My fists thudded against the heavy wooden door—THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.—each hit fueled by humiliation, panic, and the sheer audacity of this man.
The corridor swallowed my voice, yet I kept shouting, my throat burning.
"HEY! LISTEN TO ME!"
Still nothing.
He stood there like a carved statue—broad shoulders, jaw set in ice, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Not a single muscle twitched. Not a hint of remorse.
His silence was maddening.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" I yelled, my voice cracking.
At last, he spoke. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Come back inside."
The words were not a suggestion.
I took a step back instead.
"No," I said, my voice trembling but firm. "You don't get to order me around like—like I'm one of your employees."
His eyes flicked to me—finally—and the moment our gazes locked, something sharp and electric passed through the air. His jaw clenched. He exhaled once, very slowly, like he was holding back a hundred things he refused to say out loud.
"That maid," he said, tone deceptively calm, "does not touch you."
My breath caught.
Oh, so that's what this is about. Possessiveness. Control. Territorial nonsense wrapped in silk words and stone expressions.
"You left me trapped in there," I snapped back. "What was I supposed to do? Stand still like a mannequin until you decided to come back?"
"That," he replied, stepping closer, "is exactly what you were supposed to do."
My heart hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
He closed the distance between us in two long strides, his shadow swallowing mine. I instinctively stepped back—only to feel my spine meet the cold wall.
He towered over me now, one hand braced beside my head, his presence suffocating and intoxicating all at once.
"Move," I whispered, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.
"No."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. "Not until you understand something."
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Understand what?"
"That I don't like repeating myself," he said softly. "And that outfit—" his gaze flickered downward, then back up, "—is for my hands. Not anyone else's."
My breath stuttered.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I pushed at his chest, desperate to create space, but he didn't move an inch.
"You're unbelievable!" I spat. "This—this CHOKEHOLD of control you think you have over me ends now."
His expression darkened, but not with anger.
With something deeper. Something that made my knees weaken.
"Then explain," he said. "Explain why you ran. Why you couldn't wait. Why you needed someone else's hands."
"I didn't run," I fired back. "I escaped."
His eyes narrowed. "From me?"
"Yes," I said, chin lifting. "From you."
Silence fell. Thick. Heavy. Charged.
For a moment, I thought he would argue. Or snap. Or bark another command.
But instead…
He leaned in just a fraction closer.
Close enough that I felt the whisper of his breath against my cheek.
Close enough that the air between us crackled like fire catching dry wood.
"Then escape," he murmured.
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped back—slowly, deliberately—until he was no longer blocking the door.
For the first time, I saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes.
Subtle. Barely there. Quickly smothered.
"You want to go?" he asked. "Then go."
My chest tightened.
The hallway felt colder. Wider. Emptier.
Was he serious?
My fingers hovered over the doorknob.
His voice came again—quiet, rough, stripped of all the cold control he'd wielded before.
"But remember…"
He looked at me, raw intensity burning in his gaze.
"I come for you tomorrow."
The promise in his voice sent a shiver down my spine so violent I nearly lost my grip on the knob.
And for the first time since this standoff began…
I wasn't sure if my racing heart was fear—
—or something far, far more dangerous.
I stared at the old tan suitcase as if it were a ticking bomb.
His suitcase.
A container of neatly folded shirts and stiff collars and expensive fabrics that always smelled faintly of cedar and the cool, crisp air he carried around like a personal climate.
GULP.
Was I really about to…?
I tugged the towel closer around myself, the damp terrycloth sticking annoyingly to my skin. This was ridiculous. The night wasn't supposed to unfold like some bizarre survival mission. It was supposed to be simple: shower, breathe, sleep. That was it.
But no.
Here I was, half-naked, contemplating committing fashion theft from the man who had just blocked my escape route like a living monolith.
I approached the suitcase slowly, as though it might bite.
Calm down, I told myself. He's not here. He's downstairs. Or outside. Or… somewhere far away from this room. He won't know.
Right?
I knelt down and placed my fingers on the metal latch.
CLICK.
The suitcase opened with a soft mechanical sigh, revealing perfect rows of clothes—immaculate and intimidating, just like him.
Crisp dress shirts in muted colors. Dark trousers. A few plain tees that still somehow managed to look expensive. Even his casual clothes radiated authority.
I grabbed the nearest shirt—black, of course. His favorite color to look brooding in.
The fabric slid through my fingers, smooth and cool. And oversized. Very oversized.
Just imagining how it would hang on me made my stomach twist.
This is ridiculous.
This is humiliating.
This is… necessary.
I held the shirt against my body experimentally.
It reached almost to my knees.
Perfect.
Well—not perfect, but it was better than the transparent whispers of fabric that were my original nightclothes. Standing in front of the mirror, I caught my reflection: damp hair sticking to my shoulders, towel half slipping, his shirt dangling from my hands like some sort of forbidden relic.
A heat rose to my cheeks.
"This is not romantic," I muttered. "This is survival. S-U-R-V-I-V-A-L."
My brain responded with an image I immediately rejected:
Me wearing his shirt…
And him walking in.
And that look he gets—the slow, intense, possessive one that makes my entire spine short-circuit.
No.
Absolutely not.
I was borrowing it, not modeling it for him.
As I slipped the shirt over my head, the scent hit me.
His scent.
Subtle. Clean. A hint of citrus. A whisper of something darker underneath.
I froze.
Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed—his presence invading even the air around me.
Why was it that even when I was trying my hardest to get away from him, he kept finding ways to occupy my mind? It was infuriating.
It shouldn't matter. Not his scent. Not his shirts. Not his stupid voice that rattled through my bones like thunder.
"Stop thinking about him," I whispered to my reflection.
The reflection did not listen.
It looked back at me wearing his shirt—just his shirt—and my heart performed a small, traitorous flutter.
"No. No fluttering. BAD," I scolded myself, slapping my cheeks lightly.
Wrap it tighter.
Button it up to the throat.
Stay invisible.
Stay safe.
With shaking hands, I buttoned the shirt all the way up. The sleeves swallowed my arms completely. I rolled them twice, then gave up—they flopped right back down.
I looked like a runaway intern who'd been swallowed whole by a CEO's wardrobe.
But at least I wasn't half-naked.
I took a deep breath, clutching the front of the shirt.
Just get through tonight, I told myself. Avoid him. Sleep. And tomorrow, escape before sunrise.
It was a plan.
A simple plan.
A totally workable plan.
…
…Unless he came looking for me.
A sudden sound echoed from the hallway.
A footstep.
Slow. Heavy. Familiar.
My entire body froze, breath locking in my chest.
He was back.
And I was wearing his shirt.
His leg slid onto the bed with a slow, deliberate firmness that stole the breath from my lungs.
SLIDE.
It wasn't the movement itself—it was the intent behind it.
He wasn't just approaching me.
He was closing every inch of distance I had left.
My back instinctively pressed against the headboard, trying to fuse with it as if the wood would magically swallow me and let me escape this impossible situation.
His gaze lowered, sweeping over me from head to toe in a way that ignited every nerve in my body. I yanked the hem of his shirt down as far as it would stretch, but it was useless. The more I tugged, the more aware I became of how much leg I was exposing beneath it.
Why did he have to be wearing a dark suit? Why did he have to look so composed while I was on the brink of spontaneous combustion?
He rested one knee on the mattress, weight shifting, hand still braced beside my head. I felt the bed dip beneath him, and the shift in pressure pushed me even deeper into the corner.
This is bad.
This is BAD.
This is very bad.
His voice came again, low and maddeningly patient.
"You think I'm being petty."
The way he said it—not a question, not a reprimand—just a calm, surgical statement—made my breath falter.
I swallowed hard. "Well… yes."
His eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. "You think wearing my shirt solves the problem."
"It solves my problem," I shot back, hugging my knees slightly, regretting the motion instantly when the shirt rode up even higher.
His gaze sharpened.
I yanked the hem down again, nearly whining, "Stop looking!"
His brow arched just a fraction. "Then stop giving me things to look at."
"WHAT KIND OF LOGIC—?!" I hissed under my breath, cheeks burning like wildfire.
He ignored my outrage entirely, leaning closer, the smell of his cologne surrounding me. Cool, dark, maddening. My pulse thrashed wildly.
"Do you understand now," he murmured, "why I told you to take it off?"
I shook my head so fast my hair whipped around me. "No. No, I don't understand any of this! I just needed something decent to wear! And—and—" I gestured helplessly at the shirt engulfing me, "—this is decent!"
His eyes traveled slowly—infuriatingly—back up to my face.
"No," he said. "This is dangerous."
My heart stopped.
He leaned even closer, and I felt his leg shift again, pressing subtly, intentionally deeper into the mattress, into my space.
"W‑Why exactly," I managed, "is me wearing a giant men's shirt considered 'dangerous'?"
His fingers drummed once on the mattress beside my hip.
TAP.
"Because," he said softly, "you have no idea what you look like right now."
My entire body seized.
Oh no.
No no no.
Do NOT blush. Do. Not. Blush.
I felt the heat bloom across my cheeks anyway.
He watched it happen.
Watched it with that deep, consuming gaze that made me feel naked despite the oversized shirt swallowing me whole.
"H‑Hey—!" I stammered. "This is exactly why I didn't want to wear my own nightclothes! They're worse! WAY worse! I was trying to avoid this situation!"
"And yet," he said, leaning in until his breath brushed my ear, "here you are."
I nearly levitated off the bed.
"MOVE," I demanded, pushing at his shoulder, but it was like trying to shove a marble pillar.
He didn't budge.
Instead, he angled his head slightly, as if considering something.
"That shirt…" His fingers reached toward the collar.
I slapped his hand away so fast my palm stung.
"DON'T TOUCH IT."
A beat of silence.
Then—
His lips curved.
A faint, impossibly subtle, infinitely dangerous smile.
"…Interesting."
My stomach flipped. Badly. Dramatically. Catastrophically.
"Wh‑what's interesting?!" I demanded.
He didn't answer.
Instead, his hand returned to the mattress, closer to my thigh this time, the weight of his presence bearing down on me from all sides. My breath hitched.
I was trapped. Completely.
And the worst part was… he knew it.
His voice dipped to a murmur—so intimate, so close it sent a pulse of warmth straight through me.
"Tell me," he said, "what exactly were you planning to do… dressed like this… if I hadn't come back?"
My mouth opened.
No sound came out.
I stared at him, heart thundering, trapped beneath the intensity of his gaze, the heat of his body, the gravity of whatever was happening between us.
This wasn't just a confrontation.
This was the moment something shifted—deep, irreversible, unspoken.
And I had no idea if I should run from it—
—or fall straight into it.
"But in exchange…"
The words dropped into the space between us like a stone into still water—sending shockwaves straight through me.
He looked at me with piercing gaze as he spoke " okay I will let you keep my shirt but in exchange ---" he drewed his face closer aa my heart was about to explode.
" Let's go for a dinner together" he spoke as my eyes widened " what? Dinner?" I glare .
" Well it's your wish whether it is Wednesday or Sunday?"
My breath froze.
He didn't move, but somehow he felt closer. His leg remained anchored on the bed beside me, his body angled over mine, caging me without ever touching. The mattress dipped under his weight, pulling me deeper into the gravitational pull of him.
His gaze stayed locked on my face, unwavering, unblinking.
It wasn't simply blue—it was cutting, calculating, seeing straight through my excuses and flimsy resistance.
I swallowed. "What… what -- okay okay I will " i stammed .
A slow smile ghosted across his lips—dangerous, quiet, utterly certain he had me.
"This," he murmured, one hand lifting just slightly from the mattress, "isn't about the shirt. You understand that now."
It wasn't a question.
I opened my mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to protest—but he continued before I could get a sound out.
"You put on my shirt," he said, voice dropping even lower. "Even after I told you not to."
My heart pounded against my ribs—hard, frantic, helpless.
"You ran," he added, leaning in so close his breath brushed my cheek. "Even after I told you to stay."
His fingers brushed the edge of the collar—barely, a whisper of contact—yet my entire body jolted at the sensation.
"And now," he continued, eyes dipping to the shirt that clung to my damp skin, "you're lying here… in my clothes… looking at me like that."
My cheeks flushed. "L‑Like what?"
He tilted his head slightly—just enough to make me feel exposed.
"Like you're terrified of what I'll say next," he whispered. "But also… waiting."
I felt heat rush to my face, to my throat, as if his words had caught fire on my skin.
"No—I'm not—!"
He silenced me with a single, quiet word.
"Enough."
The command struck through me like a shiver.
This wasn't anger.
This wasn't dominance for the sake of winning.
This was something sharper—personal.
He shifted his hand, pressing his palm against the mattress beside my hip. The bed creaked softly under the adjustment, bringing him even closer.
"Here is the deal," he said, each word deliberate, inescapable. "I'll let you keep the shirt for tonight."
A breath I didn't realize I'd been holding escaped me. Relief. A tiny victory.
"But," he added, his eyes lifting to mine again, "you will sleep here."
My entire body went still.
"Wh—here? With you?!"
His gaze didn't waver. "Yes."
"That's not a deal—that's—"
"A condition," he finished smoothly. "My condition."
I shook my head, pulse racing. "No. No, that's impossible. I can't—"
"If you leave," he said, voice quiet but razor-sharp, "you take off the shirt."
My breath stuttered.
The options collapsed into a painful, humiliating reality:
Stay—
in his shirt, in his room, on his bed—
with him beside me.
Or strip and flee.
He knew it.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
"You're unbelievable," I whispered, more breath than voice.
His expression didn't change. "Choose."
I stared at him—at the man whose presence swallowed the space around me, whose voice could pin me in place more effectively than chains, whose eyes were devouring every tell I couldn't hide.
My throat tightened. "This isn't fair."
He leaned in, the faintest hint of heat in his tone.
"Deals rarely are."
His hand lifted, slowly—dangerously—and hovered near my waist.
Not touching.
Waiting.
"I won't force you," he said. "But I will wait for your answer."
My heart slammed against my ribs, my breath coming in unsteady waves.
Stay fully clothed—and trapped beside him.
Or reclaim my freedom—at the cost of exposing more than I could bear.
His gaze held me easily, effortlessly, as if he already knew which choice I would make.
I didn't.
Not yet.
But the weight of the moment—the weight of him—made my next breath feel like a cliff edge.
The words "going out for dinner" echoed in my mind, repeating like some cruel, mocking chant. I could practically feel the public scrutiny, the flashing lights of invisible cameras, the weight of society's gaze pressing down on me before it even happened. No. No, no, no! My pulse thudded in my ears, matching the frantic rhythm of my thoughts.
I tried to sit up, to gather some semblance of control, but his body shadowed mine, pinning me with a gravity I had no hope of escaping. The oversized shirt, once my shield, now felt like a trap: every wriggle made it rise higher, revealing more of my legs and sending a fresh wave of panic through me.
"You won't be able to escape that easily, princess," he said, his voice low, smooth, and infuriatingly knowing.
How does he always know? My blood ran ice-cold. The thought that he had calculated every inch of this trap—positioning himself just so to block me completely—made me shiver. I flailed weakly, trying to wriggle my foot out from under the edge of his trousers, but it was futile.
"On one condition," he added, leaning in, the faint scent of his cologne curling around me like smoke, "you'll need to make your decision right here, as you are."
I froze, staring at him with wide, panicked eyes. Right here? With him so close that I could feel his chest's subtle rise and fall? I felt exposed, cornered, and absurdly aware of the soft fabric clinging to me. Every instinct screamed to run—but where could I run when he had me pinned physically and mentally?
"Can't you at least give me a proper explanation as to why you want to go out for dinner?!" I demanded, my voice trembling despite my attempt at assertiveness.
He tilted his head, watching me with that unnerving calm. "I don't mind waiting for you like this," he said, almost casual.
I let out a frustrated groan, tugging at the shirt to pull it down, but it only bunched up in a helpless, betraying heap. My shoulders burned as I realized I was pinned, literally and figuratively. My attempts to create space had failed, leaving me fully at the mercy of his presence.
The room fell into a strange, suffocating silence. His eyes held mine, and for a long moment, it was just us—two figures trapped in a dangerous game of proximity and intent. The air between us crackled with something I couldn't name: anticipation, tension, and the unspoken power struggle that had threaded through every interaction since I'd arrived.
My chest tightened. It was intimate, overwhelming, and infuriating all at once. My legs, partially exposed beneath the rising hem of the shirt, felt heavy with vulnerability. Every instinct screamed to resist, to pull away—but there was nowhere to go.
I took a shaky breath and tried to calm my racing thoughts. Think, Yuna. Think. There has to be a way to—
Too late. He leaned even closer, his presence almost pressing down on me like a tangible weight. The soft scrape of his hand against the mattress beside my hip was a reminder: I was entirely trapped, and the choice—agree or refuse—was mine and mine alone.
The air between us was thick, almost electric, and I realized, with an alarming clarity, that this wasn't just about dinner. It was about control, possession, and testing boundaries. My heart thumped erratically as my mind raced, trying to weigh the absurdity of the situation against the growing pressure of being pinned here, exposed and cornered.
I swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to resist, but… I could feel the truth pressing down: whatever I decided, this was a confrontation I could not walk away from unscathed.
And so I lay there, pinned beneath his blue-eyed gaze, oversized shirt clinging, legs tangled beneath him, and realized with a sinking sense of inevitability: I had to c