Their coffees had gone cold.
But neither moved.
Jimin leaned back in his chair, arms loose, legs spread in that effortless posture that screamed confidence. His fingers tapped on his cup, eyes lazily tracing hers.
"You keep looking at my mouth," she said flatly.
"I've kissed it before," he said, voice low. "Not a crime to miss it."
Her smirk twitched, but didn't quite settle. She wasn't smiling anymore. Not like earlier. Something had shifted. Maybe it was the way the dim café lights reflected off the windows. Maybe it was the silence that grew thick, stretched taut between them like a string someone might pluck and snap.
"Let's get some air," she said suddenly.
They slipped out onto the quiet sidewalk. The air was crisp. It bit at her bare arms. Jimin didn't speak, didn't ask where they were going. He followed.
But when she turned into the narrow alley between buildings, he stopped.
"You hiding me?" he teased.
"Maybe I am," she tossed over her shoulder.
And when he caught up, she was already backing into the wall. His body met hers with a controlled force, like he was holding back just enough to not wreck her. Their mouths met before either could think twice. Tongues, teeth, breath. His hands held her like he didn't want to let go. Like he wouldn't.
She bit his lip just enough to bruise.
"Still not moaning," he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.
"Give me ten minutes."
"Make it five."
They stumbled out of the alley like sinners pretending to be saints. No one was watching. The city had gone still, quiet like it was holding its breath.
—
Later, back at the hotel suite, it was a blur of stripped clothes and bruised mouths. Taehyung and Jungkook had the sense to leave the second they saw Jimin walk in with her.
"Don't need to hear him sing his greatest hits," Taehyung muttered as they left.
"They're on repeat anyway," Jungkook grinned, ducking out before Jimin could flip them off.
And as predicted, the walls heard more than they ever should have.
—
But it was after.
After he had fallen asleep on the couch half-naked, shirt discarded, hair messy.
That Celine sat at the edge of the bed.
Alone with her thoughts.
And the weight of the night pressed into her chest.
Because in the silence, all she could hear was memory.
Her mother, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, covering up bruises with makeup.
The screams behind closed doors. The sound of things breaking.
Celine learned young that love was a trap. A pretty cage with velvet-lined bars.
The first crack was watching her mother shrink for a man who promised forever.
The second was the boy she trusted, who said she was safe, and left her empty. Used. Less than skin.
The third? The modeling world that taught her she was desirable, but not lovable. That men would worship her body, not her soul. That "forever" meant "just tonight."
Jimin was... different. Too soft. Too real.
She wanted him.
But she couldn't afford to.
Not when soft things turned sharp.
Not when bruises didn't always show on skin.
Still, she watched him breathe in sleep.
And hated how much she liked the way his lips looked swollen from her kisses.
***
The last morning of Paris Fashion Week painted soft gold across the hotel windows.
Jimin blinked awake to the weight of her. Still there. Her body curled against his like it belonged, like the night hadn't ended.
It felt... different.
Not just sex. Not the usual vanish-before-dawn routine.
She stayed.
He didn't move at first—just watched the light catch in her lashes, the quiet rise and fall of her chest. His arm was around her waist, and her fingers rested lazily on his ribs.
But as he shifted to get up, she bolted upright.
"Shit—my phone," she muttered, scrambling for it on the nightstand.
A second later she was on her feet, throwing on whatever clothes she could grab.
"I'm gonna be late. I—fuck, today's the finale show."
Jimin just sat there, shirtless, groggy and a little dazed as she leaned over and—without thinking—kissed him goodbye.
Soft. Quick. Natural.
Then she was gone.
She didn't even realize what she'd done until she was in the cab, staring at her reflection in the window. Her fingers brushed her lips.
"Goddamn it," she groaned.
An hour later, the Trinity took their thrones again—front row, tailored, stoic. Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook, lined up like a fashion house's secret weapon.
Celine walked the runway last.
The closer.
Dressed in a sculpted, smoky black gown with a blood-red underlining that flashed with every step like a threat. She didn't just walk—she owned the stage, each step a claim, every gaze bent in submission.
When the show ended and applause erupted, she dipped her chin in acknowledgment and disappeared backstage like a ghost slipping into velvet.
Backstage, energy buzzed. Champagne corks, laughter, photographers flashing.
Until the remark slipped.
"That spot was mine. Closer was mine."
A model's voice. Not loud. But pointed.
"Someone must've used her body again."
Celine froze.
She turned slowly.
"I'm sorry. What was that?" she asked, eyes glinting.
The model didn't flinch. Didn't need to.
"You heard me. Everyone knows what you are. You fuck your way to the end of the runway."
Behind them, Jimin stiffened—but before he could charge forward, Taehyung's hand grabbed his wrist.
"Don't," he said. "Don't you still know how your girl fights?"
Jimin stopped.
Celine smiled.
That smile. Sharp, dangerous, slow. Like a lioness about to pounce.
"You wanna talk about fucking your way to relevance?" Her voice dripped venom. "Remind me again who flew to Mykonos last summer with the casting director's husband?"
The room hushed.
"Or should we talk about that little closet party in Milan?"
Gasps now.
The model paled.
Celine's smile widened.
"Call me a whore one more time. But make sure you're not projecting, sweetheart."
She turned, snatched her purse from her makeup chair, and saw him.
Jimin.
She didn't say a word—just grabbed his hand and walked. Like nothing happened. Like the fire behind them was just another backdrop.
Taehyung and Jungkook followed, their smug grins barely concealed.
"Remind me never to piss her off," Jungkook whispered.
"She'll ruin your bloodline," Taehyung added.
***
The club pulsed like a heartbeat—neon strobe, bodies grinding, bass vibrating through the bones.
Celine drank.
Like she was made of fire and liquor was the only way to stay burning.
Jimin sat across their private booth, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest, but his eyes never left her. Not when she laughed too loud. Not when she ordered another shot. Not when she tilted her head back and closed her eyes like the world behind her lids was easier than this one.
Taehyung and Jungkook were on the floor. Dancing. Grinding. Women wrapped around them like ivy. The other two members of the Trinity had no idea what just detonated.
Jimin knew.
He saw it.
The moment her lips slipped, slurred in pain disguised as confidence.
"You know what hurts?" she said, her voice thick. "It's not even the word. It's that it still hurts. That I still fucking care when people say it."
Her lipstick was smudged. Her eyes glassy. But her tone? Sharp. Controlled. Celine could be drunk and still command a room.
Jimin leaned forward, silent.
"I survived worse," she went on, tipping the edge of her glass. "Being called a whore? That's... laughable."
She chuckled. Dark. Bitter.
"You know what's worse?" she asked, looking at him now. Eyes raw. Open. "Screaming for help in a van, and no one hearing. Worse is being told you're beautiful only to be told 'you owe me' right after. Worse is seeing your mother cover her bruises every morning and call it marriage."
Jimin didn't breathe.
"So no. I'm not weak. I'm not some shattered little girl begging for love," she whispered, venom in her voice. "I'm not my mother."
She downed the last of her drink.
"I am Celine fucking Rhee, and if I want to sleep with someone, I will. If I want to walk down a runway and claw my way to the top, I will. But don't ever mistake me for someone you can label."
Her voice cracked—not loud. Just a twitch. A tremor. Enough.
Jimin's chest ached.
He didn't say sorry. He didn't reach out to comfort her like she was fragile.
Because she wasn't.
Instead, he watched.
And she noticed.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" she slurred.
"Because," he said, eyes low and steady, "if I did, I think you'd slap the fuck out of me."
She blinked.
Then smirked, slow and dangerous, leaning back against the plush booth like she'd just fought God and won.
"Smart man."