#hdzoe

written for zoe park (@hdzoe) ♡

hanbin pushes open the fogged-up glass door, the bell chiming overhead like it remembers him. same way the broth smell hits him like a big hug. star anise, basil, beef. it's been only months, but it still feels like their place. he spots her immediately. not because she's waving, not because she's calling his name, no, because her louis vuitton tote is propped up on the chair like it got here early and booked the seat for her. classic zoe. he snorts under his breath, grinning as he slips into the seat across from her, his own designer bag hitting the chair beside him with the same familiar thud.

"wow" he says, dimples out and bright as ever. "two seconds back together and it already looks like we're filming a luxury brand ad in a pho shop." their chopsticks aren't even unwrapped hanbin starts yapping away. hydra, new opportunities, new trainers, new expectations, the stuff they're supposed to be excited about. and hanbin is. mostly. "some things never change, he murmurs, stirring his broth while sneaking a look at her. "like us complaining before we eat."

written for zoe park (@hdzoe) 🎃

the air in the training hall smells of silver dust and charred salt, the kind the instructors scatter before class to keep things 'civil.' kentaro can feel it sting, a prickling reminder that he's wearing a boy's skin and mind again. zoe stands across from him, all muscle and moonlight. he likes that. he likes her teeth, the way her eyes flash gold when she's bored. "don't hold back," he says, tails flicking once, twice; only visible if you look between blinks. his voice carries that lazy, mocking rhythm, as if every word's a secret. "i don't bruise easy. i just bite better."

he circles her, the soles of his shoes whispering against the chalk line that divides them. he smirks, sharp and crooked, heat curling from the corner of his lips like an unspoken spell. "so, show me, little wolf. what do you do when the monster smiles first?" he moves before the last word lands, a flash of blue fire tracing the air where he'd stood. like lighting, too fast to an untrained eye. when it clears, he's behind her, close enough for his breath to stir the hairs on her neck.

written for zoe park (@hdzoe) ♡

kentaro doesn't walk into the date so much as slouch into it, like gravity has a personal vendetta against him. earlier than the time they planned, but not earlier than zoe so that means he's already in trouble. he shows up smelling like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, hair still damp from a shower he probably took five minutes before leaving. there's a sharpie mark on his hand he doesn't remember drawing, and it kind of feels like the perfect accessory. he calls it "avant-garde body art" when the waitress asks if he needs a menu. he slides into the booth across from zoe with that half-smile, the one that looks more like a secret than a greeting. his first words aren't hello, not even close, just: "you ever feel like everyone in this place is an extra in your movie, and you're stuck playing the villain nobody understands?" it sounds like a joke, but it lands heavier, like it's been rattling around his skull all day.

he fidgets with the salt shaker, pretends it's a mic, leans forward with mock seriousness. "so here's the deal. first dates are supposed to be boring. coffee, small talk, all that crap. but i don't do boring. i do… existential dread with a side of fries." his grin is crooked, his tone just a little too smooth, like he's practiced this somewhere between insomnia and sunrise.