Yul exhaled. Walked toward the bar cabinet. Poured something clear into a cut-glass tumbler. Sipped. Leaned against the counter.
His next words were quieter, but they sank deeper.
“Do you think this place survives because of glitter and backflips? I’ve kept this club running for ten years. You know how?”
No answer.
“I know who to let burn,” he said calmly. “And who to protect. Tonight, I protected both of you. You’ll thank me later.”
Junseo looked chastened. Haneul… less so, but still, something in him softened.
And then Junseo broke the silence again, voice lower, trembling on the edge of vulnerable, looking at Haneul.
“You’re always protecting people like a wolf,” he muttered. “But every time someone tries to love you back, you just—fucking bite them.”
Haneul blinked. It didn’t land immediately, but when it did, it hit like a gut punch. His breath caught. His shoulders dropped a fraction. His fingers curled around the edge of the velvet cushion like claws digging into snow.
“I didn’t ask you to love me,” he whispered.
“No. You just expect us to survive you.”
Another silence. Long and icy.
Yul poured himself another drink. Then, almost as an afterthought, he handed a bottle of something amber to Haneul—no words, no judgment, just… an anchor.
Haneul didn’t say thank you, he took it, though, and drank.
And when Junseo left the room, slamming the door softly behind him, Haneul didn’t follow.
He just sat there. Silent.
Heavy.
Head tilted back against the velvet. Eyes on the ceiling like it held answers in its cracks.
Outside, the bass resumed its slow, seductive thump. Inside, the silence stayed.
Yul didn’t press him. Just handed over the bottle—a silent olive branch wrapped in amber—and leaned back in his chair like this entire storm was weather he’d seen before.
Haneul took it with a snarl that didn’t reach his eyes.
Didn’t say thank you. Didn’t say anything at all.
He pulled his coat on like armor, tugging it over one shoulder, then the other, fingers trembling with cold or rage or something too tangled to name. His braid swung wildly as he turned, still half-loose from the fight, tokens gleaming under the light. His boots scuffed the hallway like insults as he left without a glance or a goodbye, as usual.
The door shut behind him with a sound too soft for all the noise in his chest.
??????
The walk home was long.
Every step hissed with irritation. The streetlight glare made him wince. His jacket didn’t close right. His ribs ached, his braid kept snagging on the collar, and there was glitter still clinging to his jaw like ash that wouldn’t come off.
He cursed Seungho three times under his breath.
Once for offering a ride.
Once for standing still like a goddamn statue while the room burned.
