Minseok saw it.
Haneul didn’t notice the glass fall until it shattered near his feet. Didn’t realize Minseok had grabbed the man’s lapel until someone was yelling.
Junseo moved first. Dragged Minseok off with a grin that didn’t touch his eyes. Said something about “company policy,” laughed it off with the regulars, tossed a towel on the floor like it was all part of the show.
Someone was watching from the office balcony — second floor, behind the smoked glass.
Cha Yul didn’t move. He never did during fights. Just observed, sipping his expensive tea like the club was a stage and he already knew the ending.
Haneul didn’t look up. But he could feel the boss’s gaze like pressure on the back of his spine as he cleaned the glass in silence.
??????
The bathroom stank of bleach and stale gin.
Minseok shut the door with his shoulder, the noise like a verdict, and caught Haneul by the wrist. His hand was too tight, not in passion but in ownership.
He didn’t talk. He never did when he was angry.
His mouth found Haneul’s throat — a hot, bruising press that said mine instead of want you.
Hands pawed under his mesh top, scraping hard up his ribs until his shirt caught and tore. A rough palm slapped his bare chest, once, twice, like he was testing for bruises.
“Hnnh—!”
Haneul twitched, but didn’t resist. He was too used to this rhythm now — the way Minseok’s violence arrived without build-up, a storm with no lightning to warn of its coming. The way he took, not kissed. The way he didn’t ask. He let him because surrender felt like control when you chose it first.
The tile had a stain shaped like a flame. Orange-rust, spreading from a crack in the grout. It flickered with each movement, a phantom fire he could stare into instead of facing what was real. He let it fill the corners of his vision as Minseok turned him around, shoving him face-first into the sink counter. The cold marble bit into his hips. His mesh top slid uselessly up his spine, twisted like wings broken wrong.
“You’re always so fucking cold,” Minseok muttered, low and hot against Haneul’s skin, breath stinking of liquor and mouthwash. “Do you even feel anything, huh? You think I don’t notice the way you fucking float?”
A sharp twist of Haneul’s nipple — the pain flashed white. He gasped, chest jerking.
“I’ll show you how to feel.”
Haneul didn’t want this.
But he didn’t know how to say that.
Henever knew what to say in these moments. The words lived behind his teeth but never came out in time. They weren’t broken, just late. Always late. Something in him wanted to laugh — a sharp, hysterical sound that would’ve broken the mirror — because of course it hurt, of course it always hurt. But laughter never came.
“Minseok—”
“What?” The man grinned, cruel and crooked. “You were gagging for it earlier. Don’t pretend you don’t love this.”
“I wasn’t—”
The words died when Minseok’s knee forced between his thighs, spreading him open.
“Fuckin’ tease, you don’t even know what you want,” Minseok growled behind him, kicking his feet wider apart, wrenching down his pants and underwear in one pull that burned his thighs where the waistband caught. “Walking around like that, like you want me to use you. You don’t think. You just… pout and wait for someone to ruin you.”
He spat into his hand. Sloppily. Not to make it easier — just enough to feel good for himself.
Then he pressed against Haneul’s entrance with no warning, no prep, just pressure, rough and callous.
Haneul sucked in a breath.
The moment stretched.
