Chapter Text
“You’re very quiet.”
Wooyoung and San make their way through the busy streets, and much like the sidewalks, Wooyoung’s mind is crowded. The more he tries to not think about it, the harder it becomes to think about anything else, and San’s comment, while Wooyoung knows it is intended to be comforting, is more suffocating than anything.
“Am I?”
San hums, barely audible over the vendor selling corn dogs on the corner. “Something wrong?”
“I dunno,” Wooyoung says with a sigh.
“Did we not do as well as you’d hoped?”
He shakes his head. “No, we did better than I hoped. I still need to count, but the donations should more than cover what I paid for out of pocket for renting the space, and I’ll probably take care of about half of the cost of the camera.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
He takes too long, his “Nothing” not believable. At least not to his best friend.
San pushes his lips out. “I’m not letting you in the apartment until you smile.”
Wooyoung lifts his chin and shows both rows of teeth.
“Stop!” San whines, shoving Wooyoung playfully before tucking him under his arm. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
They aren’t having this conversation now. Not in the middle of the street, not surrounded by crowds of people. It’s not even worth the time, Wooyoung knows he’s being silly. San is allowed to have other friends—a girlfriend even, if he wanted one. That’s the way the world works.
“It’s stupid.”
San’s fingers tighten around his shoulder when he looks down to stare at his scuffed-up sneakers. The sneakers that match San’s in a different color. The sneakers they bought together on a whim. “It’s not. If it’s bothering you, then it’s important.”
It’s more complicated than that. It’s going to sound bad no matter how he says it.
“I don’t think your friend liked me.”
He braces for impact. For inevitable teasing of being jealous. Of San confessing that they’re more than friends. That he wanted to introduce them in a more official way, because that’s exactly the kind of thing San would plan.
“Jisu?”
Wooyoung nods.
“She’s not my friend.” San scoffs, but there’s no venom behind it. “She’s a kid.”
A one-sided crush then? Or budding feelings?
“How do you know her?”
They turn into an alley, a common shortcut, especially for them. The same faded graffiti clutters the concrete walls. Wooyoung used to joke about buying a can of spray paint and tagging it together. San had always agreed, willing to do almost anything Wooyoung wanted. They’d spend the rest of the walk back to San’s talking about what they would add, feeling like geniuses when they suggested an umbrella at the same time, eyes wide with wider grins.
“She delivers boba to the shop.” They’re forced to detach as they reach the end of the stretch, rounding the corner onto San’s street, moving single file between groups of people. “Are you jealous?”
Wooyoung rolls his eyes, knowing the teasing would come eventually. They don’t lie to each other. Before he can answer, San looks over his shoulder at him and says, very seriously, “I’m very not interested.”
The butterflies are back, fluttering away in Wooyoung’s stomach as they get closer to the café. When the sidewalk clears, they end up side-by-side again.
“I put Seonghwa-hyung in charge.” San changes topics quickly. “Hopefully the lack of panicked texts means everything is fine and not because the place burned to the ground.”
“Wouldn’t we see the smoke?”
San laughs brightly, seemingly caught-off guard by Wooyoung’s sincerity. They can see the sign now, high over a clump of heads. As they get closer, Wooyoung notices the door has been propped open and a line trickles out onto the sidewalk.
“What the—” San cuts himself off.
The café is packed. They barely get through the door, San having to explain that no , they aren’t jumping the line, that he owns the place. Wooyoung can barely Seonghwa behind the counter, surrounded by a swarm of waiting customers. All the tables are full, too, which he’s never seen in all the visits he’s paid San throughout the years.
“It’s so busy.”
San looks incredibly confused. “I need to check on Hwa. Do you mind waiting on the stairs?”
Wooyoung nods. “Say hi from me.”
He starts toward the tiny back hallway that leads upstairs, muttering apologies as he weaves through everyone while watching San’s head blur with the rest. He disappears into the closet-stairwell hybrid and parks himself on the second step from the bottom.
Boxes are stacked against the wall, each labeled with San’s neat handwriting. He pokes one, the cardboard not budging, still waiting to be unpacked and given a home in San’s new home. A mop bucket sits in the corner, empty, of course, San is anything but a slob, so Wooyoung isn’t surprised that his habits apply to the café. There’s a coat rack on the back of the door, the over-the-top type that maximizes space but whacks off the wall when the door is opened too quickly or too far. San’s hoodies hang there, an empty spot left for what Wooyoung assumes is his winter jacket, probably packed in one of the boxes to his right. The wall above the door has a small crack climbing toward the ceiling, ending just before the crease where it meets the ceiling. The light fixture is filthy, too high to clean from the floor. It must drive San insane , Wooyoung thinks. There must be a ladder here somewhere, or Wooyoung could get on San’s shoulders so they could do it together.
There aren’t many things that Wooyoung and San can’t do when they’re together.
The door swings open, just enough for San to slip in. “I’m sorry, I have to help. Seonghwa-hyung is so backed up, and he tried to call Hongjoong but he’s at one of his other jobs, and I can’t leave him to deal with this alone.”
Wooyoung stands and holds San’s face between his palms. “It’s fine.”
“But I wanted to give you a proper tour,” San pouts, clearly torn between wanting to take Wooyoung upstairs and being unable to leave Hwa to the wolves.
“You can after. It’s only, what,” Wooyoung checks the time on his phone, “two hours before close?”
San nods, a displeased look on his face.
“Don’t sulk.” He pokes San’s cheek. “I’ll be fine on my own for two hours.” He leans up to kiss the tip of San’s nose. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“You won’t regret it,” San promises, digging his keys from his pocket and pressing them into Wooyoung’s hand.
Wooyoung shakes his head. “I never do.”
-----
The front door sticks, so you have to jiggle the handle.
San’s reminder circles Wooyoung’s head as he fits the key into the front door. It’s old-fashioned, sure, but in a way, Wooyoung thinks it matches San. He’s an old soul.
Once inside, the first thing Wooyoung notices is the smell. It smells...damp? A little like mothballs. It smells like his grandfather’s house, which, considering how long Jaesang lived here, basically never leaving, it makes sense.
He slips off his shoes and steps through the small entry into the main living area. Big windows bring in afternoon sun, rays beaming onto word wood floors. Compared to San’s old place, it’s massive. Massive and empty. San barely had furniture in his studio, nowhere to put anything extra, and while it worked there, it’s a little sad with all this extra space. San’s bed sits against the wall, and like before, the TV is straight across, set up the exact same way: Playstation to the right on one of the tiny shelves of the entertainment center, magazines opposite to it. Four controllers lined up neatly on top of the magazines.
The kitchen is equally bare, no table or chairs. No food in the fridge save some take out containers, a few bottles of soju, and a day-old pastry. Wooyoung shakes his head, a fond smile creeping onto his face. At least he’s eating. He opens the overhead cabinet and finds the same dish set that he bought San years ago next to a new set of glasses on freshly wiped-down shelves.
He pushes further into the apartment, peeking into a tiny bathroom cluttered with San’s skincare—the man is a sucker for cute sheet masks—before approaching the final closed door.
San’s new bedroom is small but cozy. He tucked his dresser into the corner, but a brand-new, queen-sized mattress sits in the middle of the floor, a charcoal bedspread stretched neatly across all four sides. It looks comfortable, or at least more comfortable than the sleeper sofa. A floor lamp sits in the corner opposite the dresser, another new item. Wooyoung flips the light switch, quickly realizing there’s no overhead light, and that the lamp is powered by the switch.
He looks up and finds little plastic stars scattered around the ceiling.
San remembered.
His breath catches in his throat, and he takes a moment to calm the butterflies in his stomach before stepping onto the terrace. Objectively it’s a shitty view. The balcony faces the back of a tall brick building, the light limited to a square above their heads. It’s private, though, and quiet, especially considering what street they’re on. San’s set up the same chairs from before, the same half-dead plant between them.
Wooyoung goes back inside, leaving the sliding door open, fills a plastic cup with water, and carries it back. He empties the water into the pot, watching the dirt soak it all up like it hadn’t had a drink in days. “Silly Sannie,” he says to himself, shaking his head and going back inside.
The mothball-smell is strongest in the living room, but San has a candle on the coffee table, a cinnamon-scented one. Wooyoung lights it and curls up on the couch. The place is really nice. It’s very San. The longer he sits there, the more he thinks about how lucky he is. The more he thinks, the heavier his eyes get. A hand-knit blanket is folded over the arm of the sofa. It smells like San. He pulls it up to his chin and closes his eyes, letting the scent soak through to his bones. It smells like home.
-----
“Wooyoung-ah.” San’s voice is warm, syrupy as it coaxes Wooyoung awake.
He nuzzles his face farther into the blanket.
“Woo.”
He doesn’t want to open his eyes. “Honey,” he mumbles. “Sannie, your voice is like honey.”
A pretty laugh fills the space between his ears, low and rumbly. Fingers dance across his scalp.
“I brought dinner.”
Wooyoung opens his eyes. He can just make out the blurred edges of San’s face, and he reaches for him, hand colliding with his cheek, San closer than Wooyoung’s sleep-fuzzy brain could tell. “M’sorry.” He frowns.
“It’s okay.” San chuckles. “Are you hungry?”
Wooyoung nods. “Why’s it so dark?”
“There’s a storm coming.”
He blinks again, and San’s features get clearer. He’s on his knees next to the couch, chin resting on Wooyoung’s chest. “Is the shop closed?”
“It is. After I locked up, I got us japchae from across the street.”
Wooyoung’s stomach growls.
“I love japchae.”
“I know you do.” San’s hand moves from his hair to his cheek. “Now wake up so we can eat.”
He groans. “Wanna sleep.”
San yanks the blanket away with an evil laugh. “Wake up! I’m hungry, and if I don’t eat, I won’t have enough energy to break in the new bed.”
Wooyoung’s heart flutters again , and he really needs it to stop doing that. He swallows around the gross post-nap feeling in his mouth and sits up. “You mean the mattress on the floor?”
San rolls his eyes and crosses the room into the kitchen. “If you don’t get up, I won’t eat your ass later.”
“Coming!”
-----
San insisted on eating on the balcony. Fat raindrops splat against the metal balustrade, thunderheads rolling in quickly, stretching against the gray sky. The balcony is deep, the rain not reaching their feet. Wooyoung asks why it was so busy, but San has no clue. He didn’t even have a chance to ask Seonghwa until they were going through their closing routine. He thought an idol may have shown up, or a social media influencer, but Seonghwa didn’t think so.
“He said everything just exploded.”
“Have you made any changes lately? Like advertising or a new menu?” Wooyoung asks around a mouthful of noodles.
San cringes as he crunches on a slice of carrot. “No? I mean, we started putting out the browned-butter cinnamon beignets last week, but they’re not that good.”
Wooyoung scoffs. “They are that good, don’t undercut yourself.” He scoops another bite into his mouth. “Do you keep track of what sells most often, when, or anything like that?”
“Not really.” His eyes fall to the floor. “You know numbers aren’t really my thing. That’s why you have to help me with taxes every year.”
San hates math and finance “mumbo jumbo” and relies on Wooyoung for most number-related things. He’s willing to bet that San didn’t think about that part of taking over the business, or at least think about it for long.
“Is that something I should do?” He asks, seemingly very interested in a jag on one of his fingernails.
“It might be helpful,” Wooyoung says, softening his voice. He hates how defeated San sounds. He can feel his insecurity. “But you don’t have to.”
San puts his bowl on the floor, then sits back, head hanging. “I want to be successful.”
“Sannie.”
The older doesn’t budge.
Wooyoung lets his chopsticks fall flat in his bowl, nearly empty, and sets it next to San’s. He sinks to his knees in front of San’s chair, hands resting on San’s knees. “San-ah.”
San sniffles.
With two fingers, Wooyoung lifts San’s chin until their eyes meet. “You are already successful. You’re a businessowner, and you aren’t even thirty.” The tremble of San’s lip breaks his heart. He rubs over San’s thighs. “Can I sit?”
“Please,” San mutters, hands finding Wooyoung’s wrists to pull him up, pull him closer, arms wrapping around Wooyoung’s waist as soon as he settles on San’s lap. He presses his forehead to the center of Wooyoung’s chest, relaxing when Wooyoung cradles his head with both arms, cheek on top of his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Wooyoung kisses the crown of San’s head. “Let me help you.”
“I can’t do this on my own.” Tears soak through Wooyoung’s shirt with San’s confession.
“You don’t have to.” He holds San tight, tears forming in his own eyes. “You have me. You’ll always have me.”
A shaky inhale follows a short nod. Then San leans back, sad brown eyes searching Wooyoung’s face. “Was this a mistake?”
“No. Buying the shop was not a mistake. Chances and risks don’t have to be bad things. I’m so proud of you.” He cups San’s cheeks. “I tell everyone how proud I am. But just because you started this journey on your own doesn’t mean you’re stuck on your own.”
San nods.
“I want to help if I can.” He wipes a tear from San’s cheek.
“Wooyoung?”
His heart thumps, mouth going dry. Something about the way San perked up when he spoke Wooyoung’s name felt new. Like he found a new strand of energy to cling to. The sparkle in his eyes is back, even if it’s still a little sad.
“Can I kiss you?”
Different. This is different to anything they’ve done. San has never asked, not like this—he doesn’t have to, and he knows that.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do. This time I do.”
Wooyoung’s heart aches. San’s hushed tone and the way he’s looking at him is overwhelming. He wants to ask why—wants to understand what’s going on inside San’s head. Because for the first time in forever, Wooyoung can’t figure San out.
His San. The most amazing man Wooyoung has ever known. He’ll never be able to read minds, but he thinks with San he can come close. They’re a perfect pair. When San moves, Wooyoung moves. They follow each other like waves, flowing smoothly with each other, sometimes unable to tell where one leaves off and the other picks up.
Wooyoung gives him permission.
“You can.”
Everything about this kiss is different. It’s not rushed or messy. It’s not a playful peck. It’s slow, soft, and gentle. The slow slide of their lips is filled with unspoken words, with love that hits Wooyoung like a tidal wave.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until San pulls back, concern etched into his face. He whispers, eyes wide, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
An overwhelming combination of confusion and fear crashes into a blurred realization that Wooyoung doesn’t understand. He wipes the tears from his cheeks with the backs of his hands.
“Are you okay?”
He nods.
“Are you sure?”
I think I’m in love with you.
Wooyoung’s veins turn to ice, and he freezes on San’s lap.
“Wooyoung?”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung gasps, blinking out of his panic. “I’m fine.” He nods. “I’m good.”
San’s eyes scan Wooyoung’s face like he’s trying to decide if Wooyoung is telling the truth. His hands still on Wooyoung’s waist. His mouth opens, likely to ask another question, to confirm if Wooyoung is really okay. Because he sees straight through him. Because he knows him better than anyone.
“So, the new mattress...” Wooyoung shifts forward, hips nudging San’s in the surprisingly sturdy patio chair. “You said it needs broken in, right?”
Brow still furrowed, San licks his lips, clearly thinking too hard for the question.
The younger leans in, lips brushing San’s ear, “Unless you don’t want to.”
It’s a pointless question with an obvious answer. San’s hands are on Wooyoung’s hips in an instant, yanking him forward and encouraging another roll. Chests pressed together, they kiss like they’re starving, feasting on each other’s lips. They kiss until Wooyoung can't breathe, scrambling backwards off San’s lap, pulling him up with him. He knows the way, tugging San back into San’s bedroom, a tiny yelp escaping his throat as San scoops him up under his thighs.
The mattress is a long way down, no bedframe to meet the floor halfway, and instead of throwing him down, San makes sure Wooyoung’s feet are flat on the floor before he pushes him to his knees. “So pretty.” He drags his thumb over Wooyoung’s lips, pushing past them to rest on his tongue.
Wooyoung wants everything.
He sucks San’s thumb and squeezes his cock through his jeans, watching San’s head tip back. He makes quick work of the button and zipper, shoving the denim to pool around San’s ankles. San pulls his hand back, but Wooyoung’s mouth doesn’t stay empty for long, lips wrapping around the head of San’s dick, tongue swirling, his own eyes fluttering shut as San’s fingers tangle in his hair.
“ Baby .”
Wooyoung’s eyes start to water, emotions dumping from his brain into the rest of his body.
“You can do better than that,” San taunts.
Wooyoung needs this. “Make me.”
San’s jaw tightens. “Shirt off.”
He does as he’s told as San steps the rest of the way out of his jeans and kicks them to the side.
“Hands behind your back.” His voice drops. “Only move them if you need me to stop. Three taps, yeah?”
Wooyoung nods and opens his mouth, tongue outstretched, fingers laced together behind his back.
“I’m not gonna come like this. Wanna come inside you.”
His chest heaves, practically panting at San’s feet. Spit dribbles down his tongue, about to drip onto his thighs, but San’s cock pushes it back in, spreads it around his cockhead as he fucks Wooyoung’s mouth. He’s heavy on Wooyoung’s tongue, thick where his lips stretch around his shaft. San is careful with him, even as he pushes in deeper. Warming him up for what’s to come.
He looks up at San through his lashes, only breaking eye contact to blink, tears streaming down his face. “You’re so fucking good like this.” San’s thrusts sharpen. “Such a pretty little thing, you know? Take it so well.” He moans as he pushes all the way inside, forcing himself into Wooyoung’s waiting throat, letting him gag on it. “If I weren’t so greedy,” San grits out, “I’d come down your throat.” His hips slow down, and his grip on Wooyoung’s hair loosens as he pulls out, a trail of spit falling from Wooyoung’s lip.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Wooyoung.”
His heart jackhammers in his chest. “Show me.”
San sinks to his knees and brings his lips to Wooyoung’s neck. The younger shivers as San’s warm, wet tongue licks over his pulse point, gasping at the teeth that follow. With an arm around his waist, San lies them both down, situating himself between Wooyoung’s thighs.
“Young-ah,” San says, sitting back on his heels to run his palms over Wooyoung’s torso. He eyes the silver bars through Wooyoung’s nipples and pushes down on them with his thumbs. The pressure makes Wooyoung squirm, a dark chuckle leaving San’s lips as he starts slow circles around the hard nubs. “So sensitive. Bet you could come just from this, yeah?”
Wooyoung groans because fuck, that’d be hot, but he doesn’t think he could do it. “Probably not,” he says honestly, words trailing into a moan when San presses down again.
The fake pout that Wooyoung has grown fond of over the years appears on San’s face. “Why not?”
“I’m too impatient.”
San laughs then nods knowingly. He pinches, rolling his lips together when Wooyoung’s eyes roll back. “Could always tie you up. Use one of those cute bandanas you wore when we first met.” His hands drag down Wooyoung’s arms, circling around his wrists then pushing them up over Wooyoung’s head.
“Need a headboard though.” Wooyoung pants, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.
“Mhm,” San hums. “Too much of a brat to listen nicely.”
“Not always a brat.”
“I know.” San dips down to lick over Wooyoung’s nipples, tugging metal between his teeth and pulling a yelp from his lover’s lungs. “Sometimes you’re so good for me.”
Wooyoung whines when San switches to the other side of his chest, rolling the piercing around with his tongue. “You like when I’m good?”
“I do. Like when you’re bad, too.” Wooyoung buries his hands in San’s hair as the assault on his chest continues, San nipping and sucking marks like constellations. “What are you gonna be tonight? Are you gonna be a brat?” He sucks Wooyoung’s right nipple hard then moves to the left. “Or are you gonna be my good boy?”
Wooyoung sobs, stomach twisting around itself.
“You like that, Youngie?” San taunts. His lips start a treacherous trail past Wooyoung’s sternum and over his stomach. “Like being my good boy?”
“ San .”
A heavy hand smacks the side of Wooyoung’s thigh, and San tuts. “Guess you aren’t gonna be good.”
“I will, I’ll be good,” Wooyoung gasps.
San’s face is above his again faster than he can blink. “Good for who?”
“For you.”
“Only me?” San asks, eyes growing darker.
He’s so fucking hot Wooyoung thinks he’s going to die. He’s in love with this incredibly hot man who’s about to either treat him like a prince or make him fall apart.
“Only you.”
The faintest hint of a smirk plays at the corner of San’s mouth. “Why?”
The realization settles in Wooyoung’s stomach faster than he can swallow, faster than he can get his hands on San’s shoulders. He knows what San wants to hear, and more importantly, he wants to say it. He wants it to be real.
“Because I’m yours.”
San all but growls as he captures Wooyoung’s lips in another kiss. Wooyoung winds his legs around San’s hips, holding onto his shoulders for dear life. He tries to keep up with San’s mouth, but his head is spinning, a constant rotation of San, San, I love San, I’m in love with San. He can't catch his breath until San breaks the kiss to pull his shirt over his head. He’s stunning—golden skin over taut muscles.
Teeth around his nipple jolts him back to present.
“I used to think anyone who said they were sensitive here was lying.” San recounts the story he’s told before. He made Wooyoung cry once only by accusing him of faking it. Of wiggling around underneath San just to work him up. It ended with a lot of tears and Wooyoung trying to make San feel anything there. “Think if I got mine done I’d feel it?”
That’s new. Once Wooyoung’s brain catches up with the idea, he groans, picturing San’s built chest with a ring through one of his nipples. He can’t keep his hips from rocking upward.
“You like that idea?”
Wooyoung can’t do anything except nod, brain turned to mush. San laughs and hooks his fingers under the waistband of Wooyoung’s shorts. They’re thrown somewhere, underwear gone too, and then lovebites are being bitten into his thighs.
“San, please.”
“What do you want, baby?”
“Make me yours.” The words come out before he can think about the implications, but San doesn’t appear bothered. If anything, he looks hungrier. Needier. Like he wants nothing more than to make Wooyoung his.
Everything feels deeper. San’s fingers open him up one-by-one. Neither say a word, Wooyoung reduced to a muttering mess of random syllables, and San hyper-focused, labored breathing and hums of praise. San knows all Wooyoung’s silent cues, the way he claws at his back an invitation for more.
San slicks himself up and pushes inside. Wooyoung is so full, split open around San’s cock, but he wants more. He wants to be surrounded by the man. Needy hands find San’s biceps and urge him upwards, not satisfied until San’s forehead is against his own, forearms on either side of his head. Safely wrapped up in San. He snakes his arms under San’s and over his shoulders, giving himself leverage. They rock together in perfect harmony.
San’s hips jolt forward when Wooyoung starts to move with him. “ Mine .”
Wooyoung nods frantically, quick to confirm. “Yours.”
They’re like stuck CDs, whispered chants of mine and yours all they can manage until Wooyoung feels himself getting close.
“Sannie, gonna come.”
San fucks into him harder and faster. “Come for me.”
Three more hard thrusts have Wooyoung spilling between them, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into San’s back. He’s gasping for air as he comes down, San still fucking him, hips starting to stutter. He reaches down to squeeze San’s ass, pulling him closer as if he could get any deeper inside. It’s all San needs, and with his next thrust, he buries himself, coming inside Wooyoung with a grunt.
Wooyoung feels it—the wet warmth of San inside him. “Don’t pull out yet. Please.”
San pants against his neck, hot breath blooming over Wooyoung’s skin. “My Wooyoungie.”
He doesn’t know what weight the words hold for San, but in this moment it doesn’t matter. He murmurs them right back. “My Sannie.”
When San eases out he kisses over Wooyoung’s collarbones, gentle hands on Wooyoung’s waist, a hushed apology when the younger winces. He cleans Wooyoung’s skin with a damp cloth and helps him into a clean pair of underwear.
“You take such good care of me.”
“We take care of each other, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung softly agrees. “No one takes better care of me than you.”
San slips under the covers, arranging the blanket nicely over them both. He left the sliding door open, the summer night’s breeze flowing into the room. “Likewise.” He wedges his arm between Wooyoung’s neck and his pillow, rolling him onto his side. Wooyoung goes easily, comfortably resting against San’s chest, a leg bending over one of San’s.
They don’t say anything for a while, still coming down from emotions and orgasms. The sun starts to set, and as the room grows dark, the stars on the ceiling start to glow. Wooyoung’s heart thuds. He had forgotten about the stickers.
“I can’t believe you remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“The stars.”
“You said we should have them.”
“I didn’t think you would get them though.”
“I’d get the real stars for you if I could.”
Wooyoung holds San tighter, a sort of lingering hug, but the panic starts to build, a confession on the tip of his tongue. The uncertainty of San’s response increases his panic, and he searches for something else to say. Anything. Then he remembers.
“So, should I book an appointment for you?”
“Appointment?”
Wooyoung draws a circle around San’s nipple. Then he feels San shrug.
“Sure.”
He pushes himself up onto an elbow. “You serious?”
“Why not? Might look good.”
“Oh,” Wooyoung snorts. “It’ll be hot as fuck. I’ll probably die.”
San laughs. “Don’t die. At least not before it heals. I need to know if it’ll work.”
“Someone else can tell you while I’m rolling in my grave.”
San rubs the back of Wooyoung’s neck. “I don’t want anyone else.”