Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

19

Taehyun leans back, smirking faintly. "Eat," he orders. "Starving artists don't win contests."

Beomgyu picks up his chopsticks slowly, ignoring the whispers still curling through the café like wildfire—and the fact that for the first time, the spotlight doesn't feel entirely like a cage.

Not yet.

It's supposed to be a normal lunch. Well, as normal as lunch can be when you're being dragged out of your comfort zone in a crisp white button-up like a hostage to fashion reform.

Taehyun had managed to keep the whispers at bay with his patented "don't mess with me" aura, and Beomgyu was just starting to unclench enough to taste his food when it happens.

The shift.

The quiet crackle of excitement sweeping through the café like static before a storm. Heads turning. Phones lifting.

"Oh no," Taehyun mutters, chopsticks pausing midair. "Do not look up."

Beomgyu freezes, throat dry. "Why—"

"Because BeatLine just walked in."

Every syllable hits like a brick. Beomgyu looks up anyway. (Of course he does. Curiosity is a disease.)

And there they are. BeatLine's finest. Sweats, caps, the whole "effortless cool" uniform—plus the gravity well that is Choi Yeonjun leading the charge, black hair pushed back, silver chain catching the light like it personally wants Beomgyu dead.

The room buzzes louder now, whispers sharpening to shrieks muffled behind phone screens.

"No way—Guitar Prince and Yeonjun in the same place—"
"Is this a COLLISION???"
"Someone get the fancams ready, holy—"

Beomgyu wants the earth to swallow him. Instead, it serves him something worse. Yeonjun's gaze locking on his like a sniper scope.

And then—he smiles.

Not the polite, fan-ready curve Beomgyu's seen in a thousand clips. No. This one's sharper. Hungrier. Like a wolf spotting a cornered rabbit.

"Oh, perfect," Taehyun mutters, voice flat as week-old soda. "Of course he's coming over."

"What—he's what—" Beomgyu barely gets the words out before Yeonjun is there, sliding through the crowd like it parts for him on instinct. Phones go nuclear.

"Fancy seeing you here," Yeonjun drawls, voice smooth as glass, eyes glinting with something too amused for comfort. "Princess."

Beomgyu's jaw tightens. "Don't call me that."

Yeonjun grins wider, unbothered. "Why? Your fans love it."

Before Beomgyu can bite back, Yeonjun leans closer, tone dropping just enough for only them (and probably Taehyun) to hear. "Why'd you ghost me? Didn't even check your DMs?"

Beomgyu's stomach flips. Heat crawls up his neck—anger, embarrassment, something worse. "Maybe because I don't feel like entertaining random ego trips."

"Oh, harsh." Yeonjun tilts his head, feigning a wince. "Guess I'll forgive you... over lunch."

And just like that—he slides into the empty seat across from Beomgyu like it was reserved for him.

"Excuse me?" Beomgyu sputters.

"Excused," Yeonjun says smoothly, already setting his cap on the table. "So, what's good here?"

Phones click. Fans squeal softly behind the glass like this is a live K-drama episode. Someone whispers, "This chemistry is insane."

Taehyun grips his chopsticks like he might snap them in half. "You're not serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious," Yeonjun says, flashing him a smile so blinding it could qualify as a war crime.

Beomgyu leans forward, voice sharp. "You're ruining my lunch."

Yeonjun's grin curves slow, dangerous. "Funny. I thought I was making it more interesting."

The air between them hums like a live wire—sharp, hot, impossible to ignore. Fans catch every flicker; Beomgyu's glare, Yeonjun's smirk, Taehyun silently calculating Yeonjun's funeral arrangements.

Somewhere in the background, hashtags are already being born.

Yeonjun picks up a menu like he owns the damn place. "So," he says lightly, eyes never leaving Beomgyu's, "are we ordering dessert?"

Beomgyu's answer is a strangled sound that could be a laugh—or a death threat.

Either way, the internet is about to combust.