#hannieverse

The university library at 1:17 a.m. smelled like old paper, stale coffee, and quiet desperation. Most of the fluorescent overheads had been switched off hours ago, leaving only the warm pools of desk lamps to carve small islands of light across the long tables. Shin Yuna sat alone in one of those islands, third floor, corner carrel, surrounded by a fortress of open textbooks and scattered highlighters that had long since bled dry.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She pressed her palms flat against the page of her annotated copy of The Bell Jar, as if the weight could steady them. It didn't. The words blurred anyway—Plath's sharp prose swimming into meaningless shapes. Midterms were still two weeks away, but the pressure had already coiled tight around her ribs. Every unread chapter felt like another brick on her chest. Every unanswered text from her mother ("Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Don't disappoint us again.") felt like another crack in the foundation she'd barely built since moving to the city.

She let out a small, frustrated sound—half sigh, half whimper—and dropped her forehead to the table.

That's when she heard the soft scrape of a chair being pulled out two seats away.

Yuna didn't look up at first. People came and went at this hour; she was used to being invisible. But then a voice—low, gentle, almost melodic—broke the silence.

"You look cold."

She lifted her head slowly.

He was leaning back in the chair, elbows resting casually on the armrests, watching her with an unhurried calm that felt almost otherworldly in the dim light. Dark hair fell just past his shoulders, tucked behind one ear. His eyes were soft, dark, and impossibly kind. Yoon Jeonghan. She'd seen him around campus—fourth-year psych major, the one everyone whispered about because he always seemed to know exactly what to say. The one who listened like it was the only thing that mattered.

He was holding out a black wool coat, draped over one forearm like an offering.

"I wasn't using it," he said simply. "And your hands are shaking. Take it."

Yuna blinked, throat tight. "I'm—I'm fine. Really."

"You're not." His tone wasn't accusatory. It was matter-of-fact, almost tender. "And that's okay. But let me help anyway."

She hesitated, then reached out. The coat was warm from his body heat, heavy with the faint scent of clean laundry and something woodsy—cedar, maybe. She pulled it over her shoulders without thinking, and the weight felt like armor.

Jeonghan didn't say anything else for a long moment. He just sat there, presence quiet but undeniable, like he had all the time in the world. Eventually, she mumbled something about midterms, about feeling like she was drowning in deadlines, about how stupid it was to be this overwhelmed already.

He listened.

Not the polite nod-and-hum people usually gave. He really listened—head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving hers, asking small questions when she trailed off ("What class is giving you the most trouble?" "When was the last time you ate something?"). He didn't offer solutions right away. He just let her talk until the words ran dry and left her feeling strangely lighter, like some of the pressure had leaked out through the cracks he'd gently widened.

When she finally fell silent, he smiled—just a small curve of his lips.

"You're doing better than you think, Yuna."

She startled. "How do you know my name?"

"I pay attention." He stood, stretching a little. "Come on. Library closes in twenty. I'll walk you out."

She should have said no. She barely knew him. But the coat was still warm around her, and the idea of walking alone through the empty campus paths suddenly felt unbearable.

They left together.

The next afternoon—early evening, really—the campus café was bathed in golden hour light filtering through the tall windows. Yuna was waiting in line for her usual black coffee when someone tapped her shoulder lightly.

She turned.

Jeonghan stood there, holding two to-go cups. One had a little paper sleeve with a handwritten note: Chamomile with a touch of honey. You mentioned it last night when you were talking about home.

Her stomach flipped.

"You remembered," she said, voice small.

"Of course." He handed her the cup, fingers brushing hers for the briefest second. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than usual," she admitted. "Thanks to your coat. I... I washed it. It's in my bag. I can give it back now—"

"Keep it for now." He smiled again, that same soft, disarming curve. "You might need it tonight. Forecast says it'll drop."

They ended up at a small table by the window. Conversation flowed easily—too easily. He asked about her favorite books (she loved quiet stories about lonely people finding small kindnesses); she asked about his major (he said psychology because "people are puzzles worth solving"). Every so often he'd reach across to adjust the sleeve on her cup so it didn't burn her fingers, or brush a stray hair from her cheek when she laughed.

By the time they finished their drinks, the sky had darkened to deep indigo.

"I'll walk you home," he said, not asking.

She didn't argue.

The path to her dorm was lined with streetlamps that cast long, soft shadows. They walked close enough that their arms brushed now and then. Neither moved away.

At her building's entrance, she turned to face him. The coat was still around her shoulders; she started to shrug it off.

"Keep it," he said again, voice quieter now. "At least until tomorrow."

"Okay."

He reached out, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear—gentle, deliberate. "Text me when you're inside? Just so I know you're safe."

She nodded.

"Goodnight, Yuna."

"Goodnight, Jeonghan."

She watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner, then slipped inside. Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Jeonghan: Get some rest. I'll check in tomorrow morning. Sweet dreams.

Yuna stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the weight on her chest felt... lighter.

She typed back one word.

Yuna: Promise.

And for once, she believed someone might actually keep it.

The first week blurred into the second, and somewhere in between Jeonghan became part of Yuna's rhythm.

It started small. A text every morning at 7:42 exactly—never 7:40, never 7:45.

Jeonghan: Morning. Did you sleep okay? Don't forget breakfast. I left an extra protein bar in your bag yesterday.

She'd smile at her phone in the dim light of her dorm, still tangled in sheets, and type back before her brain fully woke up.

Yuna: Slept better. Thank you. You're too much.

Jeonghan: Not possible.

By the third day, library study sessions had migrated. The third-floor carrel wasn't big enough for both of them anymore—not when he insisted on sitting close enough that their knees touched under the table, not when he'd slide a thermos of chamomile across to her without a word.

One Tuesday evening he looked up from his notes and said, very casually, "My place is quieter. And I already started dinner. Come eat after this chapter?"

She went.

His apartment was small but impossibly tidy—warm wooden floors, bookshelves that reached the ceiling, fairy lights strung along the window even though it wasn't Christmas. The kitchen smelled like garlic and sesame oil. He moved around it with quiet confidence, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tied back in a loose ponytail.

"You like spicy?" he asked, stirring something on the stove.

"A little."

He added another pinch of gochugaru without measuring.

They ate at the tiny table by the window. He watched her take the first bite, waited for her small hum of approval, then smiled like he'd won something.

"You didn't eat lunch today," he said softly. Not accusing. Just... knowing.

"I forgot."

"I figured." He reached across, brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Don't forget tomorrow. Text me when you do, okay? I worry."

She nodded, throat tight for reasons she couldn't name.

After that, the dinners became routine. Three, four nights a week. Sometimes he'd cook; sometimes he'd order her favorites before she even realized she was craving them. He always noticed when her eyes were tired, when her hands trembled again. He'd press two small white pills into her palm with a glass of water and say, "You're allowed to need help, Yuna."

She started taking them on time because he asked.

Her friends noticed.

At lunch one Friday, Minji leaned across the cafeteria table, chopsticks paused mid-air.

"So... Yoon Jeonghan, huh?"

Yuna felt heat crawl up her neck. "It's not like that."

Soojin laughed. "It's exactly like that. He literally carried your bag across campus yesterday. And you let him."

"He offered."

"He always offers," Minji said, not unkindly. "You're so lucky. Half the campus would kill for someone who pays attention like that."

Yuna looked down at her tray. "He's just... kind."

"Kind is an understatement," Soojin muttered. "He's basically your personal guardian angel."

The words should have felt warm. Instead they sat strangely in her chest.

That night, after Jeonghan had kissed her forehead goodnight at her dorm door (still no more than that, still careful, still perfect), she lay in bed staring at the ceiling and felt the first real crack of vulnerability open.

She texted him at 1:03 a.m.

Yuna: Can I tell you something stupid?

His reply came in under thirty seconds.

Jeonghan: Nothing you say is stupid.

Yuna: When I was fourteen my dad left. Didn't even say goodbye. Just... gone. Mom pretended it didn't happen. I keep waiting for people to do the same. Disappear.

Three dots. Then:

Jeonghan: Open your door.

She did.

He was standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair messy from sleep, eyes soft in the hallway light. He didn't say anything at first—just stepped inside, closed the door, and pulled her into his arms.

She didn't cry. Not really. But she shook.

He held her tighter. One hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.

"You'll never have to feel that with me," he whispered against her hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

She believed him.

Because he proved it. Every day.

He asked about her schedule so he could walk her between classes. He asked who she was texting when her phone lit up during dinner—not possessive, just curious. Concerned.

"Just a group project thing," she said once, turning the screen facedown.

He nodded. Smiled. "Good. I just like knowing you're okay."

Another time, when she laughed at something on her phone and he asked who it was, she hesitated.

"An old friend from back home."

His expression didn't change, but his voice went quieter. "He texts you a lot?"

"It's nothing."

"I know." He reached over, tucked her hair behind her ear. "I only ask because I care. You're too sweet sometimes. People take advantage."

She put her phone away.

The next morning there was a new text waiting.

Jeonghan: Breakfast at my place? Made your favorite pancakes. Extra strawberries.

She went.

And when he kissed her cheek as she left for class, when he said "Text me when you get there safe," when he added "I miss you already" even though she'd only been gone ten minutes—she felt something settle deep inside her chest.

Safety.

Belonging.

The kind of devotion she'd never had.

And if somewhere beneath it all a small voice whispered that the warmth felt a little too perfect, a little too constant, a little too... arranged—she pushed it down.

Because for the first time in years, she wasn't alone.

And Jeonghan made sure she never would be again.

Friday arrived like a promise Yuna had almost forgotten she'd made.

Minji had texted the group chat three days earlier: Party at the old house on Maple this weekend. Low-key, just us + a few people. Music, drinks, no pressure. Yuna, you HAVE to come. We miss your face.

Yuna had stared at the message for a full minute before typing back: I'm in.

She told Jeonghan over dinner that night—casual, like it was nothing important. They were on his couch, takeout containers balanced on the coffee table, some soft indie playlist humming in the background.

"There's this thing tomorrow," she said, poking at the last piece of tteokbokki with her chopsticks. "Old friends from my first semester. Just a small party. I haven't seen them in forever."

Jeonghan paused mid-bite. His expression didn't change much—still that gentle half-smile, eyes warm—but something in the air shifted. Thicker. Quieter.

He set his chopsticks down carefully.

"That sounds nice," he said. Soft. Too soft.

Yuna glanced up. "You think?"

"Of course." He reached over, brushed his thumb along the inside of her wrist like he always did when he wanted to ground her. "You deserve to have fun. See people who make you laugh."

She relaxed a fraction. "It's not a big deal. I'll probably leave early anyway."

He nodded slowly. "Just... be careful, okay?" His voice dipped lower. "You know how crowds get to you sometimes. The noise, the lights, people you don't fully trust. Last time you went out late you came back shaking. I had to hold you for an hour before you could breathe right."

The memory flashed—her curled on this very couch, his arms around her, his voice in her ear counting inhales and exhales until the panic ebbed. She swallowed.

"I'll be fine," she said, quieter now.

Jeonghan's gaze held hers for a long beat. Then he smiled again, small and sad. "I know you will. I just... I hate the idea of you being somewhere I can't reach if you need me."

He didn't say don't go. He didn't have to.

The guilt settled in her stomach like cold tea.

That night she lay awake in her dorm, phone glowing on the pillow. Minji had sent outfit options. Soojin had sent memes about bad decisions and worse hangovers. Yuna typed half a dozen replies and deleted them all.

At 2:14 a.m., she opened Jeonghan's chat.

Yuna: Still awake? 

Jeonghan: Always when you are. Everything okay? 

Yuna: Yeah. Just thinking about tomorrow. 

Jeonghan: You don't have to go if you don't want to. 

Yuna: I do want to. I think. 

Jeonghan: Then go. I'll be here when you get back. Door's always open for you.

She stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

The next afternoon she stood in front of her mirror in the black dress Minji had insisted on—"You look hot, wear it"—and felt nothing but dread. Not for the party. For the look she knew would be on his face when she told him she was still going.

She didn't tell him.

Instead, at 8:47 p.m., she sent the group chat: Sorry guys. Feeling off tonight. Rain check? Next time for sure.

Minji replied instantly: Noooo :( Soojin: We get it. Take care babe. Love you.

Yuna turned her phone face-down and walked to his apartment.

He opened the door before she even knocked—like he'd been waiting.

"You're here," he said, voice soft with something that looked like relief.

"I canceled," she mumbled, stepping inside. "Didn't feel right."

Jeonghan closed the door behind her. Didn't ask why. Just pulled her into his arms without a word.

She melted against him. The familiar scent of cedar and clean cotton wrapped around her like a blanket. His hand slid up her back, slow and steady, fingers threading into her hair at the nape of her neck.

"You don't have to explain," he murmured against her temple. "I'm just glad you're safe."

They moved to the couch without really deciding to. He sat first, tugged her down until she was curled in his lap, head tucked under his chin. His arms came around her fully—long, encompassing hugs that made the rest of the world feel very far away.

He kissed her forehead. Lingered there. Then her temple. The bridge of her nose. Each touch deliberate, reverent.

"I need you safe," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "More than anything."

Yuna tilted her head up. Their eyes met—his dark and steady, hers uncertain but aching.

He didn't rush.

He waited until she leaned in first.

The kiss was slow. Achingly slow. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing every millimeter—soft at first, then deeper, tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. One hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone; the other pressed low on her back, keeping her flush against him.

It tasted like safety. Like surrender.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing uneven, he rested his forehead against hers.

"Stay," he said. Not a question.

She nodded.

He carried her to his bed—effortless, careful—laid her down like she was something fragile and irreplaceable. Didn't push for more. Just held her. One arm under her head, the other draped across her waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on her hip through the thin fabric of her dress.

She fell asleep listening to his heartbeat—slow, even, certain.

Protected.

Warm.

And somewhere beneath the comfort, a small, quiet voice noticed how easily the night had rearranged itself around him. How the party, the friends, the plans had simply... dissolved.

She pushed the thought away.

Curled tighter into his chest.

And let sleep take her.

The spiral came without warning that evening.

One minute Yuna was sitting cross-legged on his living-room floor, highlighter in hand, trying to force the words of a lecture slide into her brain. The next, her chest was caving in—breath shallow, vision tunneling, the familiar cold sweat prickling along her spine. She dropped the pen. It clattered too loudly.

Jeonghan was across the room in an instant.

He didn't ask what was wrong. He never did when it hit like this. Just knelt in front of her, took both her shaking hands in his, and pressed them to his chest so she could feel the steady rise and fall beneath his shirt.

"Breathe with me, angel," he said, voice low and even. "In... hold... out."

She followed. She always followed.

After a few minutes the worst of it ebbed, leaving her limp and trembling against him. He lifted her easily, carried her to the couch, settled her across his lap like she weighed nothing. His arms came around her—warm, solid, inescapable in the gentlest way.

"You're okay," he murmured into her hair. "I've got you."

His lips found her temple. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth.

The first kiss was soft—comforting. The second lingered. The third parted her lips, tongue brushing hers slow and deliberate, tasting the salt of the tears she hadn't realized she'd shed.

Heat bloomed low in her belly.

He pulled back just enough to look at her—eyes dark, pupils blown. "Tell me to stop if it's too much."

She didn't.

Instead she leaned in again, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

That was all the permission he needed.

He kissed her deeper this time—hungry, controlled. One hand slid under the hem of her oversized sweater, palm flat against the bare skin of her stomach, thumb stroking the sensitive line just below her ribs. She arched into the touch without thinking.

"So beautiful," he whispered against her mouth. "My perfect angel."

He peeled the sweater off slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something sacred. Her bra followed—simple black lace he traced with his fingertips before unhooking it. When her breasts spilled free he groaned low in his throat.

"Look at you." His thumbs brushed over her nipples—already peaked and aching. He circled them lazily until she whimpered, then pinched just hard enough to make her gasp. "These pretty little nipples... all hard for me already."

He bent his head, took one into his mouth—hot, wet suction that made her hips jerk. Tongue flicking, teeth grazing, he lavished attention on her until she was writhing, pleading softly.

"Jeonghan—"

"Shh, angel. Let me take care of you."

He shifted her, laid her back against the cushions, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and panties and dragged them down together. She lifted her hips to help, suddenly shy when the cool air hit her skin.

He spread her thighs gently but firmly, settled between them, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Your pussy is so pretty, angel. So wet for me already."

He dragged one finger through her folds—slow, deliberate—collecting her slick before circling her clit with the lightest pressure. She bucked. He smiled against her inner thigh.

"Sensitive little thing."

He lowered his head.

The first swipe of his tongue was feather-light—teasing the hood of her clit, then dipping lower to taste her entrance. She moaned, loud and broken. He hummed in approval, the vibration shooting straight through her.

He took his time—agonizingly slow. Licking broad stripes, flicking the tip of his tongue over her clit in quick, maddening patterns, sucking gently until her thighs trembled around his head. Every time she got close he eased off, kissing the crease of her thigh instead, murmuring praise against her skin.

"You taste so good, angel. So sweet. So mine."

When she was shaking, hips lifting desperately, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, he finally gave in.

Two fingers slid inside her—curling just right—while his mouth sealed over her clit and sucked hard.

She came with a sob—back arching, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clamping around his ears as pleasure crashed through her in violent waves.

He didn't stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation.

Only then did he crawl back up her body, kissing every inch he passed—her stomach, the valley between her breasts, the hollow of her throat.

He shed his own clothes quickly—shirt, sweatpants, boxers—revealing the long, thick length of his cock already leaking at the tip.

Yuna's breath hitched.

He caught her staring and smirked softly. "Like what you see, angel?"

She nodded, cheeks burning.

He settled between her thighs again, notched himself at her entrance, rubbed the head through her slick folds until she was squirming.

"Eyes on me," he said quietly.

She obeyed.

He pushed in slow—inch by inch—stretching her open with careful, possessive thrusts. When he bottomed out he stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.

"So tight," he groaned. "So perfect for my cock."

He started moving—gentle rolls of his hips at first, letting her adjust, then deeper, harder. One hand slid up to wrap lightly around her throat—not squeezing, just holding. The pressure made her pulse race, made everything feel sharper, more intense.

"You're safe only with me," he murmured, voice rough with want. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to make this pretty pussy come."

The words tipped her over.

She clenched around him—hard—nails digging into his shoulders as the second orgasm ripped through her. He fucked her through it—deep, steady strokes—until his rhythm faltered.

"Angel—fuck—I'm gonna—"

He buried himself to the hilt, came with a low, guttural sound, spilling hot inside her.

They stayed like that for long minutes—sweaty, trembling, breathing each other in.

Then the aftercare began.

He pulled out carefully, kissed her softly, carried her to the bathroom. Ran a warm bath, added the lavender oil she liked. Washed her himself—gentle hands between her legs, over her breasts, rinsing away the evidence of what they'd done while whispering how good she'd been, how proud he was.

Back in bed he wrapped her in his arms, pulled the blankets high, pressed kisses to her hairline.

"You're mine to take care of," he said against her temple. "Always."

Yuna curled into his chest, body heavy with satisfaction, mind hazy with something dangerously close to addiction.

The intensity—the way he unraveled her, then pieced her back together—felt like the only thing that could ever quiet the noise in her head.

She pressed a sleepy kiss to his collarbone.

And let herself sink deeper.

The days after their first night together felt like falling deeper into warm water—slow, enveloping, impossible to surface from.

Jeonghan's care sharpened at the edges.

It started with the literature seminar she'd been dreading. She came home one evening—his apartment had become "home" in her vocabulary without her noticing—bags under her eyes, syllabus crumpled in her fist.

He took one look at her and pulled her onto the couch, hands already rubbing slow circles over her back.

"You're exhausted, angel," he said, voice soft but firm. "I hate seeing you suffer like this. That class is too much—three essays a week, the readings, the discussions that drag on until midnight. You don't need to prove anything to anyone."

She leaned into him. "But I'm already enrolled. Dropping now would look bad on my transcript."

"Would it?" He tilted her chin up, thumb stroking her jaw. "Or would it look like you're finally taking care of yourself? I can help you find something easier. Something that won't make you cry over deadlines. Let me look into it for you tomorrow, okay?"

She nodded. She didn't remember agreeing to drop it, exactly—but the next morning he was already printing the withdrawal form, smiling as he handed it to her with her favorite tea.

"You'll feel so much lighter," he promised.

She signed.

The friends came next.

Minji texted about grabbing coffee after class—"Just us girls, no boys allowed, we need to catch up." Yuna showed him the message while they ate breakfast at his kitchen counter.

He read it, expression neutral. Then he set the phone down gently.

"They're good people," he said carefully. "But they don't understand your needs like I do, angel. Last time you went out with them you came back anxious—remember? You said the conversation turned to things that triggered you. I just... I worry they'll push you too far without meaning to."

Yuna stared at her plate. "I guess."

"You don't have to go if it doesn't feel right." He kissed her temple. "Stay here. I'll make that pasta you like. We can watch that movie you've been wanting to see."

She canceled.

She didn't even think twice.

The pattern repeated. A study group invite from Soojin—declined. A casual hangout at the campus café—declined. Each time, Jeonghan's voice was never demanding. Just concerned. Just loving. Just right.

And every time she chose him, he rewarded her.

Friday night arrived like a gift he'd wrapped himself.

She'd had a long week—fewer classes now, but the absence felt strange, like missing a tooth. Jeonghan noticed her restlessness immediately.

He drew her into the bedroom without a word, lights dimmed low, sheets already turned down.

"Lie back, angel," he murmured, guiding her down. "Let me take care of you."

He undressed her slowly—sweater, bra, leggings—kissing every new inch of skin revealed. When she was bare he knelt between her thighs, eyes dark with hunger.

"So pretty," he breathed, fingers tracing her nipples until they hardened under his touch. "These perfect little nipples... always so responsive for me."

He teased them with his mouth while his hand slid lower—circling her clit with feather-light strokes, dipping inside her pussy just enough to make her gasp, then retreating. Over and over.

He brought her to the edge once. Twice. Three times.

Each time she arched, thighs trembling, soft pleas spilling from her lips—he stopped.

Completely.

"Jeonghan—please—"

"Not yet." He kissed her inner thigh, voice low and velvet. "Tell me you'll spend the whole weekend with me. No plans. No friends. Just us."

She whimpered. "I... I promise."

"Say it properly, angel."

"I promise," she gasped, hips lifting desperately. "The whole weekend. Only you. Please—let me come."

He smiled—slow, satisfied—then lowered his head again.

This time he didn't stop.

His tongue worked her clit in tight, relentless circles while two fingers curled inside her pussy, stroking that spot that made her see stars. She shattered—back bowing, cry muffled against her own hand—wave after wave crashing through her.

He didn't give her time to recover.

He flipped her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, and entered her in one deep thrust.

She moaned into the pillow.

His cock filled her completely—thick, hard, stretching her in the best way. He started slow, but the rhythm built quickly—rougher, more possessive. One hand gripped her hip; the other wrapped lightly around her throat from behind, just enough pressure to make her pulse race.

"Good girl," he growled against her ear. "So obedient. So perfect. You come so beautifully when you listen to me."

He thrust harder—deep, punishing strokes that made her breasts bounce, nipples grazing the sheets with every movement. His fingers found her clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me again, angel," he commanded. "Show me how much you need this. Need me."

She did—clenching around his cock, sobbing his name as the orgasm tore through her, sharper and more intense than the first.

He followed moments later—burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a low groan of her name.

Afterward he was gentle again.

He cleaned her carefully with a warm cloth, kissed every mark he'd left—light bruises on her hips, faint fingerprints on her throat. He pulled her into the shower, washed her hair, held her under the hot water until she stopped trembling.

Back in bed he wrapped her in his arms, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.

"You did so well," he whispered. "I'm so proud of you."

Yuna nestled closer, body heavy with satisfaction, mind quiet for once.

She didn't notice how easily the weekend stretched ahead—empty of everything but him.

She didn't notice how naturally the cancellations had become habit.

She only noticed how safe she felt.

How loved.

How completely his.

The confrontation came on a Tuesday afternoon in the campus courtyard.

Yuna was waiting for Jeonghan outside the psychology building—same bench, same time, same thermos of chamomile he'd text her to bring because her hands got cold. Minji appeared out of nowhere, hoodie up against the wind, expression tight.

"Hey," Minji said, dropping onto the bench beside her without preamble. "We need to talk."

Yuna's stomach dipped. "About what?"

"You." Minji didn't smile. "You've changed, Yuna. And not in the cute 'in love' way. In the... disappearing way."

"I'm right here."

"Are you?" Minji leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You haven't answered a group chat in weeks. You bailed on coffee three times. Last month you said yes to movie night and then ghosted because 'Jeonghan needed you.' He's always around. Always. And every time one of us tries to hang out, suddenly you're too anxious, too tired, too something."

Yuna's fingers tightened around the thermos. "He's not controlling me. He cares. More than anyone ever has."

Minji's eyes softened, but her voice stayed sharp. "Caring doesn't mean owning your schedule. Caring doesn't mean you drop every class that stresses you out just because he says so. You used to love that lit seminar. Now it's gone and you're... quieter. Smaller."

"He's protecting me," Yuna snapped, louder than she meant to. Heads turned. She lowered her voice, fierce. "You don't get it. You don't know what it's like to wake up every day waiting for someone to leave. He stays. He sees me. He makes sure I eat, makes sure I breathe when I can't. That's not control. That's love."

Minji studied her for a long moment. Then she stood.

"I hope you're right," she said quietly. "Because from the outside? It looks like a cage with really nice pillows."

She walked away.

Yuna sat there until the wind stung her cheeks, until Jeonghan appeared—coat open, smile soft, like nothing in the world was wrong.

He noticed her face immediately.

"Angel?" He sat beside her, hand on her knee. "What happened?"

She told him. Word for word. Including Minji's last line.

Jeonghan listened without interrupting. When she finished, he looked down at his hands—long fingers laced together—silent for so long she started to panic.

"I'm only trying to protect your heart," he said finally. Voice low. Cracked at the edges. "That's all I've ever wanted. If your friends think I'm... hurting you... maybe I'm doing something wrong."

He looked up. Eyes glassy. Not tears—not quite—but close enough to twist something inside her.

"I never meant to make you feel small," he whispered. "I just can't stand the thought of losing you."

The guilt hit like ice water.

She cupped his face. "You're not losing me."

He searched her eyes. Then leaned in and kissed her—slow, desperate, like he was drowning and she was air.

They barely made it inside his apartment.

The door clicked shut and he had her against the wall in the narrow hallway—mouth on hers, hands everywhere. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other sliding under her skirt, fingers finding her already wet through her panties.

"So needy for me," he murmured against her throat. "Even when you're upset. Even when they try to take you away."

He yanked her panties down, shoved his own pants open just enough. His cock was hard, leaking—thick against her thigh. He lifted one of her legs around his waist, notched himself at her entrance, and thrust in hard.

Yuna gasped—sharp, startled pleasure-pain. He didn't give her time to adjust. He fucked her against the wall—deep, rough strokes that made the framed photos rattle. Her wrists stayed pinned; his free hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise.

"No one else could ever handle your fragility," he growled into her ear between thrusts. "No one else would stay when you fall apart. Only me. Only I know how to put you back together."

Each word drove him deeper. She clenched around him—pussy fluttering, nipples aching against her bra, clit throbbing with every grind of his hips.

He pulled out suddenly—left her empty and whining—then spun her around so she faced the full-length mirror by the entryway.

"Watch," he ordered, voice rough. He pressed her hands to the glass, kicked her legs wider, and slid back inside her from behind.

Her reflection stared back—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucked her slow and punishing.

Then he pulled his phone from his pocket—still buried inside her—and tapped play.

Her own voice filled the hallway—moaning his name from weeks ago, broken and desperate: "Jeonghan—please—harder—yes—fuck—"

The audio looped. Her recorded whimpers echoed off the walls while he thrust harder, deeper, making her watch every shudder, every bounce of her breasts, every time her mouth fell open in a silent cry.

"Look at yourself, angel," he rasped, hand sliding up to wrap lightly around her throat again. "Look how beautifully you come undone for me. This is what I do for you. This is what you need."

She shattered—watching herself in the mirror as her pussy clenched around his cock, thighs trembling, tears slipping down her cheeks from the intensity. The recorded moans mixed with her real ones—layered, overwhelming.

He followed right after—burying himself deep, spilling inside her with a choked groan of her name.

They slid to the floor together—sweaty, breathless. He pulled her into his lap, arms wrapping around her from behind, chin on her shoulder. In the mirror she could still see them: his dark head beside hers, his hands gentle now, stroking her arms, her thighs.

"I love you," he whispered. "More than anything."

She believed him.

She had to.

Because the alternative—the suffocating weight pressing on her chest, the way her reflection looked smaller than she remembered, the echo of Minji's voice still ringing somewhere far away—was too terrifying to face.

She turned in his arms. Buried her face in his neck.

And let the warmth swallow her again.

Even if it was starting to feel like drowning.

It happened by accident.

Jeonghan's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower—steam curling under the bathroom door, water running steady. Yuna had only meant to silence it. She picked it up, thumb brushing the screen awake.

The notification was from an old chat thread buried deep in his messages. The name read "Soo-ah (archived)" but the preview line was enough to freeze her:

Soo-ah (3 months ago): I can't keep doing this. You say you care but every time I try to breathe you make me feel like I'm suffocating. I'm done.

Below it, his reply—calm, measured, heartbreakingly familiar:

Jeonghan: I only wanted to keep you safe. If you leave, you'll see how cruel the world is without someone who truly sees you. I hope you don't regret it. I'll always be here if you change your mind.

Yuna's thumb scrolled before she could stop it.

Another archived thread. "Ji-eun." Same pattern: gentle check-ins, worried texts about stress, suggestions to drop plans, drop classes, drop friends. Then the slow fade—her messages growing shorter, angrier, until the final one:

Ji-eun: You're not protecting me. You're erasing me. Don't contact me again.

His response had been almost identical.

Yuna's hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone.

She set it down carefully. Sat on the edge of the couch. Waited.

When Jeonghan emerged—towel around his waist, hair dripping, skin still flushed from the heat—he saw her face and stopped.

"Angel?" Soft. Concerned. Always concerned.

She looked up at him. Voice barely above a whisper.

"I saw the messages."

He didn't flinch. Didn't rush to explain. Just crossed the room slowly, sat on the coffee table in front of her so their knees almost touched.

"Which ones?" he asked quietly.

"All of them." Her throat burned. "The girls before me. The way you... cared. The way they left. It's the same. The tea, the check-ins, the 'I'm only worried because I love you.' It's the same."

Jeonghan exhaled slowly. Looked down at his hands—long fingers laced together like he was praying.

"I've always cared too much," he said finally. No defensiveness. Just quiet truth. "I see someone hurting and I want to fix it. I want to be the one thing that doesn't disappear. With them... maybe I held on too tight. Maybe I pushed when I should have let go." He lifted his gaze to hers. Eyes glassy. "But with you, it's real. You're different. You feel it too, don't you? How safe you are with me. How no one else has ever stayed."

Tears slipped down his cheeks—slow, deliberate. He didn't wipe them away.

"If I scared them off, that's on me," he continued, voice cracking just enough to pierce her. "But if you walk away now... you'll be alone again. Like before. Waiting for the next person to leave without a word. I can change. I will change. Just... stay. Please."

The guilt crashed over her like a wave—his tears, his trembling voice, the way he looked small for the first time. She hated how much it hurt to see him like this. Hated how much she still wanted to fix it.

She reached for him.

He caught her wrist—gentle, but firm—and pulled her into his lap.

The kiss was desperate from the start. Mouths crashing, teeth clashing, his hands fisting in her hair like he was afraid she'd vanish. He stood, lifting her with him, carried her to the bedroom without breaking the kiss.

He set her on her feet in front of the bed. Spun her around. Pressed her forward until her hands braced on the mattress.

"Stay," he whispered against the back of her neck, already tugging her leggings and panties down in one rough motion.

She arched instinctively. He freed his cock—hard, leaking—rubbed the head through her slick folds once, twice, then thrust in deep from behind.

Yuna gasped—sharp stretch, immediate fullness. He didn't wait. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to arch her spine, the other gripped her hip hard enough to leave marks.

He fucked her hard—punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, bed creaking under them. Each thrust drove the breath from her lungs.

"You'll regret leaving," he growled low in her ear, voice rough with need and something darker. "The world will hurt you worse than I ever could. They'll leave. They always leave. But I stay. I always stay."

He yanked her hair tighter—pain blooming into pleasure—angled his hips so his cock hit that spot inside her over and over. His free hand slid around to her clit, rubbing fast, merciless circles.

"Come for me, angel," he rasped. "Come while you're still mine. Show me you know it's only me who can make you feel this."

She shattered—pussy clenching around him in violent spasms, cry muffled against the sheets, thighs shaking so hard she nearly collapsed.

He didn't stop.

Kept thrusting through her orgasm—deeper, harder—until his rhythm broke. He buried himself to the hilt, came with a choked groan, spilling hot inside her as his grip on her hair loosened into something almost tender.

They stayed like that—panting, trembling—his chest pressed to her back, cock still softening inside her.

Then he pulled out slowly. Turned her around. Kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"I love you," he whispered, voice wrecked. "More than I've ever loved anyone. Please don't make me lose you."

Yuna curled into him—body spent, mind spinning.

She didn't answer.

She couldn't.

Because part of her still believed every word.

And the rest of her was terrified that he was right.

The rain had started sometime after midnight—soft at first, then steady, then relentless. It drummed against the tall windows of Jeonghan's apartment like impatient fingers, streaking the glass in long silver trails. Inside, the only light came from the single lamp on the side table: warm amber, intimate, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

Yuna stood at the front door.

Her backpack hung from one shoulder—lighter than it should have felt, considering everything she was trying to carry away. Inside were the essentials: phone, charger, a change of clothes, the small notebook where she used to write fragments of poems she never finished anymore. Everything else—the books he'd bought her, the sweater he'd left on her side of the bed, the half-empty bottle of her favorite lavender oil in the bathroom—remained behind like relics of a life she was no longer sure belonged to her.

The door was open a few inches. Cold air slipped in, carrying the wet scent of city streets and distant thunder. Raindrops hissed against the concrete landing outside.

Jeonghan sat on the couch.

He hadn't moved to stop her. Hadn't stood. Hadn't raised his voice. He simply watched—legs crossed at the ankle, hands resting loosely in his lap, posture relaxed in a way that made the room feel smaller. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower earlier; a few strands clung to his forehead. His eyes—those endlessly soft, endlessly knowing eyes—held hers without blinking.

"If you go," he said quietly, "I won't stop you."

The words landed like stones dropped into still water. No ripple of anger. No plea. Just fact.

He tilted his head slightly, the lamplight catching the faint sheen in his eyes.

"But you know how empty it feels without someone who truly sees you."

Yuna's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag until her knuckles ached.

The apartment was silent except for the rain and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Somewhere in the background, the playlist they used to fall asleep to had ended hours ago; the speakers sat mute on the shelf.

She looked at him—really looked.

And the memories came unbidden, flooding in like the water pooling on the windowsill.

The first night in the library: his coat warm around her shoulders, the way he'd said her name like it was something precious. The mornings he'd text exactly when she woke, always with a small reminder to eat, to breathe, to take her meds. The dinners he cooked—never asking what she wanted, always knowing. The nights he held her through panic attacks, counting her breaths until the world steadied again. His mouth between her thighs, slow and worshipful, calling her angel while she unraveled. The way he fucked her against the wall—hard, possessive—whispering that no one else could ever handle her. The mirror, her own reflection watching herself come apart to the sound of her recorded moans. The desperate, punishing rhythm from behind last night, his voice in her ear promising the world would hurt her worse than he ever could. Every quiet "I love you" murmured against her skin—tender, suffocating, inescapable.

Each memory felt like a thread stitched into her skin. Pulling any one would tear something vital loose.

She looked down at the threshold: the thin metal strip dividing the warm wood inside from the wet concrete outside. One step. That was all it would take.

Jeonghan's voice came again—still soft, still calm, still certain.

"I never lied to you, Yuna. Not once. Every time I said I cared, I meant it. Every time I held you, every time I made sure you were safe, every time I loved you—it was real. Maybe too real. Maybe I held on too tight because I was terrified of the moment you'd realize you didn't need me anymore."

He paused. Swallowed once.

"But you do need someone. You always have. And if it isn't me... who will it be? Who will remember the exact kind of tea you like when your hands shake? Who will stay awake until you fall asleep? Who will see the parts of you that scare you and still choose to stay?"

A gust of wind pushed the door wider. Rain sprayed across the entryway, misting her bare ankles.

She felt it—the cold biting into her skin, sharp and real.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She thought of Minji's voice in the courtyard: It looks like a cage with really nice pillows. She thought of the archived messages—girls who had stood in this same doorway, maybe, bags in hand, tears on their cheeks, walking away anyway. She thought of the girl she used to be: lonely, anxious, waiting for the next abandonment like it was inevitable.

And she thought of the girl she was now: quieter, softer, safer. Loved. Seen. Owned.

The word lodged in her throat like a stone.

Jeonghan didn't move. Didn't reach for her. Just waited—patient, gentle, utterly convinced she would choose him.

Because she always had.

Yuna's hand rested on the doorknob. The metal was cold against her palm.

She looked back at him one last time.

His expression hadn't changed: soft eyes, faint almost-smile, the same look he'd worn the night he first walked her home. Like he already knew the ending. Like he'd known it from the beginning.

The rain kept falling.

Wind tugged at her hair.

She took one small, trembling breath.

And the world narrowed to the space between the doorframe and the rain-soaked night beyond.

She stood there—frozen, bag heavy on her shoulder, heart louder than the storm.

The door remained half-open.

Neither forward nor back.

Just the threshold.

Just the choice.

Just the unbearable weight of being seen—and the even heavier weight of never being let go.

History never paused to ask whom we loved. It demanded only who we obeyed.

When the streets finally echoed with cheers and the flags of liberation rose over a scarred land, the things that truly mattered had long been ashes: scattered under foreign boots, silenced by fear, erased by time.

They whispered that Yoon Jeonghan wore the enemy's uniform without hesitation—that he bowed deeply and smiled coldly. They whispered that Kang Areum was a fragile ornament, too delicate for the brutality closing around her.

Most of what they whispered was false.

What history refused to record was quieter: the way two people learned to love in half-spoken sentences, in glances held a moment too long beneath crystal chandeliers bought with compromise. How desire and dread shared the same breath in rooms where walls had ears. How a single moment—twisted by suspicion, frozen by terror—could shatter lives more thoroughly than any bullet.

This is not the story of heroes.

It is the story of love forced to kneel before survival, of loyalty mistaken for betrayal, of choices made in the dark that no light could ever forgive.

The whiskey burns as it slides down Hana's throat, smooth but biting. The ice clinks softly against the glass as she swirls the amber liquid, staring at the half-empty drink with mild disinterest. The bar is dimly lit, the golden glow of the shelves casting long shadows across the polished counter. It's quiet-just the low hum of conversation, the occasional clatter of glassware, and the muted jazz playing from the overhead speakers.

She hadn't planned on being here.

A long day of business meetings had drained her, and instead of retreating to her cold, impersonal hotel room, she had found herself drawn to the bar. Maybe it was the loneliness of unfamiliar cities, or maybe it was the way whiskey always had a way of numbing things at the edges.

What she hadn't expected was him.

Jeonghan.

Sitting a few stools away, as if the universe were playing some cruel, twisted joke.

Her fingers tighten around the glass, her pulse skittering as she takes in the sight of him-the same messy yet effortless blonde hair, the same sly, knowing smirk playing at his lips. He's wearing a dark button-up, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins along his forearms. He looks older, sharper-time has carved itself into him in a way that only makes him more devastating.

Hana barely has time to recover before his gaze flicks toward her, as if sensing her presence. And then-

That smirk.

"Of all places, we meet here?"

His voice is too familiar, too easy, like years haven't passed between them. Like he hadn't once walked out of her life and taken her heart with him.

Hana exhales slowly, setting down her drink.

"Of all places," she echoes, her voice betraying nothing.

But inside, a storm brews.

YEARS AGO

It had been a summer night, the kind where the air smelled like rain and warmth lingered on their skin. They had been lying in the back of his old car, staring up at the night sky through the open sunroof.

"If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?"she had asked, tracing circles against his palm.

Jeonghan had hummed, thoughtful."Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

"Paris, maybe. Or New York."He had turned his head, watching her with that soft, unreadable gaze that always made her feel like she was being unraveled. "But only if you come with me."

She had laughed, pushing at his shoulder."Idiot. Be serious."

"I am," he had murmured, voice quiet. "I don't want to go anywhere if you're not there."

And just like that, he had made her believe it.

Made her believe in forever.

Made her believe that love, their love, was strong enough to survive anything.

She had been wrong.

PRESENT

Hana blinks, snapping back to the present. The years have erased the softness from Jeonghan's face, replaced it with something more calculated, more distant.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, reaching for her drink again, pretending like she isn't shaken.

"Work." His answer is simple, but his gaze lingers.

Of course. It's always work. The thing that had taken him away from her, the thing he had chosen over their love.

She could still remember the last time they had fought, the last time she had begged him to stay, just a little longer. And the way he had looked at her, torn but resolute, as he had said-

"You know I can't."

The words echo in her mind like a haunting.

Jeonghan tilts his head slightly, watching her. "And you?"

She exhales, forcing a shrug. "Same. Work."

They fall into silence-but it's not comfortable, not the way it used to be. It's heavy, thick with all the words left unsaid, all the years that have stretched between them.

For a moment, she considers leaving. Finishing her drink, standing up, walking away. Because this is dangerous territory.

This is past love and heartbreak and things that should have stayed buried.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she meets his gaze, tilts her glass slightly, and says-

"So, Jeonghan... how have you been?"

A loaded question. One that could open wounds neither of them were ready to face.

And yet, he smiles. A ghost of the boy she once knew.

"Do you really want to know?"

She doesn't.

She does.

And just like that, they're slipping-sinking-right back into dangerous waters.

The tension sits between them like a third presence, thick and suffocating.

Hana watches as Jeonghan swirls the drink in his hand, gaze fixed on the amber liquid as if it holds the answers to questions neither of them dare to ask. He hasn't changed much-still composed, still unreadable. But there's something else now, something lurking beneath the surface.

Maybe regret. Maybe nothing at all.

"So," he finally says, voice too casual for the weight between them. "Are you still in Seoul?"

Hana exhales slowly, setting her empty glass down."Yeah. You?"

"Sometimes. Depends on my schedule."

Of course. It's always been like this-his world dictated by flights, rehearsals, events. The same excuse he had used when he left all those years ago.

She nods, but there's a bite to her tone when she says, "Must be nice, never staying in one place long enough for anything to matter."

Jeonghan's fingers tighten around his glass. He doesn't respond immediately, but when he does, his voice is quieter. Controlled.

"That's not fair, Hana."

She lets out a sharp breath, shaking her head. "Fair?" A bitter laugh escapes her lips. "You want to talk about fair, Jeonghan?"

His eyes flicker, but he says nothing.

And that silence? It's infuriating.

Memories crash into her like a tidal wave.

YEARS AGO

"You're leaving? Again?" Hana's voice had cracked as she stood in the middle of his apartment, watching him pack.

Jeonghan's hands stilled over his suitcase. He didn't turn around when he answered. "You knew this would happen."

"I thought-" She swallowed hard. "I thought you'd at least talk to me about it first."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair."If I had, would it have changed anything?"

"Maybe."

"No, it wouldn't have." He finally looked at her then, expression unreadable. "You know I can't stay."

Hana had felt something inside her crack at those words.

"You always say that."

"Because it's the truth!" His voice had risen for the first time, frustration leaking through his usually calm exterior. "This is my dream, Hana. You told me to go after it."

"And you told me you loved me."

The silence after that had been deafening.

PRESENT

She clenches her fists, blinking away the memories. It still hurts.

"You left without a word."

Jeonghan exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Hana-"

"No, don't-" She lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You didn't even fight for us. You just-left."

He sets his glass down with a quiet thud. "You told me to chase my dreams. I thought you meant it."

She hates that he sounds so calm, like it had been a simple choice. Like it hadn't destroyed her.

"I did," she admits, voice shaking. "But I didn't tell you to leave me behind."

Jeonghan finally looks at her, and for the first time that night, his mask slips-just a little.

"I didn't want to, Hana." His voice is softer now, but there's something else in it. Something that makes her heart clench.

"Then why did you?"

A long silence stretches between them.

And that's the thing about old wounds-they don't heal right. They just stay there, lingering under the skin, waiting for the right moment to hurt again.

Hana shakes her head. She can't do this.

She slides off the barstool, grabbing her purse. "This was a mistake."

She turns to leave-but before she can take another step, Jeonghan's voice stops her.

"Hana, wait-"

She doesn't.

She walks toward the exit, heart hammering, pulse too fast. She shouldn't care. She shouldn't ache like this. Not anymore.

She pushes through the doors and into the hallway. But she's barely made it ten steps when she hears it-

His footsteps were behind her.

He followed.

"Hana."

His voice is closer now, and then-his hand wraps around her wrist.

The touch is hesitant, but it's enough.

Enough to make her turn, enough to make her meet his gaze.

And it's there. Everything they've been holding back.

The hurt. The longing. The way they're both drowning in something too deep to escape from.

She should push him away.

She should walk away, tell him to go back inside, tell him to let her go this time.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she looks at him, and he looks at her, and something shifts.

The dam breaks.

She grabs the front of his shirt, and then-

She kisses him.

Hard, desperate, full of years of anger and love and everything in between.

And Jeonghan? He kisses her back.

Like he's been waiting for this.

Like he never stopped wanting her.

Like this love, no matter how broken, no matter how drowned-

Never really died.

The taste of whiskey lingers on her lips.

Jeonghan kisses her like he's trying to swallow every bitter word, every unspoken regret between them. His hands find her waist, fingers pressing into her skin as if he's afraid she'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

But she's here.

And she's kissing him back like she's been starving for this-for him-for far too long.

Her back hits the door to her hotel room, the dull thud barely registering in her mind because all she can feel is him. His body pressing into hers, the warmth of his mouth tracing a path from her lips to her jaw, his teeth scraping over her pulse point.

"We-"She tries to say something, but Jeonghan's lips capture hers again, hot, insistent, relentless.

"Don't,"he murmurs, voice rough, breath fanning against her skin.

"Not now."

Not now.Not when the weight of their past still clings to them like a second skin. Not when the years apart have only sharpened their desire instead of dulling it.

Hana fumbles behind her, finding the keycard in her pocket. Her hands are shaking-from anger, from need, from everything in between-as she swipes it against the lock.

The door clicks open.

And then, they're inside.

The second the door slams shut, Jeonghan's hands are on her again, pushing, pulling, undoing her.

Her blazer slides from her shoulders, hitting the floor without a sound. His fingers find the buttons of her blouse, tugging impatiently, and she laughs breathlessly against his lips when he gets frustrated and just pulls it over her head instead.

"Impatient?" she teases.

Jeonghan's response is a low groan against her throat as his hands skim over her bare skin, tracing the curve of her waist before settling on her hips. His grip is firm, possessive-like he's remembering every inch of her, mapping her out all over again.

"You have no idea," he murmurs, lips dragging along her collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste her.

She gasps when he bites down just enough to leave a mark.

His name tumbles from her lips like a prayer, like a curse.

And it drives him insane.

His hands move to the zipper of her skirt, pulling it down in one smooth motion, leaving her in nothing but lace and need.

And when he finally pulls back to look at her-eyes dark, hooded, burning-her entire body thrums under his gaze.

"Fuck," he exhales, voice rough.

Hana barely has time to respond before his hands are on her again, lifting her up, pressing her against the door.

Her legs wrap around his waist instinctively, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulls him in for another kiss-

This time, it's messier, deeper, more desperate.

She can feel him-hard, ready, pressing against her core through the fabric of his pants-and the realization sends a new wave of heat pooling between her thighs.

"Jeonghan-" Her voice is breathy, pleading.

"I know, baby," he whispers, one hand sliding between them, palm pressing against the damp lace of her panties.

Hana shudders, her head falling back against the door.

"So wet for me,"he muses, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the fabric, just enough to make her hips jerk forward, chasing friction.

"Stop teasing,"she hisses.

Jeonghan smirks."That's funny, coming from you."

But then-he slips his fingers under the fabric, dragging them through her folds-and whatever retort she had dies on her tongue.

"Fuck-"Jeonghan groans at the way she clenches around nothing, his fingers moving with excruciating precision.

"You still fit me so perfectly,"he murmurs against her throat, slipping one finger inside, then another, curling just right.

Hana moans, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Tell me this isn't just sex," he suddenly says, voice low and strained as his fingers continue their slow, devastating rhythm.

She barely processes his words at first, lost in the sensation of his touch."Jeonghan-"

"Tell me," he urges, voice thick with something raw, fingers still buried deep inside her.

Her heart stutters.

Because it's not just sex, it never was.

And when she finally opens her eyes, looking at him through the haze of pleasure, she knows he already sees the answer on her face.

So instead of saying anything, she reaches down, tugs at his belt, unbuttons his pants-

And he understands.

"Fuck, Hana," he breathes, capturing her lips again as he pulls down his boxers, freeing himself.

They don't make it to the bed.

Jeonghan lifts her higher, positioning himself right at her entrance.

"You still want this?" His voice is rough, strained, his self-control hanging by a thread.

Hana meets his gaze, fingertips ghosting over his cheek.

"I never stopped wanting you."And that's all he needs.

With one slow, deliberate thrust, he sinks into her, stretching her perfectly, completely.

They both moan, foreheads pressing together, breathless, overwhelmed, lost.

"Fuck, you feel-"Jeonghan breaks off with a guttural groan, hands gripping her hips tight enough to bruise.

He starts to move, slow at first-deep, precise, torturously good.

But it's not enough.

Hana rolls her hips, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper."Faster,"she begs, nails dragging down his back.

And Jeonghan? He snaps.

His pace loses all restraint, hips slamming into hers with desperate, unrelenting intensity.

"God-Hana-"He's panting, gripping, thrusting-pushing her higher, higher, until-

She shatters.

A cry rips from her throat as she comes, tightening, trembling, falling apart around him.

And Jeonghan? He follows.

One last, deep thrust-and he's spilling inside her, groaning her name like a man undone.

They stay like that for a moment-breathing hard, bodies trembling, holding onto each other like they're afraid to let go.

But eventually, reality creeps in. Hana meets his gaze, and suddenly, it's not just about the sex. It's about everything that comes after. And neither of them are ready for it.

The cold wakes her before anything else.

A chill creeps over Hana's bare skin, a stark contrast to the warmth she remembers-the heat of tangled limbs, the press of Jeonghan's body against hers, his breath at her ear, the way he murmured her name like it was a prayer.

But now?

Now, the other side of the bed is empty.

Her stomach tightens.

Of course.

Of course, he left.

For a long moment, Hana doesn't move, staring at the ceiling, swallowing the bitterness rising in her throat. She should've known better. She did know better.

Because isn't this exactly how it happened years ago?

One moment, he was there. The next-gone.

She clenches her fists against the sheets, her breath coming in slow, controlled inhales, trying to suppress the ache blooming in her chest.

Don't cry, she tells herself. Not over him. Not again.

But then-

The sound of water running.

Her heart stumbles.

The shower.

She turns her head toward the bathroom door, slightly ajar, letting out a thin stream of warm steam.

Jeonghan is still here.

Her breath shudders out of her before she can stop it, relief and disbelief warring inside her.

But what does it mean?

Is he staying because he wants to, or did he just need a moment before walking away again?

The weight of uncertainty is suffocating.

Hana slowly sits up, pulling the sheets around her body, fingers curling into the fabric. The room is dim, only faint morning light filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows. Her clothes are still scattered across the floor, a silent reminder of everything they did, everything they were.

She should get up. She should leave before he does.

But she doesn't move.

She listens.

Listens to the sound of running water, to the occasional shift of movement inside the bathroom.

Listens to the part of her heart that still foolishly hopes.

The water stops.

A few minutes later, the door creaks open, a gust of warm air slipping into the room.

And then-there he is.

Jeonghan steps out with a towel hanging loosely around his waist, hair damp, water droplets sliding down his collarbones.

And the second he sees her awake, their eyes lock.

Something heavy, something unreadable passes between them.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Hana forces herself to keep her expression blank, even though her heart is slamming against her ribs. She doesn't know if she wants to punch him or pull him back into bed.

He runs a hand through his wet hair, breaking the silence first.

"You're awake."

"You're still here." Her voice is carefully neutral, though she hates how fragile it sounds.

Jeonghan exhales, dragging a hand over his face. "Yeah."

And that's it.

No explanation. No reassurance.

Just yeah.

Hana swallows, looking away first, wrapping the sheet tighter around herself.

"So what now?" she asks, voice quieter than before.

Jeonghan doesn't answer immediately. She feels the bed dip as he sits on the edge, too close, yet not close enough.

"I don't know."His voice is softer now, edged with something almost... hesitant.

And God, that's worse.

If he had been cruel, if he had been indifferent, if he had just said this was a mistake, maybe she could deal with it. Maybe she could hate him like she was supposed to.

But he looks at her like he's just as lost as she is.

And that? That ruins her.

The silence stretches between them, suffocating, weighted.

Hana exhales sharply, forcing a small, humorless laugh past her lips.

"What are we doing, Jeonghan?" she mutters.

Jeonghan leans forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing slow circles over his temple. Avoiding her gaze.

"I don't know," he admits again.

Her stomach twists.

"That's not good enough."

He finally looks at her then, something flickering behind his dark eyes. Regret? Guilt? Longing? She doesn't know. Maybe it's all of them at once.

"It never was, was it?"she continues, her voice quieter now.

Jeonghan says nothing.

And that's when she realizes-he's still the same.

He still can't give her answers. He still can't give her certainty.

And maybe-he never will.

She breathes in sharply, steadying herself.

Then, she untangles herself from the sheets, standing up.

Jeonghan's eyes flicker to her, tracking her movements, but he doesn't stop her.

She bends down, grabbing her blouse from the floor, pulling it over her shoulders. The air is cold against her bare legs, but she doesn't care.

"Hana."His voice is softer now, almost careful.

She doesn't look at him.

"I have to go,"she says instead, buttoning her shirt with steady fingers.

Jeonghan watches her, expression unreadable.

"You don't have to."She pauses.

And for a moment, she almost believes him.

Almost.

But then she remembers the empty bed from this morning.

She remembers how it felt to wake up thinking he had disappeared on her again.

And she realizes-she can't do this again.

"Yeah, I do," she finally says, pulling on her skirt, fixing her hair, keeping herself together even as everything inside her feels like it's unraveling.

Jeonghan doesn't stop her.

He doesn't say stay.

So she walks to the door.

She lingers-just for a second.

Hoping.

Waiting.And when the silence stretches on, when the words she's desperate to hear never come, she exhales softly.

"Goodbye, Jeonghan."

Then-she walks away.

And this time?

She doesn't look back.

The air in the room is too quiet after Hana's words.

"Goodbye, Jeonghan."

She doesn't move right away. Her fingers hover over the door handle, body still, like she's giving him a chance. A chance to say something-anything-that might make her stay.

But silence stretches between them.

Heavy. Suffocating.

When it becomes too much, she forces herself to walk away.

Step after step, down the hall, away from the heat of his presence, away from last night's mistakes.

And yet, when she reaches the elevator, her hands tremble as she presses the button.

The weight of his gaze still lingers on her skin.

But He Follows

The elevator doors slide open. Hana steps inside, arms wrapped around herself, exhaling shakily.

But before the doors can close-a hand catches them.

Jeonghan.

Her breath catches as he steps in beside her.

His hair is still damp from the shower, a loose button-down hanging off his frame. He looks calm, but Hana knows better. Knows that the slight tension in his jaw means he's fighting to hold something back.

The doors close.

The elevator descends.

And neither of them speak.

It's not until they step into the hotel lobby that Jeonghan finally asks, voice quiet-

"Breakfast?"

Hana blinks.

Of all the things he could've said-

She looks at him carefully, trying to read between the lines.

He's not asking about food. Not really.

He's asking if this is over.

They end up in the hotel restaurant, seated across from each other in a quiet corner. The space is warm, filled with the scent of coffee and fresh bread, but it does nothing to ease the tension between them.

A waitress takes their order-black coffee for Jeonghan, an omelet for Hana, toast that neither of them will touch.

And then, they're alone again.

The silence is different now. Heavier.

Hana stirs sugar into her coffee, watching the ripples in the dark liquid.

"I thought you left," she finally says.

Jeonghan looks at her."I almost did."

Her heart stutters.

"Then why didn't you?"

Jeonghan exhales softly, fingers toying with the edge of his coffee cup. His next words come slower, more careful-

"Because I wasn't ready to leave you. Not again."

Her grip tightens around the spoon.

Not again.

She swallows the lump in her throat, blinking down at her hands."I don't know if I can do this again, Jeonghan."

He sighs, leaning back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck."I don't either."

Their food arrives, but neither of them touches it.

Because this isn't about breakfast. It's about what happens after.

Do they walk away?

Or do they try again?

Jeonghan breaks the silence first.

"Tell me to stay," he says, voice quiet, steady.

Hana's head snaps up.

His gaze is locked onto hers, unwavering, waiting.

"Tell me to stay, and I will."

Her pulse roars in her ears.

She parts her lips-but no words come out.

Because it's not that simple, is it?

It never was.

Because if she tells him to stay, it means opening herself up to the possibility of losing him again.

It means hoping.

And hope? Hope is dangerous.

She swallows hard, looking down at her plate, at the untouched food, at the way her hands tremble.

And she hesitates.

The silence stretches.

Too long.

Too much.

And that's when Jeonghan exhales softly, almost like he already knew the answer.

Almost like he already knew-

She wouldn't say it.

His fingers twitch on the table, like he wants to reach for her. Like he wants to pull her back.

But instead, he gives her a small, sad smile.

"I see."

And then, he stands.

Hana watches as Jeonghan reaches for his wallet, pulling out cash to pay for their untouched meal.

Her breath catches.

This is it.

This is the moment she's supposed to stop him.

This is the moment she's supposed to reach for his hand, tell him she's scared but she still wants him anyway.

Tell him to stay.

But she doesn't.

And Jeonghan?

He just looks at her for a long, aching moment-as if memorizing her face.

Then, without another word, he turns and walks away.

And Hana?

Hana lets him go.

The scent of iron clung to the air like a ghost, lingering long after the bodies had been disposed of. Eunha stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse, her fingers gripping the cold railing as she stared down at the city below. Seoul was alive, neon lights blinking, cars rushing past, people oblivious to the bloodshed that ruled these streets.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

She didn't turn. She didn't have to.

A presence like his was impossible to ignore. The deliberate, measured footsteps. The quiet hum of satisfaction. A flick of a lighter.

"Still upset, sweetheart?"

Eunha exhaled sharply, clenching her jaw as Seungcheol stepped beside her. He was dressed in black, as always, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the faint scar across his collarbone—a mark from a past war he had won. His dark eyes, intense as ever, trailed over her face before he reached for her chin, tilting her toward him.

"You're sulking," he noted, voice amused.

"I watched you slaughter three men in our own club tonight, Seungcheol," she murmured, her voice void of emotion. "You didn't even ask them any questions."

He smirked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't need to. They were rats. And rats don't get second chances."

She pulled away, but before she could take a step, another voice cut through the tension.

"Don't tell me you're scared now, Eunha."

Jeonghan.

She turned to find him lounging against the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand, looking entirely unbothered by the conversation. His honeyed voice dripped with amusement, but there was always something sharp beneath the surface.

"I'm not scared," she shot back, glaring at him.

"Good." He took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass. "Because you belong to us. And I'd hate for you to start thinking otherwise."

Eunha's fingers curled into fists at her sides. Belong to us.

She hated that phrase.

Seungcheol stepped behind her, his hand resting lightly on her hip. "You're upset because it was messy," he murmured near her ear. "But that's why we're here, baby. To clean up the filth."

Jeonghan's chuckle was soft but dark. "And to make sure you never get caught in it."

Eunha knew what they wanted—what they had always wanted. For her to surrender. To let them carve her into the perfect queen to their empire, obedient and ruthless. But they had made a mistake.

They had trained her too well.

And one day, she would use it against them.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Boss," a voice called. It was Seokmin, one of their trusted men. "He's here."

Seungcheol and Jeonghan exchanged a glance before Jeonghan smirked. "Right on time."

Eunha narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

Seungcheol pulled open the door, and the moment the man stepped inside, Eunha felt the shift in the air.

Tall. Handsome. A calm, almost dangerous serenity in his expression.

"Joshua Hong," Seungcheol introduced with a slow smile. "Our new ally."

Eunha locked eyes with the stranger, her heart giving a strange, unfamiliar twist.

She had no idea that, in that moment, her fate had just begun to unravel.

The air inside the penthouse was thick with cigarette smoke and power. Seungcheol and Jeonghan sat comfortably in their leather chairs, watching as Joshua settled into the seat across from them. Eunha remained standing, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

She didn't trust new faces. Especially not ones that looked as calm as his.

"You came highly recommended," Jeonghan said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "But I don't trust recommendations. I trust results."

Joshua's lips curled into a polite smile. "Understandable. I wouldn't trust me either."

Eunha's interest piqued. Bold. Not many people spoke so casually to Jeonghan and lived to tell the tale.

Seungcheol exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "I heard you were good with information. A man who knows things before they happen."

Joshua leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It's not about knowing things before they happen," he said smoothly. "It's about knowing which people will make them happen."

Jeonghan hummed, clearly entertained. "And what do you know about us, Joshua?"

The newcomer's gaze flickered toward Eunha for the briefest second before he answered.

"I know you're both running out of time."

Silence.

Seungcheol's jaw tensed, but his smirk never wavered. "Explain."

Joshua sat back, crossing one leg over the other. "Your enemies are getting smarter. The rats in your own crew are getting braver. And there's talk—quiet, careful talk—that some of them are waiting for the right moment to strike." He tilted his head. "You don't need another soldier, Cheol. You need a ghost. Someone who can move through the shadows and find the ones whispering your downfall."

Eunha saw the way Jeonghan's grip tightened on his glass. Seungcheol, however, looked intrigued.

"You're proposing that we let you be our shadow?"

Joshua smiled. "I'm proposing that you let me clean up your mess before it stains your throne."

Eunha scoffed. "And why should we trust you?"

Joshua met her gaze with something unreadable. "Because I don't work for men who are about to lose."

A slow, chilling chuckle escaped Jeonghan's lips. "I like him," he murmured.

Seungcheol studied Joshua for another moment before exhaling. "Fine. You work for us now."

Eunha bristled. "You're just going to let him in?"

Seungcheol turned to her, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Are you questioning my decision?"

She clenched her jaw, refusing to look away. "I'm questioning your trust in a stranger."

Joshua stood. "Then I'll earn it," he said simply. "Starting with this."

He reached into his coat, and before Eunha could react, he tossed a blood-stained USB onto the table.

"What's this?" Jeonghan asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.

Joshua smiled. "Proof that your second-in-command has been selling information to your enemies."

Seungcheol stilled. Jeonghan's smirk faded.

Eunha's stomach twisted. If what Joshua was saying was true, then that meant...

Another betrayal.

The room remained silent for a long moment before Seungcheol leaned back, a slow, deadly grin spreading across his face.

"Looks like we have another rat to exterminate."

Eunha exhaled, glancing at Joshua. He was watching her, his expression unreadable.

She didn't know why, but something about him unsettled her.

And she had learned long ago—never ignore a bad feeling.

The room smelled of blood and betrayal.

Eunha sat in the dimly lit lounge, her fingers gripping the cool glass of whiskey in her hand. Outside, the city stretched beneath her, a glittering graveyard of secrets and sins. Inside, the weight of another execution settled into the air like smoke.

Seungcheol and Jeonghan didn't hesitate. The moment Joshua's USB had exposed their second-in-command as a traitor, the man had been dragged into the basement. What followed was an hour of screams, then silence.

Eunha didn't flinch anymore when these things happened. She had learned to keep her face blank, her heart quiet.

But this time, something gnawed at her.

"That was too easy," she muttered under her breath.

"You think Joshua set him up?"

She turned her head, meeting Jeonghan's gaze as he leaned against the bar. He was watching her carefully, the ice in his glass melting slowly.

"He knew too much too fast," she said. "And now, just like that, he's in."

Jeonghan smirked. "You don't like him."

Eunha exhaled. "I don't trust him."

"You don't trust anyone, sweetheart," Seungcheol's voice came from behind her. She didn't hear him enter, but she felt him—his presence always swallowed up the room. "That's why we keep you close."

Eunha clenched her jaw as he stepped beside her, his fingers brushing against her wrist before he plucked the glass from her hand, taking a slow sip.

"Besides," he murmured, tilting his head toward her, "it doesn't matter if he set the bastard up or not. It was a test. He passed."

"He's valuable," Jeonghan added, his lazy grin not quite reaching his eyes. "And if he tries anything funny..."

Seungcheol placed the whiskey glass back in front of her and smiled. "We cut out his tongue."

Eunha didn't respond. She only stared at the amber liquid, feeling an odd tightness in her chest.

Was this what she had become? Another pawn in their game?

A queen, they called her. Their most prized possession. The woman they built, trained, kept caged in golden chains.

"You're thinking too much," Jeonghan murmured, stepping closer. "I can always tell when you do."

Seungcheol's hand trailed up her arm, slow, possessive. "Don't worry, baby. We'll always protect you."

Protect. Right.

From everyone except themselves.

She swallowed the bitterness on her tongue and pulled away, standing. "I need some air."

Neither of them stopped her. They never did. Because no matter how far she walked, she always came back.

Because they made sure she had nowhere else to go.

The rooftop was quiet. Wind rushed past her, cool against her heated skin.

Eunha closed her eyes, trying to chase away the suffocating thoughts curling inside her chest.

"You look like you're thinking too much."

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned to find Joshua standing near the railing, watching her with an unreadable expression.

She frowned. "Are you following me?"

He chuckled. "If I were, you wouldn't know."

She crossed her arms. "What do you want?"

Joshua studied her for a moment before he leaned against the railing, gazing down at the city. "You don't belong here, you know."

Eunha stiffened.

His voice was calm, almost casual, but it struck something deep inside her.

"Excuse me?" she said coldly.

Joshua tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. "You think you're in control, but you're not. You're just another piece on their board."

Her fingers curled into fists. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," he said simply. "I know they've built a cage so perfect you don't even see the bars."

Eunha felt something sharp twist in her chest, but she refused to let it show.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she muttered, turning away.

Joshua's voice was softer this time. "Don't I?"

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then she walked away.

Because if she stayed any longer, she might have admitted that he was right.

The air inside the penthouse was suffocating.

Eunha sat on the couch, her body rigid, as Seungcheol poured himself a drink. Jeonghan lounged beside her, twirling a knife between his fingers, watching her with the same lazy amusement he always had.

But tonight, it felt different.

Tonight, she knew something they didn't.

Joshua's words still echoed in her mind.

"You think you're in control, but you're not."

She had spent years telling herself that she was more than just their possession, that she had power here. But power didn't come from being kept. It came from choosing. And for the first time, she was starting to realize she had never really chosen anything at all.

"Something on your mind, sweetheart?" Jeonghan's voice was soft, teasing, but she knew better than to believe he was just playing around.

Seungcheol exhaled, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. "You've been distracted lately."

Eunha forced herself to meet his gaze. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because you've been spending a lot of time with Joshua."

Her pulse spiked.

Jeonghan's smirk widened. "What's wrong, baby? Getting ideas?"

Eunha knew this was a test. Everything with them was always a test. Push her, see how far they could bend her before she broke.

She shook her head. "I don't trust him," she lied. "I'm just making sure he's not another rat."

Jeonghan hummed, seemingly pleased with her answer, but Seungcheol's gaze lingered.

Then, as if deciding to let it go, he sighed and leaned back. "Good. Because we're planning something big."

Eunha frowned. "What kind of something?"

Seungcheol smiled, slow and deliberate. "We're going to wipe out the last of our enemies. And you, baby, are going to be right there with us."

Jeonghan leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "That's what we trained you for, isn't it?"

A chill ran down her spine.

"Of course," she murmured, forcing a smile.

But inside, something was shifting.

Something dangerous.

Later that night, she found herself walking the empty halls of the estate, her mind tangled in thoughts she shouldn't be having.

She was so lost in them that she almost didn't hear the footsteps behind her.

Almost.

She turned just as a hand grabbed her wrist.

Her heart lurched as she looked up into the face of one of Seungcheol's men—Kang, a low-life who had always looked at her too long and too hungrily.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, his grip tightening.

Eunha's body went cold.

She yanked her wrist, but he held firm.

"You always think you're so untouchable," Kang muttered, his breath reeking of whiskey. "Just because the bosses like keeping you pretty."

A sick feeling settled in her stomach.

She had seen men like him before.

Had seen what they were capable of.

"You need to walk away," she said, keeping her voice even.

Kang chuckled. "Come on, sweetheart. We both know they won't care what happens to you as long as you're still breathing."

Her pulse pounded.

He thought she was weak.

That was his first mistake.

The second was touching her in the first place.

She moved fast—her knee slamming up into his gut, her elbow cracking against his jaw. He stumbled, cursing, but before he could recover, she had his own knife pressed against his throat.

"Say that again," she whispered, pressing the blade harder until she saw a thin line of blood appear.

His breathing was ragged, panicked. "I—"

A gunshot rang out.

Kang's body went limp, collapsing to the ground at her feet.

Eunha barely had time to react before a familiar voice spoke behind her.

"You're getting sloppy," Joshua murmured, lowering his gun.

She turned, her chest rising and falling quickly. "I had it handled."

Joshua raised a brow. "I know. I just didn't feel like listening to him breathe any longer."

She exhaled, her grip tightening around the knife before she finally let it go.

Joshua studied her carefully. "This isn't the first time, is it?"

Eunha didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

He already knew.

Silence stretched between them before Joshua took a step closer.

"You can't keep pretending this is where you belong," he said, his voice softer this time. "You're not like them."

Eunha let out a bitter laugh. "Then what am I?"

Joshua tilted his head. "Someone who still has a chance to get out."

She clenched her jaw. "And what, run away with you?"

"If that's what it takes," he said without hesitation.

Her stomach twisted.

She should have walked away. Should have told him he was wrong.

But she didn't.

Instead, she stood there, staring at the man who was offering her something she had never had before.

A choice.

The scent of blood still clung to Eunha's hands as she stood in front of the bathroom sink, watching the water swirl red before vanishing down the drain.

Her reflection stared back at her—dark eyes, parted lips, a face that had long since lost its softness.

She should have felt something. Fear. Guilt. Anything.

But all she felt was tired.

Tired of being their queen.

Tired of pretending she wasn't just another piece in their game.

And now, for the first time, she had a way out.

Joshua.

"You can't keep pretending this is where you belong."

His words wouldn't leave her mind.

A knock at the door pulled her back.

She shut the water off, dried her hands, and opened it—only to find Seungcheol leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.

"You've been busy," he murmured.

Eunha's pulse spiked, but she kept her face neutral. "Kang had it coming."

Seungcheol smirked, reaching up to brush a thumb across her jaw. "That's why we love you, baby. You don't hesitate."

She didn't react, didn't lean into the touch the way she used to.

His eyes flickered, as if noticing the shift in her.

"You trust me, don't you?" he asked, voice smooth but dangerous.

The air felt heavy.

A test.

It was always a test.

Eunha forced a smile. "Of course."

Seungcheol studied her for a second longer before chuckling, leaning in until his lips ghosted over her ear.

"Good," he whispered. "Because I'd hate to lose you."

The words sent a shiver down her spine—not from warmth, but from warning.

Because the truth was, he would never lose her.

If Seungcheol ever suspected betrayal, he would destroy her.

That night, she found Joshua waiting for her in the empty lounge.

He didn't speak as she approached, just handed her a glass of whiskey.

She took it, fingers brushing against his for the briefest second.

"I don't know if I can do this," she admitted, voice quieter than usual.

Joshua leaned back, watching her carefully. "Do what?"

"Leave," she said. "Run. Betray them."

"You're not betraying them," he said. "They betrayed you a long time ago."

She swallowed, glancing away. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is." Joshua's voice was steady. "You either stay and keep letting them own you, or you walk away and finally live."

Eunha exhaled shakily.

It sounded so easy when he said it.

But it wasn't.

Because if she left, there would be no turning back.

They would hunt her.

Seungcheol. Jeonghan. The men she had built a life beside, the ones who had made her who she was.

"We'll always protect you."

No.

They weren't protecting her.

They were caging her.

She set the glass down with a quiet clink and looked up. "How do we do it?"

Joshua's lips curved into the faintest smile.

"We burn the empire to the ground."

The night smelled of gasoline and betrayal.

Eunha stood in the shadows of the abandoned warehouse, the cool metal of her gun pressing against her palm. Across from her, Seungcheol and Jeonghan stood unfazed, their dark eyes locked onto hers.

Between them, Joshua knelt on the ground, bruised and bloodied, but his smirk remained intact.

"You thought you could outplay us?" Jeonghan mused, tapping the barrel of his gun against Joshua's temple. "That was cute."

Eunha's heart pounded.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

She and Joshua were supposed to be long gone by now, leaving nothing but flames behind. But Seungcheol had known. He had always known.

And now, she was standing at the crossroads of life and death.

Hers. Theirs. Joshua's.

"Tell me, baby," Seungcheol murmured, stepping closer. "Were you really going to leave us?"

His voice was calm, but she could hear the quiet devastation beneath it.

Eunha tightened her grip on her gun. "You never gave me a choice."

Jeonghan chuckled. "That's because you were never supposed to need one."

Her chest ached.

They would never let her go.

Not without a fight.

Not without blood.

"Let him go," she said, her voice steady.

Seungcheol sighed. "And why would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, I pull this trigger," she replied, lifting her gun and aiming it at him.

The air went still.

Jeonghan's smile faltered. Seungcheol's gaze darkened.

"You wouldn't," Seungcheol said.

Eunha exhaled. "You're right. I wouldn't."

Then she turned and shot Jeonghan instead.

The bullet tore through his shoulder, making him stumble back with a curse. Before Seungcheol could react, Joshua lunged—grabbing Jeonghan's fallen gun and turning it on him.

For the first time, real shock crossed Seungcheol's face.

Joshua smiled, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. "Checkmate."

Seungcheol's hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening. "You think this is over?"

Eunha met his gaze, something hollow settling inside her.

"It was over the moment I stopped being afraid of you."

Then, without another word, she pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the warehouse, drowning out everything else.

Seungcheol fell.

For a second, silence reigned.

Then the flames took over.

The city never mourned men like them.

By the time the sun rose, Seungcheol and Jeonghan's empire was nothing but smoldering ruins.

Eunha stood on the edge of the rooftop, watching smoke curl into the sky.

"You did it," Joshua said beside her.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"No," she murmured. "We did."

Joshua chuckled. "So, what now?"

Eunha turned to him, the weight of the past finally lifting from her shoulders.

"Now," she said, "we disappear."

Joshua grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

As they walked away, leaving behind the ghosts of the past, Eunha didn't look back.

Because for the first time in her life, she was finally free.THE END

The night air was sharp against Ruby's skin as she stormed out of Joshua's apartment, heels snapping against the pavement, hair wild from her frustration. She didn't care if the neighbors heard the slam of his front door—maybe she wanted them to. Maybe she wanted someone to know she was done being hidden, being used.

"Ruby." His voice followed her, calm, low, and laced with warning. Too calm. She ignored him, tugging her jacket tighter, heading straight for the driveway where his sleek black car gleamed under the streetlight.

"You're not walking away from me." His footsteps were unhurried, steady. Like he already knew she wouldn't get far.

Ruby spun on her heel, anger boiling.

"You think I'm stupid? You think I like being nothing but your secret? Your little fucktoy you can shove into your bed when it's convenient?" Her voice cracked at the edges, part fury, part heartbreak. "I'm not your fucking puppet, Joshua."

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes glinting in the dark like he was watching a tantrum he had no intention of indulging. That smirk—older, colder, like he'd seen this all before—made her chest ache with rage.

"You're finished?" he asked softly.

Ruby's nails dug into her palms. "Fuck you."

That smirk widened. In two strides he was on her, slamming her back against the cold metal of the car. The impact jolted her breath, her hands pushing weakly at his chest.

"You want to scream?" he hissed, his mouth close enough that she felt his words against her lips. His hand caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Let's see how well you can scream when your mouth's full."

Her pulse skipped—fear, desire, both. She tried to shove him off, but his grip only tightened, his body pinning her to the car like she was never going anywhere. His lips brushed her ear as he growled, "Get in the car."

Before she could argue, he yanked the passenger door open and shoved her inside. The leather seat was cold, but his presence was suffocatingly hot, filling the small space with tension thick enough to choke on.

"Joshua—" she started, voice trembling with the anger she still clung to.

"Shut up." He dragged her closer by her hair, forcing her across the console until she was kneeling awkwardly between the seats. "You wanted my attention. Here it is."

His belt clinked. The sound was deliberate, slow, a promise of what was coming. Ruby's stomach twisted as she looked up at him, his face shadowed, his smirk cruel.

"You talk too much," he muttered, pulling himself free, his cock heavy and hard already. "So I'll put this mouth to better use."

Her hair was wrapped tight around his fist as he forced her lips apart, the bitter taste of leather and salt on her tongue as he pushed himself past her protest. She gagged instantly, the angle harsh, but he only groaned low in satisfaction.

"That's it," he breathed, pushing deeper, making her throat strain around him. His other hand pressed against the back of her head, locking her in place as he fucked her mouth. "So much prettier when you're quiet."

Ruby's nails scraped against the seat, body jerking as she choked on him. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, but his voice cut through it, calm and cruel.

"Choke on me. Cry for me. That's all you're good for when you run that mouth."

The car rocked slightly with each thrust of his hips, the console digging into her stomach. Her hair burned in his grip, scalp screaming, throat raw. And yet... deep inside, a dangerous heat pooled.

When her hands clawed at his thighs, trying to push back for air, Joshua's chuckle was dark and sharp. He yanked her hair harder, forcing her down until her nose brushed his skin.

"There we go," he groaned, holding her there as she gagged, drool spilling down her chin. "Now you're perfect."

And Ruby, broken between fury and filthy need, could only whimper around his cock, silenced at last the way he wanted.

Her throat ached, spit dripping down her chin as Joshua finally let her pull back, coughing, her lips swollen and glossy with him. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring at him through watery eyes.

"You're sick," she spat, voice hoarse.

Joshua just leaned back against the driver's seat, tucking himself back into his hand only to grab her hair tighter and yank her upright. His smirk was sharp, cruel. "And you love it."

She stumbled, chest heaving, when he dragged her across the small space. Before she could catch her balance, he spun her and shoved her down over the center console.

Her cry of protest was cut off by the blaring car horn when her chest slammed against the steering wheel. The sound echoed in the dark driveway, too loud, too exposing.

Joshua laughed, low and mocking in her ear. "So loud, baby. The whole neighborhood's gonna know how needy you are."

Ruby thrashed against him, but his body caged her in, hand pressing hard between her shoulder blades, pinning her down. She felt the leather under her palms, her nails clawing at it, useless.

"You're mine when you're like this," he said, voice hot and sharp against her neck. His other hand yanked her skirt up to her waist, tugged her panties down with no patience. "Not his. Not anyone's. Mine."

"Fuck you—" The words barely left her mouth before the sudden stretch of him cut her off, shoving into her raw and unprotected. Ruby gasped, a broken sound of shock and unwilling need, her forehead pressing against the wheel.

Joshua groaned at the heat of her, at how easily her body betrayed her fury. "So wet for me already. You came out here ready to be fucked, didn't you?"

She shook her head, tears spilling, but her thighs quivered as he slammed into her again, hips snapping hard against her ass. The car rocked with each thrust, leather creaking, the smell of sweat and sex filling the enclosed space.

Ruby sobbed, half-muffled by the horn that blared again when her chest hit it with each movement. She tried to push herself up, to crawl away, but Joshua's palm flattened between her shoulder blades, pressing her back down.

"Stay the fuck down," he growled, his chest pressing flush to her back now, his teeth scraping her ear. "Take it like the toy you are."

Her cries broke into moans she tried to bite back. The shame of it burned hotter than his thrusts—because her body wanted this, even if her pride didn't.

"Please..." she whimpered, unsure if she was begging for mercy or more.

Joshua chuckled darkly, pulling back only to slam harder, his hips bruising her. "That's it. Beg me. Cry for me. You look so fucking good dripping all over my seats."

Her nails raked the leather console, her thighs slick, every thrust pushing her further into a haze of overstimulation. When she tried to squirm away, his hand cracked across her ass, the sting hot and humiliating.

"You're not running from me," he snarled, gripping her hips so hard she knew there'd be bruises. His breath was ragged now, close to breaking. He ground himself deeper, groaning against her ear, "Fuck, Ruby—you're mine. You've always been mine."

She sobbed, face pressed into her arms, every nerve alight, caught between hating him and needing him.

His thrusts grew erratic, rougher, until with a curse he pulled out, jerking himself hard. Hot streaks of release painted the backs of her thighs, sticky and messy against her skin.

Joshua collapsed forward, his chest pinning her once more as he whispered into her ear, his voice low and final:

"Your hair's already longer. That means you're mine forever."

Ruby's eyes squeezed shut, shame curling inside her chest, but deep down she knew—he was right.

The car was silent now, except for Ruby's ragged breathing and the faint tick of the cooling engine. Her thighs were sticky, her chest heaving, the leather seat beneath her damp with sweat and tears. She slumped forward over the console, body trembling, hair a tangled mess falling into her face.

Her throat burned, raw from being forced open, mascara streaks running down her cheeks. She looked like a ruin—like the ghost of the furious girl who had stormed out minutes ago.

Joshua didn't look ruined at all. He leaned back in the driver's seat, watching her with that maddening calm, only a faint flush across his cheekbones. He reached out lazily, fingers brushing her hair back from her face.

"Look at you," he murmured, almost tender. "So pretty when you're wrecked."

Ruby flinched away from his touch, but he caught her chin, thumb brushing the smudges under her eye. His gaze softened—not apologetic, but possessive.

"I hate you," she croaked, voice hoarse.

He tilted her face up higher, forcing her to meet his eyes. The corner of his mouth curled. "No, you don't. You'll come back. You always do. Because you like being mine."

Her stomach knotted, anger and shame twisting together. She wanted to spit in his face, to claw at him until he bled. But his hand was warm against her cheek, steadying her when she felt like she could barely breathe. And the worst part was—he was right. She hated that he was right.

Joshua sighed like he was indulging a sulking child. He pulled his jacket from the backseat and draped it over her shoulders. The soft wool was heavy, carrying his scent, wrapping around her like a trap disguised as comfort.

"Don't catch cold," he said simply, as though he hadn't just bent her over his console and broken her into pieces.

Ruby shoved his hand away and scrambled out of the car, fury bubbling up again, though her legs shook beneath her. She slammed the door, refusing to look at him, clutching the jacket tighter around herself even as she told herself she should throw it back in his face.

His voice followed her as she stalked toward the streetlight, calm, unhurried, certain:

"You'll be back, Ruby. You always are."

Hours later, Ruby sat in front of her bedroom mirror, hair damp from a too-hot shower. She dragged her fingers through the strands, tugging them forward, staring at herself. Her throat was red, faint bruises already blooming on her neck. Her lips were still swollen. She felt filthy, used.

And yet...

She whispered into the empty room, almost too quiet to hear:

"It does look longer."

Her stomach twisted, shame and need tangling until she couldn't tell them apart.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Her breath caught when she saw his name on the screen. A new message.

Joshua: Next time, I'll make it touch the floor.

Ruby dropped the phone onto the bed, covering her face with her hands. But her body was already aching with the thought of next time.