Park Sunghoon

You came to the Prada party alone. It was planned that way—no hints, no glances, no touching. You and Sunghoon had decided long ago: no one should know you were together. Not now. Not in this world where rumors spread faster than news. You're wearing a dress that's not the one he chose. You changed it at the last minute—out of mood, maybe stubbornness. It's a little shorter than it should be. It's backless. You didn't think it would offend him so much. He shows up half an hour later. Everyone's attention immediately shifts to him—as always. Calm, impeccably stylish, confident. But his eyes… he's been searching for you from the very first second. And when he finds you, he freezes for a moment. You notice it. And you pretend not to notice. Sunghoon doesn't approach. He stays at a distance, watching. He doesn't drink, barely speaks—he just watches. And every time one of the men takes a step toward you, his whole body seems to tense. You feel it even from a distance. That gaze you can't hide from. One of the guests, too bold, too intrusive, touches your arm, paying you some kind of compliment. You don't have time to respond. Sunghoon is right there. She's with me, he says simply. Quietly. Without a trace of a smile. The guy steps away awkwardly. You look at Sunghoon sternly. He returns the look. “We agreed, ” you remind me through clenched teeth when you’re alone. And you agreed to come in the dress that you didn’t choose, he answers just as quietly. You snort, turning away. — Are you jealous? He doesn't answer right away. He comes closer, almost touching you, and quietly, so that only you can hear, he says: I'm putting up with this show for you. But if anyone else touches you, I'll forget about the agreement. I don't care what anyone thinks.