? I was hoping we could continue working on our project, if you’d like.”

“Um.” Taesan blinks, caught a little off guard. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Same spot at the library?”

Leehan grins. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

It isn’t. Not really. So Taesan finds himself walking alongside him ten minutes later, their steps echoing quietly against the stone as they climb the library stairs.

They’re halfway up when Taesan suddenly stops short.

“Oh,” he says.

Leehan blinks at him, then follows his gaze through the glass doors, and immediately lets out a low whistle. Inside, it’s packed. Like, really packed. Every desk is taken, the study tables are crammed with open laptops and iced americanos, and even the beanbags in the far corner have been claimed by sleepy undergrads and half-zipped backpacks.

“This might be a problem,” Taesan mumbles, quickly moving out of the way as he spots a couple of freshmen climbing up the stairs.

“So much for a quiet place to work,” Leehan sighs, and Taesan shifts his weight, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, humming in agreement.

For a moment, they just stand there. Then Taesan glances over, eyes flicking to Leehan’s face before he looks away again.

“…We could go to my place?” he says, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “It’s only a ten-minute walk.”

Leehan straightens, a little surprised, but then he smiles. “Seriously?”

Taesan nods. “Unless you have somewhere else in mind.”

“No, that sounds perfect,” Leehan says, already stepping back from the doors. “Lead the way.”

They start walking, and Taesan tries really hard not to spiral. It’s not weird, he tells himself. This is normal. People study at each other’s apartments all the time.

Still, his brain is already going into overdrive. Did he clean his room this morning? Is his bed made? Oh god, what if Jaehyun left his dirty underwear on the couch again?

Speaking of which…

Mid-step, Taesan pulls out his phone and fires off a quick text.

Taesan (11:52 AM):
please don’t come home today

Jaehyun’s reply is instant.

Jaehyun (11:52 AM):
???

Taesan exhales and types again, reluctantly.

Taesan (11:53 AM):
ok i’m kidding
but leehan’s coming over
it’s NOT what you think though
we’re just working on our project

Jaehyun (11:54 AM):
OMGG
sure you are
omg look at you my baby
finally getting head
don’t forget to use protection!!!

Taesan nearly trips over his own feet.

God. He swears he’s gonna end up killing Jaehyun one day. He locks his phone with a huff, shoving it deep into his pocket.

“Who was that?” Leehan asks, glancing over.

“Jaehyun,” Taesan answers. “I was just telling him you’re coming over.”

“Oh.” Leehan slows down, and Taesan raises an eyebrow at him in question. “Um. Is… is he okay with that? I mean, after the party — what if he hates me for what happened? I wouldn’t blame him.”

Taesan knows Leehan means well and is probably genuinely worried, but he can’t help the snort that escapes him. “Who, Jaehyun?” he asks, amused. “He doesn’t have a single hateful bone in his body. You could trip him in the hallway and he’d probably apologize for being in the way.”

It surprises a laugh out of Leehan, and Taesan finds himself smiling a little too.

“Seriously,” he adds. “He’s fine with it. And he’s in class until the evening anyway, so you probably won’t even see him.”

They make it to the apartment not long after — just a small off-campus unit with scuffed floors and a screen door that always sticks on the left side. Taesan fumbles with the keys for a moment before creaking the door open.

“Uh, don’t judge,” he says quickly. “We weren’t expecting guests.”

The apartment is exactly what one would expect from two college guys sharing a space: a combined kitchen and living area with an old couch, a cluttered coffee table with mismatched mugs, and a small whiteboard pinned to the fridge with half-erased reminders and doodles. Some of Taesan’s paintings decorate the living room — Jaehyun’s idea, which Taesan happily agreed to if it meant covering the questionable blotches on the walls — alongside a cluster of polaroids: Taesan and Jaehyun in uniforms, grinning under the summer sun, a few blurry selfies, a candid of them asleep on the couch under the same blanket.

Leehan lingers by the entryway before following Taesan inside, taking it all in. And Taesan is suddenly way too aware of every stain he and Jaehyun never got rid of, every speck of dust on the floor.

“You guys look close,” Leehan says with a small smile, nodding at the polaroids.

Taesan merely shrugs. There’s an embarrassing photo of himself with his hair fluffed up like cat ears — taken by Jaehyun, of course — and he’s pouting and glaring at the camera in a way Jaehyun always says is eerily similar to a black cat. He prays Leehan doesn’t notice, but Leehan’s fingers trail down the polaroid with a smile that’s too fond, and Taesan has to look away before he deludes himself into thinking it means anything.

“We’ve known each other since high school,” he says. “Jaehyun’s like my second brain at this point. Annoying, but reliable.”

“He seems fun.”

“He’s okay.” But a small smile tugs at Taesan’s lips, and Leehan finally steps away.

Taesan watches as he glances around curiously — eyes flicking to the kitchen, then the couch, then the books piled near the TV.

“Do you want anything to drink?” he asks, heading into the kitchen. “We don’t really have anything fancy, unless you count tap water as a delicacy.”

“I’ll pass,” Leehan says with a laugh. “But I wouldn’t say no to food.”

“Um…” Taesan rummages through the cupboards, slightly embarrassed by the lack of food he and Jaehyun have. He should seriously remind Jaehyun to do groceries this weekend — it’s his turn anyway. “We’ve got instant ramen?”

Leehan’s grin reaches his eyes, making them crinkle. “Perfect.”

They make lunch, standing side by side at the stove as the water boils. Leehan pulls out the seasoning packets while Taesan stirs the noodles, and by the time they settle onto the couch with two steaming bowls, any leftover tension in Taesan’s body has completely eased.

The project picks up where they left off. Taesan grabs his laptop while Leehan flips through a folder of printed articles, tapping his pen against the margin. It’s quiet, but comfortably so, just the soft hum of background music from Taesan’s phone speaker, the occasional murmur of “What if we…” or “Hey, check this out.”

Time slips by unnoticed.

That is, until Taesan’s phone lights up with a familiar notification.

Jaehyun (4:37 PM):
my phone’s almost dead but i’ll be home by like 7 btw
just a heads up
are you still with your boyfriend

Taesan chokes on air. His entire body jolts as he reaches out to swipe the notification away, but this doesn’t go unnoticed by Leehan, who squints at his screen.

“You’ve got a boyfriend?” he asks, tilting his head.

“What? No. That’s—” Taesan waves him off. “That’s just Jaehyun being annoying.”

“So… no boyfriend? At all?”

“No! Jesus. Do I look like the kind of person who has one?”

Leehan shrugs, and the smile that spreads across his face is slow and amused. “Well, why not? You’re pretty.”

“I—” Taesan thinks he feels all the blood rush to his face. “What?”

But Leehan’s already turning back to his notes, flipping a page like he didn’t just reduce Taesan into a horribly flustered mess. “I just think you’re cute,” he says simply, glancing back at Taesan once. Taesan wonders if he’s imagining the pink lighting Leehan’s ears. “Especially when you’re flustered.”

And what the hell is Taesan even supposed to say to that?

He tries to ignore it, mentally waving the compliment away, and they fall into a soft rhythm again, the gentle click of Taesan’s keyboard filling the space between them. Leehan goes back to underlining notes, occasionally leaning over to show Taesan a paragraph or a graph. Taesan offers a few edits to their outline, his fingers moving fast on the trackpad. They don’t say much, but it’s never awkward.

They work like that for a while — Taesan shifting from the table to the floor, Leehan sprawled on his stomach on the rug with his laptop propped up on a pillow. Ramen bowls sit empty on the table. The sun is starting to dip low outside the window, casting the room in a kind of orange glow that makes everything feel slow and sleepy.

After what must be two straight hours of editing and reorganizing, Taesan finally leans back with a groan and stretches his arms above his head. “Okay, I need a break. I can feel my brain leaking out of my ears.”

Leehan rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, heaving a sigh. “Same. I think I’ve read the word dopaminergic so many times it’s lost all meaning.”

Taesan smiles in spite of himself, feeling a crack go off in his spine. “Do you wanna go outside?” he asks. “There’s a convenience store nearby if you want something to eat.”

Leehan turns his head, cheek pressed to the rug. “Actually… can I see your room instead?”

Taesan blinks. “My room?”

“Yeah,” Leehan says, and he almost seems a bit shy. “Honestly, I’ve been curious ever since I walked through the front door.”

In that moment, Taesan becomes acutely aware of everything he’s unsure about. He prays there aren’t any dirty clothes thrown around, or questionable trash laying haphazardly on the floor.

Still, he nods. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

He pushes himself off the couch and gestures for Leehan to follow. The hallway is short — just a narrow stretch with another one of Taesan’s paintings on the wall — and then they’re at the door to his room. Taesan hesitates for half a second before nudging it open with his foot.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says sheepishly, letting Leehan inside.

Leehan steps in slowly, like he’s walking into something sacred. His eyes scan the space — navy bedsheets, a cat plushie perched near the pillows, band posters plastered across the walls, a desk cluttered with sheet music and sticky notes, a keyboard and a guitar leaning against one corner. There are vinyls of his favorite bands on a shelf above his desk, plus a few books — some music theory, some poetry, one with a cracked spine that Taesan’s probably read ten times over.

Leehan doesn’t say anything at first, just turns in a slow circle, taking it all in.

“Your room is so… you,” he says finally, almost in awe.

Taesan watches him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Is that a good thing?”

Leehan’s eyes are soft when he looks back at him. “It’s a really good thing. Did you paint these yourself?”

He motions toward one of the larger canvases, half-hidden behind the curtain near the window. It’s abstract, like most of Taesan’s paintings, but this one feels heavier. The painting is all jagged shapes and rough textures, smeared in layers of deep blue, charcoal, and angry streaks of crimson. The edges are messy, and the center is a chaotic blur, as if Taesan had gone over the same spot again and again, trying to cover something up.

“I did that one after a midterm last semester,” Taesan says quietly, following Leehan’s gaze. “I’d pulled an all-nighter studying and still bombed the exam. I just… needed to get it out somehow.”

Leehan doesn’t say anything, just looks at the piece a little longer, eyes soft.

And for a moment, neither of them moves.

Taesan swallows, suddenly feeling the heat rush to his face again. He walks over to the desk and pretends to organize a few papers. “It’s usually messier than this.”

“I think it’s perfect,” Leehan promises, and Taesan can almost hear the smile in his voice. From the corner of his eye, he catches the way Leehan moves to sit on the edge of the bed, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

And there’s something so domestic, so personal about letting Leehan into his private space that Taesan has to let out a quiet breath, pretending like Leehan’s words don’t lodge somewhere warm in his chest. He turns, half-expecting Leehan to be looking at the wall or his desk again — but Leehan’s gaze is fixed somewhere near the corner of the room.

“Is that yours?” Leehan asks, tilting his head. “The guitar?”

Taesan nods. “Yeah. I’ve been playing ever since I was, like, fourteen.”

“That’s so cool.” Leehan is so genuine, so earnest when he says it. Taesan doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. “I always wanted to learn, but I never got around to it.”

“You still could,” Taesan points out. I could teach you, he doesn’t say. “It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it.”

“Maybe.” And then, a little tentatively: “Would you… maybe play something? If that’s okay?”

Taesan stills. “What, like, right now?”

“Only if you want to,” Leehan rushes out. “No pressure or anything.”

Taesan chews on his bottom lip, feeling oddly exposed even though he hasn’t done anything yet. “I mean… yeah. Okay. But I’m warning you, it’s nothing crazy. Just something I’ve been messing around with lately.”

Leehan smiles, bright and eager. “I’m all ears.”

Taesan kneels to pick up the guitar, settling onto the bed next to Leehan. His fingers move automatically, tuning a few strings before he starts playing — a song with a melody that’s soft and slow, a little shy around the edges. It’s the kind of romantic tune that Taesan created to feel like a daydream, and he begins to hum along without even realizing. The melody dips gently in places before climbing again — warmer, steadier. He plays it from memory, the chords smooth beneath his fingers.

And maybe it’s the soft light in the room, or the way they’re sitting so close their knees are almost touching, or how Leehan’s gaze keeps flicking from Taesan’s eyes to his fingers and back up to his lips — but Taesan feels it. That weird, palpable thing in the air. He keeps playing, but his fingers stumble a little, and Leehan doesn’t look away.

And when Taesan finishes, the last chord trailing off into nothing, he realizes his heart’s beating a little too fast for something he’s played a dozen times before.

For a moment, everything is silent except for the sound of Taesan’s heartbeat pounding in his ears. He licks his lips, a nervous habit, and Leehan’s eyes dart down immediately to trace the action.

And Taesan’s about to say something, anything, as long as he can get Leehan to stop looking at him like that, when–

“Am I interrupting something?”

Leehan practically jumps five feet in the air, a hand clutched to his chest at the sudden voice, and Taesan whips his head around so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap.

Jaehyun is leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised and an infuriatingly amused smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Taesan feels scarlet bloom across his cheeks.

“How long have you been standing there?” he demands, praying his ears don’t look as hot as they feel. “And, seriously, would it kill you to knock?”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” Jaehyun shrugs. “I was starting to think you’d died. Turns out you were just serenading your lab partner.”

“He’s not– I mean, I wasn’t–” Taesan groans in defeat, burying his face in his hands. “Please go away.”

“Can’t. I live here too, remember?” Jaehyun laughs, pointedly ignoring the scowl Taesan throws his way when he lifts his head. Turning his attention to Leehan — who’s been watching the whole exchange with the start of an amused, albeit slightly nervous, smile — Jaehyun adds, “Hi, Leehan. Taesanie here has told me a lot about you.”

Taesan wants to shoot himself in the head.

“Really?” Leehan perks up immediately, eyes bright with interest. “All good things, I hope?”

“We are not doing this,” Taesan cuts in, standing up and putting his guitar away. “Jaehyun, hyung, for the love of god, please go get changed already. You reek of sweat.”

Jaehyun sticks his tongue out in response, like a child, before glancing back at Leehan — who’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

Ignoring Taesan completely — (seriously, why does Taesan even bother at this point?) — Jaehyun asks, “Do you wanna stay over for dinner, Leehan? I bought way too much takeout, and I don’t think Taesan and I can finish it all.”

Leehan smiles apologetically. “I’d love to, but I promised my roommate I’d help him with something tonight.” He glances at his phone, wincing when he sees the time. “I should probably head out before the bus gets too full.”

“Next time, then,” Jaehyun says easily. He steps aside as Leehan begins to pack up his things, and Taesan trails after him to the door, trying not to feel too disappointed.

“Thanks for today,” Leehan tells him, flashing him a gentle smile, “and for the music.”

Taesan rubs the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up his ears. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Then he’s out the door, and Taesan closes it behind him with a soft click.

He turns back around, making his way toward the couch and plopping down with a sigh. It’s only when he hears a cough that he realizes Jaehyun is still standing in the hallway, arms folded and face way too smug for his own good.

“So…” Jaehyun starts, “when’s the wedding?”

Taesan grabs a pillow and hurls it straight at his face.

Taesan isn’t expecting the text when it pings on his phone one mid-afternoon, right after he flops down on his bed with every intention of taking a nap.

Leehan (2:51 PM)
hey, i know it’s sudden, but are you free today?
i was thinking we could start the experiment part of our presentation
my place, if that’s okay?

Taesan stares at his phone, barely processing the words before he’s shooting upright in bed like he’s been electrocuted. He fumbles for the reply button, thumbs moving clumsily.

Taesan (2:52 pm)

sounds good, just lmk where

Leehan (2:53 PM)
cool :)
you know that cafe near the psych building?
meet me there in 30 and we can walk to my place from there

And just like that, Taesan’s panicking.

He throws his blanket off like it’s personally offended him, yanking open his closet and tugging out shirts one by one before eventually tossing them onto the bed. What the hell does someone wear to casually experiment with fish and their cognitive responses to music? What if it’s too casual? What if he looks like he’s trying too hard?

He ends up trying on three different outfits — a casual tee and jeans, then a hoodie and cargos, and then a more polished knit sweater he immediately peels off because it makes him look like he’s trying too hard. His bed’s a mess of fabric by the end of it, and when he catches sight of himself frowning at his reflection, his eyes widen in horror. Kill me now, he thinks, raising his eyes to the ceiling. I’ve turned into Jaehyun.

He settles on a fitted black shirt layered under a zip-up gray jacket, paired with dark-wash jeans that are slightly frayed at the knees and his cleanest pair of sneakers. It’s simple. Casual. Safe.

With that, he throws on his sneakers, grabs his laptop and notebook, and bolts out the door.

Leehan’s already waiting when Taesan arrives at the café, leaning against the side of the building, scrolling on his phone. He’s dressed in a plain white tee and joggers, hair a little tousled from the wind, and he looks up with a smile when he spots Taesan approaching.

“Hey,” he grins, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Thanks for coming.”

Taesan shrugs, a little breathless. “Of course. I mean, we’ve gotta start the experiment eventually, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry for the last-minute invite.” Leehan tilts his head in the direction of a narrow side street. “It’s not a long walk. I live like two blocks down.”

As they start walking, Taesan glances at him sideways. “Do you live alone?”

“Nah,” Leehan replies. “I’ve got a roommate. But don’t worry, he’s got a three-hour class and some kind of club activity tonight. He won’t be home till late.”

Taesan nods and has to try very hard not to overthink the implications of that.

Soon enough, they arrive at Leehan’s apartment: a modest off-campus unit in one of those student-heavy residential streets, a five-minute walk from the café. The building’s a little worn down — paint chipped on the stair rails, narrow hallways that echo when they step inside — but the interior of Leehan’s place is surprisingly neat.

It’s small but homey, clearly lived-in the way most college apartments are: half-mismatched furniture, a faint scent of old takeout and detergent. There’s a tiny kitchenette, a shared bathroom, and two doors that presumably lead to their bedrooms.

But what catches Taesan’s attention immediately is the living room.

The entire left wall is lined with fish tanks, at least four of them, bubbling gently with filters and low lights. Each one houses different species: one tank has guppies darting around like neon confetti, another holds slow-moving goldfish, and one in the corner is teeming with vibrant plants and small, skittish fish he can’t name.

Taesan steps closer, awestruck. “Whoa,” he breathes out, feeling like he just stepped into a whole new world as his eyes take in all the different species. “You weren’t kidding about your fish obsession.”

“They’re kind of my therapy,” Leehan laughs, walking over to adjust something on one of the lids. “I’m just glad my roommate doesn’t mind me taking up this much space with all these tanks.”

“How long have you been taking care of them?”

Humming in thought, Leehan answers, “Since high school, I think? It started with just one betta, and now…” He gestures vaguely at the wall. “Well. Here we are.”

“There’s so many of them,” Taesan marvels softly, leaning forward to peer at a tiny fish nestled near the gravel. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Those guys.” Leehan points to a cluster of small, pale-bottomed fish with dark speckles flitting across the tank floor. “Corydoras.”

Curiosity piques under Taesan’s skin. “What makes them your favorite?”

“They’re bottom dwellers,” Leehan explains, crouching so he’s eye-level with the tank. “They clean up after the others and are super low-maintenance, but they’ve got personality. They’re shy at first, but once they’re used to you, they follow your finger along the glass.”

Taesan watches the corydoras swimming in slow arcs. “That’s… honestly kinda cute.”

“They’re adorable,” Leehan agrees. “But also really hardy. Like, they’re gentle, but they don’t go down easy. In a way, they’re a lot like survivors.”

“And that’s why you like them?”

Leehan nods, eyes still on the tank.

A beat passes before Taesan, in a rare moment of boldness, asks, “What about me? Like, if I were a fish, which would I be?”

Leehan straightens, turning toward him and considering him carefully. “You see that one?” He points toward a tank where a bright blue blur weaves between the others, gliding through the water. “That’s a blue tang. They’re kind of skittish at first, but once they settle in, they’re brave and loyal and curious. They’re also sensitive and super smart,” Leehan answers easily. “They’re drawn to music, too, just like you.”

Taesan blinks, feeling a faint blush burn his cheeks. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Leehan merely shrugs, throwing Taesan a sideways grin.

“Okay, then,” Taesan says, and he’s smiling a little too. “How about you? What fish would you be?”

“Snakehead,” Leehan says immediately, like he’s already thought about it before. “They’re super territorial. A little aggressive, but smart and persistent. They’re also protective — meaning they’ll chase down what they want.”

Taesan raises a brow. “Should I be concerned?”

“Depends,” Leehan says, grinning wider now. “Are you planning on running?”

“Oh, shut up,” Taesan groans, hiding his face, but he’s biting back a smile and he knows Leehan can tell. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

The actual experiment setup is simple, but it takes them a while to figure out where to place the speaker. They test different genres: classical, ambient, high-BPM electronic, lo-fi. Taesan uses his laptop to queue up a playlist of various tracks — nature sounds, classical pieces, a heavy synth loop — and begins testing.

With each genre, Leehan observes the fish’s movement and behavior, taking notes on how long they stay near the sound source and whether they dart around frantically, swim slower, cluster together, or scatter.

“Lo-fi seems to calm them,” Leehan notes, tilting his head. “Less erratic movement.”

“That’s consistent with all the research we read,” Taesan agrees, scrolling through his notes. “Background music tends to reduce stress in some species.”

Leehan hums in assent, and time slips past quickly. They trade quiet comments and observations, occasionally brushing shoulders when they lean over the same chart. At one point, Taesan hands Leehan a pair of earbuds so he can match what the fish are hearing — and Leehan leans in so close their knees touch, gaze flicking to Taesan’s lips before quickly looking away.

Taesan pretends not to notice.

They test five different genres in total, pausing between each to reset the tank environment and cross-check their notes. When they’re finally done with the first round, Leehan stretches.

“I’ll run the rest of the trials myself throughout the week,” he tells Taesan with a smile. “Play the audios, repeat the sequences, record the data, all that stuff.”

“Are you sure?” Taesan frowns. “We can coordinate. I don’t want you doing everything—”

“You’ve got your own stuff,” Leehan cuts in gently. “I can handle this part. Just keep sending the tracks, and work on the literature review and our slides.”

Taesan hesitates — just for a second. Then he nods, slow and deliberate. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Sounds fair.”

And Leehan’s smile is instant, the kind of smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “We make a good team,” he says, voice soft in that way it always gets when they’re sitting close like this, where even the slightest sound feels loud.

Taesan’s heart skips.

He chances a glance at him — Leehan, still sitting there in the warm spill of evening light from the window, one leg tucked under the other, hair slightly tousled, a faint smudge of ink on the side of his hand from their earlier note-taking. And he looks… comfortable. Like he belongs in this space with Taesan. Like this isn’t just a temporary setup for a class project but something that could last longer, stretch out past deadlines and due dates.

Taesan swallows thickly, eyes dropping to the way their knees brush faintly between them. Then slowly, deliberately, he lifts his gaze to meet Leehan’s again.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, the words slipping out, almost like a confession. “We do.”

And Leehan just looks at him — really looks at him — gaze steady, unreadable for a moment, until it softens again, warm enough that Taesan has to look away before his face gives too much away.

By the time he’s home, the memory of Leehan’s place lingers — the soft tank lights, the faint smell of fish food, the easy rhythm of their conversation. And beneath it all, this slow, simmering warmth in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He doesn’t think about it.

He just opens his laptop, plugs in his earphones, and starts working on their slides.

But Leehan’s smile, and the sight of that blue tang, won’t leave his head.

He and Leehan don’t meet up outside of class for a while after that.

Almost a month has passed since classes started, and with the semester in full swing, Taesan’s been buried neck-deep in his core subjects — long lectures, late-night assignments, and more caffeine-fueled nights than he cares to count. The constant buzz of deadlines keeps his schedule tight, and most days, it feels like he’s barely keeping ahead of the tide.

Plus, majoring in music means hours spent hunched over scores, obsessing over chord progressions and melodic phrasing, workshopping rough ideas until they finally resemble something close to coherent. He’s juggling between Advanced Music Theory, Orchestration, and a class on Contemporary Scoring Techniques that requires weekly submissions of short instrumental pieces — and honestly, all the work is starting to make him go a little crazy.

Then there’s his Production minor — which, while a little more hands-on, comes with its own set of challenges: studio labs, sound editing, mixing practice, and a particularly demanding instructor who never seems satisfied with anything less than perfection.

Taesan complains constantly — to Jaehyun, most of the time. About the assignments, the lack of sleep, the endless rewrites. But even then, even when it’s hard, even when his fingers cramp from hours of notating or tweaking audio levels, it’s still music.

And the satisfaction every time he gets a melody just right, or when a dissonant chord progression finally resolves the way he imagined in his head, or when his professors compliment him on his work — it makes all the exhaustion worth it. There’s a thrill in hearing something he built from scratch come to life, whether it’s through software, strings, or a cracked old keyboard. It reminds him why he chose this in the first place. Why, no matter how brutal the deadlines or how temperamental the equipment, he keeps coming back to it.

He and Leehan still text, occasionally. Short updates about the experiment from Leehan’s end. Reminders. An occasional meme from Leehan that always seems to come at the exact moment Taesan needs to laugh. 

Still, Taesan makes sure he doesn’t fall behind doing his part of their presentation. He chips away at the slides when he can, collects new studies in a shared folder, even prints out a few articles he thinks Leehan might find interesting. And when Leehan messages him one quiet evening with, “are you free this Thursday? library, after class?” — Taesan agrees, maybe a little too quickly.

He tries not to think too hard about how fast his heart jumps at the idea of seeing him again.

The library’s quiet at first.

They find a couple of empty seats by the windows, tucked just far enough that it feels like their own little world. Taesan settles across from Leehan, pulling his notes from his bag while Leehan opens up his laptop, eyes already scanning through his documents. There’s a familiar comfort in it now, this shared rhythm between them — trading thoughts, bouncing off each other’s ideas, falling into a soft kind of ease.

Outside, the breeze shifts the trees. Inside, the low hum of the air conditioner, the occasional turn of a page, the muted tapping of keys — all of it settles into a kind of quiet that helps Taesan breathe a little easier. They work like that for a while, heads bent over their papers, speaking only when they need to. Leehan occasionally leans in to show him something on his screen, and Taesan points things out in his notebook, their shoulders brushing now and then. It doesn’t bother him. Not when it’s Leehan.

But as the hours pass, the library begins to fill.

At first, it’s just a few students dropping into nearby seats. Then more. A group slides into the table behind them, loud laughter breaking the quiet, and Taesan stiffens. It’s not unbearable, and no one’s even touched him yet, but the shift in atmosphere pulls at his nerves.

And then someone brushes past his shoulder.

Taesan flinches before he can help it, heart skipping as mental images that definitely aren’t his own flash through his mind. The skin where they touched prickles sharply, like static. He blinks hard, the residual noise of someone else’s thoughts crackling in the back of his skull before fading out.

Leehan doesn’t seem to notice.

Taesan tries to refocus, eyes darting back to his notes. He jots something down, jaw tight, only to jolt again when another student squeezes past and their arm grazes his sleeve.

This time, Leehan looks up. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Taesan replies, but even to him, it sounds strained. He clears his throat and forces a smile. “Just didn’t see them coming.”

Leehan hums, unconvinced. His gaze lingers for a beat too long, eyes taking in the sudden surge of students, before he nods slowly and closes his laptop. “Do you… wanna work at your place instead? It’s getting kinda packed here.”

Relief spills out of him in a slow exhale, his shoulders sagging as the tension uncoils from his spine. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Leehan stands first, slinging his bag over his shoulder. Taesan follows, feeling the tension ease slightly as they weave their way through the crowd. Still, he keeps his arms close to his sides, overly conscious of every body that passes too near. Leehan doesn’t say anything, but he walks just a little ahead — not too far, just enough to subtly clear a path.

The apartment is quiet when they arrive. Jaehyun isn’t home yet, thank god. Taesan kicks off his shoes and motions for Leehan to come in, tossing his keys into the tray by the door. The lights are dimmed low, only the faint glow from the late afternoon sun casting soft shadows along the walls.

Taesan drops down to the couch with a sigh, stretching out his legs. Leehan places his bag on the floor but doesn’t sit. Instead, he hesitates.

“You okay?” Taesan asks, frowning.

Leehan looks at him. “I should be asking you that,” he says. “I just thought you looked– I don’t know. Kind of uncomfortable earlier, I guess.”

“Oh.” Bringing his knees to his chest, Taesan quickly racks his brain for an excuse. “It’s… nothing, really, I’m just not that good with crowds.”

“Yeah, but…” Leehan takes a seat beside him, gaze never leaving Taesan’s face. “It’s more than just that, isn’t it?”

Taesan feels his heart drop all the way down to his stomach. “What?”

“It’s just–” Leehan runs a hand through his hair. “Today at the library. You flinched. And I thought maybe it was just from being surprised, but… it wasn’t the first time, was it?”

Shit.

“I’ve noticed it before. In class, when people tap you on the shoulder. At the party, when Jaehyun had his arm around you. You always flinch away, almost like it hurts.” Leehan leans forward, voice soft but steady. “Does it?”

But Taesan doesn’t answer. His body itches with the need to fidget, to hide, to run away.

“I thought maybe you just didn’t like crowds,” Leehan continues, quieter now. “But there’s something else to it, right?”

Shaking his head, Taesan forces himself to take a breath. God, his throat is so dry.

“Leehan–” he starts, stops. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m not trying to push,” Leehan says quickly. “I just… I want to understand.”

And something about the way he says it, not demanding, not accusing, just genuinely sincere, makes something in Taesan falter.

He looks down at his hands, fingers curled tight in the fabric of his jeans like he’s anchoring himself. Because for the past couple of months, ever since this stupid curse started, he’s done everything he could to keep people at arm’s length. Every accidental brush of skin felt like a landmine. The only exception had been Jaehyun — loud, nosy, impossible-to-avoid Jaehyun — who Taesan already knows too well to be scared off. But everyone else was too overwhelming, and Taesan couldn’t help but keep them out.

Because hearing people’s thoughts… it’s not just invasive. For him, it feels wrong. Intimate in a way he never consented to. Some thoughts are loud and fleeting, others sticky and raw, clinging to him long after the touch has passed. And it’s never just harmless curiosity, either. Sometimes it’s envy. Cruelty. Sometimes it’s pity, or desire. Things people would never say out loud, and things Taesan should never be allowed to hear in the first place.

And worse than all of it is the guilt. Like he’s some sort of eavesdropper, peeling open doors no one gave him permission to touch. And even though he didn’t ask for this, and still has no idea how it started, it still feels like he’s the one doing something wrong.

Which, frankly, is exhausting.

He’s tired of pretending like he doesn’t mind the isolation. The way people look at him weird when he recoils from a simple pat on the shoulder, or the way professors frown when he won’t shake their hand. Taesan had never been much of an extrovert, wasn’t the kind of person to easily initiate contact, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t tired of pushing people away.

And Leehan’s sitting right here, looking at him like he wants to stay.

Taesan lifts his eyes, meets Leehan’s gaze — steady, earnest, painfully open — and something inside him just gives.

“When people touch me,” he says finally, “I can hear their thoughts.”

Leehan blinks. “Oh. Wait. You… what?”

“I know it sounds insane,” Taesan rushes to say, the words tumbling out of him before he has the chance to organize them in his head. “But I’m serious. Even the smallest touch feels like… like someone turning the radio on in my head. No warning, no volume control. Sometimes it’s loud and overwhelming, and other times it’s stuff I don’t want to know. Stuff I shouldn’t know.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it isn’t tense or disbelieving, just… processing. Taesan watches the way Leehan’s brows furrow, but not in a skeptical way. More like he’s trying to line up what he’s just heard with everything he already knows about him.

He doesn’t accuse Taesan of lying. He doesn’t laugh or dismiss it like a joke. He doesn’t even shove Taesan away, claiming that he’s lost his mind. Instead, after a long pause, he murmurs, “How long?”

And it’s so far from what Taesan had expected him to say that he stills. “What?”

“How long has this been happening?” Leehan clarifies, and even after everything, his voice is still gentle. Careful, like he doesn’t want to spook him.

Taesan exhales, the breath catching slightly in his chest. “Since my birthday last August. A bit before the first semester started. I don’t know how or why — it just… started one day, out of nowhere. I honestly thought I was going crazy at first,” he admits. “And then it kept happening, again and again, with everyone who touched me.”

Slowly, Leehan nods. “And it happens every time?”

“Yeah,” Taesan mumbles, mouth twisting at the memories of it. “It’s like I can hear people’s thoughts as if they’re speaking directly into my ear. It’s loudest when it’s skin-on-skin contact, but I can still hear it even when we’re both wearing clothes.” He frowns a little then, a flashback surfacing. “Although, I guess it depends on how many layers of clothing we’re both wearing. I remember a time last December, when this man bumped into me — except his thoughts were all fuzzy because we both had a bunch of layers on.”

Taesan takes in a breath before adding, “So… yeah. No matter how light or fleeting the touch is, accidental or not, it doesn’t really matter. It’s like they’re all broadcasting, and I’m the only one tuned in.”

Something flashes across Leehan’s face — an emotion Taesan can’t quite recognize. “So that’s why…”

“Yeah,” Taesan pauses, gaze dropping back to his lap. “I’ve kinda grown to hate crowds now. Every random person bumping into me feels like… a floodgate opening. All their current thoughts and feelings and lives projected in flashes in my brain, and I hate it.” He huffs out a laugh. “It makes me feel like— I don’t know. Like a creep or something. And you’d be surprised by how awful people’s thoughts can be sometimes.”

Leehan’s quiet again, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable, even though Taesan feels like he just bore his entire heart out. He looks more like he’s in thought. And then, carefully, Leehan says, “But… you don’t flinch when I touch you.”

Taesan’s gaze finally flickers up.

“That night, when we were at Sungho’s party. And in class, and in the library. And other times, too,” Leehan says slowly, like he’s only just realizing it. “You– you’ve never pulled away from me.”

There’s a tinge of something almost… hopeful in his tone. Taesan doesn’t know if he’s imagining it.

He lets out a shaky breath. “That’s the thing,” he confesses. “You’re the only one I can’t hear.”

Leehan stares at him.

“When you touch me,” Taesan continues, voice low and careful, “it’s silent. Just… quiet. I can’t hear your thoughts at all. I don’t know why. But it’s only ever been you.”

The room feels still. Taut. Like the air’s holding its breath along with them.

Leehan doesn’t move for a second — then he does, slowly, like the gravity between them has shifted. “Taesan,” he says, and it sounds different now. Softer. More grounded, but there’s a new kind of heat to it. “Can I try something?”

Taesan finds himself nodding, holding in his breath when—

Fingers gently brush against his hand.

“Can you really not hear what I’m thinking?” Leehan asks.

Taesan looks up. His breath catches. “No.”

Leehan’s fingers press a little more firmly, warm against his skin. “Still nothing?”

“Leehan, what…” The words die in his throat. He shakes his head.

Leehan’s eyes flicker to his. “Good.”

And then his palm is covering Taesan’s hand completely, thumb tracing slow circles against his knuckles. The touch is soft but deliberate — grounding and electrifying all at once. Taesan’s heart is thundering now, his whole body buzzing from the contact.

He doesn’t know when Leehan moved closer. All he knows is that suddenly, he’s there — inches away, close enough for Taesan to feel his breath.

Leehan leans in. His hand slips up to Taesan’s jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone.

Taesan’s breath stutters. “Leehan…”

“Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

But Taesan doesn’t. Not when he realizes with a start that he wants this too, wants to be held so badly he feels like he might come undone from the inside out.

And all it takes is a single nod for Leehan’s lips to brush over his, soft and unsure at first, and then deeper, hungrier, like something’s cracked open between them. Like all the quiet glances, the lingering touches, the near-misses and half-spoken words have finally found their release.

Taesan fists his hands in the fabric of Leehan’s shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth opens under Leehan’s, feeling himself go pliant in the other boy’s hold. There’s no space left to think, no time to process. Just the dizzying press of lips and tongue and the steady thud of his heart crashing against his ribs.

And then Leehan’s touch is everywhere — in Taesan’s hair, his cheeks, trailing down to squeeze at his waist. His hands slide further down, skimming under Taesan’s shirt like he’s desperate to touch every inch of him. Fingers trace over bare skin — hesitant at first, then firmer, more sure — and the contact makes Taesan gasp, hips jerking instinctively as he arches into Leehan’s hold.

“Oh,” he breathes out against Leehan’s lips, the word caught somewhere between a plea and a whimper. He’s never felt this raw before, this exposed. Every brush of skin feels amplified, electric, and for once, he doesn’t want to flinch away. “Leehan, please–”

“I know,” Leehan says, and he sounds wrecked. It makes Taesan feel a little better about how desperate he feels, knowing Leehan is just as affected. “I got you, Taesan-ah.”

And then he’s pushing Taesan back — not roughly, but with enough urgency to leave Taesan blinking up at him, stunned. The back of the couch cushions him, and before he can even think, Leehan is above him — one hand planted on either side of his head, knees bracketing his thighs, caging him in like he doesn’t plan on letting him go.

Taesan’s chest heaves. His hair’s a mess, his shirt half-ridden up, and he doesn’t even want to think about how flushed his face must be. Yet still, Leehan’s looking at him like he’s never wanted anything more in his life, and it makes something molten pool deep in his gut.

Then, for a breathless moment, Leehan pauses — lips still close enough to feel the shared heat, his gaze searching Taesan’s face.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Please tell me to stop if it’s not. I can’t— I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself if you tell me to keep going.”

The sheer want in Leehan’s voice is so palpable it makes Taesan dizzy. He can’t help the way his hips cant upward, wanting to feel Leehan everywhere.

“Please,” Taesan begs, and it comes out as a whine. His fingers curl around the hem of Leehan’s shirt like he’ll die if there’s any distance between them. “I want it, Leehan. Just– please keep touching me.”

And that does something to Leehan.

His mouth curls into the faintest smirk — half-amused and wholly affected — and then he’s kissing Taesan again. Harder this time. Deeper. His hands never leave Taesan’s skin; he rakes up Taesan’s sides, dragging over his ribs, thumbs pressing into his waist like he’s trying to memorize every part of him, until Taesan’s squirming on the couch and moaning into Leehan’s mouth.

It’s messy. Feverish. Taesan feels like he’s unraveling at the seams, completely lightheaded from the way Leehan touches him like he’s precious, wanted, and not something to recoil from. Every time their mouths part, they come back together with more desperation, more need.

Taesan loses track of time. He doesn’t know how long they’re at it. Maybe it’s seconds, or minutes, or lifetimes. All he knows is the feel of Leehan’s hands, the slide of breath against his jaw, and the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.

Until—

Thud.

Taesan freezes.

A footstep. Then another, familiar and heavy.

“Shit,” he whispers, voice cracking. His eyes go wide as the unmistakable clink of keys hits the other side of the door. “Leehan, shit— Jaehyun’s home.”

Leehan jolts back like he’s been electrocuted, both of them scrambling upright in a tangled mess of limbs and rumpled clothes. Taesan pushes a hand through his hair, trying to fix it and failing spectacularly. Leehan’s shirt is askew, lips kiss-bitten, eyes still glassy.

The key turns in the lock.

They barely manage to shove themselves a respectable distance apart on the couch, trying not to look like they were just half a second away from climbing each other like koalas on trees when the door swings open.

Jaehyun steps inside with a grocery bag in hand, pausing at the threshold. He stares. One beat. Two.

“…Are you guys okay?”

“Fine,” Taesan chokes out. God, his voice sounds ruined.

Jaehyun narrows his eyes suspiciously, slowly making his way inside. “You sure? You sound like you’ve been… running. Or dying. Or both.”

Clearing his throat, Taesan waves him off. “We’re just… tired.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Leehan very pointedly staring at the coffee table like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the world. Jaehyun squints at the both of them for a moment longer, before eventually sighing and muttering, “Oookay. I’ll just be in my room then.” He pauses, looking directly at Taesan when he adds, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The second his bedroom door clicks shut, silence drops.

And then they both exhale — loud and shaky and just a little hysterical.

Taesan leans his head back against the couch. “That was way too close.”

Leehan groans. “I think my soul just left my body.”

They glance at each other — and burst out laughing.

It’s not enough to erase the charged tension still simmering between them, but it softens it. Like they’ve crossed some kind of invisible line, and now they’re both standing in unfamiliar territory, too breathless to care.

Eventually, Leehan stands, brushing off his shirt and running a hand through his hair.

“It’s getting late,” he says softly, looking like the last thing he wants to do is leave. His eyes flicker from Taesan’s lips before darting back up to his eyes. “I, uh… I should probably go.”

Taesan nods, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face as Leehan gathers his things. He walks Leehan to the door.

But before Leehan turns to leave, he pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with a gentle smile.

“Thank you for telling me about it earlier,” he says, and he doesn’t need to specify for Taesan to know what he’s talking about. “And, um–” his grin turns a little more bashful, a little more lopsided– “we should do this again sometime.”

And the look Leehan gives Taesan makes it very clear he’s not just talking about the project.

Taesan swallows hard. “…Yeah. Yeah, we should.”

The morning after, Taesan wakes up feeling wrecked.

His lips are still a little swollen. His skin is still buzzing. His brain hasn’t shut up since Leehan left through the front door.

Which is just plain ridiculous, considering they didn’t even do anything.

But Taesan’s mind won’t stop replaying the moment in his head. Leehan’s lips, soft and slightly chapped. His hands under Taesan’s shirt. The warmth of his body and how he had pressed Taesan into the couch, hot breath ghosting over his jaw, fingers dragging fire across his skin like Taesan had been something Leehan wanted.

Taesan rolls onto his back, arm flung across his eyes as he groans into the silence of his room.

The worst part is, it had felt good. So good that even thinking about it now makes his stomach twist and his body ache with phantom heat. Leehan had touched him like he meant it. Like he knew Taesan hadn’t been touched like that in... ever.

Still, Taesan can’t help the way his thoughts drift elsewhere. Because what if it had just been something done in the heat of the moment? What if Leehan had regretted it the second he left?

And he knows that, at this point, he might just be overthinking it, but Leehan hasn’t sent him a single message since then.

For the next few days, Taesan checks his phone more times than he’d admit out loud. No new texts. No calls. Just their old chat thread, still frozen on the last thing Leehan had sent before the night they kissed — a cute reel of a black cat that Leehan said reminded him an awful lot of Taesan. It’s casual and harmless and friendly.

There’s nothing about kissing. Nothing about Leehan wanting to touch him again.

It’s only later that week, when Taesan’s rereading notes for one of his major classes, that his phone buzzes with a notification. It’s Leehan.

Leehan (5:42 PM)
hey!! :)
wanna meet up tomorrow to continue finishing up our presentation?

A pause. Taesan’s heart is already kicking up a notch. And then—

Leehan (5:43 PM)
i mean like
we didn’t exactly get much done last time lol

Oh.

Okay.

So he remembers too, then.

Taesan grips his phone a little tighter.

Taesan (5:44 PM)
that’s cool with me

Leehan (5:45 PM)
will the library be ok?
i don’t think it’ll be that crowded since it’s the weekend
unless
you’d rather do it somewhere else...?

Taesan wants to scream. Biting his lip, he types out three different responses before finally sending:

Taesan (5:47 PM)
library’s fine
see you

He stares as Leehan’s text bubble appears, then disappears, then appears again. Taesan wonders if maybe there’s something wrong with his responses. Does he sound too cold? Should he have sent an emoji or something?

A whole minute passes, and Taesan’s about to give up and finally shut off his phone when finally—

Leehan (5:48 PM)
see you taesanie :)

Okay. So. Everything’s fine. Leehan seems normal, and even though Taesan can’t stop feeling the ghost of Leehan’s touch on his waist, he can be normal, too.

He’s hoping the quiet of the library, the presence of other people, will keep him sane. That it’ll stop him from doing something stupid, like kissing Leehan on the spot again just because he wants to. Just because it felt like the only time in months where touch didn’t come with noise and guilt and the sour taste of other people’s thoughts.

He spends the rest of the night organizing their notes, syncing files, and pretending his brain isn’t constantly derailing into the shape of Leehan’s mouth. In the morning, he dresses with more effort than he’ll ever admit and stares at himself in the mirror for too long, before Jaehyun had to step in and tell Taesan that he looks fine, which is awfully reminiscent of the night of Sungho’s party. 

The campus is quieter on weekends. When he walks into the library, it’s bathed in the soft hush of afternoon — filtered sunlight slipping through tall windows, scattered students murmuring over laptops and paperbacks. Leehan’s already there, sitting at one of the tables near the back, half-bent over his notebook with a pen tucked behind his ear.

Taesan slows for a second. Just breathes.

Then he walks over.

Leehan looks up at the sound of his footsteps. He smiles, soft and warm and so much more composed than Taesan feels. 

They sit down. They open their laptops. They try to work.

But—

Leehan keeps looking at him.

Like he’s trying not to.

Like he’s failing.

Taesan keeps pretending he doesn’t notice, but it’s impossible not to. He feels it every time Leehan’s eyes drop to his mouth. Every time Leehan leans in a little too close to point at something on his screen, voice low and warm in Taesan’s ear.

And worst of all: every time Leehan touches him.

Because it’s never accidental. Not really.
A nudge of the knee. A brush of their hands when they reach for the same pen. Fingers curling around the edge of Taesan’s notebook before sliding away like nothing happened.

It’s maddening.

Taesan can’t even look at Leehan for too long without remembering how he tasted. How he made him feel. How he had Taesan gasping under him in mere seconds, had unraveled him so easily with just a couple of touches.

His thoughts are spiraling — again — when Leehan leans back in his chair, stretching, before glancing at him sideways with a lazy grin.

“Hey,” he calls out, voice low and teasing. “You’re not paying attention.”

Taesan flushes. “I am.”

“You’re staring at your notes like they personally offended you.”

“Maybe they did.”

Leehan laughs, even though Taesan really can’t tell what’s so funny when he feels like he’s been slowly going insane the past hour. And then, too casually, he stands, slipping his laptop back into his bag. “I think we need a break. Come with me?”

Skeptical, Taesan squints at the other boy. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

And Taesan hesitates, but something about the way Leehan’s gaze lingers on him — open, expectant — pulls him to his feet anyway.

He follows Leehan, body already tense in anticipation. Leehan doesn’t stop walking until they’re deep in one of the older sections of the library, a maze of dusty shelves and forgotten textbooks. It’s quiet here, private in a way that makes Taesan’s pulse quicken.

And then Leehan’s turning, backing him up until Taesan’s spine hits the shelf behind him. His hand braces against the wood just beside Taesan’s head, and suddenly they’re close. Too close.

Taesan’s breath catches.

Leehan leans in, but not all the way, just close enough that their noses almost brush. His gaze flicks down to Taesan’s lips again, then back up.

“So,” Leehan starts, voice low. “Are you gonna keep pretending this isn’t driving you crazy too?”

Taesan swallows. His back is burning from the shelf. His front is burning from everything else.

“I don’t–” he starts, but his voice is hoarse. He tries again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The curve of Leehan’s smile is slow, teasing. “Liar,” he whispers, and there’s something about the dark glint in his eye that has Taesan feeling a little like prey.

Soon enough, Leehan’s hand finds Taesan’s waist. His thumb brushes bare skin under Taesan’s hoodie, and Taesan gasps.

“Lee–” he chokes out, a moan tumbling free, before he quickly slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes they’re in a public place.

Leehan crowds closer, their bodies nearly pressed now, his mouth a breath away from Taesan’s.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, just like last time.

And just like last time, Taesan shakes his head. His heart is hammering so loud he’s sure it’s echoing off the shelves. Tilting his head back, his eyes flutter shut at the feeling of Leehan’s hands drifting down to squeeze at his hips.

“No,” he breathes out, chest already heaving. “Don’t stop.”

And Leehan doesn’t need more than that.

His lips crash into Taesan’s, all heat and desperation, and Taesan melts. He fists Leehan’s shirt, dragging him closer, gasping in surprise when Leehan wedges a knee between his legs.

Oh my god.

Taesan arches into it, wanting more. Needing more.

“You’re so sensitive,” Leehan mumbles between kisses, dragging his lips down to Taesan’s jaw. “You like this.”

“Of course I do,” Taesan says, the words caught between a whine and a breathless exhale. “God, just– keep touching me, please–”

Leehan groans low in his throat, like the plea sinks straight into his bloodstream. There’s no hesitation this time. He grabs Taesan by the hips, fingers digging in like he can’t get enough of him, and pushes him back into the shelf with a thud that rattles the books above them. His mouth finds Taesan’s again — harder now, all teeth and heat and barely-restrained hunger. It’s messier, rougher, the kind of kiss that has Taesan seeing stars behind his closed eyelids.

Their mouths slide against each other with urgency, Leehan swallowing every noise Taesan makes like he’s starving for it. One of his hands slips beneath the hem of Taesan’s shirt, splayed warm across his waist, thumb tracing the sharp line of his hipbone. The touch is maddening — gentle where his kiss is not, grounding and dizzying all at once. Taesan arches into it instinctively, a strangled gasp breaking free from his throat.

It’s only when Leehan drags his mouth down — along the curve of Taesan’s neck, to the sensitive skin beneath his ear — that Taesan realizes how wrecked he is. His blood rushes south, heat pooling low in his belly, knees weakening like they’ve forgotten how to hold him upright. He barely manages to pull away, panting against Leehan’s mouth, voice ragged. “Shit, Leehan, we can’t— what if someone—”

“No one’s coming back here.” Leehan’s thumb brushes over his side, then stills. “Unless… you want to stop.”

Taesan hesitates.

This is the part where he should say yes. This is where he should pull away, come to his senses, because he’s always been rational, and he knows how dangerous this whole thing is getting.

And yet, what comes out of his mouth is: “I– I don’t want to stop.”

It makes Leehan kiss him again — quick, dizzying — before he rests his forehead against Taesan’s, breath still shallow.

“As nice as this feels,” he says, quieter now, “I still have to ask. Is this… something you want to keep doing?”

Taesan’s heart stutters. He knows exactly what Leehan means, the weight behind the words, the question they’re both trying not to say out loud. And still, he doesn’t let himself hope it means anything more than what it is.

Do you actually like me? he wants to ask, doesn’t dare.

Because realistically, Leehan probably just wants release. Just wants convenience, or something easy, or someone who won’t ask for much. And Taesan… he could be that. He’s touch-starved enough, desperate enough, to say yes — even if a part of him is already bracing for how it might hurt later.

His rational mind tries to break through — the voice that reminds him they’re just classmates, just friends, that they have a presentation due in less than two weeks and this is such a bad idea — but that voice is small. It’s no match for the way his skin still tingles where Leehan touched him, or the way his body is still humming with the aftershocks of want.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “If… that’s what you want.”

Leehan smiles, slow and smug and devastatingly fond. “Oh, I definitely want.”

Taesan tries to laugh, but it comes out thin, breathless. His hands are still curled in the front of Leehan’s shirt, holding him like he’s afraid to let go.

This is fine, he tells himself. This is fine. He can handle this.

He’ll take what he can get, even if it’s just stolen moments in half-empty rooms and breathless kisses behind bookshelves. 

Leehan leans back a little, gaze dragging over Taesan’s face like he’s memorizing every detail. His thumb brushes lightly along Taesan’s cheekbone, slow and tender, and it makes Taesan’s breath catch in his throat.

“We should get back to our table,” Leehan says eventually, but it’s reluctant, like he doesn’t want to leave the space they’ve created for themselves in this deserted corner of the library. “Before someone steals all our stuff or something.”

Taesan nods, but neither of them moves right away. Their legs are still tangled, their hands still brushing. It feels too quiet, too charged. Like the air’s still thick with everything they haven’t said.

Finally, Leehan steps back, just far enough to give Taesan space, offering a lopsided grin as he runs a hand through his hair. 

“So… see you at your place the next time we’re free? We can actually finish the presentation this time.”

Taesan exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he says, smoothing down his shirt. “Sounds good.”

They return to their seats like nothing happened, though their hands brush again when they reach for the same pen. Taesan doesn’t pull away this time.

And when Leehan glances at him, all sharp eyes and quiet warmth, Taesan doesn’t look away either.

They say nothing more about it, but it lingers — in the air, in the silence, and in the way Taesan’s fingers twitch with the memory of being held.

It starts to become routine.

The rhythm of it — sitting together in their Cognitive Science class, working on their presentation in their vacant hours, the casual texts they share that turn a little less casual as the week drags on — all becomes something Taesan expects now. And somehow, some way, it always ends the same.

With Taesan, on the couch or against the wall or on his bed, Leehan’s hands on his skin.

At first, it begins with them relocating to Taesan’s apartment on the days they have Cognitive Science together, once the library starts becoming a little too crowded for Taesan’s taste. But then, Leehan coming over to Taesan’s place starts to become a little more frequent, with the excuse that they need to practice their presentation verbally, and they need a quiet place to do so.

So they’ll work for a while (and they do, at first — their presentation is finally finished and it’s creative and intelligent and Taesan is so relieved he’ll never have to look up a journal article related to it ever again), but then Taesan’ll falter in his words when he finds Leehan watching him with that look again, the one that makes his throat go dry. Next thing he knows, he’s pinned to the mattress with Leehan’s mouth on his, breathing heavy, hands sliding under layers of clothing like he knows Taesan’s body better than he knows his own.

It’s not like they go all the way. Not yet. They mostly stick to making out, heated and breathless and desperate. But it’s enough to leave Taesan half-hard and aching more often than not. He’d be feeling more embarrassed about it if Leehan wasn’t just as wrecked, because every single time they finish, Leehan disappears into the bathroom, and the sounds that follow aren’t exactly subtle.

Then comes today.

They’ve practiced presenting the last section of their presentation the other day — and Taesan, despite everything, is proud of it; between all the kissing and the messing around and the horribly touch-starved moments of weakness, they’ve managed to finish something great — so really, Leehan doesn’t have an excuse to be at Taesan’s place anymore.

Yet he’s still here, in his room, sprawled on Taesan’s bed in the same spot he’s been for the last three hours.

“You okay?” Leehan asks, when Taesan lets out his tenth sigh in the past thirty minutes.

Taesan doesn’t answer right away. Just clicks aimlessly through an old composition file before finally admitting, “I’ve got this assignment due soon. For one of my major subjects. Composition Techniques.”

“Oh.” Leehan sits up, curiosity lighting in his eyes. “What kind of assignment?”

“We were given a short visual prompt — no audio — and told to compose a matching piece based on the emotional arc and pacing.” Taesan exhales, frustrated. He runs a hand through his hair as he chews on his bottom lip, eyes not leaving his laptop screen. “I’ve done it. I’ve watched the clip a hundred times. But I don’t know. It just… doesn’t feel good enough.”

Leehan’s quiet for a beat. Taesan thinks he’s about to drop the topic and go back to scrolling on his phone, or whatever he was doing while Taesan was killing himself fifty times over in his head these last couple of hours, when finally, he asks—

“Can I hear it?”

It makes Taesan falter for a moment, because he’s only ever played his music pieces for Jaehyun. And sharing his own compositions outside of class has always been a difficult thing for him, because it feels too intimate, like whoever’s listening would be able to see through Taesan solely from the music he creates. 

But… he also trusts Leehan, and he’s a little surprised to find himself actually wanting to share this piece with him, wanting to know what Leehan would think.

So he caves, clicking on the recording as the sound starts playing from his laptop. The melody is soft at first, delicate and tentative, before it grows tense. Tension winds itself into the chords as the tune reaches its climax, stretching tighter, until it unravels all at once, dissolving into something quiet and aching. Taesan watches as Leehan listens without saying a word, gaze fixed on the screen even though he isn’t watching it, brows drawn slightly, like he’s feeling the music rather than just hearing it.

When it ends, the silence that follows feels almost heavier than before. Taesan doesn’t move. His fingers hover above the keyboard, still and uncertain.

“Taesan,” Leehan finally says, something like awe coloring his voice. “It’s really good.”

Taesan laughs, a short, dry sound without any humor. He appreciates the compliment, but. Well. Leehan’s his friend, and he isn’t a music major, so he might just be saying that to make Taesan feel better. “You don’t get it,” he tells Leehan. “My prof’s ruthless. He’ll tear this apart.”

“But you’ve been working for hours,” Leehan points out, already shifting himself into a sitting position on the bed. “Your back’s gotta be killing you.”

Taesan rolls his shoulders, only just realizing how stiff they feel. Still, he merely shrugs. “It’s whatever,” he mumbles, already reaching for his trackpad. “I’m used to it.”

Leehan watches him for a second. And then,

“Want me to help?”

Sparing the other boy a sideways glance, Taesan frowns, not quite understanding. “…What, with my assignment?”

Leehan rolls his eyes, but it’s awfully fond. “No, silly,” he says, “with your back. Let me give you a massage.”

Taesan blinks, a little caught off guard. “Uh–”

“C’mon,” Leehan grins, wiggling his eyebrows in that stupidly charming, ridiculously dangerous way that never fails to make Taesan’s stomach flip. “You know I’m great with my hands.”

And, like clockwork, it has Taesan flushing all the way down to his neck.

He hesitates. It feels like a bad idea. A very bad idea, actually. Being under Leehan’s touch, just like that — knowing what it could turn into.

But Leehan’s smile is all soft encouragement. And Taesan’s body is stiff and sore and aching, practically screaming for relief.

He sighs, feeling his resolve crumbling at a concerning pace, as it always does when he’s with Leehan. Leehan shifts from where he’s seated on his bed, patting the space beside him invitingly, and that’s all it takes for Taesan to finally slide off his chair, making his way to where the other boy is.

“Okay,” he mumbles, ears already feeling hot. “Just– don’t make this weird.”

“Who, me?” Leehan asks, all mock-innocence and a grin that’s anything but. “Never.”

Leehan guides him until Taesan is lying flat on his stomach, his head on his pillow and arms placed listlessly beside him. He can’t really see Leehan from this position, so he jumps slightly when he feels the other boy settle on the space above his lower back, not quite putting all his weight on Taesan, but hovering. Gently, Leehan places his hands on Taesan’s shoulders.

They’re warm. So, so warm. The kind of warm that sinks under his shirt, all the way down to his bones.

“Relax,” Leehan murmurs, voice low, too close to his ear. “You said you were fine.”

Taesan clenches his jaw, exhales, and nods.

And then Leehan starts.

It’s slow at first. Just the heel of his palm pressing into the tight space between Taesan’s neck and shoulder blades, the tips of his fingers gliding along the curve of muscle. It’s nothing — really, it’s just a massage — but Taesan’s entire body goes taut with the effort not to feel too much.

He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. Not even intimately, just… tenderly. Like Taesan was someone worth caring for. He’s so used to flinching, pulling away, keeping people at arm’s length, especially ever since that stupid curse. But even as a child, he always believed it was safer to just be distant, to keep his circle small. Safer to stay untouched.

But Leehan’s touch is different.

Taesan feels it in every breath. Every slow roll of pressure as Leehan works his way across his shoulders. And it’s maddening how good it feels. How easy it is for Taesan to lean into it, to sigh into Leehan’s hold, to want more. It’s at times like these when he wishes, not for the first time, that he could hear what Leehan’s thinking. It’s just a fleeting thought, though, because as much as he hates this curse or whatever the hell it is, he can’t help but wish he could see inside Leehan’s head, can’t help but wonder if Leehan really means all the things he tells him.

“Your muscles are so tight,” Leehan murmurs as he digs his thumbs into a knot near Taesan’s spine. Taesan startles a little at the touch, quickly biting his lip as a soft groan escapes him. “What the hell do they make you do in Music Theory, bench press your professor?”

“Shut up,” Taesan quips back, but it’s hard to seem serious about it when Leehan has him all pliant and willing. “I’m just… stressed.”

“You think?” Leehan teases.

His hands shift again, slipping lower, and Taesan gasps when Leehan lifts his shirt all the way up, bunching it under his underarms as the cool breeze hits his bare skin.

“Hey– Leehan!” Taesan flushes. He can’t move properly, not with Leehan pinning him down, his thighs bracketing Taesan’s hips. “What—“

“It’ll feel better without it, trust me,” Leehan reassures, immediately pressing into the middle of Taesan’s back with slow, careful movements. His thumbs circle over each vertebra, firm but never rough, and Taesan sucks in a shaky inhale as he finds himself relaxing again, his head falling forward onto his arms.

“That good?” Leehan murmurs.

“Mm,” is all Taesan manages, his brain slowly melting into a puddle.

And then Leehan leans in a little more, and suddenly his hands are smoothing over Taesan’s lower back, right above the waistband of his shorts. His thumbs dip slightly beneath the fabric, and Taesan has to bite back a whine.

“If I’d known this was all it took to shut you up,” he says, amused, “I would’ve offered to do this weeks ago.”

Taesan tries to retort back, but he can’t. Not with how his skin’s tingling, his body burning up as he arches into Leehan’s touch. Not when Leehan’s thumbs are brushing back and forth over that sliver of exposed skin like he’s doing it without thinking. Like it’s just natural to be touching Taesan like this.

“Okay,” Leehan says, tugging his shirt back down. “This has got to go.”

Taesan stiffens immediately. “What?”

“It’s getting in the way,” Leehan says simply. “I can’t reach your shoulders properly.”

“Oh,” Taesan feels his pulse jump. “Um, I don’t—“

“Taesan,” Leehan interrupts, gentler this time. “It’s just your shirt.”

And when Leehan’s eyes meet his — soft and steady and sure — Taesan’s rapidly deteriorating willpower folds like paper.

“…Fine,” he mutters, cheeks already burning as he sits up. He peels the shirt off slowly, awkwardly, hoping to god his hair is messy enough to hide the full flush across his face. The moment the fabric’s gone, he can feel Leehan staring at him. Not leering or judging — just looking, with a kind of fascination that makes Taesan want to hide.

He wants to say something snarky to break the tension. Something like take a picture, it’ll last longer. But he doesn’t. Because part of him kind of wants to stay like this — open, exposed, wanted — for just a little longer.

And then he’s lying back down, Leehan’s hands are back on him. Bare skin to bare skin.

And, fuck.

Taesan lets out a sharp, involuntary gasp when Leehan presses into a particularly sensitive spot.

“Shit, sorry,” Leehan says, voice low. “Too much?”

“No, I—“ Taesan breaks off with a whimper he immediately regrets. “Ah– sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“Don’t apologize,” Leehan breathes, but there’s something in his voice that makes him sound shot. “It– It’s okay. It’s just me.”

Taesan mumbles something incoherent in response, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of Leehan’s hands moving slow and sure across his upper back, thumbs digging into the tight muscles there. His knuckles trail down, kneading into the skin, before his palm spreads over the dip of his spine. Every single brush of Leehan’s touch sends sparks skittering under Taesan’s skin.

Leehan continues for a while longer, slowly working out the tension in Taesan’s back. He can feel himself relaxing further into the mattress, breathing out in pleasure. He allows himself to be selfish, to get lost in the feeling of Leehan’s hands, only jumping slightly when Leehan thumbs down into the extra sore spots in his body.

“You okay?” Leehan asks softly.

Taesan nods, a little shakily, and Leehan continues. But then Leehan’s hands begin shifting sideways, smoothing down from Taesan’s back to the narrow dip of his waist — and Taesan gasps.

He squirms before he can stop himself, hips jerking slightly as heat blooms under his skin like fire. “H-Hey,” he breathes out, voice cracking. “That’s—sensitive.”

“I can tell,” Leehan says, the words low and pleased. His thumbs press into the muscles along Taesan’s waist, firm and slow, dragging tiny sparks in their wake. “You’ve got such a pretty body, you know that?”

Taesan doesn’t answer, can’t answer, too busy willing the scarlet in his cheeks to go away. It’s suddenly too much, and Leehan’s hands are so warm, he feels like he’s unraveling. Every touch sends a fresh wave of heat to his cheeks. His breath’s coming faster now, skin burning, mind spinning in half-formed thoughts. It’s just a massage. It’s just Leehan’s hands. It’s fine.

Except it doesn’t feel fine anymore.

It feels like he’s floating.

And then Leehan’s hands are slipping even lower — down to his bare thighs, and Taesan squeaks.

“Wh—Leehan—“ he chokes, squirming. “You said this was just a back massage!”

“Relax,” Leehan coaxes, already brushing his thumbs over the soft muscle just above his knees. “Trust me. This will feel good.”

Taesan’s face is on fire. “I’m starting to think you just wanted an excuse to feel me up.”

Leehan hums — thoughtful, almost playful. “Well,” he says, hands sliding slowly upward, leaving trails of fire in his wake, “maybe I did. But you’re not exactly stopping me, are you?”

Biting his lip hard, Taesan feels his breath hitch in his throat.

Leehan’s palms skim his inner thighs now, warm and strong and reverent. His touch is slow, like he’s savoring it, like he’s learning every part of Taesan with his hands alone. And Taesan can’t help it — his thighs twitch beneath the touch, a soft whimper slipping past his lips before he can swallow it down.

He doesn’t need to look to know Leehan’s smile behind him. “You sound so pretty when you do that,” he says, like that’s just something casually said between friends, and Taesan burns. “Don’t hide it.”

Taesan buries his face in his arms. His body feels so raw, like every nerve’s been pulled to the surface. Every soft stroke, every glide of Leehan’s thumbs over his skin — it’s making him ache in places he’s trying very hard not to think about. His hips tense as Leehan’s hands slide higher still, bunching the legs of his shorts until the fabric is tugged halfway up his thighs, leaving him completely bare there.

And then Leehan’s palms are smoothing over the curves of his upper thighs, dangerously close to his ass, warm and slow and purposeful, and Taesan snaps.

He bolts upright like he’s been electrocuted, face flushed all the way down to his chest as he yanks a pillow off the bed and shoves it over his lap.

Leehan startles slightly at the sudden movement. “Taesan?”

“Sorry,” Taesan pants, and fuck, his voice sounds so strained. “It’s just– it feels too good and I didn’t mean to—”

But he stops cold when he sees Leehan’s face.

Or more specifically, Leehan’s lap.

Taesan goes very still.

Leehan follows his gaze — then huffs a small, breathless laugh, hand dragging down his face. “Yeah. Same.”

Taesan swallows, chest heaving. The tension in the room is electric, sharp, palpable.

Leehan is hard from just touching him. From hearing Taesan make all those sounds. It sends a dizzying rush to Taesan’s head, making all logic and reasoning nearly nonexistent.

They stare at each other for a second, flushed and breathing heavily, the air stretched tight between them.

And then Leehan moves.

He crawls closer, slow, gaze locked on Taesan like he doesn’t want to scare Taesan off. “Can I…” his voice trails off, a little hoarse. “Taesan, can I touch you?”

Taesan doesn’t understand. “Touch me… how?”

Now it’s Leehan’s turn to look shy. He chews on his lip, cheeks tinting pink, before finally looking Taesan in the eye as he says, “I- I want to jerk you off. Can I?”

Oh.

Taesan’s heart stutters in his chest. He should say no. He knows he should. This is crazy, this is way too fast, this is—

But Leehan’s already leaning in, one hand reaching out to cup his jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone with this unbearable softness.

“Please,” Leehan breathes, voice ragged. “I want to make you feel good.”

Taesan trembles.

And then, he nods.

Because his whole body is screaming yes, and he’s so tired of pretending he doesn’t want this.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Yes. Please, Leehan.”

And that’s all it takes for Leehan to close the gap and kiss him — rougher than all the previous times they’ve kissed, messier, like restraint was just a formality and he’s finally been given permission to let it slip. Taesan gasps into it, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto. But all he gets is the heat of Leehan’s chest pressed flush against his naked skin, the quiet sounds of their breath echoing too loud in the silence of the room.

Leehan begins mouthing along the side of his neck as his hand slides down, palming his dick over his shorts, and Taesan forgets how to breathe. His thoughts scatter. The only thing he knows is Leehan — Leehan’s mouth, Leehan’s hands, Leehan’s low voice saying things like, you sound so pretty like this and I want to ruin you, Taesan-ah, would you be a good boy and let me?

And Taesan is already so far gone, broken noises spilling out of him like a dam. He feels Leehan’s fingers move to trail his V-line, to squeeze at his hips. Leehan’s gentle at first, then firmer, like he’s learning Taesan’s body note by note — the parts that make him shiver, the ones that make him squirm. Taesan whimpers when a hand slips beneath the waistband of his shorts, his hips twitching up before he can even think to stop himself.

“Easy,” Leehan murmurs into his ear, voice thick. “You’re so sensitive, baby.”

Taesan just makes a noise — something high and broken — and Leehan laughs quietly, pleased.

And then Leehan’s touching him properly, wrapping a hand around his leaking cock, and it’s so new and Taesan is so sensitive that he whimpers, bucking fully into Leehan’s hold.  

“Please,” he whines, “Leehan, I can’t–“

“I got you,” Leehan promises, leaving a sweet peck on his nose. He fiddles with the drawstrings of Taesan’s shorts, gaze flickering back up when he asks, “Can I take this off, Taesan?”

And Taesan nods, frantic and desperate. He lifts his hips, letting Leehan drag the articles of clothing down slightly until they’re bunched at his knees.

Before he can even begin to feel mortified about being so exposed, Leehan’s hand is back on his cock, and Taesan’s eyes nearly roll back to the back of his head. 

It’s a bit drier than Taesan would like, but he’s leaking so much — an embarrassing amount, really, and he would care more about it if he wasn’t wholly focused on getting off — that neither of them seem to care. Leehan’s grip on him is hot and heavy, touching Taesan in all the right ways to make him fall apart at the seams.

He moans, tries to bite it back, but Leehan catches his jaw and turns him just enough to see his face.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispers. “Wanna hear everything.”

And Taesan flushes so hard his entire body feels like an open flame, but it doesn’t matter anymore — nothing does, not when Leehan quickens his pace until Taesan is trembling, not when Taesan’s already this close, not when Leehan’s hand is—

Leehan thumbs at his slit, and that’s all it takes for Taesan to gasp, and everything inside him snaps.

White-hot pleasure coils and then unravels, and Taesan comes with a shuddering cry, body trembling all over. He collapses onto the bed, face buried in his arms, completely wrecked.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of their breathing, sharp and uneven.

And then—

“Holy shit,” Taesan wheezes.

Leehan is still somewhere beside him, chuckling. “You okay?”

Taesan rolls over, grabs the nearest pillow, and smacks him with it. “I agreed to a friendly massage, not to have my soul pulled out through my dick!”

“Hey!” Leehan laughs, trying to dodge another pillow swipe. “You definitely weren’t complaining five minutes ago.”

Taesan groans, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m never gonna be able to look you in the eye again.”

Leehan’s grinning, smug and wrecked and somehow still beautiful. “Good thing I wasn’t exactly looking at your eyes, huh?”

“Leehan!”

“Okay, okay.” Leehan lifts his hands in surrender, still smiling. “But, like—worth it, right?”

Taesan mutters something unintelligible.
Leehan nudges his foot. “Admit it. You’re more relaxed now, aren’t you?”

“…Yeah,” Taesan admits, quieter now. He sits up, looking down at himself with a grimace. His cum has started drying on his stomach. Gross. He’s sure Leehan’s hand isn’t faring any better. “But now I feel all sticky.”

“Oh, you big baby,” Leehan coos, and Taesan shoots him a glare. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

Leehan stands, grabbing a box of wipes from the desk and offering it wordlessly. They clean up in relative silence — Taesan tugging his shorts and shirt back on, Leehan fixing his rumpled clothes — and for a moment, it almost feels… normal. Comfortable, even.

It’s only when Taesan manages to look at Leehan again, properly this time, does he remember something.

“Hey,” he calls out, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I didn’t do anything for you.”

“What? Oh.” Leehan grins sheepishly, waving him off. “Actually, I was just about to bring that up. Not that you have anything to be sorry for!” he rushes out. “Just that… um. Okay, this is embarrassing.”

“You’ve touched my dick, Leehan,” Taesan points out, trying not to blush. “What could be more embarrassing than that?”

“I already came,” Leehan blurts out, flushing instantly, and Taesan’s eyes widen. Oh. Okay. “Sorry, it’s just… you were making all these noises and you looked really good and I was gonna ask if I could borrow some extra clothes since, you know…” He gestures toward his lap, and it’s only then does Taesan catch the dark spot near his crotch. Jesus, he’s actually horrible for not noticing earlier. Leehan doesn’t need to elaborate for Taesan to know what he’s asking.

He tears his eyes away from Leehan’s pants, like looking any longer might burn him. His ears go pink.

“Right, um. Okay.” Taesan makes a beeline to the dresser by the wall, pulling open the bottom drawer and scourging through it until he finds a spare pair of sweatpants — old and soft and a little too big — then tosses them over without looking.

“Thanks,” Leehan says, a laugh still caught in his throat. He doesn’t move right away though, just stands there with the sweats bunched in his hands, watching Taesan with something unreadable in his gaze.

Taesan tries not to squirm under it. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, “You, um. You can change in the bathroom.”

“I’ve practically seen you naked already,” Leehan deadpans. “Are you seriously being all shy now?”

“Yeah, and I’m trying not to die about it right now, thanks,” Taesan mutters, dragging a hand over his face.

Leehan snorts but doesn’t argue. He disappears into the bathroom, and Taesan lets out a breath like he’s been holding it since the moment his brain first processed the phrase I already came.

He flops back onto the bed with a quiet groan, heart still beating a little too fast, skin still tingling in the places Leehan had touched him. Kissed him. And they didn’t even do much, yet still, it feels like they had just crossed another line.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, just existing, catching his breath, before Leehan comes back out. His hair is damp from where he must’ve splashed water on his face, and the sweatpants are loose around his hips, making Taesan’s mouth go a little dry.

Leehan tosses his dirty clothes into a plastic bag, then sits back down on the bed beside him like he’s always belonged there.

Taesan shifts, looking down at his hands. “Sorry again,” he says after a beat. “About… not doing anything for you.”

“Hey.” Leehan nudges his knee gently. “Don’t be dumb. I’m not keeping score.”

Taesan huffs. “Still.”

“Taesan,” Leehan says, and his voice is gentler now — not teasing, not smug, just soft. Sincere. “I wanted to. I wanted to take care of you.” He pauses. “And not just because I wanted you falling apart underneath me. Which, by the way, was incredible.”

Taesan groans and drops his face into a pillow. “I’m never speaking again.”

“You say that every time.”

They fall quiet for a moment, just sitting there, the room warm with shared air and something softer than before. Something that makes Taesan’s chest ache, just a little.

And then Leehan says it, almost like he’s been waiting for the right moment: “You mentioned earlier how you just wanted a ‘friendly massage’…”

He pauses, turns toward Taesan. “But you know, nothing we’ve done these past few weeks has just been friendly.”

And it hits Taesan like a sucker punch.

He stares at the pattern of his bedsheet like it might rearrange itself into something easier to deal with — like answers, or courage. His pulse stutters under his skin.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, voice quiet. “I figured.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t think he can.
Because what is this, really? They kiss like they can’t breathe without it, touch like they’re starving, fall into each other like gravity — and still, Taesan doesn’t know what any of it means.

He wants to ask. Wants to know. Wishes that, once again, he can just reach out to Leehan and hear what’s going on in his head, before the guilt overtakes him and he shakes the thought away.

Still, he can’t help the way his head continues to be a mess of what-ifs and what-if-nots.

What if Leehan doesn’t mean anything by it? What if this is just about release — about want and need and not feelings?

What if Taesan ruins it by asking for more?

He bites down on the inside of his cheek.
“We’re still friends, though,” he says finally, because it’s safer, because it hurts less to pretend that’s all he wants. “We’re just… friends. Who sometimes make out.”

Leehan doesn’t say anything right away.
But when he speaks, his voice is light, and it makes Taesan ache.

“Right. Friends,” he echoes. “Who also, y’know, touch each other’s dicks.”

Taesan glances over. There’s a smile on Leehan’s face, easy and unreadable, but something in his eyes looks… off. Like he’s holding something back.

Taesan looks away again.

“You, uh,” he starts, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “You still have to get back, right? Before it gets too late?”

“Yeah,” Leehan says, standing up and stretching, and he’s so casual about it that Taesan wants to scream. The look in his eye softens when he glances at Taesan. “I had fun today. And, uh, good luck with your assignment. Although I swear it’s already perfect.”

Taesan nods, not trusting himself enough to speak. “We should probably do a final run of our presentation too. Whenever you’re free, of course.”

“Mhm.” Leehan pauses by the doorway. “I’ll message you.”

Taesan’s heart thuds.

He looks up, meets Leehan’s gaze — and for a second, something flickers there. Something that makes his breath hitch.

But then Leehan’s already turning away, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a little wave. “See you soon, Taesanie.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Taesan closes the door behind him and leans against it, trying to breathe past the echo of Leehan’s voice in his head.

Nothing we’ve done these past few weeks has just been friendly.

And that’s exactly the problem.

Midterms week creeps in like a slow, looming storm, thick with pressure, heavy with everything Taesan hasn’t done yet.

He’s barely had time to breathe — between written exams, project submissions, and practicals, he’s been running on caffeine and sheer willpower. It’s not that he didn’t expect it to be difficult. He knew what he was signing up for when he declared Music Composition as his major and picked up Music Production as a minor. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

He spends his days hunched over notation sheets, agonizing over harmonics and counterpoint, trying to get a theme to resolve just right. His arranging professor wants a four-minute orchestral piece that builds on a classical motif and transitions into a modern genre. His composition professor assigned a self-composed piece inspired by a non-musical soundscape — and he picked a damn thunderstorm, which seemed poetic at the time but now just feels like masochism. And on top of that, his production class has him editing and mixing three separate tracks for midterms, balancing EQs, cleaning audio, and making sure his levels aren’t peaking.

He’s tired. His ears are tired. His laptop’s tired.

But even with all that buzzing in his brain, all the music pressing into his skull, there’s one thing that keeps elbowing its way back into his thoughts:

Leehan.

It’s stupid. They haven’t even seen each other since the last time they were in his room — since that stupid massage and the handjob and the absolutely unhinged thing Taesan said about his soul getting pulled out of his dick — especially with the both of them tangled in the chaos of their respective majors. But they’ve still been texting. Just simple messages, like good lucks before exams, or reminders to proofread whether all their citations for their Cognitive Science presentation are correct, or check-ins at 2 a.m. when neither of them can sleep.

It’s not special. It’s casual, friendly.

Except it feels special, and it’s driving Taesan insane.

He can’t stop thinking about what this thing with Leehan is. Can he even call them friends when they kiss? When they make each other come apart on beds and couches and empty corridors? When they know each other’s favorite songs and how they like their ramen and how to pull gasps from each other’s mouths?

Whatever it is, it’s gotten under Taesan’s skin. He catches himself thinking about the way Leehan’s hand fits perfectly around his waist, or how he always mutters you’re so pretty against Taesan’s mouth like it’s a fact. He’ll be spacing out in the middle of reviewing orchestration guidelines and suddenly remember the way Leehan looked at him when he’s laid bare. And then he’s doomed. Attention span completely obliterated.

All Taesan knows is that he’s stressed out of his mind and Leehan has apparently taken up permanent residence in his brain like some soft-voiced parasite.

And so, around ten p.m. on a Wednesday night — three midterms down, two more to go, and a Cognitive Science presentation still looming on Friday — he walks out of his room and finds Jaehyun curled up on the couch with a thick Sociology textbook in his lap, highlighter cap between his teeth.

Taesan doesn’t even bother with a greeting. He just groans and flops down beside him.

“I have a problem.”

Jaehyun doesn’t even look up. “Does the problem start with ‘Lee’ and end with ‘Han’?”

“What–“ Taesan jerks upright, eyes wide. “You knew?”

Jaehyun levels him with an incredulous stare. “Taesan,” he starts flatly. “I live here. And you guys are loud. Do you seriously think I didn’t notice all the late-night ‘study sessions’ you’ve been having?”

“We do study,” Taesan argues, but even to him, it sounds weak. 

“Sure you do. With your tongues.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you owe me,” Jaehyun counters, flipping a page. “Our water bill has doubled this month. What the hell have you two been getting up to?”

“We don’t—“ Taesan feels himself flush crimson. “I mean, we haven’t even gone all the way–“

“Jesus Christ,” Jaehyun groans, shoving a throw pillow in Taesan’s direction. “Spare me the details.”

There’s a beat of silence. Jaehyun goes back to highlighting. Taesan chews on his bottom lip, fidgeting with the pillow in his lap.

“…Do you think he likes me?”

That makes Jaehyun pause.

“Taesan,” the older boy says carefully, closing his book and turning to face him fully. “You are so, so smart. You’re genuinely one of the most intelligent, level-headed, rational people I know. But you’re also so fucking stupid.”

“I— Excuse me?!”

“Okay,” Jaehyun breathes out. “First, tell me why you think he doesn’t like you.”

Taesan thinks about it for a moment, before he shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like he does, and sometimes it just feels like he wants to get off. Which is fine. I mean, we’re both adults. It’s just a… thing.”

Jaehyun arches a brow. “Is it? Just a thing?”

“Well,” Taesan mumbles. “It’s supposed to be.”

“Right…” Jaehyun pauses. “But you like him.”

He says it like a statement, not a question. Taesan opens his mouth to deny it. Closes it. Opens it again. “…I don’t know.”

“Taesan.”

“What if, hypothetically speaking, I might like him, just a little bit?” he finally admits, quiet now. “What if I like him, and he doesn’t feel the same? What if this is just fun for him and I ruin everything by wanting more?”

Jaehyun’s silent for a moment, lips pursed in thought. And then—

“As a sociology major,” he announces grandly, like he’s about to bestow some ancient wisdom on Taesan’s puny mortal soul, “I’ve read a lot about intimacy and human connection. You wanna know what people crave most?”

“What, pizza?”

Jaehyun smacks him. “Emotional safety, you brat,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And you have that with Leehan. You trust him. You open up to him. You let him touch you when no one else can. Don’t you think that means something?”

Taesan frowns. “Yeah, but… that’s just because I can’t hear his thoughts.”

“Maybe,” Jaehyun shrugs. “Or maybe your brain is trying to tell you that Leehan’s isn’t just safe. He’s important.”

Taesan doesn’t answer right away. He traces the edge of his notebook with his thumb, gaze flickering to the window.

“Plus,” Jaehyun adds, voice gentler this time, “intimacy doesn’t always have to be loud and obvious, you know. Sometimes it’s quiet. Slow. Earned.”

Taesan smiles weakly, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. “You just got that off a Pinterest board.”

“Okay, maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.”

“Leehan is… different. He makes me feel…” Taesan trails off, struggling. “I don’t know. Calm. Warm. Like everything’s not gonna fall apart. He touches me and it’s like… I can’t stop myself from wanting more.”

“Sounds like the bare minimum,” Jaehyun says lightly, grinning sheepishly when Taesan shoots him a flat look. “But, genuinely speaking? It also sounds like you’re halfway in love with him.”

Taesan makes a face. “Please don’t say the L-word.”

“Hey, you came to me for advice. This is just me advising.”

“Remind me to never do this again.”

Jaehyun sighs, his gaze softening. “Look, I’m not saying you have to go confess some grand love right now,” he says. “But maybe don’t be so quick to assume he doesn’t care. Leehan’s not stupid. And he’s definitely not subtle. If he wanted this to just be about sex or whatever you guys are doing, he’d have made that clear.”

Taesan purses his lips, not giving an answer right away. He doesn’t think he can, not when his thoughts are running a mile a minute.

Maybe Leehan might not like him like that. Maybe this thing they have is doomed to burst into flames.

But maybe…

Maybe Jaehyun has a point too.

The day of their Cognitive Science presentation arrives quicker than Taesan expects.

He’s barely slept the night before. His brain wouldn’t shut up — flickering between melody drafts for Composition class, critical listening notes for his Recording Techniques elective, the rehearsal schedule he hasn’t touched since the weekend, and the horrifying reality that he has to stand in front of a classroom today and talk about fish. With Leehan. While trying not to pass out or combust from sheer anxiety.

It’s absurd. It’s terrifying. It’s real.

His chest feels too tight beneath his sweater as he slips into the lecture hall with Leehan beside him, the laptop with their presentation on it tucked under Leehan’s arm. Students are trickling in, already murmuring, flipping through notecards, scrolling through slide decks on their phones. The air is thick with tension.

At exactly 9:00 a.m., their professor — Mrs. Kim, sharp-eyed and never not holding a red pen — calls for attention. She’s wearing a navy pantsuit today, glasses perched low on her nose, clipboard in hand.

“You’ll each be graded on five categories,” she says briskly, passing around a printed rubric. Her voice is firm but calm, clipped with precision. “I expect clarity, relevance, originality, and professionalism. You’ve all been given over a month to prepare, so I hope you can impress me today.”

Taesan stares at the rubric in his hands as Mrs. Kim continues. “Remember,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “this is your midterm output. Treat it as both an academic presentation and a test of how well you’ve understood the cognitive mechanisms involved. If you fumble, fumble gracefully. But please — know your material.”

And Taesan tries to nod along, to let the structure settle his nerves. But the moment the first pair is called up, his pulse starts thudding so loud that the rest of the room fades into a blur.

A pair of psych majors talk about mirror neurons in infants and early social learning, citing observational studies and showing video clips of babies mimicking expressions. Another group tries to tie scent associations to episodic memory retention, waving around little cotton pads soaked in lavender and citrus oil. Someone even wheels in a live plant and tries to demonstrate “emotional vibrations” based on proximity and movement — whatever that means. Taesan watches it all through a haze.

He keeps reciting the intro in his head. Then the hook. Then the transition slide. Then the theoretical framework. It loops endlessly.

What if he stammers? What if his voice cracks? What if he forgets how to speak entirely?

And then he feels a hand brush against his under the desk. Warm. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns, startled, to find Leehan looking at him with that easy, grounding smile — eyes full of quiet calm. “Breathe,” he says gently. “You’ve been rehearsing this for weeks. We’re solid.”

Taesan tries. He swallows. “What if I screw up?”

“Then I’ll carry us,” Leehan replies, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “But I know you’ll do great.”

Taesan wants to thank him — wants to say something clever or confident — but he doesn’t get the chance.

“Han Taesan and Kim Leehan?” Mrs. Kim calls out.

His stomach drops straight to the floor.

They stand. Taesan’s legs feel like overcooked noodles. He trails behind Leehan, who walks up front with practiced ease, already connecting the HDMI cable to his laptop. The projector flickers to life, and suddenly, the class is staring at a slide bearing their names and title in clean font:

Rhythms Below the Surface: A Cognitive Study on Musical Influence in Aquatic Environments

Taesan steps forward. He inhales — shakily, but deeply — and starts.

“Good morning. I’m Taesan, a Music Composition major, and this is my partner Leehan, a Marine Biology major,” he begins. “For our presentation, we combined our interests and decided to explore how auditory stimuli — specifically music — influences the behavior of aquatic animals, using fish as our primary test subjects.”

He risks a glance at the audience. No one’s laughing. No one’s yawning. No one looks confused. Good sign.

“This topic stemmed from a simple question: Can fish… feel music? And if so, how does that translate behaviorally and cognitively? We found research on how certain frequencies affect animal stress levels, particularly in mammals, but not much on aquatic species. So we wanted to explore how genre, rhythm, and sound pattern might alter movement, stress responses, or curiosity in fish.”

Taesan clicks to the next slide, and Leehan steps in with practiced ease.

“We used a controlled tank setup in my apartment,” Leehan explains, “and we played different types of music — classical, ambient, lo-fi, and high-BPM electronic — to observe any changes in swimming patterns, grouping behavior, and stress indicators like hiding or darting movements.”

He clicks again. A chart appears. Photos. Graphs. Bullet points. The two of them alternate, weaving in and out of the data.

Taesan handles the behavioral notes — “During lo-fi, the fish exhibited slow, exploratory swimming patterns. Under electronic, they scattered more often, especially near bass drops” — while Leehan handles the cognitive link, throwing in citations and theoretical frameworks.

They’re smooth. Synced up. Even a few classmates are nodding, clearly interested.

By the time Taesan reaches the final slide, his nerves have mostly ebbed into adrenaline.

“So, in short,” he says, “while fish may not cognitively ‘understand’ music the way humans do, auditory stimuli still produce behavioral effects. Our findings suggest that tempo, frequency, and rhythm can act as cognitive triggers for certain species, offering insight into how non-human brains interpret environmental sound.”

He clicks. The screen fades to black.
There’s a pause — and then, applause.
Not raucous, but genuine. Approving. Even a few impressed murmurs.

Mrs. Kim looks up from her notes and nods. “Well-presented,” she says. “Original topic, interesting methods. I would’ve liked a longer observation period, but your data analysis and theory connections were strong. Good job, both of you.”

Taesan lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

They return to their seats, and Leehan leans in close — not whispering this time, just grinning triumphantly. “Hey, we did it.”

Taesan exhales again, softer this time. “Yeah.”

But even as he smiles, there’s a strange tug in his chest.

Because this is it. The presentation is done. Their project is finished. And what if that means… them, too?

What if all those afternoons together — the tank readings, the slide edits, the music, the touches — what if they were all tied to this one deadline? And now that it’s over, what if Leehan just… disappears?

Taesan tries to stay present, but the remaining presentations fly by like a blur. Laughter rises. Slides flick past. Someone’s laser pointer dies mid-sentence. But his mind keeps drifting — to Leehan’s hand in his, to the way his smile looked under the classroom lights.

By the end of it, Mrs. Kim claps her hands once to call for quiet.

“Overall, I’m impressed,” she says, a pleased smile curling on her lip. “Some of you truly went above and beyond in topic choice and execution. Well done. Grades will be posted next week. You’re dismissed.”

Chairs scrape. Voices rise. The class spills out in different directions.

Taesan’s stuffing his charger back into his bag when Leehan turns to him.

“See you tomorrow?”

Taesan blinks. “But… we’re done with the presentation. You still want to see me?”

And Leehan looks so genuinely taken aback that Taesan kind of wants to shove the words back into his mouth. “Taesan,” he starts, incredulous. “You’re my friend. And in case you hadn’t noticed, I like spending time with you. And now that it’s the weekend and midterms are over, we can just… hang out. Grab lunch. Talk. Without cognitive science looming over our heads.”

Oh. Oh.

Taesan stares at him, a little dumbfounded. Something warm flickers behind his ribs.

“…Yeah,” he says, softer. “Okay. I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Leehan smiles, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll message you later, yeah?”

And with that, he disappears into the hall, swallowed by the crowd.

Taesan watches him go, lips tugging up faintly despite himself. The presentation’s over.

But maybe — just maybe — they aren’t.

To celebrate the end of midterms, Leehan invites Taesan to hang out.

The text comes in just past noon, while Taesan is lying starfish-style on his bed and recovering from a week of caffeine-fueled compositions, sleepless nights, and PowerPoint presentations.

Leehan (12:26 pm)

ok i know this is really sudden

but would you like to go out today?

there’s this arcade place i really wanna go with you

Taesan blinks at his phone, rereads each message twice, then stares up at the ceiling

Go out. What does that mean, go out? As in — going out as friends? Celebrate surviving midterms like normal classmates?

Or… was this a date?

No, no, that’s ridiculous. Leehan hadn’t said the word date. And people hang out all the time without it being anything. Just two guys. Doing normal, platonic, very friendly activities. Like gaming. Or eating. Or—

Groaning, Taesan flops back onto his pillow. He feels like a teenager again, overanalyzing a text message like it holds the secrets of the universe. But it’s not his fault. Not when it’s Leehan asking. Not when they’d spent the last month or so crawling into each other’s personal spaces and making out like their lives depended on it. 

Taesan covers his face with one hand, heart thudding stupidly hard.

It’s only when he realizes that he’s left Leehan on read for five minutes now does he finally reach for his phone, typing out a reply with bated breath–

Taesan (12:32 pm)

…are you paying?

Leehan’s reply is instant.

Leehan (12:32 pm)

if that’s what i need to do to make you say yes, then yes

meet me in an hour? 

Okay. Okay, so they’re really doing this.

It takes him twenty minutes to figure out what to wear, which is twenty minutes too long considering he ends up throwing on something casual anyway — a white sleeveless tee, denim jacket, dark jeans, and his trusty sneakers. Still, he checks the mirror twice, fixes his hair three times, and sprays cologne once before he finally deems himself good enough to step out the door.

He meets Leehan outside the train station. Leehan’s dressed just as effortlessly — oversized flannel layered over a plain dark shirt, sporting a smile that makes Taesan’s stomach start doing backflips.

“There you are,” Leehan says, grinning. “Ready to do something stupid but also incredibly fun?”

Taesan raises an amused brow. “I’m still mentally recovering from midterms,” he says, following Leehan as they start walking. “Stupid might be all I can manage.”

“Perfect,” Leehan laughs, bumping his shoulder lightly. “You’ll fit right in.”

The arcade Leehan brings him to is located on the third floor of a downtown mall, tucked between a karaoke joint and a claw machine café. It’s got that nostalgic, slightly grimy charm: glowing cabinets, neon lighting, and a soundtrack of overlapping 8-bit noises and pop music from the early 2000s. Leehan was right — it’s not that crowded. Just a few kids running around, a couple making out near the air hockey table, and a trio of college students furiously trying to beat a rhythm game.

Still, Taesan finds himself hesitating.

His eyes scan the space — wide aisles, a few clusters of teens, open machines blinking in invitation — but his body won’t move. His fingers twitch at his sides. There’s the start of a familiar knot tightening in his chest.

But, of course, Leehan must notice, because he stops a step ahead, glancing over his shoulder. “You okay?”

Taesan nods, smiling weakly. “Yeah. Just… recalibrating.”

Leehan studies him for a moment, then steps a little closer — close enough that his voice drops slightly. “We’ll stay away from the crowds. Promise. I’ll stay close to you.”

And true to his word, he does. Every time someone veers too close, Leehan’s hand is already at the small of Taesan’s back, guiding him aside, or curling around his wrist and tugging him into a different row. It should have been a burden. But Leehan never makes hi feel that way. He’s casual about it, gentle, even. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for Leehan to look out for him.

And Taesan… well, he’s trying not to think too hard about how warm Leehan’s hands are, even through the fabric of his clothes. Or how easy it feels to fall into step beside him.

“Okay,” Leehan says, stopping in front of a two-player shooting game. “Loser buys dinner?”

Taesan squints at the screen. “You brought me to a place full of games you’re probably good at just to hustle me?”

“Maybe,” Leehan grins, already picking up the plastic blaster and offering the other one to Taesan. “Or maybe I just want to see how competitive you get.”

Taesan rolls his eyes but takes it. “Oh, you are so on.”

They settle into the rhythm easily — ducking, aiming, half-shouting over the blaring speakers. Taesan misses a few shots, too focused on the curve of Leehan’s grin every time he scores. Their shoulders brush. Their knees bump. It’s loud and chaotic and full of flashing colors, but none of it compares to the way his heart keeps stuttering when Leehan leans close to yell, “Nice shot!” into his ear.

Then they move to other games — racing games, video games, rhythm games, the whole deal. Leehan is obnoxiously competitive, and Taesan is just petty enough to match it. The moment Leehan beats him at Street Fighter, Taesan drags him to DDR, where he wipes the floor with him to the beat of some absurdly fast techno remix.

“What the hell was that?!” Leehan gasps, dramatically catching his breath after the round. “How are you even human?”

Taesan smirks, running a hand through his hair as he wipes the start of sweat away from his forehead. “Basic coordination. Comes with the whole music major thing.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I suck.”

“I’m saying you suck… rhythmically.”

Leehan throws a crumpled napkin at him.

“Okay,” Leehan sighs, grabbing another napkin to fan himself. He straightens up, taking off his flannel jacket and tying it to his waist. “Remind me to never challenge you at anything that requires feet.”

“No promises,” Taesan laughs, already walking off toward the back corner of the arcade. “Come on, loser.”

Leehan follows, still panting dramatically. “Where are we going now? To bruise my ego some more?”

“To humble you,” Taesan calls over his shoulder. They stop in front of a brightly lit machine, and Taesan grins at the flickering screen like it’s an old friend. “Say, how good are you at Pac-Man?”

Leehan narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“You’re good at this too, aren’t you?”

Taesan shrugs, innocent. “I may or may not have spent all of my high school lunch breaks on this exact machine.”

“You’re insufferable,” Leehan groans, and Taesan grins, delighted.

“You’re just scared,” he teases, sliding a token into the slot. “C’mon. Let’s see if you can redeem yourself.”

They start the game, and it’s chaos immediately. Leehan is surprisingly scrappy, darting through the maze with a kind of reckless enthusiasm, while Taesan plays like someone who’s memorized every possible route.

“I swear to God,” Leehan mutters, leaning in close to the screen. “You’re cheating.”

“How do you cheat at Pac-Man?”

“I don’t know! Black magic? Pre-ordained ghost immunity? A pact with Inky and Blinky?”

Taesan bites back a laugh. “I’m just better than you.”

“You’re mean,” Leehan exclaims, casting him a sideways glance. “You smile all soft and shy and pretty, and then you destroy people in competitive arcade games.”

Taesan nearly misses a turn.

His fingers slip on the joystick for half a second, and one of the ghosts nearly takes him out. He barely recovers in time, heart stuttering in his chest — and not because of the game.

“…Pretty?” he echoes, voice pitched higher than intended.

Leehan doesn’t look away from the screen. “Mhm. The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

Taesan gapes. He can feel his ears going warm, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to find the right button combo for a comeback. “That’s– hey. That’s cheating.”

“Cheating?” Leehan glances at him, all wide-eyed innocence and that familiar, crooked grin. “How do you cheat at Pac-Man?”

Taesan narrows his eyes. “Compliments in the middle of battle is psychological warfare.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I’ve gained the mental upper hand?”

“I’m saying you’re not above fighting dirty.”

“Mm,” Leehan hums, pleased, like he’s tucking that reaction away for later. “You’re still blushing, by the way.”

“I am not.” 

Leehan lets out a triumphant cackle, leaning in again to dodge another ghost. “Man, I should’ve called you pretty sooner.”

“You’re so annoying,” Taesan complains, half-mortified, half-delighted. He feels like he’s glowing under his skin. The joystick is suddenly slippery under his hand, either from sweat or sheer embarrassment — he can’t be sure.

They play round after round, fingers flying over buttons and joysticks, caught somewhere between full-on competition and barely contained laughter. Taesan keeps stealing glances at Leehan — the way his brows scrunch in exaggerated focus, the way he sticks his tongue out slightly when the game gets intense, the way his shoulders shake when he laughs at Taesan’s commentary.

It’s warm and stupidly fun and everything Taesan hadn’t realized he needed.

Halfway through the game, when Taesan overtakes him in points again, Leehan huffs and elbows him lightly in the side.

“You’re such a showoff.”

Taesan doesn’t miss a beat. “And yet, you keep playing with me.”

There’s a pause. Just a moment too long. And then Leehan says, soft but smug, “Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I can’t seem to stop.”

Taesan’s next breath catches in his throat, fingers faltering on the joystick.

He recovers fast — just fast enough not to crash — but not fast enough to stop the faint pink rising to his cheeks.

Leehan sees it but says nothing, only turns back to the game with a victorious little smirk, even though Taesan’s the one winning. 

Eventually, they’re forced to step away from the Pac-Man machine once they notice a group of kids loitering nearby, clearly wanting to play too, and Taesan flushes with faint embarrassment when he realizes just how long him and Leehan have spent playing. They end up drifting toward the claw machines, shoulders bumping as they walk. The neon lights cast everything in candy-colored hues, soft pinks and purples glowing off Leehan’s cheekbones. Taesan’s already walking ahead, looking for the next game to play, when Leehan halts to a stop in front of one machine shaped like a ramen bowl and filled with food-shaped plushies.

“Oh my god,” he says, pressing his palms against the glass. “That shrimp tempura is calling to me.”

Taesan crosses his arms, amused. “You do know these machines are rigged, right?”

Leehan glances at him. “Such negativity,” he shakes his head, cracking his knuckles exaggeratedly. “Watch and learn, Taesan-ah.”

He slides a token inside, concentrating as the claw jerks into motion with a loud mechanical whir. Leehan nudges the joystick carefully, eyes narrowed in intense focus.

And then — he presses the button.

The claw drops.

It grabs the shrimp tempura.

For a second, it actually lifts.

Taesan leans in. “Oh my god, are you actually–“

And then the claw wobbles and opens mid-air, dropping the plushie right back into the pile.

“Fuck!” Leehan blurts out — then immediately winces as a few nearby parents turn to glare at him. He claps a hand over his mouth, muttering through his fingers, “Shit, sorry.” A beat later, he adds with a determined whisper, “Okay, I’m emotionally invested now. That shrimp is mine.”

“You’re gonna waste all your coins,” Taesan points out, fighting against a laugh. 

“It’s not wasting if it’s for love.”

Taesan snorts. “Love for a tempura plushie?”

Leehan shrugs, inserting another coin. “Love is love.”

Taesan watches him try — and fail — two more times, the claw brushing the plushie only to jerk away like it’s teasing him. By the fourth try, Leehan lets his forehead thump against the glass with a low groan.

“I hate this shrimp.”

“No, you don’t,” Taesan says, grinning and entirely amused. 

“I hate how much I want it.”

Nudging the other boy with his elbow, Taesan steps in. “Here. Let me try.”

Leehan straightens, stepping aside dramatically. “By all means, be my guest.”

Taesan slips a coin into the slot and narrows his eyes, brows drawing in concentration. The claw hovers over a mess of pastel-colored plushies, but he zones in on the shrimp tempura — its little fried tail poking out from the rest like it’s daring him to try. He adjusts the joystick with sharp, precise movements, waits for just the right moment… then hits the button.

The claw descends.

Hooks.

Lifts.

And, against all odds — doesn’t drop.

It carries the shrimp over to the chute and releases it cleanly, the plush landing with a satisfying thump.

Taesan doesn’t even blink. “Huh,” he says, reaching in and pulling the shrimp out. “That was easier than I thought.”

Leehan stares at him, open-mouthed and eyes wide with disbelief, like he’s just witnessed a miracle. “What the– Are you serious? That was your first try!”

Taesan shrugs, doing his best to tamper down the smile threatening to show. “Basic coordination,” he says smoothly.

“You said that earlier,” Leehan accuses, pointing at him. “You can’t just recycle lines like that.”

“I can if they’re true.”

Leehan huffs dramatically, crossing his arms — but Taesan can see the amusement tugging at his mouth. He’s about to say something else when Taesan holds out the shrimp plushie to him, nonchalant.

“Here,” he says.

Leehan blinks. “What?”

“You’re the one who wanted it.”

“But you won it.”

“And you’re the one who’s emotionally invested,” Taesan points out. “Just take it, Leehan, seriously.”

For a second, Leehan just stands there, looking at him with a look in his eye that’s all too soft. Then — he takes the shrimp plushie, almost reverently, like it’s a rare treasure.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” he says, cradling it to his chest, “but I think I’m in love with you.”

Taesan nearly chokes. “What?”

“With this shrimp,” Leehan says innocently, lifting it up and nuzzling its face. “Obviously.”

Right. Obviously.

They wander around a bit more, the arcade filling up with more people as the afternoon sun bleeds into an evening glow. The lights seem brighter now, the sound louder, more chaotic. Kids are screaming over claw machine wins. Couples are fighting over lost rounds. Someone behind them lets out a loud, pained groan as the rhythm game they’re playing resets to the start screen.

Taesan finds himself inching a little closer to Leehan just to avoid brushing up against the growing crowd. He bumps into a few people, hears their scattered thoughts in his head, but its nothing he’s not used to already. Really, the only person who comes close is Leehan, and Leehan’s never a problem. Still… Taesan doesn’t breathe easy until they step outside, into the cooler air of early evening.

They walk in comfortable silence for a moment. Taesan watches, fondness blooming like flowers in his chest, as Leehan continues hugging the shrimp plush to his chest, almost like he doesn’t quite realize it.

Then Leehan speaks up. “Hungry?”

Taesan nods immediately. “Starving. What did you have in mind?”

Humming, Leehan tucks the plushie under his arm as he pulls out his phone. “There’s this diner a couple blocks down,” he tells Taesan. “Cozy vibe, great pasta. Wanna check it out?”

“Sure,” Taesan agrees — and again, that little flutter kicks up in his chest. Is this still part of the not-a-date? Does dinner make it more of a date? He glances at Leehan, who’s casually scrolling through maps like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and wishes his brain could shut up for two seconds.

They follow the city streets down toward the restaurant, neon signs beginning to glow overhead, streetlights flickering on. The diner comes into view a few minutes later — and so does the crowd outside it.

Taesan slows to a stop. “Oh.”

A waiter at the door looks visibly stressed as he waves off a group of students. “I’m so sorry, but we’re full,” he says. “We’ve got a waitlist, about an hour, maybe more.” 

Leehan sighs, thumb hovering over his phone again. “Okay, I’ll find something else.”

They try a couple more places — a ramen bar, a grilled meat place, even a taco pop-up — but each one is packed. It’s a Friday night, post-midterms. Of course everyone’s out.

“I swear,” Leehan mutters as they back away from another overflowing sidewalk eatery, “this city needs to build more restaurants.”

They stop under the awning of a closed bookstore, Taesan leaning back against the glass and sighing in defeat. “Maybe we should just… not have dinner?”

Leehan shoots him a look. “Absolutely not. I promised you food, and you’re getting food.”

Taesan raises a brow. “Well, unless you want to cook…”

“I know how to make exactly one thing and it’s eggs,” Leehan says solemnly.

“…Noted.”

Leehan purses his lips, glancing around. “I mean,” he starts, sliding his phone into his front packet. “I’m not really picky with what we eat. Maybe we could just take out? Find a convenience store or something, grab some ramyeon and triangle kimbap, head back to your place?”

Taesan’s heart leaps. And then it immediately panics.

His place.

He tries to sound normal, aiming for casual and missing by a hundred or so miles. “My place?”

Leehan doesn’t seem to notice. “You live closer,” he points out, before pausing. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Right.” Taesan’s already pulling out his phone, quickly clicking through his messages. “We could do that– just. um. One sec.”

He fires off a text to Jaehyun at lightning speed.

Taesan (8:47 pm)

please please be out tonight

i’m serious this time

…leehan’s coming over

Jaehyun (8:47 pm)

oh my god

SAY LESS 

the house is all yours

Relief floods through him.

“Well?” Leehan asks, looking at him expectantly.

“All good,” Taesan says. “Come on, there’s a convenience store this way.”

They walk there together, neon light bouncing off the sidewalk, and the tension settles between them again — not awkward, but charged. Every time their shoulders brush, every time Leehan looks at him and smirks for no reason, Taesan feels it like a static current.

They pick out snacks and a couple instant meals, bicker over which ramyeon brand is superior, and Taesan finds himself smiling so much his cheeks start to ache. They leave with arms full of food, and Taesan doesn’t even realize he’s still smiling a little until Leehan looks over and says, quietly:

“I wasn’t kidding earlier, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“Your smile,” Leehan clarifies. There’s a look in his eye that makes Taesan’s chest ache. “It’s really pretty.”

“Oh. Um,” Taesan flounders, feeling the way his ears go red. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what would be appropriate, but Leehan just grins, falling into step beside him again. 

They reach Taesan’s building just as the sky darkens fully, city lights painting the world in gold and midnight blue. They head up the stairs to his floor, bags in hand, and Taesan thinks his heart might be pounding louder than their combined footsteps.

The door swings open with a familiar creak, and Leehan steps inside like he’s done it a dozen times before — because he has. He toes his shoes off by the door, Taesan following suit automatically, the weight of the takeout bag shifting in his arms. Neither of them say anything as they move into the apartment, but the silence isn’t awkward. It’s comfortable. Easy.

Domestic. That’s the word, Taesan realizes with a start. This all feels… domestic.

Leehan doesn’t ask where to put his jacket anymore — he just slings it over the back of the couch without thinking. He knows where the mugs are. He opens the fridge without hesitation. There’s something intimate about it all, in the way Leehan belongs in this space so effortlessly, like he’s carved a small part of himself into Taesan’s everyday life.

It feels… natural.

Too natural.

Taesan lingers by the doorway for a second longer than necessary, struck by the quiet realization that he doesn’t remember when he stopped thinking of Leehan as a guest.

The apartment is small, still cluttered with signs of post-midterm exhaustion — music sheets messily stacked on the coffee table, two socks that don’t match poking out from under the couch, an empty instant coffee packet abandoned near the sink. But Leehan doesn’t seem to care. He flops onto the floor by the table like he’s done it a hundred times, glancing over his shoulder at Taesan with a grin.

“Well?” he says, patting the floor beside him. “You planning to just stand there, or are we eating this before it gets cold?”

Taesan blinks out of his thoughts. “Right, yeah.”

He sets the food down and joins him, but the quiet warmth in his chest lingers. A strange fluttering feeling that settles low and stubborn in his ribs.

Maybe it’s the smell of food. Maybe it’s the weekend finally kicking in. Or maybe it’s just Leehan — here, again, sitting cross-legged on his floor like he always has. Like he always will.

They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, trading chopsticks now and then, reaching across the table for side dishes. 

“So,” Leehan says mid-bite, “where’s Jaehyun? I figured he’d be hovering with some comment about me being over again.”

Taesan snorts, pointedly choosing not to tell Leehan how he practically kicked his roommate out. “He’s staying with a friend tonight,” he says instead, and well. It’s still the truth. Stabbing at a piece of chicken, he adds, not really thinking about it, “So we’ve got the place to ourselves.”

The look Leehan gives him is clearly amused, and Taesan feels his ears warm in realization. “Not like that, you pervert.”

Leehan holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

They continue eating, but the air shifts. Just slightly. Just enough for Taesan to feel the weight of Leehan’s gaze linger longer than usual. And now Taesan is very aware of the small space between them. Of how their knees keep brushing under the table. Of how Leehan's foot bumps his, then doesn't move.

After they’ve polished off most of the food and tossed the containers, Taesan leans back on his hands, watching Leehan wipe sauce off his fingers with a napkin.

And, with a start, he realizes he doesn’t want Leehan to leave yet. Doesn’t want this whole thing to end. 

“Hey,” he starts slowly, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels, “if you’re not in a rush or anything, we could maybe… watch something?”

Leehan looks up. “Like a movie?”

“Yeah. Or a series. Or a fish documentary. I don’t know. Just… whatever.”

“Okay,” Leehan smiles, agreeing instantly. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

They clean up quickly and move to the couch, Taesan tossing a blanket over both their laps more out of instinct than anything. The lights are dimmed, the laptop propped up on the coffee table. As he connecte it to the TV, he asks, “Do you wanna watch something stupid or something good?” 

Leehan props his legs up against the coffee table. “Your pick.”

Taesan settles on The Amazing Spider-Man. It’s familiar and fun and just a little emotional, and Taesan actually gets pretty into it for the first twenty minutes. He leans forward, eyes glued to the screen, wincing under his breath when Peter gets himself beat up again.

But it becomes impossible to focus when he realizes Leehan keeps glancing at him. Not once or twice — repeatedly. Every few minutes. And definitely not subtle. 

Taesan ignores it. Or tries to.

He shifts. Bites the inside of his cheek. Steals a glance at Leehan, who isn’t even bothering to hide the fact that he’s not even looking at the screen.

He lasts another five minutes before he can’t take it anymore. He grabs the remote and pauses the movie.

“Okay,” he blurts out, turning to face Leehan entirely. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Leehan blinks, not even trying to look innocent. “Like what?”

“Like… I don’t know. Like there’s something else on your mind.”

A beat passes. Then another. Leehan’s gaze won’t stop flicking down to his lips. 

“Maybe…” Leehan starts, and his voice is ragged. “Maybe there is.”

And something in Taesan finally gives. 

He moves slowly, like he’s on autopilot, like Leehan’s confession had activated some primal response inside of him, one that just wanted them to be close. Leehan shifts too, leaning forward until their foreheads knock together and they’re breathing the same air. But their lips aren’t touching. Not yet. There’s a hair’s width between them that feels like a mile.

Taesan’s heart is pounding like a drumline in his chest, loud and unrelenting. His lips part just slightly, and he swears he can taste Leehan’s breath — warm, sweet with a trace of the cola they shared during dinner. 

Leehan’s hand drifts up, slow and hesitant, until his fingers are cupping the side of Taesan’s face. His thumb brushes lightly across Taesan’s cheek, and it’s that small touch, that soft, reverent gesture, that sends Taesan completely spiraling.

“Taesan,” Leehan murmurs softly, “tell me if you don’t want this.”

“I want it,” Taesan whispers, just as soft. I want you, he thinks, doesn’t say.

The kiss Leehan presses to Taesan’s lips is gentle and cautious, leaving space for him to pull away if he wants to, but he doesn’t. It stays chaste for a while, Leehan’s hand coming up to cup his cheek to pull him closer without deepening the kiss, and Taesan’s chest aches with the sweetness of it.

It’s not at all what they discussed, what they’d agreed to – because it’s not a kiss with no strings attached anymore. Emotion seeps into every movement, every breath, every inch of skin where they’re touching. It’s not just coming from Taesan, either. He can feel all the things Leehan can’t express to him yet in the way he holds him, like Taesan is something precious, like he matters, and it makes warmth spread through him from the inside out.

And it would’ve stayed gentle — slow-burning and soft — if Taesan hadn’t made a sound.

A low, needy sound in the back of his throat that escapes before he can stop it. Like the kiss had reached somewhere deeper.

He feels Leehan shiver, hands gripping Taesan tighter. 

Then Leehan’s touch slide down, one hand resting on the small of Taesan’s back, the other slipping under his shirt to touch the bare skin at his waist. The contact is electric. Taesan gasps into Leehan’s mouth, just a little, and Leehan takes that opportunity to kiss him deeper, tilting his head just enough to slot their mouths together more firmly, and oh—

When Leehan sucks on his tongue, Taesan moans brokenly, all his senses going into overdrive.

His fingers finally move, clutching at Leehan’s shirt like a lifeline as Leehan pulls him closer. Their knees knock against each other awkwardly, but neither of them cares. Leehan shifts to straddle him on the couch, never breaking the kiss, and suddenly Taesan is leaning back, shoulders pressing into the cushions as Leehan towers over him — mouth hot, hands everywhere, moving like he’s been holding back for far too long.

The weight of him, the heat, the press of every inch — it’s dizzying.

Taesan arches into it without thinking, desperate for more. Their lips part for just a breath, and Leehan’s eyes meet his, dark and blown wide with want.

“Is this still okay?” Leehan murmurs, thumb still stroking Taesan’s cheek.

Taesan nods, throat dry. “Yeah. I’m–” His voice breaks a little. “It’s good. Really good.”

Leehan smiles faintly, then kisses him again, harder now. The kind of kiss that leaves Taesan breathless, teeth clashing, tongues brushing. The kind that drowns everything else out.

Leehan shifts again, grinding down ever so slightly, and Taesan lets out a quiet, breathy whine as Leehan moves to press kisses down his neck, nipping at the skin and sucking light marks every so often until he reaches where the collar of Taesan’s shirt begins.

“Fuck,” Taesan breathes, his head falling back against the couch. “Leehan, please–“

“Yeah?” Leehan whispers, dragging his lips down to the pulse hammering at his neck.

Taesan can’t even think. Can’t form words. His hips buck up without permission, chasing friction, and Leehan groans in response.

His hands are under Taesan’s shirt now, fingers tracing every plane of his stomach, his ribs, his sides. Each brush of skin-to-skin sends jolts through Taesan’s nerves — startling him with how badly he needs this.

Needs him.

The blanket they shared earlier has been discarded to the floor, Leehan’s shrimp plush somewhere beside it. 

“Can I–“ Leehan starts, his tone questioning, voice low and hoarse as his hand lands on the small of Taesan’s waist. Taesan shivers, suddenly feeling like he’s burning, feverish and a bit delirious. “Can we take this to your bedroom?”

Taesan’s chest is heaving. His lips are red and swollen. He nods, too breathless to speak.

Leehan leans down one more time, pressing a final kiss to the corner of his mouth — slower, tender — then grabs his hand again, steady and warm.

And Taesan lets him lead.

They don’t make it halfway to the room before they’re kissing again, pressed against the hallway wall, all teeth and heat and hands. Taesan’s shirt is tugged downwards, and Leehan’s lips drag along his throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of skin.

He doesn’t even realise that Leehan’s backed him against the bed until his knees hit something soft, and suddenly he’s falling back onto the mattress, dragging Leehan down with him. They barely break the kiss, because Leehan just refuses to let go, and Taesan isn’t all that willing to stop either. When they finally do, Leehan is flushed and breathing heavily, soft and warm against Taesan’s body, and it would be perfect if Taesan’s legs weren’t still bent over the edge of the bed.

“I’m, uh, let’s–” he tries to suggest while Leehan takes this moment to nuzzle around Taesan’s jaw, and his neck, and, fuck–

“Leehan,” Taesan whines, and it’s winded and desperate, and he’s really trying not to think about how he sounds, because it's only Leehan, and he’s already heard Taesan make all sorts of noises before. But, for some reason, this time just feels different. 

“Sorry,” Leehan mumbles into his ear, breath hot against the skin. Taesan has to fight back a shiver. “Sorry, it’s just– you’re so lovely,” he says softly, dropping a kiss to the side of Taesan’s neck, and it’s fleeting and light and barely there, but Taesan still gasps quietly.

Somehow, they manage to move further onto the bed, Taesan on his back and Leehan hovering above him. It's a familiar position. What’s not so familiar though, is the tenderness in Leehan’s eye, the kind that makes Taesan feel like everything hidden in his heart might end up spilling out. 

"Taesan," Leehan says, voice soft and familiar, and then cups his face in his hands. Leans in. 

Taesan swallows.

He can feel the way his breath goes uneven, but he is absolutely still, frozen in place, just waiting for Leehan’s next move. Deft fingers tilt his head and Leehan’s lips ghost over his skin — his cheek, his jaw, his nose, teasing and featherlight. The air feels like it's thrumming around them.

"Please," Taesan whispers, mortifyingly close to begging, and in the next second they’re kissing all over again. Leehan somehow finds his lips in record time, and fuck, it's right, it's good, it's everything he's wanted, even better than on the couch or against the wall or — that embarrassing massage-turned-handjob in the dark of his room. 

He lets out another noise without meaning to, lips vaguely forming the shape of Leehan’s name, so familiar and yet new. He feels Leehan’s hand sliding under his shirt, touching what has barely been touched before, and certainly not with this much intent. Taesan gasps as Leehan’s fingers trail a path up, up, until they reach his chest, until his shirt is bunched all the way up and Leehan– 

"Oh–" Taesan gasps at the first touch to his nipple.

"Good?" Leehan murmurs, and Taesan nods, breathless and chest already heaving as Leehan plays his body like an instrument, pulling all the right sounds out of Taesan’s lips.

And then Leehan’s leaning down, mouth closing on the peaked bud, and Taesan fully whimpers, a hand slapping over his mouth as his hips cant upwards, searching for friction.

“Leehan–“ he moans weakly, helpless to Leehan’s fingers, his tongue, dancing across his chest. And Taesan is easy, so easy, he's gotten hard before from innocent kisses, and he wonders if he’s just that desperate, that inexperienced, or maybe it’s just the effect Leehan has on him. He still doesn't know, still can't process it properly — all he knows is that Leehan makes him feel good, and Taesan wants and wants and wants. 

Leehan lifts his head then, trailing kisses down Taesan’s navel. “I’ve always wanted to touch you here,” he murmurs, giving Taesan’s nipple one last tweak, an action that makes Taesan squeak in surprise, squirming in his sheets. “I figured you’d be sensitive.”

Taesan flushes deeply, the heat spreading to every corner of his body, each of Leehan’s touches like a brand on his skin, sending warmth deep inside of him.

A distant part of him wonders if Leehan is going to take off his clothes now — but Leehan seems terribly content with leaving Taesan’s shirt up to his chest. It dawns on Taesan, slowly and horrifyingly, that maybe Leehan likes that — to unravel Taesan while they remain fully clothed, like it’s the easiest thing in the world for Leehan to have Taesan like this, breathless and flushed and ruined beneath him.

Leehan’s hand hovers just above the waistband of his jeans, pausing. “Taesan,” he calls out softly. “Do you want this?”

Taesan doesn’t think twice, can barely even think anymore actually. “Yes.”

But Leehan doesn’t seem convinced. He brushes back the hair that has started plastering itself on Taesan’s forehead, a tender gesture that makes Taesan ache. “Taesan-ah,” Leehan says again. “I… I want to go all the way with you. Do you get what I’m saying? Will you let me?”

Taesan’s heart feels like it’s permanently lodged in his throat when he nods shakily. “Yeah,” he breathes out, because really, when has he ever been able to say no to Leehan? “Please, Leehan, I- I want you to.”

And then Leehan’s unbuttoning Taesan’s jeans, dragging the offending piece of clothing down, down, down, until Taesan kicks it away and Leehan tugs off both their shirts and Taesan is in bed, laid completely bare. 

And Leehan is looking at him like he wants to devour him, like Taesan is the only person worth seeing.

“Oh,” Leehan breathes out, “Taesan, you… you’re gorgeous.”

But Taesan doesn’t even want to think about what he must look like right now. He resists the urge to hide, because no one’s ever seen him like this. He’s never felt so exposed — not just physically, but emotionally, like every part of him is cracked open, and Leehan’s the only one who’s ever been allowed to look inside.

Leehan’s gaze rakes over him, but there’s nothing greedy about it. It’s reverent. Like he’s memorizing him.

When Taesan turns his head in embarrassment, hiding the heat climbing up his face — Leehan is already there, tilting his chin gently back toward him, thumb brushing along his jaw like he’s something precious. The next kiss comes slow, quicker than before, the warmth of Leehan’s tongue sliding against his with aching deliberation. Every movement is unhurried, but heavy with intent.

Their bodies slot together with seamless heat. There’s friction now — dizzying and sharp, the press of Leehan’s naked hips against his own making Taesan gasp. His fingers tangle in the sheets, and Leehan catches one wrist, pinning it gently against the bed.

“Is this okay?” Leehan murmurs, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

Taesan nods quickly, unable to find his voice. “Yes, please– ah– don’t stop–“

Leehan doesn’t. He keeps his movements slow, deliberate, coaxing sounds out of Taesan he didn’t know he could make. His touch is everywhere — on the curve of Taesan’s waist, the dip in his hipbones, the softness of his innermost thigh. It’s too much, too good, and Taesan is so far gone.

And then Leehan’s moving further down, between his legs, and Taesan has to fight the embarrassment washing over him in waves. He presses his knees together, hiding, a hand coming up to stifle the whine leaving his throat.

“Don’t hide,” Leehan coaxes, tracing circles on Taesan’s outer thigh. “You’re so beautiful, Taesan, c’mon. Be a good boy and let me see you, hm?”

Taesan hesitates, just for a second, before he gives in and lets Leehan part his thighs. He can feel himself twitching under Leehan’s weighted gaze, and it takes everything in him not to cry out. 

"So cute," Leehan says, shifting downwards, until he’s directly between Taesan’s legs. He nips at Taesan’s inner thigh, and Taesan yelps. “So good all the time, aren't you?"

“There’s lube,” Taesan manages to choke out, breaths coming in heavy, “under my bed.”

“Yeah?” Leehan arches a brow. “What do you want exactly, Taesanie?”

“Anything,” Taesan breathes out, too fast, too needy, too desperate. “Please, Leehan, I- I wanna feel you inside.”

Leehan groans like he’s been punched. “Yeah, I- okay. Be good and keep your legs spread for me, Taesan, let me take care of you.”

And it’s mortifying, even more so when Leehan coaxes all these sounds out of him, touching him in places no one’s seen before, places Taesan hasn’t even touched himself. He gasps and moans when Leehan fingers him, arching up into the heat of him, legs parting instinctively, like Taesan’s body already knows the rhythm of this moment. Leehan groans low in his throat and presses kisses to every patch of skin he can reach — his collarbone, the dip between his ribs, the pulse fluttering just under his skin.

When Leehan finally, finally slides into him properly, it’s with so much care that Taesan could cry. Every movement is fluid, practiced, patient — a slow, deliberate unraveling. Leehan touches him like he’s something rare, like he’s afraid he’ll break if he goes too fast.

And Taesan clutches at Leehan like he’s trying to tether himself to something real, grounding himself in the weight of his body, the press of his kisses, the soft panting against his skin.

Their breathing grows ragged. The tension crests, high and unbearable.

And then it breaks — a shared, shuddering gasp between them, bodies pressed close and shaking, lips crashing together again like they can’t bear to be apart.

For a long moment, they just breathe. Tangled limbs, sweat-slick skin, and Taesan’s heart pounding wildly in the confines of his ribs.

Leehan’s fingers twitch against Taesan’s side, as if reluctant to stop touching. One last press of lips against collarbone. One last whispered breath of his name.

And slowly, the heat recedes, settling into something quieter, softer. 

The room turns warm with the haze of afterglow, the only sound their slowing breaths and the low hum of Taesan’s fan from across the room. Taesan feels spent and weightless, like his body is still somewhere in orbit. He shifts slightly, immediately wincing at the mess between his thighs.

Leehan notices immediately, already moving to sit up. “Hang on,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of Taesan’s mouth. “Let me clean you up.”

Taesan hums, dazed and content, eyes fluttering shut as he sinks further into the mattress. He hears Leehan rustling around, grabbing tissues, maybe a spare shirt, and then the soft return of Leehan’s fingers brush tenderly over his skin. The sensation is careful, warm, grounding.

And then—

I like you so much. 

It lands like a thunderclap in Taesan’s chest, yanking him upright with a sharp breath. His heart thuds once, twice, hard in his ribs.

“What?” he blurts, eyes wide.

Leehan freezes, eyes flicking up from where his hand still rests low on Taesan’s stomach. “What?”

Taesan stares. Leehan furrows his brows at him, a little surprised, a little worried. But then Taesan hears it again. Not with his ears, but in him, through him — like a sound that vibrates inside bone.

Did I do something wrong? God, Taesan looks so pretty like this, would he let me kiss him again? Shit, why’s he staring at me, what did I do–

The words rush in like a tide, quick and dizzying, all in Leehan’s voice — but none of them spoken aloud.

Taesan jerks slightly, breath catching as the slow, creeping realization dawns on him. 

He scrambles for composure. “Sorry,” he says quickly, eyes darting. “I thought… I thought you said something.”

Leehan tilts his head, soft concern on his face. “You must still be a little out of it,” he says with a small, gentle smile, brushing back the damp hair from Taesan’s forehead. “Wait here. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He presses a kiss to Taesan’s temple before slipping off the bed, pulling his shirt back on as he heads for the door.

And just like that — silence.

The thoughts vanish the second Leehan stops touching him, leaving a yawning quiet in their place. Too quiet.

Taesan stares at the ceiling, mind racing, heart still pounding.

What was that? 

Leehan’s the only person he’s never been able to hear in his head. 

He knows Leehan didn’t say that out loud.

And yet... he heard it anyway.

The echo of Leehan’s thoughts lingers like static behind his eyes, louder than the silence in the room.

I like you so much.

Taesan draws the covers up to his chest, pulse thudding wildly.

Whatever just happened… he’s not imagining it.

And he’s scared it’ll change everything.