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...
A/N: Double update for my lovely readers ;) Chapter 50 is a huge milestone, thank uuu !!
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I had been sleeping soundly—so soundly, in fact, that the distant hum of the house barely registered in my subconscious. The faint creaks in the walls, the rhythmic ticking of the old clock in the hallway, the occasional shift of the wind against the windows—it all blurred together into the quiet white noise of the night. For once, my body had surrendered to exhaustion, dragging me down into a sleep so deep that the weight of the past few days lifted just enough for me to breathe.
Han hadn't come back. I knew that much. Even in the thick haze of sleep, I could feel the empty space, the absence of his presence. I figured Hwang must have guilt-tripped him into staying in that damn room—maybe even seduced him, knowing the way he operates. The thought irritated me, but only slightly. If Han had chosen to stay, then I wasn't about to question it. He was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. Besides, it wasn't like I had any right to be possessive over him. It felt wrong to be alone like this, in a house that was suffocatingly full yet somehow so fucking empty.
But even in the silence, even in the rare moment of stillness, my mind refused to rest. It never did. No matter how hard I tried to sink into unconsciousness, to let go, my thoughts clawed their way to the surface, dragging me into a storm I had been desperately trying to outrun.
Him.
Yang.
Even in sleep, he found a way to invade my thoughts. His presence lingered in my mind like a stain, like an inkblot I couldn't scrub away no matter how much I tried. I should have been disgusted by the way his name echoed in my head, by the way his face surfaced so easily in my dreams. And yet, I wasn't. Not anymore.
If I was being honest with myself—painfully honest—I had already accepted it.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
He infuriates me to no end. Everything about him, the sharp edges of his smirks, the deliberate calculation in his words, the way he moves through the world like it's his to control—I should hate every fiber of his being. I do hate him. I have to. If I don't, then what the fuck does that make me?
And yet...
Some twisted part of me, the part I don't want to acknowledge, the part that makes me feel like there's something deeply fucking wrong with me, is drawn to him. Not just physically, not just in the way I can't help but notice the curve of his jaw or the way his eyes darken when he's thinking too hard about something. No, it's more than that. It's the way he gets under my skin. The way he speaks and my body reacts before my brain can catch up, drawn to the fire of him even when I know I should be running in the opposite direction. It's the way he looks at me like he sees something beneath the surface, something even I haven't figured out yet. I can't even lie to myself anymore.
