He held out the phone, but didn’t hand it over immediately.
Waited until Seungho’s brow ticked with mild irritation before dropping it into his palm.
“Try not to combust,” he added. “He said it’s important.”
Seungho read the message.
“The fox’s birthday is Nov 22.
He won’t tell. He never does.
He hates surprises.
But don’t fuck this up.”
Silence.
Seungho read it again. Then again.
November 22.
It meant nothing. And somehow—everything.
Outside, traffic thickened. Horns bloomed and folded into themselves like steam flowers. A golden ginkgo leaf slapped wet against the windshield and stuck, twitching slightly as if trying to fly. The city didn’t blink.
Inside the car, Seungho’s exhale fogged the glass.
His fingers curled around the phone. Slowly.
The number pulsed. The date scratched at something beneath his ribs.
Not memory. Not quite.
But like a word he almost knew in a language he'd never learned.
Like a scent on someone else’s collar that made his mouth water and his stomach clench.
Like heat. Like frost.
Like guilt.
Don’t make a big deal out of me.
He didn’t know if Haneul had ever said that before.
But the sentence existed in his head fully formed—exact phrasing, exact tone, like a message delivered in dream. Like a memory that never got made.
He hadn’t make a big deal, not yet. But he wanted to. He wanted to make a goddamn shrine.
He wanted to fill the halls with fruit and fire and things that made no sense. He wanted to carve warmth out of winter. Not because it would impress him. But because he deserved something that didn’t hurt.
But Sky—his Sky—would hate that.
Seungho closed the message. Closed his eyes.
This wasn’t logic.
This was ache.
