Featuring : Jeon Jae-jun x F!Foreigner!Reader.
Summary : As a Foreigner you had heard of this place many times and you decide to finally visit it during your stay in South Korea, CC Golf Resort and Siesta.
The velvet buzz of Seoul nightlife hummed low through the bar’s glass windows, the sky bruised dark over the skyline. Lights kissed the streets below like melted stars. Inside, the air was warm with jazz, whiskey, and hushes of conversation.
It was your second week in Korea. Still too early to feel settled, too late to keep being the mysterious foreigner who didn’t know how to order soju properly.
But you weren’t here for soju.
He hadn’t spoken to you yet—not truly—but he always noticed. Those amber eyes flicked toward you behind tinted glasses whenever you walked in. The same way a wolf watches the edges of the forest.
Tall, sharp-jawed, devastating in that sleek dark shirt rolled to his elbows—he was the reason this bar didn’t need advertising. Word spread when a man like Jeon Jae-jun owned the place.
He wasn’t the kind of host who handed out menus. But he had a ritual: one drink each night, delivered personally to a single guest. You watched him do it with the precision of a king picking his knight.
Tonight, it was your turn.
You knew it before he even moved.
His cologne hit first—smoke and something decadent—as he walked over, whiskey in hand, the glass sweating in his grip. He paused in front of you, cocking a brow.
“Foreigner,” he said in that low, deliberate tone, “you don’t look like someone who drinks sweet cocktails.”
You tilted your head with a lazy grin. “And you look like someone who judges people for ordering them.”
He chuckled—just once. Deep. Rich. “You’d be right.”
He slid the glass across the bar to you. Amber poured over ice.
“Whiskey. No twist. On the rocks,” he said. “Like your expression the first night you walked in.”
“Thought I was just jetlagged,” you replied, swirling the drink. “But maybe I was just trying not to stare.”
He leaned in, arms on the bar, eyes gleaming beneath the dim light.
“You failed, by the way.”
“I always notice,” he replied smoothly, “especially when someone doesn’t belong. The trick is figuring out if they’re just passing through… or if they’re dangerous.”
You took a slow sip, savoring the burn. “What am I, then?”
He looked at your lips as they left the rim of the glass. “You don’t seem the passing-through type.”
A corner of your mouth lifted. “And if I’m dangerous?”
He leaned in even closer. “Then I’ll pour your next drink personally… and let you prove it.”
That night, you left with a smirk, his number scrawled on your napkin in bold handwriting—along with one word underneath:
The game had only just begun.
