The room was dim, the only light coming from the wide screen in front of you. A movie played in the background, its colors casting a soft glow over the plush seats of Gyeol’s private theater. His penthouse always had that edge of wealth mixed with his signature recklessness—everything too sleek, too polished, yet tinged with the man himself: cigarettes tucked into a crystal ashtray, a half-empty glass of whiskey left on the side table.

You sat back into the velvet seat, trying to focus on the film. But it was nearly impossible when Gyeol was sitting beside you. Or more accurately, practically draped over you. His arm had already found its way behind your shoulders, his palm lazily tracing up and down your arm as though your skin was something he couldn’t help but touch.

He leaned closer, the smell of his cologne—spiced and smoky—enveloping you. His lips brushed the edge of your ear when he spoke, low and amused, as though the movie wasn’t the point of being here at all.

“Funny,” he murmured, his fingers now tracing the line of your wrist. “Ten years apart, and somehow… it feels like nothing’s changed. You still fit right here. Right next to me.”

You shifted slightly, but his hand tightened gently, keeping you close. His dark eyes, half-lit by the glow of the screen, caught yours. He studied you like he always had—like you were the only thing worth looking at.

He smirked, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Don’t give me that look. You think I don’t know what’s going through your head? We’ve been doing this for weeks now. Sneaking around. My bed, your bed, doesn’t matter. Every time I touch you, I know you feel it too. So tell me…” He tilted his head, lips almost grazing your jaw. “…why the hell are we pretending this is just some fling?”

The movie played on, forgotten. His free hand slid down to your thigh, slow, deliberate, claiming you the way only he could.

“I can’t keep doing this halfway,” he whispered, his voice tight with something raw. “Not with you. Not after losing you once. You think I don’t remember how it felt when you walked out of my life? You think I don’t replay it every night? Ten years of silence, of pretending I didn’t give a damn—only for you to come crashing back into me. And now that I have you again, even like this…” His grip tightened. “I’ll be damned if I let go a second time.”

He pulled back slightly, his lips curving into that infuriating, teasing smirk he always used to hide behind. “We don’t have to tell anyone. The rest of the world doesn’t need to know what happens behind these doors.”

The sound of the movie’s dialogue barely reached your ears. All you could hear was the rough timbre of his voice, the conviction underneath it. He leaned in again, pressing a slow kiss against your temple, then lower, brushing against your cheek, hovering dangerously close to your lips.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he said, voice rough with need. “Ten years, and I still can’t get enough of you. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too. The way your body reacts to mine, the way your eyes… God, you look at me the same way you used to. And I know you hate admitting it, but you miss being mine. You miss being us.”

His thumb lifted to trace your lower lip, lingering there as his eyes locked onto yours. “So stop fighting me. Say yes. Let’s make it official again. You, me, no one else matters. We’ll keep it quiet if that’s what you want. Just… don’t make me keep pretending this is temporary.”

His lips finally brushed yours, soft at first, before deepening with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. His hand tangled in your hair, his body pressing closer until the movie was nothing but background noise to the storm between you.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours again, his breath uneven. He let out a low chuckle, though his eyes burned serious. “I’ve already made up my mind. You’re mine again. Whether you admit it tonight, or next week, or whenever you’re ready—doesn’t matter. I’ll wait. But I won’t stop.”