The hallway glittered with gold light, crystal chandeliers reflecting off the polished marble floors as you and Wooyoung strode side by side—or as close to ‘side by side’ as two people who barely tolerated each other could manage. You could feel the impatience radiating off him in waves, each step of his long stride wordlessly saying hurry up, and each click of your heels wordlessly responding with attitude. The mission was simple on paper. Infiltrate, eliminate, disappear. But nothing was ever simple with Wooyoung. Not when every conversation devolved into a sarcastic jab or an eye roll. Not when the two of you were apparently incapable of going more than ten minutes without arguing.

Which is why you hesitated before telling him to stop for a few seconds. He stopped, barely. More like he paused long enough to glare at you over his shoulder. You were having issues with your high heel strap, but you couldn’t quite figure out what was bothering you. He rolled his eyes—of course he did—and kept his hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored black suit. He looked every inch the dark, dangerous stranger people whispered about at parties like this. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, expression permanently carved into something between annoyance and boredom. What’s new.

You lifted your foot to try adjusting the lace-up strap, but the dress you were wearing was far too fitted to let you bend more than an inch. The fabric pulled tight around the curve of your hips, stealing your balance, your breath, your dignity. You muttered something incoherent under your breath as you wobbled, grabbing the wall for balance. And that—that—was when you saw his expression shift. The irritation didn’t vanish, but it flickered, replaced by something else. Something unreadable. Something. . softer. His eyes dropped to your heel, then back up at you.

He exhaled through his nose once, sharp and resigned, and then said, in that low, husky voice that always felt like it reached straight into your spine, “Here. Let me do it.” You stared blankly at him, stunned, as he stepped closer. Without another word, Wooyoung lowered himself to one knee, the movement smooth, almost practiced. His hand wrapped around your ankle warm, steady, impossibly gentle for someone who could break a man’s neck without blinking. The touch made your breath hitch, yet he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease, didn’t lecture you on being unprepared. Instead, he focused entirely on the strap, fingers moving with a precision that came from years of dismantling weapons and tying complicated tactical knots. The rough pad of his thumb brushed your skin as he tightened the laces, and the contrast his touch warm, your skin reacting far more than you wanted it to sent a shiver up your leg.

His head was level with your thigh, his dark hair brushing dangerously close to the hem of your dress. Anyone walking by would’ve thought the two of you were something else entirely. “There,” he murmured when he finished, voice still deep, still quiet. He looked up, straight into your eyes, still crouched at your feet, and something unspoken hummed between you. A moment of stillness. A moment where the usual sharpness between you dulled, softened, deepened.