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The smell hit Minho before he even set foot inside. He gagged, yanking his hoodie over his nose.
“This place is disgusting, Jeongin,” he exclaimed, stepping cautiously down the hallway as if the floor itself might swallow him whole.
Jeongin, however, didn’t look bothered at all. He hopped over a pile of tangled fabric like it was second nature. “Yeah, well, you can’t see any of this on Discord, so I don’t mind,” he said with a shrug, landing neatly between a toppled chair and a stack of old sketchbooks.
“Just because your audience can’t see the mess doesn’t mean you have to live like this” he said scrunching his nose
Minho’s eyes darted from a mannequin half-dressed in what looked like alien skin to a pan crusted with instant ramen residue abandoned on the counter. “I don’t think Mom would love seeing this when she comes next week,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’ll probably threaten to drag you back to her place again.”
Jeongin froze mid-step, his head snapping toward Minho. “Wait. What? MOM IS COMING?” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t I know about this? She can’t see this!”
Minho stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. “You do know about this. She literally said it last time we had dinner together. I was sitting right there. Doesn’t ring a bell? She told you she wanted to check if the apartment had survived under your—” Minho waved his arms at the chaos around them “—careless hands.”
“Ammm…” Jeongin scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t remember that. Oh my god.” He buried his face in his hands. “How the fuck am I supposed to clean all this before Friday?”
Minho leaned against the wall, smirking. “You’ve got a week. Miracles happen, right?”
Of course, miracles didn’t happen. Not for Jeongin.
Procrastination wasn’t just a habit for him; it was practically a religion. Instead of cleaning, he kept streaming to his growing audience—teaching them how to combine outfits, sharing tips on fabrics, and pretending his “at the moment unpaid jobs” were perfectly legitimate. Nobody online needed to know the truth.
His apartment, on the other hand, screamed it. Two bedrooms reduced to chaos: one where the kitchen doubled as a drying rack for latex experiments, the other a storage cave overflowing with rolls of fabric, sewing machines, and projects too sentimental to throw away. It looked less like a home and more like a battlefield where fashion and entropy were at war.
By Wednesday night, Jeongin was spiraling. He had a major project due Friday, classes all Thursday day, and no time left to breathe, let alone clean. His mother’s face flashed in his mind, furious, disappointed—maybe both.
The buzz of his phone saved him from his own imagination. Minho again. A simple message, a link, and three words: thank me later.
Curious, Jeongin tapped. His eyes widened.
In bold, dramatic serif letters, the headline read: No time to clean? We’ll do it for you.
Jeongin nearly cried with relief. He skimmed through options, picked the most expensive, most thorough package, and blindly guessed six hours. That should be enough, right? His credit card whimpered as he punched in the numbers. Goodbye, food budget. Hello, salvation.
He staggered to bed after scribbling sticky notes around the apartment—“don’t move this,” “leave that alone,” “be careful with mannequin arm.” Three hours of sleep would have to do.
Thursday morning, Jeongin pulled his hood up as he left for class. At the entrance, he flagged down the building’s security woman. “Hey, someone from a cleaning company will be coming today at one. They’ll give you a code—0325—so just let them in, yeah?”
She gave him a suspicious once-over, as if weighing the odds that he was running a secret drug lab. Still, she nodded.
By the time Jeongin trudged into the university studio, Hyunjin and Felix were already there, hunched over their laptops, Adobe Illustrator open, lines and shapes filling their screens.
Felix glanced up with a grin. “You look like death.”
“Morning, gremlin,” Hyunjin said without looking up, his black hair falling across his forehead as he bent over his sketchpad. His voice carried the same lazy elegance as his brushstrokes—like every word he spoke had been rehearsed for drama.
Felix giggled, his bright freckles catching the glow of the desk lamp. “He looks more like a raccoon. Did you sleep at all?”
“Three hours,” Jeongin muttered, collapsing into the chair between them. “Don’t talk to me about it. My mom is coming Friday and if she sees the apartment, I’ll be living on the streets.”
Hyunjin finally lifted his head, his sharp, beautiful features framed like a portrait. “Ah, the eternal struggle. Mother’s wrath versus one man’s inability to touch a broom.” His lips curved into a sly smile. “Honestly, Jeongin, maybe we should just burn your apartment. Cleansing fire. New beginnings.”
“Kiwi, shut up.” Jeongin shot him a look. He hated that nickname.
Felix leaned his chin on his palm, grin widening. “Wait, you’re back to black hair, Hyunjin. No more kiwi?”
“Do not speak of my bald era,” Hyunjin said solemnly, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed his pride in the nickname’s drama. “It was an artistic phase.”
Jeongin rolled his eyes. “It was a mistake.” It wasn’t a mistake, he looked incredibly hot but Hyunjin doesn’t need to know that.
Felix’s laugh tinkled like bells. “He looked like a fruit, but a very fashionable one.”
Hyunjin flourished his pencil like a sword. “A kiwi is a symbol of vitality and uniqueness. I wore it with dignity. Unlike you, Jeongin, who wears procrastination like it’s couture.”
Jeongin slumped further into his chair. “Why am I even friends with you two?”
Felix patted his back warmly. “Because we’re your hyungs and we love you. Plus, who else would we bully during lunch breaks?”
Hyunjin’s gaze softened, though he disguised it behind a smirk. “He’s our little baby. A messy, sleep-deprived, perpetually anxious little baby.”
“Wow, thanks,” Jeongin deadpanned.
Felix flipped his laptop around, showing a complicated pattern he’d been working on. “Hey, check this out. Doesn’t look like much, right? But it’s three interlocking panels. Took me six hours just to draft the lines.” His eyes sparkled with excitement. “Imagine this in a structured jacket—it’d look simple, but if anyone tried to copy it, they’d cry.”
“Sounds evil,” Jeongin said, rubbing his temples.
“It’s genius,” Hyunjin corrected, peering at the design. “I live for prints and textures. But patterns? Patterns are like… Felix’s secret witchcraft. Too precise for me. I love my chaos.”
“Then you’d love Jeongin’s apartment,” Felix teased.
“Shut up!” Jeongin protested, but his lips curled into a reluctant smile.
Hyunjin stretched, his long arms reaching dramatically over his head, before turning to Jeongin with mock seriousness. “So, how do you plan to survive Friday? Is this the part where you crumble into despair, or the part where you miraculously rise from the ashes?”
Jeongin hesitated, then smirked faintly. “Neither. I already hired cleaners. Minho found me a service. They’ll do the work while I’m stuck in class.”
Felix gasped, clutching his chest. “You? Paying for help? Who are you and what have you done with our Jeonginnie?”
Hyunjin leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Tell me the truth. Did you write instructions for them on neon sticky notes? Like: ‘do not touch mannequin arm—very important.’”
Jeongin’s ears burned red. “…Maybe.”
The older two burst out laughing, their voices echoing through the studio. Felix’s laugh was warm and infectious, while Hyunjin’s rang sharp and theatrical.
But beneath their teasing, there was something grounding—an unspoken assurance that no matter how chaotic things got, Jeongin wasn’t alone.
The studio grew louder as the morning went on. The three boys worked side by side, though “worked” might’ve been a generous term.
Felix leaned forward, tapping at his keyboard with intense focus. “Professor Kim said my pattern was ‘unnecessarily complicated.’ Can you believe that? She said no client would ever want it. But that’s the point. If it’s simple, it’s boring.”
Hyunjin chuckled, shading a sketch with deliberate, graceful strokes. “You do love to suffer, Felix. Complication is your love language.”
“Better than half-finished chaos,” Felix shot back, glancing at Hyunjin’s growing pile of dramatic print designs. “Your prints look like nightmares had babies.”
Hyunjin’s lips curled into a proud smile. “And yet, they’re beautiful nightmares. That’s art.” He twirled his pencil between his fingers, tilting his head. “Speaking of art, Professor Choi called me a ‘walking performance piece.’ I think she meant it as an insult, but I’ve decided to take it as a compliment.”
Jeongin snorted. “Of course you did.”
By the time Jeongin trudged back home that evening, he was dead on his feet. He fumbled with his keys, ready to collapse into familiar chaos.
But when the door creaked open, he froze.
The smell of lemon polish hit him first. Then the shine. His floors—his floors—were glowing. His hallway no longer looked like an fashion design student’s graveyard, but something out of a catalog.
“What the…” He stepped inside, then immediately stepped back out, double-checking the apartment number. Nope. It was definitely his place.
Cautiously, he walked in again. His heart raced as though he’d entered a stranger’s home. Everything was different.
His studio no longer looked like a hurricane zone. The mannequins were dressed neatly, his rolls of fabric stacked in rainbow order, small scraps sorted by size and color. On his desk, the rotating plates he’d picked up at a flea market—forgotten under a pile of junk—were now artfully holding his threads and pins.
In the kitchen, his spices stood at attention, alphabetized like books. Even his medicines had been arranged: paracetamol up front, cough syrup banished to the back. And his laundry—his laundry was done. He hadn’t even known that was included.
“Oh my god…” Jeongin whispered, running a hand through his hair.
There were little touches everywhere. A mini notepad stuck to the fridge, ready for grocery lists. New baskets by the washing machine, labeled neatly in block letters. And at the top of his previously towering pile of unopened mail, a neon sticky note stared back at him with a single scrawled message: ???
Jeongin laughed, startled by the sound of his own voice. Whoever this cleaner was, they weren’t just thorough. They were… thoughtful. They’d moved things one by one, cleaned underneath, then put them back in a better way. Like they understood him.
His chest fluttered with something dangerously close to affection. “I think I’m in love,” he muttered.
He called Minho, pacing across his newly polished floor.
The line clicked. “What now?” Minho’s voice was smooth but flat, like he was already halfway distracted.
“Hyung!” Jeongin burst out. “I need the number of that cleaning person. I think I’m in love.”
A pause. Then the faint sound of something sizzling in a pan. “You’re not in love, you’re just messy,” Minho said matter-of-factly.
“No, I’m serious,” Jeongin pressed. “They didn’t just clean, they… they understood me. My fabrics are in color order. My threads are on those rotating plates I bought in a flea market two years ago and forgot about. My spices are alphabetical. Who does that?!”
Minho hummed as if weighing the seriousness of alphabetized spices. “Someone who got paid.”
“Hyung!”
In the background, Jeongin could hear meowing. Then a crash.
“Doongie, no,” Minho muttered away from the phone. Then, back to Jeongin, completely unfazed: “Why are you yelling at me like I sent an angel to your door?”
“Because you did! Minho, this person… they even did my laundry. They put post-its on my mail with question marks. They gave me a system!” Jeongin’s voice cracked, dramatic and high-pitched. “Do you know how badly I needed a system?”
Another pause. Minho’s knife clinked against the cutting board. “You sound unhinged.”
“I’m dead serious. I walked into my apartment and thought I was in the wrong place. Do you hear me? Wrong. Apartment.”
There was a low chuckle from Minho this time, quiet but cutting, like he’d been holding it back. “So basically, someone came in, did what you’ve been too lazy to do for years, and now you want to marry them?”
“Yes!” Jeongin snapped without hesitation.
Minho sighed, the sound of a frying pan being shaken punctuating it. “Soonie would judge you so hard if you brought a stranger home just because they cleaned your socks.”
“Why is Soonie in this conversation?”
“Because my cats have better judgment than you.”
Jeongin groaned, flopping onto his couch—flawlessly vacuumed and smelling faintly of fabric softener. “You’re impossible.”
Minho’s tone softened slightly, though it was hard to tell if he meant it or if it was just the rhythm of his voice. “Jeongin-ah, stop dramatizing. Just enjoy it. Your apartment is clean, mom won’t bite your head off, and you can keep making your Frankenstein clothes in peace. Be grateful.”
Jeongin hugged a pillow to his chest, glaring at the ceiling. “You don’t get it. This wasn’t just cleaning. This was… intention.”
On the other end, Minho let the words hang, then simply said, “If you fall in love with every person who shows you intention, you’ll be broke before the semester ends.”
The sound of a cat’s purr vibrated faintly through the speaker. Jeongin could practically see Minho standing there, knife in one hand, Doongie weaving around his legs, eyes sharp and unreadable, as if he’d just dropped some kind of profound truth without even realizing it.
“Hyung,” Jeongin whispered dramatically, “you’re heartless.”
“Mm,” Minho replied, distracted. “Pass me the salt, Soonie.”
“You can’t ask your cat for salt!”
Minho didn’t answer. Only the sound of the pan crackling and a cat meowing in protest.
Jeongin let his head fall back against the couch, torn between tearing his hair out and laughing. His apartment gleamed around him like some impossible dream, and all he could think was that somewhere out there was a person who had turned his chaos into order. And he wanted—no, needed—to know who it was.
Friday arrived faster than Jeongin expected. He had pulled an all-nighter, but happy knowing the he wouldn’t be bracing for his mother’s shriek when she saw the apartment, because it was so pristine and clean, well everywhere except for this table where his was doing the project, but she can do with that.
“Oh my God, Jeongin,” his mother said as soon as she stepped inside. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, eyes scanning the pristine rooms like she’d stepped into a model house. “This is… stunning.”
Jeongin blinked at her. “It is, right?” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide his smugness.
She shot him a knowing smile. “Be honest with me—who’s your boyfriend? He must be amazing to keep everything this clean.”
“MOM!” Jeongin’s ears turned crimson. “There’s no boyfriend!”
Minho, of course, didn’t help. He leaned against the doorway, his perfect nose catching the light just so, and smirked. “Yeah, Mom, you’re right. He definitely doesn’t have the energy to do this alone. Must be someone.”
“HYUNG!”
They ended up at a sushi place that night, the three of them squeezed into a booth.
“So, Minho,” their mother said as she picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, “how’s your… what is it again, that internship you had with… oh, what was the company’s name?”
Minho gave her a look, sharp and amused. “It’s JYP, Mom.”
“Oh, right. That one.” She waved her chopsticks. “You’ve always been so good with rhythm. I’m glad you’re putting it to use.”
Minho simply nodded, as if her approval were just another fact to file away. Jeongin chewed his tuna roll and thought about how different they were.
“I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” she said, chopsticks poised gracefully. “When you were ten, Jeongin, you bribed Minho to fold your clothes because you cried every time the closet wouldn’t close. Remember that?”
“Mom!” Jeongin groaned, face in his hands.
Minho smirked, sipping his tea. “He still tries.”
She chuckled warmly, reaching to pat Jeongin’s hand. “I’m proud of you, though. Even if you had help.”
For once, the words didn’t sting.
The days passed, and the apartment didn’t magically stay sparkling. Jeongin slipped back into his habits, ramen cups stacking on his counter like trophies of defeat.
Whenever Minho sensed it—how, Jeongin didn’t know—he called with the same excuse. “Made too much food. Come eat.”
It was a lie, obviously. Minho never “accidentally” cooked too much. But Jeongin didn’t complain. His brother’s cooking was comfort: stews that warmed him, stir-fried noodles that tasted like home.
It was a shame Minho didn’t live with him. The apartment was too far from both the idol company and his university, and besides, Minho already shared a place with his roommate, Seungmin. Still, every time Jeongin sat at Minho’s table with Soonie curled on his lap, he wished things were different.
Two weeks later, Jeongin had a problem.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the first time his apartment had been transformed. The mystery. The precision. The intention.
The company refused to give him information—their rules were strict. But like the destiny doing his work he found a coupon on his university app. Half-price cleaning sessions.
So, once a week, he booked the service. Only two hours this time. But always, always requesting cleaner #0325.
At first, it was just gratitude. A sticky note on his fridge: Thank you so much. I really appreciate how well you do everything.
The next week, a reply appeared on one of his own notes: You’re welcome :)
And slowly, they began to talk. Sticky notes became confessions in bright neon squares.
You’re so organized. How do you do it?
—Cleaning relaxes me. It’s like putting chaos back in its place.
I love how you arranged my fabrics by color. It inspired me for a project.
—Glad I could help :)
From those simple exchanges, Jeongin began to piece together fragments of his cleaner. A boy. Older than him. Studying a master’s in music production.
One note made his heart race: Call me Chris.
Chris.
There was something thrilling about writing a stranger’s name on paper, knowing he would see it, hold it, reply.
And the strangest part? Jeongin felt like Chris was starting to know him too—little details about his schedule, his projects, even his tendency to forget to eat unless ramen was within reach.
Weeks passed. Jeongin’s neon collection grew, he kept the notes in a box under his bed. He’d reread them sometimes, heart pounding.
And then one day, his hand trembled as he scribbled a new note:
Chris, I know this might be weird, but… can I have your number?
He stuck it carefully where he knew Chris would see. Then he sat on his bed, staring at the glowing clean lines of his room, waiting like the whole world depended on a sticky note.
When Jeongin first saw the number written under Chris’s familiar handwriting, he spent twenty minutes just staring at it. His thumb hovered over his phone screen like it weighed a thousand kilos.
Finally, with a deep breath, he typed:
Chris (cleaning angel)
hi… it’s me. jeongin. from the notes.
The reply came quicker than he expected.
Took you long enough :)
Was starting to think you were too shy to use it.
Jeongin bit his lip, embarrassed.
i wasn’t too shy. just… cautious.
Uh huh. Sure.
He could hear the smirk in the text, which was unfair.
Their conversations slipped into the rhythm that the sticky notes had started. But this time, Jeongin could ask more, dig deeper, and Chris… Chris was generous with his answers.
why cleaning tho? you’re a music guy.
Yeah, but my brain doesn’t switch off easily. I’ll sit for hours mixing beats, redoing the same three seconds until my ears go numb. Cleaning is the opposite. Immediate results. No one can tell me I EQ’d the floor wrong.
Jeongin laughed out loud, earning stares in the campus library.
Over the next week, Chris shared bits of himself, like puzzle pieces.
I grew up in Sydney. Moved here when I was fifteen. It was rough at first. Didn’t know the language well, didn’t know anyone except a few family friends.
that sounds scary
It was. But music helped. I met Jisung and Changbin in school. They saved me, honestly. Gave me a reason to stay. We’ve been 3RACHA ever since.
Chris opened up like a book, he told him about his baby, his dog.
and Berry?
Berry came later. My dad used to say a dog makes a house feel alive. He wasn’t wrong. She’s stubborn, though. Won’t eat unless I sit on the floor next to her.
Jeongin grinned at his phone. He could almost picture it: Chris, this unseen older boy, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a tiny spaniel refusing to touch her food until he joined her.
Jeongin didn’t know what Chris looked like. He didn’t know what his voice sounded like beyond the imagined rhythm of his texts.
But he knew Chris’s honesty. His steadiness. The way he teased gently, encouraged often, and carried responsibility without bragging about it.
And that made Jeongin want to know more.
Chris (cleaning angel)
so you clean, you make music, you take care of berry. do you even sleep?
not much.
but when I do, it’s the best sleep. Knowing I’ve done something.
you’re like… too good.
Nah. Just stubborn.
The screen glowed in Jeongin’s hands. For the first time in a long time, he felt like the chaos of his world was aligning into something new.
And it all started with a sticky note.
Earlier that week, Jeongin had been at the studio with Hyunjin and Felix, the two people who had become his unofficial sanity check.
Jeongin had walked in, dropped his bag with a groan, and announced, “I think I accidentally fell in love with my cleaner.”
Hyunjin immediately clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “Finally! Something interesting. Tell us everything.”
Felix looked up, his eyes round. “Wait, like, for real? You’ve been texting him?”
Jeongin flopped into a chair. “Not texting—well, okay, yeah, texting. And sticky notes. But it’s not like that.”
“Not like that,” Hyunjin mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Jeongin, you’ve been glowing every time your phone buzzes. If this isn’t romance, then I don’t know what is.”
Felix leaned closer, curiosity bright. “So… what’s he like?”
Jeongin hesitated, chewing on his lip. “He’s… warm. Funny, in this dad-joke way. He talks about his dog like it’s royalty. He… makes me feel calm, I guess.”
Hyunjin raised a brow. “Calm? You? That’s basically a miracle.”
Felix giggled, then softened. “Sounds nice. Like, the kind of person you can lean on.”
Jeongin tried not to smile too much. “Maybe.”
Hyunjin tapped his chin theatrically. “I bet he’s either ridiculously handsome or completely average. No in-between.”
Jeongin rolled his eyes. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s true,” Hyunjin said, dead serious. “The universe doesn’t make ‘normal’ meet-cutes.”
Felix sighed dreamily. “I hope he’s handsome.”
Hyunjin grinned wickedly. “For Jeongin’s sake, or ours?”
“Both,” Felix said simply, making them all laugh.
That night, Jeongin carefully photographed the latest jacket he had deconstructed and rebuilt. Each seam was intentionally jagged, each layer overlapping in a way that only he could justify.
Chris (cleaning angel)
ok… here it is. chaos with purpose.
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.
wow… ambitious. i like it. the way the seams cross is… unexpected. kind of like a beat that shouldn’t work but does.
omg… you actually get it!
i do. don’t underestimate me. messy genius is my specialty.
And also I like how you recycle stuff, sometimes its not good art first,
so you have to give it a second, third or forth try
exactly, It’s getting a second life.
Clothes aren’t failures just because they don’t fit the first time.
You take them apart, see where they went wrong, and put them back together with purpose.”
So basically, you’re a fashion surgeon”
“ No wait, more like a therapist, fixing what’s broken.”
Jeongin shrugged, embarrassed but pleased.
“It’s just… I think life is like that too.
Sometimes things don’t feel right the way they are.
But if you take them apart and rebuild them, it can work.”
“You’re too poetic for someone who can’t fold laundry.”
“ey dont be mean”
“im joking, im joking.
I really like how the different textures and shapes mixed together.
Makes you feel uncomfortable but its beautiful”
it is supposed to be. discomfort is intentional.
like life, huh? take the pieces that don’t fit, stitch them back with purpose. i like that.
you’re quoting me…
i’m inspired. now i want to hear what music would match this jacket. chaotic yet intentional.
Jeongin stared at the phone, cheeks burning. He did want to hear that music.
The next day, Jeongin practically bounced into the studio, phone in hand.
“Hyungs! You won’t believe it!” he whispered.
Hyunjin, his dramatic aura intact, raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“I… I sent Chris a picture of my jacket. He… he understands it! And he compared it to music! Like… music!”
Felix, ever curious, leaned closer. “Music? What kind of music?”
“He’s in a group called 3RACHA. He and his friends make rap and EDM.”
Hyunjin smirked, tapping Jeongin’s shoulder. “Oh, the cleaning wizard has a secret life as a music producer. How predictable.”
“I’m serious!” Jeongin protested. “He’s… amazing. And kind. And smart. And…”
“Jeongin,” Felix interrupted, laughing softly, “you’re going to implode if you keep saying ‘and’ like that.”
Later, Jeongin’s phone buzzed again:
Chris (cleaning angel)
so… that jacket. i want to remix it into a beat. think about it—seams as rhythm, layers as melody.
omg… are you serious?
totally. i’ll probably overthink it, but that’s what makes it fun.
wow… i never thought someone could combine fashion and music like that.
me neither, honestly. i usually just make noise. now i get to make noise with intent.
that’s… exactly how i see deconstruction.
haha… see? chaos with purpose, everywhere. your apartment, your jackets… even your texts.
ok that last one is scary accurate.
only scary if you don’t like being understood.
…i like it.
During a break, Felix leaned over and whispered: “You’re smiling like a fool, Jeongin. What’s going on?”
“I… i can’t… he… Chris… he understands my work. My apartment. My fashion.”
Hyunjin chuckled, his dramatic flair impossible to hide. “Oh,god… this is getting dangerously close to obsession territory.”
“I… it’s not!” Jeongin stammered. “It’s… it’s… nice!”
Felix shook his head, smiling. “Nice, sure. But also… this is way more fun for us to watch than it is for you to admit.”
Hyunjin leaned back, arms crossed. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Jeongin. Soon, your apartment and your texts will be full-blown romance chaos. I can already see it.”
Jeongin groaned, hiding his phone in his hoodie pocket.
The weeks kept passing, and Chan and Jeongin grew closer and closer. Their texts had shifted from polite notes to long conversations, full of teasing, late-night encouragement, and small confessions about their lives. To Jeongin, the glow of his phone screen had become a kind of anchor.
So much that he wanted to meet him.
It took him three tries to work up the courage to ask. Fingers trembling, he typed out: Do you… maybe want to meet?
Chris’s reply came quickly, as steady as ever. I was hoping you’d say that. Would be nice to put a face to my new friend.
Friend.
Jeongin didn’t like how that word twisted in his chest, but he forced himself to reply, Sure. They set a date, planned what they might do. It felt both thrilling and terrifying, and Jeongin spent days overthinking everything from what shirt to wear to whether his hair looked too flat.
But then came the jury.
In two days, his professors would evaluate whether his concept and garments were strong enough to continue, or if he’d need to redo everything from scratch. The pressure was suffocating. He stayed up all night working—sewing machine humming until its metal was hot to the touch, fabric scraps piling around him, renderings exporting sluggishly on his Mac.
At some point, exhaustion dragged him down. He fell asleep at the kitchen table, cheek against a nest of thread and paper.
Jeongin jerked awake at the sound of the door unlocking, his face stuck to the pile of fabric scraps on the table. The sewing machine still radiated warmth beside him, and his render had just finished saving on his computer . His neck ached from sleeping slumped forward, and his mind scrambled—What time was it? Wasn’t he supposed to be in class?
“Hyung?” he croaked, expecting Minho’s voice.
Silence.
He pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes, heart thumping. Maybe Minho had come by to drop food off again, but the steps were too deliberate, too careful.
When he reached the door, Jeongin froze.
A tall man stood there, arms full of cleaning supplies. Broad shoulders. Steady presence. Long, wavy silver hair that shimmered faintly under the hall light.
Jeongin’s breath caught in his throat. “…Chan?”
The man flinched slightly at the sound of his name, then smiled, bright and disarming. “Jeongin?”
Jeongin’s pulse went wild. He hadn’t thought this would be how they met—half-asleep, hair sticking up in every direction, his apartment a battlefield of fabric and thread.
“W-why are you—” he stammered, then stopped, realization dawning. His eyes widened. “Wait. Did I… book this?”
Chan raised a brow, amusement dancing in his expression. “Yeah. Two weeks ago. You picked today at noon.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s noon.”
Jeongin wanted to sink into the floor. “Oh my god.” He covered his face with his hands. “I completely forgot.”
Chan chuckled softly, setting the supplies down by the door. “Looks like you’ve been keeping yourself busy instead.” His gaze flicked toward the glowing Mac, then the half-finished garment draped over the sewing machine.
Jeongin’s ears burned red. “I was supposed to be in class,” he muttered. “I… fell asleep.”
“Hard to miss,” Chan said, voice warm. “You were out cold. I didn’t want to scare you, so I just… came in slow.”
Jeongin peeked at him through his fingers, still flustered. “…So this is how we meet?”
Chan grinned, leaning slightly against the wall, casual but steady. “Not the most romantic setting, huh? You, drooling on fabric scraps. Me, holding a mop.”
Jeongin groaned. “You’re not supposed to say it like that.”
“But it’s true,” Chan teased. His smile softened as his eyes lingered on Jeongin. “Still… better than I imagined.”
Jeongin blinked, startled. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Chan shrugged, like it was obvious. “I was worried you’d be shy, or disappear. But here you are. Real.”
Jeongin’s throat tightened. He shifted his weight, looking everywhere but at Chan. “You make it sound like I’m a ghost.”
Chan chuckled. “Not a ghost. Just… my new friend.”
That word stung again—friend—but Jeongin forced a small nod, his voice soft. “…Right. Friend.”
Chan tilted his head, watching him closely, like he could see through the word Jeongin was trying to swallow. But he didn’t push. Instead, he smiled again, easy and warm.
“So… do I clean? Or do we talk?”
Jeongin’s lips curved, hesitant but growing. “…Both?”
“Both,” Chan agreed, his grin widening. “Sounds good.”