Chapter 3: 'You fucked her, didn't you?' Ji-hoon grins as Ryul avoids his gaze, his knuckles whitening around his tattoo gun. The air crackles with unspoken promises of what will happen when the florist returns tonight.
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Sunlight, cruel and sharp, cut through the gaps in the blackout blinds of Ryul’s small apartment above the studio. It illuminated the dust motes dancing over the rumpled sheets, the empty space beside him, and the vivid, purple-black bruises on his shoulders. He lay on his stomach, face buried in a pillow that still smelled of her—jasmine from her shop, the clean salt of her sweat, something uniquely her.
The memories of the night before played behind his closed eyelids in a raw, sensory loop. The way she’d ridden him on this very bed, her back arched, her hands braced on his chest as she took him deep, controlling the rhythm with a fearless hunger that had shocked him. The choked, broken sound she’d made when he’d flipped her onto her hands and knees and fucked her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other splayed possessively over the peony on her ankle. The whispered, filthy things he’d poured into her ear in the dark. The way she’d bitten down on his shoulder to stifle her scream when she came the second time.
He hadn’t slept.
Every nerve ending still felt scorched, alive in a way that was unfamiliar and terrifying. The quiet of his apartment, usually a sanctuary, felt oppressive. He could still feel the ghost of her body against his, the exact shape of her heat.
With a grunt, he pushed himself up. The sheet pooled around his waist. He ran a hand through his black and blonde hair, his fingers catching in the knots. The silence was a physical weight. He needed the noise of the shop, the sterile focus of his work. Ink and skin. Something he could control.
Downstairs, the studio was preternaturally still. The morning light struggled through the tinted windows, casting the room in a deep gray gloom. He started the coffee machine, its gurgle a welcome intrusion. He was scrubbing his hands at the deep sink when the back door creaked open.
Ji-hoon whistled as he entered, the sound cutting off abruptly. “Whoa.Early bird. Or did the worm never sleep?”
Ryul didn’t turn around. He scrubbed harder, the citrus-scented soap foaming up to his elbows. “Got things to set up.”
“Right.” Ji-hoon’s voice was closer now. Teasing.Probing. “Big day? New client? Or just… restless?”
Ryul reached for a paper towel, tearing it off the roll with more force than necessary. He finally turned, leaning back against the steel sink. Ji-hoon was grinning, but his eyes were sharp, missing nothing. They flickered over Ryul’s face, then down. They lingered on his neck, his bare shoulders exposed by his tank top.
The grin faded into something more knowing, more serious. Ji-hoon took a slow step forward, his head tilted. “Jesus, Ryul.”
Ryul felt a flare of defensiveness. “What?”
“Your shoulders, man.” Ji-hoon let out a low whistle, this one devoid of humor. “She mark you up good.” He was close enough now for Ryul to see the genuine curiosity in his gaze. “And you smell like a fucking flower shop.” He sniffed the air dramatically. “Jasmine.And sex. A lot of sex.”
“Fuck off, Ji-hoon.”
“No, I’m serious.” Ji-hoon crossed his arms, his usual levity gone. “What happened after I left yesterday? You two just… sat in the back and talked about the color wheel?”
Ryul remained silent, his jaw set. The memory of her bare skin under the bright lights, the taste of her, the feeling of her clenching around him—it was a fresh brand on his mind. He couldn’t articulate it. It was too vast.
Ji-hoon watched him for a long moment. He saw the tension in Ryul’s frame, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his friend was holding himself as if his skin were too tight. He saw the barely-contained chaos beneath the usual stoic calm.
“You look like you got hit by a truck,” Ji-hoon said quietly. “A beautiful, flower-selling truck.”
“She left before dawn,” Ryul said finally, the words ripped from him. He looked away, focusing on a stencil taped to the far wall. “Said she had early deliveries.”
“And you just… let her go?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Ryul’s voice was gravel. “Chain her to the bed?”
“Maybe start with ‘stay’,” Ji-hoon offered, his tone softer now. “Or ‘last night wasn’t a mistake’. Or even a fucking ‘good morning’. Something, man. You’re standing here smelling like her pussy and looking like a ghost.”
Ryul pushed off the sink, needing to move. He paced the narrow space between the counters, his bare feet silent on the cool tile. “It wasn’t just sex.” The admission felt dangerous. “It was… I don’t know what it was.”
Ji-hoon leaned against the reception desk, letting him talk. “It was inevitable. I’ve been watching you orbit each other for months. The tension was so thick you could carve it.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Ryul muttered, more to himself than to Ji-hoon.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it can’t.” Ryul stopped, facing his friend. The raw truth was in his eyes. “You know what I am. You know what my life is. It’s this shop. It’s ink and silence and fucking up. She’s… sunlight and flowers and order. It was a collision. Not a merger.”
Ji-hoon scoffed. “Bullshit. You think too much. You had one night—a fucking explosive, bite-mark-leaving night—and you’re already writing the tragedy? Maybe she doesn’t want your sunlight. Maybe she wants your fucking dark.”
Before Ryul could answer, the bell on the front door jingled.
She stood there, silhouetted against the morning street, holding a simple clay pot containing a single, stunning black iris, its velvet petals stark and dramatic. She was back in her own clothes, her hair pulled into a messy knot. She looked unsure, holding the plant like a shield.
Both men froze.
Ji-hoon recovered first. A wide, genuine smile spread across his face. “Speak of the devil. Or the flower goddess. Morning.”
Ryul just stared. Every cell in his body seemed to orient toward her, a silent, painful pull. He saw the slight flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes went straight to him, then darted away, then back. The air in the room became thick, charged with everything unspoken from the night before.
“Morning,” she said, her voice a little rough. She stepped inside, the door closing behind her with a soft click. “I… I wanted to bring this. For the shop. It’s a Black Night iris. They’re… resilient.”
She was lying. It was a peace offering. A bridge.
Ji-hoon glanced from her to Ryul, whose expression had shut down completely, becoming a mask of focused neutrality. The same mask he wore for difficult clients.
“It’s gorgeous,” Ji-hoon said, stepping forward to take the pot from her. “We’ll put it right here. Brighten up our gloomy little cave.” He set it on the reception desk. “I actually have, uh, supplies to inventory. In the back. For a long time.” He gave Ryul a meaningful look that his friend ignored, then slipped through the black curtain, leaving them alone.
The silence stretched, taut and brittle. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space where words should have been.
“You left,” Ryul said finally. The words came out flat, accusatory.
She flinched. “I told you. Deliveries.”
“You left without a word.”
“You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t.”
The truth of it hung between them. He’d been awake, feeling her shift, listening to her dress in the dark, paralyzed by a fear he couldn’t name.
She took a step closer. “I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of this.” She gestured at the space between them. “Of what it meant. Of you.”
Her honesty disarmed him. The mask cracked. “You bit me hard enough to draw blood,” he said, his voice dropping. “But you were scared to say goodbye?”
“It’s easier to be brave in the dark,” she whispered. “When it’s just bodies. Talking is… it makes it real.”
He moved then, closing the distance in two strides. He didn’t touch her. He just stood, invading her space, forcing her to look up at him. He could see the faint smear of violet ink still lingering near her collarbone, a ghost of yesterday’s “accident”. A marker of where this started.
“It is real,” he growled, low and fierce. “You think I let just anyone mark me? You think I fuck like that with everyone?” His hand came up, his thumb brushing over that faint ink stain on her skin. The touch was electric. “You marked me first. Right here. Then you marked me everywhere else.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes were wide, dark pools reflecting his own turmoil. “So what do we do?”
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with a kiss. It wasn't like the desperate, consuming kiss of the day before. This one was slow, deep, and devastatingly deliberate. A claiming, yes, but also a confession. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting coffee and her. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.
When he broke away, they were both breathing hard. "We do this," he said, his forehead resting against hers."However it is. However it fucking falls apart. We do this until there's nothing left."
He pulled her through the curtain into the back room.
This time, there was no pretense, no spilled ink. He pushed her against the cool stainless steel of the supply cabinet, the metal shocking against her back. His mouth was on her neck, sucking a new mark into her skin, a twin to the ones she’d left on him. His hands shoved her shirt up, her jeans open.
"It's not dark now," he muttered against her throat, his fingers finding her already wet and ready for him. He pushed two inside, curling them, making her cry out. "It's daytime. And I'm going to fuck you knowing exactly who you are."
He freed himself from his jeans, his cock springing out, thick and urgent. He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her, pinning her against the cabinet. She wrapped her legs around his waist, bracing herself.
He entered her in one slow, inexorable thrust.
The fullness made her gasp, her head falling back against the cabinet with a soft thud. He was deeper like this, his angle ruthless. He began to move, a hard, driving rhythm that shook the cabinet doors behind her. Each thrust punched a soft, breathy sound from her lips.
"Look at me," he demanded, his voice raw.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his burning gaze. He was watching her face, watching every flinch of pleasure, every uncontrolled spasm.
"See me," he gritted out, pounding into her. "This is me. This is what you get. It's not pretty. It's not sweet. It's this."
"I want this," she choked out, her fingernails digging into his tattooed shoulders, pressing into the fresh bruises. "I want you. Just like this."
Her words shattered his last restraint. A guttural sound ripped from his chest. His pace became frenzied, brutal. The cabinet rattled loudly with their force. He slid a hand between them, his thumb pressing hard circles on her clit. The combined assault was too much, too good.
Her orgasm tore through her silently, a wave of blinding, white-hot pleasure that locked her muscles and stole her voice. She convulsed around him, her inner muscles milking him violently.
It dragged his own release from him. He buried his face in her neck with a muffled roar, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant, rhythmic drip of a tap. He gently lowered her, her legs trembling as her feet found the floor. They stayed pressed together, her forehead against his chest, his arms wrapped around her, holding her up.
From beyond the curtain, they heard Ji-hoon clear his throat loudly, then begin to very conspicuously rattle a box of ink caps.
Neither of them moved.
Ryul’s hand came up, his fingers gently tracing the new bruise on her neck. A mark in the daylight. A promise, or a warning. He didn’t know which yet. All he knew was the collision wasn't over. It had just begun.