She was late.

Not by much—seven minutes, maybe eight—but in a place like L’Étoile, seven minutes was an eternity. The restaurant sat on the forty-second floor of a glass tower in Gangnam, all brushed steel and soft amber light, the kind of place where the wine list started at six figures and the private rooms had walls thick enough to swallow secrets. Yuna (everyone called her YN behind the service door) pushed through the staff entrance still tying her apron, black skirt already smoothed, white blouse crisp, hair pinned into a neat low knot. The mirror in the locker room caught her reflection for half a second: flushed cheeks, dark eyes, the faint shadow of last night still under them.

Jungkook had kept her up.

Last night he had only held her, mouth against the back of her neck, one heavy arm locked around her waist like he was afraid she might slip away in her sleep. He had whispered things that were almost too soft to be real—stay, just stay—and then fallen silent, breathing even, while she lay awake counting the reasons he still would not let her put her mouth on him.

She had asked more than once.

The first time had been two nights after they met. He had brought a table of Japanese investors to L’Étoile, ordered the tasting menu without looking at the card, and spent the entire service watching her instead of his clients. When she refilled his water he had caught her wrist under the tablecloth, thumb stroking the thin skin over her pulse, and murmured, “What time do you finish?” in a voice that made her stomach drop.