ΣΝΩΖ

Karina's eyes widened at the sight of an African refugees massive BBC. With a shaky hand she reached out to grab it, feeling the strong pulse throbbing against her palm. Her mouth fell open when she began to stroke, watching it flop in her hands a bit, realizing he wasn't even fully hard.

Karina gasped, drooling as she stroked with both hands. She felt the carpet against her knees, and the touch of his ebony thighs around her torso. She leaned forward, pressing her pursed lips to the head to give it a tender kiss.

Her tongue pressed forward, tasting her first black cock, inhaling the musk that filled her nose. Her right eye twitched and she felt the thoughts within her head melting into a a warm wave of bliss rolling down her spine.

Hawk tuah! Karina spit on that thang and covered it in a layer of glistening sheen that her hands stroked into the dark African meat. Her lips wrapped around the head, eagerly parting to let it slide across her wet tongue and into the back of her throat.

GLUCK! GLUCK! AAH! GLUCK! She started to blow him between loud gasps for air. She could only fit half into her mouth, stroking him desperately with both hands covered in her own spit. The bull groaned, placing both hands on her head to hold her in place, preventing her from lifting off of his BBC.

His hips thrusted upward, jamming his big black cock into the back of her throat with force. Karina let out a muffled scream, but the bull kept going, grunting as he used her throat like a fleshlight for his own pleasure.

Her hands slapped at his thighs and abs, begging him to stop, but only motivated him to keep going. "I'm here to fuck all the women!" he groaned, pushing Karina down on his cock until she was gagging violently, her eyes rolling back until they were nearly solid white.

He gave her cheek a slap, then released her and watched Karina gasp for air, her chest heaving as she sat back against the coffee table behind her. Her throat stung as she panted, wiping the spit from her chin that had soaked into her black REFUGEES WELCOME shirt with a black fist in the middle of the Korean flag.

The bull stood up and grabbed her hair in his hand, motioning for her to follow him. "No!" he said when she tried to stand up, "I'll walk you like the slut you are."

Karina crawled on all fours beside him, following with her heavy tits sagging down against the fabric of her shirt. Her pale, naked ass in the air swayed side-to-side as he led her across the room, passing by other bulls who were hammering black cock into screaming Korean women.

The sliding door of the patio opened and Karina felt the hard concrete against her palms and knees as he led her to a beach chair and pointed for her to get on it. Karina climbed up and felt his hands on her waist, flipping her onto her back.

"Let me have those big ass titties," he said, pushing the shirt up to reveal her braless, pale, fat tits. He slapped his wet BBC between them and Karina moaned deeply, feeling the power and heft of his black cock as it thumped against her soft skin.

"Mmm, fuck my big Korean tits!" Karina blurted out, lifting her hands to the sides of her chest to press them together around the ebony pole between them.

Karina watched a pair of hands coil around the bulls sides, and then the face of Giselle smiling down at her. "That's it, fuck those big tits," Giselle said to him in a soft, encouraging voice. "They're what you came here for, aren't they? Big asian tits and tight little Korean pussies to breed."

The bull groaned, his hips thrusting back and forth between Karina's fleshy melons engulfing his dark cock. She felt the head poking at her neck with every thrust, peeking out from under the top of her shirt and occasionally trying to slip under her choker necklace.

Karina's head spun with lust, her toes curling the moment that Giselle lowered her face to her pussy to start licking it. Karina let out a long, low moan of satisfaction, closing her eyes and arching her back.

Giselle shoved a couple fingers in without warning, working them back and forth inside Karina, her thumb working circles on her sensitive clit to drive her mad. Karina breathed deeply in sharp breaths, her thighs beginning to shake, chest turning red.

The bull reached down with both hands and wrapped them around her neck, his thumbs pressing the head of his black cock against her throat as he fucked her busty chest. Karina's eyes rolled, but the grip on her squishy boobs never relaxed, and she kept them pressed hard around the BBC pumping between them.

Karina let out a moan, kicking her foot as Giselle shoved her tongue into her cunt, drilling into it with her fingers and nuzzling her nose right up against the clit. It was too much for Karina, her head was swimming, and she felt like she would pass out from the pleasure.

The bull pressed down harder and Karina felt his weight on her throat, choking her until her cheeks turned a rosy red hue. She wanted to grab at his wrists, but she kept her hands around her tits, refusing to let go until he told her to.

The bull groaned as his BBC slipped under the choker, pinning his head in place as he began to spurt a series of hot ropes across Karina's chin and neck. She felt the pulsing his shaft, the flowing hot ropes of cum shooting up her chin before running down her neck and into her dark hair.

He gave her a few more pumps, then pulled his BBC back and slapped it wetly against each breast before leaving her and Giselle. "I'm gonna..." Karina panted, pinching her nipples and twisting them, pulling her sagging breasts upward with a scream.

Karina began to squirt all over Giselle's face, coating her lips and tongue, and Giselle ate it up hungrily while continuing to lick and finger until Karina fell limp with rolling eyes.

Giselle crawled up Karina's body, hovering over her with cum dripping from her lips and chin, glistening brightly. She lowered her head to lick the cum from Karina's neck, lapping it up and ending with a soft bite into her flesh.

She dragged her tongue along Karina's throat, up her chin, and then to her lips, sliding into her mouth to deposit the bull's load. Karina's eyes rolled in circles, she moaned deeply, a hand reaching up to pull Giselle in deeper.

They swapped the load back and forth with sloppy open-mouthed kisses, their tongues twisting together, pushing against each other, lips meeting until the cum had all been swallowed.

Giselle pulled back and caressed Karina's cheek, looking deep into her eyes. They kissed one last time, and Giselle grabbed a handful of Karina's left tit to squeeze as she did so.

The night was still young and the black breeding party had just started, there were more men inside waiting for their welcome to Korea, and the two of them were more than happy to give it to them.

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.

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.

The Han River at night was a study in quiet contradiction. The distant, glittering spine of Seoul’s skyline pulsed with silent energy, while the water below absorbed it all, reflecting only fragments of light in slow, dark ripples. The breeze carried the faint, damp scent of the river and the distant murmur of a city that never quite slept, but here on the walkway, it was just the soft lap of water against concrete and the occasional sigh of the wind.

On a double-sided bench facing the water, June lay flat on his back, a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The worn leather of his jacket creaked softly against the wooden slats. In his head, a melody looped, fractured, and stubbornly refused to resolve. Broken Dreams. The track was almost there—the chord progression in the bridge ached perfectly, but the second verse’s lyrics felt like someone else’s memory. He hummed a fragment, the sound barely leaving his lips, a low, frustrated vibration in his chest. ‘The space between what is and what could be…’ No. Wrong. He let the thought dissolve into the night air.

On the opposite side of the high-backed bench, Chaeryeong slowed to a walk, her breath forming little clouds in the cool air. Her earbuds dangled, unused; the playlist in her head was on a relentless, single-song repeat. The oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, and her ponytail was a messy testament to a jog that had started with determination and ended with distraction. She patted the pocket of her jacket, her fingers finding the familiar crinkle of foil. Pulling out a half-eaten bar of milk chocolate, she broke off a piece and let it melt on her tongue, the sweetness a small, grounding comfort. She spotted the empty bench—the river-facing side—and with a quiet groan of relief, flopped down, unaware of the occupied other half.

For a moment, there was just the river and two separate silences.

Chaeryeong scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, the blue light painting her face. The chocolate and the familiar, haunting melody in her head loosened something. Softly, almost unconsciously, she began to hum. It was the chorus of Unrequited Feelings, a little off-key, the notes bending with a wistful emotion her technically perfect vocal training would never allow in a studio. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she hummed, her thoughts drifting to the SoundCloud page she’d bookmarked, to the raw ache in the singer’s voice that spoke directly to her own secret, romantic heart.

On the other side, the melody drifted over the bench back. June, still deep in his creative fog, his eyes closed under the cap, heard it. It wasn’t his own humming—this was lighter, sweeter, inflected with a feeling he’d written but hadn’t quite heard back until now. Without a single conscious thought, still chasing the ghost of the song in his mind, his voice lifted, singing the next line aloud. It was low, melodic, and startlingly close. “Is it a memory, or just a dream I keep…”

The effect was immediate and explosive.

Chaeryeong shrieked—a genuine, piercing yelp of terror. She launched off the bench as if propelled, her phone clattering onto the walkway. The chocolate bar flew from her hand, a dark arc against the night. Both hands flew up in a defensive, instinctive pose. “Aish! What the—!” she gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. A ghost? A serial killer? Her scaredy-cat brain short-circuited, leaving only pure, adrenaline-fueled panic.

June jolted upright as if electrocuted. His cap tumbled off, revealing tousled dark hair and wide, startled eyes. He saw a woman—beautiful, terrified, staring at him like he’d risen from the river itself. His system flooded with mortification.

“Oh god—” he blurted, scrambling to his feet, hands up in surrender. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I was just—the song, I heard the song and my brain just… sang along. I swear I’m not a creep. That was so creepy. I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out in a warm, frantic, deeply apologetic ramble.

Chaeryeong, panting, one hand pressed to her racing heart, slowly registered the rambling. Not a ghost. A person. A flustered person. Her eyes adjusted, taking him in: the leather jacket, the handsome, sharp lines of his face now etched with genuine panic, the cap lying forgotten on the ground. Fear ebbed, replaced by a hot wave of embarrassment, which then cooled into dawning, incredulous curiosity. Her fingers, moving on autopilot, flew to her hair, tucking and untucking the same escaped strand.

“You…” she managed, her voice shaky. “You just sang that song.”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m—it’s my song. I wrote it. I’m June. I make music. In my apartment. Not usually scaring people on benches, I promise.” He gave a helpless, awkward shrug.

His song.

The words connected in her brain with the sound of his voice—the same voice from her headphones, the one that had made her cry into her pillow. Her eyes, already wide, went impossibly larger. All remaining embarrassment was vaporized by sheer, starstruck shock.

“Wait.” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Your song? ‘Unrequited Feelings’? That’s your song?”

He nodded again, confused by the intensity of her reaction. “Yeah…?”

The floodgates burst. Chaeryeong’s hands flew to her cheeks. “No way. No way,” she breathed, her voice pitching higher with unrestrained excitement. “I found your SoundCloud a week ago. I’ve listened to all four songs on repeat. ‘Meridian’ made me cry—like, actually cry into my pillow. I’m obsessed.” She caught herself, realizing how she sounded, and groaned, hiding her face for a second before peeking through her fingers. “Oh my god, I sound like a stalker now. I’m not a stalker. I’m just a fan. A big fan.” She was rambling, her cheeks burning, her hair now thoroughly disheveled from her nervous fingers.

June stared, utterly stunned. The fear, the apology, the entire bizarre situation melted away, leaving only a profound, disbelieving warmth. A shy, lopsided smile broke across his face. “You… you actually listen to my stuff? That’s… that’s crazy.”

Trying to claw back some semblance of dignity, Chaeryeong straightened her posture. She smoothed her hoodie and extended a hand formally, slipping into the polite, public-facing persona that was second nature. “I’m—”

“Chaeryeong,” he said quietly, his voice softening. He took her hand, his grip warm. “From ITZY. I know.”

She froze mid-handshake. Then a low, despairing groan escaped her as she used her free hand to cover her eyes. “So you saw me scream like a banshee and curse. Very idol-like. So professional.”

He laughed then—a genuine, warm, surprised sound that seemed to startle even him. It was a nice laugh. “Honestly, I’d scream too if a voice started singing behind me in the dark. Valid reaction. Ten out of ten.”

The tension snapped. Chaeryeong dropped her hand from her face, revealing a reluctant, then genuine, smile. She finally looked at him—really looked. The rugged handsomeness, the intelligent eyes still holding a trace of bewilderment, the way the leather jacket seemed like a part of him. A tiny, silent beat passed where they both just saw each other.

“So,” she said, gesturing to the bench. A silent truce. They sat back down, this time on the same side, a careful, respectful foot of space between them. The fallen chocolate bar lay a few feet away, a sad, forgotten casualty.

Now seated, a different kind of nervousness took hold of Chaeryeong. This was no longer about fangirling. This was about a dream. She took a steadying breath, tapping into a core of professional determination she rarely showed outside the practice room.

“I’m working on my solo debut album,” she began, her voice more measured. “I’ve been… searching. For a sound. Something emotionally raw, R&B-tinged, something that feels real, not just produced.” She turned to face him, her eyes earnest in the dim light. “It sounds exactly like your music. The feeling in it.” She hesitated, the question feeling huge in the quiet night. “Would you want to work with me? Produce one of the songs maybe?”

June’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He looked as if she’d gently shoved him. Flattery washed over him, followed by a tidal wave of disbelief. He rubbed the back of his neck, once, twice, three times—a quick, nervous tic.

“I’ve never done anything professional,” he said, the words rushing out. “I’m self-taught. My studio is literally second-hand gear I found online, crammed into my apartment. I don’t know the first thing about the industry, about budgets, about… any of it. I’d probably mess it up for you.”

Chaeryeong listened, then leaned forward, her gaze fierce. The hidden savage spark, the one her members knew well, flickered to life. “How do you make your songs, then? The ones that made me cry.”

He blinked. “Alone. In that apartment. With those second-hand things.”

“That,” she said, her voice firm, “is exactly what I want. That raw, honest sound. Not the polished industry machine.” She paused, a new idea forming. “Where do you live?”

A little dazed, he pointed across the river toward a small, modest two-story building nestled among taller complexes. A single warm light glowed in an upper window. “Right there. The one with the flickering balcony light. That’s my apartment. The studio.”

Chaeryeong stood up, brushing invisible lint from her joggers. A grin played on her lips—teasing, mischievous, full of a daring she hadn’t felt in months. “Great,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned to jog away but stopped short. Her eyes landed on the discarded chocolate bar, now slightly melted and smeared on the concrete edge of the walkway. A pang of genuine loss hit her. Her chocolate.

She walked over, bent down, and picked it up delicately with two fingers, holding it aloft like a forensic investigator. “My chocolate,” she announced mournfully. Then she looked back at June, who was still frozen on the bench, watching her every move with captivated confusion.

Her expression shifted into a playful, faux-serious pout. “You owe me a replacement. And not just any chocolate. The good kind. The one with hazelnut filling.” She wagged the sad, ruined bar at him for emphasis. “Bring it tomorrow. With coffee. As your new producer-client tax.”

June just stared, utterly dumbfounded, his mouth slightly open. The whirlwind of the last ten minutes—the scare, the recognition, the monumental offer, and now a chocolate ransom—left him speechless.

Seemingly satisfied, Chaeryeong tucked the melted chocolate back into her jacket pocket with a resigned sigh. She shot him one last smile—a complex blend of starry-eyed fangirl and confident future collaborator—then turned and began to jog back down the path, her figure gradually dissolving into the shadows.

June remained frozen. The bench felt colder without her presence. He replayed it all: the humming, the scream, her wide, excited eyes, the direct question that still echoed in his ears. A breathless, disbelieving laugh finally escaped him. He ran a hand through his hair again and muttered to the empty night, “What… just happened?”

As he stood to collect his cap, a small, cinematic detail caught the distant light: a single, smeared fingerprint of melted chocolate on the wooden slat where she had sat. He stared at it for a second, then picked up his cap, brushing off a tiny, old chocolate stain of his own near the brim. Slinging his jacket tighter, he began the short walk home, a new, unplanned melody—light, curious, and sweet—already humming softly in his chest, keeping perfect time with his quickening heartbeat.

***

The morning sun filtered through the dusty window of his ground-floor apartment, painting stripes of gold across a floor littered with coiled cables. June had been awake since five, wiping down monitors, rearranging foam panels that didn’t need rearranging, and brewing a pot of coffee so strong it could probably stand up on its own. He’d also made a specific trip to the convenience store. The hazelnut chocolates sat in the center of his small kitchen table, a silent, hopeful testament.

A knock, soft but definite, echoed at exactly ten.

He opened the door, and the breath left his lungs in a quiet, surprised rush.

Chaeryeong stood in the hallway, backlit by the morning light from a distant window. She was a vision of effortless, off-duty chic that felt leagues away from the scared, hoodie-clad jogger of the night before. A black tube top hugged her frame, paired with relaxed, high-waisted plaid trousers that pooled slightly over sleek sneakers. An oversized, cream cardigan was slung off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone and the thin strap beneath. A statement Chanel hobo bag was hooked on her elbow. Her hair was in a low, loose ponytail, but soft, face-framing layers had been carefully styled to escape, and her makeup was minimal, just a hint of gloss and mascara that made her eyes seem even larger. In one hand, she held a sleek acoustic guitar case; in the other, a stylish canvas tote.

For a second, they just stared. Her fingers, free of bags, instinctively went to tuck a strand behind her ear.

“You came,” June finally said, his voice a mix of wonder and relief. A beat passed where he just blinked, as if confirming she was real. “I— part of me really, honestly thought you wouldn’t show up. Like, I half-expected to open the door and just find… a gust of wind and a hallucination I’d conjured from too much coffee and wishful thinking.”

A slow, teasing smile spread across Chaeryeong’s lips. She tilted her head. “I said I’d come. I’m a woman of my word.” She lifted the tote bag meaningfully. “Plus…” Her eyes sparkled with mock severity. “You still owe me chocolate. A whole replacement bar. With hazelnut filling. I specified. Very clearly. In the dark. While holding a melted tragedy. I have a photographic memory for chocolate-related debts.”

June laughed, the sound warm and a little breathless. His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, three times before he stepped aside to let her in. “I actually— I bought hazelnut ones this morning. Just in case.” He grimaced, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that pathetic? It feels a little pathetic. Over-eager, at least.”

Chaeryeong stepped past him, her perfume—something subtle and floral, like night-blooming jasmine—washing over him. She glanced around the small, tidy living area before turning that smile back on him. “It’s not pathetic. It’s optimistic. There’s a difference.” She held his gaze, her tone softening just a fraction. “I like optimistic.”

She then reached into her tote and pulled out a small, elegant box of premium Belgian chocolates, the kind with gold foil lining. She held it out to him. “And because I also believe in backup chocolate. Consider it a… studio-warming gift.”

He took the box, his fingers brushing hers. He stared at it, the expensive weight of it in his palm feeling disproportionately significant. “You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” she said simply, cutting off his protest. She looked around again, her curiosity genuine. “So… do I get the tour? Starting with the source of the coffee smell, preferably. My caffeine dependency is waving a white flag.”

He led her to the tiny kitchen nook, barely more than a counter, a sink, and a two-burner stove. The pot was still warm. “How do you take it?” he asked, already reaching for a mug.

“With enough sugar to make a pastry jealous,” she declared, leaning against the counter. “Like… three spoons. Maybe four. Don’t judge me. My members judge me enough for it.”

“I’m a black coffee guy,” he said, pouring the dark brew. “So I’m definitely judging. Silently. In my head.” He found a sugar bowl and began scooping, his movements meticulous. “Three… and a fourth for the pastry’s wounded pride.”

She giggled, the sound bright and spontaneous. He thought it sounded like a melody he’d want to sample—a glockenspiel run, maybe, or a wind chime.

He handed her the mug. As he prepared his own black coffee, she opened the box of chocolates he’d bought, placing two on the counter between them. “New rule,” she announced, her tone faux-official. “Every studio session starts with chocolate. It’s a creative stimulant. Scientifically proven.” She paused for effect. “By me.”

He picked up his piece solemnly. “I accept the rule. Do we… toast?”

She raised her chocolate. He raised his. They clinked the little squares together instead of the coffee cups. She giggled again, and this time he couldn’t help the full, unreserved smile that broke across his face.

“What?” she asked, catching his expression, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Nothing,” he said, quickly looking into his coffee. “Your sugar-to-coffee ratio is just… impressively committed. I respect it.”

“Good,” she said, taking a bite. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Oh, these are the good ones. You’re forgiven for the bench-scare.”

“Whew,” he fake-wiped his brow. “My eternal soul rests easier.”

After coffee, he led her to a door beside the kitchen. “The upstair is the living space and the bedroom. And, this is where the magic happen.” he said, a rare thread of pride and nervousness in his voice. “Prepare for organized chaos.” He pushed the door open.

The studio was small, perhaps the size of a walk-in closet, but every inch was lived-in. Mismatched squares of acoustic foam in grey and blue covered parts of the walls, with a few peeling at the corners. A slightly battered MIDI keyboard sat on a wobbly stand, next to a pair of second-hand studio monitors that had seen better days. Cables ran in neat, color-coded coils along the floor, pinned in place with gaffer tape. The centerpiece was a vintage-looking condenser mic on a boom stand. The only sources of light were a single desk lamp with a green glass shade and a string of fairy lights haphazardly draped over the one window, which looked out onto a tiny, tangled patch of garden outside. The air smelled faintly of old wood, ozone from electronics, and the ever-present coffee. A worn, but incredibly soft-looking olive-green sofa took up one wall, piled with a faded quilt and a few throw pillows.

Chaeryeong didn’t offer polite praise. She stepped in slowly, as if entering a chapel. Her eyes traveled over every detail. She moved to the keyboard first, pressing a single key. The note rang out, slightly dull on the middle C.

“This place has a soul,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned, her expression awed. “JYP’s studios are… technically perfect. State-of-the-art everything. But they feel like a hospital sometimes. Sterile. This…” She gestured around the room, a slow sweep of her hand. “This feels like music already lives here. Like it’s been waiting in the walls.”

June rubbed the back of his neck. “Most of it I got piece by piece since I was fifteen. Saved up lunch money, did odd jobs. Hunted second-hand forums for months for those monitors. They have a buzz in the left speaker if the humidity’s wrong. And the keyboard, well, you heard middle C…”

Chaeryeong turned to him, her gaze intense and serious, cutting off his self-deprecation. “But you built it yourself. From nothing.” She took a step toward him, her voice firm. “That’s not a ‘but.’ That’s the whole point. This is… amazing, June. Truly.”

Her sincerity was a physical thing, disarming him completely. He just nodded, his throat feeling suspiciously tight. To fill the silence, she pointed to the vintage mic. “What’s the story with this? It looks like it has stories.”

The tension broke. A fond smile touched his lips. “Flea market find. About four years ago. The guy selling it thought it was just a broken old prop. Got it for ten bucks. Had to re-solder the wiring, but… it’s my favorite thing in here. It picks up every breath, every little click in the throat.”

“It’s perfect,” she said, and she meant it.

They settled in—her on the sofa, him in the rolling chair by the desk. She sipped her sugary coffee, watching him over the rim. The initial awe settled into a comfortable, curious quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” she said after a moment.

“Sure.”

“If you’ve been doing this since you were a teenager… why only four songs on SoundCloud? I’ve been wondering since I found your page. You have this whole world in here.” She gestured around the room. “There must be hundreds of fragments, ideas. Why only those four?”

June leaned back in his chair, the old leather creaking. He looked at the ceiling, choosing his words. “Music was… always a diary, I guess. A private one. I never thought of it as a career, something to put out there. It was how I survived being a weird, quiet teenager. How I processed things I didn’t have words for.” He brought his gaze back to her. “Those four songs are the first ones I didn’t completely hate the next morning. The first ones that felt… finished, even if they aren’t technically perfect.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I’m a bit of a perfectionist. The kind who writes a whole song and then deletes the project file in a fit of frustration.”

Chaeryeong nodded slowly, her fingers playing with the end of her ponytail. “So you hide behind ‘hobbyist’ so you don’t have to risk failing. You call it perfectionism, but it’s really fear dressed up in really nice, introspective clothing.”

June blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “That’s… an incredibly accurate and slightly terrifying callout. Do you have a degree in psychology or just a really perceptive vibe?”

A grin, sharp and a little savage, flashed across her face. “I know the type. I’m an idol, remember? Half my trainee life was trying to be perfect—the perfect note, the perfect move, the perfect smile. The other half was pretending I wasn’t absolutely terrified that I’d never be enough. I cried in practice rooms more times than I can count, just deleting takes of myself because my ad-lib wasn’t ‘genuine’ enough.” She met his eyes, a shared understanding passing between them. “So I recognize a fellow scared perfectionist. We’re a specific breed.”

Their eyes held. She tucked the same strand of hair behind both ears, a nervous flutter. He looked down at his hands, smiling faintly. “Well. Guess we’re both a bit of a mess, then.”

“A mess with good taste in music,” she countered, her tone lightening.

“Deal.”

The mood shifted from confessional to collaborative. She pulled the sleek hard drive from her bag—black, with a few cute ITZY stickers and a handwritten label in neat hangul that read “Ryeong’s Solo Dream.” He plugged it in, and his screen filled with folders. Voice memos labeled things like Hotel Melody 3am and Shower Idea. GarageBand demos with simple piano chords. Text files full of lyrical fragments.

For the next hour, she walked him through them. Her voice changed with each file—confident when explaining a chord choice, quietly vulnerable when playing a voice memo of her singing a raw, unprocessed melody in what sounded like a stairwell.

“This one,” she said, pointing to a simple piano loop, “I want it to feel like your song ‘Meridian.’ Emotional, honest, like you’re overhearing someone’s diary entry. That’s why I… I jumped on the opportunity yesterday. It wasn’t just fangirling.” She looked at him, her eyes earnest. “I’ve been searching for this sound, this feeling, for months. And then I found you on a random 2 a.m. SoundCloud deep dive. It felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Or a lifeline.”

June listened, his musician’s mind absorbing the textures of her ideas, but his heart was caught by the raw hope in her voice. When the last demo finished, the room was quiet save for the faint hum of the computer.

“These demos are beautiful, Chaeryeong,” he said, his voice low and serious. He turned to face her fully. “You’re not just an idol. You’re an artist. A real one. I mean that.”

Her blush was instantaneous, a deep rose spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She looked away, her fingers frantically twisting a lock of hair. “You don’t have to say that. They’re just scraps.”

“I’m not saying it to be nice. Listen to this melody here—” He clicked a file, and a haunting, wordless vocal run filled the small space. “—that’s not manufactured. That’s not a producer’s trick. That’s you. That’s the thing you’re searching for. It’s already in you.”

She slowly brought her eyes back to his. The vulnerability in them was breathtaking. “Thank you,” she whispered. It was the first time someone from outside her group, outside the industry bubble, had seen that hidden, artistic core and named it real.

“So,” he said, clearing his own tight throat. “Do we polish one of these? Or do we start something new? From scratch. Today.”

A spark of excitement lit her face. “New. Something that belongs to this room.”

She picked up her acoustic guitar, unzipping the case with reverence. “Fair warning,” she said, a little sheepish as she settled it on her lap. “I’m not an expert. I just use it to find melodies. I’ll mess up chords. A lot.”

“Mess-ups are where the best songs come from,” he said, rolling his chair to the keyboard. “Show me what you’ve got.”

She played a tentative, melancholy chord progression—D minor, B-flat major, F major, C major—looping it slowly. It sounded like late nights and unresolved feelings. Without a word, June layered a soft, warm pad sound underneath it, a bed of synth that made the simple chords feel expansive and cinematic.

They began to hum, almost at the same time. Her melody was light, searching, floating above the chords. His was lower, a counter-melody that anchored hers, giving it direction. They’d hum a phrase, stop, try another.

“What about lyrics here?” she asked, pointing to a spot in the structure they were building. “Something about… unspoken words? The weight of things you don’t say?”

June made a face, his nose scrunching. “A little on the nose, don’t you think? ‘Unspoken words’ is in, like, every other ballad.”

She gasped in mock offense. “Excuse you! It’s a classic for a reason!”

“It’s a cliché for a reason,” he fired back, grinning. “What about… ‘the echo in the space between us’?”

She considered it, humming the line with the melody. “Hmm. Less direct. More… atmospheric. I like it.” Then she teased, “See? You’re not just a pretty voice and a scary bench presence.”

He threw a crumpled Post-it note at her. She ducked, laughing.

The song took shape over the next two hours. They named it “Amber Hours,” for that golden, fleeting time between night and dawn when secrets feel safe to whisper. They recorded a rough guide vocal, Chaeryeong standing at the vintage mic, eyes closed, singing the words they’d woven together. Her voice, without any production, was raw, clear, and trembled slightly with emotion on the high notes. He hit record and let the tape roll, capturing every breath.

When the final note faded, he stopped the recording. He played it back, and they listened in the dark room, the fairy lights twinkling like distant stars.

The last chord hung in the air. June, who had closed his eyes, didn’t open them. “That’s the one,” he breathed.

Beside him on the sofa, Chaeryeong let out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice thick. “It is.”

A heavy, charged silence settled between them. It was more than just creative satisfaction. It was the intimacy of having built something beautiful together, of having seen into each other’s process. The professional line blurred, vibrated, and for one heartbeat, felt nonexistent. He could feel the warmth of her arm just inches from his on the sofa cushion.

She cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet. “We should… probably break. I have a schedule later.”

“Right. Yeah,” he said, snapping back to reality, rolling his chair to the computer to save the project file a little too forcefully.

She packed her guitar with deliberate slowness. She left the hard drive with him. “For inspiration,” she said. At the door to the studio, she turned. “Same time tomorrow evening? I’m free after six.”

June leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, trying to look casual. “I’ll have coffee and extra suger ready. And maybe a backup chocolate for your backup chocolate. A chocolate-ception.”

Chaeryeong smiled, a softer, more private smile than she had given all day. “Good. Don’t think I won’t show up this time, either.” She slipped past him, through the living room, and to the front door. He followed, a step behind.

She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, then glanced back over her shoulder. That smile again. Then she was gone, the click of her sneakers fading down the hall.

June closed the door. He stood there for a full minute, his forehead resting against the cool wood. Then, a slow smile spread across his face as he walked back to the studio. He didn’t turn on the lights. He just sat at the keyboard in the glow of the fairy lights and the monitor, and began to hum the melody of “Amber Hours,” adding a new, tentative harmony beneath it.

***

The first week blurred into the second in a haze of chord charts, lyric sheets, and an ever-growing pile of empty coffee cups and chocolate wrappers. The professional collaboration remained the anchor, but around it, a new ecosystem began to grow.

---

She arrived one evening looking utterly hollowed out, dark circles under her eyes visible even through her light makeup. “Two-hour photo shoot, then three hours of vocal coaching for the group comeback,” she mumbled, collapsing onto the studio sofa like a marionette with its strings cut. “My brain is soup.”

Wordlessly, June disappeared and returned with a mug of hot chocolate—not coffee—and the soft quilt from the back of the sofa. He draped it over her. “Just rest for ten minutes. The song can wait.”

They were supposed to be working on the second verse. But as she sipped the sweet drink, her eyelids grew heavy. He, thinking she was still listening, started playing soft, aimless piano chords on the keyboard, not “Amber Hours,” just meandering, peaceful progressions.

In that liminal space between waking and sleep, Chaeryeong began to hum. It was a fragile, improvised melody, a wandering thread of sound that wove perfectly through his chords. It was melancholic and sweet, a lullaby for no one. He stopped playing, his breath catching. Moving silently, he reached over and hit record on his interface, capturing the next minute of her sleepy, unconscious composition.

She woke with a jolt an hour later, disoriented. “Did I… fall asleep? Oh, no, I’m so sorry, that’s so unprofessional—”

“Shh,” he said, a finger to his lips. He played back the recording.

Her own voice, soft and dreamy, filled the room. Her eyes widened in horror, then slowly shifted to wonder as the melody unfolded. “Did I really…? That’s so embarrassing. I was basically snoring a tune.”

“You wrote that half-asleep,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Imagine what you can do when you’re fully awake. Chaeryeong… this is our bridge. This is the missing emotional turn for ‘Amber Hours.’ It’s perfect.”

What she didn’t know, what he would never tell her, was that halfway through her humming, a long strand of hair had fallen across her face. In the dim light, without thinking, he had reached over and gently, so gently it was barely a touch, tucked it behind her ear. He’d pulled his hand back as if burned, a strange, tender guilt flooding him. It felt like a violation of her trust, even as it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Now, they listened to the lullaby-bridge together on the monitors, the professional reason for the recording pushing the personal moment aside. “It’s actually… kind of perfect,” she whispered, hugging a pillow to her chest.

He nodded, his eyes still on the waveform on the screen. “You’re kind of perfect.” The words left his mouth before his brain could catch them. He froze, then stammered, “At melodies, I mean. For this song. Specifically.” His ears turned a brilliant shade of pink.

Chaeryeong stared at her hands, her own cheeks flaming. “Right,” she murmured. “For the song.”

---

A few days later, they hit a wall. The second verse of “Amber Hours” refused to coalesce. After an hour of fruitless tinkering, Chaeryeong slammed her notebook shut.

“Nope. Creative block. Chocolate Emergency Level Red.” She stood, decisive. “We’re going on a field trip.”

She dragged him to the nearby convenience store. He watched, amused, as she filled a basket with an absurd variety of chocolates: milk, dark, mint, orange, one with popping candy. He quietly added a bag of shrimp chips to the pile.

Walking back with their haul, she nudged him. “Let’s go to the bench.”

He hesitated. The bench was where this had started, where the lines were undefined. “Yeah. Okay.”

They sat on the same side now, the river a shimmering sheet in the evening light. They tore into the snacks, passing things back and forth.

“Tell me something embarrassing,” she said, mouth full of chocolate. “Worse than singing from the shadows.”

He laughed, thinking. “High school talent show. I tried to sing this big, emotional ballad. Got to the key change, my voice cracked so loud the microphone feedback squealed. The entire auditorium went silent, then this one kid in the front row just started… slow-clapping. It was the most humiliating ten seconds of my life.”

Chaeryeong cackled, almost choking on a shrimp chip. “Oh, no! That’s amazing. My turn. Last year, during a year-end show, my mic pack came undone during the hardest part of the choreography. It flew off, hit the stage, and my voice just cut out while I was mid-spin. I had to finish the routine in complete silence, pretending nothing happened, while Yeji unnie was singing her heart out next to me. I wanted to melt into the floor.”

They laughed until their sides hurt, the sound carrying over the water. When their laughter subsided, she grew quiet.

“This bench is dangerous,” she said softly, looking at the water. “Every time we sit here, I end up sharing things I’ve never told anyone. You’re a bad influence.”

June leaned back, looking at her profile. “Same. I think it’s cursed. Or blessed. I’m not sure.” He took a breath. “I haven’t talked this much… about anything real… to anyone in years.”

The weight of the admission settled between them. This is becoming something. What is this?

Chaeryeong broke the tension by picking up a piece of chocolate and tossing it at his head. He caught it against his chest, grinning. The moment passed, but the echo remained.

---

She was struggling with a difficult F-barre chord transition, her fingers fumbling on the neck of her guitar. “Aish, it just won’t— my hand cramps.”

“Here, your index finger is too flat,” he said, scooting closer on the sofa. Without thinking, he reached over, his calloused fingers gently positioning hers on the fretboard, applying the correct pressure. “You need to roll it slightly, like this.”

His hand was warm and solid over hers. Her breath hitched, a tiny, audible sound in the quiet room. He heard it, felt the jolt that went through her, and immediately pulled his hand back as if shocked.

“Sorry— I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s— it helped,” she said quickly, her voice a pitch higher. She stared at the guitar, not seeing it. To cut the electric tension crackling in the air, she blurted, “Okay, new rule! If you teach me guitar, I get to teach you how not to be a recluse. Deal?”

He laughed, a nervous release. “What does that entail?”

“It entails you showing me a secret spot. Right now. Somewhere you’ve never shown anyone.”

He considered her, then sighed in mock defeat. “Fine. But it’s not that impressive.”

He led her up a narrow, unused staircase in his building, to a door that stuck. He shoved it open, revealing a tiny, forgotten rooftop. It was just a concrete square with a low wall, but it had a stunning, unobstructed view of the Han River and the bridges lit up like necklaces in the dusk.

Chaeryeong’s gasp was genuine. “June… this is incredible.”

“I come up here when the studio feels too small,” he admitted, leaning on the wall beside her.

They watched the sunset bleed from orange to deep purple in comfortable silence. She told him about her dream: a solo stage where she didn’t feel like ‘ITZY’s Chaeryeong,’ but just herself, her voice filling the silence. He told her his: to be walking down a street and hear a stranger humming a melody he’d written, unknowingly carrying a piece of him with them.

When it was time to go, she turned too quickly. Her hand brushed his forearm, a fleeting, accidental touch. Neither pulled away immediately. The contact lingered for a half-second too long before she tucked her hand safely into her cardigan pocket. They walked back down in a silence that felt charged, alive with everything they weren’t saying.

---

A sudden, violent downpour trapped her at his apartment. They abandoned the studio and made ramen in his tiny kitchen, sitting on the counter because there was only one chair. While he stirred the pot, she snooped through his open laptop, pulling up his music library.

A gasp of pure, undiluted delight echoed in the small space. “Oh my god. Oh my god. June. You have the entire ‘Boys Over Flowers’ OST? And… is this a playlist titled ‘2008 Emo Feels’? With Dashboard Confessional?”

June spun around, his face draining of color. “I can explain— no, I can’t. It’s a tragedy. A relic of my teenage years. I forgot it was on there—”

She was beaming, pointing at the screen. “This is the greatest discovery of my career. Greater than finding your SoundCloud! This is gold!”

“It’s mortifying is what it is,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Twenty minutes later, they were singing a terribly off-key, passionate duet of “Paradise” by T-Max, shouting the dramatic lyrics over the sound of the rain, laughing so hard they had to hold onto the counter for support.

When the rain slowed to a drizzle, she was shivering in her thin cardigan. He wordlessly fetched a worn, grey hoodie from his room. It swallowed her whole, the sleeves extending past her fingertips. She hugged herself, enveloped in the faint scent of laundry detergent and him.

“I’ll return it next time,” she said, peeking up at him from within the oversized hood.

She never did.

---

Chaeryeong arrived early, a mission in her heart. She’d procured a ridiculous ghost mask from a variety show gag gift basket. Hiding behind the studio door, she waited, her heart pounding with mischievous glee.

The door opened. June walked in, balancing two mugs of coffee. She leaped out with a loud “BOO!”

He yelped, a genuinely undignified sound. Coffee sloshed over the rim of the mugs, splattering his t-shirt. He stared at her, at the grotesque mask, then at the stain spreading on his chest.

Chaeryeong ripped the mask off, her face alight with triumphant, savage joy. She doubled over, laughter shaking her frame. “Your face! Oh, payback is sweet!”

“You—” he sputtered, setting the mugs down with a clatter. He grabbed a nearby sponge from the desk, damp from wiping down the keyboard. “You think that’s funny?”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”

He did. A brief, shrieking, giggling chase ensued around the small studio until he cornered her by the sofa. He didn’t use the sponge. Instead, they both collapsed onto the cushions, breathless and laughing.

At some point in the tangled heap of limbs, she realized her head was tucked against his shoulder, his arm was behind her back, and her laughter had died in her throat. The silence was sudden and deep. She could feel the steady thump of his heart through his damp shirt. Neither moved.

She swallowed. “We should… probably work now,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

He nodded, his chin brushing her hair. “Yeah.”

Neither moved for another ten seconds. Then, slowly, as if pulling against a magnetic force, she sat up. He cleared his throat and busied himself with the computer, clicking random files. The air was thick, sweet, and unbearably tense.

---

Chaeryeong’s phone buzzed on the mixing desk, the screen lighting up with a picture of Yuna making a duck face. Without thinking, Chaeryeong hit ‘answer.’

“Unnie!” Yuna’s bright, bubbly voice filled the studio. “Where are you? That’s not the dorm. That’s definitely not a JYP studio.” Yuna’s pixelated face squinted, then her eyes went round. “Are those fairy lights? Oh my god, are you at his place?”

Chaeryeong fumbled, lowering the volume. “Yuna, I’m working. I told you. The solo album. The indie producer I found.”

“Right, right. The mysterious producer,” Yuna said, her tone dripping with playful suspicion. “The one you’ve been spending every free second with for weeks. You know the unnies and I barely see you anymore. Yeji-unnie was asking if you’d moved out.”

“I haven’t moved out!” Chaeryeong hissed, her ears turning red. “I’m just… focused. The album is really coming together—”

At that exact moment, June walked into frame, holding a fresh mug of coffee for her. “Here, I added the fourth sugar— oh.” He froze, realizing she was on a video call. He was now fully visible on Yuna’s screen: messy hair, simple tee, holding a pink mug.

Yuna’s eyes went huge. A beat of dead silence. Then, a slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Oh. Oh. Unnie.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper that was still loud enough for the entire room to hear. “I would totally believe this was just professional and you’re super focused on music… if the producer weren’t that hot.”

“YUNA!” Chaeryeong shrieked, her entire face combusting. “He can hear you! Oh my god—” In her flustered panic, she swatted at the phone, knocking it off the desk. Yuna’s cackling laughter echoed from the floor.

June, standing frozen like a statue, slowly turned and pretended to be intensely interested in tuning an already-tuned guitar, the back of his neck a deep, telltale pink.

Chaeryeong scrambled for the phone, grabbing it and hissing into the screen. “I’m hanging up. We’re discussing this never.”

“Bring him to the dorm!” Yuna yelled, her grin taking up the whole screen. “I want to meet Hot Producer Oppa!”

Click. Chaeryeong threw the phone onto the sofa as if it were on fire and buried her face in her hands with a long, despairing groan.

June cleared his throat. The silence was profoundly, utterly awkward. “So…” he managed. “Coffee?”

Her muffled voice came from behind her hands. “Yes. Please. And maybe a memory wipe. Or a hole in the floor to swallow me.”

---

The denial was a dance they both mastered.

She noticed a tiny, old chocolate smear on the edge of his mixing desk and teased him for being a “closet chocolate holic.” The next day, she left a new bar of the expensive stuff with a sticky note: “For emergencies. — Ryeong.”

He saved a sunset photo she’d sent from their rooftop to his phone. It became his wallpaper. He’d quickly flip his phone face-down whenever she reached for hers nearby.

Her hair-playing became an Olympic sport. Any direct gaze from him, any moment that felt too heavy, and her fingers would fly to her ponytail, tucking, twisting, braiding invisible strands.

He opened a new project file and wrote lyrics that were unmistakable: “Eyes that hold every unspoken word / A melody I found but never heard.” He stared at it for a full minute, then deleted the entire file. Five minutes later, he dug through his digital trash bin to recover it, cursing himself under his breath.

After the Yuna call, they couldn’t look at each other for a full hour without one of them blushing. She found his flustered avoidance unnervingly, secretly cute. He found her embarrassed pout utterly devastating.

The final evening of the fourth week. The studio was warm, bathed in the green glow of the desk lamp and the gold of the fairy lights. “Amber Hours” played through the monitors for what felt like the hundredth time. It was 95% complete. The verses glowed with intimate detail, the chorus ached with soaring release, and the bridge—her accidental lullaby—was a moment of heartbreaking, fragile beauty.

But the final crescendo, the last eight bars that should have delivered the song’s emotional payload, fell flat. They’d tried three different instrumental builds. A driving drum loop. A swell of strings. A distorted guitar riff. Each felt wrong, like a lie tacked onto a truth.

They sat side-by-side on the sofa, a single pair of headphones split between them, her left ear, his right. The final attempt faded to silence. Chaeryeong slowly pulled out her earbud, a frown of deep frustration on her face. “It’s almost there. It’s right there. But there’s… a ghost of something. A thing we’re not saying.” She glanced at him. “Musically, I mean.”

June set his earbud down on the desk. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair. “I know. It’s like the song is holding back. It’s built up all this feeling and then… politely excuses itself.” He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the tiny lights. “Like we’re holding back.”

A loaded pause stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the computer fan.

Chaeryeong’s voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe the song needs us to… trust it more. Trust what it’s trying to be.” She swallowed. “Trust each other.” She didn’t clarify the scope of that trust. The music, or the thing humming louder between them with every session.

June held her gaze, the air in the room growing thick and still. “Then we’ll find it,” he said, his voice low and certain. “The missing piece. Together. Next session.”

She nodded, the motion slow, as if moving through water. She stood, suddenly needing space from the proximity, from the unspoken answer that hovered in the silence. She gathered her bag, her movements slightly rushed. “Same time next week. We’ll crack it.”

He walked her to the door, the familiar ritual now laden with new weight. She stepped out into the cool hallway, then turned back. She looked at him—really looked—her lips parted as if to say something else. She bit the thought back, and all that came out was a soft, “Goodnight, June.”

“Goodnight, Chaeryeong.”

The door clicked shut. Inside, June leaned his back against it, eyes closed. He listened to the faint sound of her footsteps disappearing. In the quiet of his apartment, he whispered to the empty room, “What are we missing?”

The answer was a melody he was too afraid to sing, a lyric waiting in the space between every look and every almost-touch.

Outside, Chaeryeong paused under a streetlamp, several paces from his building. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the frantic, hopeful drum of her heart against her palm. She looked back at the window where the fairy lights still glimmered, then turned and walked into the night.

The song—and the unnamed, trembling thing between them—remained an unfinished, aching bridge, waiting for one of them to find the courage to play the final, resolving chord.

***

ITZY Dorm – Saturday

The dorm living room was quiet, a rare pocket of stillness between schedules. Chaeryeong sat curled on the couch, a bowl of expensive assorted chocolates—a gift from a fan—balanced in her lap. Her phone screen glowed in her hands, illuminating her face in the dim afternoon light. On the screen was a file: Amber Hours_Guide Vocal_Ryeong.wav. Her thumb hovered over the play button. She didn’t press it. She just stared.

Her mind wasn’t on the song’s technical issue, the missing piece of the bridge. It was a relentless reel of specific, sensory memories: the shocking warmth of his hand over hers on the guitar fretboard, the calluses on his fingers rough against her skin. The sound of their off-key, rain-drowned duet, his laughter mingling with hers. The low, vulnerable rasp of his voice in the dark studio, saying, “You’re the first person who’s ever really seen me.” The words had settled in her bones, a constant, humming truth.

The click of the door broke her trance. Ryujin padded in, heading for the kitchen. She stopped, backtracked, and peered at Chaeryeong. Her eyes flicked from Chaeryeong’s blank face to the full bowl of chocolates, then back.

“Whoa,” Ryujin said, her voice laced with playful, genuine concern. “Hold on. Time out. Did the Chocolate Holic just… ignore chocolate? An unopened, untouched, gourmet assortment? Should I call a doctor? Do we need a medical team? Because this is unprecedented. This is a code-red, system-failure-level event.”

Chaeryeong startled, the phone nearly slipping from her hands. “What? No, I was just—” she fumbled, grabbing a chocolate at random and popping it into her mouth too quickly. The rich hazelnut cream tasted like dust. “I was just thinking.”

“Thinking,” Ryujin repeated, one eyebrow arching high. She leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms. “Sure. And I’m just casually observing that you’ve been ‘thinking’ in that exact spot, with that exact expression, for forty-five minutes. About the song?” Her tone made it clear she wasn’t buying it.

“The song is… complex,” Chaeryeong mumbled, her eyes dropping back to her phone.

“Mhm.” Ryujin pushed off the doorframe, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Well, don’t think too hard. You’ll short-circuit your cute little brain.” She muttered under her breath as she walked away, “Thinking. Yeah, right.”

Later, Lia found her. The drama was playing on the TV, a flashy historical romance, but Chaeryeong’s eyes were unfocused. Under her breath, almost inaudibly, she was humming the unresolved melody of the missing bridge, a looping, aching phrase that went nowhere. Lia didn’t say a word. She simply picked up the soft fleece blanket from the armchair, unfolded it, and draped it gently over Chaeryeong’s shoulders. She gave her shoulder a soft squeeze, caught Chaeryeong’s briefly startled gaze, and smiled a small, deeply knowing smile before gliding out of the room.

Chaeryeong sank deeper into the couch, the blanket a feeble shield. On screen, the drama’s protagonists, having survived countless battles, finally found a moment alone in a moonlit garden. The music swelled. The hero cupped the heroine’s face, his thumb stroking her cheek. They leaned in—

Chaeryeong’s hand flew to her own lips, her fingers absently tracing them. She wasn’t seeing the actors. She was seeing June’s face, exhausted and open in the studio lamplight. The way he’d look at her sometimes, a question held in the silence between words. What would it feel like if he—

She caught herself with a jolt, a hot flush crawling up her neck. “Ugh, get a grip,” she hissed to the empty room. In a frantic, punitive motion, she grabbed three chocolates from the bowl and shoved them all into her mouth at once, chewing with grim determination as the saccharine sweetness overwhelmed her senses.

Sunday Evening

Chaeryeong was buried in his hoodie. The oversized grey fabric swallowed her, the cuffs stretched past her fingertips. She was on her bed, laptop open to her meticulously organized solo album vision board—mood images, color palettes, lyric snippets. She wasn’t seeing any of it. She was hugging a pillow to her chest, her face half-buried in it, breathing in the faint, lingering scent that clung to the hoodie’s collar: a mix of studio dust, clean laundry, and something uniquely, undeniably him.

The door flew open without a knock.

Yuna barreled in with the force of a tropical storm, followed by Yeji, who closed the door with a calm, definitive click. This was not a casual visit. This was an intervention, and the leaders had arrived.

“Okay. Enough,” Yuna declared, flopping onto the bed so dramatically the mattress bounced. She pointed an accusatory finger. “Unnie, you’ve been walking around this dorm like a ghost who lost her unfinished business. And you’re wearing that hoodie again. It’s Sunday. You wore it Saturday. And I’m pretty sure you slept in it Friday night. The math is mathing, and the math says you’re down bad.”

Chaeryeong clutched the pillow tighter, a defensive barricade. “It’s comfortable. It’s just a hoodie. It’s… it’s soft.”

Yeji sat gracefully on the edge of the bed, her presence a steady counterpoint to Yuna’s whirlwind. Her voice was gentle but unyielding. “Ryeong-ah. You’ve been absent even when you’re here. You missed your turn during Mario Kart yesterday. You never miss Mario Kart. You live for destroying Ryujin on Rainbow Road.”

“You let Ryujin-unnie win,” Yuna interjected, horror-stricken. “Ryujin. The one you’ve been trying to annihilate in that game since debut. She did a victory lap around the dorm. She was singing her own theme song. It was humiliating to witness.”

Chaeryeong’s hand flew to her hair, twisting a nonexistent strand. Her eyes darted anywhere but at them. “I’m just… stuck. The song. ‘Amber Hours.’ The final bridge. We can’t figure out what’s missing and it’s been weeks and I keep hearing it in my head but the piece won’t come—it’s like a word on the tip of my tongue, and it’s driving me crazy—”

Yuna cut in, not unkindly but with blunt finality. “Unnie. Respectfully. It’s not the song that’s stuck. It’s you. You like him. Like, like him like him.”

Chaeryeong froze. The air left her lungs in a soft whoosh. All the practiced denials evaporated. She just stared at Yuna, her eyes wide and guilty.

“He’s my producer,” she whispered, the protest weak even to her own ears. “We work together. That’s… that’s what it is. Professional.”

Yeji reached over and took Chaeryeong’s fidgeting hands, stilling them in her own warm grasp. “That’s what you tell yourself. But I’ve seen you after schedules. You don’t come straight home anymore. You go to that little studio by the river. You come back at 2 a.m. smelling like someone else’s coffee and… and quiet happiness. And you smile. Different from your stage smile. Different from your ‘I just ate good chocolate’ smile. It’s… softer. Like you’ve got a secret you’re treasuring.”

“It’s the ‘I’m falling for someone and I’m terrified’ smile,” Yuna supplied, nodding sagely. “I’m the maknae, not blind. I know things. I watch dramas. This is classic drama behavior.”

The carefully constructed dam inside Chaeryeong began to crack. Her chin trembled. “What if I…” Her voice dropped to a threadbare whisper, confessing her deepest fear to the safe darkness of her own lap. “What if I tell him and it ruins everything? The song isn’t even finished. We’ve been building it for weeks. It’s… it’s the best thing I’ve ever been part of. If I mess this up, I lose the album and I lose him. Both. At once.”

Yeji’s grip on her hands tightened. “And what if you don’t tell him? You stay scared forever. The song stays unfinished, a ghost between you. And you lose him anyway, slowly, because you were too afraid to try for something real. Which one sounds worse?”

“Unnie, you’re literally the group’s scaredy cat,” Yuna said, her voice softening into encouragement. “You scream at spiders. You jumped three feet when the toaster popped yesterday. But you also survived Sixteen. You debuted. You’re a total savage when you need to be—I’ve seen you destroy Yeji-unnie’s ego with one perfectly timed sentence. This is one of those ‘need to be’ moments. This is your Rainbow Road. Don’t let Ryujin win this one, too.”

Chaeryeong looked from Yuna’s earnest face to Yeji’s steady, supportive gaze. A long, shaky exhale escaped her, and with it, the first hot tear spilled over. Then another. “I like him,” she choked out, the admission a relief and a terror. “I really, really like him. It’s not just the music. It’s… him. The way he rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous—exactly three times, every time. The way he bought hazelnut chocolate ‘just in case’ before I even showed up that first morning. The way he listened to my stupid, messy demos and called me an artist, not an idol, an artist, and he meant it, I could tell he meant it. The way he didn’t laugh when I screamed on the bench, he just… understood. The way he tucks hair behind my—” She stopped, catching herself, wiping her cheeks with the hoodie’s sleeve. “I’ve never felt this. About anyone. And it’s terrifying.”

Yuna scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Then go get him. Finish the song. Finish the feelings. Stop hiding in this hoodie that definitely smells like him, by the way, I can tell from here.”

Chaeryeong took a shuddering breath, the chaos in her mind clearing into a single, sharp point of resolve. She looked at Yeji, her eyes still wet but focused. “Unnie… can you talk to manager-nim? Can I have tomorrow off? Just one day. No lessons, no rehearsals. I need to—I have to go there. Early.”

Yeji was already pulling out her phone, a small, proud smile on her lips. “I’ll handle it. You handle your heart.”

“And bring Hot Producer to the dorm officially sometime,” Yuna added, her playful grin returning. “I want to interrogate him properly. Over dinner. With wine. His wine. He’s paying. Those are my terms.”

Chaeryeong laughed, a wet, hiccupping sound, and nodded. After they left, the room settled into a deep quiet. She sat alone for a long moment, the weight of her confession still humming in the air. She brought the hoodie’s collar to her nose, inhaled his fading scent, and whispered to the silent room, her voice firm, “Tomorrow. No more scaredy cat.”

June’s Studio – Saturday to Sunday Night

Time lost all meaning in the green-gold cave of the studio. Daylight through the high window bled into orange dusk, which faded to black, then grudgingly gave way to grey dawn, and the cycle repeated. June hadn’t left the chair, not really. He’d stumble to the bathroom, to the kitchen for more brutal, black coffee, and return, his body moving on autopilot.

The evidence of his siege was everywhere. Empty coffee mugs formed a precarious tower on the desk. The bag of hazelnut chocolates she’d left behind was now just a crumpled wrapper. And scattered around him like fallen leaves were dozens of notebook pages, each a battlefield of scribbled, crossed-out, and violently circled lyrics.

Fragments, all about her:

*  “Eyes that hold every unspoken word / A melody I found but never heard.”

*  “Hands that find melodies in the dark / Tracing constellations where you leave your mark.”

*  “Hair that falls like a midnight sigh / And I just want to be the one who tucks it back, and tries…”

He’d crumple a page, hurl it at the wall with a grunt of frustration, only to get up moments later, retrieve it, and smooth it out with desperate care, as if destroying the words might destroy the feeling itself.

His own voice, hoarse from disuse and caffeine, was his only conversation. “It’s not a production problem,” he argued aloud to the blinking cursor on the screen. “The frequencies are fine. The arrangement works. The structure is solid. It’s… me. I’m the missing piece. I can’t finish it because I don’t want this to end, and I’m too terrified to say why. Because if I say why, and she doesn’t… then it ends anyway.”

Around 3 a.m., on Sunday night bleeding into Monday morning, his mind finally broke. The overthinking engine ran out of fuel. Exhaustion became a kind of clarity. He sat at the keyboard, closed his eyes, and let his hands fall onto the keys. No plan, no theory, just feeling.

His fingers found a progression—not complex, but profound. A series of lifted, questioning chords that climbed, hesitated, and then resolved not with a triumphant major bang, but with a soft, sustained minor-add-nine, a sound that was both hopeful and aching, a musical question that finally allowed itself a gentle, tentative answer. It sounded like golden light through dusty windows. It sounded like her.

His eyes flew open. He stared at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “That’s it,” he whispered, the sound raw in the silent room. “That’s the bridge. That’s… that’s her.”

A frantic energy seized him. He scrambled, firing up the recording software, laying down the piano track with trembling fingers. He added a soft, warm bassline that held the hope, leaving wide, open spaces for her voice to fill. He wrote the final lyrics in a white-hot rush, the words pouring out unfiltered: “So let the amber hours stretch / Beyond the fading edge of night / I’ll be the one who stays, who catches every light / That falls from you, from you who finally saw me right.”

His hands were shaking so badly he had to stop typing and just breathe for a minute. When he finally clicked ‘Save’ on the file labeled Amber Hours – FINAL MIX v1, the clock on his screen read 7:03 a.m. Monday. He hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours. He slumped back in his chair, staring at the screen, feeling not exhaustion but a profound, trembling relief. The song was finished. The truth was in it. Now he just had to wait for her.

Monday Morning

He was still slumped there, head buzzing with caffeine and sleep deprivation, eyes glued to the finished waveform on the screen, when a knock echoed through the quiet apartment. Sharp, clear, insistent.

He blinked. It was too early for the mail. Too early for anyone. A slow, irrational hope sparked in his chest. He stumbled to the door, his movements stiff from hours in the chair.

He opened it.

Chaeryeong stood on the other side, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She was wearing his grey hoodie—the one she’d never returned—paired with simple light grey sweatpants. Her hair was down, the untied, slightly messy look he’d come to recognize as her “off-duty” state. Minimal makeup. She looked simultaneously determined and utterly terrified, like someone standing at the edge of a high dive, toes curled over the brink.

“Chaeryeong?” he said, his voice rough and gravelly from lack of sleep. “It’s—it’s early. Like, 7 a.m. early. You usually come in the evening. Is everything okay? Are you okay?” His brain, still fogged with fatigue, defaulted to concern.

She opened her mouth, closed it, swallowed, and then forced the words out in a rushed, jumbled stream. “I needed to—I came because I—there’s something I have to tell you. About the song. About—about us. I’ve been thinking all weekend, and my members staged an actual intervention, and I couldn’t sleep, and I just—I need to say it before I lose my nerve—”

But his face, previously lined with exhaustion, suddenly lit up with a manic, excited energy. He wasn’t hearing her confession; he was bursting with his own. Before she could finish, he reached out and grabbed her hand, his grip firm and urgent.

“Wait—wait,” he said, cutting her off. “I finished it. The song. ‘Amber Hours.’ I was up all weekend. I haven’t slept. I think I’ve had seven coffees. But I finally figured out what was missing. You have to hear it. Right now. Before anything else.”

Chaeryeong blinked, completely derailed. Her carefully rehearsed speech evaporated. “You—you finished it? The bridge? The thing we couldn’t—”

“I finished it,” he said, his eyes blazing with a tired, triumphant joy. “Come on.” He tugged her hand, already pulling her toward the studio, and she let him, her confession temporarily swallowed by overwhelming curiosity and the sight of his exhausted, hopeful face.

He pulled her into the warm, familiar chaos of the studio, guided her not to the usual chair but to the worn sofa, and hit play on the main monitor before she could even sit down properly.

The track filled the room. It started with the verses they’d built together—the intimate, detailed snapshots of golden-hour light and quiet yearning. Then her own voice, soft and dreamy, floated in for the lullaby bridge she’d hummed half-asleep, the melody he’d preserved like a sacred artifact. And then… the new part. The final bridge she’d never heard.

His piano, aching and hopeful, played the progression he’d found at 3 a.m. It wasn’t flashy; it was heartfelt, a series of chords that felt like a heart slowly opening. Then his voice, rough but tender, singing the lyrics he’d written in the dark: “So let the amber hours stretch / Beyond the fading edge of night / I’ll be the one who stays, who catches every light / That falls from you, from you who finally saw me right…” The music swelled softly, not with orchestral grandeur, but with a warm bed of synth and a soft, sustained chord that felt like a long, peaceful exhale. Then it gently faded back into the final chorus, now feeling complete, resolved.

They listened in complete silence, side by side on the sofa. Chaeryeong’s hand drifted unconsciously to her chest, as if trying to hold the feeling inside. Her eyes grew wide, then glassy, shimmering with unshed tears. It was perfect. It was them.

The song ended. The studio was quiet again, save for the hum of the computer.

June turned to her slowly. His earlier excitement had melted into a vulnerable, nervous hope. His voice was barely above a whisper. “So… how is it? Is it—does it work? I changed the bridge completely. I wrote it at like 4 a.m. so if it’s terrible, just tell me, I can rework it—”

Chaeryeong didn’t answer with words.

Instead, she reached out, her fingers finding the soft cotton of his t-shirt. She grabbed a fistful of fabric and pulled him toward her, bridging the small space between them on the sofa, and kissed him.

The kiss was impulsive, heated, a dam breaking after weeks of pressure. It wasn’t gentle or exploratory; it was a direct, desperate transfer of all the feeling she’d been carrying. June made a surprised sound against her lips—a soft, muffled “mmph”—then his hands found her waist, anchoring her, and he was kissing her back instinctively, his body responding before his mind could catch up.

But then Chaeryeong’s brain, always a few steps behind her heart, caught up. She broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, but didn’t pull away—their faces remained inches apart, her hands still fisted in his shirt. She started mumbling rapidly, words tumbling over each other in a panic.

“Oh god—I’m sorry—the song was just so beautiful and I was already emotional and I came here to tell you something important and then you played that and the bridge was perfect and I just—I didn’t mean to just grab you like that, that was so unprofessional, we should talk about the song first, I had a whole speech planned, I practiced it in the mirror three times—”

June cupped her face with both hands, his palms warm against her cheeks, stopping her spiral mid-word. “Ryeong. Stop.”

She stopped. Her lips were still parted, her eyes wide and worried. He looked at her—really looked, his tired eyes searching hers, seeing the fear, the hope, the love all tangled together—and then he leaned in and kissed her again.

This time, he was the one initiating. It was slow, deliberate, a deep and tender question and an answer at once. When he pulled back, his voice was rough with emotion. “I’ve been wanting to do that for three weeks. Maybe four. Since the bench. Please don’t apologize for it. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

They kissed again, deeper this time, and the world narrowed to the soft press of lips, the shared breath, the feel of his hands sliding from her waist to her back. He stumbled backward onto the sofa, pulling her with him, and she climbed onto his lap naturally, knees bracketing his hips, settling against him with a sigh that was half-relief, half-desire.

Between kisses, their withheld confessions tumbled out in fragments—not in one long, formal speech, but broken up by breathless pauses and the desperate need to reconnect physically.

Chaeryeong, against his lips: “The song wasn’t the only reason I kept coming back.”

June, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her jaw: “I know. I hoped. Every time you walked through that door I hoped. I was terrified I was wrong.”

Chaeryeong, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her hands on his shoulders: “My members staged an intervention. Last night. Yuna called you ‘Hot Producer’ and Yeji told me to stop being a scaredy cat. Those were her exact words.”

June laughed, a real, bright sound, and dropped his forehead against hers. “I like your members. Remind me to send them chocolates. The most expensive ones I can find.”

“I came here to confess, to finally stop being a scaredy cat,” Chaeryeong whispered, her nose brushing his. “But this… this is far better.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of him—coffee and sleep and want. Her hips shifted unconsciously against his lap, a small, experimental rock. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her—a tiny moan swallowed by his mouth. He groaned in response, his hands tightening on her back.

They broke for air, both panting, eyes dark and wide with newfound hunger. Her lips were slightly swollen, his hair was a complete wreck from her fingers. Her playful savagery emerged through the haze of nerves and desire.

“So…” Chaeryeong said, her voice unsteady but with a hint of familiar teasing. “You mentioned it once. The first day. ‘Living space and bedroom. Very mysterious.’ Is it… is it finally time for the tour upstairs?”

June laughed, dazed and happy. “You remember that? That was weeks ago. The chocolate and scream day.”

“I remember everything you’ve said to me,” she said softly, her gaze unwavering. “Every single thing.”

He kissed her again, a deep, claiming kiss that left them both breathless. Then he gripped her thighs firmly and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist with a squeak of surprise that melted into laughter. He carried her through the studio door, into the narrow, dim stairwell, and they kept kissing as he navigated the steps—clumsy, giddy, nearly tripping on the top step when she nibbled his earlobe. They stumbled into the hallway wall, both dissolving into breathless, helpless giggles.

Chaeryeong, deadpan against his shoulder: “Romantic. Very smooth. I feel so carried.”

“I’m an indie producer,” June said, grinning as he adjusted his grip on her. “We don’t do smooth. We do heartfelt chaos. It’s in the job description.”

He pushed open his bedroom door with his shoulder—a small, simple room with an unmade bed, a bookshelf overflowing with vinyl records and books, morning light filtering through thin, plain curtains. He laid her down on the mattress gently, as if she were something precious and fragile. He hovered above her, one hand braced beside her head, and just looked at her for a long moment—her hair spread out on his pillow, wearing his hoodie over her own clothes in his bed, her eyes bright with nerves and want and a trust that made his heart ache.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, not as a smooth line, but as a quiet, awed revelation. “I’ve thought it since the bench. Every single time I saw you. I was just too scared to say it out loud.”

She reached up, touched his jaw, her fingers tracing the line of it. He leaned into her palm, his eyes closing briefly, savoring the contact.

He lowered himself, kissing her again—softer now, slower, savoring. His hand found the hem of the hoodie, fingers playing with the fabric, a silent question. She answered by pulling back just enough to grip the hem herself, and in a bold, decisive motion, she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath was a simple, pretty bra—light pink, delicate, entirely her.

His breath caught audibly. He just looked at her—not with hunger alone, but with adoration, wonder, and a deep aching tenderness that made her suddenly self-conscious. Her arms instinctively moved to cover herself, crossing over her chest.

“What?” she asked, her voice suddenly small. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re staring. Again.”

He shook his head slowly, his expression reverent. “Like… I can’t believe you’re real. Like I’ve been writing songs about someone my whole life and she just… appeared on a bench at midnight and started humming my song and screaming at me. And now she’s here. In my bed. Wearing my hoodie. Looking at me like I matter. I’m staring because I’m terrified I’ll blink and you’ll disappear.”

Her bravado crumbled completely. The nerves rushed back in a wave. Her fingers curled into the sheets beside her, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. He noticed the shift immediately. He pulled back, his hands withdrawing to safe, neutral territory on the bed.

“Hey. Ryeong. Look at me.” His voice was gentle but firm. She did, reluctantly. “We can stop. Right now. If you’re not ready, if this is too fast, we stop. No song is worth you feeling pressured. No album. Nothing. You’re worth more than all of it. Okay?”

Chaeryeong shook her head quickly. “No—that’s not—I want this. I really, really want this. I’ve been thinking about it… for weeks. About you. About… this. It’s just…” She took a deep breath, her voice dropping to a whisper barely audible in the quiet room. “I’ve never done this before. With anyone. I’m—it’s my first time. And I’m nervous. And I don’t want to be bad at it. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

A visible wave of relief washed over his face—not because his desire dampened, but because the fear of misunderstanding dissolved. “Oh. Oh, Ryeong.” He took her face in his hands again, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “You could never disappoint me. Never. This isn’t a performance. There’s no score. No stage. No cameras. It’s just… us. Just you and me, figuring it out together. That’s all it has to be.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes glistening. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Really,” he vowed. “I like you. Not ‘idol Chaeryeong.’ Not ‘client Chaeryeong.’ You. The woman who screams at benches and hoards chocolate and writes melodies in her sleep. The woman who jumped out at me in a ghost mask and laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. I like that woman. A lot. An embarrassing, wrote-lyrics-and-fished-them-out-of-the-trash, didn’t-sleep-for-two-days amount.”

Chaeryeong laughed, a wet, relieved sound. “That’s a very specific amount.”

“I’m a very specific person.”

She exhaled, a long breath that seemed to release the last of the tension from her shoulders. “Okay. Okay. I… I’m ready. I trust you.”

He looked down at her, his expression solemn, almost a vow. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He removed his own t-shirt, revealing a torso that was lean, not heavily muscular but defined. She reached up and touched his chest with curious, tentative fingers, tracing the line of his collarbone, the dip between his pectorals. He shivered under her touch.

He lowered himself on top of her, careful not to put his full weight on her, and resumed kissing her—slow, thorough kisses that moved from her lips to her cheek, to the tip of her nose, to her closed eyelids, to her forehead. Each kiss was punctuated by a murmured, fragmented compliment.

“You’re so soft here,” he whispered, kissing the hollow of her throat.

“Your voice does something to me,” he said against her skin as he reached her collarbone.

Her breath hitched. “Good something or bad something?”

He nuzzled the spot, playful. “Dangerous something.” She arched slightly, a silent plea.

When he reached her chest, his hand paused at the clasp of her bra. He looked up, his eyes asking a clear, patient question. She gave a tiny, decisive nod.

He unclasped it with careful fingers, drawing the straps down her shoulders slowly. He cupped her breasts—soft, a perfect fit for his palms—and pressed a reverent kiss to the valley between them. “Beautiful,” he murmured into her skin. “Everything about you.”

When his mouth finally closed over one erect nipple, his tongue circling gently, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers, she released a moan so soft and involuntary it was almost a sigh. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating against her skin. He spent long, devoted minutes there, alternating between her breasts, lavishing attention with his lips and tongue until her breathing was ragged and her hands were fisted in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him close.

He kissed a path down her stomach, over her navel, to the waistband of her sweatpants. He looked up one more time—his eyes always asking silent permission. She lifted her hips in answer, helping him slide the sweatpants and her matching, simple panties off in one smooth, slow motion.

He paused at the sight of her—glistening, pink and perfect, with a small neat patch of hair above. His expression was awed, reverent. “You’re staring again,” she said, shy, her thighs trembling slightly.

“I’m appreciating,” he replied, his voice husky with emotion. “There’s a difference.”

He gently parted her thighs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of each one before finally lowering his mouth to her center. He started at her clit—gentle, exploratory, reading her every gasp and flinch—then delved deeper, drinking her in like he’d been dying of thirst. Her moans grew in frequency and pitch, soft little cries that spurred him on. He added two fingers, curling them gently inside her, and the combined sensation pushed her over the edge with startling speed. She grabbed his hair, held him there, and came with a silent cry and a full-body shudder that seemed to surprise even her. He didn’t stop—he gentled his movements, working her through the intense waves until she tugged his hair lightly from over-sensitivity.

She guided his face back up to hers, pulled him into a deep, messy kiss, tasting herself on his lips. The intimacy of it made her whimper against his mouth.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, she looked directly into his eyes. Her voice was soft, almost innocent—but the words were anything but. “June… I want you inside me. Please.”

His brain visibly short-circuited. He froze, staring at her like she’d just spoken a language he was still learning. Then she said it again, the same gentle, adorable tone: “June. Please fuck me.”

He groaned, dropping his forehead to hers. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that in that voice. It’s not fair. That’s the voice you use when you’re talking about chocolate. Not—that.”

She smiled, clearly enjoying his struggle, some of her playful confidence returning. “What voice?”

“The voice. The one that sounds like a lullaby. While asking for—that. It’s going to kill me.”

“A good death?” she teased, shifting her hips beneath him.

“The best. The absolute best death.”

He quickly shed his remaining clothes. She watched, her eyes curious and wanting. When he instinctively reached for the bedside drawer, she stopped him with a gentle hand on his wrist. “You don’t need it. I’m on the pill. And I want—I want to feel you. All of you. For my first time. Please.”

His eyes squeezed shut. He took a long, steadying breath. “You’re going to be the end of me. In the best possible way.”

He positioned himself above her, settling between her legs, and took himself in hand, rubbing the tip through her slick folds, coating himself in her. She squirmed impatiently. “Don’t tease,” she whined.

“Not teasing,” he said, his voice strained with control. “Preparing. You’re—you’re really tight, and I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you.”

He began to push in, achingly slow. She gasped at the stretch, the unfamiliar fullness, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin. He paused, letting her adjust, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips—soft, reassuring, patient—before inching deeper, millimeter by millimeter. When he was finally fully seated, he stopped completely. They were both panting, foreheads together, connected in every possible way.

Chaeryeong’s voice trembled with wonder. “I feel so… full. You’re everywhere. Is it always like this?”

June’s response was strained but tender. “I don’t know. It’s never been like this for me. Not ever. Not even close.”

He began to move—slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as her body relaxed and welcomed him, finding a rhythm that matched the way her hips started to meet his tentatively. Her second orgasm built differently—deeper, more consuming, a slow burn that tightened her core—and when it broke, she cried his name into the quiet room and he felt a sudden, hot gush around him, a flood of release that startled them both.

“Did you just—?” he asked, amazed, still moving gently within her.

“I don’t know—I don’t know what that was—” she managed, mortified and blissful all at once.

“That was incredible,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder. “You’re incredible.”

When she calmed, still trembling with aftershocks, she pushed lightly at his chest. “I want to—can I be on top? I want to try.”

He rolled them carefully, settling her above him in a cowgirl position. She moved tentatively at first, finding a rhythm, a slow rise and fall, and then her confidence built as she saw the effect on his face—his eyes dark with pleasure, his hands gentle on her hips. She rode him at her own pace, hands braced on his chest, her hair falling around her face like a curtain, utterly unguarded. He watched her like she was the sunrise after a long night.

When her rhythm faltered and she clenched tightly around him—close to another peak—he felt his own control unravel. He gripped her hips and thrust up from below, meeting her movements, fast and deep, chasing the edge with her. “Together—I’m—” he gasped, his voice breaking.

“Yes—yes—June—” she broke, her voice shattering into a wordless cry as the sensation overwhelmed her. They shattered together, a shared, explosive release that tore through them both—his hips driving up into her one last, deep time as her inner muscles clenched and fluttered around him in rhythmic pulses, milking his own climax from him in hot, urgent spurts that filled her, a searing intimacy that had them both crying out into the quiet morning air.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing, the hammering of two hearts against each other's skin. He collapsed back onto the mattress, pulling her down with him so she lay sprawled on top of his chest, a boneless, sweaty, spent weight. His semi-erect cock was still nestled inside her, their combined fluids a warm, damp testament on the sheet beneath them. Neither moved to separate. His arms came around her, one hand mindlessly drawing small, lazy patterns on her sweaty back—circles, then music notes, then what might be the letters of her name.

The silence was comfortable, heavy with everything that had been said and done, glowing with a new, profound quiet.

The morning light grew stronger, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets and their tangled legs. Chaeryeong’s ear was pressed to his chest, listening to the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat gradually slow to a steady, strong thump. His fingers never stopped their gentle tracing on her skin.

She was the one to break the quiet, her voice soft and thoughtful, muffled slightly against his skin. “The final version… it’s perfect. ‘Amber Hours.’ You really fixed it. The bridge—it was like hearing everything I’ve been feeling but couldn’t say.”

His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its path. “It wasn’t broken,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest beneath her ear. “The song was just… waiting. For me to be honest. I couldn’t finish it because I was holding back. From the music, from you, from myself.”

She lifted her head slightly, just enough to rest her chin on his sternum and look at him. Her eyes were clear, soft. “How did you figure it out? What was the missing piece?”

He was quiet for a long moment, looking past her at the ceiling, gathering the words. Then his gaze dropped back to hers. “I stopped trying to fix the song and started thinking about… you. About us. The bench that first night, how you screamed and dropped your chocolate. The way you made ‘every session starts with chocolate’ a rule. The way you hum in your sleep and it becomes the best melody I’ve ever heard. The way you’re terrified of everything—ghosts, bugs, toasters—but when it comes to your music, you’re fearless.” He paused, his thumb coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. “I wrote what I felt. About you. And it fit. Like it was always supposed to be there. Like the song was waiting for me to admit that I’m falling for you.”

The words hung in the air, simple and devastating. Falling for you.

Chaeryeong stayed silent for an even longer moment, settling her head back down on his chest, feeling the solid, real beat of his heart beneath her ear. Then she spoke again, quieter. “We should start working on the next track soon. Track two. We have a whole album to finish.”

A teasing lilt entered his tired voice. “Was this all an elaborate scheme to keep me producing your album? Seduce the indie producer so he can’t say no to track two?”

She lifted her head fully now, propping herself up on her elbows to look directly into his eyes. Her expression was suddenly dead serious—no teasing, no deflection, just raw, unveiled truth. “No. It wasn’t about the album. It was about me thinking about you for weeks—every minute, every spare thought. My feelings growing so fast and so big I couldn’t contain them inside me anymore. It was about me finally giving myself to you. Completely. Not to a producer. To you. June. The person. I’ve never done that before—given myself to anyone. But I wanted it to be you. Only you.”

They looked at each other. Both of their eyes were shining with unshed tears and raw, unguarded feeling. Neither of them spoke for a long, suspended moment. The air was thick but not uncomfortable—full, heavy with a truth finally spoken aloud, a bridge not just in a song, but between them, now irrevocably crossed. He reached up and tucked a strand of her damp hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on the apple of her cheek, catching a single tear that escaped.

He broke the silence finally, his voice a little hoarse. “We should… get up. Get freshened up. And then start on the next track—I actually have some ideas, if you want to hear them. Maybe we could grab some lunch after. In a nice restaurant. With menus and chairs and other people. Like an official date. A real one. If you want. If that’s not too—”

Chaeryeong laughed—that bright, unguarded, bell-like sound he’d come to love. “That all sounds perfect. All of it. Except—” She shifted slightly, winced, and then grinned up at him, a playful, satisfied spark in her eyes. “—I don’t think I can walk two steps right now without falling over. You might have to carry me to the shower. And maybe to the restaurant. Possibly everywhere, for the rest of the day.”

June grinned, a wide, effortless smile that transformed his tired face. He was already shifting, carefully slipping out of her and gathering her limp, pliant body into his arms in one smooth motion. “I seem to recall carrying you up here. I’m getting good at it. It’s becoming my specialty.”

As he lifted her, she wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder, her voice sleepy and content. “Next track idea: ‘Stairway Fumbles.’ About a producer who almost dropped his artist on the stairs.”

“That’s a terrible title,” he chuckled, carrying her naked and glorious toward the bathroom.

“You’re right,” she sighed, feigning deep thought. “I’ll workshop it. Over chocolate.”

“I’ll buy hazelnut,” he said, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot.

“It’s a date,” she murmured, her eyes already drifting closed against his skin. “Our second one.”

He carried her into the steamy warmth soon to come, the bathroom door closing softly behind them. A moment later, the sound of water starting to run whispered through the thin walls. And then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of one of them humming the bridge of “Amber Hours”—the new, perfect, hopeful bridge. A pause, and then the other voice joined in, harmonizing softly, effortlessly, a private duet for two.

The End

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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.

“Oh, it’s that café that’s been trending online,” you say, typing the name into your phone.

“Have you been there?” Hyewon asks, leaning back into her seat.

“No. I’ve just been seeing it around lately. Heard it’s nice with a rooftop view.”

“Ah, I see,” she murmurs as you shift the car into drive and pull onto the road, the low hum of the engine settling into the silence. You catch a glance in the rearview mirror, brief and accidental, your eyes meeting before either of you can help it, and just as quickly, both of you look away. The silence lingers a second too long, and as if to break it, she speaks again. “Is this a company SUV?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Does this car have some kind of reinforcement, like bulletproof panels and all that? Or is that just in movies?”

You let out a small chuckle and turn the corner. “We do have some. This one just has reinforced windows and darker tint.”

“Oh, I see.” Hyewon nods, glancing around the car before looking back out the window as buildings pass. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve dealt with as a bodyguard?”

You take a moment to think while she waits. “Probably the number of fights but they’re more like scuffles. They end quickly. After a while, it all starts to feel kind of meaningless.”

She laughs softly, her gaze drifting to your arm resting on the steering wheel. “You’ve got some humor in you.”

It wasn’t really a joke, but you let it pass, a quiet breath of a laugh leaving you anyway. “Thank you.”

“Also… isn’t the weather nice today?”

“It is,” you say, easing off the gas as the light turns red in front of you.

——

At the shop, it isn’t crowded, just a handful of college students hunched over laptops. As you approach the kiosk with Hyewon, she starts ordering quietly while your attention drifts, scanning the room, each table, each face, anyone who might look twice, anyone who might recognize her.

“Is that Hyewon?” the worker at the register whispers to a coworker. You catch it anyway. A few people in line glance over.

“People are starting to notice you, Hyewon,” you whisper to her. “Are you in the mood to greet fans?”

“Of course,” she smiles, swiping through the screen without hesitation.

“May you remind me of the safe words I gave you?” you ask. “Standard procedure.”

“Where’s my manager?” she replies, glancing at you with a teasing smile.

“Okay, just checking.”

For now, at least, people keep their distance, the way they usually do on a slow Tuesday.

“Do you want anything?” she asks, turning to you.

You shake your head. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You should get something. The desserts here look really good.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

She glances at you, a little more insistent this time. “I know you’re working, but at least get something. An Americano or whatever. It’s my treat. I don't want to feel bad."

You hesitate for a second, then give in. “Alright. A small Americano. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She taps it in and pulls out her card.

Before she can pay, you step in a little closer, just enough to block the view of any clear angle from the cameras around. It’s instinct, automatic. She notices how you did it quietly without a word.

“What a bodyguard,” Hyewon thinks, a small, private smile lingering as the order goes through. The receipt prints with a soft whir, and she tears it off, glancing at the number. “Twenty-six.”

She steps aside to wait, and you fall in just behind her, close enough without crowding. The room settles again, low voices, the clink of cups. Then someone stands. You notice it immediately. A girl approaches, stopping a few feet away, careful, almost hesitant. You take her in without staring, quick and automatic. College student, maybe. Glasses, beige jacket, nothing out of place. No tension in her shoulders, no rush in her steps.

“Hi… can I take a quick picture with you, Hyewon?” she asks.

Hyewon glances back at you, just for a second after you give her a small nod.

The girl smiles and steps closer, the moment passing easily, a phone lifted, a quick picture taken, nothing more.

“Number twenty-six!”

Hyewon thanks the fan before stepping away, heading to the counter to pick up the tray.

“Want me to carry that?” you ask.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“Alright.”

You follow a step behind as she heads up the stairs, your attention split between her and the space ahead. The rooftop door swings open, and the air changes immediately, cooler, easier to breathe. You take a quick look around before she reaches a corner table and sets the tray down. You take the seat beside her without thinking and turn towards the door.

She pauses, then glances at you. “I think you’re supposed to face the other way.”

“I don’t sit with my back to a door.”

“Oh.” It comes out quieter this time from Hyewon. She doesn’t say anything else, just settles into her seat, a small pause lingering as she takes that in. From the outside, you know how it looks. A little out of place or funny, maybe even rigid. On any other day, it might feel unnecessary. But not today.

“Here’s your Americano, Oppa,” she murmurs, hoping what she just called you flew over your head. Which it did, surprisingly, out of everything.

“Thank you,” you say and reach for your coffee from her hand.

“I’m guessing you’re counting how many people are up here.”

“Yeah. Ten people. This place will likely get busy in two hours since people will be on break.”

You’re not even looking at her, your attention is set somewhere past her shoulder, on the door, the edges of the rooftop, anywhere but her. Still, you can feel it, the way her gaze lingers a second too long, studying you without trying to hide it.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Turning to her, your eyes meet each other, “No.”

“Liar,” she giggles, covering her mouth, though the curiosity doesn’t leave her expression. She tears off a small piece of her strawberry muffin, bringing it to her lips as she watches you.

You take a sip of your coffee, letting the moment stretch just enough. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

She hums softly, chewing, taking her time before answering. “Hmm… maybe I’ll take that back.” She swallows, brushing a crumb from her thumb. A small smile forms as she tilts her head slightly. “Then what kind of woman are you into?”

You glance away for a brief second, like the answer isn’t something you keep ready. “Someone who knows how to be kind,” you say. “Not nice all the time. Just kind.” You pause, almost reconsidering whether to add more, then do anyway. “But it usually falls apart if she has a pretty smile.”

“Ah,” Hyewon leans in just a touch, her smile widening, not shy anymore but teasingly. “So you’re a sucker for a pretty smile?” She holds it there a second longer than necessary, like she knows exactly what she’s doing, like she wants you to notice.

You hesitate, enough to give it away without hiding any thoughts. “Yeah. You could say that.”

She lets the smile linger for a second, then looks down at her muffin like nothing happened. The moment shifts, quiet but not the same anymore.

“That’s cute,” Hyewon says. You glance at her as she takes another bite, brushing a few crumbs from her lips without thinking. She looks out over the rooftop for a moment, and you let your gaze linger a second too long before looking away, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Do you… usually talk this much?” she asks, turning back to you. “We didn’t talk much earlier. When I was shopping.”

“Your manager isn’t here to keep you company.”

“Then… am I talking too much?” she asks with a shy laugh.

You shake your head. “No. You’re fine.”

“Oppa,” she murmurs.

You catch it a second later, but don’t react much and only think that she’s just getting comfortable with you, “Hmm?”

“Want a taste?” she asks, holding out her muffin.

“No, but thanks for offering.”

“Are you sure? I have an extra fork.”

You shake your head again, lifting your coffee. “I’m sure.”

“Hmm, okay,” Hyewon says, drawing the muffin back towards herself. She takes another bite, slow, like she isn’t in any rush, and when your eyes meet again, she holds it for a second longer than before, a faint smile still there before she finally looks away.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just timing. Two people looking in the same direction at the same second. But your body doesn’t buy it. It lingers a second too long, reads into it more than it should. Hyewon doesn’t look away. Her smile stays instead of passing through. You try to shrink it into coincidence, something easy to ignore, but you’re already paying closer attention than you should be. You’ve noticed the signs before, and you’re trying not to let this turn into something you’ll actually act on.

Hyewon’s not smiling at you just because. She’s flirting with you.

——

After the coffee shop, you walk with Hyewon into her apartment building. She presses the elevator button and glances down at the shopping bags in your hands. “I’m surprised you’re not asking why I spent so much today,” she says.

“I don’t bother to,” you reply, a faint smile touching your lips.

The elevator opens and you gesture her in first. She steps inside, close enough for you to catch the faint trace of her perfume as you follow in. She presses her floor and the doors close. The air shifts, quieter and closer. Hyewon looks down and adjusts her grip on her phone while you keep your gaze forward, both of your reflections blurred together in the polished metal doors.

There’s something sitting beneath it. Something neither of you has said out loud. You don’t follow it too far. Still, the thought lingers longer than it should. You notice it anyway. The way she doesn’t quite relax. The way the silence doesn’t feel empty. Her eyes have been saying enough all day.

“Oppa,” she murmurs, softer this time as she looks up at you.

“Yes?”

She hesitates, and you can see it before she speaks. “I know your job is done once I’m inside, but… would you like to stay for a bit?”

You’re thinking as she glances at you, then looks forward before the elevator comes to a complete stop and opens. There’s hesitation in your thoughts, because for whatever reason, everything seemed to align too well.

“I can stay for a bit,” you say with a quiet chuckle.

She steps out when the doors open, and you follow behind. Your thoughts don’t settle between her and yourself, questions you don’t quite let form. Your gaze drifts at her for a second, lower than it should, before you catch it and pull it back up on how her hair sways with each step. Hyewon stops at her door and keys in the code. The lock clicks. She glances at you over her shoulder, a small smile waiting there as the door opens. “Come in.”

You pause for half a second, then step forward.

Neither of you says anything more. You don’t need to.

“Uh, sorry, it’s a bit messy,” she says shyly as you step inside.

“It doesn’t look messy at all,” you assure her while slipping your shoes off beside hers.

“Come sit,” Hyewon murmurs before quickly moving towards the living room, straightening a few things that honestly didn’t need fixing. You follow after her and sit at the end of the couch, quietly taking in the unfamiliar space around you.

“Seems cozy,” you comment.

She turns around at that and suddenly remembers the shopping bags still hanging from your hands. A shy laugh slips out as she brushes her hair back and reaches for them. “Thank you. I’ll put these in my room. Be right back.”

The apartment grows strangely quiet once she disappears into her bedroom. You hear the soft rustle of bags being set down before she comes back out a moment later and sits near you, not too close, but not far either. Your eyes meet for a brief second before both of you look away like it never happened.

“Can I hang my coat somewhere?” you ask, standing as you slip off your trench coat.

“Oh, here.” She gets up quickly and takes it from your hands. “I’ll hang it for you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says softly. Her fingers brush against yours for only a moment before she walks to the closet by the front door. You glance over without meaning to, watching her hang the coat up before she casually pulls her sweater over her head, leaving only the light blue shirt underneath.

The room feels quieter after that. Not uncomfortable. Just aware of what’s happening. Your intuition is already pulling at you. Every glance lingers just enough to say what neither of you wants to say first.

When Hyewon walks back over, she brushes her hair behind her ear again before sitting beside you, closer this time. Not enough to touch, but close enough that you notice the warmth of her beside you. You catch the nervous habit immediately and decide to ease some of it before she disappears too far into her own thoughts.

“Light blue looks good on you, Hyewon,” you say with a gentle smile.

“Oh.” A soft laugh slips out of her as she looks down for a second. “Thanks.” Her eyes drift over you before she adds, quieter this time, “Your shoulders look broader without the coat.”

You let out a faint chuckle, “Is it that noticeable?”

The second the words leave her mouth, she looks like she wants to take them back. Or maybe not take them back, just hide the fact she noticed in the first place. “Uh… a little.”

Hyewon’s blushing, and you took notice. The way she avoids your eyes for a second too long. And somehow that feels more intimate than if she had looked at you directly.

“May I see your hands?” you ask softly, turning towards her.

You already know you’re crossing into something dangerous. Maybe she knows it too, but it hangs there between you anyway, heavy in the silence. Hyewon hesitates for only a second before lifting her legs onto the couch and turning fully towards you. She offers her hands shyly, slowly, like she’s giving away more than she should. You take them gently, your fingers wrapping around her wrists as your thumbs brush against her skin. Her pulse gives itself away almost immediately beneath your touch. Slowly, you guide her hands upward until they rest against your shoulders. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, hesitant at first, then holding on a little tighter.

She gulps in the quiet space between you. Her cheeks flush a deep rosy red that spreads all the way to her ears no matter how hard she tries to hide it. Hyewon tries to keep herself composed, but she can already feel the butterflies in her stomach fluttering out of control.

Then your eyes meet. Your gaze drops briefly to her pretty lips before returning to her eyes, holding it there. The air begins to feel extremely intimate. You want to take off her clothes, make her vulnerable to the point where you’ll assure her that being in your arms is the only place to be in the moment.

Her pulse is rising, and neither can she take her eyes off of you or even say a word. So you slowly lean in and close your eyes. Your hand makes its way to her thighs, and before a kiss happens, Hyewon closes her eyes too, lips parting softly as she waits for you to close the distance, but you suddenly stop. Just enough for her to feel it. Just enough for the warmth of your breath to linger against her skin without giving her the kiss she was expecting.

“May I?” you whisper softly, stopping just short of her lips as the faint scent of her perfume lingers

There’s no verbal answer. Hyewon answers by leaning in slowly instead with her breath trembling softly against your lips before they finally meet. The kiss is careful at first, almost hesitant, like neither of you fully wants to acknowledge how long this moment has been building. But restraint slips quickly. Her hand tightens against your shoulder as she kisses you deeper, and you feel yourself give in just as easily. The warmth of her pulls you closer. Every quiet breath, every shaky little pause between kisses draws you further into her, until thinking about where the line was supposed to be no longer feels possible.

You gently guide Hyewon back against the couch without breaking the kiss. She follows you willingly, fingers tightening against your shirt before one hand slips higher to cradle the side of your face like she needs something steady to hold onto. Her legs parted on instinct as she feels you getting hard between her. A soft moan leaves her when you finally pull away just enough to let her breathe. Her chest rises unevenly as she looks up at you quietly.

“You’re good at kissing,” you compliment her and take a quick gulp.

“Did you forget? I’m an actress,” Hyewon shyly chuckles and rubs her thumb on your cheeks.

Maybe you did, or maybe, you’re not thinking straight anymore by how quick the kiss turned into something you weren’t ready for.

You want more of her, greedily.

“I think you’re better than me,” she adds on, biting her lower lip. Hyewon reaches in between the two of you and unbuttons your plain, whir flannel from the top, hesitantly stopping halfway to your exposed chest. You can see the hesitation in her eyes as she looks up at you. “Do you have um… a condom?”

“I don’t,” you reply.

Hyewon hesitates, because again, this whole thing was an unplanned mess.

"Do you want to come over to my place?" you ask, giving her the option. In her mind, she doesn't want to, not because she's unsure, but because you've already gotten this far. And you won't give her a second to ask you to run to the nearest pharmacy. "Or I can go grab one quick, if that's okay."

Hyewon smiles at how thoughtful you are. She looks down and starts unbuttoning your flannel, then meets your eyes again. Those damn eyes of hers pull you in deeper the longer you stare. She's not even naked yet, and her gaze alone is enough to drag you into an infinite void. Her fingers slip beneath your collar and slowly pull the shirt off your shoulders. "I'll give you a chance."

“What chance?” you ask.

She presses her lips before speaking. “We can do it without one.”

“Are you sure?”

She lets out a soft chuckle, her palms slowly exploring your chest. Her lips press together as you watch her nervously swallow. "Yeah… I'm okay with it."

You get a good look at her eyes from above, close enough to catch every small shift in them, the sincerity, the dare, the way she's not even trying to hide either.

“Just promise to not cum in me,” she whispers. Her hands are still on your chest, legs almost locking you in. She’s been staring at you like it’s love at first sight. But love isn’t there, it’s lust that brought you two to this couch, in her own home.

Hyewon’s hands slip back under your flannel and press more insistently against your skin. Feeling her growing impatient, you sit up from her, quickly take the shirt off, and drape it over the couch. Before you can settle again, her hands are already reaching for your pants.

“I won’t. Are you taking any prescriptions?” you ask, and she cautiously gets a feel of your length through the fabric of your pants.

She nods, “Yeah.”

That’s all you needed to know. You respect her boundaries.

So you chuckle to just clear the littlest, tense air in the room, “Why are you so shy to unzip my pants?”

She chuckles along, “I don’t know.”

“Do I make you nervous?”

“Yeah, a little,” she admits.

Without a word, you grab her wrist and guide her hand to your zipper. Hyewon understands the assignment as she slowly unzips your pants. You stare at her, admiring such a beauty, yet so hungry from the look in her eyes. Once she lets go, you get off the couch and offer your hand. Hyewon takes it and stands up beside you.

“May I?” you ask, reaching her waist to take off her shirt.

“Yeah,” she whispers shyly.

So you slowly pull her shirt up, your fingers brushing against her warm skin as her torso is gradually revealed. The soft white bra comes into view, hugging her gently before you fully take the shirt off. Her breathing deepens as you toss it on top of yours on the couch.

You take the lead without waiting any longer, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of her pants as Hyewon curiously watches, slowly sliding them down her thighs and letting them drop to the floor. She can feel the subtle romance in the moment, the way your hands move with such gentle care, the focused attention you give her.

But neither of you are mistaken. This isn't love, even if the feelings are close enough to be misunderstood. Looking at each other, you guide her hands to your pants. She pulls them down and lets them drop to the floor. Now only your boxers and her bra and panties remain. You're setting the tone, slow and steady, and Hyewon is falling into it too.

"Hyewon," you whisper, gently taking her hand as you sit back on the couch. You pull her closer, clearly wanting her on top. She spreads her legs and slowly lowering herself onto your lap.

"He's so sweet," she thinks to herself, watching you reach for her nape and pull her face closer to yours, meeting each other's lips with eyes closed. You love how soft her lips are, how you can feel her back arching and her chest pressing into yours. You hold the side of her face, wanting more, taking in the sounds of your lips against each other's. There's desperation in every kiss.

You deepen the kiss, your tongue gently parting her lips as she lets out a soft, needy whimper. Hyewon's breath hitches every time your thumb brushes her cheekbone. She presses even closer, hips slowly grinding against you, shamelessly rubbing her panties along the thick, hard length of your cock straining through your boxers.

Pulling back just enough to breathe, you rest your forehead against hers, eyes still closed, savoring the shared moment. Her lashes flutter open slowly, revealing her gleaming eyes full of emotion and desire. A shy smile tugs at her lips. She can't say anything, only letting out a soft chuckle and grabbing hold of your shoulders. You move your hands lower, onto her back, her hips, the strap of her bra, anywhere to give her body some attention.

You brush your cheek against hers and trail your lips slowly down the elegant line of her neck. Hyewon turns her head to the side with a soft sigh, giving you full access as her pulse flutters wildly beneath your mouth. Your kisses are light at first, then firmer, sucking gently on the sensitive spot just below her ear. She lets out a quiet, breathy moan as one of her hands slides up to your nape and holds you there.

While your lips keep her distracted with slow, teasing kisses on her neck, your hands slide up her back until your fingers find the hook of her bra and gently undo it, letting it hang loose on her shoulders.

Hyewon pulls back from the kiss with a shy smile and slowly slides off your lap, standing between your legs as she takes off her bra, giving you a perfect view of her tits. She bends her knees, hooks her fingers into your boxers, and tugs them steadily down your hips and thighs until your hard cock springs free. After quickly tossing your boxers to the side, she climbs right back onto your lap. Reaching between your bodies, Hyewon gently wraps her hand around your cock, staring down with a smile as it throbs instantly.

You just can't take in how gorgeous she is with that smile, almost damn near naked in front of you.

She pushes her panties aside with one hand and leans forward while guiding the tip of your cock to her slick entrance with the other. After all the teasing, she finally sinks down onto you. A soft tremor passes between the two of you as your cock stretching her folds.

She bites her lower lip, briefly pausing to take a breath. Your cock throbs halfway inside her walls as a soft moan escapes Hyewon's lips. The two of you share a gaze and she grabs hold of your shoulders for balance, slowly sinking down further with a gasp until your cock fully disappears inside her. It's overwhelming her as she stays still, trying to adjust to how big you are and how her pussy is being stretched. With some effort, she slowly begins to grind on you.

"So big," she shyly murmurs, curling into you, letting out soft cries and whimpers, anything that easily slips from her lips.

"I'll be gentle," you whisper as your fingers slip beneath her panties and get a feel of the tenderness of her ass.

This is Hyewon fighting against herself. This was just the start as she gets used to your cock inside her. But you can't take in how tightly her pussy grips you, how slick she was after all that kissing, so dangerous that you'd love to cum inside her if she dared you to.

As she begins grinding harder, you hear the clear and beautiful moans she makes. You lay back against the couch and take deep breaths. She gently places her hands on your chest and continues to grind slowly, back and forth, in circles. You try to catch your breath and tilt your head back, although it feels endlessly impossible when she's this tight.

"Hyewon," you softly moan, blindly grabbing her hands on your chest, holding her there with no intention of letting go.

She can feel your heart beating beneath her palm, resting flat against your chest. It's the most raw and genuine thing as she gazes down at you. Her own chest rises and falls in shallow rhythms, syncing with yours. The window blinds in her living room are down, tilted just enough for thin lines of light to slip through.

She feels strangely exposed and vulnerable in her own home, like anyone outside could see what's going on behind those blinds. But the feeling of you inside her, this rush of warmth and adrenaline, makes Hyewon melt into you, her body trembling softly as she savors the deep, intimate fullness only you can give her.

Everything feels surreal. The way your hands gripped her wrist, desperate, like you never wanted to leave her. She pauses to catch a breath and gently guides your hands up to her tits.

“It feels good just sitting on it,” she embarrassingly confesses and feels you gently squeezing her tits.

“Yeah?” you gasp. “Show me your bedroom.”

“It’s even more messy there,” she giggles, which you can definitely feel it from being inside her.

“We can make it messier,” you tease Hyewon, gently flicking her hard nipples.

“What?” she utters, holding in a laugh and grinds on your cock to keep it as hard as possible inside her.

“Should we try on your dining table?” you murmur, teasing her again, but it’s more like you’re daring Hyewon.

She brushes her hair before deciding to get off of your cock and take off her panties, then giving you her hand. “Let’s go.”

Okay, you didn’t expect that, but you’ll take her hand as she walks you to the dining table.

Before making any decisions near the table, she leans forward and kisses you again, pulling you into a deep, hungry makeout as she reaches down to stroke your cock. You can't say a damn thing, only match her hungry lips, until Hyewon's other hand reaches back for the table and she leans against it, gently pulling you with her. She tiptoes and sits on the edge, never breaking the kiss for even a second, until she glances down and guides the tip of your cock back inside her.

She grips your shoulders tightly as you slowly push into her again. You hold her leg while your other hand braces behind her on the tabletop. Hot breath fans across your neck, a moan spilling from both of you as she takes you deeper than she ever did on the couch. Her eyes lift to meet yours, half-lidded and hazy with pleasure, struggling to stay open. Quiet whimpers escape her with every thrust. The dark strands of her hair cling to her cheeks.

Her walls flutter and squeeze around your cock with every slow, deep thrust. She’s neither telling you to slow down or be rougher, simply lost in the steady rhythm as her body rocks gently against yours. Soft, needy sounds slip from her parted lips with each thrust, her half-lidded eyes staying locked on yours in a hazy, intimate gaze.

“Oppa,” she moans out desperately as her toes curl. You slow the pace and let the two of you catch a breath, eyes still locked in the quiet moment. You reach up and gently brush the strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.

This subtle gesture changes something in her, more than you realize.

Her eyes soften with a new kind of warmth, the raw desire quietly deepening into something more tender. A slow, involuntary flutter runs through her walls, her body reacting before her mind can catch up. Hyewon gulps and you feel her hands find your face, pulling you in as your lips meet again.

You continue thrusting gently back and forth inside her. She pours everything into you: her heart in this fleeting moment, her body, even her sanity, all completely yours. Each roll of her hips meets yours with quiet desperation, tongue sliding against yours while her slick walls cling tightly around your cock as if Hyewon’s suggestion of you pulling out wasn’t the plan anymore.

You guide her back until she's lying flat on the table, your body hovering over hers, close enough to feel every breath she takes as your hips thrust forward, deeper and harder, one thrust after another, each one pulling a sound out of her. A desperate groan spills out, drawn out and helpless for a few seconds she can barely hang onto, until Hyewon grabs hold of your shoulders and gives you a gentle push. In an instant, you slow down, hearing how heavy her breaths have become.

Maybe it was a little too much for her.

You lean back and give her a moment, lifting her legs together to kiss her ankles and calves while slowly driving into her. She cups her own tits, whimpering with her eyes closed.

Hyewon can't bear how good your lips feel brushing against her legs, each kiss sending her heart fluttering. She can feel the depth of your passion in every touch, aching for you to fill her, to let go inside her. Yet she's torn between desire and restraint.

Her whole body suddenly stiffens, every muscle locking up as you keep pushing through. You realize it only now— she's cumming. Her slick walls clamp down around your cock in strong, pulsing waves. A raw, broken cry tears from her throat, half-sob, half-scream, her voice shaking apart. Breathless whimpers spill out uncontrollably as Hyewon arches and spreads her arms back to grip the edges of the table while her body continues to squirm around.

Your cock throbs as you hold yourself together, slowing to a few last deep strokes until she stops cumming and lets out an exhausted breath. You pull out just in time, your cock throbbing in your hand as her legs slowly part, ready to cum all over her.

She looks at you, then down at your cock while her breaths catch. Hyewon's trying to make a decision she hates to go back on. It's tormenting her the more she wants to stick to what was said.

A wave of shyness washes over her, seeing how shamelessly her legs are spread for you. She only met you today, yet it felt like you're someone she's known for years, someone she could trust. The guilt begins to linger, especially when Hyewon felt like she was the reason the two of you ended up here like this. You see her pondering, but you have no clue what's really going on in her head.

“Should I just let him?” she thinks to herself, looking right at you leaning over her, lowering yourself to give her tits a gentle kiss. Her breaths are still freshly heavy after cumming. You knew there was something Hyewon’s embarrassed about. She feels your warm kisses on her body while your cock drags against her crotch.

“Let’s go to your bed,” you murmur, gently grabbing her hand and getting up together. You smile at her after seeing how self conscious she was after cumming. “Take me to your room.”

She gives in completely, her lips curving into a soft, unconscious smile as yours proves impossible to resist. The difference in your hand sizes matters more than it needs to as she doesn't let go. Hyewon leads you toward her room, but just before you reach the door, you catch her wrist and gently press her back against the wall.

Your body follows, pinning Hyewon there with hunger. You kiss her deeply, slowly, savoring the warmth of her mouth as your hands glide over her curves, tracing her waist, and thumb brushing her hips. A quiet sigh escapes Hyewon. She melts into you, sliding her arms around your shoulders, fingers digging into your hair as she pulls you closer.

Hyewon hates herself for this. For letting you flutter her heart so effortlessly. For melting under the raw, undivided passion you pour into her. Most of all, she hates how convincingly you fuck her— like you genuinely want her, like she’s the only thing that matters. She knows this isn’t love. Deep down, she understands that, but you deserve far more than what she asked of you.

The wet tip of your cock brushes against her stomach while you keep her from talking. She’s not impatient or complaining. If anything, a quiet thrill runs through her.

You slide your hands down to the back of her thighs and gently lift her. Hyewon wraps her legs around your waist with a soft, surprised gasp, her arms tightening around your neck as you carry her into the bedroom. You lower Hyewon onto the bed with care and your body follows hers down until she’s cradled beneath you with her hair spilling across the sheets. Your lips trail along her jaw and neck as you settle between her thighs, savoring the warmth of her skin and the way her fingers tremble slightly while threading through your hair in silent surrender.

Hyewon breaks into a light chuckle as she feels your lips trailing down to her tits that left tingling feelings. “You’re so romantic.”

You smile, taking in the compliment. “Can you turn around and lay flat?” you ask, getting up from her to give Hyewon some space as she does what you asked.

A flush of embarrassment warms her cheeks as she presses her lips together, watching you grab one of the pillows and gently slide it beneath her hips. The soft lift arches her back beautifully, raising her ass towards you.

Gently kneeling over Hyewon, you slowly brush your cock between her folds, sending a jolt throughout her body as you insert your cock gently back inside. She feels half your weight pinning down her lower body and lets out a soft moan.

Greed is getting to her. The mental image of you cumming deep inside her makes Hyewon feel as it should be right to. Your cock is throbbing like you’re begging her to just give you the word. From above, you hear her soft moans, seeing her small hands gripping the bedsheets from the corner of your eyes, mouth parting and clenching each time you thrust deeper. Her eyes keep fluttering open and closing shut like taking your length is the only thing she wants.

“Cum in me. Just say it,” she thinks to herself.

The greed is winning as you gasp, stopping deep inside of her, trying to hold back from cumming. You gently lower yourself and kiss her shoulders. Hyewon can feel how hard your cock is throbbing in her, yet you’re trying to go on for another few minutes.

“Cum,” she forcibly whispers. “Just cum in me,” she lets out an exhausted breath.

You heard her, but you don't answer until after kissing the side of her neck, exhaustedly pulling back just to take in the sight of her gorgeous body laid out on the bed, panting. "You sure?"

“I’ll let you,” she utters, feeling how deep you are inside of her as you adjust your knees from sinking further into her bed.

You savor Hyewon for a few more seconds, your cock lodged deep inside her. You love how she feels, warm and slick, yet unforgivingly tight, as you gently rest a hand on her ass. Before you cum, you want to use every last second to touch her, to yearn for her body one final time before cumming. She's smiling, you catch it from the corner of your eye. You know she wants this kind of attention, to be touched, to have someone who wanted the same as her. Hyewon closes her eyes as the comfort of her bed and the weight of you on top cradle her.

You know she's exhausted after all of this, the couch, the dining table, the bedroom, all those kisses. Hyewon doesn't move an inch, savoring the way you fucked her into exhaustion.

Slowly pushing yourself to continue, you gently pull out until only the tip remains, then drive back in as your cock throbs and Hyewon lets out a louder whimper. Then once more, throbbing harder, pulling back out before sinking in slower as a quiet grunt escapes you. She knows by now how long you've been holding back.

"Hyewon," you softly murmur, panting harder as your cock begins to throb violently inside her. You let out a desperate grunt, planting both hands firmly on the bed beside her head. Your legs stiffen, hips pressing hard against her ass as you hold yourself there, unable to pull back even an inch. Your forehead drops to the back of Hyewon’s neck, lips brushing her skin as her name barely makes it out of your mouth a second time while you’re cumming in her. It feels like you're impregnating her with everything you have, and right now that doesn't feel wrong at all.

She shuts her eyes tight from how deep and hard you're cumming inside her. Hyewon lets out a quiet gasp that quickly dissolves into long, erotic moans. Your breath hitches sharply in your throat, turning into a deep groan. Hyewon loves that, the raw, broken, desperate tone of your voice when you're cumming hard inside her. It makes her clench tighter around you as if she's trying to pull even more out of you.

Your hips twitch and jerk uncontrollably, grinding forward instinctively to push your load even deeper. Another low, strained groan escapes you, the kind she craves that’s rough and helpless, completely lost in the pleasure of emptying yourself into her. Until the final pulse fades, you’re left utterly drained and chest heaving above her back. You stay inside Hyewon for a long moment and brush her hair aside, going in for a kiss along her shoulder and the nape of her neck.

“You okay?” you whisper hoarsely, voice still thick with pleasure and affection. She hums weakly in response, eyes still closed, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. You carefully lift your weight off her, just enough for your cock to slip out and get the last few drops of left over cum onto her ass. You stare at her again, from her pretty face, to her shoulders, down her gorgeous back, and to her ass that your cock is in between. “Stay still,” you force yourself to say and get off the bed.

Hyewon sees you quickly leaving the room to get something to wipe off the cum left over on her ass. In those quiet moments alone, her heart flutters even more. A warm feeling spreads through her chest as she lays still, face half-buried in the pillow, body still tingling. The way you immediately went to take care of her without hesitation, without needing to be asked makes her feel cherished. She bites her lip softly, a small, content smile forming as she listens for your returning footsteps.

Returning to the room with a warm, damp paper towel in hand, you climb back onto the bed carefully so you don’t startle her. Hyewon stays lying on her stomach and breathes softly into the pillow.

Gently, almost reverently, you press the warm towel against her skin. You start by wiping the streaks of cum that’s on her ass, cleaning her smooth cheeks with slow strokes. Then you move lower, softly parting her thighs just enough to wipe the cum dripping from her pussy. You take your time by being extra gentle as you clean every trace of your cum from her. Hyewon’s relaxed under your touch, melting deeper into the mattress, clearly enjoying the soft, caring way you’re taking care of her.

“Thank you,” she quietly murmurs to you, then saying it again in her head. Once you finish wiping her off, you quickly clean yourself and throw it in the trash bin beside her dresser before returning into the bed. You turn Hyewon over and get in between her legs, kissing her stomach, up to her tits, and until your lips find hers. It was the cherry on top that she couldn’t ask for.

You’re both overly satisfied. It’s just that you both can’t afford to stop kissing, and maybe, that’s where mistakes could happen if she stays longer in your arms. She grabs onto both your biceps with gentle pressure to feel your flexed muscles holding yourself up.

Hyewon knew your name since the beginning of today, but never has she said it until now as she quietly whispers your name once you trail your lips down to her neck. You fail to even continue kissing and only look at her. Maybe she did moan your name at some point but you didn’t catch it at all.

“Hmm?” you murmur.

“Nothing,” she shyly chuckles, staring at you, getting all shy and presses her lips.

You slowly get up and off the bed as you give out your hand to pull her up without a word. She instantly takes your hand and gets off the bed to stand in front of you.

“Is he going to kiss me again? Can he go a little longer?” she thinks to herself, meeting each other’s eyes again. Even if Hyewon’s exhausted, if that’s what you were going for, she’ll meet your lips with equal need. If you weren’t, then she’ll take it as is.

“I’ll go bring our clothes,” you tell her.

She smiles, “Okay.”

While you walk out the room, she opens her closet to put on a comfortable set of clothes. The sun is still up. It’s almost two in the afternoon as you take out your phone from your pants to check the time and see two missed calls before putting your clothes back on. You felt like time went unexpectedly slow today.

Walking back to Hyewon with her clothes in your hand, the timing was spot on as you both almost bump into each other at the door.

“Sorry,” you both say and chuckle.

“Bathroom?” you quickly ask.

“Yeah,” she shyly whispers.

You turn to the side to give her space to leave the bedroom. “Where can I put your clothes?”

“Oh, just set it on the bed. I’ll take care of it,” she replies as you gesture her to walk out first.

Hyewon steps out as you walk back in her room and she turns around, “Um, do you have to go somewhere after this?”

“I do, but I’m not in a rush.”

“I don’t want you to be late,” she says.

You collect your thoughts, not wanting to say the obvious of staying beside her for a little longer after having sex. You don’t want Hyewon to feel any kind of guilt on herself.

So you chuckle, wanting to tease her as you clear your throat. “You want me to stay, don’t you?”

“Yeah—no, no, I- I just don’t want to waste your time,” she embarrassingly chuckles after the slight panic.

The hard truth is, you should leave and not stay longer than you should. You know this.

Because she did make your heart flutter the moment you two look at each other again. Her eyes meet yours with such soft vulnerability and warmth that it hits you straight in the chest. They’re glossy, sparkling with leftover pleasure and something deeper, maybe even a little shyness now after having sex. A faint, tired smile curves her lips as she gazes up at you once more.

“It’s um… okay if you need to be somewhere,” she breaks the silence.

You feel like shit, only because those miss calls are somewhat an important matter, but you still want to at least stay for a little longer and keep her company.

So you lean against the door frame and try to take the unsaid hints she’s trying to tell you. “Be honest with me,” you softly smile.

“It’s okay if you have to leave. I’m serious,” she chuckles.

You’re overthinking this, and it was right to do so. She’s letting you go, understanding that you have to be somewhere. But she’d love for you stay for a little longer if there was time.

“Go use the bathroom, I’ll be in the living room waiting,” you say.

She shyly chuckles, holding herself back from a smile that would be definitely embarrassing. “Okay.”

As you walk back to the living room and she’s in the bathroom, you sit on the couch, remembering how it all started here with a kiss, then she undid your shirt and both of you ended up at the dining table the next, until getting into her bed. You can still vividly feel her warm touch and hear the way she moans quietly in your arms. The look in her eyes were desperate enough that you wanted to be the man she decides to not hide anything to.

The moment Hyewon walks out, she can tell there’s something more intimate in the air as you look right at her walking to you. It’s when she understood that you two could have at least be someone to each other, but she thinks she’ll only do you harm.

“May— can I uh, walk you out my door?” she says, smiling, almost in a sad way.

You stand up and follow her as she walks you to the door and grabs your coat for you.

Life gives you two a few more seconds to linger as you both settle at the door before she opens. Hyewon can only look at you putting on your coat, remembering how warm and gentle you were, the kisses that grew her even more hungry. It almost feels heartbreaking, like a fragile, invisible thread was stretching out until it breaks in half once you step out.

Hyewon opens the door, hesitantly until it opens wide. “Thanks for um… spending time with me.”

You can tell from the look on her face. There’s no regret or anything against you, but the obvious look of, “I wish you could stay a little longer.”

So you give her a smile, “Thanks for having me.”

After you step out her home, the door closes and she stands there for a moment, her hand still resting on the handle. She looks back at the living room, eyes quietly scanning, hoping for something, anything left behind that could be an excuse to open the door again.

There’s nothing left.

The house turns quiet again as Hyewon slowly walks over to the kitchen to fill a cup with water.

"I should have asked if he was hungry," she murmurs to herself, staring at nothing in particular. "Did he even eat before seeing me?"

The thought catches her off guard with how much she means it. She sets the cup down and moves before she can talk herself out of it by back to the door and pulling it open just enough to lean out into the hallway.

You weren’t there.

Down the hall, the elevator doors slide shut. On the other side of them, you lean your back against the wall, hands in your coat pockets, eyes on the floor after pressing lobby. The hum of the elevator fills the silence around you.

1st Act: Premium Cunt: The Birthday Surprise

---

The silence in her Seoul apartment was a different kind of noise. Not the quiet of peace, but the heavy, expectant hush of a stage after the final encore, when the adrenaline still hums in your veins but there’s nowhere left to pour it. Morning light cut across the marble floors, illuminating particles of dust dancing in the beams. Jennie stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a silk robe slipping off one shoulder, and scrolled through her investment portfolio on a tablet.

The numbers were satisfying. Very satisfying. But her eyes kept drifting to a different image, pulled up in a separate, encrypted gallery. A snapshot of white curves against impossible turquoise water. The down payment on the villa at the Palm Jumeirah. Her villa. Bought outright, no mortgage, no bank approvals. Just a transfer of a number so large it had felt abstract until the deed appeared in her name.

A secret trophy. The only physical proof of the night at the Calloway estate.

She should have felt pure triumph. She’d played a high-stakes game and won. The Velvet Rope had delivered on its promise of discretion—the $1.8 million had landed in two days, laundered through a labyrinth of shell accounts in Singapore and the Caymans, untraceable. It was just a number in a digital vault now, clean and quiet.

So why did she feel this restless, itchy emptiness?

Her gaze drifted to the minimalist sideboard. Inside the top drawer, beneath a stack of branded stationery, lay the burner phone. It hadn’t buzzed in over a month.

Almost disappointed, she thought, a wry twist to her lips. The concierge’s polished voice echoed in her memory: An exceptionally thin client list. Perhaps one or two bookings a year. She’d believed her. How many men in the world truly had two million dollars to spend on a single night of fantasy? Let alone the audacity.

But her body remembered. It wasn’t the money that haunted her in the quiet moments before sleep. It was the ghost of sensation: the clinical precision of Calloway’s fingers, the overwhelming stretch of Devon, the raw, star-struck hunger in Ethan’s eyes. She’d catch herself in the middle of a rehearsal, a fitting, a mind-numbing corporate dinner, and a fragment would flash—the smell of scotch and sex, the feel of leather against her cheek, the guttural sound Marcus made when he came. A shiver would follow, then a slow, creeping heat that had her pressing her thighs together under the table.

The world still saw Jennie Kim. The idol. The human Chanel bag. Ice-cold, untouchable, a product of impeccable curation.

But she carried a secret now, a live wire beneath her skin. It was a heat that made the staged performances feel like cardboard. It made her feel, for the first time in years, terrifyingly, exhilaratingly real.

---

“You bought a house in Dubai without even seeing it?” Rosé’s laughter was a bright, chiming sound in the hushed ambiance of the restaurant. “That’s the most Jennie thing I’ve ever heard. What if it’s haunted by a billionaire ghost who only complains about the yield on his bonds?”

Jennie smiled, pushing a piece of sashimi around her plate. “Then I’ll charge him rent. Or exorcise him. Whichever pays better.” They were in a private room at a place in Gangnam where the walls were bare concrete and the dishes were works of art that disappeared in three bites. Both were in designer casual—Rosé in an oversized blazer and jeans, Jennie in a simple slip dress. Their personal phones lay face-up on the table, a silent testament to their perpetual availability.

“Jisoo said she might be in Paris next month,” Rosé continued, sipping her sparkling water. “And Lisa’s buried in dance rehearsals for that collab. It’s like herding cats, trying to get us all in one city these days. Remember when we’d just pile into someone’s apartment and order jjajangmyeon until we passed out?”

“The good old days,” Jennie murmured, her smile feeling thin. She did remember. She also remembered the constant scrutiny, the diet protocols, the manager hovering by the door. A different kind of cage.

A muffled vibration, low and persistent, came from her Chanel bag on the chair beside her. Not a phone call. A specific, encrypted alert.

Both of them glanced at the table. Both phones were dark and silent.

Rosé paused, her chopsticks hovering over a piece of tuna. “Okay, what is that? You’ve got, like, a secret pager in there or something?” Her tone was light, teasing, but her eyes were sharp with curiosity.

Jennie’s heart gave a single, hard slam against her ribs. Idiot. You should have left it at home. She forced a breezy laugh, her hand darting to the bag. “God, no. It’s—ugh, it’s this stupid prototype. For a tech endorsement. Keeps buzzing at the worst times. Total piece of junk.” The lie slid out, smooth and practiced. She’d gotten good at those.

“Sounds annoying,” Rosé said, her gaze lingering on the bag for a second too long. “Just send it back before it actually explodes.”

“Trust me, I’m about to.” Jennie’s fingers found the bag’s clasp, her movements casual as she peeked inside. The burner phone’s screen glowed with a single, stark notification icon. “I’ll have my team kill the deal tomorrow. Should’ve never taken it.”

The rest of the dinner was a blur of Rosé’s voice and Jennie’s own strained replies. The food turned to ash in her mouth. Every atom in her body was screaming to open the message, to see the words, to know.

After a few more minutes of agonizing politeness, she saw her opening. “Shit, Rosé—I’m so sorry.” She feigned a glance at her regular phone, her eyes wide with manufactured panic. “I completely blanked. I’ve got this online meeting, a producer in L.A. I got the time zones backwards like an idiot.”

Rosé sighed, but her smile was fond, exasperated. “You and your meetings. Go, go. Text me when you’re home. Next time you’re staying for dessert, promise?”

“Promise. All the cake. I’ll make it up to you.” The air kisses were quick, the farewell a blur. Jennie walked out of the restaurant with measured, idol-perfect steps, her spine straight, her smile placid for any hidden cameras.

The calm lasted until the tinted windows of her chauffeured car slid shut. Then she fumbled the bag open, yanking the burner phone out. Her fingers trembled as she entered the passcode.

The concierge’s face appeared on screen, his silver hair and warm smile as polished as ever. “Ms. Kim. We have an opportunity that may be of interest.” The video ended, replaced by crisp, elegant text.

OCCASION: Private Bachelor Party

LOCATION: Luxury Yacht Inference Engine, Sardinia, Italy

CLIENT: First-Time User of The Velvet Rope

NUMBER OF GUESTS: Three (including the bachelor)

FEE: $3,000,000

INSTRUCTION: Make a lasting impression. Make them regular.

DATE: This coming weekend.

Three million.

Her mind did the math instantly, a cold, clinical calculation. After the agency’s ten percent, that was $2.7 million. The Dubai villa, nearly paid off in full. The vintage Lamborghini Miura she’d been eyeing in a Monaco catalog. Financial freedom, not in decades, but now.

Then she processed the rest. Three guests.

She’d handled four last time. But three were teenagers, and one was a middle-aged man whose control was more terrifying than his stamina. She scrolled down. Attached was a client profile. A photo showed three men on a sun-deck, sunglasses hiding their eyes, but their builds were clear even through the pixels: broad-shouldered, athletic, tall. All Black, late twenties. Tech entrepreneurs. "Well-built" was an understatement.

Her mind flashed, unbidden, to Devon. Just a kid, and his thickness had made her feel like she’d been split in two, remade. The soreness had lasted for days, a constant, aching reminder.

Three of them. All night. Devon was just a kid and I could barely walk for two days.

A genuine tremor went through her, starting in her knees and climbing up her spine. It was fear, pure and simple. The kind that tightened your throat.

But beneath it, like a second heartbeat, a sudden, involuntary surge of heat bloomed low in her belly. A slick, unmistakable warmth. Her body was reacting before her mind could catch up, remembering not just the pain, but the fullness, the overwhelming presence, the sheer animal reality of it.

Three men like this… I’m going to be destroyed.

She took a shaky breath, the air-conditioning in the car suddenly too cold on her skin.

For two-point-seven? Fine. I’ll die trying.

Her thumb hovered over the ‘Accept’ button for only a second before she pressed it.

The week that followed was a strange purgatory. She moved through her scheduled life—photo shoots, vocal coaching, meetings—like a ghost. At night, alone in her vast, silent bed, the anticipation became a physical thing. She couldn’t stop her mind from supplying the details: hands, larger than Calloway’s, spanning her waist. The weight of a body, muscled and heavy, pinning her down. The smell of salt and male skin. She touched herself in the dark, frantic and ashamed, chasing a climax that felt like a pale imitation of the annihilation she’d signed up for.

---

The private jet was a whisper over the Alps. The car that met her at Olbia Costa Smeralda Airport was black and silent. It delivered her to a marina where the yachts weren’t boats but floating monuments to wealth. The Inference Engine was a blade of blinding white against the Mediterranean blue, 50 meters of sleek, arrogant engineering.

A steward in crisp whites took her small suitcase—she’d packed light, unsure of the costume requirements—and led her aboard. Her cabin was below deck, smaller than a hotel suite but sumptuous: cream leather paneling, soft ambient lighting, a porthole looking out onto water so turquoise it looked fake. A bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in a bucket of ice beside a bowl of ripe, purple figs.

“The gentlemen will greet you when they are ready,” the steward said, his voice neutral. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The door clicked shut, leaving her in a silence broken only by the low, constant hum of the ship’s engines and the gentle lap of water against the hull. She was alone. No costume laid out. The instructions had been vague this time.

She showered in the small, marble ensuite, scrubbing every inch of her skin until it glowed pink. She washed her hair, dried it, let it fall in its natural waves. She had no idea what was expected. So she chose armor: a simple black silk robe, embroidered with her initials in delicate thread—a gift from Chanel. It was hers. It felt like a claim to a self that was rapidly slipping away.

Standing before the porthole, she caught her reflection in the thick glass. A woman, pale against the dark silk, her eyes wide and dark. She looked nervous. She was. But beneath the nerves was a sharp, bright edge of hunger. A wakefulness. She hadn’t felt this acutely present in weeks.

A knock at the door, firm and confident.

She took a breath, smoothed the robe, and opened it.

They filled the doorway, blocking out the soft light of the corridor. Two men, exactly as in the photo, but life and size added dimensions a picture could never capture.

The taller one grinned. He had a fade haircut sharp enough to cut glass, diamond studs glinting in both ears, and a smile that was all easy, infectious confidence. He wore a linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and shorts that showed off legs roped with muscle. “Oi,” he said, his voice warm and loud with a South London cadence softened by a Jamaican lilt. “It’s really you. Ms. Jennie Kim. In the flesh.” His eyes traveled over her, appreciative and bold. “Pictures don’t even come close, swear down.”

The other man stood slightly behind, stockier, quieter. His presence was a solid, watchful weight. He had a quiet handsomeness, a thin gold chain against his throat, and arms crossed over a chest that strained his own linen shirt. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Welcome aboard.” His voice was deeper, more measured.

“You mind if we step in for a minute?” the first man—Dom, she presumed—asked, already moving forward. “Got a few things to run through, yeah? Before the main event kicks off.”

Jennie stepped aside, the cabin shrinking instantly around their presence. Dom leaned against the dresser as if he owned it, crossing his ankles. Mark stayed near the door, his arms still folded, his dark eyes missing nothing.

“Right. So.” Dom clapped his hands together once. “I’m Dom, that quiet one’s Mark. The man we’re here for—the bachelor—that’s Daniel. We three go way back. Built a company together, got lucky. Made… well, a lot of money. Now we’re all stupid rich.” He said it with a charming shrug, no false modesty.

Mark’s voice cut in, dry and to the point. “And Daniel’s getting married next Saturday.”

“Yeah.” Dom’s grin faded a fraction. He glanced at Mark, and the easy energy in the room shifted, grew heavier, more intent. “To a woman named Rachel. We’ll circle back to her, ‘cause that’s a whole thing. But first—logistics. Daniel don’t know you’re here. He’s down in the salon right now, sipping some fifty-year-old cognac, probably boring the crew about cricket stats. He thinks it’s just a lads’ night. Last hurrah, all that.”

Jennie leaned against the edge of the bed, the silk of her robe cool under her hands. “Okay.”

Dom’s expressive face grew serious. He uncrossed his ankles, leaning forward. “Thing is… that’s not the whole picture. There’s a reason we hired you, specifically.”

Jennie’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

Mark answered, his tone flat. “Daniel’s faithful. Proper faithful. Hasn’t touched another woman since he met Rachel. Problem is, she’s not.”

Dom scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound. “She’s a fucking gold-digger, mate. Knew about the money before she even introduced herself. We got suspicious, so… we tested her.”

A cold knot formed in Jennie’s stomach. “Tested her how?”

“We both slept with her,” Mark said, his gaze steady on Jennie. “Same time. She thought she was playing us—get a piece of all three brothers, right? We recorded it. Hidden camera, whole thing.”

The cold knot turned to ice. “You filmed her without her knowing?”

Dom shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “And she tried to shake us down for extra cash after. So no, we don’t feel bad. Look, the video is solid proof. But if we just drop it on Daniel now, a week before the wedding, he’s gonna lose it. Might blow up the whole company—he’s the brains. We can’t afford that.”

Mark picked up the thread, his voice low and logical. “We need to soften the landing. Even the score.”

The pieces clicked together with a sickening finality. Jennie stared at them, the reality of the proposition settling over her. “You want me to be the landing.”

Dom pointed at her, a flash of triumph in his eyes. “See? She’s quick. You’re his ultimate, Jennie. He’s got posters, albums, the lot. If anyone can make him slip, it’s you. He cheats with his fantasy woman, then when we show him the Rachel tape, he ain’t the victim. He’s just as guilty. Might actually listen instead of burning everything down.”

Disgust. It rose in her throat, sharp and acrid. She wasn’t a homewrecker. She was a luxury service, a fantasy for a night. This was… manipulation. Poison.

But she heard the raw, protective anger in Dom’s voice. She saw the cold, certain logic in Mark’s eyes. Rachel didn’t sound like an innocent. And the money… the money was already singing its siren song in her head, loud enough to drown out the moral static.

And something else stirred, darker, more curious. A professional itch. Can I break a truly faithful man? What does that say about his faithfulness? What does that say about me?

“No.” The word came out firmer than she felt. “I didn’t sign up to wreck someone’s relationship. Find someone else.”

Dom leaned forward, his energy intensifying, filling the small cabin. Not threatening, but overwhelmingly persuasive. “Listen. We already dropped three mil just to get you on this boat. We don’t want some random escort. We need you. And we’re not asking you to hurt him—we’re asking you to help him dodge a bullet.”

“There’s extra in it,” Mark added, his voice cutting through. “Off the books.”

Jennie’s gaze flicked to him. “How much?”

“Five hundred thousand. Cash. No agency cut. You make him break his own rules tonight, and it’s yours.”

The numbers danced in her vision. Three-point-two million. Total. The villa, the car, freedom so complete it was dizzying. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the ship and the sound of her own heartbeat. She saw it all—the disgust, the challenge, the greed—and made her choice.

She exhaled slowly, the fight leaving her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She held up a finger before they could react. “But I have one rule.”

“Name it,” Dom said.

“You don’t drop the Rachel bomb while I’m still on this boat. I don’t want to be anywhere near that explosion. I leave in the morning—just a memory. Then you do whatever you need to do. I’m here for the gig, not the fallout.”

Mark studied her for a beat, then glanced at Dom. A silent communication passed between them. He gave a single, curt nod. “Fair enough. You have our word.”

Dom’s grin returned, brighter than ever. “Yeah, done. Make him want you. Make him think it was all his idea. That’s all we need.”

He pushed off the dresser, and Mark uncrossed his arms. The meeting seemed to be over. But as Dom turned to leave, he stopped, patting his pockets. “Ah, one more thing.” He dug into his shorts and pulled out a small, sleek silver pill-box. He flicked it open with his thumb, shook a single, oblong white tablet into his palm, and held it out to her.

“You ever been with fellas like us before?” Dom asked, his tone conversational. “I mean, built like us.”

Jennie’s eyes dropped to the pill, then back to his face. Her pride prickled. “Once. A teenager.”

“Yeah,” Dom said, not unkindly. “Not the same, is it. Look, no disrespect—you’re gorgeous, but you’re tiny. And we’re not planning to go easy on you tonight. Not for what we’re paying.”

“What is that?” Her voice was flat.

Mark answered. “Something from a clinic in Switzerland. It’s not a roofie, nothing like that. No blackout, no trip. Just a muscle relaxer with a mild stimulant. Keeps your body from locking up, gives you a bit more stamina. You’ll be fully present.”

“We ain’t forcing you,” Dom added, his palm still open, the pill sitting innocently in the center. “If you don’t want it, fine. But I’d hate to see you tap out after an hour, yeah?”

Jennie stared at the small white tablet. It looked so clinical. So deliberate. Her pride screamed no. She was a professional. She didn’t need chemical help.

But her body remembered. The deep, muscular ache that had lingered for days after the Calloway estate. The feeling of being stretched to her absolute limit. That was with a teenager. These were three grown men, athletes, who had just paid a fortune and had a very specific, emotionally charged night planned. They would use her. Thoroughly.

Her hand moved before her mind fully consented. She reached out and took the pill, her fingers brushing the warm skin of his palm. It was cool and smooth.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quiet.

Dom’s grin was back, wide and approving. “That’s our girl. You just relax now. We’ll send the signal in about an hour.” His eyes swept over her robe. “Wear something nice—but not too nice. Gotta leave something to the imagination.”

With a final nod from Mark, they left. Their laughter, loud and easy, echoed down the corridor before fading away. The door clicked shut with a heavy, final sound.

Silence rushed back in, deeper now.

Jennie stood alone in the center of the cabin, the pill resting in her palm. It felt heavier than it was. A small, dangerous promise. Outside the porthole, the Mediterranean was turning molten gold, the dying sun painting fire across the water.

She walked to the nightstand and placed the pill down. It sat there, a stark white comma against the dark wood. Her robe had slipped open, and she saw the curve of her own breast in the porthole’s reflection, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide and dark.

The woman in the glass looked back at her—poised on the edge of something immense, terrifying, and electrifying. She didn’t know if she was more afraid of what was coming, or more desperate for it to begin.

---

The champagne emoji glowed on the burner phone’s screen. The signal.

Jennie stood before the cabin’s mirror, the single white pill resting on her tongue. She lifted the flute of Dom Pérignon, the bubbles sharp and cold, and washed the tablet down. For a moment, nothing. Then, a faint tingle began in her fingertips and toes, a subtle effervescence beneath the skin. It spread up her limbs, not as a drug but as a deep, liquid warmth, melting the tension from her muscles like butter. A pleasant, humming alertness sharpened her focus, while a profound looseness settled into her joints. She flexed her fingers, feeling capable, pliant. Her nerves felt closer to the surface, hypersensitive.

She let the black Chanel robe pool at her feet. In its place, she fastened the sheer lace bra, the transparent cups doing nothing to hide the dusky peaks of her nipples. The satin bows were a mocking touch of innocence. The high-waisted mesh panties hugged her hips, the ruffled edge framing the full, pale curves of her ass. She stepped into the strappy stiletto heels, the height arching her back. Finally, she secured the black lace masquerade mask, her eyes glittering through the openings. A final coat of deep red on her lips, a slow breath held and released.

She was no longer Jennie Kim. She was the surprise.

Barefoot, she padded out of the cabin and up the silent, carpeted corridor toward the master suite, the only sound the distant hum of the engines and the thunderous beat of her own heart.

The master bedroom was a cavern of shadows, smelling of polished teak, expensive linen, and the faint, sweet haze of cognac. Daniel, pleasantly drunk and stubbornly moral, was being steered by his two best friends.

“You ready for the final surprise, mate?” Mark asked, a rare grin playing on his lips as he pushed the door open to pitch blackness.

Daniel swayed, suspicion cutting through the fog. “If you hired a stripper, I swear to God… I told you, I’m not interested. Rachel would kill me.”

Dom’s loud laugh boomed in the dark. “Relax, it ain’t no stripper. Way better. Trust me. Live a little—it’s your last night of freedom, bruv. Just us in here. What happens on the yacht stays on the yacht. No one’s ever gonna know if you have a little fun.”

“Seriously, I don’t want—”

“Shut up and sit. Just sit.” Dom’s hands were firm on his shoulders, guiding him backward. “One surprise, that’s it. You can say no after.”

Daniel’s knees hit the plush upholstery of an ornate chair placed in the center of the room. He grumbled but sank into it, the cognac making resistance feel like too much work. He heard Dom and Mark retreat, their footsteps fading toward the door. Silence, thick and expectant, pressed in on him.

Then, a low, sub-bass note thudded through hidden speakers, vibrating in his sternum. A single spotlight snapped on with a sharp click, blinding him.

Music seeped into the room—Seoul City. A throbbing, minimalist R&B track, all whispered synths and a heartbeat rhythm. Through the glare, a silhouette emerged.

She moved into the light, and Daniel’s breath caught in his throat.

She was a vision wrought from shadow and desire. The sheer black lace of her bra showcased her breasts like precious fruit offered on a plate. The high-waisted mesh panties cut across her hips, the ruffled edge drawing his eye to the perfect, paleness of her ass cheeks below. The stiletto heels made her legs look endlessly long. The mask hid her identity, but the shape of her—the feline confidence, the hypnotic roll of her hips tracing a slow, deliberate figure-eight in the air—was artistry of the highest, most carnal order.

She advanced, each step a silent, predatory glide. The heat of her body reached him before she did, a radiant warmth that smelled of jasmine and clean, female skin. She paused, a breath away. A single, red-tipped finger trailed from his knee, up the inside of his thigh, over the growing bulge in his trousers, to the center of his chest. She leaned in. Her lips, soft as crushed velvet, brushed the shell of his ear.

“Hello, Daniel,” she whispered, her voice honey and smoke. “I’ve heard so much about you. Are you happy to see me?”

She drew back, just enough for him to see the smirk on her glossy red lips. Then, with agonizing slowness, she raised her hands and untied the mask. It fell away.

Daniel’s world stopped.

The face from his posters, his screensaver, his most private, guilty fantasies was here, inches away, smiling a smile that promised sin. His brain short-circuited. Jennie. Jennie Kim. A sound, half-gasp, half-prayer, escaped him. He tried to speak, to form a question, but she placed that red-nailed finger against his lips, silencing him.

Shock. Disbelief. Then, a tidal wave of something so primal it erased every vow, every thought of Rachel. A roaring, possessive hunger he’d never known he possessed. He was star-struck and, in his trousers, painfully, achingly hard.

The music deepened, slid into the dirtier, bass-heavy grind of One of the Girls. Jennie’s demeanor shifted. The artistry became predation. She turned her back to him, and with a sinuous roll of her spine, lowered herself onto his lap.

She started with her back pressed against his chest. He could feel the heat of her through his shirt, the delicate bones of her spine. She began to move, rolling her hips in a slow, circular grind. The pressure was direct, maddening, against his trapped erection. A groan was torn from him.

She reached an arm back, wrapping it around his neck, and arched. The movement pushed her breasts forward, the sheer lace straining, her nipples pebbled and visible. He could only stare, his hands gripping the chair arms like a lifeline.

Then she rose and turned in one fluid motion, straddling him facing him now. Her knees planted on the chair on either side of his thighs. She hovered, centimeters above his lap, the heat of her core a phantom brand through the layers of clothing. She never fully settled, maintaining a torturous, tantalizing distance.

Her hands went to her own body. She raked them through her dark hair, down the elegant column of her neck, over the slopes of her breasts. She cupped them, squeezed, her thumbs brushing over her nipples, her eyes locked on his, letting him watch her pleasure herself. Then she leaned in again, her mouth finding the pulse point at the base of his throat. Her whispers were poison and salvation.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” Her breath was hot. “All those lonely nights watching my videos. Dreaming of my mouth. My hands. Now I’m right here. Wet for you.”

His hips bucked involuntarily.

“Feel how hard you are,” she purred, grinding down just enough to make him hiss. “Does Rachel make you this hard? Does she know how to ache for it like I do?”

“Don’t…” he managed, but it was a weak protest, his resolve crumbling to dust.

“You deserve this,” she murmured, her lips tracing his jaw. “Just one night. You can be my good little fan and let me ruin you. I want you to forget about her tonight. Forget everything except my tight little pussy grinding on you.”

That did it. His control shattered. His hands, which had been white-knuckled on the chair, flew up and seized her breasts over the lace, fingers digging into the soft flesh. A raw, possessive sound ripped from his throat. He yanked her face to his and kissed her.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. Desperate, clumsy, hungry, all tongue and teeth and years of pent-up fantasy. Jennie kissed him back, matching his fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair. When they broke apart, both were breathing raggedly.

With a wicked smile, she slid from his lap to her knees on the plush carpet between his spread thighs. She looked up at him through her lashes, the picture of debauched submission. Her fingers made quick work of his belt, the button, the zipper. She freed him.

Daniel’s cock sprang out, thick and dark and heavily veined. It was longer than she’d anticipated, the girth formidable, a true adult counterpart to Devon’s challenging size. A flutter of genuine apprehension was instantly swallowed by the pill’s warm, humming confidence and her own slick, rising hunger. Her eyes widened with appreciative lust.

She didn’t tease. She leaned forward and licked a long, slow stripe from the base to the swollen tip, tasting salt and musk. Holding his stunned gaze, she parted her lips and took him into her mouth.

The wet, obscene sound of her sucking filled the room. She hollowed her cheeks, creating a vicious vacuum, her hand working in tandem to pump the thick length she couldn’t yet take. The pill’s effect was immediate here too—her jaw felt loose, supple, her throat relaxing open with an ease that should have been impossible. She took him deeper, until her nose pressed into his trimmed pubic hair, and she swallowed around the head.

“Oh my God,” Daniel choked out, his head falling back against the chair, his hands fisting in her hair. “Jennie. Your mouth. I’m not going to last.”

She pulled off with a wet, resonant pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening crown. She stroked him lazily, firmly. “Not yet,” she said, her voice husky from use. “I want you inside me first.”

She stood, her movements liquid. Hooking her thumbs into the sides of the mesh panties, she pulled the flimsy fabric aside, exposing her bare, glistening folds. She didn’t bother removing them. Straddling him again, she positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. She locked eyes with him, and sank down.

It was a slow, devastating conquest. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. He was so much more than he looked. She felt her body yielding, opening, the pill’s muscle-relaxing warmth turning what should have been a painful stretch into a deep, fulfilling burn. She took him to the hilt, a guttural, broken moan escaping her as she was impaled fully. Her head fell back, her back arching.

She began to ride him. Her hands braced on his broad shoulders, her hips setting a deep, circular, grinding rhythm. The chair groaned in protest. Her breasts, freed from the bra cups he’d tugged down, bounced with each movement. Daniel was lost, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard, his hands gripping the firm globes of her ass, guiding her, slamming her down onto him.

It was then that Dom and Mark stepped from the shadows, each holding a fresh glass of amber liquid, their grins wide and triumphant.

Dom raised his glass. “So, bruv. How’s the surprise?”

Daniel could barely speak, his voice strained with the effort of not climaxing. “Better… so much better than I thought,” he panted, his hips meeting her downward thrust. “Her pussy… it’s so tight, but she’s taking all of me. God… so much better than Rachel.”

Mark took a slow sip, his dark eyes fixed on where their bodies joined. “Knew you’d come around.”

Jennie smirked against Daniel’s neck, a dark thrill of victory shooting through her. She clenched her internal muscles around his buried cock, a vicious, milking pressure, and was rewarded with his shout of pleasure. She rode him harder, faster, chasing the coil of pleasure tightening in her own belly.

Suddenly, Daniel stood, his arms hooking under her thighs, keeping her impaled on him. He carried her the few steps to the massive, low bed and dropped her onto the silken duvet. In an instant, he flipped her onto her hands and knees. He mounted her from behind, one hand fisting in her hair, the other guiding his cock back into her soaked, clutching heat. He slammed home.

Jennie cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of pure satisfaction. The impact jarred through her, the fullness sublime. “Harder,” she gasped, pushing back against him. “Fuck me harder. I’m not going to break. I can take it.”

Her words, filthy and demanding, ignited the final fuse of his restraint. He let go, fucking her with a brutal, athletic rhythm, the sound of his hips slapping against her ass a rapid, obscene percussion in the room. Jennie’s first orgasm took her by surprise—it ripped through her, violent and shattering, making her vision whiten at the edges. Her walls convulsed around him, and she screamed into the duvet.

But instead of satisfaction, it was like throwing gasoline on a fire. The pill’s stimulant edge and her own awakened hunger turned the climax into a catalyst. The pleasure didn’t recede; it amplified, leaving her emptier, needier. “Is that all you’ve got?” she taunted, her voice ragged. “I thought you’d been saving this for years. Show me. Ruin me like you mean it!”

Daniel, driven to a frenzy, looked over his shoulder at his friends, his face a mask of carnal abandon. “Get over here!” he roared. “Join me. Let’s break this cock-hungry slut. Just like the old days.”

Dom and Mark needed no further invitation. Mark shucked his trousers and moved to the front of the bed. He fed his cock, thick and uncut, into Jennie’s waiting, hungry mouth. She took him deep, her throat working, no gag reflex to hinder her. Dom positioned himself beside Daniel, watching for a moment, stroking his own impressive length.

“Look at her,” Dom narrated, his voice thick with lust. “A fucking legend. Taking us like a champ.”

Jennie was in heaven. Stuffed full at both ends, her body rocked on the relentless tide of their thrusts. Daniel pounded her pussy from behind while Mark fucked her mouth with deep, measured strokes. She moaned around the cock in her throat, the vibrations drawing a guttural groan from Mark.

“Her throat is unreal,” Mark panted, his usual reserve gone. “She’s taking it all.”

They found a brutal rhythm, Daniel thrusting deep as Mark withdrew, then reversing. Jennie felt another orgasm building, a tidal wave from the core of her being. It crashed over her, making her shudder and clamp down violently on Daniel’s cock while her throat fluttered around Mark’s. Both men cursed, driven to the edge.

They repositioned her on her back, her legs pushed up and apart. Dom, his cock glistening with her juices, entered her soaked, well-used pussy first, sinking in with a gratified sigh. Daniel, his own member slick, positioned himself at her other, tighter entrance.

“Look at me,” Jennie commanded Daniel, her eyes glazed but fierce. He met her gaze as he pressed the broad head against her rosebud. With a slow, relentless push, he breached her.

Jennie screamed. The stretch was immense, a white-hot spear of fullness that the pill miraculously transmuted into blinding pleasure. She was stuffed beyond reason, stretched to a breathtaking limit. They began to move, Dom and Daniel finding a synchronized, alternating rhythm so one was always buried deep within her. She was never empty. Her hands flailed, finding Mark, pulling him to her mouth again, but she could barely focus on sucking him; her world had narrowed to the two cocks claiming her, filling her, destroying her.

“Fuck, Daniel,” Dom grunted, sweat dripping from his brow. “Her pussy’s gripping me. She’s cumming again, I can feel it.” And she was, a continuous, rolling orgasm that seemed to have no end, each clench pulling them deeper into madness.

This was the summit. Spent but insatiable, they arranged her on her side, one leg hiked over Dom’s shoulder. Daniel, behind her, once again pressed into her well-stretched ass. Mark, facing her, guided his cock back into her throbbing, sensitive pussy. Dom, kneeling by her head, cupped her cheek.

“Open up, premium,” he murmured, and she did, taking the head of his cock past her lips.

Then, with a collective groan, they all sheathed themselves fully.

Jennie’s consciousness fragmented. She was nothing but a vessel, a collection of holes stretched to absolute capacity. The feeling was beyond fullness; it was consumption. She was packed, stuffed, airtight. The sounds were animalistic—wet, squelching slides, ragged breaths, her own choked, muffled whimpers of ecstasy. They held there, joined in a obscene tableau, each man shuddering with the effort of holding back.

Daniel broke first. With a cry that was half-sob, he erupted deep into her bowels, hot pulses that seemed to go on forever. The sensation triggered Mark’s release; he pulled out just in time to paint her stomach and trembling breasts with thick, white stripes. Dom, watching it all, finally lost his rhythm, fucking her mouth with short, sharp thrusts before groaning and spilling his load down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, greedily, milking him with her tongue until he was soft.

The night dissolved into a sweaty, carnal blur. The pill’s magic held, granting her a stamina that matched their own. She rode Dom reverse-cowgirl while sucking Daniel back to hardness and stroking Mark. She was bent over a teak dresser, taking Daniel in her ass again while Dom fucked her pussy from behind. She was sandwiched between Mark and Daniel, both in her pussy at once, a stretch that made her scream until she was hoarse.

She lost count of her orgasms. They became a constant state of being, one blurring into the next, each one stoking the embers of her need rather than quenching them. The men, fueled by adrenaline, rivalry, and her bottomless hunger, used her in every configuration imaginable. The room reeked of sex, sweat, and spent desire. Her lingerie was torn, lost somewhere in the tangle of sheets. Her body was a map of their possession—finger-shaped bruises on her hips and thighs, love bites on her breasts and neck, the sticky, drying evidence of their pleasure painting her skin.

As the deepest black outside the porthole began to soften to indigo, the energy finally, irrevocably, drained. One by one, they collapsed. Daniel, spent and unconscious, draped across her chest. Dom and Mark lay on either side, limbs heavy, breathing deep and exhausted. Jennie lay in the center, a used, ruined, triumphant prize.

The first razor-thin line of gold appeared on the horizon, slicing across the Mediterranean and into the ravaged room. In its cool light, Jennie carefully disentangled herself from the pile of sleeping men. Her body felt profoundly hollowed out, every muscle soft and liquid with fatigue, a deep, satisfying ache resonating in her bones. She retrieved her torn mesh panties from the floor, a ruined souvenir, and padded naked to the bathroom.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Mascara was smudged into dark shadows under her eyes. Her lips were swollen, bruised from kisses and friction. Her hair was a wild, tangled mane. Cum was drying in streaks on her stomach, between her breasts, on her thighs. She looked… thoroughly fucked. Destroyed.

A slow, private, utterly triumphant smile curved her ruined lips.

She showered in water as hot as she could stand, washing the night from her skin, though she knew the feeling of it—the fullness, the stretch, the relentless pressure—would linger for days. She dressed in a simple, clean white sundress and flat sandals. She packed her small bag, leaving the torn lingerie in the cabin’s waste bin.

She slipped out just as a steward approached with a breakfast cart. The yacht was serene in the dawn, the decks washed in pale pink and gold light. She walked to the aft deck, leaning against the polished railing. The air was clean and salty, scouring the last of the night’s musk from her lungs. She looks towards the vast emptiness of the ocean and thinks about the money. The villa. The car. The next call.

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That’s the only explanation for you meeting Chaewon at a party, because otherwise, it would be at risk of being labeled as fate—and boy, are those dangerous waters to explore.

And now, she’s ruffling her hair like nothing happened, having just taken a shot of something strong enough to get her ears red. You don’t know which; the party’s buzzing with probably each type of vice, liquor, and sin. You don’t usually attend parties for that reason. You don’t need a bad influence in your life when it’s so easy to get hooked onto the wrong thing.

Yet when your eyes find hers in this pool of bodies, you realize you’re just relapsing into an old dirty habit.

It’s written all over her easy smile, the way the fringe falls over her forehead. Chaewon turns up her chin and says, “Why don’t I know you?”

The audacity of this girl, really. Her voice is saccharine sweet. Her words sound like the lyrics to a siren’s song. You’re already six feet deep into the waters and she’s holding you down.

Yunjin rolls her eyes. She’s your best friend, but she’s also Chaewon’s best friend, which means she knows exactly how this is going to play out. It’s an old story. Chaewon does that seductress act, preying onto some poor guy, and the next thing she knows, they’re making out in the master bedroom.

 “Oh my god, don’t tell me you’re already flirting with him.”

“I’m not flirting with him,” says Chaewon, but she’s not even looking at Yunjin, her hand already ending up on your forearm. “What do you take me for, Jennifer? A slut?”

Yunjin thoughtfully places her fingertip on her chin. “Well—”

Chaewon bursts into laughter and tells her to shut up. God, even her smile is gorgeous. She’s a goddess up close—not a pore or a blemish anywhere on that flawless skin. Her scent is faint and sweet, some fragrance you can’t buy for four digits anywhere. You hate that you notice it. It just makes you think how far behind you are to Chaewon. Girls like her don’t look at guys like you.

Hanni catches Yunjin’s attention, dressed in a heart-shaped little top and fairy boots, looking like a butterfly. She squeals when she sees Yunjin, and their reunion leaves you and Chaewon to yourselves. The tension between you grows thicker. It’s impossible to breathe.

“Don’t listen to her. She’s just jealous I get to have you.” She tilts her pretty head and squints thoughtfully. “What was your name again?”

You can’t believe she’s talking to you, out of everyone in this house party. But you tell her your name anyway, and you can already tell it’s something her mouth will keep to memory. She’s circling you like you’re prey.

Don’t you want to fight back? Don’t you want to puff out your chest and say you know exactly how girls like her work? You’re just standing there, trapped by that golden voice and deadly silhouette. You’re not even pretending you want her to fuck off.

“It’s a nice party,” continues Chaewon. “Kazuha did her big one with it. Invited all the rich guys, the buff ones, the hot ones…” She pauses her stroking on your flesh to finally look you in the eye. “Tell me, are you any of those? Because if not, I’m packing my stuff.”

“I—I’m sort of—”

The serious look is immediately shattered from her face with a gorgeous laugh. “I’m just messing with you,” Chaewon assures you. It’s a cruel thing to joke about but she’s so pretty that forgiveness is instant. “I’m here to take my mind off things like you are. I’m not trying to do anything.”

But you should know by now that Kim Chaewon is a liar. From the very first second, she lied to Yunjin, lied to you about just messing with you. Her hand brushes yours as she reaches for a drink. Then it’s on your arm. Then it’s under your chin as she talks her way into a bedroom.

You don’t stop her. 

The yellow lamplight casts shadows over Chaewon, contouring her figure into a tiny silhouette on the wall. That tiny dress that reveals her back looks better in the dark. All you’re thinking is that this only ends one way, and how it shouldn’t because she’s trouble and you’ve already got problems without Kim Chaewon on your mind. What more are you looking to add?

She’s talking about her friends as she sits on the bed. And she’s got a lot of them—Yunjin, the girl she’s forever linked with; Kazuha, the biggest party girl with somehow the most innocent face, and; Sakura, who’s pretty much an introvert. She likes to stay home and crochet. It’s more fun that way, she had argued, and Chaewon rolled her eyes. This time though, she agreed to wait down in the lobby just in case anybody needed a designated driver. 

“But if you ask me,” she says (you didn’t), “Eunchae dresses best among all of us. I think it’s the sort of Gen Z fashion the older girls can’t master. Knows how to do her makeup, don’t you think?”

You realize here that Chaewon is kind of full of herself, only masking it behind asking your opinions then building another story about herself from that. Every word is a plot device leading to her, the main character. It’s something you find in too many people. They think that everyone and everything orbits around them.

It’s actually a pet peeve of yours but you have to give it to her: Kim Chaewon has every right to be narcissistic. Pretty face, great body, a great bank account to back her vices. She’s the girl every guy wants and every girl wants to be. It’s probably a statement made about girls less attractive and magnetic than her, but you know at the end of the day, it’s a title that only becomes true when given to her. She’s a carnal desire, something you cry about when you confess it to a priest.

“I guess I wasn’t really looking at her,” you admit. 

“Oh?” Chaewon sets her drink down. Her voice drops even lower. “Who were you looking at then?”

It’s a trap. It’s a fucking trap. But before you could tell her you’re leaving, Chaewon’s already kissing you. 

She tastes like vodka and sin and everything you shouldn’t be indulging in. But you do anyway.

She gets on her knees like she’s done it plenty of times for you. You get an idea of how an angel would react when they get a taste of sin when she cums around your cock. Her eyes  shut, her body curls around you like it’s the only thing in the world she can hold onto. She looks fucking perfect.

Girls like Chaewon give you heaven for a night then leave you forever. They leave you wanting more but never give it to you even if you get on your knees and pray.

But Chaewon obviously likes something about you. And come on—she’s no fucking angel anyway. You both can go to hell.

-

You have a place of your own, but most of your time nowadays is spent in Chaewon’s luxurious Gangnam apartment. You raise this concern to her as she does her makeup in the living room mirror. The lipgloss makes her lips look plusher, the mascara enlarging those pretty eyes. You raised concern over her vanity as well, but she dismissed it. You love it when I look pretty for you anyway.

(And you hated to say that she’s right. You love when she puts on lipstick that ends up all over your neck. You love when she wears the sexiest dresses of all so you can take them off. So you zipped your mouth shut and waited another hour for her to doll up.)

“Friends share, don’t they?” she replies. Her ass looks great in those cycling shorts. She said she’s going to the gym, but if she sticks her ass out at you one more time, she’d have to delay. 

You laugh. “Even friends with benefits?”

“It’s in the name, baby. Friends with benefits. Your benefit is staying in this chic place with me, while my benefit is that cock of yours.”

At least she’s clear with the fact that she’s using you. Sure, she likes that you’re easy to talk to and that there are no strings attached. But the feeling of your cock in her is too good to let pass.

And right now, Chaewon’s eyeing you like she’s up to no good.

You know that look. “Now?”

“What, you think I’m just horny 24/7?”

Chaewon walks and talks like she’s willing to go against each word. Those toned, perfect legs stride over to you. Her voice is sultry enough to stir a heat inside of you that, ironically, only she can put out.

She adds fuel to the fire by sliding onto your lap, her favorite seat. The curve of her cheeks perfectly aim at your bulge. You groan as Chaewon starts to circle her hips around you, all while she looks back at you with a bite of her lip.

You close your hands around her waist. “Thought you were driving to the gym?” 

“I could do a different type of exercise here instead.” 

“The membership is like, a fortune per month, Chae.”

You’re struggling to get your words out already. Damn those stupid shorts. Chaewon’s practically humping you. The feel of fabric upon fabric and her plump flesh pressed against yours is dizzying. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Chaewon says. Her breaths shorten but she doesn’t stop moving. The sports bra cups her tits that bounce with each rotation. “I can think of certain ways to pay it back.”

“And what could that be?”

She’s already giving you a hint with the hypnotizing sway of her hips. 

The graze of your clothed cock against her clit makes Chaewon gasp. You haven’t even gotten inside her, nor have you taken off that bra that pushes up her bouncy chest. But the feel of her gyrating against you, knowing exactly how you like it, is enough to make you go over the edge.

Not yet.

Chaewon rises from your lap. You almost groan if not for the show she’s offering you this time. She makes a show of stretching upwards, drawing your eyes to her tight midriff, before turning her back to you. Her fingers hook around the hugging material of her shorts to hike them slowly down her thighs. That bubble butt almost pops out of the fabric.

Only a thong. No wonder the wetness soaked through. 

She bends over a little as she shakes her cute little ass to you. You can see how wet she is, arousal sticking to the tiny thong snug between her cheeks. You quickly remove your pants as well because you know how this goes with Chaewon. She’s fucking insatiable. She never takes no for an answer.

And you never give no as an answer either. You’re a match made in hell.

“I was thinking…” Her knees dent the sofa beside your hips. With her palms on your chest, she works your cock, grinding her swollen clit on the head. Both of you gasp. 

“That’s new.”

“God, shut up.” Chaewon’s whimpering now. “Y-you know how we fuck like animals, right?”

She sinks onto the first few inches, her walls pulsing and fluttering around you. You let out a deep sigh. The sight of your cock disappearing into Chaewon’s tight little pussy never gets old. 

She warms your member for a few delicious seconds, her walls pulsating around you. Chaewon bites her lip and throws her head back. 

“Kind of stating the obvious here, Chae.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says in that irresistibly cute voice. It doesn’t seem too cute anymore when you compare it to how she begins to ride you, her hips rolling forward as if she’s trying to feed her cunt more of your cock. “But who’s to say we can’t use it to our advantage?”

She isn’t even explaining herself yet but already it sounds like all sorts of bad ideas. Chaewon herself is a bad idea. You told yourself that at the party, but she ends up on your cock anyway. 

Like right now: her clever hips snap downwards, and there’s that timeless feeling of her walls clenching around you. You lay back on the sofa and try to take deep breaths. Chaewon’s done this before, more than you could tally, but the way she fixes herself onto your cock feels new each time. You have to reacquaint yourself with how tight she actually is. 

The toned line of Chaewon’s back arches beautifully. You can’t take your eyes off it. Your abs tighten up as her ass bounces on your cock. 

“Let’s see: we’re both pretty fucking hot—” You laugh, the sound drowned out by a moan of your own. Chaewon bites her lip. “And we both have a pretty hard time keeping our hands off each other. Imagine the money we could make off that.”

Chaewon’s going faster now. Her strangled groans collide with the sound of her thighs slapping against yours. 

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” you ask, because the more Chaewon bounces on you, the more you can’t think of a reason it should be a bad idea.  

Her melodic moans strike every chord. How she could even get words out from how hard she’s riding you, you’ve no idea. Chaewon is a strategist anyway. She knows how to make do. So she rises from your lap, letting each pulsing inch leave her cunt, before ramming them all back inside her. 

You groan. Chaewon laughs, but in spite of it, her languid movements never stop. When she gyrates to and fro, you start thinking about how this is probably a ploy to get you to agree. Look, her body seems to talk to you, in all its little motions and curves, look how good it is to see me stuffed with your fat cock. Look how good you make me feel. Wouldn’t you want to see it all on camera?

You both know what the answer is.

Chaewon’s smirking. “I’m saying we should make a movie.” She starts rubbing her clit, and her breath hitches between her sultry words. “And god, baby, we don’t even have to have a script or anything. It could just be me and you, doing what we do best.”

Her voice gets higher. Her hips start to move faster, more frantically than you could handle. And lord knows you’re the only one who could handle Chaewon. If it weren’t for you, who was going to keep her satisfied?

“And you know the camera’s my best friend. I’d look good getting stuffed by that hard cock from any angle. Anyone can watch you fuck me, but they know they could never be as good as you. They could never own me like you do.”

This has to be illegal. It’s the way she’s egging you on, knowing exactly what to say to ruin you, combined with the orgasmic choreography of her hips that renders you defenseless against her. And what harm could be done? Chaewon looks great on camera, even greater when it immortalizes into pixels how her face looks when she cums. It could be something you’d look back at when you’re worked up and she isn’t there (although that rarely happens), or sell with a reminder taped onto the plastic case that she’s yours. They can watch her get her little pussy destroyed but ultimately, at the end of the day, your bed is where she ends up.

You hate to say it, but all in all it sounds like a pretty fucking good idea.

“Fuck, Chaewon…”

“Is that a yes?” she asks eagerly. The lethal grip of her pussy starts to feel overwhelming. “It’s a win-win situation… please, won’t you say yes? Please, please, please—”

You could never say no to her, honestly. Not when she turns to look back at you with those sparkling doll eyes, and definitely not when she’s milking you.

You watch your cum drip outside of her like a waterfall. It’s hard to take your eyes off it, but then there’s Chaewon’s face, sweaty and lost to bliss. Yeah, she would look great on camera. And you did remember thinking back then, when you first met Chaewon, that she was never the type of girl to not be captured by a camera lens. You admit that your idea was pictorials and Vogue covers, not porn videos.

But later on, after Chaewon goes for a shower again to clean your mess up and actually works out, you find yourself setting up an account. Of course, there needs to be a discussion of some kind of how far you actually want to go with this.

“Do you want to be like… a full-on pornstar?” you ask. The question makes your ears burn. It’s not something you’d ask the average person, but you’ve been through this a million times; Kim Chaewon is not an average girl.

It’s late afternoon and you’re on a videocall with her as she drives home. The gorgeous interior of the Mustang looks almost mediocre when put next to Chaewon’s gorgeous face. 

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I’m not made for Pornhub, sorry to disappoint.”

“How is that disappointing?” you ask in disbelief.

“I dunno. A lot of people wanna see me do porn, but it’s just gonna be a side hustle for me.” 

Nod as you get the verification code from her email. You realize that you share everything with Chaewon. You know all her passwords and she knows yours. Your bank accounts are intertwined with each other. It’s a bad idea, seeing as there isn’t a clear definition on what’s going on between you. 

But right now, you’re literally creating an account to do porn together. It can’t get worse than that.

You pick Chaewon’s prettiest photo for the avatar—one of her in that tight Diesel top with her fingers through her hair. It parallels with the small rectangle in the corner of your screen.

“It’s asking for your age,” you tell her. 

Chaewon rolls her eyes, hands tightening on the wheel. “You know the names of all the positions we’ve tried but not my birthday?”

Cowgirl at Eunbi’s house as you try to be quiet, 69 at that suite after your promotion—okay fine, maybe she has a point.

“I do know your birthday. I just can’t do math.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. There’s sweat rolling down the sides of her face. It shines on her chest and drips down the fabric of her sports bra. You can’t stop thinking of how her skin looks so good, flushed and stretched. 

Do a little mental math, eyes up to the spiralling ceiling fan. “Was I still an idiot when I made you cum thrice last night?”

Chaewon’s face burns red. The memory’s still fresh in that pretty little head of hers. “Shut up. Just fix my account and I’ll call Minju to give us advice later.”

“Park Minju or—”

“Please use your head for once. Is there another Minju who’s both a friend of mine and a pornstar?”

Alright, so she’s talking about Kim Minju. Pretty face, cute voice, thighs that could crush you. The girl’s a socialite who only does all the indie films for fun—the talent fees mean nothing to her. 

That’s probably why she does the whole porn thing so well. Top creator minjugato.__. earns millions a month from just a camera, her bed, and another girl. She’s fulfiled a whole niche: not too famous to get into an actual scandal, not too invisible for the common guy to recognize her from a small platform movie and think hey, I don’t mind paying for this.

You look at her slim, composed figure fixed on the edge of your own bed. “How long have you been doing this?” 

Minju smiles. “Not long enough,” she says teasingly, leaning over the PC. She’s typing in a caption for your first livestream. So far she’s helped you get a fair amount of followers with a helpful promotion post. 

minjugato.__.: hi all!!! any weekend plans? :3 mine is to watch my best friend ssamuwon’s new movie later tonight. maybe you should come by!! it’s pretty explicit but i don’t think that would be a problem 👀

The stats rise by the minute. Five thousand people await Chaewon’s debut to start. Everytime you look away the number seems to get higher. There’s clear demand for Chaewon, the hottest girl in Gangnam, perhaps even the whole of South Korea itself.

No need for second-guessing. Chaewon’s in your lap, wearing the tiniest tube top known to man. You’ve seen her in less clothes and without them completely but this one’s just explicit. It accentuates her waist and lets a little skin show before her black shorts—somehow even tinier—hug her hips. 

It’s no wonder at all she managed to convince you to fuck her for work. They’ve said to avoid capitalizing off your hobbies, but let the record show that you won’t ever get tired of fucking Chaewon. 

Minju makes a final click on your keyboard. “You’re live in five minutes. I set up a few ground rules in the corner just in case they get wild.” She fires you a wink. 

Chaewon reads the box of rules sent in the chat, pinned to the top of the stream. It’s all pretty basic. No scat, no invasion of privacy, just the usual. Minju conveniently added that requests paired with high donations are prioritized. You shudder. What would the viewers make you do to Chaewon? There’s too many fantasies to pick from. 

“Thanks for helping me slut myself out, Minju,” says Chaewon with a smile too sweet for what she just said. 

It doesn’t faze Minju at all. She actually laughs, the crease of her eyes making her look like a sly fox. “You know what they say: you have to learn from the best.”

Oh, the best, alright: Minju’s videos speak for themselves. They’ve gotten billions of views, spread across every social media platform to the point she had to commission someone for a watermark. It’s all good publicity anyway. More people watching meant more traction and discovery of her account. 

The air in your room is thick with excitement. The ringlight casts a perfect shadow over Chaewon’s body. There she is, much smaller than you while your shadow alone could overpower here.

And of course, Minju’s hourglass shape is there as well. It doesn’t look like she’s leaving anytime soon. You honestly don’t mind it.

One minute to showtime. Chaewon holds your face in her hands. She’s as flawless as the day you met: perfect skin, thick lashes, eyes that could kill. There’s an evil smile sewn on those glossed lips.

“You ready, baby?” she asks. You’ve often wondered how she does that: she could speak in her usual high, cheerful voice most of the time but when the world dissolves to nothing more than you and these sheets, it drops to this ridiculously sexy low note. She’s insane. She’s unpredictable. But she’s also the sexiest woman you know.

If you had to be honest—

“Never been more ready.”

Chaewon is actually the perfect girl for this job.

When it comes to porn, it has to be specific. Every detail should be. The average viewer looks for something that they can’t get anywhere and it’s her job to be that. When every comment’s assumption about her is different, she has to put on a multitude of faces, all to keep their interest.

And it comes as nothing to her.

anonymous_lurk_79: she’s way too cute to be on here NumberOneMinjuLuver replied: it’s the cute ones that are the freakiest i said the same thing about minju

The red light blinks beside the lens. So does Chaewon, getting on her knees before the camera and batting her lashes. She’s whatever they want to be.

“Hello, is this thing on?” Chaewon smiles sweetly, as if she isn’t discussing being fucked for an audience of seven thousand and counting. “It’s my first time doing this stuff. I hope you all go easy on me.”

She looks up at you then at your growing erection. She giggles. “But I hope this one here goes as hard as he likes.”

Minju giggles, too. Chaewon was a natural.

“Shall we start?” she asks. “How do you want me?”

mingmingult: she looks a lot like the girl in minjugato’s videos whenidiethr0wmyphoneintheocean donated $****: suck his cock first like a good girl

Four digits already? 

Chaewon does as she’s told. She wraps her small hand around your cock, giving it a few hypnotic strokes. Feels like your heart is beating right there in her palm, too. She could feel every hot throb of arousal.

She then wraps her luscious lips around your cock and starts to suck. She suckles on the first few inches, letting her tongue dance around the sensitive bits, before she moves on to take more. You can see her shorts ride further down her ass as she pushes her face on your cock. 

You pick up the camera and generously give the viewers a POV shot. Chaewon blinks slowly at the camera, breaking the fourth wall, and sits on her heels so they could see some of her cleavage. She looks even more enticing and tight in this angle. Try to keep your breaths controlled so it doesn’t drown out the sloppy sounds of Chaewon making out with your cock.

“Such a good little slut,” you murmur. Use your other hand to grab Chaewon’s short hair. She moans happily. Her seductive chuckle vibrates and sends ripples of electricity throughout your body.

1800hotnfun donated $****

Chaewon sloppily presses more of your length down her throat. Her breaths arrive shorter. You have no idea if she’s looking at you or the camera. You get the advantage either way; the juxtaposition of those large innocent eyes and the way she’s blowing you could make any man cum in seconds. 

nsfwizone donated $** 69__jonginkang donated $*****: what a fucking tease ANTIFRAGILENTHUSIAST donated $******: need to see this pretty little whore’s mouth filled w my cum

That would answer your rent for the next few months, with money on the side to really get this gig going. Plus, Minju did say that large donation requests should be prioritized. 

And if whoever this guy was wanted to see Chaewon with cum overflowing from her lips, then so be it.

Your grip on Chaewon’s hair borders on painful. You pull it back, angling her chin upwards. Film from the side and the viewers could see how your cock dents Chaewon’s throat, rapidly filling it up again and again. Her nipples are already hard. Her lips provide a tight suction, her hands on your waist an anchor for balance.

You’re really giving it to her now. Chaewon’s helpless little whimpers do things to you, and apparently to the other eight thousand viewers wishing they were in your shoes. The chat is filled with obscenities. The donations rank up higher. Everyone’s waited far too long to see Kim Chaewon get her face fucked.

If it hurts, Chaewon doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even push you away or tap out. She lies there with her knees red and grazed, taking every shot you eventually pour into her waiting mouth. Each swift plunge makes her tits bounce in that tight top. Your cum fills her soft cheeks to the brim.

The flash makes the tears in Chaewon’s eyes sparkle. “Did you get every drop?” you ask.

Chaewon nods.

“Show me.”

She looks directly at the camera as she opens her mouth. As expected, you’re given a view of the pool of semen she kept for herself. She swallows it all obediently.

pipipi: fuck that was so hot Bunnybaby: we have a new supreme

You look at Minju for approval. It’s tens across the board for her—she looks flushed, squirming on the chair. There’s a lazy smile on her face.

“Was I a good girl?’’ Chaewon asks. The chat responds quickly. It’s flooded with emojis, donations, and dirty remarks. “Shouldn’t I get a reward for swallowing your cum?”

What reward? There’s a million things you want to do to her. You could bend her over the bed, creampie her, then fuck her ass until her cheeks are red. The possibilities are endless.

You look at the stream for suggestions. One particularly dirty comment points out how hard Chaewon’s nipples are, poking through the tube top in need of attention.

Chaewon reads it, too. Her fingers run up the shape of her figure coyly. “Can Chaewonie touch herself, please?”

She cups her boobs, slowly placing her fingers over the soft flesh. A groan immediately leaves her used mouth. She makes sure to look at the camera when she bites her lip. 

She pushes the top down until it bunches just below her perfect breasts. The fabric pushes up her tits even more, as if coaxing the spotlight to focus on them. 

She starts to pinch her nipples, tweaking and pulling them like they were made to be. You can see her getting worked up already. Each roll of her fingers over the hard nubs makes her soak through her lace panties. The little sounds she makes could kill you.

“Please?” Chaewon pouts. “I’m so, sooo sensitive. Can you help me out, daddy?”

You don’t have to say anything for her to know your answer. Your job is to be silent after all. It’s Chaewon they’re paying for, not you.

You set the camera back in its place and gently push Chaewon to the mattress. You tower over her. You’re taller, bigger, stronger; and it’s even clearer when there’s the lack of proximity between the two of you. She could barely reach your shoulders. It’s the little things like that the audience looks for. 

It’s the little things like that which set you off. 

Chaewon looks good in any angle. She constantly proves that with her Instagram photos, where even closeups make her look like a goddess. But she looks the best when she’s underneath you, writhing for your touch. 

You don’t stall more than you need to. The hot kisses on her neck are just foreplay. You attach your lips to a stiff nipple. She arches her back, but you keep her pinned to the soft cloud that is your mattress—she’s not going anywhere yet. You make sure of that by pinching the other nipple, giving both sensitive breasts equal attention.

“F-fuck…” Chaewon’s whimper is nearly inaudible. The rise and fall of her chest is hypnotic. She pushes her tits into your hand as you lick and suck. “You’re so good at that.”

You’re not selling yourself short, but these easy reactions are easily drawn from the fact that she’s sensitive. Dangerously so. The trail of your hand across her body leaves one of goosebumps. The thrill of getting her face fucked still runs high, and you discovered early on that the easiest way to make Chaewon melt was play with her tits. 

You squeeze her hard enough to make her whine. But your other hand’s grown tired of kneading her breast. It’s more interested in the soaked patch of arousal in the center of Chaewon’s shorts. Her legs immediately lock around your wrist, making you finish what you started. You can’t just play with her nipples then leave her to fend for herself. 

“Don’t stop,” Chaewon gasps. Your digits start to work between her legs. Her thighs tremble and her breath hitch in that particular way that drives you wild. The tight fabric of the shorts makes it difficult for you to intensify your movements, but you make do. Chaewon deserves to get fucked within an inch of her life. It’s what she so desperately wants anyway.

It shows in how she’s pushing herself up against you, tangling her fingers in your hair, hoisting her hips up so you could go deeper. The wet squelch of your fingers driving into her cunt is deafening. It makes her blush, but she’s got no reason to be ashamed. The viewers love it. They’re throwing money at her and betting on how fast she can cum.

Chaewon finally makes a mess on your fingers and screams at the top of her lungs, shaking and whining. When the bliss overtakes her features, you suddenly become sure of something:

You’re about to be the richest guy on the planet.

-

“Jesus.” Minju claps her hands together, looking very impressed. “You two are naturals.”

It’s been three days since Chaewon’s debut, but the profit you made could fit five months.  Chaewon’s doll eyes go wide seeing the numbers on the screen. You’re surprised as well at the followers you got in so little time. Other creators needed months of work to get this kind of traction. 

“This is insane,” you say. Hand Minju a cup of tea while Chaewon measures the damage she did on the internet. Mini tabloids are going crazy. And of course, people on your street are starting to look at her differently. They know too much about what goes on inside Chaewon’s luxury apartment, but they can’t tell the world how they found out.

Minju accepts the cup gracefully. For someone who’s been doing this for so long, she’s massively impressed by the quick success. Chaewon’s follower count will match hers in little time.

“I knew we were gonna do well, but not like this,” you tell her. “Thanks for all the help, Minju.”

Chaewon giggles. “Not that we needed any.”

“Little brat can’t even be grateful,” you say disapprovingly. Chaewon pouts, but doesn’t look regretful in the slightest.

Minju’s laugh is as charming as she is. “She’s not wrong. I don’t think getting money would be a problem, but you have to keep the hype going. You don’t want to peak so early.”

She sounds like a PR manager for all the beautifully fucked up films you’re going to make with Chaewon. You trust her word, though. This was a woman who knows what she’s talking about.

Chaewon studies her nails, painted hot pink and only long enough to scratch your back. “Maybe we could open up requests.”

“That’s a good idea,” Minju agrees. “People would pay a lot to see you live out their fantasies.” She sits back on your couch. A look of amusement crosses her face. “One time a guy paid me five hundred for feet pics.”

You raise your brows. “Feet pics?”

Minju doesn’t recognize the implication and only shrugs it off. You couldn’t believe people were actually into feet. It sounds pretty mild to Minju. She’s probably been made to do worse. “It’s easy money. He could’ve gotten videos with that amount.” 

Chaewon thinks of that for a second. It doesn’t sound too bad. It would take less effort than setting up a camera and managing through violent orgasms. But she thinks she likes the latter more anyway.

She used to hear older people give her advice when she was a student. They said to make money off what she liked to do, and she’d never have to work a day in her life. She smirks. How would they react if she told them how she made her money now?

“You could paywall the more intense stuff,” Minju’s suggesting now. “Don’t ever downplay how good you’re doing. If people want to pay for it and would pay for it, let them. But don’t post too often. You want to keep them wanting more.”

“Biweekly sound fine?” Chaewon asks. Oh, she’s serious about this. You wonder how you’ll survive the next week. 

“Perfect, actually.”

You butt in the conversation for a moment. “What about equipment?” Sure, you had a ringlight and a PC, but there’s nothing more. You imagine that this would take a lot of work and stuff, like a professional camera and neon lights. 

Chaewon was wondering about that as well. She looks at Minju, who shakes her head, much to your surprise.

“You won’t have to worry about that. The average person isn’t going to Pornhub anymore to get off. They want something unscripted now.”

Minju’s fox eyes dart pointedly at the two of you. “They want something real,” she stresses.

Her gaze is sharp with accusation. Chaewon laughs and rests her head on your shoulder. You don’t say a word to deny it.

-

Just in case anybody clutches their pearls over it, you’ll clarify here that you still have pretty normal jobs. You’re not totally prostituting yourselves for money, although you hate to use that term and you’re not desperate for the extra income.

You work a corporate job and volunteer at your nearest charity when you have time on your hands. (Taking note of the latter is advice you have to take yourself because it seems you live off sin 24/7.) It allows you to split the rent with Chaewon and buy food. 

As for Chaewon, she also works a regular job. You think? Wait, you realized that you have no idea what she does for a living. You simply assumed that with all her vices and expensive clothes, she must have a job keeping her busy somewhere.

Come to think of it, you’ve never heard her complain about work. It’s been a while since you moved in and got to know each other, but all the sticky notes about deadlines on the fridge are yours. 

“Chaewon, I have something I want to ask you.”

She turns to you, her legs swinging off the seat at the bar. You gulp. All of her beautiful legs are on display thanks to that tiny brown dress. The only things that bother saving anything to the imagination are her boots. 

That stitched cowboy hat too, if it counts. And it does the opposite of what it should. It makes you think of how well it matches her dress, and the way it makes her look like a cowgirl who could ride—

“Yes?” she says, still bopping her head to the music. 

“Where the hell do you get all your money?”

Chaewon ponders over this for some time, then takes a sip of her margarita. “Oh, I don’t know.” Seeing the surprise on her face nearly makes her spit her drink out from laughing. “Seriously, I don’t know! I think it just shows up in my bank account. I guess our little collaboration helps, too.”

She winks at you. Your breaths shorten.

Nope. Just because she’s the hottest girl alive doesn’t mean she can lie to you. “Liar.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“What was I supposed to think, Chae?” you say as diplomatically as you can. You gesture to your surroundings. “We’re in one of the most expensive bars in Hongdae where the fucking senators’ kids create scandals. You’re wearing another designer set.”

You had a point. Chaewon shrugs off the offense she took. “My fault for assuming you’d think about anything other than me in this dress.”

She stands up and twirls around. The skirt floats around her thighs. Those safety shorts are way too tiny to be considered safe. Chaewon gets a hit out of teasing you though, grinning when the realization registers on your face.

“Don’t you want to take pics of me?” asks Chaewon with a pout. She doesn’t wait for your answer and hands you her phone. It’s the latest one, pink and sleek. “So we have content to upload later!” 

While you have qualms about taking pictures of Chaewon in her ridiculously provocative outfit, she’s right. It’s been a few days since your last upload. Minju said it was important not to post too often, but too long in between posts could throw your followers off.

So here you are again, playing the role of a photographer. You snap several photos of her within minutes. Chaewon switches between poses like they’re nothing. You have one where she’s bent slightly over the bar, a finger on her lips as she looks coyly at her short skirt. There’s one in the bathroom where she looks at the mirror instead of the lens. She’s holding the cowboy hat on her head and winking. 

All that skin, that shameless seductiveness… it feels like you’re getting drunk off of these sexy photos instead of the alcohol. Chaewon is too hot for you to handle.

You return to your private booth to upload them. What would she do without you? You’re her fuckbuddy, best friend, and social media manager all at the same time. 

anyone know where i can find a ride? ❣️🤠

It’s difficult to think of a good caption. Choosing which photos to post is ruining you. Not to mention the filtering to bring out the brown of her eyes and the sunlight. It makes you stall. You have to keep staring. You have to take note of every detail, every delicious curve of her body. Images of Chaewon posing, winking, and showing off are burned forever into your mind.

Your hands shake as you hit post. Turn your phone off. Focus on having a good time and dancing and singing and whatever you do, do not take another look at those pictures. 

“Oh, you poor thing.” 

Oh no. 

Chaewon sounds smug as ever as she takes a seat on your lap. “Hard already? We aren’t even in the bedroom.”

You don’t need this right now. Getting an erection could not come at a more inconvenient time. You can’t say anything provided that you can’t even meet her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she purrs. “I’m gonna take care of that.”

There’s a hunger in Chaewon that needs to be satiated today. You can see the fire in her eyes as she pulls you out and wraps a fist around your stiff cock. The sight of her small, dainty hand compared to your shaft is provocative by itself. Those large, deceptively innocent eyes stay on yours while she drags her delicious touch up and down, preparing you for her. 

“Been needing you so bad lately…” 

Chaewon lifts her hips slightly. She allows your cock to rub between her slick folds, teasing at her entrance but never quite giving her what she needs. Her breath hitches when you hit her clit. 

“Promise to fill me all the way up,” she whines. “Don’t leave a single drop.”

You wouldn’t dare. There hasn’t been any penetration yet the wetness of her puffy lips feels like heaven. In your hands, her core works her waist into circles. More precum ends up grinding and mixing between your sexes. 

Chaewon whimpers. “Promise me.”

“Fuck, gonna fill this pussy up, Chaewon.” Her nipples poke through the thin bikini. Her grinding grows more desperate as you groan out your obscene promise. “Gonna breed this perfect pussy. Just ride my cock like the pretty little fuckdoll you are.”

She can’t take it anymore. Chaewon slams herself down on your cock in one go.

The stretch hurts so good. Her head throws back with a breathy moan. Her soft walls immediately hold onto you, throbbing and needy. 

The music is a dull thump through the walls. You could feel the bass in your heart time with Chaewon’s bouncing. Her back is against the door. 

“There,” she gasps. “Right there, don’t stop…”

Her eyes are dim with pleasure. You bring a hand up to pinch and roll her nipple, circling the taut peak with your thumb. Immediately Chaewon’s internal muscles clench around you like a vise. 

Her hips start to lift and dance in a little choreography of an impending orgasm. You hold her down, pinning her to your lap while you thrust up in her. The tightness becomes harder to push past through. She’s so tense that you have to rub your thumb against her clit to get her to relax. 

Your eyes meet. Jesus, she was a sight for sore eyes. The toasty, sunkissed color of her makeup makes her look like she’s blushing. The two of you are flushed either way. There’s forbidden excitement in knowing one of the servers could walk in here at any moment and see Chaewon riding you harshly. You shouldn’t be doing this here. There were important people who could raise this complaint to the higher-ups and get you banned forever.

You can stop the bullshit. When has hesitation saved you from getting in trouble? When has anything convinced you not to fuck Kim Chaewon? 

-

You didn’t even mean to execute this request so well.

It just so happens that this is how a day in your life looks like with Kim Chaewon. While they pay to place themselves in your shoes and see it happen, you’re the one who actually gets to touch her. 

A guy who went by the username hanyoooojin sent a large amount of money the moment Chaewon announced requests. Unlike the other ones who filled up the rest of the slots, he didn’t want anything overly specific.

Netflix and chill anyone? 😉

That was the caption you set for the video. It’s something enticing even with its simplicity, and come on, people would watch anything if it had Chaewon in it. 

The camera records everything. It starts out with Chaewon dressed in your shirt. It’s way too big on her, and if the fabric were any more see-through, it would be clear she only had a bra on. She’s lying next to you on your bed as a movie plays on your TV.

The volume is low, almost to complete silence. It’s only static background noise to what’s going to happen.

Chaewon snuggles against you. Her body is already warm. But she does a good job of acting like she’s interested in the movie. She called it boring a million times before, and you remain convinced it was an attention span issue. 

“I fucking hate when movies are slow,” she had said. She rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of making me wait thirty minutes for something exciting to happen?”

“Sounds a lot like you to hate taking things slow,” you replied easily, earning you a punch in the shoulder.

Maybe that’s why her hand slips under the blanket a little too early. You’re supposed to be a sweet domestic couple. It’s just a role you have to play for cash to come in. Chaewon’s the sweet girlfriend and you’re the boyfriend who still wants to hang out with her even when you’re exhausted. You watch a movie together, as requested, pretending you have no idea of what she’s about to do.

Her creamy thighs folded against each other hide her wetness. Chaewon’s become a master at angles. She knows to lift the blanket a little above your thighs so the camera captures her hand in your shorts. 

You look down at what she’s doing and laugh. “Thought you wanted to watch a movie,” you say. 

Her lazy strokes work you to full mast. You remind yourself that this was supposed to be unhurried, but there was no delaying gratification around Chaewon. 

Chaewon takes her eyes briefly off the screen to smile at you. “I do.” Her voice is soft and unfazed. She looks adorable in those puppy pajamas. It really sells the fantasy. “But I can do two things at once, can’t I?”

Her thumb circles your tip with maddening precision. Chaewon kisses you with the same gentleness she uses to jack you off. You can tell she’s struggling not to pounce on you. This isn’t the kind of sex she was used to. Sex for Chaewon was trading orgasms until one of you confessed you ran short. 

For this one, she has to keep herself sane. She has to be tender with it. She takes your hand, squeezes it in hers, and places it right where she needs you. The tiny pajama shorts allow easy access to her cunt. 

“Just keep watching,” she whispers.

The hair at the back of your neck stands up. Your lips find Chaewon’s again. You run your fingers up and down her slick folds while she jerks you off. Aside from a few heavy breaths and twitches of her tight body, she doesn’t take her eyes off the movie. She’s equal parts engrossed by it and focused on getting you off.

Chaewon’s voice runs into a whine as you go faster. Her thighs start to get messy with her own arousal. It’s taking everything in her not to strip off this shirt and ride you. She can do that later, something even the audience can’t pay to see. 

Even though you’re needy and throbbing in the soft grip of her fist, you smirk. “What’s the matter, baby? I thought you said we should focus on the movie.” 

Chaewon is still intent on keeping up the pretense. But it’s clear she wants this, too, the handjob no longer the unhurried routine she initiated.

You thrust your fingers against that sweet spot she’s been aching for you to reach. Chaewon’s body curls around you tightly. Her fingernails find purchase scratching on your forearm. 

She can’t do this any longer. You’re the only actor she can watch now. Her gaze seals onto yours as her movements grow more frantic, like she’s willing you to do the same. You have one common goal here, really. It’s evident from the precum leaking onto her wrist, her cunt pulsing around your digits. This could only end one way.

That’s one of the many requests you and Chaewon fulfill. Besides the need for real stamina, especially for longer videos, it’s actually not that taxing. It’s no construction job anyway, but fucking Chaewon comes easily to you. It takes no work at all when it’s as natural as improv.

Over the weeks, you get people tipping generously just for photos, and you remember what Minju said about them. People paid a lot to see a pretty girl naked and doing whatever they wanted.

“It’s up to you if you want to do them,” you remind Chaewon. It’s one of those lazy afternoons where you’d rather bask in the airconditioning than do anything productive. While you’re fully conscious, your body’s still in sleep mode, draped in the duvet and Chaewon’s form.

Chaewon rolls her eyes. You don’t really see it since she’s clicking away at her phone, but you know her so well that it’s like watching a movie you got a first look at unfold. “Look at you getting all mushy. I told you I don’t break easily.”

You know that, too. You’ve folded her in half and split her legs apart so many times, but you learned not to let her small stature fool you. In no makeup and just an oversized shirt and shorts, Chaewon’s the most antifragile person you know. 

You wave a hand in the air. “Of course you won’t break down. You’re the most dick-addicted girl in the world.” Chaewon snorts at that. “But we’re doing homemade porn for a reason. This isn’t a corporate or something. You don’t have to do every request there is.”

Chaewon sees where this is leading up to. She shuts her phone and shifts on the bed, the ocean blue sheets rustling above her. Her arms rest on your stomach. 

She tilts her head to the side like a puppy. There’s an amused smile on her face. 

“First of all, you should stop worrying so much,” she tells you. The faux sternness in her tone shouldn’t be this cute. “And second of all, nobody’s making me do anything I don’t want to do. I’m a big girl, you don’t have to worry about me.”

Right. It should be common sense already. Chaewon’s always done things of her own accord. She’s not the malleable type of girl who takes no trouble to convince. It’s honestly one of the traits you admire about her outside of the bedroom. Maybe, if you had Chaewon’s heart of steel or one-track mind, you wouldn’t have let her fuck you at that party. You wouldn’t be in this bed with her.

But god, were you glad you’re here.

You lose yourself in these thoughts for barely five seconds and she’s already suddenly too close. One wrong move and you’d end up kissing her. There’s that warmth again, radiating from her body in what you figured to identify as a sign. You get one too many good omens from Chaewon.

“And you know what I really, really want to do?” she asks breathily. Every word is a sultry huff against your lips.

Very few could stand a chance against her. You think it’s why she likes you so much and keeps you around, regardless if she’d admit it. You’re the only guy who could look her in the eye like you are right now and reply, “Do I even have to guess?”

It doesn’t take long for it to happen. These spontaneous sessions are becoming a bad habit. But how can you help yourself when Chaewon looks like that? You’ve no defense against those lithe legs and tight midriff, much less against that even tighter pussy. 

It just so happens all this looks great on camera.

You close the gap between you until it feels like your bodies are bonded together. They’re impossible to break apart. You have one hand closed around Chaewon’s wrists, the other on her hip. The pillow muffles her screams as you thrust into her mindlessly. Her ass is sore and red. 

“God, all that talk was for nothing, wasn’t it?” It’s always worth it in the end. You completely own her. Her pussy was just made for your cock, clinging wetly onto your girth and doing so even tighter when you back it out. “You just wanted to rile me up so I can show you you’re my good little slut, taking my dick like you were born to do.”

Chaewon’s crying out, messy little sounds tumbling out of her drooling lips. The pillowcase bears her weight and those tears of bliss. The truth is she wouldn’t trade this for anything else. She could spend all her life on the end of your length, whining her tiny waist into your palms and her ass perked and ready for you. She wouldn’t know what to do without hearing the sound of your skin snapping against hers.

“Feels so—fucking—good!” Chaewon sobs into the pillow. Senseless words are all you could fuck out of her. She can’t think much when you have your dizzying grip on her wrists like that or when you’re completely destroying her tight hole. “I’m just your personal cumdump, I’m all yours, you’re going so fucking fast—”

She’s absolutely dripping around you. Her body responds to you so well because this is exactly how she likes being fucked. She likes being fucked as if you’re trying to get her cunt to memorize the shape of your member. Not one spot on her body is left untouched. Her pussy tightens dangerously when you drive up into her cunt and those messy moans could be heard even with the fabric against her mouth. 

And it’s incredible without all the lighting and ignoring the camera blinking next to you. You’ve got a great view: Chaewon bent over and her ass up on the bed, the hourglass shape of her waist to her hips even more appealing from this angle, and her toned back shining with sweat. Her tits swing back and forth in response to the force you’re taking out on her. It could make any man go crazy.

You should’ve known to put towels on the bed, because the ending’s always the same when Chaewon feels the entirety of your control, when she’s being fed every thick inch of your cock, being handled like she’s nothing but a doll to release into—

“Oh my god!” Chaewon cries out, the lightning before the thunder, the thunder before the storm. Her scream is equal parts bliss and awe—she’s shaking all over, and the swift deep drills of your cock draw out her squirt. 

Neither of you expect it. The sharp sound of it makes you slow down. She hasn’t stopped pushing her ass into you. The puddle gets on your thighs and hers, splattering on the sheets. You feel suspended in mid-air staring at the mess she’s making. It feels even more surreal knowing you did it to her.

Chaewon collapses forward, her cheek against the softness of the pillow. It’s ridiculous how good she looks in spite of the messy hair and kiss-swollen lips. Always the temptress. The camera shines light on her exhausted, satisfied simper. 

And of course, there’s the evidence that will prove this happened. It will back you up even if Chaewon randomly decides not to post this video on the internet or worse, call everything off. The fresh mess she left on the blanket—the same one you had just been cuddling in a few hours earlier—is all the proof you’ll need.

Chaewon laughs breathlessly. She arches her back beautifully as she pulls away from your cock. It’s the perfect ending scene. 

-

All entertainment industries are parallel to each other in a way. You could work in film (legitimate films, by the way—not whatever you and Chaewon are making), music, or K-pop but what they don’t tell you is they all work the same. They manufacture and process things that appeal to the consumer. You could play the usual tropes, tunes, or concepts. Go down the loveteam road or make another generative pop song. If you’re brave enough, you can search for a niche and make it your brand.

You can do anything—release an Oscar-winning film or write a critically acclaimed album, pick your poison. It all boils down to one thing everyone is looking for anyway:

A big break. 

It will solidify your place in the industry and make sure you stay there, and if not, it makes sure you get a higher spot. A big break would earn you a loyal amount of followers and more money in your pocket. Very few get their big break. Some, although deserving, don’t get theirs at all.

In Chaewon’s situation, her big break was that video. Everyone’s talking about it and everyone’s absolutely obsessed with it. You see it posted in places you don’t expect seeing it: Instagram group chats, the NSFW side of Twitter, and the first Google result that pops up when you search Chaewon’s name. It’s gotten so much traction that you start putting a watermark of her username over the videos, along with a link to her social media profiles should they ever get crossposted again.

It’s an overnight success. You grin when you see Minju’s messages, supportive as always.

The cafe wasn’t all that big, situated on this gravel lot with a neat side garden facing the street, but it definitely maximized the space. Brick stepstones were inlaid to lead to the heavy wood-and-glass door, with its sleek black “Welcome” sign hanging. The larger cement wall extended to the right of the door, sporting this large, seamless circular window, its wedges smoothed out to serve as momentary seating or a place to take a photo, as the neat sidewalks and the bunched-up shops outside, with the shadow of the nearby bridge, serving as the background.

Your feet crunched on the gravel as you took the brick path towards the door. Fixing and undoing your pack straps, you pushed the door inward. The bell overhead rang. The staff, all clad in matching navy blue polo shirts and cream-colored aprons, looked toward the entryway and offered a warm welcome. Fors was a spacious cafe, its cashier and brewing station situated to your left atop slabs of the same cement. Just past the cashier was the cold glass display, chock-full of illuminated pastries and cakes, each with its price. To the right of the cashier and pastry area was the front-of-house. It was designed to be sunken, so there was a small downstep to reach the various chairs and tables for customers. Off to the side, where the large circular window had been, were these velvet couches and small coffee tables, basking in the natural light. On the opposite, far end of that were more tables distributed evenly, orbiting the cafe’s large shelves filled with books. The sconces attached to the walls leaked out the same orange light that caught your attention, tying all the elements together cohesively.

To be truthful, you weren’t a big fan of cafes. More specifically, you weren’t a big fan of how cafes tried hard to be “commercially unique”, going so far as to rename the sizes of coffee cups or complicate coffee orders with a dash of this or that, a dollop of foreign syrup, a shot of exotic bean grounds. You had your gripes, too, with this new wave of muted, minimalist, and sleek aesthetic that all cafes seem to go for nowadays. You’d always wonder which Heaven a cafe’s soul goes to whenever it loses its life and trades it for cold, stone floors. 

However, you never turned down a good old croissant. It’s simple, not too crazy — plain. Seizing the moment, you walked to the cashier and placed your order.

“Would you like a regular coffee with that, Sir? It comes in three sizes, Micro, Mean, and Maxim,” the young female barista pointed up at the overhead menu with the drink sizing.

“Yeah, I’ll have the…uh…the Mean.” You cursed internally.

“Okay, that’ll be $25.50.”

I will never return here, you thought as you weakly handed over your card. After a few taps and prints, you took it back alongside the warm croissant and ventured down towards the seats.

Scanning the area, most customers were seated near the circular window, hoping to get a shot for Instagram or whatever. So you walk past them and take a window-side wood seat with a small square table. Comparatively, this window was a bit dirtier, with blurry fingerprints streaking and dotting the pane.

“Guess they neglected you, huh, buddy?” You softly asked the window, pulling out the seat. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not much for circle windows,” you whispered as you finally sat down to wait for your coffee.

“You usually talk to inanimate objects, or just windows?”

On the table directly in front of you, nearer to the books, there was a woman. Fair. Olive-shaped face. A gentle and delicate nose with a smooth bridge. Subtle smirk. Silky deep-brown locks styled in a wolfcut that flowed just down to her shoulders. Time-stopping.

“No, just—just windows…” You sighed.

The woman’s gaze was sharp. You felt it cut you four different ways as she scanned your appearance, searching for…something. The slicing ceased as her gaze fell back down to the opened laptop in front of her.

You gulped a bit as you shifted in your seat, uncomfortable with the sudden connection this stranger initiated. But hey, with a knockout of a woman such as her, you found it hard to complain. She sat down like grace and hard work combined, a delicate posture accenting the way her fingers typed swiftly, her eyes twinkling from the laptop light. She seemed around your age, with smooth skin sculpting and defining her cheeks and neck, with waves of her hair flowing downwards in subtle curls.

“You usually stare this long at strangers?” she piped up again, never taking her eyes off the laptop screen.

You cursed under your breath. “No, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. That’s weird,” you said with a shift of your head away from her general direction. 

What is wrong with me? You thought. Your heart raced just looking at the woman; any longer and you’d die. But fuck, this girl’s beautiful, you awed silently. 

And so, like addiction and relapse and all that, your gaze flowed and waned, wandering and detouring, but ultimately landing back on her. 

Her brow was raised, still immersed in whatever she had on that laptop. Her eyes narrowed a bit further. Then it happened. Seemingly frustrated, her nose scrunched like something she didn’t mean to do and instantly corrected. The crinkles at the top of her nose bridge eased as her expression settled. It happened for a split second, but you caught it.

Then you felt a slash, the gash quickly rising from your arms and up to your face. Warmth flushed your cheek. Her almond eyes lacerated you. You were leveled.

You nervously smiled, getting caught again. You fiddled with the complimentary Fors creamer and sugar, hoping that mindless actions would undo the last three minutes of awkwardness. You drummed the table a bit, conveniently looking to the counter, waiting for this dumb century-long coffee. 

Coffee beans must’ve still been harvested from exotic red-soil countries, you mused.

The woman suddenly stood up, chair whining against the floor. Grabbing her sling bag and books in one hand, and holding the corner of her still open laptop with the other, she strode shortly and stopped at your table. She set her belongings on the table, occupying more than half of your table space, and sat directly in front of you, resuming her nonchalant typing, not even acknowledging you with brief eye contact.

“Uh…”

“It’s self-service.”

“Excuse me?”

The woman nodded to the cashier. “That’s probably your coffee right now, cooling away.” Right enough, your eyes found a pastel grey mug sitting alone on the countertop.

“Excuse me,” you said with a half-hearted smile as you peel away from the table. And so you walked over, grabbed your now less-hot-than-desirable coffee, and stopped just before you reached your table. The woman still sat there. 

Okay, I’m still in it, you rejoiced silently.

You took a seat again, placing the coffee just beside your croissant and the newly placed leather books. You craned your neck subtly, trying to read the titles on the spines.

“Law books,” she answered.

“Law student,” you responded in understanding.

So she was older, you thought.

She gave a nod as you took a seat, trepidation hanging over you as you thought of how to fill the silence.

“Got a paper due?” you asked meekly. 

“A digest, yeah.”

“Cool, cool,” you said with a sip of your coffee.

“You?”

“Me?”

“Your major.”

“Gotcha. I’m a nursing student.”

“Hm. Younger.”

“Well, not that young,” you replied sheepishly.

“Young enough.”

“I mean, it’s not like we’re ages apart,” you replied. “You’re what, four years ahead?”

“Flattering, but no. I’m 37,” she winced. 

You almost spat out your coffee. “Shut up.”

That made the corner of her lips lift a bit, and her face rose to look up at you instead of her work. The edge of her gaze stung less.

“Yup, 37. Majored in Poli Sci. Left for a bit. Came back.”

“But you look…” You pointed at all of her.

“Yes?”

“Absolutely not 37,” you said in awe, wrapped in a jest, but you caught yourself.  

“I’m sorry.” You played it cool. “You’re just…wow.”

She laughed a single melodious laugh, her nose scrunch more visible now. Then you noticed it — the lodged maturity in her laugh, the seriousness seeping through her smile as her face eased back into a composed smirk, the intensity in the corners of her eyebrow. Her brown gaze stabbed you, but you didn’t mind.

“So you do laugh.”

“I do. Unfortunately.” She released a short sigh, thought for a bit, and decided to shut her laptop. “Kazuha.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kazuha,” you offered your hand. She shook it firmly, but friendly.

“So how do you…?” you motioned up and down.

“Exercise and diet. Mainly genetics, too. Aren’t you supposed to be an expert on this, Nursing?”

“Oh shut up. You’re lucky I don’t quiz you on…” You leaned closer, tilted your head, and read off the spine of one of her books. “…torts, obligations, and civil proceedings.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.” She sized you up.

“I’m sure I can handle it,” you repeated sarcastically.

“Christ, you’re a child,” she scoffed slightly.

“Hey, a child you specifically chose to sit next to.” You pouted with false-surrendered hands. “Pretty sure that’s illegal.” You leaned back a bit. 

Her gaze sliced down to your arms and back up to your eyes.

You relented immediately.

“Obviously, I’m kidding. Thank you for sitting here,” you said as you leaned back in towards her. This rewarded you with another laugh, the melody ringing in your ears as she chuckled.

“I’m 23,” you eased her mind.

She nodded with a slight smile. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.”

Kazuha stowed her laptop, piled the cluttered paper, and stacked the uneven books. With a sling of her bag and a grip on her books, her tall frame stood before you, hips cocked to the side. 

“Nursing. 23.” She repeated your details back to you, seemingly memorizing and rehearsing the information. “I’ll see you around then, 23. Enjoy the coffee.” The older woman pivoted and strode away, her heels tapping across cement.

Alright, you smile to yourself, satisfied. You took a sip of your coffee and finally dug into the croissant. 

Kazuha sliced the back of your head with one last peek at you. You never noticed.

-

With a zip of your duffel bag, you neatly fold and store your scrub top and the casing of your stethoscope, ready to head out. Packing most of your things, you venture out of the clinic, eager to start that commute home. Your ID beeps at the employee monitor as you say goodbye to your clinical instructor, hoping to split before they have any “last-minute tasks” for you. With a dash across intersections, you quickly navigate past the rabble of people also rushing to head home. Like obstacles, the buzz of people filled your night commute; a group of teenagers on skateboards, similar college students probably on their 5th Red Bull, businessmen guffawing as they turn off work mode, and you — this aquamarine smear in a mosaic of muted clothes and the scattered bounces of car lights. Pulling out your phone, you cross off the last item of your to-do list and walk down the same street-lined shop, the last stretch before your commute.

You glance at the familiar shops, giving an occasional wave at the vendors you’ve personally gotten to know while studying. You see Mr. Lee, resident loudmouth teokbokki monger, as he shouts out his low prices over his steaming boiler of rice cakes. Just further down, Mrs. Bang, the no-nonsense street food mogul and local grandmother of all, fans the coals just under sizzling skewers and tin-foiled sweet potatoes. Across Mrs. Bang’s side, the Kim brothers chase off young kids staying too late at their neon-highlighted computer gaming lounge. You chuckle a bit, staring at this picture of comfort. Miles and miles of pavement and hours of train tracks separate your college from your house, but walking down this lane has always felt like home.

You walk a few more meters and come up to Fors again, its human vibrance sheltered by its grayscaled exterior. The circular window, an amber eye staring back into city streets and cloudless nights. Words and conversations spill through the glass door, decoding long enough whenever the door opens for a customer and vanishing as quickly as it shuts.

You were never a cafe guy.

You take a few strides past Fors, walk the crossing, and stand just before the steps leading down into the subway and, eventually, home. Something gnawed at the back of your mind.

You were never a cafe guy. 

You could go back now, just to check. No harm done.

You were never a cafe guy.

It’s only a few steps. You check your wristwatch. 7:23. Two hours before the final train.

You were never a cafe guy.

You still had a lot of studying to do.

You were never a cafe guy.

You didn’t even have any money left.

You were never a cafe guy.

And you never will be, if they didn’t have…this.

Her hair is whimsical, flowing through the air in slow-motion curls and waves. A million love songs play as a part of her face, now comes into view. Her skin is bright and rose-cheeked and warmed by orange cafe beams, a stained-glass display of jaw-drop, devotion being the only appropriate response. Her lips are sweet and kind and lightly pouted, as if inviting a reply only lips can make. Her name flits from your mouth like a short kiss you never want to end, like those you make before leaving for work or wanting to stay in the moment. Cherubs softly sigh as she scans the room, gracing each customer with a momentary glimpse of her— those split-seconds freeze as you find yourself actively trying to pause the world and the hands of time, just to commit the image to memory. Her eyes shatter the last of your inhibitions as you physically feel weak in her gaze. Daggers dig into your torso, then your face, your beating heart bleeding true onto your sleeves. Your chest rises and falls as you try to steady your breathing from the sprint back.

“Hey,” you pipe up.

“Hey.” Her smile twinkled in the sea of strangers, like faraway lights beckoning you to come close. A smirk rises from her lips as her wolf cut cascades down her cheeks. You notice something.

“Hoop earrings.”

“Working eyes.” Kazuha’s scoff turns into a laugh as she turns her attention back to her books.

You come up to the empty seat across from her.

“Taken?”

Kazuha shrugs with a brow raised. “Maybe.”

Crap.

“Really?” You drop the bravado a bit, concerned.

She suddenly laughs, hand immediately coming up to cover her grin. She gestures with an open palm toward the empty seat.

You nod, pulling out the chair and taking a seat, face-to-face with Kazuha again. Well, face to book. A dark green leather-bound book with spidery gold lettering blocked her face from view – Environmental Law.

You lean back a bit, breathing finally evening out. Now, with you sitting down and thinking clearly, you realize the next step is unknown to you. She was right there, just a few feet from you, and yet the distance was canyon-like. You glance back down at your watch – 7:31. Maybe not too late to catch that train.

Her voice cuts through cafe conversation.

“So…” Environmental Law is lowered for a bit, her sharp eyes now coming into view. “You ran all the way here just to see me?”

“Just to see you?” you echoed sheepishly. “No, of course not. I was just, you know, walking. Then I realized I hadn’t eaten yet. So, I wanted to grab a bite to eat before that train ride home. So, yeah,” you finish with a shrug.

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes narrow for a bit as she scans you up and down. “You beelined here, didn’t you?”

You exhale and admit. “Yeah…”

A short giggle leaves her, but a smile stays. She closes up stupid Environmental Law and sets it aside, along with her other law books. She leans forward, her knit sweater accentuating her slim waist and graceful frame.

“Am I a bite to eat, 23?” Her voice suddenly takes on this sultry lowness. Blood rushes to your cheeks as you are hit by her sudden boldness and the obvious double entendre.

“No! I just mea—“

Kazuha bursts out a quick chuckle, her hand waving it off as she makes light of the conversation. “Jesus, chill out!” She smiles at you, satisfied with the jest.

“But did you? Beeline here, I mean?” She asks again, her voice rising with a slight tone of hope. The contrast jarred you. 

For how brief you’ve known her, Kazuha’s voice was markedly unique. Hers was a symphony made by madmen — confident, clear, contradicting. Her voice could be light and easy, with a small rise in pitch. But then, it’d have this surprisingly low quality to it, like a sudden flip of sentience and suave — and Kazuha seemed to abuse that switch.

“You’re going to be dangerous, huh?”

“Pretty much,” she says with sly eyes and a smirk.

-

“So yeah, graduated, did ballet, hated it, got confused, then took time off.”

“Mhm…yeah.”

“Then got back here to take up law finally.”

“You liking it…?”

“Mmm…just a bit lower, please.” Kazuha’s fingers interlace in your hair, pushing you a bit lower, down her open legs.

You chuckle as you give a compensatory lick lower on her wetness, nearer her smooshed asscheeks. “I meant law,” you say in between pecks to her pussy lips and kisses to her smooth thighs propped up on your shoulders.

“Fuck yes!” Her grip tightens when you hit a spot right at the crease of her ass, using your tongue for all its worth. “Yeah, I’m-I’m liking it, yeah.” She giggles through strained breaths.

You hook your arm around her left thigh, come back down towards her pussy, and start rubbing the bud at the top of her splayed lips. Your tongue takes care of business nearer the entrance, lapping up the leaking lubricant.

“Fuck, yeah, right there! Yes, yes, right there!” Kazuha’s mouth widens as her neck arches to the ceiling of her quiet flat, her slender throat on display, moonlight streaking through her blinds, the strips of light dying to touch the scene.

You maintain the pace Kazuha liked, rubbing faster only at her clit. Heaven collapses onto you as her strong thighs smother you, the soft flesh clamping down the sides of your head. 

“You’re dripping.” You can’t help but smile through suffocation. 

“For you,” Kazuha breathes out your name, caressing your head with surprising sweetness. “Oh fuck!— You make me so wet.”

You grip her outer thighs, your fingers sinking into the plump skin, as you lower them from your head. Her pink pussy lips are spread for you, liquid still dripping down the ring of her ass. An idea pops into your head.

“Shit! Yes!” Kazuha’s head snaps back onto the pillow as your tongue trails from her asshole and up to her clit in one long, deep lick. 

Your head finally comes into her view. “Really?” you coo, intrigued.

A laugh rises through her exhausted breath as she nods with a smile. “Mhm…” Her voice softens in erotic embarrassment. 

You lean back down and, after a few more coaxes with your index and middle finger, her hips buck against your head as her sex twitches in orgasm. You drown in the erotic liquid and the salt in her sweat that was beading down her navel. You open your mouth wide, tongue flat in acceptance of the fruit of your hard work. The older woman’s legs wrap around your head, humping in response, as if trying to get another orgasm going.

With the added juices, you slide your tongue down her pussy lips and back onto her tight rim. She shrieks in delight with the repeated contact, the tip of your tongue circles and teasing entrance, baiting her for a bit before letting her cunt settle down from the high. You sit back up, satisfied with your work.

Kazuha lies there for a few moments, recollecting. Her tits bounce ever so slightly with each inhale and exhale. With a flick of a switch, her post-orgasm vulnerability vanishes, leaving only a deep need to retaliate. She rises to plant a few kisses on your neck before pulling you lower, her mouth now close to your ear. 

“My turn.”

She adeptly reverses your position, with you now lying down on your back, your bare chest and boxers subjected to her gaze. Kazuha straddles you, the tent in your underwear lightly touching her pussy.

With you now on the bottom, Kazuha leans down, her lips seeking a target. First, they land on your cheek. Then the side of your mouth. Your jaw. Ear. Jugular. Pecs. Her face stops near your now-hardened nipple, eyes staring back up at you. Her open mouth breathes warmth onto you. Your cock twitches visibly at the possibility, now straining even harder. This catches her attention. Her sharp gaze widens.

“Really?” She echoes. 

Fuck.

You admit with a slow nod.

Her pink tongue slowly darts out, dragging across the hard nub. 

Sparks fly immediately. You jerk in pleasure, your torso rising on instinct, inadvertently bumping your nipple back onto her tongue. You squirm in the unexpected gratification, your breathing quickens as you grip tighter on her pastel blue bed sheets.

Hunger consumes her now. Her mouth latches down onto your left nipple, tongue coating the sensitive nerve endings with slick saliva. She licks repeatedly, around the nub, alternating clockwise and counter. She releases you with an open-mouthed gasp, her tongue coming down to poke and flick the nub lightly and minutely, just enough for you to feel the stimulation — and ultimately crave more.

A neural pathway must have short-circuited because the words that came out of your mouth surprised even you.

“The other one, too. Please…”

After a few last licks, Kazuha smirks up at you. She kisses your left nipple one last time as she shifts a bit, eager to focus her attention on your other erect bud. Saliva coats your right nipple now, Kazuha working hard to keep it moist. Seemingly satisfied, she now blows a cold breath onto it.

“Kazuha—shit!” Your abdomen flexes in response to the cool feeling. Your fingers find her hair, tightening and coiling a few strands before loosening. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“It’s alright,” she whispers back, a comforting smile manifests on her cheeks. “You feel good?” Her gaze is a different kind of sharp now — less edge, more eager. Less cut, more care.

You nod back, letting her continue. And she does. She brings her index and middle finger to your mouth now, eyes wide with this concentrated gaze, lashes batting and beckoning for you to give in.

You open up a bit, her fingers now brushing against your lips. Her lithe fingers dance around your tongue, sliding and slipping, making sure you taste her skin. Without breaking eye contact, she brings out her now-wet fingers and places them back on your left nipple. She traces circles around the center, cutting across occasionally, rubbing your nipple for you. You squirm again, the nerve endings overloaded with the pleasurable stimuli, your body needing to do something to try and regain control. But Kazuha was everything — consent and control. She coaxed and cooed whenever she tried new things, making sure you were alright with it. But the moment you said yes, her disposition steeled. She would fixate on those boundaries she could cross and punish you for it, building you up for your eventual breaking down.

With her fingers focusing on your left nipple, you finally see her plan: her mouth latches onto your nipple on the right. Surges of electricity course through your chest and up your spine, wetness now coating both of the nubs. You curse out in pleasure as you feel the onslaught of sensation, Kazuha pushing and driving you further. She giggles at your response, and you feel her mouth curl into a smile as she licks and sucks at your areola. Your hard dick flexes painfully, begging, pleading, for release as it strains against your boxers. Kazuha looks up at you with an erotic open mouth, her tongue flicking your nipple. Her eyes dart to your cock and back to you, debating whether to give you a journey into that one last frontier you’ve been wishing she’d venture to.

“Should I?” Her low voice inquires in faux apprehension.

Not able to take it anymore, you snap. “Kazuha, you fucking better,” you whisper.

She laughs in surprise, gasping at your boldness. Her eyes sharpen for a moment, but glaze over with this newfound warmth. Kazuha leans over, her gorgeous features becoming clearer. She lowers and gives you a sweet kiss, lips pressing against yours firmly, but not hungrily. The sentiment of the kiss caught you off guard, but you reciprocated. You close your eyes and let yourself go.

A few seconds deep into the liplock, Kazuha pulls back. Like magnets, your lips chase and follow her, both of you now sitting up, with her on your lap. You stare at her face again, this beauty staring back at you in the middle of her muted apartment. Once again, those seconds play in slow motion. The curl of her hair stops mid-fall; the blanket flows off her waist like linen waterfalls; her lips, like sweet fruit, accent the light pink tinge of her cheeks. Her body was on yours, graceful, toned, and fragile. You’ve begun hoarding those moments.

Her thumb caresses your cheek, and the world resumes its turning.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice is sultry, sweet, almost a soft squeeze on your shoulder.

You hold her hand and rub her palm for a bit. “I can’t help but try and memorize every detail of your face…” You trail off.

“Eh?” she squeaks, her voice high now. She shifts back a bit. Much to your dismay, you sense the warmth in her fade a tad, that stinging facade of the Fors cafe girl flooding back in just a smidge.

“No, I just meant— You’re beautiful,” you stammer through, trying to save the conversation from, well, whatever it was you were trying to save it from. “From when I saw you the first time, you were just so— “

“God, shut up.”

Her lips collide with yours. You feel her smile through the kiss as her lower lip lightly bites yours. “Just lie back down, okay?” Kazuha says, with a flat palm, lowering you back onto the mattress.

Her nails run down lightly on your sternum and down to your stomach, your abs tightening suddenly at the mix of tingles and sensuality. Her fingers stop at the band of your boxers, just a few inches from the large tent, aggressively trying to find much-needed contact from Kazuha’s anything at this point. She hooks both thumbs as you also lift your hips a bit, helping her remove the last roadblock to your sexual resolution.

Your cock stands proudly, throbbing and flexing for the older woman, putting on a show so she could finally touch the whole you. You stare at Kazuha, her lips coming to a pout, eyebrows rising as she evaluates your length. You gulp.

“Relax. It’s bigger than I thought.” Kazuha croons. “Biggest I’ve had,” she mutters under her breath, quiet enough to escape you.

She wraps her fingers around the tense muscle, her cool skin grasping and pumping it slowly. Kazuha watches you, observing every squint, twitch, and groan she can make you perform for her. You moan out her name in weakness, the vowels slipping off your tongue like honey. With a quick swoop, both your lips reunite, her tongue slipping inside to tangle with yours. You share a hot breath as Kazuha pulls back, her nose nuzzles yours for a bit before she dives back in to make out with you. With a sigh, she pushes against you, kissing harder as she grows more insatiable, before peppering smooches down your neck and back onto your right nipple. Her tongue comes out, flicking at it once more before going to your other nipple. Her mouth licks in a constant circle while her other hand lies across your chest, finding your erect right nipple. Your head pounds from the overstimulation — a tongue and a hand on your sensitive pecs, her smooth left palm jerking your length, and a pair of eyes that stare up at you as you go insane. Waves upon waves of signals and zings course through your brain and spine, tingling and rushing through your veins as you grow increasingly numb and sensitive at the same time. You stiffen up unconsciously, puffing your chest and giving Kazuha more space to wreak havoc. You feel simultaneous wet corkscrews from both her tongue and her precum-lubricated hand.

Then, for whatever fucking reason, Kazuha speeds up.

“Zuha! Wait!” you croak with weak knees. A tightness starts in your abdomen and starts rising at the base of your steaming length. You buck erratically into Kazuha’s palm as she pumps you relentlessly. The pleasure builds, you feel this tightening in your core as you breathe quicker now.

“Zuha, please!” you manage to moan out, but the older woman jerks you off anyway. Her palm travels your length, squeezing and twisting, stopping just at the tip, and starting back down at the base. With quick strokes, you feel your orgasm building and rumbling along your length.

Then, nothing.

A pit forms in your stomach as your eyes widen, taking in a motionless Kazuha with a stupid, teasing, edging smirk. “Wait, no, fuck! Zuha, you can’t do thi—“

Her warm, silky mouth suddenly plunges on your thick length, tongue slipping down your shaft and reaching the base in one smooth stroke. With a quick maneuver, Kazuha lies between your spread knees, hands reaching up to stimulate your chest one last time before you eventually…

“Fuck!” You unknowingly grip Kazuha’s hair tighter as you slam her mouth deeper onto your meat, her nose meeting your navel. Your cock releases a shot of cum into her mouth, the pressure immediately releasing and gratifying. You hear a slight audible gag as your cock keeps going, dumping and firing off strands of white into her (very receptive) throat and pink tongue. Kazuha bobs for a few moments, making sure to pump every last rope out of you, before releasing your cock from the caverns of her mouth.

Kazuha sits back as she angles her face slightly upward. Her erotic clavicle and neck flex for a bit as she gulps down your seed. She sighs after swallowing, tired and satiated, for now.

The once-spinning apartment has now slowed to a stop, the blue bed and the ravishing woman now clear instead of a sex-hazed blur. Kazuha tucks a stray lock behind her ear, her eyes satisfied with the hurdles she just put you through. Your head collapses back down onto her pillow, sweat soaking just under your chin and neck.

The sheets crinkle and fold as Kazuha plops herself beside you to your left, your two naked bodies touching shoulder to shoulder.

You turn your head to look at her. She looks back.

“So…” she begins. “Zuha’s new.”

“Hey, you try moaning out a three-syllable name,” you retort.

“Oh, Kazuha! Fuck, yes, yes, Kazuha!” she yelps out suddenly, eyes closing in dramatized pleasure as your eyes widen. Her face returns to normal as she playfully shrugs. “Not so bad to me.”

You push her shoulder. “You’re so dumb.”

She squeals, laughing at you, her voice taking on a new pitch and decibel. Her eyes smile at you, a blade sheathed momentarily.

“I like it, though. ‘Zuha’.” She repeats the nickname, testing it out for herself and being satisfied.

You can’t help but beam. “Okay then.”

-

You stir awake to the sound of the bedroom door closing. Your eyes focus for a bit, taking in Kazuha’s apartment walls. A plant in the corner. Pictures of friends on a desk nearby. Pastel blue living room.

Kazuha smirking in the doorway.

She wore classy cat eye sunglasses perched atop her forehead, her round eyes visible and scanning. A pair of pearl earrings glint slightly in the panel of Sunday sunlight streaming through the window. She wore high-waist jeans, a simple white shirt, a brown wool cardigan, and boots. She held a cardboard cup holder, two coffee cups in stow — Fors coffee cups — and a paper bag with the cafe logo in her other hand.

You, on the other hand, were still naked, comfortably under her covers.

“You’re up early.” You rub your eyes for a bit.

“It’s 10.” 

You whip around to find your phone. 10:07. You text back home that you were fine. Your gaze lowers to the coffee in her hand. She catches it.

“Yeah, figured I’d do something nice for you while you were knocked out.” Kazuha shrugs sarcastically, stepping away from the door and into the hallway leading to her living room.

“Thanks!” you call out.

“Just get dressed! I don’t want crumbs on my bed.”

You sigh a few more times, streaks of the midnight adventure seeping through your closed eyelids. You can’t help but smile, your heart feeling heavier and fuller. 

This thing with Kazuha? It was thrilling. But at the same time, waking up in her apartment for the first time was calm and still — it was certain. Your heart races, not for the chase or the “game”, but for the serenity of something stable. 

You hold yourself back a bit. This has to be superficial, you think. Who wouldn’t be infatuated with a natural beauty taking an interest? You’ve literally only known her for a day.

But you’ll be damned if you don’t try and stretch that into years.

You rise out of bed, slip on your boxers, and look around for your shirt. You rifle through your bag and through some of Kazuha’s clothes from last night — still nothing.

“You must really like cold coffee, huh?” Kazuha pipes up from the living room, impatient but teasing.

You sigh, walking out into the hallway, shirtless, bashfully covering yourself.

It didn’t take long for you to see exactly where the shirt went. You see Kazuha facing away from you, fiddling with her microwave, wearing your white shirt. It hung low on her frame, hugging her shoulders but flowing loosely down, giving her a boxy sort of look. Your eyes trail down the shirt and see her legs, extending gracefully. Kazuha was a tall woman, taller than average, standing just a few inches below you, but her legs went on for miles. Her hips curved sensually, followed by those strong thighs that wrapped around your head previously, then her smooth calves, all the way down to her feet. Her hips were cocked again, the swell of her ass accentuated by her black panties, as she was preoccupied with the appliance.

“You had pants on a while ago.”

“Perceptive.” She snorts. “More comfortable this way.”

You hear a metallic clang and the closing of a microwave door. The appliance beeps, its internal timer being set before a constant drone picks up as it stirs to life.

“I expected shorts but not…” You can’t help but ogle the curves of her thighs as they transition to her legs. You slightly drool at the sight. 

“Stop staring and take a seat.” She tilts her head to look back, her eyes meeting yours.

You scoot over to her kitchen area, taking a seat on the corner nearest a window. On the table are the two coffees she bought from Fors, you take off their tops, trying to discern which one was yours. You place the latte near you and Kazuha’s americano on her side of the table. With a ping from the microwave, Kazuha brings a tray over — two croissants. She plops the pastries in the middle of the table, taking a seat across from you. You stare at her a bit before deciding to inch your chair closer to her side. You were now sitting to her left.

“There’s enough room for both of us, c’mon.” She bumps your shoulder playfully.

“I know. Just wanted to be closer.” You shrug, sheepishly.

“You’re a sap.” She chuckles briefly as she nudges the tray of croissants.

“Thanks, Zuha.” You lean over to try to kiss her cheek.

She clicks her tongue as your lips land on her palm instead. “Eat.”

“Bossy.”

“Insisting,” she corrects.

You pick up a croissant, take a bite of the flaky pointed end, place it back on the tray, and chew in front of her. 

“Happy?” you ask through munches.

“Jesus, just eat!” she whines with a small laugh, hitting you on your shoulder.

“You don’t really talk much, huh?” you say with a sip of coffee.

“You don’t really stay quiet much, huh?” Her nose scrunches as she acts irritated.

“Not in my nature. Learned that a long time ago.” You shrug.

She sighs as she looks into your eyes, a small smirk plastered on her face. “I rarely talk to people, let alone have breakfast with them. So I stay quiet most of the time.”

“So, is this a first for you?”

“Not exactly. Just…the first time in a long while.”

“I see.” You tap your fingers a bit on her table. A few silent seconds pass. But you can’t help yourself. “How’re you liking it so far?”

“You’re really annoying, do you know that?” She replies snarkily.

“Wow, tell me how you really feel. Am I right?” you chuckle, poking her side a bit.

“And you’re really stupid.”

“That I can accept a bit.”

She laughs at you, her hand reaching up to cup your cheek. Instinctively, it seems.

“But,” Kazuha thinks hard for a bit. “…you’re charming,” she finishes honestly.

Your chest pounds as her hand comes into contact with the side of your face. Your stomach feels full, butterflies fluttering and drifting up your throat, trying to crawl out of your mouth in the form of stutters and stammers. Your brain kicks into overdrive again, trying to encode the sight before you. 

Her nose was adorable, the folds on her bridge on the verge of scrunching. The corner of her lips rose, a smirk about to form again. Her lashes batted, as her eyes were softer now, their edge now an old friend you dare not reunite with.

Kazuha senses what you were doing; her nose now actually scrunches in amusement before smoothing, like reflex suppressed. She rolls her eyes and averts her gaze as she scoffs, a hint of light pink appearing on her cheeks. Her hand lowers from your cheek, landing back on the table, near her coffee cup.

“So…” you cough a bit. “I thought you hated ballet.” You nod across the kitchen, motioning towards a wall in the living room. On it, hung a picture of a younger Kazuha, mid-pirouette.

Kazuha follows your gaze and clicks her tongue. “Ah. Yeah. I think it’s all I’ve ever known, and I don’t really have any other pictures.” A somber quality to her voice reached you.

“Why’d you do it, anyway?”

“Well, my father was a prestigious man.” Kazuha puts on a fake gruff voice. “Only the best for my little girl. The best schools, the best clothes, the best lessons. It was either the best or nothing at all.” Kazuha laughs it off, but continues. “I liked it at first. Then, I got confused. Did I like it? Or did my dad like it, so I liked it too? Maybe decided I didn’t like it. Told him about it. He obviously wasn't happy. We stop talking. I moved away. Next thing I know, I’m back here, all dressed in black, staring at his casket being lowered.”

Shame fills you. “Oh no, Zuha. Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even mean to…” You wrap an arm around her, and her head rests on your shoulder.

“No, I know. It’s alright.” Her voice stiffens a bit, trying to play it tough. “It’s just not really a conversation over coffee.”

You nod silently as your thumb strokes her shoulder.

Kazuha blurts out, the moroseness in her now absent. “I was close to getting married once.”

“Excuse me?” you gasp, shock evident in your voice.

“I know, right? Had a ring too!” she lays her palm flat, staring at the bare space the ring used to inhabit. “But stuff happened, so I don’t really go for that anymore— the commitment thing.” Her voice softens as she trails off. 

“Oh.” 

A few awkward minutes pass by without a word being uttered. 

Your heart beats a little bit faster, nervous and ashamed, for even yearning a little bit. Her eyes wander upwards, trying to catch your expression. 

“Hey, look, this was—“

You cut her off. “So! You like croissants too?” you cough, bypassing that conversation for now. You prod at both of your croissants with a fork.

Kazuha pouts but nods slowly. “Uh, yeah. Croissants, pastries, bread, in general.” Kazuha eyes you but plays along, her voice sullen now.

Given where you are in your life now, you’ve always appreciated honesty. Playing social games has been a pain, so to speak, and you’ve always made it a point to be clear. Now, you reassess.

So you nod.

And then you sigh.

And then you speak up.

“Look, Kazuha. This…” You motion to both of you. “Don’t you want to try?”

Kazuha breathes deeply, the conflict obvious in her brows. “Dating?”

“We don’t have to go out all the time! I’ve got school, I know you’ve got law. We can just, y’know, hang out— like see each other at the end of the day.”

“But—“

“And, I’ll respect your time. If you just wanna stay here and not meet up, I’ll understand.”

With pursed lips, Kazuha slightly nods, still trying to think about the proposition.

“What about the sex?” she inquires innocently, despite the subject matter.

“Oh. No, no, we don’t have to. I’m fine without it.”

Kazuha stifles a laugh, a smile coming back to her cheeks, her face brightening now. 

“You’ll be fine without it?” she says with a roll of her eyes, a brow sharply rising now.

You blush suddenly. “I mean, yeah. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“You really are a sap,” Kazuha confirms. There was a certain sweetness to her voice, like a slow realization of you.

Her face is a few inches from yours. You’re still shoulder-to-shoulder. The seconds tick by as millennia. You study her face in the pause.

Her eyebrows.

That’s what made her gaze so sharp. Those eyebrows that furrow, arch, or dip with every expression passing through her. They’re angled when she’s thinking, pointed when she’s scoffing, and rounded whenever her nose scrunches. Together with her eyes, her brows complete her blade.

The ambient sounds of Kazuha’s flat unwarp as temporal flow is restored. Her eyes move minutely across your face, and you feel small cuts on your lip.

“What is it?” you whisper.

“I’m worse, y’know, when we become closer. You just don’t know me yet,” she whispers back.

“Give me a chance to then.”

Your lips meet again that morning in her flat.

-

A week passes by after that day. Then a month. And then three. And, true enough, you’ve consistently met up with Zuha. You’d catch up with her after her classes, she’d sometimes wait after you clocked out, or you’d just stop by her flat. You’ve settled into that familiar routine, taking into account your commute time and all that. Although you have spent many a night at Zuha’s place, too, when she points out how you’ll only be cramped in that train ride (albeit while her lips are on you). But, all in all, Zuha was a part of your day.

And yet, she remained mysterious.

You’ve been observing her on the days you spent time together in her apartment. And, honestly, you felt perplexed. 

Zuha was the type of person who had this cold exterior, especially when it came to her studies, but at the same time bawled over her 7th watch of The Lion King (getting through Mufasa’s death was always a trip through all the stages of grief). 

She’d keep all her notes and digests organized, but she’d highlight like a maniac afterward — a mosaic of colors, lines, arrows, offshoot notes, and tangent case references. It was incomprehensible, but Kazuha would read them and judge you for not understanding. 

She’d shut down most jokes you make, rebutting and parrying with a deadpan expression, but then she’d drop a few dad jokes, grin sweetly, and then assert that she’s just funnier than you.

She’s clumsy, but only once. She’s precise in a way that ensures she won’t make the same mistake twice. She mispronounces words, looks them up on Google, and then she practices. She overcooks a dish, tries again angrily, and then proudly serves it when she gets it right. She knocks over furniture sometimes, but then arranges them in a way that allows her to perform chaînés across her apartment. 

Which brings you to ballet. 

Each movement of hers seemed like a calculated performance. An afternoon at hers was a quiet recital just for you. You’d see ballet in everything she did — the way she’d gracefully bend to pick up a dropped spoon, or the way her lines extend when you stare at her putting on jeans, or the way she’d unscrunch her nose and tuck a strand of hair neatly behind her ear. You’ve been wondering whether she still likes ballet. You’d watch her and just be stuck.

She’d catch you staring sometimes, too. You felt it whenever you got cut. She would raise an eyebrow, a small, confused smirk forming. Then a roll of the eyes. A rare middle finger. But most commonly a blush.

Was the age gap between you and her apparent? Surprisingly no. Both of your personalities jived, and Zuha never made a point of talking down to you, and you always respected her whenever she knew something you didn’t. Being with her was refreshing. She had an impulsiveness about her that was such a thrill ride, but then you’d also have these deeply meaningful conversations that went on for ages. She was the perfect woman, in addition to being the perfect girlfriend.

And, you’ve had girlfriends before, but it was always the high school crash-and-burn ones. It was never a “go straight to their place after school to cook dinner” type. I mean, you’ve never even introduced anybody to your parents.

Not until your 10th night staying over at Zuha’s flat.

-

“You never told us it was a girl!” Your mom squealed on the other side of the video call. All this time, you’ve told her you’re staying over at a friend’s but never bothered to specify a girl. But then, Zuha accidentally walked behind you a few minutes ago, her feminine form obvious through the video. Your mom was now seated and audibly excited.

From the background, you hear your dad laugh. “So that’s where he’s been!”

“Yes, okay, she’s a girl. But that’s enough! I’m just staying over here to bypass the stupid commute times!” You whine, uncharacteristically. 

Zuha sat in front of you and to the right, sitting just outside of the phone’s view.

“Remember when you kept sneaking in to stay over, ‘hon?” Your mom sighs, reminiscing.

“Yeah, we were around his age then, too, ‘hon,” your parents laugh. Zuha is dying, her stomach flexing as she giggles silently.

“Well, where is she? Show her to us!” Your mom whines, insisting.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mom. She’s kinda bu—“

“Wait!” Zuha protests, suddenly and swiftly walks over behind the couch to lean over your shoulder. Her face now comes into view and on camera.

“Oh, honey. She is gorgeous.” Your mom gasps in shock. “Wow.”

Zuha giggles lightly and greets your parents respectfully.

Your dad now walks over, puts an arm around your mom, and chuckles. “Kazuha, please, drop the honorifics. At this point, we’re just glad you’re our son’s girlfriend. Welcome to the family!”

You fake a yawn. “O-kay, guys! It’s getting pretty late, we should probably—“ 

“No! I want to keep talking to them!” Zuha’s voice rises, her pearly whites widely on display as she teases you. Her nose scrunches momentarily. You mentally take note of it.

You hear defiant cries from your phone, too.

“Christ, fine, fine!” You hand your phone and walk over to the kitchen to prepare a side dish. Zuha stays behind, entertaining your folks with a couple of stories about you. After having their fill, their conversations shift from you to her: where she came from, her childhood, her hobbies, and then finally, ballet. 

Your ears (and your parents') perk up as soon as you hear Zuha talking about her old ballet school, how strict the recitals were, and how dedicated her classmates were. You feel the tinge of joy Zuha had for ballet, and you couldn’t help but gush at her passion. You hear your parents exclaim as they look up Zuha on their cellphones, surprised to see how much of a slight celebrity Zuha is. 

And it was true, shortly after your first morning together, you looked her up. And, real enough, Zuha had her own Wikipedia page and YouTube videos with thousands of views. She was an astonishing performer. Her lines were clean, graceful, and full of training. Interestingly, you’d also sometimes catch her watching her old recitals. She’d tuck them away whenever you got close, laughing shyly, so you never really got around to asking her about it.

So, conversation aside, you had to focus on dinner. You fix up a small salad for a few minutes and set it down on the table beside the sukiyaki Zuha cooked. You motion over to her, she nods, and says goodbye to your parents, handing you back your phone before sitting down at the table. You check back on the video call.

“Alright, guys, you’ve terrorized me enough.” You joke.

“She’s a keeper, honey.” Your mom whispers sweetly.

You look up from your phone and see Zuha preparing a plate for you first, oblivious to what your mom just said.

“I know, Mom. She is.” Your heart swells.

“Okay then, just text us every time you’ll stay over there, alright?”

“Mhm, I will. I promise.”

“And use protection!” Your dad calls out in the background.

“Go to bed, Dad!”

The video ends, and you awkwardly chuckle, tucking away your phone. Zuha inches her chair closer to the table, waiting for you.

“So.” You finally take a seat in front of Zuha.

“So.”

“Did you hear any of that?” You wince a bit.

“Hear what?”

You shake your head as you release a sigh, laughing at the whole situation. “I’m sorry, Zuha. They just get excited from time to time.”

“Oh no, don’t be. They’re cute. They really love you.”

“Yeah, I do too,” you say, satisfied. “Thanks for being kind to them.”

“Of course.” She lets go of her fork for a bit to take your hand, her thumb rubbing your outer palm.

After a few silent stares, both of you start eating, eager to just dig in and finally head to bed.

The older woman pipes up suddenly, mouth half full. “Gotta say sorry to your dad, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh. ‘Cause we won’t use protection tonight.”

-

Your relationship had its ups and downs, too, no doubt about that. You’d argue, but she had her ways, and you had your own ways of ensuring it never got too out of hand (Bread. It was bread.) or too long (Not going to bed mad, and all that). 

Fighting was normal. Fighting with Zuha, however, was not. Fighting with Zuha was hard. When she knew she was right (and that was most of the time), she was bulletproof. She was stubborn, argumentative, and smug. She’d have these three absolutely solid main points, a dozen supporting statements, and a recommendation or two on how you could change your behavior. It was incredible, really, peeling back a layer to envision how she was in her classes.

You’d try arguing back, but she was quicker. A stern “no” and you’d immediately fold. You couldn’t get a word in, even if you tried. 

Which made you really savor those moments you were right.

-

So, the crux of the problem was that Zuha thought you were, and you quote, “at times too taciturn, apprehensive, and slow to move”, end quote.

“I told you to see to it already. Did you listen? No. You never do.” She rolled her eyes but remained planted in front of you, arm crossed, eyebrows jagged and sharp as ever.

“Okay, Zuha, that’s a bit unfair. I swear, I gave them to you. I bought them, then gave them to you right after.”

“Absolutely not. If I had them, then we'd already be there in the damn cinema!”

Yes, this argument was about tickets. To an animated movie. About talking animals.

“No! I’m absolutely sure I gave them to you. I triple checked those tickets, Zuha. I know how much you looked forward to the movie, so I made sure not to mess up.”

“So where are the tickets, then?”

“Zuha, I don’t know. I gave them to you, and that’s the last time I saw them.”

“The absolute negligence.” She muttered to herself, shaking her head and walking toward the other side of the living room.

“Hey, c’mon. We can just stream it. I’m sure a couple of pirate sites already have it up. Let’s calm—“

You heard the metallic hum of her gaze being unsheathed. “Calm down? You wanna run that by me again?”

“Shutting up.” You mumbled.

With a few careful strides and a sidestep, you avoided the fuming area that is Zuha and got to the bedroom. Looking to lie down for a bit and just zone out, you hauled the large clothes pile that Zuha always kept cluttered. You grabbed a couple of shirts and blouses, set aside the heavy leather coats, and hung a couple of the jeans and trousers she had worn in the past few days.

Then, something fell out.

You hung the jeans by the belt loop and looked around. And there it was. On the carpeted floor.

Two obviously-folded movie tickets. From her pants. Your face melted into a smile as memories of the day you gave it to her flooded back.

“Zuha!”

“What?” A shout.

“Come here for a minute.”

You heard her steps bounding down the hall.

Her eyebrows were weaponized, her graze fresh off the grindstone.

“Look what I found.” You sat on the bed, leaned, and crossed your arms. Smug.

Her blade swung wide and almost caught your neck. But they landed on the tickets on the floor.

“Now, for my cross-exam, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, could you tell me what those are?”

Zuha was frozen speechless, her tongue poking the side of her cheek now. “You don’t cross-examine the jury, smart ass.”

You clicked your tongue a few times. “Zip it, Nakamura. I have the floor. Now what, pray tell, are those you see on the floor? Are they movie tickets?”

“You could have put those there to—“

“Now, now, if I remember correctly,” you put on a fake, wondering tone amidst your lawyerly bravado, “you must only respond with a yes or a no during the cross-examination.”

She scoffs, eyes darting around the room. “Yes, they’re movie tickets.”

“And those pants are yours, correct?”

“Yes.” She grumbles.

“So were you, or were you not, the latest recipient of said tickets?”

Silence.

“Ms. Nakamura, I’m gonna need an answer from you.”

“Ugh, fine! Fine, fine! I had them last then. It’s my fault we couldn’t go.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” You took a bow at the four walls of her room and the imaginary spectators of your stupendous legal victory.

You poked Zuha in the side. “How’s that?”

“I’m giving it to you this once.”

“Giving what?”

“The satisfaction of proving me wrong.”

You reveled in the honor. “Christ.” You took a step back, letting the privilege sink in. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you next time.”

“Is this what law school’s like? It’s kinda easy, don’t you think?”

“Alright. I take it back. You’re done. Shut the fuck up.” Her voice was harsher now.

“Shutting up.”

“Sit down.” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” The satisfaction was stripped away instantaneously. Your obedience and your “taciturnity” were now the most salient parts of you once again.

Standing in front of you, Zuha placed both hands on your shoulders, locking eyes with you.

“Z-Zuha?” You gulped.

“Look. I’m sorry for calling you negligent. Or that you don’t listen. That’s not true.”

Your hands found her waist on instinct, rubbing her sides sweetly. “Hey. That’s alright. I know you really wanted to catch that movie.”

“Let me make it up to you, then.” Her fingers trailed along the length of your arms and stopped at your knees. With her eyes fixed on yours, she got on her knees, tantalizingly slow, positioning herself between your legs. Her hands crept up and down your thigh, feeling the soft material of your baggy shorts. Eventually, her palms wound up in between your legs, settling on your clothed bulge, growing and stiffening.

Fighting with her was hard. But you were right where you wanted to be.

-

To add on to your list of perplexities, Zuha was a total freak despite the exceptional discipline she exhibits when it comes to studying, cooking, or any other area in life. Hell, she was even more adventurous than you. (But to be fair, you were pretty vanilla, so the bar is already low.) You were already pretty exploratory, letting her do the nipple thing, but then Zuha took it further.

It started with a few slaps on her ass, then the occasional “put a finger in it” from her, and then your tongue. But now, most of the time you go out with her ends up in “alleyway ass-play”, as you refer to it in your mind. 

When the mood struck her, you’d know. She was unbelievably teasing with it too — a small raise in her eyebrow, pupils darting to an unseen corner, a bump of her shoulder. Then she’d amp it up with a small kiss on your cheek, nails lightly digging into your bicep, deep whiffs around your neck, or, if unheard, a moan of your name. Then, with discreet shuffles, you’d be on your knees, tongue worshipping Zuha’s ass. 

You figured you must have been totally whipped, always letting her reach orgasm and delaying yours until you guys got home. But every time, you’d still put an arm around her and kiss the top of her head sweetly. It was Zuha — of course, it was fine.

-

For example, this one time, you waited outside the Law building, tucking your clinical notes inside a clipboard to prepare for tomorrow’s case presentations. You adjusted your scrub pants a bit, allowing your top to finally untuck. You heaved a sigh, a 12-hour shift evident in the ache of your shoulders and neck. You rubbed your eyes and did a few stretches, willing the fatigue to leave your body before Zuha sees you. With a few minutes left before 5:30, you finally sat down on the building steps with your back to the door, eyes heavy with sleep (or lack thereof).

With a scuffle and the sound of metal turning, you heard the conversations of the law students finally seeping through. An onslaught of corporate attire swarmed you — heels clacked, oxfords tapped, ties swished, and pants swooped. Future lawyers, entranced in their own legal world, threw around jargon, judicial loopholes, and jurisprudence issues, all while flowing down the steps. They courteously gave you a wide berth (probably resonating with that same tired look you had) as you waited for Zuha. The flock thinned out soon enough as the remaining stragglers trailed off away from the steps. You looked around, slightly worried, as the campus became increasingly sparse. But, with your feet weighing a million, you stayed sitting for a few more peaceful minutes.

“You better not be falling asleep.”

Zuha.

You stood up to turn around, following her voice. The ache in your joints dissipated instantaneously as your pulse quickened.

“'Cause I definitely can’t carry you home.”

There she was.

She stood at the top of the steps, with a strong amount of swagger, wearing this deep blue three-piece suede suit. She wore black tapered high-heeled boots, accentuating her long, slender stature. Her fair skin glowed with the contrast of the suit’s color, making her presence literally illuminating. Her neck was fully on show, ditching the traditional collared polo top and only wearing the blue vest. Her nails were colored a dark red, beautifully manicured and shaped, as her hand lay on her cocked hip. Her eyes twinkled alongside her earrings, like stars beginning to show in the waning sun. And her brow, proudly raised and basking in your jaw drop and ogle. Her silhouette was sharp, slender, and confident, armed with her sling bag and a clipboard containing the structure of her defense.

The surge of law students prior has been erased from your memory; they could never compare with what you were seeing. You continued to stare, speechless, but remembering — encoding. Zuha did tell you about the mock trial and how they all had to dress formally to simulate real court proceedings, but you never expected…this. You swooned internally, feeling weak in the knees and in her gaze.

Zuha scoffed playfully, shooting a finger gun. “Hey. I take it you’re speechless? I know, I know, I clean up pretty nice, if I do say so myse—“

“You’re breathtaking.”

Her eyes widened as she stopped fronting. A blush crept up her neck and on her cheeks. She tucked a stray hair back behind her ears. 

“Oh. I mean, I was just kidding…” Zuha trailed off.

“No, I mean it.” You climbed up one step closer. “You’re absolutely breathtaking…”

You felt cuts across your body and your face as Zuha stared back, shy and nervous and on guard.

“Come on, it was just the makeup. And these clothes were really just lying around unused.” She excused herself.

“Zuha.”

“Plus, you see me all the time. Without all the makeup and the jewelry and all that.” Her eyes avoided your gaze now as you stood with her atop the steps.

“Zuha.”

“What…?” She spoke in a small voice, seemingly terrified of what you had to say — the confident law student, mortified at the notion.

“I mean it. You really are— and not just today, but all the time.” You cupped her cheek. “I am so in love with you.”

Zuha breathed out, glassy eyes taking you in, a pout suddenly forming. After a beat, she finally leaned in to kiss you, crumpling your shirt to pull you in. You kissed back, holding both sides of her face as she hummed in glee. Her hands trailed up to your shoulders, criss-crossing just behind your neck as you pulled her closer by the waist now, deepening the kiss. You felt her lips curve into a smile as she pulled back slightly to stare at you, her gaze soft and sweet.

Zuha whispered out a joke. “So this is all it took for you to kiss me like that, huh?”

“I mean, you’re gorgeous all the time.” You chuckled and planted a peck on her lips. “But yeah, you look great in that suit. Jesus.”

“Hey.” Her thumb brushed along your cheek. “I appreciate you. I know I’m weird with affection, but I’m trying. It’s okay when it’s you.”

You smiled lightly as you held her gaze. “I’m yours, Zuha. No way around it.” You shrugged.

She leaned in again, and you pursed your lips on instinct. But this time, she tilted your head down, planting a kiss on your forehead. You blushed at the unfamiliar gesture as you coughed awkwardly.

“So how’d the trial go?” You asked Zuha as you both finally stepped down and away from the Law building, your arms linking.

“Yeah, it went great! We all had a chance to speak before the bar, and it all went smoothly. My notes really came in handy with the defense, what with all the different cases I got to reference.”

Zuha then went off on a tangent on how the mock trial works and how they’d be scored. She brought up different parts of the courtroom and what role they played in legal proceedings, how a cross-examination was supposed to be done, and why technicalities are basically bulletproof if a law hasn’t been amended yet. You nodded along to her voice, half listening and half swooning as her lips moved.

“…so we really had no choice but to call for a short recess just to finally get the defense straight.” Zuha finally finished.

“I’m really glad you’re liking law, Zuha. You’re perfect for it.”

Zuha lagged for a moment, quietly registering what you said. Then she bumped your shoulder appreciatively. “Thanks. I’m really liking it, too.”

Both of you finally reached a T-junction, with the road extending on both your left and right. A few convenience stores lined the street as the nightlife started to grow.

“Did you want to eat something before we go? Or just share the pint of ice cream we have at home?”

“That pint sounds kinda tempting, but that’s not dinner. Hey, I thought you were Mr. Health Guy, out here making people’s lives healthier?” She chided with a smile, poking at your scrub pants.

“Hey, I’m off the clock!” You whined.

Zuha thought for a moment, but her eyes ultimately landed back on you. Something was off.

“Hey, did you really like this suit?” She raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Of course. It fits you perfectly, Zuha.” You answered slowly, suspicious of the sudden question.

Her eyes look past you, in between the different convenience stores. Her grip on your forearm tightened slightly.

“Do you wanna take it off me?”

“Dammit, Zuha, I knew it!”

“Come on. We’ll be quick.”

“We’ll be caught.” 

“We’ll be quiet,” Zuha affirmed, steadfast. Her legs extended as she dragged you into a small passageway just beside a store. The path was dimly lit (of course) with only a blinking lamp post on the far end.

“Plus…” Zuha started as she pulled you into the shadows, her arms squeezing both your shoulders. “It’s not for me.”

“What do you mean?” You whispered.

Zuha turned around, planting both palms on the brick wall of the building. She arched her back, the suit jacket trailing off her sides, showing off the round shape of her ass. The suede shimmered slightly, drawing lines where her legs and juicy thighs met the outline of her butt. Your meat suddenly flexed in anticipation.

“As a thank you. For waiting for me.” She said with a bite of her lip. “And for everything else.”

You approached her slowly, your hand coming in contact with her waist. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Think of it as payment. For the times I only let you get me off.”

“You’re crazy.” You said, head leaning in to take a whiff of her neck. 

Zuha moaned at the proximal contact. You moved both your hands to hug around her waist, feeling the sleek material of her vest. You made a slight U-turn, fingers trailing upwards to cup her chest as you kissed the spot below her ear. You finally closed the distance with the tent poking through your pants as you brushed your bulge at the cleft of her asscheeks.

“Mmm, fuck, that for me?”

“I’m yours.” Your right hand squeezed her tit as your left pushed against her fit stomach, bringing her whole arched body closer to you. Your cock rubbed against the material of your scrub pants, grinding against her plump ass and poking in between from time to time. You leaned against her shoulder, face buried in her fragrant vanilla-shampooed hair, grunting as you finally had your way with her.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry for leaving you— fuck— hanging all the time.” Her palm crumpled the hair on the back of your head as she turned slightly to kiss your cheek. You ground your cock harder against her, gripping her flesh tighter as if she’ll disappear right before you orgasm. You moaned in unison as you humped her. But you needed more. With a quick release, you pulled down your scrub pants and boxers, exposing your straining dick to the night air. You brought your shaft closer as you humped along the groove of her ass.

“Fuck, did you take it out? Oh God, fuck, yes, that’s so fucking hot. I can feel how hard you are.” The older woman mewled as her hair became disheveled, the thought of your bare cock rubbing against her ass exhilarating her to a new height.

The soft feel of the suede and the roundness of her butt were the perfect velvet cushion to hump and grind against as you held her in place. Beads of pre-cum slicked the length of your shaft, making your strokes extra slippery and smooth. Zuha cried and whimpered your name as she felt your entire length run between her cheeks. You drove your meat further, alternating between a long stroke and a deep push between her thighs. You crept both of your hands underneath her vest, feeling for the bottom of her bra. You snuck a couple fingers in, rubbing and pinching at her hardened peaks.

“Holy fuck, you’re amazing. Yes, yes, oh God yes, just like that, just like that.” Her fingers tightened around your hair.

With a sudden bang and the sound of hollow plastic falling, both of you froze. Your eyes panicked, darting to the end of the passageway where the convenience store was. A cat had knocked over several empty water jugs and plastic gallons of oil. A bell rang, and the store owner stared at the ruckus, a frustrated cry accompanying his irritated hair scratch.

He was now facing the alley.

Toward the both of you.

Any closer — any noisier — and you’d both be caught.

“Hey, wait, wait,” Zuha says with slight concern.

You buried your face back in her hair, adrenaline flowing as your dick did most of the thinking. You gave her a hump.

Zuha lightly smacked your cheek. “Hey, c’mon!” She snapped at you quietly.

But you didn’t listen. You grinded against her more aggressively now, your dick smacking her ass.

“Fuck!” Zuha croaks out.

The store owner’s head snapped towards the alley. You saw him squint, trying to make sense of the shadows.

“Fucking stop it, I swear.” Zuha released a warning alongside a breathy moan.

You brought one of your hands to her mouth, covering her lips but leaving her nose. You continued grinding now, slowly but surely, savoring the unexpected audience. Zuha seemed to notice this too; her complaints now coos and moans into your hand.

The store owner shook his head and finally knelt down to fix the spilled containers. He headed back in shortly after.

Zuha smacked your shoulder this time. “You really are an idiot, huh?”

You held her hip with one hand now, watching your shaft bump up against the blue velvet material. You brought your other hand to her throat and pulled her back towards you, your chest and cock now pressing flush against her.

“God, you’re lucky I like you.” She breathed out, turning her head to the side to meet your lips as you mashed your member against her.

“I like you a lot, Zuha.” You murmured against her temple, hugging her a bit harder, a bit of sentiment breaking through the sex-fueled cracks of your resolve.

“Yeah? I bet you do.” Her hold on your hair loosened as her hand traveled downward, finding your thick rod. She stroked it a few times, spreading precum along the length. “Mmm, fuck, you’re so big. You feel good?”

“God, fuck yes.” You brought her hand back up to your hair as you took charge, breathing in the scent of her sweat as you angled her face towards you. Zuha gasped out an open-mouthed moan, feeling you drive your erection further between her thick ass. You shove your tongue in her mouth as she groans out your name, meeting her in a raspy and sloppy kiss.

You rubbed back against her harder, feeling the rising pressure in your groin just steaming to get out. She responded in kind, meeting your humps halfway, colliding against you with the velvet feel of her pants. 

“Where do you wanna cum?” She rasped out.

“M-mouth..?” You requested through clenched teeth.

“Fuck.” Zuha said with an accidental gasp. “Great choice.”

You humped erratically now, the piston-like rhythm now lost to impending release. Zuha’s body rocks alongside yours as she welcomes the roughness. After a few awkward humps and grinds, you feel a surge travel up from the base of your cock to the tip, your meat flexes as you finally groan out in pleasure completed.

“Cumming?”

“Mhm, y-yeah.”

You leaned back a bit, hand wrapping your cock to keep the stimulation going. Zuha quickly whipped around and crouched, hands on both your thighs, as she opened her mouth. You leaned forward a bit, tip now coming in contact with her tongue. The LED lamp’s light crawled through the shadows from the end of the alley, lighting up Zuha’s clear face as she looked up at you while steadying herself.

You stared at Zuha, at the stray lock of hair that traveled down her face, the slightly scuffed suede suit now a juxtaposition to the raunchy situation you were both in, and her delicate lips now parted to accept your release. You stroked yourself faster, groaning as your knees shuddered and spine tingled, until you finally climaxed. You spurted out a rope of cum, shooting half into Zuha’s mouth and up diagonally to her right cheek. You let out a strained growl, another wave shooting out and splattering on her tongue, the orgasm hitting you way harder than expected. Zuha stroked it for you, aiding you in emptying your balls deeper into her mouth. She helped you ride out your orgasm, catching each drop with care.

With a gulp, she smirked. “Well?”

“Fuck— thank you.” You gulped, exhausted and palpitating, your cock still out.

She giggled before rising from the cement to pat you on the chest. Her hand slid up to the side of your face as she leaned in to plant a kiss on your cheek.

“Of course.” She cooed, her thumb stroking your jaw gently.

You zipped up awkwardly, patting down the crumples and folds of your shirt. “So now do you wanna go home?”

-

Zuha could be confusing at times, but in the short span you’ve known her, you were aware that your feelings had grown ever clearer — you already loved her. It was easy, exciting, and expected.

Sure, Zuha was a woman of opposites within herself, but with you, it was different. You got to fill in whatever gaps Zuha had, and you enjoyed the “work”, so to speak. 

You’d ease tightly-wound nights she spent studying with instant cocoa and a few back rubs. Funnily enough, you could now also recall off the top of your head different cases she’d said mattered to her defense. You’d have breakfast ready for her whenever you had to leave her apartment early, and you’d be there in the evening, picking up scattered clothes she’d be too tired to pick up.

And she filled you, too. 

Zuha was quick with a quiz or two on your recent lessons and cases. She’d roleplay as different patients with varying diagnoses, practicing how quick you could diagnose and plan interventions. On your down times, she’d buy you more bread, masking the sentiment with a flashy grin, but secretly making sure you never forgot to eat. She’d click her tongue and fume for a moment whenever you food-stained your shirt, but you would always catch her preparing the washing machine right after. Her age is apparent in those moments.

You already loved Zuha, but telling her was a different thing altogether. You’ve noticed it for a long time, how she would dodge conversations about it, simply skirt around the topic, or silence you with a kiss. She never talked about love, or loving, or falling in love, and so you’ve always chalked it up to her not being used to it, what with her alleged marriage (you were still very curious about that) not being the best and how she’s never really needed to love another. You knew she was trying to open herself up, and you would be there every step of the way.

However, you also knew this thing with Zuha was different. It had to be. Sure, it’s only been a couple of months, but forehead kisses and buying groceries together seemed to convey otherwise. You’ve already considered Zuha’s flat your place too, and she wouldn’t have it any other way either. You’ve already shared countless nights together — snoring, arguing, or kissing. If that wasn’t love, then you don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing with her all this time. 

And so, since it was now also your 4th month together, you planned to tell her tonight.

-

With a click of your phone, you send a reply to Zuha, reminding her to stay safe on her way home. 

She texts back a smiley face with sunglasses and finger guns. “You know it.”

For the 5th time now, she’s had to stay a bit late on campus, so you decided to go ahead and prepare dinner for when she arrived. You run some plates under the faucet after finally setting down tonight’s dinner: a few well-seared cuts of beef, beautiful and silky mashed potatoes, a yogurt bowl with mixed berries for dessert, and a nice bottle of wine you bought on the detour home. Then, as you both ate, you’d tell her you love her. Boom — sparks fly, she’ll tell you she loves you too, and then you’ll be a hero. After dinner, you’d lead her to the couch and bring out your secret weapon to seal the deal: a pint of ice cream and a Disney movie. You hum to yourself, satisfied, as you fold a few of the clean laundry that piled on the corner stool of Zuha’s (and yours) room.

You hear the faint jingle of Zuha’s keys as the door finally swings open. She steps in, this wonderful woman wearing an oversized army green parka over her baggy grey hoodie, loose jorts, and dark leggings that pair with her beat-up sneakers — stylish as always. She pushes her glasses up her nose as she readjusts the strap of her (obviously heavy) duffel bag. Her gaze scans and lands first on the food on the table and then finally on you. Her face beams as her eyes turn into crescent moons of glee, and her nose scrunches for an imperceptible second. 

She smiles at you. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Your arm wraps around her waist as your other hand cradles the back of her head. You lean forward and plant your lips on hers. Her arms snake and cross just behind your neck as she leans into you, surrendering to your kiss.

“Mmm, you missed me?” She whispers with a smirk, her eyes shimmering.

“I always do.” You kiss her forehead. “I made dinner.”

“Thank you.” Her fingers run through your hair appreciatively. She pecks you one last time before leaving the embrace to turn around and behold the dinner.

“You’ve always been the better cook.” Zuha shrugs. “Meat and potatoes? What’s the occasion?” She chuckles.

“You tell me.” You smiled as you led her to the table, pulling the chair out and seating her. You pop the wine bottle and fill her glass halfway.

“And wine? Seriously, what’s up with you?” She gasps lightheartedly.

“C’mon, Zuha. It’s our 4th month together.” You tease.

She gulps down an eighth of the wine with wide eyes. “Oh gosh, no, yeah, I knew that!” She smirks with a cocky brow.

“Yeah, so just sit back and let me serve you.” You put the wine off to the side, stab a couple of pieces of the meat, spoon some of the silky spud, and lather the rich demi-glace over the ensemble. You graciously offer the plate up for her judgment.

She picks up her fork and tries the meat. Then the mashed potatoes. Then the meat with the sauce.

“Holy God,” Zuha mutters with a full cheek.

You burst out laughing. “Good?”

She nods vigorously, the strands of her bangs bouncing in unison. “More than good— Christ.”

“Well thank you, Zuha. I appreciate that.”

“No, you! I appreciate you. You have to make this for me all the time.” She scarfs down another bite. 

“Zuha, slow down.” You say with a chuckle. You take a bite off your own plate and relish in your recently learned dish (thank God for YouTube). “So how was school?” you continued.

The older woman then goes off on a tangent about how a certain law was amended just yesterday, effectively disassembling the defense they had set up for their next trial. She vouched for her argument’s validity, citing more and more cases you had no knowledge of, and expressed her exasperation with the amendment. How they knew which laws to amend to throw a wrench in Zuha’s defense really irked her. 

Despite the obvious anger dormant in her, Zuha glowed. She was passionate, fiercely intelligent, and dedicated. And that’s what you loved — Zuha just being herself.

And so you finally work up the courage.

“…but, it’s fine. That’s the law, I guess. If that’s what the law says, I’ll just have to find another theoretical basis. Which is a lot of work. But, I’ll manage.” Her brows finally ease as she catches herself in the zone. Her gaze rises, cuts your jaw, and meets back with you. She displays a goofy, toothy grin.

“Hey. I love you.”

“What?” Her voice ups in pitch as she abruptly stops chewing.

“I said, I love you.”

Zuha’s mouth hangs slightly open. The faint jazz music from the nearby speakers floats through the dead air.

You chuckle once, slightly nervous. “Zuha, I love you.”

“N-no, yeah. I know, I know you do.”

You chuckle again, a bit weaker now. “Well, I mean…I was expecting something more than ‘I know’.”

“No, I-I do…y’know…” Zuha attempts to complete her sentence but trails off after her stuttering, her disposition now uncharacteristic of the confident woman you met.

“Yeah…” you nod slowly, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. “So can you say it back?”

“What?” Zuha tries to tame her ragged breathing.

“…say you love me?” Unconsciously, your voice verges on a plea now. Your hands cramp and your fingers freeze, desperate to cross the meager distance of a few centimeters toward her clenched hand. “Is it too early for that? Or, am I pressuring you? Is that why you can’t say it yet?”

“No, it’s not that. Look, I do, okay?” She sighs, her gaze now dull and inaccurate, rarely meeting yours. “But I…”

“What’s wrong?”

An inhale. “I’m afraid of saying it…”

“Afraid of saying it? W-why…?”

“Because saying it makes it…”

“Makes it what…?”

“Real.”

The mood vastly changes now. The apartment suddenly has this uncomfortable weight, like a heavy load on your shoulders, and you’re quickly getting exhausted.

Your breathing quickens as your eyebrows finally fall into a furrow. “So this…” You pointed at both of you. “…wasn’t?”

“It’s not like that.”

“So what is it like then?” You whine now, letting go of your cutlery, appetite now obviously extinct.

“I just meant that saying it makes it…official.”

“There it is again, Zuha. So was this all unofficial for you? I mean— what the hell even are we then?”

“We’re…”

“I’ve practically moved out and lived here, Zuha. ” You push back the plate. “Was all this nothing to you?”

“It’s not nothing.” Zuha’s voice finally settles into a whisper.

“We sleep together, we go to class together, we go home together, we do laundry together— Zuha, we buy groceries together. And all this time you’ve been afraid of making it ‘real’? So what is this? W-what’s— What are we doing?” Your forehead crinkles as you gulp, studying her face.

Nothing.

“Did you even know it’s our 4th month together?” You continue, voice shaky now.

She looks away, her face turned to the side, looking toward the different dishes that were drying.

“Zuha.”

Her eyebrows furrow a bit more in response, and her chin trembles slightly. But she doesn’t reply. She looks down instead.

“Kazuha.” You drop her nickname.

She looks up at you, her eyes suddenly now crystal-like with the tears finally building. Her chin wobbles as her bottom lip quivers into a pout. Her eyebrows lose all their pointedness as her gaze is disarmed.  

She cries.

Dammit. You immediately scooch your chair out to walk over to her. You lean down and wrap her in an embrace.

“You’re mad.” Her voice is a shaky tantrum as she laments the loss of her nickname. The once cool and sleek woman, now a fragile sobbing mess in your hands. Almost like a child, the older woman whimpers into your chest. 

So, you press your lips against her forehead as you try to console her with a few gentle hushes. “No, no, no, I’m sorry. I’m not mad, Zuha.”

“Then why’d you call me Kazuha?” Her lips form a pout again as she looks up at you. Your heart aches as you stare at her.

You breathe out a sigh slowly. “Because I’m serious, Zuha. I need you to talk to me because this matters to me.”

“Okay.” Zuha sniffles a bit, her gaze studying yours, then she finally nods. “But I’m Zuha. I’ll always be Zuha now.” She adds while pounding your chest gently with her clenched fist.

You kiss her forehead a few seconds longer before you part. “Oh, jeez, who’s the child now?” You chuckle softly.

Zuha rolls her eyes as she sniffs, her cheeks are flush and her hair is messy. You carry your chair over to her side of the table so you can now sit in front of her. She dabs a few tissues on her nose and the corner of her eyes before sitting up straight. She tries looking at you, but her eyes wander, failing to hold contact. 

You reach over to squeeze her palm. “I’m not mad, Zuha. But I am serious. I need to know now.”

She lets go of a long-withheld sigh. She studies your face, weighing her thoughts and words precisely. “I’m scared because the last time I told someone I loved them, they hurt me. And I never make the same mistake twice, you know that about me. So, I just—“ 

Her breathing hitches a bit before she’s able to gather herself, her tears now refusing to run down her cheeks.

“I never told you…even if I knew I felt it. I was afraid because if we made things real, then it’d be real enough to hurt me. And I never ever want to get hurt again.” Her brows come together in worry, her head now looking down at her lap.

You ease back in your chair. So she did love you back.

“But…” Zuha starts again. “I’m also afraid because I know you want the real thing. And I think the real thing you see is us staying here together and living our lives here. And I don’t think we can have that because…”

You nod slowly, nervous about what comes next.

“…because I’ve been taking ballet classes again.” Zuha finally confesses. “M-my old ballet school…they’ve always been asking me to come back and try again, saying they’ll save me a spot.”

“Your ballet school…” You murmur. “…in the Netherlands.”

She nods, eyes a bit red from the sobbing, but scanning your face for your reaction, gauging whatever emotions you feel.

“Huh. So all this time you’ve been coming home late…?”

Zuha nods with a nervous bite to her lip, moving slowly toward her duffel bag on the floor. She unzips the bag to pull out her ballet shoes, a faded rose pink with minimal wear — obviously new.

“You’ve been taking ballet for weeks, then.” Your voice comes out weak. Defeated. 

“…yes.” Zuha’s voice was weaker and tinier. 

You remain quiet for a second. “You told me it was for school, Zuha. You lied.”

“I was gonna tell you, eventually.”

“Zuha—” You speak, voice teetering on annoyed now. You take a small sigh. “When was 'eventually' going to be?”

“I don’t know, alright? I was working up the courage, but then…” She bites her lip. “Loving you made it more complicated.”

“Complicated? How?”

“Because I knew loving you would make the decision harder.”

Oh. The decision.

You finally let go of the weight of the apartment on your shoulders.

“So you’ve decided.” You say, flatly.

“It’s—it’s not like that. You know it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Zuha?” Something was rising in your chest now. You feel your eyebrows furrow and grow heavier, this deep burning feeling churning in your stomach. You scan Zuha, immediately rifling through the numerous details of her face you’ve memorized, hoping — pleading — to have just the faintest idea of what was on her mind. (Looking back, your gaze sharpened that day. She felt it too.)

“I was just looking to try it out...” Her words stumble and trip. “But I can’t really drop school again, and my family’s still staying here, plus I don’t have the money for another apartment and tuition, and I absolutely won’t forgive myself if I force you to come with me. I mean, your parents are here, and I know you don’t want to leave them. I also know you want to set up a clinic here, and I know you’ll be shelling out money you don’t have to try and follow me now. So I don’t…” Zuha racks her brain in the pause but ultimately fails. “…I don’t know.”

You click your tongue on instinct. Zuha winces a bit.

“I’ve always been honest with you, Zuha.” Your anger is slowly cooling now as you feel yourself pull back from the conversation — indifference. Zuha’s eyes suddenly widen as you stand up.

“N-no, wait, hey, please. Don’t leave. Where are you going?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Zuha. I just need to think.”

“No, please, please. I can be more honest with you, please.”

“I know, but…” You sigh out, half hurt, a quarter tired, and on the verge of tears, and a quarter frustrated. “It’s time you’ve been more honest with yourself, Zuha.”

You gather the plates from the table slowly as Zuha sits there. Her puffy eyes stare at you helplessly, watching your every move with a pout on her face. She was desperate to forget all that had happened and just hug you. But she doesn’t. She knows you. You’ve always needed time and space whenever you guys get into a big fight, and she’s always respected that.

You decide to sleep with your back turned to Zuha.

-

Your phone buzzes you awake. 5:45. It’s a Friday.

You try to rise from the bed, but you feel a weight sprawled across your chest. Zuha. 

In the toss and turn of the night, her arm was now wrapped around you, gripping your side of the covers tightly. You look down and see a pajama’d leg also interlocked with yours. You sigh as you stare at the top of Zuha’s head, burrowing closer to your side.

“Zuha, I have to go.” You whisper.

She shakes her head.

“Zuha, I need to leave.”

“Please, I’m sorry.”

“Zuha, I meant the clinic.”

Her fingers finally loosen. “Sorry, I thought you meant…”

“Oh, Zuha.” You squeeze her forearm. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” You urge as you finally stand up. You stride a bit, looking around for your bag before you hear the mattress groan. Zuha snatches your hand, her bare face finding your gaze. Her face remains angelic despite the puffiness around her eyes and the pink hue of the tip of her nose. Her straight hair flows down smoothly, making it hard to decipher whether or not she slept at all or was simply blessed with a higher power’s favor to always wake up perfect. And yet her lips were still in a pout. A weak one, but you know it was there. 

“About our conversation last night…”

“It’s fine, Zuha. We can talk about it when you’re ready.” Your eyes wander around her flat, thinking back to your first night, a far cry from the very night you just had.

She reels you in gently, slowly, like you were some boat about to be moored. You resist at first, but let her pull you in an embrace. You stand at the foot of the bed while she kneels to try to stay upright.

While her arms envelop your waist, you kiss her forehead, unsure about whether or not a kiss on the forehead was allowed or if the rules of your and Zuha’s “arrangement” have forbidden that and only allowed for quick hugs and gentle hand presses.

Zuha pulls you downward lightly, kissing you back on your forehead.

-

Five days pass by after that. Scant conversation was all that remained in Zuha’s apartment. A few scattered pecks here and there and a couple of hand squeezes that lingered a little too long also served as words unsaid. You’d sometimes share a brief gaze with Zuha, too, paragraphs and essays of what you wished to say would pour out telepathically, but it never sufficed. The conversation never came.

You’ve been going home more frequently, too. Your parents seemed to understand not to talk to you about it, only settling for small hugs and pats on the back whenever the topic shifted to Zuha or when you thought of her. Your room was never scarce of her, though. On your bedside, you kept a framed picture of Zuha from your 2nd month together, one where her goofy grin was evident, and her nose was scrunched as she watched a movie. The picture helped you sleep soundly.

Did you still love her? Of course. You’ve thought long and hard about dropping everything and going with her to the Netherlands, but it just wouldn’t work. There’s not enough money in your name for a plane ticket, let alone the funds needed to basically start living there. You couldn’t even bear to explain to your parents how your schooling would work. Ultimately, your paths have officially diverged. You know ballet’s a strict sport, and so you know long distance will only delay the inevitable. Heck, it might just cause a larger rift, now that you think about it. You already envision the long arguments over the phone about selfishness, not having enough time for each other, setting priorities, and timezone contradictions that would end in either tears, the “End Call” button, or, as you expertly predict, a breakup.

Now, here you are, finally clocking out of the clinic and walking down that same street toward the train station, dreading the old commute. You pass by the food stands, ignoring the scents and aromas of crackling food over coal heat, and stride faster down the sidewalk. Your eyes wander for a bit until you see Fors. You observe the cafe for a bit. It was busy as ever, catering to the nightlife now. 

You see customers exit the establishment with paper bags in hand, and you briefly remember Zuha. Has she eaten? Probably not. You sigh for a moment, but after a couple of backtracks, end up trudging in to buy a croissant anyway. You tuck away the bread neatly and reroute to her apartment.

Up a couple of alleyways and bypass roads, you spot her apartment with the lights still off. Being a quarter past 5, she was still probably at school, packing up last-minute books and notes. And so, you let yourself in.

Zuha’s perfume was comforting. It floated through the apartment so much that you could smell her everywhere. Her apartment was still the same, but one part of the wall in the living room was now bare. You walk over to where the couch is and see an overturned picture frame. You flip it back up to see Zuha, the same picture that got her wide smile as she was locked in a spin. You sigh, staring at the picture — at the woman you love. You stroke your thumb over her cheek as you sigh deeply. You make the decision to hang it back up.

You sit down on the couch now, taking everything in: the smell, the hazy stovetop light, the different plants, and the ballet picture. In the quiet stillness of the apartment, your heart aches loudly. You gulp at the thought of not being able to give Zuha what she wanted, how she had to second-guess her dreams just because she ended up loving you too. 

And then you feel it. Your bottom lip trembles.

God, fuck, no, you think to yourself as you shake your head, sniffling harshly to try and stifle the waterworks. You pull out your phone instead, hoping to just doomscroll and bypass emotions flowing out of you. You open up Instagram, only to close it back down. Your thumb shakes, obviously confused at the conflicting stimuli your body and mind seem to both be shouting. You settle on TikTok, but that doesn’t work either.

“Here are 10 simple date night dishes you could make for your—“

You’ve gotta be kidding me, you shout internally. You immediately exit the app, flinging your phone on the opposite end of the couch. You cross your arms for a bit, pinching the bridge of your nose as you sniffle. 

But you can’t resist. Your fingers leap out.

You reach over to grab your phone, and you pull up YouTube, scroll for a bit, and find a video. Kitri Variation - Bolshoi Ballet. You hesitate, but something tells you to hit play.

The mix of warm and cool lights spread across the large wooden stage as the audience hushed straggling whispers and phrases. The camera wobbled a bit, zoomed out, but then focused shortly. From what you could see, the theater was grand and large, housing hundreds of red suede seats that surrounded the wide stage in a semi-circle. The stage was tall as it was wide, sporting these huge columns of burgundy curtains that cut the performance into sizable chunks and interludes. With the whole place now settling into quiet, music finally commences. A few booms and crescendos of classical music filled the theater as the strings started to pick up. The plucks and twangs of instruments invited the audience to a trance-like state, focusing on the next performer striding toward the center. 

And there she was — Kazuha. Younger, a bit shorter, but with her shining smile still preserved and untouched after all these years. The spotlight cast a graceful shadow on the floor.

After a beat of silence, Zuha erupted in movement. She leaped and pounced and fell and zig-zagged across the stage. Her arms were graceful and strong, and would occasionally whip into shape. She’d perform on pointe, showing off her balanced and calculated lines while maintaining this air of pomp. With a couple of dips and hops, her face came into view. Her adorable face showed off a wide grin as her nose scrunched.

You chuckle softly, the light from your phone illuminating your face and part of the darkness that shrouded the living room, beyond the reach of her lamp in the corner and the kitchen lights. The lights bounce off the tears slowly creeping down your cheek. You laugh helplessly. “Jesus, I look so stupid.”

You keep watching, though.

You chuckle, glassy-eyed, as Zuha flitted through the stage with a smile, visions of the time you spent with her flooding your mind. You remember the smirks she’d make or the glares she’d produce. Hell, you remember her laugh whenever she had to take care of you when you were too sick to function.

As the music finally kicked up a notch, signaling a climax in the performance, Zuha fell into a series of fouetté turns, rotating on one leg while her other leg whipped around to propel her. 

And she spun.

The video ended with roars of applause and cheers as Zuha took a small bow at the end before retreating offstage.

You put the phone down to finally wipe some of the tears running down the corner of your eyes, sniffling weakly as you groan out a laugh. The tremble in your lip slowly starts to settle. You lean back on the headrest, your stare landing on the apartment ceiling. You rest your puffy eyes before slowly drifting off to sleep, clutching the Fors paperbag close to you.

-

The next thing you know, you hear your name.

“Hey.”

Your eyes shift for a bit, discerning reality from sleep.

You feel a poke on your cheek.

“Have you been here long?” You open your eyes to see Zuha staring right back at you, her arm atop the sofa headrest, her eyes wide as she observes. She wore a plain white t-shirt paired with some high-waisted jeans — a casual day at school, it seemed.

You’re groggy, but you take a quick glance at the time. 7:12.

“I guess so.” You whisper as Zuha adjusts when you finally sit up.

“Hey, your eyes.” Her hand travels upward to cup your cheek. “Have you been crying?”

You shake your head minutely. “I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?” Her eyes fall down toward your unlocked phone. On her video. On the hanging ballet portrait.

You scan the emotions running through Zuha. She stalls for a bit, digesting in silence. Then a sigh.

“Could you tell I was nervous?” She nods toward your phone.

“No, not at all.”

“Well, I was. My knees trembled before and after I got on that stage. Puked a couple times, too.”

“You were incredible, Zuha. You’ve always been incredible.”

She smiles subtly. Her eyes were puffy as well.

“Hey, listen—“

“You should do it.” You cut her off. 

“What?”

“The Netherlands.”

“You want me to…go?”

“Yes. And I know you never really meant to ask for my permission, Zuha.” You cup her face. “But, I’m sure you’d still be a heck of a lawyer if you decide to come back, though.”

She briefly bites her lip, processing what you just said.

“You never had to lie to me, you know? I don’t want you to think for a second that I would have stopped you from going back to ballet. I’ve seen the way your eyes light up whenever we talk about it. You also know I’ve caught you watching your old videos before.”

Her head droops, but you lift it back up gently. You smile through the blade of her eyes.

“Look, I love you, Zuha. Not just the idea of being with you.” You rub a stray tear away from her eye. “And if loving you means you have to go away…” You bite the corner of your lip slightly as you nod. “Then that’s fine. My love stays the same.”

You try to slow time, but only muster up the power to stop the physical environment. Clocks halt, cars brake, stars stall. But not Zuha. Zuha breathes slowly as she locks eyes with you.

“I love you too,” she speaks in a whisper, getting shy at the overdue reply. “Oh God, I love you. I’m in love with you. You have my whole heart.” Her eyes are stunted waterfalls as she pouts up at you, finally baring herself wholly to you. This was Zuha — not the ballerina, not the lawyer, not the daughter. Just Zuha.

She gasps, revitalized by newfound oxygen, as if saying I love you back was a long, foreign feeling to her lips that she’s finally found again. 

She inhales more now. “Gosh, I love you, and I’m sorry for lying to you— for going behind your back, for coming home late, and for not telling you. I-I should have told you because I owe that to you. Because I shouldn’t hurt you. Because I love you.”

You sniff back a sob, but you ultimately nod. “Zuha, I already forgave you the morning after you finally told me. I only wish you'd been more honest with me. I would have understood, y’know?” Her eyebrows crease, but you kiss the top of her head, whispering into her hair as you hold her close. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, you big baby.”

She rubs her eyes with the back of her wrists, chuckling stupidly as she realizes how her puffy eyes and tantrum must have looked: childish. She grins as her nose scrunches, but she wills it away.

“You don’t have to keep hiding that.” You flick your thumb lightly at her forehead. “Just…grin whenever you want to, laugh whenever you want to, do ballet whenever you really want to.”

A slight pout from her as she breathes out.

“The Zuha I know doesn’t need permission from anyone,” you continue.

She scoffs it off faintly with a shake of her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m serious, y’know. There’s a Zuha inside you that’s tough and enduring.” You slide a part of her locks behind her ear. “Not like Lawyer Kazuha. No, this Zuha is even tougher. This Zuha’s been tough for a very long time. And she doesn’t care what other people think. At least, that’s what she hopes for. Because deep down, she’s sweet. She’s warm. She laughs. She adores sleeping in. But she hides these things by being tough, thinking that letting them slip through the seams means weakness.” You take her face into your palms. Your thumb grazes her cheeks slowly. “But it’s not. I’ve seen her let go and just be herself. And in all of those moments, I’ve always thought of how tough she is, tough enough to laugh and be foolish and joke at her own expense. Tough enough to be vulnerable and to keep chasing passions despite the things she’s gone through in life. Tough enough to allow herself to scrunch her nose.” You tap the end of her nose gently.

“I love you.” She says in a low whisper. “And I missed you.”

You chuckle. “I know, Zuha. I love you, and I missed you, too.”

She buries her face into your chest as you wrap her in a small embrace, inhaling your scent as you breathe. Her hand reaches up from her side toward you, but she accidentally hits the paper bag.

“That for me?” Zuha’s face suddenly beams, like the tears that had just fallen were inconsequential to the now more important matter: bread.

“It’s for us, you selfish girl.” You chide as you prop yourself up on the couch to open the bag, pulling out the two croissants and placing them both on a plate of Fors tissue paper. “It’s still fresh…” You poke a floppy part in Zuha’s croissant. It doesn’t bounce back. “…you can have mine instead.”

Her nose scrunches for longer now. She gives a grin, flashing off her pearly whites, before opening her mouth.

“What?” You ask.

Her eyebrows furrow as she pouts, her cheeks rounding out her face. She points to her mouth wordlessly, almost cartoonishly impatient.

“Jeez, you really must have missed me if you’re acting like that.” You set aside your own croissant to focus on Zuha’s. She hums lightly as she opens up once again.

“Feed me both croissants, and I’ll show you how else I’ve missed you.”

-

The reuniting kiss with Zuha is all tongue, teeth, and tension. Her hands immediately trail upwards to crumple the hairs on the back of your head, pushing you towards her mouth. She releases a sloppy, hot exhale as your lips separate, sounding off whenever both of you reposition. You feel her pushing against you, pressing her lips further and further, licking, sucking, and sometimes biting.

“Zuha, wait.”

“Mmph. Fuck no.” She straddles you now, both hands on the sides of your face as she makes you look up at her. Her thumb presses lightly on your chin, making your jaw push back and opening your mouth.

Then she spits inside.

“Oh, fuck.” You wheeze out as you drink the warm saliva Zuha just produced. 

“You like that?” A husky whisper.

You nod profusely.

She dives back in to make out with you and then pulls back again to spit more in your mouth. Zuha repeats this for a while, roughly rocking against your clothed crotch. A chorus of names and whispers fills the small apartment, the church-like atmosphere accentuated by the warm orange glow of a lamp off to the side. This was worship and sacrilege at the same time — you gnashed teeth, spoke in tongues, and sought salivation.

“Ugh!” You groan out as Zuha pulls back on your hair sharply, your head slamming back on the sofa. Her arms wrap around your head as she looks down on you, her wavy hair draping downward. With vigor, Zuha grinds her hips in a circle, sliding against your stiff member, her eyes watching your every reaction.

“Oh—oh fuck, yes.” Her mouth forms an “O” as she gasps your name, her breath colliding with yours. She moans into your mouth, holding you close, teasing you with a kiss, but only ever gracing you with light brushes against your lips.

Zuha suddenly rips your hands off her slim waist, lowering them down to her ass, the roundness of her cheeks ever felt through her tight denims. You squeeze courteously as you both moan in unison. You hear your name and other profanities spill forth from her mouth, her words slurring and seething as she desperately sated herself on dry humping you.

You inhale quickly as you abruptly stand up, carrying her lithe body as she clings onto your shoulders. “Mmm, room time?”

“Fucking do me on the kitchen counter.” She breathes out.

You shove your tongue into her mouth as you march over toward the kitchen. You hear the separate thuds of Zuha’s heels fall to the floor as she tightens her legs around you. With restraint, you finally withdraw from her lips (Zuha’s tongue was quite persuasive) and plop her down on the tiled countertop just beside her small rice cooker as you work on unbuttoning her jeans. Zuha leans back as she bites her lip, her gaze a blade waiting for your next move. You finally slide her pants off, revealing the smooth skin of her hips, her round, muscly thighs, and the wet spot on her light-colored panties. You take a deep whiff of her scent, the salty, sweaty, heady musk invading your nostrils, making your cock flex painfully. You release a rugged breath as you help Zuha lift her ass to slide off her panties. You consider fucking her there and then, but you fall to your knees and succumb to your baser desires.

You give her shaven pussy a long experimental lick.

Zuha squeals out at the surprise. “Oh God, yes, yes, I needed this, too. Oh, I need you so much.”

You hook your arms around her thighs, falling into the usual motions of routine. She was atop, in all her sexy glory, and you were down there once more, adoring and venerating the wet folds before you. You keep up a consistent stroke, tonguing and licking her clit as you rub two fingers across her splayed pussy. You alternate a few times, kissing her sex and licking the inside of her meaty thighs, watching Zuha groan or mewl depending on where your tongue dared to go. After a few more licks, you switch to a slower pace while sucking on her nub. Her leaking juices drip down the grooves of her crotch and the crevice of asscheeks, making the rim of her ass glisten. Zuha moans out slower now, her chest rising and falling as the tempo shifts. You coat your index and middle finger with her liquids before slowly entering her warmth.

“Jesus, fuck!” She nods as you look up at her, her right hand confused whether to tense and pull on your hair or ease and grip the back of your neck.

She opts for the former.

Your scalp stings, but the joy of pleasing Zuha far outweighs any pain she inflicted. You trail your fingers from her pussy and down to her tight rim. She squeals in surprise as you lose count of how much your name has been recited this night. With careful entry, you breach her tight asshole. A different kind of warmth wraps your fingers now — a hotter and tighter muscle, so paradoxical it keeps you inside when you want to pull out but eagerly sucks you back in when you want to penetrate. Zuha quickly verges on her release, the stimulation of all her holes making her legs twitch and squirm on your shoulders. Her voice picks up in pitch now as she closes her eyes in pent-up libido, her brows harshly furrowing and pointing to her ceiling, her hair flowing wildly with some sticking to her neck and forehead sweat. Bringing your other hand into play, you lick on her swelling clit as you finger both her holes.

“Motherfucker!— I’m yours, I’m all yours. Take me, make me cum. Please!” She runs her fingers through her own hair, her body twitching and her breath ragged as she locks you deeper between her legs.

With a final rub of your thumb on her clit, she cums. Wasting no time, you immediately get to work slurping up her pussy lips as her orgasm continues. You indulge in the tangy, salty mix of sex and love Zuha was offering, licking in long vertical strokes, making sure to cover wherever you haven’t covered yet. Her twitches die down slowly as her high subsides. Your tongue ventures lower again, reaching her puckered rim as you eat her out gently, matching her easing sighs and exhales, helping her return to baseline. Her eyes finally catch your gaze, staring at you and the highly obscene act you were committing.

“You feel good?” You whisper as you kiss the inside of her legs before rising up from the tiled floor.

Her arms wrap around your neck to pull you in. “So much fucking better now.” She whispers before smiling to kiss your cheek. She exhales deeply, angling your head to the side to kiss your neck sweetly.

You reach the smooth line of her back, fingers running up and down to feel her body, toned with constant discipline but curvy enough to grip and squeeze erotic flesh. You help remove the white t-shirt and throw it across the room. Zuha does the same, trailing her hand up from your abdomen and to your pecs before pulling your shirt off. Her palm briefly brushes your hardened nipples. You wince unexpectedly.

“Still sensitive?” She coos sweetly.

You chuckle and nod.

Her plotting eyes stare at you, a trance-like gaze taking over now, as she brings her hands to your shoulder blades, making you puff out your chest. Without breaking eye contact, she lowers her head to lick your nipple.

“Zuha.” You seethe through gritted teeth.

“Hm?” She continues to lick, spreading saliva around the areola. She licks the other one now, wrapping her lips around to suckle gently.

“Oh fuck, Zuha.”

“What is it?” Her head moves with each long lick, positioning and repositioning her tongue to get better angles. She releases the bud from her mouth to look up at you. “C’mon, tell me.” Her voice is a raspy whisper now.

“That feels good.” You wince out.

“What does?” She licks counterclockwise on your areola, avoiding the center. “This?” The flat of her tongue travels across your nipple.

“Or…” Zuha pulls back a bit. “…this?” She wraps her mouth around your whole nipple, her steaming mouth suckling while her tongue flicks the hardened tip.

“Gah, fuck! Y-Yes, Zuha, both. Both feel good.” Your brain processes the electricity traveling down your chest and up your spine. You were ticklish, but you felt yourself leaning in closer to Zuha.

Expertly, you feel her legs leave your lower back as her feet stop at the waistband of your boxers. She continues the assault on your sensitive bud, all while pushing your underwear downward, releasing your flexing shaft. 

You let out an impressed chuckle. “Um…”

“Ballet.” Zuha boasts with a strange mixture of horny pride evident in her voice as she speaks.

You comply, kicking the boxers away, your rod now level with her steaming pussy. With her other hand riding up your chest, her fingers roll your left nipple as her mouth latches onto the right. You squirm slightly, the warmth of her tongue slathering across your pebbling nip, as you grip the overhead handles of the cupboards. Her right hand sneakily slips in between your bodies, tracing down your abdomen and finally to your hard cock. You jolt forward on instinct, roughing your erection along Zuha’s palm. She giggles sweetly, her breath betraying how amused she is at the situation. She stops licking your chest for a bit to spit on her hand before returning it to your impatient shaft. She coats the length with her spit and works you, twisting and pulling along, her thumb glossing over the slightly reddened tip.

“God, it was always so fucking big.” She leans in, a hand on the back of your head, pulling you closer. Your foreheads touch now, your breaths colliding as her chest rises and falls. Her vanilla-scented hair was a mess, covering most of her features, but she made sure you could see her face in open-mouthed pleasure. She jerks you off for a couple more minutes, matching each moan you make with her own, before rubbing your cockhead against her slick entrance. You both groan simultaneously. You take the hint and prop both Zuha’s arms around your neck as you step in closer, palm guiding the tip, aiming at her core. You push your shaft a few times, the underside rubbing the ridge of her pussy lips, coating and lubricating it, teasing her in the process.

“Please.” She whimpers.

“Begging?” You chuckle, surprised. “That’s new.”

“Shut up. I’ve just been really needy…” She whispers, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

“No, no, I like it. It’s hot.” You give her a peck, once on the lips and once on the forehead.

“Fuck me then. Please.”

With a long stroke, you thrusted in. She cries out with a whip of her head, hitting the hanging cupboards with a thud.

“Shit!” Zuha laughs through the blunder, planting a kiss on your lips to keep the mood going. Her arms hook speedily around your neck as her legs interlock just at the small of your back.

“Careful.” You hiss through the kisses you trailed along the side of her jaw. You grip her waist as you thrust forward, fucking her against the cupboards more carefully now. You pull back to feel your length smoothly retreat from her tight groin, her heat contrasting with the temperature of her apartment. You slowly push back in, drawing out a long moan from Zuha, her brows furrowing as she shuts her eyes.

“Yes, yes, fill me— God.” She cries out, her nails scratching and gripping your traps as her shins push you forward. You tighten your hold on her sides, squeezing and bruising her waist, your digits digging into her curves. You fuck her deep and strong, leaning into your strokes as you show her how much you missed her. You hear her walls squelch around your cock with every entry, lubing up and down your meat.  The sound is erotic, your bodies the instruments, her cries the accompaniment.

Zuha is tight and accepting, but also combative — she would bite your earlobe, pull on your hair, or scratch the line of your back. When your lips strayed too far, she’d pull you back in. When you’d deviate from the angle she likes, she’d lock her legs tighter. It was a struggle for control, really — a competition to show who’s missed the other more, and you’ve definitely missed her.

And so you slow down abruptly, shocking Zuha.

“W-what are you—“

“Ballet, right?” You grip her full thigh, shifting her right leg to prop it on your shoulder, pulling her body toward you in the process. She jerks forward with a deep groan as you remain locked inside her, her body finally angling sideward to accommodate the new position. You pressed against her deeper now, the position granting you new grounds to explore.

“Oh fuck— oh fuck, you’re so deep…” Zuha’s moans come from her diaphragm now. “You’re so deep in me. Oh God, oh God yes, yes.”

You take a look at her thighs, how perfectly succulent they are, inheriting the roundness from her ass as it tapers off to her sexy, toned legs. Her calf rests on the left side of your head as your cock spears her in twain. You were in the middle of it all, bearing witness to Zuha’s undoing. Her head rests against the tiled kitchen wall with her arms spilled over past the rice cooker and sink, steadying and gripping with all her ability.

You place a hand on the knee atop your shoulder, simultaneously reaching down to palm her exposed breast. You start slow at first with experimental strokes, feeling out the new angle and Zuha’s novel tightness. You allow her left leg to hang free in the space between your legs, finally giving you the most amount of access you could have, driving your midriff and groin flush against the inside of her thigh.

“Holy fuck.” Zuha whimpers.

“Are you okay?” You gulp, sweat dripping down your forehead.

“You’re splitting me. You’re hitting me so deep. Oh shit— Christ!” Zuha doesn’t even stare at you now. Her lids remain closed, brows scrunched in permanent euphoria.

You tighten your hold on her wanton thigh while rolling her hardened nip between your fingers. With every mewl and cry, you thrust back deeper into Zuha, analyzing the subtle changes in her face and expression, evaluating how you could switch up every pound, every rail into her greedy sex. Your cock strains each time you thrust, the tense muscle invading her warm walls repeatedly, driving itself to find release.

“Jesus, I could fuck you like this every day.” You release a quick exhale. 

“Shit, yes, please. I want that, oh fuck I want that.”

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you like this every day, Zuha? You wanna be bent over, split in half, every time, hm?” You pick up the pace.

“God, yes!” She yelps now.

“Mhm, yeah? You want me to pound away at you, while you just take it? You want me to just fuck you over every surface in this apartment?” You time your thrusts right, creating a rhythm from the constant thud on the cupboards. 

Zuha grips you, nails digging into your forearm, as you rough your way into her, your cock pulsing eagerly, hitting just the right spots to have her droning on and on with an incohesive hum.

“Answer.” You whisper low, a hand coming down to slap her ass cheek.

“Yes! Please, oh please…”

“Yeah, I bet you’re gonna miss me when you’re in the Netherlands, huh? You want me to fuck you there, too, hm? Fuck you all around your small flat just before class? Fuck you until you leak cum while you’re practicing?”

“Y-yes!— Fuck, fuck, fuck, I want that, please. It’s you, it’s you, I only want you, it’s so different when it’s you. Shit— I need you and this fucking cock of yours. Oh fuck! My fingers aren’t enough, please.” She pleads, whispering rapidly.

“You only want me, huh?”

“Oh God, yes, I only want you...” Zuha gulps, her breathing now ragged and exhausted. “J-just— Come with me to the Netherlands. I can’t take it when you’re not here. Come fuck me there, too.”

The words stumble from Zuha’s lips unintentionally. Was she delirious? Maybe. Her slurred speech definitely didn’t help her case. You’re stunned, so you suddenly miss a beat, breaking the rhythm. But hearing her only wanting you made you grind harder, so you compensate on your next pump. You rub a particular spot, which makes Zuha twitch accidentally, her vice walls clamping around your meat. You lurch forward to steady yourself, your chest rising and falling.

“Fuck it. I’ll follow you all around the world just to have you like this.” Your fingers gloss over her trim thigh muscle, gripping her skin tightly as you plough over and over again. She winces a bit as your digits sink deeper into her curves. “Bent. Twisted. Gripped. Chased. Owned.”

“I-I’m yours. I’m yours…”

Having had enough of splitting her in half sideways, you ease up on the pistoning of your hips. You gently lower Zuha’s shin off of your shoulder, putting her leg down, allowing her to regain her balance gracefully, all while you remain hilted in her. The corkscrew sensation of her slick sends tingles through your thighs as you groan out softly. Zuha now grips the countertop while she’s bent over, her hair flowing down her bare back, apple-shaped ass fully exposed and impaled. You push the remaining length of your meat in her, gripping and bringing her waist up as you press against her back. Zuha leans her head on your shoulder.

“Hey.” She whispers.

“Yeah?” You whisper back.

“Say you love me...”

“I-I love you, Zuha.” You thrust once.

She bites her lip in the process of suppressing a moan. She rolls her hips slowly. “Again.”

“G-God— I love you, Zuha.” You pull back only to slam back in firmly.

“You…wha—what do you…What do you love about me?” Her eyes close as she cries out.

“Well…I love your neck.” You lick the length of her neck up to her earlobe. You grip her waist tighter, fingers ridging on the sleek lines of her abs. You thrust once. This makes her whimper and hiss.

“I love your tits.” You cup around to the front and take her breasts in both your hands. “How they feel, how soft they are, how hard your nipples can be.” You run your fingers across the sensitive peaks as you ram it in her again. She emits a shaky moan.

“I love this ass of yours.” You bring a palm down hard, striking the pound of flesh. A mix of a gasp and a scream falls from her mouth, her body in a rigid arch as you support her from behind. “Love how huge it is, how round your cheeks are when I cup it, and how tight it can be.” You reach down with your thumb, making a circle motion at the rim of her ass, teasing entrance and reaping the sounds Zuha makes. 

“And I love your pussy.” You hold her sides once more before giving a shallow thrust. “You grip me so well, so hot and tight around my cock like this. Love how much you’re leaking all over me, how good you take me each time.”

Zuha hisses, sucking air. “Yes-yes-yes, I’ll take all of you.”

You finally thrust hard and quick, your thighs banging repeatedly on the base cabinet doors. Zuha lurches forward when you go faster, holding tighter on whatever she can grip, her body being pushed and pulled by the force of your rod poking her insides.

“God, yes, you do me so good, you do me so fucking good.” Her lips are filthy, speaking ill and cursing.

You bottom out over and over again, pressuring her velvety walls as you thrust to the hilt each time. The sound of skin and flesh slapping against each other intoxicates you, riling you to keep going. You look downward, eyes trailing from the line of her back, to your lubricated length — it was hypnotic seeing her pussy lips spreading to accommodate your length and girth, how each push forward sends your meat disappearing deeper within her body. You slap an asscheek. The plump curve jiggles at the contact.

“Jesus Christ, Zuha, you’re amazing.” The bumps and bangs of your legs on her kitchen cabinets have surely annoyed some of Zuha’s neighbors, but you don’t care. Back and forth, her body meets yours precisely, a moan clawing its way out of her throat each time you penetrate. But the pleasure eventually reaches an apex. You feel her walls clamp on you tighter. She hums and mumbles incoherently, desperately attempting to fill the silence and verbalize the torrent of feelings passing through her. She’s close.

“You gonna c-cum?” You wheeze out.

“I’m gonna fucking cum again.”

“Shit, okay, okay, just hold it! I’m close—“

“Fuck, please!” She begs, her tone coming out a little harsher than she intended. Zuha’s hand grips the back of your head as she angles her face sideward. Her tongue surges into your mouth in between dirty whispers. “Just cum with me, please. Oh God, I can’t take it— Please, cum with me.” 

You pound away at Zuha, her cheeks bouncing and recoiling as you railed her harder. Her head lurches forward weakly, consciousness slipping as you prolonged her edge. You close your eyes to feel more of her, how her wet pussy wraps each inch of your length, how each texture sparks a sound from Zuha, how warm you’d be if you just stay planted inside. Your breathing quickens as you feel the coil deep within you.

“Z-Zuha! I-I’m—“

“Yes! Yes! Oh my God, yes!” Zuha lets herself go. “T-Tell me you love me!”

“What?—“ You’re confused, but your thrusts are on autopilot.

“Tell me you love me…When you cum, tell me you love me.”

This spurs you on. “Shit! I-I love you— Holy fuck!— I love you, I love you so fucking much…” Your fingers dig into her sides as you pursue a deeper stroke.

She winces. “Oh fuck, right there, yes, yes, I love you, I love you…”

The tension in your core finally shatters as you orgasm vehemently. You burst deep between her twitching legs and her grasping cunt. You cum forcefully, sending off copious ropes of your seed, painting her insides white. You groan weakly, repeating her name like a hymn or prayer a devotee would voice whenever their faith was tested or whenever they fell to their knees to sing praise. You hump at Zuha erratically, groaning as you dump everything you had inside her, an offering to the temple that is her body.

Zuha’s voice is gone at this point. She cums, a silent gasp in the sea of hair splayed on her face. She twitches and jerks occasionally, the onslaught of orgasm writhing out of her in surges. Her voice reaches a new pitch, exhales leaving her in short, vulnerable bursts. Her slick flows down your length, her walls clamping down on you as she rides her high. You hold her closer, hugging her as she pushes and shudders back, desperate to keep your length breached and wedged in her pussy.

The burden of the orgasm — the best orgasm you’ve both had, ever — finally dissipates for both of you. You wobble forward, hugging Zuha’s slim body as you lay your weight slightly on her. Zuha steadies both your bodies by propping her arms on the counter. Your palms trail down her arms to hold her hands. Your breathing syncs up as your forehead touches her back, just a few inches before her nape. You remain hilted, your cock still warm.

“Well.” She breaks the silence.

“Yeah?” You kiss a spot on the midpoint of her spine.

“Probably can’t get to ballet class tomorrow.”

You chuckle as you stand closer. Her walls squeeze slightly at the minuscule movement. You kiss up to the back of her head now, smooching her hair, then to her ear, then to her cheek. Her round eyes land on you, her stare dull, disarmed, diminished — glazed with the afterglow of sex, but made soft with a deep lingering affection — affection you can now confidently name love.

“You alright?” You laugh gently as you softly bump your head on hers.

“Never been better.” She gives you a peck. “So that’s what it took for you to fuck me like that, huh?”

“Shut up.” You chuckle. You pull out of her walls, a moan coming out of her as you depart. “Could’ve told me you loved me sooner if you wanted it that bad.” You say with a small smack of her thigh.

She gasps in fake hurt. “You diss me as you pull out? I rescind my declaration then.” Zuha turns around slowly, still leaning on the counter for stability. “Plus, I’m the one usually surprising you when we fuck— Oh, sorry. When we make love.” She chides. Zuha leans back, the light catching her angle and casting subtle shadows across her body. Her tall, athletic frame is made a thousand times better by the fact that she is still fully naked. Her toned and sculpted midriff is completely on display, the result of consistent training and commitment, creating the prominent lines you were gawking at. You make a mental note to ravish them later.

“Gosh, you’re really sexy.” You blurt.

A grin appears. Her nose scrunches for longer now, crescent eyes accenting the dimples on her cheeks as she laughs. She lightly punches your shoulder, but quickly reels you back in by the forearm. She wraps herself around you, your forearms tangling around her neck in an embrace. “You’re sweet.”

You kiss her crown lightly, whispering slowly. “You’re beautiful.” 

She sighs, her gaze studying you, a stiletto point threatening to pierce, but no cuts come. She sheathes the blade, a pout surfacing in its place. “I’ve always…loved…that about you.” Her lips linger on the word “love”, its utterance a paradox between novel and natural. She says it carefully, like setting down delicate china you bring out only once in a while — fragile and vulnerably open to destruction. “The way you’d just tell me things. Me. The things you say are to me, and not just to who I think I am or who I think I should be. To Zuha.”

You smile lightly at the nickname you gave her. “Zuha suits you better. Plus, I don’t know you any other way.” You scramble around her kitchen, wearing your boxers and shirt, piling up garments, and gathering other flung articles of clothing (Zuha’s panties landed on a plant).

“Wouldn’t want it any other way, either.” Zuha raises her arms in a stretch, her abs and back muscles flex as she wrings out the (s)exhaustion from her system. She walks by you, giving you a light peck on the cheek before sashaying into the bathroom.

You stride down the hall and back into her room, the place where it all began. The space was the same, except her sheets were pink now, a more lush color compared to the pastel blue you had lain on that first night. You dump the pile in the basket and tidy up some more scattered socks and pants. On Zuha’s side of the bed, propped up on her end table and adjacent to her earrings, you see a new, smaller picture frame: you. A picture of you on your 3rd date with Zuha. You were holding two large paper bags of groceries, vegetables, and cartons peeking out the top. Hooked on your elbows were more bags — one with paper towels, another with soap and sponges. And in your mouth, wedged between your teeth, was a Fors croissant. You chuckle once as you adjust the frame.

“I think that’s when I realized I was falling in love with you.”

You turn around to see Zuha adjusting her pajamas, her shirt clinging to her slim frame, wet hair tied in a high bun, a towel hanging from her shoulder. She gives a small smile before hooking the towel off to the side of the door.

“But this was when…” You start.

“Mhm. Barely a week since we started dating.” She kicks around a loose carpet tuft. “I guess I’ve loved you since then.” 

She shifts around awkwardly, but continues. “Hey, about that night you told me you loved me.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t even think for a second that I hesitated because I wasn’t serious with you— with us.”

“I know.”

“Good. Because I was. I am. I just…I was just scared.”

“I know, Zuha. I know you were. But I appreciate you telling me. Thank you.”

“Okay, good,” she says with a nod.

Zuha gracefully moves over toward the bed, shifting the sheets and making space for you. She sits, propping her back on the headboard, and brings the covers up to her knees, eagerly waiting for you.

You comply, scooching beside her and leaning back similarly. She lays her head on your shoulder, her gaze only pointing straight ahead.

“Did you mean it?’ You ask.

“Mean what?” She asks back.

“You wanting me to come with you. To the Netherlands. Or was that just…sex?”

A deep inhale, then a long sigh. “Of course I want you to come with me.” Her voice is smaller now, knees locking closer, and fingers gripping tighter. “I could barely handle you not coming home, not coming to me. How much more could I take being so far away from you?”

You take note of the new tone in Zuha’s voice. There is this strong vulnerability to her now, and her honesty only serves to strengthen her person, not weaken her fortitude. Her posture is small, but her heart is larger now. Long past inhibitions about baring so-called “weaknesses”, acknowledging strong emotions, and leaving ample space to be herself have now been dissolved.

“Oh, God, I want to come with you too. But I really can’t just up and leave my parents, Zuha. I barely have enough to help with rent if I do come with you.” The reality resurfaces and weighs on both of you. Zuha still had to leave, and you still had to stay.

“I know.” She mumbles.

You put an arm around her as she tucks her head on your chest, nearer your chin.

“But I don’t want to break up.” She murmurs against your shirt.

“I don’t want to, either.”

“Do we really have to choose?” A quiet whine leaves her lips.

“We might have to.” You rub her shoulder, tracing circles on her soft skin.

“If we do…break up,” Her voice cracks a bit, but she recovers with a sniffle and a cough. “I’d rather we do it on good terms now and not down the line when we’re at each other’s throats or over the phone.”

You exhale gently. “I’d rather have that too.”

You two stay silent for a while.

“Do you want to break up?” A whisper from Zuha so small you think twice about hearing it. She doesn’t look at you.

“Never.” You whisper, too. You stare at the back of her head and the curve of her cheek, her lashes moving as she blinks.

Zuha suddenly sits up, propping her palms flat on your chest, head looking toward you now. The blade returns to her eyes, lamp light glinting off her gaze.  “So we don’t. We never will.”

“Can you do long distance?”

“I will if it’s you.”

“What happens if we both get busy? And we fight? And we lose time for each other?”

“I’d still want you.”

“Be realistic, Zuha.”

“I am.” Do you still feel the cuts of her gaze? You do. Swift slices of her pupils gash your arms, neck, and lips. She shakes her head with a sigh. “I’d still want you. The same awkward, speaking-to-windows, lukewarm-coffee-loving, nerd in scrubs. We can make it work.” Her hand cups your cheek now, minuscule lights like flecks sprinkle her pupils — tears.

You lean your head into her palm, savoring the warmth of her skin stroking your face.

She takes a gulp. “If we get busy, then we get busy. If we fight, then we fight. If we lose time, then we lose it. But, I’m still coming back to you.”

You shift on the bed a bit, linking your arms around her neck, allowing Zuha to put her chin on your chest. Her body lies on top of yours as she stares up at you while hugging your torso. You breathe slowly with her.

“Zuha, I’m still coming back to you, too. But I don’t want to lose time for you. I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to see us that way.”

“I don’t want to, either! But I’d rather have that than not have you at all.”

“Oh, Zuha.” You take her face in your hands, thumbs adjusting stray hairs and tucking it behind her ear.

“No! You can’t— Don’t do that. Don’t ‘Oh, Zuha’ me.” She veers her head away from your grasp, eyes staring at you for a beat. She bites her lip, stifling a sob. “I just got you back…” She chokes up, a free tear sliding down the side of her cheek.

You hush her gently as you bite back a sob of your own. “I know, Zuha. I know.”

“And don’t—“ She gulps, trying to find the words. “Don’t think I’m childish for finally wanting something for myself, enough to be selfish about it— enough for me to throw tantrums over it like a stupid kid.”

“Zuha, I would never.”

“I just…” Her brows furrow as she looks up. “Why can’t I have what I want?” Her face vanishes into your chest, tears soaking your shirt as you rub her shoulder blades. 

She cries. 

There it is: the plea Zuha has just breathed into existence. A whine in the face of the world. A conniption so ego-tistical, so selfish, and so immature, it’s childlike. 

And so you respond in kind.

You stiffen up your upper lip, extinguishing the bawl attempting to bubble and rise. You grab her palm, urging her to look up at you. “Fuck it. Let’s do it. Let’s just give it a shot.”

-

“…and you’ve got your room key?”

“I do.” You tap your chest, feeling the keycard you slipped into your breast pocket earlier.

“Passport?”

You show your phone camera a slim browned-leather keeper. “I have it here, Mom.”

“Extra money?” Your dad pipes up now.

“Enough for dinner and a cab back to the hotel.”

“Good man.”

“Do you have enough data for your maps?” Your mom stutters now, the nerves evident in the shakiness of her question.

“I’m not that dumb, guys. I got this.” A chuckle leaves you.

“Alright. Just be safe, and come home safe. Good luck.” With a sigh, your parents slowly let you go. The phone clicks off. 

Now, finally, on to the agenda. The show had just finished, with droves of people moving across the wide theater lobby, walking briskly to wherever their plans tell them to go. The carpeted floor effectively muffles the numerous footfalls, isolating only the sounds of conversation. Hushed words fly, whispers creep, and voices adjust. You remain silent, though, this stalwart constant standing still in the blur. A few shoulders whip past you, polite apologies making their way into your ears as compensation. A few adjustments to your gait and stride, and you’re all good. Nothing could really ruin your mood now.

You spot an empty bench in the atrium, this comforting spot illuminating to ease the aches of pacing. The sleek padded cushion groans, catching your full weight as you lean back to stretch. Your legs are crossed as you check the time. 8:22. You could stay a few more minutes. Or hours. You just had to know.

And so you go through the routine of anybody who’s socially awkward and unfortunate enough to be stuck in a public place: check your phone, stare at the ceiling, go to the bathroom (without actually peeing), and then back to the phone. It’s a cycle, really. A cycle you’re very much proud of, because you’ve gotten quite good at appearing like a normal person on the outside. A few pretend phone calls? Amazing play. Pseudo-interest in the shows playing next week and all the minute details of their posters? Absolutely masterful. 

Did you appear like a person who knew what they were doing and not someone wandering around, grasping at straws, clawing at a glimmer of a slim chance? You hope so. Did they notice you awkwardly pacing and going up and down the hall? That’s not the point. The point is to masquerade as someone who’s not…afraid.

In truth, the pit in your stomach is growing. Afraid of what, exactly? Well, nothing, to a degree. You were afraid to find out that you flew exactly 5330 miles, gulped through the jet lag, lugged bags across stations, navigated across language barriers, and fumbled through faux pas, for nothing. Not even for a glimpse, a sideways glance, or a chat. You were worrying that, because of the past years of being broken up, and despite constantly grinding to make your own, striving to complete internships, acing departmental exams, and graduating with flying colors, it would all have been for nothing. You guys would still end up as nothing.

Why couldn’t you have what you want?

You slump on the bench, your unkempt appearance, tousled hair, and untucked shirt now obviously inappropriate for the formal setting and the more well-dressed theater goers leaving the maroon-carpeted lobby and down the polished mahogany exit steps. You don’t care anymore. You just absolutely had to wait. 

So you wait. 

And wait. 

And wait.

The crowd thins out, save for a few pairs scrambling and hoping to catch the few remaining tickets for tomorrow’s performance. The buzz of talk soon dies down, replaced by the sound of rain falling and the crisp crash of tires driving over puddles and gutter water outside. You barely noticed the rain before, but you do now.

If only your mom could see you. I knew it. I told you you’d forget something, she’d say.

“Sorry, Mom.” A mutter from you. “Sorry, little umbrella.” Back at home, your umbrella ruffles in acceptance of the whispered apology.

Then you feel it. 

You touch a finger to your right cheek, tracing an invisible line from your face to your lips. A cut. 

Confusion fills you. Your breathing slowly picks up now. This was familiar. You’ve felt this before, this gash. It was this stinging feeling like a subtle paper cut, the type of paper cut you’d only feel after a substantial amount of time, but even then, the damage was already done. You unexpectedly blush as if blood were leaking from the slice. You feel your face heat up as your heartbeat quickens, the blood pulsing just beneath the surface. It becomes harder to gulp, too, as your throat dries, your voice stagnating and burrowing deep within your courage.

You turn to where the cut came from. Long-dead abilities revive within you. The sound of precipitation distorts as things come to a dead halt. Raindrops disobey gravity. People freeze in place, their stride suddenly stopping.

And yet she still walks toward you. Even if you stop time, she still walks toward you. Even if you’ve been broken up for all those years, she still walks toward you.

There's no point of contact. Not a single photo, a single second, or a single frame in any of the footage you've caught did the girls find you or your lens, even when they're looking right in your direction. Nothing at all. You were caught up in the energy and the chaos of the pit to notice. How their gazes would flicker to the people beside you or behind you, but never land exactly right on you. The way they'd skip past you in favor of someone else. Even when you were frantically raising your sign, practically begging to be noticed, they never tried. 

But it’s all in the past now. The staff are making the announcement, ushering in the VIPs into the backstage lounge by clusters where the send-off will happen. This is your last chance. Your hail mary. After being overlooked the entire night, you believe this is how the universe will rewrite the ending—the plot twist, that this is how it will balance itself out.

You're already at a disadvantage by the time you're being led in. Along the main stretch, barricade and the first three rows after have been occupied by those who were herded in first. People who probably paid their way to priority, you assume—or just plain bad luck, seeing as you’re among the later people to enter. Given your desperation and how everything seems to go against your best wishes, you choose to believe the former. You can try and settle somewhere in the fourth row, behind tall behemoths with their equally obstructive signs and jostling for a partial view of the girls. If they couldn't see you up front, they definitely wouldn't find you now.

Miraculously, your gaze snags on a lone island in this sea of bodies: a spot in the corner on the right side of the room shadowed by a concrete pillar. And no one's taken their spot in it just yet.

So while everyone's busy taking up the prime spots in the main row or closer to the entrance, you stake your claim before anyone else considers it. Given the circumference of the lounge, they're bound to walk past you again. This time, however, you're right at the edge. The very last thing they see before they return to the center. You. It’s as perfect of a goodbye as you’ll possibly get.

A few others pick up late and take their spots around you. No matter. Surely, the interaction you've been expecting the whole night is all but guaranteed.

For the next few tense minutes, everyone anxiously waits. The roar of the crowd inside the venue has softened to a softer, yet still electric rumble. Despite the rather intimate setting, the lounge houses a few hundred strong, you surmise, given how the VIPs stretch across the barrier in several rows like a tidal wave.

Then, from a distance, a door can be heard swinging from a distance, its echo ripping through the room like a call to arms. Everyone stops what they’re doing. The room goes quiet. Their attention focuses on the small hallway on the left, right across your view.

The ripple comes quietly at first, like a receding wave before an incoming tsunami. Then, the room erupts through into a thunderous roar like it's the very first song of the night.

The girls are here. Again. Still wearing their encore fits. Still unbelievably ethereal.

Even from a distance, you can tell they're exhausted. After all, it had only been 40 minutes since the concert ended, and they'd given their all on stage for the better part of 2 hours, to the point where their speeches felt more rehearsed and scripted than ever. But the idol veneer doesn't crack; not completely. What little sign of weariness on their faces effortlessly disappears when the light shines on them, seemingly gaining a second wind, looking ready to go another round. As they turn to the crowd, they’re waving and smiling, professional as ever.

Staff made three things clear: they'll go around once, there’ll be no signing, and no accepting gifts or letters. Everything else—selfies, videos, signs—is fair game. The handwritten letter in your bag now feels meaningless. But not your sign. The same one you've been holding up for the last couple of hours. And somehow, even after all the screaming and cheering, you still have your voice. You'll expend the last of your lungs if it means they'll finally look at you.

They start from the other side of the room, and you watch them deliver their best. From left to right, they slip into fanservice like it's muscle memory.

Gaeul's as calm and calculating as ever. She waves at anyone and everyone she sees. She spots a banner with her face plastered on it with a message printed in Hangul and smiles at them like it's the most precious thing in the world. Then she leans forward to pose for a fan's phone, and the lights above shine like they're meant solely for her. She asks them to show the photo, and after a brief inspection, nods in approval before moving on.

Rei is the people's champion. Hand to her ear, she implores the room to chant her name, listening intently at every voice, making them shout louder and louder. Yet somehow, she notices one standout in the crowd and points at them. A fan holds up a sign asking her to do that stupid gesture (you know the one), and she obliges, complete with her trademark cheeky grin. The crowd roars in approval as they yell out 'six-seven!' before she moves past their section.

Leeseo's sunshine personified. She's bouncing on her feet, but grounded at the same time. Someone makes a half-heart in her direction and she completes it. Then another. And another. Another fan holds up their Erang-e plush in front of her and she tickles the fabric like it were her own. She fulfills everyone's request with an energy that feels relentless, but with a smile reminiscent of Wonyoung: restrained, cautious. Her eyes catch on a girl trying to call her from behind a trash bin, sandwiched by bodies also trying to get her attention, and she meets her halfway. Doesn't matter that her hair's touching the chute; she's gonna meet them all.

Wonyoung is exactly who she is: an untouchable princess, grace given human form. She keeps a careful distance from the barriers; not cold or apathetic, but delicate and guarded. However, every little motion she does is smooth and effortless. She's the most attentive and keen-eyed of the bunch (though they all are). Her skin radiant under the lights, she points at every girl in the crowd, and floats along the line with her usual style. Someone yells if she can do her legendary twirl, and she delivers, leaving that section swooning. Another asks her if she can have a photocard signed; she puts her hands together gently and bows apologetically. To compensate, she waves her fingers around in the shape of her signature and blesses their camera with a flying kiss.

Liz carefully scans the crowd. Not as careful or guarded as Wonyoung or Leeseo, but just—quiet and shy. She finds a fan holding up a little sign and ring asking her to marry him, and she laughs. Make this teasing face, finger to her chin, before mouthing that she'll think about it, and he just fucking loses it. Much like Wonyoung, she keeps a respectable distance from the barricade, but her eyes work quickly through those holding her photocards, banners, and signs to point out every single one. Someone asks her to pose with Rei; she hesitates at first, but Rei spots them and they oblige, and the chemistry is undeniable. 

Lastly, Yujin makes the girls go berserk. She knows she can drive them crazy with anything she does. A slight hint of skin, a flash of her toned midriff is lethal enough. She keeps the motions simple: wave, heart, request. Rinse and repeat. But once in a while, she'll flaunt her body and tease. Whether by posing with her shoulder or lifting the bottom of her shirt to make her stomach clear, she relishes being ogled at. 

Slowly but surely, the members make their trip around the line. Trying to find every face possible, trying to fulfill whatever request they can within reason. No signing stuff or handing gifts or letters, but they do their best everywhere else. Staff and security closely flank each girl, gesturing subtly, whispering behind tightly knit hands: A little bit faster please. We have to go. 

And they try. Even with time against them, they try. Most of their love and affection end up falling in the first three rows; anyone below 5’5 and those further back are hidden behind taller, more demanding hands and a cloud of unruly banners, signs, picket fans, and phones. It's bad luck and poor optics at play.

Not you, though. You're in the right spot. Perfect for them to find you right as they finish their walk around the line.

So you wait. Nervous. Desperate. Each step they take brings them closer, and with you, all the more anxious. The thought starts out small, innocuous: what if they don't see you, what if they stop right before your section, what if—

No. There's no way they wouldn't—

But right now, that's the last thing you want to be thinking about. They're mere inches away, right at touching distance, one member after the other. Gaeul first.

Phone on one hand, homemade sign on the other. Any interaction—just one second of clear, direct recognition through you or lens—is more than enough to complete your night. Your voice finds strength. Here we go.

Gaeul's completing a girl’s heart a few feet away from you. You're screaming her name, still as loud as two hours ago, even though the cracks occasionally show. She waves to someone holding up a Dal-e plush, giving them a thumbs up. The guy that’s been beside you throughout the show and now here shows her a sign with her face photoshopped on an orange in reference to some joke she made during one of her variety show appearances, and she laughs, pointing and asking if she can hold it for a photo. Afterward, her gaze shifts, and you can feel her eyes tilting in your direction. This is it—

But she snags right before you make direct eye contact. She stops on a dime and turns on her heel, walking away from your section slowly, waving to the crowd in the distance. Ouch.

But there's no time to react; Rei bounds in, smiling ear to ear. She high-fives a kid and pats her head, then does her signature aegyo for a fan holding up a sign saying he traveled from the Philippines to see her. Right there, dancing along the barrier, she's also just one glance away from finding you—but she doesn't. Much like Gaeul, she turns around and walks off, done with your section.

The pain doesn't register, at least not right away. Your smile quirks a tad. Hope flickers, but it isn't completely dead. Not until they're all saying goodbye and leaving the room. There's still four more chances. Surely.

The worst thing imaginable isn't about to happen—right.

Leeseo's next, still lively as ever, still infectiously beaming. She completes a heart from someone in the third row, pushing through a wall of bodies between her and the fan sandwiched in there. However, aside from her and doing a magic sign for someone behind you, that's pretty much it; she steps back and waves at the surrounding area, which someone feels intentionally hurtful since her gaze and flying kiss doesn't include you. Then like the other two before her, she proceeds to back away and spins on her heel returning to the center.

Still keeping distance, Wonyoung points and shoots. She blesses every fan with her gaze and her magic fingers. A girl holds up a sign asking her to make a wish since it's her birthday, and she stops. Closes her eyes and puts her hands together, mutters a little prayer, then she blows a magic candle for her. She then spots a fan in the fourth row holding up a peach-shaped sign with a picture of her and Yujin posing together during one of their fansigns. Yujin also finds them and joins her to recreate it. After sharing a laugh, Wonyoung spins away in the other direction.

At this point, you've all but given up. You've lowered the sign and raised a mental white flag. No matter how hard you scream their names, they don't hear you. No matter how much you wave your sign, it doesn't exist. In their eyes, you're like transparent glass they see right past.

You don't break, at least not completely. Your knees crumple as your heart splinters and fractures. The tears are barely held at bay out of fear that you might cause a scene. Not here. Not in front of several hundreds of strangers and your idols right there in an intimate, private setting like this, especially with all the phones. 

Two members remain. Yujin has moved to the back of the line to entertain what you can assume is an acquaintance or some friend, meaning Liz is up first. She blinks, waves tirelessly at every fan she can see. Someone dressed as her from one of her music videos (Elizabeth Helga Muller, obviously) catches her eye, and in a rare moment, she steps forward to pose with her. But it's quick and fleeting; she steps back just as quickly, and returns to waving at everyone within her line of sight. Even so, you appear invisible to her; she stops at a fan beside you, pointing out her face on the guy's shirt before taking her leave.

And finally, Yujin. Back to completing your section, she laughs at a sign held by a guy saying he's cray cray for her. She winks at another fan's camera, then shows off her toned, bare shoulder for good measure. The cheers climb a pitch higher, much to her amusement. You too, are screaming your lungs out; you don't know where this second wind came from. Desperation, most likely. Like if she doesn't find you within the next five seconds, you are probably gonna explode.

Nothing like that happens, obviously. But it doesn't hurt any fucking less. If she was holding a knife, then she twisted it into your heart, took it out, and stabbed you again for good measure.

So yeah. Of course she doesn't see you either.

The last thing she obliges to is a girl's request to say hi to a friend FaceTiming in from the fan's phone. Then she joins the others at the center to wave goodbye. They’ve been waving nonstop, fulfilling a few extra requests before her arrival makes them stop.

"Thank you all for coming! Safe travels everyone!" she yells out, met by a final roar of approval from the crowd. They seem to be more than ready to move on. One stop done; now it's onto the next schedule and beyond.

You don't see none of it, only hear how you've been nothing. That you were, in fact, nothing. There's no point in watching this slow trainwreck of a night unfold any further. No point in fighting the tears and exhaustion too. You've crumpled onto the barrier, your legs giving out and crying in silence, too tired to save face at this point. No one cares anyway. They're all busy celebrating their own wins to notice. No commiserations, no comfort—just a cold, brutal reminder that your best nights are just another day in the office for someone else.

It's never been so over.

"Are you okay?"

The voice is soft. Quiet. Almost lost as white noise in this sea of your own tears and pain.

You're drowning in your hurt to notice or respond.

"Are you okay?" it asks again. Then you feel a touch: gentle, faint, almost indiscernible—on your shoulder.

By instinct, you look up. Your eyes go wide. Yujin.

She’s right there—not gone, not at the center, but crouched on the opposite side of the barrier mere breaths away. She finds you, all wet and teary-eyed, as in, waterfalls streaming down your face, and her features have never looked this soft and tender, even when you've seen her at her most vulnerable. It's not performance anymore; it's the human side of her showing. Even the pillar that's shadowed your presence the entire time can't hide you now; you feel bare, open, exposed.

The other members have followed her too, their faces all equally gentle and concerned. They encircle themselves near the barrier. For you.

You sniffle, shake your head. The tears come faster now, and so does the shame and embarrassment. Of course you wanted your idols to see you—what fan wouldn't want to be seen—but not like this. With all the cameras and faces now watching this unfold, it feels like a spotlight has been thrust upon your very existence.

The crowd's energy has dimmed to a careful, reverent silence. Phones are still raised, carefully capturing the moment, but not a soul dares to raise their voice beyond a whisper. There's no demands, no interruption from any fan asking for more. People are telling each other to hush, to give space, to let you talk. That's how big a deal this is. The staff motions to the girls about the time, their schedule, but Yujin raises her hand and says to give them a few minutes.

"It's—okay," you manage to blurt, still shaking your head. Barely audible, like you're forcing your lungs just to get the words out. "You're already behind schedule—you should go—"

"It's fine," she says, facing you with that puppy smile. "We have time. All the time for you."

Gaeul steps forward, nodding in agreement. "We're not going anywhere. Not until we make this right."

"I'll be fine," you insist, wiping tears from your eyes, averting your gaze, your breaths coming in heavy. "You—you don't have to—"

"We want to," Rei cuts in gently. Still carrying her trademark joyful spark, even in this tense atmosphere. "And you're not fine. We can see that. You don't have to lie to us."

Though she sounds kind and soft to the ears, you wince. The wound is still fresh: how their gazes flicked past you every single time. This feels like a harsh course correction, something whispered to them at the last minute by staff or some other power for good PR—

"We missed you," Liz then chimes in, partially hidden behind Yujin's shoulder, but her eyes steadily linger on you. "During the concert. And here. We didn't see you. And we're sorry."

"You had a sign," Leeseo adds, sounding so tiny it feels like she's the one who needs comfort the most. "You were waving it hard—we just didn't see it. Fully."

"There was a pillar," you argue, sounding feeble in the hopes you can make them go away. Not because you hate them—sort of—but rather you don't know how you can properly handle this. "I didn't expect you to see—"

"We should have," Wonyoung interrupts, tilting her head. In a rare moment, she takes a couple of steps forward, the closest she's ever been to the barriers tonight. "It's our fault for not looking thoroughly. We're sorry."

"No, no," you insist, shaking your head a bit harsher this time. "It's not your fault—it's none of your fault—I'm just—nothing—"

"Stop." Wonyoung cuts in sharply again, firm but compassionate. Her smile isn't the usual elegant, royal mask, but something tender and raw. "You're not nothing, okay? You didn't do anything wrong. Ignoring you was our mistake."

"I can't—" you sob. "I don't think I deserve—"

Leeseo pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket, holds it out to wipe your eye. You allow her; gentle and warm and reassuring. The fans around you have stepped back when the other girls touch the barrier. It's not staff making the command, but their own doing: voluntary and of their own accord.

"I'm not that special—" you insist, taking Leeseo's handkerchief to clean your face; it doesn't work. "I'm nobody. You didn't have to do all this for me—"

"Don't say that," Yujin softly chimes in. "You're our Dive. You're special to us."

"Besides, everyone else here got their moment," Rei adds, caressing your cheek. "Why shouldn’t you?"

All you can do is cry into the handkerchief while the girls softly reassure and comfort you with their delicate touches and overall warmth. No one steps in, not a fan, not the staff. Wonyoung waves them off with her mere stare to let them stay a few moments longer. 

Liz sees the sign lazily resting on your sneakers. You’ve been drowning in your sorrow to realize it’s clattered onto the ground.

"Is that—" she points out, but your eyes tilt down and catch it before she can finish. You hastily pick it up and hide it.

"The sign," Leeseo mutters out, her gaze now drawn to it tucked under your arm. "Can we see it? Please?"

Your face feels like it's been set alight. You hesitate. "It's—stupid. Everyone had cleaner, more memorable signs. Mine is just—embarrassing—"

"Don't be like that," Wonyoung says. "Please. We want to see it."

The room holds its breath. Someone near you mutters show them. For a few moments, the world stops. Waits for what you will do.

So you pull it out. Reluctantly, presenting the sign face forward. You're not an artist (never were); it was made with middle school arts and crafts and held together by prayers. The message itself is simple and in Korean, but they carry what you've been wanting to say for years: 

You make my universe spin. Thank you for coming here.

And beneath it, in smaller text but no less important: 

Please give me a heart <3

They read. Take their sweet time to process every word again and again until their gazes flicker to you, tensely holding it up and waiting. 

"How long have you been waiting for us?" Yujin suddenly asks.

"Four years," you say, blunt and to the point. You could tell them you missed the first world tour because it never came anywhere close. That you had to watch the concert film off some camrip online because it wasn't screened in any theater either. That this country can barely get foreign artists to perform here, let alone K-pop acts, much less a group with their popularity and status. But those two words alone are more than enough to convey years of tireless patience and yearning.

"Thank you," she says, after a pause. "Thank you for waiting for us. And we're sorry. For ignoring you. We didn't realize—"

"I know," you interrupt, holding her hand when in reality, it should be the complete opposite. "And you don't have to apologize. Like I said, I'm nobody. And there were so many people”  —you sigh— “I guess I let my expectations get the best of me—"

"Stop," Gaeul interrupts gently. "That doesn't matter. We should have seen you. You're not a nobody. You waited for so long. Cheered and screamed for us when we finally performed for you. That means the world."

Leeseo makes a heart, as what was written on the sign, but her face looks like it's on the verge of breaking. "You deserve to be seen like everyone else. And we couldn't do that. We're so sorry."

Wonyoung bows slightly. Liz's hands are pressed on her heart. Rei's hands are folded together. Gaeul lowers her head. Leeseo’s still making a heart with her hands. You can feel genuine remorse through their subtle actions. Of course you'll forgive; they’re still human—but you're still under the impression that you don't deserve this—that they're wasting their precious time for something as small as this.

Yujin looks at her members, then back to you. "What can we do for you? A selfie? A video? Tell us. Whatever you want. Please let us make it right for you."

You shake your head. The tears have dried up. You're ready to let go. "It's fine. You don't have to—"

"We want to," Rei interrupts. There's a certainty behind her voice, like she won't take no for an answer. "Everyone had their moment. So should you."

"The send-off is over," you argue otherwise. "You're already behind schedule. Staff are already waiting impatiently.” Your gaze flickers to the staff waiting close by, seemingly indifferent but you can imagine how annoyed they are. “You should be going by now. Seeing you up close" —you sniffle— "was more than enough. I can try again next time."

A pause. Then Wonyoung speaks:

"I promise, we really want to make it up to you. You're not forcing us or anything like that. We chose to come back. We want you to have your moment. With us." 

"No one should leave feeling empty-handed or feeling like they don't belong," Rei adds. "Not a single fan."

"We love you as much as everyone else," Liz says. "We want you here. You deserve to be here."

"Don't do something you’ll regret," Gaeul states, and her words just break you. Not in a crushing way, but in a manner that feels like a weight being lifted off your shoulder.

So you fall apart again; the tears come rushing back out once more. "I'm sorry—I don't think I deserve this—"

Leeseo lunges forward to pull you into a hug. The members try to stop her, but quickly relent. The crowd makes a collective gasp before they fall into silence once again. Staff try to intervene, but Wonyoung catches them with her stare, so they too, step back.

"You do," Leeseo mutters against your ear. "You're our Dive. You deserve the world."

Yujin's hand rests over your shoulder before gently patting you on the head. "You cheered so hard for us. Waited so long to see us. The least we can do is give that love back even a fraction, knowing we can never fully reciprocate it."

"We're not gonna rush or leave," Liz adds, like she's read your mind and knows what you're about to say. Her hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "They can wait. We can wait. Right now, our time is yours."

And they stay. A few minutes, maybe the next half hour—you're not checking the time—but they really, truly stay. Even when you deny them again twice, thrice—they insist. Saying the same assurances over and over: that you deserve to have the same experience as everyone else. That no amount of refusing can ever get them to change their mind. That you matter. Your feelings matter, and they are all valid.

"Just so you know, we're just as stubborn as you," Rei quips, smirking lightly that you can't help but chuckle a little. The crowd even laughs a little, proving just how much of a mood setter she is. "But go. Cry all night if you must. We'll be here. Until you’re ready."

Eventually, you concede. The last of your fight finally dies, and with it, your resistance. You try to return the handkerchief to Leeseo, crumpled in your hand, but she nudges it back. You tell her you're done crying. 

"Keep it," she says with her soft, wide beam. "So that you can remember tonight. The good and bad parts, but mostly the good parts."

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you genuinely smile.

"I—I want to take those photos now."

The girls' faces light up like the skies have parted.

You're still sobbing when you hand over your phone. Rei gestures to a staff member to take the picture. She voluntarily goes first. Standing beside you while the others give way, she pokes your cheek again while readying herself for the shot. Her transformation into idol mode is almost instantaneous. 

"You're not smiling wide enough," she mutters against your ear, her breath suddenly feeling hot against your skin.

"I'm trying," you answer, "I mean, broken heart and all—"

She doesn't listen; rather she covertly slips a finger behind your back. Nudges you, at a ticklish spot near your ribs to force a giggle right the moment they snap the photo.

"Dude!" you blurt out right after, facing Rei with a face that seems more annoyed than angry, but in a good way. She grins; teasing, mischievous, intentional. The air in the room shifts to something lighter, more serene. The girls smile watching you interact.

All is right, however, when you take a proper photo the second time. She pokes her cheeks while you hover by her side, never feeling more awkward in your life.

Next up is Leeseo. Her energy is a bit more subdued, but infectious nonetheless. Remembering the sign, she asks you to make a heart; you oblige, and she mirrors the gesture, pressing your heads together.

Yujin goes third. She opts for a cool pose; she slings her arm around your neck, and you can feel how toned and strong she actually is. At the last second, she sticks out her tongue right as the camera snaps the photo. She cups your face and reassures you one more time that you're loved before pulling away.

Wonyoung hovers by the barrier, the closest she'll ever get to touching you—or any fan for that matter. She pouts her lips for the picture, punctuated with a wink and she makes them the most graceful things imaginable. Then before stepping back, she blows a kiss directly in your face, and your heart jumps.

Liz shyly steps into the frame, hands folded together. You're more than fine with that. The photo is quick, but she mutters a soft, sincere 'Thank you' and 'We see you' before retreating. As she makes way for Gaeul, Rei jokingly calls out to her: "C'mon. That's it? No pose, no nothing?" And she laughs. Heartily. Liz motions a thumbs up in your direction that you meet with a little chuckle, and she's more than satisfied.

Finally, for Gaeul, she stands close to you. She eases you into the shot with small, rapid-fire questions: what’s your favorite B-side, what's your favorite performance of the night, who's your bias; she laughs when you tell her she's your bias and your favorite solo is Odd, because she knows you're lying but won’t explicitly admit that. She asks if she can hold up your sign for the photo, and you happily oblige. You also take one shot where your hands complete a heart for good measure.

It doesn't matter you've been framemogged into oblivion; you'll cherish every photo for the rest of your life. 

But as you think you're done, Yujin makes one more suggestion:

"One last photo. With all of us."

No one argues. They arrange themselves in their usual positions, with you flanked between Wonyoung and Yujin at the center. Wonyoung quietly hovers beside you, reminding you to smile, that it looks good on you. Liz does a simple peace sign. Leeseo sneakily makes a pair of bunny ears over your head. Gaeul pulls the group close to the point where you can feel them all brushing against you. And Rei, unsurprisingly, goes for your sensitive spot again.

"Say I-ting!" Yujin yells out, and the room echoes in unison, including the crowd itself.

Click.

The photo is taken. The phone is given back to Rei, who hands it back to you for all to see. You're smiling. Wide. True, genuine joy. It's the best photo of the entire night. You don't know how this will make for a wallpaper or lockscreen, given that it was shot horizontally, but you'll figure out how.

The staff that took the photos gestures to them again. "Girls. Time," is all he says, and reality has come to bring you back down to earth.

They nod. Understand immediately. Time stops for no one. Life goes on.

"One more time, we have to say sorry," Yujin says. "For missing you. For making you feel invisible. That's on us."

"You don't have to apologize," you reply, sniffling a little. "I don't—I don't deserve this—"

"You do," Wonyoung reiterates. "You absolutely do."

"You've given us more grace than we deserve," Gaeul states. "For that, we are so thankful."

"Thank you for being gracious," Liz adds. "For giving us a chance to make it right."

"No one should leave feeling like they're neglected or invisible," Rei chimes in. "That includes you."

"We won't forget tonight," Leeseo says. "Especially you. Please remember us fondly."

You simply nod. There's nothing left to say, because you're done fighting. And for the first time in a while, your heart starts beating again. "I will."

Yujin holds your hand. She looks right between your eyes. "Next time. Next show you go to, tell us in advance. We'll find you first."

You gulp your throat. Hope is a dangerous thing. What if they don’t come back. What if you never see them again. What if—

But you’re hoping anyway. "Promise?"

She smiles. Not the idol type that's been practiced countless times, but the genuine, tired kind. Her pinky finger intertwines with yours.

"Promise."

The girls step away for good. The daze is starting to break. They're all kind, gentle smiles and apologetic bows as they wave goodbye.

"Thank you for being our Dive," Yujin mutters, holding your hand a bit tighter before finally letting go and joining the others.

Once more, the girls gather at the center of the lounge. The way the crowd erupts is like a beast finally unfettered from its restraints: raw, awe-inspiring, earth shattering. They're waving goodbye for real this time. However, there's one key difference: when they turn in your direction, at your section, they pause. Make sure you're in their line of sight. The intent is clearer: it’s specifically for you. 

Wonyoung blows one more kiss. Gaeul nods slightly. Leeseo makes one more heart. Rei prods your cheek from afar. Liz puts her hands together close to her heart and bows slightly. Yujin mouths something you can't quite hear, but you can read her lips: We see you. We love you. A tear escapes your eye, but you're waving back. The fire is brighter than ever.

And finally, they file out. The night is well and truly over.

Around you, people are buzzing. Not just with their own interactions, but praising the true nature of the idols they have seen with their own eyes. People who truly live up to the title. The kindest, most genuine souls who deserve everything. 

More importantly, they're celebrating you. Hugs, claps, cheers, pats on the back. People are asking to airdrop or share the photos taken, sending their own POVs of how these six women came back and saved you. Your win is their win too.

From being nothing to becoming the man of the hour. It's overwhelming.

The feeling hasn't fully sunk in. Even with all the evidence on your phone, the last ten or so minutes were like a dream. But the tears, the catharsis—they were all real.

It's almost midnight by the time you make it out of the venue. The girls are likely on their way to the airport now. Even after everything, your best night is simply that: another schedule, another stop on a never-ending grind.

It doesn't make the feeling any less magical.

They really came back. Just for you.

When the realization comes, you can't help but cry. But they are no longer tears of pain, but complete, fulfilling joy.

—————

(A/N: hey so can't you tell i still haven't moved on yet

happy one month show what i am! saw they added kitsch back to the set as an encore track in macau and i fell to my knees at walmart 3 and that's on top of fireworks being a japan exclusive song too. agh the pain of being a sea fan lmaoooo

“We would like to inform you about the status of ITZY member Lia’s health and her future activities…”

“…we decided that Lia will not participate in scheduled activities starting from today and will take a break for the time being to focus on her treatment.”

It was a simple statement of facts “Lia is going on Hiatus until further notice” there was no drama in the wording. That made it worse. Because for everyone outside the group, it was news. But for ITZY, it was a rupture, for Yeji, Ryujin, Chaeryeong, and Yuna— they were as clueless as to Lia’s condition as MIDZY was.

Yeji reads it a second time, and then a third time. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand, but because she did. She is the leader, but the title suddenly feels meaningless when she realizes she had been kept in the dark too. Yet despite the feeling of betrayal running in her blood at that moment, there was only one question that kept running on repeat within the confines of her mind: “How long was Lia carrying this alone?”

It wasn’t even hours after the announcement and inside the dorm— the dynamic shifts immediately. No one said anything related to the topic out loud, the members were already affected by the sudden news, and everyone was already walking on eggshells.

Ryujin wasn’t loud or subtle about it. She started to withdraw emotionally, distant in ways that feel intentional. Chaeryeong became more careful with her words, she was already fragile from her own internal conflicts and with becoming informed of Lia’s hiatus— as if the slightest mistake might shatter whatever fragile balance remained. Yuna kept a façade. She talked more than usual, as if believing that overcompensating would make up for Lia’s absence or would bring her back sooner, but that only felt like a noise filling in empty space. Words that believe they were hiding a pain with loudness instead. Yeji just stops sleeping, questioning herself as the leader her group deserves to have. Running back anything in her mind to what she could’ve missed that would have hinted to the pain Lia hid from everyone else.

The comeback cycle does not stop. The industry demands continuation even as if nothing has changed. The managers were hesitant on the day to announce to them about the upcoming comeback, and its name was bitterly ironic— BORN TO BE. As if the company was hinting that the group was about to be reborn as four. Every schedule felt heavier the passing day. Every rehearsal slightly longer. Evert crack within the members slightly more noticeable.

Every crack within the members became slightly more noticeable. Not all at once— that would have been easier to confront. It happened in smaller ways. A missed laugh here, a delayed response there. A water bottle left untouched after rehearsal because no one remembered who it belonged to anymore. The practice room became the first place where Lia’s absence stopped being an announcement and started becoming a shape. One empty space in the formation, adjusted by the choreographer with professional efficiency, as if rearranging bodies could make the loss feel smaller.

“Again, from the second verse,” the choreographer called.

No one complained. Ryujin wiped the sweat from her neck and returned to position without a word. Chaeryeong nodded too quickly, already apologizing under her breath before she had even made a mistake. Yuna smiled at the mirror, bright and practiced, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Yeji stood at the center.

“Music.” The track started again. They moved like professionals because that was what they were— Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Four bodies forcing themselves to fill a space that used to belong to five. For the first few counts, it almost worked. Then Chaeryeong’s foot landed half a beat late. She caught herself immediately. “Sorry.” No one blamed her. That made her look even more ashamed. “It’s fine,” Yeji said quickly. Too quickly. “Again.” The choreographer glanced at the clock. “You’ve been at this for hours. Take five first.”

“I’m okay,” Yeji answered, she didn’t ask the others.

Ryujin looked at her through the mirror, expression unreadable. For a second, it looked like she wanted to say something. Instead, she turned away and reached for her towel. Yuna clapped once, too loudly. “We’re almost there! It’s fine, right? We just need to clean it a little more.”

Her voice bounced against the walls and came back thinner. Chaeryeong only nodded.

The music played again. And again. And again. By the time the staff finally called the rehearsal over, the room smelled of sweat, floor cleaner, and exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix because sleep was no longer the problem. One by one, they packed their things. Yuna was still talking as she zipped her bag, asking if anyone wanted convenience store snacks, if they should order food, if they should maybe watch something funny back at the dorm. She kept offering pieces of normal life like she was handing out bandages.

No one really answered. Chaeryeong smiled anyway, small and tired “Maybe later.” Ryujin slung her bag over one shoulder “I’m going ahead”. She didn’t wait for anyone to respond. The door closed behind her. For a moment, the room was quiet. Then Yeji walked back to the center of the floor. Chaeryeong noticed first “Unnie?” Yeji didn’t even look back to Chaeryeong “I’ll just run it once more". Yuna’s smile faltered. “But we’re done". Yeji faced the mirror “I know, just one more.” No one believed her. But no one stopped her either. That became the pattern, not because they didn’t care. Because everyone was too tired to know what caring was supposed to look like anymore.

The dorm was quieter now than it had ever been before, it wasn’t a peaceful silence either. The television stayed on most nights without anyone truly watching it. Variety shows played into empty space while half-finished drinks gathered on the table beside unopened delivery containers that had long gone cold. The members moved around each other carefully, like people afraid of making too much noise in a room already filled with tension. It became normal to hear footsteps at three in the morning. Sometimes it was Chaeryeong walking into the kitchen for water she barely drank before returning to her room. Sometimes it was Ryujin sitting alone on the couch in the dark with her phone face-down beside her, not scrolling, not sleeping either. Yuna filled silence whenever she could, but even she slowly started running out of things to say. And Yeji— she stopped pretending she slept at all.

At first, it was subtle enough to hide behind makeup and schedules. Dark circles covered by stylists who were paid to make exhaustion invisible. Energy drinks appearing more frequently beside practice notes. Longer moments staring blankly at mirrors before someone called her name and she snapped back into herself. But exhaustion always collects interest eventually.

One night after rehearsal, Yuna fell asleep sitting upright against the side of the couch, head tilted awkwardly with her phone still in her hand. The television cast pale blue light across the dorm while rain tapped quietly against the windows outside. Chaeryeong had already gone to bed. Ryujin emerged from the hallway with damp hair and an oversized shirt hanging loosely over her frame. She slowed when she saw Yuna asleep. Then she noticed Yeji who was still awake. Still sitting at the dining table, papers spread out in front of her. Schedule sheets, notes, performance breakdowns, handwritten reminders layered over company printouts until it all blurred together into meaningless clutter.

Ryujin leaned against the wall. “You’re still doing that?”

Yeji didn’t look up immediately. “Mm.”

RY: It’s two in the morning.

YJ: We have recording tomorrow.

RY: We always have something tomorrow.

Yeji finally glanced up, tired eyes meeting Ryujin’s for only a second before dropping back to the papers. “I know.” Ryujin observed her leader— that was becoming normal too. Not arguments. Not concern spoken aloud. Just observation. The kind people did when they noticed something getting worse but didn’t know where to place their hands without accidentally breaking it further.

“You missed dinner again,” Ryujin said eventually. “I ate earlier" Yeji said unconvincingly. Ryujin socffed at her “You’re a terrible liar.” That almost earned a smile. Almost. Yeji rubbed her eyes instead. “Why are you awake?” Ryujin shrugged lightly. “Couldn’t sleep.” Neither of them acknowledged how often that answer had started appearing lately. Rain continued tapping softly against the glass. For a while, neither spoke. Then Ryujin walked closer to the table, gaze drifting across the papers scattered there.

“You reorganized the rehearsal schedule?”

“The spacing was off,” Yeji muttered.

Ryujin frowned slightly. “You know that’s the staff’s job, right?”

“If I can make things easier for everyone, then why not?”

The answer came too fast. Too automatic.

Ryujin’s eyes lingered on her longer this time. There it is, she thought. That isn't leadership anymore, it was compensation. Yeji was trying to carry everything now. The performances. The atmosphere. The morale. The silence. Lia’s absence. The pressure of making sure four people still looked complete under stage lights designed for five. And the frightening part was how naturally she was accepting it. Ryujin pulled out the chair beside her and sat down without asking. Yeji blinked. “What are you doing?” Ryujin just sat there looking at her phone.

“Keeping you company.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Another silence settled between them.

A silience that showed tiredness no one wanted to say outloud. The kind built between people too exhausted to perform normality anymore.

Ryujin leaned back slightly, arms folded loosely across her chest. “You know none of us blame you, right?” Yeji’s hand stopped moving.

Only for a second— then she continued reorganizing papers that no longer needed reorganizing. “I know,” she said softly. But Ryujin could tell from the way her shoulders tightened that she didn’t believe it at all.

After that, the days started losing their shape. Morning schedules bled into evening rehearsals. Airport terminals became more familiar than the dorm itself. Staff voices, countdowns, makeup touch-ups, stage cues— everything eventually merged together into one endless routine of movement and noise. The comeback preparations consumed them completely. At some point, meals stopped becoming something shared. Food turned into half-finished containers left around the dorm table for whoever remembered they were hungry first. Energy drinks appeared more frequently than water bottles. Sleep became something negotiated between schedules instead of something naturally expected at the end of the day. And somehow, despite everything— BORN TO BE was successful.

That was the strange part. The stages trended online. The performances were praised. Fans admired how stable they looked despite continuing as four. Articles called them resilient. Strong. Professional. Yeji started quietly hating those words. Because strong people were expected to continue. Strong people didn’t get to stop. The practice room mirrors reflected the proof of that every night.

Sometimes Yuna still tried to hold the atmosphere together. Small jokes thrown into rehearsals. Dramatic reactions exaggerated just enough to make the others laugh for a few seconds. Sometimes she would intentionally mess up choreography near Chaeryeong just to hear her complain and smile at the same time. But even Yuna’s energy started fading around the edges eventually. The louder she became, the easier it was to notice how exhausted she really looked afterward.

Ryujin changed more subtly.She stopped joking during rehearsals as much. Stopped teasing staff members between takes. Stopped reaching for conversation unless someone else started it first. Instead, she observed.

Yeji staying behind after rehearsals. She even rereads schedules during van rides. Yeji would answer questions before managers could. She started apologizing for things that weren’t her fault. The frightening part was how natural it all started looking.

Even Chaeryeong adapted to it eventually. Her apologies became automatic. “Sorry" would slip out of her constantly now. Sorry for mistakes. Sorry for delays. Sorry for being tired. Sorry for forgetting things. One night Ryujin counted seven apologies in less than ten minutes before silently giving up halfway through. No one pointed it out anymore.

The schedules only became worse after promotions began. Interviews blurred together into identical rooms and repeated questions. Hotel hallways all started looking the same. Some nights the members fell asleep still wearing partial stage makeup because nobody had enough energy left to finish removing it properly. And through all of it, Yeji continued moving forward like someone terrified of what would happen if she slowed down even once.

The world tour started not long after— despite all four of them not wanting to tour without Lia, but it was the company's choice. That was when the isolation truly settled in. Airports, security escorts, fans screaming loud enough to shake the walls outside terminals. Then silence again the moment hotel doors closed behind them. Different country, a different room. But the same exhaustion. The members spent more time together than almost anyone else in their lives yet somehow began feeling further apart emotionally with each passing month.

Conversations became shorter. Everyone started saying “I’m okay” too quickly. There were nights where the only sounds inside hotel rooms were television noise and the humming of air conditioning units running too cold. One evening somewhere halfway through the tour, Yuna fell asleep during hair and makeup while staff members quietly continued working around her. Nobody laughed. Not because it wasn’t endearing. Because everyone else looked one bad day away from doing the same thing.

Another time, Chaeryeong burst into tears in the middle of rehearsal after forgetting choreography she had already practiced dozens of times. The crying itself seemed to scare her more than the mistake did. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating through uneven breaths. “I know it already, I don’t know why I can’t—”

Yeji hugged her immediately. Too immediately. Like it was instinctually her responsibility as the leader instead of as a friend. Like if she held everyone together tightly enough, maybe nothing else would fall apart.

Ryujin watched from the side of the room, jaw tightening slightly. Because even then— even exhausted, even emotionally drowning herself Yeji still only knew how to become stronger for everyone else first.

The tour continued anyway. That became the answer to everything eventually. Fatigue, homesickness, and silence. The answer was always the same: Keep moving.

Country after country blurred together until the members stopped remembering where certain memories came from. Hotel ceilings changed shapes but never atmosphere. Waiting rooms stayed cold no matter what city they were in. Staff members rotated in shifts while ITZY continued existing in the strange in-between state of constantly being seen and never truly perceived.

The performances remained good. That was the unsettling part of it— maybe even better than before. There was a desperation hidden inside them now that audiences mistook for passion. Every movement sharper. Every stage heavier. Every expression carrying an intensity that translated beautifully under lights and cameras while slowly hollowing them out behind the scenes. People praised their professionalism constantly.

Yeji learned to smile every time she heard it. Somewhere during the middle stretch of the tour, Ryujin stopped trying to convince Yeji to rest. Not because she stopped caring. Because she realized Yeji no longer knew how. Instead, she started staying nearby. Sometimes beside her during flights while Yeji reorganized schedules she had no responsibility handling herself. Sometimes sitting silently in rehearsal rooms long after staff members left. Sometimes awake at four in the morning in hotel kitchens where neither of them touched the food sitting between them. No dramatic conversations ever happened. That somehow made it sadder.

Chaeryeong became more emotionally careful over time. She watched everyone closely now before speaking, as if constantly measuring the emotional temperature of every room she entered. The more exhausted everyone became, the more she shrank herself instinctively trying not to become another problem someone else needed to carry.

Yuna noticed it too. So, she compensated harder. Louder reactions. Brighter smiles. More touching. More attempts at pulling everyone together during meals and backstage downtime. Sometimes she would drag the members into group selfies nobody really had energy for anymore just because she missed how things used to feel. Most of those pictures still ended up online. Fans called them cute. None of the members had the heart to say those moments usually ended in silence seconds later.

Then eventually— Lia came back. There was no dramatic reunion. No tears the moment the door opened. No emotional release powerful enough to undo over a year of accumulated exhaustion. Just hesitation and carefulness. The strange awkwardness of people trying desperately to return to a version of themselves that no longer existed in quite the same way anymore.

The first rehearsal as five again felt unfamiliar. Not wrong. Just unfamiliar. Everyone kept looking at Lia like they were trying to reassure themselves she was actually there. Lia noticed the changes immediately. Yeji smiling too quickly whenever someone asked if she was okay. Chaeryeong apologizing before speaking. Yuna filling every silence before it could fully settle. Ryujin watching everyone constantly while pretending she wasn’t. And beneath all of it— exhaustion. Not temporary exhaustion. The kind that settled deep enough into people that they started mistaking survival for normalcy.

Lia carried guilt for it almost instantly. Not because anyone blamed her. That was the problem— nobody blamed her at all. Which somehow made her feel worse. The group slowly adjusted again after her return. Interviews became easier as five. Formations looked complete again. Fans celebrated the feeling of wholeness returning to ITZY after months of uncertainty.

Then GOLD happened, the first comeback as five— and publicly, everything finally looked fixed. The performances were stable again. The group chemistry looked natural during promotions. Variety appearances felt lighter. Smiles came easier on camera now that Lia was back beside them. To everyone outside the group, ITZY looked recovered. That illusion became dangerously convincing. Because even the members themselves slowly started believing it sometimes.

Until the cameras turned off and schedules ended. Until the dorm lights dimmed and exhaustion settled back into their bodies like something permanent waiting patiently for morning to come again.

Yeji got worse quietly. Not visibly enough for headlines. Not dramatically enough for intervention. Just small things. Skipping meals more often. Falling asleep sitting upright. Longer silences. Forgetting conversations midway through them. One night Lia found her asleep at the dining table with schedule papers still clutched loosely in her hand. Another time Yuna realized Yeji had been wearing the same ring on the wrong finger for nearly three days without noticing. Ryujin started looking at her with poorly hidden concern now. Even Chaeryeong noticed. But inside ITZY, concern had long since evolved into adaptation. Everyone saw the damage and nobody knew what to do with it anymore.

With the volatility that had long been noticed but never truly addressed beginning to surface more openly between the five of them, someone else eventually started noticing too. Not management. Not staff members. Someone who understood the difference between temporary exhaustion and the kind that settled into people slowly enough for them to stop recognizing it themselves.

(Jihyo's POV): I had seen this before, not in the exact same shape. But close enough, it was the close enough to the time where my own group imploded within itself to threaten the very existence of TWICE, my TWICE. The first time I truly noticed it was during a music show waiting room sometime during GOLD promotions. ITZY was laughing about something Yuna said when she passed by the open door with one of the managers beside her.

At first glance, everything looked normal. That was the problem. Years in the industry had taught me how to recognize when idols became too good at pretending. Yeji smiled through conversations half a second too late now. Ryujin kept scanning the room whenever silence settled for too long. Chaeryeong looked like she apologized with her eyes before words even reached her mouth. Lia had the careful attentiveness of someone trying to make up for an absence nobody blamed her for. And Yuna— Yuna looked exhausted in the way only people trying the hardest to appear energetic usually did.

I didn’t say anything that day, I couldn’t but after that, I started paying attention. Small things became difficult to ignore once she noticed them.

Yeji falling asleep during downtime between recordings.

Ryujin lingering nearby afterward instead of waking her immediately.

Chaeryeong quietly checking everyone else’s mood before speaking during group interviews.

The way the members looked relieved whenever schedules ended early, not because they were lazy, but because they genuinely seemed unable to process another hour being added onto the day.

It reminded me too much of something I recognized. The dangerous stage of exhaustion where functioning became so normal that nobody realized how badly things had deteriorated anymore. And once I recognized it— I couldn’t stop seeing it. At first, I was going to tackle it alone. But there was only little I could do by myself. But I remembered I had someone with me. Perhaps I could talk to John with my concerns, technically this is part of the job description of our managerial boyfriend.

(John's POV): It was the night before MISAMO left for Japan again. HAUTE COUTURE promotions overseas always shifted the atmosphere slightly within the dorms. Different schedules. Different pacing. Different forms of chaos. For once, it also meant the rest of us would finally have room to breathe again after months of nonstop movement. At least, that had been my plan before Sana decided otherwise.

“You’re thinking too much again” her voice came muffled against my neck while she remained comfortably tangled against me beneath the sheets, both of our bodies completely free from any form of clothing and she unconcerned with the fact that I was still trying to organize schedules on my phone moments earlier.

J: I’m literally doing my job. SN: You stopped looking at your phone ten minutes ago. J: …That’s not the point. SN: It kind of is.

I felt her smile against my skin before she shifted closer purely to annoy me further. Typical. The room itself was dim outside the soft lamp near the bedside table. Comfortable silence settled naturally between us in the way it only could after years of familiarity. Sana always had a strange ability to pull people out of their own heads whether they wanted her to or not. Usually against their will.

J: You’re going to Japan tomorrow SN: Mhm. J: And instead of sleeping— SN: I wanted attention. J: That sounds like a “you” problem. SN: It became your problem when you started dating me. J: Fair point.

“Now be a good boy for me” Sana’s mood changed like clockwork, it was as simple as flipping a switch. She gave me a quick peck on the lips before going down to my neck, then giving my chest a few bite marks “Something to remember me by when I’m in Japan” her giggled showed more of a territorial side than clingy. I decided to meet her halfway— directly flipping her over to have me be the one on top this time. “Let’s make every second count then” I whispered in her ear as the tip of my already erect cock was rubbing the around the folds of her already wet entrance, to which Sana stared at me showing that she didn’t need to say anything to let me know what she wanted.

She cooed in pleasure the moment she felt me enter her. I took my time to make sure she felt me inch by inch. Though I didn’t give her time to settle into anything. The moment I was full length inside her I pulled out leaving only the tip left inside, and before Sana could say anything in protest— I slammed my entire length going back inside in an instant. This gave Sana a jolt of extreme pleasure enough that for a very split moment it cause her to black out before instantly regaining consciousness. She was very used to me making love to her gently and her very sexual nature wasn’t opposed to it, but she loved it more when I was extra rough with her and since she was going to leave for a while I wanted to make sure to give a little extra treatment the way she likes it.

The change of pace was enough to make Sana reach her the near of her climax faster than normal, and I was still sensitive from earlier which worked in my favor— almost. The feeling of Sana’s walls hugging around my shaft as the tip kissed the entranced to her cervix was stimulation to much for me, it led me to finish first the feeling of pleasure overwhelming me to a point where I stopped moving as globs of my cum flooded Sana’s insides. The feeling of her insides being filled to the brim with my seed was enough to push her to orgasm as well, her insides contracted simultaneously around my already sensitive cock prolonging the rush of pleasure both of us felt.

I slowly pulled out of her and the cum started to escape out of her pussy “Oh wow, if we keep this up I might actually get knocked up, oppa” she looked at me with awe while rubbing her abs. “Dear God, Sana. It’s not like I’m against it, but we all know what’s going to happen to me if that does.” I laughed while falling on the bed with her right next to me “Either PD-nim is going to personally murder you, the rest of the members, or the wave of angry fans” Sana giggled as she slowly led her mouth to my already soft member as she tried to spring it back to life.

Then there was a knock on the door, and before I could tell whoever was on the other side to wait, they already opened the it "Aishh— I feel like we already did this before" as Jihyo looked at the sight of me in the bed. Sana was covered underneath the sheets not stopping despite being caught, her head kept bobbing without the slightest care of being caught. She was about to leave for a while— being seen by someone from the other eight whom she shared me was not Sana's concern.

"I'm borrowing John for a bit after you, there's something I need to talk to him about" Jihyo said in a serious tone as she told Sana who still didn't stop, her only confirmation was her hand leaving the sheets forming the okay hand sign.

Jihyo only stared at the two of us for a moment longer before rubbing tiredly at her forehead. “You know, normal couples would at least pretend to be embarrassed.” Sana finally resurfaced just enough to grin lazily at her. “That sounds judgmental.”

JH: That’s because it is. SN: It’s not my fault he’s cute. JH: You literally say that about all nine of us. SN: And I mean it every single time.

Jihyo sighed deeply, though the corner of her mouth still twitched upward slightly despite herself. The atmosphere inside the room remained warm in the familiar way it always became whenever the members naturally drifted around each other. Comfortable. Chaotic. Intimate without effort. It reminded me how different things felt now compared to years ago. Which was why the expression lingering behind Jihyo’s eyes stood out almost immediately. Sana noticed it too. Her teasing softened first. “…Something happened?” Jihyo hesitated. And that alone was enough to tell me this wasn’t casual concern. The room grew quieter afterward.

Sana slowly sat up properly beneath the sheets this time, finally giving Jihyo her full attention while I reached over to mute the television still playing softly in the background. For a few seconds, only silence remained. Then Jihyo finally spoke. “It’s ITZY.” That got my attention immediately. Not because the topic itself was surprising. Because of the way she said it. Carefully. Like she had already spent weeks trying to convince herself she was overthinking it before finally deciding she wasn’t. Jihyo moved further into the room before sitting near the edge of the bed, arms folding loosely across herself. “I think something’s wrong with them.” Sana frowned slightly. “Wrong how?” Jihyo exhaled quietly. “I don’t know if I can explain it properly. They’re functioning too well.” Neither of us interrupted her. Because we understood exactly what she meant. “They remind me too much of us back then,” she admitted softly. “Not publicly. Privately.”

The warmth inside the room dimmed slightly after that. I leaned back against the headboard slowly while listening as Jihyo explained everything she had been noticing for months now. Yeji pushing herself too hard. Ryujin watching everyone constantly. Chaeryeong growing smaller emotionally. Yuna overcompensating. Lia carrying guilt nobody blamed her for. And beneath all of it— exhaustion that had stopped looking temporary a long time ago. By the time Jihyo finished talking, Sana’s expression had completely lost its earlier playfulness.

“…That bad?” she asked quietly. Jihyo nodded once. I stayed silent longer than either of them liked. Because the truth was— I had noticed pieces of it too. Not enough to fully understand the situation from a distance, but enough to recognize the pattern forming underneath everything Jihyo described. And patterns like that rarely resolved cleanly on their own. “That kind of exhaustion changes people,” I said eventually. Jihyo looked at me carefully. “I know.” I added “And if nobody steps in early enough, they normalize it” which Jihyo shared my concern “That’s what I’m scared of.” The room fell quiet again.

Sana shifted closer beside me instinctively, her hand resting lightly against my arm while she listened. I already knew where the conversation was heading before Jihyo asked the question. “Can we help them?” I exhaled slowly through my nose. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I understood exactly how complicated the answer was. Emotional dependency inside this industry was dangerous. Lines blurred too easily when people spent too long isolated from normality. Support became attachment before anyone realized it was happening. And once that happened— things stopped being simple. Jihyo knew that too. Which was why she looked nervous asking me in the first place. For a long while, none of us spoke.

Then eventually, I ran a hand down my face before reaching toward the bedside table for my phone. “I know the right guy,” I muttered quietly. Jihyo’s posture straightened slightly. “He’s good at reading people. Better than anyone I know, honestly.” I glanced down at the dark screen in my hand for a moment before continuing. “But whether he agrees to this or not is completely up to him.” Sana tilted her head slightly. “That friend of yours?” I only nodded while reaching for my phone. “The psychology major who psychoanalyzed you in ten minutes?” Sana tilted her head in curiosity, “He was right about me, unfortunately.” That almost earned a small laugh from Jihyo. Almost.

I unlocked my phone slowly. “Even if he says yes,” I said carefully, “this doesn’t magically fix anything. And if this goes wrong—” “I know,” Jihyo interrupted softly. No optimism. No naïve expectations.

That made this harder somehow. I stared at the contact for another second before finally pressing call. The line rang once. Twice. Then:

“John?” a calm voice answered from the other side. I closed my eyes briefly “…Hey, Ben.”

(Ben's POV): I frowned slightly at my phone before leaning back deeper into the couch. “You usually only call this late when somebody’s either dying or pregnant” A muffled snort immediately echoed somewhere on his side of the call. Female. Sounded like Sana— Interesting. “Good evening to you too, jackass” John muttered dryly. “You didn’t deny either possibility” I commented only for John to annoyingly reply with “Because neither possibility should’ve been your first assumption.”

B: That sounds like denial. J: You sound unemployed. B: I technically am unemployed. J: You own SEVEN businesses. B: Own. Having passive income is not employment— I refuse to disrespect actual workers like that.

That earned another laugh somewhere near him, that voice definitely belongs to Sana. I rubbed tiredly at my face while sitting up properly this time, abandoning my PC on the table. The clock on the wall already pushed dangerously close to midnight which usually meant one of two things whenever John called. Either something genuinely serious happened, or one of the girls did something catastrophically stupid. Both were equally possible.

B: So, who’s dying? J: No one. B: Did you get one the members pregnant? J: What the hell? Again. No. B: Financial crime? Extortion? J: Can you be serious for five minutes?

I had my fun with John, I dropped my playful tone “Depends. Are you asking as my best friend or as whatever the hell your job title actually is nowadays?” Silence. That was enough for my expression to slowly flatten. Ah. So this actually WAS serious. I stood from the couch afterward and walked toward the kitchen automatically, phone tucked between my shoulder and ear while grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “What happened?” The joking disappeared from my voice completely. John noticed immediately too. “It’s not about TWICE.” That narrowed possibilities slightly. “But?”

A quieter exhale answered first. Then— “It’s ITZY.” I stayed silent. Not because I didn’t know who they were. Because I knew exactly enough about them for those two words to already sound exhausting. A young group. Heavy schedules. Leadership pressure. Public resilience. And JYPE announced recently that one of their members went on hiatus. That was an emotionally dangerous combination. I twisted the bottle cap open slowly. “What about them?” Another pause. Careful this time. John choosing words. That interested me more than the situation itself initially. Because John wasn’t someone easily intimidated by emotional complexity anymore. Which meant whatever this was— he considered it delicate.

“I think they’ve been surviving too long without realizing how bad things got.” And there it was. Not scandal. Not behavioral collapse. It was a burnout, the ugly kind too. I leaned silently against the kitchen counter afterward while processing that answer. Then eventually “…And you’re calling me because?” Another silence. “Jihyo noticed first.” Very interesting. Because if Jihyo was concerned enough to involve John— then this wasn’t ordinary exhaustion anymore. “When are you free?” John finally asked. I glanced toward the clock hanging above the kitchen entrance. 12:47 AM.

B: You do realize normal people discuss emotional crises before midnight, right? J: You were awake anyway. B: That’s not the point. J: You answered on the second ring. B: You know that if you called me even if I was in the middle of a car race I would still pick up. But… that’s also not the point.

A quieter laugh echoed somewhere near him again. “Fine. When do you want to meet?” John asked for tomorrow afternoon. “That sounds less like a request and more like kidnapping.” I told him “You’ll survive.” John ignored that completely. Typical. “The NDA’s already prepared.” That earned a short laugh out of me immediately. “Jesus Christ. You people are serious.” John still was serious, “We have to be.” There it was again. That carefulness. I rolled the cold water bottle lightly against my forehead while thinking. Young group. Hiatus instability. Solo pressure. Emotional suppression. Yeah. I could already see where this probably went wrong psychologically. “Alright, send me the location.” I muttered eventually. “Get some sleep first” I frowned slightly. “You can’t even see me.” John’s voice softened slightly afterward though “But I know you,” the atmosphere settled again naturally. “Tomorrow. Two in the afternoon.” The line disconnected not long after that.

I stayed leaning silently against the kitchen counter for a while afterward, phone still loosely in my hand while the apartment settled back into silence around me. Then eventually I glanced toward the laptop abandoned on the couch. Defeat screen still open. Unbelievable. I made a mental note to never play ranked past midnight again.

The café John picked the following afternoon looked exactly like the kind of place wealthy people pretended wasn’t expensive. Minimalist interior. Quiet lighting. Private enough to discourage attention without looking intentionally exclusive. The type of place celebrities used when they wanted to convince themselves they were still having normal conversations. John and Jihyo were already seated when I arrived. And immediately— John frowned.

J: You look like shit. B: Good afternoon to you too. J: No, seriously. You look exhausted.

I slid into the chair across from them before pulling my cap off loosely. “I stayed up too late.” John was looking at me again, that frown in face growing “Doing?” I stared at him flatly “…Making terrible life choices.” he narrowed his eyes at me “That narrows it down to everything.” I ignored him completely and reached for the glass of water already sitting nearby instead. “Some psychopath kept queueing into my ranked matches all night.” John looked mildly interested “And I lost. Repeatedly.” He finally broke into a smile “Huh, sounds like a skill issue.” That pinched a nerve in my pride.

Jihyo quietly laughed into her drink while I rubbed tiredly at my forehead. “The worst part is the IGN sounded pretentious too.” John raised an eyebrow. “What was it?” I tried recalling it properly. “Something elegant sounding.” I frowned slightly. “PenguinNoona? SilverPenguin? Something rich-person coded.” The silence afterward lasted exactly one second too long. Then suddenly John started laughing. Not normal laughing either. The genuinely disrespectful kind. Jihyo blinked between both of us immediately. “What?” I narrowed my eyes “…Why are you laughing?” John leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “Because that was Mina.” I blinked once “No it wasn’t.” Then again until John affirmed what I denied “It absolutely was.” Jihyo’s expression immediately shifted from confusion to visible amusement. “Wait,” she said while trying not to laugh herself now, “you spent all night getting destroyed by Mina?”

“She was reading my rotations before I even committed to them”. John muttered “That’s somehow worse since you challenged her first apparently.” I had no other play except to keep on making more excuses “I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS HER.” That only made John laugh harder, that jackass. I rubbed tiredly at my face while Jihyo laughed softly into her drink now too “…Tell her I want a rematch.” He held up his phone “You already said that six times last night apparently”. I stared at him blankly, that definitely was my IGN, and she even sent him screenshots? Unbelievable.

The atmosphere loosened naturally after that more familiar. Which honestly made what came next feel slightly stranger by comparison once the conversation gradually settled again. Jihyo’s eyes drifted briefly toward my wrist while I reached for the water again. Small movement that was easy to miss. But observant people always noticed expensive things eventually. Especially people surrounded by luxury branding professionally. The glance lingered only half a second longer before she looked away thoughtfully. John noticed too. “You’re still wearing that?” he asked casually. I glanced down at the watch. “It tells time”. He was visibly stressed “That’s not what I asked”. I raised my arms “Hey, it was free.” Jihyo looked up in the middle of sipping her drink “…Free?” I pointed to my watch “It was a gift.” John looked genuinely offended now. “You cannot call a limited allocation Patek Philippe ‘free.’ That’s not how reality works.”

“I didn’t pay for it” which was the basis of something being considered a gift. “That’s somehow worse.” Jihyo stared at the watch once more quietly before finally looking toward John “You did mention he was rich but… How rich is he exactly?” I immediately pointed at him. “Don’t answer that”. John ignored me completely. “Last I checked was a few years ago?” he muttered casually, “and by that time he was already wealthier than any of us.” then after a beat— “Barring Mina. That woman’s terrifyingly wealthy that it’s now even funny at this point.” Jihyo admitted immediately, “That’s fair.” I sighed deeply into my water. John continued anyway because apparently betrayal built character “After I lost the NewJeans job, he actually offered me one of his businesses so I could get back on my feet.” Jihyo blinked. “…One of?” John was waving his hand as he continued “I said no.” I muttered back “Because you’re dramatic”. He look back at me as if I was a crazy person “Because you were talking about handing me an entire company for FREE. Besides, I don’t like feeling like a charity case.” I shrugged lightly. “And I respected that.”

The conversation settled quietly for a moment afterward. Not awkward. Just thoughtful. Jihyo’s expression changed slightly then. Not impressed. Understanding. The puzzle pieces clicking together for her. To why I didn’t seem particularly concerned about industry politics. Why I moved carefully around obligation. Why agreeing to this meeting despite not needing anything professionally mattered more than it normally would. She’s an interesting woman. Finally, John leaned back slightly before gesturing toward the folder sitting on the table.

“So,” he said, “we should probably explain why we’re actually here before Ben decides this entire conversation was a mistake.” I glanced toward the folder sitting on the table. It was clean, organized and it had that expensive paper too “Please tell me that’s not the—” both of them answered at the same time “— it’s the NDA”.  I leaned back slowly afterward. “…You know, most normal people buy someone dinner before legally binding them into psychological warfare.”

“That’s HR’s job,” John muttered “I hate that you said that with confidence.” Jihyo laughed softly under her breath while sliding the folder closer toward me. The atmosphere loosened slightly again after that. Not fully relaxed, but enough. That was good. People usually spoke more honestly once rooms stopped feeling interrogative. I opened the folder afterward, flipping through the pages casually while half-listening to the quiet jazz drifting somewhere deeper inside the café. Standard confidentiality clauses first. Entertainment privacy. Internal operational discretion. Then— there it was “This is broader than entertainment confidentiality.” Neither answered immediately. Which honestly answered enough already. I glanced up from the papers quietly. Not scandal. Not criminality. Emotional complexity. “You two are acting like you’re hiring me to negotiate a hostage situation.”

“Some days that industry feels close enough,” Jihyo muttered dryly. Fair. I skimmed through the rest carefully. Nothing unreasonable. Strict. But understandable. Honestly, if anything, the wording felt protective more than threatening. That interested me. I signed the final page anyway. Not impulsively. Consciously. That mattered. Once the folder slid back across the table toward them, the atmosphere shifted almost immediately afterward. Less guarded now. “So,” I finally said while folding my arms loosely, “what exactly am I walking into?” Jihyo looked toward John briefly before answering. “Burnout.”

Simple answer. Honest and incomplete, I stayed quiet. People usually filled silence when they wanted understanding badly enough. Sure enough, John continued. “Yeji adapted by over-functioning after Lia’s hiatus,” he said calmly. “The others adapted around her. And after enough time passed, everyone stopped recognizing how unhealthy it became.” Yeah. I’d seen versions of that before. Not identical. But familiar enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth anyway. “She’s preparing for a solo debut now,” Jihyo added quietly. “Which means the pressure’s only getting worse.” I nodded once slowly. That tracked psychologically. Group exhaustion could still distribute emotional burden. Solo work couldn’t. Especially not for leaders— especially not for someone already carrying too much by default.

I leaned back slightly deeper into the chair afterward while processing everything carefully. Then finally— “And the company agreed to let an outsider manage this?” That earned the faintest humorless smile from John “Jihyo asked.” So there it is, that explained the authority issue immediately. Not unlimited power. But enough institutional trust to override resistance. Dangerous amount of responsibility to hand somebody. Especially someone like me. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you’re not just assigning another internal manager.” Jihyo answered immediately “There is. He needs to understand emotional pressure without treating them like liabilities,” she continued quietly. “And he needs to care more about Yeji’s wellbeing than maintaining schedules perfectly.” That narrowed things down significantly. Most companies protect the schedule and very few said “protect the person”. I was interested in the scenario “And you think I fit that?” as I took a sip of my coffee. “I think John trusts you enough to call you.” That answer landed heavier than she probably intended.

I glanced briefly toward John afterward. He looked annoyingly calm about the entire thing.

Typical. “You’re making this sound more serious every five minutes,” I muttered. “That’s because it is serious,” John answered this time. No humor, just honesty. The atmosphere quieted slightly again afterward. Outside the café windows, the city kept moving normally, meanwhile inside this conversation, two people were essentially telling me an idol group had been quietly falling apart in slow motion long enough for veterans to finally notice. Emotionally dangerous. I rested my fingers lightly against the untouched coffee cup in front of me.

“What does Yeji know?” I asked them bluntly. “Not much yet,” Jihyo admitted. “Only that we’re trying to arrange additional support for the solo.” I was intrigued with the lack of protest “She agreed to that?” John answered quietly “Well she didn’t really argue,” that bothered me immediately. Not because agreement was bad. Because exhausted people stopped resisting help once they got too tired to fight properly. And something about the way both of them described her made me increasingly certain Yeji had already crossed into that territory a while ago. Interesting and concerning, I exhaled quietly afterward before finally asking the question both of them were obviously waiting for. “And what exactly do you want from me?” Another brief silence settled over the table. Then Jihyo answered carefully. “Help her breathe again.”

…Ahhh. That was worse somehow. The words settled strangely in my chest afterward. There was no desperation in Jihyo’s voice. No exaggerated pleading or emotional manipulation, just exhaustion. The kind that only came from watching people deteriorate slowly enough for everyone around them to normalize it. I leaned back deeper into the chair afterward while thinking quietly. Outside the café windows, the world kept on moving— but inside this table, meanwhile, two people were essentially asking me to emotionally stabilize a group leader before her first solo debut pushed her into complete collapse.

Dangerous responsibility. Especially considering the amount of authority they were apparently prepared to hand me. “And the company’s genuinely allowing this?” I asked eventually. Jihyo nodded once. “Officially, you’re being brought in as temporary personal management support for Yeji’s solo activities.” I repeated that word she said that piqued my interest, “Temporary” I repeated “For now.” Interesting wording. “And unofficially?” I asked calmly. John immediately rubbed tiredly at his forehead beside her. “There it is,” he muttered. “There WHAT is?” that man really knew how to press my buttons “The part where your psychology degree becomes annoying.”

“That sounds like projection” I said “It is projection” he admitted. Fair enough.

I rested my elbow lightly against the table afterward while studying both of them carefully “You two keep talking around something.” Neither denied it. So not scandal then. Intentional secrecy. Finally, John sighed quietly beside me “There are… emotional dynamics within our situation that aren’t exactly conventional.” That was the first genuinely direct thing either of them had said all afternoon. I stayed quiet and let him continue. “Nothing illegal,” he added immediately. “That’s really comforting, best buddy. I’m listening.” John glanced briefly toward Jihyo first, an unspoken request for permission “The girls rely on me emotionally more than most people would probably consider professionally appropriate.”

That was not a full answer. But enough of one. I leaned back slightly afterward while processing the implication quietly. Not because it surprised me. Honestly? I’d already suspected something adjacent to it the moment confidentiality expanded beyond standard entertainment protection. “And you’re telling me this because?” Jihyo answered in John’s behalf “Because if you agree to this,” Jihyo answered carefully, “there’s a chance Yeji might eventually rely on you similarly. Romantically, sexually, and emotionally.” That distinction mattered. Even if all three of us understood those lines rarely stayed clean forever inside emotionally isolated environments like theirs. I glanced briefly toward John again afterward “…How bad are your boundaries exactly?” “Better than they sound.” John was no longer planning on hiding it. “That is not a reassuring answer, best buddy.” I grinned at him. “It’s the truthful one, and will you stop calling me that?”

I stayed quiet for a few more seconds afterward while turning the situation over mentally. Emotionally exhausted idols. High-pressure environment. Isolation. Dependency. Trust structures forming around the few people allowed close enough to consistently see them as human beings. Psychologically speaking, none of this was actually shocking. Dangerous? Absolutely. Unusual? Not really. Which honestly might’ve been the worst part.

Finally, I exhaled quietly through my nose “For the record,” I muttered while reaching for my coffee again, “sleeping with Yeji is not secretly part of my career development plan.” Jihyo nearly choked on her drink immediately. Meanwhile John just closed his eyes slowly like he regretted inviting me already. “What?” I asked flatly. “You cannot say things like that with a straight face.” “I’m clarifying expectations professionally.” “That is NOT professional phrasing.” “Would you prefer a PowerPoint presentation?”

Jihyo was openly laughing into her hand now while John looked spiritually exhausted beside her. Good. That probably meant the atmosphere needed it. Eventually, though, the humor settled naturally again. And once it did, I noticed something important almost immediately. Neither of them actually looked worried about me crossing lines intentionally. Interesting. That meant this conversation wasn’t about predatory concern. It was about emotional gravity. Much more complicated. I rested my gaze briefly against the city skyline outside before eventually speaking again. “I’ll do the job,” I said calmly. “And I’ll do it properly.” The atmosphere shifted subtly afterward. Not relief exactly. Then I added “But if I think this situation is genuinely becoming psychologically dangerous for her, I’m pulling her back regardless of schedules.” John nodded immediately “Fair.” That told me more about him than the entire partial confession earlier honestly did. Because people abusing emotional dependency usually became defensive once limitations entered the conversation. John didn’t. Which meant despite however messy the situation actually was— he genuinely believed he was helping them survive.

Complicated. But genuine. The conversation settled quietly after that. Schedules. Logistics. Formalities. Nothing emotionally explosive, which honestly made me trust them slightly more. No manipulation. No emotional recruitment. No savior complex. Just concern. By the time the meeting finally started winding down, the late afternoon sunlight outside had already begun fading gold against the café windows. I stood first. Jihyo followed shortly after while John stayed seated another moment finishing the last of his coffee. As I rolled the sleeve of my hoodie back down loosely, I noticed Jihyo’s eyes briefly catch against the tattoo wrapping partially beneath my wrist near the watch, a curious gaze. Most people expected wealthy men to look cleaner than me. Less ink, lack of carelessness, less visibly damaged. Interesting thing about appearances, people trusted polished images too easily. Unfortunately for everyone involved, I stopped looking polished years ago.

The watch probably didn’t help either. And neither did the ring resting against my finger. Minimalist. Dark emerald stone. Understated enough that most people missed it completely. But people surrounded by luxury long enough eventually learned how to identify quiet money instinctively. I noticed the exact second Jihyo recognized it too. A tiny pause “…Wait,” she said slowly. Her attention lowered briefly toward the ring again “That’s Graff.” I glanced down absentmindedly “Unfortunately so”. John immediately sighed beside her “You wore THAT here? ARE YOU INSANE?!” I looked at the ring “It’s jewelry, not a nuclear weapon.”

“That ring literally requires financial screening before purchase, it’s probably worth more than this entire café” Jihyo blinked once. “…Wait seriously?” John pointed it out “Made-to-order line,” John’s voice tired “You can’t even request one unless they already know you can easily afford it.” “That sounds discriminatory,” I answered calmly. “That’s because rich people are terrifying, and specifically you are insane.” That was a fair observation. Jihyo stared at the ring another second longer before finally looking back toward me again. Not impressed or intimidated, the puzzle pieces clicking together.

Why industry politics didn’t particularly impress me. Why leverage didn’t seem to matter much to me. Why agreeing to something this emotionally complicated despite not needing anything professionally mattered more than it normally would. Eventually John stood too before glancing toward me once more. “So?” I slid both hands casually into my pockets afterward.

“You’re lucky I’m curious.” “That sounds concerning.” “It should.”

Jihyo laughed softly under her breath while shaking her head “Thank you, Ben.” That one sounded genuine enough to make refusing later significantly more difficult. Park Jihyo is a dangerous woman too, apparently.

The drive back toward the company building was quieter than expected. The late afternoon traffic crawled slowly through Seoul while soft music played somewhere low through the speakers of the car. Beside him, Jihyo rested her chin lightly against her hand while staring out the window. “You know,” he muttered eventually while stopping at another red light, “you could’ve warned me before telling Ben you thought I was sleeping with somebody.” Jihyo laughed softly beside him. “I didn’t say that.”

“You absolutely implied it.” “I implied emotional dependency.” “That sounds worse somehow.” Jihyo’s amusement faded slightly afterward though, something quieter settling into her expression instead. “…Do you think he’ll actually help?” John’s fingers tapped lightly once against the steering wheel before answering. “Yes.” No hesitation. “You trust him that much?”

“I trust him to leave if he thinks the situation’s unhealthy.” John glanced briefly toward her afterward. “Which is exactly why I trust him around them.” That answer quieted the car again. Outside the windows, the city kept moving normally. Inside it, meanwhile, the atmosphere shifted back toward concern naturally once Ben’s presence disappeared from the conversation. Eventually Jihyo exhaled softly. “We should talk to Yeji tomorrow.” John nodded once immediately “She’ll try to downplay it.” Jihyo agreed “I know. She’ll also think this is her fault somehow.” That earned the faintest tired smile out of him. Leader instincts, unfortunately predictable.

It happened on Dahyun’s day— which unfortunately meant Jihyo technically had to negotiate for John first. Dahyun had been comfortably laying across the dorm couch earlier that evening with John half-trapped beneath her while some movie played in the background neither of them were actually paying attention to. The moment Jihyo explained she needed to borrow him tomorrow for something related to ITZY, “So let me get this straight, you’re taking my boyfriend during my rotation” Dahyun immediately narrowed her eyes in suspicion “… to have him meet with some other woman?” Dahyun said feigning a reaction as if what Jihyo was asking was absolutely monstrous. “It’s work related. And this is Yeji we’re talking about— not some random woman” she pointed out. “That somehow sounds more criminal.” Dahyun told her while tightening her grip on John’s chest, John already looked exhausted before the conversation even properly started “Dahyun.” he was also trying to convince her by patting her head. “No, no.” Dahyun waved him off dramatically before looking back toward Jihyo instead. “You may borrow him temporarily under one condition.” Jihyo already knew that tone, more importantly— Dahyun knew the cards were in her favor “…What condition?” Jihyo asked carefully. Dangerous, more importantly— Dahyun knew the cards were in her favor “…What condition?” Jihyo asked carefully. Dahyun hummed thoughtfully while still laying comfortably across John like she physically intended to prevent him from leaving the couch—then slowly “The next time he’s on my rotation, nobody interrupts us.” John muttered tiredly beneath her “That’s already the rule.” Dahyun tightened her arms around him slightly afterward “No. I mean NOBODY interrupts us.” A dangerous emphasis. Jihyo immediately narrowed her eyes in suspicion “…What exactly are you planning?” Dahyun gasped dramatically “You think so lowly of me.”

“It means,” Dahyun continued proudly, “I want twenty-four uninterrupted hours where nobody steals him because they suddenly ‘miss him emotionally’ or because Sana decides she wants attention or because Jeongyeon unnie gets jealous halfway through the day.” From somewhere deeper inside the dorm, Jeongyeon yelled immediately “I HEARD THAT.” Dahyun yelled back “GOOD.” John looked exhausted instantly “…Why are you all like this?” Jeongyeon answered from the other room “Because you enabled it!” That was valid, I spoil all of them in their own way. Jihyo was already laughing softly into her hand now while Dahyun continued like a lawyer finalizing contract terms “I want breakfast together” she raised one finger, “Lunch together,” another finger “Dinner together,” another “And if anyone tries emotionally manipulating their way into my day, I reserve the right to become annoying about it for an entire next month.”

“That sounds threatening,” John muttered. “It IS threatening.” Jihyo shook her head while still laughing quietly “Fair enough. You treat your relationship like custody negotiations.” Dahyun looked back at John, “That’s because sharing requires organization.” Dahyun looked genuinely proud afterward though. Then finally she loosened her grip around John slightly before giving him a kiss and pointing toward Jihyo. “Approved. But you owe me too” Dahyun was looking at John’s concerned face “…What kind of owe?” Dahyun smiled immediately. “I want you to be rough, make me scream so hard no one gets to sleep that night” John closed his eyes slowly “That’s somehow worse”. And just like that, the negotiation ended.

The following afternoon, Jihyo and John found Yeji between rehearsal breaks. The practice room was quieter than usual, though the silence felt more like exhaustion than peace. Backup dancers rested near the mirrored walls while staff members quietly reorganized equipment nearby. Yeji herself sat off toward the corner with a tablet resting against her lap, eyes fixed on schedules even during downtime. Jihyo noticed immediately that Yeji still hadn’t really learned how to stop working even while technically resting.

Yeji looked up once they approached before immediately straightening slightly. “Oh— hello Jihyo unnie, and John Manager-nim.” There it was again. Automatic composure. “You busy?” Jihyo asked gently. Yeji glanced briefly toward the tablet before shaking her head. “Not really.” John and Jihyo exchanged the briefest glance. That was a lie, a small one though “Can we steal you to talk for a bit?” Jihyo asked. Yeji hesitated only briefly before nodding.

The conversation itself happened inside one of the smaller meeting rooms deeper inside the building. Quiet. Private. Neutral enough not to immediately feel intimidating. Yeji sat across from them while loosely holding onto an unopened bottled drink the entire time. Not nervous exactly, but she was guarded. Jihyo spoke first “We’re arranging additional personal management support for your solo preparations.” Yeji blinked once “…Additional management?” John clarified calmly “Temporary though. Mostly for workload management, schedule restructuring, and helping you navigate solo activities.” Yeji nodded slowly at first, though the hesitation still lingered afterward.

“Is it… because I’m struggling?” Straight to the point “No,” Jihyo answered gently. “Because solo promotions are different from group activities.” John nodded once beside her. “In a group, pressure gets distributed naturally. Solo schedules don’t work like that.” Yeji lowered her eyes briefly toward the bottle in her hands afterward. “I can handle it.” There it is again. Not “I’m okay.” Just “I can endure it.”

Jihyo leaned slightly forward afterward. “We know you can,” she said softly. “And that’s not the issue.” Silence settled briefly across the room. Yeji didn’t argue again after that. Eventually she glanced back toward John instead “…Who is it?” “A friend of mine, his name is Sung Benjamin” that immediately earned the faintest uncertainty across her expression. Reasonable reaction, John noticed it too “He’s qualified,” he added calmly. Yeji looked mildly embarrassed immediately afterward “I didn’t say he wasn’t.” “You were thinking it.” “…Maybe a little.”

That was a good reaction, a tiny bit of personality surfacing beneath the exhaustion. A human response. Not leader one. Jihyo smiled faintly while John continued “A few years ago there was an idol whose career was basically collapsing after a severe mental breakdown.” He paused briefly afterward. “Ben was one of the people responsible for helping them recover.” Yeji’s expression shifted slightly. Everyone in the industry knew stories like that. Some idols disappeared quietly and never fully came back afterward.

“He never took public credit for it,” Jihyo added softly. “Most people don’t even know he was involved.” That seemed to catch Yeji’s attention more than the actual achievement itself. “He’s not there to control you,” Jihyo continued carefully. “His job is to prioritize your well-being and make sure this doesn’t destroy you.” The room quieted briefly again afterward “…Okay.” No enthusiasm, not resistant either. Just tired honesty. Honestly, that probably worried Jihyo more than if Yeji had argued.

The company building felt quieter than expected when I arrived the next afternoon. A disciplined environment. People moved quickly, conversations stayed low, schedules existed five minutes ahead of wherever everybody currently stood. Entertainment companies always felt like that to me— entire buildings functioning on controlled exhaustion while pretending it was passion instead. One of the staff members assigned to guide me through the building glanced toward me every few seconds while walking. I don’t think it was recognition. Not familiarity either. My guess is probably trying to figure out whether I was important, connected, or somebody dangerous to accidentally disrespect. The tattoos usually complicated that process for people. Good— I preferred it that way.

“You’ll be meeting with Yeji-ssi inside,” the staff member explained carefully once we reached one of the upper floors. “The rehearsal break should still have around twenty minutes left.” Twenty minutes. Not enough rest for a day of rehearsals. The practice room doors were partially open when we arrived. Music echoed faintly inside while dancers stretched near the mirrored walls and staff members reorganized equipment nearby. And immediately— there she is.

Yeji sat near the corner of the room with a tablet balanced against one knee while speaking quietly with one of the choreographers. Even from a distance, I noticed the exhaustion almost instantly. Not because she looked weak. Because she looked functional. That distinction mattered. People expected burnout to look dramatic. It rarely did. Most of the time it just looked like someone becoming increasingly efficient at surviving themselves. It was interesting… and concerning too.

The staff member quietly excused himself afterward, leaving me standing near the entrance while Yeji finally noticed the movement near the doorway. Her eyes landed on me briefly. Then narrowed slightly in recognition. Not recognition of me specifically it was a recognition of “Oh. That’s probably him.” That was professional instinct.

I raised one hand casually in greeting “Hi.” The response came a second later than normal. Not rude. Tired “…Hi.” her voice calmer than I expected. Yeji stood shortly afterward while the choreographer beside her quietly excused himself, leaving the two of us awkwardly existing near the edge of the practice room for a few seconds.

“You’re Benjamin-ssi?” “There’s a horrifying possibility John forgot to warn you about me, but yes.” That earned the faintest blink out of her “Just call me Ben, formalities aren’t really my thing. At least she still reacted to humor.

“I’m Yeji.” “I don’t think there’s anyone in this building that doesn’t know you, Yeji. But it’s a pleasure to official meet you.” That finally earned the smallest hint of amusement at the corner of her mouth before it disappeared almost immediately afterward. There were still tiny flashes of personality beneath exhaustion— those mattered more than people realized.

I glanced briefly around the practice room afterward. Empty water bottles. Schedules. Music paused mid-track. Dancers resting against mirrored walls. Nobody in this room looked fully rested. But Yeji somehow still looked the most tired. “You just finished rehearsal?” I asked casually “We’re still in the middle of it.” Well… even worse than what I had in mind. I nodded slowly afterward while mentally recalculating the schedule standards they were probably operating under. Unpleasant numbers already forming. Yeji stayed quiet for a moment before eventually speaking again. “John said you’d be helping with the solo.”

“Allegedly.” That earned another small reaction from her. “You don’t sound very confident.” “I’m confident,” I answered calmly. “I just think the word ‘helping’ creates unrealistic expectations.” That actually made her pause. Not offended but thinking. It was good sign. I leaned lightly against the wall afterward while studying her expression carefully. Guarded. Polite. Holding herself together very intentionally. And underneath all of that— tired enough that even standing still looked like effort. Jihyo wasn’t overreacting. Not even slightly.

Eventually Yeji glanced toward the practice room floor again before speaking more quietly. “Did… they tell you about me?” Interesting wording. Not “the situation”, but “Me”.

I answered carefully “They told me enough.” Yeji nodded once slowly afterward. Then after a brief pause “…And you still agreed?” There it is. That one mattered. Not professionally, but emotionally. She is an interesting girl. I stayed quiet for a second before eventually answering honestly. “Curiosity mostly.” That seemed to surprise her slightly “Curiosity?”

“I wanted to see if John was exaggerating.” “…Was he?”

I glanced around the practice room once more. The schedules. The atmosphere. Her exhaustion. Then eventually back toward her again “No,” I answered calmly. “If anything, he undersold it.” The room quieted briefly after that. Not awkward. Just honest. And for the first time since I arrived, Yeji stopped looking like she was trying to perform normalcy perfectly.

The first thing I learned about idol rehearsal schedules was that everybody lied about breaks. A “ten minute break” somehow became reviewing choreography, checking recordings, answering staff questions, adjusting wardrobe fittings, discussing camera positioning, or practicing transitions. Which meant nobody was actually resting. An intriguing and horrible system. I stayed mostly quiet during the first few days. I observed, listened, and watched patterns. That part mattered more than people realized because burnout didn’t usually expose itself through dramatic collapse first. It exposed itself through normalization— and unfortunately, Yeji had normalized an alarming amount already.

“You skipped lunch” the words left my mouth casually while she remained crouched near the practice room monitor reviewing another playback recording. Without even looking up “I’ll eat later.” It wasn’t denial but more of delaying which was functionally worse. I leaned lightly against the mirrored wall afterward while glancing toward the untouched food container sitting beside her “Define later” I asked invasively. “After rehearsal.”

“You’ve said that twice already” that finally earned a small pause out of her before she looked up toward me properly. She knew that she caught “I’m busy” I still pointed to the food container with her name “Unfortunately true”. Yeji looked back down toward the monitor afterward like that settled the conversation. “You’re running on caffeine and muscle memory right now”. That earned the faintest crease between her brows immediately “…I’m fine.” I stayed quiet for a second afterward before speaking again. “You know people usually become defensive when they already know something’s unhealthy, right?” That finally made her fully look up at me “I’m not being defensive” with a tone that was ironically more defensive than angry. “Uh huh” I let her hear that while looking unconvinced “…I’m not” she tries to assure me.  “Still counts if you say it twice”.

That clearly irritated her slightly. Good. Not because upsetting her mattered. But because frustration meant she was reacting honestly instead of professionally. Much more useful. Yeji finally set the tablet down beside her afterward. “You’ve been here three days.” I pointed back at her “Correct”. And with furrowed brows “And somehow you already think you understand how this works?” There it was— a comment not out of ego, but a sense of responsibility and it was an important difference. I straightened slightly from the wall afterward. “No,” I answered calmly. “I think you’ve been functioning like this long enough that everybody around you stopped questioning it.” The room quieted immediately after that. Not dramatic silence. Just uncomfortable honesty. Yeji folded her arms loosely afterward. “This is normal during comeback preparation.” I pointed out that “Normal and healthy aren’t interchangeable concepts.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” There was no hostility in her voice, just exhaustion. And underneath it— something dangerously close to guilt. I studied her quietly for another second before eventually asking “When’s the last time you slept properly?” Yeji answered too quickly “I sleep”. Not what I asked “There’s a difference between unconsciousness and rest”. That visibly frustrated her now. A tiny reaction, but a real one nonetheless. That was good. “People are depending on me right now,” she answered quietly afterward “I don’t really have the luxury of slowing down.” The real problem was starting to show itself, it was not perfectionism— but obligation. I nodded slowly afterward “That explains the behavior”. Yeji blinked once “…Behavior?”

“Overworking. Skipping meals. Monitoring everybody else before yourself.” I gestured lightly toward the practice room around us. “You’re treating self-destruction like responsibility”. That one landed. Immediately. Her expression shifted before she could fully stop it. For a second I genuinely thought she might argue again. “…You talk like a psychologist” she said looking away instead. “I paid an irresponsible amount of money to become one.” That finally pulled the faintest unwilling reaction out of her again. Small. But there.

I pushed off the wall afterward before casually picking up the untouched food container beside her and holding it out “Eat”. Yeji stared at me for a second “Are you always this pushy?” before taking the container from my hands. “No,” I answered honestly. “Usually people rest before I need to become annoying” I pointed out. “That sounds threatening” she told me. “It’s a promise.” That earned an actual visible exhale out of her this time. Not quite laughter. Closer to disbelief. But honestly? It was probably the first emotionally genuine reaction she’d had all afternoon. I would consider that progress.

The strange thing about exhaustion was how quickly people built personalities around it. By the second week, I started noticing patterns that had nothing to do with choreography anymore. Yeji automatically checked everybody else’s condition before acknowledging her own. She apologized whenever staff members adjusted schedules around her. She thanked people for things that should’ve been expected. And somehow— she still looked mildly uncomfortable anytime I forced her to sit down for longer than five consecutive minutes. It’s starting to be concerning. “You’re staring again” her voice pulled me out of thought while we sat near one of the side rehearsal rooms waiting for a delayed recording setup to finish “I’m observing” she squinted her eyes at me “That sounds creepier somehow”

“That’s because psychology as a profession is fundamentally invasive.” Yeji looked down briefly afterward, unsuccessfully hiding the faint reaction at the corner of her mouth. It is much easier to make her smile when she forgot she was supposed to act composed. The room settled quietly afterward. Staff members moved back and forth through the hallway outside while somebody farther down the corridor tested audio loud enough to echo faintly through the walls. It was just me and Yeji at the edge of the practice room then she suddenly broke the silence “…You really think I’m that bad?” The question didn’t defensive this time. I leaned back slightly in the chair afterward before answering carefully. “I think you got used to functioning exhausted.” Yeji lowered her eyes toward the bottled drink resting between her hands “That’s normal here”.

“See, that sentence specifically is the problem.” That earned the faintest crease between her brows again. “You keep talking like I’m doing something wrong.” A hint of guilt in her voice. I stayed quiet for a second before eventually shaking my head. “I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong,” I glanced briefly toward the hallway outside afterward, “Honest opinion? I believe you adapted to survive an environment that rewards self-destruction”. The room quieted again afterward. Yeji didn’t respond immediately this time. Instead she sat there silently turning the unopened drink slowly between her hands while thinking. People became quieter once conversations started reaching places they usually avoided, so this was another good sign. Eventually she exhaled softly “…You sound like you hate this industry, do you?” Interesting question. “I think this industry confuses endurance with worth.” That made her look at me properly again. Not because the statement shocked her. Because it sounded familiar.

I continued before she could disappear back into her own head again “That doesn’t mean I think idols are weak for enduring it,” I added calmly “I just think people stop questioning unhealthy things once enough talented people survive them”. Yeji stayed quiet afterward. Thinking again “…John talks similarly sometimes”. That was the first time I’ve been compared with John and that answer honestly explained more than she probably realized “TWICE sunbaenim”. The words left her mouth casually. Then immediately afterward, Yeji looked mildly caught off guard that she said it aloud at all. I leaned back slightly deeper into the chair afterward. “He was around during a pretty ugly part of my life”. Yeji didn’t pry— another interesting thing about her. Most people became more curious once they sensed damage in somebody else. Yeji instead looked almost careful around it. Like she understood boundaries too well. “…And you trust him too?” she asked quietly.

I laughed softly once under my breath “Unfortunately for me— I trust him with my life.” That finally earned another small reaction out of her. Tiny moments of ease were becoming more frequent now. Not comfort yet just a rhythm and that mattered. Outside the hallway, somebody called for Yeji a few moments later to prepare for the next recording setup. The moment her name was called, her posture immediately shifted again. Straightened. Focused. Ready. And that happened too fast, it was more dangerous behavior I got to see.

Yeji stood quickly afterward before instinctively reaching for the tablet and schedule folder beside her at the same time. Then paused. Because I was already holding one of them “…You don’t need to carry that”. I looked at her before calmly answering “You also don’t need to carry everything yourself”. That immediately earned a look from her. Not irritation or gratitude, it was something more complicated. Like she didn’t fully know what to do with somebody noticing things she normally handled automatically.

The next week became progressively worse in ways most people probably wouldn’t have noticed. Unfortunately for everyone involved, noticing things was apparently my job now. Schedules tightened. Rehearsals ran longer. Sleep became negotiable. And somewhere in the middle of all that, Yeji slowly started looking less like somebody preparing for a solo debut and more like somebody trying to outrun exhaustion through sheer momentum alone. It was a very common strategy, and an extremely risky one at that.  The problem with highly functional people was that they usually collapsed privately first. Which meant by the time everyone else noticed— things were already bad.

I started restructuring what I could quietly. Longer transition gaps between rehearsals. Mandatory meal windows disguised as schedule adjustments. Reducing unnecessary media overlap. Pushing less urgent recordings later whenever possible. Small changes. But Yeji noticed every single one immediately. Of course she did. “You moved the dance review again” the accusation came the moment she stepped into the hallway outside one of the rehearsal rooms late that evening.  I glanced up from the schedule tablet in my hands “I optimized it”. She pointed out my decision “You delayed it” it took a second for me to correct her “Those are emotionally different statements”. She looked serious this time “That doesn’t answer my question. Why?” she sounded more awake when frustrated.

I looked at Yeji in her eyes, I wasn’t going to back down on this “You slept four hours.” She didn’t see what was wrong with that, “It’s plenty enough” she said.  “The hell it is,” I answered neutrally “That’s barely survival”. Yeji folded her arms loosely afterward “We don’t have enough time right now to prioritize comfort”. Interesting wording, comfort— not health. “You think sleep is a luxury,” I observed quietly “I think this debut matters.” I could tell from that response that she wasn’t afraid of failure, It was the fear of disappointing people.

The hallway quieted briefly afterward while staff members moved around farther down the corridor preparing equipment for the next setup. Yeji looked exhausted. But more than that— she looked frustrated that exhaustion was becoming visible at all. “You’re treating yourself like a deadline instead of a person again,” I said eventually. That immediately made her expression tighten slightly. Not because the statement offended her, my words landed too accurately. “You make it sound simple” she told me. “It’s not simple” I disagreed with that observation. “Then stop talking like it is.” There it is. First genuine emotional pushback. Honestly, it was overdue too. I stayed quiet for a second afterward before answering more carefully. “I don’t think taking care of yourself is simple,” I said calmly. “I think you’ve spent so long believing your value comes from enduring things that resting now feels irresponsible.”

The silence afterward felt heavier. Not dramatic. Just honest enough to become uncomfortable. Yeji looked away first “…People are counting on me,” she muttered quietly. “And you think collapsing helps them?” I pointed that out. “That’s not what I said” she tried to argue. “No,” I agreed softly. “But it’s where this ends if you keep going like this.” That one landed harder. Immediately because for the first time since I met her, Yeji didn’t have a response ready. Just tired silence. Then eventually somebody farther down the hallway called her name again Schedule continuing. Yeji exhaled softly afterward before pushing herself away from the wall “…I have to go.”

“I know” she took maybe two steps before stopping unexpectedly. Then without fully turning back “…You’re really annoying, you know that?” she wasn’t mad or dismissive. And honesty I smiled faintly afterward “I’ve been told worse”. That finally earned the smallest breath of laughter out of her before she disappeared farther down the hallway again and that worried me more than the arguments did. Because people didn’t start letting somebody disrupt their coping mechanisms unless exhaustion was finally beginning to outweigh resistance.

After that, something subtle changed between them. Not closeness or comfort. Just familiarity settling into places where resistance used to exist. Yeji still argued occasionally whenever Ben rearranged parts of her schedule, but the arguments started sounding less like rejection and more like somebody frustrated that another person kept noticing things she was trying very hard to ignore. Unfortunately for her, Ben was professionally difficult to discourage “You moved the recording review again.” I didn’t even look at her since that was a sentence I’ve heard too many times, “You say that like I committed tax fraud.”

She sounded serious this time, “You’re delaying it.” “No, I optimized it.” “That’s still delaying it.” “Emotionally different.”

Yeji sighed tiredly afterward while pinching lightly at the bridge of her nose. I noticed another thing too during those days. Yeji’s exhaustion no longer looked sharp. Earlier on, she burned brightly— tense, overfocused, constantly moving like momentum alone kept her upright. Now? Everything about her started looking quieter. And somehow that worried him more. People expected burnout to look explosive. Most of the time it actually looked like somebody slowly disappearing inside their own routines. The first moment that genuinely unsettled him happened during choreography rehearsals late one evening.

One of the dancers missed a formation transition badly enough for the music to stop mid-run. Normally, Yeji would’ve immediately stepped in to help correct positioning before staff members even asked. This time she just stood there silently for a second too long while staring toward the mirrored wall. Barely noticeable for people, but enough for me. The choreographer repeated the correction afterward and Yeji apologized immediately despite the mistake not even being hers. Still carrying responsibility for things beyond her control. But slower now. Like even guilt was becoming exhausting. I didn’t say anything about it immediately, I just started to observe her more carefully afterward.

And the more I watched, the more something about her behavior started feeling wrong in a way exhaustion alone couldn’t fully explain anymore. Because Yeji wasn’t just tired now. She was starting to detach from things she normally cared about instinctively. That part worried me the most. I didn’t mention it immediately. Mostly because I was still trying to figure out whether I was overanalyzing things or not. Occupational hazard. Psychology teaches you very quickly that there’s a dangerous difference between observing patterns and projecting fears onto them.  And I’d made enough mistakes in my life already to know I wasn’t immune to the latter.

But the feeling stayed. Something about Yeji had changed. Not externally enough for most people to notice. She still rehearsed. Still smiled when cameras appeared. Still thanked staff members politely. Still carried herself like a dependable leader. But now it all felt… quieter. Like she was performing responsibility from memory instead of conviction. That thought sat badly with me for the rest of the week. The final rehearsal stretch before the solo debut became brutal even by industry standards. Everybody looked exhausted. Yeji somehow looked both exhausted and emotionally absent at the same time. That combination started to raise alarms in my head. I started catching smaller things afterward. She stopped checking playback monitors as obsessively. Stopped correcting tiny choreography inconsistencies immediately. Stopped rereading schedules during every spare moment. At first glance, somebody probably would’ve called that improvement. I didn’t. Because none of it felt like relief. It felt like withdrawal. And that scared me more than any of her overworking ever did. One night after rehearsals ended, I found myself walking through one of the quieter hallways near the upper practice rooms while answering emails on my phone. The building had mostly emptied out already. Only a few staff members still moved between floors. Then I noticed one of the rehearsal room doors partially open. Music wasn’t playing inside. I glanced up briefly while passing by— and stopped walking immediately afterward.

Yeji sat alone near the mirrored wall with her knees loosely pulled closer toward herself while staring blankly at the dark practice room floor. No tablet. No schedules. No reviewing choreography… Just silence. Something unpleasant settled heavily in my chest immediately afterward. Because suddenly every small behavioral shift from the past week connected all at once in my head. Shit, how did I miss that?

I stayed near the doorway for a second longer than normal before finally speaking “You know sitting alone in dark rehearsal rooms is usually how horror movies start, right?” The response came slowly. Not startled. Just delayed “…You’d survive the movie.” that was her reaction? Not a “Hi” or “You scared me”. Just quiet acknowledgment that I existed there beside her. I stepped inside carefully afterward before closing the door behind me halfway. Not trapped. Just quieter. Yeji still hadn’t moved much. Didn’t look embarrassed either. That worried me immediately. I lowered myself down beside the mirrored wall a short distance away afterward, giving her space.

For a while neither of us spoke. The silence didn’t feel awkward. Just heavy. Then eventually “…Do you ever wonder if people can just run out of wanting things?” She sounded like she was drowning in hopelessness. For the first time since taking this job, I genuinely felt uncertain about whether I was equipped to handle what came next.

I stayed quiet for a second too long afterward. Not because I didn’t hear her. Because I was trying very carefully not to answer that question carelessly. People said dangerous things quietly long before they ever acted on them loudly. And something about the way Yeji asked that didn’t feel hypothetical at all. Eventually I leaned my head lightly back against the mirrored wall behind me before answering honestly “Yeah, I do. All the time actually”. Yeji didn’t look surprised by the answer “I think people get exhausted enough that eventually wanting things starts feeling heavier than giving them up” I continued.  The room stayed silent afterward. The faint hum of the building’s ventilation somewhere above us. Yeji lowered her eyes toward the floor again “…That sounds depressing.”

“It’s psychology.” I shrugged lightly. “We market depression professionally”. That finally earned the faintest breath of amusement out of her. Small and weak, but real enough that I kept talking afterward “The important part is that exhaustion lies to people”. Yeji stayed quiet while listening. “It starts convincing you that permanent decisions are rational solutions to temporary emotional states.” that one landed immediately. I could tell. Not because she reacted dramatically. Because she went still— dangerously still. I kept my voice calm afterward despite the unpleasant realization slowly settling heavier in my chest “You’ve been thinking about leaving, haven’t you.” Not a question, I have fears that she was this far and this had just confirmed my fears.

Silence stretched between us immediately afterward. Long enough that a part of me almost wished I was horrendously wrong this time. Yeji eventually broke the silence “…I don’t know if I can keep doing this.” That was conventionally worse than just wanting to quit. Because she sounded guilty about reaching the thought. I exhaled slowly through my nose afterward while trying very carefully not to mishandle what this conversation was actually becoming. This wasn’t burnout anymore. This was somebody emotionally detaching from their own future. Very dangerous territory, dangerous enough that the wrong sequence of words would fuck everything up.

“You don’t need to decide your entire life tonight” Yeji laughed softly once under her breath afterward. No amusement in it “That’s easy for you to say”. There was no hostility in those words— just tired enough that hope itself probably sounded unrealistic right now. “I’m serious.” I looked toward her properly afterward. “You’re exhausted, overworked, emotionally isolated, and carrying enough pressure to distort your judgment.”

“You make me sound unstable” those words were wrong, she isn’t unstable— she was just pushed near her breaking point, and that was a far breaking point. “I think you’ve been strong for too long without resting properly” I paused briefly “Those aren’t the same thing.” That quieted her immediately again. This was an important distinction. Because the last thing she needed right now was to feel broken on top of exhausted. Yeji pulled her knees slightly closer afterward while staring down toward the floor “…Everybody keeps depending on me.” That was the obligation shackled to her. Always obligation. “And somewhere along the way,” she continued quietly, “I think I stopped knowing if I still wanted any of this for myself.”

That one hurt to hear. Not because it sounded dramatic. Because it sounded honest. It was that moment I suddenly understood why Jihyo sounded so worried back at the café. Because this wasn’t somebody collapsing loudly. This was somebody quietly preparing themselves to disappear from a life they no longer believed they were surviving correctly. I rubbed lightly at my forehead afterward before speaking again “Can I say something potentially annoying?” That earned the faintest glance toward me “…You usually do anyway, why ask permission now?”. Good a tiny reaction like that meant that she’s still there, Yeji wasn’t far gone.

“I think you’ve spent so long treating yourself like a responsibility that you forgot you’re also a person” the silence afterward felt heavier than anything else we’d said all night. Yeji looked away first. And for the first time since I met her, she genuinely looked close to crying.

That scared me more than if she actually cried immediately. Because people like Yeji didn’t usually break all at once. They held everything together for so long that by the time emotion finally surfaced, it usually meant they were already dangerously close to their limit. She kept looking away from me like maintaining eye contact would make the conversation too real somehow “…I don’t know how to stop”. That sounded like an exhaustion so deeply integrated into her identity that she genuinely no longer understood what existing outside of it looked like.

I answered carefully “You don’t have to figure that out tonight.” Yeji laughed softly again beneath her breath. Still tired. Still hollow. “But tomorrow still happens.” That one landed harder than she probably intended— because she was right. Schedules still existed. The debut is still happening. Expectations still existed. That was the ugly truth, part of what made this industry so psychologically dangerous was how little space it gave people to fall apart safely. I stayed quiet for a second afterward before speaking again.

“Okay.” I nodded once slowly. “Then don’t think about next month. Or next year. Or whether you stay in the industry forever.” Yeji finally looked toward me properly again “Then what am I supposed to think about?” I pointed at the clock “Tonight, for starters.” That quieted her immediately. I continued before she could spiral back into her own head again “You don’t need to decide your entire future while emotionally exhausted.”

“That sounds irresponsible” her instinctive belief that suffering somehow produced better decisions. “No,” I answered calmly “What’s irresponsible is making permanent decisions while psychologically cornered”. The room went silent again afterward. But this time the silence felt different. Less detached and more fragile. Yeji lowered her eyes slowly afterward before finally admitting something quieter than everything else she’d said so far “I’m scared that if I stop even for a second, everything will fall apart.”

That was her real fear. Not failure. Not criticism. Collapse. And she was dangerously near the edge of collapsing too.  I leaned my head lightly back against the mirrored wall again afterward before answering honestly “You know what the worst part is?”. Yeji blinked once tiredly “What?” I looked towards Yeji “You actually believe the people around you only deserve the version of you that’s suffering correctly”. That one hit immediately. I saw it happen in real time. Her expression tightened slightly before she looked away again too quickly and suddenly, I understood something else too. Yeji didn’t just feel responsible for people. She felt that she was easily replaceable. Like the moment she stopped functioning perfectly, somebody better deserved her place instead.

That kind of thinking destroyed people slowly. I rubbed lightly at my jaw afterward while trying very carefully to choose my next words correctly. Because honestly? I still wasn’t fully confident I had the right words, I just knew the wrong words and that I should avoid those. “I’m going to tell you something professionally irresponsible now”. That finally earned the faintest confused reaction out of her “…That sounds concerning.” I laughed a bit “It probably is.” I looked toward her properly afterward. “I don’t think you actually want to leave”. The room quieted instantly. Not because she disagreed. Because she needed to hear the rest.

“I think you want the pain to stop,” I continued softly “And right now your brain is trying to convince you those are the same thing.” Yeji stared at the floor silently afterward. Then very quietly “What if it never stops?” That was the moment I realized this had already gone far beyond anything I could safely handle through professionalism alone. The room stayed silent for a while after Yeji asked that question and I didn’t answer immediately, because honestly— I didn’t have an immediate answer. People liked imagining psychology experts as individuals who always knew the right thing to say during emotional collapse. In reality, most of the job was quietly hoping your words reached someone before their hopelessness did. Because false reassurance would’ve insulted her intelligence. Eventually I exhaled quietly through my nose before answering honestly “Then we adapt”. Yeji blinked slightly. Not the answer she expected “You say that like it’s simple.”

“It’s not simple.” I shook my head lightly afterward. “But neither is convincing yourself you need to disappear just because you’re exhausted.” that quieted her again. I leaned my arms loosely over my knees afterward while looking toward the dark practice room floor ahead of us. “You know the biggest lie high-functioning people tell themselves?” Yeji looked toward me quietly. “That needing rest means they failed” her expression shifted immediately. “I don’t think you actually want to quit” I carried on talking, “I think you’re emotionally cornered enough that you started treating self-removal like responsibility.” The room stayed completely still afterward, the exhaustion finally being spoken out loud instead of performed through professionalism.

Yeji lowered her eyes slowly “…I hate how accurately you read people”. I sighed lightly. “Trust me, it’s significantly less fun from this side.” That finally earned another small breath of laughter out of her. It was a fragile laugh, but better. Then eventually she spoke again “What if I disappoint everyone?”

There it was again— the fear of failing others. Always others. I answered carefully. “You’ve attached your worth to how much suffering you can endure for people.” I glanced toward her briefly afterward. “That’s not leadership. That’s self-destruction with a good marketing team”. That one made her laugh properly. Real enough that it echoed faintly through the otherwise empty practice room. That sound alone relieved something in my chest I didn’t realize had been tightening for the past hour. Yeji rubbed lightly at her eyes afterward before exhaling slowly “You really are annoying.”

“There it is,” I smiled in relief “That’s the version of you I’ve been waiting to hear again.” That immediately made her pause. The room quieted again afterward, it was softer this time— less hopeless. Yeji stared toward the floor silently for a few seconds longer before eventually asking “You really think I can still do this?” A careful question yet still a dangerous one too. Because this wasn’t asking if the debut would succeed but asking if she was still capable of her role without self-imploding. I answered honestly “I think you’re exhausted enough that you stopped recognizing yourself properly.” Yeji listened quietly. “And I think making permanent decisions from that emotional state would be unfair to yourself”.  Another silence settled afterward then finally she added “I don’t want to disappear.”

That was when I saw the real Yeji. Not Yeji the leader or Yeji the idol— Just Yeji. And that was probably the first moment since taking this job that I genuinely believed she was going to survive this properly. The relief that followed that realization hit harder than expected. Because suddenly I became a little too aware that this situation had already stopped feeling professionally distant to me a while ago. Yeji turned toward me slightly afterward. Still tired and fragile, but present again. And for a few seconds neither of us spoke. We just sat there quietly in the dim practice room while the city outside the building kept moving completely unaware that somebody inside had just barely talked themselves back from disappearing emotionally.

“Thank you” it were simple words. Honest ones too. I nodded once lightly afterward “You don’t need to thank me for staying”. The moment the sentence left my mouth, I saw the shift happen. It was tiny, barely visible. Because suddenly Yeji looked at me differently. Not as a manager or a nosy-pain-in-the-ass psychology major or just somebody temporarily hired to help her survive the recent schedules— just someone she emotionally found herself reaching toward instinctively. The timing was dangerous too. Honestly? I probably should’ve looked away first.

Instead, Yeji moved before I fully processed the expression on her face. Small movement. Careful movement. Like she was still uncertain even while choosing it. Then suddenly— warmth against my lips. Brief and soft. Hesitant enough that it almost felt like a question instead of a kiss, and somehow that made it hit infinitely harder. For a second neither of us moved afterward. Not because the kiss shocked me. Because my brain was trying very hard to decide whether responding to it would immediately make me a terrible person professionally. Occupationally inconvenient timing.

Yeji pulled back first. Not far. Just enough that I could finally properly see the expression on her face. And honestly? That destroyed any possibility of misunderstanding what just happened. She didn’t look impulsive. She didn’t look emotionally unstable. There wasn’t even a look of embarrassment. Just terrified of being rejected for choosing something selfish for once. Shit… a dangerous realization. A VERY DANGEROUS realization hit me “You probably shouldn’t have done that,” I said quietly, not harsh— just honest. Yeji lowered her eyes immediately afterward “…I know”. No defensiveness, no regret either. That was an important difference.

The silence stretched between us again for a few seconds before I finally rubbed lightly at my forehead and exhaled quietly through my nose. Because unfortunately, professionalism became significantly harder to maintain once somebody looked at you like you were the first place they emotionally felt safe landing in months. Terrible design flaw in humanity honestly, and one that I wasn’t immune to either. “You’re emotionally exhausted,” I continued carefully. “And I need you to understand that I’m taking that seriously.” Yeji nodded once slowly “I know.”

“That kiss can’t become something you use because you’re falling apart.” that one hurt her slightly. I saw it immediately. Not because she thought I was rejecting her. Because she thought I misunderstood her. Yeji looked toward the floor quietly for a second before finally answering “I didn’t do it because I’m breaking.” her voice stayed soft the entire time. “But?” she hesitated briefly afterward “…I did it because you stayed.” That one nearly destroyed my remaining professionalism on impact. Because suddenly every moment from the past few weeks rearranged itself differently in my head.

The arguments. The resistance. The exhaustion. The trust. The gradual honesty. None of it had been impulsive. This girl had been consciously choosing emotional proximity little by little the entire time. I looked away briefly afterward while trying unsuccessfully to reorganize my thoughts into something psychologically responsible. That didn’t work. Unfortunate. “You’re making this difficult for me.” That finally earned the faintest tired breath of amusement out of her “…Sorry.”

“There’s the apologizing again” that actually made her smile slightly. And somehow the sight of it after the past few days hit significantly harder than it should have. Concerning to me more than to Yeji. I stayed quiet for another second afterward before finally speaking more honestly than I probably should’ve “I’m trying very hard not to become somebody who takes advantage of emotionally vulnerable people”. Yeji’s expression softened immediately afterward. Not offended. It was understanding “You’re not”. Another dangerous answer. Especially because part of me wanted very badly to believe her immediately. I leaned my head lightly back against the mirrored wall afterward while staring toward the ceiling for a second “This is usually the part where I make terrible life decisions.”

“That sounds oddly specific” a giggle escaped her. “You’d be horrified how common emotionally compromised attachment is in this field, even for people like me who don’t professionally practice.” That earned another quiet laugh out of her. Much better sound now. She sounded more alive again. That realization alone probably should’ve warned me how emotionally involved I already was becoming. Yeji shifted slightly closer afterward. Not enough to touch. Just enough that the distance between us no longer felt accidental “…Do you regret it?” Carefully questioned. It wasn’t her asking me if I like her or if what she did was wrong— it was her subtly asking if I liked that it happened.

I answered honestly “…No” despite the professional choice was to lie— the word left my mouth much easier than professionalism probably would’ve preferred. And judging from the way Yeji’s shoulders relaxed slightly afterward— it mattered more to her than she intended to show.

The strange thing afterward was that nothing became dramatically different overnight. That probably reassured me more than anything else could’ve. Because if Yeji suddenly became emotionally impulsive after that conversation, I would’ve immediately known the kiss came from emotional instability instead of clarity. But she didn’t. The next few days still looked exhausting. Still chaotic. Still overloaded with rehearsals, fittings, recording reviews, and endless adjustments leading into the debut. The difference was subtler than that. Yeji started feeling present again. Not constantly. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough that I started catching small moments I hadn’t seen before. Like actual irritation instead of exhausted compliance “You moved the rehearsal review again”. I glanced up from the schedule tablet calmly. “Correct.”

“You’re abusing authority.” “No, I’m exercising competence.” “That sounds narcissistic.” “That sounds like somebody who slept five hours instead of three.” “You’re impossible.” Yeji narrowed her eyes immediately afterward while I continued walking down the hallway beside her completely unbothered “And yet your blood pressure’s improving. Curious.”. Yeji walked up close to my face “That’s not funny.” I just looked at her without a sense of shame “It’s a little funny, you have to admit that”. The fact she rolled her eyes instead of shutting down emotionally afterward mattered significantly more than she realized. Small behavioral recovery, but real. That became enough for me to start breathing easier too.

Despite the positive changes it felt dangerous on my end. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped measuring her condition professionally and started measuring it personally instead. I noticed when she smiled more naturally. When she ate without being reminded. When she stopped rereading schedules obsessively during downtime. When she started talking to staff members casually again instead of mechanically. And the worst part? She noticed me noticing. That became a problem almost immediately.

“You’re staring again.” “I’m observing.” “You say that like it’s legally distinct.” “It IS legally distinct.”

Yeji laughed quietly beneath her breath afterward while adjusting the oversized hoodie hanging loosely over her rehearsal clothes. That sound still affected me more than it should’ve. Occupationally inconvenient. Very inconvenient.

The solo preparations became more intense the closer debut approached. But strangely enough— the atmosphere around Yeji stopped feeling like slow emotional collapse and started feeling like pressure again. Still difficult and unhealthy pressure. But no longer hopeless. That distinction mattered a lot. One evening after rehearsal review, I found her sitting cross-legged near the edge of the practice room floor while reviewing camera positioning notes. Normal enough. Except this time, she actually looked focused instead of emotionally detached. Progress.

I lowered myself beside her afterward while handing over the protein drink she forgot sitting near the mirrors twenty minutes earlier “You keep leaving these everywhere”. Yeji accepted it quietly before glancing sideways toward me “…You remember small things annoyingly well.”

“Psychological profiling.” “That’s not how profiling works.” “You don’t know that.” “I literally Googled it after meeting you.”

That genuinely caught me off guard enough to laugh once “You researched me?” Yeji looked mildly embarrassed immediately afterward “…That sounded worse out loud.” I couldn’t hold back my grin to the admission of guilt “Ohh it’s significantly worse”. Yeji was flustered “I was curious.”

The room settled quieter afterward. Not awkward. Just softer now. That softness between us was becoming harder to ignore every day. Because nothing dramatic kept happening between us after the kiss. No stolen make-out sessions. No reckless emotional escalation. No relationship-defining conversations. Just consistency. Me staying. Her letting me. And somehow that became infinitely more intimate than impulsiveness ever would’ve been. One night closer to the debut showcase, the company finally cleared rehearsals earlier than expected after one of the production teams ran behind schedule. Miracle-level event honestly. The dancers left first. Then staff members. Then eventually the practice rooms emptied one by one until only scattered voices remained farther down the hallway.

Yeji sat near the edge of the stage platform afterward while loosely stretching one leg absentmindedly. Tired. But not hollow anymore. I leaned lightly against the mirrored wall nearby while reviewing tomorrow’s schedule from my phone.

“Your first live showcase interview starts at ten.” “That’s cruel of them.” “You’ll survive.” “Debatable.”

I glanced up briefly afterward “You nervous?” That made her pause. Not because she didn’t know the answer. Because she was actually thinking about it honestly now “…A little.” That was a healthy answer. Before she would’ve said that she was fine, now it was different. “You know,” I muttered while locking my phone afterward, “normal people usually celebrate before major life events”. Yeji looked toward me curiously “Celebrate how?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged lightly. “Food. Alcohol. Property damage. Irreversible consequences and whatnot.” “Wow… that escalated quickly.” “I believe in emotional range.”

That finally earned another real laugh out of her. God. There it is again. That feeling in my chest was becoming a genuine issue now. The fact that I could even recognize the difference between her real laughter and the polite versions she used around cameras now probably said enough about how emotionally involved I was becoming. Occupationally? It was catastrophic. Yeji eventually shook her head softly afterward while standing from the floor and stretching lightly. “You sound like somebody banned from multiple establishments.” “Allegedly.” “That’s not denial.” “It’s legally safer than honesty.” “Here I thought you’d just buy the establishment to unban yourself.” “I thought I told John to keep that a secret.”

Another laugh. Smaller this time. The practice room slowly settled quiet around us afterward while both of us began gathering scattered notes and water bottles left behind from rehearsals. That normalcy almost affected me more than the emotionally intense moments did. Because two weeks ago, this room felt like the emotional equivalent of a sinking ship. Now? Yeji looked tired, overwhelmed occasionally— but alive again. That mattered a lot.

She eventually slung her bag over one shoulder afterward before glancing toward me again “…You’ll be there tomorrow, right?” Interesting question. She wasn’t asking if I’ll be managing tomorrow, which I would still be doing. It was just asking if I would be there— if I wanted to be there. This girl started to ask the dangerous questions. I answered anyway.

“Unfortunately you’re professionally stuck with me for the foreseeable future.” “That sounds threatening.” “It’s meant to be reassuring.”

Yeji smiled faintly beneath her breath afterward while walking beside me toward the hallway outside the practice room. The company building had mostly quieted down now. Only scattered staff members still moved through the upper floors preparing final showcase logistics. Tomorrow suddenly felt very close. That realization probably should’ve made me more nervous professionally than it did emotionally. Because now the debut no longer felt like another project or management assignment. Now it felt personal.

The elevator ride downward afterward stayed mostly quiet. At one point Yeji leaned lightly back against the wall beside the elevator buttons while staring ahead absentmindedly. Then quietly “…I’m still nervous” a healthier reaction. Before? She would’ve swallowed the feeling entirely. I glanced sideways toward her “That’s good”. That earned an immediate confused look. “You WANT me nervous?” I shook my head lightly. “I want you honest.” That quieted her again “…What if I mess up tomorrow?” I answered without hesitation this time “Then you’ll survive messing up tomorrow.” Yeji blinked once. Not because the answer comforted her. Because it reframed the fear entirely. “I think people around you accidentally made perfection sound fatal,” I continued calmly. “It isn’t.”

The elevator doors opened a second later toward the lower parking levels. Neither of us moved immediately. Then finally Yeji exhaled softly through her nose before stepping forward first “You really are annoyingly good at this”. If only she knew how uncertain I actually felt most of the time.

The next day disappeared into controlled chaos almost immediately. Hair styling. Wardrobe adjustments. Stage blocking. Last-minute technical corrections. Staff members moving through hallways at speeds that probably violated workplace safety regulations. Standard debut atmosphere honestly. But somewhere in the middle of all that noise, Yeji stayed surprisingly steady. Still nervous. Still overthinking occasionally. But no longer drowning in it.

That difference mattered more than flawless execution ever could. I caught smaller signs throughout the day too. She actually ate during breaks instead of pretending coffee counted as nutrition. Stopped apologizing every five minutes whenever minor delays happened. Even argued with one of the stylists over an accessory choice at one point. Excellent psychological recovery indicator honestly. Nothing says emotional stabilization quite like reclaiming the ability to become mildly difficult again. The showcase itself passed almost too quickly afterward.

One second we were still backstage reviewing final timings. Then suddenly lights, music, the deafening screams of the crowd. Performance mode. Truthfully watching Yeji walk onto that stage felt strangely different from every rehearsal leading up to it. Because this time she didn’t look like somebody desperately trying to survive expectations anymore. She looked like herself again. Confident. Sharp. Alive. The performance ended to overwhelming noise shortly afterward, I wouldn’t except less from the crowd’s reaction— I actually liked the title track, myself. But I wasn’t going to tell that to Yeji anytime soon. Then the staff members started rushing again. Applause. Adrenaline. Everybody speaking too loudly because emotional regulation apparently disappeared backstage after successful events. More standard industry behavior honestly. The moment Yeji fully stepped backstage again, the rest of ITZY immediately swarmed her.

Ryujin almost tackled her into a hug. Yuna looked one emotional sentence away from crying. Chaeryeong kept repeating “You were insane” like she still hadn’t fully processed the stage properly. And Lia— mostly just looked relieved.

That one probably hit Yeji hardest. I stayed farther back near the hallway entrance afterward while giving them space naturally. Professional distance. Mostly.

Then eventually Yuna suddenly pointed toward me mid-conversation. “WAIT— you’re the psychology guy”. Great, just great, that title somehow sounded significantly more suspicious than my actual job. Ryujin looked between me and Yeji immediately afterward “…You hired him secretly?”

“That sounds illegal when you phrase it like that,” Yeji muttered tiredly. “I mean technically Jihyo unnie introduced us,” I added calmly. “That somehow sounds MORE suspicious,” Ryujin answered immediately.

Ryujin was an interesting one, sharper than she lets off too. Chaeryeong looked toward Yeji afterward before quietly asking “You’ve been with him this whole preparation?” Yeji hesitated briefly. Then nodded once. The atmosphere shifted slightly after that— subtle but noticeable. Because suddenly the members weren’t just looking at some temporary manager the company recommended, now they were looking at somebody who had been beside Yeji through the worst parts of the solo preparation they themselves only partially witnessed from the outside.

Lia understood first. I saw it happen almost immediately in her expression. Recognition, not in how Yeji looked at me or the way I secretly struggled to stay professional about Yeji, but the recognition of Yeji’s burnout. Honestly a dangerous thing to recognize in another person. “Thank you” Lia said quietly afterward. Simple yet heavy words. And somehow that affected me more than the louder reactions did. Because unlike the others— Lia understood exactly how ugly emotional exhaustion could become once somebody normalized surviving through it too long. I answered carefully “She did most of the work herself”. Yeji looked away immediately afterward in embarrassment— that didn’t help me look innocent at all despite me being actually innocent in all of this.

“Okay but professionally speaking, the vibe here feels suspiciously emotionally healthy” Yuna suddenly pointed dramatically between the two of us. “That’s because you’re used to dysfunction,” Ryujin answered instantly. “THAT SOUNDED TARGETED” Yuna yelled “Because it is” Ryujin retorted in amusement.

The backstage room immediately dissolved into overlapping noise afterward while Yuna fake-argued and Ryujin looked entirely too pleased with herself. For the first time since this whole situation started— the atmosphere around Yeji no longer felt fragile anymore. It just felt alive.

Later that night, after the official congratulations, staff photos, and endless “you did well” comments finally died down, Yeji found me near the parking entrance. “You said normal people celebrate.” I looked up from my phone. “I also mentioned property damage.” She grabbed me by the arm “Food and alcohol first”. Feeling like I declining her would be a death sentence “Responsible escalation, that’s good.” she smiled, tired but real. “Come with me?” There it was again. Choosing. I should’ve said no. Instead, twenty minutes later, we were tucked inside a quiet private booth at a small restaurant where the owner clearly knew better than to ask questions. Yeji ordered more food than she could realistically finish and one drink she kept pretending affected her more than it did.

“You’re a terrible actress,” I said. “I’m lightheaded” she blinked too innocently. “You’ve had half a glass.” “Emotionally, it was strong.” “That’s not how alcohol works.” “It is tonight.”

She laughed into her sleeve, and honestly, that sound probably ruined the last usable piece of my professionalism. After dinner, she leaned closer across the table, eyes clearer than she wanted me to believe. “When this is over tomorrow…” she paused, then corrected herself softly, “No. It is over now.” I stayed quiet. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve. “Can I choose something selfish again?” the room seemed to narrow around the question. Because I understood “Yeji”.

“I’m not falling apart tonight,” she said quietly. “I’m not asking because I need saving.” That mattered more than she knew “I know” I could only mutter acknowledgement “Then don’t treat me like I don’t know what I want”. For a second, I didn’t answer. Then I exhaled, defeated by the one thing I could never argue against properly. A conscious choice “…Okay.” Her smile came slowly. Soft. Relieved. Certain. And when she reached for my hand under the table, I let her.

By the time they left the restaurant, Seoul had already settled into the quieter side of the night. The streets weren’t empty— just calmer now. Yeji walked beside me with her hands tucked halfway into the sleeves of her oversized hoodie while the cold air carried the leftover exhaustion of the day out of both of us little by little. For the first time since this entire situation began, neither of us was talking about anything work related— just about normal and pointless things. She complained about one of the stage outfits. I informed her professionally that fashion was an organized crime syndicate. She laughed hard enough at that to nearly miss a step off the curb afterward. Somewhere during the drive back, the emotional atmosphere between us shifted again. Like both of us understood something irreversible had already happened emotionally and neither person particularly wanted to pretend otherwise anymore.

When we finally reached her residence building, I parked the car but didn’t immediately move to unbuckle my seatbelt. Neither did she. The city lights outside reflected softly across the windshield while silence settled between us again. Just aware. Yeji eventually leaned her head lightly back against the seat before exhaling quietly “…I really did almost quit.” an honest sentence. I looked toward her carefully afterward.

“I know.” “And somehow that feels unreal now.” “That’s usually how surviving emotional collapse feels afterward.” she smiled faintly beneath her breath “You make everything sound psychological.” “That’s because unfortunately I am psychological.” “That sounded medically concerning.” “It probably is.”

Another laugh. Smaller this time. Sleepier. Then eventually the silence returned again. But this time neither of us seemed interested in escaping it. Yeji slowly turned toward me afterward. No uncertainty, not emotionally spiraling. Just plain clarity that never yielded. That probably affected me more than alcohol had to. Because this wasn’t exhaustion choosing closeness, not desperation, or emotional dependency clawing for comfort— this was simply her choosing. “…You’re thinking too hard,” she said quietly. “Can’t help it, occupational hazard” I exhaled softly through my nose afterward before finally admitting “I’m trying very hard to be responsible right now.” Yeji’s expression softened immediately “…You’ve been responsible this entire time” This was especially because she sounded so certain about it.

She shifted slightly closer afterward. Slow enough to stop if I wanted her to. I didn’t, the moment I realized that— I already knew professionalism had lost this fight a long time ago. Yeji’s fingers lightly curled against my hand first. Then her shoulder against mine “…Ben” that careful tone again, the one that was going to psychologically destroy me someday “Yeah?” Her eyes met mine quietly in the dim lighting inside the car. A warmth that showed no hesitation or second thoughts. She pressed her pressed her lips softly on mine, and this time I gave up on resisting and hiding behind that professional hurdle because I knew I would just be lying to the both of us. The silence afterward didn’t feel uncertain anymore. It felt inevitable. Yeji slowly pulled back just enough for both of us to breathe properly again, though judging from the way her fingers still lingered lightly against my hand, neither of us was particularly interested in creating real distance anymore “…Come upstairs.”

I should’ve probably still thought harder about it. Instead, I reached for the door handle first. That alone made Yeji laugh quietly beneath her breath while following beside me out of the car. The night air felt colder now or maybe that was just the adrenaline finally catching up. Neither of us spoke much while walking toward the entrance of her residence building. Not because there was tension. Because there was a lack of it along with the lack of uncertainty— just two people very aware of each other now. The elevator ride upward felt significantly smaller than before. Yeji stood beside me quietly with her hands partially hidden inside the sleeves of her hoodie again while the dim lighting reflected softly against the mirrored walls around us.

“You’re thinking again.” I glanced sideways toward her. “You say that like it’s a disease.” she smiled “I’m beginning to think it is.” I mirrored her grin “That’s medically offensive to psychologists everywhere” another smile. God those were becoming genuinely dangerous to my self-control. The elevator doors opened a second later toward her floor. Then suddenly we were walking down the quieter hallway toward her unit while Seoul’s city lights glowed faintly through the larger windows farther behind us. Yeji slowed slightly once she reached the door. Keys in hand then a pause while unlocking it. Something about the normalcy of that moment broke the last surviving piece of restraint I still had left.

Maybe it was the realization that she chose this— she chose me, or maybe I was simply tired of pretending I didn’t want her back just as badly anymore. Probably both. Yeji barely got the door unlocked before I reached for her first. The moment she turned toward me again, I kissed her properly this time. No hesitation. None of that careful emotional distance. Just accumulated restraint finally giving out all at once.

She made the softest surprised sound against my lips before immediately kissing me back just as hard, one hand instinctively catching against my jacket while the other still struggled half-successfully with the door handle behind her. The door finally opened behind her a second later, but neither of us immediately cared enough to separate first as we walked into the hall. My leg slowly kicked the door closed shut and her hand reached around my body to lock it back in place.

Neither of us stopped kissing long enough to breathe properly— I lifted her up against the narrow walls of her home, she proceeded to wrap her legs around me for stability as her both of her hands reached for my face before finally letting go the kiss. She took a moment to watch my face as I met her gaze as in return “Wow, what… happened to… all that… restraint?” she said in between her panting. I laughed softly beneath my breath afterward while keeping her pinned lightly against the wall, one hand still firm against her waist as if letting go now would somehow be physically impossible.

“Honestly?” I muttered while brushing another slower kiss against the corner of her mouth. “I think you psychologically wore it down over time.” Yeji laughed breathlessly at that, though it immediately dissolved into breathless sounds when I kissed her again before she could properly recover. “That sounds irresponsible for a psychologist” as she slowly took off her the jacket that hid the frames of her body, leaving her sleeveless top to expose the skin of her neck and collarbone. “It probably violates every professional guideline to ever exist.” I told her as I drew my face closer to her. “That should concern me more.” “It really should.” And yet neither of us sounded particularly interested in stopping anymore. This time my mouth the crevice of her collar, she started cooing when I led my tongue all the way to the side of her neck.

I didn't let her go. I carried her from the wall all the way to her room, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist while my tongue traced the sensitive line of her jaw. The air in the small entryway felt thick, charged with a static that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Every breath she took was a jagged, uneven thing, echoing the frantic rhythm of my own heart. I shifted my weight, sliding one hand from her waist to the hem of her sleeveless top. I didn't ask. I didn't have to. The way she arched her back, pressing her chest into me, was the only answer I needed. I pulled the fabric over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly into the hall.

She stood there in the dim light, her skin glowing like polished pearl. Her breasts were small, firm, with nipples already peaked and hard, straining against the cool air. I took a moment, just a second, to map her. I let my eyes travel from the delicate slope of her shoulders down to the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. She was lean, a dancer's body, all hidden strength and supple grace. Yeji reached for the buttons of my shirt, her fingers trembling. She fumbled with the second one, a small huff of frustration escaping her lips. "Let me," I whispered.

I stripped out of my clothes with a haste that bordered on desperation, my eyes never leaving hers. When my pants hit the floor, my cock sprang free, fully erect and pulsing with a heavy, aching need.

Yeji stopped. Her gaze dropped, her eyes widening as she stared at me. She didn't move for a long moment, her breath hitching in her throat. Slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, she reached out. Her fingers were cool as they wrapped around the base of my shaft. She didn't know how to grip it—her hold was loose, tentative, her thumb brushing awkwardly against the underside. "Ben," she breathed, her voice a fragile thread. "Yeah?" She slid her hand up, her palm grazing the velvet heat of my glans. She let out a soft, shaky exhale, her eyes flickering back up to mine.

"I didn't expect... this." "Too much?"

She shook her head quickly, though her brow furrowed with a flicker of genuine concern. She tightened her grip slightly, trying to encompass the girth, but her fingers didn't even come close to meeting on the other side. "It's just... you're so large. I think... this is the largest I've ever seen.” I felt a surge of possessive heat hit my gut. I stepped closer, the tip of my cock brushing against her thigh.

"Does it scare you?" "No," she whispered, her gaze intensifying. "Not with you. I want it. I want all of it."

I didn't waste another second. I scooped her up, her legs locking around my waist instinctively, and carried her toward the bedroom. I dropped her onto the mattress, the springs creaking under the sudden weight. I hovered over her, my body a heavy shadow against her light. I spent the next twenty minutes mapping every inch of her. I wanted her skin memorized. I kissed the hollow of her throat, the valley between her breasts, and the soft skin of her stomach. I moved lower, my tongue tracing the line of her hip before diving between her thighs.

Yeji gasped, her hips jerking upward as I found her. She was already drenched, her pussy dripping a thick, sweet musk that filled my senses. I used my tongue to part her lips, tasting the salt and the heat. I focused on her clit, circling it with a precision that had her clawing at the sheets, her head tossing from side to side.

"Ben, please," she whimpered, her voice breaking. "I can't... I don't know what's happening." "Just feel it, Yeji. Don't think. Just feel."

I moved back up, positioning myself between her legs. I reached down, guiding the head of my cock to her entrance. She was tight—terrifyingly tight—and as I pushed in, I felt her muscles stretch and protest. I stopped, letting her adjust, my breath hot against her ear.

"You okay?" "Yes," she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut. "Just... keep going. Please."

I pushed deeper, my cock started to feel like a slow invasion within Yeji. I felt the friction of her walls hugging me, the heat of her internal muscles clamping down on my shaft. A wet, squelching sound filled the quiet of the room as I slid fully home, my pelvis slamming against her with a heavy thud.

Yeji let out a strangled cry, her eyes snapping open. She looked shocked, her chest heaving. "You're... you're actually all the way in," she whispered, her voice sounding distant. "Every inch," I reached in to give her a kiss.

I started to move. I kept it slow at first, pulling back until only the tip remained before slamming back in. The sound of our bodies colliding—a rhythmic, fleshy slapping—became the only thing in the world. I watched her face, the way her eyebrows knit together, the way her lips parted in a silent plea. I increased the pace, the friction building into a searing heat. I could feel her getting wetter, the lubrication making every thrust a sliding, shlicking mess. I shifted my angle, driving my cock upward to grind against her G-spot.

Yeji's reaction was instantaneous. Her back arched, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her nails were definitely going to leave some marks later.

"Something is... something is happening," she cried out, her voice rising in pitch. "Ben, I feel... it's too much!" "Ride it, Yeji. Give in to it."

I didn't stop. I hammered into her, my movements becoming primal and uncoordinated. I could feel her insides beginning to quiver. Then, it happened.

Yeji's entire body stiffened. Her internal walls suddenly contracted, squeezing my shaft in a series of violent, rhythmic pulses. A loud, guttural moan tore from her throat, her eyes rolling back as her first-ever orgasm ripped through her.

For me, it was electric. The sensation of her clenching around me was an overwhelming pressure, a vacuum that pulled me deeper into her. The feeling of her climaxing while I was still buried inside her pushed me over the edge. I let out a soft moan, my muscles locking as I surged forward one last time, burying myself as deep as possible.

I felt the hot, thick jets of my cum flooding her, filling her to the brim. I stayed there, pinned to her, our hearts hammering in unison, the only sound the heavy, ragged breathing of two people who had just discovered a new language. Yeji lay limp beneath me, her eyes slowly fluttering open. She looked dazed, a small, bewildered smile on her lips.

"What... was that?" she whispered. "That," I panted, kissing her forehead, "was an orgasm, Yeji."

She let out a soft, breathless laugh, her hand coming up to rest on my chest. "I didn't know... I didn't know it could feel like that. I feel like I just woke up for the first time in my life."

I rolled off her, pulling her into my arms. We lay there in the aftermath, the smell of sex and sweat clinging to the sheets. But as the minutes passed, the silence didn't feel like an end. It felt like a bridge. I looked down at her, seeing the flush still lingering on her cheeks, the way her eyes looked wider, clearer. The desire returned, not as a frantic need, but as a slow, simmering hunger. I shifted, my cock already stirring again, reacting to the proximity of her warmth. "Round two?" I murmured. Yeji didn't answer with words. She simply flipped over, presenting her backside to me, her hips tilted up in an invitation that made my blood boil.

I didn't waste time with foreplay this time, she was already wet again— I guess the thought of going another round was enough to flip a switch. I knelt behind her, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her toward the edge of the bed. I rubbed dick around the folds of her pussy, lubricating the head of my cock before sliding back into her from behind.

The angle was different, deeper. I felt the tip of my shaft kiss the entrance of her cervix, and Yeji let out a sharp, high-pitched gasp. "Oh god," she whimpered, her face pressed into the pillow. "That's... that's even deeper." "You like it?" I asked, my voice a low rasp. "Yes... please, Ben... more… no one has ever… reached that far." she was trying to speak in between her moans.

I began to move, my thrusts becoming more vigorous, more aggressive. I wasn't being gentle anymore. I wanted her to feel every bit of the size she had been worried about. I drove into her with a rhythmic intensity, the sound of my skin slapping against her skin echoing in the room. The friction was intense, the squelching sounds of our interaction becoming louder as we both became drenched in sweat. I reached around, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in sync with every thrust.

Yeji was losing it. She was sobbing now, not from pain, but from a sensory overload that was stripping away every last bit of her composure.

"I'm going again!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the apartment. "I can feel it! Ben, please don't stop!"

I didn't. I pushed her harder, my movements becoming a blur of heat and friction. I felt her build up again, the tension in her legs shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Then, the wave hit her. It wasn't just one orgasm this time. It was a cascade. Her internals clamped down on me in a series of prolonged, rolling contractions. I felt her body shudder beneath me, her voice dissolving into a series of incoherent whimpers as she experienced multiple, overlapping peaks of pleasure.

The sensation was intoxicating. Having her unravel beneath me, feeling her body completely surrender to the pleasure I was providing, sent me spiraling. I felt my own climax building, a pressure in my loins that felt like it was about to explode. I let out a choked sound, my grip tightening on her hips as I delivered a final, powerful thrust. I felt my cock pulse violently inside her, sending another massive load of cum deep into her womb. I groaned, my forehead resting against her back, my entire body vibrating with the force of the release.

We collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and damp skin. I pulled her back against my chest, my arm draped over her waist. The room was silent again, save for the sound of our breathing. Yeji turned her head, looking at me with eyes that were soft, exhausted, and entirely content. "I think," she whispered, her voice sounding raw, "that I might actually be able to sleep tonight." I chuckled, kissing the back of her neck. "Mission accomplished."

She shifted, snuggling closer into my warmth, her hand finding mine and interlocking our fingers. For the first time in years, the weight of the world—the schedules, the expectations, the crushing pressure of leadership—felt light. It felt irrelevant.

"Ben?" "Yeah?" "Don't ever leave me alone in a dark rehearsal room again." I smiled, closing my eyes. "Deal."

Morning arrived significantly softer than either of us expected. There was a lack of emotional panic, regret, or awkward distance. Just quiet. Yeji stood barefoot in her kitchen wearing one of her oversized shirts while scrolling through fan reactions on her phone with visible concentration the same way I was working on my doctoral thesis when I was still getting my master’s degree. That piqued my interest “Okay this one’s lying,” she muttered while reading another comment. I glanced up briefly from the coffee I was making “Which one?”

“‘Yeji looked calm and relaxed on stage.’” She looked toward me suspiciously. “I was fighting for my life internally.” She let out a laugh. God, the domestic normalcy of this morning was affecting me significantly more than the sex itself had. Which honestly felt medically concerning. Yeji eventually walked closer afterward before silently leaning against my side while continuing to scroll through her phone letting the moment soak in before looking back at me “…We should probably talk to them.”

I already knew who she meant immediately. Jihyo. John. God, I wish we could skip John. The atmosphere softened slightly afterward. The both of us understood the same thing now without needing to say it aloud first. Last night changed something permanently— professionally and emotionally and neither of us regretted it. I handed Yeji her coffee afterward before answering honestly. “We crossed a line we can’t really uncross anymore”. Yeji nodded once quietly. “…Yeah” I didn’t sense any fear or second thoughts in her voice “…Are you okay with that?” A careful question, an important one to boot. I looked toward her properly afterward “I think I stopped pretending this was professionally salvageable somewhere around the second time you kissed me.” That immediately made her laugh quietly into the rim of the coffee mug she was holding. Then eventually she lowered the mug slightly again “…Good.”

It was a simple answer full of certainty. But certain enough that something in my chest settled instead of tightening afterward. A dangerous development for me honestly. A little while later, I was sitting beside her on the couch while absentmindedly scrolling through my phone when Yeji suddenly shifted closer again. I glanced toward her briefly before realizing she was staring directly at my shoulder with visible concentration.

“…What?” “You have a lot of tattoos.” as she was looking around me, observing every detail of my body. “That sounds judgmental.” “It’s observational.” Yeji tried to sound like me. “That’s just judgment with better marketing.”

Yeji laughed softly before setting her phone aside completely now. Her fingers lightly brushed against the ink near my shoulder almost absentmindedly. The contact nearly short-circuited my nervous system significantly more than expected. “This one looks older,” she murmured quietly while tracing one of the darker faded lines near my collarbone. “It is.”

“What’s it supposed to be?” “You say that like you don’t recognize a snake.” “It looked philosophical.” “It’s literally just a snake.” “That somehow feels disappointing.”

I let out a quieter laugh afterward while Yeji continued studying the tattoos scattered across my arms and shoulders with visible curiosity now. The fact she looked this interested in something as mundane as my tattoos was affecting me more emotionally than it reasonably should’ve. Then suddenly her expression shifted slightly “…Wait”. Her eyes narrowed briefly toward my shoulder “…Are those scratch marks?” I blinked once. Then immediately looked down. Ah. Right. Yeji followed the realization almost instantly before covering her mouth while trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

“Oh my god.” “That feels slightly accusatory.” “You look like you survived a wildlife attack.” “In my defense, somebody became significantly less emotionally stable after midnight.” “That sounds like deflection.” “That sounds like accountability avoidance from YOU.”

Yeji immediately folded into laughter again while I rubbed lightly at my forehead in defeat. Watching her laugh this freely after everything she went through emotionally over the past several months was beginning to affect me in ways I was not psychologically prepared for. Then eventually her eyes shifted downward again. “…You’re surprisingly fit.” I looked toward her slowly afterward.

“That sounded more offended than complimentary.” “I just didn’t expect it.” “What exactly did you think psychologists looked like physically?” “I don’t know.” She tried unsuccessfully not to smile again. “Slightly weaker.” “That’s devastating.” “It’s true.” “I carried you against a wall yesterday.” “That sentence sounds significantly more threatening in daylight.” “Fair.”

Yeji laughed softly again before eventually leaning more comfortably against my side afterward. Then quietly

“…I still can’t believe you have this many tattoos.” I glanced down briefly toward the ink across my arms before shrugging lightly again “Grad school was psychologically difficult.” “That explains absolutely nothing.” “It explains enough.”

Another smaller silence settled comfortably afterward. Then eventually I looked toward her again before speaking casually. “If you want, I can always add a portrait tattoo of you somewhere.” Yeji stared at me for exactly two seconds “…What?”

“I’m committed to emotionally terrible decision-making now.” “That is NOT a normal thing to say after sleeping with someone.” “I think it would add professionalism to the workplace.” “You’re insane.” “Clinically functional.” “That’s debatable.”

I laughed softly afterward while Yeji shook her head in disbelief beside me, though the faint redness lingering across her face betrayed her significantly. Then eventually she leaned lightly against my shoulder again afterward while still smiling quietly to herself. A little while later, Yeji sat beside me on the couch while the phone rang through speaker mode. John answered first “…Hello children.” I immediately narrowed my eyes “You’re trying to sound emotionally intelligent again” it was too early for John to give me a headache “I’ve evolved psychologically” I could feel the smug from the phone “The hell you have”.

Yeji immediately folded into laughter beside me. Terrible start already. Then somewhere farther away from the call “John stop making things weird,” Jihyo’s voice cut in immediately “I’m helping”. I rubbed lightly at my forehead afterward “…How do nine people emotionally survive you?” That quickly blew a hole in his whole act “That sounded targeted,” John muttered. Yeji was still laughing quietly beside me by the time Jihyo finally spoke again “…Do you two want to meet later?” There it was, a calm tone— too calm. Yeah,” Yeji answered first this time, her voice quieter afterward. “We should probably talk properly”. A brief silence followed “…Okay,” Jihyo answered simply. “Come by later this afternoon”. That somehow made the entire thing feel significantly more serious.

The drive later that afternoon felt strangely calmer than it probably should’ve. Maybe because the difficult part had already happened last night or maybe because neither of us was particularly interested in pretending this was some catastrophic mistake that needed undoing. Yeji sat beside me scrolling idly through her phone while soft music played quietly through the speakers. At one point she looked over briefly “You’re thinking again” I gave her a look at her as the stoplight was still red “That accusation has become emotionally abusive” she instantly retorted “Well you’re making it easy” that was fair. I kept my glance toward her “Nervous?” Yeji considered the question honestly “…A little”. By the time we arrived, John was already waiting near the café entrance wearing sunglasses despite being indoors like somebody trying very hard to look mysterious and failing catastrophically.

“Oh good, the emotional support golden retriever is here” I muttered while stepping out of the car “That’s hurtful”. I waved him off “It wasn’t inaccurate, that’s what matters”. John looked deeply offended for almost three seconds before immediately shaking Yeji’s hand “Congratulations by the way. You killed it yesterday” Yeji smiled softly afterward “…Thanks”. Then John turned toward me dramatically afterward “And you, you look suspiciously emotionally fulfilled.” I immediately pointed toward him “See? THIS is why you can’t pretend to sound like me. You overcommit to the bit emotionally”. Yeji laughed quietly beside me while John looked personally attacked. Before he could retaliate, the café door opened behind him, and there she was. Jihyo stepped outside holding a folder beneath one arm while looking significantly calmer than everybody else present. Which honestly felt threatening somehow.

“Why are you holding paperwork?” I asked immediately. Jihyo glanced down briefly toward the folder “…Preparation.” that answer garnered a horrified expression from me “That answer psychologically upset me, the one with a Master’s Degree in Psychology— that should account for something”. John immediately pointed toward her. “SEE? I TOLD YOU.” Jihyo showed visible confusion for a while “Told me WHAT exactly?” Neither of them answered.

We eventually settled into one of the quieter private rooms farther inside the café afterward. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile. Serious, yes. But not condemning. Yeji sat beside me while Jihyo calmly placed the folder onto the table between us. Then finally “I’m going to ask one question first,” Jihyo said quietly “Was last night emotionally impulsive?” a direct question. I answered first “No”. Yeji nodded immediately afterward beside me “No regrets either”. Jihyo watched both of us silently for a second longer afterward. Assessing. Leader mode, then finally— she exhaled softly through her nose before leaning back slightly in her chair “Okay”.

That was it. no explosion. No dramatic lecture. No accusation… Just okay. Yet that somehow felt heavier than anger would’ve. John, meanwhile, looked between all three of us like somebody trying very hard not to interrupt emotionally important adult conversation with stupidity. Predictably unsuccessful. “So,” he muttered carefully, “are we all pretending this isn’t horrifyingly predictable in hindsight?”

“John,” Jihyo warned immediately without even looking at him. “I’m contributing emotionally.” I didn’t even look at him “You’re making it worse emotionally, for me at least.” “That’s subjective.” “It’s really not.” Yeji nearly laughed beside me while I rubbed lightly at my forehead. Strangely enough the fact that this somehow already felt less like damage control and more like some sort of relationship ecosystem maintenance, and it was deeply concerning. Jihyo eventually opened the folder afterward before sliding two documents calmly across the table toward Yeji and me.

NDAs. Of course they were. I stared at them for a few seconds before slowly looking back up at her “You had these prepared already?” Jihyo took a sip from her drink first. Calm. Composed. Terrifying “I prepared them after realizing emotional attachment between managers and idols was probably inevitable eventually.” then simultaneously “That should not be a normal sentence,” I said. “SEE?” John pointed aggressively toward me. “I SAID THAT TOO.” Jihyo ignored both of us professionally. Psychologically she was a horrifying woman honestly. Yeji picked up the NDA quietly beside me afterward while scanning through it briefly. Then paused “…Wait.” even I felt the danger in that word. Jihyo blinked once “What?”

Yeji looked between Jihyo, John, and then back toward the paperwork and I physically watched the realization happen in real time “…Hold on” Yeji narrowed her eyes slightly afterward. “John isn’t just sleeping with one of the TWICE members, is he?” That made Jihyo choked violently on her drink. I folded forward laughing almost instantly while John looked like his soul briefly exited his body. “Oh my GOD,” I wheezed while trying unsuccessfully to recover. “SHE FIGURED IT OUT IMMEDIATELY.” John muttered in genuine horror “That was FAST”. Yeji blinked once slowly afterward while looking increasingly alarmed “Wait seriously?” Jihyo was still coughing and John looked ready to fake his own death. And genuinely I hadn’t laughed this hard in years.

“You people are INSANE,” I finally managed through laughter while wiping briefly at my eyes. “I thought this was like… one emotionally complicated relationship.” John pointed toward me immediately. “In my defense—” I didn’t even let him finish that statement “You have NO defense.” John continued regardless “Actually I have several.” that somehow made it worse. Yeji looked between everyone again like she’d accidentally walked into the middle of an emotionally unstable cult and her reaction was completely valid. Eventually Jihyo recovered enough to speak again “…To be fair,” she muttered weakly afterward, “it didn’t exactly happen the way you think it did.”

“That sentence also should not be normal,” I answered immediately. John leaned back dramatically in his chair afterward. “You adjust eventually.” hearing that is the opposite of reassuring. Yeji was still visibly trying to process the scale of what she apparently just uncovered. Then quietly “…Wait. ALL of them?” John closed his eyes in defeat. Jihyo covered her face. And I completely lost composure again. “I cannot BELIEVE this is a real conversation I’m having right now,” I managed through laughter while John looked spiritually exhausted across the table. “In my defense—”

“You need to stop starting sentences like that,” Jihyo interrupted immediately. “It implies there’s a defense,” I added “You’re dating an entire nationally beloved girl group.” trying to compose myself “That sounds worse when YOU say it.”

“Because I’m emotionally framing it correctly.” Yeji looked genuinely stunned beside me. Not judgmental. Just deeply, profoundly confused “…How does that even work?” John immediately pointed toward Jihyo. “Leadership?” Jihyo answered while covering her eyes briefly “That is NOT the answer, JOHN.”

“It’s a little the answer,” he muttered. Interesting ecosystem honestly also very concerning too. Yeji slowly leaned back in her chair afterward while still processing everything. Then suddenly, another realization. Her eyes shifted slowly toward Jihyo “…You already knew this was probably going to happen with me and Ben?” Silence— even that question caught me off guard. Jihyo stayed calm for exactly three seconds too long “…I suspected emotional overlap was possible.” I answered immediately “That sounded PREPARED”.  Jihyo finally sighed softly afterward before resting her chin against one hand “You both spent months emotionally depending on each other during an extremely vulnerable period”.

“Okay but hearing it phrased clinically somehow made it worse,” John muttered. Jihyo ignored him professionally, what a terrifying woman. Then she looked toward me properly afterward “You stabilized her emotionally without isolating her from herself”. The room quieted slightly after that, less comedic now. More honest. “She didn’t become dependent on you,” Jihyo continued calmly “She became herself again around you”. That sentence hit harder than expected. Because somewhere deep down, I think part of me was still worried about that exact thing. Yeji looked toward me quietly afterward too. Warmly. Then Jihyo continued like she hadn’t just emotionally sniped me across the table.

“So no,” she finished calmly. “I wasn’t surprised this crossed into something personal eventually”. I leaned back slowly afterward while staring at the ceiling briefly “…That should not be an emotionally healthy intuition.” John pointed immediately. “SEE?”

“Stop validating each other,” Jihyo muttered tiredly. “No,” me and John answered instantly. Yeji laughed quietly beside me before eventually setting the NDA back onto the table again. Then softly “…I want Ben to officially manage ITZY.” The room stilled again afterward.

Yeji continued carefully. “I know what happened between us changes things.” She glanced briefly toward me first before continuing. “But I also know the others are struggling too.” that was Yeji’s leader instinct, and she was right on the bat. Even now. “I don’t want to go back to pretending everybody’s fine when they’re clearly not.” That quieted the table completely afterward. “You realize what that probably means long term, right?” Jihyo asked gently. Yeji nodded once slowly “…Yeah.” No hesitation. Then finally she glanced sideways toward me again before adding “And honestly? I already accepted that this might happen naturally with the others too eventually.”

I blinked once slowly “…I’m sorry WHAT?” Yeji blinked once afterward like she didn’t fully understand why that answer shocked me so much. “What?”

“You accepted that possibility WAY too calmly.” “Because I already thought about it.” “That sentence emotionally terrified me.” John immediately pointed toward Yeji across the table “See? That’s exactly how this starts.” “You are the LAST person qualified to say that,” I answered instantly. “Fair.”

A disturbingly self-aware ecosystem. Yeji looked toward me quietly afterward before speaking again “I’m not saying it has to happen.” She paused briefly. “I’m saying… I know how you are.” Dangerous statement especially because she sounded completely sincere. “You care deeply,” she continued softly. “And they’re important to me too.” Even now, she wasn’t viewing this possessively, true mark of a real leader. She was thinking about everybody else first too. I leaned back slowly afterward while rubbing lightly at my jaw “…You’re all emotionally abnormal.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” John muttered. “I’m at least aware I’m psychologically concerning.” “That somehow doesn’t help.”

Jihyo finally sighed softly before reaching for another document inside the folder. The fact she had MORE paperwork ready nearly made me leave on principle alone. “There’s also the updated management transfer proposal,” she said calmly. I stared at her “…You already prepared THAT too?” Jihyo blinked once. “You think slowly for someone with a Master’s Degree in Psychology.” I was beat from all angles, “I take it back. You’re the scariest person here.”

“Correct,” John answered immediately. Yeji looked visibly relieved afterward though as Jihyo slid the paperwork toward us. “The company already trusts your judgment after the solo debut,” Jihyo continued calmly. “Officially, the recommendation is expanded emotional and schedule management support for ITZY as a whole.” Emotionally dangerous wording. Professionally brilliant wording too. I skimmed briefly through the proposal afterward before immediately stopping at one section “This compensation package is ridiculous.” John snorted instantly “THAT’S the part bothering you?”

Yeji leaned slightly closer beside me afterward while trying to peek at the paperwork. “Wait, how much is—” “It’s not important.” “That means it’s horrifying,” John answered immediately. I set the paperwork back onto the table afterward. “Honestly, I don’t need the money.” The room quieted slightly. “That is NOT a normal sentence,” Jihyo said. “See?” John pointed aggressively toward me. “THIS is what I’ve been trying to explain.” I ignored him “What I DO need,” I continued calmly, “is a company-issued vehicle.” That finally shifted the atmosphere slightly back toward seriousness. “Security concerns?” Jihyo asked immediately. “Exactly.” I nodded once. “Using my personal car long-term around idol schedules is risky. You of all people know how some of those nutjob fans eventually identify patterns.” The room quieted again afterward. Because unfortunately? That concern was realistic.

“I’d rather not have somebody tracing ITZY’s movements through my license plate eventually.” Yeji looked toward me quietly after that. Warmly. Jihyo nodded slowly afterward. “That’s fair. We can arrange that.” Then Yeji tilted her head slightly. “Hold on, Ben.” she looked toward me carefully afterward. “Looking back your car actually IS expensive if you think it would be that easy to trace back, isn’t it?” I immediately narrowed my eyes toward John before he even opened his mouth. “You stay out of this.” “I didn’t even SAY anything yet.” “You looked financially enthusiastic.” “That’s profiling.”

Yeji laughed quietly beside me afterward. “But seriously,” she continued, “the brand wasn’t Korean. I didn’t recognize it.” John immediately folded his arms. “Oh it’s expensive-expensive.” This bloody traitor. “It’s custom-built too,” he added helpfully. “John” that didn’t make him stop. “What?” John looked immediately defensive. “What? I’m contributing context.”

“You’re contributing financial slander.” “That thing probably costs more than my apartment.” “That’s statistically possible.”

Silence. Then immediately “What?” Yeji stared at me now. Jihyo slowly lowered her drink afterward. And honestly? I could physically feel this conversation becoming more psychologically irritating by the second. “It’s just a car.”

“That is ABSOLUTELY not how rich people say ‘just a car,’” John answered immediately. Yeji narrowed her eyes slightly afterward. “Are you actually rich-rich?” I immediately leaned back in my chair. “We are not doing this conversation.”

“That means yes,” Yeji answered immediately. “Psychologically invasive behavior.” John added helpfully “Deflection”. I turned back at him “You traitorous asshole.” Jihyo looked mildly entertained now too. Concerning development. Then eventually Yeji glanced between me and John again “…Okay but how rich are we talking exactly?” I pointed toward John immediately “If he answers this incorrectly, I’m revoking his friendship privileges.”

“You can’t revoke those.” “Watch me.” John looked entirely too entertained now. “Well…” He leaned back slightly afterward. “You know how Mina is terrifyingly wealthy, right?” Yeji blinked once slowly. “How wealthy are we talking?” John and Jihyo exchanged a look first. That made the answer significantly worse already. Then eventually John sighed dramatically “Mina could probably buy JYPE herself if she genuinely wanted to.” Silence. Yeji stared. I rubbed lightly at my forehead. And somehow the fact nobody denied it probably answered enough already. “That should not be normal,” I muttered. “You’re not allowed to say that anymore,” John answered immediately.

Then Yeji slowly looked back toward me “Okay then, what about YOU?” Oh no. Absolutely not. I immediately stood up slightly from my chair “I’m leaving.” John answered instantly. “You signed paperwork already, you legally can’t.” Jihyo finally rubbed lightly at her temple afterward. “Sit down, Ben.” This was emotional abuse, but I sat back down anyway. “Theoretically” John began carefully while visibly trying not to laugh already, “if Ben liquidated and pooled most of his CURRENT resources together—”

“John.” “—he could probably buy enough shares to own majority control of JYPE. Something around 80 to 85% of the shares. I did the math already.” The silence was broken by singular “…What.” from Yeji who looked genuinely horrified now. I immediately pointed toward John again. “This is why rich people don’t tell people things.”

“That wasn’t even the weird part.” “There’s a WEIRDER PART?” John looked deeply entertained now. “He gets richer accidentally.” “That is not a real sentence,” Jihyo muttered. “It IS,” John continued. “I swear this man wakes up wealthier every six months without trying.” “That sounds villainous,” Yeji answered immediately. “I invest intelligently,” I defended calmly. “You bought a company once because you were annoyed at their customer service.” “That was strategically justified.” “That was psychotic.”

Jihyo covered her face briefly afterward while Yeji stared at me like she was reassessing every interaction we’d ever had. Then eventually Yeji looked toward me again. Much quieter this time “…You genuinely didn’t need this job financially, did you?” The room softened slightly afterward. I answered honestly “No.” Yeji watched me carefully afterward “Then why take it?” Honestly, answering that felt easier now than it probably ever had before “Because of the people mattered” a simple answer yet a true one too. The room stayed quiet afterward for a second longer than before.

“That was disgustingly sincere.” John immediately ruined the emotional atmosphere “Oh shut up.” “No seriously that sounded emotionally cinematic.” “Coming from the man who practiced confession lines in front of a mirror for three hours.”

Silence. Complete silence “YOU DID WHAT?” Yeji nearly folded forward laughing. John looked like his soul physically left his body. “You PROMISED never to bring that up again.” “Hey you made fun of my sincerity first, best buddy.” “That was DIFFERENT.” “It absolutely was not.” Jihyo was laughing hard enough now that she physically had to lower her head into one hand while Yeji looked seconds away from crying from laughter beside me. Watching John die internally across the table healed something inside me spiritually. “It gets WORSE,” I continued calmly while John looked ready to leap across the table and strangle me.

“BEN.” “He kept rejecting his own confession lines out loud because he thought he sounded manipulative.”

Yeji actually covered her face laughing now “No way.” John was red all over “I was trying to sound sincere!” I couldn’t hold a straight face anymore, “You sounded like somebody negotiating a hostage release emotionally.” Jihyo was openly crying laughing now while John looked deeply betrayed by everyone present. Then suddenly Yeji glanced sideways toward me again. The from the look of her terrified something in me. “…Benjie.”

Oh hell no. I immediately narrowed my eyes toward her “Nope.” Yeji looked entirely too pleased with herself now “Benjie.” John folded forward instantly laughing. “OH that’s sticking permanently.” My face was buried deep in my hand “I will leave.” John didn’t waste the chance to clap back “Remember, you legally can’t” John answered immediately. This traitorous golden retriever of a man. Yeji looked openly delighted now too— I guess I’ll let this slide for now. “…You look like a Benjie.” never mind, I take that back. “That sentence psychologically harmed me, Yeji.”

Jihyo finally wiped briefly beneath one eye afterward while still recovering from laughter. And somewhere between emotional collapse, NDAs, psychological intervention, accidental relationship ecosystems, billionaire allegations and John’s public humiliation. The atmosphere at the table stopped feeling heavy entirely. It just felt alive. Which might’ve been the healthiest thing about all of this.

By the time the four of us finally left the café, the sun had already started dipping lower across Seoul’s skyline. The conversation somehow never fully recovered afterward. Not professionally at least. John was still emotionally damaged from the mirror-confession incident. Jihyo looked one inconvenience away from revoking everybody’s speaking privileges permanently. And Yeji still looked entirely too pleased with herself every time she quietly muttered “Benjie”. This has got to be a psychological war crime somewhere.

John eventually stopped near his car first before trying say another smug thing I cut him off “Say one more thing and they’ll never find your body” I told him gave him a death glare. But this was cut short from what I could tell was Yeji muttering out her new favorite word “…Benjie.” I closed my eyes slowly “Yeji, I’ll admit I’m more than happy with you calling me that. But not in front of John, please?” this warranted more hysterical laughter from John.  Yeji looked genuinely delighted beside me while John nearly collapsed laughing against his car. Jihyo looked exhausted. Reasonable reaction honestly. Then eventually she glanced toward both of us properly afterward. And for the first time since this entire conversation started— her expression softened fully. “…Take care of each other,” Jihyo said quietly. Those were simple words. But heavy enough that neither Yeji nor I joked afterward. “We will,” Yeji answered softly beside me. The certainty in her voice affected me more than expected.

A few minutes later, the city lights blurred quietly outside the windows while I drove us back through the slower evening traffic. This time neither of us spoke much. Not because things were awkward. Because they weren’t anymore. Yeji eventually leaned slightly closer against my shoulder while absentmindedly scrolling through messages on her phone again. Then suddenly “Ryujin wants to meet you properly.” Well, there was the beginning of my downfall “What does ‘properly’ mean in this context?” “She added a shark emoji.” “That clarified absolutely nothing.” “It probably shouldn’t.” I sighed softly afterward while Yeji laughed quietly beside me again. For the first time in a very long time— the future no longer sounded exhausting anymore.

Wonyoung stood with her back straight, her fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She was still in her military uniform—crisp green fatigues, black combat boots, and her long, dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. The uniform was meant to be shapeless and modest, but on her, it clung in all the wrong places. Her hips curved against the stiff fabric. Her breasts pressed against the front of her blouse, the top button straining just slightly. She had noticed the way the other soldiers looked at her during training—the quick glances, the lingering stares. She had tried to ignore it.

But now she needed those looks to work in her favor.

Sunwoo's career was hanging by a thread. Three days ago, a camera caught him in the supply shed, talking to another trainee about the training schedule—complaining, really, about the long hours and the harsh conditions. But the camera had also caught him saying something else, something worse: a careless joke about the army's leadership, a flippant comment about the head trainer's methods. The clip had been flagged. The producers were reviewing it. If they decided to air it—or worse, if they escalated it to the military brass—Sunwoo's career would be over. Not just the show. Not just his idol group. Everything. The endorsements, the fanbase, the years of hard work. Gone.

Sunwoo had tried to talk to Trainer Hyo Jung himself. The older man had listened with a stony face, nodded once, and said, "The evidence will be reviewed according to protocol. There's nothing I can do."

But there was something he could do. Everyone knew it. The trainer had pull with the producers, with the military liaisons, and with the network executives. If he wanted to bury the clip, he could. If he wanted to spin it as a misunderstanding, he could. If he wanted to protect Sunwoo, he could.

He just didn't want to.

So now Wonyoung was here, alone, outside his office, rehearsing the words she had been practicing all night.

Please, sir. He didn't mean it. It was a mistake. We'll do extra training. We'll apologize publicly. Whatever it takes.

She raised her hand and knocked.

"Come in."

The voice was deep and rough, with the gravelly edge of a man who had spent decades shouting over gunfire and engine noise. Wonyoung pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Trainer Hyo Jung's office was small and utilitarian: a metal desk, a filing cabinet, and a window that looked out onto the parade ground. The man himself sat behind the desk, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was forty years old, but he looked older—his face weathered and lined, his hair cropped short and gray at the temples. His eyes were dark and sharp, the kind of eyes that missed nothing.

He didn't stand when she entered. He didn't smile. He just watched her walk across the room, his gaze moving slowly from her face to her chest to her hips and back up again.

"Miss Jang," he said. "I was wondering when you'd come."

Wonyoung stopped in front of his desk, her hands clasped behind her back, her posture rigid. "You knew I would?"

"I saw the way you looked at him during training. The way you looked at each other." He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're not just colleagues, are you? You're something more."

Wonyoung's throat tightened. She and Sunwoo had been careful—so careful. No public displays of affection. No social media interactions. Separate cars, separate hotels, separate lives on paper. But the trainer had noticed. Of course, he had.

"Please, sir," she said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm here to talk about the clip. About what Sunwoo said. It was taken out of context. He's under a lot of stress; we all are, and he just—"

"He disrespected the uniform." Hyo Jung's voice was flat and final. "He disrespected me. No context changes that."

"He'll apologize. Publicly. On camera, we'll do extra drills, extra PT, or whatever you want."

"What I want," Hyo Jung said slowly, "is for trainees to remember why they're here. This isn't a variety show. This isn't a game. This is the Republic of Korea Army, and in my training camp, we follow the rules."

Wonyoung felt her hope crumbling. "Sir, please. His career—"

"His career is not my concern."

She stood there, silent, her fists trembling at her sides. She had tried reason. She had tried pleading. She had tried every argument she could think of, and he had batted them all aside like they were nothing.

"What about money?" she asked, desperate now. "We can pay—"

"I'm not a corrupt man, Miss Jang."

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant." He stood up, slowly, his chair scraping against the concrete floor. He was taller than she had realized and broader, his body hard and solid beneath his own uniform. He walked around the desk and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell his aftershave—something sharp and masculine, like pine and smoke.

"You're very determined," he said. "I'll give you that. Most trainees would have given up by now. But you keep pushing. You keep trying. Why?"

"Because I love him."

The words came out before she could stop them. She watched his expression shift—something flickering in those dark eyes, something she couldn't name.

"Love," he repeated. "That's why you're here. That's why you're willing to humble yourself in front of a man you barely know."

"Yes."

He was quiet for a long moment. His gaze traveled over her face, her neck, and the curve of her shoulder where the fatigues pulled tight. She saw his throat move as he swallowed.