It stuck.
He hissed. “Okay. So he didn’t tell me the magic ratio of flour to egg to whatever the hell, but I’m working on muscle memory here, don’t fucking judge me.”
Seungho sat at the breakfast bar and did not judge.
Haneul reached for the oil bottle again, paused, then made a face at the stove. “Of course the King of the Skyscrapers would have vitro-ceramic. No gas. Too pedestrian for the Fire Lord, huh?”
He said it with a sneer, but his hands moved a little easier. The flame that wasn’t there didn’t chase him. The burner glowed red but not alive. The hum of heat was precise, electric, not breathing.
He wouldn’t admit it, not out loud, especially not to Seungho—but he hadn’t cooked like this in months. Maybe longer. At home, the hiss of gas always crawled under his skin. Flickers of blue and orange made his pulse stutter. There were nights he ate instant noodles dry because he couldn’t bear to light the stove.
This, this sterile panel of glass and hum, was a relief so quiet it almost didn’t count.
Almost.
Seungho simply said: “The apron suits you.”
Haneul threw a towel at his face.
??????
The smoke finally cleared. One half-burned pancake lay in the pan like battlefield debris. Haneul grabbed a spatula, scraped it off, muttering, “Still counts.”
He sniffed his sleeve, frowned. “Do you have a laundry basket, skyscraper, or do you just sacrifice clothes to the weather gods?”
“Laundry chute,” Seungho said, pointing toward the hall.
Haneul blinked. “You have a chute?”
“Penthouse standard.”
“Right. Because gods forbid the CEO of Yeol Holdings mingle with mortals in a laundromat.”
He rolled his eyes, dropped the spatula, and turned, sudden, sharp. “Why are you doing all this?”
Seungho paused mid-sip. “Doing what?”
“This.” Haneul gestured broadly—to the tea, the folded clothes, the fact that he was standing there half-dressed and alive. “You’re not still feeling guilty about the alley scene, are you?”
“No.”
“Then what, you into twinks too? Is that it?” He said it like an accusation, chin tilted up, eyes bright with defensiveness.
Seungho didn’t blink. “No.”
“Because I’m not a trauma pet,” Haneul went on, words quick, raw. “Or a kink project. And I don’t do grateful sex.”
Seungho set the mug down carefully, as if laying a weapon aside.
“I don’t want grateful sex,” he said, voice even, almost quiet.
“I want you to stop using your teeth as a shield.”
Silence fell, taut as a violin string.
Haneul’s mouth opened—then shut. He stared at him for one beat too long, pulse visible in his throat.
Then he huffed, turned, and jabbed at the stove. “Pancake’s burning.”
