The roar of Yeonjun’s motorcycle was still ringing in your ears as he pulled off his helmet, hair messy from the ride and eyes locked on you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. The night air was thick with smoke and neon from the diner sign above, but all you could focus on was him—leather jacket, busted knuckles, and that reckless kind of beauty.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “So…what is this, really? Just fun?”

He stepped closer, boots heavy against the pavement, gaze burning into yours like fire through fog. “No,” He said, low and rough. “This is more than just a fling.”