HMN C50

Chapter 50

“Ah… it’s sweet and nice.”

Daeyoung murmured dreamily, nose hovering close to the rim of the mug, inhaling the gentle citrus scent. The warmth spreading from the ceramic into his hands was meltingly pleasant.

“……”

Across from him, Go Chiwoo didn’t even touch his cup. Instead, he was staring—expression somewhere between annoyance and disbelief.

Ha. At this point, Daeyoung could practically read his moods just from his face. Whatever the reason, they’d spent enough time together—talking, meeting, drinking tea—to admit that some invisible wall between them had thinned.

“What now?”

“I just don’t get it. How someone who apparently has their own personal knight in shining armor still ends up drinking grapefruit tea on my dime.”

“Wow. Seriously. That’s so petty and so childish.”

Daeyoung let out a short laugh, responding halfheartedly, but Chiwoo’s frown didn’t budge. Wait… was he actually serious?

When Daeyoung looked closer, Chiwoo’s lips were drawn tight, his eyes faintly sulking as he lifted his mug. His posture, normally upright and proper, had tilted slightly; one leg crossed over the other, head cocked in faint irritation. Daeyoung sighed.

“Wonjung’s just that kind of guy. He looks out for people. And I don’t have my wallet right now. I always lose it when I drink, so whenever we go out, Wonjung holds onto it for me.”

Even as he explained, he realized he had no idea why he was bothering. He didn’t even know what part of this was making Chiwoo look so displeased—or why, as he kept talking, the man’s expression only darkened further.

“Why’d you give it to him?”

“…Huh?”

Chiwoo leaned forward, arms braced against the table, his voice suddenly sharp. The faint pout from before vanished, replaced with open irritation.

“Do you not understand how important it is to trust someone with your money? You’re saying you handed over the cash you broke your wrist working for? What—are your pockets so fucking shredded you need him to hold it for you?”

“……”

For a second, Daeyoung blinked at him, dumbfounded. The atmosphere was so absurdly tense he almost wondered if he’d been caught cheating or something. His alcohol-fogged mind couldn’t decide between laughing or getting angry.

“See? Look at yourself. You walk out like this without your wallet, nothing but your own two hands. Why put yourself in that situation? Even if I try to understand—”

“What… you want to hold onto it instead?”

Chiwoo froze. Then exhaled, quiet but deliberate.

“Yeah. That’s better.”

And just like that, he stopped ranting. The long speech about “trust” and “responsibility” evaporated instantly, leaving behind only a self-satisfied calm.

Daeyoung could only laugh under his breath. Maybe it was the lingering buzz from alcohol, but the way Chiwoo’s face lit up with unfiltered emotion… was kind of cute. Which was insane. Completely insane.

He stirred his tea lazily with the tiny spoon, watching the pale gold liquid swirl. The taste was especially sweet tonight.

“Oh, right. I’m heading down to my parents’ place tomorrow. Gonna pick up my bag while I’m there.”

More precisely, the pendant inside the bag was what mattered.

“Tomorrow? What time?”

“I booked the ten o’clock bus. I’ll be back Sunday night.”

Chiwoo nodded once, understanding.

Once he returned that pendant to where it belonged, there’d be no reason to sit here, drinking tea side by side like this. That was the truth of it. This—whatever it was—wasn’t normal.

He exhaled softly, staring at nothing in particular before taking another sip.

“Hey. You’re Ahn Daeyoung, right?”

A hand tapped his shoulder.

The hot rim nearly burned his lips as he startled, jerking upright.

Gray and blue-dyed hair. Oversized designer tee. Tattoos running down his bare arms even though it wasn’t remotely warm enough for short sleeves.

“……”

“Hey, you don’t remember me? Choi Gi-hyeop.”

“…Ah.”

“Ah, fuck, you do remember. I was about to get offended.”

Of course he remembered.

Choi Gi-hyeop was the first person he’d befriended when he’d entered high school at seventeen.

“Damn, you got into some fancy college and changed your number, huh? I was talking about you the other day with the guys—we were wondering how you were.”

Daeyoung swallowed dryly. His smile was thin, brittle. The hand holding his mug trembled faintly, tightening around the handle.

Across the table, Chiwoo’s gaze flicked from Daeyoung’s fingers, to his shoulder, to the tense line of his neck.

“Uh… yeah, well—”

“C’mon, gimme your number.”

The relaxed warmth that had filled his body a minute ago drained away all at once.

For a second, he just stared blankly at Gi-hyeop’s shoulder, mind blank, before reaching into his pocket without a word.

Tap. Tap.

A sharp sound against the table—Chiwoo’s index finger.

“Can’t tell if you’re the type who doesn’t realize he’s interrupting a serious conversation, or the type who doesn’t care.”

The voice came from across the table, low and cutting. Gi-hyeop turned, brows knitting.

“…What? You know him?”

“Do you know me? You didn’t, and you still butted in.”

The words weren’t loud, but the disdain was unmistakable.

Gi-hyeop’s frown deepened, his expression hardening—but Chiwoo’s stayed perfectly composed.

“Though honestly, I don’t really want to know someone who looks like that.”

He said it almost lazily, tilting his head just enough to take in the man’s appearance.

“Look at this mess,” he muttered, just loud enough to sting.

Gi-hyeop bristled immediately. “You little—”

He’d been about to fire back—‘And what about your face, you pretty-boy bastard?’—but the insult caught in his throat.

Because the face across from him was… flawless. Too perfect to ridicule.

So he pivoted, ready to brag about his expensive clothes, maybe throw in something crass about money—but then his eyes caught the man’s watch.

No brand logo. No loud labels. Just quiet, expensive minimalism. The clean shirt, the posture, the sheer size of his frame—every inch of him screamed league above.

“You—fucking—”

“If you’re out of words, walk away. And don’t go looking for a fight you can’t win.”

The dismissal was effortless—a flick of his wrist, like brushing off a fly.

Gi-hyeop’s pride wouldn’t let him leave silently. His face flushed with rage as he turned back toward Daeyoung, lips curling.

“So what, Daeyoung—got yourself another husband this time? See you around.”

He grabbed his drink from the counter and stalked out.

“……”

Daeyoung stared at the table, lips pressed tight.

Thump. Thump.

His pulse pounded behind his ears. The café music that had seemed pleasant moments ago now vanished into static.

Again. He’d been seen at his weakest—again. By Go Chiwoo, of all people.

High school had never been kind to him.

On the surface, it looked ordinary—boys playing soccer, laughing crudely, swapping jokes about girls—but under it was hierarchy. The strong ruled, the weak got cornered. His school, at least, had been that way.

And so, in college, he’d wanted to fit in. To blend. To be liked. Every little rumor, every embarrassment hit him harder than it should have—because he’d lived through worse.

Falling down or getting dumped in public didn’t matter. What truly humiliated him was being reminded of that past—the boy in the school uniform who couldn’t speak up, who got laughed at and stepped on.

Chiwoo must have known.

He had to.

Someone like him—someone raised high above, someone who’d probably always looked down on others—would recognize condescension when he saw it. Which was why he’d met it with equal disdain and thrown Gi-hyeop out.

Shame and gratitude clashed violently inside him.

Being seen like that—staring dumbly, frozen, unable to say no—felt like being stripped bare.

Scrape.

The chair slid back.

Chiwoo stood, disappeared briefly, then returned with a pack of wet tissues. He peeled one open with a crisp sound, took Daeyoung’s mug from his stiff grip, and wiped away the tea that had spilled over the edge. The circular stains on the table vanished beneath his steady hand.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he lifted the mug to his lips and drank.

Sip.

The soft sound of swallowing broke the silence.

“…Just a high school classmate,” Daeyoung said finally.

He knew how pointless it sounded—too late, too flimsy—but it was all he had. Pretending to be fine was the best he could manage.

“Same age, right? His face looks like someone chewed it up and spat it out.”

“…Ah.”

The dry remark caught him off guard, and before he knew it, Daeyoung was laughing. When he lifted his gaze, Chiwoo was expressionless again, sipping his tea like he hadn’t just said something that brutal.

“Yeah. He’s kind of a mess.”

Daeyoung nodded faintly. The tension in his shoulders eased. One short, scathing comment—strangely, it helped.

He let out a long breath, thumb absently rubbing the side of his mug. Chiwoo didn’t ask anything more. He just sat there, quietly keeping him company.

Bzzz.

“Oh—Wonjung’s calling. Probably wondering where we went. Let’s go.”

By the time they stood to leave, Daeyoung actually felt better.

Even after running into the person who’d shattered his most fragile memories of youth—he’d recovered faster than he’d thought possible.

Because of an unexpected person.

Maybe it was Chiwoo’s indifference that helped. Or maybe… next week, if Chiwoo went back to teasing him like always, he’d actually feel a little disappointed.

That thought lingered as they returned to the bar.

Wonjung met them halfway, grabbing his arm and demanding to know where they’d disappeared to. Daeyoung glanced back. Chiwoo had already rejoined Minhye, chatting easily.

He let himself be pulled to a different table. The distance between them grew again, but his eyes still wandered back every so often.

There were new things—small things—to be grateful to Chiwoo for. And with them, something else had shifted.

The sharp edges between them, once jagged and defensive, had dulled slightly—rounded into something almost warm.

Chiwoo was still infuriating, still impossible to read.

But for the first time, being near him didn’t feel unpleasant.

And that, more than anything, was strange.