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It was 11:47 PM in Seoul, and Kim was lying in bed, fingers absentmindedly scrolling through his phone while the ceiling fan creaked softly above him. The sound of cicadas buzzed faintly through the slightly cracked window—summer was finally giving way to autumn. And for once, the humidity wasn’t choking him. He had just come back from a full-day practice with his racing team, his arms sore and neck stiff from testing simulations and engine setups.
But none of it compared to the weight in his chest that arrived uninvited, the one he thought would lighten with distance. It hadn’t.
Kenta.
They weren’t officially anything. No label. No promises. Not even a formal goodbye. Just soft kisses shared between packed bags and tired eyes, a long hug in a quiet hallway, and the unspoken understanding that they needed to grow apart so they could love without bruises.
Kenta needed peace.
Kim needed clarity.
They both knew that if they didn’t leave when they did, they’d just cling to each other out of fear. Not love.
Kim sighed, thumbing through their message thread. It had been quiet today—just a photo Kenta had sent earlier of a cup of iced tea with his laptop in the background, cluttered with files and post-it notes. No caption, no context.
Just a slice of his day, and Kim had stared at it for five whole minutes, zooming in, pretending he was there.
He missed those mundane mornings. When they’d argue softly about who stole the last cold drink in the fridge.
When Kenta, hair a mess, would pad into the kitchen barefoot to wordlessly hug Kim from behind. When he’d grumble about anything while Kim tuned his car.
Kenta’s world used to overlap with his so easily.
Now, he was building one without him.
A notification popped up on his screen:
🛑 North’s TikTok Live: “Late night chaos w/ the crew 😎💥”
Kim smirked.
North always went live late at night. Usually shirtless. Sometimes just to show off a new pair of sunglasses. Other times, to annoy Sonic, who’d try to make him stop.
He tapped in.
The video loaded to the familiar chaos: North lying on a beanbag in the Team X-Hunter garage, music playing faintly from a speaker. Sonic’s voice, low and amused, murmured something off-screen. Kim could hear Alan bickering with Jeff somewhere in the background.
“Stop—Jeff! I swear I will punch you in the nuts—”
“Do it, and I’ll tell Kenta you lost the checkbook again—”
“Kenta doesn’t need to know!”
Kim chuckled softly, his chest tugging with warmth. Team X-Hunter was chaotic, sure, but Kenta had found some strange kind of order in it. Kim remembered Kenta texting him once:
“It’s like babysitting four grown kids with money and too many engines. But they listen. Sometimes. Also, they keep feeding me mango sticky rice.”
The screen shook slightly as North flipped the camera to the side—just for a second—revealing someone hunched on a couch near the far end of the room. Quiet. Focused. Wearing a loose black T-shirt with a green hoodie draped over the backrest. Legs crossed, hair tied loosely at the nape.
Kenta.
Kim stopped breathing.
The image wasn’t clear. Just a two-second flash. But it was enough.
Kenta had that same crinkle in his brow when he was concentrating. His laptop was open, fingers typing quickly. There were papers spread beside him, highlighted and dog-eared. He looked smaller, somehow. Maybe thinner. But calm.
His heart ached so suddenly it made his throat burn.
Kim hadn’t seen him move like that in real-time for months. Only still photos. Only messages. But this was Kenta alive and moving. Existing in the world without him. Working. Healing. Maybe laughing. Maybe not.
North turned the camera back to himself.
“Anyway—Sonic wants to make tofu soup—”
Kim didn’t hear the rest. He exited the app, turned off his phone, and pressed it to his chest like a child cradling something sacred.
He closed his eyes.
He didn’t cry.
But something cracked open again inside him.
The next morning in Thailand, Kenta sat in the kitchen of the warehouse with a mug of warm tea, the scent of lemongrass and honey wrapping around him like a blanket. The sky outside was soft and overcast, the humidity gentler. Alan was still asleep on the couch. Sonic and North were nowhere to be found—probably on a coffee run. Jeff was outside cleaning his car.
Kenta was alone.
For once, it didn’t make him anxious.
He had gotten used to the rhythm here: meetings, paperwork, occasional emergency races, taxes, and permits. It was strange—how he went from navigating criminal finances for Tony to budgeting engine upgrades for a team of adrenaline junkies. But the numbers grounded him. The stability gave him peace.
His phone buzzed quietly.
Kim 🏁:
I saw you last night.
In North’s live.
You were working on the couch.
You looked good.
Kenta’s lips curled.
He stared at the screen for a few moments, unsure what to say. He could feel his heartbeat pick up. Stupid. Soft. Giddy.
He replied:
Kenta 📝:
Didn’t know I had a fan watching.
You looked good too. In my head. Just now.
Three dots. Then nothing.
Kenta leaned back, eyes drifting toward the corner of the warehouse where the couch was. The hoodie he had left there still sat crumpled. The scent of detergent and something fainter—cologne?—lingered.
He wanted Kim to wear it again. Wanted him to steal the hoodie like he always did and pretend he didn’t. Wanted to wake up to him cooking eggs terribly and singing off-key.
But he didn’t regret the distance.
Not anymore.
Because now, Kenta didn’t feel like he was a broken piece trying to fit into someone else’s whole.
He was learning to be whole, too.
In Korea, Kim stood in front of the garage mirror, adjusting his racing suit. The team manager barked instructions in the background, asking for tire specs and fuel check-ins, but Kim’s mind was elsewhere.
His phone buzzed again.
Kenta 📝:
Thinking about visiting BKK soon. Sonic’s been bugging me to take a break. Maybe after this quarter ends.
If you’re not too busy, we can grab dinner.
Just friends. Unless you still think about my mouth.
Kim barked out a laugh.
His teammates looked at him like he’d gone insane.
He didn’t care.
He typed quickly.
Kim 🏁:
I think about your mouth every night, counselor.
But dinner sounds nice.
Let’s take it slow. Let’s do it right this time.
Two weeks later.
Bangkok air was hot and sticky again, and the rain had just passed when Kim landed. He didn’t tell anyone except Sonic, who picked him up from the airport grinning like a devil.
“Got a surprise for Kenta,” he said, smacking Kim’s shoulder. “He’s been wound tight again. Hasn’t smiled like that since you left.”
Kim smiled, heart pounding. “Let’s fix that.”
When they entered the warehouse, Kenta was seated on the same couch, hoodie back on, hair up, laptop open. But this time, his head turned slowly at the sound of footsteps.
And froze.
Kim.
Backlit by the afternoon sun. Wearing the same black hoodie Kenta thought he’d stolen. Looking tired. Taller, somehow. But also… gentler.
Neither of them said anything for a moment.
Then Kenta stood, walked up to him, and without a word, rested his forehead against Kim’s.
“You look good,” Kim whispered.
Kenta smiled.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
They didn’t kiss right away. Not like before.
They sat on the couch, knees touching, talking about everything and nothing. About racing stats. About Jeff’s obsession with gel pens. About North’s live videos. About how the sky in Korea was bluer now.
And when Kim’s fingers found Kenta’s—hesitant, lingering—Kenta didn’t pull away.
He laced them together.
This time, they were whole.
And this time, they weren’t running anymore.