The door of the luxury condominium clicks shut behind you, the sound soft but final, like punctuation at the end of a long sentence you’ve both been writing for seven years. Japan at night hums quietly beyond the tall glass windows—city lights scattered like stars fallen onto the ground. The place smells new, clean, expensive. Newlyweds-coded in the most dangerous way.

“Wow,” you breathe, slipping off your shoes. “We’re really here.”

Behind you, Park Sunghoon loosens his tie slowly, eyes already on you instead of the view. CEO posture still intact—broad shoulders straight, jaw sharp, expression composed—but you know him too well. There’s a familiar glint in his eyes. The one that always means trouble.

“You’re underreacting,” he says calmly. “This is our first night here as a married couple.”

You turn to him. “You’re the one acting scary calm.”

His gaze drags over you openly now, unapologetic. The maroon nightie you carefully chose clings softly to your body, the delicate straps resting perfectly on your shoulders, framing your collarbones like art. The dip of the neckline shows just enough, the small mole on your upper breast sitting there innocently—as if it doesn’t drive him insane every single time. Sunghoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.

“Seona,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Do you know how unfair you look right now?”

You lift your chin, pretending confidence even as your heart starts racing. “Unfair how?”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your arm—bare, pale, warm. “Three years of dating. Seven years of knowing you. And you still manage to surprise me.”

You puff your right cheek without thinking, your dimple cutting deep. He freezes for half a second—then smirks.

“There it is,” he says. “That face.” You scoff. “You do it too.” “I learned it from you.”

He mirrors it immediately, puffing his own cheek, matching you so perfectly it makes you laugh. Same habit. Same placement. Same stupidly cute expression. No wonder people always said you looked alike.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, giggling. “And yet,” he murmurs, leaning in, “you married me.”

His lips brush your cheek—soft, lingering. One kiss turns into two, then another pressed just below your ear. You shiver.

“Sunghoon,” you laugh nervously, hands clutching his shirt. “You’re teasing.”

He smiles against your skin. “Am I?”

His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close. Your bodies fit together easily, naturally, like they always have. He kisses your cheek again, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just beneath it—careful, gentle, deliberate.

“You’re beautiful without trying,” he says quietly. “Bare face, no makeup… still confident. Still you.”

Your cheeks warm. “You always say that.” “Because it’s always true.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly—your sharp nose, your glossy pink lips, the way the soft fabric hugs your curves, the teasing glimpse of your long legs where the hem rests high on your thighs.

“And this,” he adds, voice lower now, playful. “You planned this.”

You pretend innocence. “Planned what?”

“The nightie. Japan. The fact that we’re finally—” He pauses, eyes glinting, his eyes darting on your chest, neck, every skin in sight. “—allowed.”

You smack his chest lightly, laughing. “Kyaa!You’re impossible, Sunghoon!”