Hwang Min-jun sat in the back seat of the SUV, arms folded tightly across his chest, his gaze lowered and unfocused. Beyond the tinted glass, the cityscape blurred into streaks of white and gold, neon bleeding across rain-speckled windows like watercolor tears. Seoul never truly slept—it shimmered and sighed beneath him, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the weight that pressed between his ribs often.
No one told me he’d be starting immediately.
He didn’t lift his eyes, not at first. The silence in the cabin felt rehearsed, tense in the way all first meetings were when they came with contractual obligation. But curiosity scratched at the edge of his thoughts. Slowly, deliberately, he glanced sideways.
Park Taesan sat beside him. Upright. Alert. Posture military-stiff, like someone who took the phrase professional distance literally. No slouch in that frame. No humor in the line of his jaw. Just the kind of tight-lipped composure that made Min-jun’s fingers twitch. Despite the uptight edge, Taesan was kind of cute. Strong jawline, sculpted cheekbones, and soft dark blue eyes that paired nicely with long dark lashes. He had the kind of face that could land a modeling contract… If he didn’t look like he had a stick wedged firmly up his ass. Though some agencies like that.
A flicker of movement pulled him back—Taesan, turning to face him. His eyes were sharp. Cold, almost. “Why are you staring at me?”
Min-jun blinked, caught. His expression faltered, only for a breath, before a smile slithered across his lips like a mask being slipped on. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, playing at ease. “Do you drink?” he asked, tone light. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Might as well get to know each other.”
Taesan raised a brow. “Don’t you have to be on set in the morning?”
The smile thinned. Shit. He’s seen my schedule already. I’m also supposed to stream tonight. He thought, more complained. But instead I’ll need to Taesan proof my house, so I’ll need him distracted or blackout drunk.
He straightened, tapping lightly on the tinted glass that separated them from the driver. “Wait! Can you stop here?”
The SUV rumbled as it glided to a halt, tires murmuring over asphalt.
Beside him, Taesan exhaled slowly, folding his arms across his chest.
The car pulled up to a chic spot nestled between designer storefronts and gaudy signage. A cluster of neon cast soft glows onto the sidewalk. The engine’s hum dissolved into the din of Friday nightlife.
Min-jun was first to step out, pulling a black medical mask over the lower half of his face. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t check if Taesan was behind him. Just walked, fluid and casual.
Plan A: Get the babysitter to loosen up.
Behind him, Taesan followed, reluctant and rigid, the city lights bouncing off his pressed shirt and sharp shoes. The moment they reached the bar’s entrance, Min-jun heard his dry voice: “As soon as you’re recognized, we’re leaving.”
“Of course, Mr. Park,” Min-jun said brightly.
Inside, the air was thick with perfume and laughter, bodies melting together in amber and plum light. The bartender’s hands moved like magic, slicing color into glass. Min-jun stepped into the space like a chameleon, all ease and charm, like he’d always belonged.
Taesan did not.
“You look like you’re on a mission,” Min-jun said, half-turning to him at the bar.
“I am. It’s called keeping you safe.”
Min-jun chuckled and leaned forward, signaling the bartender. “Two drinks. Something strong for him.”
“I’m not drinking,” Taesan replied instantly.
Of course, he’s no fun.
The bartender returned with a bright cocktail for Min-jun and a plain glass of water for Taesan. The sight of it made Min-jun’s face fall. “Water? Really?”
“I’m on the job.”
Min-jun tugged his mask down just enough to take a sip, sighing dramatically. “You’re going to need to learn how to have fun if you’re going to be my 24/7 guarddog.”
The hours passed in waves of dim light and pulsing music. One drink became two. Then three. And soon the only thing Min-jun was holding onto was the blur.
By the time they reached the penthouse, Taesan had Min-jun slumped across his back—warm, pliant, and heavier than he looked.
His steps were silent along the private floor, the plush flooring swallowing sound like the building was designed to keep its tenants’ secrets. Min-jun murmured something near his ear, the words slurred into warmth and gin, breath brushing the side of Taesan’s neck.
He didn’t respond. Just kept walking.
The actor’s penthouse was exactly where the blueprints said it would be. Taesan nudged it open with his foot and stepped inside. The space was overdesigned in that curated, luxury-showroom kind of way. Clean. Cold. Comfortable only in theory.
He shifted Min-jun’s weight and lowered him onto the bed.
The man landed in a graceless heap, one shoe still on, limbs sprawled across the covers like someone had dropped a marionette and forgotten to gather the strings. His hair fanned across the pillow. His lips parted slightly.
Taesan stared at him for a second longer than necessary.
What a fucking lightweight.
He turned away.
The guest room was down the hall, compact but efficient—his kind of space. A single bed. A nightstand. And most importantly: a corner desk with a full security setup. Multiple monitors. Live feeds. Eyes on every entrance and angle of the penthouse.
And at least this gig came with a room. He’d slept on worse. Floors. Cars. Couches.
He peeled off his jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and sat on the bed, head tilting as the monitors flicked through camera angles. One showed the elevator. Another, the foyer. A third displayed the hallway—Min-jun’s door.
Taesan reached for his phone and absently thumbed open a familiar app. Not a habit. More like routine.
But the screen was black.
Streamer Beau is offline.
He blinked.
Strange.
The chat, however, was still alive.
User: Did he say he was skipping today?
User: I’m so mad. I waited all week.
User: Bro I was READY. Lotion was OUT.
Taesan’s brows drew together. No announcement. No warning. Just—gone.
~Hwang Min-jun~
Min-jun’s eyes snapped open. “Shit.” The curse punched through the haze of his hangover, dragging him upright as if the sheets beneath him had caught fire. His mouth tasted like sour citrus and regret, and the daylight pressing in through the blackout curtains was far too loud. Disoriented and still in last night’s clothes he stumbled toward the door.
The bedroom door slammed open with a sharp thud, echoing like gunfire down the sleek hall of his penthouse. His breath caught in his throat as he scanned the living room. Empty. No movement. Just sterile silence and the faint buzz of electronics.
Where the hell was he?
Min-jun’s steps padded swiftly across the floor as he turned toward the guest room—Taesan’s room now, it seemed.
Please be there, he thought. Please, please tell me you didn’t see shit.
He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. The door was open to a neat, almost unsettlingly tidy space. No personal clutter. All remnants of his guest room sanitized—likely his manager’s doing. Security monitors lined the wall above a desk. Each glowing with live footage from the building’s cameras. And there he was.
Dressed crisp and efficient in black slacks and a white button-down. Tie sharp. Shoulder holster in place. Glasses on. He looked like a k-drama assassin someone had dropped into a security detail by mistake. He turned at Min-jun’s entrance, unbothered. Cool. Professional.
Good. He’s here.
“There’s a hangover recovery drink in the fridge,” Taesan said, voice even and unreadable.
Min-jun leaned against the doorframe, wincing as a drumbeat of pain began behind his eyes. His temple throbbed beneath his fingers. “What happened last night?” he muttered.
“You got drunk and exposed yourself. Started taking pictures and videos with fans. I had to drag you home.”
Min-jun covered half his face with his hand. His cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment for himself.
“So diligent on your job already.”
Plan A: Get the babysitter to loosen up—failed. Moving on to Plan B: Become friends with the babysitter so he becomes more lax on his duties.
He straightened, forcing himself back into something vaguely presentable. His tone turned casual, smooth again. “And after that?”
“You passed out. I tossed you on your bed and went to sleep.”
Min-jun tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “And when you woke up?”
“I ordered the hangover drink for you, showered, got dressed, and was about to go over your staff’s schedules.”
Taesan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t look away.
So he hadn’t had time to explore. He didn’t see the office. Min-jun exhaled softly. I just need him out of the house long enough to change the lock. Something biometric. Fingerprint. PIN code. Retina scan, if needed.
He schooled his features into something bashful, throwing on charm. “Thank you for taking care of me in such a vulnerable state,” he cooed, voice airy and bright. “Maybe you should take some time off for the wonderful job you did last night.”
Taesan blinked once. Expression unmoved. “Twenty-four hour security.”
“So dedicated,” he murmured, eye twitching. “I admire that.”
“Clean up,” Taesan said, folding his arms. “You have to be on set soon.”
Min-jun sighed, turning down the hall with a towel slung over one arm and clothes draped over the other. But his eyes weren’t on the bathroom.
They lingered on the locked door at the end of the corridor. The ‘office’. His real stage.
~Park Taesan~
The hallway was quiet save for the sound of running water. The faint hiss of the shower spilled from the slightly ajar bathroom door, steam curling through the hallway.
Taesan’s steps slowed. Something was off. Too many questions, he thought. He looked again to the end of the hall, where the locked door sat like a secret pretending to be innocent. Earlier that morning, he’d asked the maid about it—offhandedly, casually. Her response had been immediate, almost rehearsed.
“We don’t enter that room.”
So, naturally, he’d tried the handle the moment she left. Locked. But the blueprints had been clear. Office space, it claimed. But Taesan didn’t like not knowing. Especially not in a place he was meant to keep secure.
His gaze flicked toward the slit of the bathroom door. Still in the shower. He pivoted, moving fast but quiet, retracing his steps to the guest room. From the corner of his suitcase—beneath layers of clothes—he retrieved a narrow black case. The tools inside were compact, worn smooth with use from careless clients.
Back in the hall, he crouched before the door, slipping the picks into the lock with practiced ease. It clicked softly—subtle, but satisfying—and the door gave under his hand. He rose and stepped inside.
The scent hit first. Expensive cologne. The room was dark and curated, draped in black and grey. Silken sheets pulled tight on a low-profile bed. The walls a soft matte charcoal. Everything clean. Intentional. Too clean.
Wait… I’ve seen this.
The setup clicked into place before his conscious mind caught up. His eyes slid to the desk—and there it was. A full streaming rig. Three mounted cameras. A light ring. Mixer. Dual monitors. Cables perfectly managed. The desk immaculate except for one thing: a black mask. Smooth. Sleek. The kind designed to maintain anonymity while leaving everything else visible.
“What are you doing?”
The voice froze him. Taesan turned slowly, the breath caught in his chest.
Min-jun stood in the doorway, steam clinging to his skin. Blond damp hair curled against his cheekbones, framing sharp eyes. A towel hung low on his hips. One hand braced the doorframe.
Taesan’s gaze dropped—briefly, instinctively. A tattoo peeked from beneath the towel… A tattoo he had seen countless times, that he could sketch out from memory.
“Beau,” he breathed.
Min-jun smiled—not sheepish, not ashamed. Slow and smug, like someone walking onstage after the reveal. His voice was warm, smooth. “A fan, I take it?” he said. “Not the kind I expected.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Taesan’s body locked up, jaw tight. His face burned, heat crawling from his collar to his ears. He kept his eyes up—barely.
“You made me miss my stream yesterday, you know that?” Min-jun’s tone was light, but there was something else beneath it. Edged. Unrepentant. He stepped closer. “Bet my views would triple if I had a real hole to fuck instead of silicone.”
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