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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Everything is in full swing. The event is bustling, the music thrumming in a steady, luxurious hum beneath the murmur of conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, the occasional ripple of polite laughter. It's perfect. Too perfect.
And why is everything perfect? Me. Because of me.
Not to boast, but no one is working harder than I am. The staff flits around, but I move faster. I am everywhere at once, smoothing out the smallest imperfections with frantic precision—rearranging the buffet when the display feels off, collecting abandoned glasses before they can make the place look less than immaculate, giving quiet instructions to staff who should already know better. Every detail, every flaw, every imbalance—it calls to me like a personal affront, and I can't seem to stop.
I feel like a fucking maniac.
The urge to control, to fix, is consuming. The more I perfect, the more I need to perfect, like I'm holding this entire event together with the force of my will alone. My mind buzzes, an endless checklist of things to tweak, rearrange, refine. Nothing can be out of place. Nothing can go wrong.
"Kim."
Seo's voice cuts through the static in my brain, smooth and deep, breaking through my obsessive rhythm. I ignore him, my fingers adjusting the glasses on a silver tray, ensuring they are aligned, symmetrical, flawless.
"My love."
My head snaps up like I've been burned.
My hands freeze mid-motion, hovering above the tray, breath catching in my throat as my eyes dart over his face—his soft gaze, his ever-so-slightly raised brow, the curve of his lips, unreadable but knowing. My stomach clenches. Heat rushes up my neck.
"Seo, you can't call me that here." My voice is firm, a quiet warning, but it does nothing to hide the way my pulse stutters.
He steps closer, and his scent invades my senses before the warmth of his body does—clean, expensive cologne laced with something distinctly him, something I know too well. His presence wraps around me, grounding and disarming all at once, and suddenly the event—the bustling movement, the meticulous details, the suffocating need for control—feels a million miles away.
"I don't know if you've noticed," he murmurs, voice hushed but laced with amusement, "but no one is looking at us."
His hands find my wrists, gentle but insistent, prying them away from the glasses I'm still gripping like a lifeline. His touch is featherlight, a contrast to the tension coiled in my muscles, and my skin burns beneath his fingertips.
My breath falters.
He doesn't have to say the words—I see them in his eyes, in the way they search mine, deep and unreadable but soft. Are you okay?
