Park Seonghwa

The bonfire crackles, its embers rising like fireflies into the ink-black sky. Waves crash softly behind the blur of neon lights and bodies grinding to the heavy bass. The night is humid, thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and alcohol. And Park Seonghwa is seething.

He watches her. The blonde. The way she drapes herself over him, fingers grazing his toned arms, her glossy lips stretching into a giggle at whatever pathetic line he threw her way. Seonghwa should push her off—should shove her away with a look that could burn.

But he doesn’t.

He lets it happen. Lets her touch him. Lets her whisper in his ear. He even leans into it, smirking like he’s enjoying every second. It’s bait. A slow, methodical game.

Because she’s watching.

The one who belongs to him.

His fingers flex against his glass, grip tightening as he catches sight of her across the fire, stiff and unreadable. She’s not looking at him now, but he knows she was. He can feel it. And that’s all that matters.

"You're so strong," the blonde purrs, dragging a manicured nail down his chest.

Seonghwa chuckles, low and deliberate. "You think so?"

His voice is smooth, laced with something dangerous. He doesn't care about her. Not her voice, not her touch, not the sickly sweet scent of her perfume. The only thing he cares about is the way she is reacting. The one whose name is carved into his ribs like a brand.

He flicks his gaze back to her. Their eyes meet.

There it is. That flicker of something—anger, jealousy, possession. Good.

The blonde presses closer, but Seonghwa’s attention has already drifted. He licks his lips, tilts his head slightly, and smiles. Not at the girl touching him. No.

At the one who’s about to break.