“They—?”
Haneul held up the trousers, already half-wrestled onto his legs but twisted somehow around the thigh. The waistband was caught at an absurd angle, revealing both too much skin and too much attitude. His braid, barely pinned, fell down his back in wild damp loops. He looked like a Greek statue after a bar fight.
Seungho tried.
God, he really tried.
He cleared his throat. “You're supposed to unhook the inside clasp first.”
“Clasp?!” Haneul spun back toward the mirror. “Which demon of capitalism thought a clasp was necessary on pants?”
Seungho crossed the room, quiet and slow, and took the trousers gently from his hands. “Sit.”
“I’m not a toddler.”
“You’re a menace. Sit.”
Haneul sat.
Seungho knelt, guiding one leg, then the other. His fingers brushed skin—damp, hot, tension-laced. He tried not to linger.
Failed.
“Lift your hips.”
“Bossy.”
“Up.”
Haneul arched. Just a bit.
The trousers slid into place, sharp and perfect against the curve of his legs.
When Seungho looked up, Haneul was watching him. Lips parted. Breathing just a little too fast.
The space between them went still. Hot. Close.
Seungho stood, adjusting the waistband. “Shirt next.”
“You really gonna dress me like a doll?”
“If you were a doll, you’d come with a warning label.”
“‘Fragile. May bite.’”
Seungho’s hands paused at the collar.
“Exactly.”
They stood face to face now. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to ruin everything.
But they didn’t.
Instead, Seungho brushed Haneul’s hair back gently, twisted the braid up, and pinned it in place with quiet, deft fingers.
“You’re going to be the sharpest thing in that room.”
Haneul snorted. “Including the seafood knives?”
