Chapter Text
The thing about 3:00AM was that it stripped everything down. No traffic, no distractions, just neon buzz and stale air and the quiet certainty that if someone was in a convenience store at that hour, they were either running from something or couldn’t sleep because of it.
San stopped wondering which one Yeosang was around the third week he came in for spicy ramen and silence.
He didn’t talk much—just nodded, paid in exact change, and sometimes raised an eyebrow like San’s entire existence offended him slightly. Which was fair. San was offensive at that hour. Hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, some playlist of lo-fi and bad decisions playing on his phone behind the counter. He liked the weirdness of the night shift. The odd, quiet people. Especially the ones like Yeosang, who looked like a thesis with legs and no will to live.
San didn’t know his name at first, but he already had a nickname: Grumpy Noodles.
The man came in like clockwork. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes Sundays if San was lucky. Same hoodie, same expression that said don’t talk to me unless someone is dying, same long fingers tapping against the counter while he waited for the card reader to beep.
“You know,” San said one night, chin resting in his hand as Yeosang struggled with the self-serve chopsticks, “I could just start putting these aside for you. Save you the existential crisis at the utensil bin.”
Yeosang didn’t look up. “I like the crisis. Keeps me going.”
That was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t “receipt, no” or “do you have change for a five?”
San had blinked, surprised. Then grinned. “Mood. You look like you haven’t slept since January.”
“I haven’t slept since undergrad.”
“Hot.”
Yeosang had stared at him for a beat too long. Then picked up his noodles and left without another word.
San liked him immediately.
It wasn’t the looks, though Yeosang’s face would make an idol group weep with envy—pretty, delicate, with an odd sort of sharpness in the eyes and a birthmark that looked like a kiss on his temple. No, San liked him because of the attitude. Grumpy and sleep-deprived, like a ghost wandering in at the worst time just to make sure the city knew it still existed.
San had seen him around the university too. Mostly with a cup of coffee, a pair of AirPods, and a resting glare that made everyone give him a wide berth. He looked busy in a way San wasn’t sure he understood. Like one of the overachiever types, the ones that lived off espresso and spite. The type of person San used to be before his life took a sharp turn and landed him here: twenty-four, in debt, and selling cigarettes to strangers at 3:00AM.
So, really, Yeosang intrigued him. Not as a person, but as a customer. Someone he could annoy. Someone with a story.
San was always curious about stories.
“Hey.” He tried to get Yeosang’s attention the next week, tapping at the plastic barrier between them. “So I read this thing on the internet.”
“Never a good idea.” Yeosang slid his credit card through the scanner, frowning when it beeped at him.
“Apparently, you’re only supposed to eat the recommended amount of noodles from those cups? Or your heart will explode.”
“Sounds fake.” Yeosang ran the card again. The beep turned to a buzz.
“No, seriously. It’s a sodium bomb. Death noodles. That’s the only reason I sell them, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Here, let me get that for you.” San took the card from him, scanning it himself on the register. It went through. “So if your heart gives out after one of these late-night sessions, let me know.”
“I don’t think I’ll be here when my heart gives out.”
The response was so dry, San had to bite down on a smile. “Where do you think you’ll be, then?”
“Six feet under, hopefully.” Yeosang pocketed his card. “I have a family tradition of not dying in public places. Thank you.”
San’s smile broke through at the politeness, and Yeosang paused, like he wasn’t sure if it was sincere.
“See you later,” San said. And for a second, the other man looked at him. Really looked. San raised his hand in a little wave.
Yeosang didn’t smile back. Just gave him an odd look, then nodded once before picking up the noodles and walking out the door.
That was the second thing San liked: making him stare. He didn’t know what was happening in that gaze—probably Yeosang trying to decide whether or not San was actually flirting or just a stupid night owl who didn’t have boundaries. Which, to be fair, wasn’t an unreasonable thought to have.
But for San, flirting with strangers was a sport. And the ones at 3:00AM were the most interesting.
He flirted with Mingi, who always came in on Sundays with his dog and asked San about the best soju flavors.
He flirted with Wooyoung and Jongho, a couple that liked to buy cheap wine, share it out of plastic cups, and leave love notes on the receipt paper next to the credit card machine. He never called them on it, but he did save the longer ones in a drawer somewhere and sent pictures of them to his sister.
He flirted with Yunho, a sweet giant of a man who was way too gentle with the door when he came in and always got lost in the snack aisles.
San flirted with everyone at 3:00AM because that was the time of day where you were either honest or too tired to hide the honesty. And if you weren’t honest, the best thing you could do was pretend to be.
He didn’t always flirt. But it felt better than nothing. And he knew how to tell when people didn’t want to be flirted with.
So he made a game out of it.
He’d flirt with Yeosang, but not in a real way. Just in the way that got his attention. Made him stare.
Made him say more than a handful of words before he left with his noodles and disappeared for another day or two, like he was part of the shadows and San had simply dreamed him up. Sometimes, when the store was quiet and he was tapping away on the register with nothing else to do, he would wonder what it would take for that stare to become something softer.
A smile. An actual conversation.
Anything other than a glare.
“You know, we have these new chips that are probably going to kill you faster than those noodles.” San gestured at a bag of wasabi-covered chips on display in the middle of the store—the kind of display that was only ever made by tired employees trying to keep awake. “If you’re in a hurry to die.”
Yeosang didn’t even turn to look, too distracted with the card reader again. “Are they spicy?”
“The spiciest. I’ve been trying to eat two every day to make myself cry.”
Yeosang paused, then glanced over. San was already there, leaning over the counter with the bag of chips in one hand. He shook them.
“I’ll get you a bag,” San said, already scanning one for himself and slipping it into the space below his register. “To go with your heart disease.”
For the briefest second, there was a break in Yeosang’s face, like the sharp lines were thinking about something funny. “Okay.”
San scanned the noodles and took Yeosang’s card with a smile. “You look like a masochist. Thought I’d enable you.”
The card ran perfectly this time. Yeosang took it, along with the bag of chips, and tilted his head. He held the chips for a moment, studying them.
Then looked back at San with a hint of curiosity.
“I’ll tell you if they make me cry.”
He turned to go, and San had a strange feeling of wanting him to stay, just for a few seconds longer.
“Do you have a name?” He said it quickly, fingers tapping on the counter.
Another look over the shoulder. A pause. Yeosang’s expression settled back into its default of a very slight glare. But his voice was calm, almost kind.
“Kang Yeosang.” He studied San with the same amount of curiosity as the chips, and it almost made San want to hide. Almost.
Yeosang turned to go. Then stopped and added, “And you’re Choi San, apparently.”
San glanced at his name tag, which was covered with stickers he and his sister had put there a few nights ago after eating a box of pepero. The name was barely legible. He looked up to reply, but Yeosang was already gone, the door chiming in the silence.
‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ 🍜𓈒 ⋆ ۪
Yeosang didn’t come in on Thursday, but when he came on Friday instead, San smiled like an idiot and tried to convince him to try the peach soda.
“It tastes like a kid’s birthday party.”
Yeosang stared at him.
“I mean that in the best way possible. It’s nostalgia in a bottle.”
“Why would you want to be nostalgic for children’s birthday parties?”
“I don’t know, maybe you like remembering when people sang to you.”
“Trust me, no one sang to me.” Yeosang studied the bottle of peach soda. “It sounds disgusting.”
“You have to get it now.”
“Is that a condition of your store? I have to buy what you harass me into buying?”
“It’s not harassment, it’s good marketing.”
“It’s definitely harassment.” Yeosang’s fingers tapped against the counter. “Give me the peach monstrosity.”
San grinned, and this time, he thought he saw the slightest crack in the façade—a small lift of Yeosang’s lips. Like a smile.
He decided to make that his new game: trying to make him smile. He could tell Yeosang had one in him. A small, quiet smile. The kind he wouldn’t show to just anyone, the kind that would mean something when San finally earned it. Something good.
He started a routine.
Instead of the normal cup of instant noodles, he set aside two different kinds on Tuesday nights and let Yeosang choose between the devil and the deep blue sea of whatever flavors he picked. It was an old sales trick, something he learned in a psychology class once upon a time: give the customer two choices so they feel in control, and you make a sale no matter which they pick.
It worked for Yeosang.
The man would frown at his choices, buy the one that seemed least offensive, and sometimes add a bag of candy or a bottle of soju to the mix. It was like a language. If Yeosang was tired, the alcohol came out. If he was stressed, it was candy. San wondered if he should stop selling both. Yeosang didn’t look healthy on the best of nights.
“You need to try actual food,” San said, frowning at the choice between kimchi ramen and black bean ramen, which was a new flavor San hadn’t seen before. “Something green.”
“Do cabbage kimchi noodles count?”
“I hate you,” San said pleasantly.
“Green onion?” Yeosang pointed at the black bean noodles, which did indeed have a picture of green onions on the packaging. He had bags under his eyes today. His hoodie looked rumpled, like he’d been wearing it for three nights straight.
“Let me see your ID.”
“Why? Do I not look twenty-six?”
“Twenty-six?” San’s eyes widened as he took the ID and studied it. “You do not look twenty-six.”
“I know. The cashier at the supermarket said I looked forty the other day.” Yeosang gave him an expectant look. “Do I pass? Are we good?”
“Depressingly, yes.” He gave back the ID, still surprised. “I’m twenty-four. I thought you were younger than me, actually.”
Another one of those long stares, and San was almost sure Yeosang was thinking of something rude. Or funny. Or rude and funny. He was about to ask when a soft ping sounded from the pocket of Yeosang’s jeans, making the other man blink and take out his phone.
San could see the display for a split-second before it was turned over. A text, and what looked like several missed calls. Probably from someone wondering where he was.
“I’ll take these,” Yeosang said, turning the phone off completely. He put it in his hoodie pocket, then pushed the kimchiramen towards the scanner. San looked up, surprised. Usually, he waited until the game was finished.
“Okay. And your usual bag of death?” He gestured at the wasabi chips, but Yeosang shook his head. His gaze was somewhere far away.
“I’m fine,” he said, almost quietly. “I’m good. Just these tonight.”
San watched him carefully, fingers tapping over the touchscreen. He ran the noodles. Took the card. Scanned it. Gave back the card and handed over the food.
“Thank you,” Yeosang said. He looked at the ground. Then glanced at the door. “Have a good night.”
And then he left, taking all the energy from the room.
San pushed away the feeling of worry in his chest and started a new lo-fi playlist, hoping that the next person would come in and provide a good distraction. But no one did, and for the rest of the night, he was left to his own thoughts, which had a tendency to drift toward strange, tired men with sharp eyes.
The next Thursday was a mess.
Yeosang didn’t show up, and it rained so much that the whole store seemed to vibrate with the force of it. There were two leaks—one in the employee closet, and another right in front of the door to the bathroom, which led to an almost-accident when a customer in a shiny black jacket slipped and almost fell headfirst onto the candy aisle. San had to mop everything up twice. Then fix the display of snacks that had fallen with the man, which turned out to be much more stressful than expected when the customer kept insisting that a particular pack of gum was his and trying to slip it into his pocket. It took three arguments and the threat of security footage for the guy to finally admit that the gum wasn’t his and slink out into the night, muttering about bad customer service.
San hated customers like that. The ones that made the job feel like a chore instead of a reprieve. But at least they were distracting.
The night crawled by. He was almost sure Yeosang wouldn’t come in, and it was a strangely disappointing feeling. Like watching someone almost drop an ice cream cone on the sidewalk, then sighing when they saved it at the last minute. Relief, with a hint of regret.
Then at 3:30AM, Yeosang walked in.
His umbrella was broken, his hair was dripping, and his face was the picture of misery.
San almost didn’t say anything, because it looked like a greeting would bring down the entire store in a wave of bad mood. Yeosang’s hoodie was dark, clinging to his shoulders like he’d run through half the city to get there. His sneakers made squelching sounds on the floor as he stopped near the door and set the broken umbrella in the corner next to a rack of cheap ponchos. He looked at San and gave him the closest thing to a polite bow he could manage without dropping his phone.
San gave him a sympathetic smile.
And then Yeosang sneezed so hard, he dropped the phone anyway.
“Oh—no—” San was around the counter in an instant, picking up the phone while Yeosang tried to cover his nose, looking horrified with himself.
“I’m so sorry—” The apology came out muffled. He took the phone from San’s hand. “Thank you. Shit.”
San’s heart went out to him, because the man looked like a drowned rat. “You’re apologizing for sneezing?”
Another sneeze, and San couldn’t help it. He laughed.
Yeosang’s eyes were red. His hair stuck to his face in wet strings, dripping onto his hoodie and the floor. “Can I get a pack of cigarettes?”
The request was so pitiful, San wanted to give him a hug and tell him everything was fine.
“Which kind?” San asked, already reaching behind him.
“Black Esse.”
“Coming right up.” He scanned the cigarettes and put them on the counter. “Don’t judge, but I’m also going to get you a hand towel. Wait a second. Don’t move.”
Yeosang didn’t. Just sniffed, looking resigned to his fate in the middle of the brightly lit convenience store, rain pouring off him in rivulets and pooling on the tile. San ducked into the back and found the stack of clean towels from the closet, grabbing the softest one and a pack of tissues from his own secret stash under the sink.
He came back to see Yeosang looking at him with his head tipped to one side, confused.
“Take off the hoodie,” San said. “I mean, not in a creepy way. In an ‘I don’t want you to drip everywhere’ kind of way. Because I just mopped.”
“Oh.” Yeosang seemed to consider this. His face was bright red, and it took him a full minute to get his hoodie over his head. When it finally came off, he was left in a plain black t-shirt, hair sticking up at all angles and face still flushed from the cold. He bundled the hoodie up in a wet, soggy ball, then seemed to remember that he was standing in the middle of a public store.
“Here.” San tossed him the hand towel first, then ducked under the counter and grabbed an unused plastic bag to put the wet clothes in. He handed the tissues over as well, watching as Yeosang cleaned his face and tried to wipe some of the water from his hair. It didn’t help. He still looked like he’d been pulled from a lake.
San took the hoodie and stuffed it in the plastic bag. Then took the towel back and threw it in the lost cause pile of clothes that needed to be washed. Yeosang looked at the wet ball of fabric, then up at him. He was shaking a little.
“I should buy something,” he said. His teeth chattered, and San almost felt guilty for staring.
So he stopped staring.
“Stay here.” He went behind the counter and got a fresh cup of spicy noodles. Then picked up the kimchi flavor, since he’d never actually won with that one, and put it in a bag as well. “You’re in luck. It’s an extra special sale today. Buy one, get one free. Plus cigarettes. And these.” He took the pack of tissues and added them to the bag.
Yeosang watched him with a look halfway between suspicion and gratitude. San put the bag on the counter and pulled up an extra cardigan from his backpack under the counter. It was blue, oversized, and the softest thing he’d ever owned. Perfect for nights when the AC went wild and he needed something cozy to wear.
He held it out to Yeosang. “For you.”
Yeosang didn’t move to take it. “I can’t wear that.”
“Yes, you can.” He pushed it over the counter, and Yeosang stared like he’d never seen an article of clothing in his life. “Don’t argue.”
Yeosang pulled it on with slow, jerky movements, and San turned away, suddenly awkward.
“Okay,” he said, busying himself with the cash register. “So, you have everything you need for the night. Instant noodles, cigarettes, and the world’s most comfortable cardigan known to man.”
Yeosang pushed his wet hair from his face, cardigan sleeves almost covering his hands. San swallowed, suddenly wishing he hadn’t done that, because Yeosang in a too-big cardigan was a problem for his imagination. The man sniffled again, eyes red. He reached for his phone, then stopped and let the hand fall back to his side.
“What do I owe you?”
San smiled, but this time it felt a little strange. “It’s on me tonight.”
A pause. For a moment, the only sound was the buzz of neon and the rain pouring down on the roof. Just inside and outside. Quiet and loud.
Then, the faintest whisper. “Thank you.”
Yeosang took the bag, still not quite meeting his eyes.
“Wait until it slows down a bit, okay? Before you go home.” San gestured at the rain pounding on the door, which had no sign of easing up. “You can chill by the chips, if you want. No pressure. I won’t make you talk to me.”
There was another sneeze, and Yeosang looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and hide forever.
But then he took a breath, nodded, and went to the corner by the chips and soda. He curled into the most compact version of himself, knees up and arms crossed over them, staring out at the rain with a blank expression.
San turned on his playlist.
It was a good one, with just the right kind of background noise to make the world disappear. Something about it felt different tonight. Softer. Maybe because of Yeosang. Maybe because San kept stealing glances over at the man and wanting to smile at how he looked in that oversized cardigan.
He wanted to keep him there. Make him warm.
What the hell am I thinking?
The thought snapped him out of the mood, and he glanced back down at the counter. He didn’t know Yeosang at all. Didn’t know anything about him other than his age and the fact that he was the most miserable noodle eater San had ever met. And now he knew he looked like a puppy when his hair was messy from the rain and his nose was bright red.
Yeosang caught him staring.
San looked away, trying not to feel like he was back in middle school. The whole thing was embarrassing. And unprofessional. Flirting was fun when it was meaningless. Not like this, when his chest felt light and his hands were nervous.
The clock said 4:30. The rain had eased to a soft drizzle, and the world outside had the faint gray glow of early morning just before dawn—the part of the night San loved the most.
Yeosang stood, brushing off his jeans. He had the cardigan wrapped tightly around himself, like he didn’t want it to touch the cold air. San pretended not to notice. Just watched out of the corner of his eye, keeping his expression neutral.
“Thank you,” Yeosang murmured again.
San tried not to show his surprise. “Anytime.”
Then Yeosang left, the bell on the door ringing in his wake. San let out a shaky breath, wondering if he’d just hallucinated that whole interaction. He ran his hands over his face, feeling like his whole body was on edge. Like his brain had been shocked into a new level of awareness, or at least a new level of embarrassment.
He was definitely going to get a lecture from the day manager in the morning, because there were three towels soaking wet in the mop closet and he hadn’t even tried to sell Yeosang the umbrella or poncho by the door. Instead, he’d given away an entire outfit plus food and just let him stand there looking like that for almost an hour.
Looking like that.
San had a new routine to figure out, because now he had a much bigger goal in mind.
Making Kang Yeosang smile was suddenly a matter of necessity rather than curiosity. But the only way to make him smile, San was quickly beginning to realize, was to keep him around long enough to see what a real one looked like.
‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ 🍜𓈒 ⋆ ۪
Yeosang didn’t show up on Sunday. Or Tuesday.
San wondered if maybe the man had gotten sick from the rain, but then Thursday rolled around, and the door chimed with the sound of a new arrival. Yeosang’s hair was neat, his face less red, but there was a weariness in the way he moved. San tried not to stare too openly, watching him go straight for the noodles and come up to the counter with one of the new spicy shrimp flavors. He set them on the counter, along with a bottle of water, a bag of chips, and a bottle of peach soda.
And on top of it all, a folded-up blue cardigan.
San stared at it.
He stared at the cardigan for so long that Yeosang cleared his throat, which brought him out of his trance. The man wasn’t wearing a hoodie this time, just a plain t-shirt and jeans. His sneakers looked brand new.
San scanned the noodles. The water, the soda, and the chips.
“I washed it,” Yeosang muttered, pushing the cardigan a little closer across the counter.
San scanned the cigarettes he’d pulled out automatically. “Thanks.”
It felt odd to take back the cardigan. He put it in the cabinet under the counter, where it would be safe. Then stood, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Yeosang watched him with a frown, fingers drumming on the countertop. He didn’t look away, and it felt strange, to be looked at so intently. Like Yeosang wanted to ask him a question. Like he wanted to talk, or say more than a few words, but something was stopping him.
San waited.
Yeosang finally spoke, tapping his card against the side of the counter. “I have a question for you.”
“Oh?”
“When do you get off work?”
San blinked, confused. “Six. Why?” The words came out a little too quick.
“Just… wondering.”
That was it. Nothing more. Yeosang paid and took his food, then slipped out the door before San could even say goodbye. San watched the door for at least a full minute after the chime, trying to decide what that was about. Why did he want to know when his shift was over? It didn’t make any sense. He tried to shake off the feeling of being unsettled.
By Friday, the routine was back.
Almost. Yeosang didn’t have a question for him, just the usual sharp eyes and a request for an iced coffee and cigarettes. He bought the wasabi chips again. And this time, when he turned to leave, San said something to stop him. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but the words came out anyway.
“You look better.”
Yeosang paused, like he didn’t quite understand. Then looked down at himself. “Better?”
“Yeah. Not…” San gestured. “Sick.”
There was an awkward pause. Yeosang studied him for a second. San had the strange urge to duck under the counter and disappear. Instead, he smiled.
Finally—a response. A hint of amusement. Yeosang’s lips twitched.
“I didn’t get sick,” he said.
“Tough immune system.”
“Apparently.” Yeosang shifted, and San was about to say more when someone else walked in and ruined the conversation. He waved a quick goodbye to Yeosang, watching as the man disappeared out the door. The new arrival was a businessman with an umbrella and a permanent frown, which made San sigh.
How can I get his number? He tapped his fingers on the counter, wondering if he could make it happen without being too obvious.
He couldn’t ask outright. That would be creepy. Maybe if they had a conversation that lasted longer than five seconds. But how could he make Yeosang stay?
San frowned at the counter. “Can I help you find anything?”
‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ 🍜𓈒 ⋆ ۪
The plan started like this:
First, San had to make Yeosang think about him outside of the store. That was easy. He left little messages on the receipt paper every time Yeosang came in. Short questions. Observations. Silly drawings. Anything to get the man thinking, to get his mind turning. He could tell it was working, because every time Yeosang read the notes, he had a strange expression—like a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.
Second, San had to make Yeosang think about staying longer. So, every day, he found some kind of excuse to keep the transaction from ending: dropping the card reader, dropping the pen, even once pretending he’d lost the noodles and searching around for them like an idiot before “finding” the right cup and ringing Yeosang up with a sheepish grin.
Third, San had to know if Yeosang actually liked dudes.
It was the trickiest part. But also, in San’s mind, the easiest to accomplish.
So the next time Yeosang walked in, he was ready. He’d set out a magazine with a very clear photo of a man and woman kissing, with the woman wearing a ring that practically sparkled on her finger—the perfect advertisement. The magazine was propped up next to the register, open to the same page.
San was on his phone when Yeosang walked up to the counter. The man hesitated, like he wasn’t quite sure San was paying attention, but when San glanced up, he relaxed. A little.
“The kimchi ramen again,” Yeosang said, setting the noodles on the counter.
San scanned them, keeping his eyes on the register. “That’s an interesting ad.” He nodded toward the magazine.
Yeosang didn’t look. Just shrugged.
“It’s a proposal ad,” San went on. “You know, engagement ring, kissing couple, the works.”
This time, Yeosang’s expression shifted. Just slightly, from boredom to a vague look of disgust.
Interesting, San thought. “I think it’s cute.”
“It’s not,” Yeosang muttered. “Capitalism disguised as romance.”
“Cynic.” San couldn’t help the smile in his voice. He picked up the magazine and turned to the next page, which was another picture of the same kissing couple, this time in an idyllic beach setting with sunset and waves behind them—and a huge, sparkly diamond ring. “What about this one?”
“Still capitalism.” Yeosang was pointedly not looking, eyes on his wallet instead. “Are those Esse Black?”
“Yeah, hang on. You don’t think this is romantic?” San held up the magazine. Yeosang didn’t turn his head, just waved a hand in a vague gesture of dismissal.
San waited until he was almost done ringing everything up to ask the question he was actually curious about.
“Okay. One more. What about this?”
He flipped to a dogeared page he’d marked earlier. The page with a photo of an idol couple. A male-male couple. Kissing on a motorcycle, the two men in black jackets with their lips touching in a very romantic way, ring shining in the background. San waited, heart suddenly in his throat. It wasn’t the ideal way to figure out Yeosang’s sexuality, but it would have to do.
For a second, Yeosang’s gaze lingered on the photo. He studied the couple. Then shrugged again, his voice completely flat. “They both have terrible tattoos.”
San laughed. The laugh was partly out of surprise, partly out of relief. “What’s wrong with tattoos?”
“They’re ugly. And pointless.”
“That’s harsh.” San put the magazine away. “Some tattoos can be cool.”
Yeosang shook his head. “Nope.”
“Come on. Don’t tell me you have a thing against art. Or self-expression. Or individuality.”
“I’m against pointless pain, and tattoos are exactly that.” Yeosang’s lips curled into the hint of a smile, but it wasn’t quite a smile yet—it was more like the promise of a smile, the start of something that could become a real grin if San played his cards right.
So he played. “Pain isn’t pointless if you enjoy it.”
“You enjoy pain?” Yeosang sounded genuinely confused, and San couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his chest.
He showed his own tattoos first. The one of a dragon that wrapped around his right shoulder, the cherry blossoms on the back of his left hand, and the cross on the side of his wrist. “They all have meaning to me. And I didn’t mind the pain.”
Yeosang frowned. He studied each one for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I still don’t like them. But they suit you.”
The answer was unexpected. And for some reason, it made San’s face feel warm. “Thanks, I guess. What would suit you, then?”
“Sleep. Peace and quiet. No pain. Definitely not tattoos.”
San bit down on a smile, because Yeosang was staring again, that same intense stare from the other night that had kept San awake long after he went home. He wanted to know what Yeosang was thinking, wanted to ask him a thousand questions that he didn’t dare to speak aloud.
He leaned on the counter, chin resting on one hand, and tilted his head. Yeosang didn’t look away.
“Can I get your number?” He said it on an impulse; he wasn’t sure where it came from, but it felt right. Like the natural next step. “Your phone number, I mean. Obviously. Since you already have my number on the receipt paper. Sort of. You have the store’s number… I mean…” San stopped. Tried to gather his thoughts, which were currently running a marathon. “I don’t have to have it, if that’s weird—”
“Give me your phone,” Yeosang interrupted, and the way he said it, with that serious tone, made San swallow his next words.
He unlocked his phone, opened the contact menu, and handed it over.
Yeosang added himself as a contact. Tapped the name “Yeosang (insomniac)” into the blank field. Added a sleeping emoji and a coffee emoji next to his name, and saved it with a decisive press of his thumb. “There,” he said, and gave it back.
San stared at the phone for a second, heart pounding in his ears. He glanced at Yeosang. “Is this a real number? Or a fake one, like you give to creeps?”
Yeosang almost laughed, but he caught himself at the last moment. Instead of a full-on laugh, it was just a quick puff of breath. Like a smile.
“It’s my real number. For the not-creeps. Don’t abuse it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” San said, and he was grinning like an idiot.
The next customer that came in ruined the moment, but San couldn’t find it in himself to be mad at the guy. Not when he had Yeosang’s number in his phone and a plan in the works to get to know the man a little better.
‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ 🍜𓈒 ⋆ ۪
San sent the first text at 8:30, after his shift was over and he was back home, safe in bed with his favorite pillow and the phone balanced on his chest. He had to text first. Had to, because he wanted to know Yeosang was real. Wanted to know he wasn’t just dreaming. It was simple enough, a greeting to start things off. A casual hello, how are you doing, and then a question to get things rolling.
San (8:32AM): how do sharks sleep?
San waited. Stared at the screen with a smile, knowing Yeosang would probably hate the question. Or ignore him. Or just look it up online without bothering to respond. But he hoped for the opposite.
Yeosang (9:01AM): most sharks don’t sleep. not the way we do. they have to keep swimming to survive. so it’s not really sleep, more like resting while still moving.
Yeosang (9:02AM): also hi
Yeosang (9:04AM): what the hell kind of question is that at 8:30 in the morning
San (9:06AM): good morning to you too. i knew you’d know the answer
Yeosang (9:10AM): did you text just to ask that? or do you actually want something? i’m in class right now
San (9:11AM): what class?
Yeosang (9:13AM): organic chemistry. which you would know if you ever went to campus
San (9:14AM): oh i know. i’ve seen you there actually
Yeosang (9:20AM): you’ve… seen me
Yeosang (9:22AM): how?? you never leave your convenience store dungeon
San (9:25AM): i don’t LIVE in the convenience store. i do go out, sometimes. and we have some mutual friends i think? i’m in the same major
Yeosang (9:27AM): mutual friends?
San (9:30AM): yunho? hongjoong?
Yeosang (9:35AM): holy shit
San (9:35AM): yeah lol
Yeosang (9:37AM): so you’ve known who i am for how long?
San (9:38AM): a few days??
San (9:40AM): idk
San (9:41AM): i was gonna ask you to a party at hongjoong and seonghwa’s tonight, but if you’re already busy that’s cool
Yeosang (9:43AM): no i can go. what time? do i need to bring anything?
San (9:45AM): nope just bring you
San (9:45AM): you’re good enough for me :)
Yeosang didn’t respond. Too much? San thought, frowning. Then his screen lit up.
Yeosang (9:55AM): i’ll be there