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𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒   𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍'𝐓   𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘   𝐁𝐎𝐌𝐈'𝐒   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆   —   funny,   in   a   way,   considering   that   she   has   always   been   a   bit   of   a   social   butterfly.   she's   spent   her   entire   life   flapping   her   bright   and   beautiful   wings   at   every   social   gathering,   flitting   from   flower   to   flower   in   overstretching   gardens,   always   making   sure   to   greet   each   and   every   blossom   as   though   she   might   not   ever   see   them   again.   she's   bloomed   alongside   the   daffodils,   canoodled   with   peonies   and   even   struck   up   conversation   with   roses,   even   when   their   thorns   pricked   at   her   fingertips.   and   yet,   tonight,   standing   in   some   stranger's   narrow   hallway,   nursing   some   kind   of   concoction   she   said   she   liked   out   of   politeness,   she   finds   herself   feeling   more   so   like   a   wallflower   than   she   ever   had   before.

"so,   anyway,   the   mural   turned   out   really   nice,"   she   says,   voice   trying   to   lift   over   the   crackling   speakers,   shifting   her   weight   so   she's   leaning   up   against   the   wall.   she's   been   standing   here   for   about   ten   minutes   now,   feeling   more   and   more   uncomfortable   in   her   skin   with   each   passing   second,   trying   to   pinpoint   why   she   felt   more   like   a   moth   frantically   trying   to   find   the   light   than   a   monarch   patrolling   their   own   budding   kingdom.   sure,   she   was   a   little   overdressed   compared   to   everyone   else   (   everyone   else   is   dressed   down   :   jeans,   t-shirts,   flannels   tied   at   their   waists   while   she's   in   a   white   baby   doll   dress   looking   more   so   like   she's   ready   for   afternoon   tea   than   a   random   house   party   )   but   that's   never   stopped   her   before.   was   it   because   she   didn't   know   the   host   all   too   well?   well,   that's   also   never   stopped   her   before,   given   she   has   ended   up   at   several   parties   over   the   years   even   when   no   one   ran   in   the   same   circles.

"so,"   she   starts   again,   clearing   her   throat   just   before   a   group   of   tipsy   girls   come   from   around   the   corner.   bomi   stops   mid-word   and   shuffles   out   of   the   way   so   they   can   stumble   their   way   towards   the   only   bathroom   in   this   place,   only   to   notice   something   as   the   three   of   them   pass.   it's   for   a   split   second,   but   that's   all   it   takes,   and   the   gears   finally   start   turning   in   her   head.   suddenly,   she   realizes   why   she   feels   so   uncomfortable,   so   out   of   place.   for   the   first   time   since   she   had   seen   him,   minseok's   gaze   finally   moves,   finally   shows   a   bit   of   life,   trailing   from   the   spot   on   the   wall   next   to   her   that   he   had   been   focusing   on   to   the   giggling   girls   and   then   back   again.

it   occurs   to   bomi   in   that   moment   that   for   the   entire   time   she   had   been   talking   to   him   tonight,   he   hadn't   been   looking   at   her   once.

she   swallows,   the   realization   washing   over   like   a   cold   wave,   and   she   leans   into   the   wall   like   she   needs   the   support.   "is   everything   okay?"   she   asks   gently,   the   smile   she's   had   the   entire   time   she's   been   with   him   still   there,   even   as   she's   pushing   something   akin   to   dread   down   in   her   stomach.   "you   don't   seem   like   yourself   tonight,"   she   panics   the   second   the   words   leave   her,   desperate   to   —   well,   not   seem   desperate.   not   seem   clingy.   she's   learned   over   the   last   few   months   that   minseok   wasn't   the   type   to   really   like   telling   her   his   feelings,   and   the   last   thing   she   wanted   to   do   was   be   that   kind   of   girl   and   assume   something   was   wrong.   "i   mean,   you   just   seem   a   little   quieter   than   usual."

parties really were minseok's thing — thanks in no small part to his roommate who, at this point, could probably run for seomri public office and win role as mayor just on vibes and good looks alone. the problem was that these parties just, bluntly put, paled in comparison to the ones at stern. every penthouse or rooftop mixer turned house party somewhere off soho, west of lafayette, meant minseok was in for a night worth remembering — or forgetting — and at least there, he had cocaine to help him through the monotony of pretending to like people he couldn't stand.

but at least people there dressed like they knew their place in the social hierarchy. maybe he'd just gotten too used to the world of startups and hedge funds, the remarkable sleaziness of the marketing girls from columbia who somehow always caught wind of the function and bribed their way in — quick favors in hand, burning through his cigarettes like they were part of the transaction.

suffice to say, the vibe with bomi is entirely different. she's the kind of glitter that gets stuck in the creases of leather upholstery in a mercedes benz passenger seat, the kind you can't brush off no matter how hard you try; the bitter, almost grassy taste he still hasn't managed to acquire despite however many times she's tried to get him into liking matcha. she's modest and deliberate, careful with her words like they're made of glass — a stark contrast to the way minseok builds nuclear bombs with his tongue, never once afraid of cutting the wrong wire.

he's only been standing next to her for a few minutes, and from the outside, based on appearance alone, there's no real indication they came together. which is true — they didn't. minseok had been too busy taking calls he didn't need to take and pretending they mattered, just texting her the address instead. he'd sounded just enthusiastic enough though, just enough to lure her in. promised he'd introduce her to the people hosting (he hasn't) and assured her that there would be plenty of people interested in hearing about her business.

he'd also very intentionally never turned on location sharing. not because it isn't a thing — just because that's none of her business.

there's some mention of a mural. minseok looks up from pretending there's something wrong with his shoe — anything to mask how little he cares — and hums a halfhearted uh huh accompanied with a flick of impatience to the hair in his face. he thinks, briefly, that she's more interesting when it's just the two of them. and really — what the hell is the difference between a painting and a mural?

his attention drifts anyway. it always does.

he catches the eye of a girl slipping past them, trailing two others behind her. denim shorts, cropped tank, just enough skin showing to make it look effortless. his gaze drops, lingers —

"i'm fine," he answers her so quickly that it almost seems expected, so sharp that it almost sounds like she's inconveniencing him for even asking. he thinks back to how the girls back in new york never cared to ask him questions like this, didn't give a shit about his inner workings unless it meant literally getting inside them. but that was back before seoul happened, before minseok decided that pulling out was, apparently, the smarter option — better than being told nine weeks too late that not doing so had resulted in something growing where it shouldn't have.

his eyes falter back to the drink in her hand that's sat idle in her grasp for some time. he could be a gentleman and offer to get her a new one, but instead, takes the easy way out. just like he always does. "just need more to drink," he tacks on, shifting his weight uncomfortably between both feet to combat the awkward silence that fills the space between them — that, and the physical space that kept him just far enough from her that if someone really wanted to, could justifiably make an assumption that there was nothing between them. that was intentional.

contrary to popular belief, jian actually likes her job. the biggest pro for her is the unpredictability of where a night could go mixed with the routine she runs through each night. people come in and typicallly dont give her too much trouble. some talk to her, some don't, and some flip-flop between the two with each visit. either way, it didn't bother jian since it's simple enough that she doesn't have to think too hard whlie working.

that being said, she can count the number of people who has the power to derail her entire shift on one hand. some aren't bad, like the chatty drunks that just needs more of jian's attention, but there's also the type that kind of annoys her. so far during her time at the wheat barrel, she hasn't resorted to physical violence or making any threats to patrons, but she does heavily contemplate it whenever she sees lee minseok while she's working. just like right now.

but like usual, what jian wants to do and what she actually does are two different things. she lets out a quiet exhale, setting down a glass as she glanced at him. she really doesn't know why he's here that often, but she also doesn't care enough to ask.

"welcome. trying to beat the crowd?" it's a small joke considering she doesn't think she's ever seen the place packed out, which she thinks is for the best for her to remain liking her job. her fingers tap against the bar top before she reaches for another glass just to have something to do. she really doesn't know what to expect with him, so she's already on edge even if she currently doesn't look bothered.

there's minseok. ring leader and satoshi nakamoto extraordinaire, obviously. then there's the old man who shows up to the bar and starts drinking at two in the afternoon, three bottles of jinro deep by the time minseok arrives and whines trot songs into the public noraebang mic like it's a cry for help. their third is some guy who looks like a chopped korean alec baldwin and claims he teaches astrophysics and time travel at the local university. and lastly, there's jaemin, a nineteen-year-old twink with a severe allergy to every alcohol on the planet yet still buses tables here to get himself through dental school.

minseok doesn't know a single thing about any of them outside wednesday evenings. he has no interest in learning, either. but they're on a two-week winning streak that's earned them one free plate of lukewarm, soggy nachos and, last week, an endless pitcher of cass — which minseok briefly worried was going to be the old man's last hoorah.

it's awesome.

non-trivia nights aren't as stimulating, but he still shows up. still claims the same wooden bar stool that offers absolutely no support to his bony ass (minseong, that fucking bastard, got all the family glute genes and left him with the better face). life is good, though. or at least… tolerable.

tonight, the old man (thankfully still alive) is beet red in the face across the room, whining into the microphone like he's purposely trying to make minseok's brain leak out of his ears. it's almost sentimental. his ethereum stock is up 8.31%, credit card in hand with a $50,000 credit limit, and there's no screaming infant waiting for him at home.

a win is a win.

"give me the jian special," he mutters, ignoring her first question and cherry picks acknowledging only the second instead, eyes glazed over as the glow of his lenovo and robinhood candlestick charts reflect in his pupils. he sticks his arm out a little farther toward her. "same as always. barely any alcohol, just enough for you to say you tried."