scott miller x reader
Synopsis: the bar has always been a safe haven after a long week of storm-chasing, but when tyler owens decides youâre his lucky charm for the night, you find that scottâs control has its limits.
Word Count: 6.4k (pls don't look at me)
Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, mentions of near-death experiences, tornadoes (obviously), brief insinuations to cheating, tyler is a pot-stirrer, public sex, dry humping, fingering (f!receiving), degradation, nipple play (f!receiving), orgasm delay, biting?, scott miller has a whore mouth, minor choking, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), lots of dirty talk, no use of y/n
A/N: my first time posting fic & writing for scott so pls go easy on me đ„ș sometimes you just have to let a smug little asshole take over ur entire life, am i right? if you enjoyed, pls feel free to reblog or give it a like and as always, my inbox is open if you want to chat!!! đ€
Itâs been a grueling week, one tornado after another hammering Oklahoma into a state of disarray.
Youâre still shaken from the last one, the anxiety of being alone in a motel with your thoughts almost unbearable. Youâve tried to avoid being alone since then, afraid that something worse is always on the horizon, and the thought of being isolated in a room while the rest of the team is out doesnât sit well.
The bar, though, is a familiar sanctuary. A small comfort amidst the chaos. Even though youâre drained and the idea of socializing feels monumental, tradition is tradition. Javiâs sad puppy eyes and the inevitable guilt trip on the drive back to HQ tomorrow is enough to push you out of bed and into the shower.
And, as much as you donât want to go, it feels wrong when even Scott makes an effort to go.
By the time you step into the dimly lit bar, clinking glasses and the hum of chatter soothe your worries quickly away. Whirlwind may have seen more than its fair share of fights and other throes of debauchery, but it was a frequent, favorite stop.
And itâs already packed. Between the locals and the other storm-chasers crowding the space, you canât find Storm Par anywhere. A roar of laughter strikes from the pool tables, and you quickly pocket your phone, realizing youâll have no luck calling or texting when it wonât even be heard over the noise.
Oh, well. Youâll find them soon enough. Making your way to the bar to greet Jack, the burly bartender whoâs been running the place for years and has grown more familiar to you the more you frequent, you hear â rather than see â one of the storm-chasers you were hoping to avoid tonight.
Tyler. God damn. Owens.
You werenât struck by his Southern charm â your days of easy flattery were past you â but he was hard to ignore. Then again, you shouldâve known better by now. Tyler always seemed to be at his best when he had a crowd buzzing around him.
âI thought tonight couldnât get any better, and then you walked in,â he drawls, finding a space alongside you as he sets his empty beer bottle down, his voice smooth. âCan I buy you a drink, darlinâ?â
You consider turning him down, not sure if youâre up for his ego tonight, but you also know Tyler. He wasn't swayed easily, especially if he saw a challenge. Besides, a free drink was well, free, and as grating as he could get, you supposed one couldn't hurt. So you nod. âSure, why not.â
Jack, whoâd wordlessly gotten your drink as Tyler approached, sets a bottle of your favorite down in front of you, his brow raising to get your attention. You hesitate before taking it and catch his gaze shift slightly past you.
Before you get a chance to follow, Tyler steals your focus with a grin, the ever-present pain in your ass. You canât fight your instincts to be polite. âSo tell me. Whatâs a girl like you doinâ in a place like this?â
Unfortunately for Tyler, he always seemed to miss that memo.
âSame as everyone else, I guess.â You laugh half-heartedly. Maybe if the conversation is light enough, you can slip away without it turning into a spectacle. âJust looking to unwind.â
If Tyler notices your lack of enthusiasm, he doesnât show it. Instead, he makes a show of settling into his spot next to you, grin stretching wide. The beer in his hands is fresh and cold, same as yours, though unlike yourself heâs already taken a few drinks while you start to pick at the label. Javi would've poked fun by now, but your friend is nowhere near. Typical.
Tyler takes another drink, resting his arm on the bar, your eyes drifting to his tanned bicep. His grin stretches when he catches you looking, and you try not to scowl at falling for his display.
He continues with a well-used, âWell, you sure do brighten up the place.â
Thank god. Playing along, you donât waste a second as your gaze wanders eagerly around the bar. From your new position you spot a cluster of tables on the other side of the room, Storm Par filling out the seats.
Scott sits alone at one of them, as he always did, but his posture is rigid, and even from a distance you can tell his focus is far from the game of darts Javi tries to include him in. Unsurprising. But rather than being distracted by his phone, worrying about the next job the team would have to take, his eyes are locked in on you.
The intensity makes you shiver. A few bottles sit empty next to him, and you only know theyâre his by the unmistakable Guinness label adorning the side. A half-empty glass rests in his hand like heâd meant to take a sip before catching sight of Tyler.
Since joining Storm Par, the number of things you knew about Scott could be counted on your fingers. And in that time, youâd never seen him unwind. Not truly, anyway. As frustrating as it could be, you'd come to respect Scott's unwavering demeanor.
Amidst the chaos, no matter how intense it got, Scott was the stoic anchor of the team. There was a reason for his lectures and regulations. He was as dependable as the code he lived by, but most of the team often dismissed it as rigid and unnecessary. You knew it took strength and reliability to remain true to your values.
Much like you were forgoing now, your polite smile tight on your lips.
Beyond Javi, the rest of the team is scattered around Whirlwind, some dancing with reckless abandon on the makeshift dance floor while others clink shots over a job well done with the other storm-chasing crews. Scott is still firmly planted on the barstool, setting his glass down with a white-knuckled grip.
Tyler, of course, pays no attention. He leans in, casually inching closer to you, wrapping up some story of an exaggerated Wrangler exploit. Close enough to brush against you. When you glance down at the contact, Tyler notices where youâve grown distracted, that easygoing grin slipping as he takes in your view.
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â Tyler says with a sigh, head shaking in disbelief. âJust admit it â Iâm a hell of a lot more fun than Storm Cloud over there.â
You disagree, but keep it to yourself. Tyler and his crew were reckless, and, sure, while there was some level of risk that came with what you all did, there was a clear difference between you and them.Â
It was part of what had drawn you to Scott in the first place. He was meticulous and no-nonsense, quick to call out mistakes whether you were out in the field or back in the office. But even Scott wasn't immune to a lecture or two â something he'd gone to great lengths to keep under lock and key.
And you only knew by accident.
Another sleepless night had driven you out of your room in search of coffee, leading you to a diner where youâd stumbled across him and Riggs in a heated discussion. Your Mama had taught you manners about eavesdropping, but you were frozen in place, listening to Riggs furiously drill into Scott over another fuck up (not his fault) and whether he was serious or not about the work they were doing. Before you could slip away unnoticed, not wanting to be lectured too, Scottâs eyes met yours, giving you a small, subtle shake of his head.
Youâd run straight back to your room after, hoping that maybe it'd been a weird nightmare and youâd wake up to business as usual. But after another hour of tossing and turning, Scottâs familiar knock sounded at your door, and when youâd gathered the courage to meet him face to face, heâd looked just as conflicted as you felt. After what youâd heard, the way Scott took responsibility for every mistake and didn't throw anyone under the bus, keeping it between you two was the least you could do.
Something changed after that night. When a particularly nasty tornado touched ground a few weeks later and nearly swept you up in it, nobody questioned Scottâs decision to reassign you to Scarecrow. Nobody questioned why your partner had quit shortly after, either.
Scott still hadnât asked why youâd been awake that night, just the same as you didnât ask about Riggs.
You glance over at Scott again now, the memory fresh in your mind. His knuckles are just as white as when youâd found him in the diner, expression still shadowed, like heâs torn between intervening and letting it play out. But even with a crowd between you and the two men, the tension is thick, crackling in the air.
Tyler leans in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as glances over at Scott. âHeâs got that brooding thing down to an art, doesnât he? Donât you ever crave a little spontaneity?â
You shift away from Tyler, the weight of Scottâs gaze growing heavy. From the corner of your eye you can just barely make out the hard set to his jaw, no longer working the cinnamon gum he obsessively kept on him. You manage a tight smile, distracted, as Javiâs voice rises briefly above the noise â your attention divided between the brewing storm on the other end of the bar and the eye of the one you were currently stuck in.
âI⊠I think we all have our reasons for sticking around.â You say, just as Javi finally notices you, his smile dimming as his gaze slides to Tyler.
Shit.
âOh, Iâm sure you do.â Tylerâs drawl is playful, almost teasing, and if he sees that youâre not even looking at him anymore, he doesnât seem to care. âIâm just saying. If you ever want to get away from Clipboard over there...â
This time you do look with a flash of agitation. âIf I wanted that, Iâd be part of your team, Tyler. Not his.â
âNow, hold on, just hear me out for a second.â Tyler takes another pull from his drink, but when he sets it back down, heâs too close yet again. Fingers brush unwarranted against you, his touch lingering in a way that immediately makes your skin crawl. âHow about we make a deal? Let me show you a good time tonight, and I promise you wonât even remember his name by the end of it.â
The suggestion hangs heavy in the air. You're only just barely aware of the way your features shift as background noise fades and youâre left with a high-pitched ringing in your ears, each emotion rolling through you longer to process than the last. By the time disgust sets in, flinching away from his wandering hands, you see past the red just enough to catch his grin widening in amusement.
And you realize, with terrifying clarity, that heâs been toying with you the whole night, just to start something with your team. You try not to tremble, swallowing your rage, and remind yourself that you'll be kicked out if dump your drink on him.
A stool scrapes loudly from the other side of the room. Whatever semblance of peace snaps.
âUh oh.â Tyler notices Scottâs approach, and has the audacity to flash you a smile. âLooks like weâve got company. He sure knows how to kill a mood, doesnât he?â
You don't have a chance to respond, Scott stopping beside you, barely restrained anger coming off him in waves. You instinctively step closer to him, your drink forgotten and unwanted on the bar. His eyes flash with anger as he regards Tyler, that muscle working overtime in his jaw â and you know he's seen everything, from Tyler whispering into your ear to the look of repulse that you'd tried to hide.
âWe need to talk.â Scottâs gaze shifts to you. You recognize the silent message he sends, the urgency in his voice as he fights to control his composure for your sake. âNow.â
âOuch, Scotty. Not even a hello? And here I thought manners came with that fancy degree.â Tyler whistles low, appraising Scott like heâs not seconds away from getting his nose broken. âI was just getting acquainted with your friend over here. Giving her the whole Wrangler pitch. You know how it goes.â His smirk growing, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. âCome to think of it, wasnât that how Gabby left? Told me she was over all the huffin' and puffin', especially afterââ
âEnough.â Scott's interjection is loud and clear, your heart stuttering at the icy tone. When he slides an arm around your waist, the weight unfamiliar, you canât tell if itâs to keep you from lunging at Tyler, or himself. You glance between Tyler's satisfied grin and the glare Scott sends him, confused. Who was Gabby? âShut the fuck up for once, Owens. Seriously. Do us all a fucking favor.â
You still swim with questions as Scott pulls you close, no longer waiting for Tylerâs approval or response â not that he needed it in the first place. Lights cast long shadows as he navigates you between tables, the ringing in your ears lessening the further away from Tyler you get. Scott ushers you out the nearest exit, his palm warm against the small of your back.
The back door slams shut with a final click as you spill out into the alley together. Itâs as dimly lit as the inside is, a singular dying bulb flickering just a few steps away. The sounds of the bar are muffled here now that your hearing has returned to normal, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and your ragged breathing.
The chilled air immediately hits you as Scott pulls away, and you watch, lost, as he paces angrily while you try to sort your thoughts out.
âWhat the hell was that? I thought you said you werenât coming tonight.â Scottâs voice is sharp, cutting through the night like a knife. He turns to face you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken, his scowl reflecting the look he gets when he's about to unleash on someone. âYou said you needed space, time to clear your head⊠So why are you here? With him?â
âI know. Plans change,â you reply, caught off-guard, hoping to sound casual even as you hook your finger nervously under the strap of your dress. Youâve never seen Scott this worked up before, and itâs unsettling.
âPlans change?â Scott scoffs, his voice rising with every word. âThatâs your excuse? You say one thing, and then do the complete opposite? What was your plan, then? To drink with Tyler and maybe let him drive you home? Was that the idea?â
Youâre taken aback by the sharpness of his words. âIt was just a drink, Scott. I needed to get out and clear my head.â
âJust a drink?â Scottâs eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer, his frustration barely contained. âDo you really think Iâm that naive? Tyler doesnât just do âjust a drink.â Heâs always looking for something more. And youââ He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. âHe makes a mess of everything he touches. You know what heâs like. Hell, youâre smart enough to see through his bullshit. So why are you letting him get close to you?â
âScott, itâs not like that,â you protest, your voice wavering slightly under his scrutiny. âI needed to get out. It had nothing to do with him.â
âAnd you couldnât find another way to clear your head? Without him? Without the guy whoâs known for causing chaos?â His voice is thick with emotion, the carefully controlled mask he usually wears slipping away to reveal the raw frustration and fear beneath. âYou think I donât see whatâs happening here? Iâve been through this before, and Iâm not going to stand by and watch you make the same mistakes.â
âWhat are you implying?â You ask, confused and angry.
âIâm saying I think youâre using Tyler as a distraction,â Scott says, his voice sharp, âA way to escape from everything youâve been dealing with.â
Frustration prickles at his words, and even though you try not to, itâs hard to keep the edge from your voice. âEscape? Thatâs notâ Iâm not running away from anything.â
âWeâve had a rough week. I know itâs been hard on you,â Scott says, his tone softening slightly, though he still looks on edge. His jaw ticks again, and your gaze immediately darts to the pack of gum you know he keeps in his right back pocket. âBut if youâre letting someone like Tyler pull you away from what really matters, itâll only make things worse. Iâve seen too many people get hurt by him.â
Your anger flares at his scolding, hating that you found yourself in one storm, only to be led willingly into the next. âAnd what, Scott? You think you know me so well that you can just decide whatâs best for me?â
âNo, Iâm justââ Scott shakes his head, taking a step toward you, then rethinking it. âIâm trying to keep you safe.â
âSafe?â You try to suppress a laugh, but it comes out bitter. âSafe doesnât really exist in our line of work, and you know that.â
Scottâs eyes flash with a mix of frustration and something else you canât quite place. He takes a deep breath, struggling to steady himself. âYou think I donât know that? When things go wrong, I need to know that I can count on the people around me to handle their shit.â
You raise an eyebrow, uncertain where this is going. âAnd what exactly does that have to do with Tyler or me?â
âDo you have any idea what you do to me?â he asks, his tone almost pleading. âWhen youâre involved, everything gets complicated. I canât think straight when youâre involved. I canât focus. Hell, I canât even sleep at night.â
Scott runs a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping tightly as if trying to ground himself. âThat tornadoâ When the equipment malfunctioned because Dale failed to follow the calibration protocols I specifically fucking outlinedâ I was frozen, just paralyzed with fear. I couldnât breathe. I couldnât move. I knew we couldnât make it to you in time.â
You still, remembering how quickly Scott had cornered Dale when you got back. Youâd thought it was because of the readings and the instructions heâd ignored that had nearly cost you both your lives.
Scottâs breath hitches as he continues. âIt wouldâve been my fault. My responsibility. My orders. I was convinced Iâd lost you. And I thought if I could just keep you safe, try to control the chaos, that it might make things better. But seeing you with Tyler tonight... Itâs like Iâm back in that moment, feeling helpless, and Iââ He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. âLook, Iâm not going through that again. I canât.â
His voice cracks, and you see the depth of his internal struggle. âIâm just⊠trying to protect you,â he admits quietly, âbut I donât know if you even see it that way.â
His words weigh heavy, the shock of it ripping right through you. Scott Miller didn't go out of his way to be kind.
You're pulled back through the last few months: the coffee, just the way you liked it, that Scott always had waiting for you after a chase; his lack of scorn when you fell asleep on him in the van the next morning, when exhaustion wins and his silence becomes safety; the lingering, unasked question on his lips every time you were tasked to go out onto the field again and you agreed, over and over, despite the very real fear of the very thing you chased.
For a moment, everything else fades away â Tyler, the bar, the noise.
âScott.â Your voice breaks through the quiet in a whisper, drawing close to him. Your hands glide gently along the black fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms. âIâm here,â you say, your voice steady but soft. âIâm with you.â
For a moment, that vulnerability continues to swim in his eyes. And then he steps closer, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. You think, for a split second of panic, that he means to push you away and close himself off the way he usually does; instead, his thumbs rub tenderly at your palms, the action so gentle and unlike him that it makes your breath stall.
Instinctively your gaze meets his, forgetting (as you often did) just how big he actually was. Tall, broad, and deliciously toned; when you thought of Scott, you thought of him behind a desk, not running laps around his neighborhood and clocking in hours at the gym. Your uniforms did an amazing job of hiding his physique, but itâs impossible to ignore now. His black undershirt clings to him like a second skin and reveals the hard, taut muscles of his body, further evidence of the control he wielded so effortlessly.
His eyes search yours, the intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloping you. Youâve never seen him so open before, and as his hands smooth down your arms to the curve of your waist, thereâs a sense of urgency in his touch that he doesnât vocalize.
Fear. Longing. Desire. His jaw sets again as his gaze drops to your mouth, and you think, for one terrifying moment, that he wonât do it. Would he regain his composure, push you away, then act like nothing had happened the next morning? His brows furrow, as if reading your thoughts. Maybe youâd be reassigned just to avoid the awkwardness of it all. Scott could send you packing with just a phone call.
Your heart pounds, frozen in place, each second lasting an eternity. His fingers flex on your waist, the electrifying touch causing your lips to part and your lashes to flutter. The sight makes his throat bob.
âGod damn it,â he groans, his voice guttural.
Itâs the only warning you get before his mouth descends onto yours. Though his lips are smooth, thereâs nothing gentle about the way Scott kisses you. His mouth moves hungrily against yours, devouring and demanding and all-consuming, like youâre the very air he needs to breathe. You sigh, aching for more, that dull fire inside you growing hotter at the groan that escapes him. As he fists a hand in your hair, he wraps a strong arm around your middle to pull you closer, deepening the kiss.
âScottâŠâ Bunching his shirt in your hands, youâre helpless when he nips at your bottom lip, pulling desperate, needy sounds from you. As he trails hot open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, finding every spot with ease, his fingers wrap gently around your throat, your pulse racing against his thumb.
âGod, Iâve wanted you like this for months,â Scott murmurs against your skin, his voice a low growl that makes your thighs clench. A soft moan escapes as you tilt your head to give him better access, his noise of approval rumbling deep in his throat. âIâve dreamt of this.â
He presses you into the wall behind you as he ravages your neck, all teeth and tongue and the kind of marks that youâll have to find excuses for in the morning. A shiver sends you arching up into him, fingers slipping into his hair as he palms your breast, lowering his mouth to suck a greedy mark there. You whine at the friction youâre missing, hips circling the air, desperately hooking your fingers into his belt loops to drag him closer.
âShhh,â Scott pauses to hitch your leg up, slotting his knee between your thighs. Dark blue eyes drink in the sight of you as he squeezes your ass, a cocky smile spreading on his pink and swollen lips. âI know, sweetheart. Thatâs what you want, isnât it?â You mewl when his knee brushes against your heat, enough to have you rolling helplessly against him but not enough to satisfy your desires. âSo pretty, so desperate.â
âYes,â You grip him harder for some semblance of a tether, that condescending, degrading voice only adding fuel to the fire. Did he know what you fantasized about late at night? The shower running to muffle your moans while you touched yourself to his deep voice, lecturing you over a simple mistake? Open desire swirls in your eyes, pleading now, every want laid bare for him. âPlease, I want it.â
Scottâs low noise of approval sounds in his throat, pressing closer to give you what you need. Youâd be half-ashamed at the way you eagerly grind against him if his own arousal wasnât hard against your hip, straining, large and throbbing with every roll of your hips. The material of your panties do nothing to stop the delicious ache of his worn jeans against your clit, too many pieces of fabric between you, trying to quiet pretty sounds as you bite your lip.
âLook at you,â Scott growls, your dress inching higher as he seizes your hips, helping you find a rhythm. Hooking the lace of your panties under his fingers, he tugs the material up tight enough together to elicit a hiss, a dimple playing at the corner of his mouth as he smirks, âIs this all for me, baby?â
Barely managing a nod, you meet his eyes through thick lashes and whimper at the expression on his face. That intense gaze drinks in every inch of you like youâre a piece of art and the last thing he wants to remember, his usually stormy eyes hazy with desire.
âGod damn... You just canât get enough, can you, baby? When you touch yourself at night, do you think about me? Rubbing that needy little pussy on your pillow âcause you just canât help it?â You press harder into him in response, his answering laugh dark against your ear. âBut itâs never enough, is it? You always crave more, something thicker, something stronger.â
You whine against the loss of contact as he drops his knee, the sting of your panties snapping against your skin quickly forgotten when he trails his digits along the swell of your mouth. You open up greedily, the salty taste of his skin on your tongue intoxicating as you wrap your lips around him.Â
âI bet you look so pretty,â he continues, his voice ragged, âSpread out like a top dollar whore with your cunt in the air, gagging on your fingers and wishing it were me. Wondering how many you need to suck on to fill you up just right. How many do you think, baby? Two? More?â
Scott pulls his fingers out with a pop, nuzzling against you as you try to remember to breathe. âWould you even be able to use that brain of yours, baby? Or would you be so fucking desperate to fill your hole that youâd use however many fit?â
He hikes up your dress while he pushes his hand in your panties, fingers slipping through your soaked folds. Fuck. He slowly circles your clit, stealing the breath from your lungs as you arch up into him. âOh, I know, sweetheart. It doesnât feel like this, does it?â
Not even close. Worst of all, you werenât even sure if Scott knew just how true it was. Other men may have excited you, but nothing compared to this â not you, not the others you took to your bed, not even the fantasy Scott you envisioned. You buck helplessly against him, eager for more, whimpering out some sort of half-reply as you grip his wrist in a pathetic effort to keep him there.
Scott just grins. âWhatâs wrong, baby? Am I going too slow for you?â When he softens his touch, your nails dig into his skin, leaving little crescent moon marks. Lips desperately search for his, your eyes half-lidded and hazy. âI knew youâd be greedy,â he hums, gripping you roughly by the chin, his thumb swiping over your parted lips. âLetting me play with your pussy like this, where anyone could walk out and see how much of a slut youâre being.â
You bite back a moan as you remember where you are, glancing frantically at the door like it might open any second. Your pulse skyrockets when he resumes teasing, circling your clit then dipping down to press at your entrance. Fingers close around the fabric of his shirt, meaning to push him away and only pulling him closer with another desperate whine. âScott, pleaseâŠâ
âFuck.â Thereâs a dark look that flashes across his face, voice rough and ragged, and you watch, with nothing to shield his gaze, as his control snaps.
Sliding his hand over your mouth, itâs the only warning you get before he sinks a thick digit into your weeping cunt. The growl that escapes him when you automatically clench around it only makes you wetter, paralyzed with lust as he works you into pliancy. You pant, chest heaving, as he finds a steady rhythm that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, every moan muffled against the palm of his hand as you arch into his touch.
You cry out when he adds a second finger, rocking your hips desperately as he angles his hand just right to rub against your clit. âHarderâ Please, moreââ The words are strangled, spilling out of you mindlessly now, unable to think beyond the way Scott stretches you out. You grab a fistful of his hair as he groans against your neck, dragging teeth and tongue along your skin, freeing your breasts from your dress before covering your mouth again.
âSo god damned sexy,â he growls, quick to lap at your hardened nipples, the flat of his tongue spilling another pretty sound from your throat. He curls his digits deeper inside you, the wet schlick of your heat loud in your ears as he sets a brutal pace, switching his attention to your other neglected nipple.
Breath hot against your skin, Scott relishes how you become putty in his hands, holding onto him for support as he strokes that burning fire in you.
âPerfect fucking tits. Perfect fucking pussy. Jesus, sweetheart,â he nips at your skin, soothing the bite with his tongue. âIs this what you like? Being used like my own personal fucktoy? What would the others think if they saw you right now, fucking yourself stupid on me like a bitch in heat?â
He slips his fingers out long enough for you to beg, his smile dark against your skin while you whimper in desperation â and then heâs pushing back into you, stretching your hole with every rough thrust of his fingers. âHear that, sweetheart? Even your body knows itâs meant to be mine.â
Scott kisses you hungrily as he drops his free hand to your breast, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you scream. His fingers slick harder into you, his cock thick and grinding into your hip while you try to breathe against his storm, your own control slipping as you fist his dark curls in your hands, looking for leverage.
âThatâs it,â he growls, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. âThis is my fucking pussy, isnât it, baby? You wanna cum for me? Let the whole bar know youâre my toy to play with?â
âPlease, please, pleaseââ You canât think beyond the brutal pace heâs set, not even sure that your voice sounds human as you babble, eyes big and watering. âWanna cum for you, please, I need itââ
âYou need it?â You gasp as the pain on your nipple subsides only for him to pinch the other, something dark and destructive swirling heavy in his blue eyes. You shiver at the expression, the carnal desire written so clearly over his face, every word out of his mouth deep, commanding, leaving no room for debate. âIâll tell you when you get to cum. This is mine.â Pressing the heel of his palm hard against your clit, he watches with glee as you clamp down on your bottom lip to keep from screaming, obeying his command even as your body fights.
Your knees nearly buckle at the growl in his voice. Every thrust of his fingers brings you closer to the edge, the heat overwhelming. How many nights had you spent with your fingers in your cunt, picturing scenario after scenario of him taking you in the van, in the bathroom, on his desk after hours?Â
âSay it,â Scott insists. âTell me youâre mine.â
You meet his gaze, the intensity of it nearly sending you over the edge. âIâm yours,â you say, caught between a moan and something stronger, your words choking off.
âAgain.â His expression tightens, picking up speed. âLouder.â
âIâm yours!â Your body trembles with the effort to stay upright, writhing against him. The words feel like a vow, your grip on Scott tight as you sob them into him. âMy pussy is yours, my body is yoursâ Just a pathetic, dirty, worthless hole for you to fuckâ Fuck, Scott, pleaseââ
Scott growls in response, fisting his hand in your hair as finds the spongey spot inside of you. His digits work you hard, the veins in his arms on display as you bite back a scream, waiting, begging, needing. âCum,â he grunts, the sound of his fingers driving into you loud and damning, âThatâs it, sweetheart. Cum for me.â
You fall over the edge hard and fast, crying out as all the tension from the night finally snaps. It feels like an eternity as he continues fucking you through it, every filthy promise spelled out clearly with his lips at your ear.
By the time you come crashing back down, youâre shaking and empty, blinking back stars as Scott steps back. âOh my god,â you gasp, fighting to catch your breath, mind still a mess as you try to piece together everything that happened. âThat wasâŠâ
You watch, mesmerized, as Scott sucks his fingers into his mouth, a groan of approval sounding deep in his throat. And when he squeezes at his bulge straining against his zipper, your core clenches tight at the thought of his weight on top of yours, fucking you into submission again and again until he gets his fill.
âJust the beginning,â Scott promises, stepping toward you to tilt your chin up, his free hand coming down to tighten around your soaked panties and pull. They rip easily in his strong grasp, his grin triumphant as he stuffs them into his back pocket. âYou wonât be needing these anymore.â
âWhy?â Your body tenses with anticipation, noting the defined dimple in his cheek, the kind of grin he only wore when he was about to be incredibly, infuriatingly smug.
âBecause,â he hums, full of condescension, âI didnât hear a thank you.â
Before you can fix your mistake, Scott silences you with a kiss, his mouth patronizingly gentle as a wicked laugh sounds in the back of his throat. âDonât worry,â he says, dropping another chaste kiss to your mouth, your nose, the space between your creased brows. âIt wonât happen again. Iâll teach you, sweetheart.â
Goosebumps rise on your flesh as Scott adjusts your dress to cover your exposed body, the act so gentle and unbecoming that you freeze enough to let him. The moment only lasts a minute, your eyes meeting as he squeezes the curve of your ass when heâs done, all that vulnerability you had seen locked away again, like heâs guarding himself as reality comes back to life.
A muscle feathers in his jaw as his gaze shifts from you to the back door youâd spilled from. Youâve known Scott long enough by now to know he wonât be the one to say whatâs hanging in the air. It would be easier, safer, to walk back in like nothing had happened and return to the motel alone, hitching a ride with anyone other than Scott the next morning.
But if you turn away now, youâll never see that side of him again: the side that stayed up with you when he could be sleeping, the kind that comforted you without words, the kind that lit your world on fire with every bruising mark heâd left on you. The chance of knowing the man behind the mask.
You donât miss the way his muscles tense under your touch as you reach for him or the flash of relief that flickers through him. âYou think Iâm teachable?â You ask, turning big eyes up at him, begging him to see the way you lay yourself bare for him â hoping, praying, that he doesnât turn you down even still.
âIâm not an easy teacher.â He says, low, still guarded. Still giving you one last out.
You shake your head, a laugh tumbling out. His throat bobs at the sound. âI donât want easy.â The truth of that hangs heavy in the air, zipping between the two of you as recognition passes through his eyes. âNow are you driving, or am I?â
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he presses his tongue into his cheek and takes a step back. âMy van, my rules,â he says, his voice softer now but still firm, and you hear the familiar rumble of the Storm Par van coming to life. His keys jingle in his hand as he adds, âYou should know that by now.â
You bite your lip, suppressing a smile, and follow him out of the alleyway.
You did know. And as you settle into the passenger seat, the scent of the van enveloping you â a mix of old leather and Scottâs cologne â anticipation crackles in the air. The night stretches ahead, full of unspoken possibilities.
You couldnât wait to test how far those rules went... and just how much you both were willing to bend them.
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James dies. Elizabeth brings him home.
⊠potc, post-at world's end, norribeth. multichapter, 33.5k words
âDeath be a different mistress altogether, Miss Swann,â Barbossa says. He leans back into the gloom of the cabin; only the whites of his eyes reflect the bare candlelight. âI happen to know her well. You donât want to be crossing her.â
âI donât think heâs dead, BarbossaâI know he isnât. He canât be, he simply cannot.â Elizabeth wrings her hands together. She hates this, this helplessness, this begging.
Barbossaâs nails drum the table in a slow, steady taunt. âAnd what, pray, makes you think that?â
The memory is never far from her thoughts; it lingers there like a cobweb, translucent and unobtrusive, always quietly wavering in her periphery. The image of James standing with his sword drawn, pistol aimedâthe crack of his shot cutting the rope, sending her plummeting to the seaâher fleeting glimpse of his final momentsâ
What Elizabeth says is: âHe wasâŠrun through, not with a blade, but with a piece of the Dutchman. And he was not one of the sailors aboard when Will came back. If he is not there already, then he will be with the other souls on their way to the afterlife, waiting.â
What she does not say is: I never forgave him. He did not ask, but I denied him anyway. He cannot be at peace.
Theres a line in a fic i love, that is, âHome is a car, and [Samâs] a shitty mechanic.â Which like. Truly goes around in my head. To Sam, home has been a car, and heâs a shitty mechanic. Hes a shitty mechanic and all his life home has been a car. Hello. Hello. He doesnât know how to fix it nor maintain it. He doesnât understand it. Hes a bad mechanic. This is his home. Hello
Steve knew it was insane, but he couldn't stop himself. He tried, he tried to see the the cons about this, but his brain kept overwriting anything negative with "don't care, you need this".
So that's how he found himself in some random tattoo shop in Indy, who was discrete enough, with his saved Scoops and Family Video money in his pocket.
He sat nervously on the chair while the tattoo artist got the stencil ready. His body was fighting itself with wanting to bolt out or root himself to the spot. In the end, the latter part won as the guy came back into the room and applied the stencil on Steve's chest. It was quick work like the tattoo artist said it would be for just a 5 letter word above his heart.
Steve kind of lost himself in the feeling, enjoying the way the needle scraped over his skin. It wasn't a big tattoo by any means, but he thinks he understands now why people get them. It felt ⊠nice. Somehow cathartic and freeing. As quickly as it began it stopped and Steve already missed the feeling. Debated getting another one to continue the feeling.
He decided against it as he looked down and saw the almost delicate way the letters swirled around each other on his chest. Tears sprung to his eyes and he knew he had to get out of there fast. Thankfully the guy didn't comment on the wetness in his eyes while he explained aftercare instructions to Steve and pocketed the money afterwards.
When Steve took the first step out of the shop he let out a sigh of relief as the cool air hit his face. The tears came back in full force as they raced down his face and down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. He quickly made his way to his car and just sat there for god knows how long, just letting the tears fall as his hand made a home on his chest, right over the tattoo.
His head was pounding and his entire body hurt when the tears finay slowed down. He knew he probably shouldn't drive like this, but like today showed; he was never one for good ideas. So he drove the roughly one hour back home while the tears dried on his face and his head continued pounding.
He mostly zoned out on the drive, shocking himself when he found himself staring at his own front door. He shook his head and quickly unlocked the door and shuffled inside. He took his shoes and jacket off and immediately went to his room. He took off his hands, leaving them on the ground where he was standing and nearly ripped of his shirt.
Steve walked to the full body mirror in the corner and looked at himself. He was a mess, face puffy and red, dried tear tracks on his face. His eyes went lower and stopped at the ink on his skin. There it was, simple yet pretty. The word 'Eddie' looking back at him like it has always been there, like it was always supposed to be there. His fingers touched the the cold surface of the mirror, right above the name.
It was everything he had left of the man, just memories and the ink on his skin. Eddie would probably think he was insane for this. They barely knew each other. But Steve knew, if they had the time they would have been it. They would have spend the rest of their lives together, side by side. A single tear slid down Steve's cheek and he smiled, it felt almost like a promise.
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Sure, he was young. Almost classically handsome. But what truly mattered in that moment was that he was famous. Famous enough to draw the attention of everyone within ten metres. His presence alone would keep people at bay.
He was the perfect repellent. No man would dare approach her with Kim Seungmin at her side.
She would use him as a shield, whether he liked it or not.
pair: idol!seungmin x chaebol!oc
genre: enemies to lovers, (sort of) fake dating, smut
words: 21k
The place Yoonsuk had chosen for their meet-up was one of those venues designed solely to make people feel important for no apparent reason. Seungmin followed his cousin inside, tugging the brim of his cap down over his eyes. They lingered at the entrance, but didnât have to wait long before one of the waiters approached them with a determined yet unhurried stride, giving a polite nod to suggest they should follow him.
Seungmin didnât like places like that. Oversized designer lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, moody light; uncomfortable sofas made from coarse fabric; tables far too small to be practical; and behind the bar, a wall stacked to the ceiling with dusty bottles.
Truth be told, Seungmin didnât like most venues, unless they allowed him to blend in without drawing attention. But heâd had no choice but to accept the invitation, he had long since run out of excuses. Heâd been given a couple of days off, and apart from visiting his parents, he had nothing planned. It had been his mother whoâd called Yoonsuk, using the excuse of needing to discuss a birthday gift for some uncle Seungmin didnât know, and was fairly sure didnât even exist. âYes, heâs here,â heâd heard her say on the phone. âOf course he wants to go out, heâs bored stiff!â
Seungmin had shot her a sideways glance to make it clear he had absolutely no intention of getting off the sofa that day. But it had been no use. Within minutes, heâd received a message from his cousin.
Choi Yoonsuk, two years older and born with a natural talent for social interaction that Seungmin had never developed, raised a hand in greeting towards four guys he appeared to know just enough to ask a few polite questions and wish them a pleasant evening. It came effortlessly to him, he didnât even need to try. He had a job in finance, carried himself with quiet confidence, and wore Italian leather shoes. He was, without a doubt, the cousin his parents preferred: conservative with a hint of modern flair, always polite but undeniably charismatic, serious at work but still good company.
âYou hate me a bit for dragging you here, donât you?â Yoonsuk said as they walked past the bar.
âNot yet,â Seungmin replied, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets.
Yoonsuk laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder, steering him forward.
âThanks for coming, anyway.â
Seungmin wasnât sure why he was there, hadnât even considered that there might be some ulterior motive behind his cousinâs invitation. But the moment he heard those words, he couldnât help but start to worry.
~
Her first mistake had been arriving early. That wasnât like her. She usually preferred to make her entrance with calculated precision, neither too punctual nor fashionably late. Being a little late, just slightly, gave her the illusion of control: not the one waiting, but the one to be waited for. It gave her time to observe, to assess the situation and decide how best to behave. A subtle difference, but one she considered essential.
Miok was seated with Sooyeon and Yoonmi at a table near the large windows overlooking a corner of Gangnam unfamiliar to most. She held a wine glass delicately between her fingers, taking small sips from time to time; her legs crossed at the ankles, just as she'd been taught since childhood. Years of etiquette classes and long family dinners had shaped her posture into something as elegant as it was austere.
Her parents hadnât even tried to be discreet. Sheâd figured out their plan over a week ago, the moment her mother first mentioned Yoonsuk.
âHeâs just come back from London. Theyâve transferred him to Seoul,â sheâd said with feigned nonchalance.
Her older brothers had already fulfilled their duty: two weddings, one official engagement; each one a business arrangement dressed up as true love. Now it was her turn. A member of the respectable Choi family would suit their purposes perfectly. That was her parentsâ goal: someone respectable, someone they could boast about in their social circles and at formal dinners.
Miok had decided to play along. Sheâd agreed to attend this so-called friendly gathering, really just a disguised matchmaking attempt, simply to keep them quiet for a while. Sheâd learnt that pretending to obey often brought greater freedom. That was why she didnât rebel openly. If she nodded and smiled just enough to please them, sheâd come out on top in the end. As always.
âThe evening hasnât even started and you already want to go home, donât you?â teased Sooyeon, stirring the ice in her drink with deliberate slowness.
âItâs just that I donât understand why they keep insisting,â Miok replied, referring to her parents, before taking another sip of wine. âIâm not an investment.â
âWell, to be fair to them, you are quite the valuable asset,â Yoonmi joked.
The three of them laughed, keeping their voices at an appropriate volume and covering their mouths with their hands.
Then Miok saw them walk in.
~
Seungmin approached the table where the three girls were sitting, prompting an immediate and unintentional shift in atmosphere. Though simply dressed in a dark jumper and jeans, he had a presence that was hard to ignore. He didnât carry the arrogance of someone who expected attention; rather, the quiet confidence of someone who knew heâd get it anyway. And from the look on his face, that attention seemed more of an inconvenience than anything else.
When their eyes met, something in their expressions stiffened. As though their bodies had already sensed the mutual dislike that was about to form. Neither of them smiled.
âMiok,â exclaimed Yoonsuk, opening his arms slightly. He seemed torn between a hug and a polite bow, settling at last for a brief, courteous nod. âItâs been ages!â
âAlmost three years,â she replied, smiling with measured ease, the kind of smile sheâd seen her mother wear since childhood, one sheâd learnt to adopt whenever the situation demanded it.
Seungmin watched her, trying not to make it obvious, but he still caught her attention.
âAh,â said Yoonsuk, noticing Miokâs gaze settle on the other boy. She caught a glimpse of his self-satisfied smile, as if getting her to notice Seungmin had been the plan all along. âThis is my cousin, Seungmin.â
He raised a hand in greeting, a gesture the three girls found almost rude. âHi.â
âStray Kids, right?â asked Yoonmi, breezy and wide-eyed. Miok saw her twisting a strand of hair around her finger. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
He shrugged. âSo they say.â
Yoonmi laughed, even though it wasnât particularly funny.
Yoonsuk and Seungmin took the seats next to the girls, and Miok adjusted herself in hers, resisting the temptation to cross her arms. They ordered a bottle of wine, then another, as if the alcohol might help make everything feel a little more natural. Two of Yoonsukâs friends joined them after half an hour, laughing too loudly, and the space around the table suddenly felt far too cramped.
As the wine kept flowing, the conversation grew livelier. The conversation bounced between them with the ease typical of people who barely knew one another. They talked mostly about work. But despite the rising noise, Miok couldnât help but notice Seungminâs consistent silence.
It wasnât shyness. It wasnât the awkward discomfort of someone unsure what to say, nor the embarrassment of feeling out of place. It simply seemed like he had no desire to speak, as though someone had glued his lips shut. His eyes stayed low, fixed on his glass, and when he did lift them, it was more to scrutinise than to observe.
When people asked him questions, his replies were monosyllabic or limited to a nod. âYeah.â âMaybe.â âDonât know.â He never returned anyoneâs interest. He let the conversation wash over him.
âYouâre not much of a talker, are you?â Miok asked after her third glass. Her tone made her irritation clear.
He tilted his head slightly, as if debating whether to answer. âDo you always open with accusations, or is that saved for special occasions?â
Miok shrugged. âIt was just an observation.â
He raised his eyebrows but didnât look directly at her. âIf you say so. Sounded more like criticism to me.â
âIâm just trying to be polite.â
A kind of smirk appeared on his face. âYouâre not very good at it.â
Miok leaned back against her chair and let out a short, incredulous laugh. âIf you planned to spend the whole evening in silence, you couldâve just stayed home.â His refusal to mask his discomfort irritated her. She didnât want to be there either, but at least she was playing along. Smiling, pretending to be interested in what others were saying. But him? Not even trying. And that annoyed her more than she cared to admit.
âHeâs good-looking, though,â said Yoonmi about twenty minutes later, reapplying a clear lip gloss while checking her reflection in the barâs bathroom mirror.
âWho? Yoonsuk?â asked Sooyeon, drying her hands.
âNo, Seungmin,â Yoonmi answered, giggling a moment later.
Miok turned to look at her. âAre you serious?â
Yoonmi gave a little shrug and laughed again, covering her mouth with her hand. âHeâs a bit shy, but you canât deny heâs good-looking.â
Miok didnât reply. She simply shook her head and left the bathroom.
Back at the table, Seungmin was drinking his wine as if it were poison. He looked up and met Miokâs gaze.
âBack already?â he asked.
Miok sat down. âDid you miss me?â
âNo, I was enjoying the peace. Iâd hoped it might last a bit longer.â
Miok leaned in slightly. âAre you always like this?â
âLike what?â
âUnpleasant.â
Seungmin let out a short, sardonic laugh. As if pleased by his own ability to irritate. But once again, Yoonsuk jumped in before he could reply.
By the end of the evening, Seungmin was the first to get up.
âGood luck with your new job,â he said to Yoonmi, who looked surprised. He hadnât seemed to be listening when sheâd spoken about it. In fact, heâd seemed completely lost in his own thoughts the whole night, glancing around aimlessly and constantly bouncing his leg.
To Miok, he offered only a nod.
She gave a brief bow before turning back to talk to Yoonsuk. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Seungmin walk out of the venue.
And in that moment, she sincerely hoped sheâd never see him again.
The way Yoonsuk had furnished his flat made it difficult to get any real sense of his personality. Metal-framed shelves decorated with eye-catching art catalogues, deliberately arranged; a worn-looking The Godfather poster hanging in the entrance; a black leather sofa that didnât exactly invite anyone to sit down. On the marble countertop of the kitchen island, trays of overly European appetisers had been carefully laid out. An ambient music playlist played softly in the background, fitting for this sort of event, which felt less like a birthday party and more like a start-up networking night.
The birthday boy welcomed them with the ease of someone who had hosted many such gatherings. He accepted the wine with an almost exaggerated bow before handing it off to the first person who passed by, instructing them to put it in the kitchen.
âWelcome,â he said with a sly smile.
Since their last meeting, she and Yoonsuk hadnât had many opportunities to see each other. But they had kept in touch. Whenever their work schedules allowed, they met for quick coffee breaks. There was no attraction between them. No romantic feelings. But Miok had decided that keeping him in her life was a useful way to keep her parents in check. Every time she mentioned his name, her motherâs eyes would light up.
She was certain sheâd never call Yoonsuk a friend. Too much of a dandy, too opportunistic. But spending time in his company had turned out to be more entertaining than sheâd expected. So, when he messaged her with an invitation to his birthday, Miok had accepted without hesitation.
She exhaled slowly before stepping into the crowd.
Sooyeon, far more at ease in these sorts of settings, had already drifted off to greet a group of people Miok vaguely recognised but couldnât bring herself to care about. She joined her brother and greeted his friends with measured politeness, accepting a glass of prosecco. Then she took a moment to scan the room, quietly observing the people moving through the large living area.
When she didnât see him, she turned, and smiled.
~
Seungmin arrived around eleven, visibly exhausted. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt and a leather jacket which, though clearly expensive, looked out of place among the sea of starched shirts and faded polo tops. He pulled off his cap and tried to fix his hair, still damp from the shower. Rehearsals had run longer than expected, partly his fault, and heâd considered more than once just staying home.
He handed Yoonsuk a small black box without even looking at him. Then, in a low voice, he muttered, âWhatâs she doing here?â
Sheâd been one of the first people heâd seen upon entering. Lee Miok.
Yoonsuk followed his gaze but didnât react. He simply shrugged. âWhy do you care? Just ignore her.â
Seungmin sighed but said nothing more. He checked once more where she was, then walked off in the opposite direction, determined to follow his cousinâs advice.
~
But Yoonsukâs flat, spacious as it was, didnât leave much room to manoeuvre. They ran into each other in the kitchen. Seungmin had gone to grab another beer and found her sitting at the counter, gaze lost somewhere in the crowd. He ignored her, pretending she wasnât even there.
âYou again,â she said, not even bothering to look at him.
Seungmin turned this time. âUnfortunately.â
There was a short pause.
âDidnât have you down as the type for these sorts of things,â she added, picking up the glass sheâd left beside her. She didnât drink from it, though.
âThese sorts of things? Itâs a birthday party. For my cousin, no less. Why wouldnât I come?â he replied, shutting the fridge door. âDidnât know you two had become friends.â
âWeâre not,â she said flatly. âWeâre just useful to each other.â
Seungmin looked at her. Really looked. She wasnât beautiful, not in the conventional sense. Short hair, a small oval face, eyes wide and just slightly too far apart. There was no real harmony in her features, and yet nothing seemed out of place either.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then someone nearby called Miokâs name, and someone else patted Seungmin on the back in greeting.
They drifted apart again. She went back to discussing a recent exhibition with a friend, he ended up talking to one of his cousinâs colleagues about the upcoming baseball season. They didnât speak again that evening, but they remained in each otherâs orbit.
Whenever she laughed, he noticed. Each time he headed to the kitchen for another drink, her gaze followed him.
At the end of the night, sitting in the back seat of the taxi on his way home, eyes fixed on the lights of the high-rises lining the road, Seungmin had to accept the bitter truth that heâd forgotten everything heâd said that evening, except for the few brief exchanges heâd had with her.
Miok, once back in her flat, stood in front of the large bathroom mirror, staring at her bare face. She touched her cheek. She could still feel Seungminâs eyes on her, as if theyâd never really left.
Seungmin hadnât planned on attending the event. In truth, he hadnât planned on doing anything at all. After returning from Japan, heâd been looking forward to spending a few rare days off doing absolutely nothing, the kind of days spent in pyjamas, mindlessly scrolling through his phone with not a single thought in his head and avoiding all human interaction.
But then his mother had called and more or less forced him. âWe never see you,â sheâd said in that tone of hers; half pleading, half reproachful. âAnd make sure you dress properly,â his sisterâs voice had chimed in sternly in the background.
So, just a few hours later, he found himself sitting in the back seat of his parentsâ car, like he had as a child, stiff in a midnight-blue suit.
âItâs some sort of charity evening,â his sister had explained, âhosted by the Lee family.â
âYou know, the pharmaceutical company,â she added, as though that might help Seungmin figure out who she was talking about. âTheyâve got this foundation that supposedly funds cultural events, but in practice itâs mostly a way to evade taxes.â
Seungmin had laughed, and their mother had scolded them both, eyeing them through the rear-view mirror. The rest of the journey passed in silence.
The gallery was the kind of place that, had it not been for the paintings on the walls and sculptures dotted here and there, might have faintly resembled a hospital. Bare concrete walls, resin flooring, wide spiral staircases connecting the floors. Seungmin followed his family in silence, already regretting giving in to his motherâs pressure. His hands were shoved into his trouser pockets and his head slightly bowed.
Then he saw her.
Miok stood ahead of him. She was wearing a forest-green dress, nothing extravagant, but far more elegant than anything heâd seen her in before. She was speaking to an elderly couple, smiling with that sort of polite friendliness that made it clear she wasnât talking to them out of genuine interest, but out of obligation. Professional, poised. And that was when Seungmin finally realised who she was. Lee Miok. The Lee Foundation. The ones with the pharmaceutical company. A wry smile crept across his lips. It couldn't be otherwise.
âDo you know her?â his sister asked, noticing her brotherâs gaze fixed on the unfamiliar girl.
âNot really,â he replied, quickly looking away. âSheâs a friend of Yoonsukâs. Sort of.â
His sister didnât press any further, but the smug smile that appeared on her face was enough to make her younger brother roll his eyes.
~
Her heels were starting to hurt. Sheâd been on her feet for over two hours, weaving between one canvas and the next to make sure everything was running smoothly while also making polite conversation with the guests. But above all, trying to avoid being caught alone by her mother.
Her parents, having finally accepted that love would never blossom between her and Yoonsuk, had moved on to plan B: introducing her to an endless string of eligible bachelors from high society in the hope that at least one might win her over.
She and Yoonsuk had stayed in touch even after his birthday party, but after yet another orchestrated dinner to appease their respective families, it had become painfully clear there was no real interest between them. Her motherâs patience had officially run out.
So far, plan B had been a complete disaster. All the men sheâd been introduced to were respectable, certainly, but overly polished. They flaunted expensive watches and tailored suits, and gave her compliments as though reading from a badly written script. One of them had even praised her for the âarticulateâ way she spoke. Miok had barely stopped herself from laughing in his face.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother approaching once more, this time with a man who looked like heâd lived through the 1997 financial crisis and hadnât laughed since. Her stomach turned. She needed an escape route.
Then she saw him.
Seungmin was lingering near the bar, an expression of pure apathy on his face. He looked deeply bored, perhaps even irritated, as if heâd been dragged there against his will. Which, all things considered, was probably the case.
Miok smiled, satisfied.
Sure, he was young. Almost classically handsome. But what truly mattered in that moment was that he was famous. Famous enough to draw the attention of everyone within ten metres. His presence alone would keep people at bay.
He was the perfect repellent. No man would dare approach her with Kim Seungmin at her side.
She would use him as a shield, whether he liked it or not.
She walked up to him with purposeful strides.
âIf anyone asks,â she said, her voice low but firm. âIâm here with you.â
He looked down at her, raising an eyebrow.
âWhy would I say something like that?â
âTo help me.â
âIâve got no intention of doing that.â
âOh, donât be a prick, Seungmin.â
He seemed slightly taken aback by her sudden familiarity. Miok glanced back at the crowd until her gaze landed on her mother and the man beside her. Seungmin followed her eyes. And seemed to understand.
âWhat exactly am I supposed to do?â
âJust smile and nod occasionally. Pretend you enjoy my company.â
He attempted a smile, but the result was more of a pained grimace.
âMaybe donât smile at all,â she muttered, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. He recoiled instantly, as if burned.
âDonât push your luck,â he said.
âCome on,â she replied, somewhere between a laugh and a plea. âJust for a few minutes. Until my mum goes away. Please be a good boy, Seungmin.â
He tilted his head slightly, a mischievous smirk curling at the corners of his mouth.
âAnd if I donât?â
âYouâll go to hell.â
âWell, hell sounds far more appealing than spending time with you.â
Miok rolled her eyes, exasperated. âStop acting like a brat.â
A short laugh escaped Seungminâs lips. He leaned in slightly. âYouâre the one acting like a spoiled little girl. Should I call grandpa and tell him youâre still single?â
âDonât you dare,â she said, turning her back to him. âIâll find someone else.â
Almost without thinking, Seungmin reached out and gently caught her arm just above the elbow.
âFine,â he muttered. âIâll help you. Itâs not like Iâve got anything better to do. This event is bloody boring.â
Miok smiled again, triumphant. She lifted a hand and ruffled his hair. âGood boy.â
They stayed together for a while, not too long, just long enough for the people around them to notice. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. They didnât speak much, simply sipped their drinks and pretended to laugh, watching the steady flow of guests drifting around them.
When her mother finally disappeared upstairs, Miok turned to Seungmin. âWell. Thanks.â
âMy pleasure,â he replied with heavy sarcasm.
She walked away. He simply watched her go.
When his sister asked him at the end of the night whether heâd enjoyed himself, he just shrugged.
The restaurant was quiet. Miok sat opposite her mother, back straight and a neatly folded linen napkin resting on her lap.
Her mother was halfway through a barely dressed salad. She cut the lettuce leaves with calculated precision, so she wouldnât have to open her mouth too wide, chewing slowly and nodding happily. Then she placed her cutlery beside the plate and dabbed at her lips with the napkin. She took a sip of water and lifted her gaze to her daughter.
Every week, Miok received a message from her mother inviting her to lunch at one of the many trendy restaurants recommended by her tennis club friends. Healthy food, meagre portions, outrageous prices. But the food was of little importance. During those lunches, Miok lost her appetite. Because the real reason her mother invited her weekly was not a simple desire to spend time together, but rather to make sure her daughter wasnât straying too far from the path they had laid out for her.
They mostly talked about work. After all, besides being her mother, she was also, in a way, her boss. They discussed emerging artists, pieces they might acquire for their collection, events they could sponsor. Her mother didnât care much for the artistic side, she left that to Miok. What mattered was that, at the end of the day, their reputation remained untarnished.
But from the look on her motherâs face, Miok knew she was about to start a conversation far removed from professional matters. Her mother cleared her throat and said, almost too casually, âWho was that boy you were talking to the other night?â
Miok took a sip of water to buy time. âThe other night?â
âYes. I saw you two by the bar. You seemed⊠comfortable.â
Miok shrugged. âOh. That was Yoonsukâs cousin. Kim Seungmin.â
âAh,â her mother said, as if she didnât already know the answer. âHeâs a celebrity, isnât he? A singer or something like that.â
Her words hung in the air, almost like an accusation.
Miok nodded, trying to keep her expression neutral. âYes, heâs part of a group.â
A small, almost imperceptible sound slipped from her motherâs lips. She dabbed again at the corners of her mouth even though she hadnât resumed eating. âI hope youâre not taking someone like that in serious consideration.â
Miok had to stop herself from laughing in her face. âWhat kind of person would that be?â
âSomeone whose life is constantly on display online. Always travelling the world like a nomad. Always in front of the cameras. Thatâs no life for someone like you.â
Miok set down the glass she was still holding. âAnd what kind of person am I, exactly?â
Her mother blinked slowly. She was getting annoyed but didnât want to show it. âYou know what I mean.â
Miok smiled at her. She knew. She knew how much her mother despised celebrities. She remembered clearly what she once said after reading about yet another scandal splashed across the tabloids: they only bring trouble. A life exposed to the public like a cheap soap opera.
Miok could have simply agreed, reassuring her that there was nothing between her and Seungmin and never would be. She could have steered the conversation back to work. But she felt something stirring beneath her skin. It wasnât anger. More frustration. Or simply tiredness.
She imagined her motherâs reaction if she confessed she was seeing Seungmin. The shocked look she would try to hide.
It was an idea as terrible as it was amusing.
Miok was not reckless, she never had been. Sheâd always got what she wanted not by rebelling or throwing tantrums, but by pulling strings like a puppeteer, convincing everyone that what she wanted was exactly what they wanted too. She had pursued the studies she wanted, attended the university of her choice, promising to work for the family foundation. A promise she intended to keep only a little longer. She wore the dresses her mother gave her to the important events. She knew how to hold conversations with the right people. She behaved as expected so no one would suspect she was plotting behind their backs.
But lately, something had changed. Her parents were more than satisfied with her career, even though they were initially disappointed she hadnât joined the family business like her brothers. Now it was time to focus on her private life. Her family expected her to date someone suitable. Someone from her own world. Someone who wouldnât damage their reputation.
But what if she started seeing someone her parents would never accept? A name too exposed, too far from their universe. Seungmin was perfect. No privacy, no control. Too many eyes on him, too many fans, too many unknowns.
If she hinted that she was seeing him, her parents might realise the real risk of losing control over her. And the moment Miok presented them with a more appropriate figure, someone who fit within their acceptable parameters, they would sigh with relief. They might even let her choose, convinced theyâd avoided the worst.
The idea amused her. It made her feel in control. Of the situation. Of her own life.
âWeâre not dating,â she finally replied. âBut he is⊠a pleasant person.â
âOh?â was her motherâs only response. Miok saw her frown, clearly irritated.
And that reaction was enough. Miok said no more. She didnât need to lie. It was enough to plant a seed and let her motherâs imagination run wild.
The brunch was taking place on the terrace of a hotel near Cheongdam, large white parasols shielding the guests from the early spring sun. That day, Miok arrived late.
That kind of brunch, which was little more than a poorly disguised networking event, wasnât for her. The same faces, the same conversations repeated endlessly. Everyone forced smiles, posing for photos as if they were genuine friends, with the sole purpose of posting them on their social profiles and boasting about a fake social life.
It had been Yoonsuk who invited her, but Miok wasnât keen on enduring hours of chatter with fake CEOs and influencers all dressed the same, as if wearing a uniform. It was Yoonmi who had persuaded her. She had turned up at her place unannounced, forcing her out of bed. âYou have to show yourself once in a while, or theyâll think youâre irrelevant.â Which didnât matter in the slightest to Miok. But her friend wouldnât take no for an answer.
Now she stood under the sun, sunglasses firmly perched on her nose, surveying the terrace with a detached air. Then, to her great surprise, her eyes landed on a familiar figure she hadnât expected to see.
Seungmin.
He stood near the bar, as usual, like someone who had stumbled into the wrong event and didnât know how to leave without drawing attention. As always, his style clashed with the rest of the setting: a short-sleeved striped shirt tucked into a pair of baggy jeans. His hair was swept back messily, a pair of sunglasses twisting between his fingers.
Miok didnât hesitate for a second. She made her way over to him and stood beside him, looking up.
Seungmin immediately noticed her presence but didnât acknowledge her. âGot something on my face?â he finally asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
She tilted her head, pretending to inspect his face. She pressed her lips together to hold back a smile. âNo.â
âThen why do you keep staring at me? Actually, why are you here?â
âI want people to see us together,â she said, as if it were obvious.
There was a brief pause.
âTogether?â Seungmin repeated, as if checking heâd understood correctly.
She nodded. Her smile was enigmatic, almost a smug grin.
Seungmin turned fully to face her. âWhy?â
âOh, nothing you need to worry about. You just have to play alongâŠâ
A sceptical look crossed his face. âWhat have you done?â
âNothing.â
âLee Miok.â
She chuckled. âAlright, but donât get worked up. I might have⊠hinted to my mother that weâre seeing each other.â
Seungmin narrowed his eyes and raised his eyebrows. âWhat?â
âA little white lie, to mess with her a bit.â
He didnât seem impressed by her explanation. âNot funny. Iâd never go out with someone like you.â
It was her turn to raise her eyebrows, mockingly offended. âWhy not? Iâm a catch, you know.â
He laughed dryly but said no more.
âDo you hate me so much that even the idea of going out with me annoys you?â Miok asked, still smiling. She didnât care what he thought of her.
He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples. âIâm not in a position to let baseless gossip about my private life spreadâŠâ
Miok laughed. She noticed his shoulders tense slightly. âThatâs why my mother canât stand you.â
He frowned, increasingly confused. âWhat do you mean? I donât even know herâŠâ
âWell, not you personally. The idea of you. What you represent. Being a celebrity. Your life constantly under the spotlight. No privacy, no dignity.â
Seungmin let out an ironic laugh. âWonderful. Now I feel used.â
âIsnât that what your career is about? Being used?â Miok shot back, too quickly. Her words came out sharper than she intended.
Seungminâs face darkened immediately. He no longer seemed annoyed, but rather hurt.
For a moment, Miok thought about apologising but hesitated. Perhaps out of pride or simple embarrassment. Instead, she said, âAnyway, stick around for a few minutes. Iâm sure someoneâs already telling my mother.â
He sighed again. âYouâre incredible.â Then he walked away.
She followed him, trotting happily.
âYouâre really annoying, you know that?â he muttered, without turning around.
âCome on, SeungminâŠâ
âI need a drink.â
She laughed, giving him a gentle nudge with her elbow. âThis roundâs on me.â
He said nothing. Sighed once more.
But he didnât walk away.
The dim lighting and dark walls made it difficult to distinguish faces in the shadows. Everything had gone well. He had let the camera flashes dazzle him, posed with carefully practiced nonchalance in front of the lenses, said the right things without seeming too nervous. Now all that was left was to go home. He was waiting for his manager to return from the bathroom so they could finally leave.
Attending these kinds of events alone was new to him, but he was slowly getting used to it. He hadnât realised the importance of the other members until he found himself in a room full of people with no one to rely on, no one to fill the awkward silences.
The guests were still chatting and sipping from their champagne flutes. The music, a syncopated rhythm with heavy bass, played softly in the background. Seungmin couldnât stay still, despite his tired legs. His gaze was fixed on the wall in front of him, where bottles of Chanel perfume were displayed, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. He barely registered what was happening around him, almost missing Hoshi, who passed by and wished him a good evening. Seungmin managed a polite nod before the other left the room. Everything blurred into the background.
His thoughts kept returning to the phone call heâd received that afternoon.
âAre you really seeing her?â his sister had asked, cutting straight to the point. Her tone was light, but it still put Seungmin on alert. What was she talking about?
âWith who?â
âLee Miok,â she replied, lowering her voice as if sheâd just said a swear word she was ashamed of. Or maybe she simply didnât want those around her to hear. âMum found out from one of her friends. Apparently, someone saw you together and says youâre dating. Is it true?â
He felt something tighten in his throat. Not anger, not embarrassment. Something he couldnât name.
âThatâs not true. I donât even talk to her,â he answered, trying to keep his tone neutral.
âWell, someone must have started that rumour,â his sister said. âMaybe it was her?â
He felt the blood boil in his veins.
He had been clear: he couldnât allow rumours about his private life to spread. Especially about his love life. He didnât like people talking about him, especially if what was said wasnât true. The thought that Miok had crossed a line despite his warnings, that she had disrupted his private life without his consent, made him feel exposed. In a way he couldnât bear.
His entire life outside work was a delicate structure he had carefully built over the years. The same routine, the same old friends, the same kind of tea after breakfast. Everything was calculated and organised down to the smallest detail. Life in the spotlight was chaotic by nature: unpredictable interviews, technical issues during performances, sometimes inhuman schedules, the fickle attention of the public. For that reason, in his private sphere, he cultivated peace, routine. Stability. He didnât fear change; he hated it when it arrived unannounced.
And Miok, with her high-society manners and the air of someone who always gets whatever she wants, had entered his story like an unforeseen plot twist. Like there had been a sudden hole in the script. The boundaries he had spent years defining had been redrawn without his permission.
Then someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
He turned, already annoyed before seeing who it was.
âSeungmin,â a familiar voice, too clear, too sugary.
He blinked, trying to remember who the girl in front of him was.
âYoonmi,â she offered with a smile, trying to hide her disappointment at not being recognised. âWe met a few months ago, at a party with your cousin.â
âRight,â he replied, cordial but distant.
She was radiant in an ivory strapless dress, her hair falling in perfectly styled waves over her shoulders. She leaned slightly forward towards him, striking a well-practised pose.
âYou look tired,â she teased. âCanât wait to get home, huh?â
He smiled and looked around again. She lingered beside him.
âYouâre friends with Lee Miok, right?â Seungmin asked abruptly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She shifted position, raising her eyebrows.
âYes, I think you could say that,â she answered cautiously. âWhy?â
âCould you give me her number?â
There was a pause. Her eyes scanned his face as if trying to read something in his expression.
âOh?â she said, feigning surprise. âDonât you already have it?â
âNo,â he said firmly. âWeâre not that close.â
She pursed her lips to suppress a smile, clearly pleased. âLast time I saw you two together, you looked rather cosy. I must have been mistaken, then.â
He sighed slowly. âBelieve me, weâre not.â
Yoonmi smiled, then covered her lips with a hand. Without another word, she pulled out her phone from her bag, searched her contacts, and then handed it to Seungmin.
âHere,â she said. âThis is her number.â
He pulled out his own phone and quickly typed in the number without bothering to double-check. âThanks.â
She lingered again.
When he looked at her, she smiled once more.
âArenât you going to ask for my number too?â
The tearoom at the MMCA was quieter than she had expected. Afternoon light filtered through the large windows, casting long shadows over the pale wooden tables. A soft murmur of voices gently broke the silence. A couple of tourists sat a few tables away, speaking a language Miok didnât recognise, while an elderly man silently browsed through the exhibition catalogue.
She was seated by one of the windows, so she could take in the view, fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup of red berry tea. Opposite her, Yuna was checking something on her phone. She wore red lipstick, intricate rose gold earrings, and a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Even in her minimalism, she looked like an important person, or someone on the verge of becoming one. Miok looked at her with pride but also a touch of envy.
They had met in New York, at university, and from the start, Miok had known Yuna was going to go far. Unlike Miokâs family, Yunaâs didnât have the means to support her. She lacked the right connections. But Yuna had passion, boldness, and courage. And a bit of luck. Sheâd applied for a simple internship, but a few months later a colleague retired and Yuna was offered the position. An opportunity she had obviously not let slip by.
âThey want someone young, who knows the contemporary artists currently in vogue,â Yuna said, finally looking up from her phone. âAnd who can write in both Korean and English without making the texts sound like they were translated by Papago. Thatâs why I thought of you.â
Miok gave a faint smile. Those words should have encouraged her; they should have pleased her, but instead, they weighed heavily on her shoulders.
âI donât know,â she murmured, stirring her tea with the teaspoon. âIf I could, Iâd accept in a heartbeat. But I donât know if I can afford to.â
Yuna nodded slowly. She knew all about Miokâs situation, theyâd known each other for years by now. âYou mean financially? Or emotionally?â
âBoth.â
She thought back to her parentsâ expressions a few days earlier, when sheâd joined them for breakfast. She hadnât mentioned the possibility of working at the museum but had told them she was meeting Yuna. Just as friends, to stay in touch. Her mother had pressed her lips together and glanced at her father, who had simply continued reading the news on his tablet. But Miok hadnât missed how heâd wrinkled his nose in disapproval. Theyâd said nothing, but their silence had been unmistakable. The kind of silence that sounded more like a warning.
Theyâd only allowed her to study art history because, somehow, it would fit into the family project. The Foundation would be hers. With her pedigree, her NYU degree, and her network of curators and critics, she would bring legitimacy to the Foundation. Her role had always been, and only ever been, to elevate their image. Nothing more. Working for a museum, no matter how important, would bring them no benefit, no profit. On the contrary, it would almost be shameful.
She knew the job Yuna was offering wasnât well paid. If she wanted to reach the top, sheâd have to start at the bottom, work hard. Nothing would be handed to her on a silver platter as it had been so far. Her parents wouldnât accept it.
But she was so tired. Tired of gala evenings. Tired of patrons who couldnât tell an oil painting from a watercolour. Tired of pretending that art could be measured in tax deductions. Tired of seeing exhibitions reduced to mere backdrops for cocktail parties.
She wanted to be surrounded by people who cared as much as she did. She wanted to rediscover her passion for what she did.
âI just have to think it through,â she said. âIf I were to accept, it could be a problem for my parents.â
Yunaâs expression didnât change. âAnd would that be so terrible?â
Miok looked at her with tired eyes. âEverything I have, I have because Iâm their daughter. Thereâs no denying it. If I abandoned the Foundation to work here, with you, theyâd see it as an insult. They could take everything away from me if they wanted. Maybe itâs selfish, but I donât want to lose their support. I donât know if Iâm capable of living a life without all these privileges. But at the same time, I donât want to live under their constant control anymoreâŠâ
Yuna raised her cup. âThen build a new one. A real life.â
Before Miok could reply, her phone began to vibrate against the table. She glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
She decided to answer anyway. It could be someone important.
âHello?â
âMum just asked me about you,â said a voice. She recognised it immediately.
Seungmin.
No greeting. No hesitation.
âIs she already planning our wedding?â Miok asked neutrally, her eyes on Yuna, who was now watching her with curiosity.
âThatâs not funny.â
There was tension in his voice. Controlled but unmistakable.
âYou need to tell your mother weâre not seeing each other. Immediately,â he added.
Miok let out a brief laugh, throwing her head back.
âDonât worry,â she said simply.
She didnât elaborate. Didnât tell him how her mother had started looking at her; with worry, disapproval, as if Miok was choosing to sabotage herself out of sheer spite. As if seeing her with calm, precise, responsible Seungmin was an act of extreme rebellion. As if he were a criminal. And that thought only amused her.
What had surprised her most, though, wasnât her motherâs reaction. It was her own reaction to that reaction. The more her mother worried, the more Miok wanted to keep up the charade.
âIs there anything else?â she asked lightly.
There was a pause on the other end. Just a faint sigh.
âNo,â he answered. âThatâs it.â
He hung up. Miok set the phone aside, and turned back to look at Yuna, a perplexed expression on her face.
Miok just shook her head. âItâs nothing.â
They had arrived in New York on the third of May. The schedule was intense, as expected: fittings, interviews, rehearsals, content creation. They didnât have a single moment to themselves.
Dinner came late, and the room service boy had apologised at least three times. Seungmin sat at the small table in the hotel room, the tray of food placed between him and Changbin. Burgers and chips. Not the healthiest meal, but it was exactly what they both needed.
At first, they ate in silence, the only background noise coming from a sitcom on the TV, one neither of them recognised. Then Seungminâs phone vibrated once. Then again. A series of short, insistent buzzes against the glass table. Not loud, but enough to interrupt the moment.
Changbin squinted, leaning forward to glance at the screen.
âWhoâs Lee Miok?â
Seungmin, who had just stood up to go to the bathroom, almost tripped over his own feet. He turned slowly, deliberately, to hide his surprise.
âWhy?â
Changbin nodded towards the phone, which continued to light up with each new notification.
âShe keeps messaging you.â
With a silent sigh, Seungmin returned to his seat, picked up the phone and stared at the screen. All the messages were from Miok. She was clearly trying to get his attention, probably to force a response. She must have been with his mother.
âSo, who is she?â Changbin asked again, this time with even more curiosity as he chewed on a chip.
âNo one,â Seungmin muttered, sinking back into his chair. âJust someone who keeps bothering me.â
Changbin raised an eyebrow. âShouldnât you tell the company then? If someone keeps bothering you?â
âOh, no,â Seungmin replied quickly. âItâs not that kind of situation. Sheâs not a fan. Sheâs⊠a friend of my cousinâs. Or maybe not even that. I met her through my cousin and now she wonât leave me alone.â
âSounds serious,â said Changbin with a smirk. âSheâs got a crush on you?â
Seungmin speared a chip with his fork, staring at it instead of eating.
âNo. Definitely not.â
âThen why does she keep texting you?â
âItâs a long story,â he replied. âHonestly, it doesnât matter.â
Changbin resumed eating, though he kept glancing at Seungmin, who was still holding his phone, his thumbs brushing the screen without typing anything.
âIs she pretty?â Changbin asked after a while.
Seungmin didnât look up. âNot really.â
âSo sheâs not pretty and she annoys you⊠and yet youâre still staring at her messages. Something doesnât add up.â
âDonât start. Itâs not what you think.â
âLet me see her.â
âNo.â
âOh, come on,â said Changbin, raising his voice in protest. âJust a photo. Whatâs the harm?â
When Seungmin didnât answer, Changbin leaned in, closing the space between them. The food tray wobbled dangerously as he threw an arm around Seungminâs neck and pulled him into a headlock, laughing.
âAlright, alright!â Seungmin protested, laughing despite himself. âLet me go! I canât breathe!â
He tapped on Miokâs contact and brought up her profile photo. He held the phone at a distance so Changbin couldnât grab it.
Changbin leaned closer, still clinging to his shoulders.
Seungmin looked again. It was the same photo heâd seen before. A neutral background, her hair longer than it was now, chin slightly raised, an unreadable but confident expression. A professional headshot. Cold, distant. Heâd seen it countless times, but had never really looked at it.
She is quite pretty.
He blinked. Swallowed. Locked the phone without another word.
âSheâs not,â he said again, this time more quietly.
Changbin laughed.
âIf she bothers you that much, why donât you block her?â
âItâs not that simple.â
âIt is,â Changbin countered, amused. But when he saw his friend remain silent, he added, âDo whatever you want. Whatever helps you sleep at night.â
Seungmin didnât respond. He picked up another chip, more out of habit than actual hunger, and turned to the TV. Laughter echoed from the screen. Beside him, the phone lit up again with another message.
He didnât reply.
Not yet.
~
He shouldâve been happy. Thrilled, even. The Met Gala. A proper dream. The kind of thing you imagine while staring at your bedroom ceiling. It shouldâve been a moment of celebration, a milestone in their career, something theyâd talk about for years to come. And he was sure they would, but not for the reasons heâd hoped. Now, lying on the stiff hotel bed, Seungmin felt the heat rising beneath his skin.
The evening had been exhausting.
The photographers had been aggressive, shouting at them like animals, hurling comments as if convinced they wouldnât understand. But they had. The words had reached their ears loud and clear. The magic of the evening, the anticipation heâd carried for that long-awaited moment, vanished in an instant. Nothing had gone to plan. Seungmin had felt things slipping out of his control.
But he had smiled the entire time, of course. They all had. It was their job. It was what theyâd been trained to do.
Hours later, the night finally behind him, his tux draped over a chair and his make-up wiped away, Seungmin lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The sheets were too heavy, the pillow too firm. His jaw ached from how tightly heâd been clenching it all evening. He got up and showered again, hoping the hot water would soothe the irritation spreading through his body. It didnât.
He went back to bed. Closed his eyes. Turned. Rolled over. Sighed.
Unlocked his phone.
Dozens of unread messages he didnât have the energy to go through. He tapped the first conversation at the top.
Miok.
He read through their old messages, scrolling slowly. Stared at her name. Then, without thinking, almost as if his fingers had acted without his brain, he hit the call button.
The phone rang once before he ended the call, suddenly aware of what heâd just done.
âIdiot,â he muttered, letting the phone drop onto his chest. He rubbed his face with a hand, exhaling deeply.
But barely two minutes later, the phone began to vibrate.
Miokâs name appeared on the screen.
He hesitated. Then answered.
âSorry,â he said immediately, his voice slightly hoarse. âWrong call.â
There was a small pause. Then her amused voice replied, âI figured.â
He closed his eyes.
âYeah, donât worry. I wasnât⊠I didnât mean to bother you.â
âWhy would I worry?â she asked, laughing.
âYou shouldnât,â he replied quickly. âI⊠misspoke. Itâs been a long day.â
âHow did it go?â
âWhat?â
âThe Met Gala.â
He let out a short, bitter laugh.
âAnd how do you know about that?â
âOh, come on, itâs the Met Gala! My feedâs full of pictures from the event.â
âRight,â he sighed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. âIt went well. I suppose.â
âOh, you sound like you had a blast,â she replied sarcastically, still laughing.
âI mean, it was nice. Really. Just not how I imagined it.â
âDidnât live up to expectations?â
âNot quite,â he murmured, rubbing his face again, frustration creeping in. âI donât know.â
She waited, not trying to fill the silence.
âIt was just flashing cameras and noise,â he went on. âPeople shouting over each other. Being pushed from one place to another, one interview to the next. I feel like I had an out-of-body experience. My body was there, but my mind wasnât.â
She was silent for a few seconds.
âThatâs a bummer,â she said eventually. Her tone had softened. It sounded more sincere. âIâm sorry it went that way.â
âItâs fine. I donât even know why Iâm telling you this.â
âBecause you called me,â she said simply.
Seungmin swallowed. âRight.â
Then she added, âYou looked good though. If that helps.â
She couldnât see him, but Seungmin frowned all the same. âWhat?â
âI saw your photos,â she said. âI didnât go looking for them. They just popped up while I was checking the outfits.â
Seungmin said nothing.
âYou looked good,â Miok repeated. âNot the best. But definitely not the worst.â
âThanks, I guess. So, who was the best, then?â
âOut of the eight of you? The one in white. Felix, right?â
âYeah, Felix.â
âHe looked like a prince from a fairy tale.â
Seungmin sighed. âYeah, Felix is handsome.â
âSo are you,â she replied, still in that teasing, amused tone. âYour problem is that youâre grumpy and annoying. Kills the effect.â
Seungmin laughed. For real, this time. Maybe he was just too tired to hold it in.
Silence followed, not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt easy.
Then, gently, she said, âYou should go to sleep, Seungmin.â
âYeah. I should.â
âGoodnight.â
âGoodnight.â
She laughed again. âItâs three in the afternoon here. But thanks anyway. Sleep well.â
He smiled into the darkness. âThanks.â
He didnât hang up straight away. Neither did she. But eventually, the call ended. He wasnât sure who had hung up first.
He didnât fall asleep immediately.
But the silence didnât feel quite so hostile anymore.
The music throbbed low and steady in the club. Dim lights bathed the room in amber tones, reflecting off glass tables and polished mirrors. It was late, well past midnight, and the crowd had begun to thin out, leaving behind empty glasses and a few stubborn customers unwilling to call it a night.
Miok was sitting on one of the velvet sofas tucked into a corner of the venue, Yoonsuk beside her, legs crossed and a half-finished gin and tonic in hand. Sooyeon, just a few steps away, was chatting with someone sheâd met that night, occasionally breaking into laughter that rang just above the music.
Yoonsuk, cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glazed, leaned lazily forward, letting one arm drape over the backrest behind her. He glanced at her phoneâs lit-up screen, watching her fingers tap rapidly across it.
âYouâre texting Seungmin, arenât you?â he asked with a half-smirk, his words slightly slurred.
Miok didnât even look up. âMaybe.â
He chuckled, the ice in his glass clinking softly. âYouâve been messaging him all evening. Are you sure thereâs nothing going on between you two?â
She sighed and set her phone face down on the table. âNo. Not really. Thereâs nothing going on. Not like that.â
Yoonsuk slowly turned to face her, leaning in so close she had to lean back. âNot like that?â
She placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him away. âIf you must know, Iâm using him to keep my mum off my back.â
âYouâre using him?â he repeated, wearing an expression so baffled it made her laugh.
âYes. You know what my mumâs like. Once she realised nothing was going to happen between you and me, she started introducing me to this parade of bachelors, hoping one of them would win me over. But they were all worse than the last. And then one evening she saw me talking to Seungmin, and made it abundantly clear sheâd never approve of me dating him. Not that thereâs anything wrong with Seungmin. Heâs a decent guy. A bit odd, but still decent. But, you know, heâs a celebrity. And celebrities are nothing but trouble.â
Yoonsuk stared at her without blinking. He said nothing, as if he needed a few more seconds to process what sheâd just told him.
âSo I let her believe weâre seeing each other. Thatâs all,â she added at last.
âAnd does my cousin know about this?â
Miok nodded casually, sipping her drink. âYes. More or less. Heâs not thrilled about it. But I donât really care.â
Yoonsuk leaned back against the sofa, eyebrows furrowed in concern. âWow,â he said. âYouâre actually⊠ruthless.â
âItâs harmless,â she said quickly, suddenly defensive. âItâs just a game. Thatâs all.â
He stared at her for a moment, then slowly shook his head. His usual joking tone was gone. âMiok,â he said, suddenly sober. âYou said it yourself. Seungminâs a good guy. He might be a bit harsh sometimes. But that doesnât mean he doesnât have feelings.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â she cut in, irritated by the sudden mood shift. Sheâd come out to have fun, not get lectured by someone she didnât even really consider a friend.
âSeungminâs never been good at showing his emotions. He bottles everything up, hides behind sarcastic jokes and crap banter. Heâs not someone who gets attached easily,â he went on, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp.
âI think youâre overthinking it,â she replied sharply. âHe doesnât even like me. I doubt thereâs any risk of him getting attached.â She laughed, a sound that came out almost bitter.
âHe wouldnât be replying to your messages if that were true,â he said firmly. âJust⊠be careful. His lifeâs already messy enough, he doesnât need someone making it worse.â
Miok stood up abruptly. She hadnât finished her drink, but she felt the need to order another. âGod, youâre so dramatic,â she muttered. âBeing unbearable must run in the family.â
Yoonsuk let out a dry laugh. But he said nothing more. He didnât need to. Miok walked away briskly, but no amount of distance could shake the strange tightness in her stomach.
She noticed him the moment she walked into the room.
The party wasnât particularly crowded. It had that air of forced sophistication she knew all too well: dim lighting, bland jazz tracks no one truly appreciated, cocktails with exotic names made with unnecessary theatrics. Some of Yoonmiâs friends had invited her, people with too much money and not a care in the world. She had only accepted after one of them had mentioned knowing a famous gallery owner sheâd been hoping to meet for some time.
What she hadnât expected, however, was to see Seungmin.
He stood next to Yoonsuk, dressed better than usual. Not flashy, just more refined, a collared jumper, properly fitting jeans, hair slicked back. For a long moment, she stared at him from across the room before he even noticed she was there.
âWhatâs going on between you two?â Yoonmi asked, appearing at her side and handing her a glass of wine.
Miok didnât turn to look at her. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou and Seungmin,â she clarified. âYouâve been texting, havenât you?â
Miok finally turned to her friend, surprised. âHow do you know?â
âOh, we bumped into each other at an event,â Yoonmi said, unable to hide a smile. âHe asked for your number, so I assumed heâd messaged you.â
Miok nodded, turning her gaze back to the boy across the room. It had never occurred to her how Seungmin had got her number. Sheâd assumed heâd asked Yoonsuk. The fact that Yoonmi had given it to him without asking first annoyed her, but she let it slide. âYeah, weâve been texting. Sort of,â she said nonchalantly. âBut not for the reasons you think.â
She didnât see her expression, but Miok sensed Yoonmi shifting closer. âAnd what reasons would those be?â
Miok didnât answer right away. She watched Seungmin, tense beside his cousin. âIâm working on something,â she said at last. âAnd I need him. Thatâs all.â
Yoonmi looked doubtful. Miok saw her shake her head. âI donât get you,â she said. âIf I were you, I wouldnât think twice about going for him.â
Miok didnât respond. Seungmin had finally spotted her. And he didnât look pleased to see her. His expression held irritation, but also something else. Resignation. As if, deep down, heâd expected her to show up. Or perhaps even hoped she would.
She walked over to him calmly, making a point not to look like she was in a rush.
âI swear this wasnât planned!â she laughed before he could speak.
âYeah, right,â he muttered. âPure coincidence.â
They fell into silence. She looked at him longer than she meant to. He was different that evening. More polished than usual, more distant. He resembled the celebrity sheâd seen online. But he also couldnât hide his discomfort at being there, at a party where he didnât know how to behave. Where he didnât belong.
âYou must have a thing for this sort of thing,â she said finally.
He gave her an annoyed look. Then sighed. âWhat the hell are you on about now?â
âBeing used, I mean,â she replied lightly, sipping her drink. âIt seems to happen to you a lot.â
He frowned. âAnd whatâs that supposed to mean?â
âNothing,â she said, still smiling. âJust that your cousinâs rather clever. He invites you to these events, makes sure everyone sees you, and then fades into the background while basking in reflected glory. I think itâs brilliant.â
Seungmin laughed, but it was short and joyless. âThatâs rich, coming from you. Werenât you the first one to use my name for your own gain?â
Miok recalled Yoonsukâs words from a few nights earlier and smiled to herself. Remembered how heâd practically scolded her, warned her to be careful, when he wasnât acting all that differently himself. What a hypocrite. âOh, Iâm not judging,â she finally replied. âItâs admirable.â
He shook his head and headed towards the bar without another word. She followed.
âAre you planning to follow me all night?â
She didnât reply. Just smiled, slightly amused. Bumping into him at an event and hovering near the bar had become something of a ritual for them. Sheâd lost count of how many times it had happened. A scene that kept repeating itself, but she wasnât tired of it yet.
He ordered a beer, took a sip. Then his gaze drifted past her shoulder, into the crowd, with an expression she couldnât quite read.
She turned slightly, following his line of sight until she spotted a boy holding up his phone, apparently in their direction. But then she realised he was just showing something to the person next to him. They were both laughing. Still, it unsettled Seungmin enough to make him pull away from the crowd.
She found him a few metres away, hidden behind a large fake plant.
âIt must be hard,â she said.
âWhat?â
âAlways feeling watched. Not knowing if someoneâs taking a photo or just checking their phone. Always having to be careful about how you act.â
He glanced at her. âYou should know how that feels. Your lifeâs not so different from mine, in that sense.â
She laughed. âYou think so?â
âYes,â he replied with certainty. âYou act like youâre always one step ahead. Like youâre playing everyone. But youâre not.â
âOh no?â she said, tilting her head slightly.
Seungmin stared at her. His voice was calm, but his tone hit hard. âIsnât your life still basically controlled by your parents?â
Miok held her breath slightly. She hadnât expected that. She swallowed, trying not to show it had affected her. But her fingers gripped the stem of her glass tightly. He noticed. And she knew he had.
âIâm working on it,â she said flatly. âThatâs why I need you.â
âYou assume too much; that Iâll go along with your stupid game.â
âFunny, you donât seem too bothered by the rumours about us,â she replied, smiling again. âMaybe you donât mind them as much as you let on.â
He scoffed. âBullshit.â
âBullshit, is it? I donât think so.â
Miok moved closer, as if approaching a skittish dog that might bolt at any moment. Her fingers brushed the fabric of his sleeve, a barely-there touch, but enough. He didnât flinch, didnât pull away, but she sensed him stiffen, just slightly. His expression remained unreadable, composed and mildly sulky as always. She noticed how hard he was trying to stay in control, how just letting her near him felt like a concession. He didnât push her away like he had that time at the Foundation. That gave her a strange sense of power.
âYou act like a spoiled child,â she said softly, low enough that no one else could hear. âBut in the end, you always do as youâre told.â
His eyes narrowed. She gently pinched his cheek, like one would a toddler. He swatted her hand away with a sharp gesture.
âIf you say so,â he muttered, turning and walking off.
A strange warmth bloomed in her chest. She wasnât supposed to care. But as she watched him walk away, she found it unusually difficult to look elsewhere.
He hadnât said he would be coming that day. When she saw him walk into her office, without warning, without even knocking, her first thought was that someone must have told on her. Her father wasnât the type to waste his time on courtesy visits. It was always her who went to him. Never the other way around.
âI didnât know you were stopping by,â she said, rising from the desk chair where sheâd been sitting for hours.
The man looked around without replying. He stayed silent for so long that Miok found herself counting the seconds. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit, the one reserved for important occasions. He must have been on his way back from a board meeting. He didnât seem particularly annoyed or agitated, but Miok had never been good at reading his emotions.
Eventually, he spoke. âI was thinking of giving your brother a painting, for his wedding.â
Miok looked at him blankly. âA painting?â
âSomething to hang in the new house, once they move in. Something meaningful, but not too heavy or eye-catching.â He paused, then added, âI want you to choose it. You surely know more about these things than I do.â
Miok nodded. âAlright. Iâll do some research.â
He didnât thank her. He continued to glance around, as if he were seeing the space for the first time. And in fact, Miok couldnât remember the last time heâd visited her. He might never have actually been inside her office before now.
âDo you need anything else?â she asked, her tone carefully neutral.
He stepped closer to the desk and sat down in the chair she had only just vacated, without so much as asking permission. âDo you enjoy working here?â
The question caught Miok off guard. She knew her father, this wasnât just casual small talk. There was always a hidden motive behind his words. She stared at him for a moment, uncertain. âOf course. Why wouldnât I?â
âReally?â he replied, as if addressing one of his employees. âAre you truly satisfied with this job?â
Miok took a slow breath. She couldnât tell what he was getting at. Perhaps someone had actually said something. But who? The only person who knew about the MMCA offer was Yuna. It couldnât be that her parents had found out. Could it?
âYes,â she lied, smiling faintly. âI find it very stimulating.â
âThen why havenât I received anything about the new projects yet?â he asked, leaning slightly forward.
She opened her mouth to answer but couldnât find the words. She bought herself some time. âIâm working on a proposal for next quarter, but Iâm still waiting for some responses fromâŠâ
He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. He didnât believe her. He knew they were just excuses. He leaned back in the chair, maintaining that impersonal attitude, as if he were conducting an interview with a stranger, not his own daughter.
âI only hope your lack of focus isnât due to that boy youâve been seeing. The singer.â
Miokâs heart skipped a beat, not from surprise, but from the way her father had said those words. She opened her mouth to respond, but he raised his hand again to silence her.
âI know youâre not a foolish girl, Miok. And Iâm not saying I disapprove. I know his parents, theyâre respectable people. But you have responsibilities. To your family. To your mother, in particular. Weâve never let you want anything, have we?â
Weâve never let you want anything. It was a phrase sheâd heard a thousand times, always used to make her feel guilty. Every word delivered with the calm certainty of someone who believes himself unquestionably right.
âDonât cause her this disappointment,â he continued. âI think you already know, but your mother is very worried.â
âShe doesnât have any reason to be,â Miok said, though her voice was barely audible.
Her father stood. He adjusted his jacket slowly, smoothing the creases with his hands. âI want you to think about it carefully. Whatever it is youâre planning to do.â
âIâm not planning to do anything,â she replied, a little too quickly.
He paused for a moment, as if giving her the chance to hear her own words echo back at her. Then he smiled, that thin-lipped expression she had always despised. âEvery choice carries consequences. Keep that in mind.â
He turned to leave but stopped at the door. âI expect a proposal for the painting soon. Iâm sure youâll make the right choice. As always.â
When the door closed behind him, Miok remained seated for a few minutes without moving. Her hands resting on her knees, her head bowed. She hadnât realised sheâd been holding her breath the entire time.
The air that evening was warm, but not stifling. A light breeze slipped through the hedges surrounding the garden, making the candle flames on the table flicker. The scent of jasmine and grilled meat hung in the air. There was no music, only the constant hum of voices from those seated around him, conversations he couldnât quite catch, except for the occasional word spoken with more emphasis than the rest. It was nearly midnight, but no one seemed in any rush to leave, lulled by the early summer night.
Seungmin sat at one end of the table, a nearly full glass of wine in his hand, wearing a linen shirt heâd felt embarrassed to unbutton. On the surface, he appeared relaxed, as if perfectly at ease in this strange setting. But the tight line of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows told another story. Heâd arrived late, dragged along by Yoonsuk with the promise of good food and fresh air. After a long day of rehearsals, heâd thought it might be just what he needed.
Miok was sitting next to him.
She had been one of the first people he saw upon arriving. She was seated opposite Sooyeon, her back perfectly straight. She wasnât speaking, just listening, her gaze fixed on the centre of the table. The usual attentive, unreadable expression. She hadnât said much since he arrived, in fact, sheâd barely looked at him at all, offering only a polite nod and a brief smile before turning her attention back to Sooyeon.
And yet, she hadnât moved, not even when others had begun to get up with glasses in hand, strolling through the garden and gathering in smaller groups. She had remained where she was, motionless.
Seungmin kept pretending to check his phone, scrolling through notifications heâd already read, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. To the way their elbows brushed occasionally when she reached for her glass. To the way she tilted her head forward, letting her hair fall across her face. Her silence irritated him. Maybe because he couldnât understand why she was ignoring him. Or maybe because that silence made him feel strangely uneasy, out of place.
Or maybe simply because he couldnât seem to ignore her tonight.
He took a long sip of wine, then said, in a serious tone, âWell, theyâve seen us together now. Iâm sure your motherâs already pulling her hair out.â
Miok didnât look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on one of the candles in the middle of the table, as though afraid the flame might reach the floral centrepiece and set it alight.
âYou can go to your friends,â he added, feigning a yawn. âYouâre getting on my nerves.â
âI donât feel like it,â she replied simply.
Her words made him turn to look at her.
The candlelight cast a soft glow on her cheekbone. There was something unreadable in the way she stared ahead, unmoving. He was used to her calculated ease, her composed gestures, never out of place. But tonight there was something different. Something slightly off that he couldnât quite put his finger on.
She was beautiful.
The thought hit him without warning. But he shook it off at once. Not the time.
He was about to say something, then bit the inside of his cheek and stayed silent. He looked at the wine left in his glass, then back at her. His throat suddenly felt dry.
His leg had started bouncing restlessly beneath the table without him noticing. Heâd been sitting too long. Miokâs hand moved, calm and deliberate, and pressed lightly on his knee.
Seungmin froze instantly.
It wasnât a heavy touch, just the weight of her hand resting there for a second, maybe two. But it unsettled him. The warmth of her fingers seemed to seep into his bones. He cleared his throat, coughed once or twice. As if trying to warn her off. But when she withdrew her hand, he almost frowned, as though its absence had left behind something hollow, something that annoyed him.
He finished his wine in a single go, faster than he meant to, and poured himself another glass.
Maybe it was the wine. Or the exhaustion. Or the way she kept ignoring him while somehow still being acutely aware of him. It was driving him mad.
He could have stood up, walked away. Even gone home if heâd wanted to. But it was as if he were glued to that chair.
It had always been her who sought his attention. Not out of real interest, of course. But she was the one who used to reach out, speak to him first, send him messages nearly every day. Maybe she didnât need him anymore. Maybe sheâd finally sorted things out with her parents. Maybe sheâd found someone else, someone her mother actually approved of. She had no reason now to keep talking to him. So why hadnât she left? Why was she still sitting there, staring straight ahead, saying nothing? And why did he care so much, when until tonight heâd sworn he wanted nothing to do with her?
The conversation around them grew louder. Yoonsuk was retelling a story Seungmin had heard a thousand times, but it still drew laughter from those who hadnât. Someone stood to stretch their legs before dessert arrived. A waiter brought over new bottles of wine and refilled their glasses with elegant precision. Seungmin didnât even notice.
His eyes had drifted to Miokâs legs, crossed neatly under the table, the hem of her skirt brushing her thigh.
He wasnât thinking, the alcohol had fogged his brain. Or maybe he was thinking too much.
He wanted a reaction. Her stillness irked him.
His hand moved on its own. He let his fingers brush her knee, tracing the shape slowly, then went further. With the backs of his knuckles, he lightly grazed the line of her thigh. Slowly. Deliberately.
Miok didnât move.
He stole a glance at her face. She was still looking ahead, but her lips had parted slightly, her breathing slower, deeper. There was a tension in her eyes he hadnât seen before. When she finally turned to face him, her look was sharp. Annoyed, but not exactly angry.
âStop it,â she murmured, barely audible.
But she still didnât pull away.
He didnât stop. Not right away. His fingers moved higher, brushing the inside of her thigh, nearing the edge of her skirt. A smug smile crept across his face, just enough to show her he knew exactly what he was doing, and that he meant to provoke her.
Then, catching him completely off guard, her hand was in his hair, tugging just enough to make him jolt.
âWhat do you think youâre doing?â she asked, voice low but stern.
He looked at her, breath caught in his throat.
âNothing,â he said, unable to hide a flicker of amusement that made her nose wrinkle in distaste.
Miok studied him. Her hand didnât let go. âStop it,â she repeated.
Seungmin withdrew his hand, just as entertained as he was disappointed. Then she added, without removing her fingers from his nape. âGood boy.â
A flush rose instantly to the tips of his ears. She finally let go.
He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap. His gaze fixed on the hedges across from them, the leaves swaying gently in the wind. His mouth felt dry again, but he drank only to silence the thoughts buzzing in his head like mad bees.
Minutes passed. They didnât speak. Someone handed him a plate of dessert, but he ignored it.
âYou alright?â he found himself asking her, without meaning to.
She didnât look at him. Just nodded, curtly. âItâs nothing.â
He didnât push it.
But his hand found her knee again. This time, his fingers didnât wander, they simply tapped out a rhythm stuck in his head.
And this time, she didnât tell him to stop.
~
In the past few months, nothing had changed, and yet everything had begun to shift in an irrevocable way.
She had spent countless nights in silence, pacing back and forth along the perimeter of her living room, the cityâs glittering skyline reflected in the tall windows.
The offer from the MMCA seemed like the perfect escape route. Freedom. A life she could finally claim as her own, far from her familyâs stranglehold. She should have grabbed that opportunity with both hands. She should have been happy. But instead, she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff: to move forward and reach her goal meant risking the loss of all the privileges sheâd always taken for granted. Her job, with all its benefits. Her apartment, paid for by her parents. Her circle of friends, the sons and daughters of her parentsâ friends and colleagues. Her life.
None of it truly belonged to her. And she had always known that. But she had always believed that, if she played her cards right, she could have everything she wanted without having to give anything up. But to get what she really wanted now, she couldnât skirt around the obstacle anymore.
Her parents had always been clear: they would support her as long as she worked for the family, as long as she married the right man, as long as she behaved appropriately. They could take everything back. And they would. No ifs or buts.
She had thought sheâd built something for herself, on her own. But now she realised that without her parents, sheâd have nothing. No status. No friends. No influential contacts. No home. She would no longer have control over anything.
Nothing except Seungmin.
That was what she kept telling herself. That at least with him, she could assert control. That she could use him without consequence. He complained, told her to stop with her lies, and yet he always did what she asked. He always replied when she messaged him, as if he were waiting. He hadnât even made an effort to have the rumours about their relationship shut down. And she liked it, the way he made her feel. But even that illusion had begun to crack.
It had started with something small.
The way his fingers had brushed her leg that night, under the table, surrounded by people who might have seen.
His touch had been light, almost casual. But it had travelled through her like lightning in a clear sky. Sudden. Almost stealthy.
It hadnât been part of the plan. It hadnât been her idea. It had been a way for Seungmin to rebel. And she couldnât allow that. Not now. Not when everything else was already slipping out of her hands.
She needed to remind him who held the reins of whatever this was. So later, as the evening wound down and the conversations began to fade, she went looking for him. She hadnât seen him in over half an hour, heâd abruptly left to join Yoonsuk and his friends. She found him alone, wandering through the garden with his eyes lifted to the sky, though there wasnât a single star in sight.
Thatâs when she walked towards him, deliberate, silent. They were alone, hidden from the others, the light coming from the villa casting soft shadows across their faces.
âYou were bold,â she said, breaking the silence, her voice neutral, but sharp enough to make his shoulders tense.
He turned to face her, then frowned slightly. âWhat?â
âAt the table. When you touched my leg.â
Seungmin hesitated. A pause filled only by the faint sound of laughter somewhere in the distance. He didnât answer.
âWhy did you do it?â
His eyes met hers for a brief second. âI donât know,â he said at last. He shrugged, as though it didnât matter. âI wanted to.â
Too casual. Too thoughtless. Miok narrowed her eyes, almost annoyed.
âBecause you wanted to?â she echoed, her tone laced with a hint of mockery. âThatâs it?â
âI thought you wouldnât mind,â he replied, looking back up at the sky. âSeeing as you want everyone to believe weâre seeing each other.â
Miok stepped closer, stopping just one pace from him. âDo you want to touch me again?â
His mouth opened in surprise, as if sheâd completely caught him off guard. âWhat?â
She took his hand. Lifted it. Guided it to her cheek, then downwards, over her jaw, along her neck, stopping just shy of the swell of her breast.
âMiok,â he said, voice low and uncertain. âWhat are you doing?â
She looked at him. And saw something she hadnât expected. Surprise. Disorientation. Confusion. But also something else. Something deeper. Desire, perhaps. She smiled, satisfied.
âDo you want me?â
His breath caught. His hand, still held in hers, moved of its own accord, grazing her skin, his palm now cupping her cheek. He leaned in, his lips brushing hers. But just before he could kiss her, she whispered,
âThen say please.â
He froze.
âWhat?â
Her lips brushed his again, a provocation.
âIf you want me, say please.â
He hesitated, puzzled. Looked at her, as if trying to work out whether she was mocking him. âForget it.â
So she kissed him. Without hesitation, without warning. Deep. Almost rough. Seungmin responded instinctively. His hands stayed on her face, as if, in contrast to a moment earlier, he was too shy to go further. Miok found it adorable. Almost sweet.
She pulled away with the same intensity with which sheâd kissed him. Took his hand. With quiet urgency, she led him inside the house, through empty corridors, slipping into the nearest guest bathroom. She locked the door behind them, pushed him against the wall, and kissed him again. This time her fingers slid beneath his shirt, grazing his skin.
He let out a low, desperate sound when her hips met his. And Miok felt it: how much he wanted her, how much power she held in that moment. She felt in control again, like she hadnât in weeks. This moment belonged to her. This boy was entirely under her power. He was hers.
In a life where everything else had been dictated by strict rules, inherited, handed down, Seungmin was the one thing she had taken. No one had handed him to her on a silver platter. He hadnât been assigned. She had chosen him, and she could control him.
So when her hips moved against his again and Seungmin let out another moan, her lips curled into a pleased smile.
âSay please,â she whispered into his ear, her breath warm.
He shuddered. She felt it.
âSay it.â
Seungmin swallowed hard. His voice cracked. âPlease.â
That was enough.
She dropped to her knees in front of him, her eyes never leaving his. There was a flicker in her gaze, something that made him swallow again before she even touched him. Her fingers undid his trousers with steady, deliberate movements. She parted her lips and took him into her mouth, slow and purposeful.
He jolted, caught off guard by the intensity of it. His head thudded back against the wall. One hand instinctively tangled in her hair.
A moan escaped his lips, echoing faintly in the small, almost claustrophobic room. She moved with intent, her mouth warm, her rhythm controlled. Slow at first, then more insistent, more knowing. She heard the curse that slipped from his mouth, felt the tremors beginning to build in his thighs.
He was falling apart. And she watched him, carefully.
Just as the tension reached its breaking point, she stopped. Abruptly. Without explanation. She stayed on her knees, amused, as he stared down at her, stunned.
âYouâre such a bitch,â he muttered.
She laughed, standing up slowly and taking his jaw in her hand. Her eyes sparkled.
âIf you want more,â she said, brushing his lips.âSay please.â
This time, he smiled. As if heâd been expecting it. As if it no longer bothered him. As if he liked it.
He pulled her towards him. Kissed her again. âPlease.â
That was all she needed. She pushed him gently until he sank to the floor. Lifted her skirt. With one hand on his chest to hold him still, she sank down onto him in one smooth, claiming motion. Her breath caught, sharp and involuntary. She let the sensation settle inside her. Then she began to move. Slow at first, deliberate, as if testing the limits of her power. Every movement was precise, a rhythm she set and he had to follow.
He moaned, the sound deep from his gut, and his fingers dug into her hips as if trying to anchor himself. Her movements grew more urgent. He buried his face in her shoulder.
âDonât come yet,â she said.
His breath hitched. He clung to her.
âFuck,â he whispered, trying to hold back, his face twisted in effort.
âPlease,â he gasped, the word slipping from his mouth before he could stop it. âPlease.â
She kissed him again, open-mouthed, unrestrained, and let go. Release hit her like a slow, consuming wave. Her body tensed. She trembled as it coursed through her. She clung to his shoulders, panting.
Only then, once sheâd taken what she wanted, she whispered, âNow itâs your turn.â
And he didnât need to be told twice. He let go. His whole body arched up into her, his breathing shallow and ragged as he clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
She smiled, then whispered, satisfied, âGood boy.â
June and July had swept Seungmin up in a whirlwind, tossing him from one stage to another, from city to city, through strobe lights, applause and the frenzied screams of fans. From Milan to London, then Chicago. He had danced, sung, smiled for the cameras, but no matter how many time zones he crossed, one thought refused to leave him.
Miok.
He had tried to hate her with every fibre of his being. She was overbearing, bossy, and far too good with words. She made decisions for both of them, never asked for permission, never apologised. And yet, when she had touched him that night as though she owned every inch of his body, he hadnât felt as shaken as he had expected to.
He had braced for vulnerability, for confusion, even discomfort. But instead, something inside him had remained completely still. A terrifying sensation, and yet oddly peaceful. She had taken full control, and rather than resist, he had let himself fall into her, as though his resistance had only ever been a game he never truly wanted to win.
Still, for weeks he had promised himself not to call her. Maybe out of pride, or sheer stubbornness. Not while the tour offered the perfect distractions: endless rehearsals, dawn alarms for airport transfers, intercontinental flights, interviews, the rush of performing, the physical exhaustion that hit him after every show. Heâd let it all shield him. But in the quiet moments, in departure lounges, trying to focus on a film, or staring at hotel ceilings before falling asleep, she was there. Always.
So, when the plane landed at Incheon, the early August humidity clinging to his skin, he didnât even pause to think. He just called her. No greeting. No pleasantries. Just her address.
She opened the door of her flat as though she had always known heâd come back. She smiled like sheâd just won a bet. They barely made it to the sofa. Then the bed. Then again. And again.
They found their rhythm. His days were filled with choreographies and recording sessions, his nights full of her. A craving he couldnât shake. He tried to convince himself it was just sex. But every time he left, something inside him broke.
Because it wasnât just physical. Not when she looked at him like that: vulnerable, sharp, and tired all at once. Not when she said cruel things with a tremor in her voice she didnât know how to hide.
One night, their legs tangled in the sheets, he flipped her over, grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. A suggestion of pressure. Just enough to reverse the dynamic.
She froze. Instantly.
âIs something wrong?â he asked, startled by her reaction.
âNo. Itâs nothing.â
He didnât let go. âTell me. Tell me whatâs wrong.â
Her eyes locked onto his, defiant. âDonât tell me what to do.â
He let her go immediately. âSorry,â he whispered.
She brushed her fingers against his temple. âKeep going.â
Seungmin hesitated, then lowered his face to hers and smiled. âSay please.â
For a moment, she became a stranger. Like a frightened child trying not to show it, trying to muster courage. He saw her part her lips, then close them again.
Then her expression shifted. The mask returned.
âBe a good boy, Seungmin, will you?â she whispered, lifting her hips to meet his.
He obeyed. Because when she spoke to him like that, she always got what she wanted.
The night before the tour began, they were lying side by side in her bed, skin still warm, sheets tangled at their feet. The air conditioning brushed over them. He saw her shiver.
Seungmin spoke first. âDoes your mum actually hate me?â
Miok didnât look at him. âI told you. Itâs not about you. She just doesnât like celebrities.â
âSo, hypothetically,â he said with a half-smile. âIf I ever met her, do you think she could like me? As a person, I mean.â
She turned her head towards him. âWhy would you ever meet her?â
âI said hypothetically.â
There was a pause.
âShe might like you,â she admitted at last. âIf you werenât a singer. You come from a good family. Youâre polite. Handsome. If you had a respectable job, she might like you.â
He smiled and turned towards her. Propped himself up on one elbow and kissed the tip of her nose. âSo, letâs say we started dating. For real. Sheâd never accept me, would she? Even if she liked me as a person.â
âThatâll never happen. Us, I mean. Dating.â
Something shifted in his expression. He pouted, like a child. âWhy not?â
âWe donât actually like each other.â
He laughed, more to cover his disappointment than out of amusement. âThen whatâs this?â
She traced the lines of his face with a finger, slow and deliberate. âIâm just using you.â
The words hit him like a bucket of ice water. Not because he didnât know. But because despite everything, she kept repeating them, over and over, as if trying to convince herself as much as him. But her voice betrayed her: too calm, too controlled. It was obvious she was lying.
He bent down, his mouth brushing against her throat. He kissed her neck, slow and deliberate, until he felt her pulse quicken.
âStop it, Seungmin,â she said. âYou should go. Itâs getting late.â
He didnât stop. His mouth moved lower, tracing her collarbone, the curve of her breast, pausing where her pulse throbbed beneath thin skin. He moved further down, kissing her ribs, her stomach, lingering as he felt her squirm beneath him. Miok let out a sound, barely audible, and shifted restlessly. She parted her legs slightly, an involuntary invitation he answered by brushing his lips against her hipbone, anchoring her with one hand as she leaned towards him, suspended between anticipation and surrender.
âYou do like me,â he murmured, smiling.
âI just like having sex.â
âWith me.â
Miok opened her mouth to protest, to tell him he was arrogant, full of himself, completely wrong, but the words died in her throat the moment his mouth found her. His tongue moved between her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that stole her breath. Her hands reached for the sheets, clutching them tightly as her back arched sharply. Her thighs trembled, instinctively trying to close. A cry broke from her throat, helpless and loud, as heat surged through her in waves. Every thought dissolved in the space between them, chased away by the ruthless precision of his mouth, the way he devoured her like he had something to prove. Like he already knew she wouldnât be able to stop him, not when he touched her like that.
âYouâre such an arsehole,â she hissed.
âJust say you like me,â he said again, voice muffled. âBecause I like you, Miok.â
She turned her face to the side, jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets tighter. He didnât stop. His tongue moved with agonising precision, relentless, circling and pressing until her hips lifted off the bed in a desperate, involuntary rhythm. Miok bit her lip hard, trying to stifle the moans threatening to escape. Her legs clamped around his shoulders, her thighs trembling violently as she unravelled beneath his mouth, a broken cry of his name echoing in the room.
When he finally pulled away, she stared at him, her face flushed, expression unreadable.
âPlease donât like me, Seungmin,â she pleaded.
And this time, he had no clever reply. No sarcastic remark. He stayed silent, curling up beside her. Because that was a promise he knew he couldnât keep.
~
Seungmin had fallen asleep beside her, his breath soft against the pillow. Miok lay on her side, hair still damp from the shower, watching him in the dim light. He looked younger in his sleep, more like a boy than a man: eyebrows relaxed, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. But what caught her attention wasnât his face. That she knew well. It was his body.
He was thinner. His collarbones jutted out, his wrists looked too slender, his ribs were visible at his sternum beneath pale skin. She knew the past few months had been relentless, just as the upcoming tour would be. The schedule, the travelling, the pressure. And yet there he was, asleep in her bed as if it were the only place he could truly rest.
She pushed the thought away. Coldly. No. She couldnât afford that. She couldnât become that kind of person. The kind who cares. Who looks after someone. She couldnât lose control. Not when control was the only thing she had left. At first, Seungmin had been a tool to deceive her mother. Now, he was her buffer against collapse. A comfort she allowed herself because he made her feel strong.
She knew that if she kept looking at him, sheâd feel dangerously close to him, so she sat up and shook his shoulder. âGo home,â she said flatly. âYou canât sleep here.â
He groaned, face pressed into the pillow. âCome on, it takes me almost an hour to get home.â
âI donât care.â
She grabbed his shirt and trousers off the floor and tossed them at him.
He didnât move. Stayed where he was.
âIâm not leaving.â
âI donât want you in my flat.â
âWhy?â
âI just donât,â she said too quickly, her words a defence mechanism. Her voice betrayed her again. Uncertain. Shaky. And the moment her mouth snapped shut, she felt it: control slipping through her fingers like water. The way he stood his ground, the way he looked at her, forced her to take a deep breath, as though sheâd suddenly forgotten how to breathe. This wasnât how it was meant to go. This was her game. Her rules.
She spun on her heels and walked to the front door, yanking it open with too much force. âLeave.â
He followed but stopped in the middle of the living room. Stared at her, motionless. Jaw clenched, chest rising and falling as though restraining words he knew heâd regret.
Still, he didnât argue. Didnât raise his voice.
He got dressed in silence. Didnât look at her, not once. Grabbed his backpack and walked to the door. He didnât slam it. Didnât linger.
âYouâre such a bitch,â was all he said.
And then he was gone.
Miok stood there for a long time after the door shut, staring at the space he had just occupied, her heart pounding. She didnât cry. She didnât open the door to run after him. She simply slid down to the floor, her hands trembling in her lap, and repeated to herself that she didnât need him.
Miok was spiraling.
The phone call had come that morning, brief and devastating. Yunaâs voice on the other end had sounded polite, composed, almost too calm. She had reminded her that the offer still stood. That they were still willing to consider her, if she was still interested. But they couldnât wait much longer. A few more days at most. The position needed to be filled. They really needed someone extra, right now.
Miok had thanked her, trying to stay calm. Sheâd replied that she still needed some time to think, to reflect properly. And she did. Or at least, thatâs what sheâd believed. But the more the hours passed, the more she realised she wasnât thinking at all, she was just falling apart. Her mind had become a spinning top, mad and uncontrollable, flying in every direction with no logic.
If she turned it down, nothing would change. Her life would stay exactly as it was: comfortable, cushioned, and entirely subject to the will of her family. She would keep the penthouse overlooking the Han River, the limitless credit cards, the invitations to exclusive events she barely cared about, the ability to buy whatever she wanted without checking her bank balance at the end of the month. No challenges, no hardship. She would remain the perfect daughter, her parentsâ daughter. The flawless product.
If she accepted, all of it would be taken from her. Everything would change. Sheâd have to leave behind the life she had always known; her privileges, her safety net. Sheâd be on her own for the first time in her life. Without protection. But also free. Free to choose for herself. And most of all, she would finally have the chance to become someone else.
Perhaps even herself.
The thought tightened her chest. Because despite the fear, something dangerous was beginning to bloom inside her, something that felt dangerously close to hope. A feeling sheâd never allowed herself to experience. She could build a new life, completely different from the one her parents had spoon-fed her since birth. A life that was hers. Not inherited. Not coordinated. Hers.
She could choose the people she wanted around her.
She could go out with Seungmin without worrying about her motherâs disappointment, if she wanted to.
She shook her head, as if to push that thought away. No. She shouldnât be thinking about him. Not when her mind was just a chaotic mess of fogged-up thoughts.
Later that evening, she sat across from Sooyeon and Yoonmi in a restaurant as flashy as it was sterile, picking at a salad she didnât want. Sheâd lost her appetite hours ago. Her head was just noise, swirling with imagined futures and possible regrets. She hadnât even noticed her leg was shaking beneath the table.
She set her fork down. âWould you still be my friends if I werenât me?â
Sooyeon blinked slowly, confused. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean me as my parentsâ daughter.â
Sooyeon tilted her head, furrowing her brow slightly. âWell, your life would probably be different, and maybe we wouldnât have ended up in the same class, so⊠probably not?â
âNo, I meanâŠâ Miok exhaled sharply, frustrated by her own inability to articulate what she meant. âIf we had met anyway, but my parents werenât who they are. Say I was the daughter of office workers, or⊠I donât know. Just anyone else. Would you still be my friends?â
Yoonmi shrugged, clearly bored of the whole conversation. âMiddle-class kids canât afford our school.â
Miok stared at her. âOh God,â she sighed, lowering her gaze to her half-full plate. âYou do know what I mean, donât you? Are we⊠are we actually friends?â
There was a pause. A silence thick with discomfort.
Sooyeon and Yoonmi exchanged a quick glance, one of those silent conversations girls like them had been trained in since they were small. Miok knew it well, that language, and it didnât take her long to guess what they were thinking.
âHave you gone mad?â Sooyeon asked, lightly, trying to mask the unease with a smile.
âYes,â Miok murmured. âMaybe I have.â
She speared a piece of lettuce and forced herself to eat it. It tasted of nothing.
They werenât truly friends. Not in the way she had secretly envied in other people. She liked Sooyeon and Yoonmi. They were familiar. Part of the architecture of her life. But their friendship had been arranged, not chosen. Their mothers had introduced them before they could even write their names or count to ten, hoping their futures would align.
Theyâd gone to the same schools, learned to play the same instrument, spent summers at the same international camps. But what did they really know about each other? What secrets had they ever dared to share? Had Miok ever cried in front of them or told them anything that mattered?
She wasnât so sure.
âYouâve been acting weird lately,â Yoonmi said, narrowing her eyes. âWhatâs going on with you?â
âNothing. Donât worry.â
âIs it because of that boy?â
Miok looked up, surprised. âWhat boy?â
Yoonmi smiled, almost mockingly. âYou know who. Kim Seungmin. Ever since you started seeing him, youâve been acting strange.â
She didnât answer right away. She had tried to ignore it, to reduce him to something insignificant; a distraction, a pastime, a way to keep control. She used to be good at that. At using people, moving them like puppets. But Seungmin didnât cooperate. He was unpredictable. Disarmingly honest. He said things he wasnât supposed to say. He told her he liked her. He made her feel wanted, not for her image or her name, but for who she was.
He should have hated her. She was cruel, calculating, despicable. A manipulative bitch, even. And yet, somehow, he didnât. He looked at her like she was a person. Not someoneâs daughter. Not a trophy. A person.
âNo,â she finally said in a quiet voice. âThereâs nothing between us.â
âSo youâre not seeing each other?â
Miok met Yoonmiâs gaze again, ignoring the glint in her eyes. âNo, weâre not seeing each other.â
But the words came out uncertain, like a truth she had already stopped believing in.
It was the end of August, and the air had grown unbearably stifling even after the sun had dipped below the horizon. The first two concerts of the tour were over, and the next ones were scheduled for the end of the week. In theory, Seungmin ought to have been resting: sleeping in, avoiding any strain, protecting his voice. But resting was out of the question when Miok kept ignoring him.
She hadnât replied to his messages, nor returned his calls. And heâd found himself pacing his flat like a caged animal, phone in hand, rereading the last message from days earlier as if it contained some secret code he had yet to decipher. Felix had watched him for a few minutes, visibly concerned, before retreating to his room.
Eventually, he had caved and rang Yoonsuk.
âAre you up to anything these next few days?â heâd asked, trying and failing to sound casual.
He had heard Yoonsuk sigh, as if he already knew exactly where this was going. âThereâs some sort of party tomorrow. Sooyeon mentioned it, so thereâs a good chance Miok will be there.â
âCan I come too?â
Yoonsuk had hesitated. âSure, if you really want,â heâd said. âNot exactly your scene, butâŠâ Heâd left the sentence hanging, then ended the call.
It wasnât exactly an invitation, but Seungmin decided it would have to do.
The venue was on the second-to-top floor of a vast skyscraper, with one of those terraces boasting a view grand enough to justify the overpriced cocktails. People floated between groups with drinks in hand, their conversations never quite sparking, always following the same slow, languid rhythm. Seungmin didnât bother trying to blend in. Heâd arrived early. Miok wasnât there yet. So he waited.
Wandering the space was easier than standing still. He focused on the rhythm of his own footsteps, trying to relax, to avoid thinking about the tight knot at the pit of his stomach. Then a hand brushed his arm, stopping him, and a voice softly called his name.
He turned. Yoonmi. A too-tight smile painted across her face; a gust of vanilla perfume, almost sickly sweet, washed over him as she gave a polite little bow. Seungmin took a step back.
âAre you looking for Miok?â she asked after a string of empty pleasantries to which heâd responded coolly. He hadnât come there for her and had no interest in anything she had to say. Useless small talk that would lead nowhere. But that question caught his attention, and from the satisfied way Yoonmi was looking at him, she seemed to have noticed that too.
He stared at her. âYes.â
âWhy?â she asked, tilting her head in a deliberately frivolous, almost childlike way.
âI need to talk to her,â he replied simply.
Yoonmi looked vaguely amused. âHonestly, I donât think she likes you very much.â
His gaze narrowed, his expression suddenly harder. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âOh, nothing. I was just being nosy, really. The other day I asked if there was something going on between you two, if you were seeing each other, but she said no,â she said, flicking her hair over her shoulders with a sharp movement. Her shoulders were so angular they almost looked artificial. Seungmin wondered if sheâd had something done to make them that way. âI donât think she needs you anymore.â
Seungmin stayed silent, absorbing her words. She leaned forward slightly, close enough for the cold rim of her glass to brush against his forearm. He flinched at the sudden chill.
âIf I were you, I wouldnât waste my time on someone like her,â Yoonmi added after a pause.
Seungminâs expression darkened further. âArenât you two supposed to be friends?â
âYes, sort of,â she replied with a sigh, as if the thought annoyed her somehow. âIâm not sure she sees me that way, though. She only lives for herself. Doesnât care about anyone else. I like her, but⊠well, you know what sheâs like. Everything depends on whether youâre useful to her. As long as she needs you, everythingâs fine. But the moment she gets what she wants, sheâll throw you away without a second thought.â
Seungmin couldnât quite figure out what her real aim was. If it was to make him think less of Miok, she had failed. He only felt pity. Pity for Miok, forced to move through a world filled with people who didnât think twice about speaking behind the backs of those they called friends. And he wanted to say something, to tell Yoonmi she was wrong. But he stopped listening before she could finish her sentence, because from the corner of his eye, he saw her walk in. Miok. And she was staring at them with that usual composed expression she always wore, barely concealing an irritation Seungmin had learned to recognise but never quite knew how to read.
He didnât hesitate. He headed straight for her, ignoring Yoonmiâs protests.
âWhy are you here?â she asked the moment he reached her.
âYoonsuk invited me,â he replied.
Miok looked around. âI donât see him.â
Seungmin shook his head, more out of frustration than as an actual answer. âMaybe heâll show up later.â
The conversation stalled for a few seconds. She folded her arms across her chest, raising her eyebrows slightly. Seungmin had come to that party for one reason only: to see her. To speak to her, even if only for a few minutes. Nothing more. Heâd spent days imagining how their encounter might go, what to say, what tone to use, how to carry himself. But now that she was right there in front of him, in the flesh, he couldnât seem to find the right words.
What was it he actually wanted to say? What was he hoping for? Did he want to convince her to come back to him, to change her mind? Or did he just need a sign that she wasnât erasing him completely, that somewhere deep down she still needed him? He didnât know. The only thing he was sure of was that he couldnât leave without knowing for certain that she wouldnât vanish from his life for good.
Maybe he hadnât come to win her back. Because, despite everything, being without Miok felt more unbearable than any other outcome.
âWhy were you talking to her?â she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
âTo who?â
âTo Yoonmi,â she replied through clenched teeth.
Seungmin turned to look back in the direction heâd come from. Yoonmi had joined a nearby group but was still sneaking glances their way, not even trying to be subtle about it.
âOh⊠she approached me first. I barely listened to half of what she said,â he replied.
âShe was flirting with you,â said Miok, her voice flat. âI think sheâs got a crush on you. Or she wants people to think she does.â
âSo what?â he said. âIâm not interested.â
Miok let out a nervous laugh. âYou did it on purpose, didnât you?â
âDid what?â
âMade sure I saw you with her,â Miok said, as if it were obvious. âYou did it to get under my skin.â
It was Seungminâs turn to laugh, bewildered. He looked at her. On the surface, nothing seemed off. But if he paid closer attention, he could see how anxious she was; the way her fingers kept pinching the skin on her elbow, the way her voice faltered just before the end of each sentence.
âShe was the one who came up to me, I was just being polite,â he said, nearly annoyed. âIâm not the kind of person who plays stupid games.â
Miokâs gaze turned darker, sharper. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âOh for Godâs sake, it doesnât mean anything!â he exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly.
Miok glanced around, as if checking to see whether anyone was watching them. It was obvious she was holding back, keeping a lid on her emotions just to avoid making a scene. But Seungmin didnât know how to break the stalemate. They werenât getting anywhere, not like this. Not when she seemed constantly on guard, bracing for a blow that might never come.
âI donât understand why youâre ignoring me,â he said at last, stepping closer to draw her attention back to him.
âI wonder whyâŠâ she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
âCould you stop being a bitch for just one second?â
She snapped her head up, as if to scold him. âWhy? I donât even know why you came here. Isnât it obvious I donât want to talk to you? Why canât you just accept that?â
Seungmin sighed. âYou canât avoid me forever.â
She gave a bitter smirk. âYes, I can. If I want to.â
âBut do you really want to?â
Miok didnât reply. She turned away without another word and walked off. Not in anger, but with calculated composure. As if sheâd rehearsed the scene a hundred times. And somehow, that made it worse. The way she moved, as if nothing could touch her, as if none of it mattered, made Seungmin clench his fists until his nails dug into his palms. Her apparent calm only highlighted the chaos inside him. He decided to follow her, slipping into the corridor that led to the lift.
âMiok!â he called, sharply.
She stopped in her tracks and turned; her expression so cold it almost stripped her of all humanity. âCan you tell me what exactly it is that you want from me?â
He didnât answer but held her gaze.
âWhatever it is,â she went on, âI canât give it to you.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause you canât be part of the plan anymore,â she said at last, almost resigned. âYouâre a risk I canât afford. I canât feel anything for you.â
He let out a laugh. A nervous, almost hysterical laugh. Painful. âBecause your parents donât approve? Because Iâm not some fucking CEO of a multinational?â
âNo, it has nothing to do with them,â she shot back, more sharply now. âItâs me. Iâm the one who doesnât want you.â
âWhy?â he pressed, stepping closer again. His hands were shaking. âWhat exactly are you so afraid of?â
And with those words, something cracked. Until that moment, Seungmin had felt like he was witnessing an internal war, her relentless fight to suppress every emotion, every flicker of weakness. But for the first time since heâd known her, Seungmin saw Miok truly fall apart.
~
Miok collapsed, as if something inside her had broken. It wasnât a theatrical gesture. She sank to the floor as though, all of a sudden, nothing was holding her up anymore; her knees folding beneath her, hands covering her face, fingers pressed into her skin, her eyes beginning to burn, though she hadnât yet started crying. A strangled sound escaped her throat, somewhere between a held breath and a stifled moan. Her body trembled slightly, as if it were trying with all its might to resist the emotion that was threatening to overwhelm her.
Seungmin had always seen her as someone who held herself together, constantly in control. Even in moments when heâd glimpsed some vulnerability in her expression, Miok had always seemed protected by a carefully constructed barrier, designed to keep the world at bay. But now, there was none of that. And in this sudden moment of fragility, perhaps Seungmin saw her for the first time. The real Miok.
He called her name, quietly, almost uncertain. It came out as a whisper, as if he were afraid of frightening her.
She didnât respond. She didnât lower her hands from her face, as if the very idea of being seen in that state was unbearable. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled. âEverythingâs slipping out of my hands, Seungmin.â
He hesitated before taking a step forward.
âI could lose everything, do you understand?â she went on. Her voice broke, as though she no longer had the strength to continue. âAnd you... you come here, expecting to be a part of my life, as if it wasnât already complicated enough.â
It wasnât what Seungmin had expected to hear. She couldnât see him, but his expression changed, grew more serious, more tense. âWhat are you talking about?â
She didnât answer right away. She just tried to catch her breath, tried to calm the rhythm of it, which had grown shallow and rapid. Her gaze was fixed on her feet, her shoulders tense. Seungmin crouched down in front of her and gently took hold of her wrists, his hands warm, his touch light. He moved hers away from her face, forcing her to let herself be seen.
âWhat are you talking about?â he repeated. His voice was firmer now, but not harsh.
Miok let him touch her. She didnât pull away, but she still avoided his eyes. She looked up at the ceiling, as though searching there for an answer. She tried to speak, but the words tangled on her tongue. âI... I donât...â she whispered, then closed her eyes. âPlease, Seungmin. Leave me alone. I canât do this. I really tried. But I canât. I just canât.â
Seungmin didnât move. He held her wrists a little tighter, just enough for her to feel he was still there.
âMiok, please. Tell me whatâs going on. Youâre starting to scare me.â
She looked at him, only for a moment, as if even that glance required a huge effort. A brief contact, but enough. There was something different in Seungminâs eyes, they were shinier, a little red at the edges. It wasnât pity, not quite. Tenderness, maybe. An uncomfortable tenderness that she didnât know what to do with, and that she didnât believe she deserved.
Miok felt a pang that started in her stomach and spread across her chest. It was absurd that he was looking at her like that, right now, after everything sheâd done to him. She felt she owed him an explanation. The words formed in her mouth before she even had the chance to decide whether or not to speak. And finally, she did.
âI just wanted to be independent. I wanted to be free of everything. My parents, their expectations, their stupid rules. I received an offer... a job offer, from the MMCA. And I thought maybe it was finally the right moment to... to leave the Foundation. To stop working for my parents and do something I genuinely cared about, something that gave me a sense of purpose. I thought that if I played my cards right, I could have everything I wanted, like always: the job I dreamed of and my familyâs support. Without losing anything. But itâs not possible. They wonât let me choose.â
She paused, running a hand through her hair, maybe to buy herself a bit of time to organise her thoughts. Then she continued.
âAnd then thereâs you. You were just a tool. A strategy to keep them quiet. It was all calculated. You didnât even like me, you found me annoying. There was no risk, because there was no way youâd get attached. But then you started saying strange things. That you liked me. Me, who only used you for my own ends. Me, whoâs nothing but selfish. I didnât push you away when I should have, I kept you close because it made me feel better. I didnât think for a second about how you might be feeling, and now I feel like shit. Because you donât deserve that.â
Only after sheâd finished, breathless now, did she dare look up. And what she saw disarmed her. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he didnât try to hide them. There was no sadness in his eyes, only frustration. Miok stood up abruptly, almost angry.
âWhy the hell are you crying?â
He stood as well. Wiped his face with the back of his hand, almost embarrassed. âBecause youâre talking absolute rubbish.â
She shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together. âItâs true. Without them, without my parents, I have nothing. I am nothing.â
âThen start building something. From nothing!â he burst out. âWhat exactly are you afraid of losing? That world, the one you live in, you donât even like it.â
Miok tried to reply, but he cut her off before she could speak.
âWhat would you actually miss?â he pressed. âThe parties you find dull and pointless? The friends who donât think twice about slagging you off behind your back? Your family, who wonât let you live your life? Who expect you to marry someone just to protect their image? Tell me, Miok. Are you really afraid of losing all that?â
She stared at him. The tears finally began to fall, and she didnât even notice. Sheâd almost forgotten what crying felt like. It was like a new sensation. She didnât try to stop them. âAnd what if I fail?â she asked, with a sincerity that made Seungmin realise she wasnât pretending anymore. That the girl in front of him was the one Miok had spent a lifetime hiding. âWhat if I end up in a situation I canât... I donât know how to handle?â
Seungmin placed his hands on her arms, as if afraid she might collapse again. His expression had softened.
âIâm scared,â she said again, more quietly. âScared that the job might go badly. That Iâll fail. That Iâll have to go back with my tail between my legs. Admit my parents were right all along. That without them, I canât do anything.â
She looked at him and stepped closer, grabbing a fold of his T-shirt and holding onto it between her fingers. âAnd Iâm scared to admit that I like you too, Seungmin. That I donât just need you for convenience. But Iâm not sure I can give you that kind of power over me. If I did, I really wouldnât know what to do.â
âItâs not about having everything under control,â he said. âNo one does. And I know itâs hard, I struggle with that too. But we have to learn to live with it. With the fear of messing up.â
She nodded, but didnât look convinced. Her gaze dropped to her hands, clutching his shirt tighter now, her thumbs brushing against the skin of his stomach.
âI donât want to have control over you, Miok,â he went on, letting his hands fall from her arms to rest at his sides. Her grip on his shirt tightened even more, as if to keep him from pulling away. âI just want to be with you. In spite of everything.â
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. New tears welled up in her red-rimmed eyes. âAnd what if I ruin everything?â
He didnât say anything for a moment. Then he shrugged. âThen it means thatâs how it was meant to be.â
Miok rested her forehead against his chest and let out a sigh. âI donât know if I can do this.â
Seungmin wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. She could hear the fast but steady rhythm of his heart. As ridiculous as it was, it calmed her.
âYou can do it,â he whispered, brushing her hair with his lips. âWe can.â
It was late by the time he finally landed, and he didnât bother stopping by his place first. The flight from Tokyo had left him sore and slightly dazed, but it didnât matter. Not when he was finally going to see her again after weeks apart.
He rang the doorbell twice before the door opened and she appeared in front of him. She blinked a few times, surprised, before breaking into a smile.
âWell,â he said, once inside the flat. âThis is a big change.â
She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest and leaning a shoulder against the wall. âYou donât like it?â
âNo, I do,â he replied, letting the door close behind him. âIt suits you more, somehow. It feels more yours.â
For a while, she didnât say anything. She just tilted her head slightly, a faint, amused smile on her lips. It wasnât the flat they used to meet in, the one with open spaces and clean, austere lines. This one was small, intimate. Warm. There were art catalogues stacked on the floor next to an old sofa, and mugs left in the sink. A drying rack had been abandoned by the window, waiting to be put away.
Seungmin dropped his backpack next to the little kitchen and, without warning, leaned in and kissed her.
âWhat are you doing?â she asked, laughing against his lips.
âI missed you.â
She paused for a moment, as if the statement had caught her completely off guard. Then she smiled, placing the palm of her hand against his chest to steady him. âI missed you too. But you must be exhausted. Why donât you sit down? Do you want a cup of tea? Or are you hungry? Did they feed you on the plane?â
He didnât answer. He kissed her again, slower this time, then his lips wandered to her neck and her laughter melted into a soft sigh.
âSeungminâŠâ
âPlease,â he murmured, his mouth warm against her skin. âIâve missed you so much.â
She was still smiling when he guided her toward the bedroom. They undressed without rush, without urgency. His shirt, her shorts, fell along the way. They were down to their underwear when he knelt, brushing his lips against her stomach. His fingers slid beneath the fabric of her panties, teasing her until she gasped.
He stopped.
âWhy did you stop?â she asked, breathless.
A sly smile curled his lips. âIf you want me to keep going,â he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. âSay please.â
She let out a soft groan, then gave in with a laugh. âPlease.â
That was enough. He touched her slowly, deliberately; his fingers stroked and pressed, coaxing gentle moans from her lips. He kissed her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, until she trembled beneath him.
When he kissed her again, she reached for him, sliding her hand beneath the waistband of his briefs. He was hard against her, and Miok didnât hesitate.
âI need you,â she whispered.
He kissed her mouth, intoxicated by her touch. âYou know what you have to say.â
She looked at him, this time without a smile. Without teasing.
âI love you.â
He froze, just for a second. But those words, spoken plainly but not lightly, hit him harder than heâd expected. Her eyes were on his, clear and sincere.
âI love you,â he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He lined himself up and she welcomed him, eager. There was no game this time, no resistance, only them. They moved together, and for the first time there was no control, no distance, no need to pretend.