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If you asked Seonghyeon to choose between five dollars and a rich, handsome man clinging to him like a lost puppy, he wouldn't even let you finish the sentence. He’d take the five dollars, sprint to the nearest gachapon machine, and pray for a limited-edition keychain. At least the keychain wouldn’t talk back.
Seonghyeon’s life wasn’t a "journey." Journeys involved scenery and reflection. His life was a high-speed chase where he was both the pursuer and the pursued—usually by a stack of bills that seemed to multiply whenever he blinked.
At 5:30 AM, the world was a cold, cruel place. Seonghyeon sat behind the counter of "CR Mart," staring blankly at a row of triangle kimbap. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was currently debating if he could nap for exactly forty-five seconds while the coffee machine cycled.
Ding-dong!
The door chimed, a sound that usually triggered a fight-or-flight response. A regular customer, an old man in a tracksuit.
"Hard worker, this one," the man grunted. "You're going to be a CEO one day, kid."
"I’d settle for a nap on a flat surface, sir," Seonghyeon muttered, his voice gravelly. "That’ll be 1,200 won."
By 10:00 AM, Seonghyeon was in the back of a lecture hall. He wasn't even sure if he was in the right class. Was this Macroeconomics or Intro to Sociology? It didn't matter. He was currently using a highlighter to keep his eyelids from drooping. His notebook was a chaotic mix of lecture notes and a frantic "Budget for November" that consisted mostly of crossed-out dreams.
- Lunch? Crossed out.
- New socks? Maybe in December.
- Sanity? Not in this economy.
By 11:30 PM, Seonghyeon was wearing a grease-stained apron at a restaurant he worked at. He was thirty minutes away from clocking out, and his patience was thinner than the cheap napkins he was stocking.
That’s when the chaos arrived.
A guy who looked like he’d stepped off a luxury watch billboard stumbled into the restaurant. He was probably wearing a suit that cost more than Seonghyeon’s tuition, but his tie was looped around his neck like a noose and his face was a map of drunken heartbreak.
"She said... she said I'm too predictable!" the guy wailed, slamming a hand onto a table and sending a bottle of soju rattling. "I bought her a building! Is a building predictable?!"
The other diners were staring. The manager was vibrating with rage. Seonghyeon, wanting to avoid a scene that would delay his clock-out time, sighed and grabbed the guy by the expensive fabric of his sleeve.
"Sir, you’re predictable and you’re loud. Let’s get you a taxi," Seonghyeon deadpanned, hauling the dead weight of the rich man toward the exit.
Outside, the cold air hit the guy and he buckled, grabbing onto Seonghyeon’s waist like a life raft. He looked up with wet, sparkling eyes, staring at Seonghyeon as if he were draped in celestial light—though it was just the flickering neon sign of the restaurant.
"Wait..." he breathed, his voice thick with wonder. "Are you... an angel? Or are you the cupid tasked to make me fall in love again?"
Seonghyeon looked down at his own grease-stained shirt and the dark circles under his eyes. "I’m a tired college student, sir. Let go of my belt."
"No, no," he insisted, leaning his forehead against Seonghyeon’s stomach. "Forget her. How about you go out with me instead? You’re much prettier than a building. My name is Keonho, you should know that."
Seonghyeon stared at the top of the man’s well-groomed head, completely unimpressed. Great, Seonghyeon thought, Not only am I broke, but I’m being propositioned by a high-functioning lunatic.
After a grueling fifteen-minute argument with his manager—who only agreed to let him leave if he clocked out early, Seonghyeon found himself hauling the dead weight of Keonho into a hotel that cost more per night than Seonghyeon made in a year. Thankfully, the other guy was drunk enough to swipe his own card.
The gold-leaf elevator doors hissed open. Seonghyeon was sweating through his uniform, his muscles screaming. He finally managed to swipe the key card, drag Keonho into the suite, and dump him onto the king-sized bed like a sack of expensive potatoes.
Seonghyeon stood there, panting, staring at the panoramic view of the city skyline. He looked at his own cracked phone screen and then at the unconscious man in the silk suit. "What am I doing with my life?" he whispered to the empty room. "I could be sleeping. I could be studying. Instead, I’m a high-end delivery service for drunks."
Seeking a shred of sanity, he face-timed his friend James. "Hyung, can you help me? I don't know what to do with this guy and he passed out drunk. Aren't you experienced with this type of thing?"
"First of all, how dare you talk about your hyung like that? Secondly, who the hell is that?" James’s face filled the screen, eyes wide as he spotted the luxury headboard behind Seonghyeon. "Wait... did you finally find a sugar daddy? He doesn't look that old, though. Can you even call him 'Daddy' if he looks like a K-drama lead?"
"Nevermind," Seonghyeon snapped, his thumb hovering over the end-call button. "You’re useless. I'm hanging up."
"Wait! Is he—" Click.
Seonghyeon looked at Keonho, who was currently snoring into a velvet pillow. Despite his better judgment—and the dwindling balance in his bank account—Seonghyeon sighed. If this guy woke up with a migraine, he’d probably sue the hotel.
He took the room card, went downstairs to a nearby pharmacy, and bought any fast-acting hangover tonic available. He felt every single won leave his soul as he tapped his card.
While Seonghyeon was out, the cool air of the suite and the sudden lack of movement finally jolted Keonho’s brain into semi-function. Feeling sticky and miserable, Keonho stumbled into the bathroom, stripped, and let the steaming water blast away the smell of galbi and heartbreak.
Ten minutes later, Seonghyeon kicked the door shut and walked back into the room, plastic bag in hand.
"Alright, listen up, you expensive disaster, I bought your—"
Seonghyeon froze. The bathroom door had swung open. Keonho walked out, a single white towel slung precariously low around his hips, steam billowing out behind him like a music video.
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?" Keonho shrieked, clutching the towel as if his life depended on it.
"AH! PUT SOME CLOTHES ON!" Seonghyeon yelled back, his face turning a shade of red that matched the "SALE" signs at the mart. In a moment of pure panic, he flung the plastic bag of medicine at Keonho’s head.
---
After five minutes of frantic shouting, a very confused Keonho sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a hotel robe and holding the cold bottle of medicine to his forehead. Seonghyeon stood by the door, arms crossed, refusing to look anywhere but the carpet.
"Look," Seonghyeon grumbled. "I work at the restaurant. You were making a scene. I brought you here so I wouldn't get fired. You owe me for the medicine, taxi and my labor."
Seonghyeon started rambling, his voice rising in pitch as he listed his grievances. "I have a lecture at 9:00 AM. I haven't slept. My socks have holes in them. And you have the audacity to jump-scare me while half-naked—"
He stopped because Keonho wasn't listening. Keonho was staring up at him, eyes wide and completely star-struck. The harsh morning light hitting Seonghyeon’s frustrated, tired face seemed to have a magical effect on the rich man’s hungover brain.
"You're... you're the angel in my dreams," Keonho whispered, ignoring the debt list entirely. "The grumpy, beautiful angel."
Seonghyeon stared at him for a second and he looks around to spot cameras because he feels like he's on the Truman Show right now. The fuck is this guy on about? Angel? Don't make me laugh. "I am a debt collector. Pay me," Seonghyeon deadpanned.
Keonho stood up, leaning in close, smelling like expensive hotel soap. "How about you just go out with me instead? I’ll pay for the socks. I’ll pay for everything."
"Sir, you are delusional, and I think you need to go back to sleep," Seonghyeon said, his voice flat with exhaustion. He snatched a pen from the bedside table, grabbed a crumpled receipt from his pocket, and scribbled a string of numbers on the back.
"Here's my number. Only because you still owe me for the medicine, the taxi, and my sanity," he added, thrusting the paper at Keonho’s chest.
Keonho took the receipt as if it were a rare, signed manuscript, a dazed but amused smirk playing on his lips. "Wow... I didn't know you had a flirty side. Giving a guy your number while he's half-naked? I’ll use it well. At least, can you tell me your name?"
"It’s an invoice, not a flirting tactic," Seonghyeon snapped. After a short thought, he replied "My name is Seonghyeon, if that's all then I'm going home."
He didn’t even wait for a rebuttal. He scooped up his bag, muttered something about "rich people and their high-definition delusions," and sprinted out of the hotel suite. He had a 9:00 AM lecture, and he wasn't about to fail Macroeconomics because of a man who thought towels were optional and reality was a K-drama.
---
For the next few weeks, Seonghyeon’s phone developed a personality.
Unfortunately, it was Keonho’s.
It vibrated at every inappropriate moment—mid-lecture, mid-shift, and once while Seonghyeon was elbow-deep in greasy dishwater. Keonho didn’t just text; he live-blogged his existence with a startling lack of regard for audience consent.
[10:15 AM] Keonho: Just had an espresso.
[10:16 AM] Keonho: It was aggressive.
[10:16 AM] Keonho: Like you when someone breathes near you before 9 AM.
[10:17 AM] Keonho: I say this with love.
[10:17 AM] Keonho sent a selfie
Seonghyeon saw it two days later, buried beneath a bank alert reminding him he was still poor and three Canvas notifications reminding him he was still failing Intro to Sociology. He huffed, thumbs hovering.
you’re blocked, he typed.
That didn’t stop the siege.
[2:40 PM] Keonho: Important update!
[2:40 PM] Keonho: I saw a cloud shaped like triangle kimbap.
[2:40 PM] Keonho sent a photo
[2:42 PM] Keonho: Have you eaten?? Don’t lie to me.
Seonghyeon read that one on his break, sitting on a milk crate behind the restaurant, chewing on nothing but resentment. He typed yes, then erased it. Typed no, erased that too. Finally, he locked his phone and took another sip of coffee that tasted like burnt rubber.
At night, when exhaustion blurred the edges of his irritation, the messages felt louder.
[11:05 PM] Keonho: I’m at a gala.
[11:05 PM] Keonho: There are too many rich people and not enough exits.
[11:06 PM] Keonho: I’d trade all of this for that greasy place you work at.
[11:07 PM] Keonho: Specifically just to watch you bully a drunk customer.
That one made him laugh out loud—a sharp, sudden sound that felt rude considering how tired he was.
pay me back, he replied, face half-buried in his pillow.
Keonho responded before the screen could even dim.
[11:09 PM] Keonho: Gladly.
[11:10 PM] Keonho: I accept payment in dinners.
[11:10 PM] Keonho: Or dates. Same thing.
Every Friday, like a recurring debt, the invitation arrived.
[6:00 PM] Keonho: So
[6:00 PM] Keonho: I have a reservation at a new rooftop place.
[6:01 PM] Keonho: OR
[6:01 PM] Keonho: A cat café where a creature will sit on your lap and love you unconditionally.
[6:02 PM] Keonho: Unlike you.
[6:02 PM] Keonho: Date?
Seonghyeon would stare at the screen. Two seconds. Three. Once, he almost typed maybe. Once, his thumb slipped and hit 'y' before he panicked and scrubbed it out.
He typed the same thing he always did.
[1:54 AM] Seonghyeon: Too busy
It was the truth. His life was a high-speed chase of 5:30 AM shifts and lectures. There was no room for rooftops or cats. But then—
[2:00 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:06)
"Are you back home? Sleep well."
Seonghyeon listened to it twice. The low, rumbling quality of Keonho’s voice through the speaker felt far too intimate for two in the morning.
He didn’t mean to send a voice note back. It was exhaustion turning his hands stupid. His phone slipped against the pillow, his thumb brushed the screen, and before he could blink—
Recording...
He froze. Panicked. Tried to cancel, but his brain was soup. He lifted the phone to his face, let out a shaky, frustrated breath, and muttered:
[2:13 AM] Seonghyeon sent a voice note (0:03)
"Keonho, shut up."
Silence. Horrified, he stared at the waveform. Delete for everyone. Delete for everyone. Too late. The typing bubble appeared. Then stopped. Then—
[2:14 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:10)
"Oh. Okay. Wow. That’s... my name. In your voice. At two in the morning. I’m choosing to believe that was affectionate."
Another buzz.
[2:15 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:08)
"Also, for the record? I will not shut up."
Seonghyeon buried his face in his pillow and screamed silently. Ignore him. Go to sleep. Pretend you died.
[2:17 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:14)
"Since we’re doing this now—hi. This is me formally requesting another voice note. Preferably one where you don’t tell me to shut up. But I’ll accept variations."
Seonghyeon dragged a hand down his face. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn't. He pressed the mic.
[2:19 AM] Seonghyeon sent a voice note (0:05)
"...I was asleep."
Immediate chaos.
[2:19 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:12)
"Oh? So you think of me in your sleep. Interesting."
[2:19 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:09)
"I’m never emotionally recovering from this."
Seonghyeon laughed despite himself. He covered his mouth, his eyes burning with exhaustion and a warmth he refused to name.
go to sleep, he typed.
Keonho didn’t reply immediately. Then, softer:
[2:22 AM] Keonho sent a voice note (0:06)
"Okay. Night, Seonghyeon."
Seonghyeon stared at the ceiling long after the screen went dark. The next morning, his phone lit up at exactly 9:00 AM.
[9:00 AM] Keonho: So.
[9:00 AM] Keonho: Voice notes are a thing now.
[9:01 AM] Keonho: I’m very excited for our future.
Seonghyeon didn’t reply. But he didn’t mute the chat, either.
After three weeks of "Too busy," "Maybe later," and "I’m literally in a lecture, stop texting me," Keonho’s patience finally snapped. He was a man who moved markets and closed mergers; he wasn't used to being ghosted by a guy who wore socks with holes in them.
If Seonghyeon wouldn't make time for him, Keonho would simply buy the time.
---
On a random morning, the world is in its usual gray, freezing self. Seonghyeon was back behind the counter of "CR Mart," his soul slowly leaving his body as he waited for the coffee machine to hiss. He was currently debating if he could survive on a diet of purely expired protein bars to save up for new socks.
Ding-dong!
The door chime rang with a strange, aggressive energy. Seonghyeon didn't even look up. "Welcome to CR Mart. The hot water for the ramyun is broken."
"I don't want ramyun."
Seonghyeon froze. That voice was too smooth, too deep, and far too rested for five-thirty in the morning. He looked up, and there stood Keonho.
He wasn't wearing a rumpled suit anymore. He looked like he’d stepped out of a high-fashion "casual Friday" catalog—cashmere sweater, perfectly styled hair, and a smile that radiated 'I have never worried about a utility bill in my entire life.'
"You," Seonghyeon narrowed his eyes, gripping his scanner like a weapon. "What are you doing here?"
Keonho didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to the refrigerated shelf. With the grace of a man browsing a luxury boutique, he began grabbing every single triangle kimbap on the rack.
Tuna-mayo. Spicy pork. Kimchi fried rice. Bulgogi. He scooped them all into his arms, then moved to the sandwich section. Then the bento boxes.
"What are you doing?" Seonghyeon asked, bewildered. "Are you hosting a party for a very small, very hungry army?"
Keonho dumped the mountain of plastic-wrapped food onto the counter, nearly burying the cash register. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, looking at Seonghyeon with terrifyingly bright eyes.
"I'm clearing your schedule," Keonho said smoothly.
"My... what?"
"If I buy everything in the store, you don't have to serve any other customers, right? You can just talk to me." Keonho pulled out a black credit card—the kind that didn't have a limit—and tapped it against the card reader. "Ring it up. All of it."
Seonghyeon stared at the mountain of food. He looked at the black card. He looked at Keonho’s hopeful, handsome face.
Normal people would find this romantic. Most people would be swept off their feet by the grand gesture.
Seonghyeon just saw inventory.
"This is going to take me forty minutes to scan manually because the bulk-code is glitched," Seonghyeon said, his voice flat. "And we don't do refunds on fresh food."
"Perfect," Keonho grinned, undeterred. "I have all morning. After you're done, I'm taking you to breakfast. Somewhere with chairs that aren't plastic."
Seonghyeon started scanning the first kimbap with a rhythmic beep. "I'm charging you a convenience fee for the manual labor."
"Double it," Keonho whispered, looking at Seonghyeon like he was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Forty minutes later, the counter was clear, the black card had been swiped for a truly irresponsible amount of money, and Seonghyeon was peeling off his blue vest with the clinical efficiency of a man who had exactly twelve minutes before his bus arrived.
Keonho was still leaning against the counter, looking smug. "So, Seonghyeon. Breakfast? My car is—"
"I don't do cars. They get stuck in traffic and make me late for Sociology," Seonghyeon interrupted, shoving his apron into a locker. He pointed at the mountain of plastic-wrapped food. "And you aren't leaving that here. Store policy. You bought it, you take it."
Keonho blinked. "All of it? Now?"
"Every. Single. One."
---
The sight was majestic, in a deeply pathetic way.
Keonho—a man who probably had a dedicated person just to steam his shirts—was currently trudging down the sidewalk behind Seonghyeon. He was clutching four oversized plastic bags bursting with tuna-mayo kimbap and cheap bento boxes. The bags were heavy, the plastic handles were cutting into his manicured hands, and he was struggling to keep his designer coat from dragging on the pavement.
"Seonghyeon-ah," Keonho panted, dodging a high schooler on a bicycle. "Wait! Is this... is this the date? A walking tour of the industrial district?"
"This is a commute," Seonghyeon said, not looking back. "You’re the one who decided to buy the entire refrigerated section. Consider it a workout."
The bus pulled up, hissing and smelling of damp upholstery. Seonghyeon hopped on, tapped his transit card, and headed straight for the back. Keonho followed, looking like a very wealthy, very confused pack mule.
As the bus jerked forward, Keonho stumbled, the bags of kimbap crinkling loudly. He ended up squeezed into a tiny yellow seat, surrounded by bags of convenience store food, while an elderly woman stared at him with profound judgment.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Keonho whispered to Seonghyeon, who was standing over him, holding the handrail.
"I'm wondering if you're actually going to eat those," Seonghyeon said, checking his watch. "Because if not, I know a shelter near campus. Or I could take them. I could live off these for a month."
Keonho looked up, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by a weirdly soft expression. He reached out—carefully, so as not to drop a bento—and tugged on the hem of Seonghyeon’s hoodie.
"If I give you the food, will you stay for the whole lecture? Or will you disappear the second the bus stops?"
Seonghyeon looked at the rich man, then at the bags of food that represented his entire monthly grocery budget, and finally at the genuine, puppy-like desperation in Keonho’s eyes.
"I'll stay," Seonghyeon sighed, his resolve crumbling under the weight of free calories. "But if you start talking during the professor's slides, I'm pretending I don't know you."
Keonho beamed, oblivious to the fact that he was currently sitting on a spicy pork sandwich. "Deal. I've always wanted to learn about... what is this? Macro-something?"
"Macroeconomics," Seonghyeon deadpanned. "Which, ironically, you are currently ruining with your spending habits."
---
The lecture hall was a cavernous, poorly lit room that smelled of damp umbrellas and desperation. Seonghyeon marched to his usual spot in the back corner—the "stealth zone"—where he could theoretically doze off without the professor noticing.
Keonho followed, still clutching the four massive bags of convenience store food. He looked like a displaced royal refugee. Every time he moved, the plastic crinkled with the volume of a gunshot in the silent room.
Crinkle. Snap. Rustle.
"Sit. Down," Seonghyeon hissed, pointing at the seat next to him.
Keonho squeezed into the tiny desk-chair combo. His long legs were pushed up against his chest, and he had to pile the mountain of kimbap and bento boxes on the floor around his feet. He looked like he was nesting in a fortress of processed carbohydrates.
Professor Park, a man whose skin was the color of old parchment, began droning on about 'Aggregate Demand'.
"Now," the Professor said, tapping a laser pointer against a graph. "If we look at the consumption function—"
CRUNCH.
The entire class turned. Keonho had opened a bag of shrimp chips. He froze, a single chip halfway to his mouth, looking like a deer in high-end headlights.
"Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Mr...?" Professor Park peered over his spectacles.
"Keonho," he said, straightening his expensive shoulders. "And no, Professor. I was just... fueling my brain. Please, continue. This 'demand' thing is very relatable. I demand things all the time."
Seonghyeon put his head on the desk. He wanted to dissolve into the floor tiles.
---
Determined to prove he was a "good date," Keonho pulled out a gold-plated fountain pen and a leather-bound journal that probably cost more than Seonghyeon’s laptop. He started writing furiously.
Seonghyeon glanced over, expecting to see economic formulas. Instead, he saw:
- Seonghyeon’s eyelashes are very long.
- He looks really cute when he smiles.
- Buy Seonghyeon a chair that doesn't squeak. This one is an insult to his spine.
"You're supposed to be learning," Seonghyeon whispered, leaning in.
"I am learning," Keonho whispered back, his breath smelling faintly of the expensive mints he’d used to cover the soju-breath from the night before. "I’m learning that you look really cute when you’re stressed about money. It makes your eyebrows do this little twitchy thing."
"That's a stress tic, Keonho. That's my body telling me to flee."
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them. James appeared, sliding into the row behind them. He looked at the mountain of food at Keonho’s feet, then at Keonho’s designer watch, and then at Seonghyeon’s soul-crushed expression.
James leaned forward, grinning like a shark. "Yo, Seonghyeon. Is this the 'not-a-sugar-daddy'?"
Keonho turned around, beaming. "Are you his friend? I'm Keonho and I bought all the tuna-mayo in a three-mile radius. Would you like a bento? I have twelve."
"I love you already," James whispered and also beamed, reaching for a spicy pork bowl.
"James, don't encourage the lunatic," Seonghyeon groaned.
"Too late," James said, already snapping a photo of Keonho sitting in a pile of plastic bags. "This is going on the group chat. 'Local Broke Student Kidnaps Rich Guy for Kimbap Ransom.' The responds are going to be insane."
---
The lecture ended with the screech of heavy chairs against linoleum, a sound that usually signaled Seonghyeon’s liberation. Today, it just signaled Phase Two of his nightmare.
As Professor Park packed up his slides, Keonho’s phone began to vibrate against the tiny wooden desk with the intensity of a chainsaw. Keonho looked down, his playful "puppy" expression instantly flattening into something sharp and professional.
"Ah," Keonho muttered, checking the screen. "Secretary Kim has called me thirty-two times. I think I was supposed to be at the headquarters an hour ago."
"Great. Then go," Seonghyeon said, already halfway out of his seat. "Leave the kimbap. Godspeed."
Keonho stood up, but instead of leaving, he grabbed Seonghyeon’s wrist. His grip wasn't aggressive—it was that same desperate, "lost puppy" hold from the night before, only now he looked significantly more awake.
"I can't go like this," Keonho said, gesturing to the mountain of plastic bags at his feet. "I have a board meeting about a retail merger. If I walk in holding sixteen tuna-mayo triangles, my father will actually disown me."
"Then throw them away!"
"Waste food? In front of you?" Keonho looked scandalized. "You told me your budget for November was a 'list of crossed-out dreams.' I’m not throwing away your dreams, Seonghyeon."
Before Seonghyeon could protest, Keonho was ushering him toward the exit, practically shoveling the bags into Seonghyeon’s arms.
"You're coming with me. You can sit in the lobby. Or the executive lounge! They have those flat surfaces you wanted to nap on. And then—" Keonho leaned in, his voice dropping to a persuasive hum— "I’ll pay you another 500,000 won for 'logistics and storage services.'"
Seonghyeon paused. His foot was literally out the door, but the mention of a six-figure sum hit him like a lightning bolt. 500,000 won was two weeks of night shifts. It was new socks. It was an infinite number of gachapon. It was... sanity.
"600,000," Seonghyeon countered, his eyes narrowing. "And I get to use the high-speed Wi-Fi."
"Done," Keonho chirped, pulling him toward a waiting black sedan that had pulled up to the curb with illegal precision.
---
Ten minutes later, Seonghyeon was being ushered through the glass-and-steel lobby of KH Holdings. He looked exactly like what he was: a sleep-deprived student in a faded hoodie, clutching four crinkling plastic bags of convenience store food.
The receptionists stared. The security guards reached for their radios.
"He's with me!" Keonho announced, flashing his ID card. "He’s my... Chief Nutrition Officer. Don't touch his bags."
Keonho shoved Seonghyeon into a plush, leather-bound waiting area that overlooked the entire city. "Wait here. Don't move. If you get hungry, eat a spicy pork one. I'll be back in an hour."
As Keonho vanished into the boardroom, Seonghyeon sank into the leather chair. It was, indeed, the most comfortable surface he had touched in three years. He looked at the bags of kimbap sitting on the marble table. He looked at the high-fashion employees walking by in silence.
He pulled out a triangle kimbap, unpeeled the plastic, and took a spiteful bite.
"I hate rich people," he mumbled, his mouth full of tuna-mayo. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and—for the first time since 5:30 AM—actually fell asleep.
---
When he finally blinked his eyes open, the first thing he saw wasn’t the ceiling. It was the back of a high-end smartphone, held exactly six inches from his face.
Click.
Seonghyeon jolted upright, nearly knocking a stack of bulgogi kimbap off the marble table. "What—who—?!"
"Good, you're awake," Keonho said, casually tucking the phone into his pocket. He was leaning against the table, looking entirely too satisfied for a man who had just survived a board meeting. "You look very peaceful when you aren't threatening to sue me for labor violations."
"Were you just taking photos of me?" Seonghyeon demanded, his voice cracking. He wiped his mouth, checking for any incriminating evidence of his nap. "Delete that. Right now. That’s a violation of my image rights."
"I'll delete it," Keonho lied smoothly, already setting the photo as his lock screen background. "But only if you agree that this was officially our first date. You waited for me while I worked. We shared a commute. We had a meal—well, you had a meal and I watched you eat it."
"This was a business transaction!" Seonghyeon stood up, grabbing his bags. "I am a 'Chief Nutrition Officer,' remember? Now, where is my 600,000 won? I have a shift at the restaurant in three hours and I need to buy socks that don't make me look like a beggar."
Keonho pulled out a small, sleek gift bag.
"I had Secretary Kim run out while the board was arguing about quarterly dividends," Keonho said, handing it over.
Seonghyeon opened it cautiously. Inside was a pack of the most ridiculously expensive-looking wool socks he had ever seen, along with a thick envelope of cash.
"The 600,000 won check is in there," Keonho noted. "Plus a bonus for the 'image rights' I just violated. And the socks have reinforced toes. I listened."
Seonghyeon stared at the socks. They were soft. They were warm. They were exactly what he needed, and it was infuriating. He looked at Keonho, who was watching him with an expression that was dangerously close to genuine affection.
"You're still crazy," Seonghyeon muttered, though he tucked the socks into his bag with the care of a man handling a diamond.
"I'm dedicated," Keonho corrected. He followed Seonghyeon toward the elevator, ignoring his vibrating phone as Secretary Kim likely tried to figure out where the CEO was disappearing to again. "So, since you have three hours before your shift... want to go to a gachapon parlor? I'll buy out the machine so you get the one you want."
Seonghyeon paused at the elevator doors. "You don't buy out a gachapon machine, you idiot. That ruins the thrill of the gamble."
Keonho’s eyes lit up. "Then teach me. Show me how a 'normal' person gambles their hard-earned five dollars."
Seonghyeon sighed, leaning his head against the cool metal of the elevator. "Fine. But if you try to take another picture of me, I’m charging you per pixel."
---
The gachapon parlor was a neon-lit sanctuary of clacking plastic and high-pitched jingles—a place where Seonghyeon usually came to feel a fleeting sense of control over his destiny for the price of a few coins.
Keonho entered the establishment as if he were walking onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. He looked at the rows of colorful machines with a mix of suspicion and intense focus.
"So," Keonho said, rolling up his cashmere sleeves. "Explain the mechanics. How do we ensure a 100% yield on the 'Golden Cat' figurine?"
"You don't," Seonghyeon deadpanned, gesturing to a machine filled with tiny, grumpy-looking shark figurines wearing hats. "That’s the point. You put in the money, you turn the crank, and you pray to the gods of plastic that you don't get a duplicate."
Keonho watched Seonghyeon insert a coin and twist the dial with practiced ease. Clack-clack-clack-thump. A small blue capsule rolled out. Seonghyeon cracked it open to reveal a shark wearing a tiny beanie.
"See? Success," Seonghyeon said, a rare, genuine spark of pride in his eyes.
Keonho’s competitive streak, usually reserved for hostile takeovers, flared to life. "Step aside. I’ve managed multi-billion won portfolios. A plastic shark is nothing."
Keonho didn't just play; he attacked the machine. He fed in coins with a frantic energy, turning the crank so hard Seonghyeon feared he’d snap the mechanism.
Clack-thump. A shark with a sun hat.
Clack-thump. Another shark with a sun hat.
Clack-thump. A third shark with a sun hat.
"This is obviously rigged," Keonho hissed, staring at his three identical sun-hat sharks as if they had personally insulted his lineage. "I’ll buy the company that manufactures these. I’ll fire the quality control board."
"Or," Seonghyeon said, leaning against the machine and stifling a laugh, "you could just accept that you have terrible luck."
By the tenth try, Keonho was surrounded by a small army of duplicate sharks. He was sweating. His hair, previously perfect, was slightly mussed. A group of middle-schoolers had gathered nearby, whispering about the "rich ahjussi" who was losing a fight against a vending machine.
"I am not leaving until I get the one wearing the crown," Keonho declared, reaching for another coin.
"Keonho, stop. You've spent 30,000 won on sharks. Those sharks with the sun hat are already enough," Seonghyeon said, reaching out to grab Keonho’s hand to stop him.
The touch worked better than any logic. Keonho froze, looking down at Seonghyeon’s hand on his wrist. The neon lights reflected in his eyes, making him look less like a CEO and more like a kid who had finally found something he couldn't just buy his way out of.
"If I get the crown one," Keonho whispered, leaning closer, "will you admit this was a successful date?"
Seonghyeon looked at the pile of plastic, then at the ridiculous man in front of him. "If you get the crown one, I’ll let you walk me to the restaurant. That’s it."
Keonho turned the dial one last time. It was slow. Dramatic. The capsule rolled out—a shimmering, rare gold color.
Keonho cracked it open. There it was: the shark wearing a tiny, glittering gold crown.
"YES!" Keonho shouted, pumping his fist in the air. The middle-schoolers cheered. Even the shop owner looked impressed.
Keonho immediately pressed the tiny plastic shark into Seonghyeon’s hand. "For you. The King of Sharks for the King of... whatever my heart is doing right now."
Seonghyeon stared at the tiny toy. It was objectively stupid. It was a piece of junk. But it was warm from Keonho’s hand.
"You're so dramatic," Seonghyeon muttered, carefully tucking the King Shark into his pocket next to his new wool socks. "Come on, Chief. I have a shift in an hour. And don't think this means you're getting a discount on the galbi."
"I'll pay double," Keonho chirped, following him out like the world's most expensive shadow. "As long as I can sit at the table closest to the kitchen."
---
The restaurant was usually a steady, quiet hum of neighborhood regulars. But tonight, word had seemingly traveled through the local group chats like wildfire.
"Table four needs more lettuce! Table seven wants three more bottles of soju!" the manager shouted, looking both thrilled and terrified by the sudden surge in business.
Seonghyeon was a blur of motion, balancing trays and dodging elbows. And in the middle of it all sat Keonho.
He had taken the table directly facing the kitchen, just as he’d insisted. He wasn't even eating; he had a single glass of water and the "King Shark" gachapon sitting on the table like a centerpiece. He was just... sitting there. Looking like a million dollars in a ten-dollar-meal establishment.
The problem was that Keonho didn't realize he was currently acting as a high-end billboard.
A group of college girls at the next table were barely touching their food, spends 90% of their time whispering and pointing at him. Two office workers had intentionally moved their chairs just to get a better angle of his profile. Even a grandmother at the back was nudging her husband, pointing out Keonho’s "blessed facial structure."
"Seonghyeon-ah!" the manager hissed, pulling Seonghyeon into the kitchen. "Who is that? Is he a movie star? An idol? Whoever he is, don't let him leave. Offer him free dumplings! Offer him my firstborn! We’ve made more in the last hour than we did all of Tuesday!"
"He’s just a guy with too much free time, boss," Seonghyeon sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Seonghyeon walked over to Keonho’s table to drop off the "complimentary" dumplings.
"You're causing a scene," Seonghyeon whispered, leaning down. "Half the women in here are ignoring their meat to stare at you. You’re a safety hazard."
Keonho looked up, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Am I? I hadn't noticed. I was too busy watching you carry three trays at once. It’s very impressive. Very... athletic."
Before Seonghyeon could tell him to shut up, one of the girls from the neighboring table gathered her courage and walked over.
"Excuse me," she said, blushing furiously. "I couldn't help but notice you're alone... would you like to join our table? We have extra galbi!"
Seonghyeon felt a strange, sharp poke of something in his chest. It wasn't hunger. It definitely wasn't exhaustion. It felt dangerously like annoyance.
Keonho didn't even look at the girl. His eyes stayed locked on Seonghyeon.
"I'm not alone," Keonho said smoothly, gesturing to Seonghyeon. "I'm actually waiting for the waiter to finish his shift so he can take me home. He's very protective of me. Right, Hyeonie?"
The girl looked at Seonghyeon, then back at Keonho, her face falling. "Oh! I... I didn't realize. Sorry!" She scurried back to her friends.
Seonghyeon felt his face heat up. Hyeonie? "I am not taking you home. I am taking a bus to my apartment, which is four square meters large and smells like laundry detergent."
"I like laundry detergent," Keonho replied instantly.
"You're impossible," Seonghyeon muttered, but as he walked away to grab more napkins, he noticed he was walking a little straighter. He even gave a slightly sharper look to the next group of people who tried to eye Keonho’s table.
If Keonho was going to be a "human magnet," at least he was his human magnet.
---
The "Keonho Effect" had left the restaurant looking like a battlefield of empty soju bottles and grease-stained grills. The manager, practically weeping with joy, had patted Seonghyeon on the back and told him to "take the movie star and go home" while he handled the final floor sweep.
Seonghyeon didn't go home. He found himself out back, sitting on a couple of overturned milk crates in the narrow alleyway behind the restaurant. The air was crisp, and for the first time in eighteen hours, it was quiet.
Keonho was sitting on the crate next to him, his expensive suit jacket draped over his knees. He looked human for the first time—less like a CEO and more like a guy who had just run a marathon.
"You know," Keonho said, staring at the flickering neon sign of a nearby karaoke bar. "The reason I was such a mess last night... it wasn't just the breakup. It was the reason for the breakup."
Seonghyeon leaned back against the brick wall, closing his eyes. "She said you were predictable, right? That’s what you yelled at the hotel."
"Yeah. Predictable. Safe. Boring," Keonho laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I spent my whole life being exactly what everyone expected. The perfect son. The perfect student. The perfect heir. I bought her the building because I thought that’s what a 'Perfect Boyfriend' does. I followed the script, and she told me she felt like she was dating a spreadsheet."
He turned to look at Seonghyeon, his expression softening.
"Then I met you. You didn't care about my card. You didn't care about my car. You threw a plastic bag of medicine at my head and told me I was a disaster. It was the most honest thing that’s happened to me in years."
Seonghyeon opened one eye. He looked at the man who had bought out a convenience store, survived a macroeconomics lecture in a pile of kimbap, and spent four hours acting as a thirst-trap for a galbi restaurant just to be in his vicinity.
"You're not a spreadsheet, Keonho," Seonghyeon said quietly. "Spreadsheets are organized. They make sense. You're more like... a glitch in the system. A very loud, very expensive glitch."
Keonho smiled—not the smirk he used for the public, but something small and tired. "A glitch, huh? I’ll take it."
"And for the record," Seonghyeon added, looking at his own worn-out shoes. "Most people are 'predictable' because they're trying to survive. You have the luxury of being a disaster. Don't waste it on people who want you to be a trophy."
Keonho reached out and gently bumped his shoulder against Seonghyeon’s. "So... since I'm a disaster, does that mean I can come back tomorrow? I still haven't actually tasted the galbi. I was too busy watching the 'Chief Nutrition Officer' work."
Seonghyeon felt that familiar "high-speed chase" of his life slowing down just for a second. His bank account was fuller, his feet were warmer in his new socks, and for some reason, the prospect of 5:30 AM didn't feel quite so cold.
"Fine," Seonghyeon muttered, standing up and brushing the dust off his pants. "But tomorrow, you're sitting in the back. I can't have you doubling the revenue every night; my arms can't carry that many trays."
"Deal," Keonho said, standing up with him. "But I'm still keeping the photo of you drooling in the executive lounge."
"Delete it, or I'm charging you another 600,000 won!"
"Consider it an investment!"
As they walked out of the alleyway toward the bus stop, the rich guy and the broke student, the "King Shark" gachapon clinked in Seonghyeon's pocket—a small, plastic crown for a life that was finally starting to feel a little less like a chase and a little more like a journey.
---
Seonghyeon still wasn't entirely sure how his life had shifted from a "high-speed chase" to a leisurely stroll. Somehow, his suffocating schedule had developed breathing room. When he showed up for his shift at the restaurant, his manager had simply waved him away, claiming the floor was "too quiet" and that he deserved a few days off.
"Don’t worry," Keonho had said with a suspicious, cat-like grin when Seonghyeon questioned him. "He probably just favored me already. I have a very trustworthy face."
"You have a face that screams 'I have a lawyer on speed dial,'" Seonghyeon countered, though he didn't complain when Keonho practically teleported to the campus to pick him up the second his last lecture ended.
They ended up at the aquarium on a Tuesday, an hour before closing when the crowds had thinned to a ghostly few. Inside, the world was a cathedral of glass and salt water. The air was cool and carried the faint, rhythmic hum of life-support systems, a sound that mimicked a heartbeat.
As they walked through the tunnel, the light changed from the harsh, artificial sun of the city to a shimmering, ethereal indigo. Schools of silver fish darted overhead like shooting stars, their scales catching the bioluminescence of the tanks.
"It’s peaceful," Keonho whispered. He stepped toward the massive, floor-to-ceiling tank where the great whites and whale sharks drifted in a slow, eternal circle. The shifting blue light cast sharp, cinematic shadows across the planes of his face, making him look less like a chaotic CEO and more like a carefully crafted work of art—something preserved, something precious.
"No board meetings. No screaming stocks. No one asking me for a piece of my time or a digit from my bank account," he murmured, "Just... bubbles."
Seonghyeon watched a manta ray glide past, its wings sweeping through the water like a velvet cape. He tried to focus on the grace of the creature, but his gaze kept drifting. He realized then that Keonho wasn't looking at the sharks at all. In the reflection of the glass, Keonho’s eyes were locked onto Seonghyeon’s profile, tracking the way the blue light danced across his skin and highlighted the exhaustion he could never quite shake.
The intensity of that gaze made the water on the other side of the glass feel warmer, as if the heat of Keonho’s attention was enough to boil the ocean.
"You're weird," Seonghyeon muttered. His voice was low, barely a vibration in the muffled quiet of the hall. His heart was doing a rhythmic thumping against his ribs—a heavy, insistent drumbeat that had nothing to do with the surrounding water pressure and everything to do with the man standing inches away.
He felt a hand slide into his. It wasn't a tentative touch; it was an anchor. Keonho’s fingers interlocked with his, palm to palm, a certainty that felt terrifyingly permanent in a world that usually shifted beneath Seonghyeon’s feet like sand.
"I'm consistent," Keonho corrected, his thumb tracing the pulse point on Seonghyeon’s wrist, feeling every frantic beat. "There’s a difference."
Keonho turned then, leaning his shoulder against the glass so he could face Seonghyeon fully. The blue light turned his eyes into something deep and bottomless. "Most people are like those fish, Seonghyeon. They just drift where the current takes them. But you? You’re the ocean. You’re vast, and you’re difficult, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like I’m finally standing on solid ground."
Seonghyeon looked away, his throat tight. He wasn't used to being the ocean. He was used to being the person drowning in it. But standing there, submerged in the blue shadows with his hand anchored in Keonho’s, the weight of his bills and his shifts felt lighter—buoyant, almost.
"You talk too much," Seonghyeon whispered, but he didn't pull his hand away. He squeezed back instead, letting the silence of the deep sea swallow them both.
---
The lights in the gallery began to dim, a soft signal from the staff that the ocean was closing for the night. The bioluminescent glow of the tanks seemed to intensify in the sudden darkness, turning the hall into a dreamscape of glowing coral and drifting shadows.
They stayed until the very last moment, standing in a silence so thick it felt like they were truly underwater.
Outside, the parking lot was a stark contrast—slick with fresh rain and smelling of wet asphalt and city exhaust. The cool night air hit them, jolting Seonghyeon back into the reality of his looming 5:30 AM shift. He went to pull his hand away to reach for his bus pass, but Keonho didn’t let go. He simply tucked their joined hands into the deep pocket of his overcoat.
"The bus isn't coming for another twelve minutes," Keonho said, leaning against the side of his car. The orange glow of the streetlights caught the dampness in his hair, making him look softer, more human than the man who had bought out a convenience store.
Seonghyeon looked at his shoes, watching the reflection of a neon sign in a puddle. "You’re going to be late for whatever rich-person event you have tomorrow if you keep hovering over me."
"I don't care about tomorrow," Keonho said quietly. He stepped closer, stepping into Seonghyeon’s personal space until the only thing between them was the sound of their breathing. "Hyeonie."
"Can I call you that?" Keonho asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur that vibrated in the small space between them. "I like the nicknames, but... when it’s just us, like this? I want to call you by the name of the person I’m actually falling for. Not the character I’m chasing."
Seonghyeon felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the rain. He looked up, meeting Keonho’s gaze. For the first time, he didn't have a sarcastic comeback ready. The "Too Busy" defense was offline.
"It's my name," Seonghyeon finally whispered, his voice trembling just enough to betray him. "You don't need permission to use it."
Keonho smiled, but it wasn't a smirk. It was a slow, relieved expression that reached his eyes. "Good. Because a 'grumpy angel' doesn't quite cover how much you've ruined my life, Seonghyeon."
"Ruined?"
"Yeah," Keonho breathed, leaning down until his nose brushed against Seonghyeon's. "I can't go an hour without wondering if you've eaten. I can't look at a triangle kimbap without smiling like an idiot. My board members think I’m losing my mind. It’s a total catastrophe."
Seonghyeon let out a small, huffed laugh, his breath mingling with Keonho’s in the cold air. "Good. Welcome to my world. It’s a mess."
"I like your mess," Keonho said. And then, right there under the hum of the streetlights, he leaned in and pressed a lingering, gentle kiss to Seonghyeon’s cheek, right over the dark circle under his eye. "Get home safe. I'll voice note you when you're on the bus."
---
"I can study by myself, Keonho. It’s a library, not a social club," Seonghyeon whispered harshly as they found a cramped wooden table in the back of the fourth floor.
"I have very important quarterly reports to review," Keonho whispered back, looking entirely out of place in a designer cashmere sweater amidst a sea of students in oversized hoodies. He pulled out a leather-bound folio and a pen that probably cost more than Seonghyeon’s tuition. "I’ll be a ghost. You won't even know I’m here."
He was not a ghost. Keonho was a gravitational pull.
For the first hour, it was almost peaceful. The only sounds were the scratching of Seonghyeon’s highlighter and the occasional soft thud of a book. But Keonho’s "reviewing" quickly turned into "observing." He sat across from Seonghyeon, resting his chin on his hand, pretending to read a thick biography of Napoleon while his eyes stayed fixed on Seonghyeon.
Seonghyeon could feel the gaze. It was like heat on his skin. He bit the end of his pen, frustrated by a complex graph on supply-demand elasticity, and let out a tiny, subconscious groan.
Keonho immediately shifted. He didn't say a word, but he reached across the table and gently nudged a piece of high-end dark chocolate toward Seonghyeon’s hand.
An hour later, the silence of the floor was broken by a loud, tragic growl from a student's stomach two tables over. Then another. It was the sound of a hundred burnt-out students reaching their limit.
Keonho looked up, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. To him, hunger was a problem that could be solved with a swipe of a card. He caught Secretary Kim’s eye (who was lurking near the elevators) and gave a subtle nod.
Fifteen minutes later, the heavy library doors creaked open. A delivery person—looking very confused to be in a quiet zone—started unloading trays of steaming artisan lattes and gourmet sandwiches onto the central "returns" table.
"Complimentary fuel," Keonho whispered to the stunned girl sitting next to them, sliding a cup her way. "Courtesy of... the ocean."
"You're unbelievable," Seonghyeon hissed, hiding his face in his hands. "You can't just buy the library, Keonho!"
"I didn't buy the library. I bought the silence," Keonho replied smoothly, leaning closer. "If they aren't hungry, they won't make noise. If they don't make noise, you can focus. It’s a strategic investment in your GPA."
By the fifth hour, Seonghyeon’s head was drooping. The highlights on his page were starting to look like neon blurs. He felt a hand ghost over his own—the one clutching the highlighter.
Keonho didn't pull him away from the work. Instead, he took the highlighter from Seonghyeon's cramped fingers and began to massage the tension out of Seonghyeon’s palm. His touch was firm and steady, his thumb tracing circles over the tired muscles.
"Almost done, Seonghyeon-ah," Keonho murmured, his voice so low it was felt more than heard. "Just ten more pages. Then I’m taking you to get real food. No triangles, no plastic wraps. Just something that makes you feel human again."
Seonghyeon looked up, meeting those bottomless brown eyes. In the middle of a dusty library, surrounded by the smell of old paper and the hum of a hundred stressed-out brains, he felt a strange, terrifying sense of belonging.
"Fine," Seonghyeon whispered, his fingers twitching in Keonho’s hold. "But if you buy a donut for everyone on this floor, I’m actually leaving."
"No promises," Keonho grinned.
---
By the time they reached the ground floor, the sky had completely collapsed. It wasn't just rain; it was a violent, vertical ocean. The wind whipped between the campus buildings, turning the umbrellas of fleeing students into useless skeletons of metal and nylon.
"I've got this," Seonghyeon said, pulling his cheap, five-dollar convenience store umbrella from his bag. It was a flimsy thing, lime green and clearly struggling for its life. "I’m not letting you call your driver to pull up to the restricted curb. It’s a three-minute walk to the subway. We can make it."
Keonho looked at the umbrella, then at the torrential sheets of water, then back at Seonghyeon. "Seonghyeon, that thing looks like it was engineered to fail."
"It’s fine! It’s—"
CRACK.
A sudden, aggressive gust of wind caught the lime-green fabric. The metal ribs didn't just bend; they snapped with a tragic, plastic pop. The umbrella inverted, flapping uselessly like a wounded bird. Within three seconds, the freezing rain had soaked through Seonghyeon’s hoodie, pinning the fabric to his skin.
"Okay," Seonghyeon muttered, water dripping off the tip of his nose. "It’s not fine."
Before he could even process the chill, a heavy, warm weight settled over his shoulders. Keonho had stripped off his own designer overcoat and draped it over Seonghyeon, pulling the lapels tight around his neck.
"Don't move," Keonho commanded.
He didn't call the driver. Instead, he pulled Seonghyeon back into the sheltered alcove of the library entrance. He pulled out his phone, made a thirty-second call, and then did something Seonghyeon didn't expect: he sat down on the stone steps, pulled a thermos from his leather bag, and patted the spot next to him.
"What are you doing? We're soaked," Seonghyeon shivered.
"We are waiting," Keonho said. He reached into his bag and produced a thick, dry towel—one he had clearly kept in his car and grabbed during a 'bathroom break' earlier. He began to briskly, but gently, rub Seonghyeon’s hair dry. "And you are drinking this."
He unscrewed the top of the thermos. The scent of ginger, honey, and high-end abalone porridge wafted out, cutting through the damp smell of the rain.
"I had Secretary Kim drop this off at the security gate ten minutes ago. I saw the clouds through the library window," Keonho explained, blowing on a spoonful before hovering it near Seonghyeon’s mouth. "Your immune system is a national treasure, Seonghyeon. We aren't taking risks with a fever."
Seonghyeon felt a heat rise in his chest that had nothing to do with the porridge. He sat there, wrapped in a coat that smelled like Keonho’s expensive sandalwood cologne, being hand-fed porridge on the steps of the library while the world washed away in front of them.
"You're so dramatic," Seonghyeon whispered, but he leaned into the touch as Keonho used the towel to dry the back of his neck. "It’s just rain. I’ve worked three shifts in a row in wet shoes before."
"And that," Keonho said, his voice dropping to a low, serious frequency, "is why I’m here. So you never have to do that again."
He tucked a damp strand of hair behind Seonghyeon’s ear. For a moment, the sound of the rain faded into a dull hum. Keonho’s eyes were dark, reflective, and filled with an intensity that made Seonghyeon feel like he was the only person left on earth.
"I can't fix the weather," Keonho murmured, leaning closer until their shoulders were pressed together. "But I can make sure you're warm when it happens."
Seonghyeon took the thermos from him, his fingers lingering against Keonho’s. He didn't say thank you—he couldn't get the words out past the lump in his throat—but he didn't pull away when Keonho leaned his head against his, both of them watching the rain turn the campus into a watercolor painting.
---
It was Friday night. The kind of night where Seonghyeon’s body usually hummed with the phantom vibration of a restaurant buzzer, but tonight, his hands were empty.
Keonho had outdone himself. He had ordered a spread of food that looked like a king’s ransom—bowls of steaming galbi-jjim, glazed ribs, and delicate side dishes—but Seonghyeon had bypassed the dining table entirely.
"Down here," Seonghyeon had insisted.
So, they were sitting on the plush, cream-colored carpet, the low marble coffee table acting as their altar. The massive 85-inch television was playing a mindless variety show, the canned laughter providing a thin veil of normalcy.
Seonghyeon stopped mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering over a piece of braised short rib. He looked down at his own hands. They were raw at the knuckles, calloused from months of carrying heavy porcelain trays and scrubbing industrial grills.
Then, he looked at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. Behind him, the Seoul skyline glittered like a sea of diamonds, and there he was: a tired student with deep, permanent shadows under his eyes, wearing a cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than his father’s car.
Finally, his gaze landed on Keonho.
Keonho looked effortless. He was brilliant, he was powerful, and he was currently laughing at a comedian on screen, looking entirely content to be sitting on the floor in a multi-million dollar suite. He could have anyone. He could be at a gala, or on a yacht, or with someone who actually had a future that didn't involve student loans and night shifts.
"Why are you doing this?"
The question didn't just interrupt the TV; it sliced through the atmosphere like a blade.
Keonho blinked, setting down his gold-plated chopsticks. "Doing what? Eating? I told you, this place has the best ribs in the district—"
"Not the food, Keonho. This." Seonghyeon gestured broadly to the room, to the weeks of persistent voice notes, to the library coffee, to the way Keonho was currently looking at him. "I’m a part-timer. I have a negative balance in my bank account every other Tuesday. My life is a high-speed chase just to stay in the same spot. You’re... you’re the CEO of a global holding company. You should be with someone who has time. Someone who fits in your world."
The air in the suite grew heavy, the silence pressing in on them. Seonghyeon felt the familiar, sharp sting of reality—the one that reminded him he wasn't an "angel" or a "chief." He was just a guy with holes in his socks and a deadline for his rent.
"I think you should stop," Seonghyeon whispered, his voice cracking. He looked away, his heart aching in a way that felt much more dangerous than simple exhaustion. "You’re too good for this. You’re too good for me."
Keonho didn't get angry. He didn't offer a flippant joke. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, sliding off the edge of the sofa to sit directly on the carpet in front of Seonghyeon. He invaded his space, their knees knocking together, forcing Seonghyeon to acknowledge his presence.
"You think I’m too good for you?" Keonho asked. His voice was low, steady, and stripped of all its usual playful bravado. "Seonghyeon, look at me."
Seonghyeon reluctantly lifted his gaze. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, reflecting the city lights behind them.
"In my world, everyone wants something from me," Keonho said, his expression intensely soft. "They want a contract, a favor, or a connection. They see the name on the building first and the person second. But you? You saw a 'drunken disaster' and you didn't see a dollar sign. You saw a person who needed help. You saw a 'delusional rich guy' and you told him to shut up."
Keonho reached out, his hand warm and steady as he cupped Seonghyeon’s face. His thumb brushed over the dark circle under Seonghyeon's eye with heartbreaking tenderness.
"I don't need someone who 'fits my world.' My world is boring, scripted, and filled with people who say 'yes' before I even finish a sentence. I need the guy who buys a gachapon with his last five dollars. I need the guy who works three jobs and still finds the energy to scold me for being late."
"But I have nothing to give you," Seonghyeon choked out.
"You give me the only thing I don’t have," Keonho whispered, leaning in until their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the small gap. "You give me a reason to be someone other than a spreadsheet. You're more than enough, Seonghyeon. You're the only thing that's been real in my life for a long time."
Seonghyeon closed his eyes, the walls he had spent years building—the defenses made of sarcasm, work shifts, and "too busy"—finally crumbled into nothing but dust. He reached up, his calloused fingers grabbing the front of Keonho’s expensive hoodie, pulling him closer because, for once, he didn't want to run.
"You're still a delusional idiot," Seonghyeon breathed.
"Your delusional idiot," Keonho corrected.
And then, Keonho leaned in, finally closing the distance to kiss away the salt of the tear on Seonghyeon’s cheek before moving to his lips, sealing the "business merger" once and for all.
---
The "high-speed chase" finally had a finish line.
Graduation day was a blur of black robes, itchy polyester, and the overwhelming scent of lilies. For Seonghyeon, it wasn't just about a diploma; it was the official end of the era of "oil and regret." No more 5:30 AM shifts. No more highlighting textbooks until his eyes bled.
He was standing on the lawn with James, trying to adjust his cap, when a collective gasp rippled through the crowd of parents and students.
"Oh, god," Seonghyeon whispered, closing his eyes. "Tell me he didn't."
"He did," James cackled, pulling out his phone. "And it’s glorious. It’s... it’s high-definition."
Coming down the main walkway was Keonho. He wasn't just attending; he was the main event. Behind him, two men in black suits—presumably the long-suffering Secretary Kim and a very embarrassed assistant—were holding up a massive, ten-foot silk banner trimmed in glitter.
It didn't just have text; it featured a collage of photos Seonghyeon didn't even know existed: Seonghyeon mid-sneeze, Seonghyeon aggressively highlighting a book, and one very blurry shot of him sleeping against a bus window.
In bold, professional typography, it read:
CONGRATULATIONS TO MY FAVORITE GRUMPY ANGEL!
(P.S. HE’S OFFICIALLY RETIRED FROM THE MART)
"I'm going to kill him," Seonghyeon muttered, even as his heart performed a very unprofessional somersault. "I am going to end his bloodline."
Keonho broke into a sprint when he saw him, dodging a group of nursing graduates to sweep Seonghyeon into a hug that lifted his feet off the ground. He smelled like expensive cologne and pure, unadulterated pride.
"You did it!" Keonho beamed, pulling back to tuck a stray strand of hair under Seonghyeon’s cap. "My Chief Nutrition Officer is officially an educated man. How does it feel to be the smartest person in the room?"
"It feels like I’m dating a public nuisance," Seonghyeon deadpanned, though he didn't pull away when Keonho kissed his forehead in front of the entire Economics department. "Get rid of the banner, Keonho. People are staring. There are photos of me drooling on there."
"Let them stare," Keonho shrugged, his eyes softening as he looked at the diploma in Seonghyeon’s hand. "They should know what greatness looks like. I’ve already got the car packed. Are you ready?"
---
The move didn't take long. When your life has been a struggle for survival, your belongings fit into five cardboard boxes and a backpack.
They stood in the foyer of Keonho’s penthouse. It was a space of glass, marble, and silence—the kind of place Seonghyeon used to feel like a trespasser in. But now, his beat-up sneakers were sitting next to Keonho’s polished loafers, and his box of "emergency ramyun" was sitting on the designer kitchen island.
"It’s too big," Seonghyeon said, his voice echoing. "I’m going to get lost trying to find the bathroom."
"Then I'll leave a trail of breadcrumbs," Keonho said, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around Seonghyeon’s waist. He rested his chin on Seonghyeon’s shoulder, looking out at the city lights. "Or kimbap. Whichever you prefer."
Seonghyeon leaned back into him, finally letting the tension leave his shoulders. For years, he had been running just to stay in the same place. Now, for the first time, he was standing still.
"I brought something," Seonghyeon said, reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out the "King Shark" gachapon—the one with the tiny gold crown from their first real date. He walked over to the sleek, minimalist shelving unit that housed Keonho’s expensive art and rare books. He cleared a spot right in the center and placed the plastic shark down.
It looked ridiculous. It looked cheap. It looked exactly like home.
"There," Seonghyeon said, turning back to Keonho with a smirk. "Now the room has some personality."
Keonho walked over, looking at the tiny toy, and then at the man who had changed his entire world. He didn't see a part-timer or a student with holes in his socks. He saw the person who made the "spreadsheet" of his life worth reading.
"You know," Keonho whispered, pulling Seonghyeon back into his arms. "I still have that first voice note. The one where you told me to shut up."
"Delete it," Seonghyeon groaned, burying his face in Keonho’s neck.
"Never. It's going to be played at the wedding."
"There is no wedding!"
"Not today," Keonho grinned, kissing the top of his head. "But I’m persistent, remember? I’ve already got the banner planned."
"Also," Keonho said, leaning back a bit, his eyes playful. "Now that the 'high-speed chase' is officially over and you have that fancy piece of paper... what are you planning to do next? Open a gachapon store? I have a few buildings in Myeong-dong that would be perfect for a shark-themed empire."
Seonghyeon laughed, a sound that finally lacked the sharp edge of stress. "Don't be silly. If I ran a gachapon store, I’d just keep all the best ones for myself and go bankrupt in a week."
He stepped closer, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of Keonho’s trousers. "I was thinking of something a bit more stable. Maybe actually using that Macroeconomics degree to make sure you don't spend our entire retirement fund on silk banners and commemorative kimbap."
"Our retirement fund?" Keonho repeated, his smile widening until it reached his eyes. "I like the sound of that. It sounds very... permanent."
"It's a business merger," Seonghyeon whispered, leaning up to press his forehead against Keonho’s. "High risk, high reward."
"I've always been good at those," Keonho breathed.
Seonghyeon laughed, the sound bright and clear against the quiet of the penthouse. He wasn't too busy. He wasn't running anymore. He was exactly where he was supposed to be.
---
Two Years Later
The 5:30 AM alarm still rang, but its meaning had fundamentally shifted. It was no longer the herald of a freezing bus ride to a convenience store; it was now the signal for Seonghyeon to roll over into a mountain of high-thread-count pillows and find himself pinned down by a very heavy, very sleeping CEO.
Seonghyeon, now a junior analyst at a competing firm (because he’d refused to work for Keonho, citing "conflict of interest" and "too much proximity to your ego"), looked at the man beside him. Keonho’s hair was a disaster, his mouth was slightly open, and he was currently hugging Seonghyeon’s waist like a lifeline.
"Keonho," Seonghyeon muttered, poking his cheek. "Get up. You have a merger meeting at eight. I have a forecast due by nine."
"Mergers are boring," Keonho mumbled into the mattress, tightening his grip. "Let’s stay here. I’ll buy your company and fire your boss so you don't have to go in."
"You do that and I’m moving back to the CR Mart," Seonghyeon threatened. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it.
The penthouse had slowly been "Seonghyeon-ified." While the marble floors and glass walls remained, they were now interrupted by signs of a life lived together.
The "King Shark" gachapon had multiplied. There was now an entire shelf dedicated to the plastic figurines—sharks wearing crowns, sharks wearing aprons, even a rare one wearing a tiny business suit that Keonho had spent an entire afternoon hunting down in an arcade.
In the kitchen, the designer espresso machine sat next to a very cheap, very battered electric kettle that Seonghyeon refused to throw away. The fridge was no longer a barren wasteland of high-end mineral water; it was covered in magnets, takeout menus, and a sticky note that read: “Eat the leftovers in the blue bowl or I’m charging you interest. – S.”
At Seonghyeon’s office, he was known for being the most disciplined analyst on the floor. He never missed a deadline, and his attention to detail was legendary. But everyone also knew about his "Mystery Benefactor."
Once a week, a local bakery would deliver fifty boxes of gourmet cupcakes to the entire office floor "just because." Every time Seonghyeon’s phone vibrated with a voice note, his coworkers would watch as the stern, focused analyst’s expression softened into something dangerously close to a smile.
[10:14 AM] Keonho sent a voice note
“Hyeonie, Secretary Kim accidentally ordered three hundred roses for the foyer. I told him it was fine because they match your eyes when you’re annoyed. Come home early?”
Seonghyeon would roll his eyes, type back you’re delusional, and then immediately start finishing his work so he could leave by 5:00 PM.
Every Saturday evening, they returned to their roots. Keonho would trade his suits for a plain hoodie (usually one of Seonghyeon’s), and they would walk down to the same greasy galbi restaurant.
The manager still called them "The Movie Star" and "The Scolding Waiter." They would sit at Table 4, and Keonho would still watch Seonghyeon with that same underwater intensity from the aquarium, as if he couldn't believe his luck.
"You're staring again," Seonghyeon would say, flipping the meat on the grill with practiced ease.
"I'm observing a national treasure," Keonho would reply, reaching across the table to squeeze Seonghyeon’s hand—the one that no longer had raw knuckles, but was warm, well-cared for, and wore a simple gold band.
One evening, as they stood on their balcony overlooking the sprawling lights of Seoul, Keonho leaned his head on Seonghyeon’s shoulder.
"Do you ever miss the high-speed chase?" Keonho asked quietly.
Seonghyeon looked at his life—the career he’d built, the man by his side, the quiet safety of a home where he was never "too busy" to be loved. He thought about the exhausted student who had once scribbled his number on a receipt just to get paid back.
"No," Seonghyeon whispered, turning to face the man who had turned his world into a glitch in the best possible way. "I think I like the view better from here."
Keonho smiled, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like peace and a thousand Saturday nights yet to come. The "Chief" had retired, the "Spreadsheet" had been rewritten, and for once, the world was exactly the right speed.
---
Seonghyeon was in the kitchen, meticulously prepping a quiet dinner, when the keypad to the front door beeped. He didn't even look up.
"If that’s James with more 'emergency' laundry, tell him the machine is full," Seonghyeon called out.
"Worse!" a voice boomed.
In walked Martin, Keonho’s cousin and a man who treated life like a permanent after-party, followed by Juhoon, a high-strung, sharp-tongued architect friend of Keonho’s who was currently judging the foyer’s lighting. James trailed behind them, already holding a bottle of cheap wine that definitely didn't match the penthouse's aesthetic.
"Housewarming!" Martin announced, dumping a massive, leaking bag of ice into Keonho’s designer sink. "I heard Seonghyeon was cooking, and I haven't had a decent meal since my chef quit."
"Your chef didn't quit, Martin, he fled the country to escape your personality," James remarked, sliding onto a barstool and tapping the marble counter. "Keonho, tell me you didn't choose this yourself. It’s very... 'nouveau riche.'"
Keonho emerged from his home office, looking delighted by the disruption. "James, leave the counters alone. Seonghyeon picked them, which means they are structurally and aesthetically perfect."
"Liar," Seonghyeon muttered, though he hid a smile as Keonho squeezed his shoulder in passing.
Within thirty minutes, the penthouse was a disaster zone:
- James had decided the 85-inch TV wasn't being used to its full potential and had hooked up a vintage karaoke machine he’d dragged from his trunk.
- Martin was currently showing Juhoon the "King Shark" gachapon collection, leading to a heated 20-minute debate about the market value of plastic sea creatures.
- Juhoon had found Seonghyeon’s old Macroeconomics textbooks and was busy correcting the margins with a fountain pen while lecturing no one in particular about urban planning.
"Seonghyeon-ah!" Martin yelled over a backtrack of a 90s pop song. "Tell Keonho to stop being a hermit! We’re going to a club in Gangnam. I’ve already put your names on the VIP list as 'The Grumpy One' and 'The Sugar Daddy.'"
Seonghyeon froze, a kitchen knife halfway through a green onion. "The what?"
"I’ll pay you five million won to delete that list," Keonho shouted from the sofa, where he was currently being used as a footrest by James.
By midnight, the trio had finally been ushered out—mostly because Seonghyeon threatened to make them all sign "cleaning contracts" for the glitter Martin had somehow managed to get on the ceiling.
The silence that followed was heavy and sweet.
Seonghyeon leaned against the balcony door, watching the tail lights of James’s sports car disappear into the city. The living room was a mess of empty wine glasses, Juhoon’s discarded sketches, and one stray shark figurine that had been moved to the top of the TV.
"They’re exhausting," Seonghyeon sighed, feeling Keonho’s arms wrap around his waist from behind.
"They’re a catastrophe," Keonho agreed, resting his chin on Seonghyeon’s shoulder. "But Martin did say one smart thing before he left."
"I find that hard to believe."
"He said he’s never seen you look so... settled." Keonho turned Seonghyeon around in his arms, his expression softening into that intense, indigo gaze that always made Seonghyeon’s breath hitch. "You aren't vibrating with stress anymore, Hyeonie. You actually look like you live here."
Seonghyeon looked at the mess in the kitchen, the ridiculous gachapon on the shelf, and the man holding him. The high-speed chase hadn't just ended; it had turned into a home.
"Well," Seonghyeon whispered, reaching up to fix Keonho’s messy collar. "Someone has to keep you from becoming as delusional as Martin. It’s a full-time job."
"Does it pay well?"
"I accept payment in Saturday nights," Seonghyeon said, pulling him down for a kiss. "And no more glitter. Ever."