an ode to everything

So you gather your laundry.

The basket digs into your hip as you step out into the hallway, hoodie zipped up halfway and keys clenched in your free hand. The air outside is damp and strange, like it can't decide if it wants to rain or just hang there, heavy and indecisive. Like you. The street is deserted, lit by flickering lamps that paint everything in washed-out yellows and grays. You don't pass anyone—no cars, no late-night joggers, not even the guy who usually smokes on his balcony two floors down. Just you and the hiss of distant traffic.

You walk faster than usual, the weight of the basket throwing off your balance every few steps. It's not about the laundry. You know that. You just needed to do something, anything, other than sit on that couch refreshing your texts and trying not to picture your boyfriend wherever he is—laughing, forgetting to look at his phone, not thinking about you at all.

The laundromat is just around the corner, a sad little place that never closes with rows of outdated machines and cracked linoleum floors. Some of the knobs on the machines are missing, replaced with tape or left bare like little metal bones sticking out. One corner of the ceiling is stained dark with water damage, the edges curling like burned paper. The familiar smell of detergent and something vaguely burnt hits you as you step inside.

It's not cozy, it's not clean, but it's the only place that feels honest tonight. You drop your basket on the nearest folding table with a little more force than necessary. Your fingers are cold. Your chest is tight. You're not angry, not really. You're just tired of being the one still waiting.

You're halfway through dumping a load of clothes into the washer when the lazy, broken bell above the door jingles—it barely cuts through the hum of the old rackety machinery.

You glance up out of habit, expecting no one. Who else does laundry at this hour?

The man who stumbles in looks like he belongs more in a vogue magazine than sharing a space inside the laundromat with you. He's tall, lean, maybe late twenties, with a lax posture and the kind of walk that sways too wide, like he's not sure where the floor ends. His hair is dark and at the moment unruly, pushed back from his eyes that haven't decided whether to be open or closed. He's wearing a simple oversized crewneck and a pair of dark blue jeans clinging to his hips like they've been tailored to his body.

He carries an air of relaxed confidence even as his steps betray him. Rather than looking disheveled or ragged, there's an undeniable charm radiating from him.

You pause, a damp hoodie dangling from your fingers. The man doesn't look at you.

Instead, he moves with purpose, staggering toward the nearest washer like it personally offended him. He lazily throws his wallet and keys atop the washer before kicking off his tan boots. They tumble to the ground not too far from him. He then begins fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, muttering something under his breath that the machines drown out.

Then, to your absolute disbelief, he starts to undress—right there in the middle of the laundromat.

His crewneck is first to be yanked over his head. He is moving sluggish. Is he drunk? You wonder. It lands on the floor, forgotten. Next go the jeans, unbuckled and shoved down until they bunch at his ankles. He steps out of them, nearly trips, and steadies himself with one hand on the washer. He starts to chuckle and mutter to himself in slurring babbles.

Now he's standing there in nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs—worn at the waistband and dangerously low on his hips. You can't help but stare.

His chest is buff and muscular. If you weren't so shocked, you think you would have more to say about him and his physique. The stranger tosses the jeans and shirt into the washer, slams the door, and only then—half-naked and swaying—does he notice you. His eyes widen, not with shame, but something more like surprise.

"Oh," he says, blinking slowly. His voice is deep, hoarse, the kind that sounds like it's been soaked in alcohol. "I honestly didn't see you."

You stare back, unsure whether to laugh, leave, or ask if he needs help standing. You are momentarily too caught off guard to decide whether amusement or empathy should guide your next move. A damp dirty towel hangs forgotten in your hands.

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I... uh...," he mumbles, glancing toward the machine like it might defend him. "Wasn't planning on... an audience."

Your mouth is dry. You blink, and for some reason you are scrambling for something to say to this stranger. Your mind is empty—whether it is due to shock that this man is undressed in the laundromat at 3am, or because of how charming and attractive he is as he stares at you with anticipation, you don't know.

Consequently, the only thing to leave your mind is, "You forgot your crewneck."

The two of you glance down to your motioned hand. You are looking at the stranger's crewneck that was absentmindedly flung to the side. He chuckles deeply to pick up the material from the floor, almost missing it at his first attempt. His fingertips roughly jam into the tiled floor before settling on the fabric. You watch in slight concern for this stranger's wellbeing.

He lifts the sweater with a sheepish grunt, dusts it off instinctively, then drapes it over one arm like he might put it back on—but he doesn't. His shoulders rise and fall with a long exhale, and when he glances back up at you, the expression on his face is softer now; less startled and a little amused... and still, somehow, entirely sincere.

"Thanks," he murmurs, eyes catching yours again. "I guess I'm making a strong first impression."

You manage a small smile, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck. You will yourself to look him in the eye—but your gaze slips. Once, twice. You catch the subtle lines of his torso, the clean dips and angles of his collarbones, the way his skin shifts slightly with each breath. It's all casual, unintentional—but so evidently noticeable.

You force your eyes back to his face. The effort is... substantial.

"I mean... it's not every day you see someone strip down in a laundromat," you reply, tone light but edged with curiosity. "At three in the morning."

He laughs—a quiet, throaty and charming sound that feels too rich for the sterile buzz of the room. "Yeah,"  he says, scratching the back of his neck again, muscles flexing with the motion, "if I weren't a few tequilas in right now, I'd probably feel a little shame."

You grip the damp towel in your hands a little tighter. "So... why are you here? Like this?"

He blinks like he hadn't expected the question to come so directly, then shrugs with a kind of lazy honesty.

"Long night," he says. "Out with friends. Someone spilled a drink down my back." He gestures loosely at the washer.

"Someone?" you pry curiously.

There's a pause. He smiles—crooked, a little embarrassed, but not ashamed. He doesn't indulge you in elaboration, so you nod slowly, trying not to let your eyes trail down his body again, but you're very aware of the way the waistband of his briefs rests against his hips, the way the muscles in his stomach shift slightly when he talks. He's not flexing. He's not posturing.

That's the problem.

"I really didn't plan on the laundry show. Sorry about that."

You wave a hand quickly, hoping your heated face isn't giving away as much as it feels like it is. "No, don't worry."

You sit back against the edge of the folding table, eyeing him in the cold glow of the fluorescents. He doesn't fidget, doesn't look away. There's a steadiness in his gaze now that makes it hard to keep your own guard up. You hadn't realized how quiet your head had gotten—how for a moment, you'd forgotten everything that led you here.

But then he tilts his head slightly, studying you with a furrow of quiet concern.

"You okay?" he asks.

You hesitate to respond, caught off guard again—not by the question, but by how gentle it sounds coming from him. You weren't expecting the question from this stranger—him, half-undressed and half-drunk, who's been here all of five minutes and yet somehow sees right through you.

You look away, fix your gaze on the machine you have yet to start. "Yeah," you say. "Just... doing laundry."

The words fall from your lips half-heartedly. You release a breath before finally throwing the dirty towel, and the last of your laundry, into the washer. The stranger doesn't respond right away. You can feel him waiting, like he knows that's not really an answer. His eyes are following your every move.

You glance back at him. Fine. You need to release this pent up energy, and this stranger could work for you.

"My boyfriend's been out all night. He didn't text. He didn't call, so I decided to come here and wash some clothes instead of sitting in my apartment refreshing a screen."

His expression shifts—he seems empathetic.

"Sometimes the machines are easier to deal with," he says. "At least they don't lie."

His words pull a small breath of a laugh from you; they're unexpected and a little bitter.

"Exactly."

He leans against the washer beside yours, arms crossed, crewneck still hanging from one hand. "Sounds like a shitty night."

You nod. "It is."

"Well," he says with a slight smirk, "at least we're both miserable together."

He meets your eyes with something that feels like an offering—a shared kind of loneliness, wrapped in humor and late-night haze. For the first time tonight, you don't feel entirely alone.

You glance over at him again; your smile softens as it fades. You decide to pick apart his words and find out more of his story. You hate to admit to yourself that this attractive stranger has now garnered your full attention and curiosity. You don't know if something as weird as this will happen to you again, so you want to get the most out of it.

"So... why are you miserable?" you ask.

He exhales a long, quiet breath, his gaze shifting toward the washer. The light buzz of the fluorescent ceiling panels hums between you. For a moment, it feels like he might brush the question off.

Then he speaks.

"I wasn't just out with friends tonight," he reveals. "I was supposed to meet up with my girlfriend. Ex, I guess."

That word—ex—catches on something inside your chest. The way he says it feels sharp and recent. "She invited me to some rooftop thing," he continues. "I showed up late, and when I got there... she wasn't exactly waiting for me."

A slow throb builds at the base of your throat. You shift your weight, feeling a subtle ache bloom in your chest. His voice is calm, but there's something in the way he stares at the machines—like he's trying to detach himself from the memory just enough to say it out loud.

"She was kissing someone else."

You swallow hard. The image flashes in your mind uninvited—this man standing under some distant city skyline, arriving hopeful, only to see the person he loves tangled up in someone else's arms. It makes your own stomach knot.

"I didn't yell," he adds. "I didn't throw anything. She said nothing. Then her new guy threw a drink on me." He finally looks at you again. "And then another."

Your breath catches. Not from the story itself—though it's awful—but from the expression on his face now, the way his voice doesn't quiver but his eyes give him away. You're struck, again, by how beautiful he is, even now, even like this. And how tired he looks underneath it all. Still... there's no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet kind of defeat.

The kind you know far too well.

"And now I'm here."

You nod slowly, your fingers curling around the edge of the table to ground yourself. His eyes are watching you intently. You are unsure why. Perhaps he is just studying you for your reaction to his words, but the way his eyes are roaming your face, and subtly taking glances at your body as you stand across from him, has you biting your lip.

You are feeling something from this stranger that you haven't felt even from your boyfriend.

The words press against the inside of your mouth, and before you can stop them, they spill out in a voice that doesn't sound like yours. "I think my boyfriend is cheating on me."

The air changes. Still and heavy. You don't look at him right away. Instead, your eyes lock on the clothes swimming behind the washer door like the colors there might soften the sharp edge of your own truth.

"I don't have proof," you murmur. "Just... I feel it. You know? He doesn't come home. He doesn't call. Everything he says lately sounds like a script. He's somewhere else, even when he's next to me."

Saying it out loud makes your ribs ache. It's like you've ripped open something you've been pretending wasn't there. The stranger doesn't say I'm sorry... or you deserve better. He doesn't offer hollow comforts or awkward platitudes. Instead, he gives you something harder to find—quiet understanding.

You break the silence, repeating the stranger's words from before, "The machines are easier to deal with," you say. "They don't lie."

The stranger shifts his weight, leaning back against the washer machine, his arms still crossed, his crewneck still limp in his hand like he's forgotten it again. His presence somehow doesn't make you self-conscious. If anything, his presence here makes you feel seen. You've just expressed more emotions to him then you have to your dishonest boyfriend.

"Exactly," he whispers.

You glance at the floor. "It's like I'm trying to convince myself it's normal. Like... maybe everyone feels like this, but I don't think they do."

"No," he confirms your thoughts. "He's a fucking asshole."

You can't say you're surprised when a shy smile forms from his honest and direct words. This is what you need. You need someone to validate your feelings towards your secretive boyfriend. This stranger, although being intoxicated and half-dressed with you in the laundromat at 3am, can offer this to you. You'll take it.

The half-dressed stranger continues, "I mean it." His tone sharpens a little, not angry at you, but on your behalf. "You're here, clearly trying to hold things together. Doing laundry at three in the morning, not calling him, not blowing up his phone... just dealing with it. And he's out there, what? Ignoring you? Letting you feel like shit?"

You don't say anything. You can't. Your throat is too tight again.

"I don't know him," he continues, "but I know the way he's making you feel, and that shit isn't love. He's a coward."

You want to open your mouth and agree with him. You know he is right. All the nights you spend worrying. All the nights you've spent crying yourself to sleep because of him. Your boyfriend's actions don't reflect someone who loves you. It's hard for you to come to terms with the truth.

The half-naked stranger breaks the intense silence, just above a whisper, as his eyes dance on your face.

"If you were mine, I'd never do that to you."

His words land harder than you expect; It's not because they're bold, but because they sound so honest. He is so certain, like he is seeing through any conflicted feeling you have. You risk a glance at him, and he isn't looking away. You don't want to look away either. You continue staring at him—your breath caught somewhere between shock and something warmer.

In the quiet that follows, your heart does a strange, fluttery stutter. It's too soon, it's too much, it's inappropriate—and yet... something about the way he said it felt right.

You let out a soft exhale. "You don't even know me."

His lips twitch upward. "Maybe not. Maybe I want to."

"You're just drunk and talking to a girl."

"Yeah, but you're beautiful, so I'd be thinking this sober too."

A shallow exhale releases the moment the words leave his mouth. You look at him—really look at him this time—the gentle curve of his mouth, the soft lines of exhaustion around his eyes. His eyes are so intense as he talks to you, yet so kind and alluring. He is only in his briefs and hasn't even put his crewneck back on and yet still somehow manages to make you feel more comforted than uncomfortable. This is more than your boyfriend has done... even in the last six months.

He watches you for a moment, and then smirks, letting the silence continue just long enough to make your stomach do something strange.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'm gonna think you like what you see."

You let out a breath of a laugh, shaking your head as you glance away—flustered. "You're not exactly subtle, you know that?"

"Clearly I'm not going for subtle." The stranger motions to his briefs before he shifts his weight slightly, leaning one arm against the washer, his body angled just a little more in your direction. You bite a stupid smile at his words.

His voice drops, slow and warm. "But I meant what I said."

You arch a brow at him, feigning skepticism, though you already feel yourself softening under the weight of his gaze. "What, that you'd treat me better than my boyfriend?"

"That," he nods, lips curving, "and the part about you being beautiful."

You roll your eyes, though it doesn't hide the small smile forming at the corner of your mouth. "I bet you say that to all the women while you stand in your underwear."

He chuckles. "Hmm, no. I can honestly say you're the one and only."

You should say something snarky, or at least call him out on how ridiculous this whole situation is, but your cheeks are already warm, your arms crossed tighter against your hoodie to ground yourself. You sneak a glance at him again and find him already looking, like he never stopped. There's something dangerously comforting about the way he sees you. The quiet between you isn't awkward—it pulses, expectant, electric.

You shift in your seat, trying to act unaffected, drumming your fingers along the edge of the laundry basket. "You're seriously just going to sit there in your underwear this whole time?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Why? You want me to put the crewneck back on?"

Your eyes dart to the crewneck on the floor, then back to his bare shoulders. "I didn't say that."

"Don't excite me," he chuckles.

You shake your head and roll your eyes at his teasing.

"So," he says after a moment, "what do we do now? Wait out the cycle like two strangers who just trauma-dumped, flirted, and now we have to pretend this isn't kind of weird?"

You laugh—loud enough this time to echo slightly off the machines. "Yeah, I guess."

"Or..." he trails off, tone turning sincere again, like a gentle shift in gears. "Tell me something about you. Not your asshole boyfriend."

And that's how he disarms you—you look down at your hands, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel. Not because he's looking at you like that—but because, for the first time in a long time, someone actually is.

You talk for hours. The buzz of machines fades into background noise as the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder on plastic chairs, trading stories and half-finished thoughts like it's the most natural thing in the world. The air shifts—softer now, calmer. He tells you about his favorite books, about places he has traveled. You tell him about the places you want to escape to, about the parts of yourself you feel like you've lost lately.

Eventually, you exchange names—Namjoon. It suits him.

By the time the dryers slow and click to a stop, the exhaustion of the hour has dulled into something more peaceful. The weight you walked in with feels lighter somehow. You fold your clothes. He pulls his jeans back on. There's a brief pause by the door—neither of you ready to leave the bubble of this strange, accidental connection. But you both know it's time.

He offers you a sleepy smile, still barefoot, his crewneck finally draped over one shoulder. "Take care of yourself," he says. "And maybe... stop doing laundry in the middle of the night and dump his ass."

You smile, eyes meeting his one last time. "Only if you stop stripping in public places."

You share the same knowing grin. Then he's gone—into the dark, quiet city, leaving behind only the echo of his laugh and the lingering warmth of being seen. You stand there for a moment longer, hands full of clean laundry, heart a little messier—and a little more hopeful—than it was before.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It only takes another two weeks. Your fingers tremble against the cold steel of the laundromat door, pushing it open with more force than necessary. The fluorescent lights flicker to life above you—too bright, too sterile, and exposing the red rims of your eyes and the way your mascara has bled down your cheeks. You hadn't planned on coming here again. You swore you wouldn't—not after last time. Not after him. You didn't want to be tempted by that stranger.

But when you saw the pictures... when you opened the laptop and saw her—legs wrapped around your boyfriend in some hotel mirror selfie—when the nausea hit you so hard you couldn't stand, and then the silence that followed every ignored call and message...

You ran. You came back. You escaped.

You returned to the only place that held some kind of strange comfort. The place with old machines cracked tiles. The place where you felt human for a moment—even if it was with a half-naked stranger.

Your laundry basket is half-empty. You threw whatever was near you into it, not even bothering to sort it. A hoodie, your favorite pair of sweats, a towel. A bra tangled in a t-shirt. It doesn't matter. You just needed to move.

The laundromat door slams closed behind you with a hollow thud as you enter.

You move slowly to the far corner, the same row of machines you used that other night. You don't sit. You can't. Your knees feel like they might give out if you do. Your hands are shaking so hard you nearly drop a dryer sheet. Your breath shudders as you shove clothes into the washer—too fast, too angry. You are tunnel-visioned without awareness as to what is going on around you as you work.

When you finally sink to the bench, you press your palms to your eyes until you see stars. The burn behind your throat rises again, but you swallow it down.

You already cried the whole way here. You're tired of giving him more tears.

You assume you are alone until a voice startles you.

"___, are you okay?"

Your head lifts slowly, almost in disbelief. Sitting just across the way on a waiting bench—coat unzipped, eyes wide like he's surprised to see you too—is Namjoon.

He has been sitting there since you arrived, just watching. Surveying you.

Namjoon crosses the floor slowly towards you.

You don't move. You can't. His presence is surreal—it's like your grief conjured him, like some aching part of you called out and he answered. You want to speak, to explain, but the words are lost somewhere in the swell of emotion tightening your throat.

He kneels in front of you, his warm palms wrapping gently around your forearms. "What happened?" he asks, voice low, rough with concern.

Your lips part, but only a breath comes out. Then, without thinking, you fall forward into him. You touch the laundry stranger for the first time.

Namjoon catches you without hesitation. His arms come around you fast and firm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest like it's where you were meant to be all along. You bury your face in the curve of his neck, hot tears spilling freely now, soaking into the soft fabric of his hoodie. He smells like faint cologne and winter air.

He holds you tighter.

His body is solid and comforting, all lean muscle and quiet strength beneath his clothes. The way your palms press against his chest, you can feel the every curve and turn of his chest muscles. His hand rubs up and down your back in long, slow strokes, fingertips brushing just below the hem of your hoodie each time they pass. The contact sends a ripple of heat across your skin, and you're too enthralled to flinch from it. 

You lean into his touch, craving the sensation, craving him.

"I found pictures," you whisper, voice cracking against his collarbone, "of him with someone else."

Namjoon exhales sharply, his hand pausing on your back. "That motherfucker."

"I called. I texted. I begged for an answer and he won't even give me that." You pull in a breath, your cheek pressing against the curve of his shoulder, feeling the way his body tenses beneath your touch. "I don't know why I came here. I just... I didn't know where else to go."

He doesn't speak for a long moment; instead, he shifts, his hands moving to cup your face gently, tipping your chin until your eyes meet his. The pads of his thumbs brush away your tears. You can feel the heat in his palms, the strength in his fingers, the way he holds your face like it's precious—like you are.

"Forget about him," Namjoon murmurs, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips for the briefest moment. "You don't deserve it. None of it."

You breathe shakily, and you're aware—painfully aware—of every inch of him against you. The way his knee brushes yours. The way your hands have ended up gripping the front of his hoodie.

"I don't know why it hurts so much," you whisper. "I'm so stupid."

"Because you love him," he says. "And he's a scumbag. He doesn't treat you the way he should."

The truth stings. The words fall from Namjoon's mouth and stab you in the chest. You are trembling with disgust as you internalize what he is saying to you. Namjoon is right, and you are finally ready to admit it— your boyfriend is an asshole.

"I don't love him," you finally say aloud. You are quiet, speaking just under your breath.

Namjoon doesn't respond right away. His hand is still gently cupping the back of your neck, and his eyes search yours—like he's trying to make sure you believe what you just said. That it's real. That you're finally free. The truth settles between you in the silence of your stares.

Then he murmurs, almost shyly not wanting to speak but feeling compelled, "I've been coming here... almost every night."

Your brows furrow. "What?"

Namjoon's gaze drops briefly, then lifts again—stronger, bolder. "I was hoping I'd see you again."

You can't help but widen your eyes in some version of disbelief.

"___," he says your name softly, a slight smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "I couldn't stop thinking about you... about how you looked at me. How you listened."

He shifts closer—his knee pressing firmly between your thighs, his hand warm against your hip. "You've been stuck in my head, ___. And now you're here, crying again, and all I want to do is make it stop."

His forehead grazes yours. You close your eyes—just for a second—until his lips hover over yours, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath across your mouth.

"Namjoon," you breathe, but you don't know what to say.

Your mind is thinking of the many actions you want to take right now, and all of them lead to the same place. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as you decide then and now that you need this. You want Namjoon to close the distance.

You tilt your chin, lips parting instinctively as a silent indication of what you want. Namjoon's eyes roam your face, from your eyes and down to your lips, and when he finally kisses you—it isn't hesitant. It's slow and passionate.

His mouth moves against yours with quiet intensity. It's slow at first, then firmer, deeper—his hand slipping from your hip to your waist as his tongue slips into your mouth. He pulls you closer until there's nothing but heat between you. Your hands move on their own, feeling at his muscular chest and fisting the fabric of his hoodie to bring him as close as you can to you.

Namjoon kisses like he feels everything—like your pain is his to carry too. His other hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with aching tenderness as his mouth moves with yours, slow and savoring.

He shifts his weight into you , pressing your body gently back against the bench, allow himself room between your parted legs. His chest presses to yours, solid and warm and unrelenting, with the thud of his heartbeat matching yours in a rhythm that's escalating.

Your body responds to him easily; you find yourself swaying your hips into him for some friction against your heating core. You gasp softly into his mouth as your body instinctively responding to the pressure. Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath uneven.

"This is okay?" he whispers.

You nod, already leaning back in. "Yeah," you breathe. "More than okay."

His smile is soft, but his eyes are dark and full of want. When he kisses you again, it's less patient—hungrier now. You respond with just as much heat, sliding your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the short, soft strands of his hair. You arch into him when his hands settle at your hips, his grip tightening, guiding you against him with no space.

The room is quiet except for the washer machine humming beside you, and the shared breaths of two people losing themselves in something unexpected. Namjoon's mouth trails from yours to your jaw, down to the sensitive skin below your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he disperses wet kisses on your skin.

You don't want him to stop. Not now. Not when it feels so good. You exhale shakily, and for the first time in what feels like forever—you feel wanted.

Namjoon's lips return to yours and the kiss deepens; the urgency in it is palpable. It's as if he can't get enough of you. Your lips are swollen and your chest is heaving as you moan into his mouth. His name slips in alluring mumbles from your lips.

The heat is tingling inside you. As your mouths and bodies work against each other in a passionate display of lust, your sensitive insides are feeling every inch of him. You feel it start as just a glimmer of excitement in your lower stomach, and then continue as a pooling mess in your underwear.

"Fuck," you whimper at how turned on you are. Your hands slide down to the front of his jeans, wanting to know if he is feeling the same way as you. Your exploration leads your to a inciting revelation; Namjoon's cock is hard beneath material.

You press your palm against him, feeling for the outline of his length in your fingertips. You apply pressure around his hardness as his lips continue against yours. Namjoon's mouth falls open at the sensation, mouth getting sloppy at the feeling of your caressing touch.

He groans lowly against your mouth, "I don't care who's watching."

The comment sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't care. Neither do you. All that matters is the way your bodies fit together, the way his lips feel against your skin, the way he's gotten your panties wet; igniting you.

"I want it," you moan into his mouth.

Your hands move more urgently, retracting from his crotch and tugging at his hoodie. You pull it over his head in one swift motion. The cool air hits his chest, and you run your fingers over the solid muscle beneath his skin. He groans, low and deep, his head falling back as your hands explore the ridges of his chest.

You pull him back to you, your lips finding his again. He responds just as urgently, his hands now pushing your sweater up over your head. You feel exposed in the best way.

Namjoon steps back, his gaze lingering on your body, his eyes dark with a burning desire you too feel in your chest. He mumbles sincerely at you, "you're fucking beautiful"

You swallow, your breath uneven, as he moves in again, his lips finding the skin of your throat, trailing lower. You can't stop the soft moan that slips from your lips when his hands slide down your sides, brushing the curve of your hips.

The feeling of his hands on your skin—so hot, so sure—has you reeling, but you don't care. You want him. Namjoon.

"I don't give a shit about him," you murmur, your voice rough with need, and you can't help but feel a surge of heat flood through you. "I want you," you say.

Before he can respond, Namjoon's mouth is on yours again, but this time it's not soft or slow—it's urgent and demanding. His hands are on your body, caressing, pulling, guiding you as if he can't get enough. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him as close as possible, needing the weight of him against you. His lips trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he leaves a trail of soft, desperate kisses.

Your hands find his erection under his jeans again, fumbling with the buttons, needing to feel him—all of him—just as much as he wants to feel you. Namjoon moans lowly into your kiss at the feeling of your hand against him. You're desperate now, for him, for the connection that's been building between you since the moment you met. It's all you can think about.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with desire; panting. "____..?" your name trails off his lips in an unfinished question. He wants to know what you want. His gaze is narrowed down at you, voice thick and raspy.

You don't hesitate to confirm what you're both thinking. "Yes."

That's all it takes. He moves quickly, shedding the rest of his clothes. Your follow in suit, gently guiding your legs out of your shorts. His jeans drop to the ground, and his shirt is thrown to the side before returning to you with more passion, lifting you in his arms like it's nothing, carrying you to the nearby folding table. The two of you are left only in your underwear when he places you atop the surface, your body trembling beneath his touch, your hands already running over the soft, heated skin of his chest. The folding table, although inexperienced at supporting two hungry bodies, doesn't waver in stance with your weight on it. 

The world outside the laundromat no longer matters. It's just you and him, locked in this intimate, heated moment, the tension and desire between you both too strong to ignore.

His kisses are hungry, sloppy, devouring, like he's starved for you. You kiss him back with just as much passion, clinging to his bare shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms to hang on to the flood of feeling. Your insides are tingling with every ounce of desire that you can muster.  Namjoon presses closer, his hips wedged between your legs, the table creaking softly beneath the abrupt, relentless weight of the two of you. You can feel the hard, consuming pressure of him through the thin layers of fabric between you, and it's making your head spin. Every nerve comes alive where he touches you, where his hands move with growing boldness. His lips leave yours only to take a burning, open-mouthed trail down your jaw, along the sensitive line of your neck. He nibbles softly at the spot just below your ear, sucking just hard enough to make you shudder, to make you turn your head and offer him more. His hands roam up the heated skin of your abdomen, palms rough and warm as they travel up your ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of your breasts.

"Fuck," he growls against your skin, voice low and hoarse, "you're so fucking perfect."

You're trembling under his touch—partly it's that need—that need you haven't felt in a long time. The other part is slight disbelief that this is happening, that someone could want you like this, touch you like this. Your now ex-boyfriend made you feel like this was impossible. You clutch Namjoon's shoulders tighter, pressing your hips forward instinctively, shameless in how much you need more of him.

Namjoon groans at the movement, his mouth finding yours again in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless noise. One of his hands slides down your side, deliberately, until it finds the waistband of your underwear.

He hesitates—just for a second—his forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged.

You shake your head, breathless. "Don't stop. Please."

That's all the confirmation Namjoon needs.

His fingers slip under the band of your underwear, dragging the fabric down your thighs with one hand while the other stays curled around your waist, holding you. The cool air brushes against your bare skin for a moment—before his hand returns, warm and sure, parting your thighs wider.

Your head falls back at the feeling of his fingertips at your wetness. Your body knows what it wants. Your insides are aching—yearning—to be touched, to be explored, to be wanted right at this moment. 

"You're so wet," he rasps, voice breaking around the words sexily. "God, you're so fucking wet for me."

His fingertips slide easily against you—the digits drenched in your pleasure. You nod drowsily at him, moaning a soft variation of agreement to his words. His touch feels so good as he slowly lathers your drenched insides at the pad of his fingertips. Your back hits the wall of the laundromat and you feel between your parted legs with your hand, searching hungrily for Namjoon's length. When your fingers finally find him, his cock is strained and throbbing against his briefs. You can't wait anymore. 

You bite your lip, looking at him through hooded eyes. You lean forward, catching the bottom of his earlobe against your lips as you whisper erotically. "Fuck me."

Namjoon groans at your command. You feel his cock twitch in your hand when you finally spring it free from his underwear. Your tall handsome sexual partner's mouth falls open against your neck as he continues to kiss your flushed skin. His lips are wet, delectable, as they attack your skin eagerly. Your palm slides up and down his throbbing length, his skin slick and lubricated from the tip. 

There are no words exchanged when your hands touch in-between you. You spread your legs for him, the tip of his cock swollen and wet when he starts playing with your clit. You fall back with a racing heart, moans slipping endlessly from your breathless mouth as Namjoon using the tip of his cock to rub circles on your most potent pleasure point. Your feet meet the back of his legs, urging him, willing him, to close the gap between you. 

"Yes," you moan. The heat is starting to tingle in your toes. You can feel with each torturous swipe of his tip against your clit, you are growing closer and closer to a climax, something you haven't had with another person in months. 

Namjoon knows you're close. He is observing your every reaction to him. His eyes are dark, full of lust, his erection throbbing with his heart thudding in anticipation. Your drowsy eyes make it hard to see him, but you can feel his stare. His hips sway softly, carefully, studying the way your body jolts as his sensitive tip rubs over your clit. 

"Namjoon," you cry. "I want you inside me."

"Oh, fuck, ___," he grunts at your breathless moans, your name sounding sinful from his beautiful lips. 

Your mouth falls agape when you feel his swollen shaft press into you. You whimper, almost relieved, as his cock slips past your entrance. You are biting your lips to control just how much you want to groan and moan for the feeling. Namjoon slowly shifts his hips forward, teasingly slow, as you stretch around him. You can feel every small movement, every new inch of your insides he pushes through. Your hands lock around his flexed bicep, digging your nails into his skin. 

"So—" he trails with concentration, "—fucking good."

You are nodding at him because you can't find words. His cock is almost fully inside you now, your legs tightening around his lean frame, wanting to stop the teasing so he can fill you. His cock is pulsing between your insides; your clenching walls giving his length immense pressure as he attempts to thrust into you. The two of you share different octaves of moans when he fills you entirely, his torso meeting your spread inner thighs. 

Namjoon pulls at the material of your bra as he begins thrusting into you. Your breasts spill, his hands molding and shaping your skin in his harsh grasp as your bodies work against one another. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as he palms your breasts, thumbs flicking over your sensitive peaks while his hips grind deeper into you.

“God, baby,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath is hot, uneven. “Look at you taking my cock."

You gasp, sobbing out half-formed sounds as his thrusts pick up pace. "Fuck, I-I... yes."

His body is pounding into yours with slow, merciless rhythm. Each roll of his hips meets a varied sensitive hub within your core, sparking heat and tingles throughout every inch of your body. You can feel his length pressing deeply inside you, testing your limits, wanting to find that spot to take you over the edge. With each new stroke he takes against you, you feel his cock nearing it. 

The laundromat fades around you—the hum of forgotten rackety machines, the flicker of overhead lights, the cold, chilling air. All that exists is the delicious friction of Namjoon inside you, the grip of his controlling hands gripping your hips, steadying your body as he fills you repeatedly, and the way your bodies slap together in frantic, desperate synchronization.

Your head falls back, exposing your throat, and Namjoon doesn’t waste the invitation. His mouth latches onto your skin, kissing, biting, sucking marks you know will still be there tomorrow — proof of tonight, proof that you were wanted. You want the proof. You want your ex-boyfriend to feel the shame—even if just for a moment—some regret for the way he treats you. 

“Look at me,” Namjoon demands. "Oh, you good girl."

You force your heavy lids open, meeting his stare — dark, glassy, possessive. The raw need etched across his face almost undoes you. His hair falls into his eyes as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the tremble already building again in your thighs.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass, tilting your hips up so he can thrust even deeper. "Not his."

You whimper, feeling your whole body tightening.

"Say it," he grunts through thrusts.

 “Yours,” you breathe, desperate, broken and open for him. “I’m yours.”

Namjoon releases a guttural sound at your words, his cock sliding and pushing into your clenching walls with renewed intensity. Your insides flutter around him, collapsing to entrap him, your climax looming sharp and fast and inevitable. The folding table beneath you is now creaking loudly in protest, but neither of you care—too lost in the frenzied, frantic way your bodies drive toward release.

"That's it, ___," he coos in praise. "Cum for me."

Your hands squeeze around his biceps, trying to hold on as Namjoon's large frame continuously rocks back and forth into you. Cries are escaping you and you can't stop them, the pleasure becoming too much, overwhelming you, the tip of his length meeting you so deeply inside you that with your eyes closed, you feel as though you are falling through a different universe.

"Fuck," you cry, "Right there—yes—!"

It only takes a few more thrusts of his length inside you for you to climax against him. Namjoon's cock is swollen, rushing with blood, swelling between your walls as you clench around it. Your body is clamping down around him so tightly, that it's difficult for him to pull from you when he is reaching his climax. Namjoon is breathing heavily; his cock glistening and slipper when his hand grasps it. 

You are panting, almost unable to catch yourself when your hands fall back onto the folding table. Your body is still jolting, trembling from the loss of contact inside you. You ride out your climax while Namjoon pumps his shaft in his hand—only two times before he cums on your stomach. The substance oozes from his twitching member, sticky as it meets your heated skin. 

Your chest is rising erratically when you come down from your climax. Your legs are limp, totally exhausted as your body settles against the wall. The folding table creaks just slightly when Namjoon pulls his weight from you, and then buckles on one side. Your eyes widen and Namjoon catches your forearm to stop you from falling. 

The two of you share a breathless laugh. 

A slow, exhausted smile spreads across Namjoon’s face — it's so real, so unfiltered, that it makes your heart flutter. It's a feeling you didn't think you could have after dealing with your ex-boyfriend. And when Namjoon pulls you in, not caring about anything else in the world, to press a chaste kiss on your fatigued lips, you know that your desperate actions with him were right.

For the first time in months, you believe it: you're not forgotten nor neglected.