He groans into my mouth, and I use that moment to push back, trying to take control again. But Han is stronger than he looks, and for once, he's not letting me win.
"Frustrated?" he murmurs between kisses, smirking against my lips.
I bite at his jaw...
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The evening sun filters through the newly uncovered windows, drenching the room in gold. The dust swirling in the air makes everything look hazy, almost dreamlike—though there's nothing remotely dreamy about this wreck of a building.
Han is the one who unboarded the windows, painstakingly unscrewing each warped wooden panel, ripping tarps from the others like he's unveiling some grand masterpiece. Spoiler: it's just more dust and decay.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the corner with Kim's laptop, pretending to be busy.
I finished my list of materials at least ten minutes ago, but instead of getting up and doing something useful, I'm lingering. Waiting.
Because I need to go out and get supplies. And Han is coming with me. Not that he knows that yet.
But let's be real—Han would rather eat glass than willingly go on an errand with me. So I have to be strategic. I need to time it perfectly, catch him when he's got nothing better to do so he has no excuse to say no.
Unfortunately, this means I've spent the last ten minutes not being productive. Instead, I've been watching Han work.
Which is incredibly distracting.
Because, apparently, at some point in the last few years, Han decided to become unreasonably attractive.
He's sweaty, grimy, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that look like they were sculpted by some god of manual labor. And every time he grips the drill, his muscles flex in a way that makes my brain short-circuit.
It's fine. Totally fine.
Then, as if the universe decided to test my already fragile self-control, Han suddenly pauses. Steps back.
And then he does it.
The single most sinful thing I've ever witnessed in my godforsaken life.
He lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
And it goes way too high.
My breath catches in my throat.
Because, yes, I've seen Han without a shirt before. But I haven't seen this—him, standing there, abs practically carved, glistening with sweat and coated in grime, like some kind of god of reckless destruction.
And is it just me, or did his abs suddenly gain three new levels of definition overnight?
The shirt drops back into place. I exhale sharply, realizing only then that I had actually been holding my breath.
Because for a very brief, very dangerous moment, I had genuinely been debating whether or not I should just jump him.
I shake my head, forcing myself to snap out of it. Focus. There's a mission at hand.
