(no) Strings Attached

Soft Crash

"You're not fine, Seonghwa."

Seonghwa closes his eyes. "I don't get to not be fine."

"Who said that?"

A beat.

"My parents." A whisper. "The professors. Me. Everyone."

The air tightens.

Hongjoong presses the warm container of food into his lap. "Then screw 'everyone.' Eat. Just a bite."

And maybe it's because he's exhausted. Maybe it's because Hongjoong's voice sounds more like a promise than a command.

Seonghwa opens the box.

He eats. Slowly. Mechanically. But it's something.

And when he's halfway through, hand trembling as he lifts the chopsticks, he pauses. Looks down.

"My mother said I looked disgusting," he murmurs. "Said it looked like I've given up. Maybe she's right."

Something inside Hongjoong splinters.

"Don't." His voice cuts sharper now. "Don't let them do that to you. You're not disgusting, Seonghwa. You're—"

He catches himself. Breathes.

"You're tired. And they don't get to weaponize that."

Seonghwa doesn't respond.

But he eats the rest.

And when he's done, Hongjoong disappears into the bathroom for a moment. Returns with cotton pads and a bottle of toner.

Seonghwa freezes.

"Why...?"

"You still have time before 10," Hongjoong says gently. "Let me help you with your skin."

Seonghwa doesn't move.

Because all he can think is: She was right. I do look awful. I let myself go. I deserve this.

His hands twitch—but he doesn't reach for the bottle.

Hongjoong notices.

He kneels in front of him. Opens the cap.
Soaks a pad. "Stop this. You're the prettiest person alive." He grinned and continued, like a prayer "Let me help."

And for once, Seonghwa lets him.

Because Hongjoong's hands are steady.
Gentle. So careful it feels like reverence.
And tonight, for the first time in what feels like weeks—Seonghwa doesn't feel invisible.

He feels seen. And that... that is scarier than anything else.

It was the first time in weeks Seonghwa fell asleep without a weight on his chest.

No overthinking. No academic guilt. No alarm set for a list of endless tasks.

Just the quiet hum of the room, the warmth of his blanket, and the faint scent of citrus toner lingering on his skin—hands that had been impossibly gentle before he drifted off.

Hongjoong had stayed beside him. Not in the bed. Not quite. But close enough that their breathing matched by the time Seonghwa had gone under.

And for once, he stayed asleep. Deep. Unbothered.

Until—
BANG.

The door flung open like it had never been locked.

Voices filled the air before Seonghwa's brain could register who or what they belonged to.

"Still in bed?"

"Seonghwa—what is this? It's eight."

He was still in his t-shirt and sweats, the ones he'd thrown on just after dinner. He barely had time to sit up before the familiar icy voice of his father echoed through the room.