''~°.HIDE AND SEEK.°~'' | YEONGYU

THE OUTING #2

The man ordered something quietly, head low, and Yeonjun tried to focus on the sound of the espresso machine instead of the way his stomach twisted. God, he hated that feeling.

The man was wearing a limited edition Rolex watch...damn. Must be rich, huh?

He counted the seconds in his head. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The man didn't glance back. Didn't do anything suspicious. Just waited, hands in pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.

Beomgyu's cup hit the table with a dull sound. "Can we leave?" he whispered, voice cracking faintly.

"Not yet," Yeonjun murmured. "If we rush, it'll draw attention."

Beomgyu's fingers clenched the edge of his sleeve, knuckles white. His leg bounced beneath the table, nerves sparking.

Yeonjun wanted to tell him again that it was fine, that they'd walk out, that nothing was wrong—

But the man was gone.

No bell. No sound. No exit noticed. Just...gone.

Yeonjun's eyes swept the café, jaw tensing. "What the—"

Something was on the edge of their table.

A small folded napkin, edges damp from rain.

Yeonjun froze. His pulse surged, how did he miss it!?

Beomgyu stared, wide-eyed, voice barely a breath. "Jun...did he—"

"Don't touch it." Yeonjun's hand shot out, but Beomgyu already had.

The napkin unfolded between trembling fingers. Inside, ink bled slightly through the fibers, messy and rushed but unmistakable.

"You shouldn't dig into things that don't concern you, son."

Beomgyu's breath hitched. "...Son?"

Yeonjun's heart dropped straight into ice.

He recognized that handwriting.

That sharp, angled stroke at the Y. The way the ink pooled in the loops of letters.

It was his father's.

For a moment, all sound vanished...the chatter, the clinking cups, even Beomgyu's breathing beside him. It was just white noise roaring in Yeonjun's skull.

His father? Here? Why?

The world snapped back with a jolt when Beomgyu whispered, "Yeonjun...what does it mean?"

Yeonjun's mind scrambled for logic, for explanation, but the words tangled somewhere in his throat. He forced a slow breath, folding the napkin back with deliberate calm.

"It means," he said finally, voice low, "we're leaving. Now."

Beomgyu blinked. "But—"

"No arguments." Yeonjun stood abruptly, slipping the napkin into his jacket pocket. His voice was steady again but his hands weren't.

They walked out into the rain, the bell chiming once behind them, the café door swinging closed.

Beomgyu hurried to keep up as Yeonjun strode down the street, eyes scanning every reflection in the wet glass of shop windows.

The rain came harder the moment they stepped outside, sharp and cold, soaking through the edges of Yeonjun's jacket. He barely felt it.

He was replaying the moment again and again. The man at the counter. The sound of coins clinking. The shuffle of shoes. He hadn't looked away for more than a second...had he?

Yeonjun's breath hitched. He had. When Beomgyu's cup hit the table. Just half a second, maybe less. And somehow that was enough.

His fingers curled tighter in his pockets.

How the hell could he have missed it?

A drop of rain slid down the side of his face, cold enough to sting.

He'd been careful. Always careful. Watching, listening, scanning exits.

And still, someone got close enough to leave a message.

"Yeonjun?" Beomgyu's voice came from beside him, small, uncertain.

Yeonjun looked over. Beomgyu's hood was half up, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes darting between passing cars and the corners of the street. He looked scared again and Yeonjun hated that it was his fault this time.

"I didn't even see him move," Beomgyu murmured. "How did he—"

"Doesn't matter," Yeonjun cut in, sharper than intended.

Beomgyu flinched. Yeonjun exhaled, lowering his tone. "Sorry. I just—"

He trailed off. Because what was he supposed to say? I think my father sent someone to follow us? 

It sounded insane even inside his own head.

They reached the intersection. The red light glared across puddles. Yeonjun's reflection in the glass door of a shop stared back at him...rain-spattered, tense, jaw locked. A stranger.

He pressed a hand against his temple.

"Maybe I'm missing something," he muttered. "Maybe I'm just—"

"Jun?"

Yeonjun blinked. Beomgyu had stopped a few steps behind, watching him with that nervous, almost guilty look.

Yeonjun straightened, forcing his voice steady.

"Come on. Let's get home."

But even as they walked, his thoughts wouldn't stop turning. The handwriting. The word "son". The precision of it all.

His father hadn't contacted him in years..not since the last fight, not since Yeonjun had cut him off for good.

And yet...

Someone knew exactly what would get under his skin.

Exactly how to make him doubt himself.

By the time they reached the corner of their street, Yeonjun's certainty had splintered. The air around them felt heavier somehow, like they weren't just being watched....like they were being tested.

He swallowed hard.

If that really was his father's handwriting...

Then maybe their bond wasn't the only thing from their past crawling back.