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Summary
Hansol squeezes the cup in his hand, his eyes flickering to Seungkwan quickly. Seungkwan was frozen, his hand hovering unsurely above the bottle.
Someone in the room whistles lowly, yelping when a hand slaps them.
“You don’t have to, Boo.” Hansol says even though his stomach fills with molten at the thought. Call him selfish but he prays to every god out there that Seungkwan doesn’t back out. C’mon, Seungkwan.
Seungkwan clears his throat, his hand that was hovering over the bottle retracting until it’s set in his lap, and says the words Hansol has been dreaming of for two years; “I want to.”
