#*leeknow

Minho smiled, the smile he had perfected over years of work, carefully measured, designed to reassure and offer nothing more. He tightened his fingers just slightly around the frail arm. He had lived through this moment before. Lived through it many times. It had been repeating itself for months. Each time it left the same residue behind. Not sadness. Not quite. Something closer to compassion edged with anger. Something he had never found the right word for.

Mr Park was dying, and moments of clarity were becoming rarer. Minho could have told him the truth. Could have said that his name wasn’t Yejoon, that he was Minho, his nurse. That he had been caring for him for the past two years, in the care home where Mr Park had lived for more than five. He could have watched panic seize what little strength the old man had left. Instead, he chose to play along.

“I’m here,” he murmured quietly. “Don’t worry.”

Mr Park seemed to exhale in relief. His thin lips curved into something resembling a smile, barely there, but enough. Minho watched as sleep claimed him again, eyelids lowering slowly, and only then loosened his hold.

He picked up the chart and finished noting the last details before placing it at the foot of the bed, where it always went. Movements automatic now, repeated so often they had become choreography. He moved towards the door and opened it quietly. But he stopped when he heard the faint rustle of sheets behind him. He turned. Mr Park was looking at him.

“Yejoon,” he whispered, voice reduced to little more than breath. “Forgive me.” Then his eyes closed again.

Minho stood there a moment longer before closing the door behind him. He returned to the nurses’ station and dropped into one of the worn chairs. His shift had only just begun, and already he found himself counting the hours until he could go home. He watched the clock hands inch forward with suffocating slowness and let out a long, controlled breath.

He was about to stand when the door opened abruptly behind him. In the reflection of the window overlooking the small garden, he saw a slight figure enter the room. Outside, a handful of residents were gathered around the granite table for afternoon tea, watched over by a couple of nurses.

“Coffee?” a woman’s voice asked.

Minho turned and offered Myungok a polite smile. She returned it easily, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening.

He sat back down and waited while she set a steaming mug in front of him. He sighed again, barely noticing.

“Oh, Minho,” she laughed, taking the seat beside him. “You’ve only just started and you’re already sighing? At this rate you’ll run out of breath before the end of your shift.”

He pulled his mouth into a thin smile but said nothing. He attempted a sip; it was far too hot. He drew back with an involuntary grimace that made her chuckle.

“He called me Yejoon again,” he said after a while.

“Who?” Myungok leaned slightly closer. “Mr Park?”

Minho nodded. “I think he’s forgotten me.”

She laughed softly. “Impossible. You’re still his favourite. When you’re not around, he’s much more restless.”

Minho lifted the mug again to hide the smile threatening to surface. “Do you know who this Yejoon is?” he asked.

Myungok nodded, a trace of foam still on her upper lip. “His son.”

Minho’s eyebrows rose slightly. “His son?” he repeated, surprised. “I didn’t know he had one. He never mentioned him. Not even when he was well.”

She made a vague gesture with her hand before reaching for a napkin. “It’s a sore subject for Mr Park,” she explained. “I don’t know what happened between them, but I don’t think they’re on good terms.”

Now that she mentioned it, Minho realised he had never seen anyone visit Mr Park in the two years he’d worked there. No one at Christmas. No one for his birthday. He had always been alone. And yet he had never complained about it. Minho had simply assumed there was no one. That he and his wife, who had died many years ago, had never had children.

“He said something strange earlier,” Minho went on after a pause. “He asked me to forgive him.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just ‘forgive me’,” he said. “Maybe he was delirious.”

Myungok smiled at him again, that expression she had learned from working too long in close proximity to endings. “Maybe.”

“Do you think we should contact him? This Yejoon, I mean.” He spoke as though she hadn’t responded. “It’s obvious he’s dying. Mr Park, I mean. Shouldn’t we let his son know? Even if they’re not close…”

She nodded slowly. “We have an emergency contact number on file, but I’m afraid it may no longer be active. From what I understand, the son lives abroad.”

Minho’s expression tightened.

“You’ve grown attached to that old man, haven’t you?”

He let out a small, embarrassed laugh and shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He raised the mug once more and took a long sip. The coffee had gone cold.

The hallway light flicked on automatically above his head, harsh and unforgiving. He slipped off his shoes, steadying himself against the wall, and dragged his rucksack down the corridor before dropping it wherever it landed. He yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth, filling the flat with sound.

There was nothing Minho disliked more than the morning shift. Waking before dawn. Leaving the house when the sun was barely visible between the buildings. That dull, dragging exhaustion that clung to him for the rest of the day. Once home, he was capable of very little. He would lie on the sofa and stare at the ceiling for hours, as though waiting for it to collapse on top of him. Only when darkness settled fully, when he could no longer make out the shapes of the furniture, did he begin to feel vaguely present again.

That day did not seem inclined to be any different. He shuffled to the sofa, pushed his trousers down and let them fall to the floor before collapsing face-down. He exhaled into the cushion, warm with his own breath, then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Was there a stain above him, or was it just his imagination?

He closed his eyes and let his thoughts blur. He did not think of anything. He may even have drifted off. He only became aware again when he felt a distant vibration, muffled, as though coming from another galaxy. Slowly, he sat up, elbows resting on his knees, hands threaded through his hair to support the weight of his head. He stared at the trousers on the floor. Rubbed his eyes. Stood with a quiet groan. He retrieved his phone from the pocket and looked at the screen. The light hit him full in the face and he squinted before the name came into focus.

Hyunwoo.

His thumb trembled slightly before he opened the message. Minho sat back down, spine straight, rigid. He tilted his head from side to side until his neck clicked.

Are you alive or do I need to report you missing?

He read it once. Twice. A third time. Then he placed the phone beside him and let himself fall back against the sofa, eyes returning to the ceiling. He half closed them.

Hyunwoo. On that very sofa. Those sharp eyes looking at him the way Minho had always wanted to be looked at, with want, with urgency. Hands marked by cuts and calluses brushing over him with a gentleness that did not match the rest of him. Lips warm and insistent against his own. Softer than Minho had allowed himself to imagine during the months he had pretended not to think about it.

He opened his eyes abruptly and shook his head. He stood, ignoring the still-lit phone beside him. He would not reply. There was no reason to.

In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and searched the cupboards for the tea bags his mother had brought during her last visit. She had said they would help him sleep. When he found them, tucked behind a jar of unopened jam, the water was already boiling. He poured it slowly into a mug and watched the steam rise.

The images began to circle again.

Hyunwoo above him. That crooked smile. That loud, rough laugh. The way he had held him afterwards, as if Minho had been more than just a body to touch.

Minho clenched his jaw and shook his head again. He mustn’t think about it. He couldn’t.

He pulled the tea bag out too soon, abruptly, not allowing it time to brew properly. He needed something else to fill his head. Different images. Anything that would take him away from that night.

His cats, still living with his parents. He had wanted to bring them with him, but his shifts kept him away from home too long. They would have suffered. Myungok, close to retirement, telling him about the small house in the countryside she and her husband had bought. A place with a wide garden where her grandchildren could play safely. Mr Park, fading slowly, steadily. Barely recognising him now, yet never forgetting to smile. The new name he had given him.

Yejoon.

It had been a week since Minho had discovered he existed. He had tried to ignore the curiosity that had settled under his skin, tried to continue as he always had. Since starting this job, he had made it a rule not to interfere in matters that were not his own.

He had seen countless people beg for forgiveness at the edge of death. He had felt his chest tighten watching them lie alone in hospital beds, waiting for someone to relieve them of burdens they had carried for decades. But he also knew it was not right to force the living to forgive the dying. Not everyone was good. Not everyone deserved redemption. It was not his place to decide what was right.

And yet this time he had not managed to restrain himself. He had asked questions. Quietly at first. Then more insistently. To colleagues. To reception staff. To other residents willing to talk. Even to Mr Park, in the rare moments when his mind was clear enough to remember.

One night, during a particularly quiet shift, he had sat in Mr Park’s room, on the chair the old man had not used for months and which no one else ever occupied. He had watched him sleep, his body trembling faintly beneath the blankets. Minho had taken his phone from his pocket and stared at the screen for a long moment before typing the few details he had into the search bar.

Park Yejoon. Berlin. University. Professor.

It had been easier than expected. The third result led to the Freie Universität Berlin website. Scrolling down, he found the name listed among faculty members.

Park Yejoon. Researcher. Professor of History.

The first thing Minho had thought, looking at the photograph beside the name, was how much he resembled Mr Park. The same downward tilt at the eyes. The same aquiline nose. The same thin lips and restrained smile. Only fuller hair. Softer cheeks. The picture must have been old; he looked younger than Minho had imagined. There was no doubt.

He took a sip of tea. It was still too hot and tasted of almost nothing, but he swallowed it anyway.

Back in the living room, he set the mug on the dining table and picked up his phone. No new notifications.

He reopened the browser. The university page was still there. He scrolled back to the top, then down again slowly until he reached Yejoon’s profile. He studied the photograph once more. Yes. There was no doubt.

He inhaled deeply and clicked on the email address. He wrote. Deleted. Wrote again. Deleted again. Rewrote. He kept at it for what felt like hours. Then, when his flat had fallen completely into darkness, he pressed send.

Park Yejoon looked exactly as he had in the photograph.

Minho had expected someone older. A face more deeply lined, perhaps streaks of grey threading through his hair. Someone closer to Mr Park than to the man in that faculty portrait. Instead, the man sitting opposite him could not have been much past forty. He wore a white linen shirt, the sleeves neatly rolled to mid-forearm. His arms were folded across his chest. A simple gold wedding band on his left hand and a leather-strapped watch were his only accessories.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was a university professor. Or perhaps it was the stillness of his expression, almost impassive, that unsettled him. Without quite meaning to, Minho found himself lowering his gaze, hands planted firmly on his knees.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, trying to mask the agitation in his voice. He gave a brief bow, automatic, almost misplaced in a space as informal as this one.

Yejoon inclined his head and leaned forward. For a second Minho thought he was returning the gesture, but instead he reached for the coffee cup in front of him.

The care home café was quiet. Afternoon light streamed through the windows, filling the room with a pale warmth. Apart from them, only an elderly woman sat with her daughter, and a few members of staff were on break nearby.

“I hope the journey wasn’t too difficult,” Minho continued, unsure how to proceed. “I imagine it was rather long.”

Yejoon gave a small nod. “It was fine,” he replied, his voice low and resonant. “A few screaming children, but one has to factor those in when travelling.”

Minho nodded politely, though he did not entirely share the sentiment. He cleared his throat, feeling the tension creep up the back of his neck. “I imagine you were surprised to receive my email, Mr Park,” he began, choosing each word carefully.

“Yejoon, please,” the man interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “There’s no need to be so formal.”

Minho looked at him for a moment too long, caught off guard. “As I was saying,” he resumed, “I imagine you were surprised.”

The soft clink of porcelain against a saucer broke the silence. “I realise it may have been unprofessional of me,” he went on, “but recently Mr Park… your father began asking for you.”

Yejoon tilted his head slightly and folded his arms again. “For me?”

“Yes,” Minho replied. “Most of the time he isn’t lucid. I believe he has convinced himself that I am you.”

For a brief second, something like disbelief crossed Yejoon’s face. Then he let out a short laugh, quickly subdued. He shifted in his seat and took another sip of coffee, longer than necessary.

He said nothing. Minho took it as permission to continue. “The doctor has informed us that Mr Park’s condition has deteriorated significantly,” he explained, searching for a balance between professionalism and gentleness. “It isn’t my practice to contact family members directly, especially when I’m aware that it may not be… welcome.”

He paused again, lifting his eyes to gauge Yejoon’s reaction. The man merely gave a faint nod.

“But I thought that perhaps he had something important to say to you,” Minho finished, this time forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “And that it was only right to let you know.”

“Thank you,” Yejoon said, with a calmness that felt almost rehearsed. “I admit your email took me by surprise. At first I considered ignoring it. But it also gave me an opportunity to stop and think.”

Minho offered a tentative smile. Even now, sitting across from him, he could not shake the lingering sensation of waiting, as though their meeting had not quite begun yet.

The reply to his email had arrived several days later, from a private address. Formal. Almost impersonal. Thanking him for the information and informing him of Yejoon’s intention to return to Korea in three weeks’ time. During those weeks Minho had lived in a kind of suspended state. He had prepared meticulously for the meeting. Reread Mr Park’s medical file repeatedly so as not to be caught unprepared if questions arose. He had even asked Myungok for advice: what tone to adopt, which words to avoid, where and when to meet. More than anything, he had hoped that Mr Park’s condition would remain stable long enough for his son to arrive.

Yet despite all that preparation, the fear of rejection had never truly left him.

“It’s been more than ten years since my father and I last saw one another,” Yejoon said, turning his gaze towards the garden outside the window. “I thought I would never want to see him again. Evidently, I was wrong.”

Minho wanted to respond, but found no adequate words. So he remained silent.

“And there are matters to sort out,” Yejoon continued, running a hand through his thick dark hair. “Administrative things I knew nothing about. In any case, I would have had to come back eventually. You were right to write.”

This time, his smile was easier. Minho returned it, more shyly.

“I only ask for a little more time,” Yejoon added before Minho could speak. “Time to readjust to this part of the world. As I said, I’ve been away for over a decade.”

Minho nodded. They both stood slowly. Yejoon extended a hand; Minho took it carefully, their grip light, almost formal. They exchanged another small bow.

“Thank you again,” Yejoon said, before turning to leave.

Minho watched him for a moment. “Thank you,” he murmured to himself, as Yejoon disappeared through the café doors.

There was a crack in the wall, just beside Mr Park’s room.

Minho had never noticed it before. But now, standing in the corridor with nothing to do but wait, he could see it clearly. It began at the ceiling and ran halfway down the wall, thin as a thread.

Forty-three minutes had passed since Yejoon had gone into that room. Forty-three minutes during which Minho had devised every plausible excuse to knock and remain inside, to observe, to listen. Check an IV. Straighten the sheets. Bring water. He had even wished, absurdly, that he might turn into a fly and slip in unnoticed.

Yejoon had appeared without warning, two days after their meeting in the café. He had left no phone number, nor asked for Minho’s. Email had been the only way to reach him. Minho had decided to respect his wish, to wait, to grant him the time he had asked for. Even as, with each passing day, anxiety carved out more space inside him. What if he did not return? What if he chose not to see his father at all?

It should not have mattered. And yet every time Minho saw Mr Park lying in his bed, his son’s name forever poised on his lips, something shifted inside him. He hoped it was not too late.

His shift had ended. He had been changing in the staff room when Myungok walked in without knocking, apparently unbothered to find him half-dressed, and informed him that Yejoon had arrived. Minho had dressed hurriedly and gone up to the second floor. But when he reached the room, the door was closed.

He did not even know why he remained there, waiting. His task ended with the email. He had done what he set out to do: inform the son, allow the father the chance to see him. The outcome was none of his concern.

And yet he stayed until the door opened.

Yejoon lifted his head and met his gaze. He seemed surprised to find him there in civilian clothes, as though seeing him without his uniform momentarily unsettled him. Then he offered a faint, almost embarrassed smile and walked towards him.

In that instant, Minho realised he had nothing prepared to say.

“You’re still here,” Yejoon observed. “Your colleagues told me you’d already left.”

Minho ran a hand through his hair. “I was about to go home, but they told me you were here…”

Yejoon gave a small, almost indulgent nod and began walking towards the lift. Minho followed without thinking, keeping what he considered a reasonable distance.

“I’m sorry you stayed longer than you needed to just to wait for me,” Yejoon said, pressing the button for the ground floor. Minho was about to respond, but Yejoon lifted a hand slightly, forestalling him. “If it’s not inconvenient, though, would you mind staying a little longer?”

They stepped into the lift together. Minho found himself staring at the back of Yejoon’s shirt.

“Has something happened to Mr Park?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

Yejoon did not answer directly. He turned slightly. “I just need some advice,” he said. “And… I think you’re the right person to ask.”

Minho nodded, uncertain. His stomach tightened. They waited in silence until the lift gave a soft jolt at the ground floor and the doors slid open. They walked slowly towards the entrance.

“I could get you something in the café,” Minho offered, noticing Yejoon heading for the exit.

“If you don’t mind,” Yejoon said. “I’d rather leave this place.”

Minho nodded again, mechanically. Swallowing felt difficult. What had happened in that room? What had they said to each other? Had Mr Park been lucid enough to recognise him? Had he managed to apologise? He searched Yejoon’s face for clues. There was no visible trace of emotion. No tears. No anger. Was he relieved? Disappointed? Sad? Minho could not tell.

“There’s a bar at the end of the street,” he said, indicating a side road to the left.

Yejoon checked the time on his watch and looked back at him. “Is it too early to start drinking?”

Minho blinked, caught off guard. “I… I’m not sure,” he stammered. “I don’t think there are strict hours for…”

Yejoon was already walking in the direction Minho had indicated, hands slipping into his pockets. Minho hesitated only a moment before following.

They sat at a small table by the window, traffic crawling past outside. Yejoon ordered two beers. Minho did not object. Perhaps a little alcohol would help him as well.

“Did it go all right?” he ventured when the waiter set the glasses down.

Yejoon took a long sip and smiled, but not in response to the question. “I spoke to the doctor,” he said, wiping his lower lip with his thumb. “He explained my father’s condition. There’s nothing to be done, is there?”

Minho watched a bead of condensation slide down the side of his glass, tracing an uneven line.

“There is a treatment,” he said, slipping back into a more professional tone. “But given Mr Park’s overall condition, full remission would be unlikely. He’s elderly. The therapy would be invasive. Recovery would be… extremely difficult.”

Yejoon nodded. For a moment he said nothing, lost in thought. “He mentioned the possibility of transferring him to… what did he call it? An hospice? For palliative care.”

Minho’s throat felt dry. He took a sip of beer but barely managed to swallow it. He had had this conversation too many times in recent months. He had discussed it at length with the doctor. And yet each time he found himself wishing for another option.

“I wanted your opinion,” Yejoon continued. “You know his situation better than I do.”

Minho drew in a slow breath. “Given the circumstances,” he said carefully, “it would be the most appropriate course. Especially for him. To keep him as comfortable as possible.”

Yejoon let out a short, almost bitter laugh. “I felt sorry for him,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “Seeing him there. Not even strong enough to sit up.”

Minho said nothing, staring into his glass.

“It’s strange,” Yejoon went on, as though speaking more to himself than to Minho. “My parents had me late. My father was always the oldest among the other fathers. And yet he was the most energetic. The loudest one at school matches. Who would have imagined it would end like this?”

Minho looked up at him. He wanted to ask a hundred questions. What Mr Park had been like when he was young. What kind of man. What kind of father. But he held back. It was obvious Yejoon was not here to revisit the past. “Were you able to talk?” he asked instead. In truth, it was the only thing he really wanted to know.

Yejoon shook his head. “He wasn’t very present.”

Minho lowered his gaze. “That happens more often now, I’m afraid.”

Yejoon shrugged, as though discarding the entire conversation. He drained his beer in one go, stood abruptly, and adjusted his shirt. He checked his watch again.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he said with a faint smile. “Thank you for your help.”

Minho rose as well. “I didn’t do any…”

“Good afternoon,” Yejoon interrupted gently, already turning away.

Minho sank back into his chair. His glass still half full in front of him.

Minho wasn’t entirely sure why he had agreed.

The day before, he had received another email from Yejoon. The tone had been the same as always, polite, detached. He was asking whether Minho might be available to help him with one of the many practical matters he needed to deal with.

Minho could have said no. In fact, he probably should have. It was not part of his job. He had no obligation to involve himself in family affairs that did not concern him. He and Yejoon were certainly not friends. He owed him nothing. And yet he had not hesitated. He had not paused to consider what was appropriate. He had replied within minutes, perhaps with a willingness that bordered on excessive.

Now he was behind the wheel of his car, hands tight on the steering wheel. Yejoon sat beside him, gaze fixed out of the window. They were driving towards a house in the countryside Minho had never seen, to deal with matters that were not his to manage.

“It should be here, on the right,” Yejoon said suddenly, leaning forward to point towards a dirt track.

The GPS had failed them as soon as they had left the main road and entered the narrow lanes of a small hillside village. From then on, they had relied on the blurred remnants of Yejoon’s childhood memories. “I haven’t been here in nearly thirty years,” he had said earlier. Before I was even born, Minho had thought.

The house stood surrounded by overgrown greenery, the garden thick with weeds that had not been cut in at least a year. It had a red roof and large modern windows that clashed awkwardly with the cracks in the walls and the old wicker chairs abandoned beneath a plastic awning. A satellite dish and an external boiler were the only signs that someone had lived there in recent years.

“It belonged to my grandparents,” Yejoon had explained during the drive. “When they died, my father and his sister inherited it. For a long time they rented it out to a local family. But after they moved out a few years ago, it’s mostly stood empty. Apart from the occasional weekend when someone felt like escaping to the countryside.”

Minho had nodded to show he was listening, eyes on the road.

“My aunt passed away last year,” Yejoon had continued. “My cousin would like to sell the house. But because of my father’s condition, she’s never been able to obtain his consent. Technically, half of the proceeds belong to him.”

He had paused briefly. “I doubt he’d object. He was never sentimental about things like this. But legally, he’s no longer capable of making decisions.”

At that point, Minho had braked sharply to avoid a stray dog that had darted across the road, and the conversation had fallen away.

“And you?” Minho asked now, once they had parked. He stepped out of the car and closed the door gently. “Are you all right with selling it?”

Yejoon turned towards him, the house at his back. He shrugged. “I have good memories of this place,” he said. His gaze drifted past Minho’s shoulder towards the driveway. “When I came back and spoke to my cousin, for a moment I thought about buying it myself. Paying her share and restoring it.”

Minho waited, saying nothing.

“My husband and I have often talked about buying a place in Korea,” Yejoon added, almost casually. “Just as an excuse to come back.”

Minho froze. The words reached him a fraction too late.

My husband.

He felt his lips part slightly. Yejoon was still looking at him, eyebrows faintly raised, as though he had noticed the hesitation. Minho cleared his throat and looked away, stepping closer to the house as if studying the façade.

“But then I thought about it properly,” Yejoon went on. “And it would just be a waste of money.”

He unlocked the door and they went inside. The air was stale, heavy with a faintly sweet smell Minho could not quite place. Dust. Old wood. Damp. Yejoon moved quickly to open the large windows, letting fresh air in.

The furniture was solid and old-fashioned, dark sideboards, a long low table, sofas and armchairs with wooden arms. All coated in a thick layer of dust.

“The family who lived here after my grandparents weren’t particularly well-off,” Yejoon said, running his fingers along the back of a chair. “They kept all the furniture. In a way I’m glad. Almost nothing has changed since I was last here.”

Minho watched him move through the space with surprising familiarity. It was striking, he thought, how time never truly erased memory.

He found himself imagining a much younger version of Yejoon, a child running through these rooms, laughing. He imagined Mr Park too, younger and strong, smoking on the patio, so like the Yejoon standing before him now. He wondered whether either of them could ever have imagined that thirty years later they would no longer be speaking.

“There should be some boxes in the wardrobe in the bedroom,” Yejoon said, opening a door to the right and stepping inside.

Minho followed quietly, almost on tiptoe, as if afraid to disturb a past that was not his. He found Yejoon kneeling in front of an open wardrobe, pulling out a couple of cardboard boxes marked by time and damp. Minho knelt beside him. Inside were smaller boxes, carefully wrapped in old Christmas paper. Each bore a label with neatly written dates.

Yejoon picked one up and opened it. Minho saw him smile. “My grandmother was meticulous. Almost obsessive,” he said, touching a stack of documents. “When I was little it drove me mad. I wasn’t allowed to touch anything without putting it back exactly where it belonged. But now I’m grateful.”

Minho opened another box slowly. Photographs. Receipts. Papers folded with near-maniacal precision. “What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

There was no immediate answer. Minho looked up. Yejoon was smiling faintly to himself, a small binder open in his hands. He was looking at old photographs. Minho leaned closer, curious. Yejoon startled slightly at the sudden proximity, then laughed, embarrassed, and angled the photographs so Minho could see.

“That’s my cousin,” he said, pointing to a girl in a pale blue hanbok, no older than ten. “And that’s me with my mother.” A baby in the arms of a woman with voluminous eighties hair.

Yejoon turned another page and stopped at a photograph of a group of men in military uniform, all smiling. Minho recognised Mr Park immediately. His smile was more restrained than the others’, almost shy, but he looked undeniably happy. In that photograph, he was identical to Yejoon.

“You look very alike,” Minho found himself saying.

He heard Yejoon exhale softly. “I know,” he said with a quiet laugh. He stared at the image for a moment longer. “Sometimes I wonder how two people can look so similar and yet be so different.”

Minho did not answer straight away. He shifted back to the other boxes, arranging them chronologically across the floor. “Are you looking for something specific?” he tried again, without looking at him.

Yejoon seemed to pull himself back to the present. He replaced the photographs and smiled at Minho. “I’ve been thinking about what the doctor said. About the hospice,” he said. “I think it’s the best solution.”

“I think so too,” Minho replied.

“And all of this,” Yejoon continued, gesturing at the boxes scattered around them. “Won’t matter once he’s gone. My cousin asked me to sort through everything. Keep what’s important. Get rid of the rest.”

He opened another box and paused. “But I’m not sure what counts as important,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “I thought you might help me.”

Minho waited until Yejoon looked at him again. “Of course,” he said.

Yejoon nodded but did not immediately return to the boxes. He remained still, hands resting on his thighs. “I don’t hate my father,” he said suddenly. “Even if it might seem that way. I don’t. Truly.”

“I never thought you did,” Minho said gently. “And even if you did, there would be nothing wrong with that.”

Yejoon looked at him, surprised. “You think so?”

Minho nodded. “I don’t believe we’re obliged to love our parents,” he said quietly. “Giving us life doesn’t automatically make them good people.”

Yejoon lowered his head and smiled sadly. “Our society would collapse if everyone thought like you.”

Minho laughed softly. “Perhaps. But it’s true. We’re not required to care for people who’ve hurt us.”

Yejoon let himself fall backwards onto the floor among the open boxes, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. “Do you have a difficult relationship with your parents as well?”

“No,” Minho replied. “Quite the opposite. But I’ve seen many situations like this in my work.”

Yejoon gave a small nod but said nothing.

“People are afraid of death,” Minho continued. “Afraid of what might be waiting for them. So they think back over everything they’ve done wrong. All the harm they’ve caused. And they hope to be forgiven, so they can leave with a lighter heart.”

He glanced at Yejoon. When he saw no reaction, he went on. “But it isn’t the responsibility of those who remain to carry that weight for them. Forgiveness shouldn’t be assumed.”

“If that’s what you believe,” Yejoon said, sitting up again, “why did you write to me?”

Minho began stacking the boxes simply to keep his hands occupied. “Because I think everyone deserves the chance to try,” he answered. “To make amends. To apologise. It’s up to the other person to decide whether to forgive. And whatever that decision is, it has to be respected.”

Yejoon was silent for a moment. Then he stood slowly and picked up one of the piles Minho had arranged. “Shall we start taking these to the car?”

“Minho,” Mr Park called. “Could you help me?”

Minho looked up at him. He was sitting upright in bed, picking at the lunch Minho had just arranged on the tray table. He seemed better that day. There was a clarity in his gaze Minho had not seen in some time. He did not know how long that moment of lucidity would last, but he had learned to accept them for what they were: rare intervals of light in an otherwise clouded world.

“I’m thirsty,” the old man continued, gesturing faintly towards the small bottle on the tray. Minho had already loosened the cap, but perhaps he feared he would not have the strength to pour it himself.

Minho stepped closer and poured some water into the glass. He helped him lift it to his lips and waited while he drank before placing it carefully back on the tray. “Do you need anything else?” he asked gently.

Mr Park shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Minho remained by the bed for a few moments longer, just in case he changed his mind. It happened often. He watched him: the uncertain movements, the food chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. He thought of what his son had said, how he had described him as energetic, strong. The young man in uniform smiling in that photograph. Minho had only ever known him like this: already ill, his mind drifting in and out of reach. It was difficult to reconcile that image with Yejoon’s memories.

“I don’t want any more,” Mr Park complained suddenly, pulling Minho from his thoughts. “I can’t.”

“You should try a little,” Minho encouraged. “You’ve barely eaten for days.”

Mr Park grimaced and pushed the plate away with a tired but decisive gesture. “Enough.”

Minho did not insist. He gathered the almost untouched tray and turned towards the door.

“Minho,” the old man called again. “Has he been here?”

Minho paused. For a few seconds he stood still, unsure how to respond. Then he walked back, set the tray down on the bedside table and asked quietly, “Who do you mean?”

“My son. Yejoon.”

Minho held his breath. Did he truly remember their meeting?

“Yes,” he said at last. “A few days ago.”

Mr Park exhaled, almost in relief, and leaned back against the pillows. “I thought I’d dreamt it,” he murmured. “I can’t remember what we said.”

Minho pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. “I don’t know,” he replied. “It was just the two of you.”

Mr Park’s expression tightened slightly. “I need to apologise,” he whispered, his breath already growing shallow. Speaking for too long exhausted him now.

Minho opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

He knew he was straying beyond his role. He was only a nurse. His responsibility was to monitor symptoms, administer medication, check vital signs. Not to mend fractures that had split open decades ago.

And yet for days he had been unable to stop thinking about his last conversation with Yejoon.

My husband.

Yejoon was gay. Married to a man. Minho had replayed those two words again and again. Spoken so simply. So naturally. As though there were nothing extraordinary in them at all.

Minho was not naïve. He had spent days wondering what could have driven father and son apart for more than ten years. What wound had Mr Park inflicted that had pushed Yejoon to move across continents and sever all contact? After what Yejoon had said, the answer seemed obvious. And it hurt in a strange, muted way.

The thought had not left him since. Looking at the frail man in the bed, he found himself wondering what Mr Park would think of him, of Minho, if he too were to admit the truth. If he found the courage to say aloud what he truly was. The idea that Mr Park might reject him saddened him. But it did not surprise him.

Minho knew the cruelty of the world. The cruelty of the society he lived in. He was not ready to feel that rejection on his own skin. That was why he had remained silent all his life. Why he had accepted solitude. Just as Mr Park had.

“I’m sure he’ll come and see you again,” Minho said finally, offering a small smile.

“Who?” Mr Park asked, his gaze already unfocused.

Minho exhaled softly. A brief moment of clarity, already gone.

Minho should not have been there, in a hotel room with a man he had known for only a few weeks.

He had found Yejoon sitting on one of the benches in the care home garden, looking towards the entrance as though waiting for someone. That someone, evidently, was him. Minho had watched him rise and walk over, slow but purposeful. Without meaning to, he had found himself holding his breath.

“Have you come to see your father?” he had asked, adjusting the strap of his rucksack.

Yejoon had not replied. He had simply fallen into step beside him, silent. For reasons he could not explain, Minho had not protested.

Only once they had passed through the gate did Yejoon turn to him, tone light, almost cheerful. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

Minho had stopped walking, staring at him. “Sorry?”

Yejoon had laughed softly at his expression. “I’ve done nothing these past few days but run from one place to another,” he said. “I meant to take a day to enjoy the city. Then I realised I don’t really know it any more.”

Minho said nothing. He wondered how much had truly changed in ten years. Was the country so different from the one Yejoon had left?

“I was hoping you might give me a few recommendations,” Yejoon added, resuming his pace.

Minho followed. “I don’t do much, to be honest. Work and sleep. I box sometimes, but I haven’t trained in a while.”

“Boxing,” Yejoon repeated thoughtfully. “I suspect that’s not quite my thing.”

Minho laughed but did not argue.

They walked all the way down the slope to the main road where Minho usually caught the bus home. His plan for the afternoon had been simple: return to his flat and stare at the ceiling until evening. The morning shift had exhausted him. But for some reason, he let the bus pull away without him and continued walking beside Yejoon.

They talked as they drifted into smaller streets away from the traffic. Now and then Minho pointed out restaurants he liked, bars where he met friends. Other times, it was Yejoon's turn to revisit places he had been to in the past. Bars that had now become convenience stores or fast-fashion chains, old flats belonging to friends who, like him, no longer lived there. Only when they stumbled upon a pub Yejoon had frequented during university, apparently still run by the same owners, did they finally stop.

“It’s strange,” Yejoon said after a long swallow of beer. “Seeing how much has changed in such a short time.”

“Has it?” Minho asked, more at ease now. “It seems the same to me.”

Yejoon shook his head, his gaze faintly distant. “It’s hard to notice change when you’re inside the aquarium,” he said. “It’s like ageing. You think you’re exactly the same, and then one day you wake up, look in the mirror, and find your first grey hair. It’s been there for months. You just never paid attention.”

“Do you miss it?” Minho asked. “Living here, I mean.”

“No,” Yejoon replied with disarming certainty. “I missed people. Friends. The food, sometimes. But I knew almost immediately after I left that this part of the world wasn’t made for me. For people like me.”

Minho did not press. They changed the subject, and the hours slipped past unnoticed. He learned that Yejoon had moved after obtaining a position as a doctoral student at the university where he now taught. He did not mention why he had chosen one so far away.

At first, Germany had only been meant for his studies. But during that time he had met Mathias, who would later become his husband. The ease with which he said it left Minho breathless. He noticed the way Yejoon watched him as he spoke, as though checking for hostility, measuring whether he could be trusted. Minho had smiled, gently, in reassurance.

Yejoon had done most of the talking. Yet there were still so many things Minho wanted to ask. When the owner informed them the pub was closing, it had felt natural, almost inevitable, to accept Yejoon’s invitation to continue the evening at his hotel.

And so now Minho stood in a sixth-floor room, a beer from a minimarket in his hand, looking out at the buildings opposite, most windows dark. He checked the time. Past two.

“Can I ask you something?” he said at last.

He had debated whether to speak. Perhaps it was the alcohol lending him courage. Or perhaps it was the fear that if he did not ask now, he never would.

Yejoon nodded. “Of course.”

“The reason you don’t speak to your father,” Minho began carefully. “Is it because… you’re attracted to men?”

Yejoon did not seem surprised. He did not stiffen or look away. He simply sat down on the sofa opposite the bed and placed his beer on the glass table. Some of it spilled and spread across the surface, but he did not notice.

“There were many things my father and I never agreed on,” he said, eyes bright. “But he always forgave me. Everything, except this.”

Minho stayed still.

“The fact that I loved people of my own sex,” Yejoon continued. “That was something he could never understand. Or accept.”

Minho moved away from the window, set his beer down beside Yejoon’s, and sat next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Yejoon went on with a bitter smile. “I don’t want to ruin the image you have of him. I can see how fond you are of him. He’s not a bad man. But he’s a man of old principles. Like many of his generation. There are things he simply cannot conceive of.”

“You don’t have to excuse him,” Minho said quietly.

Yejoon gave a short, strained laugh. “But it’s the truth. This society doesn’t allow difference. It doesn’t tolerate what falls outside its boundaries. My father is the perfect product of the world that shaped him.”

“I’m sorry,” Minho whispered, inching closer. He wanted to take his hand but stopped himself. “I’m sorry it turned out that way.”

“There’s one thing my father and I are terribly alike in,” Yejoon said, as though he had not heard. “We don’t know how to face our problems.”

Minho frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“It took me nearly thirty years to admit to my parents that I was gay,” Yejoon said, letting his head fall back against the edge of the bed. “You probably imagine he shouted. Threw me out. Something dramatic.”

He paused. “He didn’t. He simply started ignoring me. As though I were a problem that shouldn’t exist.”

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it. There were no words that could soften that.

“And I wasn’t any better,” Yejoon continued. “I already had plans to move to Berlin. I’d been accepted. For more than ten years, all I’ve done is run. I ran from my family, from my friends, because I was afraid of their judgement.”

Minho sensed there was more.

“When my doctorate was nearly finished,” Yejoon went on, voice tightening, “I asked Mathias to marry me. So I could stay in Germany. So I wouldn’t have to come back here.”

He drew a breath, his face twisting slightly, as though speaking hurt.

“And even now I’m running,” he murmured. “Your email arrived at exactly the right moment.”

Minho blinked. “My email?”

Yejoon turned to him, offering a sad smile. “Mathias wants to start a family. To adopt,” he said. “I’m not sure it’s what I want. I started wondering if I rushed into marriage. When you wrote to me, it felt like the perfect excuse to leave. To run again. I promised him I’d think about it. That I’d come back with an answer. But now I feel suspended between two places. I don’t want to return. But I don’t want to stay here either.”

Minho moved closer until their knees touched. He placed a hand on Yejoon’s arm, fingers closing gently, the same way he did with his father, so as not to startle him.

“Yejoon…”

“I’m sorry,” Yejoon interrupted, trying to stand. Minho stopped him. “I’m rambling. You can’t possibly understand…”

Minho tightened his grip slightly. “I do,” he said, voice low.

Yejoon turned towards him, eyes widening. “You…”

Minho did not let him finish. He took Yejoon’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to his.

Minho realised what he had done only when he pulled away from him.

For a moment he hovered there, suspended, his lips still only a breath from Yejoon’s, their breathing tangled together. His heart was hammering, too fast, too loud. So loud he was certain the other man could feel it.

Yejoon was looking at him. Minho couldn’t tell which emotion was moving across his face. Curiosity? Disapproval? Disappointment? Anger? Perhaps a fragment of all of them. But there was something else too. A flicker. A hesitation Minho feared might harden into rejection. He saw Yejoon part his lips, as though about to speak.

Minho didn’t give him the chance.

He couldn’t let the fragile bubble they’d stumbled into burst. If Yejoon spoke, the moment would dissolve. Words would bring everything else rushing back in: Berlin, Mathias, the ring on his finger, the weight of guilt. And with them would vanish that sudden, feral courage Minho wasn’t sure he would ever find again.

He leaned forward and kissed him again. Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands rose to frame Yejoon’s face once more, thumbs pressing lightly against his cheekbones. His mouth moved with an urgency that wasn’t only desire, it was the need to be seen, to be recognised, to be chosen.

The kiss deepened. Their tongues brushed, tentative at first, then surer. Minho felt Yejoon’s breathing grow uneven, a hand lifting and hovering uncertainly before settling against his hip.

That touch made him tremble.

It wasn’t just skin against fabric. It was the consent within it. The decision to stay.

He slid his fingers into Yejoon’s hair and drew him closer still, as though letting go even for a second would make everything disappear. Yejoon’s hands gripped his shirt, fists tightening in the fabric. Minho pushed him back against the sofa. He was afraid to stop, even to breathe. Because he knew that if he allowed himself a moment of clarity, he would realise what he was doing, and he would stop.

His hands travelled down Yejoon’s neck, over warm skin, across his chest. He felt the rapid pulse beneath his fingertips, the unsteady breath. His fingers caught the hem of the polo shirt and tugged it upwards with an impatience he couldn’t control. He was moving too fast, he knew. But slowing down would mean thinking, and thinking was impossible.

Yejoon pulled back just long enough to let the shirt be removed. When it fell to the floor, Minho bent over him again, tracing an uncertain line of kisses along his neck, lower, to his collarbone. He tasted salt on his skin, soap mingled with something warmer, more intimate. It made his head spin.

His fingers found Yejoon’s belt. They trembled slightly as he undid it. He forced his movements to appear steady, controlled. He didn’t want Yejoon to sense how out of his depth he was, how natural and unfamiliar it felt all at once. He eased the trousers and underwear down more slowly this time.

Then he knelt between his legs.

For a moment he looked up. Yejoon was watching him. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his eyes fixed on Minho. There was surprise there, yes. But desire too. And something more complicated, a subtle tension, as though he were still measuring the boundary they were crossing.

Minho lowered his head before he could think.

The first touch was uncertain, almost shy. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the noise in his mind. With Hyunwoo it had been different. Hyunwoo had led, in the dark, swift and decisive. Minho had never really had to learn. He had never had to choose.

Now it was his turn.

He used his mouth slowly, trying to recall sensations rather than technique. The taste was vivid, alive. He wondered if he was doing it right, if this was what Yejoon truly wanted. Doubt thudded in his temples, but he didn’t stop. He let himself be guided by Yejoon’s reactions, by the smallest shift, every held breath.

He felt fingers slide into his hair. Not forcing. Not pulling. Simply holding him there. The contact made his heartbeat ache in his chest.

He found a rhythm. Gradually he felt Yejoon give way. The grip in his hair tightened, fingers curling and uncurling as though seeking purchase.

A low, broken groan. “Fuck…”

Something opened inside Minho’s chest. Relief. Want. A flicker of pride that made him shake. Yejoon’s breathing deepened, roughened. Minho understood. He moved with more confidence, guided by the shared rhythm, by the unconscious lift of Yejoon’s hips.

“Wait…” Yejoon murmured, voice fraying. “Wait, I…”

Minho stopped at once and looked up.

Yejoon’s lips were parted, damp. “Come here.”

He pulled Minho up and kissed him hard, as if he needed him closer, needed to erase all distance. Their hands moved urgently now, less hesitant. Minho’s shirt was stripped away, then his trousers. Every gesture was hurried and inevitable at once.

Minho couldn’t think any more. Not about Mr Park. Not about the care home. Not about what could go wrong. There was only the heat of Yejoon’s skin against his, the weight of his body, the sound of their breathing weaving together.

They stumbled towards the bed, nearly laughing against each other’s mouths, a fleeting break in the tension, before falling onto the mattress together.

Minho found himself above him, their bare bodies pressed together. He paused for a second. Yejoon’s chest rose beneath him, hair falling over his forehead, his gaze open and steady.

It was all unbearably beautiful.

He bent to kiss him again, slower now. His hands slid down Yejoon’s chest to his hips, exploring with a mix of desire and the need to prove himself. He wanted to continue. To lead. To show he knew what he was doing.

But something fractured.

The question hit him without warning. What now? With Hyunwoo it had been different; rushed, confused, Hyunwoo taking control before he could hesitate. Minho had never had to choose the next step. Never had to expose himself like this.

Panic rose quietly but fiercely. His hands stilled. His breathing changed, shorter now, uneven, not with desire but with fear. He was about to sleep with a married man. A man with an entire life on the other side of the world. Who was he to step into that space? And what if he didn’t know how? What if he proved clumsy, inexperienced?

He was too far inside his own head. Too aware of every gesture, every hesitation. The more he tried to appear sure, the more exposed he felt. Yejoon’s body was beneath him, warm, real, present. And Minho felt suddenly distant, frozen.

Was this truly who he was?

Yejoon noticed. His hands settled at Minho’s waist, steady, grounding. There was no impatience in his touch. Gently he guided him onto his side, the movement slow, reassuring, as though telling him he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Then he followed, positioning himself behind him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against Minho’s shoulder.

His voice was different now. Lower. Softer. No judgement. No urgency. Only a tenderness that loosened something inside Minho’s chest.

Yejoon pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, then lower. His hands moved over Minho’s hips slowly, deliberately, as though they had all the time in the world. As though nothing needed proving.

He reached towards the bedside table. Minho heard the soft click of a cap. Then Yejoon’s fingers returned to him, patient, careful, exploring with a gentleness that was almost disarming. The first touch made him tense. It was really happening.

“Breathe,” Yejoon murmured against his skin.

Minho obeyed.

He drew in a slow breath, trying to release the tightness in his muscles. Yejoon’s fingers moved with care, never forcing. The initial discomfort made him stiffen, but it wasn’t unbearable. It was a boundary shifting gradually. An unfamiliar pressure that, with time, ceased to feel entirely foreign.

When Yejoon moved into him, Minho clutched the fabric of a pillow beside him. It hurt. But not in a way he wanted to escape. It was a pain that anchored him, that forced him to remain inside his own body. It told him: this is you.

Yejoon stilled almost immediately. A hand slid along his back, drawing slow circles, a reminder that he could stop at any moment.

“Is this alright?” he whispered.

Minho nodded, unable to form words.

Yejoon moved again, carefully. Deeper this time. The pain softened gradually, transforming into something broader, fuller. A sensation spreading from the centre of him outward, splintering his thoughts.

There was no room left for fear. Only the rhythm they found together. Slow at first, then steadier. Minho moved with him almost without thinking, hips responding instinctively. It didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel wrong. It felt inevitable.

A hand slid around his body, brushing against his manhood. The contact drew a muffled sound from him into the pillow, uncontrolled. It was too much, the feeling of being filled, touched, seen, wanted all at once. Each movement seemed to reach something deep within him, something he had never dared to name.

“You’re perfect,” Yejoon whispered against his shoulder.

The word struck him like a current. Perfect. No one had ever said that to him like that. No one had ever looked at him in such vulnerability and made him feel there was nothing to correct.

The tension built, rising, unbearable. A pressure spreading through him, erasing everything else. He couldn’t hold back. He let go with a muffled sound, his body tightening.

Behind him, Yejoon stiffened, breath breaking against his skin. For a moment they remained still, joined, Yejoon’s chest rising and falling against his back.

Then slowly, he withdrew. Minho rolled onto his side, exhausted. He had never felt so emptied and so full at the same time.

Yejoon lay beside him and slipped an arm around his waist. His warmth was steady, reassuring. Minho closed his eyes.

And he understood. With a clarity that was almost painful. This was who he was. Not a mistake. Not an accident. Not a deviation.

For the first time in his life, he did not feel the need to hide.

“I’ve never told anyone.”

Yejoon switched off the hairdryer even though his hair was still damp. He must have caught Minho’s reflection in the mirror. He turned. “Did you say something?”

Minho was still sitting in the bed where he had woken that morning. For a brief second, when he had surfaced from sleep, he’d been afraid he was alone. Then his senses had sharpened and he’d heard the rush of water from the shower. When Yejoon finally came out of the bathroom they hadn’t said anything, only exchanged a smile. Minho had understood there was no room for awkwardness.

He had stayed there, naked beneath the sheet. He could have dressed and left, ended it neatly, pretended none of it had happened. But something unresolved still hung in the air, something he needed to let go of.

“I’ve never told anyone,” he repeated, adjusting the pillow behind his back.

“Told anyone what?” Yejoon asked, setting the hairdryer down before coming closer. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing lightly through Minho’s hair.

Minho swallowed. “That I’m gay.”

Yejoon smiled and touched his cheek gently. “And how do you feel, now you’ve said it?” he asked, a trace of teasing in his voice. “Better?”

Minho pushed his hand away, laughing softly. “Maybe. A bit.”

They looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Minho expected him to stand up again, to go back to drying his hair. Instead Yejoon kept watching him, body angled slightly towards him, as though weighing his words.

“Can I ask you something a bit personal?” he said at last.

Minho nodded.

“Was it your… first time?” Yejoon asked. “With a man, I mean.”

“No,” Minho admitted. He hesitated, then added, “There’s someone I… someone I’m interested in. We’ve… well.”

Yejoon tilted his head, smiling faintly. He wasn’t mocking him. There was something almost tender in the way he looked at him. For the first time Minho felt the difference in their ages with uncomfortable clarity. He hadn’t truly noticed it before, but now, confessing his foolish crush, he felt like an awkward boy.

“Oh, really?” Yejoon prompted lightly.

Minho nodded, cheeks burning. He lowered his eyes, unable to suppress the embarrassed smile. “Yes. But I think I ruined it. I… I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of admitting what I am,” Minho said, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding his face against them. “I always thought there was no need. That I could just live on my own. Without ever having to say anything out loud.”

He coughed, trying to steady his voice. “Maybe that’s what drew me to your father,” he added quietly.

He couldn’t see Yejoon’s face, but he imagined the surprise there. “My father?”

“Yes.” Minho nodded. “The fact that he didn’t seem to suffer from being alone. A lot of people, when they move into a care home, begin to complain. Even if they’re surrounded by others all the time. Sometimes they feel abandoned. Sometimes they’re grieving the people who are gone. Eventually they start to feel the loneliness.”

He paused, thinking. “But your father never complained. Not once. I thought… maybe we were alike in that way.”

He felt the mattress dip as Yejoon lay back. When Minho looked up, he found him stretched out on the crumpled sheets, arms open, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“You know, Minho,” he said slowly, “there are so many things I regret. So many things I would do differently if I could go back.”

He hesitated, as if afraid of choosing the wrong words. “But I’ve never regretted admitting who I am. Not once.” His voice grew firmer. “Running away wasn’t the right way to handle it. I should have stayed. I should have been braver. But I couldn’t go on living the way I had before, hiding, pretending to be someone else. It was eating me alive.”

He rested the back of his hand against his forehead. “If I hadn’t told my parents I was gay, I don’t think I would have had the courage to date a man in Germany either. I would have lived in constant fear that someone would find out somehow.”

Minho lay down beside him, careful not to touch him. He looked up at the ceiling too, as he had done so many times before. But for the first time in a long while, he hoped it wouldn’t collapse.

“You don’t have to shout it to the world,” Yejoon continued. “Not if you’re not ready. But don’t bury it inside yourself. Don’t deny yourself the chance to be happy.”

Minho let the words settle. Then, quietly, “Are you happy? Despite everything?”

“It may sound absurd, given the circumstances,” Yejoon said, his voice trembling slightly, “but I love Mathias. I truly love him. I’m happy with him. Happy with the life we’ve built, despite everything. I don’t regret marrying him. I don’t regret the choices I made.”

His eyes widened, as if holding back tears. “But when you’ve spent your whole life running, it’s hard to stop. Even when you don’t need to any more.”

Minho turned onto his side, propping himself up on one arm to look at him directly. “I think you’re much braver than you give yourself credit for,” he said, surprised by his own certainty. “You built a life that makes you happy and you protected it. It’s normal to be afraid that a child might change everything.”

Yejoon reached up and ruffled his hair. “You should listen to yourself more often,” he said with a soft laugh. “If you followed your own advice, you’d already have the answers you’re looking for.”

Minho grumbled and dropped against his chest, fingers gripping the edge of his T-shirt. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “About last night. I shouldn’t have.”

Yejoon made him lift his head and look at him. “Don’t apologise,” he said firmly, though his smile was gentle. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

Minho knew he would never be able to pretend that night hadn’t happened. He would never forget it. But he nodded anyway.

“Are you still here?” Myungok asked when she found him in the café. She sat down opposite him, still in uniform, a steaming coffee in her hands.

Minho only looked up after a moment, then nodded. His shift had ended more than an hour earlier, yet he hadn’t gone home. “Yejoon… I mean, Mr Park’s son came to see him,” he explained, turning the empty teacup between his fingers. “He said he wanted to speak to me. I’m waiting.”

Myungok gave a small nod, studying him. “I heard they’re transferring Mr Park to another facility in the next few days,” she said carefully. “How are you feeling?”

Minho shrugged. “I’m fine,” he replied. “They don’t come here to get better.”

“Minho…” she began, reaching across the table to place her hand over his.

He offered her a faint smile. “Really. Don’t worry.”

She sighed. “You’re impossibly stubborn,” she muttered, getting to her feet and picking up her coffee. “I’d better get back to work. See you tomorrow.”

“Are we on together?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Is that a problem?” she teased.

Minho laughed and shook his head. “Not at all.”

He watched her leave the café, then drew in a slow breath.

Yejoon had appeared that morning as he always did, without warning. For a moment Minho had thought he’d done it deliberately, to avoid running into him. Instead he had seen him walking down the corridor towards him while Minho was clearing the lunch trays into the trolley.

“Hello,” Yejoon had said, wearing that same stoic, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” Minho had replied, wiping his hands against his uniform trousers.

“I came to see how my father is,” Yejoon had explained, almost apologetically. “Could we talk later?”

“My shift finishes in a few hours,” Minho had said. “If you don’t want to wait here…”

“I think I’ll still be here,” Yejoon had cut in.

Minho had simply nodded, glancing towards Mr Park’s door.

“If you’d like,” Yejoon had added, “you can come in as well.”

Minho had wanted to say yes. He had wanted to be there with them. But he knew it wasn’t right, so he shook his head and went back to work.

The hours had passed more slowly than usual. As soon as four o’clock struck, he’d hurried to the staff room, changed, and gone straight to the café, certain he would find Yejoon at one of the tables. He wasn’t there. Had he left without waiting? Had he changed his mind?

Minho had gone back upstairs and knocked on Mr Park’s door. He had waited a few seconds before stepping inside. Yejoon was still there, sitting beside his father. Neither of them was speaking. Yejoon had turned and smiled at him. His eyes had looked swollen. Had he been crying? “I’ll join you in a moment,” he had said simply.

Minho had returned to the café and ordered tea just to fill the waiting, though he didn’t want it. Another half hour passed before he saw Yejoon step through the door.

“Sorry,” Yejoon said, sitting down opposite him. “I didn’t realise how much time had passed.”

“Did it go all right?” Minho asked at once, unable to hold back. His fingers twitched against the table; his legs refused to stay still.

Yejoon didn’t answer. He only smiled, a slightly crooked smile that gave nothing away.

“I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said carefully. “Going back to Germany. I’ve sorted the most urgent matters. My cousin will handle the rest. She’ll be the contact person from now on, if anything happens.”

Minho nodded to show he understood.

“And I wanted to thank you,” Yejoon went on, more hesitant now, as if the words cost him something. “For everything you’ve done. For taking care of my father. And for caring about him… in my place.”

Minho looked away. His eyes burned; his throat tightened. He forced himself not to give in to it. “I was just doing my job,” he managed, his voice unsteady.

“It’s funny,” Yejoon continued, trying to lighten the mood. “For months he called you by my name. And now that I was there in front of him, he didn’t stop talking about you.”

Minho let out a soft laugh, trying to push back the strange feeling rising inside him. He didn’t reply.

“He said, ‘Minho, if you see Yejoon, ask him to forgive me.’” He spoke the words quietly, as though they were meant for Minho alone, a secret to remain between the two of them.

Minho stared at him, startled and, unexpectedly, glad. Glad that, in his own way, Mr Park had managed to pass on the message he had been carrying for months. Perhaps for more than ten years. He wanted to ask whether Yejoon had forgiven him. Whether he ever could. But what Yejoon said next answered the question without his having to ask it.

“I probably won’t come back,” Yejoon said, lowering his gaze briefly. “If anything happens, I’ve asked my cousin to contact you.”

Minho gave a small nod. “Of course. Thank you.”

There were no embraces. No promises. Yejoon offered him one last smile before standing. “Thank you.”

Minho watched him disappear beyond the café doors and, somewhere deep inside, knew he would never see him again.

Minho could have gone home as he always did after a morning shift. Instead, he left his rucksack by the door and picked up the gym bag he had packed the night before. 

He didn’t think too much about it. If he had, he would have found a thousand excuses to postpone it. Tomorrow. Next week. Never. He walked out without looking back.

The gym was twenty minutes from his flat, tucked away in the basement of an anonymous building. Minho had discovered it by chance years earlier, walking past and hearing the dull thud of fists hitting heavy bags. He had stepped inside out of curiosity and never really left.

He went down the stairs and pushed open the door. The smell hit him immediately: sweat, rubber, disinfectant. A familiar scent he had missed more than he cared to admit.

“Lee Minho!”

He turned. One of the trainers came towards him with a wide grin and clapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly lost his balance.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked. “We thought you’d moved away without telling us.”

“I had to cover shifts for some colleagues,” Minho lied with a smile. “Didn’t have time.”

“For months?” someone else chimed in. “They must pay you well for overtime.”

Minho laughed but didn’t answer. He dropped his bag in the changing room and headed back out. There were about ten people training, some on the bags, others sparring in the ring. He tried to focus on wrapping his hands, but his eyes kept roaming the room.

And then he saw him.

Hyunwoo was at a bag, punching with almost brutal precision. He wore only shorts and a tank top soaked through with sweat. The muscles in his arms tightened with every strike. Minho watched him for a second too long before looking away.

Hyunwoo hadn’t looked up. Hadn’t greeted him. Not even a nod.

Minho tightened his wrapped fists and stepped up to an empty bag. He began to punch: jab, cross, hook. His rhythm was rusty, his movements less fluid than before. But the dull ache spreading from his knuckles up his arms was strangely comforting. It was something real. Something solid.

He didn’t look at Hyunwoo. Or at least he tried not to. But every now and then, between combinations, his gaze slipped back to him. Hyunwoo kept training as though Minho didn’t exist.

Twenty minutes passed. Minho was about to give up, perhaps coming here had been a mistake, when he saw Hyunwoo step away from the bag and head towards the changing rooms. He didn’t think. He pulled off his gloves, let them fall to the floor, and followed.

The changing room was empty apart from them. Hyunwoo stood in front of his locker, tank top already off, a bottle of water in his hand. He turned when he heard Minho come in.

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face here after all this time,” he said flatly.

Minho closed the door behind him. “Hyunwoo, I…”

“I’m not interested in listening,” Hyunwoo cut in, slamming the locker shut. “I don’t care.”

Minho stepped closer. Hyunwoo instinctively took a step back. But Minho didn’t stop. He cupped his face and kissed him.

For a moment, it felt like the first time. Months earlier, in that same changing room after a particularly intense session. They had been alone. Hyunwoo had looked at him in a way Minho had never forgotten, and then, without a word, had kissed him. It had been quick, desperate, full of something neither of them had known how to name.

But this time was different. Hyunwoo shoved him away hard.

“Have you lost your mind?” he hissed, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Minho said, breathless. “I was wrong. I was scared.”

Hyunwoo laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Scared,” he repeated. “You disappeared without saying a word. You couldn’t even be bothered to reply to a few stupid messages. And now you come back and apologise? What exactly do you want from me?”

Minho lowered his gaze. The words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. “I’ve always been afraid to admit the truth,” he said quietly. “To be… to be what I am. When we were together that time, I…”

He faltered, searching for the right words. “I panicked. I thought that if I kept seeing you, sooner or later someone would find out. And I wasn’t ready.”

“And now you suddenly are?” Hyunwoo asked, arms folded across his chest. “What’s changed?”

Minho looked up at him. “I have,” he said simply. “I’ve changed.”

It wasn’t entirely true. Or maybe it was, but in a way too complicated to explain. He couldn’t talk about Yejoon, about that night. About the first time he had felt seen without shame. He couldn’t speak of Mr Park, of the realisation that living hidden meant dying alone. But something inside him had shifted. Something had cracked open.

“I know I messed up,” he continued. “I know I hurt you. But I’m ready now. To take a step forward. To really try. If you…” 

His voice trembled slightly. “If you still want to.”

Hyunwoo held his gaze for a long moment. His eyes were hard, wary. “And how do I know you won’t run again?” he asked. “That in a week you won’t stop answering messages and disappear?”

“You don’t,” Minho admitted. “You can only trust me.”

“Trust you,” Hyunwoo echoed, almost scoffing. “Easy to say.”

“I know.”

A long silence settled between them. Minho could hear his own heartbeat, loud in his ears. Then, slowly, Hyunwoo exhaled and ran a hand through his damp hair.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice quieter. “But don’t expect everything to go back to how it was. You can’t vanish for months and then return like nothing happened.”

“I know,” he repeated.

“And if you disappear again,” Hyunwoo went on, pointing a finger at his chest, “don’t come looking for me. Understood?”

Minho nodded. “Understood.”

Hyunwoo watched him a moment longer, then turned and reopened his locker. He pulled out a clean T-shirt and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m going to shower,” he said without looking at him. “Wait outside, if you want.”

Minho stepped out of the changing room. He went back into the gym, picked up his gloves, said goodbye to the others. Told them he’d be back soon, and meant it this time.

When Hyunwoo came out, hair still damp, Minho was leaning against the wall outside the gym. Hyunwoo stopped in front of him.

“Want to grab something?” he asked, with studied casualness.

“Yes,” Minho replied.

They walked side by side for several minutes in silence. They didn’t touch. They didn’t look at each other. But something hung in the air between them,  something different from before.

Minho thought of Mr Park, of Yejoon, of everything that had happened in the past few weeks. He thought of how often he had been afraid; afraid of being seen, judged, rejected. And for the first time, he felt that fear, though not entirely gone, had grown smaller. Manageable.

He didn’t know what would happen with Hyunwoo. Perhaps they would work. Perhaps they wouldn’t. But at least this time he was trying. This time he wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t running.

And perhaps, he thought as Hyunwoo cast him a brief, almost imperceptible sideways glance, perhaps that was already enough.

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.

Yejoon’s cousin went straight to the point: Mr Park had taken a turn for the worse. He didn’t have much time left.

Minho dropped everything and went to the hospice.

Mr Park looked frailer than he remembered. His body almost swallowed by the blankets, his face hollowed, his skin grey. Minho pulled the chair closer to the bed and took his hand.

Mr Park opened his eyes slowly. It took him a few seconds to focus. When he saw Minho, he managed a faint smile.

“Yejoon,” he whispered.

Something tightened painfully in Minho’s chest. He nodded, unable to speak.

“You came,” Mr Park said, his voice barely audible. He paused, as if searching for air. “Forgive me.”

Tears slid silently down Minho’s cheeks. He clasped the old man’s hand between both of his and leaned closer.