Night pressed tight against the windows, the city's neon bleeding in blue and gold across the floorboards of Joon-ho's apartment. Inside, every shadow felt alive, every inch of air dense with a hunger that had been simmering for weeks. Mirae and Harin still wore their sleepwear—barely-there slips, lace clinging to curves, hair mussed from laughter and wine. Joon-ho was down to his boxers, skin still warm from the shower, pulse already drumming loud in his ears.
They'd laughed and teased and sparred through half a bottle of red, but the smiles had sharpened, and every glance felt like a challenge. Mirae was sprawled across his lap, her bare thighs spread, head tipped back so her long hair spilled over his arm. Harin lounged at his side, cool and regal, eyes glittering with intent. Neither was ready to back down. Not now.
