ℜ𝔦𝔯𝔦

Yunho still believes in dating you. Not because the relationship needs saving. Not because he thinks grand gestures are the secret to lasting love. He simply refuses to let the person he loves become someone he only sees between meetings.

Which is how you end up here. The restaurant glows with warm amber light reflected across crystal glasses and polished cutlery. Conversations dissolve beneath soft piano music, waiters glide silently between tables, and every detail, from the pressed linen to the wine list, whispers the kind of quiet luxury people spend weeks trying to reserve.

Yunho booked it the moment he found an evening that belonged to neither work nor obligation. Not because it's exclusive. Because he missed you.

Across the table, you shift for what must be the third time since sitting down. His eyes flick briefly beneath the table before returning to your face.

"The shoes?"

You sigh dramatically. "They're trying to kill me."

"They look beautiful."

"They're weapons."

"They're beautiful weapons."

You can't help smiling.

"You say that because you're not the one wearing them."

"No." His gaze lingers for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, warm enough to make your cheeks threaten a blush. "I'm the one who gets to look at them."

You shake your head, hiding your smile behind your wine glass.

The conversation slips easily into familiar territory after that. His latest project. Your week. A trip the two of you keep promising to plan and never quite finding the time for.

Somewhere in the middle, you mention a singer that's apparently impossible to escape these days.

Yunho frowns thoughtfully.

"I've never heard of them."

You look at him over the rim of your glass.

"You're making your age very obvious tonight."

"I've spent forty years carefully building that privilege."

"You could at least pretend to know."

"I could." A beat. "I'd rather have you explain it."

You laugh quietly, shaking your head.

"You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

There's something wonderfully unfair about the way he says it. Completely unbothered. Never defensive. Never trying to convince you he's younger than he is. He wears the years between you with the same quiet confidence he wears one of his tailored suits, as though neither has ever occurred to him as something needing justification.

You tease him because it's easy. He lets you because he likes the sound of your laugh.

By the time your starters appear, you've somehow moved from music to books to the strange corners of the internet that never seem to find their way onto Yunho's phone.

He only understands about half of what you're talking about. You know because he tells you. And yet he never stops listening. His attention never wanders. 

Every now and then, you catch him looking at you over the candle between you. Not saying anything. Just watching with that quiet, unwavering fondness that has always belonged to the two of you. 

It never feels like being observed. It feels like coming home.

The interruption slips so easily into the evening that, at first, you don't think anything of it.

"Yunho?"

He looks up.

For the first time all night, surprise brightens his face before settling into a smile you haven't seen since you walked into the restaurant.

"...Wow." He stands almost instinctively. "It's been years."

She laughs as she steps closer, arms already opening. Yunho returns the hug without hesitation, one hand resting briefly against the middle of her back before they separate again. Easy. Familiar. The kind of greeting that belongs to people who've crossed paths enough times for formality to disappear.

"You look exactly the same."

"So do you."

"No chance."

"I've become a much better liar."

He laughs, and something inside you softens.

Of course he knows people. He's spent twenty years building a career that seems to exist somewhere between boardrooms, charity galas and airports. It would be stranger if old acquaintances didn't recognize him.

She fits naturally into that world. Elegant dress. Confident smile. Around his age. The sort of woman who never looks intimidated by expensive restaurants because she's been having dinners like these for years.

They fall into conversation without effort. Fundraisers. Old colleagues. Someone retiring. Someone getting married. Names you've never heard and places you've never been.

You let yourself fade into the background for a while, content to listen. You know Yunho likes introducing people properly rather than interrupting conversations halfway through. He'll get there.

"I haven't seen you at anything lately," she says eventually.

"I've been hiding."

"Still?"

He smiles.

"Work."

She shakes her head, pretending to be disappointed.

"What a shame."

There's something in the way she says it that makes you glance up. Not inappropriate. Just interested. Interested enough that, without realizing it, you find yourself waiting.

Surely now. Surely this is where Yunho smiles, reaches across the table, brushes his fingers against yours and says the simplest sentence in the world.

I'm here with my girlfriend.

He doesn't. Instead, he answers whatever she'd asked next, completely unaware that you've stopped following the conversation.

You tell yourself not to be ridiculous. He's just being polite. Another minute passes. She laughs again.

"So you finally found a reason to leave the office?"

"I try."

"I was beginning to think you'd married your work."

"I've considered divorcing it."

She laughs harder than the joke deserves. You smile politely. Still waiting. Still giving him the chance. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turns to you.

"And you?"

You blink. "Sorry?"

"What do you do?"

You answer, and she listens with genuine interest. She asks about your work, compliments it, tells you it's impressive.

For one brief moment, the knot inside your chest loosens. Then she looks back at Yunho.

"You've always had good taste." He raises an eyebrow. "In people," she clarifies with a smile. "You always surround yourself with interesting company."

Yunho nods once.

"I've been lucky."

Lucky. That's all. No glance toward you. No quiet smile that says she's mine. No effortless correction. Nothing.

The conversation moves on, but something inside you doesn't. Because the awful part isn't that she's flirting. The awful part is that she has absolutely no reason not to. She's speaking to a man she believes is single. And the only person who could have told her otherwise keeps choosing not to.

When she finally excuses herself, her fingers brush lightly over his sleeve.

"You should come to the gala next month."

"We'll see."

"I'd love to catch up properly."

Her smile lingers for a heartbeat longer before she disappears into the restaurant. Yunho watches her leave with the absent familiarity of someone remembering an old colleague. Then he sits back down, reaches for his wine and smiles to himself.

"She's exactly the same as she was ten years ago."

"Mhm."

You smile because smiling costs less than speaking. Because saying what you're actually thinking would ruin the evening. 

"As I was saying..." He settles back into his chair, picking up the conversation exactly where he'd left it. "The board wants to move the launch to September, which makes absolutely no sense because we'd have to renegotiate every supplier."

His voice fades into the background. You hear it. You just aren't listening anymore. Not really. You're still sitting at the same table as him, but your mind is trapped five minutes in the past, replaying every smile, every laugh, every opportunity he had to choose you out loud. All you can think is how easy it would've been. One sentence. One look. One absentminded reach for your hand.

Anything that said she's with me. Instead, for ten long minutes, you felt like the centerpiece on the table. Beautiful. Expensive. And entirely decorative. Less like the woman sharing dinner with him and more like someone who happened to be sitting at his table.

"That's nice."

Yunho pauses. He mistakes the tightness in your voice for exhaustion. Or maybe he notices it and decides to give you space. Either way, he lets it pass.

"I wouldn't call it nice."

You blink, as though you've only just remembered he's speaking. "What?"

"I asked what you thought."

You shrug lightly. "I think you should do whatever makes you happy."

His brows knit together.

"Dove."

"Hm?"

"I stopped talking about work a while ago."

"Oh." You take another sip of wine, buying yourself a second. "I must've missed it."

His eyes stay on you. Long enough that you almost think he's going to ask what's wrong. Long enough that a tiny, hopeful part of you waits for him to.

Instead, a waiter stops beside the table. Perfect. This is the moment you decide you’re done being mature. Which is unfortunate. Because you’re usually very good at it.

You look up with a smile so bright it surprises even you.

"Sorry," you say, almost apologetically. "Can I ask you something?"

He's young. Pretty in the effortless way university students always seem to be.

You ask about the desserts. Then whether the cocktails are actually worth ordering. Then which dish he likes best. 

He answers easily. You laugh at one of his jokes. It isn't even that funny.

Yunho watches the exchange in silence. Not because there's anything inappropriate about it. Because there isn't. Which somehow makes the knot in your chest tighten even more. You're doing exactly what he did. Being polite. Being friendly. Nothing more. 

When the waiter finally excuses himself, Yunho doesn't say anything straight away. He waits until the young man disappears around the corner. Only then does he look at you.

"What was that?"

You tilt your head. "What was what?"

"You've asked him more questions in two minutes than you've asked me all night."

"I was being polite."

"You were interviewing him."

"He seemed nice."

"I'm sure he did."

You smile into your glass. "I liked his smile."

Silence. You don't need to look up to feel his eyes on you. When you finally do, his expression has changed almost imperceptibly. Not jealousy. Confusion.

"You liked his smile."

"It was a nice smile."

He studies you for a long moment. Like he's waiting for the punchline. Like he's convinced this version of you can't possibly be real. Eventually he shakes his head, choosing not to take the bait.

"So..." he tries again, "I was thinking maybe we could..."

You pick up your phone. His voice stops. You unlock it. Scroll. You couldn't say what you're looking at if someone asked. The screen is just somewhere else to put your eyes.

"Dove."

"Hm?"

"Put the phone away."

"Why?"

His patience holds. Barely.

"Because I'm talking to you."

You don't look up. "So?"

The word hangs there. Small. Careless. Sharp enough to cut.

"So..." He exhales slowly, choosing every word with visible effort. "I'd appreciate it if you listened."

You laugh quietly. "I listened to her."

Silence. Real silence. The kind that empties the space around it.

"...What?"

You finally meet his eyes. "I listened very politely."

Something flickers across his face. Not understanding. Recognition.

"You've been upset ever since she left."

"I'm not upset."

"No?"

"No."

"You've barely looked at me."

"I've looked at you loads."

You punctuate the sentence by stealing a bite from his plate. Not because you're hungry. Because it's his. Because you know he'll stop you. 

His fingers close gently around your wrist before your fork reaches the food. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you stop. He looks down at your hand. Then back at you.

"...Really?"

You smile with infuriating sweetness. "I wanted to know if yours tasted better."

"You ordered the exact same thing."

"It does."

"Dove..."

"It tastes different."

"It's the same recipe."

"It isn't."

"It objectively is."

"It isn't to me."

He lets go of your wrist with a slow breath, rubbing a hand across his mouth as though he's physically trying to hold onto the last thread of his patience.

"You are being impossible."

"I'm eating dinner."

"No." His eyes don't leave yours. "You're trying to punish me."

The words catch you off guard. For just a second. Long enough for him to notice.

"I haven't argued with you once," you say quietly.

"You don't have to." His voice drops lower. "You've spent the last fifteen minutes trying to make me feel something."

You force another smile.

"What exactly am I trying to make you feel?"

"I don't know." There's frustration there now. Real frustration. "That's the problem."

He leans back, studying you with the same expression he wears when something at work refuses to make sense. Like he's looking at all the pieces and none of them fit.

"I know you." His voice softens despite himself. "This..." His eyes search yours. "...isn't you."

Something twists painfully inside your chest. You could tell him. You could end this right now. You could say, You made me feel invisible. Instead, you swallow it. Smile. Tilt your head.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

And for the first time all evening, Yunho stops trying to continue the conversation. Because whatever happened to the woman he walked into this restaurant with, he has no idea how to reach her anymore.

You know you're being unfair. You know this isn't you. But the version of yourself that spent the last ten minutes feeling invisible is louder than the one who usually knows better.

You just want him to look at you. 

You casually drop your napkin and bend down to retrieve it, taking just a second longer than necessary to adjust the strap of your heel. When you straighten again, Yunho is already looking at you.

"Something wrong?" you ask, all innocent eyes.

"Nothing," he replies, a little too quickly.

"Hm."

You smooth your napkin back across your lap as though you've finally decided to behave. Yunho almost believes it. Then you reach for the dessert menu.

"I think I'm getting dessert."

"We haven't finished dinner."

"I like planning ahead." Your finger drifts lazily down the list before you smile to yourself. "This one sounds nice."

Yunho doesn't even look.

"What one?"

"The vanilla mille-feuille." You tilt the menu toward yourself. "I've heard the chef is very generous with the cream." 

His fork stops halfway to his mouth.

"Dove."

"What?" You glance up. "I like cream."

His jaw flexes. "You know exactly what you're doing."

"I do?" Your eyebrows lift with practiced innocence. "I'm ordering dessert."

"You haven't ordered anything."

"I'm thinking about it."

His jaw tightens.

"Think about something else."

You hum as though you're genuinely considering the suggestion.

For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. Around you, cutlery clinks against porcelain, conversations drift lazily through the restaurant, and somewhere a bottle of wine is uncorked.

Only your table feels painfully quiet. You smile into the menu.

"I just want something sweet."

His eyes finally meet yours. "You are testing my patience."

"No." You lower the menu carefully. "I'm participating in the conversation."

"Dove."

"You said I wasn't talking enough."

"I also said to behave."

"I am."

"You've never looked less convincing."

The corner of your mouth twitches.

"Really?" you say with a shrug, crossing your legs slowly under the table, letting your foot brush against his calf. "I'm just enjoying dinner."

His breath hitches at the contact, and he pulls his leg away slightly. "Don't."

"Don't what?" you ask, voice dropping to a whisper as you lean closer. "Don't touch you? Don't talk about dessert? Don't breathe?"

"You're playing games," he accuses, but his voice has lost some of its edge.

"I'm just being myself," you reply with a small smile, tracing patterns on the tablecloth with your finger. "Unless you'd prefer I be more like her?"

Yunho's jaw tightens at the mention of the other woman. "That's not what I said."

"Then what did you mean?" you challenge, your foot finding his leg again and staying there this time.

For the first time that evening, something flashes across Yunho's face. Not anger. Not yet. Impatience. The kind that only exists because he cares enough to keep trying. And somehow, that only makes some childish, wounded part of you decide that's still not enough. 

You let your other foot join the first, the expensive Louboutins he bought you last month now hidden under the tablecloth. The ones he always says make your legs look endless. The ones he loves seeing you in when he's buried inside you.

"Dove," he warns, his voice tight.

"Yunho," you mimic, your voice syrupy sweet as you apply more pressure with your foot. "Problem?"

Your pointed toe traces the seam of his trousers until you reach his balls. You press gently, just enough to make him shift in his seat. His knuckles turn white on his fork, but he doesn't look away from you. 

Yunho keeps acting as if everything is normal. But his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He has a thing for your heels, always has. The way they look on you, the sound they make on marble floors, the marks they sometimes leave on his thighs when you're riding him.

"Behave," he grunts under his breath.

You blink innocently. "I am behaving."

His eyes darken. "No, you're not."

You smirk slightly. "Don't you like it?"

Yunho doesn't push. Not yet. Because you’re in public. Because he trusts you. Because he likes it when you want him. Because maybe you're just having fun. And god help him, because his dick is already responding to your touches.

"Remember when you fucked me in these?" you whisper, leaning forward. "How you said they should've been illegal?"

Yunho remembers. He also remembers paying for them. Looking back, he should've left them in the shop. 

He grows increasingly tense. Because this isn't you. Because something is wrong. Because you’re choosing a spectacularly inconvenient time to express it. And because despite his concern, he's getting painfully hard.

Then you cross the line. Not maliciously. Desperately, your foot travels higher, the pointed toe now rubbing against his length. You can feel him twitch and grow under your touch. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't look away from you. He's trying to win this silent battle, trying to pretend you're not affecting him.

"Stop," he mouths, his eyes dark with fury and arousal.

You just smile, rubbing your foot against him in slow, torturous circles. "Make me."

His hand shoots out under the table, fingers wrapping around your ankle in a grip that's both punishing and possessive. 

"Enough," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You need to stop."

His voice is low enough that nobody else hears it. You do.

The hand around your ankle loosens almost immediately, his fingers sliding away as though he's only just realized how tightly he'd been holding you. The warmth of his palm lingers against your skin for a second longer than the touch itself.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything. The restaurant keeps existing around you. Glasses clink. Someone laughs two tables over. A waiter walks past carrying a bottle of wine as if the world hasn't just tilted on its axis.

Yunho looks at you. His breathing is uneven. His jaw is locked so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. There is still frustration written all over his face, but underneath it, buried somewhere deeper, is something that twists painfully in your chest.

Worry. Not embarrassment. Not annoyance. Worry.

He pushes his chair back.

"Come with me."

You don't answer. He leans down instead, close enough that only you can hear him.

"Now."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Yunho has never raised his voice at you. He doesn't have to. 

You stand without another argument. His hand finds your wrist first, then slips lower until it settles against the small of your back, guiding you through the restaurant with a firmness you've never felt from him before. Every step keeps you tucked against his side.

The walk feels endless. Your heels catch against the polished floor more than once, forcing you to stumble to keep up with his pace. Usually he'd notice. Usually he'd slow down immediately, his hand tightening instinctively around yours before asking if your feet hurt.

Tonight he doesn't. Not because he doesn't care. Because his mind is somewhere else entirely.

"What were you thinking?"

His voice is quiet. Controlled. Which somehow makes it worse.

You swallow. "I don't know."

A humorless laugh escapes him through his nose.

"Clearly."

The word lands harder than if he'd shouted. You flinch.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you, sealing away the music, the conversations, the comfortable illusion that tonight had started as a date.

Silence settles immediately.

Yunho turns to face you. His tie sits slightly crooked. His hair is messier than it was twenty minutes ago. The picture of composure is still there, but only if someone doesn't know where to look.

You do. His jaw is set so tightly it almost hurts to see.  For a long moment, he simply looks. Like he's trying to recognize you again.

"Explain."

"I..."

Nothing.

He waits. Not impatiently. Expectantly. When you still don't answer, he exhales through his nose, rubing a tired hand across his face. 

"Talk to me."

You stare at the floor. 

"I didn't like her."

"I gathered that."

"You were flirting with her."

His expression doesn't change. "No."

"You were."

"I wasn't."

"You laughed at everything she said."

"I was being polite."

"You hugged her."

"She hugged me."

"You let her touch you."

"And?"

The question lands harder than if he'd argued. You stare at him.

"You never stopped her."

For the first time, Yunho goes quiet. Not because he doesn't have an answer. Because he's finally hearing the one thing you've been trying so desperately not to say. He studies your face for a long moment before speaking again.

"...There it is."

Your throat tightens.

"What?"

"That's what this has been about."

You look away before he can see your eyes burn. He notices anyway. He takes one slow step closer.

"Dove." You keep staring at the floor. Another step. "Look at me."

You hate how difficult that suddenly is. When your eyes finally lift to his, your voice comes out so much smaller than you intended.

"You never told her."

A small crease appears between his brows.

"Told her what?"

"That I was your girlfriend."

Silence. Real silence. Yunho blinks once. Not because he's caught. Because the thought genuinely never crossed his mind. You let out a brittle laugh.

"...See?"

"Dove."

"No."

You shake your head before he can interrupt.

"She looked at me like I was... I don't know... your assistant. Someone you brought because you didn't want to eat alone."

His face changes. Just enough.

"I don't care what she thought."

"I do."

The words break apart on the way out.

"I do because you never gave her a reason to think anything else."

Yunho's shoulders still. His eyes search yours. Not defensive. Thinking. Working backwards through the evening. Then, very quietly...

"Is that what you believed?"

You don't answer. Because answering would make it real. He watches you for another second. Then your whisper finally comes.

"Sometimes..." Your voice almost disappears. "Sometimes it feels like you keep me separate."

He doesn't answer. Which somehow hurts even more. Instead, he closes his eyes. Only for a heartbeat. When they open again, something inside them has shifted.

You fill the silence yourself. "Maybe you're embarrassed."

His head lifts. "No."

"Maybe you don't want people wondering why you're dating someone younger."

"Dove."

"Maybe you think they'll look at you and..."

"Stop."

The word lands like stone. Certain. He closes the distance between you in two measured steps, stopping just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. One hand wraps gently around your forearm. Grounding. Not restraining. His thumb strokes your skin once. 

"Don't do that."

Your eyes finally spill over. "Do what?"

His own jaw tightens. 

"Don't tell me what I think." A beat passes between you. "Don't tell me what I feel." His voice is still calm. Still measured. But it cracks ever so slightly around the edges. "Especially when you're so wrong."

You don't argue. You don't defend yourself. Because for the first time that evening, you hear your own words the way he heard them. And they're ugly. You weren't accusing him. You were telling him you'd believed, even for a little while, that the man who loves you was ashamed to stand beside you.

The fight drains out of you all at once, leaving nothing behind except embarrassment and the quiet realization of how badly you've needed him to understand. 

Yunho sees it happen. He watches your shoulders fold inward. Watches your eyes drop. Watches the bravado disappear as quickly as it arrived. And in that instant, the irritation he's been carrying since the restaurant slips away almost completely.

Because you were never trying to make him miserable. You were trying, desperately and terribly, to ask one question you didn't know how to put into words.

His hand loosens around your arm. His shoulders drop with a tired exhale. When he speaks again, the steel is still there. But now it's wrapped around something infinitely softer.

"...Do you really think so little of me?"

The question steals the air from your lungs. Not because he's angry. Because he's hurt. Because beneath every stern word since you walked into this bathroom had been something else entirely.

Fear. Fear that something had happened to you. Fear that he'd somehow missed it. Fear that the woman he loves had spent an entire dinner convincing herself she wasn't enough.

You drop your eyes. 

"I'm sorry."

"No." His voice is gentle now. "I am sorry."

You look back up confused. He reaches out then, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips linger for just a second against your cheek, almost hesitant after everything that was said.

"I don't talk about my private life at work."

You frown. "I know."

"No." His thumb strokes your cheek once. "I mean..." He searches for the right words, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't talk about it. Ever."

The confession sounds strangely vulnerable coming from him. Yunho always knows what to say. Except now.

"I don't talk about my parents. I don't talk about my brother. I don't talk about holidays." A faint smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, humorless this time. "Half the people I work with barely know anything about me."

You listen quietly. Because it's true. You've heard him dodge personal questions before. Seen him redirect conversations so smoothly people never realized he'd done it. You'd just never put yourself in that category.

His hand slips from your cheek to the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

"I've spent years building that habit." His thumb moves absentmindedly beneath your ear. "So naturally..." He lets out another slow breath. "I did the same thing tonight."

Your chest tightens. He isn't defending himself, he's retracing his own steps, trying to find the moment he got it wrong.

A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

"I thought I was protecting my peace." His gaze softens. "I didn't realize I was asking you to carry the cost of it."

Something inside you gives way. Not all at once. Quietly. Like ice finally cracking under spring sunlight.

"I should've seen it," he murmurs. "I should've realized what that looked like from where you were standing. I should've introduced you." Your eyes close for half a second. "I should've made it obvious."

The first tear escapes before you can stop it. Yunho catches it with the pad of his thumb almost instinctively. Not because he found the perfect explanation. Because he isn't looking for one. He's simply standing in front of you, taking responsibility for a hurt he never intended to cause.

"I'm sorry, Dove."

You laugh weakly through the tears.

"You never apologize."

"I do."

"No, you don't."

"I do," he repeats softly. "When I'm wrong."

The corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. Relief flickers across his face so briefly you almost miss it. He studies you for another moment, then sighs, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"You scared me tonight." The confession is barely above a whisper. "I didn't know who I was sitting across from."

Shame crashes over you all over again.

"I'm sorry..."

"I know."

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans forward until his forehead rests lightly against yours. The contact is warm. Familiar. The kind that always slows your breathing before you even realize it's happening.

Then he kisses you. Softly. Nothing like the way he kissed you earlier. Nothing demanding. Nothing that steals the air from your lungs. Just a slow press of his lips against yours, gentle enough that it feels less like desire and more like reassurance.

I'm still here.

When he pulls away, he doesn't move far. One hand is still cradling your jaw, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek as though letting go isn't something he's ready to do yet.

"You really aren't embarrassed?" you ask quietly.

The question slips out before you can stop it. You regret it immediately. Yunho's eyebrows draw together so quickly it almost hurts to watch. 

"Embarrassed?" He searches your face as if he's trying to understand how your mind could've built that conclusion. "Of you?" He lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

His other hand comes up to cup your face, leaving you held between both of his palms as though you're something far more fragile than either of you would like to admit.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You want the floor to open beneath your feet.

"I just..."

The words refuse to come. Instead, another question does. Quieter this time.

"You still love me?"

Yunho simply stares. Not because he's offended. Because he genuinely can't believe that's the question you've been carrying around.

"That's your question?"

You look away instantly. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No." His fingers guide your face back toward him before you can hide. "You don't get to run away now."

His thumb brushes beneath your eye again, wiping away another tear before it falls.

"After everything we've just talked about..."

He smiles then. Small. Disbelieving. So full of affection it makes your chest ache.

"I love you." Simple. Certain. No hesitation. "I loved you when we walked into that restaurant." His thumb strokes slowly across your cheek. "I loved you while you spent an hour driving me out of my mind." The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. "And I'm still standing here loving you now." Your breath catches. "There isn't a room in this world where I'd be embarrassed to stand beside you."

His forehead rests lightly against yours.

"If anything..." He continues with a quiet smile. "I'm usually wondering what I did to deserve being the man who gets to walk in with you."

Your eyes close. Not because you're crying anymore. Because your heart simply doesn't know what to do with that.

"You are not something I hide." A beat. "You are the best part of my life."

The silence stretches comfortably between you. This one doesn't hurt. This one heals. 

Then Yunho leans forward, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead. Another against your temple. One more against your cheek, each one slower than the last, as though he's trying to erase every ugly thought you'd carried into this room. 

You smile despite yourself. It lasts all of two seconds. Because when he leans back, there's something new in his expression. The misunderstanding is gone. The hurt has been named. You've forgiven each other.

Which means there's only one thing left to deal with. The spectacular disaster you created out there. And judging by the look Yunho gives you, you're not getting away with that conversation quite so easily. 

"You caused me a great deal of trouble tonight."

The words aren't harsh. They're quiet. Which somehow makes them impossible to hide from.

You drop your gaze. "I'm sorry."

"I know." His hand finds yours again, turning it over gently until your fingers rest against his palm. "I forgive you."

Hope flickers across your face. Then he continues.

"But forgiveness doesn't erase the problem."

Your breath catches. You look back up at him. His expression is unreadable. Calm. Patient. Completely in control again.

"What... problem?"

Yunho pulls your hand and places it against the obvious tension beneath the expensive fabric of his trousers. Heat rushes into your face as you inhale sharply.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Yunho lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "You knew exactly what you were doing." 

You immediately look away.

"I said I was sorry."

"You did." His fingers tighten around yours, pressing your palm more firmly against the hardness beneath his trousers. "And I accepted your apology."

You swallow. "Then...?"

"Then we address the consequences." His voice drops lower.

He steps closer. Your back finds the wall. Not trapped. Just nowhere else you'd rather be. Yunho reaches up, thumb brushing lightly across your jaw. Patient. Composed. Entirely too in control.

"You started this, Dove." His eyes darken. "Now you're going to finish it."

You bite your lip. "Here?"

"Where else?" His thumb traces your bottom lip. "You wanted to play games in public. Let's see how well you play when the stakes are real."

Your knees feel weak. "Yunho..."

"Unless you'd rather I take care of this myself?" He challenges, his voice low and rough. "But I don't think that's what you want, is it?"

You shake your head slowly, unable to form words.

"No." His hand moves from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "I didn't think so."

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You wanted my attention? You have it. All of it. Now, are you going to fix what you broke?"

You nod, your heart pounding. "Yes."

"Good." 

The word has barely left his mouth before he's pulling you toward him.

One hand remains firm around the back of your neck, fingers spread wide beneath your hair. The other lands at your waist with enough certainty to steal the breath from your lungs, drawing you flush against him in a single, decisive movement.

"Now, be a good girl and show me how sorry you really are. Come here."

It's the last warning you get.

His mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is deep before you have time to think, your startled gasp swallowed immediately as he claims the space between your lips. There isn't an ounce of hesitation in him now. No careful testing. No gentle reassurance. Every slow, measured restraint he's held onto since dinner seems to disappear into the kiss instead.

Your fingers instinctively clutch at the front of his jacket, wrinkling the expensive fabric beneath your fists as your balance disappears beneath the force of him.

Yunho doesn't let you drift away. His hand tightens at your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breathing rough against your cheek every time the kiss breaks for the briefest heartbeat before he finds your mouth again. Like he's still angry. Still relieved. Still trying to convince himself you're here and that you're finally letting him in.

By the time he finally pulls back, neither of you is breathing properly. He doesn't give you room to recover. His forehead settles against yours almost immediately, his grip on your waist never loosening, your bodies still pressed together so completely you can feel the rise and fall of every uneven breath.

His eyes stay closed for a long moment.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, the words almost disappearing between your mouths.

His thumb presses once against your side, firm enough to remind you exactly whose arms you're standing in. 

The silence between you changes. The misunderstanding is gone. The tenderness is still there, buried somewhere beneath everything else. But what hangs between you now is heavier. Tighter. The kind of tension that makes the room suddenly feel too small to contain either of you.

Before you can smile, before your arms can find their way around his neck, his hands shift. One slides to the small of your back. The other gently catches your wrist. With one smooth movement, he turns you until your back meets his chest.

His body follows yours immediately, close enough that you feel the warmth of him through the fabric of your dress as he guides you forward. Two careful steps. Then your thighs meet the cool marble of the sink, and he stops behind you.

"Hands on the counter," he commands, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You comply, your palms flat on the stone, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"You are a dangerous woman," he mutters against your shoulder before he bites down harshly, teeth sinking into skin where your dress won't cover it.

"Yunho," you whimper softly.

"Spread your legs," he commands.

You don’t have time to comply. He kicks your feet apart with his own, widening your stance. 

His gaze drops to your feet, still encased in the shoes he bought you. 

"Still wearing these," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "The ones that were torturing me all night. Every time you crossed your legs, every time you tapped that fucking heel against the table... I wanted to bend you over right there."

His hands are rough as they hike your dress up, bunching the fabric at your waist. The cool air hits your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his gaze predatory in the mirror. "All dressed up, and so beautiful but so, so misbehaving."

"Sorry," you whisper, your voice shaky.

His hand comes down hard on your ass. The sharp smack echoes in the tiled room. You cry out, more from surprise than pain.

"Louder."

"Sorry!" you repeat, stronger this time.

Another smack, this one on the other cheek, leaving a warm sting. "Good girl."

His hand comes down twice more in rapid succession, the sharp smacks echoing in the tiled room. Your flesh stings when he digs his nails into the sensitive skin, scratching hard enough to leave faint pink trails that make you whimper.

Yunho hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Instead of sliding them down, he grips the delicate lace and pulls with brutal force. 

The fabric tears with a sharp sound, your knees trembling at the violence of it. Before you can collapse, he bucks his hips forward, pinning you more firmly against the cold marble of the sink.

"I'll be keeping these," he states. "A reminder for you to behave next time we're out."

He spreads your ass cheeks, exposing you completely. 

"Teasing me all night got you this wet? Such a messy girl for me."

He spits, watching the saliva trickle down your cleft before using two fingers to rub it over your clit and entrance. You push back against his hand, a desperate whine escaping your lips.

"Ah ah," he tuts, withdrawing his hand. He brings his glistening fingers to your mouth, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. "Open. Taste yourself."

You obey, parting your lips as he slides his fingers into your mouth. You suck greedily, swirling your tongue around them, tasting your own arousal, mixing itself with the wine from dinner. His eyes darken as he watches you.

"Fuck," he groans, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. "You don't get to dictate the pace. Not tonight. Tonight, I use you."

The sound of his belt buckle clinking open makes your heart race. Then the slow rasp of his zipper being lowered follows, each tooth releasing with agonizing slowness that has you trembling with anticipation.

He frees himself with one hand, the other pressing down firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you bent over. He rubs the head of his cock through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal but not entering.

"Please, Yunho," you beg, trying to push back onto him.

He delivers another sharp slap to your ass.

"I said no."

He lines himself up with your entrance and, without warning, slams into you in one brutal thrust.

You both groan. He's impossibly deep like this, the angle unforgiving. The marble digs into your thighs with the force of his entry.

He gives you no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm from the start. Each thrust is hard, fast, designed to stake a claim. The sound of skin slapping skin is obscene, mixing with your helpless whimpers and his low grunts. 

Your high heels tremble dangerously beneath you, the stiletto points scraping uselessly against the tile as your legs struggle to support you under the force of his movements.

He captures one of your wrists, twisting it behind your back and pinning it there. He uses the leverage to push you further down, until your face is inches from the mirror, your breath fogging the glass.

His other hand finds your hair, winding it around his fist. He pulls, just enough to arch your back and force you to look at your reflection in the mirror.

"Watch," he growls, his hips never ceasing their assault. "Watch me fuck you. See how you take it? How desperate you are for my cock?"

Your eyes are glassy with tears of pleasure and pain, your mouth slack.

He looks so powerful behind you, his expression dark with lust, his expensive suit still perfectly tailored and pristine while you’re  a mess beneath him.

"You teased me all night," he pants, his grip on your hair tightening. "Rubbing your little foot on my dick. Making me hard in front of everyone. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked like the little brat you are?"

"Yes!" you cry out. "Yes, I'm sorry!"

"You will be." He releases your hair only to grab your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pistons into you. Your legs start to shake, but he continues his relentless pace, driving into you again and again.

He lowers his body, the expensive fabric of his suit brushing against your back as he leans down.

His tongue traces a path up your spine, making you shudder. He licks the exposed skin of your neck, then bites down on your earlobe, just enough to make you gasp.

Then he places his lips against the back of your head, not kissing, just pressing there to keep you in place and muffle his own moans.

"Fuck," he grunts against your hair, his voice muffled. "So tight. So perfect for me."

He presses a soft peck to your hair before straightening up, his gaze fixed on where you two are connected. His hand comes down hard on your ass once again. Then he grips the reddened flesh tightly, spreading your cheeks apart to watch himself disappear inside you with each powerful thrust.

Your forehead presses against the cool glass of the mirror, eyes closed as you focus on the sensation of him filling you so completely.

Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through your body, his length hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes the coil in your stomach tighten, ready to snap. 

"I'm gonna… Yunho, I'm close..."

"No, you're not."

With a sudden, cruel movement, he pulls out of you completely, leaving you empty and aching. You cry out at the loss, your body trembling with the denied release.

"Yunho, please..."

"Please what?" he growls, wrapping his hand around his slick cock and stroking himself a few times. Your juices glisten on his length in the dim light. 

"You don't get to come yet. You haven't earned it. You're going to take what I give you, and you're going to thank me for it."

His hand comes down hard on your left cheek, then your right, two rapid, harsh smacks that echo in the tiled bathroom.

The sharp sting makes you gasp, your flesh blooming red under his touch. He soothes the burning skin with his large palms, the contrast of roughness and tenderness making your head spin.

"Such a pretty color on you," he murmurs appreciatively before gripping your hips again.

He slams back into you without warning, even deeper than before. Your legs nearly give out. He slows his pace slightly, making each thrust more deliberate, more punishing.

"You wanted to act like a bitch? Fine. Now you're getting fucked like one. No relief. Just me, using this tight little pussy until I'm satisfied."

The bathroom door swings open. You freeze, a gasp caught in your throat as humiliation washes over you. Through the mirror, you see the woman from earlier pause in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock.

Your hands fly back, trying to push Yunho away, to create any distance between your bodies, but your arms feel like lead.

His arm circles your chest, pulling you upright against him until your back is flush with his chest. The new angle allows him to drive into you even deeper, his hips snapping with more intensity. 

Defeated, you rest your head on his shoulder, your eyes rolling back involuntarily, your mind going blank with overwhelming pleasure. You can't think, can't speak. You can only feel him filling you so good.

"Don't get embarrassed now," Yunho snarls in your ear, his thrusts never faltering. He doesn't even look at the intruder. His eyes are boring into yours in the mirror, a silent, possessive challenge. "Let her see who makes you feel this good. Let her see what my woman looks like when she's being properly fucked."

Your hand shoots out, gripping his wrist desperately to maintain your balance as your knees threaten to give out. Your other hand presses flat against the sink surface, fingers splayed wide as you try to anchor yourself. 

The woman watches for another second before muttering an apology and backing out quickly, pulling the door closed behind her.

Yunho lets out a dark chuckle. "Good girl. You did so well."

When one particularly loud moan escapes, he covers your mouth with his hand.

"Shhh, baby. I know, believe me, I know." He groans low when you squeeze around him involuntarily. "You know I love hearing you, dove, but I'd rather not have security escort us out of a restaurant I spent three weeks getting reservations for." 

Then he replaces his hand with two fingers in your mouth. You immediately suck and lick them, drool falling down your chin. He bites his own lip as he watches you, his eyes dark with hunger.

"Fuck," Yunho groans, his eyes darkening with pure devotion and angry lust. "That's it. So pretty."

He guides your chin toward the mirror, forcing you to look at your reflection. 

"Look at you," he murmurs against your temple. "So beautiful when you're falling apart for me." 

Your body is like putty against him, your dress disheveled with one strap fallen down your shoulder, your hair a mess, mascara smudged beneath your eyes.

He removes his fingers from your mouth, slick with your saliva, and traces them over your lips. 

"Watch," he commands softly. 

Then his hand slides down your body, finding your clit. He begins circling it, watching how easily you respond to his touches in your reflection with such intensity it feels like he's devouring you. Your hips buck against his hand, against his cock still buried inside you.

"Now, since you were so good... you can come," he pants against your lips. "Come for me, Dove. Squeeze my fucking cock."

That's all it takes. Your orgasm tears through you, violent and overwhelming. You scream his name, your body convulsing as your vision whites out.

He follows you over the edge a minute later with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, hips jerking with the force of his release. 

He grabs your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. He cradles your face with his other hand, forcing you to meet his gaze as he continues to thrust through his orgasm.

"I love you," he breathes, desperate and raw. "God, I love you so much." he grunts as he pulses inside you.

"Love you too," you whisper, tears in your eyes. "So much."

Before you can say more, his mouth crashes against yours. It's not a kiss of gentleness, but of raw, overwhelming need. It's sloppy and desperate, filled with spit and drool as your tongues clash. 

He kisses you like he's trying to breathe you in. It's uncoordinated and filthy, a perfect counterpoint to the tender words just spoken, a testament to the storm of emotions raging between you.

He stays there for a moment, breathing heavily against your mouth, the only sounds in the room your ragged breaths.

Then, as quickly as the intensity began, it softens. He pulls out gently, and you feel his warmth leave you. He uses a handful of tissues to carefully clean you up, his touch impossibly tender now. 

"Can't have my perfect girl leaking all over her pretty dress," he teases softly.

He helps you stand, your legs trembling, and pulls your dress back down into place. He turns you to face him, his hands cupping your cheeks as he wipes away the tear tracks and smudged mascara with his thumbs.

"I've got you," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your nose, your lips. "You did so good for me. So perfect."

He helps you fix your hair then. The same fingers that had tangled mercilessly through it only minutes ago now move with impossible care, smoothing down loose strands before tucking them neatly behind your ear.  

He straightens the stubborn strap back to your shoudler, brushes an invisible crease from your waist, then steps back to inspect his work with quiet satisfaction.

Only after deeming you presentable again does he adjust his own tie and smooth his jacket, slipping effortlessly back into the composed man who walked into the restaurant. 

"There."

Your hand flies instinctively to your shoulder.

"Oh, absolutely not."

Yunho catches your wrist before your fingers reach the mark. His mouth twitches.

"You did that."

"I think it suits you." 

You glare at him. He doesn't look remotely sorry. A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest as he leans in, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead.

"My beautiful girl."

The words settle warmly beneath your ribs.

"So now you'll fuck me in public," you murmur, "but I'm not allowed to hide the evidence?"

His smile is small. Unapologetic.

"No."

The answer is so simple, so certain, that your heart forgets how to beat for a second.

When you step back into the restaurant, Yunho reaches for your hand without hesitation. His fingers weave through yours naturally, like they've done it a thousand times before. Firm enough that you couldn't pull away if you wanted to. Gentle enough that it feels less like possession and more like certainty.

You barely make it a few steps before your free hand flies to your shoulder.

"This is awful."

A quiet laugh escapes him.

"You seemed very enthusiastic about it five minutes ago."

"Yunho."

His smile only deepens. You try to pull your hair over the marks blooming across your skin. Yunho simply brushes it back over your shoulder again, his fingertips lingering for the briefest second.

"Stop."

"No."

"They're going to see."

His eyes flick toward you, warm with something that makes your chest tighten.

"I know."

You stare at him. He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. The meaning settles somewhere beneath your ribs before you can stop it. 

Then you see her. Still sitting at her table. Still talking to the people around her. Your entire body locks.

"No."

Yunho doesn't even slow down.

"No."

"Dove."

"I am not walking past her."

"You are."

"I'll die."

"You won't."

You make one last pathetic attempt to hide behind him, but he only chuckles softly, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before lifting it between you. His lips brush across your knuckles. Your breath catches.

Before you can recover, he leans down and presses another absentminded kiss against your temple as you walk, the gesture so effortless it almost feels unconscious. Like this is simply what he does when you're together. Like loving you has become muscle memory.

The woman looks up. Recognition flashes across her face. Her eyes fall to your joined hands. To the kiss. To the way Yunho never once lets go of you. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you're convinced the entire restaurant can feel it. But Yunho keeps walking as though nothing remarkable has happened, guiding you back to the table with the same calm confidence he'd walked in with an hour earlier.

This time, however, he pulls your chair out first.

His hand lingers briefly against the back of your seat before he walks around to his own, settling opposite you with infuriating composure.

You reach for your wine immediately. Desperately, because you need it. Bad.

"You never finished your risotto."

You blink over the rim of your glass.

"That's your concern right now?"

"It’s expensive."

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. It never comes. His mouth twitches just enough to betray him as he reaches for his own wine.

Around you, the restaurant carries on exactly as it had before. Cutlery clinks against porcelain. Conversations overlap. Someone laughs near the window. You're convinced every single one of them knows.

Yunho, meanwhile, opens the dessert menu as though the last twenty minutes never happened. He flips a page, the corners already beginning to curl beneath his fingers.

"So," he says, glancing up briefly. "Do we want the tiramisu?"

You swirl the last of your wine around your glass.

"Do we?"

His mouth twitches.

"Good point." He turns another page. "Chocolate soufflé?"

You don't answer. You simply keep looking at him. Long enough that he eventually lowers the menu, meeting your eyes over the edge of it.

"What?"

You tilt your head, pretending to consider the question.

"I kind of hate you."

A quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. Small. Certain.

"No," he says. "You really don't."

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrays you before your face can.

For the first time all evening, silence settles comfortably between you. No misunderstandings hiding beneath it. No sharp edges waiting to catch. Just the familiar quiet that has always belonged to the two of you.

You shift in your chair, wincing almost imperceptibly as the heels remind you how long you've been wearing them.

Yunho notices immediately. His eyes drop beneath the table for half a second before returning to your face.

"They're hurting."

It isn't a question. You sigh dramatically.

"A little."

Without another word, he extends one hand beneath the tablecloth, palm open.

"Give me your foot."

You eye him suspiciously.

"...Didn't we already establish that was a terrible idea?"

A slow smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

"Which is why I'm asking for your foot." His eyes meet yours. "Not your ideas." 

Heat creeps up your neck.

"Yunho."

"I'm choosing to believe you've learned from the experience."

You wisely keep your mouth shut. Judging by the look in his eyes, the only thing Yunho enjoys more than winning is watching you realize you've lost. 

His hand pats his thigh twice, waiting patiently. "Foot." 

You know that tone. The one that isn't asking because it already knows you'll give in. 

With an exaggerated sigh, you shift in your seat. One leg first, then the other. A moment later, both feet are on his lap. The movement is practiced. Unremarkable between you now, which is its own kind of problem.

"This time I'd like you to keep it above my knee."

You nearly choke on your wine.

"Yunho."

"Too soon?"

You can hear the smile in his voice long before you see it.

His hand settles around your ankle, thumb pressing slow circles into the sore skin. Then, almost absent-mindedly, his fingers find the tiny buckle fastening your heel.

You frown.

"...What are you doing?"

"Fixing the problem."

Before you can protest, he unfastens the delicate strap with practiced fingers, easing the shoe from your foot as carefully as though it were made of glass. He sets it beside his leg beneath the table, then repeats the motion with the other one.

The relief is immediate. A quiet breath escapes you before you can stop it. Yunho pretends not to notice.

He simply settles both of your bare feet across his lap again, one broad hand wrapping gently around your arches while his thumb works patiently at the muscles that have been aching since you left the apartment.

It's so automatic. So unceremonious. Like this isn't an act of devotion at all, just another item on the list of ways he takes care of you.

You watch him for a long moment. He doesn’t look up. That, more than anything, makes you smile.

“You’re being weird.”

"Hm?"

"You're... affectionate."

That earns you his attention. He looks up from the menu, genuinely considering the accusation.

“I’m always affectionate.”

You give him a look. 

"You are." You hesitate, searching for words that don't sound quite so vulnerable. "Just... not where people can see."

Something shifts in his expression. Because he's realizing you aren’t accusing him. You’re simply telling him how lonely you felt.

His hand stays on your ankle.

“Maybe I should’ve been.”

The words are quiet enough that no one else could hear them. They don't sound like an apology. They sound better than one.

Across the room, your eyes catch the woman for just a second. Her eyes dip beneath the table for just a moment, lingering where Yunho's hand rests around your ankle as though it's the most natural place in the world for it to be. 

For a heartbeat, you wait for the embarrassment to come. It doesn't. You look back at him instead.

"So. Chocolate soufflé then?" Yunho asks.

 "Get both," you murmur, nodding toward the menu.

His grin is immediate. "I was hoping you'd say that."

You laugh, shaking your head as his thumb absentmindedly traces another circle over your skin.

Dessert arrives a few minutes later. Your feet never leave his lap. Neither does his hand.

Conversation returns as though it had never been interrupted. Work. Travel. Which wine is better. Ordinary things. Comfortably ordinary.

And somewhere between the first spoonful of tiramisu and the last sip of wine, you realize the knot in your chest is gone. Not because the evening had been perfect. Because when it stopped being perfect, the two of you chose each other anyway.

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