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“Everything okay?”
The customer’s eyes refocus and he gives a shy smile, as if embarrassed. “Just going through my to-do list.”
Jaehyun studies him more closely, looking for the tell-tale signs of distress that, as a bartender, he’s learned to spot from space. Puffy eyes that keep drifting, hunched shoulders, that faraway look. The man’s eyes aren’t puffy—actually, they’re a little bit sunken—and are quite possibly the most hypnotizing Jaehyun has ever seen.
He gets pulled in.
“This is a great place for it,” Jaehyun says, sizing up the cherrywood bar, the couples on dates, and the jazz quartet wailing on the small stage. “You know, going through to-do lists.”
The man rolls his eyes and sips his wine. Jaehyun notices his fingers when they clamp delicately around the glass stem. They’re long and bony, adorned with black and silver rings.
“What are you drinking?” Jaehyun asks. The glass is nearly half-empty, and he wonders if he can loop the man into another.
The man frowns. “Umm…” He consults the long paper menu at his seat and then the chalkboard above the bar with weekly specials. “It’s a red blend.”
Jaehyun smiles. “Mm, the Rutherford. Napa Valley.” He sets down the glass he is polishing and leans against the bar. “So, do you taste more of the chocolate or the cherry? Or maybe the oak?”
The man’s eyes widen, and Jaehyun is shocked that that’s even possible. “How did you know that?” he asks.
“It’s the cheapest red on our menu.” Jaehyun smirks. “So, can I top you off?”
Jaehyun is good at his job. Sometimes, when he’s feeling insecure, he tells himself it’s because he has a great palette and is dedicated enough to memorize the ever-shifting list of wines on the bar’s menu. He knows better, though. The generous tips have little to do with his love for wine or his encyclopedic memory of flavor profiles.
He makes a living because he’s charming.
“Well, I ordered the cheapest wine for a reason,” the man says. He has his jaw set, but Jaehyun knows he’s amused.
Jaehyun nods. “So that you can have five glasses of wine for fifty dollars instead of two.”
“No. It’s so I can have one glass for ten dollars and pay my rent.”
Jaehyun returns to his polishing, picking clean glasses out of the dishwasher and rubbing off any soap scum. He keeps telling Taeil they need to change their detergent, but Taeil says it will put Jaehyun out of the job. Jaehyun thinks that would be great, so he could start curating and stocking wines instead of serving them.
“I think it’s more cherry, though,” the man says, a couple sips later. The glass taps the bar with a clink. “You can really tell a difference? Like, all of those flavors—you can taste them all?”
Jaehyun couldn’t always tell. His preferred method of imbibing up until a few years ago was from a keg. It was when he moved to LA to pursue acting that he dated the daughter of a sommelier. She walked him through the different notes—the smoke and licorice and berries and earth. They took weekend trips to wine country and made out in the driver’s seat of her white convertible.
One day, Jaehyun realized he liked the wine more than he liked her, and they didn’t last long after that.
“You can’t taste them if your glass is empty,” Jaehyun says, shelving another polished glass.
The man shrugs and swirls his drink.
“I guess I can’t.”
~<<>>~
“Behind you.”
Jaehyun flattens himself against the shelves of booze so Yuta can move past him. They’ve argued countless times about Yuta going around the bar to serve patrons’ food instead of through it, but Yuta has a habit of doing whatever he wants. Announcing, “behind you,” was his small concession.
Yuta carries the white, ceramic plate to the man with the to-do list at the far end of the bar. Jaehyun never talked him into another glass of wine, and he now realizes that the man didn’t come here for wine in the first place.
No, he came here for the chocolate crepes. When Yuta sets the plate down in front of him—melted chocolate folded into a pastry blanket and doused in powdered sugar—he practically beams.
“He’s cute,” Yuta says when he passes Jaehyun on his way back to the kitchen.
Jaehyun smooths his apron.
He looks for something to busy himself with while the man begins eating and finds a pile of citrus waiting to be cut a few seats down. He grabs a lemon and a knife and starts cutting. When the man finishes his next bite, Jaehyun shoots.
“So, you order our cheapest wine and our most expensive crepe. Seems like you have your priorities straight.”
The man licks at the chocolate on his fork—fuck, he really is cute—and smiles. “Notes of chocolate. Sugar, too.”
“What about orange?” Jaehyun asks, brandishing a lemon wedge. “We add Grand Marnier to the filling.”
The man looks scandalized, taking another kitten lick of his fork. “Orange?” He frowns. “Why?”
“Some people can taste it. It’s our signature.”
The man seems to resign himself to the presence of orange liqueur and takes another full bite. Jaehyun can see him thinking as he chews, searching for the orange and any other hidden flavors the chef snuck past him.
“So, you can taste it,” the man says once he swallows. “All the flavors in everything.”
Jaehyun shakes his head. “I’ve never had the crepes. I’m on a diet.”
“For what?”
“Acting, modeling…” A familiar look—judgement? Pity? Jaehyun can’t quite tell anymore—creeps onto the man’s face, so Jaehyun saves himself the humiliation and says it for him. “Bartending.”
“Right.” The man takes another bite. “I used to be on diets. I was a dancer.”
Jaehyun pauses his slicing to give the man another once-over. Most of his body is hidden by the bar and a puffy black coat, but he is clearly slender. His facial features are sharp and angular, but somehow also soft and smooth. Heart-shaped lips and high cheekbones reflect the low lights of the bar. He is easy to picture on stage.
“What do you do now?” Jaehyun asks.
“I’m a therapist.” His fork droops in his hand, and he has that distracted look again. “With kids, mainly.” He glances down at his plate. “My friends say I can’t meet people because my job is too depressing.” It isn’t funny, but he laughs. “Bad for small-talk.”
Jaehyun doesn’t mind depressing. “Is that what your to-do list is for?”
The man nods. “Some of it. And then feeding my fish, buying groceries, sleeping.” He laughs again. “Boring stuff.”
Jaehyun watches him poke at the crepe, now less enthusiastic. He’s not surprised to see him fizzling—he’s alone at a bar on a Tuesday—but it strikes Jaehyun, somehow. How he lights up so quickly and fades so fast, like his whole lifeforce is flickering.
“Your wine is getting dangerously low,” Jaehyun observes when the man downs the last sip. “Still worried you’ll get evicted?”
“Yes.” He pats his pockets, eventually fishing out a wallet and a black Mastercard. “I’ll close out.”
Jaehyun takes the card from his outstretched hand, consciously leaving space between their fingers. He reads the silver letters on the front.
“Lee Taeyong.” He doesn’t mean to grin. “Nice to meet you.”
Taeyong searches Jaehyun for the nametag that he lost a month into working here. “Nice to meet you…?”
“Jaehyun.”
“Jaehyun,” Taeyong repeats.
They look at each other long enough for Jaehyun to forget about the bar between them and his strict personal rule of never crossing it. It was hard when he first took the job—talking to pretty strangers without getting invested—but he learned to think of it as method acting. He was playing a bartender, and it was his job to not break character.
“My mom is a teacher,” Jaehyun blurts. Taeyong blinks at him. “It isn’t therapy, but she works with kids all day. It’s hard, what you do.”
In the moment of silence that follows, Jaehyun remembers the Mastercard in his hand and thanks it for giving him something to do. He moves to the corner register and pulls up Taeyong’s tab.
“Twenty-four fifty-nine,” Jaehyun reads out before swiping the card through. The machine chugs as it prints out the receipt.
“Is it hard enough to get a free drink?” Taeyong asks. He’s holding up his empty glass, smiling.
Fuck, Jaehyun thinks.
He asks his acting coach (and Taeil) for forgiveness.
~<<>>~
The red Jaehyun pulls is from their mid-range selection, a 2010 French malbec that’s on the sweeter side. He thinks it should pair well with the rest of Taeyong’s crepe, although he’s skeptical Taeyong will notice. Regardless, Taeyong looks pleased when Jaehyun pops the cork and pours it through an aerator into a new glass.
“A brand-new bottle,” he observes. “I’m honored.”
“We have plenty in the cellar,” Jaehyun says, popping off the aerator and catching any drips with a towel. “Plus, my shift ends soon, so I’ll take the rest to-go.”
Taeyong cradles the bowl of his wine glass like a caricature of a rich person. He leans back in his chair.
“So, Jaehyun. Tell me what I’m drinking.”
His tone is mocking, dramatic, and Jaehyun wonders why he didn’t just pour him more of the same red blend.
Still, he can’t resist. “It’s a malbec from the Cahors region of France. The primary flavors are licorice and blueberry, although you might taste chocolate as well. It’s a dry wine, but it has a smooth taste, meaning nothing about it is too bold or complex. If you want to waft it first, you’ll notice a floral smell, like violets.”
Taeyong brings his nose to the glass and inhales. Wheels turn and then grind to a stop.
“It smells like wine.”
“Right. Take a sip.”
Jaehyun tries not to stare when Taeyong tilts his chin up, his neck elegant like the rest of him. He puckers his lips around the flavors, purple-stained from the wine.
“It’s different from the last one,” Taeyong says. It seems genuine. “Like, richer? Just, more… maybe sweeter? I don’t know.” He takes another sip and considers it. “I guess maybe the blueberry is there. And I think I know what you mean about it being chocolatey? Like it’s…”
Jaehyun laughs. “I’m glad you like it.”
While Taeyong works on his wine and the rest of his crepe, Jaehyun closes out a few tabs and wipes down the bar. They are open for another hour and a half, but it’s rare that customers stay until closing on Tuesdays. Aside from Taeyong, only a couple other groups and couples are seated in the dining area. The band is packing up for the night, trickling out of the venue one by one.
Jaehyun likes this time of night. It’s slow and quiet. Sometimes, he pours himself a glass of whatever new pulls Taeil’s brought in to familiarize himself. Glass in hand, he leans back against the liquor cabinets and tunes into the buzz of private conversations.
Sometimes, he does it to take the edge off.
Tonight, he does it for some other reason that’s likely more stupid than wise. He pours a second glass from the French malbec, swirls it, and takes a sip.
It isn’t Jaehyun’s favorite, but he appreciates the rich bloom of fruit and the smooth finish. He prefers bolder tannins and an element of surprise.
“Drinking on the clock,” Taeyong chides. He’s finished his crepe and most of the wine, and Jaehyun notices a pinkening of his cheeks.
Jaehyun tops him off.
“I keep forgetting it’s Tuesday,” Taeyong continues. “I didn’t really have a weekend, so this would be my…” He counts on his fingers. “Eighth day straight of work.”
“Are you off tomorrow?” Jaehyun asks. It seems reasonable to assume, considering it’s approaching midnight and Taeyong is out at a bar, but Taeyong just laughs.
“I have a half day—a generous break. But I still needed to do something, I guess. Remember I’m a person.”
“Well, you seem like a person to me,” Jaehyun says, although it’s there again—the flickering. “Unless you’re wearing a skinsuit. Or you’re a robot.”
“I wish I were a robot,” Taeyong laments. “Then I wouldn’t need to sleep. Or eat. Or use the bathroom.”
With an otherwise empty bar, Jaehyun is free to roll his shirt sleeves up his forearms and lean forward onto the countertop. A lock of hair escapes his gelled side-part, curling onto his forehead. He doesn’t fix it—he knows it’s one of his better looks.
“If you were a robot, I would be unemployed,” Jaehyun says. “You wouldn’t be able to drink.”
Taeyong smiles, raising a hand to his cheek. “I already can’t. I’ve only had two glasses and my face is hot.”
He sounds embarrassed, but his eyes sparkle like it’s a relief to poke fun at himself.
“Definitely not a robot,” Jaehyun confirms. Then, he raises his glass in front of him.
“Cheers to being alive.”
Taeyong mirrors him and their glasses clink.
“Cheers.”
~<<>>~
Across the room, another dinner party packs up, shrugging on long coats and double-checking their belongings. Chair legs drag loudly on the floor, interrupting Taeyong’s story about a Tinder date he’d met on his lunch break.
“I just—” Obsidian eyes trace the source of the noise before recentering on Jaehyun. “I just think there’s something wrong with me. There has to be, right? No date I ever go on actually leads anywhere and the only consistent factor across all of them is me.”
It’s almost closing time, but Jaehyun is pleasantly buzzed and Taeyong is opening up like a loosely-bound book. Pages are messily annotated, dangling by a thread, and from between the covers slip dust, pressed flowers, and snack crumbs.
Jaehyun gathers that Taeyong hasn’t talked about himself in a while.
“My friends say I’m too picky,” Taeyong continues. “They think I want some sort of supermodel with a heart of gold, and maybe I do. But it’s not ‘rational’ or ‘realistic.’” He mimes air quotes and sighs.
“Love isn’t supposed to be rational,” Jaehyun says. “It’s love.”
For a moment, Taeyong blinks at him, and then he snorts.
“Ah, Doyoung would love you.”
What remains of the bottle, Jaehyun splits between their glasses. At this point, Taeyong’s cheeks are red, and Jaehyun’s are well on their way. He isn’t drunk, though—just pale.
“What do you think, Jaehyun?” Taeyong asks, and his tone is unmistakably flirtatious. He’s leaning onto the bar, chin in the palm of his hand, gazing up at Jaehyun under his lashes. “What do you think is wrong with me?”
It’s too tantalizing an entry—a red carpet laid out for Jaehyun to hand-deliver any variety of seductive pick-up line. His tongue itches to tell Taeyong how beautiful he is—how the problem is that he hasn’t met the right person to properly appreciate him—and then lavish its way between his pretty collarbones. Taeyong would let him; Jaehyun would make it worth his time.
But instead, Jaehyun stands up straight and rolls out his neck. “Maybe it’s the same thing that’s wrong with me,” he offers.
Taeyong frowns, the confused knit of his brow impossibly endearing. “What’s that?”
“I’m always acting.”
Taeyong nods, considering it. Jaehyun considers it too. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud—at least so succinctly. He thinks about the white convertible, the golden California sun, and the pretty words that spilled effortlessly from his lips then, more easy than true.
“Except when you’re bartending,” Taeyong adds with a wink.
Jaehyun’s chest is warm. He chuckles.
“ Especially when I’m bartending.”
~<<>>~
Yuta appears at just past 1 o’clock, a rag over his shoulder and bottle of cleaning fluid in hand. On his face is a smug look only Jaehyun would catch.
“Don’t mind me,” Yuta says, making a show of crossing the bar and spraying down the nearest empty table. “Just doing my job.”
Taeyong giggles into his wine glass, teeth clinking as he smiles against the rim. “Unlike you,” he says to Jaehyun, and Yuta laughs out loud.
Jaehyun makes no effort to defend himself because it isn’t needed. Yuta is closing tonight and Jaehyun is already wrapped up at the bar. Everything is closed out and wiped down and put in its correct place. Completing all of the little finishing tasks of the evening has been a breeze with Taeyong chattering away in the background.
So far, Jaehyun has learned the following:
Taeyong has an older sister and a nephew that he adores.
He used to have a dog, Ruby, who died two years ago, and the pendant on his necklace is a portrait of her.
The pendant was a gift from Doyoung, who is Taeyong’s best friend from childhood and a renowned opera singer, at least amongst people who follow opera.
Taeyong doesn’t like opera, personally, but he would never admit it (although he’s fairly certain Doyoung already knows).
He says a lot of things cutely, using abbreviations and rhythmically lilting his voice up and down, but underneath the sweetness Jaehyun detects something listless, almost bitter.
“You were a dancer?” Jaehyun asks, picking up where Yuta cut them off. His coworker moves to the next table, cleaning with a slap and dash technique made for speed, not thoroughness.
Taeyong ponders the liquor bottles on the back shelf. He hums. “Briefly. I hurt my back, and then I had surgery, and then I hurt it again.” He gulps down the rest of his wine, and Jaehyun knows he’s sending it straight to the bitter place. “Then I had more surgery, more physical therapy, more time not dancing…
“And then my contract expired.”
He smiles, albeit sourly. “I don’t really dance anymore.”
A new weight settles over their conversation, and Jaehyun isn’t sure how to lift it, or if he should even try. He scans momentarily for Yuta, hoping for some well-timed blunt comment to slice through the gloom.
But Yuta is busy and Jaehyun is on his own, wondering at the strange man lost in the bottom of his empty wine glass. He looks more sleepy than anything now, and Jaehyun feels an impulse to wrap him in a blanket and squeeze.
Yet, just as Jaehyun is about to say something wholly inadequate, something outside the front windows catches his eye.
The warmth in his chest returns.
“Snow.”
When Taeyong looks up at him, Jaehyun points to the flurry of white outside. “It’s snowing,” he says again.
Thick, white flakes scatter under the street lights, the night dark behind them. They swirl up against the frosted window glass and settle on the narrow strip of sidewalk, cold enough for them to stick. Jaehyun can already picture the blinding white scene outside his apartment the next morning: his downstairs neighbors shoveling their tiny driveway; the whirr of the snowplow on the street; the kids dragging any and every sled-like item to the nearest hill, limbs stiff in their marshmallow coats.
“I love the snow,” Jaehyun says. Then, he adds, “It came late this year.”
Reinvigorated, he finds an empty water glass and fills it, swapping it out for Taeyong’s wine glass. Taeyong nods his thanks and takes a sip, something strange flitting across his delicate features. He returns his gaze to the window.
“They say if you spend the first snow together, you’ll fall in love.”
Taeyong has shrunk in his camel-colored sweater, sucking his hands into his sleeves until they are fingerless. He faces Jaehyun before speaking again.
“That’s kind of silly, isn’t it?”
The door to the kitchen swings on its hinges, marking Yuta’s exit.
Something has shifted in Taeyong’s expression, and it’s disarming in a way Jaehyun doesn’t expect. Taeyong has given him another opening, but unlike before, there is no lure. There is simply a question and then silence. An open door.
Jaehyun smiles. “Love is silly,” he says. “I would know. I was born on Valentine’s Day.”
“Really?” Taeyong asks, and he sips his water. “I was born in the summer. I don’t like the cold.”
Jaehyun’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he doesn’t need to check it to know it’s from Yuta, telling him to hurry the fuck up and get out so he can close. Taeyong watches him with an eyebrow raised.
“Taeyong,” Jaehyun starts, opening a door of his own. “How are you getting home?”
~<<>>~
Wind and snow bite their cheeks cherry-red on the walk back to Taeyong’s apartment. Apparently, he lives in a duplex two blocks down in the opposite direction from Jaehyun’s.
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around,” Jaehyun says, breath puffing out in front of him.
“I’m not really around,” Taeyong replies. Jaehyun can only see his nose peeking beyond the hood of his coat. “I’m usually working, and when I go out, I try to leave the neighborhood.”
Jaehyun’s hands are stuffed deep in his pockets—he forgot gloves on the way out the door this morning. Taeyong has his hands buried too, although he bundled them in thick wool mittens before exiting the bar.
“Well, I’m glad you decided to stay close tonight.”
Again, Jaehyun wonders at the ethics of this all. There are boundaries to his job, and for all he knows, Taeyong played him for free wine. But it’s only a short walk, and Jaehyun gave him the alcohol; it seems right to make sure he gets home safely.
“Me too,” Taeyong says, quietly. And a little louder, “It would be a bad idea for me to drive like this.”
It’s funny, because Taeyong isn’t really acting drunk. He walks in a straight, efficient line, no longer giggling or teasing Jaehyun. Conversation has lulled between the two of them, replaced by some mix of comfort and anticipation. At the thought of initiating something more, Jaehyun’s stomach churns.
Suddenly, Taeyong stops. He stares at Jaehyun, hand half-darting out to graze his wrist. He looks concerned.
“You’ll have to walk home alone,” he says. “It’s cold—and—”
He fumbles in his jacket pocket, producing a ring of keys and his smartphone. He shoves the phone at Jaehyun in his mittened palm.
“Text me that you’ve made it home safe. Please.”
Another door. Sincere, inviting.
Jaehyun snatches the phone and holds it up to Taeyong’s face to unlock it, laughing at his stunned expression. He vaguely notices his phone wallpaper, which is a photo of him and some friends posing by a pool. He doesn’t linger, though, opening up the phone app and giving his own number a call.
Before he can lock the phone and give it back, a wooly mitten covers his hand.
“You’re shaking,” Taeyong says.
He is. Only seconds after leaving the warm caves of his pockets, Jaehyun’s fingers had turned a shivery pink, thumbing out the digits of his phone number with considerable effort. Taeyong pockets his phone with his free hand, then sandwiches both of Jaehyun’s hands between his own. Snowflakes flutter in the space between them, and when Taeyong tilts his face up to look at Jaehyun—who is around two inches taller, he estimates—a single flake catches in his eyelashes.
For a moment, they stare, and Jaehyun has never felt more literally magnetized to someone in his life.
“Thank—”
“I—”
Like snowflakes, words dance on the tips of their tongues, and melt at the false start.
Jaehyun takes the easy way out. “You first.”
Taeyong pulls their hands closer and blows on them, trapping hot breath in the mix of wool and fingers. It’s helping—what he’s doing—but it’s still less effective than Jaehyun shoving his hands back in his coat. Still, this is more pleasant. It warms him from head to toe.
“Thank you for talking to me tonight,” Taeyong says. “And the wine. I don’t know if you can tell, but I don’t get to talk about myself that much and it… It was nice. Not just talking about myself, but talking about myself to you, specifically.”
He bites his lower lip, as if doubting himself, and fondness bubbles in Jaehyun’s chest.
“I liked listening to you talk about yourself,” Jaehyun assures him. “You’re an interesting person.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah.”
A frigid gust of wind whips around the street corner, making both of them shiver. Taeyong releases Jaehyun’s hands and Jaehyun burrows them deep inside his pockets.
“We should keep moving,” he says, and Taeyong nods an agreement.
Enough snow has fallen by now for their boots to crunch lightly on the sidewalk. A foot or so of space hums between them the rest of their way to Taeyong’s building.
The building looks like an area-typical duplex—old, red brick, two stories, not much of a lawn—but with bright green and yellow trim around the windows. A piece of stained glass crowns the central door, and it looks cloudy enough to be part of the original structure.
They shift awkwardly on the sidewalk.
“Nice place,” Jaehyun comments.
“It’s cheap,” Taeyong says. “The ‘red blend’ of one-bedroom apartments.”
Jaehyun smiles. “There are nice red blends out there, just not for eight dollars a glass.”
They’ve come full circle, just in time to say goodbye and goodnight. Jaehyun thinks how silly it is—how silly he is—standing outside his distracted customer’s apartment, feeling like a fundamental shift in his life has taken place.
“What were you going to say earlier?” Taeyong asks, spots of light in his dark eyes shining like the snow.
Jaehyun licks his lips, more to stall than anything, and he catches the way Taeyong’s eyes dart downward.
“I was going to say that I have trouble meeting people, too,” he says. “Or really, I don’t have trouble meeting people. I have trouble with everything after that.” His tongue feels clunky around the words he usually keeps inside. “Connecting. It’s hard. It gets lonely sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you should stop trying.”
He weighs his next line against his work ethic, his personal code, and the expectant part of Taeyong’s mouth.
“People can surprise you.”
And surprising him is exactly what Taeyong does, surging forward and planting a kiss on his cheek.
“Like that,” Jaehyun breathes, and he’s thankful Taeyong hasn’t gone far. Like a habit, the palm of his hand finds Taeyong’s jaw and he pulls him in again, this time lips on lips.
The street is eerily silent as their mouths move against each other, trading warm breaths back and forth. Jaehyun’s hand goes frigid on Taeyong’s face, so he slides it back into his hair, knocking back his hood and letting snow collect in the silky strands. The kiss is sweet and long and never-ending—or at least it is until Taeyong just barely pulls away.
“Was that acting?” he asks.
Jaehyun shakes his head. “I’m not a very good actor. I haven’t booked a gig in months.”
“So no?”
Jaehyun grins, skin burning beneath where Taeyong’s hands rest on his jacket, three layers removed. Jaehyun pulls him tight and watches the snow fall around them.
It’s magical, like a dream.
“Not at all.”
~<<>>~
All of the lights in Jaehyun’s apartment are off when he enters. The only source of light comes from the moon outside, filtering in through his second-story window.
At the door, Jaehyun stomps the snow off his boots and immediately pulls out his phone. He finds the last call from an unknown number and adds the contact before sending a message.
To: Lee Taeyong
I made it home
I had a good time tonight 😊
Jaehyun barely manages to undo his laces before a reply buzzes in.
From: Lee Taeyong
good 😊
i’m glad i met you
Jaehyun’s cheeks ache from smiling. He lets himself bask in the giddiness of the words and the snow and the phantom feeling of Taeyong’s lips on his. He finally slips out of his boots and coat and curls up on the couch where his cat is already fast asleep on the larger half of a fuzzy blanket.
The snow is picking up, and he watches it fall outside the window in a daze. Part of him wants to stay up all night and watch the sun break over the horizon, bathing the wintery landscape in lavenders and pinks. The other part of him doubts he has a choice; he is hopelessly awake.
When he is ready, he sends his reply.
To: Lee Taeyong
I’m glad I met you too
Sleep well 😊
He sighs back against the couch cushions, content, feeling everything.