⸻Yeobo.
Word of an endearment landing, hanging between the marbled counter and the rain-fogged windows, between the exhausted barista and the sweating iced americanos... Gaze dropping to the crumpled receipt now trapped in his palm, the destroyed little legal document, the evidence he had stolen and crushed like that would somehow undo what had already been spoken into the air—the poor shock absorber of a barista grinding the coffee beans into dust. Cute. Very cute. Almost adorable, actually, in the way people became adorable right before making such a terrible strategic error. Corners of the lips twitches, eyes trailing to stare directly at him. Smooth. Still. As though a dagger had just been handed to her, mind deciding whether to use the blade, the hilt or just the decorative ribbon tied around it.
❝ Don't go too far. ❞
Head tilting, cap brim casting a clean shadow over the usual bright pair of doe eyes, composed enough for a magazine cover and deranged enough for a group chat screenshot.
❝ They're about to call our name, baby. ❞
The said poor civilian of a barista returned at the exact wrong time. Or the exact right one, depending whether one believed in divine timing or customer service-based sabotage. Tray balanced between both hands, iced americano sitting upright beside the glossy kouign-amann and the hefty portion of a spring onion bagel.
Hwang Jennifer…? Iced americano, kouign-amann, and spring onion bagel for Hwang Jennifer?
Not looking away, eyes stayed and locked, steady and bright and completely unconcerned with the fact that this had just escalated from name fraud to implied spousal delegation in under thirty seconds. Trap has been set in motion, gently placed, like a pearl earring dropped into a glass of poison, yet it stays calm as rainwater, sweet as sharpened sugar.
❝ Go on, yeobo. Pick that up and find us a seat. ❞
Attention drifting across the café floor, to the scattered tables, to the corner near the fogged window where the rain painted faint silver veins down the glass. Perfect. Terrible. Visible enough to be dangerous, tucked away enough to be worse. Delusional or denial, take your pick. Focus tilting toward the direction, graceful, unreasonable. Romantic lighting. Naturally. A pretty little crime scene with seating for two.
Because why not let the scandal have its own proper flavor of an ambiance?
❝ There. By the window. ❞
Hyunjin didn't move, but inside his head, the immaculate, tightly scripted track of his thoughts completely derailed. Our name? Baby? What the actual fuck? For a fraction of a second, his carefully cultivated mask didn't just crack, it shattered. Was this girl mentally okay? Had the idol life completely fractured her reality, or had he just now noticed how beautifully, profoundly unhinged she actually was? Try as he might to edit the frame and maintain his usual calm, amused composition, he couldn't hide the sheer, unadulterated confusion spiking in his eyes. He stared at her, his brain experiencing a very rare, very alarming administrative delay of its own.
But then she got bossy. Don't go too far. Pick that up. Find us a seat.
The barista’s voice broke the standoff, nervously offering up the pastry tray to "Hwang Jennifer," and just like that, the chaotic gears in Hyunjin’s head clicked back into a dangerous, dark alignment. The confusion in his eyes morphed right back into a wicked, slow-burning smirk. He didn't look at the tray. Instead, his gaze dropped, checking her out from the low brim of her cap, down the relaxed line of her shoulders, all the way to her shoes, and back up. He slowly licked his lower lip, a spark of genuine heat flaring in his chest. Damn. Why had she gotten so incredibly hot the moment she started dictating his movements? He liked control, but a muse who knew how to fiercely demand it back was infinitely hotter than one who surrendered.
Without a single word of protest, he reached out and picked up the heavy tray, effortlessly carrying the iced coffee, the kouign-amann, and the spring onion bagel. He followed the direction of her gaze, sauntering over to the exact table she had ordered him to sit at by the window. He set the tray down on the table with a light click of ceramic against wood, sliding into the chair opposite hers. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes half-lidded and entirely locked onto her as she joined him. He wanted to see how far this delusion went. He wanted to see if she would choke on her own medicine if he pushed the script into a completely different territory. "Keep ordering me around like a dog and I might get hard right there, yeobo," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register meant strictly for the two of them, a devastating, unfiltered challenge burning in his eyes.
