#oversteer

CHAPTER THREE - GHOST SECTOR

The sun rises like it’s mocking you. Warm. Golden. Unbothered.

Another day at the track. Another chance to pretend like the night before never happened.

Hongjoong arrives earlier than usual, helmet tucked under one arm, his expression as unreadable as ever. He moves like clockwork, every step calculated, precise. No wasted motion. No room for weakness.

He nods to the mechanics. Mumbles something to the engineer. Glances once at the setup screen and then disappears into his own little world.

The others arrive in staggered bursts—Yunho, cheerful as ever, already cracking jokes. Yeosang and Jongho, quietly professional. Seonghwa with his usual calm presence. San, cocky and animated, bouncing on his heels. Wooyoung trailing in behind him, already sipping an iced coffee like this is just another day in paradise.

And you. You arrive last. Not by design, not deliberately. But it still feels like fate has arranged it that way.

Your eyes skim over the group, sweeping quickly past him. Your expression gives away nothing, but inside you’re all grit and tension.

And Hongjoong? He doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

Today isn’t about speed. It’s about synergy.

Pair drills. Formation runs. Pit stop practice. Simulated technical failures and live team adjustments. The officials are watching. The sponsors are watching. You are watching.

But Hongjoong doesn’t care, he just wants to drive. And for a while—he does. He hits every cue. Follows the plan. Communicates when necessary. Doesn’t bark. Doesn’t sulk. Doesn’t snap.

From the outside, he’s perfect. Unshakable. Focused. Back to his usual self. But inside? He’s numb. Because the only thing worse than you being gone… is you being right here, acting like nothing happened.

He hasn’t slept. Barely ate. His body aches from more than just the simulation rig. He knows he’s falling apart—but not today. Today, he’s driving like his dignity depends on it.

He completes his final run of the afternoon, pulling into the pit with the precision of a professional. The team claps. The chief gives him a thumbs-up. Someone says, “That’s the Hongjoong we know.”

He smiles for show. Lifts a hand in return.

And then disappears into the back of the paddock before anyone else can corner him.

~

To your surprise—and cautious relief—the day goes off without a hitch. No raised voices. No tension. No crash and burn.

Just smooth execution. Professionalism. The faintest shimmer of what this whole damn thing could’ve been, if only time had been kinder.

The rotations work. The strategy simulations are sound. Even the ones who had previously butted heads—Hongjoong and San, Mingi and Seonghwa—find a rhythm. Not warm, not friendly, but efficient. And that’s more than you ever hoped for.

By the end of it, the officials are full of praise. Your name gets mentioned specifically, and your boss catches you just before you duck out of the debrief.

“Impressive work. Whatever you’re doing to keep them in line? Keep doing it.”

You smile, tight-lipped, but thankful.

She doesn’t know that last night, one of them fucked you on your desk. And another looked at you like you held his whole world in your hands. And one more is slipping through your fingers again.

You keep smiling. Because it’s working.

For now.

“DRINKS!” Wooyoung bellows the second the garage clears out.

San grins. “I’m in.”

You blink. “You are?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Why not? We didn’t kill each other today.”

“New record,” Yeosang says under his breath.

You glance around. Hongjoong is already gone. Slipped away the moment he stepped out of the cockpit, like he couldn’t bear to be in the same airspace as any of you for a second longer.

Mingi declines quietly, offering a nod, but no excuse.

But the rest? San, Yunho, Wooyoung, Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Jongho. All game.

Wooyoung claps his hands once. “No more cheap tequila. I’m taking us somewhere fancy this time. You can all thank me later.”

“You’re not paying,” Seonghwa notes.

“Semantics,” Wooyoung winks.

You end up at a sleek rooftop lounge, all gold lighting and glass walls, the kind of place that makes you feel like you should’ve worn heels. But somehow, it suits.

There’s laughter. Clinks of glasses. The comfort of shared triumph, even if it’s temporary.

San chats animatedly with Jongho about braking calibration. Yunho steals fries off your plate and grins when you slap his hand. Wooyoung is already two cocktails deep and attempting to charm the bartender. Yeosang sits beside you, close but not stifling—his quiet presence still the anchor it’s always been.

And Seonghwa… Seonghwa watches you, just enough to notice. Not too much to be obvious.

“It’s nice,” he murmurs when you catch his eye. “Seeing you laugh.”

You feel the words more than you hear them.

You nod, lifting your glass. “Yeah,” you lie. “It is.”

But even as the night blooms around you, a part of you remains elsewhere. With the man who left without a word, and the fire he lit that still hasn’t burned out.

Jongho is the first to leave, as usual. His tolerance for loud social situations is shorter than the rest of the group.

He offers you a warm smile, a quiet “Well done, Y/N,” and then slips out into the night like the steady, grounded presence he’s always been. The one who never stayed too long in the fire, never threw matches, never asked for more than peace.

The others scatter into smaller clusters.

San and Wooyoung are deep in animated conversation by the bar, arguing over some memory from five years ago, their bickering laced with laughter instead of venom for the first time in years.

Yunho is teaching Yeosang how to play pool properly with dramatically bad commentary.

Seonghwa stays close. Not possessive, just aware. The way only someone who’s paying attention can be.

You’re three drinks past tipsy when a man corners you at the bar. Unfamiliar. Too loud. Too confident. Leaning far too close.

“C’mon, pretty girl, just one drink—”

You start to pull back, but your reflexes aren’t at their sharpest. The world tilts slightly, and your words come out fuzzier than intended.

“I’m not interested.”

“Doesn’t sound like a no.”

Before your heart can even spike, before the adrenaline can properly hit your bloodstream, a hand slides between you both.

“She said no.”

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s Seonghwa. His stare is level. No fury. No dramatics. Just steel.

The man stammers, trying to save face, but Seonghwa doesn’t budge. He’s taller. Sober. And completely in control.

Eventually, the stranger backs off, muttering something under his breath. You let out a shaky exhale, hands trembling on the rim of your glass.

Seonghwa turns to you slowly. “Are you alright?”

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

But when you meet his eyes, your voice falters. Something slips. Because the space between you now is too narrow, and you’ve had just enough tequila to forget caution.

Later, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—heart pounding, pulse unsteady. The weight of everything presses on your skin like a second atmosphere. In your daze, you push open the door to the larger, accessible stall. You need space, need distance, need—

A hand stops the door. Seonghwa slips in behind you, silent. Calm. Eyes molten.

Click. The lock turns.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “you aren’t feeling what I’m feeling.”

The words barely leave his mouth before something inside you detonates. You reach for him, fists curling into his collar, and then your mouth crashes to his. The kiss is fast, hot, uncoordinated. Desperation over precision.

He groans into you, hands flying to your waist as you stumble back together into the small counter. His lips drag down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp, and then he’s lifting you with startling ease, setting you down on the cool marble surface like you weigh nothing.

You part your legs to pull him closer, knees brushing his hips.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” you murmur, fingers carding through his hair. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His lips crash back to yours, deeper this time. Hungrier.

“Then stop fighting it.”

His hands slide beneath the hem of your skirt—slow, cautious, trembling just enough to give him away. For all his control, for all his calm… Seonghwa is burning. And this is the first time he lets it consume him.

His hands spread your thighs, gentle but commanding. He steps in close, crowding between them, eyes never leaving yours.

“I need you to look at me,” he whispers.

You do, and it undoes you. Because the heat in his gaze is molten, but it’s laced with something deeper. A reverence you weren’t expecting. A question he doesn’t voice, but still asks.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers slide beneath your panties, curling into you slowly, carefully. He watches your face—eyes flicking from your lips to your lashes as they flutter shut. Your head tips back against the mirror, a soft moan escaping your throat.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “God, you’re beautiful.”

You shudder, thighs twitching around his wrist as he strokes just right. Slow, deep, deliberate. He leans in, kissing the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, your jaw, all while his fingers work you toward the edge with maddening precision.

“Seonghwa—”

Your voice cracks as your climax crests, slamming into you harder than you were ready for. He kisses you through it, one hand steadying your hip, the other dragging every last tremor from your body.

You’re still shaking when he drops to his knees.

“What are you—?”

But your breath catches when his mouth finds you—soft, warm, unrelenting. He devours you like he’s starving, like the taste of you is the only thing that’s ever made sense. His tongue moves in languid, devastating strokes, and your hands shoot out to grip the edge of the sink.

You come again with a sharp cry, thighs trembling, breath ragged. And still, he doesn’t stop. He holds you through the aftershocks, kisses the inside of your thigh as if it’s sacred.

You reach for him, but he gently pulls your hand away, rising slowly to kiss your cheek.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “I just wanted… to take care of you.”

You freshen up in silence, hands trembling, cheeks still flushed. He waits by the door, then opens it just enough to check the coast is clear. Together, you slip back into the bar. Unnoticed. Or so you hope.

But everything has changed now.

There’s a gravity between you. A hum beneath your skin that wasn’t there before. When your eyes meet, it’s with a quiet understanding neither of you dare put words to.

You take a seat again. The others are still busy, drunk, and distracted. Seonghwa leans close, his voice so low only you can hear it.

“You’re not mine. And I’m not here to claim you.”

You turn to him, startled. But he smiles—soft, sad, and so very Seonghwa.

“I want you to enjoy what life has to offer. I know you have connections… with the others. And I would never want you to miss out on exploring those.”

You blink, heart thudding.

“But whenever you need me, in whatever capacity—” He reaches out, brushing his fingers against your hand. “I’m here.”

And just like that, he shifts back—laughing politely at something Wooyoung shouts from across the room. But his hand lingers near yours on the table.

~

Monday morning hits like a slap to the face. Rude. Unapologetic.

You barely remember Sunday—a hazy blur of dehydration, introspection, and the low hum of regret you couldn’t quite name. You’d curled into your couch like it was a lifeline, ignored your phone even when it buzzed endlessly, and binge-watched three seasons of a trashy series just to drown out the noise in your head.

But today? Today is about control.

You arrive ten minutes early.

Your sunglasses sit low on your nose, the oversized black lenses hiding the carnage behind your eyes. Your outfit is surgical; a tailored black vest, double breasted, cinched at the waist. High-waisted suit trousers, sharp enough to cut glass. A sleek high ponytail that screams don’t speak to me unless your life depends on it.

You don’t look like a woman who whimpered for Park Seonghwa in a bar bathroom. Or fucked Kim Hongjoong on your desk two nights ago. Or ran from her feelings like they had teeth.

You look like a threat.

Your heels click across the floor with the kind of cadence that makes people straighten in their seats. A few heads turn. Some murmur greetings you don’t bother to return.

Let them talk.

You sweep through the bullpen like a blade, depositing your bag beside your desk. The first email is already open before your coat hits the back of your chair. No coffee yet. No chit-chat. No patience.

The screens reflect your stoic expression, a polished war mask you’ve perfected over years of needing to be untouchable. The armour is heavier now—but necessary. After the week you’ve had? You need to remind them, and yourself, who the fuck you are.

You barely notice the time passing. Emails answered. Data logged. Sim stats reviewed. A quiet rhythm, cold and efficient. Just the way you need it.

Until your name pings in your inbox. Meeting. Executive floor. Now.

You know the room before you even enter it. Boardroom glass. Chrome finishes. The kind of sterile modernity that pretends to be warm with indirect lighting and fake succulents. Five faces await you—all smiling. Too wide. Too rehearsed.

You sit, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Y/N,” the Director of Programmes begins, “I won’t waste your time. The initiative’s landed harder than any of us predicted.”

You nod, politely. “I’ve seen the data.”

“Well, the data says you’ve done the impossible.”

A few chuckles. Someone sips their overpriced bottled water like this is casual.

“Sponsors are thrilled. Media interest is exploding. Social engagement’s off the charts. We’re making waves—the good kind. So…” A pause. A shared glance between suits. “We’re extending the programme. All summer.”

Your smile doesn’t budge. Not even as your stomach twists.

“More performance trials,” he continues. “Long-form simulation schedules. Public showcases. A whole PR run. We’re calling it ‘All-Star Summer.’ Catchy, right?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. Just enough to keep your jaw from locking.

“We need you at the forefront, Y/N. You’re the reason this worked in the first place.”

You nod again. You have to nod. Because you can’t say what you’re thinking out loud.

“I’m balancing eight ticking emotional time bombs.”

“I kissed two of them.”

“I slept with one.”

“And the one I never got over might destroy himself trying to pretend I no longer exist.”

“Of course,” you say instead. “I’ll handle it.”

And just like that, you’re dismissed—with smiles and handshakes and promises of support that will evaporate the second the door closes. You walk out of that boardroom with your spine like steel and your stomach like glass.

All summer. More time with all of them. More chances to burn.

You step out of the elevator, jaw still clenched from the meeting. The echo of “All-Star Summer” still rings in your ears like a curse disguised as praise.

You need air. You need silence.

“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other than I first thought.”

You look up.

San. Sweat-slicked hair curling against his forehead. A towel slung around his neck. Tracksuit zipped halfway down, revealing a glimpse of sculpted collarbone and damp black t-shirt.

He’s just finished some sort of physical training session. Strength testing, maybe, or reaction drills. Whatever it was, it’s left him buzzing, a little too charged.

His smirk is effortless.

“Plenty of chances for us to have some fun?”

Your eyes narrow. “San…”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, grin widening.

“Relax. I meant on the track. Unless…” He leans closer, voice dipping just enough to curl into something suggestive. “You want to make it interesting off-track too?”

You scoff. Try to step around him.

He doesn’t block your way—but he does tilt his head, eyes sweeping over your all-black ensemble with clear appreciation.

“You always dress to kill, or is it just Mondays that get you this riled up?”

You roll your eyes, but he’s not wrong. You look like war.

He shifts, lowering his voice as he walks a step behind you down the corridor.

“I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t notice the way you looked at me the other night.”

You stop walking. Turn.

“San,” you say, tone sharp, low. “Do yourself a favour and don’t start what you’re not ready to finish.”

He meets your stare with a fire of his own. Not angry, just hungry.

“Oh, sweetheart. I never start what I’m not planning to finish.”

Your breath catches—just a little—before you scoff again and keep walking.

Behind you, he chuckles, quiet and smug.

“See you soon, Y/N.”

~

The rest of the day is a blur.

Meetings, proposals, revised schedules, PR outlines. You’re pulled in every direction at once. No time to think, no time to breathe. You don’t even notice the sun dipping low behind the building until your screen dims with the dusk.

Your fingers ache. Your jaw’s sore from clenching.

You finally log off.

A hand drags through your hair, loosening strands from your tight ponytail. Your blazer feels heavy on your shoulders. The silence hits as soon as you step outside. The real kind, not the sterile hush of the office.

You walk slowly toward the parking lot. It’s almost empty now. Except for one car. A black G-Wagon, paint glinting like oil beneath the twilight.

Your steps slow. Then stop.

San is in the driver’s seat. He’s got one arm slung casually over the steering wheel, the other resting across the passenger seat like it belongs to no one but him. Sunglasses pushed up into his glossy hair. Windows down. That signature smirk already forming as he watches you approach.

“Want a ride?”

You almost say no. You drove here today, so there would be no need.

The word’s already forming in the back of your throat—professional, polite, and detached. The version of you you’ve spent so long building back up.

But then—

“I want you to enjoy what life has to offer. I know you have connections… with the others.”

Seonghwa’s voice cuts through your resolve. That soft look in his eyes when he said it. And something inside you shifts. Just a little. Just enough.

You exhale through your nose.

“Fuck it,” you mutter, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat.

The leather is warm. The door shuts with a heavy click. San doesn’t say anything right away, just glances over at you with a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The engine’s rumbling. Your seatbelt is still untouched. But you’re not looking ahead.

You’re looking at San. And he’s already looking at you.

You tilt your head slowly, eyes raking over his profile—the cut of his jaw, the flex of his fingers on the steering wheel. The subtle twitch of his brow as if he can feel the storm coming.

“You wanted to have some fun,” you say, voice smooth, low, dangerous. “So, let’s have it.”

He glances over, surprised by the shift in tone. His lips part slightly.

You lean closer.

“Unless…” You let the word hang, sweet and sharp. “You’re all bark and no bite.”

That’s all it takes. He doesn’t even blink.

One second, he’s sitting back like he’s got all the time in the world—and the next, he’s lunging across the centre console, hands fisting into your waist, mouth crashing into yours with a force that knocks the air right out of your lungs.

Your back hits the door with a soft thud. His body is halfway over the seat, pressing into you like he’s waited years for this moment. His kiss is hungry, open-mouthed, and hot, tongue sliding against yours with reckless precision.

“You have no idea,” he growls against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted to shut you up like that.”

You grin into the kiss, nipping his bottom lip just enough to make him groan. Your hands are already tugging at his hoodie, dragging it up just enough to touch skin—warm, taut, and trembling beneath your fingertips.

San lifts you, his hands sliding beneath your thighs. You straddle him, barely fitting between the wheel and the seat, but neither of you care. You’re both burning now, too far gone.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like this is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

His palm trails up your thigh until your breath catches again. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you to him, and he whispers in your ear.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you whisper. “That makes two of us.”

San’s fingers move with unexpected care as he unbuttons your vest, peeling it from your shoulders like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

He tosses it into the back seat without looking.

You sit there—half in his lap, breath shallow—clad in nothing but your high-waisted trousers and a lacy black bra that might as well have been made for this exact moment. His mouth finds the skin just above the cups, tongue warm, lips dragging along the dip of your collarbone. You feel his hand begin to slide toward your waistband, fingers teasing at the hook—

Tap tap.

You freeze.

Another tap. Louder.

Both your heads whip toward the window.

Outside, staring like he’s just stumbled into a fever dream, is Wooyoung. Mouth open. One brow raised. His voice muffled through the glass, but unmistakable.

“And what the fuck is going on here—without me?”

Your pulse skips. San mutters a curse.

You lean over him with the most casual grace you can manage and crack the window open an inch.

“Why don’t you come join, then?”

Wooyoung reels back, eyes wide, like you’ve just short-circuited his entire brain.

“Wait—are you serious?”

You glance at San, who’s looking at you like you’ve grown another head. His brows rise, lips parted, a wild little smile curling at the edges.

“You game?” You ask, voice dark and buzzing with challenge.

San tilts his head, his smirk wicked. “Sure. I did ask for fun, after all.”

Wooyoung doesn’t need a second invitation. He’s yanking the back passenger door open a moment later and sliding in with the excitement of a teenage boy.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already pulling off his jacket. “I was just coming to ask if you wanted to grab some food. But this? This is so much better.”

San chuckles, low and throaty.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

“Only if I get a turn,” Wooyoung grins.

You shift back onto San’s lap, turning to face Wooyoung over your shoulder.

“Oh, you’ll get more than a turn.”

The air inside the Mercedes crackles with new energy. Three people. One car. And no brakes.

San shifts beneath you, still holding you firm on his lap, but something in his gaze changes—darker now. Competitive.

Wooyoung leans forward between the front seats, his breath ghosting against your shoulder.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “You started this. Let us finish it.”

You feel San’s fingers tighten on your hips, a quiet possessiveness simmering beneath the heat. He doesn’t like sharing. But he’s not backing down either.

“She wants fun,” San says, voice gravel. “Let’s give her all she can handle.”

You let your head fall back between them, caught in the gravity of it all. Four hands now on your body, mouths trailing fire across your skin.

The interior of the G-Wagon turns molten.

The leather seats creak beneath shifting weight. Clothing is dragged away piece by piece—a slow burn of dominance, worship, and utter surrender. You lose track of who’s kissing you where. Who’s gripping your thighs, your waist, your throat. Who’s whispering filth in your ear and who’s coaxing moans from your lips.

It’s dizzying, in the best way. San is rough, desperate, the way his teeth graze your jaw, how his hands leave fingerprints on your hips. Wooyoung is sly, greedy, his fingers already working you apart before San has even released his grip, his mouth hovering a hair’s breadth from your ear. Every single nerve ending in your body is on red alert.

Wooyoung bites your shoulder, and you jerk, laughing into the edge of the window, the glass fogged with your breath. San grins into the curve of your neck, tongue flicking to chase the salt of your skin.

“Look at her,” Wooyoung purrs, tracing the edge of your bra with one finger. “Never thought I’d get to see you like this.”

You turn, and he’s right there, bold as ever, his lips already parted for the kiss you’re just dazed enough to let happen. San watches, one hand at the base of your spine, the other knotting through Wooyoung’s hair, dragging his mouth to yours until you’re all tangled three ways—jealous, messy, breathless.

Wooyoung groans as San bites his lip instead, then turns those teeth to you, grazing just behind your ear. “You like that?” he whispers. “You want more?”

You can’t answer, not with the way San’s hand is sliding under your waistband, undoing the zipper with a practiced flick, exposing enough that Wooyoung can slide his own hand in, hot and searching. The two of them work in tandem—San’s mouth low and rough on your clavicle, Wooyoung’s voice velvet in your ear.

You gasp when Wooyoung’s fingers slip beneath the lace, stroking, teasing, almost too much. San nips at your shoulder, then pulls you up to his mouth and devours you.

“Good girl,” Wooyoung purrs, like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it. You hate how much it turns you on.

San laughs, breathless, then finally lifts you off him—just far enough to lay you flat across the passenger seat, head angled back, legs draped over his lap. Wooyoung is already unzipping his own jeans, but it’s San who lowers your trousers the rest of the way, baring you to the warm night and their hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” San groans, dragging two slow fingers between your legs, parting you for Wooyoung’s gaze.

“Perfect,” Wooyoung says, voice gone dark. “Just like I pictured.”

“Talk less, put those fingers to work,” San grunts.

Wooyoung grins, and you nearly whimper when he slides two fingers inside with no pretext, curling them expertly, thumb stroking your clit with the kind of rhythm that rewrites your brain. San grabs your ankle in his grip and bends your leg over the console, exposing you even further. He kisses up your calf, tongue wicked, leaving a line of chills on your skin.

“Don’t get shy now,” San says, his other hand bracing against the headrest as he leans over you, all muscle and heat, his thigh locking your hips in place. “You look so fucking hot like this.”

Wooyoung’s fingers work you with merciless precision, slow at first, then faster, until your head swims and your thighs tremble. You can barely breathe, let alone curse them both, but you try.

“Fucking hell,” you gasp, nails scraping at the leather, at San’s hip, at Wooyoung’s hair when you seize him and drag him up for another kiss. He tastes like peppermint and sin, and you hear him moan when San’s hand slides down to join his, their fingers moving in tandem, filling you, stretching you, coaxing helpless little sounds from your throat.

San bites your earlobe, his voice a rattling whisper. “You gonna come for us, or do we have to work harder?”

The world narrows to their hands, their mouths, the sting of San’s teeth, the honey-smooth taunts of Wooyoung in your ear. The Mercedes is a sauna, glass beading with the condensation of three uneven heartbeats and the thrum of your pulse in every muscle, every bone.

You convulse around their fingers with little warning, a shockwave of pleasure that rips a full-throated moan out of you—so loud you almost worry security might stroll by and catch the show. But you’re too far gone to care. Wooyoung works you through it, slower now, milking every tremor, every aftershock, until you’re boneless in the seat, sweat cooling on your skin. He pulls his hand out with a flourish, licking his fingers clean, and San takes the wheel next. He’s unzipping his jeans, his cock already hard and heavy in his hand as he fists you down harder over the gearshift. He spreads your thighs wider and lines himself up without so much as a warning—he just pushes in with one slow, brutal stroke, and your back arches up off the seat, eyes going wide.

The thickness of him, the blunt stretch, is almost too much all at once. You gasp, grabbing for purchase on his forearm, and then it’s Wooyoung’s mouth at your throat, his lips greedy, tongue tracing where your pulse hammers frantic and wild.

“Christ,” San hisses, burying himself to the hilt. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts to move, heat and friction and the hot leather beneath you rapid firing through your nerves. Wooyoung trails kisses down your chest, pausing to nip at the lace, hands splaying over your ribs to hold you steady.

San fucks you hard, holding your hips in place as the car rocks on its shocks, engine trembling with each deep thrust. He’s all muscle, sweat, and force, no hesitation, no patience left now that he’s got you—only a raw, reckless pace. Each time he buries himself, you gasp; each time he pulls out, you want him back harder. He gives it to you. He wants you to remember this every time you look at him, every time you walk back into the paddock like you own the place. You do. But right now, he does.

Wooyoung watches the way you shudder, the way San’s thrusts shake your whole body, the way your moans grow hoarser and more desperate. He likes an audience. He also likes a show. “Give her another,” he murmurs, sliding in beside the two of you, tongue dipping along the cup of your bra, lips closing hot around your nipple as San pounds you. You fist your hand in Wooyoung’s hair, tugging him closer, biting your own moan into his scalp as his lips roll and suck, sending another wave through you. San doesn’t stop—doesn’t even slow—until he feels you seize, your walls clenching so hard around him he curses, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks you through it, deeper, sharper, chasing his own breaking point.

Wooyoung kisses up your neck, grabs your chin, and turns your mouth to his just as San groans and slams into you, shuddering hard as he comes, the heat of him flooding you in a way that makes your whole body burn even hotter. He rides it out, breath ragged, pumping with each pulse, and only then does he slow.

He pulls out with a gasp, slumping back in the driver’s seat, sweaty and spent, grinning like a devil. You’re still shaking. But Wooyoung is undeterred.

He’s tugging down his boxers now, desperate. “My turn.”

The next thing you know, you’re on your knees in the footwell of the Mercedes, San’s warmth still pulsing inside you, Wooyoung’s hands fist in your hair as he guides you down over him. The city floats by in neon streaks, your reflection flickering in the tinted glass, your cheek pressed to the back of Wooyoung’s hand as he steadies you against every ragged thrust.

He tastes clean, sharp, eager. He’s not gentle, not today. He uses your mouth, groaning praise and curses in equal measure, hips rocking, eyelids fluttering as your tongue drags along the underside of his cock, lips swelling around every inch he gives you. You choke once—he doesn’t let up. He likes the sound, the way your nails dig into the leather, how you fight to swallow him down.

From above, San gathers your hair back into the ponytail that’s long since fallen loose, holding it out of your face, mouth brushing your ear as he whispers encouragement—filthy, delicious things about how good you look, how much you’re making Wooyoung lose his mind, how much the sight of you on your knees has rewired something in his chest.

You glance up, eyes watering prettily, and Wooyoung nearly comes from the sight alone. He fucks your mouth faster, deeper, holding your gaze with the kind of fire that says he’s wanted this longer than you’ll ever believe. “Take it,” he pants. “Just like that.”

The edge comes quick; you feel the throb, the hitch in his breath, the way his thighs tense beneath your palms. He pulls you down and finishes hard, a gasp swelling into a drawn-out, helpless moan. He doesn’t move for a second, just lets you milk every last drop, tongue swirling lazily, mouth swollen and aching.

You wipe your lip with the back of your hand. San leans down, kisses your forehead, and helps you back into the front seat. Wooyoung slumps, boneless and dazed, but recovers enough to lean over and kiss your jaw, your temple, the shell of your ear.

All three of you sit there for a minute, panting, sweat cooling in the thick air of the Mercedes.

“Well,” Wooyoung says after a long silence, voice hoarse but bright. “That was definitely not what I thought was going to happen when I woke up this morning.”

You laugh. San grins and wipes a thumb over your cheek, his own breathing still ragged. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he admits. “But I fucking loved being proved wrong.”

Wooyoung grins, still half-stunned. “You’re going to ruin every man in this city.”

You fix your vest, tug your trousers back up, and turn to Wooyoung. “I’ll start with the paddock.”

He catches your meaning, a silent challenge burning between you.

You don’t say goodbye; you just slide out of the car silently. Your heels click softly against the asphalt as you walk away.

Behind you, two pairs of eyes stay fixed to your back.

And the game? It’s only just begun.

~

You don’t expect to feel anything the next morning. Not guilt. Not satisfaction. Not even the bruising ache in your thighs when you sit down at your desk.

But it’s there.

You chew the inside of your cheek and bury yourself in reports. Strategy memos. Performance reviews. Anything that reminds you that you’re still here to work, not unravel.

Still, the memories trickle in like smoke through a cracked window. San’s low moan in your ear. Wooyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair.

Even Seonghwa’s voice, soft but sure— “Whenever you need me, in whatever capacity…”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes and sigh. Professional. You have to stay professional.

But then San leans on your doorframe around midday, his damp hair falling over his brow, a post-training glow clinging to him like sin.

You glance up, arching a brow. “Don’t you have track work to do?”

“I’m multitasking.” His eyes scan you, slow and heated. “Always happy to make time for you.”

“Be professional, San.”

He throws his hands up, winks. “Just saying hi, Boss.” And strolls away, whistling.

You hate the twinge in your stomach. You hate that it feels good.

The paddock is abuzz with whispers of the upcoming Sponsors’ Gala. Dress codes. Seating charts. Media partners. It’s all anyone talks about.

You bury yourself in telemetry, only for Wooyoung to flop into the chair beside you like a cat claiming ownership.

“So. Black-tie chaos is nearly upon us. Can I wear a harness and call it fashion-forward?”

You don’t look up. “If you want to get blacklisted.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already been.” He pulls out his phone and flashes you three selfies in different tuxedos—white with a silk lapel, blood red velvet, classic black with a sheer undershirt.

“Which one makes me look like the most trouble?”

You glance at the screen.

“All of them. I’m afraid.”

“Good.” He winks and wanders off again like nothing happened.

Jongho, sitting nearby, doesn’t even lift his eyes from his tablet.

“He’s going to get us all banned.”

“He’s already trying,” you mutter.

From across the room, Yunho catches your eye. He’s just come from the gym, hair tousled, neck glistening. He offers a lopsided smile, eyes crinkling with warmth.

“Don’t worry. I clean up well.”

You remember that photo from last season. He looked devastating in a tux. You also remember zooming in and staring at it for longer than you’d care to admit.

The espresso machine hisses violently as you fill your cup, bone-tired. You sense a presence behind you, not close enough to startle but familiar in its quiet.

Yeosang.

He pours his own coffee without a word, stirring it slowly. The silence sits companionably for a moment. Then, he breaks it.

“You’ve got the whole grid twisted around you.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, glancing at him. “I didn’t ask for that, y’know.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not happening.”

He sips.

“You’re the only one who sees me,” you admit, voice barely audible.

He nods once, then adds quietly. “Someone has to.”

And with that, he leaves. No drama. No flirtation. Just truth. It grounds you in a way nothing else has all week.

Later that day, you’re walking through the south corridor when Seonghwa passes you heading the other way.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch you. He just lets his fingers skim the air too close to yours. It’s not accidental. You feel it like a wire pulled taut.

“You look exhausted,” he murmurs as he passes.

You stop. Turn.

“Are you offering to fix that?”

He looks back, a slow smile blooming like firelight.

“Only if you ask nicely.”

And then he’s gone.

The rest of the week passes by in a flash.

You’re in the temporary media office when the garment bags arrive. Three dresses, two backup options, one made just for you.

Backless. Midnight black. Sleek and cut like sin. The kind of dress that turns cameras. The kind that could cost you your job if you wear it too well. The fabric clings like it knows your shape. You turn in the mirror, toe pointed, then slowly pivot back.

You could destroy hearts in this.

You’re so deep in thought that the knock on the door startles you. You open it halfway, still distracted—and nearly collide with him.

Hongjoong.

He doesn’t glance at the dress. Doesn’t look you over. Just meets your gaze like he’s trying to tear through it.

“You’re wanted in the media room,” he says, cool and clipped.

“Right. I’ll be there in five.”

“Make it three.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

No mention of the kiss. Or the desk. Or the thunderstorm you left in your wake. But you feel it in your chest, the way his presence swallows the air.

You should’ve worn armour instead.

By the time Friday finally hits, the paddock is chaos.

PR assistants are running on triple shots of espresso, engineers are barking into phones, stylists are trying to chase down drivers for final measurements, and everyone’s pretending they’re not slowly losing their minds over tonight’s gala.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, you find quiet.

A small café tucked just around the corner of the venue’s admin wing. Neutral space. Pale wooden countertops, sunlight spilling through big windows, the faint hiss of milk being frothed somewhere out of sight.

Yeosang’s already there.

Two coffees on the table. One black, one iced oat latte—your go-to. You didn’t even have to text it to him.

He looks up, and offers that same soft, steady smile.

“Figured you’d need a break.”

You slide into the seat across from him, exhaling through your nose. “You figured right.”

For a while, you don’t talk. You sip your drink. He scrolls on his phone, occasionally typing something. There’s something grounding in just being here. No loaded looks. No flirtation. No games. Just Yeosang. Always Yeosang.

But you’re unravelling, and eventually it spills out. Quietly at first. Then faster.

The G-Wagon. The bathroom. The desk.

The look in Seonghwa’s eyes. San’s touch. Wooyoung’s kiss.

The weight of it all.

Yeosang doesn’t flinch. He just listens, one finger resting gently on the rim of his coffee cup. His expression never shifts to judgement, just mild disbelief as you reach the part about Hongjoong slamming you into a desk before accusing you of ruining his life.

When you finally finish, you’re flushed, out of breath, shoulders curled in like you’re bracing for impact.

But all Yeosang says is, “Shit.”

You huff out a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

He leans back, gaze flickering across your face, more serious now. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I know.”

“And you’re getting burned.”

You say nothing. Just take another sip. Let the silence sit.

“Do you think I’m a terrible person?”

He looks you dead in the eye.

“No. But I think you’re trying really hard not to feel anything.”

“It’s not working,” you admit.

He nods. Slowly. “You want my advice?”

“Always.”

“Do what you need to do. Just… be honest with yourself when it stops helping and starts hurting. And if it gets too loud in your head, you call me.”

You blink. Swallow. “You always say the right thing.”

He shrugs. “It’s a gift.”

You smile into your cup.

“You sure you don’t want to kiss me, too? Might as well make it a clean five.”

Yeosang snorts. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude.”

He raises a brow. “You’d break my heart. And I’m not built for that.”

For a second, the air feels a little lighter. Like maybe it’s okay not to have all the answers yet.

“See you tonight?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He taps his cup against yours.

“Good. Because I think tonight’s going to change everything.”

~

The dress fits like it was made from melted shadow—ink-black, backless, silk that shimmers under light and disappears in darkness. You’ve never felt more visible. Or more exposed.

You adjust the clasp on your earring for the third time, fingers trembling slightly.

It’s just another event. Just another red carpet. Just a sea of lenses and flashes and too many men watching you like they know your past, like they want to be your future.

You take a deep breath, step out of the car—and nearly crash into him.

Seonghwa. Tall. Elegant. Devastating in a perfectly tailored tux. He looks like something carved from obsidian and restraint, and when he turns to face you, his jaw slackens—just for a second.

“You look…” His voice drops. “You look like you’re about to ruin everyone here.”

You smile, a little wry. “That’s the plan.”

His hand comes up, palm facing you, an invitation. “Let me walk you in?”

You hesitate for just a second. Then you slip your arm into his, fingers curling gently around the crook of his elbow.

The flashes begin the moment you round the corner—a wall of white light, cameras screaming for attention, reporters calling names into the night air.

But none of it touches you. Not really.

Seonghwa leans in ever so slightly, the whisper barely brushing your ear.

“You take my breath away, Y/N.”

You glance up at him, startled by the softness behind those words. By the way he’s looking at you—not like a prize, not like a game, but like a moment he doesn’t want to end.

You don’t respond. You just hold onto him a little tighter as you glide through the sea of light, ignoring the storm you’ve already sewn into the threads of this night.

You step through the tall, arched doors of the ballroom, Seonghwa still on your arm, and for a moment you allow yourself to take it in. The golden light, the symphony of chatter and crystal, the soft hum of an orchestra tucked into the corner.

And then your eyes land on the seating plan.

You trace the letters of your name, find the table number beside it, and feel your heart sink through your ribcage.

Table Eight. And seated with you—every name that makes your pulse race and your stomach churn.

Seonghwa notices the way your hand stills on the board.

“Something wrong?”

You shake your head. Lie through your teeth. “No. Just… love a full table.”

You walk together through the maze of silk gowns and tailored suits. The murmur of conversation grows louder with every step.

And then you see them.

Mingi. San. Wooyoung. Hongjoong. All already seated. All already watching.

Mingi’s eyes go wide for a split second, then fall flat again—a mask you know too well.

San’s grin is crooked, amused, his eyes flickering between you and Seonghwa like he’s trying to piece together just how recent your latest sin was.

Wooyoung doesn’t even try to hide it. His brow arches sky-high, a flash of mischief in the smirk tugging at his lips.

But it’s Hongjoong that makes the air leave your lungs. His gaze snaps to your arm looped through Seonghwa’s, then up to your face. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. The flash of emotion is there and gone—replaced by cold neutrality, like he’s iced over from the inside out.

You want to run. You want to vanish. But your heels are glued to the marble floor.

“Well,” Seonghwa murmurs just under his breath, “this should be fun.”

You finally unlatch your arm from his, more abrupt than you mean to be, and move to your seat. It’s right between Wooyoung and Yunho, who arrives just as you sit down, apologising for being late and looking completely unaware of the minefield he’s walking into.

Yeosang and Jongho follow shortly after, both clocking the tension but saying nothing.

It’s like the calmest disaster ever orchestrated.

Wine is poured. Plates are served. Conversation starts in fractured bursts. You can feel it—the weight of every stare. The unspoken claims. The bruised egos. The memories too fresh to fade.

And right in the middle of it all… you. The eye of the storm.

The champagne is crisp, the food exquisitely plated, and the atmosphere at Table Eight could cut glass.

You’re mid-conversation with one of the sponsors across the table, nodding and smiling through a question about performance strategy, when Wooyoung leans just a little too close to your ear.

“Tell me, do they always drive you that crazy, or was it just the G-Wagon?”

Your fork pauses mid-air.

San, seated across from you, chokes audibly on his wine and coughs into his napkin. He lifts his head, smirking.

“I was just about to ask if you’re still finding Mercedes a comfortable ride.”

Your warning glare could sear skin.

“Boys,” you say through a tight-lipped smile, still fully facing the sponsor, “maybe wait until dessert before saying something that’ll get us all banned from these events.”

Wooyoung snorts into his drink, utterly unrepentant.

San leans back, drapes his arm over his chair like he owns the place. “Spoilsport.”

Beside you, Seonghwa doesn’t speak. But you feel it—the subtle shift. The slight stilling of his hand on his wine glass. His head turns a degree, eyes sliding from Wooyoung to San, then finally to you. He doesn’t look upset. Not angry. Just… aware.

He sets his glass down carefully. Leans just enough to murmur, voice quiet and low.

“I don’t need to know everything. But I’m not blind, Y/N.”

You stiffen.

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in.

Hongjoong.

His knife slices into the roasted duck like a warning.

“Some of us are trying to enjoy dinner. Do keep your voices down.”

His tone is even, but the underlying venom is unmistakable.

Wooyoung raises both brows and gestures toward Hongjoong with his wine.

“Apologies, Captain Serious. We’ll whisper next time.”

Mingi clears his throat beside him, speaking for the first time all evening.

“Maybe we could all just… tone it down. For one night.”

You meet his eyes, just briefly. He’s reading the room. He always was the best at that. And he’s not liking the story it’s telling.

The table lapses into tense silence. A few murmured thank-yous to waitstaff. The clatter of silverware on china. The low hum of a jazz trio in the corner.

You reach for your water, steadying your hand before it can shake, and feel Seonghwa’s fingers brush lightly against your thigh beneath the table. A silent anchor. A steady reminder that he sees you.

You exhale quietly and raise your glass again.

Just get through tonight.

The conversation begins to flow again. Or at least, it pretends to. There’s laughter now, mostly courtesy of Wooyoung, who’s in full storytelling mode, recounting a PR stunt gone wrong with so much flair you can’t help but giggle along.

You’re mid-sip of water when Hongjoong cuts in, voice cool.

“You always did have a thing for clowns.”

The smile dies on your lips.

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the weight of his glare like a hand at the back of your neck.

The air thins.

You set your glass down quietly, excuse yourself with a practiced smile, and rise from the table. No one tries to stop you—not even Seonghwa, though you feel his eyes track you the whole way.

You cross the ballroom floor, weaving through sequins and silk, until you reach the champagne tree. Gold-draped, glinting, obscene in its elegance. You hook a flute from the branch, tilt it back, and swallow a mouthful too quickly. The fizz burns down your throat.

You inhale. Try to steady the tremble at the edge of your control.

“You always did need air when you were about to explode.”

You blink.

Mingi. Standing next to you, in that same dark navy tux that fits too well, with too much history in his voice. He’s watching you, gentle but unreadable. And for once, not pretending not to notice.

“Come outside with me,” he says softly. “You look like you could use it.”

You follow him silently, your heels clicking softly against the stone path as the door shuts behind you. The cool night air greets your skin like a balm, peeling away the suffocating heat of the ballroom.

Mingi doesn’t say anything at first. He just reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulls out a crushed-looking cigarette packet, slides one between his lips, then taps the box once more and holds it out to you.

You take one.

He lights his own, then leans forward, shielding the flame from the wind as he brings the lighter to yours. For a split second, he’s too close—the smell of him, the memory of it, the things left unsaid between you. Your breath hitches.

The tip glows amber. You step back. Distance, even if it’s only physical.

For a while, the only sound is the faint clink of glasses from inside, the gentle crackle of burning paper. Then, without warning, his voice cuts through the dark.

“Are you sleeping with Seonghwa?”

You almost choke. The cigarette falters between your fingers. You glance at him sharply, lips parting in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

His eyes don’t waver.

“I saw the way he looked at you tonight. Like he’s already half in love with you.”

You take a long drag. Let the smoke fill your lungs before answering.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

Mingi’s jaw ticks.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s not.”

He looks away, exhales smoke toward the night sky.

“I just thought maybe it would hurt less if I heard it from you.”

You stare at him. For a moment, all you can see is the boy who used to guard your heart like it was his own.

“Why would it hurt at all, Mingi?”

“Because I still give a damn.”

“You lost that right, years ago.”

The words are calm. Brutal in their clarity. You watch them land, watch the way his breath catches in his throat, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact. But he doesn’t look away.

“And I spent that entire time regretting it,” he says, voice cracking at the edges. “I spend every day regretting it.”

You open your mouth—to say what, you’re not sure—but then he takes a step toward you. Just one, and it’s like gravity itself shifts with it.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me just like that,” he murmurs. “I know I fucked it all up. I know I didn’t fight for you the way I should have.”

His eyes glisten under the low amber light of the patio sconces, the kind of hurt etched so deep it looks physical.

“But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. Not for a second.”

Your heart is thudding against your ribs, too loud, too fast.

“Mingi…”

“I thought—” He exhales sharply. “I thought if I ever had the chance again, I’d do it right this time.”

You say nothing. You can’t. Because part of you wants to shove him away, scream at him for opening this wound again, and part of you wants to take that step toward him. Close the gap. Pretend like time hasn’t ruined everything.

But you just stand there. Cigarette long dead in your fingers. Eyes locked on his.

“Say something. Please.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now—frayed, desperate—but it slices straight through you. He takes another step, and now he’s close enough for your breath to catch.

Your mouth parts, words trembling on the tip of your tongue.

“I—”

But you don’t get the chance to finish. Because suddenly he’s there. Right in front of you.

His hand finds your waist, firm but trembling, the other rising to cradle your jaw like it’s something precious. You freeze. Not in fear, not in protest, but in shock. Because this is Mingi. The boy who shattered you. The man who’s haunted you.

And now he’s kissing you.

His lips are warm, a little frantic. He tastes like champagne and smoke and every damn memory you’ve tried to bury. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, anchoring you to him, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.

You don’t move at first. But then something deep inside you breaks.

Your hand fists into the front of his shirt. And you kiss him back.

It’s not soft, or sweet. It’s messy and hungry and years too late. It’s anger and longing and what ifs burning your mouth. He groans against your lips like he’s drowning in it, like he never expected you to let him in. And now that you have, he’s terrified to let go.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless. His forehead drops to yours.

That’s when you hear it. A soft sound—the clearing of someone’s throat. Muffled. Awkward.

You and Mingi both freeze, then turn toward the doorway.

Seonghwa stands beneath the arch of light spilling from the ballroom, casting a faint halo around his silhouette. His expression isn’t angry, not even remotely. It’s one of quiet surprise, his brows slightly raised, lips parted as though he didn’t mean to interrupt anything at all.

“I was just coming to check on you,” he says gently. “But… I see someone beat me to it.”

The warmth in his voice makes it worse somehow. He isn’t jealous, or cold. He’s just… kind. As he always is.

That’s what undoes Mingi.

You feel the shift beside you. His jaw tenses, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He steps back—once, twice—as though distance can undo what was just seen.

“Of course,” he mutters, bitterly now. “Perfect timing.”

“Mingi—” you start, but he cuts in before you can finish.

“You don’t need to explain. He’s always right there, isn’t he?”

There’s a sting in his voice now, hurt wrapped in accusation.

“This was a mistake. I knew it the second I kissed you.”

That lands too hard. Your heart stumbles in your chest.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper. “You said you wanted a chance.”

“Yeah. I did. But you’ve already given it to someone else.”

The heat behind your eyes wells too fast. You blink it away, but the tears come anyway—burning, unwanted.

“Mingi, that’s not fair.”

“Neither was losing you the first time.”

And then he’s gone. You don’t even remember him walking away, just the cold. Just the way your shoulders shake when you finally let the tears fall—standing alone in the dark with mascara smudging under your eyes, pain catching in your throat like smoke.

But you’re not alone for long. Soft footsteps approach. And then a jacket drapes around your shoulders. Seonghwa’s, still warm.

You don’t look up, but you don’t pull away either.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just… breathe.”

And so you do. Slowly. Shakily. You feel his presence beside you like an anchor. Not a demand, not a threat, just something solid to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.

You don’t realise your shoulders are still trembling until you feel his hands, gentle and sure, brush against your cheeks.

He’s standing so close now, wiping away the tears with the pad of his thumb. Not hurried. Not asking questions. Just… there.

You try to speak, but no words come. So instead, you fall forward. Collapse into him like the weight of the night has finally won. His arms come around you instantly, one hand curling around the back of your head, the other holding you firm against his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his suit. Warm. Reassuring.

You don’t remember the last time someone held you like this.

He lowers his voice, stroking your hair with slow, rhythmic movements. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You press your face into his shoulder and let the tears fall. Let it break open. Let it be ugly for a moment. And still, he holds you. Arms strong around you, fingers combing through your hair, his own breath calm and even like he’s willing you to match it.

You wonder what you’ve done to deserve this. This softness. This care. This man who offers it without condition or agenda.

There’s commotion near the door—the shuffle of dress shoes, a quick intake of breath, voices rising in hushed confusion.

You lift your head from Seonghwa’s chest, dazed.

Three silhouettes enter the courtyard light. Yeosang, Yunho, and Jongho.

Yeosang spots you first. His gaze flicks from the tension in your posture to the tears still clinging to your lashes. His brows knit immediately.

“Mingi just barrelled past us,” he says, tone low, controlled, but laced with worry. “Muttering something. He’s gone. Are you okay?”

He’s already walking toward you before you can answer.

Yunho and Jongho hover behind, both visibly concerned but giving you space. Jongho’s jaw tightens slightly—not with judgment, just… readiness. The kind of unshakable stillness that’s always defined him.

Yeosang reaches you and pauses, eyes sweeping from your flushed cheeks to Seonghwa’s coat draped over your shoulders, to the faint tremble in your arms. He places a hand softly against your skin.

“What happened?”

You open your mouth, but again, nothing comes. You shake your head instead, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s all too much.

Seonghwa shifts beside you, his voice gentle.

“She just needed a minute. Mingi said some things.”

Yeosang’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods, keeping his voice even.

“Okay. Then we’ll give her whatever she needs.”

Yunho steps forward, quietly offering a water bottle. You didn’t even notice he had one. It’s cold in your palm. Grounding.

“Take your time,” he says softly. “You don’t have to go back in. We’ll cover for you.”

Jongho offers a small nod. That steady, anchoring presence.

And in this small bubble of calm, in the company of the only people who don’t ask for anything from you, you manage the smallest breath of relief.

But, as always, the relief doesn’t last. Not for you. Not for anyone.

The courtyard door bangs open.

You flinch at the sound.

Hongjoong storms out like a bullet from the barrel, sharp and deadly. His jacket is half unbuttoned, his chest rising and falling like he’s been holding in rage for hours. Wooyoung and San are close behind, both calling after him—trying to reel him in.

“Joong, don’t—!”

“Stop—just stop—”

But he doesn’t stop. Not until he sees you. His eyes rake over the scene—you in Seonghwa’s arms, Yeosang beside you, Yunho, and Jongho nearby like quiet sentinels.

And then it comes. A bitter, broken laugh.

“You’re really just letting them all pass you around now, aren’t you?”

The words punch through the silence like a gunshot. You feel your knees wobble.

Seonghwa’s voice comes, cold as steel.

“Enough, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong scoffs, walking closer, his stare burning. His pain makes him reckless. Dangerous.

“No, go on, Seonghwa. Play the knight. You weren’t even around back then, but look at you now, saving her. Must be your turn, huh?”

“You need to walk away.”

“Why?” His voice rises. “So you can tuck her into your sheets next? Is that how it works?”

Yeosang moves instantly, peeling you gently from Seonghwa’s arms and pulling you against him. He steps back, creating a barrier with his body. You feel his heartbeat thudding where your cheek presses against his chest.

But it’s too late.

Something in Hongjoong snaps. And then—he swings.

Crack.

It connects right into Seonghwa’s jaw.

You gasp.

The silence that follows is deafening. But it doesn’t last.

Chaos erupts.

Jongho and San grab Hongjoong. San wrapping both arms around his chest, Jongho pushing back hard with all the strength he’s built from years of brute precision.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Let me go!” Hongjoong spits, writhing in San’s grasp.

“You’re losing it, hyung—”

Wooyoung shouts, trying to wedge himself between Seonghwa and the others. Yunho curses under his breath, checking Seonghwa’s face for damage. Blood at the corner of his lip. A bruise already blooming.

But Seonghwa doesn’t retaliate. He doesn’t even flinch. He just looks over his shoulder, to you.

His eyes soften. Flicker with something wordless. Regret. Frustration. Pain. He hates that this is happening. He hates that it ever got this far.

You’re trembling in Yeosang’s arms, staring back at him like your entire world is coming apart at the seams.

Because maybe it is.

The next thing you know, the world has shrunk down to soft leather and muted engine hum.

You’re in Seonghwa’s S-Class. Passenger side door still ajar, the seat already warm beneath you. Your body feels like a wire, pulled tight, moments from snapping.

He’s crouched beside you, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other fastening your seatbelt. His fingers brush against your ribs, your collarbone. So gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter at the slightest pressure.

You stare straight ahead. Can’t speak. Can’t even blink too hard without your vision swimming.

He hesitates. Then quietly, he closes the door. Slides into the driver’s seat without a word.

You turn your head slowly, and when you see him—the cut on his lip, the faint flush blooming along his jawline—something inside you twists painfully.

Your hand moves before your mind does. Soft, tentative. Your fingertips graze his skin, feather-light over the damage Hongjoong left behind. He exhales shakily under your touch, his shoulders lowering just a fraction.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, rough-edged.

You shake your head instantly.

No. He has nothing to apologise for. Absolutely nothing.

“Let me take you home.”

Your throat is raw when you finally manage words.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper. “Please.”

He turns to face you, properly now, one hand still on the wheel.

“You won’t be.”

He flicks on the ignition, smooth and unhurried. The car pulls away from the curb like nothing happened. Like the world didn’t just tilt sideways.

But you both know better.

You sit in silence for a few moments, the city lights casting fleeting gold patterns across the interior. His hand is still tense on the wheel. Your hand is still trembling in your lap.