Chapter 21
“You…love me?” The words barely make it past my lips, my throat too tight, and my chest too small for the frantic pounding of my heart. It’s so loud I swear it drowns out everything else—the birds, the trees jostling in the summer breeze, the distant cars. Cocooned in a bubble of us, my loud heartbeat, the only audible noise.
I need to be sure I heard him right. Because if I did, and if he says yes—
Oh, God. What do I do?
Because I also love him. I know I do, more than I know my own name. And that terrifies me.
It’s only been a little over a week. A week. That’s nothing.
It’s reckless and stupid and completely insane. People don’t fall this fast, this hard. They don’t hand over their hearts like this, not when they barely know what the other person’s favorite color is, or how they take their coffee, or what they look like when they’re sad or angry, or any other negative emotion.
And yet, I already know the important things…
Like how his entire face softens when he says my name. How he looks at me like I’m the only thing worth seeing. How, even now, after baring his heart to me, his expression remains open and raw, like he’s standing with me on the edge of something just as terrifying.
Yes, I love Jiho Park.
I love him, and it’s crazy. I’m crazy. He’s crazy. We’re crazy.
But if he says yes—if he meant those three words—then maybe crazy doesn’t matter. Maybe crazy is right.
I swallow hard, waiting, my hands balling in his shirt. But I don’t look away because he’s all I can see. He’s all I ever want to see.
Running his thumb over my bottom lip, Jiho softly smiles and nods. “Yes, Morgan. I love you. But I don’t expect you to say it back.”
He doesn’t?
The fiery rage in me flares a bit at that, but the fact that Jiho Park loves me smothers it and any little spark in an instant.
“And I promise,” he adds quickly, “that until you say it back and fucking beyond, I will never keep anything from you ever again.”
I stay quiet. Not because I want to, but because my thoughts are spinning so fast they blur together, leaving me grasping for something to say.
But my mind is stuck in overdrive, tangled between this is crazy and but it’s real . And all that manages to slip from my stupid mouth is a weak, breathless, “Oh.”
Poor Jiho…
His eyes flicker, blinking three times in rapid succession before I see it—the exact moment backpedal materializes on his face. Shit. He’s about to panic.
“Seriously, anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. I’m an open book,” he blurts out, words tumbling over each other. “Like in kindergarten, I couldn’t really understand English, and the kids called me Dummy Dumbo for it. To this day, I refuse to watch the movie. And in eighth grade, John dared me to try on my mom’s bra, and if I didn’t do it, he’d tell Samantha Morrin I had a crush on her. So I did, but he whipped out his Polaroid and took a fucking picture. He still uses it for blackmail. I hate every kind of chocolate except the super dark kind, but I love chocolate milk. And every morning at 10:00 AM on the dot, I take a massive—”
That snaps me out of my spiral. I lunge forward, pressing a finger against Jiho’s lips before he can finish that particular confession.
“That one, you can keep to yourself,” I say, shaking my head, laughing. “Always keep that one to yourself, baby.”
The laughter slips out naturally, as it always does with Jiho. For the first time since this conversation started, I breathe.
His lips are warm against my fingertip, and my eyes take their time, traveling over every corner of his face. It really is ridiculously handsome— annoyingly so. My chest feels too full, but now it’s a different kind of fullness. Lighter, less frantic, more…certain.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” I murmur, my voice softer. “I know you hate when I count the days, but we’ve only been together for eight of them.” His lips part, an inhale forming the start of a thought, but I press my finger just a little harder, silencing him before he can voice it. “But, that means I’m equally crazy.”
Brows pinching slightly, confusion flickers behind the hope already lighting up his dark eyes. “What are you saying?” he asks, the words muffled against my finger.
First, I let my hand move, trailing from his mouth to cup his cheek, my thumb brushing lightly over the roughness of his morning stubble. I want to remember this—the way his breath catches, the warmth of his skin, the longing in his eyes, looking at me like I might disappear into thin air at any moment. I let myself feel it all, and let it mold to my bones.
And then, finally, I let myself say it. “What I’m saying is that I love you, too.”
Unmistakable relief softens Jiho’s face. His warm hand moves from my chin to the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, while the other slides to my waist, pulling me closer. So close I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine.
“Say it again,” he whispers against my mouth, his voice rough, almost desperate. “For the love of God, say it again.”
He leans in, forehead resting against mine, lips hovering, but he doesn’t close the distance. He’s waiting— needing —to hear it.
I can’t look away, caught in the sheer intensity of him, of this moment, of everything crashing down around us and rebuilding into something new, something ours.
“I love you, Jiho,” I say, slow and certain, letting the words settle on his heart, letting them belong to him. Because everything I have, everything I am, belongs to this man.
Jiho smiles, but it lingers for only a second before his lips press against mine—soft at first, reverent, like he’s absorbing the gravity of what I just gave him. But then something shifts.
His fingers tighten at the nape of my neck, his hand on my waist flexing as if anchoring himself to me. And suddenly, the kiss deepens, communicating something new. Something hidden that may have been there this whole time.
Love.
It’s a promise—a desperate confession of its own that doesn’t need words.
His mouth moves with a kind of hunger that weakens my knees. Like he’s afraid that if he stops, I might take it back.
So I push up on my toes, pressing closer and pouring everything I have into him. Because I’ll never take it back. I couldn’t if I tried.
A moan escapes me as his fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head, changing the angle, and kissing me like he indeed wants to memorize everything about me. Every curve of my mouth, every sigh I make, every little way I respond to him.
And God, do I respond.
My hands move to his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle, like holding onto him is the only thing keeping my feet on the ground.
His smile returns against my mouth, and I feel the way he melts into me. As if something inside has finally allowed him to let go of all control. Because if anything can’t be controlled, it’s love.
But at the same time, there’s an urgency to the way his tongue wraps around mine—this quiet, restrained need that lingers beneath the surface. It grows louder by the second, making my stomach flip and my heart pound all over again. The same need, evident in the diligence of his body and the hardness of his length pressing into my stomach.
Who knows how long we stand on the balcony, tangled in each other. But when Jiho finally pulls back—just enough for our lips to part—our uneven breaths mingle as he searches my face with impossibly soft eyes.
“You love me,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything, like he still can’t quite believe it.
I smile breathlessly, tracing my fingers along his jaw. “I love you.”
Gentle laughter hums low in his throat before he kisses me again, quick and firm, as if he just has to.
“God, Morgan, you have no idea how happy you just made me,” he says between kisses. And before I can answer, his solid arms wrap around my waist, hugging and twirling me around.
I let out a shriek and a giggle before he sets me down, my bare feet meeting the concrete, warmed by the early summer sun. “I think I know exactly how happy I’ve made you because I feel the same.” Pressing a kiss to his left pec right above his heart, I add, “You’ve made me just as happy.”
Jiho’s smile widens, and I swear it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed. His dark eyes shine like the sun, crinkling at the corners, his one dimple appearing like it does when he’s truly, deeply happy. It steals my breath and knocks something loose in my chest.
A silent moment passes between us, all but quiet. It’s full of everything we can’t quite put into words—everything that doesn’t need to be said. A silent moment full of us.
And in the full silence, he slides a hand into mine, guiding me to the sliding glass door. “Come on, baby. Let’s go upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs that we can’t do down here?” I ask playfully as we cross over the threshold and back into the house, closing the door with my free hand.
“A bed,” Jiho answers, tugging me along toward the stairs. “A giant, king-sized one in which I plan to make sweet love to my girlfriend.”
I chuckle. “Make love? How very old school of you.”
Almost to the first stair, Jiho stops abruptly, turning on a heel to face me. My face smacks right between his giant pecs. He uses my faceplant to his advantage, wrapping his strong arms gently around my neck, holding me to him.
“You got it so wrong, Morgan,” he purrs in my ear, his voice velvety, low, and rich.
Well, hello there, Mr. O’Malley. Haven’t heard from you in a while.
Jiho’s lips brush just beneath my jaw, his breath a teasing whisper against my skin as he continues, “Making love is a category all its own. Sex is just that—sex. No emotion. Just action. Fucking is hard. Dirty. Maybe even angry. Punishing. But making love?” A hand trails down my body, slow and deliberate, not even pretending to stop at the waistband of my shorts. No hesitation. No teasing. His fingers immediately find my clit, tracing slow, devastating circles over the sensitive bud.
I arch into him, breath stuttering as instant pleasure pulses through me. My hands find purchase on his hard, muscled waist, clinging to him like a lifeline in a storm.
His purr drops to a gravelly whisper, each word threading through my veins like fire. “Making love is slow. Sensual. Every movement, deliberate, every touch meant for one thing.”
No more, no less, a finger teases my entrance, my knees threatening to give out. But our hold on each other keeps me upright. Breathless and trembling, but upright.
“That each time I make you come, it’s not just pleasure you feel,” he rasps, his mouth at my ear, his body flush against mine, “but every ounce of my love for you. And when I take you to heaven—when you’re certain you’ve died—it’s my love that brings you back to me.”
One would think nothing in the history of the world could ruin this moment. This amazingly perfect, vagina-drenching, ultra-swoon-worthy moment.
Yes, one would think…
But one clearly forgot about the shark swimming around in her uterus. Good thing it reminds me of its presence with a sharp chomp to the abdomen.
Like the champ that I am, I breathe through it, trying to focus on Jiho’s magical fingers. But I can’t. Not even after the cramp subsides. Because the cramp obviously reminds me of my period, which reminds me of this morning with Michelle. Michelle reminds me of the scalpel. The scalpel reminds me of dumb-fuck Reginald. And dumb-fuck Reginald reminds me of the countless times he told me it’s gross to have sex on my period.
I know, I know. Reginald’s an asshole, and I should forget everything he’s ever told me.
But…
Although Reginald may not have been my first, he was definitely my longest. And the solid three situationships before him never lasted long enough to test the period-sex waters, let alone make me feel wanted outside of convenience.
In other words, Reginald’s the baseline for this matter at hand, which I know isn’t saying much. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Whether I like it or not, period sex is gross has been drilled into my head so many times that it’s practically instinct to believe it. And if Jiho hesitates—even for a second—I don’t think I’d ever recover.
Jiho freezes, hand withdrawing like my mind blasted my thoughts straight to his with a fucking megaphone.
His fingers slide to my waist, grounding me, while his other hand cups my cheek. “Hey, what’s wrong? You went stiff as a board.”
My pulse skitters as I try to look away, but he softly nudges my chin. By now, I know what that means. Look at me.
Only when I do does he add, “You can tell me, baby.”
I swallow hard, knowing I can, but still bracing for the worst. My voice is almost too quiet when I say, “I’m on my period.”
“Yeah, I know. And?”
The simplicity of his reply knots my stomach. Even so, I force the words out. “And don’t you think it’s…gross?”
Jiho’s face falls into a scowl—not at me, never at me—but at something unseen, something he hates on my behalf. Then, in one smooth motion, his hands lift me by the waist, placing me on the first stair, our eyes now level.
Bracing his hands on his hips, his scowl turns serious. “I’m guessing this has to do with Douche-Face Supreme?”
The knots in my stomach pull tighter as shame creeps up my throat, hot and suffocating. I hate that this feeling still lingers…
“Yeah,” I admit, my voice slower this time, quieter, my whole body curling inward. “Regi—”
The name barely passes my lips before Jiho’s hand grabs my throat, tilting my chin up as his mouth claims mine—strong, unyielding, drowning out the past. He kisses me like he’s erasing every doubt, every insecurity, every cruel whisper still lodged in the far corners of my mind.
And when he finally pulls away, his grip on my throat remains, steady but gentle. “Never say that name again,” he growls, full of possession and promise. “He’s in the past. I— we —are the present and future. Do you understand?”
I can only nod, because how the hell am I supposed to argue with that kind of sexy dominance? Honestly, I’ll forget anyone and anything he wants if he keeps talking to me like that. Guess I’m back on Team Sub.
Jiho steps into me, close enough that his heat becomes my own. To drive his point home, his hand slides back under my shorts, past my aching clit, and straight inside me. Two fingers, deep and deliberate, curl and thrust, my hips moving and grinding down with every stroke.
“It seems, baby, that you’ve never been with a real man,” he says, voice smooth and laced with a deep-rooted resolution. “Real men don’t give a damn about shit like periods. When I want you—when I want to show you how much I love you—I’ll have you as long as you’re willing to give yourself to me.”
It’s a battle to stay focused on the words dripping from his lips like the sweetest of drugs. Especially when his fingers sink deeper. And even more when his palm presses the perfect amount of pressure against my clit.
His next words are a low whisper against my lips. “Are you willing, Morgan? Right. Fucking. Now?”
My answer isn’t just yes. It’s a desperate plea, spilling from my lips in the form of echoing screams—raw, unfiltered, and endless.
Until I see every constellation in the fucking universe.
Until my body locks around his fingers, inner muscles clenching like I’m trying to keep him there forever.
His free hand slips from my throat to my waist, the only thing keeping me from crumbling under the weight of my own pleasure.
As my climax eases, my legs find their strength again. Jiho chuckles—a sinful little sound—and finally pulls his fingers from me. He doesn’t flinch when red slicks his skin. Not even a little.
Instead, his dominating, commanding gaze finds mine. In the lowest voice edged with the purest satisfaction, he says, “Good girl. Now get your ass upstairs and into bed naked. I’ll grab a towel.
***
The next day at 10:00 AM on the dot.