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Kim Dokja really needs to stop dreaming.
His life runs in quiet, repetitive cycles, work, eat, read, and sleep, only to dream strange dreams. He dreams of giants and demons, of endless battles and ancient gods, of a towering wall made entirely of books. And every morning, he wakes with a heaviness in his limbs and an ache in his chest, as if he’s spent the night clawing his way through another life.
He knows his heart clenches while he sleeps, his eyes stubbornly holding back tears he doesn’t remember shedding. Sadness blooms inside him like a bruise he can’t locate, but he doesn’t understand why. Why does he keep dreaming of leading others to victory, when his waking life has been nothing but a slow, silent surrender?
And yet, like everything good in his life, Kim Dokja clings to the dreams as if they are all he has left. He sleeps more than he eats, and works far more than he smiles.
Why is it that anything beautiful is always just out of reach?
Why is he never the one being saved, even as he lays down everything to save others in a world that only exists behind closed eyes?
For nights on end, sleep has become a battlefield - filled with blood-slicked swords, children crying, and a man he’s never met yet somehow knows. The man always appears in every dream, a constant in the chaos. A man who feels like gravity. A man who must be his soulmate, because Kim Dokja has never felt more whole than when that presence is near.
It’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
That quiet, flickering hope that his existence means something. That there’s a reason he still breathes, despite being nothing more than a murderer’s son, a burden even to himself. He doesn’t understand why he’s still alive, why he’s made it to twenty-eight without becoming a forgotten name in a news report, just another tragic statistic in a world that never noticed his existence aside from when he was described as the child left behind.
On the subway, the screen of his phone glows with the time: 8:54 PM. The harsh light reflects in his eyes, a cold reminder of another unpaid overtime shift, in a job that matters as little as he does. Still a few stations to go. Time has always been the only one lenient to him, giving enough for him to get through education and find his only friend. If only it could be kind enough to let him find the soul he’s meant to meet soon.
He leans back, lets his eyes slip shut, and prays for the dream to return.
The soulmate mark on his collarbone pulses with gentle warmth, like the faintest touch of fingers across skin. It offers solace - a whisper that someone, somewhere, is meant for him. That even if he cannot love the way others do, even if he has nothing left to give, someone was destined to find him. It doesn’t matter if he only gets to hold their hand once, or if he spends his whole life watching them smile from a distance. All that matters is that they are happy, even if that happiness never includes him.
But fate is cruel like that.
It gave him a childhood painted in bruises and silence, twisted into shapes he no longer recognizes. And for what? So he could grow up to become another anonymous adult in a suit, living paycheck to paycheck, taking up space in a world full of brilliant, beautiful people born into something better.
If only this mark didn’t exist.
Then maybe, just maybe - he wouldn’t either.
—
He wakes with a jolt, the familiar chime of the subway speakers echoing sharply in the air. It’s already his stop, why didn’t he dream? The voice announces the station name with mechanical finality, and Kim Dokja scrambles upright, clutching his battered suitcase like a lifeline as he stumbles toward the door.
Only to walk straight into a wall.
No, not a wall. A person.
Momentarily blinded by the overhead lights and the abruptness of it all, he looks up and immediately regrets it.
Before him stands someone who must have been loved in every point in their life. Someone the world had always made room for. The kind of person who, just by existing, seems destined for greatness. He can only be a protagonist and nothing else - his existence as overwhelming as it was breathtaking, a name probably known not through tragedy but brilliance.
Someone Kim Dokja could never become.
"You."
The deep voice startles him. He hadn’t realized the man was looking at him too, gaze sharp and searching like it could cut through pretense. Before he can process it, a hand wraps around his wrist, firm and steady, pulling him into a solid chest.
What?
The train alarm screeches behind him. The doors snap shut with a hiss, just inches from his back.
Oh. He almost didn’t make it off. He blinks, dazed, the realization burning hotter than the embarrassment creeping up his neck. How mortifying to get distracted staring.
“Sorry, thank you for pulling me out,” he mutters, quickly stepping back, trying to free his wrist with as much dignity as possible. “Did I block your way?”
He avoids looking at the man's eyes again. One glance had already been too much, too consuming. He can still feel the phantom warmth of that touch on his skin, like a ghost pressing gently into him and searing its mark. And of course, just like in his dreams, he makes a fool of himself in front of someone painfully beautiful.
"You," the man says again, voice quieter now. “What’s your name?”
Kim Dokja’s gaze lifts, startled. That wasn’t what he expected.
Why would he want to know? Is this a scam? A cruel joke? Or maybe, somehow, this man had mistaken him for someone else. He idly thinks it would work, if he lets himself be in the other’s presence for more than five minutes. Curse that incredible magnetism.
“I doubt that’s important for you to know,” Kim Dokja replies, carefully neutral. “But thank you again. And… I’m sorry if you missed your train.”
With a shallow bow, he moves aside, this time making sure to give the man space. His steps are brisk, carrying him toward the far staircase instead of the escalator, away from curious eyes.
Only when he’s out of sight does he press his fingers to the mark on his collarbone. It throbs like it’s been seen, like it recognizes something he doesn’t yet dare to name.
He’s always loved stories about characters too perfect to be real, flawed in just the right ways, with pasts steeped in sorrow and souls gilded in light. But he never thought he’d meet someone like that.
A man carved out of myth and dream.
It’s laughable, really. The world is so unfair.
It would give someone like him a soulmate.
And then make that soulmate someone like that.
—
Kim Dokja tries to forget.
He tells himself it was a mistake, a passing moment, something imagined. Maybe the man didn’t see the faint shimmer of the soulmate mark beneath his suit. Maybe the glint he caught on the man’s chest was a trick of the light, not the twin to the warmth burning under Kim Dokja’s skin.
It’s easier to pretend.
Because what could someone like that possibly need from someone like him?
He grieves the moment quietly, letting it dissolve into the ache that never really leaves. Another cruel joke from destiny, letting him meet the one meant for him, only to remind him of how little he has to offer.
He cannot even make his soulmate happy. The realization presses down like a weight on his chest.
He’s already living paycheck to paycheck, skipping meals just to keep the lights on. He can’t cook a proper meal, can't hold a conversation without second-guessing every word, can’t even look someone in the eyes without wondering what part of him is inherently wrong.
There’s nothing he can give.
Maybe the man is so blessed in every way, brilliant, kind, loved - that fate decided his luck had to run out somewhere. So it gave him Kim Dokja. A flaw in the thread. A broken match.
He lies awake that night, back aching from another overtime shift, the mark on his collarbone quietly pulsing like a wound. He presses a hand over it, wishing he could will it away, like erasing a scar that never healed right.
If he were someone else, stronger, better, brighter, maybe the man would have smiled at him. Maybe he would have stayed.
But Kim Dokja knows better.
In every story he’s ever read, someone like him doesn’t get the happy ending. He’s the nameless background character. The one who watches from the crowd as the real protagonists meet under the stars, marks glowing in harmony.
And so he turns to the wall, curls in on himself, and hopes that when he dreams again, he gets to be the version of himself that could make someone like that happy.
Even if it’s only in a world that isn’t real.
—
Of course he meets him again.
The man is leaning against the wall at the station, half-shrouded by shadows, eyes scanning the crowd with quiet purpose. And then, as if it were inevitable, his gaze finds Kim Dokja, locks on him like it had been waiting, like he had known he would be there.
Kim Dokja’s heart stutters. He immediately averts his eyes, lowering his head and walking swiftly toward the staircase, pretending not to notice. Maybe if he moved fast enough, he would not find disappointment in the eyes of the one he wanted the most.
But then he hears it. The unmistakable sound of footsteps behind him - heavy, deliberate, unhurried.
"You."
Kim Dokja freezes mid-step, muscles tensing, lungs refusing to expand. Did he know? Did he feel it too? The pull, the warmth, the ache?
Slowly, he turns, face already schooled into polite indifference. A hollow smile curves his lips.
“Oh. You were the one who helped me the other day. Thank you,” he says evenly. “Do you perhaps need something?”
He slips on the mask effortlessly, perfected over years of survival. Detachment, formality, a barrier that keeps the world at a safe distance. Nothing good can come from engaging further, not when it already hurts to be seen. The man doesn’t answer right away. He just stares.
One second. Two. Ten.
The seconds stretch, long and uncertain, until they feel like an eternity. Neither of them moves. The sound of the subway fades into the background, blurred and irrelevant. It is just the two of them now, caught in a moment that feels both fragile and irreversible.
Kim Dokja swallows.
Does he know? Has he realized that his soulmate is a man who can barely take care of himself? Is he looking for confirmation that fate gave him the worst possible match? Maybe he is disappointed. Maybe he regrets reaching out at all. Kim Dokja braces himself for the rejection, the subtle distancing, the quiet apology masked as kindness and still fails to be calm. The world has always had a way of reminding him where he stands. This would be no different.
And yet, a small part of him waits.
Just in case.
“Don’t run,” the man says. His voice is low, almost lost in the noise around them. His eyes don’t waver, dark and unreadable, but something burns behind them. Maybe anger, or is that desperation?
Kim Dokja hesitates. Did he hear that right?
“I’m not running. Do you need something? I’ll get going if there’s nothing else,” he replies quickly, bowing his head before turning to leave.
“You are.”
The words land like a truth Kim Dokja didn’t want to hear.
He is running. Of course he is.
Because there has never been anyone to run to.
He has always been running - away from a past that strips him bare, from a convicted mother who remained gentle when she had every right not to be, from a life that keeps reminding him he is neither good nor exceptional. The soulmate mark is the only thing that ever made him feel like he might matter, and even then, it only deepened the ache.
So yes. He will run.
Because rejection from the one person meant to love him might just be the thing that breaks him completely.
Kim Dokja takes a deep breath and chooses his words carefully. “And what if I do?”
The man's silence weighs on his back like a hand that never quite touches. His presence is overwhelming even in stillness, and Kim Dokja knows, he knows. It is too late to pretend anymore.
“I’ll find you again.”
Then he hears the footsteps retreating. No anger, no desperation, just certainty.
How futile.
—
He does find him again.
A quiet corner café on a quiet weekend, tucked away from the world. Kim Dokja had carefully planned to avoid any possibility of running into him. He stopped taking the train, avoided crowded spaces, adjusted his schedule to slip between the cracks of other people’s routines.
But of course, fate has other plans.
He’s sipping a lukewarm coffee, eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, mind drifting. For a moment, it almost feels like peace.
Until the light above him dims.
He doesn’t need to look. The shadow alone is familiar now, and the telltale burn on his soulmate mark confirms it. His fingers tremble slightly around the cup, the heat of the drink no longer reaching his skin. His breath catches as the looming presence settles beside him like gravity returning to a falling world.
The chair across from him scrapes quietly against the floor. Kim Dokja keeps his eyes on his phone, pretending to read.
But he already knows. He was found again.
“Are you going to pretend I’m not here?”
The voice is calm, but it cuts through the soft hum of the café like a blade. Not harsh. Just firm, measured, and impossible to ignore. Kim Dokja’s eyes remain fixed on his phone, even though he hasn’t registered a word on the screen for the last five minutes. His pulse hammers in his head. He exhales slowly, trying to buy himself time.
“I’m just here to drink coffee,” he replies, voice carefully even. “You can stay there if you want. I don’t mind.”
A pause.
“Don’t do that,” the man says. “Don’t push me away before I’ve even said anything.”
Kim Dokja finally looks up.
And there he is. Just like before, without the lights of the subway. Just broad shoulders and steady eyes, a face that feels too surreal to belong in his life. It is almost painful to look at him this close again, and not flinch from the weight of what it means.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Kim Dokja says quietly.
“I want to know your name.”
The words land gently but firmly, like a door opening where he expected a wall.
Kim Dokja stares at him, unblinking. “Why?”
“Because I’ve dreamt of you too.”
His breath falters. The cup slips slightly in his hand before he steadies it again.
“You’re mistaken,” he says, though it comes out hollow.
“No,” the man replies. “I know the mark. I’ve seen your back a hundred times in my sleep. I know how you fight, how you bleed, how you stand between others and danger without hesitation. You think I wouldn't recognize you the moment I saw you?”
Kim Dokja shakes his head slowly. “That person isn’t real.”
“He is,” the man says, softer now. “He’s real. You are.”
Kim Dokja’s throat burns. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to explain that the person in those dreams is stronger, braver, kinder than anything he could ever be in this world. That version of him could lead armies. This one can barely keep his electricity running.
“I can’t be what you think I am,” he whispers.
“I’m not asking you to be anything but here,” the man replies. “With me.”
Silence settles between them again, heavy and full. But it’s no longer cold.
Kim Dokja doesn’t reach for the man’s hand. He still doesn’t know if he can.
But for the first time, he doesn’t run.
—
Yoo Joonghyuk, he finds out, is a man of many flaws.
He’s blunt to a fault, more silence than speech, with a gaze that makes even the truth flinch. He’s not nearly as talkative as he was in that café. That had been the exception, not the rule. Now, he often says little, his replies short and sometimes awkward, as if he’s still learning how to be in the same world as someone else.
And still, Kim Dokja finds himself watching him.
Time slips by, and they meet again and again, always without planning to. A bookstore aisle. A convenience store at midnight. The same bench at the Han River, two nights in a row. It almost feels orchestrated, like the world keeps pushing them toward each other just to see what Kim Dokja will do with the chance he never asked for.
He tells himself it means nothing. They’re just coincidences. And yet… Yoo Joonghyuk always stops to sit beside him. Always looks at him like he’s trying to memorize the details of his face. Always leaves a little too slowly, like he’s waiting for Kim Dokja to speak first or hold him back.
Kim Dokja pretends it’s fine.
He tells himself that this is enough, these fragments of contact, these quiet moments that blur the line between dreams and waking. He lets himself smile a little more around Yoo Joonghyuk, laughs softly at things he doesn't find particularly funny, and talks just to fill the silence that Yoo Joonghyuk never seems bothered by.
But deep down, Kim Dokja still believes it won’t work.
He’s not someone who gets to keep beautiful things. He’s the one who watches them pass by. His presence is temporary, his joy borrowed. And this, whatever this is, it’s just another moment he’s not meant to hold onto.
Even if he sometimes forgets that while they sit side by side, sharing canned coffee beneath flickering streetlights.
Even if Yoo Joonghyuk listens.
Even if he doesn’t walk away.
Kim Dokja keeps his distance, not with space, but with belief. He convinces himself that quiet companionship is enough, that sitting close without reaching out hurts less than being chosen, only to be let go when Yoo Joonghyuk finally realizes the truth.
Because eventually, he will.
That fate gave him the wrong person.
And Kim Dokja would rather fade out gently, like an afterthought, than stay long enough to watch the disappointment settle in his eyes.
—
He stops dreaming when he needs it the most.
The night after sharing yet another moment of quiet company with his soulmate, Kim Dokja lies awake, the absence of dreams louder than any nightmare.
Earlier, they had walked side by side again, not speaking much. Kim Dokja rambled about his manager’s usual tirade, half-laughing when he admitted he wished the man would trip and fall, only for it to actually happen a few minutes later. He had braved a glance sideways, expecting indifference, only to find Yoo Joonghyuk hiding a small smile.
That smile lingers longer in Kim Dokja’s chest than it has any right to. The lights had caught his features just right, and Kim Dokja’s breath had caught in his throat. His heartbeat had fluttered in protest, or maybe, in acceptance.
Because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot escape his fate to love Yoo Joonghyuk.
So the next time they meet by accident, Kim Dokja tries to end the bond.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” he says, words barely above a whisper.
Yoo Joonghyuk blinks. His expression doesn’t change, but his hand shoots out and gently catches Kim Dokja’s wrist before he can walk away.
“Why?”
Kim Dokja doesn’t meet his eyes. “Because this isn’t real. It’s just... a mark. A coincidence. We don’t owe each other anything.”
“We’re soulmates.”
“And what does that even mean?” Kim Dokja laughs bitterly. “That the universe shoved us together so I can watch myself fall for someone I was never meant to keep?”
Yoo Joonghyuk says nothing at first. But his grip on Kim Dokja’s wrist stays steady.
“I don’t care what the universe wants,” he says slowly. “I care that I’ve spent every night seeing you die for other people, and every day watching you live like you don’t deserve anything.”
Kim Dokja stiffens.
“I care.” Yoo Joonghyuk repeats, softer this time. The silent ‘I want you’ lingering in the air.
A silence falls between them. The world around them seems to blur again, just like it did the first time they met. Kim Dokja’s eyes burn, but he doesn't let the tears fall.
A hand lifts, gentle and slow, brushing past his hair to settle on the side of his neck, where his soulmate mark pulses like a warning and a promise all at once.
It refuses to be unseen. Just like Kim Dokja does, for the first time.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Kim Dokja admits. “I don’t know how to be...yours.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingers rest against the mark like they’re holding something fragile. He leans closer, not quite touching foreheads, but near enough to feel the tension between them tremble. The walls between them shaking in vulnerability.
“Then stay,” he says. “And we’ll figure it out together.”
Kim Dokja doesn’t say yes.
But he doesn’t say no, either.
They walk together after that, slowly, wordlessly, as if neither of them is quite ready to shatter the delicate thread that’s been tied between them. The night air is cool against their skin, the streets washed in golden light, soft and dim. It feels like the world is exhaling around them, allowing them this moment of fragile peace.
Yoo Joonghyuk walks beside him with hands in his coat pockets, his eyes flickering toward Kim Dokja now and then, but he doesn’t push. He doesn't press. He simply stays close, like he always does, a steady presence that never asks for more than Kim Dokja can give.
They don’t talk. There’s no need.
For once, the silence between them doesn’t feel like distance, it feels like understanding.
Kim Dokja grits his teeth, jaw tight as the phantom touch of Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingers lingers on his wrist, on the side of his neck. It stays there like a soft imprint, echoing with something quiet and unfamiliar, something that feels far too much like hope.
When they part, it’s without farewell. Just a stillness at the edge of a quiet street, the breeze carrying with it the faint scents of city food and exhaust. Kim Dokja glances back, breath caught, half-afraid that when he does, everything was just a dream.
But Yoo Joonghyuk is still there.
He holds Kim Dokja’s gaze for a long moment.
Then, without a word, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small slip of paper. He folds it in half and places it gently into Kim Dokja’s palm, fingers brushing just slightly longer than necessary.
“If you ever feel like running again,” he says, “I’ll wait.”
Kim Dokja’s fingers tighten around the paper. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods.
And then Yoo Joonghyuk turns and walks away, his figure slowly swallowed by the dark edge of the street. Kim Dokja stands there, frozen. The paper is warm in his hand and when he opens it, it’s just a number.
Nothing else.
No name. No message.
Just an invitation.
He stares at it for a long while. Then, finally, he folds it back up and slips it into his coat pocket.
That night, he sleeps without dreams.
But for the first time in a long while, he wakes with something like peace.
—
Kim Dokja doesn’t call right away.
The slip of paper stays folded in his pocket, a quiet weight he carries from day to day. Sometimes, he takes it out just to look at it. Just a number. No pressure, no words, no promises. It sits there in his palm like a question he’s not ready to answer.
But Yoo Joonghyuk doesn't reach out again, and they stop meeting by accident as if fate understands they both need time.
And that’s what makes it easier. The absence of pressure. The quiet respect for space. It lets Kim Dokja breathe.
And then, one night, after a particularly long day and a heavier silence than usual, he sends a single message.
“Hi.”
The reply comes a few minutes later.
“I’ve been waiting.”
No questions. No accusations. Just the door left open again, like it always had been.
They start meeting more regularly after that, no longer accidents. It’s never dramatic. No sweeping declarations. Just shared coffee, shared silence, and conversations that gradually unfold like hesitant petals.
Yoo Joonghyuk remains a man of few words, but Kim Dokja learns to read the quiet things. The way he tilts his head when listening. The soft grunt he makes when amused. The way he always arrives early, even if he never mentions it.
And in turn, Yoo Joonghyuk listens. Even when Kim Dokja talks in circles, when his thoughts spiral, when he jokes too sharply or fidgets too much. Yoo Joonghyuk never interrupts. Never looks away.
One rainy afternoon, they sit under a bus stop shelter after getting caught in a downpour. Kim Dokja is shivering slightly, his sleeves soaked. Without a word, Yoo Joonghyuk shrugs off his coat and drapes it over his shoulders. It smells faintly like clean laundry and quiet.
Kim Dokja doesn’t say thank you. He just leans a little closer. And Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t move away.
---
Little by little, the fear loosens.
It’s not that the self-doubt disappears. Kim Dokja still lies awake some nights, wondering if he’s enough, wondering if the mark on his skin is a mistake or a curse. But now, there is someone sitting beside him in the quiet. Someone who doesn’t demand he be more than he is.
One evening, Yoo Joonghyuk quietly lifts a hand and brushes back the hair covering Kim Dokja’s neck. His fingers rest over the soulmate mark, familiar now.
“I knew you before I met you,” he murmurs.
Kim Dokja closes his eyes. “I thought I’d never deserve you.”
“You do. You're not in this alone.”
And it breaks something open in him, softly, quietly. Not like glass shattering, but like a door creaking open after years of being locked.
Kim Dokja reaches for his hand.
They start doing ordinary things together. Grocery shopping. Lazy afternoons in bookstores. Weekend walks that stretch longer than planned. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t.
But Yoo Joonghyuk always walks beside him, never ahead or behind.
Their love isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.
It’s the kind that builds like sunlight - slow, steady, and inevitable. The kind you only notice once it’s already wrapped around you, keeping you warm.
And one night, as they lie on the floor of Yoo Joonghyuk’s apartment, tangled together beneath a blanket and a ceiling of unread books, Kim Dokja whispers into the stillness.
“I think I want to stay.”
Yoo Joonghyuk doesn’t say anything.
He just pulls him closer, their marks glowing faintly where skin touches skin, like two stories finally learning how to end together.
—
Kim Dokja rolls over, presses a kiss to the mark on his chest, and whispers, “You found me.”
Yoo Joonghyuk wraps his arms around him like a tether. “Of course I did.”