“Careful, ahjussi,” he murmured, voice sugar-laced acid. “This cabin's not soundproof.”
Silence dropped like a curtain.
Haneul leaned back in his seat, smug and stormy. “Can’t take me anywhere,” he muttered, shoving his earphones back in. His hands were still trembling, just slightly. He folded them into his lap like he was trying to hide the quake.
Outside the window, the sea grew visible—vast and glinting like a sheet of breathless sky.
Haneul scrunched his nose suddenly.
“…What is that smell?”
Seungho blinked, startled. “What smell?”
“That… briny, wet, fishy something.”
A pause.
“We’re still in the air,” Seungho said. “You’re not actually smelling anything. You’re just anticipating.”
Haneul muttered, “Same thing. My body knows.”
Then, under his breath, with no real venom:
“Gross.”
??????
The hotel was the kind of place that reeked of wealth—not luxury. Not ease. Wealth.
Clean marble floors. Polished brass elevators. Concierge staff dressed sharper than most CEOs. Everyone moved like they were used to guests worth entire market caps.
Seungho walked like he belonged.
Haneul walked like he dared someone to say otherwise.
They drew glances the moment they stepped through the sliding glass doors—one in tailored black, the other in ripped jeans and a hoodie streaked with dry paint and attitude. Luggage in one hand, keycard in the other, Seungho didn’t even blink when the front desk clerk hesitated, eyes flicking to Haneul.
“Mr. Yeol, your executive suite is ready.”
“Good.”
They took the elevator in silence.
The doors closed. Elevator music chirped.
“You know,” Haneul muttered, arms crossed, “the smell’s even worse here. Salt and rotting seaweed. Like something crawled out to die.”
Seungho let out a short breath—something between a sigh and a stifled laugh. “It’s called ocean air, Sky.”
“It’s called mold in a wig.”
The elevator dinged.
Their suite was a top-floor expanse of soft lighting and soundless air conditioning. Two bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the rocky shoreline where wind-stripped pine trees clung to the edge like old ghosts. The bed was made up in navy and cream. There were candles on the minibar. A chilled bottle of wine waiting on the table.
None of that mattered.
Because Haneul dropped his duffel bag by the door, yawned loudly—and then noticed the hanging bag on the closet rail.
