the mintiest place on earth

“Yes, Miss Hwang?”

“The essay on Standing Female Nude. It’s due today, is it not, sir?” Hwang Yeji asks innocently, eyes locked with yours.

And good god, just look at the perfect piece of silk cloth she’s cut from. Those eyes, fluttering like butterflies across her face, the way they perk upwards when you have her attention and the way they curve down when you make her laugh she cries.

And of course, your mind fills in all of the other relevant details for you. You’ve read this a million times. The school uniform, form-fitting fixating thy flirty gaze. Your mind flows just like the text books you’ve read, wondering what peaks just below the surface. Her legs are crossed, just barely pressing calf flesh against one another and you’re already losing it.

And that perfect student attitude, hardworking and focused rolled into one and so good at inferring into the little details you’re sure she can read the answer you’ve placed right in front of her.

You smile, amidst the collective groans from the entire lecture theatre.

“I can always count on my class rep for prompt deadlines. Thank you for reminding me. The essay is due.”

“Fucking dickrider,” Yeji’s deskmate, Ryujin, snickers with another one of her obscene remarks. Yeji holds her smile, and you would usually chide Ryujin for her vulgarity, but, callback, you’re distracted. 

There’s a rustle of tables and chairs as students come up to submit their work, at the end of which you once again remind your class that if you do not see their essays tomorrow, they’ll be answering to their parents instead.

“Well, speaking of assignments,” you begin, rubbing your hands together with glee, “I’ve marked your speeches on the male gaze and its importance in society.”

Another collective set of groans. They hate receiving their work back as much as they hate submitting it.

You can’t blame them. You don’t really understand the idea of leniency, or bell curve, or sugarcoating whatever half-assed trash they dare to put on your marking table. So they know, already, that half of them probably failed, and that the other half that pass will probably declare that today is the luckiest day of their lives and pop a bottle of champagne right then and there.

But as always, there is always the one, single outlier, whose pieces of work you can proudly say are a pleasure to read.

You will gladly jump on any opportunity to once again publicly declare that Hwang Yeji is the perfect student.

“As usual,” you say, trying to hide your excitement, “Miss Hwang has delivered a perfect piece. A round of applause for our talented class rep.”

An unenthusiastic round of applause (they’ve seen this a thousand times), no doubt, but Yeji grins like it’s Christmas and you’re Santa. She runs up cutely to receive her assignment.

“Excellent work once again, Miss Hwang. You spoil me.”

“Anything for you sir,” Yeji grins cheekily, promptly returning to her seat.

Your tone dips thereafter, a one-eighty now that you’re no longer talking about your favourite pupil. “The rest of you can collect your abominations of varying degrees after class.”

And that’s how it is. Yeji, this perfect, gorgeous little starlet that is the wet dream of every form of educator, who pays attention, who asks intelligent questions, who always manages to go a step further in class.

There she goes again, raising her hand in the middle of your lecture, that radiant smile and a perfectly crafted question that honest to god tests you and your thinking.

Yes, one can say you essentially only really teach Yeji, out of all the other people succumbing to sleep in the lecture hall. You essentially only really teach Yeji.

And at the end of every one of your lessons, she always teleports to your side, barraging you with questions on the lecture, attaching herself to you even as you make your way to your next class.

“But sir, isn’t it ironic that the male gaze is seen as a result of the man’s domineering view of women, and yet women who despise this sexist mentality often abuse the male gaze to get what they want?”

“You’re right, Miss Hwang. That is a valuable point. Establishing counterexamples or ironic cases would be an enriching addition to your essays. But I do have a class, I’m afraid, and you probably do as well.”

Yeji groans at the thought of leaving you.

“He’s right Yeji. We have Biology next. You would hate to be late for Biology, wouldn’t you?” Ryujin grins with a lollipop in her mouth, the same vivid shade as the pink streak in her short hair that everyone knows is not school standard.

“No need to look so down. We still have later,” you reassure.

Yeji nods excitedly, like she can’t wait.

Later. She mouths, smiling like she loves you as she turns to leave.

____

In that sick, twisted mind of yours, you’d imagine every after school session with Yeji to be like this.

She’d walk into your classroom, now empty after dismissal, with her tie loose and the first three buttons of her school uniform untied.

She’ll greet you with a sultry, “good afternoon, sir,” and just like she’s been taught to do, she’ll get on her knees in front of you.

You’ll gently wrap a hand around her tie, the school leash, and gently tug her over to you, seated in the teachers chair. 

She’ll smile, palpably excited, as she does her job diligently, peels off your pants and your boxers soon after so she can get to what being the perfect class rep really means.

She’ll slide her tongue up your hardened shaft, layer it with spit, give you that look that there’s nothing more in the world she enjoys that getting a throatfuck from her favourite teacher.

Oh, her mouth would feel amazing. She’d know all the right spots, she’s such a diligent worker. She’ll have you whimpering in seconds.

But you’re fucking daydreaming, and wake the fuck up dumbass, she’s seated right across from you. You jerk awake from your stupid fantasy and kick the edge of your table with your foot.

Yeji looks up from her work, a puzzled smile on her face as you wince and hiss in pain.

“Sorry,” you say with a pained smile.

Yeji giggles, this cute little sound.

“In another dimension again? Which one is it this time?” Yeji smiles.

“Well,” you contemplate, “I wasn’t a wizard, or a vampire, so it might have been a more realistic one this time.”

“Daydreams often manifest the farfetched, sir,” Yeji tells you like she’s reminding you of your delusions.

“It’s good no one has figured out how to read thoughts or dreams then, being telepathic with me around would be migraine-inducing.”

Yeji giggles again, like you’re funny.

“We should focus on your work. How’s your essay so far, Miss Hwang?”

Yeji looks back down at her script, chews on her lower lip in concentration. You’re jealous, you’d chew on her lip for her.

And once again you’re in your delusions.

“I guess it’s passable so far. I can’t seem to pen down the literary term for this part of the speech.”

You lean over to look down at her work.

“The repetition of a specific word, or phrase at the start of each clause? That’s anaphora, my dear. You always seem to forget that one.” You’re close to Yeji now, so you’re sure she can hear every rumble in your voice.

Yeji blushes, even seems to shudder.

“I’m sorry,” Yeji offers meekly.

“Don’t be sorry, Miss Hwang,” you say, leaning back with a smile, “you’re already more than I could have ever asked for.”

You could kiss the way the corner of her lips turn up at your compliment. God, she’s so beautiful. If she weren’t your student, you’d be desecrating her image in your mind every time your brain idles. You do that anyway, god knows.

“You know, Miss Hwang,” you begin, “you don’t need extra lessons at all. Your work is amazing as it is, and I can’t see these consultations as anything more than wasted time. You should be out and about, enjoying your youth. With your friends, though I will passionately disagree on your choice of some of them.”

Yeji giggles, again, and she’ll do it after everything you say and you still won’t get sick of that sound, of the way her nose scrunches up cutely as she gives a glimpse of pearly whites.

“Ryujin’s not all bad, sir. She’s loyal to a fault. And I don’t think this is a waste of time at all. These are so fun,” Yeji sounds so convincing.

“We’re sitting in a classroom doing extra homework, Miss Hwang,” you chuckle.

“You should stop calling me that,” Yeji gives you a playful look.

“I have to remain professional, Miss Hwang. I am your teacher.”

“You say that like you’re so much older than me.”

She’s right. The two of you are only months apart. There's only one real barrier here, a bridge over a ravine that seems to easy to cross. The fall is deep, but you're tempted.

“So why are you here, Miss Hwang? I’ve always been curious to know. It can’t be your addiction to writing essays until your hands bleed.”

Yeji gives you a knowing look. It’s practically a glare, the way a cat fixes its gaze, unblinking, unflinching, and then it’s impossible to distinguish between fascination and predation.

“Sir, do you really want to know?” She purrs, leaning towards you. It’s inviting, and yet somehow dangerous, like you might be stepping foot into something you can’t hokey pokey take your right foot out. 

But even if you’re kind of a pussy, curiosity killed the cat (Which one?).

“Enlighten me,” you breathe, bending closer as well. You can smell the citrus on her uniform.  Her startling eyes, so filled with wonder and cat-like curiosity, are so vividly detailed from this close.

“Even though you already know?” Yeji whispers. The two of you could honest to god kiss just by talking. There isn’t a distinguishable space between your lips and hers.

Ding.

The bell rings, snapping you out of the perfect moment. There’s a particularly rude name you would give that annoying school bell, but you have to remain professional.

Good god, what did you almost do?

You wince at how close you got to crossing the line. Yeji seems equally flustered, having thrust herself back into her seat and now simply staring into open space.

You clear your throat.

“Miss Hwang, you should really get home. I hope I answered enough of your queries today. Please, unless you really do have pressing issues, let’s keep our after school sessions to a minimum. You should be enjoying your free time when you get it.”

You don’t need to teach Yeji to catch hidden meanings. Yeji’s a detector of double entendres. She gets what you say immediately.

Let’s keep our relationship professional.

“Fi…Fine. You’re right, I should get going. Thank you for your time,” Yeji says, her voice wet, like something’s leaking out, like there’s an emotion she’s trying to express.

She packs up her things with minimal eye contact, and for the first time since you’ve met her, doesn’t say goodbye.

And if anyone were to ask you, like these two clauses connect, yes, there is a defining moment where you can say, “That’s her.”

-

A boring, exhausting day like every other. No different. And as you trudge back home, your eyes are still scanning, skin-deep, texts filled up to word count called essays. This is bad.

It’s disappointing. Disgusting, dehumanising, despicable, debilitating, deploring depleting definitely demoralising downright depressing destruction demanding deficiency defining discomfort discontent dissatisfying despondent-

Despondent works. Your essay is meant to analyse the despondent feeling of the female character, not pass that feeling onto others who read your work.

You sigh. Where’s Yeji’s piece?

Caveat Emptor.

A shrill sound pierces the mushy darkness. Perhaps it’s a calling, resonance, the fat lady.

You perk your head, startled.

And there, on the roadside, up on the hill on your left, this myriad of colour and ecstasy. At first it’s blinding. It’s like candy floss, except it exploded and sprayed its vibrancy all over.

The colours dance and dart hither tither, followed by joyous laughter and yelling. They swirl and sparkle like pixie dust, fireworks, boom and blast and blushing heat.

And then they form something you recognise. The colours pause for a moment, and everything swirls together, everywhere and all at once, and the figure of light doubles over to catch a breath, laughing and giggling and perfect smile, teeth and all, and she’s laughing so hard tears are starting to leak from the corners of her eyelids.

Even at this distance you can see the jewels sliding down her face.

Hwang Yeji rises, bottle of spray paint in hand, dressed in tight shorts that leave her supple form bare, and that oversized hoodie, hands peeking out from the sleeves as it rests below her shoulders, showing that it is, unmistakably, her, with that spray of pink across her jacket and pools of sweat and liquid happiness mixed together into one. Her face splits into pure beauty eyes tilted down in that emotive, sad way- and then she sees you.

On the sidewalk, completely, stopped in your tracks, looking up at the light yet shadow on the hill.

She giggles, head lolls back and her eyes shut and for just that moment she becomes life.

From seemingly nowhere, she pulls out a half finished bottle of bad decisions and downs the remainder in one gulp.

And that’s when you know. 

It’s a terrible, terrible mistake. A mistake so bad you can’t even pinpoint what the mistake was.

Was it your rejection of her? That brief moment when everything got so close to exposure, when the two of you could have said everything?

Or was the mistake even allowing everything to get that close? Allowing Yeji to put you in this constant state of stupor around her, of losing all coherent thought except for those about how perfect she is, how needlessly attractive?

Could it even be deciding to take on this job at this school? If you had followed what your professor suggested, used your literary strengths in philosophy, could you have avoided this altogether?

You’re facing the repercussions now, though, and they hurt. They break your heart.

-

Yeji hasn’t talked to you since. Not a single question in class, no more trailing behind you as you rush around campus to your next lecture.

She treats you like you’re invisible, and it really feels like glass in your gut.

You don’t see her smile anymore. Like she lost and left it behind somewhere. And her grades are slipping, too. There are no more perfect assignments, and it hurts because when you read her essays, you can see just how much she wants to write another perfect piece, but she’s chosen to purposefully lower herself to the miserable standards of the rest of the class. 

And god, she’s dyed her hair orange. Not the violent shade, the calmer, peachier shade. The shade of autumn, of longing, or regret, of something coming to an end.

It’s not the prim and proper Yeji, not your perfect ponytail, ramrod-straight-postured class rep who hangs onto your every word.

And yet she looks so gorgeous, clearly heartbroken, clearly shattered, and yet your mind is just continuously filled with even more thoughts of her followed by her.

You honestly get teary every time class ends, when Yeji leaves without a sound, without even a fleeting look. The class can clearly feel something’s off, and Ryujin shoots you a dirty glare right before she rushes off with Yeji.

When did Yeji come into your life again?

You stare down at her latest essay, filled with all these literary inaccuracies and poor inferences, and you see again and again inaccurate literary terms that just make your heart weep.

She’s finally failed. She failed the assignment. You can’t believe it.

And you remember, now, because now is when it hurts the most, that day when you first walked into class, unsure of if you would be able to teach well, to educate those that were in all honestly barely younger than you, whether you would have the same level of respect as those wizened old bastards with their decades of experience.

And then your gaze catches hers, and she does a double take on you like she needs to double confirm what she’s seeing.

The two of you lock gazes and you, like the romantic idiot you are, smack right into the teachers table because you weren’t looking and your papers scatter to the ground.

The class erupts in laughter.

“What a fucking dolt,” Ryujin whispers to Yeji, though at the time you couldn’t hear what she said.

Yeji wasn’t even in the front row that day. She was near the back, expecting another boring teacher going to give her boring lessons that would drone on and on forever.

But the both of you become pleasantly surprised. Yeji ends up in the front row, rapt with attention every lesson, and you gain confidence in your teaching, not because of experience, but because it becomes a lecture hall filled just by you and her, and everything feels so perfectly warm.

You catch Yeji often, too. You honest to god never mean to, it just happens. All the worst timings and worst places. It’s consuming, the way your heart jumps out of your mouth, sprouts legs and bolts in the opposite direction.

That time down the corridor where you reflexively spin mid-conversation on your heels to face the opposite direction.

Your coworker you were just speaking with stares at you with a bewildered expression. He can’t explain it, and you can’t either.

Or maybe when you just glance out the third-floor window and there she is, seated under spring blooming in the middle of the little garden the school keeps trimmed; cherry jam bread in hand and staring into open space so calmly she doesn’t know it’s picture perfect.

It’s not visually arresting. Not just. It’s sensory arresting, no, total. It’s just everything, because that’s precisely what love is.

You get doused in another bucket of cold water a few days later.

You’ve honestly delayed returning your latest assignment, the one Yeji’s failed. You can’t bring yourself to fail her, but you can’t show prejudice for the first time in the entire year. You’re honestly hoping that, magically, the words in her essay will start swimming around to fall back into their original standard.

And today’s an evening too lovely. The school is celebrating its anniversary, and it’s a beautiful, starless night where the students and teachers let their hair down for a nice dinner service with live performances from the student body.

You adjust the neck of your tie anxiously. You’re not really one suited for formal events, though you’re assimilated into dressing up formally on a daily basis when you show up for lectures.

You will vehemently argue there’s a difference between a dress shirt and a suit.

Eventually, you head into the large auditorium, where the usual chairs have been cleared for round tables draped in silky cloth.

Everyone’s dressed up in jaw-dropping outfits, since it is the time of age where youths like them should dress up as best they can. All the girls are dolled up, in dresses of varying lengths and colours, and you’re surprised by how the visual change in some of your students, from nerdy, shy girls to seductive, elegant ladies.

But the one that catches your full attention, that seizes it once again and refuses to let go, is of course Hwang Yeji.

It’s this beautiful top and bottom set, jet black to contrast with her pale skin, the tube top figure-hugging and pulled down just far enough to give you enough a view of cleavage to make you dizzy. One arm is slipped into a black arm sleeve, the other is laid bare, and you’re offered just the slightest tease of midriff that’s cut off by loosely tapered jeans and topped off with simple black heels. The only blush of colour comes from that mesmerising orange curtain her hair has become.

It’s not sophisticated, it’s not attention-grabbing.

It’s perfect.

And, as fate would have it, she catches sight of you, and once again, there’s a double take.

But her eyes don’t latch on, they dart away, refusing to find yours. 

She looks tired, like she’s jet-lagged or overworked or something, even though she’s putting up a brave smile in front of everyone else.

Everyone is busy chatting or taking food from the buffet line. You join the queue, with not much to do, watching Yeji the whole time as she finds a seat with Ryujin and her friends, and you ponder, with a plate full of food, if you should take up the empty seat next to her.

You don’t. You head over to the teachers table, giving the rest of the faculty a polite greeting as you once again sit through their drowsy conversations.

Yeji looks no better herself. She’s smiling, chuckling, but it isn’t the beaming she gives you when you call her name in class, not the ear to ear Cheshire grin imprinted in your memory.

You end up zoning out as the night progresses, staring blankly at the performances on stage.

“Sir, what have you been reading over the break?” Yeji’s familiar voice floats into your head again, and suddenly you’re back several months, just after school break.

“You’re surprisingly interested, Miss Hwang,” you say, both hands holding tightly to your bag straps as the two of you make the walk from the school gates to the classrooms.

“I haven’t seen you in a while, sir. I’ve missed you.” Yeji says sweetly. You blush.

“That’s really nice of you to say, Miss Hwang. What have you been reading?”

“Me?” Yeji stops in her tracks, stunned.

“Umm,” Yeji furrows her brow, like she’s thinking hard.

“Oh yeah. I finally read Lord of The Rings.”

“The whole trilogy?” You ask, surprised. It’s not exactly a light read.

“Yeah,” Yeji gives a worried smile, “is that bad?”

“That’s impressive, Miss Hwang. Most people your age don’t even have the time to read a newspaper article.”

“Heh, yeah,” Yeji mutters, resuming the walk.

“Well, I’ve been rereading some classics, too. I won’t bore you with those. I suppose it’d be more interesting to let you know I finally watched About Time, the movie you recommended me.”

Yeji’s eyes gleam.

“You did? How was it?”

“Painfully sweet, though a little questionable on the time travel aspect.”

“Pssh, sir, you’re always looking into the details. What’s important is the message, not if everything makes sense or not.”

“Well, going by that aspect, it was a very good movie indeed,” you appease to Yeji, who does end up looking quite pleased.

“What’s the message you like so much about the movie, anyway?” You ask, curious.

“Well, it’s just that you should love! That you should love and love fully, that time and opportunity shouldn’t be wasted! No matter what, Tim always sought to live his life to the fullest!”

You recall the protagonist of that little film, who ends off with a rather meaningful speech about living life to its fullest, forgetting about wasting time on anger or regrets, of savouring every moment.

You turn to look at Yeji, who’s smiling, who seems so enthusiastic, like the film spoke to her being.

“You know, Miss Hwang, you are a very intriguing character.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, am I a character in this life story of yours, sir?” Yeji laughs, cocks the sound like an arrow to your heart.

“You’re very special, Miss Hwang,” you smile, genuine, “I’ll see you in class.”

_

“Yo, prof!” A familiar, annoying tone comes from somewhere behind you, and you turn to look absentmindedly.

It’s Ryujin, in jet metal black, who is blushing because she seems to have realised that she called for a professor at a whole table of professors.

Ryujin makes eye contact with you.

“Could we speak, please?”

You frown. Ryujin never uses that word. The other professors turn back to the entertainment, and you begrudgingly stand up from your seat.

“I’m not a professor, Ryujin.”

“Sure thing, prof. But we gotta talk. Tis serious, you feel?” Ryujin wags a finger playfully.

“What?” You ask, confused.

“It’s about Yeji,” Ryujin turns serious, and you feel like a one ton weight just fell on your head.

“Wh…what about her?” You’re uncomfortable.

“You clearly know what’s up with her,” Ryujin snaps, guiding the two of you into the empty hallway outside the auditorium.

“Her grades? She’s been really struggling-”

“Not that, you fucking cuck,” Ryujin curses, stunning you into silence.

“You fucking broke her heart.”

“I-”

“Am I wrong?” Ryujin continues, fuming, “You’re either dense as shit or actually dumb as fuck.”

“Teacher-student relationships are strictly forbidden,” you murmur idiotically, your voice high pitched and sounding astonishingly similar to the withering discipline master. Ryujin gives you a snarl that's practically feral.

“She’s in fucking love with you! Even though it’s the stupidest fucking thing she could do, she fell in love with you! She did so much just so she could get close to you! She studied her ass off for some stupid subject she didn’t even like-”

“Wait what?” You cut Ryujin off, “what are you talking about? She loves literature!”

Ryujin looks appalled.

“Yeji hates studying. You don’t know that?”

“What?” 

“Have you seen her grades? Like her report card, the one with all of her other subjects?”

“No?” You say, scratching your head. You’re clearly missing something.

“She’s barely passing all her other subjects. She’s like me, she hates studying. But she studied her fucking ass off for you, she learnt all those stupid terms for you, she wrote those essays over and over again. Just. For. You.”

Each word hits like a bullet in your chest.

“And then you go and fucking ruin everything for her. You tell her to straight up fuck off. Now she’s a sobbing mess every night, crying a river because it fucking hurts, and I don’t have my friend anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, and Ryujin straight up slaps you, rules be damned and all.

“To me? For what, you fucking moron?”

Ryujin pins you with her foot to the wall. You now notice that she’s wearing very spiky boots, the kind that’s straight out of goth girl fashion.

She looks like she’s about to stomp on your manhood and forcibly turn you into a eunuch. She huffs.

“Listen here, you little rat. You’re not going to let her heart break any longer, you hear that? You’re gonna apologise, kiss her feet, whatever, but I better get my Yeji back. Are. We. Clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” you squeak, averting her gaze. Ryujin stares into your soul for a few moments, and your heartstrings play oh fuck in double time.

Then the pressure’s off.

“Finally, some goddamn respect around here,” Ryujin says, pressing her hands to her sides and huffing, and your brain can’t compute.

Ryujin breaks into a laugh. Gives you a rough slap on the back.

“Your face!” Ryujin sniggers, “that was peak!”

You roll your eyes, annoyed, pushing Ryujin’s legs off of you. Her verbalisms are inherently bizzare. Ryujin controls her little moment, then grabs you by the shoulder with enough force to make you wince. Looks you dead in the eye, like she’s all business again. The deep down, soul searching kind.

“Tch, you’re alright, pipsqueak. I can tell you love her as much as she loves you.”

“Thank you, Miss Shin.” You bite back an unprofessional retort. You brush off Ryujin’s arm uncomfortably.

“Yup,” Ryujin says, looking you up and down, nodding.

“Just the type of perfect idiot Hwang Yeji would fall for.”

_

“Miss Hwang, I need to see you after class.”

The words sound strange coming out from you. It’s been a while since you’ve addressed her in any way or form.

Yeji’s eyes seem to widen a little when you address her, but she otherwise leans back into her seat with a disinterested expression.

Ryujin gives you an encouraging nod from her side, applying shockingly purple lipstick to her lips.

It’s the kind of encouragement that has you fearing for your life.

You return the rest of the class their assignments, holding on to Yeji’s. Truth be told, you’ve been practically worshipping this piece of paper, praying to it for good luck and just staring at her handwriting like it’s a message from god.

Today will determine everything.

You sit through the rest of the day as best as you can, tense everywhere, doing your best to deliver your material with all these thoughts of Yeji in your mind.

The problem with a literary brain is that you come up with all the worst kinds of scenarios, from (admittedly hilarious) slavery to straight up a kick in the balls.

But as you wait, patiently, in the classroom you and Yeji used to meet in, a sense of calm washes over you. Because you’ve accepted the fact that yes, you are in love with your student, and that student is Hwang Yeji, and that today, if nothing else goes well, you will at least tell her you love her.

So when Yeji walks through the door, looking just like the Yeji you’ve always known, hair tied in that perfect ponytail, uniform without any creases, save for her still peachy hair, you smile, because you’ve missed her.

Yeji doesn’t return it.

“You asked to meet me, sir?” Yeji’s voice quavers. Her eyes dart around the room, her hands clasped behind her back, no doubt pinching against one another.

“Sit, Miss Hwang.” 

Yeji walks over to her usual spot opposite you slowly.

“I’m sorry for failing the assignment,” Yeji blurts, suddenly very interested in what’s happening outside the classroom window. You close your eyes, laugh silently. Always so quick on the draw.

“How did you know you failed? I didn’t tell you that.”

Yeji flushes.

“It’s not about your grades, Miss Hwang. I called you here because I need to apologise.”

Yeji finally looks at you, unable to understand what you mean.

“How long have you liked me?”

Yeji turns completely scarlet.

“I-I- what?”

“I should have known, the moment I saw you in my class, that you wouldn’t be any normal student. The effort you’ve put in for my lessons, and all the little things that came after, everything you’ve done, was such a clear hint at something more.”

Yeji looks down again, where her hands are wrestling with one another.

“I’m sorry, Miss Hwang. I should have known you had fallen for me.”

Yeji sniffles. Your smile turns sad, strained. You know you’d hate seeing her cry.

“You know this is wrong,” you continue, as a shiny tear breaks free from the pool under her eyes.

“Teachers and students aren’t supposed to get romantically involved. Yet you still chose to try to win me over.”

You watch as she frantically rubs her eyes, and you push the tissue box you’ve intelligently prepared in front of her. Yeji immediately pulls out several sheets to dab at her eyelids.

“Stand up, Yeji.” You say, once Yeji’s cleared up the majority of her leaking tears.

She shakily gets up onto her feet, and before they give out, you wrap her in a deep hug. You hear Yeji’s breath catch in her throat as she’s suddenly enveloped.

“A part of it is my fault too. Letting you get close. Closer than shoud be allowed. I’m sorry for playing with your feelings, and egging you on,” you whisper honestly, as Yeji breaks out into full on sobs. You rub her back comfortingly.

“I-*sniff* I’m sorry, s-sir, I should have known it’s wrong. I know it’s not right. I was just thinking crazy, all the stupid stories I read, I thought it could have been possible.”

“Shh,” you silence, “I’m not done.”

You pull Yeji from you, so that you’re face to face, as close as you were when you rejected her.

You wipe a tear from her eye. She’s pretty even when she’s crying. Of course she would be. She’s your perfect muse. There are a million stories like this, a thousand movies a hundred moments and descriptions of everything frowned upon and morally incorrect and the thrill of breaking them and yet they’ll all be wrong. 

It doesn’t just feel great. It feels invigorating.

“I’m sorry, sorry because I want you as well.”

And then you kiss her. Kiss her, finally, because it’s been what you’ve been wanting to do ever since she raised her hand to ask you a question in class, because it’s what you should have done all this time.

Because it’s so gratifying, so right. Even though it’s by all means wrong, the feeling when your lips finally touch is nothing but sublime.

And shock will fade to assurance, as you feel Yeji wrap her arms around your neck, pull you in. And then it’s all tongue, the two of you pushing and pulling into each other’s mouths. The kiss lasts for a long while, filled with everything you should have said, until air becomes a necessity and the two of you pull apart, panting.

“Asshole,” Is the first thing Yeji says, in between a gasp, a sob, a pant. A whirl.

“Now I don’t even know how to feel,” Yeji murmurs, looking down. You pull her back into your arms, press your lips on her forehead.

“Happy might be a good one. Might be too surface level to use in your essay, though. Might want to use a more specific term.”

Yeji chuckles, smiles the last tears away.

“Dammit. I fucking love you.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard her curse, and it’s beautiful.

“I love you too,” you reply, because that’s how literature, a literary brain, works, with sweet nothings and perfectly timed romance.

“Thinking of you gave me the most amazing pounding headaches, you know that?” Yeji says, wrapping her arms around your waist.

“I know. It was like someone was pulling my heart in all kinds of directions.”

Yeji smiles.

“Isn’t this still illegal, sir?”

“For once, Miss Hwang, that was a poorly-worded question. Shut up and come here.”

You life Yeji over the desk to you, and at long last, you’ve earned another one of her beautiful giggles. You don’t want to waste any time. You kiss her again, firmer, the kind that makes her legs weak until she has to lean back against the desk, one arm propped up to support her. Then there’s fire, candy, honey burnt red it’s caramelised.

You break apart again, you supporting her by the waist as she supports herself with one hand, the other lifted up to trace the lips she’s staring at.

Gaze into light.

“Do you want to do it?” Yeji asks softly, plays the pronoun game like you don’t already understand.

“Miss Hwang? What are you suggesting?” You smirk, carefully turning her around and giving her a warm back hug. You lift her strands of hair from her neck and litter the bare skin with kisses. She moans, and it’s fucking perfect.

Yeji leans her head back, giving you better access, all the while grasping your hand in hers, and with a side you haven’t seen before, brings you up and underneath her skirt.

The moment of contact between your fingers and her thighs is as electric for her as it is for you.

“Don’t -god- don’t call me that anymore,” Yeji whispers in a low tone, as you unclasp your hands underneath her skirt to pinch her thigh.

“What should I call you then?” You whisper, the two of you swaying in tandem. You make sure to push your hips forward, so that Yeji can feel that you’re as into this as she is. So that she knows.

“Call me what you called me just now,” Yeji pleads, groaning as you rub her belly through the uniform and the hand between her legs trail higher. 

Still, even with what’s been laid bare, Yeji still teases, plays hard to get.

She lets out a strangled gasp when you cup her warmth, you can feel an obvious wet spot through her cotton panties.

“Yeji,” you murmur, and you feel a gush of wetness soak her panties completely.

“Nnngh, please… please. please, please,” Yeji begs.

“Please?” You ask evilly. You massage her pussy over her panties, and it gets Yeji shivering.

“Fuck me!” Yeji screams, even though you didn’t ask her to beg. She’s hollering for all to hear, completely lost it.

“Just fuck me already! I’ve waited so fucking long just fuck me!”

“Mmkay,” you chuckle, and you finally slip two fingers past her fabric barrier and touch her for real.

“Oh g-, yes!” Yeji keens at your touch instantly, her nails scratching against the desk. You have her pretty, helpless in your arms. You rub her clit in slow circles, warming her up even though her pussy is a radiator right now.

“Jesus, babygirl, you know how much of a mess you’re making on my fingers?”

“Mmph,” Yeji’s voice is muffled as you bring your other hand up to cup her mouth. You slip your middle and ring finger past her lips to give her something to suck on. The truth is, when fantasy becomes reality, you know how to direct it, this whole film, you have her ruination all spelled out. So it's confident:

“You’re fucking soaked, darling. Just for me.”

Yeji squeezes her eyes shut, whimpering as you mirror pushing your fingers into her waiting snatch, and you’re delighted to find she’s tight. Her pussy sucks your fingers in greedily, in a vice grip not unlike what her lips are doing to your fingers in her mouth.

“You were so loud, you know that? Screaming for the whole school to hear that you want to get fucked by your teacher. I’m going to need to punish you for that. I’m going to fucking ruin you for that.”

Yeji gushes at your words, soaking your palm in fluid. You simultaneously slip your fingers out of both her entrances. Yeji turns to you questioningly. Her features are flushed, each breath drawn with effort.

“Take your uniform off,” you order, loosening the tie around your neck. Yeji’s eyes light up with excitement.

She all but rips her tie off, racing you to see who can get out of their clothes faster. You are willing to let her win. The deluge of skin that gets exposed to you with each passing moment makes your mouth water. She has a perfect body, because of course she does. Perfectly sculpted thighs and a flat, flawless torso.

“Leave the skirt,” you tell her right before she unclasps it, “it’s hot.”

Yeji grins, does as what she’s told and slides off her panties.

You open a palm, and Yeji obediently drops them into your hand. You tuck them in your pocket for safekeeping.

You undo her bra for her. The simple fabric holds for nought a second. And-

“Sorry,” Yeji suddenly blushes, covering her chest, “they’re not the biggest.”

And you’re appalled by her sudden need to be self-conscious.

“What in the world are you talking about?” You say, pulling her arms away. Her tits are perfect. Small, yes, but supple, more than enough for your hands. And her nipples are so hard. 

You cup one gently, jiggle it and watch as Yeji whines in response.

“I love them. They’re perfect Yeji. Just like you.”

Yeji seems to die of embarrassment, pulling you in for a deep kiss to distract you. You bring your hand up to cup her other tit, and though she tries her best to keep kissing you, you pinch her pebbly nipples until she eventually breaks free to moan.

You lower yourself to give them proper attention. Right boob first.

“You know,” you say, as you slide your tongue around to collect the sweat off her mound of supple flesh, “I’m curious.”

“Wh-fu-what?” Yeji gasps as you take her areola into your mouth and suck deeply.

“What you said earlier,” you let go momentarily, “about the stories you read.”

Yeji’s cheeks fill with colour. The transformation to a blushing tomato is complete.

You gently bite on her nipple, and Yeji bucks against your grip. You grin.

“What exactly do you read?” You ask, giving her right tit one last kiss before switching over.

“Dun-don’t ask me that,” Yeji begs cutely, body stretched against the desk.

“Don’t be shy, beautiful. You can tell me. I’m your filthy fantasy, am I not?”

Yeji shudders and stops, lowers her head to face you. You give a playful bite and then she wrestles you away with alarming force. She pulls you up from your spot, latched to her breast, to look into your eyes. Dead serious.

“Filthy shit,” Yeji whispers, “dirty little smutty stories about young girls getting fucking ruined.”

“I smell a connection,” you reply knowingly.

“Yeah,” Yeji nods, “you’re absolutely right. The ones that get me especially soaked are those filthy erotica about a young female student who gets fucked to oblivion by her teacher.”

“So that’s my role in all this? Your fantasy fulfiller?”

“Fuck you,” Yeji bites, giving you a deep kiss, “you cause my fantasy, idiot.”

You smile like a fool. That made you really happy.

“Then I better make sure I live up to expectations. What was in your little fantasy stories, hmm?”

Yeji breathes heavily, like the thought of them alone is making her aroused.

“Well,” Yeji says shakily, “it’s a lot like this.”

“Public sex. In a classroom. After school. Very cliche.”

“Yes, cliche. But so hot, no?” And no, because you know just what she’s talking about.

You giggle. 

“Yeji, you know how dangerous this actually is, right? You only have a skirt on. I’m in my boxers. You know we’re fucked if someone catches us? Like, even if we heard someone down the corridor, we wouldn’t have time to change back into our clothes. We’d get caught, and we’d be fucked.”

Yeji moans. “That sounds perfect.”

Devious little girl. You lift her up, squealing and all, and deposit her on the desk. With impressive skill, you hook your leg around the rolling chair behind you and drag it over to you.

“Stay put, Miss Hwang. I’m about to give an important lesson.”

Yeji giggles, legs spread to either side of you as you take your seat in front of your next meal. You hike up Yeji’s skirt, and as she helps you punch it up around her waist, you finally get to see the pretty thing you’ve been fingering the whole time.

“Beautiful,” you mutter, and Yeji reddens once again.

“Do I have to keep quiet, sir?” Yeji breathes heavily as you get closer to her sopping cunt. You frown.

“Are you crazy? No, I want you to be as loud as possible. The principal has to hear us, or I’m not letting you out of here.”

Yeji gives you a light punch on the shoulder. “Don’t just fucking say that.”

“You know I don’t sugarcoat,” you say, and before she can reply any further, you plunge your tongue forwards.

Yeji immediately lets out a loud moan. You would laugh at how quickly her composure failed, but you’re busy. You gently slide your tongue through her folds, making sure to clean up the mess she made on herself earlier. It’s not like it’s a hassle. She tastes divine, like what you imagine your ambrosia would taste like.

Yeji has to cover her mouth with a hand, but you pinch her thigh with your finger like a reminder, and Yeji slowly brings her hand back down. You can hear her start to vocalise her pleasure, softly at first but eventually louder and louder, until she’s moaning like a fucking whore, pinching her nipples and sliding her other hand into your locks of hair.

“Please, fuck,” Yeji’s begging again, though you’re not sure what for. You’re already going down on her, furiously feasting fruity fiesta.

“That’s it, beautiful. Moan for me,” you peck a kiss to her clit before you target it for real, nibbling and sucking till Yeji’s full thighs shake.

And maybe her cunt’s into perfect little details too, because it comes, drop by drop and then all at once, until shuddering thunder and she just has to say something.

Yeji is clearly delirious, declares loudly, “My teacher’s a fucking god at eating pussy!” She leans back fully, no longer finding the strength to support herself with her arms, sprawling herself over the desk rather dangerously as she continues to rub her breasts for more.

You grab her thighs tightly to steady her.

“I need you to cum for me, Yeji. Can you do that? Cum on my tongue. It’d make my day.”

“Yes!” Yeji yells without hesitation, “make me cum on that magic tongue! Make me cum again and again! I want you to make me squirt like a slut!”

“Then let go, darling. Let me taste it.”

Yeji groans, uninhibited, uncaring for whoever is in the vicinity of a hundred metres and can clearly hear what’s going on  in a deserted classroom during after school hours. Her nails dig hard into your scalp, but the moment you start nibbling on her little pearl she quickly lets go and grabs the edge of the table to steady herself from the onslaught of pleasure.

It must feel great for her, but it’s oddly satisfying to finally have the pussy you’ve so unprofessionally daydreamed about between your lips, to taste form the actual source and for it to be better than anything you could have imagined.

There’s a couple moments where, like any good story, tension builds, where you lick over her outer folds to avoid neglect, lick a strip right down the middle to gather as much of her sweet confection on your tongue.

Then the climax. Literally. Yeji lets out an unholy squeal as her legs involuntarily buck, and that’s when you know Yeji cums fucking hard, because you’re much less pussy-eating than you are bullfighting. She pushes her cunt into your mouth with enough strength to bruise your lips.

And she’s a fucking squirter, too, to top it all off. Not a crazy, porn-esque fire hose, but she gushes enough liquid it just leaks from under her in small jets.

Yeji writhes and gasps and straight up prays. You’re not sure god likes the message of getting an orgasm so good I got sent on an express flight to heaven.

You give Yeji’s twitching cunt a few more little kisses as her body comes down from her high.

“You liked that?” You ask, giving smooches to her quivering thighs.

Yeji leans back up on surprising core strength. Her eyes are glossy.

Just like that, there’s colour again. Mesmerising yes, polluting maybe. But it’s there, and you’ve missed it bad.

“I want that dick. Gimme-that-fuggin-dick.”

You rise from your seat, sniggering at her horribly ruined speech, pull Yeji’s sopping core towards you.

“Unwrap your gift then. It’s all yours, Yeji.”

And Yeji, whose hair is sprawled out beneath her like a fan, whose skin is beading with sweat because the ventilation isn’t good enough, gives you the most radiant, most gorgeous smile as her fingers trail naughtily, to your boxers.

Yeji fumbles a bit due to exhaustion, but eventually she gets her fingers underneath the hem of your undergarments and with a sharp tug they come off, freeing your hard length to fresh air. Yeji bites her lips at the sight of you.

“Like you wanted?” You ask Yeji as she wastes no time in wrapping you in her fist and giving you a few, experimental pumps just to feel you twitch and groan in her grasp.

“Better, so much better. I’m going to get soooo fucked, I can’t wait.”

You cover her hand with yours, gently guiding the two of you to her entrance.

“You sure you don’t want a condom?” You ask, jokingly, like you honestly care.

“No.”

Yeji frowns, implying all the sinful, don’t-try-this-at-home things. The things you should only do in fantasies.

But when you hold her gaze, when you push forward, when you spear past her entrance and her velvet walls just glide over you, the line between fantasy and reality just get so blurred, so foggy and hazy and it’s just nirvana.

Yeji’s face scrunches up as you force past her resistance, eyes closed tight as she cries out. You hold her steady, massage her thighs on either side of you as her body bucks with each inch you slip into her.

And you eventually bottom out, your hips bumping against each other and it’s like an electric jolt through Yeji that renders her limp, like she’s let out suppressed tension and her body quivers like it’s all yours.

“Good?” Your voice is hoarse, Yeji’s walls are squeezing you experimentally, sending some serious shocks up your body.

“Fuuuck,” Yeji makes a drawn out sob, wrapping her arms around your neck to pull you in for a fierce kiss, mashing your lips together till they bruise.

“You’re in trouble, sir,” Yeji breathes heavily, giving you a hungry stare you’ve never seen before.

“Sorry?” You ask, on edge. And unlike all her fear beforehand, she wordlessly pulls your hands by the wrists bringing them up to her tits and cupping them over you, giving them a firm squeeze to show you she’s about to lose it.

“I’m never going to get used to this, never going to get enough. I’m going to need to fuck you a lot, sir. Maybe even during school. You’ll be able to keep up, right? Then there won’t be a problem.”

You swallow nervously.

“Yeji-”

“Great!” Yeji doesn’t let you answer, “Go on then. Turn me into your dumb little slut. I want it. I want to cum on your cock.”

You close your eyes and smile, chiding yourself for foolishness, give Yeji a peck on the lips. It was never really much of a question. Yeji will guarantee you keep up with her needs, even if you want to or not. She’s the epitome of extra credit.

You pull out slowly, enjoying every little ridge you slide across on the way out. Her pussy is so warm and comfortable, and it’s just like the rest of her.

You start with smooth, measured thrusts, gentle fucks that are more for enjoying the act itself instead of deriving desperate pleasure.

Yeji’s moaning, she likes it, but Yeji doesn’t really want that. It’s not what she’s craving for, right now.

“Sir. Why aren’t you fucking me properly?”

You pale. Oh no.

“Tsk, sir, I’m not a doll. You don’t have to be so shy about it. Fuck me hard, the way a teacher should never treat his student.”

Yeji lectures just like you do. Straightforward, curt and impassioned.

“Fuck me like I’m a bimbo, because god knows this cock soon will turn me into one.”

You nod meekly, and Yeji cocks a laugh at your cuteness. You pick up the pace, decide to let go of teacherly instincts of care and concern, and really start to give it to her.

Yeji lets out delighted gasps as you do, the kind that even as she begins to tell you how good it feels, she can’t control the cute sounds that come out of her throat.

“Don’t look so sad sir, ah! I know you want to take your time with me-nngh-, but we can do that later, okay baby? When-Fuck!- when you take me home later, when we’re laying in your bed, worn out and sensitive, I’ll lie on my side and let you juh-just slide into me and let you do whatever you want, okay? Guh- I’ll be just a cocksheathe the whole night.”

You groan. Yeji has her perfect future all planned out. A-plus career planning.

“But for now, sir, I just want it fucking harder.”

Those words will definitely get you moving.

So pump away you go, pulling her forward so she’s in a balancing act, so it’s really less about how good you’re fucking her and more about how much she’s going to be able to walk tomorrow.

And that gets Hwang Yeji whoring. Moaning, screaming, the whole lot, like it’s better than her wildest dreams, and (not to stroke your own hard on) it’s probably true.

It may as well happen in slow motion, but it isn’t, because ironically it’s starting to look like you’re hitting 2x speed. Yeji’s cheeks rise first, like she’s in shock. Then her lips split into this grin, because she’s fucking loving it. Yet it all ends with her crooning with her head slowly coiling back, the ratchets in her neck tack-tack-tack and she just forgets all about balance and just surrenders.

She just lets you hold her, all of her, and Yeji relishes in just giving you everything. She just pinches her nipples, like she’s saying-Hey! Look here!- distraction after distraction.

“C’mere.” You tell her, but you’re in control of everything. You let this happen. This sick, twisted thing called spinning Yeji around so she’s pressed face down against the desk and you’re blitzing into her once again.

The gall, is all you can think, when this obviously broken, obviously penis-induced-delirious girl says, “Harder!”

Even the desk is shaking now, bam-bam-bam like a beat in your head as you press Yeji flat against the table.

“Kkuh-Cum. In me,” Yeji’s voice is muffled, and she should honestly be more careful cause she’s going to bite her fucking tongue off speaking while getting railed like this.

You palm one of her asscheeks roughly. You’ve always wanted to, at least once. 

“You’re perfect, Yeji,” you say, reverent, oddly calm, oddly solid and firm and it just kind of hangs there, in the middle of this debauchery session. Resonates.

“Not yet. I’m not.” Hwang Yeji groans out, still so adamant about not giving you the final word. About one last input. Even now.

Even now. 

“Still something missing,” her words slur but you can guess it all the same. Anyone could. And even now she’s so right. So completely right.

Her hand reaches up to clasp onto the edge of the table, like she’s holding it together. A bead of sweat trickles and threatens to get into your eye. Your hand trails up her moist skin, settles into that perfect nook in her waist you glanced over earlier.

“I’ll need your help with that, Yeji.”

Yeji frowns.

“Pussy not good enough for you, sir?”

“On the contrary,” you reassure, slowing down your thrusts so she can hear you properly, totally not because your thighs are starting to scream, “but if you want my cum you need to help me out here.”

“Sir,” Yeji gasps as you give her ass a gentle slap, “you kind of have me pinned down here. I’m not sure I can do anything.”

Yeji lifts a weak leg up onto the table, and the friction gets tighter, that certainly helps.

“You can cum,” you end simply, not wanting to drag this out for too long.

“Just cum, hmm? One more time? If you cum again I think I will too.”

And just before she can reply you, you push back into her again, back into that breakneck pace you know she wants because she’ll cum like a derailed train.

And for good measure you’ll reach down to rub her clit.

“Yes!” Yeji begs, tells you, expression that’s fucking it. You work up to that furious speed, that sends pleasure in waves that overload your brain.

And you’ll have her cumming. You’ll have her cumming you’ll have her cumming you’ll have her cumming. Her face scrunches up, like something hurts, and you know she’s going to spasm so you grab onto her extended leg firmly, and she lets out a shriek and you feel a sheen of wetness, and you almost fall for it but she hasn’t cum yet, the little devil, still holding out that little longer so when the rush does overtake her it’s less “I’m cumming like I’m fucking dying,” and just “oh fuck!”

And then she’s clenching, clamping, a broken moan in between her hand slapping down on the table like she’s calling attention in class. And then her spine does this reflex thing where she suddenly bucks upwards and just shudders as this gush of girl-cum - and you’re honestly struggling to keep her in place.

And as her body calms down, an unnatural, unsystematic back to earth (table), Yeji just lays there, exhausted, and you feel like a king.

But after a while, Yeji realises something. Something very important. She jerks her head to you, like there’s something really off. Something along the lines of you lied. You defend yourself.

“Yeji, I’m going to have a lot of time to dump cum in you. Just this once, I wanna cum elsewhere. It’s a… thing I always wanted to do.”

“A fantasy,” Yeji translates from her positions sprawled on the table.

“What is it?”

“Your mouth. I want you…,” you take a deep breath, “I want to see you drink it.”

“Yuck,” Yeji wrinkles her nose, “Dirty teacher’s dirty fantasies?”

You gulp. Yeji grins like she told a funny joke.

“I guess you’re in luck, sir,” Yeji comments, sliding you out of her warmth. Her legs are jelly and she slides comically to her knees, but yet her voice still delivers sultrily, “I’m willing to do whatever you want.”

So Yeji crawls over to you licks her lips and nods for you to take a seat.

“Just this once, hmm?” Yeji clarifies, giving your cock a flick that almost sets you off (You’re really fucking close, like seriously).

“Anything for you, sir,” Yeji whispers, and slips your cock between her lips, like she’s done it a million times and will do it a million more.

She glides effortlessly down, everything that’s just been fucking her upside down and driving her crazy. You gasp, grunt, your wildest fantasy, the one thing you would never put into words-

And with a subtle flick of the tongue on the sensitive underside of your cock, you’re gone. Yeji pushes down on your bucking hips with surprising strength so you just watch, one final performance.

The shots of cum roll down her throat. One. Then two. Then thr-they stop. Her throat swallows twice, bobbing, and then she lets the remaining few jets fill. She keeps herself all the way down.

She waits for you to finish, patiently, but she doesn’t finish it all. Her tongue slides up, dragging cum all back over your shaft. Her head rises, then bobs back down on your sensitive shaft. The seal is still airtight.

She’s having fun.

You watching, gasping and wincing, as Hwang Yeji expertly plays with cum and cock, until eventually her throat opens one more time and she swallows it all. 

And Yeji pulls away, eyes sparkling, a sliver of pearly cum on the edge of her lips. She grins, tongue swiping across that set of perfect teeth. It’s like itadakimasu, but she could go for seconds.

Her tongue peeks for a fraction of a second and that drop of cum disappears.

“I’m going to love doing that to you over and over again,” Yeji says softly, more guarantee than any promise.

So that’s Hwang Yeji. Basically naked.  Sat yet sprawled across classroom floor. Skirt balled up on her waist. Tits and pussy bared for world to see, eyes leaking. You lift a hand to rub her cheek. Shades.

“Take me home,” Yeji tells you, “and don’t ever let go.”

A/N: Writing this was a beautiful blur. It’s always worth appreciating the bolts of inspiration that hit your head. Finished this in no time.

We are all whores for something.

Thanks for reading.

Deathgripped by Hwang Yeji,

~~~

Some days you regret quitting your stable office job to become a writer. 

You’re barely making ends meet with the near zero income, and you’re forced to take on copywriting and other freelance jobs to scrape enough moolah to continue living in a dingy apartment in the not-so-fancy side of town. 

Some days though, it's not too bad.

Being an unwilling audience to raccoons tap dancing on the roof every night sucks, but it feels like the karmic balance of the world has swung ever so slightly in your favour when you’re kicking it back on a lazy weekday afternoon, crushing a couple cans of beer with your best friend and roommate. 

“Cheers to your success, buddy!” Ryujin hollers as she slams her can onto yours with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary.

She’s the other reason why you’re able to afford rent. Though her own financial condition is precarious given her daytime job as a barista and her nighttime hobby as a drummer in a rock band. 

“It’s really not a big deal, but thanks anyways,” you mutter wryly.

Why were you two having an impromptu drinking session? You just released your first novel, and Ryujin insisted on celebrating the milestone even as you played it down. Your best friend has taken on the role of cheerleader, hyping you up after every completed chapter and promising to take you out after finishing the whole book. 

“You have to stop putting yourself down like that,” she nags, shaking her head as she tosses another can in your general direction. “The novel’s going to do great!”

You can only shake your head at her optimism. It was a rushed job, and you’re certain the editor greenlit the final copy just to get it off his docket. Desperate for further validation, you had posted snippets of the unfinished novel online under a pseudonym. The rush of comments were mixed. About what you should have expected, but the lack of clear affirmation still keeps you up at night.

The alcohol and vibes bring you into an introspective mood. It’s times like these when you think back to why you decided to take the plunge and chase after your childhood ambition – parents, colleagues, friends be damned! 

Well, you made an exception for Ryujin, who’s three cans down and poking your shoulder while squinting hard at your face.

“C’mon,” she whines. 

“No,” you reply, taking a swig of beer. Ryujin lets out a weary sigh (girl does a sick Chewbacca impression) and pokes your shoulder again.

“You never tell anyone.”

“There’s,” you pause to gulp down some more beer, “a reason for that.”

“But you tell me everything!”

That gets you thinking. 

She’s right. The two of you have been friends since freshman year in college. You’ve supported her through her lesbian awakening and become a staunch ally. She’s nursed you through countless heartbreaks. The shared trauma was instrumental in forging an ironclad bond – two losers grasping at each other to stay afloat. So there’s very little the two of you don’t share with each other.

Which becomes a sore point for Ryujin when, on one fine day, seemingly out of nowhere, you announced very loudly in the living room that you tendered your resignation from your dead-end job at the tax office. 

And then you declared that you will become, and she quotes, “The greatest writer since Frank Herbert.”

To say that it took her by surprise would be an understatement. Sure, you dabbled in some writing competitions back in the day and you loved to read, but your life trajectory afterwards was firmly arcing towards death by corporate. 

There was a lot of screaming and shouting and shoving that day, and then a lot of crying and hugging and stuff like “bros for life” and “fucking hell yeah let’s follow our dreams” type shit as the night wore on.

But still no explanation as to why you did it. Taking on the mantle of a struggling artist isn’t for shits and giggles. Ryujin would know, since she’s treading a similar path. You know her reason: she’s been banging on pots and pans since she was a baby, and the obsession with percussive instruments had only grown from then on. For Ryujin, joining a rock band was less about wanting to make it big (though she wouldn’t mind if some groupies slid into her DMs) and more about staying sane in this mad, mad world.

So she pokes and prods and whines some more.

“Fine, I’ll tell you!”

Ryujin stops her tantrum and stares at you. “I didn’t think you’d actually fold, heh.”

You look away for a moment. “Just…just don’t laugh, okay?”

“Scout’s honour,” she replied, slamming a fist on her chest.

***

You think you’re underwater, but you’re not. The air is thick like jelly, making every movement slow and cumbersome. The sound of a horn blares in the distance and you swear you can see the sound waves ripple from the idling train. You check the soles of your shoes for scuff marks and find none, which is odd. You swear you’ve been walking for hours to get to the station. But then again, you don’t remember arriving here in the first place.

There’s a girl standing to your right. Her features ebb and flow like everything else in this aquatic-but-not space. But some things stay fixed in place – the short black hair and the cat-like slant of her eyes. She looks straight ahead, and you feel strings tightening around your heart as she turns to stare at you.

“It’s now or never, right?” You drag the words out of your mouth despite the pain in your chest. 

“Yeah,” the girl replies. Her voice is smooth like velvet, quelling some of your discomfort.

“I’m scared.”

An easy smile spreads across her face. “That’s okay. Let’s be scared together.” She reaches out a hand and you grasp it. 

The two of you step into the waiting train.

And then you wake up.

***

“So, was she hot?”

Ryujin yelps as you land a solid punch on her arm. Not her dominant arm, because you’re not an asshole. But definitely on the side with the freshly-inked sleeve.

“Get serious, I’m baring my soul here!”

She lets out a cackle and dodges some more punches.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Ryujin chuckles as she raises her hands in surrender. “So, if I’m getting this right, you dreamt about some hottie.” She shields her arm pre-emptively. 

“And this inspired you to—”

“Yep, to become a writer.” You nod as you purse your lips, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

“I think that’s pretty fucking cool.”

“Yeah I know it's dumb— wait, did you say it’s cool?”

“Hell yeah, dude! I think,” she pauses to collect her thoughts, “dreams are important. Gives us a purpose in life, you know?”

For a second, you almost reach over to hug your best friend.

“And who’s going to say no to a dreamy baddie?” You fling the now-empty can of beer at Ryujin’s general direction. But she swats it out of the air mid-flight. Stupid drummer reflexes. 

"Anyways, enough pre-gaming." Ryujin stands, tossing the empty cans into the cooler. "Why don't we hit the bar and get this party started for real?"

“You know I don’t do crowds,” you mutter as you help Ryujin clean up.

She nudges you with an elbow. “Just for tonight. And who knows, maybe we can find you a real girl to obsess over?”

***

Which came first: the chicken or the egg?

You find yourself seriously considering the riddle thanks to the rather loud couple initiating the discussion right beside you. Oh, and because you’d rather be anywhere else than this bar.

Once again, you wish you didn’t take Ryujin up on going out tonight, but your best friend was quite persuasive, dragging you via headlock over to this fine establishment. It’s not even a quiet and chill bar, but one of those ‘bars’ with an open dance floor heaving with a sea of bodies no thanks to the DJ currently nodding their head while playing some tunes to fit the theme for this evening. 

Mambo Night. God, as if you can’t feel any older.

There you are, leaning over the bar table proper, gin and tonic in hand. Wincing every now and again as an overbearing guy (way to perpetuate the stereotype, buddy) bulldozes his way through his answer (egg), leaving his date silent and sporting a thin-lipped smile that seems to slip down her face with every word.

Not that discussing the question would ever amount to anything useful. You bet you could argue either side and come out on top. You stir the tiny plastic stick in your cocktail glass round and round. The chicken and egg question is ultimately a circular question – the egg has to be laid by a chicken. Sure. But the chicken has to come from an egg, right?

And just like neither the chicken nor the egg truly comes ‘first’, you’ve found joy in putting your all in the rather circuitous writing journey, rather than focusing on the destination. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself as your editor hounded you over deadlines on an almost daily basis for a year. 

And look where that got you.

It’s definitely not the way you envisioned yourself celebrating finishing your first novel, but you try to put a positive spin on things. You learned to find peace and happiness in the act of writing itself, so the fucking amazing win – as Ryujin eloquently puts it – doesn’t really feel like such a big deal in your mind. 

Speaking of your best friend. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Ryujin, ever the party animal, throwing back what her mother had given her with a group of women who seem inebriated enough for the night’s proceedings. A couple of the women are even giving her some cheeky slaps on her behind. Now there’s someone having fun. Ryujin arches her back teasingly and throws a wink in your direction. You reply with a half-hearted wave of your drink.

A light buzz starts forming in your head, and you’re pretty sure the couple beside you are starting to get as tipsy as you are, if their floaty voices and slurred vowels are any indication. And the girl is now taking the upper hand in the debate – thank fuck – with a frankly inspired point about a possible ancestor to chickens, rendering the guy speechless.

You give yourself a mental pat on the back for predicting the outcome of the conversation. The couple disappears into the dance floor, and your eyes follow them until you turn your head to—

See her.

Wait, her?!

The redhead with the thin waist and wide hips is pretty, swaying along to the beat of Rick Astley’s ‘Together Forever’. But she’s not the one that has your soul in a death grip.

It’s the girl right behind the redhead, grinding on her ass. 

Black hair, tousled and messy, though each strand looking like they were placed just right by some unseen stylist. Bright red lips curled into a smirk, tongue blepping out as she focuses on gyrating in time with her dance partner.

Those eyes. Shaped like a cat’s, and they flick to train onto yours. Like a chicken hunting an egg.

…which came first again?

***

“Ryujin, Ryu, oh god, fucking fuck—”

Slap. “You need to chill out.”

“But Ryu, how the fuh,” you stumble over yourself as words continue to pour out of your mouth, “how the fuck is the egg coming before the chick—”

Another slap. Harder this time, your best friend winding up for the second one like prime Nic Cage in that one indie movie. You almost fall over the chair, that slap bringing you to your senses, though you swear your ear is now ringing to the tune of Mozart’s Requiem in D minor. 

You remember scrambling over to find Ryujin, flailing arms knocking over the bodies on the dance floor as you sought your best friend to tell her about the girl. Then you realised that it was probably a bad idea to tell Ryujin that you saw someone who you only ever knew from your dreams. She would have laughed in your face and told you to stop drinking. 

Because it’s not possible, right? Dreams are based on our own experiences – what we’ve seen, what we’ve heard, what we’ve done, and what’s been done to us. There is no way that this person can share the exact same face and—

Ryujin raises her arm again and the threat of a third slap derails your train of thought. So you take in a couple of deep breaths and nod as Ryujin mentions something about heading outside to cool off. 

But surely the gods are playing a cosmic prank on you, because as you get halfway up from the chair, she emerges out of thin air and grasps your shoulder gently.

“Everything okay?” Wow, even her voice is the same velvet rushing into your ears, making you shiver. She gives you a once-over, a look of concern etched on her face. Right, she did see you have a mental breakdown in the middle of a fucking bar. What a wonderful way to be introduced to the literal girl of your dreams.

“Yeji?! What are you doing here?” Ryujin stares right past you as her face lights up with recognition.

Dream girl – Yeji, because of course she has a name – looks up and her face brightens. Ryujin pulls her into a big hug. You squint at them both, wondering whether this is all an elaborate prank by your roommate. Probably not, but you wouldn’t put it past her.

“I was just dancing with Yuna earlier, it’s her birthday,” dream girl – Yeji, you remind yourself again – answers, slightly out of breath as she extricates herself from Ryujin’s bear grip. Your best friend must have sensed the confusion in your look because she turns Yeji to face you and smiles brightly.

“Yeji, meet my bestie! Bestie, meet Yeji. She’s the lead guitar player in our band.” You give your best attempt at a friendly smile and grab her outstretched hand. Honestly, you’re still reeling at the fact that Ryujin and your dream girl know each other. 

So when calloused fingers wrap around yours, it takes all of your willpower to not melt into a puddle in that very spot. Then you realise you’ve been holding onto her hand for way too long, so you hastily let go. On her part, Yeji keeps staring at you with a weird look in her eyes as you blush deeply.

“Can you, like, make sure my friend doesn’t die?” Ryujin asks, pushing you towards Yeji. “I’m gonna head back to the dance floor.” She spares you a final glance. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands!” 

So much for being a best friend, you think to yourself, as Ryujin skips happily back to the gaggle of women who cheer at her return.

“You don’t have to go outside with me. I just need some fresh air,” you mutter, unable to quite meet Yeji’s gaze. 

“That’s alright. I think I need some fresh air too.” Yeji smiles at you, and you swear you will do anything to keep that smile on her face.

***

If only you realised sooner that Yeji’s idea of fresh air is pinning you to the wall of the alleyway beside the bar and sucking all the breath from your lungs.

You’re learning a lot about someone who, until this very night, only existed in your dreams. For one, she’s a very good kisser. She nibbles on your lower lip and flicks her tongue teasingly inside your mouth. You don’t even have the presence of mind to kiss back because one of her hands digs into your scalp, the pleasing burn doing unholy things to your sanity as the other hand presses on your stomach.

She rolls her hips, the friction on your crotch making you moan into her mouth. Yeji pulls away from the kiss, a thin string of saliva linking your lips to hers.

“Do you—,” you let out another moan as Yeji’s hand lowers to cup your painfully tight bulge. “Do you do this to everyone you meet?”

She considers the question for a moment, before leaning forward to whisper into your ear. “Only the cute ones.”

You want to push her off, to ask if this is all real, if she is real. But another embarrassing moan escapes your lips as Yeji tightens her grip on your scalp. And all rational thought flees. 

“My place?” You nod.

***

There are a few stereotypes about musicians and their houses, and Yeji ticks all the boxes. Warm lighting, band posters blu-tacked onto the walls, a turntable with a slowly spinning vinyl crooning some HONNE. Of course, you only notice these details after the deed was done.

As much as Yeji is in a rush to pull down your pants and slurp the soul out of your balls like a slushie through a straw, you need to take some control of the rapidly escalating situation before you go insane. With all the willpower you can muster, you push an amused Yeji onto the bed and proceed to pull her skirt off — not an easy feat given they clung to her thighs like a second skin.

Those strong, rough fingers dig again into your scalp as you flatten your tongue against her clothed core and lick slowly. It isn’t like you to take your time when eating a girl out. But then again this isn’t just any girl. You were determined to show Yeji a good time, and an aching jaw is a sacrifice you’re willing to make to make it happen.

You pull the soaked fabric to the side, but you pause to look up for approval. Yeji’s eyes shone with eagerness – as good a green light as any. She slaps a palm to her mouth to muffle a moan as you settle into an unrelenting pace, alternating between licking and sucking her slick faster than she can handle. 

Whimpering at the taste of her arousal, you grind your hips downwards to get any sort of friction to relieve the effect it has on your erection. But there's nothing but soft sheets beneath you – hardly an ideal surface. So you remain untouched and painfully throbbing.

She keeps pulling and moaning and you decide to finish her off. Your fingers slip inside rather easily as you curl them upwards and continuously hit a spot that seems to agree with her. You can tell by the way she squeezes your head between her slim thighs – gosh, those muscles are to die for.

You suck strongly at her clit and that has her bucking upwards while squirting all over your face. Her climax lasts for a bit and you gently lap your tongue against her as she rides it out, hips shaking and thighs clenching. 

It takes you a while to stretch out the kinks that had formed in your neck while you ate Yeji out, but it was so worth the view in front of you. Splayed out over the bed, chest heaving, arms covering her face, legs spread open in an M-shape, thigh-high stockings rounding off the heavenly vision.

A flash of pride surges through you as you realise – yeah, you did that.

Yeji peeks from between her arms and lets out an airy laugh. “Do you do that to every girl you meet?”

“Only the cute ones,” you wink as you wipe her release from your chin. She gives you an odd look before laughing again.

“You’re making a very good first impression.” And with that, she pulls off her mesh top and unbuckles her bra.

For the second time that day, you find yourself pinned by Yeji – this time against a headboard instead of a mossy brick wall in an alleyway. She kisses you with urgency, and this time you respond in kind, keeping her flush against you with one arm around her back.

Yeji pulls away briefly as her hands undo your belt and you help by lifting your hips up, kicking off your pants. She dives back in with an open-mouthed kiss and you meet her pace, your lips slotting into hers. She pulls away again as she leans to the side, ripping open the cupboard beside the bed and fishing out a condom. 

You shamelessly stroke yourself to full hardness as you ogle her taut abs, admiring the product of undoubted self-discipline and hard work. She rips open the packaging with her teeth and rolls the condom expertly down your length, humming in satisfaction at the way you twitch in her hands. 

Wanting to distract from how responsive you are to her touch, and definitely not wanting to finish so quickly inside her, you settle your fingers against her core, rubbing tight circles over her clit. Yeji slaps your hands away, or she tries to, but you got that dawg in you (as your best friend would put it) and it wants to show your dream girl an amazing time in bed.

“I’m more than ready,” she huffs, but it falls on deaf ears. 

“Just a little longer.” You slip your fingers inside her once again, and she quickly rides your hand, face pressed into the crook of your neck as you curl your fingers rhythmically. When she starts to press her thighs together, you pull your fingers away and lift her hips down onto your swollen member.

You can’t help but observe the way she bites her lip to stifle a moan as she stretches around you. Her arms wrap around your neck as she sinks deeper. And while it feels so, so good for you, you’re worried about hurting her, so you rub her back and whisper quiet comfort into her ear.

As if reading your mind, Yeji rests her chin on your shoulder and whispers, “M’fine, just go slow, please?” Of course you’ll go as slow as she wants to. So you wait for a couple of beats before slowly rocking your hips. 

Shallow thrusts, slow enough to not cause pain but just enough to make the pleasure mount. By the small gasps into your ear, it seems to be working. It’s so tender, so different from the fiery kisses earlier, but no less pleasurable and exciting for you.

It’s also unreal. It’s like Yeji has walked out of the train station dreamscape and right into your life in the most insane way possible. And now she’s slamming her hips down while you meet her with upwards thrusts. 

“This…this is real, right?” Her hips slow for a moment, head cocked to the side as she raises a hand to cup your cheek. She clocks the desperation in your voice and smiles gently to ease your mind.

“So—,” Yeji grunts as she picks up the pace, “so fucking real, writer boy.” You gasp at the nickname, and gasp again as her hips settle on a brutal rhythm, her words temporarily forgotten. 

You tighten your hold on her hips to thrust harder, intent on chasing your own pleasure. She grinds down in reply, twisting her hips, her face a study in focus as her tongue bleps out in the same adorable way as it did on the dance floor earlier.

Then it’s finally your turn to break, thighs shaking as you spill into her at the same time as she clenches hard around you, flooding your crotch with more release.

***

“Can we talk about it?” 

“...”

Yeji doesn’t quite meet your eyes, electing to run a hand over one of the many band posters that cover the walls of her living room. Her fingers trail over the Arctic Monkeys, detouring downwards to UFO, before grazing against Dire Straits. 

“Yeji…”

More silence.

“...please?” 

She finally turns to look at you with a sigh. The tightness in your chest just won’t go away, and you desperately need some answers from the person who just blurted out something she couldn’t have known. 

The post-nut clarity has transformed the initial shock of meeting Yeji and the high of sex into a devastating crash. You feel like you’re back in that dreamscape from long ago, thrust into deep waters and sinking helplessly toward the bottom.

Her voice pulls you out of your reverie. “W-would you believe me if I told you that I’ve been crushing on you for a while now?”

“What?!” You try to keep the incredulity from your voice. 

“Let me explain,” she sighs shakily as she sits cross-legged on the other end of the sofa in the living room. The two of you had hastily donned some oversized t-shirts and shorts from Yeji’s wardrobe after the abrupt end to the bedroom tryst. 

To call it awkward would be an understatement, the two of you barely able to look at one another until you broke the ice. And you sure as hell are not planning on leaving until you get some answers.

So Yeji spills the beans. For some reason, Ryujin had appointed herself as your unofficial publicist, yapping to her bandmates about you and your novel. She even shared some draft chapters, the very ones she swore up and down to keep a secret. That little shit. 

“And, umm, please don’t judge me too hard for this…” You raise an eyebrow at her. If what she says next tops the previous stuff, your heart rate might go into the quadruple digits.

“I’ve been writing my own stuff. Songs, I mean. For a while now,” she admits while staring a hole into the Dire Straits poster. 

“The band thing with Ryujin is great, but we only ever perform covers. It’s a safe and fun thing to do, and I’ve been telling myself that’s all I’ll ever amount to – that I’m not good enough to branch out solo and play my own songs. That it’s stupid to even try.”

You keep quiet, because her insecurities sound painfully familiar to yours. You remember a time when you would doubt your writing skills, hell, your ability to string together letters into coherent words and sentences that others would want to read. A nagging voice in your head, always making you second-guess yourself.

Dream Yeji was the one who dispelled that voice. Dream Yeji held your hand, expressed her own fears, and believed in you anyways. Dream Yeji spurred you to start on your first novel. And now, the real Yeji is pouring her heart out to you.

“Then Ryujin showed me your drafts. And I had to read more, so I found some snippets you posted online a while back,” she mutters as her voice trails towards the end. “Loved those.” 

She even read the shitty snippets. The ones you uploaded during a moment of weakness when you craved external validation. You feel like crawling under a rock and dying from shame, but Yeji powers on.

“I’ve been – God, this sounds so parasocial – I’ve been lowkey obsessed with you, the idea of you. This guy who had the guts to do what I’ve been too scared to do.” 

Her eyes now shining, she scoots closer to you and her words now hold a hint of pleading. “Don’t you get it? You’re someone who quit the safe thing and went all in on your dreams. And I thought, who the fuck does that?”

She swallows, her voice now quivering as she speaks faster. “And then I thought, I want to do that too. So yeah. And then you were right there, in the bar, and Ryujin said your name and—”

“You decided to invite him over to your apartment to fuck his brains out,” you tease gently, and that seems to have eased her mind. Yeji giggles softly, and you feel the tension in your chest slowly release.

“Yeah, that. God, I’m crazy, aren’t I?” She dabs her eyes with the hem of her tee. 

You inch closer, laying a hand over hers. “Umm, I have an even crazier story to tell you.”

So you tell her about the dream you had a long time ago. About the train station. About the girl who was the spitting image of her and how she smiled at you with radiant eyes pressed into cute crescents as she stepped into the train with you. 

And most importantly, about the words she said to you.

The two of you are now sitting face to face. Yeji’s fingers intertwined in yours as she leans forward, drinking in your every word.

“I think about it. Every time. What you— I mean, what the dream version of you said to me.” You squeeze her hand gently. “She was scared too, but she chose to move forward. And I thought that if she believes in me, then maybe I can believe in me too.”

“Wow, dream me was a badass. ‘Let’s be scared together’? Now I wanna meet her too,” she jokes.

“You have no idea. Real you is pretty badass too.”

“Back at you. So happy you turned out to be cute,” she giggles, squeezing your cheek gently. 

“Hah, I got lucky. I knew you were cute even before I met you!” 

Yeji pouts. “Touché. But now I know you’re really good in bed.” That got you blushing hard.

The two of you sit in your shared feelings for a while, appreciating the comfortable silence that settles over the living room. Yeji then stretches her limbs, yawning as she checks the time on her phone. “So what now, writer boy?”

“I don’t know.” You pause, looking down at your hands. “Chicken or egg?”

“Excuse me?” Yeji blinks.

“You know, that chicken or egg question. Which came first?” You look up expectantly.

“Chicken. Because I love me some fried chicken and soju,” Yeji replies, patting her rumbling belly. 

“Now you’re making me hungry.”

“Good.” She puts in an order for some food on her phone. “While we wait, I want to learn more about my mysterious writer crush, and you can learn more about your dream girl.”

“Deal.”

She looks up from her phone. Waiting.

Your brain chooses this moment to be absolutely stupid. Maybe it's because you've been watching too much porn lately. Maybe it's because she's hot and you're flustered. Maybe you're just an idiot.

Probably that last one.

"I don't actually have my card on me right now," you say, and then your mouth keeps going without permission. "Is there maybe another way I could pay?"

It's a joke. Obviously a joke. You're going to laugh it off and go grab your wallet in like two seconds.

She doesn't laugh.

Just looks at you. Straight-faced. Expression completely neutral.

"Another way," she repeats slowly.

Oh fuck. Oh shit. Abort.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding—" You're already backing up, hands raised. "Bad joke, I'll go get my wallet right now, it's in my—"

"What did you mean?" She tilts her head slightly. Still no expression. "Another way to pay?"

Your face is hot. "It's stupid, it's this dumb trope from like, porn and stuff online, you know—" Why are you still talking? Stop talking. "The whole pizza delivery thing where the guy doesn't have money so they—and it's obviously not real, I didn't mean to—"

"So you were suggesting sex instead of cash." She says it like she's confirming your pizza order. Completely casual.

You want to die. "I wasn't—I mean, yeah, that's the trope, but I wasn't actually—"

"Okay."

Your brain short-circuits. "What?"

"Okay." She pockets her phone. Takes a step forward into your apartment. "Let's do that instead."

She's fucking with you. She has to be fucking with you.

"You're joking."

"Am I?" She takes another step. You take one back automatically. She's smirking now, just a little, and it completely transforms her face from professional to something that makes your pulse kick up. "You made the offer."

"I didn't—that wasn't an actual offer, I was joking—"

"Were you?" Another step. You're backing further into your apartment now and she's following, closing the door behind her with her heel. "Because you're still standing here. Haven't gone to get your wallet."

Fuck, she's right.

"I—"

"Here's what I think." She's close now. Close enough that you can smell her perfume, something light and sweet. "I think you made that joke because some part of you hoped I'd say yes. And now that I am saying yes, you don't know what to do with yourself."

Your back hits the wall. When did you run out of room?

"I don't—this doesn't actually happen in real life—"

"Doesn't it?" She's right in front of you now, looking up at you with dark eyes and that little smirk still playing at her lips. "Seems like it's happening right now."

Your heart is pounding so hard she can probably see it. "You're serious."

"Dead serious." Her hand comes up, fingers playing with the collar of your shirt. "Unless you actually want to go get your wallet? We can do this the boring way if you prefer."

This is insane. She's insane. This doesn't happen.

"What's your name?" you manage.

"Jiyeon." Her fingers slide down from your collar to your chest. "And you're going to want to remember that, because you'll be saying it a lot in the next hour."

Fuck it. Fuck it.

"Bedroom's down the hall," you hear yourself say.

Her smirk widens into a full grin. "Good choice."

She pulls you down the hall and you're stumbling after her like an idiot, brain still trying to catch up to what's happening. This is real. This is actually happening.

Jiyeon pushes you into your bedroom and you barely register the mess—clothes on the floor, unmade bed—before she's on you. Hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up.

"Off," she says simply, and you obey without thinking.

Shirt hits the floor. She's looking at you now, eyes dragging down your chest, your stomach, lower. That fucking smirk is still there.

She's actually checking you out.

"Not bad," she says, like she's judging furniture. Then her hands are on your belt.

"Wait—" Your hands cover hers. "Shouldn't we—I mean—"

"What?" She looks up at you, tilting her head. "Having second thoughts?"

"No, I just—this is insane, you know that right? You don't actually have to—"

"I know I don't have to." She pulls your belt free in one smooth motion. "I want to. Now stop overthinking and let me work."

Your jeans hit the floor. You're standing there in your boxers, half-hard already, and she hasn't even taken off her shirt yet.

"That's not fair," you manage.

"What's not fair?"

"You're still dressed."

That smirk again. "So undress me."

Your hands are shaking when you reach for her. Stupid. You've done this before. But something about the way she's watching you makes you feel like a fucking virgin.

You grab the hem of her polo. She raises her arms and you pull it off.

Holy fuck.

Black bra. Simple, no lace or anything, but the way it's holding her—fuck. Her tits are perfect. Not huge but full, straining against the cups.

"Keep going," she says.

You reach for her jeans. Button, zipper, sliding them down her hips. She steps out of them and kicks them aside. Black panties matching the bra. Her legs are toned, thighs that you're already imagining wrapped around—

Focus.

"Lie down," she says, and it's not a request.

You sit on the bed. She pushes your shoulder and you fall back, head hitting the pillow. Then she's climbing on top of you, straddling your hips, and you can feel the heat of her through your boxers, through her panties.

She leans down and kisses you. Her tongue slides into your mouth and you groan, hands coming up to grab her waist. Her skin is soft and warm and she's grinding down on you, slow circles that have your cock throbbing.

"Already hard," she murmurs against your mouth. "That was fast."

"Your fault," you manage.

"Good." She sits up, still straddling you, and reaches back to unhook her bra. It falls away and her tits bounce free and you can't help but stare.

Perfect. They're fucking perfect.

She notices you staring and laughs. "You can touch them, you know."

You do. Both hands coming up to cup her tits, thumbs brushing over her nipples. They're already hard, pebbled peaks that make her breath catch when you circle them.

"Fuck," she breathes, grinding down harder. "That's good—"

You lean up and take one nipple in your mouth. She gasps, hand coming to the back of your head, holding you there. You suck and lick and she's rocking against you faster now, little sounds escaping her throat.

"Enough," she says suddenly, pushing you back down. "My turn."

She slides down your body. Hooks her fingers in your boxers. Pulls them down.

Your cock springs free and she pauses, just looking at it. You're fully hard now, tip already leaking, and the way she's staring is making you throb.

"Not bad at all," she says, wrapping one hand around your shaft.

The touch makes you gasp. She strokes once, twice, thumb swiping over the head and spreading the precum. Then she looks up at you with those dark eyes.

"I'm going to ride your face," she says casually. "And you're going to make me cum. Think you can handle that?"

Is she serious?

She's already moving, climbing up your body. Panties sliding off somewhere along the way. And then she's there, right above your face, her pussy inches from your mouth.

You can see everything. She's already wet, glistening, and the smell of her hits you—sweet and musky and making your mouth water.

"Well?" She's looking down at you, waiting.

You grab her thighs and pull her down.

Fuck yes.

The taste of her explodes on your tongue. Sweet and tangy and addictive. You lick up through her folds and she gasps, hips jerking.

"Oh fuck—" Her hands brace against the wall above your headboard. "That's it—"

You do it again. Slower this time, really tasting her. She's so wet already, coating your tongue, and you can't get enough. You find her clit and circle it, and her thighs tighten around your head.

"Fuck, right there—"

She's grinding down on your face now, using your mouth, and you're drowning in her. Your hands grip her ass, pulling her closer, tongue working her clit while she rides your face. Every breath is full of her scent, every sound she makes going straight to your aching cock.

"So fucking good with your tongue—" Her voice is breathy now, losing that confident edge. "Don't stop, don't fucking stop—"

You slide your tongue lower, dipping inside her. She's so tight, clenching around your tongue, and the moan she makes is desperate.

"Yes—oh god, fuck me with your tongue—"

You do. Fucking her with your tongue while your nose presses against her clit. She's dripping now, wetness coating your chin, your lips, and she's grinding so hard you can barely breathe but you don't care. All you care about is that taste, those sounds, the way her thighs are trembling.

"Gonna cum—" She's gasping now, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, gonna cum on your face—"

You focus back on her clit. Sucking it into your mouth, flicking it with your tongue, and she breaks. Her whole body goes rigid, thighs clamping around your head, and she cums with a sharp cry.

"Fuck—fuck—oh fuck—"

You can feel her pulsing against your tongue, gushing wetness, and you lap it all up. She's shaking through it, hands gripping the wall so hard her knuckles are white. You keep going, drawing it out, until she's pushing at your head.

"Too much—sensitive—"

She lifts off your face and collapses next to you on the bed, chest heaving. You're gasping for air, face covered in her, cock throbbing so hard it hurts.

Holy shit.

She recovers faster than you expect. Rolls over to look at you, takes in your soaked face and grins.

"Good boy," she says, and then she's kissing you. Tasting herself on your tongue. Her hand wraps around your cock again and you groan into her mouth.

"My turn," she murmurs, and before you can process that she's moving. Straddling your hips again, hand guiding your cock to her entrance.

Wait—

She sinks down in one smooth motion.

"Fuck!" You both say it at the same time.

She's so fucking tight. Hot and wet and squeezing your cock so tight you can't feel anything else. You grab her hips, fingers digging in, trying to process the sensation of being inside her.

"So fucking big—" She's panting, hands braced on your chest. "Stretching me so good—"

She starts moving. Slow at first, rolling her hips, and every movement has you seeing stars. Her pussy is gripping your cock so tight, so wet, and the sight of her above you—tits bouncing, head thrown back, lips parted—is almost too much.

"Jiyeon—fuck—"

"Yeah?" She looks down at you, grinning. "Feel good?"

"So fucking good—you're so tight—"

She picks up the pace. Bouncing now, really riding you, and the sound of skin slapping fills the room. Her tits are bouncing with each drop, and you can't look away. Can't think. Can only feel how fucking perfect her pussy feels wrapped around your cock.

"Touch me," she gasps. "Play with my tits—"

You do. Hands coming up to squeeze, to pinch her nipples, and she moans loud.

"Yes—fuck yes—so fucking deep inside me—"

She's taking your whole cock, every inch disappearing into her tight cunt, and you can see it—see where you're connected, see how wet she is, coating your shaft.

"Gonna make you cum," she pants, grinding down harder. "Gonna milk that cock—you want that? Want to cum inside this tight little pussy?"

Fuck. Fuck.

"Yes—god yes—"

"Then give it to me—" She's slamming down on you now, chasing her own pleasure. "Fill me up—want to feel you cum inside me—"

You're so close. Her pussy is clenching around you, so wet and hot and perfect. You thrust up to meet her, matching her rhythm, and she cries out.

"Fuck—yes—fuck me—"

It builds fast. Pressure coiling tight in your gut, balls tightening, and Jiyeon's moaning your name over and over.

"Cum for me—cum inside me—"

You do. Your orgasm hits like a fucking truck, hips slamming up as you empty yourself inside her. She grinds down, taking it all, and you can feel yourself pulsing, filling her, so much cum pumping into her tight cunt.

"Yes—yes—so fucking much—" She's still moving, milking every last drop, and her pussy is clenching rhythmically, squeezing you.

You collapse back, spent, and she slumps forward onto your chest. Both of you breathing hard. Your cock is still inside her, softening slowly, and you can feel the mess you made—your cum leaking out around your shaft.

She shifts slightly and more drips out. The sensation makes your breath hitch.

"Fuck," she murmurs against your chest. "That was good."

"Yeah."

She lifts her head to look at you, grinning. "You lasted longer than I thought you would."

"Thanks, I think?"

"It's a compliment." She kisses your jaw, then your neck. "Most guys would've blown in two minutes with me riding them like that."

Your hands are on her waist. Holding her. Her skin is so soft under your palms.

"Round two?" she asks, grinding down slightly. Your cock twitches inside her.

Something shifts in your brain.

"Yeah," you say, and your grip on her waist tightens. "But my turn now."

Her eyebrows raise. "Oh?"

You roll. She gasps as you flip her onto her back, pulling out in the process. More cum spills out of her, dripping onto your sheets, and she's looking up at you with wide eyes.

"My turn to be in charge," you say.

That smirk returns. "Took you long enough to find your spine."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

You kiss her. Hard. Claiming her mouth the way she claimed yours earlier, and she moans into it. Your hand slides between her legs, fingers pushing into her cum-filled pussy.

She gasps against your lips. "Fuck—"

"So fucking messy," you mutter, fingers working in and out. "Full of my cum and still so tight."

"Your fault—" Her hips buck up into your hand. "Came so much inside me—"

You pull your fingers out. They're coated in cum and her wetness mixed together. You bring them to her lips.

"Clean them."

She does. Takes your fingers in her mouth and sucks them clean, tongue swirling around them, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

Your cock is hardening again. Already. Watching her suck your fingers, tasting both of you mixed together, it's getting you hard again so fucking fast.

"Good girl," you say when she releases your fingers with a pop.

She grins. "What now?"

You grab her hips. Flip her over onto her stomach.

"Now I'm going to fuck that pretty throat of yours."

"Big words," she says. "Think you can back them up?"

You grab her hips and pull her to the edge of the bed. Her legs dangle off the side, toes barely touching the floor. Then you walk around to face her.

Your cock is right there, inches from her face. Fully hard again, tip already leaking.

"Open," you say.

She does. Mouth falling open, tongue out, and fuck—the sight of her like this. Ready and waiting.

You push in slowly. Just the tip at first, resting on her tongue. She closes her lips around you and sucks gently.

"Wider," you tell her. "I'm going to use that throat."

Her jaw drops open more. You grab the back of her head with one hand, the other braced on the bed beside her, and slap it a few times on her tongue.

Then you push in deeper.

The heat of her mouth hits you instantly. Wet and soft and perfect. You slide in further, past her tongue, and she gags slightly when you hit the back of her throat.

"Breathe through your nose," you mutter, holding there for a second. "Relax that throat."

She does. Takes a breath and you feel her throat relax around you. You push in more and she takes it, eyes watering but not pulling away.

"Good girl. Take this fucking cock."

You start moving. Slow thrusts at first, watching your cock disappear into her mouth over and over. Her lips are stretched around you, drool already starting to leak from the corners of her mouth.

"So fucking pretty like this," you grunt. "Mouth full of cock."

She moans around you and the vibration makes you thrust harder. Deeper. You hit the back of her throat and she gags, throat clenching around your tip, but you don't pull out. Just hold there until she adjusts.

"That's it. Choke on it."

You pick up the pace. Really fucking her throat now, both hands on her head, holding her in place while you use her mouth. She's gagging with every thrust, drool pouring down her chin, tears streaming from her eyes.

The sounds she's making—wet and obscene, gurgling around your cock—it's fucking perfect.

"Such a good little slut," you pant. "Taking my cock so deep in that throat."

Your balls slap against her chin with each thrust. She's trying to breathe between strokes, gasping when you pull back, and her hands grip the sheets.

You pull out completely. She gasps for air, drool connecting your cock to her lips in thick strings. Her makeup is ruined, mascara running, lips swollen and shiny.

"Fuck," she croaks, voice already rough. "You weren't kidding."

"I'm not done yet."

You push back in and she takes it. No hesitation. Just opens wide and lets you fuck her throat harder than before. You're not gentle anymore—don't need to be. She can take it.

The wet, sloppy sounds fill the room. Her gagging, your grunting, the slap of your balls against her face. It's so fucking dirty and she's loving it, moaning around your cock even as she struggles to breathe.

"Gonna cum soon if you keep that up," you warn, but you don't stop thrusting. "Want me to cum down your throat? Fill that belly with my load?"

She tries to shake her head but can't with your cock buried in her throat. Her hand comes up and pushes at your thigh.

You pull out. "No?"

She's coughing, gasping, drool everywhere. "Want it—" Another cough. "Want it in my pussy again. Please."

Fuck yes.

You pull her up by her hair. Not rough enough to hurt but enough to make her gasp. Then you're kissing her, tasting yourself on her tongue, and she moans into your mouth.

"On your hands and knees," you tell her. "Now."

She scrambles to obey. Gets on all fours on the bed, ass in the air, and looks back at you.

Her pussy is still a mess from before. Your cum has dripped down her thighs, dried in some places but still wet where it's leaking out of her. She's so fucking wet, glistening in the light.

You kneel behind her on the bed. One hand on her ass, the other guiding your spit-soaked cock to her entrance.

"Beg for it," you say.

"Please." No hesitation. "Please fuck me. Want that cock so deep inside me."

"More."

"Please—" Her voice breaks. "Need you to fuck me hard, wreck this tight little pussy, fill me up again with your cum—"

You slam in.

She cries out, back arching, and you're buried balls deep in one thrust. So fucking tight still, even with your cum already inside her. Hot and wet and squeezing your cock like she's trying to keep you there.

"Fuck!" She's gripping the sheets. "So deep—oh my god—"

You don't give her time to adjust. Just start pounding into her, hips slapping against her ass with each thrust. The sound of it echoes through the room—skin on skin, wet and loud.

"This what you wanted?" you grunt, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. "To get fucked like a slut?"

"Yes—fuck yes—"

Her ass bounces with each impact. You watch your cock disappearing into her pussy over and over, coated in white from your first load mixed with her wetness. It's so fucking messy, dripping down both your thighs.

You lean forward, pressing her face down into the mattress. The angle changes and you go even deeper. She's practically screaming now, muffled by the bed, and her pussy clenches around you.

"So fucking tight," you pant. "Squeezing my cock so good."

"Harder—" Her voice is muffled but desperate. "Fuck me harder—"

You do. Pounding into her with everything you have. The bed is shaking, headboard hitting the wall, and she's taking every inch like she was made for it.

One hand slides up her back, feeling her arch under your touch. Her skin is slick with sweat. You grab a handful of her hair and pull, lifting her head up.

"Who's fucking you this good?" you demand.

"You—fuck—you are—"

"Say my name."

She does. Moans it over and over while you rail her from behind. Your name mixed with curses and desperate pleas for more.

Your other hand comes down hard on her ass. The slap echoes and she clenches around you, crying out.

"Again," she gasps. "Spank me again—"

You do. Over and over, watching her ass turn pink under your hand. Each slap makes her pussy clench, makes her moan louder, and fuck—she's loving this.

"Such a dirty girl," you growl. "Love getting spanked while taking cock?"

"Yes—love it—love your cock stretching me—"

You're getting close. That familiar pressure building in your gut, balls tightening. But you want to see her face when you cum.

You pull out. She whines at the loss but you're already flipping her over, pulling her to the edge of the bed. Her legs wrap around your waist automatically and you slam back in.

"Oh fuck—" Her head falls back. "Yes—"

This angle is perfect. You can see everything—her tits bouncing with each thrust, her face flushed and sweaty, her pussy stretched around your cock. And she can see you too, watch you fuck her.

"Look at me," you command. "Want to see those pretty eyes when I fill you up."

She does. Locks eyes with you and doesn't look away even as you pound into her. Her mouth falls open, desperate little sounds escaping with each thrust.

"Gonna cum," you warn. "Gonna fill this tight pussy with another load."

"Please—" Her nails dig into your back. "Want it so bad—need to feel you cum inside me again—"

You're so close. Her pussy is clenching rhythmically now, so wet and tight and perfect around your cock.

"Touch yourself," you grunt. "Cum on my cock."

Her hand flies between you, fingers working her clit frantically. Within seconds she's right there, you can feel it in how she's tightening around you.

"Fuck—I'm gonna—"

"Do it. Cum for me."

She does. Her whole body seizes up, pussy clamping down on your cock so hard you can barely move. She's crying out your name, shaking through it, and that's what pushes you over.

"Fuck—Jiyeon—fuck—"

You slam in deep and cum. Hard. Emptying yourself inside her for the second time, adding to the mess already there. So much cum pumping into her tight cunt, and she's still pulsing around you, milking every drop.

"Yes—yes—fill me up—so much cum—"

You keep thrusting through it, working every last bit out of your balls until you're completely spent. When you finally stop, both of you are gasping for air, sweaty and exhausted.

You pull out slowly. Cum immediately starts leaking out—your second load mixing with the first, dripping onto the sheets. There's so fucking much of it, coating her thighs, making a mess.

"Fuck," she breathes, looking down at herself. "You really filled me up."

"Twice," you point out, collapsing beside her.

She laughs, breathless. "Yeah. Definitely twice."

You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath. Her hand finds yours and squeezes.

"So," she says eventually. "Worth the twenty-four dollars?"

You laugh. Can't help it. "Definitely worth it."

"Good." She rolls onto her side to face you, grinning. "Because I'm keeping the pizza too."

She grabs your hand, thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm.

"Your sheets are ruined," she says after a moment.

You glance down. She's not wrong. There's cum everywhere—on the sheets, on her thighs, probably on you too. The whole bed is a disaster.

"Worth it," you say.

She laughs. Sits up slowly, wincing slightly. "Fuck, I'm gonna feel that tomorrow."

"Good."

"Cocky now, aren't you?" She stretches, arms over her head, and you can't help but watch. Even exhausted and covered in mess, she's gorgeous.

She notices you staring and smirks. "Already?"

"Just looking."

"Sure." She swings her legs off the bed, stands up. More cum drips down her thighs and she makes a face. "Okay, I need a shower. Where's your bathroom?"

You point. "Down the hall, first door on the left."

She walks toward it, completely naked and unbothered, and you just lie there watching her go. The confident sway of her hips, the curve of her ass, the mess you made dripping down her legs.

The shower turns on. You hear the water running, her moving around.

You should probably get up. Change the sheets at minimum. But moving feels impossible right now.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You grab it.

Three texts from your roommate:

dude are you alive

heard some WILD shit through the wall

staying at shion's tonight you're welcome

You laugh and toss the phone back down.

The shower shuts off. A few minutes later Jiyeon emerges, hair damp, using your towel. She's still naked.

"You have a washing machine?" she asks.

"Yeah, why?"

"My uniform's sweaty as hell. Mind if I throw it in?"

"Go ahead."

She disappears again. You hear the washer start up.

When she comes back, she climbs onto the bed—the dry corner that's not completely destroyed—and lies down next to you.

"So," she says. "This is weird, right?"

"Extremely."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

You think about it.

"Good weird," you decide.

She grins. "Yeah. Good weird."

You're both quiet for a bit.

"My shift ends in like an hour," she says eventually. "Technically I'm still on the clock."

"Seriously?"

"Yep. Longest delivery ever." She's trying not to laugh. "My boss is probably having an aneurysm."

"Are you gonna get fired?"

"Maybe." She doesn't sound concerned. "Worth it though."

"Keep saying that."

"Because it's true." She rolls onto her side to face you. "Besides, I know where you live now. Can always come back."

"For my amazing personality?"

"For the dick." She says it so casually. "Your personality's just a bonus."

You laugh. Can't help it.

"Same time next week?" you offer.

"Make it two days." She leans in and kisses you. Soft this time, almost sweet. "I'm impatient."

That makes…seven this week. Or maybe eight. Or twenty. Who the fuck knows, you've stopped counting anyway. It’s been like a year or so since you graduated, and it's leading up to February.

You stare blankly at the email, the words blurring together after seeing that same phrase far too many times in the past month. The polite rejection, the generic HR signature, the sterile tone. All of it feels like salt rubbed into a wound that never quite heals. You drag the cursor to the trash icon and click without hesitation, your laptop screen reflecting the exhaustion etched on your face.

The money might have found you a more decent place to live, yet you know it will run out at any time soon. The fluorescent light above flickers, mocking your sorry ass. The calendar on the wall hasn't been flipped since November last year. The air smells faintly of instant noodles and stale coffee.

The laughter of your damn stuck up university peers echoes in your head — probably about their new jobs, no doubt. Everyone seems to have something lined up, no shit because of who they know or who their parents know. Top notch finance firms, consulting agencies, even a couple landing high paying roles overseas. Hell, they already started comparing salaries for fuck’s sake.

You? Just an endless loop of "Application Sent" and "Unfortunately".

That's the real world, isn't it? You followed the traditional route that every parent insists is "the right route". High grades, good presentations, exceptional capstone projects. But you didn't have a rich relative or a last name that shakes the world. Otherwise, you would’ve enjoyed life already. 

Instead, you get to watch everyone flaunting their golden spoons. Like that rich kid who brags about taking girls to Japan every Valentine’s day just because. Or the guy who (maybe, definitely) has a thing for men, judging by the number of dates he flexed from Thailand on Insta. Or that obnoxious transfer guy in your Accounting class who kept bitching about his 150th run on some game (Silk? Silk something?) in a thick Aussie accent with a voice that absolutely did not match his baby face.

Whatever, dreaming is a luxury. And you have none of it, as usual.

Scrolling through job listings has become an act of masochism at this point. "mid-tier business analyst,", "junior consultant," "entry-level associate." You apply to all of them, tailoring each resume, writing each cover like it matters. 

It doesn't. You're just another name in the Excel cell to them.

One evening, however, as the sun dips below the horizon and paints the walls of your room in that dull orange hue, a particular email caught your eyes.

Subject: You're invited for an interview. Jang Co., Ltd.

You freeze.

Jang. That name. That logo. Gold serif letters, the same one printed on the folders in her bag that she carried to lectures. The same one on the car that used to pick her up (and you at one time in her life) outside the gates.

You scrolled through the message.

“Dear Applicant,

We are pleased to invite you to an interview at Jang Co., Ltd. for the position of Junior Analyst under the Financial Planning Division…”

You just sat there for a while, staring. Rub your eyes and stare again. Your first thought is that it must be a mistake. Your second is that you should decline. But the third thought, the one that lingers, is simple.

A job is a fucking job.

So you click "Accept".

-

Monday arrives with the kind of stale morning chill only city offices have. Unlike the bustling Seoul street behind you, the marble lobby of the Jang Corporation main branch is far too clean, and too symmetrical. Everything smells like money — polished glass, imported coffee beans, leather seats, even the faint scent of lilies in the corner vase that you won't be able to repay even with your organs on the black market. 

You adjusted your tie and approached the front desk. Properly ironed. Neatly knotted. A tad more on the expensive side. Guess money spent well. Hopefully.

"Hi, good morning," Your voice steady. "I'm here for the Junior Financial Analyst interview."

The receptionist, impeccably dressed, looked through the list before seeing your name. "Hello. I see your name. Please take the elevator to the 8th floor. Someone from HR will meet you."

You bowed to her and walked to the elevator. Although your heart beats just a bit faster when you see your reflection in the elevator doors. Fixing the stray hairs that refused to stay down. Focusing on the micro-crease on your white shirt. You look…ordinary. Suit's not tailored, shoes scuffed, and the resume neatly printed after fixing it multiple times.

Still, you breathe out. "It's just a fucking interview," you whisper. "Nothing more."

What you don't see, several floors higher, is an office with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. A woman is leaning back in her chair, a tablet propped in front of her. And on the screen: a live feed from the HR interview room.

You. Sitting awkwardly in front of three panellists, fiddling with a pen.

A soft laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head. "Fucking hell, they would've fired you already, idiot." Clearly amused.

Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail. A crisp white blouse and beige blazer. No longer the stuck up college student who used to show up to lectures five minutes late, iced Americano in hand, Chanel bag in the other, claiming it was "networking".

She reaches for the canned coffee on her desk. The same dirt-cheap brand you drink. The one that now also hers. She still grimaces at the first sip…then takes another anyway.

Back in the interview room, you straighten yourself in your seat as the panel begins.

"Okay then," one of the older managers started, adjusting his glasses, with this smile of a thousand suns (or a thousand ‘sol’, funny you), "can you walk us through how you create a financial plan or long-term projection?"

You speak, voice clear. Maybe too clear. "In my capstone project, I built a three-year financial forecast for a retail chain expanding into cities like Daejeon, Busan, and Incheon.” The saliva wells up in your throat. “I modeled revenue growth using market penetration curves, forecasted operating expenses across new regions, and constructed a projected cash flow. I learned this through a short internship at a mid-tier consultancy, as you can see in my resume." 

Mid-tier consultancy, your fucking ass. Totally not the “internship” you only got because of a damn dating contract.

Still, the panel scribbles notes. The HR rep watches you like a shark, testing your composure (you almost “qwivered” at the gaze). “How do you approach building an annual budget if historical spending is inconsistent?”

Remember. Take a moment. Swallow your saliva. Then reply.

"Well my approach is that." Breathe. "I’d clarify which costs are fixed and which are discretionary," Nice jargon you weave in there. “If historical data is inconsistent, I would normalize outliers, identify what’s structural versus what’s one-off, then rebuild the budget using driver-based forecasting.” Too long of a sentence. Almost out of breath. Fuck. 

On the floor above, she watches attentively. Under her breath: “Ugh…it feels like he’s still teaching me.” but her smile says otherwise.

Another panel member leans forward (His head shaped suspiciously like an acorn, and you tried not to stare). "Suppose we’re entering a downturn. The board or CEO Jang orders all divisions to reduce next year’s projected spending by 8%, but essential projects must continue. How would you reallocate the budget?"

Ignoring the way you flinched at the name, you exhale slowly. The pen spinning between your fingers before you answer. “I’d start with scenario planning. That will be to build base, best, and worst-case models." You took another breath. "Then I’d evaluate the ROI of all ongoing projects, categorize them in ‘Must-Continue’, ‘Conditional’, and ‘Low-Priority’."

“Interes—”

“And then from there, I’d protect high-ROI projects, cut discretionary spending, renegotiate vendor contracts, and create contingency buffers depending on the downturn severity.”

Oh. You accidentally cut him off mid-sentence.

Shit.

The panel exchanges looks. Even the shark-lookalike HR rep looks…mildly impressed? Eh? What?

…Well then. With nothing else to say and unable to clear the awkwardness, you could only fold your hands. The silence stretches. Then the older manager clears his throat. “Thank you. That will be all."

You could only nod, stand, shake hands, and walk out. 

Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better. But you definitely fucked up the ending.

What you’ll never see, on the upper floor, the same woman watching your interview lets the feed fade to black. She lets the tablet down, with a small, involuntary smile pulling at her lips. Soft. Touched with nostalgia she doesn’t acknowledge.

Too many red flags, honestly, for her standard. You stuttered. Blunt as hell. Spun your pen more than hell. But then her eyes drift to the empty coffee can on her desk, and her fingers trace the cold ring it left.

She turns to her desktop. Types a message. And hits send.

"Nice to see you again, my shitty boyfriend." She added, under her breath.

-

Would you look at that? You are back here again at Jang Corp, two weeks later. 

The place still gleams as the first time you step in. The air smells faintly of lilies and money, a scent you still not quite get used to. Conversations in the hallways are hushed, like everyone's afraid of making the wrong kind of noise. Hell, even the printers hum politely.

Except this time, there's one difference. An ID tag hangs over your shirt.

Confetti. Congrats. You're officially not-unemployed. 

Somehow. 

Some-fucking-how.

Anyway, you have been assigned to the Financial Planning Division. 31st floor, as their newest hire. Your tasks are simple enough: updating quarterly budget trackers, reconciling expense reports from different departments, preparing variance summaries for senior team members' presentations. Just usual lackey tasks.

Conversations in the elevator are also its own ritual. Polite and rehearsed. "Good morning," "How was the weekend," "Busy day ahead, I assume?" — all said with the same monotonous rhythm, yet your brain kept on screaming to be out of these small talks.. 

You are aware they tried to welcome you. There is this guy named Tosh (you didn’t even ask for his name) who kept inviting you to grab some grub together. Another guy who might have overshared about his wife who studies child psychology. And then this guy who keeps talking about different boxes. Interesting people, sure, but you stopped them just before the "friend" stage. 

"Too suffocating, those golden spoon fuckers,” she once said. "I prefer your boring ass instead."

You bite back a smile before it can form.

Still, you get used to it quickly throughout the first two months. You know how to blend in, when to keep your head down, when to stay silent. Well, except for that one time a conglomerate's daughter decided you’d make a good “boyfriend.” But let’s not open that wound again. 

Regardless, you didn't complain. Business as usual.

But at days, while staring down to the busy Seoul street below, your brain subconsciously rewinded back to when she used to complain about these things that made her say "you fucking serious?". The same impromptu tutoring nights you’d drilled into her back then, when she sat beside you, half-listening, half-pouting, asking if “fixed costs” were something you could fix with money. Other times, flashbacks of how her notes became more tidied up and structured exactly like yours popped up in your mind. 

Now here you are, doing the same thing in her family’s empire, this time for a pay check. Fat one, too.

The only difference is, she's not here.

Yeah…still no sight of her yet. 

Which is good. 

…Hopefully.

-

It’s a random mid-morning during your second month.

You're seated near the end of a long workstation, shoulders a bit tense, eyes glued to the monitor. The blue glow of the screen reflects off your face as you scroll through another spreadsheet. As you think, your pen absentmindedly between your fingers (three twirls, catch, three twirls, catch). 

Just like her.

Anyway, you should’ve paid your surroundings better. Because someone noticed you. Someone is watching you.

The executive elevator opens quietly, and the atmosphere shifts as usual when someone with high caliber steps out. Backs straighten, conversations taper into silence, and the air thickens with that strange mixture of formality and fear.

She steps out.

Her pace is steady, presence a quiet command, heading to a briefing with the directors and general manager about timeline issues with their partners. Her expression is composed. Not in the cliché way of a girl walking in with confidence, but in the literal sense that everyone working there seemed to straighten the second she stepped in. 

And then she…stops.

You don’t notice the way her hell freezes mid-step. You don’t notice her gaze locking onto you through the sea of coworkers and associates. You’re way too focused on fixing whatever mess is in front of you.

Her lips part, an instinctive breath caught in her chest. The old version of her would’ve yelled out your name already. Anything to get your attention like an owner calling for her pet. But for a fleeting moment, the boardroom, the directors, the company — all of it fades.

All she sees is you.

Then her mind drifts.

Those nights in your apartment, with you hunched over your laptop at your tiny dining table looking at spreadsheets, and her sitting beside you while chewing the Haribo she bought for herself loudly (and for you too, but she didn't want to admit it). You complained about cash flow models while she whispered gossip about her world — the kind that made you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. She can still hear that laugh, low and unwilling, the kind you’d hide behind a sigh.

That faint warmth hits her dead centre. And it burns.

By the time the partners arrived, her assistant politely nudged her. "Miss Jang, we are ready."

“Right,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Straightening her blazer, she forces her mask of composure back on and walks away without a glance more.

-

The first time you two see each other again, face to face, is in your third month.

By then, the pristine halls and greetings had blended into white noise, and you’ve grown used to it (or tried to). Work was repetitive, sure, but you still put your 100% in. You showed up, gave it all, and went home when no more work had been assigned. Icing on the cake, even before the skyline turned the gradient of sunset.

You are good. Maybe too good. And what people say is true. Don't be too good at work, or you suffer. 

Why? Because your manager (yes, the acorn-looking guy) stopped you one day as you walked to your spot and: "Tag with me for today. Conference Room 4A. For strategy briefing with directors. No stress, you will be there for observation…since you have good potential."

Right. Sure. Experiences.

You straighten your tie, take your seat next to your manager near the back of the sleek glass-walled room. The air-conditioning is too cold, the silence is too sharp. You glance down through the empty notepad, half calming yourself down at the thought of sharing the same space with the other senior associates, half praying that 'she' won't be here.

The door opens. 

Right. Things never go your way, as usual.

She walks in late, of course she does.

Tailored pastel blue suit. White blouse. Minimal makeup. Hair tied in a sleek ponytail that sways like it knows its own authority. Her heels click across the marble floor like a metronome of control. 

CEO Jang's daughter.

Your employer.

Jang Wonyoung. 

…and nothing more.

You rise instinctively along with the other senior associates. She doesn't even look at you, but you know she’s aware. "Sit." She announced, flipping through the files her secretary handed her. Her tone is clipped and professional. But that tiny pause before she said it was enough to sting.

You sit. The meeting begins.

And of course, she’s everything the press ever romanticized: sharp, articulate, competent. She doesn’t hesitate to speak over directors twice her age — why would she? She’s the CEO’s daughter. Every word lands cleanly. Every counterpoint is calculated. She throws around numbers, projections, and timelines like she owns the building (well, she does). 

You almost forgot that this was the same spoiled girl who once called you at 2am while you were sleeping to explain what a 'cost breakdown' was. The same girl who, back then, always rolled her eyes and mumbled random curses while you taught her in the VIP lounge of a Gangnam club because she wouldn’t stop spamming your phone. And the same girl who once preferred your apartment rather than at a high end estate because “…you actually listen.”

You immediately shut the memory down before it can sting any deeper.

When the meeting ends, you're so ready to bolt and get back to your humble corner, before her voice cuts through the shuffle of chairs.

"New hire, I need a word."

The directors and your manager glance between the two of you. Some curious, some cautious, before filing out of the room.

The door shuts. 

And only you two were left.

You couldn't dare to look back at her. From the seniority, and from the memories that might surge back up.

And her opening line wasn’t a greeting.

"Before you ask," she says, sliding her blazer sleeve up slightly, "yes, I'm the one who arranged your hiring."

Your pulse skips. Then you remember the interview. Yes, all the stammering, the pen flipping, the smile of the panel members who looked oddly amused. It all makes sense now. There was no fucking chance you would’ve made it. 

(Nepotism at its finest.)

There’s that familiar tilt of her chin once again, the faint smugness that used to drive you insane, and the snarky tone that used to be yours alone. “A thank you is not needed, but you’re fucking welcome.”

You inhale sharply, clearly distasted at her antics. "Didn't ask for your charity…Director Jang."

Her eyes twitched at the formality. Her lips a ghost of a smile. "Great. I need someone competent." Her eyes flickered briefly. Maybe too fast, too brief, before she adds. "And I know you like being hired, not owned. Right?"

Hired, not owned.

It's meant to sting, to be playful. But her voice is anything but. She's trying to sound smug, but somehow you hear the tiny crack just like she had that day, right before she laid down her bare feelings in front of you.

Still, you clench your jaw. You aren’t falling for that again. Not anymore. "You really haven't changed."

"Well." Her lips part slightly, then close. "Neither have you."

For a brief second, the silence between you two feels heavier than any words could be. The last moment still runs in the back of your mind. Her voice breaking, the tears she tried to hide, the words you threw like knives to protect yourself.

Then you notice it.

A small, silver pen clipped neatly against her breast pocket. Unbranded. Familiar. Like the one you left for her. 

It was the same one you left next to her. The gift you left in a small box beside her untouched latte and half-crushed can of coffee. The metal catches the light just enough for you to recognise every dent, every scratch near the clip.

Your throat tightens. "You're still…using the pen."

Wonyoung glances down briefly, almost like she forgot it was even there. Then, she shrugs, “Well, it still fucking works.”

It’s nothing. It’s just an answer. Blunt, practical, maybe a little too arrogant. But the way her thumb lingers on the clip for half a second too long, the way she doesn’t tuck it away, and how she doesn’t even look at you when she says it. 

It says more than she does.

But you don’t say anything. You just nod once, politely bow, and leave. You don’t look back, and you don’t trust yourself to.

-

The weeks blur. The fourth month smudges.

Not in a soul-crushing way, surprisingly. More so of how everything folds into the same shade of grey until you can't tell Tuesday from Thursday anymore. 

Wake up. Shower. Put on the same tailored office clothes placed neatly in your closet (probably from one of her family’s preferred tailors). Then commute. Sit. Work. Work. Work. Work. Pretend not to hear coworkers trying to make conversations or overshare. Leave. Rinse and repeat.

The routine itself is so rigid that even your footsteps feel rehearsed. Desk. Quarterly forecasts. Still fixing out other's spreadsheets. Numbers. More spreadsheets. Emails. Like a well-oiled cog in a gigantic well-polished machine.

People learn quickly that you're polite enough to approach but difficult to pry open. Of course, you warm up (slightly) and still respond to small talk with gentle nods and short answers, maybe a small smile here and there. But again, neutral is the key. You give nothing beyond what is needed away and keep every boundary clean. 

You knew the consequences, after all. And yet, avoiding her feels impossible. 

(Well… it is her family's empire. Thinking otherwise would be naïve.)

Sometimes you catch Wonyoung’s reflection among the glasses. Her silhouette passing behind you, tall and composed.  Other times you hear her voice drifting across the floor — calm but cold, slicing through like a diamond blade. On rare occasions you catch her walking outside with partners and senior associates, presumedly for a work lunch at a high-end restaurant down the street.

You never speak to Wonyoung outside the necessities. Not a greeting. Not a nod. 

Nothing.

But she's everywhere.

And every time you go to the convenience store nearby on your break, you hesitate over that same canned coffee. Bitter, cheap, unnecessary. Starbucks is literally next door. You earn enough now. You can buy something smoother, lighter, warmer. But your hand still closes around the aluminium can.

You questioned if it was out of habit. Or the memories you kept on clinging to. Either way, you force the rest down. 

But…somewhere behind these pristine walls, she watches. Wonyoung watches you.

More than she should.

She knows she shouldn’t. She knows she’s supposed to keep focus where it belongs. On the associates. The partnerships. On quarterly projections. On the empire she's meant to inherit. But her composure always falters, by a bit, when it comes to you.

You've changed. And she sees it more clearly than anyone.

The messy-hair student who she hired as her fake boyfriend is gone. Now? You speak calmer. You dress cleaner. Your tone in meetings is polite, measured, lacking the bluntness you always shout at her.

"Sir, if I may clarify, the financial figures in the third quarter projection contradict the earlier data by approximately 4%. I've highlighted the inconsistencies on these pages here."

Never rude. Never insolent. Just straight to the point.

She catches herself watching you too long, longer than she should. Then she walked away, ignoring the blushes on her cheeks.

Days later, while in a lobby, when she strides her way towards the VIP elevator, she catches you on the phone in the lobby. Maybe on break, judging how you were holding a half-eaten sandwich.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” you say, gentle but firm. “The market analysis still supports this projection. I’ll include external verification if you’d like to double-check it.”

She stood there a bit too long, eyes gravitated towards you. You sound confident. Grounded. Just like the way you taught her with the content, but without the tone she became accustomed to. A tone she realizes, with a quiet sting, that she longs for.

Her fingers curl lightly around the strap of her bag, and then her heels continue forward, clicking briskly as she disappears into the executive elevator.

-

They don’t even give you time to breathe these next few weeks. Or she. It’s probably Wonyoung.

Seriously, every morning starts with invitations (verbal or email) that you have to accept. Messages that are as dry as the crumpled leaves on the ground from your manager. Something along the line of “Meeting at 10:00 AM.”

And every time, without fail, you walk in and Wonyoung is already there.

Leg-crossed, back perfectly straight, pen tucked neatly into the breast pocket of her blazer (your pen). At this point, it is always there to crack your walls.

As soon as you settle into the seat between her and your manager (of course, what a privilege), she slides you a sideways glance. Not even a greeting, just a smug tilt of her lips, as if she likes how she can toy with you once more. Maybe. Who the hell knows what she can do?

The meeting starts, and it’s just the usual marketing projections, more potentially partnership concerns, those things that should’ve got you bored out of your mind this early into your new career. 

But your mind is hyper-vigilant next to Wonyoung. She is still like what you remembered when she was next to you. Tall, warm, composed. She takes notes in short, neat strokes (oh, kind of looking like your notes), and you hate how you keep noticing the way the pen shifts against the fabric of her pocket as she moves.

“Stop staring, idiot.” She murmurs under her breath, her hand still busy jotting down.

“Hm? Sorry?” You zone back in, clearly trying to get your composure back.

“You’re so obvious.” 

You force your eyes to stay glued to the presentation, ignoring the way she let out a quiet snicker that makes your spine shiver.

Later, in another meeting (apparently, you love being in meetings too much), she does it again. Still beside you. Still taking notes. Still pretending she isn’t fully aware that her antics are too effective in deteriorating your composure.

You’re trying to focus on the comparison between the two projections from a senior associate when you feel it. Her heel taps lightly on your shoe under the table. Not a press nor a light tap. Enough to know that her presence is on your feet. On you.

A warning? A tease? A power play?

Who the fuck knows.

At one point, when a director asks for your opinion on a logistic issue (Why the hell did he ask you? Isn’t this supposed to be just you sitting in for experience?), you tried to open your mouth but then you caught Wonyoung’s mouth at the corner of your vision.

“Say the wrong shit and see what happens, dummy.”

You swallow. Damn it, you thought it stopped back then. “I think the schedule can be streamlined if we—”

“I agree,” Wonyoung voices out, interrupting you as if she suggested the idea. And of course these higher ups only pay attention to her. 

You know it. You know she knows it. And you hate that she enjoys this way too fucking much.

(It is strangely comforting, but you don’t dare to give eight cents more about it.)

-

Late nights still creep into your routine before you even notice. 

You tell yourself it’s just part of adjusting, especially after those long ass meetings one after another. Longer projects, heavier workloads, another stack of balance sheets that somehow contradict themselves no matter how many times you redo the calculations. They pay you well, so might as well do the work well.

Except it spirals. Work piling up, deadlines bundled together, and staying late becomes the norm. Night after night, your head down, sleeves rolled up, pen spinning between your fingers out of old habit. 

"How the fuck are these numbers right…" you mutter at some point. "Wonder if Wonyoung still hates calculating this shit…"

The moment her name leaves your lips, you freeze. It’s been a month or so since that confrontation. Yet, years since you last called her name out loud.

Wonyoung.

…damn it.

Your eyes wince. Your jaw tightens. You hate how natural it comes out. How easily her name rolls off your tongue as if she's still abiding by the contract. With you. Next to you.

But she's not. And she will never be. You can't afford to let her be anywhere near your mind. Especially during quiet nights, or any nights.

So you check your phone. 

A quick break, you tell yourself, because your eyes are burning from all the numbers. Just a scroll through notifications, maybe a bit on Insta, anything that isn’t just pure decimal point or variance percentage. But muscle memory betrays you. You’re already in your chat list. And of course, her name is still pinned at the top. 

Jang Wonyoung. Crown emoji next to her name.

Those messages that should’ve been gone years ago. Right after she abandoned you. Right after the contract ends. Right after you walked out of the cafe. But deleting them feels like erasing a part of yourself. Anyway, you sigh, more irritated than usual, and tap the screen with the intention of finally deleting it for good. 

But the moment the window opens, your pulse spikes.

At the bottom of the chat, right above the keyboard, there is a grey bubble loading into existence. Typing…

Your breath stutters. You sit up straighter than before. Your fingers curl against your palm. The office feels far too small and too quiet than before.

She’s typing. Actually typing.

…What the fuck are you supposed to do? You can only stare at the stupid bubble as if it didn’t just crack your composure. Like one message can literally break every single wall you have been painstakingly rebuilt these last few years.

(Also, she should know that you are online right? Right?)

The bubble continues. She might be writing a long one. This girl always types in full sentences back then. Then the bubble vanishes. Nothing sent.

You blink. Wait. Maybe she meant to text someone else. Or she finally notices that you are online.

Three seconds later, the bubble returns.

Typing.

Typing.

Typing.

Then gone again. 

You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling faintly as your brain conjures any possible reasons she might text you this late. And the next logical thought is that you have no fucking clue if you want or terrified to see a message right now.

The bubble flickers a third time. Stays a little longer, too. Then it disappears yet again.

And this time, it doesn’t come back. 

Leaving you with a chat history last texted a few years ago, and the faint reflection of your own tired face on the screen. Leaving you with the distasteful squeeze in your chest. Leaving you with the hesitation to delete her chat once again. Even more so.

Because this time, you might see that damn grey bubble reappear. And she might say something.

(Wonyoung: "You're still working? Don't overdo it."

She deletes it. And types again:

Wonyoung: "Is the work too tough? You want me to less-"

Delete. She tries a third time.

Wonyoung: "Have you eaten?"

Delete. Delete. Delete.)

-

You have always known rumors move faster in a money-driven world than money itself.

It spreads first in the elevator. Two other people. Presumedly from another department. Something about a potential long-term partnership. Something about Kang Corporation. Something about their representative visiting more frequently. And then one adds, speculatively: "I heard he's particularly fond of Director Jang."

You ignore it. Or pretend to. But your reflection in the steel elevator door doesn't look that convinced.

By the next day, the rumor turns into confirmation. Upper management announces a collaborative project with another big conglomerate in Korea. It would've been nothing to you if only your acorn-lookalike manager didn't tap you on the shoulder with a rare grin.

“You’re coming with us to the joint meetings,” he says. “Higher-ups want sharp, young talent in the room.”

You only have yourself to blame. 

Five months in, and somehow you’ve built a reputation. The young talent who picks up complex tasks quickly. The young talent who catches inconsistencies even senior associates miss. The young talent with a “lucky” opportunity to be in meetings with big shots. The young talent everyone quietly agrees has potential. You should be proud, being a young talent. Head high, even. 

Instead, that title feels more like another leash around your neck. Begrudgingly, you force out a polite answer. "Of course, sir. I'll prepare the files."

It isn't until later, while waiting for another round of spreadsheets to do its thing, that curiosity gets the best out of you. Quickly, you search up the name that has been floating around all morning.

Kang Corporation. 

Kang Jihoo.

Yep. Of course. 

He looks exactly how a man born into golden spoons is expected to be. Immaculate suit. Clean, defined features. The type of smile that comes from knowing the world bends lightly in your direction. If you had to guess, he’s the kind of person who’s been called a prodigy since childhood, the kind who went to the “right” schools, who never had to worry about paying the rent due in 3 days while the bank account screams $31.08 to your face every night.

You immediately close the tab. You have to, before self-deprecation eats you away. 

Work awaits you. Very important work.

Such as in another meeting with her once more. At this point, your blood cells scream to get out at the silhouette of her alone. Sure, the room was full (and suffocating, to add), but everyone else dissolved into static. Your eyes are only looking at Wonyoung, who sits across from Kang Jihoo. Posture perfect, expression calm and professional. She tilts her head slightly as he speaks to her, listening with that poised attentiveness. Sharp, focused, and elegant without effort.

You take your seat on the back end next to your manager this time (of course, after bowing to all the senior associates), folder in hand, and your thumping pulse irritates you with how loud it was. Remembering her, she would probably eating herself alive inside just by interacting motherfucking rich assholes just like hi-

No. No, actually. 

She looks at him. Not at you. Not a glance. Not even in the glass reflection.

She only looks at him. That gaze. You definitely know that one.

The one like those days in your apartment.

…what?

Tsk. It's stupid to feel anything about that, you tell yourself. Jealousy? No, that’s so ridiculous. That would imply you still care, and you have been insisting that you don’t. It’s fine. Completely fine. You’re totally fine.

Annoyance? …some…what. Or maybe it's just the way she used to fall on you so easily that makes her absence feel so heavy now. You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. Not bothered. Totally. You’re not sitting here just wondering why her laughs are softer around him, or why she leans in just so slightly when he speaks. Hell no, you aren’t paying attention to how comfortable he is around her already. Of course not.

Whatever it is, it sits under your multitudes of thoughts that you refuse to dig up. Acknowledging it means you haven’t moved on. You have. Yes. Maybe.

Anyway, you do what you always do — stay in your lane. Perfectly. People murmur praise from the opposite side of the table, your manager gives an approving nod, but every compliment seems to roll off you and land somewhere near them instead. The spotlight stays firmly on Wonyoung and Kang Jihoo, conversations orbiting around the two of them like they're the sun and moon, everyone else the star, and you the rock that got thrown off to Pluto.

Still, you bow, smile politely, and swallow it all down. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can get out.

But then things get…unprecedented. Yeah, that word sounds about right. Unprecedented. 

Whenever your work is mentioned — project figures, the detailed financial report, the cross check between different company values — you start to notice how Wonyoung keeps on pointing at you.

“Those quarterly projections were completed by him, actually.” 

“He refined the data models on the last update. Please check his revisions, manager.” 

“He’s the one who caught the inconsistencies.” 

Along those lines.

Huh.

You thought she was just being thorough. But then it happens again. And again. And again. Unlike those previous meetings where she messes with you. You should be happy that your work and effort is in the spotlight, but all you feel is pity thrown into your face. Anger clouds your train of thought, but you…you couldn't give a shit.

You're not some helpless college kid that needs to be fed with fake compliments or pity money. Surely not. You're not a prop that she can use for her act and to toy around. You persevere. You work hard. 

So why. 

Why? 

Just the actual fuck why? Is she still talking like the leash around your neck still on her hand?

You don't know if it was you sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Or just had something wrong the day before. But when she was negotiating about the capital ratio (or trying to show off her oh-so-intelligence again, you presumed), something inside you snapped.

You lift your head and go off rails before you can hit the brake.

“Director Jang,” you say, voice level enough to sound emotionless, “may I clarify something?”

She pauses mid-sentence. Her gaze flicks toward you. “Yes?”

You swallow. You hate that your chest tightens just because she’s looking at you. But you force the professionalism back into your spine.

“With all due respect, the capital ratio you’re proposing doesn’t align with the updated volatility model,” you say. “If we maintain a 60–40 structure, the long-term liquidity risk shifts disproportionately to both companies after the fourth fiscal year.”

Kang Jihoo leans forward, brows raised with curiosity. “Interesting…in what way?”

You nod toward the packet.

“Page seventeen, sir. The recalculated ROI projections indicate that a 55–45 split offers a more stable yield curve. It minimizes potential drawdown on both sides, especially if market conditions tighten.”

It can happen anyway. Her analysis isn’t wrong. Just incomplete. You tried to rationalise yourself.

But the undertone of anger comes out stronger than you wanted, and that makes the room still.

Wonyoung picks up the report. "Those numbers weren't in the last draft."

"They were submitted this morning. There were some discrepancies between the numbers." You reply, maintaining that polite, infuriatingly respectful tone you've mastered these last few months, but your lungs were suffocating. "My apologies…for the late update."

Her jaw tenses. "And you're telling me we revise the capital split this late in the negotiation?"

"I'm suggesting," you correct, pinching yourself on the thigh under the table, "that the long-term risk exposure is worth addressing while both parties are still open to adjustments. Just a precaution."

She counters. “With a 55–45 structure, our partner here assumes increased administrative responsibility. That may not align with the operational framework they outlined. The proposal needs to reflect their preferred structure as much as ours.”

You counter again. “Yes, but the projected gain offsets the operational load. Both companies benefit from the risk symmetry in the revised model.”

“And what about the leverage thresholds? The internal caps won’t—”

“They will,” you say, angrily, matter-of-factly, “If we redistribute the amortization schedule across the secondary phase, both caps stay intact. I included the recalibrated curves in the appendix. Please check.”

The room goes dead silent. 

And Kang Jihoo, oblivious or maybe amused by the tension, leans back and chuckles.

“Please excuse my humour, but you two argue like an old married couple.”

Wonyoung freezes. Your head drops immediately, eyes on the table, mortifying heat crawling up your neck.

The meeting moves on eventually, though your brain barely registers the rest. Your pulse is still hammering from the way she looked at you. Was it an annoyance? Was it a genuine hurt? You don't know. And you don't want to know.

When the conference room empties, you try to slip out unnoticed like before. And just like last time, she stops you the moment your foot steps onto the hallway.

"Follow me."

“Bu–”

‘Right now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument — not here, not with your manager watching nervously from behind. You trail her to a quiet corner near the side corridor, far from the elevators and far from Kang Jihoo’s amused stare.

The door closes behind the two of you with a soft but accusing click.

"For fucks sake," she hisses, voice low, "don't do that shit in front of others again. We're not back in college anymore. What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Your brain should tell you to breathe, to stay composed, to be the professional you've been for years, especially when with her. But all logic evaporates (as always) the moment her pearly eyes lock onto yours. 

"Well…,” you grip your knuckle, “don't fucking treat me like I'm some dumbass who needs your praises every time you mention my work."

Her brows lift, shocked and annoyed. "Wh–What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I was giving you credit.”

“Oh yeah? Credit point or credit card?” you mutter, allowing your usual snark to slip back into your tone now that the two of you are alone. “Because I feel just like your used objects again. All to make you feel mighty and proud.”

"Are you seriously being a petty little bitch right now?"

"Of course you see me that way." You scoff. "Blaming on me while totally acting like a fucking saint."

"Oh my fucking god." She breathes out, clearly frustrated. "You act like a fucking child right now, you know that?"

"Says you, you fucking spoiled brat." Your voice raised. "You don't get to pull me back into your life, acting like nothing ever happened, and correct me just because you can for all these years."

What are you saying?

"Well,” She trembles. “You work for me right now. So just don’t be so…fucking hostile."

"Oh wow, are you offended, Your Highness?" Stop. "If you are not satisfied with my attitude, then fucking kick me then." Your mouth kept on firing back, the logic waving from afar. But your brain keeps telling you to stop. Just stop, for fucks sake. "I would love to be fired right now than knowing that I get hired because we used to be a FUCKING thing!"

The words come out colder and harsher than you intended. You know it was true. She knew it was too. You both know. But you didn't want to bring it out. 

But it did.

The result? A silence that cuts deeper than her words. It lasted too long. When she finally speaks, her voice is thin. Soft. Tired. Defeated.

"You know I can't…"

You think it's just more of her usual entitlement that you got used to. The spoiled brat stubbornness. The persistence to have things her way. 

It shouldn't hurt you. Not at all. But when you see the way she stares at you — wounded, glassy, raw.

Your heart wrenches more than it should. 

You don't respond. Just walk away, back straight, expression neutral. You did that before. It should work. But your hands won't stop shaking until you are several floors down.

The rest of the day is a blur of unfocused spreadsheets and half-read emails. Your mind keeps replaying her expression. Maybe she was affected by this too, or maybe she was not. Because you aren’t being invited (‘forced’ sounds more appropriate) into meetings afterwards. And because she looks quite fine next to Kang Jihoo as they walk through the hallway a few days later. Maybe. Fine. She looks normal, even. Yeah.

But that one argument turns into one bad day. Then a bad week. Then a month where neither of you can look at the other without remembering the hallway, the sting of your words, and the way hers sounded almost like a plea.

You both say nothing. You don't dare to, and neither will she. Probably.

-

A particular day in August.

You thought it’s another day at work. Another day of you ignoring the whole argument in that closed room. And another day of gaslighting yourself that you shouldn’t feel anything when seeing the two of them together. Just simply burying those thoughts under the lobby full of co-workers and higher ups as usual. Suffering through a chronic case of socialising. Finally get into your desk and—

Oh look. You have urgent mail. 

Hm?

You clicked on it. Formal header. Company stamp. And far too many capital letters.

“You are cordially invited to the Annual Jang Corp. Gala, hosted by Director Jang Wonyoung.”

…are you serious right now?

You stare at it long enough before the screen goes to sleep. Of fucking course. An event for the successful partnership that plastered everywhere in the digital world. Another event of corporate patting each other's back. Another night of people bootlicking again. You almost spat out when your cursor hovered the brief paragraph about "celebrating a successful partnership with Kang Corporation."

You were this close (this damn close) to deleting it before your eyes caught on the date of the event.

August 31. Her birthday. Wonyoung’s. 

Your mind instantly flashes back to that scene at the café vividly, still. The final meet up. The pen you gave her. It was around this day that you ended the charade and walked away from her. The sound of the door bell chimed as you walked out, dragging your feet unconsciously — just like her. And the muffled sobs from her that dissipate as you get away.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe out of guilt.

Or maybe it's that stupid, stubborn part of you that still believes she still looks at you the way she used to. When you two are away from the world. Alone. Shoulder to shoulder.

"Fine…" you mutter. "Just this night."

You don't know why you said that, but you almost didn’t go. Saying it was easier than actually going. The idea of stepping into a ballroom filled with people who wear watches worth more than your monthly paycheck makes you want to hurl. But on the day, you spend twenty minutes staring into your closet until you pull out one particular suit. The one Wonyoung meticulously prepared for you back at the first meeting with her parents. A shirt that had seen too many washes, a blazer with one loose thread, and shoes that squeaked if you pressed too hard on the heel. 

You put it on, and it is tighter than you remembered. Broad shoulders that didn't exist back then. A chest that strains the button a little more than you'd like. But you tug the collar anyway and head out. Whatever. Good enough.

By the time you reach the hotel lobby, you're regretting everything. Once again. You thought you got used to it, but yet still scrunched your eyes at the polished marble, huge floral arrangements, chandeliers so bright they could burn your retina. 

Still, you blend in. Or tried to.

But everything here reeks of her. 

Wasn't this the same as the first time you and Wonyoung officially met each other? Still marble floors, still the chandeliers dripping crystals, still a string quartet in the corner— the kind of environment where even the air was and still is expensive. Just like now, those fuckfaces back then dressed like they’re auditioning for the young billionaire heir role, and you remembered praying your ass off that no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff.

But again, that was back then, you tell yourself. When you are a broke student try not to sweat through your shirt while biting through the humiliation of being their laughing stock. Now, you're a corporate employee trying not to sweat through your shirt. Alone. 

Some fucking growth you got there.

The massive banner overhead reads: Annual Jang Corp. Gala. And under it, in smaller gold script: Celebrating Director Jang’s Birthday.

You stare at it with a blank face. “…How extravagant.”

And then it happens. The same way it did years ago. The room reacts instantly at the clacking of her heels just like a replay. Heads turn. Voices lower.

She’s still radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, it’s like she was choreographed for perfection. Diamond earrings brush her jawline, her sleek black dress flows like liquid, and the casual flick of her hair that still has more grace than your entire existence. Heads turn. Conversations falter. She’s still Jang Wonyoung. Still the girl you remembered. Still the girl who doesn’t have to try. 

And beside her walks Kang Jihoo. His suit matches hers. Black. Sharp. Red tie. Exactly the sort of pairing tabloids would foam at their mouths over.

Your jaw locks before you could realise.

She descends the stairs gracefully with Kang Jihoo, chin lifted, smile poised. The usual you, the snarky and hateful you from back then, would've rambled about how it didn't matter. She wasn't your type. Too polished, too unreachable, too unbothered.

But you do know. Very well. Like how her left hand twitched barely as the hungry hungry hippos of executives engulf the couple.

“Director Jang, congratulations!”

“Miss Jang, stunning dress tonight!”

“May I say, your team was phenomenal.”

She smiles, charming, polite, and perfect. But you see it in her expression: the strain behind her perfect smile, the boredom hiding in her eyes. She might've masked it far better than that day, yet you can still notice it. Subtly.

As she glances across a room, her eyes land on you. Fleetingly. Quietly. Almost accidentally. At you. It only lingers for a second. Or half a second. Before she hides it behind a sip of champagne, her mask slips right back in. 

You tried to not give a shit. She didn't give a care, you assume. But deep down, you wish you were wrong.

-

Eventually, the host steps up the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our young Director and the main organiser of today's event, Miss Jang Wonyoung."

Applause spreads like a wave as she walks to the podium. Chin lifted, back straight, a portrait of composure painted in black silk and shimmering gold light. Unfortunately, you catch the tiny tells. How she grips a bit too tight on the podium. How she holds just a fraction too long. How her first breath has a bit of that tremor.

(Again, if you weren't watching her closely, you would've missed it too. But you didn't.)

The string quartet quiets down. Conversations taper off into a hush. And every eye in the ballroom turns toward her. She smiles, of course, just like every time you see her on digital media. But her voice when it comes out is nothing curated nor prepared. It was genuine.

"Good evening everyone."

The crowd around you murmurs back a polite greeting.

"Before anything, I would like to thank you all for attending tonight's gala." She begins, tone steady but gentler than usual. "This past year has been a challenging one, for sure. Full of changes, risks, and unexpected opportunities."

Her haze travels across the room. Slowly, carefully. Making sure that every table feels like she's talking to them personally. She learned that from her father, of course you know. But the sincerity tonight?

All hers.

“And thanks to the hard work of our teams, and the dedication of our partners…” She inclines her head toward Kang Jihoo, who smiles confidently back at her. “…we are again able to accomplish something far greater than just a business collaboration. We built something that will last.”

Polite applause echoes. And she waits for it to fade. You noticed her fingers curl once against the podium. Again. Steadying herself, maybe, before continuing.

“I also want to thank my father,” she says, “for entrusting me with the opportunity to grow, learn, and… occasionally fail.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Her lips twitch with a tiny and honest smile.

“Mr. Kang,” she continues, “again, thank you for your partnership and your patience. You made this entire process much smoother than it could’ve been.”

He nods, flashing that effortless, golden boy grin.

Then her shoulders lower just a bit. Enough that you can see the girl behind the mask. The one who sat next to you on the table telling gossip about her world. The one who leaned onto your shoulder and affected you in so many ways you didn't know how.

And her next words almost got you wavering.

“I’ve…probably spent years surrounded by people who helped me become who I am,” she says. “People who taught me things no textbook ever could. Who challenged me, pushed me, supported me… and who didn’t let me give up when I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens without warning.

Her eyes sweep the room again. You keep your gaze on your glass, but you feel it, the moment she finds you.

A pause. A very long pause.

“Some of them are here tonight,” she says, voice dipping into something almost nostalgic. “And some of them… probably wish they weren’t.”

The crowd laughs. She only smiles. Her gaze lingers toward your direction. One heartbeat too long. As if she wanted to say "I mean that." Don't react, you tell yourself. Don't fucking react. Don't let her see the way your chest twists.

“But regardless,” she exhales slowly before going for the finish, “all of them shaped me into the person standing here today. So… truly. Thank you.”

Her voice softens at the end. Her words sound so fragile and raw that it hits you harder than any elegance she displayed tonight. The ballroom erupts in applause. People cheer. Kang Jihoo claps with a confident smile. Her eyes lower a moment as she steps back from the podium with an exhale. It feels far too subtle. Too cathartic. 

Yet you still stand there, gripping the hem of your suit tightly, and can't help but wonder what was that breath really about.

Or who that 'thank you' was meant to reach.

-

The venue melts into a hum of voices once her speech ends. Laughter, clinking glasses, more networking sharks circling in groups of three or four.

And you? Ready to vanish into the crowd the way you’ve perfected since joining the company. Head low. Steps quiet. No trace left behind.

You almost make it to the exit. Almost. For the third time, you got stopped once more before you could sneak out. (Let’s just give up at this point. Fucking hell.)

The head of HR stands in front of you. "Hey, Director Jang would like to see you."

Your stomach drops. "Did I…Did I do something?"

"She said that you'd know."

You freeze. You absolutely have no fucking clue. But you nod anyway, because what else can you do? Run? Again?

Your steps feel heavier as you climb the staircase, the hum of the party fading behind you until only the faint jazz reaches the upper hall. The balcony suite door is slightly opened, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dark corridor.

You push it open. And the world seems to quiet instantly. As if this moment is off the record. 

The upper balcony stretches out in gold and black, city lights painting faint reflections across the glass railing. She stands there alone, framed by the skyline, hair lifted slightly by the night breeze, dress swaying softly. She doesn't turn when she hears your footsteps, but you can see the way her shoulders stiffen. Just barely.

"…You're late, jackass." Wonyoung murmurs.

"Didn't know I was invited." you reply, forcing levity you don't quite feel.

A soft scoff. "You always are, idiot."

You step beside her, leaning on the same railing, careful to keep a respectful distance… even though the faint perfume clinging to her dress pulls at every old memory. The skyline stretches out before you both, glittering like a thousand unspoken things.

"Good fucking job on taking on such a big role, by the way." You say quietly.

"Mhm." Her grip tightens slightly on the railing. "Still feels weird as hell."

“I can tell.” You reach inside your suit and pull out a small canned coffee. A symbol of you two. What once was there.

"Happy birthday…Wonyoung. Sorry I didn't….prepare anything proper."

Her eyes widened. For the first time that night, her composure cracks with each breath. "You still remember."

"You made it very damn hard to forget."

A soft, breathy laugh escapes her. The kind you didn’t think existed anymore. She takes the can, her fingers brushing yours — warm, hesitant, familiar. The contact lasts a second too long. She sets it down on the railing, then inhales sharply as if preparing for something.

“Jihoo and I aren’t a thing,” she says suddenly. "...Just to let you know. I suppose"

You blink. “…o…kay? That is quite an info.”

“Mhm. He’s into this daughter of the owner of a Japanese corp instead.” Wonyoung let out a quiet laugh. “Asa, or something? I don’t fucking know.”

“Oh. Uh—fucking hell, what a piece of info, huh. Good for him…?”

She huffs, amused but tense, eyes flicking sideways. You’re too slow to realize she’s watching your reaction.

“Why… telling me that?” you ask quietly.

She sidesteps gracefully, ignoring your question. “Do you…hate me?”

The words float out of her like something she dwelled on for years. 

You had to think for a solid minute. "Hate is…a strong word."

“But accurate?”

“I-uh…” You chose your word carefully. The night air is cold in your lungs as you slowly inhale. “I…hate your world. The money. The image. How everyone looks at me like I don’t belong here. How it ruined…” You stop. You can’t finish it. You can’t say—

But her voice drops to the softest whisper.

“It’s still here. We’re still here. Us.”

The word punches something deep inside your chest. 

You turn away slightly, jaw tightened. "You could be with anyone, Wonyoung. Anyone in there." You look to the door that leads down to the venue. "Someone polished. Someone with a title. Someone who knows which fork to use at dinner. Someone that is…worthy to be next to you."

"I don't want them. Any of them."

"Then who the fuck you want then?!" 

You didn’t mean to snap. You didn’t mean to spit out the bitterness. But it sounds more like excuses at this point. "You want the guy who almost ruined the partnership just because he couldn't fucking stand how you and Kang Jihoo look at each other? Or the guy who had to rely on purely nepotism just to get this job? Or the guy who had to fucking…" 

Your throat closes. Your fist curls.

"…suck it up and be a contractual boyfriend? I'm not part of the one percent, Jang Wonyoung. Never was! And I never will!"

Her breath stutters. "I…I just want you."

You could only give a quiet scoff.

"Why?” Your voice cracks, exhausted. “The FUCK why?" Unsure from arguing, or from all the self deprecation, or the guilt of leaving her alone throughout these years. "I burned the fucking bridge already. I can't give you what you deserve. Just…let us go. Let us die."

She slowly lifts the can. Her thumb tracing the rim as if grounding herself on the only real thing she has left of her own world. The world with you. 

"I can't. I missed you." Her voice. So small. It nearly disappears into the night.

And you feel like your lungs caved in. "...Don't do this to me. Don't give me any fucking hope, Wonyoung. Please."

“I really do miss you,” she says, harsher this time — as if forcing the words through every wall you built since the day she abandoned you. “I miss us. What we could’ve been if I wasn’t stupid. If I wasn’t scared. If I didn’t just fucking run away. If—”

"Jang Wonyoung—"

“And if I have to say it a thousand fucking times, I fucking will,” she pushes, her voice growing more frantic, the cracks more obvious. “Hell, if I have to get on my knees and beg—”

You flinch. “What are you doing? Stop.”

She steps closer. Too close. “I’ll take care of everything, ok?” she pleads. “You don’t have to struggle. I’ll get you a good position here. I’ll pay off your debts. Everything. I’ll—”

"Stop, Wonyoung." You bite the word out, harsher than you wanted.

But she keeps going. "I'll buy you a good place. A car. Whatever the fuck you want. Hell, better if you move in with me, right? No need to worry about rent, bills, or—”

"Wonyoung-ah." 

Your voice cuts through the air like a blade. And she freezes.

"Stop trying to buy me. Please. I'm sick of it."

Her lip trembles. “I’m not— I just— I don’t fucking know what else to do to make you stay.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” you say, voice breaking. “You should be with someone who already fits in your life. Someone your father would be actually proud of you to be with. Someone with a title that actually matches yours. Someone who doesn’t show up at a gala wearing a suit that his partner's family has to pay for...” 

Your throat closes.

“...and someone that you don't have to lie to the world.”

She steps even closer to you, blocking your escape. Her eyes shimmering too brightly under the balcony lights.

"Please, I just want you."

"Don’t–just—don’t do this, please." You shake your head, refusing her entirely. "You ran away once. How can I just….suppose to trust you again? That you won't just— won’t just run away once more?"

It hurts her more than if you actually had slapped her. Her hands tremble as it reaches for yours.

"Please," she pleaded. "Just fucking trust me, I'm begging you. Ple—"

"I can't," you swat her hand away, even as something inside you cracks wide open. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I just can’t. Not again."

"Please."

“I can’t— Not anoth—”

“please…”

Her voice shatters.

And when you finally look up, her lower lip trembles. Her breathing stutters. And the shine in her eyes swells until it spills over, one tear slipping down the edge of her cheek like it had been waiting months for permission to fall.

“I don’t even fucking know what else—“

Then another. She covers her mouth.

Then she crumbles. 

Her shoulders collapse inward, as if the weight of everything she's carried — the company, the expectations, the façade, the guilt that fucked both of you, the loneliness afterward— suddenly drops all at one.

And the wall of resolve you have been building for far too long collapses. 

Because you remember. Vividly.

Of how she strangled her sobs, too frightened to let you see her fall apart. How she bellowed her true and sincere feelings to you in the cafe that etched into your mind (I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried!). How you just walked out, leaving a girl absolutely shattered because of you.

Watching her crumble the same way, watching her try to keep breathing through the panic, the guilt, and the grief, you realise you can’t do it again.

Not from this. Not from her. Anymore.

So you just…move. Move, for fucks sake. 

Your hands reach for her waist, steadying her as she loses her balance, and she folds into you with a sharp, broken inhale. The kind people make when they are bottled up far too long. Her entire body shakes as she collapses against your chest. Not a gentle tremble. But a full body, uncontrollable shudder, with her breath jerking in uneven, painful little gasps that hit your collarbone one after another.

Her fingers clutch your suit, gripping hard enough that the fabric bunches under her hands. She's not hugging you. She's clinging to you. Desperately. As if she's terrified it will happen again. Afraid that you'll disappear like before if she loosen. Even for just a second.

You wrap your arms around her, tightening instinctively. Her hair brushes your chin, soft and cold from the night air. Your palm glides up and down her back, slow and steady, trying to calm the way she trembles.

"Wonyoung-ah…" Your voice cracks as you whisper her name.

She tries to answer. Really tries. But the way you call her name so softly. Warm. Endearing. Dreamlike. Her words dissolve into a choking sob. Her shoulders convulse under your hands.  Every breath she takes stumbles, breaking apart halfway like her lungs forget how to hold air.

And then, your own tears come.

You don't even realise at first. It's just the burn behind your eyes, the tightness in your throat, and the way your jaw clenches to keep yourself sane. But when one tear slips down and lands on her hair, you feel it. All of it.

“I'm sorry *hic* I'm sorry, I can’t—” she gasps, voice shaking violently. “I can’t fucking lose you again. I'm sorr—”

"I'm sorry too. Fuck, I'm so sorry, Wonyoung-ah." you breathe, even though you’re wiping your face against her shoulder because you’re crying too hard to lift your head.

She leans into you harder, pushing her forehead into the crook of your neck like she's trying to hide from the entire world. Her whole frame trembles even more. Every sob wracking through her as if her ribs can't hold it in.

And the more she breaks, the more you do too. Her fingers slide further up your back, gripping your suit in desperate, uneven fists. Your breath hitches against her hair. And the world below fades into blur.

…It was after 10 minutes that she ran out of tears. Her body finally stills.

"It's….it’s officially September." She looked up at you, voice hoarse and raw, as if the words scraped out of her chest.

You let out a wet laugh. The kind that's half-sob, half-sigh, as you brush her tears away from her cheeks.

"Your birthday's over," You murmur. "You cried through the whole fucking end of it."

“S-shut it…” She tries to laugh, but it comes out broken. Soft. Shaking. But still beautiful. Still very much her. And still very much… only for you.

"Guess I got my wish anyway," she whispers.

"And what was that…birthday girl?"

Her eyes glisten, swollen and red from crying. But her tiny, trembling smile...

"To see you again."

The words hit too close. Too fucking close. Her hand comes up to your cheek, her fingers trembling wildly. Almost hesitant, afraid that you will swat her away once more. Will run away once more.

But you don't.

The two of you lean in without really thinking, the distance shrinking slowly, painfully, beautifully, and then panic hits you in one sharp burst. Your breath stutters. Your lips freeze halfway. Your brain goes blank the second your noses almost touch. And your hands become awkward around her.

Shit. You have no fucking clue how to kiss.

"Wonyoung-ah, I…uh…I never…done this. We never did this back then. I don’t— I don’t know how—”

She lets out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Half frustrated. Half fond.

Then she groans. Groans. "For— For fucks sake, you seriously ruining our moment by saying that?!"

"Hey, you can't blame me!" You yelp. "I'm just being very honest right no—”

“Damn it,” she mutters, grabbing a fistful of your collar. “S-shut up and kiss me already, my shitty boyfriend.”

Before you can react, her hand moves down to your collar and tugs you down into her. The breath gets punched out of your lungs.

Your lips crash against hers. Clumsy, unpractised, absolutely unprepared. But she doesn’t seem to give a fuck. She cups the back of your neck, guiding you, deepening the kiss with the kind of fierce certainty you could never fake. Her other hand flattens over your chest, feeling the wild rhythm of your heartbeat.

You kiss her back. Hesitant at first, then with growing urgency as the world around you blurs into nothing but her warmth and your shaking breaths.

The kiss deepens and becomes slower, heavier, heartbreakingly tender. Her tears mix with yours between kisses, salty and warm.

When she breaks away, her forehead rests against yours, both of you still shaking from the aftermath.

“Stay,” she whispers. Her breathing is warm and uneven. “Please.”

“…Here?” you murmur, though you already know what she means.

“With me.” Her voice cracks again. “No contracts. No conditions. Just…no more fucking nonsense. I just want you. Please.”

You swallow, the last of your resistance dissolving under the weight of her trembling hands. Her glassy tears. Her honest pleas. And only the debris of your walls remained. 

“…Okay.”

That makes…seven this week. Or maybe eight. Or twenty. Who the fuck knows, you've stopped counting anyway. It’s been like a year or so since you graduated, and it's leading up to February.

You stare blankly at the email, the words blurring together after seeing that same phrase far too many times in the past month. The polite rejection, the generic HR signature, the sterile tone. All of it feels like salt rubbed into a wound that never quite heals. You drag the cursor to the trash icon and click without hesitation, your laptop screen reflecting the exhaustion etched on your face.

The money might have found you a more decent place to live, yet you know it will run out at any time soon. The fluorescent light above flickers, mocking your sorry ass. The calendar on the wall hasn't been flipped since November last year. The air smells faintly of instant noodles and stale coffee.

The laughter of your damn stuck up university peers echoes in your head — probably about their new jobs, no doubt. Everyone seems to have something lined up, no shit because of who they know or who their parents know. Top notch finance firms, consulting agencies, even a couple landing high paying roles overseas. Hell, they already started comparing salaries for fuck’s sake.

You? Just an endless loop of "Application Sent" and "Unfortunately".

That's the real world, isn't it? You followed the traditional route that every parent insists is "the right route". High grades, good presentations, exceptional capstone projects. But you didn't have a rich relative or a last name that shakes the world. Otherwise, you would’ve enjoyed life already. 

Instead, you get to watch everyone flaunting their golden spoons. Like that rich kid who brags about taking girls to Japan every Valentine’s day just because. Or the guy who (maybe, definitely) has a thing for men, judging by the number of dates he flexed from Thailand on Insta. Or that obnoxious transfer guy in your Accounting class who kept bitching about his 150th run on some game (Silk? Silk something?) in a thick Aussie accent with a voice that absolutely did not match his baby face.

Whatever, dreaming is a luxury. And you have none of it, as usual.

Scrolling through job listings has become an act of masochism at this point. "mid-tier business analyst,", "junior consultant," "entry-level associate." You apply to all of them, tailoring each resume, writing each cover like it matters. 

It doesn't. You're just another name in the Excel cell to them.

One evening, however, as the sun dips below the horizon and paints the walls of your room in that dull orange hue, a particular email caught your eyes.

Subject: You're invited for an interview. Jang Co., Ltd.

You freeze.

Jang. That name. That logo. Gold serif letters, the same one printed on the folders in her bag that she carried to lectures. The same one on the car that used to pick her up (and you at one time in her life) outside the gates.

You scrolled through the message.

“Dear Applicant,

We are pleased to invite you to an interview at Jang Co., Ltd. for the position of Junior Analyst under the Financial Planning Division…”

You just sat there for a while, staring. Rub your eyes and stare again. Your first thought is that it must be a mistake. Your second is that you should decline. But the third thought, the one that lingers, is simple.

A job is a fucking job.

So you click "Accept".

-

Monday arrives with the kind of stale morning chill only city offices have. Unlike the bustling Seoul street behind you, the marble lobby of the Jang Corporation main branch is far too clean, and too symmetrical. Everything smells like money — polished glass, imported coffee beans, leather seats, even the faint scent of lilies in the corner vase that you won't be able to repay even with your organs on the black market. 

You adjusted your tie and approached the front desk. Properly ironed. Neatly knotted. A tad more on the expensive side. Guess money spent well. Hopefully.

"Hi, good morning," Your voice steady. "I'm here for the Junior Financial Analyst interview."

The receptionist, impeccably dressed, looked through the list before seeing your name. "Hello. I see your name. Please take the elevator to the 8th floor. Someone from HR will meet you."

You bowed to her and walked to the elevator. Although your heart beats just a bit faster when you see your reflection in the elevator doors. Fixing the stray hairs that refused to stay down. Focusing on the micro-crease on your white shirt. You look…ordinary. Suit's not tailored, shoes scuffed, and the resume neatly printed after fixing it multiple times.

Still, you breathe out. "It's just a fucking interview," you whisper. "Nothing more."

What you don't see, several floors higher, is an office with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. A woman is leaning back in her chair, a tablet propped in front of her. And on the screen: a live feed from the HR interview room.

You. Sitting awkwardly in front of three panellists, fiddling with a pen.

A soft laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head. "Fucking hell, they would've fired you already, idiot." Clearly amused.

Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail. A crisp white blouse and beige blazer. No longer the stuck up college student who used to show up to lectures five minutes late, iced Americano in hand, Chanel bag in the other, claiming it was "networking".

She reaches for the canned coffee on her desk. The same dirt-cheap brand you drink. The one that now also hers. She still grimaces at the first sip…then takes another anyway.

Back in the interview room, you straighten yourself in your seat as the panel begins.

"Okay then," one of the older managers started, adjusting his glasses, with this smile of a thousand suns (or a thousand ‘sol’, funny you), "can you walk us through how you create a financial plan or long-term projection?"

You speak, voice clear. Maybe too clear. "In my capstone project, I built a three-year financial forecast for a retail chain expanding into cities like Daejeon, Busan, and Incheon.” The saliva wells up in your throat. “I modeled revenue growth using market penetration curves, forecasted operating expenses across new regions, and constructed a projected cash flow. I learned this through a short internship at a mid-tier consultancy, as you can see in my resume." 

Mid-tier consultancy, your fucking ass. Totally not the “internship” you only got because of a damn dating contract.

Still, the panel scribbles notes. The HR rep watches you like a shark, testing your composure (you almost “qwivered” at the gaze). “How do you approach building an annual budget if historical spending is inconsistent?”

Remember. Take a moment. Swallow your saliva. Then reply.

"Well my approach is that." Breathe. "I’d clarify which costs are fixed and which are discretionary," Nice jargon you weave in there. “If historical data is inconsistent, I would normalize outliers, identify what’s structural versus what’s one-off, then rebuild the budget using driver-based forecasting.” Too long of a sentence. Almost out of breath. Fuck. 

On the floor above, she watches attentively. Under her breath: “Ugh…it feels like he’s still teaching me.” but her smile says otherwise.

Another panel member leans forward (His head shaped suspiciously like an acorn, and you tried not to stare). "Suppose we’re entering a downturn. The board or CEO Jang orders all divisions to reduce next year’s projected spending by 8%, but essential projects must continue. How would you reallocate the budget?"

Ignoring the way you flinched at the name, you exhale slowly. The pen spinning between your fingers before you answer. “I’d start with scenario planning. That will be to build base, best, and worst-case models." You took another breath. "Then I’d evaluate the ROI of all ongoing projects, categorize them in ‘Must-Continue’, ‘Conditional’, and ‘Low-Priority’."

“Interes—”

“And then from there, I’d protect high-ROI projects, cut discretionary spending, renegotiate vendor contracts, and create contingency buffers depending on the downturn severity.”

Oh. You accidentally cut him off mid-sentence.

Shit.

The panel exchanges looks. Even the shark-lookalike HR rep looks…mildly impressed? Eh? What?

…Well then. With nothing else to say and unable to clear the awkwardness, you could only fold your hands. The silence stretches. Then the older manager clears his throat. “Thank you. That will be all."

You could only nod, stand, shake hands, and walk out. 

Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better. But you definitely fucked up the ending.

What you’ll never see, on the upper floor, the same woman watching your interview lets the feed fade to black. She lets the tablet down, with a small, involuntary smile pulling at her lips. Soft. Touched with nostalgia she doesn’t acknowledge.

Too many red flags, honestly, for her standard. You stuttered. Blunt as hell. Spun your pen more than hell. But then her eyes drift to the empty coffee can on her desk, and her fingers trace the cold ring it left.

She turns to her desktop. Types a message. And hits send.

"Nice to see you again, my shitty boyfriend." She added, under her breath.

-

Would you look at that? You are back here again at Jang Corp, two weeks later. 

The place still gleams as the first time you step in. The air smells faintly of lilies and money, a scent you still not quite get used to. Conversations in the hallways are hushed, like everyone's afraid of making the wrong kind of noise. Hell, even the printers hum politely.

Except this time, there's one difference. An ID tag hangs over your shirt.

Confetti. Congrats. You're officially not-unemployed. 

Somehow. 

Some-fucking-how.

Anyway, you have been assigned to the Financial Planning Division. 31st floor, as their newest hire. Your tasks are simple enough: updating quarterly budget trackers, reconciling expense reports from different departments, preparing variance summaries for senior team members' presentations. Just usual lackey tasks.

Conversations in the elevator are also its own ritual. Polite and rehearsed. "Good morning," "How was the weekend," "Busy day ahead, I assume?" — all said with the same monotonous rhythm, yet your brain kept on screaming to be out of these small talks.. 

You are aware they tried to welcome you. There is this guy named Tosh (you didn’t even ask for his name) who kept inviting you to grab some grub together. Another guy who might have overshared about his wife who studies child psychology. And then this guy who keeps talking about different boxes. Interesting people, sure, but you stopped them just before the "friend" stage. 

"Too suffocating, those golden spoon fuckers,” she once said. "I prefer your boring ass instead."

You bite back a smile before it can form.

Still, you get used to it quickly throughout the first two months. You know how to blend in, when to keep your head down, when to stay silent. Well, except for that one time a conglomerate's daughter decided you’d make a good “boyfriend.” But let’s not open that wound again. 

Regardless, you didn't complain. Business as usual.

But at days, while staring down to the busy Seoul street below, your brain subconsciously rewinded back to when she used to complain about these things that made her say "you fucking serious?". The same impromptu tutoring nights you’d drilled into her back then, when she sat beside you, half-listening, half-pouting, asking if “fixed costs” were something you could fix with money. Other times, flashbacks of how her notes became more tidied up and structured exactly like yours popped up in your mind. 

Now here you are, doing the same thing in her family’s empire, this time for a pay check. Fat one, too.

The only difference is, she's not here.

Yeah…still no sight of her yet. 

Which is good. 

…Hopefully.

-

It’s a random mid-morning during your second month.

You're seated near the end of a long workstation, shoulders a bit tense, eyes glued to the monitor. The blue glow of the screen reflects off your face as you scroll through another spreadsheet. As you think, your pen absentmindedly between your fingers (three twirls, catch, three twirls, catch). 

Just like her.

Anyway, you should’ve paid your surroundings better. Because someone noticed you. Someone is watching you.

The executive elevator opens quietly, and the atmosphere shifts as usual when someone with high caliber steps out. Backs straighten, conversations taper into silence, and the air thickens with that strange mixture of formality and fear.

She steps out.

Her pace is steady, presence a quiet command, heading to a briefing with the directors and general manager about timeline issues with their partners. Her expression is composed. Not in the cliché way of a girl walking in with confidence, but in the literal sense that everyone working there seemed to straighten the second she stepped in. 

And then she…stops.

You don’t notice the way her hell freezes mid-step. You don’t notice her gaze locking onto you through the sea of coworkers and associates. You’re way too focused on fixing whatever mess is in front of you.

Her lips part, an instinctive breath caught in her chest. The old version of her would’ve yelled out your name already. Anything to get your attention like an owner calling for her pet. But for a fleeting moment, the boardroom, the directors, the company — all of it fades.

All she sees is you.

Then her mind drifts.

Those nights in your apartment, with you hunched over your laptop at your tiny dining table looking at spreadsheets, and her sitting beside you while chewing the Haribo she bought for herself loudly (and for you too, but she didn't want to admit it). You complained about cash flow models while she whispered gossip about her world — the kind that made you roll your eyes but laugh anyway. She can still hear that laugh, low and unwilling, the kind you’d hide behind a sigh.

That faint warmth hits her dead centre. And it burns.

By the time the partners arrived, her assistant politely nudged her. "Miss Jang, we are ready."

“Right,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Straightening her blazer, she forces her mask of composure back on and walks away without a glance more.

-

The first time you two see each other again, face to face, is in your third month.

By then, the pristine halls and greetings had blended into white noise, and you’ve grown used to it (or tried to). Work was repetitive, sure, but you still put your 100% in. You showed up, gave it all, and went home when no more work had been assigned. Icing on the cake, even before the skyline turned the gradient of sunset.

You are good. Maybe too good. And what people say is true. Don't be too good at work, or you suffer. 

Why? Because your manager (yes, the acorn-looking guy) stopped you one day as you walked to your spot and: "Tag with me for today. Conference Room 4A. For strategy briefing with directors. No stress, you will be there for observation…since you have good potential."

Right. Sure. Experiences.

You straighten your tie, take your seat next to your manager near the back of the sleek glass-walled room. The air-conditioning is too cold, the silence is too sharp. You glance down through the empty notepad, half calming yourself down at the thought of sharing the same space with the other senior associates, half praying that 'she' won't be here.

The door opens. 

Right. Things never go your way, as usual.

She walks in late, of course she does.

Tailored pastel blue suit. White blouse. Minimal makeup. Hair tied in a sleek ponytail that sways like it knows its own authority. Her heels click across the marble floor like a metronome of control. 

CEO Jang's daughter.

Your employer.

Jang Wonyoung. 

…and nothing more.

You rise instinctively along with the other senior associates. She doesn't even look at you, but you know she’s aware. "Sit." She announced, flipping through the files her secretary handed her. Her tone is clipped and professional. But that tiny pause before she said it was enough to sting.

You sit. The meeting begins.

And of course, she’s everything the press ever romanticized: sharp, articulate, competent. She doesn’t hesitate to speak over directors twice her age — why would she? She’s the CEO’s daughter. Every word lands cleanly. Every counterpoint is calculated. She throws around numbers, projections, and timelines like she owns the building (well, she does). 

You almost forgot that this was the same spoiled girl who once called you at 2am while you were sleeping to explain what a 'cost breakdown' was. The same girl who, back then, always rolled her eyes and mumbled random curses while you taught her in the VIP lounge of a Gangnam club because she wouldn’t stop spamming your phone. And the same girl who once preferred your apartment rather than at a high end estate because “…you actually listen.”

You immediately shut the memory down before it can sting any deeper.

When the meeting ends, you're so ready to bolt and get back to your humble corner, before her voice cuts through the shuffle of chairs.

"New hire, I need a word."

The directors and your manager glance between the two of you. Some curious, some cautious, before filing out of the room.

The door shuts. 

And only you two were left.

You couldn't dare to look back at her. From the seniority, and from the memories that might surge back up.

And her opening line wasn’t a greeting.

"Before you ask," she says, sliding her blazer sleeve up slightly, "yes, I'm the one who arranged your hiring."

Your pulse skips. Then you remember the interview. Yes, all the stammering, the pen flipping, the smile of the panel members who looked oddly amused. It all makes sense now. There was no fucking chance you would’ve made it. 

(Nepotism at its finest.)

There’s that familiar tilt of her chin once again, the faint smugness that used to drive you insane, and the snarky tone that used to be yours alone. “A thank you is not needed, but you’re fucking welcome.”

You inhale sharply, clearly distasted at her antics. "Didn't ask for your charity…Director Jang."

Her eyes twitched at the formality. Her lips a ghost of a smile. "Great. I need someone competent." Her eyes flickered briefly. Maybe too fast, too brief, before she adds. "And I know you like being hired, not owned. Right?"

Hired, not owned.

It's meant to sting, to be playful. But her voice is anything but. She's trying to sound smug, but somehow you hear the tiny crack just like she had that day, right before she laid down her bare feelings in front of you.

Still, you clench your jaw. You aren’t falling for that again. Not anymore. "You really haven't changed."

"Well." Her lips part slightly, then close. "Neither have you."

For a brief second, the silence between you two feels heavier than any words could be. The last moment still runs in the back of your mind. Her voice breaking, the tears she tried to hide, the words you threw like knives to protect yourself.

Then you notice it.

A small, silver pen clipped neatly against her breast pocket. Unbranded. Familiar. Like the one you left for her. 

It was the same one you left next to her. The gift you left in a small box beside her untouched latte and half-crushed can of coffee. The metal catches the light just enough for you to recognise every dent, every scratch near the clip.

Your throat tightens. "You're still…using the pen."

Wonyoung glances down briefly, almost like she forgot it was even there. Then, she shrugs, “Well, it still fucking works.”

It’s nothing. It’s just an answer. Blunt, practical, maybe a little too arrogant. But the way her thumb lingers on the clip for half a second too long, the way she doesn’t tuck it away, and how she doesn’t even look at you when she says it. 

It says more than she does.

But you don’t say anything. You just nod once, politely bow, and leave. You don’t look back, and you don’t trust yourself to.

-

The weeks blur. The fourth month smudges.

Not in a soul-crushing way, surprisingly. More so of how everything folds into the same shade of grey until you can't tell Tuesday from Thursday anymore. 

Wake up. Shower. Put on the same tailored office clothes placed neatly in your closet (probably from one of her family’s preferred tailors). Then commute. Sit. Work. Work. Work. Work. Pretend not to hear coworkers trying to make conversations or overshare. Leave. Rinse and repeat.

The routine itself is so rigid that even your footsteps feel rehearsed. Desk. Quarterly forecasts. Still fixing out other's spreadsheets. Numbers. More spreadsheets. Emails. Like a well-oiled cog in a gigantic well-polished machine.

People learn quickly that you're polite enough to approach but difficult to pry open. Of course, you warm up (slightly) and still respond to small talk with gentle nods and short answers, maybe a small smile here and there. But again, neutral is the key. You give nothing beyond what is needed away and keep every boundary clean. 

You knew the consequences, after all. And yet, avoiding her feels impossible. 

(Well… it is her family's empire. Thinking otherwise would be naïve.)

Sometimes you catch Wonyoung’s reflection among the glasses. Her silhouette passing behind you, tall and composed.  Other times you hear her voice drifting across the floor — calm but cold, slicing through like a diamond blade. On rare occasions you catch her walking outside with partners and senior associates, presumedly for a work lunch at a high-end restaurant down the street.

You never speak to Wonyoung outside the necessities. Not a greeting. Not a nod. 

Nothing.

But she's everywhere. (maybe include scenes with some meetings with her. Slight argues and stuff)

And every time you go to the convenience store nearby on your break, you hesitate over that same canned coffee. Bitter, cheap, unnecessary. Starbucks is literally next door. You earn enough now. You can buy something smoother, lighter, warmer. But your hand still closes around the aluminium can.

You questioned if it was out of habit. Or the memories you kept on clinging to. Either way, you force the rest down. 

But…somewhere behind these pristine walls, she watches. Wonyoung watches you.

More than she should.

She knows she shouldn’t. She knows she’s supposed to keep focus where it belongs. On the associates. The partnerships. On quarterly projections. On the empire she's meant to inherit. But her composure always falters, by a bit, when it comes to you.

You've changed. And she sees it more clearly than anyone.

The messy-hair student who she hired as her fake boyfriend is gone. Now? You speak calmer. You dress cleaner. Your tone in meetings is polite, measured, lacking the bluntness you always shout at her.

"Sir, if I may clarify, the financial figures in the third quarter projection contradict the earlier data by approximately 4%. I've highlighted the inconsistencies on these pages here."

Never rude. Never insolent. Just straight to the point.

She catches herself watching you too long, longer than she should. Then she walked away, ignoring the blushes on her cheeks.

Days later, while in a lobby, when she strides her way towards the VIP elevator, she catches you on the phone in the lobby. Maybe on break, judging how you were holding a half-eaten sandwich.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” you say, gentle but firm. “The market analysis still supports this projection. I’ll include external verification if you’d like to double-check it.”

She stood there a bit too long, eyes gravitated towards you. You sound confident. Grounded. Just like the way you taught her with the content, but without the tone she became accustomed to. A tone she realizes, with a quiet sting, that she longs for.

Her fingers curl lightly around the strap of her bag, and then her heels continue forward, clicking briskly as she disappears into the executive elevator.

-

They don’t even give you time to breathe these next few weeks. Or she. It’s probably Wonyoung.

Seriously, every morning starts with invitations (verbal or email) that you have to accept. Messages that are as dry as the crumpled leaves on the ground from your manager. Something along the line of “Meeting at 10:00 AM.”

And every time, without fail, you walk in and Wonyoung is already there.

Leg-crossed, back perfectly straight, pen tucked neatly into the breast pocket of her blazer (your pen). At this point, it is always there to crack your walls.

As soon as you settle into the seat between her and your manager (of course, what a privilege), she slides you a sideways glance. Not even a greeting, just a smug tilt of her lips, as if she likes how she can toy with you once more. Maybe. Who the hell knows what she can do?

The meeting starts, and it’s just the usual marketing projections, more potentially partnership concerns, those things that should’ve got you bored out of your mind this early into your new career. 

But your mind is hyper-vigilant next to Wonyoung. She is still like what you remembered when she was next to you. Tall, warm, composed. She takes notes in short, neat strokes (oh, kind of looking like your notes), and you hate how you keep noticing the way the pen shifts against the fabric of her pocket as she moves.

“Stop staring, idiot.” She murmurs under her breath, her hand still busy jotting down.

“Hm? Sorry?” You zone back in, clearly trying to get your composure back.

“You’re so obvious.” 

You force your eyes to stay glued to the presentation, ignoring the way she let out a quiet snicker that makes your spine shiver.

Later, in another meeting (apparently, you love being in meetings too much), she does it again. Still beside you. Still taking notes. Still pretending she isn’t fully aware that her antics are too effective in deteriorating your composure.

You’re trying to focus on the comparison between the two projections from a senior associate when you feel it. Her heel taps lightly on your shoe under the table. Not a press nor a light tap. Enough to know that her presence is on your feet. On you.

A warning? A tease? A power play?

Who the fuck knows.

At one point, when a director asks for your opinion on a logistic issue (Why the hell did he ask you? Isn’t this supposed to be just you sitting in for experience?), you tried to open your mouth but then you caught Wonyoung’s mouth at the corner of your vision.

“Say the wrong shit and see what happens, dummy.”

You swallow. Damn it, you thought it stopped back then. “I think the schedule can be streamlined if we—”

“I agree,” Wonyoung voices out, interrupting you as if she suggested the idea. And of course these higher ups only pay attention to her. 

You know it. You know she knows it. And you hate that she enjoys this way too fucking much.

(It is strangely comforting, but you don’t dare to give eight cents more about it.)

-

Late nights still creep into your routine before you even notice. 

You tell yourself it’s just part of adjusting, especially after those long ass meetings one after another. Longer projects, heavier workloads, another stack of balance sheets that somehow contradict themselves no matter how many times you redo the calculations. They pay you well, so might as well do the work well.

Except it spirals. Work piling up, deadlines bundled together, and staying late becomes the norm. Night after night, your head down, sleeves rolled up, pen spinning between your fingers out of old habit. 

"How the fuck are these numbers right…" you mutter at some point. "Wonder if Wonyoung still hates calculating this shit…"

The moment her name leaves your lips, you freeze. It’s been a month or so since that confrontation. Yet, years since you last called her name out loud.

Wonyoung.

…damn it.

Your eyes wince. Your jaw tightens. You hate how natural it comes out. How easily her name rolls off your tongue as if she's still abiding by the contract. With you. Next to you.

But she's not. And she will never be. You can't afford to let her be anywhere near your mind. Especially during quiet nights, or any nights.

So you check your phone. 

A quick break, you tell yourself, because your eyes are burning from all the numbers. Just a scroll through notifications, maybe a bit on Insta, anything that isn’t just pure decimal point or variance percentage. But muscle memory betrays you. You’re already in your chat list. And of course, her name is still pinned at the top. 

Jang Wonyoung. Crown emoji next to her name.

Those messages that should’ve been gone years ago. Right after she abandoned you. Right after the contract ends. Right after you walked out of the cafe. But deleting them feels like erasing a part of yourself. Anyway, you sigh, more irritated than usual, and tap the screen with the intention of finally deleting it for good. 

But the moment the window opens, your pulse spikes.

At the bottom of the chat, right above the keyboard, there is a grey bubble loading into existence. Typing…

Your breath stutters. You sit up straighter than before. Your fingers curl against your palm. The office feels far too small and too quiet than before.

She’s typing. Actually typing.

…What the fuck are you supposed to do? You can only stare at the stupid bubble as if it didn’t just crack your composure. Like one message can literally break every single wall you have been painstakingly rebuilt these last few years.

(Also, she should know that you are online right? Right?)

The bubble continues. She might be writing a long one. This girl always types in full sentences back then. Then the bubble vanishes. Nothing sent.

You blink. Wait. Maybe she meant to text someone else. Or she finally notices that you are online.

Three seconds later, the bubble returns.

Typing.

Typing.

Typing.

Then gone again. 

You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling faintly as your brain conjures any possible reasons she might text you this late. And the next logical thought is that you have no fucking clue if you want or terrified to see a message right now.

The bubble flickers a third time. Stays a little longer, too. Then it disappears yet again.

And this time, it doesn’t come back. 

Leaving you with a chat history last texted a few years ago, and the faint reflection of your own tired face on the screen. Leaving you with the distasteful squeeze in your chest. Leaving you with the hesitation to delete her chat once again. Even more so.

Because this time, you might see that damn grey bubble reappear. And she might say something.

(Wonyoung: "You're still working? Don't overdo it."

She deletes it. And types again:

Wonyoung: "Is the work too tough? You want me to less-"

Delete. She tries a third time.

Wonyoung: "Have you eaten?"

Delete. Delete. Delete.)

-

You have always known rumors move faster in a money-driven world than money itself.

It spreads first in the elevator. Two other people. Presumedly from another department. Something about a potential long-term partnership. Something about Kang Corporation. Something about their representative visiting more frequently. And then one adds, speculatively: "I heard he's particularly fond of Director Jang."

You ignore it. Or pretend to. But your reflection in the steel elevator door doesn't look that convinced.

By the next day, the rumor turns into confirmation. Upper management announces a collaborative project with another big conglomerate in Korea. It would've been nothing to you if only your acorn-lookalike manager didn't tap you on the shoulder with a rare grin.

“You’re coming with us to the joint meetings,” he says. “Higher-ups want sharp, young talent in the room.”

You only have yourself to blame. 

Five months in, and somehow you’ve built a reputation. The young talent who picks up complex tasks quickly. The young talent who catches inconsistencies even senior associates miss. The young talent with a “lucky” opportunity to be in meetings with big shots. The young talent everyone quietly agrees has potential. You should be proud, being a young talent. Head high, even. 

Instead, that title feels more like another leash around your neck. Begrudgingly, you force out a polite answer. "Of course, sir. I'll prepare the files."

It isn't until later, while waiting for another round of spreadsheets to do its thing, that curiosity gets the best out of you. Quickly, you search up the name that has been floating around all morning.

Kang Corporation. 

Kang Jihoo.

Yep. Of course. 

He looks exactly how a man born into golden spoons is expected to be. Immaculate suit. Clean, defined features. The type of smile that comes from knowing the world bends lightly in your direction. If you had to guess, he’s the kind of person who’s been called a prodigy since childhood, the kind who went to the “right” schools, who never had to worry about paying the rent due in 3 days while the bank account screams $31.08 to your face every night.

You immediately close the tab. You have to, before self-deprecation eats you away. 

Work awaits you. Very important work.

Such as in another meeting with her once more. At this point, your blood cells scream to get out at the silhouette of her alone. Sure, the room was full (and suffocating, to add), but everyone else dissolved into static. Your eyes are only looking at Wonyoung, who sits across from Kang Jihoo. Posture perfect, expression calm and professional. She tilts her head slightly as he speaks to her, listening with that poised attentiveness. Sharp, focused, and elegant without effort.

You take your seat on the back end next to your manager this time (of course, after bowing to all the senior associates), folder in hand, and your thumping pulse irritates you with how loud it was. Remembering her, she would probably eating herself alive inside just by interacting motherfucking rich assholes just like hi-

No. No, actually. 

She looks at him. Not at you. Not a glance. Not even in the glass reflection.

She only looks at him. That gaze. You definitely know that one.

The one like those days in your apartment.

…what?

Tsk. It's stupid to feel anything about that, you tell yourself. Jealousy? No, that’s so ridiculous. That would imply you still care, and you have been insisting that you don’t. It’s fine. Completely fine. You’re totally fine.

Annoyance? …some…what. Or maybe it's just the way she used to fall on you so easily that makes her absence feel so heavy now. You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. Not bothered. Totally. You’re not sitting here just wondering why her laughs are softer around him, or why she leans in just so slightly when he speaks. Hell no, you aren’t paying attention to how comfortable he is around her already. Of course not.

Whatever it is, it sits under your multitudes of thoughts that you refuse to dig up. Acknowledging it means you haven’t moved on. You have. Yes. Maybe.

Anyway, you do what you always do — stay in your lane. Perfectly. People murmur praise from the opposite side of the table, your manager gives an approving nod, but every compliment seems to roll off you and land somewhere near them instead. The spotlight stays firmly on Wonyoung and Kang Jihoo, conversations orbiting around the two of them like they're the sun and moon, everyone else the star, and you the rock that got thrown off to Pluto.

Still, you bow, smile politely, and swallow it all down. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can get out.

But then things get…unprecedented. Yeah, that word sounds about right. Unprecedented. 

Whenever your work is mentioned — project figures, the detailed financial report, the cross check between different company values — you start to notice how Wonyoung keeps on pointing at you.

“Those quarterly projections were completed by him, actually.” 

“He refined the data models on the last update. Please check his revisions, manager.” 

“He’s the one who caught the inconsistencies.” 

Along those lines.

Huh.

You thought she was just being thorough. But then it happens again. And again. And again. Unlike those previous meetings where she messes with you. You should be happy that your work and effort is in the spotlight, but all you feel is pity thrown into your face. Anger clouds your train of thought, but you…you couldn't give a shit.

You're not some helpless college kid that needs to be fed with fake compliments or pity money. Surely not. You're not a prop that she can use for her act and to toy around. You persevere. You work hard. 

So why. 

Why? 

Just the actual fuck why? Is she still talking like the leash around your neck still on her hand?

You don't know if it was you sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Or just had something wrong the day before. But when she was negotiating about the capital ratio (or trying to show off her oh-so-intelligence again, you presumed), something inside you snapped.

You lift your head and go off rails before you can hit the brake.

“Director Jang,” you say, voice level enough to sound emotionless, “may I clarify something?”

She pauses mid-sentence. Her gaze flicks toward you. “Yes?”

You swallow. You hate that your chest tightens just because she’s looking at you. But you force the professionalism back into your spine.

“With all due respect, the capital ratio you’re proposing doesn’t align with the updated volatility model,” you say. “If we maintain a 60–40 structure, the long-term liquidity risk shifts disproportionately to both companies after the fourth fiscal year.”

Kang Jihoo leans forward, brows raised with curiosity. “Interesting…in what way?”

You nod toward the packet.

“Page seventeen, sir. The recalculated ROI projections indicate that a 55–45 split offers a more stable yield curve. It minimizes potential drawdown on both sides, especially if market conditions tighten.”

It can happen anyway. Her analysis isn’t wrong. Just incomplete. You tried to rationalise yourself.

But the undertone of anger comes out stronger than you wanted, and that makes the room still.

Wonyoung picks up the report. "Those numbers weren't in the last draft."

"They were submitted this morning. There were some discrepancies between the numbers." You reply, maintaining that polite, infuriatingly respectful tone you've mastered these last few months, but your lungs were suffocating. "My apologies…for the late update."

Her jaw tenses. "And you're telling me we revise the capital split this late in the negotiation?"

"I'm suggesting," you correct, pinching yourself on the thigh under the table, "that the long-term risk exposure is worth addressing while both parties are still open to adjustments. Just a precaution."

She counters. “With a 55–45 structure, our partner here assumes increased administrative responsibility. That may not align with the operational framework they outlined. The proposal needs to reflect their preferred structure as much as ours.”

You counter again. “Yes, but the projected gain offsets the operational load. Both companies benefit from the risk symmetry in the revised model.”

“And what about the leverage thresholds? The internal caps won’t—”

“They will,” you say, angrily, matter-of-factly, “If we redistribute the amortization schedule across the secondary phase, both caps stay intact. I included the recalibrated curves in the appendix. Please check.”

The room goes dead silent. 

And Kang Jihoo, oblivious or maybe amused by the tension, leans back and chuckles.

“Please excuse my humour, but you two argue like an old married couple.”

Wonyoung freezes. Your head drops immediately, eyes on the table, mortifying heat crawling up your neck.

The meeting moves on eventually, though your brain barely registers the rest. Your pulse is still hammering from the way she looked at you. Was it an annoyance? Was it a genuine hurt? You don't know. And you don't want to know.

When the conference room empties, you try to slip out unnoticed like before. And just like last time, she stops you the moment your foot steps onto the hallway.

"Follow me."

“Bu–”

‘Right now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument — not here, not with your manager watching nervously from behind. You trail her to a quiet corner near the side corridor, far from the elevators and far from Kang Jihoo’s amused stare.

The door closes behind the two of you with a soft but accusing click.

"For fucks sake," she hisses, voice low, "don't do that shit in front of others again. We're not back in college anymore. What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Your brain should tell you to breathe, to stay composed, to be the professional you've been for years, especially when with her. But all logic evaporates (as always) the moment her pearly eyes lock onto yours. 

"Well…,” you grip your knuckle, “don't fucking treat me like I'm some dumbass who needs your praises every time you mention my work."

Her brows lift, shocked and annoyed. "Wh–What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I was giving you credit.”

“Oh yeah? Credit point or credit card?” you mutter, allowing your usual snark to slip back into your tone now that the two of you are alone. “Because I feel just like your used objects again. All to make you feel mighty and proud.”

"Are you seriously being a petty little bitch right now?"

"Of course you see me that way." You scoff. "Blaming on me while totally acting like a fucking saint."

"Oh my fucking god." She breathes out, clearly frustrated. "You act like a fucking child right now, you know that?"

"Says you, you fucking spoiled brat." Your voice raised. "You don't get to pull me back into your life, acting like nothing ever happened, and correct me just because you can for all these years."

What are you saying?

"Well,” She trembles. “You work for me right now. So just don’t be so…fucking hostile."

"Oh wow, are you offended, Your Highness?" Stop. "If you are not satisfied with my attitude, then fucking kick me then." Your mouth kept on firing back, the logic waving from afar. But your brain keeps telling you to stop. Just stop, for fucks sake. "I would love to be fired right now than knowing that I get hired because we used to be a FUCKING thing!"

The words come out colder and harsher than you intended. You know it was true. She knew it was too. You both know. But you didn't want to bring it out. 

But it did.

The result? A silence that cuts deeper than her words. It lasted too long. When she finally speaks, her voice is thin. Soft. Tired. Defeated.

"You know I can't…"

You think it's just more of her usual entitlement that you got used to. The spoiled brat stubbornness. The persistence to have things her way. 

It shouldn't hurt you. Not at all. But when you see the way she stares at you — wounded, glassy, raw.

Your heart wrenches more than it should. 

You don't respond. Just walk away, back straight, expression neutral. You did that before. It should work. But your hands won't stop shaking until you are several floors down.

The rest of the day is a blur of unfocused spreadsheets and half-read emails. Your mind keeps replaying her expression. Maybe she was affected by this too, or maybe she was not. Because you aren’t being invited (‘forced’ sounds more appropriate) into meetings afterwards. And because she looks quite fine next to Kang Jihoo as they walk through the hallway a few days later. Maybe. Fine. She looks normal, even. Yeah.

But that one argument turns into one bad day. Then a bad week. Then a month where neither of you can look at the other without remembering the hallway, the sting of your words, and the way hers sounded almost like a plea.

You both say nothing. You don't dare to, and neither will she. Probably.

-

A particular day in August.

You thought it’s another day at work. Another day of you ignoring the whole argument in that closed room. And another day of gaslighting yourself that you shouldn’t feel anything when seeing the two of them together. Just simply burying those thoughts under the lobby full of co-workers and higher ups as usual. Suffering through a chronic case of socialising. Finally get into your desk and—

Oh look. You have urgent mail. 

Hm?

You clicked on it. Formal header. Company stamp. And far too many capital letters.

“You are cordially invited to the Annual Jang Corp. Gala, hosted by Director Jang Wonyoung.”

…are you serious right now?

You stare at it long enough before the screen goes to sleep. Of fucking course. An event for the successful partnership that plastered everywhere in the digital world. Another event of corporate patting each other's back. Another night of people bootlicking again. You almost spat out when your cursor hovered the brief paragraph about "celebrating a successful partnership with Kang Corporation."

You were this close (this damn close) to deleting it before your eyes caught on the date of the event.

August 31. Her birthday. Wonyoung’s. 

Your mind instantly flashes back to that scene at the café vividly, still. The final meet up. The pen you gave her. It was around this day that you ended the charade and walked away from her. The sound of the door bell chimed as you walked out, dragging your feet unconsciously — just like her. And the muffled sobs from her that dissipate as you get away.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe out of guilt.

Or maybe it's that stupid, stubborn part of you that still believes she still looks at you the way she used to. When you two are away from the world. Alone. Shoulder to shoulder.

"Fine…" you mutter. "Just this night."

You don't know why you said that, but you almost didn’t go. Saying it was easier than actually going. The idea of stepping into a ballroom filled with people who wear watches worth more than your monthly paycheck makes you want to hurl. But on the day, you spend twenty minutes staring into your closet until you pull out one particular suit. The one Wonyoung meticulously prepared for you back at the first meeting with her parents. A shirt that had seen too many washes, a blazer with one loose thread, and shoes that squeaked if you pressed too hard on the heel. 

You put it on, and it is tighter than you remembered. Broad shoulders that didn't exist back then. A chest that strains the button a little more than you'd like. But you tug the collar anyway and head out. Whatever. Good enough.

By the time you reach the hotel lobby, you're regretting everything. Once again. You thought you got used to it, but yet still scrunched your eyes at the polished marble, huge floral arrangements, chandeliers so bright they could burn your retina. 

Still, you blend in. Or tried to.

But everything here reeks of her. 

Wasn't this the same as the first time you and Wonyoung officially met each other? Still marble floors, still the chandeliers dripping crystals, still a string quartet in the corner— the kind of environment where even the air was and still is expensive. Just like now, those fuckfaces back then dressed like they’re auditioning for the young billionaire heir role, and you remembered praying your ass off that no one notices that your shirt has a frayed cuff.

But again, that was back then, you tell yourself. When you are a broke student try not to sweat through your shirt while biting through the humiliation of being their laughing stock. Now, you're a corporate employee trying not to sweat through your shirt. Alone. 

Some fucking growth you got there.

The massive banner overhead reads: Annual Jang Corp. Gala. And under it, in smaller gold script: Celebrating Director Jang’s Birthday.

You stare at it with a blank face. “…How extravagant.”

And then it happens. The same way it did years ago. The room reacts instantly at the clacking of her heels just like a replay. Heads turn. Voices lower.

She’s still radiant in a way that makes the room tilt. Every step, every glance, it’s like she was choreographed for perfection. Diamond earrings brush her jawline, her sleek black dress flows like liquid, and the casual flick of her hair that still has more grace than your entire existence. Heads turn. Conversations falter. She’s still Jang Wonyoung. Still the girl you remembered. Still the girl who doesn’t have to try. 

And beside her walks Kang Jihoo. His suit matches hers. Black. Sharp. Red tie. Exactly the sort of pairing tabloids would foam at their mouths over.

Your jaw locks before you could realise.

She descends the stairs gracefully with Kang Jihoo, chin lifted, smile poised. The usual you, the snarky and hateful you from back then, would've rambled about how it didn't matter. She wasn't your type. Too polished, too unreachable, too unbothered.

But you do know. Very well. Like how her left hand twitched barely as the hungry hungry hippos of executives engulf the couple.

“Director Jang, congratulations!”

“Miss Jang, stunning dress tonight!”

“May I say, your team was phenomenal.”

She smiles, charming, polite, and perfect. But you see it in her expression: the strain behind her perfect smile, the boredom hiding in her eyes. She might've masked it far better than that day, yet you can still notice it. Subtly.

As she glances across a room, her eyes land on you. Fleetingly. Quietly. Almost accidentally. At you. It only lingers for a second. Or half a second. Before she hides it behind a sip of champagne, her mask slips right back in. 

You tried to not give a shit. She didn't give a care, you assume. But deep down, you wish you were wrong.

-

Eventually, the host steps up the mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our young Director and the main organiser of today's event, Miss Jang Wonyoung."

Applause spreads like a wave as she walks to the podium. Chin lifted, back straight, a portrait of composure painted in black silk and shimmering gold light. Unfortunately, you catch the tiny tells. How she grips a bit too tight on the podium. How she holds just a fraction too long. How her first breath has a bit of that tremor.

(Again, if you weren't watching her closely, you would've missed it too. But you didn't.)

The string quartet quiets down. Conversations taper off into a hush. And every eye in the ballroom turns toward her. She smiles, of course, just like every time you see her on digital media. But her voice when it comes out is nothing curated nor prepared. It was genuine.

"Good evening everyone."

The crowd around you murmurs back a polite greeting.

"Before anything, I would like to thank you all for attending tonight's gala." She begins, tone steady but gentler than usual. "This past year has been a challenging one, for sure. Full of changes, risks, and unexpected opportunities."

Her haze travels across the room. Slowly, carefully. Making sure that every table feels like she's talking to them personally. She learned that from her father, of course you know. But the sincerity tonight?

All hers.

“And thanks to the hard work of our teams, and the dedication of our partners…” She inclines her head toward Kang Jihoo, who smiles confidently back at her. “…we are again able to accomplish something far greater than just a business collaboration. We built something that will last.”

Polite applause echoes. And she waits for it to fade. You noticed her fingers curl once against the podium. Again. Steadying herself, maybe, before continuing.

“I also want to thank my father,” she says, “for entrusting me with the opportunity to grow, learn, and… occasionally fail.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd. Her lips twitch with a tiny and honest smile.

“Mr. Kang,” she continues, “again, thank you for your partnership and your patience. You made this entire process much smoother than it could’ve been.”

He nods, flashing that effortless, golden boy grin.

Then her shoulders lower just a bit. Enough that you can see the girl behind the mask. The one who sat next to you on the table telling gossip about her world. The one who leaned onto your shoulder and affected you in so many ways you didn't know how.

And her next words almost got you wavering.

“I’ve…probably spent years surrounded by people who helped me become who I am,” she says. “People who taught me things no textbook ever could. Who challenged me, pushed me, supported me… and who didn’t let me give up when I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens without warning.

Her eyes sweep the room again. You keep your gaze on your glass, but you feel it, the moment she finds you.

A pause. A very long pause.

“Some of them are here tonight,” she says, voice dipping into something almost nostalgic. “And some of them… probably wish they weren’t.”

The crowd laughs. She only smiles. Her gaze lingers toward your direction. One heartbeat too long. As if she wanted to say "I mean that." Don't react, you tell yourself. Don't fucking react. Don't let her see the way your chest twists.

“But regardless,” she exhales slowly before going for the finish, “all of them shaped me into the person standing here today. So… truly. Thank you.”

Her voice softens at the end. Her words sound so fragile and raw that it hits you harder than any elegance she displayed tonight. The ballroom erupts in applause. People cheer. Kang Jihoo claps with a confident smile. Her eyes lower a moment as she steps back from the podium with an exhale. It feels far too subtle. Too cathartic. 

Yet you still stand there, gripping the hem of your suit tightly, and can't help but wonder what was that breath really about.

Or who that 'thank you' was meant to reach.

-

The venue melts into a hum of voices once her speech ends. Laughter, clinking glasses, more networking sharks circling in groups of three or four.

And you? Ready to vanish into the crowd the way you’ve perfected since joining the company. Head low. Steps quiet. No trace left behind.

You almost make it to the exit. Almost. For the third time, you got stopped once more before you could sneak out. (Let’s just give up at this point. Fucking hell.)

The head of HR stands in front of you. "Hey, Director Jang would like to see you."

Your stomach drops. "Did I…Did I do something?"

"She said that you'd know."

You freeze. You absolutely have no fucking clue. But you nod anyway, because what else can you do? Run? Again?

Your steps feel heavier as you climb the staircase, the hum of the party fading behind you until only the faint jazz reaches the upper hall. The balcony suite door is slightly opened, a sliver of warm light spilling into the dark corridor.

You push it open. And the world seems to quiet instantly. As if this moment is off the record. 

The upper balcony stretches out in gold and black, city lights painting faint reflections across the glass railing. She stands there alone, framed by the skyline, hair lifted slightly by the night breeze, dress swaying softly. She doesn't turn when she hears your footsteps, but you can see the way her shoulders stiffen. Just barely.

"…You're late, jackass." Wonyoung murmurs.

"Didn't know I was invited." you reply, forcing levity you don't quite feel.

A soft scoff. "You always are, idiot."

You step beside her, leaning on the same railing, careful to keep a respectful distance… even though the faint perfume clinging to her dress pulls at every old memory. The skyline stretches out before you both, glittering like a thousand unspoken things.

"Good fucking job on taking on such a big role, by the way." You say quietly.

"Mhm." Her grip tightens slightly on the railing. "Still feels weird as hell."

“I can tell.” You reach inside your suit and pull out a small canned coffee. A symbol of you two. What once was there.

"Happy birthday…Wonyoung. Sorry I didn't….prepare anything proper."

Her eyes widened. For the first time that night, her composure cracks with each breath. "You still remember."

"You made it very damn hard to forget."

A soft, breathy laugh escapes her. The kind you didn’t think existed anymore. She takes the can, her fingers brushing yours — warm, hesitant, familiar. The contact lasts a second too long. She sets it down on the railing, then inhales sharply as if preparing for something.

“Jihoo and I aren’t a thing,” she says suddenly. "...Just to let you know. I suppose"

You blink. “…o…kay? That is quite an info.”

“Mhm. He’s into this daughter of the owner of a Japanese corp instead.” Wonyoung let out a quiet laugh. “Asa, or something? I don’t fucking know.”

“Oh. Uh—fucking hell, what a piece of info, huh. Good for him…?”

She huffs, amused but tense, eyes flicking sideways. You’re too slow to realize she’s watching your reaction.

“Why… telling me that?” you ask quietly.

She sidesteps gracefully, ignoring your question. “Do you…hate me?”

The words float out of her like something she dwelled on for years. 

You had to think for a solid minute. "Hate is…a strong word."

“But accurate?”

“I-uh…” You chose your word carefully. The night air is cold in your lungs as you slowly inhale. “I…hate your world. The money. The image. How everyone looks at me like I don’t belong here. How it ruined…” You stop. You can’t finish it. You can’t say—

But her voice drops to the softest whisper.

“It’s still here. We’re still here. Us.”

The word punches something deep inside your chest. 

You turn away slightly, jaw tightened. "You could be with anyone, Wonyoung. Anyone in there." You look to the door that leads down to the venue. "Someone polished. Someone with a title. Someone who knows which fork to use at dinner. Someone that is…worthy to be next to you."

"I don't want them. Any of them."

"Then who the fuck you want then?!" 

You didn’t mean to snap. You didn’t mean to spit out the bitterness. But it sounds more like excuses at this point. "You want the guy who almost ruined the partnership just because he couldn't fucking stand how you and Kang Jihoo look at each other? Or the guy who had to rely on purely nepotism just to get this job? Or the guy who had to fucking…" 

Your throat closes. Your fist curls.

"…suck it up and be a contractual boyfriend? I'm not part of the one percent, Jang Wonyoung. Never was! And I never will!"

Her breath stutters. "I…I just want you."

You could only give a quiet scoff.

"Why?” Your voice cracks, exhausted. “The FUCK why?" Unsure from arguing, or from all the self deprecation, or the guilt of leaving her alone throughout these years. "I burned the fucking bridge already. I can't give you what you deserve. Just…let us go. Let us die."

She slowly lifts the can. Her thumb tracing the rim as if grounding herself on the only real thing she has left of her own world. The world with you. 

"I can't. I missed you." Her voice. So small. It nearly disappears into the night.

And you feel like your lungs caved in. "...Don't do this to me. Don't give me any fucking hope, Wonyoung. Please."

“I really do miss you,” she says, harsher this time — as if forcing the words through every wall you built since the day she abandoned you. “I miss us. What we could’ve been if I wasn’t stupid. If I wasn’t scared. If I didn’t just fucking run away. If—”

"Jang Wonyoung—"

“And if I have to say it a thousand fucking times, I fucking will,” she pushes, her voice growing more frantic, the cracks more obvious. “Hell, if I have to get on my knees and beg—”

You flinch. “What are you doing? Stop.”

She steps closer. Too close. “I’ll take care of everything, ok?” she pleads. “You don’t have to struggle. I’ll get you a good position here. I’ll pay off your debts. Everything. I’ll—”

"Stop, Wonyoung." You bite the word out, harsher than you wanted.

But she keeps going. "I'll buy you a good place. A car. Whatever the fuck you want. Hell, better if you move in with me, right? No need to worry about rent, bills, or—”

"Wonyoung-ah." 

Your voice cuts through the air like a blade. And she freezes.

"Stop trying to buy me. Please. I'm sick of it."

Her lip trembles. “I’m not— I just— I don’t fucking know what else to do to make you stay.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” you say, voice breaking. “You should be with someone who already fits in your life. Someone your father would be actually proud of you to be with. Someone with a title that actually matches yours. Someone who doesn’t show up at a gala wearing a suit that his partner's family has to pay for...” 

Your throat closes.

“...and someone that you don't have to lie to the world.”

She steps even closer to you, blocking your escape. Her eyes shimmering too brightly under the balcony lights.

"Please, I just want you."

"Don’t–just—don’t do this, please." You shake your head, refusing her entirely. "You ran away once. How can I just….suppose to trust you again? That you won't just— won’t just run away once more?"

It hurts her more than if you actually had slapped her. Her hands tremble as it reaches for yours.

"Please," she pleaded. "Just fucking trust me, I'm begging you. Ple—"

"I can't," you swat her hand away, even as something inside you cracks wide open. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I just can’t. Not again."

"Please."

“I can’t— Not anoth—”

“please…”

Her voice shatters.

And when you finally look up, her lower lip trembles. Her breathing stutters. And the shine in her eyes swells until it spills over, one tear slipping down the edge of her cheek like it had been waiting months for permission to fall.

“I don’t even fucking know what else—“

Then another. She covers her mouth.

Then she crumbles. 

Her shoulders collapse inward, as if the weight of everything she's carried — the company, the expectations, the façade, the guilt that fucked both of you, the loneliness afterward— suddenly drops all at one.

And the wall of resolve you have been building for far too long collapses. 

Because you remember. Vividly.

Of how she strangled her sobs, too frightened to let you see her fall apart. How she bellowed her true and sincere feelings to you in the cafe that etched into your mind (I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried!). How you just walked out, leaving a girl absolutely shattered because of you.

Watching her crumble the same way, watching her try to keep breathing through the panic, the guilt, and the grief, you realise you can’t do it again.

Not from this. Not from her. Anymore.

So you just…move. Move, for fucks sake. 

Your hands reach for her waist, steadying her as she loses her balance, and she folds into you with a sharp, broken inhale. The kind people make when they are bottled up far too long. Her entire body shakes as she collapses against your chest. Not a gentle tremble. But a full body, uncontrollable shudder, with her breath jerking in uneven, painful little gasps that hit your collarbone one after another.

Her fingers clutch your suit, gripping hard enough that the fabric bunches under her hands. She's not hugging you. She's clinging to you. Desperately. As if she's terrified it will happen again. Afraid that you'll disappear like before if she loosen. Even for just a second.

You wrap your arms around her, tightening instinctively. Her hair brushes your chin, soft and cold from the night air. Your palm glides up and down her back, slow and steady, trying to calm the way she trembles.

"Wonyoung-ah…" Your voice cracks as you whisper her name.

She tries to answer. Really tries. But the way you call her name so softly. Warm. Endearing. Dreamlike. Her words dissolve into a choking sob. Her shoulders convulse under your hands.  Every breath she takes stumbles, breaking apart halfway like her lungs forget how to hold air.

And then, your own tears come.

You don't even realise at first. It's just the burn behind your eyes, the tightness in your throat, and the way your jaw clenches to keep yourself sane. But when one tear slips down and lands on her hair, you feel it. All of it.

“I'm sorry *hic* I'm sorry, I can’t—” she gasps, voice shaking violently. “I can’t fucking lose you again. I'm sorr—”

"I'm sorry too. Fuck, I'm so sorry, Wonyoung-ah." you breathe, even though you’re wiping your face against her shoulder because you’re crying too hard to lift your head.

She leans into you harder, pushing her forehead into the crook of your neck like she's trying to hide from the entire world. Her whole frame trembles even more. Every sob wracking through her as if her ribs can't hold it in.

And the more she breaks, the more you do too. Her fingers slide further up your back, gripping your suit in desperate, uneven fists. Your breath hitches against her hair. And the world below fades into blur.

…It was after 10 minutes that she ran out of tears. Her body finally stills.

"It's….it’s officially September." She looked up at you, voice hoarse and raw, as if the words scraped out of her chest.

You let out a wet laugh. The kind that's half-sob, half-sigh, as you brush her tears away from her cheeks.

"Your birthday's over," You murmur. "You cried through the whole fucking end of it."

“S-shut it…” She tries to laugh, but it comes out broken. Soft. Shaking. But still beautiful. Still very much her. And still very much… only for you.

"Guess I got my wish anyway," she whispers.

"And what was that…birthday girl?"

Her eyes glisten, swollen and red from crying. But her tiny, trembling smile...

"To see you again."

The words hit too close. Too fucking close. Her hand comes up to your cheek, her fingers trembling wildly. Almost hesitant, afraid that you will swat her away once more. Will run away once more.

But you don't.

The two of you lean in without really thinking, the distance shrinking slowly, painfully, beautifully, and then panic hits you in one sharp burst. Your breath stutters. Your lips freeze halfway. Your brain goes blank the second your noses almost touch. And your hands become awkward around her.

Shit. You have no fucking clue how to kiss.

"Wonyoung-ah, I…uh…I never…done this. We never did this back then. I don’t— I don’t know how—”

She lets out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Half frustrated. Half fond.

Then she groans. Groans. "For— For fucks sake, you seriously ruining our moment by saying that?!"

"Hey, you can't blame me!" You yelp. "I'm just being very honest right no—”

“Damn it,” she mutters, grabbing a fistful of your collar. “S-shut up and kiss me already, my shitty boyfriend.”

Before you can react, her hand moves down to your collar and tugs you down into her. The breath gets punched out of your lungs.

Your lips crash against hers. Clumsy, unpractised, absolutely unprepared. But she doesn’t seem to give a fuck. She cups the back of your neck, guiding you, deepening the kiss with the kind of fierce certainty you could never fake. Her other hand flattens over your chest, feeling the wild rhythm of your heartbeat.

You kiss her back. Hesitant at first, then with growing urgency as the world around you blurs into nothing but her warmth and your shaking breaths.

The kiss deepens and becomes slower, heavier, heartbreakingly tender. Her tears mix with yours between kisses, salty and warm.

When she breaks away, her forehead rests against yours, both of you still shaking from the aftermath.

“Stay,” she whispers. Her breathing is warm and uneven. “Please.”

“…Here?” you murmur, though you already know what she means.

“With me.” Her voice cracks again. “No contracts. No conditions. Just…no more fucking nonsense. I just want you. Please.”

You swallow, the last of your resistance dissolving under the weight of her trembling hands. Her glassy tears. Her honest pleas. And only the debris of your walls remained. 

“…Okay.”

Life is often the most interesting when you do stupid shit, not the 'oh i'm going to walk into an abandoned house or try to get into a sparring match with a pigeon' sort of ordeals. Those things contain too much excitement for the tranquil atmosphere of this random park after midnight.

Why are you here exactly? Nien suggested reading a book on your phone on this exact bench. The idea so mundane yet weird you took her up on it, sprawled out on this wonderfully uncomfortable wooden bench with the spikes. Anti-homeless architecture be damned, you will lay like this even if you are getting pricked.

The book of choice was 'The Odyssey', another one of her suggestions. You were starting to wonder if she was trying to get you kidnapped or mugged or something by comatosing you with her suggestions. But, you give everything a shot. You've been here for roughly half an hour reading this classic, a few passerby's walked through, most were drunk, a few higher than a hot air balloon but nothing horrendous.

"Hello there." You turned away from your book. A woman had her gaze staring into your soul, a touch uncomfortably so. Also a bit too close for a starting interaction.

"Hm? You alright, want to sit on this bench or something?" You asked, hoisting yourself upwards, feeling pain where the spikes were wedged in your back.

"Oh, no no, erm…" She stuttered, turning around for a moment, muttering something indecipherable.

"What the…"

"Sorry..." She had turned back around, adjusting her black jacket that was falling off her shoulder. Outfit only vaguely illuminated by the oranged lamp-post to her left. "I'm really sorry err uhm…"

"Relax, take a deep breath. What is up?"

Aish, why are you entertaining this? Something within you just felt compelled to continue this conversation. Your hands tapped on the seat next to you, urging her to sit down before she crashed into the footpath. She listened, slumping onto the bench with a sigh.

"I– hm… I'm Jiyeon."

"Nice to meet you, still though– what's up with all this? Do you need money?"

"What? No!" Jiyeon sighed, "Damn you are cute…"

"Huh?" Her hands reached out, caressing your arm akin to a worm slithering on your skin. Causing you to jump backwards. "The actual fuck?"

She disengaged, revoking her hand back into her personal space. A task you thought was impossible. "This is so difficult to do, how did my mother do this long enough to birth me…"

"You are creeping me the fuck out." You said bluntly, the freaks clearly come out at night because you were speechless. You double checked your exit routes, just straight barely lit paths out either way. Jiyeon huffed, reflecting on the last five minutes.

"Sorry! Sorry– mind if I explain? Wow, I hate this."

You nodded reluctantly.

"So, I'm a…" Jiyeon was taking her sweet time to get to the point. "succubus, and like.. it's so, yeah like you know."

"You are a what?"

"Well, you see, yeah, hm. Like one of those yeah y'know, like yeah you understand what I'm saying?"

"Slow the fuck down, take a deep breath, relax and formulate a sentence properly."

Jiyeon nodded, apologising profusely with her hands. A succubus hm? Would explain the crop top in negative degree weather, maybe. You've never heard of a succubus outside of dodgy hentais, if she's telling the truth that's certainly a shock.

"So yeah– I'm one of those, I think that speaks for itself." She sighed.

"Aren't succubus normally y'know, seductive? You didn't exactly come in as a casanova." You giggled, suddenly not worried about getting robbed. If you get robbed it'll be worth it for the love of the game. Jiyeon frowned, looking dejected at her own work.

"Yeah, supposed to be. But I'm not, you saw that performance and so I haven't eaten properly in weeks. Maybe I'll get lucky with third-wheeling a drunk couple from time to time, I–sorry I'm dumping all this on you." Jiyeon shut up, killing the rambling and going quiet, turning her eyes to the moon.

"It's alright, pft. I've dealt with venting friends for quite a few years."

"We aren't friends though…"

"Ouch! I let you sit on the bench and now I'm being stranger zoned. Oh the travesty…" You jest, checking your phone for the time. Approaching two AM, if you left now you'd be home by three. Jiyeon gave a soft laugh, a sound much better than the incessant apologies from a few moments prior.

"Heh, okay. I should probably go and try my luck elsewhere. Hopefully if someone's desperate enough they'll go with me anyway, I'm not liking my chances though."

"I mean, if you are hungry I could help out…" You suggested without thinking, words just leaving your mouth with no warning. Jiyeon fidgeted, expression temporarily unreadable.

"You are too nice, stranger. Succubi drain the life out of their prey, I'd kill you– maybe.."

"Maybe?"

"I mean, I've never personally killed anyone. I'm not good enough in bed for that, I just give them the flu most of the time."

Jiyeon was getting more and more confusing with every sentence she said, you cocked your brow and repeated your previous offer. You were going to leave soon anyway, if the very strange woman wanted to tag along you weren't going to say no.

"If you want to give me pity sex, which sounds so pathetic coming out of my mouth. I'm not going to turn it down, so hungry."

"My place or yours?"

Your bedroom hasn't seen action in quite sometime, Jiyeon breaking a dry streak and in turn you were also breaking hers. Sort of, fuck if you know. She gave you one very simple warning that her urges can overtake her rational thinking. But you'll be alright, you've hung out with enough drunkards in your time.

"I'm so fucking hungry." Jiyeon groaned, shoving you onto your own bed. "These clothes are in my way." She made short work of them, borderline ripping them straight off. A small rip being heard, seemingly in at least one piece.

"Let me take your clothes off." You gasped, wanting to see the rest of her divine body, teased earlier by the small amount of delicious skin revealed by her crop top. She nodded, climbing over up on your body. You took a deep breath, pulling off the first article of clothing. She wasn't wearing a bra, her tits free to be feasted on by your eyes. Leaning forward to give a small kiss before digging your fingers into the waistband of her joggers. Tugging them down.

She was fully commando, now fully naked except for some socks that certainly weren't on your priority list. "I want to suck that cock so bad, take it in my mouth until its throbbing. But, god I need you in me now." Jiyeon's voice was dripping in pure, unapologetic-ally filthy seduction.

"Do it…" You voiced your need, she wasted no time. Pulling your boxers down enough to let your cock free, standing tall and beaded with precum. She was straddling you, rubbing your tip against her. She waited no longer, lowering herself slowly.

"Fuck."

"Fuck!"

Her slick pussy gripped down on you mind-numbingly, she was unbearably tight and wetter than wet. Her body was literally made for this, taking every inch inside without a struggle. You certainly were not carrying such grace, from the moment Jiyeon had lowered completely you were doing your best to not blow your load instantly like a needy virgin.

"Oh my, this cock is so good!" She moaned out into the air, "Too long, since I've had someone of my own… no sharing!" Jiyeon had no qualms with voicing out every thought on her mind, same as she had no issue with bouncing up and down with a pace that stung. Every slap was followed with a wet squelch as her cunt was dripping need.

Any response you thought of lived and died in your head, just groans. Jiyeon seemed unbothered, her walls clenching hard in pleasure, quivering with need. "Hngh, oh my!" She came for the first time, so fast you barely even blinked.

Jiyeon leaned down, swapping from riding to cowgirl. This let her kiss you, catching you off guard yet you took it. Making out aggressively, sloppily and messily, moaning in each other's mouth as your cock twitched.

"Eugh, Jiyeon." You warned, unfortunately your body couldn't take more of her warmth.

"Cum, give me it! I need it!" She begged, getting exactly what she wanted as you exploded deep inside. Counting how many spurts of white hot cum was shot into her greedy depths would be a losing battle, but its certainly more than ever before. Legs spasming as she held you still. Not letting a single drop leave her.

You woke up in the next morning, and fuck.. you felt like absolute death. At least you were alive, but you sure as hell didn't feel alive. Not planning to wake up and smell the roses or anything. In fact, judging by the sky it wasn't morning at all.

"Eugh… what the hell?" You groaned, every muscle was cramped up and stiff. How hard did you two go? Jiyeon and you went for way more than just one round. She wanted to make up for lost feeding time. But you didn't seem to have the flu at least.

"Evening." Jiyeon was to your left. "You okay? I didn't want to leave until I confirmed you were awake." She had a bottle of water in her hand, condensating on her fingers. Thrust into your hands, you took it gratefully. Drinking every sip of water like you were in a desert stranded.

"I think… you might have gone a bit crazy." You coughed, your arm moving was a blessing because nothing else seemed to want to.

"Hey! I warned you, but yeah. I'm really sorry."

"Don't be, I offered. Just wow you weren't kidding huh?" Jiyeon shook her head, looking at you with half worry and half thanks. The air went uncomfortably still with silence, neither saying anything. Just staring, you should say something. She should say something.

You just kept sipping the water to avoid being the first one.

"Normally, I'm a bit more– reserved. So to speak. Even though I can lose control, it's just time. If only I had it as easy as everyone else." Despite her best efforts, bitterness was so apparent in her words. "Eugh. Thank you again, I'll get out of your hair now."

She poised herself to leave, about to ascend.

You used the only functioning muscles in your body to stop her for a moment.

Then.

Stillness.

More silence, more than justified for someone met less than 24 hours ago.

"What's the rush?"

"Well…"

"If you want to leave, I won't stop you– but it doesn't really seem like you want to."

Jiyeon sat back down, laying next to you. Head comfortably resting on the pillows, wait how did these get washed? Oh well, you didn't really care. Her hand found the remote, turning it on by your request. Though it merely served as idle background noise, something to focus on to avoid awkwardness.

"So, Jiyeon." You started, really hating your muscles at the moment. Chugging a few pain killers has done little to help out, how dare doctors not plan for supernaturally inflicted pain? Seems a bit shortsighted to you. "Any plans for the long term?"

"Hm?"

"So you don't constantly have to intermingle with drunkards to not perish. That sorta thing."

"Oh, uhm." Jiyeon didn't have an answer, that much was obvious from the cute scrunching of her face. Trying to give you some response so it didn't look awkward, ultimately settling for a mere shrug of the shoulders.

"Do they do things like 'succubus 101: how to successfully pull baddies' level courses?"

She laughed, "Nope… unfortunately not, I tried to google advice but it's all the same stupid shit. Wear blue? Wear purple? Why is it all wear certain colours?" Only one thought entered your mind.

What the actual fuck was Jiyeon googling?

"Wait so your family didn't even like, coach? Can you even coach something like this?" You were the blind leading the blind here, until yesterday you thought succubi were merely fiction and now you are trying to get one laid. Fascinating approach.

"Erm… I didn't want to hear about my parents and intercourse so I vehemently denied it." Jiyeon said with disgust on her features on whatever her imagination conjured up.

"Yknow, that is fair." You were racking your head for any other ideas, like trying to get water out of wet sand. "Have you considered… hm… give me a list of stuff you've tried and I can work from there."

"Okay…" Jiyeon started to count with her fingers. "First I tried the normal approach, look for lonely people in the streets. But I could never get them home, so I tried dating apps. Even people who were so cringey still didn't bite. Plus that would take weeks per attempt."

Jiyeon took a thinking breath. "Then, I tried brothels. Even those who would literally pay for sex were still rejecting me…" She was truly the definition of negative game, there would be history books about this. "I get that as far as succubi goes I'm young and inexperienced, but come on!" Her frustration grew above your expectation, every emotion this girl showed was as vivid as the other.

"Insane… truly."

"This bed is comfy." Jiyeon changed the subject, spreading her arms all over the soft fabric. "I was just laying here all snug as a bug in a rug while you were knocked out." Well at least she was having fun during your absence..

Time moved on, thirty minutes? approximately. You weren't paying the most attention to it, talking in circles that were ending up nowhere. Truly the F1 races of a conversation, doing laps constantly. Eventually though you crashed possibly into what had been lingering in the recesses of your mind since this conversation started.

"Does anything stop you from feeding on the same person multiple times?"

"Nope. Apparently it's 'bad luck' or something, but superstitions were never my thing."

"I have an idea."

And what a fucking idea.

Jiyeon was a bit concerned to take you up on it first. Worrying for your health, yet with a small bit of reassurance she was game. The cute succubus had found comfort in your home, choosing to move in out of the small cheap apartment she had. Apparently massive castles are only for the first few generations, unfortunate.

She's an absolute bed hog, taking up all of the space. You have to get creative to not get kicked off, but she's cute when she's asleep so you can't be too mad. She's also quite cuddly most of the time, which caught you off guard. Jiyeon isn't exactly the sex crazed demon that her kind is often depicted as, which makes you wonder how many other supernatural beings exist to be misrepresented.

Over the last few weeks she's inhabited your space, she's definitely been making it her own. It started small, a plushie there, a pen there. Now half your room is Jiyeon and the other half is yours, a cutesy interior designer.

The hardest thing to get used to was dinner time, funnily enough. Jiyeon didn't need to eat human food, which led to awkwardness at first. You are just trying to eat your food and there she is, on her knees with your cock in her mouth looking up at you with her cutesy eyes. Treating it as no more than necessary survival, which you suppose it is.

Still, blowing your load while eating spaghetti is quite odd.

"Mmh, can we fuck?" Jiyeon asked casually, already rubbing you through your clothes, tracing absent circles with her nail. She was laying on the sofa while you were in your chair, pulled closer by her request. Back pain's a bitch.

"Yeah." You replied with all the sexual charisma of a brick wall, fanfare was irrelevant. She planned to sink onto the floor anyway, which Jiyeon did with about the same level of smoothness. Her insatiability rusted by your assistance. Laying there without jumping your bones.

Jiyeon's shorts fell to one side, panties soaked through as per usual. You've come to appreciate her consistency, tugging them off. Though, there's one thing you've wanted to do that simply hadn't come up yet. This position was perfect.

You dove right in, licking long stripes, her taste delicious straight from the source. And there was a full river amount for you to indulge in. "Wow!" She's always loud, even when you've barely even started. Your pace was flip flopping, when your desire took over you kept your mouth firmly latched onto her wet cunt. Tongue darting everywhere and anywhere. If you remembered to breathe you would take a moment of respite, though you rarely spared a thought let alone a logical one.

"You taste so sweet, why did we take so long to do this?"

"Because you never asked! Though keep doing it!"

Jiyeon held your head down, taking the decision making away from you. Her intoxicatingly strong arousal had rewired you into a hungry, feverish animal. Devouring her drenched cunt, trying not to let a single drop be wasted. That'd be the biggest act of sacrilege commitable.

Her moans never stopped, you were harder than a fucking diamond. Threatening to pop a button in your jeans, her hot sticky juices getting even more plentiful, screw any probabilities or possibilities anymore. Jiyeon didn't adhere to them, she was an oddity. Able to break all of your understandings without care.

There was a lack of mercy, abusing her clit with your devious suction. Your mouth was enough to bring the succubus to a strong orgasm, but you are an overachiever. Two fingers plunging deep into Jiyeon's warm, wet depths.

"Fuck!" She yelled in ecstasy, your relentless, borderline mean movements gave Jiyeon no time to warn you of her impending orgasm, her hands sinfully locking you against her as she gushed all of your face. "My devil!"

Well, that does make sense.

Jiyeon was everything a succubus shouldn't be.

She's told you countless exploits about her species, she's bad at all of it. Even including the sex part, though you'd be hard pressed to agree with that. A master doesn't need to compare themselves to another and all. There seems to be one rule, a succubus can't fall in love.

Which certainly makes you wonder how she's come to be, but who knows.

Though, she's even bad at the don't fall in love part. It was a late night conversation, off the record for all but you two. Jiyeon was in a fluffy pair of pajamas, one you recommended because they swallowed her whole and she looked adorable in them. Her hands intertwined with yours as you held her close.

She spoke first. A soft, gentle, honeyed whisper. "You ever think, hm… you know like, so."

"Stop panicking Jiyeon, it's alright. What's up?" You reassured, squeezing her hand in support.

"I love you." That was that, she wasn't good at hype, build up or anything. You've come to expect that, she's a loser in the most loveable sense.

"I know." You laughed. "And I love you too, have for a while."

"So, wanna be my boyfriend?"

"Of course, ever the romantic you are."

"Fuck me!" Jiyeon moaned, you were pumping hard and deep. Happy one year anniversary, she chose to deprive herself of any of your load for a few days, making sure she was going to enjoy this as much as possible. Her hands clawed at your back, the bed was really struggling to withstand how hard you were thrusting into her.

"Jiyeon! You're so tight, ugh fuck!" You moaned into her ear, she was doing the same. A cycle of ever shrill pleasure, your cock was going deep. Hitting against her womb (if she even has one.) with every thrust, your girlfriend's wet hole took it with grace.

"I'm so needy! Please, fuck my tight body until you cum!" She could take it all, she wants more than you could give. But you'll certainly try. She was driving you crazy. It never gets easier, you're manhandling her yet you are the one sweating and struggling to not prematurely ruin the moment.

Your eyes were robbed of the great sight of your shaft going in and out, she's creaming all over you. You know it without seeing it. You can't see anything. Buried in the crevice of Jiyeon's sweaty neck, the aroma only encourages you to go harder.

"AHHH!" Jiyeon came around you, but that's never a sign to stop. The only sign to stop is when there's no more energy to continue, when your ability to exist is being directly challenged. You've only nearly died once, that was your mistake. Turns out you can cause your own demise by being too rough…

However, you were certainly on the knife's edge of that.

"More! Fuck, more more more!" She sang her mantra. or more accurately cried it out. You continued your rough pounding to just the right amount, putting your faith in a lower power to keep this bed stable. Feeling your grip loosen from the sweat that became more abundant by the thrust.

But you weren't deterred.

Nothing and you do truly mean nothing could stop you in this revelry.

Not the burning in your muscles, not the exhaustion trying to claim hold, not the obligations you have tomorrow. It is just you and Jiyeon.

Another orgasm from her. These poor sheets, defiled and messy, vaguely transparent from where her orgasms had landed. You could hear the springs of your shared mattress bouncing against every slam into her pussy, almost more audible than the collective moans.

Almost.

"I'm not sure how much more I have in me." You croaked, all of your energy disappearing very suddenly. Feeling like you were hit by a truck, or pecked by many a ducks.

"Just, do as much as you can!" She whined out.

Which wasn't much more, being drained for all of your sanity at once. Throbbing deep inside her slick warmth, pulsing helplessly as you filled her to the brim with your load. Slowing down to a halt as she was completely stuffed, Jiyeon was panting heavily, your vision was darkening. Did you go too far? You thought you were being careful.

"Baby?" Her voice was faint, yet her embrace felt soothing. You couldn't see anything.

Oh well.

If you die, it's worth it.

You woke up a few hours later to a very concerned Jiyeon, looking at you with tears in her eyes. Run down stains on her cheeks. "Oh my! You are awake, I was so worried." She sniffled.

"I think we went too far again." You smiled weekly, reaching forward to give her a lone peck on her lips. You didn't feel bad about it, you were still here. Still alive to see her face. Jiyeon leaned forward, trapping you in the warmest, most soft hug.

"You need to be more careful… I don't want to lose you." She pulled away, wiping the tears off with a napkin you had on your bedside table. "But, I'm so happy to see you."

"Likewise… say, my wonderful girlfriend." Your energy was weak, yet not weak enough to cup her cheeks. Holding her eye contact with love in the air, almost tearing up yourself. "What do you say we snuggle up here? I know you don't need to but we could always have some hot chocolate."

Jiyeon let a laugh crack out, the only human food she's ever shown love for.

"I'd like that. I'll make it though, rest there for now." She tucked you in.