Same Damn Time
Oneshot: Oh Young-il x F! Reader x Hwang In-Ho
Warnings: Age gap (legal age), P n V, unprotected sex, oral ( F and M receiving/giving), fingering, facial, sexual innuendos, Masturbation, language, Young-il and In-Ho are twins (won’t spoil it here on how lol!) anal sex, Creampie, cum eating, degradation kink, praise kink, hint of masochism and sadism, Soft dom! Oh Young-il, Dom! Hwang In-ho, Sub! Fem reader, Detailed writing of private parts and sex scenes, Pet names, teasing, squirting, polyandry, light angst, Inho is a fuck boy, fluff, voyeurism, safe words, facial, and some stuffs i forgot to put.
Author’s Note: I might split this fic into maybe 2-3 parts? It’s really long, And i’m afraid about tumblr’s text block as-well so… i’ll split it into couple of parts. Also, all the warnings are combined from the other parts.
Taglist: (Let me know if you want to be added)
The last box, labeled ‘Misc. – Do Not Open Without Wine’, sat defiantly in the middle of your living room floor. You glared at it, hands on your hips, as the late afternoon light bled through the single dusty window of your new apartment. The place was small, a studio just off campus, but you’d managed to make it feel like a refuge. Or you would, once you defeated this final cardboard foe.
The knock was so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it against the drone of your thoughts. You turned, wiping dusty hands on your jeans. Another knock, a little firmer this time.
You pulled the door open, and the world seemed to shrink to the space of your doorway.
He was older, maybe late forties, but he wore it in a way that felt solid, real. His hair was a dark, rich brown, and his eyes mirrored it—a deep, warm shade that held a gentle, assessing look. He wore a simple blue t-shirt that stretched just slightly across his shoulders and a pair of soft-looking gray sweatpants. He stood with an easy stillness you immediately envied.
“Hi,” he said, and his voice was a low, pleasant rumble. “I’m your neighbor. From next door.” He gestured vaguely to the left. “I heard… well, I heard the war you’re waging here. Sounded like you could use a spare soldier.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks.
The walls were that thin?
You’d been muttering curses at stubborn tape and humming off-key to keep your spirits up for the last three hours. The thought of him hearing it all made you want to melt into the floorboards.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, really,” you stammered, one hand coming up to nervously tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Just the last one. I’ve got it.”
He smiled, a slight, kind curve of his lips, and you felt something flutter low in your stomach. “I insist. Call it a neighborhood welcoming committee of one. I have a power drill that’s feeling neglected.”
Before you could muster another protest, he was stepping past you, his shoulder brushing yours in the narrow entryway. A clean, subtle scent of soap and something faintly woodsy followed him in.
God, he’s already inside.
He surveyed the room, his gaze taking in your half-built bookshelf, the mattress leaning against the wall, and the triumphant, solitary box. “Cabinet?” he asked, nodding toward the pile of flat-pack furniture.
“Y-yes,” you managed. “I got the screws in, but the backing…”
For the next hour, you moved in a quiet, efficient dance. He assembled the cabinet with a quiet competence that was mesmerizing. His hands were capable, his forearms corded with lean muscle that flexed as he tightened bolts. You found yourself handing him tools, pointing out where things should go, and slowly, the tension in your shoulders began to unknot.
He told dry, witty stories about the building’s eccentric landlord and the best cheap food places nearby.
You laughed, a real, unguarded sound that surprised you.
You looked at the way his hair fell just over his forehead when he bent down.
You looked at the strong line of his jaw, clean-shaven.
You looked at his eyes, which seemed to catch the light and hold it warmly whenever he glanced your way.
At one point, he reached for a screwdriver on a high shelf you couldn’t reach, and the hem of his shirt rode up, revealing a strip of toned stomach and the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his sweats. You looked away quickly, your own skin tingling.
The sight of him in your space, building your furniture, felt strangely, dangerously domestic. It was a glimpse of a life you hadn’t dared to picture yet—quiet evenings, shared chores, the comfortable presence of another person who simply… fit. It was a life you wanted, someday. The sudden, sharp clarity of that want stole your breath.
Finally, the last shelf was secured. Your little apartment was transformed from a storage unit into something resembling a home. He wiped his hands on a rag you offered, his movements slow and deliberate.
“There,” he said, surveying their work. “Now it’s yours.”
“Thank you,” you said, and the words felt inadequate. “Really. You didn’t have to do all that.”
He turned those warm brown eyes on you fully, and you felt pinned by his attention. “It was my pleasure.” He took a step toward the door, then paused. “If you need anything else… a lightbulb changed, a jar opened, a rogue bookshelf to subdue… my door is right there.” He nodded toward the shared wall. “Don’t hesitate.”
“I won’t,” you whispered.
He smiled again, that same gentle curve, but this time his eyes seemed to linger on your face, tracing your features. “Good.”
He stepped out into the hall, and you followed, leaning against your doorframe. He turned back, just a few feet away. The hallway was dim, intimate.
“Get some rest,” he said, his voice dropping to something just above a murmur.
It was a tone that felt like a secret, meant only for you in the quiet of the evening.
And then he was gone, his door clicking shut softly behind him.
You stood there for a long moment, the cool of the doorframe seeping into your back.
You could still smell his scent in your apartment.
You could still see the image of him, shirt riding up, muscles working.
You could still hear that low, rumbling chuckle.
You closed your door, the lock engaging with a soft, final click. The silence of your new home was profound. You walked over to the newly assembled cabinet and ran your fingers along its smooth edge, the wood still smelling faintly of the factory.
Whenever you need anything.
The promise hung in the air, thick with possibility. Your mind, unbidden, raced ahead. A late-night knock. Him, standing there in the low light.
A recommendation for a movie.
Someone to talk to when the silence got too loud.
Or something else entirely.
You pressed your thighs together, a sudden, shocking pulse of heat making you gasp softly.
Just neighborly kindness.
But your body was humming a different, more insistent tune.
The memory of his eyes on you, the imagined weight of his hands—not on a screwdriver, but on your skin—sent another tremor through you.
You were playing with fire, and you hadn’t even struck a match yet. But as you looked at the wall you now shared with him, you knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that you wanted to feel the burn.
The morning sun was too bright, slicing through the thin blinds and landing directly on your face. You groaned, rolling over, the memory of the previous day settling over you like a warm blanket. The cabinet stood solid and real against the wall.
And you didn’t even know his name.
The realization was a splash of cold water. He’d helped you for over an hour, shared jokes, made your stomach flutter, and you’d never asked. You’d been too busy getting lost in the deep brown of his eyes, the gentle strength in his hands. A hot wave of embarrassment washed over you. You had to fix it.
You needed groceries anyway. The fridge was empty save for a single, sad-looking yogurt. This was the perfect excuse. A polite thank you, a casual name exchange. You rehearsed it in the shower, under the spray of lukewarm water.
Dressed in clean jeans and a simple t-shirt, you stood in front of his door, your heart doing a strange, syncopated rhythm against your ribs. You knocked, the sound soft and tentative.
The door swung open much faster than you expected.
And there he was. But also… wasn’t.
He looked like he’d just woken up. His dark hair was tousled, soft and appealing. He wore a simple black tank top that showed off the defined cut of his shoulders and arms, and a pair of loose-fitting shorts.
It was him, but the energy was different.
The gentle, steady warmth from yesterday was replaced by something sharper, more alert. His eyes, the same rich brown, held a glint you hadn’t seen before.
“Hi,” you said, your rehearsed speech faltering. “Good morning. I just… I wanted to thank you again for yesterday. And, um, I realized I never actually got your name. I’m so sorry.”
For a moment, he just looked at you.
A flicker of confusion passed over his features, so quick you almost missed it.Then, his lips curved into a smirk. It was small, knowing, and it did something dangerous to your knees. “Oh. Right. Yesterday.” His voice was similar, but the cadence was slightly quicker, the tone a shade lighter. “No need to apologize. It’s fine. I’m Young-il. Oh Young-il.”
Relief flooded you, followed by a prickling awareness. His gaze felt more direct. It dropped to your lips for a heartbeat, then snapped back up to meet your eyes before you could even process it. It happened again when you asked for directions to the nearest grocery store—a brief, burning glance at your mouth, then a return to eye contact that felt intensely focused.
“The market? It’s a bit of a maze if you don’t know the back streets,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. The movement made the muscles in his arm shift. “I need a few things myself. I’ll walk you.”
“I insist.” He smiled, and this one was different from yesterday’s gentle curve. This was a flash of white teeth, charming and disarming. “Consider it part of the full neighborly service package.”
The walk was different, too. The man—Young-il—walked with a looser, more casual stride. He pointed out shortcuts through alleyways you’d never dare take alone, his anecdotes about the neighborhood were edgier, funnier in a dry, sarcastic way. He asked you more questions—about your major, why you chose this part of the city, what you liked to do for fun. His attention was like a physical touch, warm and slightly overwhelming.
At the store, you tried to focus on your list. Bread, eggs, coffee. But you were acutely aware of him a few aisles over, the way he’d occasionally reappear by your side to drop a comment about a brand or point out a good deal. Every time he got close, you caught that same clean, woodsy scent, but underneath it was something else—the crisp smell of morning and cotton.
When you finally brought your basket to the register, he was right behind you with just a bottle of juice and a bag of rice. As the cashier began scanning your items, his hand shot out, a card already in his grip.
“I’ve got this,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“It’s a welcome gift,” he interrupted, sliding his card through the reader. He turned his head toward you and winked. “For my new neighbor.”
The gesture was so sudden, so unexpectedly playful, that your breath caught. You managed a weak protest, but the transaction was already finished. He gathered both bags easily, one in each hand, and nodded toward the exit. “Shall we?”
The walk back was quieter. You were hyper-aware of the weight of his kindness, the strange, charged energy radiating from him.
This is just a nice guy, you told yourself.
A very, very attractive nice guy who paid for your groceries and keeps looking at your lips.
At your building, you stopped in front of your door, fumbling for your keys. “Thank you,” you said again, feeling stupidly repetitive. “For walking me, and for… everything. Really.”
He handed you your bag, his fingers brushing against yours. A jolt, sharp and sweet, shot up your arm. “My pleasure.” He held onto his bag, shifting his weight. His eyes scanned your face, lingering. “You know where I am if you need anything else.”
The phrase echoed yesterday’s promise, but it felt different now.
You bowed your head a little, a flush heating your neck. “I do. Thank you, Young-il.”
You turned to unlock your door, feeling the weight of his gaze on your back. As you pushed the door open and stepped inside, you dared one last glance over your shoulder.
He was still there, leaning against his own doorframe now, mirroring your pose from the night before. He raised the hand not holding his grocery bag in a small, casual wave. That smirk was back, playing on his lips.
You slipped inside, closing the door and leaning against it.
The feeling was a subtle itch at the back of your mind. The man from yesterday had been calm, steady, his warmth like a slow-burning ember. The man today was a spark—quicker, brighter, more unpredictable. His smiles were sharper, his touches bolder, his eyes held a knowing glint that felt like a challenge.
You were just imagining things, projecting your own nervous attraction onto him.
You put the groceries away on the shelves of the cabinet he had built. Your fingers traced the same smooth edge as last night. The memory of him in your space, so capable and calm, collided with the image of him from this morning—smirking, winking, paying for your things.
A sudden, clear thought cut through the confusion.
You never told him your name, either.
The scent of coffee pulled Young-il from a deep, dreamless sleep. He padded into the kitchen, the cool tile floor a shock against his bare feet. The first thing he saw wasn’t the sunrise through the small window, but the paper grocery bag sitting squarely on his counter.
It hadn’t been there last night.
He frowned, reaching for the coffee canister. “Inho?” he called out, his voice still rough with sleep.
A muffled grunt came from the living room. Young-il turned, spooning grounds into the filter, as his brother shuffled into the doorway.
Hwang Inho, his twin, was leaning against the frame, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a mirror of Young-il’s—dark brown, slightly wavy—but where Young-il’s hair was messy but it looked soft. Inho’s was neatly combed even at first thing,
His expression was pure, unadulterated amusement.
“You went to the store?” Young-il asked, nodding toward the bag.
“Mm. Early bird.” Inho’s smirk was infectious and annoying. He ran a hand through his hair. “Needed juice. And I ran into our new neighbor.”
Young-il’s hand stilled on the coffee maker’s switch. “My neighbor.”
“Yeah. The cute one in 4B. Struggling with the cabinet.” Inho pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab the very bottle of juice he’d bought. He took a long swig directly from the carton, his eyes never leaving his brother’s face. “She came knocking this morning. All flustered. Wanted to thank you for yesterday.”
A slow, cold trickle of understanding dripped down Young-il’s spine.
He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “What did you do, Inho?”
“Me?” Inho placed a hand on his chest, feigning innocence. The glint in his eye was anything but innocent. “I was a perfect gentleman. She asked for my name. I gave it to her. Oh Young-il.” He drew the name out, savoring it. “She was very grateful. Practically insisted I walk her to the grocery store. Who was I to refuse?”
“You used my name.” It wasn’t a question.
“Well, she was clearly smitten with Young-il,” Inho said, his tone light but his gaze sharp. “The helpful, quiet neighbor who builds furniture. I didn’t want to confuse her. Or disappoint her.” He took another drink of juice. “Besides, it was fun. She’s sweet. Blushes right down to her neck. Paid for her groceries, too. On your card, by the way. Consider it an investment.”
Young-il closed his eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The gentle connection he’d felt yesterday—the quiet rhythm of helping her, the unspoken promise in that dim hallway—was now tangled in his brother’s playful chaos. “She has no idea there are two of us.”
“Not a clue,” Inho confirmed, popping the cap back on the juice. “It was actually hilarious. She kept looking at me like… like I was different. Off, somehow. I could see her trying to figure it out.” He chuckled, a sound that was eerily similar to Young-il’s, but with a brighter, more mischievous edge. “She probably thinks you’ve got a split personality. Calm and steady one day, a charming devil the next.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Young-il’s voice was low, a warning rumble.
Inho’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of genuine curiosity. “Why not? You like her. It’s obvious. You built her a whole damn cabinet. You never do that.” He set the juice down and leaned on the counter opposite his brother. “I just… broke the ice a little more. Made sure she’s still thinking about that door next to hers. Now she’s thinking about it even harder.”
“It’s interesting,” Inho countered. “Come on, hyung. When was the last time something interesting happened around here? You work, you come home, you read. You help pretty neighbors and then… what? Wait for her to need a lightbulb changed?” He shook his head. “I gave you an in. A story. Now you have to go over there and… I don’t know, explain your erratic behavior. Or don’t explain it. See what happens.”
Young-il looked at the grocery bag.
He thought of the woman—her embarrassed smile, the way she’d watched his hands, the trust in her eyes as she let a stranger into her new home.
That trust was now based on a lie.
A lie his brother wore as easily as his own skin.
“She never told me her name,” Young-il said quietly, more to himself.
Inho barked a laugh. “See? She was too busy staring. I didn’t get it either. You’ll have to ask.” He pushed off the counter and clapped a hand on Young-il’s shoulder. “Lighten up. It’s not a crime. It’s a game. And she’s a willing player—she just doesn’t know the full rules yet.” He headed back toward the living room. “Your coffee’s done. Don’t brood all day. She’s probably listening through the wall right now, wondering which version of Young-il she’s going to get next.”
Inho disappeared, leaving Young-il alone with the bubbling coffee pot and the heavy silence.
He poured a cup, the rich aroma doing little to settle the conflict in his gut.
He was annoyed at Inho, yes.
The intrusion, the impersonation… It felt like a violation of something fragile that had just begun.
But under the annoyance, a darker, more thrilling current stirred.
Inho was right about one thing: it was interesting.
The woman was thinking about him.
Now, she was thinking about two versions of him, tangled together in her mind.
He walked to the shared wall, his palm resting flat against the cool plaster. He remembered the sound of her muttering to herself yesterday, the soft thump of a box.
Was she on the other side now?
Was she touching the cabinet he’d built, her mind replaying a winking smile that wasn’t his?
A strange, possessive heat curled in his stomach. She’s mine to unravel, he thought, the intensity of the sentiment surprising him. His brother had stepped into his story, but Young-il would be the one to finish it.
Let her try to reconcile the calm craftsman with the playful man who’d bought her breakfast.
He took a sip of coffee, his eyes fixed on the wall as if he could see through it.
The next move would be his.
And it wouldn’t be to change a lightbulb.
It would be to see the confusion in her deep eyes up close, to see if he could taste the difference between her curiosity about him, and her curiosity about the phantom his brother had created.
He set his cup down, the quiet click of ceramic on the counter sounding like a starting pistol.
The afternoon light in the library was dusty and golden, slanting across endless rows of spines. You were crouched in the sociology section, squinting at the tiny print on a book about urban development theories, when a voice, low and familiar, spoke just behind your shoulder.
“That one’s a bit dense for a sunny day, don’t you think?”
You jumped, the book nearly slipping from your fingers. You turned, and there he was.
But it was the Young-il from that first evening.
His expression was soft, the gentle crinkles around his eyes more pronounced as he smiled.
He held a stack of three books against his chest—a worn collection of poetry, a thick historical novel, and something on psychology.
He was dressed simply in a cream-colored linen shirt and dark trousers, his hair softly falls on his forehead.
The sharp, playful energy from the grocery store was gone, replaced by that steady, calming warmth.
“You scared me,” you breathed out, a hand flying to your chest. Your heart was doing that thing again, hammering against your ribs.
“My apologies,” he said, and his chuckle was that same deep, resonant sound that made something shiver pleasantly down your spine. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I come here most Saturdays.” His eyes dipped to the book in your hand. “Urban theory? That’s your major?”
“Trying to be,” you said, standing up fully. You suddenly felt very aware of your own stack of books, your jeans, your simple top. “It’s… a lot.”
“It is,” he agreed, nodding. “But important. The soul of a city is in its people, but its bones are in the planning.” He said it so simply, so earnestly, that you felt a surge of connection. This was the man who had understood the quiet struggle of building a home.
“What are you reading for fun?”
The next twenty minutes slipped by in a blur.
You wandered the aisles together, speaking in hushed library tones.
He recommended the poet in his stack—“He writes about rain like it’s a lover”—and you pointed out a novel you’d loved.
You talked about favorite bookshops, the smell of old paper versus new ink, and he listened with a focused attention that made you feel like the only person in the world.
You found yourself admiring the curve of his jaw as he looked down at a page, the way his long fingers carefully turned the paper.
The difference from this morning was stark, a puzzle piece that refused to fit.
Maybe he just had coffee, you reasoned.
Or maybe the morning version was the real one, and this calm is the act.
You pushed the thought away. It felt rude to scrutinize a man who was just being kind.
“This is dangerous,” he murmured as you both stood by the new releases. “I could spend my entire rent on books here and still feel poor.”
You laughed, the sound too loud for the quiet space, and you both glanced around guiltily before sharing a smile. “I have to limit myself to three per visit,” you confessed. “Or I’d never eat.”
“A wise policy.” He looked at your chosen stack, then back at your face. His gaze was so warm it felt like a physical touch. “Can I buy you a coffee? There’s a place across the block. Their pastries are almost as good as their silence.”
The invitation was so natural, so devoid of the charged smirk from before, that you agreed without a second thought. “I’d like that.”
The café was small, intimate, smelling of roasted beans and butter.
He ordered a black coffee. You, remembering his order from some deep, foolish place in your memory, did the same.
“You don’t have to—” you started as he pulled out his wallet at the counter.
“Please,” he said, his voice leaving no room for debate, but his eyes were kind, not challenging. “A thank you for the book recommendations. I’ll be up all night with that novel now, and I’ll need someone to blame.”
He paid, and you took your cups to a small table by the window.
The conversation flowed easier than you could have imagined.
He told you about growing up in a coastal town, the sound of the waves his first memory.
He spoke of his work—managing a business—with a quiet pride, not boasting.
You talked about university, your hopes, the slight terror of the future.
He listened, really listened, his head tilted, his eyes never leaving yours.
At one point, you made a terrible pun about the Dewey Decimal system. He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that drew a few glances. You watched the strong column of his throat work, the way his shoulders shook, and a flush of pure, unadulterated pleasure warmed you from the inside out.
“You’re terrible,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I love it.”
The sun began its descent, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. “The park is lovely at this hour,” he said, nodding toward the window. “If you’re not in a hurry.”
You walked side-by-side along the gravel paths as the day softened around you.
The tension wasn’t the electric, confusing charge of the morning. This was a slow, sweet pull, a magnetic draw that had you leaning slightly into his space as you walked.
Your arms would brush, and a jolt would go through you, but he would just continue his story, his voice a soothing rumble in the twilight.
He walked you all the way to your apartment door. The hallway was dim, quiet.
You turned to him, your library books clutched tightly to your chest like a shield.
“Thank you,” you said, and the words felt profound. “For the coffee. The walk. Everything.”
He smiled, and it was the one from the first night—gentle, sincere, but now tinged with a familiarity that made your knees feel weak. “The pleasure was all mine.” He shifted his weight, his own books under his arm. “Goodnight…?” He trailed off, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
The realization from this morning came crashing back.
And this version of him was finally, politely asking.
Your name felt new on your tongue, a gift you were handing over.
“Goodnight, Y/n.” he said, testing the sound of it.
His voice was a soft caress in the quiet hall.
He gave a small, almost shy nod, then turned toward his own door.
You slipped inside, closing the door and leaning against it. You could hear the faint sound of his door opening and shutting a moment later.
The silence of your studio was different now.
It wasn’t empty; it was full of him.
The memory of his laugh, the weight of his gaze, the way he’d looked at you when you said your name.
You slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, the books spilling from your grip.
You pressed your thighs together, a slow, aching heat beginning to pool low in your belly.
The playful, winking man was a spark, exciting but easy to dismiss as just a flirt.
This man—the one with the gentle hands and the quiet voice who listened, who remembered, who looked at you like you were a fascinating story he wanted to read slowly—this man could ruin you.
You brought your knees up, resting your forehead on them. The shared wall felt alive with his presence.
You wondered what he was doing now.
Was he thinking about you, too?
Was he thinking about the woman who blushed at his jokes and studied urban planning, or was he thinking about the confused neighbor who’d encountered two different men bearing the same name?
The curiosity was a physical itch, a thirst.
But you needed to see him again, to look into those deep brown eyes and try to find the truth.
An idea, reckless and thrilling, formed in your mind. The unopened box. The one labeled ‘Misc. – Do Not Open Without Wine’.
And you suddenly had a very compelling reason to open it.
The wine bottle was empty, resting on its side on the floor next to the now-opened ‘Misc.’ box. Its contents—a few framed photos, a tangle of charging cables, and a soft velvet pouch holding your grandmother’s forgotten jewelry—lay scattered around you. But the wine had done its job.
It had loosened your tongue and steeled your nerves.
The swirling confusion of the last two days had solidified into a single, pressing need: to know.
The clock on the microwave glowed 11:58 PM. A reckless hour. Your heart thumped a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you paced the short length of your studio, the silence pressing in.
What are you going to say?
The rehearsals in your head sounded insane.
‘Hey, which one of you is the real one?’
‘Sorry to bother you, but are you twins or do you have a dissociative identity disorder?’
You finally stopped, took a deep breath that did nothing to calm you, and shrugged. The gesture felt like shedding a weight.
You opened your door and took the three steps to his.
The knock was soft, barely there.
You almost hoped he wouldn’t answer.
The door opened almost immediately.
The breath left your lungs in a quiet rush.
He leaned against the doorframe, one arm braced above his head, his hair a delicious, sleep-tousled mess.
The light from his apartment spilled over him, highlighting the defined planes of his chest, the taut muscle of his stomach, the dark trail of hair that disappeared into the simple gray waistband of his sweatpants.
He was… sculpted. Too fit for his age, your wine-addled mind supplied, the thought slipping through before you could stop it.
His eyes—a deep, familiar brown—scanned your face, and a slow, knowing smirk pulled at his mouth.
It wasn’t the same gentle smile from the library.
This was the smirk from the grocery store.
“Well, hello,” he said, his voice a low, sleep-rough purr that vibrated in the quiet hallway. “This is a late surprise.”
His gaze traveled down your body, a leisurely, appreciative sweep that made your skin prickle with heat, then back up to your eyes. “Enjoying the view?”
You jerked your gaze upward, face flaming. “I—no. I mean, yes. I wasn’t—I’m sorry.” You shook your head, trying to clear the fog of alcohol and sheer masculine presence. “I need to talk to you.”
“At midnight?” His smirk widened. “Must be important.”
“It is.” You took a steadying breath, the courage from the wine surging back. “Who are you?”
He blinked, the amusement in his eyes deepening. “I believe we’ve covered this. Young-il.”
“No.” The word came out stronger than you intended. “Which one? Because every time I see you… you feel like two different people with the same face.” The words tumbled out now, a torrent you couldn’t stop. “One is gentle. Soft. He helps me build furniture and talks about the soul of a city. The other… the other is calculated. Calm in a way that makes my stomach flip. He looks at me and I feel… seen, in a way that’s almost too much. He winks. He pays for things. He makes me feel…”
“Makes you feel what?” he prompted, his voice dropping to a whisper.
His body was still relaxed against the frame, but his focus was absolute, a laser pinning you in place.
“Intimidated,” you confessed. “And… intrigued.”
He just looked at you, that amused, infuriating expression never leaving his face. He opened his mouth to reply, but before a sound could come out, another voice echoed from inside the apartment.
Your eyes, already wide, flew open impossibly wider. Your brain refused to process what it was seeing as another man appeared behind the first, peering over his shoulder.
The same dark brown hair, the same strong jaw, the same height and build.
But where the one in the doorway was all smirking confidence and disheveled allure, the one behind him had his hair neatly combed, his expression one of genuine, open surprise.
He wore a simple white t-shirt and black sleep pants. His eyes, the exact same shade, held a gentle concern that was instantly, heartbreakingly familiar.
The man from the first night. The man from the library.
The shirtless one in the doorway—not that man—let out a soft sigh, his smirk turning into something more like wry resignation.
The one in the t-shirt, the real Young-il, shouldered past his brother, his focus entirely on you. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with worry. He looked at your face, your probably-glassy eyes, the faint flush on your cheeks.
His gaze sharpened. “Are you drunk?”
You could only stare, your mouth slightly agape, your mind scrambling to catch up.
The reality of it crashed over you, shocking and absurd.
All the confusion, the whiplash of his changing demeanor… it hadn’t been your imagination.
It hadn’t been him at all.
The shirtless one—the other one—watched the silent drama unfold, his arms now crossed over his bare chest, his expression one of pure, unrepentant entertainment.
Young-il took a step closer, into the hallway.
He was so near you could smell the clean scent of his soap, see the faint worry lines between his brows. “It’s late,” he said, his tone careful, measured. “You should be in bed.”
“You’re… twins,” you finally managed to whisper, the statement sounding utterly stupid.
The shirtless brother chuckled. “Gold star for observation.”
Young-il shot him a quelling look before turning back to you. “This is my brother, Inho.” He said the name like an apology, like an explanation for every strange moment. “I think… you’ve met.”
Inho gave you a charming, shameless little wave. “In the flesh. Both versions of it, apparently.”
The pieces slammed together in your mind.
The helpful neighbor, the charming stranger at the grocery store… they weren’t the same person.
You’d been dancing with two different men, and you’d never known.
A hot wave of embarrassment warred with a dizzying sense of relief.
The gentle, steady attraction you felt for the man in front of you now was real.
It was separate. It was his.
But the other feeling… the electric, intimidating pull you’d felt for the man pretending to be him… that was still here, too.
It was standing half-naked in the doorway, watching you with eyes that promised delightful trouble.
Young-il saw the storm of emotions on your face. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before his fingers gently brushed your arm.
The contact was warm, grounding.
“Come inside,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
“You shouldn’t be out here like this. We’ll talk.”
You nod, the motion making the hallway tilt for a second. You step over the threshold, and the warm, lived-in air of his apartment envelops you. It smells like him—clean cotton, that faint woodsy scent, and now, the rich aroma of coffee lingering in the air. You follow him, your legs feeling unsteady, and sink onto the plush, dark sofa.
Inho leans against the kitchen archway, arms still crossed over that distracting chest, a smirk playing on his lips. Young-il disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the sound of the tap running, the clink of a glass.
“So,” Inho says, his voice a low drawl that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. “You figured us out. Took you longer than most.”
Young-il returns, a glass of cold water in his hand. He holds it out to you. His fingers brush yours as you take it, and the touch is solid, real. “Drink,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “You shouldn’t have wine on an empty stomach.”
You obey, the cool water helping to clear the fog.
You set the glass on the low wooden table, your eyes darting between them. The differences are staggering now that you see them side by side. Young-il’s posture is straighter, his movements economical. Inho seems to occupy space differently, as if his very bones are more relaxed, more ready for mischief.
Young-il takes a seat in the armchair opposite you, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I owe you an apology,” he begins, his gaze direct and earnest. “For the confusion. For… all of it.”
He shoots a look at his brother, who just shrugs, unrepentant.
“It was my idea,” Inho chimes in, pushing off the archway to lean against the back of the sofa, right behind you. You can feel the heat of him, even through the cushion. “I heard you struggling that first night. Saw you through the peephole. Thought you were cute. When I realized my boring brother here had already made his move…” He trails off with a chuckle.
“Inho,” Young-il warns, but there’s no real heat in it.
“What? It’s the truth. You were all… noble. I just wanted to have a little fun. See if I could make you blush.” Inho’s voice drops to a conspiratorial murmur near your ear. “And you do, so beautifully.”
A flush immediately creeps up your neck. You stare down at your hands, clenched in your lap.
Young-il sighs, a sound of long-suffering patience. “Ignore him. Please. Let me… explain.” He runs a hand through his hair, and you notice the subtle strength in his forearm, the way his linen shirt strains slightly across his shoulders. “My name is Oh Young-il. I work as a project engineer for a civil firm. I manage infrastructure plans. It’s… quiet work. I like books. I like building things with my hands.” He says it simply, as if listing facts from a manual.
“And I’m Hwang Inho,” the brother behind you says, his tone laced with a playful pride. “I’m a detective. Violent crimes division. My work is… not quiet. I like solving puzzles. I like getting a reaction.” You can practically hear his grin.
“Different last name since… Inho changed it to our stepfather, Only I didn’t change it to ‘Hwang’,” Young-il continues, as if reading your next question. “Our mother she remarried. We grew up together, We’ve lived together here for the last five years. It’s… convenient.”
“And entertaining,” Inho adds.
You finally find your voice, soft and a little shaky. “So the man who helped me with the cabinet… that was you.” You look at Young-il.
“And the man who walked me to the store, paid for my things… who winked…”
“That was all me, sweetheart,” Inho purrs from behind. “Guilty as charged.”
“And the library?” you ask, your eyes locked with Young-il’s. “The coffee? The walk in the park?”
A soft, almost shy smile touches his lips. It transforms his face, making him look younger, more open. “That was me. I wanted to… clarify things. To talk to you as myself. Without any games.”
The sincerity in his voice is a tangible thing, a warm blanket settling over the chaotic embarrassment.
Inho moves then, circling the sofa to drop into the space beside you.
Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the weight of his presence, the shift of the cushions.
He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers just brushing the fabric near your shoulder. “Don’t let him fool you,” Inho says, his eyes glinting as he looks at his brother. “He’s not as boring as he sounds. He just needs the right… motivation.”
Young-il ignores the jab, his focus still on you. “Are you alright? Really?”
“I am. I just… I felt like I was losing my mind. One minute you were this sweet, gentle guy, and the next you were… intense.”
“That’s me,” Inho says, preening slightly. “Intense.”
“You’re a nuisance,” Young-il corrects, but there’s a fondness there, a brotherly exasperation you can’t miss. He looks back at you. “He shouldn’t have deceived you. I’m sorry for that.”
The apology hangs in the air, sincere and heavy.
The silence that follows is thick, charged with everything that’s been said and everything that hasn’t.
You’re hyper-aware of Inho’s heat beside you, the subtle scent of his skin—something spicier than his brother’s, like sandalwood and night air. And you’re equally aware of Young-il’s steady gaze from across the table, a gaze that feels like a safe harbor.
“So,” Inho breaks the silence, his voice dropping to a low, intimate pitch. “Now that the mystery is solved… what happens next?” His fingers, still resting on the sofa back, twitch slightly, as if fighting the urge to touch your hair.
Young-il’s eyes narrow a fraction. “She goes home to sleep. It’s late.”
“Is it?” Inho counters, his smile turning wicked. “The night is young. And our neighbor here looks like she has more questions.” He turns his head fully towards you, his face inches from yours. His eyes are a challenge, an invitation to chaos. “Don’t you?”
You look from Inho’s smirking, dangerously handsome face to Young-il’s calm, concerned one. The pull between them is a physical force, a magnetic field you’re caught in.
One promises gentle, slow discovery.
The other promises a thrilling, breathless freefall.
You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. The choice isn’t about leaving or staying anymore.
It’s about which of them you’re going to look at when you finally answer.
You shook your head, more to clear the buzzing in your ears than to disagree.
“No, it’s… I understand now. Thank you for explaining.” You stood up, the movement a little too quick, and had to steady yourself on the arm of the sofa. “I should go. I’m sorry for barging in so late.”
Young-il was on his feet instantly, a hand hovering near your elbow as if to catch you. “Let me walk you back.”
Inho stayed seated, leaning back into the cushions with a lazy, feline stretch. “Sleep well, neighbor,” he said, his voice a low hum. “Sweet dreams.”
His tone implied the dreams wouldn’t be sweet at all, but something hotter, more tangled.
Young-il’s hand found the small of your back as he guided you to the door, a warm, steady pressure through your shirt.
The three steps to your door felt like a mile.
The hallway was silent, the only sound the soft shuffle of your feet and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart.
At your door, you fumbled for your keys. His hand fell away, and you immediately missed its warmth.
“I am sorry,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper in the dim light. “Truly. Inho… he doesn’t always think about consequences. He saw a pretty girl next door and decided to play.” He paused, his deep brown eyes searching yours. “I’ll make it up to you. A proper apology. Soon.”
You finally got the key in the lock. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” The statement was simple, firm. “And… be careful with him. He can be a lot. A tease. Hard to handle when he sets his mind to something.”
A shiver traced your spine.
You weren’t sure if that was a warning or a dare.
“Goodnight, Young-il,” you said, your name for him feeling new and intimate on your tongue.
He didn’t move, just stood there, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher—part concern, part something else, something hungry and held tightly in check.
You slipped inside and closed the door, leaning against it. You heard his soft sigh through the wood, then the quiet sound of his own door opening and shutting.
You slid down to the floor, just like you had the night before.
But this silence was different.
It wasn’t filled with a single, confusing man.
It was split in two, a dizzying stereo effect.
On one side of that wall: calm, steady Young-il with his gentle hands and earnest eyes. On the other: smirking, intense Inho with his detective’s gaze and promises of chaos.
Your body felt alive with a restless energy.
The wine was gone, but a deeper intoxication had taken hold.
You thought of Young-il’s apology, the weight of his gaze.
You thought of Inho’s purr near your ear, the heat of him on the couch.
You brought your knees up, pressing your thighs together. The ache that blossomed there was low and persistent, a physical echo of the choice hanging in the air.
You drifted into a sleep that was anything but restful.
On the other side of the wall, Young-il closed his apartment door and leaned back against it, eyes shut.
He exhaled, a long, weary sound.
Inho was still on the sofa, but now he held a short glass of amber whiskey, swirling it slowly. “Well? Is she safely tucked in? Did you warn her about the big, bad wolf?”
Young-il opened his eyes, his gaze landing on his brother. “Was that necessary?”
Inho took a sip, his eyes glinting over the rim of the glass. “It was fun. She’s fun. All flustered and trying so hard to be polite while her mind is spinning.” He set the glass down with a soft click. “You should thank me. I lit the fuse. Now you get to watch the fireworks.”
“She’s not a game, Inho.”
“Everything’s a game,” Inho countered, standing up.
He walked over, stopping just a few inches from his brother.
They were the same height, their faces mirrors, but the energy between them was a clash of continents. “You were going to pine from a distance. Build her another bookshelf. Bring her soup when she caught a cold. Boring.” He poked a finger into Young-il’s chest. “I made it interesting. Now she’s curious. About both of us. That’s a better position to be in.”
Young-il caught his brother’s wrist, his grip firm. “You used my name.”
“And she liked it,” Inho said, his smile sharp. “Admit it. You liked seeing her reaction to me. It showed you what she could be. Underneath all that shyness… there’s a spark. She just needed someone to strike the match.”
Young-il released his wrist.
He couldn’t deny the thrill that had shot through him, watching her from the kitchen doorway.
Seeing her eyes widen at Inho’s proximity, the flush on her skin. A possessive, dark heat had coiled in his gut. She’s reacting to my face, my voice, but it’s your chaos.
“Stay out of it,” Young-il said, his voice low. “The next move is mine.”
Inho laughed, a bright, genuine sound.
“Oh, hyung. It hasn’t been your move since I answered the door this morning. The game is in play. You can either play it with me… or watch from the sidelines.” He picked up his whiskey glass and headed toward his bedroom. “I know which one I’m betting on.”
He disappeared, leaving Young-il alone in the quiet living room.
Young-il walked to the shared wall.
He placed his palm flat against the cool plaster, just as he had yesterday morning.
He thought of his promise.
He wouldn’t bring soup. He had something else in mind. Something that would erase his brother’s games and replace them with his own, far more deliberate, intention.
He finally went to his own bed, but sleep was elusive. His mind replayed the feel of her unsteady grip on the water glass, the vulnerable line of her throat as she drank, the way her gaze had darted between them—a trapped, beautiful bird choosing which hand to land on.
His last conscious thought was a silent vow, sent through the wall.
You slept, but your dreams had no walls.
You were in a library, but the shelves stretched into infinity. Young-il was there, handing you a book, his smile soft. “The soul of a city,” he murmured, but when you opened the book, the pages were blank.
You were in a grocery aisle. Inho leaned against the freezer door, shirtless, a detective’s badge glinting on his sweatpants’ waistband. “Looking for something?” he asked, and his voice was everywhere at once. You reached for a can, but your hand passed right through it.
You woke with a start, the early morning light gray and tentative through your window. Your skin was damp, your heart racing.
The phantom sensations lingered—the warmth of a hand on your back, the whisper of a voice near your ear.
You rolled over, pressing your face into the pillow.
But the question, hot and unresolved, pulsed in the quiet of your new home: whose move did you want it to be?
The morning sun was a bold, confident gold, pouring through your window and painting stripes of warmth across your floor. You did your routine—coffee, shower, a few chapters of a novel—but a restless energy hummed under your skin. The city was awake, and suddenly, so were you. The thought of a jog, of moving your body and feeling the air, seemed like the perfect way to clear the twin-shaped haze from your mind.
You changed quickly into a pair of dark jogging shorts and a simple spaghetti strap top, tying your hair into a loose ponytail. The air outside was crisp, the kind that filled your lungs and made you feel alive. You started at an easy pace, the rhythm of your feet on the pavement a steady, calming beat. You turned the corner, the familiar buildings of your block a comforting blur.
On the next turn, by a patch of struggling grass near the curb, you saw it—a small, gray tabby cat, watching the world with wary yellow eyes. You slowed to a stop, a smile blooming on your face. You crouched down, holding out a hand. “Hey there,” you murmured.
The cat hesitated, then stepped forward, butting its head against your fingers. A soft, rumbling purr started up, vibrating through your palm. The simple joy of it, the uncomplicated affection, made you laugh softly.
“Making friends with the local delinquents?”
The voice, smooth and teasingly familiar, came from right behind you. You startled, almost losing your balance. A strong hand caught your elbow, steadying you.
He was in his work uniform—a fitted, dark blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tailored black trousers that emphasized the lean line of his legs. A detective’s badge was clipped to his belt.
He looked… professional. Sharp.
And the way the shirt stretched across his shoulders, the way his forearms were corded with muscle where the fabric ended, made your mouth go a little dry.
The uniform did things for him.
“You scared me,” you breathed, pulling your hand back from the cat, which was now winding itself around Inho’s ankles.
“It’s a specialty,” he said, his smirk effortless. He looked down at the cat. “He’s a con artist, you know. Gets pets from pretty girls all day, then comes to my door for tuna. Plays both sides.” His eyes lifted back to yours, that glint of amusement in their deep brown depths. “Seems to be a theme around here.”
You stood up, brushing your hands on your shorts. “I was just jogging.”
“I can see that.” His gaze did a slow, appreciative sweep down your body and back up, lingering on the strap of your top where it dug into your shoulder. The look was so blatant it stole the air from your lungs. “It’s a good look. Very… energetic.”
You felt a flush creep up your neck. “Thank you. Are you… heading to work?”
“Just finished a night shift. Paperwork hell. But the sun’s out, and now I’ve found a much better view.” He nodded down the street. “Which way are you headed? Or are you done being energetic?”
“I was just about to loop back,” you said, your voice tighter than you wanted.
“Perfect. I’ll walk with you.” It wasn’t a question. He fell into step beside you, his longer legs forcing you to match his pace. The cat trotted alongside him for a few steps before darting into an alley. “So,” he said, his tone conversational. “Sleep well? Any interesting dreams?”
You kept your eyes forward. “It was fine.”
“Just fine? My brother didn’t haunt your subconscious? I’m a little offended.” He chuckled, the sound low and intimate in the quiet morning street. “He’s the quiet type. I’d haunt you louder.”
Your stomach did a slow, dizzying flip. You didn’t answer.
He glanced at you, his expression turning mock-serious. “You know, for someone who just discovered her neighbors are identical twins, you’re handling this very calmly. Most people have more questions. Or they run.”
“I’m still processing,” you admitted.
“Process with me,” he said, nodding toward a small, trendy coffee shop coming up on the corner. “I’ll buy you a coffee. You look like you could use the fuel. And I definitely need caffeine before I face my couch.”
You hesitated. This is a bad idea.
Every sane cell in your body screamed it. But the part of you that had felt that thrilling, intimidating pull in his apartment… that part was already nodding. “Okay. Just one.”
“Just one,” he agreed, but the smile he gave you was anything but innocent.
The coffee shop was all exposed brick and industrial lighting. He ordered a double espresso, black. You ordered a latte. He paid before you could even reach for your wallet, his hand brushing yours as he took the card back from the barista. The touch was brief, electric.
You took a small table by the window. He sat across from you, leaning back in his chair, his posture relaxed yet somehow commanding all the space. He took a sip of his espresso, watching you over the rim. “So. Ask your questions.”
You stirred your latte, the foam swirling. “Why did you do it? Pretend to be him?”
He shrugged, a fluid, graceful motion. “I told you. You were cute. You looked… interesting. And my brother is a good man, but he moves at the speed of continental drift. I saw an opportunity to… liven things up.” His eyes held yours. “And I was right. It worked. You’re here with me, aren’t you?”
“I gave you a choice,” he countered, his voice dropping. “You just didn’t know you were choosing between two options. Now you do. That’s more honesty than you get from most people.”
The statement was so arrogant, so infuriatingly logical in its own twisted way, that you couldn’t even argue. You took a sip of your coffee. It was too hot, but the burn grounded you.
“He’s worried about you, you know,” Inho said, his tone shifting slightly. “Young-il. Thinks I’ve… corrupted the scenario.”
His grin returned, wider this time.
“I’m just showing you the other side of the coin. He’s calm water. I’m the current underneath. You can’t have one without the other, not really.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The move brought him closer, and you caught the faint, spicy scent of his soap, mixed with coffee and night air. “He’ll want to take you to a nice dinner. Talk about books. He’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“And what do you want?” The question slipped out, barely a whisper.
His gaze darkened, the amusement simmering into something more intense. “I want to see what happens when you stop being so polite. I want to hear what you really think. I want to know what makes you… tick.” He paused, letting the words hang. “And I have a feeling it’s not just quiet dinners and poetry.”
Your heart was a frantic drum against your ribs. You were blushing again, you could feel the heat in your cheeks. He was funny, in a sharp, dangerous way. He was intense, his focus so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
He was the complete opposite of Young-il’s gentle, steady presence. And the terrifying, exhilarating truth was settling in your stomach, a heavy, warm stone.
You’re going to get ruined by the two of them.
One promised a slow, deep burn that would consume you from the inside out. The other promised a flash-fire, a brilliant, shocking heat that would leave you breathless and charred. You weren’t sure which was more dangerous.
You weren’t sure you wanted to choose.
Inho watched the play of emotions on your face, his own expression one of deep satisfaction. He finished his espresso in one last swallow. “There,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. “Now you’re processing.”
He stood up, the movement fluid and sure. “I should let you finish your run. Or… whatever comes next.” He gave you one last, lingering look, from your flushed face down to your hands clenched around your coffee cup. “Don’t think too hard, neighbor. Sometimes the best choices are the ones you don’t see coming.”
He winked—that same, devastating wink from the grocery store—and turned, walking out of the café without a backward glance. You sat there, frozen, the warmth of the latte seeping into your palms, the ghost of his smirk burned into your vision.
The sun was higher now, brighter. The whole world felt sharper, more vivid. You took a deep, shaking breath.
The walk back to your apartment was a blur of caffeine haze and lingering spice. Inho’s words—I want to see what happens when you stop being so polite—echoed in your head, a taunting rhythm that matched your still-racing pulse. You turned the corner to your building, your keys already in hand, and stopped short.
There was a figure at your door. Tall, shoulders set in a familiar, straighter line. He had his hand raised, poised to knock, but he was hesitating, staring at the grain of the wood as if it held an answer.
He flinched, turning sharply.
For a split second, you saw it—a flicker of something startled, almost vulnerable, in his deep brown eyes. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual calm, but the surprise was real. You’d caught him.
A slow chuckle escaped you. “I’m sorry, did I scare you?”
He let out a soft breath, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. “I didn’t know you were out. I heard movement earlier, but then it went quiet. I thought…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I was just… checking in.”
The phrase felt too casual for the intensity of his posture a moment ago. You smiled, the warmth in your chest pushing back the last of the morning’s chaotic energy. “Well, I’m here now. Do you want to come in?”
He nodded, the motion curt. “If it’s no trouble.”
You unlocked the door and he followed you inside. Your studio felt different with him in it—calmer, more anchored. He didn’t sit immediately, instead letting his gaze drift over the now-organized space, the cabinet he’d built standing solidly against the wall.
“You finished the box,” he noted, seeing the empty cardboard flattened by the door.
“The wine helped,” you admitted, feeling a fresh wave of heat in your cheeks at the memory of last night’s confession. “Thank you. For… handling that.”
“It was the least I could do.” He finally sat on the edge of your sofa, his movements economical. You sat across from him in the armchair, tucking your legs beneath you. An easy silence settled, but it was different from the charged quiet with Inho. This felt like a shared breath.
“I was at the library earlier this week,” you ventured. “I picked up that book on urban semiotics you mentioned. The one about city signs telling stories.”
His eyes lit up, that gentle, earnest fire you’d first seen among the bookshelves. “Did you? What did you think of the chapter on unintended narratives? The author’s theory about alleyways…”
And just like that, you were lost.
An hour dissolved into the soft back-and-forth of literary theories and tangential anecdotes. You found yourself laughing at a dry, witty observation he made about postmodern architecture, the sound bright in your small space. You watched his hands as he talked—strong, capable hands that had pieced together your furniture with such surety—and found your gaze drifting to his face, to the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
But there was something else there, too.
A quiet intensity beneath his calm.
He’d look at you, and his words would slow, as if he were choosing each one with deliberate care. A warmth would spread through his expression, a softness that made your stomach tighten in a slow, sweet knot. You saw him swallow once, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his fingers flexed against his thigh.
The thought was a quiet thunder in your chest.
This wasn’t the electric, intimidating pull of Inho. This was deeper, a slow-burning ember in your gut, fanned by every shared glance, every moment of understanding. It felt… profound. And the way he looked at you—like you were a fascinating text he wanted to read line by line—made you feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with games.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. The conversation had lulled into a comfortable pause. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked directly at you. The playful lightness was gone, replaced by a sincerity that stole the air from your lungs.
“I meant what I said last night,” he began, his voice low. “About a proper apology. I’d like to take you to dinner. Tonight.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “It’s the least you deserve after… everything. And I want to. Very much.”
Your heart gave a hard, single thump. “A dinner date?” The words were barely a whisper.
He nodded, a faint blush coloring the tops of his cheekbones. It was the most endearing thing you’d ever seen. “If you’ll allow me. Just the two of us.” He emphasized the next words, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Without Inho. I’ll make sure of it.”
The promise, the deliberate exclusion, sent a thrill through you. It was a line drawn, a choice presented in the gentlest possible way.
My attention. My intention. Just for you.
You could only nod, the motion feeling dreamlike. “I’d like that.”
A slow, beautiful smile spread across his face, transforming it completely. It reached his eyes, making them shine. “Good,” he said, the word a soft exhale. He stood up, the sudden movement breaking the spell. “I’ll come back later to pick you up. Wear whatever you want. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
He was at the door before you could fully process it. You stood, following him on unsteady legs.
He turned his hand on the doorknob. The hallway light caught the side of his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw.
“Thank you,” you said, smiling up at him.
His gaze softened further, lingering on your face for a heartbeat too long. “No,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
You stood in the middle of your apartment, the silence rushing back in. But it wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of his promise, the warmth of his smile, the low timbre of his voice saying tonight. A light blush crept up your neck, a delicious, slow heat that had nothing to do with the sun outside. You brought your fingers to your lips, still curved in an uncontrollable smile.
What are the things that you and Young-il would do later?
The thought wasn’t explicit.
It was a cascade of sensations—the brush of his sleeve against your arm, the deep rumble of his laugh in a quiet restaurant, the way his eyes might look in candlelight. The potential of his hand, maybe, finding yours across a table. The dizzying possibility of what might come after.
Truly, breathlessly excited.
And for the first time since moving in, the feeling wasn’t tangled with confusion. It was clear and bright and burning with a slow, steady flame, waiting for the night to fall so it could truly begin.
The knock came exactly at seven-thirty. A soft, steady rhythm that sent your stomach swooping up into your throat. You took one last look in the mirror, smoothed a hand over your wine-red dress, and opened the door.
He stood there, framed in the warm glow of the hallway light, and your breath caught.
He’d mentioned glasses before, but you’d never seen them. Thin, elegant wire frames that somehow sharpened the gentle intelligence in his deep brown eyes. He wore a plain black shirt, tucked neatly into cream-colored trousers that hung perfectly on his lean frame. A stylish leather Chelsea boot, polished to a soft shine. A coat was draped over his left arm.
Sophisticated. Like he’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine about a different, more refined life.
He smiled up at you, a slow, genuine curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Good evening.”
You could only stare for a second, taking him in. “Hi.” The word came out a little breathless. “I’m… not quite ready. Just finishing my hair. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head, the motion easy. “Please, don’t apologize. Take all the time you need. I don’t mind waiting.” His gaze traveled over you then, a slow, appreciative sweep from your styled hair down to the dress that hugged every curve, and back up to your face. The look was warm, but it held a weight that made your knees feel weak. “You look… stunning.”
“Thank you,” you managed, stepping back. “Come in, please.”
He entered, his presence immediately making your small studio feel different—warmer, somehow more intimate. He thanked you quietly and took a seat on the edge of your sofa, placing his folded coat beside him. He didn’t sprawl or look at his phone. He just sat, hands resting on his knees, patient and calm.
“I’ll be quick,” you promised, darting back to the small mirror by your bathroom door.
“Truly,” he said, his voice a low, steady rumble from across the room. “Take all the time you need.”
You fumbled with a final bobby pin, your fingers trembling slightly. You could feel his eyes on you, not staring, but noticing. Watching the line of your back, the way the fabric tightened across your hips when you moved. The air felt charged, thick with a quiet, building promise. You stole a glance in the mirror’s reflection. He was looking right at you, his expression soft, but his jaw was tight. His fingers flexed once against his thigh.
The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You took a deep breath, applied a final touch of lip color, and turned. “Okay. Ready.”
He stood smoothly, picking up his coat. “Perfect.”
Outside, the evening air held a crisp bite. You’d only taken a few steps from the building’s entrance when he paused.
“It’s cooler than I thought,” he said, and without another word, he shrugged out of his coat. It was a beautiful, tailored wool thing.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, really—” you started.
He simply stepped behind you and draped it over your shoulders. The weight was substantial, warm from his body. And his scent enveloped you—clean cotton, a faint, woody cologne, and underneath it all, the barest hint of vanilla and warm skin. It was deeply, undeniably masculine, and it wrapped around you like an embrace.
“There,” he murmured, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second on your shoulders before falling away.
You pulled the coat tighter, sinking into the warmth. “Thank you.”
He fell into step beside you, his hands now tucked into his trouser pockets. “You look beautiful in that color,” he said, his gaze forward. The compliment was delivered so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it felt more real than any flowery line.
You felt a blush bloom across your cheeks. “And you clean up pretty well yourself.”
He chuckled, that deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate right through the coat and into your bones. “I’ll take that.”
The restaurant was small, intimate, with dark wood and soft candlelight at each table. He pulled out your chair for you, his hand brushing the back of your neck for the briefest moment.
The dinner was… lovely. He ordered for you both after asking your preferences, choosing a white wine that was crisp and floral. He told you stories about a project that had gone hilariously wrong due to a misprinted blueprint. You told him about your most eccentric professor. You found yourself laughing, truly laughing, the sound mingling with his deeper chuckle. The wine went to your head, a pleasant, golden haze that made everything feel softer, brighter. The way the candlelight caught in his glasses. The way his fingers curled around his wine glass.
He paid, of course, waving away your offered card with a gentle shake of his head.
On the walk back, the world had a dreamlike quality. The wine, the good food, him. You found yourself rambling about a group project at university, your words beginning to slur just a little. He listened, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back to guide you, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of his coat and your dress.
He laughed softly. “I think you might have had a little too much wine.”
“Maybe,” you giggled, leaning into his touch. “It was a good dinner.”
“It was,” he agreed, his voice warm.
At your door, you fumbled in your tiny clutch for your keys. He took them gently from your unsteady fingers. “Allow me.”
He unlocked your door and pushed it open.
Your bag was slung over his shoulder, his coat still wrapped around you. You stumbled over the threshold, and his arm shot out, strong and sure, catching you around the waist before you could fall.
You laughed, a breathy, tipsy sound, and your hand came up to steady yourself against his chest. Through the fine fabric of his shirt, you could feel the solid wall of muscle, the steady, accelerated beat of his heart. Your fingers curled, clutching at him.
The apartment was dark, lit only by the city glow filtering through your blinds.
You were pressed against him, your back to the open door, his arm a firm band around you. His other hand came up, cupping your elbow where you gripped his shirt.
His eyes were dark in the low light, focused entirely on you. The gentle expression was gone, replaced by something raw, something hungry.
The silence was absolute.
You could hear your own pulse in your ears.
Slowly, almost reverently, you lifted your free hand.
You touched his cheek. His skin was warm, slightly rough with evening stubble. The moment your fingertips made contact, his eyes drifted shut, his jaw tightening as if your touch burned.
He let out a soft, shuddering breath.
Then his eyes opened, and they weren’t looking at yours anymore. They were fixed on your lips.
The first kiss was hesitant, a soft brush of your mouth against his.
One of his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. The other tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his lips parting yours. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was deep, and searching, and hot. The taste of wine and him flooded your senses. A helpless whimper escaped your throat, and you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his shirt.
He walked you backwards, never breaking the kiss, until your back met the cool plaster of your apartment wall. The shock of the cold wall against your bare shoulders made you gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, his body pressing you into the wall, all lean strength and intent. You could feel the hard line of his arousal against your stomach, and a bolt of pure, dizzying need shot through you.
You were both panting when he finally, slowly, pulled his mouth from yours. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gusts that washed over your lips.
“You’re drunk,” he whispered, the words strained. “I can’t… I won’t touch you when you’re like this.”
He pushed himself back, putting a few precious inches of space between your bodies. His hands found yours, peeling them from his shirt and holding them tightly. His voice was rough, filled with a struggle you could feel in his trembling fingers. “You need to rest.”
You whimpered in protest, but he was already guiding you, firmly but gently, to your bed. He sat you down, knelt to slip your shoes off, and pulled the covers over you. He was a blur of efficient, tender motion. He disappeared into your kitchenette and returned with a glass of cold water, placing it on your nightstand.
“Please,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep and desire. “Stay.”
He crouched down beside the bed, bringing his face level with yours. In the dim light, his eyes were pools of dark, conflicted emotion. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips were soft, warm, and lingered for a long, aching moment.
“Goodnight,” he breathed against your skin. He gave your hand one final squeeze, then stood.
He gave you one last, long look—a look that held all the heat of the kiss, all the promise of what could have been, and all the frustrating, honorable restraint that had stopped it. Then he turned and walked out, closing your door with a soft, definitive click.
You lay there, the ghost of his lips on yours, the scent of his coat still clinging to you. You smiled into the darkness, a wide, giddy, teenager-in-love smile. You closed your eyes, hoping, praying, that the dreams would bring him back to you.
The walk back to his own apartment felt like moving through water. Young-il’s mind was a beautiful, chaotic mess. The soft weight of you in his arms, the taste of wine and surrender on your lips, the way your body had melted into his against the wall—it was all there, playing on a loop behind his eyes. He fumbled his key into the lock, the metal cool against his still-tingling fingers.
The scent of cigarette smoke hit him first, sharp and acrid, cutting through the lingering ghost of your perfume on his coat.
Inho was sprawled on the dark sofa, one arm flung over the back, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He didn’t look up as Young-il shut the door, just took a slow drag, the tip glowing bright in the dim living room light.
“You’re back early,” Inho observed, his voice a lazy drawl. “I was betting on at least another hour. Maybe two.” He finally turned his head, his sharp eyes sweeping over his brother. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. “Well, well. Look at you.”
Young-il frowned, hanging his coat on the peg by the door with deliberate care. “Look at me what?”
“You’re blushing,” Inho chuckled, the sound low and full of amusement. “Like a ten-year-old who just held hands behind the school. What happened? Did she give you a peck on the cheek? A chaste little goodnight kiss?”
Young-il felt the heat in his cheeks intensify. He walked to the kitchen, needing the barrier of the counter between them. He poured himself a glass of water, his movements precise. “It was a nice evening. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” Inho echoed, disbelief dripping from the words. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood, padding barefoot into the kitchen. He leaned against the opposite counter, crossing his arms. His gaze was a physical weight. “I saw her this morning, you know. Jogging. All flushed and breathless. We had coffee.”
Young-il’s hand tightened around his glass. He kept his voice even. “I know. She mentioned it.”
“Did she?” Inho’s smirk widened.
“Did she mention what I said? That I want to see what happens when she stops being so polite?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “She liked it, hyung. She got that look. The one where she’s trying so hard not to show how much she’s feeling. I know that look now.”
A flare of something hot and possessive shot through Young-il’s chest. It was unfamiliar, unsettling. He took a slow sip of water, using the glass to hide his expression. “She’s not a game, Inho.”
“Everything’s a game,” Inho countered, his tone light but his eyes serious. “You just prefer the ones with more rules. I like the ones where you make them up as you go.” He pushed off the counter and moved closer, circling around to Young-il’s side. “So. Did you make your move? Or did you just talk about books and hold the door for her?”
Young-il stayed silent, staring into his water.
Inho let out a soft, incredulous laugh.
“You did. You actually kissed her. I can smell it on you. Her lipstick. That cheap wine from the Italian place on the corner.” He shook his head, a strange mix of admiration and mockery in his expression. “My gentle, honorable brother. And then you walked away, didn’t you? Because she had a few glasses. Because it wasn’t proper.”
“She was intoxicated,” Young-il said, the defense sounding weak even to his own ears.
“She was happy,” Inho corrected. “And she wanted you. And you left her alone in her bed, dreaming about what you almost did.” He clucked his tongue. “A missed opportunity, hyung. A big one.”
The words needled under Young-il’s skin.
He’d replayed the moment he pulled away a hundred times in the three minutes it took to walk home. The feel of her, pliant and eager against him.
The little sound she made.
The way her hands clutched at him, as if she never wanted to let go. His own body, screaming at him to stay, to lay her down and learn every curve, every sigh.
“It was the right thing to do,” he said, but the conviction had faded.
“Was it?” Inho was right in front of him now, inches away. His identical face held none of Young-il’s gentle restraint. It was all sharp angles and playful danger. “Or was it the safe thing? The thing that lets you keep your distance, so you don’t have to risk actually wanting something?”
Young-il met his brother’s gaze.
The familiar challenge was there, but underneath it, he saw something else.
Inho was watching him, waiting to see what he’d do next. Testing him.
“Why do you care?” Young-il asked quietly.
Inho’s smile turned wicked. “Because she’s interesting. And because you’re interesting when you’re like this. All… flustered.” He reached out and poked Young-il in the center of his chest, right over the frantic heartbeat. “You feel that? That’s not from talking about urban semiotics, brother. That’s from having a beautiful woman under your hands and walking away. That’s frustration.”
Young-il swatted his hand away, a rare flash of irritation breaking through. “Stop it.”
“Or what?” Inho’s eyebrows rose, delighted by the reaction. He took a step back, his hands going to his hips. “Look. I’ll make this simple. You had your date. You had your kiss. You played the gentleman.” He shrugged, the motion fluid and careless. “My turn.”
The words landed like a physical blow. “What?”
“You heard me. If you’re not going to do anything about it—if you’re just going to pine and blush and write her poetry in your head—then I will. I already started. She already knows what I want. And part of her wants it, too. I saw it in her eyes this morning.” Inho’s voice was casual, as if discussing the weather. “She’s caught between us, hyung. The calm water and the current. And currents are more fun to swim in.”
The image was immediate and visceral: Inho, with his confident smirk and dangerous charm, standing at your door.
Leaning in. His methods were not gentle. They were direct, thrilling, overwhelming.
And a cold, sick dread pooled in Young-il’s stomach at the thought of you responding to it. Of you choosing that.
“You can’t,” Young-il said, the words coming out tighter than he intended.
“I can,” Inho said, his smile never faltering. “And I will. Unless you decide you’re actually in this. Not just in the idea of it. In the messy, complicated, wanting part of it.” He leaned in again, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more intimidating than a shout. “So what’s it going to be? Are you going to keep being the good neighbor who helps with boxes? Or are you going to be the man who makes her forget her own name?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
He just winked—that same devastating, infuriating wink—and turned, walking back toward the sofa. He picked up his pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and lit it, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp, satisfied features.
Young-il stood frozen in the kitchen, the empty glass cold in his hand. The warmth from your kiss was gone, replaced by a chilling realization.
The game had changed. It was no longer about a slow, gentle courtship. It was a competition.
And his brother had just declared war.
