CHAPTER TWO
867 Words
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The next afternoon the sun was too bright. Way too bright. The kind of bright that felt personal. Like it was aiming right at Min-ho’s head. And his head felt like someone had been hitting it with a mallet all night.
Min-ho groaned. His face was buried in a pillow. The pillow didn’t smell like him. It didn’t smell like his citrus sheets. It smelled like cedarwood. Expensive cedarwood. And expensive laundry detergent. The kind that made you feel clean in a way that wasn’t normal. It was a warm smell. A man’s smell.
He didn’t open his eyes. Light hurt. Even thinking about light made his head throb in a slow, angry rhythm.
His stomach growled. There was a smell in the air. Beef and r****h. Soup. It smelled good. Real good. He followed it. Eyes still closed. He figured he could walk to the kitchen by memory.
Thump.
His hip hit something hard and wooden. A dresser.
That’s new, he thought. Did I move the wardrobe?
Clatter.
His hand brushed against metal. Cold and tall. A floor lamp.
He frowned. He didn’t have a floor lamp. His studio was too small for a floor lamp.
He kept walking, shuffling forward with his eyes squeezed shut. He reached out for the kitchen counter. He was looking for the cold tile. He was looking for his “Cat Dad” mug. The chipped one.
His hands landed on something else.
Something firm. Something warm. Something that moved when he touched it.
It was breathing.
His fingers curled on their own. He could feel it through the thin cotton. Muscles. A broad chest. Solid. Real. Alive.
Min-ho’s eyes flew open.
The world was blurry. Beige and silver and shapes. But even without his glasses he knew. The height. The silver hair. The way the light caught it and made it look like a halo.
“You really do love my pecs, hmm?”
The voice was low. Smooth. It vibrated right into Min-ho’s hands.
Min-ho jerked back like he’d been shocked. His hands flew to his own chest.
“I—I—S-Sunbae-nim!”
He stumbled back and that’s when he felt it. The cold air on his neck. His collar. He reached up. No crewneck. No pajamas. His fingers touched bare skin. His collarbone. His shoulder. All of it was out.
He was wearing a shirt. A big shirt. Charcoal gray and soft and it swallowed him whole. The sleeves went past his hands. The hem came down to the middle of his thighs. It wasn’t his. It smelled like cedarwood and detergent too.
His face went from white to red. Nuclear red. He started patting himself down like an i***t, looking for his glasses.
“My... my glasses... have you seen my glasses, sunbae-nim?”
His voice came out tiny. It got lost in the floorboards.
A big hand came out and touched his chin. Warm. Gentle. It tilted his face up. Min-ho squinted at the blur. Jin-woo’s face was close. Too close. He could see the little glint in his eyes. Like he was enjoying this.
Jin-woo slid the glasses onto Min-ho’s nose. Careful. Slow.
“There you go,” Jin-woo said softly.
And the world clicked into focus.
There was the smile. The billion-dollar smile. Right there. Inches away. Looking way too pleased with himself for a Saturday afternoon.
“Th-thank you, sunbae-nim,” Min-ho stuttered. The words got stuck on each other trying to get out.
Jin-woo didn’t move back. He crossed his arms. His biceps pulled at his shirt. The same kind of shirt Min-ho was wearing. The same big, soft, gray shirt.
“So,” Jin-woo started. His voice was dangerous. Too much mischief in it. “I didn’t realize you were such a... bold drunk, Min-ho-ya. Do you usually tackle your seniors and demand they carry you, or am I just special?”
Min-ho felt his knees go soft. “I... I did what?”
“Oh, you did more than that,” Jin-woo said. He turned to the stove and started ladling soup into a bowl like he wasn’t destroying Min-ho’s entire life. “You told me my chest felt like a ‘warm marshmallow’ and then you tried to feed me your phone because you thought it was a chocolate bar. And the sobbing? The ten-minute monologue about how my hair looks like ‘moonlight on a silver fox’?”
Min-ho wanted to die. He wanted the floor to open and take him. He grabbed the hem of the oversized shirt and pulled it down further like it could hide him. Like it could hide everything he’d done.
“I... I think I should go,” Min-ho squeaked.
“Sit,” Jin-woo said. It wasn’t mean. It was just firm. The kind of firm you didn’t argue with. He set the steaming bowl of beef r****h soup on the counter. The steam curled up in the air. “Eat your soup first. Then we can talk about why you’ve been ‘ghosting’ my i********: stories every night at 2:00 AM for the last two years.”
Min-ho froze.
His heart didn’t skip. It stopped. Completely.
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- Writer
