It had been a year since graduation—twelve months of navigating adulthood with scraped knees and bruised hearts. A year since Yeonjun and his wife stood in front of their families, trembling but unflinching, and said it out loud for the world to hear: we’re in love.

Elisa’s parents hadn’t reacted with cheers or hugs. Just silence. The kind that lasted too long. The kind that turned dinner into a battlefield. Her father avoided Yeonjun’s name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. Her mother offered tight smiles and changed the subject when it got too real.

But love—the stubborn, patient kind—had a way of folding itself into all the sharp corners. Yeonjun kept showing up. Holding her hand during dinners, nodding respectfully, even when they wouldn’t meet his eyes. Until eventually, Elisa’s mother stopped pretending he wasn’t there. Her father asked him about work. Love had won. Quietly. Slowly. But undeniably.

Now, Yeonjun and Elisa were married. Nothing lavish. Just two silver rings, a courthouse, and hands that didn’t let go. They’d moved to a quieter part of the city, where the nights were slower and neighbors smiled through fences. Life became domestic in the softest ways—takeout boxes with half the rice still warm, laundry baskets always full, bills split evenly, and love measured in routines rather than grand gestures. Elisa called it peace. Yeonjun wasn’t sure what to call it anymore.

Because lately, something had shifted.

The scent of another cologne sometimes clung to Yeonjun’s clothes when he got home. Arguments sparked from nothing—like static. Dinners went uneaten. Elisa started sleeping with her back turned. Her silences were no longer soft, just… exhausted. And Yeonjun, for all his guilt, didn’t know how to fix it.

The problem was Soobin.

Yeonjun’s best friend from work. The guy who made boring meetings fun. Who always brought an extra iced coffee and claimed he “accidentally bought two.” Who laughed too easily at Yeonjun’s jokes—even the ones Elisa used to love. Who nudged Yeonjun’s shoulder when they walked too close. Who always lingered a moment longer than necessary when saying goodbye.

What started as harmless hangouts had slowly, almost imperceptibly, turned into something murkier. Drinks after work became routine. Sleepovers happened—under the excuse of being “too tired to drive.” Game nights stretched into weekends where Elisa wasn’t mentioned. They didn’t talk about the shift. But it lived in the silence between them. In the looks that lasted too long. In the words left unsaid.

And Yeonjun—he started falling.

Not all at once. It wasn’t cinematic like that. It was quieter, slower, like rain soaking through the seams of clothes until you realize you’re drenched. He didn’t know when it started, only that he craved Soobin’s voice in the morning more than Elisa’s. That when something good happened, Soobin was the first person he wanted to tell.

He didn't know when it exactly began. Maybe it was the way Soobin always made him feel seen and they way Soobin looked at him every time he wasn't looking or when soobin didn't ever break their eye contact. The way Soobin leaned close and that smile of his. To unbearable.

He didn’t mean for it to happen. But it did. And now it felt inevitable.

He noticed everything—how Soobin chewed his straw when he was thinking, how he always kept extra socks for guests, how his playlists somehow always matched Yeonjun’s mood. It wasn’t just a crush. It was familiarity. Comfort. Gravity. He didn’t just like being around Soobin. He needed it.

And now, Yeonjun was on Soobin’s couch, legs sprawled, bottle in hand, pretending to care about Portugal vs Spain on the screen.

The living room was dim except for the low glow of the television. Soobin sat close enough that their knees brushed, skin on skin, warm and real. Neither of them moved.

Yeonjun didn’t look at him when he spoke. “What’s the score again?” he asked, voice low. Like he wasn’t asking about the game at all.