Chapter Text
Three things are an absolute must in Seungmin’s life:
- milk; in the morning with coffee, and at night with a drop of honey. When he feels fancy or needs a pick-me-up, he has a matcha latte instead of a caffelatte for breakfast;
- his grandpa’s gold Cartier cufflinks;
- three hours of piano practice every day. The only exceptions permitted are if close friends or family need him, if Seungmin has a fever, or if his fingers are too sore to use.
Wednesday is a gig day at Sounddog, a lounge club in Yongsan. Seungmin usually wakes up, has his cold or warm milk with coffee, depending on the season, with Greek yogurt and fresh fruits. He warms up, both voice and hands. Three hours. Then, a light lunch of rice, eggs, and side dishes. A short nap. Commute. He meets the girls at Sounddog for rehearsal and sound check. A protein drink and herbal tea for the throat. No dinner. He can’t sing on a full stomach.
The gig starts at seven and ends at ten. They’re now a patron's favorite, so they usually end later than that, but Seungmin doesn’t mind. Afterwards, one of the girls takes him home, where Seungmin has chicken with broccoli. Rice, if he wants to be healthy. Ramen, if he needs the spice. Then, an episode of the current drama on Netflix, and his last cup of milk. Always warm. Always with honey. Shower, sleep.
Easy, perfected routine.
It happens smoothly, ninety percent of the time. Aside from today.
“I have no milk left for tonight,” Seungmin says in the middle of the soundcheck.
Q: beta, round Harry Potter glasses, Kim Soonim at birth, Seungmin’s older sister by seven years. She blinks at him. She’s obnoxiously playing with her drumsticks, throwing one in the air, and catching it at the last second.
“I have some at home,” she says. “Just stay with us for the night.”
Seungmin frowns.
He knows why he has no milk. It’s the same reason why he didn’t practice in the morning. He was supposed to have his three-hour warm-up session between nine am and twelve am. To buy groceries immediately after. Instead, Q called at eight fifty, crying for help. The washing machine was losing water all over the floor. It was an emergency. So, in full respect of Seungmin’s unwritten rules, Q’s issue got priority. Seungmin is no plumber, but he’s better than the girls’ landlord, and younger and with a better back than all their fathers. He somehow knows how to use a screwdriver and how to Google for solutions on the internet.
He was not supposed, though, to forget.
“Thanks, but you guys have horrible sleeping habits,” Seungmin replies. “I’m not sharing the bed with you or M again, and I’m not fond of your couch.”
M plops down beside him on the piano bench and elbows him on the ribs. Seungmin has known her for years - the girls are all his sister’s friends, and around the same age - and he still doesn’t know her real name or subgender- she uses strong, flowery perfumes. She also dyes her hair a different color every month. Maybe to keep the mystery alive. This Wednesday it’s black with blue ends.
Bass players are weird.
“Why don’t you want to share with me?” she asks.
“You kick in your sleep,” Seungmin breathes out, massaging the spot she hit. “And Q snores.”
A choir of protests. At the end, it’s James who brings them back to order. Like always. She doesn’t even have to raise her voice. It’s a well-placed a-ehm and a lifted eyebrow. At her side, Moneypenny minds her business with a serene smile. Like always.
“Children,” James says. One word is enough. Even though Seungmin is almost sure she’s not even the oldest. She’s the de-facto leader of their band, though. And the alpha of the girls’ pack.
They go back to rehearsal without any other accidents. However, the missing milk nags in Seungmin’s mind. He can spare a short trip to the convenience store when he’s back home, but it’s annoying. He also hates walking alone anywhere at night.
Q corners him at the bar a little before seven, at their break before they start playing. The venue is filling up with people, the buzz of voices a background to their conversation.
“I can sleep on the couch,” she says. “It’s more my size than yours. You sleep on the bed. Drink our milk.”
“M can’t fall asleep without someone petting her back. And I won’t do it for you. I have my limits.”
Her sister’s pack adopted him unofficially as soon as he finished college and left his family’s house. He loves them like they’re all of his own blood. They treat him like a little brother, too. But it's already awkward to share a bed with them, nevermind the rest.
“She’s a grown-up woman. She can survive for one night,” Q answers.
Seungmin turns on his stool to face her, eye-to-eye. His poignant silence serves its purpose because she clears her throat, slightly embarrassed by her own packmate’s silly antics.
“Okay, fine!” She raises her hands in defeat. “Then I’ll tell James to come with you to buy milk when she drops you off tonight.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Please. She would kill for you. Let noona make sweet eyes to her alpha for you, alright?”
Seungmin grimaces in disgust. She laughs, then gently adjusts Seungmin’s rebellious hair behind his ear. He preens at the gesture. If they weren’t in a public space, he’s sure he would be purring by now. He loves this kind of easy affection.
“Good Bondy,” she grins at him, then navigates between the tables to seduce James for Seungmin’s benefits.
**
James: alpha. Long wavy hair, red lipstick, and a black handsome suit. Lee Chungcha for the South Korean government, James for everyone else, since the start of their jazz band. She plays sax.
She’s easily seduced.
“So, do you need anything else aside from milk?” she asks that night, after their gig. She drives a white Hyundai. Very slowly.
“Maybe some bananas.”
Seungmin doesn’t want to stay out for much longer. He craves his shower, milk, and bed. It’s been a long day.
She hums. The drive is otherwise silent, although longer than it should be. If it were anyone else, they would have already arrived. Moneypenny, especially, seems like an angel fallen from heaven, but drives like Satan’s spawn. It’s a miracle she still has her license.
They make a short stop at the convenience store, ten minutes at most. Then, it’s another three before James parks in front of Seungmin’s apartment building. It’s an old, grey thing. His apartment is more of a studio with a bathroom, but it’s plenty enough for him. It’s also only thirty minutes away by foot to Q and M’s place.
James pats his head when he unfastens his seatbelt and prepares to leave.
“No practice tomorrow,” she reminds him. “We meet directly on Friday. Do you need me to come and pick you up?”
“No, thank you, noona.”
“Have a good sleep, Bondy.”
“You, too.”
She will probably visit Q and M tonight. Seungmin decisively doesn’t want to know, but he suspects James was promised something for the extra help. Not his business.
He has his things to do anyway.
**
Seungmin’s Thursday is busy, but not overly so. He even has the spare time to pick up his pressed suits from the dry cleaners down the road. He’s still not sure if he wants to wear grey or midnight blue this Friday, but it’s nice to have all options at hand. He would ask the girls to coordinate, but James only wears black, and Moneypenny, white. M and Q are wild cards; Seungmin hasn’t bothered with them for a long while.
Friday also starts well. He opts for a matcha latte because it will be another long day. They’re playing in a new bar in Gangnam. It’s exciting, and slightly scary.
He meets the girls in the late afternoon, orange autumn light outside the windows. The lineup hasn’t changed, but James wants to refine a couple of passages, so they start playing for rehearsal and don’t really stop until time is up.
“There will be important people tonight,” she tells them, a little tense scowl on her forehead. They have a few minutes before they need to start. “Just do what you usually do. We are professionals.”
Seungmin nods at her. With one hand, he goes to his Grandpa’s cufflinks and fidgets with them. He keeps playing with them until the first song. After that, it’s music.
He doesn’t really forget about James’ words. They stay as a faraway awareness at the back of his mind. He brings them back at the front only later, at the end of their set; a glass of white sparkling wine offered by a patron, James pulling them through the chattering crowd until they sit at a table with three other men dressed sharply, if not for the wrinkles of an entire Friday past.
He notices one of them first — which is why he sees the others at all. A handsome, blond guy. Squared shoulders, sharp lines. He sees him first, then connects it’s who James was talking about when they’re all bowing to each other in greetings. The man stands and asks a waiter for more chairs. Seungmin ends up sitting next to the guy called Bang Chan, a producer from one of the big three companies. He smiles like he doesn’t know he’s gorgeous. He smells of cedarwood - to Seungmin, unmistakably an alpha. No wonder Seungmin zeroed in on him.
He also has an accent. Australian. It adds to the charm. Ah, he’s also full of compliments. For the band, but especially for Seungmin.
“You’ve got serious control,” Bang Chan tells him, turning just enough that Seungmin feels the full weight of his attention. “Most singers your age push too much, or hold back when they shouldn’t. You don’t. You ride the line perfectly.”
The compliment is unexpected.
“Thank you,” Seungmin replies, aiming for polite neutrality. He can see Chan studying him, eyes heavy. “I practice a lot.”
“That’s not practice. That’s instinct. You can’t teach musicality like that.”
Chan says it lightly, but his gaze stays on Seungmin. It's precise, deliberate, not careless.
Seungmin swallows. The club is warm and noisy, conversations layered over the soft background jazz from the next act, but Chan’s presence gives the table its own gravity. He sits relaxed, arm resting along the back of Seungmin’s chair, like they’ve known each other for longer than five minutes. The spicy aroma of his cedarwood curls at Seungmin’s senses.
James and M are talking to the other producers, Moneypenny is laughing with Q, but Seungmin can feel Chan beside him like a steady pulse.
“You look nervous,” Chan says, tilting his head.
“I’m not.” Seungmin’s fingers fidget briefly at the gold Cartier, the smallest motion to focus his mind.
Chan glances at the gesture, then again at Seungmin.
“Good. I’d hate to think I was making you uncomfortable.”
“You’re not.”
“Great,” Chan says. “Because I’d actually like to ask you something.”
Seungmin inclines his chin just slightly, leaving the cufflinks to reach his glass of white wine. Cool, wet to the touch.
“What is it?”
“For starters…” Chan leans in, not invading—just close enough that Seungmin feels the warmth of him. “Do you always perform that well, or did I just get lucky tonight?”
His tone is light, teasing. He is good at this — the subtle confidence, the easy charm. But something about the question feels sincere, not rehearsed.
“I try to,” he answers. He takes a sip of his Pinot Grigio. Basic choice, but the bar doesn’t offer better. “I aim to be consistent.”
“Oh, I noticed,” Chan says, and Seungmin feels heat climb the back of his neck. “You have this thing—” He lifts a hand, then stops himself, as if asking permission with just his gaze.
Seungmin doesn’t move away. Chan gestures lightly toward Seungmin’s throat.
“When you go for low notes, right here… you relax in a very rare way. Most people tense. You don’t. It’s beautiful.”
Beautiful.
The word strikes at something inside Seungmin. He clears his voice.
“Is this how you talk to all the singers you know?”
Chan laughs under his breath.
“No. Only the ones who ruin my plans for a quiet night.”
“And what were your plans?”
“Oh, nothing special,” Chan shrugs. “A drink. Maybe a few emails. Definitely not being distracted by someone who sings like you.”
The air tightens in Seungmin’s lungs. Chan’s knee nudges him under the table, so lightly it could be an accident. Seungmin doubts it is.
“You’re very forward,” he murmurs, not disliking it. He finishes the wine in one last swallow and places the glass on the table.
“You’re very easy to look at,” Chan answers without hesitation. “I didn’t think being subtle would help me much.”
“And what exactly are you trying to get?”
Chan considers him for a heartbeat, eyes softening.
“Your attention,” he says. “And maybe your number… if the night keeps going this well.”
Seungmin studies him. In his line of work, he meets many people. He has his admirers, too. It’s the suits, he believes. Moneypenny says the golden lights make him more handsome. So this happens. Not often, but often enough, Seungmin can have the luxury to pause. To decide, at that moment, if he wants a man like Bang Chan to have his number.
He’s charming, yes. The Australian accent and the honeyed words. The way he doesn’t hesitate to flirt.
He’s gorgeous. Groomed. Dressed well.
Seungmin has a special partiality for alphas, too. And he really doesn’t mind the cedarwood. It’s an attractive smell.
“Yes,” he says, at last.
**
He gives the man his number. They text. A lot.
Bang Chan, or Chan. Alpha, yes. Older than him, so hyung. Producer since the young age of eighteen. A genius, basically, with many hits under his name. Alpha leader of a pack of seven people, all male, four alphas, two betas, and an omega. Nothing weird with that, Seungmin just notes the info mentally.
Finding the right time to meet is challenging. Not because they’re particularly busy, but because Seungmin knows he needs to fit the date at an appropriate time. So, the best choice is to meet for breakfast at a café, in Gangnam again, on the next Sunday. Seungmin takes a cappuccino with a yogurt parfait - rare choice, but acceptable. Chan takes an americano with a cinnamon bun and an orange juice.
The weather is nice enough that they can sit at the table outside. Very French-Paris. A pallid sun, leaves that are still green, families with strollers or dogs. The smell of warm soy milk from a stall a few meters away.
“So, I’m curious,” Chan starts, after polite greetings and the first bite in his bun. “Your band is called Jazz Bond, from 007, I guess.”
“Yes,” Seungmin says, with a little smile. He knows what’s coming.
“The other night, they presented you as Bondy. Then there was James, Q, M, and Moneypenny. So are you James Bond, or not?”
Seungmin pours the sugar into his cappuccino. When he answers, he does it half-hiding his grin behind the cup before a sip.
“I’m the Bond girl. All of them. James is, well, James Bond.”
Chan chuckles in surprise.
“What?”
“It’s all M’s fault,” Seungmin explains. “She likes themes and bad puns, so she pushed for 007 when they founded the band. I wasn’t in yet, so I had no voice in the matter. I joined at the end of high school, when the girls were already performing, and James was already James. So we thought it was funny for me to be the Bond girl. So, Bondy.”
Chan blinks. Seungmin can see the wheels spinning behind his eyes. So he says:
“Before you ask, there’s nothing between James and me. He’s like a sister to me, and my sister’s alpha.”
“You’re not part of their pack?”
“Not officially. We’re close, but they’re all lesbians, and in a polyamorous situation I don’t want to know anything about.”
Then, as an afterthought, he adds:
“And they’re old.”
Chan laughs more openly now. He leans back against the chair.
“Tell me about your pack,” Seungmin asks, after a second of silence.
Chan places his glass on the table, unlocks his phone, and shows it to Seungmin. The screen picture has seven young men around a giant red and yellow Christmas tree.
“Well. I met most of them at work. I clicked with two immediately: Changbin and Jisung, fellow producers.” He points at a buff guy in a black shirt, sleeves almost ripping, and another man with a large, happy grin.
“Jisung was already together with an alpha at the time, a choreographer, Minho.”
Minho either has an impressive resting bitch face or he hates Christmas. He is the only one scowling at the camera.
“Minho’s bestie and business partner is Hyunjin.”
A pretty guy in red.
“Then, Felix, a mate from Australia, arrived in Seoul a few years ago.”
Another pretty guy, blonde and in red.
“We’ve been close since childhood, and, well, he liked the pack immediately, and vice versa. He brought along Jeongin, the youngest. He’s the only one still studying.”
Jeongin, foxy smile. Half-moon-shaped eyes.
“You all live together?” Seungmin asks.
“Yes.” Chan chuckles, putting down his phone. He is gentle when he speaks of his packmates. It’s endearing. “It was not easy to find a big enough place, let me tell you.”
“The girls live separately for the same reason.”
“Must be hard.”
“They make it work. It helps that they meet for work every day, mostly.”
Chan hums. He takes his time finishing his americano, then it’s his turn with the questions, a curious gaze:
“Why music? Why jazz?”
“I could ask the same.”
“But I asked first.”
Touché, Seungmin thinks, with a little pleased shiver.
“Jazz makes me feel powerful,” he admits. “Not in a bragging way. With jazz, you can’t fake anything. You have to know what you’re doing. You learn the rules so well that you can break them without breaking the music.
And then, when you’re playing live, all that preparation becomes something else. It’s like everything I know is under my hands, but at the same time, I’m letting go of it. I’m in control, but I’m also surrendering to the moment. That mix— the structure and the freedom— makes me feel strong.”
He shrugs softly.
Chan lets the silence stretch for a second, thumb brushing the rim of his cup as if the words caught him off guard. The corner of his mouth lifts a little.
“That’s a beautiful way to describe it.”
Seungmin tilts his head to the side.
“What about you, hyung?”
“For me…” Chan hesitates. He looks at a point in the distance. “Music is how I reach people. I’m not always good with words, you know. But if I write a melody, if I build a track just right, it feels like I’m opening a door. Like I’m saying something I wouldn’t be brave enough to say out loud. It’s also deeply satisfying to see the end product.”
He turns his eyes back to meet Seungmin’s, a light brightening them.
“That’s why, when I saw you sing, and play… You hold a song in your hands like it’s alive… It hit me. You connect without even trying. It’s charming, captivating. And, of course.” His smile deepens. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Seungmin blushes. He can’t help it. He doesn’t want to help it. Chan is charming. At the same time, shy and confident. It’s a captivating, refreshing mix.
So, when the man asks:
“Can I see you again?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
They say goodbye at the bus station, where Chan brushes a hand through his hair and, leaning close, murmurs:
“I’m not used to… morning dates? What is etiquette? Are kisses permitted?”
Seungmin straightens his spine.
“They are.”
“Oh?” Chan’s lips open in a sunny beam. “Are you an expert at morning dates?”
“I am.”
Chan takes a step closer. Holds Seungmin by the waist. Light, barely a touch.
“Well, if you say so…” he whispers, eyes observing Seungmin’s face for a permission Seungmin is happy to give.
They kiss. Cedarwood. Alpha.
Seungmin inhales, almost dizzy when they separate, and says:
“I’ll call you tonight.”