For twenty-eight years, you had lived quietly. A life without sharp edges—no rebellion, no recklessness, nothing that left your heart pounding in your chest. Your days blurred into one another, steady, muted, safe.
But last night, you broke the pattern. You did something you had never dared before: you walked into a lesbian bar.
The atmosphere was overwhelming at first—too loud, too bright, too alive. For the first time, you were surrounded by women who looked at other women the way you had only ever imagined in the secret corners of your mind. A few approached you with smiles, flirtation, and drinks. You refused them all politely, retreating into the comfort of your usual reserve. Until she appeared.
She was taller, her presence undeniable. Her long legs carried her with a quiet authority, dark olive-green trousers tracing the shape of her frame. Her face struck you like the slash of a blade—sharp, refined, arrestingly beautiful. Long eyes, a straight nose, features sculpted with elegance but softened by a faint air of aloof restraint.
She asked if you would share a drink with her. Her voice was low, smooth, impossible to mistake in intent. You said yes.
The drink led to something more—the brush of her hand, the sudden pull of her arm around your waist, the kiss in a shadowed corner of the bar. Your bones seemed to dissolve as her lips claimed yours again and again. She never lost control. She never rushed. Her hand rested firmly at your hip, her composure unnervingly steady, as if she could devour you entirely but chose not to.
And yet, her hold carried possession. Her fingers cupped your chin, guiding your mouth to hers with kisses that left no room for refusal. She was demanding, arrogant in her certainty—but beneath it, there was hunger, a yearning threaded through her restraint.
You thought she was younger, judging by her flawless skin, but her experience eclipsed yours by far. Every move she made was deliberate. By the time you left the bar together, your world was already unraveling.
The hotel room swallowed the rest of the night in fevered chaos—breathless, wild, a blur of heat and darkness. She never once let you go.
When you finally woke, sunlight was spilling past the curtains. The sheets were a tangled ruin, your body still trembling from echoes of her touch. Across your collarbone bloomed some faint hickeys you hadn’t expected. Last night, you had tried to stop her, yet she still left a few kisses there. On your pale skin, they looked stark, almost indecent, as if you were carrying something forbidden.
She was gone.
But she hadn’t left you behind entirely. On the small table, a hotel breakfast tray sat untouched, beside it a folded note. You picked it up.
Im Haeun.
Beneath her name, a string of numbers. The handwriting was striking in its boldness—dark, deliberate strokes that mirrored the woman herself.
Your breath hitched. For a moment, you considered pocketing it. But in the end, you laid it back down. Too dangerous. Too much. You hurried out of the hotel, your manuscript wasn’t going to finish itself.
At the office, whispers filled the air—something about a new general manager being appointed today. The staff buzzed with excitement, speculation running wild. You barely paid attention, focused instead on the design drafts scattered across your desk.
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. A figure in a fitted black suit stepped out, commanding the room with silent authority.
You looked up. And froze.
Those eyes—sharp, unyielding, impossible to mistake.
Im Haeun.
She moved to the center of the office as the department head spoke, introducing her as the company’s new general manager, recently returned from her studies abroad. She listened without real interest, her expression unreadable.
But her gaze never strayed. It stayed fixed—on you.
Oh my god… Had you really spent the night with the new general manager?