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gyuinink · 3 days ago

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The Gravity Between Us

“He fell from the stars, but chose to stay—for the heartbeat that felt more like home than the sky ever did.”

Paring- Choi Seungcheol x Yoon Jeonghan

Genre- Fantasy Romance,Soft Sci-Fi / Celestial Realism, Contemporary Romance, Emotional Drama, Slice of Life,Fluff, Sacrifice for love, Fated love / destined soulmates and Touch-starved celestial × emotionally grounded human

Love trope-Fallen celestial being × human lover

Words count- 13k

Side ships- Minwon (Kim mingyu and Jeon Wonwoo)

Synopsis- “You’re not the sky anymore,” seungcheol whispers, “but you still shine.”

“And you’re the reason I ever learned how,” comes the reply, quiet and full of light from jeonghan.

In a quiet rooftop tucked above a city that never looks up, a boy begins to fall—not from grace, but from somewhere far more sacred. Between sketchbooks and thunderstorms, sleepless nights and soft silences, two lives begin to tangle: one searching for a place to land, the other learning what it means to hold on. It’s a story of fingertips grazing the edge of the unknown, of moments stitched between stardust and morning light. As the days pass and the stars shift, love becomes something warmer, heavier—real.This isn’t a story about magic. It’s about what happens when magic chooses to become human. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about how even gravity can be defied… if the heart is strong enough to pull you home.

Note- so, this is something completely written within one day, but it’s my favorite work and it’s a gift for my favorite person @scoupsass-is-mine happy belated birthday, dear.I hope you like this little gesture of mine aka a small gift for you and fun fact this story has be my fav work and tbh special to my heart but I hope you guys enjoy this and please re-blog it, comment and like it as much as possible because this is my favorite work and I wanted to reach to each and every carat around the world.

Playlist-Supernatural – Ariana Grande, Falling Like the Stars – James Arthur, Sanctuary – Joji, the lakes – Taylor Swift, Space Song – Beach House, My Love Mine All Mine – Mitski, Love In The Dark – Adele, Serendipity- Jimin, Moonlight – EXO, Heaven – Calum Scott, Somewhere Only We Know – Keane, Daylight – David Kushner, je te laisserai des mots – Patrick Watson

The beginning to entangled and fated love between the celestial being Yoon Jeonghan and just a human who pulls Jeonghan more closer Choi Seungcheol.

The sky was still the way it always was—quiet, ancient, endlessly watching.

Jeonghan hovered just beyond the veil, where the stars whisper secrets to each other and time folds gently like silk. From where he floated, Earth looked like a glowing marble, delicate and blue. He had watched it for centuries, tracing the movement of clouds, following rivers, memorizing faces in city windows he’d never step through. His place was here in the celestial plane. Unseen. Untouched.

But tonight, something was wrong.

A sudden brilliance tore across the sky. A meteor storm raging in violent, bright and wrong. Too close. Too fast.

The barrier that separated his realm from the world below cracked, a splinter of light rupturing like glass. Jeonghan gasped, his limbs weightless but no longer safe. The pull began—first a hum, then a roar. Gravity, but stronger. Cosmic. Hungry.

“No—wait—” he whispered, reaching for something to hold, but there was nothing.

He fell.

Fell through stars he once called kin, past clouds that tried to cradle him but failed. The world below raced toward him like a pulse. He didn’t scream for long there was no air left to carry his voice.

He wouldn’t die. He knew that. He was made of stardust and centuries. But fear was still fear, even for the eternal.

In Seoul, on a modest rooftop tangled with potted plants and old fairy lights, Seungcheol watered his basil and spoke softly to the sky.

“You look quieter tonight,” he murmured. “Everything okay up there?”

The stars didn’t answer—until one of them did.

A burst of blue and lavender light split the horizon. Seungcheol flinched, shielding his eyes as something streaked downward—something not a comet, not fire, but… alive.

The crash wasn’t loud. It was more like a sigh as if the universe was exhaling.

Seungcheol turned.

A figure lay on the rooftop rim, curled where no one should’ve been able to reach without wings or magic. Long limbs cloaked in silver-white silk. Hair the color of honey in moonlight. He glowed—faintly, like the end of a dream. Blue and lavender pulses shimmered beneath his skin.

The man groaned.

Seungcheol’s legs moved before his mind did. He stepped forward, cautious, heart pounding like a drumbeat under his ribs.

Then the figure opened his mouth. “Water,” he whispered. Barely a sound.

And Seungcheol, as if entranced, nodded. “Stay here. Don’t move?”

He rushed downstairs, grabbed the first bottle he found, and climbed back up in seconds that felt like years.

Jeonghan hadn’t moved.

Gently, Seungcheol knelt, helping him sit upright with careful hands. The figure was lighter than he should be, warm but faint, like someone fading from a dream. Seungcheol half-cradled him, unscrewed the cap, and held the water to his lips.

The man,Jeonghan,drank. Slowly. Every swallow looked like effort.

His glow dimmed but stabilized.

Seungcheol didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that this person didn’t belong on a rooftop, didn’t belong to Earth—and yet, somehow, was here, trembling in his arms.

He couldn’t leave him like this.

Carefully, he slipped his arm under Jeonghan’s knees and scooped him up. The silk robe was impossibly soft. His body, light as breath. Seungcheol’s chest ached with a worry he didn’t understand.

Inside, the apartment was warm, cluttered, and small. He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder and laid Jeonghan on the bed, adjusting the pillows under his head.

“I’ll get a first aid kit,” Seungcheol murmured, unsure if cuts and bruises applied to celestial beings, but needing to do something.

He left the room.

When he returned a minute later, kit in hand, he froze.

Jeonghan was no longer in bed.

He stood at the glass window, staring up at the stars through the curtain of citylight haze, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” Seungcheol said, surprised by how tender his voice came out.

“I can’t be injured,” Jeonghan replied, not turning around yet. “It’s not how I was made.”

Seungcheol blinked. “What do you mean?”

Jeonghan turned then, his glow casting faint hues against the wall. His eyes held galaxies in true sense.Not just metaphor. There were constellations in his irises.

He stepped forward, slowly, as though not to startle Seungcheol. Then he lifted his hand, palm open.

From it bloomed something not-quite-magic but more than illusion—a soft swirl of pale blue and lavender light unfurling like a galaxy in miniature. Stars pulsed and spun within it. A tiny Milky Way, delicate and perfect.

Seungcheol forgot how to breathe.

Jeonghan watched him now. “This is where I came from. This is my home. The stars aren’t just distant to me. They were my sky. My sea.”

The Milky Way danced in his palm for a few more seconds. Then he closed his fingers, and it vanished.

“People might call me a god,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Or an angel without wings. But I’m neither. I’m simply… celestial being. Made up of stardust and centuries.”

“You’re real,” Seungcheol whispered.

“I am.” Jeonghan stepped closer again. “And I think your world pulled me in. You pulled me in.”

Seungcheol felt his pulse hitch. “Why me?”

“I don’t know,” Jeonghan admitted. “But when I fell… you were the first thing that didn’t feel like fear.”

A silence fell between them. Not awkward—just full. Weightless.

Jeonghan’s smile softened. He glanced at the first aid box in Seungcheol’s hands and gently took it, placing it on the nearby desk.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’m not going to break.”

Seungcheol looked at him. Really looked. “Are you immortal?”

Jeonghan nodded, the glow of stars lingering like dust on his skin. “For now.”

Seungcheol hadn’t stopped staring at him. Even after the stars faded from Jeonghan’s palm, even after silence settled around them like a blanket, he just… looked. Not in fear. Not entirely in disbelief. Just wonder.

Jeonghan laughed, soft and light. Then he stepped closer, fingers reaching out to tuck a strand of Seungcheol’s black hair behind his ear. His touch lingered. “Choi Seungcheol,” he said, tasting the name like it was sacred.

Seungcheol blinked. “How do you know my—?”

“I’ve always watched you.” Jeonghan smiled, gaze gentle. “Every night, you look up at the sky and say goodbye to the stars before bed. And I… liked it. It felt like someone was saying good night to me.”

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He only nodded, throat too tight for words.

But then, Jeonghan’s smile faltered. He flinched suddenly, hand flying to his back as he stumbled backward.

“Hey—!” Seungcheol stepped forward in instinct, steadying him by the waist. “What is it?”

“Just… pain,” Jeonghan muttered, breathing through it. “My back…”

Without another word, Seungcheol helped him to the bed, gently guiding him to sit. “Mind if I check?” he asked quietly. “Just to make sure nothing’s… wrong?”

Jeonghan nodded. “You can.”

Carefully, Seungcheol slipped the robe down from Jeonghan’s shoulders. The moment he did, he froze.

Across Jeonghan’s back, a constellation glowed faintly in blues and lavenders. Stars etched beneath his skin, swirling and shifting like real galaxies.

“What is this?” Seungcheol whispered.

Jeonghan breathed softly. “I think… it’s reacting. To Earth. Or maybe… to you.”

Seungcheol didn’t know what that meant, but he ran a gentle hand along Jeonghan’s back anyway, letting his touch soothe. “Is it going to get worse?”

“I don’t know,” Jeonghan said honestly. “And I don’t care. It’s… comforting here. With you. Maybe I fell for a good reason.”

Seungcheol’s heart stuttered. He smiled faintly. “You should change into something more human,” he said, voice light.

“Human clothes?” Jeonghan turned, confused.

Seungcheol laughed, eyes crinkling. “Do you really not know anything about us?”

Jeonghan pouted. “I watch humans. I don’t study them.”

“Well,” Seungcheol said, walking to his wardrobe, “I’ll help you figure it out.” He pulled out a soft, blue silk pajama set. “This is what we wear when we sleep.”

He pointed to himself, clad in a yellow pajama top and striped bottoms.

Jeonghan tilted his head. “So soft-looking.”

“You can change here. I’ll go grab something for you to eat.” Seungcheol said turning his heels to move.

As Seungcheol turned to leave, Jeonghan called after him, “I’m not just here for the night.”

Seungcheol paused. “What do you mean?”

Jeonghan sighed. “The portal… the rift—it won’t open again unless another meteor storm like tonight happens. Until then, I’m… stuck.”

A beat. Then, Seungcheol stepped back toward him. He cupped Jeonghan’s face, thumb brushing the curve of his cheek. His voice softened into something near reverence,

”Then maybe the stars didn’t lose you. Maybe they gave you to me.”

For a moment, Jeonghan said nothing. But something on his back pulsed again—new light, new warmth. Pink. Red.

By the time Seungcheol returned from the kitchen, Jeonghan had changed into the pajamas, the sleeves a little long, his hair messy but radiant. He was sitting on the bed, blinking curiously at the tray Seungcheol held.

“What’s that?” Jeonghan ask in curiosity.

“Food,” Seungcheol said. “Humans need it to survive.”

“I know that,” Jeonghan muttered. “But it looks… different. Nothing like what we eat in the Celestial plane.”

“Oh?” Seungcheol sat beside him. “What do you eat up there?”

Jeonghan thought for a second. “Lightfruit—pearlescent orbs that hum before they’re ripe. Starflame petals. They melt on your tongue and taste like memories. And there’s stardust nectar. Cold and sweet. You drink it during eclipses.”

Seungcheol stared, a little stunned. “Okay… wow.”

“But I’ll try this,” Jeonghan said politely.

He took a small spoonful of tomato soup. Then another. Then a sip of the matcha latte. His eyes widened. “This is really good.”

“They’re favorites here,” Seungcheol said, smiling.

After Jeonghan finished, Seungcheol placed the tray aside and led him to the bathroom. He handed him a toothbrush.

Jeonghan blinked. “What do I do with this?”

Seungcheol laughed again, eyes warm. “You’re asking questions like a little kid.”

Jeonghan frowned, pouting. “I’m just… curious. I’ve never been on Earth before.”

Seungcheol only chuckled and showed him how to brush. He helped guide Jeonghan’s hand, then brushed his own teeth beside him.

When they returned to the bedroom, Seungcheol said gently, “You should sleep next to me. Just in case… you get scared.”

“I already feel like home,” Jeonghan said quietly.

Seungcheol’s heart twisted again.

But then he noticed Jeonghan’s long blond hair still flowing freely. “Wait,” he said, going to his dresser.

He came back with a comb, a few ties, and a soft pink ribbon. “Sit.”

Jeonghan obeyed, legs crossed. Seungcheol began to braid his hair carefully, fingers threading gently through each silky strand. He tied the braid off with the ribbon and smiled.

“You look like the kind of dream someone would wish for their whole life.” Seungcheol said.

Jeonghan blinked slowly. He looked at his hands—now glowing in reds and pinks. A new color. A new truth.

Soulmate.

He said nothing for a moment. Then softly: “You’re being too much for a fallen being.”

Seungcheol leaned in, whispering with a teasing grin, “A beautiful fallen angel for me.”

Jeonghan flushed.

Seungcheol turned off the light, the room folding into gentle shadows. They laid down, side by side. Close, warm.

Jeonghan closed his eyes, heartbeat steady for the first time.

But in the quiet, a fear curled beneath his ribs—if Seungcheol was his soulmate, did that mean he had to stay on Earth forever? Would he have to become something he wasn’t, just to survive?

He didn’t know.

But for now, he let the thought go.

He chose to sleep in the warmth of the moment. In the comfort of Seungcheol beside him.

The next morning

Jeonghan stirred softly as the golden warmth of morning spilled through the curtains. His lashes fluttered like the wings of a resting butterfly, and his eyes opened to find Seungcheol nestled close an arm securely wrapped around his waist, their legs tangled beneath the cozy weight of the blanket. Seungcheol’s breath was steady against his cheek, the faintest smile brushing his lips even in sleep.

For a long moment, Jeonghan didn’t move. He simply watched the way Seungcheol slept-peaceful, warm, grounded and felt a strange pull inside him. His own form was celestial, woven from stardust and light, not made for the weight and wear of Earth. But here, in Seungcheol’s arms, he didn’t feel like he was fading. He felt… real.

His fingers twitched slightly. That same familiar glow—soft pink and crimson gathered at his skin. It meant only one thing: Seungcheol was his soulmate.

But if that was true… what fate awaited him now?

Would the universe demand he return, rip him from the one he was meant to find only to lose?

The ache of that uncertainty pressed against his ribs, but just then, a lilting sound called him back the sweet chirping of birds right outside the window.

Jeonghan carefully slipped from Seungcheol’s embrace, placing a quiet kiss of thanks on the crown of the moment, before padding barefoot to the window. Outside, the world was glowing, alive. Tiny brown sparrows and bluebirds danced on the breeze, fluttering near the ledge like old friends. Jeonghan smiled, his fingers glowing faintly as he raised a hand, releasing tendrils of blue and lavender light. The birds responded with happy trills, circling closer.

He laughed a soft, breathy sound of joy. He had never felt this kind of happiness before.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” came Seungcheol’s voice behind him, low and warm.

Jeonghan turned, a little startled. “You’re awake.”

“The brown ones,” Seungcheol said, stepping closer, “are sparrows. The blue ones are bluebirds. They visit the window most mornings, especially when it’s warm like today.”

Jeonghan blinked. “Birds?” The word tasted new.

Seungcheol chuckled, “They’re tiny creatures with wings, full of life and song. Most fly freely, some migrate with the seasons. Some people say bluebirds bring happiness. Kind of like someone I know.”

Jeonghan tilted his head in curiosity. “Like me?”

Seungcheol’s smile softened as he looked at him. “Exactly like you.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, full of wonder.

“You knew my full name,” Seungcheol added gently, “Choi Seungcheol. That’s not something I tell people easily. So, what about you? What’s your full name?”

Jeonghan looked out the window again, light brushing his profile. “Just call me Jeonghan.”

“Jeonghan?” Seungcheol teased, resting his shoulder against the wall beside him.

Jeonghan nodded. “That’s all I’ve ever been.”

Seungcheol grinned. “Then I’ll call you Hannie. Jeonghan is beautiful,but Hannie feels like something only I get to say.”

Jeonghan turned toward him, cheeks pink. “I like it,” he murmured.

Seungcheol stretched, arms overhead. “Now, Hannie,” he said with playful seriousness, “since you’re on Earth, why don’t I show you more of it?”

Jeonghan’s eyes lit up instantly. “Really?” he said, bouncing slightly on his heels. “That sounds exciting!”

“You’re cuter than I expected,” Seungcheol said, reaching down to gently pinch Jeonghan’s nose.

Another flash of pink and red lit Jeonghan’s fingertips.

With a grin, Seungcheol took him to the bathroom again and patiently explained everything. The toothbrush, the face wash, the shampoo, the water temperature knob. Jeonghan listened intently, absorbing every word, nodding quietly.

“You’re really gentle,” Jeonghan said softly, towel in hand. “You make Earth easier to understand.”

“And you make it more beautiful,” Seungcheol said.

Afterward, they moved to Seungcheol’s closet. Seungcheol pulled out a pastel blue and lavender sweatshirt, soft blue pants, a light cardigan, and white sneakers.

“These match your energy,” he said, holding the pieces up. “Like morning skies and angel wings.”

Jeonghan held the clothes against himself, surprised. “You already know me so well.”

Seungcheol offered a crooked smile. “For the fallen angel, only the best.”

“I’ll change,” Jeonghan said shyly.

“I’ll use the spare bathroom,” Seungcheol replied, slipping out.

Forty minutes later, they emerged from their rooms.

Jeonghan wore everything Seungcheol had chosen. His skin glowed softly, hair dry and golden, cheeks brushed with the barest tint of blush from the morning air. The cardigan hung loosely, sleeves too long, making him look even more delicate. Like he had stepped out of a dream.

Seungcheol, dressed in black jeans, a white shirt and a black jacket, adjusting his watch, turned and froze.

His heart stumbled.

Jeonghan stood like a vision—soft, luminous, fragile in the way sunlight filters through petals. His eyes were star pools, his hair cascading like spun silk. The pastel hues made him glow brighter, and for a moment, Seungcheol forgot to breathe.

“You look beautiful, Hannie,” Seungcheol managed, voice quiet.

Jeonghan blinked. “What?”

Seungcheol stepped closer, gaze reverent. “You look like… if dawn had a heartbeat. If kindness could take a form. Like something Earth was lucky to borrow.”

The glow in Jeonghan’s fingers returned, brighter now. He pressed them to his chest where his heart thumped loudly.

“…Thank you,” he whispered.

Seungcheol was still lost in him.

“Shall we go outside?” Jeonghan asked, breaking the trance.

“Wait,” Seungcheol said, walking back toward his room. He returned with two pale hair ties.

“I knew it,” Jeonghan teased. “You’re going to do something to my hair again.”

Seungcheol grinned, gesturing for him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Just trust me.”

He gently separated the golden strands, twisting them into two soft space buns, delicate and light. When he finished, he stepped back and admired his work.

“You look like the prettiest being on Earth,” he said softly.

Jeonghan looked at himself in the mirror—hair tied, face glowing. He didn’t feel like a being meant to disappear. He felt seen. Held.

And Seungcheol though human had already made a home in his heart.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, watched the man who wasn’t supposed to belong here yet fit better than anything he’d ever known. He wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in his throat.

And so, with hands brushing briefly and hearts a little too loud, they stepped out into the morning together.

Jeonghan’s first day on Earth had begun—and so had their story.

The day outside was gentle. Clouds swirled like spilled milk across a baby-blue sky, and sunlight slipped through the streets in golden threads. Seungcheol walked beside Jeonghan, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other brushing against Jeonghan’s knuckles whenever they got too close.

Jeonghan, however, didn’t seem to notice the accidental touches. His eyes were everywhere, wide and full of wonder.

They stopped first at a quiet bookstore tucked beneath a flowering tree. The scent of old pages and morning blooms greeted them.

“This place,” Jeonghan said, stepping in like he was entering a sanctuary, “feels like memory… before memory begins.”

Seungcheol smiled. “You talk like poetry.”

“I don’t mean to,” Jeonghan whispered. “It’s just how the world feels in me.”

He ran his fingers along the spines of books as if reading them through touch. Seungcheol watched him with a softness he wasn’t sure he could ever name. He had brought people here before but no one had ever looked at his favorite shelves like they were sacred.

Jeonghan picked up a worn volume of mythology. “This one smells like firelight,” he murmured.

“It’s yours,” Seungcheol said without hesitation, already making his way to the counter.

Jeonghan looked startled. “You’re giving it to me?”

“It feels like it was waiting for you,” Seungcheol said simply.

Next was the flower market, where colors bloomed louder than voices. Rows of tulips and daisies spilled like laughter from crates. Jeonghan stood in the middle of it all, head tilted back, eyes closed.

“This place,” he said, arms slightly outstretched, “is a constellation made of petals.”

“You’re really something else,” Seungcheol breathed out, not even realizing he’d said it aloud.

Jeonghan opened his eyes and turned to him. “You think so?”

Seungcheol cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I know so.”

They stopped by a stall of pressed flowers. Jeonghan ran his fingers over a glass frame holding a violet, “This one feels… like a quiet goodbye.”

“Do you always feel things this deeply?” Seungcheol asked.

Jeonghan looked up at him. “Only here. Only with you.”

The words sat between them like something fragile and glowing.

Later, at a riverside café, they sat by the window. Jeonghan pressed his fingers against the glass, watching pigeons gather where the sunlight warmed the stones.

“They look so… loyal,” he said, eyes soft. “Like they know how to stay.”

“Most people think they’re annoying,” Seungcheol chuckled, sipping his coffee.

“Then most people don’t know how to see,” Jeonghan replied, glancing back at him.

Seungcheol stilled.

Their drinks and tart came soft latte for Jeonghan, strawberry iced tea for Seungcheol. Jeonghan took one curious sip and lit up.

“This… this tastes like a storm disguised as comfort.” Jeonghan said.

“You’re serious?” Seungcheol asked, laughing.

Jeonghan’s cheeks flushed. “Should I stop saying things like that?”

“No,” Seungcheol said quickly. “Don’t ever stop.”

He watched Jeonghan study the foam in his cup, tilt it toward the light, compare the swirl to galaxies.

“You make everything feel new,” Seungcheol said quietly. “Like I’ve been walking through the world with my eyes closed.”

Jeonghan blinked at him. “Then let me keep showing you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it pulsed with something neither of them could name yet.

Still in the café, Seungcheol ducked into a nearby shop for a while. When he came back, he had something small in his hand.

“For you,” he said, gently reaching for Jeonghan’s hair.

It was a star-shaped hairclip, iridescent, catching the afternoon light.

“To remind you where you came from,” Seungcheol murmured as he slid it carefully into place.

Jeonghan touched the clip with two fingers, eyes suddenly glassy. “You keep giving me things,” he said. “Books. Names. Stars.”

“I just…” Seungcheol paused. “I want to give you something that stays.”

Jeonghan’s voice was barely a breath. “Even if I don’t?”

The question broke something in Seungcheol. He reached out, resting a hand just over Jeonghan’s—close and just holding his pinky.

“I don’t care what you are, Hannie,” he said softly. “You’re here. And that’s enough.”

Jeonghan looked down at their hands. The red and pink glow flickered again, warm and pulsing between their fingers.

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t move away either.

They sat like that for a long moment—between love and fear, between stars and soil watching pigeons, sipping warm coffee, letting the day stretch slowly around them like a promise.

They were mid-bite into a strawberry tart when the air suddenly shifted.

“—AND I SWEAR, IT WASN’T EVEN A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR, IT WAS JUST—”

“God, save me,” came a dry voice, followed by the sound of a hand slapping over a mouth.

Jeonghan flinched at the sudden burst of noise. His fork clinked lightly on his plate. He looked up, startled and instantly hid behind Seungcheol, who rose just as instinctively. In a soft, protective motion, Seungcheol turned to shield Jeonghan, their hands finding each other halfway his palm warm and firm, fingers gently interlocking with Jeonghan’s in a quiet reassurance.

“I’m here,” Seungcheol whispered, just for him. Jeonghan squeezed back.

Standing a few feet away were two tall figuresone looking exasperated, the other completely unbothered.

“Mingyu, for the love of god,” Wonwoo muttered, still trying to clamp a hand over Mingyu’s mouth.

But Mingyu dramatically yanked Wonwoo’s hand away. “You can’t silence art! You can’t silence beauty! That mirror had no business looking like—wait… is that—?”

His voice dropped for the first time in minutes.

Because he’d finally noticed Seungcheol… and someone else—half-hidden behind him, peeking out like a startled forest spirit.

Wonwoo tilted his head, brows slightly lifted. “You made a friend?”

“A shy one,” Mingyu added, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Seungcheol gave a breathy laugh. “Now you both notice me?”

“Well, to be fair, you were eclipsed by this guy’s retelling of his beauty mirror saga,” Wonwoo deadpanned.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes. “Typical. Mingyu causes the chaos, and you get dragged in like a poetic hostage.”

“I like chaos,” Mingyu said, grinning. “It builds character.”

“No,” Wonwoo said flatly. “It builds migraines.”

The three shared a laugh—but Jeonghan still stayed close behind, his grip on Seungcheol’s hand firm and childlike.

Seungcheol finally turned to him gently. “Hannie,” he said, voice softer now. “These are my friends—Mingyu and Wonwoo.”

Jeonghan peeked up with cautious eyes.

Mingyu waved enthusiastically. “Hi! I like your hair. And your sweater. And your face. And your aura. Are you like, human? Or made out of moonlight?”

“Mingyu,” Wonwoo hissed. “Slow down. He’s not a quiz.”

“I’m just saying hi!” Mingyu protested.

Jeonghan blinked. “I… I don’t know how to answer all that.”

“It’s okay,” Seungcheol said quickly, turning toward them. “Hannie’s… still learning things. The world’s new to him.”

“Ohhh,” Mingyu said, visibly excited by the idea. “So you’re like a… dreamy little alien prince.”

“Please stop assigning him entire fantasy backstories,” Wonwoo sighed.

Seungcheol let out a warm chuckle. “Trust me, Mingyu will give you an autobiography before lunch is over.”

Mingyu grinned. “Wouldn’t you want to know about your first day on Earth from me?”

“I think… I’d prefer to hear it from Seungcheol,” Jeonghan said softly, surprising them all.

There was a pause. Then a soft smile tugged at Wonwoo’s lips.

Mingyu, meanwhile, pointed at their joined hands. “Okay, but like… what is this? You two look like you stepped out of a fairytale.”

Jeonghan turned to Seungcheol. His voice, when it came, was like falling snow. “Maybe we are.”

Seungcheol looked at him like he might dissolve if he blinked. “Definitely feels that way.”

Mingyu placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “I’m going to cry. This is love. This is what love looks like.”

“Love,” Wonwoo muttered, sipping his drink, “looks like Mingyu finishing one sentence without spiraling.”

“Hey!” Mingyu shoved him lightly, grinning.

Jeonghan giggled his first real laugh since they left the apartment. It was airy and soft, like music playing in a sunbeam.

Seungcheol turned his head to look at him, stunned. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”

“I think…” Jeonghan looked at all of them. “It’s the first time I’ve wanted to.”

Wonwoo smiled faintly. Mingyu beamed like he’d just won a prize.

“Well then,” Mingyu said. “Welcome to Earth, Hannie. You’ve got snacks, sunshine, and me.”

“Don’t scare him,” Wonwoo said.

“I’m not scary,” Mingyu protested, turning back to Jeonghan. “Right?”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “You feel like… lightning trapped in a bottle.”

Mingyu blinked. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

As the four of them settled down again, Jeonghan found his place beside Seungcheol—still holding his hand, still watching the world unfold like petals. It was loud, and messy, and imperfect.

But it was beautiful.

And maybe, just maybe, this place could feel like home.

“Gonna grab something from nearby shop,” Seungcheol said, standing up and stretching.

“Yeah! Me too. I saw these ridiculous pink roses earlier from a flower shop and they screamed Wonwoo,” Mingyu beamed.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. “Roses scream?”

“Only the loud ones,” Mingyu grinned, dragging Seungcheol by the wrist as they headed off.

Their laughter echoed behind, and silence settled at the table.

Jeonghan’s fingers played with the corner of his sleeve. Wonwoo sipped his tea, waiting, his gaze gentle and expectant.

“You don’t talk much,” Jeonghan murmured.

“I do when it matters,” Wonwoo said simply. “And right now, you look like there’s something in your chest trying to be heard.”

Jeonghan blinked. Then he spoke, voice soft as starlight.

“I’m not… human.”

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, but didn’t flinch. “Okay.”

Jeonghan let out a slow breath, surprised. “That’s it? Just… okay?”

“You glow in moonlight, speak in metaphors, and see galaxies in café foam. I kind of guessed.” Wonwoo said.

A laugh bubbled up in Jeonghan’s throat, unexpected and light. “I’m a celestial being. A… watcher, really. I was never meant to touch the earth. Just observe. Like a passing comet.”

He looked down. “But I… I fell.”

Wonwoo nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad place to fall, I’d say.”

Jeonghan’s smile faded, eyes dimming. “I can’t stay here long. When the sky calls me back, I have to go. And I—” he hesitated, then looked up. “I haven’t told Seungcheol. I’m scared. Scared I’ll disappear, and he’ll forget me. Or worse… remember me.”

Wonwoo watched him quietly, fingers wrapped around his mug. “Mingyu’s the sun in my storm. He burns loud, constantly. But he’s also the only one who knows how to pull me back when I drift too far.”

Jeonghan listened closely.

“I used to be terrified of him,” Wonwoo admitted. “Of how much I loved him. But then I realized… love doesn’t demand time. It just is. It’s like gravity. It doesn’t care if you’re falling for a second or a century.”

Jeonghan blinked.

“So, tell him. Before time runs out. Because you, of all people, should know love doesn’t end. It echoes in every corner of the universe.”

Jeonghan’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “Thank you.”

Just then, the duo returned.

Mingyu strutted forward with exaggerated flair. “Wonwoo-ssi~” he called, holding up a bright pink rose. “For you, a flower almost as dramatic as my love.”

Wonwoo rolled his eyes but his lips twitched upward. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m irresistible,” Mingyu corrected, leaning down.

Wonwoo leaned up slightly and they kissed, soft and familiar. Mingyu’s hands cradled Wonwoo’s jaw like he was something precious.

From behind them, Seungcheol and Jeonghan both watched frozen, breath held.

Seungcheol’s cheeks went red. Jeonghan just… smiled. So this was love on Earth.

“Okay, okay,” Mingyu clapped. “Enough PDA, let’s share the wealth.”

He pushed Seungcheol forward, snickering. “Give him the thing!”

Seungcheol looked flustered, pulling a small plushie from the paper bag. It was an angel—with a soft glow and outstretched wings.

“I… saw this and thought of you,” Seungcheol mumbled, handing it over. “For, um. Obvious reasons.”

Jeonghan took it carefully, like it was something sacred. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

The group chatted for a bit longer, laughter circling them like fireflies. Eventually, Mingyu and Wonwoo stood.

“Time to bounce,” Mingyu announced. “We have a movie marathon and snacks waiting.”

Wonwoo paused by Jeonghan, and bent slightly. “Don’t be late for your love,” he whispered, then gave a knowing smile before walking off.

The silence returned but now it was gentle.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol strolled down the riverside path until they found a bench beneath a tree, the sky melting into dusk. The city lights shimmered in the water like stars fallen just to greet them.

Jeonghan sat close, head resting lightly on Seungcheol’s shoulder. “This was the best day I’ve had on Earth.”

Seungcheol’s voice was a low hum. “Me too.”

A pause. Then Jeonghan looked up, eyes wide and sincere. “Do humans always carry so much beauty without realizing it?”

Seungcheol turned to him, smiling softly. “I think it takes someone like you to make us see it.”

Jeonghan’s fingers found his again. “This day feels like a memory I’ll keep for a thousand years.”

Without a word, Seungcheol pulled him closer, arms wrapping protectively around his frame. And then Jeonghan whispered:

“If I can’t stay here… would you still remember me?”

Seungcheol didn’t hesitate.

“If the sky took you back, I’d talk to the stars every night until they brought you home again.”

Jeonghan didn’t speak. He just smiled—and for a moment, his skin glowed, faint and silver, like moonlight poured into flesh.

He was becoming something new.

Not just a watcher.

He was someone who had loved.

And been loved in return.

Seungcheol stood up, stretching slightly. “It’s dark. Let’s head home.”

Jeonghan groaned. “Don’t want to.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. “Hannie.”

Jeonghan dramatically sprawled across the bench, both arms and legs out. “I am a dying star. Carry me.”

Seungcheol laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Jeonghan said, already clinging like a koala.

“I do,” Seungcheol murmured, crouching so Jeonghan could wrap around his back.

With surprising ease, Seungcheol hoisted him up and began walking—Jeonghan’s arms around his shoulders, chin resting on his shoulder, heart steady against his back.

They moved through the dim streets, star.

It had been ten days since Jeonghan fell from the stars.

Ten days of no meteor storm.Ten days of no sign from the sky. Ten days of quietly, unexpectedly building a home inside the four walls of Choi Seungcheol’s apartment.

And neither of them seemed in a rush to change that.

Mornings began with Jeonghan humming celestial melodies in the kitchen, barefoot and loose-haired, spinning slowly on the tiled floor while waiting for the kettle to boil. His voice carried like wind through stardust—light, soft, unknowable.

Seungcheol usually leaned against the doorframe, watching him.

“Is that a song from your planet?” he asked one morning, arms folded.

Jeonghan tilted his head. “Mm. It’s the kind of tune you hear when comets pass by sleeping galaxies.”

Seungcheol chuckled, “Right. Casual Wednesday music.”

Sometimes they’d cook breakfast together—mismatched and fumbling. Seungcheol was all routine and quiet focus; Jeonghan was chaos in a sweater, almost slicing bananas with the blunt end of a knife once. But the eggs always ended up fluffy, and the toast never burned. So they called that success.

That night, while making dinner, Seungcheol pointed at the salt without a word. Jeonghan, instead of handing it to him, brought the entire salt jar over, holding it out like it was precious treasure.

“They look like moon crystals,” he whispered.

Seungcheol raised a brow. “They’re literally salt.”

“You earthlings are so unimaginative,” Jeonghan huffed, tapping the jar against Seungcheol’s chest.

Seungcheol grinned. “Moon crystals, huh? Next time I sneeze, I’ll know a galaxy cursed me.”

Jeonghan lightly hit his arm with a wooden spoon, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

At dinner, Jeonghan took the first bite and closed his eyes, humming again.

“This tastes like dawn melted on my tongue,” he said softly. Jeonghan said.

Seungcheol laughed, leaning over to wipe a streak of sauce from Jeonghan’s cheek, then gently brushing a bit from the corner of his lips.

Jeonghan blinked. “Your fingers are warm.”

Seungcheol paused, hand lingering. “Your skin’s always cold. Like a fallen snowflake.”

They laughed quietly, not saying what hung between them.

After cleaning up, Seungcheol brought a bowl of cherries to the bed.

“I read somewhere sweet things bring good dreams,” Seungcheol said, sitting cross-legged. “Plus, I just really like cherries.”

Jeonghan popped one into his mouth, thoughtful. “Choi Seungcheol,” he murmured slowly, almost to himself. “Seungcheol. Cheol. Che… cherry?”

Seungcheol looked confused.

Jeonghan smiled and looked at him. “You’re my cherry daddu.”

“What?” Seungcheol blinked. “Me?”

“Mm.” Jeonghan nodded, serious. “Daddu. Like… warm and red and lucky. Just like these.”

Seungcheol tried not to laugh. “That’s not how names work, Hannie.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan said triumphantly, “You call me Hannie instead of Jeonghan. So now, I call you Daddu instead of Seungcheol. Fair, no?”

Seungcheol stared at him, heart tugging strangely in his chest.

“Hannie,” he murmured, his voice softer. “You’re… impossible.”

And then, without meaning to, without thinking twice, he pulled Jeonghan into a hug.Jeonghan fit easily against him, head resting over Seungcheol’s heart.

“I don’t know what these past ten days have been,” Seungcheol whispered, “But I know I’ll miss them if they ever end.”

Something shimmered around them.A soft burst of hues—pink, lavender, red, blue. Like the universe had leaned down to peek inside and sighed with joy.It glowed from Jeonghan’s skin. From his being. From the space between their closeness.

Jeonghan knew, in that moment, that he loved Seungcheol.

That Seungcheol loved him back.

That this was not a mistake—not a passing curiosity—but something deep and irrevocable.

But.

He was not human. And love, while eternal in the stars, was cruelly timed on Earth.He thought back to what Wonwoo told him that day.

“Don’t fear love. It already lives in you. If you’re made of stars, then you already know… it was never meant to be small.”

Jeonghan let his fingers curl slightly, gripping the back of Seungcheol’s shirt.

He whispered, “Daddu…”

“Hm?” Seungcheol humed.

“Is it okay to love someone, even if you might not be able to stay?” Jeonghan asked in a soft voice.

Seungcheol didn’t answer. But his arms tightened around Jeonghan’s body. And that—more than any word—was answer enough for now.

Jeonghan closed his eyes.

Two more days, he thought.

In two more days, I’ll tell you everything.

It was the second night.

The world was quiet. The sky above, loud with stars.

They lay side by side on the rooftop, wrapped in thick blankets Seungcheol brought up from his bedroom. Two mugs of warm coffee sat between them, steam curling like whispers into the midnight air. Jeonghan’s head rested lightly on Seungcheol’s arm, his long lashes fluttering each time a breeze kissed his face.

“I used to want to be an astronaut,” Seungcheol said quietly, his eyes tracing constellations. “When I was little, I thought the stars could hear us. That they were listening. That if I wished hard enough, they’d answer.”

Jeonghan turned slightly, gaze curious.

Seungcheol smiled faintly. “Then I grew up. The world got heavier. I stopped believing in that kind of magic. But… you…” He paused, voice lowering like a secret. “Sometimes you make me believe again.”

Jeonghan shifted closer until the length of their bodies brushed side by side. He laid his head more fully on Seungcheol’s arm and whispered, “I think the stars heard you. That’s why I’m here.”

Seungcheol’s chest ached at the gentleness of it. The truth in it. He turned his head and watched Jeonghan trace the stars above them—first with his finger in the sky, then slowly, unconsciously, on Seungcheol’s arm. Little loops, soft spirals, connecting invisible dots like constellations only he could see.

He didn’t want to break the moment. But he couldn’t stop the words rising.

“You know…” Seungcheol’s voice dropped lower. “Some people spend their whole lives looking for something that feels like home. Some find it in places. Some in people. Some never at all.”

He paused. Jeonghan looked up at him, luminous.

“And sometimes,” Seungcheol continued, “you find it in someone who doesn’t even belong to this world—but somehow… still feels like yours.”

Before Jeonghan could respond, a soft sound kissed the air: rain.

Not loud. Just a gentle tapping at first. Then all at once, faster.

Jeonghan sat up, blinking at the sky. “What’s falling?”

Seungcheol followed his gaze, eyes laughing. “Rain.”

“Rain?,” Jeonghan echoed, tasting the word.

“It’s what happens when clouds get full,” Seungcheol explained gently. “The sky gets heavy, and it cries a little. But not always in sadness. Sometimes… rain is just the earth’s way of breathing. It feeds the ground. Makes flowers grow.”

Jeonghan’s eyes widened with wonder. “We have something like that too. Celestial showers. They fall like light, not water. They sing.”

By now, the rooftop had darkened with the downpour. Seungcheol tugged at Jeonghan’s wrist. “Come on. Let’s go inside before we melt.”

Back in the bedroom, they sat on the bed, side by side. The window was cracked open just enough to hear the gentle drumming of the rain. Jeonghan’s hair was damp, curling at the ends.

Suddenly, a sharp thunderclap cracked through the sky.

Jeonghan flinched hard, eyes wide. “Is the world breaking?” he whispered.

Seungcheol blinked, then softly laughed. “No, Hannie. It’s thunder. Happens during storms. It’s just the sky making noise.”

Jeonghan looked visibly shaken. “It sounds like something dying.”

Without a word, Seungcheol reached for him. He wrapped the thickest blanket around both their shoulders and pulled Jeonghan into him—arms tight, chin resting gently atop his head. They sat like that, warm and trembling slightly, as thunder grumbled again outside.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Seungcheol murmured. “You have me.”

Jeonghan’s voice cracked, barely audible. “Without you… I’m not meant to last.”

His glow was dimmer now—soft and faded at the edges like a candle flickering before dawn. Seungcheol noticed, and it scared him.

He pulled back slightly, cupping Jeonghan’s face. His eyes searched his features—those soft cheekbones, lashes tipped with gold, lips parted as if always halfway to a question.

“You’re beautiful,” Seungcheol said softly. “You know that? Like… not just how you look. But the way you feel. Like touching something too delicate for this world.”

Jeonghan looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he traced a small star on Seungcheol’s chest with his fingertip.

“I was made of galaxies,” Jeonghan said slowly, “but you made me feel like I could belong to one heart.”

Seungcheol leaned in until their foreheads touched, breath brushing breath.

“I don’t care that you’re not human,” he whispered. “You laugh, you sing, you love like one. And I’ve fallen for every part of you, Hannie. Your light. Your loneliness. Your quiet wonder. I love you.”

Jeonghan exhaled shakily. “I love you too, Daddu.”

And then—they kissed.

It started tender. A hesitant brush, like the first kiss of starlight on a sleeping sea. Then deeper. Slow and aching. Seungcheol cupped Jeonghan’s glowing face, thumbs gently smoothing the curve of his cheeks, and Jeonghan leaned in like he was anchoring himself to this world—this warmth.

His glow burst like a star behind closed eyes brilliant and full.

And even when their lips parted, it lingered.

Jeonghan’s hands trembled slightly against Seungcheol’s collar as if holding onto the moment.

Seungcheol leaned forward again, resting their foreheads together. He whispered, “If you’re fading, then let me be your gravity.”

Jeonghan smiled. “Then I’ll be your sky.”

They didn’t speak for a while. Instead, they curled into each other on the bed—limbs entangled beneath the blankets, Jeonghan’s soft hums returning like a lullaby written for this moment alone.

Outside, the rain still fell. But inside, two souls lay glowing in the hush of a shared universe.

The twentieth morning felt too still.

Jeonghan stirred before the sun. The world outside remained velvet-dark, stars blinking as if in hesitation. His hands—once shimmering with stardustnow seemed pale, less celestial. The constellation threading across his shoulder flickered like a dying ember.

He didn’t tell Seungcheol.

He never really did.

Instead, he curled into the warmth of the man beside him, letting fingers tangle in dark hair, pressing his nose to Seungcheol’s neck and pretending his heart wasn’t slowly breaking.

Later, Seungcheol stood behind him as Jeonghan brushed his teeth. “You okay, baby?” he asked, voice tender.

“I’m fine,” Jeonghan lied again, smile weak. “Just sleepy.”

But Seungcheol’s gaze lingered longer today.

Their morning unfolded like it always did—domestic, quiet, impossibly intimate. Seungcheol knelt to help wash Jeonghan’s hair in the tub, his hands gentle through the silk of it. Jeonghan leaned back, eyes closed, letting the comfort seep in like second skin.

Later, Seungcheol dried it with a towel, ruffling the ends. “You’re like a cat,” he teased.

“A celestial cat,” Jeonghan mumbled, smiling.

They cooked together—Seungcheol flipping pancakes, Jeonghan slicing strawberries and sneaking some into Seungcheol’s mouth. A kiss, short and syrupy, followed.

But something hovered.

Something heavy.

And Jeonghan knew what it was.

When the knock came, it was like fate interrupting comfort. Mingyu’s head poked in. “We brought fresh bread,” he grinned. Wonwoo followed with a shy smile and a basket of laundry.

As Seungcheol and Mingyu busied themselves in the kitchen, Jeonghan and Wonwoo sat by the folded sheets. Jeonghan hummed absently as he rolled socks together.

“Did you confess?” Wonwoo asked quietly.

Jeonghan nodded. “A week ago. In the bedroom . During the rain.”

“And?” Wonwoo asked.

“He said he’d love me even if I wasn’t from this world.” Jeonghan paused, then lifted his hand. His skin was flickering again, transparent around the knuckles. “But I’m slipping. Today feels different, Woo. Like the stars are calling me back.”

Wonwoo touched his hand gently. “Even if it’s goodbye… some love never dies.”

“But I wanted this one to last,” Jeonghan whispered. “He’s my soulmate. He’s the reason I discovered the pink light. The red one too.”

Wonwoo noticed Jeonghan’s tears were glistening, moonlike, like glitter had fallen from the edges of his eyes. He wiped them gently.

“Get dressed,” Wonwoo said, softly. “Come eat. He’s waiting.”

Jeonghan smiled weakly and nodded.

When he stepped out of the bedroom, Seungcheol was waiting with a lavender sweatshirt.

“Mine,” Seungcheol said, holding it out. “It’ll look better on you.”

“It smells like you,” Jeonghan teased, pulling it on.

Mingyu whistled low. “You’re glowing, Hannie.”

“I’m more grounded now,” Jeonghan answered with a faint smile.

Wonwoo watched him, silent, but said nothing.

Breakfast passed with laughter and easy comfort. Seungcheol held Jeonghan’s hand beneath the table. At one point, Mingyu quipped about Seungcheol being “possessive,” and Jeonghan giggled as Seungcheol wrapped an arm around his shoulder and declared, “Damn right. Mine.”

But by evening, the sky seemed to vibrate with something unspoken.

Dinner was eaten quietly. Jeonghan finished early, excused himself with a soft kiss to Seungcheol’s cheek, and whispered, “Bathroom.”

In the bedroom, he opened the drawers quietly. He packed the small things: the worn sketch Seungcheol had made of him, a plushy, their chopsticks, his clips, a pink ribbon. Things that reminded him of love.

He was zipping the little canvas bag shut when the door opened.

Seungcheol stepped in, eyes immediately locking on him.

“Something wrong, baby?” Seungcheol asked to Jeonghan.

Jeonghan stood still, heart caught in his throat. “I… feel less of myself tonight. Like I’m disappearing.”

Seungcheol crossed the room, cupped his cheeks, and said, with unwavering love:

“If you ever vanish… I’ll chase your light through every sky. I’ll find a way. Even if I have to hold hands with the stars and beg.”

That shattered Jeonghan’s composure.

He tilted his face into Seungcheol’s hands, their foreheads touching. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Seungcheol breathed.

Then he kissed him.

Slow. Full of tremble and longing.

Their mouths fit like memory—lips soft and lingering, brushing again and again. Seungcheol kissed him like he was trying to memorize him. Like maybe the taste of him would stay even if everything else was stolen away. Jeonghan’s fingers curled around Seungcheol’s collar, breath hitched.

Their bodies leaned into one another. Seungcheol’s thumb brushed the edge of Jeonghan’s jaw. Jeonghan trembled, kissed back deeper, their noses brushing between kisses, tears falling between breaths.

When they parted, Seungcheol whispered against his lips: “I love you, Hannie.”

Jeonghan smiled, though his eyes were glassy. “I love you too,Daddu.”

They lay in bed after that, arms and legs tangled, chests rising together like the quiet tide. Seungcheol pressed kisses to Jeonghan’s shoulder until they both fell asleep.

Outside, in the hallway, Mingyu and Wonwoo slept side-by-side on the floor, backs to the door like quiet guardians.

But Jeonghan would not sleep for long.The stars had started calling.

It was nearly midnight when Jeonghan’s eyes fluttered open.

There was a sound—soft, like bells echoing through glass, a language only he could hear. It came not from the earth, but from far above. From home.

He turned toward the window, and his breath caught.

A meteor shower streaked across the black silk of the sky, thousands of burning fragments trailing stardust like falling wishes.

The portal was opening.

Jeonghan sat up in silence, careful not to wake Seungcheol curled beside him. His hand hovered for a moment above Seungcheol’s sleeping face, but didn’t touch. Instead, he reached under the bed and pulled out a canvas bag—tucked carefully with memories: the worn sketch Seungcheol had made of him, a plushy, their chopsticks, his clips, a pink ribbon. Things that reminded him of love.

He slipped out of the room.

In the hallway, the glow from the meteor shower filtered in through the open curtain. On the living room floor, Mingyu and Wonwoo lay tangled together on the futon—soft breaths rising and falling in sync, limbs strewn across each other like vines.

Jeonghan stopped. A small, quiet smile curved his lips.

Lifting one hand, he summoned a last ripple of blue and lavender light—gentle, like fog kissed by moonlight. It swirled around the two men like a protective aura, casting a serene shimmer.

He whispered, “Thank you.”

“To Wonwoo… for helping me see that my heart was allowed to hope.”

“And to Mingyu… you were the warmth I never expected. Even when you were loud.”

The light faded as he turned.

Barefoot, wearing Seungcheol’s oversized lavender sweatshirt, Jeonghan walked up the stairs—one slow step at a time, heart pulsing like a star about to collapse.

On the rooftop, he was met with silver light pouring down in columns. The sky had cracked like a mirror, and between the stars, the portal opened—a shimmering rift of cosmic breath.

Jeonghan stepped toward the edge.

The voice came, soft but commanding, from within the portal.

“Jeonghan. You’ve wandered long. It is time. Come home.”

Jeonghan’s chest heaved. His eyes filled with tears.

He turned his head, glancing over the city rooftops, back toward the apartment where his heartbeat lived.

“I’m sorry, Daddu…” he whispered into the wind.

Downstairs, Seungcheol stirred. The window was open, and moonlight fell in strange patterns. He blinked. A meteor.

His stomach dropped.

He turned toward Jeonghan. The bed was cold.

“No—no, no, no…” Seungcheol Murmured.

In a heartbeat, he was up—barefoot like Jeonghan, racing through the hallway. He nearly tripped over Mingyu and Wonwoo, jolting them awake.

“Jeonghan—he’s going. He’s—he’s leaving—!” Seungcheol said to himself half breathing running towards the rooftop.

Wonwoo’s eyes widened in horror. Mingyu was already moving.

They sprinted after him, the staircase echoing with footsteps and pounding hearts. Mingyu and Wonwoo reached the rooftop first, just ahead of Seungcheol. Wonwoo turned, catching Seungcheol’s arm.

“You have to let him go,” Wonwoo said, tears brimming. “He was never meant to be here.”

“No,” Seungcheol growled. “He chose to be.”

Mingyu held him back with all his strength, but Seungcheol tore from their grasp like lightning.

Jeonghan stood at the edge of the rooftop, the starlight cocooning him in lavender and blue.

He whispered, almost to himself, “Goodbye… to everything.”

He remembered: the way Seungcheol brushed his hair, the smell of his shirts, the way his voice cracked when he said I love you, the sweetness of cherries, the quiet nights on the floor where they just existed together.

Then, his body began to lift, gently, as if carried by starlight.

“DON’T GO!” Seungcheol screamed.

Jeonghan turned sharply—Seungcheol was there. Red-faced, breathless, eyes glistening.

The starlight pushed against Seungcheol, a barrier of cosmic energy.

He fought against it.

Mingyu and Wonwoo caught up and held him back, afraid he’d get burned—by stars, or grief, or both.

Seungcheol shouted, his voice breaking.

“You said you’d stay—Hannie! You promised!”

Jeonghan’s tears fell like crystal moons, glimmering in the light.

“I did. I meant it. But fate—” Jeonghan choked on his words, “fate is cruel.”

Seungcheol screamed, “Then defy it! “Screw the portal. Screw destiny. You don’t belong to the stars anymore. You belong here. With me.”

The voice from the portal returned—gentler now, but resolute.

“To remain means to forget. To be bound. You will no longer belong to the stars. You will lose your light. Your eternity. Your power.

You will be mortal. You will suffer. You will love.

You will fade.

Is that your wish, Jeonghan?”

A beat of silence.

Jeonghan looked at Seungcheol.

And then smiled.

“My galaxy gave me eternity,” he whispered. “But with Seungcheol… I found something real. I found a life worth living. A love worth becoming human for.”

The portal seemed to sigh.

“Then let the star meet his fated soul.”

A sudden glow burst from the sky pink and red, warm and blinding. It surrounded Jeonghan in ribbons of light that pulsed with heartbeats.

Seungcheol screamed again, “ JEONGHAN!!”

He reached for him. The light shimmered brighter.

Jeonghan’s body shivered mid-air.

His long golden hair bled slowly into black strands.

The constellation markings on his skin faded. The lavender and blue glow flickered out. His skin became warm, flushed—human.

The wind stilled.

Jeonghan gasped, suddenly heavy in the air.

Jeonghan fell from the sky like a wish.

He was different now—no longer cloaked in celestial blue, no longer glowing like moonlight. His hair, once honey-blonde like morning starlight, now shimmered a soft black under the falling meteor shower. His descent was slow at first, graceful, but something in the air shifted, and suddenly—too fast, too hard—

Seungcheol broke free.

He didn’t think—his legs just moved, powered by something more than instinct, more than love. He caught Jeonghan just before he hit the ground, his arms wrapping around the fainting figure like the earth itself was cradling its fallen star.

“Jeonghan,” Seungcheol breathed out, trembling. “No. No, no, no—please.”

Mingyu and Wonwoo ran toward him, helping him lift Jeonghan gently and guide the both of them back to the rooftop. Seungcheol knelt, pulling Jeonghan close, laying his head on his lap. His fingers patted Jeonghan’s cheeks with desperation, voice cracking as he pleaded, “Wake up, baby. Please, open your eyes.”

Mingyu knelt beside them, gripping Jeonghan’s hand. “His hands… they’re warm,” he murmured, almost disbelieving. “Like ours.”

Wonwoo’s gaze sharpened. He leaned in, eyes wide. “His hair. It changed—it’s black now.”

He pressed two fingers to Jeonghan’s wrist. For a breathless second, silence. Then—

“A pulse,” Wonwoo whispered. “He has a pulse.”

Mingyu pressed his ear to Jeonghan’s chest, and his eyes filled with light. “Cheol. His heart. It’s beating.” He looked up, a tear streaking down his cheek. “He’s human. He actually did it.”

Seungcheol’s own breath hitched. He bent forward, his ear brushing against Jeonghan’s chest, and there it was—rhythmic and real, like music. His eyes welled. He whispered, “You feel more human than anything I’ve ever touched.”

Then, slowly, like dawn breaking over a trembling sea, Jeonghan stirred.

His eyelids fluttered. His lashes trembled. His voice came soft, broken, full of wonder: “Did I… make it? Am I alive?”

Seungcheol sobbed out a breathless laugh, tears slipping down his cheeks. “You’re here,” he whispered, holding Jeonghan’s face between both hands. “You stayed.”

Jeonghan blinked up at him, smile barely there, exhausted but radiant. “I chose you,” he murmured, voice cracked. “I chose to stay… That’s why… I’m human now.”

Cradled in Seungcheol’s lap like something sacred, Jeonghan let his eyes drift closed again, not from pain, but comfort. Seungcheol brushed the now-black hair from Jeonghan’s face, letting his thumb graze his warm cheek.

“You’re not the sky anymore,” Seungcheol whispered, breath catching. “But you still shine.”

Jeonghan’s smile widened, watery and real. “And you’re the reason I ever learned how.”

Then, with trembling gentleness, Seungcheol leaned down, cupping Jeonghan’s cheeks. Their foreheads touched—breath to breath, heart to heart. And then their lips met.

The kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or frenzied. It was slow—sacred. Seungcheol kissed him like he’d waited an eternity for this exact moment. Like he was sealing something eternal between them, not in the sky, but here on earth. Jeonghan’s hands, weak but sure, curled into Seungcheol’s shirt, pulling him closer as though anchoring himself.

It was warm. Human. True.

As they kissed, stardust still shimmered behind them, faint and falling like the last whispers of the cosmos. And when they pulled away, barely, Jeonghan breathed:

“I gave up the stars… but I got the whole world in you.”

Seungcheol couldn’t speak—his throat too full, his heart too loud. He pulled Jeonghan close, tighter, wrapping him around himself like a second soul. His tears stained Jeonghan’s shoulder as he whispered, voice thick:

“I love you. I love you, Hannie. My star, my moon… my entire universe.”

Wonwoo and Mingyu stepped back, silently giving them the space they needed. Mingyu wiped at his eyes, sniffling. “I guess love really is gravity.”

Wonwoo, soft as ever, smiled faintly. “And he finally found where to land.”

The air was still now, the starlight fading gently. Jeonghan and Seungcheol remained tangled in one another, clinging like they might disappear. Then—

“That’s not fair,” Mingyu joked suddenly, voice cracking. “I wanted a falling-from-the-sky boyfriend too.”

Wonwoo elbowed him. “You have me. Calm down.”

They all laughed, the last trace of sorrow lifted into the night sky.

Seungcheol stood and hoisted Jeonghan up on his back, piggyback-style like a koala. Jeonghan weakly wrapped his arms around Seungcheol’s neck, his legs around his waist. “You’re not letting me walk?” he mumbled.

“Nope,” Seungcheol grinned. “I just caught a star. Gotta carry him home.”

They walked through the hallway—Mingyu and Wonwoo trailing behind. Jeonghan looked over Seungcheol’s shoulder, smiling warmly at the two.

“Thank you,” Jeonghan said softly.

Mingyu gave him a mock pout. “You’re welcome, but next time, try falling a little slower.”

Wonwoo chuckled, brushing his hair back. “Congratulations, both of you. What you have… it’s not just love. It’s light.”

Mingyu nudged him. “Stop being poetic. Let them go make out in peace.”

The four of them laughed again, a little louder this time, a little freer.

Mingyu and Wonwoo bid goodnight as Seungcheol carried Jeonghan back to their room.

Inside, everything was still—the bedsheets rumpled, the scent of lavender still lingering. Seungcheol gently lowered Jeonghan onto the bed, tucking him in like he was wrapping the last galaxy fragment in warmth.

Jeonghan’s voice, sleep-soft and innocent: “Daddu?”

Seungcheol chuckled, brushing hair from his forehead. “Yeah, Hannie?”

“Do you think I’ll dream like humans now?” Jeonghan asked curiously.

Seungcheol leaned in, kissing his forehead. “You’ll dream with me. Every night.”

He slid under the covers, pulling Jeonghan into him—arms tight around his waist, legs tangled like they’d never untangle again. Jeonghan’s face found the curve of Seungcheol’s neck, their breaths syncing.

“I love you,” Seungcheol whispered, pressing a kiss to Jeonghan’s temple. “I love you, Hannie. You’re not a star anymore… but you’re mine.”

Jeonghan’s fingers curled into Seungcheol’s shirt. “I love you too Daddu . Always.”

And just like that, beneath the same sky where stars once called his name, Jeonghan fell asleep not as light—but as love. In Seungcheol’s arms, heartbeat to heartbeat, soul to soul. The night wrapped around them. Safe. Quiet. Full of promise.

And they slept—together, at last.

The sky was empty, but the bed was full.

The stars could wait.

— the end.

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