Work Text:
The bar is only a few blocks away from your place. You see it every day on your way to work, a kind of comforting landmark. You like to admire the ivy growing along the facade, as though it’s some kind of vintage antique store instead of somewhere people go to get drunk.
Which, in fact, it was. The original sign is still there: Forget-Me-Not Vintage Shoppe, the elegant wording fading from the elements. You moved to the area long after the shop was sold; the only reason you know it’s a bar now is because you once went in expecting to see trinkets and found yourself facing a drunken crowd all shouting at televisions.
You immediately rushed out.
Still, the bar has come up several times lately on your local news and social media feed as having incredible food and a relaxing atmosphere.
I go for the food, but the drinks aren’t bad, either! Exclaims one reviewer.
I also go for the food, but the sights aren’t bad, either! Someone else quips on the thread. You’re pretty sure they mean the staff. There are several replies underneath all in agreement.
You also can’t help but be curious.
That’s why you’re standing a few feet away from the door on a Tuesday night, fighting with yourself. You’ve never been particularly brave. When you were younger, your sister decided you were a cheetah: nervous and quick. You’re programmed into her phone with a cat emoji; she, of course, is your emotional support dog.
But you also made a very stupid new year’s resolution to do one brave thing every month. You promised your sister you would. Last night she texted you: ⌚tick tock scaredy cat. April is almost over!
You 🐱: I already have a plan!
Emotional Support Sis 🐶: You have 30 seconds of a plan that you started on as soon as you read my text
You absolutely hate how well she knows you. But you’re determined to not break your streak, so here you are outside Forget-Me-Not, vintage shoppe-cum-bar and restaurant where the food is supposedly delicious and the staff isn’t bad either.
Before you can continue to psych yourself out, you pull the door open. The scent of pizza hits you immediately: warm, savory, enticing. Your stomach leaps, your sad packed salad lunch long forgotten.
Tuesdays must be quiet, you think as you survey the restaurant. It’s a small place, with classy dim lighting from wrought iron chandeliers above the few tables against the walls. These are all full already, friends and couples enjoying their meals and conversations.
You don’t have anyone with you and it feels selfish to take up a table by yourself. Instead, you look to the bar, which fills the entire middle of the space. It’s a circular bar with a dark wood counter that wraps around. There’s a high wall in the middle that houses a massive television and several glass shelves full of multi-colored liquor bottles. There are also plenty of stools along the counter, so you step hesitantly towards the one that’s in view of the door.
The bartender comes around to greet you and you suddenly understand what all those reviewers meant. Your heart skips as he gives you a warm smile and–oh, fuck, he’s got a dimple in one cheek. It gives him a softness that the rest of him disagrees with: he’s all broad shoulders and muscular arms squeezing around the edges of his fitted black shirt.
You stand frozen, halfway between the bar and the door, cheetah heart racing.
“Come have a seat,” he beckons, tucking a towel into his belt loop before waving you forward. “I can get you a menu, unless you’re just looking to drink?”
You’ve forgotten how to speak. Your tongue takes up too much room in your mouth now. Jolting free of your panic, you shake your head. “Food is good. I mean, just food. I mean–”
Can you just lie down on the floor and die now?
Thankfully the hot bartender doesn’t seem to mind that you have a jelly brain tonight. “Food is good,” he agrees. “And ours is fantastic.”
Settling down at the bar, you pull your purse into your lap, feeling like a child sitting in a high chair. He nudges a menu down the counter towards you.
“What can I make you while you decide?”
Now you’re really panicked. Besides not liking crowds, loud noises, scary movies, and anything you haven’t researched for a minimum of four hours, you don’t drink. And you’re at a bar. Because of your stupid resolution.
You flip the menu frantically, scanning for anything non-alcoholic. Finally, in the bottom corner you catch a lifeline.
“Iced tea with a slice of lemon. Please.”
His mouth quirks for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything as he pulls a glass. He flips it neatly into his palm and pours tea from a full pitcher behind the bar. Slipping a slice of lemon over the rim, he sets it down carefully in front of you. Not a single wasted movement.
Cool, so he’s skilled and fucking gorgeous.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“I’m good for now, thanks.” You hold the menu close to your chest and pull the glass close, wetting your suddenly parched mouth.
It’s good iced tea. Brewed in house, judging from the depth of flavor. None of that weak swept-off-the-factory-floor tea bag taste you’re used to from restaurants. Dropping the lemon into the glass, you mix it around with your straw before taking another sip. Perfect.
Feeling a little calmer, you look over the menu properly. A couple at the corner table gets up to leave and the bartender waves them out. Judging by their cheerful goodbyes, it’s not the first time they’ve come in.
He finds his way back to you. “Need any help deciding?”
You don’t. You always know exactly what you want on any menu almost immediately, but you want to be brave. More importantly, you want the hot bartender to keep talking to you.
“Do you have a pizza recommendation?”
“Pesto,” he says without hesitation. “It’s our most popular one and for a good reason.”
“What’s the reason?” you ask reflexively.
Winking, he replies, “It’s delicious.”
As though you need more coaxing than that. You pass back your menu and nurse your iced tea while you wait for your pesto pizza to arrive.
It’s quieter than you expected. After your first run-in, you were bracing yourself for another raucous crowd, but besides the full tables, there’s only one other person at the bar. He’s got an old digital camera in his hand and his glasses are slipping down his nose as he examines the photos.
The bartender sets a fresh beer in front of him and the man smiles briefly before returning to his camera.
The TV is playing women’s hockey tonight, but your eyes skip over the screen to admire the bottles of alcohol instead. They’re no doubt carefully organized for easy access, but someone has put thought into the colors as well. The backlit shelves give them a kind of otherworldly glow that’s enticing.
It’s smart. If you drank, you’d probably appreciate it even more. As things stand, you’re quite happy with your iced tea though.
“Not bad, right?”
The bartender is back. He leans one massive arm on the counter as he nods towards the display. “I worked really hard on it.”
“It’s really pretty.”
“Right? Wonwoo’s taken a few choice shots of it for our website.”
The man with the camera looks up so quickly that his glasses slip; he pushes them back up the bridge of his nose with a mild look.
Oh no. Is this one of those bars with a chatty bartender who wants everyone to be friends? Even worse, is Wonwoo going to talk to you now? You’re not prepared for this.
Except all he does is give you that calm, fleeting smile before pulling out a small journal and making some notes.
The bartender rolls his eyes. “Fine, don’t talk. Leave me up here all alone and bored.”
Finally, Wonwoo speaks, his voice even and low. “You’re not alone. You’re just dramatic.”
It’s the kind of thing two people who know each other well would say, and it makes you giggle. The bartender looks pleased with your reaction.
There’s a bright flash under the counter; he reaches down and you can hear the tap of a finger against a screen. “Pizza’s ready!” he announces, before disappearing into the kitchen.
He surfaces only a moment later with a large plate. “It’s hot,” he warns, setting it down in front of you.
It looks and smells divine. Your stomach is twisting now in desperation at the sight of the melty white cheese speckled with deep green. There are little curls of prosciutto on every slice, the thin meat warmed by the remnants of the blazing hot oven.
You snap a photo of your meal and quickly send it off to your sister as proof.
The first bite is incredible: salty, cheesy, herbaceous. The knife screeches against the plate and you pause, trying to get yourself under control.
After you’ve eaten a full slice, the bartender says, “Told you it was good.”
“It’s amazing.”
“Our chef is a master from Italy.”
He says it so confidently that you ask, “Really?” before you catch the upward curve at the corner of his mouth.
From down the bar, Wonwoo chuckles.
“No,” says the bartender. “He just watches a lot of YouTube. But you’re cute for believing me.”
You’re not sure how to handle someone who looks like him calling you cute. You’re not sure how to handle him at all. There’s still a tremor in your veins from being here, from doing something brave, something new.
Ducking your head, you focus on your meal.
You finish the entire personal pizza, surprising yourself. The last bite is just as delicious as the first one, still slightly warm and savory. You fold your napkin up neatly, set it alongside the knife and fork that you’re glad he gave you. It would have been a nightmare to try and eat it with your hands in front of him.
The bartender hops back through the little opening at the counter, sliding some empty plates into a dishwashing tub. “All done?” he calls.
Coming back over to you, he asks, “Any chance for dessert? They’re just as good.”
You can’t even fathom more food right now so you shake your head.
He smiles. “Next time, then.”
There’s not going to be a next time, but that’s weird to say, so you smile back as he takes your card. You came here just to meet your goal and now you have. There’s no need to return.
Even though the food is delicious and the bartender…
He slides your card and receipt across the counter before flipping a pen up and into his hand. You like that he’s showing off. He’s good at it.
You wish you had something smart to say, but all you can do is leave a generous tip before rushing away. It’s not until you’re in the safety and comfort of your apartment that you let yourself relax.
Sighing hard, you drop onto the couch. Why is everything so intimidating? You wish you were more like your sister, who makes friends everywhere she goes. She would have chatted with the hot bartender so easily, would have gotten to know him, his friend with the glasses, would have become a regular in minutes.
And you couldn’t even ask his name.
Except…
Pulling your wrinkled receipt out of your purse, you flatten it against the cushion. There at the top it reads “Server: Seungcheol”.
You say his name a few times under your breath, getting the feel for it. Seungcheol. The handsome bartender who helped you achieve your April goal.
“Thanks, Seungcheol,” you say aloud, and then laugh at your own silliness.
You’ve been ruined.
For the last week you’ve been thinking about two things in a circle: the hot bartender (Seungcheol) and the delicious pesto pizza. You’re not sure which one you’ve thought about more at this point.
It’s getting to the point where you can’t even work on your spreadsheets without thinking of the bar, so you resolve to go on Thursday night.
To your delight, Seungcheol is there again. He’s delivering food to one of the tables, but he smiles as soon as he sees you.
“Table or counter?” he asks before you can greet him.
Touching the back of the same stool you sat on last time, you ask, “Is it okay to sit here again?”
“Sure, come keep me company.”
You like the way that sounds.
Seungcheol looks extra handsome today, hair carefully styled, biceps stretching out the sleeves of his black t-shirt again. He threads a fresh towel through his belt loop before passing you a menu. You pretend not to notice how fine his ass looks in those dark jeans.
You’ve had a full week to psych yourself up for this. Tonight, you’re going to be extra brave, extra personable. You’re going to channel your sister and her extroverted nature.
Hell, you’re going to order dessert this time.
Except there are more people at the bar and Seungcheol is in his element, chatting and smiling and flipping liquor bottles. You watch him mix a cocktail, putting those gorgeous muscles to good use; he whacks the shaker against the bar and twists the two cups apart easily.
The drink pours out perfectly, just reaching the rim of the glass. He finishes it with a twist of lemon.
You’re so enraptured by watching him work that you haven’t looked down at the menu once. Which is fine, because you already know what you want.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“I don’t mind,” you say, because you don’t.
You redid your makeup before leaving work today and chose your outfit very carefully this morning. Except it occurs to you that Seungcheol might not even remember who you are. He sees so many people over the course of a day, why would he remember you?
Your fragile confidence is about to shatter until he asks, “Iced tea again?”
Relieved, you nod. You’re about to order your precious pesto pizza when another employee walks by carrying a tray with a line of ramekins on it, all beautifully decorated.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Mac and cheese flight,” says Seungcheol. “Chef’s newest creation. You won’t regret it.” Seeing your indecision, he adds, “There’s even a pesto one.”
You set the menu down. “Sold.”
“I should warn you though, there’s a lot of garlic in it tonight.”
“That’s not a problem,” you say. “I love garlic.”
He taps your order into his tablet. “Good. Just wanted to give you the disclaimer in case you had a date later or something.”
It’s such an unexpected comment that your mouth drops open, mind racing for a response. Finally, you get out, “No. No date.”
“Lucky me,” he says as he hands over your iced tea. “I get to see you a bit longer.”
You resist the urge to press the cold glass against your cheeks.
The kitchen must be preparing mac and cheese flights like crazy, because barely ten minutes pass before you have a tray in front of you with three separate steaming ramekins. The server gives you her rote warning to not put molten cheese straight into your mouth before rushing off to pick up the next order.
After carefully blowing away the steam, you slip a small bite of the first mac and cheese into your mouth. And another. Everything about it is perfect. Maybe you need to meet the chef instead. If he looks anywhere near as handsome as Seungcheol and can cook this well, he’s a total steal.
“That’s a happy face,” remarks Seungcheol. He finishes drying his hands off before leaning one elbow onto the counter.
“Your chef must watch a lot of YouTube,” you say, fighting the urge to shovel pasta into your mouth. “These are incredible.”
“He’s got the talent. Unlike me,” laments Seungcheol. “Every time I cook, something goes wrong.”
“Sounds like you just need practice.”
“You’d think, but–”
“He needs to stay out of the kitchen entirely.” Another handsome man slips behind the bar. He’s even taller than Seungcheol, tanned skin luminous under the lighting. You’ve only seen Seungcheol and another server so far, so it hadn’t occurred to you that there would be another bartender.
“Rude,” says Seungcheol, clapping the other man on the shoulder with a grip that has to hurt. “Don’t insult me in front of one of my favorite customers.”
You haven’t been here enough to be a favorite customer. Still, you smile.
“Yeah, yeah,” says the taller man. “Get out already. Go.”
Anxiety twists in your chest. Go? As in…?
Seungcheol confirms your fear by saying, “I’m off for the night, but Mingyu will take good care of you from here.”
Before you can respond, he adds, “Just don’t let him talk to you about real estate. He’s super boring.”
“When have I ever talked about that with a customer?” protests Mingyu, your new bartender.
Seungcheol laughs and heads back towards the kitchen. You watch him disappear, unable to mask your disappointment.
“Sorry about him,” says Mingyu. “He’s the worst.”
“You seem like good friends,” you offer.
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
Seungcheol rushes back through the restaurant wearing a leather jacket and carrying a motorcycle helmet. Fuck, as though you needed that image emblazoned on your brain. You’re already suffering.
He waves brightly at the two of you before heading out the front door. Mingyu sneers at him, rolling his eyes.
“He’s such a show off.”
“Are you friends or brothers?” you ask, amused by their antics.
“Worse,” he explains. “Friends and business owners.”
That does sound worse. Also, it makes sense that Seungcheol is one of the owners of the bar. You file away the information for next time.
Mingyu is friendly and kind, perhaps even more than Seungcheol, but he spends all his time at the far end of the bar, chatting with the regulars. Especially Wonwoo, who’s back again with his glasses and his journal. In fact, Mingyu spends most of his time near Wonwoo, stretching his arms behind his back and making his pecs pop.
You can’t be too sad: after all, you did get to see Seungcheol and you’ve enjoyed the best macaroni and cheese of your life. Mingyu returns just as you’re scraping the last ramekin clean.
“Anything else?” he offers.
“I kind of want to ask you about real estate now.”
He laughs and passes you the bill. “Whenever you’re ready.”
You don’t want to explain that you were sort of serious about the real estate thing, so you hand over your card right away. No point in trying to force conversation where it’s not meant to be. You leave a good tip and make a mental note to avoid Thursdays.
The next Tuesday you work late on a project and can’t make the time to go out. Thursday is your only free evening, but as Seungcheol leaves early, you don’t see a point in going to the bar. That means it’s almost two weeks before you return.
It’s a Wednesday, an unknown, but you can’t wait any longer.
Luck is on your side tonight. Seungcheol is back behind the bar and your usual seat is there. It seems silly to call it your seat after only three visits, but you’re the kind of person who gets attached easily to things. You’ve already established a routine here.
Seungcheol glances up as you approach and you wonder if you imagine the way his expression brightens. “You’re back!”
“Pesto pizza,” you tell him. “Couldn’t stay away.”
“I hope I’m at least part of your motivation,” he says, giving you a fake pout. It’s endearing.
“Of course. Just under the pizza.”
He chuckles and you give yourself a mental high-five. You’re getting an “A” in socializing right now.
“And to drink? Let me guess…”
“Iced tea with lemon,” you say at the time as he does.
You both laugh and he pulls a fresh glass, giving it a little flip.
“Do you ever drop them?” you ask curiously.
“In the beginning I dropped them almost every time. I’ve broken a lot of glasses in my career.”
“How long have you been bartending?”
“Since I was able to drink, so longer than I feel like owning up to.”
You finish half your iced tea in one go, sighing from the relief you didn’t know you needed.
“Long day?”
“Kinda.”
“What do you do?”
“Boring stuff,” you reply, swirling the ice around your glass with the straw. “Like real estate level boring.”
“I highly doubt that. Besides, real estate is only boring when Mingyu talks about it.”
You don’t think that’s true. When you point this out, Seungcheol shrugs. “Okay, I was being nice. You could make something up though. I would never know.”
You think for a moment. “I work at the zoo.”
This gets a glimmer of interest. “Please say you feed the tigers. I love the tigers.”
“What about the cheetahs?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “They’re good, too.”
“Okay, then I feed the cheetahs.”
Seungcheol nods towards your purse. “Is that the reason for the…”
“Oh!” You show him the worn cheetah plush attached to your purse. “This is from my sister. I’m the cheetah and she’s my support dog.”
“Your…”
Blanching, you realize how bizarre that sounds to someone who’s never heard of cheetah anxiety. “Because they’re nervous. Cheetahs. So at the zoo, sometimes they’ll give them dogs for emotional support.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He seems genuinely curious about it, but you hurry to move the subject along. You don’t want to draw more attention to your own anxiety. “What about you?”
“What do I do?” he jokes.
“N-no. I mean, do you have an animal? That you’re like?”
He starts to reply when Mingyu stops beside you, startling you.
“Camel,” he says, white teeth showing in a wide grin, like he’s delighted you asked. “He’s a camel.”
“I’m not a camel! Get the f–go away!” Seungcheol swings at him with the towel and misses.
Mingyu’s laugh carries all the way back to the kitchen. Seungcheol glares after him.
“Son o–I mean, he’s such a jerk. I’m not a camel.”
“I don’t see it,” you respond sympathetically. “I think you’re more of a bunny anyway.”
This earns you a perplexed look. “A bunny?”
You fight the urge to cringe. Telling a buff, hot man that he’s like a fuzzy woodland creature probably isn’t the most complimentary thing to do.
“Well, you’re quick. You always know what’s going on here and if someone needs something. Good perception.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, “but there are other quick animals. Cooler ones.”
“I like bunnies,” you blurt out.
His smile makes your heart skip and flutter. “All right then. I’ll be a bunny.”
You’re starting to wonder if you’re crazy. He’s flirting–at least you think he is. And he’s doing it in spite of your horrible attempts at conversation.
Thankfully, before you can agonize more, Mingyu comes by with your pizza.
“Camel,” he whispers at Seungcheol, before dodging an ice cube as he leaves.
Seungcheol wipes his hands off on the towel at his side. “Idiot.”
You’re busy inhaling pizza. You’ve waited weeks for this.
“This the third time you’ve come in,” he observes. “When are you going to let me show off a little? I can do more than a slice of lemon in some iced tea.”
You look down at your glass, hoping he can’t see your embarrassment. “Oh, I…sorry. I don’t drink.”
But Seungcheol isn’t remotely bothered by this. “And? I can still fix you something fun. Do you like blackberries?”
He flips a new glass and begins muddling some blackberries and sugar in it. You’re torn between watching him work and eating pizza. Seungcheol wins, or more accurately, his hands do. They’re beautiful hands, strong and sure.
He puts on a show, pouring soda water and syrup with a flourish, squeezing a lime over the top. The glass is sparkling with ice and bubbles.
“If you like it, you can pay for it. If you don’t, it’s on me.”
You’re pretty sure he knows you’re the kind of person who will lie to protect his feelings, but luckily you don’t have to. Eyes widening at the rush of sweetness, you say, “I like it.”
He grins back. “Good. I can’t really afford to comp drinks.”
The gold necklace he’s wearing suggests otherwise. It’s an ornate cross, shining even in the low lights of the bar. He catches your gaze and brushes his fingers across the pendant.
“I’m not against accepting expensive gifts from friends, however.”
“Sounds like you have nice friends. I think I’m a little jealous.”
“Is that why you’re here with me?”
You like the way that sounds, like you’re having dinner with Seungcheol and not alone in a bar on a Wednesday night.
“I’m not great at talking to people,” you admit. “Like you’ve probably noticed.”
You wait for him to agree, but he says, “Nah. You’re doing just fine. But I’ll let you eat your dinner while it’s still hot.”
It’s his polite way of reminding you that he has other customers to attend to, or maybe reminding himself. He lingers for an extra moment before moving down to greet the new couple that just came in.
You busy yourself with your dinner, which is just as delicious as always. These outings are becoming dangerous for your waistline and your wallet, as well as your heart. You force yourself to slow down, enjoy the nuances of your specialty mocktail.
Someone settles down a few seats from you. When you glance over, you’re surprised that you recognize him. Wonwoo places a book down on the bar, adjusting his shoulder bag over the back of his stool.
You crane your neck a bit to see the cover and he raises it high enough for you to see the title: We’ll Prescribe You A Cat.
“That sounds really interesting. Can I take a photo?” you ask.
He holds it steady for you. “You can have it when I’m done. If you’re willing to wait.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind. It’s better to pass a good book on.”
The fact that he’s willing to share a book with you, basically a stranger, makes you feel a rush of happiness. Little by little, you’re starting to feel like you belong here.
His eyes scan the restaurant before he flicks the book open. You wonder how often he comes here. Often enough that Seungcheol sets a beer in front of Wonwoo without asking.
You also wonder how he can stand to read with all the noise.
“I’m good at tuning things out,” explains Wonwoo, catching your gaze. Tilting his head towards Seungcheol, he adds, “I’m friends with him.”
Seungcheol scowls. “You and your boyfriend are both assholes.”
Now you’re wondering about Wonwoo’s boyfriend. You get an almost immediate answer to your unspoken question: Mingyu exits the kitchen. Even with plates lined up his arms, he catches sight of Wonwoo and beams.
Wonwoo returns a quiet smile and goes back to his book.
As you finish your meal, you enjoy the atmosphere. You never thought you’d become a regular somewhere, but maybe you can here. The food is fantastic and the staff even better. It would be fun to become someone like Wonwoo, to spend your evenings somewhere you enjoy. With people you like.
That seems presumptuous though. You’re not sure how to tell the difference between being welcomed or simply tolerated sometimes. Still, the smile Seungcheol gives you as he takes your offered credit card feels genuinely warm.
“I’ll leave the book at the bar when I’m done,” Wonwoo tells you. “One of them will get it to you.”
You thank him while standing up to straighten out your clothes.
“That means you have to come back to visit me,” Seungcheol tells you as you sign your receipt. “I won’t forgive you if you get the book from Mingyu instead.”
“All right,” you say shyly. “I will.”
You could bask in his warmth right now. That single perfect dimple is visible again. Even if he’s just being nice, you don’t think there’s any harm in enjoying your brief time with him here. You wish you were braver. You wish you could return his easy banter.
“Try not to make me wait so long next time,” he says as he whisks your empty glass off the bar.
You don’t know what to say to that, but you have to say something, so you stutter out, “I–won’t,” before striding straight for the door without looking back.
It’s only once you’re at the end of the block that you let out a muffled groan. Why are you so bad at flirting? Why is he so good at it?
Or, you think as you pace your bathroom later that evening, brushing your teeth furiously, maybe he’s just being nice. Maybe he’s a fantastic businessman. After all, he’s gotten you to come in three times now to buy food and drinks.
Maybe that’s just part of the business model and why the staff are all so pretty. You’re letting Mr. Big Brown Eyes con you out of your hard-earned paycheck with his stupid dimple and endearing grin.
Even if that’s true, you’re not at the point where you care enough to quit.
You’re rinsing your mouthwash out of the sink when you notice your sister’s name pop up on your phone.
“Four months down!” she announces when you answer.
“Bet you didn’t think I’d make one.”
“Give me my money then, because I have total faith in you,” she replies smugly. “Tell me more about Chez Sexy.”
“I’ve been there three times already, Sis.”
“You must really like him!”
“Well, the food is delicious, too,” you add, because it’s not a lie and you don’t want to seem completely hopeless.
“Uh huh. And you spent how long eating your meal?”
Doing some quick calculations in your head, you’re horrified to realize that you average an hour and a half at the bar.
“Thought so! So unless service is really slow, you’re taking your time.”
“Seungcheol is just so easy to talk to.”
This gets another laugh from her. “Seungcheol? That’s his name? Hang on, this is the bar just off of Main Street? The one with the vintage shop sign?”
“What are you doing?” you ask anxiously.
“Just looking…oh wow. You’re not kidding! He is nice to look at.”
“He rides a motorcycle,” you mumble.
“Of course he does,” she says knowingly. “He’s tailor-made to break your heart.”
You know that. Someone like Seungcheol is probably the center of attention everywhere he goes. He talks comfortably with you at the bar because he’s working and you’re a customer. If you’d run into him anywhere else, you wouldn’t stand a chance.
“You know…it’s already May.”
“So?” you ask.
“So,” she presses, “you need to do another brave thing. Like get his number.”
“You just said he’d break my heart.”
“Yeah, but that’s part of being brave. Sometimes you need to take that risk. It’s healthy.”
You scoff.
“Besides,” she continues affectionately, “if he does, I’ll kick him in the nuts. How’s that?”
And just like that, she’s soothed your anxious cheetah heart. You adore your sister so much. Enough that you stay up later than you should talking to her about things besides Seungcheol. When you finally crawl into bed and click off the light, your mind is awash with possibilities.
What if you do decide to be brave?
It’s a busy night.
This is the first time you’ve visited the bar on a Friday but you’ve been thinking of Seungcheol all day. The chance to see his cute dimple and warm dark eyes is too much to pass up.
Except when you enter you can’t see him at all. The bar is completely overrun with what looks like a bachelorette party and half the nearby college population. Mingyu is at the corner closest to the door and he keeps trading off between throwing flirty smiles and demanding to see IDs.
This is exactly the kind of nightmare you don’t want to experience. Then you see Seungcheol at the other end of the bar and have to catch your breath. He’s gotten a haircut, judging by the way his hair is brushed up high on one side. It’s fresh and youthful and you feel giddy just seeing him.
God, you’re so silly.
You’re about to leave when Seungcheol catches sight of you and waves you over. He points out a single free stool in the corner; you hold your purse against your body and try to politely press and wave your way through the crowd. Finally, you extricate yourself from the loud and noisy crush of bodies and drop down onto the stool.
“I can’t believe you were going to just leave without saying hi.”
His words are rushed but his smile is as warm as it always is.
“You’re busy,” you point out. “I didn’t want to make things worse.”
“You can only make my night better,” he assures you.
Maybe your sister is right. Maybe you should do the brave thing tonight.
Someone calls from down the counter and he jerks towards them before pausing.
“Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
Before you can respond, he’s headed down to the other side of the bar, hands already pulling orders. You watch him flip cups and balance shot glasses along the rims. Bottle after bottle of alcohol is pulled, poured with a flourish, returned back to their homes without a glance. Even with this many people demanding drinks, he moves with confidence.
You’re so fascinated by his movements that it takes you a while to realize that one of the drinks he’s making is for you.
He drops off a very pink glass with a sugared rim, looking pleased with himself. “I made this up last night. You gotta tell me if it’s good.”
It’s delicious, but you don’t get a chance to say anything before he has to dash off again, this time to hand out orders. The server is staggering under the weight of her tray; Seungcheol hefts it up easily with one hand, using the other to slide hot plates of giant pretzels and fried food towards the ravenous patrons.
Almost everyone is eating finger foods tonight, voices louder than the TVs. It’s overwhelming. You look around hoping for a friendly face, preferably Wonwoo, but if he’s here tonight, he’s well hidden. You want to ask about the book, but now is clearly not a good time.
Seungcheol tosses a used towel under the bar before tucking a fresh one into his belt loop. A college student loses their balance, pouring their drink across the bar. Several women shriek and pull their drinks away from the puddle.
Seungcheol makes a motion to Mingyu, who rolls his eyes before heading over to the students. “All right, you guys are cut off.”
“Was an…an accident!” one of them slurs.
“Yeah, that tends to happen when you’re drunk. Eat a pretzel and go home.”
Shaking his head, Seungcheol wipes up the mess before trading his towel yet again.
“That looks exhausting,” you observe when he finally gets close enough to you.
“Unfortunately, it happens a lot.” Glancing down at your half-finished drink he says, “I’m an idiot. You haven’t even gotten to order, have you?”
“It’s okay. I can’t demand all your attention tonight. I know how to share.”
“I don’t,” he replies, and the intensity of his voice makes a shiver race through you.
The server is hovering with a tray in her hand, presumably looking for the group of students that have already filed out. Seungcheol whisks a plate from the tray and brings it over to you.
“Here, try this.”
It’s a massive soft pretzel, warm and soft with visible flakes of salt. There’s a trio of dipping sauces to go with it; your mouth waters at the sight of it.
“Your chef doesn’t do anything lightly, does he?”
“No, but don’t fall in love. I need him back there cooking. Also, I saw you first.”
You drop the piece of pretzel you’ve broken off, but Seungcheol is gone again. Okay, you’re not crazy. He has to be flirting with you.
The worst part is he’s not even giving you a chance to flirt back. It’s not like you’d do a good job of it, but you want to try, damnit.
Except you don’t see how you’re going to do that tonight. He’s barely able to check on you, so you eat your way through the amazing pretzel before calling it quits. When Mingyu passes by, you offer him your card.
He holds his hands up. “Can’t, been ordered not to take it,” he says before serving someone else.
You hesitate before tucking your card back into your wallet. Maybe Seungcheol feels bad about having to ignore you. You’ll make it up to him next time.
Stacking up your empty dishes neatly, you pull your purse strap over your shoulder and start eyeing your exit path.
“Wait–you’re leaving?”
Seungcheol’s come around to your side again. There’s a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and his expression is panicked.
“It’s late,” you call to him. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
He shouts for Mingyu. “I’m taking a break!”
Mingyu stares at him and then at the row of drink orders lined up. “You’re what?”
“Taking a break!” he calls, motioning for you to head to the front.
Steeling yourself, you push through the remaining crowd.
He joins you just outside the front door. “Hey! Thanks for hanging out tonight, sorry I couldn’t really talk.”
“That’s okay,” you tell him. “I like watching you work.”
“Oh?”
His smirk is enough to make heat rush to your face.
“I just mean it’s really cool to watch you, you know…” You mimic him flipping the liquor bottles. “I didn’t mean to sound creepy.”
“Wasn’t creepy. But since we’re being honest, at the risk of me sounding creepy, I’d like to talk with you more. Somewhere else where I’m not trapped behind a bar. What do you think?”
He sounds so smooth and yet you can see his fingers rubbing at the towel threaded through his belt loop. The thought that you might make Seungcheol nervous is exhilarating.
“I think I’d like that. How–?”
The door bangs open and a few patrons stumble out. Mingyu’s voice follows them. “--flirting and get back in here!”
Seungcheol shouts back, “Stop whining!”
Still, he hurriedly pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Number?”
“You don’t even know my name and you want my number?” you joke, voice a little uneven.
“I’ve known your name from the start,” he replies, “unless you’ve been paying with someone else’s card.”
It’s so blatantly obvious but he’s giving you that playful grin that you like so much, so you swallow down your embarrassment and give him your number.
His text pops up on your screen immediately: This is Seungcheol 🐰
“There. Now I can’t lose you.”
The door opens again and Mingyu’s furious voice carries out. “SEUNGCHEOL!”
“God, he’s such a baby.”
“You should go,” you urge him.
He takes a step before turning back to you. “Restaurant closes at 10. You’re not an early to bed, early to rise person, are you?”
“Of course not,” you lie.
His grin widens. “Of course not.”
“It’s Friday,” you reason. “I can stay up.”
“Stay up for me then. I’ll text you.”
With that, he jogs back into the restaurant, his perfect ass on display. You watch a little too long, your phone clasped in both hands.
You rush home giddy. Shower, do your night routine, climb into bed all with a huge smile on your face and your phone close by. You’re not even a little sleepy. Time is passing so slowly.
At 10:00 you have your phone in your hands again, waiting.
At 10:03 your phone chimes. You nearly drop it onto the bed in your haste.
Seungcheol 🐰: I’m off tomorrow
You find it strange that he’d be off on a Saturday. That seems like a busy day for a restaurant.
You: Are you supposed to be off tomorrow?
Seungcheol 🐰: I made a deal
Seungcheol 🐰: Let me take you on a date
A date. You, Seungcheol, somewhere not the restaurant. An actual date.
You: I’d like that
You: Anything I should know in advance?
Seungcheol 🐰: I have ideas. Will you survive without an itinerary?
He’s teasing, but it still makes you sigh.
You: I’ll manage
You: Can you at least give me a time?
Seungcheol 🐰: 11
He’s still typing, so you wait. It occurs to you that you have to call your sister right away; you hope she’s still awake. She’s the night owl of the family, so you’re pretty sure you can catch her. She’s going to be so proud of you. As soon as Seungcheol is done, you’re going to take a screencap of this thread as proof.
Then the next message comes in and you bury your face in your pillow, squealing with embarrassment.
Seungcheol 🐰: i’ll be sure to wear jeans 😉
Maybe you’ll hide that part.