Archive of Our Own

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the mismatched curtains hanging over the grimy window of his new ‘home’ and wondered, not for the first time, how his life had devolved into this mess. Somewhere between his 1,856th death of his common sense and his latest, admittedly impressive, attempt to sever Kim Dokja’s head from his shoulders, something had gone catastrophically wrong. He could have faced eldritch horrors, apocalyptic scenarios, and more betrayals than an entire soap opera cast—and yet, none of that would have prepared him for this.

It had all started, predictably, with Kim Dokja’s meddling.

Because of course it did. Yoo Joonghyuk had long ago learned that nothing good came from that man’s existence, much less his ideas. He also didn’t trust anyone who wore the same ratty hoodie for three days straight, as if doing laundry were an abstract concept, yet still managed to act like a scheming mastermind.

“I’m just saying,” Kim Dokja had said with the casual confidence of someone who had long since detonated his own common sense, “You don’t really need that expensive apartment. Think of the maintenance fees! The taxes! And besides, you kind of destroyed it when you threw your punch through the wall.”

Yoo Joonghyuk, in a rare act of restraint, had not immediately punched him through a wall. Instead, he crossed his arms and glared—a gesture he hoped conveyed both murderous intent and disdain. It was, after all, his default response to most of Kim Dokja’s existence.

“I’ll rebuild it,” He had declared flatly, as though the matter was closed.

“You could do that. Or…” Kim Dokja had smiled then. Not a normal smile—no, it was the kind of smile that made Yoo Joonghyuk suspect he was being scammed in real time. It was the smile of a man selling snake oil while simultaneously stealing your wallet. “You could save money and crash at my place. Temporarily, of course.”

Temporarily.

That single word should have been a red flag, a blaring warning sign with flashing neon lights. But Yoo Joonghyuk, against all logic and self-preservation instincts, had agreed. Temporary sounded harmless enough, and he had bigger things to worry about. Surely, he reasoned, nothing Kim Dokja could do would be worse than fighting off a round of demon hordes.

He was wrong.

He stared at the curtains again, recalling the exact sequence of decisions—or lapses in judgment—that had brought him here. Somewhere in this wretched timeline, he had made a critical misstep. Possibly several. As the faint sound of Kim Dokja humming off-key reached his ears, Yoo Joonghyuk realized despairingly that he couldn’t even pinpoint when his life had gone so horribly, laughably off track.

One thing was certain: no demon, apocalypse, or cosmic abomination could ever test him as much as this.

[The Roommate Agreement]

It all started like this.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s life had always been a relentless sequence of misfortunes, but moving into Kim Dokja’s apartment was unquestionably rock bottom. His last escapade—don’t ask—had ended with a scorched lounge, a damaged wall, and an irate landlord screaming things like, “Unpaid damages!” and, “Why do you even have a sword in 2025?!” Homeless and begrudgingly desperate, Yoo Joonghyuk had turned to the one person he hated more than his own reflection: Kim Dokja.

Kim Dokja greeted him at the door with the kind of smug grin that could spark international conflict, “Welcome, Yoo Joonghyuk. I’ve prepared a guest room just for you.”

He gestured magnanimously toward the so-called guest room, which turned out to be a storage closet with a suspicious stain on the ceiling and just enough space for a cot and Yoo Joonghyuk’s perpetual disdain.

“This is a broom closet,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his voice flat enough to crush dreams.

“No, it’s a multifunctional minimalist living space,” Kim Dokja replied, his face the epitome of unearned confidence, beaming like he’d just patented the concept of lying.

Yoo Joonghyuk, against his better judgment and better everything, stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of mothballs, damp cardboard, and the lingering hopes of whoever had previously tried to store their dignity here. A single sad lightbulb flickered ominously, as if it, too, was reconsidering its life choices.

“I’ll kill you,” Yoo Joonghyuk said flatly.

“You’ll have to get in line,” Kim Dokja chirped back, already halfway to the kitchen, probably to stockpile instant noodles.

Two hours later, Yoo Joonghyuk emerged from the living space holding a 37-page Roommate Agreement. It was typed, printed, and stapled with the kind of meticulous care that could only be fueled by seething rage. Kim Dokja took the document and began flipping through it, eyebrows creeping higher with every clause he read.

“‘No touching my sword’? Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” He said, waving the paper around like it was a script for his latest shenanigan.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare could have frozen molten lava.

“You don’t get to judge what’s dramatic.”

“Fair,” Kim Dokja conceded with a nonchalance that would’ve put monks to shame, flipping to the next page. “Oh, look! A ‘no talking to me before 8 a.m.’ clause. Very considerate of you to prioritize your beauty sleep.”

“It’s not beauty sleep if you’re naturally superior,” Yoo Joonghyuk retorted, crossing his arms with the grace of someone who had absolutely practiced that line in a mirror.

“‘No existing within a 5-meter radius of me unless absolutely necessary,’” Kim Dokja read aloud, snorting like he’d just discovered Yoo Joonghyuk’s middle school poetry, “I can’t wait to accidentally violate this one every single day.”

Yoo Joonghyuk snatched the agreement back with a hiss, “Sign it or die.”

Kim Dokja, ever the dramatist, produced a pen from thin air like a magician performing the world’s pettiest trick. He signed with a flourish and handed it back, grinning.

“There. Now we’re legally bonded.”

The next morning, Yoo Joonghyuk woke up to find Kim Dokja happily eating instant noodles in his 5-meter radius.

“What are you doing?” Yoo Joonghyuk growled, pointing at the glaring violation like an overworked lawyer presenting evidence in court.

Kim Dokja slurped obnoxiously, the sound louder than it had any right to be. He pointed at his bowl. “Breakfast. You know, the most important meal of the day? Clause 27 clearly states that food takes precedence over personal space.”

Yoo Joonghyuk grabbed the agreement, flipping furiously to page 14. There was no Clause 27.

“Kim Dokja,” He said slowly, his voice the auditory equivalent of a murder scene, “I will not hesitate to throw you out the window.”

“Joke’s on you,” Kim Dokja said, patting Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder with mock affection, “We’re on the ground floor.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eye twitched. Somewhere in the background, the sad lightbulb flickered again, mourning not just his sanity but the concept of peace itself. By the end of the week, Kim Dokja had touched the sword (“It’s just so shiny, Yoo Joonghyuk!”), spoken to him at 6:42 a.m. (“What even is time, really?”), and violated his personal space with such consistency that Yoo Joonghyuk seriously considered drafting a new clause about restraining orders. But no matter how many times Yoo Joonghyuk threatened him with homicide, Kim Dokja would just grin, pat him on the back like a condescending elder, and say, “Don’t worry, I’ll be the best roommate you’ve ever had.”

To Yoo Joonghyuk’s unending dismay, Kim Dokja was right.

[Grocery Shopping: The Saga]

Yoo Joonghyuk stood before the open fridge, his gaze sharp enough to cleave mountains. To any observer, it would seem he was preparing for a duel, his opponent being the chaos lurking within. The bottom shelf was pristine—a battlefield he had already conquered. Raw chicken breasts lay in perfect alignment, their surfaces gleaming like freshly polished armor under the fluorescent light. Beside them, an array of meticulously chopped and categorized vegetables stood upright in glass containers, a regiment of obedient soldiers awaiting his culinary orders. Every carrot stick, every broccoli floret, was an ode to his relentless precision.

And then there was the top shelf.

The cursed domain where no law applied and chaos thrived unchecked. Instant noodle cups and packets teetered precariously, a tower of sodium-laden anarchy in every imaginable flavor. Spicy Nebula Shrimp Fusion sat near the edge, daring anyone to question its existence. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eye twitched as his gaze shifted to the cans nestled among the noodles—ancient relics of a bygone era. One particularly rusted can, ominously labeled Meat(?) Surprise, seemed to emit a faint aura of malevolence. He half-expected it to start hissing ominously, perhaps even summoning an eldritch being if opened.

Behind him, Kim Dokja lounged against the counter with the kind of smug nonchalance that only someone entirely immune to shame could manage. He was halfway through slurping an instant ramen cup, the water lukewarm at best. The steam was nonexistent—evidence that Kim Dokja had either microwaved it for thirty seconds or simply poured water in and called it a day.

“What’s wrong, Roommate of the Century?” Kim Dokja asked between loud, obnoxious slurps, the noodles dangling from his mouth like tiny edible insults, “Vegetables not sparking joy?”

Yoo Joonghyuk shut the fridge door with a force that suggested he was imagining it was Kim Dokja’s face. The sound reverberated through the apartment like a judge’s gavel declaring a life sentence. He turned to face his nemesis, his expression an intricate tapestry of barely restrained murder.

“Do you have a death wish?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous, each syllable sharpened to a fine point.

Kim Dokja didn’t flinch—he rarely did when it came to Yoo Joonghyuk’s death threats. Instead, he twirled his chopsticks with the flair of a magician about to perform a vanishing act—except the only thing disappearing was his dignity.

“Depends,” He replied, tilting his head like a mischievous child, “Does your life insurance cover arson-related incidents?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare could have curdled milk. It didn’t matter. Kim Dokja simply smiled, the kind of smile that belonged on someone who had just set fire to a priceless artifact for a laugh.

“We’re going grocery shopping,” Yoo Joonghyuk declared, his tone brooking no argument.

Kim Dokja raised an eyebrow, his chopsticks pausing mid-air, “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond. He simply walked away, his coat billowing dramatically as if the gods themselves were assisting him in his quest for sanity. Kim Dokja sighed, slurping the last of his ramen.

“Fine,” He muttered, “But I’m not carrying the bags.”

That was how they found themselves here.

Yoo Joonghyuk stormed through the grocery store aisles like a war general preparing for battle. His cart was his weapon, his mission clear: stock up on proper nutrition that wouldn’t insult his highly refined palate—or his abs. Each item he selected was a testament to his militant approach to grocery shopping. Lean meats, whole grains, organic vegetables—every item practically screamed, I’m better than you and I know it. He could have been on the cover of Fitness Monthly, glaring at readers while holding a kale smoothie.

Trailing behind him was Kim Dokja, a chaotic contrast to Yoo Joonghyuk’s regimented order. Kim Dokja’s cart emitted an ear-splitting squeak with every push, like the dying wails of a goose caught in a blender. It was loaded with items that would make a nutritionist weep. At the very top of his heap sat an industrial-sized pack of instant noodles—flavors ranging from Fiery Dragon Breath to Questionable Shrimp Delight—a bag of discount chips with packaging that practically screamed we gave up halfway, and a jar ominously labeled Mystery Spread. The jar seemed to vibrate faintly, as if it might sprout legs and scuttle off at any moment.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s sharp gaze flicked to the jar, a vein pulsing dangerously in his temple. He snatched it from Kim Dokja’s cart with the precision of someone disarming a bomb.

“You’re not putting this in the fridge.”

Kim Dokja blinked at him, his expression that of a man deeply amused by someone else’s suffering. “Bold of you to assume I’d refrigerate it at all,” He stated, reclaiming the jar with the reflexes of a feral raccoon protecting a shiny piece of trash.

Yoo Joonghyuk briefly considered murder—quick, efficient, and completely justified in his opinion. Instead, he muttered something unintelligible under his breath about “idiots and their culinary death wishes” and marched toward the meat section.

And there it was.

The Holy Grail of the grocery store—the last pack of premium beef. Its marbled perfection gleamed under the fluorescent lights, a divine testament to the artistry of butchery. It wasn’t just meat; it was a masterpiece. Yoo Joonghyuk could almost hear a choir singing in the background as he reached for it.

But he wasn’t alone.

A small child, no older than seven, stood at the edge of the display, his chubby fingers hovering millimeters away from the beef. The boy’s eyes gleamed with unshakable determination, the kind that only comes from truly understanding the significance of steak night. Time slowed. The grocery store faded away, the hum of freezers and the chatter of shoppers dissolving into silence. It was just Yoo Joonghyuk and the boy now, locked in a battle that transcended words. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed. The boy’s lip quivered, but his resolve didn’t falter. Yet. Somewhere in the distance, an imaginary tumbleweed rolled by, and if you listened closely, you could almost hear the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Kim Dokja strolled past, completely oblivious to the showdown. He casually tossed a box of neon-colored cereal into his already absurd pile. “This is why they say kids these days don’t fear God,” He muttered, pausing briefly to poke at a discounted pack of frozen fish before moving on.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s fingers twitched. The boy’s hand wavered. For a split second, it looked like the child might win.

But Yoo Joonghyuk had faced gods, demons, and the unrelenting stupidity of Kim Dokja. This was nothing. With the precision of a seasoned warrior, he grabbed the beef and dropped it into his cart with a satisfying thunk. The boy’s face crumpled like a wet paper bag. A single tear slid down his cheek, and he let out a wail that echoed through the store, a sound so pitiful it could have moved mountains—or at least convinced a softer-hearted adult to hand over the beef.

Yoo Joonghyuk was not that adult.

He glanced down at the pack of beef in his cart, then at the sobbing child. He hesitated for exactly half a second, his conscience briefly nudging him like an annoying mosquito that sounded suspiciously like a certain roommate he was living with. Then he turned on his heel and pushed his cart forward, the beef safe and sound among his perfectly selected groceries.

“No mercy,” He muttered under his breath, leaving behind a trail of indignation, tears, and one devastated child.

Somewhere between the meat aisle and the dairy section, Kim Dokja’s attention span abandoned him. Yoo Joonghyuk had been agonizing over expiration dates on milk cartons for what felt like hours (it had been two minutes), and Kim Dokja, with all the maturity of an unsupervised child, wandered off. He soon stumbled upon the pet aisle—the undisputed utopia of the grocery store. It was an explosion of colors and joy, from neon squeaky toys shaped like cartoon-ish animals to rows of catnip that could probably get an elephant high. One shelf held artisanal kibble that promised to turn your dog into a Michelin-star food critic. Kim Dokja was examining a bag of hamster treats (“Guaranteed to make your rodent feel loved or your money back!”) when he spotted it.

There, in a small display cage, was a cat.

Not just any cat—the cat. Pure white, impossibly fluffy, with eyes that held the jaded wisdom of someone who had seen the end of the world and decided to nap through it. It sat with the poise of royalty trapped in a mortal prison, its tail flicking lazily against the bars like it was bored of existing.

The cat blinked at him.

He blinked back.

“You look like you’ve been through some things,” Kim Dokja said, crouching down to meet its gaze. His voice was soft, like he was speaking to an old war veteran recounting their time in the trenches.

The cat tilted its head, the feline equivalent of, Kid, you don’t even know the half of it.

“How do you feel about instant noodles and questionable life choices?” Kim Dokja asked, slipping a hand through the bars. His fingers brushed the cat’s ears, and it leaned into his touch, purring like a tiny engine revving up.

The deal was sealed.

By the time Yoo Joonghyuk tracked him down, Kim Dokja was standing at the checkout counter, cradling the cat in his arms as if it were a sacred relic. Its fur was so pristine it almost shimmered under the fluorescent lights, but its expression screamed, I tolerate this human, but only because I lack opposable thumbs to escape.

Yoo Joonghyuk froze. His eyes darted from Kim Dokja to the cat and back again, his jaw tightening like he was preparing for battle.

“No,” He said flatly.

“Yes,” Kim Dokja replied with the kind of smug grin that could launch a thousand ship wars.

“Put it back.”

“She chose me,” Kim Dokja said, clutching the cat closer. He stared into the distance, his voice dripping with melodrama. “It’s fate. Destiny. Written in the stars. A bond forged in the fires of—”

“Shut up,” Yoo Joonghyuk snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose like he could physically banish the headache brewing in his skull.

The cat, evidently picking up on the tension, yawned with theatrical indifference. It raised a paw and swiped lazily in Yoo Joonghyuk’s direction, missing entirely but getting its point across. Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the tiny claws like they were a personal insult.

“I hate that cat,” He muttered.

“She hates you too,” Kim Dokja chirped, his voice unnervingly cheerful. He adjusted his hold on the cat, who now looked almost smug. “See? She fits right in.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t reply. He simply turned and walked away. 

[The Cooking Disaster]

Kim Dokja, self-proclaimed literary genius and destroyer of Yoo Joonghyuk’s peace of mind, stood in the kitchen with the confidence of a man who had never once used a stove. He puffed out his chest as if about to conquer uncharted culinary territory.

“Watch and learn, Yoo Joonghyuk,” He declared, cracking his knuckles like an overconfident protagonist from a third-rate drama, “Tonight, I shall prove I am a fully functioning adult who can cook a meal that won’t kill anyone.”

Yoo Joonghyuk, already regretting every decision that led to this moment, leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. His deadpan stare carried the weight of a thousand disappointments, like a teacher watching the class clown attempt quantum physics. “The last time you ‘cooked,’ I had to throw away my favorite knife because it smelled like burnt ramen.”

“That’s unfair slander,” Kim Dokja retorted with the righteous indignation of someone who absolutely deserved the criticism. He brandished a suspiciously large knife that looked more suited for medieval combat than chopping vegetables. “This time will be different.”

It wasn’t.

Five minutes in, the kitchen had descended into chaos. It looked less like a place where food was prepared and more like the aftermath of a culinary apocalypse. Somehow, Kim Dokja had managed to set water—water—on fire. Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the blazing pot on the stove, his brain short-circuiting as he tried to process the sheer impossibility of it.

“Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk growled, reaching for the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall with the weariness of a man forced to clean up yet another mess, “What did you do?”

“I followed the recipe!” Kim Dokja shouted defensively, waving his phone like it was Exhibit A in his trial for culinary crimes. On the screen, a recipe for something called ‘Spicy Inferno Soup’ glowed ominously. “I even substituted the chili peppers with ghost peppers for extra flavor!”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze shifted from the phone to the flaming pot of soup, which was now bubbling ominously as if gaining sentience.

“That’s not flavor,” He said flatly, “That’s a biological weapon.”

The soup let out a low, menacing hiss like it agreed with Yoo Joonghyuk. Before he could extinguish the fire, Kim Dokja decided to take matters into his own hands—literally. He leaned over the stove and jabbed the bubbling liquid with his oversized knife.

This turned out to be a terrible idea.

The soup retaliated with a dramatic splatter, launching molten broth directly onto Kim Dokja’s shirt. He yelped, dropping the knife and stumbling backward as if personally betrayed by his own creation. Yoo Joonghyuk let out a long-suffering sigh, grabbed Kim Dokja by the back of his collar like a misbehaving cat, and dragged him away from the stove.

“Get out before you burn everything to the ground.”

“But I was just getting to the good part!” Kim Dokja protested, flailing his arms as Yoo Joonghyuk hauled him toward the dining table, “It’s supposed to look alive! That means it’s authentic!”

“Authentically horrifying,” Yoo Joonghyuk turned back to the stove, extinguished the fire with the precision of someone who had done this far too many times, and muttered under his breath, “Next time, I’m poisoning you myself. It’ll be safer.”

The soup let out one final gurgle before Yoo Joonghyuk banished it to the sink, where it fizzled out in defeat. Kim Dokja, still sulking, muttered something about “unappreciated genius” as he eyed the blackened remnants of his culinary masterpiece.

Yoo Joonghyuk resisted the urge to toss him into the sink after it.

Half an hour later, Yoo Joonghyuk reluctantly stepped into the kitchen, like a warrior donning his armor before battle. The air was thick with the promise of impending culinary disaster, but Yoo Joonghyuk was resolute. His eyes narrowed with cold precision as he picked up the knife, and the kitchen fell into a tense, almost cinematic silence. The vegetables didn’t stand a chance. With the surgical precision of a trained assassin, Yoo Joonghyuk sliced through onions, carrots, and bell peppers like they were mere distractions in his quest for victory. His movements were so fluid and deliberate, they could’ve been choreographed for an action movie. Even the sizzling meat in the pan seemed to dance in submission to his unspoken command, sautéed with the grace of a kung-fu master performing a flawless routine.

As the meal began to take shape, each dish plated with the kind of artistry that would make a Michelin-starred chef weep, Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t help but feel a small surge of pride. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing he could create something beautiful, even if it was only to save someone from a fate worse than burning soup. He placed the final dish down on the table with the same reverence one might reserve for presenting a masterpiece to a god. It was a feast for the senses, its fragrance enough to make even the most jaded man pause in awe.

Kim Dokja, who had been watching from the sidelines with the kind of intensity only a starving man could muster, practically vibrated with anticipation. The moment Yoo Joonghyuk set the plate down, the aroma hit him like a freight train of savory delight, and his mouth watered instantly. It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up and granted him this small blessing after the horrors of his earlier culinary misadventure. He leaned in, sniffing dramatically. 

“This looks… edible,” Kim Dokja said, his voice filled with reverence as he stared at the meal as though it were a religious artifact.

Yoo Joonghyuk shot him a scathing look.

“It’s not for you,” He snapped, his voice thick with unamused superiority, but he still slid a plate toward Kim Dokja, “But I’d rather you not die of malnutrition in my vicinity.”

Kim Dokja took a cautious bite, his expression unreadable for a split second. Then, it happened. The flavors exploded on his tongue like a divine revelation, each ingredient coming together in perfect harmony. His eyes widened, and he froze mid-chew, as if processing the sheer magnitude of what had just happened.

“This… this is heaven,” He whispered, a single tear threatening to escape. It was so good that even the cold-hearted Yoo Joonghyuk might’ve softened at the sight of such emotional vulnerability. But then, as if nothing could be sacred, Kim Dokja, with the same tactfulness that had earned him the title of ‘Human Embarrassment,’ added, “It also cleanses my bowels. Truly, you are a master of gastrointestinal enlightenment.”

Yoo Joonghyuk twitched so violently, it was a miracle his entire body didn’t short-circuit.

“Shut up and eat,” He growled, trying his hardest to ignore the disturbing image of that thought.

But Kim Dokja, in his infinite wisdom, did not heed the advice. No, despite the fact that he had just verbally debased a meal of what could only be described as culinary perfection, he reached under the table and produced a cup of instant noodles. He didn’t even bother to open the package, just set it next to his plate like some kind of bizarre sacrificial offering to the gods of convenience. There it sat, mocking Yoo Joonghyuk’s efforts in the most passive-aggressive way possible.

Yoo Joonghyuk narrowed his eyes, the full weight of his annoyance sinking in, “What are you doing?”

Kim Dokja, utterly undeterred by the disapproving stare, looked at him with a face as serious as if he were about to deliver a life-altering revelation.

“I’m honoring tradition,” He replied, all dignity intact as he shoveled another bite of Yoo Joonghyuk’s meticulously prepared food into his mouth, completely ignoring the instant noodles like they were a mere background decoration in this culinary theater.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eye twitched.

“You’re an idiot,” He muttered, shaking his head, but his voice carried no conviction—just the quiet acceptance of the fact that he had, once again, made the mistake of living with this man.

“An idiot with good taste,” Kim Dokja countered, gesturing to his now empty plate as if it were proof enough of his wisdom. He even gave a satisfied, self-congratulatory hum, which only made Yoo Joonghyuk want to throw the plate at his head. 

Instead, Yoo Joonghyuk silently vowed to poison Kim Dokja’s next meal. 

[Petty Arguments]

Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk’s daily life had become an ongoing sitcom—one where the laugh track was just the sound of passive-aggressive sighs and the occasional cat’s meow of approval. If you could even call it living, it was more like two emotionally constipated individuals staging an endless battle over absolutely everything. Each day was a new episode of Who’s Pettiest Today? featuring a cast of two grumpy adults and one deeply indifferent cat.

The first point of contention—the bathroom light.

Kim Dokja, who had an allergy to anything remotely resembling responsibility, was typically the one to leave the light on. And yet, like a true agent of chaos, he always blamed Yoo Joonghyuk. This time was no different. As Kim Dokja shuffled through the dark hallway in his search for glasses—his arms flailing like he was auditioning for a zombie film—he suddenly stopped.

“Who left the bathroom light on?” He shouted, his tone dripping with melodrama. It was the kind of voice usually reserved for tragic monologues in historical dramas, not minor household inconveniences.

Yoo Joonghyuk, currently seated on the couch and glaring at the TV remote as if sheer willpower would make it work, didn’t bother looking up, “It wasn’t me.”

Dokja squinted suspiciously in the direction of the couch.

“It’s always you.”

Yoo Joonghyuk finally turned to face him, his expression a masterpiece of apathy. “Why would I leave the bathroom light on in the middle of the night, you fool?” His voice was flat, but his exhaustion was palpable. It was the tone of a man forced into a living arrangement he had neither wanted nor consented to, but a companionship he begrudgingly endured because murder was illegal.

“Because you’re you!” Kim Dokja shot back, as if that settled the matter.

With a huff, Kim Dokja stomped into the bathroom to investigate, only to stop dead in his tracks. There, perched smugly on the sink counter like some miniature overlord of poor decision-making, was the true culprit—their cat, Biyoo. The feline was curled up next to the still-glowing light switch, staring at Kim Dokja with the calm indifference of a creature that knew it could do no wrong. Apparently, Biyoo had decided that the bathroom light was its new throne room. The fluorescent glow highlighted the cat’s whiskers as it blinked at Kim Dokja, completely unfazed.

“I should’ve known,” Kim Dokja muttered, his voice rising in pitch as he jabbed an accusatory finger in Biyoo’s direction, “Biyoo! You betrayed me! All those nights, you pretended to be an innocent bystander!”

Biyoo yawned. A long, theatrical yawn.

Kim Dokja’s indignation hit new heights as the cat lazily stood, stretched, and hopped off the counter with the casual air of someone clocking out of a 9-to-5. Biyoo sauntered toward the door, scratched at it twice for dramatic effect, and then walked off, leaving behind an aura of smug satisfaction.

Yoo Joonghyuk appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, “Done yelling at the cat?”

Kim Dokja turned to glare at him, his expression a mix of betrayal and determination, “This isn’t over. You and Biyoo are conspiring against me.”

Yoo Joonghyuk gave an unimpressed shrug and walked away. The sound of Biyoo’s soft purring from the living room was the only reply.

The next ‘situation’ arose when Yoo Joonghyuk, after lying stiffly on the excuse for a mattress in the tiny guest room (which he adamantly refused to acknowledge as an actual room), decided that enough was enough. The air in there felt oppressive—mostly because the room was smaller than a walk-in closet and crammed with boxes labeled Dokja’s Junk: Handle With Caution. The wallpaper was peeling, and the only decoration was a mismatched pair of socks pinned to the wall, presumably as a ‘joke’ left by Kim Dokja.

Yoo Joonghyuk, the ever-practical man that he was, concluded that this was no way for someone of his caliber to live. He did what any emotionally repressed man with too many swords would do in such circumstances—he got up, walked out, and made a direct beeline for Kim Dokja’s bed.

He didn’t knock, didn’t ask, and certainly didn’t hesitate.

He opened the door, walked across the room with all the grace of a tank, and unceremoniously plopped down onto the bed. The springs groaned under his weight, but Yoo Joonghyuk ignored them, as well as the horrified squawk that came from Kim Dokja, who had just been rudely awoken. The bed, for the record, was barely big enough for one. Now, with Yoo Joonghyuk stretched out like a territorial bear, it looked less like a place to sleep and more like a poorly designed wrestling ring.

“What—what are you doing?” Kim Dokja asked, sitting up and glaring at him through a mess of bed-head. His voice was groggy but layered with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for watching someone eat pineapple on pizza.

“I’m not sleeping in that closet, Kim Dokja,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered, his tone so matter-of-fact it could have been used in a TED Talk. He adjusted himself slightly, taking up even more of the bed like a cat that refused to acknowledge the existence of personal space.

“That’s not a closet!” Kim Dokja protested, “It’s a guest room! I even put a lamp in there!”

“The lamp doesn’t work.”

“Well, that’s because you didn’t plug it in!” Kim Dokja snapped, throwing his hands in the air. He flopped back onto his side of the bed with a dramatic sigh, muttering something about “inviting chaos into his home.” Still, Kim Dokja made no attempt to kick him out. Instead, he rolled over, turning his back to Yoo Joonghyuk, as if it were his life’s greatest mission to pretend that this wasn’t happening—that Yoo Joonghyuk, his emotionally constipated roommate, wasn’t currently occupying half his bed. He yanked the blanket over himself, pulling it tight like he was fortifying a castle wall.

“You’re hogging the blanket.”

“No, you’re hogging it,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied flatly, grabbing the edge of the blanket with all the finesse of someone trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube with their elbows.

“No,” Kim Dokja countered, his voice rising an octave, “You’re hogging it. You’re taking up half the bed!”

“You’re the one who—” Yoo Joonghyuk’s rebuttal was cut off when Kim Dokja, channeling all the passive-aggressive energy of a thousand disgruntled roommates, yanked the entire blanket over himself in one swift motion. The maneuver left Yoo Joonghyuk staring at the ceiling, entirely blanket-less.

“I’m not gonna sleep in your blanket,” Yoo Joonghyuk grumbled, lying there like a man who had just realized all his life choices had led to this exact moment.

“Guess I’ll get your blanket too, then.”

“I’m not taking your blanket, Kim Dokja.”

“You’re literally taking up the entire bed, and now you're taking my blanket too! You’re the worst!” Dokja hissed, curling himself into a smug burrito of victory.

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly murderous.

Then, without warning, he moved.

In one swift, fluid motion that could only be described as a man using years of combat training for the pettiest reason imaginable, Yoo Joonghyuk grabbed Kim Dokja by the waist and hauled him closer.

Kim Dokja froze mid-snark. His brain short-circuited so hard that for a moment, he was convinced the apocalypse had arrived early. The only sounds in the room were the faint creak of the bed and the soft hum of existential dread radiating from Kim Dokja’s very soul.

“What are you—?!” Kim Dokja squeaked, his voice hitting a pitch so high it could’ve summoned a pack of wild dogs.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s face was the picture of serenity. His expression, as calm and unreadable as a well-maintained rock garden, betrayed none of the violence of the situation at hand. “You’re hogging the blanket,” He said, his tone maddeningly neutral, “This is the only solution.”

“The only solution?!” Kim Dokja’s voice cracked like a teenager’s trying to argue his way out of detention.

His panic was instant and visceral, an electric charge zipping up his spine. He could feel Yoo Joonghyuk’s arm, impossibly solid, pressed against his side, his breath steady and heavy on the back of Kim Dokja’s neck. The weight of the arm was the most alarming thing, like some cursed, unmovable force. It was a simple arm, but it felt like the entire world was being pinned to him by its sheer, silent insistence. His entire being had been reduced to a single thought: Yoo Joonghyuk’s arm is around my waist. The realization wouldn’t leave him. It refused to leave him.

“The only solution?!” Dokja repeated, his voice cracking again in an almost comically high-pitched whine.

He was trying—and failing—not to hyperventilate.

There was a sensation building in his chest, an urge to squirm and wriggle free, but the arm remained. Why does it feel like he’s holding me like this on purpose? The tension in the air was thick, like the weight of the blanket was nothing compared to the tension pulling at his shoulders. Yoo Joonghyuk, still the embodiment of unbothered stoicism, merely tilted his head in that irritatingly patient way of his.

“Do you want the blanket or not?” He asked, his voice flat, already bored as if the conversation had gone on far too long. The implied if not, then tough luck hung between them like a noose. There was something maddening about his complete lack of urgency, like he wasn’t even aware of how too close they were.

“I…” Kim Dokja stammered, voice barely above a whisper now, barely able to handle the dissonance between what his brain wanted to do and the overwhelming physical presence of Yoo Joonghyuk behind him. His heart was pounding now, racing in his chest like an animal trying to escape a cage.

“Fine. I don’t even care. Just—whatever.”

Yoo Joonghyuk adjusted the blanket with all the precision of a battlefield commander, his fingers firm and deliberate as he tugged it to his side with a military efficiency that somehow made it worse. Kim Dokja couldn’t even bring himself to move. His limbs were frozen, paralyzed by the proximity. He could feel every inch of Yoo Joonghyuk’s body pressed against his, could feel the heat from his skin seeping through the fabric of his pajamas. Every breath Yoo Joonghyuk took seemed to rattle in Kim Dokja’s bones, and he could hear each breath in perfect detail, as though the air itself had thickened with the tension between them. 

Yoo Joonghyuk closed his eyes as if nothing had happened. As if nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Night, you fool,” He said, the finality in his tone signaling the end of the interaction.

Kim Dokja didn’t move for the next three hours. He couldn’t. He lay there, as stiff and immovable as a corpse, with his back pressed rigidly against the solid weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest. He could feel every breath, each exhale warm and steady against his spine, each inhale a silent thud in his chest that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He could even feel Yoo Joonghyuk’s heartbeat, a steady thrum against his back like some maddening, rhythmic pulse.

The sensation was maddening. Unyielding. Unavoidable.

His mind spiraled into a loop of nonsensical thought—Yoo Joonghyuk’s front is pressing all against my back. Why is it so warm? Why is his heartbeat so steady? Is this normal? Is this… okay?

But the worst part? His body was betraying him.

There was an absurd, traitorous part of him that just wanted to lie there. To feel Yoo Joonghyuk’s weight anchor him in place. The warmth was comforting in a way he refused to admit, the proximity a knot of tension and strange solace that made him feel like he wasn’t completely alone. He hated it. He hated it so much, but the traitorous part of his heart refused to let go. He kept lying there, stiff as a board, his brain short-circuiting in a loop of static, his thoughts shattering like glass.

Why do I feel this way? Why do I want to stay here?

As Yoo Joonghyuk’s slow, even breathing continued to echo in Kim Dokja’s ears, the room seemed to close in on him. This is fine, he told himself, but every single muscle in his body screamed otherwise. His back burned where Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest pressed up against him. The feeling was suffocating in the most inconvenient, intimate way possible.

Eventually, Yoo Joonghyuk shifted slightly, his chest brushing against Kim Dokja’s back in a subtle motion, like he had somehow heard the torturous thoughts swirling in Kim Dokja’s mind. But he said nothing. He never said anything. He simply existed there, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him to be in Kim Dokja’s space, his body pressed so closely against him that Kim Dokja could no longer separate where he ended and Yoo Joonghyuk began. And for the first time in a very long time, Dokja’s mind was silent—only for a brief, fleeting moment. But it was enough to make him wonder if this chaos, this overwhelming absurdity, might actually be… okay. 

The cat, perched smugly on the dresser, watched the entire debacle unfold with detached amusement. Its tail flicked lazily from side to side, an almost casual display of judgment. Its expression—one of pure distaste—was unmistakable. The cat, clearly too sophisticated for this nonsense, couldn’t believe it had to live with these two absolute disasters of human beings. They were both far too much trouble, and the cat had its own plans, thank you very much. It watched them, in silent, eternal judgment.

But it wasn’t about to get involved in their petty, emotional debacles.

And then there was the sword.

For the uninitiated, Yoo Joonghyuk had developed this absurd, borderline obsessive habit of leaving his sword everywhere. And when they say everywhere, they mean it. On tables, on chairs, in the middle of the hallway like some bizarre hazard waiting to trip the unassuming. It was as if Yoo Joonghyuk thought he was some kind of walking billboard for an unspoken sword lifestyle. Like a toddler with a knife, except this was a fully grown, emotionally-constipated man who had a relationship with his blade that was far more intimate than most people’s with their pets—more intimate than even the most devoted cat owners’ attachment to their furballs. The sword was everywhere, always there, and constantly in the way like the world's most inconvenient third wheel.

One evening, Kim Dokja entered the living room to find the latest sword placement: on the couch. Not just tossed aside as an afterthought but placed there as if the couch itself were an extension of Yoo Joonghyuk’s manhood. A weird, sharp extension, but an extension nonetheless.

“Why,” Kim Dokja began, his voice thick with the kind of frustration that could only come from years of passive-aggressive roommate battles, “Is your sword on the couch?”

He stared at the blade—curved, gleaming in the soft light, like it was some kind of silent sentient object that could come to life at any moment and challenge him to a duel for the living room’s soul. Or, at the very least, its space. He could practically feel the sword judging him from across the room.

Was it judging? Who knew? It was just… there.

Yoo Joonghyuk, who was casually lounging on the other side of the room like a deity who had better things to do than answer questions, didn’t even look up.

“It’s aesthetic,” He replied, sounding like this explanation made absolute, unchallenged sense in the context of the universe at large.

“Your sword is aesthetic,” Kim Dokja repeated, his voice an octave higher, as he tried to process this statement.

He paused, letting the absurdity of it settle into his bones, maybe even his bloodstream, because somewhere, deep inside, his sanity was beginning to unravel in the face of this inexplicable absurdity. He didn’t even know what kind of absurdity he was dealing with anymore. Aesthetic sword was not a sentence that belonged in a normal person’s lexicon.

“Please,” Kim Dokja sighed dramatically, “Tell me what exactly is aesthetic about it. You’re not fighting demons in the living room, Joonghyuk-ah. Are you? Are you secretly fighting a rogue vampire with this sword every time you have a ‘me moment’ in front of the TV?”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t so much as twitch at the implication that he might be normal or human. He stared back at Kim Dokja, unblinking, as though the very question had offended him on a molecular level. As if asking why someone used a fork to eat spaghetti instead of using their hands.

“It’s part of my personal branding,” He said, as though this was a perfectly reasonable and self-evident thing to say.

“Personal branding?!” Kim Dokja echoed, his voice a mixture of exasperation and something far darker—perhaps the very creeping realization that he might never escape this weird existence, “Are you secretly trying to get sponsored by some sword company, Yoo Joonghyuk? Is this an ad? Are you about to be on TV with this thing?”

He gestured vaguely at the sword. At this point, the weapon felt like an extension of the man—no longer just a blade, but an unrelenting force in the room that demanded respect, admiration, and possibly a commercial slot during prime time. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t acknowledge the question in any way. He merely flicked the sword with an almost too casual gesture, as though the blade were just an insignificant object like his coffee cup or remote control. As if the sword wasn’t a weapon capable of slicing through steel like it was butter. It was just... there. A part of the furniture. Like the couch was made to support a sword’s proud existence.

Then, as though the entire exchange had never happened—like this conversation was merely a small blip in the cosmic timeline of their increasingly strange cohabitation—Yoo Joonghyuk turned back to the TV. No apology. No acknowledgment of the chaos that had just been unleashed upon Kim Dokja’s brain. He just watched the screen as if life, and its many absurdities, had been entirely dealt with.

Kim Dokja, on the other hand, stood there frozen, staring at the sword, unable to decide if he was about to lose his mind or if he should just start collecting more swords to see what the hell would happen next. His thoughts were an ocean of why me? and what is life anymore? But he said nothing. Instead, he just picked up the nearest throw pillow, threw it at the sword—because what else was he supposed to do in the face of a lifestyle choice this bizarre? 

The pillow bounced off the sword and landed on the floor. As if mocking him.

After that, well...

The war of passive-aggressive sticky notes had officially begun. It was a conflict born not of necessity, but of spite, pettiness, and the sheer determination to annoy the other into submission. Kim Dokja, feeling both petty and superior—a dangerous combination—took it upon himself to transform the apartment into a battlefield of brightly colored paper squares. Every sticky note was a carefully crafted masterpiece of passive-aggressive literature, a symphony of annoyance conducted with fluorescent ink and righteous indignation. His first salvo appeared on the kitchen counter, written in the kind of hot pink ink that screamed, I am both serious and ridiculous, and you must take me seriously.

Stop glaring at me while I sleep.

Yoo Joonghyuk, stumbling into the kitchen at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. (because apparently, he thrived on suffering), picked up the note and stared at it. His face was a mask of confusion, as though Kim Dokja had handed him a complex mathematical equation instead of a single, accusatory sentence. Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, even one as absurd as a sticky-note war. He grabbed a pen—black, of course, because color was apparently an affront to his aesthetic—and scrawled his reply directly under Kim Dokja’s note.

I was not glaring.

Kim Dokja discovered this counterattack later in the day and squinted at it, feeling both offended and validated. He scribbled an addendum beneath Yoo Joonghyuk’s reply.

Yes, you were. I woke up and thought I was about to be assassinated.

The next move in Kim Dokja’s sticky-note campaign took place in the bathroom, where Yoo Joonghyuk’s unyielding insistence on wearing his boots everywhere—everywhere—had finally pushed Kim Dokja to his limit. The note, strategically placed on the mirror where it was impossible to miss, read:

This is a home, not a dungeon. Take off your boots.

Yoo Joonghyuk, freshly showered and still as broody as ever, spotted the note while toweling off his hair. He stared at it, his reflection glaring back at him like a judgmental doppelganger. With the deliberate calm of a man who could end worlds but was instead choosing to live with Kim Dokja, he left a single response below the note.

I can’t take them off. It’s symbolic.

Kim Dokja found this response infuriatingly cryptic. Symbolic of what? Your tragic backstory? Your inability to process emotions? Your complete disregard for household hygiene? He debated leaving another note demanding clarification but decided it was more satisfying to passive-aggressively scrub the floor near Yoo Joonghyuk’s boots while muttering loudly about “muddy footprints” and “household tyrants.” 

But it was the third note that cemented Kim Dokja’s victory—or so he thought. This one was not just a warning; it was a declaration of war. Placed on the fridge door, its bold lettering and dramatic undertones made it clear that Kim Dokja was done playing nice.

If you eat my chocolate again, I will murder you and frame it as your own doing!

Kim Dokja had even added a flourish to the exclamation mark, a flourish that said, I will absolutely go through with this threat, and you know it.

Yoo Joonghyuk stood in front of the fridge, arms crossed, staring at the note as though it were the final boss of a dungeon he’d underestimated. He didn’t even like chocolate. He hadn’t eaten the chocolate. All he had done was glance at the bar of chocolate Kim Dokja had left on the counter for too long, apparently triggering Kim Dokja’s inner dramatist.

“I didn’t eat it,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered under his breath, feeling the need to defend himself even though no one was there to hear it.

The cat, sitting nearby, blinked at him judgmentally.

Still, Yoo Joonghyuk refused to be defeated by the sticky-note menace. Instead of retaliating, he made a point of glaring at the chocolate bar every time he passed it, just to watch Kim Dokja squirm.

Despite the absurdity of it all, there was something oddly comforting about these exchanges. Each note, each reply, each petty jab was a sign that they hadn’t completely given up on each other’s company. Their dynamic was ridiculous, yes, but it was also uniquely theirs. In a world that often felt too big and too lonely, these tiny wars over sticky notes and boots and chocolate were strangely grounding. In their own twisted, dysfunctional way, they had found something resembling companionship.

Or at least an endless source of entertainment.

[Game Night Gone Wrong]

Kim Dokja, in his infinite wisdom (and borderline sadistic sense of humor), decided that what their miserable excuse for cohabitation needed was bonding activities. Not just any bonding activities—structured bonding activities. Naturally, Yoo Joonghyuk, who would rather perform surgery on himself with a dull spoon than ‘bond,’ protested vehemently.

“Board games,” Kim Dokja announced one evening, dropping a battered box of Monopoly on the table with the smug confidence of a man who knew he was about to make someone else’s evening significantly worse. His grin was the kind that could spark wars.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even bother masking his disdain. He eyed the box as if it were a monster from the deepest recesses of his nightmares—disgusting, unnecessary, and probably plotting something nefarious.

“This is childish,” He deadpanned, crossing his arms.

“Is it?” Kim Dokja asked, tone dripping with mock innocence that was anything but, “Or are you just afraid of losing?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eye twitched—a clear sign that the bait had landed. The room grew tense, the air crackling with the promise of incoming chaos. The challenge had been issued, and Yoo Joonghyuk, stubborn to a fault and currently operating on what could only be described as principle, was not one to back down. He sat down with all the grace of a soldier preparing for war.

It started innocently enough. Yoo Joonghyuk selected the iron token, clearly drawn to its sharp, menacing edges, while Kim Dokja smugly grabbed the top hat, declaring, “It exudes main character energy. Don’t act like you don’t see it.”

By turn two, the cracks were beginning to show.

Within ten minutes, Yoo Joonghyuk had turned the game into an unrelenting battlefield. He ruthlessly bankrupted Kim Dokja’s pitiful empire, snapped up every high-value property, and installed so many hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk that they looked like glittering capitalist death traps.

“Park Place and Boardwalk are mine,” Yoo Joonghyuk declared, slamming his hand on the table like a medieval king announcing victory in a bloody conquest.

“Only because you cheated,” Kim Dokja snapped, glaring at the suspiciously high stack of $500 bills Yoo Joonghyuk had somehow accumulated.

“I don’t cheat,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied, his tone dripping with righteous indignation, despite the fact that the dice in his hand practically glowed with guilt.

“You just flipped the dice mid-roll to land on Free Parking!” Kim Dokja gestured wildly to the offending dice, which had conveniently come to rest on a perfect double.

“That’s called strategy,” Yoo Joonghyuk countered, his expression a stone-cold mask of denial.

Kim Dokja looked ready to explode—or laugh uncontrollably; it was hard to tell with him sometimes. The tension was palpable. Somewhere, thunder probably rumbled in the distance.

Then, as if summoned by the sheer absurdity of the situation, Biyoo—now affectionately dubbed Little Tyrant by Kim Dokja—sauntered into the room. The cat hopped onto the table with a regal air, surveyed the scene of Monopoly carnage, and casually batted one of Yoo Joonghyuk’s precious hotels off the board.

Kim Dokja’s eyes lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

“See? Even Little Tyrant knows you’re cheating.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s death glare could have turned lesser men to stone, but Kim Dokja was immune—possibly because he thrived on antagonism.

Without hesitation, Kim Dokja scooped up the cat and held her aloft like a general rallying his troops, “Together, we’ll take down the evil capitalist overlord!”

Biyoo meowed once, a sound that could have been agreement—or hunger. Either way, Kim Dokja declared it a win.

That was it. That was the final straw. Yoo Joonghyuk, in an act of unrestrained fury (or, more likely, sheer pettiness), reached across the table and flipped the entire board. The chaos that followed was breathtaking. Fake money fluttered through the air like confetti at a disastrous parade. Game pieces went flying, one narrowly missing Kim Dokja’s forehead. The dice bounced off the wall with an ominous clatter. Little Tyrant yowled in indignation and leapt from Kim Dokja’s arms, disappearing under the couch with a parting glare.

“You are insufferable,” Yoo Joonghyuk growled, his fists clenched so tightly that Kim Dokja half-expected him to punch a hole through the table.

“And you’re bad at Monopoly,” Kim Dokja shot back, his grin widening as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare intensified, and for a moment, Kim Dokja wondered if he’d pushed his luck a little too far this time. But as Yoo Joonghyuk turned and stormed out of the room, Kim Dokja allowed himself a victorious chuckle. Bonding activities might not have brought them closer, but they had, at the very least, proven one thing: Yoo Joonghyuk was terrible at keeping his temper—and even worse at Monopoly.

Not one to give up on the idea of fun, Kim Dokja decided to switch gears. Board games might have been too ‘primitive’ for Yoo Joonghyuk’s high-and-mighty sensibilities, but video games? Video games were the future, and they were going to be his secret weapon. He fired up Mario Kart with the confidence of a man about to ruin someone’s day even further. Tossing a controller into Yoo Joonghyuk’s lap, he smirked.

“It’s simple,” Kim Dokja explained, his voice slow and condescending, as if teaching a particularly dense toddler, “You race, you win, and you don’t cry when I annihilate you.”

“I don’t cry,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered, gripping the controller with a strength that suggested he was contemplating snapping it in half.

The first race began. Yoo Joonghyuk’s kart shot forward like a missile, his avatar ruthlessly bulldozing anyone in his way. His focus was terrifying, his brows furrowed as if Mario Kart were a battlefield, not a colorful game about turtles and mushrooms. But Mario Kart was a cruel and impartial god, and Yoo Joonghyuk was no exception to its wrath. A blue shell struck his kart just inches from the finish line, sending him spiraling into fourth place. Meanwhile, Kim Dokja’s character sailed across the line in first, his avatar cheerfully throwing confetti into the air.

“This is rigged!” Yoo Joonghyuk snarled, glaring at the screen like he could force it to apologize through sheer intimidation.

“It’s called karma,” Kim Dokja replied, his voice positively dripping with amusement, “Maybe the game knows you flipped a Monopoly board earlier. It remembers, Yoo Joonghyuk. It remembers.”

Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing, his jaw tightening as he gripped the controller harder. Kim Dokja could almost hear the plastic creaking under the pressure.

Another race started. Yoo Joonghyuk leaned so far forward it seemed like he might actually crawl into the screen. His kart zipped through the course with wild abandon, cutting corners and ramming into other characters like a man possessed. When yet another red shell hit him mid-air, sending his kart tumbling back into third place, Yoo Joonghyuk slammed the controller onto the couch with a force that made Kim Dokja flinch.

“Temper, temper,” Kim Dokja teased, leaning back into the couch like a smug king surveying his dominion. His grin was wide and unforgivable, the very picture of someone about to seal his fate. “Maybe video games aren’t your thing, old man.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eye twitched. That was it. The line had been crossed. His patience—what little of it existed—snapped with an audible crack.

Without a single word of warning, he lunged.

Kim Dokja barely had time to process what was happening before the world spun. He let out a startled yelp as his back hit the couch, the air knocked out of his lungs in one unceremonious oof. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter, as he claimed the battlefield with surgical precision. His knee settled firmly between Kim Dokja’s legs, pinning him to the cushions with the kind of raw, unyielding force that made escape laughably impossible. One of his hands effortlessly captured both of Kim Dokja’s wrists, pinning them above his head, while the other gripped Kim Dokja’s waist, pressing him down like a vice.

The weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence was suffocating in the way a thunderstorm hovered just before it struck.

“Take it back,” Yoo Joonghyuk growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a jolt down Kim Dokja’s spine. His face was so close that Kim Dokja could feel the warmth of his breath, steady and unyielding against his skin.

Kim Dokja’s usual composure shattered like cheap glass dropped from a skyscraper. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again before the only coherent response he could muster came out as, “Get off me, you lunatic!”

The shriek that followed could have made glass crack.

Kim Dokja writhed beneath him, twisting his body in a desperate attempt to escape, but Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t budge. He was as immovable as a mountain, his strength an unrelenting reminder that resistance was futile. Each squirm sent a ripple of something coursing through Kim Dokja, making his heart pound like a drum in his ears.

And then Yoo Joonghyuk went utterly still and silent.

The air between them shifted, growing heavy, taut, and suffused with something that neither would dare name. Yoo Joonghyuk’s sharp eyes, which usually held an edge of violence or irritation, softened ever so slightly. For a moment, just a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk seemed transfixed. His gaze swept over Kim Dokja’s face, taking in details as if committing them to memory. The sharp line of his jaw, almost elegant in its definition. His high cheekbones, a touch regal yet softened by the flush of heat spreading across his face. The small, endearing button nose that Yoo Joonghyuk would never admit made him pause. The tufts of thin but surprisingly fluffy hair that stuck out haphazardly, as if Kim Dokja had just woken up from an afternoon nap.

And then there were his eyes.

Yoo Joonghyuk lingered there the longest, staring into the endless expanse of the cosmos reflected in them. They shone with something indefinable, something that was both infuriating and... beautiful.

Kim Dokja, for his part, felt like his skin was on fire. Hot blood radiated through him, settling uncomfortably in places he refused to think about. The weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze, the pressure of his body—it was too much. His breath hitched, and his words, for once, faltered.

“You—you’re too close!” Kim Dokja finally managed, though his voice lacked its usual bite. His cheeks burned, hot and red, but definitely not from embarrassment.

Definitely not.

“Merely silencing your stupidity,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied flatly, though his voice carried an unfamiliar edge—something rougher, something warmer, something that sent another unwelcome jolt through Kim Dokja.

“By sitting on me?!”

“Yes.”

The tension hung there, thick and suffocating, until salvation arrived in the form of a small, furry missile.

Biyoo, the Little Tyrant, launched herself onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s head with the kind of reckless abandon reserved for animals with no sense of consequence. Her claws latched into his hair, and she let out a defiant yowl, as if she, too, had declared war on Yoo Joonghyuk.

Yoo Joonghyuk froze. His composure shattered like a poorly made vase as he reeled from the cat’s unexpected ambush.

It was all Kim Dokja needed.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Kim Dokja squirmed free with the grace of a fish escaping a net. He fell to the floor in an undignified heap, gasping for breath as slightly deranged laughter bubbled out of him uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” Kim Dokja wheezed, clutching his stomach as he tried to steady himself, “No more bonding activities. You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”

Yoo Joonghyuk, his dignity hanging by a thread, pried Biyoo from his head and stood. His hair stuck out at odd angles, courtesy of the cat’s claws, and his expression was one of simmering betrayal. Without a word, he turned and left the room, his back stiff and unyielding. Biyoo was perched in his arms, the true victor of the evening, while Kim Dokja lay on the floor, still laughing like a maniac, still flushed.

(And still trying to ignore the pounding of his own heart.)

[A Nosy Neighbor]

Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk had been arguing for approximately two hours, thirteen minutes, and forty-seven seconds—according to Kim Dokja’s hyperbolic recounting of events. Yoo Joonghyuk, if he weren’t already consumed by his desire to strangle Kim Dokja with a single, soul-piercing glare, would have immediately corrected this. He’d probably argue it had only been thirty minutes, tops—but let’s face it, time felt infinite in Kim Dokja’s presence.

The heated topic of their argument? Whether or not Kim Dokja had shamelessly devoured the last packet of instant noodles in the cupboard—a crime of the highest order in their fragile ecosystem. Mainly because Yoo Joonghyuk refused to accept this slander to his handmade meals.

“You have no proof!” Kim Dokja declared with the conviction of a defense attorney in a courtroom drama.

His arms were crossed tightly, his chin jutted forward as if daring the universe to challenge him. To anyone else, he might have looked like a noble hero standing firm in the face of injustice. To Yoo Joonghyuk, he looked like an idiot auditioning for a talent show he had no chance of winning.

“The evidence is in the trash!” Yoo Joonghyuk barked, his finger stabbing the air toward the offending garbage can. His voice held the weight of ten lifetimes’ worth of disappointment. “It still has your chopstick marks. Your chopstick marks, Kim Dokja!”

“Circumstantial,” Kim Dokja said breezily, reclining on the couch with the smugness of someone who had already declared victory in their own mind. He gestured vaguely toward the cat lounging nearby. “Maybe the cat ate it.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eye twitched, his grip on sanity slipping by the second. “We don’t even have chopsticks for the cat,” He hissed, his tone laced with the kind of menace that would make a lesser man tremble, “And you don’t feed her noodles!”

“Not with that attitude,” Kim Dokja muttered under his breath, loud enough to be heard.

The shouting match escalated quickly, their voices ricocheting off the walls with such force that the universe itself seemed to intervene—manifested, as always, in the form of their infamously nosy neighbor.

Han Sooyoung, armed with an overflowing sense of curiosity and a lack of personal boundaries, pounded on their door. “Would you two just kiss already?!” She bellowed, her exasperation bleeding through every syllable, “Some of us are trying to write the next bestselling novel, and I can’t focus with all the sexual tension leaking through my walls!”

Yoo Joonghyuk stormed to the door, throwing it open with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges. His face was a thunderstorm of wrath, his expression honed to a level of murder so precise it could have been patented. Unfortunately for him, Han Sooyoung was a professional troll immune to his death glare, possibly because she had already ascended to a higher plane of comedy.

“Are you two always this dramatic?” She asked, propping herself against the doorframe with an infuriatingly casual posture, “Honestly, you’re like an old married couple fighting over the thermostat.”

Kim Dokja, sensing the opportunity to ascend to new heights of mischief, lit up like a child presented with a box of fireworks. His smile was syrupy sweet, the kind that should have come with a warning label.

“Oh, we are married,” He declared unashamed, wrapping an arm around Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulders with all the confidence of a man who valued chaos more than his own safety, “He’s just upset because I won’t let him keep his sword on the couch anymore.”

Han Sooyoung blinked, her mouth hanging open as if she were processing a particularly bad punchline. Then, like a true connoisseur of absurdity, she threw her head back and let out a cackle so loud it could have summoned the police. “Wait, you’re serious? Husband Joonghyuk over here? The man who looks like he irons his socks for fun?!”

Yoo Joonghyuk stood frozen, his brain visibly struggling to reboot. His face, already set to ‘perpetual scowl,’ somehow darkened further. Meanwhile, Kim Dokja doubled down, squeezing Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder in what could only be described as a death wish.

“He’s the strong, silent type,” Kim Dokja added, his tone dripping with faux affection, “Very supportive. Aren’t you, dear?”

The word ‘dear’ hit like a nuclear warhead. Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare turned apocalyptic, his body vibrating with suppressed rage. For a split second, Han Sooyoung genuinely wondered if this would be the moment Kim Dokja finally met his end. Instead, Yoo Joonghyuk slammed the door shut with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

From the other side of the door, Sooyoung’s voice rang out, full of glee and zero shame, “Keep it down! And by ‘it,’ I mean—well, you know.”

Back inside the apartment, Kim Dokja leaned casually against the counter, grinning like a cat that had not only stolen the cream but weaponized it. He looked utterly pleased with himself, his dark eyes alight with the kind of smugness that could launch a thousand enemies into a frothing rage.

“Did you see her face? Priceless. You’re welcome,” He declared, his voice thick with mischief.

Yoo Joonghyuk turned slowly, deliberately, his body radiating menace as if the very air around him had solidified under the weight of his fury. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto Kim Dokja’s with the precision of a sniper aiming to kill.

“She likes us,” Kim Dokja added with maddening cheer, his grin stretching wider.

“Don’t. Call me. ‘Dear,’” Yoo Joonghyuk growled, his voice so low it seemed to rumble through the floorboards.

“Of course, darling,” Kim Dokja shot back without hesitation, his voice honeyed and mocking, “Anything for my grumpy husband.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s nostrils flared, and Kim Dokja swore he could see a vein throbbing on the man’s temple. But instead of retaliation, Yoo Joonghyuk simply stormed off, muttering darkly under his breath. For Yoo Joonghyuk, the next week was a slow, agonizing descent into madness. Kim Dokja, ever the opportunistic gremlin, weaponized every pet name he could think of, deploying them with surgical precision.

“Good morning, snuggle bear!” Kim Dokja chirped on Tuesday, sliding Yoo Joonghyuk a mug of black coffee. Yoo Joonghyuk smashed it against the sink.

“Did you sleep well, honey bun?” He cooed on Thursday while Yoo Joonghyuk tried to meditate in the living room. The sound of Yoo Joonghyuk sharpening his sword filled the silence.

The worst came on Saturday, when Kim Dokja stuck a label on the fridge that read: Property of Mr. and Mrs. Yoo. Yoo Joonghyuk stared at it for a full ten seconds before tearing it off and crumpling it into a tiny ball of rage.

By Sunday, Yoo Joonghyuk was a man on the edge, his patience thinner than Kim Dokja’s instant noodles stash.

Something was bound to snap sooner than later.

It happened in the kitchen, as most catastrophes did in their apartment. Kim Dokja was leaning against the counter again, humming to himself, utterly oblivious to the incoming storm. Yoo Joonghyuk entered the room with the precision of a predator, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Good evening, darling,” Kim Dokja greeted, his tone drenched in syrupy mockery.

He glanced up, ready to deliver another verbal jab, only to freeze when he saw the look on Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t say a word. He crossed the space between them in three quick strides, his gaze smoldering with an intensity that made Kim Dokja’s pulse stumble. Before Kim Dokja could process what was happening, Yoo Joonghyuk grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward.

The kiss was not soft. It was not sweet. It was heat and force and barely-contained frustration. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand fisted Kim Dokja’s collar tightly, anchoring him in place, while his other hand found its way to Kim Dokja’s waist, gripping it with a possessiveness that made Kim Dokja’s brain short-circuit. Kim Dokja’s breath hitched, his hands scrambling for purchase against the countertop as Yoo Joonghyuk pressed closer. The kiss was searing, his teeth grazing Kim Dokja’s bottom lip in a way that sent a sharp jolt of something hot and unfamiliar shooting through him.

Kim Dokja gasped involuntarily, and Yoo Joonghyuk took advantage, deepening the kiss until Kim Dokja felt like he was melting into the kitchen tiles, his knees unbearably weak. Warmth pooled low in Kim Dokja’s stomach, his heart hammering erratically as the kiss stretched on. His usual quick wit deserted him, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of Yoo Joonghyuk—his strength, his heat, the way his grip on Kim Dokja’s waist tightened possessively. When Yoo Joonghyuk finally pulled back, Kim Dokja was a mess. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his lips tingling and swollen. He stared at Yoo Joonghyuk, wide-eyed and dazed, the world tilting precariously on its axis.

“Wha—” He began, only for Yoo Joonghyuk to cut him off.

“Shut up,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his voice low and rough, the intensity of his gaze making Kim Dokja’s knees feel like jelly, “Call me ‘darling’ one more time, and I’ll do it again.”

Kim Dokja blinked, his mouth opening as if to argue, then closing when he realized he had absolutely no coherent thoughts left. He swallowed hard, his fingers brushing his lips as he leaned against the counter for support. 

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, his posture as rigid as ever, though his ears were suspiciously red. Kim Dokja stayed where he was, staring at the empty doorway, his pulse still racing. He exhaled shakily, then muttered under his breath.

“What the hell just happened?”

[Sick Day Fiasco]

Yoo Joonghyuk would never admit he was sick.

Admitting weakness was a luxury reserved for lesser beings—like Kim Dokja, or perhaps anyone with less resolve and fewer rage-induced grudges. For someone like Yoo Joonghyuk, who had stared death in the face more times than he cared to count (and occasionally punched it), succumbing to illness was simply not an option. Yet, the universe, in its infinite cruelty and sick sense of humor, had decided otherwise. He woke up that morning with a throbbing headache, a runny nose that felt like a betrayal, and a seething urge to obliterate anything that moved within a five-mile radius. His joints ached, his throat burned, and the world looked grayer than usual—though that might have just been his regular outlook on life.

Naturally, Kim Dokja noticed immediately.

“You look awful,” Kim Dokja observed from his usual perch at the breakfast table, slurping instant noodles like a man without a care in the world—or any taste buds. His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with the kind of malicious amusement that Yoo Joonghyuk had learned to dread.

“I always look like this,” Yoo Joonghyuk growled, his voice scraping against his throat like sandpaper.

“That’s true,” Kim Dokja agreed with a thoughtful nod, pausing only to shovel another mouthful of noodles into his mouth. “But today, you’re more corpse-like than usual. Did you catch the flu? Or rabies?”

Yoo Joonghyuk leveled him with a glare that promised violence.

“Leave me alone,” He snarled, but his attempt at intimidation was immediately undermined by the force of the sneezing fit that overtook him.

The sound was so loud it rattled the table, sending Kim Dokja’s chopsticks clattering to the floor and the cat—who had been lurking under the chair like a furry little gremlin—bolting out of the room with a startled yowl. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by Yoo Joonghyuk sniffling in a way that he would later deny ever happened.

Kim Dokja, however, looked far too delighted for Yoo Joonghyuk’s liking. He pushed back his chair with a dramatic flourish, his expression shifting into something horrifyingly close to glee.

“Don’t worry, Joonghyuk-ie,” Kim Dokja said, his voice dripping with fake sincerity, “I’ll take care of you!”

Something cold and primal slithered down Yoo Joonghyuk’s spine—a feeling he recognized as dread.

“Do not call me that,” He growled, though his words lacked their usual bite. His energy was already draining faster than his will to live.

But it was too late. Kim Dokja had activated whatever twisted nursemaid mode he had and was already bustling around the room with a level of enthusiasm that could only mean disaster. Yoo Joonghyuk’s regret began immediately, spreading through him like a second fever.

By ‘taking care of him,’ Kim Dokja apparently meant subjecting Yoo Joonghyuk to a medical treatment that had more in common with medieval torture than anything resembling actual healthcare. It was as if Kim Dokja had scoured the annals of questionable remedies from a time before modern medicine and decided to give them a 21st-century spin.

“Here,” Kim Dokja announced with far too much cheer in his voice, setting down a bowl of… something. The liquid inside was a murky greenish-brown that looked suspiciously like swamp water after a week of heavy rainfall. It sloshed ominously, and a handful of jagged, undistinguishable chunks floated on top, bobbing like shipwreck survivors too tired to cling to a piece of wood.

“I made soup.”

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at it with the kind of look one would give an enemy combatant who was trying to pass off their weapon as dinner.

“What’s in it?” h8e asked, narrowing his eyes like he expected it to attack him any moment.

Kim Dokja blinked at him, unfazed. “Garlic, ginger, a bit of cayenne pepper…” He trailed off, his gaze shifting uncomfortably as if the recipe was something even he didn’t quite trust.

“And?” Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare was potent enough to melt steel, each word laced with a quiet threat.

“...maybe some expired pickles and a handful of gummy vitamins,” Kim Dokja admitted, his tone casual, as if this was the most normal combination in the world.

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him in silence for a moment, as if weighing the odds of choking to death on whatever concoction he’d just been handed versus allowing Kim Dokja to live long enough to regret this.

“Kim Dokja, I swear on everything—”

“You have to eat it!” Kim Dokja interrupted, practically shoving the bowl into his hands with the force of someone who truly believed this was a life-saving elixir. “It’s full of antioxidants. Or probiotics. Or something. I’m pretty sure it’s the answer to all of your problems!”

Yoo Joonghyuk, however, could feel his life force slowly draining away just by being near the bowl. He was pretty sure the smell alone would haunt him for the rest of his days, but against his better judgment—and possibly because he was too weak to physically fight Kim Dokja at this moment—he reluctantly took a sip.

Immediately, his face contorted in horror, every muscle in his body seizing up as if trying to reject the very existence of this ‘soup.’ It was as though a thousand tortured souls had cried out in unison, warning him of the mistake he had just made. He gagged, a violent cough wracking his body.

“It tastes like motor oil,” He choked, his voice turning raspier as the bitter flavor spread over his tongue, “And battery acid. Did you burn this?”

“That’s the ginger,” Kim Dokja declared confidently, as if that single word explained everything, “It’s a powerful anti-inflammatory.”

Yoo Joonghyuk's eye twitched, and for a moment, he wondered if his body was just going to give up entirely—if he’d be struck down by some mysterious, soul-crushing force simply for being in the same room as whatever this thing was.

“You’ve just violated every known rule of cuisine,” He muttered, his stomach revolting in protest.

Kim Dokja didn’t seem to notice. In fact, he was looking at him with a rather pleased expression, as though he were a chef waiting for a Michelin-star review.

“See? You’re already feeling better.”

As the day wore on, Yoo Joonghyuk’s misery deepened. His usual stoic demeanor was increasingly marred by the unmistakable signs of illness—sniffling, dry coughs, and an eye twitch that could rival the worst of hangovers. Kim Dokja, however, was having the time of his life. He had somehow convinced himself that he was the appointed savior of Yoo Joonghyuk’s ailing soul, and that meant a thorough series of ‘wellness checks.’ Every ten minutes, Kim Dokja ambled over with the bright, untrustworthy thermometer he’d clearly ‘borrowed’ from a convenience store. The kind with the neon packaging that screamed suspicious in every language.

“Okay, time for another temperature check!” Kim Dokja chirped, as he practically yanked the thermometer from its plastic casing.

Yoo Joonghyuk rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out. “I don’t need a thermometer, you fool. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Kim Dokja countered, his voice a mix of mock concern and gleefulness, “You’re practically glowing with fever. Come on, ahhh~”

“Stop treating me like a child,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered, but even he couldn’t ignore the feverish heat radiating from his skin. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper, and every breath was an exercise in patience.

Kim Dokja, of course, was unfazed. He yanked Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth open with the gentle touch of a drunk toddler, jamming the thermometer in like it was a forgotten USB drive. Yoo Joonghyuk gritted his teeth, wanting to say something snarky, but just the act of talking felt exhausting. Instead, he just stared at Kim Dokja’s beaming face, wondering when exactly he’d gotten himself into this situation. 

When the thermometer finally beeped, Kim Dokja peered down at it, squinting like the little machine might have betrayed him. The reading blinked back at him with alarming confidence: 104.7°F.

“Holy hell, you’re practically melting,” Kim Dokja exclaimed, waving the thermometer in the air like it was a victory flag.

Yoo Joonghyuk, despite his feverish haze, managed to glance at the device in disbelief. “That’s not right,” He said, his voice low and hoarse, “The thermometer’s broken. I’m not even—”

Before he could finish, Kim Dokja snatched the thermometer out of his hand, tossing it aside with the same ease as a wrinkled tissue. He looked at Yoo Joonghyuk for a moment, and then, in what could only be described as a bold (and slightly terrifying) move, grabbed him by the face—gently, yet firmly. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes widened as he felt Kim Dokja’s cool fingers press to his fever-flushed skin, his thumb brushing lightly across his cheekbone. He was still too stunned to react, but his pulse quickened, and his mind went absolutely blank.

“Your temperature’s clearly high,” Kim Dokja muttered, his voice softer than usual, as if the act of touching him had shifted something inside, “But who needs a thermometer when I can tell you’re burning up just by looking at you?”

Kim Dokja pressed his forehead against Yoo Joonghyuk’s with an unexpected tenderness for a gesture meant to check his fever, his fingers still cupping his face as if he were handling something fragile. The two of them stood there, unmoving, the world outside their little bubble completely forgotten. Yoo Joonghyuk’s thoughts short-circuited entirely, the moment stretching in awkward silence. He had no idea what was happening. His stomach fluttered, his chest tightened, and somewhere in the recesses of his brain, an alarm was blaring in warning—this proximity reminded him a bit too much of the moment shared in the kitchen that neither of them acknowledged after.

The physical proximity was too much for his otherwise tightly controlled mind to process. He pulled back slightly, still unsure whether to push Kim Dokja away or let him continue. His hand instinctively rose, hovering in the air, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch him. Instead, he just stared into Kim Dokja’s eyes, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What are you doing?”

Kim Dokja, of course, didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at him for a second longer than socially acceptable, his hand still cradling Yoo Joonghyuk’s face like it was a precious object. His lips quirked into a small, half-smile.

“I’m just making sure you don’t die, you sunfish bastard.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he looked away, forcibly breaking the eye contact before his composure completely crumbled.

“I’m not dying. I’m just… fine.”

But even as he said it, his hand gently brushed against the spot where Kim Dokja had touched him. Something in his chest felt a little too tight, but he would never, ever acknowledge that out loud.

But, by the evening, karma decided it was time for balance. Kim Dokja, far too confident in his own immune system and apparently immune to common sense, underestimated how many germs Yoo Joonghyuk had sneezed in his direction. After a brief moment of smug superiority, Kim Dokja’s throat started to tickle, and his nose turned on him like an angry faucet.

“Oh, great,” He muttered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “This is exactly what I needed.”

By the time the sun had set, both of them were wallowing in the throes of illness, side by side on the couch in their tiny living room, the faint scent of chicken noodle soup lingering in the air (which neither of them could quite stomach). And thus, Kim Dokja found himself suffering the very same symptoms that had plagued Yoo Joonghyuk all day, his fever mounting and his head feeling like it was filled with cotton. They both groaned at the same time, a synchronized display of misery.

“You were right,” Kim Dokja admitted reluctantly, collapsing onto the couch next to Yoo Joonghyuk, “You’re not completely useless after all.”

Yoo Joonghyuk, despite his headache and nausea, couldn’t resist a tiny smirk, “Told you.”

Now, with both of them temporarily incapacitated by their shared misfortune, they found themselves trapped on the couch, an unholy alliance formed between fever and exhaustion. The mismatched pile of blankets draped over them was a chaotic, cozy mess, and it smelled faintly of cat fur and despair—mostly despair, as neither of them had the energy to deal with the obvious laundry disaster unfolding at their feet. Kim Dokja, clutching the remote like it was his last piece of dignity, gave a dramatic sniffle as he adjusted his position on the couch. His face, a mixture of annoyance and misery, betrayed his absolute refusal to acknowledge just how pathetic they both looked.

“I’m taking the left side,” Kim Dokja declared with all the smugness of someone who had already won, despite the fact that the remote was still very much within Yoo Joonghyuk’s grasp. He adjusted the blanket around his shoulders and pulled it closer, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the other man.

“No, you’re not,” Yoo Joonghyuk growled in return, his voice rough and gravelly, like a cement mixer having an argument with a thunderstorm. His fingers, trembling slightly with fever, yanked at the blanket with the kind of determination reserved for a bear defending its den. His eyes glinted with an intensity that suggested he could very well kill a man over a couch space, but at the moment, he was too busy trying to find the strength to pull the damn blanket back over himself without falling asleep on the spot.

“You’re too weak to stop me,” Kim Dokja said smugly, utterly convinced of his victory, his eyes dancing with mischief. He lifted his chin slightly, like a king surveying his domain.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even bother replying. Instead, he let out a huff of air through his nose, muttering a single word that could have been taken as a challenge or a curse—probably both—and with a Herculean effort, he tugged the blanket back with force that surprised even him. In a swift motion, he wrestled the remote from Kim Dokja’s hand, a look of fierce triumph crossing his features.

“I always win,” He muttered, as though he’d been practicing this moment in his mind for years.

Kim Dokja opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it, the reality of his sickness setting in. He slouched further into the couch, crossing his arms with a huff of exaggerated annoyance. “Fine,” He said, surrendering with all the grace of a hostage. “But we’re not watching any of your weird survival documentaries.”

Yoo Joonghyuk shot him a glance, half-amused, half-defensive. “You mean real entertainment?”

“Real entertainment?” Kim Dokja raised an eyebrow, then snorted, “No, I mean the ones where the host dies in the first five minutes and you start yelling at the screen like they can hear you. Do you think they’ll come back and apologize for their bad choices? Is that what you're hoping for?”

“Those are educational,” Yoo Joonghyuk deadpanned, eyes narrowing as he flipped through the menu.

“This is why you don’t have friends,” Kim Dokja muttered under his breath. His sarcasm was as sharp as ever, but even his usual biting remarks couldn’t cut through the haze of their shared misery.

Their verbal sparring began to crumble, devolving into incoherent grumbling as they both fought off drowsiness and the increasingly insistent pull of the illness. Between the occasional sneeze—Kim Dokja’s extra dramatic ones, of course—and the low growls from Yoo Joonghyuk, their bickering had less bite than usual. Biyoo, ever the opportunist, sauntered onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s lap like she owned the place. Her tail flicked with the kind of authority only a cat could possess, and with a condescending look, she sprawled out, claiming her new territory. Yoo Joonghyuk looked down at the cat, then at Kim Dokja, his face twisting in confusion.

“This is not how I envisioned my life turning out,” He muttered to himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was a comment on the cat, the blanket war, or the fact that he was currently sick on a couch, stuck with Kim Dokja.

Kim Dokja, clearly more interested in his own discomfort, didn’t even acknowledge the cat’s tyranny. Instead, he huffed and tried to pull the blanket back for himself, but it was too late. The cat was already too comfortable, and a single look from Yoo Joonghyuk made it clear that the battle for the blanket was over. Somewhere in the middle of their unspoken war, as the bickering faded into exhaustion, they unknowingly leaned toward each other.

First, it was an accidental brush of shoulders, then a shift in the blanket that somehow ended up pulling them closer. Neither acknowledged it, of course. Cuddling wasn’t something either of them had planned on, not today, not ever. But somehow, in the space between half-hearted insults and collective misery, they found warmth. Yoo Joonghyuk’s arm brushed against Kim Dokja’s, and the subtle pressure of Kim Dokja’s head against his shoulder was more comfortable than either of them cared to admit. The TV droned on, the remote now mostly forgotten between them. By the time the fourth episode of whatever they were watching rolled its credits, neither of them had the energy to move.

Both were half-asleep, their bodies inadvertently curling into each other, silently sharing warmth in the only way they knew how—without words, without acknowledging the closeness, but with a gentle, mutual understanding. Kim Dokja’s breath was soft, almost imperceptible, his head resting against Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder. He had never been more grateful for the ridiculous, tangled mess that was their lives than at that moment, even if he’d never admit it. Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his body slowly melting away. His grip on the remote loosened, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. He felt—strangely—at ease. But he wasn’t going to acknowledge that, no. Not even if someone forced him to.

And in the corner, the cat yawned, unimpressed by the antics of her ridiculous humans. She knew, after all, that this was the closest thing to peace they’d ever get.

[Unexpected Affection (But Let’s Not Talk About It)]

It was an unusually quiet afternoon in the apartment—a silence so profound it could almost be called peaceful, were it not for the ever-present hum of impending doom that hung over everything Yoo Joonghyuk did. But, for once, there was no cosmic disaster awaiting him. There were no timelines to tear apart or universes to conquer. He had a rare moment of not being actively traumatized by existential dread or the crushing weight of the universe’s expectations. And it was in this strange lull of calm that Yoo Joonghyuk glanced across the room and saw something that immediately derailed his moment of peace.

Kim Dokja, of all people, had fallen asleep at his desk. Not just a nap, but a full-on collapse into unconsciousness, face planted on his keyboard as if gravity itself had decided it was time for a break. The kind of sleep that suggested a man had been locked in an epic struggle with the demands of reality for the past three days and, at long last, had surrendered with a final, dramatic flop.

Yoo Joonghyuk blinked, as though trying to make sense of the bizarre scene before him. Kim Dokja was a man who could stare down apocalypse-level danger and walk away with his shirt still on, but here he was, collapsed like a ragdoll, completely at the mercy of sleep. This was not the Kim Dokja he was used to—a man who, for all his flaws, almost always managed to keep his cool. The keyboard, now more of a makeshift pillow than a piece of technology, seemed to mock the very idea of productivity.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze softened, and for a split second, it was as if the world stopped spinning around him. This softening of his features was an anomaly so rare that if anyone had seen it, they would have assumed that the apocalypse was happening and they had simply missed the memo. But, no, this was just Yoo Joonghyuk’s face doing something it almost never did: expressing something vaguely resembling concern—or maybe just confusion. The man was as emotionally constipated as a hermit crab in a shell too small for it, so softness wasn’t exactly in his repertoire.

He stood there, staring at the slumped figure of Kim Dokja, debating whether to simply walk away or—god forbid—do something... kind. Because what even was kindness? Caring for someone? Not punching them in the face when they were being irritating? Sure, he had no idea how to do that, but for some inexplicable reason, this time, it felt like maybe—just maybe—he should try. For a long moment, he hovered, hands twitching like he might’ve been about to strangle a puppy or offer a hug—something equally outside his comfort zone. And then, as if the universe had a cruel sense of humor, he reached down, grabbed the nearest blanket, and draped it over Kim Dokja’s body.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t a declaration of emotional investment or a scene straight out of some romantic melodrama. No, it was just a blanket—fluffy, warm, and entirely inappropriate for a man like Yoo Joonghyuk to be giving to another person. But there it was, covering the slumbering form of Kim Dokja, as if the universe had decided that now was the time for him to embrace whatever faint semblance of empathy his blackened heart could muster.

The moment the blanket settled, Yoo Joonghyuk stiffened, a cold shock running through his spine like he had just tried to hug a cactus. What was he doing? Was he being nice? He barely knew how to feel about that, and the slight shifting of his internal emotional walls made him want to crawl into a hole and die. No. This was definitely not him. This was not happening. It was a mistake. It was all a mistake.

He shook his head, grumbling under his breath, “This is ridiculous.”

(It wasn’t the end of the world, but for Yoo Joonghyuk, it might as well have been.)

The next morning, Kim Dokja woke to the shrill sound of the apartment’s oven timer, a noise that felt almost too normal after the events of last night. He blinked, disoriented, as his glasses slid down his nose. The first thing his bleary mind registered was the warmth of something covering his body. A blanket? He yanked it off, eyes flicking around the room like a criminal trying to avoid detection. There was a strange lump in his chest, but no—he wouldn’t acknowledge it. Nope. He refused. What he couldn’t ignore was the unmistakable scent of Yoo Joonghyuk in the air.

Did he—did Yoo Joonghyuk cover me with a blanket?

The very idea made him feel like his brain was malfunctioning in the most inconvenient way possible. He immediately began to overthink it. If he allowed himself to process this too deeply, it would spiral into an existential crisis of emotions and denied affection. He would probably end up texting his therapist about it—if he had one—but no. He wouldn’t go there. So, with the grace of a man trying to pretend he hadn’t just been gently covered by his emotionally unavailable roommate, he muttered under his breath, “I didn’t need this,” and then proceeded to do what he did best—ignore the deeply human moment and pretend it never happened. He was already half-turned toward the kitchen before he realized that he was still holding the blanket in his hands.

He was a grown man, after all, and this was just ridiculous.

But there was something else.

Unbeknownst to Yoo Joonghyuk—who was deep in his usual grumpy silence mode—Kim Dokja had left something for him that same day. A small, steaming cup of tea, delicately placed on the counter as if it were some small offering to the gods of absurdity. The universe, too, seemed to mock the situation, as though it enjoyed watching them both squirm around feelings like awkward teenagers.

Kim Dokja walked past it, deliberately slow, as if the tea were a test he didn’t want to take. He gripped the similar looking cup in his hands tighter and took a sip, letting the warmth fill him, the steam rising up like a shield against whatever weirdness was in the air. He hated how the tea felt like a thank-you note for what had happened the previous night—some small, twisted, cosmic acknowledgment of care. But care was the last thing Kim Dokja wanted to admit he needed. So, instead, he took a long gulp, as though to cleanse his brain of the whole absurdity.

“Enjoy it,” he muttered to himself, but even he wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Was it Yoo Joonghyuk? Himself? The tea? Either way, it was probably the most comfortable thing he’d done all week—and that was terrifying. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach twisted in confusion. But there was one thing he was certain about: he wasn’t going to talk about it.

Not ever. Nope. Not a word.

Later that evening, the cat—Biyoo, the undisputed ruler of their shared, chaotic little world—decided it was time to assert its authority once more. Kim Dokja was convinced that this fluffy little terror had, at some point, inherited a small piece of Yoo Joonghyuk’s DNA, particularly the part that made one impervious to any semblance of normal social decorum. With its wide, unblinking eyes and unnervingly serene demeanor, Biyoo had somehow wormed its way into the position of being Yoo Joonghyuk’s only friend—despite the fact that the cat likely plotted his slow and agonizing demise one hairball at a time.

And so it was, in an air of subtle but unmistakable arrogance, that Biyoo made its way to Yoo Joonghyuk’s lap. There, it curled up in the kind of perfect, lazy imitation of a king lounging on his throne, ruling over a kingdom that consisted entirely of people who were deeply annoyed by its existence. Yoo Joonghyuk, of course, was no exception. The cat settled itself with absolute certainty that this was its rightful place, as though its entire existence had been built around maintaining this moment of smug perfection.

Kim Dokja, having just entered the room, stopped dead in his tracks. The scene before him was enough to stop any argument. Yoo Joonghyuk—Yoo Joonghyuk, the man who could reduce entire armies to dust with a mere thought—was sitting there, stiff and unblinking, with a cat on his lap. And it wasn’t just a cat. It was Biyoo, the furry embodiment of passive-aggressive royalty, sitting there as if it had conquered the very soul of its captor. The taste of irony was almost too rich to ignore, and Kim Dokja’s lips curled upward in the kind of smile that spelled trouble.

“Well, well,” He drawled, dragging the words out like an artist savoring the sound of a particularly delicious insult, “Look at you, the big bad General of all things horrifying... cuddling with a cat.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even look up at him. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly, and a vein pulsed ominously in his temple as he gave his usual deadpan response, “It’s just sitting on my lap.”

Kim Dokja snorted in disbelief and crossed his arms, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. “Right. Sure. You’ve clearly mastered the art of cuddling. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’re the one who built the Great Wall of China, too.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression froze, a sharp flicker of frustration passing through his features. He opened his mouth to retort, but then cut himself off, his face taking on an entirely different hue—one that could only be described as the kind of pink that spelled denial. He was not a man who would ever, ever, admit to the softness of the situation. His pride simply wouldn't allow it. His pride also wouldn't allow him to admit that, on multiple occasions, he had surreptitiously fed Biyoo treats when Kim Dokja wasn’t looking. It wasn’t much. Just the occasional snack slipped to the cat in secret, but it was enough to keep the feline around, which meant that, yes, Biyoo was now his... friend. His lap buddy.

But of course, the cat knew all about it.

Biyoo, the scheming little traitor, glanced up at Yoo Joonghyuk with eyes that oozed with silent judgment. It was the kind of look that said, I know what you did, and I have no intentions of forgiving you for it. The gaze was full of feline disdain—as if I could ever truly respect you now—and it was so damn smug, Yoo Joonghyuk was almost convinced Biyoo had been plotting his downfall all along. Kim Dokja, of course, was living for it. His grin was wide enough to rival a Cheshire cat as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“Aww, is she your little lap buddy?” He teased, his voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness, “How cute. Who’s a softie now, huh?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s glare could’ve turned a lesser man to stone. But this was Kim Dokja—who knew no fear.

“I am not a softie,” He growled, a little too loudly, as if saying it over and over could somehow make it true.

Kim Dokja’s smirk deepened, his amusement growing in direct proportion to Yoo Joonghyuk’s obvious discomfort. “Sure,” He drawled again, his voice like velvet-coated sarcasm, “Tell that to Biyoo over there.”

Yoo Joonghyuk's glare shifted back to the cat, who remained utterly unfazed, still lounging on his lap like it had just completed its conquest of an entire kingdom. The tension in the room was palpable—Yoo Joonghyuk, who was normally as emotionally expressive as a brick wall, now found himself in the midst of a battle on multiple fronts—one against his pride, the other against the furball on his lap that was winning the war with every second that passed.

Kim Dokja, having witnessed the whole thing, felt the last vestiges of restraint vanish as he allowed himself the luxury of laughter. The sight of Yoo Joonghyuk—scowling, clearly at war with his own sense of self—was a rare and precious gift, one that was only possible because of this absurd little feline dynasty that had somehow woven its way into their daily life.

And the worst part? He would never let Yoo Joonghyuk forget it.

[“Darling.”]

On an absolutely ordinary day, so normal that even the most mundane aspects of the universe seemed to pause and take a collective breath, Kim Dokja found himself standing there, watching Yoo Joonghyuk with a sudden clarity he hadn’t quite expected. The world around them hummed with an almost comical, mundane rhythm—nothing was out of the ordinary. No apocalyptic threats. No time loops. No impending danger. Just the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sound of pages flipping from the book Yoo Joonghyuk was engrossed in.

But something in Kim Dokja shifted.

It had been building for days, maybe weeks, this sense of something, some overwhelming pressure that he could no longer ignore. He’d fought it, tucked it away, buried it beneath layers of logic and denial, but today, there was no turning back. No more suppressing the warmth curling in his chest. No more pretending he wasn’t hyperaware of every little motion Yoo Joonghyuk made, of how his eyes seemed to linger on him just a fraction longer than necessary, of the way his presence had started to feel like an anchor. He was done. He was done pretending he wasn’t feeling this.

So, without thinking—because Kim Dokja had never been one to think too much when it came to matters of his own heart, just as he’d never quite been able to think when Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes met his in those long, silent moments—he walked up to him. He wasn’t sure what came over him. He could blame the heat of the room, or maybe it was the way Yoo Joonghyuk seemed impossibly calm, a little too lost in his thoughts as if he were contemplating the annihilation of some far-off star. Or perhaps it was the tension building in the space between them, heavy and undeniable.

“Darling.”

There it was. The word slipped out so naturally, like a secret he'd been holding in for far too long. The word itself seemed to explode in the air between them, and the instant it left his lips, the entire room shifted. Yoo Joonghyuk’s head jerked up, snapping his attention to him as if he’d been caught in the middle of a storm that suddenly picked up speed. His gaze widened, his body went rigid, and for a brief, intoxicating moment, the silence that followed hung thick and almost dangerous. Yoo Joonghyuk’s face hardened, eyes narrowing in that unmistakable, dangerous way that made the air around him seem colder.

“I’ve warned you before, Kim Dokja—”

“Oh, yeah?” Kim Dokja cut him off, a wicked, almost playful smile tugging at his lips as he leaned a little closer, “Didn’t you know? I call everyone ‘darling.’ It’s a thing. You’re lucky I don’t call you ‘sweetheart’, Hyuk-ah!”

The words were out before he could stop himself, but when he saw Yoo Joonghyuk’s face flush, something dark and volatile stirring beneath his usual expression, the air between them seemed to thicken with a palpable tension. Kim Dokja’s pulse quickened, though he did his best to mask the way his heart was hammering in his chest. Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, knuckles white against the fabric of his sleeves.

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he muttered, repeating his previous statement, “Call me ‘darling’ one more time, and I’ll do it again.” His voice was rough, low, like a warning wrapped in a threat, but there was something else there too.

Something deeper. Something more.

Kim Dokja froze for a moment, the words sinking in. And suddenly, the weight of what he’d said hit him, slamming into his chest with such force that it took a moment for his brain to catch up. This was no joke. This was not just teasing anymore. He could feel the heat in his own body blooming, spreading from his chest to his fingertips, and he realized, with a jolt, that the tension wasn’t just in the space between them. It was in him too.

His eyes locked onto Yoo Joonghyuk’s, his lips parted slightly in surprise, but then—Oh.

In the next instant, before he could stop himself, Yoo Joonghyuk surged forward, his body moving with a speed that caught Kim Dokja entirely off guard. There was no time for words, no time for explanations. Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips crashed into his with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs, and for a moment, the entire world outside of them disappeared. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t soft—there was nothing polite about it. Just pure, raw urgency, as if they had both been holding back for far too long and now the dam had broken.

Kim Dokja’s world tilted. His thoughts fragmented, scattered across the room like so many half-forgotten dreams. His entire body went liquid, melting into Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms as if he were some kind of fragile thing, unable to withstand the force of the kiss. The moment between them, thick and consuming, made it impossible for him to do anything but let go, to let himself feel the rush of something he’d been suppressing for far too long. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand found its way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, as if he was claiming something long overdue. Kim Dokja could feel the world around him blur, his body pressed so tightly to Yoo Joonghyuk’s that the space between them seemed to evaporate.

And then, just as quickly as it started, Yoo Joonghyuk pulled away, breathless, eyes dark and unreadable. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

Kim Dokja was left standing there, his chest heaving, his heart still pounding erratically in his ribcage. His mouth felt dry, his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. The kiss had been… too much. His hands were trembling, his lips still burning with the remnants of Yoo Joonghyuk’s touch. But before he could recover, before he could even think about what had just happened, Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips were on him again. This time lower, kissing the sensitive skin of his neck, his lips warm and insistent.

Kim Dokja gasped, his body going weak as the sensation of Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth against his skin sent another wave of warmth crashing through him, curling low in his stomach.

Then, there was a soft, almost imperceptible tug as Yoo Joonghyuk sucked lightly on the soft spot just beneath his ear. Kim Dokja’s entire body went rigid, his knees buckling beneath him. The sensation was too much, too overwhelming, and before he could even register what was happening, Yoo Joonghyuk’s teeth sank into his neck, sharp and possessive. A low, broken sound—half moan, half gasp—escaped from Kim Dokja’s lips, and for a moment, everything in his world went black.

His knees gave way, and he would have collapsed entirely if not for the firm, unyielding grip of Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms around his waist, holding him up like some kind of lifeline. The bite sent a wave of dizziness over him, his vision swimming as he struggled to catch his breath. The heat in his body was burning him alive, but there was something so desperately addicting about it, so maddeningly intense, that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Yoo Joonghyuk held him close, his lips brushing against the mark on Kim Dokja’s neck, as if savoring the feeling of having left something of himself there. And Kim Dokja—helpless, powerless, and dizzy with the rush of sensation—could do nothing but let himself melt into Yoo Joonghyuk’s embrace. He was lost, entirely and completely.

(But maybe, just maybe, this was exactly where he was meant to be.)

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t stop. His lips returned to Kim Dokja’s neck, brushing against the fresh mark as though soothing it, before moving lower, trailing slow, deliberate kisses along the curve of his throat. Each press of his mouth was measured and firm, leaving a tingling warmth that seemed to linger long after his lips had moved on. Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t rushing—he didn’t have to. His every movement was deliberate, and Kim Dokja, caught in the storm of his own emotions, couldn’t do anything but let it happen.

“Hyuk-ah,” Dokja managed to choke out, his voice shaky and embarrassingly breathless. “What—what are you—”

Yoo Joonghyuk silenced him with another kiss, this time to the corner of his mouth, a fleeting, teasing touch that sent shivers racing down Kim Dokja’s spine.

“You started this,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmured against his skin, his voice low and rough, the vibration of it sending a spark of warmth straight to Kim Dokja’s chest, “Now endure it.”

Before Kim Dokja could protest—or even think of a retort—Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips found his again. The kiss was slower this time, more controlled, but no less overwhelming. Yoo Joonghyuk kissed like he fought—unyielding, intense, and devastatingly thorough.

His hands tightened on Kim Dokja’s waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them, and the heat of his body pressed into every inch of Kim Dokja’s. He melted further, his thoughts scattering like ashes in a windstorm. Kim Dokja felt as though his entire body had been ignited, his senses overwhelmed by the closeness, the intensity, the sheer realness of Yoo Joonghyuk against him. And Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t stopping—his lips moved against Kim Dokja’s with a rhythm that felt both insistent and tender, as if he were savoring every moment, every gasp and shiver he drew out of him.

When Yoo Joonghyuk finally broke the kiss, it was only to move lower again. His mouth trailed along Kim Dokja’s jawline, leaving a path of fire in its wake, before returning to his neck. He kissed him there, once, twice—soft, lingering kisses that left Kim Dokja trembling. But then, as if unsatisfied with his own restraint, Yoo Joonghyuk began again, his kisses growing more fervent, more consuming, as though he were trying to burn the memory of this moment into both of them. Kim Dokja’s breath hitched, his hands clinging to Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms in a desperate attempt to anchor himself. He wasn’t sure what was more overwhelming—the feel of Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips, warm and insistent, or the realization that he didn’t want him to stop. Every kiss sent another wave of heat crashing over him, leaving him dizzy and unsteady, his knees threatening to buckle all over again.

“Hyuk-ah,” Kim Dokja whispered, his voice barely audible, a mixture of plea and surrender. He didn’t even know what he was asking for—more, or for him to stop before he completely unraveled.

Maybe both. Probably both.

Yoo Joonghyuk responded with another kiss, this time capturing his lips again, stealing the breath from his lungs and any semblance of thought from his mind. It was deeper this time, more possessive, as though Yoo Joonghyuk were claiming every inch of him, leaving no room for argument or escape. His hands slid up Kim Dokja’s back, holding him close, firm, unrelenting, until Kim Dokja had no choice but to let go of everything and let himself fall. When Yoo Joonghyuk pulled back, it was only far enough to press his forehead against Kim Dokja’s, his breath hot and uneven against his skin. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into Kim Dokja’s own cosmos, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear.

“You’re mine,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmured, his voice low and quiet but carrying an edge of finality that sent a shiver down Kim Dokja’s spine. “You can’t take it back now.”

Kim Dokja, flushed and breathless, could only stare at him, his chest heaving as he tried—and failed—to form a coherent response. His lips still tingled from the kisses, his neck burned where Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth had lingered, and his entire body felt like it was floating somewhere far beyond his control. The heat between them was suffocating, but it was a suffocation Kim Dokja didn’t want to escape. 

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned in again, brushing his lips lightly against Kim Dokja’s, barely a whisper of a kiss, before pressing another, and another, as if he couldn’t help himself. Each kiss was softer than the last, gentler but no less consuming, and Kim Dokja felt himself leaning into them, drawn by a force he couldn’t name. His hands found their way to Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulders, clutching at him like a lifeline, and for once, he allowed himself to simply feel—the warmth, the closeness, the overwhelming tenderness that Yoo Joonghyuk, despite his usual stoicism, seemed to pour into every touch. By the time Yoo Joonghyuk finally stopped, Kim Dokja was a trembling mess, his vision blurred and his legs weak. He sagged against Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps, and it was only the firm hold of Yoo Joonghyuk’s arms around him that kept him upright.

Kim Dokja blinked up at him, dazed and flushed, and managed a weak, almost incredulous whisper, “What… what was that?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips quirked into the faintest of smirks, his expression surprisingly soft, and he leaned in once more, his voice low and unapologetic.

“What you deserved.”

[The End: Eternal Chaos]

Despite all the dysfunction of their newly blooming romantic relationship—which could generously be described as two emotionally constipated idiots attempting to navigate feelings while also low-key plotting each other’s demise—Kim Dokja and Yoo Joonghyuk had somehow stumbled into an oddly comfortable routine.

For instance, Yoo Joonghyuk no longer threatened to kill Kim Dokja every single time he opened his mouth. This was a significant improvement, though he still occasionally muttered ominous things like, “One day, I will rid myself of your presence,” while aggressively chopping vegetables. Kim Dokja, being Kim Dokja, usually responded with a deadpan, “Sounds romantic. Shall I bring the shovel?”

Kim Dokja, for his part, sometimes listened to Yoo Joonghyuk’s increasingly elaborate rules for cohabitation—though sometimes really meant rarely, and usually only if Yoo Joonghyuk bribed him with food or looked like he was two seconds away from snapping and throwing Kim Dokja out the window. Case in point: Kim Dokja once went a full three days without rearranging Yoo Joonghyuk’s carefully aligned weaponry. This was promptly ruined when he decided to stick googly eyes on Yoo Joonghyuk’s sword and declare it Swordy. The googly eyes, to Kim Dokja’s eternal amusement, were still there.

Currently, they were in the middle of one of their trademark bickering sessions, which began over the last piece of chocolate in the cupboard but had somehow spiraled into an argument about who would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, perched on the couch and crossing his arms as Biyoo—now unofficially named Doomlord the Third—perched regally on his head like it owned him. She probably did.

“Please,” Kim Dokja scoffed, sprawled across the couch like he was auditioning for a low-budget drama, “I’ve survived living with you. That’s way harder than a zombie apocalypse.”

Yoo Joonghyuk twitched, his fingers flexing like he was debating whether murder was worth the hassle of hiding a body. Biyoo, or Doomlord for now, let out a bored yawn, swatting at Yoo Joonghyuk’s bangs as if to say, Pathetic.

“You’re insufferable,” Yoo Joonghyuk declared, his voice the emotional equivalent of a knife dipped in salt.

“And yet, here we are,” Kim Dokja replied cheerfully, popping the chocolate into his mouth with zero remorse, “Guess you’re stuck with me, darling.”

That did it. Yoo Joonghyuk, whose tolerance for being called darling was somewhere below his tolerance for cold soup, stormed over to the couch. Kim Dokja, sensing danger but too lazy to move, gave him a shit-eating grin and teased in his usual low self-preservation moment, “Oh no, what are you going to do, kiss me, my dear Hyuk-ie?”

Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tightening. The room was silent except for Biyoo’s occasional purr and the faint sound of Kim Dokja’s chewing.

And then Yoo Joonghyuk did exactly that.

The kiss was not brief. It was long, deliberate, and full of the unspoken tension that had been simmering between them for what felt like an eternity. Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand found Kim Dokja’s chin, tilting it just slightly, and Kim Dokja’s world went completely and utterly blank.

Kim Dokja’s breath hitched, the chocolate in his mouth forgotten as Yoo Joonghyuk leaned in further. It wasn’t a kiss meant to prove a point—it was something deeper, something that left Kim Dokja’s heart scrambling to catch up with the rest of him. His hands, traitorous as always, reached out and fisted Yoo Joonghyuk’s shirt as if to ground himself, even as he melted into the touch. When Yoo Joonghyuk finally pulled back, their foreheads rested against each other’s, breaths mingling in the quiet room. For once, Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look smug—he looked fond, a soft curve to his lips that was so out of character it almost made Kim Dokja laugh.

And then Yoo Joonghyuk did laugh, a low, unguarded sound that startled Kim Dokja enough to open his eyes.

“What’s so funny?” Kim Dokja mumbled, still breathless, his voice cracking slightly at the end.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well, you kiss like one,” Kim Dokja shot back, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed any attempt at nonchalance.

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned in again, pressing another, softer kiss to the corner of Kim Dokja’s lips, and this time it was Kim Dokja who laughed—an awkward, helpless sound that made Biyoo let out a judgmental meow from her perch.

“Shut up,” Kim Dokja muttered, though he didn’t move to push Yoo Joonghyuk away. If anything, he leaned further into the warmth, his earlier bravado nowhere to be found.

When Yoo Joonghyuk finally pulled away and sat back down, Biyoo still perched on his head like a tiny, judgmental crown, he picked up the remote and turned on the TV as if nothing had happened. Kim Dokja, still red and disoriented, could only watch him in silence.

It was, Kim Dokja later reflected, the most infuriatingly perfect moment he’d ever experienced.