DAY TWO — 7:44 P.M.
Another show. Another designer. Another city dressed to impress.
This time, Taehyung walked the runway—bold, experimental, and unapologetically Taehyung. He'd texted Jimin ten minutes before the show:
"She's here. In this one. Again. Just a heads up."
Jimin said nothing. But he didn't blink much after that.
He sat front row, next to Jungkook again, who looked like a mafia heir in all black. Beside him, Jimin kept still. His fingers tapping his knee in a rhythmic pattern, heart thudding like a war drum no one else could hear.
And there she was.
Again.
Celine.
This time in a structured black silhouette. Makeup sharp, no softness this time. She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't have to. But her walk was different now—stronger. Like she was daring someone to feel something.
She didn't see him. Or maybe she did. Maybe she always did and just chose not to show it.
AFTER THE SHOW — BACKSTAGE
Celine sat in front of the mirror. Her stylist unpinning her hair. The scent of hairspray and leather and fabric steam filled the air.
Then a quiet knock on her table.
A bouquet.
No note. No name. No message.
Just muted, clean, white orchids and pale lilacs. Not romantic. Not loud. But intimate. Thoughtful.
Her fingers hovered over the petals.
No one had ever done that before. Not like this. Not anonymously. Not softly.
But somehow, she knew.
She remembered the way he sat—an arm resting against his chin, dressed in tailored darkness, brooding like he was born for it.
A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.
Clever.
Jimin's Suite — 11:58 PM
He didn't expect the knock.
Not tonight. Not after the way she moved down that runway like he was air. Like he hadn't held her breathless just nights before.
But there she stood. No make up. We hair. The same offhand confidence like the world had never touched her.
In his doorway. No words. Just the bouquet in her hand—those pale lilacs now slightly bruised from how tightly she gripped them.
She looked at him. He looked back. Neither said anything, but the heat crawled between them like static.
Then she laughed.
Soft. Ironic. Maybe even a little cruel.
She stepped inside without being asked, held the bouquet to his chest, and said flatly, "I'm not that kind of girl."
He caught the flowers before they hit the floor. "Yeah?" he asked.
"Don't send me pretty things unless you want them returned."
The bouquet fell somewhere behind them—forgotten as her lips found his.
And just like that, the air snapped.
It wasn't romantic.
It never had been.
They didn't speak much. They never did.
The chemistry was combustible—like they each knew the other's fault lines and aimed for them on purpose.
Their bodies collided like chaos made sense between four walls. She tugged at his shirt like it offended her. He pushed her against the hallway wall, then the bed, then turned her over like a man losing patience.
Jimin was used to being soft—gentle, angelic, poetic.
But with her?
She didn't want careful. She didn't want worship. She wanted war.
And he gave it.
He liked it when she took the lead. She liked it more when he lost control. It was a game with no rules, no safety net, and they played it like professionals. No sweetness. Just heat. And ache. And aftermath.
Hands in her hair. Lips on her spine. A bite to her shoulder that left her gasping. She tasted blood when he kissed her again, and her grin turned wild. She liked it. Liked when his restraint snapped. When he stopped treating her like she might break.
She wasn't a glass to be held.
She was fire to be survived.
No words after. Just breathing. And silence.
She left before sunrise, same as before. No note. No name. No goodbye.
The flowers stayed on his nightstand.
Already wilting.
The city lights cast long shadows across tangled sheets. Clothes strewn. Nails raked. Marks mapped on skin like they needed to remember the ruin.
Same routine.
Same silence.
Only this time, Jimin sat at the edge of the bed longer than usual.
And wondering when desire started tasting like regret.
***
It had only been two days since Paris saw her on the runway and him in the front row, a camera's favorite secret. Two days since silence bloomed between them after the last hotel door click.
He didn't expect to see her tonight.
Not here.
Not alone.
But then again, neither did she.
Celine spotted him first—seated at the bar, nursing a drink, shirt sleeves rolled up, no friends in sight. That in itself was rare. Jimin was never alone. Not at events. Not in public. Not in clubs like this.
She slid onto the barstool beside him, curiosity already dancing in her grin.
"No Trinity tonight?"
He looked over, slow and deliberate. A flicker of something familiar passed in his eyes before his lips curved lazily, like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Needed a break. Taehyung's sleeping off his afterparty. Jungkook got dragged into some shoot." He paused just long enough for effect, then leaned in slightly. "But maybe... I came here hoping to see you."
Celine raised a brow, but her smile didn't waver. "Looks like you did."
"Lucky me," he murmured, eyes dipping to her lips for a heartbeat before lifting again, as if catching himself on purpose. "You always show up when I need a little danger."
She let out a soft laugh, clinking her shot glass against his. "Is that what I am? Danger?"
Jimin's smirk deepened. "You're a walking red flag in designer heels. But damn, do I love red."
"Oh, so you like your warnings visible?"
"Only if they look like you."
Her gaze narrowed, playful. "You always this smooth, or am I just special?"
"I don't waste lines on anyone else." He took a sip, then tilted his head. "Besides... you flirt like you know exactly when to push."
"And you talk like you know exactly when to pull."
It was like watching a game unfold between them—measured moves, timed glances, quiet smirks that said more than words. She'd lean in just enough to tease, and he'd meet her there but never too far, never all at once. Like dancers circling a flame neither one was willing to douse.
She leaned her elbow on the bar, chin in her hand, watching him with a grin that was all challenge. "So, what now? You gonna ask me to dance?"
Jimin leaned closer, his voice dropping like velvet. "I could. But I think we both know we're not here to dance."
Her smile curled slow. "Danger, huh?"
He lifted his glass again. "My favorite kind."
It wasn't long before they slipped past the velvet rope into the club's VIP lounge—darker, quieter, but pulsing with a different kind of energy. The door clicked shut behind them, and the silence stretched, thick with expectation.
Jimin leaned against the leather couch, legs spread a little, watching her from under his lashes, lips parted just slightly, like he was daring her to come closer.
"You always run when it gets real," he murmured.
Celine stepped into his space like she belonged there. "And you always wait like you know I'll come back."
"Because you always do."
She smiled, slow and razor-sharp. "Don't mistake curiosity for loyalty."
"Oh, baby," he said, voice low and dangerous now, "I never do."
There was a beat of stillness—then she plopped herself on his lap, spreading her legs in between his, and pulled him in, lips crashing onto his with the kind of hunger that didn't ask for permission. He kissed her back just as hard, hand gripping her waist, the other threading into her hair.
They didn't speak much after that as she started moving her hips.
Then, she slipped down from him, bending slowly, seductively, on her knees as if time the had slowed for him. She watched him crumble his will power as she kissed the skin above his belt. Slowly opening his belt, then the buttons of his jeans, pulling the tip of his zipper down delicately. She bent down and kissed his hard on through the fabric.
A hiss escapes his lips.
Celine smirks, then she kissed the tip first, she did everything slowly, teasingly, until he couldn't and weaved through her hair and guided her pretty mouth up and down earning him moans, cursing loudly. Until the tip kept hitting at the back of her throat.
She loved what she was seeing and sucking in her cheeks, she took him more in. Deeper. Rougher. She kept eye contact with him. Wanting to please him. His eyes dark filled with lust. It was the utmost hottest thing she'd ever seen of him. How hungry he was for her.
That was it for him before he pulled her and flipped her there, on the couch.
A loud smack vibrated the room and her moans after, the sting spreading through her ass cheek making her clench.
She liked that.
He follows right away. Again. And again. And again.
Then he slipped inside her in one swift move as she was already soaking wet. "Fucking wet now are you?"
And the way he moved against her—intentional, slow at first, then rougher, desperate like he needed to memorize the shape of her again—said more than words could. He grunts as he grasped her hips, he loved her curves, he loved tracing them, gripping them. His touch sent shocks to her stomach as she starts tightening and her walls clenching around him.
"For fucks sake, Celine." he cursed. She loved hearing him curse next to her name.
She smirked as she bit her bottom lip just enough to draw blood, and in a beat he abruptly turned her like a piece of paper, her body slamming at the couch knocking air out of her lungs. He entered her once again before she could even catch a breath, and she groaned in approval.
Her stomach churns and tightens again, her moans escaped through her mouth. His hand now on her throat. "Shit." a curse escaped her lips as she felt his hands tighten slowly while the other gripped her thighs, the kind that would leave a mark tomorrow.
"Fuck, I'm close." She muttered through her teeth.
Jimin looked down, her eyes closed, her lips parted and her bottom lip bleeding a little. The sight of her was immaculate.
"Please." she says again, he could feel her walls tightening.
"Beg for it."
A trail of pleases escaped her lips as she matched his rhythm, her moans on her throat and he felt her thigh clench, until she felt her core burst into flames. Her body completely shuddering beneath him. Her moans and whimpers bounced off the walls of the VIP room not caring if anyone was outside.
While Jimin felt like it was music to his ears as he kept on pounding her. Still fucking her guts out. Standing up to his reputation as having the thighs of greek gods as he keeps going through. Hard.
She liked when he lost control. But even more than that—she liked that she could take it back whenever she wanted.
He liked that she didn't break when he pushed harder.
He didn't treat her like glass. And she didn't pretend she wanted to be.
They fit, for now. Like fire and gasoline—burning everything in their path and pretending the flames wouldn't catch.
When it was over, she pulled him in for a kiss, gentle and exhausted, like he haven't fucker her brains out, she kissed him like she had nowhere to be, kissed his neck once like it meant nothing, and walked out of the VIP room with her heels clicking like punctuation marks.
Jimin stayed behind, a slight smirk tugging at his lips, pulse still racing.
She didn't say goodbye. She never did.
But damn if he didn't keep showing up hoping she would.