Mingyu's wife(real)

The restaurant he chooses is quiet in a way that costs money—muted lights blending with soft voices, a view that looks curated rather than natural. You tell yourself it’s just a dinner. One meal, one hour, and then he’ll vanish.

That’s the story you stick to.

Joshua pulls your chair out for you. You don’t thank him. He doesn’t seem to mind. He watches you the way investors watch graphs—patient, certain that eventually the line will move in his favor.

You order first.

“The grilled fish,” you say, then pause, tilting your head as if reconsidering. “Whole.”

Joshua smiles faintly. “Bold choice.”

“They say the eyes are the window to the soul,” you reply lightly.

The food arrives. The fish is pristine—untouched, staring upward at you with one cloudy eye. You don’t hesitate. You cut cleanly, precisely, lifting the eye out with your fork.

Joshua’s glass stills halfway to his lips.

“They say the eyes are the window to the soul,” you repeat, softer now, like a still oasis. You place it in your mouth. Chew. Consider.

“Mmhmm,” you hum. “I like them. Makes me wonder how souls taste.”

A soft smile curves up your lips.

He lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“Am I?” you ask with airy curiosity.

The server refills the drink without asking. Joshua thanks him by reading his nameplate. You notice that—how carefully he keeps track of small dominions.

“You don't flinch around me,” he says at last, nodding towards the plate. His voice has settled back into a calm ocean wave. “Most people do.”

“Most people perform,” you counter back, setting down your fork neatly. “I get bored with that.”

Joshua surveys you like a puzzle, as if its few pieces are missing on purpose. “You think I’m performing?”

“I think you’re rehearsed,” you claim. “There’s a difference.”

That earns a genuine stretch across his lips—slower and considered. “Rehearsal is just respect for the audience,” he debates.

“And yet,” you pause, glancing around the dining room, “you chose somewhere where no one’s really watching.”

“Privacy has its own kind of audience.” He leans back with a pleased nod. “Tell me—why did you agree to this dinner?”

You let the silence engulf the table, opting to take a sip of water. It doesn’t bother him. That bothers you.

“Curiosity,” you say finally. “People like you always want something they can't have. I wanted to see if you are after me to just bandage your bruised ego or something else.”

Joshua nods, as if you’ve confirmed a hypothesis, but you don't miss the derision twinkling in his eyes. “Fair. And?”

“And I wanted to see if you’d be disappointed when I didn’t give it to you.”

His shoulders shake with a chuckle. “You assume I know what I want.”

“You assume you don’t?”

Touché hangs between you with a bead of a shared joke neither of you will admit to enjoying it.

He gestures toward your plate. “You talked about souls earlier. Do you believe in them?”

“I believe in leverage,” you say. “People call it different things depending on what comforts them.”

“Interesting,” he mutters, tapping his glass lightly. “I believe in inevitability. Systems move in predictable ways. People too, if you give them enough time.”

“Time,” you echo. “That’s generous of you.”

“I am generous,” he says easily. “With the right investments.”

You laugh, quiet and unamused. “You talk about people like assets.”

“Everyone does,” he replies. “I just don’t pretend otherwise.”

The server returns with his dish—something minimalist and expensive-looking. Joshua doesn’t rush to eat. He stays still—watching you, an unattainable woman grown up with a silver spoon and charm.

“Families,” he continues, picking up the thread you left dangling earlier. “They’re the worst-run organizations in existence. No bylaws. No exit clauses. Just obligation and decay.”

“And yet,” you pause, “people cling to them harder than anything else.”

“Fear of starting from zero,” he says. “Sunk cost fallacy. Sentimentality.”

“Or love,” you offer, flatly.

He tilts his head, dripping with mockery. “You think love is exempt from economics?”

“No,” you answer. “I think it’s often used as a cover charge.”

That earns a fogged silence. Joshua finally takes a bite of his food.

“You’re not wrong,” he says after a moment. “But you’re not entirely right either.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Do explain.”

“Control,” he says in a lower octave, “is easier when people think they’re choosing it.”

The words land with soft steps—careful and deliberate.

Your eyes lock with his—unblinking. “And you invited me here because…?”

“Because,” Joshua pauses, “you don’t think you’re choosing anything. Which makes you interesting.”

You smile again—small and sharp as if carved with a blade. “Careful. Curiosity is expensive.”

“So is boredom,” he replies with a twinning smile. “And I can afford both.”

The check arrives, discreet as everything else. Joshua reaches for it. You let him.

As you stand, he says almost casually, “Same time next week?”

You want to scoff at his audacity, but somehow you consider him—the curated view, the muted lights, the way the evening has been shaped without ever feeling rushed, and everything was molded with his hands—dancing to the beat of his fingertips.

“We’ll see,” you chew over. “I don’t like inevitability.”

Joshua smiles like someone who’s already accounted for that.

“Neither do I,” he agrees with an amiable smile once more.

You leave first.

But at the door, your steps halt, patting your pockets with polished exasperation. “Damn. I think I dropped something.”

Joshua is already moving. “I’ll find it,” he offers.

You wave him off. “It’s nothing important.”

You walk out.

The next sunrise you splash your face with frigid water, its chill biting into your skin, but you don't mind it. Your eyes stare at your own through your reflection—staring. Your fingertip traces them in the mirror, its cool surface matching your pupils.

You wonder what your soul looks like—and his too.

Your phone vibrates on the marble surface. Call of the devil, indeed.

“I think you left behind your keychain…uhh of an eye,” he says. “How about I hand it over with another dinner?”

"You don't have to. Just send—"

"No, let's meet up, or else I'm going to keep it as a gift from you."

You let out a heavy sigh. "Fine, but this time I'll pick the place."

He lets out a small cheer, contented that you caved in with little struggle. "Okay, send me the address!" he beams, and you hang up.

Neon lights flicker with the bass; bodies sway on the dance floor, pulsing with energy in the nightclub. The music vibrates too loudly; the crowd breathes too close to each other, but it feels like the perfect place to hide, like a fish in the sea of people. And yet, here he is—Joshua Hong, right in front of you, as if fate had conspired to force you into this moment yet again.

You spot him before he spots you, his back turned as he scans the crowd, probably looking for your head. When his eyes pin on yours, they emit that familiar flicker—hope. But today, the air shifts differently for them. There’s no softness in your expression.

He approaches with soft steps as his voice cuts through the noise.

“So, this is capable of dragging you out of your hermit but not me, huh?” he asks with a light huff, swinging your keychain—a little eye-shaped charm that’s been with you for years. The metal gleams in the flashing lights, a constant reminder of something you’ve left behind.

You let it swing in front of your face like a trinket for a cat, not moving to claw it away. Instead, you narrow your eyes, lips curling into something that’s not quite a smile, but almost one.

“That's funny,” you reply with a curved edge in your words. “You are the one who found it, huh? What a coincidence.”

He laughs; the dripping suspicion is not lost on him. His fingers secured around its chain. “Maybe we are meant to be together. Fate has made us meet again.”

Your eyes roll back as you lean against the bar, assessing the crowd. This isn't the place for a private conversation. The lights are too bright, the space too full of people; eager ears can easily blend in to eavesdrop.

“You wish," you huff. "Spout your nonsense, I’m listening,” you order disdainfully. Your tone is stitched with taunts, meant to discourage him, but he has the gall to still shamelessly open his mouth to utter another thread of nonsense. A wave of exasperation floods over you, making you curse under your breath, already preparing yourself to snatch the keychain and leave. You don’t need this.

“About us,” he continues, his words soft and clear as conjunctiva, but the underlying urgency doesn't escape your keen eye. He steps a foot closer into your bubble, just a hairsbreadth away. “I know you didn't mean to turn me down, and I think I—”

You cut him off, folding your arms. “This isn't the time or place. And honestly? I don’t think I need to hear it at all.”

He blinks, then stands still like a statue, then the corners of his mouth pull down in a way that makes your stomach coil for a moment. But you know his sadness is plastic.

Joshua reaches into his pocket, and you know exactly what he is about to fish out next. The ring. That damn ring. You’d seen it before—more than you would like to—the one he’s been holding onto for far too long, the one he keeps pulling out, hoping for a different answer every single time. This time—it's a desperate, final plea.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” his words quiver with such downy thoughtfulness that if you were naïve enough, you would have thrown yourself in his arms out of sheer pity. "I love you. And I know you don’t feel the same, but I—I can’t keep waiting for you to change your mind." He stammers, looking down at the ring, his hand quaking as he holds it out to you. "Please... will you marry me?"

The words hang in the air.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it—quicker, cutting, and punitive than you meant it to be. Your gaze flickers around the room, the noise growing more distant as the entire club seems to slow down, like time itself is holding its breath.

And when you speak, your voice cuts through the volatile silence between the two of you. “I told you already,” you remind him firmly, the words thick with disinterest, like a sentence you’ve repeated so many times like a mindless recording that it has lost its meaning. “I’m not marrying you.”

His face falters—so subtly it’s easy to miss. A flicker of pain slips through, breaking past the desperate mask he’s struggling to hold together. His eyes drift, unfocused, as if he’s trying to make sense of something he can no longer quite grasp.

You step back, your gaze freezing cold as you notice the crowd gape at his humiliation—rejection delivered like a guillotine. The club thumps not only with music but countless eyes on both of you and a chain of whispers being spread among the people. Someone laughs—a sharp, ugly one that bounces off the walls like the snort of a pig. Your rejection is echoing, sinking into the air with its anchor, its weight heaving up on Joshua's shoulders. You let it linger, savoring the moment, watching his embarrassment bloom in front of everyone.

Another laugh echoes. Someone snickers behind you, a little too loud to ignore. You can feel the eyes of the club on you now, the murmur of voices spreading like wildfire.

"Wow," someone lets out a derisive snort. “She just shut him down in front of everyone.”

The whispers sting him. It's satisfying to see him shrink, his shoulders folding inward as if he's trying to make himself smaller. The guy who used to stand tall, full of confidence, now seems like a child pleading for validation (unfortunately with no tears glinting in his eyes yet).

For the first time, you see it—genuine hurt. Not the forced kind he tried to sell you over the months, but raw, real vulnerability. The people surrounding you don’t seem to notice it. They just keep talking, their attention already shifting elsewhere; the whole world keeps rotating while he stands still—stuck in this moment.

“Good,” you say, almost too softly for anyone but him to hear. “It was never going to happen.”

Joshua stands there, arm still outstretched, the ring caught between you like a mistake he made too fast to take back. His fingers twitch, grip tightening, loosening—like he’s resisting the urge to snatch it away or force the moment forward. Silence presses in.

His jaw flexes. He swallows whatever he almost says.

For a flicker of a second, something reckless sparks through him—his gaze snapping to the bottle on the table behind you, his fingers curling around its neck, smashing it against the corner of the table. And then he swings it at your head—

No, he doesn’t.

The cloud dissipates as he stays frozen instead, breathing unevenly, the impulse passing through him without landing, leaving only the weight of the moment hanging in the air.

“I told you already,” you remind him. “I’m not marrying you.”

Something fractures behind his eyes.

That’s when he hears it.

Two men sitting a few tables away. One voice low, crude, and careless. Complaining about women. About stubborn ones. Laughing about how they need to be taught lessons. Suggesting things that make Joshua’s jaw tick.

You notice his attention swaying towards those men.

Joshua leans in closer to you. “You hear that?”

You shrug. “Men talk.”

His face contorts, not in reaction to them, but to the universe and the possibility of anything encroaching on his perceived possessions.

You watch the realization bloom in his mind, its branches stretching out with leaves engraved with threat, protection, and possession.

You take advantage of his astonishment, fishing your keychain from his other hand, and by the time he realizes it, you're already blended into the crowd, slipping out of his reach.

Later, when you’re alone, your fingertip traces the eye of your keychain as you swim in your thoughts.

You had punctured his pride through and through.

You let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head to disperse your thoughts, and began a long trudge to the bathroom.

Frigid water splashes your face and drips down your hands slowly like a draining waterfall. You straighten up, staring at your reflection. Eyes look back—whole and intact.

A small smile curves up your lips.

You wonder what your soul looks like—

And his too.

A stack of papers snaps your face to the other side. Your cheek burns; you press your tongue against it, steadying yourself. After a moment, you lift your gaze again, smoothing your hair back into place.

"What did you say? No?!" your father screams in your face."You think I'll forget about it if you avoid me for days? How dare you humiliate me in front of him?" He shrills, his fingers digging into your hair and yanking your head back with all his might.

You choke back a whimper, but still maintain your glare.

He scoffs and spits in your face at your audacity. With a forceful push, he sends you reeling, your back colliding with the wall in a deafening thud.

A sharp pain shoots up your lower back; you bite down your boiling scream by digging your nails into your palms. Everything throbs, but you won't hand him the satisfaction of witnessing your misery.

"Get out of my face. Scram!" he yells, and you do, limping your way out.

You step outside, inhaling a sharp breath of the city. Sunlight reflects off the gray concrete sidewalk, which is lined with green bushes. You walk towards the cacophony of the main road, leaving a trail of dripping humiliation. At the intersection, the air grows thicker, carrying the sharp scent of gasoline and hot rubber. The muted, sleepy environment of the street abruptly met the frantic buzz of life—cars rushing past, music thumping from a passing vehicle, and the scattered conversations of people walking by. You don't pay mind to the bustling city as your mind occupies itself by flipping through today's events.

An abrupt vibration travels from the soles of your feet up to your chest, followed by a guttural, tearing roar that rips through the quiet afternoon.

You look up just in time to see a bright streak of neon cutting through the traffic flow, weaving erratically in your direction; the rider hunched low over the tank like a jockey in a race. You freeze, your breath hitching.

It all happens too fast.

A splatter of sizzling liquid rises high like tsunami waves onto your face—slopping into your eye.

A bloodcurdling scream erupts from your lungs as you instantly shield your left eye.

You watch a blurry figure rushing in your direction from the other side of the road. You blink—Joshua Hong.

He ran towards you, his saucer eyes puffed up with flaming rage and concern. He gently but firmly moves your hand away from your eye to inspect the damage.

"Are you okay?!"

He clumsily fishes out his phone, swiftly pressing it to his ear. His words are stern and curt as he speaks to someone on his phone. "Get security here, now!"

A blend of your blood with bubbling acid stains your palm. He cautiously pulls your hand away from your eye once again. He watches you, his gaze locked on your face. Your left eye remains squeezed shut so tightly that it sends a tremor through your cheek, while a steady, silent stream of tears leaks out, mapping down the path of your immense pain. He hears you hiss softly under your breath, trying to hide your pain. He scrutinizes the crowd that is beginning to encircle around you both, everyone whispering and covering their mouths in shock.

Without hesitation, he scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. Keeping you steady with one arm, he begins striding towards the waiting car, barking orders into the phone with deadly calmness. "I want that acid analyzed immediately. Find out who did this."

Joshua carefully places you down in the backseat of the car, climbing in after you. He is quick to grab a handful of tissues, gently pressing them against your eye, applying enough pressure to stop the bleeding. You grunt in protest, your eye still throbbing endlessly. The driver speeds off towards the hospital, leaving the chaotic scene behind. "Stay still," he says, squeezing your shoulder in solace.

At the hospital, his hand remains steadfast in your hold as Joshua accompanies you throughout the entire examination. Refusing to step outside, his hand holds yours more firmly as the doctor examines your eye, his thumb gently caressing your knuckles. (The security gave up trying to take the man outside when he answered with a grim scowl; no one wants to offend this man with tremendous influence after all.)

When they finally gave the news that you had lost vision in your left eye because of the acid attack, his face ashes up and a winter chill settles in his eyes.

He listens meticulously as the doctor explains that the acid had burned through your retina, causing permanent blindness in your left eye. He saw your porcelain pale face remain gray—sheeted with an uneasy layer of placidity. He hears the doctor mention that he spotted a small sign of infection, which might likely spread more.

"Can she still keep her eye, or does it need to be removed?"

The doctor hesitates before answering Joshua's knotty question. "The eye is severely damaged and infected. Removing it would prevent further infection and pain for the patient," he explains while keeping his eyes downcast. Joshua's jaw clenches, his knuckles turn pale merely from his tight hold on your hand. "We recommend removal within the next forty eight hours."

He takes in a deep breath, trying his best to bottle in his swirling rage and grief. His gaze flickers down at you, looking for the shock and pain in your remaining eye. He sets the decision in stone. “Do it.” The words were thin—arctic and absolute. The doctor froze, then nodded. "Remove it."

They don’t let him stay long.

You’re still holding his hand when they start moving you, the bed rolling too smoothly, just like this decision which was made swiftly. The lights above smear together in a static lane of white. You try to sit up, to ask him not to let go.

“Wait,” you screech, or your voice only echoes in your head.

The needle slides into your arm. Cold spreads fast—chasing your thoughts. His grip tightens, desperate, as if he holds hard enough he can keep you here.

Your fingers betray you. They loosen. Your body follows.

“No,” he pleads, but the nurse peels your hand away from his as if it no longer belongs to either of you.

The doors close.

Inside, everything is too bright. They move quickly now in a careful motion blur of efficiency as if the gentleness will soften the inevitable outcome.

They drape a blue sheet over your face, leaving only your left eye exposed. The light still reaches only one place. Only one thing left to take.

You’re not asleep. You’re not awake. Your mind floats somewhere above your body, watching it lie there in obedience. Sounds echo strangely—metal clicking, voices murmuring like they’re in another room.

“Breathe,” someone says.

You do. Once. Twice. The air smells sharp—wrong. Your thoughts begin to slip like water through your fingers. You try to hold on to something—his face, his voice—but it all stretches and thins out into nothingness.

You’re not asleep yet.

But you’re already leaving.

The room pulls away from you in pieces. Sound warps—metal clicking too loudly, voices melting into each other. Your body grows distant, heavy, obedient in a way that suddenly feels appalling.

Something is happening.

Panic sparks bright and instinctive just as your chest forgets how to answer it. You try to inhale deeper. Try to move. Nothing listens. The fear blooms anyway, trapped inside a body that’s already going still.

Then—

Nothing.

The surgeon places the removed eye in a container and hands it to a nurse. His experienced hands began to stitch up the empty socket with clinical precision.

Joshua's restless feet echoes around the hallway, getting jittery as the clock ticks minute by minute. Finally, the doctor comes out. "She's bandaged and all well. We placed in a conformer for now. Let it heal, and then she can get a prosthetic eye."

His shoulders slope down with relief at hearing the surgery went well.

The doctor gives a nod and walks off to his other duties. The nurse leads Joshua to your room. He finds you asleep as a tranquil sleeping beauty. The mattress dips as he sits beside you, lightly tracing the edge of the bandage. He sighs, planting a soft peck on its fabric.

He clasps your hand firmly, afraid that you will slip through his fingers.

You are given the green light to discharge after a few follow-ups on the same evening. Your exhaustion drags you back into a world of dreams every few hours; you barely gave nods to countless questions from the doctor during the check-ups. He gently lifts your unconscious body into his arms, holding you close to his chest. He felt like a monster for causing you to lose your sight.

Joshua takes you back to his mansion, his men following behind with your medical supplies and medications. He carefully laid you down in his own bedroom, removing your clothes and replacing them with one of his oversized shirts that fell down to your thighs. He sat beside you for hours, watching over you as you slept.

As you stir awake, he notices your bandage has bled through and needs re-dressing. He gulps down a lump in his throat, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him once more. You reach up to touch your face, only to find an unfamiliar void. He quickly grabs your hand, stopping you from touching the bandage.

You wince as you attempt to open your left eye again, forgetting that it was gone. He watches your brow furrow in confusion as you try to touch your bandage this time. A soft whimper escapes from your lips as your brain finally registers that something was wrong—missing. He keeps his gaze steady as memories of recent tragedy run behind your remaining eye. Your hands fall onto your lap as the reality brushes its harsh strokes into your brain.

Your body stills, mirroring an aloof statue. Your right eye blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to seeing the world with only your sliced vision. He peers at your steady sangfroid attitude, knowing that you were comprehending the permanent loss of your left eye.

You lift your hand to the bandage again, pressing to feel the empty socket behind the closed eyelid. You go rigid, slowly lowering your hand back into your lap. He waits for your reaction.

"It's gone," you say, your words flowing lightly with the breeze.

Joshua’s hand lingers near your cheek, hovering as if you will blow away like ashes into the wind.

An eccentric silence engulfs the room—just the faint hum of the flowing curtains and the distant murmur of voices down the hall. Gentle sunlight filters weakly through them, not too bright nor sharp enough. You turn your head slightly away from it, your right eye struggling to judge the depth of the light.

You swallow.

“It doesn’t… hurt,” you comment after a moment, almost clinically. “It just feels…” Your fingers twitched in your lap. “Wrong.”

He exhales shakily, tucking his hands back into his lap. “The doctors said that might happen. Phantom sensations. Your brain’s still catching up.”

You nod faintly, absorbing the information the way you always do—carefully, methodically. Your gaze drifts back towards him, though it takes a second to align properly. You miscalculate the distance at first, focusing slightly past his shoulder before correcting it.

He notices it, and that almost shatters him into countless shards.

“I should’ve—” his words ruptured into a quake. He clears his parched throat as his jaw tightens. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

Your brow furrows faintly. “No.”

“It was my fault,” he insists, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. “If I had just—”

“Joshua.”

The way you say his name renders him completely—steady, grounded and certain.

“You didn’t take it,” you breathe. “You didn’t make the call. You didn’t arrange it. You didn’t cause the attack.” A slight pause. “You took me to the hospital right away.”

His eyes glisten with a fresh wave. “Too late.”

You study him—really scrutinize every edge and contour of him—with your only visible eye left in your socket. It feels different now—narrower field with harder edges, but it works nevertheless. You can still see him.

“I’m alive,” you state simply.

A lone tear trails down his cheek before he could stop it. He looks away, ashamed of it, but you reach out this time—slowly, carefully—until your hand finds his wrist. Your depth perception is off, causing you to brush the air first. He immediately moves closer so you wouldn’t have to search.

Your fingers wrap around him.

“It’s gone,” you repeat, your words subdued softly now. Not in shock nor in disbelief—just crude acknowledgment.

Joshua covers your hand with his other one, holding it as if it's something fragile and sacred.

“I’m so sorry,” his apology quivers.

You let the silence linger a moment longer. The weight of everything gravities between you both, pressing down on your hearts. The future has shifted—permanently.

“I’ll have to relearn things,” you murmur. “Walking. Driving. Pouring coffee without missing the cup.” A faint, almost humorless breath leaves you. “Stairs are going to be annoying.”

Despite himself, Joshua lets out a weak, watery laugh.

You tilt your head slightly, testing your vision in a landslide view. “But I’m still me,” you softly hum.

He scrutinizes you—really looks at you. The same stubborn set of your jaw. The same quiet steel in your voice. The same mind is already adapting instead of collapsing.

“You are,” he says, his face twitching with fierce determination.

Your grip clenches just a fraction. “Then don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

Your words drills in his chest. His spine straightens as he wipes his face quickly. He nods, swallowing his guilt down as best he could.

“Okay,” he admits. “You’re not broken.”

You lean back against the bed as the exhaustion starts seeping into your bones. Losing an eye was one thing. Accepting it was another. And you had done both within minutes.

But as your fingers drift once more toward the edge of the eye patch—hesitant this time—your composure wavers for a moment.

“I’m going to look different,” you mutter, much quieter now, not out of fear—just… awareness.

Joshua leans over carefully, pressing his forehead gently to yours, mindful of the bandages.

“You’re going to look like someone who survived,” he reassures you. “Like someone who fought and lived.”

Your breath hitches—just once.

And for the first time since you woke up, your calm demeanor cracks—not into sobbing, not into screaming—but it morphs into a single tear slipping from your right eye, trailing down toward the pillow.

Joshua stays by your side, cradling your hand, letting you swim in your emotions.

Letting you feel all of it.

But not leaving you to face it all alone.

"It's gone," you repeat calmly despite your glassy eye.

He hears his heart crack at the calmness still blanketing your voice. You state it as a fact, not questioning it or showing any emotion. He reaches out slowly, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "Yes... it's gone," he whispers with guilt clogging his throat and tears drenching his eyelashes.

That night, when he thinks you are asleep, you quietly slip out of the bed.

Darkness shrouds the bedroom, making it difficult to navigate and not bump into things. Your depth perception falters; you misjudge the distance and clip your shoulder against the wall. You don’t react—just let your remaining eye adjust to the dead of the night.

You manage to find the attached bathroom.

The light inside illuminates too brightly when you flick it on.

For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the sink.

Then you look up.

The woman in the mirror stares back with one uncovered eye and a stark white patch (re-dressed a few hours ago) cutting across her face. Bruising yellows the skin beneath it. The bandage bulges slightly where the socket was still healing.

You don’t blink.

You study the angles. The asymmetry. The way your expression looks… distant—the sea in your remaining eye feels shores away, the waves ripple faintly through the murky night as the fog engulfs the view.

A bloodied figure reflects behind you in the doorway. Joshua's shirt wrinkles with stains of crimson. You are not surprised to find him looming behind you; you knew he was out somewhere and you were not curious enough to figure out where. Neither does the blood astonish you.

He mirrors your silence.

You reach up slowly and peel the edge of the patch back just a fraction—not enough to damage anything, just enough to see the hollow contour beneath the protective dressing.

Joshua jolts forward. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you breathe with firmness.

Your gaze never leaves the mirror, now tracing his eyes through it with your own remaining one.

There is no horror on your face—not even tears.

Blankness smogs onto your face and morphs into acceptance.

He takes a faint step closer but holds himself back from grabbing you. His hands flex ineptly at his sides.

After a long moment, you let the patch fall back into place.

“I look like a stranger,” you assist.

Joshua grits roughly, yet a twitch of solace lingers in his words. “You look like you.”

You turn off the bathroom light without responding and walk back to the bedroom.

After a few weeks of your surgery, your empty socket spurts out a pink discharge and swells with a hue of bruise around it. You constantly want to dip your finger into the socket to explore it and scratch away the itch but the annoying Joshua always holds your wrist hostage if you get even an inch closer to your patch, which makes you roll your eyes (oh, your bad, you meant to say eye now.)

The day began to blur as you were swamped with post-recovery care and follow-up appointments.

Joshua starts to orbit in your circle, from working often from home to bringing you all your three meals on a tray to adjusting your pillows. He religiously times your medication and tends to you like a stern nurse. When you stand—he stands. When you move, he hovers.

If you drift too close to the bedroom door, he suddenly materializes there.

“Where are you going?”

“Kitchen.”

“I’ll get it.”

“I can get it.”

“I know. I’ll get it.”

It becomes a pattern—an intricate web on which you are stuck like a dying fly.

On the fourth day of the same week, you manage to reach for the doorknob with pin drop silence.

His hand abruptly slams against the door before you could turn it.

“Don’t,” he grits curtly.

You stare at his hand, then crane your neck up at him.

“I need air.”

“You can open the window.”

“I need to go outside.”

His jaw tightens. “Not yet.”

Your right eye twitches slightly. “Why?”

Because I almost lost you.

Because if you fall—

Because if someone looks at you wrong—

Because I can’t watch you break.

Instead, he offers a flat explanation: “You’re still healing.”

You step back, studying him the same way you had in the hospital.

“You’re keeping me in here.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretches taut between the pair.

Joshua cards through his hair; frustration begins to seep through the cracks of his careful composure. “You walked into a doorframe yesterday.”

“I’m adjusting.”

“You almost fell on the stairs.”

“I caught myself.”

“You don’t see things coming on your left!”

“And I will learn.”

Your voice doesn't climb octaves, and that makes him feel worse.

He paralyzes with terror—his jaw ticking and his brow furrows a deep valley.

Your edges soften a quarter. “Joshua,” you breathe his name velvety.

He swallows a lump.

“I lost an eye,” you point out. “Not my legs. Not my mind.”

His shoulders slops down with guilt burdening across his face.

“I can’t lose you too,” he confesses with barely audible words.

Something flickers across your face. You take a faint step closer with slow deliberation, navigating the space. You stop a few inches away from him.

“You saved me,” you acknowledge. “I won't turn my back on you anymore.”

He hesitates for a moment, unable to bear the thought of losing you; he pulls you into a careful embrace, his arms holding you as if you were delicate glass.

You stand rigid like a statue for a moment, your mind's wheel gets stuck at his action, but gradually your hands come up to claw his shirt.

Although over his shoulder, your open eye remains fixed on the bedroom doorway—

On the hall beyond it.

On the rest of the house.

And the world waiting outside.

Joshua didn’t mean to make it a prison.

It just… became one.

The curtains began to stay drawn.

At first, it was because the light gave you headaches. Then, because the neighbors might see and 'misunderstand' their relationship. Later came the excuse that your eye needed ‘consistent lighting.’ The room settles into a dim, gray half-world where time blurs and shadows stretch long across the walls.

He moves your things in piece by piece.

Your clothes.

Your make-up and jewelry.

Your books and necessities.

Still, there’s no trace of your any devices. When you ask for your phone, he smiles the way salespeople do before denying a refund. The excuse arrives polished to perfection: "Your eye needs rest; screens would only make it worse, and maybe it’s healthier this way anyway—using your recovery to take a break from the world outside.”

"You won’t need to go downstairs," he says lightly after checking all your belongings are in place. “It’s easier this way.”

Easier.

You stop arguing after a few futile attempts.

One afternoon you notice a white sheet draped over the mirror, tucked neatly at the corners.

You didn't ask him to cover it.

“Why did you do that?” You ask.

“So you don’t have to look at it,” he replies evenly without meeting your eye.

You don't mention that it won't stop you from standing in front of the bathroom mirror, fixedly gazing at it at two in the morning.

You don't tell him when you mourn your missing window to your soul—you wonder what his looks like too.

A few nights later, you often wake to the faint sound of movement.

Floorboards creak beneath slow, restless footsteps.

The sound dies from the outside.

The noise drifts in from somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Then comes the soft click of the handle. The door eases open. Closes again.

You keep your breathing slow and steady, watching through barely parted lashes as he trudges to your bedside and looms over you.

He doesn’t touch you.

He only watches your chest rise and fall.

Counting.

Joshua whispers something under his breath.

“Still here.”

The world beyond the room began to feel theoretical.

You could hear it sometimes—dishes clinking in the kitchen, the indistinct murmur of the television, the distant rumble of a car passing outside.

But you don’t see it.

Every time you reach for the door, Joshua seems to materialize.

“I’ve got it.”

“Do you need something?”

“Tell me what you want.”

One afternoon, you decide to test him.

“I want to sit on the porch.”

He freezes.

The silence stretches taut a bit too long.

“It’s windy,” he says finally.

You tilt your head slightly. “The windows are closed.”

He doesn’t smile.

The eeriest part is not his hovering.

It is his calm.

He never raises his voice—never snapping and doesn't even let anger crease his expression.

He is just watchful.

And measured.

Like he is guarding something fragile.

Like you are not a person anymore.

Like you were an artifact salvaged from rubble.

Your depth perception begins to improve slowly. You practice it when he isn’t looking—tossing a pen from one hand to the other. Reaching for the glass of water without spilling it. Walking the perimeter of the room in the dark.

You stop bumping into things.

But he doesn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he didn’t want to.

Another night, a metallic click pulls you from sleep.

A soft, deliberate click.

You stay still.

A second click follows a moment later.

Your right eye strains against the dark until the shape near the door slowly becomes Joshua.

His fingers slips away from the doorknob. Something small disappears into his pocket with practiced ease.

Then he turns toward you.

Unaware that you’re awake.

He walks back to the chair beside your bed and sinks into it heavily, elbows braced against his knees, eyes fixed on you in the darkness.

Watching the rise and fall of your chest.

Counting again.

The next night, he didn’t come.

No creaking footsteps outside your bedroom door. No soft click of the handle turning at late hours. No looming figure sitting in the chair beside your bed, counting your breaths in the dark.

The silence feels unnatural after days of constant observation, and eventually the restlessness gnawing beneath your skin becomes unbearable enough for you to slip out from beneath the sheets and tiptoe downstairs.

The house is steeped in darkness. Moonlight spills through the tall windows in pale silver stripes, illuminating just enough of the floor for you to navigate without crashing into furniture. A gentle late-April breeze drifted by, fluttering the curtains in its wake.

Every step makes the old wood sigh beneath your weight, and you pause after each creak, listening carefully for movement somewhere upstairs.

Nothing.

You didn’t come downstairs to escape. You already know the front door will be locked, the windows probably sealed shut in some discreet way Joshua had taken care of long before you ever woke up here. Running would be pointless in your condition anyway.

You are simply bored out of your mind.

There are only so many hours a person can spend staring at closed curtains and counting cracks in the ceiling before the walls begin pressing inward.

So you wander.

The rooms all feel unmistakably Joshua. Carefully arranged. Controlled. The living room is decorated in muted colors and sharp lines, all expensive furniture that looks barely touched, as though it exists more for appearance than comfort. Neatly stacked books line dark wooden shelves, every spine aligned with obsessive precision. A chessboard rests atop a side table midway through a match, black pieces cornering white in a slow, merciless defeat.

The dining room is equally pristine, with polished silverware laid out inside a glass cabinet and long curtains drawn tightly over the windows despite the hour. Not a single object seems misplaced. Not a single sign suggests another person has ever lived here besides him.

Even the kitchen carries the same unsettling orderliness. Every knife hangs in perfect alignment. Every surface gleams spotless beneath the moonlight. The refrigerator hums softly in the silence, sounding strangely loud in the empty house.

Your gaze eventually lands on a door left slightly ajar at the end of the corridor.

Your steps move faintly.

For the first time since arriving here, something has been left open.

You plod toward it cautiously before nudging the door wider with your fingertips and peering inside.

A grand piano sits in the center of the room, bathed entirely in moonlight.

For a moment, you simply stare. Then a quiet clap of excitement escapes you before you can stop it.

The sight of it feels absurdly personal, like stumbling across an old friend in unfamiliar territory.

You drift toward the piano almost instinctively and lower yourself onto the cushioned bench, your fingers hovering over the keys for only a second before muscle memory takes over.

The first notes ring softly through the room, delicate enough to blend with the sleeping house. Gradually, the melody unfurls into Clair de Lune, smooth and aching and familiar beneath your fingertips.

If there is another thing capable of exposing the soul as nakedly as eyes do, it is music.

The piano had been your best friend since you were seven years old, the only thing that understood how to translate feelings too tangled to speak aloud into something beautiful. Your fingers know the language instinctively now, moving across the keys with effortless intimacy as the melody swells quietly through the dark.

For the first time in days, you almost forget where you are.

A sharp clap suddenly echoes behind you.

You jolt violently, your hands slipping from the keys as you whirl around to find Joshua leaning against the wall.

But you are not surprised.

The moment you found the door left ajar, you already knew tonight was intentional.

A test.

A reward.

Maybe simply another one of his experiments.

That is why you never bothered trying to stay quiet. Why you had allowed yourself to sink fully into the music instead of holding back.

Joshua’s expression is unreadable in the dim light, but there is something disturbingly intent in the way he watches you now.

Like he had been listening long before you ever touched the first key.

He pushes himself away from the wall slowly, the sharp sound of his applause fading back into silence as he walks further into the room.

The moonlight catches briefly against his watch, against the faint crease of his rolled sleeves, before he stops beside the piano. Close enough now that you can smell cedarwood and the lingering trace of frosty night air clinging to his clothes.

“You play beautifully,” he praises.

The compliment should sound ordinary. Instead, it settles strangely beneath your skin, coming from him, spoken with that same unnerving attentiveness he uses when watching you sleep.

You let out a small breath and turn slightly back toward the keys, your fingers resting against polished ivory. “You left the door open on purpose.”

A pause stretches behind you.

Then, softly, almost amused, “And you still walked in.”

Your hands resume moving before you consciously decide to play again. The melody returns quieter this time, slower; the notes flowing softly into the dark while Joshua remains standing beside you in silence.

You can feel him watching your hands.

Not your face.

Not your injury.

Just your hands gliding across the piano keys as if he is trying to understand something through them.

After a while, the bench dips slightly beneath the added weight.

Joshua sits beside you without asking.

The warmth radiating from his shoulder feels startling after so many cold, lonely nights upstairs, and suddenly you become acutely aware of every tiny movement—the brush of fabric when he shifts, the slow sound of his breathing beneath the music, the way his knee nearly touches yours without quite doing it.

Neither of you speaks for several moments.

The room fills instead with piano notes and moonlight and something heavier threading silently between the pauses.

Then he reaches forward unexpectedly, his hand sliding over yours atop the keys.

Not forceful.

Not restraining.

Just enough pressure to still your fingers mid-note.

The unfinished chord lingers softly in the air as your breath catches.

“You hide inside music,” he murmurs, eyes lowered toward your joined hands. “It’s the only time you stop looking dead.”

His thumb shifts slightly against your knuckles before he finally lifts his gaze to yours.

And for the first time since arriving here, the silence between you no longer feels entirely stagnant.

The silence stretches after that, neither comfortable nor tense, but something suspends carefully between the two.

Joshua’s hand remains loosely over yours for another moment before he finally withdraws it, though not completely. His fingers linger near the edge of your wrist, close enough that you still feel their warmth against your skin.

“You stopped playing,” he observes quietly.

You glance down at the keys. “You interrupted me.”

A faint smile ghosts across his face at that, small enough to vanish almost immediately. He leans back slightly on the bench, one arm resting along the edge behind you while the other taps absentmindedly against his knee in time with some rhythm only he can hear.

“You knew I was listening,” he says after a while.

It isn’t phrased like a question.

You hesitate before answering. “I figured the open door was too convenient.”

Joshua hums softly in acknowledgment, his gaze drifting toward the piano again. “Most people would’ve been trying to escape.”

“But you made sure I couldn’t.”

The words leave your mouth more lightly than intended, though the meaning beneath them remains sharp enough to settle heavily between you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then he exhales through his nose, almost thoughtfully, and tilts his head slightly toward you. “You could’ve screamed while you were down here.”

“You would’ve heard me.”

“I hear everything in this house.”

The statement should feel threatening. Somehow, spoken in his low, even voice beside the soft moonlit piano, it lands differently. More intimate than dangerous.

Your fingers drift unconsciously across a few keys again, producing a quiet string of absent notes. Joshua watches the movement with that same unwavering focus that always makes you feel pinned beneath his attention.

“You watch me a lot,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

Something unreadable flickers across his expression.

“I like knowing you’re still here.”

The room falls quiet again after that.

Outside, the wind brushes softly against the windows, stirring the curtains just enough for the moonlight to shift across the floorboards. He remains beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch now, his presence no longer looming but surrounding.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers pausing briefly near your temple as though resisting the urge to linger longer.

The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that it unsettles you far more than his watching ever did.

His gaze lowers afterward—not to your injury this time, but to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your eyes.

Then, very quietly, Joshua says, “Play something else for me.”

“Should I play you instead?” you murmur with a mocking little scoff, expecting at least some reaction from him.

But Joshua only looks at you.

Unblinking.

Waiting.

The silence stretches long enough to turn the joke into something else entirely.

You let out another breath of disbelief in your smile. “God, you’re impossible.”

Yet he still says nothing.

Well, he asked for it—a part of you wants to see if he’ll finally crack—you shift sideways and climb into his lap.

For the first time all night, he goes completely still beneath you.

The piano falls silent behind you as your fingers curl loosely against his shoulders, and suddenly the room feels far more smaller than before.

His gaze searches your face carefully, intensely, as if he’s trying to memorize every flicker of expression you make.

“Well?” you whisper teasingly. “What song do you think I sound like?”

His hands settle carefully at your waist, not pulling you closer yet, simply holding you there as though testing whether you’ll change your mind and move away.

But you don’t.

The moonlight spills across the piano keys behind you, pale ivory glowing softly in the dark while the unfinished melody still hangs faintly in the room like the last breath of a performance.

“Something dangerous,” Joshua says at last, his voice low enough that you feel it more than hear it.

Your lips curve slightly. “That’s not a song.”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes lowering briefly to your mouth again. “But it sounds like one.”

The air between you thickens after that.

Joshua’s restraint had always felt frightening before—his stillness, the way he watched instead of touched—but now, sitting in his lap with his hands warm against your waist, it feels like standing too close to a thunderstorm waiting to break.

You become painfully aware of every tiny movement. The slow drag of his thumb against your side. The measured rise and fall of his breathing beneath yours. The way his gaze lingers on you with terrifying concentration, as though nothing else in the world exists beyond this room.

Your fingers drift unconsciously toward the collar of his shirt, grazing the fabric there.

He exhales softly at the contact.

Such a small sound.

Yet it alters the atmosphere instantly, like the first piano key pressed before a symphony begins.

Then his hand slides upward along your spine, slow enough to make your pulse stumble, and suddenly the distance between you disappears altogether.

The kiss feels less like affection and more like surrendering to something inevitable. Slow at first—hesitant and careful. Then deeper when your hands tighten against him and his composure finally fractures beneath your mouth.

Somewhere in the haze of tangled breaths and moonlight, your back brushes the piano keys accidentally.

A soft discordant note rings through the room.

Neither of you pulls away.

Another note follows when Joshua’s hand slips lower against you, deeper and richer this time, blending quietly with the unsteady sound escaping your throat.

The piano begins answering every movement in scattered murmurs of music—low trembling chords, broken half-notes, sharp gasps of sound whenever your bodies shift against the keys.

And eventually even your moans seem to melt into it, threading together with the instrument until the entire room sounds like one long aching composition played entirely out of breath.

The next morning, when he leaves briefly to shower, you plod quietly to the bedroom door.

Your fingers curl around the knob and turn it carefully, expecting the familiar resistance of a lock, but the handle gives way easily beneath your hand. The door opens barely an inch before stopping abruptly against something solid.

You pause.

It's not locked.

Just… restrained.

Frowning faintly, you try again with more force this time, but the result is the same. The handle turns completely, yet the door refuses to open wider than that narrow sliver.

A strange calm settles over you despite the warning bells beginning to ring somewhere deep in your mind. Crouching down, you try to peer through the narrow gap.

A chair sits wedged beneath the handle from the outside.

It's placed not out of caution but strategically. The door has shut on the canary bird's face, leaving it only to flutter and chirp around in its cage.

You straightened up tardily.

The room cages in, feeling smaller and the air grows thinner against your lungs, but the panic never arrives.

You simply step back and return to the edge of the bed, lowering yourself onto it with eerie composure, your hands folding neatly together in your lap as though preparing for a conversation already rehearsed in your mind.

By the time Joshua returns, damp hair clinging slightly to his forehead while he absently dries it with a towel, your expression has smoothed itself into something unreadable.

He smiles softly the moment he sees you.

“Morning.”

You hold his gaze without acknowledging his greeting.

“How long?” You ask quietly.

His movements falter almost imperceptibly, fingers stilling against the towel. “How long what?”

“How long have you been blocking the door?”

For the briefest fraction of a second, his smile slips.

“I’m not blocking it.”

“There’s a chair under the handle.”

Joshua hesitates before speaking again. “That’s only so it doesn’t swing open.”

Your eyes remain fixed on him.

“It opens inward.”

Silence floods the room.

Something shifts visibly in his expression then, though it is not anger and not irritation either. It resembles fear too closely for comfort—raw, trembling fear struggling beneath all that careful composure.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says at last, the words escaping more like confession than explanation.

You study him with the same detached concentration you once used on your own reflection after the accident. Blankly. Clinically.

“You think the world is what took my eye.”

His breathing turns uneven almost immediately. You struck the center of it too easily.

“It did,” he insists.

“No,” you reply softly. “A moment did.”

Joshua takes a step toward you, fingers tightening unconsciously around the damp towel in his hands. “You don’t understand,” he says, voice beginning to crack beneath the strain. “I saw you clutch your bleeding eye, screaming in pain. I saw—” He swallows hard. “I won’t survive that twice.”

The room becomes unbearably still after that. Every object remains perfectly arranged around you, every curtain neatly drawn, every corner controlled with suffocating precision, yet Joshua himself suddenly looks like the only unstable thing inside it.

Slowly, you rise from the bed.

You move around it carefully, deliberately, until only a foot of space remains between you.

“I survived,” you say firmly.

He shakes his head immediately, as though survival itself had never been the point.

Your gaze drifts briefly toward the restrained door before returning to him again.

“You’re afraid I’ll break,” you murmur.

His eyes glisten faintly in the dim morning light.

You tilt your head slightly.

“But Joshua…”

Your voice remains unnervingly calm—gentle, even.

“I’m not the one who’s breaking.”

The words linger heavily between you.

And for the first time since the hospital, his expression shifts into something uncertain, as though he no longer knows whether he is protecting you from the world outside the room—or from himself.

"You are afraid," you point out.

The atmosphere shifts almost imperceptibly after that. Joshua had been standing close enough for you to feel the lingering warmth from the shower still clinging to his skin, his hands half-raised like he might reach for you if you sway even slightly, but now you straighten fully beneath his gaze, posture smoothing into something composed and deliberate.

Your visible eye fixes on his.

“And you’re hiding something from me.”

He stills.

There is no accusation in your voice, no sharpness meant to provoke him. The certainty alone is enough.

For a moment he simply watches you, jaw tightening faintly before his expression smooths itself back into careful control. “I’m protecting you,” he says again, quieter this time, as though repeating it enough might make it true.

“You say my father is still angry. That he’ll harm me if I go out.” Your voice is steady, almost detached. “But you won’t let me go speak to him. You won’t let me make it right.”

His jaw tightens and something flickers behind his eyes, brief enough that most people would miss it entirely.

You don’t.

“It was me who rejected your marriage proposal,” you continue softly. “If there are consequences, I’ll deal with them myself.”

The words land heavier than any shouting ever could, followed by a silence that stretches thin between you.

Joshua’s grip tightens unconsciously around the damp towel in his hands before he finally exhales through his nose and looks away for the first time since entering the room. “You don’t understand the situation.”

“And Mr. Hong,” you add curtly, with deliberation, “you still haven’t caught the man who threw acid in my face.”

That makes him look back immediately.

You haven’t called him Mr. Hong in days.

You used to reserve it for moments when distance was intentional. Joshua notices the shift instantly. You can tell by the way his expression hardens for only a second before softening again into something almost pleading.

He inhales slowly. “The investigation is ongoing.”

“That’s what you’ve said for weeks.”

“You were unconscious.”

“And before that?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out immediately. His gaze flickers briefly toward the covered mirror near the corner of the room before returning to you again, and the movement is subtle enough that he probably thinks you won’t notice.

You do.

“You tell me my father is furious,” you went on. “That he’s unstable. That he’ll hurt me if I leave this house.” A faint tilt of your head. “But you don’t let me see him. You don’t let me call him. You don’t even let me step outside.”

Joshua takes a slow breath with a step back, though it does little to steady him. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“From him?”

“Yes.”

Your gaze remains fixed on his face. “Or from the truth?”

The room feels strangely smaller after that question; the silence pressing inward from every direction. He drags a hand down his face slowly, composure beginning to fray around the edges in a way you’ve never seen before. He heaves out as he throws the damp towel carelessly on the bed.

“You don’t understand how dangerous this is,” he says.

“Then explain it to me.”

His breathing grows uneven. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to hear it in the quiet room.

When he doesn’t answer, you do it for him instead.

“My father opposed your expansion deal, didn't he?” you murmur a guess. “He probably rejected your terms publicly.” Your gaze never leaves his. “I rejected you with much less crowd.”

Joshua’s eyes sharpen immediately. “You think I would hurt you because of that?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

The honesty in your voice lands heavier than anger would have.

A tense silence blankets the room.

“You were there that evening,” you continued after a moment. “You were the first one to reach me. You were the one who pulled me away.”

His throat moves as he swallows.

“You told me it was some hired criminal. Some disgruntled competitor.”

“It was.”

“Then why haven’t you found him?”

His mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.

For the first time since you woke up in the hospital, he looks genuinely cornered by you, and the realization settles strangely in your chest. You had grown so used to his control that seeing cracks appear beneath it feels almost surreal.

“If my father truly wanted to punish me, he would confront me. He wouldn’t hide.” You tilt your head slightly. “And he certainly wouldn’t miss the opportunity to tell me, ‘I told you so.’”

Joshua’s lips part, but no words crawl out.

“You kept me in this room,” you continue. “You covered every mirror. You blocked the door with a chair.” Your voice remains calm enough to be unsettling. “You speak to me as if I’m something fragile enough to break apart if handled incorrectly.”

His jaw tightens. “Because you’ve been through something traumatic.”

“But you never let me see the reports. Or the footage. Or anything that actually happened.”

His voice drops a few octaves. “Because you don’t need to relive it.”

“Or because you don’t want me seeing something.”

That finally breaks something in him.

Not loudly. Not violently. Just a small, unmistakable fracture in the careful composure he has been maintaining since the hospital.

“You think I did this?” Joshua asks evenly.

You hold his gaze without flinching.

“I think,” you say after a moment, “that you’re terrified of losing control.”

The words hit him harder than an accusation ever could. You see it immediately in the way he recoils slightly as if it had struck him somewhere tender.

"I would never hurt you," he says, and this time the words sound bruised rather than defensive.

“I know."

That answer somehow makes his expression worse.

“You wouldn’t throw acid at me yourself,” you continue softly. “But you would decide what I’m allowed to know. Where I’m allowed to go. Who I’m allowed to speak to.” Your eye sharpens faintly. “You would decide which version of the truth I’m permitted to live with.”

Joshua’s hands begin trembling almost imperceptibly at his sides.

“Your father threatened me,” he blurts out. “After you rejected me. He said I would regret involving you in my world.”

“And you believed he would scar his own daughter to make a point?”

Joshua hesitates.

Only briefly, but long enough.

Understanding doesn’t hit you like a wave. It settles slowly inside you after that, cold and heavy rather than sudden.

“Who benefits?” You ask.

His breathing becomes uneven.

“You moved me into your house,” you murmur. “You isolated me from everyone else. You became my only source of information.” Your gaze drifts briefly toward the blocked door before returning to him again. “My only protection.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“You became indispensable.”

The room falls silent again. Outside the windows, wind brushes softly against the curtains, stirring them just enough for the shadows to shift faintly across the floorboards.

You take one slow step toward him.

“I rejected you,” you carry on. “Not because I doubted your power."

Your expression barely changes.

“Because I was afraid of this.”

“Afraid of what?”

A quiet breath leaves you.

“Of loving someone who only knows how to love himself.”

The words linger heavily between you.

Joshua looks at you differently after that—not like something fragile anymore, nor like someone he needs to be carefully preserved. He looks at you like someone steadily slipping beyond his control, and the fear in his expression deepens in a way that feels far more honest than anything else he has said tonight.

Outside the room, the house remains unnervingly quiet.

And for the first time since the accident, you begin wondering whether the danger you had been warned about had ever truly been outside this house at all.

The frightening part is that even now, standing right in front of him, you still cannot tell how much of Joshua is performing and how much of him is real. You had always been good at recognizing others' acts but you never have been good at putting one on your own.

His performance could really rival the stars of the theater, you think.

You walk closer.

"Let me ask you again, Mr. Hong, did you catch the hitman?"

His face ashes at your question. He looks away briefly before meeting your gaze again; his jaw clenching taut. "Yes. He's been dealt with," he says coldly, not elaborating on what exactly he had done to the person responsible for taking your eye.

The answer didn’t surprise you. You had known ever since he appeared behind you in the bathroom mirror—his clothes stained with blood. In that moment, you understood he had been dealt with that very night.

"How so?"

Joshua hesitates before answering honestly, "I had him brought to my warehouse. My men... they broke every bone in his body. Then I personally shot him in the head seven times." His voice was crisp and detached, revealing how ruthless he truly was.

"Oh, so you silenced him. Not a bad strategy," you opine.

His eyes expand an inch at your nonchalant response. He expected shock, maybe even disgust. Instead, you simply accept his brutal methods with a calm nod. He feels a strange sense of respect for your understanding of his world. "You're not... disgusted?" he asks curiously, tilting his head.

"Mr. Hong, it's you who arranged everything. Why act so shocked now?"

He throws his head back and laughs his head off. You have a point. He should stop treating you like a fragile woman. You have the capability of being his equal, understanding his world better than most. He replies to your previous question instead, "Yes, I silenced him. No loose ends. No information at risk of getting out."

You stare at him for a good minute, seeing his mask echo off with his laughter lifts a rock off your chest.

"Did you take my eye because I rejected you?" You inquire out of the blue.

His laughter fades as he takes a step back, his gaze settling on your face with quiet vehement. The calm acceptance of your injury, the understanding of his methods... and now this direct question. He realizes you are not just beautiful, but intelligent and unfiltered. "Yes," he admits curtly.

You scoff, "What a fragile ego you've got."

He freezes.

For a fleeting moment, an unsettling silence descends upon the room.

No woman has ever dared to speak to him like this. People fear Joshua Hong too much to challenge him, too much to even breathe wrong around him. Yet you stand across from him with one ruined eye and the audacity to mock the very ego that destroyed it.

You look at him with sharp amusement, as though his violence is nothing more than an inconvenient character flaw.

And God—he finds it intoxicating.

Something vile and rancid flickers behind his eyes.

“Watch your mouth,” he breathes, the faint warning far more alarming than any shouting ever could be.

You stare at him in silence—not a trace of fear creases your expression.

Joshua scrutinizes your face, waiting for the flinch that never comes. Refusing to look away, your one eye remains fixed on him with a steadiness sharp enough to challenge him outright.

His hand reaches out to clip your chin firmly without his conscious thought, tilting your face up more. "You know what your problem is?" He growls, his words grating like gravel. "No filter. No fear." His thumb drags brusquely across your bottom lip. "And one less eye to roll at me."

His lips mashed against yours in an animalistic claim. It's a hungry attempt meant to consume you whole—a war of colliding teeth and tongue invading your mouth. He sucks up all your breath as his heat steams you up. The calm gentleman act is peeling off him as his grip slides from your chin to the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you while his mouth devours yours, swallowing every smart remark before it can leave your tongue. The heat from him is overwhelming—anger, tension, want—all tangled together.

When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his breath ghosts against your lips.

“Marry me,” he proposes while still panting.

"No."

Joshua leans back more, his eyes brewing with rage and desire. No one ever says no to him. Especially not after a kiss like that. His hand clenches on your nape with untamed possessiveness. "Yes," he corrects, his face only a few inches from yours with his hot breath fanning over your mouth. "You will marry me and wear my ring. My last name. My everything."

"Why do you want to marry me so badly?" You blurt out with a huff.

He searches your face, seeing the confusion and stubbornness in your one good eye. He wanted to marry you because you rejected him. Because you stood up to him. Because you were beautiful, intelligent, and fearless. But he admits to none of that. "Because I want what I can't have," he says simply.

"You will never have it."

An ominous smile curves up his lips at your defiance.

He likes this part of you—the refusal to bend, the fact that you don’t throw yourself at his feet the way everyone else seems to. Your resistance only sharpens his interest, it feeds something possessive and relentless in him.

"We'll see about that," he murmurs, his thumb pressing coarsely against your bottom lip again, firm enough to demand your attention as his gaze locks onto yours.

“I always get what I want,” he whispers softly, the promise in his voice far more menacing than if he’d raised it.

“Eventually.”

Joshua leans in closer, his words soaking in a perilous intent. "You think I'm joking? I took your eye because I was angry. I'm offering marriage because I'm intrigued. What do you think I'll do when I'm tired of waiting?"

"Explode with anger?" You snigger.

A deep, stormy hue whirls in his eyes.

You had no idea how dangerous he was.

He watches you in silence for a moment—your calm expression, your single beautiful eye studying him without a trace of fear. Most people broke beneath his stare. You only looked back harder every single time.

“Yes,” he agrees with his words kneaded with deceptive softness. “Angry.” His jaw clicks. “You rejected me. You called me an animal. You slapped me.” A deliberate icy pause blows by. “So I took an eye.”

Your expression doesn’t change.

“You can’t change your nature,” you reply evenly. “A pig stays a pig its entire life.”

Something boils in him with raucous gurgling, bubbles forming then popping again and again.

His hand slides from the back of your neck to your throat, fingers wrapping around it with controlled pressure—not enough to truly hurt, just enough to steal the air from your lungs. He pulls you closer until his face hovers inches from yours again, eyes blazing with fury and something else—

Excitement.

"Careful with your words," he growls. "This pig will eat you alive."

You struggle against his grip, but your attitude remains flippant with another smile curving up your lips.

"You can't reverse the food chain either," you taunt.

The silence stretches taut between you, then he throws his head back and lets out a loud guffaw. God, you are smart, sharp-tongued, and incredibly foolish. Although he admits that it's refreshing to see someone not scared of him.

When his gaze settles on you again, it's heavier, with edges curved with obsession. His voice drops an octave when he speaks again. "You know what your problem is?" He didn't give you a chance to answer, snapping his fingers instead. "No filter. No fear. One eye."

Joshua releases your throat instead of squeezing tighter; his fingers trail down your neck with ghost touches as they tickle like a feather. Your lack of fear keeps fascinating him more and more. The most fearless man would at least be terrified of him by now, but not you. "You'll really call me every animal imaginable, huh?" he ponders. "Dog, pig, beast..."

His lips twitched at witnessing your quiet expression. No smart remarks. No insults. Just one beautiful eye staring blankly, giving nothing away. He realizes something—"You're like a snake,"he mutters faintly, almost to himself. "No reaction. No sound. One sudden bite..." he chortles.

"Snakes are two-faced—I'm not," you point out with no shame.

His eyes enlarge an inch at your curt response, then he laughs again. You are right. You aren't sneaky or two-faced like a snake. In fact, you are direct and honest, even when insulting him. "You know what?" he asks out of the blue.

"I'm going to marry you whether you like it or not. You can keep your sharp tongue and your one eye. Maybe I'll even let you keep calling me names." His touch ceases on your neck as he steps back abruptly, making you inhale big gulps of air. "Consider it your engagement gift."

Joshua watches you regain your composure with no fluctuation of anger or fear, not even helplessness in it. He was used to women fainting at his feet, crying happy tears at his proposals. You just sat there like a statue with your one good eye staring blankly at him like you couldn't care less. "You haven't screamed or slapped me for so long," he grumbles.

You stay silent, pondering over your available cards as you calculate your best feasible option. "You want to marry me? Then you must give me in dowry what I ask for," you challenge, setting up a condition.

His eyebrows shot up at your sudden demand. No woman would dare to ask for a dowry from him. They would be too busy thanking their lucky stars for marrying a powerful man like him. "Oh?" He takes a step closer to you again. "And what exactly do you want?"

"I want your eye," your lips curve up.

His expression freezes. He thought you'd ask for money, cars, houses... but an eye? His hand automatically touches his good eye. "My eye?" He repeats dubiously.

No, you don't resemble a snake but an orca—it is known for waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

An involuntary chill travels up his spine.

"An eye for an eye, fair enough, isn't it?" You arch a brow, lolling your head—daring him to reject your bold demand.

Joshua stares at you for a long moment, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't catch up to. He had expected many things from this woman, but not this. Not such cold, calculated revenge. He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "Fair enough," he agrees with no hesitation.

A haughty smile blooms on your face.

He really isn't joking or bluffing anymore. You want his eye? Fine. He respects the hell out of that ruthless demand, although he doubts you have the guts to carry it out. Most women want jewelry or cars, but you want him to experience the same blindness he'd given you. "You know what?" he asks suddenly.

"No wonder they say don't get into arguments with intelligent women. You're dangerous. One eye. No filter. No mercy," he snorts, finding this whole situation whimsical and clearly still doubting your ability to carry through it. He heaves out, carding his digits through his strands messily.

"You realize if I give you my eye, I'll be half blind?" He coos as if giving a toddler with explosive tantrums a last chance before they fuck things up.

"Serves you right. You must first blind yourself like you did me," you scoff and roll your eye.

An amused smile spreads across his lips at your bitter response. He finds himself strangely attracted to this woman's brutal honesty and justice more and more. "Fucking perfect," he snickers, echoing a sharp clap and leaves the bedroom to fetch his favorite dagger. After a couple of minutes he comes back with it and sits down on the bed in front of you.

"Do it," he says as he drops the dagger into your hand with glee and ridicule sparkling in his eyes.

"I'll take my sweet time," you pass a half-smile as you slide off its sheath.

Joshua lets out a chortle even though he doubts you meant every word—you'd make him suffer slowly with sheer anticipation of it, then will chicken out like he expects you to.

He spreads his legs further, getting comfortable as if preparing himself for a long torture session. His good eye keeps an eye on you. "Take your time," he glib with a challenge.

He watches you straighten your back and study the dagger. He feels a strange mix of fear and... exhilaration. You trudge off to lock the door, and when you return, he realizes this is actually happening. You are really going to blind him like he blinded you.

His breath hitches as you reach out and grab his wrist, forcing his hand flat on the silk sheet. Your grip is surprisingly strong. He feels the cold metal of the dagger press against his palm, then it ghosts against his knuckles, making him bite his lip as he hisses. Your legs bracket his own as you straddle him, pushing his back to the silk sheet. The icy blade travels up to his face, pressing lightly under his right eye.

Joshua breaks into a cold sweat, his heart hammering fiercely against his ribcage as the dagger now hovers mere millimeters away from his eyeball. He watches the cold steel display a trembling mess—a reflection of his own trembling self. Abruptly, he grabs your wrist with his free hand, stopping the blade.

"Wait," he hoarsely pants.

His grip on your wrist is a constraint, but not a painful one. His good eye locks onto your single eye; a concoction of fear, arousal, and something else stirs in his gaze. He is giving you a chance to stop, but also testing your resolve.

"Scared?" You arch your brow tauntingly.

He let out a titter, his thumb rubbing against your wrist. "Terrified." He admits softly. He is terrified of the pain, yes. But also terrified of the raw power you hold over him in this moment.

"Good," you grin. Joshua almost scoffs at how grinning you have gotten. He hasn't seen you so jolly before, but he also never expected that he would one day end up under today's dooming circumstances.

His right eye flickers down to the blade pressing under it, then back up to your single, merciless eye. He'd never felt so helpless, so completely at someone else's mercy. And he finds it strangely... arousing. "You're actually going to do it," he acknowledges the elephant in the room.

Your lack of response—no smirk, no sigh, no hesitation—sends a shiver down his spine. You are serious. Deadly serious. He takes a deep breath as he steadies himself. He is about to experience the same darkness he'd forced upon you.

"Do it!"

Joshua watches your jaw tick, your knuckles turning white as you grip the dagger handle tighter. He sees your single eye concentrate back on his right eye, realizing you are not going to give him mercy like he'd given you—none at all. He hisses as the blade abruptly presses into his pupil, blooming a dull ache.

He closes his good eye, bracing himself for more pain. He feels the cold metal press in harder, then suddenly—

"Ahhh!"

He cries out as you plunge the dagger straight into his eye socket. Blood splatters across your face like a fountain. He screams his lungs out, trying to hold onto your wrist as he drags his nails across your skin in a futile attempt. His bloody crescent moons travel up to your face, making you screech.

His digits claw at your eye patch, punching into it, which echoes by a loud crack of the conformer breaking with it. A gush of blood pours down your eye patch, his knuckles are now pressing much closer to your hollow socket behind the patch.

He screams—you scream.

"AHHH!"

"AHHH!"

Despite the excruciating pain throbbing behind your eye patch, you fight against his grip, trying to press the dagger more into his eye socket.

"Sir? Ma'am? Is everything okay?" One of his men starts banging on the door, and it only gets more insistent and louder as they receive only screams in reply.

"Hello? Please open the door!" The doorknob twists but refuses to budge open, as you had locked it earlier.

The intolerable pain paralyzes him, making it easier for you to hold him down—the world almost blacks out on his end.

You laugh manically, thrusting it in and out over and over again.

After you had your fun—roughly seventeen stabs into his eye—you do take your sweet time cutting the attached substances to his eyeball and scooping it out while ignoring the obnoxious banging on the door.

Joshua hisses sharply, his body going rigid as the pain shoots through his skull.

He'd given you one eye—now you have returned the favor. He felt hot blood trickle down his cheek, and he bit back another cry as an agonizing pain threatened to overtake his consciousness.

He is officially half-blind like you.

He opens his remaining good eye to look at you. His injured eye is weeping bloody tears, and you are more than happy to wipe them away; in fact, you even coo at him as you wipe them off.

He stares at you, his remaining good eye brewing with a mix of pain, shock, and something else—respect. You have done exactly what he had done to you. He reaches up and touches his injured eye socket gently, wincing at the pain.

You get off him with his eyeball in your hand. Crossing the room, you put his eyeball on an unused ashtray, which was resting on the nightstand.

Your feet amble to the door before they tear it down.

You hand over the ashtray with instructions to store it away. Joshua's right hand-man boils red as you nonchalantly instruct the maid standing beside him, whose face is draining fast of all the colors at the unhinged sight of an eyeball on the ashtray.

The right hand-man looks over your shoulder to find Joshua still bleeding on the bed. He wants to scream at you, but he thinks better of it and gives a curt nod, and shouts at the poor maid to hurry up and bring in the first aid box.

His right-hand man knows Joshua is an unhinged man himself, and he was fully capable of avoiding this catastrophe. He gulps down his questions and scrams off.

By the time the maid returns with the first aid box, he genuinely feels nauseous and lightheaded.

He put a hand over his injured eye socket, still processing the fact that you had actually gone through with it. He had expected guilt, hesitation, mercy—but you gave him none of those things. You gave him exactly what he'd given you. "You're insane," he mutters flatly.

You laugh at his comment, licking his blood off the dagger.

The maid flinches at the odd, suffocating atmosphere and swiftly starts to bandage his eye while he sits there stunned and bleeding. Luckily for him, the maid is a drop-out med student, so she can deal with this deranged injury and situation. Although he will still have to pay a proper visit to the doctor later.

Joshua watches as you lick the blood off the blade insouciantly, as if nothing crazy happened. His good eye expands in shock and revulsion. That laugh—that cold, insane laugh—echoing in his mind. "Fucking psychopath," he scowls.

A boiling rage rises up in his chest.

He is half-blind now. One eye is gone. Replaced with darkness. Just like you. He suddenly realizes how fucking dangerous you are. How quickly you went from a calm woman with soulless eye to laughing your head off while stabbing into his eye. The maid finishes bandaging his eye fast and leaves silently with hurried steps.

You just smile.

He gulps, realizing he has invited a psychopath into a marriage proposal.

Joshua stands up slowly, testing his balance with one less eye. He feels off—disoriented. He looks at you with his remaining good eye. Your single eye sparkles with pure joy. He suddenly had the urge to run—to get as far away from you as possible.

He backs away step by step as his heart races almost out of his chest. He is scared—scared of you, scared of the marriage proposal he'd just made to a literal psychopath. He trips over his own feet and falls back onto the bed with a winch, clutching his bandaged eye.

"Stay away from me!"

"C'mon, Hong. Your pretty eye might taste just as good as you look." You lick your lips, standing up and strolling towards him with a half-smile.

Joshua stumbles back, suddenly reminded of how you liked eating fish eyes in the restaurant that day. He lets out a choked scoff in disbelief—he fell for your game—hook, line, and sinker with your eye as bait.

He scrambles back further on the bed as you approach him with that half-smile—a smile that now sends shivers down his spine instead of butterflies in his stomach. His good eye widens in horror as memories flood back—you complimenting his eyes during that date—dropping your keychain.

"Stop!" he blurts out in desperation.

"Why? We are going to get married just like you wanted," you say, leaning down to his eye level.

Joshua flinches back as you lean in closer, his heart pounding in his chest. He is trapped—trapped by his own stupid marriage proposal to a woman who seems to take the phrase 'having an eye on each other' way too literally.

He could see your single eye up close—cold—insane.

"Don't forget to join our celebration dinner tonight," you beam, kissing his forehead, your lips rather feeling cold.

Joshua gulps.

He knows what's going to be served on the table tonight.

He nods numbly, his body shaking slightly as you kiss his forehead. He knew what was coming tonight—a celebration dinner where he would be the main course. His good eye wells up with tears as he grasps the horror of his situation—he had proposed to a monster who literally wanted to eat his eyes.

Joshua sits there frozen on the bed as you leave the room. He buries his face in his hands as sobs wrack his body.

He has fallen in love with a beautiful, cold monster who loves to eat fish eyes. He still can't believe he is going to marry a psychopathic eye-eating monster. "Why did I propose to her?" He cries into his hands.

Later that night, you hum in satisfaction, finding it delicious as you munch on his well cooked eye.

Joshua doesn't know when he fell asleep but he does know the ringing question in his head when he wakes up with the throbbing pain in his empty socket.

How did you know he was behind the acid attack and took your eye?

His brain files through countless theories as he washes up. He walks downstairs absentmindedly and almost bumps into the dining table.

You chuckle at his clumsiness, making him finally look up at you sitting across the mahogany table. The table is adorned with various dishes but that one dish sitting in front of you makes him gag.

It's his mangled eyeball soaked in sauce and surrounded by a lush lattice.

He watches in horror from the other side of the table as you happily cut his cooked eye and eat it, savoring every bite. Tears start to stream down his face as he realizes the truth—you loved eating eyes so much that you were willing to marry just to get more eye meat. He feels sick and violated.

A bile crawls up his throat, making him bend over and cover his mouth.

His stomach churns as he watches you chomp down his eye like it was some kind of delicacy. He had always been attracted to your unhinged cold look, he was always curious to discover you more... but now he sees the devil behind those lies. He stands up abruptly, trying to inhale some air and avoid looking at the table and you.

You look up from your plate, your mouth slightly stained with the juices of his cooked eye. You smile coyly like you had just eaten a gourmet meal instead of someone's bodily organ. He feels physically ill at the sight of it all over again. "Mmm...so delicious~" You hum happily, munching on it more.

Joshua takes a step back, looking for his moment to escape from this hell.

"Sit," you order curtly.

He sits down feebly with his trembling legs. He feels like he is in a nightmare—one where the woman he loved turns out to be a cannibalistic monster who had just eaten his eye for dinner—unfortunately for him he doesn't wake up from it. You commanded him to sit, and he obeyed like a scared puppy, his good eye filled with terror.

Right now, he is nothing like the arrogant and proud self-made millionaire, who tried to put you in a cage but now, he ended up locking himself in it.

His mind wanders off to the question he woke up with and the events of all the time he spent with you start playing in his head. An odd feeling blooms in his chest: everything went too smoothly in your favor as if… it was all calculated.

He rubs his clammy hands against his thighs and asks the question that has been weighing on his mind. "Did you arrange that hitman to approach me with this crazy acid attack idea?"

Your knife stills on cutting his eyeball.

Joshua looks at you with a mixture of fear and realization. Then all the pieces click together in his head.

You dropping the keychain—the men talking about teaching women a lesson at the back of the club—you humiliating him publicly by rejecting his proposal and then the hitman attacking you with an acid—it all seems too convenient, too perfectly timed. He had never considered it before, but now it seems obvious.

You have orchestrated this entire thing just to get him and his eyeball.

"You... you arranged the acid attack?"

"All is well now," you reassure him, attempting a coy smile but it rather reminds him of a Cheshire cat, who's toying with him and always had been although he realized it too late.

He feels like a fool. Not only are you a cold monster, you had managed to be a master manipulator, who had planned every step of their relationship with chilling precision. He scoffs, wondering if even that night you played the piano was planned—everything was a lie designed to trap him.

"You..." he trails off.

Your expression remains blank as you study his reaction. Your mouth opens and closes just for a moment. "The hitman just made you a suggestion. It's you who choose to take my eye in the first place," you explain coldly. "Actions have consequences, Joshua Hong."

Joshua feels a chill run down his spine at the cold, calculating way you spoke. The hitman was just a pawn in your game, and he was too—the fool who had agreed to take your 'eye'—is a sacrifice at the end.

He feels violated, manipulated, and utterly stupid for falling for your charms.

He sits in stunned silence, his mind racing with the realization that he had been played like a violin from the very beginning. He takes in a shaky breath, steeling himself for what's to come next.

"Now," you pick up your glass, expecting him to follow you.

Joshua picks up his glass mechanically.

"Congratulations to us getting engaged," you cheer, clinking their glasses in celebration.

He numbly clinks his glass against yours, his hand still shaking to no end. He feels like a zombie going through the motions as you celebrate your engagement—an engagement built on lies, manipulation, and the literal loss of his eye. The irony is bitter as he toasts to their 'happily ever after'.

"We're matching like a couple too," you laugh, pointing to your re-dressed eye patch and his lost bandaged one.

"Couple goals," you crowed, clinking your glass against his again, making the red wine swirl and almost spill over.

Joshua forces a weak smile, his heavy heart already weighing with dread and despair. The sight of your finger pointing at your own eye patch and at his bandaged socket was like a punch to his gut—a constant reminder of the horror he had willingly walked into. Your laughter echoes off like mocking jeers in his ears as he realizes just how perfectly you had played him.

"An eye for an eye, babe."

That phrase sends a shudder down his spine. It was clear now that every step of this relationship had been calculated—a twisted game where you have always held the upper hand.

You slide the ring onto his finger. He hadn't even noticed the velvet box sitting on the table beside you. The engagement ring feels like a shackle around his finger instead of a symbol of love. "Right..."

Joshua really fell for the hook, line, and sinker with your eye as bait.

Epilogue: First Look into Dazzling Eyes

The New Year’s gala unfolded in a vast candlelit garden, where frost clung to marble pathways, bare winter branches swayed in the freezing air of the last December night, and delicate gold-trimmed fountains shimmered beneath a thin layer of ice. Beneath fair lights hanging from ancient trees, the city’s elite mingle in glittering couture as live musicians play beside overflowing champagne towers and walls of white flowers.

You swirl your red wine mindlessly against the rim of the glass, raising them like waves that never reach shore. Endless chatter bores your eardrums, making you want this celebration to just be over.

You occasionally nod and send synthetic smiles to the greetings of your plastic friends.

“Are you planning to look miserable all night?” Mina asks, appearing beside you with a flute of champagne balanced between her fingers.

You hum absentmindedly. “Depends. Is there anything here worth entertaining?”

She snorts softly and leans in closer. “You sound like an old heiress trapped in a twenty-three-year-old’s body.”

“Maybe I am.”

Your eyes drift across the garden anyway, over the glittering gowns and clusters of polished smiles. Then they stop.

A man stands a few tables away beneath the hanging fairy lights, dressed in a black suit that fits like it was stitched onto him. He laughs at something an older businessman says, the sound warm and effortless as he clinks glasses with the group around him. There’s nothing loud about him, nothing attention-seeking, yet people orbit him naturally, drawn in by the calm gentleness in his expression.

Beautiful.

Dangerously so.

Mina notices your stare almost immediately. “Oh,” she beams with amusement. “So you do have a pulse.”

You tear your gaze away for half a second. “Who is he?”

“That,” she says dramatically, “is Joshua Hong. The newest heartthrob of the elite socialite circle.”

The name settles strangely in your chest.

“He came back from abroad six months ago,” Mina continues. “Started his own company from scratch and somehow already became a self-made millionaire. I heard he has branches opening all across the country now. Everyone’s obsessed with him.”

“Sounds exhausting,” you reply flatly before taking another sip of wine.

But your eyes betray you, drifting back to him almost instantly.

Joshua tilts his head while listening to someone speak, smiling softly in a way that barely reaches his eyes. The golden lights above scatter against the dark brown of his irises, making them glimmer like sunlight over amber glass.

Then the countdown begins.

“Ten!”

The crowd erupts around you as voices echo through the garden.

“Nine!”

Joshua glances upward just as the first firework explodes across the midnight sky.

Colors bloom over the garden in brilliant gold and silver, reflecting in the crystal fountains, in champagne glasses, and in his eyes.

And for one suspended moment, with fireworks painting light across his face and laughter spilling from his lips, you can’t look away.

“Three!”

Your pulse quickens unexpectedly.

“Two!”

Mina says something beside you, but the sound fades into the night.

“One!”

The sky bursts into dazzling color as cheers erupt through the garden.

You stare at Joshua Hong beneath the falling sparks of light and decide right there and then—

He will be your New Year’s goal.

His eyes twinkle with colorful fireworks, peering into a bright soul behind those pupils.

Such pretty deer eyes.

You wonder what they will look like caught in headlights.

Note: The turns have tabled.

I actually watched an eye removal surgery for this fic and I wanted to show off my new knowledge but that would had been an info dump so I didn't lol

Important Characterization Note: If you haven't noticed the fl is 'weird' at expressing emotions. Well, technically bad at putting an act on to be precise. Throughout the story, they both express their emotions at odd timings because they're both putting on an act in front of each other for their own agendas. However, Joshua's curiosity towards fl is genuine. And they both do have their moments where their masks slip and they're vulnerable.

I tried to include a lot of subtext in their dynamic and in story. Let me know your perspective. I would love to read y'all's theories.

This was my first attempt at writing unreliable narrative, so how was it?

Joshua:

Tagging readers from the waiting list: @dontwonder05 @joshujin @eskoupe

Tagging readers who showed interested in it (sorry, if you didn't want to be tagged): @arkihives @aethnie @bobathi

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@jl-micasea-fics MAKE WAY FOR ROYALTY. Mica, THE MICA, the holy grail of the stayblr fanfic community. Where do I even begin. PLEASEEE please please check out her holy masterlist. It is a WHOLEEE library of so many good, TOP-TIER fics. If there's a writer here who I consider as a celebrity, it's Mica. You will not regret reading her works. She's so talented and her fics always slap. She is one of my biggest inspiration. If you're into long fic series, she's your gal.

@ch4nb4ng venus!!! Became one of my friends here. We used to discuss about our fic ideas and all that, i think she's IA now tho. So check out her fics before she deactivates! You wouldn't wanna miss out of her old posts!

@cb97percent PLEASEEEE please please check her out. The fics she puts out NEVER MISS. I've been following scarlet since god knows when. I still remember her Maniacs series 😭 i personallyyyyyy loved her entry for Chan and Hyunjin. She has a vast library of her works so check out her masterlist! She also has done research about AI generated fics so check out her posts about that to be informed!

And then my honorable mentions, the blogs I've been following that have always set my reader heart on fire, some whom I interacted with and became friends with! If you find yourself here, please know that i love all of your works! I'll probs add more as I go lol, I'm quite literally going through my following list as we speak.

@gimmeurtmi @tasteracha @j-0ne25 @j-onecult @faeryacha @jisungsdaydreamer @starlostseungmin @kaciidubs @skz-streamer @whatudowhennooneseesyou @skzsm @cinhomi @3rachaslut @abiaswreck @planet-dusk @planetdream

First, an honorable mention to both @/cbini and @/seo--changbin, you both are so so so soooo amazing!!!

Next, my very first stayblr besties @milknhoneyracha and @sweetracha who brought me into this sphere fully and actually interact with people~ 💕

@skz-elle - My undercover writer bestie who leaves me GEMS in the dms, once day I PRAY she'll share her thoughts and drabbles here 💕

Now, onto the people I absolutely adore and highly recommend even just knowing of them!

@slutforchanlix, @notastraykid, @hyunsvngs, @dreamescapeswriting, @baby-yongbok, @channieskies, @kwanisms 💕💕💕💕

@breakmeoff - An absolute sweetheart. She's the only reason that I'm even participating in kinktober this year. Larie has constantly been getting as many writers as she can into wonderful fun collabs and I adore her for it.

@pixie-felix - Another sweetheart that I always look forward to seeing when I log on. She's absolutely brilliant.

@skzophreniic - I'm proud to have Aeryn as friend here. She's honestly an inspiration to me. She's brilliant. Unfortunately, her brilliance has been shadowbanned and it hurts my heart. Show her some love if you can! (I recommend reading, track 12 and 1-800-Hot and Fun)

Also! Honorable mention to my very best friend @weakformingyu. I met her 2 years ago on here and we're still going strong!

Jeongin is out, should be back soon but you and Chan couldn't even make it down the hall before you were dropping to your knees, sloppy hair tied back, drooling tongue begging for the weight of his cock. 

Now he's down your throat, leaky cock abusing your narrow hole as you suck him off like it's your last chance to. Chan falls apart. 

“That fucking mouth, His hips stutter forward, thrusting just barely and groaning at the feel of you swallowing around him. You hum, he moans. “Lemme fuck it.”

His hand finds its way into your hair, tugging just barely, then—bringing his other hand towards the underside of your jaw—he holds you in place. 

His hips move slow, measured, like he’s testing how far your throat will stretch. He keeps his pace until the feeling of your spit drooling down over his balls chips his already slipping control. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat with every motion. Your eyes are watering, your jaw aches, your cunt is clenching around nothing but he keeps using you like something silicone. 

“Holy shit, baby—taking me so fucking well.” He looks down at you, heavy-lidded, catching the exact moment a tear falls. His lips part, only a groan escapes, tongue caught between his teeth as your spit pools on the hallway floor.

Chan pulls you off of him with a fist full of your hair, watching you gasp for breath. Lines and lines of spit connect you to him, sliding down your chin to ruin your shirt.

“Prettiest fucking thing.” His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slips between, and presses down on your tongue. His other hand strokes his cock, eyes glued to you, fucked out and blinking up at him like he’s all you know. “Baby, is only good for sucking cock, yeah?” 

You hum, nod, batting your lashes. His pace quickens, his eyes flutter but don’t shut. “Look at me. Don’t stop looking at me. ‘M gonna come on that pretty face.” 

Your lips close around his thumb, sucking just enough to push him over. His brows pinch, his rhythm falters. “Open. Now, baby—fuck.” 

He comes with a grunt, eyes fluttering shut for only a second before forcing them open to watch you. Hot ropes paint your face—over your lips, tongue, cheek. He swipes his thumb through the mess on your cheek and pushes it back between your lips. You hum at the taste.

“Nasty, nasty, girl.” He leans back, catching his breath—then you hear the lock of the front door, his head turns toward the noise. “Time to take this to my room, yeah?”

He looks over the mess he made of you one more time before starting down the hall. “Come.” You start to stand. He tuts, looking over his shoulder.

“Crawl.” The sound of your knees hitting the floor makes him smirk. 

“If Jeongin walks in, keep crawling…” He turns back, “...and smile for him.”

All Content: @wealwayskeepfighting @whokno-ows @stay-tiny-things @yaorzu-blog @krayzieestay @nxtt2-u  @armystay89 @kayleefriedchicken @compersian  @kibs-and-bits @whokno-ows @poppet05 @estella-novella @unbel1ve4ble @pixie-felix @catsforlife6864 @lisaskz @chloe-elise-2000 @jaeminie-cricket @gingerrracha @wickedbutlovely @lolareadsimagines @h00d-tr4sh @felixleftchickennugget @jeyelleohe @hanjiyunho @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @iminc0gnito @dreamingaboutjisung @lixiluvs @teddy-stay @baconcupcakes123 @soulsbbg @stay-bi @yzsqu @lghtdarling @joonkki @my_neurodivergent_world @tricky-ritz @linospetsitter @0sunshinecryptidd @miyaluvvsyou @chansfavoriterubberducky @felixleftchickennugget @babygay2005 @stellasays45 @corgilover20 @bx-lov3 @myrkhive @kttb @rockstarkkami

@cowboylikemalika @angellcvkes @caitlyn98s @camryn-haitani @felixsonlyrealwife @binnie-c @highkeyinlovewithhanjisung @bbokarismeow @hannahlue @nctdreamchaser @tangerineastronaut @lezleeferguson-120 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @staytinyluva @iyenabi @sammhisphere @hhjlvr @geni-627 @thvsuga @staytinyluva @hanjifangirlie @breakmeoff

Becoming important at a job you despise is… well, it’s definitely not a good feeling.

You're reminded of this unfortunate fact every single day at your corporate job, where even though the paycheck is attractive, you're constantly drowning under the immense pressure exerted by your jerk of a boss.

Park Sunghoon has exactly one redeeming quality and that is his stupidly handsome face. But everything else about him is so rotten, you can't even enjoy glancing at his perfect features without a bitter feeling pooling deep in your stomach, similar to the one you get moments before hurling.

You might be wondering what exactly he did to warrant this hatred. The better question would be, what hasn't he done? From your very first week, Sunghoon was a complete asshole who had you running to the bathroom in tears after he openly called your work "uninspired garbage" a "colossal waste of time," and even claimed that hiring someone so inexperienced was an insult to the company's standards.

Funnily enough, you managed to climb the ranks within just one year and found yourself working directly under him. Though you couldn't even celebrate your promotion because being closer to Sunghoon only multiplied your misery. It was safe to say your life was one big ball of stress thanks to him. 

So to cope you developed a rigorous self-care routine which consisted of pilates, drinking only decaffeinated beverages, attending overpriced meditation sessions, and even trying acupuncture.

But your favorite method to decompress involved channeling your frustrations toward the subject of all your afflictions. Sometimes that included taping his picture onto a punching bag and going absolutely feral.

Unfortunately (and embarrassingly) for you, not all your tension was purely angry…

Even if it hurt your soul to admit it your boss was exactly your type physically. Like, why the hell was he always scowling when he literally had the face of an angel? Really, nobody could blame you if your pent-up anger occasionally morphed into sexual frustration.

And yeah, you dealt with that too. Usually with your hands…and your collection of sex toys.

Which was exactly why you found yourself standing awkwardly in a discreet adult shop tucked away in the wealthier part of the city. You chose it because it was the farthest possible distance from your neighborhood, drastically reducing the chance of running into any nosy neighbors.

You shuffled curiously through the aisles, giggling at the sheer size of some toys. A few of them even had the word “monster” in the labels.

You currently had one of those ridiculous monster dildos in your hand wondering how anyone could possibly fit something like that inside them. You briefly considered taking it home, purely for research purposes, of course.

Just as you were inspecting the absurdly graphic details printed on the toy's box, someone stepped next to you way closer than necessary. Who stood this close to someone while browsing monster-sized dildos?

Giving them a subtle side glance, you realized it was a man. Tall enough that you could barely see beyond his chin without obviously staring. A black mask covered most of his face, obscuring his identity. You cleared your throat uncomfortably and walked away, an odd feeling tingling along your spine from the stranger's presence.

You browsed for a little while longer before deciding on just two items—the ridiculously gigantic dildo and a discreet rose toy. As you joined the checkout line, you noticed there was only one other person ahead of you, but unfortunately, she seemed to be having trouble with her card so it was taking a while.

The stranger from earlier joined the line directly behind you, making you sigh in irritation. Just your luck.

Your skin prickled uncomfortably as he stepped even closer, despite the line clearly not moving. Right. Your therapist had repeatedly emphasized setting clear boundaries, something you admittedly weren’t great at. Now seemed like a perfect time to practice that.

You turned abruptly, nostrils flaring with barely concealed anger. “Excuse me,” you snapped, emphasizing every syllable. “Have you never heard of personal space? You’re standing way too close, so if you could kindly step back, that would be great.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering downward to the giant dildo box you were still clutching tightly, then back up to your face as you tapped your foot impatiently. A soft snort escaped him. Was he mocking you?!

“Back off, jerk” you hissed the insult through gritted teeth before turning your back to him again.

“I can’t believe the first time you decide to stand up for yourself is in a sex shop.”

Do you know that dreadful feeling that washes over you right before disaster strikes?

That was exactly how you felt when you recognized that voice. A voice belonging to none other than your daily tormentor.

Slowly, you turned around again. He’d pulled his mask down and pushed his cap up, fully revealing his unfairly attractive face. A slight smile graced his lips, probably the first genuine smile you'd ever seen from him in the entire miserable year you'd known Park Sunghoon.

“Fucking hell…” you whispered, eyes growing to the size of saucers, knees feeling dangerously weak.

Your fight-or-flight instincts chose precisely that moment to kick in, and you reacted in possibly the worst way imaginable: you bolted. Unfortunately, you bolted with both unpaid items still in your hands.

You didn’t even realize your mistake until you were sitting in your car, chest heaving, heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your head. Panic clawed up your throat when you saw the items still clutched in your hand. With a strangled cry, you tossed the incriminating bag out your car window and drove away at breakneck speed, half-expecting sirens at any second.

Seriously, what were the odds of bumping into your boss at a sex you shop?!

The next morning you dragged yourself reluctantly into your workplace, looking as close to a corpse as humanly possible. You hadn’t slept at all, spending the entire night drafting your resignation letter. Forty different versions until you decided on one that didn’t seem too much like trauma dumping.

You had a million reasons to quit already, but after the mortifying nightmare of Sunghoon catching you holding a monster dildo box at a sex shop and calling him a jerk? Yeah, that one topped the list. 

Maybe this was just the universe finally screaming at you to do better for yourself.

Still, dread knotted in your stomach at the thought of suddenly being unemployed. Fucking Park Sunghoon… Did he ever get tired of ruining your life?

Your coworkers greeted you warmly as you walked past them, but several quickly stepped aside after seeing your vacant stare and pale complexion. You overheard hushed whispers: "Is she okay?" "She looks terrible”. You ignored them all.

Once you reached your boss’s office door, you paused, noticing how your hand trembled as you raised it to knock. Taking a shaky breath, you rapped twice.

“Come in,” he called, and you pushed open the door, wincing at its squeak. Had it always been that loud? Well, you wouldn't really know since you immediately dissociated every time you entered this office.

His dark eyes flickered upward, flashing briefly before he returned his attention to the files on his desk. “I hope that’s the corrected version of last week's report in your hand,” he said, pushing up his reading glasses.

God, why did he have to look so attractive in those stupid glasses? You wished he’d wear them more often, preferably in situations other than berating you. Shit—those sleepless nights must’ve fried your brain. You should feel nothing but deep, burning hatred toward this man right now. He was actively ruining your life!

“Erm…no. It’s actually—” You stepped forward hesitantly and placed the letter on his desk, sliding it towards him as if feeding a hungry lion, then stepping quickly away.

“A resignation letter?” he questioned impassively, picking up the envelope and glancing at your shaky handwriting on the envelope. There were definitely a few tear stains visible on the surface.

“Yes, sir. And I wanted to apologize sincerely for yesterday. It was extremely inappropriate of me. There are other reasons, too… they’re all listed in there.” Your voice practically died in your throat under his intense stare.

He sighed deeply and set the letter down without bothering to open it. “Y/N, can I be frank with you?” he started and you braced yourself. 

“You’re too stubborn, impulsive most of the time, overly emotional, defensive—”

Your jaw dropped open, ready to protest, but he held up a hand silencing you before you even started.

“But you’re also one of the hardest workers on this floor. You bring fresh ideas, you’re meticulous to a fault, you push the team to improve. A perfectionist like me… exactly what this company values.”

“If this is your way of convincing me to stay—”

“I’m not finished,” he interrupted sharply. “You’re all those things, sure. But one thing I never took you for was a coward.”

Your entire body went rigid with rage and it ignited so fast in your chest you could not stop the next words from coming out. “I am not a coward. I'm finally putting myself first! Do you honestly think you can say all those horrible things about me and then smooth it over with a couple of generic compliments? That’s not how this works! From day one you’ve made it your personal mission to make my work life miserable! And don’t even try feeding me some bullshit about seeing potential or trying to build my character or whatever ‘tough love’ corporate crap you're about to spew, because I won’t believe it for a second!”

You were shouting now, pretty sure everyone outside could probably hear you, but you’d reached a point beyond caring.

“And while we’re busy listing adjectives for each other,” you continued breathlessly, “let me tell you exactly what you are! You’re the most self-centered, sociopathic, egomaniacal, narcissistic, emotionally constipated, manipulative, control freak bastard I’ve ever known! I’m quitting because of you. I can't stand being here another second, because I can’t stand you!”

You stood there, chest heaving, waiting to see what the devil in designer glasses would do next.

His expression stayed maddeningly neutral until the faintest curl ghosted across his mouth. A smile? Why on earth was Park Sunghoon smiling? Had he finally lost it? Or had you? Because that was definitely a smirk, and now he was rising from his chair, closing the distance between you.

A million panic-scenarios flashed through your head. Maybe he just wanted to yell at you up close. Maybe he planned to throttle you on the spot. Murderer wasn’t even on the list of insults you’d hurled at him but—

“There she is,” he murmured darkly. “The pretty thing I saw in the sex shop. For a moment I doubted it was you… someone with that much fire, that much backbone. But here you are again.”

He stopped so close you could pick out the mint on his breath under the expensive cologne. Your brain was so scrambled you could do nothing but count every mole on his flawless skin, and notice the fact that he didn’t appear to have a single visible pore. What in the fresh hell was happening?

“Language,” he chided softly, apparently you’d spoken your confusion aloud. “Just because I let you scream at me doesn’t mean you can use whatever words you like.”

Warmth flooded your skin, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your dry mouth. What was this weird sensation? It felt as if you’d wandered into a dream, standing bare in a cage with a lion prowling around you. Sunghoon’s gaze was fiercer than ever.

“Uhm… I don’t understand—”

“Let me clarify.” His voice dropped into a velvety tone. “I won’t claim I never meant those things I said, but they weren’t out of malice. If anything, I wanted to see how far you could go before you stopped playing nice.”

You walked back into the wall and he followed, not touching yet but close enough that his body heat curled around you. “Don’t shrink back now,” he whispered. “Show me what that sharp little mouth can do.”

Your lips parted in indignation only for his grin to widen, stealing the breath and every comeback right out of you. He had perfectly straight teeth and unnervingly sharp canines. They were almost vampiric. Was your boss a vampire? That would explain why working for him felt like being bled dry day after day.

But right now, as those midnight eyes pinned you in place, the only thing you knew for sure was that you were in far deeper than any resignation letter could fix. 

And then all those swirling thoughts in your head stopped because he kissed you, brutally hard, swallowing your gasp of shock. His hand tangled roughly in your hair, tipping your head back until you were at his mercy.

His mouth trailed hot kisses across the soft skin of your neck, you bit your lip if only to try to contain the whimpers that were threatening to spill out of you. His sharp canines sunk softly into your skin and he sucked the spot after in almost a soothing manner.

It felt as though you’d lost your job, your mind, and apparently your self-respect—but fuck if you didn’t suddenly feel alive for the first time in months.

When he kissed you again it turned savage quick, all the pent-up frustration, a year’s worth of anger and denial spilling out in the space of a few ragged breaths. 

Sunghoon’s hands found your waist, gripping you hard enough to bruise. With barely a grunt as warning, he shoved you back until you collided with the desk, your palms splaying behind you for balance.

He crowded in, not giving you a second to reconsider. It was as if he could sense your hesitation and didn’t plan on letting you recover it. Your thighs hit the edge of the desk and he pinned you there, the solid line of his body fitting between your legs as he bent to nip your jaw, then your throat again, his breath hot and wild against your skin.

“Still want to quit?” he murmured, hands already hiking your skirt. “Or are you going to admit you need this as much as I do?”

Your laugh came out shaky. “I’d rather beg for anything but this job, asshole—”

He cut you off pushing your underwear aside and slipping a finger inside, harder than you expected, and so skilled it almost made you cry. Your hips jerked up helplessly, humiliation and need mixing into something molten.

“That’s right,” Sunghoon growled. “You love this, don’t you? Making a mess all over my fingers, desperate to be fucked by your boss. Never thought you’d be such a needy little thing.”

You hated how your body responded to every filthy word. His thumb circled your clit mercilessly and you gasped. “You should see yourself, whimpering on my desk,” he taunted. “I bet that monster dildo you picked out was just wishful thinking… thinking about getting filled up, stretched out, but you wanted the real thing, didn’t you?”

You managed a glare, but it drifted down when he started undoing his belt and freeing himself. The sight of his cock made your mouth go dry. He was big. Intimidatingly so. There was a split second of panic in your eyes, and he saw it, smirking as he lined himself up with you.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, rubbing the tip of his cock against your entrance. “Are you scared? You can still run to HR and tell them about your big, bad boss. Or you can stay right here and take every fucking inch like a good girl.”

When he saw you had no intention of stopping him, he pushed in slowly and didn’t stop until he bottomed out, hips flush with yours. The stretch was dizzying, almost too much, but your body greedily tried to take more, clenching around him.

“Shit—so fucking tight,” he groaned, his voice breaking a little, grip bruising on your hips. “You’re gonna have to loosen up a bit, baby. I can’t move.”

Your walls we’re hugging him so hard he got scared he’d get stuck in there for a second (Nof that it would be such a bad thing). But then you relaxed as you got used to his size and he started moving slowly.

You whimpered, nails digging into the wood. “God, Sunghoon…” 

“Yeah, moan my name just like that,” he rasped, snapping his hips forward and pulling back only to slam in deeper. “You want everyone out there to know who’s fucking you stupid?”

Every word had you spiraling, your body burning, arching to meet his thrusts. The filthy rush of his dominance, the grip of his hands, the way he bent you back over his desk and took what he wanted—every bit of it broke down your defenses. He leaned over you, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered. “You don’t come until I tell you, got it?”

You nodded, barely coherent. All the nerves in your body lit up from the pressure and the brutal rhythm of his cock slamming into you. He pushed harder, deeper, and relentlessly.

“You’re mine now,” he snarled, biting at your throat. “My dirty little office slut, letting your boss fuck you on his desk because you couldn’t help yourself.”

“Y—yes,” you gasped, broken and burning for him.

“That’s right. Cum for me, right now. Show me how much you need it.”

As you fell apart, trembling and ruined against his desk, you realized you’d never let anyone talk to you like this—but god, you liked it when he did.

So, you didn’t quit. 

Instead, you trudged back into the office the next morning. Sore in places you’d rather not recall and wishing you could blot out yesterday’s debauchery from your body with industrial-grade bleach.

Things honestly couldn’t have gone worse. You’d marched into Sunghoon’s office to let out a year’s worth of grievances, and sure, you’d “let it all out”… just not in the way you’d planned. 

He still refused to accept your resignation, and there was zero chance you were marching to HR after engaging in the world’s most ridiculous office affair. Everyone knows the employee with less power always gets burned, and you were not leaving without your full paycheck.

Waiting for the elevator, you opened your phone’s camera, angling your neck to check the damage. Not even half a bottle of foundation could fully cover the vampire bites Sunghoon had branded you with. 

You dabbed your skin one last time before the elevator dinged and, as if conjured by your anxiety, in walked the devil himself.

“Good morning,” he said, and it took genuine effort not to flinch under his gaze.

“Uh, morning,” you muttered, pressing yourself into the farthest corner of the elevator, doing your best to look small and invisible.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, voice casual. If you weren’t so on edge, you’d have given him the side-eye. Since when did the man who regularly worked you into exhaustion care about your rest?

“As well as I could manage,” you replied, lips pressed tight.

“Hmm. I did go a little rough on you yesterday.” He said it as if he was apologizing for a harsh tennis match, not for nearly rearranging your insides.

A dust mote or possibly your own panic got lodged in your throat, and you started coughing. It took you a few seconds to recover and all you could manage was a hoarse “Let’s not speak of that ever again.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not dying to have the office know about our little secret either.”

Of course he was an ass about it. You rolled your eyes. “You think I am? For the record, I tried to quit. But no, Mr. Spoiled Sunghoon has to get his way, as always!”

He turned fully toward you, blocking the doors with that broad frame. “You’re calling me spoiled when you’re throwing a fit like this? And, for the record, I was about to suggest we find someplace more private to continue our… business instead.”

Your jaw dropped. Was he seriously proposing you keep fucking but just in a different…  location?

“You’ve misunderstood. I have no intention of continuing anything with you except maybe a more professional work relationship.”

He laughed a humorless laugh that skimmed your nerves raw. “You don’t believe that even a little.”

“Why do you have to fight me on every single thing? Does it give you some twisted satisfaction to see me pissed off?”

He flashed a wolfish smile. “Surprisingly, yes. But I found out yesterday that it’s even more satisfying seeing you come all over my co—”

The elevator doors suddenly slid open, saving you from whatever depravity he was about to say. You practically leapt to the other side so dramatically you had to fake a leg cramp to explain your awkward movement to the coworker stepping in. The newcomer eyed you curiously but said nothing, thank god.

You caught Sunghoon’s reflection in the elevator’s polished wall and he was clearly biting back a laugh, enjoying every second of your mortification.

When you arrived at your desk—flustered, anxious, and already mentally exhausted—you actually clasped your hands under the desk and prayed. Please let today pass without incident. Please let Park Sunghoon forget I exist for once in his damn life.

Realistically, he only called you into his office once or twice a week. Usually to nitpick your reports or assign corrections. And you figured he was smart enough to want to maintain at least the illusion of normalcy, which meant keeping that routine.

Naturally, you thought wrong.

Because barely fifteen minutes had passed before you saw your desk phone light up with a call from his extension.

You stared at it in silent horror, briefly considering smashing your forehead into the stapler. A workplace injury would be a valid excuse to leave early, right?

…For any normal boss, sure. But Sunghoon wasn’t a normal boss. He was a sadistic egomaniac who unfortunately had the dick to back up a portion of his arrogance.

Just then, your coworker Mina strolled by and smiled sweetly, clearly unaware that you were on the verge of losing your mind. You latched onto her like a lifeline.

“Mina! Can you help me with something?”

“Sure, what is it?” she asked, stepping closer.

You grabbed the offending stack of papers. “Can you take these reports to Mr. Park for me?” you offered her a smile hoping she wouldn’t question you. 

She blinked, a little confused. “Sure… but why?”

Fucking hell. “Oh, it’s just—I really need to use the bathroom, like, right now. Could you just drop them off for me?” The bathroom excuse was foolproof. No one argues with that.

“Oh, okay! But couldn’t you take it after?”

Why was she asking so many questions? Just take the goddamn file and save your doomed coworker from her crazy boss.

Your smile widened so unnaturally it probably triggered a horror response in her brain. Mina’s own smile faltered slightly in concern.

“I’m only saying that because you know how he gets with the reports… He’ll probably want to talk to you about it.”

Right. Like you didn’t already know that.

“I know! It’s just…” fuck it, being honest might make her feel bad for you. “I don’t want to deal with his berating right now.” You sighed.

She hesitated but then smiled in solidarity “I get it. He scares me a bit too. I'll bring them to him and say you needed the bathroom urgently.” 

Victory.

“Thank you so much, Mina! I owe you one.”

To commit to the bit, you stood up and headed toward the bathrooms, waiting just around the corner. You peeked out from behind a pillar and watched her step into Sunghoon’s office. Sorry for sending you into the lion’s den, Mina.

After five strategically-timed minutes in the bathroom, you returned to your desk and sat for three whole minutes before your phone rang again.

You saw the caller ID and instantly considered throwing yourself out the nearest window.

“Hel—”

“Come into my office. Now.”

The finality in his tone snapped any last thread of avoidance you were clinging to. You sighed, mentally braced for the gallows walk, and made your way to his office.

“You wanted me?” you asked coldly, sticking your head in and trying very hard not to look at the desk you’d been thoroughly fucked on yesterday.

“Come in,” he said, without looking up. “And close the door.”

You swallowed hard.

Closing the door meant isolation. No witnesses. Just you and him. And judging by the tone in his voice, you knew this wasn’t going to be a normal work talk. Hell, it probably wasn’t going to be a talk at all.

“I’m actually very busy right now, so—”

“Are you?” His voice was soft but cutting. “I doubt hiding out in the bathroom counts as a busy task.”

You shot him a look. Was he spying on you? “How did you even know?”

“Ms. Myoi isn’t exactly subtle,” he replied, almost smirking. “Next time, pick someone with a better poker face.”

“You got the files, so what’s the problem?” You tried to keep your tone firm, but your nerves were showing.

He stood up so quickly you barely had time to react. Every instinct screamed for you to bolt, but instead, you froze as his long fingers curled gently but firmly around your forearm, tugging you in closer. With his other hand, he closed the door behind you and turned the lock.

“I think you’re under the impression that, after what happened yesterday… You know, me stuffing you full of my cock and all… that you can talk to me however you please.” His tone was low and dangerous. “But you’re mistaken. I’m still your boss, and while you’re here, you’re going to show me respect.”

You hated the way he was speaking to you, hated even more the way his hand was now gliding up your arm, fingers brushing lightly around your throat and up to the sensitive nape of your neck.

“This is a total abuse of power,” you managed. “You can’t just summon me in here and expect me to drop everything because you think I’ll be easy for you. I’m not here to satisfy your needs. I’m here to work. And if that’s not what you want, let me go.”

He chuckled, the hand at your neck stroking slow circles against your skin. “Did you really think I called you in for anything other than work?” His tone was almost playful, clearly amused by your suggestion.

“I told you I wasn’t planning to do that again,” he added, his eyes flickering down your body with an infuriating amount of calm. “Not here, at least.”

Your chin lifted defiantly, meeting his gaze head-on. “What makes you think I’d want to do it again anywhere?” 

“Because you loved it. You took my cock like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you. And right now…” He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re pressing your thighs together just from hearing me talk about it.”

Your whole body flushed—because fuck him, you were.

His hand tightened ever so slightly at your nape. “You can lie with that mouth all you want,” he murmured, “but your body? Your body doesn’t lie to me. It wants me. Still.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, your breath turning embarrassingly shaky. Sunghoon saw your hesitation, your silent surrender, and smiled a  slow, arrogant smirk that sent a thrill straight down your spine.

He leaned closer, lips brushing lightly against your ear as he spoke in a whisper. “You know what your problem is? You talk so much, but the second I touch you…” his fingertips traced trails from your nape down your spine “you fall apart so beautifully. Yesterday you were practically begging me.”

“I—I wasn’t begging,” you lied weakly, breath hitching as his fingers slipped underneath the edge of your collar, stroking softly across your collarbone. 

“Really?” he murmured. “Because I distinctly remember how loud you were” his voice dipped into something darker, hotter. “Do you remember how tightly you clenched around me when I told you exactly what a good little slut you were being for your boss?”

You swallowed a whimper, shame and lust tightening your throat. His other hand cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing your lower lip as he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You liked that, didn’t you? Liked taking every inch of me right here in my office,” he said quietly. “I bet you spent all night replaying it, wishing I was there to do it again. And again. And again.”

Your eyes fluttered shut involuntarily as his thumb stroked across your lip again, gently pressing just enough to part them. You were utterly pliant, melting like wax under his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmured softly, eyes glinting with triumph. “So responsive. Just my voice, my fingers on your skin, and you’re trembling already.” He leaned in. “I wonder how much more desperate I could make you.”

You couldn’t even pretend anymore. Your body was begging him silently. He drew back just slightly, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips as he took in your flushed expression.

“Meet me during your lunch break,” he ordered quietly, pulling away enough to restore a cruel semblance of professionalism. “Don’t be late. You know I’m not patient.”

Your cheeks burned hotly at the implication, even as a thrill raced through you. You nodded weakly, knowing there was no chance you’d refuse.

You counted down the hours to lunch with embarrassing anticipation, barely getting any work done. Not only was Park Sunghoon living rent-free in your head, he was now actively sabotaging your productivity. Ugh. How could hate and want coexist so aggressively? It was unnatural.

Finally, when the clock struck 1PM, you all but leapt out of your seat only to force yourself to sit right back down after realizing how eager you looked. Get a grip.

Just as you were trying to muster the courage to casually make your exit, your phone buzzed with a text from him:

Sunghoon: Change of plans. Meet me at the parking lot.

You stared at the message, scoffing. Really? He was going to make you walk all the way downstairs just to get railed in the backseat of his car?

You grumbled under your breath the entire way down to the parking lot, texting him as soon as you arrived: Which one’s your car?

You really should’ve known.

A black Mercedes-Benz—the newest model, naturally—rolled up and parked directly in front of you. The door popped open automatically, and there he was with sunglasses on, one arm draped lazily over the wheel, and a small tilt of his chin beckoning you inside like he was some villain in a K-drama.

You rolled your eyes but got in anyway.

“Why didn’t you bring your bag?” he asked immediately, not even sparing you a glance.

“I have my wallet in my phone case. I don’t need anything else.”

“I’ll have one of the staff bring it to my place later.”

“Your place?!” You sat upright, the seatbelt snapping back loudly as you turned to him.

He didn’t even glance over. “Where did you think we were going?”

“To eat lunch? I mean, I’m actually hungry,” you insisted, only half lying. You knew where this was heading, but you refused to seem too eager.

He sighed as if you were an unexpected challenge in his otherwise perfectly curated day. “Either way, you’re not coming back in today. I’ll have your bag delivered. So, where do you want to eat?”

“Wait a second. What do you mean I’m not coming back? My shift isn’t over. I have work to do!”

He gave you a look, one thick brow raised behind his sunglasses. “Yeah, work I assigned you. Which means I can unassign it just as easily. Strap in.”

“Sunghoon, this is… ridiculous! You can’t just kidnap me from work just because you’re my boss!”

He smirked. “I definitely can.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” you grumbled, finally buckling your seatbelt with as much attitude as you could manage.

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. You’re getting out early, still getting paid for the full shift, and you’ll be thoroughly taken care of.” He glanced at you. “I’d think you’d be thanking me.”

“Of course you don’t see the problem,” you muttered, turning to scowl out the window. “Whatever. Just drive.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. The engine purred back to life, and you tried not to focus on the fact that you were skipping work to go God knows where with your arrogant, dangerously hot boss to get possibly (likely) fucked into tomorrow.

The car ride started in a silence that felt too heavy for two people who’d literally had sex on a desk 24 hours ago. You stared out the window, arms crossed, trying not to seem too aware of how expensive everything in this car felt. The leather, the tech, even the damn smell… it all screamed money. 

“Alright,” he said eventually, “how do you feel about that new French-Japanese fusion place in uptown?”

“Fusion? Uptown? That sounds like a two hour meal and three digit prices.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “So?”

“So,” you said, turning to look at him, “I said I’m hungry. I’m not trying to sit through seven courses of foam and edible flowers.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “What do you suggest, then?”

You thought for half a second. “We could hit that little spot near the office. You know, the one with the best kimchi fried rice—”

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

“I’m not taking you somewhere that has a laminated menu and plastic chairs.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re such a snob.”

“And you have the palate of a college student.”

You gaped at him. “You know what? Maybe I do want to eat something cheap and greasy. You ever think that maybe not all of us grew up eating imported truffle oil on toast?”

He chuckled. “Why are you making it sound like a crime to want something nice?”

“Because you think nice has to mean expensive.”

He didn’t reply right away, just turned the corner smoothly. You could feel his gaze on you even though he was watching the road.

“Fine. I’ll make a deal with you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Go on.”

“I’ll let you pick where we eat this time, but next time, it’s my choice.”

Your stomach flipped at the implication of doing this again, but you refused to show it. “You’re assuming there’ll be a next time.”

Sunghoon smirked. “There will.”

You turned back to the window with a huff, trying to hide your tiny smile. 

“Wait—turn right here. There’s a food truck fair in that parking lot!

There was a second of silence so loud it made you look back at him. Sunghoon slowly turned his head toward you, scandalized.

“You want me to eat in a parking lot?”

“Oh come on. It’s street food!”

“Do you have any idea how many food safety violations they probably have?”

“You think your caviar isn’t hiding mercury or something? Please.”

He gave you a look like you’d just suggested licking a subway pole. “We could catch anything from there.”

You laughed, genuinely. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You know there’s a reason the Michelin Guide doesn’t cover sketchy food trucks.”

“Just try the food, Sunghoon. I promise you won’t die from eating a greasy burger”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not exactly how my obituary would read,” he muttered, but he was already making the turn.

You smirked triumphantly. “Are you actually giving in?”

He sighed, the weight of compromise clearly hurting his soul. “I’m making a tactical concession to avoid hearing you complain the rest of the day.”

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, already unbuckling your seatbelt.

“If I get food poisoning, I’m dragging you down with me.”

The food truck you chose specialized in Korean fusion, with spicy pork tacos, kimchi fries, and bulgogi rice bowls. It was the kind of place where napkins came in a metal dispenser and water was self-serve. Sunghoon looked deeply out of place with his lil crisp button-up still tucked, Rolex peeking under his cuff, and an expression like he was trying not to breathe too deeply.

“That man’s handling cash and tortillas without changing gloves.” He said, pointing at the guy working the front.

“That man,” you replied, swatting his finger down “is a hero bringing joy to the masses. Relax.”

You ordered tacos, ignoring Sunghoon’s skeptical gaze as you squeezed lime over the foil-wrapped mess. “Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten from a truck before.”

“I have,” he lied, studying the salsa bottles. “It just… isn’t usually my first choice.”

You picked a picnic table under an umbrella. Sunghoon pulled out a crisp linen handkerchief (of course he carried one) and wiped the bench before you could sit.

“Oh my God, you’re embarrassing me,” you laughed.

“Your immune system will thank me,” he said, unfolding it like a placemat. 

“Here. Try acting like the rest of us humans” you handed him a tray.

“There’s no cutlery…” He said, eyeing the tacos suspiciously.

“Obviously,” you said, already digging into yours. “You have to use your hands, Richie Rich.”

Sunghoon reluctantly picked one up and took a bite. His jaw worked slowly, expression unreadable. You waited for a complaint.

“One to ten, rate your $6 lunch.”

He hesitated, glancing at your happy expression. “Eight. And don’t let it go to your head.”

You gasped dramatically. “Is that approval? From Park Sunghoon? Should I alert the media?”

“I said don’t push it.” But the corner of his mouth twitched dangerously close to a smile.

As you sat across from each other, legs nearly brushing beneath the bench, the sun felt warmer, the breeze softer. For a moment, everything felt dangerously normal.

Until he leaned in and brushed his thumb across the corner of your mouth.

You froze. “What are you doing?”

“You had sauce.” He licked his thumb without breaking eye contact. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”

You stared, half-appalled. “You are literally why my therapist is booked solid.”

“Happy to keep her employed,” he said, flashing a grin. “I’m sure you have plenty to discuss about how much you enjoy working under me.”

You snorted. “In what world would I admit that?”

He shrugged, tearing open a sauce packet with annoying elegance. “You already admitted it with your thighs yesterday.”

You kicked him lightly under the table. “You can’t say things like that in public.”

“No one’s listening,” he said, but his eyes hadn’t left your face once. He was watching you too closely.

You looked away, stabbing a fry. “So what is this supposed to be? Lunch and… whatever comes after?”

He leaned in slightly, forearms resting on the table. “You really think I’m that predictable?”

“Aren’t you?”

He shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “If I was just here for that, I wouldn’t have bothered with lunch.”

“Then why did you?”

“Still figuring that out.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly conscious of how close you were. “Well, while you work on your revelation, I’m getting dessert.”

He stood smoothly. “Pick whatever you want.”

“Even the bubble waffles?” you teased.

“Get two. You’ll need the sugar.”

You blinked. “Why?”

Sunghoon just smiled.

“I thought you said getting into my pants wasn’t the plan today,” you continued, arms folding tightly across your chest.

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked unapologetically downward. “I just changed my mind. Your ass looks incredible in that skirt.”

The truth is, he barely noticed until now just how distracted he’d become simply from watching the way your skirt hugged your curves. It irritated him a bit, actually, that you could derail his thoughts so effortlessly.

You kind of figured things would end up at his place, but your appetite for anything besides food totally disappeared. Maybe it was the realization that you’d let yourself get sidetracked from work, and, weirdly enough, you actually liked just hanging out and eating with him. But if you had sex with him now, it’d just confirm that to him, you were just an easily accessible warm hole, nothing more.

You grimaced at your own thoughts and suddenly got angry at the fact that you were even here.

“Well, I'm sorry but Richard’s waiting for me, so I have to get home.”

His entire demeanor shifted instantly, shoulders tightening, the casual ease disappearing from his expression.

“And who the hell is Richard?”

A faint tension settled into his jaw. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, that’s what he told himself. It was simply the irritation of someone who disliked having his plans disrupted.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“And your shift isn’t even over yet,” he added coldly, looking at his watch.

Your blood pressure spiked instantly. “You’re joking, right? Now my shift matters? Five minutes ago you were rearranging my entire day like it was your personal schedule.”

Sunghoon glared at you, his grip on the keys turning almost painful. He knew he was being petty, but he didn’t care. Especially with you dodging him like this.

“I just asked who Richard was, there’s no need to get so defensive.”

“Well, it’s none of your damn business.”

Your words were sharp enough to make his jaw clench. He let out a frustrated breath, telling himself not to say anything else that could possibly upset you more.

“Now you can take me home, or I’ll get a cab. Your choice.” you said, unyielding.

There was a stubborn silence before Sunghoon finally relented, unlocking the car with a curt click. Without another word, you both slid inside, any easiness from before completely gone.

“So what—” Sunghoon scoffed as he started the engine, eyes hardening with visible annoyance. “You can sleep with me but I can’t ask who you’re rushing home to?”

“Exactly, because we’re not anything, remember?”

The reply was blunt enough that even Sunghoon found himself momentarily at a loss for a comeback. That’s right, this was supposed to be a casual thing. So why did this suddenly feel so much more personal?

He didn’t care who you were seeing, really—he just didn’t appreciate surprises.

Nobody said another word the entire drive. You could practically hear every exhale he took through his nose as he maneuvered the Mercedes through traffic. When he finally pulled up in front of your building, you unbuckled fast, eager to put distance between you.

“Thanks for the food,” you said curtly, fingers already on the door handle.

His gaze flicked over. “Sure.”

You stepped out, letting the door slam just to be petty. Sunghoon’s jaw flexed, his hands gripping the wheel harder. The Benz sped off with a throaty growl, and you resisted the urge to flip him off as the tail lights faded.

Upstairs, you kicked off your shoes and made a beeline for the one thing that had been getting you through this godforsaken job for the last 13 months.

The punching bag.

It hung from the ceiling near your bookshelf, worn from frequent abuse. Centered at face level was a printout of Park Sunghoon’s corporate ID that you’d taped with scotch.

“You smug, insufferable bastard!” you shouted, kicking the bag so hard it swung wildly. “Acting like you own my schedule, my life, my goddamn—”

Thwack. A right hook.

“‘Who the hell is Richard?’ None of your business, that’s who!”

Thump. Left jab.

“Shift’s not over—my ass!”

You unleashed a rapid combo, each hit knocking the bag back with satisfying heft. Across the room, Richard, the mildly judgmental tabby who ruled your apartment with silent disdain blinked at you from his perch.

“See, Richie?” You kneed the bag for good measure. “This is why we can’t have nice things. Because men like Park Sunghoon exist.”

Richard only cocked his head, emitting a single meow and looking entirely unimpressed.

You landed one final kick then sagged against the bag, chest heaving. Richard hopped down, padded over, and brushed against your shin, purring as though to say drama over? snack time?

You blew out a breath, raking sweaty hair off your forehead. “Yeah, buddy. Snack time.” Anything to shift focus away from a certain arrogant boss whose expensive cologne you could still—annoyingly— smell on you.

Sunghoon drove back with one hand still tight on the wheel, the other tapping against the center console in a restless rhythm. His jaw hadn’t unclenched since you slammed the door on his car.

He wasn’t pissed. He just… didn’t like how the afternoon ended. You were supposed to come home with him. You were supposed to want to. 

Instead, you’d thrown some guy’s name in his face and got all defensive like he didn’t have a right to ask. Which was bullshit. You’d let him in once, and he was pretty sure you’d let him in again—hell, he knew you would—but the idea of someone else waiting for you? That didn't sit well for some reason.

Why were you being such a brat? You clearly liked the arrangement, otherwise, you wouldn’t have even let him take you out to lunch. He actually tried, you know? Tried not to make it seem like all he cared about was fucking you. Okay, sure, that was a big part of it—but he did want to get to know you too. And then you had to go and be with someone else? Fuck. He hated this… hated the bitter taste of being someone’s second choice.

You weren’t even dating and he didn’t have a right to ask you who you were seeing on the side. You’d said that yourself. Plus, he didn’t want to date anyway. He didn’t want something soft or complicated. He didn’t want to know what you liked for breakfast or listen to your problems or figure out what you meant when you said fine in a tone that clearly wasn’t.

He just wanted the control back. That’s all this was.

Because the second you said someone else was waiting for you, the balance tipped. And Park Sunghoon didn’t like losing his grip on anything—especially not something he already had in his hands.

He switched into the next lane with a bit more force than necessary, letting the tires roar for him. His thumb tightened on the wheel. Richard. Stupid fucking name. Sounded like a finance bro who wore boat shoes and called people “champ”

He didn’t care who Richard was. He just didn’t like the image of you choosing to go home to anyone else even if he didn’t want you for more than what you were.

Which he didn’t.

Obviously.

He was just annoyed.

Frustrated.

Hard again, if he was being honest.

With a low, irritable sigh, Sunghoon turned into the parking garage of his building and killed the engine. He sat there for a second, resting his head back against the seat with his eyes closed.

This was nothing. You were nothing.

But you had looked really fucking good storming away from him.

Sunghoon gave you space the next day. Not out of guilt but because he figured pushing after yesterday’s disaster would only make things worse. You were temperamental, stubborn as hell, and smart enough to know he was trying.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about you. Specifically, about the way those pencil skirts you paraded around made your legs and ass look fantastic. 

By the time Friday rolled around, he’d settled on a strategy: subtlety. A little distance, then a reappearance. Just enough to keep you guessing.

So after five o’clock, when most of the floor had already packed up, he left his office with every intention of catching you at your desk. You always stayed late on Fridays, getting the week's reports done so your Mondays weren’t hell. It was part of your routine, and he knew your routines well.

But when he stepped out, your desk was empty.

He glanced around but only one intern remained. Sunghoon walked over. The intern flinched and straightened instantly.

“Where is everyone?” Sunghoon asked calmly.

The intern blinked, clearly panicking under the pressure. “Uh… there’s a team dinner, sir. At that Kimchi place down the block… I think everyone from our department went.”

Sunghoon didn’t bother replying. He just turned on his heel and left.

The kimchi place was downright dismal. The smell of gochujang and sizzling pork could be smelled even from outside. All of Marketing-Finance Floor 23 seemed crammed into one corner.

As soon as Sunghoon entered the room the conversation  died. The only thing that could be heard was a nervous chorus of “Boss?” 

Sunghoon’s eyes locked on you first. On the hem of your skirt riding high on your crossed legs, your cheeks flushed from beer, and your smile collapsing into a flat line the moment you saw him. You were sitting at a corner table, a half-empty pitcher between you and some guy from Finance whose name Sunghoon didn’t even care to remember.

“Next round’s on me,” he announced, sliding his Amex to the sputtering waitress. This seemed to do the trick because the energy returned to the room accompanied by cheers.

Sunghoon moved toward your table.

“This table’s full.” You said immediately, cold but polite.

But before he could reply, one of the interns sprang up like an obedient golden retriever. “Oh, Mr. Park, you can take my seat!”

You smiled tightly at the intern as Sunghoon sat.

That’s when he noticed that the table was all males. And the one beside you was definitely flirting. Sunghoon vaguely recognized him. Sungchan, or something. The guy leaned in when you laughed at whatever he was saying, his hand dangerously close to your arm.

Sunghoon’s jaw ticked.

“Seems like you’re having a great time,” he said flatly, putting down his drink a little too firmly.

You didn’t even glance at him. “I was.”

“Hmm” he hummed, offering a hollow smile. “Didn’t realize this was such an… intimate team gathering.”

“That's usually how work dinners go.”

“Do you laugh like that with everyone you work with?” he asked coolly, eyes flicking to Sungchan, who was too immersed in conversation with another coworker to pay attention to you two.

“Do not start with this.” You glared.

“I’m just saying what I see.”

“No, you’re just pissed you’re not the center of attention.” You stood up abruptly. “Excuse me.”

Sunghoon didn’t give you a moment. He was right behind you as you slipped around the corner and into the women’s restroom. You barely caught your own reflection before his voice sounded at your back.

“Would Richard approve of you out this late, drinking with a bunch of guys?”

You shot him a deadly look in the mirror. “This is the ladies’ restroom. Get out.”

He leaned against the doorframe, clearly not planning on leaving. “I’m just asking. I’m guessing you two have some kind of open relationship.”

You spun to face him, jaw clenched. “Enough about Richard, already.”

He shrugged, rolling up his sleeves casually. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t really mind it that much anymore.”

Your brow furrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“That you’re taken.” His voice dropped a note. “I thought it would bother me. I don’t usually like sharing. But…”

He closed the distance, backing you up against the sink.

“I could make you forget all about him.”

You swallowed, eyes narrowing. “This is highly inappropriate.”

He stepped between your legs before you could sidestep, one hand pressing to the counter beside your hip.

“Inappropriate would be me fucking you right here,” he said calmly. “So I will fuck you in the stall instead…”

You stared up at him, furious that your heart was racing, furious that your body hadn’t caught up to your mind screaming walk away.

Instead, you took a fistful of his shirt and that’s all it took for the thread to snap. He grabbed your wrist and before you could say another word, he was guiding—no, manhandling—you toward the nearest stall.

You stumbled back into it, the door swinging shut behind you with a loud click. 

“You want to laugh with your little office boy toys, fine. But you know none of them will ever get you like this.” he said, already slipping his hand up under your skirt.

“You’re disgusting” you hissed, even as your thighs parted automatically. 

His smile was lazy, sharp canines appearing. “You like me like this.”

You rolled your eyes but the attitude was cut short when he hooked your underwear to the side and ran his fingers through the wetness he found there.

“Dripping,” he whispered. “All that show out there with that dumb accountant but you’re fucking soaked for me.”

“Are you jealous?” you managed, but your voice was already strangled by want.

“Jealous?” Sunghoon scoffed, his other hand unbuttoning your shirt. “I just hate seeing something I’ve ruined get played with by someone else.”

He flicked open the last button, shoving your shirt off your shoulders with barely a glance. Your bra was in the way for all of two seconds until he hooked a finger under the center and yanked it down.

“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple. For a second, he just looked at you, half-naked and panting against the wall. His hand trailed lower, skimming your stomach, fingers hooking under your waistband impatiently.

You gripped the handrail, desperate to keep your footing as he shoved two fingers inside you without warning.

“Don’t make a sound,” he growled. “Or do, I don’t give a shit if the whole building hears you getting split open by your boss’ fingers.”

You bit your lip, failing to stifle the whimper that slipped out as his thumb circled your clit.

“We… we shouldn’t do this here” you choked, hips rocking against his hand. “Anyone could come in—-“

“I know,” he cut in, voice rough. “And I’m going to make you come on my fingers while your coworkers toast to a great fucking work week in the next room.”

He kissed you roughly as his fingers thrust in deeper, making you gasp against his mouth. He swallowed it all.

He undid his belt swiftly but your greedy eyes couldn’t take a peek of him because he spun you around quickly, your hands pressing against the cold wall for balance.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He lined himself up, pressing the head of his cock against you. “For me to fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.”

“Sunghoon—” Your voice cracked. Whatever protest you had evaporated as he thrust in deeply, filling you so suddenly your forehead almost hit the tile wall.

“I told you to be quiet,” he growled, hand clamping over your mouth as his hips snapped roughly into yours. “Unless you want your entire restaurant to hear how desperate you are.”

You moaned against his palm, muffled, eyes squeezed shut as he fucked you ruthlessly. You hated him, hated yourself for how good it felt, for how much you loved the brutal way he fucked you every time. Your body clenched greedily around him, betraying every bit of pride you had left.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your ear, composure cracking. “This tight cunt… did Richard fuck you before you came here tonight? Did you think of me the whole time?”

You whimpered, shaking your head, overwhelmed by how perfectly he filled and ruined you.

“No?” he laughed darkly, gripping your hair and pulling your head back roughly. “You’re mine. Remember that. I know nobody fucks you like this.”

Your body tightened, dizzy from the sensation of every thrust hitting deeper. The cubicle walls shook with each movement, the cheap metal rattling beneath the weight of your reckless need. 

“Come on,” he whispered harshly, hand sliding down to circle your clit mercilessly. “Now cum for me. Be a good girl for once in your life.”

You shattered instantly, violently, screaming against his palm, your walls fluttering around him. Sunghoon swore, still fucking you through every after shock and only pulling out when he was close. He pumped himself outside and spilled his cum all over your legs.

He held you there for a moment, both of you panting, barely holding yourselves upright against the stall wall. Then, he released you and adjusted himself neatly. Your legs trembled, barely able to stand.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He zipped up without blinking. “Good. You fuck better when you’re mad.”

You kicked the door shut behind you, dropped your bag, and let out a groan that probably startled half the building. Richard blinked up from his favorite spot on the windowsill, tail twitching with interest.

You toed off your shoes and collapsed onto the couch. “Richard, I swear to god, your mom’s about to lose her mind.”

He meowed, hopping down and trotting over, immediately stretching up to press his paws to your knee.

“Do you want to hear how my day went? Or are you just here for pets?” You rubbed behind his ear. “Never mind. You’re the only man in my life who isn’t an egomaniac.”

Richard purred in response, eyes wide and curious.

You sighed and started, “Park Sunghoon is the human equivalent of a migraine. He’s so full of himself. It’s always his way or nothing. He’s obsessed with control. And with my—” You caught yourself, cheeks warming. “—I mean, with being the center of attention.”

Richard licked his paw and gave you the bland, patient stare only cats can manage.

“Do you know what he did at work dinner? He walked in, sucked the air out of the room, and then got all territorial the second someone even looked at me. Like, hello? You’re my boss, not my husband!” You huffed, grabbing a throw pillow and squeezing it to your chest.

“And of course, he always has to one-up me. Always has to have the last word. I swear, he’d argue with a brick wall just to prove he could.” You sighed at the ceiling. “One of these days, I’m going to out-stubborn him, Richard. Just you wait.”

Richard meowed and rolled over, practically demanding you scratch his belly.

You gave in, smiling despite yourself. “If I ever start falling for a guy like him, you have my full permission to claw some sense into me. Okay? I mean it.”

Richard let out a long, slow blink, then tucked his head into your lap.

“Oh, don’t even. I know what you’re thinking. ‘But you let him rail you in a bathroom, so who’s really at fault?’ And yeah, fine, okay. That did happen. Doesn’t mean he gets to act like that.”

You sighed, unzipping your skirt halfway to sprawl more comfortably.

“And what was that comment tonight? ‘Did Richard fuck you before you came here?’ First of all, he’s a cat, you lunatic! Secondly, who says that? Who follows you into the ladies restroom just to whisper bullshit like that in your ear and still manage to look hot doing it?”

Silence.

Richard stretched his front paws and turned away from you.

“I hate him,” you groaned. “I hate that stupid look he gets when he knows I’m seconds away from either punching him or climbing him like a fucking ladder. I hate that he talks to me like he owns my body. I hate that I let him.”

You exhaled. For a moment, you try to let yourself forget the mess outside these walls and just be a girl with a comfy couch and a very good cat.

“He’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Richard purred, which was probably him agreeing.

“…And I need new panties.”

The following Monday was hell. You walked into the building with your chin high and your legs still sore, determined to keep it professional. Sunghoon, of course, didn’t look even slightly affected. He entered the conference room as if he hadn’t rearranged your insides in a public restroom stall less than 48 hours earlier.

The team meeting started normally enough. Mostly about updates, deadlines, and more mind-numbing corporate stuff. You were seated across from him, doing your best to ignore the way his eyes kept drifting to you.

Then came the part where you had to present your weekly figures.

“Your report doesn’t account for the regional shift in quarter-two projections,” Sunghoon said, flipping through your printed pages without looking up.

You gave him a tight smile. “That’s because I was told to prioritize active trends over predictive models. As per last Friday’s brief, sir.”

A few heads turned at your sharp tone.

Sunghoon arched a thick brow. “Then you were told wrong.”

“Oh, so now you’re saying your own directives were wrong?”

“You must’ve misinterpreted them. Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said coolly, shutting the folder.

Your jaw tightened. “Funny, since the last time I ‘misinterpreted’ something, you ended up correcting me right away.”

The air in the room dropped to sub-zero.

Sunghoon smiled. But it wasn’t nice. “Let’s take five. I think some of us need to clear our heads”

No one argued. The team scattered so fast it was like fire had broken out. Then it was just you and him.

“I see the bathroom didn’t teach you anything.” He said, voice low and flat as he rounded the table slowly.

You stood your ground. “If you think you can intimidate me in here just because we—”

“Oh, princess,” he murmured. “I’m not trying to intimidate you.”

He pushed you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the conference table. You blinked, but didn’t move. Stubborn to the end.

“Is this how you want to play it?” you asked, breathing uneven.

His eyes dropped to your hips. “This is how you like it.”

You opened your mouth to fire back but gasped when he dropped to his knees in front of you, palms sliding up the backs of your thighs and pulling you closer to his face, lips brushing against the hem of your skirt.

“Sunghoon—”

“Hush,” he said simply, lifting your leg over his shoulder. “You do too much talking.”

He shoved your panties aside and licked a slow stripe up your center. Your hand flew to the edge of the table, nails digging in. His mouth was hot and merciless, tongue working you open with infuriating skill.

“Is this what you wanted?” he muttered, voice muffled between your thighs. “To act like a brat in front of the team so I’d remind you how to behave?”

You couldn’t answer. His mouth was moving too fast now, tongue circling your clit while his fingers spread you wider. Your head fell back, hips rocking helplessly against his face.

He sucked hard, then pulled back just enough to smirk. “Still think you’re in charge?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you just whimpered, grinding down on his mouth.

He didn’t stop when your thighs shook or even when you clenched around his tongue, crying out into the empty conference room.

When you finally came, it was with a broken sound and a trembling grip on the polished edge of the table. He kept his mouth on you the whole time, lapping up everything you gave him like he was starved.

Eventually, he stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, adjusting his sleeves.

You were still breathless, flushed, legs too weak to stand

“I expect your revised report in my inbox by end of day,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just tongue-fucked you into silence.

Sunghoon’s phone buzzed against the table. A single glance at the caller ID wiped the smugness from his face.

His jaw set. “I have to take this.”

You were still half perched on the edge of the conference table, skirt rucked up, panties sticking to you uncomfortably. “Now?”

He straightened his suit jacket with one sharp tug, then swiped to answer. “Yes, Chairman Park?”

Whatever he heard on the other end made the muscle in his cheek jump. “Understood. I’ll be there in ten.”

He killed the call and grabbed a folder he had tossed aside earlier. “I have to go.” His eyes flicked down to your still open thighs then darted back up as if forcing himself to look away. “Make yourself presentable before leaving”

He grabbed his suit jacket from the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and started toward the door.

“Wait, what?” you asked, still breathless. “Are you seriously just—leaving?”

He didn’t even look back. “I have to take care of something.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding, right? You just made me—”

“Clean the table up,” he said, already halfway out. “There’s a team coming in here at four.”

The door shut behind him, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne and the distant click of his shoes fading down the hall.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, yanking your panties back up. “I cannot believe I let that man near me again.”

And once again, you were left cleaning yourself up after Park Sunghoon decided to turn you inside out and vanish like nothing ever happened.

You went back to your desk and channeled every ounce of your anger into the stupid corrections Sunghoon had asked for, using every shred of self-restraint not to add an extremely inappropriate cartoon at the end for his private viewing.

When you finished, there wasn’t much else to do, so you decided to grab some snacks from the staff room. But as you made your way there, you nearly collided with Sunghoon, who was turning the corner accompanied by the CEO, Mr. Park, and a girl you’d never seen before.

The girl looked like she’d just walked off a runway. She was absolutely stunning, with the kind of beauty that made you double-take. She was gazing at Sunghoon with sparkling eyes, clearly smitten, and Sunghoon… was also smiling? And not his usual smirk or that infuriating shit-eating grin, either. This was almost gentle, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a dimple appearing on his cheek. Since when did he have dimples?

You got caught staring when all of you paused in the hallway. After a few awkward seconds, you remembered you were supposed to greet them. “Mr. Park,” you bowed, earning a polite smile from the CEO.

“Oh, hello! Miss Y/L/N, right? Yes, I heard it was your proposal last year that revived the department. Well done! Sunghoon here really picks out the best candidates, doesn’t he?” He clapped Sunghoon on the back and laughed warmly.

Pick out? Well, he certainly picked out the best girl to use. You frowned, but Sunghoon noticed and stepped in smoothly.

“You’re too kind, sir.”

The CEO gestured to the girl. “This is my daughter.”

“Jang Wonyoung,” she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

You took it and smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“She’ll be starting here tomorrow,” the CEO continued.

“Here?” you asked, glancing between them. “As in… this department?”

“Indeed. Please treat her well,” Mr. Park said with a friendly nod. You bowed your head again.

“Of course, sir.”

You didn’t realize they accepted new candidates mid-year in this department, but you supposed being the CEO’s daughter had its perks.

“Well, I was just grabbing a refreshment,” you said, offering a brief smile before stepping past them and into the room. 

You glanced over your shoulder and caught Sunghoon stealing a quick glance at you. So this was the “very important business” that made him leave you hot, bothered, and stranded in the conference room? Of course. Giving the CEO’s daughter a personal tour was obviously more urgent than finishing what he’d started with you.

You tried to shake off the weird surge of annoyance building in your chest. You were supposed to be focusing on yourself, right? But ever since your twisted affair with Sunghoon began, your whole life had slipped out of order.

You’d missed your weekend pilates class because your limbs were too sore from being railed in the bathroom. You’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep, replaying every aggravating thing he’d ever done, simmering in irritation and… something else you refused to discuss. You’d even skipped lunch a few times, pretending to be swamped with work just so he wouldn’t get the chance to “kidnap” you again.

Safe to say, Park Sunghoon was wrecking absolute havoc on your routine, and you were desperate to claw back some control.

Maybe this new girl would distract him and he’d finally leave you the hell alone. The idea made your mouth twist with something ugly and in your distracted state, you sipped your freshly brewed coffee, scalding your tongue immediately.

You walked out of the refreshment room with a burnt tongue, a soured mood, and not even a little bit refreshed.

Wonyoung joining your team turned out to be a much bigger hassle than you’d expected. Especially since, out of everyone, you were picked to show her the ropes during her first week. It was like babysitting a celebrity, except the fans were your own coworkers.

Every male employee you passed seemed to have suddenly discovered urgent business near your desk, only to pull you aside with the world’s most obvious fake smiles.

“So, uh… you got her number yet?”

“You think she’s seeing anyone?”

You’d learned to fake a polite smile back and keep it moving, but by Wednesday you were ready to claw your ears off. 

The real cherry on top, however, was Sunghoon himself. With Wonyoung around, he’d doubled down on humiliating you in every meeting. Every little thing you said was picked apart, corrected, or ignored outright. You could feel her perfect eyes on you every time he put you on the spot, and by Friday you were seething.

By the end of the week, you were so keyed up you couldn’t even fake politeness anymore. And unsurprisingly, being micromanaged and dragged into extra tasks had left you behind on your actual work.

Which is how you found yourself still at the office at nearly 3 a.m, hunched over your desk and furiously editing reports with trembling hands and a full mug of forbidden coffee. So much for your no caffeine rule.

Your phone buzzed, and when you saw it was a message from Sunghoon, you nearly hurled it across the room. 

What the hell did he want now? He’d barely acknowledged your existence this week, except to hand you extra work or cut you down in front of the entire team. Maybe he wanted to tell you you’d missed a comma in one of the reports. You knew how much he enjoyed kicking you when you were already down.

Your phone rang again but this time it was a call. You sighed, grabbed it, and answered with zero effort to hide your annoyance. “What?”

“Are you still at the office?” His voice was frustratingly alert for this hour.

“Why?”

“It’s 2am.”

You glanced at the clock. “I am painfully aware. How do you even know I’m here?”

“I can see the security cameras.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you muttered, spinning in your chair. “Glad to know I can’t even work myself to death in peace.”

“I also saw you were still at your desk when I left earlier. And I know you well enough to know you’d probably stay late.”

“Right, you know me so well,” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have about a million reports to correct. Which I got behind on, because I was busy playing tour guide to the little princess all week by the way.”

There was a pause and you almost thought he might apologize. But Sunghoon, as always, surprised you.

“Just… don’t stay too late. The security guards leave at three, and I don’t want to hear about you getting locked in.”

You rolled your eyes. “Noted, boss.”

He hung up before you could add anything else. You tossed your phone onto the desk and stared at your blinking cursor, feeling more annoyed than before.

Sunghoon walked in on the next day already armed with a rare idea. He would let you go home early. You had spent half the night here so the least he could do was let you beat the rush hour traffic.

Then he saw you climb out of Sungchan’s car.

Every good intention died immediately. The muscles in his face tightened so hard into a scowl they ached. He crossed the parking lot in long strides until he was in front of you.

“Morning,” he said impassively. “You two are late.”

He knew you weren’t. The Rolex on his wrist still read 8:58. But the words fired out anyway.

Your easy smile vanished as you simply huffed and strode past him into the building without a word. Sungchan offered a quick bow, clearly confused, then hurried after you. 

Sunghoon’s eyes narrowed. Since when did you commute with Sungchan? Did you not have a perfectly functioning car?

He waited until Sungchan had disappeared back to the accounting floor, before stalking over to your desk. He forced himself to make his tone as casual as possible. You looked irritable enough to bite.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets, “did you finish those report corrections?”

Without speaking, you lifted a neat stack of files, and set them in his hand. 

Great. Now you weren’t even talking to him.

“I didn’t know you were so close with Sungchan,” he tried, still aiming for non-threatening. “Car trouble? Or is he your new chauffeur?”

You exhaled one of those long, tired sighs that felt like a door slamming in his face before finally looking up at him. The frost in your eyes was familiar, almost nostalgic. He realized he had barely seen you outside meetings last week, and in a twisted way he had missed this exact glare.

“Do you need something?” you asked, voice flat as glass.

He frowned. “No, I was just—”

“Then, if it’s not work-related, I have a lot to do.” You gathered another stack of folders and stood. “And Ms. Jang seems to be waiting for you.”

Sunghoon followed the direction of your nod. Wonyoung stood outside his office with a tablet in her hands. He looked back at you, hoping for one more second of eye contact, something he could read. You were already walking away.

He clenched the corrected reports a little too tightly and turned toward Wonyoung. Whatever nice gesture he’d planned for you earlier was dead on arrival.

You knew from that chilly exchange that your day would not be a walk in the park. The meeting was only ten minutes in and already your nails were half-destroyed from how hard you were digging them into your palm.

Sunghoon was on a roll today. Maybe it was the caffeine or the fact that Wonyoung was seated beside him looking all pretty. But whatever it was, he had decided today was the day to challenge everything you said.

“No,” he cut in for the fourth time, tone clipped, “that’s not what the report reflects. Unless you’ve somehow redefined what productivity looks like, Miss Y/L/N.”

You inhaled sharply. “It’s what the data says. You know, the thing you usually ignore when it doesn’t flatter your genius ideas?”

A few coworkers coughed into their palms. Some even looked up as if  they were watching live combat. Wonyoung, of course, just blinked politely.

Sunghoon’s jaw twitched. “Just because I let you lead these meetings doesn’t mean you should forget who’s running this department.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” you snapped. “It’s kind of hard when every sentence from your mouth is a dick-measuring contest with yourself.”

The entire room fell into stunned silence.

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. He just slowly set down his pen and met your gaze with equal intensity. “I think that’s enough for today. Good job everyone.” 

This scene was very familiar and if you remembered correctly, if you stayed in here another second, he would get you in a compromising situation you’d surely regret later.

So you huffed out a breath and walked out, ignoring the curious looks exchanged behind you. Sunghoon was hot on your heels.

“You’ve got a fucking mouth on you,” he muttered, stalking toward you.

“And you’ve got a god complex. Guess we all have flaws, don’t we?”

“I’m your superior.”

“And I’m sick of you reminding me that when I don’t roll over every time you bark!”

He was suddenly in front of you, invading your space. “I wouldn’t have to remind you if you knew how to behave.”

“Says the one who doesn’t know how to treat a woman unless your dick’s out.”

Sunghoon's hand gripped the back of your neck and shoved you into the filing cabinets inside the copy room, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to tell you the gloves were off.

“Oh, you wanna talk about dicks?” he hissed, his mouth now inches from yours. “Let me remind you how good mine felt buried inside you.”

You refused to back down. “Are you going to fuck the attitude out of me again? How very predictable.”

You twisted in his grip, shoving his chest, but he caught your wrists.

“You want to keep mouthing off?” he rasped, advancing until your bodies hit the cabinet.

“Fuck you.”

He answered by twisting a fist into your hair and crushing his mouth to yours, his tongue driving past your lips as though he could steal every spark of your anger. His free hand slid down to cup your jaw, fingers locking around your chin to hold you still.

“Fucking look at you” he spat, lips swollen and smeared as he tore himself from your mouth “All that attitude, but you’re shaking for me. Who’s the predictable one?”

You glared, stubborn to the last, but your hips betrayed you with a needy twitch. He grabbed you and spun you, forcing you forward until your chest slammed against the cabinet’s freezing edge. His hand bunched up your skirt high, the other tearing your tights and panties down in one rough motion.

“Let me guess,” he sneered, fingers trailing between your legs, “Sungchan made you this wet? Or was it the thought of me bending you over like this?”

You gasped when two long fingers plunged inside you. There was nothing tender in the way he moved—just a ruthless rhythm, demanding your surrender.He curled his fingers, thumb flicking over your clit, making you whimper despite yourself.

“God, listen to you. Moaning like a slut in the copy room,” he taunted, voice dropping lower. “You act so high and mighty, but you’d let me fuck you anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

You bit your wrist to stifle a cry, your hips rocking back against his hand.

“That’s right. Take it. You love it when I treat you like this. You want it rougher?  Or do you want me to slow down and pretend I give a shit about your feelings?”

“Don’t you dare slow down,” you snapped, words strangled with need.

He laughed breathlessly. “Didn’t think so.”

He pulled his fingers out and licked them with a wicked grin. “Pathetic. You’re dripping for me. After all your bitching, you still can’t help yourself.”

You twisted, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him down, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste blood. “Just shut up and fuck me.”

His belt hit the floor within a second. He gripped your hips, lined himself up, and thrust in so deep and sudden you yelped. He didn let you adjust to his sheer size, simply grabbed your wrists, pinning them behind your back with one hand, the other squeezing your throat, forcing your back to arch.

“Don’t you dare close your legs. I wanna see you take every inch,” he snarled, grabbing your thighs and holding them wide as he pounded into you. His cock was stretching you so wide and deep, hitting all the right spots until you were a mess of moans and broken pleas. 

Every thrust was sharp and punishing, your body shuddering under him, wetness dripping down your thighs. If anyone heard, they’d know exactly what he was doing to you but you could not care less at that moment.

“Who do you belong to?” His voice was sharp. “Say it. Say you’re mine, or I’ll leave you like this.”

You shook, barely able to breathe. “Yours. I’m yours.”

He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear. “Louder.”

“Yours!” you gasped, voice echoing in the tiny room.

“Yeah, that’s right. And when you walk out of here, everyone’s going to know it. I want my cum leaking down your thighs during the next meeting. I want you thinking about this every time you sit down at your desk. You got that?”

You nodded desperately, tears stinging your eyes from the stretch and the force of his thrusts.

He let go of your wrists, grabbed your hips, and fucked you harder, so rough you saw stars. He reached around and rubbed your clit fast, breath hot against your neck.

“Cum for me, baby.”

You came so hard, whole body seizing in the waves of your orgasm. Your legs shook, almost giving out able to hold you up. Sunghoon kept going, chasing his own release, until he pulled out and came by your legs with a guttural curse.

You let your head fall back against the cabinet, trying to catch your breath. The fury that had burned so hot just minutes ago had dulled into a simmer of exhausted annoyance. You expected to turn around and see Sunghoon already tugging up his pants, smoothing his hair back into place, maybe even tossing a smug remark over his shoulder like "clean yourself up."

But when you looked, he wasn’t walking away. He was still standing behind, holding a handkerchief similar to the one he’d used when you ate together.

And then, to your complete disbelief, he knelt down.

You blinked. "What are you—"

Before you could finish, he was gently wiping the mess off your thighs—his and yours. His touch was careful, the same hands that just made you see stars  now moving with a tenderness that almost made you recoil.

When he finally stood again, you caught the faint but unmistakable flush on the tips of his ears. He avoided your gaze for a moment, brushing his palms against his pants as if trying to rid himself of the moment.

“Did something happen to your car?”

It took you a second to catch up. “Uhm, yeah, it wouldn’t start this morning. It’s at the shop now.”

He nodded once, then looked at you with a neutral expression. “I can give you a ride home. And to work, until it’s fixed.”

You paused mid-motion as you adjusted your tights. That was… surprisingly considerate. Especially coming from someone who usually barked orders instead of offering help.

“I… sure. You can give me a ride home today,” you said cautiously. “As for tomorrow, I’ll think about it.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than and then he nodded again.

“All right then.”

He wasn’t forcing a choice on you this time. How strange.

Later, when the workday finally ended, you waited by your desk. Usually, you were the last one to leave, and tonight was no exception so the office was mostly dark and quiet by the time Sunghoon emerged from his office.

“Ready?” he asked walking over.

“Yes,” you said, grabbing your things and falling into step beside him as you made your way to the elevator. 

There was an odd tension between you, but not the usual  combative kind. This was almost awkward. Because for the first time, you were leaving together without arguing or being forced into it.

Once inside his car, you couldn’t help but remember how hard you’d slammed the door the last time you were here. This time, you shut it gently, settling into the plush seat. Sunghoon glanced at you. “Remind me your your address again.”

You gave it to him, then the rest of the ride was quiet except for the faint music playing on the radio. The air inside the Mercedes was icy cold, and you found yourself rubbing your arms.

“Are you cold?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence and making you flinch a little.

“A bit. I forgot my jacket at the office,” you admitted.

Without a word, he turned down the AC. You shot him a surprised look and muttered a quiet, “Thanks.”

What were these weird, almost pleasant interactions? It was disorienting, acting as if he hadn’t called you a slut while pounding into you just hours ago.

He pulled up in front of your building. Every rational instinct in you said to just thank him and get out, but the small, reckless part of you that liked these quiet moments won out.

“Would you like to come up?” you asked, the words almost slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Sunghoon looked stunned and was silent for so long you nearly rescinded the offer. But then he switched off the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt in one smooth motion.

You led the way up the stairs, glancing back with a quick, “Sorry, the elevator’s busted, but I’m only on the third floor.” As you fumbled with your keys, you realized you hadn’t even checked if the place was tidy. Shit. You hadn’t expected any visitors—especially not Park Sunghoon.

You pushed open the door and peeked inside. Not bad. At least your laundry wasn’t everywhere.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside so he could enter. He took off his shoes, scanning the small apartment with that unreadable expression of his. You couldn’t tell if he was silently judging your shoebox space or mentally praising your attempts at decorating.

“Uhm, I’ll get you something to drink. Tea? Water?”

“Water’s fine,” he replied, following you toward the kitchen.

“Okay, you can just—” You stopped dead in your tracks as your gaze landed on the elephant in the room: your punching bag, standing proud in the corner, with Sunghoon’s picture still taped squarely to its center. His face was staring straight at both of you.

You spun around in a panic to check if he’d noticed, but of course he had.

“I see you have very particular ways of entertaining yourself in here,” he said, amusement curling in his voice.

“Oh, god.” You rushed over, trying to untangle the heavy bag from its hook, but it wouldn’t budge. You tried peeling off the picture, but you’d used so much tape that it refused to budge.

“This is not what it seems,” you stammered, attempting to hide the offending evidence with your body.

He just grinned. “I think it’s exactly what it seems. But don’t worry…I use your pictures to let off steam, too.” He winked, and your mouth dropped open at the implication.

“What—?”

Before things could spiral further, Richard picked that moment to waltz out of your bedroom. The cat sauntered past you and headed straight for Sunghoon, tail held high, eyes curious. Sunghoon crouched down and gave the orange tabby a gentle pat on the head.

“And who is this?” he asked, stroking the soft fur.

“Richard,” you said simply, waiting for his reaction.

His hand froze mid-pet, and he looked up at you, stunned disbelief written all over his face. Then an incredulous laugh burst out of him.

“This is Richard…?” he asked, straightening up, still half-laughing.

“Yup.” You grinned, unable to hide it. “Bet you feel pretty dumb now.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “For getting jealous of a cat?!”

You tried to look innocent, but the satisfaction on your face was impossible to miss. “Guess so.”

“Who names their cat Richard?” Sunghoon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with the name Richard?”

“That’s a grown man’s name.”

You crossed your arms. “I named him after the tiger in my favorite movie, Life of Pi. It felt appropriate.”

He glanced at the orange tabby. “He hardly looks like a tiger to me.”

“He’s very fierce and wise, actually.” You scratched behind Richard’s ear. “I think he can even sense bad vibes in people. He scratched my ex’s face once and a week later I found out the idiot was cheating.”

Right on cue, Richard tapped Sunghoon’s leg with a paw, then purred the moment Sunghoon scooped him up.

Sunghoon smirked. “Guess my vibes are fine.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t trust the judgement of a cat.”

Sunghoon scoffed and scratched beneath Richard’s chin, earning another contented purr. “Can’t believe you named him after a tiger,” he murmured.

“Have you even seen Life of Pi?” you asked, suspicion creeping in.

He shook his head. “I never had the time. There’s a tiger in it, I assume?”

Your jaw dropped. “You work eighty hours a week and still find time to ruin my life, but you can’t spend two hours on one of the best films ever?”

“That’s a bold statement.”

“Sit.” 

A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You queued the movie while Sunghoon lounged stiffly on the couch, Richard curled stubbornly in his lap. You tossed him a blanket both to be polite and because your apartment ran cool at night.

“No commentary until after. I take this movie very seriously.”

“I think I can hold my tongue.”

You explained every detail as the movie played—why Richard Parker was the tiger’s name, the symbolism of whether everything was real or just in Pi’s mind, the parts that always made you cry or laugh. Sunghoon watched, surprisingly attentive, occasionally glancing at you as much as the screen.

At some point, you realized your legs were touching. And somewhere between Pi’s first dazzling storm and his heartbreaking plea to the universe Sunghoon’s shoulder arm slipped behind you on the coach. 

You’d occasionally glance his way, noticing the slight furrow of his thick brows during emotional scenes and the small smiles when something amused him. You had never really seen Sunghoon relax like this, unguarded, his features softening as he became absorbed in the story.

At some point, your exhaustion caught up to you and without even realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.

It wasn’t until morning sunlight started filtering through the blinds hours later that you woke up. Your cheek was pressed against something warm and firm and blinking sleepily, you realized with a jolt that it wasn’t a pillow… it was Sunghoon’s chest. His arm was loosely wrapped around you, his head tilted slightly, his breathing steady and peaceful.

You’d cuddled in your sleep. Oh lord.

After that accidental night on the couch, everything changed in subtle ways. You weren’t exactly friends, but you weren’t enemies either. He still rolled his eyes at your snark, you still muttered under your breath about his god complex—but now, he took you home every night. 

And somehow, that always turned into “let’s just watch something before bed,” which inevitably became shared popcorn, shared blankets, and shared pillows.

Some nights, you’d fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch and wake up tangled together, Richard squeezed somewhere in the middle like an orange pillow. Other nights, there was lingering heat—a kiss pressed to your shoulder, or the back of your neck, when he thought you were already asleep.

You’d convinced yourself you were fine with this weird in-between. You even ignored the fact that, lately, you kind of wanted him to stay over more. You liked seeing him half awake and soft in your kitchen, hair sticking up, pouring two cups of coffee.

But it couldn’t stay sweet forever.

It happened on a Thursday. You were in the shower, humming to yourself, when you realized you’d left your phone on your bed. Sunghoon, making himself at home in your apartment as always, went to grab it for you when it buzzed but the battery died at that moment. He opened your nightstand drawer, looking for a charger.

And found your stash.

He picked up the monster dildo first, brow arching so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline. The rose toy rolled out right after, bouncing off his knuckle and landing with a soft thud on your sheets.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, only to find Sunghoon standing by your bed, your entire sex toy arsenal on proud display in his hands.

You froze. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, well… I always knew you were insatiable, but this is impressive.”

You wanted to melt into the floor. “Put those back.”

He turned the monster dildo over in his palm, appraising it like a weapon. “You actually use this? On yourself?”

You tried to snatch it, but he pulled it just out of reach. “Give it—”

He cut you off with a look that said don’t-even-try, and just like that, all the softness of the past week evaporated.

“Why bother with these?” he asked, stepping closer until your knees hit the bed. “When you’ve got me?”

You glared, embarrassment making your skin burn. “Sometimes you’re not around, asshole.”

His smirk darkened. “Then I guess we better make up for lost time, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed a hand to your shoulder, pushing you gently to sit on the edge of the mattress. He tossed the toys down beside you, crowding into your space, heat pouring off him in waves.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” he said, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re going to show me exactly how you use these. And then I’m going to show you why you’ll never need them again.”

He slipped your towel down, his eyes devouring every inch of your glistening skin. He picked up the rose toy and flicked it on, the gentle buzz loud in the quiet room.

“Lay back,” he ordered, and you did—body already shaking with anticipation.

He tossed the rose toy onto the bed, its gentle buzz loud in the quiet room. You hesitated, still flushed from the shower, feeling the heat of his gaze as you settled back against your pillows. Sunghoon kneeled at tj, legs spread, dark eyes devouring every inch of your exposed skin.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Show me how you play when you’re alone. I want to see everything.”

You could feel his eyes burning into you as you pressed the toy against your clit, legs falling open wider for him, not just for the toy’s sake but because the hunger in his gaze made you feel more confident. The rose fluttered, sending tiny waves through you, and you couldn’t help the shaky sounds spilling from your lips.

He leaned forward a little, his voice husky. “Shit,” he said quietly. “Do you always fuck yourself this pretty, or is it just because I’m watching?”

Your breath caught, fingers slipping as your thighs tensed. He smirked, settling a hand over your knee to keep you wide open. “Don’t hide from me. I want to see every single thing you do to yourself when you’re alone. I want to know exactly what it takes to make you come when I’m not here.”

You whined, rolling your hips. “Sunghoon—please—”

He watched the toy kiss you, watched you tremble, and his eyes got darker, voice roughening. “I bet you rub yourself like this just wishing it was my tongue instead of that toy.” He let his hand slide up, tracing your thigh, almost but not quite touching where you wanted him. “Or do you imagine my fingers fucking you open, filling you up until you can’t take any more?”

You nodded, too close to care about being coy. The toy buzzed higher and you gasped, feeling your orgasm start to crest.

But his hand shot out, stopping yours, and he leaned in until his mouth hovered right next to your ear. “Don’t come until I say. You know better than that.”

You whimpered in frustration.

He plucked the toy from your hand, turning it off with a click. “You want to come, princess?” he whispered, and the teasing was gone from his tone now, replaced with a darker command. “Open your legs wider. Let me show you how it’s done.”

His mouth was on you a second later. His tongue slid greedily over your clit, circling, then flattening as he sucked. His fingers pressed into you, filling you in a way the toy never could.

His gaze remained locked on your face. His dark eyes never looked as alive as when he was looking up from between your thighs.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he groaned, breath warm against your skin. “You really did get yourself worked up for me. You love being watched, don’t you? Love knowing you have all my attention, huh? You are a greedy little thing.”

You couldn’t answer in anything but incoherent mumbles and moans. His hand pressed firmly over your stomach, holding you still as he sucked and licked, working you closer, refusing to give you the mercy of release until he decided you’d earned it.

“Now,” he growled, voice barely more than a snarl, “cum for me now.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, coming apart in his mouth, trembling and gasping as your orgasm took over—harder than anything that little toy could’ve ever managed. He licked you through it, holding you until you finally stopped shaking.

When he finally detached from you, his mouth was slick, his eyes still hungry. He leaned over, kissing you deep and dirty so you could taste yourself on his tongue, and whispered, “Next time you want to play with your toys, you do it while I watch. Got it?”

As Sunghoon started spending more nights at your place, he made it a habit to try every toy in your collection. He’d probably tried every last one on you, determined to learn which ones made you come the hardest. But his absolute favorite wasn’t from your drawer at all, it was something he picked out and bought himself. A sleek black plug that vibrated on command.

You’d given him attitude about it. He just smiled, handed you the plug, and watched as you put it in before work. That was three hours ago.

Now, you were walking through the office with the plug buried deep inside, thighs clenched tight even though Sunghoon hadn’t so much as touched the remote yet. You couldn’t deny there was a weird thrill in the risk, in not knowing when or if he’d use it. But after weeks together, you also knew that Sunghoon loved pushing your limits… Especially in public.

“Y/N!” Sungchan’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. He caught up to you in the hallway.

You smiled at him, adjusting the stack of files in your arms. “Hi, Sungchan!”

He grinned back and took half your papers before you could protest. “Hey, where have you been lately? We haven’t seen you at a single dinner since the last quarter ended.”

You scrambled for an excuse that didn’t involve confessing that Sunghoon had been monopolizing all your nights lately. “Oh, uh… I had family visiting, so I’ve been showing them around.”

He nodded, believing it. “Ah, I see. Still, it’d be nice if you could make it to the next one. I miss—uh, we miss you over there.”

You smiled back, heart squeezing a bit at his earnestness. “I miss it too. I’ll definitely be there next—AH!”

A sudden jolt of vibration inside you cut your sentence short. Your knees nearly buckled as the plug came to life rocketing through your core.

Sungchan stopped, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?”

You forced a brittle smile, fighting to stay upright. “Y-yeah, sorry. Leg cramp. Must’ve overdone it at Pilates.”

The toy started again, stronger this time. You bit down a whimper, gripping the papers tighter as your thighs squeezed together in helpless reaction.

You didn’t need to look far for the culprit. Sunghoon strolled out of the copy room at that exact moment, remote hidden in his palm, satisfaction flickering behind his polite mask. He had clearly listened to every word of your conversation and waited for the perfect moment to torture you.

“Oh, boss!” Sungchan said, bowing politely. 

“Everything alright here?” he asked, his eyes never leaving your face. You could tell from the curl at the corner of his mouth that he was enjoying every second of your squirming.

Sungchan nodded, shifting the papers in his arms. “I was just helping Y/N with these reports.”

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked downward, taking in your shaky legs. “Miss Y/L/N, are you feeling alright? You seem… tense.”

You met his eyes, breathless, fighting not to murder him on the spot. “I’m fine. Really. Just… cramps.”

He tilted his head, feigning concern as his thumb rolled the dial a little higher. The vibration inside you grew wicked and relentless.

“Let me know if you need to step away,” he said, voice low and laced with dark amusement. “I wouldn’t want you to be… uncomfortable at work.”

You clenched your jaw and glared at him, vowing silent revenge.

Sungchan stood there awkwardly, still clutching half your paperwork, completely unaware that you were one second away from dropping to your knees from something a lot filthier than “cramps.”

“Miss Y/L/N, a word in my office,” Sunghoon said finally, voice pleasant enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. His thumb pressed the remote again and another deep vibration nearly made you cry. Your hand shot out, steadying yourself on the wall as Sungchan frowned in concern.

“I’ll take those,” Sunghoon added, collecting the reports from Sungchan with a civil nod. “Thank you, Sungchan. That’ll be all.”

He waited for you to follow, every step a test of your composure. You walked, feeling every throb, every twist of sensation as the plug kept buzzing on and off in random intervals.

As soon as his office door clicked shut, Sunghoon pressed you back against it and his mouth was on your neck. His hand trailed down your spine, under your skirt, gripping your ass with possessive force. You gasped, hips bucking against his.

He didn’t bother hiding his hunger. “On your knees. Right now.”

You dropped, the plush carpet digging into your knees as you looked up at him. Your hands trembled, but he just pressed the remote again, sending another jolt through the toy. He kept his gaze locked on yours, undoing his belt slowly, his cock was already thick and hard when he pulled it out.

“Keep your hands behind your back,” he said, biting his lip. “If you touch me before I say, or if you stop moving, you don’t get to cum. Understand?”

You nodded, biting your lip as he guided himself to your mouth. The plug thrummed inside you again and the sharp waves of pleasure made your whole body twitch. “Speak”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open that pretty mouth,” he said, smirking as you took him in, hollowing your cheeks and letting spit drip down your chin. 

He thrust in shallowly but he was big enough to make you gag. The plug buzzed again matching his rhythm, torturing you until you were a quivering mess.

“So good,” he praised, one hand tangled in your hair as you sucked him down. “Look at you. Fuck, you’re so pretty with my cock in your mouth. You love it, don’t you?”

You whimpered around him, letting your tongue swirl around his, eyes focused on a vein that kept pulsing agains your nose. He pulled out just enough to let you gasp for air, thumb swiping the mess from your lips. “If you want to come, keep working for it.”

You took him back in, letting him fuck your throat while the toy buzzed harder inside you. You were shaking, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. He watched you mesmerized, drinking in the sight of you debased and ruined.

He pressed the remote, cutting the vibration just as you were about to tip over, and you whined, hips bucking in frustration. He just laughed, thrusting deeper, hips stuttering as you gagged around him, drool and precum slicking your chin.

“Beg for it,” he said, pulling you off with a pop. “Tell me why you deserve to come.”

You sobbed, voice shaking. “Please, Sunghoon, I’ve been good, so good… Please let me come—I need it, I need you—”

He groaned, thumb stroking your cheek. “Yes, such a good girl.” He yanked you to your feet, spinning you and bending you over his desk. 

He pinned you down with one hand between your shoulder blades, while the other finally reached between your legs. He pressed the remote again but on full power this time, the plug vibrating so violently it nearly knocked the sense from you.

He thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt, the sensation almost too much to bear with the toy still inside you. “You cum when I say. Not a second before. Or I’ll leave you aching all night.”

He fucked you hard against his expensive mahogany desk. It’d been a while since you found yourself in this situation.The first time, you'd been on the verge of quitting. Now, you were in so deep the thought of leaving almost felt absurd.

The room filled with the sound of skin on skin. “So fucking tight around my cock, you’re made to be used, aren’t you? You want everyone to know how filthy you are?”

You could only nod, biting the desk to stifle your screams.

When he finally let you come, it was with a snarl of permission. Your body convulsed, legs trembling so hard you nearly collapsed. He followed with a growl, pulling out at the last second to empty himself around your legs.

He leaned in, breath hot on your ear. “You did good, baby. But next time, if you stop for even a second, I’ll edge you in every meeting until you’re begging on your knees in front of everyone.”

He pulled himself into his pants again nd handed you a tissue with a twisted smile. “Don’t you dare take that plug out until I tell you.”

On Friday, you let your best friend Jiah drag you to a tiny café two blocks from the office. It had been weeks since you’d seen her in person, and she was determined to catch up over overpriced pastries and matcha lattes.

Jiah perched on the edge of her seat, eyes bright. “So? How’s the office drama? Last time we talked you were ready to throw a stapler at your boss.”

You forced a laugh, swirling foam with your straw. “The drama hasn’t died but let’s just say my ways of coping are … better.”

She wiggled her brows. “Oooh, do tell.”

You dodged, asking about her family instead. Jiah launched into updates, including a long tangent about her older sister, Yerin.

“You remember Yerin’s boyfriend? The med-school guy?” Jiah said, breaking off a piece of croissant. “She just found out she’s pregnant.”

Your brows shot up. “Seriously? Weren’t they being careful?”

“That’s the thing… They were doing the pull-out method.” Jiah rolled her eyes. “He swore he had ‘great timing’ Turns out pre-cum can have sperm, so… surprise baby.”

You choked on your latte. “Wait, that can happen? I thought it was only risky if—”

“Nope.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Doc told her even a tiny amount can be enough. She was only a week late before the test lit up like a Christmas tree.”

A cold prickle slid down your spine. Two weeks late. You did a quick mental calculation. Your own period was… what, four days overdue now? Maybe five? You’d chalked it up to stress and the whirlwind that was Park Sunghoon, but now every twinge in your body felt like a warning siren.

Jiah kept talking, but her voice blurred under the thud of your own heartbeat. You flashed back to all the times Sunghoon pulled out only at the last second… or sometimes not at all. Most of the times you’d had sex it was either after an argument or an emotional moment where neither of you paid much attention to anything other than getting into each other’s pants. You thought you were safe enough. Apparently you had thought wrong.

“Y/N? You zoning out on me?” Jiah frowned.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Work headache.”

She reached over and squeezed your hand. “Take a break this weekend, okay?”

You nodded and checked your watch, suddenly eager to leave. You hugged her goodbye outside the café, then headed straight to the corner pharmacy. In your mind you could already see two pink lines and Sunghoon’s cold expression.

Inside the bright aisles, you grabbed the first pregnancy test pack you saw, plus a bottle of aspirin for the impending migraine that was coming your way. Receipt in hand, you tucked everything into your bag and headed home, with your stomach in knots.

In the elevator up to your apartment, you pressed a palm to your flat abdomen and exhaled. Maybe your cycle was just off. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, you couldn’t shake this weird feeling. The memory of Sunghoon’s hands on your hips, his whispered orders, and the way he sometimes pulsed inside you before he pulled out.

Richard greeted you at the door with a questioning meow. You set the test on the bathroom sink, heart pounding so loud you almost didn’t hear him.

“Give me a minute, buddy,” you whispered.

You pulled out tue test and stared at the white stick on the sink like it was a cursed object.

Three minutes. That’s what the instructions said. Wait three minutes to know what the rest of your life would look like. But you were already sweating thirty seconds in, pacing in tight circles while Richard watched from the hallway as if he somehow knew something serious was happening.

You didn’t feel pregnant. Whatever that meant. You felt tired, bloated, a little nauseous…but you’d asummed it all the work stress, Sunghoon, bad sleep, and probably the coffee addiction you’d reignited. You kept telling yourself that. Over and over. But still… your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You set a timer on your phone and turned it face down. The longest three minutes of your life ticked by. You tried distracting yourself by doomscrolling and petting Richard. Nothing worked. Your eyes kept flicking toward the bathroom, it was as if the damn test was whispering your name from the counter.

Finally the timer went off and the sound startled you so bad, you had to steel yourself before you flipped the phone and stepped back into the bathroom.

Two lines.

Two very, very pink lines.

You picked up the test with shaky fingers, hoping maybe your vision was just messed up. You held it up to the light. Still two lines. 

“Oh my god.” Your voice came out hoarse. “Oh my god.”

You sank onto the floor, test still in hand in your shaky hands. Your mouth was dry. Your skin felt clammy. The terrifying, irreversible shift of knowing your body wasn’t just yours anymore. 

The idea settled like a stone in your gut. You didn’t know what to feel or think. 

How far along? When did it happen? Was it that night in the bathroom? His apartment? The goddamn copy room?

You pressed your palms into your eyes, trying not to panic. You were smart. It wasn’t like you to miss something as important as using protection. God, it was because Sunghoon distracted you in ways no one else did. 

You glanced down at the test again. Still two lines. Still screaming the same thing.

Richard meowed softly from the doorway. You looked at him, voice barely above a whisper.

“…What the hell am I supposed to do?”

The next morning, you woke up before your alarm, heart pounding with dread and disbelief. The first thing you saw was the positive pregnancy test on your nightstand as undeniable proof of your stupidity. You grabbed your bag and headed to the pharmacy the second it opened. Just to be sure. Maybe the first one was faulty, or expired, or just wrong. It had to be.

But it wasn’t.

You sat in your bathroom, knees drawn to your chest, staring at two pink lines for the second time in twelve hours. No matter how many times you blinked, they didn’t change. You called your doctor’s office and managed to snag an appointment for later that afternoon.

Now came the harder part which was getting out of work. That meant you had to face Sunghoon.

You waited until after the rush of meetings to slip into his office. He was at his desk, brow furrowed over some report. He barely looked up.

“What is it?” His tone was brisk, but you could hear the familiar thread of concern woven through.

You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “I need to leave a little early today. I, uh, have a personal appointment.”

His eyes flickered up. “What kind of appointment?”

You felt your pulse spike. “Just… some stuff I’ve been putting off. Nothing serious.” You tried to sound casual, but even to your own ears it was a little too shaky.

He didn’t look convinced. “You don’t usually ask to leave early. Are you feeling okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Fine. It’s nothing, really.”

He watched you for a long moment, then nodded, though his gaze was sharper now. “All right. You can go. Just let me know if you need anything.”

You managed a tight smile, thanked him, and hurried out. The relief was only temporary. You felt his eyes on you as you packed up your bag later. You kept your head down, moving quickly through the halls, trying to breathe. You just needed to get out without drawing attention.

But as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, you heard your name.

“Y/N.”

You turned to see Sunghoon coming after you. He stopped in front of you, face tight with concern.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, lowering his voice. “You’ve been weird all week, and now you’re leaving in the middle of the day. Did something happen? Is someone bothering you?”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “I told you, I just have an appointment.”

He studied you, eyes searching your face for the truth. “If it’s something serious, you know you can tell me, right?”

You couldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. I promise.”

He didn’t move. “Y/N—”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I just… need a day, okay?” You stepped around him, heart pounding.

He watched you go, suspicion and worry etched into every line of his face.

You barely noticed the city traffic as you made your way to your doctor’s office. Part of you wished you could just tell him, have him hold you, promise that everything would be all right. But you weren’t ready.

And you had no idea what he’d do when he finally found out.

You spent the entire afternoon at the clinic—filling out forms with trembling hands, answering questions you barely heard, and then sitting through the blood test, heart racing the whole time. The nurse gave you a gentle smile as she bandaged your arm, telling you the results would be ready the next day. You nodded numbly, thanked her, and collected your things. You felt both lighter and heavier at once—like the truth was closing in from all sides.

Outside, dusk was already settling over the city. You wrapped your coat tighter around you and pushed through the clinic doors, bracing for cold air and the blur of street noise.

What you didn’t expect was to see Sunghoon leaning against the rail, arms crossed, his gaze locked on the entrance like he’d been waiting there for hours.

You stopped short, a fresh wave of anxiety crashing through you. “Sunghoon?”

He looked you up and down, his eyes dark with worry. “So it was a doctor’s appointment.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You clutched your purse tighter.

“Are you sick?” he asked quietly, stepping closer, scanning your face for any sign of injury or pain. “Or is it something worse?”

You shook your head quickly, voice barely more than a whisper. “No. I’m not sick.”

He exhaled, but didn’t relax. “Then what is it? You’ve been acting strange all week. Avoiding me, lying about where you’re going—” He broke off, jaw working. “Are you in trouble? Is someone—?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant. “It’s not like that. I just… I needed to figure some things out on my own first.”

He let that hang in the air, the weight of your silence stretching between you. Finally, he spoke, voice much softer. “Okay… and did you figure it out?”

You looked away, blinking hard. “I’ll know tomorrow,” you managed. 

He nodded slowly, studying you for a long moment before speaking again. “I have an important meeting, but I’ll take you home first.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do. Come on.”

He extended his hand toward you, and for a second, you hesitated. But eventually, your fingers curled around his. You’d never walked together like this before—hand in hand, quiet, deliberate—and it felt oddly intimate. Like a threshold you weren’t sure either of you had meant to cross.

If you were pregnant… would Sunghoon want to make things official? Would he ask you to be with him just because of a child? You weren’t even sure what you were to him now. But the thought grew heavier with each step you took beside him.

You bit down on your quivering lip, stopping without meaning to.

“What is it?” he asked, turning to face you. His brow furrowed when he saw your eyes glassy with tears. He stepped close and framed your face with gentle palms. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I…” You didn’t want to tell him yet, not until you were completely sure. But it felt like a weight on your chest, making it harder to breathe. And when he looked at you like that, with concern instead of distance, part of you wanted to believe he wouldn’t hate you.

“I took a pregnancy test yesterday.”

His thumb paused its soothing sweep across your cheek. You swallowed. “Two tests, actually…They were both positive.”

He didn’t speak for eight whole seconds. You counted. And in those eight seconds, your mind conjured every worst-case scenario. Maybe he’d pull away and leave. Maybe he’d say you did this on purpose, and accuse you of trying to trap him. Maybe he’d deny it was even his.

“You’re pregnant?” was all he said, softly.

He didn’t look angry. Or disgusted. Just… serious. Like he was processing.

“I don’t know,” you replied quickly, heart racing. “The tests aren’t always accurate. I looked it up… if they’re expired or stored too long, they can give false results. Or if you think you’re pregnant, your body can sometimes trick itself, and the hormone levels get messed up and—” You stopped, breath catching. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

He watched you quietly, then asked, “And you got blood work today?”

You nodded. “Yeah. But the lab closed early, so I won’t get results until tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he said, exhaling. “I’ll come with you.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. Of course I do.” His tone was firm but not angry. “Y/N, I’m just as involved in this as you. Just… don’t push me away, alright?”

You looked up into his eyes and, for a moment, saw a flicker of emotion you’d never seen before. Maybe he was nervous too, but he was holding it together for both of you. He didn’t seem angry. If anything, he seemed determined to stay.

It was the first time in days you didn’t feel completely alone. You let yourself lean into that support, just for now.

When you got to your apartment, Sunghoon decided to stay, and you didn’t protest. The thought of being alone right now was almost unbearable.

“Are you hungry? I’m assuming you didn’t eat lunch today,” he said, slipping off his suit jacket.

“Uh… yeah, actually. I didn’t.” You only just realized how hollow your stomach felt.

“I’ll make something for you,” he offered.

You turned your head slowly on the couch, eyeing him skeptically. “You cook?”

“I’m not the best,” he admitted, rolling up his sleeves. “But I make the best fried abalone you’ll ever taste.”

“Really…” you said, doubt dripping from your tone.

He cracked a grin. “You’ll see.”

Turns out he did make the best butter-fried abalones you’d ever tasted. And this was coming from someone who’d always been on the fence about seafood. You scraped your plate nearly clean, only stopping when you realized licking it would cross some sort of line.

You let out a blissed sigh. “This food just fucked me and sucked me good.”

Sunghoon paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up with a look of disbelief and amusement. “I’ve never had my cooking reviewed quite like that.”

You laughed, patting your stomach happily. “No, seriously. If I knew you could cook like this, I would’ve locked you up in my apartment weeks ago.”

He set down his chopsticks, grinning. “Oh yeah? Tell me more about this scenario.”

“I’m not joking! I’ve basically been living off ramen and fast food for months. Half the time I barely manage a smoothie before work.”

He tilted his head, giving you a look that was half playful, half serious. “That won’t do. Especially if…” His gaze slid to your stomach and stayed there, almost protectively. “If you really are pregnant, you’re going to need proper meals.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly overwhelmed by the image of a domestic Sunghoon cooking in your kitchen, massaging your sore feet, texting you pictures of baby onesies, reading articles about parenting and sending you dumb memes about fatherhood. 

Stop. You can’t do this to yourself.

Even if you were pregnant, that didn’t mean you’d suddenly fall in love and ride off into a pastel colored domestic fantasy with Park Sunghoon. You barely tolerated each other just a few months ago. You couldn’t afford to forget that.

You shook your head with a weak laugh. “I can’t believe this is happening. If you’d told me last year I’d be having a pregnancy scare with my boss… the same boss who made me bite my nails bloody from stress, I would’ve died laughing.”

Sunghoon’s smile faded a bit as he mulled that over. “I’m sorry for treating you that way.” 

You looked up, surprised by the earnestness in his voice.

“I mean it. I… I don’t really have an excuse. But if I had to give you one, I guess it’s because I wanted your attention.”

You blinked, surprised. “You wanted my attention?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know I went about it the absolute worst way, but I’ve never really been good at… expressing things. And you were so closed off to me at first. It felt like the only way I could get you to even look at me was to—well, be an asshole.”

You weren’t sure what to say. His apology wasn’t perfect, but it was genuine and oddly vulnerable. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow,” you said at last. “But… thank you for being here.”

He met your eyes. “Whatever the result is, you won’t handle it alone. I mean that.”

You didn’t sleep much. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind spun through a reel of possible futures—some terrifying, some strangely sweet, all overwhelming. By sunrise, you’d already been awake for hours, lying in bed with Richard stretched across your ankles, thinking about what the day might bring.

You moved through your morning routine on autopilot, barely tasting your coffee, feeling your nerves build with every tick of the clock. Work had never seemed so impossible. How were you supposed to focus on emails and deadlines when your entire life could be about to change?

By the time you arrived at the office, the overhead lights felt too bright and the air too cold. You kept your head down, clutching your bag a little tighter than usual as you made your way to your desk.

Sunghoon walked in a few minutes after you. You’d agreed to arrive separately to keep things from looking suspicious but even so, when he passed your desk, his eyes couldn’t help but flick your way for just a moment.

You tried to lose yourself in your work so the day would go basted, but it didn’t work. Every ping from your computer made you jump. Every time someone said your name, your heart pounded.

Mina, your coworker, leaned over the divider. “Hey, are you okay? You look kind of pale.”

You offered a thin smile. “Yeah, just didn’t sleep well.”

She nodded, not pressing, but you could feel her worry lingering as she turned back to her monitor. You wished you could tell her. The secret felt too big to hold, like it might crack open and spill everywhere at any moment.

A few hours later, as you were rereading the same email for the third time, you felt someone pause beside your desk. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

“Can I see you in my office?” Sunghoon’s voice was soft enough that only you could hear.

You followed him. The short walk down the hallway felt impossibly long, every step echoing your anxiety. When the door closed behind you, the world shrank to just the two of you.

He didn’t go behind his desk but leaned back against the edge, watching you for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

It was a simple question, but it nearly broke you. You looked away, blinking fast. “Nervous… and tired. I barely slept.”

He nodded, hands fidgeting with the edge of the desk. “Me too.” A pause. “I kept thinking about a lot of things.”

You looked at him then. He looked tired too, circles under his eyes, the usual sharpness of his appearance dulled by something softer. “I thought about a lot of things too,” you admitted quietly. “What if I am? What if I’m not? I can’t even figure out what I want to happen.”

He let out a slow breath. “Me neither. I used to think I’d hate the idea… you know, of being responsible for someone else, losing control over my own life. But the last couple days… it’s been all I can think about. I keep imagining what it would be like.”

There was a long silence. You watched the morning light creep across his office, a bright line cutting between you on the floor.

“But no matter what happens at that appointment, I want you to know I’m here. I mean it. I know I’ve been an asshole before, but I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt something tight in your chest loosen just a little.

“Thank you,” you said, meaning it more than you thought possible.

You stood there, both of you, caught in a moment that felt both terrifying and fragile and knowing the day ahead would change everything, one way or another.

By the time you left the office, the sky was navy. You walked the two blocks to the clinic in near silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Rather, it felt like gathering strength. Halfway there, Sunghoon slipped his fingers between yours.

You paused in front of the clinic, breaths streaming white in the cold air. Inside waited an envelope with your name and a single line of text that could redraw your future.

Sunghoon rubbed your knuckles with his thumb. “Ready?”

You looked up at him. The sharp boss, the reluctant cook, the man who’d stayed when he could have run—all in one complicated silhouette. 

You inhaled, exhaled, and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

The clinic’s waiting room was almost empty this late in the evening. A muted newscast flickered across a wall-mounted TV; the only other patient was a teen scrolling on her phone. You and Sunghoon sat in the far corner, coats draped over your laps, hands still laced together. Every tick of the reception clock seemed amplified.

You tried counting your breaths—four in, four out—but your pulse wouldn’t slow. If it’s positive, life will change tonight.Strangely, the thought no longer panicked you as it had twenty-four hours ago. Sunghoon’s steady grip helped anchor that.

A nurse finally appeared and called your name. You rose; he rose with you. She led you down a short hallway into a small consultation room, pastel posters about prenatal vitamins on the walls. A moment later Dr. Han entered with a file—your file—clasped to her chest. She greeted you both with the same gentle warmth as the day before and took a seat opposite.

You could feel Sunghoon’s thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles. He was outwardly calm, but his hand was slightly clammy.

Dr. Han opened the folder. “Good evening. I have the results of your quantitative hCG test.” She looked up, meeting your gaze first, then Sunghoon’s. “It’s negative. You’re not pregnant.”

The words settled like falling snow—soft, definitive, almost silent. For a heartbeat you simply stared, processing. Not pregnant. Relief rushed in, light and dizzying… and then something else, a bittersweet pang that surprised you.

Sunghoon exhaled so slowly you felt it more than heard it. He squeezed your hand once, gently. There was no visible disappointment or joy—just that same grounded steadiness he’d shown all day.

Dr. Han continued, explaining the false positives. “They can happen for a few reasons: chemical pregnancies that end very early, residual hCG from a recent miscarriage, certain fertility medications, even test strips that have degraded in storage. Urine tests are convenient, but they’re not infallible. Your bloodwork is conclusive, though—there’s no ongoing pregnancy.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Thank you for explaining.”

She offered a reassuring smile, discussed cycle-tracking apps, suggested a follow-up if your period remained irregular, and then excused herself. When the door clicked shut, you finally let your shoulders drop.

Sunghoon didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear. The gesture was so tender it made your throat ache.

“So,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper, “no baby.”

“No baby,” he echoed softly.

You waited for the wave of relief to crest. It did—but it carried an undertow of unexpected wistfulness. You glanced at him, searching his face for clues. He met your eyes and seemed to read the question there.

“I thought I’d feel only relief,” he admitted, tone quiet, honest. “But I… don’t. Not entirely.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Me either. How weird is that?”

He stepped closer, still holding your hand, his other palm settling warm against your cheek. “Maybe it’s not weird,” he said. “These last few days… thinking about what might happen. It made me see things differently.”

You felt tears prick but didn’t look away. “Differently how?”

He drew a steady breath, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, almost shy smile—an expression you’d never thought possible on Park Sunghoon. “I realized I want more than late-night reports and stress-induced hookups. I want… an us.Maybe a house that smells like butter-fried abalones,”—the smile widened when you laughed—“and maybe, someday, an actual crib. Not because we panicked into it, but because we chose it together.”

Your heart thudded, a warm bloom spreading through your chest. “You’re serious?” you whispered.

“I’ve never been more serious.” He cupped both hands around your face now, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “I’ve always been good at work and terrible at feelings. You make me want to fix the second part.”

You covered his hands with yours. “I want that too,” you said, the truth ringing clear once you spoke it. “I want to see what us looks like when it’s not tangled up in deadlines and copy-room insanity.”

He kissed your forehead softly then rested his own against it. “Then we start slow. We can go on real dates, have real conversations.” A wry grin tugged at his lips. “And maybe slightly fewer vibrating toys at the office.”

You laughed, leaning into him, feeling lighter than you had in months. “Deal. Although the toys are negotiable.”

“Good.” He kissed you properly this time, full of promise rather than urgency. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Great,” he said, entwining your fingers as you headed for the door. “Because I’ve been perfecting my abalone recipe.”

“Is that so?” you teased, bumping his shoulder. “Guess I’ll have to lock you in my kitchen for real then.”

His laugh echoed down the hallway, and you felt the future open wide.

Epilogue- 8 Months Later

You sat perched on the padded table, swinging your feet lightly, dressed in a pale blue smock. Your hands were folded over your barely-there bump.

You were twelve weeks along.

Sunghoon was sitting in the chair beside you, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming lightly on his thigh. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Despite the long day at work, he didn’t look tired. If anything, he looked anxious. 

“I still don’t get how it happened this fast,” you muttered under his breath, glancing sideways at him. “We were careful.”

He shrugged, lips tugging into a small smile. “Were we? I remember at least two times that we definitely weren’t.”

“Two?” You blinked. “I can name at least four.”

He laughed softly, leaning closer and resting his hand against your belly. “Well. One of them worked.”

The nurse came in, breaking the moment. “Doctor Han will be in shortly to do your first ultrasound,” she said kindly. “You’ll be able to hear the heartbeat today.”

Sunghoon stiffened beside you. You reached out and took his hand without looking. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, but the word cracked slightly. “I just… hearing it makes it real.”

You squeezed his hand. “It is real.”

He nodded once. “I know. Doesn’t mean I’m not scared shitless.”

You turned to him, voice gentle. “Me too, but we have each other.”

He brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “Always.”

The doctor arrived shortly after, warm and chatty as always. You laid back on the table and pulled the gown open. The cold jelly over your stomach made you jolt. Sunghoon stood by your side, fingers still laced in yours, eyes glued to the screen scared that he might miss it if he blinked.

And then there it was. A grainy flicker, pulsing steadily in the center of the screen.

“That’s the heartbeat,” the doctor said with a small smile. “It sounds strong and regular. Everything looks perfect.”

The sound filled the room like thunder. Tiny, rapid thuds that made your chest swell. You blinked fast, swallowing the lump in your throat. When you looked up at Sunghoon, his eyes were glassy.

He was crying. Not a lot—just one tear, maybe two—but the sight floored you.

He didn’t say a word. Just leaned down and kissed your forehead, staying there for a long second, breathing you in.

Later, in the car, he reached for your hand again and said quietly, “I don’t think I knew what love really felt like until now.”

You looked over, a bit surprised. “Because of the baby?”

“Because of you,” he said. “And now… both of you.”

You turned your face toward the window, hiding the stupid smile curling on your lips, blinking fast again.

At home, Richard sat perched on the windowsill as usual like a little orange gargoyle. When you kicked off your shoes, he jumped down and padded over to inspect you.

Sunghoon leaned in from behind, resting both hands over your stomach. “Alright, Richard. You’d better get used to sharing her.”

Richard meowed.

You smiled. “That sounded like reluctant acceptance to me.”

“Good enough,” Sunghoon murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

The house felt warm and safe. There were butter abalones in the microwave and ultrasound photos on the kitchen counter.

And for the first time in your life, waiting didn’t feel scary.

The AI buzzes cheerfully from the overhead speaker. “Because you're luxury, Christopher. High value, limited edition, and people cry when they have to return you.”

Changbin snorts from across the room, setting down a protein bar on a surface with a clear DO NOT TOUCH sign over it. “What if someone actually falls in love, though?”

The system pauses, Chili’s hologram shifts, “Then I charge them an emotional damage fee. You are not built for monogamy. It's in the fine print.”

“Good to know,” Han hums, spinning in his chair. “What’s my official role again?”

“Chaos distribution,” Chili replies, deadpan. “Displaying emotional terrorism while remaining completely clueless to the consequences.”

Han gives a satisfied nod. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“This entire system is flawed,” Seungmin mutters, leaning back with legs crossed as he scrolls through his mock profile on the tablet in his lap .

“And yet here you are,” Chili answers sweetly. “Booked out through the weekend. Would you like me to cancel this Friday’s paycheck? Please confirm.” Seungmin scoffs, glaring at the hologram and clicking decline on the pop up on his tablet.

“I didn’t think so.” Chili’s projection shifts again.

Hyunjin looks up from the window he’s been using as a mirror, carefully reapplying his lip tint. “Can I bring flowers to my dates?”

“You are required to,” Chili confirms. “you also have the option of a handwritten poem, cologne that you can't wash out, and twelve condoms of any brand listed on your tablet.”

“Why are magnums not listed?” Chan asks and the system doesn’t miss a beat. 

“None of you need them.” The silence that follows is paired with at least four glares to the interface above the table. She stares back. It’s true. 

Felix bounces onto the couch beside Changbin, unfazed and puppy-eyed. “What if someone cries?”

“Then hold them, praise them, rail them gently, and bake apology cookies. A coupon code will be sent to their email for their next purchase.”

Lee Know raises a brow from where he lounges, legs kicked over the arm of his chair. “Do I actually have to be nice?”

Chili doesn’t shift this time. The interface stays facing Changbin who now has Han in a ‘practice headlock’ as he called it. “Absolutely not. In fact, I strongly recommend the opposite. The more you glare, the faster they fold.”

Jeongin strolls in late, ruffling his hair. “Do I get paid for this?”

“In orgasms? Yes. In money? No. In power? Potentially. Please hold any further questions. Dispatch will commence in twenty seconds.”

“Seconds?” They ask in unison, sitting up straight just as a new pop up displays on their tablets.

LOADING CLIENT INTERFACE...Welcome, hopeless romantics. You’re here because you made a questionable decision. We’re here to make it worse.

Event Taglist: @bunnies-only @chrisbangsass @puccaaak @beal-o @jinniesgirl

Your screen glows dim under the table you were dragged to by a new hire who talks too much and thinks that the two of you are friends. You aren't, but for now, you'll pretend. It's better than looking like you're alone while your ex-fiancée flaunts that blonde from accounting like she's a rare Rolex. 

Part of you hates him, another part of you wishes you didn't. Maybe then it wouldn't be so painful to see him at events like this. Not because you miss him, no. It’s because he’s an asshole.

Your colleague laughs at a joke someone else told and you take the opportunity to slip away. You swipe a glass of champagne off of a nearby tray and drink it too fast to be considered well mannered.

Then—because the universe loves a well timed fuck-you—that’s exactly when he shows up. Your ex.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, all smug in his navy tux, hand already on the waist of the bright-eyed blonde. Her dress is too tight and bright for a gala, you can tell she doesn’t care.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you answer coolly, fingers clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

He shrugs. “Just thought it might be hard, ya know. Coming alone.” You don’t flinch. You smile. He’s twenty seconds away.

Your ex opens his mouth again—probably to drop some condescending bomb about how he’s “sure you’ll find someone someday”—when a hand touches the small of your back, large and warm. Splayed right over the slight curve in your spine.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart,” a low, syrupy voice interrupts. “Parking was a nightmare.”

Your ex turns just in time to see ‘your man’ step into view, black suit like it was made just for him, tie knotted clean enough to tell that he’s done this before. 

“Kim Seungmin,” he says smoothly, nodding once at your ex, unbothered, eyes dark but gleaming like he’s already getting a kick out of this. “Director of Strategy at Asan Tech. You are?” 

The lie rolls off his tongue like he truly believes it. Hell, it was believable. Even though all he did was spell NASA backwards and slap tech at the end… your ex seems to buy it. You attribute it to the way Seungmin carries himself. There’s a velvet air to him. Something that says ‘I’m barely trying and I’m still better than you’. Something that makes you feel hot in places you shouldn’t, but still, you hold onto his arm a bit tighter.

Your ex stiffens, mouth twitching as he mutters his name. “She and I used to—”

“Ah,” Seungmin cuts in, tone dipped in amusement. “One of those tragic mistakes she doesn’t talk about.”

You almost choke.

Your ex bristles. The blonde is too busy gawking at your man to notice.

Seungmin leans in just a bit, hand resting naturally over yours where you hold him. “Shall we?” he murmurs in your ear, like you’re lovers who never stay at one stop for too long. Easily bored by those who are clearly not on your level. 

Once you’re away from the blast zone and seated at your assigned table, you lean in. “Director of Strategy?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Would’ve gone with CEO, but I didn’t want to emasculate him so hard he goes to HR in the morning. You’re welcome.”

You scoff. “You really think you're charming, don't you?” he’s too busy swiping a glass of champagne from a passing server to look your way. You take the opportunity to assess him properly—sharp jaw line, glowing skin, dark eyes that challenge you just right—then he looks back your way, sliding a glass over.

“Charming enough that you picked me,” he says, not missing a beat. “From just a picture too, so yes. I do.”

You roll your eyes and sip your champagne, but the way he watches you over the rim of his glass—lazy, amused, like you’re his entertainment for the evening, not a client—makes your chest feel tight.

Now dinner starts. 

The seating chart is a set up. Your ex and his blonde arm candy are across from you and Seungmin at the long table. The tablecloth is ivory, the centerpieces are gaudy, and the blonde is still chewing her gum. Too loud, too absent minded. Your ex is bragging about god knows what to some senior employee he’s clearly trying to kiss up to. He always was a sell out. 

Then there’s Seungmin— sitting with one arm draped across the back of your chair, legs spread just wide enough to toe the line between casual and cocky. He looks like he owns the place. He hasn’t looked at the menu. Hasn’t looked at the servers. Hasn’t even glanced at the table of executives eyeing you both with thinly veiled curiosity.

His eyes are only on you.

“You’re staring,” you mutter, sipping your water without meeting his gaze.

“You’re wearing that dress,” he replies like it’s something he’s used to. Something that routinely poisons his self control. “I’m just appreciating the craftsmanship.”

Your mouth twitches. “The fabric?”

“No.” He leans in, voice low and heat-laced. “The body in it.”

You nearly choke. Again.

He smirks, eyes never leaving your flushed expression.

Across the table, your ex keeps glancing over. His date is talking to someone else entirely and that senior exec he was trying to butter up keeps avoiding eye contact with him. You’ve knocked him off his game. And damn it feels good.

Seungmin’s fingers brush your knee under the table. Casual. Intentional. A distraction. You jolt just a little—surprised but not displeased. He still hasn’t looked away from you, even as he speaks loud enough for nearby ears to hear. “Thank you for bringing me tonight, baby.”

You blink, you wanna say that he had no choice, that he’s literally being paid by the minute but you smile instead “I hope that you’re enjoying yourself, honey.”

The smirk that he offers you is disarming, practiced and perfected. “Of course I am. It’s not every day I get to be the hottest man in the room with the most stunning woman on my arm. Free drinks are just a bonus.”

You roll your eyes, still smiling despite yourself. “You really practice lines like that in the mirror, don’t you?” your voice is a whisper, he watches your lips then leans in just close enough for his own to brush your cheek. 

“Only the ones that work.” Your cheeks heat, you clear your throat. How is he so good?

When the first course is served, Seungmin finally looks away. He glances at the plate like it personally offended him, then back at you. “That’s a leaf.”

“It’s arugula.”

“It’s offensive.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head. His expression is dead serious as he forks the salad like he’s the one filing a complaint with HR in the morning. The woman next to you—a junior VP with a Cartier bracelet and gossip glinting in her eyes—leans over.

“So,” she says with a saccharine smile. “You two are precious. How long have you been seeing each other?”

You freeze.

Seungmin, however, doesn’t even blink. “Six months,” he says smoothly, setting his fork down. “Met at a conference out of town. She was wearing red lipstick and giving dirty looks to the panelists. I knew I was doomed but I just had to know her name.”

You stare. Impressed.  

“Oh, wow,” the woman laughs, hand fluttering. “That’s so…romantic.”

“It wasn’t,” he deadpans. “She told me I was boring before I even introduced myself.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” you shoot back, playing along now. “He was quoting Plato to a bartender.”

“And you ordered vodka cranberry like a nineteen year old trying to blackout before curfew.”

“Excuse me for having taste.” The man beside Seungmin chuckles awkwardly, clearly unsure if you’re flirting or fighting. 

Seungmin reaches over and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Too gently. His fingers linger just a second too long. “Noona is even prettier when she’s mean.” he says casually before taking a sip of wine. You dig your nails into his thigh under the table, a silent sign to shut the hell up. His mouth twitches.

Asshole.

He’s a cocky, smooth, handsome asshole.

When you glance at him, your ex is glaring at you and the blonde is gawking at Seungmin once again. It even seems that a few other ladies at the table have joined her in appraising your man.

Mission successful. 

The rest of the night is performance art. He knows just how to lean in, just how to touch you without looking like he’s trying. When he laughs, it feels unrehearsed. When he calls you “baby” in front of a coworker, it sounds like he’s said it a thousand times before.

You don’t know how much of it is an act anymore. You don’t know which one of you is blurring the lines. You just know that nothing feels clear right now. 

You reach for your glass again. Just as you realize he’s watching you again, leaned back with heart eyes so convincing you forget the arrangement for a beat.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say.

“Like what?”

“Like this isn’t pretend.”

He hums. “Tell me what part’s pretend, and I’ll stop.”

You don’t have an answer.

So you take another sip. You let his hand rest on your thigh for the rest of the meal, thumb tracing light circles while he tells some made up story about a trip you two took to Aruba. And he just keeps looking at you.

· · ─ ·♡· ─ · ·

The night winds down with speeches and too many fake laughs. Your heels start to pinch. Your wine glass stays half-full, untouched now because if you drink anymore, you’ll say something reckless.

Finally, when the gala begins to thin out, you slip your arm into his and walk toward the parking lot. The night air is a welcome relief—crisp and clean compared to the stifling heat inside, or maybe it was just the warmth of his hand on your lower back for the past twenty minutes.

“Did I play the role well enough for you?” he asks, tone dry.

You toss him a glance. “Yup. You were just the right amount of asshole.” He smirks, small and lethal. You ignore the way it makes your chest flutter. “You nearly made me believe it.” 

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“And you looked like you do this every weekend.”

“I might,” he says, holding your gaze for just a second before letting his eyes slowly wander down, tracing curves that his fingers have ‘mindlessly’ grazed all night. “But I think tonight has been my favorite.”

There’s a pause. Too long.

You shift your weight, wrap your arms tighter around yourself.

“I’ll give you a five-star review,” you mutter, pretending not to feel how charged everything is. “Maybe even a tip. Maybe.”

His lips curve. “Don’t tip me unless I earn it.”

Your eyes flick down to his lips and the champagne from earlier starts speaking for you “Oh? So, is there a way you want to earn it?”

He steps closer, one hand reaching out to fix your necklace—slow, deliberate, far too intimate for a stranger.

“Maybe,” he says, voice dropping low. “The dinner was nice but that was just foreplay.” Your breath catches.

Seungmin reaches past you and pulls open your car door. The back door. You look behind you, then up at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re serious?”

He doesn’t respond, only looks at you with dark eyes that say get in loud and clear. You don’t move, so he does, a small step forward to close the gap between you.

“You hired me,” he says calmly. “Let me finish the job.”

There’s something daring in his voice that makes your thighs clench without permission. You’ve seen his reviews, you knew this was on the table—hell, you’d hoped for it.

Seungmin watches you just as he has all night, Studying. Jaw clenching when his eyes flick to how your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You bat your lashes once, twice, then turn and slide into the seat.

The door shuts behind you. He walks around the other side of the car, no rush, and gets in next to you. Then, with the quiet click of the door lock and the parking lot streetlamps painting amber along the sharp cut of his jaw, he turns to you.

“You’re tense,” he says, reaching over to touch your knee, fingers brushing under the hem of your dress. “Let me help.”

Then he kisses you. Hard. Like this is the part of the job he looks forward to. Like he’s been counting down the seconds until he could ruin you and call it customer service.

Your head tilts back instinctively, one of his hands cradles the back of your neck. The other finds your waist, sliding down to the curve of your thigh. He hikes your dress up with the kind of expertise that says he fucks just as good as he looks. That alone makes you moan into him.

Fingers skim your core over your underwear and you suck in a breath. Seungmin breaks the kiss, nose brushing yours. “Tell me how you like to be fucked.”

You swallow. “With your fingers first. Then your mouth. Then—”

He presses two fingers between your legs and your head falls back with a moan. Every thought is gone, every nerve sparks with the press of his fingers, long and precise. 

“Keep talk’n to me” he hums against your throat, slowing his ministrations just enough for you to think. You clear your throat, blink your eyes open and part your lips just enough to make the smallest sound. 

“Then—then fuck me. Let me ride. Use me after. I don’t care. Just make me come until I can’t see straight.” his finger hooks into the gusset of your panties, pulling them aside just enough for his thumb to find your clit.

“Good girl.” The way he says it wrecks you. Your hips jerk, chasing more, but Seungmin doesn’t give you a second to think. His fingers move with effortless precision, tracing the heat between your thighs like he’s memorizing every inch.

Slow. Measured. Cruel.

You’re already panting. “Let’s try for three, yeah?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your jaw as one finger dips in and curls.

Your hips kick up again, uneven like the moan breaking from your chest. “Ya know, thought you’d be more of a fight.” he kisses the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “But you’re melting for me like you’ve been counting down the seconds.”

You grab his tie. “You’re on the clock.”

“Mm.” he slips in another finger, making you shudder. “Then you’d better come fast.”

You choke on a gasp, legs spreading wider as his fingers work you open. You watch him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, the most infuriating look of casual confidence on his face. It’s unfair. He’s not even breaking a sweat. You’re soaked, whining under your breath, trying not to collapse in the backseat of your own damn car. He pulls his fingers out and sucks them into his mouth then moans—just a little, just enough to ruin you.

Then he shifts, your back to the passenger door and one leg over his shoulder. His hands knock your thighs apart with ease, dress bunched around your waist, and—

Holy. Shit.

He eats like he’s starving. Moaning as soon as his tongue flattens against your cunt and grunting when you make the prettiest little keen he’s heard in a while. Your back arches off the seat, hands buried in his hair. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, dipping down just to drag another broken whimper out of your throat before focusing back on your clit. He spits onto you clit just as his fingers rejoin the mix, fucking you open while his tongue follows.

“Oh—fuck—Seungmin—”

He hums. You cry out. He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and your vision is white-hot at the edges. Until you’re coming into his mouth, hips grinding helplessly, and moaning too loudly for a backseat fuck.

He pulls back, chin glistening, smug as hell. “One.”

“One?”

“We agreed on three, remember?” he’s already unbuckling his belt. “Or has that pretty head already gone dumb for me?”

You don’t even have time to blink before he’s pushing his slacks down, cock thick and flushed. He grips your hips, pulling you into his lap like it’s nothing.

“Ride me,” he murmurs. “Like you said you would.” He rips open a condom between his teeth, rolling it on with one hand which would be a red flag for anyone who didn’t do this for a living.

You straddle him, breath catching as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip through your folds and letting you control how much you take. His weeping cock disappears into you slowly. The stretch is perfect, the length is ridiculous. Your moan when he bottoms out is downright obscene.

“Fuck, noona—” he groans, hands digging into your ass. “You’re tighter than expected.”

“So you expected something?” he huffs a laugh, then thrusts up hard.

Your head just barely hits the ceiling. “Jesus—!”

“Not here,” he says, smiling slow. “Just me.”

His hands smooth up your sides, guiding you while you ride him like you’ll never get the chance to again—because you might not. Dress pushed up, one heel digging into the leather seat and one lost on the floor, Seungmin buried deep and panting against your neck as you grind and bounce and take him.

His hands are everywhere—guiding, gripping, spanking once, then twice when you slow down. 

“Second one’s coming,” he warns.

You don’t believe him, until he brings his thumb to your clit and makes you see stars.

Two.

You’re barely coherent, slumped against his chest when he shifts your position just enough to fuck up into you with maddening precision.

“You asked for this, baby.” his voice is wrecked. The squelch of your cunt mixes with his heavy breathing. Your moans are muffled into his shoulder but he can hear you loud and clear over the sound of skin slapping.

“I paid for this.” you rasp, gasping when his lips find the sensitive spot of your neck.

“And I’m giving you your money’s worth.”

You claw at his shoulders, fingers digging in like holding on could steady what’s already spinning. “I’m gonna—”

“Good. Take it.” His pace grows sharper, more frantic. “Cum on my cock. So I can fill you up like a good fucking boyfriend would.”

You fall apart.

Three.

“That’s it—shit, gonna cum. Gonna fucking—fuck, noona” You’re shaking in his lap, panting against his neck, muscles limp and dress falling off one shoulder when he finally kisses you—deep, slow, dirty. 

He fucks you slow through his orgasm, tongue sliding over yours and low, rough groans vibrating through you. His muscles are tight, cock is throbbing. When he pulls back, you’re breathless.

And then he grins.

“Now,” he says, slicking his hair back with one hand, taking a deceivingly calm breath. "Don't forget to leave me a five-star review.”

You stare.

“You absolute menace.”

“Mm. But you’re glowing.”

You slap his chest, still twitching, and sigh. “Fine. But I’m not tipping.”

“You already did,” he says, smirking like he’s won something. “Three times.”

a/n: I was so nervous to post this! I hope you enjoyed the first one shot of my event! Thank you for reading ♡

Event Taglist: @bunnies-only @chrisbangsass @puccaaak @beal-o @jinniesgirl