“Which parts?” Haneul asked, tone suddenly very busy with the eggs.
“You. The lights. Something about cake being mandatory for moral integrity.”
“And?”
Seungho hesitated. Then said, quietly, “I remember your hand in my hair.”
Haneul froze.
Then—very slowly—resumed stirring.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “you were drunk and heavy and whiny and I’m pathologically kind.”
Seungho didn’t argue.
He just stepped forward, touched the edge of the counter, and said, “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve let me sleep it off alone.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t.”
“Nope.”
A beat.
“Why?”
Haneul shrugged. “Guess I like feeding strays.”
Seungho raised an eyebrow. “Is that what I am?”
“No,” Haneul said, turning toward him now, the full force of his morning chaos trained on Seungho like a sunbeam through stained glass. “You’re a skyscraper with control issues, pathological silence, and a hero complex the size of Busan, who dies a little inside every time someone leaves a coffee cup out of place because it reminds you you’re not actually needed”
Seungho blinked.
“…Shut up.”
“You’re the one who curled into me,” Haneul said, flipping the pancake like it had personally offended him. “Like a sad Victorian orphan.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“I’m stunning.”
“Debatable.”
“Careful. You’re one word away from me adding chili paste to your pancakes.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would. Grown man decisions for a grown man.”
Seungho’s eyes flicked to him, a slow up-and-down scan he couldn’t stop in time.
“You’re not a boy,” he said finally.
