mon

A quiet melody drifted from the stage as the pianist surrendered to the saxophone. Applause rose, polite and restrained, before dissolving into murmured conversation, crystal clinked against crystal.

Seonghwa inclined his head in silent thanks as his drink was served. “Much obliged.”

The bartender smiled, unaware that the gentleman thanking him had witnessed Napoleon’s empire rise and fall before his great-grandfather had drawn his first breath. People rarely looked twice at old manners, they simply assumed old money… if only wealth were the strangest thing he possessed.

Seonghwa lifted the glass, more from habit than desire, the bourbon no longer intoxicated him. Neither did music. Nor beauty. Nor the passing of seasons. Time had sanded every sharp edge from existence until centuries blurred into one another with exhausting grace. Faces faded, cities transformed, empires crumbled into museum exhibits, lovers became names carved into stone.

For fifty-three years, one thought had accompanied Seonghwa with unwavering devotion.

Enough.

Not desperation, not grief. Merely certainty that he had lived long enough to become a relic wandering through a world that no longer required remembering.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the Mississippi. Inside, a woman laughed three tables away. She was young, perhaps twenty-five. She threw her head back with the careless abandon reserved for those who had not yet learned how quickly years accumulated. Seonghwa watched her for a moment, not because she fascinated him but because once upon a time he had believed laughter sounded eternal. Now he knew better. Give it twenty years, the corners of her eyes would soften first. Another ten, perhaps fifteen, and silver would begin collecting discreetly at her temples.

Then, inevitably… Someone would attend her funeral.

He lowered his gaze to the bourbon. Everyone became a memory eventually, Seonghwa simply remained long enough to remember them. Grief had once been a violent thing, he remembered weeping until sunrise over faces whose names he could no longer recall. Now grief resembled old velvet: it was soft, heavy, constant enough that he only noticed its absence.

The quartet played beautifully, Seonghwa knew because he remembered when the song had first been written. He remembered hearing it played badly in crowded rooms thick with cigar smoke. He remembered the man who had once claimed, with complete confidence, that jazz would never survive another decade. He had been buried for almost a century. The music remained. As did Seonghwa. Against both their wishes.

“Another bourbon, sir?” The young man could not have been more than thirty. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, a smile practiced enough to appear effortless. There was youth in his face—not merely in smooth skin, but in certainty that tomorrow would arrive because it always had.

“If you would be so kind.”

The bartender inclined his head and reached for the bottle, “You’ve hardly touched this one.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth. “No,” his voice was soft, warm despite the years it carried. “I seldom do.” The explanation seemed enough, the bartender simply nodded before replacing the bottle and drifting toward another patron. People rarely questioned peculiarities when accompanied by impeccable manners. They invented explanations kinder than the truth: old money, an eccentric collector, a lonely widower. Any of those fit more comfortably than monster. Seonghwa rested two fingers against the cool crystal once more. The bourbon smelled of oak, vanilla, and smoke. He remembered when whiskey had been harsher, remembered when it had been poured into rough clay cups by men with dirt beneath their fingernails and hope in their eyes. He remembered the first distillery he’d ever visited, the owner had insisted his son would inherit it. Neither man survived the fever that winter. The distillery did, and it still produced award-winning bottles.

Time had a peculiar sense of humor.

Seonghwa’s eyes wandered lazily across the room, the club breathed around him. Conversation rose and fell, never loud enough to intrude upon the quartet tucked into the corner beneath crimson curtains. Couples leaned close enough to become silhouettes rather than individuals. A businessman loosened his tie as he laughed, an elderly woman, draped in emerald silk and pearls, tapped one gloved finger against her glass in perfect rhythm with the music.

Life.

Everywhere.

Ordinary.

Fragile.

Beautiful.

Seonghwa had once believed beauty could become ordinary only through abundance. He had been wrong. It became ordinary through repetition. The first sunrise after his turning had stolen every word from his mouth, three centuries later he scarcely looked toward the horizon. He had witnessed cathedrals rise stone by stone, wars begin over pride and end in silence. He had danced in ballrooms illuminated by thousands of candles, crossed oceans beneath sails, watched electricity replace fire, watched horse-drawn carriages surrender to automobiles, telegrams to telephones, letters to glowing screens small enough to fit within a pocket.

Humanity insisted upon moving forward. Only he remained. Always arriving. Never belonging.

Another woman laughed somewhere behind him, bright and unrestrained. Laughter had become strangely predictable over the centuries, Seonghwa could hear affection in its cadence. Hear uncertainty, the careful politeness reserved for strangers and the careless joy shared between old friends. There had been a time when he memorised voices. There had been lovers whose laughter alone could draw him from another room.

Now...

Now voices dissolved together, becoming part of the same endless symphony that accompanied every city, every century. He could scarcely remember the sound of the first woman he’d ever loved. He remembered her eyes, remembered the warmth of her hand. He remembered the way grief had hollowed him when the war took her away from him.

Her laugh… time had stolen that.

Perhaps that had been its cruelest theft, not lives but memories. A mortal lost someone and mourned them for decades, an immortal mourned until memory itself began to fray.

What remained after three hundred years?

Seonghwa closed his eyes briefly.

There had been so many names, perhaps too many. If he allowed himself, he could still recite them, not because he wished to remember but because he feared the day he no longer could. His maker, his first friend after the turning, the pianist who had hidden him during a fever epidemic, the child who had insisted he looked lonely and offered him half of her sugared pastry before running back to her mother. Soldiers, artists, priests, sinners, lovers, enemies. Every one of them beneath the earth, reduced to dates carved into stone. Except him. The realisation no longer hurt, pain required sharpness, and his had long ago worn smooth. It settled inside him instead, constant enough that he noticed only when, for the briefest of moments, it lifted. Seonghwa could not remember the last time that had happened. Perhaps fifty years, perhaps longer, the decades had begun bleeding into one another sometime before the twentieth century. He marked them now not by calendars, but by funerals, by the buildings that vanished from familiar streets, by the faces that stopped appearing. He had become intimately acquainted with disappearance.

It was why New Orleans had called him back. The city had taken almost everything from him. It had also given him eternity.

How strange that the two should prove inseparable.

His gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled window. Beyond the glass, the streets shimmered beneath gaslight-shaped electric lamps, reflections trembling in puddles left by an evening storm. The French Quarter wore time differently than other places. It accepted change the way old aristocrats accepted wrinkles—with dignity and no expectation of reclaiming youth. Some cities forgot, New Orleans remembered. Perhaps that was why he had returned, not to relive the beginning but  simply to decide whether he wished to witness another ending. His time has come. He had seen everything he had once longed to see, loved more deeply than he believed possible, buried everyone he had ever sworn never to lose.

If eternity was a gift, it had become one left unopened. No. That wasn't true. It had been opened.

Admired.

Treasured.

And, eventually, outlived.

Seonghwa wondered—not for the first time—whether the heart could simply grow tired in ways the body never would.

The quartet drifted into another song, someone near the stage applauded softly, rain whispered against the windows. And Seonghwa, elegant as a portrait left hanging in a house that no longer belonged to its owners, sat alone with a drink he would never finish, waiting for nothing at all.

Or so he believed.

The resolve he needed to end it all felt closer tonight than it had in decades. He could simply leave his daylight ring, walk out and wait on a secluded balcony for the unforgiving New Orleans sun to burn away the centuries. It would be a quiet conclusion to a loud existence.

The old oak door groaned on its hinges, a draft slipped into the room, cool with rain, carrying the scent of wet pavement. Someone laughed near the entrance, someone apologised for dripping water onto the hardwood floor, the quartet never missed a note. Nothing remarkable had happened.

And yet—

Seonghwa frowned.

It was... quiet.

No.

Not the room.

Himself.

For the first time in longer than he cared to calculate, the incessant drone inside his mind—the endless procession of memory and melancholy—had fallen still. The silence was so unfamiliar that he found himself searching for its cause. His fingers loosened around the crystal glass. An odd sensation unfurled beneath his ribs, not pain, nor hunger. Something... remembered. His brow knit almost imperceptibly.

Impossible.

He had not possessed a heartbeat in nearly three centuries. Yet, for the briefest instant, he could have sworn he felt the phantom echo of one.

Once.

Slow.

Heavy.

Then nothing.

His hand stilled entirely.

“...Sir?”

The bartender stood beside him, a bottle poised politely in one hand.

“Pardon?”

“You were saying something.”

Seonghwa blinked.

Had he?

“I beg your pardon,” he replied, smoothing invisible creases from his cuff. “I fear my thoughts wandered.”

“They’ll do that in this place,” the bartender smiled before moving on, Seonghwa remained motionless. That...

...had never happened before.

He had mistaken many things across the centuries: grief for love, loneliness for desire, habit for purpose. But never this, his body did not forget itself. It did not invent sensations, and it certainly did not… he almost laughed.

Heartbeat.

How absurd that he was allowing nostalgia to masquerade as memory. New Orleans had always been dangerous in that regard. He was simply tired, that was all.

He lifted the glass, the bourbon reaching his lips yet he didn’t drink. Someone had entered his peripheral vision, he paid them no mind. A woman removed her raincoat near the entrance, shaking droplets from the dark fabric before offering an apologetic smile to the hostess. She laughed at something the older woman said, warm and unforced. The sound drifted across the room with impossible clarity, threading effortlessly between the saxophone and the murmured conversations. Seonghwa’s fingers tightened around the crystal.

No, not the laugh.

The feeling.

There it was again, that impossible pressure beneath his ribs.

A second phantom heartbeat.

Then another.

Slow.

Measured.

His eyes lifted before permission could be granted.

The movement startled him, it was instinct, his gaze crossed the room and it found you immediately. Not because you demanded attention,  quite the opposite. You weren’t trying, you stood beneath the warm glow of the entrance lamps, one hand tucked into the belt of your coat while the hostess spoke animatedly to you. Rain had kissed loose strands of hair that framed your face animated by easy expressions—curious eyes, a crooked smile offered without calculation, the sort of smile that belonged to someone who still believed strangers might become friends before the evening was over.

There was nothing theatrical about you, nothing that should have undone three centuries of impeccable composure. You were simply… Alive. Not in the way every mortal was alive. There was a peculiar brightness to you, as though the world had not yet succeeded in convincing you to dull yourself for its comfort. You looked at people when they spoke as if every story mattered, as if every passing moment deserved to be witnessed. Seonghwa had forgotten such people existed. The realisation struck him because he had once been one of them. Long before hunger, long before blood, long before eternity had taught him that every bright thing was destined to fade. You thanked the hostess with a touch to the older woman’s arm.

Such a small gesture.

So inconsequential.

And Seonghwa felt something inside him fracture, not painfully. Quietly, like ice surrendering to the first warmth of spring. His immortal existence had been defined by one unwavering truth. Everything ended: cities, kingdoms, families, love. Even grief, if given enough centuries. Yet as he watched you smile at a stranger… A thought entered his mind that had not visited him in over fifty years.

Perhaps not tonight.

His fingers slowly released the glass.

For the first time in decades tomorrow did not feel like a sentence.

Seonghwa did not realize he was watching until you began walking toward him, well not toward him. Toward the empty seat beside him.

Of course.

The rest of the bar had filled sometime during the evening, every velvet stool occupied save the one at his right. You slowed, glancing first at the vacant chair before turning those impossibly attentive eyes upon him. “Excuse me,” your voice was softer than he’d expected. “Is this seat taken?”

For the briefest moment, Seonghwa forgot language, a ridiculous thing. He spoke six languages with varying degrees of fluency. Yet a simple question seemed to catch somewhere between thought and speech. He rose instinctively, one hand resting lightly against the back of the chair. “It is not,” his voice emerged calm, and measured. “If it would please you.”

A smile, small and grateful. “Thank you.”

The bartender appeared almost immediately. “What can I get you?”

“A dirty martini,” you paused, “...extra olives.”

“Coming right up.” 

The exchange lasted mere seconds. Seonghwa stared fixedly ahead, he had perfected stillness centuries ago, he would not be discourteous enough to stare. Nor discourteous enough to acknowledge the peculiar awareness that now occupied every one of his senses. Coldness reached him first, not unpleasant, not the biting chill of winter, rather the lingering coolness left behind by rain, clinging to damp skin and fabric. It radiated gently from you, dissolving against the warmth of the crowded room.

Then—

Your scent.

His eyes closed,  only for an instant. Rainwater,  jasmine. Something impossibly soft... vanilla, perhaps.

No.

Not vanilla.

Books, old paper. The faint sweetness of aging pages. 

Beneath it all… you. Every mortal carried a scent no perfume could disguise Blood, life, and warmth. His kind often described it crudely: hunger. Seonghwa had always found that description lacking, blood did not merely smell of sustenance. It smelled of memory. Of childhood scraped knees, of racing hearts before first kisses, of laughter that stole one’s breath, of tears, of fear. Of every beautiful, fleeting thing reserved for those destined to die.

Yours...

God.

He had never encountered anything quite like it. Not sweeter, not stronger. Simply… familiar. Like hearing a melody one had loved long ago without remembering where. Something inside him leaned toward it before his body could object, his fingers tightened against the crystal tumbler.

No.

Absolutely not.

He had spent nearly three centuries mastering every instinct that separated predator from gentleman. He would not falter now, not over one woman, not over a scent. He lowered the bourbon to the polished wood with deliberate care, the glass did not tremble. His hands never did, only his thoughts.

Beside him, you thanked the bartender as your martini was set upon its coaster. “Perfect,” you plucked one olive free with the little silver pick, smiling to yourself before taking a sip. “...Mmm.” The quiet sound of satisfaction drew his attention despite every effort to remain detached. Seonghwa looked, just once. You caught him. There was no accusation in your expression, no embarrassment, only amused curiosity. “Good bourbon?” The question arrived lightly, conversationally.

Seonghwa regarded his untouched glass. “I could not honestly say.” 

One elegant brow lifted. “No?”

“I’ve yet to drink it.”

You looked from the nearly full bourbon...

...to him.

“...Then why order it?”

For the first time that evening—

for the first time in what felt like an age—

the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t merely polite. It was small and almost imperceptible, but real. “I’m beginning to suspect,” he said quietly, “that was the question all along.”

You blinked. Then laughed. It was nothing like the laughter echoing from the tables behind you. Yours came quietly, escaping before you could stop it, accompanied by the smallest shake of your head. “That’s... incredibly cryptic.”

“I’ve been told as much.”

“Frequently?”

“Once or twice,” the answer was delivered with such unwavering sincerity that you couldn’t tell whether he was joking. You studied him from the corner of her eye. Everything about him felt... curated. Not artificial, rather intentional. His suit fit as though it had been tailored for him alone, silver cufflinks caught the warm light whenever he moved his hands, though he scarcely moved at all. His posture remained impossibly straight without seeming rigid, shoulders relaxed, one hand resting lightly beside the untouched tumbler. Even the way he occupied silence felt practiced, comfortable. Most people rushed to fill it. He simply... existed within it.

“You know,” you said after another sip of your martini, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”

“Indeed?” 

“Mhm,” you rolled the olive between your teeth before setting the pick back down. “I've had one of those weeks where staying home in pyjamas sounds infinitely more appealing than putting on heels.”

“I confess I know very little of high heels.”

Another smile threatened on your face, “I would’ve never guessed.”

“No.”

You glanced at him fully this time, his expression remained composed, yet there was something so perfectly dry in his delivery that you laughed again. “You’re funnier than you let on.”

“I assure you, that was not my intention.”

“Oh, I think it was.”

Seonghwa inclined his head ever so slightly. “You are entitled to your suspicions.”

God.

Who talked like that?

Not in an affected way, not like someone performing sophistication. It sounded... natural. As though every sentence had been assembled with care before it ever reached his lips. You wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Older? It was impossible to tell. There wasn’t a single line on his face, yet there was something profoundly settled about him. A patience you’d only ever seen in elderly professors or grandparents who had nothing left to prove.

“You aren’t from around here.”

His gaze drifted toward the quartet, “I was.”

“Were?”

“A very long time ago.”

You smiled, “So... college?”

A pause.

“...Something like that.”

Seonghwa hated lying but it had become necessary centuries ago. Not because he feared discovery but because the truth burdened others more than falsehood burdened him.

How old are you?

Three hundred and eight.

Where are you from?

A country whose borders no longer exist.

Do you have family?

Not anymore.

The answers had only ever invited pity or disbelief. Tonight… he found himself wishing he could answer honestly. He could not understand why.

“I come here every Thursday,” you said, swirling your martini absentmindedly. “Well... almost every Thursday.”

“A habit?”

“I like routines,” you shrugged, taking another sip of the liquor from the crystal glass. “They make life feel less chaotic.” 

Seonghwa’s eyes settled on you once more. “What an extraordinary privilege.”

You frowned. “...Routine?”

“To believe there shall be enough tomorrows to justify one,” the words escaped before he could stop them. Silence followed but not awkwardly.

You looked down into the clear liquid of your drink. “...That’s a sad way of looking at it.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

You rested your elbow against the bar. “Because tomorrow isn’t promised.”

“No.”

“So I’d rather have a Thursday tradition than spend every Thursday wondering whether there’s any point.” His gaze remained fixed upon you. You continued, unaware that every word was lodging somewhere deep inside him. “I mean…” You smiled sheepishly. “Maybe that’s naive.” 

“No,” his answer came immediately. “...It is not."

You looked surprised by the certainty in his voice. “I think people overcomplicate happiness,” you went on. “Everyone’s chasing these huge life-changing moments,” you gestured vaguely around the room before continuing. “But sometimes...” Your eyes wandered toward the stage, where the saxophonist had begun a slow, aching solo. “...Sometimes it’s just this.”

“The music?”

You nodded. “And the rain outside. A martini,” you lifted your glass. “The extra olives,” a grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. “And accidentally making conversation with the mysterious bourbon guy who apparently buys drinks for decorative purposes.”

For a heartbeat—

a real one, or the phantom of one—

Seonghwa forgot to breathe.

Not because of the joke. Because of the ease with which you occupied the moment. That was what unsettled him most. Not your smile, not your warmth, not even the strange, impossible pull that seemed to draw him toward you despite every instinct he had spent centuries mastering. It was the simplicity of it. You had entered his evening as naturally as the rain had entered the streets outside. You had taken a place beside him as though you belonged there, as though his silence was not something to be feared or filled, but merely something that could exist beside another person.

As though loneliness was not an inevitable fate.

As though it could simply...

be interrupted.

The thought was absurd. And yet, his gaze drifted toward the untouched bourbon resting before him. For decades, he had ordered drinks he never intended to finish. A glass in his hand made him appear human enough; a small performance of normalcy he had perfected long ago. But tonight—

Tonight, he reached for it.

The crystal was cool beneath his fingers. Slowly, almost cautiously, Seonghwa lifted the glass to his lips. The bourbon was familiar, he knew every note of it before it even touched his tongue. The richness of oak, the faint sweetness of vanilla, the sharp warmth of alcohol that lingered afterward. But memory was not the same as experience. For so long, everything had simply passed through him. Music, food, seasons, years. Beautiful things had become distant reflections, things he remembered enjoying rather than things he could still enjoy. But this—

This was different. The burn was real, the warmth was real. For one brief moment, the world reached him. 

Beside him, you watched the amber liquid disappear past his lips, your expression brightening with satisfaction. “Look at that,” your smile turned teasing. “The spell is broken.”

Seonghwa lowered the glass, placing it carefully against the dark mahogany. “It would appear so.” 

You rested your chin in your hand, looking at him with amusement. “And who, exactly, deserves credit for such a miraculous achievement?”

His gaze moved toward you. For a moment, he had no answer. Not because he did not know but because the truth felt far too vulnerable to say. “My companion.”

Your brows lifted. “Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“And what did I do?”

The question was asked lightly but Seonghwa found himself considering it with more seriousness than it deserved. You had not done anything extraordinary, you had not performed some impossible feat. You had simply sat beside him. You had spoken. You had laughed. You had treated him as though he were not something separate from the world.

“You reminded me,” he said quietly, “of the value of an evening.” His fingers rested against the edge of the glass. “An art I fear I had entirely forgotten.”

For once, you did not immediately tease him, you only watched him. Then, slowly, a smile appeared. “Are you always this formal?”

Seonghwa inclined his head slightly. “I was taught it was discourteous to be otherwise.”

A soft laugh escaped you, a simple sound, human sound. And once again, that strange phantom sensation stirred beneath his ribs.

A heartbeat that did not exist.

A memory of something he had lost.

“Well…” You leaned closer, only slightly. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes found yours. “Excuse me?”

“It’s charming.”

The word struck him with a quiet force he had not expected.

Charming.

For centuries, he had been called many things. Elegant. Beautiful. Intimidating. Mysterious. Cold. Dangerous. People looked at him and saw old wealth, old power, old secrets. They saw something distant. Something untouchable. But charming? No. That was different. That was a word belonging to ordinary moments, to warm conversations, to someone you enjoyed sitting beside. It was not a word reserved for legends or monsters. It was a word reserved for people. And somehow, impossibly, you had looked at him and found one.

Time, which had dragged behind him for decades like a chain he could never break, seemed to loosen its grip. The quartet shifted into another song. The saxophone fell quiet, replaced by the smooth trumpet. The bartender polished the counter once, then twice, never interrupting the quiet corner you had claimed together. Your martini disappeared and was replaced with another, the silver pick holding three fresh olives. Seonghwa’s bourbon remained mostly untouched. And yet, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he was not counting. Not the exits, not the footsteps around him, not the heartbeats filling the room, not the endless years ahead of him. He was simply… there. Talking.

You spoke of books first. Not simply stories, but the feeling of them. The smell of old pages, the worn edges of a beloved novel, the strange comfort of returning to a world that had waited patiently for you. “Old books are the closest thing humans have to time travel,” you said.

Seonghwa found himself smiling faintly. “An interesting perspective.”

“It’s true,” you turned your glass slowly between your fingers. “Someone held that book before you. Someone loved it before you. Maybe someone read the same sentence and felt the same thing you did,” your eyes drifted around the room. “You can feel when something has lived.”

The words lingered.

You spoke of the French Quarter next. The architecture, and history. The way the city carried pieces of every person who had passed through it. “I love things that have survived,” you said softly, your voice lowered, almost reverent. “Antiques. Old buildings. Jazz. They have stories. They’ve seen thousands of lives, and they carry those secrets with them.”

Seonghwa looked at you and he wondered if you understood the irony of your own words. You admired things that survived, yet you had no idea you were sitting beside one. He was older than every object in this room. Older than most of the stories hidden within these walls. He carried too many memories. Too many names. Too many ghosts. Then your gaze returned to him. Bright, and curious, unburdened by the centuries he carried.

“What’s the oldest thing you’ve ever seen?”

The question was innocent, and that was why it was dangerous. Because Seonghwa answered before caution could stop him. “The construction of the—” he stopped, the words froze.

A mistake. But after centuries of silence, even the smallest crack could become an opening.

You blinked.

“Construction of what?”

The construction of the French Opera House.

Seonghwa lowered his gaze to the bourbon. He had spent his entire existence guarding this truth not because he feared what others would think but because he knew what would come after. Fear. Questions. Distance. People did not know how to love something that could outlive them. And yet, looking at you now, he found himself too tired to build another wall. He was tired of pretending, tired of weaving careful lies around a truth that had become heavier with every passing century. For just a moment… he wanted to stop. “I’m very old.”

The confession was not dramatic, there was no grand revelation, only a quiet truth spoken by a man who had carried it for far too long.

You gave a small laugh, assuming it was another piece of his dry humour. “I figured.”

His eyes remained on the glass. “You did not.”

That made you pause.

Slowly, Seonghwa lifted his gaze. “I am older than this country.”

Your smile faded, and your eyes searched his face for amusement. For any sign that he was playing some elaborate game. There was none.

The silence stretched.

Then you laughed again. But this time it was uncertain. “...You’re serious.”

“I have not lied to you this evening,” and that was when he heard it. The change in your heartbeat, the subtle shift in your breathing, the sudden rush of fear. He smelled the adrenaline before he saw the colour leave your face. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the bar, and immediately, instinct overcame everything else. Not hunger. Not self-preservation. Concern. “Look at me.”

You did.

Seonghwa softened his voice.

“You needn’t be afraid.”

The command was gentle.

The panic loosened its hold. Your heartbeat slowed, shoulders relaxed, mind remained clear. You drew in a slow breath. “...Did you just do something?” 

Seonghwa looked away, “Yes.”

“What?”

A pause. Then, quietly: “I allowed you to remain calm.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, “You can do that?”

“I can.”

It should have frightened you. Instead, you studied him. Then, somehow: “Do you sleep in coffins?”

Seonghwa stared. “...Good heavens, no.” 

A tiny smile appeared, “Can you go in the sun?” 

“I find it highly unpleasant.”

“So...” You tilted your head. “Sunscreen?”

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then he sighed softly. “In rather excessive quantities, yes.”

The absurdity of the conversation settled over both of you.

And somehow—

impossibly—

you laughed.

So did he.

Quietly. Briefly. But genuinely. The sound echoed through the shadowed corner of the club. And that was what finally destroyed him. Not the fact that you knew. Not the fact that you were sitting beside a creature that should have terrified you. But that you knew exactly what he was… and you were still smiling. For the first time in decades, Seonghwa did not feel like a relic. Not a monster. Not a ghost. Just a man sitting beside someone who made the world feel alive again. The laughter faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to. Because all laughter eventually ends, that was something Seonghwa knew better than anyone. His smile remained for a moment longer than it should have. Then reality returned. The woman beside him knew. Not everything but enough. You knew the impossible, the truth hidden beneath three centuries.

“I am weirdly calm about this,” you glanced at him.

“I told you to be.”

A pause. Then the faintest hint of amusement returned to your face. “Although I do have some questions.”

“I imagined you might.”

“First…” You lifted one finger. “Do you have fangs?” 

The question was so unexpectedly ordinary that he almost forgot how to respond. “Yes.”

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

“That is typically considered one of the more recognizable characteristics.”

“Can I see?”

“No,” it came immediately.

You laughed, “That was suspiciously fast.”

“It was also necessary.”

“Why?”

His expression softened. “Because you are still human.”

The teasing faded slightly, not entirely. There it was again, that small, inconvenient reminder: You were temporary. He was not. Every moment he spent with you was a moment he would eventually remember alone. 

“I have to admit something,” your voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I am not sure if I should be terrified or fascinated.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Most would choose the former.”

“Most people aren’t sitting next to a vampire in a jazz club at midnight.”

“A reasonable observation.”

“Do you always answer like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve stepped out of a century-old novel.”

He lowered his gaze. “Perhaps I have simply remained in one.”

The answer should have been sad, you heard the sadness and that was what frightened him. Because you heard the things he did not say. 

“How long have you been alone?”

He looked at you. Silence, a dangerous one. Because that question was far more terrifying than any question about his immortality. He could answer how old he was. He could explain what he was. But loneliness? That required admitting something was missing. His fingers tightened slightly around the glass. “I do not remember.”

Your expression changed. Not into pity, something gentler. And somehow that was worse. The room had grown quieter. The musicians had begun packing away their instruments. The last notes of the evening lingered in the air, soft and fading. 

A goodbye. Everything eventually became one, Seonghwa knew that better than anyone. “I should go,” the words came automatically, the old instinct, old escape.

You tilted your head. “Do you want to?”

The question stopped him because the answer came too quickly.

No. He did not want to.

And that terrified him.

“You make things very difficult.”

A small smile appeared on your lips. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Because you make me remember. Because you make me want. Because I had finally accepted the end, and then you walked through the door.

Before Seonghwa could answer, you closed the distance. Not dramatically, nor seductively. Your fingers brushed his. The contact was brief, barely there. Yet Seonghwa went completely still because every instinct told him to pull away. Every reason he had built over centuries rose at once. You were mortal. You would age. You would die. And Seonghwa? He would remain. He knew this ending. He had lived it countless times.

“Don’t,” the plea left him before he could stop it.

You paused, eyes searching his. “Don't what?”

He had no answer.

Don’t make me want this. Don’t make me remember what it feels like to be alive. Don’t give me something I cannot keep.

But you were already too close. “I don’t think you actually want to leave.” His breath caught, a human would have inhaled, he did not need to. But for a moment, he almost did. Your lips touched his for a brief moment, and Seonghwa forgot every language he had ever learned. For one impossible second, there was no history, no centuries, no graves, no inevitable ending waiting patiently in the distance.

Only warmth.

You.

The unbearable softness of being wanted.

His hands remained at his sides, he did not move because moving meant admitting that he wanted this. That he had wanted this from the moment you walked through the door. Then you pulled back slightly, enough to look at him, and that was when he realized something. You were giving him the choice: you were not asking him to take, you were asking him to stay. The realisation broke whatever remained of his restraint.

Slowly—

carefully—

as though approaching something fragile enough to disappear—

his hand lifted.

His fingers touched your cheek, cold against your warmth and for the first time in decades… he allowed himself to want. Only for a moment. He had spent so long measuring his existence in losses that he had forgotten what it meant to desire something without immediately mourning its ending. He knew better. He knew exactly what stood between you. He knew how this story ended. He had watched it happen before. So he should have stepped away, he should have thanked you for the evening, offered some elegant farewell, and disappeared into the night before this fragile warmth became something he could no longer bear to lose. That would have been the kind thing, the honourable thing, the thing he had always done. But then you looked at him and Seonghwa found himself making a terrible, selfish bargain. Just this once. One moment. One breath. He would allow himself this. He would not think of tomorrow. He would not think of the inevitable grief waiting patiently at the end of every human connection. He would simply exist here. With you. For one moment more.

The movement felt unfamiliar, almost impossible. As though his body remembered something his heart had long forgotten. His fingertips brushed your cheek, warm and alive. The contrast should have been unbearable. Instead, it was the most beautiful thing he had felt in decades. Your breath caught softly, not in fear but in surprise. And Seonghwa closed his eyes for the briefest moment. He should stop. He should stop now. Before there was more to regret. Before he crossed the final distance. But he had already crossed the most dangerous distance of all. He had let himself hope. Your eyes met his and in that quiet space between one heartbeat and the next, Seonghwa made the choice. Not forever, he was not foolish enough to believe in forever. Just now. Just this. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, an almost reverent gesture, memorising something he already knew he would lose. Then he leaned closer. Slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind. You did not.

The kiss was gentle. Not the desperate hunger of a creature starved for centuries. Not possession nor taking. Something far more dangerous.

Tenderness.

For a moment, Seonghwa forgot what he was. Forgot what he would eventually have to do. There was only the warmth of you beneath his hand. The softness of your lips. The quiet sound of your breath. The impossible miracle of being close to someone who knew the truth. He had forgotten that he could feel this. That he could want this. That there was still some part of him capable of reaching for something instead of simply letting it pass. And that was the cruelest part. Because the moment it ended, he knew. He knew he would remember it forever. A mortal moment. A fleeting moment. A single evening in a New Orleans jazz club. And somehow, it would become one of the most permanent things he had ever known.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes remained closed. For one final second, he allowed himself to pretend. That this was possible. That he could stay. That he had not spent centuries preparing himself for goodbye. Then reality returned, and with it came the terrible knowledge that he had broken the one rule he had never allowed himself to break.

He had given his dead heart something to lose.

The rain had stopped. New Orleans shimmered beneath the streetlights, the pavement dark and gleaming. Seonghwa had walked these streets for longer than most buildings had stood. He knew every turn, every shadow, every place where history had left its mark. And yet, tonight, the city felt unfamiliar. Because you were beside him.

“You are quiet,” your voice pulled him from his thoughts,  he looked at you.

“I am thinking.”

“About what?” 

“About how strange it is.”

You tilted your head, “What is?”

“That after all this time…” His voice softened. “I had convinced myself I wanted nothing,” the honesty of the confession lingered between you.

“And now?”

His gaze moved over your face.

Now.

A dangerous word. 

“Now I find myself wishing for things I have no right to ask for.”

“Who decides what you have a right to?”

He almost smiled, “If only it were that simple.”

“Maybe it is.”

And for one impossible moment, Seonghwa believed you. That was the tragedy. He believed you. The thought was so simple, so impossibly human. Maybe it could be that easy. Maybe a person did not need permission to want something beautiful. Maybe he was not destined only to watch life pass him by. Maybe, after centuries of saying goodbye, he could finally allow himself to stay. The hope was fragile and terrifying. And yet, for one fleeting moment, it was enough. His hand remained against your cheek, his thumb barely moving, as though he feared that even the slightest motion would break the illusion. You looked at him with such certainty that it almost hurt. As though you did not see the years behind his eyes. As though you did not see the graves. The names. The endless procession of people he had loved and lost. You only saw him.

And he had to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Because the thought of you carrying the weight of him—the fear, the danger, the inevitable grief—was unbearable. He had spent centuries taking from life. Taking moments. Taking memories. Taking whatever little pieces of humanity he could hold onto. He would not take your future too. Slowly, he lowered his hand. The loss of warmth was immediate. And somehow, it was worse than any wound. “I am sorry.”

Your brows drew together. “For what?”

He looked at you, memorising everything he had no right to keep. The softness of your expression, the curiosity in your eyes. “I should not have allowed this evening to happen.”

You went quiet.

He hated that he was asking for something, he hated even more that you would give it. “I have lived long enough to know the consequences of wanting something I cannot keep.”

Your expression softened. “And what if I don’t care about the consequences?”

For a moment, Seonghwa saw another path. A different life, one where he stayed. One where he saw your smile again. One where he walked beside you through the years instead of watching you disappear from them. But he had seen that story before. He knew how it ended. The mortal heart was not built for eternity. Only moments. And perhaps that was what made them precious.

“You deserve a life untouched by my sorrow.”

“Is that what you think you are?” The question caught him off guard. “A sorrow?” 

For a moment, he had no answer. Because once, long ago, he had been a man. Then he had become something else. Something caught between existence and absence, something that survived. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly, “I think that is all I have been for a very long time.”

“You don’t have to be.”

His eyes closed, only briefly because if he looked at you too long, he would fail. He knew it. He would choose selfishness, he would choose one more night. One more conversation. One more morning he had no right to hope for. And he could not do that. Not to you. Not when you had given him the greatest gift anyone had given him in decades. You had reminded him he was still capable of feeling. He would not punish you for it. His eyes opened. The decision was made. “Look at me.”

Your gaze met his.

The command was softer this time, not an order but a farewell. The world seemed to quiet around you. Everything faded. “I want you to listen carefully,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “You will remember tonight. You will remember the music,” a pause, “the rain against the windows,” another, “the taste of your drink,” his gaze never left yours. “You will remember that you had a wonderful evening,” the smallest fracture appeared in his composure. “But…” His voice softened. “You will not remember me,” the words hurt more coming out than he had imagined.

“Why?”

The question was so simple yet his throat tightened. Because you had asked the one thing he could not answer without breaking.

Because I love you. Because you are the first person in half a century who made me wish for another day. Because I would rather disappear from your memory than become the reason your life changes forever. 

His thumb brushed once against your cheek, the last touch, last thing he would allow himself. “I am sorry.”

“You will continue living, you will see places you have never seen, walk streets in cities you have yet to discover.”

The words became harder to say.

“You will meet people who will change your life,” but he continued. “You will fall in love,” his expression softened. “More than once, perhaps,” a tiny, sorrowful smile. “You will be loved in return,” his fingers brushed gently against your hand. “You will grow old surrounded by people you love.” The ache in his chest was unbearable but he endured it. Because this was what love was supposed to be. Not possession, not keeping. Letting someone go where they could be happiest. “You will have a long life,” his voice almost broke, “a beautiful one.” The final words left him barely above a whisper. “One that you will cherish.”

The compulsion settled gently, not like a command but like falling asleep. Your eyes softened, the tension left your shoulders, and Seonghwa watched the impossible happen. The evening remained. The memories remained. Everything remained. Except him. He stepped back and for a moment, you simply looked at him. Not knowing why your heart hurt. Not knowing why saying goodbye to a stranger felt like mourning something you had lost. Then you smiled and Seonghwa knew he had made the right choice.

You deserved every beautiful thing waiting for you.

Even if none of those things included him.

“Goodbye,” the word was barely audible but he knew you heard it even if you would never remember.

And as the city swallowed the last trace of your footsteps, Seonghwa finally understood that immortality was not the curse of never dying—it was the curse of remembering everything worth living for. 

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤIt was one of those days where Yunho was picked up from his violin classes by his nanny, a short, middle-aged woman with sunshine in her eyes and soft hands. He preferred it that way; it was better than his mom picking him up in a rush, only to make him sit in the clinic for hours until she was finished with her patients.

He licked a lazy stray drop of vanilla ice cream, sitting on a bench while Mrs. Yoon waited for her coffee. He liked it this way—with Mrs. Yoon taking care of him, life always felt easier. It was as if the air was too heavy for a nine-year-old around his parents, yet felt fresher the moment he was away from them. He glanced toward the playground, unable to remember the last time he’d been allowed to go on the swings he liked so much. Swinging made him feel like he had wings; like he was free.

Suddenly, a bit of ice cream melted around the cone, dripping onto his hand and down to his navy shorts. His mother would see the beige smear and her lips would thin into that familiar, razor-sharp line—the one that signalled an hour-long lecture on discipline, poise, and the “expectations of a Jeong.”

The heavy clatter of a bicycle hitting the pavement snapped his attention forward. A boy with dark, long hair, pushed his bike to the ground right in front of him. He didn’t just sit; he collapsed onto the grass, his knees digging into the dirt as he stared at a mangled bicycle chain with a focused, desperate intensity. Yunho couldn’t remember the last time he had enough time to ride his bike. His breath hitched suddenly as his eyes landed on the boy’s arms. They were a map of fading bruises—blooms of yellow and green stretching up under the sleeves of a T-shirt three sizes too large. The boy’s fingers were stained a deep, oily black, the grease carved into the crescents of his fingernails.

“Shit,” the boy muttered low, heavy with a frustration that seemed too old for his frame. He yanked at a long strand of his fringe.

“That’s not a nice word, really,” Yunho said. The correction came out on instinct, polished and prim, the voice of a boy who had been taught to speak in cursive.

The boy’s head snapped up. His face was sharp, his eyes narrowed as they swept over Yunho’s pristine polo and the melting evidence of his failure on his lap. A slow, mocking twist pulled at the corner of the boy’s mouth. “That’s not a nice situation, really,” the boy deadpanned, his voice raspy. He gestured with a grease-stained hand toward the bike, then pointedly at the beige smear on Yunho’s shorts. “You’re bleeding vanilla, Princess. You gonna cry about it?”

Yunho felt the heat climb up his neck, a prickly sensation that made his skin itch. He looked down at the stain, then back at the boy. There was something magnetic about the dirt on the other boy’s shins—it was a type of mess Yunho wasn’t allowed to have. “It’s not... it’s just a stain,” Yunho whispered, though his hand trembled as he reached for the napkin Mrs. Yoon had tucked into his pocket. “My mother will be angry.”

The boy snorted, a sharp sound that lacked any real humour. He turned back to the bike, his fingers dancing over the greasy metal links. He didn’t seem afraid of the mess. He seemed used to it. “Mothers are always angry. It’s what they’re for.” He gave the chain a violent tug, and the sound of metal grinding on metal echoed through the quiet park. “I’m Mingi. And if you’re gonna just sit there and judge my vocabulary, you might as well hand me that napkin. This chain is being a real bitch.”

Yunho blinked, his mouth falling open slightly at the second curse word. He looked at the clean, white linen in his hand—the one embroidered with a small ‘JYH’ in the corner. Then he looked at the boy—Mingi—whose hands were trembling almost as much as his own, though for very different reasons. Slowly, Yunho slid off the bench. Mrs. Yoon was still inside the coffee shop, the bell at the door chiming as someone else walked in. He looked back at the black sedan idling at the curb—his father’s driver was already waiting. He had maybe two minutes of freedom left. He threw the remaining ice cream away, and took three steps forward, the grass soft beneath his loafers, until he was standing over the boy on the ground. The smell of Mingi was different from anything Yunho knew—it was metallic, like coins, mixed with the scent of sun-warmed pavement and like sweat that had dried and been forgotten. “I’m Yunho,” he said softly, kneeling down, not caring about the grass stains on his knees anymore. He held out the napkin. “Do you... do you want help? I’m good at puzzles. This looks like a puzzle.”

Mingi paused, his grease-streaked face tilting up. He looked at the expensive napkin, then at Yunho’s wide, earnest eyes. For a second, the bravado flickered, and Yunho saw the hollowed-out exhaustion underneath. “It’s not a puzzle, Yunho,” Mingi said, his voice losing its bite. “It’s broken.”

“Everything can be fixed,” Yunho insisted, though his voice sounded unsure.

Mingi let out a breath that sounded like a ghost of a laugh, reaching out to take the napkin. His black-stained fingers brushed against Yunho’s pale, soft skin, leaving a dark smudge behind. “Fine,” Mingi exhaled, the word coming out like a surrendered secret. He shifted his weight, making a small space on the patch of dead grass. “But don’t go crying when you get your pretty hands all messed up.”

“I won’t,” Yunho promised. He reached out, his fingers hovering for a second over the teeth of the gear. Then, he touched it. The grease was thick and slick, feeling wet against his skin. Feeling real. Unlike the smooth, resin-coated bow of his violin or the sterilized surfaces of his mother’s clinic “The link is caught on the guard,” Yunho observed, his brow furrowing. He pointed a stained finger at the metal lip. “If you hold the pedal still, I can hook it back over.”

Mingi gripped the pedal, his knuckles still showing those faint yellow bruises. “On three?”

“On three.” Yunho’s small fingers guided the stubborn, oily chain while Mingi provided the strength. When the chain finally snapped back into place with a sharp, satisfying clack, they both jumped. Yunho looked down at his hands. They were ruined. Black streaks covered his palms, darting up his wrists. He should have been terrified. He should have been thinking about the lecture and his mother’s disappointment. Instead, he looked at Mingi and felt a strange, bubbling heat in his chest. “We fixed it,” a wide smile broke across his face.

Mingi wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving a new smear of dirt across his brow. He looked at the bike, then at the boy beside him who looked like a fallen angel covered in soot, a small grin mirrored Yunho’s. “Yeah. I guess we did, Princess.”

The moment was shattered by the chime of the coffee shop door. 

“Yunho-ya? Oh, heavens!” Mrs. Yoon’s voice was frantic. She stood on the sidewalk, her eyes wide as she took in the scene: her golden boy, the pride of the Jeong family, kneeling in the dirt with a boy who looked like he’d been dragged through a coal mine.

Mingi’s smile vanished instantly. It didn’t fade; it was snatched away, replaced by a cold, guarded mask. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the handlebars of his bike with a white-knuckled grip. “I gotta go,” Mingi didn’t look at the nanny but straight at Yunho, his dark eyes flickering with something that looked suspiciously like regret.

“Wait!” Yunho scrambled up, reaching out a hand that was still dripping with black grease. “Do you... do you come here often?” Yunho asked, the words tumbling out of him in a breathless rush. He took a half-step forward. “Do you want to play? Tomorrow? I have a ball, and—and we could go on the swings.”

Mingi froze with one foot already on the pedal. He looked back over his shoulder, his dark fringe parted just enough to reveal eyes that looked startled, almost fearful. Nobody asked him to play. People usually asked him to move, to leave, or to stop making noise. “I don’t play,” Mingi looked at Yunho’s outstretched, dirty hand, and for a split second, his gaze softened. “And you shouldn’t be hanging out with kids like me, Princess. Your dress-up clothes are already ruined.”

“I don’t care about the clothes,” Yunho insisted, his voice cracking. “Please. I just... I like the way the chain sounds now. We fixed it together.”

“Yunho! Your hands! Your clothes!” Mrs. Yoon was beside him now, her soft hands fluttering over his shoulders, her face pale with worry. “What have you done? Your mother... oh, she’s going to be so angry, Yunho-ya, she’s going to have my head!”

Mingi didn’t wait for the lecture. At the sight of an adult instinct took over—the need to disappear before the blame was shifted onto him. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t promise to come back. He just kicked off, the bicycle chain humming a smooth, perfect tune that mocked the chaos he was leaving behind.

“Wait! Mingi!” Yunho called out, but the boy was already a blur of dark hair and oversized cotton, pedalling away as if his life depended on it.

“Yunho-ya, stay still!” Mrs. Yoon was over him now, frantically pulling a pack of wet wipes from her purse. She grabbed his wrist, scrubbing at the black grease with a desperation that made his skin sting. “Why would you touch that bike? Look at you!” Yunho stood like a statue, letting her scrub the dirt off. He let the flowery scent of the wet wipes drown out the smell of the bicycle grease. But as he watched Mingi disappear around the corner, he slowly curled his stained fingers into a tight fist. The grease was forced deeper into the creases of his palms, getting under his fingernails. “We have to get you home,” Mrs. Yoon’s voice trembled. “We have to try and bleach these shorts before she sees them. If we’re lucky—if we’re very, very lucky—she won’t notice the red in your skin from the scrubbing.”

But as they walked toward the car, Yunho felt a cold dread settling in his stomach. He knew his mother, she noticed everything. She noticed a hair out of place, a note played flat, a second of hesitation. He climbed into the back seat, the leather cool against his skin. He looked out the window, praying for one last glimpse of a boy on a bike, but the street was empty.

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤ

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤThe leaves had started to turn from green to yellow and orange by the time Yunho saw Mingi again. It wasn’t in the park, though; Yunho was sitting in his father’s car in front of the supermarket, waiting to be driven to the dance classes he had begged to be signed up for all summer. Despite the pressure of his schedule, Yunho’s heart gave an innocent, excited thump the moment he spotted a familiar shock of hair. But Mingi wasn’t alone. He was being dragged along by a woman who looked far too young—his mother. Her dark hair was a mess and her clothes were disheveled, her hand tight around Mingi’s as she pulled him toward the store. Mingi still looked thin, but he seemed to have grown even taller in their time apart, his lanky frame moving with a heavy sort of exhaustion that didn’t belong on a child.

Yunho unfastened his seatbelt and flung the door open, almost falling over as his trembling feet scrambled to catch his weight. He was already halfway to the entrance when he let out a shout. “Mingi!” He didn’t think about his dad in the driver’s seat or the dance clothes he was wearing; he just ran, his excitement bubbling over as he raced toward the familiar boy.

Mingi flinched at the sound of his name, his shoulders hunching before he even turned around—a habit of someone used to bad news. When he saw Yunho skidding to a halt in front of him, his eyes widened in genuine shock. “Yunho?” Mingi looked even more tired up close, his face sharper, but he was definitely taller now, towers over Yunho by an extra inch or two.

“I’ve been looking for you!” Yunho panted, his face flushed with the thrill of the escape. He was beaming, oblivious to the messy state of Mingi’s mother or the way she was staring at them with glazed, impatient eyes. 

The sound of the heavy car door thudding shut was like a starting pistol, but it was followed immediately by the click of the driver’s side door opening. “Jeong Yunho!” His father’s voice boomed, sharp and cold, cutting through the parking lot noise. It was a tone that usually made Yunho’s blood turn to ice but he didn’t stop, even as he felt the sudden weight of his father’s stare on his back.

Mingi’s mom’s hand was still anchored to Mingi’s wrist and the boy stumbled forward, forced to follow her, but he looked back over his shoulder at Yunho. The excitement in Yunho’s eyes seemed to hurt him. “I have to go,” the taller boy looked at Yunho’s clean clothes and the expensive car idling nearby, then down at his own worn-out shoes. “You shouldn’t be out here. Your dad is gonna be mad.”

Yunho ignored the looming shadow of his father, his eyes locked onto Mingi’s. He reached out, his fingers catching the rough fabric of Mingi’s sleeve. “I—I have a dance class today,” Yunho rushed out, the words tumbling over each other in his desperation. “But please, come to the park tomorrow! My parents won’t be there, I promise. We could go to the playground, or... or you could ride your bike! Just for a little bit?” He gripped the sleeve tighter, his small face pleading. He just wanted to feel those wings again, even if it was just for one afternoon in the dirt with his friend.

Mingi’s eyes flickered toward Yunho’s father, who was now only a few feet away, then back to Yunho’s hopeful, innocent face. He didn’t answer right away. He looked at his mother first, searching her face for a permission she was too distracted to give, or perhaps checking if she’d even noticed the invitation. Finding no answer there, he turned back to Yunho and gave a small, hesitant nod. Before Yunho could even breathe a sigh of relief, the automatic glass doors of the supermarket slid open with a hiss.

His mother emerged.

She looked exactly as she always did: perfectly composed, her lab coat replaced by a sharp designer blazer, her hair pulled back without a single strand out of place. She stopped dead when she saw the scene—her husband standing by their son, clutching the sleeve of a disheveled boy in the middle of a parking lot.

Her eyes swept over Mingi’s mother—taking in the messy hair, the tired clothes, and a faint smell of vodka—with a cold, detached flick of her gaze. Then, her focus snapped to Yunho. Her lips began to move, thinning into that dreaded line. The fresh air Yunho had felt just moments ago vanished, replaced by the suffocating scent of her expensive perfume.

The heavy click of his father’s leather shoes against the pavement sounded like a countdown. Before Yunho could get another word out to Mingi, a large, firm hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back with enough force to make his sneakers scuff against the asphalt. “Jeong Yunho,” his father didn’t look at Mingi, and he certainly didn’t look at the disheveled woman standing there. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of his son’s head. “You do not exit a car without permission. You do not run across a public parking lot...” He finally trailed off, his gaze flicking toward Mingi and his mother with an expression of pure, unfiltered judgment. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, looking as though he might catch a disease just by standing in their vicinity. “You have a dance class in twenty minutes. You are acting like a child who hasn’t been taught a lick of discipline. Get in the car before I decide you don’t need that class at all.”

Yunho shrank, his excitement turning into a ball of hot shame in his chest. But before his father could steer him away, Mingi’s mother spoke up. She swayed just a little on her feet, her hand still white-knuckled around Mingi’s wrist. She looked at the towering, polished man in front of her and didn’t blink. “He’s just a kid—er, mister,” it was a raspy, tired sigh that should’t belong to a woman her age, yet it held a strange, protective weight. “Let ’em say hi. It don’t cost you nothing to let ’em be kids for a second.” She wasn’t trying to be mean; she just sounded exhausted by the world and its rules. She looked down at Mingi, her thumb mindlessly brushing his wrist in a gesture of love that she was too detached to fully express. “Mingi’s a good boy. Your kid is too. Don’t gotta be so loud about it.”

The silence that followed her words was suffocating. Yunho’s father stiffened, his face hardening to pure, icy disbelief. He didn’t argue with her—to him, she wasn’t even worth the breath—but his grip on Yunho’s shoulder tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of the boy’s athletic jacket. “We are leaving,” his father said, his voice clipped and final.

“Yunho, get in the car,” his mother commanded, her voice not loud, but possessing a chilling authority that was far worse than a shout. “Now. I won’t tell you again.” Yunho looked at Mingi one last time. The boy looked small—smaller than he had a moment ago—as he watched Yunho being steered away like a prisoner. 

As the car door thudded shut, muffling the sounds of the outside world, Yunho watched through the tinted glass. He saw Mingi’s mom stumble slightly, her hand still anchored to Mingi’s wrist as she led him toward the store. She looked young—almost like a girl herself—lost in a world that was far too heavy for her to carry.

“Wash your hands before you enter the class,” his mother said from the front seat, not looking back. “You don’t know where that boy has been.”

Yunho didn’t answer. He just pressed his forehead against the cold window, watching the orange and yellow leaves blur into a smear of colour as the car pulled away, leaving his friend behind in the dust.

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤ

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤㅤMrs. Yoon didn’t suspect a thing when Yunho asked her to go to the park, even though he looked exhausted from the hours spent at the language academy. He was pale and his eyes were heavy, but he insisted. It was a beautiful autumn day—the kind of day where the air felt crisp and the sun was low and golden, casting long shadows across the piles of fallen leaves. As they walked, Yunho kept his gaze darting toward the trees and the playground, his heart thumping with hope. He had spent the whole day reciting foreign verbs and perfecting his posture, but all he could think about was the small, hesitant nod Mingi had given him in the parking lot. He just needed one hour of feeling like a kid again.

Yunho’s heart skipped a beat when he saw a familiar silhouette near the edge of the playground. Mingi was there, leaning against an old, rusted bicycle that looked a few sizes too small for his long legs. He looked like he had been waiting for a while, kicking at a pile of dried leaves with his worn-out sneakers. When he heard the crunch of footsteps, he looked up, and for the first time that day, the heavy, grown-up shadow over his face lifted just a little.

Mrs. Yoon looked at the same direction as Yunho, and recognised the boy immediately. How could she not? He was the reason she had been severely scolded and nearly fired after Yunho’s last encounter with him. If it hadn’t been for Yunho sobbing and begging his parents to let her stay, she would have been sent away weeks ago. She felt a sharp prickle of anxiety. To her, Mingi wasn’t just a boy; he was a threat to her livelihood, a reminder of the “bad influence” Yunho’s parents were so desperate to keep away. She glanced around the park nervously, half-expecting Yunho’s mother to materialise from behind a tree. But then she looked at Yunho. The exhaustion that had weighed down his small shoulders all afternoon had vanished, replaced by a bright, frantic glow of happiness. She sighed, her heart winning over her fear. She would let him have this, but still she remained on high alert, her eyes scanning the park like a lookout. She couldn’t lose this job, but she couldn’t bear to snuff out the only light Yunho had left, either. She gave Yunho a gentle pat on the shoulder, “Go on, then,” she said with a warm smile, already heading toward her usual bench. “But stay where I can see you, Yunho-yah.”

Yunho didn’t need to be told twice. He ran—not the stiff, disciplined jog he was taught in his athletics club, but a wild, clumsy sprint. “You came!” Yunho panted as he reached the bike, his cheeks flushed pink from the cool autumn air.

Mingi gave a shy grin, his hands gripping the handlebars tightly. “I told you I would, didn’t I?” He looked Yunho over, noticing he was still wearing his neat academy clothes, such a sharp contrast to Mingi’s faded green hoodie. “You didn’t get in too much trouble? Your dad looked... scary.”

Yunho shrugged, trying to act braver than he felt. The lecture had been long, but standing here in the golden light with Mingi made the memory of his father’s voice feel far away. “It doesn’t matter now. You brought your bike!”

Mingi patted the cracked leather seat. “It’s not much, but it’s fast. Want to see?”

For a moment, they weren’t the “Jeong heir” and the boy who grew up too fast; they were just two kids under an orange sky, stealing a few minutes of freedom before the world turned heavy again.

Mrs. Yoon watched them from her bench, her heart thumping nervously against her ribs, but she didn’t call him back. She saw the way Yunho’s laughter finally sounded light, stripped of the heavy expectations of his name. And so, on that autumn afternoon, Mrs. Yoon became the silent guardian of their blossoming friendship. Every Monday and Thursday, after hours at the language academy, she would steer the car toward the park instead of the clinic. She would sit on her bench, and let Yunho play with Mingi until the sun dipped too low and the shadows grew long.

For those few stolen hours each week, the “expectations of a Jeong” didn’t exist. There was only the rusted bike, and a freedom that felt, for the first time, like it might actually last.

The days in the park became their sanctuary, a fragile bubble of childhood protected by Mrs. Yoon’s eyes.