The city's night was thick, heavy, as if all the chaos of Seoul was pressing in, suffocating, even up here above it all. Yura lay curled against Joon-ho's shoulder, her cheek pressing into the smooth warmth of his skin, hair spilling down in tangled waves. The penthouse had finally quieted—no echo of Harin's giggles or Mirae's bratty whines, Min-kyung's shameless purring fading into memory. The aftershocks of pleasure had barely cooled before Yura had slunk back into his arms, a ghost of herself, silent in a way that unsettled even him.
She was soft, but not in the way she used to be. Not the sharp, relentless Yura that could cut through any boardroom or courtroom with her smile, her will. No, tonight she was frayed at the edges, every breath slower, like she was holding herself together with invisible threads. Her nightgown was so thin it was practically useless, one strap slipping down her shoulder, exposing a collarbone that looked too delicate, too breakable.
