"We stop here." He cut me off gently, his thumb tracing my cheekbone even as he created distance between us, his touchfeatherlight despite the tension in his body. "Not because I want to. Believe me, I don't want to. But I won't push past what you're ready for."
I stared at him, something complicated happening in my chest. He'd sensed my hesitation before I was even consciously aware of it. He'd stopped without being asked.
"How did you know?" I whispered the question, my voice barely audible even in the quiet studio.
"Your scent tells me everything." He smiled — a real smile, small but genuine, transforming his face into something softer, younger, more open. "That's the thing about incomplete bonds. They're like open channels. I can feel what you feel, even when you're trying to hide it."
"That should scare me." I admitted, still not moving from where we sat, our knees now pressed together, his hand still warm on my hip.
"Does it?" He asked it without judgment, just curiosity, his head tilting slightly as he waited for my answer.
"No." I realized it was true as I said it, the words settling into my chest like a certainty I hadn't known I was looking for. "It should. But it doesn't."
"Good." He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles, the gesture unexpectedly tender from someone everyone thought was made of ice, his eyes never leaving mine. "The wanting isn't the trap, Keira. It's the key. But you have to want it for the right reasons. And you have to be sure."
"I'm not sure of anything right now." The admission felt like ripping off a bandage — painful but necessary, words I hadn't been able to say to anyone.
"That's okay." He released my hand, but his eyes stayed locked on mine, steady and patient. "You have time. We have time." He turned back to the mixing board, pulling up the track we'd been working on, and I watched him slip back into workmode like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just turned my entire world inside out and then carefully set it back down.
"Can I scent you?" He asked it without looking at me, his fingers adjusting levels on the board, his voice carefully casual. "Your temple. It's less intense than the wrist, but it'll help the bond settle."
"Yes." I answered before I could overthink it, the word coming out certain and clear. He rose from his chair and stood before me, his movements careful and controlled, every motion deliberate. His fingers brushed my hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear, the touch sending shivers down my spine. Then he leaned in. I felt the brush of his nose against my temple, the warmth of his breath, and then his scent sinking into my skin — rain and old books and that mysterious depth that was purely him.
"There." He murmured the word against my hair before pulling back, his voice low and intimate. "Now you'll think of me. Even when you don't want to."
"Bold of you to assume I'd want to stop thinking about you." The flirtation slipped out before I could catch it, surprising us both with its playfulness.
Jin-ho's eyebrows rose, and for a moment, that ice prince mask cracked completely, revealing something warm and startled underneath, almost boyish in his surprise. "Was that a joke? From Keira Park?"
"Don't get used to it." I felt my cheeks flush, but I was smiling, something light bubbling up in my chest. "Consider it a limited edition."
"Noted." He was smiling too now, small but real, the expression softening his sharp features. "I'll treasure it."
We spent another hour finishing the track. By the time we were done, I had a complete song — lyrics I was actually proudof, melody that made my chest ache, arrangement that somehow captured everything I'd been afraid to say for years.
"It's good." Jin-ho played it back one final time, his head nodding slightly to the beat, and I listened to my words wrapped in his music, feeling something settle into place inside me. "Better than good. It's honest."
"It's terrifying." I admitted, watching the waveform scroll across his screen, my stomach tight with nerves. "Putting this out there. Letting people hear it."
"The best art always is." He saved the file and turned to face me, his expression serious but encouraging. "But it's also necessary. The things we're afraid to share are usually the things that matter most."
I pulled out my phone, staring at the email draft I'd opened three times that day without sending. The lyrics file sat in my attachments, waiting.
"You should send it." Jin-ho's voice was soft, encouraging, his shoulder brushing mine as he leaned closer to look at my screen. "Whatever happens next, this work stands on its own. It deserves to be heard."
I took a breath. Then I hit send.
"Done." I watched the email disappear from my outbox, something like relief and terror mixing in my chest, my finger trembling slightly where it hovered over the screen. "Mina will probably cry. Or yell at me for taking so long. Possibly both."
"Both seems likely." Jin-ho agreed, a hint of amusement warming his voice, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “She'll also recognize what you've created. Anyone would."
I stood from where I'd been perched on the edge of his desk, suddenly aware of how long we'd been in this small space together. How much had shifted between us in a single afternoon.
"Thank you." I meant it with every part of me, the words heavy with sincerity. "For today. For pushing me. For... everything."
"Thank you for letting me." He rose too, and for a moment we just stood there, the violet bond humming between us, full of possibility and promise, the air thick with everything we'd shared and everything still left unsaid.
When we walked back to the main room together, I was acutely aware of his scent on my skin — rain and old books, mixed with the traces of sunshine and vanilla that still lingered from yesterday.
