“What’s this?”
Seungho didn’t answer.
Just unzipped it.
Inside: a pale ash-grey suit, lightweight and cut to absolute precision. Underneath, a soft beige dress shirt, collar lined subtly in blue. A pair of cufflinks shaped like fox tails—glinting silver with a single black gem in each. No tie.
The color drained from Haneul’s face. “No. No no no. I’m not gonna wear that.”
“You have to come to the dinner.”
“You didn’t say I had to wear that.”
Seungho leaned against the dresser, calm as fire waiting for fuel. “You said I couldn’t take the lead, remember? So I did. I packed you the damn thing myself.”
“You snuck into my measurements?”
“You sleep like a corpse.”
Haneul made a strangled noise—half-howl, half-bark of disbelief. “Seungho. I swear to every overpriced lantern in this suite—”
“You’ll look beautiful.”
That silenced him.
Just for a beat.
Then—
“I always look beautiful, skyscraper. That’s not the point!”
But Seungho was already walking forward, hanging the jacket carefully on a hook, tugging the shirt from the hanger with careful fingers.
“Shower. Now. You’ve got seaweed in your attitude and Fanta on your soul.”
“I hate you.”
“You say that a lot.”
“I mean it.”
“No you don’t.”
Haneul growled something unintelligible, stomped off toward the bathroom, and slammed the door.
Seungho grinned to himself.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door flew open with a bang.
Haneul stood on the bathroom threshold, damp from head to toe. His hair was wet—half combed, half wild—and his towel was barely hanging on by a thread. His bare chest gleamed withpost-shower heat, a few droplets running down his collarbone like they had somewhere to be.
“Skyscraper,” he barked. “I can’t get into the pants.”
Seungho looked up from where he’d been buttoning his own cuffs. Froze.
“You… what?”
“They’re cursed.” Haneul yanked the door wider, stomped out still half-naked, towel trailing like a flag of defeat. “I think rich people clothes fight back. They bit me.”
