Chapter Text
~There’s a love that wasn’t explored.
Then he decided to explore it and keep it in secret.~
The room was dark, the low hum of the air conditioner blending with their quiet breaths. The curtains were drawn close, save for a slight gap through which moonlight spilled, casting a silver glow on the bed. Just enough for Hansol to see him—to drink in the soft curves and sharp edges of Jeonghan’s face, the way his lashes rested against his skin, the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Jeonghan looked unreal in the dim light. Ethereal, almost. Like a dream Hansol was terrified to wake from.
The most beautiful dream.
“Goodnight, baby,” Jeonghan whispered, his voice a fragile thing, as if any louder and this small, sacred bubble they had built around themselves would shatter. He pressed a lingering kiss to Hansol’s forehead, trailing down his face before their lips met in a slow, familiar exchange. There was no urgency in the way he kissed him, only something tender—something Hansol wanted to believe meant as much to Jeonghan as it did to him.
Hansol knew what came next before Jeonghan even began to move. The warmth of his presence started to fade, the sheets shifting as he pulled away.
No.
His fingers curled around Jeonghan’s wrist before he could go any further. “Stay,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something more fragile. Something desperate. “Stay the night, Hannie.”
Jeonghan froze. He always did when Hansol asked him that. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he always had to think. About the morning after. About what this meant. About what it couldn’t mean.
He sighed, glancing at the clock. Quarter to two. Jihoon was probably still in his studio, Soonyoung wouldn’t wake unless someone shook him, but Seungkwan—Seungkwan would notice. Seungkwan always noticed. And Seungkwan would ask questions Jeonghan had no answer for.
“Hannie.”
Hansol’s voice, low and rough with sleep, sent a quiet shiver down his spine. A plea wrapped in a name. A request that Jeonghan knew he was too weak to deny.
He exhaled, shaking his head at his own foolishness.
He would deal with Seungkwan later.
He was too weak to refuse.
“You owe me kisses,” he murmured instead, a teasing excuse as he slipped back beneath the duvet, allowing himself to be pulled into the younger’s arms, making him tighten his hold around Jeonghan, holding him close like he was something real. Something his.
They weren’t boyfriends.
That was the rule. The unspoken agreement. The boundary they’ve never allowed themselves to cross.
So when Hansol woke up to an empty bed, the sheets beside him long cold, he didn’t allow himself to be surprised. The only evidence of their late night rendezvous was the lingering scent of orange blossom and lilac clinging to the pillow. It was a scent Hansol had come to associate with comfort and heartbreak in equal measure.
With a dejected sigh, he buried his face into the pillow, inhaling deeply, as if that would somehow fill the ache settling deep within his chest.
This had been their routine for a year now.
And still, it never hurt any less.
—
“Look at you guys, working so hard.”
Hansol didn’t even need to turn around to recognize that voice. The moment Jeonghan’s smooth, teasing lilt filled the studio, a grin broke across his face before he could stop it. It was instinctive—like muscle memory.
The hip-hop unit, minus Wonwoo, had been holed up in Jihoon’s studio since the afternoon, lost in brainstorming for their unit song. The air was thick with exhaustion and frustration, but Jeonghan’s presence felt like a sudden shift, like a fresh breeze filtering into a space that had grown stuffy with creative struggle.
Hansol glanced up, his eyes immediately finding Jeonghan’s. And for a second, time stretched. Jeonghan’s gaze lingered on him just a beat longer than necessary—warm, knowing—before the older’s lips curled into something softer, something meant just for him. Hansol bit his lower lip to contain his smile and, ever the little menace, sent a sneaky wink in return before slipping his headphones back on. The moment was brief but grounding, steadying something inside him that had felt off-kilter all day.
“Did you edit?” Jihoon’s sharp voice cut through the air, snapping the moment in half.
Jeonghan barely spared him a glance, waving his phone in the air lazily. “Of course.”
“Great. Send it to me. I’ll check it again—after these idiots finally leave me alone.”
Seungcheol let out an exaggerated gasp, kicking Jihoon’s chair. “Oh, come on. You love us.”
Jihoon shot him a deadpan glare but before he could respond, Mingyu smirked. “Exactly. And you won’t kick us out because your little pupil is part of our unit.”
Hansol, who had been half-distracted by the warmth still lingering in his chest, suddenly felt three pairs of eyes turn toward him. His ears burned instantly. “Me?” He pointed at himself.
Jeonghan chuckled, his expression melting into something unbearably fond before he reached over and ruffled the younger’s hair. His touch was warm, lingering longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against Hansol’s scalp in a way that sent shivers down his spine. “Isn’t he the cutest?”
Hansol swallowed hard, his cheeks heating under direct attention. It wasn’t unusual for Jeonghan to be affectionate with him, but it was always a little dangerous. Always something that made his heart stumble in his chest, tripping over feelings he didn’t know how to contain.
“Hyung~” Hansol whined, pouting.
Jeonghan wanted to kiss that pout away.
The thought was immediate, intrusive. Almost dangerous.
Before he could act on it, another hand landed on Hansol’s head, reminding them of the company around them, jolting them both out of the moment.
“Cutest maknae, Bononie!” Mingyu cooed dramatically.
Hansol let out an affronted noise, swatting their hands away as he scrambled closer to Seungcheol, who welcomed him into his arms. The leader smirked, wrapping an arm around Hansol’s shoulders while shooting a victorious look at Mingyu.
“This is clear favoritism!” Mingyu cried out.
“Exactly!” Jeonghan joined in, though his heart was still racing, relieved that no one had questioned the softness in his touch, the slip of genuine affection that lingered just a little too long.
Hansol, sensing an opportunity, smirked. “You want to see favoritism?” He shared a look with Jeonghan, his mischief shining through.
Hansol slipped out of Seungcheol’s grasp and crawled over him, tapping Jihoon’s shoulder lightly. “Hyungie.”
The producer, who had successfully tuned out their chaos, removed his headphones and turned toward the younger. “Yes, Nonie?”
Hansol tilted his head just slightly, his wide brown eyes glimmering with innocence. “Can I tweak the music a little for the lyrics Hannie-hyung wrote?”
He barely had to try. Jihoon nodded instantly. “Yeah, sure.”
Mingyu’s mouth fell open. Seungcheol just shook his head, unfazed.
The maknae rapper bit back a smirk, throwing a quick wink at Jeonghan before turning back to his laptop. But Jeonghan didn’t miss the way his fingers trembled slightly when he adjusted his headphones. He didn’t miss the way Hansol’s breath hitched when their gazes met again, fleeting and electric.
The next fifteen minutes dragged unbearably.
Mingyu was the first to leave, Seungcheol and Jihoon staying a few minutes more before the producer decided that it was enough output for the day. “Don’t stay up too late,” Seungcheol said, sending them a soft smile before disappearing through the door.
The second the lock clicked, silence stretched between them. The distance on the couch suddenly felt too wide, an invisible pull tightening between them, waiting to snap.
Hansol swallowed, counting the seconds in his head. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. That was enough waiting.
Without a word, he got up and walked to the door, turning the lock into place. Then, he turned around to finally adore his lover without any fear of being caught.
Jeonghan was watching him, eyes deep and unreadable.
“We’re alone,” Hansol whispered.
Jeonghan’s lips parted slightly. “We are.”
Hansol took slow, careful steps toward him, extending his hand.
Jeonghan didn’t need words. He never did. He simply took the younger’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled up, laughing softly as the younger’s arms immediately wrapped around his waist, fitting him perfectly against his chest.
They swayed, foreheads pressed together, a quiet rhythm only they could hear playing between them.
“You know,” Jeonghan murmured, his breath brushing against Hansol’s lips, “we could play some music. The studio’s soundproof.”
Hansol just hummed, nudging their noses together in a soft Eskimo kiss. “We don’t need music.”
That was all he said, yet Jeonghan felt the weight of it settle deep in his chest, warm and all-consuming. Hansol always knew—always understood—the exact words that would unravel him, that would send him tumbling deeper into a love that felt endless, as if no matter how far he fell, Hansol would always be there to catch him. Their hearts moved in sync, an unspoken melody guiding their slow, gentle sways, as if they were dancing to a rhythm only they could hear.
The silence in the studio wasn’t empty; it was full, rich with the quiet comfort of being together. It wrapped around them like a soft embrace, like a sanctuary carved out just for them. It was in these stolen moments, these fragile pockets of time between the noise and expectations of the outside world, that they truly felt at peace. Here, there was no need for pretense, no need for words—just the steady presence of each other, just the knowledge that they were exactly where they were meant to be.
They had never needed words.
Love had always been in the quiet gestures, in the spaces between syllables and stolen glances. In the way their eyes sought each other across a crowded room, anchoring them amidst the chaos of flashing lights and demanding schedules. In the way Hansol’s fingers would brush against Jeonghan’s in passing—light, fleeting, but grounding. In the way Jeonghan would instinctively lean closer when they were pressed together for a group photo, an unspoken reassurance in the casual drape of an arm.
Every glance, every touch, every small gesture was a declaration—a silent "I’m here," a quiet "I see you."
And for them, that was always enough.
“You wrote a song?”
“I did.”
Hansol let his head fall against Jeonghan’s shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the spot where he knew his lover was the most sensitive. A reward for staying. For choosing him, even if it was just for tonight.
Jeonghan shivered at the contact, his grip tightening.
“What’s it about?” Hansol asked, his voice low, reverent.
A smirk ghosted across Jeonghan’s lips. “I don’t know. Maybe sleeping.”
Hansol pulled back slightly, brows furrowing. “Don’t tease me, hyung.”
Jeonghan gave in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to Hansol’s lips. Just enough to leave them both breathless. “Listen to it yourself when it’s done,” Jeonghan murmured. “Then tell me what you think it’s about.”
Hansol only held him tighter.
Jeonghan just hoped—hoped with everything in him—that when Hansol listened, he would understand.
That he would hear him.
—
It wasn’t like Hansol had to wait for the song to be released.
Because it never was.
A couple of months later, while they were deep in the process of working on their album, Hansol had brought it up offhandedly, barely thinking as he flipped through lyric sheets.
“Didn’t Jeonghan hyung write a song a few months back? Are we not adding it to this album?”
Jihoon, without looking up from his screen, replied, “Are you talking about Dream ?”
Hansol’s fingers stilled against the page.
Dream.
Jihoon continued typing, barely paying attention. “No, hyung said it was a personal song. He didn’t want it to be released now.”
Personal song.
The words clung to him like a stray thread he couldn’t untangle, something small but persistent, nagging at the edges of his thoughts long after the conversation had ended.
Hansol felt something tighten in his chest. Jeonghan never wrote songs just for the sake of writing. Everything he put into words had meaning, intention—his lyrics always carried pieces of himself, carefully hidden between the lines.
If he had written Dream—and if it was personal—
Hansol swallowed.
He could ask. He should ask.
But Jeonghan had been— Absent.
Hansol hadn’t noticed it at first. Not really. It had started as something small, subtle. An empty seat at the dinner table. A missed group hangout. An unanswered message that took longer than usual to get a reply.
But then it became more than that. He wasn’t just absent—he was avoiding.
Hansol found himself looking for him before he even realized it. Eyes scanning the room instinctively, expecting to hear his voice, to feel his presence beside him. But there was nothing. Just empty space where Jeonghan should have been. The absence settled into him like a missing puzzle piece, something just slightly off, something he couldn’t quite shake.
It was Seungkwan who finally voiced what Hansol had been feeling for days. “Where’s Jeonghan hyung?”
Hansol blinked, startled by the fact that Seungkwan had been the one to ask first. They were sprawled across the dorm’s couch, mindlessly scrolling through Netflix, the soft hum of conversation filling the space between them.
Seungkwan’s words made something click. Right. Where was he? Hansol shifted, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach.
His best friend glanced around the room before calling out, “Seokmin hyung! Have you seen Jeonghan hyung?”
“Nope!” Seokmin shouted back from the kitchen, followed by another voice from the loveseat.
“He’s been going out a lot these days, hasn’t he?” Wonwoo mused.
Hansol nodded, a slow, sinking feeling creeping into his chest. So it wasn’t just him.
Before he could dwell on it further, Joshua joined them, picking up the remote. “What movie are we watching?”
“You choose,” Seungkwan said easily, but then, as if he couldn’t let go of the previous conversation, he added, “We were discussing where Han hyung has been going these days.”
Joshua barely looked up, casually answering, “Oh, Hannie’s out with Eunhye.”
The words struck Hansol like a slap.
Eunhye.
His mind blanked. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard that name. It wasn’t the first time he had heard that name alongside Jeonghan’s.
Cheon Eunhye. Wasn’t she—
“Isn’t she Youngie’s sister’s friend?” Wonwoo asked, his voice calm, unaware of the way Hansol’s breath had caught in his throat. “The one Han had gone on a blind date with two weeks back?”
Hansol felt his stomach lurch.
Two weeks ago.
Two weeks ago, Jeonghan had come home late, slipping into the dorm with a lazy, satisfied smile, crawling into his space like he belonged there. They had curled up together in the dim light of the room, Jeonghan’s fingers threading through his hair, his breath warm against Hansol’s skin.
“We just ate, talked a bit, that’s all,” he had murmured. “I was straightforward with her that I wasn’t interested in coming here, but Soonyoung can be persuasive when he has his mind set.”
Jeonghan had laughed that night. Had kissed Hansol’s forehead with lingering softness, with a tenderness that had felt so certain.
Hansol had believed him. Hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t even thought about it.
But now—Hansol’s fingers curled into fists against his lap. His phone lay face-up beside him, the screen dark except for the last message he had sent to Jeonghan.
Unread. Four hours ago.
Hansol never used to count the hours. He never had to.
Jeonghan always replied. Maybe not instantly, but soon enough. Always soon enough. He never used to make Hansol wait.
But now, four hours.
Something twisted in his chest, coiling around his ribs, sinking deep into his bones.
Jeonghan was with her.
And suddenly, Hansol wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the fact that Jeonghan hadn’t told him, or the fact that it hurt .
Hansol had spent the rest of the day drowning in his thoughts, waiting.
Waiting for the sound of the door unlocking.
Waiting for the vibration of his phone, a message, a call, something .
Waiting for an answer to the question that had been clawing at his chest since evening.
Waiting for Jeonghan.
And now, at one in the morning, the wait was over. He felt the bed dip behind him, the warmth of a body slipping into place against his back, arms sliding around his waist like they belonged there.
Jeonghan pulled him close, their bodies molding together in an embrace so familiar, so easy, so them.
“Where were you the entire day?” Hansol hated how quiet his voice sounded. How small.
Jeonghan hummed, pressing his face into the back of Hansol’s neck, the smile in his voice unmistakable. “Went to the company in the morning, did some last-minute recording, then on my way back, I happened to run into some of my old friends, so we were hanging out together, had dinner with them, and now—” Jeonghan’s arms tightened just slightly, as if that alone could chase away the distance that had settled between them, “Now I’m cuddling my baby to sleep.”
Hansol closed his eyes. The endearment, usually enough to make Hansol’s heart flutter, now felt like a hand around his throat.
Jeonghan sounded happy. Truly, effortlessly happy. Any other day, the sound of that light, carefree voice would have made his chest swell with warmth. But tonight, all it did was send a slow, aching pain through his ribs.
Because it was a lie. Hansol swallowed against the lump in his throat.
Was this what heartbreak felt like?
Slowly, he turned, rolling onto his back until he was met with the sight of his lover’s face—his soft, delicate features cast in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, strands of honeyed hair falling across his forehead.
Beautiful.
Jeonghan was always beautiful, always untouchable in a way that made Hansol ache.
And Hansol had always been painfully, desperately in love with him.
His fingers moved on their own, tucking the stray strands away, tracing the curve of Jeonghan’s cheekbones, sliding down to the sharp line of his jaw. And then, he tilted Jeonghan’s face toward him, needing— desperate —to look into his eyes.
“Were you happy…” Hansol’s voice was barely above a whisper. The words came out quieter than he intended, almost hesitant, but he needed to ask. Needed to know. His thumb ghosted over Jeonghan’s chin, the warmth of his skin a cruel reminder of everything he could have but would never truly own. “Spending time with your friends ?”
Jeonghan smiled. That same soft, radiant smile that had unraveled Hansol a thousand times over. The kind of smile that could stop wars, the kind that made people believe in heaven. “Very.”
Hansol’s breath hitched.Hansol let out a slow, shaky breath. Something in his chest twisted, curling around his ribs like a vice. He didn’t know why, but suddenly, he felt like he was losing him.
He should have pulled away. Should have turned over, let Jeonghan fall asleep with his arms around him like always, pretending—just for a little while longer—that this feeling twisting inside him wasn’t real.
But Hansol had always been weak when it came to Jeonghan.
So instead, he pulled him closer. Closer until their lips met in a slow, languid kiss—one that made Hansol’s chest tighten painfully, because for reasons he couldn’t explain, it felt like a goodbye .
He kissed Jeonghan the way he had always wanted to, the way he was never sure if he could—with a quiet desperation, with an ache that had no name, with the kind of love that could shatter a person from the inside out.
Hansol tightened his grip, one hand cupping Jeonghan’s face like he was something fragile, something precious.
And Jeonghan let him. He let Hansol kiss him, let him hold him, let him pretend. As if nothing had changed. As if he hadn’t just lied. As if he hadn’t spent the entire day with someone else.
Hansol could hear his own thoughts, sharp and relentless, slicing through the moment like a knife.
He lied to you.
Looked straight in your eyes and lied.
He spent all day with her.
And then he came back here, to you.
A better man would have pulled away. A stronger man would have demanded the truth. But Hansol was a selfish man. A selfish man so hopelessly in love with his hyung, with the one person he couldn’t have, that he let it happen anyway. A selfish man who, even now, even when it hurt, couldn’t bring himself to let go.
Because Hansol knew.
He knew that in the world they lived in, love like his was meant to be buried, meant to be erased before it could be spoken into existence. He knew that what they had—this unspoken, undefined thing—was hanging by a thread, that it had no name, no promises, no future.
Because what right did he have to hold Jeonghan back?
It wasn’t like they were exclusive.
It wasn’t like they had ever spoken the words I love you out loud.
It wasn’t like they had ever confessed.
It wasn’t like they were boyfriends.