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cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

Hi. Would you write for Jeno fucking the lights out of somebody who's a little older (like maybe the girl isn't being sexually satisfied by her boyfriend or husband). They always say that it's the last time they fuck, but the sexual chemistry's just too strong. Jeno strikes me as having really good sexual stamina. 🥵

no better than this

summary: after your marriage crumbles under the weight of scandal, you find yourself drawn back to the one person who makes you feel something real: jeno. a dangerous attraction, powerful enough to break every rule, pulls you both deeper into a world of lust, deceit, and undeniable chemistry.

pairing: bartender!jeno x model fem!reader

genre: strangers to lovers, smut, angst, drama, forbidden love, cheating, infidelity, age-gap.

warnings: explicit sexual content, dirty talk, dominance/submission, infidelity, emotional manipulation, betrayal, power dynamics, slight public humiliation, toxic relationships, heavy angst, strong language, alcohol, verbal and physical violence (slight), age-gap (jeno is 26, reader 32)

wc: 16,6k

notes: i loved writing this fic, like, seriously. just imagining jeno washing dishes, serving drinks at the bar… omg, it was the best visual ever🫦

the city was cruel at night.

the neon lights, the endless swarm of tired bodies pretending they weren't tired, the polluted air swirling with ambition and failure alike. jeno lee, 26 years old, stood behind the bar of a dingy little place tucked between the shadows of hongdae, polishing glasses that would only get stained with cheap liquor in a matter of minutes.

he smelled of detergent and old grease from his morning job washing dishes at one of seoul’s "top" three-star restaurants. a place he didn’t belong to, a place that made sure he remembered it every day by the way customers looked through him like he was invisible, or worse, like he was furniture.

he was exhausted — not just physically, but soul-deep. it was the kind of exhaustion that settled into your bones when you knew you were never getting out of this life. he had buried any dreams he once had in the same grave as his father, when he was twelve and too young to know that poverty wasn't a phase you could grow out of.

and yet, he smiled sometimes. when his brothers texted him that they got a good grade. when his mother called to tell him she baked sweet bread again and saved him a piece. it was enough. it had to be enough.

jeno had made peace with being a ghost in his own life.

until now.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

jeno had spent the last three hours hunched over a mountain of dishes, the warm stink of soap and seafood lingering thick in the air, when he heard the shouting. a woman’s voice, sharp and high, slicing through the low hum of the restaurant. he froze with his hands wrist-deep in sudsy water, heart picking up in that animal way, because chaos meant someone was going to get hurt, someone was going to get fired, and if he was lucky, it wouldn't be him.

he wiped his hands hastily on his apron, trailing after the others who rushed toward the front of the house, curiosity outweighing caution. the floor was a mess of half-eaten plates, knocked-over chairs, and stunned patrons frozen mid-bite. at the center of it all, like a storm dressed in luxury, was you.

you wore a red satin dress that clung to your body like a second skin, a thin gold belt cinched tight at your waist, the hem daringly high against your thighs. a designer bag dangled from your manicured hand, oversized sunglasses pushed up into your glossy hair even though it was past sunset. everything about you screamed money, glamour, and a certain kind of rage that only came from living too long in a world that bowed at your feet — until it didn’t.

hayoon, the shy server from the kitchen, stood shaking in front of you, eyes wide with tears. you were pointing at her, your voice blistering with insults that jeno didn’t even want to believe someone could spit out at another human being. the reason? a splash of soup on your dress — a barely-there stain that wouldn't even have been visible if you hadn't made such a scene.

jeno felt a hot coil of anger twist in his gut. he hated this. hated the way people with power treated people like hayoon, like they were disposable. he moved forward on instinct, but a hand clamped down on his arm — the captain of the kitchen, shaking his head. "let it go," he muttered. "the manager will handle it."

but jeno couldn’t just stand there. he watched as the manager came out, bending over backward to apologize, offering free meals, free services, free anything just to get you to stop screaming. but you were already halfway out the door, your heels clicking sharply against the floor, your manager scrambling after you, bowing and apologizing to anyone within earshot.

jeno lingered for a moment, staring at the door where you’d disappeared. you were beautiful, yes — blindingly so, in the way celebrities looked in magazine spreads. but there was something broken about you too. something mean and brittle that leaked out in every word you spat.

he didn't know your name, and honestly, he didn't want to.

you didn’t plan to end up here.

the night had started in a penthouse high above the city, where the air smelled like money and lies, and everything was sterile enough to make you feel like a ghost in your own life. he had come home drunk again — your husband, the man whose last name you bore like a brand on your skin — laughing too loud, talking too close, a storm brewing in his blood. there were always storms with him lately. sometimes it was words, sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was just silence so thick it felt like drowning.

every day felt like trudging through quicksand, sinking deeper with every desperate, failing breath. no matter how brightly you smiled on camera, how gracefully you moved under the hot gaze of the world, inside you were rotting, crumbling, losing yourself piece by piece.

you drank to keep yourself together. to forget for a few blessed hours that you hated everything about what you’d become.

you had slipped away while he was in the shower, the sound of water crashing against marble covering your frantic steps. you turned off your phone, tucked it into the deepest drawer of your dresser, buried under silk panties and bras that no longer made you feel like a woman but like a doll on display. the dress you wore wasn’t meant for running away — a stupid, glittering thing you had bought months ago, back when you still cared about being seen, about being beautiful for him. it clung to you now like a second skin, tight over your ribs, the sequins catching every shard of light like tiny knives.

you dressed yourself with reckless hands — black stiletto heels that made you feel powerful and dangerous even as they promised blisters. over it, you threw a heavy blue faux-fur coat, the color electric and defiant, sliding over your shoulders like armor. finally, you hid your face behind oversized black sunglasses, thinking foolishly, maybe no one would recognize you if you wore your sadness like a costume.

you found a bar at the end of a long, forgotten street, tucked between a closed-down laundromat and a yawning alley that smelled like rain and regret. from the outside, it looked abandoned, silent. inside, it was alive with low pulsing music, bodies pressed together in the semi-darkness, a haze of sweat and cigarette smoke blurring the edges of the room.

you walked in, shoulders squared, pretending you belonged there.

you didn’t.

you crossed the room, the click of your heels drowned out by the bass, and perched yourself at the bar, ordering something light — a stupid move, really, because you knew you wouldn’t stop at one.

you sipped your drink slowly, the whiskey burning a hole straight through you, your fingers trembling around the glass. you muttered nonsense at first — complaints, bitchy little comments, the kind of mask you wore so often it had fused to your skin. you could see it in the bartender’s face — boredom, mild disdain. just another rich girl slumming it for the night.

he was there.

jeno.

young, good-looking in a way that was almost boring, except for the way his eyes stayed sharp and careful, like he didn’t trust the world one bit. his black t-shirt stretched over strong arms, veins prominent in his forearms as he wiped down the bar with a casual, detached air. the kind of man who'd seen too much shit to be impressed by drunk girls in sequin dresses.

he barely glanced at you when he took your order, just another blurred face in the river of broken people who washed up here.

but you — you were electric.

you wanted to be invisible. instead, you shone.

jeno’s eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit as he poured your drink, not because he recognized you, but because you stood out like a bleeding wound in a sea of bruises. the coat, the dress, the glasses — it all screamed look at me even as you tried to hide.

but you couldn’t stop yourself.

the words spilled out in a slurred, bitter mess, your voice thick with a sadness you couldn’t cage anymore.

"my life’s a fucking joke," you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing, voice too loud in your own ears. "i used to be someone, you know? i used to be bright. i used to be... more."

the bartender didn’t answer. just watched you, his face unreadable. you went on anyway, drunk on the relief of being heard even if he didn’t care.

"now i’m... this," you said, gesturing vaguely at yourself — at the too-short dress, the scraped knees from running in heels, the mascara smudged under your sunglasses. "married to a monster who treats me like a pet he forgot he owned. locked up in a golden cage."

you nursed your drink carefully, trying to keep your hands from trembling. said stupid, disconnected things just to hear your own voice over the roar in your head.

jeno answered with mechanical politeness, the same way a man answers someone he’s already learned not to care about.

until you started to crack.

"i don’t even know who i am anymore."

the silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable.

you fumbled for your whiskey, took another long sip, your throat working around the burn.

until the alcohol loosened the ties holding you together and you began to spill pieces of yourself across the sticky bar — how you used to dream bigger, how you thought love was supposed to be saving and beautiful and now it was a cage, how nothing felt real anymore except the way the whiskey burned your throat.

and for a moment — just a moment — he looked at you differently.

he didn’t lean in. he didn’t touch you. he didn’t offer pretty lies or cheap kindness.

but he listened.

he listened like it hurt him to hear you. like maybe he knew something about living with broken dreams too.

you felt it, that flicker of attention, and you clung to it like a starving animal.

and then, needing something, anything, you turned toward him, tipping your head slightly, your voice softening into something almost childlike

"do you think i'm pretty?" you asked, your voice cracking halfway through the question, barely more than a whisper under the pounding beat of the music.

jeno froze, the rag still in his hand, his mouth parting slightly as if caught off guard.

he wasn’t used to this — not from you, not from anyone. pretty girls didn’t ask if they were pretty. they already knew.

you watched him struggle, his brow furrowed, his lips pressing together.

he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to lie to you or not. maybe he thought it was safer to lie. maybe he thought you were too fragile to survive the truth.

after a second too long, he nodded.

"yeah," he said, voice low, awkward, a little raw. "you're... pretty."

you laughed. not the sharp, cruel laugh you usually gave to the world — something softer, something sadder. you felt it down to your marrow: he didn’t know if he meant it. he said it because you needed him to say it.

and for tonight, that was enough.

even if tomorrow you would hate yourself for it.

even if tomorrow he would forget you.

you closed your eyes, letting the music swallow you, letting the lie settle over your bruised heart like a bandage too thin to hold.

jeno looked away first, back to his glasses and bottles, pretending like nothing had just happened.

you reached up with trembling fingers and pulled your sunglasses off.

you didn’t do it gently. you ripped them off, like shedding a skin. exposing yourself under the cheap neon lights, letting him see every cracked, broken piece of you.

your eyes were swollen from crying, your makeup a wreck. but more than that, it was the vulnerability that made you ugly — the way your gaze clung to his, desperate and ashamed all at once.

jeno looked at you.

at first, there was nothing — just the bored, impassive glance he gave everyone.

and then his brows pulled together. recognition sparking in his eyes like a slow, dangerous fire.

then his mouth twisted into something cruel, careless.

"you’re..." he started, his voice low, rough.

you watched him realize it.

"you’re the fucking bitch from the restaurant," he said, blunt as a slap.

no hesitation. no mercy.

the words hung in the air, thick and ugly. people nearby glanced over, but you didn’t care. couldn’t.

you just stared at him, your heart collapsing inside your chest like a dying star.

and then — the most surprising thing. you didn’t scream. you didn’t throw your drink in his face. you didn’t insult him back, like you would have earlier tonight, or a thousand other nights before.

your shoulders slumped.

your eyes dropped to the sticky floor.

and you nodded.

because he was right.

because they were all right.

you were a bitch. a trophy. a ghost. a prisoner.

maybe they were right.

you mumbled something under your breath — a pathetic excuse, something about how it wasn’t what it looked like, how life sometimes cornered you until you had no choice but to bite and snarl to survive.

jeno didn’t respond.

he looked away, wiping a glass clean with mechanical efficiency, his jaw tight. you didn’t need him to say anything. you already knew how he saw you now.

the drinks kept coming after that.

you ordered another.

and another.

your legs grew numb. your mind fuzzed out into static. the world tilted on its axis until you couldn't tell whether you were laughing or crying anymore.

jeno served you silently, reluctantly, with the grim understanding of a man who knew he was enabling something ugly but didn’t have the heart to stop you.

by the time the clock behind the bar hit three a.m., the place was emptying out. the music was a low murmur, the lights dimmer, the air thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and regret.

you barely noticed the two security guys approaching.

"hey, jeno," one of them said, nudging his shoulder roughly, "this one's out. get her the fuck outta here before she pukes on the floor."

jeno glanced at you, his lips tightening.

"she's too drunk," he said. "she shouldn’t—"

"not our problem," the guard snapped, already moving toward you.

you tried to push yourself off the stool, but the ground tilted sickeningly under your heels. you reached instinctively for something — for your phone, for a bag, for anything to anchor you — but your fingers only brushed the edge of your small wallet tucked against your side. no phone. no one to call.

you were alone.

hands grabbed your arms roughly. you struggled weakly, mumbling protests that didn’t even make sense to yourself.

jeno swore under his breath, trying to step between you and the guards, but there were two of them and one of him, and they didn’t give a shit about some drunk girl dressed like a fallen angel.

you were dragged outside.

the cold night air slapped you in the face, snapping you into a sharper, more painful awareness of how absolutely pathetic you were right now.

the sidewalk was cracked and wet, the streetlights buzzing overhead like dying stars.

you stumbled, falling hard on your knees, scraping the tender skin through the thin fabric of your stockings.

jeno followed a few steps behind, breathless and furious but helpless too, his fists clenched at his sides.

he finished his shift fifteen minutes later, tossing his apron onto the counter with a bitter, disgusted motion.

he told himself he didn’t owe you anything.

that he should just go home.

you weren't his responsibility.

you weren’t even someone he liked.

but when he walked out onto the street and saw you still there — slumped against the cold wall, legs sprawled, head hanging low, your stupid fucking coat slipping off your shoulders like a wilted flower — something inside him cracked.

you looked so small.

so goddamn breakable.

he muttered a curse under his breath, crossing the street in three long strides.

you barely noticed him until he was crouching in front of you, his hand hovering awkwardly near your arm.

"come on," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "you can't stay here."

your eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.

"hello?" you slurred, a sad, broken kind of hope in your voice.

he didn’t answer. he just pulled you up, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to keep you from collapsing again.

you were deadweight against him, boneless, trusting him in the dumb, dangerous way that only truly broken people trusted strangers.

he had no idea why the fuck he was doing this.

maybe because he saw too much of himself in you.

maybe because leaving you here felt like leaving a wounded animal to die.

he didn't think about it too hard.

he just walked, dragging you along, toward the shitty apartment he called home, knowing that in the morning, everything would be even messier than it already was.

but for tonight, he would be the idiot who caught the falling star before it shattered completely.

jeno fumbled with the rusty lock of his apartment, keys jingling clumsily as he struggled to keep your half-conscious body propped against his side. the familiar smell of damp walls and cheap detergent hit him as he finally managed to shove the door open, the two of you stumbling into the cramped, poorly lit space.

his apartment was nothing more than a dim square — naked walls, a tiny kitchen barely separated from the living area; the only kind of refuge he could offer you that night.

he kicked the door shut behind him, hands holding you with more care than he ever thought he was capable of. you were light, fragile even, so different from the image you had projected earlier — all glittering sequins, stiletto heels, and that ridiculous electric blue fur coat hanging loosely off your shoulders like some pathetic flag of surrender.

jeno guided you to his messy bed, the only one in the room, and let you fall into it with a kind of clumsy gentleness. you stirred slightly, dragging the rough sheets with you, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. your dress rode up dangerously high along your thighs, exposing smooth, warm skin — raw vulnerability laid bare.

"hey..." your voice was small, uncertain.

jeno turned his head just enough to see you, your body curled into a tight ball, your face half-buried in the pillow.

"what's your name?" you asked.

it hit him harder than it should have — the simple, broken question.

"jeno," he said after a beat, voice rough. "lee jeno, and you?"

there was a pause.

long enough that he thought you’d passed out again.

then:

"does it matter?" you whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

jeno exhaled sharply through his nose, a bitter little laugh catching in his throat. "guess not."

for a moment, jeno couldn’t move. he just stood there, watching the broken, overflowing creature you had become, a knot forming in his throat and something much darker twisting low in his belly. he clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to take a step back. he wasn't that kind of man. he wouldn’t be that kind of man.

he turned toward the worn-out couch, muttering a curse under his breath. he'd have to rough it out tonight, he figured. one last glance toward you, curled up in a ball of sequins and regret, and he was retreating towards the door of the bedroom, bracing himself for a night of painful insomnia.

but then you moved.

a broken little moan slipped from your throat as you pushed yourself up, your electric blue coat sliding off your shoulders to pool at your feet. the sequined dress caught the faint light, flickering like something barely alive. you stood, barefoot and trembling, swaying slightly as you crossed the few steps between you and him.

"don't go..." you slurred, voice thick, syrupy, a dangerous kind of sweetness.

jeno stiffened when your hands found his back — small, warm hands — and pressed your body flush against his. your breasts, soft and full, molded to him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, your breath warm and damp against his neck.

"i know i'm drunk..." you whispered, your hands trailing up his sides, seeking skin, seeking heat. "but i'm also so fucking horny. it's been... it's been so long..."

jeno’s heart punched against his ribs, blood rushing south so violently he almost staggered. he could feel his cock hardening instantly, straining painfully against his jeans.

"fuck..." he muttered, hands closing around your wrists to halt your wandering touch — but with no real strength behind it, his grip trembling.

you laughed, low and bitter, feeling his reaction through the thick denim, rubbing yourself against him with deliberate, reckless need. "you feel that, right? you want me too..."

jeno shut his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose, as if that could somehow erase the vision of you — drunk, aching, desperate for something to fill the void gnawing at your soul. everything inside him screamed to just take it. to lose himself in your body and your sadness.

but not like this.

not fucking like this.

"no," he rasped, pushing you back with a gentle but firm hand. your eyes, glassy and pleading, stabbed straight through him, leaving a wound that might never heal. "not like this, you're drunk"

you wobbled slightly on your feet, confusion and wounded pride flashing across your face.

jeno stepped away from you as if your very touch could burn him alive. he dragged a hand down his face, cursing again under his breath. the hard-on straining against his jeans was a cruel, relentless reminder of what he was denying himself.

without thinking, he turned and fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

he flipped the shower on, letting freezing water crash down without even testing the temperature first.

stripping hastily, he stepped under the punishing cold, gasping at the shock against his overheated skin.

but it wasn't enough.

the images — your soft body pressed against him, the hunger in your voice — wouldn't leave him alone.

with a muttered curse, he braced himself against the cold tiles, his hand sliding down to his aching cock, gripping it roughly.

he worked himself with desperate, furious strokes, biting back moans of frustration.

your face, your lips, the faint trembling of your voice — it all burned inside his mind, even as he spilled himself against the wall with a grunt of broken need.

he wrapped his fingers around himself, jerking roughly, almost angrily, trying to erase the image of you from his mind — but failing miserably.

because all he could think about was how soft your skin had felt when he’d touched your arm. how you had looked at him like he was someone who could save you.

his hips stuttered forward, chasing a release he hated himself for even needing.

he came with a strangled, broken sound, painting the tiles in front of him, his forehead dropping against the cold wall.

he stayed under the icy water for a moment longer, letting it wash away the physical evidence of his failure to control himself. but it did nothing to erase the guilt.

when he finally emerged, wet and exhausted, the apartment felt even colder, even emptier.

you were passed out again on his bed, the ridiculous fur coat now tangled beneath you like some tattered shield.

jeno collapsed onto the couch, dragging the rough blanket over himself, shutting his eyes against the too-bright images still playing behind his eyelids.

tomorrow, he told himself.

tomorrow he’d forget you.

forget the taste of your voice, the shape of your body, the scent of cheap perfume still clinging to the air.

tomorrow.

if he fucking survived the night.

the faint murmur of the city waking up outside was what pulled you from the thick, nauseating fog of sleep.

your head throbbed painfully as you shifted on the unfamiliar mattress, the rough blanket scraping against your bare legs. the world tilted dangerously when you forced yourself upright, one hand clutching your pounding temple, the other searching for anything solid to anchor yourself.

it was then that you noticed him.

sitting awkwardly on a battered old couch across the small room, watching you with a guarded, tense expression.

panic surged through your veins like fire, burning away the last remnants of alcohol in your system. you scrambled off the bed, heart hammering violently against your ribs, and pressed yourself back against the nearest wall.

"where the fuck am i?" you demanded, voice hoarse and trembling. "who are you? did you — did you fucking kidnap me?"

jeno flinched as if you had struck him, the muscles in his jaw tightening. he rose slowly from the couch, palms raised slightly in a gesture of peace, his brows knitting together in a deep frown.

"i didn't kidnap you," he said, voice low, steady. "you got drunk at the bar. couldn't even stand. the bouncers threw you out like trash. i couldn't just leave you there in the street at three in the morning."

you stared at him, breathing hard, trying to make sense of the jumbled memories flashing through your mind — neon lights, the overwhelming haze of alcohol, the taste of desperation in your mouth.

seeing the genuine offense, the almost hurt in his expression, some of the panic drained away, leaving only a heavy, miserable shame. you wiped a trembling hand over your face, letting your forehead thud softly against the wall behind you.

"fuck... i'm sorry," you mumbled, your voice breaking.

jeno just shook his head, as if he didn’t expect much better from you.

after a heavy silence, you peeked at him from beneath your lashes, guilt gnawing at your gut. "did i...?" you hesitated, the words sticking to your dry tongue. "did i say anything... inappropriate?"

jeno froze — just for a second — but it was enough. the way his ears flushed pink, the way he shifted uncomfortably where he stood, looking anywhere but at you.

you felt your own stomach sink, mortification rising like a wave.

"oh my god," you whispered. "i did. i propositioned you, didn’t i?"

jeno scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath. "you were drunk," he said tightly. "you didn’t know what you were saying."

you groaned, covering your burning face with your hands. "i'm so fucking sorry. god, you must think i'm..."

"it's fine," he cut you off sharply. too sharply.

you swallowed, throat raw. then, fumbling toward the nightstand, you found a scrap of paper and a pen.

"give me your bank account number," you said, voice still shaking. "i'll transfer you some money. it's the least i can do for — for this."

jeno stared at you like you had slapped him.

"i don't want your money," he said, voice cold, final. "just... forget it. forget this ever happened."

but forgetting wasn’t possible. not with the way your heart slammed against your ribs every time your eyes met, not with the heavy, crackling silence filling the tiny apartment.

you shifted, the hem of your dress riding dangerously up your thighs, and you caught the way his gaze flicked downward, his throat bobbing in a harsh swallow.

it was all the confirmation you needed.

without thinking, without even breathing, you crossed the distance between you.

jeno stiffened as you pressed your body to his once again, but this time, you were fully aware, fully sober, your mind burning with the reckless, stupid need that had never really left you.

"if you really don’t want anything from me..." you whispered, fingertips ghosting up his chest, "then push me away."

for a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

then —

with a low, guttural growl, he grabbed you by the waist, slamming your body back against the nearest wall. the impact knocked the air from your lungs, but you barely noticed, too consumed by the heat, the sheer violence of it.

his mouth crashed against yours, teeth scraping, tongues clashing in a messy, desperate kiss that tasted of frustration and hunger and something dangerously close to despair.

jeno’s hands were everywhere — gripping your ass, hauling you higher until you were forced to wrap your legs around his hips. you could feel his cock, thick and throbbing through his jeans, grinding hard against the soaked strip of your panties.

you gasped against his mouth, rolling your hips, seeking friction, seeking anything that could numb the hollow ache inside you.

"fuck, you're gonna be the death of me," he growled, dragging his mouth down your neck, biting and sucking harshly until you were sure you'd wear his marks for days.

he barely gave you time to breathe, yanking your dress up to your waist, tearing your panties down with brutal efficiency.

you whimpered when the cold air hit your soaked folds, but then he was there, lining himself up, not even bothering to fully undress.

jeno looked at you once, just once, his eyes dark and wild, silently asking if this was what you wanted.

you nodded, breathless, desperate.

and then he was inside you in one brutal, unrelenting thrust, forcing a broken, keening cry from your lips.

he was big, stretching you wide, filling you so completely it bordered on painful — but you welcomed it, craved it.

jeno fucked you against the wall, hard and fast and dirty, the slap of skin against skin loud and obscene in the tiny apartment.

you clawed at his shoulders, at his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake, and he only fucked you harder for it, growling low curses into your ear.

"so tight," he grunted, hips pistoning mercilessly into yours. "so fucking wet for me."

you could only sob his name, your body burning, your mind shattering with every brutal thrust.

jeno shifted his angle, and you saw stars as he drove into that sweet, devastating spot deep inside you over and over until you were a babbling, incoherent mess.

you came with a broken scream, clenching around him so hard that he cursed, pulling out just in time to spill hot, sticky ropes of cum across your thighs and stomach.

he collapsed against you, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck.

for a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sound the harsh, uneven drag of your breaths mingling in the thick, heavy air.

and in that silence, the consequences of what had just happened started to settle between you like smoke.

your legs were still trembling when he pulled away, but the moment his weight left you, the emptiness hit harder than anything else.

"jeno..." you whimpered, your voice raw and wrecked, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming need clawing inside you. "please..."

he froze at the broken sound you made — half a sob, half a desperate plea — and lifted his head to look at you. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, but his eyes... his eyes burned.

"please what, baby?" he rasped, voice wrecked, teasing even as his hands grabbed your thighs again, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "use your words, pretty girl. tell me what you want."

you swallowed thickly, shame and need warring inside you, but it was so easy to give in — to beg for him, to drop the last shred of pride you had.

"i want more," you gasped, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you upright. "please, jeno... fuck me again. i need you."

jeno groaned low in his throat, like he was in pain, and crashed his mouth against yours once more. this kiss was different — hungrier, sloppier, laced with pure fucking greed.

he carried you to the bed with ease, tossing you down onto the messy sheets, your dress still bunched around your waist, panties somewhere lost on the floor.

jeno stripped then — fast, brutal, shedding his shirt and jeans in seconds until he was gloriously, fucking painfully naked.

your mouth watered at the sight of him — broad chest heaving, abs tight, thick cock still hard and leaking, glistening with his own precum.

he knelt between your trembling thighs, grabbing your ankles and shoving them wide open, baring your dripping cunt to his ravenous gaze.

"look at you," he growled, voice thick with dark admiration. "so fucking pretty. so desperate for my cock, aren't you, baby?"

you nodded frantically, shame burning your cheeks but need burning hotter.

"say it," he demanded, stroking his cock lazily, spreading precum over the swollen head. "tell me how much you want it."

"i want your cock," you sobbed, arching your back, hands fisting the sheets. "i need you inside me, jeno. please, please fuck me — ruin me."

jeno snarled, something savage and unhinged breaking loose inside him.

"fuck, you’re perfect," he hissed, crawling up your body, caging you beneath him. "my perfect little slut, begging for my cock."

your heart stuttered at the filthy words, at how much you wanted them, needed them.

jeno didn’t waste another second — he lined up and slammed back into you with a brutal thrust that punched a strangled scream from your throat.

he didn't give you time to adjust, didn't give you time to breathe — he set a relentless pace, fucking you into the mattress, each thrust driving you higher and higher toward oblivion.

"you're so fucking tight," he grunted, slamming deep inside you. "like you were made for me, baby. made to take my cock."

"yes — yes, i am," you cried, tears spilling over your cheeks, your body arching to meet every savage thrust. "i'm yours, jeno. yours."

his growl was pure fucking sin.

"mine," he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

jeno kissed you then — filthy and claiming — fucking you harder, faster, deeper, until your body was nothing but raw nerve endings, every inch of you burning, every breath a broken prayer.

"you gonna cum for me, pretty baby?" he panted against your mouth, his cock driving into that sweet spot with ruthless precision. "gonna cream all over my cock like the dirty little girl you are?"

you nodded frantically, incoherent, pleasure crashing down on you like a fucking tidal wave.

your orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming, and you sobbed his name as your cunt clamped down on him, milking him ruthlessly.

jeno cursed viciously, losing control, fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

with a final, brutal thrust, he spilled deep inside you, filling you so full it leaked out around him, hot and thick and obscene.

he collapsed onto you, both of you trembling, gasping for air, the scent of sex heavy in the room.

he didn't pull out — he stayed buried deep, holding you close, whispering broken praise against your ear.

"good girl," he murmured, kissing your temple. "so fucking good for me."

you clung to him, dazed and shattered, your heart hammering against his.

for the first time in a long time, you felt full.

wanted.

claimed.

as you glance at the clock, you realize it's far too late. Jeno notices it too, the tension thickening in the air as both of you scramble to get dressed in a rush. there’s a strange shift inside you, and suddenly, the cold, distant attitude you had before returns. you stand up straight, smoothing down your clothes, and with a tight smirk, you throw out the words, “this will be the last time we see each other.”

jeno pauses, his eyes narrowing as you continue, your tone biting, “i’ll make sure to remember you have a good dick, but that’s all.” you can practically hear the sarcasm drip from your words, the defiance clear in every syllable.

a sharp click of his tongue escapes him, the irritation in his eyes impossible to hide. he watches as you switch from the girl he’d just been tangled up with to someone almost unrecognizable—distant, untouchable. his jaw clenches, the frustration mounting as he mutters, “fine, then. we won’t see each other again.”

he moves toward the door, ready to usher you out, but before he can say another word, you lift your chin high, your gaze fixed ahead like a queen on her throne.

you glance at him one last time, your words sharp, almost cutting through the air. “obviously, we won’t see each other again. i hardly ever get tangled up with people of your level.” you watch as his face hardens, the words lingering between you like smoke, suffocating any remnant of the moment you just shared.

without waiting for a response, you turn on your heel, leaving him in the room, his annoyance and confusion left hanging in the silence. the sharpness in his gaze follows you, a twinge of something dangerous in the way he watches you leave. it only irritates him more.

the scene shifts abruptly.

you step into the grand lobby of your penthouse, the heavy weight of the night still hanging on you, your heels clicking sharply against the cold marble floor. the lights are dim, the shadows making the room feel colder than it should. your husband, managers, and several other figures of the personal are gathered there, a sea of blurred faces and disinterested glances.

the moment you enter, your husband’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes burning with fury, his expression twisted in a way that makes your stomach churn. he’s on his feet in an instant, his body towering over yours as he grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging you painfully toward him. the suddenness of it catches you off guard, and your breath hitches as he snarls, his words sharp and venomous.

“where the hell have you been, you stupid, fucking bitch?” he spits, the insult stinging worse than the pull on your scalp. you try to free yourself, your hands clawing at his grip, but he’s too strong, too furious. the others? they barely even flinch. they just watch, their eyes glazed, as if this is just another ordinary occurrence.

your body tenses, anger mixing with fear as you try to shove him off. but he doesn’t let go. he keeps shouting, his breath heavy, as the room fills with the sour weight of his anger.

“smelling like alcohol, again. you’re fucking disgusting. you’re going to rehab. i’ll make sure of it, you hear me?” his voice rises with each word, his control over you suffocating, as if his rage is all that defines you now.

you gasp, your voice trembling as you manage to find the strength to shout back, “no! i won’t go! don’t… don’t you dare!” the fear in your voice is clear, but there's something else—something that exposes the cracks in this whole twisted thing. the way he controls you. manipulates you. it’s sickening, and yet, you're stuck in this web, unable to break free.

he doesn’t even flinch at your protest. instead, he drags you down the hall, pulling you toward the bathroom, his hand like iron around your wrist, squeezing until you can barely breathe. his voice is cold as he commands, “you’ve got ten minutes. get in the shower, clean yourself up. you have a session to get to.” the words hit you like a slap, like you're nothing more than an object to be handled and used.

he releases you only to bark at the staff, the low, guttural growl of his command making the air around you heavy. “get everything ready in her room. she’ll be in there when she’s done. we need her ready, now.”

you barely process the words. your mind is spinning, dizzy from the alcohol, from the anger, from the fear. all you know is that you’re trapped in this—this life you never wanted, this marriage you never signed up for. and yet, there you are, bound by the chains he forged.

you walk into the session, completely lost, your mind scattered, your soul feeling bruised. it’s like every part of you is on autopilot, just going through the motions, trying to make it through. you’re not sure who you are anymore, but you push all of that aside, forcing yourself to give them the best version of you, even though it’s so far from who you really are.

they leave your hair straight, simple, and flat against your shoulders. the lingerie you’ll be modeling is put on you, but it feels like a prison, like it’s meant to show off something that’s no longer yours to own. the makeup they do on you is almost natural—just a touch of foundation to cover the pain, and then the red lipstick. cherry red, like it’s supposed to make you feel alive, but it only reminds you of all the things you wish you could forget.

as you stand in front of the mirror, trying to breathe through the mounting pressure, you feel a deep sense of loss settle in your chest. every day, it feels like you’re slipping farther away from yourself, drowning in a sea of expectations, a sea of things you can never fully escape. your anxiety is high, gnawing at your insides, a constant, ever-present hum. all you want is to drown it out—to feel something other than this suffocating emptiness.

you glance into your bag as you wait in the car, alone for a few moments. you can’t stand the quiet, the weight of everything pressing down on you. your hands tremble as you pull out the small bottle of liquor you keep hidden, a desperate, shaky hope that it’ll make everything go away, even if just for a little while.

the first sip is shaky, your heart pounding, fear clawing at your chest that someone might catch you, but as it slides down your throat, it burns. and for the first time today, you feel something other than numb. it’s not much, but it’s enough to calm the panic inside you, to push the anxiety back just a little.

you glance around the car, making sure no one’s coming, and take another quick sip. it’s just a little more, just enough to quiet the noise, to make the world feel a little more manageable.

but then you hear the door open, and you quickly hide the bottle back in your bag, your heart racing as your driver and the others pile in, the awkward tension thick in the air. they try to make small talk, to congratulate you on how great the photos turned out, but you don’t hear them. it’s like their words are just noise, the hollow echo of people who don’t really see you, don’t really know what’s going on inside.

nothing they say can fill the void inside you. nothing they say can stop the ache, the loneliness. you sit there, surrounded by them, yet more alone than ever.

jeno’s life continues, an unremarkable routine he’s gotten used to. by day, he’s washing dishes in the hotel kitchen, the steam and clatter of plates all he hears as the hours drag on. by night, he’s behind the bar, mixing drinks for customers who hardly notice him. nothing changes. it’s the same every day.

but you? you’re different. you’re out there, in a world he can’t even imagine, posing in front of cameras, wearing clothes most people could never afford. your life is glittering, filled with fame and lights. and jeno... well, he’s just trying to get by.

he visits his mom and brothers when he can, bringing them whatever he can afford—money, food, school supplies. his mother always greets him with a warm smile, her tired eyes softening when she sees the small bundles of things he’s brought. one afternoon, as jeno watches her fuss with the groceries, he sees her hands, worn and rough from years of work. her voice is gentle as she talks about the boys and their progress in school, and jeno, despite everything, can’t help but feel a small flicker of pride.

“you’re doing good, jeno,” she says softly, her hand brushing his cheek. “i’m proud of you.”

he smiles, the weight in his chest lightening for a brief moment. “i’m just doing what i can, mom.”

on his way back to his apartment, jeno sits on the bus, watching the city of seoul pass by, the neon lights flickering as the sky darkens. the world outside the window is moving too fast, just like everything else in his life.

but then he spots it. a building with a large billboard hanging outside—an advertisement for victoria’s secret. the image catches his attention, something about it drawing him in. it’s a silhouette, a woman posed confidently in black lingerie. her face, though partially obscured by the lighting, is unmistakable.

it’s you.

your figure, your face, the cherry-red lipstick—it’s all there. beneath the image, the name printed in bold letters: “y/n.”

“y/n...”

the name echoes in his mind, bouncing around like a restless thought he can’t shake.

he sits there, staring at the ad, his heart thudding in his chest. was that you? he wonders. he wasn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized you earlier, considering how little he paid attention to social media or the new faces in the industry. his life was always too busy—work, family, just surviving. he didn’t have the luxury of keeping up with the world outside his own.

he leans back in his seat, the questions swirling in his head. was that why you were dressed the way you were at the bar?he wonders, his mind replaying the night, trying to piece it all together. was that why you didn’t even bother telling me your name?

he shakes his head, frustration building inside. he hadn’t even thought to ask you. not in the way he should’ve. maybe that’s why the whole thing felt like a dream—something too far out of his reach, too disconnected from his reality.

days pass, and jeno can’t shake the thought of you. why couldn’t he get you out of his head? he keeps thinking. his mind keeps returning to that night in the bar, to the way you made him feel in ways no one else ever had. it wasn’t just the physical attraction—though that was undeniable—it was something deeper. a connection, maybe. something that left him wanting more.

and you? did you think about him too? he wonders. he can’t help but wonder what you felt. what was it about that night?

he keeps going through his days, the weight of the routine pressing down on him, but your image haunts him. every time he passes that building, every time he sees a billboard, the thought of you creeps in.

he can’t seem to get you out of his mind. not now. not ever since that night.

days go by, and life continues. you’re caught in your own spiral, wrapped up in your career, your fame, your superficial relationships. but behind the glossy exterior, there’s a storm inside. your anxiety is climbing, your need for control is overwhelming. you can’t shake the memory of jeno, of his touch, the way he made you feel in a way no one else ever has. it haunts you. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to admit it. he doesn’t belong in my world. you tell yourself that over and over, even though deep down you know it’s a lie.

one evening, after a photoshoot, you find yourself at a bar. it’s not glamorous, not the kind of place you usually visit, but something about it draws you in. maybe it’s the need for escape, or maybe it’s just the feeling of being lost, like always. you walk in, the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses filling the air.

and then, as if fate had a twisted sense of humor, you see him. jeno. he’s sitting at the bar, his back to you, but you know it’s him instantly. the same posture, the same way he leans against the counter, the same worn-out look in his eyes. for a moment, you just stand there, frozen. what the hell is he doing here?

he doesn’t see you at first. but when he does, his gaze flicks up, and for a split second, neither of you moves. you’re not sure what to feel. you should leave. walk away. pretend you never saw him. but then something shifts, something almost dangerous flares inside you. why should you leave? he doesn’t belong in your world, but there’s something magnetic about him. something you can’t resist.

you walk up to the bar, casually, as if nothing ever happened between the two of you. your voice is cold, distant when you speak.

"didn’t expect to see you here," you say, your words laced with a bitterness that doesn’t even feel real to you.

jeno raises an eyebrow, his face giving away nothing, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something, something that betrays the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. "neither did I," he responds, leaning back in his chair, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

you take a seat beside him, your body language confident, almost too much so. why does he still make you feel this way? your mind is racing, but you won’t admit it. you won’t show any weakness. after all, he’s not worth it. but still, as you sip your drink, you can’t help but wonder if this will be the last time you see him... or if there’s something else between you two, something neither of you can deny.

jeno, ever so cool, watches you from the corner of his eye, a strange expression on his face. "so," he says finally, breaking the silence. "this is it then? you just walk in and act like nothing happened?"

you tilt your head slightly, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "what did you expect?" you reply, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "you think I’d remember a night like that?"

his jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. he knows better than to push. but still, the way you carry yourself, the way you treat him—it drives him insane. and he can’t help but wonder, why does he still feel drawn to you?

you don't know who moves first, but suddenly you're both on your feet, the space between you charged with something volatile, something dangerous. your eyes lock, a silent dare hanging heavy in the air. and then, like the snap of a rubber band stretched too far, you grab his wrist, dragging him toward the back of the bar without a word.

jeno follows, his steps heavy, his breathing ragged. he doesn’t need you to say anything. he knows exactly where this is going.

the bathroom door slams shut behind you, and before you can even turn around, he's on you—shoving you against the wall so hard the air leaves your lungs in a gasp. his hands are rough, desperate, sliding up your thighs, bunching up your expensive dress around your hips.

"this is the last time," you hiss, even as your hands tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer, needing him like you need your next breath.

"fuck, you’re so full of shit," he growls, his mouth crashing into yours, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. there’s no softness, no tenderness. it’s all teeth, spit, and fury. you kiss him like you hate him, nails raking down his arms, and he groans against your mouth, grabbing your ass hard enough to leave bruises.

he lifts you effortlessly, your back hitting the wall again as he grinds his hips into yours. you can feel him, hard and straining against his jeans, and it sends a rush of wetness flooding between your thighs.

"you fucking missed me," he mutters against your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, to make your head slam back against the wall.

"shut the fuck up," you snap, even as you wrap your legs tighter around him, rocking your hips shamelessly against his. you hate him. you hate yourself even more for wanting this, for needing it.

he fumbles with his jeans, freeing his cock, and the moment you feel him—hot, thick, leaking against your thigh—you lose whatever shred of dignity you were still clinging to.

"beg for it," he growls, one hand squeezing your throat just enough to make your knees tremble.

"fuck you," you spit back, but the way you grind down on him betrays you.

he grins, a wicked, filthy thing, and without warning, he slams into you in one brutal thrust, making you cry out loud enough to echo off the walls. you cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, as he pounds into you, hard and fast and punishing.

"this is all you're good for," he snarls against your ear, hips snapping into yours with vicious precision. "a spoiled little bitch who needs to get fucked stupid."

you moan, high and broken, because he's right. you hate how right he is.

he fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you, like he’s trying to burn himself into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul. every thrust knocks the air out of you, every rough groan he rips from your throat making you fall apart a little more.

you rake your nails down his back, probably drawing blood, but he just groans, fucking into you even harder, chasing the sick, desperate high you both crave.

"gonna come all over my cock, aren't you?" he pants, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub your clit in brutal circles. "fucking filthy."

you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, your whole body tensing as the orgasm crashes over you, blinding and savage. you shake in his arms, squeezing him so tight he curses under his breath, slamming into you a few more times before he spills inside you with a low, broken groan.

for a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, your bodies still pressed together, sweaty and trembling.

then you shove him away, fixing your dress with shaking hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

"this never happened," you snap, voice hoarse. "it’s over."

jeno chuckles darkly, zipping up his jeans, not bothering to hide the smug, wrecked look on his face.

"whatever you say, princess," he mutters, like he knows you’re both lying through your fucking teeth.

you return to your tables like nothing happened, your bodies still buzzing, still raw from what you just did. but now the bar is more crowded, people weaving through the narrow spaces, laughter and music filling the air.

there's barely room to breathe.

it happens naturally—or maybe fate is just cruel—but without really thinking, you both end up sitting at the same table. the shared silence is thick, electric, both of you pretending to sip your drinks, pretending not to notice how close you are.

jeno stretches his legs under the table, and casually, like it means nothing, his hand slides onto your thigh. slow. deliberate.

your body goes rigid, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. a warning. don't.

but he doesn't stop. if anything, he just smiles lazily, the pad of his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your bare skin, sliding higher, inch by devastating inch.

you should slap his hand away. you should tell him to fuck off. instead, heat coils low in your belly, slow and humiliating. your thighs tense under his touch, but you don't move. you can feel the smirk against your skin without even looking.

fucking bastard.

the air grows too thick, your breathing too shallow. it's like every nerve ending you have is concentrated where his hand touches you. and you hate it. you hate him.

and yet, you lean closer, just enough to let your knee brush against his.

jeno chuckles low, dark, under his breath. he knows he's winning.

you finish your drink in one harsh gulp, slamming the glass down harder than necessary. without looking at him, you mutter, "let's go."

he follows you out without a word, the tension between you stretched tight enough to snap.

the second the door to his shitty apartment clicks shut behind you, it's like a dam breaks.

jeno surges forward, grabbing you by the waist, crashing his mouth to yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and spit and hunger. you kiss him back just as hard, biting at his bottom lip, hands fisting in his jacket, dragging him toward the living room.

your knees bump against the couch, and with a rough push, you shove him down onto it, standing over him, chest heaving, eyes burning.

jeno spreads his legs slightly, slouching back with that cocky, infuriating smirk on his face, like he knows exactly what's about to happen.

and he’s right.

you sink down to your knees between his thighs, never breaking eye contact. your fingers work at his belt, slow and unhurried, dragging the moment out, making him twitch with impatience.

"you’re so fucking full of yourself," you mutter, undoing the button of his jeans, pulling down the zipper inch by torturous inch.

"and you’re so fucking desperate," he shoots back, voice rough, hands fisting the couch cushions instead of grabbing you like you know he wants to.

you free his cock, heavy and flushed and already leaking for you. the sight makes something in you snap, something hot and reckless.

you wrap one hand around the base, squeezing lightly just to watch his stomach tense, to hear that tiny hitch in his breath he can’t hide.

slowly—so slowly it’s almost cruel—you lean in, letting the tip brush against your lips, teasing him, smearing precum across your mouth like lipgloss.

jeno growls low in his throat, hips jerking slightly, but you pull back with a wicked smile, your eyes daring him to move again.

then, finally, you flatten your tongue and lick a slow, filthy stripe from the base to the head, savoring the weight of him, the taste of him. his whole body shudders, and his head tips back against the couch.

"fuck, y/n," he breathes, voice broken, wrecked.

you hum around him, letting the vibration travel through his cock as you take him deeper, inch by inch, until your lips are wrapped tight around him, until he’s sliding against your tongue, heavy and pulsing.

you set a slow, relentless rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, swallowing around him just to feel him twitch. your hands grip his thighs hard enough to bruise, keeping him pinned, even as he bucks his hips weakly, desperate for more.

"look at you," he groans, voice thick with lust. "on your knees for me again... fucking perfect."

his words only make you sink lower, taking him even deeper, your throat tightening around him. he curses, one hand finally tangling in your hair, not forcing, just holding, trembling with the effort to stay still.

you pull back slowly, gasping for air, a thin string of spit connecting your swollen lips to his cock.

"last time, right?" you pant, stroking him lazily, watching him fall apart above you.

jeno laughs, broken and breathless.

"keep lying to yourself, baby."

then you take him back into your mouth, hungrier this time, like you’re trying to erase every rational thought from both your minds.

and you know you will.

after you finish, you both sit there, breathless, ruined, the taste of each other still fresh on your tongues. there's a moment—dangerous, heavy—where your fingers brush against his when you hand him back his drink.

jeno doesn’t pull away.

neither do you.

without really thinking, you slide your phone across the table. he smirks, slow and lazy, and types his number in without a word.

days pass.

the number burns a hole in your phone, in your mind. but you don’t call. neither does he. pride, fear, something darker keeping you both in check.

until your husband leaves for a business trip, off to some distant city, chasing dirty deals and cheap whores. and suddenly you’re a teenager again, reckless, starved, hungry.

your fingers tremble slightly when you dial jeno’s number.

he picks up on the second ring, his voice rough from the noise in the background. he's working. you can hear the clatter of glasses, the low thrum of music.

"come to me," you whisper, not bothering to hide the need in your voice. "i’ll send you the address. i don’t care how long it takes. just come."

you hang up before he can answer, your heart hammering against your ribs.

the knock on your door feels like a gunshot in the silence.

you sprint to open it, heart hammering in your chest. and there he is—jeno, still in his work clothes, smelling faintly of sweat and cigarettes, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his forearms, veins popping, hair messy.

he looks at you—standing there in nothing but a black silk robe, your nipples hard and obvious through the thin fabric, thighs pressed together like you're trying to hold yourself together—and his jaw clenches.

"fuck," he breathes, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "look at you. fucking waiting for me like a good girl."

he kicks the door shut, not even bothering to take off his boots, and crowds you back against the wall. his hands are rough when they grab your face, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"been thinking about me all day, huh?" he taunts, his voice low, rough. "bet your little pussy’s been dripping since the moment you called."

"jeno—" you whimper, squirming under his gaze, needing him more than you need air.

"shh," he cuts you off, dragging his thumb over your lips. "you don't get to talk yet, baby. just nod if you're desperate."

you nod immediately, cheeks burning.

"good girl," he growls, and then he’s kissing you—hard, brutal, messy. his tongue fucks into your mouth like he owns it, hands everywhere at once: squeezing your tits through the robe, grabbing your ass, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

without warning, he grabs the belt of your robe and yanks it loose. it falls open, and you shiver, fully exposed under his heavy gaze.

"fuck, you're perfect," he mutters, palming your breasts roughly, pinching your nipples until you gasp. "so fucking soft. made for me."

you don't even realize he’s backing you toward the couch until he shoves you down onto it.

"spread," he commands, voice sharp, and you obey instantly, legs falling open to show him just how wet you are.

jeno drops to his knees between your thighs, dragging his tongue along the inside of your thigh, slow and filthy, so close to where you need him, but not giving you anything yet.

"such a messy little cunt," he murmurs, nosing against your slick folds. "fucking soaking... and it’s all for me?"

"yes," you gasp, hips bucking.

he laughs against your skin, a dark, cruel sound.

"then you better fucking take it."

and he dives in—licking, sucking, fucking you open with his tongue until you're crying out, writhing, clutching at his hair. he pins your hips down with strong hands, eating you like a man starved, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with every messy, wet stroke.

"gonna cum, baby?" he teases, voice muffled against your pussy. "gonna cum all over my tongue like a good little whore?"

you nod frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it feels.

but just when you're about to fall apart, he pulls away.

"nuh-uh," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "not yet. you don’t get to cum until i say so."

you sob, needy and frustrated, but he’s already standing up, freeing his cock from his jeans—thick, heavy, flushed red at the tip.

"open your mouth," he orders, stroking himself slowly.

you open without hesitation, tongue out, desperate.

"good fucking girl," he praises, and slides the tip into your mouth, letting you taste him, letting you choke on him as he pushes deeper.

he fucks your mouth slowly, watching you with hooded eyes, his thumb wiping away the tears leaking down your cheeks.

"take it all, baby. you can do it. i know you can."

you gag slightly, but you force yourself to relax, hollowing your cheeks, letting him use you until you’re drooling, messy, ruined.

he pulls out with a grunt, grabbing your wrist and hauling you up.

"couch first," he mutters, pushing you onto your hands and knees. he lines himself up behind you, slapping the head of his cock against your soaked pussy.

"you want it?" he asks, teasing your entrance, barely pushing in.

"yes, please, jeno, i need it," you cry, grinding back against him shamelessly.

"beg for it," he growls, slapping your ass hard enough to make you yelp.

"please," you sob. "please fuck me. i need you so bad."

he slams into you with one brutal thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs.

"that’s it," he groans, gripping your hips, fucking into you hard, deep. "take it, baby. fucking take all of me."

the couch creaks under the force of his thrusts, and you’re a mess—crying, moaning, babbling nonsense.

jeno leans over you, one hand grabbing your throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring you.

"mine," he growls into your ear. "this pussy’s mine now. no one else gets to have you like this."

he pulls out suddenly, making you whine in protest, and manhandles you onto your back.

"wanna see your face when you cum," he mutters, lining up again and thrusting back inside.

this position lets him go even deeper, the angle perfect, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

he grabs your ankles, pushing your legs up and back, folding you almost in half, fucking into you with brutal, relentless precision.

"so fucking tight," he pants, sweat dripping from his forehead. "so fucking perfect for me."

you’re close, so close, and he knows it.

he presses his forehead to yours, his thrusts getting sloppier, rougher.

"cum for me, baby," he whispers, voice wrecked. "cum on my cock. show me who you fucking belong to."

you shatter, screaming his name, your whole body convulsing around him.

jeno keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release, until with a broken grunt he buries himself deep and cums inside you, filling you up.

he stays there for a moment, both of you gasping, sweating, bodies trembling.

then, without pulling out, he flips you onto your side, hooking your leg over his hip, and starts moving again.

"not done," he murmurs against your neck. "you said you’d wait for me with your legs open. now you’re gonna take everything i give you. all fucking night."

and you do.

he fucks you on the couch, on the floor, against the wall, until you’re too weak to stand.

he carries you to the bed, lays you down gently, kisses you softer now, but still hungry, still desperate.

and he doesn’t stop.

not until the sun is rising, and you’re ruined under him, full of him, marked and claimed in every way possible.

the morning sun creeps through your curtains, casting soft, golden light over the wreckage of the night.

your body aches in the sweetest way—thighs sore, skin marked with bruises and bites, every part of you still humming with the memory of him. you stir lazily, stretching a little, feeling the empty space beside you.

jeno is sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, still in his wrinkled black jeans, his boots finally kicked off and lying somewhere in the living room. he’s staring at the floor, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like he’s lost in thought.

you push yourself up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around your waist.

"you’re not staying for breakfast?" you tease lightly, voice still hoarse from all the moaning and screaming you did last night.

jeno doesn’t laugh.

he glances over his shoulder at you, jaw tight, eyes shuttered. there’s something unreadable in his expression—something sharp, something raw.

you sigh, brushing your hair out of your face, and swing your legs off the bed, standing up naked in front of him without a second thought.

"look, jeno," you start, voice cool, detached, like you're discussing the weather, not the fact that you just spent the whole night fucking like animals. "this thing between us... it’s just physical."

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even flinch.

you continue, walking toward where your robe is draped over a chair. "you know that, right? i mean, let’s be honest. we’re not from the same world."

you shrug into the robe, tying it loosely around your waist, feeling his eyes on you the whole time.

"i’m a model. i have contracts, photoshoots, events. i travel the world." your tone is matter-of-fact, brutal in its honesty. "you... you wash dishes. you serve drinks."

jeno’s hands curl into fists between his knees.

you know your words are cruel, cutting deeper than you intend, but you can't stop yourself. it’s easier this way. easier to build the walls high and thick before either of you starts to feel something you shouldn’t.

"there’s nothing you can offer me," you say, your voice softening only slightly. "except maybe a good fuck."

the words hang heavy in the air, toxic and ugly.

jeno lifts his head finally, meeting your gaze. there’s a storm in his eyes—hurt, anger, humiliation—but he swallows it all down, burying it under a mask of indifference.

"yeah," he says, voice low and rough. "i know."

you look at him for a long moment, something twisting in your chest. a part of you wants to take it back, to apologize, to say something, anything, that might soften the blow.

but you don’t.

because it’s better this way. it has to be.

jeno stands up, grabbing his shirt off the floor and pulling it over his head.

"i gotta get to work," he says, avoiding your eyes now.

you nod, tightening your robe around you as if it can shield you from the sudden chill in the room.

he lingers for a second, like he wants to say something else, but in the end, he just grabs his boots and heads for the door.

you watch him go, heart pounding in your chest, throat tight.

when the door shuts behind him, you finally let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

the silence that follows is deafening.

you barely have time to process it when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

it’s your manager.

on my way to your place. we have a full schedule today. be ready.

you stare at the message, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

right. life goes on.

you pull yourself together, hiding every trace of last night, tucking it away deep inside where no one can see. you touch up your makeup, fix your hair, throw on a designer outfit.

by the time your manager arrives, you look perfect again.

polished. untouchable.

like last night—and the boy who made you feel something real for the first time in ages—never even happened.

the bar is packed tonight.

jeno moves behind the counter like a machine—pouring drinks, wiping down surfaces, dodging drunk customers—but his mind isn’t here. his body works on autopilot, muscle memory guiding him through the motions.

inside, he’s boiling.

he clenches his jaw so hard it aches, fists tightening around glasses when he thinks about the way you looked at him this morning. like he was... nothing. disposable. just another tool for your pleasure.

just physical, you had said.

you wash dishes. you serve drinks.

you have nothing else to offer.

jeno grits his teeth and slams a bottle harder than necessary onto the counter, earning a glance from one of the other bartenders. he ignores it.

he doesn’t need their pity.

he doesn't need anyone's pity.

he pours another shot for some suit who probably makes more in a week than jeno does in a year, sliding it across the bar with a mechanical smile.

meanwhile, across town, you’re stepping out of a black car, flashing a blinding smile at the cameras.

your manager walks beside you, murmuring the day's schedule—photoshoot in the morning, interview in the afternoon, charity gala at night.

you nod, perfectly poised, perfectly composed. you pose for the paparazzi, flash that million-dollar smile, turn your head at just the right angle to catch the light.

to the world, you’re flawless. untouchable.

jeno’s hands shake when he twists open another beer. he wants to hate you. he really fucking does. he wants to hate the way you used him, the way you looked at him like he was beneath you.

but all he can think about is how soft you felt under him. how sweet you tasted. how your body fit his like it was made for him.

and the worst part?

he’d do it all over again.

even if it breaks him.

even if it makes him feel like less than nothing.

jeno slams the empty bottle into the bin with a little too much force, earning another side-eye from the bar manager.

he wipes his hands on a towel, grabbing the next order slip, throwing himself back into the chaos.

work. distraction. numbness.

it's the only thing he has now.

it’s well past closing time.

the bar is almost empty now, chairs stacked on tables, the floors sticky and reeking of spilled liquor. the neon signs buzz and flicker, the only sound in the heavy silence.

jeno sits slumped at the counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him, one hand wrapped loosely around his phone.

he knows he shouldn’t.

he knows it’s a terrible fucking idea.

but his heart is heavy, his body still aching with the memory of you—your moans, your warmth, your fucking smile after you ruined him.

the whiskey burns as he takes another swig straight from the bottle.

fuck it.

he unlocks his phone, pulls up your contact—the one you insisted on saving after that first night back, after you both swore it would be just sex, nothing else.

his thumb hovers over the screen for a second too long before he types:

"you miss me yet?"

simple. reckless. pathetic.

he stares at the message, finger trembling slightly.

his pride screams at him to delete it, to pretend he never even thought about reaching out. to pretend he’s fine. that he doesn’t dream about you. that he doesn't crave you like he needs you to breathe.

but his thumb moves before he can stop it.

send.

the second the message disappears, dread hits him like a freight train.

he sets the phone face down on the counter with a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

what the fuck is he doing?

you’re probably in bed already, sleeping soundly on satin sheets, not giving a single thought to the dishwasher who was stupid enough to fall for you.

jeno laughs bitterly under his breath, the sound low and broken.

he pushes the bottle away and buries his head in his arms on the counter, wishing he could turn back time. wishing he could forget you.

wishing he wasn’t so fucking weak.

the morning sun pours through the massive windows of your penthouse.

you stir lazily under the expensive covers, stretching like a cat, still half-asleep.

your phone buzzes softly on the nightstand.

you reach for it without thinking, screen lighting up with a few notifications—emails, your manager confirming today’s appointments, a reminder for a fitting later tonight.

and one message. from jeno.

your heart skips for the briefest second, a flicker of something you immediately smother down.

you open it.

"you miss me yet?"

the words sit there, small and needy on the screen.

pathetic.

you stare at it for a few seconds, expression unreadable. there’s no rush of warmth, no surge of longing. just a cool, detached amusement.

he actually thought you would miss him.

a dishwasher. a bartender.

someone so far beneath you it was almost laughable.

you sigh, tossing the phone back onto the bed without even bothering to reply.

your time is too precious to waste on things like him.

on emotions.

on weakness.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, standing gracefully, your silk nightgown clinging to your body.

there’s a whole day ahead of you—meetings, shoots, events. you have an image to maintain.

a reputation to protect.

jeno was just a moment of weakness. a dirty little secret. a mistake you wouldn’t make again.

you walk into the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up filling the silence.

behind you, your phone stays dark and unanswered on the bed.

jeno’s message left to rot.

just like him.

your marriage, already a hollow shell, rots from the inside. arguments, cold silences, whispered threats—until the bomb explodes.

then the whisper becomes a headline.

then the headline becomes a full-blown fucking wildfire.

you’re in the middle of a fitting for an upcoming fashion week when your phone explodes with notifications—texts, missed calls, news alerts.

your manager bursts into the dressing room, her face pale, panic in her eyes.

"you need to see this," she says, shoving her phone toward you.

on the screen, a breaking news banner flashes brightly.

your husband—soon-to-be ex-husband—caught leaving a well-known cabaret at three in the morning. hidden camera footage. evidence of embezzlement, laundering money through shell companies tied to shady nightclubs and prostitution rings. links to criminal networks.

your name gets dragged into the mud too—guilt by association.

"model and socialite embroiled in scandal." what did she know? was she complicit?

your face—your face—plastered on every tabloid, every gossip blog, every news channel.

you stare at the screen, heart thudding dully in your chest.

your hands shake slightly as you take the phone, scrolling through the article.

photos of you, smiling beside him at charity events. walking hand in hand at galas. attending lavish dinners.

painted like a co-conspirator.

painted like a trophy wife who turned a blind eye to the filth crawling underneath.

your stomach twists violently.

"i didn’t know anything," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else.

your manager is already barking orders into her phone—damage control, pulling your name from upcoming campaigns, preparing press releases.

you barely hear her.

your mind is spinning, a thousand miles an hour.

your marriage—the carefully curated image you upheld for years—shattered.

your career—your future—threatened by something you had no part in.

you can file for divorce now, thanks to the mountain of evidence piling against him. but it’s not easy. he has friends, connections, dirty favors tucked away in every corner of the city.

for a while, it feels like you’ll never escape.

but then the police step in. an arrest warrant. handcuffs. flashing cameras. reporters shouting.

he’s taken into custody, charged with fraud, corruption, and solicitation. and for the first time in years, you can breathe.

the police move fast. within days, your husband is arrested on charges of fraud and conspiracy. the photos of him in handcuffs, head bowed, hit the media like a bomb.

your lawyers file for divorce immediately, citing irreconcilable differences and gross misconduct.

still, it’s not easy.

his influence runs deep.

he has friends in high places, money tucked away in hidden accounts, strings he still tries to pull even from a jail cell.

the next few weeks are hell.

interviews. paparazzi hounding you outside your building. brands putting your contracts on hold. people whispering behind your back—was she involved? did she really not know?

you hold your head high through all of it.

because that’s what you do.

you survive.

even as the walls close in, even as the floor crumbles beneath you, you refuse to break.

you show up to every event you can’t cancel, dressed in sharp designer suits, makeup flawless, smile impenetrable.

you answer the reporters’ questions with cold, practiced precision.

"i had no knowledge of my husband’s illegal activities." "i am fully cooperating with authorities." "my focus is on my career and clearing my name."

you’re a fucking machine.

but at night, when the cameras are gone, when the lights are off, when you’re alone in your massive, empty penthouse—you watch it all unfold, wrapped in that same black silk robe, sipping a glass of wine, a wicked little smile playing on your lips.

you think of jeno.

you think of the way he looked at you.

like you were human.

like you were real.

you wonder if he’s seen the news.

if he’s laughing.

if he thinks you deserve it.

maybe you do.

and somewhere, not far away, jeno’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. he smiles when he sees your name. because he knows—you’re his now.

completely.

the media circus dies down eventually, but the aftermath lingers, like a bad taste in your mouth that won’t go away.

you’ve done everything you could to salvage what’s left of your career—multiple PR stunts, interviews, charity work. the world is watching, waiting for you to crack.

but you don’t.

you can’t.

you’re a perfect, cold image again.

you’ve learned how to play the game too well.

but in the dark corners of your mind, when the day is done and the press has left, you think of him.

jeno.

the one thing you can’t control. the one thing you can’t forget.

the thought eats at you like a slow burn.

the media has done its job, your reputation is in shambles, your career on the edge—but you can’t stop thinking about that night.

about him.

about how he made you feel more alive than you’ve ever been, more real. and you hate yourself for it.

it’s a stupid, dangerous thought.

he’s not in your world.

he’s beneath you.

just another distraction. another mistake.

but the ache inside you only grows.

you find yourself back at the bar. alone. this time, it’s a quiet night. the hum of soft chatter and clinking glasses is the only thing keeping you from losing your mind. you’re sitting at the counter, nursing a glass of wine, feeling like a stranger in your own skin. the music plays in the background, but you can’t focus on anything. not the drink in your hand, not the man flirting with the bartender, not the low conversations around you.

just the memory of his hands on you. his body pressed against yours, his breath hot in your ear, the way he made you forget the world for just a few hours. you pull out your phone, half-drunk, and stare at the screen for a few moments.

his name is still in your contacts, buried deep under the noise of everything else.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard. it’s stupid. reckless. but you can’t help yourself.

you tap out a simple message.

“i’m coming to see you.”

no questions. no excuses. just a direct invitation. no more games.

you don’t wait for a response. instead, you gather your things and slip out of the bar, sliding into a dark corner to change into something that will keep you anonymous. a dark jacket, a hood pulled low, sunglasses that hide your eyes. you don’t want anyone recognizing you. not tonight.

you arrive at his apartment about thirty minutes later. the small, worn-down building feels like a world away from everything you know. the scent of cheap takeout, the dull hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the old floors.

and there he is.

jeno.

he looks up as you step inside, surprise flashing across his face. but it’s quickly replaced with something else—something dark, almost relieved. He stands up, running a hand through his hair.

“so, what now?” he asks quietly, his voice rougher than you remember. his tone guarded, defensive.

you don’t answer immediately. you step closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating toward you. for a moment, neither of you speaks.

then you finally let the words slip.

“now?” you let out a shaky breath, fighting the overwhelming pull between you. “now, we stop pretending it was just... nothing.”

he doesn’t move, but you see the way his eyes darken, like he’s trying to process what’s happening. but you’re done waiting. you step into his space, hands reaching for his chest, fingers trembling as you slide them down, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“you’re not like them,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “you’re not like the men i'm supposed to be with. you’re real.”

the words hang between you, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. his gaze flickers, something raw and exposed in his eyes.

“and what does that mean for us?” jeno’s voice is rough, like he’s fighting back something—regret, bitterness, confusion, or maybe something worse. “you’re not the same woman i fucked a few weeks ago,” he adds, the tension in his voice unmistakable.

you swallow hard, feeling the heat surge between you again. “it means...” you say, your voice breathless as you pull him closer, “it means we both need this. we both need something real... and we’re going to do whatever the fuck it takes to feel alive again.”

you push him back against the wall, your hands quick and desperate as you rip open his shirt.

he doesn’t stop you.

and this time, you’re not pretending. you both know exactly what this is.

the air between you is thick with tension, suffocating. the weight of everything—the scandal, the lies, the broken pieces of your life—suddenly doesn’t matter anymore. it’s just the two of you, and the world outside feels miles away.

you drag him closer, your fingers working at his jeans, impatient, desperate. you feel the heat radiating off his skin, the tension in his muscles as he grips your hips, pulling you flush against him.

his mouth crashes onto yours, urgent, hungry. you kiss him like you’re drowning and he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. your hands slide up his chest, tugging at his shirt, tearing it off. there’s no room for subtlety anymore. no games. no pretending.

you step back for a moment, just to take him in—his chest, bare and defined, his eyes dark with something you can’t quite name. but you want it.

you want it more than anything.

"you’re not the same person," he mutters, his voice low, hoarse.

"neither are you," you reply, eyes never leaving his.

there’s something raw in his gaze, something that tells you he’s as broken as you are. but you don’t care. you don’t need the emotional baggage right now. you need him. just him.

you pull him back toward you, lips crashing against his once again, a rush of heat flooding your veins. his hands roam your body with practiced ease, sliding over your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

he’s rough, pulling at the hem of your dress, pushing it up your thighs, as if he can’t get enough of you.

you’re not the same person either—not the woman who had everything under control, not the one who smiled for the cameras. right now, you’re just her—the one who needs this.

you push him back onto the couch, straddling his lap in one swift motion, grinding against him with a soft, needy moan. he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his eyes dark with desire.

"fuck," he mutters, and you smile wickedly.

"do you want me to stop?" you tease, dragging your nails across his chest, watching the way he shudders under your touch.

"don’t you dare," he growls, his voice rough with lust.

you lean forward, lips brushing against his neck, tasting the salt on his skin as you begin to undo his jeans. he doesn’t even try to stop you. he’s just as lost in this as you are.

his breath catches as you finally release him, your hands wrapping around him, stroking him slowly, teasingly, knowing just how to make him lose control. you feel him harden under your touch, his body tense beneath yours, and you smile, leaning in to kiss him again—slow and deep, savoring the moment.

you’re not going to pretend anymore. you don’t care about the past or the future. all that matters is the way he makes you feel. alive.

you lower yourself onto him in one smooth motion, his eyes dark and intense as you begin to move, your rhythm slow at first, letting the tension build.

he grabs your waist, urging you on, his body reacting to yours in the most primal way.

his hands slip to your back, pulling you closer, his lips finding your neck, your ear, anything he can reach.

"you wanted this, huh?" he breathes against your skin, his voice a mixture of cocky satisfaction and raw hunger.

you moan, your body moving faster, needing him closer, deeper, harder.

"shut up and fuck me," you gasp, your fingers gripping his shoulders as you ride him harder, faster, your movements frantic now, just as desperate as your feelings.

he doesn’t hesitate.

he’s the perfect balance of force and control, guiding your hips, meeting you thrust for thrust.

you’re a mess of tangled limbs and desperate breath, lost in the pleasure, in the feeling of his body moving against yours, in the heat of the moment.

you come undone first, your body shaking with pleasure as you cry out his name, the sound of it raw and needy in the air.

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving, keeps fucking you with such intensity that you can barely think, can barely breathe, but it doesn’t matter.

all that matters is this moment, this thing between you, this need you can’t escape.

he comes with a low growl, his grip tightening on you as he finishes inside you, his body shuddering beneath yours.

for a long moment, neither of you moves. you’re both gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling as you cling to each other. finally, you collapse against him, your head resting on his chest, your mind spinning.

you both know this is dangerous, that you shouldn’t be doing this, but right now, in this moment, it feels like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

"you’re fucking perfect," he mutters, his voice hoarse and ragged.

you smile softly, fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

"this is just physical, right?" you ask, your voice steady, even though there’s a hint of something else in it.

"just physical," he replies, but his voice wavers slightly.

you both know it’s a lie. but right now, neither of you cares.

the morning after feels different.

the first thing you notice when you wake up is the quiet. the kind of quiet that rings too loudly in your ears. you’re in his bed, curled up against him, your body still aching from the night before, from the way he pushed you to your limits. you can still feel him, the imprint of his body on yours, the way he made you feel alive when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

but the reality is sinking in.

you push yourself up from the bed, your muscles sore, your thoughts a jumbled mess of lust, anger, and confusion. the sun is just starting to rise, casting a faint light across the room, but it does nothing to ease the storm in your chest.

you glance back at jeno, still asleep, his dark hair messy, his body sprawled out across the sheets.

he looks peaceful.

and for a moment, you wonder what it would be like to have this... without the mess, without the lies, without the broken parts of both of your worlds.

but you shake your head.

you can’t think like that.

he’s beneath you.

nothing more than a distraction from the mess you’re in.

the scandal. the divorce. the pieces of your life that are crumbling away.

you stand, grabbing your clothes from the floor, slipping into them quickly. you can’t stay here. you don’t belong here.

you move quietly, making your way to the door, but before you can leave, you hear him stir behind you.

"where are you going?" his voice is rough, still heavy with sleep, but there’s a trace of concern there.

you freeze, your hand on the door handle.

"i don’t belong here," you say, your voice colder than you feel. "you’re just a distraction. this… was just physical. i never needed anything more from you."

his eyes darken as he pushes himself up in the bed, his expression a mixture of frustration and something you don’t want to acknowledge.

"don’t bullshit me," he snaps, his voice sharp.

"you can lie to yourself all you want, but i know how this goes. we both know how this goes."

you turn to face him, your gaze cold.

"this is who i am," you say, your words biting. "this is all i can offer. just this."

his jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck flexing.

"fine," he says, voice low, almost resigned. "but don’t think for a second that i’m not going to keep coming back for more."

you want to say something—anything—to tear him down, to remind him of his place, but the words don’t come. you don’t know what’s worse: the fact that you want him to come back, or the fact that he’s right. you both need this. and it terrifies you. but you refuse to admit it.

you turn away, leaving his apartment without looking back.

the next few weeks pass in a blur.

you try to focus on your career, on cleaning up the wreckage of your life, but nothing feels right. nothing feels real anymore.

your divorce moves forward, slowly but surely, as the scandal continues to dominate the media. your husband’s arrested, and the reports of his illegal activities make headlines every day. he’s a sinking ship, and you’re still tied to him, whether you like it or not.

but the hardest part is the isolation. the loneliness that settles in, creeping into your soul when you least expect it.

you haven’t seen jeno in days. it feels like a lifetime, but you know deep down that you can’t keep pretending you don’t want him.

he was your escape.

he was the only thing that made you feel real, like you weren’t

drowning in a life that was suffocating you.

the temptation is too much.

you don’t call him.

you don’t need to.

because you know he’ll show up.

and he does.

your phone buzzes, but this time it’s not another report or the nagging questions of your lawyer. it’s a message from jeno.

he’s waiting outside.

you stand in front of the mirror for a long moment, eyes running over your reflection. the woman staring back at you seems so different from the one you used to be. strong, sure—no longer that naive socialite lost in the lies of her own image. the events of the past weeks have shattered you in ways you didn’t expect. but through it all, jeno’s presence, his touch, his voice, has been the only constant, the only thing you can’t escape.

you pull on a black dress, simple yet elegant, before slipping into the hallway. no words need to be exchanged when you open the door and see him standing there, a silhouette in the dim light. the door clicks shut behind him, and just like that, you’re alone in the silence.

his eyes find yours immediately, hunger mixing with something darker in his gaze.

"you can’t keep doing this to yourself." his voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no anger in it. just... truth.

you don’t answer immediately. the silence stretches, thick like the air in the room. you want to say something—anything—but the words escape you.

instead, you step closer, until the space between you two is barely enough to breathe. you see his jaw clench, his hands ball into fists at his sides as he holds back from reaching for you.

"tell me this isn’t what you want." his words are a command, but they feel like a plea too. "tell me you’re not going to walk away again."

you bite your lip, your heart beating louder than your thoughts. the truth is simple. you can’t walk away. you never could.

"i can’t," you whisper, finally breaking the tension. your hands reach up, your fingers brushing his chest as you stare into his eyes, "but you’re not part of my world. you know that."

jeno’s breath catches at your touch, and he lets out a slow, steady breath. his gaze locks with yours, the silent battle between desire and logic waging on in his mind. finally, he shakes his head, the corners of his lips turning into a faint smile.

"neither are you," he murmurs, before pulling you in close, his hands gripping your waist. "but here we are."

the words hang heavy between you. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging him closer as his lips crash onto yours. there’s no hesitation now, no pretense. the kiss is hungry, urgent. his mouth moves against yours with a raw intensity, pulling all the tension from the past weeks into a single moment.

"we can't keep doing this," you breathe against his lips, your hands traveling lower, desperate to feel him again. "you know it’s just physical. that’s all it ever was."

he pulls back slightly, his lips brushing your ear as he growls lowly, "i don’t give a fuck what it was. all i know is this—when i’m with you, i can’t breathe, and i don’t want to." he presses himself against you, and you feel the heat, the undeniable need. "you can pretend you don’t want me, but i know you do. every time we’re near each other, you can’t stay away."

you shiver at his words, the heat coursing through you, spreading like wildfire. you know he’s right. but what does it matter? you’ve already crossed every line.

"then why are you still here?" you challenge, your voice thick with desire and something else—vulnerability? maybe it’s the quiet confession you’ve never been able to say aloud. "why haven’t you left if i’m just someone you’re using?"

jeno steps back for a second, looking at you with something raw in his eyes. "because i know better than anyone else that i can’t stay away from you. and maybe i don’t want to." his hands reach for you again, pulling you close as his lips find your neck, your pulse racing under his touch.

"we don’t need anything else, do we?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper, your hands gripping the back of his shirt. "no strings. no future. just this."

he doesn’t answer with words. instead, his hands glide under your dress, pulling you flush against him. there’s nothing else left but the undeniable, desperate need between you two.

his lips find yours again, slow at first, savoring every inch of you. but then his hands roam, and the kiss deepens, growing desperate, desperate to erase everything but the sound of your breath, the feeling of your skin, and the raw, unrelenting chemistry between you.

"this is all we have," he murmurs against your mouth, as you drag him toward the bedroom. "and maybe... it’s enough."

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. all that matters is that you're here—together, for now, and no matter the consequences, nothing else matters.

this is your world. this is your escape. and for tonight, that's all that matters.

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