Rain slicked the streets of Itaewon, turning neon signs into smears of color against the dark. Inside Hush, Park Jimin wiped down the espresso machine with meticulous care, avoiding the man in the corner booth who’d been watching him for days. Today, he left behind a folded sketch on his usual table—Jimin’s hands, rendered in delicate ink, veins like roots, fingers curled around a coffee cup. Beneath it, a note: Let me draw you fully.

Jeongguk hadn’t touched anyone in months, not beyond the clinical press of needle to skin. But Jimin made him want to create something alive, something that pulsed under pigment. When Jimin finally met his gaze, there was fear—and curiosity, bright and fragile.

The next morning, Jimin found another sketch taped to the staff room door: his forearm, bare, waiting. No words this time. Just an invitation—and a boundary about to be crossed.