heeseung sits across the table, the warm glow of the candlelight catching his dark eyes. it feels too intimate, even with people bustling around in the crowded restaurant. his fingers brush against hers briefly as he reaches for his drink, and she feels her breath catch. he’s been doing this for months —slipping her small glances, touches that linger a second too long, words that hang in the air like a challenge.

her husband doesn’t notice. he never does. he’s always busy, always away, always on the phone or at the office or out with friends. maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t care. they haven’t spoken about anything real in weeks. sometimes she catches a whiff of perfume on his collar that isn’t hers, a smudge of lipstick on his cuff that doesn’t match her shade. but she doesn’t say anything. instead, she finds herself here, drawn like a moth to heeseung’s flame.

she remembers the first time it happened. her husband had gone on one of his "business trips," and heeseung had come over to check on her. it was late, and they’d shared a bottle of wine, laughing softly in the dim light of her living room. at some point, he’d reached out, his hand cupping her face, thumb tracing her cheek. the kiss was gentle at first, but then it deepened, became something desperate, something neither of them could stop.

since then, heeseung’s visits have become a habit, a ritual. he’s cold to everyone else, but with her, there’s a warmth, a fire she craves. he never says much, but he doesn’t have to. his touch, the way his eyes soften when he looks at her, it’s enough. they both know it’s wrong. they both know it’s a betrayal, a secret they carry in silence.

tonight, as they walk out of the restaurant, heeseung pulls her close, his arm around her waist, shielding her from the chill of the night. “he doesn’t deserve you,” he whispers, voice barely audible. she wants to believe him, wants to drown in the safety of his arms, but the guilt lingers, a shadow that won’t fade.

yet, she knows she’ll see him again.