“You loved it.”
“More than I should have.”
They broke apart, panting, flushed, amused—charged like live wire tucked under skin.
??????
They didn’t speak much while they ate—just glances, shared smirks, knees bumping under the table. Haneul stole bites from Seungho’s plate and pretended it was part of the ritual. Seungho rolled his eyes but didn’t stop him.
Later, by the door, it felt colder. The sunlight cut sharper. Their jackets were on, shoes laced, the city beginning to hum.
Seungho pulled Haneul’s scarf tight, adjusting it like a soldier tightening armor.
Haneul rolled his eyes but let him.
“Meeting’s at six. Velvet after. You’d already be there?”
“I’m the birthday boy, skyscraper. I’ll own that party.”
Seungho lifted a brow.
“And after?”
“Somewhere special, you said.”
“The most special,” he said quieter now. “No press. No schedule. Just us.”
Haneul snorted, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Sappy.”
“You love it.”
“Shut up,” Haneul muttered, but there was no heat in it—only fondness, a flicker of nervous joy.
Then he stepped forward and pulled Seungho into a kiss—slow, lingering, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat like he wanted to hold that exact second hostage.
“You act like a stern daddy sometimes,” he mumbled against his lips.
“And you act like a brat.”
“Balance.” It was light, playful, but beneath it something trembled—a note gone sharp and aching.
Haneul turned toward the door, grabbed the handle, paused, and looked back.
“Don’t forget me tonight.”
It should have been a joke. It almost was.
But it landed like something else. Something older.
Seungho held his gaze and said, quiet and certain, “Not even if I died.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
??????
The club breathed like something alive.
