A Resolute Heart

The bus rolled steadily along the narrow coastal road, the afternoon sun casting soft golden slants of light across the windows. Outside, the ocean glimmered in peaceful silence, its waves lazily kissing the shoreline. Seagulls drifted overhead in unhurried arcs, their cries distant and dreamlike, while small fishing boats bobbed gently on the water like quiet spectators to the passing world.

Inside, Seung-joon sat still, his body swaying slightly with each turn in the road. He felt emotionally hollow. Despite his effort to muster a smile when Min-jun settled beside him, a quiet void gnawed at the edges of his heart.

As the bus turned inland, the coastline slowly gave way to gentle hills and open stretches of countryside. Sun-dappled fields passed by in blurs of green and gold, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or grazing cattle beneath wide, blue skies.

Seung-joon could feel Min-jun's gaze on him—a quiet, steady warmth that pressed softly against his frayed composure. But the deeper the bus moved into the hush of rural calm, the heavier his exhaustion grew.

All he wanted was to rest his head on Min-jun's shoulder, to close his eyes against the hum of tires on asphalt and let the world drift away for just a while—just long enough to feel whole again.

Seung-joon had never imagined himself as someone who could fall so deeply in love. Yet Min-jun had entered his life like a summer breeze—gentle, warm, and unannounced—leaving behind a sweetness that lingered in Seung-joon's heart long after the moment had passed.

During the short span of the trip, Seung-joon had seen just how effortlessly Min-jun fit in. His natural charm, paired with a disarming sense of humor, made him the center of gravity wherever he went. Laughter always followed him—light, infectious, and unforced. The club members, even the most reserved among them, were drawn to his presence like moths to flame.

The girls especially seemed infatuated. They hovered near him during tasks, eager to lend a hand or simply be close. Some of them had even taken to tugging at his cheeks, giggling at the way his soft, babyish expressions contrasted with his composed demeanor. Min-jun would laugh with them, his wide, round eyes shining with joy—and each time, Seung-joon's chest ached with a tender, inexplicable longing.

He wasn't sure what he envied more—their freedom to touch Min-jun so casually or Min-jun's ability to smile so openly.

As the last day drew to a close, the golden light of late afternoon cast long shadows across the resort grounds, stretching over suitcases and tired laughter. Seung-joon stood slightly apart from the crowd, quietly observing.

No matter how chaotic the day had been, no matter how many hands reached for Min-jun's attention, Seung-joon noticed a pattern—Min-jun always circled back to him. Like a moth to a flame, or more tenderly, like a compass pulled to its true north, Min-jun gravitated toward him with an ease that defied logic. Whether it was a shared glance across the crowd, a word whispered during cleanup, or simply brushing past him with an apologetic smile, Min-jun was always there—close.

Seung-joon found himself caught in the eye of a storm of emotions. He didn't know what to feel anymore—joy, confusion, guilt, longing—they all swirled together, indistinguishable from the dull throb that had lodged itself behind his eyes. His body felt numb, and his heart had grown so quiet it was almost unrecognizable.

And yet, through the fog of it all, his mind kept returning to one thing: the way Min-jun had never once left his side. From the moment they woke to the subtle exchanges between club activities, Min-jun had been there—offering water, adjusting his jacket, checking on him with those warm, expressive eyes that seemed to say everything Seung-joon didn't know how to voice.

Min-jun wasn't just near.

He was present.

And in that quiet presence, Seung-joon felt the fragile thread of his composure stretching thinner by the hour.

Seung-joon had been fighting hard to shake off the gut-wrenching emotions left in the wake of the nightmare, but they lingered like shadows at the edge of his vision. Every now and then, brief moments would surge forward—phantom flashes of fear and helplessness—blurring the boundary between dream and waking life. Each one left him unnerved, his sense of reality slightly askew, like a compass spun too fast to settle.

The ride back was cloaked in quiet. Neither he nor Min-jun spoke much, each of them drifting through their own thoughts as the bus rumbled along the winding roads. Outside, the sky had shifted to a pale blue, clouds trailing lazily above open countryside that slowly gave way to rolling green hills. The hills stood like a painting in motion, the rhythmic sound of tires over asphalt lulling some of the students into naps.

But as they neared Seung-joon's hometown, a surprising calm began to seep into him. The heavy feeling that had clung to his chest for days began to lift, carried away by the comfort of familiarity. The narrow roads, the distant hills, the soft scent of brine on the breeze—each detail soothed something inside him.

He took a deep, quiet breath and turned to glance at Min-jun.

The sight that met his eyes felt like the sun after a storm: Min-jun laughing gently, handing out snacks to the others with that same open-hearted charm Seung-joon had come to adore. The soft curve of Min-jun's smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners—it sparked something bright in Seung-joon's chest.

For the first time in what felt like forever, happiness bloomed again. Not loud or sudden, but warm and quiet—like the first light of dawn creeping into a long-dark room.

As the bus began to slow, winding its way through familiar streets, Seung-joon's eyes instinctively searched for the place he called home—the quiet, sun-warmed house nestled behind a low stone wall and a flowering dogwood tree. It was more than a residence; it was where he'd been given a second chance at family, at belonging.

The sight of it brought a tightness to his chest, but it wasn't pain—it was something softer, more complex. As the rooftops blurred past and the bus neared his stop, a strange yet undeniable thought crept into his heart: somehow, Min-jun already felt like part of that home.

A quiet image surfaced—his adoptive father's face, calm and kind, eyes filled with that gentle light he always reserved for Seung-joon. 

Seung-joon closed his eyes briefly, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Appa… what would you do if you were me?

The question lingered in the quiet space of his heart. And then, as though his father's warmth still lived inside him, something stirred—a feeling so steady and sure, it didn't need to be spoken aloud. His chest warmed, the answer not in words but in certainty.

He already knew.

"Home," Seung-joon said softly, pointing toward the modest house tucked beneath the gentle shade of late afternoon trees. The light hit the rooftops just right, casting golden highlights along the edges like the frame of a cherished memory. As he glanced at Min-jun, he caught a glimmer in those warm brown eyes—a spark of joy, subtle but unmistakable.

That's right, he thought. Even if I'm not meant to stay in your future, I can't bring myself to rob you of the happiness you feel now. It's not my right.

Min-jun's expression shifted as the bus slowed to a stop—a quiet sadness pulling at the corners of his lips. Sensing it, Seung-joon reached out and took Min-jun's hand, feigning the need for balance as he stood. But deep inside, he simply didn't want to let go. Not yet.

Outside, Tae-jon and Tae-min stood waiting, their postures relaxed but attentive. Seung-joon stepped down into the fading sunlight, the familiar scent of his neighborhood wrapping around him like a memory. Something within him stirred—the numbness that had weighed on him for days began to lift, piece by piece.

He turned back once more, his hand rising in a quiet wave. Min-jun sat on his seat, watching him with eyes full of emotion—longing, concern, and hope. The sight sent a tender ache through Seung-joon's chest.

I'll see you on Monday, Han-ah, he thought, his heart whispering a promise. Wait for me.

Seung-joon stood still for a moment, watching as the bus turned the corner and vanished from view, the distant hum of its engine fading into the calm afternoon air. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, and the lingering warmth of Min-jun's hand still clung faintly to his own.

He turned at last and began walking beside his brothers. Their voices surrounded him—questions, observations, playful jabs—but he replied on autopilot, his words distant and mechanical. His mind was far from the quiet street they strolled down.

It remained with Min-jun—on the boy who had appeared like a flicker of sunlight in a long, grey season. A boy who had looked at him with so much sincerity, who had unknowingly breathed life into places in Seung-joon's heart he hadn't even realized were dormant.

What have you done to me, Han Min-jun? he wondered silently, his lips curving into a faint, bittersweet smile.