hyunjin 🎨

Promising.

One second.

Two.

Only then did softness loosen, releasing the digit through the faintest drag of mouth, slow enough for pink to remain shining against skin. The wrist stayed captured. No retreat permitted yet. Instead, the marked thumb was guided across the narrow distance and pressed directly against the center of that waiting lower lip. Once. A deliberate smear. Gloss transferred in a pale, ruined crescent, sweet color left across the very mouth responsible for the invitation. Evidence beneath the dark brim. Evidence beneath the broad shameless light pouring through glass. Something for the window to witness and look at.

What better time to do that when they were in the U.S and feeling the air hit different?

Chris grins when he sees that shimmer of surprise cross Hyunjin's features. If he was suspicious, that all washed away because if Chris is anything at all — it's genuine. If he's mad, he'll tell them. If they need to do something, he'll make sure everyone knows. He has no time for false niceties, especially not with them so the Kids are always getting the more real, more raw, version of their leader.

Shrugging his shoulders before grabbing the discarded vest off the staff member to take back to the stylist, Chris laughs. "You know me after a performance. It's like I can't lose." A hand raises to card through his messy blonde hair, discarding droplets of water and sweat, while they talk and walk towards the artist room. "Good, we don't really have a lot of time here anyway so might as well make the most of it."

With everything that has been happening, everything that is happening, the last thing Chris wants is to lose that connection they share. Despite the back and forth, the times where they may not be on the best terms, or when he's checking in on the younger member, Hyunjin is important person to him. A bond formed through hardship — nothing could change that. Not even her.

Lisa watched him quietly over the rim of her glass, entirely unsurprised by the deflection. Of course he would answer a question with another question. A faint smile curved her lips as she took another sip of the whisky, the warmth settling pleasantly in her chest. "Mm. There it is." Amusement flickered in her eyes. "I ask how you've been and suddenly I'm the one being interrogated." She set her glass down carefully, fingers lingering against the crystal as his tapped lightly against its base. The challenge didn't go unnoticed. Neither did the look he gave her. Her gaze held his effortlessly. "I like knowing what I'm up against." Simple. Honest. But still carefully guarded.

"Besides... I'd hate to underestimate you, Hyunjin-ah."

Leaning slightly closer herself, refusing to give up even an inch of the space between them. The words were delivered smoothly, almost casually, yet something about them felt dangerously close to a compliment.

"And considering you disappeared for a month only to reappear with secret restaurants and expensive whisky..."

A small smile.

" I think curiosity is a perfectly reasonable response."

Her dark eyes remained on his.

Steady. Unhurried.

"Though if this is your way of avoiding the question, I'm starting to think you've been up to something.~" she teased back.

Not at him.

The pastry.

The once glossy kouign-amann, golden and proud barely thirty seconds ago, now reduced to a fractured little disaster at the end of the silverware. Caramelized layers splintered, buttery flakes scattered across porcelain, napkin, table, dignity. A few crumbs clung to the uneven edge like they were also afraid of what he had done. The spring onion bagel sat beside the wreckage in heavy, savory silence, bearing witness. The iced americano sweated near the window, black and cold and spiritually exhausted.

Gaze staying on the mangled bite hovering an inch from her mouth.

There it was again.

Yeobo.

Curling around the fork between them, warm and smug, trying so hard to become the most dangerous thing at the table when, unfortunately, there was already a dead pastry involved. Eyes now lifting to him. Calm. Bright. Catastrophically amused.

❝ You murdered it. ❞

Gaze now dipping back to the fork, to those horrendous jagged layers, to the crumbs waiting to fall. And then, to his fingers, still wrapped around the handle. The pendant light overhead pouring soft amber over the tray, over his hand, over the fork suspended between them. Now leaning forward, slowly. Not because it was instructed. Absolutely not. Because if he wanted to say those words in that voice, then he could watch what happens when she listens too well.

❝ I asked for small. Not ugly. ❞

Glossy lips parting just enough. The bite disappearing from the fork. Clean. Unhesitant. Eyes staying on his the entire time, steady beneath the brim of her baseball cap, as if taking the pastry from him were not obedience but correction. A quiet little demonstration. A lesson with sugar and flakes involved. The caramel cracking softly beneath teeth, sweet, buttery. Ruined. Yet unfortunately, still good.

Hand reaching across the table, taking the fork from his fingers with a smooth little tug, knuckles brushing his. The metal was warm where he had held it. Now picking up the knife, glancing at the ruined kouign-amann, then back at him. Knife touching the pastry with patience so deliberate it was almost insulting. Pressing so delicately unlike the executioner he had been earlier. Guiding the blade through the caramelized edge, slow enough to protect and keep all its layers intact.

Not perfect.

But elegant.

Lifting the fork, holding it between them.

Lisa watched the amber liquid settle over the ice sphere, her fingers wrapping around the crystal glass a moment later. Of course he poured hers first. That didn't go unnoticed. Neither did the way he was looking at her. A faint smile touched her lips. "Dangerously close?" She repeated softly. "That's a very confident thing to say before I've even tasted anything." The amusement lingered in her eyes as she lifted her glass. For a second, she let the space between them sit exactly as it was. Comfortable. Charged.

Neither looking away. "To tactical surrenders, then." A small tilt of her glass. "And to not making me regret giving you a chance to prove your point." A quiet clink echoed between them.

Lisa took a sip, letting the whisky settle before giving a slow, approving hum. "Okay." A beat. "That's one point for you, but don't get used to it."

The corner of her mouth lifted. Then, finally, she settled one elbow against the counter, turning slightly toward him. "So..." Her fingers traced lightly against the side of her glass.

"Other than planning secret dinners and disappearing for a month, how have you actually been?" The question sounded casual. Almost teasing. But there was something genuine underneath it. A softer look settled in her eyes.

The way his body is practically vibrating with the energy of their performance is insane. Chris can't believe how incredible he feels as he walks off stage and makes his way towards the artist room, following after the other members. His eyes scan over each individual member, as if checking for a slight limp, a slight sag in their shoulders, anything to indicate that they aren't okay or exhausted from the show.

There's a furrow in his brow as he looks towards over one member in particular, curious, and wondering what would happen if he asked the man to accompany him later.

"Hyunjin-ah," Chris calls out his name before making his way over while running his fingers through his messy hair to try and tame it. "How'ya feeling?" His hand claps on the younger's shoulder as he gives him a warm smile.

It's been a while since everything went down, the trip to Bali feeling like a distant dream, and they haven't really had a chance to talk... connect... again. There's no real way on approaching the situation and Chris isn't really wanting to start tonight but making an effort to rebuild might help them find common ground again.

"You busy later? I was looking at checking out some of the sites."

"Ah, Hyung," he breathed out, his voice a little raspy from the performance. He reached up, briefly placing his own hand over Chris's on his shoulder before letting it drop. "Exhausted. My legs feel like lead. But... it was amazing tonight. The energy was crazy."

At the very words that he had let escape his lips, her expression remained still. Unchanged. Possibly today's first granted miracle. Breath not hitching. No dramatic recoil. No scandalized gasp. The wooden chair all but did give a faint scrape beneath her, small and ordinary. Gaze stayed on him from beneath the brim of the cap, deeply and catastrophically amused in such a way how one would unearth a much vital information, a little red button revealed in the wall of Hwang Hyunjin labeled in very neat handwriting—

Boss him around.

More.

Vision lowering to the tray, to the kouign-amann, glossy and golden, all flaky spirals and sugar lacquer. To the spring onion bagel sitting there with heavy dignity. To the iced americano, fresh, black, allegedly hers, spiritually contaminated by the sheer amount of nonsense surrounding it. Mouth twitching just barely, a tiny crescent forming of something that could have been soft, pleasant, almost disappointed.

❝ Oh? In public? That's not very Music Bank hallway of you... ❞

Eyes lifting back to him, bright and steady and completely unwilling to become the flustered little victim of this revelation. If anything, the sentence had been folded carefully, placed on the table, and repurposed into ammunition. Reaching for a napkin, unfolding it with unnecessary care. One corner first, then the next before placing it down near the porcelain dish.

❝ Very well then. Cut me a piece. Small one and not ugly. And feed it to me. Kouign-amann is delicate. I know that might be new for you... ❞

The kouign-amann gleamed beside the bagel, sugar catching under the pendant light, all golden edges and delicate layers, entirely too beautiful to be dragged into this nonsense. The bagel, meanwhile, sat there like a reliable witness. Hefty. Savory. Victorious. A carbohydrate with legal standing.

❝ So go ahead, baby. ❞

Chin now resting lightly against the back of her fingers, gaze steady on him.

Waiting.

Not asking now.

Expecting.

Cut me a piece. Small one and not ugly. And feed it to me.

His smirk didn't fade as he watched her rest her chin against the back of her fingers, staring at him with those bright, catastrophic doe eyes. She thought she had found his red button. She thought she could pull his strings and watch him dance like a well-trained dog in a minimalist café.

"Delicate?" he echoed. "You don't know the first thing about how delicate I can be, Jennifer."

Without breaking eye contact, his fingers reached for the knife on the tray. He had never actually ordered a kouign-amann before but he wasn't about to let a lack of culinary expertise break his composure.

He pressed the blade down into the center of the glossy pastry.

Crack.

The hard, caramelized sugar lacquer didn't give way smoothly. Instead, the entire top layer fractured under the pressure of his hand, splintering like ice. The laminated dough beneath compressed, then violently tore, sending a tiny shower of golden, buttery flakes exploding across the pristine white porcelain plate and drifting onto the clean napkin she had just unfolded. The piece he managed to hack off was a jagged, mangled, completely asymmetrical mess of crushed pastry layers and uneven glaze.

It was, by all metrics, incredibly ugly. A total structural failure.

Hyunjin looked down at the absolute disaster on the plate, his eyebrows twitching for a fraction of a second as his perfectionist streak took a direct hit. But he didn't apologize. He didn't offer to fix it, and he certainly didn't look embarrassed. Instead, he stabbed the fork directly into the center of the crushed, mangled piece of pastry. Lifting it up, he held the messy, flaking bite just an inch away from her lips, a few stray crumbs tumbling off the edge onto the table between them. His eyes burned with a heavy, intense focus that dared her to back down from the monster she had created.

Word of an endearment landing, hanging between the marbled counter and the rain-fogged windows, between the exhausted barista and the sweating iced americanos... Gaze dropping to the crumpled receipt now trapped in his palm, the destroyed little legal document, the evidence he had stolen and crushed like that would somehow undo what had already been spoken into the air—the poor shock absorber of a barista grinding the coffee beans into dust. Cute. Very cute. Almost adorable, actually, in the way people became adorable right before making such a terrible strategic error. Corners of the lips twitches, eyes trailing to stare directly at him. Smooth. Still. As though a dagger had just been handed to her, mind deciding whether to use the blade, the hilt or just the decorative ribbon tied around it.

❝ Don't go too far. ❞

Head tilting, cap brim casting a clean shadow over the usual bright pair of doe eyes, composed enough for a magazine cover and deranged enough for a group chat screenshot.

❝ They're about to call our name, baby. ❞

The said poor civilian of a barista returned at the exact wrong time. Or the exact right one, depending whether one believed in divine timing or customer service-based sabotage. Tray balanced between both hands, iced americano sitting upright beside the glossy kouign-amann and the hefty portion of a spring onion bagel.

Hwang Jennifer…? Iced americano, kouign-amann, and spring onion bagel for Hwang Jennifer?

Not looking away, eyes stayed and locked, steady and bright and completely unconcerned with the fact that this had just escalated from name fraud to implied spousal delegation in under thirty seconds. Trap has been set in motion, gently placed, like a pearl earring dropped into a glass of poison, yet it stays calm as rainwater, sweet as sharpened sugar.

❝ Go on, yeobo. Pick that up and find us a seat. ❞

Attention drifting across the café floor, to the scattered tables, to the corner near the fogged window where the rain painted faint silver veins down the glass. Perfect. Terrible. Visible enough to be dangerous, tucked away enough to be worse. Delusional or denial, take your pick. Focus tilting toward the direction, graceful, unreasonable. Romantic lighting. Naturally. A pretty little crime scene with seating for two.

Because why not let the scandal have its own proper flavor of an ambiance?

But then she got bossy. Don't go too far. Pick that up. Find us a seat.

The barista’s voice broke the standoff, nervously offering up the pastry tray to "Hwang Jennifer," and just like that, the chaotic gears in Hyunjin’s head clicked back into a dangerous, dark alignment. The confusion in his eyes morphed right back into a wicked, slow-burning smirk. He didn't look at the tray. Instead, his gaze dropped, checking her out from the low brim of her cap, down the relaxed line of her shoulders, all the way to her shoes, and back up. He slowly licked his lower lip, a spark of genuine heat flaring in his chest. Damn. Why had she gotten so incredibly hot the moment she started dictating his movements? He liked control, but a muse who knew how to fiercely demand it back was infinitely hotter than one who surrendered.

For one perfect second, the bow almost had it. He almost had it. The ending. That little neat scene closure, folded and pressed between his fingers like the black card sliding back into his wallet. Payment approved. Smile intact. Bow delivered with the exact amount of civilized behavior enough for cameras, neat enough for a fancam... if this was from the hallways of Inkigayo or Music Bank.

A clean exit.

A pretty exit

A deeply offensive exit.

Sarcasm, mockery, that utterly conceited tilt of his mouth sitting there as though it was the final curtain call. Like he had paid, smirked, bowed, and somehow declared himself released from the crime scene with custody of one contaminated iced americano and the satisfaction of leaving her there with pastries purchased under duress. Laughter spills, bright and melodic, a little sound before the mouth and tongue could stop it, sharp with disbelief and amusement. Not loud enough to make the entire staff and customers turn. But not quiet enough to be mistaken for politeness.

No.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

❝ Wait, uhm⸻ ❞

Fingers pinched the thin strip of paper from the counter, lifting it like a warrant. The paper curled slightly at the end, warm from the machine, printed ink already dark and sharp against white. An itemized list of damages. One iced americano. One kouign-amann. One spring onion bagel. One man’s confidence, pending review.

❝ Excuse me? Can I add something to the name for the order? ❞

The barista looked back up, poor civilian caught in the crossfire, already tired, already involved. Then was only met with a practiced smile curling upon her lips, bright and sweet. Too sweet that it came with a limited edition shade of a lip tint.

❝ Can you put the name under Jennifer's Boyfriend? ❞

An important detail, thoughtful, as though discussing a reservation and not committing identity fraud in a café at 4:17 in the afternoon. Well, it does sound more official. Like a tax document. Eyes now returning to the man who's been so greatly generous with his saliva and his black card.

❝ ⸻Oh, sorry. Actually, can you make it Hwang Jennifer? ❞

Let him bow now.