“You wore those to brunch with my brother.”
“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to seduce multiple branches of the Yeol family tree?”
Seungho crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed him by the waist, and kissed the madness out of his mouth.
Haneul melted for half a second, lips parting in instinct.
Then: “Waaaait—I haven’t found my star sticker yet!”
Seungho blinked. “Your what?”
“The little golden one. It goes right here—” Haneul pointed to his cheekbone. “It brings balance to the chaos. And mild terror to the patriarchy.”
“You don’t need a sticker.”
“I always need my sticker. I’m a delicate blossom of well-accessorized defiance.
“Come here, you menace,” Seungho growled, and kissed him again, deeper, hand cradling the back of his neck.
Haneul melted for real this time. Leaned into it. Grabbed his collar with one ink-smudged hand and tugged. “You know, this could’ve been a stay-in dinner.”
Seungho smiled against his mouth. “Not after what you did to the room.”
“Touché.”
??????
They left the hotel thirty minutes later.
Seungho looked as always: sharp, elegant, carved from restraint. Navy suit. Silver watch. Firelight in his eyes.
And Haneul—
Well.
He was art.
A walking contradiction of glitter, linen, and sin. His shirt billowed like a pirate in a boy band. His duck socks peeked out between ankle pants and dangerously expensive loafers.
Heads turned.
An old woman blessed herself.
A bellhop nearly walked into a fountain.
Seungho offered his arm without flinching.
And when Haneul took it, smug and glowing like a deity of joyful chaos, Seungho leaned close and whispered:
“Next time, I’m picking your outfit.”
“Sure,” Haneul said, winking. “If I can pick your underwear.”
Seungho didn’t reply.
But the tips of his ears went pink.
??????
