Chapter 5: Dangerous Appetites
The restaurant was exactly as Min-ho had promised: a dive, in the best possible way. Tucked down a narrow side street in Itaewon, the signage was a flickering neon hangul that cast a pink glow on the wet pavement. The air inside was thick, wonderfully oppressive, a blanket of garlic, chili, and fermented cabbage. Old K-dramas played silently on a corner TV mounted high on the wall. The booths were indeed red velvet, the fabric worn shiny in patches, and they were small.
Min-ho slid in first, instinctually taking the seat facing the wall, his back to the room. It was an idol’s habit, minimizing exposure. Maria slipped in beside him, her warmth immediate against his arm in the cramped space. Jae, grinning, took the bench opposite them, already scanning the plastic-laminated menu.
“Ah, this is the real stuff,” Jae announced, happily kicking Min-ho’s shin under the table. “None of that diet-friendly, low-sodium nonsense they force on us. This stew was invented with spam and hot dogs. It’s rebellion in a pot.”
A middle-aged ajumma with a perpetual frown slapped down three sets of metal chopsticks and spoons, a notepad in her hand. She barely glanced at them, which Min-ho took as a minor victory. “Budae-jjigae for three,” he said quietly. “And soju. Chilled.”
“Pfft. Obviously chilled,” the ajumma muttered, scribbling and walking away.
Maria watched her go, amused. “I like her. No time for celebrities.”
“Here, we’re just three loud kids,” Min-ho said, peeling the paper wrapper from his chopsticks. His knee jostled against Maria’s as he moved. He froze for a fraction of a second, then carefully shifted, creating a centimeter of space that felt like a canyon.
Jae was already pouring water into everyone’s glasses from the communal plastic bottle on the table. “So, Maria. You held your own against Ji-hoon hyung today. I’ve seen seasoned producers cry after one of his stares.”
Maria shrugged, a fluid roll of her shoulders. “He cares. I respect that. But you don’t make interesting art by committee. Sometimes you have to grab the wheel and swerve.” She accepted the water glass Jae pushed toward her. “Thanks. And you. The ‘whisper before the beat drop’ idea? That was genius. It’s going to make the hair on people’s arms stand up.”
Jae’s cheeks flushed with genuine pleasure, his bratty demeanor melting into a boyish smile. “Really? You think? I just thought it needed… a moment of quiet before the storm.”
“Exactly,” Maria said, locking eyes with him. “You have good instincts. Don’t let the ‘maknae’ thing make you play small.”
Min-ho watched this exchange, a familiar, complicated knot tightening in his chest. Pride in his bandmate, a sharp spike of something else at how easily Maria connected with him. The stew arrived then, a massive, shallow pot placed on a portable gas burner in the center of the table. It bubbled violently, a crimson cosmos of kimchi, sliced sausage, rice cakes, and instant noodles, crowned with a melting slice of American cheese. The aroma was intensely savory, cutting through the last of the studio’s sterile air in their lungs.
Jae took charge, using his chopsticks to submerge the noodles and mix the cheese into the broth. “The key,” he instructed Maria with mock solemnity, “is to get a bit of everything in one bite. Noodle, spam, kimchi, broth. Harmony.”
They ate, the first few bites too hot, making them gasp and laugh. The soju arrived, and Min-ho poured, his fingers brushing Maria’s as he handed her the small glass. The clear liquid burned a pleasant path down his throat, loosening the coil of tension in his shoulders. Jae told a ridiculous story about Yose trying to order a pizza in broken English during their last tour, complete with impressions. Maria laughed, a full, unguarded sound that made the people at the next booth glance over and smile.
Under the table, Min-ho’s leg rested against Maria’s again. This time, neither of them moved away. The contact was a line of heat through the denim, a secret held in the noisy, steamy room.
Jae’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, his smile fading into a look of exaggerated annoyance. “Ugh. Manager Kang. Probably wants to remind me about my eight hours of beauty sleep.” He grabbed the phone and slid out of the booth. “I have to take this. Don’t eat all the good rice cakes!” He pointed a chopstick at Min-ho in warning before turning and weaving toward the front door, the phone already at his ear.
The silence he left behind was different. The ambient clatter of dishes and low chatter rushed in to fill the space, but it was a hollow sound. The booth suddenly felt cavernous, yet too small. Min-ho stared into the bubbling stew, the cheese stretching into long, gooey strings.
Maria took a slow sip of her soju. Then she set the glass down with a soft clink.
Her hand disappeared below the table.
Min-ho stopped breathing. He felt the weight of her palm land high on his thigh, just above his knee. A casual, monumental warmth. Her fingers began to move, not groping, but tracing—a slow, deliberate path along the inner seam of his jeans, following the line of muscle up, then back down. The rough denim was no barrier; it was a conductor, amplifying every minute shift of pressure.
He couldn’t look at her. He kept his eyes glued to the stew, his chopsticks held suspended over the pot. His entire world narrowed to the five points of contact burning through fabric. The restaurant sounds—the sizzle from the kitchen, the laugh from the next booth—muffled, becoming distant ocean sounds.
“The song is good,” Maria said, her voice perfectly normal, conversational, as if her hand wasn’t committing a minor, delicious felony under the table. “The one we finished. It has a heartbeat now.”
Min-ho managed a nod. He cleared a tightness from his throat. “It does.”
“It needed that push,” she continued. Her thumb swept a slow circle. “It needed to stop being careful.”
He finally turned his head to look at her. Her profile was illuminated by the pot’s glow, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. She was watching the door, seemingly indifferent, but the corner of her mouth was tilted in the faintest, most knowing curve. The pink streaks in her hair looked almost purple in the dim light.
“This isn’t careful,” he murmured, the words barely audible.
She turned then, meeting his gaze. Her eyes were dark, reflecting the shimmering heat from the stew. “No,” she agreed softly, her fingers pausing their exploration, simply resting, a heavy, possessive weight. “It’s not.”
The moment stretched, taut and fragile. The ajumna chose that second to bustle over with a fresh bottle of soju, her eyes scanning their nearly full glasses with disapproval. Maria’s hand retreated, sliding back onto her own lap as smoothly as it had arrived. The absence was a shock, a cold void where there had been incendiary heat.
“You drink slow,” the ajumna grunted, replacing the bottle anyway before shuffling off.
Min-ho exhaled, a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His thigh throbbed where her hand had been. He poured them both more soju, his movements slightly uncoordinated.
Jae bounded back to the booth, sliding in with a gust of cool outside air. “Disaster averted,” he announced, completely unaware of the tectonic shift that had occurred in his absence. He immediately plucked a plump rice cake from the stew. “He just wanted the schedule for tomorrow. Six AM makeup. Brutal.” He stuffed the rice cake in his mouth, chewing happily. “Did you save me any meat?”
“It’s all yours,” Maria said, pushing the pot slightly toward him with a smile. Her smile was easy, friendly. It gave nothing away.
But when she leaned back, her arm settled along the back of the booth, her fingers coming to rest, absently, on the nape of Min-ho’s neck. It was a casual, possibly platonic touch. But her fingertips were on his skin, just under his hairline, and they stroked, once, slowly, before settling.
Min-ho picked up his soju glass, his movements deliberate. He took a drink, the alcohol doing nothing to dull the hyper-awareness lighting up his nervous system. Jae chattered on about the upcoming video shoot. Maria nodded along, asking questions, her voice light.
And her thumb began to move again, a tiny, hidden arc against the sensitive skin of his neck, mapping a secret that pulsed in time with the neon sign blinking relentlessly against the night outside.
And her thumb began to move again, a tiny, hidden arc against the sensitive skin of his neck, mapping a secret that pulsed in time with the neon sign blinking relentlessly against the night outside. Min-ho sat perfectly still, a statue of composure, while inside him a wire pulled tighter with every pass of her skin on his. He finished his soju in one searing gulp, the heat in his belly nothing compared to the one spreading lower, a demand gathering force beneath the table. Jae demolished the last of the noodles, blissfully unaware of the silent transaction happening inches from his face.
“I’m fucking stuffed,” Jae announced, slumping back and patting his stomach. His words were beginning to slur, the edges softened by three bottles of soju shared between them. “I need my bed. Or the floor. The floor might be closer.”
Min-ho threw a stack of won notes on the table, more than enough to cover the bill. “Get a taxi,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Don’t walk. Don’t try to find a sub-way. Cab.”
“Yes, appa,” Jae singsonged, rolling his eyes but smiling. He fumbled his way out of the booth, needing to steady himself on the table’s edge. The cool night air hit them like a slap as they stepped onto the street, the city’s noise a jarring contrast to the steamy intimacy of the booth. Jae waved an arm, nearly stumbling off the curb as a taxi swerved to a stop.
“Jae, ya borracho, se despide de Min-ho y María, mientras se sube al taxi y se va,” Maria said with a warm laugh, watching him practically fall into the back seat. He shoved his arm out the window, giving them a sloppy, dramatic wave as the car pulled away. María rió al verlo sacando el brazo por la ventana.
The laughter faded into the city’s rumble. Min-ho la mira fijamente sin decir nada. The pretense was gone now, stripped away with Jae’s departure, leaving only the raw, hungry thing that had been building since the studio, since his bed at dawn. The neon painted her face in shifting pinks and blues.
María, aún mirando el vehículo irse, dice, “¿Tu lugar o el mío?”
Her question hung in the air, simple and devastating. It held no coyness, only a direct, challenging clarity. It was the same voice she’d used to dismantle Ji-hoon’s objections. Min-ho felt the last of his resistance crumble into dust.
“El mío,” he said, the words a low rasp. He stepped closer, his breath ghosting her cheek. “Quiero tu aroma en mis sábanas.”
María sonríe, a slow, victorious curve of her lips that sent a final, electric jolt straight through him. No more words were needed. They moved as one unit, his hand finding the small of her back, guiding her through the late-night crowds toward the discreet private entrance to his building’s underground garage. The ride in the elevator to the penthouse was a study in taut silence, filled only with their breathing and the weight of what was coming. They didn’t look at each other. The air between them was flammable.
The door to his minimalist apartment hissed shut. For a second, there was only the distant hum of Seoul through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Then she was on him.
Para cuando entran a la habitación de Min-ho, ya están semidesnudos, sin dejar de besarse. It was a clumsy, desperate shedding of clothes. Her jacket hit the polished concrete floor. He wrestled her tank top over her head, breaking the kiss only for the second it took to discard it. His fingers fumbled with the button of her jeans, her hands tearing at his shirt until the fabric gave way. Mouths crashed back together, teeth clacking, tongues sliding in a wet, hungry battle. They tasted of soju and spice and pure want. They fell onto the vast bed in a tangle of limbs, the cool duvet enveloping them.
Min-ho se pone de pie, breathing heavily. In the dim light from the city, her body was a breathtaking landscape of curves and golden skin. He put his hands on her hips, his grip firm. Gira a María boca abajo y la atrae hasta el borde de la cama. She went willingly, pushing herself up onto her knees, the full, perfect swell of her ass presented to him. He shed his own jeans and briefs, his cock springing free, hard and aching.
He didn’t pause, didn’t ask. He positioned himself behind her, one hand guiding himself to her entrance. She was already slick, hot. Entra en ella. María suelta un gemido fuerte, a raw, shattered sound that echoed off the bare walls. He filled her in one relentless, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The feeling was obscenely good, a tight, wet heat clamping around him that made his vision blur.
Min-ho empieza a follarla. His hips snapped forward, setting a punishing, immediate rhythm. El de pie junto a la cama, y ella de rodillas en el borde de la cama. The slap of skin on skin was loud, crude, a brutal counterbeat to the city’s murmur. He braced one hand on the bed beside her shoulder, the other gripping the soft flesh of her hip hard enough to bruise.
Min-ho mira fijamente como entra y sale de María. The visual was devastating—the dark, slick length of him disappearing into her body, the way her flesh yielded and gripped him with each plunge. “You feel like fucking heaven,” he grunted, his voice guttural and broken. “So goddamn tight.” Le da una nalgada fuerte. The sharp crack of his palm on her ass echoed. María se arquea y gime, a high, desperate sound, pushing back against him to take him deeper.
“Harder,” she gasped, the word muffled by the duvet. “Don’t you fucking hold back.”
He obeyed, fucking into her with a abandon that felt like freedom. Each drive was a claim, an erasure of the careful idol, leaving only this man, this need. The room filled with the sounds of them: wet, slapping flesh, ragged groans, the creak of the bedframe. He watched her fingers claw at the sheets, her back glistening with a fine sweat. The vanilla scent of her hair, of her skin, was everywhere now, weaved into the very air of his sterile room, just as he’d wanted.
“Min-ho,” she cried out, his name a plea and a command.
It pulled the climax from him. A violent, shuddering wave tore through his body, and he drove into her one last, deep time, spilling himself inside her with a choked, animal groan. He stayed there, buried, panting, as the aftershocks racked them both, his forehead falling against her sweat-slicked shoulder blades. The city’s lights blinked on, indifferent, as the last of the tension bled out into the quiet dark.