Chapter 5: The Brother's Barbecue
Hansol’s rooftop was his pride and joy, a chaotic oasis of twinkle lights, thriving potted palms, and mismatched furniture that somehow worked. The scent of sizzling galbi and charcoal wrapped around us, and the low hum of the city sixteen floors down felt like white noise. Seungcheol had his arm slung over the back of my chair, his thumb making slow, absent circles on my shoulder. He was relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks, sipping a beer, listening to Hansol recount a disastrous photo shoot with a notoriously difficult pastry chef.
“So the croquembouche collapses, right? A tower of cream puffs and caramel just… goes avalanche. And she bursts into tears. Not delicate tears. Ugly, gasping sobs.” Hansol gestured wildly with his tongs. “I got the shot, though. The chaos. It was art.”
“Exploitative art,” Seungcheol said, but he was smiling.
“Emotive art,” Hansol corrected. He pointed a skewer at me. “You look good. Glowy. Is that a thing?”
“It’s the sweat from your overheating grill,” I laughed, but I felt it, too—a quiet, internal hum.
The metal staircase to the roof clanged, and a flash of pink appeared. Minji. She bounded over, a large paper bag in her arms, her grin wide enough to split her face. She ignored the men completely, dropped the bag, and pulled me into a hug that smelled of clay and citrus shampoo.
“You didn’t!” she whisper-yelled in my ear. “You actually did it!”
“I did,” I whispered back, and for a second, I felt the prick of happy tears.
She let me go, her hands on my shoulders, looking me up and down. Then she turned, skewering Seungcheol with a mock-stern look. “You. Be nice to her. Or I’ll make you into a very lopsided, anatomically confused vase.”
Seungcheol raised his beer in salute, totally unfazed. “Noted.” He’d always liked Minji, respected her unflinching loyalty.
Minji dove into her bag. “I couldn’t wait. I had to bring the inaugural gift.” She pulled out a tiny, perfectly crafted ceramic onesie. It was unpainted bisque, delicate as an eggshell, with beautiful, subtle texture. “For the nursery shelf. Until the real one fits.”
I took it, the cool weight of it solid and beautiful in my hands. “Minji, it’s perfect.” My voice tightened.
“A onesie you can’t wear.” Hansol peered at it. “That’s either deeply symbolic or just cruel.”
“It’s art, you philistine,” Minji shot back, grabbing a spare skewer of meat.
The evening unfolded, easy and warm. The sky deepened to indigo. Hansol kept the food coming. Minji told a story about a runaway pottery wheel that nearly took out a storefront window. Seungcheol’s hand never left me—my shoulder, my knee, the back of my neck. A steady, warm anchor.
Then the staircase clanged again, harder this time.
A woman stepped onto the rooftop. She was stylish, all sleek black and sharp angles, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Yuna. Hansol’s ex. Their breakup had been nuclear, months ago, and he’d been adamant about being “haunted.”
Hansol froze, his cheerful expression collapsing into disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard there was a party,” Yuna said, her voice smooth. She scanned the table, her gaze slipping right over me and sticking to Seungcheol with a practiced familiarity that made my skin prickle. “Seungcheol. It’s been a while.”
Seungcheol gave a single, curt nod. His hand stiffened on my neck. “Yuna.”
Hansol looked panicked. “This is a family thing, Yuna. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Family?” Her eyes finally flicked to me, a slow, assessing drag. “Oh, right. Congratulations are in order, I hear. Quite the… surprise for everyone.”
The air left the rooftop. The sizzle of the grill sounded suddenly violent. Her meaning hung there, toxic and unmistakable: A surprise. An accident.
Seungcheol moved.
It was a fluid, terrifyingly quiet motion. He was on his feet, his chair scraping harshly against concrete. He didn’t raise his voice. That was worse. The words were ice chips, perfectly aimed. “What did you just say?”
Yuna blinked, falsely innocent. “I said congratulations.”
“You implied something else.” He took a single step toward her, and the sheer force of his presence made her shrink back an inch. “You will not come into my brother’s home, to a celebration for my wife, and speak to her with that tone. You will not look at her with that expression. Do you understand me?”
Hansol stepped between them, hands up. “Hey, guys, let’s just—”
“Get her out of here, Hansol.” Seungcheol didn’t look away from Yuna. “Now.”
Yuna’s mask cracked, revealing a flash of real fear. She’d miscalculated. She’d wanted to needle, to stir old pot. She hadn’t accounted for the live wire of his protectiveness now. She scoffed, trying to recover. “God, relax. It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny,” Minji said flatly, standing up to stand beside me.
“Leave,” Hansol said, his voice tired and firm. He took Yuna’s elbow, guiding her firmly toward the stairs. Their hissed argument faded as they descended.
The silence they left behind was thick, broken only by the city’s drone. My cheeks were hot. My hands were cold. The beautiful ceramic onesie sat on the table, a stark contrast to the ugliness just spilled.
Seungcheol turned. The look on his face wasn’t anger anymore. It was something harder, more primal. A focused intensity that shut out everything else—the rooftop, Minji, the cooling food. It saw only me. He walked over, took my hand, and pulled me to my feet.
“We’re going inside,” he said, his voice leaving no room for anything else.
He didn’t look at Hansol or Minji. He just led me across the roof, through the sliding glass door, into the blessedly quiet, dim coolness of Hansol’s apartment. He didn’t stop in the living room. He headed straight down the hall, pushed open the door to the guest bedroom, and pulled me inside, locking the door behind us with a soft, decisive click.
The room was dark, lit only by the ambient glow from the rooftop lights filtering through the blinds. I could hear my own heart thudding.
“Seungcheol—”
He pressed me back against the door, his body hard against mine, his mouth crashing down on mine. It wasn’t a kiss of comfort. It was a reclamation. His tongue swept into my mouth, demanding, tasting of beer and dark fury. I could feel the tension vibrating through him, a live current.
“No one,” he hissed against my lips, his hands tugging my dress up, bunching the fabric at my waist. “No one gets to talk to you like that. To look at you like you’re anything less than everything.”
His fingers hooked into the sides of my underwear and pulled, the delicate lace tearing without a second thought. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room. He fumbled with his own belt, the buckle clinking, jeans shoved roughly down his hips. He didn’t wait. He lifted me, my back against the door, and entered me in one deep, punishing thrust.
I gasped, my head knocking against the wood. It was too much, too fast, a raw claiming. He braced me there, his hands gripping the back of my thighs, his face buried in my neck.
“They don’t get to touch this,” he muttered, his voice ragged, driving into me. “They don’t get to put their fucking words on this. On you.”
Each thrust was a punctuation mark. A period. An end to the conversation. His breath was hot and harsh in my ear, his rhythm relentless, fueled by a rage that wasn’t at me, but for me. The pleasure was sharp, frayed at the edges with a dark desperation. My own nails dug into his shoulders, clinging as he moved us, stumbling, to the bed.
We fell onto it. He rolled me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up. His palm flattened against the base of my spine, right over the spot that felt somehow sacred now. He entered me again from behind, a low groan tearing from him. This angle was deeper, more overwhelming. His other hand fisted in my hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring me to him.
“You’re mine,” he breathed, the words a fervent prayer. “This is mine. What we’re making. Nothing t|uches it. Nothing.”
I was fracturing, coming apart under the sheer force of his possession. The ugliness of the rooftop, Yuna’s sneer, it all dissolved into pure physical sensation—the slap of skin, his guttural sounds, the smell of his sweat, the desperate grip of his hands. My climax ripped through me, a silent, convulsing wave that made me see stars behind my closed eyelids. He followed, his body going rigid, a harsh, broken cry muffled against my shoulder as he spilled into me, his hips jerking erratically.
He collapsed over me, his full weight a heavy, welcome blanket. We lay there for long minutes, just breathing in the dark. The sounds of the muted party, Minji’s laugh, filtered in faintly.
Slowly, he rolled off, gathering me against his side. His fingers traced the line of my jaw, my cheek, with a tenderness that was a shocking contrast to minutes before. He kissed my temple, my closed eyelid.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was… I couldn’t breathe out there after she said that.”
“I know.” And I did. His reaction was a fortress, built brick by brick from his own history, his own codes. It was stifling. It was also, in that moment, the only thing that had made the shame she tried to cast dissolve.
“It’s not just you,” he said quietly, his hand drifting to rest, once again, on my stomach. “It’s this. It’s… I can’t explain it. It’s like my nerve endings are outside my body now.”
I turned my face into his chest. The furious rhythm of his heart was slowing, calming under my ear. The onesie Minji made was still out on the table. The galbi was getting cold. The world was still turning. But here, in this dark room, sticky and spent, we were locked together in a pact no unwanted guest could ever tarnish.
“Just don’t lock me in a tower,” I murmured into his skin, a weary attempt at our old dance.
His chest moved in a silent, shaky laugh. He held me tighter. “Only if it has a really good view.”
“Only if it has a really good view.” His voice was a rough vibration against my ear. We lay tangled in the quiet dark, the scent of our sweat and his fading cologne clinging to the sheets. My body felt both heavy and light, a map of his desperation.
I traced the line of his shoulder, the muscle still wire-tight. “Thank you for defending me and the baby, honey.” The words were soft, but they landed in the stillness with a solid weight.
He went very still. Then a shuddering breath left him, and the tension finally seeped from his frame. He turned his head, his lips brushing my forehead. “Always.” It was a vow, simple and absolute. “Even when I’m an asshole about it.”
“Especially then,” I whispered, and felt his smile.
A brisk knock shook the door. “Everything non-traumatic in there?” Minji’s voice was deliberately loud, a life raft of normalcy. “The meat’s getting sad. I’m eating all the good kimchi.”
We disentangled ourselves. I found my torn underwear, a lost cause, and slipped my dress back down. Seungcheol fastened his jeans, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He caught my eye in the dim light, a silent question. Are you okay?
I nodded. I was.
He unlocked the door. Minji stood there, a plate of freshly grilled meat in one hand, two clean soju glasses filled with water in the other. Her pink hair was a cheerful beacon. She didn’t comment on our state, just shoved the glasses at us. “Hydrate. Then eat. Emotional labor and vigorous sex both burn calories.”
I choked on a laugh, taking the water. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m a pragmatist.”
We followed her back out to the rooftop. The air was cooler now, the string lights brighter against the deep navy sky. Hansol was alone, meticulously cleaning the grill grate, his back to us. The silence was awkward, pregnant with his guilt.
Seungcheol walked over, picking up a discarded bottle of water. He cracked the seal and took a long drink. “You okay?”
Hansol’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t turn. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea how she even knew. I haven’t spoken to her in months. I should’ve…”
“It’s not your fault she’s a toxin.” Seungcheol’s tone was blunt but not unkind. He set the water down. “But your security code is still her birthday. Change it.”
Hansol winced, then finally turned, a rueful half-smile on his face. “Yeah. Okay.” His eyes flicked to me, full of apology. “I ruined the night.”
“You didn’t,” I said, and meant it. I picked up the ceramic onesie from the table, its cool surface soothing under my thumb. “You gave us a party. And Minji gave us art. That’s what stays.”
Minji clinked her glass against the onesie. “Hear, hear. Now, someone eat this before I do. I’m supposed to be a supportive friend, not a gourmand.”
We sat. The food was still warm. The conversation started again, stilted at first, then flowing easier. Hansol, eager to move on, launched into a story about Seungcheol as a stern, overly serious teenager trying to teach him to drive.
“He’s gripping the dashboard so hard he leaves dents. Like this.” Hansol imitated a white-knuckle clutch, his face a mask of terror. “He just keeps saying, ‘The speed limit is a maximum, not a suggestion,’ in this funereal tone. I’ve never gone so slow in my life.”
Seungcheol rolled his eyes, but a real smile played on his lips. “You stalled it four times at a four-way stop.”
“It was a complicated intersection!”
I leaned into Seungcheol’s side, listening, letting the normalcy wash over me. His arm came around me, his hand settling back on my knee. This was the balance. The storm, then the calm. The fortress, then the window he’d open, just for me.
Later, as we gathered our things to leave, Minji hugged me tight. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll do lunch. I’ll bring non-ceramic baby schematics.”
“Deal.”
Hansol pulled me into a quick, brotherly hug. “Love you, sis. Seriously.”
“Love you too, even with your security flaws.”
In the elevator going down, the silence was comfortable. Seungcheol held my hand, staring at the descending numbers. When the doors opened to the parking garage, he didn’t let go.
The cool, concrete air smelled of exhaust and damp. Our footsteps echoed. He hit the button on his key fob, and his car blinked softly in the dim light.
He opened my door for me. As I slid into the passenger seat, he leaned in, bracing a hand on the roof. The interior light haloed his dark hair. “The yellow sun,” he said quietly, repeating our morning code. His eyes searched mine. “All day.”
I reached up, touched his jaw. “All day.”
He closed the door, a solid, safe thunk. He got in, started the engine, and the low purr filled the space. As he pulled out onto the empty, rain-slicked streets, he reached over, his hand finding mine on my thigh. He laced our fingers together, his thumb stroking my skin in a slow, steady rhythm that matched the beat of the windshield wipers.
The city lights blurred past, streaks of gold and white. The confrontation on the rooftop felt distant, metabolized. What remained was the warmth of his palm, the solid promise of his grip, and the silent, shared understanding that tomorrow held another site meeting, another board report, another small, inevitable clash of our worlds.
And the undeniable fact that we would face it all from the same, fiercely defended ground.