The Dance That Started the Fire

It was a charity gala. Black tie. Red carpet. Cameras everywhere.

And of course, the organizers had a surprise:

“A couple’s performance—Yoongi and his stunning wife.”

You choked on your drink.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Can you dance?”

“Can you?” you shot back.

He smirked. “Try to keep up.”

---

The music was slow. Seductive.

You were in a backless black gown. He wore all black. His hand slipped to your waist like he’d done it a thousand times.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.

“Pretend you want me.”

You turned your face just enough. “I’m not pretending.”

His grip tightened.

Step. Spin. Closer.

The world blurred. But his eyes stayed locked on you.

It wasn’t dancing anymore. It was foreplay.

---

Elevator. Alone. Unavoidable.

You hit the button. He followed silently.

The doors closed. Silence. The kind that burned.

And then—

The lights flickered. The elevator stopped.

You stumbled into him. He caught you. Again.

“I swear this building hates me,” you muttered.

“Maybe it just wants us to talk.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “About what?”

His voice dropped. “About the fact that I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked when I kissed you.”

Silence.

Your breath hitched.

His hand slid to your cheek.

You didn’t move.

“I told myself not to want you,” he said.

“Then stop,” you whispered.

He leaned in. “You first.”

---

And then—his lips found yours.

Not like the kiss before.

This one lingered. This one trembled with restraint and hunger and things neither of you were ready to say.

His hands held you like you might disappear. Yours clutched his shirt like you needed him to stay.

And just before the lights flickered back on, he

whispered:

“Tell me you felt that too.”

You didn’t answer.

But your kiss did.