"Come here," Director Han grinned, swirling his glass. "Here's our special guests for the night."
He patted his lap.
And without hesitation, Hamin walked forward — graceful, indifferent — and sat, like it was nothing.
Like he'd done it a thousand times. Maybe he had.
Taeha's throat felt tight.
Director Han pulled Hamin closer, talking to the room as he poured whiskey down his own throat. "Now this is what I call a Friday night."
Director Han wrapped an arm around his waist. "Look at this one, gentlemen. Isn't he something?"
Hamin didn't smile. He tilted his head slightly, offering his neck as the older man touched his thigh, slid his hand upward.
The men chuckled. The women looked away. One of the female associates quietly stood and excused herself, muttering something about an early meeting.
Another woman followed. Their heels clicked across the floor like exit wounds.
Director Han didn't care.
He poured a shot of whiskey and handed it to Hamin, who took it silently, head slightly bowed. His eyelashes were long. His mouth closed into a thin line.
Other Female escort came and sat beside Taeha, pouring his drinks.
Taeha didn't care.
His eyes were locked on Hamin's face — even as the director pulled at Hamin's shirt, fingers slipping it open to reveal bare skin underneath.
Hamin still hadn't looked at Taeha again.
But Taeha couldn't stop looking.
Every inch of him was exactly how he remembered — yet sharper, older, scarred.
He wasn't the wide-eyed boy from high school anymore.
He was someone else entirely.
Director Han leaned in, murmuring something into Hamin's ear that made the boy flinch — just a little. Then the older man's fingers moved slowly, parting Hamin's shirt.
Buttons undone. Skin exposed.
The director leaned in. Kissed Hamin's collarbone. Hamin flinched. Just barely.
His eyes dropped to the floor. And Taeha saw it.
He was pretending.
Pretending not to care. Pretending Taeha wasn't there. Pretending he wasn't dying inside as a stranger's mouth touched him in front of the one boy who once shattered his heart.
Director Han touched his chest with slow, possessive fingers. Thumb sliding across one nipple. Then the other, slowly, cruelly.
Taeha's throat tightened.
Hamin didn't move.
But Taeha saw it — the tiniest gesture.
His hand curled into a fist. Thumb digging hard into his own palm, like he was anchoring himself. His eyes stayed on the table. A flicker of shame passed through them, gone almost instantly.
He didn't want to be seen like this.
Not by Taeha.
And somehow, that truth hurt more than anything.
Director Han pressed a gentle kiss to his collarbone once more.
Then, lowering his face, he softly licked one nipple while his hands continued to knead the other.
And for the first time, Taeha had to look away.
He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back a little.
"I'm stepping out for a smoke," he muttered.
"You don't smoke," Minseok whispered.
But Taeha was already walking out the door.
He didn't hear the director laugh behind him.
He didn't hear Hamin breathe in, then hold it.
He only heard his own heart pounding — like it was trying to escape his ribs.
He wasn't a smoker.
But he couldn't watch this.
Not him.
Not Hamin.
Not like this.
In the Balcony — Outside Delirium, the night air was cold.
The neon lights from Gangnam flickered across the skyline. Cold wind scraped across Taeha's skin, but he didn't move.
He stood still, both palms braced against the cold railing, staring into the blur of red and white traffic below.
Inside, the muffled sound of laughter and music continued. The image of Lee Hamin, shirt parted, sitting quietly on another man's lap, played over and over behind his eyes.
His stomach turned.
He didn't understand why it hit so hard.
It shouldn't have.
He had no right.
He was the one who broke it.
Why now?
Why him?
Why this way?
His fingers trembled slightly.
And for the first time in years…
He wished he could go back.
To the day he broke that boy's heart.
To the day he made Hamin cry.
But tonight…
it wasn't Hamin who cried.
It was Taeha, inside — in silence.