It had only been a kiss on the forehead.
They had done far more intimate things—touching each other under the sheets, panting into each other’s necks, coming without a word. And yet, from that moment on, every gesture had carried a different weight.
Every silence had become a louder sound.

Jiwoon passes behind him in the kitchen and brushes his fingers along his side. Hanjae, lost in thought, jolts slightly.
“I just wanted to pass by,” Jiwoon murmurs, half-smiling.
Hanjae nods, not turning. He goes back to washing the dishes, heat quickly rising to his cheeks. It almost feels like being back in high school, when Jiwoon used to sit next to him and a simple brush of the arm was enough to send his heart spiraling.

The feelings, which over time had adapted into a constant, bearable hum, now seemed ready to explode again like a fire he thought extinguished, but that still burned beneath the ashes.

“Did you buy the chocolate cookies?” Jiwoon asks, bending over the pantry.
His shirt lifts at the back, revealing the smooth line of skin.
Hanjae swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
“No, you don’t deserve them,” he snaps, spinning back toward the sink. The words come out sharper than he meant.

Jiwoon chuckles softly.
He steps closer, placing a hand on Hanjae’s side, gently pressing him against the counter.
Leaning close to his ear, he whispers, “Thanks for getting them.”

He doesn’t kiss him, but he’s so close Hanjae’s heart trembles. His breath grazes Hanjae’s neck.
When he finally steps back, Hanjae remains still, hands clutching the marble countertop.
Neck and ears flushed the same color as his hair.

That evening, like all the others since they began this strange routine without a name, they’re home.
Netflix on the screen. Neither of them really watching.

Jiwoon lies down on the couch, resting his head on Hanjae’s thighs.
A small gesture, but charged with something new. A subtle intimacy that makes them breathe differently.

Hanjae completely loses track of the show. He doesn’t even follow Jiwoon’s comments, though he laughs at each one, almost reflexively.
His fingers comb slowly through Jiwoon’s hair.
He’s afraid to stop, as if the touch were the only thing holding the moment together. He’s certain he’s dreamed of a scene like this at least once, maybe more. Or maybe he only ever wanted it so badly it etched itself into his skin.
Or maybe it’s simply that he’d seen it too many times with Minji.

The same couch.
The same Jiwoon.
The same intimacy.

Only, back then, it was someone else who held Jiwoon’s head in their lap. Someone else who had everything Hanjae had always wanted.

His chest burns. Burns for real, as if hope itself had clawed its way back up, dragging all his fragility with it.
A thought begins to root in his mind, bold and insistent: what if this time it’s our moment?

He doesn’t know how it happens. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the way Jiwoon relaxes into his hands. But he leans down, slowly. Presses a light kiss against his cheek.

Jiwoon’s eyes open, surprised. Then he tilts his head back.
Dark eyes, steady, locked on his. No reproach. No hesitation. Only a silent green light.

Hanjae leans in again. Their lips brush. Jiwoon doesn’t pull away—he parts his mouth just slightly, welcoming him.

The kiss is slow.
Wet.
Deep.

Their hands move across each other’s bodies, hesitant at first, then bolder.
Jiwoon shifts, pulling him closer. His hands grip Hanjae’s waist, guiding him onto his lap. They kiss for long, uncountable minutes, letting everything else fade away.

When they part, both are flushed, lips swollen and wet. Hanjae clutches at his shirt, as if to keep him there, but Jiwoon doesn’t leave. He stays.
Forehead against forehead, breaths mingling.

Then the ending credits roll on the TV. They both flinch.
They glance at the screen and burst out laughing.
Laughing at the time lost, at having missed everything.
Laughing because maybe, this time, it wasn’t just sex.

“Wow,” Jiwoon breaks the silence with a grin.
“I must be a hell of a kisser if I managed to distract you for half an hour.”

Hanjae shoots him a look, lips red, still swollen.
“Excuse me? You must be talking about me. Everyone knows I’m the best—especially with this perfect little mouth.”

Jiwoon laughs, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek.
“Damn, you really are competitive, huh?”

“Competitive? Please. I’m an alpha, aren’t I?” Hanjae retorts, smirking.

Jiwoon leans forward, resting his head on Hanjae’s shoulder. He laughs again.
“Ay ay… You’re gonna make me lose my head, Hanjae.”

The words, whispered like that, pierce Hanjae’s chest like a needle.
“That’s supposed to be my line, you know?” he says, standing. “If you keep this up, who knows, I might even end up confessing.”

Jiwoon tilts his head, watching him turn off the box. He looks amused, but a little thrown.
“As if that could ever happen,” he jokes, with a strange smile.

Hanjae freezes, his back turned.
Then he slowly turns back.
He smiles too—the kind of smile he uses when he’s burning but doesn’t want to show it.
“And why not?” he asks. His sharp eyes are shiny now, locked on Jiwoon’s.

The silence between them is heavy.
Then, in a voice that barely masks something deeper, he says,
“I only date alphas, remember?”

Jiwoon stays there, seated, speechless.

Hanjae walks away, unhurried, each step heavy.
He closes the door behind him.

Jiwoon remains on the couch, staring at the door. Hanjae’s words still buzz in his head.

I might even end up confessing.
I only date alphas, remember?

Something squeezes his chest. Something he doesn’t want to name yet.

Hanjae shuts himself in his room.
He stands still for a moment at the center, then lets himself fall onto the bed.

He smiles. Softly. He isn’t happy, but there’s something there.
That smile, fragile as it is, is real.

Because tonight, Jiwoon stayed.
He kissed him back.
He held him close.
He laughed with him—and even if it doesn’t mean anything yet, for Hanjae it’s enough to keep hoping.