skz fics after dark

At first he slipped a tracking device on your car.

It’s just to make sure you get home safely, kitten.

Then he started driving past your apartment occasionally, then weekly, then daily. He learned which lights belonged to your unit and which windows you liked to leave open. His favorite days were the ones where you exercised in the living room, dressed in biker shorts and a sports bra, completely unaware of your audience.

It felt wrong—the first time his cock twitched while watching you. Invasive. But the guilt faded quickly. He convinced himself anyone with eyes would react that way to you and he has to be the one to keep an eye on you.

To protect you from them, kitten.

One evening after confirming you were gone, Felix let himself into your apartment. The electronic lock took less than a minute to hack.

The first camera went into the living room. The second overlooked the kitchen and dining area. The third was on a bookshelf across from your bed.

Obviously.

He meant to leave immediately after placing them, but curiosity pulled him toward your dresser. The top right drawer was the first he opened and held exactly what he was looking for. He ran his fingers along the lace panties, smiling softly at the various shades and imagining how they’d look against your skin.

He took a red pair for himself.

Back at home, he was alerted to your arrival by the tracker and promptly darted to his computer to view the cameras.

It was surreal enough being there himself. But seeing you in your home now, hearing the sound of you moving throughout was entirely new, and fresh. And fuck, he wished he was there with you. Wished he could just tell you how much he wanted to be with you. Every waking moment.

His eyes followed you through the apartment on the cameras, but lost you when you entered your bathroom.

That felt like too private a place to watch you, kitten.

He had to have some standards.

He maximized the camera feed, letting the image of your room fill up the entire 45-inch monitor.

You returned a while later with a towel wrapped around your body and a bottle of lotion in your hand. His eyes darted to the windows in your room, making sure they were closed.

Can’t have you exposed and vulnerable, kitten.

You sat at the edge of your bed and dried off, giving him glimpses of parts of you he’d never seen before. Thighs. Stomach. Tits.

His cock stirred beneath his sweats.

When you finally let the towel fall completely, he leaned back in his chair, pulse racing as he watched you moisturize.

He would have given anything to be the one doing that.

You stood and turned around, showing your ass to the camera. His hand flew to his cock, gripping it through his sweats as if that would stop it’s longing to be inside of you. He kneaded the length of it with his thumb as you returned the towel and bottle of lotion to the bathroom.

He used the time while you were off screen to pull down his sweats and boxers. He didn’t care what you were about to do. If you sat there and scrolled on your phone or went to sleep, he wouldn’t stop stroking his cock until he came with his eyes locked on you.

He spat into his hand then grabbed his hardened cock, slowly stroking it as you came back into frame. His brow furrowed when you climbed straight into bed without putting on any underwear or pajamas.

Is that how you always slept?

He could only hope.

You pulled out a Kindle from your nightstand and leaned back against the pillows. You bent your knees and his heart stopped at the sight of your cunt, peeking out from between your thighs. He gripped his cock tighter.

You propped up the device and after a few swipes, became impossibly still as you read.

What are you reading, kitten?

He wished he knew.

But he got a good idea fairly quickly when you started to rub your thighs together. And when you pinched your nipple between your fingers, he was certain it was of the smut variety.

The thought of you reading sexually explicit content and touching yourself (while he watched you with his cock in his hand) sent even more blood rushing to his already painfully erect appendage.

He rubbed his thumb across the tip of his cock, smearing the precum as you continued your own movements. When you released a soft moan, the sound came straight for his soul.

But hearing it through the speakers wasn’t enough. He needed the sound closer. He grabbed his headphones and put them on before maxing out the volume.

He needed to clearly hear every sound that fell from your lips, every rustle of your sheets.

Felix squeezed his cock harder as he stroked it, watching closely as your hand snaked between your thighs, fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He was suspended in disbelief at what he was seeing. At how gracious you were to bless him with this presentation on his first night with you.

It was almost like you were touching yourselves together.

He could so easily picture himself on the bed with you, face between your thighs, nuzzling his nose against your cunt, inhaling your scent.

Bet you smell good, kitten.

You spread your legs further apart, plunged your fingers into your cunt then brought the back out to spread your juices around your clit. Your hips started to move as your breathing grew shallow.

He stroked his cock faster.

You moved your hand back up to your tits, cupping one and pinching the nipple, then moved it back to your clit. A soft whimper of frustration fell from your lips.

I could do both for you, kitten.

You worked yourselves up together, moaning and groaning as you both pleased yourselves. You returned your fingers into your cunt, slowly fucking yourself, then picking up speed, smacking your palm against your clit.

He gripped his cock harder, stroking from tip to hilt furiously. He wanted to know how his cock would feel inside you. Your cunt gripping him. Your juices coating his thighs.

He grunted at the thought.

He leaned back in the chair, teeth gritted as you rolled over. You placed the Kindle on your pillow and kept your right hand between your legs, fingers still driving into your wet cunt.

And the sounds it made, kitten.

Your hips bounced against your hand as you let loose on the bed, eyes still on the words giving you so much pleasure.

Was it possible to be jealous of an electronic device? Because he sure fucking was. Fuck that Kindle. Fuck whoever wrote that story. He was desperate to be the one making you feel like that.

Felix couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. And as far as he was concerned, even blinking was a waste of time with you in front of him like that.

He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting off his release.

“Oh fuck,” you moaned. “Fuck me, please.”

Was that dialogue from the story?

Dare he believe it was meant for him?

Because he did.

He imagined mounting you from behind, plunging his cock into you, pounding your cunt until he filled you with his cum.

He couldn’t hold back anymore and neither could you.

Come with me, kitten.

He groaned as you cried out. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, carrying him through his orgasm as cum spurt out the tip of his cock. It went everywhere—the floor, his desk, the keyboard. He didn’t fucking care.

When your hips stopped writhing against the bed, you flipped over onto your back and slipped your fingers into your mouth, moaning at the taste of yourself.

His cock twitched.

He looked down at it with furrowed brows as if it had a mind of it’s own.

Not yet.

He would wait for you to fall asleep. He wanted to cum while imagining himself standing over you, waking you up with his warm cum drenching your angelic face.

You made your way to the bathroom again and he finally stood to clean himself up, too.

Felix was happier than he’d been in a while.

No longer did he ever have to spend his time without you.

how was that? 🫣 i could see a part two eventually but that's it for now.

thanks for reading!

CH 1 - Fashion Week Day 1 Outfit

(Let's let go of reality a bit and pretend it wouldn't have been cold that night, and that the zipper was in the back 😉)

CH 1 - Fashion Week Day 2 Outfit

CH 2 - Slotzilla Zipline & Wedding Chapel ft Elvis' pink Cadillac

CH 3 - Y/N's Runway outfit

CH 3 - Chan's Runway Fit

(but no shirt, of course)

CH 3 & 4 - Y/N's Red Carpet Outfit

CH 3 & 4 - Chan's Red Carpet Outfit

(I'd want the collared part to be moreso the color of y/n's dress so they're matchy matchy though)

“It’s not blackmail.” His tone stays maddeningly even. “It’s a business decision. Protecting the brand’s reputation is their priority.”

“I understand that part. I just think there has to be another option besides marriage.”

You finally sit, perching on the edge of the coffee table across from him.

“This would be three years of our lives, Chan. Three years trapped in a lie.” You tighten your grip on the contract. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

His expression doesn’t shift.

“I don’t want to marry you,” you continue quickly. “I don’t want to marry anyone. You know that.”

“I do know that.”

“Then why would you sign this?”

“I didn’t exactly have two-million-dollars lying around to break my individual contract,” he says. “Unless you came here to lend it to me?”

You press your lips together.

The five hundred thousand in your own contract suddenly feels insignificant in comparison. Still impossible. Just . . . less impossible.

“We agreed to uphold a certain image as ambassadors and we failed to do that,” he continues. “We should be grateful they’re giving us an opportunity to make amends.”

And therein lies the difference between the two of you.

Chan upholds the title of ambassador like it means something sacred.

When Fendi extended an offer to you, you saw it as a means of escape. A way to get out of your parents’ house. A way out from beneath your mother’s control. A way to build a life that actually belonged to you.

Now the contract in your hand feels like a new leash.

“Already with the ‘we’ stuff?” you huff. “It was a dumb night in Vegas. People do worse every weekend.”

His jaw tightens.

“I feel like a public apology would’ve sufficed,” you continue before that moment can linger. “Of all the things one could get caught doing, this doesn’t feel that bad.”

“And what would qualify as ‘that’ bad to you?”

“If I photographed bent over the car while you fucked me from behind.”

“Can you stop turning this into a joke for one second?” he snaps.

The sharpness of it cuts clean through you.

“Just think about it,” he says, quieter now. “The PR team would’ve gone through every possible outcome before landing on this. They picked the option that benefits the company most.”

“Which brings us back to the blackmail.”

He exhales through his nose, frustration brimming.

“I already signed it, y/n. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to give me a good reason why you signed so quickly, without even talking to me.”

The pleading in your own tone is foreign to your ears.

“A sham marriage is the exact opposite of what you want,” you press on. “You want love. Marriage. Kids. All that domestic shit. So how are you okay playing house for three years?”

His eyes snap to yours. “I never said I was okay with it.”

The room goes still.

In front if you is not the Bashful Bang you get a kick out of teasing.

This is no nonsense Chan.

“I just don’t see another option,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

You’d been counting on his practicality to uncover some alternative. But if he can’t find a way around this, neither can you.

Chan stands first, and the movement seems to end the conversation before you were ready for it. He walks toward the door, and after a second, you follow.

“Read the contract,” he says. “Then make whatever decision you can live with.”

He opens the door for you.

“I’ve made mine.”

You rub at your temples as the endless legal jargon starts to blur together. The only enticing part thus far was the generous monthly compensation package.

While in the comfort of the hotel supplied bathrobe, you read through the shared residence section next. It requires you and Chan to choose between New York City or Los Angeles as your primary home base. And there’s a clause requiring both of you to reside there whenever work doesn’t pull you elsewhere.

Your stomach tightens—you were holding onto hope that your private life could still remain yours.

The wedding section is worse.

A chateau in Rome for the venue. A week-long stay leading up to the ceremony. Accommodations and flights for both of your immediate family members included.

You aren’t ready to even think about sending an invitation home.

Or telling Seungmin and the others about this.

Finally, you get to the bold heading of the last page: EARLY TERMINATION / EXIT PROVISION.

Your pulse quickens. Maybe this is your way out.

1.1 Mutual Termination In the event both Parties jointly elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date, each Party shall remit a termination fee to the Brand in the following amounts:

Female Ambassador:  $3,000,000 USD

Male Ambassador:  $5,000,000 USD

Your face twists.

Five hundred thousand dollars already felt impossible. Two million feels suffocating. Even with the compensation package, it would take you the duration of the contract to save up that amount.

You keep reading.

1.2 Termination Initiated by Female Ambassador Should the Female Ambassador independently elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date:

The Female Ambassador shall remit a reduced termination fee of $500,000 USD.

The Male Ambassador shall assume all remaining financial liability, totaling $7,500,000 USD.

You blink at the page.

That can’t be right.

You read it again.

Slower this time, like the numbers might change.

They don’t.

1.3 Termination Initiated by Male Ambassador. Should the Male Ambassador independently elect to terminate the Engagement Agreement prior to the Completion Date:

The Male Ambassador shall remain solely responsible for all financial penalties otherwise due under Clause 1.1.

Your chest tightens around the math of it.

If you both walk away, you both drown in debt.

If you walk away, Chan takes most of the hit.

And if Chan walks away—you lose nothing.

You stare at the page, trying to make sense of it.

Then your eyes land on the initials beside sections 1.2 and 1.3.

C.B.

Below them, in neat handwriting: NON-NEGOTIABLE.

Your breath catches.

These are Chan’s addendums.

Backstage at the Fendi fashion show is hectic.

You’re seated in front of a vanity with your eyes closed while a team works around you—hands in your hair, makeup brushes sweeping across your skin.

You try to let the noise drown everything else out. You focus on the chatter. The heels clacking against the floor. The slam of makeup cases.

Anything but the nervous storm churning in your stomach.

Try as you might, nothing can make you forget that it’s official now. You signed the contract last night and Lucia’s intern came to collect it personally.

Tonight, the world finds out you’re engaged to Chan.

And you haven’t spoken to him since leaving his room yesterday.

You don’t even know what you’d say if you did.

Your phone buzzes on the vanity. You blindly reach for it and peek an eye open to see who it is.

Mommy Dearest. 

You nearly decline the call out of instinct.

It’s been close to a month since you last spoke to your mother—not for lack of effort on her part, and entirely because of the faithful ignore button on yours.

But with tonight’s announcement looming over your head, blindsiding her feels significantly more dangerous.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Sweetie!” she immediately gushes with far too much energy for it to be 9am back home. “I’ve just uploaded the pictures from yesterday and the fan account is going ballistic.”

You inwardly groan.

She runs an unofficial page dedicated to you despite repeated hints that maybe she shouldn’t.

“Especially the pictures with Felix,” she continues. “And—what’s the Versace boy’s name again?”

“Hyunjin.”

“Yes. Hunjin,” she mispronounces it anyway. “He is gorgeous. If I were in your shoes, I’d—”

“Mom,” you cut her off quickly. “Listen, there’s some news coming out tonight.”

“Oh?”

Your throat tightens.

Even without the glam team around you, you wouldn’t know how to get out the words engaged and fiancé without dying.

“I can’t really explain right now,” you say carefully, “but just . . . prepare yourself, okay?”

Your phone buzzes with another incoming call.

Lucia.

“I gotta go. Work is calling.”

You switch calls before she can protest.

“Hello?”

“I just ran an idea by the executives and they loved it,” Lucia says, rather than a proper greeting. “We’re implementing it for the show.”

You close your eyes again, bracing yourself.

“You’ll be the last woman to walk out,” she continues, “and Chan will be the first man.”

She pauses dramatically, but you’re already sitting on pins and needles without the theatrics.

“You’ll pose at the end of the runway, then the two of you will cross paths on your return. As you pass him, you’ll brush hands. The touch should linger as you both continue in opposite directions.”

Another pause.

“The longing it will imply. Ugh! The press will eat it up. It’s perfect.”

You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror.

Makeup aside, you hardly recognize yourself. Not that you ever really could. Growing up, there was never space to figure out who you were beneath everyone else’s expectations..

You don’t see an engaged woman staring back at you.

You don’t really see anyone at all.

“What do you think?” she asks.

As if your opinion factors into any of this.

“I’ll do it,” you answer flatly.

“Buono. And remember—a lingering brush of hands, okay? Down to the fingertips—think The Creation of Adam.”

The line clicks dead.

You lower the phone slowly.

The Creation of Adam?

You’re already under enough pressure walking the runway. Now you’re expected to recreate Michaelangelo’s art in under five seconds.

The team finishes moments later while you quietly update Lucia’s contact name to Lucifer.

You slip into your look for the show.

The top is a dark, collared short-sleeved button-up shirt, oversized enough to look stolen from a boyfriend’s closet. On your lower half is a pair of black high-waisted boy shorts beneath a sheer skirt. The skirt is embellished with delicate floral embroidery. Nude heels and a blush-toned handbag complete the look.

You move into position with the rest of the lineup as the music begins thundering through backstage.

One minute.

That’s all this is.

One minute of pretending you’re perfectly composed and in love.

Surely you can handle that.

But it won’t end there.

You press the heel of your hand to your sternum. Your heartbeat feels uneven.

Publicly alluding to a relationship like this isn’t your style at all.

Then again, you’re not entirely sure you even have a style when it comes to relationships.

You’ve never kept anyone long enough to figure it out.

“y/n,” a production assistant calls. “You’re next. In three . . . two . . . one . . . go!”

You straighten instinctively. Shoulders back. Chin up. Expression blank.

The moment you step onto the runway, everything else disappears beneath the adrenaline.

Camera flashes burst across the crowd.

You keep your gaze forward as you reach the end of the runway, strike your pose, then pivot smoothly.

And immediately forget how to breathe.

Chan is walking toward you.

A long leopard-print coat is draped over his broad shoulders with no shirt underneath. He is fucking shredded.

If you’d seen that in Vegas, he would have had to forcefully throw you off him.

The black slacks hang dangerously low on his hips don’t help right now either. The sharp v-cut of his abdomen is exposed and putting way too many despicable thoughts in your head of what lies beneath.

The stylist deserves prison time.

Then another horrible realization hits: your outfit looks halfway stolen from a man’s closet . . . his is missing the shirt entirely.

The looks were coordinated.

Lucifer.

You continue walking. Left foot. Right foot.

Wait, what were you supposed to do again?

Right. Just touch his hand. Innocent. Longing. Fingertips.

Easy enough in theory.

But the abs are approaching and holy fuck do they make you wanna drop to your knees on this runway.

You force your gaze back up to his face to find his eyes already on you.

Your pulse stumbles.

This man is your fiancé as of today.

He will soon be your lawfully wedded husband.

You falter, tripping over your own feet in the tight, sheer skirt.

You feel it before it happens—the horrifying split second where your body knows you’re about to fall and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

The audience collective gasps as gravity takes you.

But the impact never comes.

Chan catches you.

A wave of camera flashes erupt across the runway as heat floods your face.

This is going to be everywhere.

Chan steadies you against him. You slowly lift your eyes to his, searching for reassurance and finding it far too easily.

His hand rises to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His brow raises slightly—a silent question: You okay?

You give the smallest nod.

His hand lingers against your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin before he jerks his head toward the end of the runway behind him.

Keep going.

You somehow manage to continue walking without combusting on the spot.

Only once you disappear behind the backstage barrier do you let out a huge sigh, shoulders dropping.

That was definitely not what Lucia told you to do.

“We need you out in five minutes,” Lucia’s intern says, guiding you down a hall backstage.

He came to grab you almost immediately after you changed into a long sleeved, camel toned dress and matching heels.

A knot has formed in your stomach within the past half hour. The thought of walking the red carpet as a couple has now consumed your thoughts.

But before you do, you have to meet with Chan.

But you still aren’t sure what to say to him.

The assistant opens a door and steps aside.

It’s storage room with empty clothing racks, chairs, and vanity desks cluttering most of the space.

Chan stands at the center of the chaos, clad in a black suit and tie. The white button up shirt beneath it has the Fendi motif emblazoned along the collar.

Despite both of you being fully covered now, your pulse still quickens.

And it's another well-paired outfit for tonight's announcement.

Damn it. Lucia's good.

The door closes behind you.

“You signed.” Chan says, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I did.”

You come to a stop in front of him as he pulls out a small square box.

You don’t have to guess what is.

Your new leash.

“You’re meant to wear it any time you’re in public.” He opens the box, presenting you with the ring inside. “Starting tonight.”

You don’t budge.

After a beat, Chan takes matters into his own hands. He plucks the ring out and snaps the box shut before slipping it back into his pocket. He then holds his hand out for yours.

You lift your left hand and start to place it in his.

This moment feels like a scene you’re not meant to be in. But here you are, playing a lead role. Getting engaged.

You don’t mean to, but you recoil, pulling your hand back to your chest.

He tilts his head and speaks softly, “We signed already, y/n.”

You take a deep breath.

There really is no turning back.

You place your left hand in his.

He gently slips the gold band onto your ring finger. Right at the center is the Fendi logo, each F filled in with several small diamonds.

“I’m surprised Lucia didn’t make you give this to me in front of the press,” you muse, moving your fingers to see it sparkle in the light.

It really is a beautiful ring. It’s a shame it feels unnaturally heavy on your hand.

“She tried.”

You meet his gaze.

He refused.

You don’t know why, but somehow you doubt it was pride. Maybe even Chan has lines he doesn’t want this contract crossing.

“Chan,” you murmur. “The contract terms you negotiated . . . I don’t understand.”

He shrugs. “If you decide this isn’t something you can do, I don’t want money being the reason you stay.”

“You’re willing to be indebted for millions if I get cold feet?”

“I’d rather lose money than have someone feel like they’re trapped.”

He’s giving you a way out, owing nothing more than you do now.

But that’s a lot of fucking money.

You quirk a brow. “And you don’t think you’ll be the one to walk?”

Chan doesn’t answer immediately.

When he finally does, there isn’t a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

“Correct.”

The knock comes before you can process that.

“Lucia’s waiting.”

Neither of you move.

Then you look away first, muttering, “We should go.”

a/n: really enjoying building the tension between these two right now but even i can't wait until they rip each others clothes off 😫

taglist:@crazyfangirl2020 / @stephanieeyang / @tsunderelino / @elizalabs3 / @bunbunbl0gs / @unemployedcarat / @geni-627 / @magpir8629 / @firelordtsuki / @angrygardendeer / @anastarsia-00 / @divineslautr / @kaylovesskz / @compersian / @rayraymylove / @mirrorballbb / @lixiestaylovestraykids

ONE MONTH AGO

It’s only three days into the New Year and you’re already back to work. No complaints on your end, though. Work means money. Money equals freedom.

And the job is in Las Vegas.

Accepting the invitation was a no-brainer.

The new Fendi storefront, located in the Fontainebleau Hotel and Casino, is impossible to miss.

Pale travertine marble wraps the exterior, gold trim framing the entrance. Massive glass windows reveal carefully curated displays where every bag and mannequin are staged with intention.

The grand opening isn’t until tomorrow, but you are allowed inside for a sneak peek and to pick out a few complimentary items.

Aside from employees, the store is empty. You half expect to see Chan somewhere among the displays but he’s nowhere in sight. You make quick work of getting content. When you’re done, you drift between racks and settle on your items. The employee bags it up for you and then you’re free for the rest of the day.

On the elevator ride to your room, you send Chan a text. Fendi assignments featuring just the two of you are surprisingly rare and you were banking on spending time with him instead of being alone in your hotel room.

YOU When does your flight get in?

The elevator stops on the 8th floor and the doors open, revealing Chan clad in black shorts, a damp black tank top clinging to his torso, and a white towel slung over his shoulder. You can only assume he’s just left the hotel gym. And the veins protruding from his biceps suggest it was an arm day.

He glances up from his phone to you, then back to the phone as if trying to piece together the coincidence as well.

“Gym?” you smirk. “Should I expect more thirst traps on my feed?”

The flush that spreads across his cheeks is dangerously cute as he steps into the elevator.

Chan is objectively attractive. Unfortunately, so are all of your friends, and sleeping with people in the group sounds like an excellent way to make everything weird. But a little harmless flirtation never hurt anyone.

“You’ve seen those?” He moves to press his floor but stops when he realizes you’ve already selected it.

“Me and a million other people, babe,” you reply. “Good stuff.”

The blush deepens.

“Did you already check out the store?” you ask.

He clears his throat.

“Yeah, my flight got in this morning, so I went earlier.” He glances down at the Fendi bag in your hand. “What’d you get?”

“One of those colorful matching sets, they’re so cute,” you gush. “And a coat for Milan. You?”

“Some sunglasses and a beanie.”

“That’s it? You know it’s free, right?”

“I’m a simple man, y/n,” he replies. “And I paid for mine.”

For someone who embodies temptation in his photoshoots, Chan is absurdly down to earth. You could stand to learn a lot from him, if you were open to being taught.

“Okay, big spender,” you tease.

He chuckles as the elevator door opens again.

“Whatcha got planned for tonight?” you ask as you start down the hall.

“Just ordering room service.”

“But we’re in Vegas,” you state, matter-of-factly.

“I’ve been here before,” he shrugs.

He stops at his door—yours is three down.

“Me too,” you say, donning your most charming smile. “But there’s something I didn’t do last time. You can come with me.”

His lips quirk. “Is that what I can do?”

“I mean, unless you want me to tell Hyunjin and Felix you’re lame and left me to fend for myself.”

“That’s not a great reason. They already think I’m lame.”

“Well then we’ll prove them wrong tonight,” you counter.

He pretends to consider it.

“Okay but nothing too crazy. We have to work tomorrow.”

“We’ll keep it tame.” You place a hand over your heart. “I’ll leave the drugs in my room.”

His expression shifts to one of genuine concern.

“I’m joking,” you laugh. “You’re so easy to mess with.”

“Maybe I’ll just order room service after all . . . ”

You open your mouth to object, then stop when you see the smug look on his face.

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be back out,” he says.

You smile, nodding as you press the keycard to the lock. Your smile lingers another second after the door shuts behind you. Then the room goes still, and the feeling fades with it.

Fremont Street hits as soon as you step out of the Uber—dense crowds, street performers, music spilling at you from every direction.

You’re wearing jeans, a dark hoodie and denim jacket layered over top. Chan is dressed similarly for warmth with his new Fendi beanie pulled over his head.

You walk to the first bar you see and order four shots.

“Four?” Chan repeats as the bartender places them in front of you. “What happened to keeping it tame?”

You slide two toward Chan and keep the others for yourself.

“The first is to curb the cold,” you say, tapping your glass to his before knocking it back. “The second is to loosen you up a little.”

He grimaces after taking it. “We have work.”

“You are never beating the lame allegations,” you stare pointedly. “Look, for every shot, we’ll have a glass of water. It’ll even out.”

“I don’t think that’s scientifically accurate.”

“Damn . . . that worked on Felix.”

You take the second shot before heading back into the crowd. You pass a man playing the steel drums, showgirls, and nuns in full habit strategically altered to flash their tits.

“This place is insane,” Chan mutters.

“City of Sin for a reason,” you laugh, sneaking a photo as you pass them. “I hear you’re working on a new project?”

“Yeah,” he grins, proud. “In talks to launch a collab next summer.”

“So you’re in this for the long haul with Fendi?”

He nods. “You’re not?”

“I just renewed for a third year with them, but I don’t know, honestly,” you murmur. “In terms of jobs, it’s consistent work. Way better than scrambling for modeling gigs.”

“Then why wouldn’t you stay on as an ambassador?”

Chan pries. A lot.

But he does it with good intentions.

The others open up to him freely, knowing he’ll listen and provide sound suggestions. You, on the other hand, always have that seed of doubt that people won’t stick around if they get to know the real you.

So, you refrain from revealing too much and convince yourself it’s the polite thing to do.  

Thankfully, this topic isn’t too personal.

“Age and gravity are bound to start affecting our bodies at some point, right? I’m twenty-five. I don’t know what comes after this.”

“Whatever you want,” he says, as if it’s common sense. “Just make a plan.”

“Of course you’d say that. What’s your plan?”

Before he can answer, a set of screaming voices sound off from overhead. You glance up, watching as they whizz by on a zipline.

“We’re here!” you grin, already taking him by the wrist.

“Hard pass,” he shakes his head, planting his feet and making it nearly impossible to pull him. “No heights.”

“Come on,” you tug. “Don’t be lame.”

“You can’t keep using that word against me all night.”

“Can and will,” you retort.

He relents, letting you drag him to the ticket booth. From there, you’re led toward a set of stairs and start climbing your way to the top, where a small group waits ahead of you.

Chan glances over the railing, then quickly turns back around.

“Keep talking,” he says. “Distract me.”

“Hmm . . . what’s your big life plan?”

He exhales a breath. “It’s really just goals I want to accomplish by certain ages.”

“Pushing thirty has you spinning already?”

“Maybe a bit,” he chuckles. “I’d like to start my own jewelry line in the next five years. Then get married and start having kids.”

The admission catches you off guard. Most men want to delay those milestones as long as possible. Yet Chan seems to be counting down the days until it happens.

“You wanna be held hostage?”

His brow furrows. “You hear marriage and your first thought is lifelong imprisonment?”

“I enjoy my freedom,” you defend yourself. “I don’t see marriage in the cards for me.”

He frowns.

“Alright, you two step onto the platform,” the attendant instructs.

You both walk to the awaiting harnesses and get strapped in. You’re adjusted until you’re suspended horizontally, arms free, body angled toward the open air.

“Ready?”

You nod.

“In 3 . . . 2 . . .”

You glance over at Chan, he’s holding onto the straps for dear life, eyes squeezed shut.

The mechanism releases and you’re launched forward into the night.

A startled sound tears from your throat—half scream, half laugh—as cold wind rushes across your face and steals the breath from your lungs. Tears spring to your eyes as you stretch your arms wide, surrendering to the sensation of flying.

Nothing else exists for a moment.

There is only speed, air, and freedom.

You don’t expect anyone to understand why you crave it so much.

Somewhere behind you, Chan is stretched into a Superman pose, screaming into the night.

It takes less than two minutes to make it to the other side. You start to slow down, and a pair of hands catch the harness. Once free, you approach Chan—his cheeks flushed pink from the wind and adrenaline.

“Round two?”

He glares.

“Okay, okay. I won’t push my luck.”

Back on the ground level, you purchase the video of Chan, as proof to send the others.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.”

“Of course,” he shrugs it off. “Where to next?”

You smile, happy he’s not ready to turn in just yet.

“Hmm,” you hum, glancing around.

There’s an endless supply of things to do. You settle on the first thing that grabs your attention—a giant, mechanical grasshopper with flames shooting out of its antennae.

“That thing.”

You gently grab his arm and turn him in the appropriate direction to start walking. You nestle your hand in the crook of his arm, not wanting to get separated in the crowd.

He doesn’t seem to notice at first. Or maybe he does, because after a while his arm shifts subtly against yours, bringing you closer instead of away.

“Container Park?” he reads the sign behind the grasshopper.

“A fitting name,” you muse, looking at the various shipping containers that make up the enclosure, stacked three levels high.

Inside is an open courtyard with a playground for kids, tables and a performance stage at the back. You grab food and drinks before finding a table near a patio heater. As you eat, Chan fills you in on the collab he’s working on—the opportunity that will hopefully help him with his own line in the future.

You’re almost envious of his business savvy. He can claim to not have a thorough plan, but hearing him speak, you know every decision he makes is well thought out. You’ve kind of just been going with the flow, riding this wave of success without knowing where it’s going to drop you off.

After your meal, Chan’s eyes settle on you in a way that you know he wants to ask something.

“What is it?”

He hesitates a moment longer before finally asking, “You really wanna spend the rest of your life alone?”

“What is your obsession with marriage?” you ask, rather than answer the question.

“I’m not obsessed. I just think about it a lot. I’ve always wanted to be a husband and dad.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice when he says it.

He gestures to the kids running around the playground behind you. “That doesn’t look like fun to you?”

You turn around, watching as a pregnant mother struggles to get her wailing toddler off the slide.

You shake your head. “That looks exhausting.”

“Wait—look again,” he urges.

You turn around once more, watching as a man you presume is the father enters the area. He squats down, speaks to the child, and picks him up out of the slide, placing him on his hip. He then leans over and kisses the top of his wife’s head before taking her hand and guiding them away from the playground.

You turn back to Chan before the scene can settle too deeply under your skin.

“Nothing?”

“Plenty of people don’t want kids or to get married these days,” you shrug.

“I’d be married with kids by now, if I could.”

“What’s holding you back?” you ask, happy to shift the conversation back to him.

“The industry we’re in. I don’t want that part of my life to revolve around clicks and engagement numbers,” he explains. “I’d want to keep it private. Plus, with all the traveling we do. . . I can’t really have the family life I want if I’m not around.”

“Well I hope you meet the perfect woman for you someday.”

“Thank you.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “And I hope you like cats.”

“Good one.” You nod, biting your lip to hide your laugh. “Lucky for me, I love them.”

“Alright, future spinster,” he says, standing. “It’s about to get colder once the sun sets. I’ll call another Uber.”

“It’s not that bad. Let’s walk.”

Together, you leave Container Park and start heading back towards the hotel. The farther you get from Fremont Street, the thinner the crowds become. The music fades into the distance until the two of you can finally talk without half-shouting over it.

As the temperature continues to drop, you keep one hand tucked into the crook of Chan’s arm for warmth, the other buried deep in the sleeve of your hoodie. By the fourth time you blow warm air into your sleeve, he abruptly steers you into a souvenir shop.

“Wait here,” he says, nodding toward the industrial heater near the entrance.

You linger there while he disappears between racks of magnets, sweatshirts and novelty sunglasses.

When he returns, he hands you a matching white scarf and glove set.

You blink at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You were freezing.”

The simple certainty in his voice catches you off guard more than the gesture itself.

“Thank you,” you say more quietly this time.

You wrap the scarf around your neck and pull on the gloves while he holds his arm out for you again automatically, like he already expects you there.

Your gloved hand slips back into the crook of his elbow with embarrassing ease.

And maybe that’s the part throwing you off the most.

Just how natural this feels.

The two of you keep walking, shoulders brushing every now and then beneath the glow of neon signs and flickering streetlights.

Then your eyes catch on a sign ahead.

A Little White Chapel.

You point toward it. “Here we have our struggles with marriage, and some people come here just to elope with an Elvis impersonator.”

Chan snorts, then reads the text below the sign.  “Michael Jordan was married there? I don’t know if that’s exactly a glowing endorsement.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “It has a drive thru option.”

Before he can respond, you’re already pulling him toward the driveway.

A pink Cadillac convertible sits beneath the tunnel, a nearby sign proudly informing you it once belonged to Elvis himself.

“You can get inside if you like.”

You both turn to find the owner of the voice. An employee, just finishing his smoke break, approaches you with a smile. He’s not being nice for the sake of it, no. He’s under the impression that you two are the couple who just paid for their ceremony.

He opens the car and you and Chan climb inside. You snap a couple of selfies and a few pictures together, too.

“Your names again?” the employee asks.

Neither of you take note of the ‘again’ part.

“Chan and y/n,” you tell him.

He straightens and clears his throat. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the love and commitment of Chan and y/n.”

You and Chan turn to each other.

“Is this a bit?” you whisper.

He shrugs. “We haven’t paid for anything . . . ”

“Maybe he’s rehearsing.”

You share a look, unsure whether to stop him.

“Chan, do you take y/n, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and cherish, through joy and sorrow, and whatever life may bring?”

Chan quirks a brow. You cover your laugh with your hand.

He turns back to the officiant. “You know what . . . I do.”

The officiant then asks you the same question.

“He seems pretty swell. Why not? I do!” you exclaim, giddy at the absurdity of it all.

“You may exchange your rings, now.”

“We don’t have any,” you say, feeding more into whatever this is. “We’re nontraditional.”

“I dig it,” the officiant says with a wink. “Chan and y/n, you have declared your love and intent. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss.”

Chan turns to you once again, his expression absolutely befuddled.

“Do we have to?” He whispers so only you can hear.

“For the bit.” You giggle and lean across the seat to place a quick kiss to his lips.

It’s meant to be nothing more than a peck.

It isn’t.

The kiss lingers a second too long—long enough to stop feeling like part of the joke.

Chan is the first to pull away.

“Congratulations, newlyweds. You have another ten minutes with your package for pictures with the car,” he says before leaving towards the entrance.

You hardly register any of his words.

You can’t think of anything other than the way Chan’s lips felt against yours—so soft and plump and warm.

For a second, neither of you moves.

His eyes flick downward briefly before he rubs at his bottom lip, oddly thoughtful.

The gesture sends heat creeping up your neck.

“That was—”

“Did he—”

You both stop at the same time, then laugh.

“Did he say with our package?” you ask.

“He did. We didn’t sign anything, right?”

You shake your head, and promptly exit the car. “Let’s get out of here before something else goes wrong.”

The walk back to the hotel takes another thirty minutes, but neither of you seem to notice.

The insanity of what happened keeps sending you both into another round of laughter every few minutes.

Husband. Wife.

The words should feel ridiculous.

But the careful distance that normally exists between you feels far too thin. As if some invisible barrier quietly dissolved somewhere between Fremont Street and a fake wedding ceremony.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline from the zipline.

Maybe it’s the way he keeps reaching for you without thinking now—like his hand at your back each time you cross the street.

Whatever it is, you aren’t ready to start questioning it yet.

When you make it back to your floor of the hotel, Chan walks you to your door.

“Traditionally,” he says, reaching to open the door after you tap your card, “I think I’m supposed to carry you over the threshold.”

You blink.

“Purely ceremonial,” he adds quickly. “It’s my first time and I wanna do this right . . . for the bit.”

“For the bit,” you repeat, amused.

His arm slips behind your knees, the other around your back, and suddenly you’re airborne. You squeal, grabbing instinctively at his hoodie.

Both of you misjudge the doorway entirely and there’s a dull thunk as your head meets the doorframe.

“Ouch.”

Chan freezes. “Oh shit—are you okay?”

“I think so,” you groan.

He steps into the room and lowers you immediately before guiding you onto the bed. The humor has vanished from his face.

“Stay right here,” he says. “Don’t move, I’ll get ice.”

“Chan, I’m fine, really—”

But he’s already gone.

He dashes to the minibar to grab the ice bucket, comes back for your keycard, then exits the room.

You sit there, kicking your shoes off and laughing to yourself because of course this is how your wedding night would go.

He’s back in under two minutes. He removes the plastic bag full of ice from the bucket and sits at your side, careful hands pressing the cold gently against your head.

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he says.

“It’s fine,” you reply.

He doesn’t look convinced.

He watches your face closely.

There’s nothing careful or composed about him right now.

Just genuine concern.

“I’m so sorry, y/n, really,” he says softly.

“I’m fine,” you insist. “Do you want me to do a backflip on the bed to prove it or something?”

He perks up at that. “Can you? That would be quite impressive, actually.”

“Not without further injuries.” You lean away from the bag. “It’s too cold.”

He puts it back into the ice bucket before returning to inspect your face.

“Maybe a small bruise, but it shouldn’t swell.”

There are no injuries on his face for you to fuss over in return, but you study him just as closely. The curve of his mouth, the slope of his nose, his slightly tired eyes.

And then his eyes lock on yours, too.

You’ve never been close enough to notice their particular shade—a warm, espresso brown.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have Americano eyes?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that,” he chuckles.

The sound is so soft, so intimate, that you find yourself leaning forward to capture it for yourself. What little space remains between you slowly disappears.

He doesn’t retreat. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes.

You don’t know what this is, but the air between you feels different now.

And you want to change it even more.

You wrap your arms around his neck, slowly pulling him closer.

He lets you.

He cradles your jaw, stroking your chin with the pad of his thumb.

And you let him, too.

“Kiss me.” You whisper.

That seems to be all he needs to hear. He closes the distance between you, planting his lips on yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you melt into him with a soft sigh.

Your tongue snakes out first, gliding across his lips, seeking entrance. He obliges, and in the next instant he’s kicking his shoes off before joining you on the bed. You both lay on your sides, facing one another, lips still locked.

He’s a good kisser.

Of course he is.

Damn it.

You alternate between soft kisses and deeper ones, hand wandering freely—mostly above the waist until you hike a leg up and he starts caressing your thigh.

You try not to think how dangerous this feels.

Not the kissing, but the tenderness.

You know there’s no version of this that survives beyond tonight.

But knowing that doesn’t change how good it feels to have him pressed against you.

You rearrange yourself, shifting so that you’re on top of him, straddling his waist. You slowly roll your hips against his, feeling his cock twitch beneath his jeans.

“Fuck,” you moan before leaning down to capture his lips again.

You continue rocking your hips against his, growing bolder with each movement.

“y/n,” he groans, breaking the kiss. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” you murmur, brushing your lips against his.

“I’m not—I don’t . . . I don’t do hookups or one-night stands,” he sighs.

You place your hands on either side of his head, propping yourself up. “Of course I accidentally marry the one man with morals in this industry.”

He thrusts his hips up, pressing his hard cock between your legs. “I want to, believe me. But I can’t.”

You know this is the right choice.

You’re not what he wants long term.

And he’s not someone you could stomach hurting when you’d inevitably cast him aside.

You lean forward for a quick kiss, then rest your forehead against his. 

“But kissing is okay?”

“If we keep our hips still.”

You pepper his cheek and neck with kisses and when you pull away, he’s smiling up at you.

“You’re actually kind of sweet.” He says, though it sounds more like a question.

“Don’t tell anyone.” You playfully threaten.

He stays for a while longer.

The two of you talk quietly in between kissing, conversation drifting from teasing remarks, stories from past campaigns, and pinky promises to never talk about this night again.

At some point, the adrenaline from the night finally starts to wear off and he leaves sometime around midnight, insisting you sleep off your “near-fatal head injury.”

After he’s gone, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

Being with Chan feels safe.

You wish you found comfort in that.

Instead, it unsettles you more than if he’d simply ripped your clothes off, fucked you senseless, and left without saying goodbye.

Because sex is easy.

Relationships, commitment and feelings are not.

So much was said that night about marriage, freedom, the kind of futures you each wanted.

If anything, Vegas should have made this contract an obvious no.

Agreeing to spend the next three years trapped inside a manufactured relationship is the exact opposite of what either of you claimed to want.

Yet Chan signed anyway.

You stand outside his hotel room in Milan, contract clutched tightly in hand, heart pounding harder with every passing second.

You only need one question answered.

Why the fuck would he agree to this?

[ read chapter three here ]

a/n: match made in heaven, wouldn't ya say!? i was perusing downtown las vegas, saw the wedding chapels and this idea was born 😂 figuring out how to get these two there was the challenge. more coming soon. thank you for reading!

taglist: @crazyfangirl2020 / @stephanieeyang / @elizalabs3 / @bunbunbl0gs / @unemployedcarat / @geni-627 / @magpir8629 / @firelordtsuki

Chapter One: Milan x Fendi

Chapter Two: Vegas x Fendi

Chapter Three: Runway x Fendi

However, it did become easier to ignore how attractive he was when you realized he was your biggest competition. He has the same drive, same ambition, same refusal to fall behind.

Eventually you both secured permanent positions, but the rivalry didn’t end there. If anything, it only grew more intense. You’ve kept pace with each other every step of the way—leading your first project, building your own teams, trading cubicles for private offices.

Now, though, there’s an opportunity to finally pull ahead with the Executive Director position.

You’re not losing this.

With that in mind, you tear your gaze away from him and start walking.

A second later, so does he.

You move down the aisle, cubicles lining either side, your focus fixed straight ahead. Until you catch sight of him doing the exact same thing. Heading for the same office. Of course he is.

His gaze flicks to you, just for a second, before snapping back to the door on the opposite end of the office. He takes longer strides.

No. He is not about to derail this.

You pick up the pace, the restriction of your skirt and heels working against you. Still, you push through it, closing the distance until you reach the door at the same moment he does.

You steady your breathing, forcing your chest to rise and fall evenly in an effort to conceal that you exerted more energy than necessary to get here.

“Whatever you’re planning to bother him with can wait,” you tell him. “I have a meeting.”

“So do I,” he replies with a hint of a smile, like the idea of disrupting your plans amuses him. “At two.”

So here you are, neck and neck again. Scheduled for a meeting at the exact same time. You tighten your expression before a look of annoyance can creep in.

He knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

Your brow furrows—that most certainly is not the voice of the CEO.

You grab the door handle before he can and open it, allowing yourself in first.

The excitement and adrenaline from moments ago dwindles.

Seated behind a large mahogany desk is Changbin Seo. The sleeves of his navy-blue shirt are rolled up, and the buttons look like they’re working overtime over his chest.

“What are you doing here?” you immediately ask.

“Is that how you greet an old classmate?”

“We graduated three years ago, Changbin. We don’t have to keep referring to each other as classmates.”

You don’t bother putting on a professional façade. Chan is used to the two of you bickering like siblings whenever the CEO isn’t around.

You’ve been like this since freshman year. Changbin is a near constant presence—annoying, but permanent. When he found out you were applying for an internship at his dad’s company, he offered to put in a good word for you, but you made him swear not to interfere with the selection process.

“Everything okay with your dad?” Chan asks, approaching the desk to shake his hand.

“Yeah, he’s good bro,” Changbin replies before looking back at you. “See how easy that was? Have a seat.” He gestures to the empty chairs.

“Where is he?” you ask as you sit.

“Bali. He was supposed to meet my mom there yesterday,” he informs you. “She threatened him with divorce if he missed another flight.”

“And you’re filling in?”

He grins. “Yep. Testing out how I do in the role before he retires.”

“Oh god,” you scrunch up your face in mock horror.

“Come on, I’d be a great boss.”

Chan clears his throat. “Was there a reason he wanted to see us?”

“Right, my bad. Business mode,” Changbin waves his hand in front of his face and hardens his expression. He rifles through papers on the desk. “He says you did excellent work on the travel campaign, y/n. And you too, Chan, on the car campaign.”

“Did he really leave you notes to read off?” you snort. “This could have been an email, then.”

Changbin ignores you, eyes skimming over the paper. “Both of your efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, blah, blah, blah. Okay, here it is. Chan and y/n are to work on the Toronto Thunder campaign pitch.”

You were excited when you first heard about the campaign and had planned to volunteer to lead it.

Alone.

Landing a professional sports team as a marketing client would surely put you in good standing for the promotion.

But working on this with Chan…well, there aren’t two Executive Director positions available.

“Together?” you and Chan react simultaneously, making it clear he’s thinking the same thing.

“Is that really necessary?” you ask.

“Yeah…with all due respect to your father, one of us could handle it,” Chan adds.

“He said you’d probably object,” Changbin laughs, pointing at whatever words his father wrote about your rivalry. He sets down the paper and speaks for himself. “Securing this client could generate millions and since you two are the top ad execs, we can’t risk not having you both on this.”

“Can one of us decline?” you ask.

Chan turns to you. “You’re offering?”

You turn to him.

Neither of you blink as the tension builds.

Changbin glances back and forth between you. He’s not sure whether you two are about to fight or kiss. Or both. He could be into that.

“Look,” Changbin finally breaks the silence. “I need to keep this place from burning down while he’s out of the country. Which means you can’t decline—that’s coming from me, your friend, y/n.”

That gets you.

You face forward, then Chan follows suit.

“I want good news to deliver while he’s away, to show that I can handle this. I know for a fact if you both do it, there’s no way we won’t get the client. So, please, just work on the damn pitch together, okay?”

You both nod.

After going over a few more details with Changbin, you and Chan exit the office together.

“Do you have time to brainstorm before we leave?” you ask as soon as the door closes.

If you’re stuck with him, you’re setting the tone.

“I’m off early today.”

“That’s rare,” you remark. Then, given the situation, follow up with a jab. “I didn’t take you for a slacker.”

His eyes narrow but he doesn’t take the bait. “We’ll meet Monday. I’ll be prepared with ideas then.”

“Don’t think too hard about it,” you shrug. “We’ll probably end up going with mine anyway.”

“If we go with yours, it’ll only be so I can save the day with something better and snag that promotion.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he walks toward his office before you have the chance. Unfortunately, that means you have to trail behind him to get to yours.

CHRIS

“One more gin and tonic, boss,” Chris says to the bartender. He glances over his shoulder, checking to see where Felix and Han have gone off to in the crowded bar.

Stopping here is a staple before their Friday night shifts at the club. It’s practically a ritual—a few drinks to scour the nerves ensures a lucrative night.

When the bartender returns with his drink, he slaps a bill on the bar top.

“Cheers, mate. Keep the change.”

“Same time next week?”

“You know it,” he raises his glass toward the bartender before taking a sip.

“You left work early to dye your hair?” comes a voice from his side.

He turns to find you looking at him, having just nudged your way up to the bar.

For a second, he considers whether he knows you.

He doesn’t.

But you’re looking at him like he should.

He studies you, as you take him in. Silver hair, not dark. Black t-shirt, jeans and boots—not the suit you’re probably accustomed to seeing.

He can see it. You’re trying to reconcile him with someone else.

Chan.

He should clear up the confusion immediately.

But Chris doesn’t like doing what’s expected of him.

“You like it?” he asks, smiling playfully.

“It’s different…not very professional,” you say. “And a little too fun for your personality, I think.”

“I agree,” he muses, knowing exactly who you’re actually talking about. “Maybe I should dye it back.”

“Your poor hair follicles.”

The bartender approaches for your order. “What can I get you?”

“Two Moscow Mules, please,” you tell him. You turn back to Chris. “So, about the Thunder campaign—"

He cuts you off. “Not tonight. I’m off duty.”

He has no idea what you’re talking about, but if you know Chan it’s probably work.

“I doubt you’ve been off duty a day in your life.”

Chan wouldn’t find these comments amusing.

Chris bites back a grin.

Most people don’t talk about Chan like that. Yet here you are—no hesitation, no filter, just saying it straight to his face.

Well. Technically.

“You here with your boyfriend?” He asks.

“…I don’t have a boyfriend,” you say slowly, a faint edge of confusion in your voice.

Right. Not a Chan question.

“Then who’s the second Moscow Mule for?” he recovers without missing a beat.

“My friend. Elena.”

“That’s good.”

Your brows pull together. “Why would that be good?”

His gaze lingers—tracing your face before dipping, quick and unapologetic, to your cleavage.

“Because then I’d have to tell him he’s a fool,” he says. “For letting you walk over here alone to order drinks looking like that.”

You scoff.

“What?” he shrugs, taking a sip. “You’re telling me no one’s tried their luck since you walked in?”

“No,” you say, eyes narrowing. “My RBF scares them away.”

“RBF,” he repeats, tilting his head. Amused. “Alright, then. If I can get you to smile…does that mean I can hit on you?”

You blink at him.

Chris watches it happen—your brain catching up to something that doesn’t quite fit.

For a second, he considers letting you figure it out.

But before you can, Felix comes up behind him and claps a hand against his shoulder.

“Down that so we can go,” he says. He glances between you. “Oh. Am I interrupting?”

“Yes, actually.” Chris replies.

“Well, if it’s that serious, are you going to introduce me?” he counters.

“This is Felix,” Chris says, gesturing toward him—then to you, stalling just a second too long. “And this is…sorry, what was your name again?”

Your brows lift. “You’re an asshole. I’m y/n. We work together.”

“Really?” Felix says, surprised. “Maybe I’ll stop by sometime. See what you can do.”

You almost laugh. Who visits a marketing firm?

But Chris doesn’t work at a marketing firm.

A prickle of heat crawls up the back of his neck. This could turn fast. One wrong detail, one follow-up question and the whole thing unravels.

And if it unravels here, it won’t just stay here.

He can already hear Chan’s voice: You’ve got my fucking face, mate. Don’t make problems for me with it.

He exhales through his nose and drains the rest of his drink.

“It was nice seeing you,” Chris says, setting the glass on the bar.

Felix heads for the exit. Chris turns to follow.

“Wait, I need your number.”

That stops him.

He glances back at you.

He should keep walking. Pretend he didn’t hear you.

“You don’t already have it?” he asks instead.

You scoff. “As if I would have ever wanted to contact you before.”

“Then why now?” He turns back, a half-smile pulling at his mouth as he steps closer. You don’t move. “Be honest, it’s the hair, isn’t it?”

“We’re on the project together,” you say. “We need to communicate.”

He leans closer, voice low near your ear. “Come on, tell me it’s the hair.”

You don’t pull away—just press your hand against his chest to push him back. You bring your phone between you. “Put your number in.”

Chris takes it and for a second, he just stares at the screen.

This is where he fixes it. He can put Chan’s number in and walk away. The two of you can sort it out on Monday.

His thumb hovers. Then he glances up at you—still watching him, expectant.

Yeah. Not yet.

He types his own number, saves the contact as CB, and sends himself a text.

“There,” he says, handing the phone back. “Maybe I’ll text you first.”

He catches up with Felix and Han, slips into the Uber taking them to work. But the whole time, he’s still thinking about you.

And more annoyingly, how he’s going to explain it when it inevitably stops being harmless.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over his face.

He already knows what Chan will say.

And yet, he’s going to do this anyway.

Y/N

You slide back into the booth, across from Elena. She waves off the man she’d been talking to and takes her Moscow Mule with a grateful smile.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“Chan.” You say—unknowingly incorrect.

You’d already given her the full rundown of what happened at work when you arrived.

“No fucking way,” she says, leaning in. “You didn’t mention he was sexy as fuck, girl.”

“Is he?” you ask, like you didn’t clock that the first day you met him as an intern.

“Fuck yes. And he’s giving bad boy energy. Is he single?”

Bad boy energy and Chan do not belong in the same sentence.

“I have no idea. I’ve never seen him like that.”

She eyes your attire.

“And he’s probably never seen you like that either. Crop top, tits out—”

She cups her own chest and gives an exaggerated bounce, and you laugh.

“Everyone’s buttoned up at work,” she continues. “Now you see what you’ve been missing in his off time.”

“No.” You shake your head. “He’s still a dick.”

“He seemed nice.”

“From forty feet away, sure.”

“He was laughing at whatever you said.”

“That makes it weird,” you say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh or smile. Unless he’s gloating over a campaign win.”

“Well,” she lifts her glass, “salud to whatever the next two weeks bring. With him.”

“I’m not cheersing that.”

She taps her glass against yours anyways.

You make a face, wiping the rim like she’s just cursed you, and only then take a sip.

You stay for another hour before calling an Uber home. You shower and climb into bed with a sheet mask cooling against your skin as the TV drones in the background.

Your phone buzzes beside you.

It’s a text.

From CB…

At 11:38pm.

CB You up?

You check the time again.

YOU We serious right now? CB Let’s grab lunch tomorrow

You frown at the screen.

He was odd enough at the bar. Now he wants to meet you again outside of work?

YOU Why would we do that? CB Research

You relax a little.

Working on the weekends is not unusual in your salaried position. But spending your Saturday with Chan sits differently.

It shouldn’t, though.

You tell yourself that’s just history talking—an old reflex from when you were new and would have been eager to spend more time with him.

Now it’s just a work meeting.

And you refuse to be seen as uncooperative.

YOU Okay. CB 2:00pm. Thyme & Toast.

CHRIS

You enter the restaurant just a little before two o’clock.

Chris watches you scan the room. He could raise his hand to wave you over, but he wants you to find him.

When your eyes finally land on him, there’s a fractional pause—that same recalibration from last night.

Silver, not dark.

“Don’t think I’ll get used to that color on you,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

You came.

“Wasn’t sure you’d show,” he says.

“I’m not jeopardizing this pitch or the promotion,” you reply. “Even if it means seeing you on a Saturday.”

He lifts his hands slightly in surrender. “Let’s save the hostility for work, yeah?”

You roll your eyes.

“What ideas have you come up with?” you ask.

He leans back slightly. “Let’s eat first. Then we’ll get into the pitch.”

You order. Small talk fills the gaps—weather, traffic, all filler conversation.

He notices you don’t really know what to do with him—Chan—outside of work.

You must not be close.

“So we’ve been working together for a while, like two…three…” he trails off, not wanting to stick his foot in his mouth.

“Four years.”

“Long time. What do you know about me?”

“You’re Australian. Came here for college,” you shrug.

“That’s it?”

“You never talk about yourself. You’re too set on being all mysterious and elusive.”

“Is there anything you want to know?”

You pause for a beat.

“Not particularly.”

“And what if I want to know about you?”

“I’d demand to know when you started caring about getting to know anyone in the office.”

Chan’s done a number on them, apparently.

“What do you do when you’re not at work?” he asks.

“Think about work.”

Ah.

Figures.

“You don’t have any hobbies?”

“Work is my priority,” you say. “What hobbies do you have that led to that hair color?”

“It was for a performance.” He settles on a half-truth. “A dance…of sorts.”

“Really? I can’t picture that.”

“For completely valid reasons, I’m sure.”

When your plate is empty, you push it away.

“Alright. Campaign. What exactly are we researching today?”

“Run the client details by me again,” he says.

The waiter brings the bill. Chris drops cash on the table.

Your brow furrows slightly. “Toronto Thunder. Soccer team. They want to increase ticket and merch sales.”

“Right,” he says immediately, as if you’ve just reminded him. He stands. “I have a place in mind.”

“Hang on—I’m going to the restroom first.”

He nods.

Outside, Chris pulls out his phone.

The “research” excuse was just enough to get him here.

He hadn’t planned this far ahead.

Shit, he actually told himself if you texted back last night, he’d fix it.

He didn’t. Obviously.

But soccer gives him direction.

He calls—it picks up on the fourth ring.

“Yeah?” Hyunjin answers.

“Hey. Still got those season tickets?”

A moment of silence passes.

“That’s weird.”

“What?”

“Your brother asked me that earlier.”

“Did he.” Chris slows. “For tonight?”

“Weekday game on Thursday.”

“They available tonight, then?”

“Yeah, I’ll send them to you. You guys coaching a kids’ league or something?”

Chris huffs a quiet laugh. “Not quite. Cheers.”

You come out of the restaurant just as he pockets his phone.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“You’ll see.”

You fall into step beside him.

“I need the address,” you say.

“Just come with me.”

“I—”

“It’s faster.”

“But—”

“I’ll bring you back to your car after.”

A beat passes.

“Any other rebuttals?”

You shake your head.

“Alright, then. Hop on.”

He turns to a motorcycle and swings his leg over.

You stop in your tracks. “On second thought…”

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve been riding since I was thirteen.”

You hesitate.

He takes the helmet off the bars, holding it out for you.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

You lock eyes. Then, after a beat, he smiles and adds, “Promise.”

A/N: The only thing better than one Chan is TWO! I feel like this is gonna be a fun ride (she says, knowing damn well what she has in store).

[ Vote here. Poll is open until May 9th ]

A black midi dress with sheer vertical panels cinches your waist, and your strappy black heels hurt just enough to remind you this look is strictly for work. Your hair is pulled back into a sleek high ponytail, a few loose tendrils framing your face.

You scan the crowd for someone you know.  The sight of Hwang Hyunjin draws you in as soon as you catch a glimpse. He’s seated in the front row giving complete nonchalance while still looking like he should be on the cover of a magazine—dark hair in a half ponytail, the gold on his outfit glinting against the light.

His expression brightens when he sees you.

“Mr. Versace in the flesh,” you say, slipping into the seat beside him.

He’s their golden boy, and he knows it.

“I was wondering when you’d get here.” 

“My flight was late,” you reply. “I’m still traveling commercial. Think you could get Donatella to lend me her private jet sometime?”

He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, putting on a pained expression as he places his arm behind your seat. “I make no promises, but . . . I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re an angel,” you joke.

Then, your eyes land on a literal Louis Vuitton angel entering the room. The camera flashes make it seem like an actual halo is floating above his bleached blonde locks.

“Felix!” You call out, waving him over.

You can see the moment he spots the two of you and his shoulders drop, relaxing in the chaos. He poses for a few photos before joining you, sitting on your other side.

Jeongin Yang, the picture of seductive innocence in Bottega Veneta, arrives a few minutes later.

Sitting between them feels like proof your mother was right—beauty opens doors.

But you never planned for all of this. You didn’t grow up dreaming of luxury fashion houses and their seasonal runway looks. You just followed where she pointed.

It was easier that way.

“How long are you all in town for?” you ask.

You’re here for three days—until Friday—and would love to have each of them by your side for every event you’re scheduled to attend. But you know it’s not likely.

“Until tomorrow morning,” Felix answers.

“Tomorrow night,” says Hyunjin.

“However long you want me to be,” comes Jeongin’s bold reply, accompanied by a wink.

The conversation shifts to plans for the evening and you chime in occasionally, but your eyes are focused on roaming the crowd for the final addition to your group. You feel it before you see him, like your body recognizes his presence faster than your mind allows.

Bang Chan is talking to a reporter, clad in a navy blue Fendi suit—exuding that understated elegance only he can. He’s still mid-conversation when his eyes find yours.

The noise in the venue fades and the memories of the last time you saw him come in a rush.

The neon lights of Las Vegas.

The pink Cadillac.

His arms wrapped around you.

Lips pressed against yours.

He holds your gaze, offering a small and careful smile. You return it without thinking. Then, just as quickly, you both look away.

When he makes his way over, he sits on the other side of Hyunjin, and you lean back for another peek, catching his eyes again. He chuckles softly this time, ducking his head from your view.

“Is Seungmin coming?” Felix asks.

“No,” you shake your head. “Burberry is still reserving their presence exclusively for London Fashion Week. We should send him a picture to show him what he’s missing, though.”

You take out your phone, pull up the camera, and pass it to Jeongin on the end to capture everyone. You all smile as he snaps away.

You send the picture to Seungmin and he responds almost immediately.

seungminnie BORING.

You know better—he is not a man that gets FOMO because, in his mind, wherever he is, is precisely where he’s meant to be. But it makes you laugh all the same.

The chatter around the room softens as the lights dim. Music starts to play and the first model steps out. Every look from Gucci is a statement piece. The lean, thin silhouettes of the models, the rich textures in the fabric, colors that complement their various skin tones perfectly. You watch and try to enjoy the craftmanship, the confidence, the theatrics of it all.

Then Lee Minho appears, grabbing your attention. He moves with precision, each step controlled yet fluid. He has to look forward, can’t glance to the side where the five of you are, but he knows you’re there.

Etiquette for this kind of event doesn’t allow you to cat call the way you want. You settle on a smile and a small, silent clap as he passes on the way back.

The show is over in twenty minutes. It’s crazy to think all the buzz and commotion surrounding this week and the standard run time is less than that of a sitcom.

The group agrees to grab dinner and while you can’t think of anything more uncomfortable than eating in a $5,000 dress that doesn’t allow you to breathe properly, you prefer it to being alone in your hotel room. 

Your eyes scan for Chan again as you exit, but Hyunjin tells you Chan and Jeongin are staying back to wait for Minho.

At the restaurant, the waitstaff immediately begin to arrange tables to fit your group. You’re not sure if they know who any of you are, but this treatment—quick calls to action—is not out of the ordinary. Especially when you’re with the likes of Felix and Hyunjin, all of you dressed like you come from a lineage of offshore bank accounts.

Hyunjin and Felix take seats across from you. Hyunjin orders drinks and appetizers while you wait for the others to arrive.

“So, when is the next episode of Felix Flambé?” you ask.  

You’ve been a subscriber since his YouTube channel launched. It’s a mess, honestly, but you tune in every episode. It’s always entertaining to see whether what he’s cooking turns out decent or disastrously bad to the point where he won’t let his guests eat it and ends up ordering them takeout instead.

“Better question,” Hyunjin interrupts. “Why haven’t we been invited on yet?”

“It’ll be up in two weeks,” he answers you first, then addresses Hyunjin. “You guys don’t exactly have the easiest schedules to work with.”

Hyunjin side eyes him. “I sent you my full schedule last month. I had plenty of openings.”

“You never even asked for mine,” you add.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I don’t want to deal with your ridicule in front of a camera,” he admits. “I know for a fact none of you would go easy on me.”

“That makes for good content,” Hyunjin says.

When the others arrive, they’re escorted to the table. It appears Jeongin, Minho and Chan have invited a few female ambassadors you recognize from Dior and Chanel.

However, you have a pretty solid gut feeling it was mainly Jeongin’s doing.

You keep your expression neutral as Chan takes the seat beside you.

“Long time no see,” he greets softly in his Australian accent.

It’s been a month since Las Vegas, but no more than thirty minutes since you were at the venue together.

“How did you manage without me?”

He lifts a hand, forcing it to shake. “The withdrawals have already kicked in.”

The waiter comes around again, setting the appetizers on the table, then Felix takes the lead, ordering family style dishes for everyone to share.

“Where did they put you up this time?” you ask Chan.

“Four Seasons Milano.” He answers, sliding an empty plate in front of you, then one for himself.

“Same,” you reply, plating up a few appetizers.

You pick one up and take a nibble, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. You’ll be lucky to have three bites before the seams of this dress burst.

Chan notices your movements—or lack thereof with how much your range of motion is restricted. His eyes scan the dress, and he locks in on the zipper. In the next moment, he’s taking off his suit jacket and passing it to you.

“Put it on.”

“I don’t think more clothing is what I need right now,” you say.

“Just do it,” he replies, a playful hint of annoyance detectable.

You take the suit jacket and slip into it. It smells like him. You’d love to take a deeper inhale if it wouldn’t risk fracturing your ribs in the process.

Then, without warning, Chan slips his hand beneath the suit jacket. You stiffen, eyes darting around the table to make sure the others aren’t watching. They’re not, but that fact does little to calm you.

Especially when his fingers ghost your back.

They stop at the zipper. He tugs on it and a wave of relief courses through your body the further he pulls it down.

“Thank you.”

He gives a curt nod, removing his hand.  

Jeongin pulls him into a separate conversation, right on time.

You turn to Minho and the other female ambassadors. Networking, in this industry, is a must. Even a dinner amongst friends and acquaintances brings up topics of potential collaborations at some point.

After the meal, you ride back to the hotel with Chan and Jeongin—who’s also staying at the same hotel.

As soon as you enter the lobby, Jeongin heads straight to the front desk for a replacement keycard to his room while you and Chan proceed to the elevator.

“Are we on the same floor again?” he asks, pressing the button for the fourth.

You mock offense. “I’m on two.”

He presses the button to your floor as well before leaning back against the wall of the elevator. You do the same, against the opposite wall and cross your arms in front of your chest.

The air between you is charged, thick with a need that begs to be satisfied.

“Did they give you a suite or something?” you pry.

“I’m vested in this Fendi lifestyle,” he teases, flashing a dimple. But even he can’t take himself too seriously before laughing.

The elevator stops at floor two and the doors open.

You don’t move.

You should step out and go to your room. Get out of this dress. Stand under a cold shower until the feeling passes.

But you don’t want it to pass.

You like the way your nerves spark in his presence. Skin tingling like you’ve had one too many espresso shots. It’s a high. One you feel incomplete without chasing.

“Well, now I need to confirm if your room is in fact bigger.”

He smirks as the doors slide shut. When they open again on the fourth floor, you follow him out.

“Should I carry you over the threshold?” He stops at his door and places the keycard against it.

“Please, no,” you insist as the lock whirs. “Once was enough.”

He opens the door for you to step inside. “Never gonna live that down, am I?”

“Nope.” You say, popping the p as you pat his chest on the way in.

Mahogany greets you everywhere—floors, walls, even the ceiling—rich and seamless. You wander down the hall, peeking into the open bedroom as you pass. The hall opens into a living room, where oval windows let in the evening light, casting everything in a warm glow.

You move through the space freely, letting your curiosity lead you. His room is definitely bigger than yours.

Another hallway leads you to a small kitchen, complete with a refrigerator, microwave, electric stove, ample counter space and a sink.

“Wow. You really are big time, huh?”

He chuckles, following you to the area. “You thirsty? The fridge is stocked.”

“I can’t possibly consume anything else,” you shake your head. “But I should return your jacket.”

You start to take it off, but he stops you.

“Leave it on. It looks good on you,” he says. “And you can’t walk out of here with your dress still unzipped.”

You pull the jacket back over your shoulders and lean on the counter behind you. He leans back against the wall, putting a safe distance between you again.

“Should we talk about Las Vegas?” he asks.

“Like the part where you nearly gave me a concussion?” you deflect, like you always do.

You stare at each other for a long moment before laughing.

“I thought we agreed to never talk about it,” you say.

“True,” he murmurs, before softly adding, “I just want to make sure we’re okay.”

Ugh.

It should be a crime for him to look like that and be so caring.

Chan is exactly your type—loyal, handsome, reserved. The kind of man who’d fall hard if you let him.

But you never let anything get that far.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” you answer with a half-shrug. “It was… team bonding. Just not exactly the usual kind.”

His gaze drops, heat rushing to his cheeks.

The thoughts that cross your mind when his bashful side shows are unfortunate given how you agreed to leave things.

“But what was that at the restaurant?” You press a little further, because tempting temptation is hard to resist.

“A chivalrous act?”

“Oh,” you force a pout. “When you unzipped my dress, it had me wondering if you were wishing we hadn’t stopped.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

“Is that what you think of me?” You ask, playfully curious.

“It’s one of the words I’d use to describe you,” he replies.

“And what are the others?”

He falls quiet for a moment, studying you in a way that unnerves you.

“Bold,” he finally answers. “Impulsive. Restless. It’s like you stay in motion on purpose—to keep anything from getting too still.”

You bristle at being read to filth so thoughtfully.

“You think you have me all figured out, huh?” you taunt, taking a step closer in the small kitchen.

“Bold.” He smirks as you stop in front of him. You walk your middle and ring finger up his chest. “Impulsive.”

You hook an arm around his neck and push up onto your tiptoes.

“Then maybe—”

“Wait,” he cuts you off, placing his hand over yours on his chest. “This is where you insert a witty comeback to deflect, yeah?”

You flatten your feet and push his chest as you step away. He laughs, reaches for your waist and pulls you back in—despite every reason you both have to stay apart.

“Trouble. Like I said.”

Your eyes meet as his grip on your waist tightens.

You lean closer. He follows.

But thankfully (or unfortunately) there’s a knock at the door.

You both pull apart, the moment dissolving instantly. He leaves to answer it, and you take a second to compose yourself before following.

“You said you’d give me some pointers on my walk tomorrow, hyung.” Jeongin’s voice floats into the room.

“Right. Of course.” Chan clears his throat, fully opening the door. “Come in. y/n is here.”

“I was just leaving,” you smile at Jeongin as he steps in. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Knock ‘em dead, Innie.”

You pass Chan at the door, close enough to feel it again.

Trouble.

For the second day of Fashion Week, you’re styled in a brown bodycon dress with the FF logo embroidered across it and matching sneakers—far more comfortable than yesterday’s look.

At the venue, you quickly find Minho and Hyunjin and take your seats. You keep your eyes on the entrance, waiting for Chan, but as the lights dim, there’s still no sign of him.

Jeongin dazzles during his runway debut, back straight, shoulders squared, neutral expression. It’s always strange seeing people you know like this. So precise and polished, almost unrecognizable from who they are offstage.

After the show, your phone vibrates.

lucia calling . . .

The Head of Public Relations for Fendi.

“Hello?” you answer.

“y/n, buon pomeriggio! You’re still at the venue, si?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “We’re sending a car to bring you to the office. It will be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” she says a little too positively. “We’ll see you soon.”

The line hangs up.

“I have to head down to the Fendi office,” you tell Minho and Hyunjin. “I’ll text you guys later, yeah? Tell Jeongin I’m sorry to bail and I owe him one.”

“You sure you want to open that door?” Minho asks.

“You’re right,” you reply. “Tell him I owe him a meal—nothing more.”

“Much better,” Hyunjin nods. “I’m leaving tonight but I’ll see you in London?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

You hug them both before heading out front to wait for the car.

At the office, you’re led to an empty boardroom and left to wait in silence.

Business meetings are always a bit unnerving. Even moreso when you don’t know what it’s about.

The door opens and Lucia walks in, an intern trailing behind her. She stops at the front of the room, her perfectly pressed suit making her beautiful and intimidating.

“How has Milan been treating you, y/n?” she asks with a veneered smile.

“Amazing as always,” you reply. “Thank you for having me.”

She nods slowly, eyes fixed on you longer than necessary. Then she turns, speaking to her intern in Italian, handing off her laptop. He rushes to set it up.

“Something has been brought to our attention recently,” she says. “Your time in Las Vegas . . . it was good, si?”

Your stomach tightens.

“Yes.”

“I could tell.” Her head tilts. “I must say, I’m a bit offended there was no invite. Should I congratulate you?”

Shit.

“It wasn’t real,” you say quickly, sitting upright. “We didn’t sign anything.”

“I know.” She smiles. “I checked.”

The flicker of relief you feel is short lived.

“However,” she continues, “that doesn’t mean anything when it comes to perception. You were photographed that night, y/n. Do you understand the position you’ve put Fendi in?”

You don’t answer.

“Fendi represents luxury,” she says. “Luxury sells a fantasy.”

The TV lights up.

“And a scandal ruins it.”

You stop breathing at the sight of the image on screen.

You and Chan—clear enough to recognize—sitting in that pink Cadillac outside the chapel. His hand on the wheel. You tucked against him. And that damn identifiable Fendi beanie on his head.

“Does this scream luxury and fantasy to you?”

“No,” you say.  

“Correct. A drive-thru wedding is . . . not aligned with our brand.” She chastises. “It’s trashy.”

She clicks again. Another image of you and Chan with the officiant in frame.

“We’ve been contacted. They’re asking for payment to keep these from circulating.”

“A ransom?”

The gravity of the situation slowly starts to sink in.

“Yes. But paying it guarantees nothing, the brand could still be susceptible to rumors and scrutiny,” she explains. “So we’ve chosen another approach.”

Something in your chest tightens.

She clicks again and you go still.

A wedding mockup—you in white, Chan in black, standing at an altar.

“A real marriage reframes the narrative,” Lucia says.

Her words land heavy.

“We’re launching a global campaign,” Lucia continues. “A modern fashion dynasty. And we want you and Chan at the center.”

The slides continue, depicting you and Chan at a reception, on the dance floor, smiling like it’s the best day of your lives.

You glance at the intern. The thought of him or someone else in this building having to generate these images and put together a PowerPoint is mortifying. 

Lucia goes into details about where the nuptials will take place, but you don’t hear any of it.

Your focus narrows.

A wedding. A ceremony. Guests. Floral arrangements.

Not your thing.

Not with Chan.

Not with anyone.

“…and, in a year, when we are ready to launch our new line of Fendi home décor, you two will be the face of that, as well.”

“How long would we be expected to do this?” you ask.

“Three years to start.”

Three.

Years.

Your jaw tightens.

“And after that?”

“Renegotiation, potentially.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“You end your contract voluntarily. And pay the early termination fee.”

You don’t have five hundred thousand dollars lying around. That’s not an option.

You lean back in the chair, exhaling a low breath.

“Can I talk to Chan, first?”

“If you’d like,” she says. “But he already signed this morning.”

“He did?”

She nods, snapping her fingers. The intern places a manila envelope in front of you.

“His addendums are included,” she says. “We’ll need your answer by tonight.”

Tonight.

That hardly leaves any room to think.

“Tomorrow we’ll either be announcing an engagement,” Lucia continues, “or we announce the loss of two ambassadors.”

You pick up the envelope. It feels heavier than it should.

“Think carefully,” she says. “And choose wisely.”

You hold the daunting contract tightly against your chest as you exit the boardroom. You make it to the car before pulling out your phone, thumbs flying over the keys.

you we need to talk.

[ read chapter two here ]

Another one bites the fucking dust for Han Jisung. 

His eyes are focused on his phone as he taps dial on your number rather than the flight of stairs he’s ascending. The distraction causes him to trip over the final step, momentum carrying him forward until he’s able to brace himself against your door.

It’s not graceful, but it rarely is with him.

He connects with a loud thud and takes a moment to steady himself, resting his forehead against the door. And then, to exacerbate things, he begins knocking with his fist louder than necessary.

“Let me in,” his words slur together when you answer the phone.

“Why are you at my house right now?” A hint of annoyance is detectable in your tone.

He’s not in a state to pick up on that. He’s not in a state to pick up on much of anything.

“Opennnn,” is his drawl of an answer, followed by more knocking.

The door swings open unannounced and he stumbles against you. You’re half asleep (clad in pajamas with heatless rollers twisted into your hair), confused, and very much not prepared for whatever the hell this is. Your hands fly to his arms, gripping them tightly to keep him from toppling both of you over.

“Han,” you hiss, leaning back to look at his face. “It’s almost two in the morning. I have neighbors, bro.”

He blinks at you, eyes unfocused, like his brain is buffering, struggling to load the fact that the door has finally opened and he’s landed in your arms. That seems to sober him up a smidge.

“Yeah—yeah, okay. I got it. Shhh.” He pushes his fingers against his lips before leaning against the wall to take his shoes off.

You get a better look at him then. His shirt is half untucked, collar crooked. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glossy—he’s a very particular kind of drunk that teeters on the edge of unraveling and, as his best friend, you clock it immediately.

When he finally gets his shoes off, he staggers to the living room and collapses on the couch.

“Oh, sure,” you mutter, shutting the door. “Make yourself at home.”

You pad into the kitchen and retrieve a couple water bottles from the fridge before joining him in the living room. You set two of them down on the table and hold the other out to him.

He’s leaning back against the couch, mentally replaying the events that led him here for the umpteenth time.

“Here, drink.”

He lifts his head, then squeezes his eyes shut as the room starts spinning. He reaches for the water bottle blindly until you grab his wrist and place it in his hand. He twists the cap off and takes a long swig before leaning his head back again.

“I’m doomed,” he announces to the ceiling, finally opening his eyes.

You sit beside him, brows furrowed, recalling how optimistic he’d sounded before his date—the excitement in his voice when he’d talked about finally reaching a new milestone.

You know how hard he’s been trying. Putting himself out there, meeting new people. Clinging to the hope that somewhere out there is a person who won’t make his chest seize up with fear if they get too close. Watching the other members pair off has hollowed him out a little and seeing him struggle through this has been plucking at your heart strings.

But it’s complicated.

Sometime over the past year, without your conscious consent, you developed a crush on him. You can’t pinpoint when it started, and you refuse to believe it has anything to do with him dating.

He just suddenly became sharper in your vision. His smile lingered in your mind longer, his cheeks dared you to squeeze them every chance you got. Even his clumsiness and occasional anxious spiral…everything about him started to feel painfully endearing.

However, protecting your friendship matters more than indulging in feelings that could shatter it. Quietly loving him is safer than risking everything for something he might never feel for you in return.

“This was your third date, right?”

“Right. Third,” he laughs, but it comes out sad. “The date went sooo well.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I froze,” he says, then takes another long drink. “Again.”

“What happened?”

You brace yourself for the details. They’re never easy to hear and imagine. But you want to support him in any way you can. Even if it means suffering emotional damage in the process.

“We had dinner. Good meal, good banter—”

You push aside the persistent thought reminding you that you also have good banter with him.

“She laughed at my stupid jokes—”

You laugh at his jokes, too.

When they’re funny.

“And then I drove her home—”

You sit up. “You drove like this?”

“No, no. This,” he gestures to his drunken self, “came after. I hadn’t drank yet. Just—listen.”

You relax against the couch. “Ok. Go on.”

“She invited me up. We sat on her sofa, just like we are now. And then she started kissing me and my brain just—” he makes a vague exploding motion near his temple. “Panic. Full blown fucking panic.”

Connecting with strangers, whether emotionally or physically, has never been easy for him and he loathes that about himself. In casual, group settings he does alright if there are people he knows nearby. But in a one-on-one setting, he’s a wreck and it takes time for him to become comfortable.

“She kept trying to touch my dick, but I was too caught up in my head. Too fucking nervous and—” he hiccups and throws a hand over his mouth. For a second you brace yourself for the aftermath of him blowing chunks in your living room, but he recovers. “I think I’m broken, y/n. I told her I had to leave. Said I had to take my dog out.”

You frown, heart aching for him.

Han Jisung does not have a dog.

“Then I went to a bar. Had a few drinks” he counts absentmindedly on his fingers. “…maybe more than a few. Then I took an Uber here.”

You’re at least relieved he had the common sense to do that.

He shifts, turning toward you, head still resting against the back of the couch.

“I had an idea at the bar, though,” he says, alcohol clinging to his breath with every word spoken in your direction. “I thought maybe you could help me?”

You stare at him. He stares back. Neither of you blink.

The silence stretches.

“…with what?” you finally ask.

“My issues with intimacy. Touching…kissing. And…you know,” he does another vague hand gesture that makes you scrunch your face up.

No. You don’t think you do know.

Because there’s no way he could possibly be insinuating this.

His gaze doesn’t waver, glossy eyes boring into yours.

He’s serious.

“You want me to take your fucking virginity?” The words come out louder than you mean them to. “Absolutely not.”

“B—But I’ve seen you,” he protests, speaking quickly and causing his words to trip over each other. “With guys and you’re so easy and confident. A—And you talk about it so nonchalantly. How you get all controlling and have your way with men. You could handle me if I freak out, you already do. Plus, I don’t get like that when you’re close to me.”

“I’m so easy?” you repeat, crossing your arms in front of your chest. You let him sputter out an attempt at an apology about meaning to say ‘natural’ before holding your hand up to stop him. “I’m going to blame that terribly constructed suggestion on the alcohol.”

You stand from the couch.

“You don’t get nervous with me because I’ve never come onto you in that way,” you tell him, shaking your head. “The way we are together is purely platonic. We can’t change that.”

“But if anyone could help me, it’s you, y/n,” he insists, desperation seeping through his tone.

You force yourself to look away. You can’t see him like this. Not when he’s asking for a favor that would allow you to give into your most treacherous thoughts of him.

You walk to the linen closet in the hall and take out a clean blanket.

“You’re my closest female friend,” he says as soon as you’re back.

You hand him the blanket. “That is exactly why we shouldn’t.”

“But it’d just be once,” he murmurs, lips in a full-on pout as he takes the blanket like a scolded child. “Just to get the kinks out.”

Oh, there would be kinks alright.

“Go to sleep,” you tell him. “You’re not thinking straight.”

You turn off the hall light and head for your room as the apartment falls to its proper decibel level for this time of night, head swarming with the idea of his proposition. There’s no way you’re falling back asleep.

Han stares at the ceiling, heart pounding as shame curls in on him—because he knows you’re right. And because part of him is terrified that you’re the only person he trusts enough to ask.

Han wakes to the morning light streaming in through your useless sheer curtains. He told you to get darker ones, but you didn’t listen because these were cuter. The sun rays reach the furthest part of his skull as he squints against it. His head throbs, mouth tainted with remnants of whiskey.

“Oh god,” he groans, recalling just how he ended up on your couch.

He shouldn’t have come here.

He shouldn’t have gotten drunk.

He definitely shouldn’t have asked you to fuck him.

He sits up, grabs another water bottle from the coffee table and downs it in one go. He stands and folds the blanket neatly before draping it over the couch. He gathers his wallet and phone, then cleans up the water bottles to erase all evidence of his presence as if that will undo the damage.

After putting his shoes on, he slips out the front door quietly, pressing the electronic lock behind him. He takes an Uber back to his car and drives home in silence from there.

The rest of the day passes him by. He doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t answer calls.

All he can bring himself to do is lay in bed, anxiety chewing at him from the inside out.

The failed date. The familiar freeze. The way his body betrayed him once again.

And you. How can he face you after suggesting that?

You text him once, when you wake to find him gone.

You okay?

He stares at the message for a long time before reacting with a thumbs up. It’s all he can manage, and you don’t fault him for it.

Days pass and he remains distant. But then days turn into weeks and that’s when you start to worry. He cancels plans. Stops reaching out. He shrinks his world down to something manageable—work, sleep, and silence.

But in the silence, every thought circles back to the same conclusion: I’m broken.

Maybe he wouldn’t be spiraling so badly if he hadn’t dragged you into it. Because what haunts him the most is the look of pity in your eyes when he divulged all of that.

Nearly a month goes by before you’ve had enough and show up at his apartment. You knock softly, knowing he’s home.

He may have stopped texting and calling, but you still have his location. You know he’s here.

He opens the door, startled to see you standing there in a tightly fastened, knee length coat. Your expression unreadable, eyes sharp as they assess him in a way that makes his stomach drop.

You see right through him. You know what comes next—the nonchalant act.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Hey.”

“Oh, hey? Really?” you ask, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “That’s all I get?”

You take your shoes off at the door and take in the sight of his apartment in total disarray.

“You haven’t even let the maid in?”

“I needed space,” he shrugs. “From everyone.”

You sigh. You don’t want to be too hard on him; you know this isn’t easy. This isn’t necessarily a conscious choice he makes. When he’s overwhelmed and overstimulated this is very much who he turns in to.

“You know you could have told me that instead of ignoring me,” you say softly.

“I was embarrassed,” he admits. “About what I said. I shouldn’t have asked you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“What did you think shutting me out would do? Make me slowly forget it happened?”

“I’m just trying to protect you,” he says. “From me and my mess. My misery.”

He can be optimistic in so many different scenarios, but when it comes to this—dating and intimacy—he becomes a shell of himself.

“Funny thing about misery,” you say, catching his eyes. “It loves company.”

His lip quirks ever so slightly but it doesn’t translate into a full smile or laugh.

“We need to clean this place—you can’t live or think like this.”

You walk into the kitchen and grab a trash bag from under the sink, then immediately start gathering everything on the counters that needs to be thrown away.

“You’ve been surviving on takeout?”

“I’m not good at cooking even when I’m in a good mood,” he mumbles, reaching out to stop you as you pass. “y/n, you don’t need to do this.”

“Friends help each other, right?” you counter. “Get something and start wiping down the surfaces.”

He takes your command with ease, as he always does. Han thinks too much. But he can handle things a lot easier if he’s simply following orders. You know that’s why he brought up the way you are with men.

You treat them like dogs on a leash, exercising your dominance to keep them from getting close. You use them for what you need in the moment and then send them on their way.

However, in this time that Han hasn’t been speaking to you, you realized that deep down it’s because they’re not the one you want.

Within thirty minutes, his living room, dining room, and kitchen are presentable again.

“I’ll leave your room to you,” you say, taking a seat at the dining table.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replies. “Thank you, y/n.”

He sits in the chair next to you as silence consumes the room. It lingers for a while—you both know you need to fully address what happened, but neither of you know where to start.

Han is the first to speak. “About the other night—I shouldn’t have put any of that on you. It was wrong. I take it back.”

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply quietly. “Have you at least thought about why it was such a fucked-up suggestion?”

“We’re friends,” he answers immediately.

“It’s more than that.” You shake your head. “I don’t want to lose you, Han. Ever. But if we do that, how could we keep being friends?”

He doesn’t answer.

“If it worked,” you continue, voice tight. “You’d eventually find a girlfriend. And then what? We’d be stuck with this wild, ugly fucking secret we’d be forced to take to our grave. You’d have to lie to her forever, because no one would be okay knowing their boyfriend slept with his best friend.”

His gaze drops to the table. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“And I would never put you, or her, or myself in that situation anyway,” you add. “So if we do that, the only other option would be ending our friendship afterward.”

He stands abruptly, shaking his head. “No. No, I said I take it back. We don’t have to think about it. Can we just please forget I ever said it?”

You stand too, closing the distance between you.

You already made this decision before you knocked on his door.

You’ve watched him suffer for too long. You watched his confidence erode, his hope fizzle. You can’t stomach the thought of him spending his life trapped inside this fear, especially when you might be the only one that can offer him salvation.

And there’s another truth you’ve been avoiding.

You can’t keep pretending to be just his friend while wanting more. Loving him from a distance is already hurting you.

“If this is the only way forward,” you say softly, tugging at the belt of your coat, “then I’m willing to lose you.”

The words sting even as you say them.

His eyes widen, confusion and curiosity swimming in their depths.

“Not because I don’t care,” you add, moving on to the buttons. “But because I care too much to keep lying to both of us.”

“y/n,” he says warily.

The coat parts to reveal a sheer, black babydoll chemise that barely qualifies as clothing. The thin straps have bows resting just near the top of your breasts, and another one nestled at the center of your chest. The only thing covering you beneath it is a thin, black thong.

Han swallows hard, dizziness washing over him as he registers what’s happening—what you’re agreeing to do for him. And what that is actually going to entail.

All happening right fucking now.

“Y—you were wearing that the entire time we were cleaning?”

“Sit down, Jisung.”

The name catches him off guard. You never use his first name.

But today you need the separation it creates.

“Sit,” you repeat.

He obeys immediately, dropping into the chair with a shaky exhale, heart pounding so loudly he’s sure you can hear it. His eyes track your every move as you slide the coat the rest of the way off.

When you turn your back to him to place it on the chair, he takes in the sight of the skimpy lingerie just barely covering your ass. He exhales again, slower this time.

Then reality crashes back in.

“Shit,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut, hands tangling in his hair. “y/n, we can’t. You said we couldn’t be friends after this.”

You turn back to him.

He looks wrecked. Overstimulated. Terrified of what you’re offering but desperately wanting it at the same time.

You step between his legs.

“Open your eyes.” Your tone is firm and unfamiliar to him.

He peeks them open, heart kicking into overdrive when he finds you standing over him. He straightens, then tries to lean back only for the chair to trap him in place.

“I’ve already decided,” you say, gently tugging his hands away from his hair and lowering them to your thighs. “Let me do this for you, Ji.”

“But everything you said,” he protests weakly. “I don’t want any of that.”

“You want to find a partner, right?” you counter. “You want to be with someone.”

He sighs and drops his head.

You hook a finger under his chin to tilt it back up.

“I like you as more than a friend,” you admit softly. “I have for a while. I want to give in to this and if it helps you too, then it’s worth it.”

You slide his hands up your thighs and when the tips of his fingers press into your skin, a small smile forms on your lips.

“Besides,” you add, settling onto his lap. “You haven’t pushed me away or made up an excuse about walking your imaginary dog yet.”

He sucks in a breath as your weight settles fully against him, eyes slowly drifting up and down your torso.

“How do you feel right now? Not what you’re thinking—just what you feel.”

“O—okay. My heart might explode. But…yeah, it feels good.”

“That’s normal,” you reassure him, hands gliding up his chest and over his neck before your fingers slip into his hair. “Just stay here. No thoughts.”

You rock your hips once. His hands snap to your waist.

“I don’t know if I—”

You tug at the strands of his hair, pulling his head back and cutting him off mid-sentence.

“The only thing that leaves your mouth from here on out,” you tell him quietly, “is yes ma’am. Understand?”

He nods, swallowing hard.

You wait.

“Yes ma’am.”

You lean in until your noses nearly brush, feeling his breath stuttering against your lips as you rock your hips again. He tightens his grip on your waist but doesn’t stop you.

You press a quick kiss to his cheek. Then another. And another.

Your mouth trails along his jaw, down his neck. You suckle softly, just enough to make him gasp. You pull back, cupping his face in your hands.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

His grip on your waist stays firm, but the rest of his body seems to relax as his eyes search yours.

He trusts you.

“Yes ma’am.”

You press your lips to his gently, keeping in mind that there are still a few hurdles to get over before going full throttle. You tease his bottom lip until he parts it, and when your tongue slips inside, he lets out the softest exhale.

You guide him patiently, letting the kiss deepen as he mirrors you.

For once, Han Jisung isn’t thinking at all, allowing his body to freely react to the moment.

His hands leave your waist to roam up and down your lace covered sides. You roll your hips against him again, harder this time, and that’s when you both feel his cock stir beneath his jeans.

He tenses at the realization of what has just managed to happen.

You fight to contain your excitement. This is progress. This is worth it.

But you have to keep going before his thoughts turn against him as they often do.

You break the kiss and help him out of his shirt. You cast it aside before running your hands along his bare chest, fingers dancing along his tattoo. He’s not built like the men you’re used to—softer, less defined—but there’s something thrilling about the way his muscles tense under your touch.

“Touch my tits,” you whisper. “Over the lace, first.”

He reaches up, unable to hide the slight quiver of his hands, and places one on each breast.

“Feel. Caress.”

He runs his hands across them, at first focused on how they feel beneath the lace, but when his fingers find the peak of your nipple, his attention is drawn there.

“Now, beneath the lace.”

He gently takes each strap in hand and lowers them, slowly revealing your breasts. He shifts in the chair when your nipples come fully into view.

His cock twitches again.

You rock your hips against him in response, getting more into it yourself now as arousal pools between your legs, soaking the thin fabric covering your pussy. Watching him explore and marvel at your tits makes you grind against him harder.

He cups your tits, reveling at how supple they are as he squeezes them. He seeks out your nipples, rolling them between his fingers.

“Suck on them.”

His eyes snap to yours. You see the questions and thoughts surfacing. As if this request, after what you’ve done so far, will be too much.

You lace your fingers behind his neck and pull him forward. You arch your back, pushing your tits closer to his face before rubbing your right nipple across his lip.

“Suck,” you say, moving to nestle his face in your cleavage. “On.” You rub the left nipple across his lip. “Them.”

He parts his lips and closes his mouth around it, sucking very lightly. You place your hand on top of his, on your other breast and squeeze. He takes the hint and continues playing with it, pinching the nipple as he sucks on the other.

“Harder is okay,” you advise. “Tongue and a little biting, too.”

He takes every suggestion into account as you rub your drenched pussy against him. He switches his mouth to the other nipple, latching on harder this time and grazing it lightly with his teeth.

You pull him close, resting your cheek against the top of his head.

“That feels good, Ji,” you murmur, leaning away from his mouth. “You like me grinding against your cock?”

“Yes ma’am,” he nods.

You moan. “It’s making me so fucking wet.”

He grunts, squeezing your tits harder, trying to bring them back to his mouth but you resist.

“Have you ever touched a pussy before?”

He shakes his head.

“Words.”

He opens his mouth to speak then closes it. You tilt your head to the side and pause your movements. His hands fall to your hips, trying in earnest to get them moving again. You hold still.

“Y—you said, I can only say yes ma’am, and I don’t want to lie.”

“That’s cute,” you chuckle softly, leaning down to kiss him. “No ma’am is okay this time.”

“No ma’am.”

You abruptly stand and he starts to protest until you take his wrist and guide his hand between your legs.

“Outside first,” you instruct again. “It’s always a nice tease.”

He runs his fingers back and forth, feeling how wet you are through the thin material. His other hand moves to his cock. He squeezes it, his attention momentarily diverted.

“Ah-ah,” you say quickly drawing him back to you. “Pull them off now. And let that happen.” You glance pointedly toward his pants.

He releases his cock and slips his fingers beneath the chemise to find the top of your panties. He pulls them down and you place your hands on his shoulders as you step out of them.

He starts to drop them, but you catch his hand and lift it to his face. His eyes fall onto the drenched fabric.

“Smell them.”

He doesn’t seem alarmed by the command at all. He brings them under his nose and inhales deeply. You take his other hand and guide it between your legs. His fingers fumble before finding their way between your slick folds.

“You made that happen,” you tell him. “You kissing me, touching me, made me so wet, made me soak my fucking panties, Ji.”

He groans, taking another deep inhale of your sweet and tangy scent as his fingers stroke your pussy.

“You wanna taste it straight from the source?”

He nods eagerly.

“Maybe later,” you tease with a coy smile.

You remove his hand from between your legs and drop to your knees. You grab the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers. He lifts his hips, allowing you to pull them down to his ankles. Your eyes land on his cock, precum glistening on the tip. 

You spit in your palm and wrap your hand around the base. You give it a firm stroke that makes his hips jerk involuntarily as he grunts. 

“Already so hard for me,” you coo, trailing your eyes up to his face. He’s gritting his teeth, hands balled into fists at his side. “Such a good boy.”

You tighten your grip as you stroke him.

“Fuck. I don’t think—”

“Not yet. Not until you’re inside me.” You warn.

You stroke hard, leaning forward to take just the tip in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around it, keeping your eyes locked on him as you do.

“I’ve never—oh fuck—oh fuck.”

You know he won’t last much longer for his first time, and you really do want that to happen in you.

You quickly rise and straddle him. Your fingers tangle themselves back into his hair, yanking his head back just enough to force his gaze up to yours. His breath comes out in short bursts, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You want this?” you ask, sliding your bare pussy across his smooth cock, soaking it in your juices.

You already know the answer, you can see it in his eyes. 

His lips part, but no sound come out. 

“Hmm?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answers hoarsely. 

You lift a little, line his cock at your entrance, then sink onto him in one smooth motion.

You moan as he fills you to the brim, cock throbbing inside of you.

He gasps, in shock at how warm and tight your pussy is around him. His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in. You roll your hips experimentally, testing the fit.

“You like this, Jisung?” you taunt, leaning until your lips brush the shell of his ear, tits pressed against his chest. “You like how I’m riding your cock like it’s mine?”

He nods frantically.

“Y-yes—fuck—yes ma’am.”

You reward him with a slow, deep grind, your clit dragging against his pelvis. His body shutters beneath you as you rake your nails down his chest. He moans and closes his eyes, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and sinking his teeth into it.

He’s trying to hold back.

“You can come,” you say.

His eyes fly open, wide and disbelieving, but the words seem to break something in him. His hips snap up, driving his cock back into you.

You arch your back, rocking your hips in time with his as his release hits him like a freight train. 

His cum fills you in hot, thick spurts, his entire body locking up as he comes with a choked, breathless cry. You don’t stop riding him, milking every last drop from his cock as his orgasm drags on, his body trembling beneath you.

By the time he slumps back in the chair, spent and gasping, you’re still not done with him.

You stand again, his softening cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound. He whines at the loss, his hands twitching like he wants to reach for you, but he has no energy.

You turn around and bend over the table, the cool wood pressing into your stomach. Your ass is on full display as you step your legs apart.

"I want you to taste us. Eat me out," you command, glancing over your shoulder to watch his reaction. His face flushes, his lips parting, but he doesn’t move. You arch a brow. "Now, Jisung."

That gets him moving.

The chair scrapes back as he stumbles to his feet, his cock already twitching back to life as he drops to his knees behind you. You spread yourself wider with your fingers, giving him a perfect view of your, swollen pussy, dripping with both of your fluids.

"Like this," you instruct, dragging a finger through your folds before circling your clit. "Tongue first. Then fingers. And if you do well, I’ll let you fuck me again."

His first lick is hesitant, his tongue flat and unsure, but the second he tastes you; he’s all in. His hands palm your thighs, holding you open as his mouth seals over your pussy, his tongue delving inside you. The saltiness of his cum, mixed with the sweet tanginess of your arousal floods his tastebuds.

You moan, grinding back against his face.

"That’s it," you gasp. "Just like that—fuck—"

His tongue flicks over your clit, and your knees nearly buckle. He’s obviously not an expert—he’s too eager, a bit sloppy—but the enthusiasm more than makes up for it. Every time his tongue slips, every time his teeth graze you by accident, your body coils tighter and tighter as your orgasm builds.

"You’re such a good boy," you pant. "Look at you, on your knees for me, tongue buried in my cunt like your mouth was made for it." 

He groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your core, and you come with his name on your lips. Your thighs clamp around his head as you ride his face through it. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even flinch, just keeps licking and sucking until your body twitches with every flick of his tongue.

When you finally push him back and turn around, he’s a mess—lips puffy, chin coated in your cum, his cock already rock-hard again. 

You want him back inside of you.

No, it’s not even a want anymore.

It feels like a need already.

The ache between your legs is unbearable, a throbbing emptiness that only his cock can fill.

You lean on the table, moving back until your ass hangs off the edge. You spread your thighs wider, exposing yourself completely. “Put your cock back inside me, Jisung.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, eyes locked on you spread open for him.

He strokes his cock as he repositions himself at your entrance, the tip nudging against your wet lips, teasing the sensitive flesh. He leans over the table, one arm braced beside your head to hold his weight, the other hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding it with deliberate slowness.

He wants to remember every moment of this.

He sinks back into you inch by torturous inch, stretching your walls around him. You clench greedily to pull him deeper as you moan in unison.

It feels good. It feels right. Like this is always how you were meant to be with each other.

But maybe it shouldn’t.

The thought flickers through your mind, a shadow of doubt amid the haze of lust, but it's drowned out by the overwhelming heat of him buried inside you.

He starts thrusting, slow at first, savoring the drag of his cock through your soaked pussy, but the rhythm builds quickly into something fierce.

He pounds into you, hips snapping forward, the table creaking under the weight of your actions. Each plunge drives him deeper, his balls slapping against your ass, the wet smack of skin on skin filling the room.

You bring your legs up, hooking one over his shoulders to angle yourself better, opening up for him completely. Your other leg wraps around his waist, pulling him in harder. He grabs onto your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks—something you usually frown upon but maybe you’ll smile when you see them there tomorrow.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, his breath hot against your neck as he bends lower. “Your cunt is so fucking tight—pulling me back in every time.”

Your pussy is, in fact, gripping him like a vice, fluttering with every withdrawal and squeeze. It’s enough to make you forget that he’s just said much more than the two words you said were allowed.

But you don’t care what he says.

Because you don’t want to treat him like a dog on a leash.

You just want him to be yours.

And you want to be his.

“Harder,” you demand, voice breaking on a gasp, nails scratching down his back to urge him on. You tug on his hair to pull him up a bit, forcing him to look at you. “Please, Han. Fuck me harder.”

Looking into your soft, pleading doe eyes, hearing you call him Han in this moment—he loses all restraint, slamming into you with reckless abandon.

Because he wants you, too.

How could he ever feel this comfortable with someone that’s not you?

Who could possibly handle him the way you can?

He doesn’t want to experience this with anyone else.

His free hand roams up your body, palming your tit roughly, kneading the supple flesh before his fingers zero in on your nipple. He pinches it sharply, twisting just enough to send a jolt of pain-laced pleasure straight to your core, making your walls spasm around his cock.

“I’m gonna come, y/n,” he grunts, teeth grazing your collarbone as he chases his release.

“Me too,” you whimper, teetering on the edge, your clit throbbing untouched but alive from the friction of his body grinding against you.

It hits you both at once—a shattering climax that rips through your bodies like a thousand volts of electricity. Your pussy convulses wildly around his cock, squeezing in rhythmic pulses as waves of ecstasy crash over you. He follows with a guttural moan, burying himself fully as he comes deep inside you.

He collapses on top of you on the table, chest heaving against yours, his softening cock still twitching inside you. Your limbs tangle, slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync as the aftershocks ripple through you both. The weight of him pins you down, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment, even as the emotional storm lingers unspoken between you.

Neither of you say anything for a while.

“First time out of the way, huh?” you joke to break the silence.

“y/n…” he trails off, shaking his head against your shoulder. “That was…”

“Amazing,” you finish for him.

You move to sit up and he follows, withdrawing from you, but he stays between your legs.

“I should get up, we made a mess on your table.”

“No,” he murmurs, nuzzling your nose with his. “Again.”

“Services successful?” You tease, pushing both him and the thought of what comes next away.

“Stop joking,” he says. “But thank you for that. Seriously.”

“Of course. I’m happy to have—”

He cuts you off by kissing you, slower and deeper this time. The taste of both of you lingers on his tongue.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“But you’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to hide this from anyone,” he says firmly. “Or let you out of my life.”

You shake your head, dropping your gaze.

That wasn’t the deal.

He hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your face back up.

“I don’t need to find anyone else to date. I want to date you.”

Your heart skips a beat as a smile spreads across your face.

“Is that how you ask someone to be your girlfriend?” you tease, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek to his chest, familiarizing yourself with the sound of his frantic heartbeat.

He’s still coming down from everything—but he’s nervous too.

And he hasn’t run.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, hugging you closer. “Never done it before.”

“Well,” you say softly, “maybe you should work on it.”

“No ma’am,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I don’t plan on doing it more than once.”

a/n: hope you enjoyed!

taglist: @victoriaaf / @skyearby / @tsunderelino