1

The room was too quiet for a child to cry in.

Yet, eight-year-old Minho sat on the cold floor of the unfamiliar living room, eyes blank, hands gripping the small suitcase he had packed himself. His schoolbag hung limp on one shoulder, the zipper half open, as if even that had no strength left to hold anything together.

The towering house with its clean white walls and soft yellow lighting felt too big. Too rich. Too foreign.

He didn’t want to be here.

Especially not with them.

From across the room, another boy stared at him with arms folded—black-haired, eyes sharp, dressed too neatly for a seven-year-old. He looked more like a mannequin than a child. Hwang Hyunjin. His uncle’s son.

Minho hated him instantly.

Hyunjin didn’t seem to like him either.

“Why does he have to stay here?” Hyunjin had hissed at his mother an hour ago, loud enough for Minho to hear from behind the bedroom door.

Minho hadn’t said anything.

He never did.

The day his parents died, a part of him had gone silent too.

---

A light tap to his arm pulled Minho from the memory.

“Minho-yah…”

His eyes blinked open to the soft scent of powder and old perfume. Grandma.

She stood beside the bed, her frail fingers resting on his shoulder, a warm smile on her wrinkled face. Her white hair was tied back neatly, just as it always was. She smelled like home, like stability—like something that hadn't changed in all these years, even if everything else had.

He sat up, rubbing his face lazily with one hand. “You’re up early.”

“So are you,” she said, settling herself beside him. Her movements were slow but steady.

“I wasn’t. I was dreaming,” Minho murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

She patted his hand gently. “Of your parents again?”

He nodded faintly. It wasn’t really a dream. More like a memory that liked to haunt him whenever mornings got too quiet.

“I still miss them, you know,” she said suddenly. “Even after all these years.”

Minho turned to her and smiled, soft but distant. “Me too.”

There was silence for a moment—comfortable, lived-in.

Then Grandma looked around the room with mild disapproval. “Still no pictures of your fiancée around here?”

Minho gave a low chuckle. “You sound like Mom.”

“Well, someone has to. Your uncle and aunt worked hard to arrange the match. And that Felix boy is sweet. I met him at dinner last week—seems smart.”

“He is.”

“Then?”

Minho looked down at the edge of the bed and didn't answer right away.

“I like him,” he lied.

---

Downstairs, the sound of footsteps and muffled music filtered through the thick walls. Hyunjin must’ve been awake already. Probably in his art room, barefoot with paint smeared on his fingers, pretending no one else lived in the same house.

Minho exhaled slowly.

That house hadn’t changed since the day he entered it. The marble floors still gleamed. The morning smells of brewed coffee and designer candles still mingled in the air. The only thing different now was how little they argued—he and Hyunjin had grown past petty fights.

But hatred, like paint, left stains even when it dried.

------

A single bulb swung from the ceiling, casting soft golden light across the messy art studio.

The walls were lined with unfinished canvases—some covered in bold reds and heavy blacks, others raw with broken outlines and erased eyes. The air smelled like turpentine, cigarette smoke, and the kind of loneliness that never liked to leave.

Hyunjin sat barefoot on the splattered wooden floor, one leg bent, the other stretched out. A blank-faced figure stared back at him from the canvas he was currently destroying with his brush. The painting wasn’t supposed to have a face—it was just a blur of movement, all twisted arms and frantic strokes.

But somehow, it had grown eyes.

Eyes like they belonged to someone he knew.

He didn’t know who.

He didn’t care.

The cigarette dangled from his lips, ashes falling unnoticed onto the dark fabric of his oversized shirt. Slow, low music played from the old speaker on the shelf—a lazy jazz instrumental warped by static. Just the way he liked it.

He lifted the brush again, then paused.

What else should he add?

A hand reaching? A mouth open in scream? Something about the painting made him want to snatch something out of it. Rip it free. Strip the soul from the canvas and crush it in his palm.

He tilted his head, frowning.

What the fuck was this?

A sharp knock broke the haze.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The footsteps were too careful, too timid. A maid.

"Sir," she said, voice trembling slightly. "Ms. Hwang requests you get ready. There is a dinner with Minho sir’s fiancé's family..."

"Get out."

The words came flat, cold, the cigarette still burning between his lips.

The maid bowed and backed out quickly, closing the door behind her.

Silence returned.

Hyunjin stared at the door for a moment longer than necessary, eyes blank.

Then, under his breath, just loud enough for the ghosts in the room to hear, he muttered:

"Minho."

The name tasted bitter.

"I hate you," he whispered, brushing his fingers over the dripping paint. "Every person that is associated with you is my enemy without an introduction."

---

It wasn’t rational. He knew that. He wasn’t delusional.

But the feeling was carved into him.

Since childhood.

Ever since that quiet little orphan walked through their doors, clutching his suitcase like some perfect little sob story. Since their mother had smiled softer, since their father started calling him "son" like it meant something. Since the staff whispered about how mature Minho was, how polite, how responsible.

While Hyunjin got... what?

Nothing. Or at least, it felt that way.

But of course, his parents loved him. They said it often. They hugged him. They celebrated his success. They had framed his first Vogue cover in the hallway.

Still, it never felt enough. Not next to Minho.

Minho was the calm in the storm. Hyunjin was the storm pretending he had a home.

---

The cigarette reached the filter.

He stubbed it out on the edge of a stained metal tray.

His fingers reached for another brush before he even realized it.

Blood red this time.

No particular reason.

Just... instinct.

------

The bedroom was a mess of fabric and folded frustration.

Felix stood in front of the mirror, third outfit in, second guess in, and first-rate anxiety crawling up his spine. The soft beige suit looked fine. The crisp white shirt underneath wasn’t wrinkled. His hair was falling perfectly, styled just enough to look “effortlessly natural.” He knew it looked good.

But something still felt... off.

Not enough? Too stiff? Too flashy? Too Felix?

He turned slightly, checking his side profile. Still not right.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and pulled out his phone.

Click.

The photo didn’t capture the nervous twist in his stomach or the way his fingers kept twitching by his side, but it would do.

He opened the chat with Han Jisung.

Felix:Do I look okay? This is for the dinner tonight... lol

Almost instantly, a reply popped up.

Jisung 🐿️:You look good in everything 😩 stop fishing for compliments you flawless rat.

Felix smiled faintly, but his fingers hesitated over the keyboard.

He wasn't fishing.

He really didn’t know.

Because every time he thought he looked good, someone always found a way to disagree. Too bold. Too plain. Too much skin. Too boring. His mother always had opinions. His father had fewer words but far more weight.

He wanted to be perfect tonight.

No—he had to be perfect.

This was important.

A dinner between the families. A symbolic night. Another box to tick on the road to being the son they could brag about at galas and boardroom lunches.

He sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at his own reflection again. Noticing flaws no one else could see.

His thumb moved across the screen.

Felix:I'm not fishing... just wanna make sure I don't look like a joke next to Minho.

There was a pause before the reply came.

Jisung 🐿️:Hey... You're not a joke. Stop talking like that.

Felix bit his lip.

He knew Jisung meant well. He always did. But it wasn’t that simple.

---

Ever since he was young, Felix had learned that approval was currency. Smiles were earned. Pride had to be fought for. He was the soft-spoken son in a house of hard ambition—born into a legacy he didn’t ask for, carrying a last name heavier than it looked.

Marrying Minho was just another gold star. His parents had picked him carefully. Successful, polite, emotionally detached—safe.

Felix didn’t love him. Not really.

But he wanted to make his parents proud.

And that made it feel... good.

Weirdly, stupidly good.

---

He got up again, fixing the collar of his shirt.

Maybe he’d change ties. The silver one was too flashy.

Or maybe—

A text buzzed.

Jisung 🐿️:You’re gonna be the hottest guy in that room, Lix. Even if Minho shows up in designer head to toe.

Felix:Liar. But thanks.

---

Behind his polite smile, his chest still felt tight.

He didn’t want to just be the best in their eyes.

But that was the only kind of love he knew how to chase.

---

The restaurant was all marble and golden warmth, the kind of place where waiters wore gloves and the menu didn’t have prices.

Everyone had dressed the part—polished suits, designer heels, tight smiles.

Felix adjusted his cuff as he followed his parents toward the long private table reserved just for them. The room was softly lit, classical music playing in the background like it belonged in a movie. A server pulled out his chair with a quiet nod, and he sat down with practiced grace.

To his right, he left a chair empty—for Minho.

Of course, Minho wasn’t here yet.

“He said he’ll be here in a few minutes,” Hyunjin’s mother explained with a gentle smile, dabbing her lips with a napkin as she spoke.

Felix nodded politely.

To his left, Hwang Hyunjin sat in all black, sharp jawline tense, hair swept back in a way that looked too good to be unintentional. His arms were crossed loosely, one leg over the other, eyes occasionally flicking down to his phone but mostly... just staring into space.

The adults were already deep into conversation. Laughter came in waves. Talk of business mergers, market expansions, wedding guest lists. His mother’s voice floated across the table, animated and proud.

Felix smiled where appropriate, nodded when needed, but his fingers wouldn’t stop playing with the edge of his sleeve.

He could feel Hyunjin’s presence beside him like static.

Not tense. Not cold.

Just... unreadable.

---

For a while, they both stayed in their own little silence. Felix scrolled aimlessly through his phone. Hyunjin picked at the corner of the tablecloth, eyes narrowed in thought. Neither tried to speak.

Until—“Felix,” his father said across the table, smiling. “Why don’t you talk more with your future family? Especially Hyunjin. You two will be seeing a lot of each other.”

Hyunjin’s mother nodded, beaming. “Yes! Hyunjin, put that phone down and be social for once.”

Felix stiffened slightly, lips curling into a polite smile.

“Ah… sure,” he murmured, turning toward Hyunjin with a small nod. “Hyunjin, it’s been a while since we talked properly... how have you—?”

“I’ll be right back,” Hyunjin said flatly, pushing his chair back and standing before Felix could even finish.

His chair scraped gently against the floor as he walked away, posture elegant, steps too smooth to be rushed—yet too abrupt to be anything but avoidance.

He didn’t even glance back.

Felix blinked once, then turned back to the table with a tight-lipped smile, pretending not to notice the glances exchanged between some of the adults.

His mother reached for her wine. “He’s always been a little... artistic.”

---

And in that moment, Felix realized something strange:

He was sitting between a man who hadn’t shown up,and one who couldn’t wait to leave.

And he was trying to convince himself that this dinner still meant something.

---

The clock on the wall read 7:42 PM.

The dinner had started twelve minutes ago.

Minho didn’t care.

His tie hung loosely around his neck, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, and for once, the spreadsheet-filled screen on his desktop was the last thing on his mind.

“Minho,” Jisung whispered against his jaw, voice low and infuriatingly sweet, “they’re probably waiting for you…”

Minho’s back hit the edge of his office desk as Jisung’s fingers slipped around his collar, tugging slightly. The room smelled like cologne and tension, like high-end sin packaged in a CEO’s office.

“I know,” Minho muttered, trying—failing—to sound in control. His hand gripped the edge of the desk harder. “I said I’d be there soon.”

“Hmm.” Jisung smirked, not backing off in the slightest. He was still in his secretary fit—pressed shirt, slim black pants, innocent smile ruined by the glint in his eyes.

“What?” Minho narrowed his gaze.

“Nothing,” Jisung said, leaning in close, lips ghosting just under Minho’s ear. “I just think it’s cute that you’re still pretending you give a damn.”

Minho didn’t answer.

Because maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he didn’t give a damn about a dinner that was never his idea, a wedding he never asked for, or the quiet boy he was engaged to, who smiled too politely and never questioned a single thing.

Felix was... kind.

And that was the worst part.

Because Minho didn’t deserve him.

Especially not like this.

---

“I should go,” he muttered again, but this time it sounded weaker.

“You say that,” Jisung whispered, now tracing a line along Minho’s chest, “every time.”

His mouth curled into something darker. “Then you forget how to walk.”

Minho grabbed Jisung’s wrist, holding it still—breath low, pulse higher than it should’ve been.

“This is so fucked up,” he murmured, forehead resting against Jisung’s for half a second. “I am about to get married and you are his best friend”

“I know but” Jisung said, not even blinking.

Then, with a soft, twisted smile:

“Guess we’re both shitty people.”

---

A vibrating phone on the desk cut through the moment.

Minho glanced down.

Mom ❤️Where are you? Everyone’s asking.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, thumb hovering over the screen.

Then he grabbed his blazer off the chair and turned toward Jisung. “We’re not done talking about this.”

Jisung leaned against the desk, arms folded, watching him fix his tie.

“We never are.”

------

The rooftop was quiet—too quiet for a night this expensive.

Below them, silverware clinked over polite laughter and red wine, but up here, there was only the low hum of the city and the sharp hiss of burning tobacco.

Hyunjin stood alone near the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before him like something he couldn’t quite reach. The glowing tip of the cigarette flared against the dark as he inhaled, slow and unhurried, exhaling smoke like sighs he didn't want anyone to hear.

This was the part of the night he liked most.

The part where he could disappear without leaving.

A light tap on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts.

He didn’t flinch. Just turned, eyes already heavy with disinterest.

Felix.

Hair neatly parted, blazer tailored too perfectly, eyes sharp in that quiet way only he could pull off. The golden lights from the exit door silhouetted him, softening his edges.

Hyunjin exhaled another puff. “What? They send you to drag the disappointment back to dinner?”

Felix crossed his arms, his jaw clenched, but his tone stayed light. “You always smoke this much? ‘Cause every time we have a family dinner, you’re mysteriously... up here.”

Hyunjin scoffed without humor, flicking ash off the edge with practiced grace.

“Yeah. Every time there's a dinner full of liars and overcooked egos—I smoke.”

“Mind your own business,” he added flatly, as if that sealed the conversation.

But Felix didn’t leave.

He stayed there, stubborn.

As always.

There was a beat of silence. A wind swept through, tugging slightly at their clothes.

Then Hyunjin spoke again, voice lower, cutting.

“Why are you marrying that duffer anyway?”

Felix’s brows lifted, confused.

Hyunjin tilted his head, studying him with amusement dancing at the edges. “Minho. What do you even find attractive in him? The emotional constipation or the family name?”

Felix tensed. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not?” Hyunjin leaned closer now, just slightly, but it was enough to make the space between them shrink. “Can’t hear bad things about your fiancé?”

Felix held his ground. “He’s older than you. Be respectful.”

Hyunjin’s smile was lazy, eyes half-lidded as he took another drag. “Respect is earned,” he said through smoke. “And Minho hasn’t exactly been collecting points.”

He looked away again, posture relaxed, like he hadn't just tossed a stone into still water.

Then a cough.

Felix turned to the side, hand over his mouth.

Hyunjin glanced over—and chuckled. “Seriously?”

Felix didn’t say anything.

Hyunjin smirked. “You’re that fragile?”

Felix slowly turned back to him, the look in his eyes sharp enough to cut marble.

A single glare that screamed: Go to hell.

Hyunjin held up both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it underfoot with a slow twist of his shoe.

“Done,” he muttered.

Another pause. The silence between them wasn’t peaceful—it pulsed with things neither of them dared name.

Then Hyunjin added, voice casual but edged with something darker:

“Anything else Brother-in-Law wants?”

The words hit sharper than they should have.

But Felix smiled. Not out of joy—out of knowing. Out of choosing to be above it, just for tonight.

He shook his head. “No. Let’s just go back to the dinner.”

And without waiting, he turned and walked toward the door.

Hyunjin watched him leave. Eyes trailing the way Felix carried himself—composed, polite, pretending none of this touched him.

He followed.

Silently.

Like a shadow that hadn’t decided who to haunt yet.

------

The private dining room was dimly lit and elegant, filled with the soft clinks of silverware, muted conversation, and a scent of aged wine and expensive calm.

Felix stepped in just behind Hyunjin.

And paused.

Minho was already at the table.

Sitting in the chair Felix had left for him—like he’d been there the whole time.

No smile. No explanation. Just calm, collected arrogance wrapped in a tailored black suit, his wine glass already half full.

Felix said nothing.

Just walked quietly back to his seat, slipping into it with the same poise he always used when his emotions were begging to be noticed—but he wouldn’t let them.

Hyunjin took the seat to his left without a word. His presence alone filled the space between them like smoke.

The conversation around the table flowed effortlessly.

Small talk. Company updates. Travel stories.

Nothing intense.

Until Mr. Hwang set down his glass and smiled, folding his hands on the table.

“So,” he said, glancing between Minho and Felix. “It’s been almost a year since the engagement, hasn’t it?”

Felix’s spine straightened just a little.

“Yes,” his mother answered first, a proud smile forming. “Time really does fly.”

Mr. Lee nodded in agreement, taking a sip of wine. “We were actually wondering when the wedding might be... finalized.”

Minho said nothing.

Felix looked straight ahead.

Then, Ms. Hwang chimed in, cheerful but purposeful.

“How about the first of January?”

2 Months from now.

A pause.

Felix’s lips parted slightly, just for a second, before he caught himself.

He hadn’t heard that date before.

But his father gave a pleased nod like the decision had already been made. “That sounds perfect. A new month, a fresh beginning.”

Hyunjin gave a quiet, breathy laugh beside him—barely audible, but there.

Felix didn’t look at him.

He couldn’t.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Ms. Hwang added softly:

“Oh! One more idea, if I may.”

All eyes turned to her.

She smiled sweetly, gaze landing on Felix.

“I was thinking… it might be good for Felix to stay with us until the wedding.”

Felix blinked.

“I mean,” she continued, “just to get more familiar with the household. With Minho. The staff. The rhythm of the house. I think it would help him settle in before the ceremony.”

His mother smiled as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“Traditional, too,” Mr. Lee added.

Felix's throat tightened.

“I… suppose that’s fine,” he said finally, voice polite but thin.

Hyunjin said nothing.

Just took a slow sip of his water, eyes cast downward—until a smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

Not kind.

Not cruel.

Just quietly amused.

Like he could already see how this would end.

---