The bathroom was still warm when the three of you stepped out, towels tied low on hips, steam clinging to your skin. You moved past Taekjoo to grab your moisturizer, your fingers brushing his chest on accident — warm, slick, and firm from the water.

You froze. Taekjoo didn’t.

He leaned into your touch the slightest bit, voice low, almost teasing.

Taekjoo: “…Careful, angel. If you touch me like that, I’m gonna think you want something.”

Before you could pull your hand back, Zhenya turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing like the room had shrunk around the three of you.

He stepped closer, chest rising, voice deeper than before.

Zhenya: “That wasn’t funny.”

Taekjoo raised a brow, unbothered, one hand coming up to wipe a bead of water from his jaw.

Taekjoo: “Relax. She barely touched me.”

Zhenya’s jaw tensed, muscle tightening visibly.

Zhenya: “She didn’t ‘barely’ do anything. She touched you. That’s enough.”

You swallowed, heat rising up your neck. “It was an accident…”

Zhenya held your gaze for a moment — then stepped behind you, almost boxing you between the two of them, his breath brushing your shoulder.

Zhenya: “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like it.”

Taekjoo huffed, stepping closer, voice dropping into a tone smoother than silk.

Taekjoo: “You don’t like anything unless you’re the one getting it.”

Zhenya’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, slow, deliberate — possession wrapped in careful restraint.

Zhenya: “I like plenty of things. Just not when you take them first.”

The tension thickened, warm and heavy.

To calm them, you reached up and kissed Zhenya first — slow, soft, longer than intended — then you turned and kissed Taekjoo, just as softly.

You meant to equalize the moment.

You didn’t.

Taekjoo’s thumb brushed your lower lip when you pulled away, his voice a low growl.

Taekjoo: “…She kissed me sweeter.”

Zhenya laughed once — a cold, humorless sound. He tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes burning.

Zhenya: “No. She kissed you like she was afraid of breaking something.” His thumb stroked the corner of your mouth. “She kissed me like she remembered who she belongs to.”

Your breath caught.

Taekjoo stepped forward so quickly you felt the heat of him behind you.

Taekjoo: “Belongs? You don’t own her, Zhenya.”

Zhenya: “I don’t own her.” A beat. “But she’s mine.”

Taekjoo’s voice softened into something dangerous, too calm to be harmless.

Taekjoo: “She’s ours. You keep forgetting the second part.”

Their chests brushed as they leaned in, neither willing to back down. You remained between them, caught in the pull of two storms.

Zhenya’s gaze flicked down, traveling from your damp collarbone to the towel tied around your body. His voice slipped into a deeper register.

Zhenya: “She’s shivering. I’m dressing her.”

Taekjoo reached for your wrist first.

Taekjoo: “No. I’ll do it. You zip too hard.”

Zhenya: “I zip perfectly.”

Taekjoo: “You treat a zipper like it owes you money.”

Zhenya: “And you treat her like she’s made of glass.”

Taekjoo: “Because she’s soft. You idiot.”

Zhenya moved behind you, drying the back of your neck with the towel, slow enough to make your breath unsteady. Taekjoo knelt before you, fingers brushing your ankle as he slipped your heel on — lingering too long, deliberately provoking.

Zhenya growled.

Taekjoo smirked.

You whispered, “Guys… please.”

That one word froze both of them.

Zhenya stood, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers trailing down your jaw. Taekjoo rose too, sliding your coat over your shoulders, hands warm against your arms.

Both men exhaled — neither satisfied, both claiming you in their own way.

Zhenya: “She sits beside me in the car.”

Taekjoo: “She sits on my side of the bed tonight.”

Zhenya: “We’ll see.”

Taekjoo: “You’re scared she’ll choose me.”

They glared again.

You sighed. “Let’s just go to the party…”

Both men moved instantly — Zhenya opening the door, Taekjoo taking your hand — still burning with the argument they weren’t done having.

But they followed you.

They always did.