Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“In a world of guards and walls, the most dangerous thing we carried was our hearts.”

Bang Christopher Chan had grown used to the weight of eyes on him.

In the glossy world of boardrooms and glass towers, eyes were always watching, calculating his worth, waiting for his mistakes, plotting how to take his empire the moment he faltered. He carried that attention like a tailored suit. Perfectly fitted, unavoidable, and sharper than the diamond cufflinks at his wrists.

By thirty, Chan had built more than a reputation. He was the heir to a sprawling corporate empire, a man who knew the rhythm of power the way a musician knew their instrument. Every gesture was precise, every word chosen with the intent to slice through doubt like a blade. Yet beneath the clean cut of his suits and the low, commanding tone of his voice, there was the quiet intensity of someone who refused to bow to anyone, not rivals, not board members, not even the expectations of his own father.

The city knew him as the young lion of the industry. To investors, he was ambition dressed in black silk. To his rivals, he was the shadow that crept too close to their necks. To the tabloids, he was the enigmatic heir with a lover too mysterious to be real and a younger brother who never left the gossip pages.

And to his boyfriend, his anchor, his longest and fiercest love, he was simply Chan.

But the world Chan lived in was not one of love. Not really. It was competition disguised as civility, contracts wrapped in poison, champagne glasses filled with promises that would shatter by morning. In his line of work, even a smile could be a weapon, and trust was the rarest currency of all.

Still, he moved through it with ease, as if the chaos of business rivalries were nothing more than background noise to his own rising symphony. When he walked into a room, he did not demand attention, he absorbed it. Shoulders squared beneath a pinstripe jacket, hair styled with the deliberate mess that made it seem natural, and eyes that cut through the pretense of politeness like smoke through glass.

Chan was not untouchable. He was simply impossible to outpace. His empire was expanding, his rivals restless, and his father’s watchful eyes sharper than ever. And yet, Chan’s greatest challenge wasn’t the competitors circling around his company like vultures. It wasn’t the endless meetings or the whispered betrayals.

It was the quiet fear he never admitted. That someone, somewhere, would take what mattered most before he could protect it.

Because in a world where enemies wore silk ties and smiled across dinner tables, love was the most vulnerable secret of all.

“Tell me why I should even entertain this proposal.”

Bang Chan’s voice cut cleanly across the room, low and steady, carrying the weight of inevitability. Rows of suited subordinates froze in their seats, some shifting uncomfortably as though the leather chairs beneath them had suddenly turned to stone.

The executive at the far end swallowed hard, fumbling with his notes. His hands trembled as he gestured to the glowing screen where graphs and projections shimmered. He launched into his explanation, reciting numbers and percentages that he had no doubt practiced a hundred times in the mirror.

Chan didn’t move. He sat with one arm resting on the table, the other draped casually over the armrest of his chair, watching. Listening. His stillness was calculated, deliberate. He had learned long ago that silence was more frightening than anger. Every second of quiet stretched thin like a wire, ready to snap.

Chan leaned forward at last, folding his hands together. His gaze sharpened as though he were dissecting the graphs with his eyes alone.

“You’re asking me to risk three hundred million on projections that collapse the moment someone breathes on them. That isn’t ambition. That’s carelessness. And I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

His words landed with the finality of a verdict. No one dared to respond. Pens stilled. Breaths caught. Even the air conditioning seemed too loud in the silence that followed.

Then, almost lazily, Chan pushed the folder away from him, the gesture dismissive but unmistakable. “Do better. If you come to me again with holes this wide, don’t bother coming back at all.”

The executive lowered his head in shame.

Chan didn’t gloat. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His power wasn’t in theatrics, it was in precision, the kind that cut deeper than shouting ever could. Around the table, the rest of his subordinates straightened, reminded once more why their loyalty to him was not optional, but survival.

“Next agenda,” Chan said smoothly, the meeting shifting forward under his command. The empire moved at his pace, to his rhythm, under his unyielding hand.

And in that hall, no one doubted who held the crown.

The low hum of voices died the moment Chan rose from his seat. One glance from him was enough to scatter conversation; the conference dissolved like smoke. “That’s all for today,” he said, tone even, though no one mistook it for anything less than final.

Chairs scraped back in unison. Files snapped shut. His subordinates bowed their heads slightly as he passed, parting the way until he stepped out into the quieter corridor beyond.

The hush of the hallway felt different, less suffocating, more controlled. Footsteps echoed softly behind him, steady and measured.

Hyunjin didn’t need to be called; he was already there, falling into step a few paces to Chan’s right, like a shadow trained to move when he moved.

“Updates,” Chan said without breaking stride.

“Tickets are booked,” Hyunjin replied, his voice smooth but low, carrying only enough sound for Chan to hear. “The flight departs at dawn. I’ve double-checked every detail. Security teams are in place, and I’ve run the background checks on all crew. No irregularities.”

Chan slowed. Just a fraction. Enough for Hyunjin to notice. He turned his head slightly, gaze catching his secretary’s.

“We can’t afford mistakes this time, Hyunjin.” His voice sharpened, stripped of its earlier calm. “Not with this.”

Hyunjin’s chin dipped in a single nod. His expression never wavered, but in the quiet of the hallway, the weight of Chan’s words landed heavy between them.

“You know I trust you with more than anyone else,” Chan added, almost softly. An admission, not praise. “Don’t let me down.”

The briefest flicker crossed Hyunjin’s face, something unreadable, pride maybe, before his composure returned. “I won’t.”

Chan studied him for a moment longer before moving again, stride resuming with that same effortless authority. Hyunjin followed, the space between them filled with a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was deliberate. Mutual.

The kind of silence built on years of trust, and the knowledge that Chan’s empire could crack if Hwang Hyunjin ever failed.

And Chan didn’t believe for a second that he would.

“We can’t mess this up,” Chan’s tone carried the same weight it had in the boardroom, but softer now, threaded with something more personal. His stride was unhurried, his gaze fixed ahead. “Minho and Felix must land safely. Nothing less.”

For a fleeting second, Hyunjin’s composure shifted. His eyes flickered, his lips parted as though to speak, then pressed back into silence. It was gone before it could settle, smoothed over like ripples vanishing on glass.

Chan didn’t notice. His focus was elsewhere, on schedules, on arrangements, on the thought of his younger brother and his long-time partner finally setting foot back on his territory. Minho, especially, remained precious in his mind,  too precious, too sheltered, the one part of his life he refused to let the world stain.

“Understood,” Hyunjin answered, his voice even, steady. If there was anything else behind his calm, he didn’t let it show.

Chan accepted the answer without question and kept walking.

The polished hallway widened into the grand lobby below, marble floors gleaming beneath the light of glass chandeliers. Two men straightened from their posts at the far end as soon as Chan appeared, moving with quiet precision to join him. Without words, they fell into place.

One at his side, the other just behind.

“Mr. Bang,” Changbin greeted, his tone low but firm.

“Everything’s clear,” Jisung added, scanning the lobby as though every surface could be hiding a threat.

Chan glanced between them briefly, his stride unbroken. “You don’t need to report every corner you sweep. If something’s wrong, I know you’ll handle it.”

The smallest flicker of a smile touched Jisung’s face before he covered it with a nod. Changbin’s jaw tightened with something steadier, almost proud.

To an outsider, it would look like choreography, an entourage rehearsed to perfection. Chan at the center, his secretary at his flank, his guards forming an invisible perimeter.

A seamless display of control.

Outside, the city waited. Restless, watchful, always hungry. Yet in the way Chan carried himself, shoulders squared and gaze forward, there was no doubt:

He was ready to meet it on his own terms.

The university gates buzzed with the end-of-class rush, laughter, the scrape of chairs dragged across pavement, the distant ring of a bicycle bell cutting through.

A sleek black car was parked at the curb, it's  tinted windows reflecting fragments of campus life. Changbin leaned against the front bumper, arms folded across the sharp lines of his black bodyguard uniform. The tie at his collar was tugged loose, but the crisp cut of the jacket made him look like a shadow standing guard. His eyes tracked every face that passed, unreadable behind the faint squint of someone too used to scanning for danger.

Inside the car, Hyunjin sat in the passenger seat, his suit shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest the missing coat draped somewhere in the back. His long fingers rested against his knee, tapping once, twice, before going still again. He didn’t look restless, exactly, more like someone waiting with the kind of patience that came from being trusted to wait. His gaze followed the crowd through the open window, soft and calculating all at once.

Neither spoke. The air between them carried an unspoken rhythm, Changbin grounded, solid against the car; Hyunjin composed, elegant in the quiet space inside. Around them, students threw curious glances their way, but none lingered long enough.

Jeongin emerged from the crowd of students with laughter still clinging to him, the sound of his voice trailing after the friends he was waving goodbye to. His steps quickened the moment his eyes found the familiar black-clad figure waiting by the car.

“Bin!” he called, that grin of his widening as if it had been saved just for him.

Changbin’s lips twitched into a smile of his own, and when Jeongin reached him, the younger boy was pulled into a hug that lingered a little longer than casual. Jeongin leaned into it with ease, the way someone does when the embrace feels like home.

Without a word, Changbin took the backpack off his shoulder, slinging it over his own. Jeongin’s hand brushed against his briefly in thanks, fingers curling just enough to linger before he pulled back with a quiet laugh.

“Are we going straight to your place?” Jeongin asked, looking up at him with bright eyes that carried both curiosity and excitement. The way he said it, there was no mistaking that the destination mattered far less to him than the fact Changbin was the one bringing him there.

“Ask your brother,” Changbin said lightly, shifting Jeongin’s bag higher on his shoulder.

Jeongin turned at once, expectant eyes fixed on the car. The passenger door opened with a quiet click, and Hyunjin stepped out. The late afternoon light caught in the loose strands of his hair, the sharp lines of his suit softened by the absence of a jacket. His movements were unhurried, precise, like he had all the time in the world.

“Hyun?” Jeongin’s voice carried that boyish hopefulness he could never quite hide, the kind that made his questions sound more like wishes.

Hyunjin adjusted the cuff of his sleeve before meeting his gaze. For a moment, he said nothing, just watched the younger boy, as though weighing whether to speak.

Then, with a small nod, he answered, “yeah, Felix is coming back.”

The words seemed to sink in slowly, and then Jeongin’s face lit up all at once. His grin was wide and unguarded, his laughter spilling into the air as he nearly bounced on his heels.

“Really? It’s been forever!”

Changbin’s mouth curved into a quiet smile at the sight, the kind that wasn’t meant to be seen but came anyway. Jeongin tugged at his sleeve, eyes still gleaming. “He’s going to lose his mind when he sees me. You know he always has the most ridiculous stories—” He broke off with another laugh, shaking his head.

Hyunjin didn’t smile, not fully, but there was a softening in his gaze, a brief flicker of something that passed between them before he looked away.

The three of them stood there for a moment, the noise of the campus drifting around them, as if time had stretched just enough to let Jeongin’s joy settle between them.

“Let’s go,” Changbin said, giving Jeongin’s shoulder a light squeeze before moving toward the driver’s side.

Jeongin skipped to the backseat, his bag already forgotten in Changbin’s care. Halfway through pulling the door open, he leaned against it, eyes bright. “So— my dorm, or Lix’s place?”

Hyunjin, who had just slid back into the passenger seat, spoke without looking back. His tone was calm, even, but it left no room for guessing. “To Mr. Bang’s.”

Jeongin blinked, then grinned as though that answer was better than both options he’d suggested. He slipped into the car, pulling the door shut behind him, the excitement already bubbling up again.

The room was quieter than the rest of the house, the hum of the city outside softened by the heavy curtains drawn across the tall windows. A single desk lamp cast its glow over the corner of the room, leaving the rest in comfortable shadow.

Jisung was sprawled across one of the leather chairs opposite the low table, not in the usual stiff posture of a guard. His tie was loose, sleeves rolled up, one arm dangling lazily off the chair’s armrest. The ease in his body said he wasn’t on duty, not in the strict sense.

Across from him, Chan stood by the window, fingers tapping lightly against the glass as though the rhythm might quiet the storm of restlessness inside him. He exhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of something he couldn’t quite shake.

“I keep telling myself it’s only a few more hours,” Chan murmured, eyes fixed on the glow of city lights. “But the closer it gets… the more it feels like my chest is burning.”

Jisung tilted his head, studying him quietly. “You mean Minho, right?”

Chan’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. He nodded once. “Minho. And Felix.” His voice softened at the second name. “It feels like I’ve been holding my breath all this time. I just want to see them. To know they’re here. Safe.”

There was a pause, something unspoken stretching between them. Then Jisung leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Most of us have never seen him. Your lover.” The words weren’t accusatory, just thoughtful. “You’ve kept him hidden better than anyone. Not even your relatives knows.”

“That’s the point,” Chan said, almost sharply, before his voice fell into something gentler. “If anyone knew… Minho would never be safe. I couldn’t risk that. Not with the way things are.” His hand clenched against the windowpane, a flicker of tension running through him.

For a long moment, silence filled the room, heavy but not uncomfortable. Jisung let it linger, watching the restless shift in Chan’s stance, the way his shoulders betrayed more fear than his words allowed.

Finally, Jisung spoke, steady and quiet. “Everything’s going to be alright, Chan.”

Chan didn’t answer immediately, but the faint furrow in his brow eased just slightly, like the words had slipped past his guard.

“There are a lot of people around you,” Jisung continued. “Around Felix. Around Minho. You don’t have to carry the fear alone.”

Chan turned then, meeting Jisung’s gaze. There was something raw in his eyes, something he’d never show anyone else, hidden fear dressed up as determination. For once, it was Jisung’s calm that steadied the room.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Jisung asked, not as a challenge but as reassurance.

Chan’s answer came without hesitation. “With everything.” And for a fleeting second, the restless tapping stopped. “That’s why I want you with Minho.”

The words slipped out of Chan after a pause, quiet but steady, carrying more weight than the still air in the room could hold. His back was to Jisung again, shoulders squared as if to brace himself.

Jisung sat up straighter, the lazy ease from before replaced with something sharper. “Are you sure you want me to… accompany him?” His tone carried a thread of disbelief, not because he didn’t want the task, but because of what it meant.

Chan turned then, eyes dark with conviction. “Not just accompany. Be his shadow. His personal bodyguard. You’re the only one I trust enough for that.”

The silence stretched between them, Jisung searching his friend’s face. Finally, his voice lowered. “And what about you? Who’s going to watch your back?”

Chan’s lips quirked into something almost like a smile, but there was no humor in it. “Changbin is more than enough. He knows me better than most. He won’t let me fall.”

Jisung frowned, leaning forward. “You’re putting his safety above your own.”

“Yes.” Chan’s answer was immediate, unflinching. “I can survive without protection if I have to. But if something happened to Minho…” His words faltered for a second, and he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t survive that.”

The honesty in his tone silenced Jisung.

He’d known Chan for years, through the grueling weight of business and rivalry, through storms that tested their friendship. But this, this raw admission, was different.

Jisung cleared his throat. “And Felix?” he asked carefully, though the question carried a thread of curiosity more than concern.

For the first time that evening, Chan laughed. Not the polished laugh of a businessman or the careful chuckle he used in boardrooms, but a real laugh, low and genuine. He shook his head, still smiling as if the thought itself amused him.

“Lix doesn’t need guarding in the way Minho does,” Chan said, finally meeting Jisung’s eyes again. “I worry about him the way you worry about a tiger in the wild. Not for it's safety… but for the people who think they can approach it.”

The image drew a small huff of laughter out of Jisung despite himself. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. “That sounds about right.”

The two shared a quiet smile, the kind born of old understanding. Chan’s laughter faded, but the warmth lingered, softening the edge of the room’s tension. For a moment, it felt less like orders and protection and more like the unspoken rhythm of trust that bound them together.

Jisung studied him for another beat before speaking, softer this time. “If it means that much to you… I’ll guard him. With everything I’ve got.”

Chan nodded once, firmly, as if that was all he needed to hear. And though the storm still raged behind his eyes, for a brief heartbeat, he looked less restless, less alone.

Two firm knocks sounded against the door. They weren’t rushed or impatient. But measured, deliberate.

Jisung rose without needing to be told, his stride steady as he crossed the room. The door opened with a muted click, and Hyunjin stepped in first. His expression was calm, unreadable, though there was a faint trace of weariness clinging to his movements, the kind that came from long hours of watchfulness. Changbin followed behind him, closing the door softly so it didn’t disturb the stillness.

Chan lifted his head from where he stood by the window. The question came as soon as he saw them, low but threaded with something sharp. “Did you bring Innie back?”

Hyunjin’s reply was quiet and direct. “Yes.”

A beat passed, and the tension in Chan’s frame eased slightly, his shoulders no longer quite so rigid. He nodded once, his eyes flickering downward as though he was holding on to the weight of the moment.

“Good,” he said after a pause, his tone softer now. “Lix asked for him personally. Said he wanted his best friend here when he arrived.”

The words lingered in the air, simple but carrying a warmth that cut through the formality of the exchange. Jisung, still seated nearby, caught the subtle change in Chan’s expression, the relief, the fondness he didn’t voice outright.

Hyunjin lingered by the edge of the room, his gaze sweeping once across the space before he spoke again. His voice was even and steady, though there was a weight beneath it.

“They were safe in Auckland,” he said quietly. “Felix and Minho both. Honestly…” His eyes shifted to Chan. “I still don’t think bringing him back is a good idea.”

Changbin, standing beside him, gave a short exhale, almost a scoff but not sharp. “He’s not wrong. The further they are from here, the less risk. Pulling them back now… it paints a target we don’t need.”

The words hung there, matter-of-fact, neither confrontational nor softened.

Jisung, on the couch, sat still. His hands were folded loosely in his lap, and though his eyes followed the exchange, he didn’t move to add anything. He simply listened, letting the voices rise and settle like a tide around him.

Chan turned from the window then, his posture straight, his gaze unwavering as he looked at them. “I want my partner here,” he said, his tone calm but leaving no space for doubt. “And my brother. Both of them. When I take over the empire, they’ll be standing beside me.” His voice softened only slightly as he added, “Father wants Lix back. And it’s not a good idea to leave Minho alone there either.”

The room quieted again, the logic undeniable even to those who disagreed. Hyunjin held his eyes for a long moment, then dipped his chin in a small nod, the kind that carried understanding rather than agreement. 

“The flight lands tomorrow,” he said simply. “They’ll be here before noon.”

The bodyguards’ quarters were tucked into the quieter wing of the mansion, away from the polished hallways and high-ceilinged rooms where the family moved. The corridor was narrower here, the lighting softer, not by accident but by design.

Privacy.

Function.

Changbin pushed open the door to his room, the faint creak of the hinge breaking the hush. The space inside was clean but lived in, two single beds against opposite walls, a heavy oak wardrobe between them, and a low table scattered with half-emptied water bottles and the remnants of a deck of cards from nights they’d killed time.

Jisung followed, shoulders a little looser now that they were away from the main house. He tugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of the chair before dropping onto his bed, springs giving a short protest.

“Feels like every time I sit down, another job lands on my head,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth curved faintly.

Changbin, still in his black uniform shirt, leaned against the wardrobe for a moment, watching his partner settle. “This one’s different, though.” His tone wasn’t heavy, just honest. He bent to unlace his boots. “Chan asked you himself.”

Jisung let his head roll back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “To guard a man we’ve never seen. Don’t even know what he looks like.” He gave a short laugh, the sound small in the room. “Feels like being told to keep the ghost safe.”

“Not just any ghost,” Changbin said dryly, kicking his boots aside. He straightened, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “His partner. That’s not light work. If he trusts you with it, you don’t question it.”

Jisung’s gaze flicked sideways, softening a touch. “I know. Just… odd, isn’t it? We know everyone who comes and goes in this house. Every name, every face. But this one…” His brow knit briefly before smoothing again. “This one’s kept locked away. Makes you wonder why.”

Changbin hummed, low in his throat, neither agreement nor dismissal. He moved to his bed, sitting on the edge and letting his hands rest loosely on his knees. “You’ll find out soon enough. Tomorrow changes everything.”

The quiet between them didn’t last long. The door clicked open without a knock, and Jeongin slipped inside with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. His hair was still tousled from the ride, his smile too bright to be contained as his eyes immediately found Changbin.

“Bin,” he said, almost like a sigh, crossing the room in a few long strides. Before Changbin could push up from the bed, Jeongin leaned down and wrapped his arms tight around him. Changbin let out a soft laugh, caught off guard but not resisting, his hand finding the small of Jeongin’s back, grounding him.

“You didn’t even let me change out of this uniform,” Changbin teased, the corners of his mouth tugging up as Jeongin perched on the edge of the bed beside him, still close, their knees touching. “You’re clingier than usual.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Jeongin shot back without shame, eyes bright. He rested his chin on Changbin’s shoulder for a moment, content, before straightening with a grin that made the room feel lighter.

From across the room, Jisung groaned theatrically, dragging a hand down his face. “Ugh. Seriously? Do you two have to do this here? I live here too, you know.” He made a fake gagging noise for emphasis.

Jeongin pulled back just enough to glance at him, eyes narrowing before he burst into laughter. Changbin shook his head, amused, his arm still comfortably slung around Jeongin’s waist.

“You’re just jealous,” Jeongin tossed at Jisung, smug.

“Jealous? Of watching you two fuse into one organism? No thanks.” Jisung flopped back on his bed with a groan, though his grin betrayed him.

Changbin gave Jeongin’s side a light squeeze before glancing at Jisung, who was still sprawled out dramatically on his bed. “Ignore him,” he said, his voice carrying that calm weight that usually shut Jeongin up but tonight only made him more curious. “He’s just worked up. Still complaining about how he doesn’t know a thing about Mr. Bang’s lover, yet tomorrow he’s supposed to stand guard at his side.”

Jeongin blinked, tilting his head, then turned his wide eyes on Jisung. “Wait— you’re going to be Minho’s bodyguard?” The excitement in his voice was unfiltered, quick to rise, as though the words alone pulled him into the center of a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.

Jisung let out a groan and pressed his arm over his face, muffling his reply. “Exactly. I don’t even know what kind of person he is. Chan’s been hiding him like he’s made of glass, and suddenly I’m the one stuck glued to his side. What if I mess up?”

Changbin’s hand rubbed slow circles against Jeongin’s back as he spoke, almost absentminded. “You won’t. Chan picked you for a reason. Minho’s safety matters more to him than anything else right now— so if he trusts you with it, that’s all you need to know.”

Jeongin studied Jisung’s sulking figure on the opposite bed, then leaned his cheek against Changbin’s shoulder with a little grin.

“Guess you’ll finally get to see the man behind the mystery. Maybe he’s not as fragile as everyone thinks.”

For a second, the room was quiet again, filled only by the low hum of the night pressing against the windowpanes. Then Jisung let out a laugh, short and breathless, shaking his head at both of them. “If he turns out to be terrifying, I’m blaming you two.”

Changbin smirked, Jeongin chuckled, and the heaviness of the conversation dissolved into something easier.

Jeongin stretched his legs out across Changbin’s lap, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie as if weighing his words. “You two are sitting here worrying about Jisung and Chan's mysterious boyfriend— when Felix already told me Minho’s the sweetest man alive.” His tone softened at the end, as though he really believed it. Then his eyes flicked up, catching both of them. “But no one’s worried about my brother?”

Jisung’s brows furrowed, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Changbin snorted under his breath, brushing his knuckles lightly over Jeongin’s knee. “Don’t mind him. You’re still new to this.” He shot Jisung a sidelong glance, lips tugging into a knowing half-smile. “Chan’s brother, Felix? He’s got an… let’s say—” he lifted both hands and bent his fingers into exaggerated air quotes, “an unhealthy obsession with his secretary.”

Jisung blinked, sitting up straighter. “Hyunjin?”

“Mmhm,” Jeongin answered instantly, nodding. There was a playful glint in his eye, but the way he said it carried more weight than teasing. “Hyune keeps saying Lix will grow out of it, act more mature once he’s been away and actually lived a little.” He bit his lip, then gave a small, helpless shrug. “But I know my best friend. If anything… the time apart probably made it worse.”

He leaned back against Changbin, voice dropping into something quieter, almost resigned. “His love for Hyunjin… it’s only gotten stronger. Hyunjin better be ready.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. Jisung rubbed the back of his neck, processing, while Changbin’s arm circled around Jeongin, grounding him.

Jisung leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Does Chan even know?”

The question hung in the air. Jeongin and Changbin exchanged a look, silent, brief, but telling. Then, almost in sync, they shrugged.

“Felix is good at acting innocent,” Jeongin said at last, his tone somewhere between fond and exasperated. “I only caught it because he’s my best friend. And Bin… well, Bin just knows everything.” He shot his boyfriend a pointed grin, softened by the way Changbin’s arm was still draped comfortably around him.

Changbin huffed a laugh. “It’s not a problem, anyway. Not unless Hyunjin suddenly decides to get involved.” He gave a small shake of his head, lips curling. “That man’s married to his work. Felix would die trying before he ever got anything back.”

The three of them sat with that thought for a moment, the edge of seriousness there but softened by the company. Then Jeongin nudged Jisung with his foot, eyes glinting mischievously. “You don’t get it, though, do you? What it’s like. Being hung up on someone.”

Jisung raised a brow, cautious. “And why not?”

“Because,” Changbin cut in smoothly, amusement in his voice, “you’ve never loved anyone. Not enough to even start.”

The protest was already forming on Jisung’s lips, but the laughter, Jeongin’s bright, Changbin’s low, filled the room before he could get the words out.

It left Jisung shaking his head, a smile tugging despite himself.

The evening air was cool against his skin, but Bang Chan hardly noticed. He stood at the top of the marble steps leading into the mansion, shoulders tense beneath the crisp cut of his suit, eyes locked on the stretch of driveway that disappeared into the trees.

Hyunjin lingered at his side, hands clasped neatly in front of him, coat left inside as though he had expected to wait only a moment. He’d already tried to persuade Chan not to be out here.

“The staff are ready,” he’d said softly when they first stepped out. “It’s better to greet them inside.”

But Chan hadn’t moved then, and he wasn’t moving now. His restlessness had teeth; it had gnawed at him all day. The thought of Minho stepping out of the car, his Minho, finally here, finally at his side after years of shadows, was too much to entrust to the polished grandeur of a reception hall. He needed to be the first thing Minho saw.

“Sir,” Hyunjin tried again, voice quiet, not insistent but carrying that steady weight he always had. “The others are waiting in the foyer. If you’d rather—”

“No.” Chan’s reply was sharper than intended. He inhaled, let the word dissolve in the evening air, then softened. “No. I can’t.”

Hyunjin only inclined his head. There was no judgment in his expression, no visible irritation, but there was a flicker, something Chan might have missed if he hadn’t known Hyunjin as long as he had. A flash of restraint. A calculation. Hyunjin understood more than he ever said aloud.

At the bottom of the steps, Jisung kept his post. His bodyguard suit was immaculate, shoulders squared, but there was no stiffness in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

He wasn’t just standing guard. He was watching Chan. Always. His loyalty ran deep, threaded with quiet understanding.

Closer to the doors, Jeongin bounced lightly on his heels, unable to hide his energy. His grin was bright, his eyes darting between Chan and the long driveway as though willing the headlights to appear. He looked every bit the young adult he was, but the excitement in him felt younger, unfiltered.

The absence of Changbin left the night feeling incomplete. He was out there, driving carefully, keeping Felix and Minho safe. Chan trusted him implicitly, but the longer the silence stretched, the more restless his heartbeat became.

“Hyunjin,” Chan said after a long pause, his voice low, almost to himself. “They’re taking too long.”

Hyunjin glanced at his watch, then back at him. “They’re on time, sir. You’re early.”

That earned the faintest huff of breath from Chan, not quite a laugh. His gaze didn’t leave the shadows of the drive, his whole body attuned to the moment the car would emerge.

The mansion behind him glowed warm with light, the weight of expectation pressing from within. Inside, the staff waited. Outside, the night held its breath.

And Chan? Chan stood stubbornly where he was, the air cool against his skin, every nerve pulled taut by the knowledge that in mere minutes, his lover and his brother would return.

The low hum of an engine finally broke the silence.

Chan’s breath caught, his whole body leaning forward before the headlights even rounded the curve of the long driveway. The car was ordinary, understated, an intentional disguise, nothing to draw eyes. But to him, it might as well have been gilded.

The sleek black vehicle rolled to a stop at the base of the steps. For a suspended second, nobody moved. Even the guards at their stations seemed to hold themselves still.

And then the back door swung open.

Out sprang Felix, light spilling out with him as though he’d carried the sun inside that car. Blonde hair catching the glow of the lamps, smile wide and easy, he looked nothing like the secrecy that had shrouded his absence. His energy scattered the tension in an instant.

“Channie!” His voice was bright, carrying across the steps.

Before Chan could react, Felix was already running up toward him, unbothered by the grandeur, the waiting audience, the guards with their subtle nods. He didn’t slow, he simply flung himself forward, and Chan’s arms opened on instinct.

The embrace was fierce and warm. For a moment, Chan shut his eyes, grounding himself in the reality of it, the weight, the scent, the laugh that rumbled against his chest. He’d prepared himself for this moment, told himself he’d remain composed, dignified in front of everyone. But now? Now he could only cling, relief crashing over him like a tide.

Felix leaned back just enough to grin up at him, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

Chan exhaled a laugh, one hand tightening on Felix’s shoulder. “You’ve no idea.”

Satisfied with the tease, Felix squeezed him one more time before slipping away, turning his attention to the others.

“Innie!” he called, already bounding down the steps again. Jeongin’s face lit up, and Felix wrapped him into a hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.

Over Jeongin’s shoulder, Felix caught Hyunjin watching, and his grin curved into something sharper, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he raised a single brow, deliberately playful. The gesture was quick, too smooth not to be intentional.

Hyunjin’s response was wordless. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed softly, and turned his head away as though dismissing both Felix and the flicker of something that had passed between them.

By the time the laughter Felix brought had begun to settle, the sound of the other door opening pulled every gaze back to the car.

Changbin had stepped out first, his expression unreadable as always, but his hand moved with unusual care to hold the door wide. A small, deliberate gesture, yet enough to still the air around them.

And then—

Minho.

The moment he unfolded from the shadows of the car, murmurs rippled across the gathered crowd. Gasps, half-whispered remarks, no one tried to hide their astonishment. None of them had ever seen him in person, save Chan and Felix, and now the mystery had taken form in a way none had expected.

Minho carried no flourish, no smile meant to soften. His presence itself was enough. Sharp, refined, every line of him balanced between elegance and quiet strength. The air seemed to grow heavier, as though even the night recognized him.

Chan forgot to breathe.

For so long he had told himself that this moment was coming, that he would see him again, touch him again. He had rehearsed his composure, the image of a leader who would greet his partner with the dignity the empire demanded. But the moment Minho’s gaze lifted, all of that fell apart.

Because Minho looked at no one else. Not the guards, not the curious staff gathered at a distance, not Felix who lingered near Jeongin with an almost knowing smirk. His eyes found Chan’s and held, unwavering.

Years had passed. Distance, silence, duty had carved themselves between them, but none of it showed now. In Minho’s eyes, there was no hesitation. Only the steady, unyielding pull of recognition.

Chan took a step down the stone stairs before he realized it. Then another. His heartbeat was a drum in his ears, every muscle straining against the desperate urge to close the distance all at once.

“Minho…” His voice caught, softer than he meant.

Minho’s lips curved, barely, more a ghost of relief than a smile. And then he moved forward, slow at first, until Chan broke and met him halfway.

The embrace was not rushed but grounding, two halves locking back together after too long apart. Chan’s arms tightened as though he’d never let go again. His eyes pressed shut against Minho’s shoulder, his jaw trembling in a way he prayed no one else noticed.

“You’re here,” he whispered, raw, as if saying it aloud would make it more real.

“I’m here,” Minho answered, voice steady, but it was only for Chan. His hand rested firm at Chan’s back, as though anchoring him, claiming the space beside him once more.

Around them, silence stretched, thick with awe and the unspoken recognition that this, this, wasn’t merely a reunion. It was the return of something inevitable.

At a distance, something else was brewing.

From where he stood, Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.

He hadn’t known what to expect of this man, Chan’s hidden partner, the one whispered about but never seen. Certainly not this. The kind of presence that seemed untouchable, beautiful in a way that wasn’t fragile but dangerous. His features struck like clean edges of glass, his eyes deep, unreadable, magnetic.

For a fraction of a second, Minho’s gaze flickered in his direction, not long, not intentional. But it was enough.

Jisung’s chest tightened, something hot and strange pooling in his stomach. He tore his eyes away almost immediately, swallowing hard, but the image burned in his mind, too sharp to forget.

Changbin, returning to stand a step behind, noticed. His lips twitched, not enough for anyone else to catch, but Jisung felt the weight of it. They're all happy to welcome their master's mysterious boyfriend. 

Still, Minho never looked away from Chan for long. Whatever storm brewed in others’ chests, his world was fixed only on the man in front of him.

Chapter Text

The room carried that understated luxury only the Bahngs could live in. Soft earth tones, a few dark wood pieces, nothing that screamed wealth yet everything whispered of it. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in the silver moonlight, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood, the kind of subtle scent that clung to expensive suits and well-kept spaces.

Minho sat in Chan’s lap as though he had every right to because he did. His body fit there perfectly, as if molded for that very place, legs draped lazily on either side of Chan’s thighs.

The world outside could spin and burn itself into ashes, and Minho still wouldn’t move, not when he’d been away too long, not when Chan’s arms circled his waist with the desperation of someone holding the most fragile, irreplaceable thing he owned.

“Stay,” Chan whispered, his voice low against the curve of Minho’s neck. He didn’t ask, didn’t command, it was a plea, a confession, all in one word. His forehead pressed against Minho’s skin, lips brushing lightly as if he couldn’t bear the thought of even an inch of space.

Minho’s laugh was quiet, almost teasing, but it cracked with softness. “You’ve said that four times already. I’m not moving.”

“You might,” Chan countered, pulling back just enough to look at him, to really see him. The distance of years weighed in his eyes, the hollow spaces they’d carved by being apart. “You might vanish again.”

Minho leaned down, nose brushing Chan’s cheek. “Then hold tighter. Make sure I don’t.”

And Chan did. His hands tightened at Minho’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like he could anchor Minho here forever.

For a man who commanded entire boardrooms, who silenced rivals with the weight of his presence, Bang Chan looked utterly undone in this private space. Every breath he exhaled was heavy with relief, and every glance toward Minho was heavy with love, the kind that wasn’t just spoken, but lived, survived, endured.

“I missed you,” Chan said finally, and the words broke out like something he had been swallowing for years. His voice was raw, stripped of the polish he wore for the world. “God, Min, I missed you so damn much.”

Minho cupped his face, thumbs brushing Chan’s cheekbones. “I know.” His tone carried no dramatics, no pity, just quiet truth. His eyes softened as they traced Chan’s features, cataloging each one like a man afraid to forget again. “Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was full. Full of what they’d survived. Full of what they hadn’t said. Full of the hunger to make up for lost time.

Chan leaned forward, and Minho met him halfway. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fiery. It was deep and slow, the kind that carved its mark into the air. Minho’s hand slipped into Chan’s hair, tugging gently, grounding them both, while Chan held him tighter still, like letting go wasn’t an option.

Outside the mansion, the world was waiting. Rivals, dangers, responsibilities. But in this room, with Minho in his lap and their hearts pressed together, Chan allowed himself to forget all of it. For once, he wasn’t the heir, the businessman, the man carrying an empire. He was just Chan. Just a man who had been missing the love of his life.

And Minho, pressed against him, was the missing piece finally found.

“Chan, take me out. I want to go out,” Minho murmured against Chan’s lips, his voice light but carrying a weight of longing. He shifted slightly in Chan’s lap, enough to meet his eyes, a spark of mischief mixing with sincerity. “I’ve missed it. Walking the streets, choosing a café at random, watching people go about their lives. Now that I’m back here, our place— I want to feel the city again.”

Chan’s expression faltered. His grip didn’t loosen, not even slightly. He studied Minho like the request itself was dangerous. “Min,” he started, the warning already in his tone. “It’s not that simple anymore.”

“It never was,” Minho countered, tilting his head, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But I’m not afraid. I’m Christopher Bang’s boyfriend. No one will dare touch me.” The confidence in his words was quiet and unshaken, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly how much power Chan carried with him.

Chan shook his head slowly, brows knitting. “That’s exactly why they’ll try.”

Minho stilled, watching the way Chan’s jaw tightened, the faint crease at the bridge of his nose when he was troubled. “Chris, please.”

“They’ve been waiting.” Chan’s voice dropped, steady but heavy, like each word was pressed into stone. His thumb traced absent circles at Minho’s waist, as though soothing him even as he confessed the thought that plagued him. “Waiting for me to show them what I can’t afford to lose. A rival doesn’t go for your empire, Min— they go for your heart. And you…” His throat worked as he searched for words. “…you are my heart. My weakness. My everything. I can't afford to lose you.”

The words could have sounded like a cage, like a declaration of possession. But Minho knew Chan too well; he felt the fear woven into them, the desperation behind the protectiveness. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, his smile softer this time.

“You think too much,” Minho whispered. “If I stay locked away, if I let fear dictate where I go, then we’ve already lost, haven’t we?”

Chan closed his eyes for a moment, breathing him in, struggling between the rational truth of danger and the irrational pull of wanting to give Minho everything he asked for.

“Fine,” Chan sighed at last, though his arms only tightened around Minho’s waist, anchoring him in place. “You can go out… but not alone. You’ll have to take someone with you. Someone I trust.”

Minho immediately shook his head, dark hair brushing against Chan’s cheek, his lips curling in a stubborn pout. “No.”

“No?” Chan echoed, amusement flickering in his eyes though his tone carried steel. “It’s not negotiable, Min.” He pulled him closer until Minho could feel the steady beat of his heart against his chest. “Either you go with the person I choose… or you stay glued to me all day long, sitting through board meetings and balance sheets.”

Minho gasped theatrically, widening his eyes in mock panic. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.” Chan’s grin was sly, his thumb stroking lazy circles at Minho’s hip. “You know how much I love an audience.”

“Business, Chris?” Minho groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against Chan’s shoulder. “You know I’d rather die.”

“Exactly,” Chan replied, laughter softening his words. “So stop fighting me on this. Agree, and you can breathe fresh air without bussiness talks hovering over your shoulder.”

Minho huffed but leaned into him anyway, surrender written in the way his body relaxed. “Fine. I’ll agree. Anything to spare me from your empire of spreadsheets.”

“That’s my boy.” Chan’s smile lingered as he pressed a kiss against Minho’s temple, relief slipping through his carefully guarded expression. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, Jisung will go with you. Wherever you want to go, he’ll be there.”

Minho blinked. “Jisung?”

“Yeah,” Chan said simply. “You’ll meet him tomorrow, along with the rest of our people. I want you to know them— and for them to know you. No more shadows, Min. Not when you’re finally home.”

The words carried a promise, one Chan didn’t say out loud. That, he wouldn’t let Minho be hidden away anymore. He belonged by Chan’s side, where everyone could see.

“It feels different in the morning,” Minho said lightly, glancing around the polished wood and glass of Chan’s home office. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, softening the sharp edges of power that usually lived in this room. Chan sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his gaze warm but steady on Minho.

Before Chan could reply, a quiet knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Chan called, and the door opened with practiced ease. Hyunjin entered, crisp in his suit though his jacket was absent, his movements fluid as if the space itself bent to accommodate him. In his hands, two steaming mugs.

“Your coffee,” Hyunjin said smoothly, placing one in front of Minho and the other before Chan. His eyes met Chan’s briefly, the silent exchange of familiarity and trust before shifting respectfully to Minho.

Chan leaned back, gesturing casually. “Min, this is Hyunjin— my secretary, and the one I trust most to keep things running when I can’t.”

Minho offered a small, polite smile. “Then I suppose I should thank you in advance for putting up with him.”

Hyunjin’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement. “I’ve had practice.”

The banter earned a chuckle from Chan before the door opened again. This time, two men stepped in, Changbin in his fitted black uniform, presence solid and unwavering, and Jisung beside him, posture sharp yet lacking the stiffness of someone who lived only by protocol.

Chan stood, his voice taking on a certain weight as he gestured toward them. “And here— my bodyguards. Changbin, who has been with me the longest, and Jisung, my right hand in most matters.”

Changbin gave Minho a polite nod, sturdy and dependable, while Jisung’s gaze lingered a second too long, curious, searching.

Minho’s smile deepened as his eyes locked with Jisung’s. It wasn’t just politeness, there was something else. A flicker of recognition, though they had never met, as if Minho already knew he would be seeing a lot of this man.

“So he's the one I’ll be spending my days with.”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard by the directness, before dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, sir.”

Minho scoffed, a quiet laugh spilling out as he leaned back in his chair. “Sir?” he repeated, the word tasting far too stiff on his tongue. He shook his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Please— call me Minho. I can’t with this sir nonsense.”

Chan, still behind his desk, watched the exchange with obvious fondness. His lips curved into a smile he didn’t bother hiding, head shaking as though he’d already expected Minho to tear down any walls of formality.

Jisung’s gaze flicked instinctively to Chan, looking for confirmation like any good soldier trained not to misstep. Chan gave a small nod, his expression still soft, still wrapped in quiet pride that Minho could so effortlessly bend the room to his warmth.

“Yes, Mr. Lee,” Jisung said, turning back to Minho with the faintest flicker of unease, the title clinging to his tongue.

Minho arched a brow, his smile pulling wider. “It’s Minho.”

There was a pause, then Jisung’s lips quirked into a sheepish smile. His voice dropped a shade lower, awkward but genuine. “Alright... Minho.”

The way he said it, hesitant, careful, as though tasting the name for the first time, made Minho’s chest hum with quiet satisfaction. He leaned an elbow onto the armrest, chin tipping up ever so slightly, already enjoying the thought of softening Jisung’s edges, one by one.

Chan, watching silently, didn’t interrupt.

For him, the moment was simple and precious, the man he loved finding a place in the world he ruled.

Hyunjin’s strides were purposeful, long and unhurried, the faintest swish of fabric marking his passage through the quiet corridor.

He didn’t need to look back. He could feel the weight of a gaze, the persistent footsteps trailing just a second too late, as though someone was trying to match him but never quite could.

“Hyunjinnie,” Felix’s voice rang out, bright and lilting, like he had been waiting all day for the chance to use it. “Finally caught you.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer. Didn't stop walking either. Just his jaw set a little tighter, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Felix lengthened his steps, nearly jogging to fall in line beside him. “Do you know how impossible it is to find you alone? You’re always with someone. Channie, Bin, those endless files of yours. I swear, you’re avoiding me.”

Still no reply. Hyunjin’s face remained unreadable, the very picture of discipline.

When his silence stretched too long, Felix tilted his head, voice lilting with false innocence. “So… how have you been, Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin didn’t look at him, didn’t slow down. “Better off alone.”

Felix gasped, clutching at his chest like he’d been stabbed. “Ouch. Right here. You wound me, Hyunjinnie.” He staggered sideways a step, leaning dramatically against the wall before straightening again, grin never faltering. “I ask with all the sweetness in the world, and that’s what you give me? Cold, sharp daggers? You’re cruel.”

Hyunjin’s lips pressed together in a thin line, eyes fixed ahead.

Felix leaned closer, dropping his voice in mock secrecy. “But cruel looks good on you. You know that, right? You could tell me you hate me, and I’d still ask you to say it again—just to hear it in your voice.”

“Stop it, Felix,” Hyunjin muttered, though the slight twitch of his brow betrayed the effort it took not to react further.

Felix only brightened, like he’d won something. “Ah, so it’s Felix now? Not Mr. Bang's brother? Progress!” He laughed, shameless and unbothered, falling back into step beside him. “You think you can ignore me forever, but I’m persistent. Annoying, hard to shake, and always sticking around.”

Hyunjin finally stopped at the end of the corridor, files tucked neatly under his arm. He turned just enough to look at Felix, his tone even, clipped. “I thought… after being away, you’d finally be a little more mature. A little more grown up.”

Felix’s grin widened instantly, like he’d been waiting for this exact line. He leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I am grown up.” His voice dipped into a low, playful murmur. “Wanna see?”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened, a quiet sigh leaving him as he turned away, resuming his stride. “You’re impossible.”

Felix followed with a victorious smirk, falling back into step beside him like a shadow. “And yet… you keep answering me.”

Hyunjin exhaled slowly, finally glancing at him with that sharp, weary look. “You really don’t have any shame, do you?”

Felix grinned, unabashed. “Not when it comes to you.”

And there it was again. The easy, relentless way he said it, like Hyunjin’s silence, Hyunjin’s walls, Hyunjin’s rejection meant nothing. To Felix, it was just another reason to keep coming closer.

Felix let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his chest. “And you walk too fast. Do you hate me this much, Hyunjin? Your legs are unfair. I mean, I’m short, but I didn’t sign up for cardio.”

Hyunjin stopped. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, dark eyes cutting across the space between them. “What do you want, Lix?”

Felix froze for half a beat before his grin bloomed like a secret he couldn’t hold back. “Say it again,” he whispered. “My name. The way it sounds from you… God, you have no idea.”

Hyunjin’s brows twitched in faint exasperation. He turned back, walking again. Felix followed without hesitation, steps quick and eager, his voice a stream of chatter.

“I’ll take impossible. I’ll take anything, as long as you don’t shut me out. Do you know how much I look for you? Even when you’re not around, I—” Felix broke off, laughing to himself, as though catching the edge of his own obsession. “It’s stupid, huh? I keep hearing your name in rooms you’ve never been in.”

Hyunjin didn’t respond, but the faint tightening of his grip on the files was answer enough.

“You never look at me,” Felix continued, softer now, almost coaxing. “Not the way I look at you. But that’s fine. I can wait. I’ve always been good at waiting.”

Hyunjin’s pace slowed, just enough to throw Felix a glance. “You should stop talking before you embarrass yourself further.”

Felix only chuckled, eyes alight, as though even Hyunjin’s rejection was a gift. “Embarrassment doesn’t scare me. Losing sight of you does.”

Hyunjin shook his head, exhaling through his nose, but didn’t push him away. He simply walked, Felix shadowing him step for step, devotion practically written in his grin.

The shopping street was alive with color and sound, but Minho felt none of it reaching him.

Bright banners swayed overhead, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifted from a nearby cart, and a vendor called out cheerfully, showing off handmade scarves to a group of tourists. A small child tugged on her mother’s sleeve, pointing at a toy stall. Laughter, chatter, footsteps, everything blended into the hum of ordinary life.

Ordinary.

That was what Minho missed.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, walking a little slower than the crowd. For years, he had dreamed of something as simple as this, strolling down a street, stopping at shops, choosing something just because he liked it.

Now that he finally had the chance, it didn’t feel like freedom at all.

Because behind him, always behind him, there was Jisung.

The bodyguard kept an exact distance. Not too close to smother, not too far to be useless. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd in quick, subtle movements. His steps were steady, calculated.

If someone glanced their way, they’d see nothing but a professional doing his job. But to Minho, it felt like a leash.

Minho paused at a stall selling neatly folded shirts. He let his fingers skim over the cotton, pretending to examine the material. The glass window reflected more than his own face; it reflected the tall frame standing just behind, head turning slightly as if mapping the entire street in his mind.

Minho sighed, dropping the shirt back onto the pile.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere, you know,” he said quietly, not turning to face Jisung. “It’s shopping, not a battlefield.”

There was no hesitation in Jisung’s reply. “I was told to stay with you. That’s what I’ll do.”

The certainty in his voice only made Minho’s chest tighten. He started walking again, slower than before, weaving past a couple holding hands. The thought had crossed his mind that maybe having Chan with him would make things lighter, even fun. Maybe they could share a coffee, laugh at something silly in a shop window. Maybe, just for once, he wouldn’t feel like a secret guarded behind walls.

But Jisung wasn’t company. He was a shadow with rules stitched into his skin.

Minho stopped again at another stall, this one filled with small trinkets, keychains shaped like animals, tiny glass figurines catching the sunlight. He bent down, picked up a little cat made of colored glass, and let the light scatter in his palm. A normal moment. Simple. He wanted it to feel real.

But over his shoulder, he caught sight of Jisung’s reflection in the vendor’s glass case, arms folded, jaw set, eyes still sweeping the street like a hawk.

Minho put the cat back down.

“This isn’t fun at all,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that it could’ve been meant for himself. But the way Jisung’s head tilted ever so slightly told him he’d been heard.

The crowd surged around them, but Minho felt the weight of Jisung’s presence more than the noise. Not loud, not overbearing, just constant. A reminder that even here, under open skies, he was still trapped in a cage.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Minho wondered, if this man ever loosened that steel posture, what kind of company would he be? And with that, Minho stopped mid-step, turning toward a stall lined with colorful scarves, but he didn’t even look at them. His brows pinched together, the weight of Jisung’s steady shadow finally pressing too heavily on him.

Minho should’ve felt lighter here, free even, surrounded by chatter and the scent of roasted chestnuts in the cold air. But all he could feel was the shadow a step behind him. Every time he paused at a display, Jisung paused too. Every time he shifted, Jisung shifted. Silent, steady, relentless.

At first, Minho tried to ignore it, but after the third stall, the fourth, the fifth… the weight of it pressed down.

He slowed his pace, then suddenly stopped in the middle of the path, pivoting to face him. “You know,” Minho muttered, keeping his voice low so only Jisung could hear, “it’s hard to breathe when you’re watching every step I take.”

Jisung’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable, before resuming their quiet sweep of the crowd. “That’s my job,” he said evenly.

Minho let out a short laugh, sharp with frustration. “Your job is to make me feel safe. Right now, I feel like a prisoner.”

That earned him the smallest flicker, a shift in Jisung’s jaw, a muscle tightening near his temple, but still, his words came out calm.

“I’m sorry if you feel that way.” The apology didn’t sound like surrender; it sounded like a door quietly shut in his face.

Minho scoffed, shaking his head as he turned back toward the shops. His strides were sharper now, clipped, shoes striking against the pavement like punctuation. Behind him, Jisung followed, close, quiet, never breaking rhythm.

And Minho hated it.

Hated that no matter what he said, Jisung didn’t crack.

Didn’t falter.

Didn’t feel.

It made him restless in a way he didn’t want to name.

He let out a breath, sharp through his nose, and glanced back at the bodyguard. “If you’re going to follow me like this,” Minho said, voice soft but edged with impatience, “at least act like a friend.”

For the first time all morning, Jisung faltered. A blink. A pause. He didn’t argue, didn’t insist on the word duty or orders. Instead, he simply stepped closer, wordless, and reached for the bags Minho was holding.

The move was so smooth it almost looked rehearsed. Jisung took them from Minho’s hands with practiced ease, gripping the straps in one hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His face remained unreadable, but there was the faintest shift in his tone when he spoke:

“That’s what friends do, right?”

The words were plain, almost flat, but something about them made Minho’s chest tighten. He stared at him for a beat, searching for a hint of teasing or warmth or anything beyond that calm, unyielding surface. There was nothing.

Minho dragged a hand through his hair, exasperated. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, shaking his head as he turned back toward the street.

But this time, when he started walking again, Jisung didn’t stay quite so far behind. He walked a little closer, bags in hand, silent as ever.

They hadn’t gone far when a ripple of music reached Minho’s ears. Fast beats, a crowd’s scattered cheers, the familiar sound of sneakers sliding against pavement. He turned his head and spotted it instantly. A group of street dancers carving out a circle of space in the middle of the plaza. Their movements sharp, fluid, commanding the eyes of every passerby.

Minho’s face lit up in a way it hadn’t all morning. Without hesitation, he angled his steps toward them, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

But before he could cross the street, a hand rose in front of him.

“Don’t,” Jisung said evenly, palm steady like a barrier. His tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried enough weight to stop Minho mid-step.

Minho blinked, then frowned. “What?”

“The crowd,” Jisung explained, eyes scanning the sea of people pressed shoulder to shoulder around the dancers. “It’s dense. Chaotic. Easy cover if anyone wanted to—”

“I just want to see it, the performance.” Minho cut in, his voice tight. He hated the way Jisung made it sound like danger lurked behind every corner, in every face. He tilted his chin, defiance simmering under his calm expression. “That’s all.”

Jisung’s gaze flicked back to him, steady and unyielding. “Crowds can be dangerous.”

The frustration that had been simmering all morning finally cracked. Minho let out a short, incredulous laugh, throwing his hands slightly into the air. “You know what? You’re getting on my nerves.”

The words landed heavy, harsher than he meant them, but he didn’t take them back.

Jisung’s jaw tightened, but his calm tone didn’t shift. He lowered his hand, head bowing faintly. “I apologize if you feel that way,” he said, every syllable quiet and almost too careful.

Something about the calmness, the refusal to rise, to argue, to give anything away, only fueled Minho’s irritation. He exhaled sharply, spun on his heel, and stomped back toward the sleek black car waiting by the curb.

His steps were clipped, echoing with impatience against the pavement. Behind him, Jisung followed without a word, his stride soundless and controlled.

When Minho reached the car, he yanked open the door and slid inside with a huff, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Through the window, he caught a glimpse of Jisung taking his position just outside, back straight, hands behind him, eyes scanning the street as if nothing had happened at all, before getting in the driver's seat.

And for some reason, that composure made Minho grit his teeth harder than the denial itself.

The ride home had been quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that thickened the air instead of easing it. By the time the car rolled to a stop at the gates, Minho’s patience had already frayed thin.

The moment the door clicked open, he was out. No pause, no waiting, no glance back. His shoes struck the driveway with clipped steps, sharp enough to echo against the stone walls. His shoulders were set, chin tipped a little higher than usual. Not arrogance, but defense. Like armor.

The heavy door swung open with a push, and Minho stepped into the house without slowing down. A maid approached, quick to bow slightly, hands reaching for the shopping bags. Minho shoved the one he had in his hand into her arms without a word, barely sparing her a glance, his lips pressed tight into a line.

Behind him, almost like his shadow stitched to the floor, Jisung followed in. Smooth and measured. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t even ruffle the air, but Minho felt him there, felt him like a weight pressing against his back.

“Take it,” Jisung’s voice was low, clipped, as he passed the last of the bags to the maid. She nodded quickly and disappeared toward the side hall.

But Minho was already gone from the foyer.

He stormed down the hall, movements sharper than usual. His steps didn’t glide; they cut. His hand skimmed the polished wood of the banister a little too hard, leaving faint smudges. His jaw worked silently, lips twitching like he wanted to speak but kept biting the words down before they could escape.

He reached the living room and stopped short, turning his head slightly, as if considering whether to vent his frustration then and there. His nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose. But he didn’t slow down for long. His shoes clicked against the polished floors, echoing down the hall as though announcing his irritation to the entire house. The staff who passed him stepped aside quickly, recognizing the storm in his expression. He didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. His eyes were set straight ahead, sharp and unreadable.

When he reached Chan’s office, he didn’t pause, didn’t knock, the handle turned sharply under his hand, the door swinging open with a quiet creak.

What greeted him made him stop short.

The office wasn’t empty.

But Chan wasn't in there either. 

Hyunjin sat behind the wide oak desk, posture loose but focused, eyes fixed on the laptop screen. His long fingers moved with quiet precision over the keys, his face impassive in the glow of the screen. The air around him was calm and composed, as though he was untouchable, cocooned in his own concentration.

And then there was Felix.

Perched casually on the edge of the desk, leaning in just a little too close to Hyunjin’s space. His elbow rested against the polished wood, chin propped in his palm, body angled toward Hyunjin like a plant straining for sunlight. A grin played lazily at the corner of his mouth, his eyes alight with mischief. The picture of someone unbothered, someone enjoying himself.

His voice had been lilting, teasing, something smooth and soft enough to curl under the skin. But the moment the door opened, he cut himself off.

The atmosphere shifted.

Minho’s frown was immediate, sharp and cutting. His eyes flicked once, from Hyunjin, still calmly working to Felix, still too close.

Felix straightened at once. He slid off the desk with a practiced ease, movements fluid, like nothing in the world could fluster him. His grin didn’t fade, but there was a flicker in his eyes, a spark of recognition at Minho’s presence, at the unspoken disapproval hanging in the air.

Hyunjin, in contrast, was steady as ever. He closed the laptop with quiet finality, the sound loud in the room’s silence, and rose from his chair with unhurried grace. His expression didn’t shift. No annoyance, no surprise. Just calm composure, as though Minho barging in had been expected all along.

He was the first to break the silence as well. The male lifted his gaze to Minho, a faint, polite smile touching his lips, the kind that never quite reached his eyes.

“You’re back,” he said evenly, voice soft but steady. “How was the—”

“Where’s Chan?” Minho cut him off, sharp, no room for pleasantries.

Hyunjin’s brows twitched almost imperceptibly at the interruption, but his calm never faltered. He closed the laptop fully, his hands resting loosely against the desk as he replied, “He went to see Mr. Bang. He should be back soon.”

A groan slipped from Minho’s chest, low and impatient. He turned on his heel without another word, frustration bleeding through his every movement. The sharp swing of the door reminded the room that his irritation hadn’t cooled one bit.

At the threshold, Jisung lingered. He glanced once inside, eyes flicking between Hyunjin and Felix before quickly fixing back on Minho’s retreating form. Dutiful, unshaken, he stepped to follow.

But Minho’s scowl cut him down in an instant. “I don’t need your protection,” he snapped, his voice dripping with disdain. “Not when I’m already under my man’s wings.”

The words hung heavy.

Jisung froze, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the sting before he dipped his head slightly, swallowing any protest. His eyes lowered, and without a word, he fell a step behind Minho again, silent, obedient, shadowing him still.

Behind them, Hyunjin watched with that same unreadable calm, while Felix leaned back against the desk once more, grin tugging at his lips like the whole scene had been a private show just for him.

A moment later, Felix straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves like he’d just been entertained. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he tossed lightly over his shoulder to Hyunjin, then slipped past the door with a lazy skip in his step, trailing after Minho without a care.

The room quieted. Only the faint ticking of the clock filled the silence.

Hyunjin exhaled softly, turning to where Jisung still lingered near the doorframe, posture stiff but controlled. “What happened?” He asked, his voice carrying that calm weight again, as if he already knew the answer.

Jisung let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. A small smile tugged briefly at the corner of his lips as he replied simply, “Work happened.”

Hyunjin studied him for a moment longer before shaking his head, resigned, and returning to his desk. The quiet hum of the laptop restarting soon filled the space once more.

Jisung, though, didn’t move right away. His gaze lingered down the hall where Minho had stormed off, irritation still fresh in the air. He gave a small shake of his head and murmured under his breath, just low enough for only the walls to hear.

“Such a sharp mouth for such a pretty face.”

The words lingered, hushed and unclaimed, before he finally pushed off the doorframe and followed the trail back into silence.

Chapter Text

The water lapped lazily against the tiled edges of the indoor pool, carrying soft ripples from Felix’s slow movements. He floated near the edge, hair slicked back and shoulders glistening, while Jeongin had already climbed out, sitting cross-legged at the edge with a towel draped over his shoulders. Droplets ran down his arms, trailing into the cracks of the stone as he absentmindedly gestured with his hands while talking.

“…and then, the professor asked if anyone could solve it, and before I even tried, half the class was already looking at me like I should know everything just because of who my brother works for.” Jeongin huffed a laugh, tilting his head back slightly as if replaying the scene. “I mean… I get it. It’s like they think I’m royalty now. A prince or something.”

Felix, half-submerged, rested his chin on his folded arms against the pool’s edge, eyes fixed on Jeongin with an expression that was unusually quiet. His lips curved faintly, but there was no teasing waiting behind it.

He just… listened.

“You know,” Jeongin went on, tugging at the corner of the towel, “at first I hated it. Felt like I didn’t earn any of it. But then—” he shrugged, a little sheepish, “—it’s kind of nice sometimes. Being treated like someone important.”

Felix’s gaze didn’t waver. The way the overhead lights caught on Jeongin’s damp hair, the easy way he sat barefoot and unguarded, the earnestness threading through his voice, it all pressed into Felix like sunlight warming through glass.

“Prince Innie,” Felix finally said, his voice softer than usual, almost thoughtful. “Yeah. I can see it.”

Jeongin turned to him, a laugh slipping out. “Don’t start teasing.”

Felix only shook his head, droplets glimmering as his hair clung closer to his temples. “Not teasing. You have that… you know... presence. Like you don’t even try, and people still notice.”

The sincerity in his tone made Jeongin pause. He searched Felix’s face, waiting for the inevitable wink or smirk, but none came. Felix’s eyes stayed steady, warm with a kind of admiration Jeongin didn’t know how to meet.

Jeongin cleared his throat, looking back at the pool instead. “You sound serious.”

“I am.” Felix’s fingers tapped lightly on the wet tile, breaking the moment with the softest splash of water. Still, his eyes didn’t leave Jeongin, as if the younger boy’s words and laughter mattered more than anything else right now.

The quiet stretched between them, comfortable, not heavy. Felix let it, content just to listen if Jeongin decided to keep talking, as the younger leaned back on his hands, legs still dripping water where his calves brushed the tiles. He was watching the reflection of the ceiling lights ripple in the pool when his voice came out almost casually.

“You know, my friends here in uni envy me,” he said. “Not because of the Bahng name or whatever— but because of Hyunjin. They think he’s… dashing. Stunning. Like he walked out of some movie poster.”

Across the water, Felix’s lips twitched. The ease in Jeongin’s tone was dangerous, like tossing a pebble into water, not caring how far the ripples went.

Felix shifted closer to the pool’s edge, tilting his head, eyes glinting. “Mmhm,” he drawled, “is that you trying to make me jealous with that information, Prince Innie?”

Jeongin glanced down at him, the towel slipping slightly from his shoulder. His expression stayed even, unbothered. “If it works.”

Felix let out a short laugh, the kind that curled at the ends. He pressed his chin back into his arms, gaze never breaking away. Jeongin let the silence stretch, only the soft lapping of water filling the pool room. Then, almost like the thought had been sitting on his tongue too long, he cleared his throat. 

“Hyunjin still sees you as a child. Childish.”

Felix didn’t bristle, he just lifted his chin from his folded arms, eyes half-lidded, as if the words rolled off him like water. A corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“He never gave me the chance to prove otherwise,” Felix said, his voice low and smooth.

Jeongin made a face, scrunching his nose, lips twisting. “You’re nasty.”

That earned him a full grin from Felix, sharp and delighted. “Nasty?” He pushed himself back, floating lazily on his back now, arms spreading wide as if he were surrendering to the word. “I call it persistent.”

Jeongin leaned forward on his knees, elbows braced, watching him drift in slow circles. “Persistent is studying all night for an exam. You—” He jabbed a finger in Felix’s direction. “You’re the definition of shameless.”

Felix’s laugh echoed across the tiled walls, light and unbothered. “And yet you still keep me around.”

Jeongin rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched like he was suppressing a smile. “Yeah, because no one else would willingly put up with you.”

Felix tipped his head back just enough to catch Jeongin’s gaze, eyes sparkling under the pool lights. “Correction... no one else deserves to.”

Jeongin groaned, grabbing the nearest plastic water bottle and chucking it lightly toward Felix, who let it bounce off his shoulder with a dramatic flinch. “God, you’re unbearable.”

But the way Jeongin said it, without venom, with a familiar ease, spoke louder than anything else. This was how they worked. No secrets, no pretenses. Just blunt truths, laughs, tossed back and forth without fear of breaking something fragile.

Felix swam back to the edge, resting his arms on the tiles, hair dripping down his forehead. He smirked up at Jeongin.

“Unbearable, sure. But still your favorite.”

Jeongin didn’t answer right away, just stared at him like he wanted to deny it but couldn’t. Finally, he shook his head, the towel slipping further down his shoulders.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t expect me to boost your ego more than this.”

Felix’s grin widened, utterly victorious. “Too late. Consider it boosted.”

And for a fleeting moment, the pool felt less like a sanctuary and more like their own world, one where Jeongin’s dry honesty and Felix’s shamelessness fit perfectly together.

“There are a lot of people out there, Felix,” Jeongin went on, shrugging like it wasn’t personal. “Men, women, all kinds. You could have any of them. Why keep flying around a man who barely notices you? Who doesn’t even want you?”

For a moment, Felix was still. His smile softened, but it didn’t falter. When he finally answered, it was with that maddening ease of his, like everything in the world was just a game.

“Because that’s the fun of it,” he said, almost lightly. “I can get anything— everything I want. Anyone I want if I throw the right money.” He tilted his head just so, catching Jeongin in the direct pull of his stare. “But not your brother.”

The water rippled as he shifted, drawing himself closer to the edge, closer to Jeongin’s dangling feet. His voice was quieter now, carrying the weight of something that wasn’t quite playful anymore.

“And that,” Felix finished with a small, almost self-satisfied curve of his lips, “makes him priceless.”

Jeongin studied him for a beat, towel clutched loosely around his shoulders. The sincerity beneath Felix’s teasing was undeniable, and for once, Jeongin didn’t have a retort.

He just looked away, shaking his head softly, while Felix lingered in the silence, his eyes fixed on the water instead of the man he’d just confessed his obsession with.

The study smelled faintly of leather and old paper, lined with shelves that held more contracts than books worth reading. Sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, a pale attempt at softening the air, but it couldn’t touch the tension that lived between the father and his son.

Chan sat opposite his father’s massive oak desk, hands folded neatly, expression a carefully built mask of composure.

“Profits from the Hong Kong branch dipped last quarter,” his father, Bang Seojoon said, his tone brisk, eyes on the report instead of his son. “I want that corrected before the fiscal year closes.”

Chan leaned back slightly in the chair, legs crossed at the ankle. “Already in motion. We’re restructuring their leadership and reassigning oversight. It won’t happen again.”

Seojoon didn’t nod in approval. He rarely did. His gaze finally lifted, sharp as glass. “You sound confident. But confidence is not enough, Christopher. Results are.”

Chan’s jaw ticked, just once, but his voice stayed calm. “You’ll have results. You know, I don’t deal in half-measures.”

“Have you looked over the car imports?” Seojoon asked, adjusting his glasses as he skimmed another page.

Chan shifted his weight on the seat, curling with fingers in his pockets. “Aston Martin’s deal will be signed next week. Rolls-Royce is dragging, but they’ll come around. Bentley’s on the table for later this year.”

His father gave a low hum, neither approval nor dismissal. “That’s fast work.”

Chan’s mouth curved in the faintest smile, as the man set the papers aside and leaned back. “You’re confident.”

“I have to be,” Chan said simply.

His father studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Be careful. These deals attract eyes. Not all of them friendly.”

Chan dipped his chin, meeting his father’s gaze without blinking. “I know.”

“I trust you’ll keep it in check.”

“You can,” Chan said. The words weren’t boastful, just matter-of-fact.

And with that, his father picked up the next file, already done with the conversation. Silence pressed between them, heavy and deliberate. The only sound was the scratch of Mr. Bang’s fountain pen against a separate document.

He didn’t look at him as he spoke. “Felix’s return is well-timed. He’ll need to learn more than lounging in foreign schools. If he’s to carry the Bahng name, he must prove his worth.”

Chan’s fingers tightened against the armrest. He didn’t rise to it, not outwardly, but his voice cooled another degree.

“Felix’s education is my responsibility.”

“And yet,” his father replied evenly, “you can’t shield him forever. The world is sharper than he is. And weaker men cut themselves.”

The weight of the words settled, as calculated as any deal signed on that desk. Chan didn’t flinch, didn’t argue, but the silence that followed was iron.

Finally, his father closed the report and leaned back. “You’re on the cusp of inheriting everything I developed, our ancestors built. Don’t mistake sentiment for strength. A single weakness will be exploited. Remember that.”

Chan rose, straightening his jacket with precise fingers. His voice was steady, almost indifferent. “I don’t forget. Not weakness, not enemies, not responsibilities.”

He turned to leave, the cold echo of his father’s office lingering on his shoulders like a second coat.

The hum of the underground parking was low and constant, the kind of muffled silence broken only by the occasional drip of water from the ceiling or the faint echo of a car rolling past.

Under one of the pale overhead lights stood Hyunjin, waiting. He had his jacket buttoned, tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had been long but not enough to look unkempt. His phone was in one hand, but his eyes weren’t on it.

He watched the ramp instead, patient, sharp, still.

The sleek growl of Chan’s car reached him before the headlights cut through the shadows. Hyunjin straightened automatically, slipping the phone into his pocket. The car slid into the space with smooth precision, and the moment the engine died, Hyunjin was already stepping forward.

The door opened, and Chan unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, tugging at his cuffs like he hadn’t shed the weight of the last meeting yet. His tie was still perfectly in place, though. It always was.

“They’re restless,” Hyunjin said by way of greeting, his tone even, controlled. “The Kims sent word again. They want another meeting.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

Chan clicked the car shut with a press of the fob. The metallic chirp echoed off the concrete. “Dad didn’t say anything about that.”

“The message came just ten minutes ago,” Hyunjin answered, already falling into step beside him. His shoes were silent against the polished floor compared to Chan’s steady stride. “They’re not happy with how long this is taking. They think we’re playing for time.”

Chan’s mouth tightened at the corner, his eyes ahead, calculating. “Let them think that.”

Hyunjin glanced sideways at him, a flicker of curiosity slipping past the usual composure. “You know they’ll take it as an excuse to push harder.”

“Then we push harder,” Chan said, calm, clipped, as if the solution was obvious.

The elevator was waiting at the far end, stainless steel doors gleaming under fluorescent light. Hyunjin pressed the button, his hand lingering just long enough to glance at Chan again.

“Still… we’ll need to be precise. They’re the kind who look for cracks.”

Chan finally met his eyes, and for a heartbeat the air shifted, less about the Kims, more about the quiet trust they shared in moments like this. Then the chime of the elevator broke it, the doors gliding open.

Neither spoke as they stepped inside. Hyunjin adjusted the cuff of his own sleeve, then, almost absently, reached over and smoothed a faint crease in Chan’s jacket shoulder. The gesture was quick, practical, as if it had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with appearances.

Chan didn’t comment. He only gave the faintest nod, eyes ahead as the elevator began its smooth climb upward. The elevator hummed to a stop, the digital panel above flashing their floor. With a soft chime, the doors parted.

Minho was waiting just outside.

He wasn’t leaning against the wall, wasn’t idly checking his phone the way he usually did when he had to wait. He was standing sharp, spine straight, both hands at his sides as if he had been rooted there the whole time. His expression said everything before a single word was spoken, tight jaw, eyes sharp but weary, shoulders wound up like a bowstring.

Chan’s gaze caught his instantly, and he slowed his step as he exited. Hyunjin came a pace behind, scanning the hallway the way he always did out of habit, until Chan spoke.

“Leave us.”

The words were quiet, even, but there was no mistaking the command laced through them.

Hyunjin’s dark eyes flicked between the two men for a moment. He caught the sharp tension hanging in the air, read the storm gathering in Minho’s posture, and gave a small, curt nod. No questions, no hesitation.

“Yes sir, Understood.”

He stepped to the side smoothly, his presence pulling back like a tide. His shoes made no sound as he walked away down the hall, disappearing with the same controlled grace he had carried in the parking lot.

Chan and Minho were left staring at each other in the faintly humming silence of the corridor.

Chan exhaled slowly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with deliberate calm. “I can see from your face this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Minho didn’t answer immediately. His lips pressed into a line, the weight of unspoken words flickering in his eyes. “If I have to have a bodyguard around me…” he paused, his brow creasing as if even admitting that much cost him, “…at least make him friendly.”

Chan lifted a brow, his tone deliberately mild. “Friendly?”

“That man— uhm...” Minho cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head, his lips pulling into something close to a sneer.

“Jisung,” Chan supplied calmly, as if he’d been waiting for the name to surface.

Minho gave a single, sharp nod. “Yeah. Jisung. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t talk, just follows me around like a shadow I never asked for.” His voice dipped into mockery on the last words, frustration finally spilling out in something rawer than he’d intended.

Chan’s reply was steady, a low rumble against Minho’s sharpness. “They’re supposed to do that.”

Minho let out a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. He paced two steps to the side, then turned back, eyes locking on Chan’s with the kind of stubborn glare only Minho could manage.

“I don’t want one like that. If you insist on sticking someone to my side, he could at least act like he’s human. Crack a joke. Pretend we’re friends. Not this— this silent watchdog routine.”

Chan’s fingers drummed once against his forearm, thoughtful rather than annoyed. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t argue, his calm was its own kind of immovable wall. “You think being friendly will make you safer?”

“Yes. I think,” Minho snapped, then forced his tone down, jaw tightening, “I think that I don’t need someone breathing down my neck with dead eyes. It makes people stare. Makes me feel like I’m on a leash.”

Chan’s eyes softened just a fraction, but his stance didn’t shift. “You don’t like Jisung because he does his job too well.”

Minho’s scowl deepened. “I don’t like Jisung because I don’t need him.”

“You do.”

For the moment followed, Chan said nothing else, only held Minho’s gaze with that steady patience of his.

“No, I don’t,” Minho shot back without hesitation, his voice low but steady. He pushed through the doorway ahead of Chan, the air between them taut as a drawn wire.

Inside, Chan’s room was cloaked in its usual understated luxury, subtle touches of wealth without the gaudiness. The quiet hum of the city barely seeped through the tall windows, and the only sound was Minho’s frustrated exhale as he turned to face Chan again.

“I don’t want him, Chan. I don’t want anyone.” His tone cracked at the edges now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. “I want you around me, not some bodyguard, not some staff member glued to my side.”

Chan closed the door behind them with a soft click, his eyes following Minho’s restless movements. He said nothing at first, only stepping closer until Minho found himself pulled gently by the wrist, the fight in him colliding with Chan’s warmth.

“Min,” Chan murmured, his voice soft enough to disarm, “if I could, I’d be at your side every second.” His hand slid up, cupping the back of Minho’s neck, grounding him. “But right now, I can’t. There’s too much at stake. Too many people waiting for us to slip.”

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his shoulders loosened against Chan’s touch.

Chan tilted his forehead to Minho’s, words low, almost a vow. “Once everything’s settled, once I’ve cut myself free from my father’s hold— all of this will be ours. No guards. No walls. No watchful eyes. Just you and me, living the way we want.”

Minho’s breath caught, stubbornness flickering into something softer, something that betrayed just how much he wanted to believe.

Chan’s thumb brushed over his jaw, coaxing him closer. “Until then,” he whispered, “I just need you to hold on. Trust me to get us there. Can you do that? For me? For... for us?”

The room felt smaller with the silence that followed, as if the world outside couldn’t touch them here, only the weight of promises and the warmth of Chan’s hands mattered.

“Yeah, can't wait to meet you all again,” Felix's voice carried in the hallway as he leaned lazily against a pillar, phone pressed to his ear, laughing at something his friend from Auckland had just said.

“Yeah, nah, mate, I’ll tell you later. Busy? Me? Huh, funny...” His accent grew heavier when he spoke to them, the casual drawl of home slipping through.

Until...

Until through the glass doors ahead, down in the garden, he caught sight of something interesting.

Hyunjin.

The man was half-turned, sunlight catching on the sharp line of his cheek, his hair shifting with the breeze. He was speaking quietly to one of the maids, expression calm, patient, hands folded behind his back in his usual graceful stance.

Felix froze mid-step, lips twitching into a wide grin he couldn’t contain. His friend’s voice crackled in his ear, but he wasn’t listening anymore. His gaze fixed only on Hyunjin.

“I’ll call you back,” Felix cut in quickly, ending the call before waiting for a reply. His phone slid into his pocket, and then he was moving, quick steps, almost a skip, like a boy who had just spotted his favorite thing in the world.

The maid bowed politely before slipping away, leaving Hyunjin standing alone in the trimmed greenery. That was all Felix needed. He practically jogged the last few meters, his grin stretched from ear to ear.

“Hyune!” he called out brightly, his voice cracking through the stillness of the garden like sunlight breaking a cloud.

Hyunjin turned at the sound, brows knitting faintly at the interruption. His gaze softened only a fraction when he saw who it was. Felix didn’t slow down. He was already there, leaning in too close, invading space like it was his right. His eyes sparkled, chest still rising with the rush of having found him.

There was no mistaking it. The man looked like someone who had just stumbled upon treasure.

The maid dipped her head toward Felix the moment she heard his voice. “Sir,” she murmured politely before moving past him and back inside the mansion.

Felix didn’t even spare her a glance. His eyes never shifted from Hyunjin, as if the world blurred at the edges whenever the man was in front of him. He leaned his weight slightly to the side, hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks, smile still present but softer now, searching.

“So, I was looking for you all day,” Felix began casually, as though they were two old friends catching up, “what are your plans for tomorrow?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer immediately. He slipped his phone from the inner pocket of his vest, long fingers moving with precise ease. His thumb scrolled over the screen as his eyes flicked across it, the faintest furrow between his brows. “Nothing,” he said finally, tone even, almost detached.

Felix tilted his head, a little spark flickering in his eyes. “Then go out with me.”

Hyunjin didn’t look up from the screen. “I have work.”

Felix’s grin wavered, just for a second. He stepped closer, almost bouncing into Hyunjin’s space, lowering his voice in something closer to a coax.

“At night too?”

This time, Hyunjin lifted his gaze from the screen, his expression calm, unbothered.

“Yes. At night too.”

The cheer in Felix’s shoulders deflated in one slow exhale. He let out a long sigh, head dropping back just a little, lips tugging down in a playfully exaggerated pout. But there was a flicker in his eyes, half frustration, half something heavier, that betrayed the act.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but it wasn’t sharp. More like the complaint of someone who refused to give up.

Hyunjin slipped the phone back into his pocket, gaze already shifting away as though the conversation was over. Felix watched him, that same smile returning, softer, resigned but determined all at once, like a child denied a toy; yet planning how to reach for it again tomorrow.

Felix sighed, dragging his feet a little as Hyunjin moved toward the path leading back inside. His grin curved again, stubborn as ever. “So, if Channie goes,” he called after him, “will you go too?”

Hyunjin didn’t even falter. “Yes.” The answer was clean, clipped, without a moment’s hesitation.

Felix quickened his steps until he fell in stride beside him. His smirk curved wickedly. “You know,” he drawled, “if you weren’t so damn anti-romantic, I’d think you’ve got a crush on my brother.”

That was enough to make Hyunjin pause. He turned just slightly, eyes narrowing in a glint that could almost be mistaken for amusement.

“And why can’t I?” His voice was cool, almost teasing in its restraint. “Mr. Bang is more mature than you, more successful. Got a whole bussiness empire right at his feet. He knows when to speak and when to stay silent. He doesn’t whine when he doesn’t get what he wants. He carries a room, commands it, without needing to be reckless. All qualities,” Hyunjin tilted his head, lips barely curving, “you don’t exactly embody, Felix.”

The words were chosen carefully, sharp enough to wound, meant to draw offense.

But when Hyunjin’s gaze landed on him, Felix wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t sulking.

He was still smiling.

Unbothered. Unshaken. Like Hyunjin’s dismissal only added fuel to something that had already been burning too long inside him.

Felix’s grin deepened, slow and knowing, as he leaned a little closer while they resumed walking. His grin didn’t waver, though his voice softened, slipping into something almost matter-of-fact.

“I know,” he said. “Still… you won’t go for my brother.”

That earned him a frown. Hyunjin’s steps slowed, just a fraction, his brows knitting before he angled his head toward Felix.

“What makes you so certain?”

Felix’s smile sharpened, not with humor but with something stubborn, rooted deep. “Because... I’ve been doing this for years,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Hyunjin as if no one else in the world existed. “Following you, watching you, learning you.” His tone carried no shame, only a strange kind of pride. “I know you wouldn’t ever go for a man who already belongs to someone else.”

The words landed heavier than Hyunjin expected. For a rare moment, his composure cracked, his lips parting, his gaze faltering as though Felix had finally stepped into a space too close, too raw.

He said nothing.

Instead, he turned, lengthening his stride, putting distance between them with each step.

His silence was louder than any denial.

Felix stayed behind, rooted where he was, watching Hyunjin’s retreating figure. His chest rose once, sharply, before he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, voice bright again but threaded with something unshakable.

“That means I still have a chance, Hwang Hyunjin! I’ll always have a chance—” his smile curved, fierce in its devotion, “—as long as I’m alive.”

Hyunjin didn’t look back.

Felix didn’t need him to.

Minho walked along the stone path that curved around the mansion’s garden, his hands in his pockets, the cool night air brushing against his face. The house looked different from here, less like a fortress and more like a cage of glass and light.

Chan’s words replayed in his head, steady and patient, the way only Chan could sound when trying to soften a sharp edge.

Be friendly.

Be calm.

Especially with the staff.

They’re not your enemy.

Minho’s jaw flexed as he passed the tall hedges, the faint rustle of leaves filling the quiet. Friendly. Calm. They sounded simple enough, yet they stuck in his throat like thorns. He wasn’t blind. He saw how the maids flinched when he entered a room, how the bodyguards avoided his gaze like his eyes carried knives.

And then there was... Han Jisung.

Chan’s voice returned again, this time more deliberate.

Especially him. You’ll be with Jisung most of the time— when I’m away, when we go out. Try to… let him in. At least a little.

Minho stopped by the marble fountain, watching the ripple of water under the dim lights. Let him in. That was harder than any deal he had ever struck. Because Jisung wasn’t like the others. He was sharp in a way that didn’t match his nervous laugh, perceptive behind those darting eyes. He saw too much.

And Minho didn’t know if he wanted to be seen.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to stare at the wide, cloudless sky. For Chan’s sake, he would try. He owed him that much.

He was about to go back inside when faint voices drifted from the direction of the garage, low, warm, almost playful. He frowned lightly, curiosity tugging at him, and without a word, he turned away, letting his feet guide him toward the sound.

The wide garage doors were rolled halfway up, spilling a slice of yellow light into the dark drive. Minho stopped at the threshold, leaning just enough to see inside.

There was Changbin, sleeves rolled high, hands darkened with grease as he bent over a sleek black motorbike. His shoulders moved with practiced strength, every twist of the wrench steady, sure.

Next to him, Jeongin knelt on the concrete floor, passing tools from the open kit at his side. He looked up now and then, eyes catching the curve of Changbin’s mouth as he worked, softening at each small laugh, each muttered curse under his breath.

“Not like that— watch, here,” Changbin murmured, shifting closer, his hand brushing over Jeongin’s as he guided the socket into place.

Jeongin rolled his eyes, but the smile gave him away. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? I’ve been helping you since— what, last summer?”

“Yeah, and you still hold it like a spoon,” Changbin teased, nudging his shoulder with a grease-stained one.

The two of them laughed, sound echoing in the spacious garage like it belonged there.

Minho stayed quiet, watching. The way Jeongin leaned in too close just to see better. The way Changbin didn’t move away, didn’t mind. The small, unguarded rhythm between them.

So free, Minho thought, his hands tightening in his pockets. Free to touch, to tease, to exist in each other’s space without caution. Without someone hovering a few steps behind. Without the weight of names and expectations pulling every glance into question.

He stayed there longer than he meant to, caught between envy and something heavier, before someone's careful steps reached the garage entrance behind him.

The faint scrape of footsteps reached Minho’s ears, pulling him from the scene in the garage. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Jisung. Measured steps, steady, like he carried the ground’s rhythm in his stride.

When the man appeared at Minho's side, he held a small tray of repair tools, a rag slung over his wrist. His dark eyes flicked briefly to Changbin and Jeongin before returning to Minho, unreadable as ever.

“Do you want anything, Mr. Lee?” Jisung asked evenly, voice low but clear.

Minho’s lips pressed into a line. That title again. It carried distance, a weight of formality he didn’t want, especially not when Chan’s words still rang in his head.

“No,” Minho replied quickly, then hesitated. His gaze slid back to Jisung, stubbornness curling at the edge of his tone. “And it’s Minho. Just Minho.”

For a moment, Jisung only regarded him in silence. The overhead light from the garage cut across his features, sharp and composed, as if weighing whether to correct himself again.

Minho exhaled through his nose, attempting something closer to lightness, even a joke, though his delivery was still stiff. “I said to call me Minho. And you won’t obey? That’s not very… loyal of you.”

Jisung dipped his head slightly, the faintest shake, like a quiet refusal without words. His mouth curved, not into a smile, but into the suggestion of one, an acknowledgement, a deflection.

It wasn’t the response Minho had aimed for. He’d wanted to break through the still surface, to see more than duty in Jisung’s eyes. Instead, the man only returned to himself, a shadow at Minho’s side, unshaken.

Minho looked away first, back to the garage where Changbin’s laugh filled the air, bright and unrestrained. His chest tightened, the comparison sinking deeper than he wanted to admit.

Jisung shifted the tools in his hand, as if about to turn back toward the garage when his voice cut through the faint hum of the place.

“If you’re free… join us.” He nodded toward Changbin and Jeongin, still bent over the motorbike, their voices echoing with easy laughter. For a heartbeat Minho froze, the invitation hanging between them. His jaw tightened, and he gave the smallest shake of his head. 

Jisung didn’t push. He just dipped his chin, accepting the refusal as he always did. Calm, unmoved, like water against stone.

But Minho didn’t walk away either. His hand flexed at his side before he finally let out a short breath. “I... I want to apologize.”

That made Jisung’s brow furrow ever so slightly. “Apologize?”

Minho’s gaze darted to the floor, then back up, sharp and restless. “About what I said earlier. That I don’t need your protection.”

Jisung shook his head almost instantly, like it was unnecessary. “It’s nothing. You don’t need to—”

“I meant it,” Minho cut in, blunt as ever. His tone was clipped, but beneath it, something else lingered, something that sounded almost like frustration at himself. “Every word. But…” he exhaled, as if admitting something distasteful, “Chan told me to apologize. So yeah.” His lips pressed together, the word forced out stiff and graceless. “Sorry.”

Silence stretched.

Jisung just looked at him. Not with disapproval, not even with distance, but with something harder to place, like he was seeing Minho for the first time without the shield of sharpness. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curved.

Soft.

Subtle.

Real.

Minho blinked. He had never seen it before, never thought Jisung capable of it. That small, quiet smile, unguarded. And before he could stop himself, Minho’s hand rose, covering his own mouth, and a short laugh slipped through, low, surprised, almost shy.

Jisung’s smile lingered only for a breath before he tilted his head slightly, studying Minho. His voice was quiet but direct.

“So… you don’t want to replace me?”

Minho straightened, his pride flaring almost on instinct. His answer was sharp but not cruel. “Yes. I still do.” His eyes flicked away, catching on the gleam of the motorbike under the garage lights, before he added with a dry edge, “But I’ll… look for more solid reasons to complain.”

The corner of Jisung’s lip twitched upward, more smirk than smile this time. His gaze didn’t waver, steady and almost teasing in it's calmness. “Then you’ll keep looking for a lifetime, Minho.”

Minho’s brows furrowed, caught between offense and intrigue, as Jisung’s tone deepened, a subtle challenge threading through it.

“Because I’m good— very good at what I do.”

"Let's see."

"I love the challenge."

For a moment, the garage felt lighter, the hum of Changbin’s laughter and Jeongin’s chatter fading into the background. It was just them, locked in a quiet standoff, Minho’s stubborn fire against Jisung’s unshakable calm.

Then, Minho scoffed under his breath, breaking eye contact first, but his lips curved despite himself.

Just slightly, unwillingly, almost hidden.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Hwang,” the voice was calm, measured, but carried the weight of someone used to being heard.

Hyunjin didn’t look up right away. He closed the folder in front of him with deliberate neatness, then finally lifted his gaze. Across the polished desk stood the Kims’ secretary. Sharp suit, spotless shoes, his composure as precise as the paperwork tucked under his arm. He had come in person, which already said more than the words about to be exchanged.

Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, his expression composed, voice even. “I’ll pass your request along to Mr. Bang. He will decide if and when a meeting is necessary.”

The secretary’s lips pressed into a polite smile, but the tilt of his head carried a flicker of insistence. “Respectfully, Mr. Hwang… my boss prefers to have this arranged directly. Mr. Kim is particular. If word reaches him that Christopher Bang is avoiding meetings with his sons—” he paused, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke, “—it will not be seen as a wise choice. Not when the Kims and the Bahng’s have maintained such… fruitful ties.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened, barely noticeable, but his eyes sharpened. “Avoiding,” he repeated slowly, “is not the right word. Mr. Bang’s time is calculated. If there’s no room in his schedule, it isn’t avoidance. It’s priority.”

The secretary adjusted his cufflink, unruffled, his tone soft but pressing. “And yet, Mr. Kim holds a significant share in your diamond wing. Surely, it would be… unfortunate, if a lack of cooperation was mistaken for disrespect. Especially since your boss is known for his courtesy.”

Hyunjin remained silent for a moment, studying him. He didn’t like threats, veiled or otherwise, and the other knew it. The man’s composure was almost mocking in its steadiness.

Finally, Hyunjin spoke, his words clipped, low. “I will speak to Mr. Bang. If he decides Christopher’s presence is essential, it will be arranged. But let me be clear.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “Decisions in this house are made here. Not in your boss’s office.”

For the first time, the secretary blinked, just once, quickly covering it with a small nod. “Of course, Mr. Hwang. I only bring the message entrusted to me.”

“Good,” Hyunjin said softly, leaning back again, dismissing the conversation without another word.

The secretary hesitated, then bowed lightly, his polished shoes echoing faintly against the marble floor as he turned and left the room.

Hyunjin exhaled only when the door clicked shut. His fingers tapped lightly against the folder on his desk, his expression unreadable. He knew this wasn’t just a meeting request. It was the Kims testing waters, pressing, nudging, waiting to see if Christopher Bang would bend.

And Hyunjin’s job was to make sure he never did.

A soft knock at the door pulled Hyunjin out of his thoughts.

“Come in,” he said, voice calm, already stacking the files he knew were about to be requested.

A young staff member stepped inside, head slightly bowed. “Mr. Hwang, Mr. Bang asked for the shipping records to be sent up.”

Hyunjin nodded, sliding two folders across the desk. “These are the updated ones. Make sure they go straight to his desk.”

The staff took them carefully, murmuring thanks. Hyunjin stood, straightening the cuffs of his shirt, and decided to walk partway with him. The air outside his office always felt clearer after tense conversations like the one with the secretary.

As they stepped into the hall, a familiar sound, quick, light footsteps, echoed from the far end. Hyunjin glanced up just as Felix pushed through the glass doors, blond hair catching the light, grin already wide before he even spotted him.

“There you are!” Felix’s voice carried easily, cheerful and unbothered. He raised his hand in a bright wave, eyes crinkling.

Hyunjin’s face didn’t move. He shifted his attention smoothly back to the staff beside him. “Make sure Mr. Bang has those before his noon call.”

The staff nodded quickly, clutching the files tighter, and hurried off.

By the time Hyunjin looked up again, Felix was still there, hand dropping when it became clear no reply was coming. For half a beat, the boyish grin wavered, but then he rolled his shoulders, as if brushing off the coolness. He gave a little shrug, lips quirking back into a smirk, and without missing a beat, headed straight to the elevator at the end of the hall.

Hyunjin watched, just for a second. He didn’t need to guess where Felix was going. Chan’s office, always. The same destination whenever Felix was ignored.

The elevator doors slid open, Felix stepping inside without looking back. His figure disappeared behind the silver panels, leaving only the faint echo of his cheerful hum as the doors closed.

Hyunjin exhaled quietly through his nose, turned on his heel, and walked back toward his office.

The door to Chan’s office pushed open with a quick swing, no knock, no pause.

Chan didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one person in the world dared enter like that. Still, when his eyes lifted from the document in front of him, the sharpness that usually lingered in his gaze softened instantly.

“Knocking’s a thing, you know,” Chan drawled, the corners of his mouth tugging just slightly. “Or maybe setting an appointment if you want to meet the Bang.”

Felix only grinned wider, golden hair catching the office light. “If I knock, you’ll just tell me to wait. If I make an appointment, you’ll be booked for a week. So I saved us both the trouble.” With that, he plopped down into the chair across from the desk, stretching out like it was his own living room. His hand immediately found the pens in the holder, spinning one between his fingers before dropping it back with a little click, only to reach for another. The faintest mischief flickered across his face, like a boy daring to annoy an older brother just for the reaction.

Chan leaned back slightly in his chair, watching him for a long moment. The sight of Felix here, alive, glowing, unbothered, did something in his chest he didn’t put into words. His brows eased, the tension that never left his shoulders slackening for just a breath.

Then, as Felix pretended to balance a pen on his upper lip, Chan let out a quiet huff that could have been amusement. Shaking his head once, he bent back to the file waiting for his attention, pen scratching against paper.

Felix leaned back in his chair too, legs casually crossed, chin propped on his palm as he watched Chan with unhidden fondness. He twirled the pen once more before letting it drop back into the holder with a soft clink. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his chin tilted with the kind of casualness that wasn’t really casual at all.

“So Mr. Bang,” Felix began, tone lighter than the weight behind the question, “why aren’t you taking my future brother-in-law out?”

Chan’s pen froze halfway across the page. His eyes flicked up, sharp at first, but the sharpness dulled when he met Felix’s steady gaze.

Felix’s grin dimmed into something gentler. “He… wants your presence, you know? It’s been a while. Since we got back, he’s just been waiting around for you.”

Chan set the pen down, fingers still curled around it like he didn’t quite know whether to let go. He studied Felix for a long beat, the silence heavy in the office, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner.

“You think I don’t want to?” Chan asked finally, voice low but not defensive, just tired.

Felix shook his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes. “That’s not what I said. I know you do. That’s why I’m asking.” His lips curved into a softer smile, not teasing this time. “You’ve been buried in all this,” he gestured at the desk, the files, the endless stack of papers Chan seemed to live under. “But Minho doesn’t care about these. He just… wants to sit with you. Walk with you. Even if you don’t talk much.”

Chan exhaled, leaning back into his chair. His eyes lingered on the ceiling for a moment, as though he were searching for something up there. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he admitted. “I just… needed a break first. A real one. Not a rushed lunch or a five-minute walk in between meetings.”

Felix tilted his head. “So? Take one. He’ll wait.”

A chuckle slipped out of Chan before he could stop it. “You make it sound so easy.”

Felix shrugged, all sunshine again. “Maybe it is. Sometimes you just have to decide that work can wait. Sometimes Minho shouldn’t have to.”

For a moment, Chan only looked at him, this younger brother who barged into his office without knocking, who played with his pens like a kid, and then cut straight into the heart of things like it was nothing.

Chan’s mouth curved, not quite a smile but close. “You’re right. I’ll take him out. Soon.”

Felix leaned back, satisfied, and picked up another pen to twirl between his fingers. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Don’t make me nag you about it next time.”

“Please don’t,” Chan muttered, amusement threading through his voice.

The room fell into a quiet that wasn’t heavy this time. Felix kept fidgeting with the pen, humming softly under his breath. Chan returned to his papers, but the set of his shoulders was lighter now, like the decision had already been made.

He was bent over two precise notes, his handwriting sharp and steady, the scratch of the pen the only sound in the room. Felix’s fingers drummed quietly on the desk as he watched his brother, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips as though he’d just been waiting for the right interruption.

The door clicked open with two knocks.

Hyunjin stepped in, tall and deliberate, a staff member following closely behind with an armful of thick files. Hyunjin himself carried only a sleek tablet, black screen reflecting a dull sheen of the ceiling lights.

The staff member moved quickly to the desk, her movements neat and silent. She placed the files down in an orderly stack, bowed politely, and slipped out, leaving only Hyunjin and his cool air of efficiency behind.

Chan leaned back in his chair, already shifting his focus. “What’s this?” he asked, tapping a finger toward the tablet in Hyunjin’s hand.

Hyunjin powered it on with a practiced swipe, his expression unreadable. “Preliminary reports from the last quarter’s diamond wing operations. There are some irregularities in the distribution channel that need to be addressed. The Kims’ side wants a meeting scheduled before next week—”

“—Channie...”

Felix’s voice cut smoothly across Hyunjin’s words. He hadn’t even looked at the tablet, his eyes fixed squarely on Chan instead.

Chan blinked, caught between the stern glow of numbers on Hyunjin’s screen and the soft but insistent gaze of his younger brother.

“What is it, Lix?”

Felix tilted his head, grin flickering mischievously. “Are you free tonight?”

The sudden question hung in the air, casual in tone but sharp in the way it disrupted the current. Hyunjin’s brows twitched almost imperceptibly, the tablet still glowing in his hands.

Chan set his pen down at last, folding his arms on the desk as he studied his brother. “Why?” he asked, his voice steady but curious.

Felix leaned back in his chair with a grin that felt far too easy. “Let’s all go out tonight,” he said, tone light, almost boyish. “Somewhere. Clubs, restaurants, I don’t care. I just want to go out. Minho too. He’ll like it.”

The room stilled for a moment. Chan’s gaze slid past Felix, lingering on Hyunjin.

Hyunjin didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t even tighten his jaw. He just stood there, tablet in hand, the perfect picture of professionalism as though the proposal hadn’t been tossed into the air at all.

Chan turned back, one brow raised, but Felix only widened his smile, eyes sparkling with a mischief he was trying very hard to disguise as innocence. “Come on, please,” he coaxed, leaning forward over the desk as though he were twelve again and begging for extra dessert. “It’s been forever since we did anything together. You can’t tell me all you want to do is stay locked in this office.”

Chan exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He looked again at Hyunjin. “Check today’s schedule.”

Hyunjin, without hesitation, tapped the tablet awake and scrolled with measured swipes of his thumb. His voice was even, professional. “No pending meetings. No calls scheduled past six. You’re free tonight, Mr. Bang.”

Felix’s grin broke wide, triumphant. He clapped his hands together once, almost bouncing in his chair, and then settled back with exaggerated calm, as if he hadn’t just been the one pressing the issue.

Chan leaned back in his chair, tapping the armrest with his knuckle as if weighing a decision he already knew he’d give into. His eyes returned to Hyunjin.

“Book us something tonight,” Chan said at last, his tone calm but carrying the weight of an order. “A fancy club. Doesn’t matter which one. Just make sure it’s good.” He paused, then added, firmer, “Book the whole place. I don’t want crowds. Check security measures, staffing, and keep it sealed for the night.”

Hyunjin’s fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the tablet before he dipped his head. “Yes, Mr. Bang,” he said, voice steady.

The silence stretched for a beat too long, only broken by Felix’s barely-contained hum of satisfaction. He was lounging back in his chair, spinning one of Chan’s pens between his fingers like a small trophy, his smile pulling wider the moment Hyunjin’s gaze flicked toward him.

And in that split second, it wasn’t Felix’s usual easy grin, it was sharper, a smirk of victory, the look of someone who had gotten exactly what he wanted and knew it.

Hyunjin didn’t rise to it. He held Felix’s gaze for half a breath, unreadable, before shifting his eyes back to Chan. With a small bow, precise and practiced, he turned on his heel. The soft click of his shoes echoed against the polished floor as he left the office, the door closing with quiet finality behind him.

Inside, Felix twirled the pen once more and set it down with a flourish.

“See?” he mouthed, as if the outcome had always been inevitable.

Hyunjin stood in the quiet corridor outside Chan’s office, tablet balanced in one hand, phone pressed against his ear. His tone was clipped but courteous, the kind of voice he reserved for handling delicate arrangements.

“Yes. Entire venue. From dawn till tomorrow morning. I don’t want outside reservations. Mr. Bang demands privacy. No exceptions. Everything under my name.” He paused, listening to the muffled voice on the other end, his gaze drifting toward the polished floor tiles. “No, not Mr. Bang’s. Under Hwang Sam.”

His thumb tapped lightly against the tablet as he waited. He could already imagine the paperwork, the chain of phone calls this would set in motion. Still, his expression didn’t falter. Calm. Professional. As if he were discussing nothing more than a late dinner order.

The voice on the other end asked about special requests. Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he answered, “Yes. Reinforce security. I want the perimeter sealed, entrances monitored. Staff vetted. Send me the list of names by tonight. And ensure—” he hesitated for a breath, “—that no word of this leaves your office.” When the confirmation came, he nodded once, almost imperceptibly, then ended the call.

Hyunjin slipped his phone back into his pocket, letting the last click of the call dissolve into the silence of the corridor.

When he turned, he nearly faltered, just a flicker, the smallest break in his calm.

Felix was there.

Hands clasped neatly behind his back, shoulders pulled straight as if he were presenting himself for an inspection, but the playful gleam in his eyes betrayed the posture. He looked almost proud, chin tilted slightly, gaze fixed on Hyunjin like he had been admiring him all along.

Hyunjin’s brows drew together, a second of surprise showing before he smoothed it away. “When did you come?”

“Right now,” Felix replied lightly, as if his timing had been flawless, inevitable. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “You said you’d go out if Chan goes, right? So—” his grin curved wider, almost boyish, “ready for the club?”

Hyunjin tilted his head at him, silent, his expression unreadable. The pause stretched just enough to feel like an answer of its own. Then, without a word, he turned, his steps already carrying him down the corridor.

Felix huffed, the sound halfway between frustration and amusement, and in two strides he caught up. His hand shot out, closing gently but firmly around Hyunjin’s wrist.

“Wait.”

The touch was not harsh, but it was deliberate, bold in a way only Felix could be. Unapologetic, like every move he made was a small rebellion against Hyunjin’s walls.

Hyunjin stopped, his wrist still in Felix’s hold, his shoulders straight, his face angled away as though to deny the hold any weight.

Felix leaned in a little, smile softening now, playful but with an edge of something sharper beneath it. “You can’t keep walking away from me forever.”

The corridor was quiet, the world narrowed down to the space between his fingers and Hyunjin’s pulse. His gaze slid down to where Felix’s hand circled his wrist, a faint crease forming between his brows. His voice came out low, measured.

“Let go of my hand, Lix.”

Felix didn’t move. His grin softened into something stubborn, the kind of smile that dared him to argue. “Say you’ll give me a chance first.”

Hyunjin exhaled a quiet sigh, patience thinning. With a swift tug, he pulled his hand free, and turned to face the younger fully, his expression firm, unflinching.

“I don’t date my boss—”

Felix’s lips parted, ready to counter, but Hyunjin’s words kept rolling, steady as stone.

“And I don’t date my boss’s brothers either.”

For a breath, silence hung heavy between them. Then Felix’s brows shot up, and he tilted his head with mock indignation.

“So it’s my fault,” he said, his tone half-playful, half-accusing, “that I just happen to be your boss’s brother?”

Hyunjin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. Felix stepped closer, enough that his presence pressed warm against the cold edge of Hyunjin’s composure. His smirk returned, faint but confident, as if he’d found a loophole in Hyunjin’s armor.

Hyunjin stood his ground, but Felix leaned in just enough for his words to brush close. “You keep throwing excuses at me, Hyunjin,” Felix murmured, eyes gleaming with something unshaken. “Boss. Brother. Rules. Walls. It’s like you’re building a fortress just to keep me out.”

Hyunjin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because it’s easier that way.”

Felix chuckled softly, shaking his head as if amused by the answer. “Easier for who? For you? Because you get to pretend you don’t feel anything? Or for me? Because I get to keep chasing someone who pretends he’s made of stone?”

Hyunjin’s eyes flickered, almost betraying something, but he quickly turned his face away. “You’re too young, Felix. You’ll realize it one day.”

Felix smiled at that, slow, deliberate, a little dangerous. “Funny. You keep calling me young, but you’ve never once looked at me like a child.”

The words sank between them, heavy. For a moment, Hyunjin had no reply. His fingers twitched at his side, a rare slip in his control.

Felix took a single step back then, grin softening into something almost boyish again. “You don’t have to answer. Not now. I’ve got time.” He winked, backing away with a flourish of his hand. “As long as I’m alive, I’ll keep proving it to you.”

Hyunjin watched him retreat, the echo of his words lingering longer than his footsteps. With a quiet sigh, Hyunjin finally turned away, but the tightness in his chest refused to ease.

Minho didn’t like being idle.

Idleness meant thoughts, and thoughts… well, they were rarely kind. So he wandered.

The garden behind the mansion wasn’t somewhere he wanted to visit. It felt too manicured, too aesthetic, flowers arranged in straight lines, hedges trimmed so perfectly they almost looked fake. Still, it was better than sitting inside, staring at the same high ceilings and polished floors.

He walked slowly, hands slipped into his pockets, eyes flicking over the rows of lilies and roses. The late afternoon sun washed everything in a soft gold, the kind of light that blurred the edges of things, making even the neatness feel warmer.

He paused near a patch of white hydrangeas, tilting his head slightly. They weren’t his favorite. Too showy, too much like they were trying to be noticed, but he couldn’t deny they had a certain elegance. For a second, he just stood there, breathing in the faint mix of earth and flowers.

A sudden sound made him turn his head.

Not a clatter, not footsteps, something softer. A faint, short cry. Minho frowned lightly, eyes scanning the shadows near the hedge. Then he saw it.

A cat.

Small, with a sleek gray coat that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. It sat half-hidden by the trimmed bushes, tail curling lazily around its paws. Its eyes, sharp yellow, unblinking, were fixed on him, assessing whether he was a friend or foe.

Minho crouched down slowly, careful not to startle it. “Well,” he murmured under his breath, a half-smile tugging at his lips, “you’re not on the staff list.”

The cat didn’t move, only blinked once.

Minho extended a hand, palm open, letting the animal decide. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a cautious grace, the cat stepped forward, sniffed his fingers, and, to his surprise, leaned in, brushing its head against his hand.

A quiet chuckle slipped out of him. He stroked its head gently, feeling the soft vibration of a purr rising beneath his fingertips. For a moment, the world narrowed down to just this, the warmth of fur, the steady rhythm of the animal’s breath, the simplicity of being accepted without effort.

“You’re friendlier than most people around here,” he muttered, his tone wry but softer than usual. The cat only purred louder, pressing against his palm as if to prove his point.

“You’re making quite the friend.”

A sudden voice interrupted, breaking the moment. Minho looked up, startled.

Jisung stood a few feet away, arms relaxed at his sides and a faint smile on his lips. “I didn’t know you had a soft spot for cats.”

Minho shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “What can I say? I’m multi-dimensional.”

Jisung chuckled lightly, stepping closer. “Guess I’ll have to write that down in the files then. ‘Mr. Lee’s Hidden Talents, number one: Cat Whispering.’”

“Very funny,” Minho replied, though a smile tugged at his own lips. He turned back to the cat, which still seemed quite content to be petted. “Seems like it’s drawing me in. I’m beginning to feel attached.”

“Good luck with that. Strays usually come and go as they please,” Jisung remarked, tilting his head slightly. “But you know how to keep it interested.”

Minho rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the slight smile spreading across his face. “I think I’d be a better owner than half the staff here, at least.”

“You might be,” Jisung replied. “But you still have to convince it that you’re worth the time. Cats are different. Takes a little more effort.”

“Effort?” Minho echoed, the word barely above a whisper. “You think I’m not worth the effort?”

“I think you’re worth the effort,” Jisung replied, his tone serious. “Tell me if you need anything.”

Minho’s expression turned thoughtful, but before he could respond, Jisung added casually, “And don’t forget to call me if you’re going out.”

With that, Jisung stepped back, moving towards the mansion as Minho looked after him. Then, sighed softly, glancing down at the cat that continued to purr against him.

“Guess it’s just you and me for a little while longer,” he murmured, leaning back against the cool stone of the fountain and letting the quiet wash over him, the warmth of the sun slowly fading.

Minho strode through the hall, steps quick and careless, mind already on the pantry and whether there was anything suitable for a stray cat. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was going, until a sudden solid presence made him stop short.

His shoulder brushed against someone else’s, and steady hands caught him before he could stumble back.

“Careful,” Hyunjin’s low voice broke the silence of the corridor. His sharp eyes softened a little as they studied Minho. “You look like you’re in a hurry. Do you need something?”

Minho blinked, startled not by the touch but by the man in front of him. Hyunjin’s calmness was a contrast to his own restless rush. For a heartbeat, he considered answering honestly, but he quickly shook his head.

“No. Nothing,” Minho said, clipped, though not unkind.

Hyunjin’s brows lifted faintly, but he didn’t press. He stepped aside, giving Minho space to continue. When nothing came, he nodded once in silent acknowledgment and moved past him, his stride picking up again, almost as if the encounter hadn’t happened.

Just as Hyunjin brushed past, something tugged at Minho, and he stopped mid-stride. He turned slightly, his voice quieter than before.

“Uhm… do we have any cat food here?”

Hyunjin blinked as he turned, surprised enough to actually pause with his tablet in hand. Of all the things he’d expected Minho to ask, that wasn’t on the list. His lips tugged faintly before he answered, calm as ever.

“I don’t think so. But if you want, I’ll have someone bring it in for you. It won’t take long.”

Minho gave a small nod, relief flickering in his eyes, but before he could speak again, Hyunjin added, “Oh— and, Mr. Bang is home.”

The words landed heavier than he’d meant them to, and Minho’s attention shifted instantly. For a moment, the cat, the food, the whole little distraction slipped from his mind. His posture straightened, and without another word, he turned down the hall, his steps carrying him toward Chan’s room instead.

Hyunjin stood there, watching the sudden change, then exhaled softly. He glanced back down at his tablet before walking the other way, though a trace of amusement lingered in his eyes.

Minho pushed open the door to Chan’s room without hesitation, the soft creak of the hinges echoing faintly in the large, still space. Inside, the faint hiss of water from the shower carried out from the adjoining bathroom.

The room carried the subtle warmth of its owner. Neat, purposeful, yet not overly dressed. Papers were stacked neatly on the desk, books aligned on the shelves, and a faint trace of cologne lingered in the air, like it belonged there as much as the man himself.

Minho wandered in, slow steps carrying him toward the desk. He didn’t mean to pry. It was more instinct than intention, the way his eyes caught on small details, drawn to anything that told him more about his man's world. A few brochures lay spread across the polished surface, mostly property proposals, business leaflets, embossed envelopes with gold trims.

One stood out.

An invitation, sleek and heavy in its cardstock, the kind of thing that seemed designed to command attention. The embossed lettering caught the light as Minho picked it up, tilting it slightly in his hand.

An Auction.

His brows knit as he scanned the elegant script, the venue, the time, the promise of rarities under the hammer. Something about the formality of it all, paired with the secrecy it suggested, made the back of his neck prickle. This wasn’t the sort of charity auction plastered across society pages, it felt heavier, sharper, something meant for a select few.

Minho turned the envelope over, tracing the seal with his thumb, his thoughts tightening.

Before he could dwell further, the shower shut off. The abrupt silence pulled him back, and he quickly set the invitation down, fingers lingering for just a moment longer before he stepped away from the desk.

The bathroom door clicked open, and a cloud of warm steam rolled out into the room, softening the edges of everything. Chan stepped through, towel draped loosely around his shoulders, damp hair sticking to his forehead. His shirt clung halfway down, unbuttoned, revealing the rise and fall of his chest as he rubbed the towel against his neck.

“Min,” he said, a little surprised, though his tone carried none of the sharpness it often did with others. More like a quiet warmth, as if Minho’s presence was the most natural thing. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Minho turned slightly, pretending he’d only just been looking around idly. “You left the door unlocked,” he said casually. “That’s on you.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He crossed the room, bare feet soundless against the wooden floor. When he reached Minho, he leaned down just enough to press the edge of the towel against Minho’s hair, ruffling it lightly. “And yet you’re the one sneaking around my room.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” Minho muttered, though his lips curved faintly. He tilted his head, letting Chan’s hand linger just a second longer. For a moment, there was only the low hum of the air and the faint drip of water from Chan’s hair trailing down his jawline. Minho’s eyes followed one drop as it traced the line of his throat, disappearing beneath the open shirt.

“You look tired,” Minho said, softer now. “Even after a shower.”

Chan met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them, mutual recognition of the weight they carried, and how they only ever seemed to put it down when the other was near. He reached out, resting his palm against Minho’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly along his cheekbone.

Minho’s gaze lingered on the folded card propped neatly on Chan’s desk, the gold-embossed letters gleaming faintly in the lamplight. He picked it up without much thought, tilting it in his hand.

“I never knew you attended auctions,” Minho said, turning the invitation over between his fingers. His voice was casual, almost offhand, but his eyes flicked up toward Chan, searching.

Chan paused, towel still in hand, blinking as if the words didn’t quite land at first. Then, slowly, realization tugged across his face. A soft chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head.

“I don’t,” he admitted, reaching over to take the invitation from Minho’s hand. “They just… send these things anyway. Comes with the name, I guess.” His thumb brushed the edge of the card before he set it back down.

“The only time I ever went,” Chan continued, leaning against the desk now, “was with my father. Years ago. Lix wanted this antique—” a wry smile tugged at his lips, the memory flashing in his eyes, “some ugly little statue he swore was priceless. Father caved. We went. Felix got what he wanted.”

Minho hummed, expression unreadable at first, though the way his eyes lingered on the invitation again gave him away. A flicker of curiosity, interest… maybe even yearning.

“Are these pieces they’re showing here… real?” he asked finally, his voice carrying more interest than he meant to reveal.

Chan, glanced over. “Might be. Hard to tell. Half the time it’s genuine, half the time it’s just for the allure of the catalogue.” He shrugged, casual, but his eyes didn’t miss the way Minho’s brows drew together, the faint spark of curiosity lighting his expression.

“You’re interested,” Chan said quietly, more an observation than a question.

Minho pressed his lips together, almost defensive, then looked away. “Just... wondered. That’s all.”

But Chan could read him too easily. The way his gaze lingered a moment too long, the way his mind stayed on the invitation instead of letting it go.

Chan let a small smile pull at his mouth, tucking the knowledge away. He didn’t press further. “Curiosity’s not a bad thing,” he murmured, almost indulgent. “You sound like you want to go.”

The words made Minho’s head snap up, eyes narrowing, though not with anger, more like he’d been caught off guard, exposed. He shook his head quickly, feigning nonchalance.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Chan agreed softly, studying him, “but you didn’t have to.”

The air shifted between them, subtle but heavy. Minho’s lips pressed together, as though he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Instead, he turned his head slightly, eyes tracing the patterns in Chan's shirt, his silence speaking louder than anything he could have said.

Chan let him have it, didn’t push further.

But his gaze lingered on Minho all the same, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

Jisung stood in the small kitchenette, sleeves rolled up, knife in hand as he spread a thin layer of butter across bread slices. The bodyguard quarters were quieter than the rest of the Bahng estate, tucked away in the back wing where the noise of the household rarely reached. Jisung liked it that way. The silence gave him room to breathe, to focus on little things.

His motions were steady, practiced, not rushed, not distracted. Just careful. He laid the slices together, pressed gently, then cut the sandwich down the middle with precision.

Two triangles. Neat.

He slid one onto his own plate and wrapped the other carefully in parchment paper, as though it were something fragile. He didn’t say it out loud, but the second sandwich was for Changbin. He always made one for him, sometimes Changbin ate it, sometimes he forgot about it until much later, but Jisung never skipped the ritual.

The kettle whistled softly, and Jisung poured himself tea, letting the steam warm his face. For a moment, the space felt almost domestic, far from the weight of duties and titles outside these walls.

He leaned against the counter, nibbling at his own sandwich, eyes flicking once toward the wrapped one waiting patiently at the side. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

The knock came just as Jisung was rinsing his hands. He blinked, glanced at the counter, then quickly wrapped the sandwich tighter and slipped it into the small refrigerator. With a tug, he untied the apron strings and hung it neatly on the hook before crossing the room.

When he opened the door, Minho stood there holding a plate balanced in one hand. It looked like leftovers. Bits of rice, some meat, a few vegetables, all piled together in the way staff often arranged food that wasn’t meant for the dining table anymore.

Before Jisung could even greet him, Minho spoke, his tone casual, almost eager. “Let’s go find the cat.”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard. His eyes flicked from Minho’s face to the plate in his hands and back again. “The cat?”

Minho nodded, as if that explained everything. “Yeah. I figured it’ll eat this. Better than letting it wander around hungry.”

For a moment, Jisung just stared at him. He wasn’t used to this, someone coming to him, suggesting something so ordinary. Usually, his days were filled with orders, schedules, and silence.

Still, he stepped aside slightly, tilting his head. “You really want to feed that stray?”

Minho shrugged, but there was a faint spark of warmth in his eyes. “Well, you said to be careful with it. That’s what you told me earlier. So… come with me. Keep me careful.”

Something about the way he phrased it made Jisung’s lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. He didn’t argue. He just gave a small nod and closed the door behind him, falling into step beside Minho as they started back toward the garden.

“Where did we last see it?” Minho asked, lowering his voice as if the cat would shy away from too much noise.

“By the fountain,” Jisung replied, nodding toward the curve of stone glistening under sunlight. “But strays don’t stay still. It’s probably moved on.”

Minho crouched near the fountain anyway, setting the plate down on the ledge and peering underneath. “Here, kitty…” His voice softened, almost coaxing. Nothing stirred. He exhaled. “Do you think it’ll come if I just leave the food here?”

Before Jisung could answer, a soft giggle carried over. Two maids, balancing laundry baskets between them, had paused to watch.

One of them whispered, “Mr. Lee is looking for a cat?” The other covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Minho straightened, caught the glance, and shot them a mock glare. “Don’t just stand there— help me.” His tone wasn’t harsh, though; it was oddly light. The maids, startled, exchanged looks and then began peeking around the bushes too, half-amused.

Even one of the older gardeners leaned on his rake, shaking his head with a smile. “That creature comes and goes as it pleases. We'll be chasing shadows before we catch it.”

Minho only grinned. “Then we’ll chase shadows.”

Jisung watched quietly, the corner of his lips twitching upward at the sight, Minho bending down to check under the roses, maids poking around giggling, a gardener muttering but secretly invested. For once, the air wasn’t heavy with duty or suspicion.

“Over there!” one of the maids whispered suddenly, pointing toward a patch of ivy climbing the wall. A faint rustle echoed from behind it.

Minho’s eyes lit up. He moved slowly, crouching again, his hand steady as he set the plate of food on the ground near the ivy. Jisung lingered behind, watching with measured calm, but his gaze softened.

The ivy leaves shivered, faint and cautious, and then a small shape emerged, thin, light on its paws, fur the shade of ash with darker stripes down its back. Its eyes gleamed wary gold, darting from the food to Minho’s still form.

The maids froze where they stood, clutching each other’s arms in silent excitement. Even the gardener lowered his rake, attention fixed.

The cat sniffed the air once, twice, before stepping closer. Its body stayed low, ready to bolt at the slightest twitch. The plate sat waiting, steam from the rice and bits of meat curling up like an invitation.

Minho didn’t move. He slowly shifted from a crouch into a seated position on the grass, his arms draped over his knees.

He kept his gaze soft, voice low. “There you are… hungry, aren’t you?”

The cat inched forward, sniffing, pausing, then leaning down to nibble. A tiny crunch sounded as it took the first bite.

Behind Minho, Jisung stood silent and steady, his shadow stretching long across the lawn. His expression was unreadable, but the way his eyes lingered on Minho, focused, almost contemplative, gave away more than words.

Minho barely breathed. He tilted his head, lips parting just slightly at the sight, the frail creature trusting enough to eat so near.

One of the maids gasped quietly, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Minho glanced back at her with a look that wasn’t sharp but firm, almost protective of the fragile moment. The maid lowered her eyes, nodding quickly.

The cat continued nibbling, then eating, faster now, as though it had decided the food was safe. Minho’s lips curved into the faintest smile.

Without realizing, he murmured, “Good… that’s good…”

Jisung’s gaze flicked down at him, a small shift in his features, something softer, nearly invisible, but present. He didn’t say a word.

And for a stretch of quiet seconds, there was only Minho, the cat at the plate, and Jisung standing close behind.

From the stone balcony above, Chan leaned against the railing. The sun caught in his hair, laying gold across his sharp features, but the expression on his face softened everything, gentle, almost tender.

Below, Minho sat on the grass, posture uncharacteristically patient, his eyes following the stray cat as it ate. Jisung stood just behind him, still and reliable, his presence steady like a shadow that wouldn’t falter.

The scene was quiet, almost domestic in its simplicity, so unlike the life they all lived behind steel walls and glass offices.

Chan’s lips curved, small but undeniable. It was the kind of smile no one ever saw, not even Minho, because he only allowed it when distance made him safe. He took in a calm breath, watching as if he could hold the image longer that way.

The cat finished eating and sat licking its paws. Minho shifted slightly, careful not to break the moment. A maid stifled another muffled giggle, and Jisung’s shoulders eased just enough to show he was, in his own way, relieved.

Chan stayed until the edges of the moment blurred, until the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket tugged him back into the world he couldn’t step away from.

He straightened, exhaled quietly, and with one last glance down at Minho, his Minho, he turned.

Pulling his phone out, his voice dropped into its usual cool timbre as he pressed a number on speed dial. The tenderness vanished, tucked away as though it had never been there.

“Get the documents ready,” he said, walking back inside. “I’ll need them first thing tomorrow.”

And just like that, the warmth of the garden below was sealed behind him, a memory left to rest in silence.

Chapter Text

“Just to confirm again,” Hyunjin’s voice carried across the office, even and precise as always, “we don’t usually attend these auctions. So I need to hear it clearly this time, are we going?”

Chan leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the armrest in thought. He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the window, watching the faint reflection of the city beyond the glass before he finally turned his eyes back to Hyunjin.

“Yes,” he said, steady, leaving no room for doubt. “We’re going this time.”

Hyunjin’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didn’t understand a deviation from routine. “May I ask why the sudden change?” His tone was professional, but his eyes searched Chan’s face for the reasoning hidden beneath.

Chan tilted his head slightly, a wry smile ghosting across his lips. “For Minho.”

Hyunjin blinked. “Minho?”

“Mm,” Chan hummed, leaning forward, resting his arms on the desk now. “He seemed… interested. Not in a way he’d admit out loud. So if attending one night at some auction makes him happy, I’ll take him.”

Hyunjin was silent for a beat, almost as if recalibrating his thoughts. “That’s not exactly a strategic reason, you know.”

Chan chuckled under his breath. “Not everything has to be.” He reached for the invitation that still lay among the other papers, holding it up between two fingers before setting it down again. “Sometimes it’s just about… giving someone a piece of the world they’re curious about.”

Hyunjin’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his voice remained clipped. “I’ll make the arrangements then. Under your name, or shall I keep it discreet?”

“Under the name of Bahngs. But,” Chan said firmly. “No need to make noise. The last thing I want is my father catching wind before we even step foot inside.”

Hyunjin nodded, already pulling out his tablet. “Understood. I’ll handle the security detail as well.”

Chan watched him work for a moment, then added quietly, “And make sure Minho doesn’t catch on that this is for him. He doesn’t need to feel like he’s… indulged.”

Hyunjin glanced up briefly, studying Chan, but said nothing. He only typed faster, his movements efficient, precise. Chan leaned back again, his eyes softening just slightly as he thought of Minho’s faint spark of curiosity from earlier, the way he tried to hide it.

Hyunjin adjusted the tablet in his hands, scrolling through the details. “You do realize,” he began, his tone careful, “these auctions almost always end the same way. The Kims dominate the floor. High bids, aggressive increments, they don’t stop until they’ve secured what they want. Especially the pieces in antique collections and precious stones. Their three sons treat it like a sport.”

“And?” Chan leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his expression calm, almost bored.

Hyunjin glanced up at him, meeting his eyes. “I’m saying they’ll push until the gavel falls in their favor. No matter the reserve price, no matter who else raises a paddle. The Kims don’t like losing.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Chan’s lips. “Neither do the Bahngs.”

Hyunjin let out the softest sigh, already expecting that response. Still, he pressed, “Sir, if this escalates into a bidding war, it could draw unwanted attention. Especially since your father still shares ties with them through the diamond wing.”

Chan waved a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter.” He leaned forward now, voice dropping into something more resolute, firm. “If anything catches Minho’s attention that night, I’ll get it. No matter who else is in the room.”

Hyunjin blinked, quietly studying him. “Even if the Kims are bidding?”

“Especially then,” Chan said, with a sharp edge to his tone. He looked down at the invitation once more, his thumb brushing over the embossed letters. “I don’t care what their sons want. If Minho wants it, it’s his.”

The silence stretched for a moment, the weight of his words filling the room. Hyunjin noted the absolute certainty in Chan’s voice, the kind that allowed no room for strategy, no compromise.

It wasn’t business. It was personal.

Hyunjin only nodded finally, tapping a note into his tablet. “Very well. I’ll make sure the arrangements are airtight. But don’t expect the Kims to take it lightly if you outbid them.”

Chan smirked again, his gaze distant now, softer. “They can take it however they want. Minho won’t even know it’s a fight.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly, his stylus tapping against the tablet in thought, eyes flicking between the glowing screen and Chan’s face.

He hesitated, as if weighing whether this next detail even mattered, then cleared his throat. “And… for the club, any dress code?”

Chan leaned back in his chair, letting the pen he had been tapping fall onto the desk with a soft clink. For a moment, he seemed to think about it more seriously than Hyunjin expected, his gaze unfocused as if picturing the night in his mind. Then his lips tugged into the faintest smile.

“Casual,” he said finally, voice low. “Nothing that screams business. Just… easy. Comfortable.” His eyes softened as he continued, almost unconsciously. “I want Minho to feel like it’s a night out. Not an event.”

The way Chan said it, the weight behind the words, made Hyunjin pause. He had seen his boss determined, angry, even ruthless when the occasion demanded it. But this, this was something else.

Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, a soft smirk curving his mouth to cover what he noticed. “Casual, huh? Your version of casual still makes the rest of us look underdressed. Even in a plain shirt, my boss walk in like he own the place.”

Chan chuckled under his breath, the sound brief but genuine. He didn’t deny it, only shook his head slightly, as if amused.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to keep up.”

Hyunjin tilted his head, the smirk fading into something quieter, more thoughtful. He tapped the stylus against the tablet again, but his eyes lingered on Chan for a beat longer than necessary. He could see it, the careful way Chan spoke when Minho’s name came up, the small cracks in his composure that only appeared then.

But Hyunjin didn’t say anything. He simply nodded, made a note on his tablet, and muttered, “Alright then, I’ll make sure it feels like a night out, not an event.”

And Chan, this time, without looking up from the papers on his desk, answered softly, “Good. That’s all I want.”

Minho strolled through the garden, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, eyes scanning the neatly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds he had already circled twice that morning. It wasn’t that the garden fascinated him that much, he just needed something to do.

The crunch of gravel under his shoes was the only sound for a while, except for the almost inaudible second set of footsteps following behind. Minho stopped and turned, catching Jisung a step back, hands clasped neatly in front of him like always.

“You know,” Minho started, his tone casual, almost amused, “sometimes I wonder if Chan's bodyguards are just part-time stalkers in disguise.”

For a moment, Jisung just looked at him, unreadable as ever. Then, to Minho’s surprise, the corners of his lips twitched, and he let out a light laugh.

“If you take it that way… maybe.”

Minho tilted his head. “Maybe? That’s not very comforting.”

Jisung shrugged, his voice calm, steady, but laced with an almost playful undertone. “We do get notified when our masters leave the mansion. Even if it’s just to step outside like this. And…” he lifted a hand, pointing toward the corners of the building, “…there are cameras everywhere. If you walk out, we know. If you sneeze, someone probably knows.”

Minho followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes at the small black domes he hadn’t really paid attention to before. “So basically, I’m under surveillance twenty-four seven?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Minho scoffed, resuming his walk. “Sounds more like prison than protection.”

Jisung fell into step just a little behind him, answering without hesitation, “Prisoners don’t get gardens like this. Or freedom to choose where they walk.”

Minho glanced over his shoulder, lips quirking despite himself. “Freedom, huh? With a shadow glued to my back?”

This time, Jisung didn’t answer immediately. He just smiled faintly, almost unnoticeable, but Minho caught it, and it made him blink, thrown off by how rare it was to see an expression on the man’s face.

“Think of it less as a shadow,” Jisung finally said, “and more as… insurance. Shadows don’t stop bullets. Or trouble.”

Minho let out a soft snort but didn’t argue further. His steps slowed, deliberately, and Jisung matched the pace without a word.

Minho slowed his steps near the trimmed hedge, his hands clasped behind his back. “So, if I were to leave this place and walk all the way to the city… you’d follow me there too?”

Jisung, who had been keeping a half-step behind, tilted his head with a small grin. “Yes. As long as my boss wants me to.”

Minho glanced sideways at him, narrowing his eyes slightly. “That sounds like you don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t,” Jisung admitted, shrugging. “But it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s the job. We get paid for this. And honestly…” He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the broad garden and the distant stone wall. “…better I follow you than someone else who wouldn’t know how to keep up.”

That pulled a quiet huff of amusement from Minho, though he tried to mask it. He walked a few more paces, stopping near the white rose bushes. “You make it sound like I’m trouble.”

Jisung let out a soft laugh. “You are. You’re always slipping away, pacing like this, wandering around the garden. I think the cameras in the security room have more footage of you walking than anything else.”

Minho’s lips twitched, but he kept his face impassive. “So I’m entertainment now.”

“Could be worse,” Jisung teased, his tone light. “At least you’re good entertainment. Imagine if I had to spend hours tailing someone dull. I’d probably quit.”

Minho stopped and looked at him properly, eyes narrowing but not in hostility. “And yet, you’d still follow me? Anywhere?”

Jisung met his gaze with a steady nod, no smile this time. “Anywhere.”

“Then follow me.”

Jisung blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” Minho replied smoothly, slipping his hands into his pockets. “We’re going out.”

Jisung’s brows lifted slightly, already pulling himself straighter, more alert. “Out… where?”

“To find some food,” Minho said as if it were obvious. Then, after a beat, his lips curved faintly. “Actual cat food. And maybe some toys for it.”

Jisung tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. “For the stray?”

Minho stopped mid-step and turned, his expression smug, amused in a way that made Jisung instantly wary. “Yes. And your point is?”

Jisung exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together before letting out a small laugh. He shook his head, shoulders loosening.

“Nothing. No such points. Whatever you want, master.”

Minho’s smirk deepened, satisfied, and without another word, he strode forward toward the garden gates, expecting Jisung to follow.

And, as always, Jisung did.

The soft shuffle of sneakers against marble announced Jeongin before he even stepped into the lounge. His satchel hung low across his chest, the strap pulling at the fabric of his neatly pressed shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to look effortless. A stack of books peeked from the bag, corners worn from use, and his ID card still dangled from the lanyard around his neck.

Hyunjin glanced up from where he stood waiting, tablet balanced on his arm, stylus tapping a steady rhythm against the glass.

“Back already?”

“Professor let us out early.” Jeongin dropped his bag with a quiet thud beside the pillar, sinking into the nearby bench with the kind of tired grace only a student carried. He tugged lightly at his collar, undoing the top button, then looked at Hyunjin with a small, expectant smile.

“So. When are we leaving for the club?”

Hyunjin’s stylus froze mid-tap. His gaze narrowed. “You’re not going.”

Jeongin blinked, tilting his head slightly. “Why not?”

“Because,” Hyunjin said firmly, returning his attention to the screen as if the conversation was already over. “You’ve had a full day of classes, you’ve got work to do, and it’s not the place for you.”

“But I’m not tired.” Jeongin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice stayed soft, almost coaxing, like he was talking his way past an older brother’s stubborn rule. “I’ve been to clubs before. It’s not new.”

Hyunjin shot him a look over the edge of the tablet. “Not with us. Not tonight.”

“Which is exactly why I should come,” Jeongin countered, smiling just enough to soften the defiance. His tone wasn’t sharp, wasn’t rebellious. It was gentle, patient, like he knew Hyunjin would crack if he pushed just the right way.

From the hallway, Felix’s voice chimed in before Hyunjin could respond, cheerful and unhelpful. “He’s got a point, Hyunjin. He’s not a kid anymore.”

Hyunjin groaned, dragging a hand down his face as Jeongin’s grin widened just slightly.

Felix strolled in, all lightness and energy, a servant following closely behind with his arms weighed down by half a dozen glossy shopping bags. The bags looked expensive, their muted logos catching the hall light. Felix’s hair was slightly tousled as if he had been in the wind, his lips curved into his trademark mischievous grin.

Without even stopping, Felix lifted a finger toward the servant. “That one—” he pointed to the bag at the top. The servant obediently shifted and Felix plucked it free, balancing it against his hip like it was the most natural thing to do. 

“Leave the rest in my room,” Felix added breezily. The servant bowed and disappeared down the hall, leaving Felix standing there with his single prize. He turned his full attention to the pair near the lounge, and his grin widened instantly when his eyes landed on Hyunjin.

“Now, now,” Felix said, stepping closer, “what’s this? A debate?” His voice was sing-song, teasing. “Elder brother lecturing, little brother sighing, looks like I walked into a family council meeting.”

Jeongin gave him a small, helpless smile. Hyunjin, on the other hand, only pressed his lips together. Felix leaned a little closer, lowering his voice as though he were conspiring with them.

“Why don’t you let Innie go too, Hyun? He’s been locked up with textbooks all day, hasn’t he? One night won’t kill him.”

“No,” Hyunjin said simply, his tone unbending.

Felix didn’t flinch at the answer. Instead, he let the bag handle slide onto his wrist and rocked back on his heels, making a show of considering the situation.

“Fine, fine.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, dramatically tilting his head to one side. “If Jeongin isn’t going, that means I won’t have any company left…”

He paused, his eyes catching Hyunjin’s. “Which means,” he drawled, the grin returning, “you’ll just have to keep me entertained instead.” Felix’s words lingered, playfully shameless as always. Jeongin glanced between them, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Hyunjin’s expression didn’t change at first. The same calm mask he always wore. But after a beat, he turned his head toward Jeongin, his voice even, controlled.

“Wear something casual,” he said.

For a second, Jeongin just blinked at him, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Then the corners of his lips pulled into the faintest, almost shy smile. He picked up his bag again, suddenly lighter, while Felix stood there positively glowing, his grin spreading like a cat that had gotten the cream.

Hyunjin didn’t acknowledge either reaction. He simply turned back to the table, reaching for the files he’d left there, as if the conversation was already over. But Felix’s smirk lingered, victorious in silence.

Hyunjin was about to step away when Felix’s voice came again, softer this time but carrying that casual lilt only he could manage.

“Wait.”

Hyunjin halted, not turning immediately, but the pause was enough. Felix held the bag forward like it wasn’t anything significant. His usual grin sat on his lips, but there was a faint glimmer underneath, something more deliberate than his playful tone suggested.

“This one’s for you,” Felix said, dangling the sleek bag by its handles. “Took me forever to pick it out. Don’t make me regret the effort.”

Hyunjin turned his head slightly, gaze flicking to the bag before meeting Felix’s face. His expression stayed unreadable, but there was a stiffness in the way his shoulders squared, the way his hand twitched like he considered taking it but held himself back.

“I don’t want it,” Hyunjin replied flatly, his voice clipped. “I have enough to wear.”

Felix tilted his head, amusement not fading but his eyes catching a shade of disappointment. He shifted the bag a little, teasing. “You say that, but I know you’ll look better in this than anyone else could. Call it… a gift from your oldest admirer.”

But Hyunjin didn’t bite. He turned fully away this time, his long stride carrying him down the corridor, the dismissal silent but sharp.

Felix watched him go, the faintest laugh escaping under his breath. “Still as stubborn as ever,” he murmured, the bag swaying idly in his hand.

Jeongin snatched the bag from Felix with a triumphant grin, hugging it to his chest like he had just won a prize. “Seriously, Lix? You went shopping and didn’t get your best friend anything?” he whined dramatically, his university bag still slung over one shoulder. “Do you know how unfair that is? I sit through boring lectures while you stroll through boutiques.”

Felix chuckled, leaning lazily against the wall. “You weren’t exactly on my mind when I was choosing, sunshine.”

Jeongin huffed, clutching the bag tighter as he glanced toward Hyunjin’s retreating back, his words directed at Felix. “Then I’ll take this. Consider it's Hyunjin's now.” His grin widened, mischievous. “Better yet, consider it as a return gift. I’ll make sure he wear this for you. But,” he paused mid-sentence, shoulders lifting in the smallest sigh. “Don’t push your luck, Lix,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with warning.

Felix only laughed, unaffected. “Too late. I’m already imagining how good he'll look in it.”

“This place is… a lot,” Minho muttered under his breath, his eyes already drawn to the far wall where a brightly lit section was marked with a golden paw sign—

Paw Haven.

Jisung gave a small laugh, inhaling the cool air that smelled faintly of cedar chips and something floral, the kind of polished scent only high-end places carried. Rows of shelves stretched out in neat lines, each stacked with gleaming bags of food, polished toys, and glossy packaging that made everything look luxurious. 

The bodyguard smiled gently, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket. “Told you. If you want cat food and toys, might as well get the best. Besides, they treat strays like royalty here.”

Minho barely listened. He drifted toward the cat section, slowing down as the displays changed from clinical rows of tins to softer, cozier setups, cushions shaped like paw prints, scratching posts that could pass for modern art, tunnels and perches layered like miniature kingdoms.

Beyond the glass of one enclosure, a fluffy white Persian blinked sleepily at him, while a calico kitten pawed at a dangling feather toy.

Something in Minho’s expression softened.

He crouched a little, his face reflected faintly on the glass as he watched the calico’s tiny paws batting. “They even have real cats here,” he murmured, half to himself.

“Adoptions,” Jisung said from behind him. “People with too much money walk in for snacks and leave with a pedigree. Happens more than you’d think.”

Minho turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking. “And what about people who walk in for a stray outside their mansion? Do they qualify too?”

Jisung smirked but didn’t answer, just nodded toward the shelves stacked with polished tins of food. “Pick whatever you want, master. Cat food aisle’s yours.”

Minho hummed and rose to his feet again, wandering further down the section, fingers brushing over bags and boxes as though he were browsing rare antiques instead of kibble.

A young staff member in a neatly pressed uniform approached, a polite smile fixed in place. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I assist you with anything today?”

Minho didn’t hesitate. His eyes skimmed the shelves one last time before turning to the staff. “Yes. First, I’ll need a bowl. Something plain, sturdy.” His tone was calm but decisive, like he was placing an order in a fine restaurant. “Then, some food. A few different kinds— small portions if possible. I need to know which one the cat will actually eat.”

The staff nodded briskly, already gesturing toward an aisle. “Of course, sir. We have ceramic, steel, and designer bowls—”

“Something simple,” Minho cut in, almost absently, his gaze still caught on a display of dangling toys. “Not decorative. Just… uhm... useful.”

Jisung folded his arms behind him, watching silently, amusement tugging faintly at his lips. The shift in Minho’s voice was subtle, more intent, almost protective, and it surprised him more than he’d admit.

“And toys,” Minho added, finally turning back to the staff. He lifted one hand and wiggled his fingers slightly, mimicking a dangling lure. “Ones that make sound. Bells, squeaks, anything that catches attention. Something the cat can’t resist.”

The staff smiled wider, a little uncertain under Minho’s sharp focus but eager to please. “Right this way, sir.”

As they followed, Jisung leaned in just slightly, murmuring near Minho’s ear, “You sound like you’re equipping a soldier for battle, not feeding a stray.”

Minho’s lips twitched into a smirk, though his eyes stayed fixed ahead. “Same thing, isn’t it? Preparation decides who wins.”

Jisung shook his head with a quiet chuckle, falling back a step as Minho advanced into the aisle like it was a mission.

The staff led them into a bright aisle lined with bowls stacked neatly by size and color. Stainless steel gleamed under the lights, ceramics were painted in muted tones, and a few designer ones sat behind glass, more ornamental than useful.

Minho crouched slightly, eyes running across the selection. He picked up a plain ceramic bowl first, weighing it in his hand. “Too fragile,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, and carefully set it back. Then he lifted a steel one, tapping its rim with his knuckle; the dull clang rang out. “This… maybe.” Then, he glanced sideways, where Jisung stood with his hands loosely tucked into his pockets, just watching.

Minho raised the bowl an inch higher. “What do you think? Functional enough? Or too cold?”

Jisung blinked at the unexpected question, then shrugged lightly. “Steel lasts longer. Easy to clean too. The cat won’t care about aesthetics.”

Minho hummed softly, lips curving faintly. “Practical. I like that answer.” He set the steel one aside, marking it as chosen.

Next, the staff guided them toward the food shelves, neatly divided into rows of glossy packets. Minho took his time, fingers brushing across labels, pausing to read ingredients with an unusual seriousness. He picked two. Ine chicken, one fish, then hesitated with a third.

He turned, holding the bag up toward Jisung. “Dry food… or canned? Which is safer for a stray?”

Jisung stepped closer, taking the packet from Minho’s hand to inspect it. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Minho didn’t pull back, barely even noticed.

Jisung, after a moment, answered evenly, “Canned smells stronger. Might tempt it easier. But… dry lasts longer outside.”

“So,” Minho concluded, slipping the packet back into Jisung’s hands with a faint smirk, “we’ll take both.”

The staff trailed behind them, arms now loaded with their selections.

Finally, they reached the toy section. Bright colors dangled from hooks, feathers, bells, plush mice with strings. Minho stood still for a long moment, then reached up and gently tugged one. The little bell attached jingled faintly. He gave it an experimental shake, and the sound made him smile almost imperceptibly.

“Too silly?” he asked suddenly, turning to Jisung again.

Jisung tilted his head, considering the toy, then the faint curve of Minho’s mouth. “Not if it works. Cats like sound, right? It’s not silly if it makes them happy.”

Minho chuckled quietly, low and amused, before selecting two more, one with feathers, one with a squeaker. “Good. Then it stays.”

They moved slower now, side by side instead of one trailing behind the other. The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore, it carried a kind of ease. Every now and then Minho glanced at Jisung, and every time he caught the bodyguard watching quietly back, a strange warmth settled in Minho’s chest.

Like he gained a friend.

By the time they returned to the counter, Minho handed over the chosen items with a care that surprised even himself. For once, he wasn’t acting detached or uninterested. He was involved.

And Jisung, standing there with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, realized he didn’t mind being pulled into it.

The low thrum of bass seeped through the floor, not loud enough to rattle but steady, like a pulse running beneath the velvet-lined lounge. Lights glowed in muted shades of gold and violet, throwing soft reflections off glass tables and polished bottles.

It wasn’t crowded. Not in the usual sense.

The club had been cleared of strangers, reserved entirely under Hyunjin’s arrangements. Still, the space wasn’t empty. A handful of men and women dotted the perimeter, professionals in plain suits, moving with quiet purpose. Chan’s most trusted people, bodyguards, a few senior aides, staff who knew how to blend into the background while keeping eyes everywhere.

Their presence made the club feel both alive and watchful.

Felix returned from the bar counter, balancing two glasses in his hands, the ice chiming faintly as he walked. His grin was lazy, a little too boyish for the expensive club, and his hair caught the violet light in streaks of silver.

He spotted Hyunjin a few seats away from the rest of the group, perched on a low couch, posture neat, one arm resting on the armrest, his gaze occasionally flicking toward the crowd.

“Caught you hiding again,” Felix teased, stopping in front of him. He offered one glass forward, tilting it slightly so the amber liquid caught the light. “Whiskey. Or close enough. Thought you could use it.”

Hyunjin glanced up, his expression unreadable. For a moment he didn’t move, just let his gaze linger on Felix’s face, then the drink. Finally, with a small sigh, he accepted it, the glass cool in his hand.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Hyunjin murmured, eyes scanning the far side of the room where Chan was speaking with two of his men. “I was watching.”

Felix plopped down on the couch beside him, close enough that his knee brushed the edge of Hyunjin’s seat.

He swirled his own drink, smirking. “Always watching. Always working. You should loosen up, you know.”

Hyunjin’s lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile. He lifted the glass, taking a slow sip, and let the burn settle on his tongue before answering. “Someone has to keep things steady. Especially here.”

Felix leaned back, stretching his arm along the backrest, tilting his head toward him. His voice dropped playfully. “And if I said I could keep you steady for tonight?”

Hyunjin’s gaze flicked to him, sharp under the low lights, but he didn’t answer right away. He set the glass down on the table in front of him, fingers still resting on it as though grounding himself.

All around them, music swelled softly, the hum of voices and laughter blending under the veil of privacy that Chan had bought for the night.

A faint hiss of carbonation cut through the music as Jeongin slid onto the edge of the lounge area, cracking open a can of soda. His university-jacket-look was nowhere in sight now, replaced by a clean, casual shirt, simple but neat, the kind that made him look less younger under the colored lights.

He didn’t bother joining their conversation; just leaned back, sipping quietly, eyes roaming the club like he was still half-amazed to be there.

Felix didn’t so much as glance at him. He tipped his drink toward Hyunjin, eyes dancing. “Acting all tough,” Felix drawled, “but still wore the shirt I picked out for you.”

Hyunjin blinked, his brow pulling tight. His gaze dropped to his own chest, to the smooth black fabric buttoned neatly up his torso. For a moment he looked confused. He hadn’t… then realization struck, sharp and immediate.

His head snapped toward Jeongin, eyes narrowing like a blade drawn too quickly.

Jeongin froze mid-sip, soda can suspended halfway. His shoulders stiffened, lips pressing thin as if he could feel the weight of Hyunjin’s glare pinning him in place.

A beat passed, thick and dangerous.

Then, Jeongin coughed lightly, as if buying time, and deliberately turned his head away, pretending to study the bar across the room.

“Binnie!” he blurted suddenly, voice a little too loud over the music. His eyes lit up like he’d spotted a lifeline.

Without waiting for an answer, he hopped up, nearly spilling his drink, and scurried off toward where Changbin was standing with two of Chan’s men.

“You— Jeongin!” Hyunjin started, half-rising, but the boy was already weaving through the crowd, vanishing behind taller figures before he could be stopped. He sat back slowly, exhaling through his nose, his hand tightening around his glass. Felix only smirked, watching the retreating figure with delight.

“Smart kid,” Felix murmured, eyes glinting as he turned back toward Hyunjin. “Knows when to run.”

Hyunjin leaned forward, his tone flat but edged. “Now. If you’re going to brag and act all smug that I wore this,” he said, fingers tugging at the collar as though the shirt itself betrayed him, “more like— you had my own brother trick me into wearing it, then I’m going to take it off.”

Felix didn’t flinch. His grin only widened, foxlike, the glass in his hand catching the low light as he swirled the amber liquid inside. He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough that it curled close, warm and uninvited.

“Oh, I’d love to see that,” Felix murmured, every word laced with playful provocation. “Shirtless… and naked.” The beat of the music seemed to stretch, heavy and slow. Felix’s eyes glinted as he added, soft but shameless, “But not here. Not when the public could see you the way I’ve always wanted to.”

Hyunjin froze, his lips parting, mind blank for a flicker of a second. A flush of heat threatened to rise, anger, embarrassment, something harder to name. He exhaled sharply, half a laugh but without humor, and shook his head as if to clear it.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with deliberate exaggeration, as though dismissing Felix entirely. He pushed up from his seat, glass in hand, the ice clinking faintly.

Felix watched him stand, the smirk not once faltering, even as Hyunjin turned his back on him.

Without another word, Hyunjin threaded through the lounge, drink steady in his grip, and made his way toward the far end of the room, toward Chan, who was sitting alone now.

Felix leaned back on the couch behind him, sipping from his drink with a satisfied hum.

Chan’s hand lifted the moment he spotted Hyunjin approaching, the faintest curve of his fingers signaling for him to sit. Hyunjin obeyed without question, lowering himself into the seat beside him, his glass balanced carefully between his palms.

For a moment, they didn’t speak. Just sat there, surveying the scene before them.

The club was theirs for the night, private and safe. Dim lighting swayed with the music, the kind of low thrum that sank into your chest instead of demanding you dance. A few of Chan’s men lingered along the periphery, blending into the shadows while keeping a sharp eye on everything.

Out on the floor, Minho looked out of place at first. Stiff shoulders, cautious glances, but slowly, piece by piece, the edges began to soften. Felix had shoved a drink into his hand earlier, and now one of Chan’s staff leaned in, chatting easily with him. Minho nodded, listening more than speaking, but there was less guardedness in his stance, his weight shifting as though he were finally finding a rhythm in the room.

Across the way, Changbin and Jeongin were tangled in their own little orbit. Jeongin had ditched his soda can somewhere, both his hands now busy as he leaned over Changbin’s phone, laughing too loudly at whatever was on the screen.

Changbin rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the tug of a smile, his arm brushing Jeongin’s shoulder in that unconscious, easy way of someone too used to closeness to even notice it anymore. Their laughter rose and fell like background music against the bass.

Jisung was nearby, perched at the edge of a low couch, a drink untouched in front of him. His posture screamed observer rather than participant, but he wasn’t sulking, just quietly content, his eyes flicking from group to group.

Whenever Jeongin’s laughter burst out too sharp, Jisung’s lips curved in amusement, and when Minho stumbled a little through conversation, Jisung tilted his head, listening, keeping a quiet watch like someone who belonged without needing to announce it.

Chan leaned back in his seat, exhaling through his nose. He glanced at Hyunjin beside him, who was following the same view with calm, steady eyes. Their drinks clinked lightly as Chan lifted his glass halfway in an absent gesture.

“Looks like they’re settling in,” Chan said lowly.

Hyunjin hummed in quiet agreement, eyes flicking toward Minho’s slowly easing stance, then over to the ridiculous sight of Jeongin elbowing Changbin until the older finally relented and laughed along.

For the first time all evening, Hyunjin let himself exhale. He swirled his glass once, letting the liquid catch the low light before setting it down on the table.

His voice came quiet, pitched only for Chan. “The auction’s set for tomorrow,” he said, his words measured as though they carried more weight than the music thumping around them.

Chan didn’t move at first. His gaze was still locked across the room, fixed on Minho. The younger man was leaning slightly toward Changbin, listening with a crease of curiosity in his brow. A little stiff, yes, but not closed off.

The sight softened something in Chan’s chest.

“I hear you,” Chan murmured finally, still watching Minho as though Hyunjin’s words threaded directly into his peripheral vision. He gave a single nod, slow and thoughtful.

Hyunjin followed his line of sight for a moment, then back to Chan. He didn’t press. He knew the look in Chan’s eyes wasn’t simple distraction, it was focus of another kind, the kind that carried worry and affection in equal measure.

Chan shifted slightly, finally peeling his gaze from Minho and letting it fall back on Hyunjin. The faint curl of his mouth was tired but warm.

“You should enjoy this,” Chan said, tilting his glass toward Hyunjin. “We’re here, aren’t we? Might as well.”

Hyunjin’s lips tugged, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. He lifted his drink in return, meeting Chan’s steady eyes.

“Funny,” Hyunjin murmured, “I was about to tell you the same.”

For a moment, neither of them drank. They simply held each other’s gaze, the soft club lights flickering in colors across their features. It wasn’t the charged kind of stare Hyunjin shared with Felix. It was quieter, simpler. A thread of trust. A reminder they’d both earned through long years of watching each other’s backs.

The moment broke when a shadow fell across the table. Minho slipped into the space beside Chan, the couch dipping under his weight. He didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate. He just leaned in, close enough that his shoulder brushed against Chan’s arm.

Chan’s breath caught for the briefest second. Minho’s warmth pressed steady against him, familiar yet new in its boldness. Chan didn’t move away. His body curved just slightly, naturally, toward the younger man.

Their proximity was nearly too much. Minho close enough that Chan could smell the faint mix of his cologne and the clean sharpness of soda still on his breath. The edge of Minho’s thigh pressed to Chan’s, casual but grounding, like an anchor.

Chan’s eyes softened, all that steel he carried easing in the presence of one person. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Minho glanced up, caught the look, and for a fraction of a heartbeat the noise of the club dimmed, the air between them thicker than the shadows around.

Hyunjin looked between them once, his mouth twitching. He didn’t interrupt. He only leaned back into the couch, lifting his glass, letting the unspoken weight of the moment stand untouched.

Chan’s fingers twitched against his thigh, aching to close the remaining space, to lace into Minho’s hand, as the younger leaned back just slightly, enough to study Chan’s face in profile.

The older man hadn’t moved, hadn’t drawn away, but there was something tense about his stillness, like a bowstring pulled tight. His gaze remained forward, fixed somewhere over the dance floor, though Minho could tell his attention wasn’t really there.

“Channie…” Minho’s voice was low, testing, brushing against the music as if it were meant only for the two of them. His lips curved faintly, a touch of smugness to cover the heat that threatened to break through. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

Hyunjin blinked, glass halfway to his mouth. His eyes darted between them, catching the sudden, undeniable electricity in Minho’s tone. His ears pinked, and he cleared his throat, masking the faintest fluster as he pushed off the couch.

“Right. I’ll… go see what Innie’s up to before he gets himself thrown out.” He forced a casual shrug, retreating into the crowd with his drink in hand.

Now it was just them.

Chan’s chest rose a fraction deeper, a tell he didn’t even realize Minho caught. He didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped once, twice, against his thigh. Minho’s eyes tracked the motion, amused at how it betrayed him.

“You don’t even like places like this,” Minho went on softly, a coaxing lilt threading through his words. “Too loud. Too many people watching.” His mouth tilted, close enough now that his breath ghosted warm against the shell of Chan’s ear. “You’d rather not be seen at all… wouldn’t you?”

The subtle taunt landed.

Chan finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, his eyes catching Minho’s in the low light. The look he gave wasn’t a glare, wasn’t even a warning. It was something heavier, patience stretched thin, restraint fraying at the edges.

Minho felt it like a hand around his wrist, pulling him closer.

“Hyung,” he pressed, softer this time. The confidence bled into something more raw, his gaze unwavering. “Not here. Somewhere else. Just us.”

Chan’s jaw flexed, the smallest tic, and Minho knew he’d struck the right chord. Still, Chan said nothing. He just looked at him, steady, unreadable.

It made Minho’s pulse race. That silence was more dangerous than words.

He let his hand drift, not enough to touch but enough for the heat of it to be felt near Chan’s. That small, deliberate proximity was enough to make the air burn.

Chan’s lips parted slightly, whether to speak or to breathe, Minho couldn’t tell. But no words came out.

And that silence was the closest thing to an answer Minho could have hoped for.

Hyunjin wove through the small crowd, the music dimmer here among familiar faces. Changbin was the first to notice him, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he reached out and pulled Hyunjin closer into the circle with an ease that made it seem like Hyunjin belonged nowhere else.

But Hyunjin’s eyes weren’t on him for long. They drifted, sharp yet calm, settling on the one person who seemed too restless for the room.

Jisung.

He sat a little apart, shoulders drawn in, gaze flickering restlessly across the club as if searching for an anchor. Hyunjin eased his way over, standing at his side for a quiet beat before leaning down, his voice pitched low.

“The one you’re looking for…” His eyes followed Jisung’s wandering line of sight, and then back. “…he’s in the right hands. Don’t worry.”

The words landed heavier than they sounded.

Jisung stilled, the faintest crease between his brows giving way to something softer, understanding. His gaze lifted instinctively, following the unspoken direction.

And there he saw it.

Chan, seated still as stone, yet undone in the way only one person could manage. Minho leaned in close, one hand rising with a deliberate gentleness to cup Chan’s face. For a moment, the air between them seemed to blur, the press of Minho’s lips against Chan’s inevitable, an unspoken claim carried out with no hesitation.

Something tightened in Jisung’s chest.

Sharp, fleeting, almost like something that can't be named. But then it broke apart as quickly as it came, dissolving into something else entirely.

Relief.

He breathed in deep, shoulders loosening as if he’d been holding something too long.

When his eyes shifted back to Hyunjin, there was a smile waiting for him, a small one, real in its quiet ease. Hyunjin didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

The music carried on, laughter rose around them, but for Jisung, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The bass had softened into something lazy and hypnotic by the time Jisung noticed how the room had changed. At first, the club had felt private, curated, the way all of Chan’s gatherings did. Not crowded, just warm enough for laughter to carry, dim enough for the guests to feel safe. But now, as the night wore on, it had taken on the hazy looseness of a real party.

Most of the staff had drifted toward the bar or the lounge corners. Glasses in hand, voices louder with each round. A few were already swaying to the beat, shoulders loose, laughing too hard at things that weren’t that funny.

Jisung stayed sober. Not out of duty alone, though that was part of it, but because he liked watching. He liked noticing the details when everyone else stopped paying attention. The way the lights slid over polished glass. The way shadows gathered in the corners of the private rooms they’d rented. The way laughter built and broke like waves.

Changbin draw his eyes first.

He’d had too much. Jisung could tell from the way his grin had gone soft and crooked, from the way his steps didn’t quite match the rhythm anymore. Jeongin didn’t seem to mind. The younger one was laughing, trying to guide Changbin’s clumsy attempts at dancing, a patient hand at his waist, another steadying his shoulder when he spun too far and almost tripped over a low couch.

The sight tugged a reluctant smile out of Jisung. They looked ridiculous. Silly. Childish. But happy. And something about Jeongin’s easy acceptance of Changbin’s chaos was quietly endearing.

A little further back, near the edge of the dance floor, Hyunjin stood apart. He hadn’t joined the drinking, or at least hadn’t drunk enough to lose that sharp edge he always seemed to have. One hand rested loosely in his pocket, the other curled around a glass he hadn’t touched in a while. His gaze lingered on the dance floor, zeroed in on Jeongin. But there was something gentler in it tonight. A small, almost private smile that softened the angles of his face.

And not far from him, of course, was Felix.

Felix was leaning against a low railing, back half-turned to the lights, but his eyes, even in the dim glow, were unmistakably fixed on Hyunjin.

It wasn’t loud, the way he watched. No smirk, no overt charm like he usually carried. Just quiet, steady attention, as if he was content to exist a few steps away and let Hyunjin be.

Jisung caught it all from where he sat. A shadow among shadows, drink untouched in front of him. He wasn’t lonely, exactly. Just… observing. It was easier to stay back and keep an eye on the room. On the people who mattered to his boss.

It was what he was supposed to do, he told himself.

But sometimes it was also what he wanted to do.

Here, tucked into a booth where no one was really looking at him, Jisung could let the night slow down. He could watch Changbin stumble and Jeongin laugh with his whole face. He could see the almost imperceptible softening of Hyunjin’s features while he was focused on his brother, and Felix’s quiet longing when he thought no one was paying attention.

Jisung’s gaze drifted without intention, just a sweep across the room, checking corners, habits of a man trained to notice everything.

It was supposed to be casual. Quick. But then his eyes landed on one of the low velvet couches tucked into the shadowed edge of the room.

His boss. With his boyfriend.

Too close, Minho leaning into him, a hand brushing over Chan’s jaw with a kind of tenderness Jisung wasn’t prepared to see. They weren’t doing anything loud, nothing that would draw a crowd, but there was an intimacy there that was almost heavier than the music. The soft press of mouths, the quiet tilt of Minho’s head, Chan’s hand firm at his waist.

Jisung froze.

He told himself to look away. It wasn’t his business, wasn’t his place, but his eyes didn’t listen. Something about Minho’s quiet certainty held him there. The way Minho leaned in like he belonged, like he wasn’t afraid to be seen. The quiet strength in the curve of his shoulder, the delicate control in the way he kissed.

Jisung swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

He didn’t want to name the flicker that rose inside him. The pull, the ache, the uninvited heat that climbed far too easily. More like the raw, human realization of want, the sudden awareness of someone beautiful and completely out of reach.

He tore his gaze away at last, eyes falling back to the table, breath slow and careful as if no one could hear the shift inside him.

It wasn’t his place. 

It wasn’t his night.

But the image lingered anyway.

Jeongin was laughing about something Changbin had just slurred out, a half-formed joke that made no sense but had the entire little circle howling anyway. His cheeks were pink from the alcohol and from dancing too hard, his shirt sticking slightly to his back, his grin big and unguarded. For someone who had looked a little out of place earlier, he was now fully swept up in the night.

When the song changed to something brighter, he spun once on his heel, still laughing, and let his eyes wander across the room. That was when he spotted his brother.

Hyunjin was exactly where Jeongin expected him to be. Standing a few steps back from the dance floor, glass in hand, posture loose and out of the spotlight. The lights kept catching the pale line of his face. He wasn’t hiding, but he wasn’t joining either. Watching. Always watching.

A small, private smile touched his mouth whenever the others did something ridiculous, but he stayed where he was.

Jeongin groaned aloud, dramatically, earning a questioning look from Changbin. “Stay here, don’t fall over,” Jeongin told him, patting his shoulder. Then he started weaving through the small crowd, determination in every step.

When he reached Hyunjin, he didn’t say anything at first. He just grabbed Hyunjin’s wrist with a grin.

Hyunjin blinked, startled. “Innie—?”

“Come on,” Jeongin said, almost sing-song, tugging gently but insistently. “Stop brooding over there and move a little.”

Hyunjin chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Hey... I’m not brooding.”

“You look like you’re guarding the exit,” Jeongin teased. “One dance. Or just stand with me so I don’t look alone while Binnie’s busy losing all salsa skills.”

Hyunjin let out a quiet sigh, but there was no real fight in it. He let Jeongin pull him a few steps closer to where the others were dancing. He didn’t exactly start dancing, not like Jeongin, who was swaying and laughing again within seconds, but he moved enough, a slow shift of weight, shoulders relaxing as he fell into step beside the younger boy.

They weren’t wild, weren’t the center of the room. They just… moved. Two quiet anchors on the edge of the floor, keeping each other company while the chaos spun around them.

For a moment Jeongin looked over his shoulder, grinning at Hyunjin as if to say see, not so bad, and Hyunjin’s mouth curved into the smallest, most reluctant smile. It wasn’t dancing, not really, but it was enough. A quiet, easy presence in the middle of all the noise.

Hyunjin barely moved, half-shadowed by the edge of the dance floor, his gaze steady on Jeongin. His younger brother was laughing with Changbin now, clumsy but happy, the music wrapping around him. Hyunjin’s shoulders eased a little at the sight.

Someone slipped into the space beside him.

A faint brush at his sleeve. Not a pull, just enough for him to notice. Hyunjin turned, and there was Felix, grin wide under the flicker of club lights, curls messy from dancing somewhere else first. His drink was gone; he must have left it behind to come over.

Felix leaned in just enough to be heard over the bass. “Hey. Thought you were planning to stay on the sidelines all night.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked back to Jeongin, then to Felix. The younger swayed with the music, not fully dancing, just moving enough to blend into the crowd. Hyunjin stayed beside him, arms loose at his sides, eyes still tracking Jeongin now and then.

Felix leaned close so he could be heard. “You drunk?” he asked, tone light.

Hyunjin’s mouth barely moved. “No. Just a glass.” A small pause. “Maybe a peg. The one you gave me.”

Felix made a small noise. Half laugh, half sigh. “Too bad.” He tilted his head, curls falling over his forehead, grin sharp enough to cut through the haze of lights. “Isn’t this one of those nights where you’re supposed to get drunk and lose control and find somewhere private and—”

Hyunjin turned his head sharply, a quiet look that was almost a warning. Felix caught it, lips parting in a grin that only widened.

“—and make love?” he finished anyway, voice low but playful, deliberately testing. Not mean. Not pushing too far. Just close enough to brush the edge of something old between them.

Hyunjin didn’t answer. His jaw shifted, the tiniest tic, and he looked away. Toward the dancers, toward Jeongin, anywhere but Felix.

Felix’s smile lingered, softening at the edges, but he didn’t press further. He just let the music swallow the space between them again.

Hyunjin finally turned his eyes back to him, steady but unreadable. “It’s you who should be careful,” he said quietly, almost drowned by the music. “Don’t get drunk.”

Felix’s grin came back instantly, sly and bright under the shifting club lights. “Oh?” he tipped his head, curls brushing his cheek. “If you’re gonna take care of me…” His voice dipped just enough to make it sound like something more than a joke. “then I don’t mind getting drunk. Or stoned.”

Hyunjin’s breath caught. Just a fraction, barely there, before he looked away again, the smallest shake of his head like he was done with Felix’s games.

But Felix was still smiling, watching him the way one watches a spark catch, waiting to see if it burns.

By the time they reached the staircase, Minho’s hand was already hooked in the back of Chan’s shirt, tugging him up the steps two at a time. His mouth sought Chan’s in hurried, bruising kisses, as though he’d been starving all his life and finally allowed a taste.

The upstairs hallway was quieter, shadows swallowing the noise of the club below. They stumbled into the first door Minho could manage to push open, some dim, private lounge, and the lock clicked shut behind them.

Minho pressed Chan back against the wall, lips greedy, teeth grazing, fingers already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His breath was ragged, rushed, every movement a plea.

“Lord, I’ve wanted this—” he gasped between kisses, “all night.”

Chan’s hands caught Minho’s wrists mid-motion, firm but unhurried, stilling his desperation with a grip that made Minho shiver. Chan’s eyes met his in the low light. Steady, calm, unreadable, but edged with heat. Desire. And lust. And love.

“You’re rushing,” Chan murmured, voice low and even. He pushed Minho back a step, not rough, but leaving no room for disobedience. Minho’s pulse spiked. He tried to surge forward again, but Chan held him there with nothing more than that unwavering gaze and the quiet strength in his grip.

It was Minho who was desperate, but it was already clear whose pace they’d follow.

The room Minho pulled them into wasn’t just some forgotten lounge. It was one of the private suit rooms, all sleek leather couches, heavy curtains, and the faint scent of smoke and expensive liquor clinging to the air.

Minho pushed Chan down onto the couch, straddling his lap in one fluid, desperate motion. His hands were everywhere. Chan’s shoulders, his jaw, tugging at his collar like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss him or tear the fabric off him.

Chan let him. For a moment.

Minho kissed him again, teeth clashing, his body pressing down hard, restless in Chan’s lap. His fingers fumbled impatiently at Chan’s belt, a frustrated groan leaving him when the buckle wouldn’t give fast enough.

That’s when Chan moved. Just one shift of his hands, strong palms sliding to Minho’s hips, and suddenly Minho was the one still, his breath stuttering as Chan’s grip anchored him in place.

“Slow down,” Chan murmured, his tone deceptively soft, but it carried the kind of weight that left no room for argument. Minho’s chest rose and fell quickly, eyes searching Chan’s face, hungry and pleading. He wanted to fight the command, to stay in control, but Chan’s fingers dug in just enough, not painful, but steady, commanding.

Chan leaned up slightly, their lips brushing but not quite touching. “God, Minho... you’re so eager,” he whispered, the faintest smirk curving his mouth.

Minho swallowed hard, his body betraying him as he shivered under the dominance in Chan’s voice. His hands fell still on Chan’s chest, not pulling away, but waiting.

It was Chan, calm, deliberate, who tilted Minho’s chin and claimed his mouth again, slow and consuming, setting the pace Minho had no choice but to follow.

Minho panted against Chan’s lips, frustrated by the restraint. His fingers flexed against Chan’s chest, itching to move, to do something, but the weight of Chan’s grip on his hips pinned him down like iron. So Minho leaned in, his voice low, sultry, taunting.

Chan’s voice was low, controlled, but laced with steel. “Tell me what you want, I'll give it to you.” His thumb pressed against Minho’s parted lips, forcing it open wide. “Be specific, honey.”

Minho felt like he'll pass out any moment. “Please, Chan,” he whispered, grazing his teeth along Chan’s jaw. “I want you inside, pounding until I can’t think. I want you to tear this shirt off me, mark me where everyone would see if I let them. I want your hand wrapped in my hair, pulling until my throat’s bare for you.”

Chan’s jaw tightened, his hands unconsciously tightening on Minho’s hips. But Minho didn’t stop. He tilted his head, lips brushing Chan’s ear now, voice almost trembling from the intensity of his own need.

“I want to be ruined, hyung. To walk out of here tomorrow with your fingerprints all over me, and everyone knowing who I belong to. Or better if you leave me unable to walk.”

For a long moment, Chan said nothing, only stared up at him, eyes dark, unreadable. Minho smirked, thinking he’d gotten to him. “What?” he teased softly, breathless. “Too much?”

Chan moved in a blur. One hand snapped up to Minho’s jaw, tilting his head back, the other dragging him down closer. His back felt smooth as Chan ran his fingers along his skin, and Minho kissed like the world's going to end the very next second.

Chan's mind is dizzy with need, his breath coming out as gasps, especially when Minho starts grinding down on his lap in desperation. "Fuck," he hisses, his hands coming down to grip Minho's waist. "They're all... They're all down— we have to be quick." He manages as his tongue is in a dance with Minho's, hands dipping under the man's waistband to feel a little more skin.

"Then we'll be quick," Minho says in urgency and reaches down to undo his belt. They fumble for a little, undressing themselves completely before Minho has the older pinned down on his back while he's sitting on his lap.

Minho takes two of Chan's fingers, puts them in his mouth, and swirls his tongue around them. Chan stares, looking like he's about to lose it, while Minho takes Chan's wrist and guides his fingers down.

Chan doesn't need instruction on how to kiss a man. He takes the lead, one arm holding Minho onto his lap while the other is sliding his fingers into Minho, swallowing all of the gasps and whimpers, taking pleasure in stabbing until he finds the spot that has Minho clinging to him, and grinding down desperately.

With a deep moan, Minho sits up, positions himself, and slams down so hard that both of them scream. Chan's arms come to wrap around him, and he can feel Minho's breathing, his chest rising and falling as they both take a moment to get used to the feeling of being one.

Minho snaps his hips and rides the other. Chan holds on for dear life. He grabs his waist when Minho pushes on his chest and watches his hips snap back and forth. Minho's head tilted back in pure pleasure, his mouth ajar, snapping his hips against Chan's so hard.

"Channie," Minho gasps, and his hips start to get a little erratic. Chan can feel it too; he's so fucking close. "Chan," he begs. "Chan, fuck," Minho whimpers, and Chan sits up. 

He wraps his arms around Minho and flips them over, and Minho lands on his back with a gasp. His arms are tight around Chan as he gains the upper hand and starts fucking into him so hard, and now Minho's seeing all stars and mist.

Minho comes with a choking sob, his entire body stiffens and Chan holds him through it. His teeth down on Minho's shoulder, attempting something that'll sure leave marks the next day. He's so, so close, and Minho's walls are holding him still. Minho kisses his ear, holds him close, and Chan pants as the last four thrusts finally bring him over the edge too.

Minho lay flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls, but Chan never let him go. Even when their bodies slackened, Chan’s arms stayed locked tight around him, one hand pressed firm at the small of Minho’s back as though afraid he’d slip away. Minho didn’t fight it. Instead, he pressed closer, curling into that hold, forehead buried against Chan’s shoulder.

Neither spoke at first. It was enough to feel the other. Warm, alive, present. The kind of closeness they’d been starved of.

Then, almost at the same time, in broken whispers, Chan’s breath caught, and he said it, rougher, lips brushing Minho’s hair. “I missed you.”

Minho’s hand fisted gently in Chan’s shirt, eyes shutting tight. “Me too… so much.”

The words weren’t dramatic, weren’t rehearsed. Just raw. Just true.

Chan shifted only to press a kiss to Minho’s temple, lingering there, refusing to let the moment scatter. His voice was low, trembling with relief and exhaustion. “Not letting you go this time.”

And Minho, tired, clinging, blissfully dizzy, only nodded against him, silently promising the same.

On one of the couches, Changbin had gone limp, his head tipped back, cheeks flushed red, his arm draped lazily around Jeongin’s shoulders. Jeongin looked like he was having the time of his life, giggling every time Changbin tried to sit up and failed, only to collapse back down again. His laugh carried above the music, bright and unbothered.

Felix wasn’t much better, sprawled across the armrest of another couch, eyes glossy, his grin loose and boyish. He was halfway gone but still managing to wave his glass around dramatically every time someone teased him.

The room had that hazy energy of a night tipping into chaos. Most were drunk, too many were loud, and only a few pairs of eyes stayed sharp, observing quietly.

Hyunjin, for one, hadn’t touched another drink since his first. He stood for a while, arms crossed, scanning the scene like he couldn’t quite believe how quickly it had unraveled. His gaze drifted from Jeongin’s flushed cheeks to Felix’s lazy grin, then to the guards posted along the walls, their expressions as dry as his own.

After a beat, he moved. Slow, deliberate steps cut him through the crowd until he reached a quieter corner where Jisung sat, half-shadowed, his back against the couch arm, a glass of soda resting untouched in his hand. He looked calm, the chaos rolling around him without pulling him in.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything at first. He just eased down beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, letting out a low breath as if sitting there finally gave him a break from the noise.

Hyunjin leaned back, eyes following the mess unfolding in front of them. Jeongin was practically doubled over with laughter now, trying to steady Changbin who had slipped down the couch and was mumbling something incoherent into his sleeve.

Beside him, Jisung gave a quiet chuckle. “It’s rare,” he said, his voice soft, not meant to carry beyond their little corner. “Seeing him like that… goofy, loud. Like nothing weighs on him.” He paused, the soda can in his hand rolling between his palms. “Feels strange… but in a good way.”

Hyunjin glanced sideways at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “The only time I’ve ever seen Changbin loosen up like that is when he’s with Innie. But even then… not like this.” His eyes softened as Jeongin tried to hold Changbin’s cheeks still while laughing too hard to manage. “They’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously happy,” Jisung corrected, his smile widening. For a beat, his eyes lingered on the two younger ones, then he turned back toward Hyunjin. “Kind of makes you forget what we do. Like… for a second, we’re not…” He trailed off, searching for a word. “Not guards, not workers, not stuck in some routine. Just… people.”

Hyunjin hummed, his gaze fixed on the dance floor where Felix had rejoined, clumsy in his half-drunken sway. “Just friends,” he offered quietly.

Jisung let that sink in and then gave a small nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

For a moment, the noise around them faded. The laughter, the music, the drunken shouts, and it was just the two of them sitting there, talking about nothing and everything.

After a long pause, he exhaled softly. “We should probably get them to the cars before they pass out completely.” His words weren’t urgent, but practical, quietly cutting into the air between them.

Jisung shifted, leaning his elbows onto his knees. His eyes flicked toward Hyunjin, then away, lingering on the floor. “Yeah, but…” He hesitated. His voice trailed as if the rest of the sentence weighed too much. Finally, he tried again, softer this time. “What about Chan and—”

He didn’t finish. The name hung there, implied but unspoken.

Hyunjin’s gaze had already lifted upward. To the private rooms above, where he’d seen Minho tugging Chan earlier. His lips parted as though he might answer, but instead, silence wrapped him. The faintest flush crept across his face. Unwelcome, betraying his otherwise steady composure. Quickly, he lowered his eyes again, masking it by adjusting his sleeve.

But Jisung had caught it. He, too, looked up toward the same place. His face was calm, perfectly unreadable, though his hand tightened faintly around the soda can he still held, a subtle strain in his knuckles.

For a long moment, they both sat like that,  two men staring toward the same unseen room, two very different expressions shadowing their faces.

Hyunjin’s carried reluctant warmth, an involuntary softness tinged with discomfort at being caught. Jisung’s was still, restrained, as though his thoughts had locked themselves behind a wall.

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable, until Hyunjin finally rose to his feet. He brushed his trousers with precise hands, the way he always did, as though order could settle the disquiet. His voice, when it came, was measured but not entirely even.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the couches where Jeongin was still failing to prop Changbin upright. “Let’s get the drunks out first.” His words broke the weight between them, though the heaviness lingered in the air like smoke.

Jisung took a breath, set his soda aside, and stood too. He didn’t argue, didn’t add to the thought.

Just one last glance upward, before he followed Hyunjin into the noise of the room.

Jisung had not seen Minho all morning.

It wasn’t unusual, not exactly. People in the mansion came and went, often lost in schedules, errands, or meetings. But after last night, after what he’d witnessed, Minho’s absence settled differently in his chest. A quiet awareness, like he had been waiting without admitting it to himself.

By the time evening arrived, the sky bled into twilight, soft violets and fading gold brushing against the high windows of the training hall.

Inside, a handful of bodyguards went through their routines. Sparring in pairs, steady fists hitting punching bags, the sound of breath and muscle and effort filling the large room. Jisung had spent the last few hours there himself, working until sweat clung to his shirt, until his mind stilled into focus.

When the session ended, he dismissed the team with short nods. The men bowed slightly to him in respect as they left, filing out with easy chatter. Jisung stayed behind a moment longer, wiping down his arms, breathing out slowly.

As he stepped into the corridor, the last thing he expected was Minho waiting there.

The older man leaned against the wall casually, one foot crossed over the other, arms loose at his sides. He didn’t look rushed or restless. He looked just… there. Waiting.

And when his eyes lifted to meet Jisung’s, his lips curved into a smile.

Something in Jisung unclenched. Relief, surprising in its sharpness, bloomed across his chest. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been until now, until Minho’s presence softened the edges. Without meaning to, his own mouth tugged upward into a smile.

“You’re here,” Jisung said quietly, as if speaking it out loud confirmed something to himself.

“Where else would I be? I came looking for my personal guard.” Minho teased gently, though his voice carried a note of weariness. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer.

It was then Jisung noticed. Not the fatigue exactly, but the faint discoloration peeking above the collar of Minho’s shirt, red fading into purple, marks curving along the line of his neck before disappearing beneath the fabric. For a fleeting moment, Jisung’s gaze lingered there, catching the story those shadows told. He quickly looked away, but the image stayed burned behind his eyes.

Minho tilted his head slightly, almost as if he’d caught that brief pause in Jisung’s attention, but he didn’t say anything about it.

Instead, he exhaled with a small shrug. “I was a little tired. Slept most of the day.”

His words were casual, but his smile returned, softer this time. “But I’m awake now. And I don’t feel like staying in tonight.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned closer, voice dropping as though he were sharing a secret. “So… get ready. We’re going out.”

Jisung blinked, taken aback at first by the sudden announcement. “Out?” His brows drew together.

“Yes, out,” Minho repeated, with a little grin that suggested he already expected Jisung’s doubt. “My protector and me. Somewhere different. Let’s go.”

Jisung studied him for a moment, caught between professionalism and something quieter, less defined. The way Minho’s tone softened when he said it, the way those tired edges around his eyes brightened with anticipation, it stirred something he didn’t quite name.

Finally, Jisung nodded, unable to fight the small tug of amusement curling his lips.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll get ready.”

And Minho’s answering smile was worth more than Jisung wanted to admit.

Jisung emerged from his room freshly dressed, the fitted black bodyguard suit making him look sharper than he felt. His tie sat neatly in place, his hair slicked back enough to look professional, though a stubborn strand still fell across his forehead. He sighed, but let it be.

When he reached the corridor, Minho was already walking ahead, hands in his pockets, a subtle ease in his step. He wasn’t wearing the standard suit like Jisung, but something more casual, more his, like he had no intention of blending into the rest of the men who filled the house.

They moved together toward the garage, quiet at first. The hum of the evening, muffled voices inside, faint echoes of footsteps fading behind them, carried through the hall.

But just before they crossed into the wide-open space of the garage, Minho slowed. He turned slightly, hand half-extended, his expression neutral but his eyes carrying that mischievous glint Jisung knew too well.

“The keys,” Minho said. Calm. Simple. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Jisung blinked, then frowned faintly. “What?”

“The car keys.” Minho tilted his chin toward him. “Hand them over.”

Jisung shifted, straightening his shoulders. “No.”

That one word carried so much finality Minho actually let out a soft laugh, quiet but sharp in the empty hallway. “No? What do you mean, no? I said I’ll drive.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem.” Jisung shook his head, moving as if to brush past him. “It’s not safe. I drive.”

But Minho didn’t move. He stepped just enough into Jisung’s path that their shoulders almost touched. His hand reached out again, fingers flicking in a lazy give it motion.

“Come on. Don’t be so uptight. I just want to drive tonight.”

“No.” Jisung’s tone sharpened, though there was no real anger in it, just that protective edge he carried everywhere with Minho. “That’s not happening.”

When Jisung shifted to keep walking, Minho’s hand darted to his wrist. Quick. Precise. He tugged, not enough to hurt, just enough to make Jisung pause. Then, with a smooth motion, Minho’s hand slid down to his palm, brushing warm against his skin before curling over the small set of keys resting there.

Jisung reacted instantly, tightening his grip.

The two of them froze like that for a beat. Fingers tangled, the cold metal pressing into both their palms.

A tug.

Jisung pulled back. Minho pulled forward. Neither gave in.

“What are you doing?” Jisung muttered, half exasperated, half amused despite himself.

“Winning,” Minho replied smoothly, his lips curling into the faintest smile.

Their eyes met, neither breaking first. The air shifted, just a little heavier than before. Jisung huffed and tugged harder, but Minho didn’t let go. Instead, he leaned in, their shoulders brushing, their breaths mingling in that narrow space between them.

It wasn’t a fight. It was something quieter, playful yet charged. A tug-of-war not just for the keys, but for control neither of them was willing to hand over.

“Min?”

The voice cut through, steady, warm.

Chan’s voice.

Jisung felt Minho stiffen beside him before he even turned. The keys slipped from between their hands, sliding loose. Jisung’s fingers curled around nothing, his palm still tingling from the lost grip.

Minho pivoted toward the sound, lips already curving. Chan was walking toward them, his steps unhurried but purposeful. He looked calm, like he’d only just shaken off the remnants of the night. His jacket hung loosely over his shoulders, collar open, hair slightly mussed. His gaze swept the space, landed on Jisung for half a beat, but it lingered on Minho with something different. Something softer.

Minho answered the look with one of his own, faintly teasing, faintly shy, but above all.. glad.

“Already dressed?” Chan asked as he closed the distance, his tone more observation than surprise. His lips tilted, amused.

Minho gave a small shrug, that easy smile still there. “Mmhm.. I was planning on going out.”

“Planning,” Chan repeated, tasting the word like it was something amusing. His eyes flicked over Minho’s neat shirt, the set of his hair, the faint marks along his neck that weren’t quite hidden.

He didn’t comment on them. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping low, “With someone else?”

Jisung caught the weight of that question like a stone in his stomach.

But Minho didn’t falter. “Maybe.” His smile widened. Mischief underlined it, but his body leaned subtly toward Chan, betraying the truth before the word had even settled.

Chan huffed, half a laugh, half a scoff. “Or...” he murmured, “you were waiting for me.”

And that, just like that, shifted everything. Minho didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His silence was loud enough. Chan’s hand came up, a light press at the small of Minho’s back.

A gesture that seemed casual to anyone else. But to Jisung, watching, it was firm. Dominating. Possessive.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Chan said finally. Not a question. Not really. His gaze didn’t leave Minho.

Minho’s smile softened, almost tender now. “Wherever you want.”

Chan’s answering smile was brief, but it held an intensity that left little room for argument. He nodded, then turned slightly, already guiding Minho toward the garage.

Jisung stood frozen a moment longer, the lost keys now heavy in his pocket. He blinked, once, twice, then forced himself to follow. His footsteps echoed faintly behind them, quieter, more measured, like he was deliberately keeping his distance.

The three of them moved together, but not together. Chan and Minho at the front, brushing close, shoulders almost grazing with every step. Minho tilting his head just enough to listen, to lean into whatever Chan was saying low under the hum of the lights.

And Jisung, trailing behind, watched. Silent. His lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable even to himself.

The garage was dimly lit, wide shadows stretching across polished cars. The low rumble of engines idling hung faint in the air, the scent of oil and metal mixing with the crisp night air slipping in from the open shutters.

Near one of the sleek black cars, Hyunjin stood waiting. His posture was as composed as ever, hands tucked neatly into his pockets, though his gaze flicked up at every small sound as if he’d been waiting longer than he’d admit.

Beside him, Changbin leaned against the car door, arms folded, a restless energy in his shoulders. The faint smirk playing at his lips gave him away; he wasn’t calm, not really. He was holding something in.

When Minho and Chan appeared together, Jisung a step behind them, Changbin’s smirk deepened. He straightened, giving Hyunjin a sideways glance, something unspoken passing between them.

The team began filing into the vehicle, movements smooth, practiced. Jisung lingered outside a moment longer, his hand braced against the frame, before turning to Changbin.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharper, searching.

Changbin’s lips curved, the smirk sharpening into something that almost looked like mischief. He let the silence hang for a moment, the low hum of engines filling it, then tipped his head toward Hyunjin.

“Somewhere we’ve never been,” Changbin said. His voice carried a note of excitement, too carefully contained to be coincidence.

Hyunjin’s eyes shifted from Changbin to Jisung, the faintest trace of a sigh slipping through. His words landed softly, almost like he was smoothing over the jagged edge of Changbin’s thrill.

“To an auction.”

Chapter Text

The hall was wrapped in velvet hush, the unspoken crackle of wealth and power. Soft lights glowed from chandeliers above, falling on polished mahogany tables arranged in tiers, each occupied by men and women dressed in dark suits and gowns that whispered of understated luxury.

A gavel struck once. The sound echoed, commanding the room’s attention.

“Lot number seventeen,” the auctioneer announced, his voice calm but practiced, rolling easily through the microphone. On the raised platform beside him, assistants drew back a black silk covering to reveal the item; a carved ivory figurine, delicate, sharp-edged, glimmering faintly under the light.

The audience leaned forward as one, subtle shifts of posture betraying interest.

“Shall we begin the bidding at two hundred thousand?” the auctioneer continued, adjusting his cufflinks as though the number were nothing more than casual pocket change.

A paddle lifted, smooth and silent. “Two hundred.”

Another raised almost instantly. “Two-fifty.”

The auctioneer’s voice rose in rhythm with the numbers, steady and unhurried. “Two-fifty has been called. Do I hear three?”

From the far left, a hand twitched upward. “Three.”

The murmur in the hall deepened. Low, appreciative sounds. Pens scratched lightly against notebooks, secretaries and aides recording every motion. Glasses of wine and champagne were raised but barely touched; no one wanted distraction.

“Three hundred thousand. Do I hear more?”

Another paddle rose, deliberate, as though making a statement more than a bid. “Three-fifty.”

The auctioneer smiled faintly, nodding once. “Three hundred and fifty thousand. Thank you. Do I have four?”

There was a pause. Just enough for the silence to stretch, taut as a bowstring.

Then—

“Four.”

And the dance continued.

Chan sat low against the back of the couch, one arm comfortably stretched along the backrest. To his left, Minho leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed toward the auctioneer’s podium but often drifting to the item now displayed.

A jeweled dagger, set on velvet like some sleeping relic. His lips parted slightly, curiosity flaring.

Hyunjin sat a little further down on the same couch, posture elegant and perfectly straight, as though carved from the same marble that lined the walls. He had a thin folder on his lap, pages crisp and neat, annotated in his clean handwriting. His eyes flicked between the stage and the papers, and then, at intervals, to Chan.

Changbin stood by the wide double doors at the back, arms folded over his chest, his gaze roving the crowd but his expression betraying just enough interest to show he was listening. Jisung was closer. Standing within Chan and Minho’s perimeters, hands clasped behind his back in the disciplined stance of his job, but his head angled slightly, attentive to their conversation even as he kept scanning the hall.

Hyunjin was the first to break the silence. His voice was calm, low, but threaded with an authority that suited him here. “Every auction follows its own rhythm,” he said, not glancing at either of them at first, but at the bidding that was currently escalating over the dagger. “The smart ones usually hold until the end. Because the price always climbs when tension does.”

Minho blinked, shifting slightly, his knee brushing against Chan’s leg. “So… it’s like a game?” His tone carried half a laugh, but his eyes were bright, fascinated.

Hyunjin’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and brief, before returning to the stage. “A game with rules that look simple but are anything but. And it’s not about the money but about how long you can keep the others on edge.” His mouth tightened slightly.

Chan’s lips curved, a faint, knowing smile. His eyes, however, didn’t leave the stage. “Doesn’t matter who else is playing,” he said quietly. His hand, resting so casually behind Minho, shifted just a fraction, his fingers brushing the back of Minho’s shoulder. Subtle, grounding. “If Min wants something, I’ll get it.”

Minho turned at that, eyes searching Chan’s face. The casual confidence made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t admit out loud.

“You make it sound too easy,” he murmured.

Chan finally glanced down at him, eyes warm but steady, voice low. “For you, it is.”

Hyunjin’s pen scratched faintly over paper as he updated numbers, though his gaze lingered on the two of them for a second longer than necessary. Then he cleared his throat softly, pulling attention back to the hall.

“See there,” he gestured lightly toward a man in a gray suit who was leaning back, waiting. “He’s holding. He won’t bid until the last moment. It’s always like that. Some of them enjoy the thrill of stealing victory right before the gavel drops.”

Minho followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration, like a student trying to catch up in a class that was new to him.

“So you’re telling me…” he tilted his head toward Hyunjin, “that this isn’t just about buying things. It’s about… showing power?”

Hyunjin’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more like acknowledgment. “Exactly.”

Chan hummed in agreement, shifting slightly as the auctioneer’s voice rose, announcing the new bid. His thumb brushed against Minho’s arm almost absently. “Doesn’t change what I said.”

Jisung’s eyes flicked from Minho to Chan to Hyunjin, his face neutral but his mind quietly absorbing everything. Changbin, from the door, gave the faintest smirk at the exchange before returning his gaze outward.

Minho couldn’t hide it. The flush of excitement on his face, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, restless. His world had been loud before, but this was a different kind of noise. Silent but pulsing, a place where money, power, and will all collided. And sitting between Chan’s steady confidence and Hyunjin’s razor-sharp explanations, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d stepped into something vast.

And he wanted to see how far it could go.

Chan’s gaze had been fixed on the velvet pedestal at the center of the hall, his attention poised between the rising numbers and Hyunjin’s steady voice explaining the rules of the game. But then, unbidden, his eyes drifted. Not far, not anywhere in particular at first, just past the curve of the audience, across the rows of black leather couches and polished wood railings, following the subtle shifts of movement among men in tailored suits.

And then they stopped.

On the far side of the hall, where the lighting seemed a little dimmer, sat the Kims. Their section wasn’t marked off by ropes or guards, but it may as well have been, an invisible territory that no one dared cross. Power radiated from them, not loud, not theatrical, but like a constant hum beneath the skin.

Chan’s chest tightened, a ripple of unease stirring in his gut. He had been expecting their presence, perhaps even waiting for it, but seeing them in flesh always carried a different weight.

Mr. Kim’s eldest two sons were there. The second, sharp-eyed, with a posture so strict it bordered on stiff, sat with one ankle crossed neatly over the other knee, his hands folded as though bored but never truly at ease. 

The youngest, Chan remembered vaguely, wasn’t interested in these games. He’d heard whispers before, that the boy kept himself away from the family’s endless power displays, choosing quiet over noise. Music and sports over bussiness. And judging by the empty space beside them, the whispers had been true.

But it wasn’t the second son, nor the absence of the youngest, that held Chan’s eyes.

It was the eldest.

Kim Seokjin.

The moment Chan’s gaze landed, he realized Seokjin was already looking back. No hesitation, no surprise, as if he had been waiting for Chan to notice. His posture was deceptively casual, his body leaned against the back of the couch, but nothing about him was careless. His shirt, crisp white under the muted lighting, looked expensive without needing to announce it. The tie around his neck was loose, knotted carelessly. His hair, parted slightly, fell in a way that framed his face too perfectly to be an accident.

But it was his expression that rooted Chan in place.

Seokjin’s lips curved upward, not into a polite smile, not even an amused one, but into a smirk. A taunting smirk, heavy with a kind of arrogance that came from knowing the room, knowing the game, knowing himself. His eyes held Chan’s without wavering, dark and gleaming, as if he could see past the calm front Chan wore.

Chan’s jaw tightened, the faintest shift that most would miss. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away, though his pulse had picked up. Across the couch, Minho leaned forward, unaware of the silent exchange, and Hyunjin scribbled notes with his usual composure.

But Chan kept his eyes locked on Seokjin.

And Seokjin… didn’t break.

Instead, his smirk deepened, one corner of his mouth lifting a fraction higher, his gaze dragging slowly, mockingly across Chan, before returning to meet his eyes again.

A silent challenge. An unspoken dare.

The hall buzzed with the sound of numbers being called, of paddles raised and lowered, of murmurs rolling like waves through the crowd. Yet, for a breath, for two, Chan heard none of it.

The auctioneer’s voice carried clearly, trained to slice through the hum of chatter and laughter that filled the grand hall. Another item was unveiled.

This time, not art or antiques, but something smaller, subtler.

On a velvet cushion, under the glow of carefully placed lights, lay a wrist chain. Not gaudy, not overwhelming in design, but undeniably exquisite. The platinum links were delicate yet strong, and each link shimmered faintly as though dusted with starlight. It wasn’t studded with stones, nor weighed down by embellishments. Its elegance was in its restraint, the kind of piece that whispered wealth instead of screaming it.

Chan had seen dozens of such items before. They came and went, paraded in front of eyes that craved rarity more than beauty. But when he glanced sideways, he caught something unexpected.

Minho’s gaze was fixed on it.

Not casual, not fleeting. His eyes had lit with an interest so immediate, so unguarded, that Chan almost forgot to look back at the stage.

There was a spark in Minho’s expression, like a child catching sight of something that resonated with him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. His lips parted ever so slightly, his shoulders leaning forward just an inch, his entire focus tethered to that one chain.

It was rare to see him this way. Minho, who so often hid behind composure or teasing words, stripped of all defenses in a single glance.

Chan felt something tug in his chest. A flicker of warmth. Possessive. Protective.

He leaned ever so slightly toward Hyunjin, whose attention hadn’t strayed from the auctioneer’s steady rhythm. His voice was low, meant only for Hyunjin to hear.

“We’re getting it.”

Hyunjin’s pen paused mid-note. He didn’t question. He followed Chan’s gaze for a moment, long enough to catch the way Minho’s eyes lingered, long enough to understand without words.

Then, without a sound, Hyunjin gave a single nod.

Chan leaned back, settling against the couch as if nothing had been exchanged. But his hand, resting against his knee, curled into a loose fist, an unconscious sign of resolve.

On the other side, Minho still hadn’t noticed. He was too absorbed, eyes tracing the gleam of the chain as the bidding began.

The velvet cushion gleamed beneath the auction lights, and the auctioneer’s voice rang clear. “Opening bid for this platinum wrist chain begins at two hundred thousand.”

There was a small murmur in the hall, a shuffle of papers, the subtle raising of hands. From one of the side rows, a man in a dark suit lifted his paddle.

“Two hundred thousand.”

The auctioneer nodded crisply, “Two hundred thousand has been called. Do I hear two twenty?”

Another voice chimed in. “Two twenty.”

The crowd shifted, the rhythm of competition beginning to stir. Chan leaned back, watching the exchange with his usual calm, but Minho’s shoulders tensed beside him. His gaze had not left the chain. He tried to look away, but every time the auctioneer’s hand swept across the stage, he found himself dragged back.

Then a third bidder raised the bar, “Two forty.”

Chan raised a finger. Just that, minimal, quiet, but enough for the auctioneer to catch.

“Two sixty, from the gentleman seated in the front.”

Minho’s head snapped toward him. His eyes widened, startled, as if it had never occurred to him that Chan would actually step into the bidding. His lips parted, the beginnings of protest forming, but Chan didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed steady on the stage, composed, as if this were no more significant than ordering a glass of water.

From his side, Hyunjin’s stylus moved smoothly across the tablet screen, silent as ever. He was already calculating, market value, rarity, potential resale. His calm demeanor betrayed nothing, but the faint crease between his brows suggested he found the price already climbing higher than the piece was technically worth.

Another voice rose from across the hall.

“Two eighty.”

The eldest Kim’s sector. One of their men.

Chan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Without waiting, he lifted his hand again. “Three hundred.”

The auctioneer’s gavel hovered, repeating in his crisp tone, “Three hundred, at the front.”

A low ripple of whispers ran through the rows. The price was rising too fast.

Beside him, Minho’s hand twitched against his thigh. He finally leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper, urgent.

“Chan— stop. It’s too much. You don’t need to—”

Chan finally looked at him, eyes deep, unwavering. Minho faltered mid-sentence. Behind them, Changbin shifted his weight near the entrance, his eyes flicking once to Jisung. From across the room, Jisung met his gaze, silent communication in the way their brows lifted, the subtle arch of lips.

The auctioneer’s call rang again. “Three hundred has been offered. Do I hear three twenty?”

For a moment, silence.

Then... “Three twenty.”

The Kims. Again.

Chan didn’t flinch. His hand rose, smooth and decisive. “Three fifty.”

Hyunjin’s stylus paused for the briefest second before moving again, calm but sharp. Calculations piling, margins stretching thin.

Minho’s breath hitched. He shook his head, leaning even closer, his words urgent now. “Chan, it’s just a chain. I don’t need it. Please, don’t—”

But Chan only tilted his head, gaze unwavering, voice low enough for only Minho to hear. “You liked it.”

Minho froze. The words silenced him in an instant, his throat tightening around all the protests that suddenly felt meaningless.

The auctioneer’s voice cut through again. “Three fifty going once… going twice…”

All eyes shifted toward the Kims. The eldest son leaned back lazily, smirk playing on his lips, but he didn’t move.

The auctioneer’s voice cut through the heavy hush. “Three fifty going once…”

Seokjin Kim, stayed still in his seat, arms folded, lips curved in that same taunting smirk, as though amused to watch the game unfold.

“Going twice—”

A clear voice rose from the other side of the hall.

“Five hundred.”

The second Kim.

Hyunjin’s eyes flicked up from his tablet, his tone calm but firm as he leaned just slightly toward Minho. “That’s Kim Hongjoong. The second son of Mr. Kim.”

Minho’s chest tightened. His gaze darted between Hyunjin’s composed profile, Chan’s unreadable calm, and the smug figure of Hongjoong on the other side. The numbers on the auctioneer’s lips blurred for a moment, but then—

Chan lifted his hand again, effortlessly. “Five fifty.”

The auctioneer nodded, voice booming, “Five fifty at the front.”

Hongjoong didn’t even hesitate. “Six fifty.”

Hyunjin’s stylus froze, then moved once more, recording, calculating. Minho’s pulse, however, quickened. His fingers curled against his knees, and he finally turned sharply to Chan.

“No.”

The single word cut through Chan’s stillness like a blade. Minho’s eyes were steady, unflinching, holding his gaze with a force that left no room for compromise.

Chan didn’t move for a moment, as though debating whether to push forward regardless. But then Minho shook his head, once, firm, final.

Silence stretched between them, dense, unspoken.

Across the room, Hongjoong’s lips curved, the faintest ghost of triumph.

The auctioneer’s gavel came down. “Sold, at six fifty.”

The chain was gone.

The Kims had won.

And though Chan leaned back with the same calm exterior, his gaze still lingered on Minho, not on the loss, not on the Kims, but on the sharp, quiet strength in Minho’s refusal.

The gavel’s echo faded, and the crowd shifted, murmurs returning to the grand hall. Chairs scraped against marble, shoes clicked, and the tension that had hung in the air slowly began to scatter like smoke.

Minho rose first, tugging lightly at Chan’s sleeve as if urging him along. “It’s fine,” he said, voice steady, though his jaw was set a touch too tightly. “I never needed that chain that desperately. Honestly— spending that much money on a piece of jewelry? Stupidity.” His words carried a brittle edge, almost as if he was trying to convince himself more than Chan. He gave a small shrug, lips twisting into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’re not here to compete with every spoiled heir who throws money around.”

Chan adjusted his cufflinks with slow, deliberate precision, eyes flickering once toward Minho. There was no reply on his lips, just the faintest trace of something unreadable behind his calm mask.

They turned toward the exit, the velvet curtains parting slightly with the motion of the departing guests. The din of conversations swelled around them, the air filled with the scent of expensive perfume and polished wood.

“Mr. Bahng Christopher.”

The voice cut through the noise, clear and deliberate. Both Minho and Chan stopped mid-step. Slowly, as though the sound itself had gravity, they turned.

Approaching with measured strides were the two Kims.

Seokjin led, tall and sharp in his tailored suit, the faintest curl of satisfaction at his mouth. Hongjoong walked half a step behind, his hand turning something between his fingers with casual ease. Behind them, a handful of suited bodyguards followed like shadows, their presence adding weight to the moment.

The Kims halted just short of polite distance, the air suddenly taut again.

Seokjin’s smile deepened, tinted with rivalry, but wrapped in the silk of courtesy. “It’s a pleasant surprise to finally see you here, Mr. Bahng,” he said smoothly. “I’d heard much, but this… this is the first time.”

Chan’s gaze held steady, giving nothing away. His expression remained the same calm veneer, though Minho could see the shift in his shoulders, the way Chan subtly squared himself, just enough to meet the weight of the greeting.

Beside Seokjin, Hongjoong turned the chain slowly around his fingers. The light caught on the polished links, glinting as it twisted. His eyes were lowered, as though the piece itself demanded his focus, but the faint smirk on his lips betrayed the performance.

The chain Chan had wanted.

Hongjoong looped it once around his palm, then let it dangle lazily, the metal catching the glow of the chandelier above.

The gesture wasn’t careless. It was like a statement, dangling between them like a gauntlet.

The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken history and rivalry. Seokjin let the silence linger just long enough before his smirk curved wider, his words dropping like silk-wrapped blades.

“It’s too bad,” he said smoothly, voice pitched just loud enough for Chan and his people to hear, “that your first time here ended up in failure.” The remark hung in the air, sharper than any open insult.

Chan’s jaw tightened, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying his fury. His gaze sharpened on Seokjin, the calm mask beginning to crack, a rare flash of raw anger surfacing. His hand twitched at his side, as if he might step forward, retort, anything—

But Hyunjin was quicker.

“Failure?” Hyunjin’s tone was polite, controlled, every syllable polished and professional. He dipped his head slightly, his expression a mask of courtesy. “An auction isn’t about winning every item. It’s about recognizing value, and choosing when to act. I wouldn’t call that failure, Mr. Kim. Once you don't want, you don't want.”

The composure in his voice sliced through the moment, bridging over Chan’s bristling temper with the practiced ease of someone used to cleaning sharp edges before they could cut too deep.

Chan exhaled slowly, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. Minho, sensing the storm, shifted closer. Without a word, he slipped his hand into Chan’s under the cover of their tailored sleeves. A gentle squeeze. Firm, grounding.

Chan glanced down briefly, catching Minho’s calm eyes. For a moment, the tether worked. His clenched jaw loosening ever so slightly.

Seokjin’s eyes flickered downward, catching the subtle touch between them. His smirk didn’t falter; if anything, it deepened, but his attention seemed to drift elsewhere. He extended his hand to the side, palm open, not even sparing a glance.

Hongjoong immediately understood. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, placing the chain into Seokjin’s waiting hand. The elder Kim took it with casual grace, letting the metal glint under the chandelier as he examined it with the air of someone appraising a trophy.

“Our baby wanted it,” Seokjin said, turning the chain between his fingers as if it were nothing more than a trinket. His tone was conversational, but every word carried weight. “Our little brother. He saw it somewhere, mentioned it once. Isn’t it a brother’s duty to get his sibling what he asks for?”

Hongjoong’s lips curved faintly, his gaze sharp but silent, standing just behind his brother like a shadow.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, Seokjin stepped closer. His hand rose, not to shake, not to threaten, but to land a firm, almost friendly pat on Chan’s shoulder. The gesture was mocking in its ease, the kind of contact that dismissed while pretending to respect.

“Next time, perhaps,” Seokjin murmured, voice low and taunting.

And then, with Hongjoong at his side and their guards falling in step, the Kim brothers turned and walked away. Their departure was unhurried, their presence still lingering like smoke long after they’d disappeared into the crowd.

Chan stood rooted for a moment, his shoulders taut, every line of him trembling with restrained fury. His hand slipped from Minho’s, clenched now into a fist at his side. His eyes darkened, chasing after the retreating brothers even though they were long gone.

Then, with a sharp pivot, he strode toward the exit. His footsteps echoed, heavy against the marble floor, carrying the weight of defeat.

Hyunjin let out a long breath, expression unreadable as he straightened his cuffs. Changbin and Jisung exchanged a glance across the room, neither saying anything, but both sensing the storm brewing in Chan’s silence.

Minho lingered a moment longer, eyes still on Chan’s back as he stomped out. The tension in his chest was different. Not fury, but something that twisted deeper, almost protective. Without hesitation, he followed.

The night air was cooler in the gardens, quiet except for the soft ripple of the pond. Lantern lights reflected faintly on the water, catching the flash of orange and white koi swimming just beneath the surface.

Minho sat at the edge of the stone border, elbows resting lightly on his knees, eyes following the fish with a distant expression. Jisung stood just a step behind him, hands clasped loosely in front, posture relaxed but still attentive.

“You really didn’t want it?” Jisung's tone was gentle, almost curious.

Minho tilted his head slightly, lips pressing together before he let out a quiet sigh. “It’d be a lie if I said I didn’t,” he admitted, voice low. “I wanted it. The moment I saw it.” His gaze stayed fixed on the pond. “But the amount they were throwing around… it was absurd. That chain wasn’t worth half of it.”

Jisung shifted his weight, eyes following the koi too, as if giving Minho the space of not being directly stared at. “That’s how auctions work,” he said softly. “It’s never about the actual value of the thing. It’s about pride. Power. The price tag is just… just noise.”

Minho chuckled under his breath, bitter but amused. “Pride. I see. So they won out of pride, and I lost out of… reason?” He leaned back slightly, looking up at Jisung, the faintest curve at his lips. “Funny, isn’t it? The practical choice looks weak in places like that.”

Jisung’s mouth quirked in a small, almost sheepish smile. “Weak? No. Maybe… different. Rare.” He hesitated, then added with a half-laugh, “Refreshing, even.”

Minho raised an eyebrow at him, but there was no sting in his look. “Refreshing? You make me sound like a glass of soda.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Jisung, soft and boyish. He lifted a hand, rubbing the back of his neck. “Better than calling you boring, right?”

For the first time since they came there, Minho laughed too. Quiet, warm, like a sound he hadn’t let himself make all evening.

He shook his head. “You’re strange.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jisung replied lightly, glancing down at him now. “When you’re trained to stand in silence for hours, you either go insane or… learn to notice the small things. Like someone laughing when they usually don’t.”

Minho blinked at him, caught off guard by the honesty. His lips parted as if to respond, but he only exhaled and looked back to the water, the koi circling lazily.

“Oh… I didn’t think bodyguards noticed anything beyond threats.”

Jisung’s tone softened, almost teasing but not quite. “Then you don’t know us very well yet, Master Minho.”

Minho tilted his head again, this time studying Jisung in the dim light. His eyes lingered longer, searching, curious in a way he didn’t bother to hide.

Then he smirked faintly, though his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “Maybe I don’t.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them. Only the sound of water moving and the distant hum of the night filled the air.

Finally, Minho asked, “Tell me then. What else do bodyguards notice?”

Jisung looked at him, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He could’ve answered with something playful, or evasive. “Enough to know you’re not as untouchable as you want everyone to believe.”

Minho froze for a moment, the words sinking in. He didn’t reply immediately, didn’t deflect or argue. Instead, his lips curved in the faintest smile, small but real, his eyes soft as he turned back to the pond.

Jisung shifted his stance, letting the silence linger just enough before he cleared his throat. “Not going to Chan’s tonight?”

Minho flicked a pebble into the pond, watching the ripples disturb the koi. He shook his head. “No. He’s… not in the mood. Hyunjin’s with him right now, but—” Minho’s voice dipped, softer, almost thoughtful. “All that’s on his mind is that chain. And what he’s calling his failure. Better to leave him alone than add to it.”

Jisung gave a small hum, crossing his arms loosely. “So you left Hyunjin alone with a raging wolf.”

That earned a laugh from Minho, light and genuine. He turned just enough to look up at Jisung, brows arched. “Raging what? Wolf?”

“Mm,” Jisung replied, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Secret nickname. Chan’s pretty much like a wolf. An alpha wolf pack leader. You can feel it, right? The way he carries himself, the way people… follow without even being told.”

Minho tilted his head, his smile widening with amusement. “Like in the omegaverse?”

Jisung blinked at him, clearly thrown. His lips parted, and then he squinted slightly, trying to place the word. “Om… omegaverse?”

Minho smirked, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You don’t know?”

Jisung, still confused but unwilling to lose face, gave a small nod anyway. “ Ahm… sure. Yeah. Like that. Omeg... omegaverse”

Minho chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back toward the pond. “You’re funny, Sung.”

Jisung blinked at the nickname, surprise flickering across his face before he looked away, pretending to study the water too. His ears, however, burned faintly red under the dim light. Minho’s laughter lingered, soft and low, blending with the faint rush of water from the pond’s filter. He leaned back on his palms, the cool stone edge beneath him grounding, while his gaze traced the ripples spreading from where the fish darted.

Then he tilted his head toward Jisung, his mouth curling into a smirk that didn’t quite hide the curiosity in his eyes. “So if Chan’s the alpha…” his voice drawled, teasing, “what does that make me?”

Jisung arched a brow. The question seemed playful, but the way Minho’s tone dipped at the end carried something else. Instead of answering, Jisung let the silence stretch, as he tapped the tip of his shoe against the stone edge, watching the ripples answer in circles.

Then, lightly, he threw the question back. “What do you want to be?”

Minho didn’t even blink. His answer came sharp and sure, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue all along. “The alpha’s mate. Who else?”

The smirk slipped into something softer, something dangerously close to earnest. “I hate all this fuss, all this business… and Chan being always busy. I hate that part.” His eyes lowered, following a lone koi gliding beneath the surface. His voice gentled, almost like he was speaking only to himself. “But I love him. That’s the part I don’t hate.”

For a moment, Jisung had nothing to say.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy but not uncomfortable, like smoke curling slow from a candle’s wick. He watched Minho’s profile, the curve of his cheek, the way his jaw unclenched as though confessing had taken something off his shoulders.

Jisung bent slightly, resting his hands in his pockets, head tilting. He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t tease. He just stood there, listening, letting the sincerity seep into the quiet around them.

Minho reached for another small pebble and let it slip from his fingers. It plunked softly into the pond, sending ripples out until they collided with the lily pads.

Jisung exhaled through his nose, half sigh, half smile. His lips twitched, but he looked away instead of meeting Minho’s eyes, giving him the space to stay unguarded. The garden air carried the faint scent of wet stone and cut grass, wrapping around them in stillness.

Minho exhaled, long and steady, before finally breaking the silence. “I’ve got nothing else to do tonight,” he murmured, his tone casual, almost too casual, as though he was hiding the weight behind it. “So… I told you earlier, let’s go somewhere. Let's go now.”

Jisung turned his head slowly, searching Minho’s profile. The other man’s face was calm, but there was a faint restless glint in his eyes. Something about it made Jisung’s chest lighten. He adjusted his stance, his hands sliding into his pockets.

“Somewhere?” he echoed, testing the word.

“Mmhm.” Minho finally pushed himself upright, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Anywhere, really. Doesn’t matter.” He looked at Jisung then, holding his gaze for longer than necessary. “But let’s go now.”

The directness pulled at Jisung, tugging a smile from him before he could stop it. He gave a short nod. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

For the first time that evening, Minho’s lips curved into a genuine smile. He straightened fully and stepped closer, lowering his voice with a teasing lilt.

“Then it’s settled.”

“Fine,” Jisung said finally, straightening. “I’ll grab the car keys for you.”

But Minho’s hand shot out lightly, resting against Jisung’s forearm before he could move. “No.” His smile softened, almost boyish now. “I’ll let you drive this time.”

For a heartbeat, Jisung only blinked at him. It wasn’t the words, it was the tone. Slowly, he nodded again, and his lips pulled into a quiet, almost relieved smile.

“Then let’s go,” Minho said, voice low but threaded with something bright. He started toward the garage with that casual grace of his, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Before I change my mind.”

Jisung followed, steps steady, his chest strangely light.

Hyunjin closed the door to his room with more force than necessary, the click of the latch sharp in the stillness. For a moment, he just stood there, back against the wood, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm too deliberate to be calm. The air carried the faint cologne of the suit he had been wearing, mixed with the faint mustiness of fabric worn too long.

He tugged at his cufflinks with impatient fingers, letting them fall one by one onto the dresser. The quiet clink of metal against wood sounded louder than it should. His jacket followed, slung carelessly over the back of a chair, then the first few buttons of his shirt came undone. By the time he dragged the shirt over his shoulders, his jaw was set tight, as though the fabric itself carried the weight of the evening.

The mirror across from him caught the image he avoided, skin flushed from irritation, hair a little mussed from running his hand through it too many times. His eyes narrowed, not at his reflection but at the thought still circling his head.

Chan.

Chan, pacing like a caged wolf in his room, fists clenched around nothing, eyes haunted by the shimmer of a chain they couldn’t have. Chan, who couldn’t shake the sting of losing to them. The Kims.

Hyunjin exhaled slowly through his nose, sitting on the edge of his bed. He pressed his palms together, elbows on his knees, the classic pose of someone who had spent years teaching themselves to control, to watch the emotions in others and never let his own spill over.

But tonight it was harder. Seeing Chan like that, defeated, restless, raw, it unsettled him more than he liked.

The shirt he had worn to the auction lay crumpled beside him, expensive fabric reduced to a heap. He stared at it for a long moment before pulling a fresh one from the wardrobe, white and soft, sliding his arms into it slowly. The buttons moved between his fingers with practiced ease, but his mind wasn’t on the shirt.

It lingered on Chan’s expression.

The way Minho had tugged him back.

The way Chan had looked as if losing that chain meant more than just money.

Hyunjin’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. There were words building inside him, but he had no one to give them to, at least, that’s what he thought until a soft knock sounded against his door.

The door eased open, and Felix stepped in without hesitation, his presence as light as always, though his eyes carried something mischievous.

“Come in—” Hyunjin said, already fastening the last button on his clean shirt. He glanced up only to find Felix closing the door behind him and, strangely, extending his hand out, palm open as though waiting to receive something.

Hyunjin raised a brow, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

Felix tilted his head, lips pulling into a small pout. “Bin told me you all went to an auction.” His voice had that wounded edge he used whenever he wanted sympathy. “Without telling me.” He sighed dramatically, letting his hand stay where it was. “I’m hurt… but it’s fine. You can make up for it. Just give me what you brought me from there.”

Hyunjin blinked, staring at him as if Felix had just spoken a language he didn’t know. Then a laugh slipped out, dry and disbelieving. “Do you honestly think I have that much money lying around? Enough to bring you back a gift from that kind of auction?”

Felix’s pout deepened, but his eyes gleamed with playful sharpness. “Hyun, you’re supposed to be my favorite. If you didn’t buy me something, then what’s the point of being at an auction? Do you even know how much it hurts when your favorite comes back empty-handed?”

Hyunjin shook his head, letting the corner of his mouth curl despite himself. He reached for the shirt he had discarded earlier, balling it up loosely in his hand.

“Here. Take this,” he huffed, tossing it toward Felix. “That’s all I can afford for you right now.”

Felix caught it against his chest, wrinkling his nose at the wrinkled, faintly warm fabric. “Gross,” he muttered, but the laugh that followed gave him away.

Hyunjin sat back on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching Felix play with the shirt as though it were some priceless item after all. A softer expression slipped across his face, one Felix didn’t catch at first.

“You really wanted to be there, huh?” Hyunjin asked, his tone quieter now.

Felix looked up, blinking, then shrugged. “Not for the things they sell,” he admitted, twirling a bit of the fabric between his fingers. “But because you were there. And Chan. And Bin. And Minho. Feels like… I’m always the last to know when something happens.”

Something in Hyunjin’s chest tightened at that, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned back, letting out a slow sigh. “Trust me, Lix. You didn’t miss much. Just people throwing ridiculous amounts of money around, pretending it means more than it does.”

Felix tilted his head again, studying him with a gaze that seemed to see too much. “Then why do you look like you came back carrying all of it on your shoulders?”

Hyunjin’s lips pressed together, the question hanging heavy in the air. He let the silence stretch a little too long after Felix’s question, his eyes fixed on the floorboards as though they might offer him an easier answer.

Finally, he said, quietly but with weight, “Chan lost it.”

Felix blinked, the easy grin on his lips faltering. He straightened where he stood, still clutching Hyunjin’s discarded shirt.

“What?” His voice was soft but edged with disbelief. “What do you mean, lost?”

Hyunjin exhaled through his nose, lifting his gaze at last to meet Felix’s. The usual stiffness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a weary heaviness. “At the auction. There was a chain. Minho liked it… you should’ve seen his face. Chan decided to bid for it, to get it for him.”

Felix’s brows furrowed, the shift from playful to serious now complete. He moved closer, instinctively, until he was standing just a step away from Hyunjin. “And?”

“And he bid a ridiculous amount,” Hyunjin said flatly, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek. His fingers curled loosely into fists on his knees. “Higher and higher, like it didn’t matter. And still…” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Still, he lost. Do you understand? All that fire in him, all that determination— gone in an instant because someone outbid him. He hated it. Hates it still.”

Felix’s eyes searched his face, confusion and concern pulling at his features. “And that’s what you mean by lost… it's just a chain—”

“He lost himself in it,” Hyunjin cut in, his voice sharper than intended before it softened again. “He walked out of there furious, defeated. He’s… not used to that feeling. Not like that.” Hyunjin shook his head, leaning back a little, palms braced on the mattress behind him. His gaze slid away again, settling on the faint shadows cast by the lamp.

The room fell quiet except for the muffled noises of the house outside. Felix’s grip on the shirt loosened slowly, the playful spark he’d worn on entry now nowhere to be seen. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came at first. He looked at Hyunjin like he was seeing the exhaustion behind his sharpness, the worry he tried to hide.

Finally, Felix asked, softer, “How bad was it?”

Hyunjin closed his eyes for a moment, as if replaying the scene. “Bad enough that Minho had to pull him away before he said or did something worse. Bad enough that he walked out like a storm. Bad enough…” He trailed off, pressing his lips into a thin line. “that I’m here changing shirts because even his anger felt heavy in the air.”

Felix lingered there for a beat, then moved to sit beside Hyunjin on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, but before he could settle, Hyunjin’s head snapped toward him. His sharp glare was enough to freeze him mid-motion.

Felix blinked, then widened his eyes theatrically, clutching the shirt against his chest like a shield. “Alright, alright— don’t kill me with those eyes.” He slid back a step, holding his hands up in mock surrender, his grin curling back in place as if nothing could touch him. “But tell me this, Hyunjin… if you did have that kind of money, would you spend it on me? Spoil me like your little secret treasure?”

Hyunjin let out a scoff, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Snap out of your dream, Lix.” He shook his head, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “You’d bleed me dry in a week if I tried spoiling you.”

Felix clutched his chest like he’d been wounded, staggering back a step with a dramatic pout. “So cruel. I ask for affection, and you give me brutal honesty.”

But Hyunjin wasn’t looking at him anymore. The phone buzzed in his hand, the screen lighting up with a name that instantly changed his expression. Chan. Hyunjin’s brows knitted, the weight of the auction sinking into his features again.

He stood. “I have to take this.”

Felix tilted his head, watching him closely. “Chan?”

Hyunjin gave a small nod, already stepping toward the door. “Yeah. He needs me.” His tone was clipped but not unkind.

Felix opened his mouth, maybe to tease, maybe to say something real for once, but Hyunjin was already halfway out, phone pressed to his ear. The door clicked shut, leaving Felix standing in the quiet room, Hyunjin’s old shirt still in his hands, the faint scent of him clinging to the fabric. For a moment, his grin slipped, replaced by something softer, harder to read.

Then, with a sigh, he held the shirt closer to his chest. “Guess I’ll have to... just wait to be spoiled.”

“Is this the place?” Minho’s voice carried softly over the hum of the car cooling behind them, curiosity laced in the question.

The men stood side by side on an old stone bridge, the kind that had weathered decades but still held itself proud. The night stretched wide around them, and above, the sky unfolded like velvet, clear and endless, dotted with countless stars. The moon hung bright and full, casting a silver wash over the water flowing beneath the bridge. The sound of it, steady, unhurried, seemed to slow everything else down.

Jisung leaned against the railing, glancing up before looking at Minho. “You said you wanted to watch the stars, right?” His lips twitched into the faintest smile. “This is one of the best places. Quiet, away from the lights. No one comes here at this hour.”

For a moment, Minho didn’t answer. His gaze moved from the water to the expanse above them, tracing the constellations with silent awe. The breeze teased his hair, carrying the faint scent of the river and earth.

Finally, he exhaled, a little slower than usual. “It’s… beautiful.” He admitted it with no hesitation, no need to hide the sincerity in his voice.

That one word made Jisung’s chest feel lighter. He straightened, the corner of his lips lifting more fully this time.

“Good,” he said simply, but there was satisfaction in his tone. “I thought you’d like it.”

Minho kept his eyes on the water, letting the silence stretch for a moment before he spoke again.

“The Kims… they’ve got three heirs, right?” His voice was casual, but Jisung could hear the thread of curiosity beneath it.

Jisung nodded, resting his elbows on the railing. “Yeah. Three sons.” He glanced sideways, studying Minho’s profile lit by moonlight.

“But only two were there at the auction,” Minho pointed out, brows furrowing slightly as if he were piecing together a puzzle in his head.

“That’s right,” Jisung confirmed. He tilted his head back, looking up at the stars as he added, “The youngest doesn’t really care about any of that. Business. Bidding. Money play.”

Minho hummed low, thoughtful. “Then what does he care about?”

Jisung shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips as though the memory amused him. “As far as I know… music. And baseball. He’s more interested in that than sitting in a room full of men throwing money over jewels.”

Minho let out a quiet laugh, not mocking, but genuinely entertained. “Music and baseball,” he repeated, almost to himself. “Interesting.”

Jisung turned slightly, watching the way Minho’s expression softened with the thought. “Not everyone wants the throne,” he said quietly. “Some just want to live.”

Minho didn’t say anything right away. His gaze flickered back to the sky, as though he were looking for the reply written among the stars. The night seemed endless, stretched wide and quiet above them. The stars shimmered like scattered glass, sharp against the velvet dark, while the moon spilled its silver light across the river below.

Minho tilted his head back, his gaze tracing constellations. The usual sharpness in his eyes softened, replaced by something quieter, something almost vulnerable. Jisung followed his line of sight, letting himself drown in the glow of the sky. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And then, slowly, Jisung turned his head. His eyes lingered on Minho, on the sharp line of his jaw caught in moonlight, on the way the night reflected in his pupils.

Minho didn’t notice the weight of Jisung’s gaze at first, too caught in the heavens, but Jisung didn’t look away. Not yet. Not when the stars seemed to fall just to frame this moment.

The silence between them felt different now. Heavy, alive. Jisung exhaled softly, a breath carried off by the night breeze.

His eyes stayed on Minho.

Chapter Text

The heavy iron gates of the Bang mansion creaked open with the familiar groan of steel and stone. Hyunjin was already there waiting at the entrance. The evening had settled thick and quiet over the grounds, lanterns lit along the driveway casting elongated shadows across the marble steps.

The sleek black car rolled to a halt. Even before the chauffeur opened the door, Hyunjin straightened his posture, clasping his hands neatly in front of him. The air seemed to shift, heavy with presence, when Bang Seojoon stepped out.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his hair silvered with age but his bearing unshaken, all the authority over the Bahng estate clung to him like a second skin. His gaze, sharp as cut glass, swept over the mansion’s facade before landing briefly on Hyunjin.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” his voice was deep, measured, with that effortless tone that made obedience instinctive.

Hyunjin bowed his head slightly, the gesture precise and respectful. “Mr. Bang. Welcome home.” His words carried a calm steadiness, but underneath, there was the awareness that this man was not one to be spoken to lightly.

He gestured politely toward the grand doors. “Chan is in his office. He’s been waiting for you.”

Seojoon gave a short nod, not wasting breath on pleasantries. He began to walk, his steps unhurried but commanding, and Hyunjin naturally fell into stride beside him, half a step behind. Neither spoke at first. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was deliberate, a silence of authority.

Hyunjin kept his posture firm, his voice carefully timed when he finally broke it. “Would you like me to inform the kitchen staff to prepare tea, sir?”

Seojoon didn’t glance at him. “No. That won’t be necessary.” His answer was curt, but not cruel. Just final. Hyunjin inclined his head again, his respect unshaken. He knew when to step back, when to fill the silence, and when to let Mr. Bang’s presence speak for itself.

As they moved through the corridor, Hyunjin slowed slightly to open the tall wooden door to Chan’s office. The door gave way with a muted click, revealing the warm glow of lamplight within.

Hyunjin stepped aside, his arm subtly extended in a gesture of deference. “After you, sir.”

Mr. Bang paused, his sharp gaze brushing over Hyunjin once more, a look that seemed to measure, to weigh, to test. Hyunjin held his ground, calm and respectful, not flinching under it.

Then Bang Seojoon stepped inside.

Hyunjin followed, closing the door softly behind them, the faint thud sealing them into the heavy air of Chan’s office.

The moment they entered, Chan was already on his feet. He pushed his chair back and straightened quickly, his posture tense but respectful.

“Father.” His voice carried a restrained warmth, but also a carefulness, like every word had to be measured.

Seojoon gave a brief nod, walking forward with an air of natural authority. Without hesitation, he moved to Chan’s desk, the leather chair behind it waiting as though it had always been his. He sat down with a deliberate calm, adjusting his cufflinks before resting his hands on the desk.

Chan, quietly, took the seat across from him. It felt less like a son before his father and more like a subordinate before the head of a powerful house.

“I heard,” Seojoon began, his voice slow, deliberate, carrying a subtle edge, “that you went somewhere unusual last night.” His gaze sharpened, unwavering. “And yet, you return home empty-handed.” He tilted his head slightly, the faintest trace of disapproval threading through his words. “Tell me, why is that?”

Chan’s throat tightened. He shifted slightly in his seat, glancing, almost instinctively, toward Hyunjin, who had been standing a few paces back, silent, like a shadow ready to step in. Hyunjin caught the glance immediately, and with the faintest bow of his head, he began,

“Sir, the situation was—”

But the sound of Seojoon's hand rising was enough to cut him off. He didn’t slam it down, didn’t raise his voice. He simply lifted his palm, fingers steady, a single commanding gesture that froze the air.

“I’m speaking to my son,” he said evenly. Not sharp, not loud, yet final enough to silence the room.

Hyunjin’s lips pressed together. He lowered his eyes in respect, stepping back slightly, his presence folding smaller.

Chan, meanwhile, forced himself to meet his father’s gaze again. For a long moment, neither spoke. The weight of expectation settled heavy between them. Finally, Chan gave the smallest tilt of his head toward Hyunjin. Subtle, but clear. A wordless command. Hyunjin caught it, eyes narrowing just briefly in acknowledgment. He straightened his posture, bowed slightly toward both men, and without another sound, walked to the door.

The silence after Hyunjin’s departure stretched heavy, broken only when Seojoon leaned back in the chair that should have been Chan’s, the leather creaking faintly under his weight. His eyes never left his son.

“I’ve already told you,” he began, each word measured, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade, “the Kims are to be our allies. Yet what do I hear? That you are… meddling with them.” His gaze sharpened. “Why are you trying to stir conflict where there should be none?”

Chan shifted slightly in his seat, his jaw tightening. “It’s not me, it wasn't me,” he began carefully, the words slipping out low, like he was navigating a minefield. “I wasn’t the one—”

“Don’t.” His father’s voice sliced across his explanation before it could take shape. A hand lifted just enough to silence him, the authority absolute. “Don’t try to excuse yourself. I don’t want reasons. I want to know why you were there in the first place.”

Chan hesitated. He could feel the weight pressing down on him, the careful mask he wore threatening to crack. Still, he forced himself to answer.

“I wanted to take Minho out,” he said quietly. His honesty was simple, but it held a trace of defiance.

At that, Seojoon’s mouth curved. Not into a smile, but into a scoff. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, hands clasped together as he regarded his son with something between disdain and disbelief.

“Minho?” he repeated, the name dripping off his tongue like it was an inconvenience to even utter. “I thought you had already gotten over that… toy.”

The word hit like a slap.

Chan’s fists tightened in his lap, knuckles paling, though he kept his face steady. His chest rose and fell with quiet restraint, a storm contained behind his composure. His father’s dismissal wasn’t new, but it cut just as deep every time.

He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting iron, trying to keep his voice even. His eyes flickered down briefly, then back up again, refusing to bow completely. “He’s not—” He stopped himself, forcing the words back before they could escape too sharply. Instead, he swallowed hard, keeping calm even as fury coiled in his gut.

Seojoon’s gaze lingered on his son for a long, heavy moment before he leaned back into the chair once more. “There’s going to be a meeting,” he said at last, his tone final, as though the decision had already been carved into stone. “A very important business meeting with the Kims. At my estate. Two days from now.”

Chan’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t look away.

“You will attend,” Seojoon continued, rising from Chan’s chair with deliberate slowness, smoothing the front of his jacket as though closing the matter with the motion. He stepped around the desk, the weight of his presence filling the office even more as he passed. “And you will bring Felix with you.”

The words were not a request. They carried the cold authority of command. Without waiting for a reply, Seojoon strode to the door. The sound of it opening echoed sharp against the silence, and a second later, it closed again, leaving behind only the faint aftershocks of his dominance.

Chan remained seated, his hands pressed firmly against his knees, the tension in his body refusing to ease. His father’s scent of old cologne and control still lingered in the room. He exhaled slowly, his head tipping back against the leather of his chair as if trying to find air that didn’t feel suffocating. His jaw worked, teeth gritting in thought.

The command sat heavy in his chest, dragging old memories, old insecurities to the surface. Chan closed his eyes briefly, fighting to push them down. When they opened again, the look in them was hard, unsettled, caught between his father’s shadow and the things he wanted to protect.

The room was silent once more, but Chan’s mind wasn’t. 

The sound of cards shuffling echoed through Felix’s room, the kind of careless, messy shuffle that had Jeongin groaning.

“You’re not even doing it right,” Jeongin complained, leaning across the bed to snatch the cards from Felix’s hands.

Felix only laughed, lying flat on his stomach with his chin propped on his arms. “Ow, it’s my deck, I shuffle how I want.”

Jeongin gave him a look, then exaggeratedly split the pile and fanned it out like a professional dealer. “This is how civilized people do it,” he said smugly, snapping the cards together before dealing.

Felix sat up cross-legged, his grin boyish and mischievous. “Civilized? Mate, you’re talking to me. You know better.”

Jeongin rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back a smile as he passed out the cards. Soon the bed between them was covered in little piles, UNO deck spread in every direction.

The first few rounds went smoothly, until Felix slapped down a +4 card with a triumphant shout. “Draw four, baby!” Felix cackled, his voice going high with excitement.

Jeongin froze, staring at the card as if betrayed. “You— you can’t do that to me this early!”

“I just did.” Felix leaned back, satisfied. “Rules are rules.”

Jeongin groaned so dramatically that he flopped back against the pillows. “This game hates me. No, you hate me.”

Felix leaned forward, wagging his brows. “Nah, you’re my mate. But UNO doesn’t care about mates.”

Jeongin shot up again, his hair mussed from the fall. “Fine. Watch me turn this around.” He slapped down a reverse card with a flourish. “Boom. Now it’s your problem.”

Felix blinked, then laughed so hard he nearly toppled over. “You... oh my god, you really did it.”

The two of them descended into laughter, cards scattering, half-forgotten on the bed. They weren’t even keeping track properly anymore, each round turning into playful accusations of cheating, loud groans of victory, and Felix’s bright laughter echoing off the walls.

At one point, Jeongin tried to hide a card under the blanket, only for Felix to catch his wrist. “Oi, oi, oi! No sneaky business!”

Jeongin stuck his tongue out like a child. “You didn’t see anything.”

“I literally saw everything,” Felix shot back, tackling him sideways onto the bed, the cards flying everywhere in a colorful rain. Both of them burst out laughing until they were breathless, tangled in the mess of sheets and scattered cards.

The game was completely ruined, but neither cared. Then, Jeongin sat up, still breathless from laughing, his hair sticking out in every direction. “Alright. Rematch,” he declared, scooping up whatever cards hadn’t ended up on the floor.

Felix was sprawled half off the bed, watching Jeongin try to collect the mess. “Re... what, match?” He grinned. “The last one wasn’t even a proper match. It was war.”

“All the more reason to do it again,” Jeongin insisted, tossing a handful of cards onto the bed with a triumphant slap.

Felix rolled onto his back, hands behind his head. “Fine. But we need more people.”

Jeongin gave him a flat look, then laughed despite himself. “You’re ridiculous. But okay, more people.” He reached for his phone and waved it. “Who do we call?”

Felix sat up, pretending to think hard. “Hmm… Hyun.”

“Obvious choice,” Jeongin said, already scrolling. He hit call, holding the phone up to his ear.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

Jeongin frowned and tried again. Felix leaned closer, curious. “He ghosted you?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jeongin muttered, waiting. Again, the call went unanswered. He sighed and pulled the phone away. “Hyunjin’s not picking up.”

Felix tilted his head, thoughtful. “Try again?”

“I did,” Jeongin replied, thumb hovering over the screen anyway. He hit dial once more. Same thing, straight to silence. He groaned and threw himself back against the bed. “Forget it. He’s hopeless.”

Felix chuckled, tapping his chin. “Alright, then who’s next? We can’t waste this chaos on just us.”

Jeongin sat up again, scrolling through his contacts. “Minho?”

“Perfect,” Felix said, eyes lighting up. “He’s competitive. UNO would bring out a whole new side of him.”

“And Jisung too,” Jeongin added. “We need someone who’ll keep him in check.”

Felix laughed at that, nudging Jeongin with his shoulder. “Or someone who’ll team up with us and destroy him.”

Jeongin smirked. “Either way, it’s more fun.” He started typing out the texts. “Alright then, it’s settled. UNO night, part two. New players included.”

Felix sat cross-legged on the carpet, leaning far too close to Minho’s side as he tried to peek at the man’s cards. Minho, in turn, shielded them with his whole arm, a rare boyish grin breaking across his face.

“Hey, stop cheating.”

“I’m not cheating,” Felix shot back, laughter bubbling in his voice. “I’m just checking the vibe.”

“The vibe doesn’t need you staring down my hand,” Minho retorted, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed he wasn’t truly annoyed.

Across from them, Jeongin was already laughing, slapping his card onto the pile. “Plus four. Sorry.”

Jisung groaned, head tipping back against the edge of the bed where he was leaning. He still had his bodyguard suit trousers and shirt on, though the jacket lay folded neatly nearby. The tie was loosened, but he carried that quiet stiffness of someone still half on duty, even in this chaos.

The corners of his lips twitched despite himself. “I know you’re not sorry.”

Jeongin grinned wide, unashamed. “Not even a little.”

Felix clapped his hands together like a delighted child. “That’s my Innie!”

Jisung drew his four penalty cards with exaggerated slowness, muttering under his breath about betrayal. His movements were casual, relaxed, nothing like the cool, detached demeanor he wore around others. Here, surrounded by laughter and teasing, his guard seemed lower, the warmth in him visible.

“Alright,” Jisung said, recovering from his groan. He threw down a yellow 7. “Your turn, Lix.”

Felix gasped dramatically, flicking through his own messy hand. “Yellow? Who even likes yellow—”

“Play or pick,” Minho said, smirking.

Felix stuck his tongue out but obeyed, tossing down a yellow 2. “Fine. But don’t think I’m happy about it.”

“You look very happy about it,” Jeongin teased, eyes sparkling.

Jisung watched them, quiet for a moment, something soft flickering through his gaze. It was strange, he thought, to see Minho laughing so freely, or Felix throwing himself into childish dramatics without an ounce of shame. 

Jisung realized he was smiling too, without meaning to. He shook his head slightly, as if reminding himself to stay alert. Still, when Felix groaned again after Minho reversed the turn, Jisung chuckled low under his breath.

“Hey,” Jeongin said suddenly, turning to Jisung, “don’t think you can just sit there and pretend you’re not having fun. I saw that smile.”

Jisung raised his brows. “What smile?”

“The one you’re trying to hide right now,” Felix chimed in, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Minho leaned back on one hand, smirking faintly. “Just admit it. You’re enjoying this.”

Jisung exhaled, a small laugh escaping despite himself. “Maybe a little.” He picked up a card and tossed it down with the calm precision of someone still treating the game like work.

The game stretched on, laughter spilling between the four of them as the deck dwindled. Felix was already pouting, Jeongin was grinning ear to ear, and Minho… Minho’s easy confidence had started to waver. His hand was heavy with cards, and every time he thought he’d play his way out of it, someone, usually Jeongin, sabotaged him.

“Uno!” Jeongin shouted gleefully, slapping a single card against his forehead just to show off.

Minho groaned, slumping back. “Unbelievable. I’m cursed.”

Felix cackled. “You’re just bad at this, Min.”

But Jisung, sitting calmly with his neat stack of cards, watched Minho carefully. He could see the faint crease forming in Minho’s brows, the kind that didn’t belong to frustration with a game, but to someone who was pretending to be mad.

And it was silly. It didn’t matter. But something inside Jisung shifted.

When it came to his turn, Jisung hesitated only briefly before slipping down a card that was absolutely the worst choice he could’ve made. It opened the path wide, so wide for Minho.

Jeongin blinked, realizing too late what Jisung had done. “Wait—”

Minho’s eyes lit up as he threw his final two cards down in quick succession. “UNO. And… out.”

Felix’s jaw dropped. “No way!”

Jeongin flailed dramatically, falling back on the carpet. “You betrayed me!”

Minho sat straighter, his smirk broadening into a full smile that lit up his whole face. “Guess I’m not cursed after all.”

Jisung leaned back, watching the way Minho’s grin lingered, the way his shoulders eased just a little. And despite losing on purpose, Jisung felt no sting, only a quiet satisfaction curling warm in his chest.

“Looks like you just needed the right opponent,” Jisung said, voice calm but threaded with amusement.

Minho glanced at him, eyes sharp enough to catch the subtle truth there. But instead of calling it out, he only let the corner of his lips twitch upward again, softer this time.

“Guess so,” he murmured.

Felix was already reshuffling the deck with a huff, muttering something about unfair tricks. Jeongin was still groaning theatrically on the floor. And in the middle of their noise, Jisung let himself smile quietly, glad he’d been the reason Minho’s laughter came so easily.

“Again,” Jeongin said immediately, popping back up from where he’d been sprawled on the carpet. His hair was a mess from all his dramatic flailing, but his grin was bright. “I demand revenge.”

Felix clutched the cards Jisung had just finished shuffling and narrowed his eyes. “No, I demand revenge. I was two moves away from winning, I swear—”

“You say that every game,” Minho cut in with a teasing drawl, though the smugness in his voice was still riding on his unexpected victory.

Jisung chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. He didn’t reach for the jacket he’d discarded earlier, his shoulders were finally relaxed enough, the suit’s stiffness forgotten for the moment. “Guess we’re going another round, then.”

Felix threw the newly shuffled deck in the middle, cards scattering a little too wide. Jeongin immediately scrambled to fix it.

“Alright, alright, focus,” Felix said, dealing cards out with exaggerated precision. “This time I win. No mercy.”

Minho leaned forward, resting an elbow on the low table, still smirking. “Big words from someone who hasn’t even come close.”

Jeongin gasped. “Oh, it’s war now.”

The game began again, voices overlapping with laughter, groans, and shouted declarations.

But then, just as Felix was gearing up to slap down a devastating card, a knock came at the door.

All four froze, glancing up.

The door cracked open and one of the maids stepped inside, her hands folded politely in front of her. “Master Minho,” she said softly, bowing slightly, “Mr. Bang is looking for you.”

The mood shifted instantly. Felix’s playful pout faltered, Jeongin leaned back against the bedframe, and even Jisung straightened just a little, eyes flickering from the maid to Minho.

"Chan?" Minho asked and the maid gave a nod in return, waiting for the man to respond. Minho himself went still for a moment, cards loose in his hand. Then, he sighed, setting them down carefully on the table. His smirk was gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“Of course,” he murmured, pushing his chair back.

Jisung’s gaze followed him the whole way, something sharp and protective stirring in his chest.

The cards sat abandoned between them, the laughter fading into silence as Minho disappeared out the door.

The maid led Minho through the polished corridor and into the wide, open kitchen. She stopped at the threshold, bowed politely.

“Master Chan is waiting for you inside.”

Then she turned and left, her footsteps fading into the silence of the hall.

Minho stepped in.

The kitchen felt too large for one man to occupy, with marble counters stretching far, brass lights casting a mellow glow, the faint hiss of a machine filling the air. A handful of maids worked at the far end, their movements quiet and careful, deliberately giving space.

And there he was.

Chan stood near the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, sleeves rolled above his elbows, hair falling messily as though he’d been dragging his fingers through it. He wasn’t commanding anyone, wasn’t sitting in authority. Instead, he was busy with the coffee machine, moving with steady hands.

Minho slowed, watching. For all the wealth around them, for all the weight of the Bahng name, the sight of Chan preparing coffee for himself felt strangely… ordinary.

The ordinary he craved. 

Then Minho’s eyes shifted, and paused.

Two mugs. Side by side. One already steaming, the other slowly filling under the steady drip.

His chest tightened, though he couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the image itself, Chan alone in this vast kitchen, yet moving as if someone else was always meant to be beside him.

Chan finally glanced up, catching sight of him. Their gazes locked across the quiet space. “You're here,” he said simply, voice carrying calm authority but with something else beneath it. Weariness, perhaps. He set the pot aside, wiped his hand on a folded cloth.

Minho stayed where he was, hands slipping into his pockets. “I was told you wanted to see me.”

Chan’s lips curved just faintly, not quite a smile. “I did.” He lifted one of the mugs, steam curling upward between them. “Coffee?”

The second cup still sat waiting.

Chan slid the second cup across the counter and gestured for Minho to take it. Minho did, though instead of drinking, he placed it down on the counter in front of him, letting the warmth seep faintly into the marble.

Before he could step back, Chan moved closer his presence quiet but heavy, and one hand came to rest around Minho’s waist, fingers pressing lightly through the fabric of his shirt as though testing if he’d pull away.

Minho’s head tilted, lips quirking faintly as his eyes darted sideways to meet Chan’s.

“You trust me, right?” Chan asked, low, almost careful. The words hovered between them, more than just casual, weighty, edged with expectation. Minho let the silence stretch before answering, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“No,” he said flatly, but with that subtle spark of mischief.

Chan blinked, visibly caught off guard. His brows drew together, the grip at Minho’s waist loosening just slightly. “What?”

Minho turned his head fully this time, meeting Chan’s stare with teasing defiance. “You asked me this last time,” he reminded, his voice a shade quieter, but clear. “And when I said yes…” he let the pause linger, “you shipped me all the way to Auckland. Away from you. So—” he leaned against the counter, smugness curling at his lips, “not trusting you again.”

The words cut sharper than the playful tone should have allowed. Chan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes narrowing not in anger, but in something that looked closer to regret.

“Min...” he said slowly, tightening his hold just a little as though to keep him from slipping away, “you know that wasn’t—”

But Minho only raised his brows, waiting.

“You know it was for your safety, right?” Chan’s voice softened, almost pleading as his thumb brushed the side of Minho’s waist. “For us.”

Minho didn’t move away, but he didn’t lean in either. His gaze dropped briefly to the hand on his body, then lifted back up to Chan’s face. “I know,” he admitted at last, steady. There was no accusation in his tone, but no forgiveness either. Just fact.

Chan exhaled, his jaw tightening before he continued. “There’s going to be another meeting like the last time. Mr. Kim…” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “that man, he always has plans ahead of time. I admire it, but—” his eyes darkened, voice lowering, “he’s cunning. He can’t be trusted.”

The faint curl of his fingers against Minho’s side betrayed the tension he tried to hide. “If I make a move again, for us,” Chan asked, eyes holding Minho’s as though trying to anchor him, “you’d be with me, right?”

Minho didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he simply looked at his boyfriend, long enough for the silence to feel heavy, long enough that the steam rising from their untouched coffee cups had all but disappeared.

Finally, Minho spoke, his voice quiet but pointed. “Are you going to keep me away again?”

Chan froze. His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but no words came. His grip on Minho stilled, as if even his body didn’t know what to do.

For once, the ever-composed Bang Chan was left without a reply.

Minho’s eyes lingered on him, calm but searching, and when Chan still couldn’t find the words, Minho’s gaze softened only slightly, an acknowledgement of the silence itself, before he turned back toward his coffee, leaving the question suspended between them, unanswered.

“But, they’re your allies, right?” Minho asked finally, his tone deceptively light. But the question carried weight, and both of them knew it.

Chan’s lips parted, then pressed together again. He exhaled through his nose, staring down at the dark surface of his own cup before answering.

“They are,” he said at last. His voice was steady, almost careful. “That’s why they’re important.”

The silence stretched for a beat, Minho’s gaze fixed on him, waiting for more. Chan’s jaw tightened. He tilted the cup in his hand, watching the steam rise, as if the words came easier if he wasn’t looking directly at Minho.

“They always prize their importance,” he continued, the bitterness in his voice just barely hidden. “Like it’s some trophy they hold over everyone else. And my father—” He paused, lips curling into something caught between frustration and resignation. “He always gives in. Always.”

Minho tilted his head, studying him, but said nothing. Chan’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, like he was trying to shake the weight of it off.

“But once it’s ours,” he said slowly, his voice hardening with quiet resolve, “I know what to do. I know how to handle them. They won’t always be the ones holding the leash.”

That little flash of steel in his eyes lasted only a moment before he let out another sigh, softer this time, almost weary. He set his cup down on the counter with a muted clink, finally meeting Minho’s gaze again.

“But for now… I have to obey Father.”

The words lingered in the air between them, heavy and unyielding. Minho didn’t answer right away. He just watched him, lips pressed into a faint line.

The clock ticked, the kitchen stilled, and Chan’s admission settled like smoke neither of them could wave away.

“So… it's true I’m accompanying Dad and Chan?” Felix’s voice was low, almost careful, as though the walls might catch his words and repeat them back to the wrong ears.

From their place by the doorway, Hyunjin and Felix had been quietly watching Chan and Minho in the kitchen, Chan leaning in close, Minho’s posture caught somewhere between wary and steady.

Hyunjin didn’t take his eyes off the kitchen, off the faint outline of Chan leaning close to Minho.

“Yes,” he said at last, flat, measured. “Chan didn’t lie about it.”

Felix let out a small breath, one corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown. He shifted his weight and glanced sideways at Hyunjin.

“And what if Dad’s planning on introducing me to all this? You know… like he did with Chan years ago?”

That question hung heavier than the air in the corridor. Hyunjin finally moved, turning away from the half-open door. His steps were unhurried, each one echoing softly on the polished floor.

Felix followed, his longer stride catching up easily. He tilted his head, trying to catch Hyunjin’s expression. “You’d know something about it, wouldn’t you?”

Hyunjin’s voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “I don’t know. I’m Chan’s secretary, Felix. Not your father’s shadow.”

Felix broke the rhythm of his own rambling with a sudden shift, glancing sideways at Hyunjin as if he’d just caught him red-handed.

“So… you really don’t know what this meeting’s about? Come on, don’t lie. If Chan knows, you automatically know.”

“You weren’t paying attention when Chan was speaking, were you?” Hyunjin’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, his expression unreadable, before he looked ahead again.

Felix grinned, unashamed, and gave the tiniest shrug, like a kid caught skipping class. “Nope. Too busy paying attention to my brother’s secretary.” The words came light, half-joke, half-truth, his grin daring Hyunjin to react.

Hyunjin let out a quiet breath through his nose, something between a sigh and a suppressed laugh, and shook his head. “Then let me make it clear for you. Even Chan doesn’t know what it’s about. So how would I?”

Felix blinked at him, feigning surprise, then leaned in a little closer as they walked, lowering his voice as if sharing a conspiracy. “You’re telling me the great Hwang Hyunjin, the always two steps ahead man, always on top of things, doesn’t have a clue? Now that… that’s suspicious.”

Hyunjin didn’t bother to answer. His silence was sharp, deliberate, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Felix caught it instantly, his grin widening, satisfied he’d cracked through the calm exterior, even if just a little.

For a moment, nothing more was said. Just the rhythm of their shoes against marble, Felix trailing half a step behind. His gaze stayed fixed on Hyunjin, on the familiar tilt of his shoulders, the way he never slowed down or sped up for anyone.

Felix shoved his hands into his pockets as he trailed after Hyunjin down the hallway, the sound of their footsteps faint against the marble floor. “So… what’s this meeting really about?” he asked, eyes darting mischievously. “Maybe Dad’s secretly arranging for us to meet the Kims because they’ve decided to form a baseball team with us. Or, ooh— maybe it’s a secret art auction, and he wants me to charm them into buying terrible paintings for millions.”

Hyunjin gave him a side glance, his expression flat but not unkind. “It’s a business negotiation, Felix. The Kims, at least the majority of them aren’t interested in baseball or bad art. They’re interested in leverage, shares, and long-term deals.”

Felix wasn’t deterred. He hummed dramatically. “Okay, then maybe it’s a dinner where everyone has to duel with chopsticks, and the winner gets control of Seoul’s shipping routes.”

Hyunjin sighed through his nose, the barest ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s about contracts. Documents. Not chopstick duels. You know your father doesn’t improvise with your silly games.”

Felix tilted his head, pretending to look disappointed, but the sparkle in his eyes didn’t fade. “So boring. Guess that makes you the fun police, huh?”

Hyunjin’s reply came quiet but firm, his gaze straight ahead. “No. I’m just the one who tells you the truth when no one else does.”

Felix tilted his head as he walked a half-step behind Hyunjin, hands swinging lazily at his sides. His voice, light and teasing, slipped into something softer without him even realizing it.

“You know… it’s good, having you talk to me like this. I like this side of you. The calm one. The one that actually says more than five words.”

Hyunjin’s stride didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked briefly to Felix before turning forward again. “Do you want me to walk faster… or just go back to Chan?” His tone remained level, but there was a faint edge of dry humor.

Felix stopped for half a second, his mouth falling open in exaggerated offense, before catching up to him with a small whine.

“Hyunjin! Don’t ruin the mood. We were being nice for once.”

“Mm,” Hyunjin hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, the sound low and quiet in his throat. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as if the conversation hardly mattered.

But then, just to see Felix’s reaction, he lengthened his stride a little, his long legs carrying him faster down the hallway. As expected, Felix groaned loudly, dragging his feet before jogging two steps to catch up.

“Hey! That’s not fair! You’ve got legs for days. Slow down!”

Hyunjin didn’t reply. But the corner of his mouth twitched, a fleeting curve he quickly smoothed away. The warmth lingered in his eyes.

Felix, oblivious, kept on talking, filling the space between them with his restless energy. He pointed out the shine of the chandeliers, wondered aloud what the maids might think of this so-called important meeting, and even drifted into a rambling story about how he once tried to bribe Jeongin into losing a video game match with him.

Every word spilled with his usual animation, his hands gesturing loosely as he spoke, his voice rising and dipping like he was narrating some grand tale.

And Hyunjin… he let him. He didn’t cut him off, didn’t tell him to be quiet. Instead, his eyes softened, and that almost-smile returned, hidden in the shadow of his profile.

It was subtle, so subtle that no one but Felix, if he ever bothered to look, would notice.

But Felix never looked. He was too busy talking, too busy laughing at his own memories. And so he went on, unaware that with every step, every word, he was pulling out a gentler side of Hyunjin, one that rarely surfaced, one that Hyunjin kept tucked away behind sharp lines and silence.

The hallway stretched on, filled with Felix’s voice and Hyunjin’s quiet presence, and for once, the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was light, almost warm, carried on the rhythm of footsteps and the sound of Felix’s laughter echoing softly against the walls.

Minho sat low, close to the ground near the pond, fingers idly pulling at the blades of grass. He didn’t look restless, just weighed down, gaze unfocused as though he was somewhere far from this garden, far from this house.

Footsteps approached, steady but unhurried. Jisung’s figure appeared from the path, scanning left and right like he had been searching for someone. His shoulders loosened the moment his eyes caught Minho’s silhouette.

“There you are,” Jisung said quietly, almost in relief.

Minho didn’t glance up, his attention still on the grass between his fingers. He rubbed the strands until they tore, the small green pieces fluttering from his hands back onto the ground.

Jisung stood still for a moment, watching him. There was something in Minho’s posture that told him words weren’t needed yet. Still, he closed the distance slowly, his shoes making the faintest crunch against the gravel.

“You’ve been out here for a while,” Jisung added, softer this time, as if not wanting to disturb whatever thoughts were keeping Minho so still. He hummed in acknowledgment, not quite an answer. He twisted another blade of grass, letting it snap between his fingers.

Jisung lowered himself a little, not sitting yet but crouching just enough to be within Minho’s line of sight if he decided to look up. 

Minho finally decided to speak, his voice low and absentminded, as though he wasn’t even sure if Jisung was listening. “How bad,” he asked, twisting another blade of grass between his fingers, “how bad can a meeting between… rival companies, but not so rival companies go?”

His tone was careful, too casual to be careless. The question carried the weight of something else beneath it. Minho didn’t look up, as Jisung leaned back slightly on his heels, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He didn’t rush the answer. Instead, he looked out across the pond, as if measuring the question against the calm ripples of water.

“It depends,” Jisung said finally, his words steady, chosen with care. “If both sides want something from the table, even rivals can sit and talk. It can be tense… sometimes brutal in the way people choose words. But it doesn’t have to break into something worse.”

Minho hummed, still not looking up, his thumb brushing the grass blade until it snapped. Jisung’s gaze softened. He tilted his head a little, trying to catch Minho’s expression even from the side.

“As long as no one walks in looking for a fight, meetings like that can even look polite. Cold, maybe. But polite.” He gave a faint smile, a small attempt to ease the sharp edges of the question. “Not every bussiness meeting ends in disaster, Minho.”

Minho’s lips twitched at that, not quite a smile, but enough to show he heard the care buried in Jisung’s answer. Jisung let the silence breathe after that. He didn’t pry, didn’t ask why the question mattered. He just stayed close, his presence steady like the ground beneath them.

Minho let the blade of grass fall from his hand, his gaze still lowered, eyes tracing the uneven patches of earth. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. It looked as though he was turning Jisung’s words over and over in his head, weighing them the way one might test a coin’s weight in their palm.

Finally, he exhaled, a quiet breath that fogged the cool night air. “So…” His voice was hesitant, softer this time. “There’s no need for me to be worried?”

It was the kind of question that seemed too small for the heaviness beneath it. Almost childlike, as though Minho wanted someone else to shoulder the weight, even if only for a moment.

Jisung didn’t answer immediately. He let his eyes settle on Minho’s profile, on the faint crease between his brows, the tight line of his mouth. Slowly, Jisung’s lips curved into a small, steady smile, one that held none of his usual awkwardness.

“If it’s about Chan,” Jisung said, his tone carrying a certainty that left no space for doubt, “then not at all.”

Minho’s head tilted just slightly, as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Jisung went on, his voice calm, patient, and grounding.

“He always finds a way out. A solution. Sometimes in ways that seem impossible to anyone else. That’s… just who he is.” Jisung’s smile widened faintly, not out of obligation but from a quiet confidence he clearly believed in. “You don’t have to worry, Minho. Not about him.”

The words sank in slowly.

Minho blinked, and for the first time that evening, the heaviness in his shoulders seemed to ease. It wasn’t a complete release, but the lines of tension softened, as though Jisung’s reassurance had carved out a pocket of peace inside him.

For a long while, Minho said nothing. He only stared out at the pond, at the reflections trembling against the water’s surface. And when he finally let out a faint laugh, barely there, almost like an exhale, it sounded lighter.

Jisung caught it, his smile deepening as he turned his gaze upward. Above them, the night sky stretched wide, a canvas of dark velvet scattered with silver. The stars blinked, bright and steady, as though keeping quiet watch over the two of them.

Minho followed Jisung’s gaze, his eyes lingering on the sky. The moonlight caught the side of his face, softening the sharpness into something fragile, almost tender. Beside him, Jisung stayed still, content in the silence, his presence enough.

The night didn’t need more words. Just the quiet understanding between them, and the stars that seemed to shine a little brighter for it.

Chapter Text

The air in Chan’s room felt heavier that morning, but not because of the weather. The sky beyond the tall windows was a clean slate of pale blue

Chan stood in front of the wide mirror, straightening his cuffs with steady fingers that belied the tightness in his jaw. His reflection was collected, composed, the image of a man in control. But the faint twitch of his fingers, the way his shoulders lifted with every controlled breath, betrayed the truth. That, tension was coiled inside him like a spring.

A quiet knock came at the door, and before Chan could answer, one of the maids slipped in, head bowed, hands folded around a small velvet box. She approached silently, setting it gently on the dresser beside him.

“Master Chan,” she murmured, voice low with respect. “As requested.”

Chan nodded once, not trusting himself to speak, and the maid bowed again before slipping out, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender she carried with her.

For a moment, Chan didn’t open the box. His gaze lingered on it, as though the little square carried more weight than it should. His hand hovered, fingers flexing, but he didn’t reach for it.

Instead, movement in the mirror caught his attention. Minho.

Quiet as ever, Minho had been there all along, perched on the edge of the armchair with one leg crossed over the other, watching. Not intruding, not pressing, just there. His eyes met Chan’s in the mirror, and without a word, he rose to his feet.

“You’re going to crease your cuffs if you keep fidgeting like that,” Minho said lightly, though his tone was softer than usual.

Chan exhaled a laugh. Short, low, but it carried some of the pressure away. “I’m not fidgeting.”

Minho hummed, clearly unconvinced, as he stepped closer. He reached out, gently turning Chan by the wrist to face him fully.

“Stand still.”

Chan obeyed. There was something grounding in Minho’s touch, something that steadied the restless edge inside him. Minho’s fingers worked deftly, fixing the cufflinks into place, smoothing the fabric so it sat just right against his wrists. He didn’t speak, didn’t tease further. His silence was deliberate, calm, unhurried, the kind of silence that let Chan breathe.

When he was done, Minho smoothed his palms along Chan’s sleeves, brushing invisible lint away before stepping back. His eyes lingered on Chan for a long beat, taking in the sharp lines of the suit, the faint tiredness in his eyes, the set of his jaw.

“You look good,” Minho said finally, simply.

Chan’s lips pressed together, the compliment hitting harder than he expected. He looked away, breaking their gaze, but his shoulders lowered, just a fraction, as though some of the weight had eased.

Minho noticed. He always noticed.

Reaching for the velvet box, Minho flipped it open, revealing the watch inside. Sleek, silver, understated but expensive. Without waiting for Chan to argue, he picked it up and slid it onto his wrist, fastening the clasp with the same care as he’d fixed the cuffs.

“There,” Minho murmured, giving the watch a small tug to settle it properly. “Now you look like someone who isn’t about to walk into a lion’s den.”

Chan huffed out a quiet laugh, his eyes meeting Minho’s again. This time, the gratitude wasn’t hidden. For a moment, they just stood there, Minho’s hand lingering briefly on Chan’s wrist, Chan’s gaze steady and softened in a way it rarely was.

The meeting loomed, closer with every tick of the clock, but for now, in that quiet space, Chan let himself breathe.

The low hum of the engine faded as Chan’s car disappeared beyond the tall gates, leaving behind only the faint smell of exhaust and the soft rustle of the trees swaying in the breeze. Minho’s eyes followed the vehicle until it was swallowed by the distance, a line of worry still etched across his face even though he had promised moments ago that he was... fine.

When he finally lowered his gaze, he found Jisung standing a few steps away. Jisung’s posture was relaxed, hands tucked loosely behind his back as though he were simply part of the scenery. But his eyes had been on Chan until the very last second too, sharp yet strangely affectionate, the way someone watches a storm they’ve learned to live with.

Minho exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping, and turned toward him. “Tell me,” he said quietly, his voice almost blending with the wind, “is there any place in this mansion where nobody will disturb me?”

The question made Jisung’s brows lift, a flash of something strange already glinting in his eyes. He didn’t answer right away, choosing to let the silence hang while he studied Minho, the man who was still clearly carrying the weight of someone else’s battles on his shoulders.

Then, with the kind of smile that was both sly and reassuring, Jisung tilted his head. “Any place,” he said smoothly. “You’re Master Chan’s master. No one would dare disturb you.”

The corners of Minho’s mouth tugged upward despite himself. He let out a small scoff, half amused, half exasperated. “That’s not what I meant.” He raked a hand through his hair, the tension in him loosening just a fraction. “I meant… somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can be alone for a while.”

Jisung’s smirk deepened, the kind that suggested he’d been waiting for this opening. He leaned in a little, voice low and teasing.

“Are you into books? Reading?”

Minho blinked at him, caught off guard. His expression was somewhere between confusion and suspicion. “Books?”

“Mm,” Jisung drawled, rocking back on his heels like he had all the time in the world. “You know... paper, words, quiet corners. That sort of thing. Some people like locking themselves away in a library when they want to vanish. Clears the mind… makes you look smarter too, if that’s the goal.”

Minho gave him a flat look, one brow arching. “That wasn’t the answer to my question.”

“Wasn’t it?” Jisung countered, smirk never faltering.

For a moment Minho just stared at him, still not sure whether to laugh or roll his eyes. In the end, he did neither, choosing instead to shake his head slowly as though he’d walked straight into one of Jisung’s little games without meaning to.

Jisung, however, looked perfectly pleased with himself.

“Now this,” Minho murmured under his breath, lips quirking as his eyes roamed the towering shelves, “this is some Beauty and the Beast type of thing.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Jisung, walking just a step ahead, hand brushing along the polished wood of the railing.

He glanced over his shoulder with a knowing grin. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”

They stood in the threshold of the library, the heavy double doors open wide to reveal a room that seemed almost unreal in its scale. Shelves reached so high Minho half expected to see clouds gathering near the ceiling, each lined with books of every size, bound in colors so rich they looked like they’d been stolen from a painter’s palette. The scent of leather, ink, and faint polish filled the air, grounding the place in quiet dignity.

Jisung stepped inside with an easy familiarity, his shoes making soft clicks against the gleaming floor. He gestured for Minho to follow.

“It’s new,” he explained, voice carrying a touch of pride despite belonging to someone who technically hadn’t built a single shelf. “Hyunjin proposed the idea first. Said the mighty Bahng family should have a personal library, something private and curated. And of course, Chan didn’t need much convincing. The moment he imagined how it would look, how it would add to the mansion’s… aesthetic, he jumped in headfirst.”

Minho followed slowly, his eyes darting from one detail to the next. The carved spines, the crystal lamps casting soft golden pools of light, the tall ladders gliding smoothly on rails, it was too much to take in all at once. His worries, the weight of conversations and expectations, seemed to fall away the more he looked.

“Exquisite,” he said quietly, his tone almost reverent. He reached out, fingertips grazing the edge of a shelf like he was afraid touching too much might break the spell. “It’s like I came to a royal palace.”

Jisung, who had been watching his reaction out of the corner of his eye, chuckled softly. He leaned against a nearby table stacked with unopened volumes and tilted his head.

“Well, that’s what it’s supposed to feel like, isn’t it?” He gestured broadly at the room before sweeping into a mock bow, one hand pressed to his chest. “And it’s all yours, Prince Lee. 

Minho blinked at him, startled by the sudden formality, and then, against his own will, he laughed. Really laughed. The sound startled even him, bubbling out in a way that felt rare these days.

He shook his head, trying to compose himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously obedient. And at your service,” Jisung corrected without missing a beat, straightening with a smirk that softened into something more genuine when he caught the trace of amusement still lingering on Minho’s face.

They began to wander together, Jisung pointing out little sections as though giving a tour. “This wall’s all classics. That corner is for philosophy, though I doubt anyone here’s touched it. And this,” he tapped a small locked case at the far end, “is where Chan keeps the rare stuff. First editions, some imported collections. He only lets himself near the key.”

Minho listened, nodding slowly, but it wasn’t just the grandeur of the place that was pulling him in. It was Jisung himself. The way he spoke easily, blending facts with humor, the way his voice didn’t carry the sharp edge of duty here, but rather something looser, warmer.

At one point, Minho trailed behind as Jisung walked ahead, watching the way his movements were unhurried, the way he seemed at home in this quiet elegance. The thought surprised him, he hadn’t realized just how easy it was becoming to let Jisung’s presence soothe him.

Jisung, noticing the silence, glanced back. “What?”

“Nothing,” Minho replied quickly, though there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Just… maybe you’re not so bad at this whole guide thing.”

“High praise,” Jisung said, feigning a dramatic bow again before straightening, grin firmly in place. “Stick with me, and maybe I’ll even show you the hidden corners no one else knows about.”

For the first time in hours, Minho felt his chest lighten. It wasn’t just the grandeur of the library.

It was this... this easy banter, this subtle closeness, something grounding and disarming all at once.

The hall was too quiet for its size.

Every sound, the scrape of chairs against polished floor, the faint click of a pen between Felix’s fingers, seemed to echo longer than it should have. Chan sat in the center seat at the long table, his father steady on his right, Felix on his left. Behind him, Hyunjin’s presence was unmistakable, sharp and silent, with Changbin and a few others forming a wall of vigilance.

Across from them, the Kims occupied their side of the table. Kim Minseok sat at the head, posture commanding but his expression unreadable, as if carved from something older than time.

At his side were his three sons.

Seokjin leaned back with the kind of poise that came from always knowing he had the room’s attention, every smile and glance sharpened with calculation, whilr Hongjoong tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table, restless energy bottled just beneath his calm facade.

Both carried that same sharpness in their gaze, a kind of burn that Chan had expected.

But then his eyes landed on the youngest.

Kim Seungmin.

It had been years since Chan had last seen him, and yet the face was immediately recognizable. Not because Seungmin commanded attention like his brothers, but because he didn’t.

Kim Seungmin sat with his shoulders aligned, posture proper, but there was no weight behind the stance. His expression was composed, almost serene, eyes lowered slightly as though he wasn’t here to dominate the room but to listen to it. The light from the tall windows caught on the softness of his features, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, the curve of his mouth that seemed perpetually on the edge of either speaking or smiling, though he did neither.

Seokjin’s gaze was sharp, Hongjoong’s restless. But Seungmin’s… when he finally lifted it, was steady, unflinching in its calm. 

Not hostile. Not fiery. Just present.

Chan noticed this too, the way his family responded to him. Minseok’s hand, which had been clenched in a subtle fist on the table, relaxed when Seungmin shifted beside him. Hongjoong, caught mid-tap of his fingers, stopped when Seungmin’s gaze flicked his way, almost sheepish. And Seokjin, who rarely offered softness, leaned closer to murmur something near Seungmin’s ear, smiling, something that made the youngest incline his head in acknowledgment.

It was unspoken, but clear.

They had a softness reserved for him, their youngest.

Chan exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as he took it all in. Compared to the calculated sharpness of his brothers, Seungmin’s presence was… disarming. 

And perhaps, that was more dangerous than any blade of hostility laid bare.

For a moment, Chan’s eyes caught something that pulled him deeper into focus. A faint glimmer at Seungmin’s wrist, subtle under the light, not gaudy, just there. A platinum chain, simple yet polished, clasped neatly around his skin.

The chain Chan wanted. For Minho.

It wasn’t the kind of thing the other Kim sons would wear; Seokjin favored heavier watches, Hongjoong often donned rings that drew attention. But this, this chain was quiet. Almost understated.

It suited Seungmin in a way that words didn’t have to.

Chan realized he was staring longer than he should, his gaze following the way Seungmin’s fingers toyed absently with the edge of the chain whenever his phone slipped lower in his palm. It was such a small thing, yet it carved out a presence, delicate, intentional, a glimpse into someone who wasn’t trying to dominate the room, and yet, somehow, anchored it.

Chan tore his eyes away quickly, back to the conversation that was unfolding between their fathers. But the image of that quiet gleam at Seungmin’s wrist stayed with him, like a thread pulling at the corner of his thoughts.

“We have been good allies for generations,” Kim Minseok carried on, folding his hands neatly on the polished table. “Even our ancestors understood this. It would not be wise for the younger generation to turn that bond into something that looks like rivalry. Enemies are made too easily in this world… but allies, allies must be guarded.”

Chan kept his face unreadable, though the words pressed heavily in his chest.

It was then that a sudden burst of noise cut through the air. Fast commentary, a cheer, and the unmistakable crack of a bat hitting a ball.

Heads turned, eyes narrowing, until the source became obvious.

Kim Seungmin.

He sat as calmly as before, phone tilted slightly under the table, expression not giving away the slightest guilt even as the volume spilled into the silence. For a brief second, Chan thought he might just ignore the attention altogether.

“Minnie,” Minseok said, with a change in tone, without the faintest hint of anger. It was much gentler than the calm voice he’d used to address the alliance just moments ago. “Turn it off.”

Seungmin blinked once, then tapped the screen with a quiet compliance, slipping the phone into his pocket. No excuses. No defense. Just obedience, and yet, his faint, almost amused expression remained, like he hadn’t really been embarrassed at all.

Minseok shifted his attention again, sweeping over his sons before turning his gaze across the table to Chan and Felix. His expression was carved from patience, but his words held weight.

“It will always benefit both sides,” he said evenly, “to work together. Our families have done so before, and we will do so again. Nothing good comes from testing one another when we could be building.”

Beside Chan, Felix shifted in his seat, uncharacteristically still. Chan’s father, however, leaned forward slightly, voice steady, practiced.

“Our side believes the same,” he said. “We’ve stood together before, and we will continue to. This meeting should only strengthen that path.”

For a moment, the words hung in the air, like a vow being weighed, measured, tested by the silence of the hall itself. The atmosphere had just begun to settle into something steady, predictable, even dull in its formalities, when the air shifted again.

It started with Seojoon leaning back slightly in his chair, his voice casual, almost deceptively so. “There is something both families have agreed upon,” he said, his tone carefully measured. “A decision already made between myself and Minseok.”

Across the table, Minseok nodded, his expression unreadable but firm. The fathers spoke like men who had already shaken hands behind closed doors, as if the outcome were carved in stone.

Neither Chan nor Felix had been warned. Neither had any of the Kim sons, if the faint flicker of confusion across their faces was anything to go by.

Seojoon began, his eyes landing briefly on Minseok’s eldest. “Seokjin is already married,” he said, as though placing down the first piece of a puzzle.

Almost seamlessly, Minseok picked up the thread, his words sliding into the space Seojoon left. “And Seungmin... he’s still so young. There is no need to burden him this early. That leaves my second son, Hongjoong…”

The pause that followed stretched just long enough for the weight of what was coming to press down on everyone seated.

“…to uphold our pride.”

And then, together, two fathers speaking as one, voices heavy with finality.

“We have decided that either Chan… or Felix… will be married to Hongjoong.”

The words did not echo, but they might as well have. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, a silence that clawed at lungs and hearts alike.

Every Kim son turned in perfect unison toward their father, disbelief etched into their features. Three voices, overlapping but united in shock, broke through the stillness.

“Dad?!”

The word hit differently from each mouth. Seokjin’s incredulous, Hongjoong’s almost wounded, Seungmin’s sharp with a kind of unguarded protest he rarely let slip. Together, they made a chorus of refusal, a sound that betrayed how deeply blindsided they all were.

Across the table, Chan’s body went rigid. The weight of the announcement locked him in place, freezing him where he sat. His carefully schooled composure cracked for the briefest instant, jaw tightening, eyes flickering with something caught between disbelief and outrage, before he forced the mask back on.

Felix, on the other hand, didn’t even manage that much. He froze entirely, lips parted as if to speak but no words coming. He looked stricken, pale, like the air had been ripped out of him. His hands, resting lightly on the table just moments ago, now gripped at the edge until his knuckles blanched.

Behind them, Hyunjin’s gaze slid away from Chan and landed on Felix. It was almost imperceptible, the shift, the narrowing of his eyes, the way his lips pressed together. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but his stare lingered as though he were measuring Felix’s silence, taking note of the boy’s struggle to even remember how to breathe.

Hyunjin’s fingers, folded neatly behind his back, twitched once before stilling again. The only trace of reaction he allowed himself.

The meeting hall, so full of pride and strategy only moments before, had shifted into something far more fragile. An unspoken storm building just beneath the surface.

Every son, every heir, every pair of eyes at that table had been thrown into disarray.

And the fathers sat as though nothing unusual had been said at all.

Felix sat utterly still, but it was the wrong kind of stillness. The kind that burned at the edges, like heat shimmering off asphalt, a storm contained in too small a space. His shoulders were tight, his fingers curled against his knees under the table, and his gaze fixed straight ahead without really seeing.

And then, low, barely above a murmur, words broke free. Raw, edged. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

Seojoon’s head turned slowly, sharply, like a blade being drawn. His gaze pinned Felix from the side, cold and expectant.

“What did you just say, Lix?”

The nickname, so casual on his father’s tongue, only sharpened the fury thrumming inside Felix. His chair scraped violently against the polished floor as he stood, every movement abrupt, breaking the suffocating formality of the hall.

“I said—” his voice rang louder this time, echoing harsh against the carved walls, “I. Am. Not. Marrying. Anyone. Not Hongjoong. Not anyone.” His chest rose and fell, breaths shallow, fast. The mask of the calm, silly, obedient son shattered under the force of his words. “Try to force me, and it won’t end well.”

The declaration cut through the room like a strike of lightning. For a moment, no one moved. Just the weight of his anger hanging in the air.

Then, Felix turned sharply on his heel, storming toward the doors. The heavy slam of his footsteps trailed after him, a streak of rebellion in a space where obedience was law.

Seojoon’s teeth ground together, jaw flexing visibly. His hands pressed against the arms of his chair before he rose half a step, the restrained fury in his movements promising the storm was far from over. But before he could fully stand, Chan’s hand reached across, firm on his father’s arm.

“Father—” Chan’s tone was even, low, desperate to steady what could explode.

Seojoon’s glare cut toward him, but Chan didn’t flinch. He held the grip until the older man slowly sank back, though the tension in his frame was palpable, coiled like a whip waiting to strike.

Behind them, Hyunjin had already caught the silent signal. Chan’s glance was enough. Hyunjin dipped his chin in a faint nod, unreadable but sure, before turning to follow Felix out of the hall.

The door shut softly behind him, a quiet sound that somehow felt louder than Felix’s storming exit.

“Here,” Jisung said after a short walk between towering shelves, his voice carrying that mix of casualness and quiet pride. He stopped at a corner where the shelves broke away into open space, revealing a wide pane of glass stretching from floor to ceiling. Beyond it, the garden spread out in muted greens, afternoon light softening into gold as it poured through.

Minho blinked at the sight, his steps slowing, then stopping completely. For a moment he just stood there, almost forgetting to breathe. The window wasn’t just a view. It was like the garden had been framed into a living painting, flowers scattered like brushstrokes, the pond glimmering faintly in the distance.

“You can sit here, read, and watch the garden all at once,” Jisung explained, gesturing toward a pair of low cushioned chairs near the glass. “Hyunjin said natural light makes people read more. Artist by birth. But personally, I think it’s just an excuse for him to sit and brood while looking expensive.”

Minho’s lips curved despite himself. “Now this… this I like.”

Without waiting, he wandered to one of the shelves, his fingers skimming along the spines of neatly arranged books until he pulled out two, one thick, heavy with old pages, the other slimmer and newer. He carried them to the glass-side seat, carefully placing them down before settling in.

The chair sighed under his weight, and Minho leaned back, letting the glow from the window touch his features. He looked at peace for the first time since the morning, as though the library had stripped away everything else. The tension, the worries, the invisible chains.

“You look like you just walked into a royal palace and claimed the throne.” Jisung hovered a moment before sitting in the chair beside him, slouching almost immediately.

Minho chuckled, his fingers flipping the edge of the first book. “Feels like it too.”

Jisung smirked, turning his head toward him. “Then it’s settled. This is all yours, Prince Lee.”

The title hung playfully between them, but Minho didn’t roll his eyes or brush it away. He only smiled, soft and amused, before opening his book. Jisung leaned back, watching the sunlight trace Minho’s profile, then quietly picked a book of his own.

Though, truth be told, his attention wasn’t on the pages at all.

And so, the two of them sat by the glass, books in hand, with the garden just beyond, silence weaving comfortably between them.

The quiet stretched on for a while, the kind of silence that didn’t itch or demand. Just the faint hum of the air and the muted songs of the birds outside. Minho flipped another page, though half his focus was still on the view framed before him.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Jisung lean forward, rifling through a small stack of books he’d dragged from another shelf. He plucked one out and held it out, the cover facing Minho.

“Here. This one’s more your type.”

Minho raised an eyebrow but reached for it anyway, brushing his fingers lightly against the spine. He tilted it, studying the worn lettering.

“And what is it about?”

Jisung leaned back again, lips quirking as though the answer amused him before he even spoke it. “Love, of course. What else?”

Minho huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You think that’s all I’m about?”

“You are,” Jisung said with surprising ease, no hesitation. “Every look you give, every worry that eats you alive… it’s always about someone you love or someone you’re afraid of losing. You’d be terrible at pretending otherwise.”

Minho fell quiet at that, his eyes still resting on the book in his hands. He traced the edge of the cover absently, pretending he wasn’t caught off guard by the bluntness.

“And… and the story?” he asked finally, voice a touch lower.

Jisung grinned, tilting his head toward the book. “Just a simple story. A princess falling for the knight instead of the prince. That’s the plot.”

Minho blinked, then let out a soft scoff of laughter. “So… cheating and betrayal?”

“Maybe,” Jisung replied with a shrug, as if the matter wasn’t his to settle. His eyes glinted with something almost mischievous. “Or maybe it’s loyalty in disguise. Depends on who’s reading. You read, you decide.”

Minho let the words sit with him, his smile faint but steady as he opened the first page. There was something in Jisung’s tone, something that wrapped the words in a challenge, as though the story wasn’t only between the covers of the book.

Jisung stretched in his seat, and watched Minho begin to read with a quiet ease. The golden light from the window slid over them both, turning the moment into something that felt suspended, like time itself had slowed to let them stay here, caught between banter and something deeper neither had known how to name.

The room was still tense even after Felix’s storming exit. The echo of his footsteps had long faded down the corridor, but the silence he left behind clung like smoke.

Chan sat rigid in his chair, his hands clasped so tightly against his knees that the veins stood out. He glanced at his father, who looked more irritated than shaken, lips pressed into a hard line as though this interruption was nothing more than a trivial inconvenience.

Chan drew a steady breath. “Father,” he said, his tone careful, measured. “May I speak with you privately?”

Seojoon turned, eyes narrowing a fraction. The weight of his gaze was heavy, probing, as if he was deciding whether this was a son’s request or a subordinate’s demand. Finally, he gave a curt nod and rose to his feet.

“We’ll return shortly,” Seojoon announced to the room, his voice smooth, unreadable. He didn’t bother to ask for patience, simply assumed it. Minseok inclined his head with mild politeness, though his sons exchanged wary glances.

Chan stood as well, smoothing his jacket with precise hands to mask the tightness in his chest. He bowed faintly toward the Kims, the practiced courtesy automatic, before stepping back and following his father out of the meeting hall.

The corridor was quiet, the polished floor carrying the faint rhythm of their footsteps. Chan felt eyes follow him until the doors shut, but he didn’t look back. His father walked ahead with the same deliberate pace as always, unhurried, as though nothing in the world could press him into moving faster.

Once they were far enough from the room, Seojoon stopped. He didn’t turn, just waited, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture tall and unyielding.

Chan let out the breath he’d been holding and spoke low, so that it was only between them. “Father… this marriage you and Chairman Minseok just proposed. Was it truly decided without us? Without even consulting me or Felix?” His voice was calm on the surface, but there was a tremor underneath, a tension only a son could hold against his father.

Seojoon’s head tilted slightly, the faintest flicker of impatience visible in the stiff set of his shoulders. “Some decisions are not made for consultation, Chan. They are made for survival.”

Chan swallowed, his throat dry. His father’s words, though steady, felt like iron. Cold, heavy, and final.

And yet, Chan stood straighter, steadying himself, unwilling to let his unease show. “Survival,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Is that what you call it?”

The silence between them stretched, tense and waiting, like a taut string on the verge of snapping.

Chan steadied his voice, though his chest felt tight. “Father, Felix is still studying. He’s not ready for any of this. And me—” his words faltered, but he forced them out, low and steady, “I will not marry anyone but Minho.”

The silence after that was suffocating. Seojoon’s back stiffened, the weight of his authority filling the narrow corridor. Slowly, he turned, eyes sharp, his expression unreadable at first, then hardening into something far less patient.

“You’ve grown reckless,” Seojoon said quietly, the calm in his voice sharper than a blade. “Reckless enough to mistake your personal desires for something as weighty as this family’s standing.”

Chan clenched his jaw. “This isn’t about recklessness. This is about—”

“Prestige,” Seojoon cut in, his tone unyielding. “Status. Legacy. That is what matters. Not your affection, not your… whims.” He spoke the word as though it were dirty, beneath them. “The Kims are not a rival to be toyed with. They are a name that has stood alongside ours for generations. You think a dinner and a few handshakes can preserve that? No. Blood binds. Marriage binds.”

Chan took a step forward, refusing to lower his eyes. “I can manage ties with the Kims without a marriage. I can work with Hongjoong, build something through business. We don’t even know each other, father. Not enough to call it trust. Not enough to call it... family.”

Seojoon’s expression didn’t flicker. He studied Chan like one studies an obstinate child. “Knowing has nothing to do with it. You will learn each other. That is what marriage is for.”

Chan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You don’t care about him. You don’t care about me. You only care about what the world sees when they look at the Bahng name standing next to the Kim name.”

“If that is all I care about,” Seojoon said evenly, “it is because that is all that has ever kept us alive.”

Chan exhaled shakily, a bitterness rising in his throat. He searched his father’s eyes, looking for even the faintest crack, a softness, some thread of compromise. But Seojoon’s face was set, carved from stone, and Chan realized, truly realized that this was not a discussion. It was a verdict.

“Father…” his voice dropped, heavy with weariness, “you can’t decide this for me.”

“I already have.” Seojoon’s tone didn’t rise, but its finality was louder than any shout.

Chan’s throat closed. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and for the first time in years, he felt utterly powerless, like the boy he had once been, standing in the shadow of a man who saw the world only in power and alliances.

He tried one last time, softer, almost desperate. “I don’t want this.”

Seojoon’s eyes narrowed, cold and absolute. “Want has nothing to do with it, Chan.”

And with that, he turned away, as though the conversation had ended before it had truly begun.

Felix sat hunched forward on the staircase, elbows resting on his knees, fists pressed tight against each other. His shoulders trembled. Not from weakness but from the kind of storm that comes when anger and hurt twist together, leaving no clear path out.

The hallway was dim, only the golden wall lights painting his profile, making the sharp set of his jaw stand out.

Hyunjin found him there.

For a moment, he just stood at the top of the staircase, watching. He could have called out, could have asked if Felix was alright. But there was nothing alright in the way Felix’s chest heaved, in the way he blinked too quickly, like trying to burn tears back into hiding.

So Hyunjin said nothing.

He climbed down the steps slowly, deliberately, until he reached Felix. Then, without asking, he lowered himself onto the stair just above, his knees almost brushing Felix’s shoulder. He leaned back slightly against the railing.

Felix didn’t look up. His eyes were locked on the empty stretch of floor below, jaw tight, lips pressed in a stubborn line. Hyunjin let the silence stretch, not heavy, not sharp, just present. He knew Felix well enough to understand. That words now would be like sparks in a dry field. Too soon. Too much.

Instead, Hyunjin let his presence speak. The faint rustle of his sleeve as he shifted, the steady sound of his breath, the quiet warmth of someone who wasn’t demanding answers, wasn’t pressing comfort, only staying close.

A single step above.

Close enough for Felix to know he wasn’t alone.

Felix’s fists loosened. Just barely, and he dragged in a rough breath, his chest rising. He didn’t say anything either, but for the first time since he’d stormed out of that suffocating meeting, he didn’t feel like he was about to break apart.

Felix's voice came out rough, almost biting, but the shake beneath it betrayed him. “If you’re here because Dad sent you to convince me, then save it. I don’t wanna talk to you now.”

Hyunjin tilted his head, a faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a first,” he said softly. “You, saying you don’t wanna talk to me. Is this some kind of role reversal?”

Felix glanced up at him briefly, eyes sharp, but there was no real fire. Just a boy stung too deep. He huffed, looking away.

“Don’t joke with me right now.”

“Who said I was joking?” Hyunjin leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You talk my ears off most days. Feels strange when you tell me to shut up before I’ve even started.”

Felix let out a frustrated noise, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Hyunjin shrugged. “That’s one word for it.”

Silence came again, but it wasn’t quite as heavy. Felix dragged a hand down his face, fingers tugging briefly at his hair.

His voice was quieter this time, more like the words slipped out on their own. “I was shocked. That’s all. Completely blindsided. I didn’t see it coming.”

Hyunjin studied him for a moment, then spoke carefully, his tone steady and calm. “Chan won’t let it happen. You know him. He’ll burn himself out before he lets anyone push you into something you don’t want.”

Felix bit his lip. His eyes flicked up, uneasy. “And what if my no… what if it puts him in trouble? He already carries too much. What if I just made it worse for him?”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. His silence wasn’t careless. It was deliberate, the kind of pause that meant he weighed his words but still didn’t find anything that could erase the truth. He exhaled slowly.

“I… I can’t promise you it won’t.”

Felix’s shoulders stiffened, the admission hitting him. But before the storm could climb again,

Hyunjin leaned just a little closer, his voice gentler than before. “Are you alright?”

Felix blinked, taken aback by the question. His throat worked. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Hyunjin said, steady, “you’re angry, and scared, and already imagining the worst. And I think you’re still here— still breathing, still fighting back instead of folding. That’s more than alright to me.”

Felix pressed his lips together, torn between wanting to argue and wanting to believe. He shook his head faintly. “You always talk like you’ve got everything figured out.”

“Wrong,” Hyunjin corrected, eyes softening just a fraction. “I just make it sound that way.”

For the first time since the meeting, Felix’s mouth twitched, halfway between a grimace and a reluctant smile. He leaned back against the stair rail, letting his head tip against the wall.

“Still impossible,” Felix muttered.

“Oh, please,” Hyunjin replied, “tell me something that I don't know.”

That earned him a quiet, tired laugh from Felix, the tension in his frame easing if only by a fraction. And Hyunjin let it be, keeping watch on the staircase beside him, steady as stone while Felix let himself breathe again.

Then, Hyunjin’s phone buzzed, the sharp vibration breaking the fragile stillness between them. He glanced at the screen, sighed, then rose smoothly to his feet. His hand brushed briefly against Felix’s shoulder, grounding.

“Come on,” Hyunjin urged quietly. “It’s going to be fine. All of it. Just… just come with me.”

Felix didn’t move. His gaze stayed fixed on the empty stretch of stairs before him, jaw tight, as though the decision carved at his bones. Then, just as Hyunjin turned, Felix’s hand shot out, catching his wrist.

The grip wasn’t desperate, but it was firm, enough to make Hyunjin still. Felix’s voice came low, raw in its honesty. “Hyunjin, If they force me… if they push me into this… if I say it's you that I want to be with, will you fight for me? Will you stand with me?”

Hyunjin looked down at him, and for a long moment, neither spoke. His expression softened, something fleeting flickering across his eyes, but it didn’t stay. The weight of reality pressed harder than any comfort he could offer.

Finally, Hyunjin leaned down just a little, enough that his words reached only Felix. His reply was gentle, but edged with truth that hurt more than silence.

“No Lix. I can’t.”

Felix’s grip faltered, eyes searching his face. “Why not?”

Hyunjin gave the faintest of smiles, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I can't. Because you were never mine to fight for.”

The words hung in the air like glass shards, quiet, but cutting. And before Felix could press further, Hyunjin’s phone buzzed again. He straightened, the mask sliding back into place, and this time he slipped his wrist free.

“Come,” he said once more, softer now, almost apologetic.

Felix sat frozen for a heartbeat, the echo of Hyunjin’s words twisting deep inside him. Then, slowly, he rose, falling into step beside him, silent, storm still brewing, but tethered to the faint trace of warmth Hyunjin had left behind.

The quiet of the library had shifted. Earlier, the space had felt vast and overwhelming to Minho, shelves stretching higher than his head, rows upon rows heavy with stories, but now it felt lived in, softened by presence.

Jisung’s presence.

Minho sat cross-legged in one of the cushioned chairs near the tall windows, a book still unopened on his lap. His attention drifted outside now and then, to the garden bathed in late evening light, but his eyes always came back to Jisung.

The younger man was halfway down one of the aisles, moving with unusual focus as he skimmed the rows. His jacket had been abandoned earlier, and in his white shirt, sleeves rolled above his elbows, the bodyguard looked both out of place among the grandeur and yet oddly fitting, like a figure plucked from a story himself.

“Romance, right?” Jisung’s voice carried faintly, muffled by the shelves. “That’s what you said? Something dramatic and hopeless and way too complicated?”

Minho chuckled under his breath, calling back, “You make it sound like I asked you for your life story.”

There was a pause, followed by the sound of books shifting as Jisung pulled one out to check the cover. “I’ll have you know,” he muttered with mock seriousness, “my life story is pure comedy. You wouldn’t survive the second chapter.”

“Try me,” Minho said, smiling faintly as he leaned back into the chair.

Jisung didn’t answer right away. His head tilted as he studied the spines, lips moving silently as he read through the titles. His fingers trailed lightly along the edges of books as though he was listening to them.

Minho found himself watching, more closely than he intended, taking in the way Jisung stood with one hand braced on the shelf above him, the way his hair slipped forward whenever he leaned down.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It stretched comfortably, woven with the occasional scrape of Jisung pulling another book loose.

Finally, Jisung emerged with three books stacked in his arms. “Alright,” he said, walking back with a little triumph in his step, “I found the section that might actually survive your judgment. Don’t get picky though. I’m not risking my life climbing those ladders just to get the ones at the top.”

Minho arched a brow. “I thought you were my knight in shining armor.”

“Knight, yes,” Jisung said, setting the books down in front of him with a grin. “Librarian? Not on my résumé.”

Minho laughed. The world outside, its power plays, its chains of expectation, faded a little more in the quiet hum of the library.

And in the middle of it, Jisung looked at him, expectant, like he wanted to see Minho smile again.

Jisung had muttered something about coffee and disappeared down the hall, leaving Minho in the quiet alcove. The book lay open before him, but his eyes weren’t following the words anymore. He pressed his cheek against the smooth wooden table, exhaling a long sigh as he stared at the blurred reflection in the polished surface.

If only Chan was… ordinary.

The thought slipped in uninvited, but once there, it bloomed in every corner of his mind.

He pictured Chan in a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, a pen stuck behind his ear as he worked through endless spreadsheets. An ordinary office worker, coming home tired but still laughing when Minho teased him. They’d have weekends to themselves, lazy mornings tangled in blankets, grocery runs that ended with impulse snacks, walks by the river with no need to glance over their shoulders.

The image made Minho’s lips curve into a faint smile. How easy it would be to love without the weight of titles, without every word, every step being measured and watched.

He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair, shaking his head as if that would clear away the fantasy. But the ache lingered. Because even if he wanted it, the truth was Chan wasn’t ordinary. He was born into expectation, carved into responsibility. And Minho, by loving him, had stepped right into the fire too.

His gaze drifted to the large window where the garden stretched outside, sunlight filtering through swaying branches. It looked peaceful, almost mocking.

The door clicked softly as Jisung returned, balancing two cups in his hands. He stopped at the threshold when he saw Minho, head resting on his arms atop the table, eyes closed, the book pushed slightly aside as if forgotten mid-thought.

For a long moment, Jisung just stood there, letting the stillness settle around him. The sun through the window cast gentle streaks across Minho’s face, and there was something so unguarded, so vulnerable about him like this that Jisung’s chest tightened.

Silently, he set the cups down, the faint clink barely audible. He walked over to the curtains, tugging them just enough to dim the brightness so it wouldn’t disturb Minho’s rest. Then he pulled a chair out and sat down beside him, careful to move without noise.

His eyes lingered. Minho’s lashes rested lightly against his skin, his breathing even, strands of hair falling across his forehead in an untidy way that somehow made him look even more unreachable. Jisung found himself leaning forward, his lips parting as if to catch a thought before it escaped.

Serene.

That was the only word that came to mind. It wasn’t beauty that held Jisung still. It was the way Minho seemed to exist in a world of his own, and yet unknowingly pulled Jisung into it too.

Almost without realizing, Jisung’s hand lifted, fingers hovering just above those wayward strands of hair. He wanted to brush them back, to clear Minho’s face, to do something, anything that might make him a part of this fragile moment.

But he froze.

Inches away, his hand trembled, and suddenly the weight of the gesture pressed on him. Touching would feel like crossing an invisible line he wasn’t allowed to cross.

His fingers curled slowly back into his palm, and he retreated, eyes lowering to the table for a second before they found Minho again.

So instead, Jisung sat in silence, hands resting in his lap, gaze drinking in the quiet rise and fall of Minho’s shoulders. He didn’t need to move, didn’t need to speak. Just being there, just watching, was enough.

That was his job.

And in that moment, Jisung thought it might be the purest thing he’d ever felt.

The study felt heavier with only the Kims inside now.

Minseok seated at the head of the long table, his presence commanding silence even without raising his voice. Hongjoong sat with his arms folded, his jaw set in defiance, while Seokjin lingered at his father’s side, careful, watching.

It was Hongjoong who broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the thick air. “Father, you already know,” he said, steady but edged with years of frustration. “I’ve had someone… for more than seven years. Someone I chose.”

Minseok’s expression barely shifted. He tilted his head, almost bored. “And what of it, Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong’s lips pressed thin. “Then you also know this marriage plan makes no sense. Not for me. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

Minseok leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. His tone was firm, unyielding. “What makes you think your personal attachment...” the word carried a faint disdain “changes the fact that an alliance with the Bahng family strengthens us? That’s what matters. Not your seven years.”

Across the table, Seungmin sat stiffly, shoulders drawn up as though he were holding himself together by sheer will. He glanced between his brother and father, his chest tightening. Too many thoughts raced through him, and the flicker of shock that only deepened his unease.

When he finally found his voice, it came out quieter than he expected. “Dad…” Seungmin’s hand curled around the edge of the table. “Don’t you think forcing someone to marry a person they barely know, just for business isn’t right? That’s not how business works. That’s not how… relationships work.”

The words hung fragile in the air, and for a moment Seungmin wished he could swallow them back. Minseok’s gaze fell on him slowly, sharp and cold, the kind that made him feel stripped bare.

“Min,” Minseok said, his voice calm but cutting, “I know more about business than all of you combined. So, do not lecture me about how the world works. Alliances aren’t about comfort. They’re about power. And I don’t need my son teaching me lessons I mastered before he was born.”

Seungmin flinched slightly, but forced himself not to look down. His throat felt dry, but he stayed silent, the words he wanted to say dissolving before they could leave him.

Seokjin cleared his throat then, speaking carefully, like he always did when trying to stand between their father’s decisions and their younger brothers’ hearts.

“Father… Seungmin has a point. A forced bond doesn’t hold. If it breaks later, the damage is worse than never making it at all.”

But Minseok didn’t even blink. His gaze swept over his three sons, lingering briefly on Hongjoong’s defiance, then on Seungmin’s shaken expression, before settling back into unreadable calm.

“I’ve already made the arrangements,” Minseok said at last, his voice low, final, leaving no space for argument. “The Bahngs and I have spoken. This marriage will happen.”

Seungmin’s stomach dropped, fear and confusion twisting together until it was hard to breathe. He wanted to protest, to say this isn’t fair, but the words stayed locked inside him. The weight of his father’s decision pressed down, and all he could do was sit there, eyes fixed on the table, feeling smaller than he had in years.

Seokjin shifted slightly, his jaw tense as he finally leaned forward, breaking the thick silence. “Father,” he said, voice steady but edged with something rare, quiet defiance. “You should… rethink this. Carefully. You’re speaking about binding two families together, but what you’re really doing is breaking one apart from within.”

Minseok’s eyes flicked to him, hard and unblinking. Seokjin rarely spoke against him, and when he did, it carried more weight than the others realized. But before Minseok could answer, Seungmin, who had been staring at his own reflection in the polished table, with his hands balled into trembling fists, spoke up again.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried something raw. “If I were in your place, Dad…” Seungmin paused, swallowing hard, his throat dry. “I’d never force my children like this. Not when Joong already has someone he loves. Seven years— it’s not just a fling, Dad. it’s… it’s real.”

His voice cracked slightly at the end, not from weakness, but from the sheer ache in his chest. He looked at his father, eyes pleading, desperate for him to see sense.

Seungmin’s breath trembled as he finally lifted his head, meeting Minseok’s gaze with an unexpected steadiness. His voice was low, but it cut through the silence sharper than any outburst could.

“Father… no one asked Mr. Seojoon’s children,” Seungmin said, his tone calm but firm. “No one asked Hongjoong.” His fingers curled tighter into his palms, nails biting into skin, grounding him in the moment. “You’re not just negotiating with another family, you’re deciding lives. And in doing so… you’re hurting more than just two people.”

The words hung in the air, heavy. Hongjoong blinked at him, startled. Not at the content of the words, but at who they were coming from. Seungmin, the quiet one, the least likely to speak up in these meetings.

Seungmin drew in a deep breath, pressing on before his father could dismiss him. “I wouldn’t be saying this if Joong had no lover. If he were single, maybe this would just be duty, responsibility… the kind of things you always taught us to accept. But he’s not.” His eyes flicked briefly to Hongjoong, then back to Minseok, steady despite the fear swimming in them.

“He’s in love, and you know it. For seven years, you’ve known it. And still— you’d have him thrown into this for pride?” His voice caught slightly at the end, but he didn’t look away.

For a moment, Minseok simply studied him, expression carved in stone. The silence stretched so long that Seokjin shifted in his seat, glancing between his father and younger brother, wary of what would come next. Seungmin’s chest rose and fell unevenly, but he didn’t break. His words had left the room changed. Tense, fragile, and waiting.

“You care about your brothers this much, dear?”

The voice, smooth yet commanding, cut into the tense air. Every head turned sharply. Seungmin froze where he sat, his lips still parted from the words he had been about to say.

Across the room, Seojoon Bahng stood in the doorway, Chan just behind him.

Chan’s gaze swept over the room, lingering a moment on Hongjoong, then on Seungmin. His expression was taut, torn, caught somewhere between quiet anguish and the steel he was expected to wear. He didn’t speak, but his silence said enough. He hadn’t wanted to come in, yet here he was, dragged in by duty and by his father’s will.

Seojoon stepped forward with measured steps, each one filling the space with authority. His eyes fell upon Seungmin, and for the first time in hours, the youngest Kim found his hard-earned confidence faltering.

“It’s a good quality to have,” Seojoon said smoothly, almost warm, though his words were laced with calculation. “That you care for your brothers, that you’d raise your voice for them.” He let that sink in, his tone making it sound like a compliment, though the weight beneath it was far more dangerous. “But rest assured, we are not so cruel as to tie a man to my son while his heart already belongs elsewhere.”

Hongjoong’s head snapped up, hope and disbelief flickering across his features. Seokjin exhaled softly, as if in relief. But Seungmin’s chest tightened. He could already feel the next words forming in Seojoon’s mouth before they came.

Seojoon tilted his head, eyes narrowing on Seungmin with a strange softness. “Tell me, Seungmin… are you in love with someone, dear?”

The question struck the room into silence. Seungmin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His hands trembled faintly in his lap as he forced himself to answer, the truth catching in his chest.

“No— I don't… no.”

Seojoon’s smile deepened. Not kind, but triumphant. He leaned forward slightly, voice velvet and sharp.

“Then… are you willing to be my first son-in-law, son?”

The room seemed to shatter into silence.

Hongjoong’s eyes widened in horror. Seokjin stiffened, fists clenching on his knees. Chan’s head turned sharply toward his father, his entire body rigid, breath caught between protest and despair.

And Seungmin? Seungmin sat frozen, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his lips parted, but no sound came out.

Chapter Text

“Is this—” Minho’s voice cracked through the heavy silence of the room. “Is this what you told me to be prepared for?”

He stood near the edge of the bed, fists clenched, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His eyes burned, glossy, but he refused to let the tears fall. Not yet.

Chan, who had been leaning against the door a moment ago, stepped forward slowly, his voice soft, almost pleading.

“Minho, please— listen to me first.”

Minho snapped his head up, his expression sharp, wounded. “Listen? To what, Chan? That you’re getting married? That all the things we’ve built, all the things we’ve shared… it ends with a pretty bow because your father says so?”

Chan shook his head quickly, reaching out, but Minho stepped back, the distance between them almost tangible.

“It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” Minho’s voice rose, trembling with a mix of rage and heartbreak. “What do you want me to do now, huh? Congratulate you? Clap my hands and smile while I tell the world, ‘Oh, look, my boyfriend is getting married to someone else’? Tell me, Chan! What do you want from me?”

The question lingered in the air, sharp and cutting. Chan’s lips parted, but no answer came. His throat tightened, hands curled uselessly at his sides.

“Minho…” he whispered, stepping closer despite the invisible wall between them. “I don’t want this. You have to believe me. If I could tear all this down, if I could—”

“But you can’t, you won't,” Minho interrupted, his voice breaking this time. He sat down on the bed, leaning forward, hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles whitened. His head hung low, strands of hair falling over his face. “You can’t, Chan. And I’m the one left to live with it.”

Chan crouched in front of him, his heart pounding, his voice unsteady. “Min, I swear to you. I will find a way. I’m not letting them take this from us. Not you. Not us.”

Minho lifted his head then, eyes finally spilling over, a single tear sliding down his cheek. He laughed bitterly through it, the sound hollow.

“You always say that. You always promise. And then I’m the one who has to watch as they ship me away, lock me away, silence me, while you do what they want.”

Chan flinched at the truth in his words. He reached out again, hesitantly, brushing his fingers against Minho’s trembling hand.

“Please… Min, don’t give up on me. Not yet.”

Minho’s laugh was sharp, bitter, and it didn’t belong to him. It slipped past his lips like broken glass. “If so, tell me, Chan… what am I now? Huh?”

Chan blinked at him, stunned, unable to form words. Minho’s eyes glistened with fury and pain, his voice cracking but loud enough to echo off the walls.

“What do they say…? The other woman?” His chest heaved with each word. “Is that what I am to you now? That’s what you’ve made me.”

“Min... don’t—” Chan’s voice was soft, desperate, almost begging him to stop wounding himself like this.

“Don’t what?” Minho snapped, standing up so abruptly the bed behind him wobbled. “Don’t tell the truth? Don’t say out loud what we both know?!” His hands shook as he jabbed a finger against his own chest. “You’re their shining heir, their precious son, and I’m just the shadow you keep hidden. I’m nothing more than— than a secret whore you’re too afraid to lose.”

Chan’s throat tightened. He wanted to scream no, to tell Minho he was wrong, but the weight of silence pressed against his ribs. He couldn’t raise his voice. Not against Minho, not against his pain.

Minho’s laugh turned hollow, broken. “Tell me, Chan. Are you going to keep me here now like I’m your personal sex slave? The pet you run back to after they’re done parading you in front of the investors? Is that all I am to you?”

“Stop. Please, stop.” Chan’s voice cracked, his eyes wide, hands reaching, trembling. He moved forward, desperate, wrapping his arms around Minho’s waist, holding him tight. “You’re not that. You’ll never be that. You’re everything to me. Everything.”

But Minho’s body went stiff, his fury burning hotter than Chan’s embrace could soothe. With a sharp shove, Minho pushed him back, breaking free. His breathing came fast and uneven, his eyes shimmering with tears and fire all at once.

“Don’t touch me right now.” His voice shook, but it was iron-clad in its finality.

Chan froze, his arms falling uselessly to his sides. He didn’t move as Minho turned, his steps heavy and storm-like. The sound of his heels against the wooden floor was like thunder in the silence of the room.

Minho didn’t look back, not once. He stomped out, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Chan standing alone in the wreckage of his helplessness. His heart in pieces. His hands empty.

Minho stormed out, his chest rising and falling like he’d been running for hours. His eyes were glossy, his jaw tight enough to ache.

Hyunjin, who had been passing the hallway, barely had time to register before Minho collided into him with a hard shoulder.

“Hey, Minho—” Hyunjin’s voice caught, startled.

But Minho didn’t stop. He didn’t even look at him. His steps thundered down the hall, sharp and final, like he was trying to outrun something clawing at his chest. His figure grew smaller with every furious stomp until the sound of his shoes vanished into the silence of the house.

Hyunjin stood there, rooted, watching the space Minho had just torn through. His brows furrowed, lips pressed tight. For a moment he didn’t move, just let the weight of Minho’s rage and heartbreak settle like smoke in the hallway.

Then slowly, almost carefully, Hyunjin turned toward the open door. He lingered in the threshold before stepping inside.

Chan was still there, frozen in the middle of the room. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed, hands hanging useless at his sides. The raw ache in his face made him look smaller than Hyunjin had ever seen him.

He lingered by the door for a moment, unsure if stepping closer would shatter what little strength Chan was holding onto.

“Sir,” he said, softer this time, like he was afraid to break him. “Breathe, please. Just… breathe.”

Chan lifted his head slightly, eyes clouded and unfocused, as if Hyunjin’s voice had reached him from far away. His lips parted but no words came out. Hyunjin moved slowly, approaching with the quiet care of someone easing into a storm. He didn’t touch him. Instead, he stood close enough for Chan to feel he wasn’t alone.

“There’s…” Hyunjin hesitated, watching Chan’s face carefully, “there’s a message from the Kim’s side.” Chan blinked, sluggish, the words dragging him out of his haze. Hyunjin’s throat tightened before he finally said it. “Kim Seungmin… he said yes.”

The silence after was deafening.

Chan’s jaw clenched, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. His shoulders gave the faintest tremor, like the weight of it pressed too hard on his chest. 

He dragged in a shallow breath, then another.

But it sounded nothing like relief.

Minho stalked through the hallways, his footsteps echoing sharp and angry against the marble. His chest burned. But no matter how many turns he took, he couldn’t outrun the fire under his skin.

He thought about the balcony. The garden. Too exposed. The library. Too many ghosts of him and his loneliness in hushed corners. The music room. The gym. Too loud. Too cruelly ironic.

Every door he passed, every space he considered, none felt right. None felt safe.

Until his fist stilled before another door. 

He stared at the carved wood for a long time, his breath uneven, hands curling and uncurling at his sides. He hadn’t meant to come here. He hadn’t even thought of it. But his body had carried him anyway.

Before his mind could argue, his knuckles rapped against the door. Once. Twice. A third time, softer, hesitant, almost pleading.

Inside, silence. Then the faint rustle of movement. Minho exhaled shakily and pressed his forehead against the frame, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.

“Please, open.”

The knock on Jisung’s door had been soft, almost hesitant, but when he opened it and saw Minho standing there, he understood without a single word.

Minho looked undone. His shoulders taut as if carrying a weight too heavy, his eyes stormy and glistening, his lips pressed tight. He didn’t meet Jisung’s gaze.

Jisung didn’t ask what happened. Instead, he moved aside wordlessly, holding the door open a fraction wider. Minho stepped in like a man chasing air, the silence between them heavier than any explanation.

The room was dim, warm light spilling from the cracks of the curtain. Books were scattered across the table. Jisung quietly shut the door and walked to the small cabinet where a glass jug of water rested. The sound of the liquid being poured was soft, steady, almost soothing.

“Here,” Jisung said gently, extending the glass.

Minho shook his head, turning his face away. “I don’t want it.” His voice cracked, almost betraying him.

Jisung didn’t move the glass away. He simply stepped closer and placed it against Minho’s hand, steady but firm. His tone was low, even, with no room for refusal.

“Drink, Minho.”

Minho’s fingers twitched. For a moment, he looked like he would shove it back. But then his gaze flicked up, catching Jisung’s eyes. They were calm. Not pitying, not demanding. Just… steady. 

So he took the glass, and brought it to his lips. The water was cool, grounding, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the tightness in his chest ease. He drained half of it before lowering the glass.

Jisung quietly reached out, took the glass back, and refilled it halfway before setting it back on the desk. No commentary. No good job. Just a silent reminder that it was there if Minho needed it again.

Minho leaned against the edge of the desk, his palms flat against the wood, staring down at the grain. His breathing was uneven, his jaw clenched as if holding in the words threatening to break free.

Jisung didn’t push. He sank into the chair opposite, leaning back casually, his presence unassuming but solid. For a long while, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The silence wasn’t heavy, it was patient. It left Minho space to fall apart if he needed to, or gather himself if he chose to.

Minho finally exhaled, shaky and unsteady, running a hand through his hair. He glanced sideways at Jisung, who was sitting there with that maddening calmness, as if he’d been expecting this storm all along.

“You’re annoyingly quiet,” Minho muttered, his voice raw.

Jisung’s mouth twitched into the faintest of smiles, but he didn’t reply. He just gestured once toward the second glass of water, wordlessly reminding him.

Minho almost laughed. Bitter, broken. Then, he looked down at his own hands, fists curling tight. Jisung, careful, almost imperceptible, leaned forward. He reached out halfway, fingers brushing the air above Minho’s hair, but froze before making contact. His hand hovered there, suspended between want and restraint, before he slowly withdrew and folded it back into his lap.

Minho parted his lips, finally ready to speak, but Jisung’s voice came first, quiet, low, almost like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “I know,” Jisung said. His gaze was fixed on Minho, soft but unwavering. “It’s about Chan, isn’t it?”

Minho’s head snapped up, his expression a mixture of confusion and ache. “How…?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Jisung let out a small sigh, leaning back slightly. “Changbin told me,” he said simply.

For a moment, Minho’s composure cracked completely. He gripped the edge of the desk as if to steady himself, his knuckles whitening. “Then you know everything,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “You know what’s happening.”

Jisung didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to. Minho’s breath hitched. He blinked hard, but the tears he’d been holding back welled anyway, burning at the corners of his eyes. His voice came out raw, unsteady, breaking at every second word.

“What’s going to happen now, Jisung?” He shook his head, staring at the floor as if the answer might be written there. “I can’t—” he choked out, swallowing hard. “I can’t live like this. I love him so much. You don’t understand, I can’t live without him. I can’t.”

His body trembled with the force of the words, the confession spilling out in a rush that left him hollow. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to muffle the sob that broke free, his other hand fisting at his side.

Jisung’s chest tightened at the sight. He didn’t reach out, but his voice softened, almost a whisper. “Minho…”

Minho shook his head violently. “No. Don’t tell me it’ll be okay. Don’t tell me to wait. Don’t—”

But Jisung cut through the spiral with a quiet, steady certainty. “Chan will make everything right.”

Minho’s breath faltered at that. He lifted his eyes, meeting Jisung’s for the first time. There was no pity in them, no empty promises, just a quiet conviction that somehow, even in the mess, Chan wouldn’t let Minho fall.

Jisung’s voice was firmer now, though still soft. “He will. You know he will. We all know. Chan’s not the kind of person who leaves the people he loves behind.”

Minho’s shoulders shook as he exhaled, his tears spilling freely now, tracing down his cheeks. His hands, resting helplessly in his lap, wouldn’t stop trembling. His fingers twitched, curled, then loosened again as if even his body didn’t know what to cling to anymore.

Jisung noticed it. For a few seconds, he hesitated, his own hands hanging uselessly at his sides. He was never good at moments like this, never sure if stepping closer would heal or wound further. But watching Minho shake like that, it was unbearable.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Jisung lifted one hand and placed it gently over Minho’s. His palm was warm, steady, grounding. He didn’t say anything at first. He just let the weight of his touch settle, hoping it would be enough to anchor Minho, to remind him he wasn’t alone in the storm.

The reaction was immediate. At the first brush of contact, Minho’s lips trembled, and his breath hitched hard, as though that single act of kindness had been the final thread holding him together. His whole body gave in, breaking under the weight he’d been carrying.

Before Jisung could process, Minho surged forward, clutching at him, burying his face into Jisung’s shoulder with a sob that tore through the silence.

Jisung froze. Completely stunned, his arms hovered uselessly in the air for a heartbeat too long. He could feel Minho shaking against him, feel the rawness of his grief pressed so close, and it hit him with a force he hadn’t expected.

Then, carefully, Jisung’s arms came down. Hesitant at first, then firmer, wrapping around Minho’s back. He pulled him in, holding him close. One hand came up to the back of Minho’s head, his fingers threading lightly into his hair, the other rubbed slow, steady circles against his back.

“It’s alright…” Jisung whispered, his voice low, though he knew the words were just sound, not solutions. His hand kept patting softly, the rhythm steady.

Minho clung tighter, fists gripping the fabric of Jisung’s shirt like he was terrified to let go. His tears dampened the fabric, his sobs ragged and unrestrained now that the dam had broken. Each one seemed to shake through his entire frame, and Jisung just… held on.

For the first time, Jisung didn’t try to fill the silence with chatter, didn’t try to joke or distract. He just let Minho cry. Let him release every piece of the hurt he’d been swallowing down. The sound of Minho’s sobs tore at him, but he stayed, quiet and steady, his embrace firm but gentle.

Jisung tilted his chin down slightly, his cheek brushing the top of Minho’s head. “You don’t have to hold it in anymore,” he murmured softly. “Not with me.”

And in that dimly lit room, with Minho’s world collapsing around him, Jisung simply became the place where he could fall apart.

Without shame. Without judgment. Without fear.

The faint scrape of a chair being moved echoed through the stillness of the room, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as Chan slipped into his shirt. He adjusted his tie with steady hands, though his eyes betrayed him. Clouded, heavy, lined with exhaustion he hadn’t let anyone see.

Behind him, leaning casually against the dresser, Hyunjin stood with his arms folded, looking like he belonged in another world entirely. Crisp, composed, his expression unreadable, sharp features softened only by the way the sunlight brushed across them.

Chan studied him through the mirror for a moment. Then, with a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he looked at his secretary.

“You look too cool for a situation like this.”

Hyunjin scoffed softly, one corner of his lips tugging up in something between humor and disbelief. “What do you want me to do, sir?” he replied lightly, his tone casual. “Pace around the room, cursing the world over something neither of us has any control over?”

Chan huffed a short laugh at that. An almost reluctant sound that cracked through the heaviness in his chest for only a second. He shook his head, pulling at his cuffs to straighten them. But then, instead of turning back to the mirror, he turned fully, meeting Hyunjin’s gaze directly.

His eyes searched his secretary’s face, serious now, the faint humor from a moment ago gone.

“And if you were in my place?” Chan asked quietly. “What would you be doing?”

The question hung heavy in the air, heavier than Chan had intended. His tone wasn’t accusing, nor was it rhetorical. It was weary, vulnerable, an admission that he didn’t have all the answers.

For a heartbeat, Hyunjin didn’t respond. His expression flickered, the easy mask of composure slipping ever so slightly as he regarded Chan with something deeper, something harder to name. But still, Hyunjin held himself steady, eyes lowering for just a moment before returning to Chan’s.

He didn’t answer right away. Because he knew whatever he said would matter.

Finally, Hyunjin spoke, his tone low and steady. “Yes.”

The single word seemed to catch the air, cutting through the stillness. Chan blinked, almost as if he hadn’t expected an answer at all, or perhaps not that one.

“Yes?” he repeated, his brows furrowing, searching Hyunjin’s face for something. Guilt, hesitation, doubt, anything that would make the answer easier to hear.

Hyunjin didn’t give him any. His gaze was calm, unflinching. “If I were in your place,” he said slowly, “I would say yes. I would marry Kim Seungmin.”

Chan let out a small, disbelieving scoff, half laugh and half ache. He leaned back against the dresser, crossing his arms. “Even if you already had someone?” His tone wasn’t sharp, just… tired. He sounded more curious than hurt, but there was something brittle underneath it.

Hyunjin’s lips curved in a faint, rueful smile. “Yes,” he said again, almost too easily.

“Why?” Chan stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

Hyunjin inhaled, glancing briefly at the floor before meeting Chan’s gaze once more. “Because business doesn’t stop for love, sir,” he said quietly, every word deliberate. “Because alliances like these... they don’t come twice. Because Kim Minseok isn’t the kind of man you make wait. And because your father,” he hesitated, his tone softening only slightly, “your father is the kind of man who doesn’t forget disobedience.”

Chan didn’t move, didn’t even breathe for a moment. He was listening. Not as a superior, but as someone looking for something to hold onto. A piece of reason, a way to justify the chaos in his own heart.

Hyunjin took a slow step closer, his voice firm but even. “If it were me, I would've talked to both Minho and Seungmin. About the situation. And then, do what must be done. I would’ve done it for stability. For protection. For the company. For the thousands of people whose lives depend on it. That’s what I would tell myself. That I wasn’t giving up love, I was just… choosing what mattered more.”

The words hit harder than either of them expected. Chan scoffed softly under his breath, shaking his head, a sad smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So it’s money that’s important to you, huh?”

Hyunjin’s eyes flickered. Not offended, not ashamed. He met Chan’s gaze head-on. “Yes,” he said again, steady as before. “Money. Stability. Call it whatever you like, sir.” He took another small step forward, his expression unreadable. “And you know that better than anyone else, don’t you?”

Chan’s smile faded. His throat tightened, a bitter taste crawling up his chest as he realized Hyunjin wasn’t wrong. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was sharp, reflective.

Finally, Hyunjin exhaled softly, glancing toward the window. “You asked me what I’d do if I were in your place,” he said, voice low. “That’s my answer. It’s not what’s right… it’s just what survives.”

And with that, he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeve, regaining his usual composed air, as if the conversation had never happened.

Then, Hyunjin quietly reached for the suit jacket draped across the chair. His movements were calm, almost ceremonious, as he brushed the faintest wrinkle from the fabric before helping Chan into it. The room was quiet, save for the faint whisper of fabric against fabric and the distant hum of the busy life outside.

Chan didn’t speak as Hyunjin adjusted the collar, smoothing it against Chan’s shoulders, his fingers precise and practiced. Then, his voice broke the silence. Low, even, almost careful.

“If you want me to say something that’ll soothe you…” Hyunjin began, pausing to fix the line of Chan’s tie. Chan lifted his eyes to the mirror, watching Hyunjin’s reflection as he worked. The younger met that gaze in the glass for a brief moment, steady, unflinching, then gently turned Chan by the shoulders to face the reflection fully.

Taking a small step back, Hyunjin cleared his throat  “Marrying Kim Seungmin means you’ll get rid of the dangers that are waiting for Minho.”

Chan’s hands froze where they were adjusting his cufflinks. Hyunjin continued, his voice calm, the tone of a man explaining something inevitable. “The public will stop looking for the mysterious partner of the Bahng heir. They’ll stop searching, stop speculating. The attention will shift. To Seungmin. And to the world, it’ll make sense.”

Chan’s jaw tightened slightly, his reflection catching the flicker of conflict in his eyes. Hyunjin’s words didn’t stop. “And Kim Seungmin… he’s from a powerful family. A clean reputation, well-liked, well-mannered. You get stability, and your father gets the alliance he’s been craving.” He adjusted the lapel once more, as if to punctuate his thought. “It’s a double win for us.”

The word us lingered in the air.

Chan looked at himself in the mirror. Hyunjin standing just behind him, their eyes meeting for the briefest heartbeat in the reflection. His expression softened, ever so slightly. The logic made sense. The cold reasoning had its truth.

For the first time that morning, Chan exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

His shoulders relaxed by a fraction, his lips pressing into a thin, reluctant line. It wasn’t comfort, not exactly, but something in Hyunjin’s tone, in his steadiness, anchored him.

“Right,” Chan murmured finally, his voice quiet. “A double win.”

Hyunjin gave a small nod, stepping back just enough to let the moment settle. Chan adjusted his cuff again, eyes fixed on the reflection of his own face. The man staring back looked composed. Controlled. Prepared.

But behind that calm… the faintest trace of resignation lingered in his gaze.

Chan slipped his watch onto his wrist, fastening it with the same precision that marked every part of his day.

His voice came out level, businesslike, but a shade quieter than usual. “Check Kim Seungmin’s schedule for today,” he said as he adjusted his tie once more, the words more a command than a request.

Hyunjin blinked at him in disbelief before letting out a soft huff of laughter. “His... schedule?” he repeated, the corners of his lips twitching. “Sir, the youngest Kim is a university student. They don’t have schedules like us. No meetings, no press briefings, no mergers.” He stood with an amused tilt to his head. “Their days probably revolve around skipping lectures and pretending coffee counts as a meal.”

Chan shot him a mildly unimpressed look through the mirror, but Hyunjin continued anyway, clearly unbothered. “Though…” he added, straightening slightly, “Kim Seungmin does have something of a routine. He practices baseball every Sunday and Wednesday at the Haneul Athletics Club.”

Chan paused mid-motion, the faintest flicker of interest crossing his face. “Every Sunday and Wednesday?” he asked, tone even but his eyes thoughtful.

Hyunjin nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Without fail, from what I know. Rain or shine.”

Chan turned fully toward him now, his brows knitting slightly as if aligning thoughts into place. “What day is it today?”

Hyunjin checked his watch with mock ceremony, though his tone remained soft. “Wednesday.”

For a moment, silence. Only the faint ticking of Chan’s wristwatch filled the space between them. Chan’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened, just slightly. Purpose beginning to return to where uncertainty had been.

Hyunjin caught it immediately and sighed through his nose, almost smiling to himself. “You’re thinking something,” he muttered.

Chan reached for his coat, his movements smooth, deliberate. “Maybe,” he said simply, brushing past him toward the door.

Hyunjin followed a step behind, straightening his own jacket as he muttered under his breath,

“Of course. It’s always maybe with you.”

The faint hum of the espresso machine filled the small, cozy space of Jisung’s condo. He stood in front of the machine, sleeves pushed up, moving with exaggerated precision, like a barista performing in a grand café instead of a quiet apartment. He picked up the coffee beans and poured them into the grinder with a flourish that was almost comical.

“Now,” he began, his tone serious, “the secret to good coffee is all about energy transfer. If you’re mad, the beans know. So, you have to treat them gently. Tell them they’re loved.”

Minho, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his arms folded, gave a low, disbelieving huff through his nose. His eyes were still puffy from the night before, his face caught between exhaustion and fury, but the smallest ghost of a smile flickered there for a moment.

Jisung looked over his shoulder, and caught it. He smirked. “See? It’s working already. Step one of healing. Make fun of the process.” He tapped the side of the grinder twice, dramatically sniffed the freshly ground coffee, and sighed. “Perfect. Notes of despair, heartbreak, and a hint of roasted hazelnut.”

Minho’s lip twitched. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Professional idiot,” Jisung corrected smoothly, moving on to pour water into the kettle. “Now, while this boils, we reflect. Step two of emotional recovery. Pretend your life is a cooking show and you’re the only contestant who hasn’t cried on camera yet.”

That made Minho look up fully, a reluctant laugh shaking loose from his chest. It was small, rough around the edges, but it was real.

Jisung turned back toward him then, leaning casually against the counter. “Hey,” he said softly, the humor fading but warmth lingering in his tone, “Just… breathe. Coffee helps with that.”

Minho didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tightened around the mug Jisung had placed in front of him earlier. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

“You’re really... really bad at comforting people, you know that?”

Jisung smiled faintly, setting the steaming mug down beside him. “Yeah,” he said, “but I make good coffee.”

The kettle clicked off, the sound sharp and grounding. Jisung poured slowly, the liquid swirling and dark. The aroma filled the room. Warm, bitter, and strangely steadying.

When he slid the mug across the table, Minho took it without another word. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was soft, filled with the quiet clinks of porcelain. And though Minho’s heart still ached, there was a small ease in the air now.

Something human. Fragile, but real.

Jisung leaned forward on the counter, elbows propped up, watching Minho take the first sip like he was awaiting a Michelin-star review.

“Well?” he asked, eyebrows lifting expectantly.

Minho swallowed, the faintest hum leaving his throat. “Hmm... it’s good,” he said at last, noncommittal but sincere enough.

Jisung grinned, satisfied. “Of course it is. I told you, professional bodyguard and professional barista. I’m a man of many trades.”

Minho set the mug down, a teasing glint beginning to peek through his still-tired eyes.

“Hmm,” he mused, tapping the rim. “It’s good, but… I make better.”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“I make better coffee,” Minho repeated, leaning back with a straight face.

“Oh really?” Jisung scoffed, mock offense dripping from his tone. “You?" he gasped. “Lies! Defamation! I should sue.”

Minho smirked, a flicker of his usual sharp humor sneaking back in. “For what? Emotional damage from being told you make bad coffee?”

“Oh, no no,” Jisung said, pointing at him with a wooden stirrer like a weapon. “For slander against a certified artist. This,” he gestured dramatically toward the mug, “isn’t coffee. It’s liquid poetry.”

Minho snorted. “Tastes like caffeine and arrogance.”

“Exactly,” Jisung said proudly, “my signature flavor.”

That finally made Minho laugh. A full, unrestrained sound that filled the little kitchen and lingered longer than either of them expected. Jisung froze mid-sentence, watching him. The way Minho’s shoulders shook, the faint light returning to his eyes, it was the first real spark of life since everything fell apart.

When the laughter died down, Minho shook his head, still smiling faintly. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Of course,” Jisung said softly, shrugging. “But hey… at least I got you to laugh. That’s my real talent.”

Minho’s expression gentled, the playfulness fading into quiet gratitude. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Jisung said enough.

Thank you.

Jisung just nodded, reaching for his own cup. “So,” he said, pretending to be casual again, “next time, when free and got nothing else to do, you’re making the coffee. Let’s see if you can back up all that bragging.”

Minho chuckled, lifting his mug for another sip. “Deal. But don’t cry when mine’s better.”

“Oh, please,” Jisung huffed, grinning, “I’ll be too busy suing you for stealing my recipe.”

They laughed. And for the first time since that morning, the world didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Hyunjin had his phone pressed to his ear, the other hand buried in his pocket, voice low and easy as he walked a few steps forward along the garden.

“Yeah, I’ll pick him up,” Hyunjin said, tone casual but edged with that faint drawl that came when he was half amused. “Class ends at two today, right?”

A pause. And then, Changbin’s voice came muffled through the line. Hyunjin huffed a soft laugh. “I know, I know, I was supposed to go yesterday, but Chan needed me, remember?” His eyes shifted to the ground, then absently to the ripples of water in the fountain nearby. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry. Innie’s my responsibility today.”

He adjusted his sleeve, phone still at his ear, and began pacing again. “Yeah, I’ll bring him straight home,” he added after a moment. “Tell him not to disappear halfway to the parking lot this time. If I have to go looking for him again, I’m leaving him there.”

Changbin said something that made Hyunjin’s lips curve faintly. “Yeah, yeah, you can tell him I said that.” And just as his laughter faded, his gaze flicked upward, caught by movement.

Felix was on the balcony above, leaning against the railing. The sunlight poured over him like liquid gold, catching the strands of his hair, making his skin glow. He wasn’t smiling. Just watching. Silent.

For a heartbeat, Hyunjin froze mid-step. He didn’t look away immediately, but the faintest shift crossed his face. That soft, careful mask he wore when something stirred deeper than he wanted to admit.

“Mm,” he murmured absently to Changbin, eyes still on Felix. “No, it’s fine. I’m just heading out.”

Then, as if remembering himself, Hyunjin turned away. The corners of his lips curved into a faintly mischievous smile, the kind that looked effortless but carried more purpose than it showed.

“Yeah, I’ll call you when I get him,” he said, his voice smoothing back into that practiced calm. “See you.”

He hung up, slipped the phone into his pocket. And without looking back at the balcony, he started toward the corridor that led into the mansion.

Felix’s fingers gripped the railing as he leaned over the balcony edge, eyes scanning the lawn below where Hyunjin had stood just moments ago. The faint echo of Hyunjin’s voice from his call still lingered in the air, smooth, low, and frustratingly calm.

Now the lawn was empty.

The breeze carried the faint rustle of trees, but the man he’d been watching was gone. Felix’s gaze searched anyway, eyes darting across the garden, his expression soft but restless.

A shadow passed behind him. Quiet steps, the sound of polished shoes against marble.

“Looking for something?”

Felix startled, spinning halfway around, only to find Hyunjin standing a few feet away, hands in pockets, head tilted slightly with that unreadable expression. His tone was casual, teasing, but his eyes flickered with something Felix couldn’t quite ignore.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The sunlight from the open glass doors framed Hyunjin in gold, and Felix, still catching his breath, turned away sharply. His expression shuttered, jaw tightening, lips pressing into a flat line. Hyunjin took a few unhurried steps closer, the faintest amusement tugging at his mouth.

“Were you looking for someone?” he asked, again, voice smooth as ever. “I can call them here if you want.”

“I don't need your help. And,” Felix didn’t turn around. “I don’t want to talk,” he said flatly.

“Mmhm,” Hyunjin hummed, folding his arms. “You sure? You looked pretty determined a minute ago.”

Felix’s shoulders tensed. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I said,” he muttered, “I don’t wanna talk to someone who said they wouldn’t fight for me.”

The words fell between them like a slow, deliberate blade. Not loud, but heavy. For a moment, Hyunjin didn’t move. His brow lifted slightly, his expression unreadable. Then he tilted his head, studying Felix as if weighing the sharpness of that confession.

“Is that what this is about?” Hyunjin asked quietly, tone light but the air around him not quite matching. “You’re still mad about that?”

Felix turned finally, eyes meeting his, and there it was. The storm that had been building since the meeting, since the words Hyunjin had said on those stairs.

His chest rose and fell with the kind of breath that hurt to hold. “You could’ve lied,” he said. “You could’ve said something. Anything. You don't have to be so damn straight always.”

Hyunjin’s gaze softened, just barely, but his voice stayed steady. “I don’t lie to you, Felix.”

Felix scoffed under his breath and turned away again, staring at the floor this time. The silence stretched between them, thin but unbreakable, like a thread neither dared to pull. Hyunjin’s brow furrowed slightly as he watched the younger man’s shoulders tremble faintly with a held-in breath. He wanted to reach out, to say something that would undo that look, but the words never came.

Instead, he just stood there, hands slipping back into his pocket. “You really don’t make it easy, do you?”

Felix didn’t answer. Didn’t look back. But the corner of his mouth twitched, like the beginning of a response he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. And Hyunjin, just for a second, let his own guard falter. His eyes softened as he opened his mouth to respond. Maybe to explain, maybe to say something that would break the tension finally, but the sharp buzz of his phone cut through the heavy silence between them.

He glanced at the screen, his jaw flexing once before he sighed and answered. “Yeah?” His tone shifted, lower, steadier, the way it always did when duty stepped between emotions. He began walking away, so slowly, his voice carrying slightly across the open balcony as he paced. “Yeah, I’m going to pick him,” he said, his back to Felix, lips pulling up in a mischievous grin. “Yeah… I’ll go alone. I’ll manage it.”

That word, alone, echoed faintly.

Felix, still standing where Hyunjin had left him, blinked slowly. His brows furrowed, the smallest crease forming between them as if he was trying to calculate something in his head. His lips pressed together, the defiance fading into thought.

When Hyunjin picked up his pace, phone still in hand, Felix was suddenly there, closer than before, steps quiet but sure.

“I’ll go with you,” Felix said.

Hyunjin paused, lowering his phone. His brow arched slightly. “Didn’t you just say you don’t want to talk to me?”

Felix crossed his arms, refusing to meet his eyes. “I did,” he muttered, a stubborn flicker in his voice. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t take a ride with you.”

“Do you even know where I'm going?”

“Don' care.”

For a heartbeat, Hyunjin just looked at him, expression unreadable, like he was deciding whether to laugh or sigh. Then, very subtly, the corner of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t a full smile, just that quiet, familiar glint Felix had seen before, the one that softened Hyunjin’s whole face without him realizing.

“Fine,” Hyunjin said finally, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Come along then. But don’t expect me to turn up the music for you.”

Felix shrugged, pretending to stay indifferent. “No need. I’ll talk enough for both of us.”

Hyunjin huffed a quiet laugh as he started walking ahead, not turning back, but the small, pleased expression lingering on his face said enough.

Behind him, Felix followed, his steps lighter than before, his earlier anger dimming under the strange, familiar comfort that always came when Hyunjin was near.

The field stretched wide under the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. The kind of glow that made everything look almost cinematic. The clack of the bat meeting the ball sliced through the quiet air, sharp and clean, echoing across the empty stands.

Seungmin stood tall near the base, his grip on the bat steady, his movements smooth with the practiced rhythm of someone who didn’t just play. He belonged here.

The guards stationed near the edges of the field were silent, their eyes following the arc of the ball as it soared high before landing somewhere deep in the outfield net.

Seungmin exhaled slowly, lowering the bat, his chest rising and falling in calm, measured breaths. Sweat glimmered faintly along his neck, catching in the sunlight as he rolled his shoulders once and picked up another ball.

This wasn’t just practice. It looked like muscle memory sculpted over years. The way he twisted his wrist mid-swing, the smooth follow-through, the small, focused frown he wore before every hit. There was a quiet kind of intensity about him, not aggressive, but disciplined. The sort of calm confidence that came from knowing exactly what you were doing.

A breeze swept through the field, carrying with it the scent of grass and the faint rustle of the netting. Seungmin pushed his hair back, a few strands sticking to his forehead, then bent to pick up the next ball.

Another swing.

Another perfect hit.

The sound echoed again, this time followed by a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t the loud, boastful type; his pride lived in quiet victories like this. In the rhythm of his hands, the precision of his aim, the way the world seemed to narrow down to the ball, the bat, and the beat of his own heart.

At a distance, one of the guards murmured to another, “Master doesn’t even look like he’s trying.”

And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe for Seungmin, this was ease. A place away from expectations, away from meetings and business talk. Here, he was just a player chasing a perfect hit, not a Kim heir weighed down by alliances and family deals.

He took another stance, eyes narrowing on the ball, the faintest ghost of a smile lingering as he whispered something under his breath. Maybe a count, maybe a promise, before the next swing cut through the air again.

The ball flew higher this time. 

Seungmin turned mid-swing, the bat resting easily on his shoulder. “So tell me, Mr. Bang Christopher Chan,” the formal name rolled off his tongue with a teasing edge, “why are you here?”

Chan stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, a hesitant smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. The wind tugged lightly at his hair, and for a second, he looked less like the composed strategist everyone knew and more like someone unsure of where to begin.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Chan said finally, his tone calm but searching. “About why you said yes.”

The bat dropped from Seungmin’s shoulder and hit the ground with a muted thud. His expression didn’t change, but there was a brief pause, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he looked away, reaching down to pick up the ball at his feet.

“Because my father told me to,” he said simply. No drama, no hesitation. Just fact.

He tossed a ball in the air, caught it, then tossed it again, as if the motion helped keep something steadier than his voice.

Chan frowned, stepping closer. “That’s it? Just because he told you to?”

Seungmin smirked faintly, eyes still fixed on the ball as he let it fall and caught it one last time. “You sound disappointed. Were you expecting a grand speech about destiny or loyalty?”

“That’s not—” Chan exhaled sharply, stopping himself. “I just thought you wouldn’t agree to something like this unless you wanted it.”

Seungmin looked up then, straight at him, eyes calm. Almost too calm. “You think I ever get to want anything, Christopher?” The words weren’t bitter; they were simply true. He gave a soft, humorless laugh. “My father made it clear. Either I join this alliance… or I become the reason it falls apart.”

He turned away again, adjusting his grip on the bat, his voice quieter now but sharp around the edges. “So I said yes. Simple math.”

Chan was silent for a moment, watching him. The way Seungmin stood, all composure and calculation, but his knuckles had gone white around the bat’s handle.

“You could’ve said no,” Chan said softly.

Seungmin looked at him, a small, crooked smile forming, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “And you could’ve pretended not to care.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint rustle of wind across the field.

Then Seungmin turned back to the plate, shoulders relaxing. “Now, if you’re done interrogating me, mind stepping back? You’re standing right in the swing zone, and I’d rather not hit my future husband... oops, my bad. My future business partner in the head.”

Chan huffed a small laugh, but there was something thoughtful, almost conflicted, behind it. “Fine. But we’re not done talking about this.”

Seungmin grinned, lifting the bat again. “Sure, Christopher. You can schedule an appointment with this university student.”

He swung. Another perfect hit.

The ball arced far into the field, and he straightened, the follow-through smooth, natural. He didn’t even watch where it landed. Instead, he turned back to Chan, his expression shifting from playful to something softer, more deliberate.

“See,” Seungmin began, resting the bat lightly against his shoulder again, “you’re going to win a jackpot if you agree to marry me.”

Chan blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden turn of tone.

“I know you’re in a relationship.”

For a heartbeat, Chan went perfectly still.

Seungmin caught the reaction, and a small, knowing scoff escaped him. “Mirrors exist, you know. Get one, and look at yourself.” He gestured vaguely to Chan’s immaculate clothes, his sharp but tired eyes. “A man like you, powerful, attractive, and single? The world would have to be blind for that to happen.”

Chan’s mouth parted slightly, as if to argue, but Seungmin didn’t give him the space.

“Besides,” he continued, rolling the bat slowly in his fingers, “Jin, my brother Seokjin... he told me. He said he saw someone around your age with you. At the auction. Clinging. So I made an assumption.” His eyes flicked up to Chan’s face again, catching every flicker of his expression. “And you’re not denying it, which says enough.”

Chan’s throat tightened. “What are you trying to say, Seungmin?”

Seungmin planted the bat firmly into the dirt and leaned on it like it was a walking cane. His gaze held Chan’s steadily now, unblinking, his voice low and steady.

“Let’s make a deal,” Seungmin said. “Freedom in exchange for freedom.”

Chan frowned slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Seungmin straightened, letting go of the bat, his hands sliding into his jacket pockets as though he were back in a boardroom instead of on a field. “I’m okay with you being in a relationship even after we’re married. Only if you agree to let me live my life the way I please after the marriage.”

Chan’s brows furrowed, his lips parting as the weight of the words settled.

“You’d… be okay with that?” he asked slowly.

Seungmin gave a small, humorless smile. “I’m not stupid. This marriage isn’t about love. It’s about power, protection, leverage. We both know that.” He tilted his head slightly, his tone soft but pointed. “I get that you’ve got someone who matters to you. You get that I won’t be someone’s ornamental spouse.”

He stepped closer, his eyes sharpening even as his tone stayed calm. “I’ll stand next to you, I’ll smile for cameras, I’ll play the part. And you let me live my life outside it. That’s the deal. Tempting, isn't it?”

The wind tugged at Chan’s coat, but he barely felt it. Seungmin’s words landed like cold water. Blunt, unflinching, and strangely freeing.

“You’re making it sound like—” Chan began, but Seungmin cut in softly.

“I’m making it sound like what it is.” He paused, then added with a flicker of wry amusement, “You can’t deny it’s a good deal, Christopher. We get what we need. We both get to keep breathing.”

For the first time since stepping on the field, Chan felt the ground shift under him. A plan he’d been piecing together suddenly rearranged by someone else’s calm precision.

Seungmin bent, picked up the ball again, and tossed it lightly into the air. “Think about it,” he said, catching it with one hand, his voice gone almost casual. “Freedom for freedom. It’s not like either of us is walking into this for romance anyway.”

Minho huffed a laugh, small, tired, but genuine. “Okay, don’t judge, but… last week I tried spicy ramen with strawberry jam.”

Jisung froze mid-sip of his water. “You... what?”

Minho lifted his chin, defensive. “It wasn’t that bad! Sweet and spicy. I was experimenting.”

“Experimenting or suffering?” Jisung asked, eyes narrowing playfully.

Minho let out a soft chuckle. “Fine, maybe a little of both. But you know what’s actually good? Kimchi with peanut butter.”

“Eww.” Jisung blinked at him in slow disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I’m serious!” Minho said, eyes widening with mock offense. “Try it once. It’s salty, nutty, tangy, complex flavor profile. I should’ve been a chef.”

“Or a hazard to humanity,” Jisung murmured into his cup, hiding his smile.

Minho rolled his eyes, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, come on. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve eaten then?”

Jisung hummed in thought. “Hmm… probably cereal with cold coffee instead of milk.”

Minho stared. “Hah… you can’t judge me anymore.”

“Hey, it was in college!” Jisung said, laughing now, a bright, warm sound that filled the cozy little living room.

Minho chuckled along, his earlier heaviness slowly thinning, replaced by the quiet comfort of being listened to, of having someone who didn’t rush him, didn’t demand an explanation, just… existed there beside him.

Jisung leaned back on the couch, smiling faintly. “You know, you should start a cooking vlog for cursed recipes. I’d subscribe just to see you suffer.”

Minho gave him a soft glare that didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes, for the first time that night, weren’t filled with pain. They held light again.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Obviously,” Jisung said, smirking, “someone has to keep you entertained till you stop making tragic life choices.”

Minho’s laugh came a little louder this time, hoarse but real. He didn’t notice the way Jisung’s shoulders relaxed at the sound, or how Jisung’s gaze lingered on him, quietly relieved that the storm in him had eased, even just for a moment.

Minho leaned forward, resting his chin on the cushion, a mischievous glint replacing the earlier sorrow in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, his voice lighter now, almost teasing. “You got instant ramen here?”

Jisung blinked, mid-sip of his coffee again. “Yeah… I think so. Why?”

Minho’s smirk widened, that trademark, dangerous little curve of his lips that always spelled trouble. “Go check.”

“Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?” Jisung muttered, setting his cup down.

“Because you are,” Minho replied, leaning back against the couch with mock innocence.

Jisung squinted suspiciously. “What do you plan to do with the ramen, exactly?”

Minho shrugged, pretending to think. “Just… make something.”

“That’s too vague,” Jisung said flatly. 

“Just trust me,” Minho said, his tone a little too confident to be trusted. “Go on, check.”

Jisung crossed his arms. “You’re planning to combine it with something cursed again, aren’t you? What’s it this time? Ice cream? Soy milk? … Toothpaste?”

Minho chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You’re close.”

Jisung stared at him, horrified. “No. Don’t tell me—”

“Jam,” Minho said simply, smirking wider now.

Jisung groaned. “Of course. Of course. Why did I even ask?”

“Come on, you'll love it.” Minho teased, leaning a bit to bump his shoulder against Jisung’s arm.

“I love peace and functioning taste buds,” Jisung deadpanned, but he was already standing, heading toward the kitchen with a resigned sigh. “If I find strawberry jam in my fridge, I’m blaming you for everything that happens next.”

“You’ll thank me later,” Minho called after him, voice carrying a touch of laughter that hadn’t been there before. Soft, unguarded, healing.

Before either could say anything further, a familiar voice came from the other side of the door. Steady, low, and instantly recognizable.

“Min?”

The sound of Chan’s voice froze the air.

The faint humor that had been dancing in Minho’s eyes just seconds ago vanished, replaced by something heavier, colder. His jaw tightened, and he turned his face slightly away, trying to mask the flicker of emotion that crossed it.

Jisung looked at him, and saw the way Minho’s fingers curled into a fist against his knee, the muscle in his cheek twitching once. That quiet drop of expression was louder than shouting.

Another knock came. “Minho… it’s me.”

Jisung hesitated as he moved. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a few seconds longer than it should’ve. He glanced back at Minho, who didn’t move, didn’t say a word. His eyes were fixed on the far wall, the earlier softness gone completely.

Jisung’s voice lowered to something gentle. “I’ll get it.”

He opened the door, and there stood Chan, shoulders tense, eyes tired but searching. For a split second, Chan’s gaze darted past Jisung, landing on Minho sitting by the couch, and something unreadable flickered in both their faces.

Jisung, standing in the middle of it, felt that invisible line of tension wrap around the room, stretched so tight it might snap with a word.

He cleared his throat softly. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be outside,” he said quietly, glancing between the two. Then his eyes lingered on Chan, and he gave a small, understanding nod, a silent reassurance.

Chan gave a faint nod back, almost grateful.

Without another word, Jisung slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click, leaving Chan and Minho alone in the thick silence that immediately followed.

Chan stood by the small kitchen counter for a few seconds, his hand hesitating over the glass of water Jisung had left there. The air between them was too still. Not heavy, but… fragile. Like one sudden movement might break it.

He took the glass anyway, testing its temperature with a thumb before carrying it over. The faint sound of the water shifting in the glass was the only thing filling the room.

Minho sat on the edge of the couch, arms loosely crossed, gaze fixed on the coffee table. There were two mugs there. One still half full, and the faint smell of instant coffee and laughter that didn’t quite make it to the present.

Chan placed the glass on the table softly. “Can we talk?”

Minho blinked once, the question cutting through the quiet. He swallowed hard and nodded, a short, quiet motion, not exactly agreeing, but not pushing away either.

Chan sat across from him, his posture unsure for once, hands resting on his knees. He took a slow breath, eyes lowered before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone steady but stripped of everything else. No business voice, no calm authority, just Chan. “I’m sorry you had to go through all this. The meetings, my father, the marriage thing… you didn’t deserve to be caught in it.”

The faintest sound of breath left Minho. Not quite a sigh, more like the air he’d been holding too long. He looked at the glass of water, then back at Chan. His fingers fidgeted once, then stilled.

After a beat, his voice came out softer than expected. “I’m sorry too,” Minho said, and it came with a small, exhausted chuckle that wasn’t quite humor. “For yelling. For walking out. For not letting you talk.”

Chan looked up then, surprise flickered across his face for a moment before softening into something gentler.

Minho’s eyes, though still tired, weren’t as sharp as before. The fury that had burned in them earlier was now replaced with something calmer, reflective, like he’d been pulled away from the storm and forced to sit down with it.

He ran a hand through his hair, a tiny smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “Jisung, the one you chose for me... made me drink water like I was dying of dehydration,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. “Then he started talking about coffee beans and boiling points like it was the most serious thing in the world.”

Chan’s lips twitched. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah.” Minho let out a small, real laugh this time. Quiet, short, but real. The sound softened the edges of the tension still sitting between them. “He didn’t even say much. Just… sat there. Talked. It helped, I guess.”

Chan leaned back, watching him quietly, seeing how the tightness in Minho’s shoulders had eased, how his expression, though still carrying traces of hurt, wasn’t hardened anymore.

There was something unspoken in the way Minho’s eyes flicked up for a second and then down again, like maybe, even through all the chaos, Jisung’s small warmth had steadied him enough to sit here without breaking.

Chan finally exhaled, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees again. “Then... I should thank him,” he said quietly.

Minho’s lips curved faintly. Tired, but peaceful. “You should.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the same anymore. It was the kind that could breathe.

Chan shifted slightly closer, elbows resting on his knees again, searching Minho’s face carefully, as if he were testing the waters of a fragile truce.

“So…” he started, voice low but lighter than before, “are we good now?”

Minho’s gaze lifted, steady but still cautious. He didn’t answer right away, eyes flicking to the side as if weighing the question.

“If you’re going to fix this mess,” his tone carried the faintest hint of warning beneath its softness. “then yes, we’re good.”

Chan let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The kind that left a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Relief. Quiet but visible.

“Okay,” he said, almost whispering, as if afraid saying it too loud might shatter the calm they’d found. He leaned back slightly, shoulders easing, and after a moment, his eyes met Minho’s again with something more alive in them, something like hope trying to rebuild. “Then go somewhere with me,” Chan said.

Minho blinked, brows lifting a little. He didn’t ask where. He just stared at his lover, expression unreadable but curious. His eyes, however, spoke what he didn't. 

Chan caught it and smiled. Soft, a little tired, but sincere. “I want you to meet someone,” he said quietly.

Minho tilted his head slightly, suspicion and curiosity flickering across his face in equal measure. Chan didn’t explain, not yet. He simply stood, offered a hand for Minho to take, and smiled gently. 

“Trust me this once.”

Chapter Text

“Why are we here?” Minho asked, his voice low, eyes scanning the place with mild suspicion.

The restaurant was wrapped in a golden glow, not the harsh kind of brightness, but the gentle, expensive kind that softened everything it touched. Amber light spilled from chandeliers, their reflections shimmering off the glassware. The air hummed faintly with the muted rhythm of a jazz piano drifting from somewhere in the corner. A faint scent of roasted herbs and citrus floated through the air, mixing with the soft clinking of cutlery and murmured conversation.

Minho’s fingers brushed against the tablecloth. Satin. Heavy, perfectly pressed. His gaze wandered to the walls where framed art hung, minimal yet calculated, and then to the view, tall windows stretching out toward the city’s skyline.

Across from him, Chan sat back against the cushioned chair, his posture carefully composed. But his fingers drummed lightly against the table, a small giveaway of the tension that lingered beneath.

Minho narrowed his eyes. “Chan,” he said again, his tone slower this time, “why are we here?”

Chan’s gaze lifted, meeting Minho's. “Someone’s coming to meet you,” he replied simply, the words steady but his smile was faint, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Minho tilted his head, watching him for a long moment. “Meet me?” he repeated, the suspicion now curling into curiosity.

Chan nodded once. The jazz shifted to a softer tune, something that felt too gentle for the tension threading the air between them.

Minho leaned back, arms crossed, eyes still fixed on Chan. “And who exactly am I meeting in a place like this?”

Chan’s lips parted slightly, a slow breath leaving him before he spoke, “You’ll see.” He looked toward the entrance just then, expecting someone, and a faintest shadow of anticipation, or dread, crossed his face.

The faint sound of doors opening echoed through the restaurant, a soft, deliberate sound that somehow sliced through the mellow music. Chan straightened almost imperceptibly, his hand falling still against the table.

The approaching footsteps were confident but quiet, each cushioned by the expensive carpet that stretched through the aisle. A faint cologne followed, clean and subtle, blending with the restaurant’s scent of citrus and warmth.

The man stopped at their table. Chan stood immediately, a courteous, composed motion that spoke of both habit and respect. Minho turned his head slightly, not out of politeness, but out of reluctant curiosity.

The man was taller than Chan, dressed neatly, but not in a way that tried too hard. His hair fell perfectly in place, and his expression held something gentle. His gaze flickered between Chan and Minho, uncertain for a moment, as though he was trying to read the dynamic before him.

Chan gestured to the empty seat opposite Minho. “Please,” he said, his voice carrying that careful tone. Calm, but layered. The man nodded once and sat down.

There was a brief silence. Just the low hum of conversation around them, and the distant chime of cutlery.

Minho’s smile was polite, automatic, which faded almost instantly when the man’s gaze landed on him again. He saw the faint widening of the stranger’s eyes, the quiet oh of realization that didn’t need to be spoken. The air around them shifted, a tension so delicate it could’ve been cut with a breath.

Chan exhaled softly, breaking the stillness. “Minho,” he began, his tone careful, “this is—”

But he didn’t have to finish. The name hung unsaid, suspended between recognition and discomfort. Minho’s throat tightened. His heart felt like it skipped a beat. Not from surprise, but from the dull ache of it all falling into place.

Because now, sitting across from him, was the person Chan was supposed to marry. The quiet stranger who unknowingly carried the weight of Minho’s heartbreak in his calm brown eyes.

Seungmin leaned back slightly, posture relaxed in a way that didn’t quite fit the heavy air at the table. His voice broke the silence first, smooth, even, but with that calm authority that came naturally to him.

“Kim Seungmin,” he said, offering a polite nod toward Minho.

Minho’s lips curved in the faintest polite smile. “Lee Minho,” he replied. Nothing else, no embellishment. Just that.

For a moment, Seungmin only looked at them. First at Chan, then Minho, then back again. His eyes seemed to study not just faces, but whatever invisible thread existed between the two. It was sharp, but not unkind; observant, but not intrusive.

And then, out of nowhere, Seungmin tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting. “Why does it feel like...” he said with an utterly straight face, “like the youngest Bahng is introducing his wife to his other woman?”

The words hit like an unexpected chord. Not harsh, but so absurdly out of place that it made Chan choke on his own breath, and Minho blink rapidly, thrown completely off rhythm.

Chan stared at Seungmin, half in disbelief, half in helplessness. “You can’t just—just say stuff like that out.”

Seungmin only smirked faintly, resting his chin on his palm. “I just did.”

It was so casual, so unbothered, that Minho couldn’t even muster annoyance. Instead, he found himself watching the man with a kind of startled fascination. This... this was the person who was going to marry Chan? Someone who could sit in the middle of emotional landmines and make a joke sound like a breeze.

Chan sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Not out of frustration, but the familiar kind of exasperation that said he’s been here before.

Minho, still caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement, let out a breath of laughter he hadn’t meant to.

“You’re… weirdly calm for a guy in your position,” he said quietly.

Seungmin’s lips curved just a little, eyes steady on him. “Calm,” he said, “is cheaper than chaos. I’ve learned to save where I can.” That answer, dry, measured, cool, told Minho exactly why Chan had that unreadable fondness in his eyes whenever he looked at Seungmin. But it was nothing like the gaze he reserved for Minho. He was sure of it. He is sure of it. 

Seungmin tapped a finger lightly against the table, glancing at the untouched glass of water before looking up at Minho again. And this time, his tone softened a little, sincerity slipping beneath the playful surface.

“Christopher wanted me to talk to you myself,” he said, matter-of-fact but without edge. “Something about making things… less awkward.”

“Awkward?” Minho asked, brows lifting slightly, voice even.

Seungmin’s mouth curved, a spark of mischief cutting through the politeness. “Well, considering one word from the great Bahng heir, and suddenly I’m meeting his boyfriend in a fancy restaurant… yeah, I’d say awkward fits.”

Chan groaned, dragging a palm across his face. “You’re really not helping.”

Seungmin turned toward him, utterly unbothered. “What? You can’t expect me to keep saying the Bahng heir is the smartest of them all after this.” He gestured between Chan and Minho with exaggerated flourish. “One word, and you’re personally introducing your boyfriend to your soon-to-be spouse. That’s a record in self-sabotage even I wouldn’t attempt.”

Chan gaped at him. Minho tried to stifle the scoff bubbling up, but it slipped out anyway. Quiet, startled, genuine.

And Seungmin’s smirk softened at that. It was subtle, but noticeable, the sharp humor easing into something warm, almost reassuring. 

“Relax,” he said, leaning back slightly. “I’m just teasing. Honestly, I get why he wanted me to talk to you. This whole arrangement is... strange. But I’m not here to make it harder.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward Chan, then back to Minho. “Besides,” he added, grin tugging at one corner of his lips, “I’ve got eyes. I can see why he’s having a hard time keeping this one secret.”

That made Chan flush a shade darker than usual, which only made Seungmin laugh, a low, easy sound that finally loosened the stiffness in the air.

For the first time since the meeting started, Minho actually exhaled. A long, slow breath, and the atmosphere at the table began to feel less like a confrontation and more like three people awkwardly sharing a strange truth together, guided by someone who somehow managed to make graceful chaos look effortless.

“I’ll be straightforward,” Seungmin began, tone smooth but grounded. “This whole marriage thing... it’s not what either of us wants. I didn’t say yes because I’m in love or because I want to be part of the Bahng empire. I said yes because it keeps a lot of people off my back. Including my father.”

Minho’s gaze was sharp but quiet. Chan said nothing, only listened.

Seungmin continued, “I’m not going to interfere in your personal life or love life. Not yours,” he nodded toward Minho, “and not his.” He leaned back slightly, an edge of sincerity mellowing his otherwise confident tone. “What you two have… isn’t my concern. I’m not here to play the jealous spouse or the moral compass. I just want to live without all the drama.”

Minho’s lips pressed into a faint line, surprise flickering there. Seungmin’s candor wasn’t what he expected.

“So,” Seungmin said after a beat, glancing toward Chan, “here’s what I want. Once everything is settled, you get what you’re supposed to get under your name, and I get my share from my father, you’ll give me not just a divorce, but an annulment. Wipe it clean. Like it never happened.” He tilted his head slightly, voice steady but faintly resigned. “I don’t want to carry the name. Or the weight. Just the freedom that comes with finishing this stupid play cleanly.”

Chan’s brows furrowed. “You really thought this through.”

“Of course I did,” Seungmin replied, a humorless smile tugging at his mouth. “When you grow up in a house where every smile is an investment and every choice has fine print, you learn to plan three exits before you take one step forward.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The low hum of the restaurant filled the silence, clinking glasses, a faint tune from the piano near the bar.

Minho looked at him closely, studying his composure. The calm mask, the calculating edge, but underneath it, a hint of weariness that wasn’t quite hidden.

Seungmin turned his attention fully to Minho now, his elbows resting casually on the edge of the table, a soft glint of amusement in his eyes that didn’t quite hide the sharp mind behind it.

“See, Mr. Lee,” he began, tone conversational, “you’re actually getting a pretty sweet deal out of this too. You get to keep your relationship, your man, no one pokes into your life, and...” he gestured lazily between himself and Chan “the Bahngs stop being the center of scandal for once. Everyone wins.”

Minho raised a brow but didn’t interrupt. Seungmin leaned forward a bit, his voice dipping lower, steady and even.

“If this marriage happens, it buys both of us freedom. The world will think Christopher and I are this picture-perfect alliance. Powerful, rich, respected. No one will be digging through his private life anymore. No more rumors, no more questions about who he’s seeing, or who he loves.” He paused, letting that land. “And for you… no one will dare come for the person the Bahng heir actually loves. You’ll be untouchable.”

Minho blinked once, trying to read him, but Seungmin smiled, too easily, too suddenly, as if switching masks.

“Besides,” he added, voice light and playful now, “imagine me waiting after class, and my hot, stylish sugar-daddy husband pulls up to pick me up in his ridiculous black car.” He tilted his head, mock dreamy. “The world’s gonna choke on envy. I’ll be living their Wattpad fantasy.”

Chan, despite himself, scoffed a laugh, short and incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Seungmin replied smoothly, not even glancing at him. He turned to Minho again, tone playful but eyes steady. “So you see, I won’t be a problem. I’ll only use your boyfriend to show off. Nothing more.”

The smirk on his lips softened into something that wasn’t quite teasing anymore, something like reassurance.

“I’m not here to take what’s yours,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I just need someone to stand next to me long enough for the noise to die down.”

The faint smile he offered at the end was disarming. Confident, yet honest. For the first time, Minho found himself caught between disbelief and reluctant understanding.

Minho finally exhaled, the tight line of his shoulders loosening a little as he looked at Seungmin. The calm, teasing tone, the faint smirk, the unbothered confidence… and that glint in his eyes that was far too young for the kind of deal he was proposing.

He shook his head slightly and turned to Chan. “He’s a kid,” Minho said, almost disbelieving. “In all sense.”

Chan’s lips twitched into a small, defeated smile. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, a sigh escaping him. “He is.”

That made Seungmin raise an eyebrow, half-offended, half-amused. “Excuse me?”

Minho shrugged, voice still dry but less sharp now. “You’re literally making jokes about having a Wattpad life while talking about annulment and business empires.”

Seungmin blinked, then chuckled, low and easy. “Multitalented, I know.”

Chan couldn’t help it this time. A small laugh broke through. The sound made Minho’s lips curve just slightly, as if the weight that had been sitting between them all morning had finally cracked a little. For a long second, none of them spoke. The golden lights above their table shimmered against the glass walls, a warm hum of quiet jazz filling the air.

Then Seungmin leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms lazily behind his head. “Well,” he said with a grin, “now that we’ve confirmed I’m a kid and your boyfriend’s a saint, can we at least order dessert?”

Minho rolled his eyes, Chan huffed a laugh, and for the first time since the marriage talk began, the tension between the three men didn’t feel like a ticking clock. 

It felt… almost bearable.

And for the first time since Seungmin had sat down, Minho thought he understood, not entirely, but enough, why this man wasn’t the villain of the story. 

That this man was also just another person caught playing by rules he didn’t make.

Minho leaned against the polished railing of the restaurant’s private balcony, while Chan stood a few feet away, his tone even but formal as he spoke on the phone. Probably with his father, judging from the way his voice lowered, the way he pressed two fingers to his temple as if steadying himself.

“Yes, Father. The meeting went well. I’ll handle the rest.”

Minho’s gaze drifted away. The words, marriage, alliance, papers, felt like static in his ears, white noise he didn’t want to decode. His jaw flexed slightly, the familiar sting of frustration returning, but he swallowed it back. He’d promised himself not to pick at wounds that were starting to close.

He turned away, eyes scanning through the glass walls to the ground level below. That’s when he saw him.

Jisung.

The younger man stood outside the restaurant, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other holding two takeaway cups. He was leaning against their car, looking up at the building with an expression that was somewhere between patience and quiet worry.

Minho’s lips quirked faintly.

Of course he’d be there.

He turned toward Chan, who was still talking, now pacing slowly, brows furrowed, voice slipping into the kind of tone he used only with the Bahng elders.

Minho took a breath, and straightened his coat. “I’ll wait in the car.” he said softly. 

Chan turned, distracted, half nodding without breaking his call. “Yeah, okay.”

The air outside was cooler than expected, brushing against his skin like a small relief. Jisung straightened immediately when he saw Minho approaching.

“Hey,” he said, voice light but eyes quietly searching Minho’s face. “Everything okay up there?”

Minho stopped in front of him, glanced back at the restaurant once, then shook his head with a low sigh. “I guess. Hmm... I don’t know,” he admitted. “But for now… I just needed a breather.”

Jisung handed him one of the cups without a word. Minho accepted it, fingers brushing against his for a split second, just enough warmth to anchor him again.

Minho eyed the two cups, steam curling lazily into the cool air, and arched a brow. “Two coffees?” he asked, voice low but teasing. “Were you expecting someone else, or are you that caffeine-dependent now?”

Jisung huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “One was for Changbin,” he said simply, raising the cup as if to prove it. “He was supposed to be on break with me while we wait, but apparently he got duties to follow Chan.”

Minho took a sip, eyes narrowing playfully. “Hmm. So what you’re saying is, you’re out here drinking coffee and chatting while your boss is upstairs dealing with business alliances and fake marriages?”

Jisung leaned back against the car, lips twitching into a grin. “Technically, I’m still working. You’re here, aren’t you?”

Minho blinked, caught off guard, and Jisung’s grin widened. “See? As long as I’m with you, I’m still guarding someone in the Bahng circle,” Jisung continued, voice deliberately casual. “So no one’s gonna yell at me. Especially not Chan. He’d probably thank me for keeping you out of trouble.”

Minho scoffed, shaking his head with an amused sigh. “You talk too much for a bodyguard now. You weren't like this when I first met you.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jisung said, shrugging easily. “Keeps the clients calm. Or, you know… distracted.”

Minho turned toward him, mock disbelief on his face, but his eyes softened. “You really think you’re smooth, huh?”

Jisung smirked, gaze steady. “I’m not trying to be. It just happens naturally.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Minho. Small but real.

Jisung took another slow sip of his coffee, side-eyeing Minho over the rim of his cup. “So,” he said after a moment, voice easy but curious, “how was it with the Kim? You look like someone who just walked out of a three-hour board meeting and a therapy session at once.”

Minho exhaled a soft huff through his nose, arms crossed as he leaned against the car beside him. “It was… strange,” he said slowly. “Not bad. Just strange.”

Jisung turned slightly, propping one elbow on the car roof. “Strange how? The food? The people? Or just the fact that you were sitting across from the guy your man’s supposed to marry?”

Minho gave him a look. Sharp, but not angry, before sighing again. “That part too.” He kicked lightly at the gravel beneath his shoes, the sound small and almost inaudible. “He was… not what I expected.”

Jisung raised a brow. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” Minho said, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s… weirdly calm about all this. Jokes too much for someone in a mess like this. But,” He hesitated, brows furrowing slightly as if admitting something reluctant. “He’s not… bad. Not the type I thought he’d be.”

Jisung tilted his head, listening quietly. “So you don’t hate him.”

“I don’t,” Minho admitted, eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon. “Honestly, I can’t. He didn’t ask for this either. He’s just… handling it differently. Like he’s already made peace with it.”

“Maybe that’s his way of surviving it,” Jisung said softly.

Minho looked at him, considering that. “Maybe,” he murmured. “Still doesn’t mean I like what’s happening. The whole thing just,” He made a vague gesture, fingers curling in frustration. “It feels wrong. Even if Seungmin’s being… understanding, I can’t shake it off.”

Jisung nodded, the quiet between them stretching comfortably before he spoke again. “But you trust him?”

Minho was quiet for a moment, then said, almost grudgingly, “A little. He’s… honest. And too blunt to be playing games.”

Jisung smiled faintly. “That’s good. Makes things easier.”

Minho shot him a sidelong glance. “You really think any of this is easy?”

“No,” Jisung replied, with a light shrug and a small grin. “But I think you’re handling it better than you think.”

Minho didn’t answer, but his lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to one.

Hyunjin sat at his desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, focused on the stack of files spread before him. The room was peaceful. Eerily so, given the chaos that usually surrounded the office. His phone rested near his elbow, the faint buzz of notifications ignored as he continued writing notes in the margins of a report.

He leaned back for a second, running a hand through his hair and letting out a small breath. His desk was neat, almost obsessively so, folders aligned, pen holders placed just right, the faint smell of fresh paper and coffee lingering.

A knock came once. Light, hesitant. He didn’t look up immediately.

“Come in,” Hyunjin said, his voice calm but occupied.

The door opened, and Felix stepped in. His presence instantly shifted the air, though Hyunjin kept his eyes on the paper, pretending not to notice. Then, he looked up, eyes meeting Felix’s across the room.

“Need something?” he asked lightly, tone casual but eyes too observant, too careful.

The younger man looked out of breath, like he’d run straight from somewhere, his hair slightly messy, worry flashing in his eyes.

“Hyunjin,” he said, voice tight with urgency. “Is it true?”

Hyunjin blinked, pen pausing midair. “Is what true?”

“That Chan’s marrying the youngest Kim.”

The words tumbled out of Felix in one breath, trembling between disbelief and panic. His voice was louder than he meant it to be, but the question was one he clearly hadn’t rehearsed. He just needed to ask.

Hyunjin leaned back slowly, his expression unreadable. “You should probably ask your brother that, not me.”

Felix shook his head quickly, stepping closer to the desk. “Chan isn’t home. He’s not in his office chamber either. I’ve been calling him for the past hour and he’s not picking up.” His voice cracked slightly, frustration laced with fear. “And you,” his tone softened, almost pleading, “you practically own half of his soul, Hyunjin. You’d know if it was true.”

The faintest sigh left Hyunjin’s lips. He put the pen down with a well practiced calmness and looked at Felix. The panic, the trembling hands, the desperate way he was holding his breath.

“I don’t know where you heard that,” Hyunjin said finally, voice steady but softer now. “But… Chan didn’t say yes.”

Felix blinked, hope flickering in his eyes. “So it’s not true?”

Hyunjin hesitated, just for a heartbeat, and Felix caught it.

“He’s talking to Kim Seungmin,” Hyunjin admitted, his tone careful. “Nothing’s decided yet.” Then after a pause, he added, “But there’s a chance he’ll agree.”

The silence that followed felt too heavy for the small room. Felix’s shoulders fell, the initial fire in him dimming to quiet disbelief.

“A chance…” he repeated under his breath, as if testing how much it hurt to say aloud. He turned slightly, eyes falling to the floor. “So that’s it, then.”

Hyunjin didn’t respond immediately. He studied Felix’s expression, the flicker of pain that passed over it, and for a moment, his composed exterior faltered.

“Felix,” Hyunjin said quietly, “you know Chan better than anyone. If he agrees to this… it won’t be because he wants to.”

Felix looked up at him, searching his face for something, assurance, maybe, or truth. “Then why does he have to?”

Hyunjin didn’t have an answer. His eyes softened just enough to betray the calm mask he wore. “Because sometimes,” he said slowly, “wanting doesn’t matter.”

“What will Minho think…”

It wasn’t really a question, but Hyunjin answered anyway. “Minho...” he said, eyes flicking up from the desk. “He went with Chan.”

Felix turned back sharply. “What?”

“Chan,” Hyunjin repeated, his tone maddeningly calm. “To meet Kim Seungmin.”

Felix blinked at him, confusion flashing across his face like he was sure he’d misheard. “Minho went to see Seungmin? With Chan?”

Hyunjin gave a slow, tired nod. “Apparently, yes.”

For a long beat, Felix just stood there, like the floor had given way beneath him but his body hadn’t quite registered the fall yet. His lips parted, his mind scrambling for words that wouldn’t form.

“I—” he started, then stopped. His brow furrowed as if the world had suddenly shifted into a version that didn’t make sense. “So Minho’s… okay with this?”

Hyunjin’s silence told him more than words could. Felix’s laugh came out breathless, almost bitter.

“Of course he is,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t he be? It’s not like he gets to decide his own life when Chan does it...” he broke off mid-sentence, the rest swallowed by disbelief. He ran a hand through his hair, looking somewhere past Hyunjin, his mind clearly running in loops. “I can’t,” he let out a shaky exhale, “I can’t even follow what’s happening anymore.”

Hyunjin leaned back slightly, his voice quiet but certain. “You’re not the only one, Felix.”

Felix looked at him then, wide-eyed, disoriented, like a man finally realizing the ground beneath him was moving.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

Hyunjin’s brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

Felix looked at the floor, his fingers curling tight. “Because I said no. That’s why Chan had to agree to this stupid marriage thing. If I hadn’t—” He cut himself off, his throat tightening. “If I hadn’t backed away, he wouldn’t be the one sitting across from the Kims now.”

Hyunjin exhaled slowly, setting down his pen. His voice, when it came, was calm, measured, like he’d already thought through every word.

“Felix, listen. You weren’t your father’s prime target. Chan was. He always was.”

Felix’s head snapped up, confusion and frustration flickering across his face. Hyunjin leaned forward a little, his tone gentle but firm.

“Even if you had said yes,” Hyunjin said, “he still would’ve found a way to drag Chan into it. That’s how this family works. And now that Chan’s going through with it…” He paused, his gaze softening. “You’re free.”

Felix let out a short, humorless huff of laughter. “Free,” he echoed, his mouth twisting into a small, self-deprecating smile. “Yeah, right. I’m not even a choice.”

“Lix,” Hyunjin said quietly.

Felix didn’t look at him. His voice came out sharper this time, an edge beneath the hurt. “He didn’t choose me, I'm glad he didn't. Not when there’s always someone better, someone who fits the picture.”

Hyunjin got up, walked around the desk, and stopped beside him. He didn’t reach out, didn’t try to force comfort, just stood close enough for Felix to feel the warmth of his presence.

“That thought,” Hyunjin said, voice low and steady, “is the one that’s burning you. And if it’s burning you, it’s time you do something about it.” Felix glanced up, uncertain, and Hyunjin’s gaze met his. Calm, unwavering. “Not for Chan. Not for anyone else. For you.”

The words hung in the air, quiet but heavy. Felix looked away, jaw tightening, trying to breathe past the knot in his chest.

Hyunjin took a step back, watching Felix with that calm, analytical gaze he always wore when the air got too thick with emotion. He tapped his pen once against the desk, then tilted his head.

“Stop bustling around this little infatuation of yours and work on yourself.”

Felix froze. His eyes flicked up, startled, not by the words, but by what they implied. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through..His breath caught for a moment before he let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh.

“You always make it sound so simple,” he said, eyes lowered. Then, softer, he added, “But… you’re right.” At that, Hyunjin’s gaze lifted slightly. Surprised, maybe, though his face didn’t show it. Felix continued, his voice steadier now, “I should focus on being better. For myself, not for anyone else.”

There was a faint pause, just enough to make the air shift, before Hyunjin gave a slight nod and looked down at the files on the table.

He didn’t answer, didn’t deny it either. He just looked back down at the papers on his desk. Felix stood there for a moment, chest tight, the corner of his lip twitching as if to speak but stopping short. He finally turned toward the door.

When his hand reached the handle, his voice came, steady, low, and laced with quiet defiance.

“And… and don’t call it infatuation.”

The door shut softly behind him, leaving Hyunjin alone with the echo of those words and the faint, bitter aftertaste of something unsaid.

The indoor shooting range hummed with the low, rhythmic sounds of gunfire and the faint echo of casings hitting the ground. The air was cool, metallic, and smelled faintly of oil and gunpowder.

Changbin stood near the firing line, adjusting his grip on the gun with focused intensity, his brows furrowed like he was about to face a duel rather than practice.

Behind him, Jeongin stood with his arms folded, shoulder resting casually against a pillar. He had no intention of picking up a gun, his expression calm but carrying that teasing edge that only Changbin managed to pull out of him.

Changbin fired, the sound sharp and confident. The bullet landed just shy of the bullseye.

Jeongin clapped. Slow and mocking. “Wow. Right beside it. So close, it might just count as a moral victory.”

Changbin turned slightly, scowling though the corner of his mouth betrayed a grin. “Moral victory? Keep talking, pretty boy. Let’s see if your words can hit a target.”

Jeongin tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I don’t need to hit a target. I just watch you miss.”

Changbin huffed a laugh, reloading with an exaggerated flick of his wrist. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

Jeongin smirked, pushing off the pillar and walking closer, the faint crunch of his shoes on the range floor filling the pause. “I know.”

From a few lanes down, Jisung was at his own station, safety glasses on, posture precise. He raised his gun, fired three consecutive shots, and lowered it again.

Each one hit dead center.

Changbin caught the pattern out of the corner of his eye and let out a mock groan. “Oh, come on! How does he do that?”

Jeongin shrugged, looking toward Jisung with an impressed grin. “Maybe because he’s actually focusing instead of flirting with his gun.”

Changbin barked a short laugh. “It’s not flirting, it’s building trust.”

Jisung turned his head just enough to glance back, trying not to smile. “Then your gun clearly doesn’t trust you.”

That earned laughter from both Jeongin and Changbin, the tension melting away. Changbin walked toward Jisung, peering at his perfect target. “Alright, Mr. Sharp Shooter, are you trying to show off in front of my boyfriend or what?”

Jisung smirked faintly. “I didn’t know Jeongin was here to see you win.”

Jeongin chuckled quietly behind them, his eyes soft as he watched the two bicker, their voices bouncing off the walls with something warmer than amusement.

Changbin leaned an elbow on Jisung’s shoulder, still staring at the target. “If you ever get bored of guarding people, you could start teaching. ‘How to make everyone else look bad 101.’”

“Tempting,” Jisung said, finally cracking a small grin. “Maybe you can be my first student.”

“Then who’ll be your favorite?”

Jeongin interrupted with that gentle, yet playful smile. “We both know it’s Yang Jeongin.”

Jisung didn’t answer, but the soft color that crept up his neck said enough.

Changbin laughed, shaking his head. “Hopeless. All of you.”

Jisung lowered the gun, exhaled, and gently placed it back onto the holder. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic. Safety on, hands steady, eyes calm.

Across the range, Changbin and Jeongin were still lost in their own bubble of laughter, Changbin pretending to scold Jeongin for distracting him, and Jeongin retaliating by saying he was helping him train his patience.  The air between them was light, the kind that felt rare these days.

Jisung took off his ear protection and turned, spotting Minho standing a few meters back, just outside the designated line. His arms were folded, expression distant yet soft as he watched the playful chaos in front of him.

The edges of his earlier doubts seemed dulled, like time and company had filed them down to something gentler.

Jisung walked over, steps unhurried. He stopped beside Minho, close enough for their shoulders to nearly touch, and followed his gaze toward the others. For a while, neither of them spoke. The sound of gunfire and laughter filled the silence comfortably.

Then, without looking away from the range, Jisung spoke. “Wanna learn how to?”

Minho turned slightly, blinking. “How to... what?”

Jisung tilted his head toward the line of targets. “This. Guns, aim, shooting. The whole thing.”

Minho let out a short laugh. “I got a little training before. With Chan.”

Jisung’s eyebrows rose slightly, impressed. “Oh?” He crossed his arms loosely, leaning a little closer. “Then you’re not a complete beginner.”

Minho hummed, gaze following Changbin as he teased Jeongin about holding the gun wrong. “Not a beginner, no. But not great either.”

Jisung’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Good. That means you can still learn.”

Minho glanced at him with a curious look. “From who?”

“Me. Obviously.” Jisung pointed at himself with his thumb, expression playful yet oddly confident.

That earned a small, genuine smile from Minho, the kind that reached his eyes. “Oh really? And what makes you a better teacher than my Chan?”

Jisung tilted his head, pretending to think. “Because unlike your Chan, I don’t yell every time I miss a shot.”

Minho chuckled, the sound quiet but warm. “So you’re saying you’re patient.”

“Extremely,” Jisung said, voice dipping with mock seriousness. “But only with students who listen.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, there was a soft quiet between them again. The noise of the range faded into the background.

Changbin’s voice suddenly broke it, with a “Innie, I swear if you distract me again, I’m confiscating your coffee privileges!” making both Jisung and Minho laugh under their breath.

Jisung gestured toward the empty lane beside his. “Come on. Let’s see if Chan actually taught you anything.”

Minho hesitated, then nodded, a small spark of ease replacing the earlier weight on his face.

The sharp crack of a bullet cut through the air, echoing across the indoor range. Minho lowered the gun slightly, squinting through the faint smoke, his brows furrowed in mild concentration.

“Not bad,” Jisung murmured from beside him, arms folded as he watched the target slide back toward them. A few shots had landed near the center, others just a little off to the side. “You’ve got the aim… just need to trust your wrist more.”

Minho huffed out a short breath, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Trust my wrist? That’s a new one.”

Jisung chuckled, stepping closer. “Yeah, the trick is not to fight the recoil. You’re overcontrolling it. Relax your grip. Try not to strangle the gun.”

From behind the protective glass, Jeongin’s voice suddenly rang out, bright and teasing. “Go, Minho! You got this!”

Changbin, standing next to him, rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a grin. “He’s not at a carnival game, Innie.”

“Still!” Jeongin crossed his arms dramatically. “Support is support!”

Minho glanced back briefly, lips twitching upward. “I didn’t realize I had fans,” he said under his breath.

Jisung smiled faintly, handing him another magazine. “You’ve got more than you think.”

Minho reloaded, the smooth click echoing softly, and took his stance again. His shoulders squared, his breathing evened out, and when the next shot fired, the bullet landed closer to the center, followed by another, and another.

Behind them, Jeongin whooped, loud and proud. “See! He’s a natural!”

Changbin snorted. “One decent round and he’s a natural? You’re too easy to impress.”

“Maybe I just have faith,” Jeongin shot back, nudging Changbin playfully with his elbow.

Minho turned to glance at them, shaking his head with a soft laugh, but Jisung caught the expression, the faint flicker of calm that hadn’t been there in days.

When Minho faced forward again, Jisung leaned in slightly, voice low so only he could hear. “See? I told you. You’re better than you think.”

Minho lowered the gun after his final shot, his chest rising with a steady exhale. “Still missed a few.”

“Maybe,” Jisung said, his tone gentle but approving, “but even your misses looked good.”

That earned him a quiet chuckle. 

Jeongin checked his watch and suddenly froze mid-sentence. His eyes widened in pure panic. “Oh no! Oh no, oh no, I’m late!” he blurted, scrambling to grab his bag from the bench. “I’ve got music class in fifteen minutes! Bin, I need to go, now!”

Changbin blinked, lowering his gun with exaggerated calm. “Music class?”

“Yes!” Jeongin was already halfway to the door, fumbling a little. “Come on, Bin, stop standing like a statue!”

Changbin sighed, shaking his head with a faint grin as he put the gun back in its case. Their laughter echoed as they walked out, Jeongin’s voice bright and insistent, Changbin’s lower tone following in lazy amusement.

When the door finally shut, silence settled again. Minho placed the gun back carefully, his fingers brushing the cool metal before stepping back. He let out a small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Jisung was still beside him, arms loosely crossed, eyes following Minho.

Minho’s gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer, soft and faraway. The kind of look that came from watching something light drift out of reach. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a faint smile.

“They’re… kind of cute together,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Jisung chuckled under his breath. “Kind of?”

Minho just shook his head, still smiling, quietly, wistfully, his eyes soft with warmth. 

“How long have those two been together?” he asked, tone light but curious.

Jisung holstered his own gun before answering, “Two years. Maybe a little more. They started dating a few years after Hyunjin joined the Bahngs.”

Minho let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Two years, huh? That’s… something.” He smiled faintly, watching the empty range as if picturing them still there. “They make it look so easy.”

Jisung tilted his head with a knowing grin. “They fight like toddlers half the time.”

“Yeah,” Minho chuckled, “but even that looks easy.”

They left the shooting range together, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. The air outside felt cooler, cleaner somehow. Minho walked slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze lowered in quiet thought.

“You know,” he began softly, “I wish for that kind of life sometimes. The kind that’s... simple. Not perfect, but warm. Waking up next to the person you love, not having to hide, not having to think about... alliances, deals or expectations. Just... peace.”

His voice faded near the end, almost as if embarrassed by his own words.

Jisung glanced sideways at him, face unreadable for a moment. “It’s not Chan’s fault,” he said gently. “He’s got a lot on his shoulders. More than most of us could carry.”

“I know.” Minho nodded slowly, gaze still distant. “I understand him better than anyone. That’s the problem, maybe. I get why he is the way he is. But sometimes… I just wish he didn’t have to be.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The hallway stretched out before them, silent except for the quiet rhythm of their footsteps.

Then Jisung smiled, soft, sincere. “Everything’s going to be fine, Minho. One day, you’ll get to live the life you dream about. Maybe not soon, but it’ll come.”

Minho looked at him, that flicker of hope breaking through the tiredness in his eyes.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Jisung said firmly. “People like you don’t get stuck forever.”

Minho let out a small laugh under his breath. And as the main doors slid open, letting the cool air rush in, something in him loosened, like a knot finally easing.

For the first time in a long time, Minho didn’t feel trapped between what was expected and what he wanted.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to believe... that Jisung might be right.