Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Park Seonghwa never saw his marriage as a cage. 

If anything, it had been wings: steady, reliable, beautiful things that carried him from one life into another. 

He could have stayed home, surrounded by the soft trappings of luxury that came with Kim Hongjoong’s success. He could have let himself sink into silken sheets and let time be measured only by the sweep of designer watches across his husband’s wrist. He could have. 

Hongjoong would have spoiled him rotten if he’d let him.

But Seonghwa had always loved cafés. 

The clink of porcelain, the low hum of chatter, the rich perfume of beans in the grinder and the mundane music that steadied him. 

Long before Hongjoong’s name had ever brushed his, Seonghwa had been a barista with calloused fingers from tamping espresso, with a heart full of pride in every perfect pour. It made sense that even after marriage, even after six years of being loved so thoroughly he sometimes startled at the memory of his own luck, he still chose to wear the apron. 

Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

Seonghwa had always found something irresistible in the older man. The weight of his presence, the way confidence clung to him exactly like the tailored suits the man wore.

To Seonghwa, Hongjoong had never truly felt older though, just sharper, steadier, like a blade honed by time. And Hongjoong, for his part, worshipped Seonghwa with the ferocity of a man who knew he’d found what he’d been searching for. Half a decade into marriage, and Hongjoong still managed to make my wife sound like a vow and a tease in the same breath. And Seonghwa would only roll his eyes, blush, and pretend not to love it. (He always failed.)

They’d only recently moved here. Hongjoong’s work had shifted him into a new office, a new city, and their lives followed. 

One townhouse, half a dozen plants that refused to die, and boxes that never quite unpacked themselves. Seonghwa had lasted all of two weeks at home before wandering into the nearest café with a resume tucked under his arm. 

It wasn’t about money. 

It was about rhythm, about belonging. 

He found it again behind the bar: Wooyoung’s chaos, San’s exasperated fondness, Yunho’s gentle humor, Yeosang’s dry wit. They made space for him. 

They assumed he was single. He let them.

Not that he hid his marriage. 

Quite the opposite! 

Seonghwa had really tried, more than once, to tell them. 

There had been conversations half-started, openings pried loose. But each time, something interrupted: a customer at the counter, Wooyoung barreling in with a story, San pulling his fiancé away from whatever tangent he had started. 

More than once, Seonghwa had begun with, “Actually, I’m—” only for Wooyoung to cut him off with, “Hyung, you’re too hot to be single. I’m going to fix that.”

After the third failed attempt, Seonghwa stopped fighting it. If his coworkers wanted to build theories, so be it. 

He wasn’t lying. 

He was waiting..

Wooyoung, of course, had made it his personal mission to meddle. 

It started small: a pointed comment here, a sly suggestion there. Then came the theatrics.. Swooping in mid-shift to whisper about eligible customers, nudging Seonghwa’s shoulder with: “Hyung, that one looked at you twice.” 

Yunho usually blinked at him like a deer caught in headlights, then offered Seonghwa an apologetic smile. 

Yeosang had perfected the art of delivering one dry remark that sliced Wooyoung’s matchmaking schemes in half. 

San.. patient, tired San.. would sigh and remind Wooyoung that maybe, just maybe, Seonghwa could handle his own love life.

Still, it became part of the café’s rhythm: espresso shots, latte foam, Wooyoung’s endless attempts to play Cupid. Seonghwa let it happen with the serenity of a man who knew the truth would come out eventually. Until then, he enjoyed the normalcy, the camaraderie, the illusion of a secret life that wasn’t really secret at all.

Through it all, Hongjoong stayed away. 

Not because he didn’t want to see Seonghwa of course. 

He wanted to every hour of every day, but because he knew how much Seonghwa valued this space. He wanted him to have it unshaken, uncolored by the weight of a powerful husband. So Hongjoong busied himself finishing the last demands of his old office, tying up contracts, smoothing transitions. It was only when those final threads were cut that he turned his eyes toward the café Seonghwa called his second home.

Months of patience ended in one decision: it was time to step through that door.

And the world had been waiting for that bell to chime.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The morning crowd pressed in gentle waves against the café windows, a low tide of umbrellas and briefcases pulling back with every order completed. Seonghwa moved through the bar the way steam found the air: quietly, surely. His wrist turning, shoulder angling, the rhythm of tamp, pull, steam, pour settling back into his muscles like a language he hadn’t forgotten.

He wore rings the way some people wore chapstick - absentminded, necessary. A narrow band of gold had lived on his left hand so long it felt like a bone; no one asked about it 

because there were others beside it, silver and black and a harmless mood ring Wooyoung had forced onto his thumb two weeks ago. The gold was ordinary by camouflage alone.

By ten, they had outrun the commuter crush. 

Wooyoung leaned his hip into the counter, polishing a section of laminate that shone already, eyes flicking everywhere at once. He had the talent of a neighborhood cat for appearing to nap while memorizing every open window.

“Tell me again why we don’t have a punch card for hot people,” he murmured, staring at the door like he could summon destiny with a glance.

“Because you’d give out free coffee until bankruptcy,” Seonghwa said, sliding a cappuccino to a woman who promised she was late only because of the rain. He turned the cup, the foam heart sitting exactly where he wanted it.

“Democracy can be expensive,” Wooyoung sighed, then brightened. “Anyway, Friday. What are we doing after shift? I found a bar with karaoke and bad lighting. Perfect for your cheekbones to ruin lives.”

Seonghwa smiled without looking up. “Inventory.”

“You said that last Friday.”

“And the one before that.”

Wooyoung groaned, flopping forward with theatrical grief, then straightened as the bell gave its small, clear chime.

The door swung inward and the hum of the room changed without trying. 

Some people carried weather with them; the man who stepped inside brought the sense of a meeting coming to order. 

A tailored teal suit, double-breasted, framed his lean figure. A silk tie was knotted with precise care, pale grey patterned just enough to whisper wealth, shoulders cut to a quiet line; hair slicked back, a few threads of silver refused to hide; watch face catching the first rays of sunlight breaking the rainy clouds. 

He didn’t glance around to see if anyone noticed him, the room noticed him anyway.

Yunho nearly dropped the pastry tongs. Yeosang raised a brow, lips curving in the kind of smirk that translated to this should be entertaining. 

And Wooyoung.. poor, excitable Wooyoung, made a noise halfway between a gasp and a squeal, clapped a hand over his mouth, and immediately ducked behind the espresso machine to eavesdrop while pretending to wipe it down.

Seonghwa’s fingers kept moving. Only his breath forgot itself for a beat, his heart lurching so violently it almost hurt. 

Because that wasn’t just a man in a suit. That was his husband, his Hongjoong, looking like every headline CEO and every whispered rumor of he’s too sharp, too rich, too much condensed into flesh and bone.

And Hongjoong, of course, locked eyes with him immediately. A slow smile curved his lips, the kind that meant trouble, devotion, and a performance only Seonghwa understood.

“Morning,” the man said when he reached the counter, the smoothness of business in his voice tempered by something warmer. He didn’t look at the menu. He looked at Seonghwa, like the choice lived there. “I was told this place has the best coffee in the city. Could you recommend something… sweet?”

Wooyoung, a meter away, discovered a colony of invisible crumbs and began to wipe them with holy purpose.

“Depends,” Seonghwa said, heat finding his ears as he reached for the portafilter. “Are you the type who pretends to like bitterness?”

“Not today.” The man leaned lightly on the counter, cufflinks glinting, a smile threatening at one corner of his mouth. “Today I’d like something I’ll think about while I’m supposed to be in a meeting.”

“Latte,” Seonghwa said, tamping the puck. “And a blueberry muffin you didn’t order.”

“Bribery,” the man murmured, delighted.

“Insurance,” Seonghwa corrected.

Foam hissed; milk lifted. He pulled the shot and poured with a steady wrist, dropped a heart into the crema like a secret placed exactly where it would be found. When he slid the cup across, the man reached in such a way that their fingers had to brush. Electricity behaved itself, heat did not. 

Up close, the man’s cologne was cedar and rain on warm pavement. Up close, his smile fully arrived.

“You’ve just improved my entire day,” he said, not bothering to hide it.

“Sir,” Wooyoung said to the empty air three stools down, “if you’re going to propose at my bar, at least buy a croissant.”

The man’s eyes glinted. “Add a croissant.” He tucked a bill into the tip jar without looking, the kind of bill that made Yunho, from the dishpit, swear quietly. 

“Bold,” Seonghwa said. He tried for dryness and landed somewhere closer to fond.

The man took the coffee like he was accepting a promise. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Heat climbed Seonghwa’s throat. He managed, “Enjoy,” and did not manage not to watch the way he moved when he left.

Unhurried, as if time only answered to him.

The bell chimed after him. 

The room exhaled.

Wooyoung remained bent over the counter, frozen mid-wipe. Slowly, he straightened, eyes huge. “Park Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa busied himself with a milk jug. “Mm.”

“Did you—did you feel that? Did you see the way he looked at you like you were a tax write-off and a miracle? Please tell me you wrote your number on the cup. Please tell me you didn’t fumble–”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said, fighting a smile. “You’re scaring the muffins.”

Wooyoung clutched his rag to his chest. “He said sweetheart.”

“He did.”

“I hate him,” Wooyoung said reverently. “I love him. I hate him.” He leaned over the counter until his pendant hit the laminate. “Tell me you’re going to find him on LinkedIn and marry him.”

“I have to descale the machine,” Seonghwa said, to the jug, to the safe hum of work. 

A blush cooled, and the day went on.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

That night, in the quiet hour when the building settled and the plants looked like they were listening, Seonghwa stood at the cafe counter with a cup of tea and typed.

Seonghwa [8:14 p.m.]: ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND??

Seonghwa [8:14 p.m.]: Flirting with me in front of Wooyoung??? In that suit???

Seonghwa [8:14 p.m.]: Do you know what you’ve done??

Delivered. The small, taunting dots appeared, then vanished, then appeared again.

Hongjoong [8:16 p.m.]: Made my cute barista blush?

Got free coffee and a muffin?

Yes, I’m aware.

Seonghwa bit the inside of his cheek.

Seonghwa [8:16 p.m.]: I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.

Hongjoong [8:17 p.m.]: If this is how you scold me, I might have to misbehave more often.

Seonghwa [8:18 p.m.]: No. Absolutely not. Do you realize Wooyoung now thinks I’ve finally met my “soulmate”???

He was about to climb on the counter and propose on my behalf.

Hongjoong [8:18 p.m.]: Smart kid. He’s right.

Seonghwa [8:19 p.m.]: …Stop.

You’re insufferable.

Hongjoong [8:19 p.m.]: Insufferable enough that you’re texting me instead of drinking your post-shift tea?

Seonghwa [8:20 p.m.]: Because I’m containing the damage you caused.

Hongjoong [8:21 p.m.]: Contain? Darling, I’m just getting started.

How’s this for tomorrow?

Pinstripe suit. No tie. “Forgot my wallet, but maybe you’ll let me pay in kisses.”

Seonghwa [8:21 p.m.]: KIM HONGJOONG.

Hongjoong [8:22 p.m.]: MY BELOVED WIFE 💍

Seonghwa set the cup down before he dropped it. He stared at the name glowing on his phone as if warmth could leave a bruise.

Seonghwa [8:22 p.m.]: Stop calling me that.

Hongjoong [8:22 p.m.]: You love when I call you that.

The dots waited him out.

Hongjoong [8:24 p.m.]: You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?

Seonghwa [8:24 p.m.]: I hate you.

Hongjoong [8:25 p.m.]: No you don’t.

You’re just mad you have to pretend not to be my spoiled little spouse in front of your coworkers.

Seonghwa [8:25 p.m.]: I’m NOT spoiled.

Hongjoong [8:26 p.m.]: Darling, you married a man with five cars, a townhouse, a summer house, and a boat I don’t remember buying.

You are the definition.

Seonghwa pressed his knuckle to his smile until it hurt.

Seonghwa [8:27 p.m.]: …Shut up.

Hongjoong [8:27 p.m.]: Gladly.

When I’ve got my mouth on you.

Seonghwa [8:27 p.m.]: STOP.

I’M STILL AT THE CAFE.

Hongjoong [8:28 p.m.]: Better finish up quickly then.

Your hot and rich husband is waiting.

Seonghwa turned the phone face down and laughed into the sleeve of his cardigan where no one could see.

This might be way more fun than expected.

Chapter Text

The warehouse’s fluorescent lights buzzed like they were trying to remind everyone it was only seven in the morning. San gripped his clipboard like it was a sacred text, posture set with military determination. “Alright,” he said, checking the neatly written list for the third time. “We’ll be in and out if everyone sticks to the plan.”

Behind him, Wooyoung leaned dramatically against the cart, hoodie hood up, looking like a man attending his own funeral. “There is no plan that makes seven A.M. humane,” he muttered. “I haven’t even looked at caffeine yet.”

“Then stop looking at me like I’m supposed to brew you a latte here,” Yeosang replied dryly, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. He glanced around at the endless aisles stretching ahead of them and sighed like a man facing exile. “I already hate this.”

“I don’t!” Yunho announced, bouncing on his heels like the linoleum was a trampoline. “This is amazing. Look at this place! It’s like Costco’s hotter cousin.” He grabbed one of the flatbed carts parked near the entrance. “We should take one of these. They’re faster.”

“We don’t need that,” San said firmly, steering the regular cart forward.

“Correction,” Yunho grinned, stepping on the flatbed like it was a skateboard. “We do. For morale.”

Wooyoung groaned and latched himself onto San’s arm. “Baby, I’m begging you. Let us have fun. I can’t survive this otherwise.”

“You’ll survive,” San replied without breaking stride. “Barely...”

The first aisle started out simple enough: bulk sugar, flour, paper cups. San moved with precision, ticking items off his clipboard as he stacked them neatly in the cart.

And then.. chaos.

“Look!” Wooyoung returned from the next aisle over, arms overflowing with bottles of pastel-colored syrups. “Strawberry cheesecake, lavender honey, hazelnut crème brûlée. Imagine the specials, Sannie! We’ll be unstoppable!”

San didn’t even look up from comparing two brands of sugar. “We don’t need those.”

“But we deserve them,” Wooyoung countered, dropping the bottles triumphantly into the cart. They clinked like victory bells.

From behind, Yeosang calmly reached in, picked out the most ridiculous flavor (“Cotton Candy Explosion”), and set it back on the shelf. “Try again.”

Wooyoung gasped, scandalized. “You traitor.”

Meanwhile, Yunho reappeared from the far end of the aisle, pushing something that looked suspiciously like a popcorn machine on wheels. “We could sell snacks,” he said, beaming. “Imagine it: coffee and popcorn. Revolutionary.”

San’s head snapped up. “Put it back.”

“But—”

“Back.”

Yunho groaned, dragging it away.

By the time San turned around, Wooyoung had already snuck in a second armful of syrups. San pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is not a game. We are buying essentials.”

“It is if you let it be,” Wooyoung sang, spinning one of the bottles like a baton.

Yeosang watched him with the flat expression of someone long resigned to insanity. “You realize I’m going to remove half of those before we get to the register, right?”

“Over my dead body,” Wooyoung shot back, clutching the bottles to his chest like newborns.

By the third aisle, the cart was a battlefield: half filled with actual necessities San had wrestled onto the list, half stuffed with Wooyoung’s “genius investments” that Yeosang kept quietly siphoning back out. Yunho, banished from bringing oversized appliances, was now distracted by bulk bags of gummy worms.

Wooyoung leaned dramatically against the cart handle, sighing as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “I wonder what Hyung is doing right now.”

“Working,” Yeosang said flatly, scanning the shelf of tea boxes.

“No, no.” Wooyoung shook his head. “Not just working. I hope he’s at the register, doing that little polite smile thing that makes customers trip over themselves, and I hope–” his voice dropped conspiratorially “-that hot dilf is there, flirting shamelessly.”

San, who was currently checking expiration dates on oat milk cartons, didn’t even look up. “We are not calling him that in public.”

“But he is!” Wooyoung protested, drawing a curious glance from an elderly woman comparing cereal boxes two aisles down. He lowered his voice only slightly. “Suit, jawline sharp enough to slice marble, energy that screams ‘I make six figures but want a latte with extra foam.’ That man is destiny. Hyung deserves destiny.”

Yeosang dropped another unnecessary bottle of syrup back onto the shelf. “Hyung deserves peace.”

“Peace and a dilf, a rich dilf.” Wooyoung countered immediately.

San’s sigh sounded like a prayer for patience. He crossed another item off the clipboard. “Focus. We still have dairy to get.”

Wooyoung pushed the cart forward with exaggerated despair, muttering under his breath. “Fine. But if Seonghwa dies of loneliness while we’re out here buying milk, don’t come crying to me.”

From the back of the group, Yunho piped up cheerfully, “Can we get the gummy worms though?”

“No,” three voices said at once.

The cleaning supplies aisle was supposed to be straightforward. Sponges, paper towels, maybe some eco-friendly soap. Instead, it turned into yet another skirmish.

Yunho had somehow discovered a floor mop with an extendable handle and was using it like a staff, twirling it with alarming skill.

“Put it back,” San said without even glancing up from comparing soap labels.

“But Saaaan..” Yunho spun once more, nearly clipping Wooyoung in the shoulder.

“HEY!” Wooyoung yelped, clutching the cart protectively. “Do not jeopardize my pastries with your weird monk routine!”

“Technically,” Yeosang murmured, flipping a pack of microfiber cloths in his hand like a playing card, “you jeopardize your pastries every time you forget the timer.”

Wooyoung gasped, scandalized. “That was ONE TIME.”

“Two.” Yeosang corrected.

“Semantics!”

San pinched the bridge of his nose, dropped the eco-soap into the cart, and took the mop out of Yunho’s hands in one smooth motion. “No martial arts in the detergent aisle. New rule.”

Yunho looked genuinely wounded. “But it feels balanced.”

“You’ll survive.”

Wooyoung, already over the mop debacle, grabbed a giant multipack of sponges and tossed it into the cart with the force of someone making a statement. “Fine. But I’m picking the dish soap. We need something fancy.”

“Soap is soap,” Yeosang said.

Wooyoung leveled him with a look. “You clearly have never seen the difference between regular soap and lavender-infused bergamot luxury soap.”

“It washes dishes,” Yeosang deadpanned.

“It washes souls,” Wooyoung countered, dramatically clutching the bottle to his chest.

San just wrote “soap” on the clipboard with the weariness of a man who had accepted his fate long ago.

They’d barely recovered from Wooyoung’s “unicorn sparkle cotton candy” syrup debacle when he froze mid-step. His head tilted, eyes narrowing like a hawk that had finally spotted prey.

“Oh,” he said reverently. “The real stuff.”

San stopped too, adjusting the clipboard under his arm. He recognized the sudden gravity in Wooyoung’s tone. “Here we go.”

Wooyoung abandoned the cart in the middle of the aisle and strode toward the top shelf. “These!–!” he plucked down two elegant glass bottles, labels minimalist, gold-foiled “–are the syrups that actually matter. None of that fluorescent sugar water nonsense. You can taste the difference.”

Yunho, trailing behind with a bag of chips he was trying to sneak into the cart, frowned. “Didn’t you just put something called Dragonfire Cherry Burst in the basket?”

“That was for science,” Wooyoung snapped, already scanning ingredients like scripture. “This is for the café’s reputation. People come here for more than caffeine. They come for art. And I refuse to put garbage in my art.”

Yeosang, ever unbothered, rested his chin on the cart handle. “So your scientific method is to buy every absurd flavor and then hope San forgives the invoice?”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung said, too focused to notice the sarcasm. “But these!! These are the syrups that actually belong behind our bar. Clean, balanced, natural extracts. They’ll make our drinks sing.”

San reached over and smoothed a hand down Wooyoung’s back, smiling as he scribbled “seasonal syrup (approved)” onto the clipboard. “It’s true. People come back for quality. Not just because Woo names the drinks after zodiac signs.”

“That too..” Wooyoung said, reverent as he tucked the chosen bottles into the cart like they were crown jewels.

Yunho peered at the growing pile of chaos syrups underneath and muttered, “So… we’re running a serious café and a carnival stand now.”

“Shut up, Yunho,” Wooyoung said automatically, already reaching for the limited-edition ‘rose lychee dream’. 

San trailed behind, arms crossed. “Woo, you’re supposed to be picking the top sellers, not the entire rainbow.”

“Excuse you, rose lychee dream could be our bestseller if you had vision.” Wooyoung clutched the bottle dramatically to his chest. “And besides, this is the syrup aisle, San. It’s sacred ground. Don’t limit me.”

Yunho and Yeosang exchanged a look over the cart.

“Sacred ground” Yunho whispered.

“Blasphemy” Yeosang deadpanned.

They rolled on, but Wooyoung suddenly spun, snatching the clipboard straight out of San’s hands. He scanned the inventory list with a speed that suggested years of practice, then gasped.

“San.” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “What is this?”

San blinked. “What’s what?”

“You put down milk chocolate for the house pastries.” Wooyoung tapped the line with the pen like he was delivering a guilty verdict.

San shrugged. “People like milk chocolate.”

“They like it in candy bars,” Wooyoung snapped. “Not in our croissants. In our croissants, they get the good bittersweet. The real stuff. Do you want our café to be Starbucks, San? Is that what you want?”

San muttered into his hand, “Here we go…”

But Wooyoung was already marching down the baking aisle, throwing his scarf dramatically over one shoulder. “Seventy percent cacao minimum! I will not compromise on this!”

Yunho nudged Yeosang, whispering, “Should we… step in?”

“No,” Yeosang replied, pushing the cart with two fingers. “This is his natural habitat.”

By the time they rolled into checkout, the cart looked less like a professional café supply run and more like the aftermath of a small-scale heist. Syrups clinked together dangerously, bags of specialty flour bulged out the sides, and somewhere under it all, Yeosang’s carefully stacked boxes had been crushed.

Wooyoung immediately took command of the conveyor belt. “Careful, careful, syrups upright, chocolates grouped, flour last. This isn’t amateur hour.”

The cashier, a college student with dead eyes, blinked at him once and began scanning at the speed of molasses.

San leaned against the cart, arms folded, muttering, “We’re never going to make it back before closing.”

“We will if people respected systems,” Wooyoung fired back, repositioning a bottle of caramel so the label faced forward. “Presentation matters.”

Halfway through, the register beeped angrily. The cashier frowned. “Uh. One of these doesn’t have a barcode.”

Wooyoung gasped like someone had just kicked his dog. “Which one?”

The cashier held up rose lychee dream.

San immediately covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

“Don’t you dare,” Wooyoung hissed at him. Then, louder, to the cashier: “This is artisanal, imported, hand-foraged rose lychee syrup! You find a way to scan it!”

Behind them, Yunho tried very hard to look like he wasn’t with this group. Yeosang, on the other hand, calmly pulled out his phone and started typing.

“What are you doing?” Yunho whispered.

“Calculating how much longer until Wooyoung gets banned from this store,” Yeosang replied without looking up.

The cashier eventually punched in a manual code just to shut the situation down, sliding the syrup into the bag like it was radioactive.

Finally, with every item scanned and stacked into a fortress of paper bags, Wooyoung paid with a flourish of his card. “See? Efficient. Smooth. Perfect.”

One of the bags promptly split at the bottom, a bottle of hazelnut syrup thunking to the ground.

San just sighed. “Perfect.”

They herded the mountain of bags out of the store like it was an unruly toddler. San insisted on carrying all the heaviest items at once (because of course he did) while Wooyoung marched ahead with the bag of syrups cradled like a newborn. Yunho somehow got saddled with three awkward boxes of paper cups that blocked half his vision, and Yeosang strolled behind with exactly one bag, pristine, balanced in his hand like he was modeling it for a catalog.

“Unfair division of labor!” Yunho complained, nearly tripping over the curb.

“Survival of the fittes.” Yeosang said smoothly.

Wooyoung spun around, walking backwards so he could glare at them all. “Don’t break anything! If one bottle cracks, the entire café will smell like nutmeg regret for weeks.”

San grunted under the weight of two flour sacks. “Maybe if someone didn’t buy every single syrup in existence..”

“They all spoke to me!” Wooyoung cut in. “Do you want the café to thrive or not?”

By the time they reached the café door, the whole group was sweaty, mildly annoyed, and in various states of exhaustion. Wooyoung kicked the door open dramatically, the little bell above ringing like a herald.

Inside, the café looked like it had barely survived a war. The last of the rush hour crowd was thinning, napkins scattered across tables, stray coffee cups stacked in uneven towers. 

And behind the counter, hair a little messy, sleeves rolled up, apron smudged but eyes bright, stood Seonghwa.

He let out a breath of relief at the sight of them. “Finally. Reinforcements.”

Wooyoung immediately perked up, marching in like a conquering hero. “Fear not, Hyung! We bring offerings!” He raised the syrups high, ignoring the way one of the bags wobbled dangerously.

Seonghwa’s tired smile broke into something warmer, genuine. “Good. I was starting to think we’d run out of caramel before closing.”

San dropped the flour sacks onto the counter with a thud that rattled the napkin dispenser. “Never happening on our watch.”

Yunho stumbled in behind them, nearly toppling over the boxes of cups. “We survived,” he groaned.

Yeosang set down his single immaculate bag, not a crease in sight. “Some of us more elegantly than others.”

Seonghwa laughed softly, the sound enough to make the chaos of the day thin out a little. “Welcome back,” he said, and there was something in the way he looked at all of them, fond, tired, proud.. that made the hassle of inventory runs and split bags feel almost worth it.

They began unloading their haul across the counter like victorious pirates dropping treasure. 

Bags rustled, boxes thudded, the smell of cocoa powder and coffee syrups mixing with the lingering scent of brewed espresso.

Seonghwa glanced at the spread, brows lifting. “That’s… a lot.”

“Essentials,” Wooyoung said firmly, lining up the syrups as if he were arranging fine art.

“Half of those are questionable.” San arched a brow.

“Half of those are genius,” Wooyoung shot back. “You’ll thank me when cinnamon-maple-pecan saves our winter menu.”

Yunho leaned on the counter, catching his breath. “We nearly lost him in the aisle,” he told Seonghwa, nodding at Wooyoung. “He was debating with himself out loud for ten minutes over a bottle that just said Autumn Bliss.”

“Because naming matters!” Wooyoung barked, but then softened when Seonghwa chuckled, the sound low and warm.

They fell into their usual rhythm, San stowing the flour, Yeosang quietly checking off the inventory list with the precision of a general. For a moment, it felt like the café exhaled along with them, the storm of rush hour replaced with the quiet of friends simply working side by side.

And then..

because it was Wooyoung..

“So,” he said casually, wiping down the counter where no mess existed, “did the hot dilf come in today?”

San groaned, Yunho nearly choked on his water, and Yeosang didn’t even look up, simply muttering, “Subtle as ever.”

Seonghwa froze halfway through folding a towel. A soft flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheeks. “W-what did you just—”

“You heard me.” Wooyoung leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Suit Daddy. Latte Lover. Mr. I-Could-Buy-This-Entire-Block-With-The-Flick-Of-A-Finger. Did he show up, or do we officially assume that you fumbled your one and only shot?”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned, voice sharp but his ears a deep shade of red.

“Well?” Wooyoung pressed.

Seonghwa huffed, gathering the towel a little too neatly. “He didn’t come in today.”

There was no missing the faint dip in his tone, the way he smoothed the counter twice though it was already spotless.

Wooyoung gasped like a detective confirming a lead. “Hyung. Hyung. You’re disappointed. You like him.”

Seonghwa turned his back with practiced grace, muttering something about reorganizing lids.

San sighed, dragging Wooyoung away by his apron before the interrogation could deepen. Yunho leaned over to Yeosang, voice low. “Should we tell him to stop?”

Yeosang flipped the inventory page, face unreadable. “No. This is the only entertainment we get for free.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The café was quiet in that lazy stretch between waves of customers. Sunlight spilled through the windows, catching the faint dust in the air and glinting against glass jars on the shelves. Seonghwa worked silently at the counter, resetting the grinder a click finer, his motions steady and practiced.

Wooyoung, however, could not abide silence. He groaned so loudly, for the tenth time within the past five minutes, from behind the register that Yeosang, who was tallying receipts, didn’t even flinch anymore.

“It’s over,” Wooyoung declared, flopping against the counter like the world’s most dramatic fainting starlet. “Truly over. Love has come and gone, and Seonghwa-hyung has slammed the door in its perfect jawlined face.”

Yunho snorted where he was sweeping near the pastry case. “You’re still on about Suit Daddy?”

Seonghwa froze mid-wipe, blinking once. “…Suit what?”

Wooyoung gasped as though he were the one being scandalized. “Suit Daddy. Keep up, hyung. The man walked in here like a cologne commercial, ordered coffee like it was foreplay, and you just let him leave. No number. No promise. Nothing! You fumbled harder than a rookie on debut stage.”

Seonghwa, still visibly processing, went back to wiping down the milk pitcher with the quiet dignity of a man who refused to engage further. “…He ordered a latte and a muffin.”

“Exactly!” Wooyoung jabbed a finger in his direction. “You gave him carbs, not commitment! Do you realize what’s happening right now? He’s probably on a rooftop bar somewhere, sipping whiskey, being admired by people who actually appreciate art when it walks through their door.”

Yeosang finally sighed, setting his pen down. “You do realize you’re engaged, right? You already have someone to project all this energy onto.”

Wooyoung gasped, clutching his chest. “Excuse me? Just because I’m blissfully in love doesn’t mean I can’t care about my hyung’s tragic love life.”

“Tragic?” Seonghwa muttered, under his breath.

“Tragic,” Wooyoung repeated firmly. “Three days, hyung. Three. Do you know what that means? You fumbled so bad he probably moved to another country out of sheer rejection. Next time—if the gods are merciful enough to send him back through that door—I swear I’ll grab the cup myself and write your number on it in permanent marker. No, scratch that, I’ll carve it into the foam with chocolate syrup if I have to. You’re welcome in advance.”

Yunho leaned on his broom, grinning. “Sounds like he’s planning your wedding for you, Hwa.”

“Oh, I am,” Wooyoung said without hesitation. “And the groom was right here last week, in a suit that probably cost more than this entire café. But nooo, hyung let him walk out, heart unclaimed, destiny ignored.” He flopped again, dramatically boneless across the register. “Do you know how painful it is, watching your best friend self-sabotage?”

“Not as painful as listening to you.” Yeosang said dryly, returning to his receipts.

Seonghwa didn’t even look up from the milk he was steaming. “If you so much as touch that man’s cup with a marker, Wooyoung, I’ll write your number on it instead and let him deal with you.” His tone was calm, almost pleasant, but the way he slid the cup across the counter had all the weight of a warning.

The café door chimed then, cutting through Wooyoung’s tirade. A pair of students wandered in, laughing quietly, and the moment passed. 

Though Wooyoung, still muttering about fate and fumbles, made it clear he hadn’t let go of his crusade.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Today the café lived between rushes like the city held its breath for them. 

After the morning commuters and before the students with their open laptops, the light slid thin and clear across the tabletops, and the room loosened its shoulders. 

Outside, the florist’s delivery van double‑parked and spilled a crate of marigolds onto the sidewalk; the tailor next door propped his door with a shoe tree and argued, gently and forever, with a radio that only played ballads. Inside, the chalkboard menu leaned slightly to the left, the S in espresso smudged where Wooyoung’s sleeve had caught it; the tip jar wore a paper crown Yunho had cut from a pastry box and labeled coffee is art; tip your artists.

San’s notes from last night—block letters, neat, merciless—stared from the prep board: MILK ORDER WED // TEST NEW SYRUP. Wooyoung had added underneath: also god is real and he wants us to have cinnamon rolls. Yeosang had written, smaller: stop writing on the board.

Seonghwa loved this hour best. The machine purred instead of roared. The air tasted like citrus and heat and the ghost of sugar. He moved through the space without having to think about it. Open a new sleeve of lids, flip the cloth, reset the grinder one click finer because humidity had crept up overnight. The shop was a body he knew from the inside out. If a shelf breathed wrong, he could feel it.

The back door thumped; Wooyoung’s voice caroled down the hall “Five minutes, I swear, San, I’m just grabbing the receipt book, stop being a tyrant” and then silence again. They would be gone to scold a wholesaler, to charm a discount, to argue about whether bread counts as pastry adjacent. 

For a small slice of time, the front belonged to Seonghwa alone.

He heard the bell a second before it rang. There was a way the door moved when it was held by someone who never had to hurry.

Hongjoong stepped in out of the day like he was crossing into a room that already knew his name. Not the armor of the morning—the pressed lines and bulletproof part in his hair—but something leaner, the jacket unbuttoned, tie a fraction off center as if a meeting had gone long and he’d won anyway. The silver in his hair caught at the window and returned the light more gently than the watch on his wrist.

“Rough morning?” he asked, not because he needed an answer but because he liked the shape of Seonghwa’s voice when it landed on no.

“Steady,” Seonghwa said, and the word warmed between them. He pulled a shot without looking down. “Are you coming home for dinner?”

There was the smallest lift at the corner of Hongjoong’s mouth, as if a thread inside him had been pulled straight. “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Good.” Seonghwa set the portafilter aside and reached for him without ceremony, catching two fingers in the narrow knot of his tie and drawing him across the last inch of air. 

The kiss landed halfway across the counter, a little awkward in angle but sweeter for it. Hongjoong angled his head, pressing in with quiet insistence, his hand sliding along the wood edge as if he could close the distance more than the counter would allow. Seonghwa let him try, let the kiss deepen for one slow beat, then clicked his tongue softly in warning.

“Not here,” he whispered, breaking away, though he didn’t retreat far, but just enough that his breath still mingled with Hongjoong’s. Hongjoong’s sigh caught between protest and reverence.

Seonghwa reached across again, fingers smoothing the tie he’d just wrinkled, pulling the knot straight like it was a ritual only he was allowed. “There,” he said, gentle but certain, like he was stitching him back into place.

Hongjoong’s lips curved, the quietest mischief blooming in his eyes. He leaned just close enough that only Seonghwa could hear the murmur: “Fine. I’ll get my share later.”

The flush that touched Seonghwa’s ears was worth every ounce of restraint.

“I have three hours of pretending to be serious,” Hongjoong said, grinning like a man newly doomed. “Cruel.”

“Take your coffee,” Seonghwa murmured, tucking a blueberry muffin into a bag like he wasn’t doing it every time. “Be serious later.”

He slid the latte across with a heart drawn into the foam so neatly it could have been stamped. Their fingers touched—gold to gold, the flash of matched bands turned into a secret handshake by habit. The bell in the back rattled, and the hallway filled with the clatter of a dolly and two voices arguing about whether physics applied to doorframes.

“Showtime,” Hongjoong breathed, more amused than wary, and stepped a half‑pace left into the public light of the bar.

The swing door flapped and Wooyoung arrived first, all oxygen and speculation, a clipboard under his arm and a crumb of phantom pastry on his cheek. Yunho followed with a box of cups balanced against one hip, eyes bright with the survivor’s high of having lived to tell the tale of San versus logistics. They clocked the suited stranger at the counter in the same beat; Seonghwa felt the attention hit his skin like a change in weather.

“Welcome back,” Yunho said, instincts carrying him to the register. “What can we get you?”

Hongjoong lifted the cup already in his hand. The latte with the clean heart steaming at its center, and the small bag with the tucked‑in muffin. “Already taken care of,” he said easily, voice pitched for rooms that listened. “I only came to thank your barista. Excellence deserves to be acknowledged.” 

His eyes touched Seonghwa and stayed there half a heartbeat longer than courtesy required. “Though—” his gaze flicked deliberately again toward Seonghwa, a thread of teasing pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I did ask your barista for his number, and, tragically, he didn’t give it to me.”

He sighed then, a soft, exaggerated pout bending the expression of a man who usually wore gravitas like a tailored suit. On anyone else it might have looked endearing; on Hongjoong, it was absurdly theatrical. “Can you imagine? Shot down so easily.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, muffling the heat in his ears by busying himself with the tamper. “You’ll live.”

“Perhaps,” Hongjoong allowed, straightening with all the dignity in the world. “But I’ll keep trying. Some hearts are worth the effort.” His eyes held Seonghwa’s for a lingering beat before he turned toward the door. “Until next time.” he said, deliberately loud enough to carry. And then, as if to end Wooyoung’s entire career, he winked.

And then he was gone, the bell jingling behind him like punctuation, leaving steam and silence in his wake

The silence held for exactly three beats before—

“PARK SEONGHWA.”

Wooyoung slapped his clipboard down like a gavel. 

“Tell me you didn’t just fumble him AGAIN.” His voice cracked under the weight of disbelief and drama. “There is no way—NO WAY—you didn’t give that man your number. I refuse to live in that reality. Absolutely not. That is NOT how I raised you.”

Yunho groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Here we go.”

“I mean look at him!” Wooyoung threw his arms wide at the empty doorway like he was summoning witnesses. “Hot, loaded, tragic pout straight out of a drama, and you just—what?—handed him a muffin and sent him on his way? That’s criminal negligence. That’s betrayal! Betrayal of me, of romance, of the entire café brand!”

Seonghwa busied himself stacking lids, expression calm while his ears burned bright red. “We are low on eights,” he said, serene as a monk.

“Don’t you dare inventory your way out of this conversation,” Wooyoung accused, pointing like a prosecutor. “You think I don’t see what’s happening? You think I’m blind? Hyung, that was not coffee talk, that was a full proposal disguised as caffeine.”

Yunho leaned against the counter, eyebrows raised. “Proposal? Pretty sure it was just a latte order.”

“It was a declaration of intent,” Wooyoung snapped back. “The muffin was dowry. The wink was the contract. And Hyung just—what?—rolled his eyes like this was a grocery run?”

Yeosang, who walked a few seconds ago in the middle of the meltdown, finally spoke. “If this is how you react to casual flirting, I don’t want to be around when someone actually proposes.”

Wooyoung whirled on him. “Casual flirting? Did you not see the pout? Did you not see the smolder? That was not casual. That was targeted warfare. He’s playing chess while the rest of us are still learning checkers.”

“More like you’re playing charades,” Yeosang murmured, deadpan. “And losing.”

“He asked for coffee—”

“He asked for YOU,” Wooyoung shot back, scandalized. “I cannot believe this. This is malpractice. This is sabotage.” He whirled on Yunho. “Tell him! Tell him you saw what I saw.”

Yunho lifted both hands, the picture of diplomacy. “I mean… he did look pretty interested.”

“INTERESTED?” Wooyoung echoed, clutching his own chest. “That was not interest. That was devotion. That was destiny. That was—” he flailed, out of words and oxygen. “Hyung, blink twice if you’re actively trying to ruin my blood pressure.”

Seonghwa shoved the tamper back into place, ears red as coffee grounds steaming between them. “We’re out of two-percent. Restock it.”

Wooyoung groaned like a man abandoned by the gods. “Unbelievable.” He stalked toward the fridge, muttering to himself. “Day two and he’s already proposing with his eyes. I’m going to have an aneurysm.”

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing through his blush. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Wooyoung gasped, clutching his chest like the word had wounded him. “Hyung, you are the one rejecting fate in a three-piece suit. Do you know how many baristas dream of being pursued by a man who probably owns half the city skyline? Do you?”

Yunho raised a hand like a student. “I don’t. But I dream of one closing shift without Wooyoung starting a conspiracy board.”

“That’s because you lack vision,” Wooyoung shot back. He slapped the counter again for emphasis. “Mark my words, I will not let this love story die. If Hyung won’t give him his number, I will personally write it on a cup and slide it across the bar. I am saying this for the LAST time!”

Yeosang’s mouth quirked, the faintest curve of amusement. “Do that and San will kill you before Seonghwa gets the chance.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darted to Seonghwa, who was methodically wiping the tamper like it needed an exorcism. “Fine. But tell me this, Hyung: are you interested? Because if you say yes, I’ll campaign for you like it’s an election.”

Seonghwa finally looked up, his gaze steady despite the red at his ears. “Wooyoung, I said we’re low on eights.”

The groan that left Yunho was nearly theatrical. “He’s dodging. Again.”

“Not dodging,” Seonghwa corrected smoothly, sliding the tamper back into place. “Prioritizing.”

Wooyoung threw his hands skyward, a man undone. “This is injustice. This is tragedy. This is my villain origin story.”

Yeosang set down the cloth and tilted his head. “Ah yes, a regular Tuesday.”

Seonghwa busied himself with wiping the counter, pretending his pulse wasn’t hammering like it wanted out. He didn’t look at the door Hongjoong had walked through. He didn’t need to.

Because of course he’d be back. Hongjoong always kept his promises.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

They let the city fall off them at the door. Shoes into the tray, keys in the bowl, the soft automatic chorus of good habits. 

Seonghwa flicked the entry light to low and the house answered by exhaling, cool hall, warm living room, the faint citrus of cleaner rising in the places where the sun had found the floor earlier that day. Hongjoong loosened his tie with the relief of a man finished with performances and set it carefully beside Seonghwa’s ring dish like a courtesy.

“Successful day,” he said, which could mean quarterly targets or one flawless heart in foam. “Minimal casualties.”

“Wooyoung doesn’t count as a casualty,” Seonghwa said, amused. He nudged Hongjoong toward the living room. “Sit. I’ll cook.”

“Mm, you cook, I'll set the table,” Hongjoong bargained, already rolling his sleeves. He did fine with plates and chopsticks. Stoves, history had proven, were not his calling.

Dinner was the kind Seonghwa liked to build on quiet days: rice that steamed while he chopped, a quick pan of greens with garlic until they glossed, mackerel crisped skin‑side down, a small dish of kimchi he’d made himself and guarded like a secret. The kitchen light made a halo of the steam. The house filled with it. Behind him, he could hear Hongjoong moving through the ritual of bowls and napkins, the weight of ceramic, the murmur of a playlist he kept at the volume of breath.

They ate at the table with knees touching. Hongjoong offered bites like it was a game—“Trade me a piece of fish for a corner of that egg”—and Seonghwa, who pretended to be impervious to bribery, always yielded the better half. Conversation ran small rivers:an idol group’s comeback schedule running behind; a regular who tipped in coins and fortune cookie slips; the tailor’s radio next door insisting on the same ballad twice.

Only when the plates were pushed back and the chrysanthemum tea poured did the day’s theater come back to sit with them on the couch.

“He’s going to draw a conspiracy board,” Seonghwa said, feet tucked under him, tea balanced in both palms. “Red string, thumbtacks. ‘Hot businessman’ in block letters.”

“Probably centered,” Hongjoong said gravely, “and underlined.” He shifted, shoulder to Seonghwa’s shoulder, their spines finding the same slope against the cushions. “He wiped a perfectly clean counter like he was shining a signal mirror at me. I felt inspected.”

“You were.” Seonghwa said, hiding a smile in his cup. “Accept your fate.”

They fell quiet for a beat, the kind of silence that had never asked to be filled. The tea breathed floral and faintly sweet. Outside, a neighbor locked their bike; the click sounded like punctuation at the end of a sentence no one had spoken.

“It is fun,” Hongjoong said finally, voice softer. “The bit.”

Seonghwa turned his head. “Mm.”

“Walking in like I don’t know where your favorite mugs live,” he continued. “Asking for something sweet like I didn’t watch you pour sugar into a jar this morning. Trying to seduce the barista who already married me.” His mouth tilted. “I like earning you again.”

Heat rose, slow and steady, behind Seonghwa’s chest. “You don’t have to earn me.”

“I know.” Hongjoong said, thumb catching the edge of Seonghwa’s sleeve and smoothing it back, a touch as casual as a breath and as deliberate as a vow. “That’s why it’s fun.” A beat. “Also the faces it gives your new friends are… priceless.”

“Yunho almost invented a new word for ‘unmanageable,’” Seonghwa said, laughing. “And Wooyoung tried to police flirting like it was a noise violation.”

“We should establish boundaries,” Hongjoong mused. “A house policy. One public compliment per visit.”

“One?” Seonghwa repeated, skeptical.

“Two if you slip me muffins.”

He gave in at once and hated that Hongjoong knew he would. “Fine. Two with muffins.”

“An equitable settlement.” Hongjoong set his empty cup down, then tugged gently at Seonghwa’s ankle until his legs unfolded across Hongjoong’s lap. His hands bracketed shins, thumbs pressing light arcs into bone like cartographers confirming a known coastline. “What’s your favorite part?”

“Of our collective madness?”

“Of this..” Hongjoong said, tipping his chin toward the invisible café—the bell, the hissing steam, the stage they visited and abandoned. “The pretending.”

Seonghwa thought about it. “The first look,” he said at last. “When you come in and you put your eyes on me like you’ve been looking for me all day.” He smiled, a small thing that showed and didn’t. “And the last one. At the door.”

“The wink,” Hongjoong admitted, unrepentant.

“You’re insufferable,” Seonghwa said, and because the house had eyes only for them, he added, “I love you.”

Hongjoong’s answering smile was the kind that got under ribs and decided to live there. “I love you more when you’re cruel about my winking.”

They let the tea cool to a paler sweetness, talking the way people who trust time talk: wandering, returning, touching future plans with the backs of their fingers. A market on Sunday if the rain held off. New curtains for the room that refused to keep dawn out. 

Maybe.. Seonghwa said this like testing a step on a new stair, inviting the staff here one evening. Not for revelations. For dinner. For the kind of slow acquaintance that turned coworkers into people whose birthdays you knew by muscle memory.

“Not yet,” Hongjoong said, reading the thought as easily as he read a quarterly. “But soon.”

“Soon.” Seonghwa agreed.

Later, the cups washed and left to dry, the playlist down to its last soft piano, Hongjoong hooked an arm around Seonghwa’s waist as they passed the kitchen and drew him back against his chest, backhug, lips hovering right at the curve where Seonghwa's neck met his shoulder, the whole of his day rearranging to make room for this shape.

“You were very brave today,” he murmured into Seonghwa’s hair, and Seonghwa made an undignified sound at the back of his throat that said don’t you dare make fun of me for blushing in my own workplace.

“Tomorrow,” Hongjoong went on, gentler, “I’ll keep it cleaner. Gentleman flirting only. No ‘sweetheart’ unless the espresso is exceptional.”

“It’s always exceptional,” Seonghwa said, but the admonishment had softened to fondness.

“Then I’m doomed,” Hongjoong sighed, though his mouth curved like he’d never been happier about it. He turned Seonghwa in his arms, and kissed him like he had at the counter earlier. Only this time, he didn’t let it stay soft. It deepened in a heartbeat, a slow, deliberate claim, the kind he’d warned Seonghwa he’d be collecting later. The world outside blurred; there was only the press of his ring against Seonghwa’s waist, the slide of breath shared between them.

When he finally eased back, his voice was lower, steadier, warm against Seonghwa’s lips. “Bed?”

“In a minute,” Seonghwa said, already walking them toward the bedroom with their shoulders touching. “I have to draft a new sign for the register.”

“Oh?”

He glanced back, eyes bright. “Compliments do not qualify for the punch card.”

Hongjoong’s laugh followed them down the hall, warm enough to leave its own light behind.

They left the rest of the house to its own darkness and let the bedroom lamp be small and kind. 

Cotton gave that soft sigh it makes when it remembers a body; the duvet lifted and fell, and Seonghwa slid in first, hair mussed by the day, mouth already soft with the promise of sleep. Hongjoong came after, shoulder to shoulder, then chest to back, then (because they were allowed to change their minds) face to face, knees tangling, the kind of closeness that asked for nothing and received everything.

The first kiss tasted faintly of chrysanthemum and something sweeter he couldn’t name unless he called it home. The second kiss forgot about talking. The third slowed enough to set a rhythm: mouth, breath, a laugh caught between them when noses bumped; the brush of rings when their hands found each other and stayed. Hongjoong kissed like patience; Seonghwa kissed like he’d been patient long enough. Neither of them hurried, because they didn’t have to.

“Let’s do two winks.” Hongjoong murmured against his lower lip.

“One.” Seonghwa said, the word dissolving into a smile that made Hongjoong chase it with another kiss.

They drifted like that. Lazy, unambitious, generous, until the room narrowed to warmth and the lamp’s halo and the small gravity that exists between two people who have promised and kept on promising. 

When they finally eased apart, it wasn’t far. Hongjoong slid an arm under Seonghwa’s head and drew him close. Seonghwa tucked his face into the familiar curve of Hongjoong’s neck, exhaled, and felt something inside him answer yes.

“Tomorrow.” Hongjoong said, the word already half‑asleep.

“Tomorrow.” Seonghwa echoed, and pressed one last unhurried kiss to the corner of his husband’s mouth. The lamp clicked. The house held them. Everything that still needed saying could wait for morning.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The café was quiet in the half‑dark of dawn, the kind of stillness that only existed at 5 a.m. when the world outside hadn’t quite woken up yet. The ovens hummed low, the air smelled faintly of yeast, and Wooyoung stood at the counter, sleeves shoved up, hands deep in a mound of dough. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, hair sticking up every which way, but he hummed under his breath as he kneaded.

San padded up behind him, arms wrapping briefly around his waist, chin brushing his shoulder. He pressed a slow kiss to Wooyoung’s temple, warm and steady. “Morning,” he murmured, voice still gravelly with sleep.

Wooyoung leaned into the touch without breaking rhythm, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Morning.”

They worked like that for a while, quiet, unhurried. San portioned butter, Wooyoung weighed flour, their movements practiced and sure even in the early haze. Time slipped by soft and unnoticed, broken only by the shuffle of trays and the low hiss of water turning to steam.

It started small. A stray smudge of flour on San’s forearm that Wooyoung brushed off with exaggerated care. San raised an eyebrow. Wooyoung grinned, wicked, and deliberately flicked a pinch of flour onto San’s shirt. San exhaled through his nose, long‑suffering. Wooyoung’s grin widened.

The second flick landed on San’s cheek.

This time, San didn’t sigh. He dipped two fingers into the flour bin and, with precision, tapped a neat streak across Wooyoung’s jaw. The squeak Wooyoung let out nearly made San laugh.

“You’re asking for it,” Wooyoung threatened, lunging forward with both hands dusted white.

They dissolved into laughter, chasing each other around the prep table, smudging flour onto sleeves and cheeks and hair. By the time San caught him, Wooyoung’s apron looked like it had been through a snowstorm, and his laughter was spilling uncontrolled.

“Got you,” San said simply, pressing Wooyoung back into the counter. His hands bracketed Wooyoung’s hips, holding him in place as he leaned down. Wooyoung was still breathless, flour streaked across his lips, when San kissed him—quick, firm, shutting him up and grounding them both. The kiss softened almost immediately, laughter tapering into something tender, sweet, inevitable.

“I win,” San whispered against his mouth.

Wooyoung pouted, eyes still dancing. “Cheater.”

San kissed the pout, slow and indulgent, until Wooyoung was grinning again.

Outside, the sky was beginning to pale. A familiar sleek car slowed to a stop in front of the café. Seonghwa stepped out, a thin scarf tucked neatly around his neck, the faint chill of early morning clinging to his breath. Hongjoong leaned across from the driver’s seat, and Seonghwa bent down to kiss him, gentle and unhurried, both of them soft with the quiet of the hour.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Hongjoong said, hand brushing Seonghwa’s cheek.

“Drive safe,” Seonghwa replied, a smile curling warm as he whispered back, “I love you.”

“I love you more,” Hongjoong returned easily, and Seonghwa rolled his eyes with fond exasperation before waving as the car pulled away.

Inside, Seonghwa hung his cardigan, the café still empty. From the back room came the muffled sound of laughter. Bright, ridiculous, Wooyoung’s unmistakable cackle tangled with San’s low chuckle. Seonghwa paused, listening, and a smile spread across his face, soft and unguarded. He turned to the front, lowering chairs from tables, readying the café for the day, the sound of his friends’ joy lingering like the best kind of background music.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The café had barely cracked open for the day, but Wooyoung was already in crisis mode. 

Not because of the pastry case (perfect), or the espresso machine (gleaming), but because true love waited for no man. Especially not for Park Seonghwa, whose picture was now taped dead center on a corkboard balanced precariously against the wall behind the counter.

Red string stretched from Seonghwa’s photo to a stick figure in a suit, crudely labeled in black marker: Rich Dilf. Smaller notes peppered the edges like evidence in a conspiracy—“ALWAYS LATTE,” “LOOKS LIKE HE OWNS PLANES,” “STARES AT HYUNG (ROMANTIC).”

“Okay, so picture this,” Wooyoung said, marker clenched between his teeth as he wrestled another string into place. “Hyung here—lonely barista with killer cheekbones. And here—” he jabbed at the stick figure, “—mystery suit man with ‘I’ll ruin your life in the best way’ energy. The math does itself.”

Yunho leaned his broom against the counter, biting back a grin. “Math, huh? You failed algebra.”

“Shut up, this is destiny,” Wooyoung shot back.

Yeosang, perched on a stool with a croissant he hadn’t paid for, chewed slowly. “Destiny looks like a ransom note.”

Wooyoung ignored him, tugging the red thread until it was taut. “No, listen. They’re made for each other. Latte art? Compliments? The way Hyung blushes but pretends he doesn’t? Come on. It’s textbook romance.”

Yunho gave a mock-serious nod. “I mean… he’s not wrong about the blushing.”

“Thank you!” Wooyoung gestured triumphantly at the board, string dangling from his hand like a victory flag. “See? You two laugh now, but when they’re married and I’m Best Man at the wedding—”

“Seonghwa will never let you give a speech,” Yeosang said dryly.

Wooyoung clutched his chest. “He will when he sees the slideshow I’m making.”

The back door swung open.

All three froze.

Seonghwa stepped in with a new tray of clean cups, eyes flicking instinctively toward the counter..

..toward the corkboard glowing red with thread and sheer audacity.

In unison, the trio scrambled. Wooyoung yanked the board off the wall so fast one of the strings snapped, Yunho grabbed a towel and tried to drape it over like it was laundry, and Yeosang—ever efficient—slid off his stool and planted himself in front of it, croissant in hand like a shield.

“…What are you doing?” Seonghwa asked, suspicion threaded through the calm.

“Inventory!” Wooyoung blurted, clutching the corkboard behind his back. “We’re, uh, tracking… supplies!”

“Supplies.” Seonghwa repeated flatly.

“Red string shortage.” Yunho added, too quickly.

Yeosang chewed his croissant and said nothing, which was somehow worse.

Seonghwa arched a brow but, mercifully, let it slide. He set the cups down, shook his head, and muttered, “You three are impossible.”

“Yes, but charming,” Wooyoung chirped, already shoving the corkboard under the counter like a guilty secret. The red string tangled, one note flapping loose with SUIT MAN = FATE? scrawled across it, but he pretended not to notice, while kicking it back under the counter.

By the time Seonghwa turned back, Wooyoung had transformed into the picture of barista diligence. Cloth in hand, he polished the espresso machine like it was auditioning for a jewelry ad, back straight, jaw set in exaggerated focus.

Too exaggerated.

“Working hard, Hyung!” he announced to no one, scrubbing an already spotless handle.

Yunho snorted and went back to sweeping. Yeosang resumed his croissant, unimpressed.

But Wooyoung wasn’t done. He angled himself so he had a perfect view of the door, cloth still moving in slow circles, every line of his body radiating expectation. He was waiting. Hunting. The hunter’s patience, disguised as “housekeeping.”

Seonghwa poured himself a glass of water, catching his reflection in the chrome finish Wooyoung had already over-polished. He sighed into the rim of the glass.

It was going to be a very long day..

Wooyoung leaned on the counter like a lion at a watering hole, eyes fixed on the café door. Every jingle of a passing bicycle bell made his shoulders twitch. He even polished the same square of laminate three times over, just to keep up appearances.

And then..

finally

the bell over the café door rang.

The café door creaked open during a lull, just loud enough to pull Wooyoung’s attention away from where he’d been dramatically reorganizing the sugar packets.

He looked up, and froze.

Off-day Hongjoong didn’t need a suit to command the room. His hair was loose, waves falling where they wanted, the streaks of silver softer now that they weren’t styled into sharp lines. A worn band tee clung in the right places: lived-in, like he’d designed it himself and aged it with devotion, half tucked into ripped black jeans that looked chosen, not careless. 

No jacket, no armor. Just rings catching light as he moved, chains layered at his throat, nails painted in chipped strokes of black and silver. 

And the tattoos, finally visible, ink curling in script along the inside of his forearm, a neat black star at the hinge of his wrist, flashing when he pushed his hair back.

He was hot. Inconveniently, outrageously hot.

“...Hyung,” Wooyoung stage-whispered to Seonghwa, who had gone completely still at the sight. “Hyung. Who the hell is that.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. He was too busy pressing his lips together, because if he didn’t, they’d curve into a smile so familiar it would give everything away.

Across the bar, Yunho and Yeosang shared a long, silent look. Yunho’s lips pressed together, shaking with the effort not to laugh. Yeosang muttered, so quiet only Yunho heard, “Does he really not—”

“Apparently not,” Yunho whispered back, eyes watering.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung leaned in closer to Seonghwa like he was sharing state secrets. 

“Hyung, you have to be extra careful. This one’s dangerous. Look at the rings. Look at the hair. The universe is literally handing you options.”

The man padded up to the counter, leaning his elbows casually against it like he belonged there already. “What’s good today, sweetheart?” His voice was easy, warm, the kind that wrapped itself around you instead of striking.

“Cake,” Seonghwa said, already cutting the slice he always pretended wasn’t on the house. “And a latte.”

“Dangerous,” Hongjoong murmured. “I’ll be ruined.”

“You already are,” Seonghwa answered, too quietly for anyone but him to hear.

He set the tray with a precision that could have passed for indifference: latte with a heart so clean it looked printed, cake on a small plate with the fork tucked under the napkin like a secret. Their fingers met—ring to ring—and for a private second no one else owned the room.

“Thank you,” Hongjoong said, leaving the rest unsaid, which was louder.

He didn’t leave. He took the corner table by the window where Seonghwa could see him without trying. The notebook emerged; the chain winked once and minded its business. He wrote with his right hand, paused to taste the coffee like it had asked him a question, pushed his hair back and let it fall in the same breath. When his sleeve rode up, the script on his forearm flashed and was gone. The city’s reflection laid itself over him like a second sweater.

From the counter, Seonghwa let himself look the way he never did when anyone watched. Quick glances, more frequent than necessary. 

That was his man with the armor set aside. That was the mouth that had kissed him awake at five. That was the ring he’d chosen because it didn’t need to be loud to mean forever. And that, peeking out where only he was supposed to see it, was the line of ink he’d kissed the night it was new.

Wooyoung materialized at his elbow like a stage effect. “Hyung.”

“Mm.”

Wooyoung smacked the counter with his palm. “Cake? You never recommend cake. Hyung. Are you flirting with him?”

Seonghwa coughed into his sleeve. “Professional suggestion.”

“New guy,” Wooyoung whispered, vibrating. “New guy. Where did he come from. Why does he look like that. Who gave him permission. He has tattoos.”

“Customers appear when the door opens,” Seonghwa said, tamping as if tamping were a moral stance.

“Don’t be philosophical at me,” Wooyoung hissed. “This is an event.” He flicked a glance toward the corner table and then back, eyes widening. “Oh my god. He writes in a notebook. He’s a poet. He has thoughts.”

“Tragic,” Yeosang said without looking up. “A man with thoughts.”

“Yeosang,” Wooyoung said, wounded, “support me.”

Wooyoung pressed his palms flat on the counter like he was steadying himself against divine revelation. “Hyung, don’t just stand there! This changes everything.”

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose, set the portafilter with deliberate calm, and began making another coffee like a man resigned to chaos.

Already, Wooyoung was ducking down behind the counter, yanking the corkboard from its hiding spot. He swept one sticky note aside, ripped down the string he’d carefully plotted between “Suit Daddy” and “Seonghwa” only yesterday, and slapped a new note in the middle with a triumphant flourish: Tattooed Mystery Hottie.

Yunho blinked. “You’re seriously—”

“He deserves a whole quadrant,” Wooyoung hissed, rearranging strings like a tactician in a war room. “Look at him. That chain. Those sleeves. The tattoos. The tattoos. We’re talking next-level romance potential.”

Yeosang didn’t even lift his head. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“I’m hearing destiny,” Wooyoung snapped, adding an arrow that pointed directly to Seonghwa’s doodled stick figure.

At the table, Hongjoong looked up like a man who knew he was being discussed at length, found Seonghwa, and softened, just fractionally, just enough to make something low in Seonghwa’s chest move. He lifted the cup in a small salute. Seonghwa felt it like a hand laid to his sternum.

“Hyung, blink twice if you’re into him,” Wooyoung muttered.

Seonghwa kept both eyes open and reached for the next ticket.

The afternoon walked forward. People came in for second coffees; a couple argued amiably over a dog‑eared map, someone laughed hard enough to polish the windows from the inside. Hongjoong filled two pages and a margin. He ate the cake like a man who believed in dessert. When he stood, he left a tip under the cup and a look at the bar that only one person in the room could read.

“Come back soon!” Yunho called, ever the host.

“I always do.” Hongjoong said, eyes on Seonghwa for the beat that made Wooyoung clutch the edge of the counter.

The bell chimed after him. The room exhaled.

Wooyoung made a sound that belonged in a wildlife documentary. “This is torture,” he said. “You expect me to pick between an executive fever dream and a musician who knows how to ruin jeans? With tattoos?”

“Don’t pick,” Yeosang advised. “Observe.”

“I hate it here,” Wooyoung declared, already smoothing an imaginary smear from the bar, already angling himself toward the door in case destiny walked in wearing a third outfit. “I love it here. Hyung, drink water.”

Seonghwa did, badly hiding his smile behind the rim of the cup. 

The heart still held in the latte cooling at the corner table. 

The afternoon kept its weather. 

And somewhere down the street, a man with cake on his tongue and ink on his skin thought about a barista he had married five years ago and how good it felt to meet him again.