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The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall staffroom windows, pooling golden light over the jumble of papers on Mr. Kang Younghyun’s desk. He’d been grading essays for the past hour, red pen tapping absently against his bottom lip, when the hum of conversation from the corner caught his ear.
“…have you seen him? Tall, broad shoulders, the music teacher—Mr. Yoon,” one of the younger teachers whispered, voice pitching higher with excitement.
Another teacher fanned herself dramatically with a stack of worksheets. “That voice of his, oh my god. I asked him if he needed help finding the music room and he said, ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ and I swear my knees almost gave out.”
Laughter followed, hushed and conspiratorial.
Younghyun lifted a brow, trying not to smirk. The new music teacher, huh? He hadn’t met him yet—didn’t even know what he looked like. The music wing was across the courtyard, and the man apparently spent most of his time holed up in the practice room. Still, “tall, deep voice, broad shoulders” was apparently enough to have the faculty in collective meltdown.
He told himself he didn’t care. But he definitely noticed how his pen had stopped moving.
The teachers’ cafeteria at noon smelled of coffee, bread, and overworked air-conditioning. Younghyun settled into his usual corner table, tray balanced with a sandwich and his caffeine fix. A few other teachers murmured around the room, but the hum of conversation felt muted, half-lost beneath the drone of the coffee machine sputtering in the corner.
He looked up just in time to see someone standing in front of it—tall, lean, clearly new—staring at the machine like it was a physics puzzle.
The man’s dark hair was a little messy, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong forearms and a wristwatch that caught the light. He jabbed at the buttons, frowned, muttered something under his breath. The machine beeped angrily.
Younghyun bit back a laugh. That must be him.
He stood, pushing back his chair. “Need a hand, Mr… Yoon, was it?”
The man turned.
And—well, damn.
Up close, Mr. Yoon Dowoon looked younger than Younghyun expected—sharp jaw, soft eyes (he had only one double eyelid and Younghyun thought that's rather charming and adorable), a quiet sort of handsomeness that hit harder than flashy good looks. He blinked, startled by the sudden help, then smiled sheepishly.
“Ah—uh, yeah, I think it hates me,” Dowoon admitted, voice low, velvety, the kind that rumbled right through the ribs when he spoke.
Younghyun forgot how to breathe for a second. That voice. The gossip hadn’t exaggerated. It was rich, deep, the kind of voice that could read the phone book and still make it sound like a confession.
“Try holding the mug under the spout first,” Younghyun said, stepping closer. “Then press this one. It’s picky.”
Dowoon followed his instructions, the machine finally wheezing to life with a triumphant psshhhk. Steam curled upward, and Dowoon let out a small, triumphant laugh.
“Oh wow, it actually works. You saved me from a caffeine-less afternoon.”
Younghyun grinned, leaning against the counter. “Happy to be the hero. I’m Kang Younghyun, by the way—English department.”
Dowoon turned to face him fully, extending his hand. “Yoon Dowoon. Music.”
Their hands met briefly—warm, firm—and for some reason, neither let go right away.
“Nice to finally meet the mysterious Mr. Yoon,” Younghyun said lightly, pulling his hand back with a smile. “You’ve been the talk of the teachers’ office all day.”
Dowoon’s eyes widened. “Wait—really?”
Younghyun nodded, chuckling. “Apparently, you’ve made quite the impression. Something about your ‘devastating voice’ and ‘broad shoulders’?”
Dowoon’s ears turned pink almost instantly. “Ah, no, they didn’t actually—” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… embarrassing.”
Younghyun tilted his head, amused. “You don’t believe them?”
Dowoon laughed, soft and bashful. “I mean, I didn’t come here to make anyone faint. I just wanted to teach music.”
There it was again—that deep rumble of his voice, casual but undeniably magnetic. Younghyun couldn’t resist teasing.
“So, do you teach the kids to sing?”
Dowoon blinked, thrown by the question. Then, to Younghyun’s delight, his blush deepened, creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.
“N-no, not really. What makes you think I teach singing?”
Younghyun smirked, leaning forward slightly. “You have a very nice baritone voice. Seems like a waste not to use it.”
Dowoon nearly choked on his coffee. “Ah—uh, thank you. No, I teach cajón. You know, the box drum thing?”
Younghyun nodded, pretending to think. “Right. The one people sit on and slap, right?”
Dowoon laughed, relieved. “Exactly that one. Though I try to make it sound a little more dignified when I explain it to the students.”
They both chuckled. For a moment, the cafeteria noise faded to a quiet hum around them. They sat down together at Younghyun’s table, their lunches half-forgotten as conversation spilled naturally.
“So you’ve been here long?” Dowoon asked, sipping his coffee.
“Couple of years. Kids are great—though I swear they’ve gotten bolder every year. I caught one of them trying to copy lyrics from a Taylor Swift song for their poetry assignment.”
Dowoon laughed, head tipping back, the sound low and warm. “That’s kind of poetic in its own way.”
“Tell that to the grading rubric,” Younghyun said, grinning.
A comfortable silence settled for a beat, the kind where both were content just to sip coffee and glance occasionally at each other.
Dowoon’s gaze lingered a second too long on the curve of Younghyun’s mouth before darting away, embarrassed. What are you doing, it’s your first week. But the warmth in his chest was hard to ignore.
Younghyun caught that flicker and smiled behind his mug. He wasn’t imagining it—there was something here, an unspoken little spark.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, Dowoon rose first, gathering his things. “Thanks for saving me from the evil coffee machine, Mr. Kang.”
“Anytime,” Younghyun said, standing as well. “You can repay me by teaching me how to actually pronounce cajón properly. My students think I’m butchering it.”
Dowoon laughed again, eyes creasing at the corners. “Deal. See you around, Mr. Kang.”
As he walked away, Younghyun found himself smiling like an idiot into his coffee.
Maybe the teachers’ gossip had been right after all.
Saturday morning stretched lazy and bright over Seoul. The city buzzed faintly in the background — coffee machines hissing through café windows, dogs tugging on leashes, the world unfolding at half speed.
Younghyun had escaped grading for once, dressed down in a white shirt and loose jeans, hair slightly mussed from the breeze. He craved caffeine, the kind that came with fresh air instead of the hum of fluorescent lights. The little café by the park had the best americano, and he was halfway there when something warm and solid brushed his leg.
A soft bark.
He looked down to find a small white puppy staring up at him, tail wagging furiously. “Well, hello there,” he murmured, crouching to scratch its head. The dog leaned into his hand like they’d known each other for years.
Then a familiar voice, deep and pleasantly surprised:
“Tori—hey, sorry about that. She likes greeting strangers a little too much.”
Younghyun straightened, heartbeat skipping. Mr. Yoon Dowoon stood a few feet away, leash in hand, hoodie half-zipped, hair falling messily over his forehead. He wasn’t Mr. Yoon here — just a man with sleepy eyes and a smile that seemed to soften the air.
“Mr. Yoon! What a coincidence,” Younghyun said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Dowoon’s brows lifted at the familiar title. Then recognition dawned, and his face brightened in a grin that reached his eyes. “Ah—Mr. Kang. Or should I say, Younghyun-ssi, on a Saturday morning?”
Tori pressed herself against Younghyun’s leg again, tail sweeping like a broom.
“I think she likes me,” Younghyun said, laughing as he gave the dog another pat.
“Yeah, she’s usually shy,” Dowoon admitted, looking oddly pleased. He shifted the leash from one hand to the other. “Ah—you can just call me Dowoon outside of school. Sounds too formal otherwise.”
That laugh again, warm and low. It did something to Younghyun’s stomach.
“Then you can call me Younghyun,” he replied, smiling back.
For a heartbeat, Dowoon seemed to freeze. The corner of his mouth twitched, and that faint pink began to climb up from the collar of his hoodie to his ears.
He cleared his throat, but the blush stayed. “Younghyun,” he said softly.
Younghyun noticed everything—the way Dowoon’s hand rubbed the back of his neck when he was nervous, how his thumb brushed along the leash without realizing it. That slight hitch in breath when Younghyun said his name again, quietly this time.
“Dowoon,” Younghyun repeated, testing the sound, rolling it on his tongue like a secret he wasn’t supposed to enjoy this much.
Dowoon met his eyes. There was something almost hesitant in the smile that followed, like he’d been caught thinking something he shouldn’t.
He tried to recover with a small, shy chuckle. “So, um, coffee run?”
“Yeah,” Younghyun nodded. “You?”
“Morning walk for Tori. Though she’s clearly picked a favorite now.”
Tori nosed at Younghyun’s hand again, demanding more affection. Dowoon’s eyes softened as he watched them, something fond — and a little wistful — flickering there.
“Want to join me?” Younghyun asked before thinking. “I mean, if you haven’t had coffee yet.”
Dowoon blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Sure. She won’t mind.”
They fell into step side by side, the leash occasionally tangling near their legs. It was easy — easier than either expected. The kind of quiet conversation that filled the air without needing to force it.
“You live nearby?” Younghyun asked.
“Two blocks from here. Close enough to be lazy but far enough to make me late if I oversleep,” Dowoon said with a grin that made Younghyun laugh.
“Let me guess. You oversleep a lot.”
“Only on days ending with ‘y,’” Dowoon deadpanned.
The café came into view, warm light spilling through the windows. They ordered to go, standing shoulder to shoulder while waiting for their drinks. Their arms brushed once, and neither stepped away.
Dowoon glanced down; their sleeves were touching, fabric to fabric. His pulse jumped. He told himself to focus on the menu board, but Younghyun’s quiet voice broke through.
“You say my name funny,” he said suddenly, turning just enough for their eyes to meet.
Dowoon blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Just now. You said it like—” He trailed off, realizing how close they stood. “Like you were careful not to mess it up.”
Dowoon’s lips parted, but no sound came for a second. Then, softly, “Younghyun.”
The way he said it — steady, low, reverent — sent a tremor right through Younghyun’s chest. It wasn’t just the voice; it was the way Dowoon looked at him when he said it, gaze steady and unguarded, like he was memorizing how the syllables felt.
Younghyun exhaled, slow. “Exactly like that.”
Dowoon’s mouth curved again, bashful but unable to hide the tiny spark behind it. “I’ll try not to mess it up next time.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Younghyun murmured.
The barista called their names, breaking the spell.
They stepped outside, coffees in hand, the cool air cutting the heat between them. Tori padded ahead, tail wagging in lazy arcs, leash loose in Dowoon’s grip.
For a while, they just walked. Every so often, their shoulders brushed — a flicker of contact that felt both accidental and deliberate.
Dowoon glanced sideways, catching Younghyun’s half-smile, the one that hinted he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You know,” Dowoon said finally, tone light but betraying a touch of nervous laughter, “the students would never believe the teachers actually talk like normal humans outside of school.”
“Oh, this is normal human behavior?” Younghyun teased. “Walking the dog, drinking coffee, blushing every two minutes?”
Dowoon groaned, covering his face with one hand. “You noticed that.”
“Hard not to.”
“I’m usually not—uh, like this,” Dowoon admitted, voice muffled behind his fingers. “You’re just… unexpectedly easy to talk to.”
Younghyun’s smile softened. “You too.”
They slowed at the park entrance. Tori barked once, as if reminding them time was passing.
Dowoon hesitated before speaking. “I should probably let her run a bit.”
“Right. I’ll let you go.”
“Yeah.” But neither moved.
For a moment, they just stood there — sun glinting off coffee cups, breeze ruffling Dowoon’s hair, the faint pull of something quietly forming between them.
Dowoon finally exhaled, voice gentle. “See you Monday, Younghyun.”
Hearing his name again, wrapped in that voice, made Younghyun’s pulse quicken. He nodded, forcing a light smile. “See you Monday, Dowoon.”
Dowoon grinned — the kind of grin that felt like a promise — and tugged lightly on Tori’s leash.
As they parted ways, Younghyun caught himself glancing back once, just as Dowoon did the same.
Two teachers on a Saturday morning, already orbiting closer without realizing it.
After the final bell, the school felt softer—hallways emptied, echoes of laughter fading into quiet. The golden hour light slanted through the glass panels, and Younghyun swung his bag over one shoulder, ready to finally call it a day. His head was still full of essay drafts and lesson notes when a low scrape caught his attention: the sound of something heavy being wheeled down the corridor.
He turned his head just in time to see Dowoon pushing a trolley stacked high with boxes toward the music room, sleeves rolled up, a faint sheen of effort on his brow.
Without thinking, Younghyun started toward him. “Need a hand with those?”
Dowoon looked up quickly, startled but smiling. “Ah—no, it’s fine. You must be tired from teaching all day.”
Younghyun tilted his head. “Aren’t you?”
Dowoon chuckled, shaking his head as he nudged the trolley with his knee. “Technically, I have not. I’m still setting up.” He gestured toward the pile of cardboard. “These are the new cajóns. I have to unbox everything before class starts tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is,” Dowoon admitted, though he was still smiling. “But I’ll manage.”
Younghyun stepped closer, eyes narrowing in mock consideration. “Hey, let me help.”
Dowoon opened his mouth to protest. “You really don’t have to.”
Younghyun’s grin turned sly. “You can pay me back by showing me your skills on the cajón later on.”
Dowoon’s hand froze on the box handle. The faintest pink spread up his neck, just like it always did whenever Younghyun teased him. His mouth opened, then closed again, a quiet laugh escaping instead.
“That’s… fair,” he murmured, looking down to hide his expression.
Truth was, Younghyun didn’t care about the boxes—he just wanted another excuse to linger near the new teacher.
So together they pushed the trolley into the music room. The air smelled faintly of varnish and dust, the kind of scent that came with fresh instruments. One by one, they slit open the tape, folding cardboard flaps back to reveal neat, polished wooden boxes.
Dowoon crouched beside one, running his palm across the smooth surface. “They’re beautiful,” he said softly, voice reverent.
“Guess they’ll sound even better when you play,” Younghyun said, squatting down beside him. Their shoulders brushed lightly as they worked, the space small enough for the warmth of Dowoon’s presence to sneak under Younghyun’s skin.
Dowoon busied himself unwrapping another cajón, though his hands moved a little slower than before. He could feel the teacher’s eyes on him, steady and amused, and it made his chest tighten in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.
By the time the last of the boxes was emptied, the floor was littered with cardboard and packing paper. Dowoon leaned back on his heels, exhaling a laugh. “I really have to thank you. Without your help, I might’ve had to sleep in here.”
Younghyun grinned, dusting off his hands. “So… about that cajon performance?”
Dowoon looked up at him—soft laugh, eyes bright, and that quiet, budding warmth between them unspoken but unmistakable.
The music smelled faintly of wood polish, the air humming with the low buzz of amp static. Dowoon sat down on one of the cajons, legs spread, posture loose but balanced, palms resting between his thighs like he was framing the instrument. His shoulders rolled once, slow, setting into rhythm.
Younghyun didn’t realize his breath had already shortened. That position—Christ. The wide spread of Dowoon’s thighs, the way his jeans stretched taut at the inseam, the sight of his hands poised there. It was innocent—just a drummer getting comfortable—but Younghyun’s mind twisted it immediately into something else. His thoughts turned heavy, thick, pooling low in his stomach.
When Dowoon started to play, the rhythm was sharp, syncopated—each slap on the wood deep and crisp, echoing off the walls like a heartbeat. The cajon responded to his touch, a low thump when his palm hit the center, a cutting snap when his fingers struck the edge. Thump, snap, thump—his shoulders flexed with every motion, jaw set in focus. And Younghyun couldn’t stop staring. The veins that traced up Dowoon’s forearms were stark under his skin, twitching with every precise movement. That rhythm crawled under Younghyun’s skin, took root there, syncing with his pulse until his body was practically keeping time with Dowoon’s playing.
He wanted to bite that vein. To trace it with his tongue up to Dowoon’s elbow, to taste the salt of his skin. He wanted to see how Dowoon would react if he kissed him there, if that calm precision would break for a second.
But it didn’t stop there. His mind flickered with filth: Dowoon’s thighs still spread like that, only now he wasn’t playing the cajon—he was grinding against Younghyun’s lap instead, breath hot, body pliant, hips moving to that same rhythm. The fantasy hit him like a punch, and his cock stirred, thickening against the denim of his jeans.
He shifted in his seat, but it was useless. The harder Dowoon played, the harder he got. Every beat sent another pulse of heat through his body. His fingers twitched at his sides—he wanted to grab him, pull him close, bury his face against that neck, taste the sweat gathering there. His imagination spiraled further, shameless and hot: Dowoon’s mouth open on a moan, his hair messy, his breath hitching.
Younghyun clenched his jaw, trying to focus, but then Dowoon looked up.
“Uh... Younghyun? Mr. Kang?”
The sound of his name snapped the daydream clean in half. Younghyun blinked, air catching in his throat. Dowoon was waving a hand, looking confused—his lips curved in that shy half-smile that made it worse.
Fuck.
He was hard. Painfully hard, heat crawling up his neck.
Dowoon chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. His ears were red. “You kinda went into a trance, haha.”
That laugh. That little breathy chuckle—it melted something inside him. God, it was adorable. And somehow, that made it worse, because he didn’t want to be adorable with him. He wanted to ruin him, to taste him, to feel his heartbeat pressed against his own chest.
His control slipped.
“I wanna kiss you right now,” Younghyun blurted out.
Dowoon froze, mouth slightly open, color flooding his cheeks until his entire face went beet red. His hands twitched once over the cajon, like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. The rhythm in the air was gone now, but it was still pounding in Younghyun’s chest—fast, erratic, primal.
And just like that, the room went still.
Dowoon’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that rivaled the complex beats he’d just been tapping out on the cajon. The air in the music room was thick with the scent of old wood, rosin, and the sharp, clean smell of Younghyun’s cologne, now mingled with something darker, something primal. Every accidental brush in the canteen, every shy smile exchanged in the hallway, every single one of those moments had been a slow, steady burn leading to this inferno. That day he’d run into Younghyun while walking his dog felt like divine intervention, a celestial nudge that had set this very collision course in motion.
His cheeks burned with a heat that spread down his neck, a flush of pure, unadulterated want. And then his gaze dipped, drawn downward by the sheer, undeniable presence of Younghyun’s erection straining against the confines of his jeans. How had he been so oblivious, so lost in the music that he’d missed the building tension in the room, the way Younghyun’s eyes had darkened while watching his hands move over the drum?
Before a single coherent thought could form, Younghyun closed the distance between them, erasing it completely. Dowoon stood up on pure instinct, his body moving before his mind could catch up, putting them chest to chest in the silent, shadowy room.
"Tell me to stop," Younghyun breathed, his voice a low, raspy scrape, torn from his throat. He was utterly breathless, his body a live wire of pent-up desire.
Dowoon’s shyness, usually a shield, melted away under that intense gaze. His own voice was a soft, innocent whisper, belying the filth of his words. "What if I don't want you to stop?"
It was all the permission Younghyun needed. In a blur of motion, Dowoon was spun around, his back meeting the cool, solid surface of the soundproofed wall with a soft thud. And then there was no more space, no more air, just the frantic, desperate meeting of mouths. This wasn't a gentle, exploratory kiss; it was a claiming, all hungry tongue and clashing teeth, a battle for dominance that neither truly wanted to win. A low, guttural moan escaped Dowoon’s throat, swallowed immediately by Younghyun’s mouth, and the sound seemed to reverberate in the small room, amplified by the silence that had preceded it. Their hips moved in a frantic, synchronized grind, the rough denim of their jeans providing a maddening friction against their aching erections. The room filled with the sound of their ragged pants and the soft, slick noise of their kissing.
Dowoon was the first to break, tearing his mouth away with a gasp, his chest heaving as he dragged in desperate gulps of air. His lips were swollen and glistening, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lust. Younghyun found him utterly devastating, a vision of debauched innocence that sent another jolt of pure need straight to his already throbbing cock.
"I need…" Dowoon panted, his words failing him. He ran a trembling palm down the prominent bulge in his own jeans, a silent, pleading illustration. "I need…"
Younghyun understood perfectly. He was in no better state, his own self-control hanging by a thread. "I know," he murmured, his voice thick. He didn't waste another second. He descended on Dowoon’s neck, his mouth latching onto the sensitive skin just below his jaw, sucking and laving at the corded muscle there. At the same time, his fingers, surprisingly deft despite their slight tremor, found the metal tab of Dowoon’s zipper. The rasp of it coming down was obscenely loud. He made quick work of his own, freeing them both from the constricting fabric.
He reached into both their open flies, his large hand wrapping around both their lengths, aligning them together in his firm grip. Dowoon’s cock was hot and hard against his own, and the contact was so electric, so perfect, that a broken, high-pitched moan tore from Dowoon’s throat. The sound was so raw, so wanton, that it very nearly pushed Younghyun over the edge right then and there.
"Fuhhhck," Dowoon moaned, the word drawn out into a long, shuddering sigh. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything.
"You're so hot when you were playing the cajon," Younghyun growled against his neck, his breath hot on Dowoon's damp skin. "The way your arms flexed… the concentration on your face… fuck, Dowoon, I wanted you right here, right then."
Dowoon moaned again, a helpless, keening sound. His own hand joined the fray, sliding over Younghyun’s, not to take over, but to tighten the grip, to increase the pressure. Their hands moved as one, a slick, coordinated fist around their aligned cocks, which were already wet and gleaming with a mixture of their precum, making the glide smooth and filthy.
Younghyun quickened his pace, his wrist pumping faster, the rhythm relentless and demanding. The wet, squelching sounds filled the room, a lewd soundtrack to their frantic coupling.
"I'm.. I'm very close, Younghyun…" Dowoon gasped, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thud, his eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, say my name again," Younghyun demanded, his own climax coiling tight in his gut.
"Please…" Dowoon begged, his body trembling violently, every muscle tensed. "Younghyun… I need to cum.."
Hearing his name on those swollen, pleading lips was the final trigger. Younghyun tightened his fist, squeezing impossibly tighter with Dowoon’s hand adding that extra layer of pressure. He concentrated his strokes on their sensitive, leaking tips, rubbing his thumb over the slits in a circular motion that had Dowoon seeing stars.
With a sharp, choked cry that was half-sob, half-scream, Dowoon came. His release was hot and thick, pulsing out in long, warm ropes that coated their joined hands and splattered against their clothes. The sight, the feel, the sheer animalistic sound of it was enough to shatter Younghyun’s last vestige of control. With a guttural groan, he followed him over the edge, his own orgasm wracking his body as he spilled his seed over their messy, intertwined fingers.
For a long moment, they simply stood there, propped against the wall, panting harshly into the quiet room, their foreheads pressed together. The frantic energy dissipated, leaving behind a heavy, sated exhaustion. Slowly, carefully, Younghyun withdrew their sticky hands, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he lifted his clean hand, cupping Dowoon’s jaw, his thumb gently stroking the apple of his flushed cheek.
He leaned in and captured Dowoon’s lips in a kiss that was the polar opposite of their first. It was soft, languid, and deeply tender. It was a quiet promise in the aftermath of the storm, their breaths mingling as they slowly, softly, came down from their high together.