the wrong kind of familiar | closed | @velhaeil
the tavern smelled of spilled beer and old wood. it was something that injae was already starting to hate. his first week working here and he could already see the same faces settling into the same tables like they were stitched into the furniture. he hated that too. predictability. routine. the sort of thing that let people know when you weren’t somewhere you were supposed to be.
he moved between tables with a rag in one hand, the other resting against the tray on his hip, catching pieces of conversation without ever meaning to, without ever caring to. the locals laughed too easily, their voices carrying on and on, but his gaze kept snagging on the man who had taken the same seat every thursday since injae started. his name had been mentioned once or twice, but he hadn't been listening. despite his own indifference, it wasn’t hard to notice the stranger's patterns. it was harder to ignore them.
he slowed by the table, not out of courtesy but because his mind was already needling at the reason someone would want to be here so often. his voice was casual, but there was a sharpness under it, a testing edge. “you ever cook for yourself? or is this… your life?” the question left him quieter than the clinking glasses around them.
the silence stretched. injae’s fingers twitched against the rag, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to catch the smallest twitch in your expression. maybe you were just here for the food. maybe you were watching. maybe, in no time, you’d notice injae’s odd hours, or the way he never mentioned his family. no one had asked about his father yet, but all it took was one person looking too long. one slip. one question asked in the wrong tone.
somewhere behind the bar, someone laughed too loud. it felt sharp, pointed, like a knife between his ribs. he couldn’t tell if it was at him. he couldn’t tell if anything here was as simple as it looked.
