Chapter Text
The apartment door swung open, and Byun Baekhyun stepped inside, balancing his work bag on one shoulder and a paper bag of groceries in the other hand. A few strands of blonde hair had escaped the effort he had made that morning to style it, falling carelessly across his forehead. Most people would have considered the look accidental. Anyone who knew Baekhyun understood that even his accidents were carefully curated.
He kicked the door shut behind him and immediately regretted coming home. Not because he disliked the apartment. The place was small, cluttered, and permanently smelled faintly of instant noodles, but it was home. No, the problem was the sight waiting for him inside.
Jaehyun, his roommate and best friend, was stretched across his bed with all the elegance of a man who had given up on posture years ago. A thick history textbook rested open on his chest while his phone occupied far more of his attention than the pages ever could. Dark hair framed a face that magazines would have gladly paid to photograph, though Jaehyun himself seemed entirely unaware of that fact. There was something frustratingly effortless about him. While other people spent hours trying to look attractive, he somehow managed it while wearing an oversized sweatshirt and avoiding his responsibilities.
"Get up and start studying properly if you want to pass your exams," Baekhyun said, dropping the groceries onto the kitchen counter.
"Like you did by sleeping with your teacher?" Jaehyun replied without looking up.
Baekhyun froze. Slowly, he turned around, his glare enough to freeze Antarctica over. "Watch your mouth, young man. I'm the one who cooks in this apartment." That finally earned him Jaehyun's attention.
A grin spread across the younger man's face. "Ramen is not cooking, honey."
"Maybe not, but we both know you're too lazy to get up and make even that. If I stopped buying food, you'd probably starve within a week." A look of pure offense crossed Baekhyun's face. He then headed towards his room in order to get his stuff.
"Three days."
"Thank you for proving my point,” Baekhyun shouted from his room.
They had known each other since they were in diapers. Their conversations had always been like this. Neither of them could remember when the teasing had started, only that it had somehow become the foundation of their friendship. Beneath every sarcastic remark was an unspoken certainty that the other would always be there.
Grabbing his gym bag from his room, Baekhyun headed back toward the door.
"When I come back, I expect you to tell me what you've learned."
"Okay, mom."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"I hope you find a hot guy at the gym. It's getting concerning at this point." A grin spread across Jaehyun's face. Baekhyun glared at him again, fully prepared to starve him in the next few days.
Then, he was out the door, his pink gym bag slung over his shoulder and a confidence in his steps that only he possessed.
The gym he used to go to had closed a month ago, forcing him to find a replacement. The new one, unfortunately, looked less like a gym and more like a small architectural statement. Glass, steel, and too many corridors that seemed designed specifically to confuse people who were already late. By the time he stepped inside, yoga mat tucked under his arm, he was already regretting the decision.
He followed a sign that pointed vaguely toward “Studio A,” turned left when it felt right, then right when it no longer did, until the building seemed to quietly rearrange itself around him. He slowed down near a junction of corridors, squinting at the overhead labels, and walked straight into someone.
The impact knocked the air out of him for a fraction of a second. It felt less like colliding with a person and more like hitting something solid enough to stop movement entirely. A hand caught him before he could fall.
"Sorry," a deep voice said.
Baekhyun blinked and looked up, and then up some more.
The man in front of him was tall enough that Baekhyun had to tilt his head fully back just to meet his eyes. Black hair fell naturally over his forehead, slightly damp as if he had just finished training. He wore a fitted black shirt that made no attempt to hide the shape of his shoulders or the quiet strength in his frame. He was built like a brick wall; a brick wall with delicious-looking biceps –not that he looked too much.
"Are you okay?" the man asked.
Baekhyun realized he was still holding the stranger’s wrist, so he let go immediately.
"Yes. I think I am."
A pause. The man’s expression softened slightly, as if confirming Baekhyun wasn’t about to collapse on the floor.
"I’m Chanyeol," he said after a moment, as if offering it as an explanation for his existence there. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Baekhyun,” the blond smiled, a bit too wide. “I…I was looking for the Yoga studio.”
“Then, you bumped into the right person,” Chanyeol chuckled. “Follow me.”
Baekhyun only now registered the small tag that shone on Chanyeol’s chest. Park Chanyeol, yoga instructor.
I'll be damned
Chanyeol guided Baekhyun toward the yoga studio with an ease that suggested he already knew the building by heart. At one point, his hand briefly settled at Baekhyun’s waist, a gesture so natural it was difficult to tell whether it was intentional or simply habit in a crowded space. Baekhyun didn’t step away; he told himself he could have. He simply didn’t feel the need to. Something was there, a kind of attraction between the two, and not just because they were both deprived of anything intimate in months.
Inside the studio, people were already settling onto mats, stretching, adjusting posture, waiting for class to begin. Chanyeol moved to the front with the quiet confidence of someone used to being listened to without needing to raise his voice. He explained the basics first, his tone calm and steady, talking about breathing, balance, and alignment. Baekhyun tried to focus. He really did, but focus, unfortunately, had other plans.
Every time Chanyeol demonstrated a movement, the room seemed to shrink a little in Baekhyun’s perception, narrowing until there was only motion, posture, and the way fabric shifted over trained muscle. He blinked slowly and forced his attention upward again. This is yoga, he reminded himself, and not… whatever his brain was currently trying to turn it into.
“Alright,” Chanyeol said at some point, scanning the room. “Now you try it. I’ll correct form where needed.”
Baekhyun lowered himself onto the mat with the others, far more aware of his surroundings than he intended to be. When he made a small adjustment, Chanyeol was suddenly there, close enough that Baekhyun could feel the shift in air between them.
“Not like that,” Chanyeol said quietly. Baekhyun looked up.
There was something faintly amused in Chanyeol’s expression, though it was restrained, almost hidden. “Here,” Chanyeol added, reaching out. “Let me show you.”
His hands adjusted Baekhyun’s posture with careful precision, one guiding his shoulder, the other briefly steadying his leg so he could align correctly. The touch was brief, professional in theory, but it lingered just enough to make Baekhyun suddenly aware of how close they were.
He swallowed once and looked away too quickly. The class continued.
Positions changed. Instructions followed. Breathing counted. But Baekhyun found himself paying more attention to the pauses between Chanyeol’s words than the words themselves. At one point, Chanyeol’s gaze flicked toward him again.
“Better,” he said simply. “You pick things up quickly.”
Baekhyun tilted his head slightly. “That a compliment?”
“It depends on how you take it.”
A corner of Chanyeol’s mouth lifted, just slightly. Something shifted in the room after that, subtle but unmistakable, as a thread pulled tight between two points. By the time the class ended, most people were already gathering their things, the atmosphere loosening as conversation replaced instruction.
Baekhyun stayed behind a little longer than necessary, not because he needed to but because leaving immediately felt like losing something he hadn’t yet defined. When he finally stood, Chanyeol was near the front of the room, gathering equipment. He looked up as Baekhyun approached.
“You did well,” he said.
Baekhyun shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “I adapt.”
“I noticed.”
A brief silence settled between them. Then Chanyeol added, a little more casually, “You could stay after class sometime. I could show you more advanced routines.”
Baekhyun raised an eyebrow. “That an invitation or a challenge?”
Chanyeol studied him for a moment. “Maybe both. I know we just met, but do you want to grab a drink later?” he didn’t know why he asked, but there was something magnetic about Baekhyun he couldn’t explain. He’s not usually this bold.
That question, for some reason, made something in Baekhyun’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t immediately question. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone –a pink iPhone-, placing it into Chanyeol’s hand.
“Then text me,” he said. “Around eight?”
Chanyeol nodded, accepting the phone. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Baekhyun smiled, already turning away.
He left the studio as he had never doubted he would be the one to do so first. Chanyeol watched him go for a moment longer than necessary, then exhaled softly, shaking his head as if amused by his own lack of control.
Whatever this was, it was starting too easily, and that usually meant it wasn’t simple at all.
Chanyeol’s shift was over in about an hour, and he left the gym shortly after, letting the cool air outside wash away the heat of the training session. His apartment wasn’t far, only a short walk through familiar streets that he barely registered anymore. By the time he reached the building, his thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
The front door clicked shut behind him. He kicked off his shoes out of habit and headed inside, humming under his breath. The sound barely lasted before it was interrupted.
“Yeollie!”
A blur of movement came rushing down the hallway.
Lee Taeyong arrived like he usually did: too fast, too loud, and already mid-conversation with a spoon in his hand as if it were an extension of his personality. Lee Taeyong never simply entered a space; he occupied it fully, as if the air itself had to make room for him.
He was barefoot, wearing loose light-colored house clothes slightly stained near the sleeves, evidence of earlier experiments in the kitchen. His hair was a soft mess of dark strands with unmistakable red highlights threaded through it, catching the light every time he moved his head. Those red accents weren’t subtle; they were deliberate, almost artistic, like he had decided his reflection needed a bit of fire and refused to compromise on it.
In one hand, he held a spoon. In the other, a small ceramic bowl he clearly hadn’t bothered to put down before sprinting across the apartment. Flour dust marked faint smudges on his wrist and the side of his neck, like he had forgotten cooking was supposed to stay in the kitchen.
His eyes lit up the moment they landed on Chanyeol. Then immediately narrowed.
“You have to try my—” he started, then paused mid-sentence, leaning slightly forward as if scenting the air itself. “Oh, my god. You stink.”
Chanyeol let out a short laugh, dropping his gym bag near the entrance. “I just came from work.”
“That is not an excuse,” Taeyong replied instantly, pinching his nose with exaggerated disgust. Even doing that, he didn’t step back. He rarely did. “You usually believe in showers. What happened to you today?”
“I was in a hurry.”
That was enough. Taeyong’s expression changed at once, like a switch had been flipped behind his curiosity. A grin spread across his face, bright and invasive. They had known each other since childhood, and there was nothing Chanyeol could hide from his friend and vice versa.
“Ooooh,” he said slowly. “A hurry. That kind of hurry?”
Chanyeol didn’t answer. Taeyong tilted his head, studying him openly now, spoon still hanging loosely from his fingers like he had forgotten it existed.
“Yeollie has a date?”
“It’s not a date.”
“That is exactly what someone on a date would say.”
Chanyeol exhaled and started walking toward the bathroom. Taeyong followed immediately, moving with the effortless familiarity of someone who treated the apartment like shared territory. He was shorter than Chanyeol by a noticeable margin, but the way he carried himself made up for it; there was nothing small about him in motion.
“Tell me,” Taeyong insisted. “What is he like? Tall? Cute? Muscular? The quiet type? The annoying type? Wait—don’t tell me, he’s the annoying type, isn’t he?”
Chanyeol stopped at the bathroom door, hand already on the handle. “I’ll tell you after I shower.”
“You can’t leave me hanging like this! At least taste my soufflé!” Taeyong said as if personally betrayed by the concept of delayed information. Only then did Chanyeol glance at the bowl in Taeyong’s hand.
“You made another one?”
Taeyong straightened immediately, pride flashing across his face. “It’s perfect this time.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“That time it was emotionally imperfect. This time it has structure.”
“That’s not how cooking works.”
“It is in my kitchen.”
Chanyeol shook his head. “Later.”
“And if I burn it?”
“Then we eat something else.”
Taeyong looked personally offended by how practical that sounded. “That is not supportive friendship behavior!”
The bathroom door closed. For a brief moment, silence settled. Then Taeyong stood in the hallway, still holding the spoon, staring at the closed door as it had betrayed him.
“I am surrounded by people who lack appreciation for culinary art and emotional transparency,” he declared to no one in particular.
From inside, Chanyeol’s faint laugh mixed with the sound of running water.