Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jeonghan’s eyes go wide the second the words leave Seungcheol’s mouth.

They’re still pressed together—foreheads touching, breaths mingling in the thin night air—close enough that Seungcheol can feel the slight hitch in Jeonghan’s inhale, close enough that the world seems to stall between heartbeats. The city hums somewhere far below the balcony, cars passing like distant tides, but up here everything narrows to the space between their noses, the heat of shared breath, the weight of what was just said.

Let’s end this, Han.

Seungcheol’s arms tighten instinctively around Jeonghan’s waist, pulling him closer even though there is no space left to close. Jeonghan reacts without thinking—his hands clutch the front of Seungcheol’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric over his chest like he needs something solid to hold onto. Their hearts feel too loud, too frantic, as if either of them might hear the truth pounding in the other’s ribs.

For a moment, neither speaks.

Seungcheol searches Jeonghan’s face, so close he can see the fine shimmer in his eyes, the way his lashes tremble. His hand lifts slowly, carefully, as though any sudden movement might shatter what little balance remains. His palm cups Jeonghan’s cheek, thumb brushing along warm skin. Seungcheol swallows hard—there’s a knot in his throat, sharp and aching—and he leans in, instinct pulling him forward, his mouth hovering just a breath away from Jeonghan’s—

“KIDS!”

His mother’s voice cuts through the moment like a crack of thunder.

They startle apart as if burned. Jeonghan clears his throat too quickly, hands dropping, gaze flicking to Seungcheol for half a second before he turns on his heel and walks back inside without another word. The night air rushes in where his warmth had been.

Seungcheol stays frozen, staring at Jeonghan’s retreating back until it disappears through the doors. When he finally looks up, his mother is there, pausing just long enough to give him a small, knowing smile—gentle, unreadable—before following Jeonghan inside.

Seungcheol exhales heavily and drags a hand through his hair.

He isn’t frustrated.

He’s terrified.

Jeonghan has been his best friend for over a decade. Seungcheol knows every shift in his tone, every quiet withdrawal, every laugh that’s too bright to be real. There is always meaning behind Jeonghan’s silences—and that’s what scares him now. He can’t understand why Jeonghan would look like that, why sadness would flicker across his face at the idea of ending something that was never supposed to be real in the first place.

Because that isn’t what he meant.

Not really.

What Seungcheol meant was ending the lie. Ending the arrangement. Ending the careful pretending so they could finally talk—honestly—about the possibility of something real. About the feeling that’s lived in his chest since he was fifteen, a quiet, persistent presence that never went away. He’s twenty-nine now, and that feeling hasn’t faded—it’s only sharpened, especially over the past few months, blossoming into something undeniable, something that refuses to be ignored.

Inside, the house is warm and softly lit. Seungcheol spots Jeonghan immediately—wrapped in his mother’s arms, holding her tightly. The sight hits him square in the chest, tender and painful all at once. Jeonghan loves his parents the way Seungcheol does, with an ease that feels like home, and Seungcheol feels unbearably lucky for it.

His mother smiles at them both. “It’s getting late. You boys should head out.”

Jeonghan’s mother pulls Seungcheol into a tight hug, patting his cheek affectionately. Jeonghan’s father follows with a firm side hug, his voice warm but weighted. “Take care, young man. And always stay patient with our Jeonghan, okay?”

Seungcheol smiles, nodding, watching Jeonghan pout as he hugs his parents one last time. He says his goodbyes too—promises his mother he’ll visit soon, exchanges a nod with his father. His dad mentions training updates, businesslike as ever, but there’s something softer beneath it.

Outside, Jeonghan stands near the car, brows knitted as he stares at his phone. Seungcheol steps closer without thinking, gently lifting Jeonghan’s shoulder bag from him. He crouches slightly to catch Jeonghan’s eye.

Jeonghan startles, eyes widening again, a faint blush blooming as their faces draw close. “I—I’m texting my driver,” he says quickly.

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, then checks his own phone and turns the screen toward Jeonghan with a crooked smile. “Funny,” he says lightly. “I haven’t received anything.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, but the smile that tugs at his lips betrays him. He reaches up and pinches Seungcheol’s cheek. Seungcheol playfully winces, then catches Jeonghan’s hand before it can retreat. His fingers thread through Jeonghan’s, warm and familiar.

“Let’s go?” Seungcheol says softly.

There’s a pause—brief, almost imperceptible—but Seungcheol feels it. Jeonghan’s smile falters for just a fraction of a second before he nods.

They turn back to wave goodbye one last time. The chauffeur hands Seungcheol his keys. Seungcheol opens the door for Jeonghan, watching as he settles into the seat, expression unreadable now, carefully composed.

The car pulls away from the estate, headlights cutting through the night as they drive toward Jeonghan’s place—silence stretching between them, heavy with things unsaid, the road ahead illuminated but uncertain, and Seungcheol gripping the steering wheel like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

The ride to Jeonghan’s place stretches longer than it should, or maybe it only feels that way because silence has weight tonight. The city hums outside the car—distant engines, the low sigh of tires against asphalt—but inside, there is only the radio murmuring softly, some late-night song neither of them is really listening to.

Seungcheol keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, yet his attention drifts again and again. He loses count of how many times he glances sideways, drawn to Jeonghan like gravity. Jeonghan sits quiet in the passenger seat, forehead tipped lightly against the window, eyes tracing the blur of streetlights as they pass. His reflection flickers faintly in the glass—there, gone, there again—like he’s half here, half somewhere far more exhausting.

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, the sound barely audible, then clears his throat.

“You okay, chatterbox?”

The nickname lands softly, familiar, worn smooth by years of use. Jeonghan shifts at the sound of it, pulling away from the window. He turns his head, meets Seungcheol’s gaze for a moment, and offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s tired, honest in the way exhaustion always is.

“Just tired, Cheollie,” he says, nodding once as if to convince himself as much as Seungcheol.

Seungcheol hums in response. He doesn’t push—it’s a language they’ve learned together, knowing when to stop. Jeonghan adjusts in his seat, shifting his weight until he’s angled slightly toward Seungcheol now, one knee tucked in, his attention no longer on the window but on the quiet presence beside him. There’s a pause, the kind that isn’t empty but waiting.

“You know me too well, hmm?” Jeonghan murmurs, a sigh threading through the words.

Seungcheol smiles, small and fond, still focused on the road ahead. He doesn’t answer out loud.

He never needs to.

The light ahead turns red, bathing the intersection in a steady, warning glow. Seungcheol eases the car to a stop. The engine idles. Time slows—not dramatically, not obviously—but enough that the moment feels contained, like the world has pressed pause just for them.

Without thinking, or maybe because he’s thought about it too much, Seungcheol lifts his hand from the wheel and reaches across the console. His fingers find Jeonghan’s hand easily, instinctively, as though they’ve been practicing this motion all their lives. Their fingers slip together, palms aligning, grip settling into something sure and familiar.

Jeonghan looks down first, startled only for a heartbeat, then looks up. Seungcheol finally turns to face him fully. The red light reflects faintly in Jeonghan’s eyes—hesitation, fear, all the things they’ve carefully avoided naming—but there’s assurance there too. Warmth and trust.

Seungcheol brings their joined hands up, presses a slow, deliberate kiss to Jeonghan’s knuckles. It’s soft and reverent. When he pulls back, he tightens his hold instead of letting go, like he’s afraid the moment might slip if he doesn’t anchor it.

The light changes.

Green spills across the road ahead, permission given, the world nudging them forward again. Seungcheol turns back to the windshield, foot easing onto the gas—but he feels it then, unmistakably. Jeonghan’s thumb brushing against his hand, a small, absent-minded caress that sends something sharp and bright through his chest.

Seungcheol risks another glance. Just one.

Jeonghan is watching him now, expression unguarded in a way that steals the air straight from Seungcheol’s lungs. In that second—just that second—Seungcheol feels like his chest might split open from the sheer weight of it. Years of friendship, laughter, shared nights and unspoken things all rush forward, rearranging themselves into something new and undeniable.

Their hands stay intertwined as the city flows around them again, streetlights blinking past like quiet witnesses.

“You can take a nap,” Seungcheol says gently, voice low. “I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Jeonghan hums in response, soft and trusting, already sinking back into his seat. Seungcheol glances over to find his eyes closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, the tension slowly easing from his features. It’s always amazed him how safe Jeonghan looks when he lets himself rest.

Seungcheol loosens his grip just slightly—careful, considerate—thinking he shouldn’t distract him, thinking this is enough.

“Cheollie…” Jeonghan murmurs, eyes still closed. His fingers curl tighter instantly. “Please don’t let go.”

Seungcheol’s heart slams hard against his ribs, loud enough that he’s sure it must echo in the car. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he tightens his hold again, firm and certain, sealing the promise without words.

He drives on beneath the moon, city lights stretching endlessly ahead—no longer stopped, no longer waiting, moving forward together with hands still clasped, the road finally open.

Seungcheol turns off the engine, and the quiet settles fully this time—no road noise, no passing lights, only the soft ticking of cooling metal beneath the hood. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He shifts in his seat and looks over at Jeonghan, who is still asleep, head tipped slightly toward him, breathing slow and even. Their hands are still intertwined between them, fingers lax but secure, as if sleep itself hadn’t dared to break the contact.

Something in Seungcheol’s chest softens at the sight.

He lifts his free hand carefully, as though the smallest movement might wake him. With gentle precision, he brushes a strand of hair away from Jeonghan’s forehead, tucks it back where it belongs. His thumb lingers, tracing the curve of Jeonghan’s cheek, warm and real beneath his touch. The intimacy of it hits him all at once—quiet, unguarded, undeniable.

“Hannie,” Seungcheol murmurs, voice barely louder than a breath. “We’re here.”

Jeonghan groans softly, the sound half-protest, half-instinct. His eyelids flutter open, unfocused at first, then slowly clearing. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand, blinking as if re-entering the world takes effort. The faintest smile curves his lips when he realizes where he is—and who he’s with.

Seungcheol waits until Jeonghan is fully awake before carefully unclasping his seatbelt. He reaches for Jeonghan’s bag, lifting it over his shoulder without a word. Only then does he finally let go of their hands, and the absence feels louder than expected.

He steps out of the car, the night air cool against his skin, and walks around to the passenger side. Jeonghan is still yawning when Seungcheol opens the door for him, eyes glassy with sleep, movements unhurried. Seungcheol extends his hand again—an invitation, familiar now.

Jeonghan doesn’t hesitate this time.

He takes it immediately, fingers threading together with Seungcheol’s, his entire demeanor shifting as though something inside him has clicked into place. He looks up at Seungcheol and smiles—wide, bright, awake in a way that has nothing to do with rest and everything to do with certainty.

The elevator ride up is quiet but comfortable, the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. When the doors open to Jeonghan’s penthouse floor, Jeonghan keys in his password, the soft beeps echoing in the hallway. The lock clicks open, and he steps inside before turning back instinctively.

Seungcheol is still standing just outside the door.

Jeonghan’s brows knit together, confusion flickering across his face. “You’re not… entering?”

Seungcheol smiles, small and apologetic but warm all the same. “I’ve got early training tomorrow,” he explains gently. “And I need to test some new cars for the next F1 season. I’m also meeting a few new sponsors—you know my dad. He never stops networking.”

Jeonghan nods, absorbing the explanation, but Seungcheol sees it anyway—the way his shoulders dip, the disappointment he tries to smooth away. It’s subtle, but Seungcheol knows him too well to miss it.

“Don’t you want to sleep here?” Jeonghan asks quietly.

Seungcheol loses it then, laughter spilling out of him before he can stop it—soft, fond, and helplessly affectionate. He opens his arms wide. “Come here.”

Jeonghan steps into him without hesitation, fitting perfectly against Seungcheol’s chest. Seungcheol wraps his arms around Jeonghan’s shoulders, pulling him close, while Jeonghan’s arms circle his torso, holding on like he’s memorizing the shape of him. The hug is warm and grounding, the kind that says I’m here without needing the words.

Seungcheol lowers his head, pressing gentle kisses to Jeonghan’s hand—slow and deliberate. “You have a shoot tomorrow, right?” he murmurs.

Jeonghan looks up at him, eyes soft, lips pushed into a small pout. “I have a flight,” he says. “Jeju. New brand deal.”

Seungcheol smiles at him, thumb brushing reassuringly over Jeonghan’s knuckles. “Then we’ll both be busy again,” he says lightly. “So let’s message each other, okay? I’ll see you again soon.”

Jeonghan’s grip tightens at that, fingers curling more firmly into Seungcheol’s jacket. Seungcheol notices and smiles wider, heart warm and steady.

“Hannie,” he says softly, lowering his voice, “you trust me, right?”

Jeonghan nods without hesitation, slow and sure. That answer is enough—more than enough.

Seungcheol leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Good night, Hannie.”

He steps back after that, giving Jeonghan one last look before turning away. The door closes softly behind him, the sound final but not heavy—because neither of them doubts what comes next.

******

“You said you trust me, right?”

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL, I SWEAR—”

Seungcheol finally breaks, laughter bursting out of him uncontrollably, loud and helpless and full-bodied. It spills into the enclosed space of the backseat, ricocheting off leather and glass, until his chest aches and his eyes sting. He barely manages to breathe through it when he feels Jeonghan’s hand tighten in his—fingers squeezing, half-annoyed, half-desperate, entirely familiar.

They’re seated in the back of Seungcheol’s new Bentley SUV, the interior dim and quiet except for Jeonghan’s increasingly dramatic protests and Seungcheol’s inability to take any of it seriously. This is their first time seeing each other in weeks—weeks swallowed whole by packed schedules, flights, deadlines, meetings, obligations that never seemed to end. They’d agreed to meet today, finally, and Seungcheol had told Jeonghan they’d grab lunch together.

It had been a lie. A gentle one—but a lie all the same.

When Seungcheol picked Jeonghan up in front of his place earlier, Jeonghan had climbed into the car buzzing with energy, words tumbling out of him the second the door closed. He’d talked about everything at once—his shoot, his flight, the exhaustion, the things he’d missed telling Seungcheol over text. He hadn’t noticed anything strange, hadn’t suspected a thing.

Not until Seungcheol had guided him into the backseat and slipped a blindfold over his eyes with infuriating ease.

Now, ten minutes into the ride, Jeonghan has not stopped complaining—not even once.

“Are we there yet?”
“Why are we in the backseat?”
“This is kidnapping, you know.”
“I can hear you smiling.”

Seungcheol laughs again, softer this time, wiping at the corner of his eyes with his free hand. He tightens their intertwined fingers, grounding himself in the warmth of Jeonghan’s palm.

“Did you finish laughing?” Jeonghan demands, voice muffled slightly by the blindfold, a very clear pout shaping every word.

Seungcheol exhales, still smiling. “I asked you, Hannie,” he says gently, teasing tucked beneath sincerity, “you trust me, right?”

Jeonghan doesn’t answer right away. He sighs instead—long and dramatic—and Seungcheol can picture the pout perfectly without seeing it. When Jeonghan’s grip loosens just a little, something in Seungcheol’s chest tightens.

“Are you mad?” Seungcheol asks quickly, laughter fading as concern takes its place. “Please don’t be mad.”

Jeonghan’s pout deepens—Seungcheol can hear it in his voice when he responds. “I’m not mad,” he says, drawing the words out. “Just… shocked.”

Guilt settles heavy in Seungcheol’s stomach. He squeezes Jeonghan’s hand again, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I was planning this surprise and I thought it’d be okay to do this—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Jeonghan chuckles, the sound sudden and warm, cutting him off completely. “Cheollie,” he says, softer now, fondness overtaking the earlier protest. “You don’t need to say sorry. I was just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t expect… all this.”

Relief floods through Seungcheol so quickly it almost makes him dizzy. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Carefully, he lifts his arm and drapes it around Jeonghan’s shoulders, guiding him closer until Jeonghan’s head rests against his chest. The blindfold stays on, but the tension drains away.

“Sleep first,” Seungcheol murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “The surprise is pretty far.”

Jeonghan hums, the sound vibrating softly against him, and nods once. Seungcheol lowers his head and presses a gentle kiss into Jeonghan’s hair—unhurried, affectionate, certain—before leaning back himself and closing his eyes.

The car continues forward smoothly, carrying them toward whatever comes next, Jeonghan warm and trusting against him, the promise of the surprise steady and real between their joined hands.

As soon as the car comes to a smooth stop, Seungcheol’s eyes open instinctively—like he’s been waiting for this exact second. A smile breaks across his face when he recognizes where they are, relief and quiet excitement settling into his chest all at once. He turns slightly, careful not to jostle Jeonghan too much, and nudges him with gentle insistence.

“Hannie,” he murmurs, voice soft and fond. “Wake up.”

Jeonghan groans in protest, stretching lazily before curling closer instead. His arms tighten around Seungcheol, face burying itself into the warm hollow of his neck, cheek pressed firmly against his shoulder. Seungcheol’s arm is still draped securely around Jeonghan’s shoulders, holding him there without question, without resistance.

Seungcheol chuckles, low and helpless, at the sight—and the feeling—of Jeonghan’s cheek mushed against him. He tilts his head and presses a few light kisses to the bridge of Jeonghan’s nose, each one deliberate, affectionate. The response is immediate: another groan, a soft whine, Jeonghan burrowing even deeper as if determined to disappear into Seungcheol entirely.

“Unbelievable,” Seungcheol murmurs with a fond shake of his head. His fingers slide up to cup Jeonghan’s cheek, thumb brushing slow circles into warm skin. “Han,” he says again, gentler this time, “the surprise is waiting for you.”

Jeonghan groans one last time, long and dramatic, and instinctively reaches up—half-asleep—to tug at the blindfold. Seungcheol catches his hand instantly, fingers closing around his wrist with playful authority.

“Not so fast, chatterbox,” he says, amused. “I’ll take that off for you once we step outside.”

He slips Jeonghan’s bag over his shoulder and opens the car door. Cool, clean air rushes in immediately, carrying the scent of grass and open land—fresh and unmistakable. Seungcheol steps out first, then turns back and reaches for Jeonghan’s hand again, steadying him as he carefully steps down from the car.

Jeonghan’s head tilts slightly, curious despite himself, blindfold still in place. The sight makes Seungcheol smile wider than he means to.

“You ready?” Seungcheol asks.

Jeonghan’s lips curve upward, anticipation creeping into his expression even without sight. He nods.

Seungcheol moves behind him, hands gentle and deliberate as he lifts the blindfold away. He steps back to stand beside Jeonghan just in time to see him blink, rub at his eyes once, twice—

Then freeze.

Jeonghan’s eyes widen, breath catching audibly in his chest as a soft gasp escapes him. Seungcheol’s own breath stutters in response. No matter how many versions of Jeonghan he’s witnessed—happy, devastated, overwhelmed, exhausted, radiant, tearful—this one still hits him the hardest.

Surprise looks beautiful on Jeonghan.

Everything does.

Jeonghan clutches Seungcheol’s arm, fingers digging in like he needs the grounding. “Cheollie…” he breathes. “What is this…?”

Seungcheol follows his gaze, chuckling quietly. Stretching out before them is a vast farmland—wide and open, the earth rolling gently beneath the sky, endless and alive.

He intertwines their fingers again, squeezing lightly. “You remember what I promised you,” he says, voice warm. “Before we started this fake dating arrangement?”

Jeonghan turns to him sharply, eyes still wide. “Cheol—but I was joking about you buying a farm for me, I—”

Seungcheol laughs, unable to help himself at the panic creeping into Jeonghan’s voice. He leans in and steals a quick kiss—soft, fleeting, reassuring—before pulling back with a smile.

“You trust me, right?”

Jeonghan nods absentmindedly, still trying to process everything, and Seungcheol laughs again, shaking his head fondly as he tugs Jeonghan along toward a nearby golf cart.

He helps Jeonghan into the seat, starts the engine, then looks over to find Jeonghan staring around in awe, eyes bright, wonder written all over his face like a child seeing something magical for the first time.

“Ready?” Seungcheol asks.

Jeonghan grins and nods.

Seungcheol hits the pedal—and the golf cart jerks forward with surprising speed.

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!” Jeonghan shrieks, laughter and shock tangled together. “THIS IS NOT F1!”

Seungcheol throws his head back, laughing loud and free as the farmland blurs around them, Jeonghan’s voice ringing out beside him—alive, real, and unmistakably happy.

After a few more minutes in the golf cart—minutes filled with wind whipping past them, Seungcheol’s laughter ringing freely, and Jeonghan’s dramatic screams echoing across the open land—Seungcheol finally eases his foot off the pedal. The cart slows to a gentle roll before coming to a stop beneath the wide canopy of a towering tree. Its branches stretch overhead like sheltering arms, leaves whispering softly in the breeze, sunlight filtering through in scattered patterns on the grass below.

Jeonghan stands up too quickly, adrenaline still buzzing through him. The world tilts for a split second, balance abandoning him entirely—but Seungcheol is already there. He catches Jeonghan around the waist without hesitation, steadying him easily.

Jeonghan laughs, breathless, and playfully punches Seungcheol’s chest. “Oh my god, Seungcheol!”

Seungcheol bursts out laughing again, the sound loud and unrestrained. He cups Jeonghan’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing warm skin, eyes still crinkled with amusement. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “I just got excited. Are you dizzy?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, though the smile tugging at his lips gives him away. He takes a moment to steady himself before turning slowly, gaze sweeping over the endless stretch of farmland once more. The quiet of the place sinks in now—the open sky, the distant rustle of grass, the sense of space that feels almost unreal.

“How did this even happen?” Jeonghan asks, voice softer, awe threading through every word.

Seungcheol watches his expression for a beat, clearly pleased, before gently taking Jeonghan’s hand again. Without answering right away, he guides him around the thick trunk of the tree.

Jeonghan gasps.

Set just beyond the tree’s shade is a long wooden table, sturdy and inviting, surrounded by matching chairs. The surface is filled with food—carefully arranged dishes, drinks catching the sunlight, everything laid out with unmistakable intention. It’s intimate but abundant, simple yet thoughtful, like someone planned it with care rather than extravagance.

Seungcheol gestures toward it with a small, proud smile. “Come on,” he says, nudging Jeonghan forward. “Sit.”

Jeonghan does, still visibly stunned, eyes darting between the table and Seungcheol as if trying to piece everything together.

“Well,” Seungcheol continues as he moves to sit across from him, voice warm and steady, “we’re going to have lunch here—so I can explain how this happened.” He glances around the farm again, then back at Jeonghan, smiling.

“All of it. Everything that led to this… farm.”

The word lands solidly between them, real and undeniable, as the quiet hum of the countryside settles around their table.

start of flashback - a few weeks ago — the morning after dinner.

The day stretches long and exhausting, the kind that leaves Seungcheol’s body aching in that familiar, earned way. Training runs later than expected, his muscles burning, sweat clinging stubbornly to his skin as he pushes through the final laps. Afterward come the sponsors—new faces, polished smiles, handshakes that linger just long enough to feel calculated. He answers questions, listens, nods, performs the role he’s perfected over years of discipline and expectation.

By the time it’s over, the sun has already begun its slow descent.

Seungcheol sits alone for a moment, towel draped around his neck, phone resting heavily in his palm. It vibrates then—once, twice—and his attention sharpens instantly.

Jeonghan.

A message lights up the screen, followed by a selfie. Jeonghan standing by the ocean in Jeju, hair tousled by the wind, smile effortless and bright. Arrived safely! the caption reads, followed by a small heart that feels far louder than it should.

Seungcheol exhales slowly, something settling into place inside his chest.

This is it.

He’s been thinking about it for so long—turning it over in his mind late at night, weighing the risks, the timing, the consequences. He knows now that waiting longer will only make the fear grow teeth. If he’s going to do this, he has to start somewhere.

And he can’t do it alone.

His fingers move quickly, instinctively, dialing the first number without hesitation.

“Cheol? What’s up?” Mingyu answers almost immediately, voice easy, familiar.

“I need your help,” Seungcheol says, skipping pleasantries. “When are you free?”

There’s a brief pause, then, “I don’t have any acting or modeling stuff tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” Seungcheol replies, relief threading into his voice. “Come to my place tomorrow. Wear something comfortable.”

“…Comfortable?” Mingyu repeats, clearly confused.

“You’ll see,” Seungcheol says, smiling despite himself.

Mingyu hesitates only a second before agreeing. They hang up, and Seungcheol doesn’t linger—he scrolls through his contacts again, thumb slowing when he reaches a familiar name.

Soonyoung.

He knows Soonyoung won’t be much help in the practical sense—not like the others—but he also knows something just as important. Soonyoung is Jeonghan’s favorite younger friend, holds a special, untouchable place in his heart. That alone makes him invaluable.

Seungcheol dials.

“Cheol? HEY CHEOL!” Soonyoung’s voice explodes through the speaker, energetic as ever.

Seungcheol chuckles instantly, tension easing just from hearing him. “Soon,” he says, “are you free tomorrow? Whole day.”

“Tomorrow?” Soonyoung replies. “I’m busy.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, even though no one can see it. “Really?”

“Yes,” Soonyoung says cautiously.

“If you clear your schedule tomorrow and meet me at my place,” Seungcheol continues evenly, “you won’t lose your favorite friend card with Jeonghan.”

There’s a beat—then—

“DEAL!”

Seungcheol laughs, shaking his head. “Just wear comfortable clothes.”

“What are we doing?” Soonyoung presses. “Does Jeonghan hyung know? Do the others know?”

“Be quiet,” Seungcheol says fondly. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”

The call ends, and Seungcheol leans back, staring at the ceiling. His thumb hovers over another name—Jisoo. Jeonghan’s longest best friend, his anchor. For a moment, Seungcheol seriously considers it.

But Jisoo is busy. Always working. Always hands-on with baby Heesung. Seungcheol exhales and scrolls again.

Dokyeom.

That’ll work.

He dials, and immediately hears chaos on the other end.

“Don’t hold him like that—Babe!, I swear—”

“Cheol?” Dokyeom cuts in. “Hey? You called? Need something?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, smiling. “Is this a good time, or is Jisoo going to kill both of us?”

Dokyeom laughs. “It’s fine, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“Are you free tomorrow?” Seungcheol asks. “Whole day.”

“I can clear my schedule,” Dokyeom replies easily. “If you need me.”

“Thank you,” Seungcheol says immediately, sincerity unmistakable. “Come to my place tomorrow. Wear comfortable clothes. And—don’t tell Jisoo everything yet.”

Dokyeom chuckles, lowering his voice. “This is about Jeonghan, right?”

Seungcheol laughs quietly. “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

After the call ends, Seungcheol stares at his phone again, weighing his last decision. Vernon or Chan. Vernon’s wedding is in a month—too close, too important to disturb. That leaves only one choice.

He calls Chan.

“Seungcheol hyung? Hey!”

“Chan,” Seungcheol asks immediately, “are you free tomorrow?”

There’s a pause. “Do we need to go to IKEA again, hyung?!”

Seungcheol laughs, shoulders finally loosening. “It’s… kind of like that. But more serious.”

Chan sighs dramatically. “If it’s for my Jeonghan hyung, then I’m in.”

Seungcheol grins. “Meet me at my place tomorrow. Comfortable clothes.”

When the call ends, the silence feels different—charged, expectant. Seungcheol rests the phone against his chest, heart pounding hard and steady.

This is the first real step.

Not a thought. Not a promise whispered in the dark.

But action—taken with the people who know them best, who will help him turn something fragile into something real.

The next morning arrives with precision.

At exactly eight o’clock, the doorbell rings through Seungcheol’s penthouse—clear, insistent, unmistakable. He’s already awake, already dressed, already steady in a plain white shirt and jeans that feel deliberately ordinary for what he’s about to do. When he opens the door, he freezes for half a second before laughter bursts out of him, unrestrained and loud.

Standing in the hallway are Mingyu, Soonyoung, Dokyeom, and Chan—all of them wearing white shirts, just like him, paired with different shades of jeans and pants. It looks accidental. It looks coordinated. It looks ridiculous.

Soonyoung squints down at himself, then at the others, then at Seungcheol. “Wait,” he says, already laughing. “Are we dancing? Is this a performance unit thing?”

Seungcheol chuckles, stepping aside to let them in. “Come on,” he says, amusement threading his voice. “Before someone thinks I started a cult.”

Mingyu enters first, holding up two plastic bags triumphantly. “Breakfast,” he announces. “You’re welcome.”

Chan follows behind him, still yawning, eyes half-closed. “Perfect,” he mutters. “I woke up early so I wouldn’t be late for whatever this is.”

Dokyeom trails in last, laughing softly to himself. “Jisoo’s already suspicious,” he says, shaking his head. “I told him I had an appointment with you and the others and he just stared at me for a full minute.”

They settle around the dining table easily—years of familiarity making the movement natural. Mingyu starts unpacking food, Chan reaches for coffee, Dokyeom leans back in his chair. It feels like any other gathering, casual and warm—until Mingyu looks up.

“Okay,” he says, eyebrows knitting together. “Cheol, what is this meeting for? And why only us? Where are the others?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, fingers wrapped loosely around his coffee mug. He chuckles once, then speaks with deliberate calm.

“I think,” he says lightly, “I’m ready to settle down.”

Silence.

The coffee machine hums in the background, painfully loud in the absence of any other sound. Chan freezes mid-bite, croissant hovering inches from his mouth. Dokyeom’s hand flies up to cover his lips, eyes wide. Mingyu stares at Seungcheol like he’s misheard something fundamental.

“You’re—” Mingyu starts. “You’re joking, right?”

Seungcheol smiles faintly. “When have I ever joked,” he says, “especially about Jeonghan?”

Silence again.

And then—

Soonyoung bursts into tears.

“Cheol hyung!” he cries, already standing up. “I don’t call you hyung often—not like my Hannie hyung—but I’m so happy for you! This has been a long time coming!”

Mingyu stands abruptly, hands on his head, pacing back and forth. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “I actually can’t believe this.”

Dokyeom’s hand is still covering his mouth when he finally speaks. “After almost fifteen years,” he says slowly, “did you finally realize that you’re in love—”

“I need your help,” Seungcheol cuts in, gentle but firm.

The four of them stare at him, disbelief still hanging heavy in the air, while Seungcheol calmly sips his coffee like he hasn’t just shattered their collective understanding of reality.

Dokyeom blinks first. “Okay,” he says. “So what’s the plan? Are you planning to propose—?”

Mingyu screams. Actually screams—then drops to the floor dramatically. “Propose immediately?!”

Chan stands up, panic written all over his face. “DO I NEED TO PREPARE FOR ANOTHER WEDDING?”

Seungcheol finally bursts out laughing, nearly spilling his coffee. “You guys—calm down!”

It takes a few minutes—several dramatic reactions, a pillow thrown, and multiple groans later—before they all settle back into their seats, facing Seungcheol expectantly.

Dokyeom tilts his head. “Okay. What do you mean by ‘settling down,’ Cheol?”

Seungcheol exhales, smiling softly now. “We’re going farm hunting today.”

Silence.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I know, I know—it sounds confusing. But you all know Jeonghan grew up in the countryside. He was basically raised on a farm. He loves that life. And I promised him that I’d buy him a farm next to mine.” He pauses, gaze steady. “I think the time’s come.”

Silence again—then Soonyoung smiles through lingering tears. “Wow,” he says quietly. “That’s… romantic.”

Chan shoots to his feet once more. “So that’s why you told us to wear comfortable clothes,” he says, realization dawning. “We’re visiting farms?!”

Seungcheol laughs. “Exactly.”

Mingyu screams again. Dokyeom looks stunned—but then he smiles, wide and genuine, eyes softening as he looks at Seungcheol. “Cheol,” he says quietly, “I’m happy for you. Finally. You’re finally choosing your happiness.”

Soonyoung sniffles. “I’ve been choosing Jihoon since high school,” he says sadly. “And we still haven’t made progress.”

Mingyu immediately stands and pulls Soonyoung into a hug. “Me too with Wonwoo! I’ve been courting him since high school and he still hasn’t said yes!”

Dokyeom throws a pillow at both of them. “Idiots! That’s why Jihoon and Wonwoo can’t take you seriously! And anyway—this isn’t about you two. This is about Seungcheol and Jeonghan.”

Mingyu sticks his tongue out. Chan, finally calm, looks back at Seungcheol. “So, hyung,” he asks, “do you already have prospects?”

Seungcheol’s smile turns mischievous. He sets his coffee down and meets all of their eyes. “Get your phones ready,” he says. “We’re researching and calling all morning.”

The collective groan that follows fills the penthouse—followed by laughter—as Seungcheol grabs his laptop, fully committed to turning his promise into something real.

“So it is possible to visit the farms this afternoon?” Seungcheol asks, phone pressed to his ear, posture straight despite the exhaustion tugging at his shoulders. He listens closely, nodding even though the other person can’t see him. “Perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Kim.”

He ends the call and looks up, triumph lighting his face before he even says a word.

The other four are scattered around the living area, phones still in hand, empty pizza boxes and half-eaten slices spread across the table—a quiet testament to the last four hours. Four solid hours of relentless searching, calling, scrolling through real estate listings, squinting at satellite images, and learning far more about zoning laws and land boundaries than any of them ever intended.

But it paid off.

They’d gone into it knowing they had limited time and even more limited expertise. None of them were professionals—not in land ownership, not in agriculture—but they did what they could. They searched every real estate site they could find, any platform that even hinted at selling farmland or open plots. And somewhere deep in the chaos of Naver listings, Seungcheol had finally struck gold.

A seller willing to meet the same day.

“It’s just outside Seoul,” Seungcheol says, voice steady with contained excitement. “About an hour and a half drive. We need to leave soon if we want to see it while there’s still daylight.”

A collective groan rises immediately.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair, still chewing his pizza. “I seriously can’t believe this,” he mutters, shaking his head like the reality still hasn’t landed.

Dokyeom is already dialing his phone, pacing slightly. “Babe,” he says into the receiver, voice softening instantly. “Yeah… I might be home later than I thought. I’ll explain when I get there, okay?” He listens, smiles, and nods before hanging up.

Soonyoung drapes an arm dramatically over Seungcheol’s shoulders, eyes wide, hand pressed to his chest like he’s trying to calm his heartbeat. “My heart is still pounding,” he says breathlessly. “I can’t believe I’m part of this.”

Chan, without missing a beat, tosses a tissue at him. “Hyung,” he says flatly, “you’re only here because Jeonghan hyung likes you—and because Seungcheol hyung needs your approval. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know anything.”

Soonyoung spins around, offended. “Excuse me?! I bring emotional support!”

“You bring noise,” Chan fires back.

The two of them devolve into bickering instantly, voices overlapping, gestures exaggerated, sounding more like siblings than friends. Seungcheol just shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gathers his keys and wallet.

Despite the chaos—despite the disbelief, the teasing, the exhaustion—there’s a quiet certainty anchoring him now.

This is happening.

With the sun still high enough to guide them, Seungcheol leads the way out, his friends following behind—complaining, laughing, arguing—ready to see the land that might soon become a part of his future.

The drive stretches into an hour and a half of noise and warmth—loud singing that veers wildly off-key, arguments about directions that don’t matter anymore, debates that start serious and dissolve into laughter before anyone can win. The city thins gradually, buildings giving way to open roads, the sky widening above them until it feels like they’re driving straight into something quieter and older.

Then Seungcheol slows.

Ahead, beyond the narrow road, the land opens up—vast and unbroken. As he continues forward, he spots an old pickup truck parked near the edge of the fields, its paint dulled by time. An elderly man stands beside it, hands folded patiently behind his back, waiting.

Seungcheol parks the car.

All five of them step out at once—and stop.

A collective gasp leaves them as they take in the farmland stretching endlessly before them. Grass ripples gently in the breeze, the land breathing beneath the afternoon sun. It’s wide. It’s open. It feels like possibility.

The old man smiles as he walks toward them, steps unhurried. “Hello,” he says warmly. “I didn’t expect to see young men here.”

Seungcheol moves forward immediately, heart steady despite the weight in his chest. He bows slightly before extending his hand. “Mr. Kim,” he says, voice respectful. “I’m Choi Seungcheol—the one who called earlier. Thank you so much for being willing to show us the farm today.”

Mr. Kim chuckles as he shakes Seungcheol’s hand, his grip firm despite his age. The others bow in turn, greeting him politely, each shaking his hand. Mr. Kim bows back, clearly amused and touched.

Before continuing, he pauses. “Ah—before I introduce the farm, let me get something.”

He turns back to his truck, rummaging briefly before returning with a small stack of posters and folded shirts. He scratches the back of his head, shy now. “I’m sorry,” he says with a gentle laugh. “When we received the call earlier and heard your name… my wife prepared these immediately. They’re for my son. He’s a huge fan of yours.”

Something soft settles in Seungcheol’s chest. Without hesitation, he takes the pen offered to him and signs each poster and shirt carefully, taking his time. Mr. Kim bows deeply afterward, gratitude clear in the way his hands tremble slightly as he accepts them. He shakes Seungcheol’s hand again, lingering just a second longer.

Then, finally, he turns toward the land.

“This farm,” Mr. Kim begins, sweeping his hand outward, “was inherited from my grandparents. It’s been our family’s livelihood for generations.” His voice carries pride, but also fatigue. “We used to raise many animals here—cows, goats, chickens. We planted vegetables, fruit trees. It was always full of life.”

The five of them listen closely, eyes tracing the horizon as he speaks.

Chan hesitates before asking gently, “Sir… you said the farm was full of animals and plants. But now it’s all clean grass. What happened?”

Mr. Kim’s smile fades—not completely, but enough to reveal the ache beneath it. “My son had an accident three years ago,” he says quietly. “He was the one managing the farm. But after the accident…” He pauses. “They had to amputate both his legs.”

The wind shifts. The land feels suddenly heavier.

“My wife and I tried,” Mr. Kim continues, voice steady but worn. “We really did. But at our age… physically, we can’t anymore. So we posted the listing last year.” He lets out a soft, resigned chuckle. “No one called. No one visited. We weren’t expecting anyone to buy it.”

Seungcheol nods slowly, gaze fixed on the field ahead—on what it once was, and what it could be again.

“May we look around?” he asks.

Mr. Kim gestures warmly toward the land. “Of course. I’ll wait here—my old legs can’t keep up with young people like you.”

The five of them laugh softly as they walk forward, shoes brushing against the grass. With every step, Seungcheol feels his heart pound harder, faster. The land feels right. It feels honest. It feels like the beginning of something he’s been carrying in his chest for years.

Mingyu slips an arm over Seungcheol’s shoulder, voice low. “This is perfect, Cheol,” he says. “You taking it?”

Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate.

He nods.

They don’t linger long after the decision is made.

Seungcheol stands with the others near the edge of the land, the grass still warm beneath their shoes, the late afternoon sun stretching shadows across the fields. He turns back to Mr. Kim and bows deeply, sincerity written plainly on his face.

“The land is perfect,” Seungcheol says, voice steady despite the rush in his chest. “I’ll call you again soon. I want to visit a few more times—to finalize everything properly.”

Mr. Kim bows in return, lower this time, eyes glassy as he straightens. He wipes at them quickly, embarrassed but unable to hide the relief trembling in his smile. They’ve been waiting for this—for someone to see the land not as abandoned ground, but as something worth believing in again.

The five of them bow together, exchanging final words and quiet thanks before turning back toward the car.

The drive home is nothing like the one before.

No music. No arguments. No shouting over one another.

Just silence—thick, thoughtful, heavy with meaning.

They all feel it: the gravity of what Seungcheol has chosen. They know him well enough to understand that once his mind settles like this, there is no turning back. This decision isn’t just about land—it’s about a future that will quietly, irrevocably reshape their lives.

And somehow, none of them doubt it.

When they arrive back at the penthouse, Dokyeom is the first to move. He steps forward and pulls Seungcheol into a firm hug, patting his back twice. “You’ve got us, Cheol,” he says without hesitation. “Whatever you need—paperwork, muscle, emotional support—we’re here.”

Soonyoung wipes at his eyes, already tearing up again. “Hyung,” he says, voice wobbling, “I love you both. I’m really happy for you.”

Seungcheol chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Chan scoffs and punches Seungcheol lightly on the shoulder. “Hyung,” he says, half-laughing, “you dragged us an hour and a half out of Seoul to look at land. This is already serious.”

They laugh together then—relieved, loud, familiar.

After long goodbyes, shared plans, and repeated reassurances about what comes next, the door finally closes. Silence settles over the penthouse, calm and complete.

Seungcheol exhales and smiles to himself.

This is it.

The days that follow blur together.

Seungcheol rearranges his schedule carefully, telling his staff he’ll be busy most afternoons for a while—“personal errands,” he explains. During those hours, he’s rarely alone. Chan accompanies him on nights when his bar opens late. Mingyu comes along during the day, freshly done with his movie shoot and restless in his downtime.

Gradually, the circle widens.

Dokyeom can’t keep the secret from Jisoo for more than a day—and when he finally spills, Seungcheol only sighs, resigned. Jisoo doesn’t scold him; he just nods, understanding immediately. From then on, every visit to the farm includes FaceTime calls—Jun and Minghao watching from China, smiling brightly through the screen; Vernon and Seungkwan joining between wedding preparations, offering opinions and teasing encouragement.

Everyone knows now.

Everyone except Jeonghan.

And that is the hardest part.

White lies have never been a problem between them—not when it comes to birthdays or surprise visits—but this feels different. Heavier. Every time Jeonghan calls, Seungcheol makes sure he’s either in his car or somewhere indoors, careful with camera angles, careful with his words.

Soonyoung, who also FaceTimes Jeonghan constantly, is placed under strict supervision. Jihoon eventually confiscates his phone outright. Seungcheol tells Jeonghan that Soonyoung’s been busy lately, that his phone is broken—Jeonghan laughs and accepts it easily, unaware of how tightly Seungcheol grips the truth.

Wonwoo helps with paperwork quietly and efficiently, his father’s influence smoothing the process where it matters most. Mingyu, meanwhile, grows close to Mr. Kim—too close, Seungcheol thinks, watching them bicker endlessly from the driver’s seat with Mingyu telling Mr.Kim on how he is currently pursuing Wonwoo who is literally sitting in front of them.

Weeks pass like this—rushed, exhausting, overwhelming, and filled with laughter. Legal inspections. Administrative hurdles. Long afternoons standing on land that grows more familiar each time.

And then, finally, it’s done.

Seungcheol sits alone at the table, pen still warm in his hand after signing the last document. Ownership finalized. The future no longer hypothetical.

He unlocks his phone.

Jeonghan’s sleeping face fills the screen, soft and peaceful, entirely unaware.

Seungcheol smiles and murmurs, certain and steady, “This is it, chatterbox.”

end of flashback

The farm smells like warmth before Jeonghan even registers what’s on the table.

It takes him a second—maybe more—to catch up to the present, because he’s still reeling from everything that came before it. From the way the day unfolded like a secret carefully held for years. From the fact that Seungcheol and their friends had prepared this place, tended to it, filled it with life—and somehow kept it from him. Every step inside the farmhouse feels like walking into a memory he was never supposed to miss, yet somehow did.

Jeonghan stands there, quiet for once, eyes tracing the long wooden table laid out beneath the branches of the old tree. Sunlight pours in generously, turning the edges of plates soft and golden. There’s steak resting beside roasted potatoes, a bowl of greens dressed simply, bread still warm enough to steam faintly when torn. It’s not extravagant, not styled—but it’s perfect in a way that makes his chest tighten.

“You really… did all of this,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe.

Seungcheol watches him from across the table, sleeves rolled up, expression fond and unreadable in that way that always makes Jeonghan feel like he’s being looked after without asking for it. “We did,” he says gently. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Jeonghan laughs under his breath, still stunned, still smiling like someone afraid the moment might disappear if he blinks too hard. They sit side by side, close enough that their elbows brush, close enough that Seungcheol automatically reaches for Jeonghan’s plate before he even realizes he’s doing it.

He cuts the steak into neat pieces—slow, practiced, careful—and shifts the potatoes closer. Jeonghan doesn’t comment. He never does. He just keeps talking.

“And Paris was insane,” Jeonghan says between bites, eyes lighting up as the shock gives way to excitement. “The light there—it hits everything softer. I did this early morning shoot near the river, and I swear the air itself felt romantic. Singapore was the opposite—sharp, clean, futuristic. I kept thinking how you’d love it. Jeju was quiet, though. It reminded me of this place. Sydney was chaos, but the good kind. Wind everywhere. I almost lost a jacket.”

Seungcheol hums, listening like every word is something precious. He nods at the right moments, smiles when Jeonghan laughs, reaches over without interrupting to wipe a smudge of sauce from the corner of Jeonghan’s mouth. The gesture is so casual it barely registers—except Jeonghan pauses, blinks, then continues talking as if this has always been the shape of them.

“Drink,” Seungcheol murmurs, nudging the glass closer.

Jeonghan obeys, rolling his eyes affectionately as he takes a sip. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You forget,” Seungcheol says, smiling softly.

“I don’t forget,” Jeonghan counters. “I just let you.”

They eat like that—unhurried, unguarded. Jeonghan talks about brand meetings and creative directors, about exhaustion and excitement tangled together, about how strange it feels to be everywhere and still miss home. Seungcheol listens, heart steady and loud at the same time, feeling every word settle somewhere deep.

“We should travel together,” Jeonghan says suddenly, like the thought just occurred to him. “No schedules. No shoots. Just… go.”

Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate. “I’m free,” he says. “For anything. With you.”

The way Jeonghan looks at him then—soft, surprised, almost shy—makes Seungcheol’s chest ache.

After lunch, they walk.

Hand in hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The farm stretches around them, alive with late afternoon sounds—leaves shifting, distant animals, the earth breathing. Jeonghan talks again, animated, pointing toward open fields, describing what he wants to build. A small greenhouse here. A place for his favorite animals. A long table outside for friends. Lights strung between trees. Somewhere quiet to sit when the world gets too loud.

Seungcheol listens, but more than that—he watches. The way Jeonghan’s face opens when he talks about the future. The way happiness settles into him like it finally knows where it belongs.

His heart starts pounding then, heavy and undeniable. Not fear. Not confusion. Just truth arriving all at once.

The sun sinks lower, turning the sky orange and pink, bleeding color into everything it touches. Jeonghan wanders ahead, lifting his camera, chasing the light like he always does. He moves freely, hair caught by the wind, laughter carried softly through the air. He looks back over his shoulder, spots Seungcheol standing beneath the old tree, and smiles.

He waves.

Seungcheol waves back.

Something clicks into place.

He has spent his whole life trying to name this feeling—trying to be careful with it, trying to keep it quiet. But now, standing there as the day fades and the light wraps Jeonghan in gold, he doesn’t need words anymore. He hears it in the silence between them. He hears it in every car ride home they’ve taken since they were fifteen. He sees it in every bright day and every dark one they survived side by side.

It’s steady. It’s certain. It’s already written into everything they are.

Seungcheol is in love with his best friend.

Seungcheol is in love with Jeonghan.

Seungcheol doesn’t realize Jeonghan is already standing in front of him—not at first.

He’s still rooted beneath the tree, heart hammering so loudly it feels like it might echo across the fields, like the land itself could hear the confession he’s finally allowed himself to make. His chest feels open, unguarded. For the first time in longer than he can remember, breathing comes easily—deep and full and unafraid. As if admitting the truth has loosened something knotted tight inside him for years.

He’s in love. Completely. Hopelessly. With his best friend.

The realization settles not like panic, but like relief.

Then warmth slips into his hand.

Jeonghan’s fingers slide between his—natural, effortless—and Seungcheol startles softly, blinking as the world snaps back into focus. Jeonghan is right there, close enough that Seungcheol can see the faint pink at the tip of his nose from the cold, the way his hair is still wind-tousled from running around with his camera.

“Let’s go?” Jeonghan says brightly, squeezing his hand. “It’s getting chilly here, Cheollie.”

The nickname lands gently, familiarly, right over Seungcheol’s heart. He smiles—a small, private smile meant only for Jeonghan—and lets himself be pulled forward, feet moving before his thoughts catch up. The sky behind them deepens into dusk as they head toward the car waiting at the edge of the drive, the farm fading into shadow but not into distance. Not really. It feels permanent now, stitched into them.

The car ride is quiet.

Not awkward—never that—but comfortable in the way only years of shared silence can be. The heater hums softly. The road stretches ahead, dark and steady. Jeonghan curls slightly into his seat, absorbed in his phone, thumbs tapping with focus.

Seungcheol sneaks glances when he thinks Jeonghan won’t notice.

On the screen, little animated cats bustle around a forest soup restaurant, chopping vegetables, running pots, scampering happily between trees. Seungcheol doesn’t understand the game at all, only that Jeonghan loves it—and that alone makes it endearing. He smiles to himself, heart doing that ridiculous, tender flip it seems determined to keep doing tonight.

Then Jeonghan looks up.

“I took a stolen picture of you earlier,” he says casually, like it’s not a dangerous thing to admit. “Can I post it on my Instagram?”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound light and surprised. “Yeah,” he says. “Go ahead.”

“Yay,” Jeonghan replies immediately, already editing—adjusting the light, the contrast, pausing thoughtfully before nodding in satisfaction. A moment later, he posts it with a single green heart as the caption. 💚

Something about that feels intimate in a way Seungcheol doesn’t quite know how to name.

By the time they arrive at Jeonghan’s place, night has fully settled. The building glows warmly, familiar and lived-in, and the quiet hum of the city wraps around them as they step out of the car. Seungcheol barely has time to turn before Jeonghan is in front of him again—closer this time.

And then—

A kiss.

Jeonghan’s lips brush his, almost shy in their certainty, and Seungcheol freezes for half a heartbeat before the warmth rushes everywhere at once. When Jeonghan pulls back, his cheeks are pink, eyes shining with something gentle and sincere.

“Thank you,” Jeonghan says quietly. “For always making me happy, Cheollie.”

Seungcheol’s smile is immediate, unguarded. “I’m happy,” he says, voice steady, “when you’re happy.”

Jeonghan huffs a laugh, the moment turning playful as easily as it turned tender. “You know,” he adds, pointing at him teasingly, “you’re turning thirty next week.”

Seungcheol groans dramatically. “Don’t miss the party, okay? I want you to be there.”

Jeonghan grins. “I’ll come the night before,” he promises. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

The certainty in his voice quiets something deep in Seungcheol’s chest. He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead, lingering just long enough to mean something.

“See you soon,” Seungcheol says.

Jeonghan watches him leave with a smile that stays even after the door closes—and Seungcheol walks away knowing, without doubt, that this isn’t an ending or a maybe or a question waiting to be answered.

It’s a beginning—clear, solid, and finally spoken in the way that matters most.

******

Seungcheol stood at the center of the room, shoulders squared, posture immaculate—yet his face betrayed him.

It was the look of someone waiting for a promise to be kept.

And quietly bracing for the possibility that it wouldn’t be.

The chandeliers burned bright overhead, cascading light down in molten gold, scattering it across a sea of people who filled the hotel ballroom wall to wall. Faces he’d known for years—teammates, rivals, mentors. Faces he’d only ever seen through screens until tonight, all polished smiles and practiced admiration. Faces that softened when the cameras swung their way, laughter blooming on command. Champagne glasses chimed together endlessly, catching the light like fractured stars, the sound sharp and celebratory and relentless.

To everyone else, it is perfect.

A milestone. A spectacle. A victory lap.

To Choi Seungcheol, it is all noise.

He is the reason they are all here—the celebrated racer, the golden boy of the circuit, thirty years old and somehow still standing at the very top. The banners bore his name. The screens looped highlights of his career: wins, podiums, moments of glory slowed down until they looked almost unreal.

And yet, standing in the middle of it all, he felt strangely hollow—like an actor trapped onstage long after the meaning of the script had slipped away.

Every laugh sounded rehearsed.

Every handshake lingered a beat too long.

Every compliment felt borrowed.

His fingers twitched toward the watch on his wrist before he could stop himself.

4:00 p.m.

He’d checked it so often the motion had become muscle memory. The cake was already gone, sliced and served and praised. The candles had burned down into a glossy, sugary ruin. His parents had hugged him tight, pride shining in their eyes. His friends had raised their glasses, shouted toasts that made the room erupt in cheers. Sponsors hovered nearby—circling, smiling, talking about upcoming seasons, new contracts, another race he didn’t know if he had the heart to run.

But all Seungcheol could think about was the space beside him.

Empty.

Unclaimed.

Wrong.

The one person who is supposed to stand there—the one who had promised—isn’t.

He hated himself for it, but his gaze kept drifting to the ballroom entrance. Every few minutes. Every time the tall doors opened, his heart leapt before his mind could stop it, hope flaring sharp and bright—

—and then collapsing just as quickly when it wasn’t him.

No Jeonghan.

No familiar laugh cutting through the crowd.

No wind-tossed hair, no camera slung carelessly over a shoulder, no smile meant only for him.

No call.

No message.

Just silence.

And God—he hated how much it hurt.

He knew where Jeonghan was. Paris. A shoot that would likely dominate social media by morning, photos edited to perfection before Seungcheol even woke up tomorrow. Jeonghan had told him about it weeks ago, had apologized even while accepting it. But he’d promised—swore—that he’d make it back in time.

“Even if I land an hour before the party,” Jeonghan had said, voice warm and sure. “You’re turning thirty, Cheollie. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Except the world, it seemed, had other plans.

Seungcheol had tried calling all day till the start of the party. Once. Twice. Thrice.  The calls went unanswered. He told himself Jeonghan must have been busy—shoots ran late, flights got delayed, schedules slipped. He told himself not to spiral, not to assume, not to let doubt creep in where trust had lived for years.

Still, as the afternoon dragged on and the sun dipped lower behind the ballroom windows, the ache behind his ribs grew heavier—settling in, unrelenting.

Then he heard it.

Not meant for him. A whisper carried just far enough.

“Where’s the boyfriend?” someone murmured, half-amused. “You’d think he’d show up for something like this.”

The word boyfriend landed like a bruise.

Seungcheol’s smile faltered—just for a moment, just long enough for the truth to slip through—before he forced it back into place, polished and presentable. He laughed when someone clapped him on the shoulder. He lifted his glass when cameras turned his way, teeth flashing, eyes crinkling just right. He posed, nodded, thanked, endured.

Jisoo finds him near the edge of the space, where the light thins and the air feels heavier than it should. Seungcheol is standing still, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the immediate present—as if he’s listening for something only he can hear.

“Cheol,” Jisoo says softly, concern creasing his brow. “I tried reaching Jeonghan. I called his manager too—neither of them is responding.” He hesitates before adding, quieter now, “Vernon checked the flights. A lot of them are getting delayed. Some are cancelled outright. The storm’s worse than expected.”

The words land carefully, but their weight is unmistakable.

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and lets a small smile curve at the corner of his mouth. It isn’t careless or dismissive—it’s measured, grounded, as if he’s already braced himself for this possibility. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. His gaze remains steady, anchored, unwavering in a way that suggests patience rather than denial.

Jisoo studies him for a moment longer, then nods, trusting that silence.

Not long after, Seungkwan appears at Seungcheol’s side, bumping his shoulder lightly with an elbow. “Hyung,” he says, voice deliberately bright, “cheer up. Jeonghan-hyung will arrive in no time. You know storms can’t stop him—not when he’s decided on something.”

Seungcheol lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and finally turns back toward them. His smile deepens—not because the worry is gone, but because it’s shared now, softened by the people standing beside him.

“He always does,” Seungcheol says, certainty threaded through his calm.

But inside, he was exhausted.

Tired of the lights that never dimmed.

Tired of the questions that never stopped.

Tired of pretending that the empty space beside him didn’t matter.

Because it did.

Because no amount of applause could fill it.

By the time he finally left the hotel, the sky had broken open.

Rain came down in sheets, unforgiving and loud, drumming against the pavement and streaking violently across the tinted windows of his car. The city dissolved into silver smears and wavering shadows, streetlights bleeding into one another until nothing looked solid anymore. Seungcheol leaned his head against the cold glass, eyes unfocused, jaw tight. The low hum of the engine vibrated through his bones, steady and dull, as if trying to keep him tethered to the present.

His phone lit up again. And again.

Mentions. Tags. Headlines already being written about the party, about his career, about thirty years of excellence and endurance. Well-wishes from people who barely knew him. He stared at the glowing screen for a long moment—then turned it off completely and dropped it into the cup holder.

The silence that followed felt merciful.

The rain filled the space instead, a constant, rushing sound that wrapped around him like white noise. It reminded him of long drives after races, of nights when the world felt far away enough to survive.

Unbidden, his mind drifted to Jeonghan’s last text.

Packing up. See you soon, old man.

Two days ago.

At the time, he’d smiled—rolled his eyes, typed back something equally teasing. He’d believed it without question. Why wouldn’t he have?

Now, the words sat heavy in his chest.

When the car pulled into the private garage and the engine shut off, the quiet returned in full force. His penthouse greeted him the way it always did—pristine, expansive, beautifully empty. Tonight, the emptiness felt louder. He toed off his shoes, dropped his jacket over the back of the couch without caring where it landed, and wandered toward the windows that stretched floor to ceiling.

Rain lashed against the glass, relentless, each drop tapping like something desperate to be let in.

The clock on the wall read 10:30 p.m.

He let out a long breath—slow, controlled, sad at the edges.

Jeonghan is his best friend.

Not his lover—not truly, not yet. What they were, what they had agreed to be, had begun as something careful and contained. A mutual decision born out of convenience, protection. A performance polished enough to keep the world at bay, a shield against rumors and questions and the kind of loneliness neither of them had the energy to unpack out loud.

Except lies, no matter how gently told, only stayed clean for so long.

Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred—quietly, almost tenderly—until Seungcheol realized Jeonghan had slipped past the edges of the act and into the unguarded spaces of his life. He was there in the early morning calls where time zones collapsed into shared silence. In the teasing messages sent before races, carefully timed to pull a smile from Seungcheol’s mouth when his nerves were frayed. In the soft, habitual stay safe Jeonghan never forgot, no matter how busy or exhausted he was.

Seungcheol knows—has always known, even before he admitted it—that his world orbits that laugh, that voice. And tonight, without it, everything feels off. Tilted. Misaligned. Like furniture shifted an inch out of place—subtle, but impossible to ignore once noticed.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaustion settling heavy on his shoulders until his posture folds inward under its weight. The room feels too quiet, too large, as if it’s holding its breath with him.

“Promises are really hard to keep,” he mutters to no one.

His phone lights up his palm as he checks it again. Jeonghan’s sleeping face stares back at him from the screen—soft, peaceful, entirely unaware. Still no missed calls. No messages. Nothing.

Seungcheol has always given Jeonghan the benefit of the doubt. Always. Trust comes easily where Jeonghan is concerned. But he is still human, and trust does not erase the ache that settles in his chest—the dull, persistent throb that comes when the most important person in his life is nowhere to be found on his birthday, when the night keeps moving forward without him.

He changed into a plain shirt, movements slow and mechanical, every part of him ready to let the day end without ceremony. The clock ticked on, merciless.

11:30 p.m.

Thirty minutes left before his birthday slipped quietly into the past—another memory filed away with all the others he didn’t revisit unless forced to.

He reached for the light switch.

The doorbell rang.

Once.

Twice.

Seungcheol froze, hand hovering in midair. No one visited this late. Everyone who mattered had already come and gone. His heart kicked hard against his ribs as he crossed the room, unease prickling under his skin.

When he opened the door, the world seemed to stutter—like time itself forgot how to move.

Jeonghan stood there.

Soaked through, rainwater dripping from his hair and trailing down his face, clinging to his lashes. His clothes were plastered to him, darkened with water, shoulders trembling faintly from the cold. In his arms, he held a small transparent cake box, the plastic fogged over, and several luxury paper bags that had clearly suffered the storm with him—edges crumpled, logos smeared.

He looked wrecked.

And breathtaking.

His smile wavered when he saw Seungcheol, but it was still unmistakably his—bright and soft and stubbornly warm, even now. “Happy birthday, Cheol,” Jeonghan said, voice shaking as he began to sing, quietly, the melody barely rising above the sound of rain pounding marble behind him.

Halfway through, his voice broke.

Seungcheol couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

The sight of him—drenched, shivering, eyes shining with tears he refused to let fall—tightened something vicious around Seungcheol’s throat. Every complaint, every bitter thought he’d rehearsed collapsed under the weight of Jeonghan standing here, having crossed oceans and storms to keep a promise.

Jeonghan faltered when Seungcheol didn’t respond. The song faded into silence. For a suspended heartbeat, there was nothing but rain and the space between them—heavy with everything they’d never said aloud.

Then Jeonghan blinked.

A single tear slipped free, carving a clean line down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice small, unsteady. “I tried. I swear I did.”

start of flashback

When Jeonghan boarded the car to Charles de Gaulle that morning, everything in him felt light.

His body ached from back-to-back shoots, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, but none of it mattered — he was going home.

Home.

That word had started to mean Seungcheol.

He’d promised him he would be there — “Even if I have to fly straight from the runway to your party, I’ll make it before the cake melts.”

And when Seungcheol laughed, saying, “You don’t have to do that,” Jeonghan only smiled. “I want to.”

Now, as the Paris morning sunlight spilled across the sleek airport floors, Jeonghan’s grin stretched ear to ear. In his hands, he carried a stack of glossy paper bags — Dior, Celine, Cartier — little things that reminded him of Seungcheol. A cologne that smelled like rain and cedar, a new watch he’d picked out just because it felt like him.

He imagined Seungcheol’s face when he’d see him at the door, imagined the way the other man’s eyes would soften even if he tried to act indifferent. The thought alone kept Jeonghan’s heart fluttering all the way to the check-in counter.

But the moment he reached the terminal, his world cracked.

The announcement echoed overhead — calm, impersonal, final.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that Flight AF274 to Seoul will be delayed due to technical maintenance and weather restrictions. Estimated wait time is currently unknown.”

Jeonghan froze.

He turned to the nearest attendant, panic creeping into his voice.

“There must be another flight, right? I just— I need to get to Seoul tonight.”

The hostess offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have a new estimate yet. It could be a few hours.”

A few hours.

The words hit harder than expected.

His stomach twisted, and he clenched the straps of his bags tighter. A few hours meant he wouldn’t make it to the party before it ended.

He could already see Seungcheol — surrounded by people, smiling for the cameras, pretending everything was fine — waiting for a message that wouldn’t come.

He felt sick.

He spent the next hour pacing the gate, checking the departures board like it would change if he stared long enough. At some point, he realized his phone was gone — left somewhere between security and the coffee counter, maybe. A small mistake, but it made him feel untethered.

No phone meant no message. No way to tell Seungcheol he was trying.

He pressed his hands against his face and inhaled deeply. “Think, Jeonghan. Think.”

Then, he made a decision.

He talked to his manager, voice trembling. “Book me whatever’s fastest. I don’t care where it connects — just get me home.”

Within an hour, he was boarding a different flight — Paris to Dubai, then Dubai to Seoul — a desperate detour that carved hours into his already thin patience. He left his luggage behind, took only his carry-on and the paper bags clutched tightly to his chest. They were damp with sweat by the time he sat in his seat, heart pounding as the plane took off into the heavy Paris sky.

By the time he landed in Dubai, the exhaustion hit.

The terminal lights were too bright. The announcements too loud. And when he checked the board again, his heart dropped.

Next flight to Seoul: 3 hours.

Three hours of waiting. Eight more hours of flight time.

He slumped into a seat by the window, staring blankly at the runways outside. Planes came and went, streaks of light against the dawn. He thought of Seungcheol again — how he’d probably be in the middle of that grand party now, smiling that tight, polite smile Jeonghan hated. The one that never reached his eyes.

“I’m coming,” he whispered to no one, fingers curling around the paper bag handles. “Just wait for me a little longer, Cheol.”

The journey blurred after that — hours folding into each other like a dream he couldn’t wake from. The hum of the plane, the ache in his shoulders, the cold window pressed to his cheek. He barely noticed when night fell again.

When he finally landed in Seoul, nearly twenty-four hours had passed.

The rain was merciless — thick, cold, unrelenting. His hair plastered to his forehead as he dashed through the terminal, clutching his gifts against his chest like fragile hope. He flagged down a taxi, voice trembling when he gave the address.

“Please hurry.”

The driver shot him a weary glance in the mirror. “It’s a storm, sir. I’ll go as fast as I can.”

The city passed by in streaks of gray and gold, neon lights reflecting on wet pavement. Jeonghan’s fingers were numb by the time the taxi stopped outside the exclusive complex gates.

“No entry without permit,” the guard said.

Jeonghan forced a smile, his voice breaking. “It’s okay. I’ll manage.”

And so he ran.

Through the storm, his shoes sloshing in puddles, his clothes soaked through. The paper bags were crumpled, the ink from the logos bleeding. But he didn’t stop.

When he reached the elevator, he caught a glimpse of the digital clock above the doors. 11:29 p.m.

His chest tightened. He still had time.

The doors opened. He stumbled out, breathless, dripping, his heart racing faster than it ever had. He pressed the doorbell once, twice, thrice — praying, silently, please be home, please open the door.

And when the door finally swung open, Jeonghan froze.

Seungcheol stood there, still in his home clothes, eyes tired, face unreadable. The room behind him was dim, quiet — empty of laughter, candles, or music.

Jeonghan’s throat went dry.

But he forced a smile, trembling as he lifted the small, transparent cake box between them.

“Happy birthday, Cheol,” he said, voice quivering as he began to sing — the melody uneven, soft, out of breath.

Halfway through, his voice cracked. He saw the flicker in Seungcheol’s eyes — not anger, not even surprise, just… something unreadable.

It felt like a punch to the stomach.

He tried to smile through it, but the weight in his chest was unbearable. His lips trembled. “I— I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And when the first tear slipped free, it mingled with the rain still dripping from his lashes — indistinguishable, but heavy with everything he couldn’t say:

that he’d tried, that he’d run, that he’d crossed oceans for him.

That he’d never wanted to break his promise.

end of flashback

The first thing Seungcheol noticed wasn’t the cake or the paper bags — it was the sound of Jeonghan’s voice breaking.

A small, fragile crack that split the air like something too heavy finally giving way.

His eyes widened. The world seemed to blur around the younger — the wet hair clinging to his temples, the trembling lips that still tried to smile, and the tears that slipped soundlessly down his rain-cold cheeks.

“Hey, hey—” Seungcheol’s voice softened, instinct taking over. He cupped Jeonghan’s face in his warm palms, his thumbs brushing away the wetness that wouldn’t stop. “Don’t cry, Hannie. You’re here now.”

Jeonghan only nodded, biting his lip like a scolded child, and let himself be ushered into the penthouse. His shoes squeaked faintly against the marble floor, and droplets trailed behind him — a path of proof that he had run through a storm for this.

He set the cake box on the counter, hands shaking as he dug through the bags. “The candle… where’s the candle— I had it here—”

Seungcheol disappeared for a moment and came back with a towel, wrapping it gently around Jeonghan’s shoulders. But the younger didn’t stop. His fingers fumbled with the small candle and lighter, muttering under his breath, “There’s still time… still time…”

Then came the soft click of the lighter that wouldn’t spark. Once, twice.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol murmured.

Still, Jeonghan kept trying, his breath catching, hands trembling harder.

“Hey.”

Seungcheol stepped closer and placed his hands over Jeonghan’s, steadying them. “It’s okay.”

But Jeonghan shook his head, tears slipping free again as his voice cracked between hiccups. “I don’t want to fail you, Cheol… I tried— I really did—”

Seungcheol’s heart clenched. He could see everything in Jeonghan’s face — the exhaustion, the guilt, the determination. His hair was still damp, dark circles heavy beneath his eyes, his clothes clinging to him from the rain.

Without another word, Seungcheol pulled him into his arms.

Jeonghan’s body gave out the moment their chests met — trembling, small gasps against Seungcheol’s neck.

“Shh…” Seungcheol whispered, rubbing slow circles on his back. “Relax. Breathe, my love. It’s okay. You’re here.”

The nickname naturally slipped between them, as effortless as breath, as though my love was no longer a confession but a fact — something that had already been spoken in a thousand quiet ways, shown in a thousand small gestures, and no longer needed emphais because its truth had settled and stayed. 

Jeonghan’s hands fisted in the fabric of Seungcheol’s shirt, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“It’s okay,” Seungcheol kept murmuring, pressing a kiss to Jeonghan’s damp hair. But the younger only shook his head again, pulling back just enough to look at him — eyes glassy and red.

“I promised,” Jeonghan choked out, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want to break it.”

Seungcheol didn’t answer with words. He just leaned in and kissed him.

Softly. Tenderly. The kind of kiss that said you didn’t fail me at all.

Then, as if on instinct, he guided Jeonghan toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “You’re freezing.”

He sat Jeonghan on the bathroom bench, fetching a clean towel and a set of his clothes — a simple black shirt and gray sweatpants. Jeonghan changed in silence, the fabric hanging loose and warm on him. Seungcheol plugged in the hair dryer, the soft hum filling the air.

Neither of them spoke, but the quiet was gentle now, not heavy. Seungcheol’s fingers brushed against Jeonghan’s hair as he blow-dried it, and every once in a while, Jeonghan’s eyes fluttered closed from the warmth.

When Seungcheol glanced up, he caught the younger watching the clock. 11:54 p.m.

“You must be so tired, hmm?” Seungcheol said softly, brushing stray strands away from Jeonghan’s face. “Do you want to sleep now, my love?”

Jeonghan shook his head, his eyes watery but determined. “No… I want to celebrate your birthday, Cheollie. Please.”

A laugh slipped out of Seungcheol’s lips, low and fond. “Alright,” he said.

So Jeonghan placed the small cake on the nightstand, finally managing to light the candle this time. He sang Happy Birthday again, voice wobbly and thick with tears — but to Seungcheol, it is the sweetest sound in the world.

When the song ended, Seungcheol smiled and whispered, “I don’t ever want to see you cry because of me again, okay?”

Jeonghan blinked rapidly, then suddenly threw his arms around him — words spilling out in a ramble between hiccups and sobs.

“I—I did my best, Cheol. There were so many delays, I took two flights, I left my team, my luggage— I don’t even know where my phone is. I just— I wanted to make it.”

Seungcheol cradled the back of his head, his heart pounding. “I know,” he murmured. “I know you did. You don’t have to cry anymore, my love.”

But Jeonghan shook his head again, his voice small and broken. “I promised. I didn’t want to break it.”

Seungcheol looked at him for a long moment at the man in front of him, dripping sincerity, selflessness, and love so deep it scared him.

He smiled, that soft kind of smile that only Jeonghan ever saw. “Let’s look at my gifts tomorrow, hmm? Tonight, let’s just rest. You’re exhausted.”

Jeonghan nodded like a child, making Seungcheol chuckle.

Without thinking, Seungcheol pulled him onto his lap. Jeonghan leaned forward instinctively, and Seungcheol caught his lips in a kiss — this time slow, deep, unhurried. The kind that said you’re home now.

The phone on the bedside table clicked — a timed photo snapping mid-kiss, capturing the reflection of their embrace in the mirror.

When they finally pulled away, Jeonghan’s eyes were half-closed, lashes damp. He murmured something unintelligible before settling against Seungcheol’s chest.

Within minutes, he was asleep — his breathing soft and even, fingers still curled in Seungcheol’s shirt.

Seungcheol watched him, every rise and fall of his chest feeling like a miracle. His heart wouldn’t slow down.

He pressed a kiss to Jeonghan’s forehead and whispered against his skin, “I love you.”

Jeonghan didn’t stir — just sighed, sinking deeper into sleep.

Seungcheol reached for his phone, opened the gallery, and stared at the photo they’d just taken. Both of them a little messy, a little undone, but more real than anything else.

Without hesitation, he uploaded it.

The caption read:

“Ending this day perfectly — holding my favorite promise, my favorite person.”

Setting the phone aside, Seungcheol wrapped his arms tighter around the sleeping man beside him. The rain outside had softened to a hush, like the world itself was finally exhaling.

He closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

This year, his wish had already come true.

Jeonghan is here.

And he is never letting him go.