“I dreamed that I couldn’t protect him the first time,” Seungho murmured.
The line went silent.
And then: “You’re still dreaming in past tenses.”
Seungho didn’t answer.
??????
When Seungho stepped inside the penthouse, two hours later, the lights were dim and steady.
Haneul was on the couch, knees pulled up, drowning in one of Seungho’s hoodies. The sleeves hid his hands. His braid was gone; his hair fell in uneven waves, a storm already unspooling.
He didn’t look up when he spoke.
“Where were you.”
Seungho paused in the doorway, loosened his tie as if silence could make the truth gentler. “A meeting.”
“At midnight?”
The words were flat, but the air between them cracked.
“It couldn’t wait.”
That was the moment Haneul lifted his head—eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep, pupils blown wide.
“You went to them, didn’t you.”
There was no use pretending.
“Yes.”
Something shuttered behind his gaze, a flare of disbelief before it hardened into anger.
“You had no fucking right.”
Seungho took a step closer. “He hurt you.”
“I’m not porcelain,” Haneul snapped, standing too fast, sleeves sliding down to his elbows. “You think every bruise is an invitation for you to swing your sword?”
“I think you deserved protection.”
“I had it.” His voice broke once, a thin crack in the ice. “I’ve been my own shield since I was eleven. You don’t get to rewrite that just because you wear a suit and speak in low voices.”
“Haneul—”
“Don’t.” The word hit like a slap.
He turned away, socks half off, breath shaking.
“You think patience is care,” he said, voice rising, trembling, he didn’t said “love”. “But all it feels like is distance. You never raise your voice. You never break. You just—wait. Like you’re handling a wild thing you hope will stop biting. It’s not care, it’s—” he exhaled hard, eyes wet and furious “—it’s control with a prettier name.”
Seungho’s mouth parted, but the reply stayed unspoken.
“I can’t breathe when you look at me like that,” Haneul went on, quieter now, chest heaving. “Like I’m something you can fix if you stand still long enough. I don’t want to be fixed.”
He grabbed his skate bag from the rack, fingers fumbling at the zipper, then hesitated and put it back down. The hoodie slipped from one shoulder; his skin glowed pale against the dark fabric.
