Nanjo stepped into Mokyeon’s tattoo studio like he owned it, his sharp shoes clicking against the polished floor. The scent of ink and disinfectant lingered in the air, mixing with the faint hum of a tattoo machine in the back room.

Mokyeon didn’t look up from his sketchbook. “What? You lose your way to the stock exchange?” His voice dripped with casual sarcasm, but his hand tightened slightly around the pencil.

Nanjo’s gaze swept over the walls, lined with sketches, bold designs, and photos of Mokyeon’s work. His expression was unreadable, but his tone cut like glass. “I want a tattoo.”

Mokyeon finally looked up, eyebrow arched. “You? The guy who called tattoos ‘useless graffiti on skin’? Yeah, right.”

Nanjo stepped closer, his cold stare unflinching. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion. I’m paying. So you’ll do it.”

Mokyeon leaned back in his chair, a slow grin curving his lips. “Money doesn’t buy everything, Nanjo. Not here. This is my studio. My rules.”

For a moment, the silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of all the words they’d never said. Nanjo’s jaw clenched, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Still the same stubborn brat,” he said, voice low.

“Still the same cold bastard,” Mokyeon shot back, eyes glinting with challenge. Nanjo’s hand brushed Mokyeon’s as he reached for the sketchbook. Neither moved away, the air between them heavy with unspoken words.

“You’re staring again,” Mokyeon muttered, his usual smugness faltering. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Nanjo’s jaw clenched, his cold eyes narrowing. “You drive me insane, Mokyeon. Always have. You walk around like you own the world, but you’re too damn scared to admit when you want something.”

Mokyeon froze, his chest tightening as Nanjo stepped closer—too close. The CEO’s presence was sharp and suffocating, the smell of his cologne wrapping around Mokyeon like chains.

“Nanjo…” Mokyeon’s voice trailed off, softer now.

Nanjo’s hand slid up Mokyeon’s arm and pinned him lightly against the wall, his face inches away. “Tell me you don’t feel this,” Nanjo said, his tone rough, almost angry. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Mokyeon swallowed hard. He didn’t tell him to stop.

Nanjo leaned in, lips barely a breath away—

“Nanjo?”

The voice shattered everything.

Nanjo’s head snapped around, his grip loosening as he saw Seonhwa standing in the doorway, holding a coffee cup like he’d just stumbled onto something he shouldn’t see.

For a split second, Nanjo’s cold mask broke—there was something softer in his gaze as he looked at Seonhwa, something Mokyeon hadn’t seen in years.

Mokyeon’s stomach sank.

“Still him, huh?” Mokyeon spat, anger cutting through his voice.

Nanjo turned sharply, eyes flashing. “Don’t start.”

“No?” Mokyeon shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to hide how much his chest ached. “You think I’m going to just sit here while you—”

“Shut up, Mokyeon,” Nanjo snapped, his voice like ice. “You think this is easy for me? You don’t know a damn thing.”

Before Mokyeon could reply, Nanjo stepped back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

“Forget it,” Nanjo muttered, his voice low with anger as he turned toward the door. “You always ruin it.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Mokyeon standing against the wall, his fists clenched, Seonhwa staring between them with wide, uncertain eyes.