Chapter 2

Karina stands in the quiet of the Seoul night, the distant hum of the city a faint backdrop to the storm of emotions swirling within her. Months ago, she had been Jimin again—not the polished idol, not the face of a million posters, but just Jimin—tangled in sheets and your arms, her heart pounding with a freedom she rarely feels. That night, she lets herself drown in you, in the way you look at her like she is everything, not just a fragment of a spotlight. But as dawn creeps closer, reality claws its way back in, cold and unrelenting.

She remembers slipping out of your embrace, your steady breathing contrasting the chaos in her mind. Her phone buzzes incessantly on the nightstand—schedules, rehearsals, a looming comeback. Her groupmates count on her, their dreams intertwined with hers, and the weight of that responsibility presses down like a vice. She stands by the bed, watching you sleep, your face soft and unguarded, and her chest aches with a longing she cannot indulge. He doesn’t deserve this, she thinks. Dragging you, a non-celebrity with a life untouched by the madness of her world, into the relentless scrutiny, the rumors, the suffocating expectations, would be cruel. She imagines a future where you resent her for it, where the spark between you dulls under the glare of her reality, and it breaks her.

So she leaves. A whispered thank you scribbled on a note is all she manages, a fragile apology for cutting herself out of your life. She wants to stay—God, how she wants to stay—curled against you, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist. But she turns away, slipping back into Karina, the idol, the untouchable star, and buries that night deep where it cannot hurt her. Or so she thinks.

Now, standing outside the stadium after the halftime performance, the past rushed back with a vengeance. She’d seen you on the sideline, your eyes wide with recognition, and her carefully constructed mask had cracked. The dance moves had felt mechanical after that, her mind spinning with the shock of your presence. You were here, in her world, and the distance she’d forced between you felt like a wound reopening.

The air between you and Jimin crackles with tension as you face each other, the stadium’s noise fading into a dull hum. She’s close enough that you can see the faint tremble in her hands, the way her eyes dart nervously before settling on yours. The months apart haven’t dulled the pull you feel toward her—it’s sharper now, edged with the pain of her absence. You want to step forward, to pull her into your arms and kiss her until the questions and the hurt melt away, but you hold yourself back, fists clenched at your sides. She left you once, and the fear of reaching out only to lose her again keeps you rooted.

Her lips part, then close, as if she’s searching for words she’s scared of saying. Her voice was soft but strained, carrying the weight of everything unsaid. Your throat tightens, and you force a nod, the memory of that empty bed and her note flashing through your mind.

“Yeah,” you manage, your tone clipped despite the storm raging inside you. “Guess the universe has a cruel sense of humor.” You want to ask why she left, why she didn’t fight for you, but the words stick, tangled in the ache of wanting her so badly it hurts. She can't seem to meet your eyes fully, darting back and forth, meeting your gaze and flickering back onto the ground, in an endless, restless cycle. In the corner of her eyes, you can see her grip on her arm tightening, her feet shuffling every so often: there's an impatience about her, something about your presence that seems to make her uneasy, and while it makes you feel bad in more ways than one, it also arouses within you an urge to hold her—and it only makes the urge to hold her stronger, your resolve fraying with every second she stands there, so close yet untouchable. 

The silence stretches, thick and awkward, as you and Jimin stand there, the weight of months apart pressing down on you both. You shift your weight, she fidgets with the hem of her hoodie, and then—

“Why did you—” you start, just as she says, “I didn’t mean—”

You both freeze, a nervous laugh escaping her lips while you rub the back of your neck. “You go first,” you say, gesturing toward her, your voice softer than you intend.

Jimin opens her mouth, her expression shifting to something vulnerable, but before a word can escape, a sharp voice cuts through the tension. “Karina, we need to go. The van’s waiting.” A man—broad-shouldered, clipboard in hand, with the unmistakable air of a manager—approaches, his tone brisk. Her face tightens, and she glances at him, then back at you, a flicker of frustration in her eyes.

“I—” she starts, then stops, turning fully to you. “Can I have your number? I want to talk. Really talk.” Her voice is low and urgent, and you nod quickly, fumbling for your phone. You exchange numbers in a rush, her fingers brushing yours as she hands it back, sending a jolt through you.

“Text me,” she says, her gaze lingering as the manager huffs impatiently. Then she’s gone, swept away by her world, leaving you standing there, heart racing.

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Later that night, you text her: When are you free? Her reply comes fast—Tomorrow, late. After midnight. Can we meet somewhere private? You suggest your hotel room, knowing the risk of being spotted together could spark chaos. She agrees, and the hours crawl by until the clock ticks past midnight.

A soft knock pulls you from your restless pacing. You open the door, and there she is—Jimin, or Karina, or whoever she is tonight—slipping inside, hood up, eyes wary but searching. You close the door behind her, and the room feels smaller, the air charged with everything unsaid.

“Hey,” she says, pulling down her hood, her hair spilling loose. She looks softer here, away from the stadium lights, but there’s a tension in her shoulders you can’t ignore.

“Hey,” you echo, leaning against the desk, arms crossed to keep your hands from reaching for her. “So… talk.”

She takes a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers twisting together. “I owe you an explanation. About that night. About… me.” She meets your gaze, and there’s a rawness there that makes your chest tighten. “I’m Karina from Aespa. That’s my real life—stages, schedules, cameras. That night, with you, I was just Jimin. For once, I got to be someone else.”

You blink, the pieces clicking into place—her disappearance, the secrecy, the note. “You’re an idol,” you say, more to yourself than to her, running a hand through your hair. “And I’m—well, I guess I should tell you too. I’m not just some random guy. I play for Manchester United. Midfielder. Just got back from injury.”

“Guess we were both hiding something,” you say, a wry smile tugging at your lips. But it fades as the real question looms. “Why’d you leave, Jimin? That night—it felt real. Then I woke up, and you were gone. Just a note. ‘Thank you.’ Like it was nothing.”

Her face falls, guilt shadowing her features. “It wasn’t nothing. It was everything. That’s why I left.” She looks down, voice trembling. “I wanted to stay so badly. You have no idea how much. But I had rehearsals at dawn, a comeback to prepare for. My groupmates—they depend on me. And you… you didn’t sign up for my mess. The fans, the cameras, the chaos. I thought dragging you into that would ruin you.”

You step closer, unable to stop yourself, though you still don’t touch her. “You didn’t even give me a choice. I woke up thinking I’d dreamed you up, Jimin. That note—it broke me.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I hated myself for it. I thought I was protecting you, but I was just scared. Scared of what I felt, scared of what it’d do to you. I didn’t want you to hate me later.”

“I could never hate you,” you say, your voice rough with the truth of it. “I’ve been looking for you ever since. Every day, wondering where you went, why you didn’t trust me enough to stay.”

She stands, closing the distance between you, her hands hovering near your chest before settling there, tentative. “I trust you now. I didn’t leave because I didn’t want you— I left because I cared, no, I care about you and was worried about pulling you into a life you never chose to live. I thought it was the right thing, but it wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

You look into her eyes, seeing the regret, the longing, and it cracks your restraint. “I wanted you too,” you admit, voice low. “Still do.” Your hands twitch, aching to hold her, but you wait, letting her words settle, the misunderstanding unraveling like a knot finally loosened.

The air in the room thickens with the weight of your confessions, the space between you and Karina—Jimin—shrinking as her hands rest lightly on your chest. Her touch is hesitant, but it burns through you, reigniting every buried feeling from that night. Her apology lingers in your ears, her eyes searching yours for forgiveness, for understanding, and you can’t hold back anymore.

You cup her face gently, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones, and she leans into your touch, her breath hitching. “Jimin,” you murmur, her name a tether pulling you closer, and then you kiss her. It’s slow at first, tentative, a question answered as her lips part beneath yours, soft and warm and so achingly familiar. The intimacy of it steals your breath—her taste, the way she melts against you, her fingers curling into your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a reclamation, a stitching together of everything torn apart by her absence.

You deepen it, one hand sliding to the nape of her neck, tangling in her hair as you tilt her head just so, and she responds with a quiet whimper that sends a shiver down your spine. Her lips move with yours in perfect sync, a dance of longing and relief, and you pour every missed moment into it—the nights you wondered, the days you ached. She presses closer, her body fitting against yours like it never left, and the world outside fades until it’s just her, just you, just this.

You pull back slightly, needing to see her, to ground yourself in the reality of her here in your arms. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling as you stare into her eyes. They’re dark, endless, shimmering with something raw—regret, desire, hope. Her pupils dilate, her gaze flicking to your lips and back, and you see the moment she breaks. “I missed you,” she whispers, voice trembling, and it’s all the warning you get before she moves.

Jimin shifts with feline grace, climbing onto your lap in a single fluid motion that steals the air from your lungs. You’re still perched near the coffee table, its sharp edge grazing your knee as she straddles you, her toned thighs bracketing your hips with a firm, possessive grip. Her hands cradle your face, fingertips trembling faintly against your jaw, and then she dives in—kissing you with a raw, insatiable hunger that obliterates your thoughts. Her lips crash against yours, hot and urgent, and you groan into her mouth, a deep, primal sound that vibrates between you. Your hands snap to her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her hoodie as you yank her closer, her body molding seamlessly to yours.

The weight of her atop you—the delicious press of her lithe, warm frame against your chest—ignites a wildfire in your veins. She rocks subtly, a teasing shift of her hips that sends a dizzying rush through you, and your hands glide up her back, tracing the elegant curve of her spine. Beneath the fabric, her skin is satin-smooth, her muscles flexing faintly as she moves. Her tongue brushes yours—tentative at first, then bold and demanding—and the kiss turns sloppy, a chaotic dance of lips, teeth, and breathless need. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she gasps between kisses, her voice fracturing with desire as she grinds down harder, the friction of her pelvis against your growing erection sparking a heat that threatens to unravel you both.

You pull her flush against you, fingers sinking into the plush give of her hips, anchoring her as you lose yourself in her essence—the sweet, faintly salty taste of her lips, the press of her boobs against your chest, the soft whimpers she muffles against your mouth. It’s intoxicating, the way she fits so perfectly in your lap, her slender frame a puzzle piece slotting into yours. Her kisses carry the weight of every moment she’s been gone, a desperate reclamation of what distance stole.

The kiss deepens, a tangle of ragged breaths and clashing tongues, and the ache of missing her for months surges through you like a tidal wave. Karina’s hands grip your face tighter, her nails grazing your skin as she straddles you, her thighs flexing with each restless shift. You can feel the heat pouring off her, the damp warmth seeping through her shorts where she presses against your straining cock. It’s not enough—nowhere near enough. You need her closer, need to dissipate every inch of separation time carved between you.

Your hands slide beneath her thighs, firm and possessive, gripping the taut muscle as you stand in one swift motion. She gasps softly against your lips, a startled little sound that melts into a moan as you lift her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around your waist, locking tight, her ankles hooking at the small of your back. You don’t break the kiss—not for a heartbeat—as you carry her toward the bed, her fingers digging into your shoulders with a needy intensity. Her lips stay fused to yours, hungry and unrelenting, and you stumble slightly, too consumed by her to care about grace. The mattress edge bumps your knees, and you lower her onto it, her lithe body sinking into the sheets as you follow, hovering over her, your forearms braced on either side of her head.

“God, I missed you,” you murmur against her lips, your voice rough with the aching truth of it, and she arches up, her chest pressing into yours. Her hands claw at your shirt, tugging insistently, and you pull back just enough to rip it over your head, tossing it aside. Her eyes darken as they roam over your bare chest, drinking in the hard planes of muscle, the faint scars. Her fingers trace the lines of your pecs, then lower, mapping you like she’s relearning every inch.

“I missed you too,” she breathes, her voice trembling with the same pent-up longing that’s been gnawing at you. She sits up, peeling her hoodie off in one smooth motion, revealing the expanse of her smooth, golden skin and a simple black bra that clings to her round, firm breasts. Her nipples pebble faintly beneath the fabric, and your hands are on her instantly, sliding up her sides, savoring the warmth radiating from her. She shivers under your touch, her breath hitching as your thumbs brush the sensitive skin just below her ribcage.

You kiss her again, slower this time but no less desperate, your tongue teasing hers in a languid, deliberate dance as you ease her back onto the bed. Her hands roam your back, nails grazing lightly over your shoulder blades, leaving faint, tingling trails. You trail your lips down her jaw, then her neck, tasting the salt of her skin as you go. She tilts her head, offering more, and you linger at her collarbone, sucking gently until a faint, rosy mark blooms beneath your mouth—a quiet claim. “Mine,” you whisper, half to yourself, and she moans softly, her fingers threading through your hair, tugging just enough to send a spark of pleasure-pain down your spine.

“Not fair,” she murmurs, a playful lilt cutting through the heat in her voice. She pulls you down, her lips finding the taut skin just below your collarbone. Her mouth is searing, deliberate as she kisses the spot, then sucks hard, her tongue flicking against you. The sensation jolts through you—sharp and electric—and you groan, your cock twitching in your jeans as her teeth graze your skin, leaving a bruise to mirror hers. She pulls back, smirking at her handiwork, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes, and you grin back—until the primal urge to touch her overtakes you again.

You ease her onto her back, hands roaming her flat stomach, teasing the waistband of her shorts. “You’re too much,” you say, voice low and teasing as you pop the button open, dragging the zipper down with excruciating slowness. She lifts her hips, helping you peel the denim away, and you take your time, letting your fingers skim the silken insides of her thighs—soft yet firm, trembling faintly under your touch. You stop just shy of her core, and her breath catches, her legs parting slightly as she whines, “Stop teasing.”

“Not yet,” you reply, smirking as you lean down, pressing a kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh. You move higher, closer, your breath ghosting over her warmth, and her hips buck, chasing your mouth. Her chest heaves, her round breasts rising and falling rapidly, frustration simmering in her half-lidded eyes. You slide her panties down, revealing her glistening core—pink and slick with want—and the sight makes your throat tighten, your cock aching painfully against your jeans. “Fuck, I’ve missed this,” you say, voice raw with hunger, and you dip your head, kissing just above her clit, teasing her with the faintest brush of your lips.

“Please,” she gasps, her hands fisting the sheets, knuckles whitening, and you relent—just a little. Your tongue flicks out, tracing her slowly, savoring her sweet, musky taste as her body trembles beneath you. She’s warm and wet, and every shuddering moan she lets out stokes the fire in your gut. You circle her clit, deliberate and torturous, sucking gently until she’s writhing, her voice breaking on your name in a desperate, jagged plea.

When you finally pull back, she’s panting, her eyes glassy with need. You shed your pants and boxers in a frantic rush, climbing back over her, and she drags you down, kissing you fiercely, tasting herself on your lips. “I need you,” she whispers, her legs wrapping around your hips, pulling you close. You tease her one last time, sliding your cock along her entrance, coating yourself in her slick heat, and she groans, her nails biting into your back hard enough to leave crescent marks.

“Missed you so fucking much,” you growl, and then you push inside her, slow and deep. The sensation is overwhelming—her tight, wet heat envelops you, her walls fluttering around your shaft as you stretch her open. She cries out, her head tipping back into the pillow, exposing the delicate column of her throat, and you feel her pulse racing beneath your lips as you bury your face in her neck. “Jimin,” you groan, starting to move, each thrust a visceral reminder of how much you’ve craved her—how much you’ve needed this.

She meets you thrust for thrust, her hips rising to match your rhythm, her moans loud and unrestrained, filling the room. “Harder,” she gasps, her voice raw with desperation, and you oblige, slamming into her with a force that makes the bedframe creak. Her body arches beneath you, her breasts pressing into your chest as you grip her thighs, spreading her wider. The angle lets you hit deeper, your cock brushing that spot inside her that draws a scream from her lips, sharp and uninhibited. “Yes—fuck, just like that,” she pants, her words ragged, her face flushed and glistening with sweat.

You pull her up slightly, shifting so she’s half-sitting, and kiss her again—messy, deep, all tongue and clashing teeth—as you drive into her relentlessly. Her hands clutch your shoulders, her breath scorching against your lips, and you feel her tightening around you, her walls pulsing with every thrust. “I’m so close,” she whimpers, her voice breaking, and you push harder, your own release coiling tight in your core as her body trembles on the brink.

When she cums, it’s with a cry of your name, her body shuddering violently beneath you. Her walls clamp down around your cock, milking you as she unravels, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy. The sight—her flushed cheeks, her arched back, the raw vulnerability of her pleasure—shatters you. You groan, spilling inside her, the pleasure crashing through you in blinding waves as your cock pulses, filling her with heat. You hold her tight, riding out the aftershocks together, your breaths mingling in the stillness.

You collapse against her, both of you sweaty and breathless, and she clings to you, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers, “I’m never leaving again.” Her voice is soft, shaky, but certain, and it sends a warmth through you that has nothing to do with the sex.

You pull back just enough to kiss the mark you left on her collarbone, then press your forehead to hers, your noses brushing as the afterglow settles over you like a second skin. The world narrows to this—the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the steady beat of her heart against yours, and the unspoken promise hanging in the air.