Chapter Text
Haechan always became nervous before performances. During the weeks that led up to them, he'd refuse to eat and opt to rehearse until the very skin on his feet peeled away. It was always barre work first. Then repetition. Then correction. Then repetition again until the movement stopped belonging to his body and started belonging to the discipline that shaped it.
Ballet wasn't gentle. It only looked that way from the outside. However, up close, it was hours of pressure through the toes in skin tightening shoes that were never meant to feel comfortable—only controlled.
But unlike every other performance, tonight was more nerve wracking because it was meant to change the direction of the studio's funds. They were low—extremely low—but their ballet instructor informed them of a special guest who'd intended to attend one of the shows in an attempt to decide whether or not their studio was worthy enough to 'pump his money into'.
To simply put it, he couldn't mess this up. He had to be perfect.
Every stride, twirl—it all had to be done with the two 'P’s' of ballet…,precision and perfection.
The room backstage was always chaos pretending to be order. He should've been thinking about wrapping his shoes around his ankles or suggesting a costume change to quicken his departure. But instead, he kept replaying the routine in his mind. Fixating on how every landing carried a risk of losing the opportunity presented in front of him.
"Earth to you," a familiar voice called, snapping his fingers to get Haechan’s attention. "You're zoning out again."
"I'm fine," Haechan lied automatically. "What are you doing back here, Jeno?"
Jeno folded his arms as he looked at the dancer through the mirror in front of them. "Am I not allowed to check in on my little brother?"
"You are, but now isn't the time." Haechan exhaled, adjusting the wrap around his ankle as if that alone could keep him sane. "You're going to distract me."
"I'm distracting you?" Jeno scoffed, but his eyes softened in the mirror. "That's rich coming from someone who's been staring at the same spot on the wall for ten minutes."
Haechan didn't answer because the older was right. His mind wasn't even there. It kept slipping back to the announcement from a few Thursdays ago.
A special guest. A man with money powerful enough to "support the future of the arts," as the director had put it. But everyone knew what that really meant. Influence, ownership, connections—and worse of all—pressure.
So much pressure that it made the brunette's chest feel tight just thinking about it.
Before he could dive further into the chaos he only could described as his mind, there was a soft knock heard at the door.
Lucas stepped in carefully, like he didn't want to disturb the fragile order of backstage preparations. In his hands was a bouquet—soft white orchids wrapped in black paper.
He looked slightly out of place. Like a gentle giant that was too sweet for the harshness of it all. "I, uh..." Lucas scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to Haechan. "I brought these...for you."
Jeno's eyebrows lifted instantly.
The dancer blinked. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," the other said quickly, then softened his voice. "For luck." There was something careful in the way he said it. Like he was always one sentence away from revealing too much of his feelings.
Jeno leaned against the counter. "That's sweet of you, man."
Lucas barely glanced at him. His focus stayed on the pretty dancer sitting down. "You'll do fine. You always do."
Haechan took the flowers slowly, fingers brushing the other's for a second too long. A faint warm crept up Lucas's ear before he quickly looked away.
Jeno noticed the small detail, but said nothing. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, gaze flicking between them like he was filing away for later. "Try not to break a leg out there," he said dryly to his sibling.
"That's comforting," Haechan muttered.
Lucas showed a soft smile. "He means don't push yourself too hard."
Jeno huffed. "I meant exactly what I said."
The man let out a light chuckle as he added, “ I’m going to find a seat.”
Haechan nodded, rolling his shoulders as his eyes followed Lucas’s movements until he was no longer in the room.
Jeno was still there, staying longer than he usually would’ve. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m always nervous.”
“No,” Jeno corrected quietly. “Not like this.”
That made Haechan pause.
The older male stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to prove anything to no one out there.”
Haechan swallowed. “But it isn’t just them.”
Jeno studied him for a second. He knew exactly how much his brother over analyzed every detail pertaining to ballet. The thought alone cause his expression to hardened slightly—not at the younger, but at the lifestyle they were forced to endure. “I’ll be in the audience,” he said. “Remember…if you feel off, look for me.”
Haechan gave him a small, tired smile. “That’s not how performances work.”
Jeno didn’t smile back. “But that’s how we work.”
Somewhere else in the building, the atmosphere was entirely different. There wasn’t a hint of panic or chaos unfolding—only control pretending to be ‘casual’.
Mark stood near the private entrance of the theater, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable as he listened to Jaemin talk beside him.
“Why are we here?" Jaemin asked.
Mark didn’t look at him. “Because I wanted to come.”
Jaemin raised a brow. “Since when do you care for ballet?”
“Since it became useful,” he responded calmly.
Jaemin sighed like that answer didn’t surprise him. Behind them, Renjun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes drifting lazily over the theater staff moving nervously throughout the crowd.
“Useful,” Renjun echoed quietly, almost amused. "Definitely."
Jaemin rolled his eyes. “More like a scheme. When I wanted to be a dancer he almost killed the body guard who agreed to accompany me.”
The male finally glanced at his brother then, slow and deliberate, like the answer was obvious, he said, “you wanted to be seen.”
Jaemin scoffed. “I wanted to dance, but instead you taught me hand to hand combat.”
“That’s the same thing,” Mark replied. “This, however, is business and nothing else.”
Suddenly, a guide approached them with a smile and rehearsed voice—offering to escort them to their private seating. “This way, sir. Your booth has been prepared.”
Mark gave a small nod and started to follow, but Jaemin didn’t move. “I’m not sitting in some glass box like I’m on display,” Jaemin said, glancing toward the general seating where the rest of the audience was already filling in. “I’m sitting out there.”
The guide hesitated, feeling the shift of Mark’s attitude as he looked at the male who’s pink hair bounced each time he made a slight movement.
“Don’t be difficult,” the older made said.
“I’m not,” Jaemin replied lightly. “I just want to actually feel like I’m watching a performance, not conducting an audit.”
Renjun stepped in before it escalated, tone calm but firm. “He’ll be fine in the crowd. I’ll sit with him.”
Mark’s gaze flicked to Renjun—calculating before he spoke. “And you’ll keep him out of trouble?”
The male smiled faintly. “I always do.”
Mark exhaled through his nose. “Fine.”
The guide looked relieved as Mark finally turned toward the private corridor. “This way, sir.”
Jaemin waved lazily while his brother was led away. “Try not to fall asleep in your little luxury box.”
“I won’t,” Mark said without looking back.
“You will,” Jaemin called after him. “Everyone does.”
The private booth was quiet and distant. The silence of it was clearly built for people who didn’t want to be apart of a world they were meant to observe. Mark sat back, one arm resting along the edge of the seat, eyes already scanning the stage as the lights dimmed.
The first performance began—a duo. Then another and another. Each one precise, practiced and polished. They were all beautiful in a way that required no thought from him. But he continued to watch out of obligation more than interest.
This was simply a business transaction between two well known organizations that needed to remain civilians in the eyes of the public.
Boredom settled slowly as he repeatedly checked his watch for the time. Jaemin was right. His attention drifted, the endless nights of sleep finally deciding to play catch up with his body.
That was until the lights changed. Not dimmer, but sharper than any of the previous performances. A different energy cut through the theater like a held breath finally released. Mark’s gaze lifted as a new performer stepped onto the stage.
They wore a mask, but that didn’t hide the intensity of their presence.
Mark straightened slightly in his seat without realizing it.
The dancer’s movement started like a whisper—controlled and impossibly clean. Every extension felt like it had been measured down to the millimeter while every landing absorbed into silence.
They moved like the stage belonged to them. Not in an arrogant manner, but in ownership earned through repetition so brutal that it had erased hesitancy.
Mark’s eyes narrowed, something unreadable flickering behind his calm exterior.
The choreograph suddenly became faster. Sharper and riskier, yet still….flawless. The dancer made a turn, forcing their eyes to align. Through the mask, there was no face to recognize—only a gaze that landed directly on Mark, and refused to break.
A chill ran down his spine, sudden and uninvited, like the air in the room had shifted dangerously. He couldn’t look away for the rest of the performance. He was caught in a trance until the music faded, but the moment didn’t. He stayed seated longer than necessary after the curtain fell.
Applause thundered through the theater—polite at first, then growing. Mark hardly registered it because his eyes were still fixed on the stage like he expected the masked dancer to reappear if he stared long enough.
Jaemin’s voice crackled through the speaker in his earpiece a few seconds later. “Well?” he asked. “Did your ‘useful’ ballet night manage to keep you awake?”
Mark finally blinked, slow. “Yes.”
“That sounded like a lie,” Jaemin replied immediately.
Renjun’s voice cut through more softly. “You sound distracted. Is everything alright, boss?”
Mark exhaled through his nose, leaning back into his seat again like he was forcing himself to reset. “Who was that?”
“Is that all you have to say? You need to be more specific, brother,” Jaemin muttered. Mark could sense his eye roll behind his words. “Or is that how rich people talk about theatrical arts?”
“I’m serious,” the older said.
Renjun answered this time. “A soloist. Apart of Director Kim’s program.”
Mark cursed under his breath. “That asshole? What’s their name?”
“Full name is Lee Donghyuck, but his stage name is Haechan—it’s what he prefers to be called.”
Mark nodded. He needed to meet this ‘Haechan’.
“Shit—,” Renjun’s voice cut through the earpiece.“Dammit. He was right next to me a second ago.”
“What’s the matter?”
There was a sharp exhaled as the male responded. “It’s Jaemin…he’s wandered off.”
Mark’s expression didn’t change, but something in his tone sharpened instantly. “Find him.”
“I’m on it,” Renjun muttered, already moving.
Jaemin, on the other hand, wasn’t concerned in the slightest. The crowd had thinned just enough for him to slip away unnoticed. He didn’t know how he found himself backstage, but his body just followed the flow of the crowd until it calmed down. Once he was past the side corridors, he quickly realized that no one was around to watch him.
There was less control now, even if it was for only a few seconds.
As he turned a corner— in hopes of finding refreshments—his torso collided with another person. The impact wasn’t hard, but it was enough to stop him.
Jaemin stumbled half a step back, instinctively steadying himself with a hand against the other man’s chest. “Oh.” For a second, neither of them moved. The broader man looked down at the hand resting against him before lifting his gaze to meet Jaemin’s.
The pink haired male smiled. “Well,” he said lightly, not pulling his hand away. “I was hoping to run into something interesting tonight, but this works too.”
The man blinked once, clearly not expecting that response. Then—despite himself—a small huff of amusement slipped out. “Is this how you normally greet strangers?” He asked.
Jaemin finally stepped back, but not far. “Only the attractive ones. I’m Jaemin by the way.”
The other’s eyes narrowed just slightly, like he was more aware now. “You’re awfully bold.”
“Just saying it how it is,” Jaemin replied easily. He saw the way he crossed his arms loosely, his posture more casual but grounded now.
“That so?”
Jaemin tilted his head, studying him more openly. “Mhmm. Good build. Calm demeanor. Protective type, maybe?” His gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of backstage. “By your outfit I can tell you’re not just staff.”
“Observant.”
“Curious,” the latter corrected. “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to keep you labeled as the man of my dreams?”
A small pause settled between them before an answer came. “Jeno.”
Jaemin grinned victoriously.
A few seconds went by as Jeno continued to observe the other male. He wasn’t the type to entertain this kind of thing often. He never went looking for it. But—he wasn’t blind either and Jaemin was hard to ignore. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” Jeno said finally, though there wasn’t much bite to it.
Jaemin smiled again, softer this time. ”And you should?”
Jeno let out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh. “I won’t answer that.” For a minute, his gaze lingered on the other. He was cute. Trouble probably, but cute nonetheless.
“Jaemin.” Renjun’s voice cut through the corridor, sharper now.
Jaemin didn’t turn immediately. “Sounds like I’m being hunted.”
“Looks like you are,” Jeno said plainly.
Then, a little quieter this time—like a secret between the two of them—the other male said, “guess I’ll have to run into you another time.”
There was no response heard from Jeno because in a blink of an eye, Renjun rounded the corner, grabbing Jaemin lightly by the arm. “You cannot disappear in a place like this.”
“I didn’t disappear,” he replied, letting himself be pulled back by the other who was significantly smaller than him. “I was socializing.”
Renjun glanced at Jeno briefly—assessing him—before looking back at Jaemin. “We’re leaving. Now.”
The younger didn’t resist, but his eyes flicked back one last time. Jeno was still standing there…watching. He didn’t follow them, but he also didn’t shy away from them. And for some odd reason, that made Jaemin’s smile linger a little longer than it should’ve.
In the hallway outside the private booths, Mark didn't head for the exit immediately. He followed the small group of people that were in his section, but he made a sharp turn at a certain point. The intent was clear in the way his shoes echoed against the polished flooring as he abandoned the quiet luxury meant to separate him from everything real about the place.
“Stop right there,” a staff member started, startled by the sudden movement. “Sir, backstage access is—”
“I know what it is,” Mark cut in smoothly, not even sparing them a glance. His voice wasn’t raised, but it didn’t need to be. It carried the kind of authority that made people second guess their own rules. “Go find Director Kim.”
The staff member hesitated—just for a second—but that was all it took. Mark’s gaze flicked toward them, dark and expectant, as if he never repeated himself. “Yes, sir.”
In a less than five minutes, Director Kim approached him. Of course he was quick in his arrival. Men like him always moved fast when money called their name. “Mr. Lee,” the director greeted, all polite smiles and thinly veiled eagerness as he approached. “I hope you’re enjoying the performance. We’ve arranged a private reception if you’d like to—”
“Spare me.” The words landed flat.
Kim’s smile faltered slightly, but it remained somewhat in tact.
Mark turned to face him fully now, posture relaxed, but his presence was suffocating. “The soloist.”
Director Kim recovered quickly, chuckling as if this was all part of a pleasant conversation. “Ah, yes. We have many talented dancers in our program—”
“The masked one.”
Now his smile dropped a little more. Not completely, but enough to make Mark raise a brow.
“Haechan,” Kim corrected carefully. “He prefers that name on stage.”
“That has nothing to do with the agreement.” Silence stretched thin between them. Mark took a step close. It wasn't aggressive or rushed, but it was intentional enough that the director's shoulders subtly stiffened. “I want him. Just him."
Kim let out a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. Our dancers are not—”
“I’m not asking to buy him,” Mark interrupted, voice quieter now. "I’m asking to meet him.” The distinction was made clear, but that somehow didn't make things better because he had noticed a possessive switch in tone as the director spoke of Haechan.
“This is…unexpected,” Director Kim admitted slowly. “You showed little interest in the program itself during our previous discussions.”
“That’s because your program didn’t interest me.” He was blunt—cruel even—but that was the truth. Kim’s jaw tightened faintly. Yet Mark didn’t stop.“But he does. His technique...the control shown throughout his dance is beyond what you're presenting on that stage. You're underutilizing him."
"Haechan is...he's special” Kim said, skepticism threading through his voice. "I hold him dear to my heart."
Mark’s gaze didn’t waver. "You sound like a fucking creep that seems to forget who he's talking to."
That was a warning. Director Kim could tell, so he ushered one of the staff to bring Haechan to them.
In one of the dressing rooms, the adrenaline began to wore off as Haechan sat in front of the mirror again. His mask was off now, resting on the table like something separate from him.
His chest still rose a little too fast, skin flushed from exertion, strands of damp hair clinging lightly to his forehead. He stared at his reflection, not with pride, but with analysis. His performance replayed through his mind and he picked it apart from each turn to every landing.
A knock sounded at the door again. Haechan didn’t answer right away, so the voice called out.
“Hyuck,” Jeno’s voice came through, quieter now. “You decent?”
He shook his head, snapping himself out of his dooming thoughts. "Yeah.”
The door opened just enough for Jeno to slip inside. His eyes found his brother immediately. “You did good.” There was concern—worry—seeped into his words despite it being a statement.
Haechan exhaled faintly. “That’s not what you said earlier.”
“I said don’t break a leg.”
“That’s worse.”
Jeno huffed a quiet laugh, stepping further in. “The audience loved you.”
“Did they?” There it was again. That doubt that always seemed to follow the dancer everywhere.
Jeno frowned slightly. “You didn’t hear them?”
The younger shrugged lightly, gaze dropping to his hands. “I don’t perform for applause.”
“No,” Jeno said after a second. “You always perform like someone’s watching and analyzing every detail of your routine."
That made Haechan pause. His brother was right. However, while other performances may have just been him caught up in his distorted view of himself, tonight—tonight there was someone actually watching him closely. One gaze the dancer couldn’t shake even if he tried.
“There was one person,” Haechan admitted quietly.
The older's brows lifted. “Who?”
Haechan nodded slowly. “In one of the upper booths. I don’t know why, but…” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “It felt like if I messed up—even once—it would matter.”
Jeno didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. “Forget that,” he said firmly. “No one out there decides your worth. You did fucking amazing."
Haechan wanted to respond, but he didn't. Deep down he knew that something outside of his control had already been decided.
Director Kim exhaled slowly, adjusting his sleeve. “He’s finishing up backstage. I can arrange a proper introduction at the reception later—”
“No," Mark stepped back. His decision was already made. "I'll meet him now."
The other man's patience finally cracked just slightly. “I can assure you that while his performance may be mesmerizing, he is certainly not up to your standards, Mr. Lee.”
"You're running my patience thin. You need funding," Mark tilted his head just slightly, eyes locking onto Kim’s. “And I’m offering it. Why are you fucking stalling when I've already stated my conditions?" This wasn't about a partnership anymore. This was about putting out the fire that burned beneath the surface of his skin at the sight of the dancer. He wanted him. Not to own him, but to savor his entire existence until he no longer craved him.
Director Kim didn't answer immediately because there was nothing he could say that wouldn't expose too much. "Ten minutes," he muttered finally, voice tighter than before. "I wouldn't want you to miss out on the rest of our show."
Mark didn't respond, the way stepped forward, already moving before the other man could take lead, said enough.
As they reached the hallways of the dressing room, Mark noticed the exhausted aftermath from bodies forced to be perfection fill the air. It was strange to see the extent of ballet, but none of it held his attention for long.
Kim stopped just outside one of the doors, lifting a hand to knock, but there was something in the way he hesitated. The man behind him caught it instantly—the way his attention lingered on the handle before he finally knocked. "Haechan," he called, voice shifting into something smoother. "Come out for a moment. We have a guest."
Inside, there was a brief shuffle followed by quiet voices. Then, the door opened, and for the first time, Mark saw him. Not masked or distant, but himself—raw.
For a second, the man forgot how to breathe because nothing could've prepared him for this. Haechan wasn't just beautiful. That word felt too small, too shallow. It wasn't just because of the soft flush still dusting his skin from exertion, or the way his lips parted slightly in quiet confusion at the sight of an unfamiliar face.
It was everything.
His damp hair that framed his face. The way he held himself almost cautiously like he existed in a world that handled him too roughly. His eyes that carried something soft even when they were tired—something kind. It was all presented in way that was untouched by the ugliness Mark was used to.
And that was what caught him off guard. Mark had never looked at a man like this before. It was more than attraction...it was deeper. And it didn't start with desire.
"Sir?" Haechan's voice was soft, pulling Mark out of the moment he didn't realize he'd been stuck in.
The director stepped froward quickly, placing a hand lightly against Haechan's shoulder. "Haechan, this is Mr. Lee. The investor I told you and the others about."
Mark's eyes dropped immediately to the contact. He noticed that the dancer held still in a way that wasn't relaxed. His smile seemed more of a practice polite that didn't reach his eyes.
He was uncomfortable, yet the director refused to move his hand. If anything, his thumb pressed slightly into the crevice between his neck and shoulder like he was grounding him there in an attempt to remind him of something.
Mark's expression didn't change, but he spoke, his tone calm. "Remove your hand."
The director froze. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said," Mark repeats, tone just as even, "remove your hand. I don't like to repeat myself, director."
The room went still. The, director Kim laughed, like it was nothing—pulling away as if he intended to do so all along. "Of course," he said. "No need to be tense."
Haechan shifted slightly, his fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of sleeves. "Nice to meet you," he said softly, offering a small bow out of habit. Mark watched the movement carefully. The boy was gentle, unaware of the effect he had on multiple individuals in the room.
"You danced well," Mark said. It was simple, clearly catching both the director and dancer off guard.
Haecahn blinked, "thank you."
Director Kim cut in quickly, eager to reclaim control of the situation. "He's one of our finest. I'v personally overseen his training—"
"I can tell," Mark interrupted. To an outsider of the conversation, his words sounded like a praise. But they weren't, making the director fall quiet again.
"Have you eaten?" Mark asked suddenly. He was looking at the young male intently. Not like a buyer or investor, but as someone trying to understand something they weren't supposed to want.
Haechan hesitated. "I—"
"No," Kim answered for him with a small laugh. "Our dancers maintain strict diets, especially before and after performances—"
"I wasn't asking you."
Mark was becoming irritated. Director Kim had interrupted them more than enough and if wasn't for his organization's agreement on funding an art, he would've killed the man right there and then. His gazed returned to the dancer, softer this time. "Have you eaten?”
"No-not yet." Of course he hadn't. The way his body barely seemed to hold up was enough of an answer.
"Come have dinner with me."
Haechan's eyes widened slightly. "I—tonight?"
"Yes." His response wasn't forceful, but it was much of a question either.
The director stepped forward again, quick to interfere. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. He has obligations to the studio after every—"
"I'll cover whatever obligations you think he has," Mark said, cutting him off without even looking at him. "And if this partnership matters to you at all," he added quietly, "you'll stop speaking for him."
Mark then redirected his attention back to the dancer, everything in him becoming undeniably gentler. "You don't have to say yes," he said. "But I would like you to."
Haechan glanced briefly towards Kim then back at the man asking him to dinner. Something in his chest felt different. "Okay," he said quietly.
The director's jaw tightened while Mark gave a simple nod. "Take as much time as you need to gather your things. I'll be at the front. Director Kim follow me."
The dancer watched the two men leave the hallway before settling back into his dressing room.
“Hey?” Jeno’s voice cut through softly, already stepping forward the moment the door closed behind the other. “You okay?”
Haechan blinked, like he was coming back to reality. “Y-yeah….”
Jeno’s eyes narrowed slightly, not believing his brother based on the tone of his voice. “What did he want?”
“He asked me to dinner.”
The older’s posture stiffened. “That bastard Kim?”
Haechan shifted his weight, fingers still loosely gripping the fabric of his sleeve. “No—no…the investor. The one I told you about. Turns out he’s the same person that watched me the whole time from the booth.”
Jeno still didn’t like the sound of that.“Of course he was,” he muttered under his breath, already pacing once across the small room. “That’s what they do. They watch, they pick, and then suddenly they think they’re entitled to—”
“He’s not like that.” The words came out quicker than expected. They were soft, yet firm, like he was defending the man.
Jeno stopped. Then turned to look at his brother. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Haechan insisted quietly. “He—” He hesitated, trying to put it into words. “He didn’t feel like Director Kim.”
Jeno’s expression darkened slightly at the mention. “That’s not exactly a high standard.”
“I know,” Haechan exhaled. “But still…”
The older hated when there was a ‘but’ involved because it always meant that his brother was already leaning toward something that he never fully understood.
“You’re not going,” Jeno said finally.
The dancer looked up, his stance not wavering. “I want to.”
This was new. Something the older hadn’t seen radiating from Haechan in a long time.
Interest—outside of ballet. And he looked alive while speaking about it.
“I’ve been stuck in my head all night,” Haechan admitted a bit quieter now. “Overthinking everything…every step, every mistake I could’ve made.” His fingers tightened slightly. “But when I was dancing—and I looked at him—it felt different.”
Jeno didn’t interrupt as he continued.
“He wasn’t looking at me like I was something to fix,” Haechan continued. “Or something to control.” A small pause. “He just…looked.”
This was dangerous. People like the investor the younger spoke of didn’t just look. They take and take until they feel satisfied with their attempt at reshaping what seems broken.
And yet, Haechan was standing in front of him, for once not spiraling or tearing himself apart.
Jeno exhaled slowly. “I don’t trust him already.”
“Jeno—,”
“I don’t trust any man who has that kind of money and walks into a place like this looking for one specific person,” he cut in, voice firm. “And I definitely don’t trust someone Director Kim is eager to hand you over to.”
That hit because it was true. Haechan’s gaze dropped for a second.
“But,” Jeno added after a pause, quieter now, “I trust you.”
Haechan looked up again. “If you want to go,” his brother continued, “then you can go.”
A small breath left the dancer’s mouth.
“But—” Jeno’s tone sharpened slightly, “I’m meeting him first.”
The relief he felt was quickly put a pause “Jeno…”
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere with some stranger until I look him in the eye and decide he’s not going to be a problem.”
Haechan hesitated, but gave in nonetheless. “Okay.”
The front of the building was quieter now. Most of the audience had already filtered out, leaving behind dim lights and the quiet shuffles of staff closing down for the night. Mark stood near the entrance, exactly where he said he would be.
Jeno saw him before Haechan did—and immediately— he didn’t like him. Not for any particular reason, but just the way he stood. The way how people intentionally gave him space without knowing.
“That him?” Jeno asked under his breath.
Haechan nodded.“Yeah.”
Jeno stepped forward first, positioning himself just slightly ahead without making it obvious.
Mark noticed immediately. Of course he had. His gazed followed Jeno as the question posed in his mind. ‘Who was that?’ It sounded possessive in a way he didn’t even register yet.
”I was beginning to think you changed your mind,” Mark said calmly.
Haechan blinked. “Sorry, I—,”
“Who are you?” The question cut in before the dancer could even finish. It was directed at Jeno, but the male didn’t flinch whatsoever.
“Funny,” he replied coolly. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
For a moment there was a tense silence that filled the air. But then Jeno continued. “I’m Haechan’s brother.”
And just like that, the tension had shifted. Mark’s gaze finally eased as he let his gaze linger a second longer. “I see…” He straightened just a fraction as he said. “Mark.”
“Jeno.”
There was no handshake, only acknowledgment between the two males.
“I need to know where you’re taking him,” Jeno said plainly. “And why.”
Haechan winced slightly. “Jeno—”
“No,” Jeno cut him off. “I’m not sending you off with someone I don’t know.”
Mark studied him before responding. “Dinner. Somewhere that’s quiet.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Mark exhaled softly through his nose. Everyone seemed to be testing his patience tonight. “I’m not interested in harming him,” he said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“I am.”
That earned the smallest flicker of something—almost amusement.
Almost.
“Then you’ll have to trust your judgment,” Mark replied. “Since you’re clearly not going to trust me.”
Suddenly, a black car pulled up near the curb.
Mark glanced toward it briefly before looking back at them. “You can ride with one of my drivers,” he offered. “If you want to follow.”
Jeno’s eyes narrowed.
“Or,” he added calmly, “you can memorize the license plate and follow on your own terms. I don’t particularly care which.”
He was honest—annoyingly so apparently.
Jeno was about to respond until someone interrupted him.
“Mark.” Jaemin’s voice cut in as he stepped out from the side, clearly having just come from outside. “You planning on staying here all night or—”
He stopped mid sentence as his eyes landed on Jeno. “Oh.” A grin spread across his face. “Isn’t this a surprise.”
Jeno blinked once, caught off guard. “You…”
Jaemin stepped closer without hesitation, like there wasn’t an entire situation unfolding around them. “We meet again,” he said lightly.
Mark watched the interaction carefully. “You know each other?”
“Barely,” Jeno replied.
“Enough,” Jaemin corrected, still smiling.
Then—without missing a beat—he turned to Mark. “Can I steal him?”
The older blinked once. “What?”
“I’m bored,” the pink haired male said simply. “And he’s interesting.”
Jeno let out a short, disbelieving breath. “I’m not—” But Jaemin had already grabbed his wrist.
“Come on,” he said, pulling him back a step. “You can interrogate my brother later. I promise he’s only mildly terrifying.”
“Wait Jaemin—,” yet it was too late. He was already being dragged away. Jeno twisted slightly, shooting Haechan one last look. “Call me if anything feels off.”
“I will,” Haechan nodded quickly.
Then they were gone.
“Will my brother be okay?” The dancer finally glanced up at Mark.
The man hummed, gently taking ahold of the other’s hand as he escorted him to his car. “I can assure you Jaemin is not a threat.” Despite this, he picked up on the way Haechan still looked uneasy about the situation. “I will make sure my driver takes them back to my place,” he added. “Jaemin is my little brother so I understand.”
That seemed to calm the younger male. He showed a small smile as Mark opened the passenger door for him to enter. “Thank you.”
Mark didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched as Haechan slipped into the seat—careful and delicate in the way he moved like his body was still carrying the weight of his prior performance. He then circled the car, sliding into the driver’s seat despite the presence of multiple vehicles and drivers waiting nearby.
Haechan noticed immediately. “You’re driving? What about—”
”I want you to feel comfortable,” Mark interrupted calmly as he started the engine. “And I want to be the only one blessed with your presence tonight.”
The restaurant Mark chose wasn’t loud. It matched his persona perfectly. No overwhelming chaos, or disorganization. Just low lighting, soft music, and enough distance between tables that conversation felt private enough.
Haechan sat across from him, hands folded loosely in his lap at first. His posture was almost too perfect out of habit. He wasn’t used to a setting like this, especially without a choreography controlling his movements.
Mark, on the other hand, looked like he belonged everywhere he went. He made everything look easy.
“You can relax,” the older male said after a moment, voice low, but not unkind.
The dancer blinked. “I am relaxed.”
“You’re sitting like you’re about to be evaluated.”
That made him pause…then huff out the smallest breath of laughter, shoulders dropping just a little. “Well, are you hiring?”
Mark’s lips twitched faintly at that. The other had a sense of humor.
Not long after, a waiter came to take their orders. Make barely glanced at the menu, already knowing what he was in the mood forever, but Haechan took a second longer. Every selection made carefully because it was clear he wasn’t used to choosing freely. Not around anyone deemed higher in society than him.
Once they were alone again, silence settled—not awkward, just…open. Haechan tilted his head slightly. “So…what do you do?”
It was a simple question, but there was genuine curiosity behind it. Mark met gaze, then deflected. “What made you start dancing?”
“I asked you first.”
“I heard you,” the older replied calmly. “Answer me anyway.”
There wasn't any pressure behind his tone, but somehow it still guided the conversation exactly where he wanted it. "I don't really remember a time where I wasn't dancing," he answered. "After losing so much, it became my everything."
Mark leaned back slightly, listening rather than interrupting. "Jeno does a lot—making sure I can continue it—but we're not really caught up with the right people," Haechan added.
"You're talking about Director Kim, right?"
Haechan nodded. "It's not all bad...just dictating."
"Do you regret it?" The question came smoothly. Mark found himself wanting know more of the dancer's thoughts.
"No," he said after a moment. "I just wish it didn't feel like the only thing I'm allowed to be good at. This life of mine...it's so suffocating, like a cage."
Mark noticed how Haechan’s fingers hovered over his fork like he’d forgotten what to do with it. The word ‘cage’ hung in the air, haunting the conversation entirely. His jaw tightened, “you said you feel suffocated.”
The dancer looked back up, his eyes finally meeting the man in front of him again.
“So leave,” Mark continued.
Haechan blinked, caught off guard by how direct it was. “It’s not that easy.”
“It is,” Mark replied, not missing a beat.
A small, almost disbelieving breath left the brunette. “You don't understand my situation.”
Mark shifted in his seat. There wasn’t anger in his expression, but there was something more focused. “I understand enough.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch briefly. “That man,” Mark continued, voice dropping just slightly, “Director Kim—he speaks for you too much.” Haechan’s shoulders tensed instantly. “He answers questions that aren’t his,” the other man added. “Touches you like you belong to him.”
The brunette swallowed. There was something behind his calm words—something colder. “It’s just how things are there.”
“No,” Mark said, firmer this time. “It’s how he’s made it.” He wasn’t dismissive with his words. They were honest—less detachment and more observant. “You’re talented,” he said bluntly. “More than anyone else on that stage tonight.”
“You’re just making stuff up—”
“He’s very aware of that,” Mark stopped him. “Which is why you’re still there.”
“What do you mean?” Haechan asked quietly.
“He benefits from you, so he keeps you oblivious."
The other looked down at the table again, fingers curling slightly. Even if what the man had said was true, what could he possibly do about it? "And what...you think I can just walk out? That everything will suddenly work out?"
"No," Mark said. "But I can make that happen."
"Not possible," Haechan shook his head. Maybe he was wrong about the man...maybe Jeno was right. "I think this was a mistake—me coming here."
"I'm not trying to be another asshole in your life." Mark's tone was genuine now. It wasn't flashy or dramatic like he was trying to mislead the younger, not at all. It was just...real. "I want to enhance it—your purpose doesn't lie in that run down studio."
Haechan's breath caught slightly. "And it does with you?"
"Beside me," he calmly corrected. "As an equal."
"Why?" The question came out softer than the dancer expected.
Mark didn't answer immediately. The truth was, he didn't fully know why either. What made him so drawn to the young male was beyond his comprehension and that irritated him.
"Because you shouldn't be there," he said finally. Not a real explanation, but an answer nonetheless.
Haechan searched his face, like he was trying to find the catch—the condition that most men always came to. "I could ruin your reputation...is that what you want?"
Mark chuckled lightly at the other's attempt to deter him. "You think you can ruin my reputation, love?" His voice was low, edged with something dangerous—teasing, but not entirely.
Haechan could feel the shift, but he didn’t pull away from it. If anything, he leaned in a fraction more, his eyes lifting to meet Mark’s with something softer, yet not shy enough to be innocent. “Maybe,” the brunette said quietly.
Mark let out a low huff, his gaze dropping to Haechan’s lips like he couldn’t help it this time. Like he wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. “Listen, angel,” because that’s what Haechan was in his eyes—a being that shouldn’t exist in their world because he was too perfect. “I don’t want to control you. It’s the last thing I wish to do. "His thumb brushed absently along the rim of Haechan’s glass before his attention drifted back to him. “But tainting you? Consuming everything you have to offer me? That’s my top priority.”
For a brief moment, he just looked at him, like he was recalculating everything from the beginning of the night to now. Then, his hand lifted to Haechan’s mouth, thumb softly brushing against the corner of his lips. “So careful,” he added. “You don’t know what you’re playing with here.” His touch lingered, pressing lightly at the male’s lower lip.
Haechan parted his lips slightly under his touch. And Mark noticed. The air tightened between them until it felt like it might snap. He started to pull away, but the other caught his wrist.
His fingers curled just enough to keep him there as his gaze flickered up through his lashes—uncertainty flashing through his eyes before something else settled in. He leaned in, slowly until his lips closed around Mark’s thumb. It was deliberate enough to make the older go complete still.
Mark watched intently as Haechan’s eyes lifted, wide, but not unaware of his actions. His breath hitched, sharp and quiet, while his other hand tightened slightly against the table as if trying to regain his composure. “Haechan—,” he said, voice dropping an octave lower. It was a frugal attempt to stop the younger because he himself didn’t bother to pull away.
Haechan pulled back slowly, finally releasing him with the faintest drag of his lips like he knew exactly what he’d just done. "I think I do."
Mark didn't move. For a man who was always in control and ten steps ahead, he found himself caught in a moment he hadn't planned for. His thumb was still slightly damp, the warmth of the other's mouth lingering in a way that felt...dangerous. And it wasn't because it was unexpected—no—it was because he liked it. A lot more that he should have.
"You're not so innocent are you?," Mark murmured, his voice clearly rough around the edges now.
Haechan swallowed, but he didn't look away this time. "You told me to be careful," he replied softly. "I'm just trying to understand why."
Mark let out a low breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he had found the whole ordeal amusing. "You don't test fire by putting your hand it, angel."
The dancer tilted his head. "How else am I supposed to know if it burns?"
Mark dragged a hand over his mouth, exhaling like he was trying to steady his breathing. "Come home with me." His words weren't rushed or careless, but it meant something now—a lot more for both parties involved. "We'll talk," he added, though his eyes momentarily dropped to the brunette's lips again before returning back to normal. "Properly...and I'll take my time with you."
This was not an invitation, but a promise. Haechan picked up his glass, his fingers tightening around it slightly. "Okay," he said as he took a sip of the wine. He knew that this—whatever it was—wasn't ending with just talking.
“You live here?” Haechan asked as he sat up straight in the vehicle, his eyes carefully scanned the tall and secluded building the other referred to as his home.
Mark hummed. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” the brunette admitted. “Not at all. It’s just big.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
The car came to a smooth stop, and before Haechan could reach for the handle, Mark was already stepping out and moving to the passenger door to open it for him.
Again.
There was hesitation in his face before taking the other’s hand as he stepped out. The contact was minimal, but it burned his skin.
As they stepped inside the house, the younger immediately took note of the clean lines and soft lighting. There wasn't much decoration, an open space that somehow still felt watched, but there were staff. He could tell, yet they moved like ghosts through the hallways without interrupting. "You're alone? Besides your...helpers I mean."
"No," Mark said simply, guiding the male into his kitchen.
Haechan stepped in just behind him, his eyes adjusting as he took in the polished counters and the faint scent of food that hadn't faded yet. He was so lost in the atmosphere that he didn't notice the two figures in the room. One leaned against the counter like he belonged there completely. His bright orange hair catching the light with his sleeves pushed up his arms. His expression shifted the moment he noticed them.
Beside him stood someone who was slightly turned away, standing closer to the island with his shoulders more drawn in. He looked up a second later, his white hair partly covering his eyes.
The orange haired one straightened a bit, pushing himself off the counter. His eyes flicked between Mark and Haechan before a small knowing curve pulled at his mouth. "Didn’t expect you to be back this early," he said casually. “Or with company.”
The white haired one didn't speak, but he kept looking—like he was assessing them.
Mark stepped further into the kitchen. He didn’t bother to react to the tone. “Chenle” he said simply. The his eyes shifted without much effort. “Jisung.” Both of them stilled, but relaxed as they watched the man step aside to bring the dancer forward into the space. “This is Haechan,” he introduced.
Chenel’s brows raised an inch, interest sharpening. “Haechan,” he repeated, like he was testing the name.
Jisung finally moved, leaning a little more onto the counter. He looked less analytical and more curious now—though he didn’t respond.
“We’re not staying,” he added. That was it. He didn’t give an explanation. Didn’t reveal as to why he brought the young male to their home.
Chenle huffed out the faintest breath through his nose, something almost like amusement, but he didn’t push further. “Didn’t think you would,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Mark's hand found Haechan's wrist. Not rough or tight, but enough to guide him. "Come," he said calmly. He didn't take him back the day they came. The further they moved from the main areas of the house, the more the presence of other faded into almost nonexistent.
Mark stopped in front of a door near the end of one of the halls and pushed it opened without knocking. "Stay here," he said, stepping aside for the younger to enter first.
Haechan immediately noticed the difference in the room compared to the rest of the house. It was soft—not overly decorated—with a large bed positioned neatly against the far wall. He could tell it was a space clearly meant for guests.
He stepped in slowly. Mark followed, but stopped at after a few steps. "You can freshen up," he said, nodding slightly toward the adjoining bathroom. "There should be a change of clothes in there, so take you time."
His tone had shifted again. Back to being composed and measured, like the tension from earlier had been folded and stored somewhere out of reach. "I'll be in my office," he continued. "You can send someone to call me when you're ready and we'll—"
"Or you could stay." It came out softer than he intended it to, but it stopped the older anyway. Haechan shifted his weight, brushing his fingers lightly against the edge of the dresser behind him. "I don't need to freshen up," he added quickly.
That made Mark glance back. The dancer was still standing where he had left him, but something changed. The way he held himself now wasn't as careful as before. He seemed more...intentional. Like he was filled with anticipation.
"You said you wanted to talk," Haechan continued. "So talk."
Mark studied him, scanning every detail on his body. "You've had a long night," he said finally. "You should—"
"I'm not tired." The younger walked over to the perfectly made bed, trailing his fingers along the comforter. "Not in the way you mean."
Mark tilted his head slowly, watching Haechan more intensely now. “That right?”
Haechan didn’t answer with words. Instead, he turned—gracefully, but deliberate—and sat on the edge of the bed. It wasn’t careful or precise like his actions earlier.
No. This was far from it.
He leaned back slightly on his hands, fingers pressing into the mattress behind him as his shoulders relaxed just enough to lose that practiced posture. He bent one leg while letting the other extend just a little, causing the fabric to shift with the adjustment.
“You said I should rest,” Haechan murmured. “This counts, doesn’t it?” There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
This was new. Mark could tell. It wasn’t playful—but neither was it innocent. He exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was recalibrating in real time. “You’re testing me…again.”
“Am I?” Haechan tilted his head slightly, watching him the same way he was being watched. “I wasn’t aware of that being recurring.”
The movement was subtle, yet Mark noticed—Haechan’s fingers drifted to the waistband of his pants, hooking just slightly before slipping away again.
That pulled something tighter in his chest, pushing him to step forward. It wasn’t rushed, but there was less distance between them now. Less restraint in the way his presence filled the room. “I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you’re doing, angel.”
Haechan’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, his fingers trailed higher—slowly—brushing over the expanse of his stomach as the hem of his shirt lifted just slightly with the motion. “Then explain it to me.”
Mark stopped right in front of him. Close enough that the size difference felt more pronounced again and if the younger moved even a little forward, he’d close the gap immediately.
But he didn’t.
A quiet huff left the older’s mouth. It was close to a laugh, but not quite that yet. “You’re exhausted. I know you are.”
Haechan sighed, opening his thighs just enough to slip his hand between them. He gave a quick rub over his crotch, too brief for any real pressure for it to be pleasurable, yet causing his lips to part slightly. “I beg to differ.”
Mark couldn’t believe the shy and gentle dancer he met only a few hours ago was willingly spreading himself—fully clothed—on his bed.
He moved forward one last time, reaching his hand down to tilt Haechan’s chin up slightly—forcing his gaze to stay locked with his. “What do you want?” Mark asked.
There was no hesitation in the other’s eyes.
“You.”