...Sham marriage (n.)...

...—A sham marriage, otherwise known as a marriage of convenience, is a marriage between two people for the sole intention of acquiring a benefit or advantage....

...There are two types of people in this world: morning people, and those who want to shoot morning people....

...______________...

Yohan falls firmly within the second category.

And the incessant, loud ringing of the doorbell does nothing to disprove that fact. Tossing in bed, Yohan groans, barely awake to register any coherent thought.

It’s probably the neighbors. Some deliveryman for the family with their three kids or Baekhyun two doors down.

Dingdingdingding—

Who the fuck orders things at this hour? It’s way too early—the sun’s still up, fuck's sake. Yohan wants to make full use of his snooze time as much as possible, thank you very much.

He shoves his head beneath his pillow to drown out the endless buzzing ricocheting off the walls like a loudhailer, waiting for the noise to cease.

But it doesn’t. It prattles on and on, not unlike the way his mother used to nag at him for shirking dishwashing duty back in high school.

Somewhere behind his closed eyes and at the back of his mind, Yohan wonders if the bell is actually ringing for him, but then he dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. Of course not. The last time he had friends over was... ah, right.

Never.

It’s definitely for the folks next door.

“Min Yohan-ssi?”

Or not.

Breath snagging, Yohan’s eyes crack opens. His first thought is: who?

And then: why?

Because let it be known that Min Yohan is not a person of parties. He’s not huge on inviting people to come within the range of his personal space, let alone his own damn living quarters, so who in the world could be looking for him—knowing his name, even—at hell o’clock in the morning?

He drags his feet from bed and trudges to the door, yawning while stretching, and when he peeks through the peephole, he finds a tall man clad in a suit standing on the other side. Like, an actual formal suit, with a tie and all, this early in the morning.

An insurance agent? If so, that’s fucked up. Just goes to show what next sales tactics these relentless white-collar workers are up to these days. They sure have a lot of nerve knocking from door-to-door now.

Yohan frowns and calls out, “What the hell do you want?”

A muffled voice from the other side of the door answers, “Hello! It would be better to explain face to face.”

“How do I know you’re not trying to break in and rob me?” Yohan slurs the question, still groggy.

A pause. “With all due respect—if that were the case, I wouldn’t bother to knock.”

Fair point. With a sigh, Yohan keys in his passcode and opens the door just a crack, barely enough for a gust of summer air to blow through, and his bleary eyes land on his uninvited guest’s face.

The man is as tall as a tree, one arm clutching a thick file of papers while the other hand holds a leather laptop bag. He smiles at Yohan and gives a small wave.

Yohan crinkles his nose. “So. How can I help you?”

“Hello,” says Mr. Suit Guy. “I’m Kim Daesung, your grandfather’s lawyer, and I’m here to discuss your assets.”

Yohan blinks. His grandfather? He’s never even met the old man, was never introduced to him. “My... assets?”

The man nods, moving forward to invite himself into Yohan’s flat. “Yes. If we could sit down—”

“I’m sorry but,” Yohan bars Daesung’s entry with a pale arm, “what is going on here, exactly?”

Daesung pauses, startled, then flashes him a look heavy with pity. “Min Yohan-ssi. I’m afraid your grandfather is dead.”

By all means, this is not how Yohan envisioned his Saturday morning would go.

He and Daesung are sitting across from each other at the dining table, and for the first fifteen minutes, his brain completely zones out, glossing through the details of whatever Daesung is rambling on about.

It’s too early in the morning and Yohan hasn’t ingested enough caffeine to spark his brain cells to life yet, because a typical weekend for him involves sleeping through breakfast and lunch and only waking up near dusk. He fights to keep his bleary eyes open as each unfamiliar term and law jargon coming from Daesung’s mouth zip right over his head, with the exception of the four words he’d said earlier—yourgrandfatherisdead—replaying in his mind over and over like a broken telecom message.

It’s surreal.

Yohan doesn’t quite know how to react to this shred of knowledge—grief seems too intimate of a word to feel for someone who’s been sorely absent from his life 99% of the time. He didn’t even know he had a grandparent who was, well... alive.

Well, not anymore, but you know.

So he ends up just sitting there listlessly, mouth parted and mind scrambling for a more appropriate response—what do you say to a member of the law enforcement society barging into your house at the asscrack of dawn, bearing news of the death of a long-lost grandfather?

It’s not until Daesung says something about a “will” and “10 million” and “inheritance”—in that order, respectively—that Yohan’s ears perk up and suddenly he forgets his quenching thirst for coffee because, come on: money? He can talk money.

“Wait,” Yohan interrupts, blood surging. “What did you just say?”

Daesung pauses and looks up from the sheaf of papers that have scattered across the dining table. “Um. That the funeral will take place three days from now, and will last a week—“

“No.” Yohan waves a hand in the air, mimicking a rewinding gesture. “Earlier, before that.”

“Ah. The late Yoon Janghyuk has stated in his final will that upon his death, his only grandson Min Yohan will be entitled to inherit 10 billion won in his name,” Daesung repeats in one breath.

Yohan inhales a staggering breath and sits back, mind racing to string sentences together. Blinking rapidly, he rests a palm across his forehead because—wow.

Whoa. Since when did he have a filthy rich grandfather? And why did his mother never make a single mention of her family background all throughout Yohan’s growing years? Seriously. A heads-up would’ve been nice.

“Did you just say ten billion?” Yohan says in a whoosh of a breath, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. He pinches the underside of his wrist to make sure he’s not having a fancy dream. Ten billion is enough to get him almost anything he wants. A lifetime’s worth of bills paid for. He could even move out, if he wants to.

Daesung nods. “Ten billion in assets, correct.”

Not million. It’s more than enough money to sustain him, more than enough to ensure he lives a comfortable life. Yohan’s eyes widen. “Um. Wow.”

The attorney clears his throat. “Now, as I was saying—“

“Could you tell me more about this particular inheritance,” Yohan can’t help himself from cutting in again. “And how one might go about, um, procuring it.”

Daesung must see right through his bullshit, because he sighs and unlatches his glasses from the bridge of his nose. Using the hem of his sleeve to wipe it clean, he asks in a plaintive tone, “Min Yohan-ssi, are you perhaps married?”

“To my job? Hell yeah.”

Daesung chuckles in wry amusement. “Then in that case I might as well say I am, too.”

Yohan’s brow creases and he sits forward. “I don’t follow.”

“Which is why if you would allow me to elaborate further, I would explain the terms of Yoon Janghyuk’s will—“

A loud crash steals their attention, followed by a hiss. Yohan turns to where his cat, a Scottish Fold named Madeleine, is stalking out of the bedroom and glaring daggers at the space where Daesung sits.

Daesung groans and buries his head in his hands. “Am I just long-winded, or do people not finish talking in this house?”

Yohan stands up and scoops the cat in his arms, stroking her ginger fur in an attempt to tamp down the aggression. “It’s okay,” he croons under his breath. “This man won’t harm me.”

On the contrary. Daesung is the surrogate key to his financial fulfillment.

“As I was saying.” Daesung adjusts the glasses back on his nose, and it glints from the late morning sun filtering in through the blinds. “From my observations, you are not married.”

Shrugging, Yohan says, “I don’t really see where you’re going with this...”

“Which means you won’t be able to claim your inheritance.”

Yohan stops short. “Why not?”

Daesung shuffles through his pile of paperwork until he finds the right sheet, and points to a paragraph. “It states here on clause three that…”

Yohan leans forward to read along, and his heart plummets.

^^^iii. Min Yohan shall inherit all aforementioned assets given the circumstances in which he is bound by legal and credible marriage.^^^

“What the fuck.”

There are moments in life where you look out the window and see a glorious landscape just beyond reach, only to stand up and find the door locked from the outside in.

This is one of them.

Yohan’s mouth hangs open, and he lets out a tiny disbelieving scoff. “You’re kidding me.”

Daesung’s apologetic smile tells him otherwise, and amidst the dread and dark panic twisting in his gut all Yohan musters is: “But why?”

“In his final months, your grandfather became a very... sentimental man,” says Daesung, lowering his gaze. “It’s not my place to assume his reasons, but I believe he sincerely wanted to ‘make up for all his mistakes’ throughout his lifetime. And that includes you and your family.”

Yohan’s mood dampens. He doesn’t want to steer the conversation in that direction. With a deep sigh, he asks, “So what happens next?"

“As Mr. Yoon’s representing attorney, it is within my power to safekeep the assets at least until you find a spouse,” Daesung replies. He purses his lips, pushing up the rim of his glasses. “But there’s this other clause...”

Yohan groans. “Another one?”

“It says that if you are not married within the year, the inheritance will be split among your other relatives.”

Horror curdles at the pit of Yoongi’s stomach. No. There is no way in hell he is letting that happen. He clenches his fists.

“So since you’re not married—“

“Yet.”

Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “Beg your pardon?”

“I said I’m not married,” Yoongi affirms dryly. “Not yet, at least.”

The attorney gives him a curious look, and something stubborn and resolute forms in Yoongi’s chest. Truth be told, he has no clue what he’s supposed to do from here onwards, but at that moment only one thing matters: he’s motherfucking rich now.

Sort of.

“What’s with the long face?”

Hajoon twists the combination to his locker, and it springs open with a rustic clang. “Wait, no. Don’t tell me. Somebody stole your slippers outside your apartment again. Or you’re behind on bills. Or... your cat’s sick?”

Sighing, Yohan buttons his navy blue vest over his crisp white collared shirt—basic uniform. No employee at the Blue Rose Jazz Bar is allowed to look “unpresentable,” or so his manager says. Hajoon places a lot of emphasis on first impressions, though it’s probably just an elaborate excuse to dress up all fancy to “match the setting’s smoky atmosphere.” Whatever.

“Worse,” Yohan mutters.

“And here I thought you couldn’t have possibly looked any gloomier than you usually do. Is Madeleine okay?” Hajoon shakes a can of hairspray. “Why so angsty?”

If it wasn’t already obvious, Yohan’s not the find-someone-and-settle-down type. He keeps it simple. Roof over his head, food on the table, cat in his lap. Never in his twenty-five years of existence did he ever imagine the day would come where he’d lament, “...I need to get married.”

The jiggling sound of the hairspray can ceases, and the spraying noise stops. Silence hangs between them so loudly that Yohan hears the rush of the air vents in the ceiling.

Hajoon is staring at him. “Yohan. Are you on drugs?”

“You’re making me sound like a cynic misanthrope hermit crab.”

“Correction,” Hajoon intercepts, looking like he’s finally recovering from the initial shock. “A cynic misanthrope hermit crab who also happens to be a ruthless punctuality snob.”

“My most redeeming qualities.”

“You’re welcome.” His manager smooths his gel-slicked hair and shuts his locker. “But that’s beside the point. Correct me if I’m wrong, but did I just hear you say the M-word?”

Yohan’s deadpan stare gives it all away.

“Shocking.” Hajoon emits a low whistle. “I have so many questions.”

“And I have so many pieces to get through before the night is over.” Yohan reluctantly puts on the small, fake teal blue rose on his breast pocket—the finishing touch, cherry on top, according to Hajoon—and picks up his sheet music. “That piano’s not gonna play itself.”

“This conversation is not over!” Hajoon bellows when Yohan steps through the curtains that lead into the Blue Rose’s mini stage. “You have a lot of answering to do!”

Yohan only huffs under his breath, then sits on a low, black leather bench in the middle of the wooden stage.

The first touch of the ivory keys sends his mind to a different realm, and for the first time since the chaos of this morning Yohan closes his eyes and relaxes completely, losing himself to a medley of Davis and Ellington and Sinatra’s bests.

It’s different, with music. Yohan doesn’t have to put on a smile, doesn’t have to think, just lets his fingers dance down the piano as if his bones and the keys are made of the same ivory. Playing at the Blue Rose might only be a part-time weekend gig, but it’s a sacred window of time to him.

Whenever he lets muscle memory take over, playing pianissimo to serve as background ambience, Yohan allows his gaze to roam while patrons sashay in and out of the underground jazz bar.

Most of them are regulars, beloved customers who return time and again. There’s Yeonjun and Seunghwan, striding in arm-in-arm while exchanging secret smiles only forbidden lovers understand. There’s also the Japanese ‘benefactor’ who always arrives with a different lady each week.

Most of the faces here are familiar, but occasionally they do get newcomers.

Like this one.

The first thing Yohan notices is his hair—sunburst gold, so effortless in the way each strand swishes this way and that that you’d think it grew out of the guy’s head naturally.

The second thing that grabs Yohan’s attention is the way the young man walks—like the world is a stage and he owns it. He’s not that tall; perhaps even the same height as Yohan, but when he walks it’s like the entire room holds its breath and shifts to accommodate his presence. And Yohan’s not the type of guy to be fazed by first impressions, but when the young man looks up and catches him staring, his heart tumbles backward and Yohan ends up pressing the wrong key at the wrong time.

What comes out of the piano is a pathetic, off-beat, wrong note.

Grimacing, Yohan rips his gaze away and focuses back on the music—lest he get fired for messing up such a simple piece—but his senses are hyper-aware of which booth Blondie chooses to sit, and Yohan is pleasantly surprised to realize that it’s at the table 2 meters across him.

Focus, Min Yohan.

It’s just another attractive stranger. That’s it. No need to lose his wits over one face.

Yohan takes a deep breath and forces his eyes to stay low on the keys, even though they’re itching to stray back to where he sits.

The guy’s probably taken anyway.

And... surprise surprise, he’s not wrong.

Because not more than ten minutes later, a man built like bricks strides into the club like a bulldozer, nearly colliding into a poor waiter before sliding into the booth to press a sloppy kiss to Blondie’s cheek.

Yohan purses his lips.

A smile blossoms across Blondie’s face, and he leans in to whisper into his boyfriend’s ear.

Yohan averts his gaze. They’re always taken, at the end of the day. Disappointed but not surprised.

The rest of the night blurs by. He may or may not have slammed the piano too hard. It even gets to the point where Hajoon waltzes past where Yohan’s piano pedestal stands, whispering surreptitiously behind his hand, “Tone down the angst a bit, won’t you?”

Only when Yohan reaches the second-to-the-last song of the night does the chaos ensue.

Don’t get him wrong, it’s not like he was deliberately eavesdropping. It’s just kind of hard not to listen when two people start a screeching match two feet away from you.

It’s also hard not to look, because as much as Yohan hates disruption in his life, he can’t say he hates witnessing drama. He’s a busybody like that.

Look but don’t meddle: that’s his personal policy.

“You’re what?” he hears Blondie exclaim, high-pitched and petulant.

The guy next to him—his boyfriend, Yohan presumes—lets out a string of hurried murmurs that he can’t hear, but the next thing he knows, Blondie is dropping a string of loud curses left and right as if he’s beatboxing each word.

Then he picks up a wine glass and dumps its cherry-red liquid contents into his boyfriend’s face.

Yohan has to remind his fingers not to seize up while playing.

“Yeohwan, wait. Babe—“

“Don’t ever call me that,” Blondie snaps, eyes red with outrage. “Especially not when you’ve been engaged this whole fucking time, Choi Johyeon. How gracious of you to only inform me now.”

Behind the piano, Yohan’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. Well, damn.

“But we can always keep this up, you know?” argues the asshole, which has Yeohwan’s hand smacking the side of his face.

“Don’t make me your side project,” Yeohwan bites out, and Yohan can’t help but press each key faster, speeding up the tempo to somehow accompany this tension.

“Tell you what,” Yeohwan spits out, intentionally making his voice ring out across the entire bar. “And this bar is my witness. You’re getting married next month? Well, Choi Johyeon, guess what.”

Tears are welling up in his eyes—Yohan can see the breakdown from 50 yards away.

“If you can get married, then so can I,” Yeohwan continues, his voice breathy and cracking at the end. “I swear I will marry the first man I run into, from now on. Just you fucking wait and see, dirtbag.”

At his words, Yohan’s hands pause, hovering over the piano keys.

What?

He swears he’s hearing things. He must be getting desperate, and the prospect of inheriting ten billion won is messing with his perception.

Yohan doesn’t get to ponder this over, because the next moment, Yeohwan picks up his things and scoots out of his booth seat unceremoniously.

“Yeohwan, wait—“

“You have no right,” Yeohwan half-growls, half-whimpers. “You have no right to— oh!”

At the last moment, Yeohwan trips over one side of the table leg jutting out of the booth, and he falls, almost in slow motion...

...and barrels face-first into Yohan’s chest.

Later, Yohan will regret sliding out of the safety of his piano bench and acting before thinking. Later, he’ll question what the hell could’ve gotten into him for being so brash and bold and dumb.

Right now though, as he holds this wide-eyed stranger steady, all he rasps out is a low, despairing, “Hi. Will you marry me?”

Park Yeohwan is no stranger to proposals.

At the prime, tender age of twenty-three years young, he’s already amassed a suite of impromptu confessions and wedding offers that sits at the back of his mind like a row of trophies left to collect dust on a shelf. Ego fluffers, each one of them.

He’s aware of his charisma, knows how to work his gait and facial expressions to his advantage. Yeohwan is no stranger to the world of proposals, but in his twenty-three years of life, never has he been on the receiving end of one from a random stranger out of the blue.

Yet here he is now, red-cheeked and tear-streaked, staring into the deep brown eyes of a guy whose hair is the color of midnight on a rainy evening, and all Yeohwan can think is: Who the hell asks for a hand in marriage in place of a simple ‘hello’?

That, but also a panicked: Not here. Not now.

Because this is not how this particular scenario was supposed to go. He was supposed to make a clean exit, leave Johyeon in the bar and paint him as a huge thirsty asshat. Just like they’d agreed.

Stricken, Yeohwan’s mouth freezes momentarily as he grapples for a reaction. “Um.”

The guy in front of him blinks, and he seems to catch hold of his actions because then he releases Yeohwan’s elbows and steps back with a mortified bow. “M-my bad. I didn’t—“

“Shhh,” Yeohwan shushes, feeling like his brain is disassembling itself, hyper aware of the eyes on them. The ambient chatter inside the jazz bar has lowered to a stunned silence, and Yeohwan’s instincts scream for him to flee, bring this outside.

Someone has interrupted his little performance, waltzed onto his stage without his permission. Unacceptable.

Before the guy can stutter more, Yeohwan grasps him by the shoulders and pushes, pushes, pushes him up past the flight of stairs that lead up to ground level, wheeling the stranger out into the fresh, open air.

The guy stammers a slew of baffled protests, but Yeohwan is not having it. “Do you know what you’ve just done?”

“Sorry, I acted without thinking—“

“You nearly blew it.” Yeohwan fumes as he turns to pin the stranger down with a harsh glower. Granted, he’d managed to pull off the ruse well, had shed the most convincing crocodile tears he could, but still. “I almost broke character!”

Midnight-Haired Dude stares dumbly at him. “Uh. What are you– I’m lost.“

Yeohwan glances behind his shoulder, scanning for possible eavesdroppers, before stepping close to the guy—and wow, it’s not every day he meets a cutie whose height matches his for perfect kissing range—to whisper:

“Listen. Everything you saw there? Was staged, but between you and me, let’s say it was all completely and wholly true.” The words slip past Yeohwan’s mouth without filter, and at the back of his mind, he wonders why the hell he’s divulging Top Secret Matters to a random stranger.

Two weeks ago, his high school friend Johyeon pinged him on KakaoTalk to share his miserable story of woe—that he, a gym instructor, has gathered himself some rabid admirers who’ve turned into stalkers over time.

Which brings them to this night with Operation Make Johyeon Unavailable, and the whole time Yeohwan was already priding himself on being such a talented actor that Johyeon’s nasty fans from two tables over started sporting horrified expressions at their little spat.

Until this guy.

This guy was not a part of the plan at all.

“And to answer your question,” Yeohwan quips curtly, carding a hand through his hair out of habit. In the autumn air, his breath comes out in white puffs of mist. “No, I won’t marry you.”

Midnight-Haired Dude blanches at his words. “It’s fine. It’s not like I expected—“

“I mean, please,” Yeohwan continues with a laugh. “I know I’m pretty, but marriage? Right away? Isn’t that taking it a little too far? I don’t even know you, sir.”

“Like I said—“

“And honestly. I’m too good for you. So no thanks, I’m staying single.”

The apologetic shine in the guy’s eyes diminishes into something resembling affront. “Wait,” he says slowly. “So... you weren’t heartbroken?”

“Finally, he’s catching on!” Yeohwan claps his hands together and gives Midnight-Haired Dude a pity-pat on the shoulder, grinning for no reason. Maybe he’s tipsy.

“Anyway, it’s a flattering offer, mister, but no.” Yeohwan pastes on the sickly sweet smile he always uses in front of his friends’ mothers. “I’m not that cheap.”

He spins to leave, but hears at the last moment:

“But it all seemed so real.”

Yeohwan chuckles, congratulating himself for fooling every last person in that bar. “Honey, that’s just called acting.”

“Just when I thought you were finally doing something cool in your life, you come strutting back in here looking like a wet kitten,” Hajoon remarks the moment Yohan steps back inside the Blue Rose’s staff locker room.

Yohan drops into a chair and buries his face in his hands.

“Do me a favor, won’t you?” he says, feeling like... like gum stuck to the sole of a shoe. Small and dirty and all things unnecessary. “Just put me on like. Stocking duty next week.”

“Those fingers are for piano-ing, not appliance-checking,” comes Hajoon’s lightning-fast reply.

“Though I could definitely think of a lot more uses for long fingers.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Any other time, Yohan would have rolled his eyes, maybe even laughed if he’s in a particularly good mood. But now he just sighs, sniffles, and looks down at the floor.

Never has he ever felt such magnitude of humiliation before.

Yohan’s comfort zone lies in staying within the sidelines, watching life pass him by. He’s not quite sure what stings more: that he’s made a fool out of putting himself out there, or that he just got brutally rejected.

He hears footsteps drawing near, and when he looks up he finds Hajoon looming over him, arms crossed. “Min Yohan.”

“Mmph.” Yohan doesn’t look up.

“What the hell is going on?” Hajoon asks. “First you tell me you need to get married, and now you’re proposing to strangers.”

Yohan sighs again, the words ‘Ten billion dollars’ bouncing back and forth in his mind like a pinball.

“I mean, what am I supposed to expect now?” Hajoon carries on. “Next thing I know, you’ll be taking off to become a rap star, or that you’re training to be a monk. Bald and—“

The noise of the walk-in freezer’s door interrupts Hajoon’s monologue, and Taeyeon’s teal blue-dyed head pops out, eyes wide and curious. “Did anything happen while I was inside?”

Hajoon sends him a pointed look. “You missed out. Yohan proposed to a stranger just now.”

“No way.” The younger waiter’s mouth falls open. “Everything always happens when I’m on freezer duty.”

“I don’t know, it’s not a very Yohan thing to do,” Hajoon singsongs, talking about Yohan as if he’s not right there sitting in the same room.

Taeyeon nods. “There’s an ulterior motive. There’s always one with him.”

“Go ahead. Ask him why. My bet is: he’s high.”

“I’m not high, or drunk, or whatever the hell you’re thinking,” Yohan defends himself before launching into a brief recap of everything that happened since this morning. When he finishes, Taeyeon goes quiet while Hajoon bursts out laughing.

“So you need to find a wife—“

“Or a husband,” Yohan adds.

“Or a husband, just for the sake of claiming your money from a grandfather you’ve never met?” Hajoon asks, leaning against the side of the lockers. “Either you’re a lucky bastard, or this is a scam.”

“The attorney himself explained it to me.”

Yohan isn’t about to let his manager’s skepticism dampen his already rotten mood. “It’s the real thing, hyung. This is my ticket to paradise.”

Hajoon studies him for a moment, trying to gauge just how serious he is about this. “Well. Do you want me to set up a blind date?”

Yohan swallows. Him, meet new people? Make attempts at flirting and get them interested in marriage? He might as well scale the Pyramids of Giza. He scratches his head. “No need. Thing is, I’m not really interested in the whole falling in love shit. No time for that.”

Hajoon shrugs and weaves through the curtains to return to the Blue Rose’s main floor. “Suit yourself.”

In the wake of his manager’s departure, Yohan sags against his locker, thoughts in a jumble. What now?

“You don’t have to.”

He glances up to find Taeyeon pacing back and forth in front of him, eyes glinting with something either utterly brilliant or utterly ridiculous.

Yohan knows that look: the trademark Scheming Face. “What do you mean?”

“You’re just getting married, hyung,” Taeyeon says casually. “It’s not like you have to love them, right?”

Squinting his eyes, Yohan says, “I don’t know where you’re going with this, but that face is giving me bad idea vibes.”

“It’s the face of a genius at work,” Taeyeon chides in mock offense. “Learn the difference, hyung.”

“Did you forget when you suggested we should name our cocktails after sex terms?” Yohan fires.

“Hey! Flaming Orgasm is iconic! And the customers love them!” Taeyeon cries, before rearranging his face in a placating smile. “Anyway. Trust me on this. Because I think I might know just the perfect person for you.”

Yohan can spot a Bad Idea from a mile away, and it’s safe to say that this one is already giving him an ominous feeling. “Who?”

Taeyeon smiles, looking genuinely pleased with himself. “A friend.”