Seungho woke with a gasp.
2:17 a.m.
His heart thundered in his chest.
His skin was flushed. His hands clenched the sheets.
And he was hard. So hard it hurt. The heat and desire felt ancient.
He sat up. Swore under his breath. Got out of bed, paced once toward the window, and stared out at the snow-brushed skyline like it might offer answers.
Nothing.
Just the cold breath of February. And the memory of warmth where it shouldn’t be.
He exhaled.
And muttered to no one:
“… what the hell is happening to me.”
??????
Chapter 19 — The Nest
Thenext morning, the couch was empty.
Seungho stood still for a full thirty seconds, mug in hand, heart stuttering. Then—he heard it. A clatter from the kitchen.
And then a growl.
Followed by: “Where the fuck do you keep the frying pans, you minimalist skyscraper bastard?”
He exhaled.
Alive.
Awake.
Barefoot, Seungho walked toward the kitchen.
Haneul stood at the stove in nothing but one of Seungho’s oversized shirts—collar stretched, hem grazing mid-thigh, sleeves rolled sloppily to the elbows. His legs were bare, long and lean and covered in faint marks from a life lived recklessly. His braid was lopsided. His expression: scowling, focused, radiant.
He wore an apron.
A bright pink apron with sparkly characters and the words “HOTTEOK ME HARD” scrawled across the front.
Seungho stared.
Haneul didn’t look up. “Don’t speak,” he muttered, flipping something in the pan that might once have been a Korean pancake. “This is a religious ritual. You will not interrupt.”
Seungho raised an eyebrow. “You’re cooking?”
“This is alchemy,” Haneul shot back. “Junseo used to make these after parties when we were hungover. I’m channeling his spirit, so if you insult them I’ll feed you to the crows.”
There was a scorch mark on the pan. A bit of batter on the counter. A trail of sesame oil that threatened to become a fire hazard. And a bowl of sliced scallions that looked like it had been diced in the dark with vengeance in mind.
Haneul poked the pancake.
