may

The chuckle that follows is low, soft, and far too close. Thank God for the darkness; it hides the heat crawling up my neck… and pooling far lower.

“You sure about that? I have good aim.” The amusement lingers, then melts into a darker note that curls my toes. “When I find a target, I never miss.”

“Great catchphrase. You should stick it in a song.”

“I might.” His lips graze the shell of my ear.

The contact—barely there, but electric— sends a shiver racing down my spine.

I’m suddenly aware of everything: the hard planes of his body behind mine, the faint give of his breath against my hair If I leaned back just an inch, the back of my head would find his shoulder. If I shifted half a step closer, I’d sink fully into the warmth of his chest.

I’m tired of resisting, no matter how wise it’s been. The tension between us has been a slow burn for months—stolen glances, loaded smiles—and in the dark it swells into something heavier, thicker. Alive.

What if I just let go? Just once. Would it really ruin everything?

You could get fired.

Some stubborn corner of my brain still clings to reason, knuckles white around the thought.

Then his hand settles on my hip—steady, deliberate, almost a question—and the fight drains right out of me. I lean back without meaning to, and he takes it as an answer, drawing me in until my body fits against his. The air leaves me in a sharp exhale, every rational thread snapping clean.

“Fuck,” I breathe, barely audible.

“What’s wrong?” His nose skims the tender skin beneath my ear, voice pitched low. “Forgot how to speak?”

“You’re playing with fire, Chan.” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like.

“What if I want the burn?” His grip firms, heat bleeding through my clothes.

“You wouldn’t be the one left in the fire,” I manage. “I would.”

I step forward, breaking his hold, and the absence hits immediately—cold where his palm had been.

“Wait.” There’s a note in his voice I’ve never heard before.

I turn. It’s still too dark to see him clearly, but enough to catch the furrow in his brow, the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadowed slope of his nose. Even blurred by darkness, he’s distractingly beautiful.

My eyes betray me, dropping to his mouth—full, deliberate curves that pull every stray thought into places it shouldn’t go. I can almost feel the press of them against mine, the slow trail they’d leave over my skin, lower, until—

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, closing the gap between us.

My gaze flicks up, instinctive. “Like what?”

“Like you’re replaying every filthy thought in your head.” His fingers find my hip again, tentative this time, sliding upward when I don’t move away. His palm rests against my waist, warm, grounding. “Don’t push me off and make me feel guilty for wanting you if you’re going to fuck me with your eyes two seconds later.” The last words rumble out, low and unfiltered.

I gasp. He’s never been this forward—not outside the teasing rhythm we’ve kept for months. This was supposed to be safe. A game we could pretend wasn’t serious.

I part my lips to deny it—

“Don’t.” His voice drops to something dangerous, dizzying.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift a hand to his cheek. His lashes lower instantly, the faint tremor in his body betraying how hard he’s holding still.

“You know I want you,” I murmur, my mouth hovering just shy of his. “But the stakes are too high. I can’t risk it.”

His eyes open, catching mine. “I’ll protect you.”

The smile that pulls at my mouth feels too heavy to carry. “You can’t, Channie.”

“Try me.” His tone is all grit and promise. “No one has to know.”

“Your legal team would love that,” I mutter, the laugh in my throat flat.

“I trust you.” Not a flicker of doubt in his voice.

“You shouldn’t.” My thumb brushes over the sharp line of his cheekbone.

“I know.” He swallows. “I’ve been taught not to trust anyone. I’ve lived like that for years. And still… I trust you.”

My hand stills. “That’s a hell of a weight to put on me.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re telling me if I asked you to pin me to this wall, you would?”

“Without a second thought.” The smirk is quick, sharp.

“Fuck.” I shake my head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep resisting.”

“Then don’t.” His mouth ghosts over mine, not quite touching, just close enough to brand the shape of it into my skin.

“Fuck it.” My hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck, and I pull him in.

His lips are softer than I imagined—too soft, eager in a way that unravels me. A groan vibrates against my mouth as he opens for me, and I don’t hesitate. I slide my tongue against his, and God, it’s a mistake. This kiss is messy, desperate, the kind that rewires your nervous system. He matches me stroke for stroke, his tongue greedy, like he’s been starving for the taste of me.

The hand at my waist yanks me closer, spinning us until my back hits the wall. The laser tag gun digs into my ribs, but I barely feel it—not when he’s devouring me like I’m the last sip of water in a drought. My teeth catch his lower lip, just like I’d fantasized—too many times to admit—, and when I drag my tongue over the swell, he shudders.

This kiss will ruin me.

His mouth tastes like heartbreak—like the inevitable end we’re racing toward, and the terrifying certainty that nothing will ever compare. Heat licks up my spine, pooling low in my stomach as his tongue glides against mine, slow and deliberate. Torturous. A whimper escapes me, raw and unbidden.

The spell shatters in a blaze of light—fluorescent, merciless, cutting straight through us. Chan jerks back, chest heaving, his head whipping side to side like a cornered animal. But I can’t look away.

He’s wrecked. Hair tousled from my fingers, lips swollen and glistening. Fuck. He’s never looked more dangerous.

When his gaze lands on me again, the hunger in his eyes is barely leashed. I wonder what he sees—if my cheeks are as flushed as his, if my mouth looks as thoroughly kissed. If the truth is as obvious as the hammering of my pulse.

The lights dim again, our vests flickering to life. A voice crackles over the speakers, but the words dissolve into static. All I hear is the ragged sound of our breathing.

Chan grins—that devastating, dimpled smile—and before I can react, he lifts his gun and fires. My vest dies with a beep, the barrel still warm from his grip.

“Cheater,” I gasp.

He’s already sprinting away, laughter trailing behind him.

It takes three seconds for my brain to reboot. Three more for my gun to reactivate. Then I’m off, weaving through neon-lit corridors, shooting rivals on reflex. My mind isn’t on the game. It’s on the press of his body, the way his teeth scraped my lip like he wanted to brand me.

A shot rings out. My vest darkens again. I spin—Felix. His blond hair peeks from behind a column, his smirk visible even in the gloom. Of course the gamer would have sniper precision.

I’m about to bolt when a soft “oh shit” freezes me. Thea steps into view, her vest glowing victorious, gun trained on Felix. She doesn’t lower it—not even when he flees—just turns to me with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“There you are,” she says, like we’re sharing a secret. “I’ve been hunting you.”

“I’m stealthy.” My voice doesn’t shake. A miracle.

“We’re on the same team.” She rolls her eyes, but her smile lingers.

My vest reignites.

“Partners?” She jerks her chin toward a raised platform—a sniper’s nest with a clear line of fire. “Cover me, I’ll cover you.”

“Deal.”

We move in sync, her whispered warnings like a second heartbeat. Down below, Chan darts past, a shadow in the strobe lights. My stomach knots.

Payback.

Thea elbows me. “You okay?”

“Mm.” Lie.

“You’re staring.”

Think fast. “At that.” I nod to the platform, its ramped entrance half-hidden by elastic grilles. Perfect for ambushes.

Her eyes gleam. “Genius.” Her fist bumps mine, and for a moment, the ghost of Chan’s touch fades.

We scramble up, knees scraping hard floor. From here, the maze unfolds like a neon-lit battlefield. Thea crouches beside me, her breath warm on my shoulder.

“Watch my back?” she murmurs.

I adjust my grip on the gun. “Always.”

The air hums with the electric buzz of laser tag guns powering down as we pick off two stragglers from the opposing team. The second their vests blink out, we drop into a crouch, shoulders pressed together, muffling laughter behind our palms. The scent of synthetic fog and sweat clings to the darkened arena, our breaths shallow to avoid giving away our position.

I rise just in time to see Chan—of course it’s Chan—sprinting like a predator after one of my teammates.

Oh, this is gonna be good.

I lift my gun, but I’m a heartbeat too late. His shot lands first, my teammate’s vest dying with a defeated bzzt. Then, like karma’s punchline, Chan’s own lights flicker out seconds later. He freezes, head swiveling, confusion knitting his brows until his gaze lands on the raised platform. On me.

Even in the dim glow of the arena lights, his smirk is infuriatingly clear. He tongues the inside of his cheek, lips quirking, before biting down on the lower one—always biting that damn lip—and points at me. Then, slow and deliberate, he jerks his chin toward the floor. Come down here.

I cock my gun instead, arching a brow. Make me.

His laugh is a low, warm thing that curls around my ribs despite the distance. Then he’s gone, vanishing into the maze like a shadow.

I drop back down, pulse thrumming. “We might need to move. Like, now.”

Thea whips her head toward me, eyes wide. “What?”

“Chan spotted me,” I admit, though guilt is buried under the thrill still buzzing in my veins.

She scowls, peering around the barrier. “Can’t we just shoot him if he comes up?”

“Two access points.” I nod to the narrow ramp. “If he brings backup, we’re cooked.”

“Fuck,” she exhales, but she’s already shifting, tension coiling in her shoulders. “Fine. But stick close. We’re a good team.”

I nod, sliding toward the exit.

“Was getting boring anyway,” she mutters, adjusting her grip on her gun. “Hiding’s more fun when they’re chasing you.”

No argument there.

We slink down the ramp, senses sharp, the smooth floor muffling our steps. A blur of movement darts past—someone oblivious, thank god—and we bolt through the labyrinth, rounding corners like ghosts. Shots fire, vests die, and the adrenaline is a live wire under my skin.

Then the buzzer shrieks, the lights flare, and I’m blinking against the sudden glare, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The scoreboard flickers to life: Chan at the top, Felix a hair behind, my name clinging to third.

Chan saunters over, all loose-limbed arrogance, and my spine stiffens. He doesn’t stop, just slows enough to lean in, his breath hot against my ear:

“Told you—when I find a target, I never miss.”

The words slither down my neck, sparking equal parts fury and that thing I refuse to name.

Game on, Chris.

The buzzer sounds again, the lights dim, and my vest hums back to life. This time, the tension in my chest isn’t panic—it’s something sharper, hotter, honed entirely on him.

I spot him through a gap in the barriers, oblivious, scanning the arena. My heart hammers as I raise my gun. Click. His vest dies.

He whirls, locks onto me. I grin, fingers forming a mock pistol. Bang.

His answering smile is all dimples and danger. Then he’s gone, a flash of black fabric and long limbs.

I’m still grinning when movement flickers behind me. Too late. Bzzt. My vest darkens.

“Shit,” I hiss, spinning to find him already retreating, that smirk etched into his face.

Payback, he mouths, eyes gleaming even in the gloom.

My vest reactivates. I exhale, launch forward—

—and nearly collide with Lee Know. My reflexes fire before my brain catches up. His vest dies. He freezes, gaze lifting like I’ve just kicked his cat.

“Sorry! Mianeeee!” I squeak, already sprinting away like like my life depends on it. Which, with Lee Know, it might.

I duck behind a wall, pulse thrumming, and catch a flash of movement—black hair, broad shoulders, the familiar prowl of someone who knows he’s the best. Chan.

I follow, silent, sticking to the shadows. He rounds a corner, and I pivot wide, boots skidding on the slick floor as I cut through a shortcut—only to find empty air.

Gone.

“Damn it…” I mutter, scanning the maze.

No time to linger. I dart down a side corridor, weaving past barriers, my breath ragged in my ears. One turn. Another. Then—

Impact.

I barely register the solid warmth of him before we’re stumbling, his grip reflexively catching my elbow as my gun jabs his ribs. His vest bzzts under my barrel before he can even raise his.

“Told you,” I pant, breathless, triumphant.

His grin is pure chaos, but I’m already slipping free, laughter trailing behind me like a challenge.

Felix ambushes me seconds later. Bzzt.

“Felix!”

“No friends in laser tag!” he sing-songs, darting away.

I keep running, breath ragged, sweat slicking my skin, until I nearly bowl over Han. His gun wavers, eyes wide with panic.

“Don’t kill me!” he blurts.

I just flash my dead vest. “Can’t.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes.

The final buzzer wails. We stagger to the scoreboard, lungs burning. Felix reigns supreme, but my name sits snug above Chan’s.

The adrenaline is still singing in my blood when I brush past him, chin high.

“Told you even the best miss sometimes.”

His gaze snaps to mine—and oh. It’s not just amusement anymore. It’s dark, simmering, hungry.

My breath stutters. Fuck.

That look drags it all back: the press of his body in the dark, his hands rough on my waist, the way he’d whispered my name like a secret.

I force myself to step back, to look away before I combust.

But the damage is done. The bravado crumbles, leaving me raw, shaky, and ruined.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

The restaurant thrums like a second heartbeat—laughter ricocheting off the walls, soju bottles glinting half-empty under the neon lights, the sizzle of meat on the grill filling the air with smoke and salt.

I keep my eyes fixed on the flames, tongs hovering uselessly over the pork belly. Don’t look. Don’t you dare look.

Across the table, Chan throws his head back at something Seungmin says, his laugh bright and easy. For a heartbeat, it’s familiar. Normal.

Then his gaze flicks to mine.

I jerk my attention back to the grill, but it’s too late—my chest tightens like a coiled spring. What the fuck was I thinking?

The flirting had been harmless. The competitive banter during laser tag, the way his eyes crinkled when he teased me, the electric thrill when our shoulders brushed in the dark arena. But the kiss—that sudden, searing kiss when the lights cut out between rounds—his body pressing me into the wall, his tongue tracing my lower lip before the buzzer tore us apart—

Fuck. Stop. Don’t go there.

I drain my beer, the bitterness pooling in my gut. This can’t happen again. I'm a backup dancer. He's an idol. One rumor, one careless moment, and my career evaporates.

“Bathroom,” I mutter, pushing back from the table before anyone can ask why I’ve barely spoken all night.

The bathroom light hums too bright, too sterile against the warmth of the party still buzzing beyond the door. I press my palms to the cold porcelain sink, letting the water run until it bites my skin. The droplets cling to my wrists, my neck—tiny anchors dragging me back to reality.

The mirror doesn’t lie. My cheeks are flushed, lips parted like they’re still chasing the ghost of something reckless. But the eyes staring back? Wide. Trembling.

Terrified.

The door creaks. A woman brushes past me, heels clicking, perfume sharp as citrus. I jerk into motion, snatching paper towels to blot my skin dry. The rough texture grounds me—until the corridor air hits my face, thick with bass and laughter, and my lungs tighten all over again.

Breathe. Just breathe.

“Hey.”

The voice curls around me like smoke—low, familiar. Chan.

I turn. He’s closer than I expected, close enough that the dim light catches the worry etched between his brows. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless.

“You okay?” he asks.

The question hangs there, soft as a bruise.

I stiffen. “Are you following me?”

“No—I just—” He exhales, rough. “You were gone a while.”

“So you are following me.” My arms fold tight over my chest, a flimsy barricade.

His jaw ticks. “I was worried. You’ve been avoiding me all night.”

“That’s not true.” Lie. The way his gaze narrows tells me he knows it.

Silence hangs between us, heavy. Then his voice drops, quieter.

The words slither under my ribs. Talk. As if we could stitch this mess into something coherent with words.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Chan.” I sidestep him, but he moves—just enough to block my path. His sleeve brushes my arm, and the contact sparks like a live wire.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper. Raw. It undoes me.

I glance up. His eyes are darker like this, shadows pooling under his lashes. There’s something there—something that makes my resolve crack, just a fraction.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But not here.”

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

The alley swallows us whole, the distant thump of music muffled by brick and darkness. The air smells like rain and old cigarettes, the kind of quiet that presses against your skin.

I fiddle with my bracelet, the metal links cold under my fingertips. Don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll forget every reason this is a bad idea.

Chan leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You’ve been weird since the game.”

I huff. “I’m standing in an alley at midnight. ‘Weird’ is baseline.”

“You know what I mean.”

The accusation stings. I bite my lip, the truth clawing up my throat. “I’m trying to be normal, Chan. Sorry I’m not great at brushing off—”

I clamp my mouth shut. Too late.

He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us. “The kiss you started?”

My pulse stutters. “Can you not say that out loud?”

“Why?” His voice drops, rough at the edges. “Because it meant something?”

I scoff. “Because I like my job.”

A pause. Then, flatly, he says, “Right.”

Something in his tone twists my stomach. I finally meet his gaze. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m making excuses. Like you didn’t feel it too.”

“Oh, I felt it,” he says, jaw tight. “And so did you—until you decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”

“It’s not about worth.” My arms tighten around myself. “It’s about not throwing everything away over a one-night stand.”

His breath hitches. The words land like a punch.

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” I add quickly. “But if this is just physical, it’s too dangerous.”

His expression flickers—hurt, then something hotter. “You think I’d risk your job for a quick fuck?”

I flinch. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He drags a hand through his hair, tension coiling in his shoulders. “Shit.”

I step back, my pulse a frantic drumbeat. “We can’t do this here.”

His eyes lock onto mine, steady. “Then let’s go somewhere we can.”

The offer hangs between us, thick with possibility. Nowhere is safe—not from prying eyes, not from what this could unravel.

“Where?” I whisper. “It’s not like you can just walk into a bar.”

He laughs, dry and humorless. “Yeah. Not a lot of subtle options.”

Silence stretches, taut.

Tentatively, he offers, “I could text I.N to clear out for a few hours.”

I shake my head before he finishes. “Too risky. What if someone sees me?”

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

Another pause. The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting his face in gold and shadow.

“My place is ten minutes away,” I say finally. “It’s quiet. No one would—”

Our eyes meet.

The air shifts, charged. My stomach swoops.

“—Just to talk,” I blurt, too fast, too desperate. “I meant—just to talk.”

His lips quirk, not quite a smile. “Just talk,” he echoes, soft. Like a promise.

I hug myself tighter. “We can’t—”

“I know.”

A breath. The alley is still, but the moment hums between us, fragile.

“I’ll go first,” I say. “Call it an early night. I’ll text you the address. Wait ten minutes before you leave.”

He nods. “Okay.”

As I turn to slip back inside, I feel it—his gaze, heavy as a touch, pulling me until the door clicks shut between us.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

I almost showered.

Keys hit the table with a dull clink, my gaze locked on the bathroom door like it might blink first. I stood there for a full minute, weighing the thought of hot water against the idea of being naked, vulnerable, alone — even for ten minutes — and my chest tightened. The spiral came fast.

So instead, I dragged on an old soft t-shirt and sweatpants, the kind that remembered my shape, grabbed a glass of water, and started pacing. Somewhere between the third and fourth lap, I wrapped myself in my Baby Yoda blanket like it was tactical gear. Now I’m holding it tight, as if fleece could keep me from doing something catastrophically stupid.

What was I thinking?

Inviting him here. Alone. Into this space that’s just me — my too-small apartment with its painfully obvious bed, a couch that’s two cushions wide, and a kitchen counter that’s seen better days. There’s no safe distance. Not after the way I kissed him. Not after the way he kissed me back.

Maybe he won’t come. Maybe that’s good.

But if he doesn’t—

The bell rings.

My stomach drops, flips, twists into something unholy.

He’s here.

I shuffle to the door and crack it open. Hood up. Mouth set. Eyes dark — until they land on me. Then they soften, like I’m something familiar after a long day.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Careful.

“Hi.”

His gaze flickers over me. “You changed.”

I blink. “You thought I’d open the door in sweat-soaked laser tag jeans?”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His eyes catch on the Baby Yoda ears at my shoulder. “Didn’t expect that, either.”

I clutch the blanket tighter. “It’s for safety.”

“Safety?”

“If I’m not sexy, there’s no danger.”

Chan’s chuckle is warm and quick, sliding under my skin. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work.”

My eyes snap to his. “Excuse me?”

“You’re cute. That’s worse.”

“I hate you.”

“You really don’t.”

There’s no winning that one, so I retreat to the kitchen, pulling two glasses from the cupboard like it’s urgent. I fill them both, focusing on the sound of water hitting glass instead of the fact that he’s watching me.

I hand him one without looking. His fingers brush mine in the exchange, a soft “thanks” following in its wake. For a beat, we stand there, holding water like it’s some fragile truce. The space between us feels full — with everything we’re not saying.

“So,” I say, too brightly. “We’re talking. That’s what we’re doing.”

“Right.” His nod is slow, but I feel his eyes on me. “Just talking.”

I glance at him. The blanket shifts with the movement. His mouth curves, just a little.

“Don’t—” I warn. “Don’t smile like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re enjoying the fact that I’m wrapped in Baby Yoda and halfway to a panic attack.”

“Am I wrong?”

I bury my face in fleece, groaning. “Exactly why I should’ve said no.”

“But you didn’t.” His voice softens, steadier now. “And I’m glad.”

That sincerity, quiet and unflinching, nearly undoes me.

“Sit,” I say, nodding toward the couch. “I promise not to throw you out. Yet.”

“Fair enough.”

He waits for me to sit first, and when I tuck my feet under me, he takes the far end, leaving a deliberate buffer between us. Safe — for now.

His glass lands on the coffee table with a soft click. Elbows rest on knees. His gaze locks on mine like he’s already committed to this. Like it matters.

Like I matter.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady but searching. “Let’s talk.”

I shift, still cocooned in my blanket. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t rush. Just waits.

“Okay,” I manage, my voice thin around the edges. “You want to talk. What do you want to say?”

He leans back, exhales slow. “I want to know why you’re pushing me away. Really pushing me. After everything.”

A laugh slips out, dry and sharp. “After everything? You mean after one stupid kiss?”

Something flashes in his eyes, cracking the calm. His voice drops, low and edged. “Stop lying to me.” He leans in, just enough that the air between us shifts. “I felt the way you kissed me — greedy, desperate. The way your breath caught when I pinned you to the wall. You can’t fake that. And it sure as hell wasn’t stupid.”

My throat tightens, caught off guard. The words hang there, weighted and undeniable, and my walls falter under the strain.

Then, like he’s forcing himself to release the tension, his gaze softens. His voice lowers to something quieter, almost careful. “You don’t have to keep your guard up. I meant it — just talking. I’ll stick to that.”

The space between us changes. Less like a standoff, more like an opening.

I study him, heart pounding. He means it. He’s not pushing, not demanding. Just talking, he said.

Maybe that’s what scares me most.

My mouth opens, then closes again. My fingers knot in the Baby Yoda blanket as if it might hold my answers for me.

He waits. Silent. Steady. And somehow that disarms me more than anything else could.

“I…” My voice stumbles. I breathe out, try again. “I feel it too.”

His brows lift—just barely, like he hadn’t expected me to admit it.

“I’ve been fighting it for so long I forgot what it’s like to stop.” My voice cracks, and I look away — anywhere but him. “I want you. I do. But it’s not just about that. It’s not just one night. And that’s why I’m scared—because if it were only that, maybe I could live with it.”

The silence presses at my back, urging me forward.

“We could fuck—of course we could—and no one would know. Not tonight. We’re alone, and I’m already—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “But one time wouldn’t be enough. And you know it.”

The last words come out trembling. I hate it. But I force the rest through.

“I’ve worked too hard to get here. To be good at what I do. To be taken seriously. And in this industry—” I gesture weakly, “if anyone found out, I wouldn’t just lose my job. I’d be done. Blacklisted. No one would hire me again.”

My chest tightens. I drag in a breath, shaky. “I’d lose everything. My career. My name. All of it.”

Panic swells, curling up around my ribs. I clutch the blanket tighter before daring to meet his eyes, bracing for pity or frustration.

But all I find is his steady gaze.

He’s quiet for so long I think maybe I’ve scared him off.

Then—

“I’m sorry.”

It’s soft, stripped of defense, weighted with guilt.

“I didn’t mean to make this harder for you,” he says, eyes darker now. “I didn’t mean to—” His jaw works before he rakes a hand through his hair. “The flirting, the tension. I know I started a lot of it. I just… I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t think you’d—” His voice falters. “I didn’t think I’d feel this way.”

I don’t trust my voice, so I say nothing.

“If you need me to keep my distance, I will,” he continues quietly. “Even if every instinct in me says not to. Even if it fucking kills me.” A humorless huff slips out. “I’ll do it for you.”

He’s staring at his knees now, like looking at me would undo the promise.

“You’re… God, you’re incredible,” he says, voice thickening. “You’ve carved out your place here with nothing but grit, talent, and kindness. The way you make people feel seen. The way the guys trust you. I watched you turn the Japanese tour disaster into a win, like it was nothing.”

His head shakes slowly, still in disbelief. “I admire you. Not just for what you do, but for who you are.”

Something inside me twists.

“And it’s not a one-time thing for me, either,” he adds, quieter. “It never was. I don’t want just one night with you.”

That’s what breaks me open.

I look at him properly — the tired set of his shoulders, the emotion gathering on his lashes, the way he folds inward like he’s trying to take up less space. Fierce, but breakable.

He hides more than I’ll ever know, but tonight I’ve seen enough to want him even more.

My voice barely carries. “So what do we do?”

He lifts his head slowly, his gaze warm, reverent. “That’s up to you.”

The ache in my chest is almost unbearable.

“If you say yes,” he murmurs, “I’ll do everything I can to protect you. Not just because I want you—” his jaw tenses—“but because I’m done letting other people tell me who I can care about.”

He leans forward slightly, still leaving space between us. “I can’t promise it’ll be without risk. But I’d try. Every day. Because if you’re involved, it’s no longer just about me.”

I swallow against the dryness in my throat.

“But I won’t force that on you,” he says. “Not if it costs you everything you’ve worked for.”

The quiet stretches.

“That’s not fair,” I whisper.

His nod is slow. “I know.”

“It’s a massive burden.”

“I know,” softer this time. “But it’s not my choice to make.”

Heat creeps up my chest, my neck, my fingers gripping the blanket.

Then his eyes darken, just a fraction.

“And don’t get me wrong,” his voice dips, rough and sure, “if it were up to me, you’d already be naked on this couch moaning my name.”

My breath catches, a sharp pull in my chest. Heat coils low in my stomach.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press.

But the air shifts again — thick, electric, thrumming with all the things we’ve been holding back.

I don’t think. The words are out before I can stop them.

“I’ve imagined it.”

The effect is instant.

His body goes rigid, breath stalling. He looks at me like I just broke something inside him — something fragile, barely holding back a flood.

“You’ve—” The word comes out like a question.

I nod, small, deliberate. “Too many times.”

A groan tears from his chest, raw, as his hand drags down his face like he’s physically keeping himself in place. “Don’t say that,” he mutters, jaw locked. “Don’t do that to me if you’re not gonna—”

“I mean it,” I cut in, steadier now. “I mean it.”

His blink is slow, chest rising fast. “I know,” he breathes. “That’s what makes it worse.”

And then the pause hits — heavy.

Because this isn’t just crossing a line; it’s erasing it. One wrong step and I lose everything I’ve built. My work. My name. The thin respect I fought to earn. In this business, there’s no such thing as harmless rumors. One slip, and I’m not just unemployed — I’m finished.

The weight settles like fog… but it doesn’t smother me. Not this time.

Because even knowing all of that, I still want him.

God, I want him.

Not for distraction. Not because I’m lonely. I want him because I know him — because he’s steady, careful, and so quietly good it makes my chest ache. Because I’ve been holding back so long it’s like breathing shallow for months. And because if I keep waiting for the perfect moment, I’ll miss what’s right in front of me.

Maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s ruin. But right now?

Consequences be damned.

We’ll deal with whatever comes later. If there’s fallout, we’ll face it together. I trust him to fight for me in the ways that matter. And more than that — I trust myself to survive the rest.

So I move.

The blanket slips from my lap in a quiet heap. My pulse hammers in my ears as I rise, crossing the space between us in slow, deliberate steps.

He doesn’t move. Just watches, eyes gone nearly black, waiting.

I stop in front of him. One breath. Two. Then my fingers are at his jaw, tracing down to the center of his chest. Heat radiates through the fabric, his heartbeat pounding against my palm.

His throat works. “Say it,” he whispers.

“I want this,” I murmur. “I want you.”

His exhale is sharp, like the words knocked something loose inside him. His hands find my hips, not claiming, but holding — almost reverent — before his forehead tips forward to rest against my stomach.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look up.

Just stays there, breathing me in, fingers curling against my sides like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

I stare down at him, my own pulse thrumming, every nerve tuned to the heat of his skin through my shirt. The tremor in his hands tells me exactly how hard he’s working to hold back.

I slide a hand into his hair, soft and thick between my fingers. His breath hitches, but he stays still.

And I realize… he won’t be the one to cross the line. Not unless I show him it’s safe.

So I do.

My free hand cups his jaw, guiding his head up. His eyes lift, wide and intent, lips parted like he’s afraid to move.

I kiss him.

Lightly, at first — just a ghost of contact, testing the shape of his mouth against mine. Once. Twice.

Then I catch his lower lip between mine, slow and deliberate.

That’s all it takes.

A sound escapes him — low, frayed — and his head tilts up, mouth opening to mine. I deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against his in slow, searching strokes.

Heat floods my belly, pulling me closer. One knee braces on the couch beside him, my weight leaning in until I’m half over him. His hands tighten on my hips, keeping me from falling all the way into his lap.

He kisses me like he’s been starving for it.

And I kiss him like I’m done pretending I’m not.

One hand stays tangled in his curls; the other slides down to his neck, feeling the frantic jump of his pulse. His grip on my hips is almost punishing now, but still he doesn’t drag me closer.

His forehead rests against mine, breath rough, chest rising fast.

“Are you sure?” His voice is strained, like the words are fighting through every instinct to just take. “If we start this, I won’t be able to stop.”

My gaze locks with his, steady.

I shift, sliding into his lap fully, thighs framing his hips, my hands cradling his face. I feel the jolt go through him — the breath that catches, the flicker in his eyes where control starts to slip.

“I’m sure,” I whisper, my mouth brushing his. “Stop holding back.”

The restraint snaps.

He curses, desperate, and surges up to kiss me again — nothing careful now. Just heat and want, months of tension breaking all at once. His hands are under my shirt, fingers splayed wide against my skin, dragging fire in their wake.

I press closer. He gives more. And in that moment, the only thing either of us is holding onto is each other.

His lips leave mine and trail down to my neck, slow and damp, each press sending warmth spiraling through me until I’m melting under his mouth. I grind against him without thinking, searching for friction, desperate to feel him solid beneath me.

When he finds the tender spot between my neck and shoulder, I can’t help the soft sound that slips out.

“Fuck,” he exhales, the word frayed. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined how you’d sound?”

“Tell me,” I breathe, tilting my head back to give him more.

“I think about it all the time,” he murmurs, his lips brushing each syllable into my skin. “The way your voice would break… the way your skin would flush — I see it sometimes, even in rehearsals. But then I’m home, and my mind twists that into wondering if you’d turn that same shade with me inside you. If you’d cling to me, begging me not to stop.”

Heat pours down my spine, pooling low until it’s molten. His mouth drags over the base of my throat, and my knees weaken.

“Come and find out,” I pant.

The sound he makes is part groan, part surrender. His hands firm against me, decisive, and my shirt is sliding upward before I realize he’s moving. My arms lift instinctively, breath catching, and then it’s gone — flung somewhere behind the couch.

His mouth is everywhere — jaw, collarbone, just beneath my ear — and I’m already leaning into him, already giving in, when it hits me.

“Wait—” My palm finds his chest, pushing just enough to stop his mouth. “Shit. I haven’t showered.”

He pauses. His eyes search mine, and though the hunger is still there, what comes forward first is softness.

“I don’t care,” he says, voice thick, hands still warm against bare skin. “I want you.”

“I care,” I admit, my cheeks heating. “I’ve been running around all day. I’m not stripping down smelling like… effort and despair.”

A sound escapes him — a short, disbelieving laugh tangled with a groan — and his forehead drops to my chest.

“You’re making me wait to fuck you because of sweat?”

“I’m making us wait so my armpits don’t ruin the mood.”

He tips his head back, eyes narrowing with mock offense. “You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

A slow smile curves my lips. “Then be a good boy and take us to the shower.”

His blink is slow. “You’re giving me orders now?”

“Move,” I whisper against his mouth. “Or I’ll go without you. And you’ll miss the view.”

That’s all it takes.

He swears under his breath, bends, and slides his arms under my thighs in one smooth motion. My legs hook around his waist as he stands, and his mouth crashes into mine again, hungry and sure. His hands grip like he’s never letting me go.

“Bossy,” he mutters against my lips.

“First door on the left,” I tell him breathlessly. “Try not to walk into the closet.”

He carries me fast, like he’s afraid I might change my mind.

“If you keep talking like that…” he grits out, “I’m not gonna make it.”

“Then stop wasting time,” I breathe into his jaw. “And get me wet.”

The groan he lets out is low and guttural, vibrating against my skin as he shoulders the bathroom door open. It shuts behind us with a heavy click that seems to echo in the dark, sealing us in.

The shadows feel like the laser tag arena earlier—the same adrenaline-laced closeness, the same rush in my veins.

He sets me down with a gentleness that doesn’t match the urgency, his palms sliding to the bare skin above my hips. I’m down to a bra and sweats now, the air cool where it clings to damp skin.

“Where’s the light?” he murmurs into my temple, his breath hot and fraying.

I reach past him, fingertips brushing the wall until the switch flicks. The room floods in harsh fluorescence, cutting through the dark and stripping us bare. Honesty in every line of us.

I twist the shower handle, testing the water until it runs warm, steam beginning to curl. When I glance back, he’s watching me—not just with hunger, but with something steadier, reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize this moment before it can vanish.

His shirt comes off slow, deliberate, every inch revealed pulling a shaky inhale from me. The broad cut of his shoulders, the play of muscle across his chest, the V of his hips vanishing beneath denim—it’s everything I’d pictured, only impossibly more real.

He pops the button of his jeans, shoves them down until they pool at his ankles. Black boxers strain against him, and my pulse stumbles.

He steps in close, fingers hooking into my waistband. His knuckles brush skin, feather-light, but enough to make my stomach tighten. I lift each foot, letting him slide the sweats off me. His gaze never wavers.

The clasp of my bra comes loose with practiced ease, straps falling from my shoulders. His eyes darken as it drops, sharp want tempered with awe.

“God,” he mutters, almost to himself.

I turn toward the mirror, pulling my hair into a messy knot, but his arms are already circling my waist. His palms lift to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples as his mouth finds the slope of my neck. Heat coils low as I arch back into him, his hardness pressing against me, solid and demanding.

When I finally turn to face him, my cheeks are flushed, fingers curling in the waistband of his boxers. My gaze lifts, wordless question hanging between us.

He nods once—slow, certain.

I peel them down. He steps free, and I can’t stop the way my thighs press together at the sight. He’s everything I’d imagined and more.

My underwear slips off with little ceremony, forgotten on the floor.

Steam thickens around us as we step into the shower. The glass door shuts with a muffled click, locking us inside the rising warmth.

Water streams over us instantly. I lather soap between my palms, but his gaze pins me, unrelenting.

When I raise my arms, he exhales something between a groan and a laugh. “This is the most erotic hygiene I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, smiling despite myself. “You asked for this.”

I pass him the soap. He doesn’t use it on himself. He works it into lather, palms slick, then coasts them over me instead—up my back, down my arms, over the curve of my hips, mapping me like he’s learning me by touch alone.

“Turn,” he says quietly.

I obey. His hands glide down my back, over my ass, slipping between my thighs. The sudden slickness drags a gasp from me, my palm bracing against the tile.

“You’re so soft here,” he breathes, reverent.

I reach behind blindly, fingers curling around him. His breath breaks, hips twitching.

When I face him again, I grab the soap, lathering it across his chest, down the taut lines of his stomach, before wrapping my hand around him, slow and deliberate. His breath shudders, eyes heavy.

By the time our mouths meet, we’re both panting, the kiss messy and unrestrained, all heat and no patience. His hand slips between my thighs again, teasing with maddening precision—just enough to push me closer, never enough to tip me over.

“Chan,” I whisper, trembling, forehead pressed to his. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

“I’m not trying to make you last,” he rasps against my throat. “I’m trying to make you come.”

His fingers pause, only for a breath, then he leans to my ear. “Earlier—you said you’d imagined this. Me. Us.”

I nod, breath hitched.

“Did you touch yourself thinking about it?”

Heat scorches my cheeks. My voice is a whisper. “Yes. So many times.”

The sound he makes is wrecked, forehead pressing into mine. “You touching yourself, thinking of me…” He shakes his head faintly. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

Steam curls thick around us, clinging to skin like another set of hands. I shift to steady myself, but my heel skids on slick tile.

“Shit—”

I slip forward, but his arm is already locked tight around my waist, the other braced against the wall, taking the hit for me.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice steady in my ear.

I look up at him, soaked and breathless, laughter spilling from me despite the heat. “That was not my sexiest moment.”

“Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Something softer unfurls through the lust then—tenderness, threaded with awe.

I kiss him slow, water running between our lips. “Let’s do this right.”

His chest heaves, eyes locked on mine. “Yeah. Right.”

We step out of the shower and cocoon ourselves in towels, skin still damp, steam curling in the air around us. It should feel ordinary — just drying off, shaking water from our hair — but watching him rub a towel through his curls, the way it drops low on his hips, does something to me I can’t even put into words.

I must linger too long, because he notices.

“What?” he laughs, ears pinking, eyes bright with amusement.

I shake my head too quickly. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring,” he teases, voice warm enough to twist low in my stomach.

Heat prickles along my skin. I glance away, fussing with my towel, tucking it tight beneath my arms.

“You’re just…” My voice falters, slipping out before I can stop it. “Effortlessly sexy.”

He stills. The teasing melts from his face, replaced with something softer—something that almost looks vulnerable.

“I’ve never felt so seen in my entire life,” he murmurs. The words punch the air from my lungs.

For a beat, we just look at each other, the steam swirling between us, heavy with what’s unsaid.

I step closer, fingertips brushing his forearm. “We should move,” I whisper. “Before the steam clears and I start overthinking this.”

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening. “We make it to the bed,” he says roughly, “and I’m not stopping again.”

A shiver races through me.

We don’t waste another word. Barefoot and towel-wrapped, we leave the bathroom, trailing damp footprints and something hotter than the steam behind us.

The second the bedroom door shuts, restraint shatters.

My towel drops first.

His mouth is on mine before it even hits the floor, his hands gripping my waist like he’s anchoring himself. He kisses me like I’m air and he’s been drowning for years.

I tug at the knot of his towel until it falls, fabric forgotten, and suddenly it’s just skin and heat, no walls left between us. He backs me toward the bed, lips never leaving mine, until the backs of my knees brush the mattress and we tumble down together in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

His palms skate over me, tracing the dip of my waist before sliding lower, spreading across my thighs. He parts them easily, stepping in, groaning low when I arch against him—the hard, hot press of him sliding over my slickness.

He stills, forehead dropping to mine.

“Wait,” he says, voice low and frayed. “Let me check.”

My protest dies on my tongue when his fingers slide down, parting me, gliding through the wet heat he’s built in me.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You’re drenched.”

“I told you,” I gasp, hips twitching into his touch. “I’m ready.”

But he doesn’t rush. His fingers tease, circling just right, until a sound spills out of me that I don’t even recognize as mine.

“I’ve wanted this for so fucking long,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I just want to make it good for you.”

“It already is,” I whisper, my voice unsteady. “But I need you, Chan. Please.”

His hips press forward with a groan, but then he freezes, the sound breaking into something almost pained. “Condom,” he mutters. “Shit. I should’ve—”

“I’m on the pill,” I cut in softly. “And I get tested. Regularly.”

His gaze locks on mine. For a moment, the air shifts—heat tempered by something steadier, grounding.

“I’m clean,” he says, low but certain. “Every tour. Every time. I swear.”

The silence between us hums—not awkward, but necessary.

I slide my hands up his back, pulling him closer, grounding him in turn. “I want to feel you,” I murmur. “All of you. Like this.”

The sound he makes is wrecked, forehead dropping to my shoulder as if the words snap his restraint in half.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales, voice shaking. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He shifts, hand guiding himself, the thick press of him nudging at my entrance. The world narrows to that single point of contact.

His jaw is tight, every line of him trembling with the effort of control. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps, voice scraped raw.

“I won’t.”

The sound that tears from him isn’t quite a groan, isn’t quite a plea—just raw need breaking through. Then he’s pushing in, slow, deliberate, making sure I feel the drag of every inch. The stretch pulls a gasp from my throat, my body clutching around him as he sinks deeper, steady, until he pauses just shy of giving me everything.

“Don’t hold back,” I whisper, fingers sliding down the sweat-slick ridges of his back until they grip his ass, dragging him closer. “I want it all.”

He curses low, ragged, and drives the rest of the way in with one hard thrust. His hips slam against mine, the sudden, perfect fullness stealing my breath. My head tips back, a moan ripping free as my nails bite into his skin.

“Fuck,” I choke, vision blurring.

His mouth finds the edge of my jaw, voice shredded. “That what you wanted?”

“Yes,” I moan, hips rolling into his, desperate to match his rhythm.

He retreats agonizingly slow, pulling almost all the way out, before slamming forward again—sharp, precise. My cry echoes in the room.

“God, you feel—fuck—so tight, so warm,” he groans against my neck, each word a hot brand on my skin.

“Chan, please—”

“Tell me what you need.” His breath is jagged, trembling against my cheek.

“Harder,” I beg, the word spilling out helpless.

He doesn’t even blink. Pulling out until only the tip remains, he thrusts back in, hard, hips colliding with mine.

The sound that tears from me borders on a sob. I love a man who knows harder doesn’t mean faster.

“Just like that,” I gasp, trying to roll my hips into his pace.

He bites back a groan, eyes fluttering shut. “God, you’re…” His voice falters when I hook my legs around his hips, dragging him deeper.

“You can finish that thought later,” I pant, grinding up against him, chasing the rhythm that makes my toes curl. “Right now, I need you to—”

A thrust slams into me just right and the words shatter on my tongue, breaking into a strangled moan.

Chan’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Finish your thought?” he teases, even as his hips drive sharper, harder. “Don’t—get cocky,” I manage, voice splintering in the middle.

“Too late,” he mutters, and his hand slides up my body, fingers curling around my throat. Not squeezing, just waiting, testing.

My breath stutters, a startled moan breaking free.

“You like that,” he rasps.

“Yes,” I gasp, raw and unfiltered. “Fuck, yes.”

His grip tightens just enough to make my pulse thunder in my ears, his thrusts growing ragged, reckless. His jaw works, teeth gritted.

“I’m not—” a groan tears through him, “—I’m not gonna last.”

“Good,” I pant, legs tightening around his hips, holding him in place. “I don’t want you to.”

He falters for a heartbeat, forehead pressed to mine, breath shuddering like he’s fighting himself.

“Where do you want me?” His voice breaks on the words. “Tell me, baby—where do you want me?”

Heat scorches my spine. I don’t flinch, don’t look away. My hand trails down my stomach, tapping just above my navel before sliding higher to cup my breast.

“Here,” I whisper.

His groan is feral, guttural. “Fuck—”

He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in, harder, deeper, every thrust a weapon aimed straight at my undoing. My fingers clutch his shoulders, my legs locked tight around him, chasing the edge that’s already burning hot beneath my skin.

“Chan—” The word breaks apart when he hits that perfect spot, my vision going white.

He snarls against my throat, one hand slipping between us to circle my clit. “Come for me. Please, baby, I need to feel you.”

I slap my hand over his, grinding down, the added pressure sending me spiraling. The wave crashes, violent and consuming, my body gripping him mercilessly as a cry rips out of me.

Chan groans, broken, and pulls out at the last second, stroking himself hard until his release paints my stomach and chest—exactly where I asked.

He collapses beside me, chest heaving, one hand fumbling for mine on the sheets.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against my temple, voice wrecked, knuckles brushing my cheek like I might break. “You’re gonna kill me.”

I smile, lazy and wrecked, still trembling. “Worth it.”

For a while, we just lie there—bodies still trembling with the aftershocks, the room heavy with our uneven breaths. Heat clings to my skin, sticky where his release trails across me, and his gaze follows every line of it.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice rough with awe. His eyes are dark, reverent. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”

The honesty in it makes my chest ache, my breath catching before I can stop it.

“Almost don’t wanna wipe it off,” he adds, thumb grazing the skin just below my navel, dragging slow circles as if memorizing the sight.

“But you will,” I murmur, trying to cover the sudden thrum in my chest with a teasing smile.

His chuckle is low, a soft rumble that curls into my stomach. “Yeah. I will.”

“There’s tissues in the first drawer,” I mumble, nodding toward the bedside.

“On it, boss,” he shoots back, the tease easing the raw edge of the moment.

He leans across me, the warmth of him brushing my side as he grabs one. The touch when he cleans me is almost unbearably gentle—slow swipes, careful, like he’s looking for reasons not to stop touching me. When he’s done, he presses a kiss to my stomach, lingering, before catching my wrist and brushing his lips against the inside of it.

We sink into the pillows after, tangled beneath the sheets, limbs slipping easily together like we’ve always done this. The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s thick with all the things we didn’t have the courage to say earlier, the weight of what we just let happen, and the fact that neither of us knows what it means now.

His fingers trace an absent line along my hip, grounding me. “So much for just talking, huh?”

A laugh huffs out of me against his chest. “Didn’t age well.”

“Not complaining,” he murmurs, voice softer. A beat passes. “But I meant what I said before.”

I glance up, and the heat in his gaze is gone—what’s left is just quiet truth. “About protecting me?”

“Yeah. About all of it.” He tucks a stray strand of hair from my forehead, letting his hand linger there. “I know this complicates everything. But I don’t regret it. Do you?”

The question lands heavy. I think of the kiss in the dark, the fight in the alley, the way every excuse I clung to unraveled in his hands. And then this—what we just shared. The way he touched me like I mattered. The way I let him in.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t regret it.”

His shoulders ease beneath me, the tension bleeding out with a long exhale.

“Good,” he says softly. A pause. Then, with a grin tugging at his mouth, “Still think the real turning point was when you shot me with that stupid finger gun. That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

I snort into his chest. “You were smug. You deserved it.”

“I was trying to impress you.”

“Well, it worked. Unfortunately.”

He groans, exaggerated. “Don’t say unfortunately after sex like that. That’s cruel.”

I smile against his skin. “You’ll survive.”

He nudges my nose with his. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Mmm,” I hum, eyes already slipping shut. “That’s what you said about the Baby Yoda blanket.”

He pulls back just enough to catch my expression. “No. That was when I knew I was a goner.”

“You’ve got a type,” I mumble, already drowsy. “Hot mess.”

His laugh is warm, rasped with exhaustion, and he pulls me closer. “You’re not a mess.”

I don’t argue. I’m too tired to pretend.

This silence feels different—gentler, softened at the edges. Real. His hand settles at my back, thumb brushing lazily over my spine.

“I don’t know what happens now,” he admits, voice slower. “Or how we go back to pretending. But whatever this is… I want it. I want you.”

I’m already half asleep, but I hear it. Feel it.

And even as I sink deeper into the pull of rest, my lips part just enough to breathe the only truth that matters.

“I want this too.”

The words are quiet, slurred, almost lost—but not to him.

He stills, just for a heartbeat, like it knocked the air out of him. Then he exhales slow, presses a kiss to my forehead, and pulls me closer like he can’t help it.

With his hand curled around mine and his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek, I finally let go.

━━━━━━━ ⟡ ━━━━━━━

The soft press of lips against my shoulder pulls me back into the moment. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just… there. I shift slightly, breath hitching as awareness crashes in—his chest warm against my back, the unmistakable press of him already hard.

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. “Again?”

Chan’s chuckle rumbles low behind me, vibrating through my spine. “Yeah.”

Just that.

His palm finds my thigh under the covers, dragging upward with an unhurried slide that leaves goosebumps in its wake. No rush this time, no frantic need. Just skin, sighs, and another kiss—slow, patient—the kind that unravels me from the inside out before anything else even starts. One of those kisses that makes my body ache with want before he’s touched me anywhere near where I need him.

His mouth moves against mine like he’s tasting all the time we lost. The glide of his tongue is deliberate, reverent. No urgency now, no edge of desperation. Just worship.

Heat pools low between my thighs with every stroke of his tongue against mine. I’d thought before that his lips tasted like heartbreak. I was wrong. They taste like heaven. A whimper escapes before I can stop it, sharp against the quiet of the room, and my hips tilt, chasing friction on instinct.

He shifts slowly, pressing me down into the mattress, caging me beneath his weight without ever breaking the kiss. By the time our mouths part, I’m dazed, undone, unable to find words.

“Eager,” he teases, his smile brushing against my lips. But it isn’t smug—just fond. “Let me take care of you, yeah?” he murmurs, teeth tugging lightly at my lower lip.

The kiss returns—softer this time, all lips and teeth and slow licks of tongue, exploring, teasing, lingering until I’m breathless. My fingers find his curls, curling tight, pulling him closer because I already need more. His hand roams over me, palm to hip to waist, stoking heat everywhere he touches, but I don’t want this kiss to end either.

When his thumb grazes over my nipple—barely there—I jolt, the sensation scattering heat everywhere. But he doesn’t linger. Instead, he cups my face, palm warm against my jaw as he tilts me back. His lips leave mine only to trail down: the corner of my mouth, the sharp line of my jaw, a constellation of open-mouthed kisses dotting my neck.

The feel of him here—his lips, his tongue, his teeth—is better than anything I’d imagined. Too soft, too gentle, too perfect. By the time he reaches my collarbone, a moan tears out of me, my hips lifting off the bed in search of more.

“Shhh.” He looks up at me through his lashes, thumb brushing absently across the corner of my mouth. “I wanna take my time with you this time.”

Then his mouth dips lower—still unhurried, but with more teeth now, nipping a path down the center of my chest, grazing skin that makes me shiver. He turns his head just enough to bite the underside of my breast, close but never quite where I want him most.

His hand leaves my jaw, sliding lower to squeeze and tease until I’m trembling, deliberately avoiding the peak until I’m nearly panting. When his thumb finally drags over my nipple, the spark of it makes my eyes flutter shut, a moan tearing out of me. His mouth follows immediately, hot and wet, sucking lightly before letting his teeth graze. Electricity arcs through me, leaving me arching into him, clinging to his hair with shaking fingers.

“Fuck,” I mutter, half-broken, half-worship.

“God, you’re so responsive,” he breathes, sounding just as wrecked as I feel, his grip tightening on my waist.

Before I can answer, his mouth shifts to my other breast, his hand replacing the wet heat he leaves behind. I writhe beneath him, the slick ache between my thighs growing unbearable.

“Chan, I need you to f—”

His teeth catch my nipple, sharp and sudden, and the cry that escapes me is nothing I’d ever recognize as my own. But with him, there’s no shame.

His tongue follows immediately, soothing the sting, lapping at it like an apology. “Shit, that was hot,” he mumbles against my skin, and I’m left gasping, trying to steady my breath.

Then he keeps moving—mouth trailing lower, kisses damp and open as they slip down my stomach, over my navel, lower still. My hands fist in the sheets, trembling with anticipation.

When the heat of his breath ghosts over my core, I forget how to breathe.

He shifts lower, arms sliding beneath my thighs as he pulls me toward him. I gasp, breath stuttering when I realize how close his mouth is—barely inches from where I need him most. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and hungry, before they drop to the slick heat between my thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the reverence in his voice undoing me. “You’re soaked. Let’s see how sweet you taste, yeah?”

The first drag of his tongue rips the air from my lungs. He doesn’t tease, not this time. He finds my clit immediately, tongue gliding flat and slow over it until stars burst behind my eyelids. My hands fly to his hair, clutching tight, searching for something to anchor me.

His grip on my thighs is unrelenting, holding me open as he licks and swirls with unhurried precision, humming like this is his favorite meal. The vibration makes my legs tremble. I tug gently at his curls, a plea, and he answers with more pressure.

“Fuck,” I gasp, voice breaking. “Yeah—just like that.”

He groans into me, approval rough in his throat, and the sound vibrates against my clit. My breathing is ragged, too loud in my own ears, the only sound in the room besides the wet slide of his tongue.

Every fantasy I’ve ever had pales in comparison to this—his mouth on me, his focus absolute. I barely register when one of his hands leaves my thigh, not until two fingers sink inside me, stretching me open. I cry out, clenching around him, my back arching.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs against my skin, his words hot where I need them least.

He lifts his head just enough to watch me, his gaze sharp as he works his fingers in and out, his thumb circling my clit with devastating precision. His eyes rake over me, taking in every shiver, every roll of my hips chasing his hand.

“After this,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I won’t be able to think straight. You’ll own every filthy thought, every time I’m gasping for air, I’ll be chasing the way you ruin me.”

Then his mouth is on me again, tongue merciless against my clit while his fingers thrust deeper, faster. The dual sensation burns through me, too much and not enough, dragging me higher at a brutal pace. I rock my hips against him, desperate for more, for everything.

“God—don’t stop, don’t stop,” I cry out, urgency raw in my voice as I squeeze my eyes shut.

Release hits hard and sharp, tearing a broken moan from my chest. My fingers fist tight in his hair as my body trembles through the wave, every nerve alight. He doesn’t let go until I’m boneless, panting, sprawled against the mattress.

When his gaze finds mine again, it’s still dark, still hungry, like he hasn’t had nearly enough. The air between us crackles, charged.

I reach for him without thinking, curling my fingers in his hair to tug him up. His mouth crashes into mine, messy and consuming, his tongue tasting of everything he left behind on my skin. My own taste on his lips is electric, and another rush of heat pools low in my stomach.

This kiss is softer, though no less hungry, his mouth dragging slow against mine until I’m dizzy, gasping. When he finally pulls back, his breath fans warm over my lips, uneven and hot.

I’m not ready to let him go.

My hand slides between us, wrapping around the hard weight of him—thick, hot, heavy in my palm. I give him a slow stroke, teasing, and his jaw flexes as a hiss escapes between his teeth, his forehead pressing to mine like he needs the anchor.

“Let me return the favor,” I murmur, breathless.

His eyes sharpen, anticipation sparking through the hunger. He leans back onto the mattress, thighs parting in silent invitation, and I shift between them, the bed dipping under my weight.

The sight of him—flushed, swollen, a bead of precum glistening at the tip—sends a fresh ache straight through me. A vein throbs along the length, pulsing with his heartbeat, and my mouth waters at the thought of tasting him.

I lean in, his scent surrounding me—clean skin edged with something darker, primal. My tongue flicks out to catch the bead, salt and heat exploding across my tongue, and his sharp inhale is almost a growl.

I press a kiss to the crown, then seal my lips around it, pulling gently just to hear the subtle hitch in his breathing. His hips twitch, restrained, and the groan that rumbles from his chest is pure instinct.

I take more of him, slow, savoring the stretch of my lips around him, the slick slide of his skin against my tongue. My hand wraps the base, stroking in rhythm with my mouth. His thighs tighten under my palms, muscles trembling as his fingers hover, then settle in my hair, his grip firm but careful.

Every sound—his half-choked curses, the sharp hisses, the broken moans—spurs me on. I sink deeper, finding a pace that turns his breathing ragged, his restraint unraveling thread by thread.

When I hollow my cheeks, sucking harder, his hand tightens, tugging at my hair, the faint sting shooting heat down my spine. He’s teetering at the edge, and I want to drag him over it.

I pull off with a wet pop, lips swollen, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes are hooded, pupils blown, his hunger barely leashed.

“Stop holding back,” I whisper, steady despite the thundering in my chest. “This is the only time I’ll never complain about being manhandled. Do your worst.”

Something in him snaps. His grip tightens, dragging me up into a bruising kiss—urgent, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. When he tears away, his breath is fire against my ear.

“Ride me,” he growls, voice rough with want. “Slow.”

The command rolls through me like thunder, settling low in my belly. My thighs quake as I swing one over his hips, the solid weight of him pressing against my entrance — hot, insistent. I sink down slow, inch by inch, every breath catching in my throat as my body stretches to take him. The ache flares sharp before melting into something molten, a fire that curls through every nerve.

His fingers dig into my thighs, holding me there once I’m flush against him, refusing me the instinct to move. The fullness borders on unbearable, the pressure so much I almost gasp. My body clenches around him, unbidden, and his grip only tightens.

“So deep…” The words slip out on a broken breath. His thumbs press harder, as if to anchor me in the feeling.

Then he guides me — up, down — agonizingly slow, hips rolling with deliberate control. The drag of him inside me is maddening, every thrust paced like he’s carving me into memory. Each time I try to chase more, his hold reins me back, dictating the rhythm with infuriating patience. My skin prickles with frustration, thighs trembling as I fight the urge to unravel.

His eyes never leave mine, pupils blown, watching every flicker of expression like he can taste it. “Perfect,” he murmurs, reverent, his touch soothing and tormenting at once.

And it hits me: I’m not just moving on him — he’s dismantling me, piece by careful piece, without ever loosening his grip.

“You wanted me to ride you?” My voice trembles but holds, the challenge sharper than I feel. “Then let me.”

His laugh is low, chest rumbling beneath my palms. His hands slide down, loosening. “I like it when you bite back.”

“Better get used to it.”

I shift, rolling my hips with purpose, drawing him out and back in, savoring the way it makes his jaw tighten. My pace builds, deliberate but demanding, and his hands stay at my waist — guiding, not commanding. His gaze darkens, hungry, lips parted as though he’s barely holding back.

Half-lidded, he rasps, “Got any toys?”

The question steals my rhythm for a heartbeat, heat pooling low. “Yeah… Nightstand.”

His mouth curves, wicked. “Keep moving, baby. Tell me while you fuck me.”

I brace a palm to his chest, grinding down, my words tumbling out with shaky breath. “Top drawer.”

“Which one?” His growl is dark, rough, as though the thought alone frays his restraint. “Tell me your favorite.”

My lip catches between my teeth as I fight for words through the haze of pleasure, hips jerking on instinct. “The purple one—” The admission splinters into a moan that steals the rest.

His chuckle is low, teasing, the sound curling hot in my belly. “Don’t make me guess. Say it.”

“The wand—my wand,” I gasp, voice breaking as my nails dig crescents into his shoulders, rolling my hips down again just to ground myself.

“Good girl.” His praise purrs against my skin, hands tightening on my waist. “Now grab it. Let me see how wet you get with your favorite.”

The stretch of him sliding out drags a groan from both of us. I fumble with the drawer, hands clumsy in my rush, and pull the wand free. The low hum blooms in the room as I flick it on, vibrating against the silence. His gaze locks on it, sharp, hungry, lips curving into something dark.

“Later,” he promises, voice a low strike of velvet and gravel. “We’re going through every last one. But for now…” His chin tips toward it, eyes glittering. “Show me.”

I press it to my clit, and the vibration slams through me like a live wire. My thighs tremble, a moan spilling raw and unbidden from my throat—only for him to pluck it from my hand before I can find rhythm.

The wand buzzes as he presses it to me while I sink back down, the double onslaught ripping a cry from my throat. Stretch and vibration, sharp and blinding.

“Fuck—” My gasp breaks into a whimper when he pulls it away.

“Not yet.” His smirk is pure sin. He presses it back, watches me jolt, then lifts it again, dragging out the torment.

“Chan—”

He flips the setting higher, brushes it against me, then withdraws once more, savoring my desperation. “Gonna take my time wrecking you.”

The tease pushes me over the edge of patience. I snatch it from him, kill the vibration, toss it aside, and plant both hands by his head. My lips brush his when I whisper, “Then I’ll ruin you first.”

I ride him hard, fast enough that every thrust knocks the breath out of me, out of him. His hands clamp to my hips in a bruising grip.

“Baby—slow—”

“Too late.” I slam down on him again, heat sparking in my veins. “I’m not stopping.”

His groan is guttural, breaking, and then he’s hauling me tight against his chest, hips snapping up with merciless force. The new angle devastates, every thrust stealing my voice, leaving me clawing at his shoulders, moaning ragged into his neck.

“Chan—” My plea fractures on a gasp. “Behind. Fuck me from behind.”

He stills, breath hot against my ear, then curses low.

“On your knees.”

In the next breath, he flips us—fast, practiced—pinning me for only a heartbeat before I’m on my hands and knees, the sheets bunched beneath my palms. His hands spread my thighs with rough precision, lining up, and then he’s inside me in one merciless thrust.

The sound of skin meeting skin is obscene, echoing sharp in the quiet, each snap of his hips sending shockwaves through my arms until they tremble. He leans forward, his chest burning against my back, breath hot at my ear.

“Get the vibrator.”

I fumble blindly, breath stuttering, fingers finally closing around it. The low hum blooms again as I flick it on, my hips tilting back into him. The angle makes him strike so deep I cry out, the toy pressed between my thighs only doubling the fire ripping through me.

His palm lands against my ass—hard, controlled. The sting burns, sending me lurching forward with a broken whimper.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice frayed. “Keep it right there.”

Another slap, sharper, spreads heat through my veins, arousal spiking so fast I jolt.

“Good girl.” His praise is grit and gravel, each word driving through me as he pounds harder, dragging me back against him like he owns every thrust. “Now come for me. I want to feel it.”

“Come with me,” I gasp, turning my head just enough to catch his eyes over my shoulder.

He falters, groaning, disbelief etched in his voice. “You want me to come inside you?”

“Yes—” The word cracks into a moan. “God, I’m so close—”

His rhythm changes instantly—harder, faster, both hands locked around my hips as he drives me back into him. The slick sound of us fills the room, layered with our ragged breathing, the high-pitched hum of the toy, the desperate noises spilling from my throat.

Pleasure hits like a tidal wave, sharp and white-hot, tearing a cry from me. My grip on the vibrator falters, knuckles numb, but my body doesn’t stop—hips still lifted, chasing his pace even as I collapse into the sheets. He holds me there until he breaks too, a guttural sound ripping free as he spills inside me, hips stuttering through the aftershocks before collapsing forward, weight pressing me deliciously into the mattress.

For a moment, neither of us moves. The room is filled only with our ragged breaths, tangled bodies and the faint buzz of the toy forgotten somewhere between the sheets.

“Holy shit,” I whisper into the pillow, still trembling.

His chest shakes against my back, the rumble of his laugh vibrating through me until I giggle helplessly along with him.

“You okay?” he murmurs, shifting just enough to prop himself on his side, his weight braced by one arm. His fingers find a loose strand of hair, tucking it gently behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I look at him—really look. The half-drawn blinds let a stripe of moonlight cut across his face, sharpening every angle, softening everything else.

“Yeah. You?”

“Completely ruined,” he admits with a smile I don’t recognize. It’s shy, almost, but not quite—there’s weight behind it, something deeper flickering in his eyes that makes my chest tighten. Like he’s letting me in on a secret, one I haven’t earned yet but already belong to.

“I’m as wrecked as you are,” I murmur, voice barely a sigh. “Tonight made sure of that… No one else matters.”

I shift to get up—and immediately feel it, the inevitable aftermath.

“Shit,” I mumble into the sheets.

“What?” His voice is still low, rough at the edges.

“If I move right now, your kids are gonna make a break for it.”

There’s a beat of silence before he bursts out laughing, unrestrained, his chest shaking against my back as he leans into me. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“Says the man who put them there,” I shoot back, pushing up onto my elbows.

He’s still grinning when I glance over my shoulder. “Go,” he says, swatting my ass lightly as I crawl away. “I’ll keep your side warm.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I call, padding toward the bathroom. “I’m stealing all the blankets when I’m back.”

When I return, he’s already burrowed under the covers, hair sticking up in every possible direction, nothing but a smug smile covering him.

“Perfect timing.” He lifts the blanket with mock ceremony, like he’s been holding the spot just for me.

The second I slide in, his arms wrap around me tight, locking me in place. “Mine,” he mutters, pressing a sloppy kiss to my temple.

“You sound like a toddler with a toy,” I say, but I’m already sinking into his chest.

“You’re a very soft toy,” he counters, peppering kisses across my face—cheeks, nose, jaw—until I’m laughing and pushing at him.

“Stop! You’re worse than a puppy.”

He grins against my cheek. “Don’t bring Seungmin into this.”

“Ew.” I laugh, shoving him lightly.

“You started it,” he fires back smugly.

I shake my head, but he only pulls me closer, cocooning me with the blanket as though I might slip away. One arm curls around my waist, the other sliding under my pillow, anchoring me there.

The room quiets, only our uneven breathing filling the space. My fingers trace lazy shapes over his shoulder, while his palm drifts slowly up and down my spine—unhurried, tender, like he’s committing every inch of me to memory.

Minutes slip by. His hand grows still, his breathing evens. The weight of his arm loosens just enough to tell me he’s gone under.

I blink into the dimness, surprised. Chan doesn’t fall asleep easily—not without a fight, not without distraction. But here he is, chest pressed to mine, features softened in the silver wash of moonlight.

And it hits me.

Earlier, he told me he trusted me.

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