___ Seoul is on lockdown, the Hunter’s Association building is on emergency power, and the 47th-floor lounge is empty except for Cha Hae-In – until Sung Jinwoo walks in, the one hunter in the world who doesn’t stink of blood to her.
Rain hammering the glass, one amber emergency light, and a silence that gets too small, too hot – she finally admits he’s the only one she can stand to be close to, and he doesn’t step away when she closes that last arm’s length of distance.
___ The storm had been building over Seoul all afternoon.
By the time the Hunter’s Association building went dark, rain was sheeting against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 47th-floor lounge, turning the city lights below into smeared constellations of gold and white.
Cha Hae-In stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the emergency generators kick in.
The overheads stayed dead, but the strip lights along the baseboards flickered on—weak, amber, casting long shadows across the empty room.
She’d been alone for forty minutes.
The lockdown announcement had come through just as she’d finished her debrief: dungeon break alert in Mapo-gu, all non-essential personnel to evacuate or shelter in place.
Most of the building had emptied out before the power went.
Everyone except her.
And, apparently, him.
The door to the lounge hissed open.
She didn’t need to turn.
She already knew who it was before she caught the absence.
No smell.
No cloying iron tang, no acrid sweat, no rot.
Nothing.
Just the clean shape of a man moving into the space behind her.
“Sung Jinwoo.” “Cha Hae-In.” His voice was low.
Flat.
He crossed the room in a few strides and stopped near the coffee table, rain still beaded on his jacket.
He’d come from outside, then.
Must have gotten caught in it before the lockdown sealed.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“Elevators shut down.” He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair.
“Stairs are locked until the all-clear.” She turned fully to face him.
The emergency light caught the line of his jaw, the flat calm in his eyes.
He looked at her the same way he looked at everything—like he was cataloging it, filing it away, already ten steps ahead of whatever came next.
“The lounge has a shelter pantry,” she said.
“Blankets.
Water.
Should be enough for the night.” “Good.” He didn’t ask if she was okay.
Didn’t make small talk.
He just walked to the window and stood beside her, looking out at the rain.
She should have felt annoyed.
Most people expected at least some acknowledgment of the situation, some attempt at conversation.
But with him, the silence wasn’t awkward.
It was just…
quiet.
Like he didn’t need to fill it.
She was acutely aware of her own breathing.
The way her lungs expanded against her blouse.
The warmth of her skin.
A crack of thunder split the sky, close enough to rattle the glass.
“The generators,” she said, “they won’t last all night.
Maybe four hours.” “That’s fine.” She watched his profile.
He wasn’t looking at the city.
He was looking at something in the rain, some point she couldn’t see.
“You don’t smell like them,” she said.
He turned his head.
Just slightly.
“Who?” “Other hunters.” The pause stretched.
He didn’t ask what she meant.
Maybe he already knew.
Maybe he didn’t care.
“Your sense of smell,” he said.
Not a question.
“Yes.” “That why you’re standing so close?” She looked down.
The distance between them was maybe an arm’s length.
She hadn’t noticed closing it.
Her pulse flickered, a brief flutter at the base of her throat.
“I didn’t realize I was.” He didn’t step back.
The rain hammered.
The lights hummed.
The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago.
She should have moved away.
She was Cha Hae-In, S-Rank swordswoman, Vice-Master of the Hunters Guild.
She didn’t crowd men in dark rooms.
She didn’t stand this close to anyone.
But his chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths.
And the space around him was clean.
Clear.
Safe.
She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
“Most hunters,” she said, her voice dropping, “they reek of blood.
Even after washing, it’s like the scent is baked into their skin.
Days after a raid, I can still smell it.” “And me?” Her fingers twitched at her side.
“Good.” He said nothing.
The silence stretched into something heavier, charged with the static of the storm.
She could hear the rain hitting the glass, the low drone of the emergency lights, and beneath it all, the soft sound of his breathing.
Her hand moved before she decided it would.
Her fingers brushed his wrist.
Skin.
Warm.
The barest contact.
His eyes shifted to where she touched him, then back to her face.
The flatness in his expression flickered.
Not surprise.
Not discomfort.
Something else.
Something quieter.
“Cha Hae-In.” She didn’t pull away.
“You’re the only one who doesn’t smell disgusting,” she said.
The words hung in the air.
Blunt.
Honest.
A confession she hadn’t meant to make.
His pulse was steady under her fingertips.
Slow.
Deliberate.
She could feel the rhythm of it, the blood moving beneath his skin.
“I mean it,” she said, and her voice cracked, just slightly.
“I know.” He didn’t move.
Didn’t pull her closer.
But he didn’t step back either.
That was permission enough.
She stepped into his space.
The heat of him was immediate.
She hadn’t realized how cold the room had gotten until she felt the warmth radiating from his body.
Her chest brushed his.
Her breath caught.
“Jinwoo.” “Hae-In.” His voice was lower now.
Rougher at the edges.
She watched his throat move as he swallowed.
She could feel his breath on her face.
Coffee.
Rain.
Nothing else.
Clean, like cool water after hours in the sun.
He raised his hand.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His fingers brushed her jaw.
The touch was featherlight.
Testing.
She didn’t flinch.
She leaned into it.
“If this isn’t what you want—” he started.
She kissed him.
Her fingers found the front of his shirt—gripped the fabric—pulled him close.
He tasted like rain.
His lips were cool but his mouth was hot.
He kissed back without hesitation.
One hand slid to the small of her back, pressing her against him.
The emergency light flickered.
The glass behind her vibrated with thunder.
Her hips met his.
She felt him harden against her thigh through the layers of their clothes.
A soft sound escaped her throat—surprise, hunger, she didn’t know which.
He broke the kiss.
His forehead pressed to hers.
“Here?” His question was quiet.
Direct.
He was giving her a way out.
She answered by reaching between them.
Her fingers found his belt.
Undid it with one quick motion.
The buckle clinked against the floor.
His breath hitched.
She pushed his jacket off the chair.
It fell to the ground.
She pushed him back until his shoulders hit the window.
Rain drummed against the glass behind him.
City lights bled through the water, casting shifting patterns across his face.
The cold of the window seeped through her blouse as she pressed against him.
She kissed his neck.
His pulse jumped under her lips.
Her hand found the waistband of his pants.
“Cha Hae-In,” he said, and his voice had broken open—raw, strained.
“If we do this, I’m not going to stop.” “Don’t.” She pulled his shirt over his head.
The emergency light painted his skin in amber.
She traced her fingers down his chest.
Slow.
Feeling the rise and fall of his breath under her touch.
His hands found the buttons of her blouse.
He worked them open one by one, methodical, unhurried.
The fabric fell away.
His eyes traced over her—her collarbone, the curve of her breasts, the lace of her bra.
“Beautiful,” he said.
Just that.
One word.
She reached behind her back.
Unclasped her bra.
Let it fall.
His hands came up immediately—warm, broad, calloused from a thousand fights.
He cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples.
Her knees buckled, just slightly.
He caught her.
“I have you,” he said.
She believed him.
Her skirt pooled at her feet.
His pants followed.
The storm howled.
The glass was cold against her back, but he was hot everywhere else.
His fingers found her.
Slick.
Ready.
He drew a slow circle over her clit and her hips jerked.
“Jinwoo—” His mouth covered hers.
He swallowed her whimper as he pressed inside her.
One finger.
Then two.
Stretching her.
She gripped his shoulders, nails digging into muscle.
“Now,” she breathed against his lips.
“Please.” He lifted her.
Her legs wrapped around his waist.
The window shuddered with rain and thunder.
The city burned beneath them, a thousand lights bleeding through water.
He pushed into her.
The sensation was like being split open—full, filling, the line between pleasure and pain blurred.
She cried out.
Her forehead fell to his shoulder.
Her body clenched around him, adjusting to his size.
“Breathe,” he said.
She did.
Slowly.
She felt him pulse inside her, barely moving, letting her adjust.
She lifted her head.
Met his eyes.
Nodded.
He withdrew.
Then thrust.
She gasped.
The rhythm built fast—ragged, desperate.
He fucked her against the window, each thrust pushing her harder against the glass.
She could feel the cold through her spine, the heat through her cunt, the rain shaking the world around them.
His mouth found her neck.
Her ear.
Her lips.
He kissed her like he was starving.
She kissed him back the same way.
Her orgasm was close.
She could feel it coiling, tightening, a knot about to snap.
“Don’t stop.” He didn’t.
The knot broke.
Her body convulsed around him, back arching, a moan torn from her throat.
He followed a moment later—his rhythm faltered, his breath caught, and he pressed deep, shuddering, holding her against the window as he came inside her.
The lights flickered.
Then came back on.
The fluorescent overheads blazed.
The room flooded with cold white light.
She was pressed against the window, naked in the arms of the only hunter who didn’t stink.
He was still inside her.
And the door to the lounge slid open.