Chapter Text
Seonghwa.
He was the only thing I’d think about in the last twenty-four hours. His voice, the weight of his gaze, the way his hand had lingered at my jaw in the elevator—it all looped in my mind like a song I couldn’t skip.
Every time I tried to distract myself with rehearsals or emails, his face slipped back in, uninvited but unstoppable.
Lawrence and Madeleine had gone on a spontaneous vacation after Albert gave them a few days off, and the apartment was painfully quiet without them.
I should’ve enjoyed the calm, but instead it only made me feel like I was buzzing out of my own skin. I wanted to tell someone, anyone, about my date, to let it spill before it drowned me.
So when the morning came, I called Rosie.
The second she answered, I didn’t even have to say much—she knew. I poured everything out: the car, the flowers, the restaurant, the way he’d looked at me like he was memorizing me.
Rosie squealed into the phone so loudly I had to hold it away from my ear for a hot second, then started rattling off advice—don’t drink anything bubbly, wear comfortable shoes, make sure your lipstick doesn’t smudge.
Her excitement wrapped around me until it felt less like a secret and more like something real, something worth being thrilled about.
The day blurred after that. I practiced at the bar, my voice sharp with nervous energy, and tried not to think about the messages from Hongjoong reminding me about our collab. Even casual texts from San and Yeosang made my stomach twist—they didn’t know, and somehow that made it worse.
It was weird. I never had that many friends, nonetheless this much contact with people. For so long, I lived with the quiet ache of isolation, half-convinced it was just the way my life was supposed to be.
But now? Now it felt like I’d stumbled into something alive, something warm. Like I finally belonged somewhere. Like people didn’t just see me, but actually cared about who I was.
And maybe that’s why I hated the thought of home so much.
Back there, I had never been allowed to go out, never been allowed to choose my friends. My parents didn’t approve of anyone—they didn’t approve of much at all, if I’m honest. With my mother a doctor and my father a lawyer, life was a checklist of achievements, a constant performance of perfection. There wasn’t room for music, for dreaming, for making mistakes.
And as the years went by, I began to feel like I was drowning inside my own family, invisible unless I was ticking the right boxes.
Things only worsened when my uncle started climbing in politics.
Suddenly every family dinner was about appearances, about what could or couldn’t be said in public, about “upholding the family name.” And now, as if that wasn’t suffocating enough, I saw on the internet just yesterday that he was running for president. The weight of their expectations pressed harder than ever—even from miles away, it felt like a chain locked around my throat.
That’s why this—this bar, this stage, these people—meant everything.
Albert sat in his usual chair as I practiced, his coffee balanced in one hand, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
He didn’t correct me tonight, didn’t interrupt—just listened, as though he wanted me to feel the freedom of my own voice without restraint. When I finished, he rose, patting the arm of his chair.
“Close up when you’re done,” he said with a wink. “I’ve got a meeting.”
And then I was alone.
Or so I thought.
The door creaked open just as I began another verse, and when I looked up, I froze. Hongjoong and Yunho had slipped in quietly, taking seats as though they’d been here all along. Neither announced themselves, neither interrupted—they just sat, eyes fixed on me, listening.
Their presence shifted the air instantly. Hongjoong’s gaze was sharp, assessing, like he could hear every flaw, every hesitation in my voice. Yunho was softer, leaning back, arms crossed but with a steady, encouraging expression. My fingers stumbled over the keys for a moment, nerves buzzing through me.
This wasn’t like singing for Albert, or even the regulars who’d become part of the bar’s rhythm. This was them—part of Black Horizon. My collaborators, my critics… and maybe, slowly, my friends.
I hadn’t really talked to Yunho before. He was always there—hovering around the edges of rehearsals, laughing with the others, offering the occasional nod or smile my way—but somehow we never found a moment that was just the two of us. Still, even in silence, his presence was undeniable.
Once again, I was struck by his height, the way he seemed to fill any space without even trying. He sat there now, laid back, legs spread with the kind of casual confidence that only made him look more untouchable.
My eyes lingered a second too long, tracing the easy curve of his posture, the steady way his gaze moved over me as I sang.
And then, suddenly—uninvited, intrusive—a picture flashed across my mind. A picture of me perched on his lap, his hands firm against my body, guiding, holding, claiming. Heat shot straight to my cheeks, and I nearly stumbled over a note, horrified at myself.
What was wrong with me? Why now? Why him? When was I standing in the middle of the bar with both of them watching?
I forced my eyes back to the keys, trying to bury the thought before it could spiral, but my body betrayed me: the burn in my face, the prickling awareness in my chest, the way my pulse jumped just from the idea.
When I dared to glance back up, Hongjoong was already watching me.
Of course he was. His eyes were sharp as ever, unreadable, dissecting me in a way that made my stomach twist. With him, I could never tell what went through his head.
Sometimes it seemed like he liked me—like he respected me, even—but just as quickly I’d get the sense that something about me rubbed him the wrong way.
That I irritated him, maybe, or didn’t quite fit into whatever picture he had of this collaboration.
I couldn’t place it. Maybe—just maybe—it was because I’d gone out with Seonghwa. The thought crept in, uninvited, and sat heavy in my chest. It made a strange kind of sense.
Hongjoong struck me as the type to keep his circle neat, his work focused, his people untangled from unnecessary complications. Maybe me stepping over that invisible line was what rubbed him raw.
Before I could spiral too far into it, the sharp buzz of his phone broke the quiet. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his brows knit together.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. He rose from his chair and stepped away, his voice low as he answered.
Yunho and I exchanged a look, the silence stretching thin without Hongjoong’s presence anchoring the room. I tried not to fidget, but the awareness of Yunho sitting across from me—his frame taking up the space with such ease—was suddenly sharper.
After a minute or so, Hongjoong returned, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His expression was more serious now, all traces of softness gone. “I need to head out,” he told us, his gaze flicking between me and Yunho. “Seonghwa needs a hand with something, and I have to get back.”
There was no room for questions, no space for protest. He said it like it was final, and with Hongjoong, it always was.
And just like that, he was gone—leaving behind only the echo of his absence, and me sitting across from Yunho in a silence that suddenly felt very different.
And there it was—the first time I was alone with Yunho.
The realization made my stomach twist, though I tried to play it cool. He still sat there exactly as before, broad shoulders relaxed, his long legs spread comfortably, that quiet confidence radiating off him like a second skin.
I let my eyes rake over him again, just for a second too long, but it was enough. He caught it. His lips curved into a cocky smirk, the kind that made it obvious he knew exactly what I’d been doing.
“So,” he drawled, tilting his head slightly,
“Are you going to keep going?”
My head snapped up. “Huh?”
He chuckled softly, and the sound made something low in my stomach tighten. “Singing.”
“Oh. Y-yeah. Yes, I mean—yeah.” I fumbled with the music sheets in front of me, my fingers clumsy as if they weren’t my own. Heat crept into my face, and I quickly turned toward the microphone, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but at him.
The room suddenly felt much smaller with just the two of us in it. I could sense his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, even as I adjusted the stand and pretended to focus. My throat tightened. Singing had never made me nervous like this—not until now, not until him.
I could sense his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, even as I adjusted the stand and pretended to focus. My throat tightened. Singing had never made me nervous like this—not until now, not until him.
“You just gonna watch me?” I ask, forcing the words out even though my throat feels tight. My eyes flick to his, and the moment they meet, it’s like the rest of the room disappears.
“What else do you want me to do?” Yunho’s voice is low, almost lazy, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it—an implication that makes the air feel heavier.
My breath stutters.
The dimmed lights of the bar aren’t helping; they cast shadows over his sharp jawline, over the way his mouth curves just enough to make my pulse spike. My heart is beating so fast it feels like he can hear it from where he sits.
He sat there for the next three songs, not saying a word, just watching. Every time I glanced in his direction, he was already looking at me, like he didn’t even bother pretending otherwise.
It was maddening—the way he lounged there, patient, unreadable, but somehow still commanding every thought in my head.
Finally, he shifted, unfolding those impossibly long legs and standing.
My breath hitched even before he moved, anticipation buzzing under my skin.
“May I join you?” His voice carried easily across the empty room, smooth and warm, and when he smiled up at me, it was like he knew the answer already.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Join me?”
He nodded, taking slow, unhurried steps toward the stage. “Let me sing with you,” he said, tilting his head as he looked down at me. And God, standing this close, I was once again overwhelmed by his height, the sheer presence of him.
“I want to lure you with my voice.” His breath ghosts over my skin, not even touching, yet I feel it as though he’s pressed against me. A shiver runs down my spine, betraying me, and his smirk deepens like he’s memorizing every reaction.
“Seonghwa adores you,” he murmurs, low and deliberate, his words curling into the space between us. His eyes never waver from mine, dark and unrelenting. “But what if he isn’t the only one?”
I tense, my throat tight, my pulse pounding in my ears. The weight of his words settles deep, hot and heavy, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“I don’t—” My voice breaks, and I try again, quieter than I intended. “I don’t have any duets.”
His chuckle is a slow burn, vibrating through the air, smooth and dangerous. “Then maybe we create one.” He tilts his head, lowering his mouth until his lips are just shy of brushing my ear. “Imagine it—your voice, mine… weaving together until no one can tell where you end and I begin.”
The stage lights above us feel too dim, the air too thick. His nearness coils around me like smoke, suffocating in the sweetest way. I can smell the faint spice of his cologne, sharp against the warmth of his skin, and when his fingers graze the mic stand—so close to mine—it feels like a warning, like a promise.
I step back slightly, but he follows with just enough of a lean to remind me how small the space between us really is. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then back up, and my body betrays me again with a sharp inhale.
The music in the background feels like it’s waiting for us, holding its breath too.
“Sing with me, Evie,” he says, voice husky, coaxing. “Let me hear what you sound like when you stop holding back.”
Something in his tone doesn’t leave room for refusal. My hand tightens on the microphone, the cool metal grounding me even as my chest feels like it’s on fire. I nod, just barely, and he takes that sliver of permission as if I’ve given him everything.
He leans in closer, one large hand wrapping around the second mic.
His knuckles brush against mine for a fraction of a second before pulling away, deliberate, like he wants me to ache for the contact.
The music starts again, slow and steady, a melody I know by heart. I begin softly, my voice threading into the air, but Yunho doesn’t rush. He waits—watching, listening—until he chooses his moment to join me.
When his voice slides in, deep and rich, it’s nothing like I imagined.
It doesn’t just blend with mine—it consumes, wraps around it, forces me higher, fuller, like I’m being pulled somewhere I didn’t intend to go. The harmony presses against me the way his body hasn’t, but every note feels intimate, dangerous.
I glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at me while we sing makes my breath falter. It’s not just performance; it’s hunger. His lips move with the lyrics, but his eyes are telling a different story, one meant only for me.
He dips his head slightly, his voice brushing against mine like velvet, low and insistent. “Don’t hold back,” he murmurs into the line of the song, so quiet it blends with the melody, but I hear it.
I feel it.
My voice rises instinctively, rawer now, breaking into something that feels less like singing and more like confessing. He matches me, shadows my sound, and together it’s overwhelming, like the air itself can’t contain both of us at once.
By the time the final note fades, I’m trembling, my lips parted, chest heaving as though I’ve run miles. The silence that follows is deafening, charged, electric.
My breath stutters as his hands settle firmer on my hips, anchoring me to him as if I might float away.
The world narrows to the press of his chest against my back, the low thrum of his voice in my ear. “I wish I could show you just how much they want you. Like animals,” he murmurs, words scraping deliciously across my skin.
A laugh—half surprise, half something like disbelief—escapes me. He’s daring, brazen, and the image he paints makes something dangerous and giddy bloom in my stomach. “Oh,” he continues, voice low and intimate, “how they fight over you. Seonghwa goes crazy for you, while Hongjoong… he loses himself.”
He nips at the soft place beneath my ear, a small, sharp claim that makes me inhale. Heat pools behind my ribs.
“I want that too,” he says, every syllable deliberate. “I want you in a way both of them haven’t had.
I want to rub it under their noses.” The confession is not theatrical; it’s private and feral, and it lands with the weight of a dare.
My head spins in the best way.
For a moment I am all nerve and color—lips parted, pulse loud, everything in me both startled and strangely eager. Part of me wants to push back, to tease him for the arrogance of it, and part of me wants to melt into the bold certainty of his want. “You’re impossible,” I breathe, turning enough to meet the flash of his eyes in the dim.
He only smiles, slow and satisfied, the kind that promises mischief. Instead of closing the distance with the easy cruelty of someone who could take, he does something worse for me—he leans close and whispers, “Later. I’ll show you.” The press of his words against my skin is a vow and a provocation.
The word slips out of me before I can stop it, a whisper that feels more like a confession than a demand. “No… now.” My head tilts, the tension in my chest snapping all at once, and before he can smirk, before he can tease me for it, I crash forward.
Our lips meet, hasty and harsh, the kind of kiss that tastes of impatience and pent-up want. It’s clumsy only for a second, like the both of us have been holding back too long and neither of us knows how to pace it anymore.
His mouth claims mine with an urgency that sends sparks racing down my spine, his hand flying back to my hip, gripping as though he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
But I don’t.
God, I couldn’t even if I tried.
The sound he makes into the kiss—a low, startled growl—is enough to make my knees weaken. My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s nothing left between us but heat and hunger. Every brush of his lips, every nip of his teeth, is demanding, coaxing, unraveling me inch by inch.
He presses me firmer against him, his chest a solid wall at my back, and the tilt of his mouth over mine grows rougher, deeper. I gasp, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him.
The taste of him lingers, dark and addictive, and for a terrifying, thrilling moment I think I might not care if I never come up for air.
There’s no hesitation now, no restraint, no patience—just the fire of want burning between us, and the reckless truth that we’ve already crossed a line neither of us will be able to uncross.