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 barβs 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 didnβt know how to order soju properly.
But you werenβt here for soju.
He hadnβt spoken to you yetβnot trulyβbut 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 elbowsβhe was the reason this bar didnβt need advertising. Word spread when a man like Jeon Jae-jun owned the place.
He wasnβt 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 firstβsmoke and something decadentβas he walked over, whiskey in hand, the glass sweating in his grip. He paused in front of you, cocking a brow.
βForeigner,β he said in that low, deliberate tone, βyou donβt look like someone who drinks sweet cocktails.β
You tilted your head with a lazy grin. βAnd you look like someone who judges people for ordering them.β
He chuckledβjust once. Deep. Rich. βYouβd be right.β
He slid the glass across the bar to you. Amber poured over ice.
βWhiskey. No twist. On the rocks,β he said. βLike your expression the first night you walked in.β
βThought I was just jetlagged,β you replied, swirling the drink. βBut maybe I was just trying not to stare.β
He leaned in, arms on the bar, eyes gleaming beneath the dim light.
βYou failed, by the way.β
βI always notice,β he replied smoothly, βespecially when someone doesnβt belong. The trick is figuring out if theyβre just passing throughβ¦ or if theyβre dangerous.β
You took a slow sip, savoring the burn. βWhat am I, then?β
He looked at your lips as they left the rim of the glass. βYou donβt seem the passing-through type.β
A corner of your mouth lifted. βAnd if Iβm dangerous?β
He leaned in even closer. βThen Iβll pour your next drink personallyβ¦ and let you prove it.β
That night, you left with a smirk, his number scrawled on your napkin in bold handwritingβalong with one word underneath:
βCall me Sweetheart β‘.β
The game had only just begun.
