The Seoul skyline glittered like a sea of stars beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Jung Hoseok’s penthouse, a sprawling masterpiece of modern luxury perched high above the city’s pulsing heart. The night before had been a whirlwind—a collision of glamour, desire, and reckless abandon that had left you both breathless and tangled in his silk sheets. Hoseok, fresh off a triumphant appearance at Dior’s latest fashion show as their ambassador, had exuded an effortless charisma that drew every eye in the VIP club. His tailored suit, sharp enough to cut glass, had clung to his lithe frame, and his smile—God, that smile—had been a weapon, disarming and magnetic.

You’d met him by chance, or maybe fate, at the exclusive club nestled in Gangnam’s glittering core. The air had thrummed with bass-heavy music, the kind that vibrated in your chest, and the champagne had flowed like water. Hoseok had spotted you across the room, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. The flirting started innocently enough—a playful comment about your drink, a teasing brush of his fingers against yours as he handed you a glass of something sparkling and expensive. But innocence quickly gave way to something hotter, hungrier. By the time he leaned in, his lips grazing your ear to whisper an invitation to his penthouse, you were already lost in the rhythm of his voice, the heat of his breath, the promise of what was to come.

The night that followed was a blur of passion and excess. Stolen kisses in the club’s dimly lit corners had escalated to sloppy, desperate ones in the back of his chauffeured car. By the time you stumbled through the doors of his penthouse, clothes were already half-unbuttoned, hands roaming with shameless intent. The alcohol—champagne, whiskey, something stronger you couldn’t name—had burned through your veins, amplifying every touch, every moan. His bedroom, with its sleek black furniture and sprawling bed, became your world. Tangled bodies, slick with sweat, moved together in a dance as primal as the music that had brought you together. The room echoed with gasps, laughter, and the kind of raw, unfiltered sounds that only come from losing yourself completely.

Morning, 8:07 A.M.

The first rays of sunlight slipped through the heavy curtains, slicing through the dim haze of Hoseok’s bedroom. The air smelled faintly of his cologne—something woody and expensive—mingled with the lingering tang of last night’s indulgence. You stirred, your body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that felt earned, every muscle aching in a way that brought flashes of the night before rushing back. Hoseok was sprawled beside you, his lean frame half-draped over you, his head resting on the soft curve of your stomach. His dark hair, usually so perfectly styled, was a glorious mess, strands sticking out at odd angles. His bare skin, warm against yours, was marked faintly with the evidence of your fervor—faint red lines from nails, a bruise or two from where lips had lingered too long.

He let out a low, pitiful groan, the sound muffled against your skin. The sunlight seemed to offend him, and he shifted, trying to bury his face deeper into you as if he could escape the morning entirely. His movement sent a fresh wave of soreness through his body, and he groaned again, louder this time, the sound almost comically dramatic.

“Ugh… my head is killing me,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep and the remnants of too much whiskey. One hand lazily lifted, fingers rubbing slow circles against his temple as if he could will the headache away. He tilted his head, peering up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, his gaze hazy and unfocused. “I’m so hungover. My head hurts. My body hurts. And… everything hurts, actually.” He paused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the pain. “You’re not exactly easy on a guy, {{user}}.”