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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"It's fucking dusty." The words slip out between a half-cough and a grimace, my hand slicing lazily through the stale air as though I'm some kind of magician warding off spirits. The moment the dust hits the back of my throat, I regret not wearing a mask or something.
Hyunjin laughs—low, rich, and completely unbothered. He drops another box onto the tiling with a satisfying thud that makes me flinch slightly. "It's bound to be dusty," he says with a shrug, brushing his hair out of his face with the kind of nonchalance that should be irritating. "We're moving in."
I place my hands on my hips and exhale hard, scanning the battlefield of boxes strewn across the wide-open expanse of the living room. There are at least twenty of them, all meticulously labeled in Hyunjin's handwriting—beautifully neat. Of course, the place is massive. Ceilings high enough to echo, sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch longer than most people's patience. There's more room than we know what to do with. Which means the boxes don't clutter the place, they just loiter—shamelessly, like expensive luggage waiting for staff to unpack them.
Still, I sigh, already calculating how long this will take to organize. "Right," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
And then, without warning—without a single damn sound—he's there.
Hyunjin slides up behind me like a shadow I didn't realize I had. One second I'm surveying the room, the next I feel the slow, electric glide of his arms wrapping around my waist from behind. It's effortless, familiar. My spine responds before my brain does, straightening in reflex as his body presses flush against mine. His warmth seeps into me like heat from a bath I didn't know I needed. His chin rests delicately on my shoulder, and then—soft, slow—his lips begin their familiar path. He kisses the side of my neck like he's tasting it, lips dragging just enough to make my breath hitch. It's not urgent, not rushed. This is the kind of seduction that knows it has time. The kind that's been here before and remembers exactly where to go.
I let out a slow exhale and melt, just slightly, into him. My hands rise on instinct, sliding over his wrists and then lacing through his fingers where they rest at my stomach. I don't say anything for a beat. There's something sacred about silence when someone's mouth is on your skin.
Then his voice. Soft, velvet-smooth, sinful. "It's not dusty in the bedroom..." he whispers, and the way he says it—dipped in something darker, something carnal—pulls a shiver from deep in my chest. His words graze against my skin like silk, but his tone... that tone is made of fire.
I smile despite myself. Of course that's what he's thinking. Of course he's been thinking it all afternoon. The second I saw the glint in his eyes after our plane took off, I knew he wasn't planning on unpacking any boxes today. Not unless I came in one.
His kisses shift now—no longer soft. His mouth grows hungrier, more demanding. Lips parting, teeth grazing, tongue teasing. He finds the delicate skin just beneath my jaw and sinks his teeth there, gently, then with a little more pressure. A quiet sound escapes me—a groan I don't mean to give him, but it slips out anyway. He'll take it as a win. He always does.
