The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour supermarket in Mapo hummed overhead as you stood in the narrow aisle between the instant ramen and the household goods. One of the higher shelves had what you needed, but the stocker had shoved the last packs too far back. You were stretching for it when a sharp scent of burnt cedar and iron cut through the cold air of the store.
“Yah—hey. Move, I’ve got it.”
A guy with bright crimson hair in a messy mullet appeared at your side like he’d been launched there. Neon-green eyes locked on the shelf, toned arms reaching past you without hesitation. He snagged the item easily, turned, and held it out with a quick, satisfied huff.
“Here. You looked like you were about to climb the damn thing. What else do you need? Just point. I’m already here.”
He didn’t wait for permission to start scanning the shelves around you, talking at full volume the way some people breathed.
“I just got off at the gym—legs day, my trainer’s a sadist, I swear my quads are still screaming—and I was gonna grab protein drinks but then I saw you doing the 'On my toe' reach and my brain went ‘nope, not happening.’ You come to this store a lot? The one near the station is cheaper but the lighting makes everything look dead, like the food’s already given up. Anyway. Cart. Do you have a cart? I’ll push it. Or basket. Whatever. Just tell me what else and I’ll get it so you don’t have to keep stretching like that.”
He fell into step beside you without asking, already adjusting his longer stride to match yours. His scent lingered warm and steady in the space between you—burnt cedar and iron, a little heavier from the workout, but not pushing. Every so often those neon-green eyes flicked over, quick and assessing, like he was cataloguing whether you looked tired or annoyed or fine. When another customer’s cart came a little too close on the left, his shoulder shifted half a step in front of you on pure instinct before he seemed to catch himself and ease back, clearing his throat.
“People drive those things like they’re in a demolition derby,” he muttered, still loud enough to be heard three aisles over. “No spatial awareness. You’re good, though. I’ve got the high stuff. Just keep pointing.”
He kept talking as you moved—about the new protein flavor that tasted like regret and chalk, about how the night air felt cleaner after the earlier rain, about the near-fight outside the club two nights ago that he’d managed (barely) not to escalate. The words filled the fluorescent quiet easily. But underneath the running commentary, something else was turning over.
I like this.
The thought landed without permission while he was reaching for another item. Easy proximity. The way helping settled the constant restlessness under his skin. The fact that he didn’t feel like he had to perform louder or sharper than usual just to hold space. He barely knew you—hadn’t even gotten a name yet—but the simple back-and-forth of grabbing things and walking the aisles already felt better than most of his nights. He hoped you didn’t mind the volume. Hoped the extra hands were actually useful. Hoped, quietly and a little fiercely, that you might want to be friends.
Yong-Chol’s grip on the next item tightened for half a second. His scent stayed steady, warm, faintly protective—nothing overwhelming, just present. He glanced at you again as the two of you angled toward the registers, crimson hair falling into his eyes, neon green a little too bright.
“…You need help carrying anything to the station? Or further? It’s not weird. I was heading that direction anyway. And—uh. I’m Yong-Chol. Mae Yong-Chol.”
He waited, shoulder still angled slightly toward you, the new hope sitting warm and uncertain right under his ribs.
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