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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Jimin's fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the steering wheel, the leather cool under his touch as he sat parked outside Y/N's house. For the first time in months, he'd given his chauffeur an impromptu day off, a decision driven by a single, unshakable impulse: he wanted today to be just for her. No drivers, no assistants, no interruptions—just Y/N, her laughter, her presence. The thought alone sent a flutter through his chest, one he tried to dismiss as he checked his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes.
To say Y/N occupied his mind was laughably inadequate. Her texts—those random "hey" messages paired with a sunrise emoji or a goofy cat GIF—had become a quiet addiction. He'd caught himself grinning at his screen during board meetings, ignoring Paxim Global's quarterly reports to reread her witty replies. She hated handling raw chicken, despised small talk (though she wielded it like a weapon), devoured true crime podcasts, and loved movies but forgot their plots within days. Over late-night chats, her confidence and charm seeped through every word, pulling him in despite his best efforts to stay detached. His friends teased, tossing around words like "love," but Jimin knew better. This wasn't love—it was a fixation. Intense, consuming, but temporary. Manageable. Or so he told himself, sitting in her driveway on his one free day of the year, his phone on Do Not Disturb, risking Hyunjoo's wrath if an emergency arose.
The front door swung open, and Y/N bounded out, her brown tracksuit catching the pale November light. Her energy was electric, a glow that made the grey morning feel like spring. She jogged to the passenger side, waving, her smile so bright it hit him like a physical force, tightening his chest in a way he hadn't anticipated.
"Hey, Mr. Park," she chirped, leaning into the window, her voice teasing, playful.
That nickname—she wielded it like a private joke, and though it annoyed him at first, it was starting to feel... right. Better than "store-sex guy," at least, a label from their first meeting that still made him cringe. He reached across, unlocking the door with a click. "You're full of energy today."
She hopped in, tossing her bag into the backseat with a careless grace. "It's gonna be a good day. I can feel it."
Jimin watched her a moment too long, her profile sharp against the window, before shifting into reverse. Last week's scare at the Blue Fox—her collapsing, pale and trembling—still haunted him. Seeing her now, vibrant and alive, eased a knot in his chest he hadn't realised was there. "You sure about letting me tag along to your practice?" he asked, glancing at her as he pulled onto the street. "Aren't CEOs supposed to be chained to their desks on Mondays?"
"Not today." He flashed a smile, keeping it light. "It's my day off. And you owe me dinner, remember? A promise is a promise."
She side-eyed him, her lips twitching. "What are you, seven?"
He laughed, the sound louder than he meant, and mentally cringed at how corny he'd sounded. Nothing's more important than a promise? Really, Jimin? But the truth was, he'd been looking forward to this all week—spending a day with her, no meetings, no contracts, just her. He didn't dare admit how much it meant, not even to himself.
