Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

12

The floor creaks outside. Slow. Unhurried.
Footsteps.

Beomgyu freezes mid-motion, breath lodging sharp in his throat.
Not now. Please not now—

The knock lands soft. Three taps. Like a secret joke.
Then a voice—low, easy, dripping with velvet and venom.

"Princess."

Beomgyu's stomach does something ugly.

He doesn't turn right away. Takes his time tucking the last sheet into his bag like maybe he can pack himself out of existence. When he finally faces the door, Yeonjun is there—leaning against the frame like sin in sneakers, arms folded loose over his chest.

The hallway light spills over him, catching on silver rings and the edge of a sleeveless black top that clings like it was born to. Hair slicked back, skin glowing from the sweat of practice. Every line sharp, deliberate.

Beomgyu feels like an oil sketch in comparison—hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair a tangle from nervous fingers, skin washed out like bad film.

Perfect. Just what he needed today, a Greek statue with wi-fi.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Beomgyu asks, voice flat enough to cut glass.

Yeonjun grins, lazy and lethal. "Practicing."

"Practicing what? Harassment?"

"Harassment takes effort." Yeonjun tilts his head, eyes glinting. "I just walked by. Your little hideout happens to be near our studio now."

Beomgyu's fingers twitch against his hoodie hem. "Great. So this is a permanent nightmare?"

"Looks like it," Yeonjun says brightly. Then, like it's nothing: "Hope your strings don't snap under pressure, Princess."

Beomgyu glares so hard it should ignite him. "Stop calling me that."

"Make me."

His jaw aches from clenching. "You're insufferable."

"And you," Yeonjun purrs, "are bleeding."

Beomgyu stiffens. Too slow to hide his hand before Yeonjun's gaze slices down to the faint smear of red on his knuckle. The grin sharpens.
"Practice injury? Or were you trying to saw your fingers off so you'd have an excuse to bail on the band?"

"None of your business," Beomgyu snaps, shoving his hand into his pocket like the motion can shove the heat off his skin.

"Everything about you is my business."

The words land heavier than they should. Too heavy for casual.
Beomgyu barks a brittle laugh, lifting his chin like defiance can be armor.
"You're obsessed with me."

"Mm." Yeonjun's smile curves, slow and serpentine. "Obsession comes in different flavors. Guess mine."

The silence between them hums like a live wire. Beomgyu feels his pulse in his throat, ugly and loud.

"What's your deal?" he manages, voice rawer than intended. "Seriously. What do you get out of this? Gloating? Entertainment?"

"Neither." Yeonjun uncrosses his arms, stepping just close enough for the air to tilt. His voice drops, velvet turned blade.
"I like puzzles."

And then—soft, deliberate, like pulling the pin from a grenade.

"Beomgyu."

The name detonates in his chest.
His real name. Not Taekbae. Not Princess.
Beomgyu goes rigid, breath snagging sharp enough to hurt.