The girl looked between them, sputtered, and fled with a curse in heels.
Ji-ho dragged on a shirt, still laughing. “You’re insane.”
“Correct,” Haneul said, collapsing onto the couch. “Fix me.”
Ji-ho eyed him. “You’re pale. Did my brother finally yell?”
“He doesn’t yell.”
“Did he… breathe near you too meaningfully again?”
Haneul groaned into a cushion. “He said stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Lonely stuff. Soul stuff. Stuff that makes you question reality while making pancakes.”
Ji-ho’s grin sharpened. “So you wanna bang my hyung, hm?”
Haneul shot upright. “WHAT—no! I don’t ‘bang’ people, you perverted—”
“Big word for someone who broke into my house during sex.”
“I don’t ‘bang,’ I bond,” Haneul hissed, cheeks burning. “And it’s not even that. It’s—he—he looks at me like he remembers me.”
Ji-ho leaned back, suddenly quiet. “And that scares you.”
“Yes! No! Maybe! He’s straight. I think. Probably. He said he’s never been in love but somehow remembers losing me—” He stopped, breath shallow. “Tell me that’s normal.”
Ji-ho exhaled, slow. “Nothing about my brother is normal. But I’ll tell you this—he doesn’t talk like that to anyone.”
Haneul’s mouth twisted. “You think he—”
“I think,” Ji-ho interrupted, voice gentler now, “you already know the answer. You just haven’t accepted what kind of story you’re in.”
Haneul stared. The city hummed through the window, distant traffic, someone shouting downstairs.
Something in his chest fluttered—half-terror, half-hope.
He slapped his own cheek. “Nope. Denied. Deleted.”
Ji-ho laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Good. My sheets thank you.”
Haneul grabbed his bag, muttering curses all the way to the door.
“Hey,” Ji-ho called after him. “Whatever it is—don’t run from it.”
Haneul paused just long enough to glare. “I’m not running. I’m… relocating.”
And he was gone.
Outside, the afternoon heat hit like a slap. He straddled the bike again, legs trembling, heart louder than traffic.
Maybe Ji-ho was right. Maybe he already knew.
