You weren’t supposed to be here. The bass was too loud, the strobe lights too chaotic, and the crush of bodies on the dance floor too much for someone who had barely made it through the week without crying on public transportation.

But Yunjin had insisted. “You need to live a little,” your best friend had said while dragging you into a shimmering black dress that barely covered anything.

Now you were perched on a leather seat in the VIP section of some elite Seoul club you couldn’t even name. You nursed your second cocktail, your head gently spinning, your eyes idly scanning the room.

Across the room, through the flicker of lights and smoke, stood a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His button-up shirt clung to his frame in all the right places, sleeves pushed up to reveal veins and tattoos you couldn’t quite make out. His hair was dark, tousled like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times. But it was his eyes that caught you.

He wasn’t looking at anyone else. Just you. A smirk tugged at his lips, subtle and lazy—like he already knew what was going to happen between them.

You raised her brows, amused and curious. You tilted your drink toward him in a mock toast. He didn’t blink. Just grinned and started walking.

They didn’t talk about anything deep. You still didn’t know what he did, where he came from, who he was. He didn’t ask you about jobs or school or future goals. They just leaned in closer, fingers grazing thighs, eyes locking in lingering glances.

You’d forgotten Yunjin had disappeared into the crowd, and honestly? You didn’t care.

By their third round of drinks, he was tracing the rim of your glass with his finger, leaning in to whisper jokes and flirtations that made your cheeks flush. He touched you only occasionally—a hand on your back, a knee brushing yours—but each contact made your heart skip.

When he finally said, “Come back to mine?” it felt less like a proposition and more like gravity.

—

You woke up slowly, the soft hum of city traffic below. The first thing you registered was the pillow—fluffy, silk. Then the smell—faint cologne and something clean, like cedarwood.

You stirred slowly, eyes dry, throat parched. The sheets beneath you were soft, heavy, expensive in a way that felt unfamiliar. You blinked against the light, slowly piecing together your surroundings.

You were in someone’s bed.

Mingi’s bed.

He was still asleep beside you, arm draped over your waist, bare chest rising and falling with even breaths. His hair was messy. A small frown lingered on his brow even in sleep.

You slowly sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. Your dress was somewhere on the floor. The skyline view was real. The marble floors, the glass walls—real.