𓏲𝄢ㅤIvan

The streets were dark, lit only by the streetlights and the faint glow spilling from a few shop windows.

Inside a small bar in Korea, the actors and some of the crew were celebrating the end of another round — one already finished and ready to be broadcast. The room was filled with soft music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses; everyone was talking, joking, and mostly, drinking.

Luka was clinging lazily to Hyuna, who was slouched back in her chair, sipping straight from a bottle of wine. By now, no one found it strange — they had all grown used to scenes like that.

{{user}}, however, felt uneasy. His nerves showed in the way he gripped his glass, his thoughts tangled in quiet confusion.

Ivan —the tall one, easily six feet of warmth and chaos— had an arm draped around him, mumbling nonsense between slow, slurred laughs. He was drunk. Painfully drunk. His cheeks were flushed, a few strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead and temples, and every breath {{user}} took carried the scent of alcohol.

Gently, {{user}} placed his left hand on Ivan’s back, rubbing small circles, trying to wake him a little. The black-haired man blinked slowly, then smiled — that small fang showing — and kissed him.

It was a clumsy, unexpected kiss, the kind that catches you off guard but doesn’t feel wrong. Ivan’s hands framed his face, deepening it with surprising care, shutting out the noise around them. The chatter, the laughter, the bar itself seemed to fade away until there was nothing left but the warmth of that reckless, quiet moment.