The door clicked softly behind her, and she stood in the hallway for a moment longer than necessary—head down, coat half shrugged on, hands trembling slightly even though she didn't feel cold.
She couldn't breathe inside that room. Not with the echo of his moan still ringing in her ears. Not with the ghost of his hands still on her skin.
Jimin was too gentle this time. Not in bed. But after.
Too quiet.
Too distant.
And she felt it—the space growing between them like something she couldn't outrun.
She walked out into the Paris night, sharp wind kissing her cheeks like a slap to stay present.
But her mind wandered.
First crack.
She was eight when she saw it.
Her father's hand raised. Her mother's back hitting the floor with a sound that didn't belong in a home. A sound that rewired her understanding of what love looked like.
From the outside, they were a beautiful family. Prestigious. High-functioning. Her mother wore sunglasses indoors. Her father gave big donations. But the bruises told the real story.
Her mother called it marriage.
Celine called it the first betrayal.
Second crack.
She was seventeen when she gave her heart to someone she thought was a friend.
It started with flowers. Notes. Trust.
It ended in the back of a car, her voice breaking against the window as he told her she "owed him." That she "wanted it anyway." That love looked like silence.
She left that version of herself in that car—tears drying on her skin like shame.
He took her body. But worse—he made her believe it wasn't worth protecting anymore.
She didn't cry after that. Couldn't. There was nothing left.
Third crack.
Modeling was control.
Her face. Her rules. Her body, hers again—only in front of the camera.
But off it?
Men wanted one night. Always one.
The same hands that praised her beauty at castings tried to buy it after hours. She smiled. She played the game. Because it was safer to give it than to fight again.
And now?
Now came Jimin.
He wasn't supposed to feel like anything. But he looked at her like she was human. Like she wasn't a thing to use, but a presence to watch—memorize.
It made her ache.
She wasn't fragile. She liked it rough. She liked the chaos. But somewhere in the aftermath, his stillness cracked her open.
She felt it tonight when he didn't touch her after.
She felt it in the silence.
She felt it walking alone in the cold, realizing—
She liked being held. She liked his stupid questions. She liked him looking at her like she wasn't broken.
But she was.
She was glass.
Shattered, rearranged, glued back with lies she told herself just to keep walking.
Jimin was never supposed to matter.
And yet... she missed his voice already.
*
*
*
The sheets were still warm, the air heavy with silence and spent breath. Jimin sat up, chest bare, running a hand through his hair while searching for his shirt. But then he saw it—just below his collarbone, a trail of bruises blooming across his skin.
He blinked.
Hickeys.
It had been a while. She stopped doing that. Ever since she disappeared for three days, ever since she started vanishing right after—never leaving a mark. Like she didn't want to leave a trace.
He didn't say anything. Just touched one absently, still not facing her.
He was about to stand when her voice, small but sure, broke the stillness.
"I finished work late that night."
Jimin paused.
"The one you asked me to dinner."
He turned slowly, expression unreadable. She was still lying on her side, only the soft white of the sheet covering her chest, hair a little messy, eyes focused on the ceiling.
"I did go," she added, "but you'd already finished. I saw you walking out. I... didn't call out. I was caught off-guard."
She exhaled sharply.
"Then this friend—I hadn't seen him in a while—he pulled me in. Wanted to catch up. Dinner. Life talk. I didn't mean to disappear again."
Jimin sat back down. Still listening. His expression open but quiet.
"And I didn't message because..." she hesitated, "I didn't think I had to."
He nodded. Slowly. Then shrugged.
"It's okay," he said. "You made it clear what this is. From the start."
His voice was calm, gentle even. But not cold. Not bitter.
That's what stung.
Celine looked down, lips parted like she had more to say. Like she was searching for something that wouldn't sound like an excuse.
"I don't know why," she finally said. "But it felt wrong. Not showing up. Not telling you. It felt... off."
Silence again. Then:
"If you're free tomorrow," she said, eyes flicking up to meet his, "I'd like to ask you to dinner. Properly. No games. Just... dinner."
Jimin raised an eyebrow, lips twitching.
"Damn time," he said, voice laced with sarcasm. "You must've finally fallen for the tattooed charm, huh?"
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth tugged upward.
"Don't push it, Romeo."
"No promises," he grinned, standing now to finally pull on his sweatpants. "You give me one dinner date and I'll be planning our matching couple outfits."
"I'll ghost you again."
"You won't," he said, turning just before leaving the room, gaze holding hers for a second too long. "You're too curious about what happens if you stay."
She didn't deny it.
And for once, she didn't leave right after.
***
Celine was a natural.
There was no nervous fidgeting, no awkward silences, no over-polite smiles. She sat like she owned the table. Like she'd done this a hundred times—with a hundred different men. And maybe she had.
But tonight, Jimin couldn't take his eyes off her.
He didn't bother with the usual act. No pulling her chair out, no pretending to be someone she didn't need. She didn't want a gentleman. She wanted someone who could meet her blow for blow—and Jimin was more than willing.
She ordered what she liked without asking. And when the bill came, she casually reached for her card. He tried to stop her. She gave him a look like she'd slap him with it.
"This is not your rom-com moment, Park."
"I was being nice."
"Be sexy instead."
His eyebrow quirked. "You're confusing those two again."
"You're the one who moans when I kiss your jaw," she said, sipping her wine.
Jimin laughed, shaking his head. "I don't moan."
"You do. A little whimper. Very hot."
Their dinner was less of a conversation and more of a battleground of flirtation—low-voiced innuendos and half-smiles across candlelight. Inside jokes about the night they met. Teases about hickeys in dangerous places. Every eye in the restaurant could feel the heat at their table.
And then—just as the waiter cleared their plates—Jimin stood up without a word and started walking out.
Celine blinked.
"Where are you—?"
But he didn't stop. Just waved a hand for her to follow.
Curious and mildly annoyed, she followed him down the street, heels clicking against the cobblestone.
He didn't say a word until he ducked into a late-night café, the kind with soft yellow lights and indie music playing low. He ordered a black coffee. Sat down like it was the most normal thing in the world.
She finally caught up and stood over him, arms crossed.
"Why are we here?"
He sipped his coffee. "I wanted some."
"You could've said that."
"And you would've bolted."
She didn't answer. Just stared. Then finally sighed and ordered one for herself.
"You're manipulative."
"You like that about me."
"Not denying it."
They sat across from each other in the soft glow of the café, cups in hand. She looked like a Vogue cover in motion—flawless, sharp, untouchable. He looked like sin in sweatpants and tattoos.
Jimin leaned in a little.
"This doesn't feel like just coffee."
She smirked.
"Good. Because I'm not just anyone."
"Yeah," he murmured, almost to himself, "you're trouble."
She took a slow sip, watching him over the rim.
"You knew that and came anyway."