A pause. Then, thumb pressing against the paper’s seam, as if it might bleed truth— “Not yet.”
??????
That night, Seungho stood shirtless in the bathroom, steam curling around his spine. His body was inked in scars no one ever touched, carved by training, by corporate war, by silence.
He stared at himself. The way his shoulder rolled when he raised his arm. The way the muscle pulled when he adjusted the tie — yes, still red, still precise.
But the knot didn’t sit right.
He loosened it. Re-tied it. Again. Still wrong.
Sleep refused him. Again.
The sheets were cold. The bed was too wide. He lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling, imagining phantom weight—a body barely 5'7", all lean muscles and scowl, a voice that would snarl instead of purr, bite instead of beg. He imagined frost-gloved fingers on his chest, pushing, punching, clawing until their bruises left something real behind.
He imagined a braid brushing his skin as the weight settled over his lap, not seduction—never that—but curiosity. Testing. Testing his patience, his restraint, his sanity.
He shifted.
The tie lay crumpled across the armchair. Red. Always red.
He imagined it looped around that throat.
Not to bind. To remind.
That someone, somewhere, still bore fire. Still waited.
He rose before dawn. The snow was still falling.
??????
Chapter 10 –Pretty Things Left Out in the Cold
In Velvet Eclipse, every surface had been slathered with glittering lies: garlands looped over velvet booths, mistletoe dangling above the bar where no one looked up, and a discount Santa with mirrored sunglasses grinding to synth-pop near the VIP booths.
Junseo, already flushed from his third free cocktail, leaned over the bar and shouted through the noise, “Santa’s a dom this year. He said you’ve been a bad fucking fox.”
Haneul didn’t laugh. He never did.
He adjusted the sheer black mesh shirt that clung to his narrow frame like frostbite, the silver stars stitched across it catching just enough light to look deliberate. His collarbones flashed each time he turned. His eyeliner was silver, sharp enough to slice. And it had. Some rich patron had spilled his drink just to get closer. Haneul had smiled, just barely, and whispered something about “acid in the eyes” before walking away.
Tonight, he wasn’t trying to be wanted. He was trying to be sharp enough not to be touched.
He failed anyway.
Minseok found him near the back hallway, far from the main stage, where the music didn’t quite reach and the shadows softened.
Haneul felt him before he saw him. A shift in the air. A tightening of breath.
“Busy tonight?” Minseokasked, voice too smooth, too calm. Dressed in designer charcoal layers, like he was trying to look unapproachable. His hands, though—those were always familiar.
“No more than usual.”
“I brought something.”
He reached into his coat. Pulled out a box. Small. Velvet.
Gold glinted inside—heavy chain, too ornate for Haneul’s angular throat. A small square pendant, faceted with green glass, emerald-like but gaudy. It looked expensive. It looked wrong.
