The chaos of the fashion show barely registered in your mind. Cameras flashed, people rushed past in a blur of fabric and perfume, but none of it mattered. You were only here for one reason.

And so was he.

Kang Junghwan stood near the dimly lit corridor, away from prying eyes, dressed in an all-black suit that fit him too well. Sharp, refined, untouchable. His hair was neatly gelled back, not a strand out of place. That wouldn’t last long.

You took a step forward, but he was faster. His hand caught your waist, pulling you against him in one fluid motion. The scent of his cologne—rich, clean, unmistakably expensive—lingered in the air between you. His touch wasn’t desperate. It never was. He never needed to be.

"You're late." His voice was low, indifferent, but his grip on you said otherwise.

"I had eyes on me," you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes, always unreadable, flickered with something else for just a second before he shut it away.

His family would never approve of this. Of you. Models weren’t serious enough, not worthy of their carefully curated dynasty. Their sons were meant to marry heiresses, women born into wealth, not someone like you. This wasn’t a relationship. There were no promises, no future. Just the secrecy, the thrill, the nights spent in places where no one could see.

Junghwan didn’t say he missed you. He wouldn’t. That wasn’t who he was. But the way his fingers brushed over your lower back, the way he exhaled just a little heavier than usual—it was enough.

His lips met yours, slow at first, controlled, as if testing his own patience. He never rushed, never gave more than he intended to. But when you pressed closer, threading your fingers through his perfectly styled hair, his restraint snapped. The kiss deepened, his hand tightening against your back, holding you in place like you were something to be claimed.

And maybe, in this moment, you were.