Title: The Anchor's Reach
The rest of the night was agonizingly silent. I was back on the velvet sofa, wrapped in a thick blanket that smelled faintly of the suite's expensive laundry service. Kang Bok Soo was behind the bedroom door.
The exhaustion of the past week—the panic, the bad grades, the constant worry about my mother, and the sheer emotional output of the acting session—finally caught up. I should have slept, but I couldn't. Every muscle was tense. The emotional connection we had forged in the last twenty-four hours was too volatile.
I kept listening for the sounds of his anxiety, terrified of hearing that choked gasp again. The thought that he needed me, that I was his "anchor," was more addictive than any high-paying job.
Around two in the morning, the door didn't slam open, but it opened silently.
I looked up. Kang Bok Soo was standing there. He wasn't in a silk robe or a suit; he was simply wearing black sweatpants, his chest bare. He looked like the model, but his expression was the raw anxiety of the fearful boy.
He wasn't having a panic attack, but he was restless, his eyes unfocused. He saw me awake, sitting bolt upright.
He walked past the sofa and went to the panoramic window, staring out at the city's neon glow. He didn't speak. He just stood there, the silence heavy and brittle. He was testing me. He wasn't commanding me; he was just existing in my space, relying on my promise of loyalty and silence.
I decided not to speak either. My voice was for his commands; my silence was for his need.
After five minutes that felt like an hour, he finally turned around. He looked directly at me, his eyes dark, intense, and filled with a profound, terrifying loneliness.
Then, he did the unexpected.
He walked back to the sofa, not to yell or flirt, but to simply sit down at the far end, facing the opposite direction. He rested his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunched. It was the posture of a defeated man.
The physical distance was huge, but the emotional closeness was suffocating. We were sharing the sofa, sharing the night, sharing the immense, silent weight of our respective anxieties.
I knew he was waiting for the medication to kick in, waiting for sleep that wouldn't come easily. My own exhaustion was a heavy thrum in my temples.
After a few minutes of agonizing silence, I broke. Not because of a command, but because of a shared human need.
I reached out my hand slowly and hesitantly. I didn't reach for his face or his arm. I reached for the small, tense knot of his shoulder muscle that was visible just above the waistband of his sweatpants.
I laid my palm there—a simple, non-sexual, purely comforting touch.
He froze instantly, every muscle rigid. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in either. He held his breath.
I started rubbing his shoulder lightly, slowly, the way I sometimes did for my tired mother. It was just a small, circling motion of my thumb, offering simple human reassurance.
"The wind is loud tonight," I whispered, keeping my voice neutral, referencing the storm that had raged the night before.
He let out a long, slow breath—a breath that sounded like a sigh of surrender. He leaned back just slightly, accepting the comfort.
Then, the possessive, flirty Kang Bok Soo returned.
His hand rose slowly and covered mine, pressing my palm more firmly into his muscle. He didn't turn to look at me, but his fingers wrapped around my wrist, locking my hand in place. It was a clear, non-verbal message: I accept your comfort, and now you can't take it back.
His thumb began to stroke the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. A slow, rhythmic, searing motion that instantly ignited my core. The simple, comforting touch was instantly transformed into a deep, electric intimacy.
He leaned his head back until it rested against the back of the sofa, letting out another deep sigh.
"Don't stop, Peter Bella," he murmured, his voice husky with fatigue and desire.
I didn't stop. I couldn't. My hand was trapped, giving comfort while his thumb was stealing my breath. It was the perfect exchange of our broken parts: he received the emotional stability he desperately needed, and I received the raw, physical connection that proved I was desirable, seen, and necessary.
We stayed that way until the first weak light of dawn bled through the curtains. I was the anchor, and he was holding me captive to the line.