Chapter Text
Kim Dokja was broke.
Not the cute kind of broke where you skip boba for a week. The kind where your card declines for instant noodles and your landlord starts knocking “just to check in.”
He was also a final-year Business Management student, working a miserable part-time job at a campus café, and currently locked in intellectual combat with Han Sooyoung over their group presentation.
“I’m just saying,” Sooyoung snapped, shoving fries into her mouth, “if you're going to analyze Tesla’s market disruption, at least understand what vertical integration means.”
Dokja, sitting across from her with his laptop open and three tabs on case studies, didn’t even look up. “They make cars and memes. What more do you want?”
“A functioning analysis, maybe? Numbers? A single working brain cell?”
“You’re asking a man who skipped dinner to buy black ink for the group report.”
“Touché.”
They were camped out in the corner of the campus cafeteria, where the seats smelled faintly of ramen and regret. Outside, it was raining like the universe itself was over budget.
Sooyoung tossed a crumpled napkin at him.
“I still think we should go with my original idea,” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Let’s just roast billionaires for twenty minutes.”
“You just want to put Elon Musk on the slides.”
“And you don’t?”
Dokja sighed, long and dramatic.
“Remind me why I let you talk me into this major.”
Before Sooyoung could reply, a voice rang out loud, high-pitched, and emotionally distressed.
“DOKJAAAA…!!”
Both of them looked up at the same time.
There, at the edge of their table stood Uriel, looking radiant, overdressed for campus, and very visibly crying.
Uriel sniffled dramatically, dabbing at her eyes with a silk handkerchief that probably cost more than Dokja’s monthly rent. She sat down between them uninvited, immediately stealing one of Sooyoung’s fries.
“I’m doomed,” she declared. “I’m going to be sold off like some... CEO’s emotional support wife.”
Dokja blinked. “What.”
“Blind date,” Uriel groaned. “Set up by my parents. He’s rich. He’s powerful. He probably owns a car made of diamonds or whatever, but he’s an older man.”
“How old are we talking?” Sooyoung asked, already pulling out her phone.
“My mom said he’s ‘mature’ and ‘financially stable’ which means he’s probably two divorces away from death!”
Dokja sipped his coffee and stared at her. “Why not just cancel?”
“Because it’s a favor,” she whined. “His family saved my mom from bankruptcy like ten years ago. Now they want to unite the families or something. Like I’m in a fusion drama no one asked for.”
Sooyoung grinned. “This is so much better than our Tesla project.”
Uriel turned to her with teary eyes. “Help me.”
“What do you want us to do?” Dokja said dryly. “Fake your death?”
“No,” Uriel said. “I want someone to go in my place. Act annoying. Make him run.”
Dokja’s cup stopped halfway to his lips. Sooyoung leaned forward, sensing the chaos blooming.
“Go on,” Sooyoung said.
“I just need someone to ruin the date,” Uriel said. “Say unhinged things. Eat like a gremlin. Maybe talk about collecting cursed dolls. I don’t know. Just make him hate me.”
Sooyoung’s eyes lit up like a villain about to monologue. “Dokja.”
“No.”
“DOKJA.”
“Still no.”
“You’d look great in a wig.”
“I am a man.”
“Yeah, and he’s a CEO. Rich men don’t notice anything except their reflection and stock prices.”
Dokja looked at Uriel. “You want me to crossdress and pretend to be you just to sabotage a date?”
Uriel nodded. “I’ll pay your rent. And your tuition.”
He blinked.
Sooyoung leaned in. “Kim Dokja.”
“What.”
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“To humiliate myself in public?”
“To become the main character.”
“I’m not doing it,” Dokja said, dead serious.
Uriel clasped her hands together in silent prayer. “Please. You’re my only hope.”
Sooyoung grinned like a cat who’d just seen a canary take its first flight. “Dokja, come on. You’ve got the face for it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m saying your features are soft. Delicate. Slightly tragic. You could totally pull off a lost heiress aesthetic if you tried.”
“I’m going to ignore the existential insult and circle back to the part where this is ridiculous.”
Uriel pouted. “I already got a reservation at this super exclusive restaurant. It’ll be embarrassing if I don’t show up.”
“Why not just cancel the whole thing?” Dokja asked.
“Because my mom will kill me. And this guy’s family is, like… crazy-rich. Chaebol-level. If I mess this up openly, there will be repercussions.”
Sooyoung was already scribbling ideas on a napkin. “Okay, hear me out. We curl Dokja’s hair, put him in a long dress. Nothing too flashy, maybe a wine red to bring out his eyes. Heels would be a bit much, but a soft-spoken act and some overly dramatic hand gestures? He’s golden.”
“I’m not a paid actor,” Dokja muttered.
Uriel’s eyes gleamed. “I can pay you.”
“No amount of…”
“Three months’ rent. Full tuition for this semester. I’ll even throw in a food allowance.”
Dokja stared at her like she’d just proposed a murder-suicide pact.
“Throw in my electricity bill,” he said flatly.
Uriel blinked. “What?”
“My lights got cut off last night. I showered with a candle.”
Uriel didn’t even hesitate. “Done.”
Dokja closed his eyes.
“You don’t have to go all out,” Uriel said, voice soft. “Just be weird enough to make him uncomfortable. You won’t have to kiss him or anything. Just ruin it. You’re good at ruining things.”
“Thanks,” Dokja muttered.
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re both insane,” he sighed, rubbing his temples. “This is illegal. Probably.”
Sooyoung shrugged. “Only if you get caught.”
“Which you will,” he added dryly.
“Which would be hilarious,” Sooyoung corrected.
Dokja looked at his empty wallet app, then at Uriel’s hopeful face, then at the cursed napkin-turned-strategy-map Sooyoung was already sketching on.
“…Fine.”
Uriel gasped. “You’ll do it?!”
“Under protest.”
Sooyoung raised her fist in the air. “Operation: Genderbend Blind Date begins!”
Dokja buried his face in his hands.
He was going to regret this.
He already did.
“I still think we should call the cops,” Dokja muttered as he stood awkwardly in front of a store window filled with mannequins in pastel dresses and floral prints.
“Oh, please,” Sooyoung said, already marching through the entrance. “The only thing criminal here is your taste in clothes.”
“I’m being emotionally blackmailed.”
“Shut up and pick a wig.”
Uriel trailed behind them, face hidden behind oversized sunglasses, clutching her designer purse like it was her only anchor to sanity. “Just... try to look rich and unhinged. Like a woman who buys six scented candles and cries about it.”
Dokja gave her a look. “I am that woman. Without the candles.”
They ended up in a high-end boutique where even the hangers looked expensive. The clerk raised an eyebrow as Sooyoung dumped three dresses onto the counter and pointed at Dokja.
“He’s the model.”
Dokja froze. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, he is,” Uriel said sweetly, handing the clerk a black credit card. “And we’ll be needing heels, stockings, a wig, fake lashes, and… emotional support.”
Twenty minutes later, Dokja stood inside the fitting room, arms lifted as Sooyoung yanked a zipper up the side of a satiny black cocktail dress.
“This is tight,” he grunted.
“It’s called being sexy, Kim. Embrace the pain.”
“I think my ribs are trying to escape.”
“Your suffering is my aesthetic.”
Uriel sat outside the changing area, swiping through lipsticks on her phone. “Don’t forget the accessories. We want ‘temptress’ not ‘tax auditor.’”
Dokja stumbled out of the fitting room in the first outfit. Sooyoung immediately shook her head. “Too corporate. He looks like he’s about to fire someone on a yacht.”
The second dress got a slow whistle. “Better. Still stiff. Like he’s mourning someone… but fashionably.”
“I am mourning,” Dokja said through gritted teeth. “My dignity. My future career. My masculinity.”
Uriel handed him a glass of overpriced iced coffee. “Drink this and stop whining. You’re doing great, sweetie.”
One shoe-shopping breakdown later...
Dokja sat slumped on a bench with three shopping bags and a soul full of regret. His legs were smooth, his lashes too long, and he was starting to suspect Sooyoung enjoyed this way too much.
“You know what?” Sooyoung mused as she adjusted his new earrings. “You might actually pull this off.”
Dokja groaned. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Uriel beamed. “You’re perfect. You’ll give that CEO a heart attack.”
“Good,” he muttered. “Maybe then I can go home.”
.
.
The sun was setting by the time they finished shopping. Dokja stood in his room, clutching a compact mirror, wearing his final disguise: full makeup, curly dark brown wig, light pink lips, and a dark navy sleeveless dress that made him shiver every time the wind blew.
He looked… not like himself.
He looked like someone who should be starring in a slow-burn melodrama about betrayal and rich family secrets.
“Why do I look like I’m about to be cheated on by a chaebol heir,” he muttered.
“Because,” Sooyoung said, smugly admiring her handiwork, “you could be. We’ve nailed tragic elegance.”
“I feel like my eyelashes are doing push-ups.”
Uriel walked around him, nodding approvingly. “Okay. You pass. Now all that’s left is...”
“…the shoes,” Sooyoung said ominously, pulling out the heels.
Four inches of black strappy death.
Dokja stared at them like they’d insulted his ancestors. “No.”
“Yes,” both women said in unison.
“I draw the line at this. I can’t even walk straight in sneakers!”
“You’ll learn,” Sooyoung grinned. “We have two hours. Enough time for you to suffer and for me to laugh.”
Then the Heels Training Begins.
First attempt: a noble fall. Like a giraffe slipping on ice.
Second attempt: crab-walking.
Third: silent screaming.
Dokja gritted his teeth as he tried again, arms out for balance. Uriel clapped every time he managed four steps without dying.
“Imagine you’re on a runway,” she coached. “Chin up. Hips steady. Elegant like you own the restaurant and his entire inheritance.”
“I feel like a newborn deer being hunted.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Sooyoung tossed him a clutch bag. “Don’t forget your character.”
Dokja gave her a look. “Which is?”
“Rich, weird, intense. Like a girl who reads tarot cards at brunch and flirts with waiters using literature quotes.”
He sighed. “I’m going to jail.”
“Not if he runs first,” Sooyoung smirked.
And as Kim Dokja stood in front of the mirror with fluttering eyelashes, heels digging into his soul, and his dignity stuffed somewhere between contour and chaos, he realized something horrifying.
He was actually going to go through with this.
Tonight, he’d walk into an upscale restaurant, dressed to deceive, armed with sarcasm, debt, and just enough eyeliner to commit a crime.
What could possibly go wrong?
The restaurant was the kind of place where the lighting was suspiciously flattering and the bread cost more than Dokja’s weekly groceries.
He walked in like someone trying very hard not to walk in with tensed shoulders, hands clutching a tiny purse that Sooyoung had insisted on, and heels clicking with every wobbly step like an impending disaster.
The waiter gave him a once-over and smiled the way people do when they’ve seen weirder things and are paid not to care.
“Table for two?” they asked politely.
Dokja cleared his throat. “Yes. Under the name Uriel.”
He didn’t know whether to feel proud or ashamed when the host nodded like that made total sense and gestured him toward a secluded booth near the window.
The soft lighting, the crisp white tablecloth, the expensive-looking menu already set on the table, it all screamed romantic dinner for two. And here he was, sitting stiffly with his knees pressed together, praying the makeup wouldn’t start melting under the pressure of his anxiety.
He crossed his legs like Sooyoung had shown him, adjusted his wig discreetly, and resisted the urge to bolt.
“This is fine,” Dokja muttered to himself, picking up the menu with trembling fingers. “I’ve been through worse. Group projects. Cold calls. The time I accidentally sent a thirst tweet from my main account. I can handle this.”
He peeked over the menu at the entrance.
No one yet.
Maybe the guy bailed. Maybe the date was off. Maybe…
The door chimed.
A man walked in.
Tall. Crisp suit. Expression like carved stone. He radiated CEO energy in that very specific terrifying way that made everyone in the vicinity straighten their backs and question their life choices.
Dokja immediately ducked behind the menu.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
That had to be him.
Yoo Joonghyuk.
The blind date target.
The guy Uriel was supposed to meet.
The guy Dokja was supposed to scare off.
Dokja peeked again.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked... absurdly attractive. Like ‘he belongs in a drama and definitely doesn’t do his own taxes’ attractive. Sharp jawline. Cool eyes. Broad shoulders. The kind of man who made HR departments sweat.
Dokja’s palms began to sweat.
Sooyoung had not prepared him for this.
His mission was to be so off-putting that the date would crash and burn immediately. But how was he supposed to do that when his own brain was short-circuiting just from the guy walking through the door?
Abort mission. Abort mission now.
Too late. The waiter was already leading him toward the table.
Dokja took a shaky breath and pasted on the weirdest, most unsettling smile he could manage.
Smile. Okay. Sooyoung said to start with a weird laugh. Something that would make a man reconsider every decision that led him to this moment.
He smiled wider, teeth and nerves.
“Hi,” he said brightly, voice pitched just a bit too high. “You must be... Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi?”
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked at him once slowly, before sitting down. The man moved like a panther in a boardroom. Calm, precise, and absolutely terrifying.
“Yes.”
Dokja cleared his throat. Okay. Step one: overshare.
“So, I’ve recently started a healing journey,” he blurted, hands folded too tightly on the table. “Ever since my ex-boyfriend left me for our tarot reader, I’ve been trying to realign my chakras and rebuild my trust in men.”
Yoo Joonghyuk’s brows inched up half a millimeter.
Dokja pressed on. Step two: make things weird. Like... 'third act of a bad romcom' weird.
“I also eat raw garlic every morning,” he said, a little too loudly. “For aura cleansing. And protection. Spiritually. And digestion.”
A pause.
Dokja tried not to visibly sweat.
Yoo Joonghyuk took a sip of water, unbothered. “I see.”
Was that sarcasm? No. Just flat. Like talking to a wall that could probably bench press you.
Dokja felt his soul begin to leak out through his pores.
Step three: Weird food order.
The waiter approached.
“I’ll have the steak tartare,” Dokja said without looking at the menu, “but can you add whipped cream? And... do you have goldfish crackers?”
Even the waiter paused.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him, still unreadable.
Dokja gave him a smile so forced it probably qualified as dental malpractice. “It’s a new diet trend. Gut flora and all.”
The waiter nodded slowly and left, clearly regretting his life choices.
Yoo Joonghyuk somehow still hadn’t walked out.
Dokja started to panic. Why isn’t this working?!
“Anyway,” he tried again, leaning in dramatically, “what’s your blood type? I don’t trust O-types.”
Yoo Joonghyuk set his water down. “I don’t disclose medical information on first dates.”
Dokja blinked. Was... was that a joke?
Before he could react, his heel slipped under the table and he almost fell sideways into the flower arrangement. He caught himself with a dramatic flail, knocking his purse off the chair in the process.
He laughed. A wheeze. A wheeze-laugh.
“Oopsie,” he said.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips twitched. Barely. Like maybe he was trying not to smile.
Dokja’s internal monologue: “What? Was that a twitch? Did he like that? No. Focus. You're supposed to be insane.”
He sat upright again, tugged the wig back into place, and cleared his throat.
Dokja adjusted his top ever so slightly. Just enough shoulder to be alarming.
Okay. If unhinged failed, he’d go with desperate.
Plan B: Be the kind of date that makes CEOs call their therapists.
He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, elbow perched on the table in a way that would make Sooyoung proud. “So, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi,” he purred, almost choking on the word purred, “are you always this composed, or is it just because I haven’t bitten you yet?”
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked.
Dokja could hear Sooyoung’s voice in his head, loud and clear: “Sexual tension is just intimidation plus confidence. Pretend you’re in charge.”
He licked his lips dramatically.
Yoo Joonghyuk calmly took a sip of his water. “Have you ever been on a date before?”
Dokja fake-giggled. “Define ‘date.’ Is it the thing that ends with handcuffs or the thing that ends with trauma?”
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him. Hard.
Dokja pushed further.
He leaned across the table, voice dropping half an octave. “You know, I’ve always wanted to be... manhandled. Is that a thing you do, Mr. CEO?”
The air between them stalled.
Even the restaurant lighting seemed to dim out of pure discomfort.
Dokja waited. Surely this was the final straw. Surely he’d get kicked out or at least doused in holy water.
Instead, Yoo Joonghyuk tilted his head. “You talk a lot.”
Dokja blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You talk,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, voice flat, “a lot.”
“I… well, yeah. That’s part of my charm.”
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t reply. Just looked at him. Still unreadable. The kind of calm that made you check your house for bombs.
Dokja sat back in his chair, suddenly less sure.
Was he... failing?
No. That wasn’t an option. He had rent to pay. He had Wi-Fi to keep. He had…
“So what do you do?” Yoo Joonghyuk asked abruptly.
Dokja blinked. “I’m a... self-love coach.”
Yoo Joonghyuk raised a brow. “You’re unemployed.”
“That’s a very narrow definition of spiritual entrepreneurship.”
A pause.
Then Yoo Joonghyuk did the unthinkable.
He smirked.
Dokja’s brain: System Error. Please restart.
Dokja nearly stood up and ran.
This was no longer a safe space.
“Tell me more about your job,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
Dokja inhaled sharply. “My... job?”
“Spiritual entrepreneurship,” Joonghyuk repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m curious.”
Dokja’s mental PowerPoint was already on slide 6: "How to Sound Like a Sexy Liar Without Committing Tax Fraud."
“Right, yes, of course.” He laughed, the high-pitched awkward kind of laugh reserved for job interviews and funerals. “It’s very... holistic. Healing. I connect with clients in a... deep, intimate way.”
Joonghyuk’s eyebrow rose again.
Dokja took it as encouragement.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice into what he assumed was a sultry tone. “Most of my sessions are one-on-one. In private. I... tailor the experience based on the client’s needs.”
He made eye contact. Too much eye contact.
Dokja smiled slowly. “Some people need a firm hand. Others need... something gentler.”
Pause.
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked. “So you’re a therapist.”
Dokja froze. “What? No. I… No. There’s… There’s candles involved.”
“So a cult leader.”
“No! God, no. Okay, maybe a little.”
“You’re a con artist.”
Dokja’s smile didn’t falter. “I prefer the term experience curator.”
Yoo Joonghyuk huffed a faint scoff through his nose. “You’re strange.”
Dokja put a hand to his chest. “Flatterer.”
He was running out of cards.
Plan B was no longer a flirtation strategy, it was psychological warfare. He had just described himself as a sex cult candle shaman. And Yoo Joonghyuk? Unfazed.
Dokja started to sweat.
What now?
“If all else fails,” Sooyoung had said, perched on his bed surrounded by dresses and hairpins, “just spill water on yourself. Like, oops, I’m clumsy and wet now. That always works in dramas.”
Dokja reached for his glass slowly. With purpose.
Yoo Joonghyuk tilted his head. “Are you alright?”
Dokja smiled. “Just a little thirsty.”
And then, with the grace of a tragic ballerina and the commitment of someone three months behind on rent, he “accidentally” knocked the water all over his chest.
Ice-cold. Right over the neckline of his dress. Soaked.
He gasped, theatrically. “Oops.”
Silence.
A droplet of water slid down his collarbone. Dramatically.
Yoo Joonghyuk watched. Still quiet.
Dokja blinked up at him. Say something. Be scandalized. Be uncomfortable. Just… leave.
But Yoo Joonghyuk only reached across the table, picked up a napkin, and handed it to him.
“You should be more careful,” he said.
Dokja internally shrieked.
Outwardly, he dabbed himself dry. Like a lady.
The moment the waiter stepped away with their appetizer orders, Dokja shot to his feet with the urgency of someone about to throw up, or confess to murder.
“I need to use the restroom,” he said, barely maintaining the falsetto.
Joonghyuk nodded, calm as ever. “Take your time.”
Dokja gave what he hoped was a coy smile and fled.
.
.
Inside the restroom, the lighting was criminally bright and the air smelled like lemon-scented lies. He locked himself in a stall, whipped out his phone, and dialed.
One ring. Two. And…
“What's up, slut?” Sooyoung’s voice rang in his ear.
“You are the devil,” Dokja hissed.
“Love you too. Are you dead yet? Did he run screaming? Please tell me he ran.”
“No. Worse. He’s into it.”
A second voice joined the line. “Define ‘into it,’” Uriel asked sweetly. “Because if he laid a hand on you, I will summon the wrath of—”
“No one laid hands, Uriel!” Dokja snapped. “He thinks I’m some holistic candle cult leader and just handed me a napkin like I didn’t just wet-shirt myself at the dinner table!”
There was a pause.
Then Sooyoung cackled.
“Oh my god, you did the spill trick?!”
“You told me to!!”
“I didn’t think you'd actually do it, you drama llama!”
“I panicked!”
Uriel made a strangled noise. “Kim Dokja, I am so sorry I ever asked you to do this. You’re suffering. I see that now.”
Dokja exhaled through his nose. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. I just… need a new plan. Or an exit strategy.”
Sooyoung was still laughing. “No, no, you got this. You just need to escalate. Play mysterious. Maybe talk about star signs. Or trauma. People love trauma bonding.”
“What kind of blind date are you trying to write?”
“A memorable one.”
“Dokja,” Uriel interrupted gently, “you can leave. I’ll just tell my mom he wasn’t my type.”
Dokja closed his eyes, forehead against the stall door. “No. If I leave now, I walk away with nothing. No rent. No tuition. No dignity.”
“You already lost the last one when you wore a push-up bra,” Sooyoung offered helpfully.
“I will strangle you with this wig.”
“Promises, promises.”
He took a shaky breath. “Okay. I’m going back in.”
Sooyoung made a kissy sound. “Good luck, Miss Cult Leader~”
Uriel: “Be safe. Call us if he tries to initiate a hostile merger.”
Dokja hung up. He looked in the mirror. One fake eyelash was half-detached.
He reapplied lip gloss with the precision of a man preparing for battle.
When Dokja returned to the table, he tried to walk like someone who had their life together. Unfortunately, he was still in heels, so the result was more like a giraffe attempting ballet.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked up as he approached. His gaze flicked briefly down, then up again… unreadable.
Dokja slid into the seat.
“Are you alright?” Yoo Joonghyuk asked, voice low and neutral.
“Just a touch of... moon imbalance,” Dokja offered cryptically, because why not. “Mercury’s in retrograde.”
Yoo Joonghyuk paused for a long moment.
“I see,” he said finally.
A waiter returned with their drinks. Dokja sipped his ginger ale with all the sophistication of a woman who absolutely was not debating escape through the kitchen.
Yoo Joonghyuk, meanwhile, took a small sip of red wine, eyes on him the whole time.
“So,” he began, setting down his glass, “you mentioned earlier that you run your own... healing business?”
Dokja straightened slightly. “Yes. Very niche. Very... holistic.”
“What kind of healing?”
Dokja had two options: say something believable, or dive headfirst into unhinged.
He chose chaos. Always chaos.
“I specialize in emotional energy release,” he said calmly, like that was a real thing. “My method is intuitive, but it involves a lot of touch, intention, and guided meditation with sound bowls. Sometimes crystals.”
Joonghyuk’s brow furrowed slightly. “Do you have qualifications?”
Dokja blinked. “I… took a workshop.”
A pause.
“Online.”
“Of course.”
Another sip of wine.
Dokja was now 70% sure Yoo Joonghyuk was either deeply amused or planning to call security.
Then Yoo Joonghyuk asked, “Why did you choose this field?”
Dokja blinked.
That... wasn’t in the script.
Because my friend bribed me with rent money?
Because you were supposed to storm out by now and call me a disgrace to womanhood?
Instead, he said, “Because people are tired of being told what to feel. I help them feel whatever’s real.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then, to Dokja’s growing horror, Yoo Joonghyuk smiled.
It was small. Barely there. But real.
“That’s an interesting answer.”
Dokja stared at him.
Abort mission, he thought. This man is not supposed to be smiling.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of small talk and internal screaming. Dokja made it through the entrée without choking, survived dessert without accidentally calling Yoo Joonghyuk “sir,” and even managed to laugh at one of his dry, unintentionally hilarious comments about corporate restructuring.
All things considered, it was a disaster that somehow looked passable on the outside. Like a burning house with very clean windows.
As they stepped outside the restaurant, the cool night air slapped Dokja across the face like the universe telling him, ‘That was not normal’.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood beside him, hands in his coat pockets, looking calmly unreadable again.
“I can have the car brought around,” he said, nodding toward the valet.
Dokja’s entire body tensed.
“Oh… no, no need,” he blurted. “My driver’s already on the way.”
Yoo Joonghyuk raised an eyebrow. “You have a driver?”
Dokja’s mouth twitched. “Yup. Very punctual. Gets angry when I keep him waiting.”
There was a pause.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t press. “I see.”
For a moment, they just stood there in silence, the soft sound of traffic in the background. Dokja clutched his bag like a life vest.
“Well,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, turning slightly toward him. “It was…interesting.”
Dokja wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“You too,” he offered. “I mean… this. Was. You were. Yep.”
Yoo Joonghyuk gave him a long look. Then, unexpectedly said, “Take care getting home.”
Dokja blinked. “You too.”
And with that, he turned and walked off… head held high, heels clicking, dignity trailing behind him like a broken kite.
The moment he turned the corner and was out of sight, he yanked off the wig, kicked off his heels, and bolted down the street barefoot like Cinderella after an existential crisis.