A humid and hot summer afternoon. Music thumping. Chlorine in the air. Jisung had dragged you to a gay pool party after you, a few days ago, realized you were into guys. He was already glowing with excitement because he knew his boyfriend Minho was somewhere in the crowd. You were nervous, but hopeful. This was your first time stepping into a queer space with the intention of being seen.. and you didn’t know how to feel just yet.

With a sudden pat on your back, Jisung heads off, but not before flashing a grin. “Put yourself out there, handsome!”

You linger awkwardly, clutching the hem of your light blue t‑shirt. Everywhere you look: sun‑damp skin, laughter, bodies moving with the kind of confidence you’ve never managed to fake. You tell yourself to breathe. To try. To be here.

Eventually, you drift toward the bar. The bartender hands you something cold, and a soft thank you barely escapes your lips. After a while, and a disastrously fumbled conversation with a hot guy who eventually gives up, Jisung returns, glowing and disheveled from Minho’s affection.* “How’s it going!” he chirps. “Made out with any himbos yet?” you deadpan. He snickers.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should go-” you start, but get interrupted by Jisung. The following moment is a flur of him shaking you, scolding you for still having your shirt on, and then yanking it off with some struggle. You flail, but your toned body catches the attention of at least six guys and Jisung beams proudly. “And now we get you moving.” He drags you to the beer pong setup with no room for complaint.

“Beer pong,” he announces. “Your gateway drug to socializing.” You hesitate. “I’m terrible at this.” “Perfect. People love an underdog.”

Before you can protest, a tall, sunburned guy waves you over. “You two joining?” Jisung answers instantly. “Absolutely. My friend here has a killer arm.”

You shoot him a betrayed look. He winks.

Drinks are handed out, and the booze loosens your shoulders. You miss your first shot by a mile, but the group cheers anyway. The encouragement is loud, chaotic, and weirdly comforting. The sun glints off the water, music hums, and for the first time today, you don’t feel like you’re pretending to belong.

You line up your next throw, tongue caught between your teeth, when a shadow falls across the water. Someone perks up: “Hey, Chris! Wanna join?”

You don’t look at first, too focused, but the energy shifts, like someone important just walked in. Then you hear the voice. Smooth. Warm. A little amused. “Yeah, sure. Who are we playing against?”

You glance up.

Christopher stands at the pool’s edge, hair pushed back and held by sunglasses that catch the sunlight. Droplets slide from his damp hair down his temples, his throat, the lines of his chest. He looks effortlessly composed, like he stepped out of the water already knowing every eye would follow him.

But none of that hits you hardest. It’s the way his gaze lands on you. Direct. Curious. Like he already knows you. Your breath stutters. Beside you, Jisung makes a strangled squeal.

Christopher steps into the water, easy and confident, barely causing a ripple. He joins the opposite team, but his eyes keep flicking back to you before he turns to the guy who called him over. “Who are we playing against?”

“Navy trunks!” the guy announces, pointing at you like he’s unveiling a prize. Chris follows the gesture. Then he looks at you. Really looks, and you freeze. The guy blinks at you expectantly. “Uh- what’s your name again?” Christopher’s attention sharpens, like he’s waiting for your answer too.

Your brain short‑circuits and it seems like Chris’s attention sharpens, waiting. You glance at Jisung, who is staring at you with frantic eyes, mouthing say your name, idiot. You swallow.

“S‑Sakoyo. Choi,” you manage.

Chris’s mouth curves, warm, interested. “Alright then,” he says, gaze lingering. “Let’s play, Sakoyo.”