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The apartment smells like rosemary, garlic, and something sweet—like browned butter or honey. It wraps around Park Wonbin the moment he steps inside, like a warm hug he doesn’t think he deserves.
The door shuts with a quiet click, muffling the sound of the city and everything he left behind in it: a rooftop, a body, a knife too clean to be questioned but too stained to be innocent. The black hoodie hanging off his frame still carries the faint weight of the job, the sleeve soaked a little deeper than he meant to let it get.
But inside—it’s quiet. Safe. Domestic in a way that almost makes his throat tighten.
“Bbin-ah?” a familiar voice calls from the kitchen. “That you?”
He kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his hoodie, hiding the worst of the blood by folding it inside-out before hanging it on the coat rack. His fingers sting faintly, a shallow cut barely clotted along the side of his thumb. There’s another smear on the back of his hand—dried now, dark against pale skin—but he ignores it.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice rough from disuse. “It’s me.”
Wonbin turns the corner, and the sight that greets him nearly brings him to his knees.
Lee Chanyoung stands in front of the stove, barefoot, wearing loose gray sweats and one of Wonbin’s oversized T-shirts (purposely bought oversized). There’s an apron around his waist, tied in a bow at the back, and his pudding-toned hair—chocolate brown melting into golden tips. Bangs fall into his eyes as he stirs something on the stove with a wooden spoon.
The sleeves are rolled up. His skin glows under the kitchen light. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek and the scent of seared meat and rosemary in the air.
Wonbin stares. A little longer than necessary.
“You’re staring,” Chanyoung says, a smile tugging at his lips as he adds something to the pan. “That bad, huh?”
“You look like dinner.”
Chanyoung laughs, bright and unbothered. “Lucky for you, dinner is almost ready.”
Wonbin swallows thickly and steps further into the kitchen, careful to keep his stained hand hidden at his side. He can’t tear his eyes away. His boyfriend—taller, radiant, completely unsuspecting—moves around the kitchen like he owns it, like he owns Wonbin.
And in a way, he does.
Chanyoung finally turns, holding up a spoon. “Taste?”
Wonbin leans in to sip the offered sample—something savory and warm that hits his tongue just right—but it’s not the food he’s hungry for.
Up close, he can smell the heat coming off Chanyoung’s skin. He watches the way his collarbone shifts, the bare hint of toned abs beneath the hem of the shirt, the small smile that forms when Wonbin makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat.
“You good?” Chanyoung asks, noticing the edge in his expression. “You look tired.”
Wonbin nods. “Just… long day.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He never does.
Chanyoung doesn’t see the blood under his nails or the fine split in his knuckles. Doesn’t notice the faint red streak across the hem of his white undershirt—won’t, unless he looks closely. Wonbin’s careful, always. Obsessively so.
But not tonight.
Tonight, all he can focus on is the way Chanyoung looks—soft and flushed and radiant, looking like something he should be worshiping with his mouth. With his body.
“Can we skip dinner?” Wonbin murmurs, stepping into his space.
Chanyoung raises an eyebrow. “That hungry, huh?”
Wonbin presses a hand to the counter beside Chanyoung’s hip, leaning in, letting his body speak the hunger his words can’t. “I want something else.”
The tension coils immediately.
Chanyoung doesn’t move away. He tilts his head, voice lower now. “You’re really doing this now? While I’m cooking?”
“You look like this,” Wonbin hisses, voice shaking. “What do you expect me to do?”
A breathless laugh escapes Chanyoung’s throat. “Touch-starved assassin can’t handle a little kitchen apron?”
Wonbin’s heart stutters.
He freezes—just a second—but Chanyoung doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the truth behind the joke.
Instead, Chanyoung steps into him, cupping his jaw, running a thumb just below his eye. “You’re burning up,” he whispers, leaning in, brushing his lips across Wonbin’s cheekbone, then to his lips. “Do you want me?”
Wonbin surges forward and kisses him like he’s starved.
Their mouths meet in a hot, desperate clash of tongue and breath. The spoon clatters into the sink. Chanyoung’s hands are in his hair, dragging him closer. Wonbin's own hands find Chanyoung’s waist, pulling him in between his legs as he lifts himself onto the edge of the dining table.
“Here,” he pants. “Please. Now.”
Chanyoung hums into his neck, voice low and teasing. “What if I get the table dirty?”
Wonbin huffs, already tugging at the knot of the apron. “Then I’ll clean it.”
“You’ll be the one who’s dirty, baby.”
“Then clean me.”
Chanyoung growls softly, palming the back of his thigh and squeezing. “You're so bossy for someone so desperate.”
Wonbin moans as Chanyoung kisses down his jaw, lips dragging fire over every inch of skin. Hands slide up his shirt, thumb brushing the underside of his ribs. The dining table creaks beneath them as Chanyoung shifts forward, towering over him with a lazy smirk and dangerous eyes.
Wonbin’s head drops back.
He doesn’t care if there’s blood drying under his fingernails or sins clinging to his skin.
Right now, all he wants is to be undone.
And Chanyoung—blissfully unaware, yet entirely in control—devours him.
🍒⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒
The kitchen is too warm now. Steam from the pan rises and mixes with their breath, the only sound left is the soft creak of the dining table and the slow, slick rhythm of bodies pressed too close to separate.
Wonbin gasps.
Chanyoung has him folded, hands gripping his hips with bruising strength, the apron long forgotten on the floor. There’s nothing soft about him now. Nothing gentle in the way he moves—deep, slow thrusts that leave Wonbin speechless, wrecked, trembling.
He looks up, dazed, barely able to breathe through the weight pressing into him.
It’s not just the length, or the stretch, or the rhythm that drives him wild.
It’s Chanyoung’s control.
How someone who wears pastel aprons and clips daisies for a living can manhandle him this way—make his thighs tremble, make him arch, make him forget his own damn name—is something Wonbin still hasn’t figured out.
He whimpers, reaching to grip the table edge as his stomach tightens again. “Chanyoung—ah, please—”
“You can take more,” Chanyoung murmurs darkly, voice hot against his ear. “You always do.”
And Wonbin does. He takes all of it.
His belly rises with every deep push, just enough to bulge beneath his flushed skin. Each roll of Chanyoung’s hips presses inside, hard, full, relentless. Wonbin feels it—feels him—everywhere.
Chanyoung is panting now, sweat dampening the golden tips of his hair. “You should see yourself,” he growls, one hand sliding down to press firmly over Wonbin’s lower stomach. Wonbin chokes on a moan as the pressure makes him feel everything that’s inside him. “You’re so full.”
Wonbin nods desperately, legs wrapped tight around Chanyoung’s waist. His body shakes, slick and spent and sensitive, but he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants it. Wants the weight, the pressure, the mess.
“Cum again for me,” Chanyoung breathes, curling forward, lips dragging over Wonbin’s collarbone. “Let it go. I’ve got you.”
Wonbin cries out, vision going white.
His release hits him hard, untouched—just from being filled, from the filthy pressure between his legs, from Chanyoung’s words and voice and presence. He clenches around him, body trembling through the waves, stars bursting behind his eyes.
Chanyoung follows with a low groan, burying himself deep.
And releasing.
Wonbin feels it immediately—the warmth, the wetness, the way Chanyoung stays deep and full and pulsing. He pants, dizzy, as more spills inside, thick and hot and unrelenting.
Another thrust. Another wave of it.
It doesn’t stop.
Chanyoung groans into his neck, riding it out slowly, letting it fill Wonbin to the brim, dripping where their bodies meet. Wonbin’s belly pulses again, tight and tender, visibly swollen from the fullness.
“God, look at you,” Chanyoung whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I made you so messy.”
Wonbin whines, overstimulated but blissed out.
He blinks up at him, lips trembling, every part of him burning and alive. “You’re not… not a soft boy at all.”
Chanyoung smirks, brushing sweaty strands from Wonbin’s face. “Only outside the bedroom.”
Wonbin laughs weakly—more of a wheeze, really—and lets his head fall back against the table, utterly wrecked. He can still feel him inside, warm and full, and it’s spreading lower, slower, with every small shift of movement.
It leaks.
Chanyoung hums, clearly noticing. “We’re going to have to mop the floor after this.”
Wonbin gives him a dazed smile. “We?”
Chanyoung presses one last kiss to his flushed stomach. “You made the mess. You’re helping.”
Wonbin laughs again, this time brighter, letting the intimacy soak into his bones.
He almost died tonight. A knife meant for his throat had barely missed—he still remembers the nick on his arm, the shallow slice he covered with a hoodie and nothing else. But here he is, alive, spread out on a kitchen table with the love of his life pressed deep inside him, surrounded by garlic and rosemary and something sweeter still.
He’s full in more ways than one.
And for once, maybe, he doesn’t feel guilty about surviving.
🍒⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒
The kitchen still smells like rosemary and now …sex.
Wonbin is too spent to move.
He lies sprawled over the table, legs still twitching, stomach flushed and tender, filled with more than just affection. His breath is a soft whimper with every exhale, eyes half-lidded and cheeks glowing.
“Baby?” Chanyoung murmurs gently, brushing damp strands from his forehead.
“Mmh?”
“You can’t stay here. You’ll cramp.”
“Let me die,” Wonbin mumbles. “Right here. At least bury me with the table.”
Chanyoung laughs, low and warm. “You’re dramatic.”
“You rearranged my guts.”
“Fair.”
Without warning, strong arms scoop under his thighs and shoulders. Wonbin squeaks—not even from the movement, but from how easily Chanyoung lifts him like he weighs nothing.
“W–Wait! I can walk—”
“No you can’t.”
And he can’t. Not really.
So he just lets himself be carried, head falling against Chanyoung’s chest, breathing in the scent of his boyfriend’s sweat and leftover citrus body wash as they move down the hallway.
“I’m still leaking,” Wonbin grumbles, embarrassed.
“I know.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Chanyoung grins. “So are you.”
—
The steam fogs up the bathroom mirror.
Wonbin stands under the water, letting the heat soak into his skin and the soreness melt from his thighs. He groans softly, bracing a hand against the tile as Chanyoung moves behind him with slow, deliberate hands.
“You’re gonna fall asleep standing,” Chanyoung teases, gently scrubbing down his back with a washcloth.
“I could,” Wonbin mumbles. “Would be a great way to go. Died clean, freshly ruined.”
Chanyoung chuckles behind him, the sound low and satisfied. “Ruined, huh?”
Wonbin turns just enough to flash a tired grin. “Don’t act innocent. You were feral.”
Chanyoung rolls his eyes but leans in anyway, pressing a kiss to Wonbin’s shoulder blade. “You were asking for it.”
“Yeah, and you gave me more than I asked for.” Wonbin tilts his head, smirking. “Didn’t know florists could do that with their hips.”
“I’m multi-talented.”
“No kidding.”
They wash in comfortable silence for a while. Chanyoung is surprisingly attentive with the aftercare—checking over Wonbin’s thighs, dabbing the nick on his arm without asking, massaging shampoo gently into his cherry-red hair. Wonbin leans into every touch.
It’s quiet in the way that makes Wonbin think.
About how this is his safest place.
About how fragile that safety is.
🍒⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒
Dinner is slightly overcooked, but neither of them complains.
Chanyoung has reheated the rosemary chicken and poured them both glasses of sparkling water like it’s date night. Wonbin eats slowly, chin in one hand, watching his boyfriend chew.
Chanyoung, now in a clean oversized tee and sweats, is back to looking like a soft boy —pudding-colored hair still damp, lips pink from too much kissing. It's ridiculous how easily he switches between ruthless in bed and bashful over table conversation.
Wonbin can't help it. He smirks.
“You know,” he says casually, stabbing a piece of chicken, “I really did feel full earlier.”
Chanyoung blinks. “...From the food?”
Wonbin leans in, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “No. From when you filled me up.”
Chanyoung chokes.
A full-body blush blooms across his cheeks, ears going pink as he stammers, “W–Wonbin!”
Wonbin laughs, absolutely delighted.
“Oh my god—your face! You look like you just sniffed fertilizer!”
“Stop talking,” Chanyoung mutters, hiding behind his glass. “You're the worst.”
“You’re so dangerous in bed, but the moment I flirt with you over dinner, you fall apart.”
Chanyoung glares, but it’s all fondness. “That’s because one of those things requires eye contact.”
Wonbin bites down a grin, quietly soaking in the contrast—his Chanyoung. The one who rearranges bouquets like magic by day, wrecks him at night, and blushes over chicken.
He loves this version. All of them.
Which is why, as the meal winds down and the moment grows still, a question sits heavy on Wonbin’s chest:
Should I tell him?
About the nights he doesn’t “just work late.”
About the blades tucked in his boots, the whispers exchanged in alleyways, the jobs that leave him bleeding behind locked doors.
Chanyoung deserves to know. Doesn’t he?
Wonbin studies him—bright eyes, lazy smile, a softness that shouldn’t exist in someone who can bend him in half like he weighs nothing.
But then Chanyoung catches his stare, tilts his head, and asks, “Something wrong?”
And it’s so simple. So normal.
Wonbin forces a smile. “No. Just thinking how lucky I am.”
Chanyoung rolls his eyes. “Cringe.”
Wonbin laughs, but his heart aches just a little.
He wants to tell him. He really does.
But he doesn’t.
Not tonight.
🍒⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒
Later, Chanyoung is cleaning up the table while Wonbin loads the dishwasher. There’s a small box tucked behind the toaster — a wrapped bouquet, half-finished, meant for delivery tomorrow.
Wonbin catches a glimpse of the label peeking out from underneath.
A flower he recognizes. Rare. Poisonous if prepared a certain way.
Chanyoung sees him looking.
“Special order,” he says easily, drying his hands on a towel. “Going to an old client.”
Wonbin hums. Doesn’t ask.
And Chanyoung doesn’t offer more.
But as they move around each other—close, familiar, intimate—Wonbin wonders if maybe… Chanyoung’s always known. Maybe he’s been helping, in his own quiet, careful way. A flower in the right place. A coded bouquet sent to the right address. Subtle hands in the dark.
Wonbin doesn’t ask.
He just lets it stay what it is.
A secret.
Shared in silence.
Held between two boys—one who kills, and one who knows how to make anything bloom.
🍒⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🍒
The flower is called wolfsbane.
Aconitum. Beautiful. Violet. Lethal.
Chanyoung cradles the bloom in his fingers like something fragile, though he knows better. He trims the stem with precision, wraps it in soft paper, and slides it into a narrow bouquet of innocuous lilacs and freesia.
The recipient will know.
So will the target.
He tucks a coded tag into the ribbon. No one outside their little corner of the world would see it for what it is. But someone like Wonbin—someone who’s danced in and out of the dark for years—would understand it immediately.
“You always come back to me alive,” Chanyoung murmurs to himself, voice barely louder than the leaves rustling outside the shop window. “That’s the only rule I care about.”
He doesn't flinch when he spots the faint bloodstain left behind on the handle of the door from the night before.
He never mentioned it.
Wonbin hadn’t noticed he was limping.
He thinks he hides it well.
But Chanyoung isn’t blind. Or stupid.
He knew from the first time Wonbin came home past midnight with eyes too sharp, and hands too steady, and a lie too soft on his lips. He knew when a call came in labeled “client” and Wonbin disappeared for four hours and came back smelling like sweat and metal.
He knew when he found his best pruning shears missing—and later cleaned, sanitized, and placed back in the exact wrong drawer.
And he never asked.
Because Wonbin never lied with malice.
He lied with guilt. With tenderness. With some twisted belief that sparing Chanyoung the truth was a kindness.
And maybe, in a way, it was.
So Chanyoung never said, I know you kill people.
He just said, Be careful.
And made bouquets that could mean get out now, change your plan, or there’s a trap waiting for you in the west alley.
He never said, I sent someone ahead of you.
He just said, That bouquet is for someone in a hurry.
He never said, I love you even when your hands come home bloody.
He just kissed his wrists and guided them into warm water.
He finishes tying the bouquet and slips it into a tall carrier bag. Another job done. Another day Wonbin gets to come home alive.
As he turns off the shop lights and locks the door behind him, Chanyoung wonders if Wonbin will ever say it aloud—what he is, what he does.
And if he doesn’t?
That’s okay too.
Because love, for them, doesn’t have to be confession.
Sometimes it’s just a safe house made of dahlias.
A knife hidden in a ribbon.
A warm shower after sex.
A blushing face over dinner.
A man who never asks questions he already knows the answers to.
Chanyoung slips the key into his pocket, smiles to himself, and walks home.
He’s got flowers in one hand.
And blood on the other.