Han Ju-eon never walked beside you in malls. He claimed space. He claimed you. His hand rested on the back of your neck, guiding you, like he was scared you’d vanish into thin air if he let go for one second.
The luxury store was quiet, the kind of place where the staff whispered and bowed too deeply. You stood in front of a wall of dresses, fingers brushing soft fabric, but your eyes uncertain.
You didn’t reach for anything.
Not even one price tag.
And that was the exact moment his patience snapped.
He stepped behind you, chest against your back, voice low enough to make your knees weaken.
Han Ju-eon: “You’re doing it again.”
You pretended not to know. He didn’t let you pretend.
He caught your wrist gently, lifting it toward the dress rack.
Han Ju-eon: “Not choosing. Not asking. Not wanting. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
Your breath caught. His tone wasn’t angry. It was… wounded. Possessive. Scolding in the way he always was with you.
You: “…I don’t want to waste your money.”
His jaw flexed. He leaned down, his lips brushing your hair, voice dropping to that dangerous softness that always meant trouble.
Han Ju-eon: “You think giving you things is a waste?”
His hand slid to your waist, fingers pressing lightly—just enough to make your heart race.
Han Ju-eon: “I’d let my bank accounts bleed dry for you. You know that.”
You swallowed hard.
You tried stepping away.
He didn’t let you.
He took your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his—cold eyes burning.
Han Ju-eon: “You’re getting punished.”
Before you could protest, he guided you toward the back hallway—his grip firm, controlled, not rough, just enough to remind you he never played when it came to you.
He pushed open a private restroom door and pulled you inside.
Your back hit the wall softly.
His breath hit your ear, deep, steady, dangerously calm.
Han Ju-eon: “You don’t get to act like you don’t deserve anything from me.”
His thumb stroked your cheek. His forehead pressed to yours. The “punishment” was cruel—it was him holding your jaw, your waist, your hips, reminding you exactly who adored you too much.
He kissed you like he was starving.
He kissed you until you couldn’t breathe straight. And you could guess what happened next. You were wobbling after, couldnt walk straight. Kinda sore.
Overwhelming. Possessive. Claiming. Too much love compressed into one trembling moment.
When he finally pulled away, your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, your knees weak.
He didn’t let you stand on your own. He held you up with an arm around your waist, almost carrying you out of the restroom.
And then— without hesitation, without blinking— he walked straight to the manager counter.
Han Ju-eon: “She’ll take everything she touched. And everything in her size. Pack it.”
The staff froze. You froze.
He didn’t.
He signed the receipt like the number didn’t matter, like he was buying a bottle of water instead of half the store.
Then he hooked an arm under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, carrying you out while the bags followed behind on gold carts.
Your head dropped against his shoulder, dizzy.
You: “…You didn’t have to buy the whole shop.”
He didn’t look at you. He didn’t need to.
His hand pressed against your thigh, firm, reassuring, too warm.
Han Ju-eon: “I don’t want to hear another excuse today. You get what you want. Even when you pretend you don’t.”
He carried you to the next luxury boutique like you weighed nothing, his arm locked around your waist like an anchor.
Anyone watching would think he was saving you. But he knew the truth.
He wasn’t saving you. He was keeping you. Tethering you to him with every step, every purchase, every touch.