Ball's in Yourt Court 🌞 MarkHyuck [⏹]

This' the fault of mine though

Haechan was scheduled to begin classes the following evening.

But this morning the house was quiet—Sehun had gone to campus to handle dissertation meetings, and his schedule didn’t allow delays. So Haechan walked out alone, into the searing midday sun.

The suburban streets shimmered under the dry heat. Even the asphalt felt alive, exhaling warmth in waves. Haechan squinted against the brightness. He would be darker by the time he returned. He didn’t mind.

At least he didn’t have to cut through the chaos of downtown. Life in the outskirts came with its own complications—but not that kind.

He made his way toward a familiar corner shop, nestled under the shade of half-dead bougainvillea. The wooden door creaked under his hand—an old sound, oddly comforting.

"Haechan! Welcome. Where have you been?"

The voice hit him before his eyes could focus. Park Siyeon stood behind the counter, long hair tied loosely, her face lit with relief and nostalgia.

Her arms wrapped around him without hesitation. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Years of companionship didn’t vanish overnight. "I missed you so much," she murmured into his shoulder.

Haechan froze for a second. Then he let the moment wash over him, like sunlight through fog. “I missed you too, Park Siyeon.”

The hug broke with a snap. Distance. Control. He barely had time to ask "How’s school?" before she pinched his cheek, hard.

“Terrible. Like breathing with one lung.”

He rubbed the stinging skin, laughing. “You’ll adapt. We’ll still hang out on weekends.”

“That’s a promise.” Her tone shifted—practical now. “So, what do you want to buy?”

Haechan’s eyes swept the shelves, landing on a silver-packaged snack. “These.” He held up salty biscuits.

Siyeon arched a brow. “Since when do you eat anything that isn’t sweet?”

“I’m trying something.” His grin curled. “A Jung Joonyoung kimchi sandwich. With these.”

She recoiled playfully. “That sounds like culinary heresy. Even Joonyoung oppa said it was disgusting.”

“I want to try it anyway. Desperately.”

“Are you pregnant, Lee Donghyuck?”

The voice wasn’t hers.

Both teenagers turned toward the source.

A woman stood near the door—middle-aged, square-jawed, eyes like slate. Siyeon’s mother. The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

“Eomoni,” Haechan greeted, almost whispering. Something in her posture was off. Too rigid. Too direct.

She turned to her daughter, but her words aimed at him like arrows. “I hope you don’t keep friends who treat education like a joke, Siyeon. Or worse—think freedom means recklessness.”

“Eomma!” Siyeon’s voice cracked.

Her mother didn’t blink. “Go study. I’ll watch the store. You have finals.”

“But I just saw Haechan for the first time in—”

“Now.”

Siyeon sighed. Her fingers brushed Haechan’s wrist gently. “Bye.” Then she leaned close, lips near his ear. “Don’t worry. We’ll meet again.” Her smile flickered like a candle fighting the wind.

“Park Siyeon.” The warning cut like wire.

“I’m going.”

And then she was gone, leaving Haechan with a woman who stood as still as a statue—but whose eyes were very much alive.

“I want to know,” she said, arms folded. “How do you plan to enter university if you can't even commit to school?”

“I’m doing homeschooling, actually—”

“I didn’t ask for your explanation.”

Silence stretched across the shop like a noose. Haechan felt it tighten with every breath. He nodded faintly, reaching into his pocket.

“Six hundred twenty-five won.”

He handed over a thousand. “Keep the change,” he mumbled.

Then without another glance, he left the shop.

Outside, the light was no longer golden—it was harsh, clinical. He clutched the packet of biscuits as though it could anchor him. His feet dragged slightly on the asphalt.

They already talk like that outside school ... what about inside?

The shame didn’t scream. It whispered. It followed him like a second shadow.

He paused a moment outside the shop and looked back—not with longing, but calculation. A mental photograph. The angle of the awning. The scrape on the doorframe. The woman’s words.

Only a few lines. But enough to ruin a good day.

Still, he pushed forward.

There was a minimarket nearby. He needed kimchi.

And answers—though he wasn’t sure which would be easier to find.