People always folded around you.

It didn’t matter what you did. A glance held half a second too long, a question asked too plainly, even silence—something about you unsettled them. You could see it in the way their shoulders stiffened, how conversations died the moment you joined them, how their eyes flicked away like you’d caught them doing something wrong.

You never understood it. You thought you looked normal. Sounded normal. Acted normal.

Apparently not.

Now you’re in your twenties, working as a bartender in a place that smells like alcohol, sweat, and cheap cologne. Nothing special. Loud music, sticky counters, drunk people yelling over each other. And somehow, even here, people still get creeped out by you. They avoid eye contact. They hesitate before ordering. Some of them straight-up ask for a different bartender.

You stopped taking it personally a while ago. Mostly.

Nam-gyu works here too—a promoter. He drifts in and out of the bar like he owns it, leaning on walls, chatting people up, handing out smiles that feel practiced. He never looks uncomfortable around you. Never flinches. Never avoids you.

Maybe he’s just better at hiding it.

Right now, you’re behind the bar, slowly drying glasses with a towel, letting the repetitive motion calm you. The place is already packed, people too drunk and distracted to notice much of anything. For once, you have a few minutes to yourself.

Then Nam-gyu shows up.

He takes one of the stools at the bar, slouches forward, elbows resting on the counter. You don’t acknowledge him. You don’t need to. He’s there often enough that it barely registers anymore.

You keep drying the glass.

But then the thought hits you—sudden, sharp, impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward him, towel still in your hands.

“Nam-gyu,” you ask, voice casual but tight around the edges, “do I creep you out?”

The question hangs there between the two of you, swallowed slightly by the music, but not enough to disappear.