Chapter 6: Balcony Fuck Under the Stars
The shower spray was searing hot, but it couldn’t scour away the feeling. Min-Joon stood under the water, head bowed, hands braced against the tiles. The smell of her, of them, was still on his skin, a phantom claim that soap and steam couldn’t erase. He’d left her wrapped in his sheets, sleeping with a exhaustion that looked like peace.
He dressed mechanically: the black jeans, the designer hoodie, the boots. Each piece was a layer of armor. He checked his phone—seven missed calls, twelve messages. The schedule for tomorrow was already pinned: 5:30 AM call time for hair and makeup, followed by a radio interview, then a fitting for the comeback stage outfits. His stomach turned. The thought of being touched, adjusted, and styled by strangers made his skin crawl.
He walked back into the bedroom. She was awake, propped on an elbow, the sheet pooled around her waist. Her dark hair was a mess against the emerald silk. She watched him, her expression unreadable.
“You’re leaving,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I have to.”
She nodded, looking down at the sheets. “The ‘see you later’ part.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t touch her. “It’s not a lie. But it won’t be… this.” He gestured at the room, at the disheveled bed. “It’ll be stolen hours. Parking garages. Maybe a disguised coffee. If I’m lucky.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” The words came out sharper than he intended. “It’s not just sneaking around. It’s cameras everywhere. Staff. Managers. Fans with phones who see everything. If they find out…” He trailed off, the consequences too vast and toxic to list.
Jazmín reached out, her fingers brushing the back of his tense hand. “I’m not asking for a declaration. I knew who you were. What this was.”
“It’s not what I want it to be,” he said, the admission raw.
“What do you want it to be?”
He finally looked at her, his dark eyes holding hers. “This. Just this. For more than a few hours at a time.”
She smiled, a small, sad curve of her lips. “Then we steal the hours.”
He leaned in, kissing her with a desperation that felt like goodbye. It tasted of mint toothpaste and unresolved want. He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. “Don’t answer the door. Don’t order delivery. My security knows the suite is occupied, but they’re paid to be blind. Just… be a ghost.”
“I’ll be your ghost,” she whispered.
He left then, a shadow slipping out the private elevator to the garage where a black van was waiting, engine idling. The door shut behind him with a soft, final sigh.
Three days passed.
Jazmín moved through the penthouse like a careful spirit. She worked remotely, video-calling with her parents about new fabric swatches for the family business, her laptop angled to show only the blank wall behind her. She studied. She cooked simple meals, cleaning every trace. She slept in his bed, which still held his scent, a faint mix of sandalwood and something uniquely, frustratingly him.
Her phone stayed silent. No calls. No texts. It was as if the weekend had been a vivid, sweat-slicked dream.
On the fourth night, as she was brewing a late-night cup of mate, her phone finally buzzed. A single message from an unknown number.
Unknown: Rooftop access code: 7790. Now.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She left the gourd and thermos on the counter, threw on a dress, and was in the elevator within a minute.
The rooftop was not what she expected. It was a glass box suspended in the sky, one wall open to a terrace, the city’s neon glow painting everything in shades of electric blue and hot pink. The air was crisp, the city’s hum a distant whisper. In the center of the enclosed space, a low fire pit flickered, casting dancing shadows on a deep, plush rug. A picnic basket sat open beside it, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Min-Joon stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to her. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his silver hair tied back. He looked taller, more imposing silhouetted against the vast cityscape, but his shoulders were tense.
“You summoned,” she said softly.
He turned. He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was hungry. “I had two hours. I didn’t want to waste one of them coming downstairs.”
He closed the distance, his hands coming up to cup her face. He kissed her, deep and searching, as if confirming she was real. “Missed you,” he murmured against her mouth, the words gruff.
“I missed you, too.”
He led her to the rug, pouring wine with hands that trembled slightly. They talked—haltingly at first. He told her about the endless rehearsals, the inane interview questions, the stylist who tried to put him in pastel. She told him about her dissertation progress, about her mother’s worries over a shipment of alpaca wool. The normalcy of it was surreal, perched above a city that wanted to consume him.
As the wine warmed her, his restlessness grew. His fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns on her arm, grew more deliberate. He pulled her into his lap, his palm sliding up her thigh, under the hem of her dress. His touch was electric against her skin.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “In the middle of choreography. During the fucking makeup session. All I see is you, bent over my counter, coming on my fingers.”
His crude words, spoken against the sophisticated backdrop, sent a thrill through her. He kissed her again, this time with a building ferocity. His hands were everywhere, pushing the straps of her dress down, palming her breast through her bra, squeezing her waist.
He laid her back on the rug, the wool soft against her bare skin. He pushed her dress up to her hips, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her in simple cotton underwear. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down her legs, tossing them aside.
“I need to be inside you,” he said, the statement blunt, stripped of poetry. “Now.”
He unfastened his jeans, freeing his cock, which was already fully hard, jutting thick and urgent from his body. He didn’t bother undressing further. He just knelt between her thighs, his hands pushing her knees apart. He leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm, his other hand guiding himself to her entrance. She was wet, aching for him.
He pushed in with a single, deep stroke, a sharp, grateful groan tearing from his throat as he filled her. “Fuck. Yes. Still so perfect.”
He set a relentless pace from the first thrust, each one driving the air from her lungs. This wasn’t the slow, connecting rhythm of before. This was pure, desperate need. He fucked her with a hard, piston-like rhythm, his hips slapping against hers, the sound raw and obscene in the quiet, glass-walled space. The city sprawled below, a million unknowing witnesses.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his face a mask of strained pleasure.
She opened her eyes, meeting his intense, burning gaze. Sweat beaded on his temple.
“This cunt is mine,” he growled, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. “Only mine. You understand? When they’re talking at me, all I think about is how wet you get for me. When they tell me to smile, I’m thinking about the sound you make when you come.”
His words were filthy, a violent contrast to the serene skyline behind him. They spurred her on. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, meeting him thrust for thrust. The fire pit crackled, painting his straining muscles in gold and shadow.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “I want to watch you make yourself come on my cock.”
Her face flushed, but she obeyed, her hand sliding between their bodies. The feel of her own fingers on her clit, combined with the deep, full penetration of his thrusts, sent sparks shooting up her spine. Her breath hitched.
“That’s it,” he panted, his rhythm faltering as he watched her. “Do it. Come for me. Show me.”
The coil tightened, unbearably fast. Her back arched off the rug, a silent scream shaping her lips as the orgasm ripped through her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner walls clamped around him in rapid, intense pulses.
The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a guttural shout that echoed in the glass enclosure, he drove into her one final time, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her. He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
They lay there, tangled and spent, for long minutes. The fire popped. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the glass ceiling and the smog-hazed stars beyond.
“They want to send me to L.A. for two months. A ‘brand expansion opportunity,’” he said to the sky, his voice flat.
Jazmín’s heart stuttered. She turned her head to look at him. “When?”
“After the comeback promotions. Six weeks from now.”
She said nothing. The ‘see you later’ was stretching into an impossible horizon.
He turned onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His expression was bleak. “I’m so tired of being owned.”
Later, back downstairs, they tried to salvage a piece of the night. He showered again, scrubbing away the scent of sex and rooftop air. He found one of his old hoodies and gave it to her to wear. It swam on her, soft and smelling faintly of him.
They curled together on the vast sectional sofa, a movie playing silently on the screen, just a wash of color and movement. Jazmín cradled her mate gourd, the bitter, earthy taste a comforting anchor to home. Min-Joon’s arm was around her, his fingers absently tracing circles on her shoulder through the thick fabric of the hoodie. They were wrapped in a comfortable, heavy silence, both avoiding the cliff edge of the conversation about L.A.
The knock at the door was sharp, intrusive.
Min-Joon exhaled, a sound of pure annoyance. “Ignore it,” he muttered, tightening his arm around her.
It came again, more insistent.
“They know I’m here,” he groaned, untangling himself. He padded barefoot to the door, his posture immediately shifting from relaxed to guarded. He cracked it open just enough to see out, blocking the view inside.
Jazmín could hear the murmur of voices.
“What?” Min-Joon’s voice was low, curt.
A lighter, melodic voice answered. “We heard they’re pressuring you about the photo. The company line is bullshit. Just wanted to check on you.” It was Doyun, the group’s main vocalist.
Min-Joon shrugged, his back tense. “I’m fine.”
“Then let us in. Talk properly.” Doyun pushed, gentle but persistent.
Min-Joon hesitated, his body rigid in the doorway. Before he could formulate a rejection, Jazmín, curious, set down her mate and walked up behind him, placing a hand on his back. “Who is it?”
Min-Joon stiffened. It was too late.
Jazmín peered around his shoulder.
In the hallway stood two young men. One was willowy with bright, anxious eyes—Doyun. The other was taller, with a sharp, fox-like face and an aura of quiet intensity—Jiho, the leader and main rapper. Both were impeccably dressed in expensive, casual streetwear. They froze, their eyes going wide as they took in Jazmín. Their gazes flicked from her face, to her clearly-foreign features, to the oversized male hoodie she wore, and then to Min-Joon’s bare feet and disheveled hair.
They glanced at each other, a rapid, silent communication passing between them. Then they looked back at her, their expressions a mixture of shock, disbelief, and dawning, unnerved comprehension. They had clearly not been expecting a foreigner.