yunho's abura soba

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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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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Coming back feels stranger than you expected. Not wrong. Just slightly off. Like the city learned a new rhythm while you were gone, and your steps don’t land exactly where they used to.

The streets are familiar enough to be comforting, but there’s a thin layer of distance over everything. Storefronts you recognize but don’t remember entering. Corners you could navigate blindfolded, yet still double-check.

You’re not sad about it. That surprises you a little.

It’s more awareness than ache. Nostalgia without the dramatics. You notice things instead of mourning them. The way the air smells different at night. How the noise carries. How you feel present, but not anchored yet.

Hongjoong texts you two days after you arrive.

Drinks tonight? No pressure. Just catching up.

You stare at the message longer than necessary, thumb hovering. 

You could say no. You’re still settling. Still unpacking more than boxes. But the invitation doesn’t tug at you, doesn’t ask for anything. It’s an open door, not a hand pulling you through.

You type back yes before you can overthink it.

The bar is warm in that lived-in way. Low lights. Scuffed tables. The kind of place that holds onto laughter even after people leave. 

Familiar faces greet you easily, like you never really disappeared, just stepped out of frame for a while.

You slip into conversation without effort. You’re open. Curious. Letting yourself enjoy being here without scanning for exits. You listen more than you talk at first, clocking how people have changed. Who leans closer now. Who talks with their hands. Who still interrupts when they get excited.

And then you notice him.

Not because he’s introduced. Not because someone points him out. You notice him the way you notice a shift in temperature.

A laugh cuts through the hum of the room. Loud, unrestrained, contagious.

Heads turn without irritation. Chairs angle subtly in his direction. He leans over the table when he talks, all long limbs and easy confidence, dark hair falling into his eyes when he tips his head back to laugh, a smile that shows too much teeth and somehow gets away with it.

He’s not performing. That’s the thing. There’s no sense of effort, no awareness of being watched. He takes up space because space seems to offer itself to him.

People gravitate. You clock it instantly.

It’s mildly annoying.

You watch him a moment longer than necessary, curiosity sharpening into interest despite yourself. The way his shoulders shake when he laughs. The warmth in his expression when he listens. How his hands move, relaxed and sure, like they know exactly where they belong.

He reaches across the table without hesitation, stealing peanuts, nudging someone’s leg with his knee. Comfortable. Familiar. Liked.

He’s the kind of person rooms rearrange themselves for, you think, and file it away without judgment.

You absolutely do not linger on the fact that you get it.

Then Hongjoong says your name.

He pulls you into the circle with a hand at your shoulder, smiling, proud to have you there.

“You remember Yunho, right?”

You do.

He’s taller up close. Broader than you expected. All clean lines and quiet confidence, the kind that doesn’t ask for attention and gets it anyway. Intimidating in that effortless way that makes your pulse kick before you can tell it to relax.

Your smile comes easy. Wide. A little nervous. A little bright.

Yunho looks up.

The shift is immediate.

It’s subtle enough that someone else might miss it. Like a door being closed without a sound. His smile doesn’t vanish, it just cools. The warmth drains out of it, leaving something polite and distant behind. His posture stays open, but his eyes go unreadable.

“Hey,” he says, polite and flat in a way that feels practiced.

He stands and offers his hand.

You take it.

The handshake is textbook. Firm. Brief. No linger, no squeeze. Skin meeting skin and nothing else. An exchange so correct it might as well have come with a receipt.

You clock all of it in a second.

It doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

Confusion comes first. Clean, almost clinical. Your brain scrambles for explanations. Bad timing. Bad day. Maybe he’s just not great with people he doesn’t know.

You don’t take it personally. Not right away.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, still smiling, instinctively matching his tone.

“Yeah. You too.”

And that’s it.

Hongjoong moves on. Someone cracks a joke. Conversation swells again, filling the space between you like it always does. You slide back into the rhythm, laughing when appropriate, answering questions, letting yourself exist without forcing anything.

You don’t seek Yunho out. But you watch.

You notice how his laugh comes back full-force when Mingi says something ridiculous. How he leans in close to Hongjoong, listening intently. How he thanks the bartender with a grin, how he shifts to make room for someone squeezing past.

He’s generous with everyone. Except you.

It’s not overt. That’s what makes it strange. He doesn’t glare. Doesn’t ignore you outright. When you speak to the group, he listens. When you make a joke, he smiles. 

Just never at you.

His eyes slide past. His attention redirects. Conversations curve around you instead of pulling you in.

You clock it all, neat and methodical.

Still, you don’t chase it. You don’t adjust your behavior or reach for his attention. If anything, you soften a little, refusing to harden around something you don’t yet understand.

You assume there’s a reason that has nothing to do with you.

But as the night stretches on, laughter layering over music and clinking glasses, one thing becomes clear. 

Whatever it is, it’s intentional. And you notice everything.

Time doesn’t fix it. That’s what surprises you most.

Weeks turn into months, and instead of distance smoothing the edges, proximity sharpens them. You keep crossing paths with the same group, the same easy invitations looping back to you. Birthdays. Casual dinners. Game nights that stretch too late. Nothing forced. Nothing staged.

And Yunho is always there. Always loud. Always magnetic. Always at the center. And always different with you.

It becomes predictable in the worst way. 

You’ll arrive a few minutes late, shrugging out of your jacket, and his laugh is already filling the room. You feel the familiar flicker as you clock where he is, how he’s positioned, who he’s leaning toward.

He notices you too. You know he does. But he never gives you the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

You try, at first.

Nothing big. Nothing that could be misconstrued.

You comment on the music playing, something light. He answers dryly, two words, with no invitation to continue.

You toss out a joke, dry and well-timed. Mingi snorts. Hongjoong laughs. Yunho plays with the table’s edge, face flat, eyes flicking away before they ever land on you.

You ask him a genuine question once. About work. About something he mentioned earlier.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fine.”

That’s it.

No follow-up. No return question. The conversational door shuts firmly, like it was designed to.

You tell yourself not to read into it.

You pride yourself on reading people. It’s one of the things you trust about yourself. You notice tone shifts. Microexpressions. The way someone’s shoulders tense or relax. You’ve been warm. Open. Kind. You haven’t pushed. You haven’t demanded space that wasn’t offered.

You run through every interaction in your head, searching for the misstep.

There isn’t one.

And that’s what starts to get under your skin.

Because confusion is manageable. Mystery can be interesting. But impotence? Not knowing what to fix, or if there’s anything to fix at all?

That gnaws. It settles in your chest and refuses to leave.

The public settings make it worse.

At dinners, Yunho always ends up sitting across from you. Close enough that you can see the way his fingers drum against the table when he’s thinking. Close enough to catch the flicker of expressions that never quite make it to you.

He talks animatedly to everyone else. Leans in. Teases. Argues playfully. 

With you, his gaze skims past like you’re furniture.

Even strangers get more warmth than you do. He lets it show, just enough, like you’re supposed to notice.

At game nights, the room fills with noise and competition. Yunho is loud, encouraging, a menace when he’s winning. He cheers for Mingi, groans dramatically when Hongjoong pulls ahead.

You win a round.

The room reacts. Someone whoops. Someone groans.

Yunho goes quiet.

Not sulking. Not angry. Just bored. He claps once, slow and polite, then turns his attention back to the board like nothing happened.

It’s subtle enough that no one else comments on it.

You notice anyway.

There are jokes that start in his direction and end just short of you. Laughter that swells and curves around, leaving a clean pocket of space where you stand. Not exclusion exactly. More like omission.

It doesn’t hurt all at once. It accumulates.

You start bracing without realizing it. You enter rooms already aware of where he is, already preparing for the familiar coolness. You stop trying to bridge the gap because every attempt feels like tossing a coin into a well and never hearing it land.

And the worst part?

You still find him fascinating.

You hate that you notice when his laugh changes. When he’s tired. When something clearly irritates him and he swallows it down. You hate that your attention keeps orbiting someone who refuses to meet it.

Something clicks the moment you stop trying.

It’s subtle. Internal. Like setting down a weight you’ve carried too long.

You don’t announce it. You just stop offering him a soft place to land. No gentle questions. No easy smiles angled his way. You don’t avoid him. You simply stop adjusting. Stop rounding your edges so he doesn’t cut himself.

You’re still yourself. Observant. Quick. Just sharper now.

You start meeting his distance with your own version of it. That’s when it turns. The banter sharpens into something charged. Something with intention behind it.

The next time you see him is in a gathering at Hongjoong’s place. Too many people for the size of the living room, conversations layered over one another, music low enough to pretend it’s background.

You’re on the arm of the couch, drink sweating into your palm. Yunho is across the room, leaning against the dining table. Close enough to hear. Far enough to ignore.

You manage it. For a while.

Someone is talking about your time away. A harmless story, told by someone else. Laughter. A few nods.

“It must’ve been nice,” Hongjoong says, casual. “Starting over.”

You shrug. “It was… clarifying.”

And of course, Yunho can’t resist butting in.

“Some people mistake distance for growth,” he says, eyes still on his glass. “But it’s just avoidance with better scenery.”

The room doesn’t go silent. It just thins. Like everyone leaned back at once.

You don’t look at him right away. You take a sip. Let it sit.

Then, evenly, “That’s an interesting take.”

Yunho glances up, finally meeting your eyes. Calm. Watchful.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, mild, “not everyone comes back improved.”

You smile. Not warm. Not sharp. Controlled.

“No,” you agree. “Some people stay exactly the same and call it stability.”

A flicker. Barely there.

Yunho’s jaw tightens for half a second before he smooths it out, shoulders easing like he’s practiced the motion.

“Didn’t realize you felt that strongly,” he says. “You didn’t strike me as sentimental.”

“I’m not,” you reply. “I just notice patterns.”

He straightens, turning more fully toward you now. The air between you shifts.

“Patterns can be misleading,” he says. “Especially when you’re only seeing part of the picture.”

You tilt your head.

“True. Though it helps when someone keeps repeating the same behavior.”

A pause.

You see it then. The smallest crack. His eyes drop, just for a second. His mouth presses thin. He exhales through his nose like he’s steadying something.

Then the mask slides back on.

“You seem very invested in what I think,” he says lightly. 

You don’t hesitate.

“I’m not. I just don’t like being talked around.”

Mingi shifts uncomfortably. Someone laughs too loudly at a joke that wasn’t told.

Yunho’s smile returns, sharper now. Defensive.

“Maybe you’re projecting.”

That lands closer than he means.

Your voice stays level.

“Maybe you should stop aiming if you don’t like where it hits.”

That one does it.

He flinches. Not dramatically. A blink too slow. A breath that catches before he schools it. His hand tightens around his glass, knuckles whitening before he loosens his grip.

When he looks at you again, he’s composed. Polite. Distant.

“Excuse me,” he says, and steps away, disappearing into the kitchen like nothing happened.

The room exhales.

Someone starts a new conversation. Someone else turns the music up a notch.

You stay where you are. Heart steady. Spine straight.

It feels like a win. Small, but earned.

You give it a minute before you move.

Long enough for the room to reset. Long enough for the tension to sink back into music and glass clinks and overlapping voices, like it never existed.

Then you stand.

“Drinks,” you say, already collecting empty glasses. Casual. Easy. Controlled. 

You head for the kitchen.

You don’t see him at first. You hear him. A voice angled low, careful. That’s what makes you stop.

Yunho is by the window, half-hidden by the doorway, leaning against the sill like he belongs there. His posture is loose in a way you’ve never seen directed at you. His attention is fixed on someone you don’t recognize.

A girl stands in front of him, shoulders slightly drawn in, fingers twisted into the cuff of her sleeve like she’s not sure where to put herself.

And he is different.

Not guarded. Not sharp.

He leans closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice. He waits when she falters. Lets the silence breathe instead of cutting through it.

She says something small. Something that sounds like an apology.

Yunho smiles.

Not the polite one. Not the defensive one. The real one.

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Harder than anything he’s said to you all night. Harder than the cold looks, the clipped replies, the careful distance.

He hands her a drink, deliberate, careful not to touch. His focus stays on her, steady and warm, like she’s the only person in the room.

So he knows how to be careful.

You don’t wait to see what else he offers her.

You turn away, glasses still empty, jaw tight, chest burning, and head back to the living room.

Mingi clocks it instantly. His expression shifts, softer, concerned. He pats the space beside him without a word. No questions. No commentary. Just an opening.

You sit. He slips an arm around your shoulders, solid and grounding. Not possessive. Not flirty. Just there.

The room keeps going. Laughter swells. Someone raises their voice over the music. Life moves on like nothing cracked open in the kitchen.

But you don’t let it go.

Because it is not sadness sitting in your chest. It is heat.

Anger, sharp and bright and deeply unamused.

What is his fucking problem?

You don’t need to be adored. You don’t need to be special. That was never the point. But this? This deliberate softness for everyone else, this pointed distance only for you?

That makes your blood boil.

You’ve been trying. Being polite. Being warm. Giving him patience he never earned. Offering kindness by default, because that’s who you are.

And he treats you like you’re not even there.

Like you’re something to be managed. Avoided. Cut around.

It’s intentional. You know it is. And that’s what makes it unbearable.

You don’t deserve this. You shouldn’t have to shrink or edit yourself just to exist in the same room as him.

And the worst part is how much it gets under your skin. How furious you are that it does.

Because it shouldn’t matter.

And yet here you are, jaw clenched, pulse sharp, already bracing for the next time he decides to remind you exactly where he’s decided you don’t belong.

Your fights are never loud. They’re precise. Measured. Almost intimate in how contained they are.

Yunho doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lose control. His words are carefully chosen, his tone calm even when it’s sharp. Occasionally, he lets something a little mean slip through. Not enough to call him out. Just enough to sting.

You meet him there every time.

You keep your tone light. Your smile easy. And when you cut, you cut clean. You don’t insult him. You just refuse to bend around his presence anymore.

Neither of you is trying to win.

You’re not proving anything. You’re not seeking validation. You’re just reacting instinctively to how he makes your skin prickle. Like standing too close to a live wire.

And choosing, every time, not to step away.

Rooms feel different when you’re together now. Taut. Charged. Conversations stumble when the two of you start in on each other. Mingi and Hongjoong share looks across tables, across rooms, the same unspoken thought passing between them: This is bad.

Because it’s no longer indifference. It’s attention sharpened into focus.

And underneath it all, the questions keep circling you, relentless.

You don’t know why he disliked you from the start.

You don’t know why you catch him watching you when he thinks you’re distracted. Why his gaze lingers when you laugh with someone else. Why he always seems to end up in the same spaces you occupy, like gravity is a shared inconvenience.

You hate that you notice these things. Hate that even now, even irritated, even bristling, part of you stays alert around him. Not drawn. Just aware.

You hate that part of you prefers this to being ignored.

So you stop.

Not dramatically. Not with a declaration or a final sharp exchange. You simply withdraw.

No more sparring. No more precision cuts wrapped in politeness. No more meeting him where he stands.

You decide he doesn’t exist.

When he speaks, you don’t turn. When he makes a pointed remark meant just for you, you let out a soft, dismissive laugh, like it barely registered, and continue the conversation you were already having. If he says your name, you act like it belongs to someone else.

No hellos. No goodbyes. No fights.

Nothing.

You omit him.

It’s quieter this way. Cleaner. And if there’s a flicker of satisfaction in watching his carefully maintained composure falter when he realizes you’re no longer engaging, you ignore that too.

You tell yourself it’s not punishment. It’s self-preservation.

But somewhere between the sarcastic laughs and the deliberate turns of your back, you feel it shift. The air changes again. Not charged this time.

Empty.

And whatever this is now, whatever you’ve just taken away from him, you can tell by the way his attention sharpens, by the way his restraint starts to look strained, that it won’t last.

The night everything snaps feels ordinary right up until it isn’t.

It’s a bar this time. Loud enough that conversations blur together. Dim enough that everyone looks a little kinder around the edges. A celebration for something vague. A birthday. A promotion. An excuse.

You’re two drinks in. Warm, loose, unguarded in a way you haven’t been around this group in a while.

You’re laughing with someone else, easy and unselfconscious. Your shoulders stay loose, your head tipping back without you thinking about how it looks.

That’s when you spot him moving in your periphery.

Yunho, angling closer.

You don’t tense. You don’t brace. You just think, of course. A flicker of irritation sparks and settles. He definitely has a talent for finding the exact moment you forget he exists and deciding that won’t do.

Does he really hate you that much? That he can’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes? For someone who acts like you’re an inconvenience, he tracks you with impressive dedication.

You don’t look at him once.

He notices.

He drifts closer under the pretense of space tightening, stands just near enough to be heard without interrupting. Waits for a lull that never quite comes.

“Can we talk?” he asks.

It’s not soft. Not sharp either. Just dry. Controlled. Like he’s already braced for the answer.

You don’t turn.

You smile at something the person beside you says, laugh again, and keep the conversation rolling as if no one spoke at all.

For a second, Yunho stands there. Still. Watching you like he’s recalibrating.

Then he exhales through his nose and steps away.

You catch the movement in your periphery. See him fold into another cluster near the bar. He says something low. Someone laughs. He lifts his glass, nods along. Looks fine. Looks normal.

You let yourself ease back into the moment.

A few minutes later, the space behind you goes wrong.

Heat presses into your back. Too close. Broad and unmistakable. A presence settles there like it’s always had permission, warmth bleeding through the thin space between bodies. The scent of him reaches you and your stomach tightens, recognition landing before logic ever gets a say.

You stiffen.

The girl you’re talking to trails off mid-sentence. Her smile falters, eyes flicking past you, then back. Concern settles in, quiet but unmistakable. She knows this dynamic. Everyone does.

You still don’t turn.

You could make a scene. You could step away. You do neither.

His hand closes around your arm. Too firm.

Not violent. Not cruel. Just decisive. A grip that doesn’t ask. A pull that assumes compliance.

The conversation around you fractures. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Someone looks down at their drink. No one intervenes. The room decides, collectively, to pretend this isn’t happening.

He pulls.

You stumble, half a step off balance as he steers you out of the noise and into the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. The music dulls behind you. Your arm throbs where his fingers dug in, not badly, but enough to register. Enough to matter.

“Don’t touch me like that.”

Your voice cuts clean through the moment. Sharp. Immediate. No hesitation.

Yunho freezes. Like the words physically stop him.

His hand opens instantly. Drops away like it burned him. He steps back, palms lifting slightly, eyes wide with something that isn’t anger.

It’s realization.

Horror, almost.

“I—” He swallows. Shakes his head once, like he’s trying to reset his own body. “I’m sorry.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Pressurized.

You steady yourself, rolling your shoulder once, grounding back into your body. Your heart is pounding now, adrenaline rushing in late.

You look at him.

This is the first time you see it. The crack in the control. The way his chest rises too fast. The way he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore, gaze dropping to the floor, then flicking back up, afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away too long.

He doesn’t reach for you again. Doesn’t crowd your space. He stays exactly where he is, like he’s drawn an invisible line on the floor and forbids himself to cross it. Like stepping closer would be a failure he doesn’t trust himself to survive.

“I shouldn’t have,” he says, quieter now. Stripped of bite. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The words sit between you, fragile.

You believe him.

That’s the problem.

Because this isn’t arrogance or entitlement. This is something messier. Something that slipped for half a second and scared him enough that he’s been paying for it ever since.

The hallway feels too narrow all at once. Too close. The walls seem nearer than they were a moment ago. Your arm still aches faintly, a reminder you can’t quite shake.

You don’t soften. Not yet.

“Are you talking about my arm or my sanity?” you say calmly. Not accusing. Just factual. “Because you've been an asshole for months.”

He flinches. Not visibly. Something in his chest pulls sharp and quick, like your words landed exactly where he keeps things locked away.

His jaw locks. His breath stutters, then evens out again.

For the first time since you met him, Yunho looks exposed.

And you realize this wasn’t about pulling you away. It was about not being able to stand where you were.

The silence presses in, thick and heavy, not dramatic but insistent. It crowds your ribs. Makes every inhale feel calculated.

Yunho drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching, tugging a little too hard. He turns away from you, pacing once, then back again like the hallway is a cage he suddenly can’t stand.

His voice comes out wrong.

Flat. Defensive.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

You don’t interrupt him. You stay where you are, close enough to feel the heat of him, far enough that neither of you can reach without meaning to.

“I didn’t ask them to choose you.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t ask them to decide I needed… this.”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless, the sound bouncing off the walls and coming back too loud.

“And I didn’t ask to want you.”

That one lands crooked in the air between you.

You frown, confused. “Them…?”

“Yes, them,” he says sharply, voice tight. “Hongjoong and Mingi tried to set us up,” he admits, eyes fixed on the wall instead of you. “Before you even got back. They thought I needed… someone. Thought I was stuck. Or lonely. Or whatever version of me they decided needed fixing.”

You blink. Processing. The connection isn’t immediate. You feel a tickle of confusion, like a puzzle missing a piece.

“So you decided to prove them wrong by being cruel,” you say, not biting. Just connecting the dots.

His mouth twists.

“I felt cornered,” he says. “Managed. Like I was a project.”

He laughs again, softer this time. Self-aware. Bitter.

“So I decided I wouldn’t play along. I chose distance instead of being honest. Chose being cold instead of admitting I was scared.”

He finally looks at you.

“I didn’t want to meet you,” he says. “I resented the idea of you. And then you showed up and—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “You were exactly what I didn’t want to want.”

The truth of it sits heavy between you. Rewrites every moment. Every sharp word. Every withheld glance. Every moment you felt him and didn’t understand why.

Something in your chest loosens. Not relief. Clarity.

It was never you.

The anger doesn’t disappear. It sharpens. Refocuses.

You step closer. Just one step. Enough that he has to look at you. 

Your chest tightens, but your voice stays even. “Then why did you keep punishing me for it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Keeps talking instead, like stopping would let everything collapse.

“You make me lose control,” he says, eyes snapping to yours. Too intense. Too honest. The space between you feels suddenly fragile. “You make me feel seen when I don’t want to be. When I’m not ready to be.” His chest rises hard. He looks furious with himself. “And I hated you for that.”

“You could’ve just said that instead of freezing me out,” you reply quietly.

His chest rises hard again. He looks furious with himself. The words echo. Sit there. Ugly and bare.

Then the fight drains out of him.

His shoulders slump. His gaze drops to the floor. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, worn thin around the edges.

“I hate that I treated you the way I did.”

Something in him gives.

He exhales long and shaky, like his lungs finally remembered how to empty.

“You made it very clear how you felt about me,” you say, voice steady. “You spent months making me feel this way, and now you don’t get to unload it all just because you finally ran out of ways to avoid it. The damage is done, and you shouldn’t be surprised it stuck.”

That’s what breaks him.

His face folds just slightly, like the words found the exact place he’d been avoiding.

“You’re right,” he says immediately. No defense. No justification. “You’re right. I was wrong.”

He presses his lips together, nodding to himself, like he needs to hear it out loud.

“I don’t lose focus,” he says, almost to the wall. “I don’t spiral. I don’t let people get under my skin.”

His eyes flick back to you.

“Except you,” he says, breath catching. “And that’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.”

A short, bitter laugh slips out of him before he can stop it. His hands clench at his sides. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t step closer. The restraint is visible now. Intentional.

“I couldn’t stand how close you got without even trying. How I stopped thinking straight when you were in the room. I’d tell myself it was nothing, that I had control, and then you’d look at me and I’d lose it. Every time.”

He swallows.

“So I kept you at a distance. On purpose. I told myself if I never crossed the line, if I never let it start, it would end. That you’d get tired of me. That you’d hate me. And I could survive that.”

He swallows.

“And the fights…” he exhales through his nose, like he hates admitting it. “I hated them. Every one. But they gave me an excuse. A way to talk to you without admitting why I wanted to. I could argue. Push back. Pretend it was irritation instead of interest.”

His jaw tightens.

“It was easier to be sharp than honest. Easier to clash with you than risk wanting you out loud.”

His voice dips. Not broken. Just strained.

“I didn’t want to admit Mingi and Hongjoong were right. That they saw it before I did. That they knew I’d fall and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. Because admitting that meant admitting I wanted you. And that scared me more than being the bad guy.”

He steps closer without realizing it, then catches himself and stills.

“I know this is selfish,” he says, faster now. “I know I don’t get to say this after everything I did. But I panicked. I chose distance because it felt safer than wanting you this much. And now I’m standing here realizing I might’ve already lost you, and I don’t know how to live with that.”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need you to know I didn’t push you away because you didn’t matter. I did it because you mattered too much.”

He doesn’t look away when he keeps going. That feels important.

“You’re smart,” he says quietly, like it costs him something. “Not loud about it. You clock everything. You think three steps ahead and still pretend you’re just reacting. That drove me insane.”

A breath. Another.

“You’re funny in that dry way that sneaks up on people. You never try to be the center of the room, and somehow you still end up shaping it. You’re good at things without making a show of it. Games. Conversations. Reading people.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. It doesn’t last.

“And you’re kind,” he adds. “Not performative. Not strategic. You kept trying with me even when I gave you nothing back. You were polite. Patient. You gave me grace I didn’t earn.”

His jaw tightens.

“Every time you did that, it made it worse. Because it meant I couldn’t tell myself you were shallow, or careless, or just passing time. You were choosing to be decent. Choosing to keep the door open.”

He swallows hard.

“So I kept slamming it in your face. Because if I let myself want you, really want you, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I knew that. I knew exactly how badly I’d lose control if I stood too close, if I let it turn into something real.”

His voice drops.

“And then you stopped.”

That’s where it cracks.

“You didn’t get colder. You didn’t get cruel. You just withdrew. You stopped trying. You stopped looking at me like I was worth the effort.”

His voice drops.

“Even the fights stopped.”

A beat.

“At least when we fought,” he admits, barely above a breath, “you were looking at me.”

The breath he lets out sounds wrecked.

“That felt like running full-speed into a wall I’d built myself. I thought distance would protect me. I didn’t realize I was the one who wouldn’t survive it.”

He looks at you then.

“I know I don’t deserve anything from you. I know this might be too late. But I need you to understand that none of this was because you weren’t enough.”

A pause. Bare. Unshielded.

“It was because you were everything I didn’t trust myself to handle.”

Then, softer still. Almost a surrender.

“If you walk away,” he says, “I’ll understand.”

The hallway hums. Music from the bar seeps through the walls, muffled and distant. Life going on inches away, completely unaware of how tight the air is here.

For the first time, Yunho isn’t sharp or distant or controlled.

He’s just a man standing in front of you, stripped down to the truth, waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

You tilt your head, letting a slow smile tug at the corner of your lips.

“Funny,” you murmur, lips twitching. “You made it impossible to like you… and I did anyway.”

He freezes. That one line lands like gravity. He sees it. Feels it. Realizes you’re not backing away. You’re leaning in, just not giving him the victory yet.

He doesn’t mean to move.

His body betrays him before his pride can catch up, a half-step forward like gravity shifted and pulled him in. His hands come up without permission, cupping your face with a fragility that makes your breath hitch. 

They’re warm. Broad. Careful in a way that surprises you. Like he’s afraid even pressure might be too much. His thumbs settle just beneath your cheekbones, not urging, not claiming. Just there. Steady. Devout.

Too close. Too intimate. Too fast.

Your breath stutters anyway.

He leans in until your noses brush, foreheads nearly touching. You can feel it now. The want. Raw and unguarded. His breath trembles when it hits your mouth.

For a split second, you think he might kiss you.

For a split second, you almost let him.

Then you step back.

Not abrupt. Not cold. Just grounded.

The loss of you hits him immediately. His hands drop, empty, fingers curling like they don’t know what to do without you there.

He looks wrecked in a way you didn’t think was possible. Like he misread the moment and is already apologizing with his eyes.

“You’re not there yet,” you say gently.

It’s not a punishment. It’s a fact.

He swallows hard, nodding once. Accepting it without protest. His eyes shine but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t hide.

“Okay,” he breathes. Rough. Earnest. “Okay. Sorry.”

The breath he lets out next is sharp, uneven. Something finally gives in him, the last of that careful control slipping loose.

“Let me take you out,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t say it now he’ll lose the nerve. “One real date. No group. No pressure. Just me doing this right.”

He pauses. Gathers himself.

“I’ll show up,” he adds. “I’ll listen. I’ll be better than I was.”

There’s no charm in it. No practiced confidence.

Just want.

“Please,” he says, quieter now. Open. Vulnerable in a way that presses right under your ribs. “Let me try.”

You study him for a moment.

The man who chose distance over honesty. Who learned the hard way that control is a lonely thing. Who is standing here now, asking instead of taking.

Your mouth curves, slow and knowing.

“Okay. But you’re going to have to work for it,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t matter, like it means nothing.

His nod is immediate.

No hesitation. No negotiation.

“I will,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”

For a second, you just look at him.

You hold his gaze a second longer, then reach up and smooth a single strand of hair from his forehead. A small touch. Intentional. The kind that lands deeper than anything reckless ever could.

He stills completely, breath catching like he doesn’t trust himself not to lean into it.

“Good,” you say simply.

Nothing else is needed.

You tilt your head toward the bar, a quiet question. Want to go back?

He nods, just as quiet, and steps aside, palm open in a subtle gesture. After you.

You walk first.

You don’t touch again.

But it’s different now.

You move in sync, close enough to feel him beside you like a low current under the skin. The tension hasn’t disappeared. It’s just changed shape.

No longer sharp. No longer bruising.

Electric.

At the bar, Yunho signals the bartender without looking away from you.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically, already reaching for your wallet.

He hesitates. Then gives you a look. Soft. Almost helpless. 

Puppy eyes. Actual, sincere puppy eyes. Ridiculous in a way that should annoy you. 

It doesn’t.

You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. “Of course you’d do that.”

He tilts his head, a little guilty, a little desperate.

You shake your head, lips pressing together, caught between fond and exasperated.

“I don’t even know why I let you get away with this.”

And still, you let him.

The drink slides toward you. You take it. Your fingers brush his when he nudges it closer, just barely. 

He flinches like the contact meant something. It did.

You feel his attention as you take the first sip. Not watching your mouth. Watching you. Like he’s relearning how to be near you without armor. Like proximity is a privilege he doesn’t want to misuse.

When you glance back, your smile lingers half a second longer than it used to.

His ears go pink.

Across the table, Mingi pauses mid-sentence. Hongjoong follows his line of sight, then looks between the two of you.

They exchange a look.

Not smug. Not relieved.

Just deeply confused.

What the hell happened in that bathroom?

Yunho doesn’t notice.

He’s too busy standing beside you, shoulders loose for the first time all night. Like now that he’s been given permission to stay, he refuses to waste a second of it.

Not taking.

Not pushing.

Just choosing you.

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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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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 her 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. 

"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. 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 front. 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 completely.

"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,  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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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."