Play with fire and you'll get burned. Dance with desire and you might just fall in love.
The story of a stripper and a guy who can't seem to get away.
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It's the kind of afternoon that makes you question if summer ever existed. The sky is a dull, unbroken gray, and the wind slices through the air like tiny shards of ice, stinging your cheeks as you step out of the cab. You tug your coat tighter, but it's no match for the chill that seeps into your bones, amplified by the unwelcome arrival of your period a few days early. All you want is a hot bath, a blanket, and silence, but the Blue Fox waits, its demands as relentless as the weather. You shiver your way inside, the club's warmth a fleeting relief against the cold you can't shake.
The place is nearly ready for the night—lights dimmed, stage set, but the chairs still perch atop the tables like stubborn birds refusing to land. You barely have a moment to catch your breath before a voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and grating.
"You're late!" The club owner storms toward you, his short frame somehow filling the room with an ego that could rival the tallest skyscraper. His presence is rare, a shadow that looms more often through barked orders over the phone, but today, of all days, he's here, his eyes narrowing at you like you've personally insulted him.
"I'm sorry, sir," you say, your voice flat, drained of anything resembling enthusiasm. You dip your head in a shallow bow, rolling your eyes where he can't see. "It won't happen again."
He doesn't let it go, his fingers snagging the edge of your sweater like it's some offensive relic. "What is this?" he snaps, his face twisting in disgust. "You look like you crawled out of a thrift store bin. If a customer sees you like this, I'll lose money. Go change—something tight, something that shows off what you've got." He waves you off with a flick of his wrist, like you're a fly buzzing too close.
You bite your tongue, the urge to snap back clawing at your throat. The club's not even open, you repulsive little toad. As he turns away, you flip him off behind his back, a small rebellion that does little to ease the ache in your body or the irritation in your chest. You head to the dressing room, swapping your soft, warm sweater for a fitted top that dips low and a mini skirt that clings to your hips. It's comfortable enough, but it offers no shield against the chill or the cramps that twist your insides. You catch your reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, tense jaw—and sigh. Better than nothing.
The night finds you perched at the bar, a sanctuary amid the chaos. Hoseok's there, his easy smile a lifeline as you sip iced tea and pop ibuprofen, trying to dull the pain that radiates from your lower back to your temples. The club hums around you, but you're rooted to the stool, legs tingling with every attempt to stand. Each time you try, dizziness washes over you, your vision blurring at the edges, and you sink back down, defeated.
"You need to eat something, Y/N," Hoseok says, his brow creasing as he dries a glass with practised ease. "Pills on an empty stomach are a bad idea, especially when you're this pale."
You press your fingers to your temples, the migraine a steady throb. "I'm starving, but the thought of food makes me nauseous. I'd rather not puke all over your nice, clean bar."