“Occupational hazard,” Haneul replied, stirring with extra aggression. “You should see the other guy. Six-year-old prodigy. Elbowed me at full velocity. I spun so hard I lost my balance and dignity simultaneously.”
“Did you go skating after college?”
Seungho's voice had dropped by degrees.
“With whom?”
He was drying, but not softening.
That subtle burn beneath his collarbone was not jealousy.
It was something older. Something territorial.
Something that knew what it felt like to lose.
Haneul didn’t even flinch.
“With a very sweet boy named Hyunwoo who said I look like an anime villain and tried to guess my tragic backstory. Don’t worry—I only let him carry my bag. He had zero chance. Soft hands. Terrible balance. Obviously not into trauma.”
Seungho’s hands clenched.
Then relaxed.
Then found their purpose.
He walked the distance in three slow steps, eyes unreadable, rain still glistening on his coat cuffs. He reached out—hands firm on the back of Haneul’s thighs—and lifted him onto the kitchen counter like he weighed nothing at all.
The spoon clattered into the pot.
Haneul blinked, startled, flushed. Grinning.
“Is this about the boy,” he asked, “or the scratch?”
Seungho’s eyes didn’t waver.
“Yes.”
Then he kissed him.
Not a greeting. A claim. A brand. A curse and a cure.
It started rough—hot and unyielding, the kind of kiss that knew the taste of absence and had never forgiven it. His hand curled into Haneul’s nape, fingers tugging slow and hard. The other drifted down to the edge of the shirt hem—half-stolen, half-open, barely covering the skin he’d already memorized but was always hungry to see again.
Haneul gasped.
“The curry—”
“Let it burn.”
He tasted like garlic and spice and something rain-slicked and sacred.
When Haneul tried to bite him—playfully, rebelliously—Seungho bit back harder, not enough to hurt but enough to silence. His hands never fumbled. Just moved with intent—the slow undoing of buttons, the slide of wet braid across skin, the subtle shift of pressure that pinned Haneul in place without caging him.
“You’re impossible,” Haneul whispered against his mouth, dazed.
“I know.”
“I was making dinner.”
