Ray

Don't know if I'll continue with these characters in my further stories but, I have these 2 parts planned.

Next chapter ->

The late afternoon sun filtered through Yujin's floor-to-ceiling windows, casting honey-gold streaks across the worn hardwood floors of her Brooklyn apartment. The space still carried that familiar scent, vanilla candles mixed with the ghost of countless shared meals and spilled wine.

"Karina, you absolute slut!" Kimmy shrieked, throwing his arms around the brunette as she stepped through the door, Henry trailing behind her with a bottle of champagne. "A fucking movie! I knew you'd get it!"

Karina laughed, her cheeks flushing pink as she accepted the embrace. "It's just an indie film, calm down. I play 'Concerned Bystander Number Three' for like, twelve minutes total."

"Twelve minutes of pure Oscar-worthy suffering," Henry deadpanned, setting the champagne on the kitchen island. "I watched the audition tape. She cried actual tears about a parking ticket."

"Fuck you," Karina giggled, punching his shoulder. "Like you're one to talk, Mr. 'I got cast as Dead Body in that procedural last week.'"

"Hey, dying is an art form," Henry protested, collapsing onto Yujin's overstuffed couch. "I had to lie still for six hours while they pretended to investigate my corpse. My left ass cheek fell asleep. That's dedication."

Yujin emerged from the kitchen with a platter of cheese and grapes, her hips swaying in that unconscious way that still made Kimmy's throat go dry after all these months. "Okay, okay, enough competing over who has the more humiliating gig. We're celebrating Karina today. Where's the wine?"

"I think we're out," Kimmy said, popping a grape into his mouth. "Jim, don't you have that case of red you were bragging about? The one from your sister's vineyard?"

Jim looked up from where he'd been scrolling through his phone on the armchair, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. "Yeah, it's at my place. On the TV shelf, actually."

"I'll get it," Sana offered, already sliding off her stool at the dining table. Her sleek black dress rode up her thighs as she stood, smoothing down the fabric. "I could use the stretch anyway. Ralph Lauren has me sitting twelve hours a day sketching necklines."

"Near the TV shelf," Jim called after her, his voice carrying a strange tightness that nobody noticed. "Can't miss it."

The door clicked shut behind her.

Twenty minutes passed. Henry regaled them with a story about his agent trying to convince him to do a commercial for hemorrhoid cream ("It's method acting, Henry! You could really FEEL the discomfort!"), and Yujin had just refilled everyone's water glasses when the door burst open.

Sana stood there, but she wasn't holding wine.

The VHS tape gleamed dully in her trembling hand, the label facing outward, scrawled in Jim's messy handwriting: "PRACTICE."

The room went silent.

Jim's face drained of color. He stood up so fast his phone clattered to the floor. "W-what...?"

"Yes, Mr. Taper," Sana's voice was dangerously soft, her eyes glittering with something between fury and hurt. "Do you recognize this tape?"

Jim's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water. "What-what-why are you holding that tape?"

"Seriously?!" Sana's voice cracked, rising an octave. "Oh! Jim, I hate you!"

"Wait-I can explain-"

But she was already gone, the door slamming so hard the walls shook. The sound of her heels stomping down the hallway echoed back at them.

Everyone froze. Karina looked at Henry. Henry looked at Yujin. Yujin looked at Kimmy. Jim stood frozen, his hands shaking at his sides.

Kimmy broke the silence first, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Okay, what the fuck was that? Jim? What is on that tape?"

"Nothing," Jim said quickly, too quickly. "It's just... it's personal. Private practice stuff. For my lecture next week."

"Private practice stuff that makes Sana say she hates you?" Yujin raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Come on, Jim. We've known each other five years. That wasn't 'I hate you because you used my shampoo.' That was... something else."

"Did you two sleep together?" Karina asked bluntly, taking a sip of her water. "Because that energy was very 'you didn't call me back after we fucked' energy."

"We did NOT sleep together," Jim snapped, then immediately regretted his tone. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the neat professor aesthetic. "I mean... not exactly. It's complicated."

"Complicated how?" Kimmy pressed. "Jim, you moved out because you were tired of walking in on me and Yujin fucking on every surface in this apartment. You can't suddenly be shy about sex."

"Speaking of which," Henry interjected, "I still don't understand why you didn't just join in. Yujin's kitchen table is sturdy. I've tested it."

"Henry!" Karina swatted him, but she was grinning.

"Focus!" Yujin snapped her fingers. "Jim. The tape. What is it?"

Jim sank back into the armchair, his head in his hands. "It's... it's all your fault!" He suddenly pointed at Henry, his finger trembling.

Henry blinked, clutching his chest dramatically. "Me? What did I do? I wasn't even here two days ago! I was at that cattle call for the deodorant commercial!"

"I'll explain!" Jim stood up again, pacing now. "Just... wait. Let me think."

Two days back, the afternoon light had been different, greyer, threatening rain. Henry had burst through Jim's apartment door without knocking, the way he always did, carrying a bulky black camera recorder under his arm like a football.

"Hey! You'll need this," Henry announced, dropping his leather jacket over the back of Jim's couch.

Jim looked up from his laptop, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. "What's this? A recorder?"

"Yeah!" Henry said, setting his coat down and rubbing his hands together. "Remember, you asked me regarding the presentation you have next week? The one about Victorian literature and sexual repression?"

Jim groaned, closing his laptop. "Yes. And I asked you to stay by me while I talk, give me feedback. But you said you were busy with auditions."

"Yeah, I am, so I brought this. This is what I do with my script dialogues." Henry moved to the coffee table, clearing away Jim's stack of graded papers. "I place this recorder, recording myself while I say my script. So, " He positioned the camera on a stack of books, angling it toward the couch. "Speak all you want by recording yourself and you can review it yourself instead of asking anyone else."

Jim leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. "Oh really? You just... talk to the camera?"

"Exactly. It's like having an audience that doesn't judge. Well, it judges, but silently." Henry made Jim sit on the couch, adjusting the camera to face him properly. "Speak all you want by recording yourself and you can review it yourself instead of asking anyone else."

"Oh that helps! Thanks man!"

"Yeahh! I know right, okay, then I'll leave." Henry grabbed his jacket, already halfway to the door. "Break a leg with your repressed Victorians!"

Jim arranged the camera carefully, hitting record and settling back against the cushions. He shuffled his notes, clearing his throat with professorial authority. "The suppression of desire in Victorian literature served not merely as social commentary, but as a mechanism of control..." He gestured broadly, trying to project confidence. "The female body became a site of contention, a battleground where-"

The knock at the door made him jump.

Sana stood there, her usually impeccable bun coming undone, strands of dark hair framing her face. She clutched a stack of papers to her chest like a shield, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Jim... I need help."

He ushered her in immediately, concern overriding his preparation. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"My assistant," Sana spat the word like a curse, dropping onto the couch and letting the papers spill across the cushions. "She took emergency vacation. Emergency! Her cat has a 'stress rash.' And I have to submit the spring line sketches in two days. Two days, Jim. I can't do this alone."

Jim sat beside her, gathering the scattered papers. "Of course I'll help. What do you need?"

Sana finally looked at him, really looked at him, and something in her expression softened. "But before that... have you got any wine?"

He laughed despite himself. "Yeahh, sure." He got up and retrieved a bottle of Cabernet from his small kitchen, along with two glasses. "Red okay?"

"Red is perfect."

They settled back onto the couch, papers spread between them, wine glasses filling and refilling. Sana explained the concepts—flowing lines inspired by water, colors that evoked dawn without being cliché. Jim offered suggestions, his literary mind finding metaphors that translated surprisingly well to fashion.

"This one," he said, pointing to a sketch of a backless dress, "it reminds me of that line from Whitman. 'I am large, I contain multitudes.' It looks simple from the front, but the back is... complicated. Unexpected."

Sana stared at him, her wine glass halfway to her lips. "That's exactly what I was going for. Jim..." She set the glass down. "I love you."

He froze. "What?"

"I love you," she repeated, and tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. "Thank you for helping me out. I don't know what I would've done without you." She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder.

Jim's hands hovered in the air before settling carefully on her back. "Hey, this is a small thing. You don't have to cry for this."

She pulled back, her face inches from his, her breath warm and smelling of cherries and alcohol. "Have you ever..." She stopped, searching his eyes.

"Have I ever what?"

"Have you ever thought about..."

And then they were kissing. It wasn't gentle or tentative—it was hungry, desperate, months of tension finally snapping like a rubber band stretched too far. Sana's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and Jim's hands found her waist, gripping tight as if she might disappear.

They fell back against the couch, papers scattering to the floor, forgotten.

Back in Yujin's apartment, Jim finished his explanation, his voice hoarse. "That's what happened. That's what's on the tape. We kissed, we... we got carried away. I didn't even remember the camera was recording until today. Until she found it."

"So you made a sex tape," Kimmy said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Professor Jim. You dirty dog."

"We didn't-it's not-" Jim stammered.

The door burst open again. Sana stood there, her eyes wild, her chest heaving. In one hand she held the tape. In the other, she gripped a hammer she'd clearly grabbed from the hallway maintenance closet.

"You-" She stared at Jim, her voice trembling with rage. "I'm gonna destroy it."

She strode into the center of the room and dropped the tape onto the hardwood floor. The hammer rose above her head, glinting in the sunset light.

"Nooo! Don't do it!!" Four voices shouted in unison except Jim.

Sana froze, the hammer hovering. "Why? Why shouldn't I? This is... this is private! This is humiliating!"

"Did you watch the whole thing?" Yujin asked carefully, stepping closer.

"No," Sana admitted, her arm lowering slightly. "I just saw up to the... the kiss thing. Then I panicked."

"So you don't know what happens after?" Karina asked, exchanging a glance with Henry.

"After?" Sana's voice cracked. "What happens after?"

"That's what we're saying," Kimmy interjected. "If you didn't watch it all, you don't know if it's... you know. Compromising. Or just kissing."

"Or maybe it's hot," Henry added, then winced when Karina elbowed him. "What? I'm just saying!"

Jim stepped forward, his hands raised in surrender. "Sana. Please. If you're going to destroy it, at least... at least watch it first. See what we're dealing with. Then decide."

"Watch it together," Yujin suggested, her eyes gleaming with that mischievous curiosity they all knew well. "All of us. Then if it's too much, we destroy it. But if it's just... if it's just a moment between two people..." She shrugged. "Then maybe it's worth keeping."

Sana looked around the room, at five faces watching her with varying degrees of concern, curiosity, and barely concealed excitement. Her grip on the hammer loosened.

"Fine," she whispered. "But if I hate it, I'm smashing it. And possibly your face," she added, pointing at Jim.

"Fair," Jim breathed.

They moved like a procession, filing across the hall to Jim's apartment. The space was neater than Yujin's, more sparse, academic, with bookshelves lining every wall and a single framed poster of some obscure Russian film above the couch.

Jim's hands shook as he set up the TV, slotting the tape into the old VCR he'd inherited from his mother. The screen fuzzed blue, then cleared.

There was Jim, sitting alone, looking earnest and slightly ridiculous in his button-down shirt. "The suppression of desire in Victorian literature..."

"Fast-forward," Sana commanded, her arms crossed tight across her chest.

Jim hit the button. The image blurred, then cleared again.

There they were. On the couch. The wine glasses still on the table, the papers scattered.

"Oh god," Sana whispered.

On screen, Jim set down his glass. On screen, Sana leaned in. The kiss looked different from the outside, slower, more cinematic somehow. Their mouths met, and the sound was audible, a soft wet collision that made Henry shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"Damn," Karina breathed. "That's... that's actually really beautiful."

On screen, Sana's hands moved to Jim's shirt, unbuttoning it with surprising dexterity. His chest was revealed, pale, lean, with a smattering of dark hair. She ran her palms up his sternum, breaking the kiss only to trail her lips down his jaw, his throat.

"Fuck," Kimmy muttered. "They're not stopping."

"Should we... should we keep watching?" Yujin asked, but nobody moved to stop it.

On screen, Jim groaned, his head falling back as Sana's mouth found his collarbone. His hands found her hips, pulling her onto his lap so she straddled him. The camera caught her dress riding up, exposing her lace-clad thighs.

"Jesus," Henry whispered. "That's... that's the Ralph Lauren lingerie, isn't it? The new line?"

"Focus!" Karina hissed, but she was leaning forward, entranced.

On screen, Sana reached behind her back. The dress loosened. She pulled it over her head in one smooth motion, revealing a cream-colored bra that contrasted beautifully with her olive skin. Her breasts heaved as she breathed, nipples visible through the thin lace.

Jim's hands came up to cup them, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, making her arch against him.

"God, look at her back," Yujin murmured. "That curve..."

On screen, they kissed again, rougher now, teeth clicking, tongues visible as they devoured each other.

Then, slowly, Jim stood, lifting Sana with him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirt bunched around her hips, revealing that she wore matching lace panties, already darkening with arousal at the crotch.

He carried her toward the bedroom door.

"Wait," Karina said, standing up. "They're going into the bedroom?"

"Do it in front of the camera!" Henry shouted at the screen, as if they could hear him. "Come on, don't be shy!"

"Henry!" Yujin laughed, scandalized.

But the bedroom door closed on screen. The image showed only the empty couch, the scattered papers, the two abandoned wine glasses.

"That's it?" Kimmy demanded. "That's the end?"

Jim cleared his throat, his face crimson. "The camera was in the living room. It couldn't see... what happened in the bedroom."

"And what happened in the bedroom?" Sana asked, her voice barely audible.

Jim looked at her, really looked at her, and something passed between them, a secret, a shared memory, a heat that hadn't dissipated in two days.

"Only two people know that," Jim said softly.

Sana held his gaze for a long moment, the hammer still dangling from her hand, forgotten. Then, slowly, she set it down on the coffee table.

"I think..." she said carefully, "I think maybe we should talk. Alone."

"Finally," Henry groaned. "Can we at least watch the couch part again first? For research purposes?"

"Get out," Jim and Sana said in unison, and for the first time that evening, they smiled at each other.

"Get out!" Jim and Sana said in unison, their voices overlapping with urgent desperation.

"Get out! This is my apartment..?" Yujin blinked at them, confusion knitting her brow before understanding dawned in her dark eyes. A slow smile spread across her face. "Oh. Ohhh. Right. My apartment. Yes."

"Okay, then we'll get out..." Sana's fingers found Jim's hand, her grip tight and possessive. She bent down and yanked the VCR from the TV stand, cords trailing like mechanical entrails.

"Wait, not the VCR!" Henry protested, reaching out. "We were going to watch it again! For educational purposes!"

"Forget the tape," Karina laughed, pulling Henry toward the door. "Live entertainment is better."

"Come on, Sana, leave the video," Kimmy wheedled, but she was already moving, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she dragged Jim behind her.

Sana didn't halt. She strode through Yujin's doorway, Jim stumbling after her, the VCR clutched against her chest like a trophy. The others followed, protesting and giggling, until they reached Jim's door across the hall.

"Goodnight, children!" Yujin called out, her voice rich with amusement. "Be safe! Or don't!"

Sana fumbled with Jim's keys, her hands shaking so badly he had to take them from her. His fingers brushed hers, and they both froze, electricity arcing between their palms.

"Jim," she whispered, her breath coming fast.

"Yeah?"

"Kiss me before we get inside."

He didn't hesitate. He pushed her against his door, the VCR wedged awkwardly between their bodies, and crushed his mouth to hers. It was nothing like the tentative exploration on the tape, this was carnal, desperate, two weeks of pent-up longing exploding into motion. His tongue swept past her lips, tasting wine and want, and she moaned into his mouth, her free hand tangling in his hair.

"Inside," she gasped against his lips, rolling her hips against his. "Now. Please."

He managed to get the door open, and they stumbled through, still attached at the mouth, kicking the door shut behind them. The VCR clattered to the floor, forgotten.

"Bedroom?" Jim mumbled, his hands sliding down to cup her ass through her skirt.

"Too far," Sana breathed, walking him backward. "Couch. Now."

They navigated the short distance blindly, lips never parting, hands roaming frantically over clothes that suddenly felt like prisons. Jim's calf caught the edge of the sofa and he tumbled backward, pulling Sana with him. She landed astride his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, her skirt riding up to expose her thighs.

"Fuck," Jim groaned, his head falling back against the cushions. "Sana, you're-"

"I'm what?" She grinned down at him, wicked and wild, nothing like the composed fashion designer who sketched elegant lines by day. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulling it up slowly, teasingly, until-

"Holy shit," Jim breathed.

She wore nothing underneath. Her breasts swung free, heavy and perfect, nipples dark and already stiff from arousal, poking out like they had been beneath her shirt all evening, begging for his mouth. They were larger than he'd imagined, with rose-hued areolas that tightened as the cool air hit them.

"See something you like, professor?" she purred, tossing her shirt aside.

Jim didn't answer with words. He surged up, his hands spanning her waist, and buried his face between her tits. He nuzzled the soft valley there, inhaling her scent, jasmine and sweat and something uniquely Sana, before turning his head to capture one nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard, drawing a cry from her throat, then released it with a wet pop only to lavish attention on the other.

"Jim, oh god~" Her fingers dug into his scalp, holding him there.

He dragged his tongue upward, tracing the line between her breasts, up her sternum, to the hollow of her throat. He licked the fluttering pulse there, feeling her heartbeat against his tongue, then continued upward until he found her mouth again. They kissed messily, all teeth and tongue, and she moaned his name into his mouth like a prayer.

"Jim... Jim... please..."

He needed no further invitation. She rose up on her knees, her breasts swaying inches from his face, and he watched with rapt attention as she turned around. The sight of her back, smooth, muscled, the line of her spine disappearing into the waistband of her skirt, made his cock ache against his zipper.

Sana hooked her thumbs into the band of her skirt and pushed it down over her hips, the fabric pooling at her knees. Then, agonizingly slowly, she pushed her panties down, bending forward as she did so, presenting her ass to him like a gift.

"Christ," Jim choked out.

Her ass was magnificent, round and firm, the kind of ass that filled out designer dresses to perfection. The cleft between her cheeks led down to glimpses of her pussy, glistening and swollen, peeking out from between her thighs. She looked back over her shoulder, her hair falling in a dark curtain, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"You like what you see?" she asked, her voice husky.

Jim reached out with both hands and squeezed her ass cheeks, kneading the firm flesh, spreading them slightly to reveal the tight pink bud of her asshole and the wet slit below. She pushed back into his grip, whimpering.

"Beautiful," he groaned. "You're fucking beautiful, Sana."

She turned back around, her movements fluid and deliberate. She sank down, her knees hitting the floor between his spread legs, and leaned forward. Her breasts pressed against his thighs, soft and warm through his trousers, her nipples dragging against the fabric as she reached for his belt.

"Lift," she commanded.

He raised his hips, and she worked his belt free, tossing it aside. His button came next, then his zipper, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. She tugged his pants down, and he lifted again to help, until they were bunched around his knees. His cock strained against his boxer briefs, the outline thick and obvious, a wet spot already forming at the tip where precum had soaked through.

Sana paused, looking up at him with those dark, devastating eyes. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leaned in and caught the waistband of his underwear between her teeth. She pulled down, her nose brushing against his lower belly, her breath hot against his skin. The elastic stretched, then gave way, and his cock sprang free, thick and veined and throbbing, slapping against his stomach with an audible sound. His balls followed, heavy and tight beneath.

"Fuck," Jim gasped, his head falling back. He ripped his shirt over his head, buttons popping, and threw it aside. Now he was naked from the waist up, his lean chest heaving, his professor's pallor contrasting with the ruddy darkness of his engorged cock.

Sana wrapped her hand around his shaft, her fingers not quite meeting around his girth. She pumped him once, twice, spreading the bead of precum over his swollen head with her thumb. Then she leaned in and took him into her mouth.

"Oh god-Sana~" Jim's hips bucked involuntarily, but she held him down with a hand on his thigh, her nails digging in.

She worked him with lips and tongue and throat, taking him deep until her nose brushed his pubic hair, then pulling back until just the head remained between her lips, sucking hard. Her tongue swirled around his frenulum, that sensitive spot beneath the crown, and he groaned long and low, his hand finding her hair and tangling there, not pushing, just holding on for dear life.

She bobbed her head, her breasts swaying against his legs, her nipples hard points of contact that drove him wild. The wet sounds of her mouth on his cock filled the room, obscene, delicious, filthy. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, and he felt himself slide into that tight, hot channel, her muscles contracting around him.

"Baby, I'm gonna~if you don't stop~" He tugged gently at her hair, warning her.

She pulled off with a wet gasp, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to his cock. "Not yet," she breathed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I want you inside me."

She rose up, her body unfolding like a flower, and climbed back onto his lap. She positioned herself above him, her hand guiding his cock to her entrance. He could feel her heat radiating against his sensitive head, could feel how wet she was, her arousal coating him.

"Look at me," she commanded, her hands finding his face, pressing his cheek against her breast. "Look at me while I take you."

She sank down, and they both cried out. She was tight, impossibly tight, her pussy gripping him like a velvet fist, sucking him in. He filled her completely, his cock bottoming out against her cervix, and she paused there, fully seated, her tits crushed against his face, her nipple brushing his lips.

"Move," he begged, his hands finding her hips. "Please, Sana, move."

She began to bounce, her thighs flexing, her ass slapping against his legs as she rode him. She held his face pressed to her chest, her fingers threaded through his hair, keeping him there against her heartbeat, her breast filling his mouth. He sucked her nipple, drawing hard, and she cried out, her rhythm faltering.

"Yes, yes, just like that, fuck, Jim~you feel so good.."

She rode him harder, faster, her tits bouncing with every downward thrust, her pussy making wet, squelching sounds as she impaled herself on his cock again and again. He could feel her muscles fluttering around him, could feel her getting closer, her movements becoming erratic, desperate.

"Flip me," she gasped. "I want you on top."

He didn't need to be told twice. He lifted her, still buried inside her, and laid her back against the couch cushions. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half, and drove into her with a force that made her scream.

"Yes! Yes! Fuck me, Jim! Harder!"

He pistoned his hips, his cock sliding in and out of her slick heat, the sight of her tits jiggling with every thrust driving him mad. Her hands found her own breasts, squeezing them, pinching her nipples, and the sight was so erotic he almost lost it right there.

"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice rough. "Touch your clit. I want to feel you come on my cock."

Her hand slid between them, her fingers finding her swollen bud, and she rubbed herself in tight circles as he fucked her. Her moans grew higher, sharper, her walls clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses.

"Jim, Jim, I'm gonna-"

"Come for me, baby. Come on my cock."

She shattered, her back arching off the couch, her pussy gripping him so tight he saw stars. He kept fucking her through it, prolonging her pleasure, until she went limp beneath him, gasping, her chest heaving.

But he wasn't done. He pulled out, his cock glistening with her arousal, and flipped her over. "On your knees," he growled. "Ass up."

She scrambled to comply, presenting herself to him, her pussy pink and swollen and dripping. He gripped her hips and slammed into her from behind, the new angle making them both cry out. Her tits swung beneath her, heavy and full, and he reached around to cup them, pinching her nipples as he drove into her.

"So deep," she moaned, her face pressed against the couch cushions. "Oh god, Jim, you're so deep~you're hitting my spot~yes~yes~"

He pounded into her, his balls slapping against her clit with every thrust, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. He could feel his own orgasm building, his spine tingling, his balls drawing up tight against his body.

"Where do you want it?" he gritted out, his rhythm faltering. "Tell me where~"

"Inside," she begged, looking back at him over her shoulder, her eyes glazed with pleasure. "Come inside me, Jim. Fill me up. I want to feel you~"

That was it. He slammed into her one final time and erupted, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her, rope after rope of hot cum flooding her tight channel. She came again with him, her pussy milking him dry, her walls contracting around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.

He collapsed forward, his chest against her back, both of them slick with sweat, breathing hard. He slipped out of her, his cum already leaking down her thighs, and pulled her down with him onto the couch. They lay there, tangled together, naked and exposed and utterly spent.

"Jim?" Sana whispered, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles through the sparse hair there.

"Yeah?"

"That was... that was better than the tape."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yeah. Way better."

"I love you," she said softly, looking up at him with those dark eyes, no longer wild but soft, tender. "I meant it. When I said it before. I wasn't just grateful. I love you."

He tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and sweet, tasting himself on her lips. "I love you too," he murmured against her mouth. "I've loved you for months. Maybe years. I was just too stupid to say it."

"Professor Jim," she teased, her hand sliding down to cup his softening cock. "So articulate in the classroom, so tongue-tied in love."

"Shut up," he laughed, pulling her closer.

They lay there on the couch, uncovered, the autumn chill raising gooseflesh on their naked skin but neither of them caring. She draped her leg over his, her breast pressed against his ribs, her arm wrapped around his waist. He held her tight, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling the scent of jasmine and sex and sweat.

"Stay tonight," he whispered into the darkness.

"Try to make me leave," she whispered back.

They fell asleep like that, tangled and naked and finally, finally together, while across the hall, their friends probably placed bets on whether they'd emerge before morning. But for now, in this moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of skin on skin, and the promise of many more nights exactly like this one.

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Next ->

There was a difference.

Jihyo had said assigned silence until the first checkpoint, and somehow, by sheer force of Park Jihyo existing, everyone had obeyed.

Mostly.

Ryujin had obeyed in spirit, which meant she had not spoken but had communicated several criminal thoughts through facial expressions alone.

Yuna had lasted eleven minutes before silently writing activity notes in her vacation notebook with the intensity of a woman planning a government program.

Lia had watched her do it, sighed once, and taken the pen away twice.

Chaeryeong had spent most of the drive making sure the snack bags were evenly distributed, which became less about logistics and more about survival once Momo’s van pulled beside ours at the first stop and Momo looked through the tinted window with terrifying food awareness.

Yeji sat beside me. Her hand had found mine ten minutes after we left the parking level. No one commented. That was how I knew they were tired. Or plotting. Possibly both… definitely both.

By the second hour, the silence order had dissolved into low conversation.

By the third, Ryujin had fallen asleep with sunglasses still on, which somehow made her look more suspicious.

By the fourth, Yuna had renamed the retreat six times.

By the fifth, Lia had threatened to throw the notebook out of the window if the phrase “Hostile Wellness” appeared one more time.

“It’s not a title anymore,” Yuna protested from the back.

“It is on the page.” “It’s a concept.” “It’s a felony with spa access,” Lia said.

Ryujin, without opening her eyes, raised one hand “I vote felony with spa access.” “No one asked you,” Yeji said. “I live here emotionally.” “You live everywhere emotionally,” Chaeryeong murmured.

Ryujin opened one eye “That was sharp.”

Chaeryeong immediately looked down “Sorry.” “No, keep going. I like vacation Chaeryeong.”

Chaeryeong hid behind a snack bag. I looked toward Yeji. She was trying not to smile. I noticed. Of course I noticed. She noticed me noticing “Don’t,” she said. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.” “I was about to say you look happy.”

Her expression softened before she could stop it. Then she looked out the window “I am.”

That stayed with me longer than it should have.

Outside, the city had thinned into long roads, guarded turns, and stretches of coast that looked too clean to be casual. Eventually, the vans turned away from the public highway and onto a private access road lined with tall trees and security posts so discreet they looked decorative until you noticed the cameras. Yuna leaned forward “Are we arriving or being abducted luxuriously?”

“Both can be true,” Ryujin said. Lia looked out the window “This is… really private.” Chaeryeong shifted closer to the glass “There are no other cars.” “Good,” I said. Yeji looked at me “That sounded expensive.” “Privacy usually does.” “That did not make me feel better.” “It was not meant to.”

The first gate opened before our vans fully stopped. Then the second. Then a third, hidden behind a curve of palm trees and stone walls. By the time the resort finally appeared, even Ryujin sat up properly. The place did not look like a hotel. It looked like someone had taken a private beach, erased the rest of the world from around it, and built a quiet kingdom along the water.

White villas sat apart from each other along the coastline, spaced far enough that no balcony looked directly into another. A private road curved through landscaped gardens toward a central pavilion of glass, wood, and stone. Beyond it, the beach stretched out in pale sand and blue water, empty except for staff preparing shaded lounges beneath the trees.

No crowds, visible guests, camera flashes, distant fans, or noise— except the ocean.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Ryujin whispered “Okay. This is rich-rich”. Yuna pressed both hands to the window “This is not a retreat. This is where villains recover after losing the first movie”. Chaeryeong’s mouth opened slightly “Is this all for us?”

“For two weeks,” I said. The van went quiet. Yeji turned toward me slowly “Ben”. I looked out the window “Yes?”

“How expensive is this?” “That depends on how you define expensive.” Lia closed her eyes “Bad answer.” Yuna pointed at me “That is a tax bracket answer.”

The van stopped near the private reception pavilion. The doors opened. Warm air, salt wind, and sunlight spilled in. TWICE’s van had arrived just ahead of us, and they stepped out one by one into the brightness.

Nayeon took off her sunglasses and stared. Sana clasped both hands in front of her chest. Dahyun looked around like she was searching for the hidden production crew. Jeongyeon crossed her arms, suspicious. Momo looked toward the dining pavilion first. Tzuyu looked at the beach quietly. Chaeyoung smiled to herself. Jihyo stepped out last, already assessing the entire venue like a leader who did not believe in relaxing until the building had earned her trust. Mina stood beside her, calm as ever.

That was unfair because this was partly her fault. John got out of the van looking like a man who had survived a long drive only to be financially attacked by architecture. He looked at the resort. Then at me. Then at Mina “No.”

I frowned “What now?” “This is not a wellness retreat.” Mina looked at him “It has wellness facilities.” “This is a private country with towels.”

Nayeon walked closer, eyes still moving across the resort “So… nobody else is here?” A staff member approached at a respectful distance but did not stare. That helped. A little.

Sana’s smile softened, but her eyes stayed careful “No guests?” “No public bookings,” Mina said.

The group turned toward her. Mina adjusted the strap of her bag “This resort does not operate through normal channels. There are no public listings, no standard reservations, no casual walk-ins, no press access, and no guest overlap unless approved in advance.”

Dahyun lowered the invisible microphone she had almost raised “That sounds illegal.” “It is not,” Mina said. I added, “It is just expensive.” John looked at me “That is not a defense.” “It is often the explanation.” Jeongyeon looked toward the beach “And staff?” “Vetted,” I said. “Rotations locked. Phones restricted on working areas. Social posting prohibited by contract. Security handles perimeter access. Internal routes are separated.”

Jihyo’s eyes narrowed “That was too detailed.” “Privacy requires detail.”

Yeji stepped closer to me. Her voice dropped just enough “Ben.” I looked at her “What?” “Invoice.” I immediately looked away “No.” Jihyo turned toward Mina “Invoice.”

Mina looked at Jihyo, then at me. Then calmly opened her phone “Mina,” I said. She ignored me. John exhaled “I knew it.” Yeji held out her hand “Show me.”

“It is already paid,” I said. “That is not what I asked.” “Technically, Mina paid half.” Mina nodded “Split evenly.”

Jihyo took the phone first. She looked at the screen. Her face did not move. That was worse than screaming. Nayeon leaned over her shoulder. Then froze. Sana looked. Her smile dropped. Dahyun looked. Her imaginary microphone slowly lowered to her side. John saw the number and made a sound like someone had unplugged him from life support. Yeji took the phone last. She stared. Then stared longer. Then looked at me “Benjie.”

I stood straighter “Yes?” “This is the price of every seat in an arena concert.” Ryujin’s mouth dropped open. Yuna turned toward the resort “We are sleeping inside a sold-out concert?” Chaeryeong whispered, “For two weeks?” Momo looked concerned “Is food included?”

Everyone turned toward her. She blinked “What?” I nodded “Yes. Food is included.” Chaeryeong visibly relaxed. Mina added, “Food, staff, security, medical standby, private venue access, route control, and emergency contingencies.”

Jihyo handed the phone back to Mina slowly “Emergency contingencies?” “Standard,” Mina said. John pointed at her “For who?” “For people like us,” Mina said. He stared “That did not help.” Yeji looked at me “There are staff bonuses on here.” “Yes.” “Why are there staff bonuses?” “So they remain happy.” Jihyo closed her eyes “You bribed the resort staff into emotional loyalty.” “I prefer incentivized discretion.” “That is bribery with better lighting,” John said. Mina looked at him “It improves retention.” John looked physically pained “Why do both of you have the same money disease?”

I frowned “It is not a disease.” Yeji looked at me I corrected myself “It is a condition.” “That is worse,” Lia said. Yuna looked around the resort again, this time with a different kind of awe “So we can really… relax?”

The question softened the air. Because beneath the jokes, there it was. The thing none of them wanted to ask too loudly. Can we stop watching ourselves? Can we stop checking the corners? Can we laugh too loud? Can we walk outside without calculating exits? Can we exist without being consumed?

The ocean moved quietly beyond the pavilion. I looked at Yuna first. Then at Lia. Chaeryeong. Ryujin. Yeji. Then at TWICE “Yes,” I said. “That is the point.” Mina’s voice came softer beside me “For two weeks, this place is yours. Not publicly. Not symbolically. Functionally.” Jihyo looked at her. Mina continued “No press. No guests. No overlap. No staff access beyond assigned areas. If anyone tries to breach the perimeter, security sees them before they see you.” That helped more than the luxury did.

I saw it happen. Not all at once. Not completely. But enough. Nayeon’s shoulders dropped. Sana looked toward the beach like she was letting herself believe in it. Dahyun tucked her phone deeper into her bag without being told. Jeongyeon exhaled. Tzuyu smiled faintly. Ryujin pulled off her sunglasses. Yuna lowered her notebook. Lia looked at the water and said nothing. Chaeryeong held the snack bag a little tighter, but her face softened. Yeji stood beside me. Like the room inside her had finally opened a window.

A resort manager approached and bowed “Welcome. Your villas are ready.” John muttered, “Of course there are villas.”

“There are multiple groups,” Mina said. “I understand the concept. I’m reacting to the price.”

The staff led us down a private stone path toward the villa cluster. The resort opened wider as we walked. Private pool. Beach access. Outdoor dining pavilion. Spa building. Training room. Cinema lounge. Garden paths. A kitchen large enough that Chaeryeong made a small noise under her breath. Momo heard it. Momo looked at the kitchen. Then at Chaeryeong. Something like alliance passed between them.

Jihyo noticed and immediately looked concerned “Do we need kitchen rules?” “Yes,” John said. Momo blinked and Chaeryeong looked down “Maybe.” The room assignments became a separate diplomatic event.

Jihyo wanted structure. Nayeon wanted chaos. Sana wanted “organic bonding.” John said the word organic had become dangerous. Mina provided a villa map. Yuna immediately tried to improve it with activity zones. Lia took the pen away again. Eventually, the arrangement settled into something survivable. TWICE had one large villa wing closest to the garden path. ITZY had the connected wing facing the beach. John had a separate manager’s suite near the central office, which he claimed was for operational oversight.

Nayeon called it cowardice. Jihyo called it practical. Mina had a quiet villa near the end of the path with the best view and enough distance to make John suspicious. I had a room in ITZY’s wing. That alone should not have been a problem. Naturally, it became one. Ryujin looked at the room list. Then at Yeji and then at me. Slowly. “You two are sharing?” Yeji’s face changed by one degree. Leader mode tried to save her. It failed “For logistics,” she said.

Yuna leaned in “Logistics.” Lia closed her eyes “Do not.” Chaeryeong looked down, already smiling. Nayeon appeared behind Ryujin with terrifying timing “Honeymoon logistics?”

Yeji turned pink “No.” Sana appeared beside Nayeon “Wife privileges?”

“No.”

Dahyun lifted one finger “Room assignment confirms ongoing title dispute.” Jihyo pointed at her “No reporting.” Dahyun lowered her hand. I took the key card from the staff member.

“There are enough rooms for everyone to be comfortable. Yeji and I can switch if needed.” Yeji looked at me. The room went quiet. She took the key card from my hand “No.” Everyone froze. Yeji held the card, face warm but voice steady “It’s fine.” Nayeon smiled. Ryujin’s eyebrows rose. Yuna covered her mouth. Lia looked away to hide a smile. I looked at Yeji. She did not look back immediately. That was how I knew she knew exactly what she had done.

Jihyo, mercifully, clapped once. “Unpack first. Meeting in the dining pavilion in one hour. No wandering alone until security finishes the final perimeter confirmation.” Ryujin raised her hand “What if wandering is emotionally necessary?”

“Then wander with witnesses.” Yuna raised her notebook “What if I need to inspect activity zones?” “Later.” Momo raised a hand “Food?” Chaeryeong lifted her bag “I can help check the kitchen.” Jihyo looked between them, then sighed “Thirty minutes. Supervised.”

Momo smiled. Chaeryeong looked like she had been given a sacred mission. The group scattered in pieces. Laughter down one path. Bags rolling over stone. Staff moving quietly around us. The ocean following everything. For the first time, the noise did not feel trapped in a room. It had somewhere to go.

Yeji walked beside me toward our assigned villa. Neither of us spoke at first. The path curved past low greenery and opened toward a private terrace facing the water. Our room sat at the edge of the ITZY wing, close enough to everyone to be reachable, far enough to feel separate.

Yeji unlocked the door. The room opened into warm light. Wide bed. Soft curtains. Private balcony. Ocean view. A couch near the window. A bathroom too large to be reasonable. Fresh flowers on the table. Our luggage already placed neatly near the closet. And silence. Actual silence.

The door clicked shut behind us. For the first time since morning, there was no one else. No paperwork. No John suffering in the corner. No Ryujin listening through the walls. No Nayeon weaponizing the word ‘wife’ from ten feet away. Just the room. The ocean. Our bags by the door, and Yeji standing very still in front of me.

I looked around “Not bad,” I said. “Does my wife approve?” I meant it as a joke. Mostly. Yeji turned around slowly. The look on her face made every surviving thought in my head stop moving “Say that again.” I blinked “What?” Her eyes stayed on mine as she stepped closer. Close enough that I felt the shift in the air before I felt her hand against my shirt “You keep doing that,” she said softly “Doing what?”

“Calling me that”. My throat went dry “Jokingly.” Yeji’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile or a warning. Something worse. Something private “Do you know how hard it was for me not to pounce on you every time you called me your wife in front of everyone?”

The room went quiet. Or maybe I did. Because Yeji had stepped fully into my space now, one hand resting against my chest, close enough to feel the temporary ink beneath the fabric “And then you had the nerve,” she whispered, “to put my name here.”

I looked down at her hand. Then back at her “You chose the font.”

“I know.” “You chose the hearts.” Her fingers curled into my shirt “I know.” “Yeji.”

Her eyes lifted to mine, steady and bright and dangerous “You kept making me blush in front of everyone,” she said. “So now you can deal with me without an audience”. I swallowed. “Is this leader mode?”

“No.” She stepped closer “This is me, making good use of wife privileges.”

The silence of the room didn't just feel like a lack of noise. It felt like a vacuum, pulling the air out of my lungs until the only thing left to breathe was the scent of Yeji—something like vanilla, salt, and a sudden, electric heat.

She didn't give me a chance to answer. She didn't give me a chance to joke. Yeji stepped forward, her movements devoid of the hesitation that usually governed her public persona. She didn't just enter my space; she annexed it. Her hand, which had been resting on my chest, suddenly tightened, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt with a strength that bordered on desperation.

"You think you're so clever," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, vibrating against my skin. "All those little comments. All those looks. Do you have any idea what it does to me? To have to stand there, the leader of the group, pretending I'm not vibrating out of my skin because you're treating me like I belong to you?"

I opened my mouth to say something—probably a joke about how she seemed to be enjoying it—but the words died in my throat. Yeji’s eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. There was a hunger there that I had only ever seen in flashes, hidden behind the professionalism and the poise. Now, it was a wildfire.

"I spent the whole drive thinking about this," she murmured, her breath hot against my lips. "Thinking about a place where I didn't have to be the one holding everything together. Where I could just... take."

Then she kissed me.

It wasn't a gentle invitation. It was a collision. Her lips slammed into mine with a ferocity that knocked me back a half-step, her tongue immediately forcing its way past my teeth to claim my mouth. She tasted like the mint she’d been chewing and a deep, visceral need. We exchanged saliva in a messy, desperate rhythm, the sound of our mouths meeting—a wet, slapping noise—filling the quiet room.

Yeji’s hands didn't stay still. While her mouth worked mine, her fingers flew to the buttons of my shirt. She didn't unbutton them so much as she ripped them, a couple of small plastic discs pinging off the wall as she tore the fabric open to get to my skin. I groaned into her mouth, my hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against me. She was relentless, her nipples peaking through her clothes, pressing into my chest.

"Clothes," she breathed, breaking the kiss for a split second, her voice a jagged edge. "Get them off. Now."

She didn't wait for me to comply. She pushed me backward, her kisses migrating to my jaw, then my neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle there. I stumbled back, my heels catching on the edge of the luggage, but she used the momentum to keep me moving. We drifted across the room in a chaotic dance of limbs and friction. Yeji was a whirlwind, her hands diving into my waistband, shoving my trousers down with a frantic energy.

I managed to kick my shoes off, one of them hitting the nightstand with a thud, while she worked on my underwear. She didn't just slide them off; she peeled them away, her eyes never leaving mine for more than a second. When I was finally standing there, completely naked and shivering despite the warmth of the room, Yeji stepped back.

She didn't look away. She looked at me—really looked at me—from the line of my shoulders down to the heavy, pulsing length of my cock, which was already leaking a bead of pre-cum.

"Finally," she whispered.

With a sudden, forceful shove, she pushed me down onto the bed. I hit the mattress with a soft huff, the white linens cool against my back. Yeji stood over me, her silhouette framed by the golden light filtering through the curtains. Slowly, with a deliberate, erotic precision, she began to strip.

She reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly toward the corner of the room. Her breasts were perfect, small and firm with aroused nipples. I reached up, my fingers itching to touch her, but she stepped back, a small, commanding smile playing on her lips.

"Wait," she commanded.

She slid her trousers down, the fabric whispering against her skin. She stepped out of them, leaving her in nothing but a pair of lace panties that left nothing to the imagination. The sight of her—the curve of her hips, the softness of her belly, the way her thighs trembled slightly—made my blood roar in my ears. She reached back, hooking her fingers into the lace and sliding the fabric down her legs.

She stood there for a heartbeat, completely nude, her skin glowing in the afternoon light. She looked like a goddess, but the expression on her face was entirely human. She looked hungry.

Before I could even reach for her, before I could utter a single word of praise, Yeji climbed onto the bed. She didn't crawl; she prowled. She moved over me, her knees flanking my hips, and then, with a sudden shift in weight, she pivoted.

She lowered herself directly onto my face.

The air left me in a rush as the wet, hot folds of her pussy pressed firmly against my mouth and nose. The scent hit me instantly—musk, arousal, and that singular, intoxicating Yeji-smell. I could feel the heat radiating from her, the slickness of her juices already soaking into my skin.

She gasped, her voice strained as she shifted her weight, sliding down my body until her face was positioned perfectly between my legs. "I've wanted this since the moment we left the city." The world narrowed down to the sensation of her. I pressed my tongue upward, finding her clit, swirling around the tiny, engorged bud of pleasure. Yeji let out a loud, guttural moan that vibrated through my entire skull. At the same time, her mouth closed around me.

She didn't just suck; she worshipped. Her tongue wrapped around the head of my cock, swirling in a tight, rhythmic circle before she slid her mouth down the shaft. The suction was intense, a vacuum of heat and saliva that made my toes curl. I could hear the wet, shlicking sounds of her tongue working against my skin, the squelch of saliva as she took as much of me as she could handle.

I responded by burying my face deeper into her. I used my tongue to part her lips, delving deep into the creaminess of her center. She tasted sweet and salty, a flood of arousal that coated my tongue. I flicked my tongue rapidly against her clit while sucking on the soft flesh of her inner thighs.

Yeji’s breathing became a series of erratic, high-pitched whimpers. She was shaking, her hands gripping my thighs so hard her nails dug into my skin. The rhythm intensified. Her mouth was a furnace, her tongue dancing over the frenulum, while I worked my way deeper into her, my tongue mimicking the thrusts she would eventually want.

"Ben... Ben, I'm... I'm close," she wailed, the sound muffled by my lap.

She shifted suddenly, pulling away from my cock and sliding back up. She didn't move off my face; instead, she sat directly on it, her weight pressing her pussy firmly against my mouth, sealing us together. She arched her back, her chest thrusting toward the ceiling, her head falling back as the first wave of orgasm hit her.

I could feel her muscles contracting against my lips, the rhythmic pulsing of her walls as she came. A flood of hot, thick juices drenched my face, the taste of her climax filling my mouth. Yeji screamed—a raw, unfiltered sound of release that echoed through the room.

The sight and feel of her coming on my face, the sheer vulnerability and power of it, snapped something inside me. The tension that had been building for months, the longing, the frustration—it all converged into a single point of explosion.

I bucked upward, my hips surging with a violent force. I came with a power that felt like a physical blow, my cum spraying upward in thick, hot jets. Because of the angle, the force sent the white fluid flying, splashing across Yeji’s stomach and chest, and spraying directly across her face.

She gasped, her eyes snapping open as the warm liquid hit her cheeks and forehead. We stayed like that for a moment, locked together, breathing in sync, the room smelling of sex and salt.

Yeji didn't move for a long time. Then, slowly, she shifted, sliding off my face and rolling onto her side. She looked at me, her eyes hazy and pupils still wide. She raised a hand, her thumb wiping a streak of my cum from her cheek.

She didn't wipe it away in disgust. She looked at the white fluid on her thumb, then slowly brought it to her lips and licked it clean, her eyes locked on mine with a predatory intensity.

"Stay still," she whispered.

She moved with a purpose now, her movements slower but more deliberate. She guided my cock, which was already beginning to stir again, toward the entrance of her pussy. She didn't just slide on; she teased the head against her folds, rubbing the slickness of her own juices and my cum across her lips.

"It's time for the wife to give her husband what he deserves," she murmured, her voice a low, sultry purr.

She lowered herself slowly, the friction causing a wet, squelching sound that echoed in the quiet room. I felt my head disappear into her, the tightness of her walls gripping me like a vice. Yeji let out a long, shaky breath, her eyes closing as she settled fully onto me, her cervix meeting the head of my cock.

"Oh god," she whimpered. "You're so... you're so deep."

She began to move, her hips rotating in a slow, grinding circle. I reached up, my hands finding the swell of her breasts, squeezing them as she rose and fell. The sound of our bodies meeting—the slap of her ass against my thighs—became the only rhythm in the world.

Yeji was vocal, her moans turning into passionate, loving declarations.

"I love you," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I love you so much, Ben. I've wanted this... I've wanted you inside me for so long."

She increased the pace, her movements becoming more urgent. She wasn't just riding me; she was claiming me. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against my chest, her sweat mingling with mine. I could feel her internal muscles clamping down on me with every downward thrust, drawing me deeper into her heat.

As she approached her second climax, she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned down and captured my lips in a kiss that felt like a seal of ownership. She put both of her hands on my face, framing my jaw, her fingers digging into my cheeks, refusing to let go. She held me there, her gaze locked on mine, as the orgasm ripped through her.

I felt her walls spasm violently, squeezing the life out of me. My own hand slid down, gripping the curve of her ass, pulling her down hard against me, while my other hand stayed at the back of her head, holding her close. We rode out the wave together, the intimacy of the moment far outweighing the physical pleasure.

When she finally collapsed against me, her breathing ragged and her skin flushed a deep pink, she stayed there for a long time. She felt soft, spent, and completely satisfied.

"I'm... I'm done," she whispered into my neck, her voice trailing off into a contented sigh. "I think... I think the wife has made the husband happy. Maybe we should... go meet the others for dinner."

I felt a shift in my own chest. Watching her like this—undone, vulnerable, and utterly devoted—flipped a switch in me. The softness was gone, replaced by a sudden, towering hunger. I didn't want to stop. I wanted more. I wanted to see her break again.

"Not so fast," I whispered, my voice sounding deeper, even to my own ears.

Yeji blinked, looking up at me with a confused smile. "What?"

"You used the wife card to get your way," I said, my hand sliding from her ass to her waist, gripping her firmly. "Now it's time for the husband card. The wife deserves more pampering after all that hard work she's done."

Before she could protest, I gripped her hips and flipped her over. She let out a small, surprised yelp as I moved her onto her hands and knees. I didn't stop there. I guided her further, pressing her chest down into the mattress while keeping her hips high, her legs spread wide.

I entered her from behind, but I didn't just slide in. I angled my body, lifting one of her legs up and over my hip, creating a steep, deep incline. This was a variation of the *Indrani* position from the Kama Sutra, designed for maximum depth and contact.

As I thrust forward, I felt myself hit her G-spot—the sensitive area that had become hyper-responsive after her previous orgasms.

Yeji’s reaction was instantaneous. She let out a scream that was barely human, her back arching violently.

"Ben! Oh my god, Ben!"

The pleasure was too much. She began to shake, her movements mirroring the overstimulation Ryujin often described. Every thrust felt like an electric shock, a wave of intensity that threatened to drown her. She was moaning loudly now, the sounds raw and desperate, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Too much... it's too much!" she wailed, but she pushed her hips back against me, demanding more.

I didn't let up. I hammered into her, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room with a rhythmic, visceral thud. I could feel her internal walls fluttering, pulsing around me in a frantic attempt to absorb the pleasure. She was hovering on the edge of a third, massive climax, her voice reduced to fragmented whimpers.

"Please... please, Ben... give it to me... all of it!"

I felt the pressure building in my gut, a tidal wave that I could no longer hold back. With one final, deep surge, I buried myself as far as I could go, pinning her against the mattress.

I came inside her with a force that made my entire body shudder. I could feel the hot, thick pulses of my seed filling her, the warmth spreading through her core. Yeji let out a final, long moan, her head falling forward as she collapsed into the bed, her body still twitching from the intensity of the release.

We lay there in the wreckage of the room, the curtains fluttering in the breeze, the ocean calling from the balcony. The silence returned, but it was different now. It wasn't a vacuum; it was a sanctuary.

Yeji shifted, rolling over to look at me. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, and her eyes were filled with a softness that made my heart ache. She looked embarrassed for a fleeting second, remembering how aggressive she had been, but then she smiled—a real, genuine smile—and pulled me close.

"I think," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I really like these wife privileges."

For a second, I forgot how to answer. Not because I did not have a joke. I had several. All of them terrible. All of them dangerous.

But Yeji was looking at me with her hair ruined, her lips swollen, her skin still warm against mine, and that tiny embarrassed smile caught between pride and disbelief. The kind of smile she only gave when she had surprised herself first.

So for once, I did the smarter thing. I kissed her. Softly this time. No urgency. Just my mouth against hers, slow enough that she melted into it instead of trying to win. Her hand slid up my chest, fingers brushing over the place where her name was still hidden beneath my shirt somewhere on the floor, and she laughed quietly against my lips.

“What?” I asked. Her cheeks colored “I’m thinking.” “That sounds dangerous.” “It is.” I smiled “About?” She hid her face against my neck “No.” “Yeji.” “No.” “Wife privileges?”

Her hand hit my chest weakly.

“Don’t ruin it.” “I’m not ruining it. I’m appreciating the policy.” “There is no policy.” “There are clearly benefits.” She groaned into my skin “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.”

Her silence lasted too long. Then, very quietly, she said, “No. I don’t.” That did something to me. More than the teasing. More than the way she had said wife earlier like it belonged in her mouth. More than the tattoo. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her closer until she was lying half on top of me, her cheek against my chest, one leg tangled between mine. The room had gone still again, but this time it did not feel empty. It felt protected.

Outside, the ocean moved beyond the balcony.

Inside, Yeji traced idle shapes against my skin. For a while, neither of us spoke. That was new. Not because we had nothing to say. Because for once, nothing needed defending. Her breathing slowed first. Then mine followed. I pressed a kiss into her hair, and she made a small sound like she wanted to complain but did not have the strength to commit to it. “You okay?” I asked. She nodded against me.

Then, after a pause, she lifted her head “You?” “Yes.” Her eyes narrowed “That was too fast.” “I’m very okay.” “Ben.” I smiled “I am happy.”

That softened her. She looked down, embarrassed again, but this time she did not hide. “Me too.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear “You were very scary.” Her eyes flicked back to mine. “You deserved it.”

“I did.” “You kept calling me your wife.” “I did.” “In front of everyone.” “I did.” “And then you put my name on your chest.” “You chose the hearts.” Her mouth twitched “They were artistically necessary.” “Of course.” “And private.” “Apparently not, since John betrayed me with documentary evidence.” Yeji covered her face “I still cannot believe he showed everyone.” “I can. John is a wounded animal. He wanted collateral.”

She laughed. Soft and happy. Then she kissed me again. That one lasted longer. It started gentle, but Yeji had a way of making even softness feel like a decision. Her fingers found my jaw, holding me there as if I might escape, even though both of us knew I had nowhere else I wanted to be.

I kissed her back until she sighed into my mouth. Until her shoulders loosened. Until the leader finally stopped standing guard behind her eyes. When she pulled away, she stayed close enough for our noses to brush.

“For the record,” she whispered, “I am still your girlfriend.” “I know.” “Not wife.” “I know.”

She stared at me. I stared back. Then she added, quieter, “Yet.”

The word barely existed. But I heard it. My heart stopped so violently that it should have triggered the resort’s medical standby. Yeji realized what she had said and immediately tried to roll away. I caught her “Nope.”

“Ben.” “No. Come back.” “I said nothing.” “You said theology.” “I said one word.” “One devastating word.”

She buried her face against my shoulder “I hate this room.”

“This room has done nothing wrong.” “This room has heard too much.” “The walls signed an NDA.”

She laughed again, and I felt it against my chest. For a while, that was all we did. Cuddle. Kiss. Talk in fragments. Pretend we were not both trying to memorize what it felt like to be this quiet together. Eventually, Yeji’s hand drifted lower and found my wrist. She turned it slightly, checking the time.

Then went still.

I felt it before I understood it “What?” She lifted my wrist closer. Then her head snapped up “Ben.”

“What?” “We’re late.” I blinked “For what?” “Dinner.”

The word landed like a siren. We both moved at once. Badly. Yeji sat up too fast, winced, then pointed at me before I could comment “Do not.”

“I said nothing.” “You thought something.” “That is not illegal.” “It will be if you smile.”

I did not smile. Technically. She scrambled toward the edge of the bed, then stopped when she looked around the room. The room looked like it had lost an argument. Clothes on the floor. One of my shirt buttons near the curtain. A pillow halfway off the mattress. The blankets destroyed beyond reasonable explanation. Yeji stared. Then slowly looked back at me.

“We need to get clothed.” “We need to be at dinner.” “We need all three.”

She closed her eyes.

“We are doomed.” “Probably.” “Benjie.”

I got up. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. We managed to shower, dress, and make the room look less like a crime scene in record time. Not clean, but survivable. Yeji fixed her hair in the mirror with the focus of someone preparing for a comeback stage instead of dinner with women who already knew too much. I buttoned a fresh shirt all the way up because I had learned at least one lesson in the past twenty-four hours.

Yeji noticed.

“Good.” “I can behave.” “No, you can be managed.” “That sounds like wife work.”

She pointed the hairbrush at me “Do not start.” I smiled. She tried not to, she failed. We were twenty-three minutes late. Which was not ideal. But also not catastrophic. Until we reached the dining pavilion and the entire table went silent. That was catastrophic. Every head turned. ITZY. TWICE. John. Jihyo. Mina.

Even Momo stopped eating.

That, more than anything, told me we were in danger. Yeji straightened beside me. Damaged, but functional “Sorry we’re late.”

No one spoke.

Then Ryujin leaned back in her chair and smiled. Slowly “Oh?” “No,” Yeji said immediately. Ryujin’s smile widened. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.”

Yuna looked between us, eyes bright with the kind of joy only danger could produce “You both look very… rested.” Lia closed her eyes “Yuna.”

“What? I said rested.” Nayeon leaned forward, chin in her hand “Rested is generous.” Sana smiled sweetly “Glowing?” Yeji’s face turned pink “We lost track of time.” John stared at me “You lost track of dinner?”

“Apparently.” “You?” “I was busy.”

The table inhaled as one organism. Yeji’s head whipped toward me.

“Ben.” “What? With unpacking.”

Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone “Breaking news: local couple claims unpacking after arriving twenty-three minutes late to dinner.” “I did not claim couple,” Yeji said. Mina looked at her plate “You did not deny unpacking.” Yeji turned toward Mina, betrayed “Mina.” “It is a factual gap.” Ryujin pointed at the two empty seats “Sit down before this gets worse.” “That sounds merciful,” I said. Ryujin smiled “It is not.”

We sat. Unfortunately, sitting did not help. Because the silence kept smiling at us. Chaeryeong, who had clearly been trying very hard not to participate, looked at Yeji with gentle concern “Unnie, are you okay?” Yeji froze. The table froze with her. I looked at my water. Cowardly, but necessary. Yeji cleared her throat “Yes.”

Ryujin’s eyes sharpened “Physically?” “Ryujin,” Lia warned. Yuna leaned forward “Private resort does not mean subtle resort.”

Yeji closed her eyes. I stopped breathing. Jihyo slowly lowered her utensils “What does that mean?” Lia looked at Yuna “Do not.” Yuna looked at her “They were not quiet.”

The table detonated.

Yeji covered her face. I stared into the middle distance and accepted death. Nayeon slammed both hands on the table “I knew it.” Sana gasped like she had just witnessed romance itself walk into the room. Dahyun’s imaginary microphone returned instantly “Breaking news: honeymoon logistics confirmed by acoustic evidence.”

“It was not honeymoon logistics,” Yeji said through her hands. Ryujin leaned toward her “Unnie.” “No.” “You screamed.” “Ryujin!”

Momo blinked. Then looked at John “Is that what we heard?” John choked on his drink. Jihyo closed her eyes “Do not answer that.” Nayeon turned to John anyway “Manager-nim.”

“No.” “You never did that when we arrived somewhere.” “I am begging you not to compare arrival protocols.” Sana tilted her head “Why not?” “Because that phrase already sounds illegal.” Jeongyeon crossed her arms “Ben arrives at a resort and immediately treats his wife properly.” Yeji’s face went fully red “I am not his wife.” Tzuyu looked at her calmly “But the room heard otherwise.”

The table exploded again. I covered my mouth. Not because I was embarrassed— because if I laughed, Yeji would kill me. Lia, somehow, tried to restore dignity “Maybe we should let them eat.”

“Thank you,” Yeji said weakly. Lia nodded, then added, “They probably need energy.”

Yeji stared at her. Lia took a sip of water, expression perfectly calm “Traitor,” Yeji whispered. Ryujin looked delighted “Vacation Lia is dangerous.” Yuna nodded “She has timing.” Nayeon pointed at John “See? Even Lia understands the standard.” John looked betrayed by the entire world “I drove for hours. I handled logistics. I survived Ben. I deserve peace.” Jihyo looked at him “You also streamed his tattoo video to everyone.” John paused and then nodded “I deserved that part.”

Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone again “TWICE files formal complaint: lack of honeymoon-grade welcome treatment.” John pointed at her “No filing.” Sana smiled “Just verbal complaint.” Momo raised her hand slightly “Can dinner still continue during the complaint?” Chaeryeong immediately nodded “Yes.”

“Good,” Momo said, and returned to eating. Mina looked toward me “Was the room satisfactory?” Yeji made a strangled sound. John put his head in his hands. I stared at Mina “The room was excellent.” Mina nodded “Good.” Nayeon grinned “Apparently.” Yeji grabbed her glass of water and drank like it was the only thing keeping her alive. I leaned closer to her, lowering my voice “You okay?”

She did not look at me “No.” “Do you want me to stop them?” “You cannot stop them.” “That is true.”

Her eyes flicked toward me. Then down to my shirt. Still buttoned. Still hiding everything. Her voice dropped “If you show even one letter at this table, I will push you into the ocean.” I smiled faintly “Yes, my dear wife.”

She kicked my ankle under the table. Hard. I deserved it. Unfortunately, Nayeon saw “She kicked him.” Sana gasped “Domestic.”

Dahyun lifted the microphone “Breaking news: wife disciplines husband at dinner after honeymoon scandal.” Yeji pointed at Dahyun “No more breaking news.” Dahyun lowered her hand “For now.” Jihyo finally clapped once “Enough. Let them eat.” The authority in her voice worked… Mostly.

People returned to their plates, but the table stayed lighter now. The kind of laughter that did not need to be loud to keep circling back. Yuna kept smiling into her food. Ryujin kept glancing at Yeji like she had discovered a new favorite weakness. Lia looked too pleased with herself for someone who had pretended to be the voice of reason all morning. TWICE, meanwhile, continued punishing John in smaller ways.

Nayeon asked if he needed “arrival training.” Sana suggested a retreat workshop. Dahyun offered to document improvement. Jeongyeon said he could start with eye contact and work his way up. Momo said dinner first. Tzuyu quietly added that expectations had now been established.

John looked at me across the table “I hate you.” I lifted my glass “You should have taken notes.” The TWICE side erupted. John pointed at me “You are the problem.”

Yeji, still pink, still embarrassed, still glowing in a way everyone could see, reached under the table and found my hand. No one saw that part. Or if they did, they were kind enough not to say anything. For once.

Yeji’s fingers threaded through mine. I looked at her and she did not look back. But her thumb brushed once over my knuckles. A private answer in the middle of a public execution. The first dinner of the retreat continued around us. Too full of people who knew too much and somehow, for the first time since we arrived, it felt exactly like what we had come here for.

It wasn’t peace, not yet. But release. A place where embarrassment could become laughter. Where privacy did not mean silence. Where Yeji could be late to dinner, red-faced and furious, and still have her hand in mine beneath the table.

Across from us, Ryujin leaned toward Yuna and whispered something. Yuna’s eyes widened. Lia immediately said, “No.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Ryujin replied. “You were about to.”

Chaeryeong smiled into her plate. Momo reached for another serving. Nayeon started bothering John again. Jihyo pretended not to enjoy it. Mina quietly checked the dessert options. And Yeji, my not-wife girlfriend, the leader with wife privileges, squeezed my hand once more. I smiled into my glass. Dinner was late and the vacation, apparently, had started properly.

Dinner lasted longer than it should have. Not because anyone was still hungry. Momo was, obviously, but that was a separate condition.

 Dinner lasted because nobody wanted to be the first one to admit they were tired. The first night of the retreat had settled over us slowly, warm and salt-heavy, with the ocean breathing somewhere beyond the lights of the dining pavilion. The staff had cleared most of the plates. Dessert had appeared without anyone asking. Mina had approved the plating with one quiet nod, which somehow made the chef look more relieved than when Jihyo thanked him.

Eventually, the table broke apart into smaller pieces. Not groups exactly. More like currents.

Momo and Chaeryeong drifted toward the kitchen with a seriousness that suggested diplomatic negotiations over breakfast. Yuna cornered Dahyun and Sana with her activity notebook, which immediately made Lia stand up with a sigh and follow them like a woman trying to prevent a recreational felony. Ryujin and Nayeon had started whispering again, and John noticed too late. “No,” he said from across the table.

Ryujin looked offended “We have said nothing.” “That is usually when the damage starts.” Nayeon smiled “Manager-nim, you wound me.” “I am trying to prevent being wounded.”

Jihyo stood, folder tucked beneath one arm, and looked toward Yeji “Can I borrow you for a minute?” Yeji looked up from beside me “For logistics?”

“For logistics,” Jihyo said. Sana appeared behind Jihyo, smiling too brightly “And wife privileges.” Yeji’s face went red immediately “No.” Nayeon lifted one hand “Emotional logistics.” Dahyun raised her imaginary microphone “Breaking news: senior leaders convene to discuss honeymoon noise policy.” Jihyo pointed at her without looking “No.” Dahyun lowered her hand “For now.”

Yeji turned toward me, still pink, still trying very hard to look like this was a normal dinner and not a public trial “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll survive.”

Ryujin snorted “Barely.” Yeji gave her a look, then leaned closer to me just enough for only me to hear “Behave.” I smiled “You first.” Her eyes narrowed. The wife voice almost came out. Then she seemed to remember where we were and only shook her head, but her fingers brushed mine under the table before she let go.

It was small, private, more importantly— enough.

Then TWICE took her. Not aggressively. Worse, playfully. Nayeon hooked an arm through hers. Sana took the other side. Jihyo walked ahead like this was an actual strategy meeting and not Yeji being escorted to a tribunal. Mina followed behind them, calm as ever, and said something about the morning schedule. Yeji glanced back once. Not worried. Not possessive. Just checking. I gave her a small nod. She rolled her eyes like I had done something annoying. Then smiled before turning away. That smile stayed with me after she disappeared down the garden path with them.

For a while, I remained at the table. John sat across from me, watching TWICE drag Yeji away “That,” he said, “is how it starts.”

“What?”

“First they ask for logistics. Then they ask for feelings. Then somehow you are apologizing for things you did in a hypothetical future.” I looked at him “You speak from experience?” He stared into his drink “I speak from survival.”

Across the pavilion, Ryujin laughed too loudly at something Nayeon said from a distance despite not even being part of that conversation anymore. Yuna was arguing that “optional midnight bonding” was different from “mandatory midnight bonding.” Lia had taken the notebook and was holding it above her head while Yuna tried to reach for it.

Chaeryeong returned from the kitchen with Momo beside her, both looking strangely satisfied. The first night was loosening. The kind of loosening that came from realizing nobody had tried to take a picture of them for hours.

Nobody had shouted their names from beyond a barricade. Nobody had watched them eat through a screen. I stood before the feeling could get too large. John noticed “Where are you going?”

“For air.” He narrowed his eyes “No cigarettes.” I looked at him “Yeji said the same thing.” “Good. I like being alive.” “I’m not smoking.” “Good.” “If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.” “Bad.”

I left before he could continue. The path beyond the pavilion curved toward the beach. Lights were hidden low among the stones, soft enough not to ruin the night sky. The resort was quiet in a way the Top Floor never could be. The Top Floor had silence, sometimes. But it was city silence. Elevator silence. Glass-wall silence. Money pretending to be peace.

This was different. This was ocean and darkness and distance. I stopped near the edge of the sand, where the stone path gave way beneath my shoes. The wind moved warm against my face. For the first time that day, I did not immediately think about logistics.

Then a voice behind me said, “You really didn’t smoke.”

I turned. Lia stood a few steps away, holding two cups. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her expression quiet in the way it became when she had decided to say something before she was ready. I smiled faintly.

“Were you checking?” “Yes.” “At least you’re honest.” “I brought tea as a cover story.” “That is more suspicious than just checking.”

She looked down at the cups. Then back at me “It’s good tea.” I accepted one “Thank you.” She moved beside me, leaving enough space that it did not feel accidental, but close enough that it did not feel distant either. For a while, we watched the water.

The sound of the others drifted faintly from the pavilion behind us. Laughter. A muffled shout from Yuna. Jihyo’s voice cutting through something with leader precision. Yeji laughing after that, small and embarrassed and happy.

Lia heard it too. Her eyes softened “She sounds different here.”

“Yeji?”

Lia nodded “Lighter.” I looked toward the lights “She deserves to be.” “She does.”

The words were simple. But the way Lia said them was not. I looked at her. She was still watching the water, both hands wrapped around her cup. “And you?” I asked.

Her mouth curved faintly “I knew you would ask that.” “Should I not?” “No.” She took a breath “You should.”

The wind moved between us. Lia looked down into her tea like it might offer instructions.

“I thought coming here would make things quieter,” she said. “Has it?” “A little.” Then she smiled, but it was tired “Also no.”

I waited. That was something I had learned with Lia. If you filled the silence too quickly, she would let you. She would nod, soften, make room for everyone else’s words. But if you waited, sometimes she gave you something real.

She did this time “I have feelings for you,” she said quietly.

I did not move. Not because I was surprised. Because I knew this sentence had cost her more than she wanted anyone to see. Lia’s fingers tightened around the cup “I know that’s not new. Not exactly. I think I’ve known for a while. I think everyone else probably knew before I wanted them to.”

A small laugh escaped her. Embarrassed and soft “But knowing and doing something about it are not the same.”

“No,” I said. “They’re not.” Her eyes lifted to mine. That was the dangerous part. Not the confession. The looking. Lia could hide in careful words if she wanted to. But her eyes had always been worse at lying “I don’t want to be left behind,” she whispered. My chest tightened “Lia.”

“I know no one is doing that to me.” she shook her head gently, stopping me before I could reassure her too fast.

“I know. That’s not what I mean.”

She looked back toward the pavilion. Toward the people laughing under warm lights. Toward the life that had somehow become too complicated to name simply “I just mean… everyone is moving. In their own way. Yeji knows where she stands. Ryujin acts like fear is something she can flirt with until it gives up. Yuna is scared and still jumps anyway.”

Her voice softened “And Chaeryeong…” She paused. I watched her. Lia did not finish that thought. Instead, she looked at me again “I’m not like them.”

“You don’t have to be.” “I know.”

But again, her voice trembled enough to reveal the problem. Knowing was not believing. Not fully. Lia set her tea down on the low stone wall beside us. Then she stepped closer. Not much. Enough that I noticed. Enough that she noticed me noticing. Her breath caught, and for one second, I thought she might step back. She did not.

“Can I try something?” she asked. My voice came out lower than I expected. “Yes.”

She searched my face “You don’t know what it is.” “I trust you.”

That almost broke her.

I saw it in the way her eyes softened too quickly, in the way her lips parted around a breath she did not release. Then Lia reached for me. Her hand touched my arm first.

Careful. Testing. Then slid down to my wrist, like she needed something smaller than my face to hold onto before she could be brave enough for the rest. I stayed still. Lia stepped closer again. Then she kissed me.

It was not like Yeji. Not collision. Not fire finally finding air. Lia’s kiss was quiet. Deliberate. A question asked with trembling courage. Her lips touched mine softly, then pressed a little firmer when I did not pull away. Her fingers tightened around my wrist. For one second, she seemed to freeze inside the decision she had made.

Then I kissed her back. Carefully. Slow enough that she could stop me. Soft enough that she could stay. Lia made a tiny sound against my mouth. Not surprise, it was relief.

That sound nearly undid me more than anything else could have. Her other hand lifted, hovering near my chest. For a moment, she almost touched me there. Almost pulled herself closer. Almost crossed from kiss into something larger.

Then she stopped.

Her fingers curled in the air before they reached me. Not away. Just short of more. I felt the hesitation like a held breath between us. So I kept still. Careful “Lia.” Her eyes opened. Soft. Startled. Like she already knew what I had seen.

“You don’t have to force yourself.” Her hand lowered slightly “I know.”

But her voice said she was trying to. Not because she did not want this. Because she did. Because wanting it made her feel like she had to keep proving she was ready for all of it at once. I covered the hand holding my wrist with mine. Not to keep her there. Only to let her feel that she could let go without losing anything.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Lia looked at me for a long moment. The ocean moved behind her. The pavilion laughter carried faintly through the trees. Then she exhaled, almost laughing. Almost breaking.

“That’s the problem.” I smiled faintly “Is it?”

Her eyes dropped to my mouth again. Then back to mine.

“No,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

But she did not move further. And I did not ask her to. For tonight, this was enough. Her choice. Her kiss. Her stopping point. And the first time she did not run from wanting more. Lia leaned forward after a moment and rested her forehead lightly against my shoulder. It was so gentle that it almost hurt “Is this okay?” she asked.

I looked down at her “With me?” “With Yeji.”

The question was quiet. Important. I turned my head toward the pavilion lights. Yeji was still somewhere beyond them, probably being emotionally tortured by Nayeon and Sana while Jihyo pretended not to enjoy it.

I smiled softly “She knows you matter to me.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is.”

Lia lifted her head. I met her eyes “And if you need to hear the other part, I will talk to her. Properly. Not because this was wrong. Because you deserve not to carry uncertainty by yourself.”

Lia’s face changed. Not fully relieved. But steadier.

“Okay.” “Okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a second, she leaned in and kissed me again. Shorter this time. Still soft. But less afraid.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were pink “That’s enough for tonight.”

I smiled “Okay.” “Don’t sound proud of me.” “I’m not.” “You are.” “I am a little.” She groaned and looked away “That is embarrassing.” “It is also true.”

Lia picked up her tea again, but her hand was steadier now. We stood there for another minute, shoulder to shoulder, watching the water. Just letting the first step be exactly what it was.

From the pavilion, Yuna’s voice suddenly rose “Lia?” Lia closed her eyes “I am going to throw that notebook into the ocean.” I laughed “She found you.”

“She always finds me when she needs supervision.” “Do you want to go back?”

Lia looked at the water. Then at me. Then she smiled, small and tired and real “In a minute.” So we took one more minute. The retreat continued behind us. But out here, beneath the night air, Lia had crossed the smallest line in the quietest way. And somehow, that made it feel larger than if she had run.

By the time I returned to the villa, the resort had gone quiet in pieces. Not asleep. Not fully. Somewhere beyond the garden path, I could still hear faint laughter from the pavilion. Yuna’s voice rose once, immediately followed by Lia saying something that sounded like a warning. Ryujin laughed after that. Then the ocean swallowed the rest.

Our room was dim when I stepped inside.

Only the balcony light was on.

Yeji sat outside with one knee drawn up beneath her, wearing one of my shirts like she had every right to steal from my suitcase. Her hair was loose now, brushed soft over one shoulder. The night wind moved through it gently.

She did not turn around immediately. That was how I knew she knew. Not everything. But enough. I closed the door behind me. Yeji looked over her shoulder.

“Hi.”

Her voice was soft. Not suspicious. Not angry. Just awake.

“Hi.” I said back.

I walked toward the balcony, slower than I needed to. Yeji watched me the whole way.

“You were gone for a while.” “I know.”

She turned back toward the ocean. I sat beside her, leaving a careful space between us at first. Yeji noticed. Of course she did. After everything that had happened today, she still noticed the smallest distance.

“Ben.”

I looked at her. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were too clear for me to pretend badly.

“What happened?”

I exhaled.

“Lia kissed me.”

Yeji did not move. The ocean filled the silence for a few seconds. Then she nodded once. Small. Controlled.

“Okay.”

I waited. Because okay did not mean finished. It meant she was making room for the rest.

“She found me by the beach,” I said. “I went out for air after dinner. No cigarette.”

Yeji glanced at me.

“Good.” “I thought you would ask.” “I was going to.”

That almost made me smile. Almost.

“She said she has feelings for me.”

Yeji’s face softened by a degree.

“She said it?” “Yes.” “That must have been hard for her.” “It was.”

Yeji looked down at her hands.

“Did she force herself?”

That question hit me harder than jealousy would have. Because of course that was the first thing Yeji asked. Not whether Lia touched me. Not whether I kissed her back. Not whether she should be upset. Whether Lia had pushed herself past what she could handle.

“No,” I said quietly. “But she almost tried to.”

Yeji’s eyes lifted to mine.

“She kissed me first,” I continued. “I kissed her back. Carefully. She reached for more, then stopped herself.”

Yeji listened without interrupting.

“I told her she didn’t have to force herself.”

Her shoulders loosened. Just slightly.

“That was the right thing to say.” “I hoped it was.” “It was.”

The certainty in her voice settled something in me. I leaned back against the balcony chair and stared out at the dark water.

“She asked if it was okay with you.”

Yeji looked at me. I turned back to her.

“I told her I would talk to you properly. Not because it was wrong, but because she deserves not to carry uncertainty by herself.”

For a while, Yeji said nothing. Then she reached across the small space between us and took my hand. Her fingers slid between mine, warm and steady.

“Thank you for telling me.”

I looked down at our hands.

“I always will.” “I know.”

Her thumb moved once over my knuckles.

“But I still appreciate it.”

That somehow hurt more than being scolded. Yeji looked at the ocean again.

“I’m not angry.” “I know.” “Do you?”

I looked at her. She smiled faintly, but it was tired.

“I wanted to know,” I admitted. “Not because I thought you would be cruel. I know you wouldn’t. But because this is… a lot.” “It is.” “And it keeps getting bigger.” “Yes.” “And somehow I keep standing in the middle of all of you, trying not to ruin something I don’t even fully understand yet.”

Yeji’s grip tightened.

“You’re not standing in the middle alone.”

I looked at her. She looked back. In that way that still felt too undeserved to name carelessly.

“You came back and told me,” she said. “That matters.” “I will always come back and tell you.” “I need that.” “I know.”

“No.” Her voice dropped softer. “I need you to know I need that. Not because I don’t trust you. Not because I think Lia did anything wrong. But because silence makes stories when people are scared.”

That line stayed in the air between us.

“Then no silence.” “No silence,” she repeated.

I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. Yeji watched me do it, expression softening despite herself.

“She has been standing at the edge for a while,” she said. “Lia?”

Yeji nodded.

“I think she knows what she feels. She just doesn’t know how to move without feeling like one step means she has to take all of them.” “That’s what it felt like.” “Then don’t pull her over.” “I won’t.” “Let her step.” “I will.”

Yeji turned her face toward the water again.

“She deserves that.” “She does.” “And if she stops, let her stop.” “I did.” “I know.”

Her voice gentled “That is why I’m not angry.”

I looked at her for a long moment. Then something in me broke open quietly. The kind of feeling that arrived without asking and sat directly in the center of my chest.

“You know,” I said, “every time I think I understand how much I love you, you make it worse.”

Yeji blinked. Her cheeks colored “Ben.”

“I mean it.”

She looked down, but I did not let myself stop. Not this time.

“I don’t know how to explain this without sounding insane.” “That has never stopped you before.” I smiled faintly “Fair.”

Her thumb brushed my hand again. So I tried. “Everything around us is complicated. Everyone matters. I care about them. I don’t want to lie about that. I don’t want to diminish it because that would be unfair to them, and it would be unfair to you too.” Yeji stayed quiet. Listening. “But my heart keeps finding you first.” Her breath caught. I looked at her properly. “No matter how loud the room gets. No matter who needs me. No matter what happens with anyone else. I come back to you in my head before I even know I’m doing it.”

Yeji’s eyes softened. “You’re the place I return to,” I said. “Not because you demand it. Not because you hold it over anyone. Because you keep choosing me even when you could make this harder. You keep choosing honesty over jealousy. You keep choosing kindness toward them when it would be easier to make everything smaller so it hurts less.”

Her eyes shone now. She looked away quickly, but I saw it. I always saw her. “That does not make me perfect,” she whispered. “I don’t need perfect. I need you.”

She turned back to me. The words had landed. I could see it in the way her face changed, embarrassment and tenderness fighting for space. “I love them in the ways this life has made possible,” I said quietly. “But I love you like home.”

Yeji’s mouth trembled slightly “Do not say things like that if you don’t want me to cry.”

“I can stop.” “No.” I smiled “No?” She shook her head once “No.” So I leaned closer “I love you, Yeji.”

Her eyes closed for a second. Like she needed to hold the words somewhere safe before answering. Then she opened them and looked at me “I love you too.”

Simple. Barely above a whisper. Enough to undo me. I cupped her cheek. She leaned into my hand without hesitation. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then she said, very softly:

“I’m still your girlfriend.” “I know.” “Not your wife.” “I know.”

Her eyes narrowed faintly “But…” I waited. Her cheeks turned pink again “But if you keep being honest with me like this, I might keep letting you get away with calling me that.” I smiled slowly “That sounds like a policy.”

“It is not a policy.” “Wife privileges?” She groaned “Do not ruin the emotional moment.” “I would never.” “You are actively doing it.” “I love you.”

She tried to glare. Failed immediately. Then she leaned forward and kissed me. Loving in a way that made the rest of the night quiet around us.

I kissed her back with both hands careful at her waist, not pulling too hard, not asking for more. Just holding her there. Letting the kiss be what it needed to be after everything else the day had carried.

When she pulled away, her forehead rested against mine.

“I’m glad you came back,” she whispered. “I always will.” Her eyes stayed closed “Good.” “Because my wife would be annoyed if I didn’t?”

Her eyes opened. She stared at me. Then, despite herself, she smiled “Yes,” she said. “Very annoyed.” I laughed quietly. She kissed me again before I could make it worse.

Eventually, we went back inside.

The room was still softly lit, the bed still imperfect from earlier, the ocean still moving beyond the balcony doors. Yeji turned off the light while I pulled the blanket back. She climbed in first, then immediately reached for me like the conversation had left her too tender to pretend she did not need contact.

I joined her.

She settled against my chest, one arm across my waist, her leg tucked between mine. I wrapped myself around her and pressed a kiss into her hair. For a while, she traced lazy circles against my side. Then her hand drifted to my chest. To the place beneath the fabric where her name still rested in temporary ink.

She did not say anything. She only left her hand there. I covered it with mine. Yeji exhaled softly “Tomorrow,” she murmured, half-asleep already, “no chaos.”

I closed my eyes “Of course.”

A pause. Then, from somewhere deep in her fading consciousness

“That sounded fake.” “It was a little fake.”

Her tired laugh warmed my chest.

“Good night, Benjie.” “Good night, Yeji.”

She shifted closer. Still mine. Still herself. Still choosing me. And for the first time since the retreat began, the silence did not feel like something waiting to be broken.

You've never been much of an "alpha male", and frankly, you're fine with that. Your childhood is a classic tale: always last picked in school sports, struggled to make many guy friends, called every homophobic slur under the sun just for having basic hygiene. Despite it all, you ended up in an alright place—a quiet and unassuming existence.

Then, you met Kazuha, and your quiet and unassuming existence turned upside down.

"He ordered the chicken sandwich, not the burger," she scolds, dropping the tray of food onto the counter with enough force to send a couple fries flying.

You meekly tug her sleeve. "It's fine, really—"

"Hush, baby." In an instant, she shuts you up with a quick glance with those piercing eyes. "Let momma handle this."

"I'm so sorry, ma'am," the cashier says with his squeaky, prepubescent voice. "I'll have the kitchen put a rush on his chicken sandwich right away. Uh, may I interest you in a free dessert for your troubles?"

Kazuha turns to you, patiently waiting for your answer.

"Uh, I guess a vanilla milkshake wouldn't be so bad—"

"Vanilla milkshake," she repeats, leaning against the counter. "And no cherries. My boyfriend doesn't like cherries."

The cashier gulps, his Adam's apple practically disappearing in sheer terror. "U-uh, yes ma'am. No cherries. Understood."

"Good." Kazuha shoots him one final glare before taking your hand and leading you back to your booth.

"You didn't have to do that," you mutter. "I would've been fine with the burger."

She slinks into the seat across from you with a huff. "It's not what you ordered though. And I know how much you like the chicken sandwich at this place."

You shrug. "The burger isn't that bad."

"Then why didn't you order the burger?" She raises her brow in that "I'm right and you know it" kinda way that you're all too familiar with.

"Well…"

Kazuha reaches across the table and lifts up your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Repeat after me: Thank you for fixing my order, Kazuha. You're the best," she says in a high-pitched voice.

You chuckle softly. "I don't sound like that."

"Say it."

"Thank you for—"

"Do it in the voice."

"Wha—I'm not gonna do t—"

"Do it!"

Her outburst attracts some unwanted attention from other tables, making you shrink in your seat. "Kazuha, people are looking…"

Her lips curl into that smirk—the one that never fails to make your heart do a somersault even after eight months of dating. "Aw, sorry," she brushes her thumb against your bottom lip, "did I embarrass you, baby?"

"W-whatever." You pull away before you do something that'll get both of you kicked out for overt PDA. "Thanks for fixing my order. You're the best," you utter flatly.

Kazuha sits back, arms behind her head and chin held high like those cool kids in old movies. "I know. I'm pretty fuckin' sick."

"And humble too."

The cashier from earlier drops off your food, making an effort to avoid looking Kazuha in the eye. "Here you go, is there anything else I can get you two?" he asks.

Kazuha looks over at you for an answer. "No, thank you," you say. You swear you see him breathe a heavy sigh of relief as he walks away. Poor guy.

"I feel bad," you unwrap your chicken sandwich, the one you ordered initially. "He's probably got enough things going on without us giving him grief."

"Relax babe, we're doing him a favor. Now he knows not to mess up people's orders," she points out, coolly tossing a fry into her mouth.

"Still," you linger on the flakes of salt on her lip for a second too long, "you know how badly service people are treated on the daily. I don't wanna add to that."

"Then don't. I'll do it for you," she smirks.

"Kazuha, that's not funny."

"What, I didn't laugh."

"Yeah, but you're smiling."

"I'm smiling because you're cute."

You bite your tongue, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a grin. Unknowingly or not, she sets her food to the side and leans forward, eyeing you like a piece of art.

"Ugh, I hate when you do that," you mutter.

"Do what? I'm just lookin' at ya." Her eyes trace over your lips, and you wonder if she'll like the taste of that new chapstick you just bought.

"I'm trying to eat."

"Am I disturbing your eating?" You feel her foot press against your calf, drawing slow lines with the toe of her boot.

Trying to win against Kazuha is a sisyphean task. She does what she wants, and you follow her around like a loyal puppy. Behave well enough, she'll give you a treat—and just like any puppy, you like your treats.

"Not here, at least," you pout. "I haven't had a single thing to eat all day."

"Aww." She gives you one last drag against your leg before settling back into her seat. "Okay, I'll let you eat."

"Thank you."

Even then, you find your foot gently rubbing against hers as you eat. You can act annoyed all you want, but face it: you're completely smitten with Kazuha.

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"Baby?" Kazuha grabs a leather jacket off of the rack and holds it up to her torso. "What do you think?"

"I think," you sigh, "you have way too many leather jackets."

"What's wrong with that? I'm a collector."

"That looks exactly like the one you bought last week." You take a closer look at the oddly familiar looking tag. "I'm pretty sure that is the exact same one."

"Oh." She takes one last look at it before putting it back. "See, this is why I like having you around. I've probably saved, like, a billion dollars thanks to you."

"Whatever," you chuckle, linking your arm with hers. It's just common sense, you think, but the warmth of her compliment is leagues better than being right.

The two of you pass by racks and racks full of the new wave of summer trends. Personally, you've always been a fan of the fall—cardigans, sweaters, the ability to wear jeans without your legs feeling like tinfoil-wrapped burritos. You and summer are just a match made in Hell. Inevitably, it comes around to torment you for three months out of the year and you're forced to scramble for a wardrobe that won't burn you alive.

"See anything you like?" Kazuha asks.

You scan the men's section, grimacing at the typical suspects that plague the shelves—tank tops, cargo shorts, ugly graphic tees with abominations like "summer vibes" written all over them. "Not really."

"You sure?" She grabs a simple black tank top off the rack. "This one seems pretty nice."

You physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes. Something like that would only look good on her, with her pretty arms that are deceptively strong, and when she flexes, you can see the shadows dance around her biceps, which reminds you of that one time she put you in a chokehold as a joke and you could feel her muscles pushing against your throat, and you were so mesmerized by the feeling that you forgot to fight back, and—

"Baby?" Kazuha shakes you out of your trance. "You okay?" she chuckles.

"I-I'm good." You wipe away the droplet of drool that almost leaked from your lips. "Let's keep looking."

Deeper and deeper through the men's section you go, yet nothing seems to tickle your fancy. Go figure. You knew looking for clothes this time of year would be futile, but Kazuha wanted to hang out and you already said yes before realizing how much of a waste of time this would amount to.

"Ugh, these all suck," you groan.

"Maybe we'd have found something by now if you weren't so picky," Kazuha points out, brow raised at you.

"Not all of us were born to look good in just about anything," you bite back with a cheesy grin. "Some of us have to put effort into looking nice."

"Hey, don't blame me for being sexy." She drapes her arm around your shoulders, and for a split second, you think she's going to put you into another chokehold. So close. "I don't want you overheating just because you're being stubborn, baby."

"I'm not being stubborn, I just—"

You glance over at the women's section and stop at one of the mannequins. It's wearing a simple outfit, fitting for the weather, but what catches your eyes is the skirt—floor length and ruffled, made of a pure white cotton that seems to dance, even on the still mannequin. 

For one reason or another, you can't take your eyes off of it. It wouldn't be too hard to fit into your current wardrobe, and it's a much nicer alternative to the dull beige of all the cargo shorts that seems to infect every corner of the men's options. But, it's just—you're a guy, and Kazuha, well—you already wonder why she even likes you, and—

Kazuha follows your gaze. "Are you getting the hots for the mannequin?" she teases.

"W-what? No, I just—maybe we can find somewhere else to—"

She grips your hand before you have a chance to escape. "Hey, be honest with me." Her voice turns softer, more sincere compared to her usual mischief. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, I—" You peer into her round eyes. They're void of any kind of judgment or disgust, the usual reaction you expect when girls you're interested learn of your 'peculiar tastes'. "I just thought the skirt was pretty. That's all."

"Pretty on me, or pretty on you?"

"Well, of course you'd look pretty in it—"

"Hey." She tilts your chin up, the tip of her thumb pressing your bottom lip. You practically sink into her touch. Never have you felt a presence safer than Kazuha's.

"I… wanna try it on," you admit shyly. "Is that okay?"

She bares her pretty white teeth at you before pressing a soft kiss onto your lips. "Of course you can, baby. You don't need my permission to wear whatever you want."

Heat creeps up your cheeks like lava bubbling to the top of a volcano. "Thanks," you utter, biting back your excitement at the thought of looking pretty.

The second your staring at your reflection in the dressing room mirror, the ruffled skirt in your hands, it all starts to feel a little too real. Your first ever skirt. The thought has crossed your mind a handful of times before, but you never thought you'd actually get to this point. If it weren't for Kazuha and her charming eyes, this moment would just be another figment of your imagination.

You take a deep breath, and you put it on—it fits. Your reflection doesn't look half bad either. The breeze between your legs will take some getting used to, and you'll need to be wary of what color underwear you wear with these, but for now, you're just in awe of how good it looks. How good you look.

You do a little twirl for fun, giggling at the way the dress flows like petals on a blooming flower. Kazuha knocks against the dressing room door. "Did you try it on yet? I wanna see."

"Yeah! Come in."

As soon as Kazuha sees you, her expression drops. In that moment, worry starts to creep into your mind.

Does she not like it?

Does she not like you?

Will she leave just like the rest of them?

All your anxieties are laid to rest as Kazuha envelops you into a tight squeeze. "Holy fuck, my boyfriend is so pretty," she breathes, rocking you back and forth in her arms. You immerse yourself in her warmth, the kind of warmth that steadies your heart and quiets your mind; the kind you want to feel every day until you die.

"Does that mean you like it?" you ask.

"I love it," she says, pecking your lips. "I'm totally buying you every single color they have."

You chuckle at her enthusiasm. "Maybe we can just stick to this one for now? Until I get used to it, at least."

"That's fine with me." Her lips find yours once again, this one a little longer, a little more tender. "It really suits you, baby."

This kiss leaves you wobbly-kneed and blubbering, reduced to a puddle of lovestruck goop in her arms. Her strong, toned arms that you somehow fit perfectly in between.

"Let's hurry up and pay for it so I can take it off you later tonight," she winks, shutting the door behind her and leaving you to feel like the luckiest boy on the planet.

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The two of you kick off your shoes by the front door of your apartment, tossing the shopping bags haphazardly on your coffee table. Those will be for future you to deal with; right now, your feet are dead from all the walking and your body is in desperate need of a bed to collapse on.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Kazuha urges, dragging you to your bedroom. In there, she collapses back onto your bed, arms above her head and her eyes staring you down like a hawk to a little mouse. "Hurry up and take me, pretty boy."

"O-oh." You gulp. "You mean, like, right now? Um—"

"What's that?" Kazuha asks, a smirk growing on her lips. On your usually tidy desk, a small pile of crumpled tissues sits next to your closed laptop, and the memory of what you did last night hits you all at once.

"W-wait, it's not what it looks like—!"

"You little freak!" Before you have a chance to explain yourself, Kazuha jumps to her feet, grabbing at your laptop with the cunning of a fox. "Ooh, let's see what kind of perversions you were watching!"

"Kazuha, don't—"

She flips open your laptop, and on the screen lies a still of the last scene you had watched—a boy with cerebral palsy and his grandma overlooking the edge of a mountain.

"What?" Kazuha asks. "Where's the porn?"

"I wasn't watching porn," you sigh in embarrassment, "I was watching a movie."

She gasps. "An adult movie?!"

"No!" 

Kazuha falls into a fit of giggles. Real mature of her.

"I was watching a… sad movie." You point at the pile of tissues. "I was crying…"

"Aw." She holds your head to her chest, kissing the top of your scalp. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make of fun of you for crying."

"It's fine." It's impossible to be upset with her when she feels this nice.

"Was it good? Can I watch it with you?"

"You want to? What about the whole, um, 'taking you' thing?"

She chuckles softly. "Maybe some other time. Walking around all day has got me feeling lazy." Kazuha crawls into your bed, cozying up under your covers. "C'mon, I wanna watch!"

You relent, following her onto your bed. "I might cry again."

"That's okay," she wraps you in her embrace, "mama's here."

You drag the little red dot all the way to the beginning and hit play, safe and sound in her arms.

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"Grandma?" Chunhe utters, cradling the box of his beloved cat's ashes in his arms.

"Hmm?" she replies.

"After you take me to school, I'll buy you a meal at the cafeteria."

His grandma smiles at him. "All right."

"And then," Chunhe continues, "Buy yourself a train ticket and go wherever you want. Go look around. Go have some fun. Let me walk the rest of my path my way. All right?"

His words may be slow or clumsy, but his sincerity cuts through like the sharpest blade, and his grandma knows this. No more is Chunhe the helpless little boy he once was; now, he stands tall against the prejudice that the world throws at him.

Even after knowing how it ends, it doesn't get easier the second time around.

"There, there," Kazuha coos, gently brushing your head. "It's okay, baby."

"Sorry," you sniffle, "It's just—"

"I know."

She holds you to her chest, letting you sob your little heart out for what feels like forever. For every tear that falls, Kazuha is there with a brush of her thumb or a comforting kiss to pick up all the broken pieces that the movie left you in.

It feels unfair, undeserved, you think, to know such tenderness like it's home. In the original script, the roles would be reversed—Kazuha sobbing into your arms while you comfort her. 

But they aren't. And even in this tenderness that you cherish so deeply, inklings of insecurities that you've long held still manage to seep through.

"Can I ask you something?" you say, wiping away at the last of your tears.

"What is it, baby?"

You breathe, slowly. "Why do you… why do you like me?"

She leans into you, the soft weight of her cheek resting on your head. "Hmm… Well, other guys just suck," Kazuha answers simply.

"Don't you ever wish I was more, uh, 'manlier' or something?"

"Hell no," she grimaces. "Those kinds of guys are the worst. I say one funny thing and they're all like 'Damn, your energy is different, for real!' and it's so annoying! I just have a personality!"

Kazuha holds you tighter, and it becomes clear just how much she wants you over any other guy. "Besides, I like my boys on the softer side." She kisses your damp cheek. "It means they have a soul."

You'd seen her face everywhere. Billboard in Gangnam. Subway advertisement for soju. The thumbnail of every third video on your YouTube feed. Karina. Yu Ji-min. The face of AESPA, the woman whose wedding had crashed three different entertainment news sites, whose husband, some shipping magnate's son had apparently decided that a wife was something you acquired, not something you maintained.

"That's the job," Senior Park had said. "She called us. Not the other way around. Remember that."

And now here you were, sitting in your Hyundai at the security gate of a house that looked more like a modern art museum, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The gate buzzed before you could press the intercom.

A woman's voice, softer than you'd expected. "Come in. The front door is around the fountain."

The gate swung open.

The walk from your car to the front door took exactly forty-three steps. You counted them. Anything to keep your mind from spinning out. The fountain in the driveway was one of those minimalist things, a black stone slab with water sheeting down the sides. Classy. Expensive. The kind of thing you could stare at and feel nothing about.

Your professional training ran through your head like a checklist Senior Park had drilled into you months ago. Posture. Eye contact. Don't stare. Let her set the pace. The first meeting is always about making them comfortable enough to admit what they want.

But none of the training had mentioned what to do when Karina opened the door.

She wasn't wearing makeup. That was the first thing you noticed, not what you'd expected. Every image you'd ever seen of her was polished to a high gloss, stage-ready, camera-ready. The woman standing in the doorway had her dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping at the temples. She wore an oversized gray sweater that hung off one shoulder, black leggings, bare feet on the marble floor.

And her face. Jesus Christ, her face.

The bone structure that launched a thousand fan edits. Lips that were slightly chapped, slightly parted. Eyes that held yours with something between curiosity and exhaustion.

"Come in," she said, stepping aside. "Take off your shoes."

You did. Brain on autopilot. The foyer was all white marble and indirect lighting, a staircase curving up into shadow. The house smelled like fresh laundry and something floral… lilies, maybe. A bouquet sat on a console table near the door, still wrapped in cellophane, the card unopened.

"I'm…" you started. "I know who you are." She was already walking toward what looked like a living room. "The agency sent me your file. Do you want something to drink?"

The living room was vast and somehow still felt empty. A sectional sofa big enough for twelve people. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a garden you couldn't see in the dark. No photographs on the walls. No magazines on the coffee table. It looked like a showroom, like no one actually lived here. "Water would be great," you managed.

Karina gestured toward the sofa. "Sit." She disappeared through an archway. You heard water running, the clink of glass. Your heart was doing something ridiculous in your chest—not racing exactly, more like it was trying to relocate to your throat.

The file Senior Park had given you was thin. Married eight months. Husband's name was Lee Joon-ho, heir to Lee Shipping & Logistics. According to the tabloids, he'd been spotted at clubs in Gangnam with actresses whose names you didn't recognize, while Karina attended industry events alone. The word "lonely" appeared in a lot of the articles, usually paired with photos of her looking wistful at award shows. "Here."

She was back, holding two glasses. One water, one something amber. Whiskey, maybe. Your eyes tracked the movement of her bare arm as she set the water down on the coffee table between you. "You're nervous," she said, settling onto the opposite end of the sectional. Not a question.

"A little."

"Why?"

Because you're Karina. Because every man in this country has fantasized about you. Because I'm sitting in your mansion and you're wearing that sweater and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with my hands. "New clients are always nerve-wracking," you said instead. "For both of us."

Something flickered in her expression. Amusement, maybe. Or skepticism. She took a sip of her drink—whiskey, definitely—and let her head rest against the back of the sofa. The movement exposed the long line of her throat, the delicate architecture of her collarbones where the sweater had slipped. "How long have you been doing this?"

"A year."

"And before that?" You hesitated. The training said honesty was valuable, but only in measured doses. "I was a personal trainer. Senior Park recruited me. Said I had the right… temperament."

"Temperament." She said the word like she was tasting it. "Is that what they call it?" The silence stretched. Outside, wind rattled something against the glass—a branch, probably. The house was so quiet you could hear the refrigerator humming from two rooms away.

"Why did you call the agency?" you asked. Karina's gaze slid toward you. "Aren't you supposed to know the answer to that?"

"I'd rather hear it from you." Another sip of whiskey. Her throat moved as she swallowed. "The agency brief didn't tell you?"

"It said you were recently married. It said your husband travels frequently for work."

"Travels." A short laugh, not especially warm. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

You didn't answer. Sometimes silence was the best tool you had. Karina set her glass down on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the cavernous room. "He doesn't travel. He's in Seoul. He just doesn't come home." She was looking at the windows now, at her own reflection in the dark glass. "Three months. I've seen him three times in three months, and each time it was for less than an hour. Photo opportunities, mostly. His PR team coordinates them."

"That sounds lonely." Her jaw tightened. "Don't."

"Don't what?" "Don't do the sympathetic thing. I'm not paying for sympathy."

You shifted on the sofa, turning to face her more directly. "What are you paying for?"

The question landed differently than you'd intended. Karina's eyes snapped to yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—the idol mask, the one she wore in every interview and variety show appearance. Underneath it was something rawer. Something hungry and furious and so tired of pretending. "I want to feel something," she said. "Something that isn't…" She gestured vaguely at the house around her. "This."

"This?"

"Empty." The word came out smaller than the others. She picked up her whiskey again, took a longer drink. "Everything in my life is scheduled and managed and presented to the public in exactly the right light. My marriage. My career. My face." Another drink. "I wake up in this house and I feel like I'm already a ghost. Like I'm haunting my own life." You watched her fingers tighten around the glass. The knuckles went pale.

"So when you ask what I'm paying for," she continued, "I'm paying for something real. Something that isn't polite. Something that doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass." The air in the room had changed. Thicker, somehow. Charged with something you couldn't name.

"Have you done this before?" you asked. "With anyone from the agency?"

"No."

"And you understand how this works? The boundaries, the rules—"

"I understand." She cut you off with a look that was almost defiant. "I read everything. I know about the safeword protocols. I know I can stop anything at any time. I know this isn't…" She paused, searching for the word. "Conventional."

"It's not," you agreed. "Which is why I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."

Karina raised an eyebrow, and for a second you caught a glimpse of the stage persona, the one who commanded thousands with a single glance. "Ask."

"Are you sure you want this?" The question hung between you. Outside, the wind picked up again, and somewhere in the house a door creaked—settling, probably, or the air pressure shifting. Karina didn't look away from your face.

"Do you want me to prove it?" she asked.

"I want you to tell me." She was quiet for a long moment. Then she set her glass down again, stood up from the sofa, and walked toward you. Her bare feet made almost no sound on the marble floor. The sweater slipped further off her shoulder as she moved, revealing the strap of something black and lacy underneath. When she stopped, she was standing directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell her perfume—something light, citrus and white flowers—and underneath it, the clean scent of her skin. "I've been thinking about this for three weeks," she said. "Ever since I found the agency's number in a forum I wasn't supposed to be reading. Ever since I realized that the only person who's touched me in eight months is my makeup artist." Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath it. "So yes. I'm sure. I want this."

She held out her hand. "I want you to make me feel something. I don't care if it hurts. I don't care if it's ugly. I want to stop being Karina for a few hours and just be… a body. A woman. Whatever is left of me when all of this"—she waved at the house, at the empty walls, at the unopened flowers—"isn't here anymore." Your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. Her hand was still extended, palm up, waiting.

"Tell me your safeword," you said.

"Red."

"And if you can't speak?"

"Three taps. Anywhere you can feel them." You'd said the same words to half a dozen clients before her, but something about the way Karina recited them back—steady, rehearsed, like she'd practiced them in front of a mirror—made your chest tighten.

"Okay," you said. And you took her hand. Her skin was warm. Soft, the way you'd imagined, but there was strength in her grip too—the hand of someone who'd spent years in dance studios, who'd trained her body to do exactly what she wanted it to. She didn't flinch when you stood up, which brought you close enough that you could see the individual lashes framing her eyes, the tiny mole near her left eyebrow, the way her lips had parted slightly.

"Before we do anything," you said, "I need you to understand something."

"What?"

"This isn't about your husband. This isn't about revenge or filling a void or proving something to yourself." You kept your voice low, even. "This is about what you want. Right now. In this room. Nothing else exists." Karina's eyes searched your face. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it, because something in her expression shifted—a loosening, a letting-go.

"Nothing else exists," she repeated.

"Good girl." The words slipped out before you could stop them, but the effect was immediate. Karina's breath caught. Her pupils dilated, just slightly. The hand in yours tightened its grip.

"That's what you want?" you asked. "To be good?"

"I want…" She swallowed. "I want to stop thinking. I want someone else to be in charge. Just for a while." You lifted your free hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. The movement was gentle, almost reverent, and it made no sense with the things you were about to do—but that was the point, wasn't it? The contrast. The collision of tender and brutal that would short-circuit her brain and give her exactly what she was asking for.

"Your bedroom," you said. "Take me there."

She led you up the curved staircase, her hand still in yours. The upstairs hallway was lined with doors, all of them closed except one at the far end. Soft light spilled out of it, and as you got closer you could see the corner of a bed—a huge bed, king-sized at least, with white sheets and too many pillows. The master bedroom. Karina's bedroom.

The room that her husband had probably not set foot in for months. She paused at the threshold, and for a moment you thought she might hesitate. Might change her mind. Might realize what she was about to do and decide it was too much, too fast, too far outside the carefully constructed image of Yu Ji-min, beloved idol, perfect wife.

Instead, she turned to face you. "What do you want me to do first?" The question was genuine. Not a test. She was waiting for you to take the reins, willing to hand over control before you'd even started.

"First," you said, stepping into the bedroom and pulling her gently after you, "I want you to take off that sweater." Karina's hands moved to the hem of the gray wool. The fabric lifted, revealing the black lace you'd glimpsed earlier—a bralette, delicate and expensive-looking, the kind of thing you wore when you wanted to feel beautiful even if no one else would see it. The sweater came over her head and dropped to the floor.

Her skin was luminous in the low light. Pale and smooth, with the kind of muscle definition that came from years of dancing—toned arms, a flat stomach that tensed as she breathed, the curve of her ribs just visible beneath the skin. "Now the leggings." She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down, bending at the waist. The movement was efficient, not seductive, but it didn't matter—the sight of her body unfolding as she straightened up, the black lace of her underwear matching the bralette, the long lines of her legs.

You circled her slowly. She stood very still, the way she'd probably been trained to stand for fittings and stage checks, but there was a tremor in her thighs that she couldn't quite control. Anticipation. Maybe fear. Probably both. "Lie down on the bed," you said. "On your back."

Karina did as she was told. The mattress barely dipped under her weight—memory foam, probably, the kind that cost more than your monthly rent. She arranged herself in the center of the white expanse, arms at her sides, looking up at the ceiling. "Close your eyes." Her lashes swept down against her cheeks. The room was silent except for her breathing, which had gone shallow and quick. You stood at the foot of the bed and watched her. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled against the sheets. The faint flush spreading from her neck to her collarbones.

"How do you feel?" you asked. "Exposed."

"Good." You moved to the side of the bed and sat down on the edge, close enough that your hip nearly touched hers. Karina's breathing hitched at the proximity.

"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"

A pause. "No." "I'm going to use you." The words came out rougher than you'd intended. "I'm going to take everything you're willing to give me, and I'm going to make you feel every second of it. Your body belongs to me tonight. Do you understand?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."

"And you want that?"

"God, yes."

"Look at me." Her eyes opened. They were glassy already, the pupils blown wide. The composed idol from five minutes ago was already starting to dissolve, replaced by something more vulnerable and infinitely more real. "Your husband," you said. "Does he ever look at you like this?"

Karina flinched—a tiny movement, but you caught it. "No."

"Does he touch you?"

"No."

"Does he make you feel anything at all?" A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracking down her temple and into her hair. "No." You leaned closer. "Then forget him. Forget all of it. Right now, there's only me and you and what your body can take. Nothing else. No Karina. No Yu Ji-min. Just a woman who needs to be fucked like she matters."

The tears were coming faster now, but she wasn't sobbing—just leaking, silently, the release of pressure that had been building for months.

"Please," she said. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Make me forget." You stood up and began unbuttoning your shirt. Karina watched you through blurred vision, her chest rising and falling with breaths she couldn't seem to control. The black lace of her bralette had shifted, revealing the upper curve of her breasts, the skin there flushed and warm.

"Last chance to change your mind," you said, pulling your shirt off and letting it fall. Her eyes traveled over your chest, your arms, the line of your stomach. When she spoke, her voice was steadier than it had been.

"I'm not changing my mind."

"Good." You unbuckled your belt and pulled it free from the loops with a single smooth motion. The leather whispered against the fabric of your pants. "Because I'm just getting started." The belt was still in your hand. Karina watched it loop between your fingers, the leather dark against your palm. Her tears had left shiny tracks down her temples, disappearing into the hairline, and her breathing had gone shallow again—not from crying now, but from something else. Something that made her thighs press together on the white sheets.

“Sit up,” you said. She pushed herself upright, the bralette shifting as she moved. One strap slipped off her shoulder. She didn’t fix it. You folded the belt in half and ran your thumb along the smooth side. “You said you wanted to stop being Karina for a few hours.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to take away your sight.” Her lips parted. A micro-flinch—not fear, not exactly. More like the body’s instinctive response to a cliff edge. The moment before the jump. “The blindfold,” you continued, “stays on until I take it off. If it becomes too much, you use the taps. Three of them. Anywhere you can reach me.”

“I know the rules.”

“I know you do.” You stepped closer, until your knees touched the edge of the mattress. “But I want to hear you say it. What happens if you need to stop?”

“Three taps.” Her voice was steadier now. “On you. Anywhere.”

“And what’s your word?”

“Red.”

“Good.” You reached down and brushed your knuckles along her jawline. The contact was feather-light, almost accidental. “Lift your hair.” She gathered the dark strands and held them up, exposing the nape of her neck. The movement arched her back slightly, pushed her chest forward. The black lace strained against her breasts. You brought the belt around her head. The leather was cool, supple from use. You positioned it across her eyes, careful not to catch her hair in the buckle, and pulled it snug against her temples. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough that she wouldn’t see anything but darkness.

“How does that feel?”

Karina exhaled. “Dark.”

“Can you see anything?”

“No.”

“Good.” You fastened the belt at the back of her head and let your fingers trail down the side of her neck as you withdrew. Her pulse hammered against your fingertips. “Now lie back down.” She lowered herself onto the mattress. The movement was different now—less controlled, more tentative. Without her sight, every shift of her body became a negotiation with the unknown. Her hands found the sheets and gripped them. You stood at the edge of the bed and looked at her. The idol that half of Korea fantasized about. The face on every billboard. Reduced to a blindfolded woman in black lace, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid cycles, her lips slick where she’d licked them.

“Spread your legs.” Karina’s thighs parted. The movement was slow, almost reluctant—but she did it. The matching black panties were cut high on her hips, the fabric thin enough that you could see the suggestion of her underneath. A dark shadow. A slight dampness already bleeding through.

“Wider.” She obeyed. Her knees fell open, exposing the full length of her. The panties pulled taut across her cunt. The outline of her lips. The little seam where they parted.

You didn’t touch her there. Not yet. Instead you climbed onto the bed, positioning yourself beside her. The mattress dipped under your weight, and Karina’s body shifted toward you instinctively—gravity pulling her toward the heat of your skin. “You’re going to use your mouth now,” you said. “And while you do, I’m going to play with these.” Your fingers found the strap of her bralette. You pulled it down. Then the other strap. The lace caught on her nipples for a moment—already peaked, already hard—before you tugged it free and let the fabric pool around her waist.

Karina’s breasts were full and pale, the nipples a dusty rose color that darkened at the tips. They stiffened further in the open air, and she made a small sound—something between a gasp and a whimper. “You like that.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“You like being blindfolded. You like not knowing what’s coming next.”

“I… yes.” You traced a circle around her right nipple with your fingertip. The skin puckered. Karina’s back lifted off the mattress.

“Don’t move,” you said. “Stay still and let me touch you.” She forced herself down. The effort was visible—her abdominal muscles tensed, her hands fisting in the sheets. You circled the nipple again, closer this time, and then you took it between your thumb and forefinger and squeezed. The sound she made was not a moan. It was a broken exhale, a noise that started in her chest and caught in her throat. Her hips bucked once—an involuntary spasm—and then she forced them still. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Let your body react. Don’t fight it.”

You rolled the nipple between your fingers, working it slowly. The texture was fascinating—the way it tightened and pebbled under your touch, the way the areola crinkled around it. Karina’s breathing had gone ragged. A flush was spreading down her chest, past her collarbones, toward the swell of her breasts. “Does your husband ever touch you like this?”

“No—” The word came out strangled.

“Does he know what your body does when someone pays attention to it?”

“He doesn’t… he never…”

“He never what?”

“He never touches me.” The confession was barely a whisper. “He never—ah—” You’d switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment. Roll. Squeeze. A gentle twist that made her gasp and arch before she remembered she was supposed to stay still.

“Then he’s a fool,” you said. “Because your body is extraordinary.” You leaned down and took her nipple into your mouth. Karina cried out. The sound was sharp and sudden, echoing in the vast bedroom. Your tongue laved across the tight bud, traced circles around the areola, and then you sucked—a long, pulling pressure that made her whole body go rigid.

“Oh—oh god—” Her hands came up, flailing in the dark, and found your shoulders. Her nails dug in. You didn’t tell her to stop. Instead you sucked harder, pulling the nipple deep into your mouth while your other hand continued working its twin—rolling, pinching, tugging in counterpoint to the rhythm of your tongue. She was making sounds now that had no words in them. Just vowels. Just broken, desperate vowels that rose and fell with the movement of your mouth. You released her nipple with a wet pop.

“Hands down,” you said. “We’re not done.” Karina’s fingers uncurled from your shoulders. She lowered her arms back to the bed. Her chest was heaving, both nipples now slick and swollen, darker than they’d been before. The blindfold had shifted slightly—just a millimeter—but she hadn’t tried to remove it. “Good girl. Now.” You unfastened your pants and pushed them down. Your boxers followed. “I want you to sit up. I want you on your knees. Can you do that?”

She nodded. The belt bobbed with the movement. Getting her upright was an exercise in trust. She couldn’t see the edge of the bed, couldn’t gauge the distance. You guided her by the shoulders—first into a sitting position, then turning her so her legs hung off the side of the mattress. “On your knees,” you said. “On the floor.” Karina slid off the bed. Her knees hit the hardwood with a soft thud. The position put her face level with your hips, and even though she couldn’t see you, she must have sensed your proximity, because her breath quickened. “You’re going to use your mouth now,” you said. “The way you’ve been thinking about since you first called the agency. The way you’ve imagined in this empty bed at night while your husband was god knows where.”

Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out, wetting them. “But you don’t get to use your hands. Not yet. Just your mouth. And while you work, I’m going to keep playing with your nipples. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” You guided yourself toward her mouth. The head of your cock brushed her lower lip—just a touch, just enough for her to feel the heat. Karina’s whole body shuddered. “Open.” She did. Her jaw dropped, and you pushed forward, sliding the tip past her lips. The inside of her mouth was hot. Wet. Her tongue met the underside of your shaft, tentative at first, then bolder—flattening against you, tracing the ridge of the head. You groaned. The sound was involuntary. “That’s it. Take more.”

She did. Her lips stretched around your girth, and you watched her jaw work as she accommodated the intrusion. There was no hesitation now—the blindfold had freed her from something. From the performance. From the expectation. From Karina Yu, the idol, and all the ways that identity constrained her. The woman kneeling on the floor was just a woman. A woman who wanted to suck cock. You reached down and found her nipples again. Both of them this time, one in each hand, rolling them between your thumbs and forefingers as she began to move.

Karina moaned around your shaft. The vibration traveled through you, up your spine, into the base of your skull. “Mmm—”

She pulled back, let her tongue swirl around the head, then pushed forward again—deeper this time. Her throat flexed. A gag reflex triggered, and she choked, but she didn’t pull away. She held herself there, breathing through her nose, letting her throat adjust to the intrusion. “Fuck,” you breathed. “You’ve done this before.” She couldn’t answer—her mouth was full—but the way she moved said everything. This wasn’t practice. This was muscle memory. Somewhere in her past, before the fame and the management and the carefully curated image, there had been a girl who knew exactly what to do with her mouth. You pinched her nipples harder. She whimpered. Bobbed her head. The wet sounds of her mouth filled the room—the slick slide of lips on skin, the soft suction when she pulled back, the obscene little pop when she reached the tip and let go for just a moment before diving back down.

“Look at you.” Your voice had gone rough. “The most famous woman in Korea. On her knees. Blindfolded. Choking on a stranger’s cock.” Karina’s response was a moan that vibrated through your entire shaft. She sucked harder. Faster. Her tongue worked the underside of your cock with the kind of precision that spoke to experience—flicking against the frenulum, tracing the vein that ran along the length, pressing flat and wide when she reached the base. You tugged her nipples in rhythm with her bobbing. Pull when she went down. Release when she came up. The coordination turned her body into an instrument—you played her nipples, and she played you with her mouth. Saliva dripped down her chin. It pooled in the hollow of her throat, ran in thin rivulets toward her collarbones. She was messy now. Undone. The composed idol from an hour ago was dissolving into something rawer and infinitely more beautiful.

“Deeper,” you said. “Take it deeper.” She pushed forward. Her throat constricted around the head of your cock—a tight, hot pressure that made your vision swim. She gagged again, harder this time, and you felt her throat spasm around you. “Stay there.” She held. Her shoulders trembled. A tear leaked from beneath the blindfold—not from crying, but from the physical reflex of her throat trying to expel the intrusion. The tear tracked down her cheek and mixed with the saliva on her chin. You released her nipples and cupped her face instead. Your thumbs traced the stretched line of her lips, the bulge of your cock visible through her cheek.

“You’re perfect like this,” you murmured. “Blind. Choking. Desperate. This is what you needed, isn’t it? To be used. To be nothing but a mouth.” Karina made a sound—half moan, half sob—and nodded as much as she could with your cock buried in her throat. You pulled back. Let her breathe. A thick strand of saliva connected her bottom lip to the tip of your cock.

“Don’t swallow yet,” you said. “Let it drip.” She obeyed. The saliva pooled and spilled, running down her chin and onto her chest. It made her skin glisten in the low light.

“Now use your hands. Both of them. Show me how you touch yourself when you think about this.” Her hands came up immediately—eager, almost frantic. One wrapped around the base of your shaft while the other cupped your balls. Her fingers were cool against the heat of your skin. She squeezed gently, testing the weight, and then her mouth was back on you—lips stretched wide, tongue working, throat opening. The blindfold was soaked now. Tears and sweat had darkened the leather around her eyes. You reached down and found her nipples again. Plucked them. Rolled them. Pinched them until she keened around your cock, the sound high and desperate. “You love this. You love being on your knees for a stranger. You love not being in control.”

“Mmmhmm—” The affirmation vibrated through your shaft.

“Say it. Pull off and say it.” She let you go with a gasp. Her lips were swollen, the color darkened to a deep rose. “I love it. I love being on my knees. I love—” She swallowed, her throat working. “I love not being in control.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Her blindfolded face tilted up toward your voice. “Because for once I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to be Karina. I can just be… this.”

“A mouth.”

“Yes.”

“A set of holes.”

She shuddered. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m a mouth.” Her voice cracked. “I’m a set of holes. I’m just—I’m just a body that wants to be used.” You stroked her cheek. “Good girl. Now open up.” She did. Her jaw dropped, tongue extended—a gesture of pure, shameless submission. You guided yourself back into her mouth and this time you didn’t let her set the pace. You fucked her throat with slow, deliberate thrusts, watching her lips stretch around you, watching her chest heave as she struggled to breathe through her nose.

Your hands never left her nipples. They were dark now, engorged, slick with the saliva that had dripped down from her chin. You twisted them in opposite directions and Karina screamed around your cock—a muffled, desperate sound that was swallowed by the column of flesh filling her throat. “Again.” Twist. Scream. Her thighs squeezed together, and through the thin black panties you could see her cunt clenching on nothing.

“You’re getting wet from this. From choking on a stranger’s cock while he twists your nipples.” She couldn’t answer. Could only whimper and bob her head and take it. You pulled her off again. She gasped, coughed, and then immediately tried to lean forward—to get you back in her mouth. You held her by the hair. “Not yet. I want to look at you.” Karina knelt there, chest heaving, lips swollen and slick, chin dripping. The blindfold was a dark slash across her face. Her nipples jutted out from the flushed mounds of her breasts, hard and dark and wet. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you said. “And I mean that. Not Karina the idol. Not the image. This. Right here. A woman who finally stopped pretending.”

Her lips trembled. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me finish. Please let me taste you. Please—I need—I need to feel you—”

“You need to feel me come down your throat.”

“Yes.” The word was a sob. “Yes. Please. Use my mouth. Use my throat. I don’t care if I can’t breathe. I just want to feel it. I want to taste it. Please.” You guided her back onto your cock. She took you deeper than before—no hesitation, no slow build. She swallowed you whole, her nose pressing against your abdomen, her throat working around the intrusion like it was made for this. Made for you. Your hands found her nipples one last time. You pinched them hard—the hardest yet—and held the pressure as she sucked. Karina’s whole body convulsed. Her thighs pressed together so tightly that the muscles in her legs stood out in sharp relief. A muffled, keening sound escaped from somewhere deep in her throat. She was close. Even without touching her cunt, even without any stimulation below the waist—she was close. The nipple play and the blindfold and the degradation had wound her up to a breaking point.

You felt your own climax building. A tightening at the base of your spine. A coiling pressure that radiated outward. “I’m going to come,” you said. “And you’re going to swallow every drop. Do you understand?” Karina’s response was to suck harder. Her tongue worked the underside of your shaft, pressing and stroking in time with her bobbing. Her hand cupped your balls and squeezed—gently, then harder—and that was it. The orgasm hit like a punch to the spine. You groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and your hands tightened on her nipples as the first pulse of cum shot into her mouth. She swallowed. You felt her throat work around the head of your cock, milking you, drawing out every pulse. The second shot. The third. She took them all, her lips sealed tight around your shaft, not letting a single drop escape.

“Fuck. Fuck, Karina—” She pulled back just enough to let the last pulse land on her tongue. Then she closed her mouth and swallowed again, her throat moving in a long, deliberate gulp. When she finally released you, she sat back on her heels. Her chest was still heaving. Her nipples were dark and swollen. Her chin glistened. A single drop of cum had escaped the corner of her mouth and was tracking slowly down toward her jaw. You reached down and wiped it away with your thumb. Then you pressed your thumb to her lips. She sucked it clean.

“Thank you,” she whispered. You crouched down in front of her. The blindfold was ruined—soaked through with tears and sweat, the leather darkened to near-black. You reached behind her head and unbuckled it. The belt fell away.

Karina blinked. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, the pupils so dilated that her irises were barely visible. Tear tracks striped her cheeks. Her lips—swollen, bruised-looking, the lipstick she hadn’t been wearing long since replaced by a deeper, more honest color. She looked wrecked. She looked free. “How do you feel?” you asked.

A long pause. Then a smile—small, fragile, but real. “Like I’m still here. Like I’m actually… in my body. For the first time in months.” You brushed the hair away from her face. “We’re not done.” Karina’s smile widened, just a fraction. “I know.” “Lie back down on the bed. On your stomach this time.” She rose on unsteady legs and climbed onto the mattress. The black panties were soaked through now—a dark, wet patch that spread from the gusset all the way to the waistband. She arranged herself face-down on the white sheets, her arms stretched above her head, her legs slightly apart.

The position made her ass look incredible. Round and full, the cheeks peeking out from beneath the lace.

You climbed onto the bed behind her. Your cock was still half-hard, already stirring again at the sight of her. “I’m going to take these off now,” you said, hooking your fingers into the waistband of her panties. “And then I’m going to find out just how wet choking on a stranger’s cock made you.”

Karina’s voice was muffled by the pillow. “Yes. Please. Touch me.” You pulled the panties down. And stopped breathing. The panties slid down the curve of her ass, the black lace peeling away from skin that glistened with moisture. The gusset left a shining trail across the backs of her thighs—a snail's track of arousal that caught the bedroom's low light. You stopped breathing.

Karina's cunt was laid bare before you, the lips puffy and flushed a deep rose, parted just enough to reveal the darker, wetter flesh within. Her arousal had coated everything—the inner thighs, the neat strip of dark hair above her mound, the puckered swirl of her asshole that winked at you as she shifted on the mattress. The scent hit you next: salt and musk and something sweeter underneath, the raw perfume of a woman who'd been sucking cock while her nipples were tortured and had loved every second of it.

"Fuck," you breathed. Karina's response was muffled by the pillow. "What? What is it?"

"You're dripping. You're actually—" You ran one finger along the seam of her cunt, not pushing in, just gathering the slick that had pooled there. The touch made her whole body jolt. "You're soaked. All the way down your thighs."

"I know." Her voice cracked. "I could feel it. While I was—while you were in my mouth—I could feel myself getting wetter and I couldn't do anything about it."

"Did you want to?"

"Yes. God, yes. I wanted to touch myself so badly. But you told me not to move. So I just… leaked." You brought your slick-coated finger to your mouth and tasted her. Salty. Slightly bitter. Clean. The flavor bloomed on your tongue, and something in your chest tightened—not just lust, though there was plenty of that, but something closer to awe. The most famous woman in Korea was face-down on her marital bed, her cunt drooling onto the sheets, waiting for a stranger to decide what to do with her.

"Please," Karina whispered. "Please touch me. I've been waiting. I've been so patient. Please."

"How long has it been since someone touched you here?"

"Eight months. Since before the wedding. He never—Joon-ho never—" She choked on the name. "He never wanted to. Even before we got married. He said it was… messy. He said he preferred—"

"Preferred what?"

"His hand. His own hand. While I lay next to him pretending to be asleep." The confession hung in the air. You looked at the perfect curve of her ass, the trembling muscles of her thighs, the slick heat of her cunt that some man had decided wasn't worth his time. "His loss," you said. "Don't move." You positioned yourself behind her, kneeling between her spread legs. The position gave you a view of everything—the long line of her spine, the flare of her hips, the dark cleft of her ass, and at the center of it all, her cunt. Swollen. Wet. Waiting.

"Two fingers," you said. "I'm going to put two fingers inside you. And you're going to scream into that pillow." Karina grabbed the pillow and pulled it to her face. You pushed your middle finger into her first.

The heat was staggering. Tight—god, she was tight—but so wet that your finger slid in to the second knuckle without resistance. Her inner walls clenched around the intrusion, a rippling squeeze that traveled from base to tip. Karina's back arched. A strangled sound escaped the pillow.

"One," you said. "Here comes the second."

Your index finger joined the first. The stretch made her gasp—a sharp intake of air that she cut off by biting the pillow. You pushed both fingers deep, curling them upward, searching for the rough patch of tissue that would make her see stars.

You found it.

Karina screamed.

The sound was muffled by the pillow but still loud enough to echo in the vast bedroom. Her hips bucked backward, driving your fingers deeper. Her cunt clamped down with a force that made your knuckles ache.

"There it is," you murmured. "That's what you needed, isn't it? Someone to find it. Someone to touch it. Someone who isn't afraid of a little mess."

"Don't stop—please don't stop—"

You didn't stop. You fucked her with your fingers in slow, deep strokes, curling them against that spot every time you bottomed out. The wet sounds were obscene—a slick, squelching rhythm that filled the room. Her juices coated your hand, dripped down your wrist, pooled on the sheets beneath her.

"Listen to yourself," you said. "Listen to how wet you are. You sound like a—"

"Like a whore." The word came out muffled but clear. "Say it. I want you to say it."

"You sound like a whore. A dripping, desperate whore who's been neglected for eight months and finally has someone's fingers in her cunt."

Karina moaned—a long, wavering sound that rose in pitch as you increased your pace. Her fingers clawed at the sheets. Her ass lifted higher, presenting herself more openly, and you watched her cunt stretch around your fingers, the lips clinging to your knuckles every time you pulled back.

"More," she gasped. "More. I need more. I need—"

"You need what?"

"I need to come. Please. Please let me come. I've been so good. I swallowed everything. I didn't spill a drop. Please."

You slowed your fingers. Stopped them entirely, buried to the hilt inside her.

Karina whimpered. "No—no, why did you stop—"

"Because I want to hear you beg properly." You leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You're not Karina right now. You're not an idol. You're just a wet hole that wants to be filled. So beg like one."

A shudder ran through her body. Her voice, when it came, was smaller than before—stripped of the polish, stripped of everything except raw, naked need.

"Please fuck me with your fingers. Please make me come. I've been empty for so long. I've been so empty and so lonely and the only thing that's made me feel anything in months is your cock in my throat and your fingers on my nipples and now I need—I need you to let me finish. I need to feel something break inside me. Please. I'm begging you. I'm begging like the desperate slut I am. Please."

"Good girl."

You resumed fucking her with your fingers. Faster this time. Harder. The curl against her G-spot became a pounding rhythm, and Karina's whole body began to shake. Her thighs quivered. Her ass clenched and unclenched. The pillow was soaked with saliva and tears.

"I'm close—I'm so close—"

You pulled your fingers out.

"No!" The word was a howl. Her cunt gaped for a moment, empty and clenching on nothing, and then she collapsed forward onto the mattress. "Why? Why did you—I was right there—"

"Turn over."

She rolled onto her back. Her face was a wreck—eyes wild and glassy, cheeks blotchy with tears, lips still swollen from the blowjob. Her chest heaved. Her nipples stood out like dark berries against the pale swell of her breasts.

"Spread your legs."

She did. Her cunt was even more obscene from this angle—the lips engorged and spread, the inner flesh a slick, vivid pink, the hood of her clitoris pulled back to reveal the pearl beneath. Everything glistened.

"Touch yourself."

Karina's hand flew to her cunt. Her fingers found her clit and began rubbing in tight, frantic circles. Her other hand grabbed her breast, squeezing, pinching the nipple.

"That's it. Show me how you make yourself come when you're alone in this empty house."

"It's always you," she panted. "Not you—not you specifically—but someone. Someone who isn't him. Someone who wants me. I imagine—I imagine being taken. Being used. Being ruined." Her circles grew faster. "I imagine a stranger's cock. A stranger's hands. I imagine being bent over and fucked until I can't walk. Until I can't think. Until I forget my own name."

"And does your husband ever make you come?"

"Never. Not once. Not even—not even when we—ah—"

"Don't stop. Keep rubbing."

Her fingers were a blur on her clit. Her hips lifted off the mattress. The muscles in her stomach stood out in sharp definition. She was close again—you could see it in the flush spreading across her chest, the way her mouth fell open, the frantic, jerky movements of her hand.

"Please," she gasped. "Please let me—"

"Stop."

Her hand froze. A sound came out of her that wasn't human—a guttural, animal keen of pure frustration. Her clit twitched visibly, denied its release. Her cunt spasmed, squeezing around nothing, gushing a fresh surge of fluid that soaked the sheets.

"Fuck!" She slammed her fist against the mattress. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

You grabbed her wrist and pinned it above her head. "Look at me."

Karina's eyes met yours. They were wet and desperate and furious and grateful all at once.

"You said you wanted to be ruined. Ruined doesn't mean easy. Ruined doesn't mean I let you come the moment you ask nicely. Ruined means I take you apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but the animal underneath. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper.

"Do you still want this?"

"God, yes. Yes. Ruin me. Please. I want to be ruined."

You released her wrist. "Then get on your hands and knees. I want to see all of you."

Karina scrambled into position. The movement was ungraceful, uncoordinated—the idol's dancer precision abandoned in favor of pure, sloppy need. She presented herself on all fours, her back arched, her ass lifted high. The position opened her completely—her cunt a dark, wet gash between her thighs, her asshole a tight pink knot, everything glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

"Spread your ass cheeks."

Her hands reached back. Her fingers dug into the full flesh of her buttocks and pulled them apart, exposing herself more completely. The vulnerability of the gesture made your cock throb.

"Wider."

She stretched herself open until the pink of her cunt gaped slightly, until you could see the dark entrance of her body, the place where her wetness pooled and dripped in a slow, viscous thread onto the sheets.

"Please," she breathed. "Please ruin my pussy. I need your cock. I need it inside me. I've needed it since you walked through my door. Since before that. Since I first saw your picture in the agency file. Please. Fuck me. Fuck me like you hate me. Fuck me like I'm nothing."

You positioned yourself behind her.

Your cock was fully hard again—thick and veined, the head an angry purple, a bead of precum already forming at the slit. You gripped the base and ran the tip along her slit, coating yourself in her slick. The contact made her shudder.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes—"

You pushed the head against her entrance. The heat of her cunt kissed the tip of your cock.

"Say it again. Louder."

"YES. Fuck me. Please fuck me. Ruin my pussy. I want to feel you in my womb. I want to feel you for days. I want to walk into my next schedule and still feel where you've been. Please—"

You thrust forward.

One motion. No gradual entry. No easing her open. You buried yourself to the hilt in a single, brutal stroke, and Karina's plea dissolved into a scream that had no words in it.

Her cunt was impossibly tight. The wet heat of her gripped every inch of you—a clenching, rippling pressure that traveled from base to tip. You felt the head of your cock butt against her cervix, felt the resistant give of that deepest barrier, and then you pushed past it.

Karina's scream pitched higher.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck, you're so deep—you're in my—"

"Your womb. I know."

You stayed there for a moment, buried to the root, letting her body adjust to the intrusion. Her inner walls fluttered around your shaft—spasms of sensation that were half pleasure, half shock. Her fingers were still digging into her ass cheeks, holding herself open, and you could see exactly where your bodies joined. The stretched ring of her cunt. The way her lips clung to the base of your cock. The shine of her fluids on your skin.

"You're taking all of it," you said. "Every inch. You feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes—yes, I feel it—I feel you in my stomach—"

"Good."

You pulled back. The drag of her walls against your shaft made your vision swim. Then you slammed forward again, harder than before, and Karina's head dropped between her shoulders, her whole body rocking forward from the force.

"AH—"

"Again."

Another thrust. Harder. The sound of your bodies colliding was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. Her ass rippled with the impact. Her breasts swung beneath her.

"You wanted to be ruined," you growled, gripping her hips. "So I'm going to ruin you. I'm going to fuck this tight little cunt until you can't remember your own name. Until you can't remember his name. Until the only thing in your head is my cock and how deep it is and how hard I'm using you."

"Yes—yes—fuck—harder—"

You gave her harder.

The rhythm you set was brutal—deep, driving strokes that bottomed out against her cervix with every thrust. The wet sounds of her cunt filled the room. Your balls slapped against her clit. Sweat dripped from your forehead onto her back, tracing rivulets down her spine.

Karina was making sounds that didn't belong to any language. Guttural moans. High-pitched whines. Broken syllables that might have been words if she'd had enough control to form them. Her fingers had released her ass cheeks and were now fisting in the sheets, knuckles white, arms trembling.

"Look at you. The most famous idol in Korea. On her hands and knees. Getting her pussy destroyed by a stranger. Moaning like an animal. This is what you needed, isn't it? Not the fame. Not the money. Not the perfect husband and the perfect house. This. Just this. Just a cock in your cunt and someone who knows how to use it."

"YES—YES, THIS—THIS IS WHAT I—OH FUCK—"

You reached around her body and found her clit. The bundle of nerves was swollen and slick, hard as a pebble under your fingertip. You pressed down and circled—not gently, not teasingly, but with the same brutal intensity as your thrusts.

Karina's whole body convulsed.

The orgasm hit her like a wave breaking against rocks. Her cunt clamped down on your cock with a force that almost hurt—a rhythmic, pulsing squeeze that traveled in waves from her core outward. Her back arched impossibly. Her head flew up, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes rolled back so far that only the whites were visible.

Then the sound came. A wail. A keening, animal cry that started low in her chest and rose to fill the room. Her arms gave out. She collapsed forward onto the mattress, but you followed her down, never stopping, never slowing, fucking her through the orgasm with the same relentless pace.

"Thaaaat's it—don't stop—don't stop—don't—I can't—it's too much—"

"You can take it. You wanted to be ruined. You're going to take every thrust until I'm done with you."

"It's too much—it's—oh god—OH GOD—"

A second orgasm crashed over her before the first had fully subsided. This one was stronger—violent, almost. Her cunt gushed around your cock, soaking your thighs, soaking the sheets. Her screams dissolved into sobs. Her body shook with a force that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than muscle, somewhere primal.

"Please—please—I can't—I can't take any more—"

"One more. Give me one more."

"I can't—I can't—"

"You can. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how full you are? That's what you needed. Not his empty house. Not his empty promises. This. A cock that fills you up. A body that knows how to use yours. Come for me again, Karina. Come on this cock like the desperate whore you told me you are."

Her response was unintelligible. A stream of syllables that might have been Korean, might have been English, might have been neither. A confession. A prayer. A surrender.

You drove into her harder—deeper, if that was even possible—and pressed your thumb against her clit. The stimulation was merciless. Her cunt seized around you. Her sobs pitched higher.

And then she shattered.

This orgasm was different from the others. Quieter. Deeper. Her body went rigid for a long, suspended moment—every muscle locked, every breath held. Then the release came, and it came with a flood. Her cunt gushed around your shaft—not just wetness this time, but a clear, copious fluid that sprayed against your thighs and soaked into the mattress beneath her.

Karina's voice broke on a single word: "Fuuuuck—"

Her body went limp. Completely limp. She collapsed into the wet sheets, her chest heaving, her limbs twitching with aftershocks. Her cunt still pulsed weakly around your cock—little flutters of sensation that traveled up your shaft.

You slowed your thrusts. Eased to a stop. Buried yourself deep inside her one last time and held there, feeling the heat of her body, the slick grip of her cunt, the violent thudding of her heart that you could feel through the walls of her core.

The room was silent except for her breathing—ragged, broken gasps that gradually slowed to something approaching normal.

"Are you still with me?" you asked.

A long pause. Then, muffled by the mattress: "I don't know. I think so. I think… I think that was…"

"That was what?"

"That was the first time. The first time anyone's ever—" She swallowed. The movement traveled through her whole body. "The first time anyone's ever made me come. Not just during sex. Ever."

You pulled out slowly. Her cunt made a wet, sucking sound as you withdrew—reluctant, almost, as if her body didn't want to let you go. A gush of fluid followed, clear and viscous, pooling on the already-soaked sheets.

Karina whimpered at the emptiness.

"Turn over," you said. "Look at me."

It took her a moment to find the strength. When she finally rolled onto her back, the sight of her made your chest tighten.

She was wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. Her face was blotchy with tears, her eyes swollen and glassy. Her lips—still puffy from the blowjob—were parted, a thin trail of drool connecting the corner of her mouth to her chin. Her nipples were dark and angry-looking, surrounded by faint marks where your fingers had been. Her thighs were slick with her own fluids. Her cunt gaped slightly, the lips engorged and spread, still pulsing with aftershocks.

She had never looked more beautiful.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. I want to." Her voice was hoarse—fucked raw, used up. "I've been numb for so long. I didn't even realize how numb until… until you made me feel all of this. The pain. The pleasure. The—the shame. The humiliation. I felt all of it. I'm still feeling it."

"And right now? How do you feel?"

Karina's eyes found yours. The glassiness was fading, replaced by something clearer. Something almost peaceful.

"Full," she said. "And sore. And wet. And tired. And…" A pause. "Alive. I feel alive."

You reached down and brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair away from her forehead. The gesture was gentle—a stark contrast to everything you'd just done to her body.

"Good," you said. "Because we're still not finished."

Her eyes widened. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her wrecked face—small and fragile and utterly genuine.

"I know," she said. "I was counting on it."

The shower was a rainfall fixture, wide enough for two, the water coming down in a steady, warm curtain. Steam fogged the glass enclosure. You stood behind Karina, cupping water in your palms and letting it run down her back. The rivulets tracked the geography you'd already memorized—the dip of her spine, the flare of her hips, the twin dimples just above the swell of her ass.

She leaned against the marble wall, forehead pressed to the cool stone.

"I can't feel my legs," she mumbled.

"That's normal."

"Is it?" A laugh, breathy and exhausted. "Good to know."

You reached for the body wash—something expensive, sandalwood and bergamot—and worked it into a lather between your hands. When you touched her shoulders, Karina sighed. The sound was different from the ones that had filled the bedroom an hour ago. Softer. Quieter. The sigh of a body that had been wrung dry and was finally allowed to rest.

Your hands moved down her back in slow circles. Over the faint red marks your fingers had left on her hips. Across the small of her back where sweat had pooled and dried. Down to the curve of her ass, where you kneaded the muscle with careful pressure.

"You're going to be sore tomorrow," you said.

"Good." Her voice was muffled against the marble. "I want to be sore. I want to remember."

"Remember what?"

She turned around. Water sluiced down her front, plastering her hair to her neck and shoulders. The mascara she hadn't been wearing was long gone, but her eyes were still rimmed with red, still slightly swollen. The marks on her nipples had darkened. Her lips—still puffy, still that deep bruised rose—curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"That I'm a real person. That someone wanted me. That for a few hours, I wasn't just a photograph."

You cupped her face. Your thumbs traced her cheekbones. "You were never just a photograph."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." You leaned down and kissed her forehead. Then the bridge of her nose. Then each eyelid, feather-light, the way you'd close a book you weren't finished reading. "But you need to hear it anyway. You're not what he made you feel. You were never what he made you feel."

Karina's breath shuddered out. Fresh tears mixed with the shower water—silent ones this time, not the wrenching sobs from before. She didn't answer. Didn't need to. You held her there in the steam until the water started to cool.

Later, wrapped in a robe that probably cost more than your monthly car payment, Karina walked you to the front door.

The foyer was different now. Less cavernous. The unopened flowers still sat on the console table, but something about them had shifted—they looked less like an accusation and more like a relic. A fossil from a life she was leaving behind.

She pressed a small folded paper into your palm.

"My real number," she said. "Not the one the agency has. Not the one my manager screens." Her fingers lingered on your wrist. "Call me. Or text me. I don't care which. Just… don't disappear."

You unfolded the paper. The handwriting was neat, precise—idol training, probably, years of signing autographs until every stroke was perfect. Ten digits. No name. She didn't need one.

"I won't disappear," you said.

"You say that now."

"I mean it." You caught her hand and lifted it to your lips. Kissed her knuckles. Then the inside of her wrist, where the skin was thin and the pulse still fluttered. "You survived eight months of being invisible in your own house. The least I can do is answer a text."

She laughed—a real one this time, short and surprised. "That's a low bar."

"I'm a simple man."

Karina pulled her hand back, but slowly, the way you set down something fragile. "Go. Before I ask you to stay."

You didn't say goodbye. The training had taught you better than that. Goodbye implied an ending, and endings were the one thing clients like Karina didn't need more of. Instead you stepped out into the cool night air, the paper clutched in your hand, and let the door click shut behind you.

Three weeks passed.

Senior Park called on a Tuesday.

"New client," he said, the way he always did—like he was offering you a gift and daring you to guess what was inside. "Young. Married. The usual story."

"The usual story" had become a kind of shorthand between you. Rich husband. Neglected wife. A mansion full of expensive things and no warmth. You'd heard it so many times now that the details blurred together—only the faces changed, and even those were starting to feel familiar. Actresses. Idols. The wives of men who'd acquired beauty like a stock portfolio and then forgotten to check on it.

"Who is it?" you asked.

A pause. Park was savoring this.

"Jang Wonyoung."

The name hit you like a bucket of cold water.

"Wonyoung? From IVE?"

"The one and only." You could hear the grin in his voice. "Married at twenty-eight. To Kim Seok-joong. The producer. You know him?"

Everyone knew him. Kim Seok-joong had produced half the hits on the charts for the last five years—a genius behind the mixing board, a tyrant in the studio, and, according to every rumor mill in the industry, a man who treated marriage vows like a suggestion. The tabloids had run photos of him leaving clubs with trainees young enough to be his daughters. Wonyoung's name always appeared in the same articles, usually paired with words like "humiliated" and "trapped."

"She called us directly," Park continued. "Apparently she heard about us through a mutual acquaintance. Someone who spoke very highly of your work."

You thought of Karina. Of the paper still folded in your wallet.

"Mutual acquaintance?"

"I don't ask. I don't want to know. I just make the arrangements." The rustle of paper on his end. "She's in Hannam-dong. The penthouse. Tomorrow night, nine o'clock. Don't be late."

The line went dead.

Hannam-dong at night was a different kind of wealth than the gated mansions of the suburbs. Here the money went vertical—glass towers that stabbed into the sky, each floor a monument to someone's ambition. The penthouse elevator required a code, which Senior Park had texted you an hour earlier along with a single line: She's nervous. Go slow.

The elevator ascended in silence. No muzak. No mirrored walls. Just brushed steel and the soft hum of hydraulics. You watched the floor numbers climb and tried not to think about the fact that Jang Wonyoung was waiting at the top of this building. Jang Wonyoung, who'd debuted at fourteen and been famous before she could legally drive. Jang Wonyoung, whose face had sold a million magazines. Jang Wonyoung, who'd married a man twice her age and apparently regretted it before the ink on the certificate was dry.

The doors opened onto a private foyer.

The penthouse was smaller than Karina's mansion—everything in Seoul was smaller than Karina's mansion—but it made up for it in verticality. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Han River, the city lights reflected in the water like scattered coins. The furniture was minimalist: a low white sofa, a glass coffee table, a single orchid in a concrete pot. No photographs. No personal touches. It looked less like a home and more like a hotel suite where someone had been staying for too long.

Wonyoung stood at the window with her back to you.

She was taller than you'd expected. Taller than she looked on stage, where the camera angles and the choreography and the other members had a way of shrinking her. In person, barefoot on the marble floor, she was statuesque—long legs, a narrow waist, the kind of proportions that designers fought to dress. She wore an ivory silk robe that fell to her ankles, her dark hair loose and straight, still damp at the ends as if she'd just showered.

"It's a nice view," you said.

She didn't turn around. "I used to think so."

Her voice was different from Karina's. Lower. Flatter. Where Karina's words had crackled with suppressed fury, Wonyoung's came out like the air leaking from a tire—slow, deflated, resigned.

You stepped further into the room. "Senior Park said you wanted to meet me."

"Meet you." A short laugh. "That's a polite way of putting it."

"I can leave."

"Can you?" Now she turned. The sight of her face hit you like a physical force—the kind of beauty that felt almost aggressive, all sharp angles and full lips and eyes that were too big for her face. But there was something hollow behind them. Something that had been scooped out and never filled back in. "You can leave. You can stay. You can do whatever you want. I'm just… here."

"How long have you been 'just here'?"

Wonyoung crossed her arms over her chest. The robe was silk, thin enough that you could see the outline of her body beneath it—the curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the long lines of her thighs. She wasn't trying to be seductive. She wasn't trying to be anything. That was the most unsettling part.

"A year," she said. "Maybe longer. I stopped counting."

"A year of what?"

"Of waiting. Of pretending. Of showing up to award shows on his arm while everyone in the audience knows he fucked one of his backup dancers the night before." Her jaw tightened. "Do you know what that's like? To smile for cameras while your husband's mistress is standing ten feet away, adjusting her earpiece?"

You didn't answer. You'd learned with Karina that sometimes the best response was no response—just the space to let the words hang in the air until they lost their poison.

Wonyoung uncrossed her arms. Let them fall to her sides. "I'm not looking for sympathy."

"Then what are you looking for?"

"The same thing everyone who calls your agency is looking for." She met your eyes, and for a moment the hollowness flickered—replaced by something harder. Something almost defiant. "I want to feel like I exist. Like I'm not just… a decoration. A trophy. Something he acquired and then forgot about."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine."

"And how old is he?"

A pause. "Fifty-two."

You let the number sit there. Fifty-two. Older than her father, probably. Old enough to know better. Old enough to treat a twenty-eight-year-old bride like a collectible—desirable right up until the moment the paperwork was signed, and then irrelevant.

"What does he say when you confront him?" you asked.

Wonyoung's laugh was empty. "He doesn't. He just… leaves. Goes to the studio. Comes back three days later smelling like someone else's perfume. And I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice. I'm supposed to be grateful. He made my career, after all. Half my songs were his. Half my image. Half my life." Her voice cracked on the last word. "I was nineteen when I met him. I didn't know anything. I thought it was love."

"What do you think it was now?"

"Ownership." The word came out flat. "He didn't want a wife. He wanted a muse. Something beautiful to inspire him. And now he's inspired by someone else, and I'm just… here. In this penthouse. With this view. Waiting for him to come home and pretending I don't know where he's been."

You moved closer. Not close enough to touch—not yet—but close enough that she had to tilt her head slightly to keep meeting your eyes.

"What do you want from tonight?"

Wonyoung held your gaze. The defiance was back, stronger now, warring with the exhaustion. "I want to stop waiting. I want to be touched by someone who actually wants to touch me. I want…" She swallowed. "I want to feel like a woman instead of a photograph. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense."

"And you can do that? You can… give me that?"

"I can give you whatever you're willing to take." You held out your hand, palm up, the same way you had with Karina three weeks ago. "But I need to hear you say it. I need to know you're sure."

Wonyoung looked at your hand. The hesitation was visible—the same hesitation every client had, the moment before they crossed the line from thinking about it to doing it. The moment where the life they'd been living warred with the life they wanted.

Then she took it.

"I'm sure," she said. "I've been sure for six months. I just didn't know who to call."

"Your safeword?"

"Red."

"And if you can't speak?"

"Three taps. Anywhere you can feel them."

Her palm was cool against yours. Her fingers were long and slender—pianist's fingers, though you knew she didn't play. The silk of her robe brushed against your wrist.

"Before we start," you said, "I want you to know something."

"What?"

"This isn't about your husband. This isn't about revenge. This isn't about making him feel what you've been feeling." You squeezed her hand gently. "This is about you. Right now. In this room. Nothing else exists. Do you understand?"

Wonyoung's lips parted. For a moment she looked younger—not twenty-nine, but nineteen again, standing in a studio somewhere and believing that the famous producer who'd noticed her was offering her the world.

"I understand," she said.

"Good. Now take off the robe."

She released your hand. Her fingers went to the sash at her waist, the silk loosening with a whisper. The robe slipped off her shoulders. Pooled at her feet.

Underneath she wore nothing at all.

Her body was long and lean, with the kind of proportions that seemed almost impossible outside of a magazine spread. Small, high breasts with nipples the color of pale tea. A waist that nipped in dramatically before flaring into hips that had launched a thousand fan cams. Long legs, smooth and toned, the muscles of a dancer visible beneath the skin. A dark triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs, neatly trimmed.

But what struck you most wasn't the beauty. It was the stillness. Karina had been trembling with suppressed energy, her body practically vibrating with need. Wonyoung stood completely motionless, her arms at her sides, her expression unreadable. She looked like a statue—beautiful and cold and utterly detached from the body she occupied.

"You're very beautiful," you said.

"I know." Not arrogant. Just… factual. "People tell me that a lot."

"Do you believe them?"

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe, or confusion. "What?"

"Do you believe them? When they tell you you're beautiful. Do you feel beautiful?"

Wonyoung's brow furrowed. "I don't… I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." You circled her slowly, the way you'd circle a sculpture in a gallery. "You've been told you're beautiful your whole life. It's on every magazine cover. Every comment section. Every introduction. But when you look in the mirror, what do you see?"

Her voice was quieter now. "I see what everyone else sees."

"That's not what I asked."

You stopped behind her. The view from here was just as striking—the sweep of her back, the curve of her ass, the way her hair fell in a dark curtain between her shoulder blades. She hadn't turned to follow you. She was still facing the window, still looking at the river and the lights.

"I asked what you see," you continued. "Not what they see. Not what the cameras see. What you see."

The silence stretched. Outside, a boat moved across the Han River, its lights reflecting in the dark water.

"Nothing," Wonyoung said finally. "I see nothing. I see a body that exists to be looked at. A face that exists to be photographed. When I look in the mirror, I don't see a person. I see…" She trailed off.

"A product."

"Yes." The word was barely audible. "A product. Something that was packaged and sold before I understood what I was agreeing to."

You stepped closer. Close enough that the heat of your body registered against her bare back. Close enough that if she leaned back even an inch, she'd be touching you.

"That ends tonight," you said. "Tonight, you're not a product. You're not a photograph. You're not what your husband neglected or what the cameras captured. You're a woman. Just a woman. And I'm going to make you feel like one."

Wonyoung's breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster. Her shoulders rose and fell in the window's reflection.

"How?" she asked.

"First, I'm going to touch you. Not the way a photographer touches you. Not the way a stylist touches you. I'm going to touch you the way a man touches a woman he wants." You raised your hand and let it hover just above her shoulder—not making contact, but close enough that she could feel the heat of your palm. "And you're going to stand right here and let yourself feel it. All of it. Every sensation. Do you understand?"

Her voice was a whisper. "Yes."

"Good."

You let your hand settle on her shoulder.

The contact was light—just your palm against her skin, your fingers curving over the ridge of her collarbone. But Wonyoung's reaction was immediate. Her breath stuttered. Her spine stiffened. The muscles beneath your hand went rigid, then slowly, gradually, began to soften.

"When's the last time someone touched you?" you asked.

"I don't…" She swallowed. "I don't remember."

"Months?"

"Longer. Before the wedding, maybe. He was… interested then. Before he had me. After that…" She shook her head.

You moved your hand down her arm. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting your fingers trace the curve of her bicep, the dip of her elbow, the smooth skin of her forearm. Goosebumps rose in the wake of your touch.

"Close your eyes," you said.

She did. Her lashes swept down against her cheeks, dark against the pale skin.

"Now I want you to focus on what you're feeling. Not what you're thinking. Not what you're worried about. Just the physical sensation. My hand on your skin. The heat of my body behind you. The cool air on the rest of you. Can you do that?"

"I can try."

"Don't try. Just do."

You brought your other hand to her waist. The silk of the robe had been thin, but her bare skin was thinner—softer, warmer, alive in a way the fabric never could be. You felt the slight give of flesh over muscle, the delicate architecture of her ribs. Wonyoung's lips parted. A tremor ran through her.

"Good," you murmured. "That's it. Stay present. Stay here."

Your hands moved together now—one sliding up to cup her breast, the other tracing the curve of her hip. The contact was gentle, almost reverent. You weren't trying to arouse her yet. You were trying to wake her up. To remind her body that it was capable of sensation beyond the clinical touches of stylists and makeup artists and the indifferent hands of a husband who'd long since stopped seeing her as anything but an acquisition.

Her breast was small and firm, fitting perfectly in your palm. The nipple was already tightening—an involuntary response, the body's language for yes, this, more. You circled it with your thumb, not quite touching the peak, letting the anticipation build.

"Oh," she breathed. Just that. Just the single syllable, but it was the most human sound she'd made since you'd arrived.

"You feel that?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

"Warm. It feels… warm. And tingly. Like—like pins and needles, but soft."

"That's your body waking up." You brushed your thumb across her nipple, finally making contact. The peak was hard now, pebbled and tight. Wonyoung's breath caught. Her hips shifted—an instinctive movement, barely conscious. "That's your body remembering what it feels like to be touched."

"Don't stop," she whispered.

"I'm not stopping. I'm just getting started."

You turned her around to face you. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted, a flush spreading across her chest. The cool, detached statue from five minutes ago was already beginning to thaw.

"Open your eyes," you said.

She did. The hollowness was still there, but it had receded slightly—pushed back by something warmer. Something hungrier.

"Lie down on the bed," you said. "On your back. I'm going to touch every inch of you, and you're going to stay present for all of it. No disappearing. No retreating into your head. You're going to feel everything. Do you understand?"

Wonyoung's voice was steadier now. "Yes."

"Good. Then let's begin."

She walked toward the bedroom—the same statuesque stride, but looser now, less guarded. The ivory robe stayed in a puddle on the floor behind her, already forgotten.

You followed her. The penthouse bedroom was all windows on one side, the city lights glittering below like a mirror image of the stars. A king-sized bed dominated the center of the room. White sheets. Too many pillows. The same story, different setting.

Wonyoung lay down in the center of the mattress. Arranged herself with her arms at her sides, her hair spread across the pillow, her legs slightly apart. The position was almost clinical—like she was posing for a photograph. Muscle memory.

"Relax your arms," you said. "Above your head."

She lifted them. The movement pulled her breasts higher, flattened her stomach.

"Close your eyes."

Her lashes swept down.

You knelt on the bed beside her. In the silence, you could hear her breathing—quicker than before, but still controlled. Still holding onto something. You would need to break through that control. Not with force. With patience. With attention. With the kind of touch she'd been starved of for years.

"Now," you said, letting your hand hover over her stomach. "Let's find out what Jang Wonyoung feels like when she stops being a photograph and starts being a woman."

Your palm settled on her skin.

And Wonyoung began to tremble.

Your palm settled on Wonyoung's stomach.

The trembling started small—a flutter of muscle beneath warm skin—then spread outward, rippling through her thighs, her belly, the flat plane of her chest. She kept her eyes closed, arms still arranged above her head in that posing-for-a-photograph way that had become second nature.

"You're shaking," you said.

"I know." Her voice was thinner now. "I can't seem to stop."

"Don't stop. Let it happen."

Your hand moved in a slow circle, tracing the faint definition of her abdominal muscles. The skin here was softer than you'd expected—yielding, warm, the kind of softness that came from being young and healthy and well-cared-for in every way except the one that mattered. Wonyoung's breath stuttered when your palm grazed the bottom of her ribcage.

"What are you feeling?"

"Your hand." A pause. "It's… warmer than I expected."

"What else?"

"I don't know. It's been so long since—" She swallowed. The movement traveled down her throat, a subtle ripple. "Since anyone touched me without an agenda. My stylists touch me to adjust my clothes. Photographers touch me to fix my hair. Seok-joong…" The name came out like a curse. "He doesn't touch me at all."

You traced the lower curve of her breast. Not the nipple—not yet—just the swell where her chest began to rise. The skin was impossibly smooth, pale as cream in the city light streaming through the windows.

"When's the last time you touched yourself?"

Wonyoung's eyes opened. The question had surprised her. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't…" Her brow furrowed. "I don't do that."

"You don't masturbate?"

The word made her flinch. A tiny recoil, barely visible, but you caught it. "That's not something I—I mean, I've never really—"

"Never?" You kept your hand where it was, still and warm against the curve of her breast. "You've never made yourself come?"

Wonyoung closed her eyes again. A flush was spreading from her chest up her neck, blooming across her collarbones like spilled wine. "Once. Maybe twice. A long time ago. Before I debuted. Before everything got so…" She trailed off.

"So controlled."

"Yes."

"Show me."

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"Sit up." You withdrew your hand and sat back on your heels. "I want to watch you touch yourself. I want to see how Jang Wonyoung pleasures her own body when no one else is looking."

The hesitation was visible—a war playing out behind her eyes. The trained idol, the curated image, the woman who'd spent her entire adult life being looked at without ever being touched. Then something shifted. A crack in the facade. Her lips parted.

"Okay," she whispered.

She sat up slowly. The movement was graceful despite her trembling—dancer's muscle memory, the body knowing what to do even when the mind was unmoored. She propped herself against the headboard, the white sheets pooling around her hips. Her breasts were small and high on her chest, the nipples still tight from your earlier attention.

"Lie back," you said. "Spread your legs. Let me see all of you."

Wonyoung arranged herself against the pillows. Her thighs parted with visible reluctance—not resistance, but the shyness of a woman who'd been taught that her body was a commodity, not a source of pleasure. The dark triangle of hair between her legs was neatly trimmed, the lips beneath barely visible in the dim light.

"Touch your breasts first," you said. "The way you like it."

Her hands lifted. The movement was hesitant, almost clinical, like she was examining herself rather than pleasuring herself. Her fingers brushed her nipples and she gasped—a sharp, surprised sound.

"That's it. They're sensitive, aren't they?"

"Yes—I didn't know—no one's ever—"

"No one's ever played with your nipples?"

"No." The word came out strangled. Her fingers circled the tight peaks, tracing the areolae with tentative strokes. "Seok-joong said breasts were for—ah—for looking at. Not for—"

"Not for touching."

"Not for touching."

You watched her hands grow bolder. The circles became pinches—gentle at first, then harder, the way you'd done earlier. Her back arched slightly. Her mouth fell open.

"Good girl. Now move one hand lower. Touch yourself between your legs."

Wonyoung's right hand slid down her stomach. The trembling was worse now—her whole body vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the forbidden nature of what she was doing. Her fingers reached the dark curls and stopped.

"I don't know if I can—"

"You can. Part your lips for me. Show me your cunt."

The vulgar word made her gasp. But her fingers obeyed—they slid through the trimmed hair, parted the outer lips, exposed the pink flesh within. Even from where you knelt, you could see the gleam of moisture. The way her inner lips clung together, then separated with a wet, sticky sound.

"You're wet," you said. "You're wet and you haven't even touched your clit yet."

"Is that—is that normal?"

"It's more than normal. It's beautiful. You're beautiful." You leaned closer. "Now find your clit. The little pearl at the top. Touch it."

Wonyoung's middle finger found the swollen bud. The contact made her whole body jerk. A sound escaped her—half moan, half whimper—and her thighs snapped shut around her hand.

"Keep them open. I want to watch."

"I can't—it's too—"

"You can. Open your legs, Wonyoung. Let me see what your body does when you stop being a photograph."

She forced her thighs apart. The effort was visible—muscles trembling, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. Her finger began to circle her clit in slow, tentative strokes. The hood pulled back with each pass, revealing the slick pearl beneath. Her other hand stayed on her breast, pinching and rolling the nipple in counterpoint.

"There," she breathed. "Oh—there—that feels—"

"What does it feel like?"

"Tight. Hot. Like—like something's building. Like I need to—" Her circling grew faster. "Like I need to—"

"You need to come."

"Yes." The word was a sob. "Yes. I need to come. Please. I've never—not with anyone watching—not with anyone—"

"Come for me, Wonyoung. Let go. I've got you."

Her body seized. Her back arched off the mattress, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream. The hand between her legs moved frantically—rubbing, pressing, chasing the climax that was crashing over her. A keening sound escaped her throat, high and desperate.

Then she collapsed.

Her chest heaved. Her thighs quivered. The hand on her breast fell away, and the other remained pressed against her cunt—not moving now, just holding, as if she couldn't bear to let go of the sensation.

"That was your first orgasm with an audience," you said.

Wonyoung's laugh was breathless, almost giddy. "That was my first orgasm. Period. I don't think the other times—I don't think they were real. Not like that."

"Not like that."

"No." She opened her eyes and looked at you. The hollowness was gone—replaced by something brighter, something almost hungry. "I want more. I want—" She swallowed. "I want you inside me. But I want to be in control. Just this once. I want to decide."

You raised an eyebrow. "You want to ride me."

"Yes." The word came out stronger now. "I've spent my whole life being positioned. Being told where to stand and how to pose and what to wear. I want—just this once—I want to be the one who decides. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense."

You stood up from the bed and unbuckled your pants. Wonyoung watched with open curiosity—the way her eyes tracked the movement of your hands, the way her lips parted when you pushed your boxers down and your cock sprang free. She'd seen it earlier, of course, but now she looked at it differently. Like she was sizing it up. Like she was planning.

"It's thicker than I thought," she murmured.

"Is that a problem?"

"No." A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. "It's just… I've never seen one this close before. Not like this. Seok-joong and I—the few times we—it was always in the dark. Always over quickly. He never let me look."

"Look all you want."

She did. Her gaze traveled the length of your shaft—the vein that pulsed along the underside, the ridge of the head, the way the skin pulled tight when you were fully hard. Her tongue darted out and wet her lips.

"Lie down," she said. "On your back."

You obeyed. The sheets were cool against your shoulders. Wonyoung rose on her knees and swung one long leg over your hips, straddling you. The position put her cunt directly above your cock—you could see the pink of her inner lips, still slick from her orgasm, still parted and ready. A drop of her arousal fell onto your stomach.

"Like this?" she asked.

"Reverse."

"What?"

"Turn around. Face my feet. Reverse cowgirl."

Wonyoung blinked. Then understanding dawned, and with it came something you hadn't seen on her face before—a flicker of genuine excitement. "I've seen this position. In… things I've watched. When I was alone."

"Then you know how it works."

She turned around. The movement was awkward—she had to lift one leg, then the other, bracing herself with a hand on your thigh—but the awkwardness was part of the appeal. She wasn't performing. She wasn't posing. She was just a woman figuring out how to take what she wanted.

When she settled into position, facing away from you, the view was spectacular. The long sweep of her back. The curve of her ass, round and firm. The dark cleft between her cheeks, and below that, her cunt—still wet, still open, positioned directly above your cock.

"Reach back," you said. "Take hold of me."

Her hand fumbled behind her. Fingers brushed your shaft, then your balls, then closed around the base. Her grip was tentative—too light, too careful—but she guided the head to her entrance anyway. The contact made her gasp.

"Oh god. You're so—I can feel how big you are just from this—"

"Take your time. You're in control."

Wonyoung lowered herself an inch. The head of your cock pressed against her opening, parting the slick lips. The heat of her was incredible—wet and tight and pulsing with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She stopped there, breathing hard, her thighs trembling on either side of your hips.

"I don't know if I can—"

"You can. Slowly. Just a little at a time."

She sank down another inch. The head slipped inside her, and Wonyoung cried out—a sharp, startled sound that was half pain and half pleasure. Her inner walls clenched around you, a rippling squeeze that traveled from tip to base.

"Fuck—fuck, you're stretching me—"

"You're doing so well. Take what you need."

Another inch. Then another. Her cunt was impossibly tight—tighter than Karina's, tighter than anyone you'd been with in recent memory. The walls gripped you like a fist, hot and slick and pulsing. Wonyoung's breathing had gone ragged. Her head dropped forward. Her hands braced on your thighs, nails digging in.

"I'm only halfway—oh god—I'm only halfway and I already feel so full—"

"Keep going. You wanted control. Take it."

She took it. Her hips dropped the rest of the way, and your cock buried itself to the hilt inside her. Wonyoung screamed. The sound was raw and uncontrolled—nothing like the polished idol voice, nothing like the careful, measured tones she'd used earlier. This was pure animal. Pure sensation.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—you're in my stomach—I can feel you in my stomach—"

"Good. Now move."

She lifted her hips. The drag of her walls against your shaft made your vision swim. When she dropped back down, the impact sent a visible ripple through her ass. The cheeks jiggled with the force of it.

"Yes—" She did it again. Faster. "Yes—this is—this is what I wanted—this is what I needed—"

"Tell me what it feels like."

"Full. So full. Like—like I'm being split open. Like I'm being—ah—like I'm being claimed." She was moving faster now, finding a rhythm, her hips rolling in a way that spoke to years of dance training. The muscles in her back flexed and released with each stroke. "But I'm the one claiming you. I'm the one—I'm the one in control—"

"That's right. You're in control. Take your pleasure, Wonyoung. Take all of it."

Her pace quickened. The wet sounds of her cunt filled the bedroom—a slick, rhythmic slap every time she bottomed out. Your cock was coated in her arousal, glistening in the city light. She reached back with one hand and grabbed your chest—not for balance, but for leverage, pulling herself harder onto you with each stroke.

"Touch my—touch my breasts—please—I need—"

You reached up and cupped her breasts from behind. The position was awkward but the effect was immediate—Wonyoung's rhythm faltered, then resumed faster than before. You pinched her nipples and she sobbed.

"Yes—yes—harder—"

You twisted. She keened. Her hips became a blur—up and down, up and down, fucking herself on your cock with a desperation that bordered on violence. Her head was thrown back now, her dark hair cascading down her spine, her whole body sheened with sweat.

"I'm close—I'm getting close again—I can feel it building—"

"Look at you. Jang Wonyoung. The nation's sweetheart. Riding a stranger's cock in her marital bed. Moaning like an animal. Dripping down my thighs."

"Yes—yes—I'm dripping—I'm making a mess—Seok-joong would hate this—he'd hate how wet I am—he'd hate how—how much I love it—"

"How much do you love it?"

"So much—so fucking much—I love being full—I love being stretched—I love being in control—I love that you're letting me—" Her voice cracked. "I love that you're letting me take what I need—"

The tears started then.

They came without warning—a sudden spill from her eyes, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto your thighs. Her rhythm faltered. Her breathing hitched and broke into sobs.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I don't know why I'm—"

"Don't stop." You squeezed her breasts gently. "Don't apologize. Keep moving. Let it out."

"I can't—I can't stop crying—" But her hips kept moving. Slower now, but still moving. "It's just—it's been so long—I've been so alone—"

"I know."

"No one touches me. No one looks at me. No one wants me. I'm just—I'm just a thing he bought and forgot about—"

"You're not a thing. You're a woman. A beautiful, passionate woman who deserves to be touched and wanted and pleasured. Keep moving. Let yourself feel it."

The sobs grew louder. Her hips moved faster, chasing the release that was building despite—or maybe because of—the tears. Her hand tightened on your chest, nails digging crescents into your skin.

"I want to come—please—please let me come—"

"It's yours. Take it. Come on my cock, Wonyoung. Come while you're crying. Come while you're in control. Show me what you look like when you let go."

She shattered.

The orgasm hit her like a wave—a convulsive, full-body spasm that made her back arch and her thighs clamp around your hips. Her cunt seized around your shaft, a rhythmic pulsing that milked you from base to tip. The scream that tore from her throat was wordless and raw, echoing off the penthouse windows.

And then she squirted.

The fluid gushed around your cock—a hot, copious flood that soaked your thighs and the sheets beneath you. Wonyoung's hips kept moving through it, grinding down onto you, drawing out every pulse of her climax. The squelching sounds were obscene. Her sobs mingled with moans.

"Oh god—oh god, I'm still—it's still going—I can't stop—"

"Don't stop. Take everything."

She rode the orgasm until her thighs gave out. Then she collapsed backward, her spine landing against your chest, her head falling back onto your shoulder. Her cunt was still spasming weakly around your cock. Her chest heaved. Her face was a wreck—tears and sweat and smeared mascara that she hadn't been wearing.

You wrapped your arms around her waist and held her.

The silence stretched. Outside, the Han River glittered in the darkness, indifferent to everything happening in this penthouse. Wonyoung's breathing gradually slowed. The tremors in her thighs subsided.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I know. I want to." She turned her head, her cheek pressed against your chest. "No one's ever… I've never cried during sex before. I've never cried at all. Not since the wedding. I thought I'd forgotten how."

"Tears are just your body's way of releasing what you've been holding too long."

She laughed—a small, wet sound. "You sound like a therapist."

"I've had practice."

Silence again. Then, quieter: "Will you stay? Not—not for more sex. Just… stay. Until I fall asleep. I don't want to be alone tonight."

You pressed a kiss to her damp temple. "I'll stay."

Wonyoung sighed. The sound was different from before—not resignation, but relief. The relief of a woman who'd finally let go of something she'd been carrying for years.

"Good," she murmured. "That's good."

She closed her eyes. In the penthouse bedroom, with the city lights glittering below and your cock still half-hard inside her, Jang Wonyoung finally stopped trembling.

You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her body went slack against yours. Until the tears on her cheeks dried to salt and the wetness between her thighs cooled on your skin.

Tomorrow, you'd leave. Tomorrow, she'd go back to being Jang Wonyoung, idol-turned-trophy-wife, and you'd go back to whatever Senior Park had lined up next.

But tonight, she wasn't a photograph. Tonight, she was just a woman who'd remembered how to feel.

And that, you'd learned, was worth more than any paycheck the agency could offer.

Waking came in stages.

First, the soft gray light of early morning pressing against your eyelids. The penthouse windows had no curtains—Wonyoung liked to wake with the sun, you'd learn later—and the Han River was a sheet of hammered silver outside the glass.

Second, the weight. Or rather, the absence of it. Sometime in the night she'd shifted off your chest, and now the mattress beside you was warm but empty.

Third, the sensation.

Wet. Hot. A rhythmic pressure that started at the base of your cock and traveled upward in slow, deliberate pulls. Your hips stirred before your mind caught up—an instinctive response, the body recognizing pleasure before the brain had finished booting up.

You opened your eyes.

Wonyoung was between your legs.

Her dark hair spilled across your thighs in a tangled mess, still sleep-mussed from the night before. The sheet had slipped off her shoulders, leaving her bare—the long sweep of her spine, the curve of her ass, the soles of her feet crossed at the ankle behind her. She'd positioned herself on her stomach, propped on her elbows, and her mouth was wrapped around your cock.

She was still learning. The technique was messier than Karina's had been—more enthusiasm than skill, more eagerness than precision. Her tongue moved in uncertain patterns, tracing the ridge of the head, then the vein underneath, then back again as if she couldn't decide which part she wanted to taste most. Saliva pooled at the corners of her lips and dripped down your shaft, slicking her fingers where they curled around the base.

But what she lacked in experience, she made up for in something else. Something rarer.

She was happy.

You could see it in the way her cheeks bunched—the muscles straining to smile even with her lips stretched wide. In the little hums that vibrated through your shaft every time she took you deeper. In the way her hips wiggled slightly, a tiny dance of satisfaction, like a cat kneading a favorite blanket.

You chuckled. The sound was rough with sleep.

Wonyoung's eyes flicked up to meet yours. They were clearer than they'd been last night—the hollowness replaced by something bright and mischievous. She didn't stop sucking. If anything, she redoubled her efforts, her head bobbing faster, her tongue working the underside of your shaft with renewed determination.

"What a cheeky girl," you murmured.

Your hand found her head. Your fingers threaded through the dark tangles of her hair, not pulling, not directing—just holding. Just letting her feel the weight of your palm against her scalp. Wonyoung's eyes fluttered closed. The hum she made this time was different—softer, more satisfied. A sound of pure contentment.

She pulled back until just the tip remained in her mouth. Her tongue circled the head—once, twice, a slow figure-eight that made your breath catch. Then she pushed forward again, taking you deeper than before, and you felt the head of your cock bump the back of her throat.

She gagged. Coughed. Pulled back with a wet, gasping laugh.

"Too much?" you asked.

"Not enough." Her voice was hoarse—fucked raw from the night before, from the screaming and the crying and now this. "I wanted to… I woke up and you were still here and I just wanted to…"

"To what?"

"To taste you. Before you left." She rested her cheek against your thigh, her breath warm on your damp skin. "Is that weird?"

"No." You stroked her hair. "It's not weird."

"I've never done that before. The morning thing. I've never woken up next to someone and thought… I want to make them feel good. Just because." Her fingers traced idle patterns on your hip. "I've never woken up next to anyone, actually. Seok-joong never stayed the night. Even when we were engaged. He said he couldn't sleep in unfamiliar beds."

"His own bed was unfamiliar?"

Wonyoung's laugh was bitter. "I was the unfamiliar part."

You sat up. The movement dislodged her from your thigh, and she rose with you—sitting back on her heels, her hair a wild curtain around her shoulders, her lips swollen and slick. The morning light caught the angles of her face, the sharp cheekbones and the full mouth, and for a moment she looked exactly like the magazine covers. The nation's sweetheart. The girl who'd debuted at fourteen and never stopped smiling for cameras.

But the smile she gave you now was different. Smaller. Realer. A smile that belonged to her and no one else.

"Come here," you said.

She came. You gathered her in your arms and lifted her—bridal style, her long legs draped over one arm, her head cradled against your shoulder. She was lighter than you'd expected. All those years of dieting for comebacks, probably. All those years of being told she needed to be smaller, thinner, more perfect.

"The shower," you said. "We're both a mess."

"Your fault." But she was grinning as she said it.

"Entirely."

The bathroom was all white marble and chrome fixtures, with a rainfall showerhead even larger than Karina's. You set Wonyoung down on the heated tile floor—her bare feet made a soft sound against the stone—and reached into the glass enclosure to turn on the water. Steam began to fill the room almost immediately.

She stepped into the shower first. You followed.

The water was hot but not scalding, beating down on your shoulders and back in a steady rhythm. Wonyoung tilted her face up into the spray, letting it run over her closed eyelids and down her throat. The mascara she hadn't been wearing was still absent, and without it she looked younger. Not twenty-nine. Not the weary trophy wife from last night. Just a woman in the morning, clean and bare and unguarded.

You reached for the body wash—something floral, jasmine maybe—and worked it into a lather between your palms.

"Turn around," you said.

She did. You started with her shoulders, the same way you had with Karina. The same ritual. The same aftercare. The same reminder that what happened in the bedroom wasn't just about sex—it was about being seen. Being handled. Being treated like a body that mattered.

Wonyoung sighed as your hands moved down her back. "You do this for all your clients?"

"The shower?"

"The… gentleness. The talking. The staying until morning."

"Most of them." You worked the soap into the dip of her spine, the curve of her hips. "The ones who need it."

"And how do you know which ones need it?"

You turned her around to face you. Water sluiced down between you, washing away the suds. Her eyes were level with your collarbone; she had to tilt her head back to meet your gaze.

"Because they're the ones who cry," you said. "And you cried."

Wonyoung's expression flickered—something passing through it too fast to name. Then she reached up and took the body wash from the shelf behind you. Poured some into her own palm. Worked it into a lather.

"Your turn," she said.

Her hands on your chest were tentative at first—the same hesitance from last night, the same uncertainty about what she was allowed to do. But as she grew bolder, her touch firmed. Her palms traced the lines of your pectorals, the ridges of your abdomen, the V of your hips. She was washing you, but she was also learning you. Mapping the geography of a body that wasn't hers.

"You're different from what I expected," she said.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Less… transactional." She rinsed her hands under the spray. "When I called the agency, I thought it would be like ordering room service. Something mechanical. Something I could pretend didn't happen afterward. But this is…"

"This is?"

She looked up at you. The water had plastered her hair to her skull, darkened it to near-black. Droplets clung to her lashes.

"Real," she said. "This feels real."

You cupped her face in your hands. Your thumbs traced the sharp line of her cheekbones, the soft skin beneath her eyes. She leaned into the touch—pressed her cheek against your palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"It is real," you said. "Whatever happens in this room, whatever you feel—it's real. The pleasure is real. The tears are real. You're not pretending anymore. You're not performing. You're just… here."

"Just here." She tested the words. "I like that. I've never been 'just here' anywhere. There's always been a camera. Or a manager. Or a husband who wanted me to be somewhere else."

"Not here."

"Not here." She rose on her toes. Her lips brushed yours—soft, tentative, a question more than a statement. "Thank you."

"You already thanked me."

"I know. I want to do it again. Properly." She kissed you again, deeper this time. Her lips parted, and her tongue traced the seam of your mouth—asking permission, not demanding it. You opened for her, and she made a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, as her tongue met yours.

The kiss was different from the ones last night. Last night had been hungry. Desperate. A woman starving for contact and finally given permission to eat. This kiss was slower. Sweeter. A kiss of gratitude rather than need.

Her arms wrapped around your neck. Your hands found her waist. The water beat down on both of you, and the steam rose around you like a curtain, and for a long moment there was nothing in the world but this—the heat and the wet and the soft pressure of her mouth on yours.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were pinker than before. Kiss-swollen. The color had risen in her cheeks.

"I put my number in your phone," she said.

"You what?"

"While you were sleeping. Earlier. Before I…" She gestured vaguely downward, toward the general vicinity of your crotch. "I wanted to make sure you had it. In case you wanted to call. In case you wanted to…"

"To what?"

"To see me again. Not as a client. Not through the agency. Just… me." Her voice had gone smaller. The confidence from moments ago was fading, replaced by the same vulnerability you'd seen last night. "Is that allowed? Is that something you do?"

You considered the question. The agency had rules about this—Senior Park was very clear about keeping things professional, about not blurring the lines between service and relationship. But Senior Park wasn't here. And Wonyoung was looking at you with those too-big eyes, the ones that had been empty last night and were now full of something fragile and hopeful.

"It's allowed," you said. "But I should warn you—I'm not a boyfriend. I'm not going to be. Whatever this is, it's not going to become something else."

"I know." She didn't look disappointed. If anything, she looked relieved. "I don't want a boyfriend. I don't want another man who owns me. I just want… someone who sees me. Someone who touches me like I'm real. Someone who'll answer when I call." A pause. "Will you answer?"

"Every time."

She kissed you again—quick and fierce, a press of lips that was more gratitude than passion. Then she stepped back, out of the spray, and reached for a towel.

"You should go," she said. "Before I ask you to stay again."

The elevator ride down was quiet. No muzak. No mirrored walls. Just brushed steel and the soft hum of hydraulics and the memory of Wonyoung's voice: Please… call me again.

You checked your phone in the lobby. There it was, in your contacts, added sometime in the early morning hours while you were still asleep: Wonyoung ♡. The heart was a nice touch. A little cheeky. A little hopeful.

You smiled despite yourself.

Three days passed.

Senior Park called on a Friday.

"New client," he said, the same way he always did—that particular lilt in his voice that meant he was enjoying himself. "Actress. Very famous. Very married. Although her marriage is…" A pause. "Complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"You'll see. She's been asking for you specifically. Apparently your reputation is spreading."

"Who is it?"

"Moon Ga Young."

The name made you stop walking. You were on the street in Gangnam, the afternoon sun beating down on your neck, and for a moment you just stood there with the phone pressed to your ear.

"Moon Ga Young? The actress?"

"The one and only. Star of True Beauty. The Interest of Love. Half a dozen other dramas I've never watched but my wife loves." The rustle of papers on his end. "She's staying at the Signiel. Suite 2704. Tonight, eight o'clock."

"Wait." You stepped into the shade of a building, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. "Moon Ga Young is married? I didn't know that."

"Neither did anyone else. She kept it quiet. Very quiet. No press, no announcement, no wedding photos in the tabloids." Park's voice had gone sly. "The husband is some finance executive. American. Works in New York. They've been married for two years, and in those two years, he's been in Seoul for a total of six weeks. You do the math."

Six weeks out of a hundred and four. You did the math.

"Same story," you said.

"Same story, different window. The view from the Signiel is nicer, though. She's booked the suite for the whole weekend. Says she wants to take her time." Another pause. "She also said—and I quote—'Tell him I'm not fragile. Tell him I don't need the gentle version.' End quote."

You raised an eyebrow. "She said that?"

"Word for word. I think you're in for an interesting night."

The line went dead.

The Signiel Seoul occupied the 76th through 101st floors of the Lotte World Tower. It was the kind of hotel where the lobby was on the 79th floor and the elevator ride up made your ears pop. The kind of hotel where the staff wore suits that cost more than your monthly rent and the vases in the hallways were probably worth more than your car.

Suite 2704 was at the end of a quiet corridor. The door was a slab of dark wood with a brass number, and when you knocked, the sound was swallowed by the thick carpet.

"Come in. It's open."

The voice was lower than you'd expected. Smokier. The kind of voice that belonged in a noir film, all shadows and secrets.

You pushed the door open.

The suite was magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Seoul skyline, the city lights glittering below like a spill of diamonds. The furniture was modern and understated—a low gray sofa, a glass coffee table, an abstract painting that was probably worth more than everything you owned. The bedroom was visible through an open doorway, the bed enormous and white and untouched.

And there, on the balcony, stood Moon Ga Young.

She was smaller in person than she appeared on screen. The camera had a way of adding presence, of making actors seem larger than life. In reality, she was petite—barely over five feet, with delicate wrists and a narrow frame that made her look almost breakable. Her hair was long and dark, falling past her shoulders in loose waves. Her face was the same one you'd seen in a dozen dramas—the wide eyes, the full lips, the delicate bone structure that made her look younger than her thirty-something years.

But the robe she was wearing was anything but delicate.

It was silk, pale champagne in color, and almost entirely transparent. The fabric clung to her body like a whisper, revealing the outline of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the dark triangle between her thighs. She wore nothing beneath it. The robe was held closed by a single sash, loosely tied, and as she turned to face you, the front gaped open slightly—just enough to confirm that yes, she was completely naked under there.

In one hand, she held a flute of champagne. The liquid was pale gold, the bubbles rising in lazy spirals.

"You're punctual," she said. "I like that."

"Senior Park said you didn't want the gentle version."

"Did he?" A smile played at the corner of her mouth. "I said I didn't need it. There's a difference." She raised the champagne flute to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes never left yours. "Would you like a drink? There's a bottle on the minibar. It's not cheap—I made sure of that."

"I'm working."

"So am I. Or at least, I'm about to be." The smile widened. "One drink won't hurt. Consider it part of the negotiation."

You crossed to the minibar. The champagne was vintage, the label one you recognized from a previous client's penthouse. You poured yourself a glass—not because you wanted it, but because refusing would mean ceding the rhythm of the encounter to her. And Ga Young, you were already beginning to understand, was someone who was used to setting the rhythm.

She joined you at the sofa. The robe gaped further as she sat, revealing the pale curve of one breast. She didn't bother to adjust it.

"So," she said, settling back against the cushions. "You're the man who made Karina cry."

You paused with the glass halfway to your lips. "She told you?"

"She told someone, who told someone, who told me. The idol world is small. Smaller than you'd think." Ga Young swirled her champagne. "The rumor is that you were… thorough. That you gave her exactly what she needed. That you didn't treat her like glass."

"I don't treat anyone like glass."

"No. I don't imagine you do." She leaned forward, setting her glass on the coffee table. The movement made the robe fall open completely, exposing the full length of her body. She didn't seem to notice. Or if she noticed, she didn't care. "Here's the thing. I've been married for two years. In those two years, I've had sex exactly four times. All of them on our wedding night. After that, my husband decided he preferred New York to Seoul. He calls me once a week, usually from his office, usually while he's doing something else. Reading emails. Checking stocks. He's never once asked me how I'm feeling."

"Does he know you're here?"

"He knows I'm at a hotel. He doesn't know why." Ga Young's smile was sharp. "He probably thinks I'm having a spa weekend. That's what he'd do, if he thought about it at all. 'Ga Young's having a spa weekend. How nice for her.'" The mimicry was cruel and precise. "He doesn't know me well enough to suspect anything else."

"And what are you looking for tonight?"

She leaned back. The robe fell open completely now, pooling on the cushions around her. She was leaner than Karina, leaner than Wonyoung—the body of a woman who'd spent years in front of cameras, who'd been told she needed to be thinner, always thinner. Her breasts were small, the nipples a pale pink. Her stomach was flat. The hair between her thighs was dark and neatly trimmed.

"I'm not looking for therapy," she said. "I'm not looking for someone to hold me while I cry. I'm not looking for validation or reassurance or any of the things your other clients probably need." She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. The movement was deliberate. Performative. "I'm looking for a good fuck. That's it. That's all. I want to be fucked so hard I forget my own name. I want to walk bowlegged tomorrow. I want to feel like a woman instead of a mannequin. Can you do that?"

You set your champagne glass down next to hers. "Safeword?"

"Red."

"Tap-out?"

"Three taps. Anywhere." She cocked her head. "You're very professional. I like that too."

"Part of the service."

"Then let's get started." She stood up. The robe stayed on the sofa, a champagne-colored puddle of silk. "The bedroom's through there. I want you to use every inch of that bed. I want you to use every inch of me. And I want you to stop treating me like I'm going to break." She walked toward the bedroom, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. At the doorway, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. "I'm not going to break. I promise."

The bedroom was all windows on one side, the city lights spread out below like a circuit board. The bed was king-sized, the sheets white, the pillows arranged in a perfect geometric pattern. Ga Young climbed onto the mattress and positioned herself in the center—on her back, her arms above her head, her legs slightly apart. The pose was deliberate. A parody of submission. The same way she'd done everything so far—with a wink, with a smirk, with the implicit understanding that she was playing a role.

"The last time I had sex," she said, "was my wedding night. He was drunk. I was nervous. It lasted maybe six minutes. He fell asleep immediately afterward, and when I woke up the next morning, he was already on a plane to New York." She looked at the ceiling. "I didn't have an orgasm. I've never had an orgasm with another person. Not once. I'm thirty-four years old, and I've been faking it since I was twenty."

You unbuttoned your shirt. "You don't have to fake anything tonight."

"I know. That's why you're here." She watched you undress with open appraisal, her eyes tracking the movement of your hands. "I've done my research. I know about the agency. I know about Senior Park. I know about the other women you've been with. The idols. The heiresses. The wives. I know you're discreet. I know you're skilled. I know you're exactly what I need."

"Which is?"

She met your eyes. The smirk was gone. For the first time since you'd walked through the door, her expression was completely serious.

"Someone who isn't afraid of me," she said. "Everyone's afraid of me. My husband's afraid of me. My managers are afraid of me. The directors I work with are afraid of me. I'm Moon Ga Young. I'm the nation's sweetheart. I'm the girl next door who's been in a dozen dramas and never had a scandal." Her voice was flat. "People think I'm delicate. They think I'm fragile. They think I need to be protected. No one's ever looked at me and thought—she wants to be destroyed."

"Do you?"

"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. "God, yes. I want to be destroyed. I want to be ruined. I want someone to look at me and see what I really am, not what the cameras see. Not what my husband sees. Not what the public sees." She swallowed. "I want to feel something real. Even if it's pain. Even if it's rough. Especially if it's rough."

You finished undressing. Your clothes made a pile on the floor—shirt, pants, boxers. Your cock was already half-hard, responding to the challenge in her voice, the directness of her gaze. Ga Young looked at you and didn't flinch.

"Good," she said. "Now come here. I've been waiting two years for this. I'm not waiting any longer."

Moon Ga Young watched you undress with the eyes of a woman who'd spent two decades being looked at and had finally decided to do some looking of her own.

"On your knees."

The command landed in the space between you. Her lips curved—not quite a smile, more a recognition. This was what she'd asked for. This was what she'd been waiting two years to receive.

She slid off the bed. The movement was liquid, all those years of dance training and red carpet practice translating into something that looked effortless. Her knees met the carpet with a soft thud. The city lights through the window painted her bare skin in shades of amber and gold.

"Hands behind your back."

She complied. The position made her small breasts lift, the nipples still pale pink and tight. Her eyes stayed on yours. Defiant. Hungry. The smirk was still there, but it had thinned—become something sharper, more expectant.

You picked up the champagne-colored robe from where it had fallen on the sofa. The silk was cool and slippery in your hands. You pulled the sash free with one sharp tug, and the fabric whispered against itself as it came loose.

"Wrists."

Ga Young's smirk flickered. "You're going to tie me up?"

"I'm going to do a lot of things." You crouched behind her, looping the silk around her wrists. Not too tight—you knew the difference between restraint and injury—but snug enough that she'd feel the pull every time she moved. "You said you wanted to be destroyed. Destruction requires surrender. You can't be in control and be ruined at the same time."

"I know." Her voice was quieter now. The bravado was still there, but something else was bleeding through. Something that sounded almost like relief. "I know. That's the point."

You tied the knot. Tested it with two fingers. "Too tight?"

"No."

"Good."

You stood and walked around to face her. From this angle, with her wrists bound behind her back and her knees pressed into the carpet, she looked smaller than before. More vulnerable. The nation's sweetheart, stripped of her armor, kneeling naked in a hotel suite with her pulse visible in her throat.

"Open your mouth."

Ga Young's lips parted. Her tongue was pink, wet, waiting. You took hold of your cock—fully hard now, thick and veined, the head already slick with the first bead of precum—and guided it toward her waiting mouth.

"Wider."

She stretched her jaw. The corners of her lips went taut. You pressed the head against her tongue, and she made a sound—something between a hum and a whimper—as the taste of you filled her mouth.

"Good girl. Now take it. All of it."

You pushed forward.

The first few inches slid in easily. Her tongue moved beneath your shaft—uncertain at first, then finding its rhythm, tracing the ridge of the head, the sensitive spot just beneath. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked. The suction was strong, practiced, the muscle memory of a woman who'd done this before even if it had been years.

Then you pushed deeper.

The head of your cock hit the back of her throat, and Ga Young gagged. The sound was wet and sudden—a choked, spluttering cough that made her whole body convulse. Her bound wrists strained against the silk. Her eyes watered. A thick string of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth and landed on her chest.

"Don't fight it. Relax your throat."

She tried. You could feel her trying—the way her muscles fluttered around your shaft, the way she forced herself to breathe through her nose. But the gag reflex was strong, and when you pushed another inch deeper, she convulsed again.

"Fuck—" The word came out muffled, garbled around your cock.

You pulled back. Let her gasp. A bridge of saliva connected your shaft to her bottom lip, stretching, then breaking.

"I can't—" She coughed again. "I can't take it all. It's too thick—"

"You can." You grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back. Her throat was exposed now—a long, pale column, the skin delicate and unmarked. "You said you wanted to be ruined. Ruined means taking cock down your throat until you can't breathe. Ruined means gagging and choking and still pushing deeper. Do you understand?"

Ga Young's eyes met yours. They were wet now, the first tears clinging to her lashes. But behind them, something was blazing. Something that looked almost like joy.

"Yes."

"Then open your mouth."

She did. You pushed inside again, and this time you didn't stop. Your cock slid past her tongue, past the soft palate, into the tight grip of her throat. Ga Young's whole body seized. A guttural, choking sound vibrated through your shaft. Her bound hands clawed at the air behind her back. Her throat muscles clamped down around you—spasming, fighting, then slowly, gradually, yielding.

"There you go. Take it. Take all of it."

Your hips met her face. Your cock was buried to the hilt in her throat, and Ga Young's nose was pressed against your pubic bone. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Could only gag and choke and let the tears stream down her cheeks while you held her there, impaled on your length.

You held the position for a count of five. Then ten. Her face was turning red. Her body was writhing—not fighting, not trying to escape, but writhing with the sheer overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled.

You pulled back.

Ga Young gasped. The inhale was ragged and desperate, followed by a coughing fit that made her whole body shake. Saliva dripped from her chin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy, her carefully arranged hair a tangled mess.

"More," she rasped. "Give me more."

You slapped her.

The crack of your palm against her cheek echoed through the suite. Ga Young's head snapped to the side. A red mark bloomed on her pale skin—the shape of your hand, stark and undeniable.

"Did I tell you to speak?"

She shook her head. The defiance was still there, but it was muted now—submerged beneath something deeper. Something that looked almost like peace.

"Then don't speak. Your mouth has one purpose right now. Do you understand?"

She nodded. Her cheek was still red. The tears had multiplied, tracking mascara-less lines down her face.

"Good. Now show me you understand."

She opened her mouth. Leaned forward. Took your cock between her lips with a hunger that bordered on worship. This time, when you pushed into her throat, she didn't gag. She swallowed around you—a deliberate, rhythmic clenching that traveled from her throat to the base of your shaft. The sensation was electric. Your vision swam.

"That's it. That's my good little throat-whore."

She moaned. The vibration traveled through her throat and into your cock, and the pleasure was so intense that your hips bucked involuntarily. You grabbed her head with both hands—fingers tangled in her hair, thumbs pressed against her temples—and began to fuck her face in earnest.

The rhythm was brutal. Deep, driving strokes that bottomed out against the back of her throat with every thrust. The wet sounds were obscene—squelching, choking, gagging, the slap of your balls against her chin. Ga Young's bound hands clenched and unclenched behind her back. Her body swayed with the force of your thrusts. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming freely, but she never pulled away. Never tapped out. Never gave any signal that she wanted this to stop.

"You love this. You love being used like a toy. Tell me you love it."

She couldn't speak—not with your cock buried in her throat—but she moaned again. The sound was desperate. Affirmative. Broken.

"Then take it. Take every inch. I'm going to come down your throat, and you're going to swallow every drop. Do you understand?"

Another moan. Higher-pitched. Almost frantic.

You fucked her throat faster. The tension was building—a coiling pressure at the base of your spine that spread outward, downward, gathering force with every stroke. Ga Young's throat muscles were fluttering around you now, spasming in rhythm with her muffled moans. Her body was trembling. Her bound hands had gone limp behind her back, all the fight drained out of her.

"I'm close—fuck, I'm close—"

You slammed into her throat one last time and held there. Buried to the hilt. Her nose crushed against your pelvis. Her throat working desperately around your shaft, trying to swallow, trying to breathe, trying to do everything at once.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train.

The first pulse of cum shot directly down her throat—thick, hot, copious. You felt her swallow reflexively, the muscles of her esophagus contracting around your shaft. The second pulse followed immediately, and the third, and the fourth, each one painting her throat white with your seed. You kept your grip on her head, holding her in place, making sure she couldn't pull away until every last drop was drained.

"Swallow. All of it."

She did. You felt her throat constrict again and again, gulping down your cum with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. When you finally pulled back, a thick string of saliva and semen connected your cock to her bottom lip. Ga Young's mouth hung open. Her tongue was coated white. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring at something only she could see.

She swallowed once more. Licked her lips. The taste of you was still on her tongue, and she savored it—closing her eyes, letting out a small, satisfied hum.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The words were hoarse. Fucked-raw. Barely audible. But the gratitude in them was real.

"We're not done."

Ga Young's eyes opened. The smirk was back—smaller now, more fragile, but still there. "I know."

You untied her wrists. The silk sash left faint red marks on her skin—nothing that would bruise, nothing that would last, but enough to remind her tomorrow of what had happened tonight. She rubbed her wrists absently. Then she looked up at you, and the question in her eyes was clear: What now?

"Against the wall."

She rose. Her legs were unsteady—the long minutes of kneeling had left her knees red, her thighs trembling. She crossed to the floor-to-ceiling window and pressed her palms against the glass. The city lights glittered below, indifferent to the scene unfolding above them. Her reflection stared back at her—naked, disheveled, marked.

"Spread your legs."

She did. The position opened her completely—the long line of her spine, the curve of her ass, the dark cleft between her cheeks. Her cunt was visible from this angle, the lips swollen and glistening. She was wet. Had been wet since the moment you'd pushed into her throat, probably. Maybe since the moment you'd walked through the door.

You stepped behind her. Your left hand found her throat—not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, a reminder of who was in control. Your right hand slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, between her cheeks. You spread her open, exposing the tight pink knot of her asshole, the darker, wetter flesh of her cunt below.

"Look at you. Moon Ga Young. The nation's sweetheart. Bent over against a hotel window with her cunt dripping and her throat full of cum. What would your fans think?"

"I don't care." Her voice was raw, almost defiant. "I don't care what they think. I don't care what anyone thinks. Just fuck me. Please. Fuck me like you mean it."

You tightened your grip on her throat. Not enough to cut off air—just enough to make her feel the pressure. Just enough to remind her that you could.

"Beg."

"Please." The word came out strangled. "Please fuck me. I've been waiting two years. Two years of empty beds and empty phone calls and pretending I'm fine when I'm dying inside. Please. I need this. I need you. I need your cock inside me. I need to feel something real. Please—"

You thrust into her cunt in one brutal motion.

Ga Young screamed.

The sound was raw and animal—nothing like the polished, controlled voice she used in interviews. This was a scream torn from somewhere deep inside her, a scream that had been building for two years and finally found its release. Her cunt was tight—tighter than you'd expected, the walls clenching around your shaft with a force that made your breath catch. She was soaked, though, and the slick heat of her made the brutal entry possible.

"Oh fuck—oh fuck—you're so deep—"

You didn't give her time to adjust. You pulled back and slammed forward again, harder than before. The impact made her palms squeak against the glass. Her breasts pressed against the window, leaving smears of sweat on the pristine surface. Your left hand stayed on her throat, your right hand gripping her hip, and you fucked her with a rhythm that was punishing.

"This is what you wanted. This is what you begged for. To be fucked like an animal. To be used like a toy. To be ruined."

"Yes—yes—harder—"

You gave her harder. The wet sounds of her cunt filled the suite—squelching, slapping, the rhythmic thud of your hips meeting her ass. You could see her reflection in the window—her mouth open, her eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed and tear-streaked. The idol image was gone. Completely obliterated. What was left was just a woman, raw and desperate, taking cock like she'd been starving for it.

You tightened your grip on her throat. Squeezed. Not enough to cut off her air entirely, but enough to make her lightheaded. Enough to make the edges of her vision go dark. Ga Young's eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened wider. A strangled sound escaped her—half moan, half gasp.

"That's it. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how full you are? This is what you needed. Not the fame. Not the money. Not the perfect husband who never touches you. This. Just this. Just a cock in your cunt and someone who knows how to use it."

"YES—YES—THIS IS—"

You released her throat. She gasped—a huge, ragged inhale that made her whole body shudder. Then you grabbed her hips with both hands and fucked her even harder. The pace was brutal now—piston-like, relentless, each thrust driving her against the window with a force that made the glass vibrate. Her ass rippled with every impact. Her breasts bounced. Her reflection stared back at her with wild eyes and a slack mouth, and she looked at herself like she didn't recognize what she was seeing.

"Look at yourself. Look at what you've become. You're not an actress right now. You're not a wife. You're just a wet hole. A set of holes. A body that exists to be fucked. Do you see her?"

"I see her—" Ga Young's voice was broken, sobbing. "I see her—I see myself—"

"And what do you see?"

"A whore." The word came out on a sob. "A desperate, dripping whore who's been neglected for two years and finally has a cock inside her. I see a whore. I see a whore. I see—"

You felt her cunt seize around you. The orgasm was sudden and violent—a convulsive, full-body spasm that made her back arch and her legs give out. You caught her before she collapsed, pinning her against the window with your body, and kept fucking her through it. The clenching of her walls was rhythmic, almost painful in its intensity, milking your shaft from base to tip.

"That's it—that's it—come on my cock—come while you're watching yourself—"

"I'm coming—I'm coming—oh god, I'm—"

She squirted. The fluid gushed around your cock, soaking your thighs, splashing against the window, dripping down the glass in long, obscene rivulets. Ga Young's scream was wordless, primal, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her throat. Her body convulsed in your arms. Her cunt pulsed and fluttered around your shaft, and the sensation was so intense that you felt your own orgasm building—a tightening pressure at the base of your spine.

But you weren't done.

You pulled out of her. Ga Young whimpered at the emptiness. Her cunt gaped for a moment, then clenched around nothing, gushing another pulse of fluid onto the carpet. You turned her around—roughly, hands on her shoulders, spinning her like a doll—and pushed her back against the window. Her shoulder blades hit the glass. Her eyes were wild, unfocused, still hazy from the orgasm.

"Hold onto me."

Her arms wrapped around your neck. Her legs wrapped around your waist. You gripped her thighs and lifted her, positioning her cunt above your cock, and thrust inside her in one smooth motion.

Ga Young's head fell back against the glass. "Oh ffffuuuuck—"

"You wanted to be ruined. I'm not finished ruining you."

You fucked her against the window. The position was different—deeper, somehow, the angle letting you hit spots inside her that you hadn't reached before. Ga Young's moans were continuous now, a stream of broken syllables and guttural sounds that didn't belong to any language. Her nails dug into your shoulders. Her heels pressed into the small of your back. Her cunt was a mess—slick and swollen and pulsing, still gushing intermittently with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

"Harder—please—harder—"

You slammed into her. The window rattled. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that there were probably people in the building across the street, people with binoculars, people who might be watching. Let them watch. Let them see what Moon Ga Young looked like when she was being fucked properly. Let them see the nation's sweetheart with her legs wrapped around a stranger, her cunt dripping down his thighs, her mouth open in a scream that had no end.

"Look at me."

She forced her eyes to focus. They were glassy, tear-filled, but they met yours.

"You're going to come again. You're going to come on this cock while I'm choking you. And you're going to watch yourself in the reflection while you do it. Do you understand?"

"Yes—yes—"

Your left hand found her throat again. Squeezed. Harder this time. Ga Young's face began to flush. Her lips parted. Her eyes rolled back. But she didn't tap out. Didn't signal. Didn't do anything except moan—a thin, wheezing sound that vibrated against your palm.

"That's it. Let go. Let yourself fall."

You fucked her harder. The rhythm was punishing—deep, driving strokes that bottomed out against her cervix with every thrust. Your right hand found her clit, the swollen bundle of nerves slick and hard under your fingertip. You pressed down. Circled. Ga Young's body convulsed.

Her orgasm hit like an explosion.

This one was different from the first—quieter, deeper, more devastating. Her cunt clamped down on your cock with a force that almost hurt. Her whole body went rigid, every muscle locked, every breath held. Then the release came, and it came with a flood. Her cunt gushed around your shaft—not just wetness this time, but a clear, copious fluid that sprayed against your thighs and soaked the carpet beneath you.

"Fuuuuuuuck—"

Her voice broke on the word. Her body went limp. Completely limp. She collapsed against you, her head falling onto your shoulder, her arms sliding from your neck. Her cunt was still pulsing weakly around your cock—little flutters of sensation that traveled up your shaft.

You released her throat. She gasped—a huge, ragged inhale—and then she started to laugh.

It wasn't a happy laugh. It wasn't bitter, either. It was the laugh of a woman who'd been holding something inside for years and had finally, finally let it out. The laugh turned into sobs, and the sobs turned into silence, and through all of it you held her against the window, your cock still buried inside her, your hands gentle on her back.

"Thank you," she whispered again. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

She kept saying it. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Like the only words she had left.

You carried her to the bed. Laid her down on the white sheets. Her body was marked—red impressions of your fingers on her throat, faint bruises already forming on her hips, her cunt swollen and gaping and still leaking onto the mattress. She looked up at you with eyes that were clearer than they'd been all night.

"Stay," she said. "Please. Just until I fall asleep."

You climbed into the bed beside her. Pulled the sheets over both of you. Ga Young curled against your chest, her face pressed into the hollow of your throat, her breath warm on your skin.

"I haven't felt this alive in years," she murmured. "I haven't felt anything in years."

"Feel it now."

She did. Her breathing slowed. Her body relaxed. The tension that had been coiled in her muscles since the moment you'd walked through the door finally, fully released.

Outside the window, the city glittered on, indifferent and eternal. Inside the suite, Moon Ga Young closed her eyes, and for the first time in two years, she slept without dreaming of being somewhere else.

The morning light through the Signiel's floor-to-ceiling windows was the color of honey. It pooled on the white sheets, caught the edge of the champagne flute still sitting on the coffee table, painted Ga Young's bare shoulder in shades of gold.

She was still asleep.

Her breathing was slow and even, her face half-buried in the pillow, her dark hair fanned across the cotton like spilled ink. The marks from last night were already fading—the faint impressions on her throat, the bruises on her hips. In sleep, she looked younger. Softer. The sharp, sardonic edge that had defined her when you'd walked through the door had melted away, replaced by something unguarded.

You slid out of bed carefully. The sheets whispered against your skin. Ga Young stirred but didn't wake—just shifted, her hand reaching out to the empty space where you'd been, her fingers curling around nothing.

You dressed in silence. Shirt. Pants. Belt. The routine was automatic, muscle memory from a dozen similar mornings. The suite was quiet except for the distant hum of the HVAC system and the soft shush of traffic eighty floors below. Your shoes were by the sofa where you'd kicked them off. You bent to pick them up.

"Where are you going?"

The voice was sleep-roughened but still unmistakably hers—that smoky, noir-film cadence that made everything sound like a secret. You turned.

Ga Young was sitting up in bed. The sheet had fallen to her waist. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes still puffy from sleep and last night's tears. She looked nothing like the polished actress from the dramas. She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly fucked and had slept better than she had in years.

"Home," you said. "You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

She laughed. The sound was low and warm and entirely unselfconscious. "Nuh uh." She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, crossing the room toward you with the sheet still trailing behind her like a train. "I'm still your client. The weekend, remember? You're not going anywhere."

She reached you and wrapped her arms around your waist from behind. Her cheek pressed against your spine. Her bare breasts flattened against your back, and the warmth of her body seeped through your shirt. She smelled like sex and sleep and the faint floral remnants of whatever expensive soap the Signiel stocked in its bathrooms.

"Ga Young—"

"Shh." Her arms tightened. "You're not leaving. Not yet. Not until I say so."

The suite door clicked open.

You heard it before you saw it—the soft sound of the electronic lock disengaging, followed by the whoosh of the door swinging on its hinges. Two voices drifted in from the hallway, mid-laugh, the kind of easy, familiar laughter that came from years of friendship.

"—and then he said, 'That's not a prop, that's my actual—'" The voice cut off.

Karina stood in the doorway.

Wonyoung was right behind her.

They were both carrying shopping bags—the discreet, expensive kind that came from boutiques in Cheongdam-dong, the logos embossed in subtle gold foil. They were both wearing black outerwear—Karina in a long trench coat, Wonyoung in a cropped leather jacket—and they were both staring at you with expressions that shifted from surprise to recognition to something else entirely.

Something hungrier.

"Unnie!" Ga Young's voice was delighted. She released you and stepped around, completely unbothered by her nudity, the sheet slipping from her shoulders and pooling on the floor. "You're early. I thought you weren't coming until noon."

Karina's eyes flicked from you to Ga Young and back again. A slow smile spread across her face. "We wanted to surprise you." She stepped into the suite, and Wonyoung followed, closing the door behind her. "But it looks like you're the one with the surprise."

"Wait." You looked at Ga Young. Then at Karina. Then at Wonyoung. "You three know each other?"

"We're best friends." Wonyoung's voice was light, almost teasing. She set her shopping bag down on the console table by the door. "We've been best friends for years. Since trainee days. Did you really think it was a coincidence that we all ended up calling the same agency?"

"We talk," Karina said. She was still smiling, but there was something sharper beneath it—a blade hidden in silk. "We talk about everything. The husbands. The loneliness. The emptiness." She paused. "The men we hire to make us feel alive again."

Ga Young had retrieved her robe from the floor—the champagne-colored silk, still wrinkled from last night—and was tying it loosely around her waist. "When I heard that Karina unnie had found someone who actually made her come, I had to see for myself. And then Wonyoungie called me the next morning, practically glowing, and I knew." She turned to you, her eyes bright. "I knew I had to book you. And I knew I had to make it a weekend."

"A weekend?"

"Senior Park didn't tell you?" Karina's trench coat was already unbelted. She shrugged it off her shoulders, and it slid to the floor in a whisper of black fabric. Beneath it, she was wearing lingerie—not the practical black lace from your first encounter, but something deliberately chosen. A deep burgundy set, the color of aged wine, the bra cupping her breasts in a way that made them look fuller, the panties high-cut and sheer. "This booking is for all three of us. The whole weekend. Friday to Sunday."

Wonyoung was unzipping her leather jacket. Her movements were slower than Karina's, more deliberate, but no less confident. The jacket came off, and beneath it was a pale lavender set—the color soft against her skin, the fabric delicate, almost bridal. The contrast between the innocent lingerie and the knowing look in her eyes was intentional. You could see it in the way she tilted her head, the way she watched you watching her.

"Three clients," she said. "Three women who need to be reminded what it feels like to be touched." She stepped closer. "Three women who've been talking about you for weeks."

On the coffee table, you noticed for the first time a folded piece of paper. It was propped against the champagne bottle, your name written on the front in Senior Park's precise, old-fashioned handwriting. You crossed to it and picked it up.

Your client for this weekend is the three of them. They've been planning this for a month. Don't disappoint them. — SP

You swallowed.

The sound was audible in the quiet suite. Ga Young heard it and laughed—that same low, warm laugh from before. "Nervous? The man who made me come twice against a window is nervous?"

"Not nervous." You folded the note and tucked it into your pocket. "Just… recalibrating."

"Recalibrate faster." Karina had crossed the room to stand beside Ga Young. The two of them together were a study in contrasts—Karina's burgundy against Ga Young's champagne, the idol's sharp, aggressive beauty against the actress's delicate, knowing allure. "We've been waiting a long time for this. All three of us. We've been planning it ever since Wonyoungie called me the morning after your session."

"I didn't just call her." Wonyoung had moved to your other side, bracketing you between the three of them. Her lavender lingerie made her skin look luminous, the pale tea-colored nipples visible through the sheer fabric. "I told her everything. Everything you did. Everything you said. Every way you made me feel." Her voice dropped, became something softer, more intimate. "And she told me what you did with her. And then Ga Young unnie said she wanted to find out for herself, and we decided—why not all three of us? Why not a weekend?"

"Because none of us has ever had this." Ga Young's hand found your shoulder. Her fingers traced the line of your collarbone through your shirt. "None of us has ever had a man who knew what he was doing. Who cared about making us feel good. Who looked at us like we were women instead of objects." She paused. "We wanted to share you. Just for a weekend. Just to remember what it feels like."

"To be alive," Karina said.

"To be wanted," Wonyoung added.

"To be fucked properly," Ga Young finished.

The three of them were close now. Close enough that you could smell them—Karina's perfume, something floral and expensive; Wonyoung's shampoo, jasmine and vanilla; Ga Young's skin, still warm from sleep, still carrying the faint musk of last night's sex. They were looking at you with the same expression. The same hunger. The same desperate, aching need that you'd seen in each of them individually but never all at once.

"Take off your shirt," Karina said.

The command was soft but firm. The same voice she'd used when she'd first welcomed you to her mansion, but stripped of the nervousness now. This was a woman who'd spent three weeks waiting for this moment. This was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

You unbuttoned your shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. The three of them watched every movement—the slide of each button through its hole, the parting of the fabric, the reveal of your chest. When you shrugged the shirt off your shoulders, Wonyoung made a small sound—a quiet, involuntary hum of appreciation.

"His body is different in the daylight," she murmured. "I couldn't see it properly last time. It was dark. I was…" She swallowed. "I was distracted."

"You were crying," Ga Young said. Not unkindly. Just matter-of-fact. "You told me you cried."

"I did. I cried a lot." Wonyoung's eyes met yours. "But I also came. Twice. The first real orgasms of my life."

"Mine too." Karina's voice was quieter now. "The first real ones. The only real ones."

Ga Young's hand slid from your shoulder to your chest. Her palm was warm against your skin. "And I came twice last night. The first time I've ever come with a partner. The first time I've ever come without faking it." Her fingers traced the line of your pectoral, down to your abdomen. "So you see, we have a lot to thank you for. And a lot more we want to experience."

"Together," Karina said.

"Together," Wonyoung echoed.

The word hung in the air between you. Together. Three women who'd spent years being neglected, being ignored, being treated like accessories to their husbands' careers. Three women who'd found each other in the loneliness and decided to do something about it. Three women who were looking at you now with the same expression—expectant, hungry, alive.

"Are you going to be able to handle all three of us?" Ga Young's voice was teasing, but there was a genuine question beneath the playfulness. "We're not going to be gentle with you. We've been planning this for a month. We have… ideas."

"Three days," Karina said. "Three women. One man." She stepped closer, close enough that her breasts—still encased in that burgundy lace—brushed against your arm. "Think you can keep up?"

"Senior Park seemed to think so." You looked at the note still folded in your pocket. "He wouldn't have booked me if he didn't."

"Senior Park is a smart man." Wonyoung had moved behind you. Her hands found your shoulders, her fingers pressing into the muscle, kneading gently. "He told us you were the best. He told us you could handle anything. He told us you wouldn't break."

"I won't break."

"Good." Ga Young's hand was still on your chest, her thumb tracing idle circles over your sternum. "Because we're not going to break you. We're going to use you. All three of us. However we want. Whenever we want. For the whole weekend." She looked up at you, and her eyes were dark and serious despite the smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Is that understood?"

"Understood."

"Good boy." She patted your chest and stepped back. "Then let's get started. The bedroom's big enough for all four of us. I checked."

She turned and walked toward the bedroom, the champagne robe trailing behind her like a whisper. Karina followed, her hips swaying with that dancer's grace she'd never lost despite years away from the stage. Wonyoung released your shoulders and moved around you, her lavender lingerie pale against the gray walls of the suite, and when she reached the bedroom doorway, she looked back over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?"

The question was simple. The answer was simpler.

You followed them into the bedroom.

The bed was still rumpled from the night before—the sheets twisted, the pillows scattered, the faint impressions of Ga Young's body still visible on the mattress. The morning light was stronger here, flooding through the windows, making everything look clean and bright and new. The three women arranged themselves on the bed with the ease of long practice—Ga Young in the center, propped against the headboard; Karina on her left, sitting cross-legged with her burgundy lingerie stark against the white sheets; Wonyoung on her right, her long legs stretched out in front of her, her lavender set a soft contrast to the sharper colors around her.

They looked at you. Waiting.

"Clothes off," Ga Young said. "All of them. We want to see what we're working with."

You unbuckled your belt. The sound was loud in the quiet room. Three pairs of eyes tracked the movement of your hands—the slide of leather through the buckle, the pop of the button, the hiss of the zipper. Your pants fell to the floor. Your boxers followed.

Your cock was already half-hard. Responding to the attention, the anticipation, the sheer overwhelming presence of three beautiful women watching you undress. Ga Young's eyes flicked down, then up again. The corner of her mouth twitched.

"He's bigger than I remembered," Karina murmured.

"He's thicker than I remembered," Wonyoung added.

"And he knows how to use it." Ga Young's voice was satisfied. "He used it in my throat last night. And in my cunt. And against the window." She gestured at the glass, still faintly smeared from where her body had pressed against it. "I left a mark."

"So did I." Wonyoung's voice was soft, almost wistful. "At my penthouse. On the sheets. I haven't washed them yet. I keep thinking I should, but I can't bring myself to do it."

"I know what you mean." Karina's eyes met yours. "I still have the sheets from my first time with him. They're in the back of my closet. Joon-ho never goes in there. He never goes anywhere in that house except his study and his bedroom." She paused. "He has his own bedroom. We've always had separate bedrooms. He said it was better for his sleep."

"Seok-joong has his own apartment." Wonyoung's voice was flat. "He lives there with his current girlfriend. A trainee. She's nineteen."

"My husband has his own continent." Ga Young's laugh was bitter. "He's been to Seoul for six weeks in two years. Six weeks. He's probably slept with half of Manhattan in that time."

The three of them were quiet for a moment. The morning light poured through the windows, and the city glittered below, and the three women on the bed were looking at each other with an expression that was part grief and part fury and part something else—something that looked almost like hope.

Then Ga Young shook her head. "No. No more talking about husbands. That's not what this weekend is for." She looked at you, and the fire was back in her eyes. "This weekend is for us. For pleasure. For release. For everything we've been denied." She patted the mattress beside her. "Come here. It's time to earn your paycheck."

You climbed onto the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight. The three women shifted to accommodate you—Ga Young making room in the center, Karina and Wonyoung flanking her on either side. You ended up face-to-face with Ga Young, close enough to see the faint lines around her eyes, the small scar on her chin from some childhood accident, the way her pupils were already dilating with anticipation.

"Kiss me," she said. "Kiss me, and then kiss them. We've been waiting. We've all been waiting."

You kissed her.

It was different from last night's kisses. Last night had been about dominance—the rough press of lips, the battle for control, the assertion of power. This kiss was slower. More deliberate. A kiss of greeting rather than conquest. Ga Young's lips parted beneath yours, and her tongue met yours with a soft, exploratory touch. She tasted like sleep and champagne and something indefinably her.

When you pulled back, she was smiling. "Now Karina."

You turned. Karina was watching you with dark eyes, her burgundy lingerie stretched tight across her breasts, her breathing already uneven. She didn't wait for you to lean in. She closed the distance herself, her hands coming up to frame your face, her kiss hungry and urgent and full of three weeks of waiting.

"It's been too long," she whispered against your mouth. "Three weeks. Three weeks of thinking about you. Three weeks of touching myself and pretending it was your hands."

"And now?"

"Now I don't have to pretend." She kissed you again—quick and fierce—then pulled back. "Wonyoung's turn."

Wonyoung was the shyest of the three. She'd been hesitant last night, tentative in the penthouse, uncertain about what she was allowed to do. But now she leaned in with more confidence, her lips brushing yours with a gentleness that was almost teasing. Her hand found your chest, her palm flat against your sternum, feeling your heartbeat.

"I've been thinking about you too," she murmured. "Every night. Every morning. I've been thinking about what you did to me. What you made me feel." She kissed you again—longer this time, deeper. "I want to feel it again. All of it. Everything."

"You will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She smiled. The expression transformed her face—made her look younger, lighter, more like the idol she'd been before the marriage and the neglect and the loneliness. "Good. Then let's get started. Ga Young unnie's been waiting the longest. She should get the first turn."

"Agreed." Karina was already shifting on the bed, repositioning herself to give Ga Young more room. "We've got three days. We can take our time."

"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a war crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.

“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.

She might be onto something.

“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.

You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”

She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.

Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.

It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal.

Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.

She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.

“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”

You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”

She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘

Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.

That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.

And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.

She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.

You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”

Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.

“Make me.”

She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.

It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.

So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.

She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred.

“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”

“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”

You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.

“We’re settling this tonight.”

She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”

You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”

And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”

“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”

“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.

She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”

She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”

How could you?

“Chaewon.”

She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”

Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”

“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”

Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.

You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”

“Aaaah.” Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.

That’s it.

You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”

She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”

“Do you ever stop?”

Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”

It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”

She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”

“That’s really not how probability works.”

“That’s how life works.”

You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”

She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”

Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”

She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”

And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”

Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”

She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”

She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”

“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.

She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”

You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.

That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.

You hate how right she feels here.

She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.

“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”

Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”

She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.

You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”

Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”

She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.

It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.

She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.

The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life. ----------------------------------------

Sleep doesn’t come.

You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.

It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.

Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.

It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.

It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.

And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way.

The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.

Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”

The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.

And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.

But something did happen to you.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.

Chaewon: You awake??

You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.

You: Yeah.

It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.

Chaewon: Cant sleep

If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.

You: That sucks.

Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.

Then:

Chaewon: Are we okay?

You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.

You: We’re fine, Chaewon

Chaewon: Thats not a yes…

You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.

You: Do you want me to lie?

The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?

Chaewon: No

Chaewon: Idk

Chaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this

You: Like what??

Chaewon: Distant

Chaewon: Careful

Chaewon: Upset with me

Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.

You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon

Chaewon: Idk either…

Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk

The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…

You: We’re talking now.

Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant

And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.

Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?

Chaewon: I miss you…

And before you can even overthink it—

You move. ----------------------------------------

There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.

“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.

You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”

It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.

She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.

You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.

You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.

“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”

Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”

The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”

“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.

You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”

“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.

There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.

“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”

You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”

Both of you say it at the same time.

“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.

“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”

She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”

The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.

Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”

She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”

“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”

Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—

Fuck.

Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.

She freezes. "Oh."

Oh? Fucking oh?

“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.

Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—”

“You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”

“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”

It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”

Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?”

You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.

Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”

“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”

Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”

There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”

“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.

“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”

You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”

Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.

The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.

“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”

It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying.

“I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”

She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.

“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.

“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”

She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.

“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”

“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.

“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.

“But I didn’t let you?”

“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.

“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”

Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”

“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”

“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”

“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”

She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”

Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”

You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.

“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.

“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.

But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”

She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.

“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”

She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.

“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."

You stay quiet.

“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”

She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.

“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."

Her voice wavers.

“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”

There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.

She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”

You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.”

“I—”

“But you had to try.”

Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.

“You’re saying… it’s still open?”

You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”

Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”

She flinches. Just barely. But enough.

“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”

You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.

And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.

“I just wanted you to want me still.”

And that? That fucking cracks something open.

You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.

“I never fucking stopped.”

There’s no pause this time.

No “but what if—”

No “are you sure—”

No more fucking Monty Hall.

Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.

It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.

It’s honest.

She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.

You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”

Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”

“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”

She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.

And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”

Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.

“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”

Her breath hitches. “I know.”

And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.

You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.

“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.

“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.

She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”

It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.

“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”

A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

But she just smirks.

“Chaewon.”

“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”

You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.

“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”

You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”

She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”

“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.

Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”

It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”

She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”

But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.

You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.

“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”

“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.

You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.

You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.

“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.

You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.

“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”

She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.

“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”

She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”

She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.

You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”

She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”

You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”

“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”

You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”

Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”

You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.

She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”

You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.

“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.

She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.

You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”

Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out. You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.

You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—

She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.

“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.

Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—

“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.

“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”

You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,

You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.

“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”

She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”

You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.

“I love you, you idiot.”

She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face.

“And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”

“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.

Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”

She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.

“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.

She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”

“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.

You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.

“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”

She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”

You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.

She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”

You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”

“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.

You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.

“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”

You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.

“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”

You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.

Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.

“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”

You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”

She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”

feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”

She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.

You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”

You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on.

She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.

Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.

“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”

She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.

You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.

“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.

“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.

You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.

You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.

“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”

She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and—

“Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.

“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.

Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.

“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.

The water is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.

She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”

You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.

“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.

“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”

“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.

“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”

You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”

Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.

She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.

You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.

“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”

You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.

“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.

“Hmm?”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.

“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.

You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.

━•✦•━•✦•━

You didn't know who she was. You didn't know who she was with. You didn't know where she was from. You knew practically nothing about her.

Except her name was Lily and she had the most stupidly sexy Aussie accent you'd ever heard.

You had met her that same day, around noon, during the set of a Tech House DJ you were a fan of. She turned out to be in the same area of ​​the audience that you had come to in search of getting a little closer to the stage, near the middle. The click was instantaneous.

At first you had been at a considerable distance from each other, only giving each other discreet glances between drops. That's where you noticed how hot that woman was, with those damn tight latex pants and that perfect belly. Her bust was moderate, but she didn't need much more. Not with that sexy look and that damn attractive nose.

The interest had been mutual; it had been evident by the way she looked back at you, subtle checks up and down, lip bites and small winks. By the time the set was over, she had already stood on her back right in front of you so you could dance with her, her lascivious ass against your bulge, her sweaty back against your chest.

The advances were constant, one after another. Light touches at first, then firmer grips, then caresses, then more brazen movements on her part to tease you. When you had least expected it, you had already kissed her with such fierceness that you had her moaning into your mouth.

Now, you knew it was serious when she started squeezing your cock through your pants. She did it at the most unexpected moments to catch you by surprise, and your way of responding was always to grab her ass. But she wanted more. You wanted more.

So there you went, straight to your festival tent, located rather towards the back, almost bordering on the forest beyond. It was one in the morning, and you both had a good amount of beers in your system. She was carrying an unopened one in her hand, in fact. You weren't surprised; the little you knew about her was that she was quite the party girl.

You walked in with her hand in hand and zipped up the tent behind you. Lily soon threw her arms around your neck and pressed herself against you, the cold beer can pressed against your upper back. In contrast, it was hot in there. Largely because of how horny you both were.

"Mmm, fucking finally huh?" she murmured hoarsely before crashing her lips against yours.

You immediately wrapped your arms around Lily's curvy, slightly fleshy body, one around her waist and the other across her back, accepting her lips in a desperate, disastrous kiss. The tent was large, with a padded floor and a high ceiling, allowing you to move comfortably with her to the center, near the mat where you later hoped to sleep with her.

A moan escaped Lily's mouth as you brought your face to her neck and, without a second thought, gave a long upward lick to her soft, sweaty skin, your hands gripping her waist tightly. Normally, at a festival, after hours and hours of sun and heat and sweat, you would be smelly and sticky. Not Lily. She continued to give off the same pleasant and addictive lavender aroma.

"My god, you're so fucking hot," you growled between kisses and hickeys on her neck and jaw. Now you had her by the ass, with strong grips that made her push against you. "You don't have a boyfriend, do you?"

"Of course not, idiot," she grumbled, reaching a hand inside your sweatpants to pull out your erect cock and stroke it. It was the hand she held the beer with, so it was cold and wet to the touch, the sensation amplified by the cold metal of his rings.

"Great" you returned to her lips, a few more slobbery kisses before looking into those deep black-lined eyes. "Although if I'm honest, if you had I wouldn't have given a damn."

"What a jerk."

"I'm serious," you now moved down her neck and collarbone, avoiding her choker and the gold necklace she was wearing. When you were on your knees in front of her, both hands on her wide hips, you looked into her eyes. "You could be wearing an engagement ring right now, woman, but I'd still fuck your brains out."

“Shut the fuck up and worship me,” she demanded, cupping your face with the same icy hand, her nails digging into your cheeks. "You've been pawing at my belly all day and drooling over it, haven't you? Fucking kiss me there. Go on."

Lily released your face with a gentle nudge, letting you bury yourself fully against her abdomen. So perfect. So soft. So deliciously gifted by the gods. You showered it with kisses, every single inch: her sides, right along her Adonis belt; her lower abs; all around her navel. Even the flesh of her waist, on either side, ended up soaked with your saliva.

With both hands on her hips, you spun her around abruptly so that her ass was now what lay right before your face. Your fingers worked quickly on the button of her latex pants and on her zipper, which you pulled all the way down before giving a sudden yank downward. The pants were already stupidly tight to begin with, but, compounded by the sweat, they clung so tightly to her skin that you had to pull them down inch by inch, hard, until they bunched up right at the tops of her thighs, forming a sexy ring of soft flesh spilling over the latex.

You left them right there. It was exactly what you needed, nothing more. Her ass lay exposed just inches from your face, round and lovely. She wore a pair of pretty black lace panties that left almost her entire buttocks bare. Before doing anything else, you gripped her thighs and let your lips roam over the soft flesh of her ass. Lily, watching you over her shoulder, lips parted and a faint blush rising in her cheeks, gasped with every little kiss.

"This is what you’ve wanted all day, isn't it?" Lily asked. The question made you smile as you slowly slid her panties down. "You haven't stopped staring and grabbing it all fucking day."

"And you haven't been able to stop rubbing it against my dick," you retorted. Lily’s panties ended up bunched around her thighs, sitting at the exact same level as her pants. She was soaked down there, you could tell even in the dim light of your tent. "We'll see how you get when I shove it in your mouth and fuck your throat."

"We're not talking about me, you punk."

As soon as she finished that sentence, Lily grabbed the hair at the back of your head and buried your face deep between her ass cheeks. Your mouth found the soft flesh of her slippery folds, slightly salty to the taste. The moan she let out was enough to drive any man wild. You explored her slit, thirsty. Your heavy breathing and hot breath warmed against her skin. There wasn't a single part of her pretty pussy that your tongue didn't stimulate.

You heard the unmistakable gaseous hiss of a beer can popping open.

You looked up.

"Fancy a coldie, party boy?"

You smirked. Just how freaky were you feeling on this particular day? Lily’s gaze, heavy with lust and a faint spark of mischief, gave you the answer: pretty damn freaky.

"Go on."

Lily didn't wait; she brought the beer can down to her lower back and poured the cold liquid right between her ass cheeks. The steady stream, cascading down her crack and dripping over her buttocks, met your lips. You lapped it up as best you could, all while your tongue worked away at her pussy. The tent floor was going to be a total disaster, but it was going to be worth every damn second.

Still not satisfied, Lily kept pouring the beer down her ass crack. With both hands cupping her ass, you devoted yourself completely to the task, drinking up as much as you could while squeezing and massaging her buttocks. It was a bit of a waste, considering the vast majority of the beer just ended up on the floor. But seriously, who the fuck cared?

The beer can went empty; you heard Lily toss it into a corner of the tent.

"I hope that was delicious, you bastard," she growled. Her grip remained on the back of your neck, tighter now. Her fingernails dug into your scalp as you continued to devour her. "I could have just drunk that myself."

"You’ve already had like six of those. One more wouldn't make a difference."

You spread Lily's ass cheeks apart and, with determination, let your tongue work faster. Your focus was her clit. Lily squealed with pleasure, and it wasn't long before she thrust her hips against your face as she reached her climax.

"Ohhh shit!" Lily moaned, smothering you with her ass, her thighs trembling. "You really were hungry for that pussy, huh?"

You pulled away and sprang to your feet, grabbed Lily by the waist, and delivered a stinging slap to her right ass cheek. The red mark appeared instantly.

The truth was, you were horny as hell. You weren't even thinking straight when, with a single yank, you pulled your sweatpants and boxers down to your calves, spat in your hand to lube up your cock, and buried it deep inside the best pussy you’d ever had in your damn life.

"Nnnngh, you son of a bitch!" she growled.

Lily, still with her knees slightly bent, instinctively bent her upper body downward, desperately searching for something to grab onto while you remained buried inside her, balls-deep. She only managed to find one of your wrists. Her other arm hung limply beneath her.

The lascivious, wet sounds of sweaty flesh slapping together took over the tent. Your thrusts were wild, each one sending your glans slamming against her cervix and making that sexy flesh jiggle like jelly. She was wet as hell. Every inch of your veiny cock slid slickly in and out of her. Lily struggled to keep her balance amidst all the shaking, the movement of her legs restricted by the way her pants remained (and would continue to remain) bunched up around her thighs. Her moans, more screams than anything else, vied for acoustic space.

You gave her no respite, not even for a second, blinded by lust and perhaps a little by the eight beers coursing through your blood. With a growl, you grabbed her by the forearms, yanked her arms back, causing her back to arch, and pumped your hips in an animalistic frenzy until Lily came with a sharp, strangled cry.

"God! I drive you fucking crazy, don't I?" Lily looked back at you over her shoulder, her face twisted in pleasure, her thighs and hips still writhing. "Is that why you're fucking me like a filthy whore?"

You yanked yourself abruptly out of her, released her arms, and let her drop to her knees. Lily followed you with her eyes as you circled around her, grabbed a handful of her long platinum hair, and forced your cock deep into her mouth. She sucked you hard, tasting her own pussy through you, slurping up the very saliva she left behind.

"Oh yeah, be a filthy whore and suck that cock," you growled, your grip firm on her hair.

Lily wrapped three fingers around the base, holding your cock straight as she diligently pumped the head at a steady rhythm, gagging each time her lips brushed against her own fingers. You landed a sharp slap against her cheek, making her moan with your flesh still inside her, then grabbed your cock and pulled it out of her mouth.

"Mmm, how would it bother you to smudge that pretty eyeliner just a little bit?" you asked, tapping your cock against her outstretched tongue.

"Minus fucking two," she said, rubbing herself against your shaft, using her beautiful aquiline nose to trace its length. "You can throat-fuck me, spit on me, slap me, choke me. Fuck, get me pregnant if you feel like it."

"Alright, well, we'll draw the line at that last one."

Lily laughed, maintaining an amused expression even as you shoved your cock back into her mouth. You thrust straight down to the bottom, both hands cupping the back of her head. The teasing smirk vanished from her face. She scrunched up her nose and gagged around you. A trickle of saliva spilled down past her lower lip.

"That's it, choke on it, bitch," you growled through clenched teeth, driving her head against your pelvis.

More saliva dripped onto the floor. You held her there for several long seconds, and then, instead of letting her breathe, you started pumping your hips. Fast, deep thrusts. Your balls slammed against her chin with every stroke. More and more saliva. Lily locked eyes with you as tears began to well up in her own. These soon slid down her cheeks.

It took a good number of thrusts to keep her crying. With a triumphant smile, you finally stopped when the black eyeliner ran beneath her eyes, merging with her tears. You pulled out of her mouth with a sharp tug. Lily gasped for air, a complete mess; her entire mouth and chin were smeared with thick saliva, which dripped straight down into the cleavage of her top and onto her thighs.

You delivered a sharp slap to her cheek just as she was trying to catch her breath. A moan escaped her lips.

"Happy?" you asked.

Lily raised her eyes and met your gaze.

"Not until you make my pussy absolutely dripping wet," she declared in a faint voice. "And when I say dripping... I mean really dripping. I want to turn your damn tent into a swimming pool."

Fuck.

You immediately dropped to your knees and laid her flat on her back. She couldn't spread her legs, not even a couple of centimeters. Your only option—and one you didn't complain about in the slightest—was to press both of her knees up against her torso. Lily held her legs in place, gripping them behind the knees with both arms. Her pussy, squeezed tight between her thighs, made your mouth water.

You drove your cock inside her with a forceful thrust. Her pussy was so slick that the smooth motion made you gasp.

With your hands on her thighs, fingers digging firmly into her soft flesh, you began to fuck her pussy with deep, reckless thrusts. Lily’s back arched. With her eyes closed, she parted her lips, doing nothing but panting. Every now and then, a sensual moan escaped her.

"Fuuuuck!" Lily growled, her fingernails digging into the latex of her pants so hard that she actually punctured it slightly. "So fucking good, oh my god... oh my god, oh my god!"

You leaned forward, bracing your fists against the tent canvas on either side of her arms, and transitioned into an up-and-down motion, slamming her pussy against the floor. Lily lost her breath with the first few thrusts, but then managed to regain her breathing and looked up at you. Her smudged eyeliner had left dark streaks across her cheeks.

"Yes, yes, yes," she moaned. "Pound me, you fucking punk. Pound me hard!"

Lily came with a primal growl just seconds later. As her thighs trembled, her pussy made a soft squelching sound with every one of your thrusts. You felt a tiny spurt of warm liquid splash against your shaft. It wasn't enough, and you knew it. You continued, relentless. You moved her arms away from around her legs and replaced them with your upper torso, pinning her between yourself and the ground.

Finally, you were forced to pull out of her when she came so hard that, this time, a jet of fluid shot upward, splashed against your abdomen, and trickled back down.

"Just like that, fuck!" Lily shrieked, so ecstatic that her cheeks were flushed with a blush that spread all the way down to her chest. "You’re a fucking marvel!"

The way she said it burrowed into your brain and sent tingles through you. With that sexy accent of hers. That alluring way she rolled her R’s and emphasized her L’s.

God, you were starving for her.

You laid her down on her side and kept fucking her, her knees pressed against her torso, one hand on her fleshy waist, and the other right where the latex bunched up against the flesh of her thighs. You brought her to climax two more times like that, resulting in two more spurts of squirt. The first one stronger than the last.

True to her word, Lily had turned your tent into a goddamn swamp. The entire floor between your legs was soaked. Little rivulets branched out from the main pool, spreading toward the sides. She was breathing in ragged gasps, completely overstimulated. Her long, platinum hair was a total mess. There were fresh tears in her eyes. She was just as sweaty as you were.

"As obsessed as I am with how you look trapped inside those pants, I’m starting to want to see a little more of you," you said.

"I couldn't agree more," Lily panted.

It was a struggle to get her pants off, given how tightly they clung to her skin, but within a few minutes, you managed to strip her completely naked. You undressed yourself as well. Then, you climbed on top of her and spent a good while just kissing her, letting your hands explore every inch of her body until she guided you back inside her.

You fucked her missionary-style, then on your sides, sucking and licking her modest yet full breasts, and you even let her ride you. The mess from a moment ago didn't repeat itself, but you could tell from her gaze that each orgasm was triggering an increasingly severe short circuit in her brain.

About half an hour later, when you felt you’d reached the point of no return on your way to climax, and just as Lily was riding out another orgasm, she grabbed your chin and made you look her in the eye.

"Fuck my ass," she murmured. "Raw. I don't care if it doesn't fit all."

"Are you sure? Have you done this before?"

"I didn't ask you to interrogate me about my sex life. I asked you to fuck my ass." Lily turned around and got onto her hands and knees, her ass thrust up toward you, mere centimeters from the ground. "Now."

Well, who were you to refuse?

You quickly rose onto your knees behind her, placed a hand on her waist to steady her, and, after a bit of preliminary lubrication courtesy of your own saliva, pressed your glans against her asshole. Lily hissed in pain at first, but her walls eventually yielded. Only partially, though; you only managed to get about half your shaft inside. Any deeper became painful for her.

It was perfectly enough for you. You planted a foot on the ground, gripped her by the hips, and began thrusting up and down. You both had an absolutely fucking amazing time, moaning almost in unison against the backdrop of the festival’s roar and the activity in the surrounding tents. Lily’s ass ended up bright red with hand marks. Her hair? A tangled mess. Her body? Dripping with sweat.

You had her held fast by her choker, pulling back and half-choking her, when you felt the tingling sensation in your lower body.

"I'm going to cum inside you," you growled, clenching your teeth. You were certain the veins were bulging in your temples. "I'm going to fill your fucking ass."

"Then fill my fucking ass," Lily growled back, the right side of her face pressed against the bottom edge of your mat, her arms tucked underneath it. She was already melting with pleasure; her brain must have felt like mush, her head clouded by lust. "That is, after all, why I’ve been messing with your head all day."

"Would you have done this with just any other good-looking guy?" you asked.

"Why lie to you?" A mocking smile formed on her face. "Probably. You were just in the right place at the right time."

"What a fucking bitch." You yanked harder on her choker, making her gasp for air. "Fuck, mmph!"

Lily laughed faintly again, closing her eyes as she felt the first thick gush of semen flood her tight cavity. She tried to moan, but only a soft breath escaped her lips. You filled her up like a goddamn cream pie, throbbing deep inside her. Before long, the cum began to spill over the edges.

You released the choker, allowing her breathing to return to normal. Very slowly, you pulled out of her, stepped back, and admired your handiwork: her dilated ass, brimming with thick whitish fluid that trickled down her cleft, ran through the folds of her pussy, and dripped onto the floor.

You delivered one last hard smack to her ass, sending her tumbling onto her side. Lily looked up at you.

"Don't take that last thing I said to heart..." she murmured. "My expectations were actually pretty low. I actually like you."

"...Thanks?" You went to lie down beside her, sweaty, exhausted, and with aching knees. "Shall we sleep?"

A dry, sharp laugh made you look at her with a frown. She met your gaze.

She's deadly gorgeous — her eyes, her nose, her lips. You're as tall as she is, but the aura she emanates makes you feel like you're five centimeters shorter. She's a year above you, and that just makes the entire ordeal better for you. It's your thing — being dominated at everything by a woman. Therefore, Seol Yoona, or Sullyoon, is just flawless in your eyes.

You don't even dare to look at her when you walk past each other in the hallway. You just hide behind your friends cowardly, and you hope that she'd notice you amongst the crowd one day. There's a conflict between your actions and your desire, apparently, but you just can't help getting flustered and becoming mute when she's in your proximity.

The chance presents itself eventually. It can't be more of an open chance than this one.

"Have you seen the pair list for the trip yet?" Taesan asks you. His hands are on the steering wheel, driving you to the faculty as usual. You help him with fuel costs from time to time.

"Not yet. I probably got paired with someone I don't know." You shrug, scrolling through your Reddit feed. There are a few memes and a few posts about the games you're still playing in your freshman year. "We'll forget each other in a week, so, like, what's the appeal of knowing it now?"

"You're fucking pessimistic, dude. Maybe you have one of those pretty sophomores as your partner!" Taesan encourages you as the car enters the campus. "What's her name again? Yoon?"

"Sullyoon, and what's the chance? Two? Three percent? What's one hundred divided by thirty-eight—"

"Sometimes you just gotta believe, man," Taesan cuts you off cleanly. He's like a lighthouse for your sailboat in a thunderstorm. "And it's over ten percent. If you get one of the dance club members, they might help you get to Yoon as well!"

"Sullyoon. Yoon is the debate club president," you correct Taesan, though you're opening the group chat now. The trip's main document is the latest message.

"Yeah, Sullyoon," and he pauses to make a turn before continuing. "Anyway, the key point is: you have to trust your luck. I'm sure you'll—"

"Holy fucking fuck."

"Told ya, is it one of the—"

"It's Sullyoon!" you shout into the small confines of Taesan's car, seeing your name to the right of Seol Yoona on the list. You examine again to make sure that you didn't hallucinate, and it's really you and Sullyoon! You're being paired together for the trip this summer break!

You can barely comprehend the notion of you actually conversing with her — the topic, the tone, the personality, her eyes, her nose, her lips. Fuck, even the idea of you being close to her felt so far-fetched just mere minutes ago, and now, you're finally going to get to know her!

"I'm gonna cum."

"At least get out of the car first."

---

"Aren't you gonna go sit with her?" Taesan asks you, and you open your eyes from the attempt to get a pleasant sleep on the way to the destination. "The middle of the bus is also, like, the safest place?"

You blink a few times to get yourself back to your senses before replying, "We die together!"

Taesan gives you a look that makes you rethink your decisions, and the courage starts to flow in, even if it's just a bit. "That's probably the worst excuse you could've given me. I'm kicking you out of this seat."

"No, you can't."

"Your loss, then," Taesan scoffs, and he gives you another decision-altering look.

"What if she says no? That's gonna ruin the whole trip for me!" you whine, and you know that you're just delaying the inevitable of actually talking to her for the first time at this point.

Taesan purses his lips for a while before answering, "You don't know the outcome yet." He shrugs, looking for Sullyoon, who's still sitting by herself in the middle row. "Don't live to regret this."

You look at Sullyoon sitting a few rows in front of you like Taesan does, and to be frank, his words are pretty damn reasonable here. It's a slim chance against no chance at all to sit next to her for the first half of the trip.

"Fine," you concede, and you get up from your seat.

Each step feels too heavy than it should be. Your eyes lock onto the back of Sullyoon's head. Her hair is done in a ponytail today. She looks pretty like this. In fact, she looks pretty in every hairstyle. You trudge towards her row slowly, trying not to let her out of sight. Each second feels awfully long and tormenting, and you just reel through the possibilities of your first conversation with her. You keep reminding yourself that you have to ask for the vacancy of the seat beside her.

Until you're right beside her.

"Uh," you manage with all of your consciousness and energy. Sullyoon turns to you. "Hey, Miss Seol."

"Hey!" she greets you with a polite smile. "What's up?"

"I was gonna ask," and a pause. You can't believe you're having a conversation with her like this. With sheer willpower, you continue, "If I could sit here, since we're partners for the trip."

Sullyoon's eyes widen. "Oh, you're my freshman! Sure!" and she pats the seat beside her invitingly. "I'll tell Bae to sit somewhere else."

"Oh, I can just—"

"Please, and we've never talked prior to this, right? We can get to know each other here!" Sullyoon persuades, and her eyes give the impression that she wants your company. You just cannot decline the heavenly offer granted by the stars.

"Uh, okay." You settle yourself beside Sullyoon cautiously, trying not to humiliate yourself with your awkward movements. "Can Miss Bae sit with my friend?"

"Sure thing! Where's your friend?"

"Uh," and turn back to Taesan, who's watching your shenanigans happily. "He's there." You point at him.

"Alright, I'll message her."'

You keep thinking of ways that you can fumble this, and you just can't seem to stop it. Still, having Sullyoon this close to you after just a few words makes your heart flutter, and you have to hold back your smile for the entire trip.

---

"What's that on your phone?" Sullyoon asks. It's about half an hour into the ride. You appreciate the fact that she takes interests about your phone's background.

"The wallpaper?" and you tilt your phone to her a bit, making sure that she can see your screen.

"Yeah. Is it a movie poster?"

"Aftersun, yeah. I watched it a few years ago, and it just stuck in my head ever since."

It's an honest answer. Aftersun is an influential film to you. You saw it at a theater when it was initially released, and you just can't get it out of your brain somehow. It's a five-star film, really.

"Never heard of it before," Sullyoon says with a chuckle. "I'm not good at movies, to be honest."

Bravely, you reply, "I can help you with that if you want," and you chuckle a bit, diluting the seriousness of your words. You're trying not to look too cocky with your cinema knowledge here.

"I'd say yes if I had time," Sullyoon answers. "Please don't take it to heart. It's just that: I have so many fucking things going on in my life."

"Sorry to hear that," you respond in an attempt to empathize. "I don't take it personally, don't worry."

Sullyoon smiles before showing you her wallpaper. There are some Japanese letters that you can't translate and a few cars that you find cute. The overall image looks rather green-tinted. "I took this myself."

"With, like, a camera?"

"Yeah, it was from my trip to Tokyo," and Sullyoon pulls her phone back, seemingly searching for something. "Let me find the album, uh, here!"

You look at a bright image of the buildings of Tokyo. The composition and the lighting look good to you.

"Wow," you utter. "It's gorgeous."

Sullyoon smiles again. "Thanks. This is one of the better ones. I'm, like, really proud of it."

You can't help but smile along with her. Sullyoon continues to show you the images from her trip, and they truly are eye candy. You shower her with praise for her photography skills. You learn about the camera she uses. She learns about your love for Aftersun a little more. The conversation goes back and forth throughout the ride, and you're so fucking proud of yourself that you asked for this seat in the first place.

You're winning Seol Yoona's heart.

---

The bus stops at the mandatory resting point for lunch. You've been here a few times with your family before. It looks a tad different from what you've remembered, though you appreciate the fact that you get to use the bathroom and have a few pieces of pizza.

"So, how do you guys know each other?" Bae asks, biting off a piece of pepperoni she's holding. Sullyoon is sitting beside her, munching on a piece of double cheese.

"We live in the same dorm. He was searching for someone who lived there in the group chat, and I contacted him," Taesan answers, and you're nodding along with his words to confirm the legitimacy of the story. "And I drive him to campus on the days that we don't skip our classes," he continues with a chuckle, earning a boisterous laugh from Bae.

"You're skipping classes as freshmen?" Sullyoon quizzes.

Not wanting to look like a pair of irresponsible students in Sullyoon's eyes, you hastily refute his claim, "No, no, no, he was just joking."

Sullyoon nods approvingly before biting off her double cheese again. "I wish I had the fire like you guys," she says. "You kinda lose the energy with time, you know."

Not knowing how to answer, you just smile back at her. Then, you go back to the piece of pepperoni in your hand again, hoping that when you and Taesan become sophomores, you can be good examples for the future freshmen.

"Taesan, you have a, uh, sauce?" Bae starts, then she pulls a piece of paper out of a box for him. "Left side."

---

"So, why do you like photography?" you start at some time into the second half of the ride. It has been a while of silence playing on your phones, and you don't want to look too antisocial here.

"It's my mom," and Sullyoon looks up from her phone. The afternoon light from outside the bus is making a good angle with her face. She just looks gorgeous like this — her brown hair, her eyes, her voice. "She's a photographer, and she taught me about cameras and how to take photos."

You nod along with her words. "Cool. My mom is a chef."

"That's cool, too. Does this mean you can cook well?" Sullyoon asks. Her head is tilted a little in curiosity.

"I can make a​ Thai omelette. Is that enough?" you joke back, eliciting a chuckle from Sullyoon.

"Not a very suitable set of skills for today's dinner, I'd say," Sullyoon says, and she leans in closer to you. Your heart races at the unexpected proximity, and you use all your willpower to stay still. Though it turns out that she's just whispering you a spoiler for today's dinner. "I'm not supposed to tell a freshman, but we're having barbecue tonight."

You can smell her perfume — summer.

Your muscles relax once Sullyoon pulls her mouth away from your ear. You take some time to process her words. It's a barbecue. There'll be a grill. There'll be fire.

"Will there be beer as well?" you ask, only to realize how much of an alcoholic you're being in front of your crush. Fuck.

Sullyoon laughs. Her voice dips a tad deeper than usual, but it's devastatingly attractive to your ears. "Isn't that, like, the whole point of this trip? Getting wasted together and floating around in a pool?"

"Fair point," you reply, and the image of a drenched Sullyoon plagues your mind in an instant — clothes clinging to her skin, wet hair, her curves. Maybe you'll be making out with her in the water with your breath smelling like wheat and rye. You'll hold her close to your body as you kiss her with need. You'll—

"I still have to make sure of your safety, though, so don't drink too much. I can't deal with the faculty and your parents," Sullyoon half-jokes and half-pleads, pulling you away out of the fantasy. You understand her burden, of course, and you're going to be taking care of a freshman next year as well. You don't want physics-bending karma to come back and bite you in your ass.

"Sure, Miss Seol."

"Please, just call me Sullyoon," she urges. "Seriously, I feel like a fucking historical artifact being called Miss Seol, and I think I trust you enough now."

You get confused a bit at the idea of Sullyoon trusting you. Alas, it has been only a few hours since your first conversation. Nonetheless, you can jump out of this bus onto the road and ruin a car's windshield with this level of ecstasy. Seol Yoona trusts you, and that's probably another quest completed on the way to being her younger and slightly shorter boyfriend.

"Yeah, uh, okay, Sullyoon," you manage, doing your best to hide the joy inside your heart. It works for a while. At the moment Sullyoon turns away, you ball your hands into fists to celebrate the worthwhile event quietly out of her sight.

---

After a while, your view of the side of the bus becomes stores and houses planted along the road. There are some traffic lights on the way to your accommodation, as opposed to none on the highway earlier. You've just entered the metropolitan area of the town.

It doesn't take long before the bus turns into a small street. In the front, there are a bunch of rest houses sitting beside the alley. You see pools behind the wall of a house. Your bus stops eventually, and being nearest to the exit, you're the first to get off the vehicle.

"Hey," Sullyoon calls, and you turn back to her, not forgetting to leave the walkway space for a few people to walk past you towards the exit. "Can I have your number?"

Your mouth hangs open slightly in shock as Sullyoon locks her doe eyes with yours. Seol Yoona just asked for your number, and you can't fucking believe this. Your hands are still operating, at least, as you just whip out your phone from your pocket and touch the top of it with Sullyoon's.

Your phone vibrates slightly as her contact appears on your screen. The profile picture is her ID picture, you think. It looks so formal, with Sullyoon as her display name.

"Great, I'll message you when we're ready," Sullyoon says with a nod. "Or you can just come by and hang around first. Either way works."

"Sure, I'll put my stuff in my bedroom and go to you guys," you assure her, and she seems to be happy with that.

---

Sullyoon's house looks just like yours. It's not even mirrored. There's a pool table on the left side of the entrance. You can walk into the house a bit to find a pool filled with water on the right. The television is in the same position. There's a fridge beside it. The clock says that it's about four in the evening. Still, Sullyoon is nowhere to be seen, so you just settle yourself on the couch in the middle of the room meekly.

After a while, a door beside the television opens, and someone comes out of it.

She's not Sullyoon, though — a bit shorter, sharper face. It's Oh Haewon, still in her bus clothes of a Hawaiian shirt and jeans.

In Sullyoon's social circle, she spends most of her time with five women: Lily Morrow, Oh Haewon, Bae Jinsol, Kim Jiwoo, and Jang Kyujin. They're in the engineering dance club together, after all. You've seen their performances at a number of events: the orientation day, the international night, and now, the house trip. In your humble opinion, they're deathly beautiful in their own styles, and in reality, so many people have crushes on them. Though none of them have ever made a single move out of fear and anxiety.

In the group, Sullyoon is the most popular, with Haewon coming in a close second ranking. It's more of a preference whether you prefer the cute, innocuous vibe of Sullyoon or the tomboyish, vulgar vibe of Haewon. You find yourself more fitting to Sullyoon's energy, though it's not that you find Haewon any less gorgeous.

"Hey," Haewon greets you with a small nod. "Sullyoon's partner, right?"

You gulp. "Yeah, I, uh, she told me that I can be here, so I'm here."

Haewon nods again receptively before walking towards the couch. She sits down not too far from you, and she grabs the remote to play something.

"Oh, there's Netflix," Haewon mutters, and she clicks on the icon. It brings her to a login screen, however. "Damn."

"I have Netflix," you blurt out in an effort to help Haewon.

"Aren't you staying at that house?" Haewon asks, pointing back to your villa. "What? Are you and Sullyoon secretly fucking or something?" She shoots you a suspicious look, seemingly piqued by the notion of your trysts with her friend.

You can't say a word as your eyes widen and your mouth hangs open. Your body freezes in your seat, unsure of how to respond to the fuckery Haewon just uttered. It's as if your heart just stops for a few seconds just to process Haewon's awfully forward question.

"What?" you manage, utterly and completely shocked. "We're not—"

Suddenly, Haewon bursts out into a boisterous laugh, moving from side to side in her seat. "Fucking hell, I'm sorry," and she reaches out towards you, pacifying the situation. "I know you guys just met. I was just fucking with ya, sorry again."

Your expression dissolves into a shy laugh along with Haewon. "Oh, well," you mutter between chuckles. "That's quite a welcome."

"Yeah, I shouldn't, no, I wouldn't do it if I had known," Haewon says as her laugh softens into a smile. She then hands you the remote in her hand. "Here, log in with your Netflix."

"Thanks," and you take the remote from Haewon. Your heartbeat slows down a bit, and you start working on logging into the pool villa's Netflix with your account that you're sharing with Taesan and a few of your friends.

"Well, with that out of the way," Haewon restarts the conversation. She scoots a little closer towards you, and you tense up again. Your fingers tremble slightly on your phone while trying to access your Netflix account. "Do you like Sullyoon? Like, as your senior match or whatever."

"She's wonderful! I like her vibe," you answer honestly, alternating your eyes between Haewon, your phone, and the television. It's quite a sensory overload here. "She's so kind to me."

"Yeah, she's lovely all around. It's her expertise," Haewon says, sinking herself into the cushion of the couch. "You two will get along, don't worry."

"I hope so."

You finally link your account to the television, and Haewon claps merrily at the success. The screen shows a few algorithmic suggestions, and it's clear that you're a film buff.

"Do you have any hate-watching suggestions while we're drunk?" Haewon asks.

"The Room, I think?"

"I believe you," and Haewon does a finger gun pointing at you. You just smile at her.

---

The sizzling from the grill fills the night air along with the splashes of water in the pool. The outdoor area of Sullyoon's house smells of cooked meat and beer. You're sitting in a chair shyly, scrolling Twitter as alcohol begins to set in. There are a few freshmen, including Taesan, and sophomores, including Bae, playing in the pool together. You and Sullyoon remain on the land still, talking about tedious topics and interests that become interesting just because it's Seol Yoona you're talking to.

"How has your freshman year been?" Sullyoon asks, swirling the contents of her can around a bit, and she takes a sip.

"It's fine, I guess," you respond without looking up from your phone. "Took some time before I settled in, even with Taesan."

Sullyoon chuckles. "I get it — new environment, new friends, yadda yadda." She takes a bite off her barbecue stick — green pepper — and Sullyoon asks you more with her mouth full of food, "Did anyone come with you? Like, from the same high school."

You look up from your phone to meet Sullyoon's eyes before answering, "Nope, I'm alone here. Was really lucky I met him in that dorm group."

Sullyoon nods at the same time a splash of water lands on her feet, and she flinches a little. You look at the pool to find Bae and Taesan smiling apologetically.

"Sorry," Bae says from the water. Sullyoon just accepts her apology with a nod.

"Anyway," Sullyoon restarts, turning back to you. The can of beer is still staying in her hand, and she takes another swig. "Let's talk about something more personal."

You look at her, puzzled by her statement. "Wasn't that already personal?" and you let out a chuckle to lighten the seriousness of the statement. You don't want her to feel intimidated by your words.

Sullyoon laughs, seemingly a little drunk now. "There are more personal things than you settling into college life, you know?"

You're still too shy with two cans of beer in your veins. However, you really want to get to know Sullyoon better than this. You can feel your vision getting a tad blurry, but she remains as gorgeous as ever — her eyes, her hair, her lips. God, you just want her to pin you against the wall and start whispering dehumanizing insults into your ear.

"I don't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, if that's what you wanna know," you declare, picking up the can to take a sip out of shyness. You wonder how and why the hell you said that. It's not like you look good enough to have a romantic life.

Sullyoon chuckles, fidgeting with her almost-empty can. "Me too." You register the intoxication in her eyes and tone, eventually. Her off-the-perfect-cadence giggles ring in your ear canals against the noise from the pool and the grill. "I've been on a few dates in college, and they're all just fucking boring."

"Boring?" you probe her a bit.

Sullyoon stands up from the opposite seat, and she sashays towards another chair next to you. The act makes your inhibitions drop slightly — proximity and all. She reaches for the can of beer back at her seat, and you see how defined her arm muscles are — curves, veins, and strength. You'd really like her to lock your head with that.

"Yeah, they're" — she takes another sip — "they always try to please me, and I can see through that."

"Like, uh, what usually happens?" you ask more questions without much self-doubt. The tendency to second-guess your words seems to disappear bit by bit.

Sullyoon scoffs, then there's another sip before she answers, "They act weird. I don't know how to describe it." Sullyoon looks up into the sky, reiterating her thoughts, and you follow her vision to see the stars flickering on the pitch-black blanket of the nocturne. "They just don't stay true to themselves! Yeah, that's the word."

You ponder her words. Not staying true to oneself is something that you oppose, obviously, but you also have some concern if you're falling into that category by falling for her as well — agreeing to everything she says and pretending to be someone else.

"Do you think I act weird?" you blurt out in your drunken stupor. You're a tad concerned about dishonesty, and maybe you'd get a free compliment from her for being yourself for the last 12 hours since the first encounter.

"Do you have a crush on me or something?" Sullyoon teases, looking at you with playfulness in her eyes. That smirk is killing you. "Why the fuck would you even ask that?" and she chuckles lightly.

Your eyes widen as you regain your senses for a few seconds. Her words are powerful, and you just can't answer the question she's using to interrogate your heart. All that you can do is take a sip from your can to hide the color on your cheeks.

You don't register Sullyoon's hand on your shoulder for the first second of contact. Again, the alcohol is setting in hastily. Still, your heart beats faster when her body scent reaches your nose — sweat, perfume, and some beer — and you almost choke on your drink. Your hands tremble under the weight of reality and closeness. Her mouth is agape, as if ready to do something unpredictable. You look into her eyes. There is a lot that's going on in her pupils — energy, mischief, and perhaps some desire.

You stammer out, "Come, come again?" She smells so fucking wonderful, and you wouldn't mind one bit if she calls you weird as an answer.

Then, Sullyoon just chuckles in front of your face, and you just look at her, confused.

"Just messing with ya," she utters with a smile before pulling herself away from you. Sullyoon then clinks her can with yours gently. "I'm drunk as hell now, so please excuse me."

Shakily, you bring the can to your mouth again for another sip while chuckling awkwardly.

"And no, I don't think you act weird around me," Sullyoon says.

Your heart flutters at her answer. The urge to jump into the pool out of joy is strong, but you remain mostly still as you ask her, "Really?"

Sullyoon shrugs. "Yeah, at least from what I see, I think you're often honest."

"Often?"

Another splash of pool water finds your feet and Sullyoon's. Both of you jump at the coldness, and Sullyoon goes a little further than you by hissing at the swimmers.

She turns back to meet your eyes. "I think we're gonna get all wet by the time I finish explaining this frequency adjective to you," Sullyoon states, tilting her head slightly towards the sliding doors, and you get the notion in that instant.

"We're just gonna sit on the couch and watch The Room, right?"

"What the fuck is The Room?"

"I did not hit her, it's not true! It's bullshit! I did not hit her!" Tommy then throws his water bottle away. "I did not. Oh hi, Mark."

"Oh, hey Johnny, what's up?"

Sullyoon nods beside you on the living room couch, a different can of beer that's almost full in her hand. "I see the appeal now."

"There are a bunch of weird dialogues like this, by the way. This is just one of them," you add, taking a chug off your can. "It's a fucking goldmine."

Sullyoon smiles back at you. "Splendid."

---

"Do you actually smoke?"

"This is Haewon's."

"Where are yours?"

"I don't smoke."

There are two cans of beer sitting idly on the marble sink. The area of this room is generally too small for two people, but with this amount of distance, you're fitting into it perfectly. There's the smell of scented candles that reminds you of serenity, but again, the ecstasy you've been chasing is already in front of you.

"I'm not trying this," you decline with a profuse shake of your head.

"Weren't you chugging beer like crazy earlier?" Sullyoon scoffs, breath smells of fermented wheat. She picks up a lighter to ignite the cigarette in her hand. A line of smoke rises from the opposite end from where her fingers are holding it.

"It wasn't that crazy, to be fair," you whine back. "This is, like, my, uh."

Sullyoon laughs in your face with visible signs of late-stage intoxication: lack of balance, unfocused eyes, shaky hands. "It's your eighth can tonight, by the way," and she points her thumb to the side, to the cans on the sink.

She keeps track of your beer consumption history, apparently, and you tease back, giggling, "You like me enough to count?"

"What do you think?" she plays coy, bringing the stick closer to the mouth. She doesn't take a drag yet, and you just observe the light at the end of it flickering in a slow rhythm. "Am I being a responsible sophomore, or am I having a crush on a person whom I've just met this morning?"

And you're snapped back into reality for a heartbeat. Within that timeframe, it's clear that you need more time and familiarity with Sullyoon to build her trust. You're a bit gutted that it's not so soon, to be honest, but you just hide any trace of that feeling with a small laugh.

"A person can dream, I guess," you blurt out, so unaware of how cocky you look.

"Yeah, I know I'm hot," Sullyoon scoffs, and her lips finally touch the cigarette. You watch her suck in air through her mouth. It's devastatingly attractive. Then, a puff of smoke hits your face, eliciting a few coughs from you, and you wonder how the hell she doesn't struggle with taking a drag.

"That wasn't" — and there's another cough — "hot."

"You're being obtuse," Sullyoon scoffs again. You're irked by her confidence a bit, but a part of you also finds that, in a sense, hot.

"I don't wanna get cancer," you deflect, trying your best to look strong in front of Sullyoon. Still, with this shorter height and younger age, you probably look deathly cute to her instead of intimidating. To make matters worse, she's ruffling your hair with a smile that's just making your muscles go wobbly against the bathroom door.

"You're a terrible liar," Sullyoon jokes. "I'll show you something."

Sullyoon takes another drag — soft, awfully quiet, glittering at the tip of her stick. She brings her other hand up to your mouth, and you flinch a bit out of the last remnants of your humility. Still, Sullyoon's thumb chases your lips and pries your mouth open gently. You loosen your jaw as her face moves closer towards yours.

A puff of white cloud leaves her mouth with a small push of air from her lungs, and you close your eyes once it reaches you. You block your trachea. The gust just rages in your mouth, and you let it stay there for a bit. You think you've seen this before — Joachim Trier's lens. And if your memory isn't too fuzzy and altered, what Sullyoon is doing to you right now looks stunningly ethereal.

Her breath is hot against your face. Her thumb burns your lips. Her smoke scorches the inside of your cheeks. It's one chillingly gorgeous spectacle if someone happens to stumble into this bathroom — the closeness, the white curls, the cadence of her chuckle afterwards. Seol Yoona is blowing smoke from her mouth into yours.

And you're pretty sure that Renate and Herbert are going to be ecstatic seeing you and Sullyoon reenacting their image.

A few heartbeats later, you blow a gust out of your lungs and open your eyes again. You're greeted with the sight of the dissolving vapor in front of Sullyoon's angelic features. She chuckles heartily, and she doesn't make a scene of brushing the cloud away. Her thumb is still on your lips, prying your mouth open with minimal force. She looks dreadfully pretty under the bathroom light and a layer of white puff.

"It's called shotgunning, I think," Sullyoon finally breaks the silence, and you just hum back at her as an affirmation. "I like it when we just stay like this."

"Like what?" you utter dumbly. Your brain seems to be completely fried from that puff, and you can only repeat her words and express agreement at this point.

"Close, but not too close," Sullyoon huffs before taking another drag, then there's another shotgunning. The cloud spins in your mouth, and you push it out softly. The whiteness dissipates into Sullyoon smiling in front of you and continuing her answer, "It's thrilling."

You're all dazed and enchanted by her spell — smoke and perfume. Your heart is yearning for more of her touch than just the thumb on your lips and the white puffs. You want to chase her lips, but the threat of losing her wholly looms over you. This entire thing is a thriller, honestly.

You gulp. "We're going to do this until—"

"It burns out, yeah," and Sullyoon winks. "Fun, isn't it?"

You rest your back against the door. "Then what?"

Sullyoon scoffs, and she ruffles your hair again tenderly. You just melt without an ounce of resistance — wobbly legs, slack arms. Her other hand is still holding the stick between her fingers. There's a line of smoke floating from the bright end.

"I don't know, really," Sullyoon answers your question, hand leaving your hair and reaching for her beer on the side. Your eyes are locked on the light from her cigarette, only to be told, "Look at me, pretty boy."

The name sends a shiver down your spine, obviously, and you shift your gaze back to her. She looks gorgeous as always: eyes, nose, lips. Now, with the label, you'd really love to just let her do whatever the hell she pleases with you.

"You look like a delicacy," Sullyoon says, and she takes another sip off her can. The alcohol helps your heart from beating too fast from the notion of you being her metaphorical dinner to satiate her apparent lust. "I wanna fucking devour you, to be honest."

Her eyes are still locked on yours. The duration of the prolonged eye contact should make you feel uneasy under sobriety, but you're leaning in closer towards Sullyoon as she puts her can away from her mouth. You're met with the sight of her wet lips glistening in the low light of the bathroom. Suddenly, however, Sullyoon pushes you back with her beer can against the door, eliciting a moan out of your mouth, knocking the air out of your lungs.

"Do as I say, pretty boy," Sullyoon commands, moving so awfully close to you that her lips almost touch yours. She doesn't make a show of smoking into your mouth anymore. The distance is gnawing at your heart, but with that assertion, you don't dare closing that gap.

You smile weakly with the surmounting excitement running in your veins. It's really happening right now — the golden, clear-cut chance with your crush. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers quiver incessantly. Your pupils are certainly dilating.

Still, the playful edge in you emerges for a bit. "What if I don't?"

Sullyoon smirks, and a scoff leaves her mouth. "I'm sure you're not that stupid, right?"

"Definitely," and you chuckle in her face. It's disgustingly brave. "Maybe."

Sullyoon tilts her head a bit, then she faux begs, "Take off your shorts, pretty please?"

There's a certain kind of teasing in your movements as you remove the garments from your waist. It's to your best knowledge from being an engineering student. It's to your utmost ability to move when having a beer can on your chest and the bathroom door on your back. You don't really expect her to be more aroused by the swaying of your hips or the sultry-drunk expressions from you.

Sullyoon smiles at your enthusiasm, at least. You're elated with that. Then, she peers down to see your lush hair seeping from under the shorts.

"You don't even trim it," she states, still pinning you against the door with her beer can. The force lessens a bit, though. "Fucking disgusting," and she completes her insult with a devilish smile.

You push your boxers and shorts down further, lifting your legs to help with the removal. At a certain point, your cock springs out with eagerness, spreading precum over her casual clothes. Your body is shivering with anticipation and anxiety, while Sullyoon observes the entirety of you, taking a few drags and blowing the smoke onto your face.

Eventually, your bottom half is free of clothes. The vulnerability is terrifying under Sullyoon's impish expression. Her eyes scan all over your exposed body just to elicit some more goosebumps on your skin. You're smiling weakly out of intoxication, regardless. Your affection for her is running deadly deep.

She takes a drag, removing the can from your chest. You feel you can breathe properly again. There's this slightly numbing pain in your ribs, but you're too drunk and lusted-out to give any fucks about that. She's taller than you are. She's older than you are. She's stronger than you are. This is nauseatingly perfect.

"Go to the toilet," Sullyoon issues another order, and she moves out of the way to let you walk with boxers and pants on your ankles.

You take a few clumsy steps to the toilet, feeling Sullyoon's eyes on you. It's probably the natural response for you to feel the need to pee upon seeing the ceramic bowl. So, you aim your hard cock towards the water body. It's difficult with an erection, but—

"I've always wanted to do this." Sullyoon's chest is pressed against your back. Her left hand slides all over your abdomen, while the right is still holding the borrowed cigarette and the beer can. Of course, you moan with pleasure and her warmth. She stops around your lushness above your cock, eventually, and she gives it a soft press.

"Fuck," you whine whorishly. She gives it another press, and the tingle in your bladder becomes stronger. You can barely stand right now.

"Piss for Mommy, pretty boy, piss all that beer out," Sullyoon coos, and you feel her chin on your right shoulder. She takes another inhale of the nicotine, and you can only watch the smoke flying out of her mouth from beside you. Her left hand moves down a little more to help with the aim under the state of erection. She wraps her hand around your cock, bending it down a bit more.

That's when it starts for you.

There's the sound of your fluid hitting the water body in the toilet — slightly yellowish. Your body loosens up a bit. Sullyoon hums approvingly as a response, then, "It's so hard. I'm sure it's because of me, right?"

"Yes, Mommy," you speak, the moniker slipping out too easily. Your eyes are locked on your firmly held shaft that's still leaking.

Sullyoon takes another drag, blowing the smoke below her. The cloud envelops your cock, and you find the image somewhat cinematic, to be honest. You keep your piss consistent, forcing it out of the bladder in a powerful stream against the ceramic and the toilet water.

"Mommy's pissy boy," Sullyoon whispers, prompting a moan out of your mouth. Your pliability has never reached such high, and it's Seol Yoona — your crush — who helps turn your brain into a mush. "You're such a nasty little slut."

You repeat mindlessly, "I'm Mommy's pissy boy. I'm Mommy's little slut."

Sullyoon puts the cigarette into your mouth, blowing a puff into your right ear. The cloud is warm on your lobe. The drag is warm between your lips. "Take a drag, pretty boy."

You're too stupid and wasted right now to resist. There's a cough when the smoke hits those tiny bags in your lungs, and puffs leave your mouth. The stick doesn't fall, still. That's your first time smoking, and being held by the cock by your crush while pissing does elevate the experience by a margin.

Down below, your stream goes down in its intensity. A straight line becomes a curved one, and a curved one becomes droplets. The noise coming from the ceramic becomes quieter, and Sullyoon helps you shake the last few beads out of your slit. Your body can barely stand up now. You can just collapse within Sullyoon's embrace, really.

She holds you like that for a while, letting you bask in her warmth and your own vulnerability. You let out a few whines from between your lips as the drag remains in your mouth. Every breath is punctuated with a puff leaving with the moans. Then, Sullyoon sways from side to side languidly, and you follow promptly. She's humming some tune that you don't recognize — perfect cadence, almost somber tone.

"Such a good boy for Mommy," Sullyoon praises you, chin still on your right shoulder. Your heart jumps at the compliment, obviously, as you dance along with her.

"Thank you, Mommy," you say feebly, a bit muffled by the cigarette. Sullyoon reclaims it from your mouth with her fingers, eventually. Another puff is blown out of her mouth.

"Almost burned out," Sullyoon says.

Your eyes are still looking into the wall in front of you, mostly thoughtlessly except for the movements and her care. "What's burning out?" you ask, shifting your weight between the legs for the nocturnal waltz.

Another exhale, another white gust, another hum — Sullyoon answers, "The drag — this is my only one."

"Ask for one more from Haewon, Mommy."

But Sullyoon just stays there, hugging you from behind, lingering with you. Her left hand is still on your hard cock. A few more puffs pass by your ear as you two move from side to side. The room smells of scented candles.

"I wanna stay like this," Sullyoon finally says, and she presses the cigarette against the wall in front of you. There's an inky mark on the vast whiteness of the bathroom wall. "You smell like beer, by the way," and she finally takes a deep breath from something that isn't a cigarette: you.

The exposure to Sullyoon's proximity just pierces all of your defenses. Just this morning, if someone told you that you'll be in this situation — your crush holding your dick while you're peeing — you'd tell them to fuck the hell off. Right now, you don't know if it's the alcohol that's doing the talking, but you think it's real — her affection, her body against yours, her words.

Within her embrace, you've never felt weaker than right now.

The result was less “prepared” and more “crime scene sanitized by guilty people.” Ryujin had hidden anything she personally considered embarrassing. Unfortunately, Ryujin’s definition of embarrassing was deeply unreliable. Yuna had spent twenty minutes asking if certain things counted as evidence. Lia had told her that if she had to ask, the answer was yes. Chaeryeong had focused on food, because apparently she was the only person here with survival instincts. Yeji had tried to keep everyone calm. I had tried to help, nobody believed me.

“You are pacing,” Lia said from the kitchen island. “I am assessing the room.” “You have assessed the room nine times.” “Then the room should feel grateful.”

Ryujin leaned against the counter with a bottle of water in hand “You know, for someone who owns this entire floor, you look like a man waiting for his landlord to inspect the apartment.”

“TWICE is coming here.” “Yes.” “All of TWICE.” “Yes.” “And you think that is normal.”

Ryujin took a sip of water “No. I think it is funny.” Yuna appeared from the hallway holding a throw pillow “Where do we put this?” I looked at it “On the couch.” She looked down, then back at me “But what if Sana unnie touches it and somehow knows?”

“Knows what?” “I don’t know. That’s the danger.”

Lia closed her eyes “Please put the pillow down.” Yuna placed it on the couch very carefully, as if the fabric had legal consequences. Chaeryeong walked in with another tray of snacks “Do you think this is enough?” I looked at the table. There were already enough snacks to sustain a small diplomatic summit “Yes.” Chaeryeong frowned “But Momo sunbaenim is coming.” I paused “Good point, get double— no triple the amount.” Chaeryeong immediately turned back toward the kitchen. Ryujin pointed after her “See? That’s leadership.” Yeji looked toward the elevator doors “She’s not wrong.” I rubbed my forehead “Outstanding. We are preparing for TWICE like a siege.”

The elevator chimed again. This time, the doors opened and the siege arrived.

Jihyo stepped out first. She entered like a person who had already read the room, judged the room, and decided she could manage the room before her second foot crossed the threshold.

John followed behind her carrying a folder, looking like a man who had been warned about danger and still walked into it for love, employment, or stupidity. Possibly all three.

Mina came next. Calm. Elegant. Quiet. Her eyes moved across the Top Floor once, then again. Not like someone admiring luxury. Like someone evaluating asset value, security lines, privacy vulnerabilities, and whether the lighting choices were tasteful enough to survive wealth. That honestly made me uncomfortable.

Then came Nayeon. Smiling. Which meant one thing… incoming damage.

Sana appeared behind her, already looking around with delighted curiosity.

Jeongyeon followed with the dry expression of someone expecting nonsense and being disappointed only by how quickly it began.

Momo entered and immediately looked toward the food.

Chaeyoung’s eyes widened as she took in the lounge.

Dahyun looked like she was already preparing commentary.

Tzuyu stepped in last, quiet and composed, then looked through the glass wall toward the city view.

For a moment, everyone simply stood there TWICE looking at the Top Floor. ITZY looking at TWICE. John looking like he wanted hazard pay. Me looking for exits in a floor I owned. Then Nayeon smiled wider “So this is where you’ve been hiding them.” I sighed “Good afternoon to you too.”

Sana moved past her with sparkling eyes “This is so pretty.” Dahyun looked around slowly “Pretty? This is not pretty. This is expensive with emotional intent.” Ryujin pointed at her.

“I like her.” “I like me too,” Dahyun replied immediately. Yuna leaned toward Lia and whispered, “I fear her.” “You should,” Lia whispered back.

Jihyo looked at the lounge, then the kitchen, then the hallway “The entire place is bigger than I expected.” John snorted. “You expected modesty from Ben? I looked at him “You live with TWICE.”

“That is unrelated.” Mina finally spoke “It’s well-designed.” Everyone turned toward her. Her tone was calm, almost neutral but somehow, it felt like passing an exam. I nodded once “Thank you.”

Ryujin leaned toward Yuna “Rich people just communicated in furniture language.” Yuna whispered back, “I think that was intimacy.”

“It was not,” I said. Mina sipped from the bottled water Chaeryeong had handed her without anyone noticing “It was not.” Ryujin pointed between us “That’s what rich people would say.” John rubbed both hands over his face “We have been here for THIRTY seconds.” Momo, meanwhile, had reached the snacks. Chaeryeong appeared beside her almost instantly “I made more, just in case.” Momo looked at her. Then at the food. Then back at her “You are very thoughtful.” Chaeryeong turned pink.

Ryujin whispered, “Chaeryeong has secured Momo.” “Good,” Lia said. “That may save us later.” Yeji stepped forward, leader smile firmly in place “Welcome to the Top Floor.”

Jihyo smiled at her “Thank you for having us.” Nayeon’s eyes moved from Yeji to me. Then back to Yeji. Then to my hand, which Yeji was not holding. Her smile sharpened “So this is a wellness space?”

“Yes,” Yeji said carefully. Nayeon looked around “With private rooms?” Yeji’s expression did not change. Ryujin choked on her water. Yuna immediately stared at the ceiling. Lia closed her eyes. I looked at John. John looked at me. We both understood that the first shot had been fired. Jihyo turned toward Nayeon.

“Nayeon.” “What? I’m asking about the facilities.” Jeongyeon crossed her arms “You are asking about the facilities like a criminal.” Dahyun lifted one finger “For accuracy, some criminals have more subtlety.” Nayeon looked delighted “I missed this.” “You were with them this morning,” John muttered. “And I missed this version.” Sana looped an arm through Nayeon’s “Can we have a tour?”

The question sounded innocent. It was not. But refusing would be worse so I glanced at Yeji. Yeji looked back at me.

Her expression said, You caused this. Mine said, I know.

So we gave TWICE the tour. The lounge went first. Then the kitchen. Then the gym. Then the recovery room. Then the massage room, which Ryujin tried very hard to walk past too quickly. Unfortunately, Sana noticed “Oh?” she said. Ryujin froze. Yuna made a tiny delighted sound. Lia muttered, “Here we go.” Sana looked from Ryujin to me. Then smiled “Useful room?” Ryujin turned toward her with impressive speed “For recovery.”

“Of course.” “Physical recovery.” “Of course.” Nayeon leaned in from behind Sana “Why are we saying of course like that?” “Because Ryujin is lying badly,” Dahyun said. Ryujin pointed at her “You are dangerous.” Dahyun smiled “So I have been told.”

Yeji cleared her throat “This room is mainly for stretching, therapy, and post-practice recovery.” Jihyo looked at the equipment “Actually, this is impressive.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Mina looked at the room. Then at me. “Imported?”

“Mostly.” “Custom?” “Some.” “Hmm, you have good taste.”

Ryujin whispered to Yuna, “They’re doing it again.” Yuna nodded solemnly “Furniture language.”

Mina glanced at both of them. They immediately stopped whispering.

John leaned toward me “I enjoy when other people experience Mina’s quiet intimidation.” “It is not intimidation,” Mina said from across the room. John closed his eyes “See?”

The tour continued. The more TWICE saw, the more the jokes sharpened. The private dining area became “Ben’s idol bunker”. The lounge became “the world’s most expensive emotional support room”. The city-facing balcony became “where rich people stare dramatically after making bad decisions” I did not deny that one.

Then Nayeon saw the private suite hallway. She stopped. Looked at the hallway. Looked at Yeji, then at me. Her entire face lit up.

“Oh.” “No,” I said immediately. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.”

She turned to Jihyo “He built Yeji a honeymoon suite.”

Yeji’s face went red instantly “I— That’s not—” Ryujin appeared behind her “It is emotionally a honeymoon suite.” Yuna nodded “With witnesses.” Lia sighed “Why are we adding witnesses?” Dahyun placed a hand over her heart “For the documentary.” “No documentary,” Jihyo said.

Chaeyoung looked around “Honestly, this whole place does feel like a secret married-life set.” Yeji made a small helpless sound. I stared at the wall. John patted my shoulder “Congratulations.”

“I hate you.” “No, you don’t.”

Mina looked toward Yeji, then me. Her expression remained unreadable. But her voice was soft “It suits you.” That quieted the hallway more than the jokes had. Yeji looked at Mina. Then nodded “Thank you.”

For half a second, the room breathed. Then Sana smiled “Still honeymoon suite.” Yeji covered her face. The tour ended in the main lounge. Everyone settled into scattered seats across couches, armchairs, and stools. TWICE took over the space with a kind of terrifying ease. ITZY looked both overwhelmed and fascinated. Jihyo waited until everyone had drinks. Then she placed her cup down.

The sound was soft. But it changed the room. I noticed first. Then Yeji, John, and Mina. Jihyo looked across the room “This visit is not only social.” There it was. I leaned back slightly. John avoided my eyes. Ryujin looked between us “Oh no.” Yuna straightened, Lia’s expression sharpened, Chaeryeong went still. Jihyo continued “If TWICE and ITZY are going to be involved in the retreat Ben proposed, then everyone in this room needs to understand the risk of being honest.”

I frowned “Jihyo.” she looked at me “You called me.”

“I called for advice.” “And received structure.” “That is not the same thing.” “It is better.” John muttered, “She has you there.”

I glared at him, the Jihyo lifted the folder John had been holding. My blood went cold.

“No…” Ryujin’s eyes widened “What is that?” “Paperwork,” John said gravely. Yuna gasped “Ben predicted her.” “I feared her,” I corrected. Jihyo opened the folder “These are NDAs.”

The air shifted. Not badly, but seriously. ITZY looked at the papers. Then at TWICE. Then at me. Yeji’s posture went still. She knew enough to understand why.

Lia was already watching the wording from where she sat. Chaeryeong’s hands folded in her lap. Yuna’s playfulness dimmed. Ryujin leaned forward, quieter now. Jihyo noticed the change and softened her voice “This is not to silence you.” She looked at each of them “It is so everyone can speak honestly without endangering anyone else”. That mattered and the room held onto it.

Jihyo continued “TWICE knows the general shape of what has been happening with Ben and ITZY. Ben and Yeji know the general shape of what has been happening with John and TWICE. But general shapes are not enough if both groups are about to share space privately for a week or more.” Yuna glanced at me. Lia glanced at Yeji. Chaeryeong looked down at the papers.

Ryujin exhaled “So this is mutual.” “Yes,” Jihyo said. Nayeon leaned back, less teasing now “We are not here to expose you.” Sana nodded “Or judge you.” Jeongyeon added, “We are here because secrets are dangerous when people keep tripping over them.” Dahyun lifted her hand slightly “And because Jihyo said we were coming.” Jihyo looked at her. Dahyun smiled “Respectfully.” Mina spoke quietly from her chair “Protection first. Explanation after.”

That settled the room more than anything else. Yeji reached for the first copy. She did not rush. She’s already done this before to understand, then signed. Simple. Steady, leader first.

Ryujin watched her. Then picked up a pen “This covers emotional crimes too?” John looked at her “What?”

“Just asking.” Jihyo did not blink “Unfortunately, no.” “Shame.” Ryujin signed.

Yuna took hers next. She scanned the page, lips pressed together in concentration. Then signed with more care than her jokes would have suggested.

Lia read hers fully. Twice. Then she looked up. “This protects both sides equally?” Jihyo nodded “It does.” Lia signed.

Chaeryeong held hers the longest. Not because she was resisting, but because she was careful. She looked at Jihyo. “If someone becomes uncomfortable later?” Jihyo’s face softened “Then they can say so. The NDA protects information. It does not force participation.” Chaeryeong nodded. Then signed.

The pens sounded louder than it should have when everyone finally set them down.

Jihyo gathered the papers. John placed them back in the folder and suddenly, the room felt different. Not safer exactly. Just more honest. Jihyo looked toward me briefly. I did not like that look. It was the look of a woman about to push the next domino. She turned back to ITZY “Now we can speak properly.”

Nayeon sat up. Sana’s hand found Jihyo’s arm for a second. Jeongyeon leaned back, watching ITZY carefully. Momo stopped eating. Dahyun’s expression settled. Chaeyoung looked thoughtful. Tzuyu’s gaze moved toward John. Mina held her tea with both hands. Jihyo spoke first.

“TWICE has an arrangement with John.” No one interrupted. That alone said everything. Jihyo continued. “It started messy. Not because anyone wanted to hurt each other, but because care became complicated before any of us had language for it.”

My eyes shifted toward Yeji. She was listening closely. So were the others. Jihyo glanced at John. He did not look away “There are boundaries,” she said. “There is consent. There is rotation. There are rules we built because without them, someone would eventually feel forgotten, or guilty, or responsible for too much.”

Ryujin’s eyebrows lifted “Rotation?” Nayeon smiled faintly “There it is.” Ryujin looked at her “So you have a schedule?” John closed his eyes. Ryujin leaned forward “Like an actual romantic calendar?” Dahyun coughed into her hand. Yuna whispered, “She means horny calendar, we told her to be polite.” “Yuna,” Yeji said weakly. “What? She did.”

Jihyo sighed, but her mouth twitched “In less… Ryujin terms, yes. We have a system.” Lia’s question came quietly “And everyone agreed?”

“Yes,” Jihyo said with no hesitation “That is the only reason it works.” Chaeryeong looked toward John “How do you handle it?” John exhaled “Badly at first.” Nayeon snorted “Still badly sometimes.” John pointed at her “Thank you for the support.”

“You’re welcome.” Jihyo continued before they could spiral “John does not belong to a schedule. The schedule exists so none of us hurt each other by accident.” That landed. Especially with Yeji and me. Yuna leaned forward “So nobody feels left out?” The question was too soft to be a joke. Nayeon’s smile gentled “Sometimes feelings still happen.” Sana nodded “But it helps when nobody has to guess where they stand.” Tzuyu spoke quietly. “And when no one is punished for needing reassurance.”

The room went still. Yuna looked down. Ryujin stopped moving. Lia’s fingers tightened around her cup. Chaeryeong looked at the floor. Yeji’s hand shifted beside mine. Jihyo looked at ITZY with the calm of someone who knew exactly where the sentence had landed “That is why I wanted this conversation before the retreat,” she said. “Not because you need to copy us.” Her eyes moved to Ryujin. Then to Yuna. Then to Lia. Then to Chaeryeong. Then to Yeji. And finally, to me “Do not copy us just because we survived our version.”

“Build what fits you.” “But build it honestly.”

That sentence settled into the room like a rule nobody had to write down. Ryujin leaned back. “So TWICE built rules first,” she looked at all of us “And we built emotional chaos first.” Dahyun nodded. “That is a very accurate meeting summary.” Lia sighed “Unfortunately.”

Yuna glanced to both me and Yeji “So we are not broken.” The sentence was almost too quiet. Jihyo looked at her “No. God no.” Mina spoke next “You are unfinished.”

Yuna blinked. Mina’s expression remained calm. “There is a difference.”

For some reason, that hit harder. Yuna nodded slowly. Chaeryeong looked at Mina too. So did Lia. Ben and Mina communicating in wealth language had been strange. But Mina communicating in quiet precision was worse. It landed cleanly.

Jihyo let the silence stay for a while. Then John, because he was John, ruined it with mercy. “For the record, the rotation system also prevents Nayeon from starting coups.” Nayeon gasped “Excuse you?” Jeongyeon looked at ITZY “He’s not wrong.” Sana nodded “Sometimes coups are romantic.” Dahyun lifted a hand “Depends on the branding.” Tzuyu nodded seriously “Some coups need better scheduling.” John stared at all of them “This is exactly why we needed rules.”

Ryujin smiled “I respect this group deeply.” “I fear them,” Lia said. “Both,” Chaeryeong whispered.

The room laughed. Not because everything was simple now. Because for the first time, the impossible thing had been said out loud and nobody had shattered. That mattered. Then Jihyo turned the conversation toward the retreat “We still need to make this approvable.” Everyone groaned at the same time. Jihyo ignored it. “Publicly, this becomes a senior-junior wellness retreat. TWICE and ITZY. Recovery, mentorship, bonding, privacy.” Dahyun lifted a hand “Can the official name be less boring?”

“No.” “Cruel.”

John leaned forward “It gives JYP a clean reason to approve schedule movement.” “And it prevents speculation,” Lia said. “Exactly,” Jihyo replied.

I nodded “I’ll cover the retreat.” The room went silent. Not because they were surprised. Because everyone had been waiting for me to say something financially irresponsible. Jihyo looked at me like she had expected it. John looked tired because he had expected it too. Yeji looked like she wanted to argue but knew the argument would be pointless. Mina, however, simply lifted her tea “Half…” I looked at her “Excuse me?”

“Half,” Mina repeated calmly. “You cover ITZY. I cover TWICE.” “That is unnecessary.” “So is most of what you do.”

The room went quiet. Ryujin slowly leaned toward Yuna. “Are rich people allowed to talk to each other like that?” Yuna whispered back, “I think this is flirting in tax brackets.” “It is not flirting,” I said. Mina sipped her tea “It is accounting and logistics.” John rubbed both hands over his face “I hate when wealthy people argue. It sounds like two countries negotiating borders.” Nayeon leaned forward with interest “Wait. Is this how rich people fight?” Dahyun nodded thoughtfully “It’s quieter than expected.” “Usually we pay people to fight to the death for us as we watch” I added in as a joke. Mina cut me off “Shush, we don’t discuss that outside the walls, Ben.”

And honestly, I don’t know what scares me more, Mina making a joke or if that wasn’t a joke at all. I wasn’t going to poke that bear ever again, though.  Chaeyoung looked at me, then Mina.

“Are we witnessing the beginning of a secret takeover of JYPE?” Mina blinked “Secret?” I frowned “Takeover?” John pointed at both of us “That response was somehow worse.” Ryujin slowly sat up “Hold on. You both objected to different parts.” Yuna’s eyes widened “Oh my God.” Lia closed her eyes “Please do not encourage this.” Ryujin ignored her completely “Mina unnie objected to it being secret. Ben objected to it being called a takeover.” Dahyun gasped softly “That means they’ve considered a non-secret non-takeover.”

I stared at her.

“That is not what that means.” Mina took a calm sip of tea “A takeover implies disruption.”

The room went silent. John’s head slowly turned toward her. Mina continued, serene. “Poor management creates disruption. Good management creates continuity.” I looked at her. “That is true.” John stood halfway from his seat “No.” I frowned “What?”

“You agreed too fast.” “Because she is correct.”

Mina nodded once “Under better management, costs would be cleaner, staff retention would improve, artist wellness would have actual infrastructure, and food quality would apparently become a measurable morale factor.” Momo nodded seriously “It would.” Chaeryeong whispered, “It really would.” I leaned back, considering it despite myself “Scheduling inefficiencies would need work too.” Jihyo slowly turned toward me “Ben.”

“What?”

Mina looked at me. “Security structure as well.” “Obviously.” “Privacy leaks.” “First quarter priority.” “Artist recovery spaces.” “Non-negotiable.”

The room went so quiet that even Ryujin looked concerned. John pointed between us with both hands “This is what I mean. This is terrifying. You two are planning corporate reform like normal people discuss lunch.” Yuna leaned toward Ryujin “This is flirting in tax brackets again.”

“It is not flirting,” I said. Mina said, “It is governance.” John looked physically unwell “That is worse.”

Nayeon raised her hand “As a future beneficiary of improved snack policy, I support the polite coup.” “It is not a coup,” Mina said. I added, “It would be an acquisition of operational influence.” Jihyo closed her eyes “You are both making it worse.” Dahyun looked delighted “Can the documentary be called Hostile Wellness?” “No documentary,” Jihyo and I said at the same time. Chaeyoung pointed at us “That sounded like management alignment.”

John stood fully “Nope. Private meeting. Now. Before the two economic superpowers draft a five-year plan on a napkin.” The room exploded. Jihyo stood as well, already composed “Ben. Yeji. John. Mina. With me.” Ryujin raised her hand “Why not me?” Mina looked at her “Because this part involves money.” Ryujin lowered her hand immediately “Valid.” Yuna raised her hand “What about me?” Jihyo smiled “You would make it worse.” Yuna nodded “Also valid.”

Lia leaned back “I will stay here and monitor the damage.” Dahyun smiled at her “That implies you can stop it.” Lia looked at TWICE. Then at ITZY. Then sighed “I cannot.” Yeji squeezed my hand once before standing. Her touch said what her face did not… survive.

We moved into the smaller conference room near the back of the Top Floor. The door closed behind us. The private meeting was exactly as exhausting as I expected, maybe worse. Jihyo laid out the cover story. John handled scheduling optics. Mina handled privacy logistics with terrifying calm. Yeji explained why ITZY needed the space in a way that made the whole room go quiet. Not because she dramatized it. Because she did not “They can keep working,” Yeji said. “We all can. That doesn’t mean we’re okay.” That one sentence made Jihyo stop writing. John looked down. Mina’s expression softened by half a degree. I looked at Yeji. And for a moment, I remembered again why she was the one I came home to. Then the meeting became numbers.

Schedule movement. Staff compensation. Security shifts. Media cover. Travel routes. Possible venues. Medical access. Emergency exits. Vehicle swaps. Privacy clauses. JYP objections. JYP counter-objections. JYP emotional grievance fees.

That last one was John’s idea. Jihyo told him not to call it that. Mina suggested “disruption compensation.” John said that sounded less fun. I agreed with Mina. John called me a traitor. It was productive. Unfortunately. By the time the private meeting ended, my brain felt like it had been folded into a spreadsheet.

Vacation logistics. JYP approval. Schedule compensation. Security rotation. Privacy clauses. Mina and I politely arguing over money while John looked like he wanted to walk into the sea.

It should have been the dangerous part of the afternoon. It was not.

The dangerous part was the silence that greeted us when we stepped back into the main lounge. Not true silence. Way worse. The kind of silence that followed laughter too quickly. John stopped beside me. His eyes moved across the room. Nayeon was smiling. Ryujin was smiling. Yuna was sitting with her knees pulled up on the sofa, looking entirely too proud of herself. Sana looked delighted. Dahyun looked like she had just witnessed the greatest variety show segment of her career. Lia was staring into the middle distance like she had survived information she did not ask for. Chaeryeong looked like someone had gently handed her a grenade and called it friendship.

John inhaled slowly “They talked.” “Obviously.” “About us?”

I looked at Ryujin. Ryujin smiled wider. I looked at Nayeon. Nayeon smiled wider than that. “We’re dead,” I said. John nodded “Historically, yes.”

Jihyo stepped in behind us, took one look at the room, and immediately closed her eyes “What did you do?” Nayeon pointed at herself innocently “Why are you looking at me?”

“Because I know you.” “That is profiling.” “That is experience.”

Ryujin leaned back on the couch, arms folded behind her head “In our defense, nobody told us we were not allowed to compare notes.” Lia turned toward her “We absolutely did not need to compare notes. Sana lifted a hand “I disagree. This was very educational.” Chaeryeong’s voice came faintly from the edge of the sofa “I learned things I did not know could be discussed during daylight.” Yuna nodded solemnly “I also learned things.” I looked at her “You contributed things.” Yuna blinked at me with perfect innocence “It only happened yesterday. I still have fresh perspective.” Yeji made a small sound beside me. Mina, calm as ever, looked from Yuna to Ryujin to Nayeon. Then she took one careful sip of tea “I see we left the wrong people unsupervised.” John pointed at her “Thank you.” Nayeon gasped “Excuse me. We were bonding.”

“You were exchanging classified trauma,” John said. “Classified?” Ryujin repeated. “We signed the NDA.” Yuna immediately pointed at her “She’s right.” Dahyun nodded with frightening seriousness “Legally, the gossip was protected.” I stared at the ceiling “Fantastic. Wonderful. The law betrayed us.”

Nayeon crossed one leg over the other, looking far too pleased “Honestly, Ben, you should be proud. ITZY speaks very highly of your dedication.” Ryujin nodded “Very dedicated.” Yuna nodded too “Extremely committed.” Lia covered her face. Chaeryeong whispered, “Why are we like this?” Sana leaned toward her. “You get used to it.”

“No, she won’t,” Mina said quietly. John looked at Nayeon “What did you tell them?” Nayeon smiled “Only what was relevant.” “That means everything.” “Not everything.” Jihyo opened one eye “Nayeon.” Nayeon sighed dramatically “Fine. Some highlights.” John took one step back “No.” Ryujin’s eyes lit up “Oh, highlights is a good word.”

That was when I noticed the couch cushions. One had been flipped forward. Another had been pushed against the armrest. A third was somehow on the floor. I looked at Ryujin. She smiled.

“No.” “What?” she asked sweetly. “You demonstrated.” Ryujin’s smile widened “I clarified.” Lia made a pained sound “She clarified too much.” Chaeryeong nodded faintly, still staring at the floor “I understand angles now.” I closed my eyes “Outstanding.” Yuna lifted one hand “For the record, my contribution was tasteful.” Yeji turned toward her “Yuna.” “It was! I told it like a story.” Ryujin snorted “She narrated it like a coming-of-age drama with suspiciously detailed pacing.” Yuna looked offended “It was my first time. I’m allowed to have narrative structure.”

Sana clasped her hands together “It was actually very moving.” Dahyun nodded “And then immediately not moving.” Nayeon leaned toward John “TWICE also provided balance.” John stared at her “What does that mean?”

“It means we shared too.” His face went blank “All of you?” Jeongyeon shrugged “It seemed fair.” Momo nodded “They had questions.” Tzuyu added calmly, “Some of them were practical.” John looked at Jihyo. Jihyo did not meet his eyes. John’s jaw dropped “You too?” Jihyo cleared her throat “I couldn’t control damage I wasn’t there for.” Nayeon nodded solemnly “Leader duties.”

John looked like he had just been betrayed by democracy.

Ryujin’s eyes sparkled “Oh, highlights is definitely the right word.” I pointed at her “You.” Ryujin pointed at herself. “Me?” “You are so doing aegyo TikToks with JYP.”

The room exploded. Ryujin’s mouth dropped open, Yuna screamed into a pillow, Dahyun slapped the arm of the couch, Sana nearly fell sideways into Momo, Lia looked horrified and amused at the same time, Chaeryeong covered her mouth with both hands, Yeji turned to me with wide eyes “Ben.”

“What? She knew the risk.” Ryujin stood halfway from the couch. “That is a cruel and unjust punishment.” “It is character development.” “It is psychological warfare.” “It is content.”

John, however, did not laugh. He turned toward me slowly, horror spreading across his face like I had just introduced a new category of violence into the world “Wait.” I looked at him “What?”

“You can assign idol punishment content?”

“No”. Ryujin pointed at me “He absolutely can.” John’s eyes widened “Jihyo.” Jihyo did not look at him “Do not drag me into this.” John turned to Nayeon “Nayeon.” Nayeon smiled sweetly “Yes, manager-nim?”

“You are not getting ideas.” Her smile changed. Not brighter. Worse, it was sharper “Oh?” she said, tilting her head. “Does that mean you’ll punish me later tonight for being a bad girl?” The room froze.

I felt my soul leave my body in solidarity with John’s. John stopped breathing. Jihyo’s eyes snapped open. Mina looked into her tea like it had personally disappointed her. Chaeryeong made a tiny sound. Lia whispered, “Oh my God.” Ryujin slowly sat back down, reverent. Yuna looked like she had just found a new religion. Nayeon only shrugged, perfectly shameless “What?” she said. “They signed the NDAs. I don’t have to perform anymore.”

John covered his face with both hands “I miss five minutes ago.” “No, you don’t,” Nayeon said. “I do.” “You love me.” “That is unrelated to my suffering.” Jihyo pointed at Nayeon without looking at her “You are why we need paperwork.” Nayeon smiled “And yet everyone always thanks me later.” Dahyun raised a finger “She has a point.” “No, she does not,” John and I said at the same time.

That made the room laugh harder. The laughter should have made everything lighter. It did. For a while. But as the room kept moving around me, as TWICE and ITZY laughed together like the impossible had somehow become social, I felt something quiet inside me tighten.

First it was my space. Then it was ITZY’s shelter. Then it became Yeji’s sanctuary. Then Ryujin’s trouble. Then Lia’s waiting room. Then Yuna’s doorway. Then Chaeryeong’s quiet truth.

Now TWICE was here. John was here. Jihyo had paperwork. Mina had the audacity to match my money. Nayeon had no shame. And everyone was laughing like this was survivable. Maybe it was and maybe that was the problem. I stepped away before I realized I had moved. Not dramatically. Not enough for the room to stop. Just one step after the other. Past the lounge. Past the hallway. Toward the open balcony where the city air came colder through the glass door.

The noise faded behind me. For the first time all day, no one followed immediately. Good. I needed the silence. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me. The air hit my face sharp enough to feel real. For a while, I only stood there. Then I reached into my pocket. The cigarette was not supposed to be there. Which was a lie. Old habits did not disappear just because life became expensive and complicated. They waited like bad friends.

I lit it with my back to the city and took one slow drag. The smoke burned in a way I had not missed and missed anyway. I exhaled toward the skyline.

“Didn’t know you still did that.”

I did not turn around. John closed the balcony door behind him. He stood beside me, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city. For a while, he said nothing. That was how I knew he was worried.

John made jokes when he was annoyed. He made insults when he was scared. Silence meant he was trying to be careful.

“I don’t,” I said. He glanced at the cigarette “Convincing.” I looked down at it “Today is an exception.” “Today has been an exception since you slept with Yeji.” I snorted “Don’t get meta with me, jackass.” “I am emotionally exhausted. I’ll get whatever the hell I want.”

We stood in the cold for a few seconds. Behind the glass, the room glowed warm. The girls moved like silhouettes through the light. TWICE and ITZY. Two impossible systems orbiting two very tired men. John followed my gaze.

“Do you regret it?”

I knew what he meant. Not the cigarette. Not the money. Not the vacation. All of it.

Me and ITZY, Yeji, Ryujin, Yuna, Lia’s careful truth, Chaeryeong’s quiet waiting, Waterbomb, The Top Floor, The phone call, The door I had opened.

I took another drag, slower this time “No.” John looked at me. I exhaled “It is insane.” “That wasn’t the question.” “It is complicated.” “Still not the question.” “It might ruin me.” “That one is closer.”

I smiled faintly. Then looked back through the glass. Yeji was laughing at something Sana had said. Yuna was leaning toward Dahyun. Ryujin and Nayeon looked like a national security threat. Lia was speaking quietly with Jeongyeon. Chaeryeong was offering Momo more food. Mina sat near Jihyo, calmer than a meditating monk.

And somehow, in the middle of all of it, the Top Floor looked less like containment. More like proof.

“No,” I said finally. “I don’t regret it.” John’s shoulder relaxed by half an inch. I noticed. Of course I noticed. He always hated that. “Crazy as it is,” I continued, “I’m thankful.” John immediately grimaced “Disgusting.” I looked at him “What?” “Male emotional honesty in private. Horrible. Vile. We need to move on.” I laughed once “There he is.” John cleared his throat “Speaking of moving on, I’ve been thinking about something important.” “If this is another emotional grievance fee—” “TWICE recreational fund.”

I stared at him. The cigarette paused halfway to my mouth “What?” “TWICE recreational fund.” “No.” “You didn’t even let me finish.” “I heard enough.” “ITZY has one.” “ITZY has one because it’s out my own pocket.” “Exactly. Precedent.” “You are literally the manager of Mina— she’s wealthier than me.” “For now.” My eyes narrowed, his instinct was always on point. “There it is.” I looked away. “What?” “That little rich-person prophecy you have.” “I do not have a prophecy.” “You absolutely do. Every time someone mentions Mina being richer, you sound like a villain waiting for compound interest.” “That is unfair.” “Because it is accurate.” I sighed “It would take time.” John stared at me “Oh my God.” “What?” “You’ve calculated it.” “I have not.” “You absolutely have.” “It’s a rough estimate.”

John threw both hands up.

“I knew it.” I took another drag, trying not to smile “It would take longer now.” “Because of market conditions?” “Because Ryujin and Yuna have apparently made it their personal mission to financially ruin me.”

John looked through the glass at them. Ryujin was laughing so hard she had fallen sideways into the couch. Yuna looked far too pleased about something. John nodded slowly.

“They’ll do it.” “They can try.” “Proud of them.” “Traitor.”

He grinned. The city stretched below us. The cigarette burned shorter between my fingers. John’s smile faded slightly “You know Yeji will notice.”

“I know.” “You going to lie?” “No.” “Good.” “Are you going to tell Jihyo about Nayeon?”

John’s face immediately tightened “That is unrelated.” “She asked to be punished.” He closed his eyes “I heard.” “In front of everyone.” “I was there.”

I laughed under my breath. For a moment, the balcony was just cold air, smoke, city lights, and the strange relief of standing next to the only person who had known me before all of this became impossible.

Then the door slid open. Yeji stepped outside. Her eyes moved from John to me. Then to the cigarette. She did not scold me. That was worse. John immediately straightened.

“I was supervising.” Yeji looked at him. “Were you?” “No.” “Thank you for your honesty.” John nodded once. “I will go be useless inside.”

He opened the door, slipped past her, then paused just long enough to mutter to me “Good luck, emotionally married man.” I flipped him off without looking and he vanished inside.

Yeji closed the door behind him. For a moment, she only stood there with me. The city wind moved softly through her hair. Her expression was not angry. Not disappointed. Just quiet.

That was harder. I looked at the cigarette. Then put it out against the ashtray near the railing before she said anything. Yeji watched the motion.

“Was it that bad?” I leaned against the balcony rail “No.” She stepped closer “That means yes.” “It means crowded.” Her gaze softened “Too much?” I looked through the glass again. At everyone inside. At the impossible warmth of the room. “Not bad too much,” I said. “Just… real too much.”

Yeji followed my gaze. She understood. Of course she did. Her hand found mine. Cold fingers sliding between mine without hesitation. In full view of the room “Come back inside,” she said. I looked down at her hand. Then at her.

“You know they can see.” Yeji’s cheeks colored faintly. But she did not let go. “I know.” That answer did something to me. “Yeji.”

She stepped closer. Not hiding behind the balcony wall. Not looking over her shoulder. Not checking if ITZY could see. Or TWICE or John or Jihyo.

She only looked at me “I said I’m not pretending anymore.” The warmth in my chest hurt. Behind the glass, I saw movement. People noticing. Heads turning. The room becoming still. Yeji noticed too. She still did not let go.

Then, with the entire impossible room watching, she rose slightly on her toes and kissed me. Not sudden. Not accidental. Not stolen in the middle of chaos.

Deliberate, soft, and certain. The kind of kiss that did not ask the room for permission. The kind that made a private truth public without turning it into a performance. When she pulled back, her face was red. But her hand stayed in mine.

I smiled “Public now?” She looked embarrassed. Then stubborn “Public enough.”

I laughed quietly and that made her smile. Then her eyes moved toward the ashtray. The smile faded by half an inch. Not gone, just sharpened.

“Also,” she said softly, “that is the last time I kiss you after you smoke.” I blinked. Behind the glass, I could feel the entire room watching us fail to be subtle. “You waited until after the kiss to say that?” “Yes.” “That feels strategically unfair.” “It was.”

I looked at her. Yeji did not look angry. That was what made it land harder. She looked worried. Steady. Mine.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t scare me,” she said. The city wind moved between us. I looked toward the ashtray. Then back at her “I’ll try.”

Her fingers tightened around mine “Try how?” I exhaled slowly “I’ll try to quit.” Her eyes searched my face. I added, quieter, “At least… not around you. Not around ITZY. Not where any of you have to watch me use it to survive the room.”

Yeji studied me for a long moment. Long enough that I felt fourteen different versions of myself being judged. Then she nodded once.

“For now.” “For now?” “For now,” she repeated. “Because eventually I’m going to ask for more.” I smiled faintly. “Of course you are.” Her cheeks colored again, but her voice stayed firm. “Be a good boy.” I closed my eyes. “You cannot weaponize that after an anti-smoking ultimatum.” “I just did.”

Behind the glass, Ryujin visibly reacted despite not hearing a word. That somehow made it worse. I squeezed Yeji’s hand.

“I’ll try,” I said again. “Promise.”

This time, she accepted it. Not because it was enough forever. Because it was honest enough for now. We stepped back inside together. The room was silent. Not shocked like before. Not scandalized. Just caught.

Like everyone had witnessed something they already knew, but had never seen that clearly. Jihyo looked at Yeji first, then at me. Something in her expression softened “There it is,” she said quietly. Nobody asked what she meant.

Nayeon, unfortunately, recovered first. She turned slowly toward John. “See?” John froze “No.” Nayeon pointed toward Yeji and me “That was romantic.” John stared at her “I was gone for five minutes.”

Sana leaned forward “Manager-nim, where is our dramatic eye contact?” John looked betrayed “Sana.” Dahyun lifted an imaginary microphone “Breaking news: TWICE files formal complaint regarding lack of cinematic boyfriend moments.” John pointed at her “You are supposed to be on my side.” “I am reporting fairly.” Momo tilted her head “John-oppa is romantic sometimes.” John looked relieved “Thank you.” Momo continued “When he remembers.”

The room exploded. John turned slowly toward her. “Momo.” Jeongyeon crossed her arms “He shows love through damage control and panic.” Chaeyoung nodded “And snacks.” Mina, still calm, added “And calendar reminders.” John stared at her. “Mina.” She blinked “What? It is true.” Tzuyu looked at me and Yeji, then at John “Ben looks like a romance drama.” John’s eyes narrowed. Tzuyu continued calmly “John looks like a man surviving a group project.”

I made the mistake of laughing.

John turned toward me “This is your fault.” I lifted my free hand “I said nothing.” “You stood there romantically.” “I was being emotionally supported.” “Exactly. Publicly. Recklessly. With eye contact.” Nayeon pointed at John “So learn from him.” “I refuse to be mentored by a man who just smoked outside because eleven women compared bedroom notes.” I nodded “Fair.”

Yeji’s hand tightened around mine. Not warning. Laughing silently. Jihyo looked at John “You could still be more romantic.” John’s face fell “You too?” Jihyo smiled “Especially me.”

Nayeon clapped once “Leader has spoken.” Sana nodded “We need cinematic boyfriend moments.” Dahyun raised her hand “I would like mine under the rain.” Chaeyoung added, “And better lighting.” Momo said, “And food.” Jeongyeon looked at her “That’s just dinner.” Momo nodded “Romantic dinner.” Mina looked at John “I would accept quiet submissiveness.” John stared at her “That sounds attainable.”

Nayeon leaned in “Did you just say 'yes' to dominatrix?” John’s mouth opened then closed. Then he pointed at Ben “You see what you caused?”

I looked at him. Then at Yeji. Then at the room full of women now laughing across two impossible worlds. TWICE and ITZY. John and Ben. Jihyo with her paperwork. Mina with her half of the world. Yeji holding my hand where everyone could see. I exhaled slowly. For once, I did not feel like running from the noise. “Well,” I said, “at least now we know the retreat will be peaceful.”

Everyone looked at me. Then they all started laughing. Not because it was true. Because it absolutely was not.

Dinner happened because Chaeryeong and Momo had formed an alliance. No one said it out loud. No one needed to. By the time the sun lowered behind the city, the Top Floor no longer looked like a secret meeting space. It looked like a private dining room that had somehow been conquered by fourteen female idols, two managers, and then one financial superpower currently helping Chaeryeong decide whether the plating looked balanced.

Mina was very serious about symmetry. Chaeryeong was very serious about feeding people. Momo was very serious about the food. Together, they were terrifying. The rest of the room had slowly loosened. TWICE had stopped acting like guests. ITZY had stopped acting like hosts. John had stopped pretending he had any authority left.

I had given up on dignity somewhere between Nayeon asking if the retreat had honeymoon packages and Ryujin explaining that all wellness retreats should include “stress relief benefits.” Jihyo had told both of them to stop. Neither stopped.

Then I made the mistake of leaving the room to change. It should not have mattered. Formal managerial attire had started to feel suffocating after the meeting, the note-comparison disaster, the balcony cigarette, Yeji’s kiss, and the fact that Park Jihyo had essentially turned my recovery plan into a multinational idol event. So I changed into something simple.

Black fitted shirt. Dark trousers. Watch. No jacket. Comfortable enough to breathe. Presentable enough that JYP could appear on the elevator without me looking like I had completely abandoned professional standards.

Apparently, that was not the effect it had.

When I stepped back into the lounge, conversations died in waves. First ITZY. Then TWICE. Then John. Even Momo paused mid-bite. I stopped walking “What?” Ryujin slowly lowered her chopsticks “Oh.”

“No.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.” Yuna leaned forward with wide eyes “Manager-nim.” “That tone is now illegal.” “You look like you’re here to collect protection money.” Lia covered her mouth. Chaeryeong blinked at me from beside the dining table, eyes dropping briefly to the tattooed lines visible along my arms. Then back up “Respectfully,” she said, “Yuna is not completely wrong.”

Nayeon tilted her head. “I thought he was a secretly insane rich manager.” Dahyun lifted a hand “Correction. Without the formal clothes, he is giving secretly insane rich mafia manager.” Sana smiled brightly “But handsome.” Jeongyeon crossed her arms “That does not make it better.” Chaeyoung squinted at my arms “How many tattoos do you have?” “Enough.” “That is a suspicious number.” Tzuyu looked at me calmly “You look like someone parents warn their children about.” John pointed at her “That one is accurate.” Mina, from the table, only looked at me once “The shirt is well-fitted.”

Everyone turned toward her. Mina blinked “What?”

Ryujin whispered, “Furniture language evolved into shirt language.” Yuna nodded “Rich people are escalating.”

I looked at Jihyo. She was studying the exposed ink around my wrists and forearms with a thoughtful frown “I only saw some of the ones on the wrist last time.”

“That was the point of sleeves.” Nayeon leaned toward Jihyo “He hides his tattoos at work?” Jihyo looked at her “He is a manager.” Nayeon looked back at me “He looks like a final boss.” Dahyun nodded “Final Boss: Wellness Retreat Funding Phase.” John sighed “I hate that I can visualize the title card.”

Yeji had not said anything. That was the problem. She was staring at my arm. Not the old ink. Not the ones she already knew. One specific spot near my inner forearm, still fresh enough that the edges had not fully settled. Her expression changed. Small. Dangerous.

My body immediately recognized the threat. Not fear… worse. Girlfriend hostility.

“Benjie.” The room went silent. Ryujin’s head snapped toward me. Yuna’s eyes widened. Lia whispered, “Oh no.” John leaned back “She used the cute name. You’re dead.”

I looked at Yeji carefully “Yes, babe?” Her eyes lifted to mine “When did you get that?” I looked down at the tattoo. Then back at her “Recently.” “That is not a date.” “It is a category.” “Benjie.”

I closed my eyes. The second answer was worse.

“After Waterbomb.”

The room went still again. Not comedic this time. Not yet.

Yeji’s jaw tightened “You got a tattoo after Waterbomb and didn’t tell me?” “It was impulsive.” “That is not helping.” “I know.”

“First, you threaten that fan like a mafia boss. Then you scare everyone in ITZY half to death. Then you financially flashbang our company’s founder with a cheque worth more than most executives see in a year. Then I find out you started smoking again.”

Her voice rose with every sentence. Not loud enough to be screaming. It was worse. Controlled. Precise. Full of unyielding fury.

“And now,” she said, pointing at my arm, “I find out you got another tattoo without telling me?”

Ryujin whispered, “Wife voice.” John nodded “Oh, absolutely a wife voice.” Yeji immediately turned pink “I am not—” Nayeon pointed at her “That was a wife voice.” Sana nodded “Very wife.” Jeongyeon added, “Concerned wife.” Dahyun lifted an imaginary microphone “Breaking news: Hwang Yeji discovers husband has poor impulse control.” “I am not his wife,” Yeji said, face burning. Yuna smiled “Not yet.”

The room detonated.

Yeji looked like she wanted to throw a napkin at her I cleared my throat “In my defense—” Yeji turned back to me “You do not have one.”

“Correct, I do not.” Lia nodded “Growth.” I looked at Yeji and tried the only strategy I had left. A terrible one “I can make it up to you.” Her eyes narrowed “How?” “I’ll get your portrait tattooed next.”

Silence. Immediate. Catastrophic. John slowly turned toward me “Why would you say that?” Ryujin looked like she had seen heaven open. Yuna gasped. Lia closed her eyes. Chaeryeong made a tiny sound. Nayeon slapped the table “Oh, he’s insane-insane.” Sana clasped her hands “That is romantic.” Jeongyeon looked at her “That is not romantic. That is evidence.” Dahyun nodded “Depending on the artist, it is either love or a future court exhibit.” Chaeyoung leaned forward “Portrait tattoos are risky long term.” Tzuyu nodded calmly “They can age strangely on skin.” Momo looked thoughtful “Maybe not the face.”

Yeji stared at me. Then slowly pointed one finger “No.”

“It was a suggestion.” “It was a bad suggestion.” “You haven’t seen the design.” “I don’t need to see the design.” Ryujin leaned forward, delighted “You have discussed this before?” Yeji looked betrayed by the universe “Unfortunately.” I smiled faintly “In my defense, it was romantic then too.” “It was a bad pitch after we slept together for the first time,” Yeji said, voice dangerously controlled. “It is a bad pitch now. And it will still be a bad pitch after the wedding.”

The room died. Completely. Even John stopped breathing. Yeji realized what she had said one second too late. Her face changed “Oh.”

Nayeon whispered, “AFTER?” Sana whispered, “She mentioned a wedding.” Dahyun slowly raised her imaginary microphone. Jihyo grabbed her wrist without looking “No.” Ryujin looked like she had just discovered a sacred text “Unnie.” Yuna clasped both hands over her mouth “She said after the wedding.” Lia looked at Yeji with gentle devastation “That was very specific.” Chaeryeong nodded faintly “Very specific.” Yeji covered her face “I meant hypothetically.” John pointed at her “No, you said wedding with continuity.” “I did not say continuity.” “You referenced the first time.”

Everyone turned to him.

John paused “I mean emotionally.” I stared at him “That was suspiciously meta.” “I am under stress.” Mina took a sip of water “Regardless, a portrait remains impractical.” “Thank you,” Yeji said through her hands. Mina continued, “A name would age better.”

I stared at her “Mina.” “What? It is true.” Ryujin sat up like a demon had possessed her “Property of Hwang Yeji.” Yeji made a strangled sound. Yuna nearly fell out of her chair laughing. Lia whispered, “Please don’t.” Dahyun snapped her fingers “Yeji’s Dog.”

The room exploded again. I looked at her “Absolutely not.” Ryujin pointed at me “Don’t lie. You would enjoy it.” “That is defamatory.” Yuna grinned “You literally admitted you might bark if treats are involved.”

TWICE froze. Nayeon turned slowly toward John “You never told us that.”

John looked at me “I hate learning things with them.”

Jihyo put a hand over her face “Why is there always more?”

Sana smiled at Yeji “So the leash is real?”

Yeji turned even redder “It is a joke.”

Lia sipped her drink “It began as a joke.”

Chaeryeong, very quietly, added “It has evidence now.”

Yeji looked at her “Chaer.”

Chaeryeong immediately looked down “Sorry.” But she was smiling.

Ryujin leaned back triumphantly “Property of Hwang Yeji is the best option.”

“No,” Yeji said.

“Yeji’s Dog?”

“No.”

“Princess’s Dog?”

“No.”

“Good Boy?”

I looked at Ryujin. “Do not test me. I will make you solo debut and have JYP feature in your title track. I don't care how much it will cost me to make it happen.”

The room froze. Completely. Ryujin stared at me “...You wouldn't.” “I would.” “Ben,” Lia said softly, horrified, “that's not a threat. That's psychological warfare.” Yuna folded in half laughing. Chaeryeong covered her mouth. Nayeon slapped the table again. “Oh my god.” Sana looked genuinely concerned. “Can he do that?” “No,” Jihyo said immediately, then paused “Probably.” “Unnie,” Ryujin whispered, looking betrayed, “whose side are you on?” “Not yours.” John pointed at me. “That is the most specific threat I have ever heard.” Mina nodded thoughtfully “The JYP feature is what makes it cruel.” “Thank you,” I said. “That was not a compliment.” Ryujin narrowed her eyes at me “You are a villain.” “You started this.” “She did,” Yeji said without hesitation. Ryujin gasped. “Unnie!” “You know what you did.”

The room laughed again.

Yeji pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we please return to the tattoo conversation before he starts funding music videos out of spite?” Ryujin immediately pointed at her. “See? Even she thinks you'd do it.” “I wasn’t bluffing,” I said. “Terrifying.” Yuna grinned. “Anyway, back to the important issue. Good Boy?” “No,” Yeji said immediately. Nayeon tapped her chin, far too invested now. “What about something elegant? Like ‘Belongs to Yeji.’” Yuna pointed at me. “That sounded like you were considering it.” “It did not sound like that.” John crossed his arms “You made your wife mad.” Yeji whipped toward him “John.” “What? You did wife voice.” Nayeon nodded “He did make his wife mad.” Sana looked at me “You should apologize to your wife.” Jeongyeon added, “Before she finds out about another tattoo.” Momo nodded “Wives notice things.” Chaeyoung looked at Yeji “Your wife instincts are strong.” Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone again. “Domestic dispute resolved through tattoo governance.” Tzuyu looked at me calmly “You should listen to your wife.” Yeji buried her face in both hands “I am not his wife.” Ryujin leaned toward Yuna “Yet.” Yuna nodded “Yet.”

I looked at Yeji. She was embarrassed. Annoyed. Worried. Trying not to smile. Trying not to be touched by any of it. Trying not to show that everyone calling her my wife had landed somewhere she was not ready to admit out loud.

So I walked to her. The room quieted by instinct. Yeji lowered her hands just enough to look at me. I leaned down and kissed her. When I pulled back, I kept my voice low. “I love you.”

Her anger did not vanish. That would have been too easy. But it softened. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes warmed.

“You are not kissing your way out of this.” “I know.” “The ‘I love you’ won’t help.” “I know,” I gave her another peck in the lips regardless “I love you”

“—John, take notes” Tzuyu was giving commentary from behind.

“I love you too,” Yeji finally calmed down a bit “but you are not getting my portrait tattooed. Not now. Not after the wedding. Not after three weddings.”

The room erupted. I smiled “Three weddings?” Yeji froze. Her face went red again. “I meant—” Ryujin slapped the table “She’s negotiating ceremonies now.” Yuna pointed at her “She said three.” Nayeon looked delighted “That is legally and emotionally significant.” Lia closed her eyes “We are never escaping the paperwork theme.”

John leaned toward me “Congratulations. Your wife is negotiating wedding volume.”

Yeji turned toward him “Stop calling me that.”

John smiled “No.”

Before anyone could make it worse, my phone buzzed on the table. Once. Then again. A voice message. I looked down at the screen. Tattoo artist. The timing was so bad that it became impossible.

Ryujin noticed first “What is that?” “Nothing.” Yuna leaned over “It says Frankie the Tattoo Artist.”

The room went silent. Yeji slowly turned toward me “Benjie.” I stared at the phone “I can explain.” John laughed once “No, you cannot.”

Ryujin grabbed the phone before I could stop her. “Ryujin, don’t you dare.” She hit play.

A man’s voice filled the room.

“Ben, confirming your next schedule. Still got you down for the chest piece. Just making sure you’re really serious about that corny-ass couple tattoo. You really want ‘Ben + Yeji’ on your chest? I mean, it’s your money, boss, but I’m asking one more time before we stencil that disaster.”

The voice message ended.

No one moved. No one breathed. Yeji stared at me. TWICE stared at me. ITZY stared at me. John looked like he had just watched me step willingly into traffic.

Then Ryujin screamed. Yuna followed. Nayeon stood from her chair. Sana grabbed Jihyo’s arm. Dahyun dropped her imaginary microphone.

Chaeyoung whispered, “Chest piece?” Momo said, “That is very committed.” Tzuyu looked at Yeji “He is serious.” Mina took a sip of water “Corny, but serious.” Jihyo stared at me “You planned this before tonight?”

I looked at the phone. Then at Yeji. Then at the room. There was no path out. So I stopped looking for one “Yes.”

Yeji’s voice came out small “Ben”. I stepped closer to her and slid one arm around her waist. In front of everyone. Because apparently subtlety had died several minutes ago and I had finally decided to stop attending the funeral “I’m not cancelling it.”

The room exploded again.

Yeji’s hands went to my chest like she meant to push me away, but she did not. She only stared at me, stunned. “You are insane.” “Probably.” “Ben.” “It’s temporary.”

The room froze again.

Yeji blinked “Temporary?” “For now.”

The silence became dangerous. Ryujin slowly turned toward me “Oh, he’s worse than insane.” Yuna’s eyes widened “He planned the emotional damage.” Lia closed her eyes “Of course he did.” John pointed at me “That is not clarification. That is psychological warfare.”

I ignored all of them and kept looking at Yeji “I wanted to see how it looked first.”

Yeji stared “First?” “Before it becomes permanent.” “Permanent?” “Eventually.” “Eventually?”

I nodded, completely committed now because retreat had stopped being an option three sentences ago. “Next to the wedding date.”

The room died. Completely. Even Nayeon stopped breathing. Yeji’s face went blank. Then red. Then blank again.

I continued, because apparently I had chosen death “And the other couple tattoos.” John whispered, “No.” Sana whispered, “Yes.” Dahyun slowly raised her imaginary microphone again. Jihyo caught her wrist without looking “No.” Yeji’s fingers tightened against my shirt “Wedding date?” “Hypothetically.”

“That did not sound hypothetical.” “It sounded planned,” Lia said softly. “It sounded scheduled,” Ryujin added. Yuna pointed at me “He absolutely has a folder.” Mina looked at me “Do you?”

I hesitated. John screamed “THIS FUCKING PSYCHOPATH HAS AN ACTUAL FOLDER.” “I have concepts.” “That is a folder,” Mina said calmly. Nayeon pointed at John “Take notes.” John recoiled “No.” Sana nodded quickly “Take notes.” Jeongyeon crossed her arms “You could at least have concepts.” John looked betrayed “Not you too.” Momo tilted her head “Would all nine of us fit?” John’s soul left his body. Tzuyu looked thoughtful “It depends on placement.” Mina added, “Spacing would be difficult.” John stared at her “Mina.” “What? It would.”

Ryujin raised both hands “If John gets nine names, Ben has to get all five ITZY names too.” I looked at her “Absolutely not.” “For equality.” Yuna nodded “And symmetry.” Mina looked thoughtful “Symmetry matters.” Ryujin was still staring at me like I had personally invented a new disease. “So let me understand this,” she said slowly  “You were not actually getting it permanently.” “Not yet.” “But you were going to let everyone think you were.” “For context.” Lia looked at me “That is not what context means.” “It was emotional research.” Chaeryeong blinked “On Yeji unnie?”

I looked at her. Then at Yeji. Then back at Chaeryeong. “Not my best wording.” “No,” Jihyo said. “It was not.” Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone again. “Breaking news: local man conducts unauthorized wife study. Results catastrophic.” Yeji turned red “I am not his wife.” Nayeon pointed at her immediately “You keep saying that like a woman who wants the title officially formatted.”

Yeji’s mouth opened. No sound came out, she looked at me like she wanted to melt into the floor and drag me with her.

“You are unbelievable.” “I was aiming for memorable.” “It would have been memorable for the wrong reasons.”

John pointed at Yeji “That means she imagined it.” Yeji turned on him “Do not involve yourself.” “I am already involved. Your boyfriend is ruining expectations for all of us.”

Nayeon nodded gravely “He is.” Sana looked at John “Where is our playlist?” John stared at her “Our what?” “Our romantic reveal playlist.” “I am not revealing anything.” Dahyun raised her hand “Technically, that is part of the complaint.”

The room made a collective sound of approval. John pointed at her “That was personal.”

“You could benefit from a strategy deck, best buddy” I looked at John “You want help with that?” He turned on me “You stay out of this, Chest Tattoo Romeo.” Ryujin gasped “That is his new title.” Yuna nodded “Final Boss: Chest Tattoo Romeo.”

Chaeryeong, who had been quiet for a while, looked at me with genuine curiosity. “Would the temporary tattoo actually say Ben plus Yeji?” I nodded. “That was the draft.” She frowned. “Wouldn’t Yeji plus Ben look better?”

The room went still.

I looked at her. Yeji looked at her. Mina’s eyes sharpened with immediate interest. Chaeryeong froze “What?” Mina set her cup down “She is right.” John threw his head back “No.” Mina continued. “Visually, Yeji’s name first balances better depending on placement.” I looked down, considering it “That depends on the font weight.” Mina nodded “And spacing.”

Nayeon leaned back, enjoying herself far too much. “Honestly, I respect the insanity. A temporary couple tattoo before the real one after marriage? That is commitment with a trial period.” Sana nodded “Romantic beta testing.” Jeongyeon looked pained “Please don’t call love that.” Dahyun smiled “Too late. Love 2.0 launches after wedding.”

“Metaphorically.” Ryujin smiled. “Ben didn’t say no any of it.” Yeji lowered her hands just enough to glare at her “Ryujin.” “What? I am supporting your household.” “Our what?”

The room inhaled. Yeji realized too late that she had said our.

Yeji tried to glare at me. Failed. Then looked away, cheeks burning. And because I had apparently developed a severe allergy to self-preservation, I leaned closer and murmured “For the record, I would put your name first.” Yeji froze.

The room went silent again.

Ryujin whispered, “Fatality.” Yuna whispered, “That was so smooth I hate him.” Nayeon turned to John “Write that down.” John snapped “I am not writing down tattoo flirting.” Mina looked at him “You should. It was effective.”

Yeji’s fingers tightened against my shirt. She looked up at me, still embarrassed, still mad, still very much losing the fight against her own smile.

“You are not getting anything permanent before we talk about it.” “Agreed.” “And no portrait.” “Ever?” “Ever.” “Even after the wedding?” “Especially after the wedding.”

The room made a noise.

Yeji looked at me, helpless and red and smiling despite herself “You are impossible.” I smiled back “And yet.” She looked away. But she leaned into me a little more. Just enough to lose. Just enough to consider it a win.

By the time dinner finally began to dissolve into goodbyes, the Top Floor looked less like a luxury residence and more like a battlefield that had been won through food, gossip, paperwork, and emotional blackmail. Plates had been cleared.

Momo had praised Chaeryeong’s cooking enough times that Chaeryeong looked like she was trying not to float.

Ryujin and Nayeon had formed a partnership that worried every manager in the room.

Yuna had somehow gotten Sana and Dahyun to promise they would help her “professionally evaluate” the retreat once it happened.

Lia looked tired, but steadier.

Chaeryeong looked overwhelmed, but not unhappy.

TWICE gathered near the elevator in clusters, still talking over one another as if leaving was merely a suggestion. Jihyo checked the folder one more time.

John looked at it like it had personally ruined his day.

Then Nayeon turned back toward me “So.” I immediately disliked her tone “No.” “You don’t know what I’m asking.” “I know the category.” “That is becoming your favorite sentence,” Lia murmured. Nayeon smiled “Are you really going through with the temporary tattoo?”

The room froze.

Not because anyone had forgotten. Because apparently everyone had been waiting for someone brave or shameless enough to bring it back. Yeji’s hand tightened around mine.

I looked at her. She looked back. Still red, pretending she was not invested. “Yes,” I said. The room erupted. Ryujin shouted first “I knew it. He’s committed to the emotional damage.”

Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone. “Breaking news: temporary tattoo confirmed; wife still denying wife status.”

“I am not his wife,” Yeji said automatically. “Yet,” Sana said sweetly. Yeji’s face went red again. I squeezed her hand once “And Yeji’s coming with me.”

That somehow made it worse.

Nayeon gasped “She’s choosing placement?” Yeji turned toward me. “I am?” “You said you were.” “I said several things under emotional distress.”

Yeji looked at me, cheeks still pink “I am not choosing anything ridiculous.” “Agreed, and no portrait.” “Agreed.”

John suddenly pointed at me “Wait. No.” I looked at him. “What now?”

“You are not taking Yeji to some random tattoo artist after all of this.” “It’s not random.” “You are bringing an idol to a tattoo appointment.” “A temporary tattoo appointment.” “That does not make the identity issue disappear.”

Jihyo looked at me “He has a point.” Nayeon leaned toward Sana “John said something responsible.” Sana nodded “We should document it.” John ignored them “How do you know this guy won’t leak anything?”

The room quieted slightly. Not from fear. From curiosity. I shrugged “He’s loyal.” John stared at me “That is not an explanation.”

“It is the most important part.” “Ben.” I sighed “He knows better.” Ryujin’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that sounds threatening.” “It is not threatening.” Yuna smiled “It sounded expensive.” “That is closer,” Mina said quietly. Mina looked at me “You paid him well?” “Yes.” John exhaled “Okay. Fine. That is better.” “And I ruined someone who did not.”

The room stopped. John slowly turned his head back toward me “What?” I looked around.

“In his old shop, he had an investment broker client who refused to pay him properly after a full sleeve. Tried to use status and connections to make the bill disappear.” No one spoke. I continued “The artist complained about it while finishing one of mine. I asked for the name.”

John closed his eyes “Ben.”

“I had pocket change.” Mina’s gaze sharpened slightly. Jihyo lowered the folder. Nayeon whispered, “Pocket change?” I shrugged “So I bought the company.”

Silence. Absolute. Then everyone spoke at once.

“You what?” Yeji said. “Oh my God,” Lia whispered. Ryujin stood up halfway “Boss behavior.” Yuna’s mouth dropped open “You bought a company because someone didn’t pay for a tattoo?” Chaeryeong looked horrified “That is… very intense customer service.”

Sana clasped her hands “That is scary but loyal.” Jeongyeon stared at me “That is not normal loyalty.” Momo frowned “Did the artist get paid?” “Yes.” Momo nodded “Good.” Tzuyu looked at me calmly “Did you fire the person?” “It was the first thing I did.” Tzuyu nodded once “Then he learned.”

John pointed both hands at me “You bought the biggest investment bank in Korea and called it pocket change?” I looked at him. “I did not say biggest.”

“You implied something horrifying.” “I said company.” “You said investment broker.” “That does not mean biggest.” Mina took a slow sip of water “It was one of the bigger ones.” John turned toward her “You knew?” Mina looked at him calmly “Ben is not the only one with resources.”

The room paused. It was the first remotely smug thing Mina had said all night. John stared at Mina “Was that a flex?” Mina blinked once “No.” Mina took another sip of water “If it helps, I only checked because it was unusual.”

Jihyo looked at me with the expression of someone adding five more clauses to the JYP pitch in her head “You bought an investment firm to fire one man?”

“I also restructured it.” John threw his hands up “There it is.” I looked at him “What?” “You cannot say ‘also restructured it’ like you rearranged furniture.” Mina tilted her head “Was it poorly managed?” “Yes.” “Then restructuring was appropriate.” John pointed at her without looking away from me “You are not helping.” Ryujin slowly turned to Yeji “Unnie, your boyfriend is terrifying.” Yeji was still staring at me. “I know.” Yuna leaned closer “And you love him.” Yeji did not deny it fast enough. Nayeon smiled “She really does.” Yeji covered her face “I am trying to be angry.” Lia looked at me “Was the tattoo artist at least grateful?” “He has never leaked anything.” “That is not the same as grateful.” “He sends me holiday discounts.” Chaeyoung blinked “You buy companies for him and he gives you discounts?” “I told him not to.” Dahyun nodded solemnly “That is friendship.” John stared at the ceiling “I am going to develop a medical condition from knowing you.”

Jihyo finally exhaled and tucked the folder under her arm “We are going before I start thinking of more clauses.” TWICE finally began moving toward the elevator for real this time. There were more hugs. More warnings. More jokes about the tattoo. More comments about Yeji being the only person capable of keeping me from accidentally buying another company before breakfast.

“Actually,” Yeji said, pointing at me before anyone could step into the elevator, “stop buying companies, restaurants, buildings, or entire establishments because someone inconveniences you.” I looked offended. “I do not do that.” The entire room stared at me.

“You absolutely do,” Jihyo said. “Frequently,” Mina added. “Historically,” John said. Yeji folded her arms “No more buying things out of spite.” “Out of loyalty,” I corrected. “Out of spite.” “Sometimes both.” “Benjie.” I sighed dramatically “Fine.” She narrowed her eyes “That sounded fake.” “It was a little fake.” “Ben.” I looked at her “What am I supposed to do if a restaurant makes you wait forty-five minutes for your food?”

The room immediately erupted.

“No,” John shouted. “Absolutely not,” Jihyo added. Ryujin doubled over laughing. “He already has a contingency plan.” Yuna pointed at me. “He’s thought about this before.” “I have not.” “You answered too fast,” Lia said. Yeji stared at me “You are not buying a restaurant because my food is late.” “What if you're hungry?” “Ben.” “What if you're sad?” “Ben.” “What if they forget your order twice?” “BEN.” I held up both hands “Okay, okay.”

Nayeon was laughing so hard she had to lean against the elevator wall “This is the most billionaire boyfriend conversation I've ever heard.” Sana clasped her hands “He just wants her fed.”

“That is somehow sweet and terrifying,” Chaeryeong said. Momo nodded “As long as the food arrives eventually.” Tzuyu looked at me thoughtfully “If they forget three times?”

“Do not encourage him,” Yeji said immediately. “I was curious.”

John pointed at Yeji “See? This is why you're the only safeguard we have.” Yeji groaned. “I should not have this responsibility.”

“You accepted it when you started dating him,” Ryujin said. “I did not sign anything.” Mina tilted her head “There may be paperwork somewhere.” “Mina,” John said weakly.

Nayeon pointed at Yeji one last time. “Good luck preventing hostile restaurant acquisitions.” Yeji covered her face “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” Sana sang. Then the elevator doors began to close. Nayeon stuck her hand out suddenly, stopping them “Wait.” Everyone froze. Yeji looked up warily “What?” Nayeon smiled “Make him put your name first.”

Yeji covered her face, I smiled, John pointed at me from inside the elevator “Do not smile. You are the problem.”

“I am aware.” “You are not aware enough.”

The elevator doors began to close again. Sana waved “Good luck, almost-wife.” Yeji made a strangled sound. Dahyun’s voice slipped through before the doors shut “Breaking news: tomorrow’s JYP pitch now includes tattoo liability.” Then they were gone.

The Top Floor fell quiet. Not empty. Never empty anymore. Just quieter. Yeji stood beside me, arms folded, cheeks still pink “You are exhausting.”

“I love you too.” “That was not what I said.” “It was implied.”

She tried to glare. Failed. Then reached for my hand anyway. I looked at her. She looked back. Still mad. Still mine in the ways she allowed herself to be.

“Temporary,” she said. “Temporary.” “And I choose placement.” “You choose placement.” “And font.” “And font.”

Chaeryeong’s voice came softer, amused despite herself “Do we still need more food tomorrow?” I looked around the Top Floor. I looked at Yeji. She narrowed her eyes. “Do not look excited.” I smiled.

The thought of it alone is more than enough to freeze the blood in your veins. You still get stiff when you recall the way your face warped from relief after seeing your girlfriend again in the flesh, then into confusion when you began to wonder where this was all coming from, and finally into dread when you finally realized where this discussion might be headed.

What was that supposed to mean? What does that spell for your relationship?

You wish it was that easy. You really wish it could be that simple. To just talk to her. To just ask her directly about it. To confront her and her unspoken fears and insecurities about your long-distance relationship.

But the words don’t come out. You can’t find it in you to scrape them from the pit of your chest and lay them bare before her. She doesn’t seem like she wants to breach the subject either—not again. Whenever your eyes met since she popped the question, you could tell from the way she darts her gaze away within milliseconds that she just wanted to instigate. She was hoping you would progress it.

Did she really think you—let alone anyone—could have prepared for something like this?

You’re happy enough as it is. You have many things to be thankful for.

You’re glad you managed to save up enough money to attend their concert tonight—SVIP tickets. Bougie little shit. She offers to not just get you a free ticket to the soundcheck, but also a special backstage pass so you could hang out with her and the other members during the breaks and lulls of their performances. But you told her some cheesy and cringey spiel about wanting to ‘earn your way’ to be by her side when she’s on the stage. So she let you do it your way.

You’re relieved that your little gambit after the concert paid off. The moment she told you that the flight was almost immediately after their concert, you began planning for a means of escape. You knew it would be difficult to reach her, so you pulled some strings, which included buying a cheap ticket to South Korea, bribing the staff in charge of the lounge areas, and sending her a script meant for her manager to allow her to be excused for a moment before their departure. It was hard enough for her to come up with bullshit reasons for her other members, but you’re just glad it worked.

But most of all, you’re glad that she’s with you. Really with you right now.

Leaning into your stiff body planted firmly against the soft padded cushions of the lounge couch, she’s pressing her cheek between the folds of your lap, holding onto the stretch of leg between your hip and knee, allowing you to caress the stray strands of her hair away from her face, Naoi Rei acts as if nothing had just happened between you two.

As if you two hadn’t soft-launched your break up.

There’s a whole self-service buffet in front of you two: pastries, all-day breakfast, specialty items from the local cuisine, finger foods, light snacks. There’s even a cocktail bar stocking one of her favorite drinks. But she doesn’t budge. And neither do you.

You know you should probably get some food for her—even feed her if you have to. You didn’t want to bring it up before whenever you two got on video call, and you weren’t even sure if it was real or if it was all just in your head, but you couldn’t help but notice the amount of weight she’s losing. One of your hands crests over her bare thighs and squeezes it in comfort. Your other hand dangles just above her laying face and pokes a finger into her cheek to test its plushness. Thankfully she hasn’t gotten too skinny, but it concerns you. Greatly. And you should probably be a decent boyfriend anyway and get her a bite or two to help her recharge after her concert.

And yet, you still find yourself motionless by her side, halfway between wanting to embrace her tightly and helping her sit up so you can walk out and run as far away from the airport as possible.

You shut your eyes and let out a sigh so deep that it rumbles in your stomach, alerting her.

She shifts, swapping from her previous fixation—the F1 race on one of the TVs that she knows absolutely nothing about—and instead now looks up at you. 

You try your best not to look at the sulk in her eyes, at the pale of her cheeks, at the longing in her pout. You feel your pettiness bubble up to the surface. She was the one who hinted at breaking up, so why should you feel any pity towards her?

But who are you kidding? One glimpse of her and your knees buckle. Soon, you find yourself staring right back at her from above.

You don’t know what to say, and that’s probably part of the problem. You gather she doesn’t know what to tell you either. You’re not really a person of many words. You were never verbose nor well-spoken enough growing up. You just let things happen and left the thoughts alone to simmer in your head. So what were you supposed to do now? What were you supposed to say now?

Should you circle back to the topic? Bring it up again? Raise your concern? That seems very risky. Maybe she already forgot about her break up idea. If so, then reminding her about it would just place it back into the forefront of her mind and develop the thought further.

Should you maybe break the ice somehow at least and try to lighten the mood? Whether or not she’s still actively thinking about the question she asked you—and your lack of a decent intelligible response—you should at least try to support her right? Try to support her? You can only imagine how physically exhausted she must be right now. The setlist they had for tonight’s concert was insane and afforded Rei and the other girls little to no breaks. Maybe being silly for a bit to lift her spirits isn’t such a bad ieda.

Should you maybe just … let it be?

Among the multitude of thoughts swimming around in your head, you let that line of thinking simmer the longest before entertaining it further.

You avoid her gaze for this one, and you swear to god you could hear her whine because of it.

What if you just let it be?

The last time you saw Rei in person was back in 2024, when she came to your area for a second time following their group’s first world tour. You two were more lovestruck back then. More carried by passion. More limited through the view of each of your own rose-tinted glasses. You didn’t care if she was only around for two days. You didn’t care if you could only have her for an hour after their fan meet on the evening before the concert proper. You didn’t care about what you’d both do, or say, or profess to each other when you could finally meet again. You just let your emotions take control and wash over you, and you both found yourselves forming the treasured memory of nearly falling down the stairs of her hotel’s fire escape because she wouldn’t let go of your face to stop kissing you for even just a second—even if it could cost her her life.

And now?

Now you had more time. More leeway. More comfort. More freedom. And yet you both have done less with each other this year than you did two years ago. Hell—you could even argue that you both have done way less together tonight than you normally did over voice or video call. You swear you had everything planned down to a tee, calculated everything for your plan to be executed successfully, refined all the different scripts you had in mind for what you’d finally tell her once you were with her again face-to-face. But none of it mattered in the end, did it? She came into tonight with something else on her mind.

So what if you just let it be?

What if you just allowed yourself a final moment of respite with her? One last chance to just hold her intimately like this—like you are right now—in the silence of the lounge. No cameras. No fans. No overprotective manager or nosey members to be wary of. Just the two of you. Not as idol and fan. Not as random strangers who matched on a whim using a silly dating app. Not as oppa and dongsaeng. Just boyfriend and girlfriend.

What if you just let her go?

You wanted this relationship to last. You really did. You still do, in fact. Even after all the doubt that she casted deep within the well of your being. It shattered you. Collapsed you into yourself. Weighed down on you from start to finish. But you held onto hope. You believed that one day, your monthly photo-journal compilations on Google Drive would turn into a collage of physical photos scattered across the space of your soon-to-be shared apartment. That one day, your weekly dates across the screen would spill over into reality, and you could finally take her out around the fancier parts of town for Saturdates or Sundates—whenever she was more free. That one day, your nightly calls in bed that lasted until someone passes out or cries themselves to sleep would culminate with you both falling asleep and waking up next to each other in the same shared bed. 

But as those words echo in your head like the toll of the dead, you can’t help but wonder if those memories? Those wishes? Those hopes and dreams of yours? Were all just a veil for you to hide from the reality of the situation.

She’s an idol. She’s meant for the stage, and the limelight, and the fame. She’s meant to be loved by many—more than just you. And you? You’re just a normal dude trying to live paycheck to paycheck. Just outrunning life before it starts to get ahold of you. Just … trying to chase after her and finally merge onto her path as well.

But who are you kidding? That’s never going to happen. Rei’s never giving up on being an idol. And you are never going to be within her league in your lifetime.

So, you return to the thought. That damn ever-present thought.

What if you just let her go?

It’s easier that way, isn’t it? After all, it saves you the impending heartbreak that’s looming over you like a hurricane in the horizon. It saves you all the messy bits. It saves you from taking longer to move on.

“Move on?”

You flinch, glance slowly back down at her until you’re staring at her similarly confused expression, and raise a brow. “What did you say?”

“Move on?” she asks again, tapping a finger now against your knee. “You were writing it. On my body. ‘Move on’.”

You didn’t notice it, but Rei’s right. The hand that you unknowingly moved down towards your waist had its pointer stretched forward as if it was tracing something against her skin.

“Sorry, I was just … thinking. About things,” you feign, opting to go with the first option—to not talk about it.

Rei nods, cheek grazing gently against your jeans. “Can you guess what this spells?”

With her own finger, she mimics your writing and actually attempts to write something across your thigh. At first, you couldn’t really tell what it is. But after the third attempt, you stopped comparing it to morse code and instead tried to treat it like brushstrokes of a pen.

“Con … -cert?”

Rei nods again with a smile, clapping her hands in small flits. “That took a while, but that was good. Ok now, your turn!”

You aren’t really in the mood to be playing games, but you indulge her. It’s the least you can do to decompress.

“Bes … No, beau …? Beau … Ah! Beautiful!” she completes with a roll of her eyes. In the same vein, she writes out her next word for you.

“Back? Back ga … Wait is this even in English anymore?”

The smirk she pulls when you ask this is enough to confirm it. You furrow your brows and try to focus on the strokes, on the way they see a bit more rounded on the curves and sharper against the edges. When the ‘Eureka moment’ finally strikes you, you thank the heavens for blessing you with enough patience to study Japanese on the daily ever since you started dating Rei.

“Baka? Hey now!”

Burying her face into your lap, she does a little wiggle to try and ignore you. Either that or she was just unknowingly being adorable once again. You want to smile. You want to caress the side of her face. But the bitter taste of her words blossom once more at the back of your tongue, so you hold yourself back.

“Your turn. Write me something. Anything. And I’ll guess it again.”

You scratch at the nail of your pointer with the tip of your thumb. Like you’re sharpening it. You use this moment to think.

“Re … Rei! Rei-chan … wa … totemo … kawa … kawaii? Rei-chan wa totemo totemo kawaii, nee!”

“Ok you clearly added more things to that, but sure,” you tease, earning you a pinch to your cheek. “Go on, it’s your turn now.”

She palms over your thigh like she’s erasing her previous message before writing anew with her finger, leaving you to guess what it is again.

“Moo … moo …?”

Rei is bawling, hair fanning out behind her on your lap as she clutches her stomach to try and relieve herself from the manic laughter. “You sound just like a cow—I should have recorded it.”

You bite your lip. “Hey, I’m trying my best, alright? Wasn’t fair that you shifted the game to your mother tongue.”

She nods, gesturing towards you with her chin, inviting you to finish what you started.

“Moo … moogenkai?”

She’s at her limit? At her limit for what?

At first, you figure that she might just be hungry. That she might just be hinting at you to go get her something to eat already. To stop being a coward and treat your girlfriend right. But when you motion like you might stand up, she pushes hard against the joint of your knee as if to stop you from your idiocy.

When she looks into your eyes this time, you can tell something’s changed. She continues writing on your lap.

“Gan …  Ganbatteru yo ne? Demo … demo …”

The moment your mind translates what she’s trying to tell you into English, you freeze. You don’t say it out loud anymore. You simply voice it out in your own mind.

Ganbatteru you ne? Soredemo mada fujubunda.

Watashi no tame ni.

Anata no tame ni.

You feel knot after knot starting to tighten in your guts. But Rei doesn’t look away from you—even when you do. She knows you understood what that meant word for word, and the way she’s gazing right up at you right now feels like she’s waiting for your response.

I’m trying my best, but it doesn’t feel enough.

Not for me.

Not for you.

Suddenly, it’s gotten quite difficult to breathe. You’re certain the AC in the room hasn’t changed in the slightest, and you haven’t had the faintest bit of contact with the different food offered before you two to have triggered one of your many allergies. But you find yourself, nonetheless, both breathless and speechless to the point that just the simple flexion of your throat muscles feels like you’re swallowing shards of glass.

How do you tell her?

How do you tell her that, because of her, you’ve found meaning in the smallest pleasures? That you always keep your phone charged in case she ever wanted to call? That you always check her Bubble, her Instagram, her Twitter to make sure you never missed a post or message? That you always carve time for a few minutes—just a few moments—every hour amidst your daily schedule to write out your thoughts about your long-distance relationship together in your journal, hoping you might one day read them to her? How do you tell her that seeing her smile after a long day of work—even it’s a bare-faced one, or a tired one, or a silly one—feels more refreshing than any ounce of sleep you can get? That you play her voice messages on repeat in your earphones, every train ride to work and every bus ride home, just to hear her voice again? That you dream of her, every single fucking night, to the point you spin fantasies in your head about future dates, vacation plans, and even your fucking wedding just to state your unbridled and overflowing love for her?

How exactly are you supposed to tell Naoi Rei that you are unapologetically, maddeningly, and absolutely in love with her? That she could even slit your throat with the butter knife sitting nineteen feet away from you, and you would still thank her, and instead apologize for bleeding all over her?

How exactly are you supposed to tell Rei that she is enough? 

For you?

So you do the only thing you can think of in the moment.

You throw away the letters you’ve written her and memorized by heart. You shred the romantic and cheesy lines you forced yourself to gobble down and stow away for whenever you might need to say something profound to her. Hell—you don’t even consider quoting some of her favorite poems or favorite lyrics and songs even if you know that’s guaranteed to cheer her up.

Instead, you let the little voice in your heart do the talking.

So you tuck the final lock of her sugar brown hair behind one ear, lean forwards to press your lips against the side of her temple, take a deep breath, take in the scent of her skin and sweat and cologne, and plant the longest, warmest, and likely final kiss you will ever give your girlfriend.

And then, you write it down across her body.

And then, through bated breaths, she mutters it out.

“A-Ai … shi … tte … r-r-ru …?”

One drop. Then two. Then three. Soon, a whole garden of tears begins blooming across your jeans. 

Clutching your hand against her clavicle, tucking her chin in as if to trap your wrist and all your fingers so you can never leave, she begins to write in reply across the stretch of your palm. But you don’t say it out loud—you keep in locked up in your heart.

Zutto … soba … ni … itai …

Her phone rings. She doesn’t even need to check it to know who it is.

Rei pushes up from her laying position and keeps her head down, now sitting inches away from you. Your pinky lifts, then twitches, then reaches out, but it never leaves its position. Her thumb raises, then circles the air, then jerks towards you, but it never meets you where you are.

“It’s been great. Wonderful really … b-being your girlfriend … Even from afar. I’m glad we could end—.”

You throw yourself onto her so hard that you knock the wind right out of her sails. But you embrace her harder than that as you begin scribbling into her back.

She never says it out loud. She never looks to you to verify what she thinks you’ve written. Instead, Rei just detaches herself from you, slides off the couch, and bows down deeply to her waist.

“Then I’ll be holding out for you until then. I … I can’t make any promises. And I don’t want to hurt you, o-oppa, but … but if you want this … then I will.”

And that’s all you could ever ask from her.

Between the unsteady cadence of her leaving footsteps and the tears she’s trying to stop flowing down her cheeks, with each passing minute, you can both feel it—the relief. The fingers that slip over the promise ring you gifted her two years ago sparkle into your eyes like a renewed vow. Ten-thirty-two. Barely three minutes before she’s rushing down the airport hallways to try and catch her flight by the skin of her teeth. Barely two minutes before she’s coughing up explanation after explanation for her members on being late, bursting into tears, and learning a new language. Barely one minute before she’s settling into her seat, looking out the airplane window, and counting the days until the next time you both get to meet in person again. 

And in your solace, you don’t even find it in you to fall to your knees and wail. You know what this—all of this—spells now.

The way she leaves you? The way she’s gone? It’s silent.

Look at doctor Sung Jinwoo, isn't he handsome and charismatic. I heard he was very popular among the doctors in the hospital, handsome and smart, the type of husband you want.

It's a pity that he just married a Japanese woman, Minatozaki Sana, His wife is so beautiful, a famous fashionista and has a large number of followers on social media. Even though she already has two children but her body shape curves hourglass, I even heard that she is a fashion model.

You know his eldest son, Sung Suho, isn't athletic and I heard he was selected as a basketball captain at his high school. Didn't his team win the gold climb thanks to his role as team captain.

Her stepdaughter is also beautiful as an angel, her name is Sullyoon, isn't it. I heard that she is the most outstanding female student in the academic field at school, always ranked first and is a representative of the science competition at her school.

That's what everyone who knows Jinwoo's family says but they don't know what it really is....

****

The cake sat in the center of the dining table, its frosting gleaming under the dimmed chandelier.

"Happy Family Anniversary" looped across the surface in elegant cursive, the letters slightly smudged where Sana's fingertip had swiped through the icing earlier—testing the sweetness, she'd claimed, though the hungry flicker in her eyes suggested something else entirely. Jinwoo adjusted his glasses, watching as Sullyoon traced the edge of the cake knife with deliberate slowness, her usual academic precision replaced by something far less clinical.

Suho leaned back in his chair, the basketball captain's jersey stretched tight across his shoulders.

"Shouldn't we cut it already?" he asked, but the way his gaze lingered on Sana's lips betrayed his impatience for something other than dessert.

Jinwoo cleared his throat, loosening his tie as the air thickened—not from the summer heat, but from the unspoken tension coiling between them.

The cake wasn't celebrating twelve years of marriage. It marked twelve months since they'd stopped pretending this was a normal family.

Sullyoon's laughter rang like wind chimes as she settled onto Jinwoo's lap, her school skirt riding up just enough to reveal the lace trim of her thigh-highs.

"Let me feed you, daddy," she murmured, pressing the forkful of cake toward his lips with an exaggerated pout.

The sweetness exploded on his tongue—vanilla layered with something darker, like the way her hips shifted ever so slightly when his fingers dug into the plush curve of her ass. Neither of them acknowledged the touch; Sullyoon merely tilted her head, strands of hair brushing his cheek as she asked.

"Delicious , right?"

Jinwoo nodded as swallowed another bite of cake, the sugar turning cloying as Sullyoon squirmed in his lap—whether from discomfort or encouragement, he couldn't tell, and the ambiguity sent a thrill down his spine. His thumb hooked under the waistband of her panties, the pad grazing warm skin.

Across the table, Sana cradled Suho's head in her lap, her manicured nails trailing idle patterns along his jawline. The basketball captain's jersey had ridden up, revealing a strip of toned abdomen as he leaned into her touch, his lips parting obediently when Sana pressed a bite of cake between them.

"Is it delicious , baby?" she murmured, thumb swiping a fleck of frosting from his lower lip.

Suho's answering groan vibrated against her thigh, his fingers tightening around the hem of her silk slip dress. The fabric slid higher, baring the smooth expanse of her legs, but neither of them glanced at Jinwoo—no hesitation, no guilt, just the quiet certainty of shared rituals.

Sullyoon exhaled sharply against Jinwoo's collar, her breath warm as she twisted to watch the scene.

"Mom's being greedy again," she whispered, nipping at his earlobe with sudden teeth. Her hand guided his deeper beneath her skirt, the lace of her panties already damp beneath his fingertips.

"She knows Suho can't resist her cakes."

The double entendre curled like smoke between them, underscored by the wet sound of Suho sucking Sana's fingers clean. Jinwoo's pulse stuttered—not from shock, but from the familiar ache of watching his family slot together in ways that should've fractured them.

After a years marriage, actually Jinwoo and Sana have no interest in each other, for one reason, not my type.

Instead, Jinwoo is more attracted to Sullyoon, Sana's daughter. Cheerful and spoiled girl.

Jinwoo remembered the first time he met Sullyoon—how her gaze had skittered away from his like a spooked deer, how her fingers had twisted the hem of her school blouse into wrinkled knots. He’d pretended not to notice the way her cheeks pinkened when he reached across the table for the salt shaker, how her breath hitched when their fingers brushed. Later, he’d lie awake replaying that accidental contact, the phantom warmth of her skin lingering on his fingertips like a brand.

Meanwhile, Sana prefers the type of young man who is full of enthusiasm, confidence and athleticism. That's what Sana found in the figure of Sung Suho.

Sana remembered the first time she met Suho—really met him—with the kind of clarity that made her fingertips tingle even now. Jinwoo had been fussing with his watch, lips pursed in that tight-lipped disapproval he reserved for tardiness, when the café door swung open with a gust of summer heat. Suho stood there, his basketball jersey clinging to his chest in damp patches, hair plastered to his forehead from whatever impulsive sprint had brought him here late.

"Sorry," he'd panted, flashing a grin so bright it should've come with a warning label. The apology was perfunctory; his eyes, though—those locked onto Sana with an intensity that made her stir her iced coffee three times too many. The straw clinked against the glass like a nervous metronome.

Jinwoo had known from the start that Sana wasn’t the kind of woman who would ever fit neatly into the role of a demure housewife—not that he’d wanted one. Likewise Sana, also doesn't like Jinwoo's rigid style.

It wasn’t disliked; it was something closer to mutual recognition, two predators circling each other without ever bothering to clash. He’d married her for convenience, a tidy arrangement that gave them both social legitimacy while leaving their real desires untouched.

The wedding had been a masterclass in plausible deniability—peonies arranged just so to obscure the way Sana's fingers lingered on Suho's bicep when they posed for family photos, the cut of Jinwoo's tuxedo jacket hiding how his palm slid beneath Sullyoon's bridesmaid dress during the first dance. The guests sighed over the blended family's picture-perfect harmony, never questioning why the newlyweds exchanged rings with more ceremony than a kiss.

Later, when the hotel suite door clicked shut behind them, Jinwoo loosened his tie with one hand while the other tugged Sullyoon into the adjoining bedroom by her sash.

"You looked beautiful today," he murmured against the shell of her ear, savoring the way her pulse fluttered under his lips like a trapped bird.

The chiffon of her dress pooled around her ankles with a whisper, and for once, the straight-A student had no clever retort—just a gasp when his teeth found the sensitive spot below her jaw.

In the suite's main bedroom, Sana perched on the edge of the king-sized bed, her wedding gown unzipped to the small of her back. Suho hovered near the minibar, cracking open a soda can with excessive force, the fizz echoing his nervous energy.

"You don't have to pretend with me," Sana said, peeling off one satin glove with her teeth.

The deliberate slowness of the gesture made Suho's throat bob—she'd practiced that move in the mirror for weeks, timing it to the exact second his resolve would fray. His basketball captain's discipline crumpled when she hooked a finger into the waistband of his slacks, pulling him closer with a laugh that vibrated against his collarbone.

"All those trophies," she mused, "and you're still scared of little old me?”

Present day.

The king-size bed creaked under their combined weight as Father and son seemed to be waiting for something that made them impatient.

The bathroom door remained stubbornly closed, the faint sound of giggles and rustling fabric slipping through the gap like a promise. Jinwoo adjusted his glasses, the lenses fogging slightly from the steam curling beneath the doorframe.

"They're taking longer than usual," Suho, remarked.

“Just wait it, Son”, The father pointed to the direction of his glasses.

The bathroom lock clicked open with theatrical slowness. Sana emerged first, her hips swaying with the practiced ease of a runway model—except no fashion week had ever featured lingerie this deliberately indecent. The pastel pink straps of her teddy clung to her curves like a second skin, the lace barely containing the swell of her breasts as she paused at the foot of the bed.

"Happy anniversary, boys," she purred, dragging a manicured nail down Suho's skin. The basketball captain's breath hitched audibly, his fingers digging into the sheets as Sana climbed onto the mattress with feline grace, her knees bracketing his hips.

Sullyoon's entrance was quieter but no less devastating. She hovered in the doorway, her white chemise translucent under the bedroom lights, the shadow of her nipples visible through the fabric as she bit her lower lip in faux shyness. Jinwoo's throat went dry. She'd worn her hair down tonight—a rare deviation from her usual schoolgirl ponytail—and the dark waves framed her face like a Renaissance painting gone deliciously wrong.

"Daddy," she murmured, padding toward him with bare feet, "Do I look hot and sexy enough for you, tonight ?" The question was a blade wrapped in silk, a reminder of all the times he'd called her his little girl while his hands taught her otherwise.

Jinwoo’s fingers twitched against Sullyoon’s thigh, the lace of her panties damp beneath his touch as if she’d been waiting for this all evening—maybe longer. Her breath hitched when his thumb slipped beneath the fabric, tracing the crease where her leg met her hip with deliberate slowness.

"You're so beautiful, princess," Jinwoo murmured against Sullyoon's jaw, his breath warm where it ghosted over the rapid flutter of her pulse.

The endearment made her squirm—not from discomfort, but from the way it coiled heat low in her belly, the contradiction of being called childish while his fingers mapped the adult curves beneath her chemise. When she opened her mouth to protest, Jinwoo swallowed the words with a kiss that started slow, almost chaste, until the tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips and she gasped into his mouth.

The aggression came not in force but in persistence—the way Jinwoo's hands slid from her hips to her waist, then higher, as if cataloging every inch of her. Sullyoon arched into the touch, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer, nails scraping his scalp when his thumb finally brushed the peaked hardness of her nipple through the sheer fabric. The sound she made was half whimper, half moan, swallowed by Jinwoo's mouth as he deepened the kiss, his teeth catching her lower lip in a way that sent sparks down her spine.

Looks like the shy princess has started to get bold," Suho drawled from across the room, his voice dripping with amusement as Sullyoon's fingers twisted tighter in Jinwoo's hair.

She broke the kiss just long enough to shoot him a glare sharp enough to carve glass, her chest heaving against Jinwoo's in a way that made Suho's smirk widen. Then she was surging back into Jinwoo's mouth with a hunger that left no room for hesitation—tongue tangling with his, teeth nipping at his lower lip like she wanted to devour him whole.

Sana caught Suho's chin between her fingers, tilting his face up to hers with effortless dominance.

"Let your little sister have fun with your father," she murmured, her thumb brushing over his parted lips before she dragged it downward, tracing the column of his throat.

"Let's both enjoy ourselves."

The command was velvet-wrapped steel, and Suho shuddered as she guided his head against the plush swell of her chest, the lace of her teddy scratching deliciously against his flushed cheeks. He inhaled sharply—vanilla and something darker, the scent of her skin layered with the musk of want—before Sana's fingers carded through his hair, holding him there as she arched into his mouth.

Suho's fingers trembled against the clasp of Sana's teddy—not from inexperience, but from the way her smirk dared him to fumble. The pink straps fell away with a whisper, her breasts spilling into his palms like overripe fruit, still warm from the heat between them. Moonlight caught the light flush spreading across her skin, the pink of her nipples darkening as Suho's thumbs circled them with worshipful slowness.

"Look at you," Sana breathed, arching into his touch with a roll of her hips that made the mattress creak. "My greedy little athlete."

The first lick was tentative, Suho's tongue darting out to trace the stiff peak before he sealed his mouth over it with a groan that vibrated against her flesh. Sana's fingers fisted in his hair, holding him there as he suckled with the single-minded intensity of a starving man—teeth grazing, lips pursing around the areola until her back bowed off the bed.

"Urgh... You love it, dear," she gasped, her other hand guiding his head to her neglected breast. "Your stepmother's breasts taste better than any trophy, don't they?"

Suho lifted his head just enough to pant, "Yes, Mom," before diving back in, his lips glistening with her arousal as he switched sides.

"Your tits are so soft and fluffy", that turned pain into pleasure, the angle of his tongue that made her thighs clamp around his hips.

Meanwhile Jinwoo's fingers moved with the precision of a surgeon—slow, deliberate strokes that made Sullyoon's breath stutter against his collarbone. The lace of her panties had long since been pushed aside, the fabric damp where it pressed against his wrist as he curled two fingers inside her, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit in lazy circles.

"Urgh... Daddy, your fingers are inside me..." Sullyoon gasped, her hips jerking into his touch like a marionette whose strings had been tugged too hard. Her chemise rode up around her waist, the sheer fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin as she arched against him.

"I like that... Oh god."

Jinwoo grinned against the flutter of her pulse, his teeth scraping the delicate skin of her shoulder blade before soothing the sting with his tongue.

"You're too wet for dad, princess," he murmured, the words hot against her ear as his thumb circled faster, the pad rubbing rough over her swollen clit.

glock glock

The wet echoed obscenely through the bedroom, syncopated with the creak of mattress springs as Sana bobbed her head with the practiced rhythm of a woman who'd rehearsed this in mirrors.

Her lips stretched obscenely around Suho's cock, the pink lace straps of her discarded teddy still draped over one shoulder like a fallen banner of surrender. Suho's fingers clenched in her hair—not pulling, just anchoring himself as his hips jerked involuntarily, the head of his cock bumping against the back of her throat before she swallowed him down again with a hum that vibrated along his length.

"Urgh... Fuck... Mom," he gasped, the honorific twisting into something filthy as her tongue curled under his shaft, "your mouth feels so awesome around my cock."

The compliment dripped from his lips like the spit slicking her chin.

Sana smiled around the thick length filling her mouth, her lips stretched taut as Suho's cock bumped against the back of her throat—not a flinch, not a gag, just the deliberate press of his swollen tip against the tight ring of muscle before she swallowed him down deeper. The sound he made was ragged, half-strangled, his fingers tightening in her hair as she hollowed her cheeks and took him to the hilt.

Sullyoon arched against the sheets with a choked gasp, her fingers twisting in Jinwoo's hair as his tongue lapped at her with the desperation of a man who'd found his only source of hydration.

"Mmph... Daddy... Daddy... Your tongue—" The words shattered into a moan when he curled it just so, the flat of his tongue dragging slow and wet from her fluttering entrance to the swollen bud at her apex.

Her thighs trembled around his ears, the musky scent of her arousal thick enough to taste—and Jinwoo did, savoring the tang on his tongue like a connoisseur of some forbidden vintage.

He'd mapped this terrain a dozen times before, could navigate the hitch in her breath when he flicked over that sensitive spot just left of center, the way her hips jerked when he sealed his lips around her clit and sucked gently.

But tonight—anniversary night—he took his time, tracing lazy circles with the tip of his tongue until her whimpers turned pleading, until the lace straps of her chemise dug into her shoulders from how hard she was pulling at them.

"Please," she gasped, her voice cracking on the syllable, "please, daddy, I need—”

Jinwoo's breath hitched—not at the words, but at the way Sullyoon's fingers trembled against his scalp, her usual eloquence reduced to fractured syllables.

He kissed that dip slowly, savoring her shudder before murmuring, "Say it again." His teeth grazed her pulse point. "Properly."

Sullyoon's hips jerked against his mouth, her thighs clamping around his head as she gasped, "I need your cock, Daddy—" The last word cracked into a moan when Jinwoo's tongue plunged inside her without warning, fucking her with shallow thrusts that left her dripping.

The mattress groaned under their combined weight as Sana rolled her hips with the precision of a dancer, each downward thrust spearing herself deeper onto Suho's cock. Moonlight caught the sweat slicking her spine, the damp strands of hair clinging to her neck as she arched back, her hands braced against Suho's thighs for leverage.

"Oh... fuck..." she gasped, the words fracturing as Suho's hips jerked upward to meet her, the slap of skin against skin punctuating each movement.

"Fuck Mommy like that, baby—your cock feels so good inside me."

Suho's hands slid up her thighs, fingers digging into the plush flesh of her hips as he guided her movements, his grip tight enough to leave bruises.

"Mom, I love inside you—" he choked out, the honorific twisting into something filthy when she clenched around him, her inner muscles fluttering like a vice. Sana's laugh was low and throaty, her nails raking down his chest as she leaned forward, her breasts swaying just above his mouth.

"Say it again," she purred, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that made Suho's back bow off the bed. His cock twitched inside her, the thick length of him stretching her impossibly wider with each shallow thrust.

"Tell Mommy how much you love it.”

The pillow muffled Sullyoon's cries but did nothing to hide the way her fingers clawed at the sheets, the fabric twisting between her knuckles as Jinwoo's thrusts drove her forward with each snap of his hips. Her chemise had ridden up around her waist, the delicate lace straps sliding down her shoulders to pool at her elbows—a half-undressed vulnerability that made Jinwoo's grip tighten on her hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples just above her ass.

"Oh, Daddy—" she gasped, the words fracturing when he angled deeper, the swollen head of his cock grinding against that sweet spot inside her that made her vision whiten.

"So deep, daddy, your cock... So deep inside me—"

Jinwoo's chuckle was dark, roughened by lust as he leaned over her, one hand sliding up to fist in her hair and tug just enough to arch her back. The new angle made Sullyoon sob, her thighs trembling as he pistoned into her with relentless precision, each stroke measured to drag against her walls in a way that left her dripping.

"You're so tight, princess," he murmured, his breath hot against the shell of her ear as his free hand groped her bouncing breast, pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger until she keened, "Daddy isn't bored by your pussy."

She could feel him everywhere: the stretch of him filling her, the calloused drag of his palm over her nipple, the possessive grip on her hipbones that would leave bruises by morning. But it was the way his cockhead ached against her deepest point that unraveled her, the relentless friction coiling heat low in her belly until her moans turned pleading.

"Please—" she whined, her voice breaking as Jinwoo's pace stuttered, his thrusts turning shallow just to watch her squirm. "Daddy, please—”

The headboard slammed against the wall with the force of a battering ram, each impact timed to Sana's ragged cries as Suho drove into her with the single-minded intensity of an athlete chasing victory. The mating press pinned her beneath him—her legs hooked over his shoulders, her spine arched into a perfect curve that left her completely vulnerable to his relentless thrusts. Sweat dripped from Suho's brow onto Sana's heaving chest, mingling with the smeared lipstick around her gasping mouth.

"Fuck... fuck... harder, baby," she demanded, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave crimson trails.

"Break me."

Suho obeyed with a snarl, his hips pistoning faster, the obscene slap of skin echoing through the bedroom as he bottomed out inside her with every stroke. "Feel that, Mom?" he panted, his voice rough with exertion. "How your son's perverted dick stretches you open?" The vulgarity sent a jolt through Sana—not shock, but arousal, her cunt clenching around him as if trying to milk the confession straight from his cock.

"I like it," she gasped, her head thrashing against the pillows. "I love it—the way my stepson abuses my hole like I'm some cheap slut." The words unraveled into a scream as Suho angled deeper, his balls slapping against her ass with each brutal thrust.

The kiss was slow, deliberate—Jinwoo's lips moving against Sullyoon's with the same measured precision as his hips, each thrust timed to the flick of his tongue against hers. Her moans vibrated between them, muffled but unmistakable, the syllables fracturing whenever he bottomed out inside her with that particular angle that made her toes curl.

"Yes daddy... Mmph... So God... Like that... Oh—" Sullyoon gasped, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as he withdrew almost completely, only to push back in with excruciating slowness, the swollen head of his cock pressing against her deepest point until her back arched off the bed.

Jinwoo swallowed her whimpers, his hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back and expose the flutter of her pulse.

He licked a stripe up her throat, savoring the salt on his tongue before murmuring against her ear, "You take me so well, princess", His hips rolled forward again, deeper this time, the stretch drawing a broken cry from Sullyoon's lips.

"Like you were made for daddy's cock.”

The moon hung heavy and swollen over the bedroom window—a voyeur painted silver by its own guilty light—as Jinwoo's thrusts stuttered into ragged, uneven jerks. Sullyoon's thighs trembled against his hips, her nails scoring crescents into his shoulder blades when he buried himself to the hilt with a groan that ripped from his chest like a confession. Heat pulsed between them, thick and syrupy as his release flooded her in waves, each throb wringing a whimper from her lips.

Across the room, Suho's hips snapped forward one final time, his spine bowing like a drawn arrow before he collapsed against Sana with a sound that was half-growl, half-prayer. The wet slap of skin stilled as he emptied himself inside her, his cock twitching with each spurt that painted her walls white. Sana arched beneath him, her fingers knotting in his sweat-damp hair as she milked him through it, her inner muscles fluttering around him like a vice.

The air hung thick with musk and sweat, the only sound their ragged breathing as the four of them lay tangled in the aftermath. Jinwoo's fingers still gripped Sullyoon's hips, his thumbs pressed into the bruises he'd left earlier, watching with dark fascination as his release spilled from her in slow, viscous rivulets. It pooled between her thighs, dripping onto the rumpled sheets with obscene finality—white against the flushed pink of her skin, stark as spilled ink on parchment.

Across the bed, Sana arched her back with a lazy sigh, her fingers trailing through the mess Suho had left between her legs. "Look at this," she murmured, holding up glistening fingertips to the moonlight, the strands of cum stretching like spider silk before snapping. She turned her head to catch Jinwoo's gaze, her smirk wicked as she dragged her wet fingers across Suho's panting chest.

"Your son fills me up so well."

Jinwoo’s chuckle was low and rough, his fingers still tangled in Sullyoon’s hair as he turned his head to meet Sana’s gaze.

The moonlight caught the smug curve of his lips, the sweat-slicked sheen of his throat as he rasped, "Your daughter can’t stop milking me too."

Suho's grin was all teeth when he turned to Jinwoo, his fingers still slick with Sana's arousal as he wiped them lazily across the sheets.

"Dad," he drawled, the word dripping with mischief, "you've gotta feel Mom's pussy at least once. Bet it's tighter than Sullyoon's."

Sullyoon’s lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout, her fingers tracing idle circles on Jinwoo’s sweat-slicked chest as she flicked her gaze toward Suho.

"At least Daddy’s bigger than your tiny cock," she sing-songed, her voice dripping with saccharine malice.

Suho and Sullyoon bickering like ordinary brother and sister in argue. This situation made Jinwoo and Sana chuckle

Sana's grin curled like smoke as she rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand while the other traced idle patterns through the drying mess on Suho's abdomen. "How about you two fuck each other?" she purred, the words dripping with mischief as her gaze flicked between Sullyoon and Suho.

Jinwoo chimed in, "That's exactly what your mother said," his voice rich with amusement as he watched Suho and Sullyoon's nose wrinkle in disgust.

"Never" . Both of them were rejected.

That's how the night happened—like any other night, woven into the fabric of stories the four of them shared: bodies tangled, breaths mingling, lewd warmth pooling between sheets damp with sweat and other things.

Suddenly, I feel his hand on my shoulder. It is a light touch, almost accidental, but to me, it’s as if a red-hot brand touched my skin. The brush of his fingers against the fabric of my blouse causes my nipples to harden instantly, projecting themselves with a painful tension against the clothes. I hate my body for this; I hate that it reacts with this nervous, suffocating arousal toward the man who has turned me into his toy. I feel dirty, as if there were an invisible stain spreading from my chest to my ass—a mark of ownership that only he can see.

He leans in a bit more, just enough for the heat of his breath to brush the curve of my ear. He says nothing else, but that silence is the cruelest tool of all. It is a reminder of everything we keep quiet, of the nightly agreements and the humiliation I accept day after day so that the rest of the world keeps believing I am the perfect daughter.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" he whispers, and his voice vibrates on my skin like a forbidden caress.

I close my eyes tight. In that instant, the sound of the kitchen vanishes. The scent of tea merges with the rancid smell of that hotel, and the warm afternoon light is replaced by the suffocating dimness of a memory I cannot erase. I feel the floor disappear beneath my feet and find myself sucked backward, back to the exact moment where my life fractured.

I feel the wetness on my thighs again, the pressure of strange bodies against mine, and that electric fear that paralyzed me for the first time. I go back to the beginning. Back to the first time I understood that my body no longer belonged to me, but was instead the price of a secret that was consuming me alive.

The cold early-morning air hit my face as soon as I closed the taxi door, but it wasn't enough to put out the fire I still felt beneath my skin. I walked toward the entrance of the house feeling like an intruder in my own life, my steps clumsy and my breathing heavy. I felt dirty; I smelled of tobacco, other people's perfumes, and that raw, animal scent of shared sex that seemed to have leaked into my pores. But as I moved through the dark hallway, an electric and treacherous sensation began to run down my spine, making me tremble—not from fear, but from a residual desire that felt suffocating.

I entered the house in silence, avoiding any noise that might alert my mother or my stepfather. But the silence only served to amplify what was happening inside my body. Every time I took a step, I felt the rub of my thighs and the friction of the clothes against my skin, and that simple contact was like an electric shock.

My tits were hypersensitive, almost painful. My nipples were so erect and tense that every time the fabric of my blouse brushed the tips, I let out a short, muffled gasp. It was an unbearable sensation: I hated myself for having sold my body, but at the same time, the memory of those hands squeezing my tits hard, molding them to their whim while I moaned, made a liquid heat begin to flow down my belly. I felt like a hypocrite; I told myself I was disgusted, but my body kept vibrating on the frequency of pleasure.

I reached my room and closed the door with my heart hammering against my ribs: bum-bum... bum-bum. I leaned against the cold wood and closed my eyes, and that was when the image of the threesome returned with violent clarity. I remembered the weight of the bodies on top of me, the feeling of being open and exposed, and the way my ass felt right now: hot, throbbing with a dull heaviness that reminded me I had been possessed without mercy. I could still feel the viscous trail between my legs, that residual wetness that made me feel marked, as if the seal of those men were still stuck to my pussy.

I put my hand in my pocket and touched the bills. The paper money was dry and cold, but touching it sent a wave of forbidden excitement through my entire body. It was the adrenaline of risk, the euphoria of having done something so degrading and having been paid for it. I felt dirty, yes, but it was a dirtiness that ignited my nerves.

I let myself slide down the door until I was sitting on the floor, legs open and breathing erratic. I brought a hand to my neck, touching the skin where someone had left a wet, strong kiss. Touching that mark, I let out a moan that echoed in the empty walls of my room. God, it was so disgusting to think that I had become an object, but at the same time, the idea of being desired with such voracity—of being the center of that carnal chaos—produced an electric shock that left me breathless.

I stayed there in the dim light, fighting against myself. I hated the submission, but I loved the feeling of power that came from knowing I could seduce and charge for it. My body was a battlefield where disgust and lust fought violently. As I stared at the dark ceiling, I felt my pussy pulsing with a dull urgency, claiming more of what had just happened. I was broken, I was stained, but I was more alive and aroused than ever in my life.

I didn't know that this same arousal, this secret hunger for the forbidden, would be the leash Mr. Park would use to drag me into the abyss. In that moment, I could only feel the heat of my own legs and the echo of the moans still resonating in my head like a sinful song.

The following days were a slow and delicious torture. I moved through the house like a ghost, inhabiting a body that still felt electric. Every morning, the act of dressing was a ritual of self-torture; I slid garments over my skin and felt how the fabric rubbed against my tits, which remained sensitive, almost inflamed, from the games of the trio. Sometimes I would stare at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, observing the curve of my ass and wondering if anyone else could see the invisible mark that act had left on me. I felt powerful, charged with a forbidden energy that made my steps slower, my hips heavier, while I kept the stack of bills like an amulet of filth under my mattress.

But then, the atmosphere of the house began to change. The air became dense, almost viscous, and I started to feel that I was no longer alone in my secret.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when I felt the first prick of reality. I was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, when I heard Mr. Park's footsteps approaching. It wasn't the usual walk of a stepfather; it was a paused, deliberate rhythm—the step of someone who knows exactly where his prey is. I froze, glass half-full, feeling the back of my neck prickle violently.

"You smell different today, Chaeyeon," his voice arrived as a glacial whisper right behind my ear.

The impact was physical. I felt an electric shock shoot down my spine and end in an involuntary spasm between my legs. I turned slowly, heart hammering against my ribs: bum-bum... bum-bum. He was inches away from me, leaning against the counter, looking at me with dark eyes that didn't see the "good girl," but instead scanned my body with an obscene slowness. His pupils were dilated, fixed on the movement of my throat as I swallowed with difficulty.

"What do you mean?" I managed to articulate, though my voice sounded broken, a thread of sound that betrayed my panic.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he moved one millimeter closer, invading my personal space until I could smell the sandalwood and cold tobacco mixing with my own scent. He cast a fleeting glance downward, toward my tits which were rising and falling agitatedly under the blouse, and then returned to my eyes with a smile that didn't reach his pupils.

"You smell like that cheap soap from the downtown hotels," he commented with a terrifying calmness. "That aroma of chlorine and damp sheets... it’s curious how it clings to the skin, isn't it? Especially when one gives themselves over with such... passion."

I felt the floor disappear beneath my feet. The world became blurred and a dull buzzing filled my ears. The mention of the hotel wasn't a guess; it was a sentence. I ran out of air, feeling my larynx close as panic flooded my nervous system. But the most disgusting part was my body's reaction: in the face of pure terror and the humiliation of being discovered, I felt my pussy pulsing with a violent urgency. The adrenaline of fear mixed with residual arousal, creating a toxic cocktail that left me trembling on the spot.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, though I knew it was useless. My voice was a pathetic whisper.

Mr. Park let out a dry chuckle and slowly walked away, but before leaving the kitchen, he brushed his hand against my hip—a fleeting touch that made my legs buckle.

"There's no need to lie, dear. I prefer it when you're honest about your... appetites," he whispered, and the sound of his footsteps receding left a suffocating void in the room.

I stayed there, leaning against the counter, legs open and breathing broken. I was terrified, yes, but I also felt an electric spark running through my thighs. I felt naked, exposed, as if Mr. Park had ripped off my clothes with just his words and left me there, exhibiting my tits and ass to his judgment. Paranoia installed itself in me like a parasite: now I knew that every time I passed him, he was imagining how I was in that hotel, how I moaned, and how my skin felt.

I was no longer the hunter of the secret; I was the prey. And worst of all was knowing that while fear consumed me, a dark part of me was starting to wish he would finish closing the trap.

When I heard my name echo from the hallway, I felt the air thicken, becoming almost solid around my lungs. "Chaeyeon, come to the study for a moment." Mr. Park's voice wasn't a request; it was a command wrapped in velvet, a low frequency that made every hair on my body stand up. My first reaction was pure panic; I felt an electric shock shoot down my spine, leaving my legs trembling and my mind blank. I knew this moment would come. Since that day at the hotel, I felt as if I were walking on thin glass, and now, finally, I heard it shattering beneath my feet.

I walked toward the office with slow, heavy steps, as if dragging an invisible chain tied to my neck. As I moved through the hallway, my internal monologue was a chaos of voices: "Don't go in," "Run now while you can," "What if he already told Mom?". But beyond the fear, there was a dull anguish thinking about Chaeryeong. We knew we had crossed a line together; we shared that stain, that secret that bound us in a dark and desperate complicity. Thinking that he could use this to separate us or destroy us both caused a visceral nausea.

Upon opening the door, the scent of sandalwood and cold tobacco hit my face with suffocating force. The study was in dim light; the closed blinds let through only a few threads of white light that cut the room into strips, as if I were already entering a cell. I saw Mr. Park leaning against his oak desk, observing me with a predatory calm that made me feel small, insignificant, almost transparent.

And then, the sound happened that finally broke me. Click.

The lock closed. That small metallic noise resonated in my ears like the fall of a guillotine. I froze in the middle of the room, arms pressed to my body and pupils dilated by animal terror. The silence that followed was dense, interrupted only by the erratic rhythm of my own breathing: short inhalations... forced pauses... exhalations that sounded like contained sobs.

He didn't move immediately. He took his time to look at me—a slow and obscene scan that started at my feet and climbed slowly up my legs, pausing on the curve of my ass before moving toward my chest. I felt his eyes stripping me, tearing away my clothes with a single gaze. He knew exactly what he was seeing: not the perfect daughter, but the girl who had enjoyed carnal chaos alongside her sister.

"You look so scared, Chaeyeon," he whispered, starting to walk toward me with calculated slowness. "It’s fascinating how your body reacts when you know you no longer have anywhere to hide."

He stopped right behind me, invading my personal space until I could feel the heat of his chest against my back. He didn't touch me, but the pressure of his presence was so strong that I felt my knees give way. He forced me to remain trapped between him and the edge of the desk, leaving me with no exit.

"Let's talk about that little trip you two took," he continued, leaning in so his warm breath brushed my ear. "That hotel... those white sheets that got so dirty. I wonder if your sister feels the same urgency as you right now to keep the silence."

The indirect mention of us was like a lash. I felt the world spin and my heart hit my ribs with brute force: bum-bum... bum-bum. But then the worst happened: while horror consumed me, I felt an electric shock of forbidden arousal running through my pelvis. My pussy pulsed violently against the fabric of my pants; the humiliation of knowing he had seen us both, that he knew exactly how we moaned and how we surrendered, triggered a treacherous somatic response. I hated myself for this; I hated that fear and degradation ignited a fire in my gut that I couldn't put out.

"You're trembling," he murmured, and this time he did touch me. He slid a hand around my waist, squeezing the flesh of my hip with possessive force. "And you're wet, aren't you? I love that your body is so honest, even though your mouth wants to pretend innocence."

I closed my eyes tight, letting out a broken gasp. I was totally annihilated. There was no longer any room for negotiation. Mr. Park didn't just possess the secret of that trio; now he possessed my nerves and my physical reactions. I felt like a porcelain doll that he had just broken to see how it looked inside.

"Now," he decreed, his voice becoming a glacial mandate, "let's see how obedient a girl can be when she has so much to lose."

I stayed there, trapped between the cold wood of the desk and the suffocating heat of Mr. Park’s body. My breathing was a disaster; short gasps that made my chest rise and fall with an erratic speed, hitting the fabric of my blouse. I could feel his gaze nailed to me, not as a caress, but as a scalpel opening me up, analyzing every corner of my fear. The silence of the study was so dense I could hear the dull throb of my own heart hammering in my ears: bum-bum... bum-bum.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a glacial whisper, an administrative and dry instruction that left me frozen.

The world seemed to stop for an instant. My mind screamed in protest—a visceral reaction of rejection that made me shrink into myself. This can't be happening, I thought, while a wave of panic ran down my spine. But then I remembered Chaeryeong’s gaze, the shared secret and the possibility of him letting it all out. That idea acted as an anchor; the fear for my sister was stronger than the disgust for myself.

With fingers trembling violently, I brought my hands to the buttons of my blouse. The first button resisted; my nails slipped on the fabric due to the cold sweat that had begun to bead on my palms. I let out a muffled moan—a mix of frustration and terror—while feeling Mr. Park's gaze fixed on my hands. He said nothing, but his silence was an unbearable pressure forcing me to hurry.

Finally, the button gave way. Then the second. And the third.

As the fabric opened, the cold air of the study hit my skin, provoking a shiver that made me arch my back. I slid the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor with a dull sound—almost imperceptible, but to me, it sounded like the fall of a guillotine. I stood there in only my bra, exposing my arms and stomach to the raw light of the blinds. I felt the air burning me, but what burned more was knowing he was enjoying every second of my humiliation.

"Slower, Chaeyeon," he murmured, his voice vibrating against my neck. "I want to see how you strip away everything. I want to see the expression on your face when you realize you no longer have anything to hide."

I turned slightly, heart galloping in my throat, and reached for the back closure of my bra. The click of the hook releasing was the loudest sound in the room. When I let the garment drop, my tits were exposed to the glacial air of the office. They were small, firm, and pale under the white light; I felt my nipples harden instantly from the cold and fear, projecting forward like two pink, tense pearls. I felt grotesque and vulnerable, an animal stripped naked before its hunter.

But the worst was yet to come. My hands moved down to the waist of my pants. The touch of my own fingers against my skin provoked an electric shiver that ended in a sting of wetness between my legs. I hated myself. I hated that while terror consumed me, my pussy reacted with a treacherous lubrication before the authority of the man.

I slid the pants down with torturous slowness. The fabric stuck to my thighs because of the cold sweat, creating a friction that made me gasp. When the garment hit the floor, I was left in only a small strip of lace that barely covered the essentials. I stood sideways in front of the study mirror, forced by his gaze to observe my own body.

I saw my ass—round and massive, extending in a white and voluptuous curve that contrasted violently with the fragility of my waist. It was a fleshy, firm ass that swayed slightly as I trembled. I felt like an object, a piece of meat displayed in a showcase. I knew Mr. Park was devouring that image with his eyes, savoring the roundness of my cheeks and the tension of my skin.

"Now, the last garment," he decreed, his voice becoming a dark mandate. "I want to see you totally open. Right now."

I stood there, naked of everything except a thread of fabric, with hardened tits and an exposed ass, feeling the air of the study wrap around me like a cold shroud. I was broken, stripped of all dignity, and as I looked at Mr. Park, I knew the real hell had just begun.

The silence that followed my stripping was heavier than the clothes I had just dropped on the floor. I stood there, trembling in the center of the study, skin prickling and nipples so tense I felt any touch would make me scream. The cold air of the office hit my tits and stomach, but I could only feel the heat radiating from Mr. Park’s body. He didn't move immediately; he stayed watching me with a predatory calm, enjoying the image of my total vulnerability while I felt myself shrink under his scrutiny.

Then, he took the first step.

It wasn't a hug or a soft caress. It was an invasion. I felt his hand close around my hip with brute force that left me breathless. His fingers sank into my flesh, squeezing the curve of my waist with a possessiveness that made me let out a broken gasp. The thermal contrast was violent: his palm was burning, almost searing my skin which was cold and damp from the sweat of panic.

"Look at you..." he whispered, coming so close that his hot breath clashed against my neck. "So scared, so broken. But your body doesn't lie, does it, Chaeyeon?"

Without warning, he slid his other hand up, trapping one of my tits in a brusque and possessive grip. He forced me to arch my back, and I felt how he squeezed my tit against his palm, molding it with an aggressiveness that made me let out a moan oscillating between pain and a forbidden arousal. His fingers squeezed my nipple hard, twisting it slightly, provoking an electric shock that shot down my spine to anchor itself at the base of my pelvis.

"I wonder if you moaned like this in that hotel," he murmured, his voice becoming a dirty purr. "I wonder if you liked feeling like a whore while you collected the money."

The word "whore" resonated in my ears like a lash, but the humiliation acted as a trigger. I felt my pussy pulse violently against the thin strip of lace of my underwear; lubrication began to flow, thick and hot, betraying me before the man who was degrading me. I hated myself for this; I hated that fear and shame were igniting a fire in my gut that I couldn't put out.

Suddenly, he turned me with a sharp movement, forcing me to be backed up against him. I felt the hard rub of his belt and the pressure of his erection against my ass—a solid, hot mass that made my legs tremble. Mr. Park didn't waste time; he brought his hands down to my cheeks and delivered a dry blow, a loud slap that resonated in the silence of the study.

"Ah!" I let out a muffled scream, feeling the skin of my ass burn instantly.

The impact left me breathless, but the pain was immediately followed by a wave of dark, visceral pleasure. I felt his hands grip my cheeks hard, sinking into the fleshy part of my rear, squeezing it as if he wanted to leave permanent marks on me. I felt like an animal, an object of pleasure without will, while he forced me to lean over the desk, exposing my ass completely to the air and his gaze.

"Look what an ass you have, Chaeyeon," he whispered, his voice now charged with animal lust. "An ass made to be used. I wonder how much longer you can pretend to be the good girl while I have you like this—open and ready for me."

I felt his hand descend, sliding along the curve of my thigh until reaching the edge of the lace. His fingers brushed the wet fold of my intimacy—a fleeting but electric touch that made me arch my back and let out a long, broken moan. The touch was dirty, deliberate; he was testing my moisture, ensuring I was as ready as he desired.

In that moment, the world was reduced to that contact: the pressure of his body against my back, the burn of my slapped ass, and the suffocating feeling of knowing there was no turning back. I was totally surrendered to the predator's game, and while my tears fell silently onto the wood of the desk, my body screamed for the culmination of that torment.

I was there, bent over the oak desk, arms trembling as they held my own weight and my face sunken into the cold wood. I felt the pressure of Mr. Park’s body pressed against my back—a mass of suffocating heat that made me feel as if the air had run out. Then, I felt his fingers hook the thin lace strap of my underwear. There was no subtlety; he pulled it with a dry, abrupt movement that made me let out a muffled whimper.

The sound of fabric sliding down my thighs was the prelude to the void. Suddenly, I felt the glacial air of the office hit my pussy, leaving me totally exposed, open and vulnerable. I shrank instinctively, trying to close my legs, but he gripped my thighs with brute force, forcing me to keep them open, exhibiting my intimacy to the air and his judgment.

"Look how you tremble," he whispered, and I could feel his dark chuckle against my neck. "You're so wet I can almost smell you from here. I wonder if you'd get this turned on for any stranger who paid you, or if it's only because you know that now you belong to me."

Before I could respond, I felt his hot breath brushing the sensitive skin of my thighs. And then, it happened. The first contact of his tongue against my clitoris was like a high-voltage electric shock that ripped through my entire body. I let out a muffled scream into the wood of the desk, arching my back violently. It wasn't a tender caress; it was an aggressive, wet and deliberate lick.

Slurp... glup...

The sound of his tongue working in my intimacy filled the silence of the study—a viscous and obscene noise that made me feel like the filthiest creature in the world. Mr. Park wasn't seeking my pleasure; he was seeking to mark me. His lips sucked my skin hard, leaving marks that I knew would take days to fade. Every time his tongue pressed into the center of my pleasure, I felt my will disintegrate.

"You are such an obedient whore, Chaeyeon," he murmured between laps, his voice sounding wet and raspy. "I imagine you love feeling like this, don't you? Knowing your stepfather has you bent over his desk while he licks your pussy as if you were an animal in heat."

The words were psychological whips, but my body reacted with an obscene betrayal. Despite the disgust and humiliation, I felt my nipples harden against the wood and lubrication flow in hot waves, soaking everything where his tongue worked. I was in a state of total hyperesthesia; every movement of his mouth provoked involuntary spasms in my thighs. I felt fragmented: my mind screamed that this was an aberration, but my pussy pulsed with animal urgency, claiming the culmination of that torment.

Suddenly, he pulled away abruptly. The sudden vacuum left me panting, feeling incomplete and exposed. I heard the sound of his pants' zipper going down—a metallic zip that sounded like a final sentence.

"You've had enough pampering," he decreed, his voice becoming glacial and dominant. "Now let's see how much you can take."

I felt him grip my hips with a force that left imprints on my skin. Without any preamble, without any lubrication other than the moisture of fear and desire, he pushed his erection against the entrance of my pussy. The first impact was dry and violent.

"Ahhh!" I screamed, sinking my fingers into the wood of the desk as he buried himself in me in a single thrust, filling me completely.

The initial pain was acute—a massive pressure that seemed to want to split me in two—but it was immediately followed by a sensation of suffocating fullness. The rhythm that followed was animal; there was no tenderness, only physical power and possessiveness.

Clap... clap... clap...

The sound of his balls hitting my ass resonated in the room like an obscene percussion. Each thrust pushed me harder against the desk, making my tits bounce against the wood and my head shake violently. I felt how he possessed me with blind fury, using my body as a vessel for his lust and power.

"Tell me who your owner is, whore," he growed in my ear, while his hands squeezed my cheeks so hard I felt the flesh deform. "Tell me while I break you from the inside!"

I couldn't articulate words; I only let out broken moans and desperate gasps. I was lost in a whirlwind of fluids, wet sounds, and a sensation of total annihilation. I felt like an object—a thing that existed only to be used—and as the climax approached, I felt my identity vanish, merging with the will of the man who was destroying me.

Silence returned to the study abruptly, a silence so heavy it could almost be felt physically on my shoulders. Mr. Park withdrew from me with the same brusqueness with which he had possessed me, leaving me there, collapsed over the desk, trembling and empty. I felt the draft of cold air hit my sweaty skin, provoking a violent shiver that ran down my back and made me let out a broken sigh.

I stayed motionless for several minutes, face sunken in the cold wood and hair stuck to my forehead by sweat. I could feel the residual moisture sliding slowly down my thighs—a viscous trail that reminded me every second that I had just been used as an object. My pussy throbbed with a dull heaviness, irritated and sensitive; I felt the pressure of the semen cooling inside me, a physical mark of my submission that made me feel anchored to the floor by pure shame.

I heard the metallic sound of his pants' zipper going up—a dry zip that marked the return to normality. The man who was now in front of me was no longer the animal beast who had destroyed me moments ago; he was once again Mr. Park, the impeccable and cordial stepfather. That transition was more terrifying than the act itself: the ease with which he could move from brute lust to the coldness of a controller.

"Clean up this mess," he decreed, his voice regaining that neutral and authoritative tone. "I don't want a single trace of what happened here when you leave this room."

I forced myself to move. My muscles were numb, my legs trembling so much I almost fell while trying to stand up. As I searched for my clothes on the floor, I felt Mr. Park's gaze nailed to my ass, observing the red skin marked by his hands. I felt fragmented; I looked at my own hands and didn't recognize them. My body was still there, pulsing and hot, but my mind had retreated to a distant and dark place to avoid feeling the weight of the humiliation.

When I finished dressing, with clumsy fingers and clouded eyes, I stood in front of the study mirror. I saw myself and felt a visceral nausea. My tits were still sensitive, my lips were swollen, and my pupils were dilated from the emotional shock. I looked like the same person as always, but I knew something had broken irremediably inside me. I was no longer the girl who returned home with money in her pocket and a spark of excitement; now I was someone who belonged to the man standing behind me.

"Listen carefully, Chaeyeon," he said, approaching and placing a hand on my shoulder, squeezing the flesh with possessive firmness. "What happened today is the new order of this house. You know what you have to do so that your secret remains a secret."

I felt a knot tighten in my throat. The fear for myself was unbearable, but then the image of Chaeryeong emerged. I remembered her laughter, her apparent innocence, and the bond that united us. An obsessive idea began to take root in my mind: if I accepted this, if I became Mr. Park’s pressure valve, perhaps he would leave my sister alone. Perhaps I could buy this man's silence with my own flesh.

"If you are an obedient girl... if you do everything I ask without protest," he continued, his voice becoming a glacial whisper in my ear, "your sister will never have to go through this. She can keep smiling and believing she is pure, while you and I take care of the filth."

That promise was the final nail in my coffin. Martyrdom felt like the only dignified way out. I closed my eyes and nodded slightly, accepting the invisible pact. In that moment, Mr. Park had not only taken my body; he had taken my will and transformed it into a shield to protect Chaeryeong.

Seoul never actually got dark like this; it just gave up and went grey. But out here, past the resort, where the black lava rock dropped off into the ocean, the darkness wiped the horizon clean. Overhead, the Milky Way painted a violent smear of white across pitch black. For once, something actually looked better in reality than it had on the curated Instagram accounts Karina had exhaustively scrolled through when booking the trip, looking less like a postcard and more like a direct act of God.

Yesterday morning, when Yeji jumped into her DMs with paragraphs about Chaeryeong’s desperate need for an American beach fire and Lia’s promise of zero light pollution, Karina had read the texts flat on her back. Mostly because her body was still thoroughly wrecked from what Yeji and Minho had done to her the night before. She’d been too busy tracing a ring of faint, finger-shaped bruises on her left breast to care about roasting marshmallows.

But sitting in the sand now, freezing in the coastal wind while the Pacific crashed somewhere in the dark, she had to admit Lia was, in fact, totally right. The stars kept multiplying every time Karina looked up, white and shameless over the water, and her neck started to ache before she made herself look away. Annoyingly, inconveniently, she wanted to pray about it.

By the time the sun fully dropped behind the water, ITZY had essentially relocated their Seoul dormitory and dropped it directly onto the beach. They’d claimed their patch of sand long enough for their belongings to scatter into that comfortable chaos they somehow lived in every day without falling apart. On the sand sat a cracked-open cooler bleeding condensation onto a discarded million-won hoodie, half-kicked-off slides sinking near the driftwood, and Lia’s phone tripod jammed into the dirt to record the impending disaster unfolding by the unlit fire.

Karina watched as her own members wasted no time getting comfortable.

Over on the main blanket, Winter had already fished out the honey butter chips meant for later and declared them chips for right now, hugging the bag to her chest while Ningning and Giselle successfully stole bites anytime Winter looked away. Winter had her knees tucked up inside a Doraemon blanket and her cheeks puffed full of chips, chewing with solemn focus. With Winter, snacks always demanded discipline and respect.

Yeji sat off to the side with one knee drawn up to her chin, silently watching Minho fail, while Yuna tucked her legs under herself and accepted a chip from Ningning, holding it suspended in the air for a long time before finally taking a bite.

Karina glanced over and watched as the boys struggled with fond cynicism. Delegating the fire to them had been an unspoken group consensus, the sort of primitive task men were supposed to handle when they weren’t busy being horny and useless. Although right now, they were just being useless.

Out by the driftwood, Sunwoo was trapped in a miserable loop of polite intervention. He kept taking an eager half-step forward with his mouth open to help, then immediately second-guessing himself and shoving his hands violently back into his pockets out of sheer politeness. It was agonizing to watch.

Down in the sand, Minho crouched beside a questionable pyramid of sticks, repeatedly striking a lighter into the sea breeze while Minjun nodded along as if the effort looked promising.

“You look like a sad YouTuber,” Giselle called from the blanket, clutching a bottle of soju. “Like ‘Man survives one day without wifi’.”

“It’s called airflow,” Minho said, shielding the tiny spark with his palm.

“More like arson cosplay,” Lia chimed in, tapping her screen to take a video.

Minjun nudged a stick with his toe. “No, because if we just -”

“Not like that,” Sunwoo finally interjected.

Ningning popped up on her knees, chewing a stolen honey butter chip. “Wait, I know this! You put the tiny ones under the big ones.”

Winter, still bundled in the blanket, lifted one hand like a student answering in class. “Maybe the small sticks are babies. They need protection.”

Giselle stared at her. “Minjeong-ya, we’re burning them.”

Winter’s face folded into immediate distress. “Unnie, then why did you call it kindling? That sounds gentle.”

Ningning patted the top of her head while still observing Minho’s collapsing stick pyramid with unfettered amusement. “Don’t worry, unnie. They’re brave babies.”

“Oh.” Winter accepted this at once and shoved another chip into her mouth.

When Minho brought the lighter too close to his thumb again, Yeji inhaled sharply enough to be heard over the surf. She folded her arms immediately, squaring her jaw, and Karina watched the tension lock into Yeji’s shoulders.

Giselle sighed loudly over the rim of her cup. “Dude, just use lighter fluid. You’re not winning any prizes for doing things the hard way.”

“I know how to do it naturally.” Minho adjusted the smallest sticks with two careful fingers.

“Dude,” Giselle scoffed, staring at him. “The natural part is fucking failing right now.”

He clicked the lighter again, caught empty air, clicked it once more, and singed his knuckle with a sharp hiss, shaking his hand out fast.

Before he could try again, Sunwoo stepped in, nudged two bits of driftwood apart, crouched, and lit one twist of paper. The kindling finally caught and sent a bright flame crawling up through the center of the pile.

As the wood popped and caught, Chaeryeong clapped loudly, then tucked both hands under her chin in a tiny victory pose.