It was late.
Jimin had just come back from another runway, jacket still slung over his shoulder, shirt half unbuttoned, hair a little too perfectly disheveled. The hotel room lights were warm and low. He didn't expect company tonight—not anymore. He'd made peace with her absence. Sort of.
Then came a knock.
He opened the door.
And there she was. Celine.
Effortlessly stunning. Hair loose. Casual, like she hadn't debated this moment a thousand times in the car ride up. Like she wasn't standing there with the weight of something unspoken behind her eyes.
"You're late," Jimin said flatly, leaning against the doorframe.
"You're early," she replied, her voice smooth. "I figured you'd be out."
He didn't smile. Didn't flirt. Just stepped aside.
She walked in like it was the natural thing to do—because by now, it was. Except this time, the air was different. No teasing. No banter. Just silence and tension and an unspoken acknowledgment of what they'd become.
They barely said a word as clothes came off, bodies collided, and rhythm found them again. But it wasn't like before.
No lingering touches.
No whispered jokes between breaths.
No aftercare.
Jimin didn't hold her close afterward. He didn't even stay in bed. He just rolled off, wordless, and headed to the shower. When he came out, towel low on his hips, water still dripping from his hair—
She was gone.
Just like that.
But what she left behind wasn't her usual indifference. It was something else.
A quiet ache. A strange hollowness she couldn't name.
Celine leaned against the hotel hallway wall just outside his room, heart beating in the wrong places. She had wanted this—just the vibe, the release, the freedom. No ties. No softness. No meaning.
But why did it sting?
Why did she miss the way he used to hold her like she mattered?
He'd pulled back exactly as she warned him to. No strings. No emotions. Just sex.
It should've felt like control.
Instead, it felt like loss.
***
Two nights later.
The afterparty was loud—too loud for conversation but perfect for pretending nothing mattered. Lights strobed, bass thumped, and the air buzzed with champagne and curated laughter.
Jimin wasn't looking for her.
But there she was.
Backlit by violet lights, in a silver dress that didn't cling but commanded. Hair slicked. Eyes rimmed with shadow. She looked like a storm dressed in silk.
And she saw him too.
Neither moved. Not at first.
Then he smiled—that smile. The cocky one. All teeth and no heart.
She tilted her head, mirrored it. Like this was just another game. One they both knew the rules to. One they both knew how to lose.
He raised a glass to her across the room. Cool. Detached. She raised hers back, but this time with something unreadable flickering in her gaze.
It was the first time they'd seen each other since she left his bed cold.
And for a second, under the fake neon sky of that Paris night, Celine realized—
He wasn't trying to get her back.
He wasn't trying to read her mind.
He wasn't trying anything anymore.
And somehow, that was the part that burned.
Jimin didn't mean to follow her.
Not really.
But her silver dress was like a dare, disappearing into the crowd, and suddenly his legs were moving before his mind could catch up. She hadn't even looked back. Like she knew he would.
She was halfway across the room, about to head toward the VIP exit, when it happened.
Some guy in a blazer two sizes too tight grabbed her by the wrist. Pulled her in. Said something into her ear that made her freeze.
She didn't scream.
She didn't flinch.
She just looked bored.
Until the guy tried to kiss her.
She tried to pull away.
But the guy tightened his grasp, forcing himself in.
Then Jimin was there.
No hesitation.
No thought.
Just heat.
His fist connected with the guy's jaw, a sick crunch under bass and screams. The man stumbled, shocked, but his friends were already lunging in.
Taehyung flew in like a dancer mid-routine, elegant and wild, shoulder-checking one into a table. Jungkook appeared next, hoodie half off, grinning like he'd been waiting for this all week. "You just had to touch her, huh?"
The club erupted.
Fists flew.
Glass shattered.
Security scrambled, but the Trinity were a storm—reckless, trained, and somehow having the time of their lives.
When the chaos settled and the trio was shoved out through the back door by apologizing staff, Jimin was bleeding at the lip, knuckles scraped raw.
He didn't care.
Because she was there.
Waiting.
His Hotel Suite
Jungkook and Taehyung threw themselves on the couch, sweaty and wheezing from laughter.
"Bro," Jungkook cackled, "your face. That was some main-character shit."
"You guys are insane," Celine muttered, pressing a cold towel to Jimin's jaw.
"That's one hell of a night. Can't we do that again some other time?" JungKook flexed his hand. His adrenaline still pumping in his veins.
Taehyung laughed, "you looked like the one who enjoyed it the most. Like you've waited your whole life for that fight bro, I could still hear you giggling."
"It's a nice workout."
Taehyung popped a grape into his mouth and stood, stretching. "And on that note, I am not sticking around for round four of your freaky saga."
"Yeah, I don't wanna hear Jimin moan again," Jungkook added, already halfway to the door. "I'm still traumatized from Jeju."
"Get out," Jimin grumbled.
But they were already laughing their way out the door.
The room fell quiet.
Celine dabbed gently at the corner of his lip. "That was reckless."
He looked at her. "You okay?"
She nodded.
Then smiled.
That kind of smile.
And just like that, the space between them snapped tight again.
Jimin smirked, leaning back on the kitchen stool. "So... you got a thing for men who bleed for you?"
She leaned in, whispering like a secret, "Only when they look good doing it."
Celine took the towel from his hand and tossed it to the floor like it didn't matter anymore. Like nothing mattered except the way he was looking at her.
"Thank you," she said, too softly.
Jimin tilted his head. "For what? Beating someone to a pulp?"
"For caring."
He opened his mouth, but she was already moving—straddling him on the stool, thighs pressing in with the kind of confidence that made his pulse stutter.
"You're not supposed to care," she whispered into his neck. "That wasn't the deal."
"Maybe I'm bad at rules," he said, breath hitching.
She kissed him then—not soft, not slow. Desperate. Greedy. Like the tension of the fight hadn't left her bones and now it had nowhere else to go.
He groaned into her mouth as she bit his lower lip—hard—tasting blood and want and everything between.
Her hands tugged his shirt over his head, dragging her nails down his chest. He hissed.
"You like it rough now?" he rasped.
"I like you when you snap," she smirked, licking the blood from his lip. "That fire? That's the version of you I want."
Jimin gripped her waist, flipped her onto the cool marble of the kitchen island with a thud. "Then take him," he growled.
And she did.
No aftercare.
No lingering.
Just heat. Clashing bodies. The chaotic aftermath of violence turned into desire. The kind that made bruises feel like love letters.
She stood in the bathroom afterward, fingers tracing the faint fingerprint on her thigh. A mark he left. A place he held her like she was his.
It shouldn't matter.
It wasn't supposed to matter.
She splashed cold water on her face.
You said no strings.
You said only sex.
So why did she feel hollow when he didn't follow her into the shower this time? Why did she pause at the door longer than usual? Waiting?
Why did it sting that he didn't say anything?
He used to joke. Touch her hair. Kiss her shoulder before she dressed. He used to ask if she wanted water. If she wanted him to stay awake.
Now... nothing.
And that was what she wanted, right?
Celine clenched her jaw, grabbing her bag.
She couldn't afford to want kindness. Or comfort. Not from him. Not from anyone.
Because if she let herself believe she deserved more...
She might start asking for it.
And people always left once you did that.