Chapter Text
It wasn’t supposed to get out.
You hadn’t said anything.
Minlee hadn’t either.
But Hoseok knew.
You saw it in his eyes the moment he stepped into the rehearsal hall the next morning—ten minutes early, silent as a knife, dressed in black-on-black and ready to kill.
He didn’t warm up.
Didn’t speak to the dancers.
Didn’t even glance at the choreo notes.
He was watching only you.
You tried to keep your expression neutral.
But you already knew.
Someone told him.
Maybe Minlee slipped up. Maybe the wrong person saw you leave his room in the morning.
Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.
Because Hoseok was looking at you like he wanted to rip the memory of Minlee out of your skin with his bare hands.
________________________________________
He waited until the break.
Waited until the other dancers had filed out for water and breath and normalcy.
You stayed behind to stretch—too slow to slip away.
The moment the door clicked closed, he was on you.
His voice wasn’t loud.
But it was lethal.
“Did you fuck him?”
You froze.
Didn’t answer.
“Don’t lie to me. Did you let him touch what’s mine?”
You swallowed hard, lifting your chin.
“I’m not yours, Hoseok.”
Something snapped in his eyes.
He stepped forward.
Faster than you could step back.
“The fuck you aren’t.”
His hands hit the wall behind you, boxing you in, not touching—but his body said he wanted to.
His breath was ragged, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t just lust—it was rage, grief, need.
“You think he can dance with you like I do?”
“Think he can fuck you against a mirror without you sobbing my name?”
You flinched.
Because it was true.
Because no one made you fall apart like he did.
No one made you feel like you were being worshipped and ruined all at once.
But you still whispered—
“He didn’t make me cry.”
That did it.
Hoseok slammed his hand into the wall beside your head. Not near you—he’d never hurt you.
But the sound was final. Violent.
He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours.
“He doesn’t know your body like I do.
Doesn’t know what sound you make when you’re about to come.
Doesn’t know that when you say ‘don’t stop,’ you mean ruin me.’”
You gasped.
Because he remembered.
Because he cared.
But only in the darkest, ugliest ways.
You stared back at him, furious and trembling and breathless.
“Then why did you leave me behind that door?”
“Why do you only want me when someone else does too?”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at you like he hated himself.
And then—
He stepped back.
Fist still trembling.
Voice breaking.
“Because wanting you like this…
means I’m losing.
And I don’t lose.”
Then he walked out.
And this time—
You didn’t cry.
You just let the silence burn.
________________________________________
________________________________________
Minlee
He waits for you outside the rehearsal studio.
Leans against the wall like he’s trying not to look concerned, but he fails.
You exit last.
Hair damp, neck flushed, pulse still thudding from the blow-up with Hoseok.
Minjun falls in step beside you.
He doesn’t touch you.
Just asks—
“What happened in there?”
You shake your head. Keep walking.
He sighs.
“It’s not my business, I know. But I saw him. The way he looked at you—like he was ready to break things.”
You stop.
Not because you have anything to say. But because you’re tired of pretending this doesn’t matter.
“He already broke me. He just hasn’t noticed.”
Minjun steps in front of you.
Eyes kind. Gentle.
“You don’t owe him anything, you know. Not your talent. Not your silence. Not your body.”
You nod, but it doesn’t land. Not really.
Because you’re not sure what you owe Hoseok anymore.
Only that it still feels like everything.
________________________________________
Hoseok
He doesn’t show up the next day.
Or the day after that.
No calls. No messages. No updates to the choreo sheets.
No notes sent through staff. No assistant relaying orders.
Just nothing.
Like you never existed.
Like he didn’t hold you against a studio wall and whisper filth you’ll never forget.
Like he didn’t almost kiss you that night you cried behind the dressing room door.
Like he didn’t look at you like you killed him when you said Minlee’s name.
Now?
He won’t even make eye contact.
When he finally returns on day three, he walks into rehearsal late, doesn’t greet the team, doesn’t ask how anyone is.
He gives dry corrections. Cold nods. Dead silence.
Not once does he speak to you directly.
It’s like you’re a shadow in the room.
Nothing more.
And it hurts more than the rage.
Because at least the rage meant he still cared.
Now?
Now it’s just distance.
Worse than punishment.
________________________________________
________________________________________
The offer came casually.
Or so it seemed.
After rehearsal, after another full day of Hoseok ignoring your presence like it hurt him to see you alive, Minlee walked beside you down the hallway—water bottle in one hand, towel over his shoulder, sweat still clinging to his collarbones.
“You free after this?”
You raised a brow.
“Why?”
“I booked an empty studio. Thought you might want to… move. Just us.”
You hesitated.
Because you knew what “just us” meant.
Not sex. Not necessarily.
But intimacy.
Connection.
Being seen.
Something you hadn’t felt in weeks, not unless it ended in bruises or silence.
So you nodded.
________________________________________
The private studio was already dimmed.
Minlee didn’t blast music. He cued something slow. Low bass, rich tones, no lyrics.
You stood in front of the mirror.
Not dancing yet.
Just watching each other through the glass.
He stepped behind you slowly.
Not grabbing. Not ordering.
Just his presence at your back.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He didn’t ask for more.
Just touched your hips—carefully.
Guided you into rhythm.
Let your bodies sync.
The tension was there.
But it was warm. Patient. Kind.
His lips brushed your shoulder only once.
His hands never roamed.
And when he whispered:
“I don’t want to hurt you. I just want you to remember what it’s like to be wanted without burning.”
You almost broke.
Because no one had said that before.
Not once.
________________________________________
Minlee didn’t try to kiss you.
He wouldn’t.
That’s part of what made him so dangerous.
He waited. Held your gaze like it was sacred.
Moved his hands to your shoulders like you might flinch.
You didn’t flinch.
You stepped in.
And kissed him.
Just once.
Soft. Deliberate.
It wasn’t about sex.
It wasn’t about erasing Hoseok.
It was just…
Silence.
Without pain.
Touch.
Without punishment.
Minlee didn’t push.
He just kissed you back—equally soft, equally slow.
Let his lips linger like he knew the world had been too cruel to you lately.
Your fingers slid up his chest, anchoring gently.
And when you pulled back—
Your eyes stung.
Because for the first time in weeks, it felt like someone was holding your heart with open palms instead of a fist.
Minlee leaned his forehead to yours. Whispered:
“You don’t have to pick a war. You deserve peace.”
You didn’t answer.
But you didn’t know…
Hoseok saw everything.
He wasn’t looking for you.
He wasn’t supposed to be on that floor.
But he passed the hallway glass at just the wrong moment—
And there you were.
Minlee’s hands on your hips.
Your eyes closed.
Your back leaning into him like you belonged there.
How you kissed him
Something black and choking twisted in Hoseok’s lungs.
It wasn’t rage.
It was grief.
Because he never touched you like that.
Never made space for you to breathe.
Never gave you peace.
Only lust.
Only control.
Only ruin.
And now—someone else was doing what he couldn’t.
You didn’t hear the way his breath hitched behind the door.
Didn’t feel the way he clenched his fists until they shook.
Didn’t see him walk away—eyes glassy, jaw locked, chest hollowing out from the inside.
He won’t say anything.
Not yet.
But something in him just snapped.
Next morning
He came to rehearsal on time.
He greeted everyone but you.
He handed out notes—without looking at you.
He called formations, reset tempos, criticized spacing, and praised Minlee.
Minlee.
The same man whose lips were just on yours the night before.
It wasn’t subtle.
None of it was.
But the worst part?
He didn’t even flinch.
Not once.
________________________________________
You tried to catch his eye.
Nothing.
Tried to speak when he walked past your stretch mat.
“Hoseok—”
“Fix your posture. You’re dragging tempo.”
Cold.
Clinical.
Like a coach addressing a stranger.
You laughed—quiet, shocked.
He looked at you then.
Just once.
Expression blank.
“What’s funny?”
You stared at him. “Nothing.”
He walked off.
Didn’t even shrug.
________________________________________
But it got worse.
He began rerouting the choreography.
Bit by bit, removing you from his body.
Partner work? Now assigned to Minlee.
Mirror sequence? Replaced with a group breakdown.
The intimate floorwork? Scrapped entirely.
You were still on stage.
Still in the mix.
But nowhere near him.
Like your skin was a threat.
Like your breath might poison his lungs.
Like what you shared never happened.
And still—he refused to look at you.
At night, you stood outside the practice room long after everyone had left.
Your reflection in the hallway glass was faded. Your hair was pulled tight like it could hold you together.
You waited.
One minute.
Three.
Ten.
He never came out.
Because Hoseok wasn’t avoiding you.
He was erasing you.
And that—
That’s what finally broke you.
You sat down right there on the floor. No tears. No screaming.
Just cold air and empty noise, and the hollow echo of a voice you once begged for now cutting through your memory like a knife.
“You’re good for hype.
Not for headlines.”
And maybe…
Maybe you believed him now.
He was alone in the practice studio.
You knew because the door was slightly open—something he never allowed when training.
Music played low.
Some old mix. Something he hadn’t danced to in weeks.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him move like he was trying to outrun his own body. No precision. Just sweat and aggression.
He didn’t see you.
Or maybe he did. But he didn’t stop.
Not until you said his name.
“Hoseok.”
He froze.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
You stepped in.
Let the door swing shut behind you.
He still wouldn’t face you.
“Say what you came to say.”
His voice was gravel. Controlled.
You swallowed your pride and let the truth fall out.
“I kissed him. You saw.
But I didn’t come here to explain that.”
He turned.
Eyes shadowed. Lips flat. Arms crossed.
“Then why are you here?”
“To ask if I ever meant anything.”
“Don’t do this.”
You stepped closer.
“Because I can survive you ignoring me. I can survive being pulled off your body and shoved to the back of every routine. I can even survive watching you pretend I’m just another dancer in the room.”
Your voice cracked.
“But I can’t survive not knowing whether the way you touched me…
the way you fucked me like I was the only thing keeping you sane—
was ever real.”
Silence.
And then—
He laughed.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Just tired.
“It was real,” he said.
“And that’s exactly why I had to end it.”
You stared at him. “Why?”
“Because you made me forget I was untouchable.”
You blinked.
“And I made you think you were safe.”
He stepped forward. Close enough that you could smell the sweat and regret bleeding from his skin.
“But I’m not the kind of man who gives love, baby. I give addiction. I give chaos. I give obsession until you can’t breathe without it.”
He leaned in, just enough for the whisper to scrape your bones.
“So don’t beg me for softness.
You’ll choke on it.”
You stared at him.
And for the first time—you didn’t cry.
You nodded.
Just once.
And walked out.
This time?
He didn’t follow.
The invite came through Minlee.
Some afterparty thrown by a producer in the dance scene.
Private. Dark. Rumoured.
A place where reputations could burn quietly.
You didn’t plan on going.
But after Hoseok’s words—his venom disguised as truth—you didn’t want to stay locked in your room either.
So you showed up.
Dark dress. Sharp heels. No smile.
Minlee was already inside. He lit up when he saw you—walked over like maybe this time, things might shift for real.
But you didn’t see him.
Because Hoseok was already there.
Leaning against the bar.
Wearing all black.
Hair slicked back.
Eyes already on you like he’d known the second you walked in.
And beside him—
A girl.
Not from your world.
Not a dancer. Not a threat.
Just pretty.
Young.
Soft.
Willing.
She smiled at something he said, tossed her hair like she didn’t realize she was part of a war she hadn’t enlisted in.
You froze.
And he knew.
His hand slid slowly down her back.
He didn’t look at her.
He looked at you.
She turned her face toward him. Said something you couldn’t hear.
He laughed, low and dark.
Then leaned down—
and kissed her.
Not filthy.
Not gentle.
Just enough to make sure you saw his lips pressed somewhere else.
Your fingers curled into fists.
You didn’t move.
Minlee said your name.
“You okay?”
You didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
Because Hoseok’s hand had found her waist.
And his mouth was brushing her ear now.
And the music was too loud for you to scream.
Too thick for you to run.
So you stayed.
Burning alive.
And Hoseok—
He never broke eye contact.
Not once.
Hoseok’s hand slid down the girl’s waist again.
His eyes never left yours.
He knew what he was doing.
But this time—
so did you.
Your fingers brushed Minlee’s.
He looked at you like he felt the earthquake in your bones.
Didn’t say a word. Just waited.
You stepped in close.
Pressed your hand against his chest.
Tilted your chin up.
And kissed him.
Hard.
Public.
Deliberate.
Not soft like before.
Not sweet.
This was performance.
This was possession.
This was war.
Minlee didn’t hesitate.
He gripped your hips, anchored you with quiet reverence, kissed you back like he knew you were breaking—but he’d hold the pieces.
The room didn’t exist anymore.
Only you.
Only the feel of someone else's mouth on yours.
Only the taste of rebellion and desperation and every tear you didn’t cry over Hoseok.
And when you pulled back—
Your eyes found Hoseok again.
He was gone.
The girl beside him? Alone now.
His drink? Abandoned.
The heat in your chest spiked like a detonated fuse.
You didn’t win.
This wasn’t victory.
This was survival.
And still—
Somewhere deep in your gut, you knew:
He saw.
And next time?
He’ll come back with fire.
Her POV
You find him behind the building, past the flickering neon and the drunk laughter of strangers who don’t know what it’s like to be ruined by someone and still want to touch them.
He’s not pacing.
Not hiding.
Just leaning against the wall, hood low, cigarette lit and untouched.
Waiting.
“You’re not subtle, you know.”
You walk closer. He doesn’t move.
“Neither are you.”
He lets the silence throb between you.
Then—finally—he speaks.
“Did you kiss him because you wanted him?”
You don’t answer.
He looks up. Eyes sharp, voice colder than asphalt.
“Or did you kiss him to hurt me?”
You flinch.
That’s the answer.
He pushes off the wall. Slow. Measured. Like he’s afraid he might break something if he moves too fast.
“You think I walked away because I don’t want you?”
Your breath catches.
He steps into your space. You can smell him—smoke and sweat and something unholy that always clings to him after he dances.
“I walked away because every time I look at you, I want to fucking destroy you. And I knew if I stayed, I would.”
Your hand moves before your brain.
A slap would’ve been poetic. But your fingers curl into his jacket instead.
“Then destroy me.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss is violent.
His mouth crushes yours like punishment, like vengeance, like an apology he’ll never say out loud. You kiss him back because you can’t remember how to breathe without the taste of him.
Your back hits the wall.
His thigh slides between yours.
Hands on your hips, mouth on your neck, teeth grazing skin that hasn’t healed since the last time he touched you.
“You kissed him,” he growls, lips dragging down your throat.
You gasp.
“You kissed her.”
His grip tightens.
“Not like this.”
He drags your leg up, presses hard against your core.
“Did he make you this wet?”
You moan before you can lie.
And then he’s unzipping, tugging fabric, fingers rough with need and months of rage buried under choreography and denial.
“Say it,” he snarls. “Say you still want me.”
“I never stopped.”
That’s all it takes.
He shoves into you like a curse, hand over your mouth so your cry doesn’t echo down the alley.
“Mine,” he whispers. “Fucking mine.”
And you let him have you.
Because there’s nothing left to protect.
________________________________________
He drives into you with a rage that feels ancient—like it’s been sitting in his bones long before you kissed someone else.
Before you walked into that studio.
Before either of you existed as anything more than broken, beautiful bodies destined to crash.
The wall is cold against your back. His mouth is fire on your throat.
He’s fucking you like a sin he wants to remember.
Your leg stays wrapped around his hip, his hand locked behind your thigh to hold you there—open, helpless, claimed.
“Is this how he touched you?”
His voice is a razor.
“Did he make you moan like this?”
You shake your head, gasping into his shoulder.
His hand flies to your chin—tilts your face up until your lips brush his.
“Say it.”
“No—” you whimper. “No one touches me like you do.”
“Damn right.”
His other hand slips between your bodies, thumb dragging over your clit in tight, brutal circles.
“Look at me.”
You try. You fail.
He thrusts harder.
“Fucking look at me.”
You open your eyes—barely.
His stare is lethal. Devouring. Like if you blink, he might disappear forever.
Your mouth parts. You try to speak.
All that comes out is his name.
“Hoseok…”
He snarls—actually snarls.
“That’s right. Say it while I wreck you.”
The angle shifts.
The air leaves your lungs.
Your back arches against the wall, one arm gripping his neck, the other clawing for something that doesn’t exist anymore—maybe the last piece of your dignity.
But it’s gone.
You let it go the moment you kissed Minlee to make him feel what you felt.
Worthless.
Now?
Now you’re just his again.
For this moment.
For this ruin.
And it’s too much.
You come on his cock with a strangled cry, biting down on his shoulder, tears springing to your eyes as your body pulses against him like it’s apologizing.
He’s not far behind.
His breath hitches.
He buries himself deep.
Then he stills.
Head bowed. Chest heaving.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
The music from inside pulses like a heartbeat neither of you own anymore.
And finally—
he exhales.
“I hate you,” he whispers into your hair.
“I hate how much I fucking want you.”
You believe him.
Because you hate him too.
But if he asked again,
you’d still let him ruin you.
Her POV
The water runs too hot.
But you don’t turn it down.
You just stand there—palms braced on the edge of the sink, knees weak, thighs sticky, mascara running.
You can still feel his fingers bruising your waist.
Still feel the shape of his name in your mouth like it got carved into the inside of your throat.
You look up at your reflection.
You’re wrecked.
Lip swollen.
Hair ruined.
Eyes—dead.
But somehow still glowing from what he gave you.
Or maybe what he took.
You touch your neck. His teeth had been there.
You don’t know whether to cry or come again from the memory.
You told yourself it was over.
You let him walk.
You kissed someone else.
You should’ve moved on.
But now you know—
You don’t move on from him.
You orbit.
Until he pulls you back in.
Until you burn.
You turn off the tap.
But you don’t move.
Because there’s nothing to do after that kind of fall except break again.
And he still hasn’t texted.
________________________________________
His POV
He doesn’t go home.
Just walks.
Hood up. Hands in pockets. Jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache.
He can still taste you.
Can still smell your perfume on his jacket.
Can still hear the sound you made when you came.
And it makes him furious.
Because he meant to punish you.
He meant to make you feel what he did when he saw you kiss that boy like Hoseok hadn’t already rewritten your entire fucking body.
But now?
He’s the one unraveling.
You let him fuck you in an alley,
his mind spits.
You begged for it.
You kissed someone else, but you still said my name.
He stops walking.
Leans against a wall.
Runs both hands through his hair.
And finally whispers what he refused to admit before:
“I don’t know how to stop.”
Not wanting you.
Not touching you.
Not destroying everything the second you walk into a room.
He should let you go.
But his body still thinks you’re his.
And deep down?
So does his heart.