Hidden | YEONGYU/BEOMJUN

01

Beomgyu's legs were killing him.

He was convinced the bones inside were close to shattering with every step he took toward home, the exhaustion of dance festival practice pooling in every muscle, sticky sweat drying under his uniform collar. The summer air clung to him like another layer of sweat, cicadas screaming in the background as he trudged up the small steps to the front door, half-dreaming of cold water and collapsing on his bed face first.

When he opened the door, the familiar scent of his house—a little detergent, a little fried oil, a little home—hit him all at once. He was about to step past the living room, eyes unfocused, when a voice caught him.

"Careful with the bucket, Jun-ah, you'll spill it."

Beomgyu stopped. He blinked.

Someone was crouched under the sink, long legs folded awkwardly on the tiled floor, hands moving deftly around a wrench. Someone he knew, someone who had been around for three months, so much that the sight of him in their kitchen wasn't even surprising anymore.

Choi Yeonjun.

his, Choi Yeonjun—21 years old, college student, black hair sticking slightly to his forehead from sweat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers steady as he adjusted something under the sink. The first time Beomgyu saw him was the second day they moved into this neighborhood, Yeonjun's smile bright as he held a tray of japchae and smiled at his parents. His dad liked him immediately, letting him help move boxes inside. His mom called him "Yeonjun-ah" like he was her son already.

Ever since then, Yeonjun was always here.

Fixing a squeaky cabinet. Helping with the leaky window. Carrying heavy grocery bags with Beomgyu's mom from the market.

"Ah, Beomgyu's home!" his dad's voice was warm. "Come here, come see how Yeonjun fixed the faucet for us. You should learn a thing or two."

Beomgyu's eyes were fixed, but not on the sink.

On Yeonjun.

On the way his black shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, muscles shifting slightly under the fabric. On his pouty lips pressing together in concentration, on the way his long lashes fluttered when he glanced up—

Their eyes locked.

Time stopped, briefly.

Beomgyu's heart did that annoying thing, the one it always did when Yeonjun looked at him like that. Like there was no one else in the room. Like the faucet didn't matter, the leaking pipe didn't matter, the world didn't matter.

Yeonjun's lips curved, barely, a small, warm upturn that he only ever gave to Beomgyu. The corners of his eyes softened, light dancing in the dark brown of his irises.

Beomgyu looked away first.

Because if he didn't, he'd cross the kitchen and pull Yeonjun up by the collar and kiss him, right there, in front of his dad, in front of the dripping faucet, in front of the smell of detergent and fried oil.

And no one knew. No one could know.

So instead, he rolled his eyes, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder. "Why are you here again?"

The words slipped out sharper than he intended, but it was easier than letting the softness out.

His father frowned immediately. "Beomgyu," he scolded, "we've talked about this. Don't be rude. Yeonjun is helping us again. He's practically family, you know how much he's done for us. Look, the sink's finally working!"

Yeonjun stood up, wiping his hands on a towel, but his eyes never left Beomgyu. For a moment, they softened even more, but then he put on his usual act, sighing dramatically.