He was never the one to chase.

Men like Choi Moo-jin didn’t chase.

Men like him were accustomed to the world bending quietly to their will, a natural law as inevitable as the pull of gravity.

Whatever he wanted, whoever he wanted, was offered before the desire even had time to surface.

And when it came to women, especially, the script was always the same. They sought him, smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly, eager to be noticed. A glance from him was permission, a gesture was reward. There was no effort, no courtship, no slow unraveling.

There was no chase… He had learned long ago that the chase was for men with less power.

Until he met her.

She was unlike anyone who had ever occupied his periphery, not because she was louder, more brazen, or desperate for attention, but precisely because she was none of those things.

He first saw her on a Thursday evening at the Cheongdam gallery.

One of those predictable nights filled with overpriced wine, empty conversation, and art that served more as a statement of wealth than taste. He didn’t want to be there, he never did but business had to be handled, deals smoothed over and money moved through the right channels.

So he showed up, late as usual. Not to make an entrance, but because he didn’t owe anyone punctuality.

By the time he arrived, everyone who needed to notice him already had. Eyes turned. People smiled. The whispers started. Too many false laughs, too much perfume, too many people hoping proximity to money would somehow translate to meaning.

It was all so very predictable.

Until he saw her.

She stood near the far wall, half-lit by the soft wash of overhead lights, a glass of red wine balanced effortlessly between her fingers.

Her posture was quiet, composed, but not indifferent.

She wasn’t trying to be noticed, and that was precisely what made her impossible to ignore.

As she lifted the glass to her lips, their eyes met.

The directness of that look caught him off guard, stirring something sharp, immediate, inside him. It was a glance that held no invitation, but demanded acknowledgment, and it rooted his gaze firmly on her.

But then her gaze drifted away, slow and uninterested, as if nothing she saw in him warranted a second thought.

She moved through the gallery like she belonged to it, or maybe, like it belonged to her.

And so, through the next thirty minutes of polite conversation and hollow pleasantries, his gaze kept returning to her, never lingering too long but never straying too far.

He noticed the way she offered just enough, a nod here, a word there, each exchange polite but fleeting, as if her mind was already elsewhere.

Everything about her told him she was a presence no one else was entitled to witness.

So he stepped toward her, slowly, quietly, but she didn’t even flinch. Her gaze remained locked on the painting.

He stopped beside her, letting the silence stretch, and followed her eyes to the canvas. To him, it was just another piece, muted colors, blurred shapes, the kind of thing people like him use to justify obscene prices and move money. To him art had never meant more than that.

But the way she looked at it made him want to see it differently, made him wonder what she saw that he didn’t.

“It’s always the same, isn’t it?” he said. She didn’t turn, didn’t blink, just kept her eyes on the canvas, as if the sound of him wasn’t quite enough to deserve her attention.

So he went on, “A few brush strokes, some vague title, an anonymous crowd pretending to understand it.” a hint of amusement curling through his tone. She let out the smallest roll of her eyes and glanced sideways at him. “You sound unimpressed,” she said, dryly.

He smiled faintly. “I’ve attended too many of these. The people change, the wine gets older, but the art and the pretense stay the same.”

“A cynical take,” she said. “Especially considering how helpful these events are in your line of work.”

“I see” He gave a slow, confident smile, raising his glass just a bit. “Reputation tends to travel faster than introductions.”

“No need for formalities. Everyone here already knows who you are.” She met his gaze, lifting her glass to take a slow sip of wine. “You arrive late, and the room parts as if you own it. Half the people want something from you. The other half just want to say they’ve been seen with you.”

 “And which half do you fall into?”

“Neither.”

He let out a soft chuckle, shifting just a fraction to the side as his eyes drifted over the crowd. 

“Pretentious people. Loud opinions. Cheap champagne.” He swirled the glass in his hand before taking a sip. His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if weighing her presence. “You don’t seem like the type who’d enjoy this circus. I'd guess you’re here out of obligation. A plus one, maybe?”

She let a small, dry smile play at the corner of her mouth, almost amused as she stepped toward the next piece, “I’m nobody’s plus one.”

He gave a slow nod, then fell into step beside her, matching her pace, uninvited, but not unwelcome.

They stopped before a large canvas, chaotic swirls of dark blues and grays clashing with sharp streaks of white, interrupted only by a single, smudged gold dot near the center.

“So tell me, do you think it’s supposed to mean something?” he asked, studying her profile more than the art.

She lifted one shoulder in a soft shrug. “Maybe it’s not supposed to mean anything. Maybe it just exists to be looked at.”

“Is that a metaphor for the evening?”

“Or the people in it,” she said dryly.

That earned his laughter, low, genuine.

“May I ask your name?” he said, stepping just a fraction closer. “Since you already seem to know mine.”

She turned to him fully, and slowly extended her hand. “Y/N Y/L.” He reached out, their hands meeting in a soft grip. Then she added, “I’m the director of this gallery.”

His eyes widened sharply, an unmistakable flash of surprise, and for a heartbeat, his hand froze around hers. He pulled away, a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I see,” he murmured “Then I’ve just insulted your event, haven’t I?

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting.

“Well…” He cleared his throat “I suppose I owe you an apology,” he said, voice a touch softer, a hint of genuine regret “That was a careless remark.”

She tilted her head, “Careless remarks can be forgiven,” she said slowly.

“Let me try again then…” He hesitated just a moment before reaching out again, his fingers curling around hers warm and confident. “Y/N Y/L,” he said, his was voice low and teasing. “It’s very nice to finally meet the director of this beautiful gallery.”

She caught the humor in his eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips as her brow lifted slightly.

Her fingers tightened around his hand just a touch, not enough to encourage, but enough to acknowledge the game. She held his gaze steadily, weighing how far she wanted to let this go. “I’m interested in acquiring some of your pieces,” he continued “Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner. Tomorrow night?”

A quiet, amused laugh escaped her, soft and rich.

She pulled slightly from his hand, “I don’t do business over dinner.”

She reached into her clutch, retrieving a sleek card. “But my assistant will be happy to schedule something more appropriate… if you’re serious.” Her eyebrows rose, a half-challenge as if she was testing him.

He took the card without breaking eye contact, fingers brushing hers only briefly.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Choi,” she called over her shoulder, voice steady, tinged with a quiet confidence that both intrigued and unsettled him.

He stood there, the card heavy in his hand, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. For the first time in recent memory, he was left with nothing but a name, and a woman who clearly didn’t need to be impressed.

And somehow, that made him want to know everything about her.

And that’s how it all started.

That quiet refusal, that card passed to him like an afterthought, lodged itself in his memory like a thorn. It wasn’t the rejection that bothered him. It was the elegance of it.

No apology, no performance.

Just no, simple and absolute.

He scheduled the meeting the next morning.

It wasn’t difficult. His name opened calendars as easily as it opened doors.

“You’re very punctual” she noted, leading him toward the private office in the back.

“I wanted to make a good impression,” he said.

The meeting was business. Strictly business.

He purchased two pieces, one expensive, one priceless and asked questions he didn’t need answers to just to hear her speak. She spoke with the ease of someone who didn’t need to sell anything.

She didn’t flatter him, didn’t try to charm him, didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes never left her mouth when she spoke.

And when he lingered, resting one hand against the edge of her desk, tilting his head just slightly and asking, “And what would you recommend for a man who wants something... unforgettable?”

She answered, “A good memory.”

“You look like you’d rather be somewhere else.”

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He’d been hearing that voice in his head for a week.

Ever since their meeting, he’d been caught in a quiet loop, debating whether to schedule another consultation, pretending it was about the art when it wasn’t.

He didn’t need another painting. He just wanted an excuse to be close to her again.

He turned slowly, a smile already forming.

And there she was.

Her gaze was sharp, her stance unbothered, and yet somehow, she looked more in control than the mayor himself as he delivered his inauguration speech from the stage behind them.

He wasn’t sure what surprised him more, that she was here, or that she was the one who’d approached him.

“Miss Y/L,” he said, “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same. You don’t exactly scream politics.”

“I don’t,” he agreed, eyes lingering on her. “And you’re right… I was counting the minutes until I could leave…. but then you showed up.”

She gave him a look. “You’re very quick with your lines, Mr. Choi.”

He smiled. “Only when I mean them.”

She tilted her head, considering him like he was a question she didn’t quite care to answer. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually like the pieces you bought,” she said.

He chuckled. “You doubted my taste?”

“I doubted your intentions.”

He stepped just slightly closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the proximity settle between them. “And if I told you I’ve been thinking about scheduling another visit?”

“I’d say you’re free to.” She took a sip from her drink. “The assistant you’ve already met handles bookings.”

She wasn’t brushing him off. She was letting him know exactly how far he was allowed to step. And that only made him want to take another.

“What if I said I was hoping to discuss something… off the record?”

She met his gaze then, “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

That got her. A small laugh, almost involuntary, low and warm.

“Dinner. Off the record,” he said, “Just you and me.”

“Still no.” She smiled, a real one this time, subtle, unreadable. And before he could try again, she reached out and gently patted his shoulder. Not dismissive. Maybe patronizing. Almost… kind.

“I don’t mix business and distraction,” she added, her fingers brushing away like her attention, brief, fleeting, gone too fast.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat. Just tilted his head. “So… I’m a distraction now?”

 “You’re trying very hard to be.”

And then, before he could respond, she stepped back. “Excuse me,” she said, “Someone I actually came here to see just walked in.”

He watched her disappear into the crowd.

He began to search her everywhere.

At openings. At galas. At private collector showcases tucked into penthouses with imported ceilings. He wasn’t following her… well not exactly… he simply had access to her world, and she had his attention.

Yet... she never seemed surprised to see him.

At one auction, he slipped quietly behind her while her eyes lingered on a painting. He didn’t touch her, he wouldn’t dare without her permission, but the faint warmth of his presence brushed against her skin.

“Tell me which one you want me to bid on.”

She recognized him instantly.

“Whichever one speaks to you, Mr. Choi.” Her voice was calm,. “That’s how art should be chosen.”

He sent her that painting the next morning.

She never said she loved it. She didn’t have to. He saw the way her fingers hovered just above the frame, how her eyes softened at the colors. That was enough.

It arrived at her office without a note.

She returned it the next day. Also without a note.

A reservation followed.

Boccalino, the kind of place people waited six months for. A private table in the back, where no one could overhear.

She canceled without explanation.

Every gesture slid off her like rain on glass.

And the most intriguing part was she didn’t mock him. Didn’t scold him. Didn’t even acknowledge the effort.

That, that was what burned.

She didn’t exactly play hard to get…. She didn’t even play at all.

He was fascinated.

He started canceling dinners, meetings and deliveries for her events. Began rearranging shipments to keep his schedule open for when she might be in town.

He began showing up places he had no reason to be, benefits, auctions, boring gallery talks. And sometimes, he didn’t even speak to her, he just watched…

He needed to be around her, to hear her voice. To feel the low burn in his chest when she brushed past him without lingering.

Right now he didn’t just want her. He needed her. Needed her attention but she was still rationing it like it cost something.

And she wasn’t oblivious.

At first, it was easy to pretend the shifts were coincidence, a name on an invitation list, a sudden call from someone who had never returned her emails before. Curatorial panels. Private previews. A whisper from the National Museum offering her a position on an acquisitions committee she’d once been told required “years of seniority.”

It happened too fast to be chance. Doors didn’t open like that, not for her.

Works she’d only seen in catalogues, the kind of art that disappeared into vaults before most curators ever knew it was on the market. Suddenly, they were hers to bid on, hers to place, hers to decide.

He never mentioned it. Never asked for thanks. But he always looked at her like he knew she knew.

She did.

And still… she gave him nothing.

She let it happen. Not out of need, never that. But out of curiosity, out of a quiet hunger to watch him try. To see how far a man like Choi Moo-jin would go when the one thing he wanted couldn’t be bought.

And he keept trying…

When he offered another dinner, she countered with a professional lunch, one she rescheduled three times and then sent her assistant in her place.

He began dropping by her gallery at odd hours, stayed just long enough to confirm if she’d eaten, then left the food on the counter without waiting for thanks.

He sent her messages too, a photograph of a city she’d once mentioned, a book he thought she might like, a dish he ordered because it reminded him of her. She answered rarely, always polite, always professional, but never more than that.

The more she pulled away, the more he pursued, not like a man begging for attention, but like a king unused to being denied something beautiful.

A woman who didn’t need him.

A woman who knew exactly who he was... and still wouldn’t bow.

It was a Monday when she surprised him by reaching out first.

No event. No excuse. Just a call, her voice, calm and efficient as always inviting him to a private preview of a new installation at the gallery. Just her. Him. And three new pieces from a Moscow artist no one else had seen yet. The types of pieces that could easily clean unthinkable quantities of money.

She told herself it was about the art. But part of her wanted to see what he would look like in a room that wasn’t trying to impress him.

“Mr. Choi,” she greeted.

“And what do I owe the pleasure of this exclusive audience?”

She returned a slight, guarded smile. “I thought it was time you saw something without the usual crowd.”

He arched an eyebrow, a slow smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Am I your only guest tonight?”

She met his gaze evenly. “Tonight?” she said simply, “yes.”

It was an opening… a test, maybe.

She walked with him from piece to piece. He didn’t hear half of it. He was watching the way she spoke with her hands, the subtle shift in her expression when she was proud of a work, the rare moment when her gaze drifted to him and lingered.

“If I may… why me?” he asked. “You know a thousand real collectors.”

“You’re not a collector,” she said simply. “You’re a presence.”

“And is that what you wanted tonight? My presence?”

Her lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. More dangerous. “I wanted you to see how serious I am about what I do.”

“You think I don’t take you seriously?”

“I think you’re used to women being ornamental,” she said, walking past him now, heels soft on polished concrete. “I’m not.”

June brought its damp heat to Gangnam, and with it, the opening of a grand exposition. This time she passed him without stopping. Just a glance, a flick of acknowledgment. As if to say, yes, I see you, but you’re not what I came for.

He followed her out onto the terrace later, where she was standing alone.

You’re overdressed,” he said, stepping to her side.

She didn’t turn, she didn’t need to. She had known he would follow. A low hum escaped her. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Only then did she glance over her shoulder, a look that was not quite an invitation. His eyes dragged down the line of her bare back, unapologetically slow, lingering at the curve of her ass. He made no effort to disguise it, watching her like a man calculating what it would take to break the distance.

“That dress,” he said at last, voice low, “says you have better places to be.”

“I do” Her lips curved, the faintest hint of amusement. “Is that your way of saying you wish you were invited?”

“Maybe,” He chuckled, stepping a bit closer “Or maybe I just don’t like the idea of you being anywhere without me.”

She turned fully to face him, “Mr. Choi, if I wanted you there, you’d know.”

He dipped his head, voice dropping low. “Meeting someone?”

A pause. Not long, but long enough for the words to bloom between them. It wasn’t curiosity. It was Jealousy…

“Are you asking if I’m seeing someone?” she asked, her tone light, almost amused.

“I’m asking if he’s waiting,” he said.

Her lips curved as she tilted her head. “And what if he is?”

His eyes locked on hers, steady, unblinking. “Then let him wait a little longer.”

“That would be unwise. As I said, I don’t mix work and… distractions.” She eyed him up and then down.

“But you are distracted!”

She smiled. Just barely. “Not in the way you want me to be.”

By now, Moo-jin’s visits to the gallery were so routine that the assistants barely questioned him when his shadow passed their desks. He would appear, nod a greeting, exchange a few words with Y/N if she wasn’t buried in meetings, and then vanish again without explanation.

She had gotten used to the sound of his voice drifting down the hall, the low hum of it blending into the background like the steady tick of a clock you don’t notice until it stops.

That afternoon, she was upstairs reviewing a shipment manifest when she caught movement through the glass railing overlooking the main floor.

It was him.

Jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a sight she had never actually seen before. He stood near the far corner of the west wall, crouched beside the antique display case whose hinge had been loose since before she took over the gallery. She’d mentioned it to him once in passing, offhandedly, after he’d leaned against it during a conversation.

“Oh, that thing? It’s been like that forever. I’ll get it fixed eventually”, she’d said.

She hadn’t thought about it since.

But there he was, a small toolkit open beside him. He braced the cabinet with one hand while tightening the hinge with the other. It was… disarming. The sight of him like that, grounded, unguarded.

One of the security guards even offered to help, and he waved him off without even looking up.

From where she stood, hidden from his view, she realized how rare this was. Not the act itself, but what it meant, he’d remembered something she’d said in passing, something too small to matter to anyone else, and he was here, fixing it himself. No delegation. No show. Just him, quietly making something in her space work the way it should.

Her pulse gave a small, unwelcome kick, and she told herself it was just the novelty of the scene.

She didn’t move. Didn’t call out. But two days later, a plain white box appeared on Moo-jin’s desk.

No card. No sender.

Inside, neatly arranged dasik, homemade too, each piece pressed with delicate patterns, the exact kind he had once mentioned offhand as his favorite during a long-forgotten conversation about childhood treats.

He never mentioned the sweets. She never mentioned the hinge.

The restaurant was one of those narrow, tucked-away places in Samcheong-dong, all warm light and quiet corners. She’d chosen it because it was nearly impossible to get a reservation unless you knew someone, and she did, the man she was supposed to be meeting.

She was fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes became twenty. Twenty became thirty.

The maître stopped glancing toward the door fifteen minutes ago, his polite sympathy worn down to quiet pity.

Her water glass was still mostly full, the ice melting in lazy half-moons.

She’d told herself she’d give it ten more minutes and checked her phone again. No message. No call.

“Small world,” a low, familiar voice slid into the quiet at her table.

Her head snapped up.

“Mr. Choi,” she said, startled enough that his name came out softer than she meant. “Didn’t expect to meet you here”

“I have dinner here most weeks.” He glanced toward the back, where the familiar corner table waited, untouched, just for him. “They keep it open.”

Her brows rose, and something flickered in her expression, surprise, maybe even curiosity, before she schooled it. “Of course they do.”

“And you? This is definitely a first”

“Well.. I’m waiting…” she said after a beat.

“For someone?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Yes.”

“They’re late!” He stated it like a fact.

“I noticed.”

He hummed as though weighing something. “What a fool…”

A faint laugh escaped her. “Why’s that?”

“Because anyone who makes you wait doesn’t deserve the seat.”

She arched a brow. “You think you do?”

“I haven’t made you wait yet,” he said like he was proud of himself.

She shook her head, amused despite herself. Then she picked up her glass, took a slow sip, and glanced toward the entrance again.

He rested a hand on the back of the empty chair. “I could sit… Keep you company until he arrives.”

“And if he does?”

“Then I’ll leave,” he said simply. “So… until then…” He pulled out the chair, waited for her to object.

She didn’t.

They eased into conversation without force.

At first, it was safe ground, the gallery’s latest shipment, a Lisbon artist she’d recently acquired. He listened, leaning forward slightly, a lazy sort of attention that made it hard to tell if he was humoring her or genuinely interested.

“You’d hate his work,” she said at one point.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not about the statement or the prestige. It’s about quiet. Patience.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re assuming I don’t have patience.”

“You don’t,” she said without hesitation.

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were holding back a retort, but before he could answer a voice cut through.

“Are you ready to order, Mr. Choi Moo-jin?” the waiter asked as he waited by the table.

Moo-jin turned his eyes to her, just for a moment, and held her gaze with that quiet, almost smug patience waiting for her to protest, waiting for her to assert that technically she was still expecting her date.

But she said nothing, only met his eyes for a heartbeat, then looked away.

He didn’t touch the menu when he ordered for both of them. Two dishes appeared on the order, exactly the ones she liked.

When the waiter left, she narrowed her eyes at him. “How did you know?”

“I pay attention.”

“To?”

He poured her wine. “Details.”

She let the answer hang.

By the time the first course arrived, they’d drifted to other topics, distracted by the clink of cutlery and the soft noise of the restaurant.

By now he told her a story about being stuck in Tokyo with three trucks of perishable cargo and no working refrigeration.

“And what was in the trucks?” she asked, tilting her head.

His eyes glinted, the kind of look that hinted at more than he’d ever say outright. “You don’t want to know.”

“Now I do.”

He paused just long enough to make her lean in, then said, “Let’s just say… it wasn’t the kind of cargo you declare at customs.”

Her brow lifted. “Because?”

“Because it’s better for everyone if the details stay vague.” He sipped his wine, unhurried, as if that was the end of it.

She studied him for a beat, lips curling. “So… what you’re saying is… if you tell me, I’m basically an accomplice.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Exactly. And I’d hate to make you complicit in something over dinner.”

“How considerate,” she said, dryly.

The waiter slipped by with the second course, placing plates in front of them. The scent of roasted herbs drifted up, as another conversation continued.

“So what changed?”

She shrugged, a little wistful. “Maybe we just weren’t the same people after all. Or maybe I just learned I don’t like feeling like an afterthought.”

He watched her for a moment, not with pity, but with the kind of quiet attention that made it feel like he was actually listening. “He sounds like an idiot.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Or I just have bad taste.”

Moo-jin’s mouth curved faintly. “If that’s true, you’re sitting here with me, so what does that say?”

“That I might still have bad taste,” she said, unable to stop the smirk that followed.

This time, he laughed, low, genuine, like she’d caught him off guard.

They let the conversation meander, stories about places they’d been, places they’d never seen but wanted to.

“You’d like Marrakesh,” he said. “It’s loud. Alive.”

“You’ve been?”

“A few times. I know a guy in the markets there who swears he can tell someone’s whole life story just by the way they haggle. He tried it with me once.”

“And?”

“He got it wrong. Said I was an accountant. Married with two kids.”

She laughed immediately. “Yeah, I can totally see it, you, in a beige sweater, telling people to keep their receipts.”

He smirked. “Careful. Beige is my color.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Alright, you’ve seen me bidding on art before. If you didn’t know me… what would you think my life story was?”

He pondered for a second but his answer came too easily. “I feel like, you’d be a rich heiress who buys absurdly expensive stuff just to annoy her family. Probably has a trust fund, definitely at least two ex-fiancés and you once broke up with a guy purely because you couldn’t stand his laugh.”

Her eyes widened, a laugh escaping before she could stop it. “Okay… how do you even know that?”

He just gave her a smug little shrug. “An educated guess”

She laughed harder and smacked his arm.

His gaze dropped to where her hand had landed, and he smiled like he’d just won something. “Ah… physical retaliation. I’ll take that as progress.”

“Don’t read too much into it.” As she retracted.

“Was that your way of saying you like me?”

“Let’s say I liked the educated guess…” She reached for her wine, lips curving. “I’ll blame the rest on this.”

He leaned in a little, “I’ll blame it for now.”

They resumed eating then, but the conversation didn’t slow.

Between bites, she asked, “So what’s the first thing you ever wanted that money couldn’t buy?”

“You.” He didn’t hesitate.

By dessert, the air between them felt warmer. Softer. She was leaning back in her chair now, more at ease than when they’d started, her wine glass resting loosely between her fingers.

“You know,” he said lightly, swirling the last of his own glass, “you’ve spent weeks dodging dinner with me.”

She raised a brow. “Dodging? That’s dramatic. I was… scheduling.”

“Scheduling?” He gave her a slow, knowing look. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Yes,” she said, a little too primly, which only made him smirk.

“And yet here you are,” he went on, voice dipping into something almost smug, “eating dessert with me. Which means…”

“Which means what?” she challenged.

“That it wasn’t so bad, or you would have left already”

She made a face, pretending to think. “I mean… the wine helped.”

He laughed quietly. “I’ll take that… Baby steps.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it and he noticed.

When they finally left, he walked her to her car where her assistant waited.

And never once since he appeared she mentioned the man was supposed to be there instead.

Nor did he, though he was quietly pleased that the night had gone exactly as he had planned. A careful observer might have guessed that he had a hand in keeping the evening and her attention entirely his.

The charity luncheon was being held in a glass-walled conservatory, the late day un spilling in through high arches of steel and glass. Rows of tables were draped in linen, dotted with white hydrangeas and tall glasses of sparkling beverages that caught the light.

She was speaking with an older woman in a wide-brimmed hat, the kind who had been on every committee since the ’80s. It was the sort of polite small talk that required a steady smile and a graceful nod every thirty seconds.

She didn’t hear him approach, but she noticed the soft pop of champagne bubbles and the faint scent of his cologne as a chilled glass appeared in her peripheral vision.

 “Forgive me for intruding,” his voice slid into the space between them “Thought you ladies might like a refill.”

“How thoughtful,” the woman said, smiling as he handed her a glass, then passed the other to Y/N.

“Not at all,” he replied. “It’s a beautiful event, I’d hate for anyone to miss the best part.”

The woman’s eyes flicked between them. “Do you usually attend these luncheons?”

Y/N shook her head, her mouth curving faintly. “No, I’m pretty sure this is his first time.”

“Haven’t seen you much this week,” Moo-jin added, his gaze fixed on her instead of the woman. “Thought I’d fix that.”

The woman’s smile warmed, as if something had just clicked. “Well, it’s lovely to see you here with your husband,” she said to Y/N, her tone matter-of-fact. “Not all men are willing to give up their afternoon for a charity event.”

He didn’t even miss a beat.

“Oh I’d anything for my beautiful wife,” he said smoothly, offering his hand in greeting. “Choi Moo-jin.”

As the woman introduced herself, his free hand found Y/N’s waist, a warm, steady touch, so natural it seemed like it had always been there. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, one brow faintly lifted, the hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth.

But she didn’t say a word.

“Although I do try to keep her from working the entire afternoon,” he added, with the ghost of a smile.

The woman laughed, clearly charmed, “Well it was great to meet you both.” With a gracious nod, she drifted toward another group of guests.

He guided her out into the sunlight, the glass doors closing softly behind them as his hand never left its place.

The terrace was quieter.

She leaned back against the cool stone railing, the champagne glass balanced loosely in her hand.

“You really are quick on your feet,” she said, tilting her head at him.

“I had help,” he replied, stepping in close “You made it far too easy for me.”

“Glad you got to live your little fantasy.”

He set his palm on the railing beside her hip, close but not touching, caging her in. “Fantasy?” His eyes lingered on her mouth before locking with hers again. “That was practice.”

“Practice for what?” she asked, brow arched.

“For when you stop pretending you don’t want me.”

“That’s not happening.”

His smile sharpened, amused. “Interesting choice of words.”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You didn’t say you don’t want me. Just that you admiting it it’s not happening."

Her breath caught, heat crept into her cheeks. She turned her head, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on her flushed face, wickedly pleased. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“I’m not...”

“Don’t worry.” His grin was slow, infuriating. “I can be patient.”

He let the words hang between them, then straightened, stepping back as though he hadn’t just unraveled her. “It was great to see you.”

And then he was gone, strolling back inside as if he hadn’t just set her on fire. She stayed rooted to the spot, the stone at her back deliciously cool, though it did nothing to stop her from fanning her flushed face.

The first-floor gallery was quiet that afternoon, a rarity. Most of the staff were upstairs unpacking a new arrival, the sound of distant thuds and muted chatter spilling faintly down the stairwell.

She was in the far corner, leaning over a display table, checking the alignment of a recently framed photograph. One hand braced the edge of the table, the other resting lightly on the frame’s top corner as she squinted down the line.

“You’re off by two millimeters,” came his voice.

She didn’t startle. He dropped by so often now that she didn’t even need to look to recognize that voice. “And you’re measuring that with what, exactly? Your ego?”

“Experience,” he said, stepping up beside her. He didn’t lean over the frame, he leaned over her, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.

"In what exactly?” she asked, not moving but looking at him from the corner of her eye.

“Knowing when something’s slightly out of place.”

Her eyes moved to the photograph. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

“I came here,” he said, his tone lighter now, “because your assistant told me you’d been working without a break for seven hours.” He straightened slightly, eyes sweeping over her face. “And I wanted to see if that was true.”

“And if it is?”

“Then I’d tell you to take a break,” he said, fingers brushing the edge of the frame. “Or at least let me help.”

She smirked faintly. “I didn’t know manual labor was your thing.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, “but I’d make an exception.”

Without asking, he placed both hands on the frame, his much larger grip swallowing the delicate wood. “Hold it steady,” he instructed.

She arched a brow but didn’t argue. He adjusted the piece with a precision.

“There,” he said finally.

She stepped back to check, lips pursing. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” His smile was slow, dangerous. “You could just say thank you.”

She tilted her head. “You could just leave it at not bad”

The next time he saw her, she was laughing with someone else.

A young man, elegant, over-groomed, the kind of wealthy that hadn’t had to fight for it. Moo-jin knew the type. Knew the family.

Knew him, and he didn’t like him.

They were standing too close at the Zoiy preview, his hand briefly at the small of her back as they discussed a minimalist piece Moo-Jin found offensively bland.

She was smiling, head tilted slightly. Receptive. Engaged. She didn’t look like someone uninterested.

When he walked past them, she paused mid-sentence. Her eyes found his like they always did, and then, after a beat, she turned back to her companion like he wasn’t there.

No greeting, no small acknowledgment. Nothing.

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t even make a scene.

But a day later, when the young man’s name showed up in a minor bribery scandal in the national paper, Moo-jin didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t responsible.

Let her connect the dots.

Let her wonder.

Later the week, the next time they saw each other, at smaller event, more private, she approached him first.

“You’re not subtle,” she murmured as she passed by, barely brushing his arm.

He caught her wrist gently. “Did he matter?”

She turned slowly to face him, “What if he did?”

His jaw flexed at that, “Then I would’ve made sure it hurt more.”

She let out a soft scoff, almost a laugh, not kind, but not cruel either. The sound sat somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

She should be furious with him. Furious that he’d reached into her life and plucked someone out of it with the same casual ruthlessness he used to settle business disputes. Furious that he’d made choices for her, pulled strings she hadn’t asked him to touch.

And yet—she wasn’t. Not really. She hadn’t planned on seeing the man again, not seriously, and something about Moo-jin’s interference… it intrigued her. It was reckless. Bold. Possessive in a way she should have hated, but instead found herself cataloging, wondering just how far he’d go.

“You keep showing up,” she said at last, eyes narrowing slightly. “Circling…”

“I thought you didn’t mind.” He cut her off.

“I don’t,” she said. “But I need to know what you want exactly”

“You.” Simple. Final.

She exhaled softly, eyes dropping to his mouth for a fraction of a second, a glance he almost doubted he saw. But he did.

“And if I say you couldn’t have me?”

“Then I’d keep showing up until that changed.”

She looked away then, but didn’t move.

Instead, she leaned just a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make his pulse quicken. “You want to prove you’re different from the other men. But you’re still trying to own me.”

“If I wanted to own you, I’d be less polite.”  he said, low and sharp.

Her eyes flicked over his face, registering the shift. But before she could reply, a voice cut through the silence.

“Choi Moo-jin” someone called from across the room, a polished man in an expensive jacket already making his way toward them. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself…”

He barely turned, irritation flickering across his expression.

She took that moment.

Smoothly, she stepped back. “It seems your audience never tires,” she said, almost under her breath, but loud enough to linger.

He turned to her again, too late. She was already walking away.

She slipped out quietly, head down, weaving past the knot of guests. The chatter fell away behind her, the hush of the marble hallway a relief. An elevator waited, already open. She stepped in, pressed the button, and exhaled as the doors began to slide shut.

A hand slid in at the last second, stopping them with a muted thud.

Her eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” Moo-jin’s voice was low, amused.

She leaned back against the rail, steadying herself. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

“That’s because you weren’t looking for me.” The corner of his mouth curved. “Tragic oversight.”

She tilted her head, lips curving faintly. “You always this persistent?”

“Only when it works,” he said, the elevator humming to life as his gaze stayed locked on hers.

The car shuddered, jolted once, then froze. Lights flickered, the hum and soft music cutting out mid-note.

She went very still.

No gasp, no scene, just the subtle tightening of her shoulders, the hard set of her jaw, the shallow catch in her breath. Her hand hovered over the panel but didn’t touch, as if even a fingertip might make it worse.

He saw the moment it hit her, the box too small, the silence too loud, the air suddenly thinner than it had been a second ago.

“Hey.” His voice was easy, almost dismissive. “It happens. It’ll start again in a second.”

She swallowed. “I don’t like elevators.”

That pulled his eyes to her. The silence pressed in — mechanical, sterile. She jabbed the alarm; it chirped once, useless.

His tone changed, low and steady now. “Look at me.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the dead panel.

“Not the buttons. Me.” He stepped closer, filling her periphery until she had no choice. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

She shook her head, a sharp breath slipping out.

“Breathe with me,” he said, calm but unyielding.

She cut him a glare. “Shut it, Moo-jin.”

“I mean it, breathe with me,” he countered, softer. “Just for a minute.”

Her chest was tight, lungs filling shallow. “This is ridiculous.”

“Probably,” he agreed, voice deep enough to settle low in her chest. “Tell me five things you can see.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Five.” His tone left no room for argument. He stepped in, bracing his palms on either side of her, fingers curling around the cold railing until the steel gave a faint groan. “Common Y/n, eyes on me!”

He was close enough that the space between them barely counted as space at all, the heat of his body seeping into her, the scent of cedar and smoke thick in her lungs. Her gaze flicked to his hands first, the veins standing out along the backs. Then his eyes, sharp and steady, locked on hers like they had nowhere else to be.

Her mouth twitched. “You.”

“Flattering,” he murmured. “Four more.”

She dragged her eyes away, scanning because he told her to. “The camera… ”

“The camera.” he repeated.

Her gaze slid back to him without her permission. “Your… tie pin...”

He didn’t move, didn’t give her space. “Go on.”

She hesitated, tongue pressing to the back of her teeth. “Yourrr… your lips.”

That earned her a slow smirk, his eyes dipping briefly to hers. “that´s four, one more”

Her attention drifted lower, the forearms braced on either side of her, the faint flex of muscle under rolled sleeves. “Your hands,” she said, almost under her breath.

“Good, now… tell me four things you can feel.”

Her fingers tightened on the rail. “The rail,” she said, knuckles brushing the side of his hand. “My pulse.” She drew in a steadier breath. “The floor under my heels.” Another pause, softer this time.

“One more”

“Your cologne.” She breathed out. “That’s smell, not feel” he murmured.

She hesitated, then looked him dead in the eye. “You.”

“That’s vague.”

“You’re everywhere.” She lightly laughed, the kind of laugh that tries to ease your nerves.

“Okay, valid.” He shifted, “May I?”

She met his eyes, pulse jumping under her skin. A small nod.

He moved slowly enough to let her refuse, but firmly enough that she knew she wouldn’t. One large hand left the rail to take her wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones like he was measuring her heartbeat. His thumb pressed over the thrum of it.

“Match me,” he said. He inhaled for four, exhaled for six, the rhythm written in the rise and fall of his chest, his gaze never breaking from hers.

Her heartbeat was thundering in her ears, too fast to count. She wanted to believe it was only the elevator, the airless box, the faint mechanical groan of cables overhead, not him, not the way his hand wrapped around her wrist like he could anchor her in place.

“You’re not breathing,” he murmured.

“I am,” she said, but it came out thinner than she meant.

“Not with me, you’re not.” His thumb swept lazily over her pulse, a reminder of how fast it was. “Again.”

She tried, in for four, out for six, but every inhale seemed to bring more of him, his scent and heat and the faint rasp of his sleeve against her arm.

“This isn’t working,” she muttered.

“It is,” he countered, low and certain. “You´re thinking about me instead of the elevator. That’s the point.”

Her lips parted, no quick retort coming.

“Keep going.” He urged.

After a few more breaths her shoulders lowered a fraction.

“Less terrible,” she admitted.

But then her eyes flicked to the sealed doors, the narrow walls pressing close, and the relief faltered. Her breath hitched again, faster this time, as if the air itself had thinned.

“Fuck...” She shook her head, chest tightening. “Why are we still stuck.”

"Don´t think about it" He let go, stepping a way, giving her space. “Talk to me,” he said, easy. “Tell me… something true.”

She side-eyed him. “You first.”

“I don’t like feeling useless,” he said, surprising them both with the honesty.

A small sound, almost a laugh was all she managed.

“Your turn.”

She stared at the closed doors, then at him. “I don’t like being watched.”

He didn’t flinch. “By anyone, or by me?”

She held his gaze a heartbeat too long. “We’re not doing this here.”

“Here is currently all we have.”

She shook her head, but the panic was loosening, the edges of her mouth softened. “You’re infuriating.”

“So I’ve been told.” He leaned back against the opposite wall, giving her more space than he occupied.

He glanced at the panel, then up at the ceiling, as if he could will the car into motion. “Want to hear a joke?”

Her eyes narrowed. “God, don’t.”

He ignored her. “Know the worst thing about being stuck in an elevator?”

She groaned. “Please…”

“You’re stuck here with me.” He delivered it dead serious, not even a flicker of a smile.

The laugh slipped out of her anyway, short, unwilling, real. It bounced off the walls, softening the edges of the box, making the space feel just a little less small.

“There she is,” he murmured, more to himself.

The car hummed. A shiver ran through the floor. The light steadied; something engaged above them. They felt the lift like a breath finally taken.

Her eyes closed on the exhale. “Thank God.”

His gaze lingered on her, watching the tension drain from her shoulders, the faint tremor still in her hand.

“See?” he murmured, softer now. “Told you it would start again.”

She opened her eyes, catching him looking, and straightened quickly, as if remembering herself. But the flush in her cheeks gave her away.

The elevator carried them downward, smooth and steady, as though nothing had happened at all.

It eased to a stop. The doors slid open on an empty corridor, washed in white light. She stepped out first, the hush of the hall a strange contrast to the box they’d just left. He stayed inside, hands in his pockets, as if crossing that threshold would make the moment less real.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He dipped his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Any time you need me to count to four.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

The table was too long, the kind that turned dinner into theater. Crystal, silver, wine poured by men in gloves.

She sat midway down, posture perfect, smile polite. The man beside her had been leaning in since the first course, his cologne faint but insistent, his voice filling every gap in the conversation. He was exactly her type on paper, young, rich, ambitious, the kind of man who believed he was already reshaping the world. And he was interested, no question about it. She should have cared. She should have been flattered.

Instead, she found herself wondering how anyone could make ambition sound so dull. So she nodded at the right intervals, murmured the right polite nothings, but her eyes kept wandering.

It was impossible not to.

At the far end, Choi Moo-jin sat a few seats away. He had arrived late, the way he always did when he’d rather be anywhere else. He slipped into the room without apology, jacket in hand, looking like the kind of man who never rushed for anyone.

But the truth gave him away the moment he reached the table.

His eyes found hers instantly, already waiting, and in that look was the unspoken admission: if he’d known she would be here, he would have come earlier. Maybe even tried to steal the seat beside her.

Instead, too many candles and too many voices stretched between them.

Conversation swirled around him, an older couple hanging on his every word, the woman beside him laughing too easily, leaning in too close. She was clearly interested, all bright eyes and practiced charm. But his attention kept slipping back across the table. To her.

By the third course, she couldn’t take another word about market disruption or predictive algorithms. Her smile was beginning to ache, her wine glass nearly empty, and still the man beside her hadn’t stopped talking.

She set her fork down gently, "If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said, rising with the kind of polite grace that made it impossible to argue.

He didn’t get up right away. He let a few minutes pass, long enough to be polite, long enough not to look like he was chasing her. But of course he would.

When he finally pushed open the restroom door, she was waiting, perched on the counter like she belonged there. Heels balanced on the edge, skirt riding a little higher than it had at the table, a glassy sheen in her eyes that spoke of too much wine but not nearly enough to dull her wit.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten me."

He shut the door behind him. “Impossible.”

She tilted her head, watching him cross the room. “You let me suffer through an hour of small talk about algorithms.”

He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tip her chin up to meet his eyes. “He isn´t a treath. Why would I interrupt?”

Her mouth curved. “So you enjoyed it then? Watching me die of boredom?”

He smirked, leaning a hand on the counter beside her. “Watching you try not to roll your eyes? Absolutely.”

Her hand slid boldly onto his tie, fingers tightening just enough to pull him closer between her knees. His body went taut, braced, palms flattening on the counter on either side of her hips. Then, just as he thought she might close the distance, her hand slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He stilled, watching.

She came back with a pack of cigarettes. She tapped one loose and set the rest neatly back, as if she owned the right. Then she placed the cigarette between her lips and lit it, exhaling a slow.

“I know your habits,” she said, her voice husky around the smoke.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there. “And you’re bold enough to steal them.”

“Borrow,” she corrected, giving him a little push so he stepped back an inch.

He let out a quiet laugh, low in his chest. “You could’ve asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She flicked ash into the sink,. “Besides… you didn’t save me at dinner. I figured you owed me.”

His eyes narrowed with amusement. “You wanted saving?”

“I wanted out.” She met his gaze squarely. “But you were too entertained by your little admirer to notice.”

“Jealous?”

She scoffed, watching the smoke curl from his mouth. “Of her? Please. She’s not even your type.”

His brow arched. “Oh? And what exactly is my type?”

“You wouldn’t still be standing here if you didn’t know.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his as she took the cigarette back. She inhaled, slow, then exhaled deliberately toward him. “And if you want it again, you’ll have to ask nicely.”

A low chuckle rumbled from him, amused. “Everything with you comes with conditions.”

“Everything with you comes with strings,” she shot back, a little too sharp.

He caught her wrist before she could raise it away, “And yet you keep tugging on them.”

“Maybe I like watching you unravel.”

“You think I’m unraveling?” he asked softly.

She smirked. “Not yet... But I could make it happen.”

His smile deepened, dangerous. He slid the cigarette back between her lips himself, his finger grazing the corner of her mouth. “Try me.”

She took one last drag, and handed it back. “You make it too easy.”

Then she slid off the counter, straight into him. He didn’t move, didn’t step back, so as she lowered to the floor, her whole body brushed against his, chest to hip to thigh.

Her lips curved, close enough for him to feel the whisper of her breath. “Thanks for the smoke.”

The soft click-click-click of her heels echoed down the marble corridor, sharp, rhythmic, purposeful.

“You,” she breathed. She pointed at him with a finger, playful yet accusing, closing the distance with each step. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

He tilted his head, a slow smirk playing on his lips, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

 “I got the meeting.” Her cheeks were flushed, her breath slightly uneven from the quick pace. “Alexandre Brossat.”

“I seem to recall you saying it was... what was the word?” His grin deepened, teasing. “Impossible.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile that lit her face. “God,! Shut up.” Without warning, she closed the remaining space between them, arms looping around his neck in a hug that was unexpected but entirely sincere. He caught her by the waist with ease, lifting her slightly off the ground and spinning her gently once before setting her down.

He could feel the delicate flutter of her pulse beneath his palm, the slight tension in her muscles as she leaned into him.

“There’s no impossible for Choi Moo-jin, is there?” she whispered, warm against his collarbone.

 “Not when it comes to you.” He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, fingertips trailing reverently along her cheek.

Her gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips and back again.

“Why?” she asked.

He let his thumb trace her jawline gently, savoring the softness beneath his touch. “Because I can.” His voice dropped, “But more than that... because you deserve it."

Her mouth parted, as if ready to speak, but no words came. His gaze flicked to the tiny space between their bodies, barely a breath apart.

“You’re dangerously close,” he said, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “I might get used to this.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Don’t.”

“But you’re not moving,” he teased, fingers barely grazing her waist.

She held her ground, fingers tightening on his lapel just enough “Yeah, I’m not.”

Everyone else had gone hours ago, she’d insisted they leave when the clock struck ten, but she stayed, crouched over a display case, lining up the last of the placards. The air still smelled faintly of paint and wood shavings from the crates that had only just been unpacked.

“You’re still here.”

She straightened, already frowning, before turning to find him in the doorway. One hand was in his coat pocket, the other holding two paper bags that steamed faintly.

“Moo-jin?” she said, glancing at her watch. “What are you doing here?”

“Dinner.” His tone left no room for interpretation. “I know you haven’t eaten.”

She sighed, turning back to the display. “I’ve told you before, you don’t have to buy me dinner.”

“Your assistant disagrees. She knows to tell me when you’re still here after dark.”

Y/N shot him a look over her shoulder, half exasperated, half amused. “I’ve also told you, you can’t bribe my assistants to report on my life.”

His mouth curved, unbothered. “Then stop making it so easy to worry about you.”

“I’m fine,” she said, turning back to the display. “I’ll grab something later.”

“No, you won’t.” He crossed the room, “You’ll finish at five in the morning, skip breakfast, and pretend coffee is enough until this opens tomorrow.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “You’re very dramatic.”

He set the bags down on the small table by the waiting area, folding the top open carefully. “Sit.”

“I have to finish th...”

“Sit, Y/N.” Something in his voice, made her pause.

The small sofa by the museum entrance felt unexpectedly cozy. She sank into the cushions with a sigh, chopsticks in hand, while he settled beside her, quietly opening his own container. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the first bite.

He caught her glance and smirked faintly.

“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Just wondering,” he said, “how many times I’ve had to feed you before you admit you’d starve without me.”

She scoffed, though there was no real bite in it. “You make it sound like I’d fall apart without you.”

He tilted his head, watching her chew. “Maybe I know what you need better than you do?”

She paused, food halfway to her mouth, noticing the warmth of him beside her “You’d love me to admit that, wouldn’t you?”

The words hung there.

She thought about all the times she’d looked up at a crowded event and found him already watching her. How he’d show up with the thing she’d been meaning to get for weeks. How he was always there, whether she’d asked or not. How he would call her assistant late at night to check if she was still at the gallery. How he brought dinner when she forgot to eat, left coffee on her desk before morning meetings, had files couriered over because he knew she hated waiting for them.

It was always small, never loud, but constant, so constant that she realized, maybe for the first time, that he was always waiting.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

He reached for a piece of dumpling and held it up to her. “Here. Try this.”

She hesitated, then, hunger and fatigue outweighing stubbornness, and took it. “You really do treat me like a child sometimes.”

“I like it when you let me take care of you.” He admitted.  “One more,” he said, reaching to feed her again.

She complied without protest this time, but she narrowed her eyes, lips curving despite herself as she chewed.

“You know,” he said after a moment, leaning back slightly, “I never thought I’d reach the point where you’d let me order you around like this.”

She leaned against the sofa cushions, letting out a soft exhale. “Maybe… when I’m this tired, I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Ah,” he said softly, “so that’s the secret… exhaustion.”

They finished the last bites in silence, chopsticks clinking softly against the boxes. She leaned back into the sofa cushions with a long, tired sigh, closing her eyes for just a moment.

“I’ll help,” she murmured, voice low, trying to push herself up as he began gathering the empty containers.

“No,” he said gently, placing a hand on her arm to guide her back into the cushions. “Really, I’ve got this.”

She blinked at him, exhausted but stubborn. “…Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said, “Go on, close your eyes for a bit. I won’t disturb you.”

Her eyelids drooped almost immediately, and her breathing slowed as she settled back into the sofa, head tilting slightly to the side. Moo-jin watched her for a moment, the warmth in his chest spreading at how peaceful she looked. He felt protective, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He quietly cleared the table, stacking boxes and wiping down surfaces. He paused mid-step, looking around the main hall. The displays were almost done, but a few placards were crooked, a crate still half unpacked, and a stray wire looped awkwardly behind a panel.

Might as well.

Moo-jin moved quietly, adjusting the displays, straightening the placards, securing loose wires, and making sure the lighting highlighted the pieces correctly. He checked the security system quietly, making sure the cameras were positioned, the alarms set. And with every small adjustment, he kept one ear tuned to her soft breathing from the sofa, making sure not to disturb her.

When he finally stepped back and surveyed the hall, everything was in place. Satisfied, he made his way back to the sofa and lowered himself gently beside her.

The shift of the cushions nudged her awake.

She stirred, blinking rapidly. “Huh…? What time is it?” she murmured, voice groggy. She glanced at her watch. “Three thirthy…? Oh, shit… I need to…” She swung her legs over, trying to stand.

He moved before she could, wrapping a gentle arm around her waist and pulling her back down against the sofa. “You don´t,” he murmured.

She tilted her head up at him, still dazed. “I don´t?”

He nodded, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “I know it’s not perfect… but I think it’ll do.”

Her eyes slowly scanned the room, taking in the neatly arranged placards, the displays perfectly aligned, the soft glow of the lights highlighting each piece. Even the crate she had been meaning to unpack was gone, tucked away neatly.

 “…You did all this?”

He shrugged lightly, brushing a hand along the back of the sofa. “I figured…. wanted to make it easier for you.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. It took a moment before she managed, softly, “You shouldn’t have…”

His hand brushed hers, steady, grounding. “I wanted to. That’s the difference.”

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “Now sleep for a little bit. I’ll drive you home in he morning, you can change… and we’ll be back for the opening, no rush.”

“Okay…” Her eyes fluttered half-shut, her words slurring from exhaustion. A faint smile ghosted across her lips as she buried her face into his shirt. “…you smell good.”

He huffed a low laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Thanks for noticing.”

That drew the smallest chuckle out of her, “…And you’re really warm,” she whispered, nuzzling deeper into him as if to prove her point.

For a moment she just breathed him in, her lashes heavy, her cheek resting against the rough edge of his jaw. Then, slowly, her gaze lifted to his. She looked at him as if she was only just seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time.

“…You always do this,” she murmured, dazed.

“Do what?” His tone was quiet, curious.

Her shoulders shifted in a faint shrug, her voice almost too soft to catch. “Show up. Fix things. Make it feel like… like I don’t have to do everything on my own.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

Her lips curved, tired but genuine. She leaned into him a little more, her temple brushing his beard, the faint rasp of it against her skin. “It’s nice… having you here.”

He tucked a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a little too long, the tips grazing the curve of her jaw. “Good,” he murmured, low and certain. “Because I’m staying right here.”

For a long second, she just looked at him, her breath catching as her hand drifted almost unconsciously to his sleeve, curling lightly in the fabric. Then she leaned in, almost uncertain, almost like she might stop herself halfway, but her lips brushed his before she could think better of it.

Soft. Testing. The kind of kiss that wasn’t meant to be anything more than what it was.

His mouth was warm against hers, still, patient, as if he knew the decision was hers alone. His hand slid from her hair to the nape of her neck, steadying her, thumb brushing once against her skin.

She breathed in, catching the faintest trace of cologne and smoke clinging to him, her fingers tightening slightly at his sleeve. The world tilted just enough to make her forget how tired she was, how much she’d meant to keep this line unbroken.

When she finally drew back, her lips still grazed his, her eyes heavy-lidded, dazed. A whisper slipped out before she could swallow it down. “…Thank you.”

Three days.

Three days without a call. Without a text. Without her name on a guest list or a room.

He wasn’t the kind of man to wait around, especially not in silence. At first, he gave her space, a courtesy disguised as indifference. But by day three, the air around him felt tight.

So he sent an email.

Polite. Neutral. Inconspicuous.

Her assistant replied within minutes.

"Ms. Y/L is currently traveling. She will be unavailable until further notice."

Until further notice.

It was the kind of phrase that made his jaw clench.

Not because of what it said.

But because of what it didn’t.

By midnight, he was sitting in the back of his car, phone glowing cold in his hand. He tapped the screen, lifted it to his ear.

“Have you found out anything?” he asked, voice low, composed.

And that’s how it started.

A rumor.

Her name. Another man’s name.

A flight to Paris. Dinner. A gallery.

A shared car service.

A hotel check-in, ten minutes after hers.

Nothing confirmed. Nothing denied.

Just enough to linger.

Just enough to cut.

“Sir… Miss Y/L is here.” Tae-ju’s voice crackled through the intercom. “She’s asking to speak with you.”

Moo-jin didn’t look up right away, pen still lingering over the document he was just reading.

“She says it’s important.”

That made him pause.

Of course he already knew she was back, his people had tracked her flight the moment she left Charles de Gaulle. But this… this wasn’t expected.

No call. No message. Her. Here. Unannounced.

Still seated, he reached out and tapped the monitor in the corner of his desk, the security feed flickered to life.

There she was.

Standing just past the security line, her posture was composed, but something in it sagged, not weakness, but weight. The kind that didn’t show unless you knew where to look.

Tae-ju stood a few feet away, nodding as she spoke. He glanced toward the camera. Waiting.

 “Let her up.”

A few minutes passed.

Then the soft chime of the elevator.

The doors opened with a quiet hiss, and she stepped inside.

Her heels didn’t strike the floor the way they usually did, they whispered across it.

She looked… smaller... not in presence, but in energy. The sharpness was gone.

“Thank you,” she murmured to Tae-ju.

He gave a small bow and stepped back, closing the door behind her.

Silence settled.

Moo-jin didn’t rise. He remained behind his desk, backlit by the gray light spilling in from the windows, the cigarette between his fingers burned low, mostly forgotten.

She didn’t speak right away. Her eyes swept the room once, as if grounding herself, then landed on him.

 “I’m sorry to come unannounced,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have, but…” A sigh slipped from her lips as she brushed her fingers through her hair. “This couldn’t wait.”

Still, he didn’t speak.

She crossed her arms like bracing herself. “I assume you’ve heard by now,” she said. “About the gallery in France.”

Moo-jin tapped his ash into the tray. “I’ve heard rumors.”

She nodded, eyes flicking to the window behind him before finding his face again. “They’ve cut the entire project.”

His brow barely moved. “...Because of your partner.”

"Because of some details about his other dealings.” She stopped herself. Inhaled. Exhaled. “Illegal dealings... They didn’t want the association. And now everything I’ve worked for is gone…”

She looked at him again. “I came to ask if you could help salvage my pieces. Quietly. Just… help me speak to someone.”

“How close were you to him?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The man you were working with.”

Her eyes narrowed, cautious now. “Close enough to trust him until yesterday, but not enough to defend him today.”

“Did you know about his… other interests?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “I knew he had money in a few other industries. I didn’t know it was dirty.” A beat. “If I had, I wouldn’t have worked with him.”

Moo-jin gave a single nod, like he was filing away the answer.

“And those nigths in Paris?” he asked, tone casual, like he was asking about the weather. “Was that business?”

Her brow furrowed. “Yes. That trip was planned through the gallery.”

“You checked into the same hotel.”

“They booked it, the gallery, not me.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And the car ride? After dinner?”

She blinked. “We left at the same time… so he offered to share the car.”

No response.

She searched his face. “Why are you asking me this?”

Still nothing.

Then her voice dropped a little.

Measured. Sharper.

“Wait...”

A beat.

“…how do you know that?”

Silence.

She stepped back slightly, something flickering in her eyes. “You had someone following me?”

Nothing from him. Not even a blink.

“Oh my god.” Her voice cracked open just slightly, the insult of it sinking in. “You had someone track my movements?”

“I needed to make sure…”

“No. No, you don’t get to do that,” she snapped, stepping away again, arms folded tight now. “You don’t get to act like that’s reasonable.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” she spat. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He stepped a fraction closer. “That man isn’t just dealing in sculpture and paintings. He moves arms. He’s being watched in three countries.”

“So you had someone watch me?”

“I wanted to know who you were tied to.”

“You think I was tied to him?”

His silence said more than anything.

She took a long, shaking breath. “I can´t fucking believe you….” She ran her hands through her hair the frustration seeping out.  “You leaked the information didn’t you” she whispered, almost in disbelief as she pieced it together.

“I did it to protect you.”

“Protect me?”

He nodded, serious. “You don’t know what kind of man he is. He is dangerous”

“And what are you?” she asked, stepping forward now, “You think you’re not dangerous?”

“I’m dangerous to people who deserve it.”

“No,” she snapped. “You’re dangerous to anyone who doesn’t do what you want.”

He flinched, barely, but enough. “You left without saying a word”

“You ruined an entire partnership,” she went on, “jeopardized my career, because I didn’t answer your calls for a week.”

“I saw you slipping away.”

“And that gave you the right to interfere in my life?”

“I was trying to keep you from making a mistake.”

“No.” Her voice broke, then reassembled, harder. “You were punishing me.”

Silence.

“Because I didn’t chase you. Because I didn’t bow. Because I wouldn’t let you in the way you’re used to.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s not…”

She cut him off with a bitter laugh. “Don’t even try to say it’s not true.”

He took a step toward her, “Y/N…”

She turned, grabbing her purse. “Don’t.”

He reached out, hand closing around her arm, just enough to stop her.

“Don’t you fucking dare touch me.” She yanked her arm free, eyes burning.

He froze.

And with that, she turned

It was past midnight when she finally locked the main floor and crossed the gallery’s polished concrete. One last email. One last inventory note. Then home.

She keyed in, pushed the door with her shoulder, and reached back blindly to close it. The soft latch thudded, the noise felt too loud in the quiet.

Jacket off. She shrugged it from her shoulders and, without looking, hooked it on the standing rack beside the filing cabinet. She exhaled, long, the kind of breath you only let go when you’re finally alone.

Then she turned. "What the…" She flinched backward a step. "What are you doing here?”

Her heart slammed. Adrenaline burned the sleep from her blood.

“You need to get out. Now"

He didn’t move. Didn’t rush to explain. Just watched her, gaze steady, soaking her in like he’d been starving for the sight.

"Get. Out." Her voice sharpened, louder. "I’m not doing this tonight."

He sat at her desk, even poured a glass of whiskey as he waited for her.

"It’s done," he said quietly.

She stared. "What?"

"I fixed it…. Paris."

A beat.

"They’ll contact you in the morning. You leave tomorrow."

Her mouth parted, but it wasn’t shock that came through, it was disbelief. Slow and mounting, like a tide she’d seen coming and still hoped wouldn’t reach her.

"You fixed it?" she said, flatly.

He nodded once.

"So you went behind my back again."

His eyes didn’t leave her. “I didn’t go behind your back. I followed through.”

"No,” she bit out. “You decided for me."

There was a sharp sound of her bag hitting the desk, the strap sliding across lacquered wood as her hands dropped beside it.

“I walked out that day because I realized what you did. I didn’t want you to fix it anymore”

"You did ask,” he said, quietly. “You came to me.”

Her laugh was soft, humorless. “And then I left… That’s what you never seem to understand, walking away is an answer.”

A silence bloomed between them, weighted.

“You don’t get to play savior,” she went on, more controlled now. “Not when you were the one who fucked it up to begin with.”

“I didn’t do it for credit” His voice was rough now as he rose from the chair. “I did it because I couldn’t stand seeing you punished for trusting the wrong person.”

“What about trusting you?” she shot back.

His mouth opened, but she kept going.

“And now I’m what? Supposed to be grateful?”

 “I never expected gratitude from you,” he said, low, intense. One pace. “I knew better.” Then another.

Her arms crossed over her chest. Guarded. But not retreating.

“You know what the worst part is?” she said, quieter now. “It’s not that you went behind my back. It’s not even that you had me watched.”

He stayed silent.

“It’s that you still don’t get it. You think this is noble. You think this is some… grand gesture.”

He exhaled. “It wasn’t meant to be grand.”

“Then what was it?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “It was selfish.”

That stopped her.

She blinked.

“I can’t stay away from you,” he said. “I’ve tried. I’ve lied to myself, buried it under business, but you…I walk into a room and I look for you. I hear your voice in the back of my mind when you´re halfway around the world… I.” he breathed. “I just don’t know how to not want you.”

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered, voice sharper than she meant. “You don’t get to… twist this into some confession. Act like wanting me excuses everything you’ve done.”

His jaw tightened, but his gaze never wavered. “I’m not excusing it. I’m telling you the truth.”

Her laugh broke out, brittle, aching. “The truth is you can’t stand not being in control. You want to own me, and when you can’t, you sabotage me instead.”

Something flickered across his expression, but he didn’t lash back. Instead, he exhaled, slow and steady, as if he was willing himself not to close the space between them. “If I wanted to own you, Y/N, I wouldn’t be standing here asking you to see me.”

Her arms folded tighter. “See you? You’ve been everywhere. Every gala, auction, every gallery dinner I didn’t even want to go to. You send cars I don’t take, flowers I don’t acknowledge, paintings I return. You have me watched in Paris, and then you have the audacity to call it protection. That’s not asking me to see you. That’s forcing yourself into my life.”

His mouth curved, but there was no amusement in it. “And yet, you did see me. Every time. You looked for me across a room even when you pretended you didn’t. And I only did it because you came to me when you wanted help to fix the Paris deal.”

“That was just business,” she snapped.

“Bullshit,” he said, his voice dropping. “If it was business, you would have gone to your board. To your patrons. To anyone but me. You came to me because you know I don’t fail you.”

Her pulse kicked hard. “And look how that turned out. I lost everything. My reputation, my project…”

“And I got it back for you,” he cut in. “Like I always do.”

“Exactly!” she shouted, her composure cracking. “You swoop in, you fix things, you play savior, and then you expect me to thank you for burning down the parts of my life you don’t approve of. You don’t want me, Moo-jin. You want the version of me you can control.”

He stepped closer, slow, his voice softer now, almost tender. “If I wanted control, I’d never have chased you this long. Do you think I rearrange my life for women?"

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“I don´t. I did it because I wanted you. Not obedient, not grateful. Just you." His gaze darkened, searching her face. "And you can hate me for it if you want, but you don’t hate me as much as you pretend to.”

She flinched at that, the truth of it scraping raw.

“That’s what scares you,” he said, “Not me. Not my power... it´s the fact that part of you likes having me there. and that part of you counts on it.”

She shook her head, retreating a single step.

“You think I don’t notice the way your shoulders ease when I walk into a room? How you stop tapping your pen when I speak? You think I haven’t seen the way you laugh with me, really laugh, in a way you don’t with anyone else? You fight it, Y/N, but I’ve watched you drop your guard when you forget”

Her breath caught, just for a second, before she masked it.

He stepped closer, eyes fixed on hers. “Money gets me in the door. Power keeps people listening. But you... you’re the only one who’s ever made me work for the small things. A laugh. A look. One hour of your time. And I’ve taken every one of them because I know they weren’t for show. They were yours. And you gave them to me.”

Her eyes snapped to his, startled.

He let out a long breath, almost weary. “You want space, I’ll give it. Call me when you figure out whether it’s me you’re running from… or yourself.”

For months she’d told herself she wanted this, air to herself. No shadow slipping into her dinners, no unexpected flowers, no rumble of his voice drifting down the hall when she was trying to work.

So by the fourth day she told herself it was relief.

By the sixth, the silence felt heavier than his presence ever had.

On the seventh, she caved.

She wrote an email, measured and polite. No answer.

She called once. Straight to voicemail.

Twice. Still nothing.

By the ninth day, she couldn’t take it. So she went herself.

The hotel tower rose above her.

“Mr. Choi is unavailable.”, the guard at door shook his head.

Her chest tightened. “Can´t you call him and tell him here?”

 “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t do that.”

It was final. Courteous, practiced, but final.

No message taken. No explanation. She walked back unsettled. It wasn’t just absence anymore. It felt like something else. Something she wasn’t supposed to see.

That night, the silence pressed down harder than ever, and the first time, she admitted what she hadn’t wanted to: she missed him.

The next few days without him were easier on paper. Meetings started on time. Her assistants weren’t nervously rearranging the schedule to accommodate unexpected visits. She even got through an entire morning without once glancing at the door.

But it felt wrong.

She caught herself snapping at people for things she would normally let slide like a typo in an email, a file delivered ten minutes late. So by the end of the week, she gave up the façade and went home early.

The drive back to her house stretched long and empty, the music on the radio more irritating than soothing. Not even her favorite playlist could cut through the restless buzz in her head.

Home was quiet. Too quiet.

She kicked off her shoes, stripped out of the day’s armor, and sank into a hot bath until the water ran lukewarm. By the time she padded into her bedroom, wrapped in her silk pajama dress, exhaustion had finally overtaken her. She let herself collapse into the mattress, the cool sheets swallowing her whole.

Sleep came heavy, dreamless.

But then the doorbell shattered it.

She jolted awake, heart hammering. The clock on her nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m.

No one came out here. Not at this hour.

The bell rang again.

Barefoot, pulse racing, she moved down the hall. When she reached the door and looked through the peephole, her breath caught.

Him.

She unlocked it with shaking hands.

The door swung open.

“Moo-jin—” Her voice caught.

He was standing there, barely, one hand pressed to the frame to hold himself up. His face was swollen, blood trailing from a split lip down to the collar of his shirt. A dark bruise spread across his jaw, and his knuckles were raw, scraped.

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. The sight of him like this… him, who always seemed untouchable, it froze her chest.

“Don’t… stand there,” he rasped, breath rough, “let me in.”

She pulled him across the threshold immediately, her hand gripping his arm to steady him. His weight was heavier than she expected, the stagger in his step jarring.

“What happened?” Her voice was sharper now, quick with panic.

“Deal… went bad.” His words were clipped, shallow. “Didn’t know where else to…” He winced, a sharp inhale cutting him off.

“Stop talking.” She shut the door behind them with her shoulder, steering him toward the sofa. “Just… sit. Please.”

He sank down with effort, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. Blood smeared faintly on the fabric where his hand dragged across his jaw.

Her hands hovered, restless, wanting to touch but afraid of where. “You’re hurt,” she whispered, half to herself. “Jesus, Moo-jin.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, but his voice cracked, rougher than she’d ever heard it.

Her eyes burned as she crouched in front of him, forcing herself steady. “Why would you come to me like this?”

His gaze lifted slowly, dark and unguarded. “Because I can’t trust anyone else.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the weight of it, the words, the way he looked at her like she was the last solid ground left.

Then she pushed herself up, voice low, steady now out of necessity. “Alright. Don’t move.”

She crossed the room quickly, pulling open drawers, grabbing what she could, a clean cloth, a bowl of water, the small first-aid kit she rarely touched.

When she came back, he was sitting slouched against the cushions, head tipped back, eyes closed.

His eyes opened, heavy but sharp enough to find hers. “You’ll have to help me out of this.” He tugged weakly at his torn shirt, the fabric stiff with dried blood.

Her throat tightened. She hesitated, then crouched in front of him again. Fingers trembling, she worked at the buttons. Each one came undone slower than the last, the sound of the thread popping far too loud in the quiet.

She’d never seen him like this, bare skin, lean muscle lined with bruises that bloomed purple and black. Cuts streaked across his ribs, shallow but angry. And ink. A tattoo sprawled over the left side of his chest. Her gaze lingered too long.

Heat rushed up her neck but she looked away quickly, fumbling for a gauze.

“Don’t be nervous,” he murmured, “It looks worse than it is.”

“You’re bleeding all over my sofa,” she shot back.

He almost smiled at that, then winced as she pressed closer.

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, hands hovering with the bottle of antiseptic.

“Clean it first,” he said. “Slow. Don’t press too hard.”

She nodded, though her hands still shook as she pressed the damp cloth to the cut along his ribs. He hissed, breath sharp, and she flinched back immediately.

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut in, voice softer now. “Keep going. You’re doing fine.”

Her lips pressed together as she tried again, gentler this time, wiping the blood away. Her hands brushed his skin, warm under her fingers, and every accidental touch made her pulse race faster.

“You’ve done this before?” she asked, trying to steady her voice.

“Too many times,” he admitted. His gaze stayed on her face, not the wounds.

Her hand faltered at that but she didn’t ask what he meant.

When she reached for the bandages, his larger hand covered hers, guiding. “Wrap it tighter… there. Good.” His thumb brushed her knuckles briefly, a grounding weight, then let go.

She worked in silence, focusing on the methodical rhythm, clean, dry, wrap, tape until the last wound was covered. Only then did she lean back, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She pulled her hand back slowly, exhaling. “That should hold,” she said, though her voice was quieter than she meant.

He leaned into the sofa, studying her. “You’re steadier now.”

Her brow furrowed. “You make it sound like a test.”

“In a way, it is.” His lip curved faintly despite the blood. “Not everyone would stay.”

Her chest tightened, but she ignored it, reaching for another strip of gauze. “Tilt your head.”

He obeyed, letting her angle his face toward the light. Her fingers brushed his jaw as she pressed the cloth along the bruise blooming beneath his cheekbone. The warmth of his skin startled her, and she forced herself to focus.

“You don’t have to be so careful,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do.” She dabbed again, firmer this time. “You’re not indestructible, no matter what you think.”

That earned her the faintest huff of laughter. “First time anyone’s said that to me.”

“First time anyone’s bothered to clean you up properly,” she countered before she could stop herself.

Their eyes met, too close, too direct. Heat coiled low in her stomach, but she forced her hands to keep moving, wiping gently at the corner of his mouth until the blood was gone.

“Why here?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because here feels safer than anywhere else.”

The bandage slipped slightly in her hand. She adjusted it quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way her breath hitched.

“I’m not even going to ask how the hell you know where I live,” she muttered, trying for lightness.

This time, his mouth curved, “Would you believe me if I said magic?”

She stayed in silence as she toyed with the thought, weighing it, deciding if she dared. Finally, her voice came quieter, steadier than she felt. “You said,” she murmured, “to call you when I figured it out.” Her eyes didn’t leave him.

His gaze flickered, and for the first time a shadow of a smile touched his swollen lip. “Did you figure it out?”

“Yes,” she whispered, heat rising in her throat. “I did. And I called, but you ignored me for almost two weeks.”

"I wasn´t ignoring you" A rough sound escaped him, not quite laughter. More like a humorless chuckle, low in his chest. “The thing is…you didn’t realize how important you were to me. But everyone else did.”

Her brows knit. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, voice soft but heavy, “you were in danger.”

Her breath caught. “Danger? From who?”

He shook his head faintly, eyes dark. “Doesn’t matter. Not anymore, I handled it”

“Not anymore?” She leaned forward, “God, Moo-jin. Look at you. This is what ‘handling it’ looks like?”

His mouth curved again, but it wasn’t a smile. “Better me than you.”

“Hold still.”

He watched her silently as she dabbed at the cut on his temple, the line of his jaw tightening when the antiseptic stung.

“It’s okay, you can leave it …”

“Shut up,” she snapped, voice shaking. “Just… shut up and let me do this.”

Her hands trembled, but she kept moving, cleaning, wrapping, smoothing gauze over bruises she couldn’t erase. Every touch was careful, deliberate, and when his breath hitched, so did hers.

Finally, she leaned back on her heels, exhaling hard. “You should have told me that I was in danger. That’s the kind of thing people tell each other.”

His eyes stayed on hers, unblinking. “I couldn’t risk it. If you knew, you’d be looking over your shoulder, drawing attention. Better I carried it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No.” His voice was rough. “It isn’t.”

She pressed the cloth harder than necessary against his jaw. “You don’t get to vanish, leave me twisting, then show up half-dead on my doorstep and act like it’s fine.”

He admitted quietly. “I’m sorry.”

The words cracked something in her chest. She swallowed hard, blinking fast. “Do you know what it felt like? Every night I told myself I hated you a little more. But I wasn’t angry, not really, I was terrified that you were gone for good“

He shifted, his gaze softening. “Really?"

“Yes really” she admitted as she cleared her throat, pulling back.

“You need to rest.”

But he only leaned heavier into the cushions, eyes never leaving her. His lip curved faintly, just enough to be dangerous. “And what if I said I’d rather stay awake… and watch you fuss over me a little longer?”

“If you’re going to sit there and sulk, at least do it clean. I’ll run you a hot shower.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You sound like you’re scolding a child.”

“Well you look like one. Covered in dirt, blood… God knows what else.” She gestured toward him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Go.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment, that unreadable calm, then he pushed himself to his feet with a low grunt. “Yes, ma’am.”

He disapered down the hall, she exhaled and looked at the sofa. White. Of course it had to be white.

She fetched a basin, rag, and a bottle of cleaner from under the sink, the plastic clattering against each other in her haste. Kneeling beside the cushions, she pressed the rag hard into the stain, rubbing until her wrists ached.

The red had already sunk deep, stubborn, blooming outward in uneven petals. She sprayed again, harder this time, the sharp smell of chemicals stinging her nose. Her knuckles went raw against the coarse fabric.

She muttered under her breath, half to herself, half to the mess in front of her. “Unbelievable” She scrubbed harder, biting down on her lip.

She swapped rags when the first one turned pink, then again when the second one started to smear instead of clean. Her fingertips were raw now, nails catching in the fabric.

So focused that she didn’t even hear the water stop.

“Leave it.”

Her head whipped up.

He stood in the doorway, steam clinging to him like mist, damp hair slicked back carelessly with his fingers, a towel slung low at his hips. Bruises marred his ribs and shoulder, but they only seemed to sharpen the lines of muscle underneath, proof that he was still standing, still stronger than he had any right to be.

The cut she’d patched was hidden beneath a fresh bandage, stark against his skin. The sight of it tugged at something in her chest, a reminder of how close he’d been, how steady her hands had had to be against him.

Her gaze snagged on him before she could stop herself. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, the sharp V at his hips... he looked indecent, dangerous, beautiful in a way that made her throat dry. For a dizzy second, she forgot the sofa, forgot the stain, forgot herself.

Heat crawled up her neck.

No. Absolutely not.

She tore her eyes back to the cushion, scrubbing harder, as if friction alone could erase the moment.

“Put on some clothes” The words came out sharper than she intended.

He tilted his head, that lazy half-smile curling at his mouth. “You didn’t give me any.”

Right…

Her rag stilled against the cushion. “So you decided to parade around like this?”

“Maybe you wanted me to.”

Her throat tightened. “Hardly. Just… put on what you had before.”

“Ruined.”

She snapped her gaze up at him, exasperated. “Even your underwear? What, did you shit yourself too?”

For the first time that night, he actually laughed. A real one, low and rough, catching her off guard. “You’re cruel.”

“Stop dripping all over my floor.” She flicked the rag in his direction like she might throw it at him.

Still smirking, he turned on his heel and disappeared back down the hall.

She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, pressing the rag hard into the cushion to ground herself. God help her, even his laugh was attractive.

When he came back, it wasn’t much better... just his underwear now, the towel gone. Her eyes dragged lower despite herself. The thin fabric clung to him, leaving nothing to the imagination. The outline was unmistakable, heavy, straining, making heat crawl up her neck before she could look away.

She nearly choked on her own breath. “…That’s not better.”

“It’s all you asked for,” he said smoothly, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place.

“Just… go to bed.” She flicked her wrist toward the hallway. My bedroom is the first door on the right.”

Silence. Then, smooth as a knife sliding free of its sheath “And where do you sleep?”

“The sofa.”

His eyes dropped to the cushion under her hand, still damp, streaked red. “That sofa?”

“Yes. This sofa.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m practical.” She scrubbed harder, ignoring the heat of his stare.

“You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll manage.”

He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. The floor creaked softly under his bare feet. “Leave it. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I don’t want a new one.” Her voice sharpened, rag twisting in her grip. “I want this one clean.”

“You always have to fix things yourself.”

“Someone has to.”

His shadow swallowed her hands. She stiffened as his fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm, warm.

“You’re not sleeping here,” he said, voice low, steady. “This is your house. You sleep in your bed.”

Her pulse jumped. She yanked once, but his grip didn’t budge. “We’re not sharing.”

“Why not?” His tone was maddeningly calm, like he already knew the answer.

“Because...” She broke off, jaw tight, eyes darting to the floor. “…Because I know you.”

A slow smile cut across his mouth. “And what do you know?”

“That you can’t be trusted in my bed.”

His laugh rumbled out, low and genuine. “At least you admit it.”

She shoved the rag against his chest, finally pulling free. “Fine I admit it but I’ll still be sleep here.”

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

They glared at each other, neither budging.

She stabbed a finger at the sofa. “This is my house. My choice.”

“And your choice is idiotic,” he said evenly. “You’d rather sleep on a wet sofa than next to me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Your voice went up at the end,” he murmured. “That’s how I know.”

She threw her hands up. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn.” He leaned closer, towel threatening to slip. “But I’ll win this one.”

“You will not...”

“Bed. Now!”

“Did you just order me?”

“Yes.”

Her chest heaved once, sharp and indignant. “You are…”

“Right!” he finished for her, already turning toward the hall. “Come on.”

She stayed rooted, furious at him, furious at herself for flushing so hot. But when he reached the doorway, he glanced back with that infuriating calm.

“You can keep arguing,” he said softly. “Or you can get some sleep.”

For a long beat, she stayed there, rag limp in her hand, chest rising and falling too fast.

Then, with a sharp sigh, she tossed the cloth aside.

“Fine. But you stay on your side.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, heading toward her bedroom. “I’ll even draw you a line down the middle.”

She followed, muttering under her breath. “You were never good at lines.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth tugging. “That’s why this will be fun.”

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