Requested by Mila.
Ban Ju-yeon had always been your problem.
That was what your family said, what the newspapers hinted at, what the boardroom whispers confirmed every time your surname was spoken in the same breath as his. Rival families, rival empires, built on pride, money, and a history of refusing to bend. You had grown up knowing his name before you even knew multiplication tables. You had grown up knowing you were supposed to hate him.
And you did. At least, you thought you did.
When you were kids, Ju-yeon had been unbearable. Arrogant in a way only a rich boy could be, shameless in the way he smirked whenever your families were forced into the same room. He always wore those ridiculous rock outfits—ripped jeans, leather jackets too big for his frame, rings clinking when he moved. You remembered scrunching your nose every time you saw him, feeling that instant ick settle in your stomach. He had called you stuck-up once. You had called him tacky. Your parents had smiled tightly, as if this was all part of a long, inherited script.
Years passed. You both grew up. You both glowed up, as the magazines liked to say.
Ju-yeon turned into exactly the kind of man people feared and admired in equal measure. Sharp suits replaced leather jackets, but the arrogance remained, refined now, deliberate. His eyes still held that same challenge, like he was always daring the world to oppose him. Every time you met at corporate events, your conversations were clipped, polite in the way only enemies pretending to be civil could manage. You told yourself the way his gaze lingered meant nothing. He probably told himself the same.
Yet somehow, you were in his bed.
You woke slowly, the unfamiliar weight of silk sheets beneath your fingers. The room smelled like him—clean, expensive, faintly smoky, like the ghost of his old rock-boy self still clung to him. For a moment, panic flared in your chest. Then memory came rushing back.
Too much champagne at the gala. A balcony conversation that turned sharp, then strangely honest. Old resentments laid bare like open wounds. You remembered laughing—really laughing—for the first time with him. You remembered his voice lowering when he said your name, like it wasn’t supposed to be said aloud.
“You’re awake,” He said, voice groggy.
You turned your head and found Ban Ju-yeon leaning against the headboard, hair slightly messy, dress shirt undone. He looked annoyingly calm, as if waking up next to his lifelong rival was a normal occurrence.
“This is wrong,” You said, panicked.
He hummed, not denying it. “That’s not what you said last night.”
Heat rushed to your face. You pushed yourself up, clutching the sheets. “We hate each other.”
“We're supposed to,” He corrected. His eyes softened, just a little. “Not necessarily what’s true.”
You scoffed, but it lacked conviction. “You were insufferable as a kid.”
“You always looked at me like I’d ruined your day just by breathing,” He replied, lips twitching. “I kind of liked it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” He said quietly, “You’re here.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You noticed the way he watched you—not smug, not mocking, but thoughtful, almost cautious. It unsettled you more than any argument ever had.
“We can’t do this,” You said at last. “Our families—”
“Have been fighting for decades,” He finished. “And what has that given us? More money? More power?” He shook his head. “Not much happiness.”
You looked at him, then down at the sheets, at the evidence of a night you couldn’t fully regret.
He shifted closer, stopping just short of touching you. "I'm sure it wasn't fully alcohol that brought us here.”
"And you know it too."
You met his gaze, heart pounding. For the first time, Ban Ju-yeon didn’t feel like your nemesis. He felt like a possibility—dangerous, complicated, impossible to ignore.
You exhaled slowly. “This doesn’t change anything.”
A small smile curved his lips. “I didn’t expect it to.”
He laid back.
Neither of you moved to leave. And that, more than anything, terrified you.