Page 132 of Ruthless Touch

“Your calling is getting rejected in three languages?”

“Your faith in me is inspiring.” Joon straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his shaggy hair, and saunters over with the confidence of a man who’s had just enough soju to believe he’s irresistible.

The three of us watch in fascinated horror as he leans against their table, flashing his most charming smile and launching into what is presumably his best pickup line in English.

The tallest woman looks him up and down, says something we can’t hear, and then all three of them burst into laughter.

Not the good kind. More like the kind that makes Joon’s smile falter and his ears go red.

He retreats back to our table in defeat, dropping into his chair with a theatrical sigh while the rest of us lose it.

“What did she say?” Priscilla gasps between a giggle.

“She asked if I was lost and got dressed in the dark,” Joon mumbles into his soju glass.

“Told you,” Gun says with a shake of his head.

“He did try to warn you,” I point out.

“You’re all terrible friends,” Joon declares, but he’s grinning too. “The worst. I’m finding new friends.”

“Good luck with that,” I say, stealing another piece of squid from Gun’s plate.

“It’s not so bad.” Priscilla frowns as she stares at him. “You get points for having swag.”

The laughter flows easier after that, encouraged by soju and the strange comfort of sitting with people who know exactly what kind of monsters we are and choose to pass the banchan anyway. Joon regales us with increasingly ridiculous dating stories. Priscilla offers quirky commentary on Korean drinking culture that makes Gun nearly choke on his beer.

“We should start a PI agency,” Joon announces suddenly, eyes bright with bad ideas. “Think about it—we’ve got all the skills. Surveillance, intimidation, breaking and entering...”

“Murder,” Gun adds helpfully.

“That’s more of a specialty service.”

Priscilla raises her glass. “Elise would shoot the clients.”

“Only the annoying ones,” I protest.

“So all of them,” Gun murmurs into his beer.

I respond by elbowing him in the ribs.

The night stretches on, warm and easy and uncomplicated in a way that feels almost foreign. When Gun’s hand finds mine under the table, fingers interlacing automatically, I don’t pull away.

Instead, I lean my head against his shoulder and let myself feel it. This strange, cobbled-together family we’ve built from betrayals and tested loyalties and the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission.

It’s messy and imperfect and probably doomed in a dozen different ways.

But it’s ours.

After dinner at the rooftop bar, we decide to hit up a karaoke lounge.

Disco lights strobe in seizure-inducing patterns, and speakers blast that could wake the dead.

Joon-gi claims the microphone before we’ve even settled into the leather couches, scrolling through options with the gravity of a man choosing his last meal.

“This one,” he declares, selecting what appears to be the most emotionally devastating K-ballad in existence. “This is the song of my soul.”

“Your soul is drunk,” Gun points out from his corner of the couch.