The city's night was thick, heavy, as if all the chaos of Seoul was pressing in, suffocating, even up here above it all. Yura lay curled against Joon-ho's shoulder, her cheek pressing into the smooth warmth of his skin, hair spilling down in tangled waves. The penthouse had finally quieted—no echo of Harin's giggles or Mirae's bratty whines, Min-kyung's shameless purring fading into memory. The aftershocks of pleasure had barely cooled before Yura had slunk back into his arms, a ghost of herself, silent in a way that unsettled even him.

She was soft, but not in the way she used to be. Not the sharp, relentless Yura that could cut through any boardroom or courtroom with her smile, her will. No, tonight she was frayed at the edges, every breath slower, like she was holding herself together with invisible threads. Her nightgown was so thin it was practically useless, one strap slipping down her shoulder, exposing a collarbone that looked too delicate, too breakable.

Joon-ho brushed her hair aside, fingertips lingering, searching for the heat of fever, for the tremble of something deeper. "You don't look well," he said, voice low, wrapping her closer. "You're not sick, are you?"

She smiled—small, tired, the kind of smile you give when you don't want to scare anyone. "Not sick. Just tired," she murmured, eyes flicking up to him, dark and full of unspoken storms. "Too much court. Too many meetings. Too much pretending to be the perfect ex-wife, the perfect boss, the perfect everything." She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat, coming out thin and ragged. "Maybe I'm just stretched too thin."

He tightened his hold, letting her rest her head against his chest, feeling the tiny shivers that kept wracking her body. It wasn't cold—he'd made sure of that. No, this was exhaustion, deep and raw, running down to the bone.

"You're overdoing it," he said, not as a question, just a fact. "You never let up. Not for one fucking second."

Yura shrugged, but the motion was more like a flinch. "Lumina's in full launch. The divorce trial is a circus. Fashion Week's eating my schedule alive, and everyone's looking at me to be… Yura." Her lips twisted around the name like it was a dirty joke. "And I still have to pretend my husband isn't about to tank a billion-won company just to spite me."

Joon-ho's fingers slid down her arm, slow and certain. "You're not a machine, Yura."

She snorted, but her eyes glistened. "Tell that to everyone else." For a moment, she let herself melt into him, body softening, her shivers returning. "Maybe I need to disappear for a week," she whispered, half-joking, half-begging. "Or just… stop. Just for one night."

He watched her, the way her lashes trembled, the way her lips parted. "You ever think about running away?" he asked. "Just dropping it all for a bit?"

She didn't answer at first. Then, quietly, "Maybe I should."

He pulled her closer. "Come with me to the Olympics."

Yura blinked. "What?"

"Just for a while. Come with me. Leave this all behind. Let them handle the mess. You deserve a break." His voice was steady, commanding, leaving no room for protest.

She shook her head, a feeble gesture. "I can't. Lumina's got deadlines. Fashion week wrap-ups. My lawyers need me. The admin team—"

He cut her off with a look. "Delegate. For once in your fucking life."

She bit her lip, thinking. "If I rearrange a few things… maybe Luna can handle PR. Min-ji owes me a favor. And the admin team is—" She trailed off, a slow, dangerous smile curling her mouth. "You're kidnapping me, aren't you?"

"If that's what it takes."

She looked up at him, her eyes a little brighter, a little more alive. "You're serious."

He nodded, all brute certainty.

But another shiver ran through her, sharper this time, making her breath stutter. Joon-ho frowned, studying her. "You're shaking."

"I'm just tired. My body feels…" She tried to stretch, but a wince stole across her face. "Like it's not mine anymore. Like I pushed too hard."

He stood, cradling her with no warning, arms sliding under her knees and shoulders. "Enough. Come here."

Yura let herself be lifted, almost weightless. Her arms looped around his neck, fingers digging into the muscle there, more from need than strength. He carried her through the penthouse, past scattered clothes and tangled sheets, through the hallway to the clinic room—his private sanctuary, a place that smelled like lavender and heat and secrets.

He set her down on the massage table, slow and careful, like she was something precious that might break. The light was golden, low, just enough to see the shivering curve of her body as she settled, the nightgown bunched high on her thighs.

She looked at him, that tired grin resurfacing. "Been a while since you carried me like this."

"Feels like forever," he answered, stripping his shirt off in one motion, letting it fall to the floor. His body was already thrumming with energy, cock rising, heavy and thick, impossible to hide. The last hours hadn't drained him—they'd only wound him tighter, and Yura's vulnerability stoked the hunger that lived beneath his skin.

She watched him undress, her eyes following every line, every shadow. "You had your fun with the girls tonight," she teased, voice thin but teasing. "I get a special massage, right?"

"Only the best for you," he replied, voice dropping to a growl.

She peeled her nightgown off, slow and unashamed, letting it slip to the floor. Her skin was flushed, goosebumps racing down her arms and thighs, nipples stiff and dark, practically begging for his mouth. She turned onto her stomach, arms stretched above her head, hair fanned out, ass perfect and high, legs spread just enough to show the glisten of arousal between her thighs. She was already wet—he could smell it, sharp and sweet, the scent threading through the lavender oil he poured into his palms.

He let the oil drip onto her back, just between her shoulder blades. She flinched, the heat sending a shiver straight down her spine.

He started at her neck, kneading gently, working out the knots of tension that had built up over weeks. Her muscles were tight, nearly unyielding at first, but he was patient, working slowly, thumbs digging deep. Every time he found a particularly stubborn knot, Yura gasped, a little moan escaping her, half pain, half relief.

"Still remember when you first opened this clinic?" she asked, voice muffled by the table. "I was your first customer. There was no one else here—just you, me, and this empty room. You were so nervous. You pretended you weren't, but I could tell."

He smiled, rubbing slow circles down her back. "You were always there. That's why I love you."

She went still for a moment, breath catching. "Say it again."

He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. "I love you, Seo Yura. I always have."

She let out a shaky breath, body melting under his hands. He worked his way down, across her shoulders, down her spine, stopping to knead her waist and hips, letting his thumbs circle the soft flesh there. She moaned again, deeper now, voice thick with need. He spread her ass with both hands, thumbs pressing into the muscle, and she pushed up against him, shameless, her pussy slick and dripping onto the sheet.

Her legs trembled as he worked his way down, kneading her thighs, his hands rougher now, more demanding. He could feel the exhaustion in her muscles, the way her body shook with each touch, but beneath it was hunger—filthy, needy, desperate for him.

He leaned down, mouth close to her ear. "Turn over for me."

She obeyed without hesitation, rolling onto her back, hair wild, skin flushed. Her nipples were rock-hard, begging for attention, her pussy a wet mess, slick coating her inner thighs. She looked up at him, eyes soft and raw, vulnerable in a way he'd never seen before.

"You really do take care of me," she whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. "Even when I don't ask."

He leaned down and kissed her—slow at first, then deeper, hungry, tongue sliding against hers. She whimpered, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down so their bodies pressed together, heat rising between them.

She broke the kiss, breathless, lips swollen. "Joon-ho… I want you to fuck me tonight. I need to feel you. I need to remember I'm still alive."

He growled, mouth trailing down her throat, hands finding her breasts, squeezing, pinching, teasing her nipples until she writhed beneath him. Her legs spread, hips lifting, begging without words, her entire body shaking with want.

His cock pressed against her thigh, hot and heavy, leaking pre-cum that smeared across her skin. He lined himself up, teasing the head against her slick folds, making her moan, making her beg.

But he didn't push in—yet. He made her wait, made her squirm, every nerve ending lit up with need.

Her voice was hoarse, desperate. "Please. Please, Joon-ho. I need you. I want you to ruin me. Make me forget everything else."

He kissed her again, devouring, claiming, his hands rough on her hips as he finally, finally started to push inside—

And that's where he stopped, holding her on the edge, letting her drown in anticipation, the world outside forgotten, everything narrowed down to the heat of their bodies and the filthy, desperate need tying them together.

Tomorrow, the world would come crashing back in. But tonight, Yura was his—and he was hers, every filthy, aching, precious inch.

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