Best Friend X Swap

What did that mean?
Seo-eul’s lips parted before he flicked his gaze toward Su-gyeong’s oddly delicate expression. He was generous with Sa-heon, that much was true—but this didn’t sound like that kind of question. He rolled his eyes slightly, mentally replaying everything he had said so far.
And then—one particular word snagged.
His eyes sharpened with realization, and he straightened in his seat. The tension he had finally managed to shake off rose again from his fingertips. When he opened his mouth, his tone was noticeably stiffer than before.
“Well… yes. I admit I’m generous because we’re close, but… him being kind is also true. Honestly, that part has always made me upset. I think a lot of people misunderstand him. He looks a bit cold, so they don’t see he’s actually pretty harmless in many ways. He’s been like that since we were young, and I know that better than anyone…. So yeah, I guess there were moments where that upset me.”
It was pure sincerity—nothing to filter out.
Seo-eul had always been hurt by how easily Seo Sa-heon was misunderstood.
Even back when he was a civilian, Sa-heon was constantly pestered by attention. Then the instant he debuted as a model, rumors and gossip came pouring out as if that was the natural next step. There was no way Seo-eul didn’t know. He himself couldn’t stomach reading public opinion about him, yet he secretly clicked the report button on every malicious edited article and video involving Sa-heon, quietly upset beyond measure.
Until he quite literally collapsed.
He poured his heart into worrying over other people’s opinions—a thing the actual target barely cared about. Naturally, Sa-heon went ballistic. He didn’t care if people talked crap behind his back. But he had never imagined that Seo-eul—who usually trembled at the thought of the internet—had seen all of it.
Why the hell do you search that crap up, Lee Seo-eul.
Barely holding back the explosive profanity bubbling in his throat, this was the era when Sa-heon had learned a shred of patience.
Seo-eul couldn’t answer. There was no answer that would ever satisfy Sa-heon.
Instead, he just held the hand that pressed to his forehead.
Hoping he’d understand—there was at least one person who never misunderstood him.
From there it was Sa-heon’s turn for the madness in his eyes.
Even Yeom Gang-sik, their agency CEO, pleaded tearfully for him to let things go—but Sa-heon refused. The next day, he hired lawyers from a top-tier firm in bulk. If something could be solved with money, that was the easiest path. And thankfully, he had more than enough.
Thus began the era of lawsuits—merciless, uncompromising.
Forums overflowed with posts like “Wait, did I actually get sued??”
Then someone dropped the rumor that he was the youngest son of a chaebol family.
More rumors exploded, but Sa-heon responded by hiring even more lawyers.

Basically: let’s see who’s crazier. Let’s fight to the death and whoever collapses first is the loser.
And naturally, the losers were the fake-news spreaders with delusions oozing out of their pores.
They cried their eyes out and scribbled pathetic handwritten apologies: “Hello, I am so-and-so, I deeply regret that I…” “Please grant leniency…” But it was useless. His image couldn’t possibly get worse than it already had, and even if it could, Seo Sa-heon was the last person who would blink over it. His reply to those letters might as well have been: “Yeah. Don’t talk shit.”
This was how his nickname evolved from “wreck muse” → “wreck tow-truck man” → “wreck junkyard man.”
He didn’t just leave a mark on the lawsuit world—he became its godfather.
But he didn’t care about any of those titles.
While the wrecked tow-trucks were losing their minds and flooding legal forums, he was linking pinkies with Lee Seo-eul.
Just try looking at that stuff again. Try collapsing again, see what happens, he’d growl—but the way he gently swung their linked hands was adorable. He added a threat too: if he caught him, he’d read aloud every embarrassing fan-post ever written about Seo-eul on his fan café. Only then did Seo-eul nod in defeat.
Only after getting the answer he wanted did Sa-heon crumble.
With a sigh—still not letting go of his hand—he pressed his face into Seo-eul’s shoulder and muttered:
You know. I don’t care what they say. As long as you don’t misunderstand me, what’s the problem. Every time this happens I go insane. Seriously, I wish everyone except you would disappear…
The way he said it—it really did sound like he wanted the world to end.
Or maybe he just wanted everything erased except this one room…
Seo-eul, as always, couldn’t bring himself to scold him. He could only awkwardly pat his back. He never had any idea what kind of dark thoughts were running through the head of the man leaning on him.
In any case—after that, Seo-eul’s YouTube account was deleted for three reasons:
1. algorithm contamination
2. negative content detection
3. just use mine
He didn’t care much; his subscriptions had only been cooking channels and film reviews. They made a shared account, and for a while he was subjected to surprise inspections of his search history—but whatever. It had happened before; he often showed him first anyway.
Because Seo-eul knew.
He knew the roots of all of Sa-heon’s anxiety, worry, and over-the-top behavior.
In the end, he hated the rumors and gossip less than he hated seeing Seo-eul collapse over them. After that day, Seo-eul developed a condition where he couldn’t even type the letter S in the search bar if it related to Sa-heon. It didn’t stop overheard conversations, though.
The entertainment industry was always noisy—scandals and accidents exploding every other day. Even amidst that chaos, Sa-heon’s actions stood out. After his comet-like debut, he kept serving high-intensity dopamine to the public; it was harder to ignore him than to notice him.
Despite everything, his career only improved—almost suspiciously so. Had he saved a country in a past life? No, judging by his behavior, he sold a country and then saved it again.
Naturally, people talked. And it was no different on Seo-eul’s sets. He couldn’t exactly announce their relationship status, so he pretended not to hear. But as time passed, the speculation got more explicit—until that news dropped.
A two-shot of Seo Sa-heon and Lee Seo-eul.
When the photo was released by EasePatch and uploaded to Sa-heon’s own OnStar, everyone suddenly became cautious.
They were practically prenatal partners at this point; of course everyone tiptoed around the topic. But even as people avoided it, the whole thing always made Seo-eul feel… strange.
Just like now.
He focused again on Su-gyeong’s lips as they shaped the next question. The cameras stared with wide, red-glowing pupils.
[Q. What moment hurt you the most?]
“When he treats being misunderstood as normal. When he doesn’t correct anything and just says, ‘As long as the people who matter know the truth.’ Every time that happens, I feel helpless and upset. And he gets upset at me for being upset. He never reacts when it’s about himself.”
[Q. Then what kind of person is Seo Sa-heon, from his best friend’s perspective?]
“He can’t stand other people’s pain more than his own. At least the Sa-heon I know is like that. Actually… that’s one of the reasons I joined this program. I wanted people to see he’s a good person underneath.”
Of course, there was a bigger reason.
A certain someone’s stubborn—not-quite-stubborn—desire to finally shut down the public disbelief that Seo-eul and Seo Sa-heon were actually best friends. This whole ordeal had started because of that. But for Seo-eul, the reason he just said was more important. If he was going to do the show, he wanted at least something positive to come out of it.
He didn’t expect much.
He just hoped this show would quiet some of those absurd speculations around Sa-heon.
Some hatred came simply from not knowing a [N O V E L I G H T] person.
He hoped these two weeks could help with that.
He explained sincerely… and yet Su-gyeong’s expression was cycling through an entire face-changing performance in real time.
She nodded with heartfelt emotion—then suddenly drew a giant question mark. She flipped through her notes—then barely stifled laughter. When their eyes met, she forced a straight face, lips quivering.
He blinked, unsure what about his answer had caused this.
Su-gyeong cleared her throat.
“Uh, I’m so sorry to ruin this nice atmosphere, Seo-eul, but…”
[Q. I heard Sa-heon agreed to join the show because you threatened to end your friendship?]
“…What?”
A completely groundless bullet out of nowhere—and for the first time since the interview began, Seo-eul could only answer with a dumb, empty sound.