Chapter 5b Falling Into the Fire #2
Before I can come up with a witty, defensive reply, he heads straight for the bathroom. The sound of the shower fills the apartment, and I hate the unwelcome knot of anticipation tightening low in my stomach.
When he finally emerges, my pulse stutters.
He’s a walking, talking visual, sculpted by the industry to specifically dismantle my common sense.
A towel is slung criminally low on his hips, and he’s casually drying his still-damp hair, droplets tracing a path down his temple.
He smells of soap and something warmer, deeper—something uniquely him.
It’s a cheap shot. And it’s working.
“You look comfortable,” he says again, nodding at the hoodie I’m swimming in.
I lean back into the couch, feigning nonchalance. “Better than whatever that stylist picked for you today.”
He chuckles, but it’s missing its usual spark. “Still sharp-tongued, I see.”
“Still avoiding straight answers, I see,” I shoot back.
He exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t sleep and worked more than twelve hours… Not tonight, Min-hee.”
Somehow, that triggers me. I’m tired of this dance… this whole situationship. “Then when?” I press, the dam of my patience finally breaking. “When it’s convenient? When you’ve got no other girls in the queue? Or maybe when you’re just bored and suddenly remember I exist?”
His mouth flattens into a hard line. “You’re the one who chose to stay here. Couldn’t you be nicer to me?”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. There are too many scars to just be nice. “Nicer? Like that time I brought you medicine when you had that awful flu, and you told me to leave through the back so the neighbors wouldn’t see me?”
That hits him. The exhaustion in his eyes is replaced by something sharper, more wounded. He’s silent for a long moment, the accusation hanging heavy in the air between us.
Then he steps forward, closing the space between us until he’s towering over me.
“Damn it, Min-hee, what do you want from me? You were there when we were twenty-four—you know exactly how the agency and the press shredded us.” His voice is raw with years of frustration, cracking on the final, desperate question. “You think I chose this?”
“That was years ago,” I say, standing so he can’t look down on me. “What’s your excuse now?”
He backs me against the dining table until the cold metal edge presses into my hips.
“You’re right. There is no excuse now,” he says, his voice a low, husky growl.
His hands plant on either side of me, caging me in.
His knuckles brush my ears, sending a tremor through me.
“You always make it impossible to think straight, you know that?”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to break eye contact. “Good.”
Then, in one swift move, his lips are on mine. The kiss crashes over me—hot, urgent, tasting of mint and a wilder, raw hunger. His tongue slips against mine with a deep, consuming need that makes my knees go weak, my fingers instantly tangling in the back of his hair.
My hoodie is gone in one swift pull, cool air skating over my suddenly exposed skin.
His hands grip my waist, thumbs stroking small, possessive circles as he lifts me effortlessly onto the cold, polished tabletop.
The sharp contrast of the surface against the backs of my thighs pulls a gasp from my mouth into his.
Now we’re eye-level—me sitting on the table, him standing between my knees. His muscular frame looms over me, his strong hands mapping every inch of exposed skin. His teeth graze my jaw, trail down my neck, leaving sparks in their wake.
The scent of him—clean soap and pure heat—wraps around me.
I manage to summon the last functioning cell in my brain to regain control, breaking the kiss and pushing him back slightly. “You can’t just do this every time we get into an argument.”
But he ignores my words, too consumed with our contact. His voice is hoarse as he commands, “Just shut up and kiss me.” And with that, he plunges back in.
I feel helpless, my body completely ignoring the memo from my brain. I kiss him back with the same fervor, subordinate to Suho’s ridiculous magic.
My pulse skips. For a moment, all the mess—rumors, headlines, the months we spent not seeing each other, silently wondering is he? is he not?—hangs between us.
This is a terrible idea. An absolute, five-star disaster. If I let this continue, I know it’ll hurt later. It always does.
He leans in, his breath hot at my ear as we break the kiss to catch our breath. He shoots me that signature, annoying wicked smirk of his, knowing all too well that I’m completely under his spell. “Tell me to stop.”
The question is a challenge, and the answer is already burning in my body. I’m too far gone to pretend otherwise. I hook my legs around his hips, pulling him flush against me. “Don’t you dare.”
His groan is low, rough. One hand slides up my back, unhooking my bra in one smooth motion; the other steadies me as his mouth closes over my nipple, tongue flicking, sending heat racing through me.
His hands—broad, warm, slightly calloused—travel down, tugging my jeans and underwear away in one impatient motion. His hips grind against me in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the press of his hard length against my slick folds making my breath catch.
I lie fully back on the table with a gasp. He still stands there, his face so close to mine, I feel completely exposed, pinned beneath his relentless gaze.
His fingers dip lower, teasing my entrance before slipping one inside… then another, stretching me, preparing me for his length.
A low chuckle rumbles against my ear, a confident, knowing sound before his mouth begins a slow descent. Over my chest. Down my stomach.
His lips find the sensitive skin just below my navel, and I cry out as his fingers, already deep inside me, begin to move in the same deliberate, torturous rhythm, the wet sounds of slick friction filling the silence.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers, his kiss growing bolder. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you,” I manage in a shallow, quick burst of breath, the fight in me now vanished.
My hips mirror the motion of his mouth and fingers, one hand grips his hair, desperately, making sure his head stays exactly between my legs, every muscle straining to hold myself back from screaming and falling apart right there.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire.
He surges up and kisses me again—deep and punishing, a kiss designed to annihilate thought, making me taste myself on his lips.
But it’s not enough. I need him closer, need him inside me. He reads the desperation in the way I claw at his shoulders, because he pulls back just enough to grab a condom. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving mine as he rolls it on with a practiced ease.
And suddenly, we’re twenty again.
With a slow, deliberate push, he slides into me—thick, stretching me in a way only Suho ever could, until my head falls back with a choked sound.
He presses forward again, deep and steady, until the table rocks beneath us. Every thrust sends a dull, delicious ache curling through my belly, his breath heavy and ragged.
“Suho—” I moan, half gasp, half plea, knowing I’ll feel sore tomorrow.
He doesn’t respond with words. His answer is a harsh, guttural sound from the back of his throat—a curse that’s more breath than word—as he grinds deeper, finding that spot that makes my vision splinter white—a muscle memory of pleasure he’s known how to trigger since we were twenty.
“It feels so good to be inside you,” he sighs as he slips two fingers between my lips, silencing the next cry before it can even form. “Too good…”
At the same time, his free hand moves in perfect sync with his hips, circling my mound and driving me right to the edge.
I can feel myself getting closer, the familiar sensation of impending climax building inside me. My body finally tightens around him, pleasure exploding through me, sharp and shattering. He follows seconds later, groaning against my skin, his own release a shuddering wave.
He pulls back just enough to look down at me, a lazy, triumphant smirk on his face, his chest still heaving.
“Always a fucking firework with you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “The way you fall apart… so beautiful.”
I squirm beneath him, a needy little tremor chasing the aftershocks. He just watches me, a silent, knowing victory in his eyes. That glint in his eye isn’t dismissal; it’s a challenge. It’s the look of a man who knows exactly what he just did to me and is enjoying every second of it.
“Don’t get greedy,” he says, his voice a low, amused growl that still doesn’t hide the bone-deep exhaustion. “Sleep. I have another shoot tomorrow.”
As if I weigh nothing, he scoops me up and carries me to his bedroom. We take turns cleaning up.
“Umm… Suho? I start, hesitating.
“Yeah?” he replies sleepily, already flopping into bed, one eye closed.
“Can I borrow your… underwear? I didn’t bring a change.” My voice comes out as a mortified squeak.
This is it, I think. A new milestone in our chaotic situationship. Borrowing his underwear before we’ve ever been on an actual date.
For the record, I have rules about this sort of thing:
Only in a dire, wardrobe-related emergency (check)
Only if we have a ridiculously long, shared history (double-check)
His laugh fills the room, so loud and genuine it makes him wipe a tear from his eye. “Why would you need any underwear?” he challenges, but I just pout in response.
Finally, his smirk settles. “Here,” he says, tossing me a pair of black boxers. “My absolute best pair. Treat them with care.”
I put them on. They’re ridiculously huge, the waistband halfway down my thighs.
“Although…” his voice dips lower, that familiar husky growl returning, “I’d enjoy taking those off you even more.”
He flops back onto the bed, patting the space beside him. I curl in, and his arm drapes protectively over my waist as we fall into an exhausted sleep.
***
The next morning, I finally face the music. I turn on my phone.
The screen explodes with a mountain of notifications. At the top of the pile, two messages cut through the noise, a one-two punch to the gut.
From the CEO of my agency: The official police summons has arrived. You need to come in.
From Shin: Call me.
I stare at the screen, my skin still warm from Suho’s touch. His scent clings to me, a shameless, incriminating piece of evidence.
The girl who fell asleep in his arms last night was reckless and, for a few stupid, glorious hours, had let herself believe they were invincible.
The woman who woke up knows the bill has just arrived.