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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I think I'm going mad.
The past few days have blurred into an endless cycle of aching muscles, burning wounds, and the suffocating presence of Hwang. It's almost unbearable—the way the air grows thick with unspoken tension every time he's in the room, the way he moves around me like he's walking on a minefield, like he knows one wrong step will set me off. And yet, despite the weight of it, despite how excruciatingly awkward this is, he stays.
He stays when I expect him to leave. Stays even though he has every reason to walk away. He tends to my wounds, feeds me, forces me to drink water and sleep. He watches over me in a way that makes my skin crawl, not because it's unwelcome, but because it's unfamiliar. I don't know how to exist under someone else's concern. I don't know how to handle the way he's been looking at me lately—like I'm something fragile, something worth saving.
Like he actually meant what he said.
That thought alone unsettles me more than the pain in my body.
He has feelings for me? No. He doesn't. He can't.
But then why is he acting like he does? Why does he keep showing up, keep staying, keep doing things no one asked him to do? It would be so fucking easy to believe him. To let myself fall into the illusion that someone like him—someone with a heart still capable of beating properly—could see something in me worth holding on to. But I know better.
It's a trap.
People like me don't get this. We don't get care, don't get affection, don't get to be looked at the way he's looking at me. If I let myself believe him, if I let myself trust him, I'll only be setting myself up for the inevitable stab in the back. It's happened before. It'll happen again. The only difference is this time, I know better than to fall for it.
And yet... something about this is different.
I don't trust him—that much is obvious. But it isn't just about trust. Even if, by some miracle, I could bring myself to believe him, what then? We can't happen. That's not just my choice—it's a fucking fact. The line between us is too jagged, too tangled with the past, too stained with things that shouldn't be forgiven. There's no version of reality where this ends well. No scenario where this doesn't turn to ruin. I thought I made that clear.
So why is he still here?
Why does he keep acting like he wants this, like he wants me?
More importantly... why does a part of me almost want to believe him?
"Try to keep still," he murmurs, his voice quiet enough to blend into the silence of the room. He's kneeling in front of me, his hands deft and steady as he works, carefully unwrapping the old bandages from my skin. There's a sharp sting as the gauze peels away, remnants of dried blood clinging to my wounds, but I don't flinch.
