Chapter 39 – Lanterns and Salt Air
The plane hadn't even lifted off and Haneul was already chewing on his earphones like they were a form of protest.
He sat stiffly by the window, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like a human barricade, his thigh pressed tight to the armrest. His fingers tapped erratically on his jeans, faster with every announcement in both Korean and English.
Seungho, seated beside him in a dark blazer and travel loafers—looking infuriatingly calm—glanced over.
“You’re gripping the seat for dear life”
Haneul didn’t look at him. “Just don’t talk to me right now.”
A beat.
Then: “If this thing crashes, I’m blaming you. And haunting you.”
“Duly noted,” Seungho said, amused.
The plane rumbled. Engines whirred. The overhead bins trembled like they were trying not to get involved. Haneul’s jaw locked.
When the aircraft finally tilted up into the sky, Haneul let out a quiet, vicious string of curses in at least three languages. His hand gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles turned pale.
Seungho reached over, but not to soothe. To slide a can of Fanta into Haneul’s hand. Cold. Unopened. “Drink. Distract your brain.”
Haneul narrowed his eyes at the bright orange can like it had offended his ancestors.
“Fizzy poison,” he muttered. But he took it.
One row ahead, a cluster of Yeol Holdings executives were chattering loudly about seafood and golf.
Haneul recognized the voice of one in particular—the man with the jowls.
Mr. Kang. Shareholder. Senior executive.
The one whose face he’d once slapped into a different tax bracket during the infamous Yeol Holdings shareholder gala, almost a year ago.
The one Seungho had never wanted to host. The one that ended with broken glass, Haneul’s fury, and Junseo’s shame tucked into a silence that never fully lifted.
Junseo was dead now.
And that bastard was still laughing.
Haneul moved his head slowly. Confirmed it. Yup. Still slimy. Still talking too loud.
Seungho saw the flicker of recognition on Haneul’s face. “Ignore him.”
But Haneul’s grin was already curving. “Sure,” he said sweetly.
Five minutes later, as the flight attendant passed by, Haneul rose just enough to lean forward—then let the open can of Fanta slip from his fingers.
It landed squarely in the man’s crotch.
The hiss of carbonation. The sudden damp patch spreading like karmic retribution across pale slacks.
The executive jolted upright with a yelp, arms flailing, sputtering. “What the hell—?!”
Haneul blinked, all innocent.
“Oops.”
Seungho choked on air.
The man turned, face red and sticky. “You little—”
“Finish that sentence,” came Seungho’s voice.
Cold. Clipped. Razor-edged and lethal.
“Finish it,” Seungho said again, eyes like fire-glass. “And I’ll make sure your name’s scrubbed from every executive roster by next quarter.”
Mr. Kang froze. Mouth open. Damp trousers clinging to his thighs.
Haneul didn’t flinch. He just smiled—wide, vicious, and beautiful.
“Careful, ahjussi,” he murmured, voice sugar-laced acid. “This cabin's not soundproof.”
Silence dropped like a curtain.
Haneul leaned back in his seat, smug and stormy. “Can’t take me anywhere,” he muttered, shoving his earphones back in. His hands were still trembling, just slightly. He folded them into his lap like he was trying to hide the quake.
Outside the window, the sea grew visible—vast and glinting like a sheet of breathless sky.
Haneul scrunched his nose suddenly.
“…What is that smell?”
Seungho blinked, startled. “What smell?”
“That… briny, wet, fishy something.”
A pause.
“We’re still in the air,” Seungho said. “You’re not actually smelling anything. You’re just anticipating.”
Haneul muttered, “Same thing. My body knows.”
Then, under his breath, with no real venom:
“Gross.”
??????
The hotel was the kind of place that reeked of wealth—not luxury. Not ease. Wealth.
Clean marble floors. Polished brass elevators. Concierge staff dressed sharper than most CEOs. Everyone moved like they were used to guests worth entire market caps.
Seungho walked like he belonged.
Haneul walked like he dared someone to say otherwise.
They drew glances the moment they stepped through the sliding glass doors—one in tailored black, the other in ripped jeans and a hoodie streaked with dry paint and attitude.
Luggage in one hand, keycard in the other, Seungho didn’t even blink when the front desk clerk hesitated, eyes flicking to Haneul.
“Mr. Yeol, your executive suite is ready.”
“Good.”
They took the elevator in silence.
The doors closed. Elevator music chirped.
“You know,” Haneul muttered, arms crossed, “the smell’s even worse here. Salt and rotting seaweed. Like something crawled out to die.”
Seungho let out a short breath—something between a sigh and a stifled laugh. “It’s called ocean air, Sky.”
“It’s called mold in a wig.”
The elevator dinged.
Their suite was a top-floor expanse of soft lighting and soundless air conditioning.
Two bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view of the rocky shoreline where wind-stripped pine trees clung to the edge like old ghosts.
The bed was made up in navy and cream. There were candles on the minibar.
A chilled bottle of wine waiting on the table.
None of that mattered.
Because Haneul dropped his duffel bag by the door, yawned loudly—and then noticed the hanging bag on the closet rail.
“What’s this?”
Seungho didn’t answer.
Just unzipped it.
Inside: a pale ash-grey suit, lightweight and cut to absolute precision. Underneath, a soft beige dress shirt, collar lined subtly in blue. A pair of cufflinks shaped like fox tails—glinting silver with a single black gem in each. No tie.
The color drained from Haneul’s face. “No. No no no. I’m not gonna wear that.”
“You have to come to the dinner.”
“You didn’t say I had to wear that.”
Seungho leaned against the dresser, calm as fire waiting for fuel. “You said I couldn’t take the lead, remember? So I did. I packed you the damn thing myself.”
“You snuck into my measurements?”
“You sleep like a corpse.”
Haneul made a strangled noise—half-howl, half-bark of disbelief. “Seungho. I swear to every overpriced lantern in this suite—”
“You’ll look beautiful.”
That silenced him.
Just for a beat.
Then—
“I always look beautiful, skyscraper. That’s not the point!”
But Seungho was already walking forward, hanging the jacket carefully on a hook, tugging the shirt from the hanger with careful fingers.
“Shower. Now. You’ve got seaweed in your attitude and Fanta on your soul.”
“I hate you.”
“You say that a lot.”
“I mean it.”
“No you don’t.”
Haneul growled something unintelligible, stomped off toward the bathroom, and slammed the door.
Seungho grinned to himself.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door flew open with a bang.
Haneul stood on the bathroom threshold, damp from head to toe. His hair was wet—half combed, half wild—and his towel was barely hanging on by a thread. His bare chest gleamed with post-shower heat, a few droplets running down his collarbone like they had somewhere to be.
“Skyscraper,” he barked. “I can’t get into the pants.”
Seungho looked up from where he’d been buttoning his own cuffs. Froze.
“You… what?”
“They’re cursed.” Haneul yanked the door wider, stomped out still half-naked, towel trailing like a flag of defeat. “I think rich people clothes fight back. They bit me.”
“They—?”
Haneul held up the trousers, already half-wrestled onto his legs but twisted somehow around the thigh.
The waistband was caught at an absurd angle, revealing both too much skin and too much attitude.
His braid, barely pinned, fell down his back in wild damp loops.
He looked like a Greek statue after a bar fight.
Seungho tried.
God, he really tried.
He cleared his throat. “You're supposed to unhook the inside clasp first.”
“Clasp?!” Haneul spun back toward the mirror. “Which demon of capitalism thought a clasp was necessary on pants?”
Seungho crossed the room, quiet and slow, and took the trousers gently from his hands. “Sit.”
“I’m not a toddler.”
“You’re a menace. Sit.”
Haneul sat.
Seungho knelt, guiding one leg, then the other. His fingers brushed skin—damp, hot, tension-laced. He tried not to linger.
Failed.
“Lift your hips.”
“Bossy.”
“Up.”
Haneul arched. Just a bit.
The trousers slid into place, sharp and perfect against the curve of his legs.
When Seungho looked up, Haneul was watching him. Lips parted. Breathing just a little too fast.
The space between them went still. Hot. Close.
Seungho stood, adjusting the waistband. “Shirt next.”
“You really gonna dress me like a doll?”
“If you were a doll, you’d come with a warning label.”
“‘Fragile. May bite.’”
Seungho’s hands paused at the collar.
“Exactly.”
They stood face to face now. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to ruin everything.
But they didn’t.
Instead, Seungho brushed Haneul’s hair back gently, twisted the braid up, and pinned it in place with quiet, deft fingers.
“You’re going to be the sharpest thing in that room.”
Haneul snorted. “Including the seafood knives?”
“Especially those.”
A beat.
Then, quieter:
“You look beautiful, Sky.”
Haneul blinked. Looked away.
“…Don’t start that again.”
But he didn’t pull back.
??????
Later, at the corporate seafood dinner...
He shouldn’t have been surprised. But he was.
Haneul walked in like sin wrapped in silk—hair slicked back, braid pinned with silver clasps, his long legs sharp in tailored trousers, and the ash-grey jacket sitting on his frame like it had been sculpted from intention and cheekbone.
The room fell silent for a beat.
One executive cleared his throat.
Another shifted in his seat.
Even the vice president's wife did a visible double-take.
Haneul just grinned—devilish and unapologetic.
Then sauntered to the table, dropped into the seat next to Seungho, and in the middle of the polite small talk, he cut in: