“Get in the car, Sungyoon, you’re going to be late.”
He climbs in but he’s still staring at me as I settle into the driver’s seat and start the engine, which turns over with a smooth quiet purr that I’m still not used to after years of my old sedan’s asthmatic coughing. I pull out of the spot and navigate toward the garage exit, muttering under my breath, “It’s not like I could refuse.”
Which is true. Hongjoong had been relentless about it after seeing my old car for the second time, calling it a deathtrap on wheels and a rolling health hazard, insisting that this particular model was just sitting around collecting dust in their company warehouse and that it would actually be doing him a favor if I took it off his hands. The bullshit was so transparent that I couldn’t even argue properly because every rebuttal I came up with was met with an infuriating cat-like smile and another perfectly reasonable-sounding excuse for why I absolutely had to accept a car that outvalues my car by like a billion times.
Sungyoon, meanwhile, has completely forgotten about being late to school. He’s pulling open every compartment within reach, his fingers running over the stitched leather of the center console, pressing buttons on the dashboard display that bring up navigation screens and climate controls and a sound system interface that makes his eyes go wide. He twists around in his seat to examine the backseat like it might contain further treasures, then twists back and runs his palm flat across the dashboard with reverence.
It makes me smile despite myself, a warmth spreading through my chest as I watch his unguarded delight from the corner of my eye. Sungyoon has never complained about whatwe had. He never asked for more than I could give, never threw a fit about the secondhand clothes or the cramped apartment or the ancient car that rattled ominously every time I took it above sixty. But he’s always had a thing for cars. Always. I could never afford anything nice, but I didn’t fail to notice the way he lingered over automotive magazines at the convenience store when he thought I wasn’t looking, his fingers tracing the glossy pages. I noticed the clippings he cut out and pinned to his bedroom wall, sports models and racing vehicles arranged in neat rows above his desk. I noticed the way his head turned to track expensive cars on the highway, his eyes following them until they disappeared from view.
Much like his biological father.
I’ve always found it cruelly fascinating, the way things like that can pass through blood, traits inherited from a father who doesn’t even know his son exists. Sometimes I’ve wished I could tell Sungyoon about his paternal grandparents and their automotive legacy, about the family name printed on the hoods of cars that he idolizes, about the fact that the blood running through his veins connects him to an empire he’ll probably never know he belongs to. But I can’t, so I just watch his joy and swallow the ache that rises in my throat.
“The heated seats have three settings,” Sungyoon announces, jabbing at the controls on his side with barely contained glee.
“Don’t break anything,” I say mildly.
As I pull up to the school gates the new car causes an immediate commotion. Students on the sidewalk turn to stare, conversations dying mid-sentence as heads swivel toward the gleaming dark sedan rolling up to the curb. A cluster of boys who were sitting on the low wall by the entrance abandon their bags and jump to their feet, already moving toward us from the magnetic pull that an expensive car exerts on teenage boys everywhere.
“I might be out tonight,” I tell Sungyoon as I put the car in park.
He grins at me so wide that his dimple cuts deep into his left cheek, and the sight of it hits me the way it always does, a quick sharp pang right behind my sternum. “Got it,” he says, already unbuckling his seatbelt and grabbing his bag from the footwell. “Thanks for the ride, Dad.”
He bolts out of the car and his classmates swarm him before he even gets the door shut, voices raised in excitement, hands pointing at the hood and the rims and the badge on the grille. I can hear fragments of their questions through my open window as I check my mirrors. Sungyoon is already holding it down, gesturing at the car with the glow of a kid who just became the most interesting person in his grade, and I pull away from the curb with my mouth twitching in amusement. That’s sure to earn him some serious reputation points at school, so I can’t begrudge Hongjoong’s flashy gift too much.
I meet Hongjoong at an upscale department store in Gangnam for a suit fitting, something related to a public event that he mentioned offhandedly over text last week without giving me any details beyond the date and a vague reference to “industry thing, boring, need moral support.” I assumed he just wanted company while he shopped, which is why I’m currently sitting in a plush velvet chair outside the fitting area with a complimentary espresso in my hand, watching as Hongjoong stands on the tailor’s raised platform with his arms held out athis sides while an attendant crouches behind him pinning the shoulders of a dark charcoal suit jacket.
I secretly don’t mind the view. Hongjoong’s shoulders look broad and sharp in the tailored lines, the fabric pulling across his back, highlighting the taper of his waist, and the combination of the polished suit with his blonde hair and silver ear piercings gives the whole look an edge that shouldn’t work together but absolutely does. He catches me looking in the three-panel mirror and I drop my gaze to my espresso, taking a sip.
“I’m still not sure why I need to be here for this,” I say, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the chair. “You don’t need my opinion on suits. You’ve never needed anyone’s opinion on clothes in your life.”
Hongjoong catches my eye in the mirror and grins, a sharp satisfied grin that always means he’s about to say something I won’t like. “Because you need to be fitted too.”
I frown. “Why would I need to be fitted?”
He gestures to one of the hovering employees without looking away from my reflection, beckoning them over with a flick of his fingers. “Because you’re coming to the event with me. As my guest.”
I blink. The espresso cup pauses halfway to my mouth and I set it down on the side table, sitting up straighter in the chair. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
I glance at the attendant still pinning his jacket, at the two employees standing nearby with fabric swatches draped over their arms, and lower my voice. “What are you going to introduce me as, Hongjoong? Your rut partner?”
He arches a brow at me in the mirror, entirely unbothered by the question or the audience. “No,” he says calmly. “I’m going to introduce you as my friend. Which you are.” He turns his headslightly, meeting my eyes directly now instead of through the glass. “I want you there at my side.”
The word friend makes my lungs feel tight, a feeling that’s half warm and half painful, because he says it so simply, like it’s obvious, like fifteen years of silence and secrets haven’t made the word heavier than it should be. I bite the inside of my lip and look down at my hands. I should say no.
But when the employees approach me with polite smiles and gestures toward the dressing room, I don’t refuse. I set my espresso down and stand, following them past racks of suits in garment bags and into a private fitting room with soft lighting and a full-length mirror. They take my measurements with quick competent hands, noting numbers on a tablet, and then they bring out options, holding jackets up against my chest, draping fabric over my shoulder for color comparison.
The suit they put me in is dark navy, almost black in certain light, with a subtle texture to the weave that catches when I move. The jacket fits close through the shoulders and chest, the trousers tapered and hemmed to break just above my shoes. The shirt underneath is crisp white, open at the collar, the attendant says it suits my build better than a tie would. When I look at myself in the mirror I barely recognize the person looking back.
I look like someone who belongs in Hongjoong’s world. Someone polished and put together. The man in the mirror has my face but he doesn’t have my life, and for a disorienting second I can’t seperate the two, the version of me standing here in navy wool and the version who goes home to a small apartment and counts won in his head at the grocery store.
Hongjoong appears in the doorway of the fitting room, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, already changed back into his own clothes. He looks me over from head to toe, slowly. His teasing grin fades, his eyes traveling from the line of my shoulders down to the hem of the jacket and back up again.
“Well?” I say, because the silence is making my neck hot.
He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, reaching out to adjust the collar of my jacket with both hands, tugging it straight, his fingers brushing the sides of my neck as he smooths the fabric down. He’s standing close enough that I can smell his cologne and the warm alpha scent underneath it, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror over my shoulder.
