Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

The door to Park’s private wing clicked shut just as Aveline reached the end of the corridor.

She had not been waiting for him in the hallway.

That needed establishing immediately, mostly for herself, since nobody else was standing there accusing her of anything. She had come upstairs because one of the household staff needed confirmation about dinner arrangements. Park’s name had entered that conversation for maybe three seconds, and then her feet — apparently operating under a separate government now — had carried her toward the left wing without consulting her dignity first.

Aveline turned at the sound of the door and saw him walking toward her.

Then, for one deeply irritating second, her entire mind went blank.

Park had changed into one of the countless gym outfits Emmeline had bullied him into buying during their small economic attack on Empire Mall:

A fitted charcoal training shirt sat clean over his shoulders and chest without clinging like desperate fabric. Black tapered joggers rested against his waist and broke neatly over spotless white trainers. A lightweight jacket hung tied around his hips, a dark sports watch hugged one wrist, and the only jewellery on him was the thin silver chain lying against his throat.

And still the whole thing looked stupidly sharp on him—

His hair had been trimmed and shaped during the shopping trip, though whoever handled it had been smart enough not to turn him into an overstyled doll.

The dark waves still fell loose over his forehead; the mess just looked expensive now instead of accidental. His skin was clearer. His jaw sat sharper. And those strange cognac-gold eyes caught the corridor light in a way they hadn’t before, that buried hint of pink flashing whenever his head moved.

He was moving differently too.

Park had always been handsome — even if Aveline had spent years refusing to think about it for longer than strictly necessary. But the old Park had carried his beauty like it embarrassed him with shoulders curved slightly in, his gaze always sliding away first.

This Park did not shrink.

He came down the corridor straight and settled, fully moved into his own skin, like confidence had arrived overnight, unpacked its bags, looked around, and decided the neighbourhood was cute; he simply looked completely certain that wherever he stood, he had every right to be standing there.

And then there was that teasing little smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, currently committing several crimes against humility.

The little bastard had somehow become even more handsome.

Her eyes did one more pass over him, down the shirt, past the waist, and then they snagged and stopped.

The joggers were tapered, and the fabric was soft, and the front of them was not flat.

Aveline froze mid-thought like a machine hitting an error it had no protocol for. One full second. Maybe two. Her brain produced nothing at all except a high, blank tone, and her eyes stayed exactly where they had no business being, on the unmistakable tent shape pressing against soft black fabric, and some distant clinical part of her mind was already filing measurements she had not requested and could never delete before she wrenched her gaze up to his face so fast it nearly gave her whiplash.

He was looking at her; he had absolutely seen it.

’No he hasn’t,’ she informed herself, with desperate authority, rewriting history in real time. ’There is nothing to have seen because nothing happened. I was assessing his outfit. I am his older sister and I was conducting a review.’

Park’s smile widened by exactly one degree and he had the divine mercy, or the tactical genius, to say nothing whatsoever about it:

"Hey, sis."

He was warm, easy, annoyingly natural, like he’d been calling her that with affection every day of their lives instead of treating sibling warmth as a classified document.

Aveline opened her mouth. She had several perfectly sensible questions loaded:

Why? Was he going to the gym this late? Had he eaten anything after being dragged through boutiques all day? Why had he decided personal boundaries were optional decorations?

None of them made it out.

Park kept walking until he stood directly in front of her, close enough to fill most of her vision. She had to tilt her head slightly to hold his eyes.

He didn’t say anything at first and studied her instead.

He tilted his head toward one shoulder. Then the other. Inspecting her from angles like a man trying to work out why a painting was hanging wrong.

One finger came up to rest against his lower lip, he looked... thoughtful?

Aveline’s brows tightened. "What are you doing?"

Park narrowed his eyes at her a second longer.

Then he shook his head. "No."

"No, what?"

Instead of answering, he stepped in.

Aveline stiffened before she could stop herself.

For one confused moment she thought he was going to hug her. His arms came up and around, his body moved close enough to block the entire corridor behind him, and every intelligent part of her mind was asking what the hell he thought he was doing while some other part — a part she would be prosecuting later — braced for the contact and did not move one inch out of its path.

The contact never came, but he stayed there reaching behind her head, and the position put them nearly chest to chest, close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off him through the charcoal shirt, close enough that she caught the clean scent of whatever the grooming floor had done to him layered over something underneath that was just him.

Her face was level with his collarbone. If she leaned forward two inches she’d be against him.

And Park — Park was having his own emergency, conducted in total silence.

Because she was right therehalf-caged in his arms with her chin tipped up and her breath faintly audible, and every nerve he owned was filing the same urgent report: close the gap. Fold her in.

She was warm and she smelled like something expensive and understated and her mouth was right there, set in that stern line he was developing an unhealthy relationship with, and the urge to just wrap her up — or worse, considerably worse, to tip his head down those last few degrees—

’Nah! She would kill me,’ he thought, with total certainty. ’She would kill me right here in this corridor. Second death. Two lifetimes, two fatalities, cause of death both times: proximity to something beautiful moving too fast.’

He considered it a moment longer.

’Honestly? Not the worst way to go. The first one was a car. At least this one would have a story, reasons and causes.’

Park’s fingers in process found the tie of her ponytail, and he pulled it loose.

Aveline heard the soft slide of fabric before she understood what he’d done.

Her hair came down.

It poured over her shoulders and down her back in one smooth heavy fall, black under the warm corridor lights, some of it slipping forward over her chest, finer strands drifting loose across her cheek and temple, escaping the strict order she had forced them into at six that morning.

"Park."

"Hold still for me."

The quiet of the request should have annoyed her; It did annoy her, probably.

He stepped back just far enough to inspect his own crime, then lifted both hands and began fixing her hair with a confidence he had in no way earned. He drew some of it forward. Let the rest fall free down her back.

Smoothed one side near her shoulder, adjusted the other, unhurried about all of it — handling the dark strands carefully, almost gently, like this was important and he would not be accepting complaints until it was finished.

Then he tucked one loose strand behind her ear, and his fingertips grazed the edge of her cheek on the way past.

Aveline nearly shivered — one small ripple across her skin from a touch that soft, gone before she could disown it.

Park either didn’t notice or possessed just enough survival instinct not to smile about it.

Another strand had drifted across her face. He lifted it away, fingers brushing her temple, gliding light along her cheekbone as he moved it aside. Nothing improper in it or dramatic.

No reason whatsoever for her pulse to have become suddenly, loudly noticeable to her.

It was only her younger brother fixing her hair, touching her gently, as if touching her gently had always been allowed.

Park arranged the last strands, stepped back, and looked at her again — and this time the smile wasn’t teasing. It came softer and warmer.

"There," he said. "That’s the version I was looking for."

Her voice returned after an embarrassing delay. "You undid my hair."

"I rescued your hair."

"You did not have permission."

"You were hiding it."

"I was wearing a ponytail."

"Exactly. A terrible misuse of resources."

She gave him the look that had made grown ministers lose their place in prepared speeches but Park remained alive, no, he looked delighted about it.

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