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Chapter Text

The four of them have been told to wear white, and since this is a charity event, Wooyoung has decided—just this once—to respect the dress code. He might not always follow the rules, but he knows when to pick his battles. Tonight, he, Yeosang, Yunho, and Mingi are all dressed in varying styles of white suits, each tailored to fit their personalities.

Wooyoung's suit is fitted close to his body, accentuating his toned frame. The sleeves have been intentionally cut off, baring his arms, a deliberate choice to show off just enough without looking inappropriate. Yeosang, always leaning toward elegance, wears a traditional suit—except for the deep V cut down the center, which exposes a teasing amount of skin. A sheer white turtleneck sits beneath the jacket, offering the illusion of modesty while still drawing attention.

Mingi's suit has a similar plunging neckline, though he skips the sheer layer entirely. It suits him—broad shoulders, sculpted collarbones, an effortless confidence that makes the shirtless look feel intentional rather than out of place. Yunho, in contrast, is the only one actually wearing a standard white suit. Simple, classic. But with his towering height and natural ease, he looks just as striking as the rest of them.

They sit in the back of a sleek, black car, the hum of the city filtering through the windows as they make their way to the event. Outside, Wooyoung can already picture the flashing cameras, the distant cheers of fans lined up behind barriers, waiting for glimpses of their favorite attendees. The excitement is tangible, even from here.

"My eye itches," Mingi mutters, shifting slightly in his seat. His hands stay rigidly at his sides—he knows better than to ruin his makeup by scratching.

"Don't think about it," Yunho says, as if that's any kind of useful advice.

"That's literally all I can think about now." Mingi exhales sharply.

"What do you think the events are?" Wooyoung smirks and decides to steer the conversation before Mingi starts spiraling over something so minor. "Seonghwa said he had games planned for us."

"Something stupid like hopscotch," Yunho guesses with a lazy shrug.

"Hongjoong said they're doing a charity auction," Yeosang, who has been quiet up until now, casually drops. "Like, single people sign up, and people bid on them with paddles."

Silence.

Three heads turn toward Yeosang in synchronized disbelief.

Yeosang blinks at them, unconcerned.

"What?" he asks, adjusting the sleeve of his suit. "You know Hongjoong is the weaker one."

"Sometimes I forget how smart you are, Yeosang." Wooyoung exhales, shaking his head.

"Oh, I know," Yeosang replies smoothly, a small smirk playing at his lips. "I count on it when I do things behind your back."

"You don't do anything behind my back." Wooyoung narrows his eyes.

Yeosang simply tilts his head, feigning innocence, before looking away.

The car slows as they near the venue, the distant roar of a gathered crowd growing louder. Flashing lights from cameras illuminate the tinted windows, a constant flicker of attention waiting just outside.

Whatever the night has in store, it's bound to be interesting.

As the car nears the venue, the distant murmur of the waiting crowd grows louder, turning into a low, restless hum that seeps through the closed windows. Even with the heavy tint shielding them from view, the energy outside is unmistakable. Fans of various artists stand pressed against the barricades, clutching signs, photo cards, and Sharpies in hopeful anticipation. Some hold up their phones, the glow of their screens flickering in the dim evening light, ready to capture a glimpse of anyone stepping out.

The car slows to a stop. A beat of silence passes before the door swings open, and Wooyoung steps out first. The moment his foot touches the pavement, the noise explodes into a deafening wave of screams. He doesn't flinch. Instead, he smiles, lifting a hand in greeting, giving them a small wave. The reaction is immediate—voices rise, cameras flash, fans call out names in frantic desperation, all fighting to be noticed.

Protocol dictates that they aren't signing anything tonight. It feels a little cruel, given how many people have braved the evening just for a chance to see them, but there's nothing he can do. Instead, he bows deeply in gratitude before standing straight, offering another smile as security moves in around him. The bright bursts of camera flashes threaten to disorient him, but he's used to it. With the help of the black-suited guards, he makes his way toward the entrance, footsteps smooth and practiced.

Yeosang follows closely behind him, expression calm and composed. Somewhere further back, Yunho and Mingi are taking their sweet time, probably caught up in some inside joke only they seem to understand. Even with their long legs, they somehow manage to move slower than everyone else.

Inside, the venue is nothing short of stunning. The event hall is vast, bathed in soft lighting that complements the decor—pale blue curtains draped elegantly along the walls, round tables covered in matching light blue tablecloths arranged neatly across the floor. At the center of it all, a stage stands ready, no doubt prepared for whatever activities Seonghwa and Hongjoong have planned.

Wooyoung isn't exactly excited. He can appreciate the effort put into making everything look nice, but at the end of the day, this is still an event he has to sit through. His job is to show up, look good, and follow the schedule.

A staff member checks them in, sparing them from having to make small talk with anyone just yet. They'd already received an email detailing their seating arrangements and the general rundown of the night, along with Seonghwa's in-person explanation of what to expect.

"I think they said table 104?" Yeosang glances at him for confirmation, as if Wooyoung actually read the email.

"We're technically supposed to sit separately from them," Yeosang continues, scanning the room. "But they're absolutely going to join us later."

"They are the hosts. I don't blame them," Wooyoung shrugs.

From the entrance, Yunho and Mingi finally appear, still grinning about whatever private joke they're sharing. Wooyoung doesn't bother asking—they won't tell. Couples are like that, always keeping little secrets just between themselves.

The four of them locate their table, where a small bag sits in the center, surrounded by neatly arranged place settings. A sign propped up next to it explains the contents inside.

Three different-colored wristbands.

Red for in a relationship.
Yellow for it's complicated.
Green for single.

Green means go.

"What is this? A frat party?" Wooyoung scoffs, but he still picks up a snap band, turning it over in his hands. It's a clever way to encourage mingling, but something about it feels a little juvenile.

"You two should go for the auction," Yunho suggests with a chuckle, the amusement clear in his voice. "It's a decent way to raise money, and considering you're both in one of the most famous bands in the world..."

"You think in a room full of celebrities, they're going to bid on someone like me?" Yeosang raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Well," Wooyoung muses, turning the idea over in his mind. "What if one of us goes on stage and the other bids? That way, we don't have to go with a complete stranger—or worse, end up on an actual date."

He gives Yeosang a pointed look, gauging his reaction.

Mingi grins.

"What if Yunho and I bid on you?" He leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying the idea. "At least at first. If someone else wants to outbid us, then so be it. Besides, you two are so close in friendship, I think it's actually hindering your dating pool."

"I know how you feel about our friendship, Mingi, but I'm not exactly keen on going on a date with a stranger." Wooyoung sighs.

"It's just for one night," Yeosang says with a shrug, his voice light and teasing. "Besides, it's for charity. Are you really going to deprive at-risk youth of money just because you don't want to spend one evening with a stranger?"

Wooyoung narrows his eyes.

"Don't twist this on me."

Yeosang merely smirks.

"Fine. I'll do it if you do it. And Towers bids on us for safety reasons." Wooyoung exhales sharply.

"Fine," Yeosang agrees easily. But then he adds, "But—if either of us actually gets bought by a stranger, we have to go through with it."

He extends his hand, waiting for Wooyoung to shake on it.

Wooyoung hesitates, groaning under his breath before finally grasping Yeosang's hand in his own. He gives it a reluctant shake.

Whatever happens next, there's no backing out now.

Wooyoung and Yeosang make their way toward the auction sign-up table, where a large, bold sign practically shouts AUCTION HERE. Wooyoung isn't necessarily opposed to donating to charity—far from it—but there's something mildly unsettling about being handed a numbered sticker, instructed to slap it onto his shirt, and then told that at some point, he'll be called up on stage to essentially pitch himself like a contestant on a dating show.

They're auctioning off dates, after all.

The concept itself isn't terrible, though Wooyoung finds himself hoping he doesn't get paired with some self-absorbed celebrity who only talks about themselves. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he'd probably prefer going out with a fan. At least that way, the conversation might be more interesting. But then again, going on a date with a fan could stir up jealousy, and that's an entirely different headache he doesn't want to deal with.

So, another celebrity it is.

Peeling the sticker off the backing, he sticks the black number onto his shoulder—24. Beside him, Yeosang does the same, labeled as 25. It makes Wooyoung wonder just how many people have signed up for this thing. Were they the last ones? Or were there even more numbers floating around somewhere in the crowd?

With nothing else to do but wait for their turn, the two of them wander back to their table—only to find Seonghwa and Hongjoong already there, waiting for them.

Seonghwa is stunning. He always is, but the white dress he's wearing tonight only enhances it. The top is structured like a suit jacket, tailored to perfection, before extending downward into a flowing skirt, the hem shorter in the front but trailing behind him like a delicate train. Embroidered white flowers, vines, and leaves snake across the fabric, making him look almost ethereal.

Hongjoong, standing beside him, wears a suit that mirrors the embroidery of Seonghwa's dress. The same delicate vine-like designs are stitched into the folded collar of his jacket, wrapping around his wrists and curling around one pant leg like nature reclaiming its space. The details are subtle, but they make him look effortlessly elegant.

"You're doing the auction?" Seonghwa's face lights up with surprise, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"It was his idea," Wooyoung immediately points at Yeosang.

"It was a joint idea," Yeosang corrects with a shake of his head. "And if anything, Towers can bid on us, and we'll just go with them for the night. The charity still gets the money."

Hongjoong chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Oh, believe me, people will be all over you two. You're both pretty, you can sing, and if anything, you can cut the date short and use the excuse that you only showed up because we were hosting."

"I like your thinking." Wooyoung nods in approval.

"I don't think people will be interested in us," Yeosang shrugs, then pauses. "Then again, who knows? Wooyoung might end up drunk off his ass with someone who isn't me."

"Hey!" Wooyoung smacks his arm. "At the very least, we are getting drunk together."

"Perfect," Yeosang laughs.

"Anyway," Seonghwa says, amusement clear in his voice, "there are plenty of games to play. Once the party settles in and the night goes on, I'm sure you guys will find a way to have fun. There are four of you, so you can split into teams of two and compete."

"I call Yunho." Wooyoung immediately declares.

"Oh, you suck." Yeosang huffs in betrayal.

Hongjoong grins, clearly entertained.

"Have fun!" he calls over his shoulder as he and Seonghwa move on to greet the next wave of arrivals, leaving the four of them to their own devices.

Away from the main banquet hall, a section of the venue has been transformed into a small carnival-style game area. Booths are lined up, each offering a different challenge—some involving skill, others pure luck. It's a clever way to raise more money for charity, and honestly, Wooyoung can appreciate the effort put into making everything feel fun rather than just another stiff, formal event.

Their first stop is a corkboard covered in colorful balloons, each one filled with just enough air to make them an enticing target. A bucket of sharp, silver-tipped darts sits at the booth's edge, and unsurprisingly, there's a small sign indicating that each attempt costs a donation.

And for the sake of charity, Wooyoung is absolutely going to kick Yeosang's ass.

The two of them take their places side by side, gripping their darts. On the count of three, they start. Wooyoung is fast and precise, popping a balloon with his first throw and smirking when Yeosang's first attempt barely grazes one. The soft pop pop pop of bursting balloons echoes between them, and soon, the board is looking patchy, only a handful left clinging to the cork.

The fewer the balloons, the harder it gets.

"Damn," Wooyoung mutters when his last dart misses by an inch. He watches as Yeosang takes careful aim, lips pursed in concentration, and then—pop.

"Tied up," Yeosang announces smugly.

"Tsk." Wooyoung clicks his tongue, annoyed but not truly upset. "We'll settle this later."

With their turn over, Yunho and Mingi step up to the booth, swapping places with them.

Yunho proves to be annoyingly good at this. His first throw lands dead center, the balloon popping instantly. The second one is just as smooth, and by the third, he's already making it look effortless.

Mingi, on the other hand...

"You're terrible," Yeosang says flatly, watching as yet another one of Mingi's darts bounces off the board without even puncturing a balloon.

Wooyoung giggles. He knew this would happen—Mingi is notoriously bad at carnival games. He's just a little too clumsy, a little too enthusiastic, and somehow, that makes him charming.

"Aim a little higher than the balloon," Yunho instructs, his voice patient.

"No pointers—you two aren't on the same team," Wooyoung scolds, furrowing his eyebrows at Yunho.

Yunho chuckles, clearly unfazed, and tosses another dart. Pop. Easy.

Mingi sighs, adjusts his stance, and throws again. This time, the balloon finally bursts.

"See what you started?" Wooyoung narrows his eyes at Yunho.

"Oh, boo-hoo, he got one balloon," Yunho drawls, rolling his eyes.

Wooyoung and Yunho walk away from the balloon game empty-handed. No cheap, bright-colored stuffed animals, no ridiculous prizes to parade around. It's a little disappointing—mostly for Wooyoung, who would have loved the irony of strutting out of a celebrity banquet with a neon pink fish tucked under his arm. But realistically, it makes sense. This event isn't exactly the place for people to be competing for dollar-store plushies.

The next game is a classic—metal cans stacked in a pyramid, each one labeled with a number. The goal is simple: knock down as many as possible in one throw. Three rounds, total points win.

Naturally, Yunho and Mingi step up first. They're the stronger ones, and Wooyoung is more than happy to let them battle it out while he watches.

Yunho is precise. His throws are calculated, hitting the highest-point cans dead center. Some tumble from the top, and he clips a few at the bottom to maximize his score. Mingi, on the other hand, goes straight for power. He aims at the base, trying to take out the foundation, but his accuracy isn't quite there—he misses a couple of critical shots, costing him points.

By the end, Yunho wins. Again.

"Alright, ring toss next," Yunho suggests, clearly trying to cheer Mingi up. "No real skill needed, just throw and hope for the best."

They decide to buy only two buckets of rings, one for each team. Wooyoung and Yeosang share, Yunho and Mingi do the same.

At the center of the setup, a small sign advertises the grand prize—a drink coupon.

Now, objectively, they don't need a free drink. They could easily afford whatever they wanted. But there's something about winning it, about the thrill of earning something for free, that makes it impossible to resist. Even if they end up spending more on buckets of rings than the actual cost of a drink, it's about the principle.

At least, that's what Wooyoung tells himself as he hands over his card to buy another bucket.

Yeosang tosses another ring, watching as it teeters on the edge of a bottle before slipping off.

"Hey, Wooyoung," he says suddenly, glancing at him with a knowing look. "Remember high school?"

Wooyoung's hand pauses over the next ring. He doesn't need to ask what Yeosang means—he already knows. Instead, he subtly glances to the side, eyes landing on a pair of guys a few feet away, also struggling with the game.

"I'll do it," he mutters under his breath.

Yeosang nods and turns to the attendant.

"Let me get another bucket," he says casually, creating a perfect distraction.

Wooyoung moves quickly. He steps over the small wooden barrier, ring in hand, and drops it onto the bottle with the yellow ribbon—the winning one. Before anyone can process what's happened, he hurls himself back over the barrier, landing smoothly on his feet.

"I did it!" he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in victory.

The booth attendant turns, eyes widening as he spots the ring perfectly placed on the prize bottle. Yunho and Mingi play along flawlessly, gasping in mock surprise as if they didn't just witness a blatant cheat.

"You've got excellent aim," someone says from Wooyoung's side.

He turns, locking eyes with a man in a crisp white suit, dark hair neatly styled. There's something in his gaze—impressed, but also just a little scandalized. Wooyoung catches a glimpse of a black sticker on his shoulder, but before he can register more, the attendant hands him his hard-earned drink coupon.

"Thank you, sir," Wooyoung says with a cheeky grin, slipping the coupon into his pocket.

"Let's move before they realize," Yeosang mutters, already pulling him toward the next booth.

They weave through the crowd until they spot a giant Connect Four board.

Wooyoung gasps dramatically. "Forget teams. I'm going against Yeosang."

The two of them take their places on opposite sides of the giant Connect Four board—Wooyoung with red, Yeosang with yellow.

It's instinctual, the way they fall into their old rhythm. They used to play this all the time growing up, along with tic-tac-toe. The latter was scrawled in the margins of their notebooks during class, played instead of paying attention to whatever lesson they were supposed to be learning. But this—Connect Four—was their lunchtime battleground, where they had the time and freedom to cuss each other out over every single move.

"You bastard," Yeosang mutters, slipping a yellow token into the grid and blocking Wooyoung's attempt at a win.

Wooyoung scowls, already calculating his next move.

"We're gonna play something else," Yunho says from the side, nudging Mingi to follow.

"Okay," Wooyoung mumbles, too focused to actually register them leaving.

Yeosang doesn't respond either, both of them fully locked in.

Wooyoung drops in his red token, only for his stomach to drop a second later when he realizes—

"Fuck."

"Sucker," Yeosang cackles, victorious.

Before Wooyoung can start arguing, a voice interrupts them.

"Are you two done with Connect Four? We'd like to play."

Wooyoung turns his head, and—of course—it's him.

The guy from earlier, the one who had witnessed his expertly executed, and entirely not legal, ring toss trick. He stands beside someone Wooyoung assumes is his date, looking just as put-together as before. Short dark hair, styled to the side. A white suit that's effortlessly elegant, though it's slightly open at the midsection, exposing a teasing glimpse of his chest.

Yeosang doesn't hesitate.

"Go ahead."

He pulls the lever, releasing the tokens in a clattering rain of red and yellow plastic. Wooyoung barely has time to scowl before they're stepping back, watching as the new pair starts gathering their chosen colors.

"We're doing a rematch. We're waiting," Wooyoung huffs, arms crossed.

"Yunho and Mingi are probably at another game by now. We can just circle back." Yeosang, ever the voice of reason, shrugs.

"One more game after them, and then we go."

"You think you can win?" Yeosang eyes him with a cocky grin. Wooyoung narrows his eyes, competitive fire igniting instantly.

"I said fuck teams. It's me against you now."

Wooyoung and Yeosang stand off to the side, waiting for their turn as they watch the two strangers play through their game. The two men go back and forth, pausing before each move, clearly thinking a few steps ahead. Wooyoung would have commented—maybe even given unsolicited advice—if they were friends, but since they're strangers, he keeps his mouth shut and just observes. He doesn't want to ruin their good time.

"Oh, you've trapped me," one of them says, pointing to a particular spot on the board where a yellow coin locks him in. "If I block here, you still win on the other side. This is unfair."

"How is it unfair?" The other man grins, clearly pleased with himself. "You had the same view of the board as I did. You just didn't see it coming."

The loser sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "They want another turn, and then we're going again."

The man chuckles, stepping forward to grab the lever. He pulls it, and all the red and yellow tokens come tumbling down, clattering loudly against the plastic. As the two strangers reset, Wooyoung and Yeosang step up to take their spots.

Wooyoung grabs his red token, eyes scanning the board. Only the first row is filled so far, but he hesitates before dropping his next piece, trying to predict Yeosang's movements.

"If you put it there, it's less of a risk," one of the strangers pipes up, pointing to a column. Wooyoung considers it for a second, then nods and slides his red token into place.

"Hey, no outside help," Yeosang protests, pointing accusingly between Wooyoung and the stranger.

Wooyoung turns, locking eyes with the man.

"What's your name?"

The stranger blinks, caught off guard.

"San."

"I'm Wooyoung, that's Yeosang. We're not strangers anymore."

"That's still cheating." Yeosang groans, shaking his head.

"Have his date help you then," Wooyoung teases, motioning toward the other stranger.

San blinks rapidly, clearly flustered.

"He's not—we aren't together like that."

Wooyoung smirks, finding his reaction a little endearing. He and Yeosang get mistaken for a couple all the time, and his reaction is usually the same.

"Okay, two versus two," Wooyoung announces, rolling his shoulders like he's gearing up for a real competition. He glances at San with an expectant look. "You better be good. I lost the last round."

"This counts as a rematch," the other stranger—San's not-date—adds, before glancing toward Yeosang. "I'm Jongho."

"Alright, alright, introductions are out of the way. Now hurry up and make your move, Yeosang." Wooyoung gestures impatiently to the board, red token in hand, already itching to win.

Yeosang slides his yellow token into the board, and Wooyoung presses his lips together in thought. He holds his red coin over one of the open slots, hesitating. Before he makes his move, he glances at San, wordlessly asking for confirmation. San nods, a small approving smile playing on his lips, so Wooyoung drops the token.

Yeosang makes a disgruntled noise, clearly not pleased with the move. He and Jongho lean in slightly, studying the board like they're deciphering some grand strategy.

"You two are singers, right?" San asks, his voice cutting through the focused silence.

Wooyoung turns slightly to glance at him.

"Yeah," he answers bluntly, unsure of San's angle. He doesn't recognize him, which means he's definitely not an A-list celebrity—probably not even B-list. Anything below that, and Wooyoung wouldn't know.

"And you're part of the auction?" Jongho gestures to the sticker on Wooyoung and Yeosang's chest. "Us too."

"Good way to raise money," Yeosang murmurs, though his attention stays locked on the board. He steps forward, pointing out a spot for Jongho to place the yellow token, and they drop it in without hesitation.

"What do you do? Actor? Producer?" Wooyoung asks, taking a shot in the dark. He doesn't want to outright admit that he has no idea who they are, so he lists the kinds of people he expects to be at a high-profile charity auction like this one.

"We're boxers, actually," San replies, sounding almost bashful.

Wooyoung blinks. Boxers? His mouth parts slightly in surprise. He doesn't know how Hongjoong or Seonghwa got in touch with professional fighters, but considering the event's reach, it's not too far-fetched.

"Yeah, we tend to get that reaction," San adds with an amused chuckle.

"So you two fight? Like, professionally?" Yeosang asks, arms crossed over his chest, brows furrowed as he gives them both another once-over.

"Yeah," Jongho answers casually. "We were invited, and San thought it would be a good idea to come. You know, raise awareness and stuff."

Wooyoung narrows his eyes at the nonchalant way he says it. Just to raise awareness?

"Hold on," Wooyoung turns to San, incredulous. "So you get into a ring and just go at it? Doesn't that hurt?"

San cracks a small smile.

"Yeah, it hurts," he admits. "But I'm good at it, so hopefully it doesn't hurt too much."

His response sounds practiced, like he's had to explain his profession a hundred times before.

Before Wooyoung can ask more, Yunho's familiar voice cuts through the conversation.

"Are you two done mingling? There's a fishing game where you can win snacks."

And to emphasize his point, Mingi pulls a bright red lollipop from between his lips, grinning.

San tilts his head slightly. "Friends?"

"Yeah, um..." Wooyoung hesitates, locking eyes with San again. There's something about the conversation that feels unfinished, like he should keep talking to him. But at the same time, the fishing game does sound fun.

"It was nice meeting you," he says finally. "I'll see you around."

"Bye, Wooyoung."

For some reason, hearing his own name from San makes Wooyoung's cheeks feel warm. He nearly drops his red tokens on the floor, fumbling slightly, and Yeosang gives him a knowing little smile before they turn and walk away. As soon as they're out of earshot, Yeosang drapes an arm around his shoulders, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Boxers?" he whispers, as if exchanging a secret. "They didn't seem that buff."

Wooyoung shrugs. "I mean, there are different weight categories."

Yeosang furrows his brows. "How do you know that?"

"Remember? My older brother used to love watching those fighting rounds. Anything with wrestling, boxing, MMA—you name it." Wooyoung waves a hand dismissively. "I picked up some stuff just by existing in the same house."

By the time they reach the fishing game Yunho and Mingi mentioned, Wooyoung's face has cooled, and he focuses on the setup. The game is magnetized—each player gets a fishing pole with a small magnet at the end, and the floating ducks in the pool have different colored markings around their necks, indicating their prizes.

"Who'd you make friends with?" Mingi asks, still sucking on his bright red lollipop as he stands beside them.

"Boxers, if you can believe it," Yeosang answers, picking up one of the magnetized poles. "They seemed nice. I thought boxers were supposed to be intimidating."

"They're a little short for boxers," Yunho says skeptically, eyeing the two figures still lingering by the Connect Four station.

"Not everyone's a giant like you," Wooyoung chuckles, rolling his eyes as he drapes his fishing rod over the pool, watching the little ducks bob along the water's surface.

Wooyoung leans forward, squinting as he tries to get the magnet to stick onto the duck. The pole jerks in his hands, and the string swings wildly, just missing the floating duck.

"Put your arm out more," Mingi instructs from beside him, trying to guide his hand forward.

"If I put my arms out more, I'm gonna fall into the pool," Wooyoung mutters, swinging the metal pole again so that the string almost connects with the duck. "I don't have long limbs like you."

"Don't I know it," Mingi murmurs under his breath.

Wooyoung playfully shoves him to the side, shooting him a glare. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see San and Jongho at another carnival game, completely in their own world. The sight makes Wooyoung mutter to himself,

"Freak."

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Mingi responds, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he pretends to be earnest. It irks Wooyoung all the more.

"I got one!" Yeosang suddenly grins, pulling up his fishing rod with excitement. Just as he's about to grab the duck, the magnet slips off, and the duck falls back into the water with a splash. "No!"

Wooyoung bursts out laughing. "Haha! Try again!"

"You two really are bad at this game," Yunho says, shrugging from behind them with a smug smile.

"I don't see you with any candy," Wooyoung retorts, not looking away from his duck.

"I gave it to Mingi," Yunho replies nonchalantly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Of course you did." Wooyoung huffs, rolling his eyes. He returns his focus to the game, his thoughts drifting. Couples are so damn annoying.

Even if he's in a band with one of them, it doesn't make it any less unbearable. Yunho and Mingi are insufferable, like teenagers stuck in love. So sickly sweet and in love that it's like they're in high school.

Many carnival games later, and with candy fueling their energy, Wooyoung and Yeosang finally make their way back to their table. As they walk, Wooyoung's mind drifts back to San—specifically, the bracelet he was wearing. Wooyoung can't quite recall if it was green, the signal for someone who's single. It's a small, juvenile detail, but it would have been an easy way to tell. Maybe it doesn't even matter; after all, it's not like they actually know each other. They were just invited to the same event, after all.

"If we use the drink ticket, do you think they'll give us the most expensive drink for free?" Yeosang asks, breaking Wooyoung's thoughts as they arrive at the table but stand instead of sitting.

"I mean, we can try," Wooyoung shrugs. They both head toward the bar, the thought of the drink ticket still lingering in the air.

Mingi doesn't drink, and out of solidarity, neither does Yunho. This means Wooyoung and Yeosang have free rein to get as drunk as they want. Wooyoung briefly contemplates the idea of using the ticket, but his attention is drawn elsewhere.

When they reach the bar, he spots San and Jongho standing together. Jongho's holding a beer, looking relaxed and in his element. Wooyoung freezes for a second, but he's quick to push the thought away. He's not going to seem desperate. He won't go prying into their lives; he's not that type of person.

Yeosang has no such hesitation.

"Oh, hey. Fancy seeing you here," Yeosang grins, stepping up to the bar like it's the most natural thing in the world. Wooyoung inwardly groans, pressing his palms down on the polished mahogany of the bar counter.

"Yeosang, what do you want?" Wooyoung cuts in, his tone sharp as he leans forward to catch San's eyes for just a moment—a quick, teasing glance before looking back at Yeosang. Yeosang doesn't seem to notice, his attention already fixed on the menu.

"Pineapple Mojito, please," Yeosang smiles sweetly at the bartender, his usual charm slipping into place effortlessly.

"And an apple martini," Wooyoung adds, trying to keep it casual.

"Expensive tastes," Jongho chuckles, sipping his beer with an easy grin. The tension between them is palpable—Yeosang and Jongho are standing close together, while Wooyoung is left standing next to Yeosang, San on the far side of the bar. They're far enough apart for it to feel like a game of staring, though Wooyoung isn't about to make it easy for San to meet his gaze.

Wooyoung watches the bartender in motion, overhearing Yeosang and Jongho's conversation in the process.

"We just finished a tour," Yeosang says happily, clearly enjoying the chance to chat. "We're going on break for about a week and then we start working on our next comeback."

"So soon?" Jongho's surprised, and Wooyoung can't help but glance over at them for a moment.

"It's typical. A week is actually decent. When we do start up again, it'll just be recording, which isn't that hard compared to the rest of the process," Yeosang explains, the rhythm of his voice steady and sure.

Wooyoung smirks to himself. He knows enough about the world of music, and these guys know nothing. They're boxers, after all—probably the kind of people who stick to rigid gender roles and scoff at anything out of the norm. Wooyoung can imagine them shaking their heads at something like a skirt. It's just so typical.

The bartender places the mojito in front of Yeosang, who beams and takes a sip, clearly content.

Wooyoung isn't naive enough to think all boxers are assholes, but he's certainly seen enough to know that the stereotype exists for a reason. Men in that world tend to be tough and inflexible. He's sure they'd rather die than wear anything other than what society expects of them.

It's all just so... silly to Wooyoung.

"Wooyoung, right?"

Wooyoung glances up, surprised to see San move around the bar and slip into the stool next to him. The sudden proximity catches him off guard, but he doesn't back away. Instead, a small, involuntary smile tugs at his lips. San's gaze locks onto his, and Wooyoung can feel his attention hone in on him like a laser.

"The reason I know you're a singer is because you and your band are plastered on every other magazine around the city."

"We're popular," Wooyoung shrugs, his smile stubbornly staying put despite himself. He tries to keep his composure, but something about the way San is looking at him feels different. It's almost too personal, too focused.

"I'm sure you are," San replies, his voice warm, and Wooyoung catches that small but meaningful shift in San's expression—a slight tilt of the head, an intensity in his eyes that makes Wooyoung think that maybe, just maybe, it's more than just the magazines that caught his attention. An idea begins to form in the back of Wooyoung's mind, but before he can think more about it, San adds, "I'll pay for your drink."

Wooyoung quickly shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a casual air.

"No need." He pulls the free drink coupon from his pocket, waving it lightly. "I can handle it."

San simply nods, his expression shifting slightly, as though amused, and there's a flicker of something else Wooyoung can't quite place.

"Oh, of course. You won that fair and square."

The almost dismissive roll of San's eyes doesn't escape Wooyoung's attention, and it stings more than he expects. He can't tell if it's playful or something else entirely. Regardless, the apple martini is placed in front of him, and Wooyoung hands over the drink ticket, the transaction feeling almost too formal, too clean for the casualness he'd expected.

Yeosang is still talking to Jongho at the other end of the bar, so Wooyoung moves just a bit closer to him, trying to ignore the strange weight of San's gaze on him.

"You don't drink?" Wooyoung asks before he can stop himself. It's a question that feels out of place, but it's one he can't shake. He can't help but notice the absence of a drink in San's hand.

"I get a little too flustered and warm," San says with a casual shrug, "It's an allergic reaction."

Wooyoung blinks, surprised by the answer. He'd expected something else, maybe a confession of some kind of moral high ground or just a distaste for alcohol. But this? This is different. There's a nonchalance to it, like it's no big deal.

San's arm rests on the bar, and that's when Wooyoung notices the green wristband strapped around his wrist—the unmistakable sign of someone who's single. It's a small, subtle detail, but it's enough for Wooyoung to catch it.

For a second, Wooyoung hesitates. He knows he shouldn't get involved with someone like San—not from a world where the lines between masculinity and vulnerability are drawn so rigidly. But, for some reason, he can't bring himself to ignore it. He lifts his hand, slightly letting his martini glass linger in the air just long enough to show off his own green wristband—the same signal, the same indication.

Just to be sure San sees it.

"So, you just finished a tour?" San asks, breaking the brief silence, his voice pulling Wooyoung back into the conversation. Wooyoung sets his glass down on the bar, the taste of the martini still lingering on his tongue as he turns to face San.

"A mini tour, really," he replies, meeting San's gaze. "I quite like going on tour—seeing the fans, feeling the support."

San nods thoughtfully, a small, almost fond smile tugging at his lips. But there's something a little bittersweet in his expression, as if he's considering something deeper. Wooyoung can't shake the feeling that San's world of fans is nothing like his own. He wonders if that difference will matter, if they ever really end up crossing paths again.

"Fans," San repeats, a little smile still lingering, though Wooyoung feels a slight sense of distance between them.

"So why do you like boxing?" Wooyoung asks, curiosity winning out before he can stop himself. It's an unconventional question, one that he knows might come off strange, but he doesn't mind.

After all, he's never been one to let his curiosity go unanswered if he can help it.

"Why do you like performing?" San asks, tilting his head at Wooyoung with a more angled look, as if he's sizing him up. Wooyoung narrows his eyes for a moment, realizing where this conversation is heading.

"Putting on a show with singing and getting pummeled are very different things," Wooyoung replies, raising an eyebrow, his tone light but teasing. San's expression shifts, and Wooyoung can tell that his response pleases him. San doesn't look away—if anything, he sits up straighter in the stool, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.

"I don't get pummeled," San huffs, his voice almost childlike, like he's proud of his rebuttal. Wooyoung feels a little thrill at the way San's tone is so effortless—like he's almost daring Wooyoung to poke at him.

"Right, I'm sure if I looked up photos of you in the arena, you wouldn't have an ounce of blood on you," Wooyoung scoffs, taking another sip of his martini. The sharpness in his voice doesn't match the sweetness of the drink, but it feels good to jab back.

"You scared of a little blood?"

San's words hang in the air like an open challenge, but Wooyoung is pretty sure he's joking—he can hear the lightness in his tone. It's a bold, playful way of flirting, and Wooyoung can't help but feel intrigued by how forward San is.

"I wouldn't say so," Wooyoung responds, meeting San's eyes with a playful edge. "Are you scared of getting on stage to sing?"

"I don't sing," San replies, his voice matter-of-fact, as though this was the most normal thing in the world.

"And I don't fight," Wooyoung retorts evenly, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

"You are definitely a fighter," San chuckles, his voice warm and rich with amusement. The sound of it makes Wooyoung's heart skip a beat, something about it catching him off guard. He didn't expect to enjoy the sound so much, especially when he's been trying to remain indifferent. But he can't help it; this conversation is turning out to be the most interesting part of his night.

"You're definitely a performer," Wooyoung shoots back, his grin widening. The way he responds so easily only serves to fuel San's growing irritation at how effortlessly Wooyoung seems to slide through these exchanges.

"Never said I wasn't," San responds and Wooyoung feels a bit of that fire creeping up in his chest.

"Are you this fast in the arena? This quick to strike?" Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, studying San's expression, noticing the small crinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling. Wooyoung can't help but feel that this exchange is starting to escalate, and it's all a little too much for him to ignore.

"I can't make a living if I pull punches, darlin'," San grins, his words coming out so easily, so fluid, that it's almost impossible not to be taken in.

"Darling?" Wooyoung chuckles, leaning in just a bit, intrigued by the slip-up. "You're from the country?"

San's eyes flicker for a moment, the amusement slipping away for a second as he rolls his eyes, clearly regretting letting that piece of information slip. He didn't mean to say it, Wooyoung can tell.

"I don't suppose you would mind if I make cowboy jokes?" Wooyoung tries to lighten the mood, his voice playful as he watches San's expression shift to something more exasperated. But there's also something else—maybe fondness?

"Yeehaw, and all that?" Wooyoung adds, practically grinning at the idea of teasing him more.

"Don't," San warns, his tone now a little more serious, though still carrying that hint of amusement underneath.

"Oh, why not? It's so fun," Wooyoung presses, locking eyes with him, giving San his best pleading look. He can see San catching onto his game quickly, and that makes Wooyoung smile even more.

San might be a little annoyed, but he's quick enough to keep up. Wooyoung likes that.

"I'm just teasing," Wooyoung says, his voice lighthearted but still carrying that unmistakable edge of mischief. He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip of his apple martini while keeping his gaze locked on San's. The smooth sweetness of the drink lingers on his tongue, but he's far more focused on the way San reacts. "You don't like being teased?"

Wooyoung knows he's struck a nerve when San straightens slightly, an eyebrow arching just enough to make something tingle down his spine.

He's hot, Wooyoung admits to himself. Probably has a body to match, too—he's an athlete, after all.

"I'm going to go back to my seat. You cool with that, cowboy?" Wooyoung watches as San's eyes narrow, entirely displeased with the nickname. His lips press into a thin line like he's holding something back.

Wooyoung grins. Victory.

"Sit at your own table, I'll be at mine."

He doesn't wait for San's response before turning away, sauntering back to his seat like he hasn't just sent his own pulse racing. He sinks into his chair, ignoring the way Yunho and Mingi are whispering to each other like kids sharing a secret. Typical. Instead, he sighs and takes another sip of his drink, acting as if he doesn't feel San's eyes still lingering on him.

Acting like his heart isn't hammering in his chest.

A waiter eventually comes by to take their orders, presenting them with a pre-set menu with limited choices. Wooyoung picks the steak with loaded potatoes and steamed broccoli without much thought—it's the best option. He orders the same for Yeosang, knowing his best friend will appreciate it even if he's still wrapped up in conversation with Jongho at the bar.

While waiting, Wooyoung pulls out his phone, scrolling absently through messages and notifications as he sips his martini. For a free drink, it's surprisingly good. Then again, he figures anything tastes better when it's free.

Eventually, Yeosang returns to the table—alone.

They lock eyes for a brief second, and the understanding passes between them without words. They know how these things go. Hookups aren't exactly uncommon, and it's not like their group is shy about it. Mingi and Yunho are practically glued to each other, and there have been incidents.

No one asks questions when someone slips away for the night.

Doesn't mean they'll escape the teasing in the morning, though.

The food arrives, and they eat. The buzz of conversation hums around them, but Wooyoung's mind keeps drifting. Keeps lingering on the way San had looked at him. The way he had reacted, so quick and sharp.

Yeah. This night just got a lot more interesting.

The four of them eat their meal in relative peace, the hum of conversation filling the banquet hall. The food is good—better than expected, actually—but Wooyoung barely registers the taste as he notices the cameras coming out. It's almost immediate, like a switch being flipped.

They'd been warned about this. Seonghwa had told them ahead of time that the media would get their moment, that they'd be filmed on center stage for a bit. It was part of the deal, a way to keep the press happy. After all, this event was a big deal, and Hongjoong and Seonghwa were the power couple of the industry—the it people.

Luckily, they had known the pair long before the fame.

Wooyoung smiles politely as the cameras flash, the bright lights cutting through the dim ambiance of the room. At least they weren't being filmed while playing carnival games. The last thing he needed was the world knowing he cheated for a free drink. The cameras were temporary, at least.

"Welcome, welcome all."

Hongjoong's voice rings through the hall, smooth and confident as ever. He's always been the better public speaker between the two, effortlessly commanding the attention of the room. Wooyoung already knows how this will go—thank the sponsors, praise the brands, emphasize the importance of the cause.

Boring.

Just as he's preparing to tune out, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

Wooyoung turns his head, already plastering on a polite smile—until he sees who it is.

San has ducked down slightly, leaning in just enough to place something into Wooyoung's hand.

"I won it earlier, fair and square," he whispers, his breath warm against Wooyoung's ear.

Wooyoung frowns slightly as he glances down, his fingers unfolding to reveal a free drink ticket from the ring toss.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

Then, he almost laughs. Of course San won it fairly—unlike himself, who had stepped over the barrier. The irony isn't lost on him.

He looks up, ready to fire back some kind of comeback—something smug, something sharp—but San is already gone.

Disappeared as quickly as he came.

Wooyoung tells himself he isn't disappointed, but the feeling lingers anyway. He tucks the drink ticket into his jacket pocket, rolling it between his fingers as he refocuses on the stage.

Hongjoong is still speaking, his voice carrying through the hall with practiced ease. Something about the importance of helping at-risk youth. About the necessity of community, of safety, of looking out for one another.

Wooyoung knows that, deep down, Hongjoong and Seonghwa see the hypocrisy in it all. Sitting in a lavish banquet hall, dressed to the nines, playing at carnival games for charity. But in the end, the hypocrisy only matters online.

What matters is that the children get the help they need—whether or not the public approves of how that help is funded.

And the night is far from over, especially with the drink ticket in his jacket and more things to say to San. Many more things to say to him.

Wooyoung half-listens to Hongjoong's speech, keeping his expression entertained enough for the cameras. He's done this enough times to know how it works—look engaged, nod in the right places, smile when the spotlight swings in his direction. The press will eat it up, and later, when the auction begins, they'll have their spectacle. Photos will circulate, fans will speculate over the pairings, and—most importantly—the bids will go to charity. That's what matters.

When the first person with a black sticker on their suit is called up, Wooyoung leans back in his chair, watching with mild curiosity. He wonders, briefly, if San will bid on him. Maybe Jongho will bid on Yeosang—the two seemed rather chummy earlier.

But he doesn't dwell on it.

One by one, the auction moves forward, twenty-three candidates stepping onto the stage before his own number is finally called.

"Number twenty-four," Seonghwa announces, his voice smooth, practiced.

Wooyoung exhales sharply before pushing himself up from his chair. He's done this before—he's worked plenty of stages—but something about walking up there now, under these lights, makes him hyper-aware of himself. He rests a hand over his stomach out of habit, like a subconscious form of protection, even though his arms are entirely exposed in the cutout suit he chose for tonight.

Seonghwa grins at him as he hands him the mic, which only makes him feel more foolish.

Still, he plasters on a confident smile, the same one he's used countless times before, and leans into the microphone.

"My name is Wooyoung," he starts smoothly. "Some of you may know me from the fancy magazines and the songs on the radio. But I'm a bit more than that." He chuckles, his laughter filling the room as the lights blind him from seeing the entire crowd. "You've got one night to impress me. Who knows... maybe you'll end up in a song I write."

Seonghwa ooo's dramatically into his mic, adding to the theatrics, and Wooyoung just shakes his head with a smirk.

"Oh, you've got two bids already from table 104," Seonghwa announces, nudging him playfully. "I think your friends are taking pity on you. A measly one hundred dollars for a night with little old you."

Wooyoung gasps in mock offense. "Hey, a hundred dollars is a lot."

"And another bid from table 127 for two hundred." Seonghwa gestures toward the table through the bright lights, but Wooyoung didn't think to ask where San was sitting beforehand, so he has no idea if it's him. Anyone but Mingi and Yunho would be preferable, though.

"And another from table..."

Paddle after paddle goes up. The numbers climb higher and higher.

Wooyoung had thought this would be humiliating at worst, a fun little stunt at best. But as the bids rack up—thousands upon thousands, the price of a high-end designer bag just for an evening with him—he realizes he may have underestimated his own value.

Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"For twelve thousand, going once...twice..."

Seonghwa's voice carries through the hall, deliberate and teasing, drawing out the anticipation. He's waiting, hoping for another paddle to rise at the last second.

Wooyoung stands still under the bright lights, an easy, practiced smile on his face. It's a harmless game, really. A charity auction, all in good fun. But still, twelve thousand is a ridiculous number, even if it's going toward a good cause. He wonders who in the room decided a night with him was worth that much.

"Sold!"

A polite wave of applause ripples through the banquet hall. Wooyoung exhales softly, shoulders relaxing as he steps off the stage. He keeps his expression neutral, even as curiosity burns in his chest. Who—

And then he sees it.

Table 117.

San, standing there with his wallet in hand, speaking with the event worker collecting the money.

Wooyoung nearly stops in his tracks.

He should have seen this coming.

His pace slows as he approaches, suddenly more hesitant than he wants to be. He's good at masking things—uncertainty, nervousness, anything that could be used against him. But this? This is uncharted territory. San had made the first move. A bold one, at that.

"Twelve thousand dollars?" Wooyoung muses as he reaches the table, voice light but pointed.

"You're an expensive little thing, aren't you?" San doesn't even look up from the transaction.

"You have no idea." Wooyoung smirks, tilting his head.

Seonghwa's voice cuts back in before San can reply.

"Now, we move onto our next person."

Wooyoung turns just in time to see Yeosang stepping onto the stage. He holds the mic a little too tightly, his other hand clenched at his side. His face is red—not from the warmth of the lights, but from nerves. Yeosang has never liked the spotlight.

"Hi, I'm Yeosang." His voice wavers slightly, just enough for Wooyoung to notice.

Without thinking, Wooyoung reaches for the paddle San had used to bid on him, its number printed in bold black ink against a white background.

San's voice is suddenly closer, just over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

Wooyoung doesn't answer, lifting the paddle.

Seonghwa laughs. "Table 117, back at it again!" He squints against the lights, recognizing Wooyoung this time.

"What are you doing?" San repeats, this time more amused than confused. He shifts to stand beside Wooyoung, watching him carefully but making no move to take the paddle back. "You want your friend to join us?"

Us. Like they're a thing.

Wooyoung doesn't look at him, eyes locked on Yeosang. The bidding continues, prices climbing, but he keeps the paddle raised.

"Jongho can have him," he says, voice steady.

"Hey, whoa, why are you dragging me into this?" Jongho interjects from his seat, raising an eyebrow. "I don't have twelve thousand dollars to buy him for the night."

"Neither do I," San mutters, exasperated. "That would be twenty-four thousand for two when I only wanted one."

The other bids start tapering off.

"I'll pay it," Wooyoung says, nonchalant.

San turns to him fully now, eyes narrowing. "You're seriously going to—"

"Sold to table 117!" Seonghwa announces.

A few scattered cheers and laughs follow, and Wooyoung finally lowers the paddle. When he turns back to San, he finds him staring, something unreadable in his expression. Like he's surprised—maybe even impressed.

"I'll pay it, don't worry." Wooyoung bats his lashes, layering his voice with an innocent lilt. San sees right through him, lips pressing together in something between a smirk and a grimace.

"Don't worry, cowboy," Wooyoung teases, leaning in just enough to be insufferable. "You only bought me for the night."

San exhales sharply, but his expression softens, like he's relieved that he won't be stuck entertaining both Wooyoung and Yeosang for the night.

Yeosang arrives at the table then, still a little flustered.

"Why would you buy me?" he asks, furrowing his brows. "You spent twelve thousand dollars just to hang out with me like we always do?"

Wooyoung digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out the free drink ticket San had given him earlier, pressing it into Yeosang's palm.

"Here, take this. Go sit with Jongho."

"That was for you to use." San cuts in, unimpressed but no one pays him any mind.

"Wooyoung," Yeosang sighs, tilting his head.

"What? It's a public event, he won't kidnap you. Besides, you two were ogling each other at the bar."

"That is not—" Yeosang's face flushes a deeper red.

"Just go." Wooyoung waves him off. "Don't text me unless you need rescuing."

Yeosang hesitates, shifting on his feet as he glances between Wooyoung and Jongho.

"You don't want to?" Wooyoung asks.

"What do I say?" Yeosang hesitates.

Wooyoung exhales, about to answer when San beats him to it.

"Jongho." His voice is firm, steady. "Yeosang has a free drink ticket. Take him to the bar."

Jongho blinks at him, then shrugs and gets up. Simple as that. Yeosang glances at Wooyoung one last time before reluctantly following, still clutching the drink ticket like it's a lifeline.

As soon as they're out of earshot, San turns back to Wooyoung, arms crossing over his chest.

"You two aren't together, so... best friends?"

Wooyoung meets his gaze, searching. There's an ease in San's posture, something lighthearted. But there's something else too.

"I've known Yeosang for a long time." He lifts his chin slightly. "If you want me, then he's coming along too."

San considers that for a moment. He shifts his weight, lips twitching like he's trying not to smile. Then, just when Wooyoung starts to wonder if he'll actually respond, San meets his eyes with something sharp.

"Is that so?" His voice is smooth, deliberate. "I guess I'll pay the money to the charity for him, then."

Wooyoung stills.

San watches him closely, clearly enjoying the flicker of surprise that crosses his face. A small, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

Oh.

San is certainly interesting.

"I'll pay for Yeosang's bid. I held up the paddle anyway," he says, his voice carrying an easy charm, but there's something softer at the edges. He's not heartless—he's not about to put San out of that kind of money just for the sake of proving a point. "But you better make my night interesting. You bought me, even through charity, so I want to see what the hype is about a boxer at an event like this."

San tilts his head slightly, studying him. There's an unreadable glint in his eyes, one that Wooyoung can't quite pin down.

"And I bought you to see what a world-famous singer is doing at an event like this," San counters smoothly, flipping the conversation right back on him.

Wooyoung lets out a short laugh. He likes that. Likes that San is quick, that he knows how to spar with more than just his fists. He must be dangerous in the ring if he's this sharp outside of it.

The transaction is finalized soon after—Wooyoung's card charged for Yeosang's bid, the money added to the funds. At least Seonghwa and Hongjoong can be trusted to ensure it actually goes to charity and not just as an excuse for a tax write-off.

Wooyoung leans back against the table, a smirk playing at his lips.

"So, San, a little arguing and staring and that's all it takes for you to spend thousands of dollars for a night with little old me?" His eyes gleam with challenge. "I made that much of an impression?"

San doesn't blink.

"And I made such an impression that you're agreeing?" He raises an eyebrow, mirroring Wooyoung's energy with practiced ease.

"It's for charity. Can't exactly say no to at-risk youth," Wooyoung shrugs, his tone light. San exhales a short breath, one that sounds almost amused.

"The money's already been spent. You don't have to say yes to anything," he says, voice casual but firm. And that's when it hits Wooyoung—San is giving him an out.

Wooyoung didn't have much choice in agreeing to being bid on in the first place, but San isn't holding him to it. The realization sits strangely well with him, settling somewhere in his chest. Maybe he'd misjudged the boxer. Maybe he wasn't all bravado and machismo.

"You want to play more ring toss," San continues, "or am I leaving you at your table with your friends?"

Wooyoung weighs his options, pretending to deliberate. The night is still young, and so far, San hasn't done anything that would make him want to leave. If anything, he's intrigued. And this has to be a date, right? With the back-and-forth, the tension simmering between them—it certainly feels like one.

"Let's play a different game. I think I don't want to drink anymore tonight," Wooyoung finally says, meeting San's gaze. This time, he's not challenging—just sure of himself, confident in his choice.

San watches him for a beat before smirking. "And with all these cameras, I imagine your fans would make fun of you for cheating."

"The cameras will be gone soon enough."

San pauses, eyebrows furrowing slightly. It's subtle, but Wooyoung catches it—the momentary confusion. He doesn't know that Wooyoung is friends with Seonghwa and Hongjoong, that he has inside knowledge of how this event operates.

But he knows Wooyoung is holding his cards close to his chest.

"You know a lot more than you let on," San observes.

"Isn't that the fun in things?" Wooyoung smiles, slow and teasing. San holds his gaze for a moment longer, then lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

Wooyoung is sure the fun is just about to begin.

Wooyoung leads San through the bustling crowd, the noise of the event buzzing around them. The line for the more popular games stretches ahead, a mixture of excited chatter and the occasional shriek of laughter filling the air. Wooyoung can't help but feel a little out of place now that they're walking side by side. It's strange—too much space between them but not enough to make things feel easy.

He's never been one for awkwardness, but with San so close, he suddenly feels like he's back in high school—nervous, unsure of the right move to make. It's childish, he knows, but he can't shake the feeling that he doesn't want this to be awkward, especially not now, with San showing an interest that feels genuine.

"I think we can try this one." Wooyoung gestures to the game ahead of them—a row of metal cans stacked neatly on a platform. The goal is to knock them over with three rubber balls, and the cans are numbered, with the more difficult ones toward the bottom offering more points. "Yunho is good at this one."

San looks at the game and then at Wooyoung, his curiosity piqued.

"Who's Yunho?"

"My friend," Wooyoung explains as he hands San one of the rubber balls. "He's the one who bet on me and Yeosang so we wouldn't embarrass ourselves."

Wooyoung smiles at San, who gives him an amused look for a moment, his eyes glinting with something playful before he shifts his attention to the ball in his hand.

Wooyoung watches as San places the ball in his right hand, his grip firm, fingers wrapping around it easily. He shifts his body sideways, a natural stance that Wooyoung can't help but notice, especially since the suit San is wearing is cut so low that the slight curve of his chest is visible. Wooyoung doesn't make it obvious that he's looking, but he definitely catches a glimpse.

Before he can stop himself, San launches the ball forward with a swift motion, using the strength of his shoulder and arm, and the ball crashes into the stand behind the cans with a thud.

Wooyoung turns just in time to see the result, and he can't help it—he bursts out laughing.

San stands there, watching the two cans that were knocked down from the top, the rest standing precariously balanced. Wooyoung can't stop laughing at the sight.

"Don't laugh," San scolds, though there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His words aren't serious, and Wooyoung knows it—he's just as amused by the mess as Wooyoung is.

"Just power and no aim?" Wooyoung teases, wiping the laugh from his face but still grinning like a fool.

San, unfazed, snatches another ball from Wooyoung's hand. Their fingers brush together briefly, and the moment is fleeting, but it's enough for Wooyoung's heart to skip a beat. He's not sure why it feels so electric—so simple, but so much more than it should be.

San doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he does. Either way, he gears up for another throw, his muscles tensing under his suit, and Wooyoung can't help but watch as San prepares himself. It's almost hypnotic, the way he moves, the focus in his eyes. Wooyoung's grin fades for a moment, replaced by something else entirely. A sort of quiet anticipation.

San's ready for round two. Wooyoung's ready for whatever comes next.

San throws the next ball with just as much force, and this time, three cans go down—two in the middle row and one from the bottom. Now, only two cans remain on the bottom row, and he has one last ball left.

"You might be able to hit both if you hit it at an angle." Wooyoung hands him the last ball, offering a small tip, but he isn't sure if San will take it.

San doesn't respond right away. He just shifts his stance again, rolling the ball in his palm, feeling the weight of it. Wooyoung watches as he angles himself slightly, lining up the throw, his posture more deliberate now.

And still, he misses.

The ball sails just wide, barely skimming the side of the cans before bouncing off the backboard and clattering onto the floor.

Wooyoung meets San's eyes, fighting the urge to laugh. San exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly, though there's a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"No prize to be won," he says, voice light. "I'll buy you a silly little goldfish another time."

"They never live for very long, do they?" Wooyoung hums, amused.

San tilts his head, considering.

"That's true." He meets Wooyoung's gaze again, eyes glinting with something unreadable but warm. "Maybe we should go for something with a better lifespan."

The words sit between them for a beat longer than they should.

Wooyoung forces himself to break the moment, stepping away from the booth. "Come on, let's play another game."

San follows without hesitation, keeping pace beside him as they weave through the carnival booths. The energy of the event is still lively—laughter and conversation hum around them, music playing faintly from the main stage, the scent of fried food lingering in the air.

The Connect Four station is busy, and Wooyoung slows his steps slightly, glancing toward the line. A shame. He gets the feeling San would be good at it.

"You seem good at Connect Four," San says, mirroring his thoughts.

Wooyoung shrugs. "Yeosang and I used to play a lot."

"How long have you known each other?"

"Met in high school." Wooyoung slows his pace, dragging his feet slightly, not in any real rush to go anywhere in particular. "Yunho and Mingi met in high school too."

San nods, taking in the information. Wooyoung wonders what he's thinking, what kind of picture he's painting in his head of Wooyoung's life, his friendships, his past.

Then San gestures toward another game. "What about this one?"

Wooyoung follows his gaze.

It's a simple fishing game—rubber ducks float in a shallow pool, lazily drifting in circles. Each one is magnetized, and the goal is to fish one out using a small toy rod. The prizes are minimal, mostly small candies, but San seems interested.

"Let's try it," he says.

They each grab a fishing pole, and Wooyoung leans slightly over the water, eyeing a duck that keeps slipping just out of reach. He concentrates, tilting the pole just right, waiting for the magnet to catch—

And the duck drifts away again.

He narrows his eyes.

"What do I get for a red one?"

San's voice pulls his attention, and Wooyoung turns his head to find him holding up a red duck, looking far too pleased with himself.

Wooyoung presses his lips together as he receives his own prize—a lollipop. But now, it's a matter of pride.

He refocuses, determined to get his own duck.

His magnet finally hooks onto one, and he slowly lifts it out of the water. Just as it's about to reach his hand, the duck detaches, dropping back in with an anticlimactic plop.

Wooyoung frowns.

"You have to go slower," San chuckles, watching him struggle. "Can I show you?"

Wooyoung turns his head slightly, meeting his gaze.

San is looking at him with something patient, something knowing.

There's an element of surprise in moments like these—moments where Wooyoung doesn't know what's coming next.

"Sure," he says, aiming for nonchalance.

What he doesn't expect is for San to step behind him.

Wooyoung stills.

San's presence is immediate, solid, warm. His arms move around Wooyoung, not quite trapping him, but close enough that Wooyoung can feel the space between them shrink. San's hands rest lightly over his own, guiding the fishing pole, steadying the motion.

Wooyoung's face heats instantly.

Jesus Christ.

San is bold—far bolder than Wooyoung had anticipated. He's comfortable with touch, unbothered by the proximity, by the fact that they're surrounded by people. Maybe Wooyoung is just more paranoid than he realized—the idea that someone could take a picture, that one headline could spiral into unnecessary drama.

"Breathe," San murmurs near his ear.

Wooyoung realizes, belatedly, that he hasn't been breathing. He inhales sharply, shoulders tensing slightly before he forces them to relax.

San, unfazed, continues.

"Now, you'll hook a duck..."

He guides Wooyoung's hands, leading the pole smoothly through the water.

A duck latches onto the magnet effortlessly.

"And you lift it slowly..."

San keeps his movements steady, and despite Wooyoung's absolute lack of contribution, they successfully pull the duck from the water.

San holds it just within reach, his voice still low when he speaks.

"Grab it, darlin'," he says, the nickname slipping out far too easily. "You did all the hard work."

That's a lie.

Wooyoung grabs the duck anyway.

San's warmth lingers even after he steps away, leaving Wooyoung standing there, green duck in hand, heart still beating a little too fast. He clenches his fingers around the plastic, willing himself to cool down, to not let it show just how flustered he still is. But when he looks up, San is watching him with a knowing little smile, like he can see right through him.

"Let's trade them in," San suggests, his voice easy and light, as if he hadn't just wrapped himself around Wooyoung like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Wooyoung forces himself to focus, stepping forward to exchange the duck for a prize. San gets a purple lollipop, unwrapping it immediately and sliding it between his lips, while Wooyoung chooses a green Jolly Rancher, something familiar and safe.

"This is actually such a cool idea," San muses around his lollipop, the white stick sticking out between his lips. "Something for celebrities to do for a charity event instead of just sitting around looking bored."

Wooyoung rolls the candy between his fingers.

"I think so too. Though I did think the auction wasn't the best idea—being stuck with a stranger for a night." He turns deliberately toward San, letting his voice dip into something teasing. "Could be stuck with some weirdo from farm country."

San narrows his eyes, quick to take the bait.

"I am not from farm country."

"No?" Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, a slow, lazy grin creeping onto his face. "Where you from then, cowboy? Nothing wrong with farm country. I bet it made you real hot as a teenager—rolling up hay bales, mucking stalls, probably wearing a cowboy hat..."

"That's the best you've got?" San huffs a quiet laugh, stopping just at the edge of the carnival games, a little out of the crowd's view.

Wooyoung watches as San rolls the lollipop against his lips, the candy clicking lightly against his teeth. His eyes linger there for a beat too long before he flicks them back up to San's face.

"So you were a farmer?" he prods, unable to resist.

San sighs, relenting. "Yes, I'm from farm country, but that doesn't mean you can make fun of me for it."

"No one's picking on you," Wooyoung shrugs, eyes bright with amusement as he meets San's gaze steadily. "Just saying, I think you'd look real nice in a cowboy hat."

"You're definitely picking on me." San squints at him.

"Maybe." Wooyoung puckers his lips in a faux pout before turning away with a little giggle, setting off down the row of carnival booths again. He stumbles slightly, still grinning, when something catches his eye—a small photobooth tucked between two larger game stalls.

Oh.

That could be fun.

Wooyoung doesn't give San much of a choice, reaching back and grabbing his hand before tugging him into the booth. The curtain sways as he shoves it aside, slipping onto the tiny bench with ease. San follows, sitting close—closer than he probably realizes. The space between them is practically nonexistent, but Wooyoung doesn't mind. If anything, it makes the whole thing more fun.

He clicks on the screen, scrolling through the filter options with lazy flicks of his fingers.

"San-ah," he hums, barely paying attention as he skims past the premium selections. No way was he spending extra money for a glitter overlay or a sparkly rainbow filter.

"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," San murmurs, voice tinged with mild annoyance at the nickname.

"Poor you." Wooyoung doesn't look up, too focused on avoiding the ridiculous pink bubblegum border that keeps popping up as a featured option.

San exhales, but there's no real frustration in it. "Just do a plain one. If they turn out terrible, then we can try one with a border."

Wooyoung makes a show of sighing dramatically before finally conceding, selecting the standard option and leaning back into the bench. "Fine. Peace signs."

He raises two fingers to his face, scrunching his nose slightly, lips pursing in an exaggerated pout. It's cute, playful. He doesn't have to check the screen to know it.

But when he does glance at the reflection, his gaze catches on San—not posing, not even looking at the camera, but smiling at him.

It's subtle. Small. The kind of smile that isn't forced, that crinkles the corners of his eyes just slightly.

The first photo snaps.

"San! Peace signs." Wooyoung playfully swats at his chest, turning to scold him, but San just looks at him instead, eyes dark and warm. The booth feels a little smaller, the air between them charged with something unspoken.

It's lighthearted. Playful. But suddenly, time slows for a fraction of a second, the world outside fading into a blur.

The thought slips into Wooyoung's head without warning—San might be the one.

The second photo snaps.

"Wha—hey." Wooyoung barely turns back to the screen in time to see their frozen expressions captured in a flash.

San chuckles, a soft, easy sound.

"Come on, peace signs." He finally raises his own fingers, indulging Wooyoung's request.

But instead of copying him, Wooyoung shifts closer, deliberately pressing into his space, tilting his head with a defiant little pout.

San grins, a full, dimpled thing that makes something in Wooyoung's stomach do an annoying little flip.

The third photo snaps.

"Your eyes are really pretty," Wooyoung murmurs, keeping his attention on the screen because looking directly at San feels a little too real.

"I think you're really pretty."

It's lame. Juvenile flirting. But Wooyoung still grins, letting it pull at his lips naturally just as the last flash goes off. Instinctively, he lifts his hand, covering his mouth—a habit he's had for as long as he can remember.

The fourth photo snaps.

"Those probably suck." Wooyoung drops his hand, turning to San again.

"You wanna take more? With a border this time?" San doesn't look away. "I'll pay."

"You'll pay?" Wooyoung tilts his head, considering.

"I don't mind." San shrugs.

"Well," Wooyoung drawls, "I can't pass up free things, can I?"

San's smile softens, and Wooyoung catches it—the dimples again, the way his lips curve just slightly around the lollipop stick still perched between them.

His gaze lingers a little too long.

He turns back to the screen before he can embarrass himself, swiping through the filter options with quick flicks. He hovers over a music-themed one with a tiny guitar in the corner but ultimately selects the bright pink, bubblegum-colored border that costs three dollars.

Worth it.

San bumps his shoulder, casual and easy.

"What do you wanna do?"

Wooyoung barely hears the question, too caught up in—something. His thoughts, maybe. Or the way San is sitting so close.

Or the way his eyes flicker down, unbidden, to the lollipop again.

San notices. Of course he does.

The first photo snaps—just the two of them, staring at each other.

"You want it?" San's voice is quiet, just for them.

Wooyoung swallows involuntarily because he can imagine it in his mouth, the suggestion forming an imagine in his mind before he can stop it.

San watches him closely, then moves—slow, deliberate—lifting a hand to pull the lollipop from his mouth. The purple candy slides free, glistening with spit, before San holds it up, offering it to him.

Wooyoung's breath catches.

The second photo snaps.

His pulse stumbles. His stomach twists. But he doesn't look away.

Instead, he parts his lips slightly, just enough.

San is gentle. Careful. He presses the lollipop to Wooyoung's lips, just past his teeth, sliding it into his mouth with a featherlight touch.

It's still warm from his mouth.

The space between them disappears entirely.

Neither of them moves.

San's fingers are still on the stick when the last photo takes.

The moment stretches between them, a charged silence wrapped in something neither of them fully understands. San's fingers remain curled around the white stick, his thumb barely brushing the smooth surface as his eyes stay fixed on the lollipop. But Wooyoung—he's watching San.

His eyes are dark, unfocused, caught somewhere between hesitation and amusement, but there's something else too—something Wooyoung doesn't quite have words for. They're caught in it, whatever it is, an invisible thread tethering them to each other, unwilling to break.

Like a circuit, fully connected, humming with electricity.

"I think we should check on the photos," San whispers, his voice barely there, a breath against the stillness between them.

His hand finally slides away, breaking the fragile connection, and Wooyoung gulps, tasting the lingering grape on his tongue. But as San shifts to move, instinct takes over—Wooyoung's fingers twitch, reaching out before he can stop himself, grasping for the warmth that's slipping away.

"Wait, I just..." He trails off, unsure what he's even trying to say.

That he doesn't want the moment to end? That letting go feels like losing something he didn't even know he wanted?

San pauses.

Then, slowly, he turns back, reaching for Wooyoung's hand instead. His grip is firm, grounding, a silent reassurance.

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs.

Wooyoung exhales.

It feels ridiculous, how something as simple as holding hands can anchor him so completely.

They climb out of the booth, and San moves to the side to retrieve the photos from the small slot. He holds up two copies of each set, flipping through them with an amused expression.

Wooyoung leans in, looking over his shoulder.

His face immediately heats.

"We're just staring at each other," he mutters, unimpressed with the first set. It's not even posed—just the two of them, locked in that ridiculous eye contact.

"Yeah, that seems to be a habit." San hums, unconcerned.

Then he lifts the second set, the ones framed by the ridiculous bright pink bubblegum border. It plays out in perfect sequence—San offering the lollipop, Wooyoung hesitating, then accepting, lips parted around the candy.

"I like this one," San muses, his lips twitching.

"You only like it because you were flirting with me." Wooyoung huffs, reaching out to practically snatch a strip of each set from him.

San tilts his head, a smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth.

"You opened your mouth."

"Lalala—I can't hear you." Wooyoung turns on his heel before San can say anything else, shoving the photos into his pocket as he scurries back toward the main banquet hall.

He's still smiling when he pops the lollipop back into his mouth, the familiar sweetness of grape mixing with the faintest hint of something else.

It doesn't take long to spot Yunho and Mingi. Tall as they are, they stand near the stage, each holding a plate of dessert. Mingi has what looks like cheesecake, while Yunho is halfway through a slice of tiramisu.

"Where'd you get that?" Wooyoung stops in front of them, brows furrowing.

"Dessert table." Yunho barely glances up, speaking around a mouthful.

"Dessert table?" Wooyoung echoes, scandalized. "Seonghwa didn't say anything about a dessert table."

"I think you found your own dessert." Mingi looks down at him, unimpressed.

It takes a second to register, but the second it does, Wooyoung whips around just as—

"Hi, I'm San."

Wooyoung doesn't even have to look to know San is standing there, probably grinning.

He turns back to Mingi, completely deadpan.

"You're the worst."

"I'm Yunho, that's Mingi," Yunho says, gesturing toward the man beside him. "I'd shake your hand, but..." He lifts his dessert slightly, indicating his hands are full.

San chuckles, nodding in understanding.

Wooyoung, however, has other things on his mind. He tilts his head up at San, eyes wide and intentionally batting his lashes.

"Do you like dessert?" His voice is sweet, almost sing-song, practically dripping with expectation.

Mingi snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he turns away. Wooyoung doesn't have to look to know he's laughing at him.

San hesitates for a second, as if considering his words carefully.

"Well... I have to watch what I eat," he finally admits. "If I weigh too much, I might not be able to fight."

His voice is light, but there's a tinge of regret behind his small, self-deprecating smile.

Wooyoung immediately deflates.

"That's disappointing," he says, sighing with a dramatic pout. "I would have shared."

And then, because he knows exactly what he's doing—because San has been meeting him step for step all night—Wooyoung lifts the lollipop to his lips and deliberately runs his tongue along the curve of the candy, slow and purposeful. He watches San out of the corner of his eye, sucking lightly, exaggerating the motion just enough.

San gets it immediately.

The way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his gaze flickers just for a second—Wooyoung can tell exactly where his mind went. He knows San is picturing it: a shared dessert, a shared spoon, the lingering taste of sugar and something else entirely.

"Shame," Wooyoung murmurs, voice just a little too soft.

"Shame," San echoes, a beat too quick, too clipped.

"I'm going to throw up," Mingi mutters, voice deadpan.

"Can it, Mingi. Why don't you and Yunho go somewhere else?" Wooyoung's gaze snaps to him, sharp.

"We were here first," Mingi shoots back, completely unimpressed.

Wooyoung opens his mouth, ready to retort, but before he can get a word out, San's hand closes around his upper arm. The grip is firm but not forceful, a steady pull rather than a demand.

"Come on, Wooyoung," San says smoothly. "Let's go find Jongho and Yeosang."

Wooyoung barely has time to register what's happening before he's being guided away, San leading him through the banquet hall with easy, assured steps.

And—God help him—Wooyoung likes it.

It's rare for him, this feeling. He's used to being the one in control, the one pulling people where he wants them to go. With other partners, he's the demanding one, the one who decides what happens next. But San doesn't push him, doesn't drag him—he just leads, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Like Wooyoung will follow him without question.

And maybe he will.

Which is insane, because he met this man just a few hours ago.

By the time they reach table 117, the spot where San and Jongho had originally been seated, San finally releases him. The table is still empty, just as they left it.

Wooyoung takes a breath and looks up at him, deliberately making his eyes as pitiful and wide as possible.

San sees right through it, but he smiles anyway, amusement dancing in his expression.

"What's wrong, Darlin'?"

Wooyoung swears he feels that nickname in his bones.

His heart does something stupid, something ridiculous, but he ignores it—forces himself to stay cool. Instead, he tilts his head and pouts a little more, dragging out the moment before finally saying,

"Let me put my phone number in your phone."

San blinks, thrown completely off guard, and Wooyoung revels in it. That flicker of surprise across his face, the way his fingers tighten around his phone—like he wasn't expecting this, like he's never been offered something so openly before.

Wooyoung had seen glimpses of it all night: San meeting him step for step, the push and pull of their banter, the way they gravitated toward each other as if it were inevitable. But this moment, right now, is when he knows he's won.

He watches as San fumbles slightly, unlocking his phone and handing it over. There's something oddly endearing about the way he does it, as if the thought of having Wooyoung's number is something precious.

And Wooyoung—who normally never gives out his personal number, who usually redirects people to his manager so he doesn't have to deal with their texts and calls—wants San to have it. He wants to deal with San. Wants to see where this goes, wants to know what it's like to have this boxer with dimples and warm hands and sharp eyes as part of his life.

"The night's almost over, San," Wooyoung murmurs as he types in his number, fingers moving quickly across the screen. "Yunho and Mingi will finish their desserts soon, and we'll all be heading out. It's more cohesive if we leave as a band."

He tilts his head up, eyes wide, deliberately pleading. "But I think Yeosang's been lost to your other half."

San's brows knit together, confused for half a second before realization dawns.

"We aren't together like that." His correction is immediate, almost instinctive, like he can't let the assumption linger. His voice is even, but his expression betrays just the slightest bit of frustration—like it matters what Wooyoung thinks of his relationship with Jongho.

Wooyoung had meant to get it wrong, just to see his reaction, and it does not disappoint. He grins.

"Well, did you drive yourself here, or were you chauffeured around, cowboy?"

The question throws San off again. Wooyoung can see the gears turning in his head, knows that San almost gets what he's hinting at but not quite. For someone who can read every single one of his opponent's movements in the ring, San doesn't seem to realize when he's walking straight into something.

"I was driven," San finally says.

Wooyoung hums, slipping San's phone back into his hand, his own fingers lingering just long enough to be felt.

"Then what if you give your driver the name of the hotel I'm staying at," he murmurs, voice low and deliberate, "and you come spend the night with me?"

And God, if Wooyoung could bottle up the look on San's face, he would.

Pure, unfiltered surprise. A moment of hesitation, not from reluctance but from sheer disbelief. Wooyoung watches as San's lips part slightly, watches the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

He lets the silence stretch, lets San process the offer for exactly three beats before tilting his head, a slow, knowing smile creeping across his lips.

"What do you say, cowboy?"

"You sure?"

San's voice is so soft, so careful, that it makes something in Wooyoung ache.

You sure?

It's not hesitation—it's consideration. Wooyoung's entire body wants to say yes, to promise that San can follow him anywhere, that no matter where he turns, he'd always look back and find him there.

He would.

But instead, he exhales, just enough for the words to slip out.

"We have to leave in separate cars so there aren't any rumors." His voice is quieter now, tinged with something like shame. It's frustrating, this careful dance they have to do, pretending like they don't want to leave together when they do.

San, to his credit, doesn't seem bothered.

"I don't mind leaving in different cars," he says evenly, as if to reassure him. "As long as you tell me where you're going."

Wooyoung meets his eyes, something unreadable in his expression—half sorry, half thrilled.

San must sense his hesitation because he adds, "You better tell Yeosang where you're going, or he'll think I've kidnapped you."

That finally pulls a smile from him.

"Of course," Wooyoung murmurs, shaking his head. "Wouldn't want him siccing the media on you."

He reaches into his suit pocket for his phone, but before he can text Yeosang, he sees there's already a message waiting for him.

[Yeosang]
Don't wait up. And don't ever speak of this again.

Wooyoung grins. Wide, sharp, delighted.

"Seems our 'other halves' have decided to leave on their own," he remarks, glancing up at San.

San furrows his brows as he checks his own phone, scrolling until he finds whatever message Jongho has left him. Wooyoung watches the way his expression shifts—curious, thoughtful. It makes him wonder about them. About their relationship. Best friends? Like Yeosang and me? Inseparable?

San exhales through his nose, amusement flickering in his eyes as he locks his phone.

"Shouldn't we follow suit?"

Wooyoung's stomach flips. God. The way he says it—obnoxiously sweet, teasing, like he's hearing himself reflected in another body. A boxer with dimples and warm hands. A boxer who could very well wreck him if Wooyoung lets him.

He raises an eyebrow, mimicking the serious expression San had given him earlier.

"You first?"

San takes a breath. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and Wooyoung realizes he still has his lollipop in his mouth. Ah. That's probably distracting him.

"You better text me your hotel," San murmurs, voice carrying a little huff of frustration, like he doesn't trust that Wooyoung actually will.

Wooyoung straightens, and there's a new kind of firmness in his voice when he replies.

"Like I'd leave you all alone to embarrass yourself." He tilts his head, eyes glinting. "Come on, San-ah, you've got to trust me."

And that, that, is what does it.

The nickname.

San hesitates for half a second, then nods, like that's all he needed to hear. Like he's accepting that he won't be left behind, that Wooyoung isn't playing with him. And that's interesting to Wooyoung—because why would he think otherwise? What happened in his life to make him hesitate at all?

San turns to leave.

Wooyoung watches him go, inhaling deeply, letting his chest rise with it.

San is broad-shouldered, his frame strong but not overbearing. He's muscled, but not in a way that makes him too much. Maybe he's a lightweight fighter. Or whatever the lightest weight category in boxing is.

Wooyoung wouldn't know. He only knows the broad strokes of boxing, the highlights of a sport he never cared to understand.

And he's only ever met one boxer in his life.

...Maybe two, if Jongho counts.

Wooyoung pulls out his phone as soon as San disappears into the night, his fingers moving quickly over the screen.

[Wooyoung]
Grand Central Hotel. Don't make me wait too long, cowboy.

He hesitates for half a second before adding:

Room 1203.

Then he locks his phone and exhales, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he waits. Patience, he tells himself. A few minutes. Just wait a few minutes. He knows how this works—leaving too soon after San would raise questions, even if no one should have reason to suspect anything. They don't know each other. There's no story to tell.

Still, he braces himself as he steps outside.

The flashes hit immediately. The shouting follows.

It's never quiet when he leaves an event. The air is thick with voices calling his name, with camera shutters snapping rapid-fire, desperate to capture whatever expression they can get.

Fewer fans than before, but more paparazzi. Of course. The later it gets, the messier the shots become—celebrities caught stumbling, tipsy from champagne, eyes hazy with exhaustion or something stronger. More embarrassing means more money. That's the rule.

He keeps his face composed, his movements practiced. No stopping to sign anything, as per protocol, but he still smiles, still bows, acknowledging without indulging. And then he's slipping past them, hurrying toward the car waiting for him.

The door shuts.

Silence.

The tinted windows do their job, shielding him from the outside world. He lets out a breath and immediately pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a flick of his thumb.

San.

He wants to see him again.

He wants to know everything.

He scrolls through his apps, looking for something to distract him, something to make the drive go faster, but his mind keeps circling back to San. The way he looked at him, the way he touched him—firm but careful, like he had no doubt that Wooyoung would follow.

Wooyoung lets his head fall back against the seat, lips quirking into a smile.

He never thought his night would take a turn like this.

As soon as the car pulls up to the front entrance of the hotel, Wooyoung can already see them—waiting.

The same few fans, the ones who somehow always know where he's staying. The ones who linger past reason, who act like their persistence grants them access to his personal life.

It's a nuisance.

A familiar nuisance, but a nuisance all the same.

He keeps his head low as he steps out, his security immediately flanking him. No waves, no acknowledgment. They don't deserve his attention if they don't respect his privacy. The cameras in their hands click anyway, flashes going off despite the late hour. Someone calls his name. He doesn't respond.

Inside.

The hotel lobby is quiet in comparison, the air cool and clean, muffling the outside world behind heavy glass doors. The weight of unwelcome eyes lifts, if only slightly.

The elevator ride up is easier.

His security stands with him, silent and professional, their presence routine at this point. Wooyoung leans back against the wall of the elevator, glancing at his phone—no new messages. He exhales, pocketing it again.

The doors open to his floor.

The entire level is blocked off for him, meaning privacy, meaning quiet—but also meaning he has to inform security that he's expecting someone.

It's not unusual. Not the first time.

Still, it feels different this time.

They won't ask questions—NDAs cover that much—but there's something inherently awkward about telling them that someone is coming. Like a silent understanding that doesn't need to be spoken aloud.

Wooyoung rolls his shoulders, shaking the feeling off.

He makes his way to his suite, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

Now, all that's left is to wait.

Wooyoung exhales as he reaches for the center of his suit, undoing the buttons with practiced ease. The fabric is smooth beneath his fingers, sliding off his shoulders as he shrugs out of the jacket. Beneath it, his skin is warm from the hours spent under lights and bodies in close proximity.

He glances down at his chest, at the barely visible, skin-colored nipple tape his stylist had insisted on—apparently, the fabric of his suit was rough enough that it could cause irritation.

He peels the tape off, one side then the other, crumpling the pieces into his palm. It doesn't hurt, not really, but there's an unpleasant stickiness that lingers. A reminder of the way his body is constantly adjusted, modified for appearances.

With a sigh, he makes his way to the bathroom, tossing the tape into the trash before heading back to the main room.

His fingers hook into the waistband of his pants, pushing them down until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, shaking them off before reaching for his suitcase. A loose shirt, old basketball shorts—comfort over style. The shorts hit just above his knee, baring his shins to the cool air of the hotel room.

Not exactly appealing, but whatever.

He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly before reaching for his phone. The sudden vibration in his palm startles him, the screen lighting up with an Unknown Number.

Wooyoung freezes.

His pulse ticks up. He knows what this means—he's seen it too many times before. A fan getting ahold of his number, calling him like they have some sort of right. Like they aren't crossing every possible boundary.

His stomach twists.

Before he can even think about declining, the caller ID shifts, changing from Unknown to a familiar contact.

His manager.

Wooyoung presses the speaker button, bringing the phone closer.

"Hello?" His voice is cautious.

"Wooyoung, sorry to bother you," his manager says, voice steady but firm, "but there's a guy here who says he knows you—normally, I'd usher them out, but he's wearing white, so he must be from the charity event."

Wooyoung blinks.

San.

It has to be.

Still, just to be sure, he straightens up, running a hand over his face.

"Hold on," he says, already moving toward the door. "I'll be right out."

Wooyoung pulls open the pale hotel door and sticks his head into the hallway, scanning both sides. The fluorescent light hums faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the plush gray carpet and the quiet tension hanging in the air.

A few feet away, his manager and two security guards stand in a loose formation, positioned between him and San.

San, who looks more than a little irritated.

His eyebrows are raised, his jaw tight, and there's a fire behind his stare that Wooyoung hasn't seen before—not directed at him, anyway. For a brief second, he imagines what San must look like in the ring, expression locked in determination, body coiled and ready to strike.

It's a little hot.

Jesus Christ, get it together.

Wooyoung steps out into the hallway, the carpet soft beneath his bare feet as he pads toward them.

"He's okay," he says, smiling as he gestures toward San. "I know him."

His manager turns slightly, giving him a searching look, but Wooyoung doesn't break eye contact with San. He's studying him, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his stance is firm like he's holding himself back.

A temper. Maybe that's his flaw.

An asset in the ring, but dangerous outside of it.

San exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders dropping just slightly as he steps past the security.

"Thank you, Wooyoung," he huffs, his irritation still evident in the arch of his brow.

Wooyoung nearly laughs.

His little eyebrows are cute.

Instead, he steps aside, pushing the door open and motioning San inside. The hotel room is plain—neutral tones, modern furnishings, everything carefully impersonal. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing them away from the rest of the world.

Wooyoung turns on his heel, eyes immediately finding San's.

San does the same.

They stand there for a long moment, locked in a silent challenge.

"Your staring problem is a problem," Wooyoung murmurs, shifting his weight slightly but never looking away. San's lips twitch into a small smile.

"I tried to call you earlier to let me in," he says evenly. "They thought I was a crazy fan trying to sneak into your room."

"I've got a few of those following me around," Wooyoung replies, a touch disheartened. He doesn't dwell on it, though—not when San tilts his head like that, still watching him.

"Don't think they'd bother you if you had a dangerous boxer trailing behind you."

Wooyoung cackles before he can help it, his smile breaking free as he turns slightly, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

"Behind me?" he teases once he's gathered himself again, looking back at San. "Not in charge?"

San hums, stepping a little closer.

"I think you like being in charge too much, Darlin'." His voice is smooth, laced with something that makes Wooyoung's stomach flip. "You knew what you wanted, and you got him."

"Him?" Wooyoung lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm in your hotel room, aren't I?" San shrugs, smirking.

"Clever bastard," Wooyoung mutters despite himself, and San smiles, finally breaking their eye contact as if conceding victory. Wooyoung wouldn't say he's displeased—he can't win them all, after all—but something about San looking that smug makes his stomach twist in a way he isn't ready to unpack.

"I do think you're clever too, for the record," San adds, his tone laced with something softer, something fond. "You're a smart person."

"Now you're just patronizing me because I lost," Wooyoung huffs.

"Lost what, Darlin'?" San asks, all false innocence. His eyes gleam with mischief, like he knows exactly what he's doing, and Wooyoung narrows his own in response. He's being played with. Toyed with. And it's working.

"You lose something out there?"

San steps closer, and Wooyoung feels his breath stutter, his nerves lighting up under his skin like a live wire. He swallows hard, stomach flipping, and for some reason—God, he hates himself for it—he blinks rapidly when San reaches up, fingers brushing the ends of his styled hair.

Wooyoung didn't even shower yet, so there's still product in it, stiff but slightly tousled from the night. But San plays with the ends anyway, twisting them slightly before giving a gentle tug.

Wooyoung looks up at him, barely breathing.

"Nothing to say?" San asks, quieter this time, something almost... patient about the way he watches him.

Wooyoung shakes his head. Just slightly.

San's fingers shift, trailing down, and the rough pad of his pointer finger brushes just under Wooyoung's eye, right over the beauty mark resting there. Wooyoung doesn't move—doesn't even think about moving—as San traces the shape of his cheekbone, his jawline, his thumb finally brushing over the corner of his mouth.

And then his hand is gone.

Wooyoung blinks rapidly again, thrown completely off balance, and San just drops his hand like nothing happened, like he didn't just touch him like that, like he didn't just mess him up entirely.

Then, as if that weren't enough, he turns and walks away.

"San," Wooyoung huffs, fed up with the teasing, and he hears him laugh. Actually laugh at him.

The sound makes him want to crawl under the covers and scream.

"Yes, darlin'?"

Wooyoung knows he's being toyed with. He knows that's exactly what San is doing, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. That's been the game all night—pushing, pulling, seeing who would cave first. But now that the tables have turned, now that he's the one flustered and aching for more, he finds himself wanting to pout. Maybe throw a tantrum. Demand San keep touching him, keep whatever-the-hell-that-was going.

But instead, he stays quiet.

With arms crossed, he sits on the bed beside San, back facing him, shoulders set.

San laughs again, low and rich, and Wooyoung feels it in his bones, in the pit of his stomach, in the curl of his toes. It makes him feel giddy and so annoyed at the same time.

"Don't be mad," San says, voice a touch firmer now, though Wooyoung knows he's just making sure he isn't actually upset.

"You can't just..." Wooyoung groans, rubbing at his face because he doesn't want to say it outright. That would be too easy. Too boring. They've been dancing around it all night, so why should he suddenly just admit what he wants?

"Can't just what?" San asks, feigning cluelessness, and Wooyoung is about to snap back when—

He feels a tug.

Not at his waistband like he might've expected, but at the hem of his shirt.

His breath stops.

San's fingers slip beneath the fabric, slow and deliberate, trailing up his back. The contrast of rough knuckles and calloused fingertips sends a shiver down his spine, the sensation pressing into his skin like something meant to be memorized, etched into him.

Wooyoung barely breathes as those hands—hands that box, hands that bruise—move up his spine with infuriating gentleness. He feels the press of San's knuckles against his shoulder blades, warm and grounding, teasing without even trying.

"You don't want to say?" San murmurs.

Wooyoung's head stays forward, eyes staring blankly ahead, but somewhere along the way, he realizes—San has sat up too.

The closeness isn't unwelcome.

Far from it.

"'S unfair," Wooyoung whispers, voice barely audible.

San hums, dragging his knuckles just a little slower now, pressing deeper into his shoulder blades like he's both comforting and torturing him at the same time.

"You're just a sore loser, darlin'."

"Maybe you're just a cheater."

San laughs, full-bodied and unrestrained, his weight shifting as he leans forward, forehead pressing against Wooyoung's shoulder. His warmth seeps through the fabric of Wooyoung's shirt, and Wooyoung barely has time to process the loss of San's hand from his back before he feels the weight of him against his side instead.

"Don't laugh!" Wooyoung gawks, turning his head to the side in faux offense. "You cheated."

San lifts his head, struggling—and failing—to suppress his grin. "So I win one little staring contest, and suddenly I'm a cheater?"

"You are a cheater," Wooyoung huffs.

"I think you're just a sore loser."

"Oh, do not go there."

San hums, tilting his head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Sensitive topic?"

The teasing lilt in his voice makes Wooyoung frown, glaring outright, but that only seems to delight San further. He's found a button to push, and he's relishing in it.

"You probably hear this all the time," San continues, unbothered, "but I really think you're gorgeous."

Wooyoung blinks.

The compliment shouldn't catch him off guard—he's been called pretty, beautiful, stunning, otherworldly even. It's practically part of the job. But there's something about the way San says it that makes it different. Something about the quiet conviction in his voice, like he means it in a way no one else ever has. Like Wooyoung isn't just another face on a magazine cover.

Like he's the only face San's ever bothered to look at.

"And I'm just the prettiest little thing out there?" Wooyoung tilts his head, testing, watching San closely for a reaction. That's what it's always been between them—the things that go unspoken, the space between words, the tension drawn tight in the way something is said, rather than the words themselves.

San doesn't hesitate.

"The prettiest," he affirms, smiling slightly. Then, after a beat, he adds, "And you write your own music, so you're good with words—you've proven that. You're loyal to Yeosang, Yunho, and Mingi. And..." His gaze softens. "You've got a light within your eyes."

"My eyes?" Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

"It's like you're lit from within," San murmurs, voice dipping into something almost reverent. "I've never... I've never seen someone lit from within."

Wooyoung exhales slowly.

He understands what San means. People's eyes have life in them, sure, but there's something different about having an inexplicable light. Something about passion—real, burning passion—not just for oneself, but for something greater. The ability to create, to inspire, to move people with nothing but raw emotion.

And the way San looks at him now... Wooyoung wonders if he's ever been looked at like this before.

"I'm looking at one too," he says quietly.

"No, I don't have a light." San chuckles, shaking his head.

Which is interesting.

Because San had described it so beautifully—so specifically—that Wooyoung never considered the possibility that he might not see it in himself.

"You have passion," Wooyoung tells him, firm. His voice doesn't waver as he meets San's eyes. "That's what makes someone lit from within. Just because I have more passion in one area doesn't mean you don't have a light of your own."

San watches him, expression unreadable.

"Maybe mine's a spotlight or something," Wooyoung continues, softer now, "but yours is still there. A light is a light, no matter how dim."

San's expression shifts into something almost unreadable, a flicker of something between being impressed and something deeper—like he's considering what Wooyoung said. Like, for the first time, he's actually wondering if maybe he does have a light within him, if maybe there's something worth seeing that he's always overlooked.

Wooyoung watches the thought settle in, watches the crease in San's brow smooth out just slightly before San exhales a quiet laugh and shakes his head.

"You really do write for a living, huh?"

"Just because I say poetic shit all the time doesn't mean it always comes back to me being a writer." Wooyoung rolls his eyes.

"I think that's exactly what that means." San raises an eyebrow.

"It could also be because it's almost two in the morning," Wooyoung counters, rubbing his temple as if that explains everything.

"We should go to bed," San relents, sitting up a bit straighter, putting just a little distance between them. Wooyoung frowns at the loss of warmth, not that he'd ever admit that out loud.

"There's no way you're sleeping in your suit," Wooyoung murmurs, his gaze dropping to the white fabric still crisp against San's frame. The thought alone makes him wrinkle his nose. "Do you... want to borrow some clothes?"

San goes still.

For a second, Wooyoung thinks he's just processing the offer, but then his eyes go a little wide, like Wooyoung had just asked him something scandalous. Wooyoung blinks, confused.

"It's literally just a shirt and some pants," he clarifies, suddenly feeling the need to defend himself. "You can even keep them if you want. Pretty sure I got them from a brand deal or something. I don't even know if they'd fit you—your shoulders are kinda broad—but I don't mind if you stretch out the fabric. You'll probably—"

"Wooyoung," San cuts in smoothly, a small amused smile tugging at his lips. "Calm down."

Wooyoung presses his lips together, realizing maybe he was rambling just a little bit.

"I'm okay with sharing clothes," San continues, softer now, like he's choosing his words carefully. "It's just a little... it doesn't matter."

"A little what?" Wooyoung tilts his head.

"Just—give me something to wear before you make this a whole thing." San shakes his head, looking away.

Wooyoung wants to ask him what the big deal is, why he reacted like that, but he also knows better than to press. They only met earlier in the night—some things take time. And if he has anything to say about it, there will be a later.

So, he lets it go.

Instead, he rummages through his suitcase, pulling out a stretchy shirt and a pair of sweatpants, something loose and comfortable. He holds them out, but before he can say anything, San stands, takes them without a word, and quietly disappears into the bathroom.

Wooyoung blinks.

It's not a big deal. Some people just prefer changing in private. But something in the back of his mind tells him to keep it in mind—just in case. Maybe San's not comfortable with his body, or maybe it's something else, something deeper, a disconnect between his mind and how he sees himself.

Either way, it's not Wooyoung's place to judge. He's had his own struggles with his appearance, his own moments of doubt. If changing in the bathroom makes San feel more at ease, then that's just something Wooyoung will respect.

Still, he can't help but laugh when San steps out of the bathroom.

The sweatpants fit fine, but the shirt—well.

The shirt struggles.

San looks down at himself, then back at Wooyoung, deadpan.

"Wooyoung."

Wooyoung presses his lips together to not burst out laughing, but it doesn't last long.

"You must have a lot of muscle for it to stick out like that." He gestures vaguely at San's chest, where the fabric is pulled way too tight, the sleeves just barely covering his shoulders. "You really..." He exhales, grinning. "Alright, I'm only saying this because you called me gorgeous earlier, but you're like... hot."

San narrows his eyes, but there's no irritation in them—if anything, he looks amused. He doesn't seem to mind the compliment, which only makes Wooyoung bite back a grin. Their eyes lock again, like another silent contest, another game of push and pull. But this time, Wooyoung sees an opening.

"We give you a cowboy hat, and the girls would be all over you," Wooyoung teases, tilting his head, his smile small but knowing.

San steps closer to the bed, passing by Wooyoung just a little too closely, close enough that Wooyoung catches the faint scent of his cologne.

"What does that make you?" San shoots back, voice light and teasing. "A buckle bunny?"

"Hey, I've been offered enough sexy lingerie photo shoots to know what that is." Wooyoung scoffs. That actually makes San pause. He turns back, a slow grin pulling at his lips.

"You've been offered sexy lingerie photo shoots?" He sounds surprised, maybe even intrigued. Then, just to be annoying, he laughs. "And you'd be a buckle bunny?"

Wooyoung rolls his eyes but doesn't bother arguing as he climbs into the bed after him.

"Yunho and Mingi are too big," he mutters as if that's explanation enough. And it is.

They settle in, though there's a moment of hesitation. Should they touch? Should they cuddle? It's late—too late to overthink it, but also too late to ignore the tension humming between them. Wooyoung shifts onto his stomach, facing San, who lies comfortably on his back.

"You're just so small, darlin'," San muses, smirking.

"Kiss ass."

"What? It's true." San chuckles, completely unbothered. "I could fit all of you in the palm of my hand."

Wooyoung feels his face flush instantly. He knows San means it metaphorically, that he's teasing him for being smaller, petite, but the implication—the visual—has his brain short-circuiting.

"Oh, you went there?" San grins wider, eyes sharp with mischief.

"Go turn off the light!" Wooyoung huffs, grabbing a pillow and slamming it into San's chest, the impact making San laugh even harder.

San inevitably gets up, groaning as he climbs out of bed and scurries across the room to flick off the light. The hotel room is immediately swallowed by darkness, a heavy kind of quiet settling between them.

Then—thud.

"Ow!" San hisses.

Wooyoung barely has time to register the noise before San practically flops onto the bed, draping himself over it in a dramatic sprawl.

"Did you stub your toe?" Wooyoung cackles, head falling forward into the mattress as laughter shakes through him.

"Oh, god, that hurt," San grumbles, still climbing onto the bed like a wounded animal. He clambers over Wooyoung's legs with little grace, which only makes Wooyoung laugh harder.

"Big, bad boxer who bleeds for a living cries when he stubs his toe," Wooyoung teases, lips curling into a dramatic pout.

San grumbles something under his breath before sighing, exhausted, as he finally settles under the covers.

"Go to bed, buckle bunny."

"You first, cowboy... Least I don't say darlin' without the g at the end."

A beat of silence.

Then—a pillow smacks him right in the face.

Wooyoung sputters. "Hey!"

"Shut up and sleep." San just laughs, shifting to get comfortable.

"Only because I want to." Wooyoung murmurs, lying on his stomach, turning his head away from San so he can settle into a comfortable position and finally get some sleep.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?" San teases, his voice muffled in the dark.

"Yes." Wooyoung's tone is playful yet satisfied, as if it's a small victory for him.

San laughs, the sound warm and soft, but it fades quickly as silence drapes itself over them. The hotel room, dark and quiet, usually feels like a haven, a place to retreat after a long, exhausting day. It's been filled with fans, celebrities, mingling, small talk, the pressure of being present but not too engaging.

Alone, Wooyoung would recharge, reset, but something about being with San feels... better. Calmer. Less isolating.

He turns his head again, trying to focus on San in the darkness, though he can't see him—only the endless dark of the room. He breathes in deeply, the quiet of the night making everything feel heavier, more real.

"San-ah," Wooyoung whispers, testing the waters.

"Yeah?" San's voice is quiet, almost as soft as the room around them.

"I think you're going to change my life." Wooyoung says, his voice almost uncertain as he lets the words hang in the air.

A soft, fond laugh echoes in the dark. Wooyoung can almost imagine the smile on San's face, the way it lights up even in the shadows. San's hand reaches across the bed, fingers brushing along the sheets until he finds Wooyoung's hand, pulling it gently toward him, their fingers linking together.

"I think so too." San's voice is gentle, confident, as if he knows exactly what Wooyoung needs to hear.

Wooyoung feels a strange warmth in his chest, a flutter he can't quite explain. He's never quite felt this before, this sense that someone else's presence could mean more than being alone. It's like San has become a part of his world in ways he didn't expect, and as little as he knows about him, he feels drawn to uncover it all—the good, the bad, and everything in between.

"Thank you for bidding on me," Wooyoung whispers, his voice quiet and sincere.

"Thank you for agreeing to spend the night with me." San's grip on his hand tightens just slightly, the warmth of his touch grounding him.

"I can't put a guy out of a few thousand dollars without a good time." Wooyoung chuckles softly, the tension easing out of his body.

"Go to sleep, Wooyoung. I'll be here in the morning," San laughs quietly, the sound soft but genuine. "We have all the time in the world together."

Wooyoung knows that's not entirely true. They both have busy careers—his music, San's boxing. But the effort behind San's words settles something in Wooyoung's chest, something he didn't realize needed soothing. It's comforting in its simplicity.

"Can I...?" Wooyoung hesitates, his voice small and unsure. He wants to ask something simple, something that feels almost too vulnerable. "Wanna be closer?"

"C'mere."

The way he says it makes Wooyoung smile, despite himself. It's casual—country, but something about it is reassuring. He scoots closer to San, feeling the warmth of his body press against him as San's arms wrap around him, pulling him closer into his chest.

Even with Wooyoung's clothes on him, the faint scent of San's cologne, mixed with his own natural scent, envelops him. It's grounding, familiar, and suddenly, Wooyoung feels more secure than he has in a long time. He relaxes into the embrace, letting go of any lingering doubts, letting himself fall into the comfort of being held.

Nothing will get him—not while San is so close.

Wooyoung knows this is either going to break his heart or somehow, someway, bring it back to life. But for now, with San's arms around him, it feels like it could be the beginning of something different. Something worth fighting for.

All he knows is that his heart, even with the light in his eyes, needs a spark—a touch of electricity to bring it back to life.

In the heat of his touch, he feels the spark.