“Sure,” Junseo grinned, “the ambience shaped like you.”
Haneul flicked his middle finger at him but felt the heat anyway—low, slow, unwanted.
Because it wasn’t just the staring. It was how Seungho watched him.
Not the way the usual clients did, calculating or salivating hungrily. It was quieter, heavier. Like he was reading a language that only Haneul didn’t know he was speaking.
Every time Haneul glanced up, those dark eyes were already there.
Not demanding. Just there.
??????
Haneul started dressing differently on the nights he worked the floor.
Black turtleneck one evening, so soft it felt indecent.
Next, tight leather pants that left nothing to guess.
Silver and colored tokens gleaming in his braid like tiny flags of war.
He told himself it was for tips. For fun. For Junseo’s teasing.
Not for the man in the corner who never once reached for him.
“Mm, strategic whoring,” Junseo said approvingly. “I support this character development.”
“Fuck off.”
“You like him.”
“I like his money.”
“He hasn’t spent any.”
“…then I like his silence.”
??????
On the sixth night, Junseo couldn’t resist.
He slid into Seungho’s booth with his best grin, glossy lips and practiced ease. “Evening, sir. Long time admirer of your commitment to solitude. You’re a poet of brooding.”
Seungho looked up, slow and steady, the way storms decide when to fall.
“Are you trying to sell me something,” he asked, “or yourself?”
Junseo laughed, but it came out too high-pitched. “Just checking your pulse.”
“You’re in my light.”
“Damn,” Junseo said, eyes wide. “You do talk.”
“I do many things you wouldn’t survive.”
Junseo left smiling like a man who’d glimpsed the divine and lived to gossip.
He found Haneul near the dressing room and practically screamed in a whisper.
