Play with fire and you'll get burned. Dance with desire and you might just fall in love.
The story of a stripper and a guy who can't seem to stay away.
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A week had passed since the chaos at Y/N's house. Seven days that felt like one long exhale she hadn't yet finished releasing. Time moved strangely now, stretched thin and taut like plastic wrap over a wound. She functioned, technically. She woke up, logged in to work, drank water, answered texts, pretended to laugh at memes Juhui kept sending her. She did everything a normal, recovering, "safe" person should do.
She just didn't feel any of it.
Whenever she tried, the emotions clawed too close to the surface—fear, anger, shame, confusion—and she found herself pushing them down, down, down again until she floated above her own body like someone watching a reenactment of her life. Dissociation wasn't new for her, but this felt heavier, stickier, like she was wading through her own thoughts.
And still, she kept telling everyone she was fine.
After the night her stalker's face had smeared against Y/N's glass door—hood pulled low, breath fogging the surface, eyes burning with something desperate—her brain replayed the scene on a loop. But in a muffled way, like listening through water. A restraining order had been granted, shockingly fast, but the thin paper meant little against the ghost of a man in a black hoodie that she kept seeing at the edge of her vision.
Black hoodies. Her chest tightened at the thought. That was becoming a sensory anchor, even though she didn't want it to be. The swish of fabric. The shape of a hood. Any time she saw one, even on innocent strangers, her breath hitched.
Now she stayed at Y/N's house, surrounded by love she couldn't fully absorb. Y/N, Rosa, even stoic Juhui had rallied around her like human scaffolding. Their late-night calls and surprise deliveries of face masks and soju bottles were lifelines she clung to, fragile but real.
She worked from the dining table, the glow of her laptop a steady companion. LM's emails pinged relentlessly, but she welcomed them as they demanded nothing from her except to exist. Work was clean and predictable. Emotions weren't.
Patrol cars circled Y/N's neighborhood like restless guards. Red and blue lights swept through the blinds at night, a silent reminder that safety was something actively maintained, not passively given. And Cheonghwa, an ex-marine, retired pro boxer, unsmiling monolith now lived with them from dawn until late. Her presence was so solid it felt like a wall had grown inside the apartment.
But Y/N wasn't thrilled about the constant movement. Officers knocking at odd hours, Cheonghwa's heavy boots marching down the hallway. The cozy chaos of the apartment had been replaced by militarized order.
Still, Y/N coped the only way Y/N knew how—by cooking for strangers. She left snacks for the officers each shift: kimchi jeon one night, sweet rice cakes the next. A small rebellion against feeling powerless.
On this particular afternoon, sunlight spilled across the living room in warm stripes. Y/N lay draped over the couch, flipping through her phone, while SuAh typed through her last emails, shoulders stiff, breath shallow.
