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1.
The first time you met Wolf Keum, it took place in a bar.
You had just moved to a new city—starting fresh for your university life. You were accepted at your dream university, making all your hard work during high school pay off.
Your first reaction was to dash out of your room and tell your parents, whom you now missed dearly. They allowed you to move out and for the first time in your life, you were all alone.
Well…maybe you were exaggerating a little bit.
You moved into a cozy apartment near your uncle's. He and his wife—your aunt—were the ones that aided you in settling in and helped you navigate the streets whenever you got lost.
You decorated and furnished your home exactly like your Pinterest boards, which took a lot of effort. Who knew being aesthetic was so hard?
Thankfully, your uncle also owned a bar. It wasn’t far from your apartment, so it was convenient in the best way. He also saved you the trouble of job hunting—something you have been dreading ever since you gained your independence.
It was suitable for you. The shifts started at about 8pm, granting you time for your university schedule. You often had lectures in the morning or afternoon. After that, you would head home to study like the amazing student you are.
On your first shift, everything felt like a whole new world. You were excited—a bit too excited. It was your first job after all. Your pay was almost perfect for a university student, and you were honestly grateful your uncle was willing to offer you a job. Without it, you’d probably be off somewhere, homeless or worse—lying to your parents about the “great university experience”.
You got accustomed to the routine quickly. You even made friends with a really nice coworker, Alodia.
She was the definition of pretty—and she was kind too. You guys clicked immediately, her being around the same age as you. You wish you went to the same university as her, just so you wouldn’t have to do the awkward part where you introduce yourself to strangers and pray at least one of them finds you cool and becomes friends with you.
On this particular night, the bar was loud—pumping music, laughter, the clink of glasses. Then you noticed someone over all of it.
He strolled in like the whole place annoyed him. He basically slammed the door behind him. Light purple hair, which was impossible to miss, hung around his head like a signpost. Your gaze followed as he walked. One person even apologised to him when they were the innocent one.
You were wiping the marble surface behind the counter when he suddenly plopped on the stool in front of you. You raised an eyebrow at his actions, especially when he didn’t say a word. You didn’t miss how casual—and rude—his behaviour was.
“Uhm, can I help you?” You asked warily, eyes inspecting his face.
“Strawberry champagne.” He replied, raising his voice a bit to compete with the booming soundtrack.
Even with the cocky attitude, you couldn't deny that he had good taste. Strawberry champagne was one of your favourite drinks and one of the first drinks you tried when you first turned 18 years old.
“Right, give me a sec’.” You turned around to grab what you needed.
You pour the pre-made strawberry puree into a chilled glass, then add the alcohol in. You simply used dry sparkling wine, since he didn’t specify. It was when you started slicing a strawberry for garnish, you realised something. He didn’t even ask—he’d spoken like you were supposed to do everything exactly he wanted.
So you huffed a breath and placed the sliced strawberry on the rim—randomly—without caring whether it looked pretty for him or not.
Sure, you were used to the rude customers. It wasn’t new for you. By the third week of working here, you had already met countless people just like him. You already expected it since you were working at a bar, but you just didn’t think there would be so many. You slide the drink over to him, still eyeing him once in a while—an unconscious habit you had picked up as a child whenever you met new people.
When you were done, you returned to wiping the counter. Cleaning invisible dirt. You’d wiped it more times than you could count, but you couldn’t help it—your body didn’t know how to remain idle. There’s only so much you can stare at—the neon dance floor with mostly drunk people on it, the circular purple lights blinding your eyes, the soft sofas you wish you could sit on instead of standing around.
Your gaze flickered back to the man who walked in earlier.
He sipped on the strawberry champagne once in a while, but he didn’t look like he enjoyed it at all…What a weird person.
This time, he seemed to have noticed you staring, grey eyes boring right back at you. You quickly look away—like a deer caught in headlights—refusing to start conflict during your first month. Especially when your uncle had given you this job without hesitation.
Something in your gut told you to just walk away and leave him be for the time being.
Having survival instincts, you listened to yourself but hesitated. You carefully slipped away from your spot trying to look for your coworker. She would definitely let you rant about how much group projects your university was giving.
It didn’t take long for you to find her. She was always around, seemingly as bored as you. Her eyes practically lit up when she saw you heading her direction.
She smiled when you started talking to her and she enthusiastically nodded along your venting. You start to wonder how such a sweet girl ended up being a bartender. The poor girl has to deal with so many drunk, rude customers. You’re certain she gets hit on almost daily with such looks.
When you were done, you headed back to your side of the bar. You didn't own it, but everyone else had silently agreed on staying in their designated areas, so they didn't have to run around and "help" unless necessary. It helped you too—you used up most of your social battery during school hours. You spent most of it on group projects. Seriously, who thought of them?
Approaching the counter again, you didn’t see the same purple head again.
The bar stool he was originally on was empty. Looking over at the counter, the glass of strawberry champagne was still half-full. What a waste!
Then you noticed something under the half-filled cup.
A tip.
It was... embarrassingly large. The biggest you'd ever gotten, and you'd been working for three whole weeks. You didn't even want to exaggerate, but it looked like a lot enough that you almost thought it had to be a mistake. You didn't think people casually handed out $150 like it was nothing.
Was he rich? A rich kid? Maybe you’d ask Alodia about him on your next break.
He wasn’t hard to miss with his hair—left questionable impressions on people too.
You grabbed the cold glass and slipped the tip into your pocket before hurrying to the sink. You turned on the faucet and began washing out what used to be strawberry champagne—scrubbing it like it owed you money.
That's when you heard someone shouting their order.
"Coming!" you called back, answering quickly before they could summon you like you were a dog again.
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2.
This was the second time you’ve met Wolf Keum.
It happened three days after the first time. You didn’t really expect to meet him again—at least not so soon.
After asking Alodia if she knew a certain purple haired man, you learned he was infamous for starting fights everywhere.
You weren’t that surprised. You’d already guessed it when you looked at his features. He didn't have soft vibes—his face didn't match anyone gentle. But even more than that, you'd noticed his hands. Bruises. Scars. Little signs that said he'd been in trouble more times than he’d admit.
Once you learnt of his background, it would be a lie if you said you weren’t slightly scared of him. It also didn’t help that you eavesdropped on a conversation about him last night at the bar. You couldn’t help it! They were speaking loud anyways.
Apparently, he’s about your age and used to live in Yeungdeungpo back in high school.
You'd heard things from a friend who was a "fighting nerd"—the type who knew random guys and random rumors like it was a hobby. There had been a name mentioned...Wolf. You regretted not listening to the rest of your friend's rant. The only thing you remembered was the reason you'd teased the whole situation in your head : why would anyone name their child after an animal?
To no one’s surprise, the violette walked in like he owned the place again.
This time, though, with bandages decorating his face.
You were making another customer’s drink when he sat down. You didn’t notice him until you finished and turned around—then you saw him, waiting.
He didn’t even bother hiding his bad mood. The second you made eye contact, he tossed his order out. He didn’t even let you take a short breather.
“The thing from last time.” His voice sounded rough, with a small frown tugging the corners of his lips.
He seemed even worse off this time. You assumed it was because he was hurt. Obviously. You tried not to think too much about it. He was a stranger. He could be scary without your brain turning it into a full-blown mystery.
What you did think about was why he was ordering strawberry champagne again.
Last time, he barely touched it. This time, you assumed he'd at least pay you the same extra tip—because as long as he did, you didn't have to stay mad. It was that simple.
Still...you couldn't help wondering where he got that kind of money.
Your thoughts spiraled for a second and you realised you were staring. Grey eyes bored into your soul. It felt more like pressure, not just a gaze.
He didn't speak while you were stuck there.
Quickly turning away, you began preparing the drink again. The routine was familiar now: pour the strawberry puree, add ice cubes—
You stopped for a brief second and wondered if you'd ever feel like crunching ice again.
Maybe you should ask for some during your breaks.
No. Wait.
God, why were you distracted so easily?
You finished it like normal. Strawberry on the rim, dry sparkling wine, chilled glass, garnish done the same way you always did. You brought it over with a small smile—because you'd learned that being polite kept you safe.
Besides, you felt good after you were assigned into a group where the students actually did their work.
“Here you go, mister!” You smiled brightly.
You wiped your hands on your apron after the glass steamed a bit from being so cold.
You didn’t know you would even be required to wear one. You didn’t mind at all. It was cute and it was your favourite color too. Plus, it allows you to wipe your hands anytime. You couldn't be bothered finding a towel every time you had to.
Again, he took a sip before looking uninterested.
Then you noticed his split-open knuckles. Your mouth went dry. You hesitated—like asking the wrong question might cause the wrong reaction.
If you remembered correctly, there was one in the back in the break room. You barely went in there except for getting water or stealing the cookies from the bowl they kept in there.
Your eyes wandered to his face again. His bright screen illuminated his features. Who even puts their phone so bright? You could tell just from that he was like a millennial. His bright red cuts were really bothering you. But, he might punch you in the face if you asked if he needed help.
But you couldn’t help it.
“Hey, your wounds look like they hurt. Do you want bandages? We have a first-aid kit in the back—only if you want though!”
You tried to soften the words so he wouldn't feel cornered. You weren't the best with dialogue, but you could recognize pain when you saw it. His hands looked like they belonged to someone who'd recently punched something.
Or someone.
He slowly rolled his eyes, and the look he gave you was the most menacing thing you'd seen all week. You tried to keep your face straight, but internally you were panicking.
"I'm fine." He said.
Then he went right back to scrolling on his phone like you were nothing but background noise.
You retreated immediately to your safe zone. You'd been right to want distance. You swore you weren't going to interact with him again if you could help it.
If only your phone had battery, you thought. You were stuck listening to this horrible party music—the kind of playlist that made you regret having ears. Your mood dropped instantly. Maybe you were still in puberty. Mood swings, right?
Working as a bartender wasn’t as bad as you thought. Yeah, you might've had to memorise a million recipes due to having no experience. You didn’t even learn how to fry your first egg until you were 16. You also ordered takeout 70% of the time, but who even has time to cook anyways? So long for decorating your kitchen.
Living alone wasn’t so bad either.
Well, it was bad, but you imagined something way worse.
You were lonely most of the time. You liked alone time, but too much loneliness made your chest feel heavy. Sometimes you thought about getting a cat or a dog. You'd never had a pet growing up—except for a turtle you had when you were ten. A turtle didn't cuddle the way a fluffy pet did.
Owning one was one of your biggest dreams—someone you could come home to after a long day. But you couldn't stand the idea of leaving them alone too often. You couldn't adopt an animal and neglect it just for your own comfort.
A chair scraped.
You realized he was leaving. You glanced at the glass-barely touched, still more than half-full this time. He even ate the strawberry you'd placed on the rim.
That, at least, made you feel like he wasn't completely heartless.
But you weren't looking for strawberries. You were looking for your tip.
And there it was, slipped under the glass again —same amount as last time, when you counted it.
Your shoulders loosened. You were grateful, even if he didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt.
Still wondering who he really was, you watched him walk out with his hands in his pockets.
Just who was Wolf Keum... and why was he obsessed with ordering things he didn't even seem to like?
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3.
You were very late for your shift.
How were you supposed to know your class got moved from 4pm to 7pm on such short notice?
Who even had classes that late? Your university really loved destroying your schedule with zero warning.
Unfortunately, your class ran from 7pm to 9pm—ending about an hour after you were supposed to arrive.
It was an important class, and you couldn't miss it. Your uncle would understand...right?
He was really understanding. But you still felt guilty—like you were taking advantage of his kindness. What if you being late caused chaos at the bar? What if there were extra people that night and you ended up being the reason they struggled?
Okay, maybe not.
You deserve a degree for overthinking though.
You sprinted from your bus stop to the bar. You weren't athletic, so by the time you arrived you were sweating and panting like a dog. You bent forward, hands on your knees, forcing yourself to breathe properly before you walked in looking like you'd just survived a disaster.
You pushed open the doors and stepped in confidently—then immediately got worried about being even later.
So you speed-walked to the backroom, apologizing quietly to people you accidentally bumped into.
And coincidentally,
you met the owner of the bar halfway.
It was your uncle. He looked over with a smile, not even remotely angry. If you weren't still sweatdropping, you'd think he looked like a motivational poster.
"Hey," he said. "You're a bit late, but no worries. You doing good?" Your uncle asked while his left hand poured drinks for a group lounging on the sofas. His right hand balanced a serving tray full of colorful beverages.
“I’m really sorry about that! The time for my class was suddenly switched on short notice. I swear I’ll make up for it!” You were really weak whenever you made a mistake. You couldn't help that you were just a natural people-pleaser…Except for rude people though.
The man you were bowing to just laughed it off like it was nothing.
“Don’t sweat it! Everyone makes mistakes every now and then. Take a breather at the back and get to work when you’re ready.” He replied to your apology before walking off with the tray now tucked under his arm.
"I'm really sorry!" you blurted. "The time for my class got switched on short notice. I swear I'll make up for it!"
You were terrible whenever you made a mistake. Your voice always softened and your brain always prepared for the worst.
Your uncle just laughed it off.
"It's all good!" He said. "Everyone makes mistakes. Take a breather at the back and get to work when you're ready."
He then walked away with the tray tucked under his arm, like you weren't standing there panicking.
You continued into the backroom, stopped in front of your locker, and stared at the keys for a second. There were a ridiculous amount of them.
You silently cursed yourself for not labeling them and shoved the right key in with a frustrated twist.
Once you were inside, you dropped your bag onto a chair, patted down your clothes to fix the worst wrinkles, and finally yanked your locker open. You pulled out the apron you'd stuffed inside before, then you walked out again.
Hopefully the universe wouldn't pick on you anymore today.
When you stepped back out, the bar looked strangely normal. And yet, there was something unexpected.
Strawberry champagne man.
It had been four days since you'd last served him. Seeing him again should've been surprising, but instead it felt...familiar. Like your body knew his return before your mind caught up.
You walked over to your usual spot, adjusting the bow on your apron.
"I didn't know you drank something other than strawberry champagne," you said, trying to keep it light.
He didn't smile. His expression stayed sharp, and his eyes avoided yours.
"Where were you?" He grunted, like the words were forced out.
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. You didn't expect him to ask that. You didn't want to tell him about your missed shift. You didn't want him thinking you were careless or irresponsible.
You didn't want that impression.
"Why? You missed me?" you blurted without thinking.
It wasn't even a good line, but it was your instinct to avoid sounding guilty. Besides, he didn't answer you either.
He mumbled something under his breath and finished a whole cup of frothy beer in one go.
That definitely suited him more than strawberry champagne.
“Didn’t think you drank beer either.” You thought out loud.
"You don't know me." He retorted, eyes still unfocused.
Defensive, as usual. Or maybe he just hated everyone. Or only you for some unknown reason.
You shrugged it off and collected his glass before heading to the sink, not wanting to escalate anything.
The plant by the sink was your dearest friend.
You called it Daikon. It was white in a white pot with green leaves that looked exactly like a radish. You watered it every day even though you had barely any gardening experience. You were scared it would die from lack of sunlight.
It was pathetic how much you cared for something small and fragile. But you couldn't help it.
You washed the cup and flicked water off your apron. The bar was quiet tonight—Tuesday nights always felt slower. You wondered if Wolf would be up for small talk. You wanted to talk to someone and Alodia was too far away to reach right now.
So you leaned over the counter and tried anyway.
"So... your name?"
He paused long enough for your patience to start burning.
Then he said, simply, "Wolf."
You were right! The so-called Wolf your friend had mentioned in high school. Even if you joked about the animal name, you couldn't deny it was him.
You replied with your own name, watching his expression to see if he heard you. But he wasn't looking. He wasn't listening. He had zero manners.
Suddenly, he hopped off the stool and walked away without even a goodbye. You stood there for a moment, frozen.
But what bothered you wasn't just his attitude.
Where was your tip?
Still, you glared after his retreating figure and leaned on the counter again. Then, against your will, you forced your mind to move on.
It wasn't like you needed his money.
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4.
A few days passed since Wolf “forgot” your usual tip.
You’d mostly convinced yourself it didn’t matter. You’d almost forgotten.
The bar was back to normal-busy at certain times, loud when it felt like it, and quiet enough between rushes that you could hear your own thoughts.
You worked like always. Made drinks. Wiped down the counter for the hundredth time. Life didn’t stop because Wolf Keum decided to skip the extra money.
Tonight, you finished a customer's order—an old-fashioned margarita—when the door chimed.
You didn’t pay attention. The sound popped up every few minutes anyway, what would be so different this time?
That’s what you thought until you looked up and saw him.
He walked in like he belonged here. Like the bar naturally made space for him without anyone thinking about it.
You didn’t wait for him this time. You just went back to working, customers still needed service.
Then the stool scraped again.
You winced reflexively, remembering how many times the same sound had happened over the past weeks.
“Strawberry champagne.”
You didn’t pause. You grabbed the chilled glass, poured the strawberry puree, added the dry sparkling wine, and sliced a strawberry—again, automatically, like it was muscle memory.
You slid it across the counter casually like you were completing something routine.
It was basically routine already. You’d learned his pattern. He came in to order it. Again and again. You’d just hoped that the money was routine too.
He barely licked at the beverage before leaving it aside. It felt like the drink was just something he ordered out of habit instead of enjoyment.
For a moment, everything seemed normal—music, chatter, the clink of glasses.
Then some guy nearby ruined it. He leaned in like he was making a joke.
“Yo, Wolf,” he called out, like they were old friends. “You always come in and order that shit?”
Definitely not old friends.
Wolf’s eyes flicked toward him. The other guy kept talking anyway, but that was already a mistake—Wolf didn’t like wasting words.
Wolf stood up fast, and you flinched at the sharp sound of his movement.
Attention snapped across the bar like a spotlight.
Wolf's hand slammed down on the counter as he stood. The glass wobbled. The drink toppled over.
For one sick second the strawberry champagne held itself—shimmering. Then gravity won.
Red puree streaked across the black marble in a spreading mess, the foam dissolving into something ugly and fast.
Wolf didn't look at the spill.
He looked at the guy.
The guy tried to square up like a pretend confidence he used as a shield.
It didn't work. A punch landed. Someone yelled.
Your uncle moved in immediately, like he’d done this a hundred times. Unless you live under a rock, you’d know fights were common at bars.
You didn’t step closer. You didn’t join the bystanders and you didn’t panic.
If you jumped in, you knew it would make everything worse.
So you wiped up the strawberry mess that had splashed onto the black marble like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t put care into the drink you were now scrubbing away.
After all, you were still on shift and your job wasn't being a hero.
It was to keep your station clean. To keep the orders moving. To keep your hands busy while the people with experience handled the chaos.
Wolf Keum was just another customer who didn’t know when to stop.
When the fight finally ended—when he was finally removed from the area—your breath came out like you'd been holding it for too long without realizing.
The bar calmed down again. Not fully. Not enough for the tension to vanish.
Just enough for the music to feel normal again, like the speakers hadn't been knocked out of sync by violence.
You shifted your focus to the next order.
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5.
It started as a small rumor.
Not the loud kind that spread in drama-heavy groups full of bored gossip. This was different. More like a quiet ripple between shifts, between clean-ups, between moments you pretended you weren’t listening.
You weren’t pretending for other people.
You were pretending for yourself.
You didn’t even know until you heard.
“Apparently, he broke a table,” someone repeated like it was a fact everyone already knew.
You weren’t shocked.
You were just tired of thinking about him.
At one point, Alodia asked, “You think he’ll come back?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Because if you said yes, you’d sound stupid. If you said no, you’d feel like you were lying to your own instincts.
So you stayed quiet and kept wiping down the same spot on the counter like the motion could erase your thoughts.
A few weeks passed. You kept the bar running like normal. And gradually, it felt like you were getting farther away from him.
Then, one Friday, the bar was loud again.
Not loud in the fun way—loud in the way that made people talk like they were being watched. After the incident, customers acted like they weren’t allowed to be too reckless.
Halfway through your shift, the door chimed. You didn’t even realise yourself unconsciously looking up to search for a specific somebody.
The sound was bright and innocent—the kind of noise you normally didn’t associate with trouble.
But this time, it didn’t feel the same.
You tried to keep your face neutral. You tried not to show how your body reacted before your mind could stop it.
Because your body always reacted first.
You looked up and saw light purple hair. Then the half-rim nickel-framed glasses.
People made space again. The same quiet instinct returned, the same subtle understanding that if you got too close to him, you were declared a dead man before he actually laid hands on you.
Wolf didn’t search for you. He didn’t wander like he was looking for entertainment. He didn’t flirt or make trouble.
He went straight to the same stool.
The one that always scraped loudly.
The one you hated.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes on you like he was studying you. Like this job felt less like customer service and more like…being a servant.
You didn’t enjoy his gaze. Not even one bit.
“Strawberry champagne.” He said, calmer than before.
Chilled glass. Pre-made strawberry puree. Sparkling wine. Garnish. Strawberry sliced to the same size. Decorative, almost excessive… except it didn’t matter, because he never looked like he tasted it.
You slid the drink to him the way you had a thousand times before.
Then you watched him finish it faster than most people would.
Not exactly drinking slowly. Just—confirming something.
Then he slipped the money under the glass.
And it was done.
He didn’t linger. He didn’t ask how you were. He didn’t act like he cared about your week or your day.
He stood up, moved like the sound of the stool itself was sharper than usual, and walked away.
Like he came only to complete a ritual.
Your uncle passed by and glanced at you—quick assessment, no questions. Like he was checking whether you were okay.
You didn’t make eye contact. You kept your face calm.
But your brain did what it always did: it asked why.
Why now?
Why after weeks?
Why the same order?
Why the same tip amount?
Why the cold sip like he wasn’t tasting anything—only verifying?
You forced yourself back into work. Back into the rhythm you controlled: pour, shake, top off, wipe, garnish, repeat.
Music. Customer faces. Orders.
By the end of your shift, you were tired the way you always were—sweaty palms, dry throat, stiff shoulders, napkins straightened too carefully because you liked to pretend control made you safe.
But the worst part was your mind was still on him.
Because if Wolf Keum wanted you to remember him…he made sure you did.
Without having to say more than a sentence.
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6.
It had been quiet enough lately that you almost started believing it was over.
Not peaceful—this was still a bar, after all. There were always nights when the music thumped through the walls like it was trying to wake the whole neighborhood, and there were always people who laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny.
But Wolf Keum? The purple hair that always seemed to cut through the air like a blade?
He wasn’t there.
Days turned into weeks. You stopped holding your breath every time the door chimed. You stopped scanning the room without meaning to. Your hands remembered the job, yes—but your mind slowly stopped trying to predict danger every time someone new walked in.
Alodia had started teasing you about it.
“You’re acting like the door bell might bite you,” she’d said one night while wiping down a glass. “Who are you checking for?”
You rolled your eyes and shoved her playfully with the back of your knuckles. “Don’t be weird.”
She just grinned and kept working, like she enjoyed seeing you pretend you weren’t nervous.
Your shift that day started like any other. The bar was busier than normal for a Thursday, so the air was warm and thick with noise. Neon lights reflected off the black marble counter in crooked colors—purple, pink, and whatever shade the overhead lighting decided to be. You were moving constantly, refilling water, wiping fingerprints off bottles, handing drinks over with a practiced smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
When the door chimed, you didn’t even register it as his at first.
Just another customer.
But you turned—and your whole body went still before your brain had time to catch up.
Light purple hair.
The familiar shape of his shoulders in the doorway. The half-second pause before he stepped inside like the bar recognized him first and the door only followed the rules after.
Your stomach tightened immediately.
Alodia glanced at you once, like she’d seen you freeze before. She didn’t comment this time—she just lifted her chin toward the counter, quietly telling you to get your act together.
You forced your face back into “customer service mode.”
Wolf didn’t head straight for the stool like usual. He approached the counter with purpose, scanning the bar quickly before his eyes landed on you. No wandering. No hesitation. Like he already knew what he wanted.
He ordered something you didn’t expect.
Not strawberry champagne.
“Club soda,” he said.
You blinked. “Club soda…?" You murmured, repeating after him.
Your hands moved anyway because bartending training was automatic. You grabbed a chilled glass, poured club soda, and watched the bubbles rise immediately—clear and clean. No strawberry puree. No garnish tray. No decorative extras meant to satisfy a ritual.
And then you realized you’d reached for the strawberry items out of habit.
You stopped yourself mid-motion and pulled your hand back like you’d been caught doing something wrong.
Wolf took the glass when you slid it over. He didn’t make a big deal of it. No dramatic sip, no annoyed silence like before. He just drank once, small, then set it down again carefully—like he was confirming something, not indulging.
Your eyes flicked to his hands without permission.
His knuckles looked rougher than you remembered. Not fresh bandages. Not the same kind of obvious injury. Just weathered skin that made him seem more real, more worn down than the version you’d gotten used to.
You swallowed and focused on the job again.
After the rush, when the noise softened and you had a second to breathe, Wolf reappeared at the counter again. Not in a dramatic way. Just there, like he’d never left.
He placed money down as usual—enough to be normal, not the exaggerated amount that made you do that automatic “counting it twice” thing.
Then he handed you something that made you stare.
A pen.
And a small piece of paper.
Not a receipt. Not an order slip. Something else. Clean. Folded once.
Your brain didn’t connect it right away, so your first reaction was just… confusion. You looked at the pen, then at the paper, then back up at him.
He didn’t speak this time.
He only watched you for a moment—steady, unreadable—like he was waiting for you to understand.
You held the pen awkwardly in your hand. “Is this…?”
Nothing came from him besides that same focused gaze.
You didn’t answer her because you still didn’t fully get it.
Then it hit you all at once, sudden and embarrassing.
Number.
Your number.
Your fingers tightened around the pen like you suddenly remembered where you were—where you were supposed to be careful, where you were supposed to think before you acted. For a second, you considered pretending you didn’t understand. Considered handing it back. Considered all the reasons it would be smart not to do this.
But Wolf was quiet and patient, which was unlikely if you knew him. The bar was still loud around you, but it felt like everything else had faded.
Like this moment was the only thing that mattered.
You exhaled slowly and looked down at the paper. “Okay,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.
You wrote your number quickly, neatly. Checked it once—because you actually cared about getting it right. Then you slid the paper back toward him.
This time, Wolf took it without hesitation.
No flirting. No teasing. No dramatic lingering like in movies. He just pocketed it like it was something he’d planned to do all along.
You turned your gaze toward Alodia, who was watching you like you were a live performance.
“Well?” she asked, voice too excited for someone pretending to be professional.
You opened your mouth to respond—
but you couldn’t find a normal sentence.
So you just shook your head once, confused and slightly overwhelmed, and went back to wiping the counter like you could erase the feeling from your chest.
Wolf Keum was back.
And tonight, he hadn’t asked.
He’d just made it impossible to ignore.