Jihoon questions himself

Haeun stepped into the dimly lit living room, finding Jihoon lounged on the couch, a bottle of soju cradled lazily in his hand. His expression was a mix of guilt and defiance, the perfect blend of contrition and audacity that only a man that had never been held accountable due to his natural good looks and charisma could muster.

"Jihoon,” she began, her tone laced with disappointment. “We had an agreement. You promised me you would stay silent during the call.”

He looked up at her, his eyes hooded with a flicker of shame before he downed a sizeable shot of ****.

“I know,” he said, “and I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help myself. Seeing his face on that screen, watching him as if he had any right to be part of what we share—it pissed me off. I wanted him to see, Haeun. To see the fire between us, the kind of love he threw away because he’d rather watch than live.”

She folded her arms, a sigh escaping her lips. “That wasn’t for you to decide. Jihoon, I respect your feelings. I won’t push you into anything you’re uncomfortable with, but this isn’t just about you. It’s about me and him, too. What we want, what we need.”

He rose from the couch, hands raised playfully. The smirk that played at the corners of his lips carried no malice, only the faintest trace of the boyish charm he must have hoped would disarm her. “I get it,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softening into something almost tender. “I messed up. But I’m not a cuck, Haeun. I’m not like him. I can't pretend to enjoy it, even if I agree to get on stage to put on this fucked up show of yours. It's too painful for me.”

Her eyes narrowed, unseduced by his attempt. “No, you’re not. But I need you to understand something. This isn’t about labels or what makes sense to you. It’s about trust. If we can’t respect each other's boundaries, how do you expect me to feel comfortable being with you?”

Jihoon tilted his head, his grin fading. “Fair enough,” he said with a shrug. “But let me make it up to you. Sit with me for a while.” He gestured to the couch, his invitation wrapped in the kind of playful defiance that made him so enticing to legions of women around the country. “Let me show you how gentle I can be.”

Haeun shook her head, tutting as she turned on her heel. “Too bad,” she said. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Jihoon.” With a swish of her hips, she sauntered out of the room, leaving him staring after her, his perfect features marred by a frustrated grimace. The soju bottle found his lips again as he sank back onto the couch, but it did nothing to settle the unease gnawing at him.

He loved her—of that much, he was certain.

“What does he give you that I can’t?” Jihoon murmured to himself, running a hand through his hair, still wet from sweat. It wasn’t bitterness, not really—just confusion, like staring at a lock for which he did not have the key.

He had always been enough for other women—more than enough since he entered the industry, the company ensuring every inch of him is flawless, designed to entice. He was the spark that set their hearts aflame, the voice that lingered in their minds long after he’d gone. When Jihoon wanted to, he took up space in their lives, consuming them with a disarming ease and confident charm.

And yet, here, with Haeun, he found himself the one chasing, longing, **** for his turn under the spotlight of her affection.

The thought grated against the edges of his pride. Jihoon had never had to chase, to share anything—least of all someone he loved. He knew that Haeun loved him back; he saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she leaned into him when their days felt too sharp, too cold. She needed him, and he needed her.

What did Minjae have that Jihoon did not? He had finally seen the man, studied his face on the screen—a face that struck him as ordinary, perhaps even forgettable. A man with none of Jihoon’s charisma, none of his carefully honed edges. And yet, he was the one Haeun could not let go of. He was the one she insisted on including, the one she still thought of when her head should have been emptied of anyone else under the fierce **** of his cock.

Jihoon exhaled sharply, the frustration flickering across his face like a storm cloud. He hated feeling this way—****, uncertain, almost inadequate. That was not who he was. He had spent his life living as though the world owed him its admiration, and for the most part, it had complied. Women swooned. Fans screamed his name. He had learned how to turn his smile into currency, to trade in adoration as though it were a commodity.

He glanced toward the hallway, where her bedroom door remained closed, a tangible barrier between them. Was she already asleep, or was she curled up with her phone, whispering her real self to Minjae? The image tore at him, and he drained the last of the soju, his jaw clenching.

What do you have that I don’t? he wanted to ask Minjae. If he could figure out their secret, could he eliminate him for good, possess Haeun entirely for himself?

"Is this what it feels like?” he muttered to the quiet. To want someone so badly that you would endure the indignity of sharing them, hoping for an uncertain future where you might finally be together. To love them so desperately that you would stand in the shadows, just for a glimpse of their smile, even if it's not directed at you? To feel yourself stretched thin, a taut string on the verge of snapping, and to eagerly do it all over again the next day.

Is this really what love feels like?