Jung Hoseok spends most of his time at the studio. He’s got an entire generation to shape (you’d laughed at him once when he’d said this, giggled so loudly he’d crowded you until the sound subsided), gaggles of people to teach. There’s hardly time for him to wind down, settle in for longer than an hour.
When he’s given the chance, though? He’ll find you - and your beloved cat cafe. His favourite place, honestly.
“What do you want?” You call in between all the visitors, from past the counter and all the papers you’re always crowded behind.
He grins - sunshine and summertime - and flicks his hair from his eyes. It’s the prettiest shade, rich and reminiscent of the espressos you set before him, demanding his thoughts as if he’s some coffee connoisseur and not someone who lives exclusively off Americanos and Sprite. (You’d convinced him to dye it five weeks into knowing him. He’d known then, forehead streaked with colour, that he was in trouble. He couldn’t say no to you.)
“My usual,” he answers, as if it’s obvious. He supposes it is, given how often he’s here, seated in the same spot by the window, croissant and green-labelled soda his treats of choice.
He nibbles at the pastry as he works, taps out responses to emails and gets distracted more than once by the shade of your smile, how your hair reflects light in a million glorious patterns. You pass by once or twice, brush a hand across the washed cotton of his shirt. It smells like you. He’d practically had to tear it off your body this morning, insistent he’d leave another but he couldn’t exactly step out of the house without it on.
You’d disagreed, of course.
“Don’t work too hard,” you hum. There’s a certain set to his eyebrows that you always notice, a hard slant that always draws those words forth.
You’re already back to your post, seated pretty on a stool behind the pastry case when he shouts back. “I won’t.”
The staff working can only roll their eyes. Hyuna goes so far as to gag, sticking a finger into her mouth in the universal gesture. You swat her across the shoulder, cheeks the colour of the raspberry macarons she’s laying out.
Hoseok laughs, eyes crinkling with delight.
“Can you get a room?” She demands, though she doesn’t mean it. She might be your number one fan, the president of your fan club. (He knows, because she talks about you all the time, builds you up nearly as high as he does. It’s why he gets along with her so well.)
“We have one—” You start, meeting his stare.
He finishes - doesn’t look away. “—right here.”
The poor girl gags again, stifles sound on the back of her hand as she continues placing delicately layered cakes and delightful goodies. He can see her shoulders shaking, rolling beneath the neat corduroy apron emblazoned with Purr-fect Pour. He pushes the limits a little further - both because it’s funny and because he really does want something to satisfy his cravings.
“Can I have some sugar?” It’s fairy floss, saccharine sweet, enough to give anyone cavities. You meet his gaze boldly, head tilting in that peculiar way he’s come to adore. You bite your lip and his heart skips, tripping over its own to feet as he recalls the memory of doing the same.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Another groan, another laugh.
Still, you drop off a plate - pistachio mille-feuille and a lemon macaron.
“Sweet enough for you?” You ask, bathed in afternoon light. He thinks not - until you’ve pressed a kiss to his cheek. He’s on a sugar high for the rest of the afternoon.
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