Her Cousin Karina

The elevator doors are almost shut when you jam your hand between them like the male lead in a K-drama. Except you’re not chasing after your one true love. You’re chasing after a girl you want to throw into a swimming pool filled with holy water.

The doors part. Ningning is the only one inside, lounging against the mirrored wall, scrolling on her phone like she’s checking the status of the souls she’s already collected today—including yours, most likely.

“Brave,” she says, not even looking up. “Most people don’t risk amputation just to avoid waiting another thirty seconds for the next one.”

You step in and immediately smack the emergency stop. The elevator halts with a loud buzz.

That gets her attention.

“Whoa,” she says, clutching her phone. “How’d you know about my secret fantasy of being kidnapped by a coworker?”

“Delete it,” you say firmly.

She tilts her head. “Delete what? I have a lot of bad decisions on here.”

“You recorded us without consent. That’s illegal.”

“So is half the shit this company does,” she says lightly. “Relax. I’m not posting it on TikTok. I’m just holding on to it.”

“In case?”

She nods like you finally get it. “Exactly. In case. It’s called leverage. Rich people love it.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re not using me as leverage.”

She pushes off the wall. “Did you think there weren’t going to be any consequences when you went down on the CEO’s daughter with the door unlocked?”

You step closer before you can talk yourself out of it, closing the distance until her scent hits you—studio makeup with something fruity underneath.

The elevator suddenly feels like it’s shrinking.

“Delete it,” you repeat, quieter.

She looks up at you, eyes bright and filled with mischief. “I’ve never seen you mad before. It’s kind of hot.”

“I’m not mad,” you say, even though your pulse is slamming in your neck. “Not yet.”

“Mm-hm.” She taps her screen once, nails clacking. “That’s why you’re breathing like you sprinted up twelve flights.”

Your hand shoots out before you can think, palm smacking the wall beside her head hard enough to echo. She flinches—just for a second—then grins, laughter slipping out like this is all just entertainment to her.

“Not gonna lie, I’m like half scared and half turned on,” she says mockingly.

“You think you’re the only one with dirt?” you say, leaning in just enough to make her blink. “You really believe that?”

She lifts her chin. “Enlighten me,” she says. “I love story time.”

“I saw you. Downstairs. In the storage room with the Director.”

Her smile widens, not even a hint of shame. “Nothing gets past you, huh? You’re a little too good at your job for someone who’s so criminally underpaid.”

“And your job isn’t to blow your boss in a closet.”

“Oh, please.” She waves her phone like a fan. “Your job isn’t to get face-fucked by the ice princess either, but here we are.”

Heat spikes under your skin. “You have no morals, Ning.”

She rolls her eyes. “Spare me the righteousness. You literally just fucked the CEO’s daughter on her own desk. We’re two sides of the same coin. Don’t climb up on the moral high ground now, the air’s too thin for you up there.”

You lean in on instinct, crowding her back against the mirror. Her shoulder blades thump softly against glass.

Your body hovers over hers, and you become intensely aware of two things. The first is that you’ve never once noticed a camera in this elevator. And the second is that this is a terrible, terrible idea, and still, you won’t change your mind.

“You smell like sex,” you say. The words come out low, almost a growl.

Her lips curve. “And you don’t? I can practically taste Winter by just sniffing your face. Bet it was yummy, huh?”

You look down. Her skirt is short enough that when you’ve got her pinned like this, the hem rides up, revealing most of her smooth, luscious thighs and the obvious absence of anything underneath.

You shift your weight, thigh nudging between hers, and she sucks in a tiny breath she probably didn’t mean to let out.

“No underwear?” you ask, lifting her skirt up enough to confirm. “You just wander around the office like this after-hours?”

“They got soiled,” she says, simply. “I assume you don’t need to ask why.”

“It must be extremely difficult to find another pair here in a lingerie store.”

“We’re a production house, not a department store.” She clicks her tongue. “That’s next door.”

“Did the white panties you wore before changing into the lingerie mysteriously disappear?”

She beams. “My god, you pay attention to my underwear? Are you sure you’re not in love with me?”

You let out a loud scoff. “How does it feel going through life thinking everyone’s in love with you?”

“It feels great, actually.” Her knee brushes yours. “So? Now what?”

“Now you delete the video.”

She pulls her phone out again, twirling it between her fingers. “I told you. I need it. Just in case it comes in handy one day. Don’t worry, it’s for her, not you.”

You grab her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to still her hand. “My face is in it. You’re not keeping that.”

She studies you, eyes flicking over your expression like she’s flipping through channels, picking the one that turns her on the most. Then she smiles.

“I’ll make you a deal.” She taps her phone to your chest. “I’ll delete it… if you admit you’re attracted to me.”

You stare at her. “Are you twelve?”

“And,” she continues, as if you hadn’t spoken, “that I looked good during the shoot.”

“So you want a compliment? That’s your price? More validation?”

“I want honesty.” Her grip on your forearm tightens, pulling you half an inch closer. “I know you were drooling behind the monitor like everyone else. Own it.”

You open your mouth to argue. Nothing comes out.

She smirks. “Thought so.”

It’s insane how badly you want to wipe that smile off her face. It’s worse how close you are to kissing it off instead—if not for the fact she was just sucking off your boss no more than an hour ago.

You swallow, contemplating every decision that led to negotiating with this so-hot-but-so-slutty menace to society.

“Fine,” you finally cave in. “You’re attractive.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Wow. Be still my heart.”

“There. You got what you wanted. Now delete it.”

“Say it properly,” she says, biting her lip. “You wanted me.”

Your jaw clenches. She just looks at you, waiting like she has all night.

“You looked good on set. You were really hot,” you force out. “I wanted you. Happy?”

“Getting there,” she says, biting a finger. “Now the fun part.”

Of course there’s a fun part.

“I want you to say”—she taps the finger against your chest, slow, taunting—“that when you were watching me get fucked… you wished it was you in that closet instead of him.”

A sharp laugh breaks out of you. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Maybe,” she says, smiling like it’s a compliment.

You step in even closer, chest pressing to hers now, your breaths mixing. “You want me to say I fantasize about fucking you? That’s what gets you off?”

Her pupils blow wide. “Yeah,” she whispers.

Something in your brain snaps like an overstretched rubber band.

You drop her wrist, and grab her hips instead. Her back hits the mirror with a soft thud, then you turn her around, pressing her into the cold metal, forcing her palms flat against it for balance.

She lets out a startled little sound that dissolves into a shaky laugh. “Oh. We’re really doing this.”

You lift her skirt, and bring your hand down on her ass, hard enough to make the smack echo off the cramped walls. She jerks, a gasp escaping her lips.

“You’re such an entitled brat,” you say, watching your hand print bloom pink on her skin. “You think playing with people’s lives is a game.”

“I mean, it is kinda fun—”

You spank her again, palm stinging from the impact. She bites her lip, shoulders tensing.

“You think that just because you’re hot, you can get away with everything?” you say, watching her cheeks start to flush in the mirror.

“Yes,” she says, looking back at you.

“You don’t need to answer everything.”

“Don’t ask then.”

You slide your hand under her skirt to find her already soaked.

“What’s this all about?” you ask, collecting her juices on your fingers. “You’re dripping on my hand in an elevator.”

“Now you know the reason I didn’t bother putting any panties back on.” Her head tips forward, forehead pressing to the steel as your fingers slip between her thighs.

“So you expected this to happen?” you murmur, rubbing slow circles over her clit.

She whines, hips pushing back against you. “Not really, but I’m not regretting it even a little bit.”

You increase the pressure just a bit, and she moans into the air, the sound catching and breaking like she forgot how to breathe properly.

“Now about that video,” you say, voice low in her ear. “You’re going to take your phone out. You’re going to scroll to it. And you’re going to delete it. In front of me.”

“You’re very demanding for someone with no leverage,” she breathes, fingers slipping off the glass.

You curl your fingers inside her. Her knees wobble. “No leverage? Not even a little bit?”

She lets out something that’s between a laugh and a moan. “Okay—okay, fine. But I can’t do anything like this.”

You pull back a fraction. “Take it out.”

She reaches blindly into her pocket, dragging her phone out with unsteady fingers. You keep your hand between her legs, barely moving now, just enough pressure to keep her trembling.

“Don’t look at my passcode.” She unlocks the screen with her face and scrolls.

You lean over her shoulder, ready for the worst—some grainy thumbnail of Winter’s office door half-cracked, your own stupid head clearly visible where it shouldn’t be.

Instead, you get Ningning. A lot of Ningning.

Photos of her in the studio mirror, leaning in to fix her lipstick and very obviously documenting her cleavage. Another set of photos of her sprawled on a hotel bed in matching lace, one strap deliberately slipped. And then another of her hand sliding under the waistband of her panties, cut off just before anything explicit.

She scrolls past another nude—bathroom mirror, towel around her hair, absolutely nothing else.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“What?” she says, thumb flicking again. “I’m very photogenic without clothes on.”

She swipes. There’s a video thumbnail of her in bed, covers around her waist, tits out, hand sliding between her legs.

“Skipping this one,” she says automatically.

More pictures: her standing in the bathroom, completely naked, one leg up on the counter; a shot from behind, ass in the mirror, looking over her shoulder with a wicked smile. A short clip of her grinding on someone’s lap in a dark room, his face out of frame.

There is absolutely nothing of Winter’s office. Nothing of you.

Your stomach drops, then flips into something hotter and uglier. “Where is it?” you demand.

“Where is what?” she asks, pausing on a shot of her ass in the very skirt she’s wearing right now. “Wow, I kinda ate with this one—”

“The video!” you snap. “Of Winter and me. The one you ‘need for leverage’.”

She squints theatrically at the screen, scrolls a bit more, revealing yet another thirst trap—this time her licking whipped cream off her own finger. Still no office.

“Oh… yeah, that doesn’t exist,” she says, nonchalantly.

Your brain hiccups. “What?”

She locks the phone and lets her hand drop, smirking at your reflection in the mirror.

“I never said I recorded you. You came storming in like, ‘delete the video, you villain,’ and I thought, ‘wow, this is entertaining, you’re telling on yourself’.”

You stare at her. Your hand is still between her thighs. You briefly consider using it to strangle her instead.

“So you lied,” you say, jaw clenching.

“No,” she hums. “You assumed. Difference.”

You stare at her. At the smug little tilt of her mouth. At the way her thighs are still parted, your hand still between them, fingers coated with her warmth.

“You think this is funny?” You reach up and catch her chin, forcing her to turn her head just enough to meet your eyes in the reflection.

She looks at you, chest heaving, mascara smudged from earlier. “Maybe a little. I mean, your fingers are still inside of me while your mouth is pretending you hate me. It’s breaking my brain.”

You should pull back. Walk away. Reset the elevator and pretend this never happened. Instead, you curl your fingers again, harder and further this time. She gasps into a silent moan, her whole body jolting.

“You’re going to pay for that.”

“For what?” she says, but her voice is weak now. “Bringing some excitement into your life?”

You drag your hand free, and spin her. Her back hits the elevator wall with a soft thud. Before she can catch her balance, you’re crowding in, one hand at her throat, the other already pushing her skirt up again.

“For playing with something you didn’t have,” you say. “For making me beg over nothing.”

Her fingers curl in your shirt. “I’m not Winter, I can’t make you do anything,” she says, but it’s even weaker now. “And for the record, you didn’t even beg. You threatened and demanded.”

You get your belt open with one hand, yanking the zipper down. Your cock springs free, painfully hard again.

She looks down, pupils blowing out. “Didn’t you just cum inside of the Chairman’s only daughter?”

You hook one of her legs up, pressing her knee toward her chest. The head of your cock slides through her wetness, and she sucks in a breath like you’ve punched the air out of her.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty left for you, too,” you say, rubbing your cock against her dripping folds.

“Lucky me,” she says, moaning softly. “I didn’t get to cum earlier.”

You look at her—smudged makeup, messy hair, still a liar, still a menace. You want to shake her. You want to fuck her until she forgets everyone else’s name.

“You will now,” you say, feeling yourself sink into her.

She lets out a soft, involuntary moan. “Are you punishing me or rewarding me? I can’t tell at this point.”

Then you thrust.

She cries out, loud enough that you slap a hand over her mouth on instinct. She’s so hot and tight around you in this position that it’s almost painful. Her walls clench down, taking you in inch by inch until your hips are flush with hers.

The elevator shudders with the force of it. She clings to you, one leg hooked around your hip, the other foot scrambling for balance on the floor.

“God, you’re so mad,” she gasps when you ease your hand off her mouth. “Was it really that serious?”

“You lied,” you remind her, punctuating each word with a thrust. “And for what? A fake compliment?”

“Now you’re the one lying,” she moans, eyes fluttering. “You think I’m hot and you wanted to fuck me. That wasn’t a fake compliment, it was a confession.”

You angle your hips, chasing the spot that made her squirm on your fingers earlier. When you find it, she nearly sobs, nails digging into your shoulders through your shirt.

“When you say ‘fuck me’,” you say, hitting it again with the tip of your cock. “Is this what you mean?”

She nods frantically, forehead dropping to your collarbone. “Yes—fuck—that feels so good.”

“Then yes,” you growl into her hair. “I did want to fuck you.”

You grab her ass with both hands, lifting her properly now, letting her weight rest against the wall and your body. You start to really move, setting a heavy rhythm, every thrust making her bounce slightly in your grip.

Her voice pitches higher, words breaking apart. “Oh my—fuck—yes—you’re fucking me so hard—what the hell—”

“This is what you wanted?” you bark. “This is why you prance around without any panties? Hoping someone would come along and fuck your brains out, you little slut?”

“Not anyone, I still have standards, you know,” she whines, but her hips are chasing you, grinding down to meet every thrust. “Keep going, just like this, don’t stop—”

You don’t. You fuck her harder, anger and arousal tangling until you can’t tell them apart, every slam of your hips a punishment and a promise.

Her pussy clenches around your cock, the walls fluttering as she falls toward the edge. You drive into her relentlessly, your fingers digging into the flesh of her ass, holding her up against the elevator wall. The metal panel vibrates with each impact, her back sliding up and down as you pound her harder.

“Fuck—I’m—already—” she chokes out, her body seizing.

Her thighs tremble around you, pussy squeezing tight in rhythmic pulses. She cries out, head thrown back, nails raking down your arms as she comes undone on your cock.

“Fuuuuck!” she screams until her voice breaks.

You don’t let up, thrusting through her spasms, feeling her juices completely coat your shaft.

But you’re not done—not yet. With a grunt, you lower her legs to the floor, watching her knees buckle. She slumps against the wall, panting, eyes glazed with aftershocks.

“Turn around,” you order.

She hesitates for a split second, but you grab her hips and aggressively spin her yourself. She braces her hands on the wall, ass presented to you, still quivering from her release.

You kick her feet apart wider, lining up your cock at her dripping entrance. One hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back as you slam back inside her pussy from behind. She yelps, the sound turning into a loud moan as you set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward with brutal force.

“Apologize,” you growl, pulling her hair tighter to arch her back. “Say sorry for being such an annoying little cunt all the time.”

“Oh my god…” she shudders through your anger. “You’re gonna mess me up like this…”

Her ass jiggles with each thrust, the mere sight pushing you closer to the edge.

“Say it!”

“Say what?” she asks, eyes rolling back like she can’t process anything anymore.

You release her hair to slap her cheek hard, the crack echoing in the confined space. “Say you’re sorry! Now!”

She gasps, pushing back against you, meeting your aggression with her own desperate grind. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I’m sorry for messing with you, I thought it was funny—I’ll apologize as much as you want, just keep fucking me—please—”

You oblige, gripping her hips firmly, pulling her onto your cock over and over.

You feel it coming.

“I’m coming,” you say, fucking her as hard as you can.

“Give it to me! Hurry! I deserve it—”

With a final, deep thrust, you pull out, fisting your wet, throbbing cock. You aim for her ass, stroking fast as bursts of cum shoot out, splattering hot across her cheeks and down the crack. She moans loudly at the sensation, wiggling slightly as you paint her ass white.

“Wow… it’s so hot…” she breathes as your cum slowly drifts down the beautiful curve of her ass.

Still breathing heavy, you scoop up the mess with your fingers—thick strands of your cum mixed with her wetness. “This is what you deserve,” you say, turning her head roughly by the chin.

She gasps, and opens her mouth without protest, tongue willingly out and eager.

You push two fingers inside to coat her tongue. She sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours, swirling her tongue around you. Then you scoop up the rest, and drag your hand over her cheek, painting her face with the sticky fluid, from jaw to temple.

“I really need to piss you off more often,” she says, lips parting as she pants loudly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, hand still rubbing gentle circles around her clit.

—

The next week feels like karma clocked in early just to bully you.

Winter doesn’t mention the office. Or the kneeling. Or the fact that you left a crime scene’s worth of DNA inside her and then went home looking like you’d been hit by a car. A car with Ningning in the driver’s seat, of course.

Instead, Winter actually does something worse—she acts like you’re just her intern again.

Your inbox reproduces overnight like horny rabbits. You start the week with seven flagged tasks; by lunch there are twenty-three, all labeled “URGENT” with that cheery passive-aggressive exclamation point. Things you’re pretty sure used to belong to three different roles all migrate to you: sample pulls, model call sheets, presentation decks, fixing someone else’s typo-riddled brief “before the board sees it.”

In meetings, Winter is in full assassin mode—calm, crisp, and frighteningly efficient—like she has ice water for blood and a stopwatch for a soul. Except, she doesn’t seem to acknowledge you as a human being anymore. She critiques your slides while staring at the screen, asks you for numbers while looking at the table, and dismisses you with a flick of her hand like you’re a literal bug.

You know better. That it shouldn’t matter, that it shouldn’t hurt. Still, it lands like a door in your face.

Ningning, meanwhile, is living her best life.

For some reason, she doesn’t bring up what happened either. She doesn’t smirk and say “remember when you railed me in the east wing elevator?” Instead, she just swans through the office in tiny skirts as usual, leaving a trail of perfume and ruined concentration behind her.

And every time you catch a glimpse of her, you remember how hot her skin was under your hands and how she whimpered when you promised you’d make her finish.

—

Winter’s lingerie campaign drops on Wednesday and the office goes feral.

Every screen in the lobby is Ningning walking toward the camera in slow motion, garter straps biting into her thighs, lips parted on a breath you know the exact sound of.

The email blasts hit every five minutes:

“Incredible early engagement!”

“Record-breaking click-through!”

“Customers are eating it up!”

By noon, a company-wide message goes out:

“Congratulations to Creative Director Kim Minjeong and to our new luminous muse, Ning Yizhuo, on a successful launch. Effective immediately, Ning will be the official face of our lingerie division…”

By the will of the gods, you run into her later by the makeup stations. She’s in a silk robe and red stockings, surrounded by stylists like a very slutty planet with its own orbit.

When she sees you, her smile curves slow and pleased. “Hey, intern,” she calls, loud enough that two others turn. “Did you like the video?”

“For the record, you’re an intern too,” you say, but you’re not even sure if it’s true or not.

You suddenly think about the way her nails raked your shoulders in the elevator, the way her voice broke when you told her you weren’t letting her leave without cumming her brains out.

“Are you not going to answer my question?”

“The video is very you,” you say, turning just enough to get another glimpse of her tits spilling out the holiday push-up bra. “Great job, I’m sure the shareholders are thrilled your cleavage is saving Q4.”

She laughs, throwing her head back. The robe gapes, and three people in the vicinity forget how to breathe. “You say that like you didn’t field-test the product in-house.”

But instead of firing back on her complete lack of subtlety, you keep walking before your body remembers what her voice sounded like when she begged you not to stop.

—

The universe, displeased with your recent life choices, decides you deserve smiting.

The flu hits Saturday night.

By Sunday you’re sweating through sheets and hallucinating design briefs on your ceiling. You pray that your immune system works as hard as you do, but come Monday morning, you email HR from inside a blanket burrito apologizing for not coming in to cough on the entire creative department.

You sleep. Your phone buzzes. You ignore it. Your phone buzzes again. And again. By the fifth buzz, your survival instinct kicks in: either it’s the company or your mother, and both will kill you if you don’t respond.

You squint at the screen. A stack of unread emails waits. You open the top one.

Subject: Head of Design

We are pleased to welcome Yoo Jimin as our new Head of Design.

Ms. Yoo joins us with extensive experience at global luxury houses such as Chanel and Hermès, and will be working closely with Creative Director Minjeong Kim on several key initiatives…

You stare at “working closely” until the words blur. Your fevered brain conjures an image of Winter glaring at a woman in a Chanel suit across a conference table. Before figuring out what to do with that visualization, you groan, drop the phone on your own face, and pass out again.

—

When you finally drag yourself back into the office three days later, the building has leveled up from buzzing to mildly hysterical.

People are doing that fake-casual fast-walk even though they’re just going to get a fourth coffee in the break room. Two other interns are re-wiping already clean glass doors, and someone has replaced the dead plant in reception, which is frankly the most shocking development of the quarter.

You shuffle into the cafeteria, still a little floaty from cold meds, and stare at the “breakfast” options like they personally wronged you. The scrambled eggs are the color of some kind of legal liability, for sure.

“You look like shit,” someone announces cheerfully.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s Ningning, but you do anyway because your recovering brain decides that a glimpse of her waist could potentially make everything a tad bit better.

She’s leaning against the doorframe in a satin cami that’s one strategic breeze away from causing a lawsuit if not for the blazer above it pretending to be responsible—plus a skirt so short it should come with a content warning. Her hair’s in a messy bun that’s not actually messy, just weaponized.

“And you look like what the HR handbook uses an example for inappropriate office attire,” you mutter. “How’s fame?”

She grins, grabbing a tray. “Oh, you know, full of old men in suits saying ‘empowerment’ while staring at my chest.”

“So exactly like before,” you say. “But now with better lighting and a little extra pay.”

“Exactly.” She reaches for a yogurt she’s absolutely not going to eat. “You picked the worst time to get sick, though. So much drama.”

“Yeah? What’d I miss?” you ask, eyeing the bacon like it might fight back. “Other than you terrorizing the entire office with your legs, digitally now.”

She nudges your tray forward, then leans in like she’s telling you state secrets. “Winter’s new playmate just arrived. And they hate each other.”

“And who might that be?”

“Her cousin,” she whispers excitedly. “Yoo Jimin. Big deal. Big résumé. Big tits, too.”

“Oh—right. The new Head of Design,” you say slowly, memory finally digging itself out of the NyQuil fog. “FIT grad, Chanel, Hermès, blah blah blah, something pedigree.”

She nods. “That’s the one. She showed up Monday and now all the staff are in love. The board’s completely obsessed. Even the CFO smiled, and I didn’t know his face could physically do that.”

You blink. “And Winter?”

“Oh, Winter wants to die,” Ningning says, clearly savoring every syllable. “They’re supposed to be this perfect duo—daddy’s little princess and his golden niece, taking over the world together. But they’re not getting along at all.”

You picture Winter being asked to “collaborate” with someone just as glamorous, just as competent, but actually liked by others. God, how entertaining.

“What’s wrong with her?” you ask. “The cousin, I mean.”

“Wrong?” she snorts. “Nothing. That’s the issue. She’s disgustingly nice.”

You wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.

“Define nice,” you say slowly. “Because I’ve heard people here call you nice before.”

“Let’s see—she smiles at interns,” she says, counting on her fingers. “She thanked the lighting team by name. She brought coffee and donuts to a meeting she wasn’t even late to.”

You stare blankly. “So she’s like… the anti-Winter.”

“Pretty much. Same bloodline, different factory settings.”

You can’t help it; you laugh. It comes out as a cough halfway through. “And they expect them to work together.”

“Oh, they insist,” she corrects. “All the big projects now say ‘Creative Director Minjeong Kim & Head of Design Yoo Jimin’ in the header. You should see her when someone compliments Jimin. It’s like watching a cat being forced to share a window.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Can’t believe I missed all of this while fighting for my life.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, playfully patting your shoulder. “You’ll make up for lost time. We both know Winter only knows how to process feelings in two ways: cold contempt and using you as a stress ball.”

You swallow, and it still hurts.

—

The coffee machine makes a wet, terminal death rattle and spits a last, sad dribble into your mug before its light flips from orange to accusing red.

“Same,” you tell it with a sigh.

You’re alone on the floor. It’s past nine. Most sane people went home hours ago; the only other signs of life are a vacuum cleaner whining somewhere down the hall and the quiet fizzing of your remaining brain cells.

“Rough night?” a soft voice says behind you.

You turn.

There’s a woman in the doorway who absolutely does not belong to this hour of the night. Cream sweater, black trousers, white sneakers that somehow still look clean*.* Her hair’s in a loose ponytail with a few strands framing her face in that infuriating, “I didn’t even try” way that takes normal humans a ring light and at least two YouTube tutorials. No heavy makeup—just gloss, lashes, and skin that glows under fluorescent lights, the same lights that make everyone else look like they died before lunchtime.

Most offensively of all, she looks awake and functional*.* You find this hostile, personally.

“I didn’t think anyone else would still be here at this cursed hour,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Machine’s dead,” you say, gesturing toward it like a fallen soldier. “We’re gathering to mourn. Want to join?”

She steps in, eyeing the blinking red light with mild pity. “I’ve heard it clanking all day. I think it’s been trying to file a complaint.”

“That makes perfect sense. It’s overworked, underpaid, and everyone yells at it when it breaks. It’s basically an intern.”

She laughs—quick, a little surprised. “You must be one of them,” she says, a hand coming up to push a loose strand behind her ear. “The interns, not the coffee machines.”

“I’m both, actually,” you say, lifting your empty cup. “But my official title is Guy Who Carries Things Until He Expires.”

She smiles, then moves to the counter like she’s been here a thousand times, reaching for the electric kettle in the corner while setting down a reusable tumbler from a brand you cannot afford.

“How about some tea?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “Since the coffee machine’s clearly filed for divorce with us.”

You blink. “Tea? As in a hot beverage that won’t destroy my organs?”

“As in hot water plus leaves,” she says, tapping the kettle with a finger. “Very advanced technology. Take a seat. I’ll give you a demonstration.”

“Sounds like sorcery to me,” you say, but you sit on one of the plastic chairs anyway. Your legs are grateful for the excuse.

She fills the kettle, then pulls a small metal tin out of her bag like some kind of prepared adult.

“Relax, you don’t have to look so carefully, I’m not poisoning you,” she says, glancing back. “I’m new, I don’t know who’s important yet.”

“Spoiler alert. It’s definitely not me.”

She laughs again, warmer this time. “What’s your name, definitely-not-important?”

“Intern.”

Her eyes shrink a little. “That’s a role, not a name.”

“Feels like a full identity at this point,” you say with a shrug.

You tell her your name, and she repeats it back, as if she actually cares to get it right, which is confusing because no one here remembers interns unless they need free labor.

“I’m Karina,” she says, with a quick, almost shy smile. “I just started this week. New designer.”

You squint. “Like… graphic designer? Or ‘I yell at seamstresses’ designer?”

She shrugs, pouring water into a company mug and her fancy tumbler once the kettle clicks. “Somewhere in the middle, probably. They said there would be fabrics, colors, and crying. I felt qualified.”

“That’s the whole company. You just described our brand values.”

She brings a mug over to you and slides it across the table. “Here. They say hot tea helps with colds a tiny bit more than spite.”

You wrap your hands around the mug. Your fingers actually shake a little, from caffeine, from exhaustion, and from the fact that someone voluntarily gave you a hot drink without also giving you twenty emails.

“Careful,” you warn. “If you’re nice to me, they’ll revoke your badge. It’s against culture guidelines.”

She lifts a shoulder, hopping up onto the counter with the ease of someone who hasn’t yet been spiritually crushed by this building.

“Try not to rat me out then,” she says, swinging one foot absently. “So. How late do you usually stay? I left at eight yesterday and saw someone still at the intern corner.”

“I was naming the delivery boxes,” you say, mildly shocked she even looked that way. “There’s a stack in the hallway that’s haunted. One of them is called Regret.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I’ll say hello to Regret on my way out.”

“Please don’t, he’s shy and emotionally fragile.”

You take a cautious sip. The tea is minty with something floral underneath, warm without being harsh. Your shoulders loosen; you hadn’t even realized they were locked.

“How about tonight?” she asks, raising her wrist. “It’s already… 9:28.”

“Tonight might be an early one,” you say, stretching your back until it makes a sound that should concern a medical professional. “Hoping to leave before midnight. Really pamper myself.”

“Luxury,” she says dryly. “Do you at least get to eat?”

“I inhaled a granola bar at my desk around four, if that counts. I think it was from the last administration.”

She chuckles again. “Who owns you, anyways? Department-wise.”

“Officially, logistics,” you say, and then shudder a bit. “But lately, Ms. Kim in Creative.”

Her brows tick up a millimeter. “Min—” she starts, then catches herself so fast you almost miss it. “Ms. Kim Minjeong,” she corrects, smoothing it out with a sip of tea. “Right.”

You snort. “Look at you, almost dropping a first name. You really are new.”

“Still getting used to everything,” she says, swirling her tumbler.

“Don’t worry,” you say, raising your mug. “This place is a testament that negative reinforcement works well.”

She studies you for a second, and you realize she’s actually looking—at the dark circles, the slumped posture, the way you keep kneading your thumb into the same spot on your wrist like you’re trying to keep yourself present.

“If she’s ever too much,” she says, her voice gentler now, “you can vent to someone, you know.”

“To who?” you ask, taking another sip. “My landlord? The ghost in the stairwell?”

“Me,” she says, then immediately softens it with a little shrug. “Or, you know, whoever you want to talk to. I’ll be around.”

You simply look at her. “You’ve known me for nine minutes.”

“Yeah. And in nine minutes I’ve learned that you’re tired, underfed, and making jokes to keep from collapsing.”

You stare down at the half-finished tea. It feels weird, having someone notice that much that fast without using it against you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “For even saying that. And for the fancy tea.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, lifting her tumbler like she’s toasting your impending breakdown. “Literally. Do not tell anyone I was nice. I have a reputation to fake.”

You smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Footsteps echo faintly in the hall. The spell breaks a little. You drain the rest of your tea and push yourself to your feet. Your body complains.

“I should get back,” you say, giving it a quick rinse. “If I’m away from my inbox longer than seven minutes, Ms. Kim’s sixth sense activates.”

“Go,” Karina says, still swinging her feet off the counter. “Before she materializes in the doorway and demotes us both.”

“Pretty sure there’s nothing lower than intern.”

—

Look, you don’t mean to make the break room a habit. It just becomes one.

Three nights in a row, your day ends the same way: inbox screaming, eyes burning, body running on whatever’s left of borrowed energy and resentment.

Three nights in a row, you drag yourself toward the elevators, see the glow from the break room, and turn right instead of going down.

And three nights in a row, Karina’s already there.

The first time after that initial tea session, she’s sitting on the counter again, sketchbook open, legs swinging against the cabinet.

She looks up as you walk in, clocking the slouch in your shoulders and the way you’re pinching the bridge of your nose like you’re trying to erase the day.

“Did the other machine finally unionize?” she asks, checking her watch.

“They’re on strike,” you reply, rubbing your eyes. “Demanding better beans and fewer breakdowns. I’m considering joining.”

She hops down from the counter in one smooth motion, landing lightly. “I can’t help with the beans,” she says, already going through her bag. “But I brought snacks.”

She triumphantly pulls out a packet of almond cookies like a magician revealing her final trick. Your stomach growls so loudly it’s embarrassing.

“You really need to stop doing this,” you say, taking one anyway because pride is for the well-fed. “People will start rumors.”

“About me feeding a starving intern?” she says, tearing the packet open for you like she knows you’re on energy welfare. “Scandalous.”

“About you being nice,” you say, breaking the cookie in half to offer one to her, to which she declines. You suddenly wonder if it’s poison, but stuff it in your mouth regardless. “Truly unheard of in these parts.”

“I could’ve sworn you promised to keep it a secret,” she says, jumping back on the counter.

The night after that, you walk in to find her with her hair down—soft waves spilling over her shoulders—and a pair of thin, round glasses sliding halfway down her nose. Her laptop is open on the table, screen glowing with silhouettes, color swatches, and chaotic-looking notes made by someone who clearly knows what they’re doing.

“You’re not allowed to look,” she says, closing it half-shut when you glance at the screen.

“Trade secret?” you ask, still peeking.

She turns it further away. “Hideous placeholder fonts. I have an image to maintain.”

“Too late,” you say, dropping your bag onto the floor. “I’ve seen you with a reusable mug and paper straws. Your illusion is shattered. I know what you are.”

She wrinkles her nose at you then tilts her head, really focusing on you. “Another bad day?” she asks.

“Define ‘day,’” you say, rubbing your temples. “It started last month and hasn’t stopped yet.”

She nudges your mug toward the kettle. “Sit,” she orders gently. “Tell me how many emails Ms. Kim sent you with ‘URGENT’ in the subject line.”

You flop into the chair like gravity doubled just for you. “If I say the number out loud, I’ll start crying,” you say, tipping your head back. “And then she’ll sense weakness and appear.”

Karina smiles, but there’s an edge of concern in it. She doesn’t push, still. Instead, she talks about fabrics and trends and how weird it is to be “the new girl” again after years of being the expert somewhere else. Her hands move as she speaks—animated, expressive, painting shapes in the air. You sip your tea, interrupt occasionally with deadpan commentary, and somehow the tight coil in your chest loosens another fraction.

For a few minutes, your brain stops screaming. For a few minutes, the world feels survivable.

By the end of the week, it’s a clear pattern: you drag yourself toward the exit like a zombie with overdue credit card bills, but some gravitational force nudges you sideways into the break room. Karina’s always there—legs crossed on the counter, hair falling out of its ponytail, waiting with a mug already steeping, a snack opened like she predicted your blood sugar crash, and a dry joke ready to go.

You trade war stories—hers about past campaigns and eccentric European clients who insisted everything be “more beige,” yours about this company’s unique brand of psychological warfare disguised as workflow.

Some nights, you talk. Some nights, you sit in mostly comfortable silence, her sketching while you stare at your phone pretending your eyes aren’t crossing. Either way, she always notices when you’re more wrecked than usual—the way you wince when you stretch your neck, or the slight tremor in your hands when you reach for your mug.

One night she even slides a little bottle of ibuprofen across the table without comment. Another, she wordlessly swaps your coffee for decaf tea mid-sentence when your leg won’t stop bouncing under the table.

At some point, you find yourself pretending you’re “just wrapping up” in the break room, even though you finished your work twenty minutes ago.

You don’t say anything about it, but the truth is simple—the days feel less brutal knowing Karina will be the last person you see before you leave.

And maybe that’s a little scarier than anything Winter’s ever done.

—

The meeting invite hits your inbox at 9 a.m. like a threat: “ALL-HANDS: Q4 RECAP & FORWARD VISION.”

Even the title feels hostile.

You show up five minutes early with a laptop, a notebook, and the kind of hollowed stare that makes other interns avoid making eye contact. The conference room is already filling—board members settling into leather chairs, department heads whispering, senior designers comparing tablets—while you’re pressed against the wall with the rest of the disposable employees, clutching your laptop to your chest like a flotation device.

Winter sits at the head of the table like she’s on a throne—perfectly crisp blazer, every word clipped clean enough to cut through skin. You keep your head down, take notes, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding from too much coffee and lack of sleep.

The meeting starts.

Numbers. Charts. People saying “synergy” unironically.

Then the Q&A slides appear, and the temperature in the room drops.

Winter is in her element: sharp questions, sharper rebuttals. Someone stumbles over a metric; she corrects them before the CFO can blink. A murmur ripples across the table—impressed, fearful, or both. Winter doesn’t notice. Or she does and finds it boring.

Until she turns on you.

“Next deck,” she says, without looking. “Let’s see the updated mock-ups for the holiday capsule.”

The slide doesn’t change.

You freeze. You sent those mock-ups at 1:47 a.m. last night. You distinctly remember naming the file “Holiday_FINAL_v3_actually_final_THIS_ONE.”

Winter’s gaze flicks to the screen, then to the empty spot where your work should be. Slowly, it turns toward the wall of support staff. Toward you.

“Intern,” she says, her voice cold enough to flash-kill bacteria. “Where are they?”

Heat crawls up your neck. “They should be in the shared drive. I finished them last night and—”

“Well, they’re not.” She turns back to the screen. “If they were, we’d be looking at them instead of a blank slide.”

A few people shift in their seats. You feel the room pivot, like you’ve just become the designated pre-lunch entertainment.

“I can pull them now,” you say, quickly. “It’ll take thirty seconds to—”

“Did you or did you not complete the assignment?” Winter cuts in. Her eyes lock onto yours.

“Yes,” you stumble. “I completed it. I emailed you and the team, and I put it in the drive.”

“So you half-finished your job and assumed someone else would do the rest. And now you’re wasting everyone’s time.”

Your stomach drops through the floor. You’ve been holding this department together with caffeine, fear, and the last five neurons you haven’t killed. And now she’s rewriting it as laziness.

You open your mouth, something between apology and protest on your tongue—

“Kim Minjeong-sshi,” another voice says.

Heads turn down the table. Winter’s jaw tics once. “Yes?”

The woman speaking sits three seats from the CEO—grey sweater under a blazer, hair pulled back. You know that ponytail, that little mole near her lip, that brand-name tumbler she set down by her notebook.

Karina.

Except the placard in front of her reads:

HEAD OF DESIGN – YOO JIMIN

Your brain stops for a full second.

She doesn’t look at you. She keeps her gaze on Winter, polite but absolutely unflinching.

“He did complete them,” she says calmly. “I saw the email. They’re in the Holiday folder.”

Winter’s eyes narrow. “They’re not in the deck. Which means they weren’t where they were supposed to be.”

“That’s on me. I pulled from the wrong subfolder when I was finalizing the presentation.” She taps her laptop once, and brings up a file tree on the shared screen. “Here they are.”

Your mock-ups pop up on the big display, huge and glossy and undeniably there.

A ripple goes through the room. You see the CEO’s brows lift, just slightly. Someone down the table exhales.

Winter’s expression doesn’t move much, but you’ve been watching her too long not to notice the tension ratcheting up around her eyes. “Regardless, he’s responsible for ensuring—”

“He’s responsible for doing his assigned work,” Karina cuts her off, still maddeningly composed. “Which he did. And let’s call our employees by their names. They have them for a reason.”

The room goes very quiet.

You feel every heartbeat in your throat. You also feel about three inches tall, because now you’re not just “intern”—you’re the example in a power struggle you didn’t know you were sitting through.

Winter’s gaze slices your way, then snaps back to Karina. The air between them is suddenly sharp enough to cut the room in half.

The CEO clears his throat, clearly ready to move on. “Well, since we have the mock-ups—”

“Yes,” Karina says smoothly, switching the screen to a clean view of your work. “As we were saying, the holiday capsule is in good shape…”

No one looks at you again.

Your stomach flips as your designs dominate the screen—huge, professional, seen. Humiliation and pride collide so hard in your chest you genuinely don’t know which wins.

Winter says nothing. But her jaw is clenched so tight you can practically hear her teeth grind.

The meeting rolls forward. Numbers. Goals. Action items.

You don’t hear most of it. Your brain keeps circling the same three facts:

Karina is not just “Karina,” the nice designer with expensive tea and emergency cookies.

She’s Yoo Jimin, the Head of Design, the famous cousin that Winter is supposed to “work closely” with.

And she just stepped between you and Winter’s line of fire in front of the entire top floor.

—

The company throws itself a party when the numbers hit “historic,” and this campaign apparently qualifies.

The bar’s free, the DJ’s too loud, and every executive in the building is suddenly pretending they know how to smile. Branded lights wash the walls in soft pink and champagne gold, as if Marketing got drunk and decided to decorate. There’s a giant looping projection of Ningning from the campaign—slow-motion hair flip, garter straps, a wink that probably boosted Q4 by three percentage points. Screens along the bar alternate between sales graphs and behind-the-scenes footage, as if the company’s trying to prove that capitalism and thirst traps can, in fact, coexist.

Everywhere you look, people are congratulating themselves.

“Historic numbers.”

“Unprecedented engagement.”

“Great work, team.”

Which is hilarious, because as far as you can tell, 90% of the lift came from Ningning’s surprisingly photogenic butt cheeks and Winter’s willingness to weaponize lingerie.

Speaking of Ningning, she’s the center of gravity, obviously.

She’s wearing a navy bodycon lounge dress from the new line—a soft-looking knit that has absolutely zero interest in subtlety. It clings to her like it has a personal vendetta against modesty, the neckline dipping low enough that several shareholders have forgotten their own names.

She’s everywhere—laughing with the CEO, letting a senior partner kiss her on both cheeks, draping herself against the photo wall with her leg popped for the cameras. Every time you glance up, it’s her on the screens and her in the room. It’s like being trapped inside an ad campaign and a slow-motion car crash at once.

Winter is the other star of the night, even if no one says it to her face.

She’s in a long white dress with a slit that communicates “I will literally destroy you” more than “cocktail attire.” People approach her cautiously, like she might revoke their health insurance if they mispronounce her title.

“The creative direction was genius.”

“You really elevated the brand.”

“You must be so proud.”

She nods, smiles just enough, eyes already scanning for the next threat. She’s the architect of the whole circus and also the one person who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

You’re somewhere in the middle of this ecosystem, technically “on duty” but with nothing to do once the speeches end, so you hover by the second bar, where the bartenders don’t care who you are and the expectations are non-existent.

“Are you hiding from me?” Ningning asks, suddenly materializing at your elbow like she teleports when attention is low.

You look over. Up close, the dress is even more ridiculous. The soft navy knit clings to her like it was steamed onto her body.

“Where can I even hide?” you say, quickly looking up. “You’re on every single screen here.”

She beams, tossing her hair. The knit of the dress shifts with the movement in a way that ought to be illegal.

“What can I say?” She exhales. “I’m the people’s lingerie.”

“That’s… not how that phrase works.”

“Sure it is,” she hums. “The shareholders were just telling me how ‘empowered’ they feel when I bend over.”

You make a face. “Gross.”

She seems completely unbothered. “They signed the bonus checks while staring at my chest, so I’m willing to call it a fair exchange.”

Speaking of chest, your eyes are dragged down again before you can stop them. The fabric is pulled tight over a frankly impressive curve, and at this distance, the outlines of her nipples beneath the fabric are impossible to unsee.

“You keep looking,” she says, smirking. “Miss me that much? Do we need a round two?”

“I’m just doing quality control,” you say, clearing your throat. “For the brand.”

“And how does the brand score?”

“Indecent.”

Two men in suits you recognize from the quarterly shareholder Zoom drift over, drinks in hand, faces already flushed. Ningning’s radar goes off instantly.

“Mr. Han, Mr. Lee,” she sings, turning toward them with a smile that could melt steel. “You made it!”

Behind them, a small cluster forms around another woman.

Karina.

You don’t see her right away because she doesn’t shout for attention the way Ningning does. But once you do, it’s impossible to stop seeing her.

She’s in a black dress—not flashy, not overly tight, but cut to flatter in all the exact ways that make people look twice. The neckline is a little higher than Ningning’s, but the fabric molds over her chest in a way that makes you understand what Ningning meant when she called her “stacked” the other day. The blazer she usually hides behind is gone; there’s no sweater, no slouch, just curves and clean lines and a quiet confidence that pulls people in.

Two shareholders break away from their group and beeline toward her like metal filings to a magnet. They hover for half a second—waiting, positioning—then dive in with their pre-approved compliments.

“Jimin-ssi, your work with the silhouettes is incredible.”

“The cuts were so fresh, really elevated the whole line.”

She smiles, genuinely pleased. “Thank you,” she says. “The team did a lot of the heavy lifting. I just pointed at things.”

“You’re underselling yourself,” one of the men says, leaning in. “This company’s future is very bright now that you’re here.”

Karina laughs politely, eyes crinkling at the corners. Expressions and professionalism you’ve never seen in the break room. She’s good at this, you realize. No seduction. No innuendos. Just charm—clean, effortless charm, the kind that makes people behave better around her without knowing why.

“You see what I mean?” Ningning murmurs, suddenly back at your side. “She’s stupid hot.”

“Who?”

She gives you a look. “Who?” she repeats. “The human hourglass in the Celine dress, that’s who. Look at her.”

You do. And yeah. Up here, with the blazer off and the neckline doing God’s work, it’s harder to pretend you didn’t notice.

“She’s really pretty, isn’t she?” you say, unable to tear your eyes away from her smile.

“She’s gorgeous,” Ningning says with a mournful sigh. “Unfortunately, God gave her personality and tits. Completely unfair. You really didn’t clock the boobs? Even a little?”

You look again. At the way the dress dips, at the way the fabric stretches, at the way one of the shareholders keeps accidentally dropping his gaze.

“She’s been wearing sweaters the whole time,” you mutter. “How was I supposed to know what was going on under there?”

Ningning shakes her head. “You’re so unobservant. You stare at my ass like it’s going to vanish, but you missed that?”

You turn to her quicker than lightning. “First of all, I don’t stare at your ass,” you say, lying through your teeth. “Second, I was too busy dying. And she was giving me tea, not HR violations.”

“Well, that body is also giving ‘tea’.”

Before you can retort, Karina breaks away from her cluster and heads your direction. You look at her—at the steady way she meets your eyes, even in a room full of people who technically matter more, while the shareholders watch her go like they just saw their stock dip.

“There you are,” she says, taking the spot at your elbow so seamlessly you feel the warmth of her shoulder before you process her voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She slides a champagne flute into your hand. It’s heavier than the ones at the regular bar—real glass, not whatever the interns get.

“This is contraband,” you say in a hush. “The good stuff is supposed to be for executives only.”

“Perks of sitting at the big boys’ table,” she says, clinking her glass against yours. “I stole one for you.”

“Criminal. I’m telling Finance.”

“Go ahead,” she says. “They were already staring at me for grabbing two.”

You take a sip. It’s dangerously smooth. Worlds away from the fizzy sugar you had before.

You take a deep breath after savoring it. “If you keep giving me things above my pay grade, I’m going to start asking for health insurance and fair working conditions.”

“I’m not a magician,” she says, holding back a laugh. “Just a designer.”

“You know,” you say, eyeing her over the rim as you sip. “I really thought ‘new designer’ meant someone who would be asking me where the bathrooms are. Not someone who can bully my boss’ boss in public.”

“I didn’t bully her,” she says, raising a brow. “I just reminded everyone that shared folders exist.”

“You also said ‘let’s call our employees by their names.’ I’m pretty sure I saw three executives spontaneously grow consciences.”

She almost chokes. “Was that too much?”

“It was so incredibly hot,” you say before your brain can stop you.

Her eyes widen. You feel your face heat.

“I-I mean,” you backpedal, “professionally. Ethically hot. HR-safe hot.”

“Right,” she says, eyes darting away for a second. “Well, don’t get used to it. I might yell at you someday over a hemline or something.”

“I’ve never looked forward to being yelled at so much before.”

Across the room, Winter laughs at something someone says. When her gaze swings your way, it lingers a fraction too long. On you. On Karina. On the comfortable angle of your bodies at the bar.

You pretend you don’t notice. You’re not sure you succeed.

“So.” You lean against the bar, turning back to Karina. “Most people lead with the ‘I’m senior leadership’ thing. Why didn’t you?”

She swirls her champagne, watching the bubbles climb. “Would you have talked to me the same way if I did?”

You think about that. The first night with tea. The jokes. The way you told her Winter chews interns for brunch without realizing she’d be in the room for the next feeding.

“Yeah, probably not,” you admit.

“Exactly,” she says triumphantly. “I liked that you thought I was just another tired designer.”

“You are another tired designer. The title just means you get nicer snacks.”

“Joke’s on you,” she says, taking one last sip. “I have the same vending machines you do.”

You let yourself enjoy it for a moment—the music thrumming through the floor, the champagne warming your throat, the surreal fact that someone with Head of Design on her badge is standing beside you like you belong in the same zip code.

You’re mid-sip when Ningning bumps your shoulder with hers and nods toward the far side of the room. “She’s coming,” she murmurs.

You don’t need to ask who. Winter moves through the crowd in that way she has—parting people without touching them, every line of her body screaming “I hate you all” even when she’s smiling.

Karina exhales. Ningning’s grin widens. You resist the urge to hide behind the bar.

Winter stops in front of your little cluster, eyes sweeping once, taking everything in: Ningning in the company dress, hip cocked against the bar; Karina close enough that your sleeves are almost touching; you with a glass of the good champagne you definitely didn’t pour yourself.

“Congratulations,” Karina says first, because she’s either brave or suicidal. “The numbers were incredible. You really outdid yourself.”

Winter’s mouth curves, barely. “The work was adequate. The results were better.”

It almost sounds like praise, if you squint.

“And Ning,” Karina adds, nodding toward her. “You carried the whole campaign on your shoulders.”

“And other parts,” Ningning says, looking down at her own chest. “But thank you.”

Winter doesn’t dignify that with a response. Her eyes land on you instead.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asks, glancing down at your almost-empty glass. “You seem pretty relaxed considering how far behind you were this morning.”

You consider your options. You could lie. You could make a joke. You could say “yes” and see what happens.

“I didn’t realize off-hours counted as performance reviews now,” you say before your brain can stop you.

Karina shifts subtly, sensing the edge in Winter’s face. “He’s been running non-stop all week,” she says lightly. “We can spare him one decent drink.”

Winter’s gaze slices into her. “Head of Design has thoughts on resource allocation now?” she asks, coldly.

“I have thoughts on not treating human beings like workhorses,” Karina fires back.

Ningning lets out a low, delighted sound. “God, I love this show,” she murmurs.

You should probably shut up. You don’t.

“To clarify, does standing by the bar during a party violate some kind of department policy?” you add, trying to break the tension, but possibly adding more instead.

Winter’s eyes narrow. You continue like a moron.

“Should I cc you on my drink choices too, or just send a weekly summary? Actually, let me go back to my desk so you can grade my breathing—”

“Enough,” she says, silencing you without even raising her voice.

She turns fully to you. Up close, you can see the faint smudges under her eyes, the tightness at the corners of her mouth. She looks like she’s held together by willpower and caffeine and the thin thread of control she refuses to drop.

“Come with me,” she says.

You don’t know if Karina put something in the drink, but your brain refuses to function.

“Why?” you ask with the defiance of every previously fallen intern’s spite. “We’re having fun here. Well—we were, before you came along.”

“If you have enough energy to stand here and mouth off,” she says softly, “you have enough energy to have a real conversation in private.”

You know that tone. It’s not the one she uses in meetings. It’s the one from her office, right before she tells you to kneel.

A weak laugh squeezes itself out of your mouth. “Why don’t you just ask me to kneel in front of everyone? Bet you’re dying to.”

Ningning chokes on a bubble. Karina’s eyes widen.

Winter’s expression doesn’t move, but something flares in her gaze. “Do you think this is a joke?”

You’re tired. You’re annoyed. You’re buoyed by champagne and the memory of Karina saying your work was “solid” in front of people who actually matter.

“Do you?” you counter. “You’ve been pretending I don’t exist all week unless it’s to remind me I’m replaceable.”

Karina shifts, clearly about to step in again. “Okay,” she says quickly. “Maybe we can not do this here—”

“No,” Winter says, cutting her off without looking. “He wants to talk. Let him.”

Her eyes are on you, sharp and dangerous. The party buzzes around you like you’re under glass.

“I don’t want to say anything,” you say, almost slurring from either the alcohol or subconscious fear. “I want to not get my head bitten off in front of the entire company for doing my job.”

There it is. Out loud. You feel Ningning go very still beside you, like a cat scenting blood.

For a split second, Winter looks like you slapped her. Then it’s gone, replaced by that cold, polished mask.

“Come with me,” she says again, quieter this time.

You open your mouth. “Hey, I’m technically still—”

“Now!” she growls.

You glance at Karina. Her fingers are tight on her glass. Ningning’s eyes are bright, hungry, already replaying this scene in her head for later. You’re surprised she’s not recording it.

You set your flute down on the bar.

“Yes, Ms. Kim,” you say, clenching your jaw.

Winter turns and walks toward the elevators without checking if you follow. You follow anyway, leaving behind the branded lights, the champagne, and the only two women who have a chance of saving you from getting devoured—walking instead after the one who’s made a habit of it.

—

Winter doesn’t speak in the elevator.

She just jabs the button, taps her keycard, and stares at the closed doors like she’s considering prying them open with her bare hands. The muffled bass from the party fades as you climb, leaving only the cable hum and the quiet, controlled sound of her breathing.

You don’t have a single clue where she’s taking you, but you keep your mouth shut. It’s just survival instinct at this point.

The doors slide open onto the executive floor—somewhere you’ve never been before because it was at least ten leagues above your pay grade. She walks down the hall without looking back once.

But she doesn’t need to. You follow.

The door unlocks with a soft beep. Warm light spills out over polished wood, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows with the city glittering beneath like a screensaver. She steps inside. You do the same. The door closes behind you with a click that feels a lot like “no witnesses this time.”

“Do you think you’re funny?” she asks, turning around.

You shrug. “Sometimes, but I guess not tonight and not to you.”

Her expression doesn’t move. “You sure had a lot to say downstairs. In front of my staff. In front of Jimin.”

There it is. The real crime.

“Ah,” you say, folding your arms. “So this is really about Yoo Jimin.”

Her eyes flash. “You embarrassed me in that meeting. And then you let her turn it into a stage.”

You huff a laugh. “For the record, you tried to throw me under the bus for something that wasn’t my fault. She just told you that you were wrong.”

She steps in, close enough that you can smell both the alcohol and her expensive perfume that you’ve almost forgotten. “You think she did that for you? Because she cares about your little feelings? Guess what, she doesn’t. She just likes having something to save.”

“And you like having something to break. So I guess everybody wins.”

Her eyes flare. For a second you think she’s going to slap you, or fire you, or both.

“You think I don’t see it?” she says, exhaling sharply. “Her bringing you tea. Laughing at your jokes. She uses you to make herself look better than me. She gets to be the sweet little angel, the one who ‘cares’ about the overworked intern. And I get to be the villain who chews you up.”

“You are the villain who chews me up,” you say, leaning forward. “You treat me like dirt and now you’re offended someone else noticed I exist and decided not to wipe their shoes on me. That’s not on her. That’s on you.”

Her gaze sharpens dangerously. “Watch your mouth.”

“You give me panic attacks and after-hour emails, she tells me I look tired and hands me ibuprofen. It’s a bold new concept called ‘basic human decency.’ You should try it sometime.”

She lets out a loud scoff. “So you’re upset I don’t coddle you like a child. That’s what this is?”

“I’m upset you act like I’m disposable and then lose your mind when someone treats me like I’m not. Pick a damn lane and stay in it.”

Her nostrils flare. “What on earth made you think you can talk to me like this? Did Jimin—”

“Stop blaming Jimin for everything, Minjeong.” Her name stops her like a hand to the chest and her shoulders stiffen. “Take some accountability for the way you treat others. If you’re so offended that she’s nice to me, maybe that says something about you.”

“Did you just call me by my first name?” she asks, eye twitching. “I’m still your boss no matter how many glasses of champagne she hands you.”

“It’s better than not having a name at all.”

She closes the distance further, heels silent on the carpet. “Do you think she’s pretty?” she asks, voice dropping.

You blink. “What?”

“It’s a simple question.” She tilts her chin, watching you like she’s ready to kill you for answering wrong.

You do anyway. “Of course I think she’s pretty, who doesn’t?”

Her eyes narrow. “Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

“What is your problem right now? Seriously.”

Something breaks on her face. Her hand suddenly shoots out, fisting in the front of your shirt.

“You are mine!” she hisses, yanking you towards her. “You work for me. Not her. Not this company. Me.”

Your pulse spikes, hard. “So that’s what this is about? You’re jealous of your perfect cousin?”

“I’m not jealous,” she snaps, too quickly. “I hate her. There’s a difference.”

“You hate her so much you’re furious that she defended me. You hate her so much you walked across a party because we were talking. You hate her so much you dragged me up here instead of yelling at her.”

Her jaw flexes subtly. “I’m not going to yell at her. That’s exactly what she wants. To prove she can get under my skin. To show she can take my toys away when I play too rough.”

You stare. “I’m a toy now?”

She leans in, so close your noses almost brush. “Since when were you not?”

You want to argue. You really do. But your body has already decided it knows this script better—the heat whipping through you, the sharp, horrible exhilaration of being the outlet for all the things she refuses to feel anywhere else.

So you say nothing and watch as the frustration runs hot through her annoyingly pretty face.

“What the hell do you want, Winter?” you ask, breaths getting heavy.

“You don’t need to know. I’ll get it regardless. I always do.”

You know you should be annoyed, but you also wish you could kiss her again so badly. Which is insane, because five minutes ago you were composing a heartfelt resignation letter to your dignity. But something about the way her lips twitch as if she's constantly holding back emotion, or the way her eyes look like they're blocking others from seeing inside her, or even the way her tiny shoulders look like they have to carry the weight of the world, constantly draws you in.

You hate it. But deep inside your soul, you're just so attracted to her.

“You don’t get to run to her after this. You don’t get to let her pat your hand and tell you I’m unfair,” she says, breath tickling your face, leaving remnants of champagne. “You’ll walk back to that party like nothing happened and remember who you answer to.”

You scoff. “And who’s that, exactly?”

“Kneel and I’ll remind you,” she says, practically exhaling into your mouth.

Your heart is hammering, your head still full of rooftop lights and champagne and the sound of Karina saying your name in a room where you weren’t supposed to have one. The whiplash between that and this makes you feel a little sick, a little high.

Winter watches you carefully, lips slowly parting, possibly against her will. Her eyes flash down to your mouth and then back up.

“No,” you say, firmly. “I’m not kneeling to you anymore.”

Her fingers slide into your hair, tilting your face up to hers just enough to make your scalp tingle. “Are you disobeying a direct order?”

Your conviction doesn’t falter this time, even if your body is one step away from folding. “I’m not kneeling again,” you repeat.

Without warning, she kisses you.

It’s not gentle; it’s sharp, filthy, and claiming, her teeth catching your lower lip like she wants to bite the word no out of your mouth.

Her hand in your hair tightens, nails scraping over your scalp as she drags your head exactly where she wants it, angling you so she can deepen the kiss, and swallow whatever protest you had lined up.

You wrap your fingers around her waist as her tongue slides against yours—hot, possessive, tasting like alcohol and the last of her patience—and every annoyed sound she makes goes straight through your chest.

“Kneel.” It’s a growl against your lips, a command breathed right into your soul, like the word alone should be able to drop you.

But you still refuse.

Your hands drop from her waist to the backs of her thighs, fingers digging into expensive fabric and bare skin as you haul her clean off the ground. She gasps into the kiss, arms flying around your shoulders on instinct, but you don’t give her room to regroup; you keep your mouth sealed to hers, walking her blind across the room. Her legs clamp around your hips, heels biting into the backs of your thighs, dress hiking up as you carry her.

You fall onto the couch with her in your lap, her practically weightless body slamming down over your thighs. The sudden change in angle tears a rough gasp out of both of you, mouths breaking for a split second before she surges back in, chasing your lips, one hand fisting your collar to drag you up to meet her.

Her knees plant on either side of your hips, dress already rucked up to her waist from the way you carried her, and she kisses you like she’s furious you dared to move her and even more furious at how much she likes it.

That’s when she breaks the kiss, just far enough to fix the situation. She stares down at you, eyes dark, hair a little mussed, lipstick smeared at the edges, and then her hands go to her waist.

Without a word, she drags the dress up—over her hips, over the flat line of her stomach, over her ribs. The fabric snags briefly on her bra; she huffs, yanks harder, then peels it over her head and flings it blindly aside.

You forget how to breathe for a second.

She’s in the new lingerie line. Of course she is. All white, barely-there bra, high-cut panties that disappear into the curve of her hips, straps a shade lighter than her skin so it all looks like negative space and implication. The kind of set you’ve spent weeks logging, steaming, packing onto models who don’t come close to looking like this in it.

The lace lies flat and perfect over her, cups cut just low enough that your brain short-circuits trying to decide where to look.

“If you won’t get on your knees, then I guess I’ll have to,” she says, more annoyed than sexy, but for some reason it gives the same effect with her.

In one clean, controlled motion, she’s the one kneeling in front of you.

As with everything she does, her fingers are efficient and practiced: buckle, button, zipper. Cool air hits you; your body makes its usual terrible decision. She frees you with a rough sort of care, hand wrapping around you like she’s reclaiming something.

You manage one shaky inhale before she leans in and takes you into her mouth. No warning, no preamble. Just heat and wet and the sensual slide of her lips around you.

“Still care about her fucking tea?” she asks, voice low and heavy.

Yeah, fuck the tea.

You groan, hand flying to her shoulder, but she knocks it away without looking up, nails biting into your hips instead to pin you where she wants you. Her rhythm is steady, punishing, exactly how you imagined it to be.

Her mouth works you deeper, throat flexing, breath huffing hot against your skin when she pulls back for air. Spit and pre-cum cover her chin, her lipstick starting to smear at the edges. She doesn’t slow down.

The couch digs into the backs of your legs as your knees threaten to give. You brace one hand on the armrests, the other fisting uselessly at your side while she sets the pace, all control and no mercy. Her name practically gets strangled out of you, hips jerking despite the way her fingers dig in to keep you still.

You can’t take it anymore.

Your hands go to her hips before you’ve even decided to move. You spin her, push, and she hits the couch, and you drop to your knees between hers.

“Oh, now you want to kneel,” she pants, grabbing your hair.

“I don’t understand you why you’re like this,” you say, breath hot against the inside of her thigh. “You literally drive me insane.”

“The feeling is mutual. Stupid intern.”

Then you drag her panties aside and put your mouth on her like you’ve been thinking about since the first time she sat on the edge of that office desk and yanked your hair—ready to remind her exactly what you bring to the table when you’re not on your knees for her, but making her come apart on the couch instead.

“I missed this,” you say, letting her hot, familiar scent fill you up.

“I don’t need your commentary,” she growls, fisting your hair harder, pushing it down into her. “Apologize with your mouth for being such a nuisance in my life.”

It isn’t until your tongue is on her that she stops trying to talk.

She tastes like expensive perfume and the kind of stress no one else makes her admit to. You hook your hands under her thighs and drag her closer to the edge of the couch until her knees are bracketing your shoulders, her heels digging into your back.

“You’re mine—” she starts, breath catching as you flatten your tongue and drag it slow from bottom to top. “Don’t ever think about doing this to her. Do you understand? You’re mine! All mine!”

“Still a jealous little brat, even when your legs are wrapped around my neck.” You laugh into her, then seal your mouth around her clit and suck.

Her hand slams into the back of your head like she can take it back. “Shut up,” she hisses. “Just stop fucking talking and do the one thing that you’re decent at.”

So you do.

You work her with the same ugly determination she brought to her knees, teasing circles and quick flicks until her hips are grinding up against your face, the careful control gone from her voice.

“You always have to have the last word,” you murmur against her, slipping two fingers inside, crooking just right. “Nice to finally have you speechless.”

“Who says I’m speechless,” she gasps, even as her thighs tremble. “You’re just—ah—”

You curl your fingers inside her, drag your tongue in tight, focused patterns, and she breaks that sentence in half with a helpless, bitten-off sound that absolutely wasn’t meant to escape. Her hand tightens in your hair, and she pushes your head back, causing you to fall onto the rug behind you.

You barely have time to think before she’s climbing into your lap, swinging a leg over, settling down on you with zero hesitation.

“So impatient,” you manage, hands gripping her hips.

“You’re slow,” she says, rolling her hips to get you where she wants you. “As usual.”

You guide yourself to her entrance, and she sinks down in one smooth glide, taking you all the way in. Her mouth drops open for a second, eyes fluttering, then she collects herself, fingers digging into your shoulders for balance.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You’re so—”

“I know,” she cuts in, and starts to move.

It’s not graceful. It’s better than that. She rides you like she has something to prove—short, sharp motions at first, testing the angle, then longer, deeper grinds as she finds the spot that makes both of you see static. You let her set the pace, hands roaming over her, small and fierce and bare to the waist, the strap of her bra sliding all the way down now.

Your thumbs brush her ribs, then higher, over the line of her sides, up to her breasts. She tenses, then shudders when you roll your thumbs over her nipples.

“You look so good in our stuff,” you say, voice rough. “Should’ve put yourself in the campaign instead of Ning.”

“I said shut up,” she says, breathless now, rhythm stuttering as the angle hits her just right. “Just shut up and keep fucking me. You literally have one job.”

You oblige.

You plant your feet, grip her ass, and start driving up into her, meeting every downward thrust with your own. The couch complains; you don’t care. Her hands scramble for purchase, one landing on the back of the couch, the other clutching at your shirt, riding you hard enough that you know you’ll feel it in your knees tomorrow.

It’s still not enough.

On one particularly sharp drop, you stand.

She yelps, arms flying around your neck on instinct as you pick her up, keep her wrapped around you, stay buried in her. Her legs clamp around your waist. You get your balance, then slam her back against the wall.

“I can’t believe you called her perfect,” she said, burying her face onto your neck. “How dare you.”

“Why are you so jealous? It’s so off-brand.” You adjust your grip, and she makes a small, indignant noise that has nothing to do with anger.

“Because you’ve never called me that, ever.”

You slowly rock her small body, letting gravity do the work for you as she sinks over your cock. “And you’ve never called me by my name unless you’re about to cum.”

Her eyes flutter, lips parting in a way that makes you want to scream. “Then you know what to do if you want to hear it again.”

“Okay. Scream it this time.”

She loses whatever comeback she had. The rhythm is messy now—more about impact than precision—but the way she tightens around you with every push is enough. Her nails rake the back of your neck, her breath hot against your ear, little broken sounds slipping out no matter how hard she tries to swallow them.

When your arms start to tremble, you drag her back to the couch, half-dropping, half-laying her down. She lands on her back, legs still around you, hair a halo of chaos on the cushion.

You don’t give her time to regroup. You hook her knees up, plant them by your hips, and slide back in, pressing her down into the couch, pinning her there.

Missionary is supposed to be sweet. This isn’t. It’s leverage and eye contact and the obscene sound of skin on skin as you fuck her, deep and relentless, watching every flicker cross her face.

“Admit it,” you murmur, because you can’t help it. “You’re jealous that Jimin got close to me.”

She glares, which would probably work better if her voice didn’t catch when you angle your hips. “Shut up,” she says, fingers digging into your shoulders. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, which is saying a lot.”

“How about this,” you say, thrusting harder. “If you cum in the next thirty seconds, you admit that I’m right.”

“There’s no wa—aah!”

Her moans fill the room as you ravage her roughly, angling her legs so that you thrust right into her spot over and over while saliva drips down the side of her lips.

“I’m still not—jea—”

She lets out a loud cry, sharper this time, almost choking on it—arms flying around your neck, back arching, walls clenching around you hard enough that it drags you right to the edge with her.

You ride it out, teeth gritted, every clench of her around you yanking you closer until there’s no room left for words, just the sound of her gasping against your ear.

At the last second you drag yourself out of her, hand wrapping around your cock as you stroke once, twice, and then erupt all over her.

She moans as it hits the flat of her stomach first, then higher—messy streaks across her ribs, beading on the delicate white lace of the bra where it crosses her skin. Some of it catches the edge of the panties, the thin ivory straps now vanishing into the wet shine of her arousal-soaked crotch.

You watch, dazed, as it starts to smear with every shaky breath she takes, glistening faintly where it blends into her skin and the once pristine white fabric. It’s so beautiful. It’s so hot. It’s so filthy. And entire your doing.

Her eyes flick down, taking in the mess, then back up at you—cheeks flushed, hair ruined, chest still heaving.

She looks offended by how much she clearly likes the sight of herself being completely covered in sweat and cum.

“I’m not jealous of her,” she pants.

—

They start paying attention to her the second you walk in.

The bakery’s done up like a Christmas movie set—gold ribbon on the tree, fairy lights in the windows, All I Want for Christmas at a legally dangerous volume—and Karina walks through it in a navy coat and a cream scarf like central casting finally nailed “dream girl.” Her nose is pink from the cold, hair tucked into the collar, cheeks flushed.

The guy at the espresso machine visibly forgets how to function.

“What are we thinking?” she asks, palms pressed to the glass case like a kid. “Cakes? Tarts? Full-scale sugar coma?”

“It’s a prep session, not a wake,” you remind her.

“Give it time,” she says, examining all her options behind the glass. “If we’re going to watch Minjeong juggle three decks and six executives, everyone deserves last-meal rights.”

She rattles off an order that sounds less like dessert and more like supply-chain abuse.

“Hi! We’ll take six of the chocolate hazelnut cakes, four of the strawberry shortcakes, two of those ridiculously cute mini yule logs, all the brownies, and ooh—” she squints “—those Santa things.”

The cashier blinks, then rings it up. When he reads the total, a small, quiet part of your soul ascends.

Karina just taps her card. “Company morale. Maybe I’ll expense it under ‘preventing arson.’”

“You know there are only like twelve people on our floor. This is enough to feed Legal and half of Sales.”

“Good,” she says, smiling. “Legal’s depressed. They deserve frosting.”

The barista hands over your coffees and, with way more focus than he ever gives you, leans on the counter toward her.

“E-excuse,” he says, cheeks going pink, “do you—um—have Instagram? I’d love to, like, tag you?”

Karina blinks, surprised, then laughs. “Sure,” she says, reciting her handle while he types it into his phone like it’s a password to a better life.

The cashier slides you six boxes, as if “pack mule” really was written on your forehead, along with the receipt. There’s a phone number scrawled at the bottom and a little smiley face.

You stare. “Wow. Must be nice being the main character.”

“What?” she asks, genuinely confused.

You flip the receipt so she can see. “You just pulled two phone numbers with a pastry order,” you say, pointing at it. “I don’t even get my name spelled right.”

She makes a face and crumples the slip without looking at it. “He got my Instagram,” she says. “You got brownies. You’re clearly winning.”

“Yeah. I’ll take my consolation latte.”

Outside, the air bites. Her breath fogs white; the lights in the street trees wrap everything in that fake warm glow that doesn’t actually do anything about the temperature.

She tucks the scarf closer around her throat. It frames her face in a way that makes it impossible not to stare for a second too long.

“You’re doing it again,” she says through the wool.

“Doing what?” you ask, shifting the giant cake box in your arms.

“Staring like you’re deciding which pastry I am.” She kicks a bit of snow to you. “For the record, I refuse to be the Santa tart.”

“And you’re buying this much sugar for people who are going to forget to say thank you,” you say, trying your best not to slip and die. “So we’re both a little weird.”

She shrugs, boots crunching over ice. “That’s not the point. They’ve been working nonstop. Sugar helps. If they remember I brought it, great. If not, they’re still less likely to cry in the bathroom.”

You watch her for a second as she talks—how she keeps mental track of who’s burnt out, whose kid was sick this week, who hasn’t left their desk since Monday. The way she spends her own goodwill like it’s inexhaustible, on coffee runs and late-night tea and buying half a bakery because the employees looked pale.

“You really like taking care of people,” you say. It slips out before you can edit it, even though there isn’t really another way to say it.

She glances over, surprised, then a little self-conscious. “I like when people don’t implode. It’s selfish, actually. Implosions are messy.”

“Sure. That’s why you remembered the copywriter’s dairy allergy and ordered a separate cake she can eat.”

She scrunches her face. “Don’t analyze me. You’re supposed to be my sarcastic sidekick, not my therapist.”

“I can multitask,” you say. “Sarcasm and observation. Very high skill set.”

“You’re in a better mood today. Did something explode in Production? Did someone finally punch the printer?”

“Maybe I’m just high on cake fumes.”

“Or maybe,” she says, eyeing you, “someone let you sleep for more than four hours.”

“Don’t spread rumors. People will expect this level of charm and I cannot deliver.”

“You underestimate yourself,” she says lightly. “You’re very charming when you’re not actively dying.”

“Wow,” you say. “Write that in my performance review.”

“I would if Minjeong would let me fill out your review.” She pretends to think. “Pros: actually reads briefs, shockingly competent, above-average sarcasm, good taste in cake, doesn’t run away when I ramble about color theory,” she says, pretending to count on her fingers. “Cons: tends to martyr himself, says ‘it’s fine’ when it’s very much not, refuses to tell me when his boss abuses him, underestimates how likable he is.”

You open your mouth, ready to joke it off again, but the look she gives you—bright, earnest, a little fluttery—makes the joke die in your throat.

You push through the revolving doors back into the lobby on a wave of warm, perfumed air and corporate Christmas.

The giant tree dominates the space—silver ornaments, white lights, brand logo glowing where the star should be. It would be pretty if it didn’t feel like an ad.

You’re halfway through composing a complaint about it when your brain catches up to what your eyes are seeing.

Winter, dead center of the marble floor.

Facing her: a man with perfectly styled hair and a smile that you hate already.

“What are you doing here?” Winter asks, her voice bouncing softly off the stone.

You and Karina slow automatically, the box suddenly very, very heavy in your hands.

“I came to see you,” he says, simply. “Like you wanted.”

Your stomach sours. Winter doesn’t move, face blank in that way you now know means she’s feeling too much. The tacky tree sparkles behind her, logo burning above her head like some sick halo.

“Why?” she asks, eyes trembling like the heat beneath her skin was melting her mask.

You stand there in the lobby with a ridiculous amount of Christmas sweets, next to the one person who keeps you sane, watching the man who taught Winter how to weaponize everything step neatly back into her life.

He smiles again. “Because I love you, Minjeongie.”