His lips, cool and soft, met mine. A shiver ran through me, not entirely of pleasure, but of a profound, disorienting shock. The world tilted.
"...I CAN FILL THAT VACANT SEAT."
The words echoed in my head, a seductive promise, a dangerous proposition. The kiss was brief, a statement rather than a question. When he pulled back, his eyes were still locked on mine, unwavering, intense.
Outside the window, the city lights blurred through the falling rain. It was a bleak, beautiful world, perfectly mirroring the tempest inside me.
"IF YOU WANT..."
My breath hitched. The implication hung heavy in the air, a silent contract.
"...!" My eyes widened, sparkling with unshed tears. This was too much, too fast. I felt a confusing mix of relief and fear. The relief of not being alone, and the fear of what this new bond might demand.
His hand, surprisingly gentle, cupped my cheek. His thumb stroked softly, almost tenderly, yet the words that followed were like a cold splash of water.
"YOU DON'T NEED TO GIVE ME YOUR GENUINE FEELINGS."
I stared at him, bewildered. My genuine feelings? What did that even mean in this chaotic moment? He wasn't asking for love, or even affection. He was offering a transaction. A place to lean, in exchange for... what? My presence? My body? My brokenness?
I tried to push him away, a weak, desperate gesture. My hand met his chest, and I felt the solid muscle beneath the dark fabric.
"This is all too sudden for me…" I whispered, my voice barely audible. My eyes pleaded with him, searching for an understanding he wasn't offering.
He ignored my feeble resistance, his gaze softening, yet still holding that unsettling intensity. He stepped back slightly, giving me space, but the invisible tether between us remained.
Then, his voice, calm and steady, filled the silence. He wasn't retracting his offer; he was clarifying it.
"IF YOU EVER FEEL LONELY OR SAD…"
My eyes welled up again, a sudden wave of raw vulnerability washing over me. He saw it all, every fragile piece of me. He wasn't trying to fix me, just to be there.
"…OR NEED A SHOULDER TO LEAN ON…"
He looked at me with an expression that was almost… earnest. It was a strange mix of detachment and profound concern, like a doctor diagnosing an illness with a sympathetic but professional air. His silver hair gleamed, his eyes a vibrant amethyst.
"…I'LL ALWAYS BE BY YOUR SIDE."
The words were a comfort, a shock, and a challenge all at once. He was offering a constant, unyielding presence. But what was the cost?
"LIKE I TOLD YOU BEFORE."
Then, the final, most unsettling part of his proposal. It came with the quiet power of an undeniable truth.
"THEN PLEASE CALL ON ME."
The image of my face, his hand gently sliding from my cheek, his eyes still fixed on mine...
"PLEASE USE ME."
He wasn't asking for my love. He was asking for my need. To use him as a shield, a comfort, a distraction. To fill the vacant seat in my life with his calculated, emotionless presence.
And as I looked at him, I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that I just might
His hand slid gently from my cheek, but the connection remained—a heavy, undeniable presence in the quiet room. I stared at him, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.
"...I CAN FILL THAT VACANT SEAT."
The words were a direct response to the emptiness in my life, an emptiness I had been trying to fill with reckless, short-lived moments like the one I remembered—brief, desperate kisses with the older man.
A faint, shocking memory flashed through my mind: that older man, and me, clinging to him on the couch.
I had probably vaguely sensed this…
Sensed his proposal, the terms of the agreement, the path of mutual convenience.
"YOU DON'T NEED TO GIVE ME YOUR GENUINE FEELINGS."
The cold, clear statement brought me crashing back to the present. He wasn't asking for love, which somehow made his offer both safer and more terrifying.
My mind raced. I had been trying to ignore his feelings... The way he looked at me, the quiet vigilance, the intensity behind his eyes. Those feelings, whatever they were, had been lurking in the shadows.
"BUT NOW THEY WERE ON CLEAR DISPLAY, IN A WAY THAT COULDN'T BE AVOIDED."
He smiled, that soft, knowing smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and lowered his head. His breath was warm against my ear as he spoke the terms again.
"IT'LL PUT YOUR MIND AT EASE."
Ease. That was the one thing I desperately lacked.
He stood back, giving me space, but his offer hung heavy in the air, a velvet curtain draped over a dangerous cliff.
"IF YOU EVER FEEL LONELY OR SAD…" He looked at me with an almost painful earnestness.
"...OR NEED A SHOULDER TO LEAN ON…"
I realized then, with a stunning clarity, the truth that shamed me.
"I DON'T KNOW WHY, OR HOW LONG HE'S FELT THIS WAY… BUT I THINK THIS PERSON TRULY LOVES ME."
The idea was a shock—a painful, humbling weight. He loved me, and he was offering to be used. And the worst part?
"...AND THAT'S WHY I HAD BEEN LEANING ON HIM WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING IT."
"IN FACT, I MAY HAVE ALREADY BEEN USING HIM."
The self-recrimination was a sharp pang, yet I couldn't deny the desperate comfort his presence gave me. He moved in close again, his face inches from mine, his magenta eyes asking the final question.
"LIKE I TOLD YOU BEFORE. THEN PLEASE CALL ON ME."
I closed my eyes, the wordless realization settling in my soul. "SO MAYBE..." Maybe this was the answer. Maybe this was the only way to survive.
"PLEASE USE ME."
He leaned down. My heart felt heavy, a mixture of guilt and a strange, guilty relief. We kissed, a deep, silent seal on the unspoken contract.
I didn't open my eyes. I just let the kiss happen, let myself fall into the empty seat he offered to fill.
Above the cityscape, beyond the large glass windows, the full moon shone, a brilliant, cold orb. The man holding me whispered the last reassurance against my lips, a prayer, a lie, a promise:
"...IT'LL BE OKAY THIS TIME TOO…"
I clung to that lie.
The air in the room was close and sticky with a desperate kind of heat. Yena, dressed lightly and seated on Director Woo's lap, leaned against his neck. The position was intimate, yet the silence between them was sharp with tension. She pressed a soft kiss to his skin.
"...YENA, I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY…" Director Woo began, his voice rough.
Yena pulled back, her wide eyes expectant, a blush dusting her cheeks. She was breathless from their earlier encounter, her expression a mix of eagerness and slight anxiety.
"HUH? WHAT DO YOU WANT TO SAY?"
Director Woo avoided her gaze, his hand coming up nervously to rub his jaw, where a dark stubble grew. His eyes, fixed on some unseen point across the room, were filled with a conflicted, unhappy resolve.
"...I CAN'T BE WITH YOU..."
The words fell like stones. Yena's smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic panic.
"WHAT? NOW YOU SAY THAT?" she demanded, her voice rising in disbelief. "WHAT'S WRONG, DIRECTOR WOO?"
The director swallowed hard, the denial a struggle he clearly hadn't anticipated.
"...I MADE A MISTAKE THAT NIGHT." He looked away, shame coloring his neck. "LET'S PRETEND IT DIDN'T HAPPEN."
Yena's eyes narrowed, the vulnerability replaced by a cold, challenging look. She leaned in, forcing him to meet her gaze, a dangerous smile playing on her lips.
"YOU LOVED IT LAST TIME," she purred, her breath ghosting his ear. "AND I THINK YOU'LL ENJOY YOURSELF AGAIN TONIGHT."
She pressed her body against his, ignoring his growing discomfort. He tried to pull back, his large frame suddenly rigid with resistance.
"STOP IT…" he mumbled, his hands trying to restrain her.
Yena, her face flushed with frustration and defiance, stared at him, her lips slightly parted in protest.
"STOP IT…!!" she cried out, though it was unclear if the plea was directed at herself or him, the tension snapping around them.
Director Woo finally managed to push her back, scrambling to his feet. He looked down at the shocked woman, his face betraying a deep unhappiness.
"…I'D LIKE IF YOU COULD ISSUE A CORRECTION TO THE ARTICLE ABOUT US, TOO." He paused, breathing heavily, the pain visible in his expression. "I CALLED YOU HERE TO TELL YOU THAT."
He couldn't look at her again. The relationship, the secret they shared, was being abruptly terminated, not with a promise of escape, but with a cold request for damage control regarding a public article.
Authors pov
Meanwhile
The cold reality of her failed, desperate affair hit Yena with the sound of Director Woo slamming his foot down.
"THUD!"
He stood over her, a dark silhouette against the room's electric-blue glow. Yena, still seated on the floor in a state of undress, looked up at him, her face a mask of shock and betrayal.
"HYEONJAE…?" she whispered, using his personal name. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME…?"
Woo couldn't meet her eyes. His face was contorted in a painful grimace. "THIS ISN'T ANYTHING LIKE WHAT I'D DREAMT OF… IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOU…" His voice trailed off, blaming her for the messy reality of their liaison.
Yena felt a sharp, cutting humiliation. She reached for his leg, her hand trembling. "STOP IT. PLEASE JUST STOP IT…!!"
He was breaking their secret, ending the temporary escape she had carved out, and he was doing it with callous efficiency, citing an article that had been published about them.
She saw the guilt in his eyes, but it wasn't enough to stop him.
I had chased him, trying to force the fantasy to be real. I had told him he loved it, insisting: "YOU'RE FAMOUS THANKS TO ME, DIRECTOR WOO." I had tried to justify my need by claiming possession: "I LIKED THEM BECAUSE I WAS LETTING EVERYONE KNOW YOU'RE MINE."
Woo had resisted. "THERE YOU GO AGAIN. ISN'T IT ABOUT TIME YOU STOP PUSHING ME AWAY?"
The cruelest moment was when she had asked the truth: "DID YOU FEEL GUILTY WHEN YOU SAW MYEONG AFTER YOU SLEPT WITH ME?" The question had hung between them, confirming her rival's presence even in their most intimate moments.
The director's abrupt dismissal left her shattered, sitting alone on the floor, her eyes wide and wet. The relationship she thought might save her had ended in a demand for a retraction and a wave of personal shame.
The New Proposition
Sometime later—hours, maybe days—Yena found herself in a different location, likely an office or a sophisticated apartment, staring out at the falling rain. She was back in her professional white blouse, but her expression was fragile, tears welling in her eyes. The pain of Director Woo's rejection still stung.
Then, the white-haired man, Hyunjin, appeared. His presence was unnerving, his eyes a vibrant, calculating magenta. He moved with a quiet confidence that immediately demanded attention.
"...WHAT?" she managed, her voice cracking.
He was looking at her with that knowing, unsettling smile.
"DID YOU KNOW ABOUT OUR RELATIONSHIP?" she asked, testing the boundaries, searching for the source of his power over her.
"HOW COULD I NOT?" he replied, the answer suggesting a surveillance, a careful watch over her downfall.
He stepped closer, closing the distance Yena had been trying to maintain between herself and the world. He pressed his face close to hers, his gaze relentless. The air crackled with a new, dark kind of electricity.
"I CAN FILL THAT VACANT SEAT."
The memory of Woo's betrayal and the overwhelming emptiness suddenly rushed her. Hyunjin was offering a replacement, a solution, a transaction.
I looked at him, searching for a sincerity he was actively denying.
"YOU STILL HAVEN'T FIGURED OUT WHAT YOU WANT YET?" he challenged, his voice low and seductive. "EVEN RIGHT NOW, I THINK ANOTHER PART OF YOU REALLY LIKES ME."
He didn't want her whole self, just the vacant seat—the desperate, lonely part that needed a place to lean. He wasn't demanding feelings; he was offering a use.
As his lips met hers in a soft, sealing kiss, Yena knew she had made her choice. She was trading one risky, desperate affair for another. The full moon outside the window witnessed her surrender to the new contract.
It was a terrifying, final moment. I let myself be used.
Director Woo, or Hyeonjae, stood before Yena, his face a miserable landscape of tears and shame. He had just delivered his final, brutal retraction.
"THIS ISN'T ANYTHING LIKE WHAT I'D DREAMT OF... IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOU…" his voice choked out, dripping blame onto the woman who had sought solace in him.
Yena, sitting abandoned and half-dressed on the floor, watched him, her own pain crystallizing into rage and despair. The rain outside seemed to echo the torrent of her tears.
Hyeonjae, desperate to purge his mistake, delivered the ultimate insult.
"IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT." Then, the words that sliced through her last vestige of hope: "GO AWAY, I'M BEGGING YOU. PLEASE F*CK OFF FROM MY LIFE."
His rejection was complete, total, and filled with a loathing that was hard to bear.
I wanted my name known for my films… not some fcking scandal…!! I wouldn't have to be working with Myeong like this…*
Hyeonjae's breakdown was less about remorse and more about preserving his own professional standing, confirming that she was merely a regrettable stain on his career. In a desperate, final attempt to push her away, he snarled one last word at the woman he had just slept with:
"YOU DIRTY BITCH."
That epithet struck Yena like a physical blow, leaving her speechless, eyes wide and staring at the man who was now entirely lost to her. The man who had been her temporary escape was now her deepest source of pain.
II. The Vacant Seat
Later, Yena sat in a different space, colder and more sterile, dressed in her white blouse, her face still carrying the shadow of recent trauma. The man with the silver hair and magenta eyes, Hyunjin, sat opposite her.
Hyunjin had clearly been watching. He had known about her illicit relationship with Hyeonjae.
"DID YOU KNOW ABOUT OUR RELATIONSHIP?" she asked, numbly.
"HOW COULD I NOT?" he returned, the answer cold and absolute.
I had probably vaguely sensed this... I had been trying to ignore his feelings... but now they were on clear display, in a way that couldn't be avoided.
Yena recognized the unsettling truth: Hyunjin loved her, in his own strange, possessive way.
I don't know why, or how long he's felt this way... but I think this person truly loves me.
She even admitted her own guilt.
In fact, I may have already been using him. And that's why I had been leaning on him without even knowing it.
Hyunjin leaned in, his touch surprisingly gentle as he cupped her cheek, offering his terrifying proposition.
"I CAN FILL THAT VACANT SEAT."
He didn't want the genuine feelings that Hyeonjae had recoiled from. He offered a simple, stark exchange: ease for use.
"IF YOU EVER FEEL LONELY OR SAD… OR NEED A SHOULDER TO LEAN ON… I'LL ALWAYS BE BY YOUR SIDE."
He lowered his voice, his final, shocking command reverberating through her.
"LIKE I TOLD YOU BEFORE. THEN PLEASE CALL ON ME. PLEASE USE ME."
Yena closed her eyes, accepting the terms. So maybe... Maybe this dark contract was the only way to survive the wreckage of her life.
Under the cold, watchful light of the full moon, Hyunjin sealed the deal with a kiss, whispering a final, dangerous promise against her lips:
"...IT'LL BE OKAY THIS TIME TOO…"
She clung to him, a new kind of despair settling in, knowing she had traded one volatile dependence for a calculated, unconditional one. She had found a shoulder, but she had lost herself completely.
Yena pov
I watched the city lights blur through the taxi window. The rain had stopped, but the streets were still wet and shimmering. I felt empty, the humiliation from Hyeonjae's rejection still a raw, burning ache under my skin.
Then, the memory of Hyunjin—the silver-haired man—rushed back. The way he'd offered me a lifeline, not with love, but with a cold, calculated contract.
"…I CAN FILL THAT VACANT SEAT".
That empty seat. The vacancy in my life that Hyeonjae had been briefly occupying, and then violently abandoned.
I pulled out my phone. My fingers hesitated over the screen, looking at the familiar contact name. The name of the woman who was always looming in the background.
I know, of course, that she's the one who should be by his side.
The truth was stark and undeniable. I was the mistake, the unwanted detour. The affair with Hyeonjae had been nothing more than a desperate, fleeting attempt to feel something, anything, to escape the emptiness.
I should have known from the beginning.
I should have accepted that I was nothing more than a brief scandal, not the true desire he had desperately shielded from the light.
His girlfriend…
The sheer impossibility of my position, constantly in the shadow of the one he truly valued, finally crushed the last vestiges of my self-delusion.
I should have recognized my own place. I was always the mistake, the detour that should have been avoided.
The weight of my actions settled on me—the aggressive pursuit, the jealousy, the desperate need to proclaim him mine. I had forced a connection that was never meant to be.
I finally clicked on the contact for the Director.
I have to stop this now.
The betrayal, the cold words, the sudden end—it was all real. And now, I had to be the one to clean up the mess, to make the retraction that Hyeonjae had demanded.
It's just too late. It's already been too late for a long time.
The call connected. There was no going back to the way things were. I had lost the man I wanted, and made a contract with the man who wanted to be used.
Myeong pov
The moon was high above the modern apartment building, casting a soft, pale glow through the tall windows. Inside, the quiet hum of the city faded as I was consumed by the moment.
His white hair, a startling contrast to my own dark locks, felt cool against my cheek as he leaned in. Our lips met, a gentle, intoxicating press that sent a tremor right through me. I closed my eyes, his hand cupping my face, his thumb lightly tracing the curve of my jaw. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, a testament to the passion that was building between us.
It was too much, too fast, and yet, I couldn't pull away.
"I just feel..." I remember whispering to myself, the words barely audible, even in my own mind. My senses were heightened, yet paradoxically dulled to everything but him.
My thoughts are disappearing.
His shirt was dark, a deep contrast to the light button-down blouse I was wearing, which was now straining slightly. His other hand went to the buttons on my shirt, his fingers brushing the fabric.
TIK.
TIK.
The tiny sounds of the buttons giving way were loud in the silence.
"...and the emptiness is disappearing, too."
It was a strange blend of physical sensation and emotional void being filled. I was losing myself, but for the first time in a long time, the familiar ache of loneliness was dissolving, replaced by this overwhelming presence.
His touch shifted, pulling the hem of my shirt free.
SLIDE.
His hand was warm, firm, and exploring. The rush was dizzying. I gripped the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to him as we fell back onto the soft couch. The kiss deepened, becoming more desperate, more consuming. With him pressed over me, the world outside the bright, moonlit room ceased to exist. In that intimate, blindingly bright moment, all that was left was the feeling of his lips, his hands, and the blissful disappearance of all thought.
The kiss was not just sweet; it was deep, consuming, and had left me simply full. All the aching emptiness that had been clinging to me felt like it had finally found something to fill its void.
The only thing was...
As he promised, he stayed close by, pulling me into the warmth beneath the covers. The moon hung heavy and luminous in the night sky outside, a perfect, glowing orb.
"...because I was facing him all night..."
I didn't get a chance to see his back. Even when we were intimate, my gaze was always fixed on his face, the way his eyes would close, the flush of color on his cheeks, the slight wet sheen on his lips. I wanted to memorize every expression, every reaction.
He was right there. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, the cool, damp texture of his skin from the intense moment we had shared, glistening with drops of sweat. I traced the line of his shoulder, my fingers brushing over the skin on his upper back. My eyes caught a glimpse of a dark design, a distinct tattoo at the base of his neck, but in the dim light, the symbol was fleeting.
"...I didn't get a chance to see his back." I thought, realizing I had been completely focused on his presence, not his departure.
Hours later, the moon had set, replaced by a brilliant, almost blinding morning sun. A bright light filled the room, accompanied by a soft, pale blue hue that stretched across the scene, as if a rainbow had been painted onto the sky just for me.
STEP.
STEP.
The sound of movement startled me. I woke with a jolt, the light blanket falling from my chest.
WHOOSH.
I looked around the bed, the mattress still warm, the imprint of his body beside me. He was gone.
I sat up, the faint rosy flush still lingering on my skin, my simple black camisole feeling like it belonged to a different person from last night. A slight, contented smile touched my lips. I didn't see him leave, but the memory of him was vivid and warming.
I took a moment, leaning back, soaking in the quiet morning glow, the warmth of the bed, the feeling of utter fullness that remained.
The blissful stillness was broken by the sound of his voice. I pulled on the loose, light gray cardigan over my black camisole, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
"You're up already?" I asked, turning to face the doorway of the bedroom.
He was standing there, fully dressed in a sharp, dark suit with a black turtleneck—a stark contrast to the passionate man I had been with just hours ago. His white hair was neatly styled. He looked poised and utterly professional.
"I see you woke up early as well," he replied, his voice calm, giving nothing away about the night. "I was about to head out."
My chest tightened with a sudden, confusing pang. Was that it? Just a clean, quick departure? I swallowed, trying to appear composed. "Oh... okay..." I managed, the word 'goodbye' hanging unspoken between us.
He took a step closer, his expression softening slightly. "You should sleep some more."
Then, he added, "I'll come back later to pick you up."
The relief washed over me so quickly it felt like a physical shock, and my cheeks flushed pink. "Oh..." I whispered again, feeling the awkwardness dissipate instantly. The simple promise changed everything.
He leaned down and pressed a soft, gentle KISS to my lips, nothing like the desperate contact of the night before, but reassuring and sweet.
"Then goodbye," I said, a little more steadily this time.
"See you later."
He turned, and I watched his broad, suited back as he headed toward the door. For the first time, I could see his back clearly—broad, unreadable, yet familiar. He reached the door and his hand went to the handle.
CLICK.
The sound of the latch engaging was final, sending a different kind of pang through me. He was gone, leaving me standing in the sunlit room, trying to process the shift from passionate intimacy to professional formality.
I heard the door close, and a single tear escaped, tracing a path down my cheek. It wasn't a tear of sadness, but of complicated emotion. I looked down, then offered myself a small, wry smile.
...
He's the same as ever. Formal, driven, and a little distant, but he kept his promise and told me he'd be back. The memory of the night still burned, and the knowledge of his return made the ache bearable.
I guess last night was just a one-time thing... that is definitely going to happen again.
The memory of his formal goodbye still lingered, yet it was swiftly replaced by a new, comforting vision as I replayed the conversation in my mind.
He had promised to return, to pick me up. That single phrase was a tether, preventing me from drifting back into the emptiness I had been so desperate to fill.
I looked down at the simple clothes I had thrown on, then back up toward the spot where he had stood, impeccably dressed. I must have looked disheveled compared to his sharp suit, but he hadn't cared. He had just looked at me with that subtle, endearing flush on his cheeks.
His words replayed: "I'll come back later to pick you up."
Pick me up for what? Where were we going? It didn't matter. The anticipation was thrilling. The man who had been a whirlwind of passionate energy last night was now a composed, focused individual, and yet, he still held my entire focus.
He had sensed my lingering doubt after his abrupt exit. That's why he turned back, that's why he offered that genuine, reassuring smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle slightly.
"You're going to do great..."
His words were meant as encouragement, a clear hint at what the future held for us today. He was supporting me, perhaps in a professional setting, given the "shoot" mentioned later.
"...at today's shoot."
A shoot. Of course. We were heading out together, likely for work, but with the delicious secret of last night's intimacy still warm between us. The formality of his suit was for the world, but the soft kiss he gave me was just for me.
My worries about the night being "just a one-time thing" dissolved. Last night was the beginning, a powerful foundation for what comes next. He was professional, yes, but he was also tender and committed to seeing me again soon.
The panel showing the artists' names flashed in my mind—STORY/ART SOOJIN, ASSISTANCE SOYOUNG. I was grateful for the story they were weaving, the story I was currently living.
The day stretched before me, no longer defined by the lingering absence of the morning, but by the certainty of his return. I had been full before, and now I felt excited, energized, and ready.
TO BE CONTINUED.