Every burner was occupied. Plates stacked high. Oil spatters marked the counters like paint thrown in passion. There were at least three types of pancakes being flipped, something frying in sesame oil, a pile of eggs cooling in a metal bowl, and one very chaotic rice cooker that had been forced into overtime.
And at the center of it all—
Haneul.
Hair damp, braid glinting with the last light of sunrise. Boxers, yes. But also a black tank half-tucked and clingy with sweat. A new apron that read “I bite harder than I cook.”, loose at the waist. Shoulders sharp. Calves tight. The fluid line of someone who was not a boy but a storm with opinions and a pan.
He was masculine. Pretty. Lethal. Half-fae, half feral. Glowing without trying.
He was barefoot, humming, slapping batter into shape with the reckless joy of someone who didn’t know shame existed.
Heturned when he heard footsteps.
Grinned like the god of mischief catching fire in the temple.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Look who decided to wake up after being my free therapy client slash weighted blanket.”
Seungho leaned against the doorframe, blinking at the array of dishes. “What… is all this.”
“Breakfast.”
“For a battalion?”
“For a mountain who can’t process feelings without protein.”
“This is… an ambush.”
“It’s breakfast,” Haneul replied. “You look like you were hit by three metaphysical trucks and a bottle of soju.”
Seungho grunted. “And whose fault is that.”
Haneul raised a spatula. “You drank. I merely refilled.”
“You drugged me with sincerity.”
“You’re welcome.”
Seungho crossed his arms. “You don’t even live here, technically.”
“I’ve been living here for months. I pay rent, do your dishes and buy your groceries.”
“You sleep in my closet.”
“And now your bed,” Haneul said brightly, “but only because you insisted on collapsing in my arms like a medieval widow with consumption.”
Seungho opened his mouth, then closed it. He watched Haneul spin, crack another egg with one hand, toss green onions into apan with the other, narrow hips swaying to some rhythm only he could hear.
It was… surreal. Domestic, almost. But not quiet. Never quiet with him.
Haneul was humming again—some improvised melody that sounded like a lullaby and a threat.
“I remember parts,” Seungho said, after a long silence.
Haneul glanced over his shoulder. “Parts?”
“Last night.”
The spatula paused.
