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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By the time we arrived back at the lodge, the change was immediate, glaring. The room we had shared—the one still carrying the ghost of his presence, the lingering warmth of his body in the sheets, the muffled sounds of his restless movements at night—had been stripped of him. Everything that was his, every trace of him, gone. The closet stood half-empty, the floor clear of his suitcase, his clothes, his things. Only mine remained, untouched and starkly alone in the now unfamiliar space.
Shit. This is crazy.
He didn't even say a word. No warning, no explanation, just up and left like he had never been here to begin with. And the worst part? I can't even be mad. I want to be mad—furious, even—but beneath that is something worse, something gnawing at the pit of my stomach like acid. Worry.
The fact that his father had flown all the way to the Japanese Alps just to drag him back to Seoul—it meant something had gone very wrong. The kind of wrong that makes your chest tighten, your pulse hammer, your head spin with worst-case scenarios. And now I'm pacing the room, raking my fingers through my hair, trying—failing—to talk myself down from doing something reckless.
Because the thought that's been clawing its way to the surface since the second I walked into this room and saw his absence swallowing the space whole is that I need to go after him. Fly to Seoul, track him down, find out what the hell is happening to him. But that would be insane, right?
He doesn't see me the way I see him. He never has.
Me showing up out of nowhere, demanding answers, making sure he's okay—it wouldn't be comforting to him. It wouldn't mean anything. He'd just assume I was playing some kind of twisted mind game like always. Another manipulation, another ploy to get under his skin. And whose fault is that? Mine. I've spent so long pushing him, pulling him, making him second-guess every interaction between us that now, when it actually matters, when I actually care, I know he won't believe me.
Fuck. Why am I such a dickhead?
I rub a hand down my face, groaning under my breath, still pacing, still spiraling, still trying to convince myself that flying to Seoul is the worst idea I've ever had—until the bedroom door slams open so violently that the wood ricochets off the wall with a sharp pop.
I freeze.
Bahng strides in like a storm, like he owns the place, like the whole fucking world is on fire and only he can put it out. His eyes are dark with determination, his posture rigid, his presence swallowing up the room as he closes the distance between us with brutal efficiency. He doesn't stop until our toes are touching, until he's so close that I have to crane my neck back just to meet his gaze.
I scrunch my nose and immediately take a step back, scowling. "Hello to you too, Bahng. Thanks for knock—"
