Page 131 of Ruthless Touch

“Take care of yourself, Eli,” she murmurs. “I mean it, okay?”

“You too.”

I watch her walk away toward campus, her bag slung over her shoulder, aware it’s not the last time we’ll see each other. We’re still going to hang out as friends.

But itisthe end of an era. It’s almost like we’re both saying goodbye to KD and the special time the three of us shared together. It hurts, but it’s necessary.

It’s not long before Gun, Joon, Priscilla, and I start a new tradition—dinner on the rooftop of some trendy fusion restaurant in Itaewon.

Wiry chairs and tables. String lights tangled with paper lanterns. Menus that promise “traditional flavors with a modern twist”.

Views of the city skyline that make for the perfect aesthetic post on social media.

It’s definitely a hot spot for a night out with friends.

Gun’s already claimed a table by the railing when Priscilla and I arrive, scrolling through his phone with that focused expression he gets when handling Cheongryong business. He looks up as we approach. I catch the small smile that tugs at his lips—the one that’s just for me.

“Joon’s running late,” he says, pulling out my chair with exaggerated politeness that makes me roll my eyes.

“Shocking,” Priscilla mutters, settling into her own seat. “When is he ever on time?”

As if summoned by the complaint, Joon-gi stumbles up the stairs to the rooftop five minutes later, hair artfully mussed, shirt half-untucked, carrying a bottle of soju like it’s a trophy. His cheeks are already flushed, eyes bright with alcohol and mischief.

“Before anyone says anything,” he announces loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. “I’m not apologizing for being late, I brought my own alcohol, and I’m definitely not splitting the bill.”

Gun snorts. “I see you dressed yourself again.”

“Like usual, Gun-woo, you don’t understand the latest fashions,” he says, gesturing to his button-down shirt and board shorts. “The ladies love a man with confidence.”

“It definitely takes confidence to walk out of the house dressed like that.”

“And yet it’s never stopped women from falling at my feet,” he says cockily. “Now, are we celebrating anything specific, or just the fact that we’re all still breathing?”

“Still breathing works,” I pipe up. “That seems worthy of a celebration in itself.”

We order an absurd amount of food—bulgogi that sizzles on a hot plate, grilled squid that makes Gun’s eyes light up, kimchi pancakes that arrive freshly made. The banchan appears in waves, small dishes of pickled vegetables and seasoned sprouts crowding the table until there’s barely room for our elbows.

I find myself stealing bites off Gun’s plate without thinking. He lets me, pushing the best pieces of squid toward my side of the table with his chopsticks.

“You have your own food, Goyangi,” he points out, yet his tone is affectionate.

“Yours tastes better.”

“It’s literally the same dish.”

“Disagree.”

Priscilla watches us with barely concealed amusement. “You two are so nauseating.”

“Thank you,” Gun and I say in unison, which only makes her laugh.

Halfway through the meal, Joon-gi’s attention shifts to a table of American tourists near the bar—three young women in slinky dresses, laughing over cocktails.

“Cuties,” he breathes reverently, already half out of his chair.

Gun doesn’t even look up from his food. “Don’t.”

“I have to. It’s my life’s calling.”