The corridor between the halls was half-lit. The lamps were dim, casting long shadows. Music from the dance floor muffled through the walls, as if a noisy, living world existed there, but here, everything was compressed into a narrow space.
Do-yun carried a tray with a bottle and glasses. His steps were steady, his face cold. But inside, tension was building: he was being sent to the VIP lounge too often. Too often for it to be a coincidence.
When he returned to the corridor, one of the clients blocked his way. A tall man, smelling of alcohol and sweet perfume, leaned in too close.
"Waiter," he said with a lazy smirk, "pour me one right here. On the spot."
Do-yun took a step to the side. "Drinks are only served inside the lounge."
The client didn't back off. His face was almost touching his. "What if I pay you? Or…" his gaze slowly slid down, then back up. "…will you bring yourself along with the glass?"
For a moment, the world seemed to sway. The smell of alcohol. A stranger's hand on his shoulder—back then, in the past. A cramped space with nowhere to run. "You want this yourself anyway."
Do-yun's fingers tightened on the tray, but he exhaled and was about to give a sharp response.
A shadow fell next to him. Another hand rested on his shoulder—firmly, possessively.
Seung-ho.
He stood so that the client had to retreat. His gaze was cold, steely. All the laziness of his posture vanished.
"He's busy," his voice was low. "Can't you see?"
The client smirked, but his eyes wavered. "I just asked for a drink…"
"You can ask anyone for a drink," Seung-ho stepped closer, and their gazes locked. "But not him."
The man pressed his lips together and left, muttering a quick "to hell with you."
Silence hung in the air.
Do-yun straightened his shoulders, as if nothing had happened. "Why did you interfere?" he asked evenly.
Seung-ho leaned closer, his voice quieter, almost at his ear: "Because I don't like it when people get so close to what's mine."
Do-yun turned sharply. "Yours?" The coldness in his voice was flawless. "You're mistaken. I'm just working."
"Work is a convenient word," Seung-ho smirked, taking a glass directly from his hands. His fingers lingered longer than necessary. "But I saw you freeze when he leaned in."
"I didn't freeze," Do-yun took a step back. "I'm used to it."
There was no doubt in Seung-ho's eyes. "You can get used to many things. But you can't mistake the scent of fear... or desire."
Do-yun held his gaze. His face remained cold, but his heart was beating so loudly it seemed it could be heard even through the hum of the music.
Seung-ho slowly took a sip, never looking away. "Are you always this cold? Or just with me?"
"What if it's only with you?" Do-yun replied quietly, a sharp edge to his words.
Seung-ho smirked, leaning against the wall so that his path remained blocked. "Then I like being the exception."
The corridor squeezed them in its shadow. The world around them disappeared. All that remained was this game—steps closer and farther, words with double meanings, touches that seemed accidental but were too long to be a coincidence.