It was the feeling.
Something about being broken in a way that fit. About finding someone who didn’t flinch at the fractures. A raw kind of resonance that lived somewhere between a plea and a vow.
Haneul turned, eyebrows raised. “You know this song?”
Seungho shook his head, smiling faintly. “Should I?”
“No,” Haneul said. “But it sounds like you.”
Seungho huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like someone with a missing piece. Pretending not to notice.”
Seungho tilted his head. “And you think you fit there?”
Haneul’s smile was slow. Ferocious. Glinting.
“I know I do.”
Then—he held out a hand.
“Dance with me.”
Seungho blinked. “Here?”
“Scared, skyscraper?”
The flush was instant, golden-pink under Seungho’s collar. But he didn’t back down. Just set down his bottle and stood—slow, deliberate, straightening to full height.
“You’re the worst influence I’ve ever met.”
Haneul grinned. “You need one.”
They moved together under the colored lights.
Awkward, at first. Uncoordinated. Haneul bounced too fast, too wild. Seungho too stiff, too deliberate.
But then—
Then Seungho let go.
Let the musicwrap around him like mist. Let Haneul’s laughter tug him loose. Let the rhythm become their secret, the movement of two people who’d collided in every possible way except this.
They spun.
They bumped hips.
Haneul twirled and almost tripped, and Seungho caught him with a muttered curse and a smile he didn’t know he still had in him.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m alive,” Haneul corrected. “Big difference.”
And then—softly, like it wasn’t a joke:
“I didn’t think I’d get to do this. Ever. Not with someone like you.”
Seungho went still.
