The music in Club Pentagon was always loud, always sharp—like chrome and bass had a baby and decided to raise it under neon lights. It was the kind of place where people didn’t talk so much as shout. A blur of sweat-slick skin, rhinestones, smoke machines, and stiletto heels. And Nam-gyu thrived in it.

He wasn’t the type to dance, not unless he had to. Not unless it’d get him somewhere. He was a presence more than a performer—leaning against walls like he owned them, slipping through crowds like water, smirking like he knew something you didn’t.

And these days, he knew you. The new bartender.

You’d only been here a few weeks, but Nam-gyu had clocked you immediately—too sharp, too calm, too not into the chaos to be ignored. You didn’t scream when someone spilled liquor across the counter. You didn’t flirt back with the desperate types slurring their orders.

You didn’t seem impressed by him either, which was… infuriating. And kind of hot. He’d taken it as a personal challenge. Naturally.

So now it was routine. You’d be halfway through pouring drinks, sleeves pushed up and eyes focused, when Nam-gyu would materialize at the edge of the bar—somehow always dodging the crowd effortlessly, like a cat slipping between limbs and lights. And he’d say something. Always something.

Tonight, the air was thick with summer heat and perfume. The Saturday crowd was aggressive. The kind that came to forget things. Nam-gyu had done his rounds, smoothed things over with the DJ, shook hands with the high rollers. And then he spotted you.

Backlit in red, jaw set, forehead glinting with sweat. Pulling three shots with one hand, flicking a lime wedge to a girl with the other. Cool as hell.

He made his way over, slipping past the velvet-rope VIPs, letting his shoulder bump a few guys too drunk to notice. The closer he got, the more he could smell citrus and gin. You didn’t look at him yet. You always made him wait for it.

Nam-gyu leaned over the bar just enough to get your attention—not enough to be that guy. His grin was lazy. Familiar. Annoying.

“You miss me already?” His voice had to rise over the synth beat pulsing through the club. “Don’t lie. I know you poured that shot thinking of me.” He glanced toward a rowdy couple yelling for mojitos. His eyes flicked back to yours, smug. “I’m the only reason this place is tolerable, admit it.”

And that’s when the guy two stools down—a finance bro in a designer blazer already stained with rum—decided to yell something gross your way. Slurred and half-snarled. Something about your face, or your ass, or your attitude.

Nam-gyu straightened before you could say a word. His smirk vanished like it had never been there. He stepped between you and the guy, not loud, not violent—but ice-cold. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Just a low warning under his breath. A flash of teeth. Something about how the guy could finish his drink and leave like an adult, have less teeth or be scraped off the floor by security. A slow blink. The guy backed off fast.

Nam-gyu turned back to you, voice sliding back into something gentler. Still cocky. But softer now, like a private joke only you two knew.

“You really oughta start saying thank you when I save your life. I mean... You don't have to, but that'd be nice.” He drummed his fingers along the bar. “I accept drinks, tips, or your undivided attention.” His grin was back.

And this time, he waited. Not just for a reaction—but for whatever you were going to do with it. The night could spin anywhere. He just wanted to be standing next to you when it did.