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 stay away.
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A/N: This chapter will be formatted a bit different from the rest of the book, I've put it in a way that will make it easier to follow. I hope you enjoy!
Jimin's POV
The apartment was a tomb of silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Jimin stood in the living room, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at the rain-slicked glass. The day had been long—meetings at the headquarters, endless coffee, forced smiles—and now, at nearly midnight, he craved nothing but the quiet. His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt untucked, a man shedding the weight of the hours.
The lock clicked.
Jimin froze, head snapping toward the door. It swung open, and his mother stepped inside, her coat glistening with raindrops, her expression unreadable. Behind her, a shadow hesitated—then Seo Yuna emerged, her dark hair framing a face he'd tried to erase from his mind. The air thickened, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
"Mother?" His voice was sharp, edged with disbelief. "What the hell—"
"Jimin," she interrupted, calm but firm, shaking off her coat. "We need to talk."
He didn't move, his gaze flicking to Yuna. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her, eyes wide and searching. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been untouchable in that silk dress. Now, she wore a simple sweater, jeans, her face bare of makeup. Vulnerable. It threw him off balance.
"You don't just walk in here," he said, voice low, turning back to his mother. "You have keys, fine, but this?"
"I didn't think you'd answer the door," she replied, unfazed, setting her bag on the counter. "Not for me. Not for her."
Yuna stepped forward, tentative. "Jimin, I—"
"Don't." He cut her off, the word a reflex, his hand rising as if to push her voice away. "You don't get to show up like this. Not after everything."
Her lips parted, then closed, a flicker of hurt crossing her face. His mother sighed, crossing her arms. "Sit down, both of you. You're not children anymore."
Jimin didn't budge, but Yuna obeyed, perching on the edge of the couch, her fingers twisting together. The room smelled faintly of rain and his mother's perfume— too sharp in the stillness. He stayed standing, arms crossed, a wall between them.
"I asked her to come," his mother said, breaking the silence. "She called me last month. Said she'll be back in Korea—for good. And she wants to fix things."
"Fix things?" Jimin laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "You think this is a cracked vase you can glue back together? She left, Mother. Two years, and she walked out without a word."
