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Chapter Text

When Jihoon woke up, the dream dissolved into fog, but the hollow ache it left behind lingered stubbornly in his chest. This one had been more vivid than his normal dreams; this was painfully sharp, as if he had actually lived it. He could still see flashes, the weight of a jersey in red and black, the Griffin logo stitched across his chest, the endless glow of monitors before him. He was a professional esports player in that dream, playing a game called League of Legends. His role had been mid laner, his name still Jihoon, but people called him something else. Chovy.

Jihoon rubbed his face with both hands, shaking his head with a small, incredulous laugh.

“In what world,” he muttered, “would I spend my time rotting in front of a computer when I could be with animals?”

The thought was ridiculous, almost laughable, and yet the faint echo of the dream’s intensity stayed with him. Still, Jihoon forced himself to shrug it off. He had a real life to live, a day waiting to be started. After a quick shower, he padded barefoot into his small kitchen, toweling his damp hair. A familiar sound greeted him, the insistent mewl of his cat.

“Good morning, Genrang~” Jihoon said softly, crouching down as the large orange Maine Coon padded over with slow dignity. Genrang rubbed against his shin, tail curling around him like a warm scarf.

Jihoon reached for the bag of dry food, the routine steadying him more than anything else. As he poured the kibble into the ceramic dish, Genrang let out a satisfied trill before digging in with enthusiasm.

“See? This is real life.” Jihoon murmured with a faint smile, scratching behind the cat’s tufted ears as it ate. “Feeding you, not… playing some game in another universe.”

By the time Genrang had settled onto the windowsill for his mid-morning nap, Jihoon was dressed, bag slung over his shoulder. He glanced back once more at his cat before locking the door behind him. The air outside was brisk, carrying the scent of the city waking up. He exhaled slowly. The strange dream still clung to him like cobwebs, but work awaited. At the veterinary clinic, animals needed healing, and that was the only world Jihoon wanted to belong to.

The bell above the clinic door chimed softly as Jihoon stepped inside. The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with something gentler, the comforting musk of animals. He always thought of it as the smell of home.

“Jihoonie!”

The cheerful call came from the reception desk, where Wangho sat tapping away at the computer. His round glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and his bright smile widened when he spotted Jihoon.

“You’re early today.” Wangho teased. “What, did Genrang kick you out of bed?”

Jihoon chuckled, setting his bag down behind the counter. “Something like that.”

Before he could say more, another familiar voice drifted in from the adjoining examination room. “Who’s early? Jihoon?”

Sanghyeok emerged, white coat hanging neatly from his shoulders, stethoscope looped around his neck. His tone was calm as always, but the small smile he offered was unmistakably fond. He crossed the room in long strides to clap Jihoon lightly on the shoulder.

“Good timing. We’ve got a busy morning ahead.”

The three of them slipped into their familiar rhythm. Jihoon examined a golden retriever with an ear infection, assisted Sanghyeok with a check-up on an elderly tabby, and passed notes back and forth with Wangho at the desk. The steady flow of work grounded him, each patient pulling him further from the strange residue of his dream.

By the time noon rolled around, Wangho stretched in his chair, declaring, “Lunch break! If I don’t eat now, Sanghyeokie-hyung’s going to scold me again.”

They settled into the small breakroom with lunch boxes spread across the table. It was only when Jihoon had taken a few bites of his sandwich that he finally blurted, “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

“Oh?” Sanghyeok asked, raising a brow.

Jihoon hesitated, then recounted it, the flashing monitors, the weight of a Griffin jersey, the crowd roaring as his hands danced across a keyboard. 

“Apparently, I was a professional gamer. For a team called Griffin. Playing some game called League of Legends. I even had another name, ‘Chovy.’”

There was a moment of silence before Wangho burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink.

“You? A gamer?” He wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Jihoonie, you can’t sit still for more than ten minutes without needing to move around. Imagine you're grinding out twelve-hour gaming sessions! And what is even that game?! Sounds boring to me.”

Even Sanghyeok cracked a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No offense, Jihoon, but I can’t picture you glued to a computer chair either. You’re too… restless. Too alive.”

Jihoon grinned sheepishly, shrugging. “Exactly. I can’t imagine it either. Guess it was just my brain messing with me.”

Yet as their laughter filled the room, Jihoon felt that hollow ache stir again, faint but undeniable,  like a ghost tugging at the corner of his heart.

The time passed by quickly, and his shift ended, the sky had already dipped into hues of orange and violet. Jihoon trudged home with the pleasant kind of exhaustion that came from a full day at the clinic.

The moment he unlocked the door, a familiar mewl greeted him. Genrang padded over, tail held high, his large orange frame brushing against Jihoon’s legs.

“I’m home, Genrangie~” Jihoon murmured, bending down to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Genrang answered with a deep purr, leaning into his touch.

Jihoon let himself laugh softly as they played a short while in the living room. Genrang batted lazily at a feather toy, pouncing with surprising grace for his size, before sprawling belly-up on the rug in triumph.

“Alright, champ. Dinner time.” Jihoon said, standing to prepare the cat’s meal. Once Genrang’s bowl was filled and set down, Jihoon fixed himself something simple, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around him like a blanket.

Later, he called his mother. Their conversation was light, filled with her usual fussing over whether he was eating enough and taking care of himself. Jihoon listened with a smile, reassured by her voice. After tidying up, he slipped into bed, the room dim except for the faint glow of the city lights outside his window. Genrang had already claimed his spot at the foot of the bed, curled into a warm ball of fur.

Jihoon lay back, eyes drifting shut. For a moment, the laughter of his hyungs at lunch echoed in his memory, the warmth of home and work steadying his heart.

And yet, just before sleep pulled him under, that strange hollow ache stirred again, the same emptiness the dreams always left behind. The darkness of sleep pulled him under quickly, and before Jihoon knew it, he was no longer in his small bedroom.

************************

He stood in a vast, brightly lit hall, the air buzzing with noise. A heavy jersey clung to his shoulders, red and black, the Griffin logo stitched proudly across the chest. When he glanced down, his hands were wrapped around a sleek gaming mouse and keyboard, the glow of monitors reflecting back at him.

“Chovy!” someone shouted from a distance.

Jihoon flinched. That name again. His name, but not his. He turned, trying to make out the people around him. Teammates, maybe? Friends? Their faces blurred, indistinct, like smudges of watercolor on wet paper. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus on them.

All except one.

Among the haze stood a boy taller than him, a little lanky, dressed in the same jersey. He had a round face, soft features framed by round glasses that made him look almost comically gentle compared to the sharp atmosphere around them. Something about him radiated warmth, and unlike the others, this boy’s voice rang clear, piercing straight through the fog.

“Jihoon-ah.”

Jihoon’s heart stuttered. Not Chovy, not some unfamiliar alias. His real name. And it rolled off the boy’s tongue like it belonged there.

He blinked, words forming before he realized what he was saying. “...Hyeonjoonie-hyung.”

The older boy’s lips curved into a smile that reached his eyes.

Jihoon, or was it Chovy? felt his own lips twitch, the instinct to tease bubbling up. “Hyung, when you call me like that, I feel like I should behave, but you know I won’t.”

He half-expected the blurry crowd around them to vanish, or the dream to crack apart like glass. Instead, the boy laughed, the sound startlingly clear. For that fleeting moment, Jihoon felt something warm, achingly familiar, as if he had known this “Hyeonjoonie-hyung” his whole life.

Jihoon wanted to say more,  to ask who this hyung really was, why his face was the only one he could see clearly, but the dream was already unraveling, the edges of the scene bleeding into white. The boy’s laughter echoed like a fading melody, slipping further and further away.

“Jihoon-ah…”

It was the last thing he heard before everything dissolved.

************************

When Jihoon’s eyes blinked open to the pale light of dawn, his chest tightened. The same hollowness was there, the familiar ache that followed every dream. Yet beneath it, something different stirred, a faint warmth, as though someone had pressed a gentle hand over his heart.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. The emptiness still ached, yes, but for the first time, it didn’t feel quite so unbearable, unlike the last time. There was something faint, almost comforting, that lingered in his chest

Jihoon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to the dream, to the boy’s round glasses, his warm smile, the way his voice wrapped around his name, but the harder he tried to recall, the faster it slipped away. Even the boy’s name escaped him. All Jihoon could grasp was the echo of Jihoon-ah, clear as day.

With a frustrated sigh, he pushed himself out of bed.

The day went on as it always did. He fed Genrang, who greeted him with lazy affection, showered, dressed, and headed to the clinic. Wangho teased him as usual, Sanghyeok gave him quiet advice between appointments, and Jihoon poured himself into the animals that needed care.

By the time evening rolled around, the exhaustion had set in, but the hollow ache still followed him like a shadow. On a whim, Jihoon decided to stop by his favorite bakeshop before heading home, craving something sweet to soften the edges of the day.

The little bell over the door chimed as he stepped inside, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping around him like a hug. Behind the counter, Minhyung looked up from boxing pastries, his grin lighting up the room. 

“Jihoonie-hyung! You came at the right time. We’ve got just one slice of your favorite chocolate strawberry cake left.”

Beside him, Minseok leaned casually against the counter, sipping coffee and waving lazily. “Evening, Jihoon-hyung.”

Jihoon’s mood brightened instantly, lips tugging into a smile. “Perfect. I’ll take it.” but as Minhyung reached for the small white box, he froze. His expression faltered. 

“Ah… wait. Sorry, hyung, this slice’s already reserved.”

Jihoon blinked, then let out an exaggerated pout. “What? That’s cruel, Min-ah. You shouldn’t have raised my hopes like that.”

Minseok chuckled, nudging Minhyung with his elbow. “You just broke his heart. Better make it up to him.”

Jihoon sighed dramatically, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Fine. I’ll take the cheesecake instead, but you owe me next time.

Minhyung quickly boxed up the cheesecake, guilt written all over his face, while Minseok teased, “See, Jihoon-hyung? Even cakes don’t stay loyal forever.”

“Ha-ha” Jihoon muttered, but his pout lingered as he accepted the box.

As Minhyung scribbled down a note on the box, Jihoon’s eyes flicked to the reservation slip taped nearby. The name written there was clear: “Hyeonjoon.”

His chest gave a faint, inexplicable jolt, but he shook his head quickly, brushing it off as a coincidence. Hyeonjoon was a common enough name, nothing to dwell on.

He tucked the cheesecake under his arm, thanked the couple, and headed home. The rest of the evening fell into its familiar rhythm: feeding Genrang, playing with him until the cat flopped belly-up in defeat, calling his mother, and finally curling beneath the covers. Genrang nestled at his side, a warm weight grounding him as sleep claimed him again.

************************

This time, when Jihoon opened his eyes, the red and black jersey was gone. Instead, he wore one in white and blue. The crowd, the lights, the monitors, they all felt sharper, heavier with a different kind of expectation. He realized instantly, a new team, a new chapter, but one thing hadn’t changed.

“Hyeonjoon-hyung.”

The voice was there, steady and warm. Jihoon turned, and there he was, the same round face, the same glasses that made him look softer than anyone else in the room. Doran, his Hyeonjoonie-hyung. A smile tugged at Jihoon’s lips, the kind of smile he didn’t have to force. No matter the colors of their jerseys, no matter the team, they were still side by side. Inseparable.

Time blurred in the dream. He and Hyeonjoon sat shoulder to shoulder reviewing plays, their fingers brushing as they scrolled through replays on the laptop.

Jihoon’s heart skipped at the smallest contact, but he masked it with a smirk, teasing, “Hyung, you’re still too slow to catch this.”

Hyeonjoon only huffed, adjusting his glasses, but didn’t move his hand away.

Later, during a meal with the team, Jihoon picked at his plate. He hated cucumbers. Always had. Yet when Hyeonjoon pushed his own uneaten cucumbers to the side, Jihoon quietly picked them up and ate them without a word. He didn’t like them either, but if it meant sparing his Hyeonjoon-hyung, he’d eat them all.

Hyeonjoon noticed, of course. His round eyes softened, and a quiet laugh slipped past his lips. “You really don’t have to do that, Jihoon-ah.”

Jihoon shrugged, trying to play it cool, though his ears felt hot. “Hyung, what are teammates for?”

The laughter that followed was soft, private, a sound just for him, and Jihoon thought, dream or not, he could live in this warmth forever.

************************

Jihoon woke to the weight of Genrang pressed warmly against his side. The orange Maine Coon purred in his sleep, snuggling closer as if he’d been keeping guard all night. Jihoon smiled faintly, stroking the cat’s soft fur. For the first time in days, he felt something like contentment. And yet, when he tried to recall the dream, it slipped through his fingers like water. The jersey colors, the games, even the warmth of being called Jihoon-ah, all remained, but the boy’s face, his name… gone. The only certainty was the ache in his chest and the strange peace it left behind.

As midday approached, work at the clinic slowed, and the three of them gathered in the breakroom for lunch. Jihoon toyed with his food for a while before blurting out, “I had another dream last night.”

Wangho immediately perked up, leaning forward with sparkling eyes. “Tell me, tell me!”

Jihoon hesitated, then described the details, the jersey in white and blue this time, the game reviews with fingers brushing, the cucumbers he forced himself to eat because the boy hated them. “He was… always beside me. I don’t remember his name, or even his face, but it felt like we were… inseparable.”

Sanghyeok listened quietly, arms folded, while Wangho squealed so loudly the clinic’s resident parrot squawked back in protest from the other room.

“Jihoonie!” Wangho gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “That’s not just a dream. That’s your boyfriend from a past life. Or… or maybe your soulmate in another universe!”

Jihoon nearly choked on his water. His ears burned hot as he sputtered, “Hyung! Don’t say it like that!”

Sanghyeok’s lips quirked faintly, though he hid it behind a sip of tea.

Wangho only leaned in closer, grinning mischievously. “Oh, come on, you even held hands with him! That’s basically marriage in dream language.”

Jihoon groaned, covering his face with both hands. “I’ve never even held a man’s hand for my own sake…!”

Wangho’s laughter rang out, while Sanghyeok’s quiet chuckle joined in. Jihoon sat there, face red, heart still thumping a little too fast, wondering why, if it was all just a dream, it felt so much like something real.

The days went on, and Jihoon’s strange dreams only grew more vivid. 

************************

Last time, the jersey on his back was blue and white, but this time he bleeds black and gold. He sat in a sleek conference room, the table gleaming under the bright lights, the air thick with the weight of contracts waiting to be signed. Jihoon, no Chovy, gripped his pen, glancing down at the crisp paper before him.

And then, movement across the table caught his eye. His heart lurched. There he was.

Hyeonjoon-hyung.

He was seated opposite, posture calm, pen in hand, signing the very same contract. The corners of his lips lifted, not at anyone in particular, just a quiet smile as though the world had settled into place. 

Jihoon didn’t even realize he was grinning ear to ear until his cheeks ached. Relief, joy, belonging, all of it rushed through him in a way he couldn’t explain. He didn’t care about the cameras, the managers, or the future ahead. All he cared about was that Hyeonjoon-hyung was there too.

************************

However, when Jihoon woke the next morning, it was the same as always. He couldn’t recall the boy’s face, nor his name. Only that unshakable warmth, the glow that clung stubbornly to his chest. Like sunlight, he couldn’t see but could still feel it against his skin, and it was changing him.

At work in the vet clinic, Jihoon found himself zoning out mid-task. While jotting down medical notes, while washing the bowls, even while brushing Genrang’s fur. Sometimes his lips curved in a smile without warning, earning curious looks from the two hyungs who worked alongside him.

“Jihoon-ah, you good?” Wangho asked one afternoon, leaning against the counter. Jihoon had been staring blankly at the IV stand for a good five minutes, his expression soft, almost dreamy.

Jihoon blinked, startled. “I’m fine. Just… thinking.”

“Thinking, huh?” Sanghyeok murmured, amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced at Wangho.

Wangho grinned, elbowing Jihoon lightly. “Yah, don’t tell me you’re in love. Our Jihoonie’s never been like this. Smiling at nothing? Humming? Zoning out like a kid in class? Definitely sus.”

“I’m not-” Jihoon began, but the heat rushing to his cheeks betrayed him. He ducked his head quickly, shuffling through paperwork to hide his embarrassment.

The two older boys exchanged a look, both smirking knowingly. To them, Jihoon was the youngest, the one they teased, the one they kept an eye on without ever saying it out loud. Seeing him like this, soft and distracted, was new.

From then on, Wangho and Sanghyeok started keeping a closer eye. They noticed the little things, Jihoon’s fingers brushing over his lips as if remembering a smile. The way his usually sharp replies softened into quiet hums. The sudden absent-minded happiness that hung around him like a glow.

And Jihoon… he found himself waiting for bedtime with an impatience he’d never admit out loud, because that was when he’d see him again. The boy who was sometimes a teammate, sometimes a best friend, and more often than not, something even deeper. In those dreams, their relationship seemed to shift and grow on its own. What began as practice sessions stretched into long nights reviewing replays side by side, their shoulders bumping, fingers brushing as they reached for the same mouse. Laughter spilled easily, the kind that left Jihoon’s chest warm for hours even after waking. 

He’d eat the cucumber slices Hyeonjoon always pushed aside, wrinkling his nose as he did, even though Jihoon hated cucumbers himself. Somehow, in those dreams, it didn’t matter.

The details may always be blurred upon waking, faces and names never clear, but the feeling lingered, bright and stubborn, and maybe, just maybe, Jihoon was starting to fall for a boy who only existed when his eyes were closed.

But then, a sudden change came.

Where before his dreams were warm, soft, and easy to slip into, now they weighed down on him like stones.

************************

One night, Jihoon found himself, no, Chovy found himself, standing on a stage, the lights blinding, the crowd screaming, the pressure thick in the air like it could crush his chest. Every breath felt shallow. His hands trembled on the mouse and keyboard, his mind running faster than his body could follow. Expectations wrapped around his throat like chains.

************************

Jihoon woke gasping, the echo of that suffocating weight still clinging to him.

************************

The next night, it was no different. He sat in front of the screen, headset clamped over his ears, as voices, shouts, cheers, and criticisms blurred together into a storm. Every misstep felt monumental, every silence too loud. Chovy carried the world on his back, or at least it felt that way, and Jihoon, living through him, carried it too.

And yet, in the midst of it all, there was always him.

The boy whose name Jihoon could never remember, whose face blurred whenever he tried to hold onto it after waking, but in the dreams, he was clear enough, tall, steady, always by his side. The one who cut through the noise with a single word,

“Jihoon-ah.”

That voice, warm and grounding, was enough to keep him from drowning. When Chovy’s hands trembled, the boy’s steadiness anchored him. When Chovy’s chest threatened to cave under pressure, the boy’s presence was a quiet shield. He didn’t need to say much, sometimes just a hand brushing against his arm, sometimes just a look across the room, but it was enough to remind Jihoon, no Chovy, that he wasn’t alone.

Sometimes, after long nights of practice, Chovy would fall asleep at his desk, only to wake with a blanket draped over him, the boy slouched nearby with his glasses slipping down his nose. Sometimes they’d share silent meals together, Chovy forcing down cucumbers he hated just because the boy hated them more, both of them grimacing, then laughing. Sometimes, when the pressure threatened to crack him open, he would let himself lean against the boy’s shoulder, just for a moment, and hear the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric.

************************

Jihoon woke exhausted, more tired than when he had closed his eyes. His body felt heavy, his thoughts slow, his heart bruised from carrying emotions that weren’t entirely his own. He could see the concern in Wangho and Sanghyeok’s eyes at work, the way Wangho commented on the dark circles under his eyes, or how Sanghyeok urged him to rest during lunch breaks, but Jihoon brushed them off, offering small smiles and quick excuses, because no matter how raw and painful those dreams left him, he didn’t mind.

Not at all, because in that other world, through Chovy’s eyes, he could still feel that boy’s presence. The boy who never left him, who always seemed to know when Jihoon’s heart was on the verge of breaking.

And that, Jihoon thought, was enough for him even if he could never remember the boy’s name. Even if the face slipped away like mist each morning, that invisible thread tugging at his chest was enough to make him close his eyes willingly each night, ready to face whatever weight came next, just to see him again.

The dreams left him raw, but more and more, they bled into his waking life.

One afternoon at the clinic, Jihoon sat in the break room with Wangho and Sanghyeok. They had ordered simple takeout, rice bowls, soup, and side dishes. Jihoon picked at his food absently until his chopsticks hovered over the small dish of cucumber slices.

He wrinkled his nose. He never liked cucumbers. Still, without thinking, he reached for one and popped it into his mouth, chewing with the same resigned expression he had in the dream. He grimaced, but forced himself to swallow.

Wangho froze mid-bite, staring at him. “Yah… Jihoon-ah. Did you just eat a cucumber? Willingly?”

Jihoon blinked. “Huh? Yeah, I guess.”

“You hate cucumbers.” Wangho said flatly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Even Sanghyeok glanced over with a raised brow. “Now I’m concerned. Who are you and what did you do with our Jihoon?”

Jihoon laughed it off quickly, cheeks warming. “I don’t know. I just… felt like it, I guess.”

Wangho kept watching him with narrowed eyes, but eventually let it go, shaking his head. Sanghyeok only muttered, “Strange kid.” though there was an amused curve to his lips.

Jihoon pressed on with his day, but the thought lingered in the back of his mind.

That night, when Jihoon slipped into the dream again, he felt it instantly, the shift in the air.

************************

The arena lights blazed down, hot and blinding, but this time it wasn’t suffocating. This time, it was triumphant. The roar of the crowd thundered in his chest, confetti drifted like snow, and Chovy stood shoulder to shoulder with his teammates, victory still ringing in his ears. His fingers curled around the cool, solid weight of the trophy.

And beside him, always beside him, was Hyeonjoon-hyun.

Chovy turned, a wide grin splitting his face, heart racing not from the win but from seeing that familiar presence next to him. Their hands brushed as they lifted the trophy together, and for a moment, the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the two of them.

“Hyeonjoon-hyung…” Chovy breathed, the name leaving his lips like a secret only he could speak.

The older boy smiled back, eyes shining. “You did well, Jihoon-ah. So well. I’m proud of you.”

The words were enough to make Chovy’s chest ache, raw and tender, because it wasn’t the crowd’s cheers that mattered, it was this. This voice, this warmth.

Later, when the crowd had faded, when the stage lights dimmed and the others were busy celebrating in their own ways, Chovy found himself alone in a quiet hallway with Hyeonjoon. The trophy was left behind, forgotten for the moment. Here, there were no cameras, no noise, only the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the soft echo of their footsteps.

Hyeonjoon reached out first, brushing a stray strand of hair from Chovy’s damp forehead. His touch lingered longer than it needed to, gentle, grounding. 

“You carried so much today. I could see it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. 

Chovy’s throat tightened. “Hyung…” His voice cracked, low, unsteady. “I don’t think I could do any of this without you.”

They stood close, too close, shoulders brushing. Chovy could see the reflection of his own exhaustion in the round glasses, could feel the heat radiating off Hyeonjoon’s skin. The world seemed to shrink down to the space between the

Slowly, inevitably, Chovy leaned in. Hyeonjoon did too. Their breath mingled, eyes half-lidded, lips just a breath apart. Chovy’s heart thundered, the moment stretching into eternity, sweet and fragile.

************************

Jihoon jolted awake, heart hammering as though he had truly leaned in close enough to feel the other man’s breath against his lips. His room was dim, the sheets tangled around his legs, his throat dry from gasping. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken like this, half desperate, half mourning, but tonight it felt especially cruel. He was so close, closer than ever, and still… no face. No name. Just that overwhelming presence, steady and warm, like a tether keeping Chovy grounded through all the storms.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes and lay there, breathing unevenly. The dreams weren’t simply dreams anymore. They felt too real, too heavy. Every touch lingered even after he woke, every word of comfort echoing like a phantom. He should have been frightened by how much it consumed him, but instead, he clung to it. Even if the details slipped away, what the other man’s smile looked like, how his voice exactly sounded, Jihoon couldn’t let go of the comfort that radiated from him.

The next day, however, his exhaustion was harder to hide. At the clinic, he zoned out mid-task, standing too long by the counter with a vial in hand, lost somewhere between reality and that other world. Wangho had to nudge him back to focus. Later, Jihoon was caught smiling to himself while scribbling notes, cheeks pink, eyes distant. And at odd times, a flicker of sadness dulled his gaze, as though he carried someone else’s burden.

“Jihoon-ah...” Wangho finally said one evening when they closed up together, flicking off the clinic lights. “You’ve been… different. Softer, yeah, but also spaced out. Like you’re carrying something heavy.”

Sanghyeok, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, added quietly, “And you’re not sleeping well. We can see it.” His amber eyes narrowed slightly, full of concern. “Whatever those dreams are… they’re taking too much from you.”

Jihoon tried to laugh it off, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Just dreams. Weird ones.”

But Wangho didn’t let him brush it away. “Jihoon, dreaming about the same person every night? Feeling their emotions so raw, you wake up exhausted? That’s not… normal. Maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist, maybe.”

Sanghyeok nodded, voice low but firm. “He’s right. Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt like this. And the way you’re… almost living through him, it’s worrying. I think you should get help, Jihoon-ah. Even if it’s nothing, it’s better to be safe.”

Jihoon forced a laugh and waved his hands as if to brush Sanghyeok and Wangho’s worries away. “You two are overreacting. They’re just dreams. Weird, yes, but… harmless. Really.”

But the truth was, he was terrified. What if they were right? What if he sought help, took medication, and the dreams vanished? The thought alone made his chest constrict. Those dreams weren’t simply shadows in his sleep; they were the only place where that warmth existed, where he could stand as Chovy and feel his quiet presence anchoring him. If they disappeared, what would he have left?

So Jihoon endured. He bore the exhaustion, the headaches, the way his body dragged through the day as if the weight of someone else’s life clung to him. And the dreams… they began to change.

************************

The pressure was sharper now, cutting deeper into Chovy’s chest each night. The expectations, the suffocating demands, all pressed down until Jihoon could feel his own heart aching. Worse, he could see the way Chovy began pulling away from Hyeonjoon. The man who had always been there, steady, patient, offering comfort in every moment of doubt, now stood with a faltering smile as Chovy turned from him.

Jihoon saw it all through Chovy’s eyes, the subtle distance, the clipped words, the way hands that used to linger now stayed at his sides, and every time, Hyeonjoon’s expression fell, the light dimmed just slightly. Not anger, not blame, just hurt. Quiet hurt that cut Jihoon deeper than any pressure from the outside world.

Jihoon wanted to scream at himself, to grab Chovy by the shoulders and shake him, beg him not to do this, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in Chovy’s body, watching the cracks spread, powerless to stop them.

The final straw came, as clear as daylight. Chovy sat stiff-backed in a conference room, his voice flat as he spoke to the coach. 

“We need a new top laner.”

The words rang like a death knell. Jihoon’s chest caved in, his own breath catching painfully. He wanted to stop the words, to swallow them back down, but they slipped out anyway, Chovy’s decision, not his. And across the table, Jihoon saw it, Hyeonjoon’s face falter, just for a moment. That small, broken flicker of pain before he masked it away, pretending it didn’t wound him.

Jihoon’s hands clenched in his sleep. His body ached, his throat burned. He wanted to call out, to throw himself between them, to shout ‘No, don’t do this, please don’t hurt him.’ but he couldn’t. He was both there and not, bound to Chovy’s choices. And all he could do was ache, helpless, as the distance widened.

************************

Jihoon woke up drenched in sweat, his limbs heavy as if he’d been the one practicing all night. His head throbbed, his chest felt hollow, and when he tried to sit up, the weight of it all nearly pulled him back down. He grabbed his phone with shaky fingers and called in sick, his voice hoarse as he mumbled an excuse. He didn’t even care how unconvincing he sounded, he simply couldn’t move, couldn’t force himself to face the world outside his door.

Genrang padded up onto the bed, tail swaying softly, and pressed his warm body against Jihoon’s side. The cat licked his cheek as if trying to ground him, coaxing a weak chuckle from Jihoon. 

“Thanks, buddy.” he whispered, running a trembling hand over Genrang’s soft fur. The comfort helped, but not enough to erase the fear twisting in his chest.

Jihoon was terrified of closing his eyes again. He didn’t know what he would wake to, what version of Chovy’s life he’d be forced to shoulder next, but exhaustion clawed at him, and no matter how he resisted, his body eventually gave in.

The dream pulled him under like a tide.

************************

He was back in that suffocating conference room, his own voice sharp and venomous.

"Find me a better top laner or I’m out."

The words ricocheted through Jihoon’s skull like shards of glass. He wanted to scream, to claw the words back out of the air, to shake Chovy until he swallowed them whole again, but he couldn’t. The voice was his, and not his, the venom dripping from his own lips even as his heart split apart inside his chest.

Jihoon wanted to run, to reach across the divide and cling to the one person who mattered most, but Chovy’s pride and the suffocating weight of expectations coiled tight, choking him, pulling him into choices that slashed deeper than any blade.

And then it happened. The day came when Hyeonjoon had to leave. A quiet transfer, a new jersey, a new banner. Hanwha Life Esports. For the first time in three years, they would not be side by side.

Jihoon’s heart tore violently in two as he watched it unfold from behind Chovy’s eyes. "Go" he begged silently. "Please, go. See him off. Don’t let him walk away alone. Don’t do this. Don’t let this be the end."

But Chovy didn’t move.

He sat frozen in front of the monitor, the cold blue glow painting his face hollow. Game after game of solo queue blurred together, mechanical, empty, relentless. Jihoon could feel it all, the way Chovy’s shoulders hunched under invisible weight, the way his heart clenched but his hands never faltered. He practiced until exhaustion dulled the ache, until the clock told him that it was too late, that Hyeonjoon was already gone.

Only then did he stand. Only then did he pack his things. Only then did he walk home in silence.

The ache was unbearable. Jihoon felt it like a blade twisting under his ribs, the way Chovy swallowed the lump in his throat so hard it burned, the way his fingers twitched against his phone as if they wanted to dial but refused, the way his chest screamed I love you but his mouth stayed locked shut.

And Jihoon shared that agony fully, no longer able to separate himself from the boy in his dreams. His tears weren’t his own anymore, they bled straight into Chovy’s grief, hot and endless, until the world blurred and he could hardly breathe.

************************

He woke with a strangled gasp, his pillow damp, his entire body trembling. The room felt too small, the air too thin. Genrang pressed anxiously against him, whining, nudging his hand, but even that soft comfort wasn’t enough. Jihoon curled up, clutching his chest as if it might split apart.  This wasn’t just a dream anymore. The pain was too sharp, too real. He couldn’t carry it alone. 

His hands shook as he fumbled for his phone. The screen swam with tears, and he nearly dropped it before pressing the call button. 

“Jihoonie?” Wangho’s voice answered groggily, but it was enough to break him. 

“Hyung…” Jihoon’s voice cracked, thick with tears. “I-I can’t do this anymore. I need help. Please.” 

There was a sharp pause on the other end, then the sound of Wangho fully waking, Sanghyeok’s concerned voice in the background. 

“Stay where you are.” Wangho said firmly. “We’ll come to you. You’re not alone, Jihoonie. Just hold on.” 

The phone slipped from Jihoon’s grasp as he pressed his face into his knees, sobs tearing free. For the first time, he admitted it, this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t just dream. The ache that consumed him, the way it left him hollow and broken, it wasn’t something he could shrug off anymore. 

Jihoon barely remembered how he fell asleep again after that phone call. He only knew that when he woke next, the light was already streaming weakly through the curtains and Wangho and Sanghyeok were there, quiet shadows on either side of his bed. Genrang rested protectively in his lap, glaring at anyone who dared shift too suddenly.

They didn’t press him for details. They didn’t tell him it was just stress, or just a dream, or that he needed more rest. They simply stayed with him, steady and unyielding, until Jihoon found the strength to breathe again. And when he whispered, broken and small, that he would see a therapist, Wangho squeezed his shoulder and said, 

“Good. That’s brave of you, Jihoonie.”

But courage was one thing. Following through was another.

By the time Jihoon was actually sitting in the waiting area of the clinic a few days later, his stomach was in knots. His hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting in his lap, twisting the strap of his bag until the leather bit into his palm. Around him, the muffled hum of the building felt too loud, every shuffle of paper or creak of a chair grating against his nerves. He almost stood to leave twice. His mind spun with excuses he could give Wangho later, ways he could downplay this, insist he was fine, that it was only exhaustion. That he was making too much of it.

And then his eyes drifted to the plaque mounted just beside the office door.

Dr. Choi Hyeonjoon, RPM, Psychiatric Specialist.

The name lodged in his throat like a stone.

Hyeonjoon.

He didn’t know why, but something inside him shuddered at the sight of it. A pulse of familiarity rippled through his chest, like the faint trace of a melody he almost remembered but couldn’t hum. His fingers went still on his bag.

“Jeong Jihoon?”

His head snapped up. The assistant stood in the doorway, a polite smile on her face. “You can come in now.”

Jihoon’s legs felt like lead as he pushed himself upright, every step down the hallway a battle against the tremor in his chest. He told himself this was ridiculous, that it was just nerves, that a name on a door meant nothing. But when he crossed the threshold into the office, all his rationalizations fell away, because there he was.

The man. Tall, a little lanky, with that same round face Jihoon had glimpsed so many times in his dreams. His glasses caught the light as he stood to greet him, his expression gentle but curious. And suddenly, Jihoon couldn’t breathe.

Every piece clicked into place. The ache, the warmth, the blurred faces around him in dreams, except for one. The one constant. The one who always called his name.

It was him.

“Welcome, Jihoon-ssi.” Hyeonjoon said softly, gesturing for him to sit. His voice, God, his voice, it was the same. Familiar in a way that made Jihoon’s heart clench painfully.

Jihoon sat stiffly, trying not to shake, as Hyeonjoon glanced over the folder in his hand. 

“I’ve spoken with Wangho-hyung.” he explained gently. “He told me a little about what you’re experiencing. With your consent, of course.”

Jihoon nodded mutely, throat so dry he could barely swallow.

Hyeonjoon set the notes aside, his amber eyes lifting to meet his. There was no judgment there, only patient curiosity.

“Jihoon-ssi, can you elaborate more about what is happening to you?” Hyeonjoon…. His real-world Hyeonjoon, not the dream Hyeonjoon, asked him.

Jihoon sigh, it is now or never.

“I dream, again and again, and each time I wake-up, it feels as though I am mourning a love I have yet to touch. As if somewhere along the way, I lost something, left it behind on a forgotten path, or buried it deep within memory.” he paused, trying to steady his voice.

“A strange weight lingers on my shoulders, shifting between lightness and burden. At times, it is almost gentle, but more often, it hurts.” Jihoon rambled and finally looked up at the doctor in front of him. The very same doctor who is in his dream.

“Tell me,” he asked quietly, “who is it you keep seeing in your dreams?”

Jihoon froze. His hands gripped his knees, nails digging crescents into the fabric of his pants. The answer trembled at the edge of his tongue, absurd and impossible, but undeniable all the same.

Finally, he whispered, “You.”

The word cracked the silence like glass, and for the first time, Jihoon let himself believe it, this wasn’t a coincidence. It had never been.

Chapter Text

The silence hung between them, thick and unyielding, after Jihoon’s whispered confession.

“You.” he had said.

For a moment, Hyeonjoon simply blinked at him, his brows knitting slightly as though unsure he’d heard correctly. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, confusion, perhaps even the briefest tremor of recognition, but it vanished almost instantly, buried beneath professional calm.

“...I see.” Hyeonjoon murmured, adjusting his glasses. His voice was gentle, steady, but Jihoon noticed the faint hesitation in it. “Dream figures often take the shape of someone we know, or even someone we’ve only glimpsed once. The mind has a strange way of piecing together fragments.”

Jihoon gave a tight shrug, forcing a small, brittle smile. “Right. Just fragments.” His throat burned with the lie.

Hyeonjoon didn’t press. Instead, he guided the conversation forward with careful questions about Jihoon’s sleep cycle, his daily stressors, his eating habits, and his recent schedule. Jihoon answered mechanically, though every word felt far away, overshadowed by the impossibility sitting across from him.

By the end of the session, Hyeonjoon set his notes aside and leaned back slightly. “From what I can tell, Jihoon-ssi, there doesn’t seem to be an underlying medical or psychiatric condition. These episodes may be stress-induced. Your body and mind are telling you they need rest.”

Jihoon’s chest tightened. He nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I’d recommend you take some time off, if you can.” Hyeonjoon continued, his voice steady, kind. “Allow yourself to breathe. Reduce the pressure where possible. Let’s monitor how you feel in the coming weeks, and if the dreams persist, we’ll explore other approaches.”

Jihoon managed a quiet “Thank you.” though it felt hollow on his tongue.

When he finally stepped out of the clinic, the late afternoon light was sharp in his eyes. He paused on the steps outside, dragging in a shaky breath, his chest heavier than before, because he knew. It wasn’t just a dream face. It wasn’t a coincidence. The man in his dreams, warm, constant, heartbreaking wasn’t a phantom. He was real. Chovy’s Hyeonjoon. And now, he existed in Jihoon’s world too.

Jihoon gripped the strap of his bag tightly, a bitter laugh caught in his throat. "Does he know?" he wondered, staring at the ground. "Does Hyeonjoon, this world’s Hyeonjoon, dream too? Does he see me, the way I’ve seen him?"

The thought twisted in his chest, equal parts hope and despair. With no answers, Jihoon walked away from the clinic, his heart heavy, the echo of Hyeonjoon’s voice still lingering in his ears.

Jihoon trudged back into his apartment, the weight of the clinic still heavy in his chest. The moment the door shut behind him, Genrang bounded up, a blur of soft fur and warmth. The little (huge) cat pressed insistently against his legs, meowing as if scolding him.

Jihoon sank to the floor, scooping Genrang into his arms with a huff, pressing his face into the familiar softness. “I’m sorry, baby.” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve been… I’ve been so caught up I didn’t give you the attention you deserve.

Genrang purred louder, curling against his chest as though forgiving him instantly, as though he had never been upset to begin with. That unconditional love steadied Jihoon in a way nothing else had all day. After a long moment, Jihoon pulled his phone out and dialed. Wangho answered almost immediately.

“Hyung,” Jihoon said quietly, stroking Genrang’s fur, “I think… I think I’m going to take some time off. From work, from everything.”

There was no hesitation in Wangho’s voice. “Good. You need it. Don’t even think twice, Jihoonie.”

In the background, Sanghyeok’s voice chimed in, muffled but firm. “And don’t worry about the clinic either. Focus on resting. We’ve got you.”

Jihoon’s throat tightened. “Thanks, hyung. Really.”

After the call ended, he lingered in that silence, then impulsively pressed another number, his mom’s.

Her voice warmed instantly at the sound of him. “Jihoon-ah! How are you? You sound tired.”

Jihoon swallowed. “I’m okay, Mom. Just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re doing alright.”

They spoke about little things, her garden, the weather, the neighbor’s new dog. The normalcy of it soothed him, grounding him. When they said goodbye, she told him, as always, to take care of himself. As the night swallowed the day, Jihoon sat by the window with Genrang curled against his lap, staring out at the city lights. Something inside him shifted, restless, yearning. He needed to breathe, needed to be somewhere far from the suffocating cycle of work, sleep, and dreams that left him gutted every morning. On impulse, he opened his laptop and booked a flight.

Destination: Jeju.

His heart beat faster as he clicked confirm. He didn’t even care if it was reckless. He needed to go. He packed quickly after that, tossing clothes into a bag, then crouching down to prepare Genrang’s things, his carrier, food, and toys. Of course, his son was coming with him. Jihoon smiled faintly for the first time in days as he zipped the little bag shut.

“Just you and me, huh, Genrangie?” he murmured, rubbing behind the cat’s ears.

Genrang meowed in reply, as if in agreement.

The flight was short, but Jihoon spent most of it staring out the window, his hand resting on Genrang’s carrier for reassurance. The rhythmic rumble of the plane felt almost like a lullaby, and for once, his mind didn’t race with fragments of dreams. When they landed in Jeju, the difference hit him immediately. The air was crisp, carrying with it the faint salt of the sea and the earthy scent of open fields. It was nothing like Seoul’s constant hum, here, everything seemed slower, softer. Breathing felt easier already. By the time he checked into the small seaside guesthouse he had impulsively booked, the sun was already beginning to sink. Jihoon slipped Genrang into his little harness and clipped on the leash, chuckling when the Maine Coon immediately strutted like he owned the place.

“Alright, superstar.” Jihoon muttered fondly as they stepped outside. “Don’t show me up.”

But of course, Genrang did.

Walking along the coastal path with a massive orange Maine Coon padding beside him was enough to draw eyes instantly. Passersby slowed, some outright stopping to watch the unusual pair. A child tugged at his mother’s sleeve, whispering loudly, “Mom, is that a lion?” and the mother laughed, sneaking a picture when she thought Jihoon wasn’t looking.

Jihoon flushed, ducking his head, but couldn’t hide the faint curve of his lips. Genrang, in contrast, basked in the attention, tail held high like a banner, fur glowing in the golden light of sunset. For once, Jihoon didn’t mind the stares. It wasn’t because of him, not really, it was because of Genrang, and maybe that was the point. People weren’t seeing someone tired, haunted, and hollow. They were just seeing a man and his beloved cat, enjoying the sea breeze.

As the waves crashed gently against the shore, Jihoon let himself believe, just for a little while, that he could build something new here. Something softer. Something just his.

He crouched down to scratch under Genrang’s chin, the orange fluff rumbling with deep purrs. “See that, Genrangie? You’re the star of Jeju now.”

Genrang blinked up at him, regal and content, and Jihoon laughed, the sound light and unburdened. For the first time in weeks, it didn’t hurt to smile.

That first night in Jeju was the hardest. Jihoon lay in the small guesthouse bed, the soft sound of waves seeping through the open window, Genrang curled loyally against his side. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to surrender. What if the dreams returned? What if he woke choking on grief again, unable to tell where Chovy’s heartache ended and his own began?

He fought sleep for hours, tossing and turning, until dawn spilled pale light across the room. When he finally sat up, he realized with a start, nothing had come. No jersey, no blinding stage lights, no Hyeonjoon. Just silence.

Jihoon pressed a hand to his chest, torn between relief and sadness. “Maybe it really was just stress.” he whispered, though the hollow ache in his gut told him he didn’t believe it.

Genrang yawned, stretching out with all the arrogance of a king in exile. Jihoon chuckled and ruffled his fur. “Alright, Your Majesty. Let’s go see the sea.”

He clipped on Genrang’s leash and together they made their way down the narrow coastal path. Jihoon spoke absentmindedly as they walked, the way he always did with his cat. “Now listen, Genrang. The beach is not your personal litter box, okay? No funny business.”

Genrang flicked his tail with the air of someone who had no intention of listening. By the time they reached the sand, Jihoon realized they were alone. The whole beach stretched out before them, quiet, untouched, the morning light painting the waves in shifting silver and blue. Jihoon sank onto the sand with a sigh, letting the wind push against his face, his shoulders finally unclenching.

Then, a small blur of curly fur appeared, padding shyly across the sand, a dog, a toy poodle, no larger than Jihoon’s forearm, its coat a warm beige that made it look suspiciously like a plump fried chicken. The little thing stopped a few feet away, head tilted, staring with an almost comical seriousness.

Genrang, of course, had the survival instinct of a goldfish. Instead of bristling or hissing, he lumbered forward curiously, sniffing the tiny intruder before brushing his massive orange flank against it as if to say, Mine now. The poodle froze, startled, then wagged its tail in cautious delight.

Jihoon burst out laughing, the sound carried off by the sea breeze. “God, Genrang, you’re twice his size, don't scare the poor puppy.”

The poodle didn’t hesitate long. It pranced right up to Jihoon, tail wagging furiously now, before pressing against his leg with the boldness of a dog who expected attention. Jihoon’s heart melted instantly.

“Oh, you want some too, huh?” He crouched, scratching gently behind its ears. The poodle leaned into his touch, eyes half-lidded in bliss. Jihoon leaned closer to the little poodle, fingers brushing against its collar. The tag jingled softly in the sea breeze.

“Choi… Morning.” he read softly, lips quirking. Something about the name tugged faintly at him, like an itch at the back of his mind. It felt familiar, like he’d heard it whispered in a dream, or maybe seen it scribbled somewhere in passing. He frowned a little, shaking his head. Weird. I don’t even know anyone with a dog like this.

He gave the poodle’s ears a gentle scratch. “Well, Morning, I’m guessing your dad’s probably running around looking for you. You gave him a scare, didn’t you?”

Morning barked cheerfully, as if agreeing. Jihoon chuckled, shaking his head. And then—

“Morning!”

The sound of someone’s voice cut through the quiet rhythm of the waves. Jihoon froze, head turning toward the direction of the call. His heart lurched. Jogging across the sand was a man he knew, or at least… thought he knew. The same face that had haunted his sleep, the same presence that had made his chest ache with strange familiarity. And more than that, he was the doctor from Seoul. The one he’d met only a few days ago.

Choi Hyeonjoon.

Hyeonjoon’s hair was ruffled by the salty wind, his steps uneven with urgency. Relief washed over his features when he spotted the poodle, but then his eyes lifted, and locked on Jihoon. For one long moment, time stopped. Jihoon sat frozen in the sand, Morning nestled in his lap, and Genrang, his orange Maine Coon, lounging like royalty at his side, tail swishing lazily. The picture must have looked strange: a stranger holding his dog while a massive cat glared protectively beside him.

Hyeonjoon finally broke the silence, jogging the last few steps until he stood before them. He dropped to a crouch, scooping Morning into his arms.

“Aigoo, you really scared me.” Hyeonjoon murmured, kissing the top of the poodle’s head with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. “You can’t just run off like that. What if something happened?”

Morning licked his chin shamelessly, tail wagging even harder.

Hyeonjoon sighed, then turned his gaze back to Jihoon, bowing slightly. “I’m so sorry about this, Jihoon-ssi. He’s usually better behaved, but the beach must’ve gotten to him.”

Jihoon shook his head quickly, hands raised. “It’s really fine. He came right up to me, actually. Very friendly.” He glanced at Genrang, who had chosen that exact moment to roll over in the sand, exposing his belly as if he had approved of Morning’s company. “And… that’s saying something. My cat usually doesn’t tolerate anyone new.”

Hyeonjoon blinked at Genrang, a little awed. “A Maine Coon…? He’s beautiful, and on a leash too. No wonder people were gushing about a big cat earlier.”

Jihoon chuckled, scratching the cat’s chin. “Yeah, I guess I’m the crazy cat dad now.”

The poodle gave a soft bark as if to argue who the real star was, and for a moment, both men laughed.

But Jihoon’s curiosity got the better of him. He hesitated before asking, “What are you doing here, Dr. Choi?”

The formality made Hyeonjoon tilt his head. Then he smiled faintly, almost teasingly. “Outside the clinic, just call me Hyeonjoon-hyung. We have a common friend anyway. If Wangho-hyung finds out you’re this formal with me, he’ll never let either of us live it down.”

Jihoon blinked. His heart skipped, the title rolling through his mind. Hyeonjoon-hyung.

He tried it, quietly, almost testing it. “…Hyeonjoon-hyung.”

The syllables left his lips clumsy but warm, and a giddy flutter took root in his chest. It wasn’t Chovy’s voice this time. It was his. His body. His voice. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that felt like victory. Hyeonjoon looked a little surprised at how Jihoon said it, but his expression softened almost immediately, like the word had slipped into place where it belonged.

Silence lingered between them, filled with the crash of waves and the distant chatter of beachgoers. Jihoon swallowed, his palms damp. He wanted to stretch the moment, but also, he didn’t want it to end.

So before he could overthink, the words tumbled out. “Would you… want to explore Jeju together? Only if you’re free. I mean, if you already have company, that’s okay too.”

He winced inwardly at his own awkwardness, bracing for rejection, but Hyeonjoon’s lips curved into a smile that made Jihoon’s breath hitch. Warm, easy, like the sun finally breaking through the morning clouds.

“I’d love to,” he said. “and don’t worry, you’re not my patient, so technically, I’m not breaking any code of ethics.”

Jihoon laughed, tension loosening in his chest. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding it until now. Morning barked happily between them, while Genrang gave a low rumble of approval, tail curling around Jihoon’s wrist like a seal of fate. The sea breeze carried the salty scent of the waves, tugging at their hair, and in that small stretch of beach, Jihoon thought, maybe this wasn’t a dream after all.

They started walking side by side along the stretch of boardwalk that curved past the beach. The sun was climbing higher now, scattering light across the sea until it glittered like glass. Jihoon tugged gently on Genrang’s leash, the Maine Coon padding with surprising dignity, his tail high as if he were presiding over the island himself. Next to them, Morning trotted along, bouncing happily like he owned the pavement. His curly fur puffed under the sunlight, and from certain angles, Jihoon couldn’t help but laugh, he really did look like a little fried chicken drumstick with legs.

The sight of them together, a tall young man with a cat that looked like royalty, and another with a fluffy toy poodle that resembled a snack, was enough to draw attention. People slowed down as they passed, some giggling, others openly pointing and whispering. One girl even took a sneaky picture.

Jihoon flushed, tugging at his cap brim to hide his face. “Uh… is it just me, or are we some kind of parade attraction right now?”

Hyeonjoon chuckled, not looking the least bit bothered. “Not every day you see a cat that size walking calmly on a leash beside a dog that looks like dinner.”

Jihoon groaned. “Don’t say that. Genrang has zero survival instincts as it is. If he hears it enough, he might actually believe Morning is food.”

At that, Hyeonjoon laughed, a warm, clear sound that made Jihoon’s stomach flip. He hadn’t expected it, but it was contagious, and before he knew it, he was laughing too. They meandered through a few streets like that, dodging curious stares, and eventually reached a quieter part of town. The pets, however, were starting to slow down. Morning panted softly, his little legs struggling to keep up, while Genrang sat down stubbornly in the middle of the sidewalk, tail flicking with annoyance as if to say "That’s enough, peasant."

Jihoon sighed, crouching to coax his cat. “Come on, buddy. We can’t stop here, you’ll get run over by a scooter.”

Hyeonjoon bent to check Morning, who leaned against his calf, clearly tired but still wagging his tail. “They’ve done well, but I think we’ve pushed them a bit.”

Just then, Jihoon spotted it, a cheerful sign in pastel colors with paw prints dancing across it. Happy Tails Pet Daycare. Through the wide windows, they could see a bright, clean space filled with toys, climbing posts, and cushions. A few staff members in aprons were playing with dogs, while a tuxedo cat napped on a perch.

Jihoon pointed. “What do you think?”

Hyeonjoon followed his gaze, then smiled. “Perfect. Let’s give them a break.”

Without hesitation, they stepped inside. The staff greeted them warmly, immediately cooing over Genrang’s sheer size and Morning’s fluffball charm. Genrang, for once, didn’t resist being carried away, he melted into the arms of a staff member like he was royalty receiving proper service. Morning bounded off toward a basket of toys the second he was set down, tail wagging furiously.

“They’ll be fine.” the attendant assured them. “You can leave them for a few hours, and we’ll give them treats and playtime.”

Jihoon crouched one last time to kiss Genrang’s head. “Be good, okay? Don’t bully anyone smaller than you. And no stealing food.”

Beside him, Hyeonjoon was gently patting Morning, who was too busy sniffing everything to listen. “Stay out of trouble, little guy. I’ll come back for you soon.”

When they finally stepped back out into the sunlight, their hands were strangely empty. No leashes, no tugging pets, no furry weight beside them. Just the two of them now, and a whole island waiting.

Jihoon exhaled, a mix of relief and anticipation tightening in his chest. “Well,” he said, glancing at Hyeonjoon. “I guess… it’s just us now.”

Hyeonjoon’s answering smile was small but sure. “Yeah. Just us.”

By the time they left the daycare that afternoon, Jihoon and Hyeonjoon had wandered Jeju like two tourists with nowhere urgent to be. They tried skewers of tteok-galbi and hotteok from a street stall, laughed when Jihoon got sauce on his lip, and shared a cone of soft-serve while strolling past shops selling seashell trinkets. Without Genrang tugging him back or Morning barking at passing pigeons, it almost felt like a real date, quiet, unhurried, the kind of day Jihoon had never thought he’d get to live

When evening came, they fetched their “babies” back from the daycare. Genrang strutted out like he’d just conquered the place, tail swishing, while Morning bounded straight into Hyeonjoon’s arms with the joy of a child reunited with his father. The sight made Jihoon’s chest ache in a strange, tender way.

Just as they were about to part, Hyeonjoon hesitated, shifting Morning to one arm. “Jihoon-ah,” he said softly. “Would you… like to spend the day together again tomorrow? Maybe at the beach? The pets might like it, too.”

Jihoon blinked, taken aback, but warmth quickly spread through him. He invited me this time. Trying not to sound too eager, he nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The next day, the beach was alive with the sound of waves and gulls. The sand was warm underfoot, the horizon endless. Genrang, despite being a cat, seemed perfectly content sprawled like a lion on a blanket, his paws digging lazily into the sand. Morning, meanwhile, ran circles around him, kicking up tiny clouds as he chased shells and seaweed, occasionally stopping to bark at the waves.

Jihoon sat cross-legged, watching them with a small smile. “Your kid is way too friendly for his own good.” he teased. “He’s going to try befriending the ocean next.”

Hyeonjoon chuckled beside him, brushing hair from his forehead as the wind picked up. “And yours is… surprisingly patient. Genrang looks like he’s meditating.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Jihoon muttered. “he’s probably plotting how to steal my dinner later.”

Their laughter carried over the surf, easy and unforced. After a while, silence settled, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Hyeonjoon leaned back on his hands, gazing out at the horizon, before finally asking the question that had been tugging at him since Jeju began.

“Jihoon-ah… about those dreams of yours.” His voice was careful, almost hesitant. “Why me? Why do you think it’s me you keep seeing?”

Jihoon froze. He had wondered this too, over and over, but had no answer. After a long pause, he exhaled, trying to lighten it with a crooked smile. “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe…” He hesitated, then decided to risk it. “…maybe there’s another universe out there. One where you and I… where we exist differently. And for some reason, the line between them slipped, and I’m the unlucky one who gets to see pieces of it.”

He tried to laugh it off, waving a hand as if to dismiss his own words. “Sounds insane, right? I probably sound like I should be in a science fiction movie.” But when he dared to glance at Hyeonjoon, expecting laughter or skepticism, he found none. Hyeonjoon’s expression was steady, thoughtful.

“…It’s not insane,” Hyeonjoon said finally, his voice low but firm. “I’ve read theories like that before. About parallel universes, timelines that overlap or bleed into each other. Some people think dreams can be windows, glimpses of what could be, or what already is, somewhere else. I know I'm a man in science and I shouldn't believe in these but a part of me really believes that there are hundreds of universes where we exist.”

Jihoon’s lips parted. He hadn’t expected him to take it seriously, hadn’t expected anything but polite dismissal, but here he was, looking at Jihoon like his words mattered. For the first time, Jihoon wondered if he wasn’t carrying this weight alone after all. The waves rolled in, carrying with them a quiet sense of possibility neither of them dared name yet. The breeze carried the salt of the sea, cool against Jihoon’s skin. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, just watching Morning dig with manic energy while Genrang flicked his tail in disdain.

Then, softly, Hyeonjoon turned to him. “Jihoon-ah.”

“Hm?”

His voice came carefully, almost too careful, like he hadn’t meant to speak it aloud. “Do you… like the Hyeonjoon in your dreams better?” His throat bobbed, his gaze searching. “Or the one sitting in front of you now?”

The words hung between them like something fragile, too dangerous to touch.

Jihoon blinked, startled. His mouth opened, then closed again. “I-”

But before he could form an answer, Hyeonjoon’s eyes widened slightly, as if realizing what he had just said. He looked away quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I just…” His voice trailed, then steadied with a rueful laugh. “…I suppose it’s strange, isn’t it? Meeting someone who already knows some version of you.”

Jihoon sat stiffly, unsure what to do with the flutter in his chest. He expected Hyeonjoon to drop it there, but the older man’s tone softened, slipping into something more personal.

“You know, Wangho-hyung has mentioned you before.”

Jihoon’s head snapped up. “…What?”

Hyeonjoon nodded slowly. “A vet-med student who was infamous on campus. Brilliant but stubborn. The one who supposedly rivaled my Sanghyeok-hyung’s skills when it came to sparring debates.” His lips quirked. “That was you, wasn’t it? Jeong Jihoon.”

Heat crept up Jihoon’s neck. He remembered Wangho teasing him years back, always dragging Sanghyeok into stories about how sharp Jihoon’s arguments were. He had no idea Wangho would’ve mentioned him to this Hyeonjoon, but the familiarity in the man’s voice made Jihoon’s pulse race. It was too much.

He looked down at his hands, curling them into the sand. “So you… already knew me.”

“In a way,” Hyeonjoon admitted gently. “nefore all of this.”

Jihoon’s chest tightened, tangled. The Hyeonjoon in his dreams, the one who always stood beside Chovy, who shared his pain, who whispered promises that never left the dreamscape, felt so achingly real. And yet… the man here, in the flesh, was real in a different way. Laughing, thoughtful, alive in the sunlight beside him.

The question churned inside Jihoon until it hollowed him: Did he really love that Hyeonjoon in his dreams? Or were those feelings only Chovy’s, bleeding into him through the fragile thread that tied them together?

He forced a smile, though it felt brittle. “To answer your question... I don’t know....” he admitted. “Maybe I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

Hyeonjoon glanced at him then, and there was something in his gaze, something unspoken, something neither dared name, that made Jihoon’s heart pound even harder.

The waves kept crashing, as if to remind them that time hadn’t stopped, even if everything else felt like it had.

Jihoon lay on his back in the dimly lit room, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. Genrang had claimed his chest like a weighted stone, purring steadily as if to pin him to reality. His mind, however, kept drifting back to Hyeonjoon, the way his smile faltered when they said goodbye earlier, the shadow of sadness in his eyes that Jihoon couldn’t shake off.

“Genrang-” Jihoon wheezed, peering down at the orange fluff sprawled across him. His cat looked unimpressed, wide eyes boring into him as if to say, "Enough." Then Genrang butted his nose against Jihoon’s chin, purring steadily, grounding him with every vibration.

Jihoon’s hand automatically came up to scratch between his ears. “You’re right.” he muttered. His voice cracked. “I’m spiraling again.”

Genrang blinked, slow and patient, then kneaded his paws into Jihoon’s hoodie. He wasn’t moving. He was anchoring.

Jihoon stared at the ceiling, chest tight. “I don’t even know that Hyeonjoon in my dream. He was never mine, he was Chovy’s. But this one…” He swallowed hard. “This Hyeonjoon is here. He’s real. He’s mine to know, if he’ll let me.”

The thought hit him like a wave, sharp and cold. He sat up abruptly, dislodging Genrang, who gave him a loud, offended meow before curling back into the pillows. Jihoon laughed wetly, wiping at his eyes.

“Wish me luck, son.” he whispered, ruffling the fur between Genrang’s ears. “I’m not gonna live like that other me, full of regrets. Not this time.”

Before he could second-guess himself, Jihoon grabbed his phone and dialed. His hand shook against his thigh until he heard it—

“Jihoon?” Hyeonjoon’s voice was warm, careful, and a little surprised.

Jihoon’s breath caught. “Can we meet? At the beach. Tonight.”

A pause. Then, softly, “How soon?”

“Now. Please.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Jihoon closed his eyes, relief pouring through him, and whispered, “Thank you.” He pulled on his jacket, kissed Genrang’s head like a prayer, and walked out into the night.

The beach was quiet, the tide whispering against the sand. Jihoon paced again, kicking at shells and seaweed, nerves clawing up his spine. Then he heard it, footsteps crunching against the sand.

“Jihoon-ah” Hyeonjoon called softly.

Jihoon turned. His breath hitched at the sight of him, wind in his hair, jacket unzipped, eyes lit by the reflection of the moon.

“You came.” Jihoon breathed.

“I said I would.” Hyeonjoon said, smiling faintly. “Now… what’s wrong? You sounded…”

Jihoon’s chest tightened. He took a shaky breath, words tumbling before fear could silence him. “I don’t want to waste this chance. I don’t want to be like that version of me I keep seeing in my dreams, watching someone I care about walk away and doing nothing. I want to know you, Hyeonjoon-hyung. The real you, not the one in my head, not the one from another universe, just you.”

Hyeonjoon blinked, startled. “Jihoon…”

“I like you.” Jihoon pushed out, his voice breaking. “And maybe I’ve been reading things wrong these past days in Jeju, but if I’m not, if there’s even a chance, you don’t know how much I want to try. With you.”

Silence hung between them, heavy but not suffocating. Jihoon’s heart thundered so loud he swore the waves could hear it.

Then Hyeonjoon’s expression softened into something Jihoon couldn’t mistake for anything else. “You’re not wrong.” he murmured. He stepped closer, the distance shrinking until Jihoon could see the faint smile tugging at his lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Jihoon’s knees nearly gave out. His laugh broke on a breath of relief. “So you-” but before he could finish, a burst of color lit the sky. Both of them flinched, heads snapping up.

Fireworks. Brilliant streaks of red and gold arced over the water, bursting into shimmering light. Somewhere down the coast, a celebration was happening, cheers faint in the distance.

The two of them stood frozen for a beat, then laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Not for us.” Jihoon said between breaths, his grin shaking.

“No,” Hyeonjoon agreed, smiling wide, “but maybe the universe is trying to apologize.”

Jihoon turned to him, heart full and aching. “For messing with the lines?”

“For making you doubt,” Hyeonjoon corrected softly.

The fireworks painted his face in fleeting colors, and Jihoon knew he couldn’t hold back anymore. With the sound of the waves and the crackle of light above them, he leaned in, and Hyeonjoon met him halfway. The kiss was soft, tentative at first, then certain, sealing everything unspoken between them. Fireworks bloomed overhead like the universe itself was blessing the moment.

Jihoon pulled back, breathless, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. “Guess this time,” he whispered, “I won’t live with regrets.”

Hyeonjoon’s eyes shone as he brushed his thumb against Jihoon’s cheek. “Good. Because neither will I.”