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as seen on screen | jww (part 3/3)

٠࣪⭑ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem reader ٠࣪⭑ summary: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say. ٠࣪⭑ genre: coworkers au. smut, angst, enemies to lovers ٠࣪⭑ rating: explicit. minors do not interact, i’ll block you. ٠࣪⭑ chapter warnings: smut, drinking, swearing, smoking, reader and wonwoo won't admit they like each other, mentions of revenge p*rn (stranger vs wonwoo), annoying characters (i cannot stress this enough). UNBETA'D because this is so long and so late and i'm impatient to post ٠࣪⭑ smut contents: fingering, protected sex, unprotected sex, oral (both receiving), outercourse, cum eating, nipple play, pet name (baby) if you think i’ve forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post! ٠࣪⭑ wc: 31k 😑😑😑 NO ONE LOOK AT ME ٠࣪⭑ a/n: well fellas, this is it. i thought this was finished at 18k but i asked 2 days ago if you'd mind if i wrote 2k more- and then i guess i blacked out lmao. thank you to @starlightkyeom and @100vern in particular, who have listened to me complain about this fic for too long and are always kind, and everyone in C&E who sprinted with me. you're the best. ٠࣪⭑ written for: the Lights Out collab hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me join in! please look out for the rest of the fics 💕

Even after a long, cold shower, sleep is proving impossible. The air conditioning hums too loud, doing nothing to cool the embarrassment that has taken over Wonwoo’s body. Every time he closes his eyes, the moment in the elevator replays– how close he got, how your eyes flickered down to his lips as he spoke, the way water beaded down the long line of your neck. How badly he wanted to touch you.He spends too long trying to convince himself it was just the wine that brought down your defenses, but your last glass was emptied over an hour before you almost let him kiss you. God. You almost let him kiss you. He lets out a bitter laugh as he imagines you talking about what a PR disaster that would be, had the moment played out.

Unable to sleep, he reaches for his phone and pulls up Instagram. He doesn’t follow you, never thought you’d want him to, but lately he’s found himself looking up your profile all the same. Your posts are all books he wants to ask you about, views from hotel rooms, occasional pictures with friends at dinner– half of the group mid-sentence with drinks in their hands, a stray cat you’re attempting to stroke in Rome, an occasional selfie in front of somewhere beautiful, mussed sheets bathed in sunlight captioned “home”. Try as he might, he can’t imagine where you live. An apartment in the city? A villa in the hills?

There’s one photo of you he particularly likes he found in a carousel of someone else's wedding– you’re a bridesmaid in a lilac dress, sitting on a wall, feet resting on the thighs of a man (a friend? Someone more?) cropped out of the picture, heels abandoned on the floor. You have a cigarette in your hand, and your eyes are scrunched shut, and you’re blowing a kiss to the camera. He thinks about that photo a lot, and how he hasn’t truly seen that side of you in person. The closest he got was all those years ago, when he talked with you in a bar and your smile almost ruined him with the lightness of it. His crush on you was too obvious back then. Embarrassing. If he scrolls further down, Wonwoo would find photos nameless people have taken of you, candid and laughing at the person behind the camera, and he wonders if they were taken by friends, or given their replacement with selfies, an old partner.

But he’s not scrolling tonight. Wonwoo is frozen, thumb hovering over the highlighted ring around your profile picture. He hasn’t seen you post a story yet and he’s so, so tempted to see what you won’t immortalise on your grid. He glances at your follower account. Small enough that you’d notice his name amongst the viewers.

Fuck it.

His breath catches in his throat. A brief video of you posted an hour ago, in the mirror of your bathroom with the patter of the shower running in the background. You’re still wearing that red bikini and looking like an image conjured from his teenage wet dreams, angling your hip to the side so he can just see the curve of your ass. He swallows hard, entranced in the way your manicured fingernails brush across your collarbone, palm conveniently covering the chain that sits at the base of your throat. Is his ring still on it? Is this meant for him? Should he message you? Did you touch yourself in the shower? Wonwoo’s head buzzes with questions, not knowing that just a floor away, you’re sliding your nightdress up over your hips.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re desperately fighting away the image your mind conjures of him, careful and meticulous, doing it for you. And as you brush your hand over your thigh, you try not to think of his doing the same. And when you circle your fingers over your clit, you suck in a small breath, and give up trying not to remember that dream you once had of him making you come with long fingers buried deep in your wet cunt. Can still feel his fingers on your cheeks, thumb angling your chin up just to– your mouth waters. God. God, you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this.

Your phone buzzes under your pillow, and you drag your hand from between your legs, flip the skirt of your nightdress back down and turn on your side. You pull out your phone– two notifications.

The first is your friend.

Bridget [22:19] who is THAT thirst trap for Bridget [22:19] nvm I can guess You [22:20] Bitch <3 Bridget [22:20] slut <3 The second is him. A like left on the same story you’d hoped he would see. It’s stupid, you think, the way this small thing makes you feel. Stupid, because him liking you (or your body, who’s to know, really?) should have no bearing on how you feel about him. How do you feel about him, besides irritated most of the time? Sure, he’s attractive. Anyone with eyes would admit it. And sure, years ago you liked the way his eyes lit up when he talked with you over drinks. But there’s been an entire lifetime between then and now.

He said he hated you too, so what’s changed? Nothing, as far as you can tell. All that’s different is the proximity, working in close quarters, and you knowing things about him that you probably shouldn’t. A shameful memory of that video brings heat over your body, because you know the way he groans when he–

You shake the thought. The Wonwoo you know in 2025 is cold, closed off, and distrustful. Nothing in the past few hours has given new insight into his personality, just that he’s not immune to finding you attractive on some basic level. You release a heavy sigh, toying with his ring, still sitting heavy on the chain around your neck.

Nothing has changed.

Wonwoo will behave how Wonwoo does. You close your eyes in the hope that sleep will finally come, and take this night away from you.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re late getting ready for dinner. A call with Rolex and the potential for a brand ambassadorship ran over, but a meeting is finally booked for Tuesday. You call Inès while doing your make-up in the bathroom, and ask her to rearrange yours and Wonwoo’s flights for Zurich, first thing Monday morning.

The restaurant Bridget has booked means a dress and heels, neither of which you had packed since you don’t have any sponsor dinners this week in Miami, so you have to send out for a personal shopper while you’re tied up with the press. Out of three options, two have necklines that can only be considered appropriate for the club, and one isn’t ideal for dinner with friends, but it’ll do. Soft, pale yellow. The back is lower than you’d like for tonight, dipping elegantly at the small of your back. At least your areolas won’t be visible in this one.

At six-fifty five, you slip on your heels and rush out the door down the hall to call for the elevator. The wait for it to reach your floor takes an age, and you’re checking your watch when it dings to announce its arrival. The doors slide open, and there’s a small intake of breath. You look up to see Wonwoo straightening his spine, his eyes flitting up at you, down at the phone in his hand, and up again. He’s in a white buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled halfway, black trousers that make his legs look so long, and a long black coat folded over his arm. Looks like something from an old movie, so handsome when he wears his glasses. Your breaths go shallow as you will your fickle heartbeat to relax. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in this same lift and he almost– you almost–

“Are you getting in or what?” he mutters.

“Sorry.” You shake your head a little and step inside, tucking yourself into the opposite corner.

The lift rumbles into motion, and the two of you stand in silence. You know his eyes are on you occasionally, lingering glances caught in your peripherals. If he’s not going to mention your almost kiss, your Instagram story, then neither will you. Leaves you feeling off-centre. Unbalanced. But you refuse to be the first to lose your cool.

“You didn’t bring a jacket,” he says suddenly. An observation, not a question. “It’s cold outside.”

“It’s Miami,” you retort. “How cold can it get?”

There’s a brief moment where it looks like he’s about to argue with you, but it seems he changes his mind when his eyes drop to your neck. “Where’s my ring?”

You slipped it off the chain this morning. Thought it best you stopped carrying it around everywhere you go.

“In the safe in my room,” you say flatly. “I’ll fetch it for you tomorrow.”

“Good,” he says, folding his arms. “I missed it.”

Ever since you’ve been tasked with taking care of it, you’ve wanted to ask what it means to him, why he’s so attached, but the two of you fall into uncomfortable silence once again. Finally, finally, the doors slide open to the lobby, where Carlos is already waiting for you. He lifts his hand in a friendly wave, and when you walk over to meet him, Wonwoo falls into step beside you.

“You look nice,” Carlos says as you greet him. And to Wonwoo– “Doesn’t she look lovely?”

Wonwoo stiffens. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Good… uh– good dress.”

Hardly looks at you as he says it, and you feel the prickle of annoyance rising up your spine again. Can’t mean it, surely, but he’s hardly going to insult you to your face, not in front of Carlos.

Carlos slips an arm around your waist. “When was the last time you wore a dress, huh? I didn’t even know you owned one.”

You catch it, the way Wonwoo sneaks a sideways glance, then trains his narrowed eyes forward to focus on the elevators. “Liar, how many times have we had sponsor dinners?” You laugh, shoving Carlos off. “Anyway, what’s this?” you ask, plucking at his Williams puffer jacket over a light blue shirt. “You know we’re going somewhere grossly expensive, right?”

His smile splits his face as he laughs. “I need to rep the team, so I’ve been told.”

“Ah–” you say knowingly. “Can’t fault you for that, I suppose.”

Wonwoo clears his throat, and while you pointedly ignore the interruption, Carlos turns his attention on him. “What are your plans tonight?”

“Me?” says Wonwoo, distracted, scanning the faces exiting the elevator into the lobby. “I don’t know. Mingyu mentioned dinner with someone he knows.”

Your phone buzzes. You fish it out, and see that your driver is pulling up. “Uber’s close by,” you say to Carlos. “We should head outside.”

“Sure,” he says to you with a smile, and to Wonwoo– “Have a good night, mate.”

You don’t wait for Wonwoo’s reply. Just link arms with Carlos and walk out into the night. Unfortunately, Wonwoo is right. It’s cold.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bridget is positively giddy as enter the restaurant. You put it down to her new boyfriend, Eric, who is very sweet and completely enamoured with both her and Carlos. As you’re shown to your table and settle into your seat, you look at her questioningly.

“Do we have two more coming?” you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs– one beside you, and the other on the other side of the table, beside Bridget.

“Oh, just a couple of friends!” she says, a tiny smile playing on her lips, focusing very hard on her menu. “Very last minute, hope you understand.”

You narrow your eyes. “Well, who is it?”

Bridget doesn’t need to answer, because you catch the movement of the hostess behind you, showing an equally blindsided Wonwoo, and a smiling (like a cat who got the canary) Mingyu, who winks at your horrible, evil, sneaky friend. You’re cutting them both off your Christmas card list.

Mingyu slips into the seat beside Bridget before Wonwoo has a chance to react, leaving him with no other option than to sink into the chair next to yours. It’s crowded, the table is meant for five instead of six, too small for this many people. Wonwoo’s arm brushes yours.

“They couldn’t sit two celebrities at a bigger table?” you grumble.

Bridget grins devilishly. “I prefer it like this,” she says (in your head you’re calling her a liar). “Very cosy, don’t you think?” She touches Mingyu’s arm gently. “Thanks for coming, darling,” she says.

Carlos leans over you to ask– “Wonwoo, why didn’t you tell us you were coming earlier?”

Wonwoo looks at him, then slides earnest eyes over to you. “I didn’t know.” And then quieter– “Honestly.”

Bridget claps her hands together, grinning wide at you, daring you to say something. “We couldn’t have it looking like a double date, now, could we?” You hide your burning face in your menu. “No offence, Carlos, but wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“No FIA rules about who dates who,” teases Carlos, raising an eyebrow at you.

You roll your eyes. “You all know fine well that I don’t date my colleagues.” You feel Wonwoo shift next to you, but you won’t pay him any attention. “Too messy.”

Carlos waves his hand dismissively. “It’s only messy if your last name is Horner.”

There’s stunned laughter around the table, even Wonwoo covers his mouth with his hand to stop his laugh escaping.

“Or if you’re accused of sharing information,” you say, smiling. “PR disaster.”

Bridget tilts her head to the side, like an innocent puppy you know she isn't. “Maybe you should date someone from Ferrari instead.”

You try to press sharp on her toe under the table but you get Eric instead, who yelps. Bridget grins. You feign innocence. “Maybe I shouldn’t date at all.”

Time moves like molasses. Bridget and Mingyu seem to take extra time choosing their drinks (she has the same gimlet she always has. Mingyu has a beer), ordering their meals (Mingyu asks for a few more minutes twice) and when your espresso martini is placed in front of you, everyone (including the waiter) turns to look at you bemused, as you knock it back and order another.

“What?” you say, wiping the foam from the corner of your mouth with your ring finger. “It’s been a long week.”

Dinner moves slower, if at all possible. By the time Bridget finishes picking at her starter, you’ve finished your second drink and you’re signaling to the waiter for a third. You sneak subtle glances at Wonwoo when you think he’s not looking. He’s only half listening to the animated conversation playing out in front of you, going between looking down at his plate and staring off into space. Every time either of you move, your skin brushes his, and it’s just enough to drive you crazy.

You pick at your food. Truth be told, you shouldn’t let Bridget’s meddling get the better of your mood, since there’s no possibility of anything between you and Wonwoo anyway, because–

You work together

He hated you for years

What happened last night was the result of too many drinks on your part, and him mistaking frustration and friction for sexual tension, or something

He’s only a man, after all. Don’t they all think with their dicks?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Whatever Bridget and Mingyu were pulling hasn’t worked, because the night ends with you outside waiting for your uber, tipsy and shivering in the wind. The others are still inside, trying to decide which bar they want to try next, and you said your goodbyes early on account of an early start tomorrow morning. Carlos is staying put, sitting at the bar and flirting with a model who turns out to be a friend of a friend of a friend. He’s given you his jacket though, and you’ve pulled it around your body tight to keep the chill of the wind out.

There’s the noise of the door behind you and you turn to see Wonwoo watching you, and you almost snap your neck turning back to face the road again. Wonwoo comes to stand at your side. Too close. Close enough that you can catch his cologne on the wind.

“You need to take this off.”

You nearly choke on air as you whip your head around to look at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Carlos’ jacket,” he says, raising an eyebrow and casting his eyes down over your form. “You’re wearing a competitor's merchandise.”

He’s right. It looks questionable if twisted a certain way, but it’s easily explained. “I’m cold,” you say simply, looking back out to the road again, looking for any sign of your uber.

“Well, I warned you,” he chides.

“I didn’t bring anything warm that’d go with this anyway.”

“Here,” he starts. You catch movement in the corner of your eye. He shrugs off his jacket, turns to you, and tugs on the sleeve of yours, and moves into your space. You swallow thick. “Have mine. Can’t have our Head of Communications caught up in a dating scandal, can we?”

“I think I’m safe, with Carlos inside chasing models.” You laugh, though you let him slide the Williams jacket down your arms. The wind makes you shiver, but he’s got you. He slips his (still warm from his own body) coat over your shoulders. It shrouds you. He shrouds you, still up in your personal space, still not stepping back to give you room to breathe.

“What about you?” you ask, and the concern evident in your voice surprises you. “Aren’t you cold now?”

Wonwoo huffs a gentle laugh. “I’m okay.”

“Did you get the feeling we’re being set up?” he asks quietly.

“Hmm,” you agree, keeping your eyes trained on the road. “Bridget’s as subtle as a brick through a window.”

“Mingyu too.” Wonwoo chuckles. He sounds fond for once. “I’m sorry, you know?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t kn–”

“No–” he interrupts. There’s a long pause. You can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him. You’ve had a little too much to drink and you know yourself. Know you’ll lean into a moment if he lays it out for you. Best not to look at all. “I mean about last night. I shouldn’t have tried to–”

“Right–” you cut him off back. He must regret it, and the decision on how to handle these brewing feelings has been snatched from your hands. “No. No, it's fine.” Your voice is too tight to feign feeling normal about the direction this conversation went. “Let’s forget about it.”

As soon as you say that you have the urge to take it back, but God, it’s too embarrassing. It feels like you’ve lost a game you didn’t know you were playing, and fuck, do you hate to lose.

Until quietly, he says, “I’m gonna go and give this back to Carlos.”

The sound of the door leaves you alone with your swirling thoughts and the lump in your throat. It doesn’t matter. In fact, this is good, right? Because nothing actually happened and he’s not even interested. It was just… you don’t know what it was. Your uber pulls up, and before you close the car door you look through the window to see Wonwoo being clapped on the shoulder by Carlos, and being introduced to the model, and the model’s equally beautiful friend. Wonwoo smiles wide at her, brilliant and blinding.

He’s not interested in you. He’s got no reason to be. This is– this is good, right? So why does the scene unfolding before your very eyes make you crave a cigarette, and another drink?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo’s laying in bed reading his book when there’s a noise outside his door– not a knock, sounds like someone trying to get in. He stands, wary, watches the handle jiggle, and moves over to look through the peephole. It’s you, except you’re moving away, trying the door across the hall.

Wonwoo pulls the door open, calls your name questioningly. When you turn you almost topple over, so you brace yourself backwards on the opposite wall. You look at him with slow surprise and a loll of your head, and he wonders if you’ve been drinking alone this whole time. He’d intended to hitch a ride back to the hotel with you, but in the few minutes it took to give Carlos back his jacket and sign an autograph for his new ‘friends’, you had disappeared. “What are you doing?” he asks.

You rush toward him, stumble over your own feet as you clamp your hand over his mouth. “Shhhhh,” you whisper. Wonwoo freezes, save for his deepening frown, because you don’t seem the slightest bit disconcerted by the fact he’s having to hold you steady. “I lo– lost m’room. Everythin’ looks the same.”

“Jesus– how much did you drink?”

Your hand slips from his mouth, dragging clumsily along his jaw, before you let it fall against his chest. He catches your wrist gently before you can lose your footing again.

“En-enough,” you say, interrupted by hiccups, eyes slipping shut for a second too long. “Needed to cl–clear my head. M’all muddled.”

He exhales, long and tight, and glances down the corridor– empty, thank God. “Come on. You’ll wake up the whole floor.”

“Ugh.” You shake your head, stubborn even like this. “M– my room’s right here, ‘swear.” You slip out of his grip, try swiping your keycard on the door across the hall. The light blinks red.

“Not yours,” Wonwoo mutters, catching your elbow before you smack it into the wall. “Just come in, we’ll call reception and figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

You blink up at him, lashes heavy. “With you?”

“Yes, with me.” His voice grits low. “Unless you want to roam the halls all night?”

Something about that makes you laugh– too loud, and you slap your own hand over your mouth to muffle it. He drags you inside quickly, kicks the door shut with his heel, and for the first time tonight you look flustered. It’s somewhat reminiscent of the night before in the elevator, and Wonwoo isn’t sure how to take it. Your disregard for him today showed Wonwoo you clearly don’t think of him in the same way he thinks of you. But the way you’re looking at him now, with the tension positively tangible, radiating from your body– it has him at a loss.

And then you shrug out of his touch again and the moment is dissolved. You sway once, twice, before letting yourself collapse onto the end of his bed, dumping your clutch on the floor, and struggling with the strap on your heel. He stands there for a moment watching your usual grace reduced to clumsiness, and he pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses before kneeling to the floor in front of you. He takes your heel onto his thigh to help unbuckle the strap, pointedly ignoring the way you stiffen under his touch, the sharp intake of your breath. He can’t let himself read into it.

“Why’re you being s’nice to me?” you ask, softer now. He slips the heel from your foot, then repeats the action with the other. Your breath shudders.

He runs a hand through his hair, lets your bare foot slip from his thigh to the floor, exhales soft. “I’m always nice.”

“No you’re not.” Your lips twitch, the faintest smile, and you lean back on your elbows, head tipping back and exposing the long line of skin that Wonwoo has thought too much about. His eyes fall back to his knees, your ankles either side. Being between your legs like this isn’t what he imagined. “You snap at me. And when you’re not snapping you ignore me.”

There have been certain moments in Wonwoo’s life when he has remained silent when he shouldn’t have. He knows, in hindsight, that what he regrets most are only actions not taken, words left unsaid. So–

“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”

“But you don’t wanna kiss me?” You say, and the words come soured.

Wonwoo’s breath hitches in his throat, but when he glances up, your head is falling back into the sheets, body too heavy to prop up any longer, pretty eyes fluttering shut as you finally surrender to exhaustion.

He’s not sure how to handle this. At first he tries to wake you, but you’re dead to the world. He calls Mingyu to ask if he’s still with Bridget (he isn’t). He calls reception to try and figure out your room number (they won’t give it). He thinks better of asking the staff to help you to your room because (a) leaving you drunk and in the care of strangers doesn’t sit right with him, and (b) you’d pull out the pear of anguish for him if this out of character behaviour brought any bad press on either of you.

Wonwoo settles for pulling the blanket over you gently, letting you sleep it off as long as you need. He switches off the lamp, sets himself stiffly in the armchair by the window, and resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. At least tomorrow is only free practice.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Deft hands skate across your skin, slipping down your leg, and massaging his fingers into the arch of your foot. He brings it up, presses his lips to your sole, circles long fingers around your ankle and drags his nose up your calf, mouths at the skin as he goes. He hooks your knee over his shoulder, nudges your thighs apart, wants easy access, wants you pliant, wants you open, wants you bear. Nips at your inner thigh on one side and slides his hand up the other, and works his way up in little circles, slow slow slow. He starts to lick, gathers spit on his tongue and laves it over your skin, blows cool air across the warmth he brings. Casts his eyes up as he gets ever closer to where you need him, takes in the way your chest rises quick quick quick with each shallow breath, smirks soft as your breath hitches when he just barely brushes his fingers over your cotton clad cunt. Smiles wide when you shudder as he does it again, and again. Makes a low, appreciative sound when you get needy, grind against his fingers and chase the little friction he allows you. Frustrated, you whine his name–

“Wonwoo–”

You startle yourself awake to the bed smelling both unfamiliar and not, still wearing the dress from the night before. You blink the sleep from your eyes, push yourself up to sit and freeze when you spot him sitting in the armchair, straightening his spine and blinking slowly, the early morning sun filtering through the gap in the curtains lays a slice of light across his face. He looks as dazed as you feel.

“Did you–” he starts, voice rasped with sleep. “Do you dream of me?”

You suck in a sharp breath. Bite your lip to stop them from betraying you further.

“What did you dream about?” he asks, firm and insistent.

“Nothing,” you blurt out. “Work. Why am I here, Wonwoo?”

The question is both feigned and pointless because although your memories swirl, you can piece it together. You remember his touch, his polite concern, the disappointment you felt when he didn’t touch you the way you truly wanted in your drunken stupor.

“You’re lying,” he breathes, watching you with the sort of look you’ve only seen on him just before he pulls on his helmet– entirely focused. “I heard you. I hear you all the time.”

Embarrassment crawls up your neck. You want to laugh, to deny, to point out how ridiculous this is, but words only fail you. The memory of the dream, of being teased and drawn out and brought to the edge, sits heavy and slick behind your ribs. Your mind spins. He hears you? Heard what? God, it’s just a dream. They’re just dreams! They have no bearing on reality and they certainly don’t change whatever the fuck is happening here.

“Wonwoo– I– I can’t,” you start desperately, and you watch his face sag. “I don’t know–”

There is no strategy for this. No neat line to cross with a chequered flag. You fall back down, dragging the duvet up over your face, and he remains where he is.

“You don’t know what?” he asks, voice thick.

“What to think, I guess?” you admit, voice muffled beneath the duvet. A pause. “You’re– you’re confusing me.”

He huffs a begrudging laugh, and quietly, he replies– “You’ve confused me for ages.”

You fall into a wooden silence yet again, your face growing warmer and warmer beneath the sheets, until you push them down and take in a cooling, heavy breath.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Too early,” he murmurs, settling back into his chair. He must be so uncomfortable. “Sleep a bit more.”

What you want:

Invite him in. (The bed is big enough for the two of you to lay side by side with a gap to rival the size of the Grand Canyon between you.) Slip a hand into his and lay there, figure out if this is a good idea or not. If it’s smart. If it could work. Whatever it is.

What you really want is to kiss. Deep and languid and slow. What you want is to know how he’d really touch you, if it’s the same as it is deep in your subconscious. What you want is him. Exactly as he is.

What you do:

Slip out of bed, find your shoes and your clutch neatly placed next to the nightstand, offer quiet apologies for taking up his time, his bed, for dreaming of him (you don’t say that last part), insist you go when he protests, because he’s got practice later today and it’s more important he’s well rested than you. You rush out the door without looking back, and once it clicks closed you scarper down the hall into the elevator and jab the button for the ground floor, and press your burning forehead against the mirror on the back wall.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Avoiding Wonwoo proves difficult. On Friday, you task your team with recording his every move for social media, you wrangle more time with Netflix so they’re following him everywhere but the toilet, even find that guy who asks nonsensical questions for YouTube and all but physically push him in Wonwoo’s direction. As for yourself, you throw yourself into work and keep company everywhere you go, so even when Wonwoo falls into step beside you as you rush through the paddock, there’s no gap in the conversation for him to occupy. When you’re seeking out Edoardo in the garage, it’s Wonwoo who helps you find him, even while cameras are on him. If he notices the way you’re doing your best to cut him out, he doesn’t mention it, he’s just ever present, always in the corner of your eye.

The trouble is, even if you avoid his actual presence, he takes up every crevice of your mind anyway. If you’re not working on his campaigns, or his interviews, or talking about him (and Charles) with the team, then your recent dreams swim back into your vision and you forget what you’re supposed to be doing entirely. This is exactly why you don’t mess around with someone at work. Too much mess for what it’s worth.

On Saturday, qualifying goes so badly Wonwoo places P13 on the grid, and Charles places P9. There’s an issue with Charles’ car, and Wonwoo’s is perfectly fine. Not the worst, but certainly not living up to his track record. Edoardo is all foul language and irritation, and while he’s in this mood every member of the team that can slip away does so, moving slow to remain unnoticed. You hold your ground, because dealing with men in power and their tempers is nothing new– your dad, your old boss, your current boss. They’re all the same. Overgrown babies throwing their toys out of the pram. You usher him into the backroom and close the door to keep away prying eyes while Edoardo rants at the air in four different languages. You spend the time going through your emails as you wait for Edoardo to run out of steam, and eventually while he’s catching his breath, you casually ask if he’d like a cup of tea. Edoardo sighs. He would, thank you.

Outside the garage is where you bump into Wonwoo, closely followed by a couple of social media admins with cameras.

“Give it five minutes before you go in,” you say.

Wonwoo looks over your head at the garage. “He’s upset?”

“Upset is a euphemism,” you mutter. “But if you go in now he’ll lose a lung. Go take a break,” you say gently to the admins. Nothing Edoardo has to say to Wonwoo should be caught on film anyway. They say polite goodbyes as they scarper the other way, but Wonwoo doesn’t linger by the garage as you head in the direction of the hospitality unit. No, he falls into step beside you.

“You’re avoiding me,” he says, after you look at him with pointed disdain.

“I’m working.” You walk faster, but Wonwoo and his ridiculous long legs can easily match your pace.

“Haven’t you delegated everything by now?” He scoffs. “Weren’t you supposed to be covering my interviews while Jeonghan’s with Gabriella, why’s Carmen doing it?”

“I’m busy.”

“And you’ve got these kids following me around with cameras all day asking me to be their performing monkey.”

“So perform,” you mutter under your breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap. “This is part of your job whether you like it or not, and we need to catch up with our competitors on social media. We’re falling behind.”

“Hold on– can we just–” In one swift motion he moves in front of you, brings you to a sudden halt with his hands on your arms and you jolt back out of his touch. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You glare at him because God, you’re not having this conversation here. “It had better be about work,” you hiss. “Because I’ll kill you if you make another scene like you did in the e–”

“No– no, I–” he pauses and sucks in a breath. He drags his gaze away from your face then, fixing on something over your head. Pink creeps over his cheeks, there’s sweat drying on his neck, the under-suit turtleneck hardly hiding the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. It’s almost endearing, but Christ, you want to shake the words out of him.

“Could you wear my ring again?”

Your lips part, but no words come out at first. Of all the things he could’ve said, this wasn’t what you would ever have expected. “Uh–”

“I was doing better when you had it on.”

Your eyes narrow. “I never had you down as the superstitious type.”

“I’m not, really. But I’ll take any good luck charm if it helps me win.”

You blink.

“I’m not your talisman,” you laugh, incredulous. “You think I’m the problem with your qualifying? That you dropped so far on the grid because I wasn’t wearing your fucking ring?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not the problem. Just– when you wore it, I was doing so well, and I liked knowing you had it safe with you.” His hands twitch uselessly at his sides. “And when I asked you to take it off– I didn’t even want it back. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

The admission sits between you, heavy, sticky. All these years he’s made excuses to do the exact opposite and you can’t pinpoint when it changed. Heat crawls up your throat. For a moment you forget where you are, the sharp smell of rubber and petrol, the low rumble of engines starting up somewhere nearby. All you see is him– sweat still drying at his temple, pink at his ears, eyes shining in a way that’s too close to an admission of feeling.

You glance over his shoulder, subtly checking to make sure no cameras are near enough to catch this conversation. “I’ll wear it on one condition.”

He exhales, almost sounding relieved. “What?”

“You’ll do everything I ask.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I already do that.”

“You do not. The admins have been telling me you’re being uncooperative when they’re trying to make content.”

Wonwoo crosses his arms. “Well you’re not the one asking.”

You roll your eyes. “It comes from me and you know it.” Wonwoo doesn’t answer, just scrunches up his nose in that way he does. “Come on, Wonwoo,” you say, voice low. “Perform for me.”

A barely there flicker of a smile, a small nod, and he’s moving out of your space. Wonwoo jogs back towards the garage and Edoardo, race-suit slung low around his hips. You wonder if this is what it feels like when you both win.

Later when you’re laying in bed, Wonwoo’s ring back on the chain around your neck, you check Tiktok. There’s a new video with over a million views since it was posted this afternoon, captioned ‘Outtakes with Jeon Wonwoo.’

It’s silly. Just spliced together clips of him sighing dramatically, more of him being told to pose for the camera and his lovely natural smile goes all wooden as he holds up his thumb, hugging Charles with a confused “–no idea what you’re telling me to do? Put my hands where? On his butt?” and Charles desperately trying to contain his laughter. Cut to another clip captioned ‘break time’– Wonwoo sitting on a high stool, staring absentmindedly, kicking his legs and eating a banana. When he catches sight of the camera on him he swallows the rest of the banana whole, and almost chokes on it.

It’s so silly, but it has over a million views since it was posted earlier today, and the comments are awash with fangirls saying he’s effortlessly funny and his english is soooooo cute and TIL THE DENTIST KNOWS ITS HIM– which is a little odd considering the whole thing gave you the most sickening cuteness aggression. How mortifying.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

On Sunday night, when you’re working from your hotel bed in your pyjamas, you get a text.

Wonwoo [21:14] I’m assuming you wore it?

Despite yourself, a half smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You lean back against the headboard and snap a quick photo of his ring, resting perfectly between your collarbones, grainy in the dim light from your laptop screen.

You [21:15] Congratulations on P2. Still can’t say I had much to do with it You [21:15] IMG_4286

Wonwoo [21:15] I appreciate it anyway Wonwoo [21:15] Why don’t you come celebrate with us? Wonwoo [21:15] IMG_1938

It’s a dimly lit photo of his own, him and Max (who took P1) and George (P3) in a bar, and they’re all smiling wide at the camera. There are others at the table with them– you recognise a strategist from Red Bull, some staff from Mercedes. No one but Wonwoo from Ferrari. Wonwoo’s glasses are slipping down his nose, and he’s in a baggy white t-shirt rolled at the sleeves, with his hair pushed back like he’s walked straight out of a shampoo commercial. His glass halfway to his mouth.

You [21:15] Can’t. Got an early flight. We both do

Wonwoo [21:16] Maybe Inès has us next to each other again

You laugh. Nearly text back ‘God forbid’ before something has you deleting it.

You [21:16] Maybe cool it with the beer You [21:16] I couldn’t bear it if you smelled of alcohol right next to me so early in the morning You [21:16] And we don’t want a repeat of the last couple of times either of us got drunk

The reply is almost instantaneous.

Wonwoo [21:16] Who’s we? I was gonna ask if I could come see you

Your breath sticks in your throat. Images of your recent dreams flashing through your imagination that you shake away. You lock your phone and unlock it within seconds. Read the message a third, a fourth, a fifth time, and you still can’t think of a reason why he’d want to leave his friends to seek out your company if it’s not for–

Another text vibrates you out of the fog.

Wonwoo [21:18] What's your name? Why’s Wonwoo got you saved as Taskmaster? Is he dumping us to go hang out with you?

You [21:18] Who’s this?

Wonwoo [21:18] George. Your turn

You [21:18] Do me a favour, would you George?

Wonwoo [21:18] Anything for the woman he’s been agonising over texting for the last hour Wonwoo [21:18] Or man. I’m an ally 🫶

Your heart hammers in your chest. You’re being reckless, you know, but you just want to see if he’ll live up to his word. If he’ll do as you say.

You [21:18] Tell Wonwoo if he wants my room number he’s going to have to work for it

Wonwoo [21:18] Saucy

Across town, Wonwoo is wrestling with George to get his phone back. The others look on, laughing and jeering, but with a sharp twist to George’s nipple through his shirt, Wonwoo’s phone finally slips from his grip. Wonwoo takes off to the bar to collect himself.

Wonwoo [21:20] They took my phone out of my pocket. Ignore them Wonwoo [21:20] Wait. Work for it how?

You [21:20] Your fangirls on TikTok are saying it’s been forever since you posted a selfie. They’re desperate for one. They need food for their edits of you

Three little dots appear and disappear in quick succession. A full five minutes goes by before you get a notification from Wonwoo on Instagram– he’s sent you his story.

There is safety in the privacy of your room, but still you feel the need to slip down and hide your shamefully heated face under the duvet. You click the story, and it’s just a mirror selfie. Pretty face half obscured by his phone, but his sleeves are rolled just high enough that you can see the definition in his arms, the veins in his hands, and how broad his shoulders are. Caption in the corner, a simple ‘only got podium because of you’ and it’s not for you since he’s posted for all his 9.4 million followers to see, but it’s got your gross smile widening anyway.

Wonwoo [21:26] Well?

You [21:26] Good job You [21:26] 8/10

Wonwoo [21:27] Your turn

You blink stupidly at your screen.

You [21:28] My turn to what?

Wonwoo [21:28] Post a selfie on instagram

You [21:28] I hardly think my measly 214 followers are interested in me bare faced in my pyjamas

Wonwoo [21:28] At least one is

You [21:28] You don’t follow me

Wonwoo [21:28] Who said I meant me

Your face flames, but the everyone_woo started following you notification comes through only seconds later, and it’s ridiculous the way it makes your pulse skip. You glance at the mirror on the wardrobe across the room, at the mess of your hair, your soft pink pyjama shorts, the matching tank top sans bra. He couldn’t have messaged you an hour ago?

You grab your phone and slip into the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. It isn’t forgiving, so you switch on the mirror light instead. Better. You fix your hair, tilt your chin, let the strap of your pyjama top slide off your shoulder, and lean a little forward on the counter. Not too posed, but obvious. One quick snap, and the reflection of the flash across your collarbones makes his ring gleam.

You deliberate for a good thirty seconds before posting it to your story. Caption: early flight club ✈️

It’s out there. Your stomach twists in anticipation of his response, and you lock your phone, slide across the counter lest you seem too eager to read any reply he might send. You splash water on your face, take longer than necessary to brush your teeth (for the second time tonight) just for something to occupy you for a moment longer.

When you’re back in bed, you finally dare to look at your phone again, and there it is, amongst a few likes and a reply from Bridget with a bunch of aubergine and squirt emojis.

Wonwoo [21:31] Cute

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumbs still damp as you type.

You [21:33] Not what I was going for

Wonwoo [21:34] Well I didn’t want to be too forward

You stare at that for too long, the simple weight of it pressing down on your chest. You can’t imagine what he’d say if there wasn’t this strange tension between you. What he’d tell you if neither of you were inclined to hold back.

You [21:34] Tell me

Wonwoo [21:34] Rather tell you in person

Your breath stutters. You almost ask him to come to you, tell you anything he wants, but instead you chicken out and send–

You [21:36] Shouldn’t you be celebrating instead of texting me?

Wonwoo [21:39] Like you said, got an early flight. On my way back to the hotel

Another pause. Your throat goes dry as you stare at yourself in the mirror of the vanity and wonder if you can really do this.

Wonwoo [21:41] I’ll be back in twenty minutes Wonwoo [21:41] If you want to come up

You can feel yourself teetering recklessly on the edge. You could. There’s nothing but your own arbitrary rules to stop you. You’ve been telling yourself you’re only curious to experience it, you just want to see what it’s like, just to try him on for size. It’s not like you like him. And it feels beyond reason, the way want drives you to type ‘yes, I’ll be there’ only for the message to remain unsent. Still– there’s the unsettling anxiety rolling in the pit of your stomach. You delete the message. Type it again. End up sending nothing at all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The plane is mercifully quiet at dawn since most of the team have a later flight out but even through your haze of too-little sleep and too-much coffee, you spot him immediately. Brim of his bucket hat tugged low, hoodie zipped up, mask over his face. Inès has done it again. Two seats, side by side.

You stow your bag in the overhead locker and settle into your seat, pull your book from your bag just for something to do. Wonwoo doesn’t even say hello. He keeps his eyes down, thumbs busy with his phone. You tell yourself you don’t care. If he’s disappointed about last night he can sulk if he wants to. But the silence feels all wrong now.

By the time you're in the air and the seatbelt light clicks off, you can’t take it anymore. “You don’t have to sit next to me, you know,” you mutter, eyes still on the same page. “If I’ve pissed you off that much.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You could swap seats. The plane’s half empty.” You set your book in your lap and turn to look at him. He’s pulled his mask down over his chin, watching you with a cautious expression. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. So let’s just pretend we didn’t–” Flirt you almost say, but the word lodges in your throat. “–talk. We made a mistake.”

Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. He leans back in his seat, finding sudden fascination with the buttons on the side of his armrest.

“You’d been drinking, I shouldn’t have–” you start, but falter in lieu of words you can’t find to accurately describe the shift in tension the last few days have brought about. “I shouldn’t have encouraged whatever we were doing.”

“I see,” he seethes, red creeping over his ears.

You bristle. “You’re angry with me?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? Jesus Christ, I’m embarrassed that I–” He breaks off, lowering his voice to a hiss. “You think I’m annoyed because you didn’t show up?”

Your pulse hammers. “Aren’t you?”

“God, you’re impossible,” he whispers, sharp enough to make you flinch, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

“For fucks sake, Wonwoo.” You lean just far enough toward him that your shoulders brush. “I’m soooo sorry for not throwing myself at you just because you were horny and drunk,” you hiss in his ear, ignoring the heat radiating off him.

His jaw tightens. “That’s not– I had two dri– you were the one who–” He exhales hard, shaking his head. “Forget it. You’re determined to misunderstand me anyway.”

“Fine.” You slam your book shut, shove it into the seat pocket with more force than necessary. “Consider me misunderstood.”

The silence after that is brutal. He angles his body away, arms crossed, staring out the window at nothing but ocean. You turn on your side to face the aisle as best you can, scrunch your eyes shut and pretend to sleep, but every minute of his quiet only tightens the knots in your stomach. Only twelve hours to go.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Forty minutes in and the aircon cuts out. The cabin heats fast without it. Wonwoo shrugs off his hoodie, and you do the same– wishing you’d worn a day-old t-shirt rather than the only clean thing you had left in your suitcase, a satin camisole with a too-low neckline. You’ve got to find a new assistant who cares about your professional reputation.

Fifteen minutes later, when the cabin is already sweltering and your skin is going slick with sweat, the announcement comes. You have to make an emergency landing in the Bahamas, and they’ll either fix the plane or rebook your flight.

It’s fine. It’s okay. This happens all the time. Doesn’t stop your nerves from spiking because fuck do you hate when plans go awry. Beside you, Wonwoo is unperturbed. Of course he doesn’t give a shit if you have to cancel a six-million euro meeting with Rolex if it gives him an easy out.

The descent is bumpy. You keep your hands folded tight in your lap, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. Wonwoo notices– and out of the corner of your eye you think you see his hand almost reach for you. You blink. Must be the heat fucking with you, because when you sneak a sideways glance again, his hand is resting as it was before on the armrest.

On the tarmac, the captain’s apology is drowned out by the sound of the ground crew and the complaints of your increasingly stressed fellow passengers. The press of heat makes you feel sick. They keep you confined to your seats while they work, handing out bottles of water that do little to cool your sweat slick bodies. Wonwoo’s hat and mask have long been shed, and he sits with his head tipped back, neck long and lovely and wet, eyes closed so his pretty eyelashes fan over pinked cheeks.

After an hour on the ground, you’re starting to feel dizzy. You focus on a bead of sweat that’s sliding slowly down his temple and over the curve of his jaw. You hitch your breath as it catches in the hollow of his neck before disappearing into the collar of his wet shirt. You stare longer than you mean to. Takes a little longer for you to realise he’s caught you looking.

Doesn’t say anything, but he holds your gaze for a moment too long, and the look on his face sucks the air from your lungs faster than the heat.

Wonwoo clears his throat. “You look terrible.”

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice is ragged with heat and exhaustion.

“You’re sweating through your clothes.”

“So don’t look.” Pervert.

“Here, have some of my water.”

You lazily shove the bottle in his outstretched hand away. “I said I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth.

Wonwoo swears under his breath. “Would you stop being so fucking stubborn for once?”

Your mouth opens, ready to berate him for pushing your buttons for no good reason, but nothing comes out. Just caught by the way his heavy lidded eyes flicker to your lips, and further, to your camisole sticking to your dampened skin, and the way your chest rises faster, harder than you’d like. The way he looks at you in this moment is a beautiful knife, cutting right through you. He swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. You both look away at the same time.

It’s clear the plane isn’t going anywhere within another twenty agonising minutes. The captain breaks the news: the flight’s canceled, the next direct to Zurich isn’t until tomorrow night. Unless you’d like to take three connections and spend the next thirty-six hours pinging around North America and Europe, this is it. When the announcement lands, your stomach flips. Wonwoo just leans back, unreadable, while you call Inès and ask her to make sure you’re on the flight out of here, and find you both somewhere to stay for a night.

Another twenty minutes and they’re finally bringing the plane up to the gate. Your vision swims when you stand and reach up to open the overhead locker, and you stumble against the seat across the aisle from yours. Wonwoo makes a soft sound of admonishment before standing to guide you back to your seat with gentle hands on your arms. Everything feels foggy, the way he whispers your name, the way he holds a water bottle against your neck, the way his hands aren’t cold at all, right now. He must be suffering in this heat too, but you can hardly speak. All you can do is nod vacantly, when he says it’s okay, it’s okay, they’re letting us off soon. Let me go talk to someone– don’t move, okay? Okay?

You can’t tell if it’s been seconds or thirty minutes by the time you hear Wonwoo calling your name again. He sounds far away, underwater almost, but he’s touching your arm. Slowly blinking your eyes open, he’s right there with a stewardess and a wheelchair, and he’s leaning down, saying something like c’mon, can you put your arms around me? And when you do, when you circle your arms around his neck, his cheek presses against yours and he’s lifting you out of your seat and into the chair and it’s hard to let go– you don’t want to let go, you cling and sob and he’s saying it’s okay, you’re okay, I promise. It’s the closest you’ve ever been. And God, how utterly mortifying this whole ordeal has become.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Bahamas

The airport passes by in a blur. The staff help you through passport control while Wonwoo follows closely behind with your bags, and with another twenty minutes of the sweet luxury of air conditioning in baggage claim, you slowly come back to your senses. Wonwoo floats the idea of going to hospital but you’ve got enough strength back to firmly refuse any notion of that. Even so, Wonwoo won’t let you out of the wheelchair while he waits to collect your suitcases. Without the worry you’re going to pass out, the two of you are back to a terse silence, but you catch him watching you once, then twice, like he wants to talk but doesn’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say either. Just want to wash the humiliation and the drying sweat from your skin.

Inès calls you back while Wonwoo is pushing you toward the cafe and a member of airport staff follows behind with your bags, he sits you at a table and rushes off to the counter to buy something, anything, with ice. Your freedom will be brief, so you take the opportunity to stand and stretch your legs, albeit bracing yourself on the table for support. You’ll do much better once Wonwoo stops treating you like you’re made of glass.

“Rolex said they’ll get back to me later today to reschedule,” Inès says. “I’ve found you both a hotel thirty minutes away from the airport. Will that do? Would you like one room or two?”

You briefly wonder if you’re still out of it. “What?” you ask, sliding into a chair and pushing the wheelchair away from your table with your foot. “Two, Inès. Two rooms, please.”

“Two rooms, got it,” she says, and you can hear the clacking of keys under her long nails. “Are you okay? You sound–”

“I’m fine–” you say, sharply cutting her off. “You’ll send me the details?”

“You’ll have the email in a few minutes,” she says. And then she apologises for the travel delay as if it were her fault, and clicks off. True to her word, the email confirmation comes through by the time Wonwoo is back with several bottles of water in a bag and a huge to-go cup filled with ice in his hand.

“Where’s your wheelchair?”

“Wonwoo, seriously, I’m fine now. Let’s leave it for someone who really needs it, yeah?

Wonwoo appraises you quietly. You sigh, stand (carefully) and pluck an ice cube from the top of the cup, hold it against your chest and let it melt over your skin. “Come on, let’s find a taxi.”

Even still, Wonwoo won’t let you take the luggage trolley from the staff. He takes it, balances the bag of water bottles precariously on top, pointedly ignoring your rolled eyes and ‘for God’s sake, I can carry ONE bag!’ and heads in the direction of the taxi rank, back outside in the heat. You act like you don’t care for the way he’s looking out for you, but he’s making it so difficult.

The torture of still, hot air is thankfully brief, but the next agony is the crawling traffic. A thirty minute drive stretches into forty, then fifty, then an hour. Wonwoo keeps his eyes fixed on the window, but his knee bounces, a quiet tell. You scroll your phone, feigning disinterest, though your pulse ratchets every time his thigh shifts closer to yours on the cramped backseat.

The hotel is pristine. Floors so perfect you could do your make-up in the reflection, and you make a mental note to buy Inès the prettiest flowers for booking you into luxury after the morning you’ve had. Check-in takes forever and all you can think about is the shower you’re going to have as soon as you’re in the room. The receptionist smiles brightly as you give her both your names, says of course without qualm when you ask for an afternoon check out, and she hands over your keys– 207 and 208. Of course. Whatever. Doesn’t mean you have to see each other again tonight. You send off some of your clothes to be laundered, Wonwoo too, and make your way to the elevator.

“Are you feeling better?” Wonwoo asks once inside, as he presses the button for your floor.

“Yes, thanks,” you say. Embarrassing the way he took care of you. Not that you’re not grateful, but that he had to at all. “I’ll be right as rain as soon as I’m clean.”

Upstairs, you swipe into your room, drop your bag by the door, and cross to the curtains to find the balcony. Wide, white stone, overlooking the pool below, and ocean a little behind the line of trees. And when you slide open the glass doors to catch your breath, you see him. Standing exactly where the gap should be. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you. His hair is damp at the nape, clinging to his neck. The line of his back is taut, his t-shirt wrinkled from hours in the heat. Then he glances sideways. Catches you there, frozen, one hand still on the doorframe.

You turn, an inconceivable thought taking over, and make your way over to the bathroom, yank the door open and gasp when you see Wonwoo in a mirror image of you, having had exactly the same notion. He meets your eyes across the room, a crooked, incredulous smile spreading on his beautiful face, and says “Do you want to shower first or should I?”

A laugh falls out of you before you can stop it. Fuck Inès’ flowers because at this point she has to be pranking you. Her and Bridget and the universe have joined forces to shove you and Wonwoo together at every opportunity. Wonwoo’s laughing in disbelief too, and he looks so lovely and light like that, you can hardly breathe.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The shower is heaven– steam curling under the soft lights, high-pressured water washing away the stickiness of the day. You take your time, working the soaped cloth into your skin, towel off, massage your skin lotion until the scent of jasmine sits heavy in the air and your skin feels softer than ever. You wipe away the condensation in the mirror, do your skincare in the mirror, tug on last night's pyjamas, and knock on Wonwoo’s door to let him know the bathroom is all his, before crawling beneath the covers of what feels like the comfiest bed you’ve ever laid on. Sleep takes you quickly.

When you wake, the light is fading, the sky outside a soft pink. Your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand:

Wonwoo [19:14] Are you feeling better? Wonwoo [19:14] Should we get dinner? You didn’t eat all day

You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, and then you lock the screen. You roll over, bury your face in the cool side of the pillow, and will yourself not to think about him laying on the other side of this wall, waiting for your answer. You push away the thought, grab your book instead just to find something to lose yourself in.

Another buzz from your phone comes a little later, and for a fleeting moment you hope he’s trying to persuade you, but it’s just Bridget, with a link to an Instagram post. You bolt upright in bed so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

[DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE] JEON WONWOO’S NEW BEAU? A FORBIDDEN WORKPLACE ROMANCE, STEAMY MOMENTS, AND A CONFUSING TIMELINE

It’s a fan-submitted post– four images on a carousel. The first being a shot of the two of you outside the restaurant, he’s standing close, wrapping his coat around your shoulders. Easily explained, you think, no matter what your pounding heart says.

The second is less so: you and Wonwoo in the pool last week, bodies suspiciously close, both of you staring intensely at one another. It’s grainy, poorly lit, but it’s obviously you.

Next: paparazzi shots from Saturday, his hands on your arms as he stopped you from walking. You remember the taut conversation, but in this snapshot it looks like he’s looking directly at your cleavage.

And last: a black and white still from the CCTV camera in the hotel elevator– your hands clasping the bare skin of his waist, his cradling your face, and worse still, the unmistakable look of desire in your eyes.

Formula One star Jeon Wonwoo spotted getting cozy with Ferrari’s Head of Communications– timeline of their new relationship? Read more on the Deuxmoi website… link in bio.

Your blood goes ice cold. Before you can stop to think, you’re out of bed, book falling loudly to the floor, phone in hand, padding across the carpet and into the shared bathroom. A few quick strides and you’re hammering on his door. He answers quickly, barefoot, shirtless (of course. Any other time you’d roll your eyes but this time you shoulder past him into the room), hair still damp from the shower, grey sweats low on his hips. His eyes widen when he sees the wild look on your face.

You shove your phone at him. “Look at this.”

He takes it, flicks back and forth through the photos, jaw tightening. Then he looks back at you, expression unreadable. “It’s nothing, isn’t it? You’ve dealt with worse.”

“Nothing? I’m not the celebrity here, scandal doesn’t usually involve me.” Your voice spikes, and you sink down to sit on the edge of his bed, holding your head in your hands. “Wonwoo, this is Deuxmoi. Deuxmoi! They think we’re in a relationship. That’s crazy.”

There’s a flash of something like hurt on his face, but it’s gone before you can register it. He exhales, long and steady, and tosses your phone back. “Look, we’ll handle it, okay? We’ll handle it however you want.”

You blink. “What does that even mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, calm in the face of your panic. “If you want me to deny it, I will. If you want me to say nothing, I’ll keep quiet. If you want me to–” He stops, runs his tongue over his bottom lip, thinking better of the words he was about to say. “Whatever you want.”

You groan frustrated, falling back on the bed, throwing your arms over your face. Your stomach rumbles, and Wonwoo sighs, grabs a t-shirt from the back of the chair and shrugs it on, before coming to sit next to you on the edge of the bed. Quietly, you say, “I guess dinner’s off the table now.”

“Funny,” he scoffs. “I figured you weren’t interested when you left me on read.”

“That’s not funny at all.” You swallow hard, trying to mask the crack in your voice.

“Notice how I’m not laughing?”

He isn’t. And somehow, that’s worse. There’s a brief silence, punctuated only by the sound of another embarrassing rumble of your stomach. “We could order room service?” you offer, voice coming out more pathetic than you’d like. Wonwoo huffs a small, rueful laugh and stretches across the bed for the phone on the nightstand.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re on the balcony when the food comes, two bowls of risotto, a coconut panna cotta for you, a strawberry mousse for him, and a bottle of champagne you didn’t order. Someone probably recognised Wonwoo’s name. The server barely has time to roll in the cart before you hear Wonwoo ushering him out again, large tip pressed into his palm.

He brings the cart out to you on the balcony, the humid night air soft against your skin, the pool below lit turquoise, the sound of birds settling in for the night in the trees. Wonwoo settles into the chair next to you at the little white table.

For a while, it’s quiet, only punctuated by the pop of the champagne cork and the scrape of cutlery. Your stomach eases with the first real meal of the day, and you’re glad for the dim light– grateful he doesn’t seem to notice how often your eyes flick up to him, to the slope of his throat, the perfect shape of his mouth, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he bends over his plate.

Your phone buzzes just before you start your dessert, and Wonwoo fills your empty glass while you check it. It’s Jeonghan, nothing but the same link Bridget sent and a series of question marks. You sigh, and lock your phone again, pulling your plate toward you.

“It’s not just me you ignore then?” Wonwoo asks, tone deceptively mild, toying with his half-eaten dessert. That’s rich of him to ask, given your history.

“Excuse me?”

He rolls his head to the side with a hesitant sigh, an endearing pink blooming on his skin. “I keep wanting to talk to you,” he says. “But I can’t figure out if you’d rather I leave you alone.”

Your heartbeat suddenly feels so loud in your ears, but you keep your face composed. It’s hard to know, lately. If you fed into this, you can guess where it’ll lead, but your reputation at work is more important than whatever this might be. “I don’t know, Wonwoo,” you say quietly, honestly. “You confuse me.”

He glances up, eyes wide and a little surprised. “I’m the one who’s confused.”

“I think about you all the time,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, before you let yourself consider the consequences, and those few little words silence you both. You set down your spoon and fiddle restlessly with the napkin on the table, but Wonwoo’s reaching over to still your hand with his.

Your breath stutters. “Your hands are cold,” you say.

Time moves like honey, and the air between you hums with electricity. You can feel his eyes on you but you can’t look because if you do– instead you push your plate aside and stand, moving over to lean on the balcony wall, taking in slow, steadying breaths in a desperate bid for the night air to cool you, palms flat against the stone.

Wonwoo joins you after a beat. Stands close behind and cages you against the wall with his arms. Rests his hands on top of yours and you let him twine your fingers together. Your eyes flutter shut as he leans closer, bodies mere millimetres apart, ghosts his lips across the shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t. You can’t. “This is stupid,” you mutter, as his breath warms your neck, tip of his nose feather light over your skin. Desire licks up your spine. “We’re being stupid.”

The problem with kissing is that it’s your downfall. Just one and everything comes tumbling down, so when he says ‘yeah, I know’ voice low and ragged as he breathes the word into your skin, and presses a soft, lingering kiss onto your shoulder, you know you’re fucked. What Wonwoo does with his lips should be none of your concern.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“This has to stay here, okay?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Just once.”

“Uh huh,” he says, lying through his teeth. Wonwoo has a taste of the feeling now and can’t give you up. He already knows he’s going to want this again and again, but he’ll agree to anything you say right now. You could ask him to capture the moonlight and he’d find a way to bottle it.

Wonwoo had wanted to start careful. Knows you frighten easily and he doesn’t want to cut this night short on account of his haste to touch you, but God, he can feel the desperation on you because it matches his. Your tiny exhale when he drags his lips over your neck tells him it’s okay to keep going, and he leaves another gentle kiss there, almost verging on tender. You angle your head toward him, cheek against his temple and he slides a hand up your arm, warming the skin. Your now free hand reaches back to twist into his t-shirt and drag him flush against your body.

Your ass against his crotch leaves nothing for your imagination, and your soft pleased noise pleased only has him reaching down your body, slipping his hand under your pyjama top and splaying it wide over your stomach, rubs a calloused thumb over the expanse of soft, pretty skin. Catches the hitch of your breath as you cant your hips against his hard cock and presses his whimper into the crook of your neck. “Kiss me,” you whisper. He looks up at you, twisted at the waist to watch him, lips full and slightly parted, heavy lidded eyes clouded with hunger. “Before we change our minds.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. Not likely for him, he thinks about saying, but you’re reaching up to catch his chin in curled fingers, tug him up just to let him chase your lips. Fuck. The tentative caution unravels into something hungry, desperate. His hand comes to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he draws you closer. When you finally kiss him deep and open, tongue sliding across his own something dirty, he’s too desperate and too obvious but he can’t find it in him to care. You whine into his mouth when he nips at your bottom lip, and he wonders if you’ll make the same noises when you come.

The strap of your pyjama top slips from your shoulder, and he uses the opportunity. Slips his hand from yours and peels your top down on one side over your breast, breaks the kiss just to watch your nipple pebble in the cooling night air. “You’re so pretty,” he coos, cupping the swell of your tit, leaning back down to lave another wet kiss on your shoulder. His other hand ventures lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pink pyjama shorts, dips low enough just to tease at your folds. “Thought about taking this off you last night,” he admits. “Why didn’t you come?”

“Wanted to,” you whisper, angling your hips forward, chasing more of his touch. “S’bad idea.”

He laughs against your skin, low and derisive. “God, you’re so fucking annoying.”

You hum, wiggle torturously against his aching cock. “Aren’t you one to t–” you’re cut off by your own choked exhale when he slides a long finger over your clit.

“Oh?” he whispers coyly against your neck. “Are you sensitive?”

“Shut up,” you manage, but you’re tipping your head back against his shoulder and your pretty eyelashes fan over the apples of your cheeks as you lose yourself in the feeling of him circling your sensitive bud, gasp as he gathers wetness from your entrance and smoothes it back over your clit. He presses his lips, soft, against your temple. “Fuck.”

God, he wants to hear you say that while deep inside your cunt. His pets grow frenzied, slipping his finger over in tight circles drawing pretty little noises from your perfect lips, and he loves the way you claw at his arm when he dips two fingers shallow inside, out, then deep. His vision goes clouded when you get so wet it coats his knuckles, likes the way you admonish him when he draws his fingers out of your pussy to bring them to your mouth. Feels like he’s losing his mind when he watches you open up for him, slide your wet, pink tongue over his fingers and moan at the taste of yourself on his skin. Finds it so obscenely hot that he buries his head in the crook of his neck just to hide his face, sucks a purple bruise over your pulse point before you drag your fingers from his mouth and twist to face him. Below, the quiet is punctuated with someone’s laugh in the pool, the sound faint and distant. His hands fall to your waist, your palms flat against his chest, and though he can see you’re about to speak he cuts you off– leans in to capture your lips with his, slides his tongue over yours, wet and heated, until you’re breaking off with a gasp.

“Wait–” you say, but he’s chasing your lips. “Wonwoo, stop.” He swallows uneasily as you slip out of his grip, chest heaving, and he’s taken aback for a second until you’re tugging at the crook of his arm. “Can’t get caught with your dick in my mouth out here.”

“Oh.” He blinks stupidly, and you laugh at him, sending sparks through his veins.

“C’mon,” you say, pulling him by the wrist into your room. Once inside you don’t look back at him as you ask, “Close the curtains?”

While he draws the curtains, you rush over to your suitcase, dig through it as he takes his place on your bed, leaning back against the headboard, and tries to decide what he should do with his clothes (he leaves them on) until you come up triumphant with a little box of condoms.

“Might keep this assistant after all,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing,” you say, glancing up at him. “Why are you still dressed?”

“I thought you could help me,” he tries in some stupid attempt to sound sexy. You laugh again, that lovely sound. You don’t laugh around him enough, he thinks, and he’s swallowing his embarrassment down because you’re gonna fuck him anyway. You climb into his lap, smooth bare legs straddled over his hips, damp crotch of your shorts against the thick bulge in his sweats, giving an experimental grind that draws small gasps from both of you.

And then you’re tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, saying “Off.” He helps you drag it over his head, plucks off his glasses and casts them to the side, uncaring that they clatter to the floor. You leave a trail of soft kisses over his jaw and down his neck, a tentative suck over his collarbone leaving a barely there bruise, and harsher over his chest. You scratch lightly over the tattoo on his ribs and he shudders. “I think I hate this,” you say into his skin.

He nods, dumbstruck. Yeah. Yeah, he’s been hating it for a while too. “Getting rid of it,” he pants.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “First laser appointment is next week.”

“Ah,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.” He loves the way you look at him, eyes big and earnest, and (dare he say?) pleased to hear it’ll soon be gone.

You kneel above him to give him enough room to shed his sweats and boxers at the same time– thick, hard cock bobs against the hard line of his stomach. Feels a little fucked up when you settle on his thighs, hand sliding down his body, electric over his skin, fingers curling around his cock and he watches, enraptured, as you gather spit on your tongue and lean over to let it pool onto the head of his cock. He sucks in a ragged breath, hands flying to your hips when you work it over him, twisting tight over the head. Humiliating, the way he fucks up into your circled fingers. Humbling, when he surges forward to kiss you desperate just for you to dodge him, sweet, evil smile playing on your lips. Ever since he’s known you he’s always felt a step behind, and this is no different.

You move down down down, and meet your glassy eyes with his as you lick a thick, wet stripe up his length. Shudders as you take him in the slick heat of your pretty mouth, cheeks hollowed out, pulling back just to lave your tongue over the head and lap away the precum beading there. He’s always loved the way your mouth moves, when you speak languages he doesn’t understand, when you’re subconsciously worrying your bottom lip as you pour over your book, the occasional times you wear that deep red lipstick (he wants to ruin it), and especially now– lips pink and kiss swollen and wet with spit and his pre-cum, with his cock slipping between your lips.

He’s giving himself away, the way he groans, but it’s only got you more eager, and you’re humming self-satisfied around his cock. Nearly loses his mind as he catches your hand slipping between your legs, pushing your shorts to the side to play with your clit, view hidden from him under the bunched cotton. Infuriation flares inside his chest. Wants to see. Needs that pleasure for himself, really, because he can’t have you taking control of this too. He reaches over, hand slipping flat past the waistband of those shorts and onto the flesh of the ass he’s been desperate to touch, and he echoes your order from earlier. “Off. Wanna see you.”

You’re still stubborn. Watch him with half-lidded, fucked out eyes as you sink your mouth further over him, feels you sigh out through your nose as you push past your gag reflex and he groans so pornographic. You hold there for a moment, eyes flutter closed, and Wonwoo’s brow pinches in pleasure, feels the tightness all over his skin. “Off,” he insists, pulling you off him with a dirty pop. “Don’t wanna cum yet.”

He almost gives in when you pout, look up at him with those big beautiful eyes just to make him weak. “I wanted you to cum,” you complain, but he’s ignoring you, rolling you off him to the side and dragging your shorts down your legs just to slot between them.

Nudges your thighs apart with his knees and he groans again at the sight of your wetness making your flesh shine. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin. “Always thought that.” Mouths rough at your thigh, swipes your wetness away with his tongue and revels in the way your breath hitches when he rolls the pad of his thumb over your clit. “Fuck,” he coos, between gentle nips at your skin, using his other hand to slide up your body and push up your top over your breasts, and you tug it off over your head. Feels a little breathless seeing his ring sit gleaming at your throat, while you’re exposed beneath him. In nothing but your jewellery and his. Dips his head and drags his tongue over your core, and watches your hands find purchase in the stark white sheets. Wants them in his hair, in his mouth, back around his cock while he drowns himself in the taste of you and your sweet little sounds. “You taste so good, baby.”

Your brow furrows. “Don’t call me that,” you complain, but you’re reaching over to touch his face so gently. “M’not yours to call baby.”

He holds in his frustration, buries it deep in his bones, channels the feeling into a harsh suck over your clit and takes pleasure in your resulting needy whine. Not yet is what he’d say if he were braver. Soon is what he’d say if he were a few drinks deep. Be my baby is what he’d say if he were sure. Instead he settles on pressing your whispered name into your skin as he slips his fingers into your tight, blinding heat and rolls his tongue over your clit. Reclaims his confidence in the pretty noises he draws from your lips. If you’re not gonna be his then he’ll settle for occupying your thoughts for as long as he can.

Wonwoo laps at the juncture of his fingers in your cunt, peppers feather light kisses over your clit, teases his tongue in tiny, slow, circles until your fingers find purchase in his hair and he moans loud as you drag his face harder against your body, grinding his nose over your clit, your patience with him wearing thin yet again. Makes him feral– fucks eager fingers into you, makes a little o with his mouth and hums over your clit, sucks gently, drawing desperate, panted breaths from your lungs. Knows how he must look to you, watching him with lust clouded eyes over the expanse of your body, lets his eyes close as he loses himself in the taste of you. He moans with you as he crooks his fingers at that perfect spot to make your legs shake, and fucks his aching cock against the mattress when his mind fogs over as you soak his chin. With a choked sob your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands twist in his hair and he groans, self-satisfied, at the sharp pain. He keeps fucking his fingers into you, working you through it, keeps licking at your clit until you shove him off with a broken cry.

He sits back on his calves, running soothing hands over your thighs while you come down from your high, wants to kiss you through it so badly but you’re already turning onto your side, fumbling clumsily for the condom box and tossing it toward him. Wonwoo makes quick work of it while you turn onto your front, rest your forehead on your crossed arms– he finds one his size and rolls it on, and you raise your ass into the air, giving him a mind-numbing view of your pulsing, sopping core. Feels as though he’s had the air knocked out of him. “Please, Wonwoo,” you beg, head falling to the side so you can watch him line himself up against your core. “Give it to me.”

Wonwoo knows this is the most perfect moment. Tries to feel wholly present as he sinks his length deep into your tight, hot cunt, and knows that this night will come back to haunt him if it only happens once. If he can only piece together the memory of your touch, and not live it over and over again, it’ll be his undoing. Pushes your body down with his hands on your hips, flush against the mattress and you tilt up your hips, and he lays over you, both moaning loud and unabashed in tandem, feeling that delicious pressure take over. “Feels good, Wonwoo,” you murmur. You sound drunk on it. On him. Shit.

“M’not gonna last,” Wonwoo says, the heat of equal measures embarrassment and desire on his face.

“S’okay,” you say gently. “Just wanna feel you.”

Wonwoo trails his lips over your shoulder as he fucks into you slow and hard and desperate, breathes fractured moans into the shell of your ear and the wetness seeping out of your soaked cunt coats the back of your thighs and the front of his, makes obscene noises that only drives him to fuck you harder. Pushes the air out of your lungs until you’re gasping, anguished, and he’s kissing over your neck, your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth and you’re twisted at what must be a torturous angle just to kiss him lazy and messy but it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

You’re sliding out a hand from beneath your head, grasping at his hip as he fucks into you, nails digging crescent moons into his skin. Wonwoo covers it with his own, twines your fingers together and pants your name into your cheek. Nearly whites out as your cunt clenches exquisitely around him and you’re crying out again, sharp and punctured. Chases his own end as you babble, catches his name on your lips and comes hard, rolling his hips deep deep deep and empties into the condom.

Already knows he can’t let this be the end as he sags his sweat slick body against yours. Can’t carry on working alongside you, without burying his cock to the hilt in your body when you’re alone. Can’t sit next to you on yet another long haul flight without taking your hand in his. He already can’t win a race without searching for your face in the sea of people crowding him. How could he do it now, knowing this was how good you were together?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Wonwoo,” you say, once your voice comes back to you. “You’re heavy.”

He nods, sated, against your back, pulls his cock from your body and the emptiness makes the ache evident. Rolls off you to the side, and already you miss the weight of him, but he keeps his palm flat over the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh. You keep your head turned the other way. Know if you look at him like this it’ll make you delirious, so you won’t. He’s trailing his fingers along your spine, leaving gentle kisses across the bruising sucks he’d already bloomed on your skin.

“Be right back,” you say, shifting away from his touch.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently, concern obvious in his tone.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just wanna clean off.”

You slip away barefoot to the bathroom, where you collect yourself against the door for a moment, before moving to the skin to splash water on your face to cool the burn. God. God.

The mirror is still fogged from his shower earlier, the faint trace of his soap clinging to the steam-slick tiles. You brace your hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging. Your body is buzzing– every nerve still alight, every inch of you aching in the most devastating way.

It was supposed to be once. A release of pent up energy, an inevitability you’d both been circling. So good that even now, your thighs tremble and your skin prickles at the memory of his mouth on your throat, the way your name burned on his lips while he was buried inside you.

You splash more cold water over your face, over your chest, try to scrub away the heat. You can’t walk into the paddock with this in your head. You can’t look at him across a conference table and pretend you don’t know how he sounds when he loses control, how his hands mould perfectly desperate around your hips, or how he looks so fucked out when he’s got you close to the edge.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, pressing the towel hard against your face. What were you thinking?

The trouble is you’re not thinking at all. You haven’t been. For weeks, you’ve been trying to push the feeling away, trying not to want, and now you’ve gone and done the worst possible thing by giving in to him.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “You okay?” Wonwoo’s voice, low and quiet, like he knows you’re freaking out. Like he feels it too.

Your heart lurches, traitorous. You grip the counter tighter, force your voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“Can I come inside?” he asks, and you’re taken aback that you want to let him in. Your imagination races– flashes of him fucking you in the fogged up mirror, washing away your sins in the shower, sharing the stream and more of those torturously languid kisses. You can’t. Once was a bad idea to begin with, it has to end here.

“No. I’ll be out in a minute,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. “Wait– can you bring my pyjamas please?”

“Sure,” he says, and you can hear his retreating footsteps.

You busy yourself with soaking a washcloth in warm water, slipping it between your legs and rinsing away the evidence of your need for him. There’s another knock at the door, and Wonwoo says through it, “Your shorts are kind of– they’re–” he falters, but you get it. “I got you this instead.” And he’s opening the door just a crack to slot his arm through– the t-shirt he was wearing, a pair of his shorts, and a pair of white cotton briefs from your suitcase.

You pad over to take them from him. “What about you?”

“I don’t wear anything to sleep anyway.”

You close your eyes, inhale a steadying slow breath, because tomorrow you’ll have to go back to normal, somehow pretending this never happened. How, you don’t know. And then he’s pulling the door closed again with a soft click, so you shrug on his clothes, appraise yourself in the mirror. Everything in it is his.

You slip back into the bedroom, his shirt brushing mid-thigh, the cotton carrying the faint warmth of his skin. Wonwoo’s pulled on his sweats again, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows propped on his knees, head bowed in his hands. When he glances up at you, his expression is unreadable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, sliding beneath the covers on your side, pulling the duvet over your lap. The sheets are warm from his body. Yours too.

“No problem,” he says. Gets to his feet, slow and deliberate.

For a beat you stare, heart caught in your throat. The sight of him standing there– broad shoulders, hair mussed from your touch, the waistband of his sweats hanging low on his hips– sends your stomach tumbling. Panic prickles under your skin.

“Oh. You’re– heading back to your room?”

He looks at you with something akin to dull surprise. Blinks it away in a moment. “I suppose so,” he says, voice clipped. And then he’s making his way into the shared bathroom, door pulled sharply closed behind him, and you hear the running water of the tap, and after a minute, the soft click of the door on the other side.

You sink down into the sheets, stare at the ceiling, wringing your hands under the covers. Regret floods hot and fast, tangling with frustration. Why didn’t you just tell him to stay? Why didn’t you admit that you wanted the heat of his chest pressed to your back again, with his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin until you fell asleep?

Instead, you lie awake, replaying every second in torturous detail. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. And now– the silence is too loud.

On the other side of the wall, Wonwoo lies flat on his back, one arm slung over his eyes. He can still smell you on him, can still hear the soft gasp you made when he pushed into you, can still feel the trembling in your thighs when you broke apart under him. You didn’t want him to stay. He pushed too far, too soon, and now he’s ruined the fragile thing between you.

Neither of you sleep. You, chest tight with words you can’t bring yourself to say. Him, staring at the ceiling in the dark, mind spinning with the same question on loop: how the fuck can we go back to normal?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The vibration of your phone drags you out of a shallow, fractured sleep. It’s still dark, just a smear of light starting to edge over the horizon. You fumble for it on the nightstand, eyes squinting against the too-bright glow at the notifications on your screen.

Edoardo [05:32] Are you already handling this or do I need to be concerned?

Your chest tightens, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you can fully process it, another buzz–

Bridget [05:34] How’re you doing darling?

And as if the universe has decided that sleeping in is not in the cards today– an email notification from Inès pings through. Rolex has offered to reschedule for Thursday, 11:00. Your flight should get in at 06:35, but let me know if you’d like to push for later.

PS - you should know everyone in the office is talking about you and Wonwoo.

You toss the phone to the side and drag both hands over your face. Sunrise isn’t even here yet and already you’re cornered on all sides.

Room service answers on the first ring, your voice hoarse when you order a pot of tea and nothing else. You set your laptop under your arm and slip outside barefoot. The balcony stones are cool, damp with morning air. You fold yourself into the corner chair, prop your feet on the wall, and watch the sky soften from violet to peach while birds chatter in the trees below.

For a few blessed minutes, it’s just you, the smell of Wonwoo’s soap still clinging faintly to your skin, the promise of hot tea on its way. You tell yourself you’ll figure it out. That you’ve handled worse fires than this.

The door beside you slides open, and Wonwoo steps out, hair a mess, glasses lopsided on his nose, eyes shadowed from the same restless night, he scrunches his eyes together in the dim morning light and he’s so sweet that you’re hit with a pang of longing. He leans one hand against the balcony rail, phone in the other. His voice is flat when he says, “Mingyu woke me up. Said my face is everywhere.”

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth, glance back at your screen. “Edoardo’s already on me too.”

He hums, too tired to talk it out, sinks down into the chair beside you. For a moment you both just sit there, brittle in the hush of this early hour. You steal a sideways glance at Wonwoo, who’s looking out over the water. The way he shines in the morning is something worthy of poetry.

“Last night was a mistake,” you say finally, staring at the way the rising sun casts amber light over the ocean.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either. Just exhales and rubs a hand over his neck. “But you don’t regret it?”

Your head snaps toward him, heart stumbling. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something raw there, a glimmer that leaves your throat dry.

“I regret how complicated it is,” you murmur.

That earns the faintest twist of his mouth, not quite a smile. “I can live with complicated.”

The words hit you like a strike to the sternum. Live with complicated. You tell yourself not to read into it, not to let your brain chase down every possible meaning hiding under his quiet delivery, but your pulse betrays you. A part of you wants to laugh, because complicated is such an absurd understatement for the mess you’ve just made together. Another part aches– sharp and insistent– because if he can live with it, maybe you could too. Maybe it isn’t just the gravity of last night that’s keeping you tethered here beside him. The silence stretches again. The sky blushes gold, the air turns warmer, and for the first time since yesterday you don’t feel like you’re on the verge of breaking, every which way.

Room service arrives, a quiet knock at your door. You regret not having ordered enough for two but after your first few warming sips, you offer him some from your mug, and he takes it gratefully, fingers brushing yours over the handle.

“Rolex meeting’s not for two days,” you say. “But we’ll have to call into the office today once we figure out how we’re going to play it.”

“Are you going to tell them?” he asks.

“That we had sex?” you laugh bitterly around a yawn. “God no.” He nods sagely, takes a long gulp of tea and it makes you wonder if he’s just doing it to hide his face. “The worst one is from the CCTV in the elevator. Anything else can be easily explained as friendship.” You sigh heavy.

“We could tell them I liked you,” he offers, still staring into the mug. “And that you rejected me. Ask them to release the rest of the footage.”

Your breath hitches. Liked. Again. “I suppose,” you agree, voice flat.

“It’s close enough to the truth,” he says, and you suddenly can’t speak. What was last night if the like is past tense? And it’s almost like he can sense it, the way your pulse spikes and the tension knotting your spine, because he tacks on, “They don’t need to know I still do. Like you– I mean.”

“Oh.”

The word feels too small and stupid in the quiet between you. You want to reach for something clever, something equal, but your mind is a blank page except for the echo of I still do.

It loops over and over, burrowing under your ribs, muddling every careful line you’ve drawn between want and work, need and denial. Last night was supposed to be once. A mistake you could compartmentalise, shove into the dark corner of your brain labelled things we don’t think about at the office. But now– now he’s cracked the door wider, and you don’t know how to walk through it without leaving behind what you’ve built.

Your chest feels hot, your throat tight. You take the mug back from him just so you have something to hold, fingers wrapping hard around the ceramic, grounding yourself in the warmth. He doesn’t press, doesn’t even look at you, and somehow that only makes the confession feel heavier.

You tilt your face toward the sunrise, blinking hard against the tears pricking at the corners of your tired eyes, and tell yourself the heaviness in your body is just lack of sleep.

Your laptop pings with another email– but you can barely read the subject line from Gabriella before Wonwoo is pushing your laptop closed. “Hey!” you admonish. “That could be important, I need to–”

“Sleep,” he interrupts. His tone is soft, persuasive. “Come on. They can handle things without us for a little longer.”

You open your mouth to argue, but your body betrays you with a yawn, aching bone-deep from exhaustion. He sets the mug down on the table before extending his hand to you, and you stare at it for a long moment before giving in without a fight, slipping your fingers into his. Wonwoo guides you gently through his door. His bed is unmade, sheets tangled from his apparent restless night. You crawl in beside him, he sets his glasses on the nightstands and draws the covers over both of you, and the room feels impossibly still. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd– just settles close enough that your shoulders touch, hands still clasped beneath the sheets.

“Just a few hours,” he murmurs, already sinking into sleep, thumb stroking absentmindedly over yours.

“Just a few,” you whisper back, though you know the world outside will come crashing in soon enough.

For now, the sunrise paints the ceiling in soft gold, a warm breeze filters in through the open door, and you turn onto your side, tuck your body against the quiet warmth of him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s the startling vibration that drags you out of the depths of sleep, a muffled buzz rattling atop the nightstand. You blink against the pull of your eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, and it takes you a moment to even register that the sound is your phone.

You shift to reach for it– only to still when you realise Wonwoo’s arm is heavy across your waist. His chest flush against your back, his breath measured and warm at the curve of your neck. And lower– he’s hard, thick against your thigh through the thin barrier of fabric.

The call clicks off. Blessed silence. But before you can let relief settle, the phone starts buzzing again, shrill in the quiet of the room. You should get it. You need to get it. Instead, you stay perfectly still, heart pounding, because the pressure of him against you is enough to short-circuit every thought in your head.

Wonwoo stirs, makes a low noise in his throat that sounds too close to a groan, the noise absentminded and unintentional– but it sparks fire anyway. His nose brushes the back of your shoulder, lips grazing skin in a touch so deliberate it sends a lick of need up your spine. The phone is still buzzing but by the time you rouse from the bed, with Wonwoo grumbling behind you, it rings off again. You look over your shoulder and Wonwoo has rolled onto his back, hair mussed, eyes hazy with sleep but dark with something heavier.

Your phone rings again, but you don’t care now, because your hand finds the line of his jaw, the other sliding over the nape of his neck, and you’re pulling him up to you. His mouth crushes into yours, clumsy with sleep and hunger for touch, and you hum into his mouth, fingers twisting into his hair. The sound he makes when you part your lips for him is wrecked, needy, and it only unravels you more.

He guides your leg over his lap, holds your hips down, keeps you grinding against him, until you slide a hand between your bodies and bunch the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free his cock. He whines, delicious, as you circle your fingers around him and drag. Every careful argument you’ve rehearsed since last night burns away in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his body against yours. Your phone stops, mercifully, only for the silence to throb with urgency. Whoever it is will call again. You know it.

“Listen–” you try, breaking off from his mouth with a sharp breath.

“I’m listening,” Wonwoo says, then scrapes his teeth along your jaw. One of his hands rags down your body, slipping under the hem of his t-shirt that you still wear, dancing his fingers over soft skin, finds your naked waist and grips it, slender fingers digging so desperate, and he trails further until he’s cupping your breast, running his thumb over the swell of flesh.

“You’re obviously not,” you chide. You can feel him hard against your clothed cunt, and you press against him, giving an experimental grind. Fuck.

Wonwoo tsks. “You haven’t said anything yet.” He’s kissing down your neck. “How can you tell whether I’m listening or not?”

“You’re distracted,” you say, and he’s pulling his t-shirt off your body, tosses it to the floor.

He huffs a laugh, rolls his hips to drag the thick, hard line of his cock against your cotton clad pussy, already dampening the material. “You’re not exactly making it easy for me.”

This conversation is a thin veneer– for the desire you hold within you, for the convoluted mess of feelings you’re trying to keep bottled. What Wonwoo will do with his body will haunt you, as he already does in your dreams, but you’re letting it happen anyway, despite the words you said yesterday. You whine as he rolls his hips again, fucking his cock slow against your core, walls clenching around nothing.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you getting wet.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” you pant. You’re moving over him now, sliding your needy clit over his length. The condoms are in your room, but breaking apart to fetch them would break the moment too. So you lean, brace your palms on his knees and let him tug your sodden underwear to the side. Moans come broken and in tandem as he dips two long fingers inside, crooks them and draws your wetness out. He smears it over your folds, over the juncture of your thighs, dips again to gather more as works it over his cock.

Wonwoo uses his thumb to press his length hard against your cunt and slides slow, and it’s so so much better without the barrier of your underwear. Can feel the heat of him better. You like the way he watches where your bodies meet, his hunger pure and open, and more still when his eyes meet yours and he searches your face for all your tells as he fucks his length against you, cockhead bumping over your clit. The crotch of your underwear slips back over you, over his cock against you and he moans again, desperate, as his pre-cum seeps through along with your juices, making the thin white cotton sopping wet, and almost sheer. Can see the slit of the head of his cock every time he slides up.

It’s a crude display you fear you’ll never recover from, but that doesn’t still your hips. Doesn’t stop your eyes from clouding over with hazy lust and insatiable need. Doesn’t stop Wonwoo from littering praise with his lips pressed into your skin– how hot you are, how he’s needed this, how you feel so fucking good, baby. Baby. Doesn’t snap you from your reverie, this time, only makes you dizzy.

“Oh God,” you babble, and he’s nodding along with you. He lifts your chin with his hand, tugs you toward him to kiss you deep, and he flops backwards onto the bed dragging you forward, his dirty groan sending shivers down your spine. “Wan’ you inside. Now.”

“Yeah?” he pants, but you’re already slipping a hand behind, lining him up against your pulsing entrance and sinking onto him. His sounds spur you on, so good you want to sink your teeth into them. You ride him hard and cant your hips in a way that makes the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, makes him hold you down, grind the base of his cock against your clit to draw littered moans from your kiss-bitten lips. He’s digging his fingers into your hips so hard you’ll surely bruise, but this is how you want it. Frenzied and raw and so hard it’ll leave you sore for days afterward.

Tears prick at your eyes when your hips falter out of their rhythm, but Wonwoo’s taking over, fucking up into you from below. “Fill me up so good,” you whine.

One of his hands moves, loops a circle around your wrist, and he drags it to his mouth. Presses a kiss to the pulse point there. “Tell me what you feel.”

You sigh, the pleasure wracking through you still, makes it hard to understand what he wants.

You laugh, unsure. “I– I feel like I’m gonna come soo–”

“No. Tell me you like me,” he whispers into your skin, so quiet you almost miss it over the obscene sound of the slide of his cock inside you. He slows your hips to a halt, cock buried to the hilt. Without the movement you can feel how the wetness has pooled on his skin. God. Fuck, the feeling of him so deep makes you squirm in his lap, but he holds you tight. “Wanna hear you say it.”

He must know, surely. How could he not, because you wouldn’t have taken in your body if you didn’t have some feeling for him. What difference does saying it aloud make? “I like you,” you confess, breathing hard, but the weight of it in your chest is already lightening.

“Yeah?” You nod, and then he’s moving again hips slower this time, taking one hand and slipping it between your bodies, teasing with your clit. That, along with the look on his face, mouth parted and pretty, eyes dark with lust, has your end rocketing toward you.

You cock an eyebrow. “You’re gonna make me say it and then not say it back?”

He smiles wide. “I like you t–” He’s cut off by a moan, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Shit– fuck, baby. Just got so tight.”

He’s sitting up again, manoeuvring your legs so they cross at your ankles behind his back, and this new angle makes you cry out with pleasure. You’re soaking into his lap, the wet slap of skin, the bite of your bunched underwear pushed thoughtlessly to the side, and the drag of his thick cock inside your tight, wet heat, has you so fucking close.

“Ah– so good,” you whine, a fractured, pathetic sound. “Gonna come, Wonwoo, I’m coming– God–”

“Cum on my cock, yeah, fuck– just like that,” he pleads. “You feel so fucking good. You’re so good.” His body moves charged under your touch as he works you through it, kisses your open mouth as you cry out, swallows your pretty sounds with his mouth as his own hips begin to stutter, muscles taut and corded and he’s panting “Fuck. Fuck– yeah, baby, me too,” into your skin. Comes so hard inside your body that it has you swearing you can see stars, hands carding through his hair, sweat beading on his forehead that you sweep away with your lips.

When he pulls his cock from your pussy, your underwear slotted back in place, his cum and yours seeps out of you, thick through the material, and Wonwoo groans at the filthy sight of it. Drags two fingers through, gathers a little and brings them to your mouth. You open without question, and your eyes flutter closed in bliss when he presses them into your wet, hot mouth, tongue curling around his fingertips, lapping away the taste of you both together.

“Is it good?” he whispers.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “So good.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He holds you in his lap like this, letting you come down slowly, hands sliding over the smooth skin of your back, and he trails his lips along your collarbone. You cradle his head in your arms, cheek resting heavy against his temple, fingers gently toying the hair at the nape of his neck. He loves the softness of it, hasn’t been touched this delicately in years, and right now, if asked, he’d confess he wants to live like this, wrapped up in each other.

“Can I ask you something?” he whispers into your skin.

“Mhm,” you murmur back, too fucked out to form words.

“Does it need to stay here?”

You sigh. “You know it does. We’re too messy. We can hardly get along most of the time.”

“That was before,” he presses.

“Maybe,” you say, leaning back to look at him, hands smoothing over his shoulders. You’ve got that reluctant look on your face that pricks his nerves. “But you don’t know. We hardly know each other properly.”

“So let me know you properly.” He pouts, draws you back in to press a kiss to your cheek. “What should we do today? Should we go to the beach?”

You let out a sad little laugh. “I’ve got work.”

He sighs, frustrated. “You never stop working. Take a day off.”

You lean back away from him again, frowning, hands pressed flat over his shoulders. “Did you forget the two of us are caught in a dating scandal? Back to back with your sex tape this isn’t an ideal time to take a day off.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and he feels you bristle under his touch. “What does it matter if it’s true? We’re not doing anything wrong. Let them talk.”

You scoff. “It’s not true, though, is it? We’re not dating. We just fucked.”

“Twice.”

“That’s not th–”

“And I don’t want it to stay here,” he cuts you off, hands falling to your hips in the hope he can anchor you here with him, voice growing more insistent. “Just say you want this as much as I do.”

He’d hoped you’d give in, but you’re pushing off him and tucking your head down, avoiding his eyes. He goes for your hand but you move out of reach, and grab his t-shirt to pull it over your head and hide his marks left on your skin.

And as you both go quiet, and your sated bodies sag against each other, you think this is it. It’s a bitter twist to break him free from the haze that took over. You’re insistent you’ve let this thing between you run its course, and now it has to stay here, in this room. But at least he’ll always know how he could undo you, and you in turn him, the mess he made of your body is proof of it.

And then you’re picking up your phone, frown tightening and your breath quickens. The glow of the screen washes your face ashen. You exhale hard, thumb skimming over the notifications, expression clouding.

Wonwoo hates it instantly. Hates how quickly your focus shifts away from him. He moves closer, mattress dipping under the weight, wrapping his arms back around your waist, nose brushing the divot in your neck. “Ignore it.”

“I can’t.” There’s reluctance in your voice that he holds onto.

“Tell them you’re sick.” His voice dips, coaxing. He’s pulling you back down against him. “What do we even have to do today? Nothing. Let’s walk on the beach. Or– or get coffee. Pretend we’re not us for a while.”

The fantasy is so vivid in his mind he almost believes it could happen. But you’re shaking your head, standing up and slipping out of his arms. “I’ve got to call Edoardo back. And Gabriella.”

He watches you scroll through messages, and feels the pout tug at his mouth before he can stop it. “You’re so stubborn.”

Your eyes flick to him, and despite yourself, your expression softens a little. “And you’re annoying,” you say softly, reaching out to run a soft thumb over his bottom lip, pushing his sullenness away. “At least you’re cute.”

It warms him more than it should. But you’re already moving toward the balcony door, phone pressed to your ear.

“Francesca, ciao. Mi dispiace, non sono stata bene. Puoi passarmi Edoardo?” You step out into the bright sunshine, lighting up your anxiety ridden face, door clicking shut behind you, and Wonwoo is left alone with his thoughts.

The echo of your earlier confession still pulses in his head, but now it mixes with the reminder that although your world has been taken over by him and his reputation, it’s still so much bigger than him. And he doesn’t like sharing.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your last call ends and you’re left staring at your own reflection in the black glass of your phone screen, Gabriella’s voice still needling at the edges of your skull. There’s laughter down below from the pool, at a bitter contrast with the kind of anger that coils tight in your chest.

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, try to work your way through the disbelief of it all, trying to make sense of why she would have turned herself in after dragging it on for so long. It feels– pointless. Was the goal to just set fire to his life, and her own in turn? You want to scream. Instead you shove back from the balcony chair, slide the door open with more force than you mean to.

Wonwoo’s just stepped out of the bathroom, wiping the condensation from his glasses and pushing them back on. His hair is damp, towel slung low around his hips. Steam clings to his skin, the scent of his soap curling through the air, and he smiles soft and unguarded at the sight of you, falters when he takes in your expression– it almost undoes you. You want to cross the room, put your arms around him, hold him against you until the tension in your body melts away. But you can’t. Not when the truth tastes this bitter on your tongue, not when his fucking cum still dampens your underwear. Shit, you need to shower so badly.

His brows knit together, cautious. “What did they say?”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, dig your nails into your palms until it hurts. “It was your ex,” you bite out. “She’s the one who leaked the tape.”

The words hang heavy, souring the air between you. His body goes taut, mouth parts in surprise. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and that silence cuts deeper than any outburst could.

“She turned herself in this morning,” you continue. “It’s being kept under wraps for now, but it’ll break soon, Wonwoo. You should stay offline.”

There’s a sharp tick in his jaw. He drags a hand through his wet hair, exhales heavy, like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. You ache to touch him, to soften the edges, but you keep your hands to yourself. This isn’t your place.

“Say something,” you whisper, because the silence is too much. “Why would she do that?” Wonwoo doesn’t look like he understands it either for a minute, and then you see something click in his eyes. “What is it?”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get the details fourth-hand: the police to Jeonghan to Gabriella to you. Wonwoo was right– it was just a pathetic bid for his attention. The ‘ex’ she supposedly cheated on him with doesn’t even exist, and the profile Gabriella had for him on Instagram belonged to her. Turns out love really can make you crazy.

She’d told him several months ago that she wanted to get back together, spent a few weeks pleading her case over texts and voicemail– all while Wonwoo shut her out, uninterested in rekindling their relationship– until she went dead silent. Later, she leaked the photos knowing it would bring her character into question in her industry, in the hope he’d reach out (and of course you’d been against it) so on the back of your advice and Mingyu’s, he’d blocked her number.

After the Vanity Fair cover came out, every trace of her across Wonwoo’s ribs erased, she uploaded the video, a last ditch effort that only fucked her over worse than him. She hadn’t said why she chose to turn herself in, but Wonwoo wonders if it was the DeuxMoi post, if seeing him move on with someone new made her realise her efforts were fruitless. You almost feel sorry for her.

Wonwoo’s kind of fucked up over it, doesn’t know whether to unblock her and try to talk it out, nods in agreement when you tell him that’s a bad idea. Kind of stings that he wants to talk to her at all, because if it were you you’d haul them over hot coals through the courts. Still. It’s not your place. You’re there for his reputation and not his feelings.

You still need to shower away the mess he made of you earlier, so you leave him with his mood and take to the bathroom where you stand under the stream for a long time, and hope it does something to soothe the ache in your chest. It doesn’t. Your freshly laundered clothes are delivered in the meantime, thank God, because you can’t go the whole day wearing stuff that smells of him. You pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, the weather too warm for working from the balcony in much else.

With Edoardo assured you’re handling the DeuxMoi issue, you’re determined to fix it before the story takes on a life of its own. It starts with calling Jeonghan back, who asks how you want to play it.

Truth be told, you’re tired of being the one who makes all the decisions, who has to look at every action from every possible angle, to figure out if a look could be misconstrued or words twisted. And before all this, you loved your job, but now it feels like you’re flailing, having made mistake after mistake where Wonwoo is concerned, letting him bleed through the gaps of the line you drew between work and your emotions. It’d be nice to have another assistant to help compartmentalise your life, as well as your suitcase. You’ll just have to do it yourself.

Wonwoo’s words from earlier swim back to you. He’s right, it’s closest to the truth. Nobody needs to know it went further than your argument in the elevator if nothing more is going to happen.

“Call on the hotel staff who leaked the still to post the rest of the footage, and they’ll see us having a dispute and me going to my hotel room alone. Say we’re close friends as well as colleagues and unfortunately we’d both had a couple of drinks, but now it’s resolved, and Wonwoo is entirely focused on the upcoming Grand Prix.”

There’s a long silence at the end of the line, but eventually Jeonghan says, “Are you sure?”

You blink. “Why would I not be sure?”

“We all thought you and Wonwoo–”

You cut him off– “Who’s we?”

“Well–” he starts, uncertain. Another pause. “Listen, if I tell you, you have to promise not to cut my bonus.”

You laugh, a little irritated now. “What if I push you off a cliff instead?”

“That’s fine so long as you still pay me,” he retorts.

“Spit it out, Jeonghan,” you say shortly, growing ever frustrated.

“We had a betting pool in the office. How long it’d take you two to get together.”

Your voice drops. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

Jeonghan chuckles nervously. “Mingyu let slip that Wonwoo had a little crush on you, and everyone got really excited for a big enemies to lovers thing. Honestly most of us were rooting for you.”

You’ve no idea how to answer him, completely lost for words. You sit frozen, phone pressed to your ear, Jeonghan’s words echoing in your head. A little crush.

“Rooting for us,” you repeat, voice hollow.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan says quickly, as if padding it with cheer will soften the blow. “You should’ve seen Inès– she nearly cried when she saw DeuxMoi’s post and we all thought it was happening.”

“Inès is in on this too?”

“Why do you think you’ve been sat next to each other on every flight since the start of the season?”

You’re going to burn the entire office to the ground, you think. You shut your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. The ache in your chest spreads sharper, like something’s cracking open. It’s stupid– you know it’s stupid– but hearing it out loud, that Wonwoo liked you, that your colleagues are silently cheering for you, it makes the memory of last night coil differently in your stomach.

“Right,” you manage. “Well, tell Inès to save her tears. There’s nothing to root for.”

“That’s not what it looks like from the outside,” Jeonghan says gently.

“Well none of you know what’s happening on the inside, do you?” you snap, harsher than he deserves. “It was one mistake, Jeonghan–” you falter, nearly giving the game away. “In the elevator, I mean. And you’d better not let the betting pool bullshit get to Edoardo if you want to keep your head, or your precious bonus.”

“Actually–”

“Promise me, Jeonghan,” you hiss.

He laughs nervously again, mutters something about you having his undying loyalty, then promises to draft the response exactly as you instructed. You end the call before he can say anything else, flop into the padded chair behind you.

“Shit,” you whisper, dragging both hands down your face.

Behind the door to Wonwoo’s room, you hear the dull thud of a drawer closing, the shuffle of him moving around, and for a second you’re tempted to march in there and beg him to tell you what to do. How to navigate this uncommon ground, to ask if he regrets it, and see if he thinks this is as impossible as you do. But you can’t. Because it isn’t your job to give in to your every desire. It’s your job to clean this mess before it buries you both alive.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo feels unsure interrupting your work, has done his best to avoid you all morning, but it’s getting into the afternoon, and neither of you have had anything but tea and water since the early hours. You’re out on the balcony still, legs stretched out, bare feet resting in the other chair, laptop balanced on your lap. Your face set in that frown you wear when you’re trying to hold the world together.

“Do you want to get lunch?” he asks. Tries to keep his voice casual, but the tentative intention behind it is obvious.

Your eyes don’t leave the screen, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “It’d be foolish to be seen together right now,” you say, voice flat.

Right. Of course. Wonwoo shifts, presses his palms against the stone wall, and exhales slow through his nose. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “Room service?”

“Sure, whatever you want.”

What he wants is to throw your laptop in the fucking pool. What he wants is to pull you outside, make you forget work and just be with him, here in this beautiful place. Wonwoo disappears back inside, orders without asking your preference– he’s already noticed what you’ll actually eat and what you’ll push around a plate until it goes cold. When he comes back, you’re still typing furiously, shoulders tense, and worrying your lip so hard he thinks you’ll surely bite through it.

“Take a break,” he says quietly. “Your eyes will go bad if you keep staring at a screen like that.”

Finally, you twist to look at him, lips quirking at the corners, a drop of mirth in your tired, pretty eyes. “Oh really? Is that what happened to you?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, the ghost of a smile. “Yup. I learned the hard way.”

For a moment, the weight between you lightens, like if he leaned a little closer, you’d meet him in the middle instead of pushing him away. But then your laptop pings again, and your gaze flicks back to the screen.

Wonwoo straightens, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t push further. He can’t. Not when you’re still holding him at arm’s length, even as you wade through the mess that is his personal life and try to salvage something worthwhile from the wreck. Your food will come soon, and he’ll be damned if he lets you work through that too. Until then, he’ll stay quiet enough that you let him keep your company. He shifts your feet off the chair and over his lap as he settles into it, and you give him a pointed look before drawing your legs away, setting your feet on the ground instead.

After a while, a knock at the door breaks the silence. Wonwoo moves to answer it, relief and dread mingling in his chest. He tips the server and wheels the tray outside. You close the laptop at last, though not without a little sigh of resignation, and set it on the table beside you. Wonwoo notices– the way your shoulders sag, the way your face softens just a fraction without the harshness of the screen glaring at you.

He uncovers the dishes. “C’mon. Eat,” he says simply, handing you the plate he knew you’d prefer.

Your eyebrow quirks, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”

“Didn’t you once say you’d move to Italy just for the pasta?” he replies, a little pride flaring in his belly when it elicits a laugh from you.

You take a cautious bite, and then another, appetite sneaking up on you now that food is in front of you. Wonwoo eats slowly, quietly, watching you more than his own plate, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around the fork, the faint hum you make when you’re satisfied. For a little while, it feels like a ceasefire. The pressure of DeuxMoi, his ex, the lies– it all fades to the edges as you both pick at your plates in a rhythm that feels almost normal.

You break it first, of course. “Room service three times in less than twenty-four hours. The staff are going to think we’re sex obsessed freaks.”

Wonwoo snorts softly. “They’ll think we’re busy. They don’t care what people do in their own rooms.”

“They do when one of them is famous.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Okay, so let them call me a sex freak.”

You laugh, swatting gently at his arm. “God, Wonwoo, I’m begging you to make my job a little easier for once.”

He grabs your retreating hand, tugs it up to brush his lips over your knuckles. “I’m begging you to make my job easier,” he says. “I try to concentrate on the race and all I’m thinking about is y–”

He stops short when he sees your wide smile falter, the sudden shallow breaths. Wonwoo wants to reach across the table, shake you by the shoulders out of your hidden world and ask when you’ll let him kiss you again. Instead, he lets your hand drop from his and the conversation stutters there, you finish the rest of your meals in silence, eyes decidedly cast down.

When you’re finished you load the tray with your empty plates, tuck your laptop under your arm, and tell him you’re going to pack up, get ready for the airport. Wonwoo nods, says he’ll do the same, even though his suitcase has been ready beside the door for the last three hours.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The taxi ride is suffocating. The humid air pressing through the vents, the slow traffic outside, the driver’s radio tuned low. You sit with your knees angled toward the window, your face carefully arranged into neutrality. Wonwoo watches the side of your face instead of the buildings flashing past, his chest tight with everything unsaid.

He should’ve brought this up earlier. Wants to know if last night was only a mistake to you, if you’re really capable of walking away like it was nothing. His hand twitches against his thigh.

“About last night–” he begins, quiet.

You cut him a sharp look, flicking your eyes pointedly toward the driver before staring back out the window. Wonwoo closes his mouth. Stares down at his hands, jaw tight, and the silence gnaws at his gut all the way to the airport.

The lounge is cooler, a little more privacy with people sitting further away, busy with their work or their own conversations, but you’re no more forgiving. You sit across from him, your laptop open again, and he feels the wall between you rising brick by brick. It makes him restless, anxiety lacing through his veins.

Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We need to talk,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up, eyes firm. “Not here,” you hiss. “Someone might hear.”

“So what?” He snaps back. “Let them hear.”

“Are you insane?” you whisper back through your teeth. “Do you want to hand them another scandal on a silver platter? Jeon Wonwoo fights with girlfriend in airport lounge?”

The word girlfriend draws a bitter laugh from him and you scowl. Wonwoo swears under his breath. He doesn’t care about the headlines, about DeuxMoi, about the vultures waiting for another scrap of drama. What he cares about is the potential of you and him, slipping further away with every cautious word.

Wonwoo pushes up from the chair. “Come with me.”

You hesitate, glance around, then rise reluctantly, laptop tucked under your arm. He leads you through the lounge, weaving past clusters of businessmen and couples until he finds a corner leading to an emergency exit, half-hidden by a structural column, tucked away out of sight.

“Wonwoo–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Will you kiss me again?” His voice is ragged, raw. He’s close enough now that he can see the brief tremble of your bottom lip, the way your fingers tighten around your laptop. “I don’t want this to end before it’s even started.”

Your lips part, the air between you charged and taut. For a beat, you don’t move. Then you surge forward, press your mouth to his, and the dam breaks.

It’s frenzied, sharp teeth nipping at his lip, the hot slide of his tongue over yours, your laptop nearly tumbling from your grip as his hand anchors the back of your neck. His other hand finds your waist, hauling you closer, and he kisses you like he's drowning. The taste of you, the heat of your body, your quickened breath reminds him of last night, and again this morning. It’s too much and not enough.

It deepens too fast, spirals until you’re breathing hard against his lips, chest heaving. You tear yourself back with a gasp, eyes dark and clouded, almost mournful.

“This is it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I’m sorry I broke my own rules, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Wonwoo’s chest constricts. He shakes his head, wanting to argue, but you force a crooked, brittle smile. “Maybe in ten years or so, if I quit or you retire, we can pick it back up.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pretend to find humour in it.. His eyes bore into yours, silent and wounded, because to him, none of this is a joke.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Modena, Italy

On your return after the meeting with Rolex (terse between you and Wonwoo, friendly in the face of others) you’d given him back his ring on the promise that you’d wear it on Grand Prix weekends, if his superstition still called for that. He’d protested, but you argued it wouldn’t be a good idea to wear it day to day now, since it turned out everyone at work had bets riding on the two of you.

You’d also told Inès, in no uncertain terms, that you didn’t want to be seated next to Wonwoo again, and she delivered: separate schedules, separate briefings, separate transport when necessary. You only cross paths in rooms where it would be impossible not to, and there, the two of you perform as colleagues and nothing more.

It’s worked, that’s for sure. The storm DeuxMoi stirred up has quietened. The rumors faded, drowned under fresher scandals, more salacious fodder. Online, at least, the world has moved on.

But you– you’ve thrown yourself into work, into emails, into KPIs, and career development programs for your subordinates, favouring schedules with Charles over Wonwoo, and rewriting Edoardo’s speeches until the cadence rings smooth. You keep your head down and mind your business, but still, you can feel his absence like a phantom limb, an itch unscratched.

Edoardo notices. He doesn’t bring it up for a while, but you catch the way his brow furrows when Wonwoo’s attention lags in meetings, when his performance during practice sessions falls flat. “Something’s off with him,” he muttered once, voice low. “What on earth happened between you?” You’d bitten your tongue until it ached.

At night, the walls of your too large home seem to echo with the quiet. You lie in bed with your hand between your thighs, trying to chase the release that came so easy with him, but it can’t get there. You move your fingers the way you think he would, but it’s hollow and leaves you unsated and kicking at the sheets in frustration. He did it better. He did it so much better, and you can’t scrub the memory of it from your skin.

Sleep comes late every night, and when it does, he’s waiting there. Dreams of him fucking you into the mattress, of his voice ragged and his breath hot against the shell of your ear, of his mouth drawing out sounds from you you can hardly remember making before. You wake gasping, sheets tangled, body aching with need.

The worst part is the way he pretends. The way he hardly acknowledges your hellos in the office, just nods, a stiff dip of his chin that twists something in your chest. The way his eyes slide past you like you’re just another staff member, like the brief stay in the Bahamas never happened. It drives you half mad.

You type messages on your phone late at night.

I think I made a mistake.

Wonwoo, can we talk?

I can’t stop thinking about you.

But every time your thumb hovers over send, you remember his silence in the office, his polite distance, and you wonder if he doesn’t want you anymore, and maybe you’ve ruined it for good. And so every message is discarded. Deleted and retyped and repeat. Again, and again, and again.

The days bleed together. It’s been nine days since the Bahamas, since your lips on his in the lounge, since you told him it was over before it could even begin. And now you’re on home ground, where the air is thick with history, where the ground of the city itself seems to hum with ghosts of legends, where Wonwoo’s presence surrounds you but he won’t speak.

There’s a dinner tonight with some sponsors, you, Edoardo, the head of engineering, Charles and Wonwoo, everyone’s partners. Fourteen total. Edoardo has asked for you to host, ‘since you keep your home so beautiful!’ and he’s sure your cooking is sublime. First of all– sexist. Second– your cooking is fine but you’re tired, so you’ve hired a chef for the evening and put it on the company card. Third– it’s easy to keep a house nice when you’re never fucking home to see it. Of course you don’t say any of this to your boss. Just smile and assure him it’ll go well.

The problem is the people coming tonight love to drag a dinner on, laden with wine and cigars and you know the night will last well into the early hours. Edoardo has already had a case of wine delivered to your house. Earlier in the week, Inès, bless her heart, had asked carefully, kindly, if you’d like her to arrange a scheduling conflict that’d get you out of it, book the others in at a nice restaurant instead, but how would that look? No, you’ll get through this like you do everything else.

You’re blotting off your lipstick in the mirror when the doorbell rings. Not the chef, she’s already in the kitchen, not the guests– too early yet. Your assistant calls, “Lo prenderò, signorina!” from down the hall.

You hear his voice before you even step out of your bedroom. Deep and familiar, lovely in the way it snags at the fibres of your heart.

“Wonwoo?” He stands in your foyer, clutching a bouquet of snapdragons and lilacs clutched in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other, wearing something smarter than his usual casual attire, all in black. His eyes flit unsure from you, to your assistant, to the floor. Your assistant looks over him approvingly, raises her eyebrows at you and brings her fingers to her lips to kiss them.

“I– uh. I wasn’t sure what to bring,” he says.

“Those are lovely, thank you,” you say, as your assistant takes the flowers from him and rushes off to the kitchen to arrange them in a vase. “Should we have the champagne with dinner?”

“Or you can save it,” he says, shrugging. You can hear your assistant padding upstairs. “Whatever.”

Whatever.

“I–uh. Am I the only one here?” He lifts his watch to check the time. “Sorry. I thought it started at eight.”

“Eight-thirty,” you say. You’re not sure what else to add. He’s early, painfully so, and you haven’t had time to steel yourself against this awkwardness. You weren’t prepared to be alone with him.

“Right.” He shifts his weight on his feet, stuffs his now empty hands in his pockets, glances around your entryway. “Nice place. I’d wondered what your home would look like.”

“Yes. Well, I like it.”

When his eyes return to you, they linger a beat too long. “You look nice too.”

“Thanks.” You close your arms over yourself, hands curled over your elbows. “I had a shower and everything.”

That pulls the faintest smile from him, quick to vanish.

Your assistant is back, hovers in the doorway with a polite, curious expression. You can feel the way the room crackles with the strangeness of it, how easily could someone so removed from the situation notice the fractures between you two? “Perché non torni a casa, Elena?” you tell her gently. “Hai lavorato duramente oggi.”

Her brows lift, eager to be away. “Sei sicuro?”

“Sì, sì. Buona serata.” You give her a grateful look until she grins, gathers her things, and slips out with cheerful goodbyes. The door closes behind her with a final click that leaves you and Wonwoo alone, save for the chef in the kitchen.

It’s almost worse without a buffer.

“I like the way you speak,” he says. “In Italian, I mean. I still can’t get the hang of it.”

You falter, searching for something to say that isn’t completely ridiculous. In the end you say, “I’m sure Charles wouldn’t mind helping you with it, or anyone in the office, really.”

The silence stretches, heavy and awkward. To fill it, you gesture toward the garden. “I was about to set the table. It’s such a nice night, I thought we could eat outside.”

“I can help.”

You shouldn’t let him, but you do. Together you lay out plates, silverware, glasses, jugs of water that will likely remain untouched, and napkins folded with a precision that doesn’t really matter, since the rest of your guests will be happy and drunk in no time at all. Neither of you speak much, and the scrape of porcelain against wood fills the quiet. Occasionally you can feel his eyes on you, and having him in your home like this, helping you with the table, feels agonisingly domestic.

When you’re done you brush your hands off, and he says, out of nowhere, “Can I have a tour?”

You blink at him. “A tour?”

His mouth curves, uncertain. “I just– I want to see how you live.”

It’s not an absurd request, most other circumstances you’d have offered one anyway. It just felt odd, letting him in your space after everything, but something in his tone makes you relent. You lead him room by room, narrating stiff, like an estate agent: kitchen (he says polite hellos to the woman chopping vegetables at the island), living room, the dining room, the study with its neatly organized shelves of books high to the ceiling, the main bathroom that you’ve used exactly zero times in favour of your en-suite, two guest rooms that are often occupied with friends when you’re home after the season. He makes small comments, nods, a murmur of approval here and there. It almost feels normal.

Until you reach your bedroom. You hesitate in the doorway as he steps to the middle of it, and looks around. You follow because you can’t very well leave him standing there alone.

“It’s very you,” he says quietly, his gaze sweeping over your furniture, the artwork and photographs on the wall, the muted tones of your bedding, and the flowers he brought sitting pretty on your windowsill, the sweet scent of the lilacs drenching the room. His eyes settle on you again, softer now.

He takes a hesitant step closer. Your breath catches, your body moving with a will that betrays your brain. A magnetic pull closing the scant inches between you, the barely there brush of the back of his hand grazing yours, his gaze flicking down to your mouth. You tilt toward him, and he toward you, almost, almost–

The doorbell rings and it startles you out of your daze, pulling back, and his mouth parts with words unsaid, eyes snapping toward the sound. You swallow hard, smooth down your dress, and say under your breath, “I’d better get that.”

His eyes fall to your lips again, for a brief moment. “What are we doing?” he asks, under his breath.

You don’t know. How can you, when he’s claiming all the space inside your head, even while you sleep? You don’t answer, just turn and make your way downstairs, to greet the rest of your guests with a big smile and go back to pretending everything is as it was.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Nine bottles are emptied by the time your mains are served, because the sponsors surely know how to put it away. It’s Peter from AWS, Sophia from the Armani Group, Stephen from Shell, and their spouses. The former two Wonwoo hardly knows, but they’ve been friendly enough. It’s only Stephen that Wonwoo has heard stories about.

Wonwoo sits not quite across from you, close enough to watch the way your earrings dazzle in the light when you turn your head, the careful curve of your smile as you answer Sophia’s questions about your decor. Stephen flanks your other side, and Wonwoo notices how when he leans in, you shrink back, how your smile goes stiff when he talks too close in your ear.

He notices how Stephen’s gaze lingers too long, too often. Not when his wife is speaking, of course but when she’s distracted, wine glass in hand, attention turned to Edoardo beside her. His eyes find you every time, dragging slowly over the neckline of your dress, down to where your necklace sits pretty on your collarbones. It makes Wonwoo’s stomach knot, seeing it without the ring that’s slotted back on his finger.

Wonwoo sips at his wine, tells himself to work his expression into something lighter, because this dinner is important for the team, for the sponsors, and for you. He tells himself that this is not his business, that you’re more than capable of handling yourself.

Still, every time Stephen leans forward, whiny voice forced smooth, gaze fixed on the contours of your body, Wonwoo has to school his expression into neutrality. He knows if he lets it slip, if he lets anyone see what he’s thinking, the whole table will know how he feels about you. Makes no sense for him to feel possessive over you, especially when it concerns someone you’re showing clear lack of comfort around, but he feels it all the same.

He has no right to say anything. Not when he’s already been told by you that this thing between you has no place in the real world. Not when you’ve been so careful to build these walls between you at work, to look through him like he could be anyone else.

And so the irritation sits like lead in his chest, and he says nothing. Instead he keeps his hands steady, bantering jovially with Charles, laughing in the right places at Edoardo’s anecdotes. Answering questions and joining in the conversation where he can. But he doesn’t miss an opportunity to meet your eyes across the table, ask silently if you’re okay, and try to take that small reassuring smile you give him as enough to convince him that you are.

At one point Edoardo’s wife, María, remarks that everyone here is a couple, except for you and Wonwoo. She leans in, eager for gossip, and asks, “Are either of you seeing anyone? You’re too young and beautiful not to.”

The entire table turns to look at you both, and it makes Wonwoo feel like he’s under a microscope, but you just laugh it off, say your last relationship ended a few years ago, and if Edoardo keeps adding to your plate then surely you’ll never have time for a lover ever again. Edoardo gasps at that, clutches his chest and scolds you for blaming him rather than admitting you’re a workaholic. Wonwoo hides a small smile behind his glass.

María turns her attention on him. “What about you, Wonwoo? No one special you’re keeping secret?”

Wonwoo clears his throat. “I think everyone at this table has heard more than enough about my love life.”

There’s a smatter of quiet, awkward laughter around the table.

And María smiles sweetly, says, “I wonder what it must feel like to be single these days. All those apps, it sounds wretched.”

A louder chorus of laughter this time, and Wonwoo agrees. He takes another long sip of wine and lets the conversation move on without him. He catches your eye for a moment, and you offer him a tiny, grateful smile.

Adrienne leans over and says, “Wonwoo, have you been here before?”

“Nope,” he says, “First time.”

“I keep telling Charles we should get somewhere like this,” she gushes, looking out over the rolling hills, all pink and orange under the setting sun. “Isn’t the view stunning?”

Wonwoo looks over at you, only to find you already watching him. “Yeah,” he says, meeting your eyes. “It is.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The sky dims to a cool blue and fills with the swirl of smoke, mixing with the silver of the thin clouds on the horizon, by the time the twelfth bottle is emptied. You tell everyone to stay put, keep drinking, keep enjoying the wine. “I’ll clear the plates,” you say, sliding to your feet.

Wonwoo stands too, almost instantly. “I’ll help.”

Adrienne smiles up at you both. “Aren’t you a sweet pair?” she sighs, eyes shining like she’s watching a romance unfold. She’s almost as drunk as the rest of them.

“We’re not a pair,” you say under your breath, but Adrienne doesn’t catch it.

Charles tugs Adrienne more firmly into his lap. “I’d help too, but someone seems to have taken me hostage.”

Adrienne presses a kiss to his temple, giggling soft, and the other end of the table erupts in laughter at Peter’s story. You roll your eyes, a half smile on your lips in effort to play along, but your pulse is a drum in your ears as Wonwoo follows you into the kitchen, carrying a small stack of plates.

The clatter of the dinner party fades behind you, replaced by the muffled scrape of porcelain against marble as you set things down on the counter. You can feel him at your back– reaching around your body to lay his stack next to yours.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Of course,” he says, voice low.

He doesn’t look at you when you turn to rinse the cutlery, just leans back against the island, and says too loud, “I don’t think much of Stephen.”

“Shhh,” you admonish, glancing toward the door, though you know they won’t hear you from all the way outside. His profile is cut sharp against the warm kitchen light, hair falling into his eyes. Makes you want to smooth it back with your hands. “You’re drunk.”

Wonwoo ignores your observation and presses on. “Does he always look at you like that?”

“He looks at everyone like that,” you whisper. “Trust me, I’m no special case.”

“I think you’re special.”

The wine must have loosened Wonwoo’s grip on sense, because he’s leaning down behind you, but the wine must’ve loosened yours too, because you’re letting him, so pathetically desperate for him to touch you. He presses a kiss to your shoulder next to the strap of your dress. Holds there, sighs against your skin.

“I’ve had too much time to think this week,” he says.

You huff a small laugh. “Jeonghan must be letting you off easy.”

“I’ve missed you bothering me,” he says, another soft kiss pressed to the nape of your neck.

You tsk. “You can’t just say you missed me?”

He smiles against your skin. “Okay,” he whispers. “I missed you.”

You can’t figure out how it starts, if it’s his hands that slide to your waist that turns you, or if you do it of your own accord. Just know that your arms wrap around his neck as he pulls your chests flush against one another. One of his hands travels up your body, trails over your shoulder, fingers delicately caress your neck. Makes you wonder if he can feel the way your heart beats faster. You just know that your mouth is already wet with want as your lips meet in the middle, slow and deliberate and deep. The taste of wine on his tongue makes you feel dizzy. The air between you hums, prickling with all the things neither of you will say, but this kiss makes up for it. The slow pull of his teeth on your bottom lip tells you he needs this. The quiet moan he presses into your open mouth says enough. The push of his hips into yours says plenty.

A roar of laughter from outside breaks you apart, panting, and you realise with a jolt that your lipstick smears his face. You reach out to grab his jaw with your hand, and rub at it with your thumb. Fuck. Shit. You’re just making it worse but he’s smiling, pulling at your hand and pressing soft lips into your palm.

You should say something– anything. Instead, you clear your throat, voice too soft when you manage, “They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”

“They’re drunk,” he replies simply, and it’s true. No one will notice. No one except you, heart knocking stupidly against your ribs, all too aware of the way your hand lingers too long in his grip, and of the way he watches your face for any inclination you’ll let this happen as it should. “Can I stay tonight?”

Your first instinct is to laugh, to brush it off, to remind him of the twelve drunk colleagues in your garden, that it’s barely eleven and you’ll be hard pressed to get rid of anyone before one, to remind him that they saw everything—the headlines, the photographs, the grainy image from the hotel, and they’ll be watching to see if there’s a break in the act tonight too, drunk or not. The rules you’ve set for yourself still hold purpose, to prevent this kind of mess.

But the words don’t come. His hand is still warm around yours. His thumb traces the curve of your palm like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His eyes– dark, steady, so unbearably sure– hold yours with a question that feels bigger than the one he asked.

Yes hovers on your lips. You hear yourself exhale instead, shaky and low, borrowing time. “Wonwoo…”

Another wave of laughter breaks from outside and you swallow the lump in your throat. You turn, tearing off a piece of tissue from the roll and wetting it under the tap.

“Hold still,” you murmur, stepping back to him. His hands stay braced back against the counter, body loose but eyes pinned on you as you wipe away the telltale red smear on his lips. He leans into your touch just barely, almost like a reflex. The faintest pink blooms across his skin where you rub too hard.

“There,” you whisper, chest tight, when it’s gone. “Perfect.”

Wonwoo doesn’t move, doesn’t let his eyes leave you. Only when you step back does he shift, straightening slowly, jaw setting in a line. You gesture toward the crate of bottles, keeping your voice steady. “Can you take another out?”

He nods and reaches for a bottle. On his way back out he gets close, fingers dragging across the small of your back, nose sliding up the back of your neck, a last kiss pressed behind your ear. When he’s gone, you leave the plates where they are and slip upstairs. In the mirror of your bathroom you find your lipstick smudged, colour worn thin from his kiss. The sight alone makes your pulse spike all over again. You grip the counter hard, knuckles whitening, trying to will the heat out of your body.

So you fix your lipstick, reapply foundation where necessary. Smooth your dress, dab perfume at your pulse point like it could take away the feeling of his fingers over it. Downstairs, laughter carries in with the breeze through the open doors, Wonwoo’s voice among it.

If you let him in your bed tonight, give in yet again, could it be okay?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Wonwoo’s eyes find yours as you come outside again, lipstick re-applied, and as perfect as ever. If you’d given his request any consideration at all, there’s no indication. The seats are all shifted now, everyone settled into their post-dinner rhythm, the kind that grows easy when the food is finished and the wine has taken root. Most are at the table, still chatting lively, but Edoardo, Peter, and Stephen have trailed a little further away, standing in a small circle with their cigars and their glasses, talking intently.

You slip into the chair beside him, legs crossing neatly, smile polite and unreadable as Adrienne laughs at something Charles mutters into her hair. Wonwoo wants that. Doesn’t see why he can’t. Doesn’t see why you wont, because every time he dares to touch you, you seem to want it as much as he does. Adrienne leans over to pluck a cigarette from the pack on the table, and Charles reaches into his pocket to find his lighter. The way they move is almost automatic, a practiced comfort after years of knowing one another. Wonwoo wants that with you.

“May I have one?” you ask her, almost idly, like it’s nothing. Wonwoo blinks, caught off guard by the request.

Adrienne raises her brows, and slides one across to you. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“It’s been ages,” you admit, slotting it between your lips, casual. “Feels like the right kind of night for it.”

Charles flicks the lighter for Adrienne’s first, then leans across to light yours too. Wonwoo watches the glow of the flame across your face in the semi-dark, watches the way you tip your head toward the flame. Loves the way the smoke curls from your lips as you exhale, slow and steady. His throat goes dry. He shouldn’t think it’s hot, but he does. It’s devastating, the way you affect him.

The curve of your mouth, the way you draw in deep, the way your fingers rest on your lips as you take a drag, it makes something coil tight in his gut.

Without thinking, Wonwoo plucks the cigarette from your fingers as you lower it, ignoring the way your expression lifts a little in surprise. He holds your gaze as he takes a drag himself, lungs heavy with the forgotten bite of it. He hasn’t touched one in years, not since training, not since his mother made him swear to never touch one again. But with your lipstick stain on the filter, it feels more like tasting you again.

When he exhales, it’s deliberate, a slow ribbon of smoke winding into the night air.

Your brows lift, amused. “Since when?”

“I don’t,” he says, and his voice is a little rough around the edges. He passes the cigarette back to you, fingers brushing yours, letting the faintest smirk ghost across his lips. “Just felt like the kind of night.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The guests slowly filter out the front door, they pile into chauffeured cars with peals of laughter that breaks the softness of the night. Charles and Adrienne linger a little longer, but sometime after one they too announce their departure. Charles hoists Adrienne onto his back, heels dangling from the straps in her hand, and she’s laughing loud. He turns red faced with wine and effort to Wonwoo, asks if he wants to be dropped off, and Wonwoo glances sideways at you. You give an infinitesimal shake of your head.

“Mingyu’s picking me up in a few minutes,” he lies.

Charles looks between you, a tiny knowing smile playing on his lips, and Wonwoo can’t bring himself to care. Just wants them to go so he can kiss you without your worries taking precedent. “Okay, enjoy the rest of your night,” Charles says, and walks out the door, Adrienne clinging on to him, waving happily and yelling her thanks to you for hosting.

When the door clicks closed and you turn to him, that polite and poised smile you’ve worn all evening is gone. Your earrings catch the light as you tilt your head, watching him with an expression that says you’re as tired of pretending as he is.

“God,” you murmur, half to yourself, slipping your heels off at the threshold. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Wonwoo huffs a laugh, low in his chest. “You handled them well.”

“You helped.” Wonwoo’s eyes flick down to your mouth yet again, remembering the feel of it in the kitchen, the lipstick, the cigarette you shared. When his eyes lift again, yours are heavy with want, drawing him in with that same gravity that’s been gnawing at him for so long.

He doesn’t move at first. Feels the moment stretch taut, like a breath held underwater. It’s you who closes the gap. You breathe in sharp and shallow as his hands fly to your waist, and yours fist in his shirt, pulling him down, and his mouth finds yours yet again.

It’s almost feral the way you kiss him, hard and messy. His hands framing your face because he needs to hold you, needs to remind himself that this is real. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and you gasp into his mouth when his hips press into yours, the proof of how much he wants this, wants you, evident in the thick length hardening beneath his trousers.

“Fuck,” you pant when he tears his lips away to kiss down your jaw, your throat, biting lightly where your pulse hammers. “Wonwoo–”

“Don’t tell me it’s just once.” His voice is ragged against your skin. “Not again.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” You shake your head, tilting it back to give him more, letting him taste every inch of skin he wants. You shove him off after a moment, chest heaving, just to lead him upstairs. He feels sleazy as he watches your ass as you walk up the stairs, reaches out to touch, take a firm handful and pinches playful and you’re laughing, pulling at his hand and dragging him up to your room.

In your bedroom is where he kisses you slow and dirty. You moan into his mouth when he squeezes the meat of your ass, drags down a strap of your dress to caress the skin he exposes, rolls his thumb over your puckering nipple. He groans as you press your hand over the tent in his trousers, rub firm over the length of it through the material.

He walks you backwards across the room until the mattress dips under your shared weight, and he cages you in with his arms. Wants to keep you like this, bated breath and hot beneath him, wants to mold your body with his, make your pleasure his own, make it belong to him. Fucks him up a little, when you pull off his mouth, and your eyes go heavy and clouded with lust as your eyes zero on your own hands pull his shirt untucked, dip under the material and trail your nails over his skin, lighting little fires in their wake. Fucks him up a lot when your kiss-bitten lips fall into a pout after you drag his shirt over his head, and say “It’s unfair how hot you are. I never stood a chance.”

Feels much the same about you, says so, calls you beautiful as he slides his hands down your thighs to pull up your knees and nudge them apart, lets the satin of your dress pool like water at your hips and exhales, satisfied, as he runs his middle fingernail over your lace covered clit, finds the material a little damp.

“You’re so sensitive,” he observes, a pleased spark running through his veins.

“Hardly,” you complain, sucking in a breath as his soft pets quickly turn insistent. “Couldn’t get there this week.”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice deep and thick, head swimming with the implication. “You couldn’t get yourself off? Were you thinking of me?” You nod, and he can’t fight the smug look off his face.

“Have you touched yourself while thinking of me before?”

“Yeah–” you admit, voice tiny and embarrassed. “Have you?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, intentionally avoiding saying how often, and he loves the way you draw your bottom lip between your teeth as you picture it. “Can you do it now? Show me how you get yourself off?”

Can feel the heat flush on your body as you shake your head no. “Want you to do it.”

He smiles. “Another time, then?” he presses, almost too casual.

“Yes. Yeah, another time,” you breathe, and he keens forward to catch your lips in another kiss. You break off, peppering your lips across his jaw, and between them you whisper, “Wonwoo, touch me.”

Wonwoo gives in to your pleas without a fight. Drags your underwear down slow over your legs, you kick them away, let your knees fall apart so he can see how wet he makes you. He circles your clit, swollen and sensitive, with a calloused thumb, hums pleased when it draws a little sigh from you. Slides down over your damp slit with two fingers and dips in, moves to line his body against yours just to mouth wet at your neck, keeps slipping his fingers in and out, too shallow to bring you close, enough to wind you tight, your harsh small breaths a giveaway it’s working as intended.

“Don’t tease,” you beg, but he can feel the way your entrance pulses around his fingers and it sends a lick of want right through him, wants to work you up enough that he’s got you doing that on his cock.

Wants to sink his teeth into the sounds you make, but he settles for the swell of your breast. Leaves little marks over your skin, sucks a bruise on your sternum, draws your nipples into his mouth with his tongue, one after the other, coats them in his spit and blows cool air through pursed lips, watches them pucker with a self-satisfied hum.

You turn on your side with a frustrated groan, facing away from him, but his fingers still find purchase between your legs. With a harsh suck to the crook of your neck he drives his fingers deep, crooking them firm and revelling in the way your head tips back and your breaths go shallow. At this new angle the heel of his palm rocks against your clit as he plunges his fingers inside your slick, wet cunt, driving you closer to the precipice with each thrust and curl. You whimper, legs begin to tremble, and as you get impossibly wet, he coos in your ear. “Are you close?”

“Yeah,” you pant. “Yeah m’close.”

He wants to take photographs of you like this, so pretty and fucked out over him, mouth parted in a little o as your pussy drenches his hand while he fucks his fingers into you and grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. Knows it’s a stupid thing to bring it up now so he tucks the thought away for later, for a promised another time. Feels the way you clench, hears the way you wail, broken, and your body goes all tight against him, has him fucked up, the way your eyes roll back, and he holds you closer just to rut his aching, neglected cock against your behind.

You draw in a ragged breath as your body relaxes, and he pulls his fingers from you. He takes the wetness that coats his fingers and works it over your thighs, sighs at the way they glisten in the dim light of the moon outside your window. Wonwoo breathes heavy against your skin, and you’re turning over to face him, dazed smile lighting up your beautiful face. It punches all the air out of his lungs, the way you look at him.

He craves you, your mouth, your touch. “You’ve no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.”

You soften, look at him with something like adoration, a contented glow under your skin. He wants more of that– your smile instead of your scowl, wants to stop bringing you problems to fix, wants to share this bed with you, a year from now, two, three, a decade, and keep you sated. Keep you his. That’ll come later. Right now he wants to fuck you so full of his cum that it drips down your legs. Wants to take your sighs in his mouth and swallow them like sweet wine. Wants your release for himself again, and again.

You’re pulling at his belt, pushing his trousers and his boxers down his thighs, and then you’re sliding your leg over his hip, trying to get the angle right so he can line his cock up with your core, make love to you like this. That’s what it feels like, this time. All that carnal, fraught need melting into tenderness as he slides inside, a blinding, tight heat that has him burying his face in the crook of your neck, the light scratch of your fingernails on his back running seams through him, makes him undone.

His arm bands around your waist as you rock against each other, skin against skin, the drag of your nipples against his chest. His lips trail over your shoulder, yours pressed into his hair, feels your breath hot and quickened against his scalp. Pushes into your open, pliant body slow slow slow, the achingly deep, wet slide tightening the coil in his gut. Hears your broken sob and feels the clench of your pussy simultaneously. Nearly comes apart with it himself, but he keeps rolling into you, with firm, slow strokes. Feels your lips ghosting against his forehead, whispering sweet nothings into his skin.

Wonwoo can feel you hurtling toward your end, wants to claim it as his. “You like how good I fuck you?” he rasps. You answer with a broken moan. “Yeah– shit, tell me you’re mine, baby, tell me–”

“M’yours,” you gasp, words shallow and half formed on the back of a twisted guttural sound. “M’yours, Wonwoo.”

Electric in his veins, he gasps too as you clench his cock so tight. “Yeah– yeah you fuckin’ are.” Works a hand awkwardly between your bodies to toy with your clit, draw your earlobe between his lips just to sink his teeth into it, and you keen, nails digging into his skin. You cry out, babbling his name while you ride on the wave of your release. “Coming– fuck, Wonwoo.” You whine through it, a gush of wetness soaks him and the sheets below and his vision nearly whites out.

“Oh my God,” he groans. Your pussy pulses around him, rolls you onto your back and himself on top, hiking both your legs around his waist just so he can drive into you with hastened, erratic thrusts, each one punctuated with breathless grunts.

“Wan’ it in me,” you slur. “Fill me up– please, please, Wonwoo– fuck–”

Pleasure rips through him so hard his eyes roll back, and you’re babbling praise in his ear. Comes with a force that shakes him, cock twitching desperately inside you as he empties his cum into your body, seeps out around him. You drag your fingers through the mess of your slit around his cock, bring them to your mouth and run them over your bottom lip, leaving a translucent sheen that you lick away with a quiet hum of satisfaction. “So good, Wonwoo,” you whisper, offering him a taste. “Taste it.”

“Pervert,” he teases, but he leans in anyway. Draws your wet fingers into his mouth, salted and heady slick over his tongue. Makes him woozy, the way you look at him delirious as he laps your fingers clean.

A little later, after you’ve caught your breath, you shower together. Wonwoo presses your back against the cold tile and soaps down your body with the cloth, works his way slow and gentle over your skin, between your thighs, almost drops to his knees to lick you out when he catches your breath stutter, but you’re pulling him up, laughing into his lips and saying you can’t possibly go again before sleep.

Afterwards, Wonwoo helps you change the sheets, and you laugh about the alien domesticity of it all. Then, as the horizon slips a pale yellow with the fast approaching dawn, you lay in bed, all shy, silly smiles and soft touches. Wonwoo asks if he can stay here again, after the race on Sunday, and you give him a forlorn little smile.

“Did you forget you’ve got a flight to catch?”

“Oh.” He laughs, disappointed. Fuck his favourite cousin for getting married right when he’s got you. “Yeah I did actually.”

You grow quiet once again, his hands smoothing over your arms, until he catches your necklace glinting in the low light, looking too bare. He reaches around your neck without asking, unclasps the chain, warm from your body, and slips his ring over it. “Need my good luck charm this weekend,” he says simply, voice slow with exhaustion, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth where a smile quirks.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm,” he says, even though he’s on the edge of sleep.

“Why’s it so special?” Your voice is low, tentative. “Did she give it to you?”

That makes him laugh. “You think I’d make you wear something my ex-girlfriend gave me? You don’t think that’s really fucked up?”

You laugh too, relieved. “I only knew that it was special. Not why.”

“It’s from my grandparents,” he says. “They took me to a bunch of races when I was a kid, made me love it. My grandfather always wanted to race but never got the chance, so when I said I wanted to drive for Ferrari one day, he put me on the karting track as soon as I turned seven. They paid for everything. Got me to where I am. They bought me this–” He touches the ring, sitting pretty in the notch between your collarbones. “–when I got my first seat.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Why don’t I ever see them at the track?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “They’re getting old, and travelling is hard for them, and they hate staying in hotels now. They come when they can.”

You’re overthinking. He can see it in the way you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. Wonwoo pulls it away with his thumb, kisses soft at the dent you made there. “Would you like to invite them here in September? For the Italian Grand Prix?”

“Here?” Wonwoo can’t fight the smile from his face.

“I have a lovely guest room,” you say.

“You do,” he agrees, happily. Another long pause. “Are you sure?”

You nod, smiling too. “Try not to get sick of me before then?”

“I won’t,” he promises. Whispers it onto your lips, and chases it with a kiss that tastes like a promise.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Imola, Italy

Wonwoo [16:14] You look pretty today

You [16:15] I’m just wearing the team shirt like always

Wonwoo [16:14] Yes but you look really nice in it. Good boobs

You [16:14] Pervert 😑

Wonwoo [16:14] Missed you all day Wonwoo [16:14] Can we get away for a few seconds? Wanna kiss you so bad

You [16:15] Sorry! Your schedule’s jam packed and there’s no time allotted for kissing!

Wonwoo [16:14] Fine.

You laugh, imagining the sullen pout fixed on his face.

Wonwoo [16:14] Can I kiss you in the paddock after the race?

You [16:15] Lol no

Wonwoo [16:15] What if I get podium?

You deliberate for a minute, because a podium is entirely possible with his skill, and the more you think about kissing him in the open, the more you don’t hate the idea. Still, you’ve given in to him enough lately.

You [16:16] Get P1 and then we’ll talk

Wonwoo [16:16] Yeah? Promise?

You [16:16] 🙄 Okay sure

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The roar of engines and cheers and clapping still thrums through the concrete, vibrating under your feet long after the chequered flag waves. The crowd is a living, breathing animal, tens of thousands of voices surging in a tide of screams and applause. Wonwoo’s car streaks past the chequered flag, a scarlet blur crossing into history before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing. The commentary over the trackside speakers rings in your ears–

AND AS SEEN ON SCREEN, JEON WONWOO WINS THE GRAND PRIX! HIS SECOND WIN FOR FERRARI!

Your headset crackles with Edoardo’s elated shout, the engineers cheering, Charles’ laughter cutting through as he takes P2 only a hair behind and congratulates his friend. The garage explodes, mechanics jumping, hugging, slapping each other’s backs. You can’t stay composed when the very air that surrounds you buzzes with electricity, happy tears prick at the corner of your eyes and you clap and cheer along with the others.

When the anthem plays, you watch him on the podium, hair plastered against his forehead damp with sweat. He lifts the trophy and the cameras flash, capturing him from every beautiful angle. He finds your face in the crowd and his grin spreads wide and unrestrained and proud– the kind of smile you’ve seen directed at you out here once before.

And then comes the champagne. He twists the cork, sprays the bottle wide and wild, and it arcs across Charles’ back, into the crowd, soaking anyone lucky enough to be close. And then he’s turned again, lifting the bottle high for the cameras, glory making him shine.

When he comes down, it’s chaos. Photographers swarm, Jeonghan ushers him through in your direction, and reporters shout questions over one another. He answers most of them quick, that same smile plastered across his face. He’s barely handed his bottle and trophy off to an intern before he’s pulling at his gloves, unfastening his suit around his collar, peeling it back from his body to reveal the tight turtleneck undershirt below. The press already know he’s been excused from post-race media, on account of his imminent flight to Seoul, but that doesn’t stop them from crowding him.

Jeonghan is the first to pass you in the crowd, smile knowing and humorous playing on his lips. Then Mingyu, who claps you on the shoulder like a proud dad. Very odd. And then Wonwoo, whose eyes soften as he takes you in. He’s flushed, sweat and champagne still wet on his skin, vibrating with adrenaline. He’s beautiful. He draws you into a tight hug before you can react, one arm over your shoulder, the other slotted around your waist, and the quickened flash of cameras in your faces makes you lightheaded.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you,” you shout over the racket.

You can feel him nod. “If you get a chance you should come join us,” he shouts back.

You’d thought about it already, but the schedule won’t budge, so you shake your head. “Just call me when you’re back.”

There are people everywhere and he’s lingering too long, holds his arms around you too long, though you’re not exactly letting go either. Fans are pressed against barricades, cameras still snapping, Jeonghan calling Wonwoo from across a sea of people that now separate the two of you from him. You’re standing out in the open, painfully visible.

“Wonwoo–” You’re not sure what you want to say, what you can say with all these people here. That you’re proud? That you’re sorry you wasted all that time hating each other? “Congratulations.”

His eyes search yours, dark and steady even with his chest heaving, with sweat dripping down his temple. “Are you gonna make good on your promise or what?”

And before you can think it through, before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to draw him in, and kiss him sweet in front of everyone.

It’s not a stolen thing this time. Not a whisper in the kitchen, not a hurried press of mouths in a quiet corner of the airport lounge. It’s full, deliberate, your hands bracing at his jaw as the world gasps and cameras click rapidfire. For half a second, he freezes. Then his hands fist in the material of your top at your back and he’s dragging you closer, kissing you back like it’s something he’s always wanted.

The crowd erupts. Someone wolf-whistles. You hear a dozen shouts in too many languages to pick out. Wonwoo pulls back, smiling so hard you want to laugh and cry at the same time. He presses his forehead to yours, breath hot, voice low enough only you can hear. “Same again next time?”

You laugh, a wet, helpless sound. “You’re an idiot.”

But you’re smiling, wide and aching, even as presses a rough kiss against your cheek one more time and pulls away, turning toward the waiting car that’ll take him to the airport. He waves once at the crowd, at Charles calling something after him, at Edoardo giving him a proud smile and a final thumbs up. And then he’s gone, the tinted window of the black car obscuring him from view.

You stand rooted in the same spot, watching until there’s nothing left to see. A familiar figure sidles up beside you. Edoardo, sleeves rolled, still holding the comms headset in his hand. He follows your gaze to where Wonwoo’s car disappeared, then looks back at you, a sly quirk tugging at his mouth.

“You kids figured it out, then?” he asks simply, like he’s asking about the weather.

You look at him, startled. “You don’t care?”

“Why would I care?” His eyes are twinkling. “You two just won me five hundred euros.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Several hours later, you’re in a bar celebrating the double win with some of the team, and their partners. Adrienne, Inès and several others interrogating you about Wonwoo all night, and they squeal with laughter when you refuse to answer their drunken, lewd questions, when your face burns instead. Thankfully, you’re saved by a text from him at last.

It’s a picture. A Getty photograph of the two of you in the blurred crowd, both of you smiling into the kiss. It’s so perfect you almost want to pay the ridiculous sum to have the watermark removed and keep it framed on your nightstand. It’s absurd, the way he changed everything you thought about him out of nowhere. A Wonwoo you once thought cold and standoffish is not that at all. He’s sweet, and loving, and so, so warm.

Another text startles you out of your fuzz.

Wonwoo [00:19] We look good together, don’t we?

Yes, you think, hearting his message and covering your beaming smile with your hand. You really do.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

GOD I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG

thank you for reading, everyone! if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging to get it seen outside of my small following. thank u ily <3