Haneul crawled closer, pantherlike, a wine-buzzed beast in stolen silk. His knee pressed Seungho’s thigh, pickled radish in one hand, eyes glowing.
“Not if you get me more rice cakes,” Haneul whispered, chirping it like a godling offering a flower—except it was a threat, a vow, a glowing demand.
His knees started crackling with frost. Not enough to hurt, just enough to warn: I’m waking up. Choose your violence carefully.
Then—Haneul extended a chopstick. Deadpan. Ceremonial. Like it was a sacred blade.
He gripped his own like a duelist in a snow-drenched courtyard, posture immaculate, core flaring just enough, hair tousled from war and radishes.
“Do you wanna practicenow? Stabbing I mean” His voice was sweet. His smile was lethal. He had never looked more beautiful.
He twirled the chopstick once. “Eyes are off bounds.” He paused, head tilting, lips curling. “But everything else? Fair game.”
Seungho took the stick. Slow. Deliberate. The second their fingers brushed, there was a spark—no magic, just that living, hungry thing between them.
He twirled his own, lifted a brow. “…You sure you want to do this?” Voice low, nearly a purr.
Haneul dropped into a crouch, every inch a frostborn beast. “Try me, lava brain.”
They circled. On their knees. Chopsticks in hand. Haneul’s core pulsed, Seungho’s simmered. No flames, no explosions—just them, a battlefield of silk and laughter.
Feint. Parry. Lunge. Twist.
“Too slow, old man—” Haneul cackled, a perfect menace.
Seungho flicked his wrist; Haneul yelped, swiped at his ribs; Seungho caught his hand. Haneul squirmed, tried to bite him, laughing all the while.
“CHEATER!” Haneul shrieked.
Seungho twisted Haneul’s chopstick free, pinned his arms. Haneul thrashed—half-drunk, fully riled, a storm with teeth.
“You said eyes off bounds!” Haneul protested.
“I didn’t touch your eyes.”
“You touched my soul!”
“I own your soul—”
And then—freeze.
Chest heaving. Hands locked. Faces inches apart. A single drop of sweat—or melted frost—on Haneul’s temple. One chopstick half-snapped, the other crushed in Seungho’s palm. Breathless. Wide-eyed. Laughing.
“…Let’s make this our wedding game,” Seungho murmured, hoarse.
Haneul didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk, didn’t laugh. He flickered—not his core, him, like a candle in the wind, a heartbeat afraid of itself.
His wide eyes traced Seungho’s face, memorizing it as if under duress. His toes curled in, bracing for recoil, as if his own feelings might explode before Seungho did.
Seungho held completely still. Not even his breath moved.
Then Haneul moved. A sharp lean forward—decisive, not careless, not violent. His lips touched Seungho’s. Not a kiss. Not really. Just—contact. A tremble. A bird landing for the briefest heartbeat on the edge of a flame.
Barely there. Soft. Open-eyed. Real.
Then gone. Haneul retreated—not far, just enough. His head dropped. He stared, dead silent, like he’d just committed a crime against the gods and was waiting for thunder.
His ears were on fire. His braid slipped forward, as if trying to hide his neck. His fists clenched in his lap. He was breathing through his nose, hard enough that Seungho could feel it in his bones.
