Mongmong

You're staring at nothing again. The hum of the building settles into your bones, a low vibration you can't shake since you got back. 

Your eyes feel heavy, and every few minutes you realize you've been standing still, holding the same posture, not really seeing anything.

A voice cuts through. "Hey. You okay?"

You blink, turn. A coworker is looking at you with that mix of curiosity and mild concern. 

"You've been spacing out all day.”

"I've been calling you for like... a whole minute.”

You gave an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your neck.

"Sorry. Just didn't get much sleep.”

"You seriously need some rest.”

"Yeah," you murmur with a small shrug. "Guess so..."

“Mmh.” They smile, just a casual curve of their lips. "So…”

“How was your trip to Japan?"

“....”

You stare at them for a moment.

Your thoughts drift somewhere else before you quickly pull yourself back, forcing a tight smile onto your face.

"Yeah... it was…”

“Great.”

—

"I'm not really... looking for marriage yet."

The man in front of you watches you for a long moment. His expression barely changes. When he finally answers, his voice remains as calm as ever. 

"Oh..."

A brief pause. 

"I'm not asking you to marry me. Right now."

The words leave you blinking in surprise. Before you can respond, he continues in the same measured tone.

"But at least we need to do something to show that you're committed..." His gaze remains steady.

"...to me.”

The words hang in the air, refusing to settle into your chest.

"...But isn't this... too quick?" Your voice comes out thinner than you intended.

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drops for a heartbeat—a measured breath escaping him in a quiet exhale. 

There's no frustration in the lines of his face. If anything, he looks like a man trying to piece together a puzzle you didn't know you were building.

When his eyes lift to meet yours again, his voice is steady. Unshaken.

"I don't think it is."

He pauses, letting the weight of his certainty settle between you.

"You've become comfortable around me." His gaze holds yours, unblinking. "Isn't that why you're here?"

Only then do you force yourself to truly see the room.

The living room stretches around you, immaculate, every surface gleaming under the soft amber light spilling through the tall windows. 

Polished hardwood floors reflect the glow, warm and inviting. The navy-blue furnishings are arranged with a precision that speaks of deliberate care—nothing out of place, nothing accidental. 

You hadn't even noticed how naturally you'd stepped inside, how your feet had carried you past the threshold without hesitation.

Your lips part, searching for something to say. "Nanami—…”

"I don't understand.”

“My love..." He continues before you can finish, his voice gentle but unyielding, not interrupting so much as guiding.

Another pause.

"We've enjoyed each other's company for nearly a month." His head tilts, just slightly, a gesture of genuine curiosity.

"We've shared meals."

"We've spent evenings together."

"You've trusted me enough to let me walk you home." His expression doesn't shift. His composure remains intact.

"So help me understand."

The question drops into the space between you like a stone into still water.

"What changed?"

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow sound. You lower your gaze, your throat tightening.

"...Nothing changed." The words are barely a whisper, fragile as glass.

"It just..." 

"...caught me off guard."

Something flickers across his face—a flicker of understanding, soft and fleeting.

"Hm."

He nods, a small, slow movement. "I can understand that."

The tension in your shoulders eases for a fraction of a second. Then his right hand moves behind him.

When it returns, a small velvet box rests in his palm. Dark blue. The color of midnight.

He looks at it briefly, as though weighing the decision one last time, before holding it out between you.

"I even bought the rings." His voice is quieter now, almost apologetic.

"For us."

Silence…

Your eyes lock onto the box. Your mind refuses to catch up. The velvet looks soft, but the edges of the box are sharp against his palm. 

Nanami watches you with that quiet attentiveness that has always been his hallmark. The kind of attention that makes you feel seen down to your marrow.

He notices your silence.

Without a word, he slowly lowers his hand and closes the box with a soft, decisive click. The sound cuts through the room like a quiet verdict.

"I'm not forcing you."

His tone remains gentle, but there's something underneath it—a thread of resignation, carefully controlled.

"I wouldn't." A faint smile touches his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The corners of his mouth lift, but the warmth doesn't follow.

"I suppose..."

He exhales quietly, and you feel the air shift. "I misunderstood."

He turns the small box over once in his hand, his thumb tracing the edge of the velvet, before slipping it back into his pocket. 

"I believed we were arriving at the same destination."

His gaze drifts to the floor for a moment, and you see the faintest shadow of disappointment cross his features before he masters it.

"Perhaps I was walking a little further ahead than you realized." 

He looks back up, and his composure is intact again, seamless as a mask. "That's my mistake."

The words are calm. Reasonable. Almost too kind. And yet they settle in your chest like a stone, so heavy and cold.

"I don't want you agreeing to something because you feel obligated."

He holds your gaze, steady and unwavering. "If your feelings aren't where mine are..."

A faint nod, almost to himself.

"Then I'll simply have to accept that I was mistaken."

He stands there, composed as ever, the perfect picture of graceful acceptance. 

But the quiet disappointment he carries so effortlessly leaves you feeling as though you've reached into his chest and pulled the warmth out yourself.

You watch him, the way his shoulders relax just a fraction, the faint crease between his brows that smooths as he steadies his breath. 

A thought flickers, unbidden.

It's not marriage yet… So why not?

"...Wait.”

“Are you sure, love?” he asks, his voice, usually so measured, cracks just enough to reveal the vulnerability he keeps hidden.

 “You want to be with me?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and let out a soft laugh that sounds more like a sigh of relief. “Yes,” you say, the word simple but weighted. “You just shocked me, okay?”

"I see." A faint smile touches his lips. "My apologies."

"I wasn't trying to startle you.”

He exhales slowly, the breath escaping as if he'd been holding it for far too long. 

“Wait here, on the sofa,” he says, his voice low and steady, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I'll be right back.”

You settle back into the cushions, the fabric cool against your skin, and glance at the wall clock. Five minutes tick by, each second stretching just enough to make you wonder if he’s changed his mind. 

Then, from behind you, a voice—soft, familiar, yet startlingly close—calls your name.

You turn, and there he stands, arms laden with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, their petals a riot of color that seems to catch the light and hold it. 

Beside them sits a massive teddy bear, its fur plush and inviting, and a box of chocolates tied with a satin ribbon. 

He stands there with the bouquet lifted just enough to hide part of his face, a shy gesture that feels utterly out of character for the composed man you know, and yet it makes your heart flutter all the more.

You rise from the sofa, still staring at him in quiet disbelief before carefully taking the bouquet from his hands. Holding it against your chest, you let out a small laugh.

"It's... quite big.”

You gently place the bouquet on the side table before taking the oversized teddy from him, your fingers brushing over its impossibly soft fur. You can't help but smile at the absurdity of its size as you set it carefully beside the bouquet.

He watches you, his eyes warm, and lets out a soft sigh that seems to carry both relief and something akin to awe. 

Slowly, he reaches for one of your hands, his fingers brushing yours with a reverence that feels almost ceremonial. 

From his pocket he produces the same small velvet box, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light with a quiet brilliance.

“This… is for you,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a secret shared between just the two of you. 

He lifts your hand, turning it over so that the back of your palm faces him, and presses a tender kiss to the skin there. 

You look up at him, seeing the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his usual composure has softened into something tender and earnest.

“I… I wasn’t expecting this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles, a genuine, unguarded smile that reaches his eyes. “Neither was I,” he replies, his tone carrying a quiet certainty.

"But I wanted you to know..." He slides the ring gently onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

"...that I chose you with every intention of staying." His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.

"I hope... you'll allow me to remain by your side.”

—

It had all started with a chance encounter outside Shinjuku Station.

You'd been standing near the East Exit, trying to decide where to go next, when a quiet voice had caught your attention.

"Your first time in Tokyo?"

A stranger in a well-tailored suit had patiently explained the quickest way to Shibuya, pointing you toward the JR Yamanote Line and even telling you which exit would make exploring easier. 

Before you could thank him more than once, he'd simply wished you an enjoyable trip and disappeared back into the evening crowd.

You hadn't expected to see him again.

Yet three days later, amidst the chaos of Shibuya Crossing, your paths crossed once more.

This time, the conversation lasted longer.

You noticed the white bandages wrapped neatly around his left hand—a detail you'd somehow missed during your first encounter. 

Concerned, you'd asked if the injury was serious.

He'd looked down at it for a quiet moment, letting out a soft sigh followed by the faintest chuckle before answering,

"Yeah..."

A small pause.

"It is."

That was also the day the two of you finally exchanged names.

After that, the meetings simply... continued.

At first they felt like coincidences, then familiar routines. You'd cross paths in different districts, different cafés, different stations. 

Sometimes he'd stop to recommend a restaurant, insisting the food was worth trying. Other times he'd quietly hand you a drink before you had the chance to buy one yourself.

Whenever the clock edged toward six in the evening, he'd walk with you for a while before politely excusing himself, never quite accompanying you all the way home.

The conversations remained effortless. Food, work, the city, places worth visiting—nothing personal enough to make you uncomfortable, yet somehow enough to make his company become familiar.

Weeks slipped by without either of you noticing.

Eventually, other people began noticing instead.

Cashiers, shopkeepers, waiters—strangers smiled at the two of you with the easy assumption that you were together. You always laughed it off. Nanami never corrected them.

When you finally asked why, he'd simply stirred his tea before replying, almost absentmindedly,

“I could have.”

A small pause.

“It didn't seem necessary."”

"People seem to mistake us for a couple rather often."

You'd laughed awkwardly. "Yeah... They do."

"Does it bother you?"

You'd thought about it before shaking your head. "Not really."

He'd acknowledged the answer with a single nod.

“I see."

Looking back now, perhaps that had been the moment everything quietly began changing—though you hadn't realized it then.

—

The next morning, you wake to the warmth of sunlight spilling across the bed, blinking slowly as the unfamiliar ceiling comes into focus. 

It takes a second before the memories of yesterday settle back into place, and almost immediately, your eyes wander toward the armchair by the window.

"...Huh?" 

You sit up properly, pushing the blanket from your legs. The chair is empty. You could've sworn you'd left the oversized teddy there before climbing into bed. 

It had been impossible to miss—nearly half your height, ridiculous enough to make you laugh every time you looked at it.

Frowning, you climb to your feet and glance around the room. The bouquet still sits exactly where you'd placed it. The chocolates remain untouched on the dresser.

But the teddy...

It's gone.

You crouch beside the bed first, peering underneath as though something that large could somehow fit there. Nothing.

The wardrobe is next. Then behind the bedroom door. Even the bathroom.

"...That's weird."

Straightening, you scratch absentmindedly at your temple.

Did you move it?

You don't remember doing that.

After another quick look around the room, you give up with a quiet sigh. Maybe you'd left it downstairs last night and simply forgot.

The thought is enough to satisfy you—for now.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the apartment is already filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Nanami is sitting at the dining table, glasses resting low on his nose as he quietly flips through the morning newspaper. A porcelain cup sits beside him, steam still curling lazily into the air.

He notices you almost immediately.

Without saying a word, he folds the newspaper neatly and sets it aside before gesturing toward the empty chair across from him.

"Good morning."

You return the smile, slipping into the seat opposite him. "Morning."

His eyes linger on your face for a moment. "You slept well?"

"I think so."

"I'm glad."

He reaches for his coffee, taking an unhurried sip before setting the cup back onto its saucer. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"I've already prepared everything, but if there's something you'd rather have, I don't mind making it."

You tell him what you're in the mood for.

He nods once. For a moment, silence settles comfortably between you. Then the thought from upstairs returns.

"...Oh."

You glance up. "The teddy you gave me yesterday..."

His fingers pause around the handle of his cup. "Yes?"

"I can't find it."

A small crease forms between his brows. "...The teddy?"

"The really big one!"

He looks at you for a long second. Then, with complete sincerity—

"...Sweetheart." His voice is as gentle as ever. "There wasn't a teddy."

You blink. "What?"

"I bought you flowers." He says it simply, almost apologetically. 

"I'm afraid there wasn't.”

"Huh...?" You let out a small, confused laugh. 

"No... there was." You gesture with your hands, trying to show the size. 

"It was huge!"

His expression doesn't change. "If there had been one," he says softly, "I think I would've remembered carrying something that large."

That…

...actually makes your confidence falter.

"...Maybe..." You rub the back of your neck. 

"Maybe I left it somewhere else.”

“Hm.” He doesn't linger on the subject. Instead, he reaches for his coffee again before asking, almost casually—

"Would you like to spend today together as well?"

You hesitate. "I don't want to keep taking up your time."

He sets the cup down with a quiet click. "I wouldn't have asked if I minded."

The corner of your mouth lifts. "...Okay."

A smile—small but unmistakably genuine—appears on his face.

"Good."

He rises from his chair, stopping beside you just long enough to gently pat the top of your head with his other hand, the one still wrapped in bandages.

"I'll bring your breakfast." His hand slips away as naturally as it arrived. 

"Freshen up."

"We'll leave once you're ready."

You nod, while he disappears into the kitchen. Left alone, your gaze drifts back toward the staircase.

Your brows slowly knit together again.

...There was definitely a teddy.

—

The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the apartment as Nanami sets a steaming plate in front of you. The eggs are cooked just right, sprinkled with chopped chives that catch the morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

He moves calmly, without wasting a single motion—and when he looks at you, his gaze lingers just a little longer than usual.

“Here,” he says, his voice low. " hope it suits your taste.”

“Thanks.” You smile, grateful for the ordinary comfort of the gesture, and lift your fork. 

He watches you eat, his elbows resting on the table, his hands folded loosely. There’s a softness in his eyes, the kind that makes you feel both seen and strangely exposed. 

A faint tapping against the glass draws your attention. You glance toward the windows just as rain begins to fall, droplets gathering before sliding down the panes and blurring the city beyond. 

Nanami follows your gaze, his brow furrowing just slightly. He lets out a breath that sounds part sigh, part resignation.

"I had hoped we could go out today. There's a market nearby I thought you might enjoy. Unfortunately..." 

He glances toward the rain. "...it seems we'll have to postpone that.”

You hum, the sound low and throaty, and let your eyes drop to the plate. The fork hovers over a piece of toast, your appetite suddenly muted by the weight of the words hanging in the air. 

“Could you… drop me off at the hotel?” you say, the question slipping out before you can fully shape it. “I need to pack my things. It’s… almost the end.”

He sets his fork down with a quiet clink, the metal catching the light.  "Of course." A small nod. 

"I'll have your belongings brought here. You don't need to concern yourself with them.”

“But…”

“...Where are you going?” he asks, his voice gentle but probing, as if he’s trying to read the map of your thoughts from the curve of your jaw.

You swallow, the words catching in your throat. “I need to go back,” you say, the phrase feeling both familiar and foreign. “It’s the end of the trip.”

He leans back in his chair, the movement deliberate, his broad shoulders settling against the backrest. 

"I see." He folds his arms, considering your words for a quiet moment. "That would make settling there rather difficult for me." His eyes meet yours.

 "...Do you truly have to go back?”

The question hangs between you, heavy and unexpected. You feel a flash of surprise—had he been imagining a future where his life intertwined with yours in your hometown? The thought is both flattering and terrifying.

“You don’t have to,” you reply quickly, the words tumbling out in an attempt to ease the tension you sense building. 

“We can keep it this way. No need to… change anything.”

He studies you for a long moment, the silence stretching like a taut string. Then, his voice low and earnest, he asks again, "...Would you rather we live apart?”

Your heart thuds against your ribs. You want to answer, to give him the clarity he’s seeking, but the words feel like they might shatter something fragile. 

You look down at your plate, the fork now idle in your hand, and toy with the tines, the metal cool against your fingertips. 

“I… don’t know,” you admit, the honesty raw and unfiltered. “I’m not trying to push you away. I just need to sort things out.”

“….” 

He exhales, a sound that carries both frustration and a hint of something softer—perhaps disappointment, perhaps understanding. 

He rises from his chair with a fluid motion that belies the tension in his shoulders, and moves toward you. 

He places a hand lightly on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing the fabric, his palm resting just above your shoulder. His voice drops, intimate and a little wounded.

"You accepted yesterday." His voice remains calm, though quieter now. "Yet today..." 

A slight furrow appears between his brows. 

"...you're speaking as though nothing has changed." His gaze searches yours. 

"Help me understand, love.”

Your gaze flicks up to his face, searching for the familiar calm that usually anchors him. You see the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips press together as he tries to make sense of the shift. 

Your eyes drift back to the plate, to the fork you’re still twisting between your fingers, “Nanami, it's just—”

Before you can formulate a reply, his hand tightens—not painfully, but with a firm, unmistakable grip—around your throat. 

The pressure is enough to make you turn your head, to force your eyes to meet his. 

"Eyes. On. Me, [Name].”

His fingers remain around your throat for another heartbeat.

Not tight enough to hurt. Just firm enough that every instinct pulling your attention elsewhere quietly dies beneath the weight of his touch.

"You aren't going back." His voice remains even, almost gentle, the words carrying the same calm certainty. 

There isn't a trace of anger in them, nor hesitation. He simply looks at you, those hazel eyes unwavering. 

"...You aren't going anywhere."

For a second you only stare at him, convinced you've misunderstood.

"...What?"

The word escapes you in a breathless laugh, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. 

You push his hands away and begin to stand, instinct telling you to put some distance between the two of you.

The movement barely lasts a second.

His hand slides from the back of your chair onto your shoulder, guiding you back into your seat with quiet, unwavering firmness. 

"Shh."

The single syllable is spoken almost tenderly. 

"We'll talk about this." His thumb brushes once against your shoulder before his hand falls away entirely.

"...But not now."

Then, to your complete disbelief, he reaches toward your plate instead. He straightens the fork you'd abandoned, nudging it a little closer as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened, as though he hasn't just calmly informed you that leaving isn't an option.

"You should eat before it gets cold."

You simply stare at him.

"...No." Your voice comes out quieter than intended.

"Nanami, listen to me…"

“.....”

His attention remains entirely on you, patient as ever, waiting for you to continue.

"Staying here isn't an option." You let out a small, awkward laugh. "I've got a life out there, and..." 

You rub the back of your neck, trying to make him understand without making this bigger than it already feels. 

"...and living here would definitely need citizenship, and I don't have that, or—"

"I'll get you one."

He interrupts so naturally that, for a moment, you forget what you were saying. 

“.....” Your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

Nanami watches you with quiet patience. "It isn't something you need to worry about," he continues in that same composed voice. 

"I'll arrange it."

Silence…

The rain drums steadily against the glass, filling the apartment with a sound that suddenly feels unbearably loud.

You slowly rise to your feet again, this time without looking away from him.

"...Nanami."

He lifts his eyes to meet yours immediately.

"I think..." You search his face, hoping for even the faintest indication that this is some sort of misunderstanding. "...I think you didn't listen to me fully."

A quiet pause.

"I cannot stay here."

Something immediately shifts across his expression.

His brows draw together ever so slightly, as though the sentence you've just spoken simply refuses to fit with everything the two of you discussed yesterday. 

He studies your face for several long seconds, searching it with the same careful attention he always gives you.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer than before.

"I'm willing to do anything for you." 

"I mean that." His gaze never leaves yours. "Literally everything."

A faint breath escapes him before he continues. "But..." 

He tilts his head ever so slightly, genuine bewilderment settling behind his eyes. "...you can't do this one thing for me?"

The question isn't accusatory. If anything, it sounds wounded.

"If I could, I would've moved in with you instead." His expression remains calm despite the quiet disappointment creeping into it. "I truly would have."

His eyes soften.

"But that isn't possible, love." He lets the words settle before asking, with quiet, heartbreaking sincerity.

"Can you not understand that?”

“....”

"This isn't how relationships work." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

Therefore, he remains silent for a moment. He studies you with quiet concentration.

"...How do they work, then?"

You stare at him.

"What?"

"You said this isn't how relationships work." His voice is as calm as it has always been.

"Then tell me." He takes a small step toward you, his gaze never leaving yours.

"What am I doing incorrectly?"

The question catches you completely off guard.

You open your mouth, only to close it again. This wasn't what you'd expected. You'd expected him to argue. To become frustrated. To tell you that you were overreacting.

Instead...

He sounds genuinely confused.

"You..." You struggle to gather your thoughts, shaking your head slightly. "You can't just expect someone to leave everything behind."

He nods once, thoughtfully, as though carefully considering every word you've said. “I see.”

"And, my job," you continue quickly, relief flickering through you at finally finding something concrete. "I have a job back home.”

"You'll find another."

The answer comes so naturally that you almost miss it.

Your lips part.

"My apartment..."

"We'll arrange it."

You blink.

"My money..."

"I'll take care of it."

Every concern you raise is met with an answer before you've even finished speaking, each one delivered with the same composed certainty he uses when recommending something.

"My family..." Your voice grows noticeably quieter. "They're back home."

"You'll still be able to speak with them." He says it gently, almost reassuringly.

"I would never ask you to lose the people you care about."

You simply stare at him for several long seconds, you can't find a single word. Because he isn't arguing with you. He isn't dismissing your concerns. He's just solving them.

"...No."

You shake your head, taking an unconscious step backward. "No... that's not what I mean."

None of this is making sense.

Why is he acting this way?

"...How long are we going to keep doing this?" 

His voice isn't raised. If anything, it's calmer than before. "I don't believe we're making any progress."

A brief pause follows.

"I suppose it would be better if we left the conversation here."

Before you can respond, his attention shifts past you. Toward the front door. Your eyes follow his almost instinctively. Then you freeze.

Your suitcase. The smaller overnight bag you'd left at the hotel. The shopping bags you'd accumulated throughout your trip.

Even your carry-on.

Every single one of them is neatly arranged beside the entrance, lined up with almost unsettling precision.

Your brows draw together. "...What?" You stare at them, your thoughts grinding to a halt.

When...

When had those gotten here?

You don't remember hearing the doorbell. You don't remember anyone knocking. More importantly—

Who had brought them?

You slowly turn back toward Nanami, confusion written plainly across your face.

He doesn't appear surprised by your reaction. "I'll have them taken upstairs."

"Your room is already prepared."

He offers you a small, reassuring smile. "So..."

His eyes meet yours.

"Let's forget about this rather silly conversation." Then, without waiting for your answer, he turns toward the luggage.

"...Nanami."

He doesn't stop.

"Nanami!" This time your voice comes out louder, enough to make him pause.

His hand stills against the handle of your suitcase, though he doesn't immediately turn around.

"You can't just decide something like this!"

"You're not even listening to me!"

“.....”

"...Go to your room." He says without looking back.

Your eyes widen. "What?"

"I said..." His voice remains calm. "Go to your room."

You don't move. Every instinct in your body refuses.

"No…”

A quiet breath leaves him almost immediately.

His shoulders rise almost imperceptibly before falling again.

Only then does he slowly turn back to face you.

There is something unmistakably stern in his expression. His mouth set into a thin, disapproving line.

He looks at you for several long seconds before speaking.

"...Aren't you being a brat?"

The word hangs between you, leaving you utterly speechless.

He holds your gaze for another moment before calmly pulling out his chair and sitting down once more, his movements as unhurried as ever.

You're still standing there, rooted to the spot, trying to process what just happened, when he moves.

It's faster than you expect from a man who's always so deliberate.

His hand closes around your wrist, and before you can react, you're being pulled forward. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as you tumble off balance, your body twisting mid-fall. 

You land across his lap, stomach pressed against his thighs, your skirt riding up as your legs dangle off the side of the chair.

"What are you—!?"

The words die in your throat.

His bandaged hand comes down hard against your ass.

The SMACK echoes through the room, sharp and precise, and you feel the flesh jiggle beneath the impact. A startled yelp tears from your lips as heat blooms across your skin.

You twist, trying to push yourself up, but his other hand presses firmly against your lower back, pinning you in place.

"Let me go!" You squirm, legs kicking out uselessly. "Nanami—"

Another SMACK. Harder.

You cry out, your fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers as you try to thrash free. But he's stronger than he looks, and each movement only seems to anchor you more firmly against his lap.

"It hurts!—" The words tumble out, breathless and strained. "Please—"

He doesn't answer.

His hand falls again. And again. Each strike precise, measured, landing in rhythmic succession across your buttcheeks. 

The heat builds. Spreads. Your struggles grow weaker, your body trembling with each impact. Your breathing comes in ragged gasps now.

By the time he stops, you can barely move.

You lie there, limp across his lap, your body quivering. Your ass throbs, hot and tender, and you can feel the dampness pooling between your thighs—a shameful, undeniable wetness that's soaked through your panties.

The silence stretches.

Then you feel it.

His bandaged fingers slide beneath the hem of your skirt, brushing against the heated skin of your inner thigh. 

“...Don't!” You inhale sharply, your whole body tensing as his touch trails upward.

He finds the damp spot immediately.

One finger presses against the soaked fabric of your panties, the rough texture of the bandage grazing your most sensitive flesh. You bite your lip, a shaky breath escaping through your nose.

He presses harder, searching, until he finds it—your clit, swollen and aching beneath the wet cotton. His finger circles, the pressure just enough to make you gasp, before he twists, grinding the fabric against you.

His voice drops, low and rough against your ear.

"What are you?"

You shudder, unable to form words.

His finger presses deeper, rolling in slow, torturous circles.

"A masochist bitch?”

“—!?”

Your fingers are curled into the fabric of his trousers, your forehead pressed against his thigh, and you can't form a single word.

He waits.

The silence stretches, broken only by your uneven breathing.

Then his thumb shifts.

It moves, sliding down from your clit, tracing the soaked line of your panties until it finds the dip—a hungry, aching hole begging to be filled.

The cotton presses inward, squeezing your cunt lips together, making the wetness seep through the thin material and stain the fabric with your need. 

Then, with a slow, deliberate pressure, his bandaged thumb nudges against the very entrance, just barely breaching the tight, trembling ring of your fuckhole.

The rough texture of the bandage grazes your sensitive flesh, and you jolt violently, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. 

“mmgh…” Your hips buck instinctively, but his hand on your lower back holds you steady.

For a single, agonizing second, the tip of his thumb is inside you.

Then it's gone.

He pulls back completely, withdrawing his hand from beneath your skirt, and in one fluid motion, he stands.

His arms hook under your knees and around your back, cradling you against his chest.

Your body is still trembling, your ass still throbbing, your core still aching and wet, and you can only stare up at his jaw as he carries you upstairs.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder, steps inside, and lowers you gently onto the bed. Your body sinks into the mattress, your skirt still bunched up, your panties still damp and clinging to you.

He straightens and turns without a word. Walking out without even looking at you.

The door clicks shut behind him.

A moment later, you hear the unmistakable sound of a lock turning from the outside.

You're alone.

Most importantly... he didn't do anything more.

—

Next day—

The room is still half-dark, painted in shades of gray and blue, and for a long moment you simply lie there, staring at the ceiling.

The memory comes in fragments. The pressure of his fingers around your throat. The way his eyes changed—how they went from warm to something else entirely, something ancient and hungry and utterly without mercy. 

You spent the whole night thinking. 

The apartment was secure in ways you couldn't even begin to understand. And even if you could get out, where would you go? You barely know the streets.

So the only option left was to make him believe.

Make him believe you understood. That you accepted. That you were beginning to see things his way. 

When you find the lock open, you step out of the bedroom, the apartment is quiet. The living room is bathed in pale morning light, and you find him standing by the large window, looking out at the city. 

He's wearing a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he holds a cup of coffee in one hand. 

He doesn't turn when you enter, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the cup.

You stop a few feet behind him. 

"Nanami."

He doesn't turn immediately. There's a long pause, a beat of silence that stretches just long enough to make your stomach clench. Then he sets his coffee down on the windowsill and slowly turns to face you.

His eyes are careful. They sweep over your face, taking in every detail, and you can see the question in them—What are you thinking? Are you thinking of arguing again?

“.....”

"I've thought about this the whole night," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you expected. "Everything that happened. Everything you said."

You take a step closer. Not too close—but close enough to show that you're not afraid.

"I'm sorry," you say. "For how I reacted. I know you weren't trying to hurt me. I know that now."

He blinks. 

You take a breath. You let your shoulders drop, let your posture soften, let yourself look vulnerable.

"I just needed time," you continue. "It was all happening too quickly, you know?”

“I didn't know how to process everything. I panicked."

You pause. Letting the silence settle between you.

"I said things I didn't mean," you add quietly. "I was scared. But I've had time to think now. To really think."

You look down at your hands, then back up at him. You try to make your eyes look sincere. You try to let him see the truth—or at least, the truth you want him to see.

"I've been thinking about what you said," you say. "About how you need me to understand. About how this is the only way things can work. And I think... I think I understand now."

His expression shifts. Just slightly. The hardness in his eyes softens by a fraction, and you see something flicker there—hope, maybe.

“....”

You take another step closer. Now you're close enough to touch him, but you don't. You let your hands hang at your sides.

"I'm sorry I fought you," you whisper. "I'm sorry I made it harder than it needed to be."

He stares at you for a long, long moment. Searching your face, your eyes, your body language, trying to find the lie, trying to see if you're manipulating him.

And then, slowly, his shoulders relax.

He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you.

"I understand, love," he says, and his voice is soft, gentle, the voice of the man you'd first met. 

"This is what I was saying yesterday. I knew you'd come around. I knew you just needed time."

He reaches out and cups your face in his hand, his palm warm against your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, slow and tender.

"I'm so glad you finally understand," he says, and his voice is thick with something that might be emotion. "I was so worried. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd pushed too hard."

You shake your head slightly, careful not to break his hold.

"You didn't lose me," you say. "I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

He lets out a breath, a long, shuddering exhale that seems to carry the weight of everything he'd been holding in. 

He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace, and you feel his face press into your hair.

"Thank you," he whispers against your scalp. 

"Thank you for trying."

—

The rest of the morning passes in a strange, fragile peace. He doesn't lock you up anymore. He doesn't even suggest that you stay in the apartment. Instead, he asks you, with genuine warmth in his voice, if you'd like to go out today.

"Let's visit some places," he says, his hand resting lightly on your lower back. "I want to show you more of Tokyo. The parts you haven't seen yet."

You agree. You smile. You let him guide you out the door and into the soft morning light.

He takes you to a quiet neighborhood in Yanaka, where old wooden houses line narrow streets and cats doze in sunlit doorways. 

He buys you a warm taiyaki from a street vendor—red bean paste, your favorite—and watches you eat it with a soft, fond smile.

He holds your hand as you walk. His thumb traces lazy circles on your skin, and every now and then he stops to point out something interesting—a hidden shrine, a small garden, a shop that sells handmade paper.

By midday, he takes you to a rooftop café in Shibuya, where you can see the scramble crossing below, crowds of people moving like a single organism. 

He orders for you both—a cold brew for himself, a matcha latte for you—and you sit together in comfortable silence, watching the city pulse beneath you.

"Are you tired?" he asks, his eyes on your face.

"A little," you admit.

"Then we'll take it slow. There's no rush."

He reaches across the table and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His touch is warm, steady, and you let yourself relax into it. 

You let yourself pretend that this is real. That this is a normal date between two people who love each other.

—

By the time the sun begins to set, the two of you find yourselves walking along a quiet street overlooking the river. 

The city glows in warm shades of orange, its lights slowly flickering to life as evening settles in.

Nanami comes to a stop beside the railing and looks at you.

"Thank you for today," he says. "For giving me a chance. For trying to understand."

You look back at him. In the fading light, he looks like himself again. Calm. Gentle. 

"...You're welcome."

The words leave your mouth before you can think too hard about them.

He steps closer, lifting a hand to your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin once, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to.You don't.

He leans in, and his lips meet yours.

The kiss is slow and gentle, nothing like the desperation of the night before. His hand stays lightly against your cheek while you kiss him back, the warmth of the setting sun lingering on your skin.

When he finally pulls away, a small smile settles on his face.

"Dinner?" he asks quietly.

You nod, and he offers you his hand before the two of you continue walking together.

—

The restaurant is hidden in a narrow alley in Ginza, its entrance marked by a simple wooden sign with Japanese characters you can't read. 

You glance at it as you pass, catching a glimpse of black ink on pale wood, but the meaning escapes you.

Nanami holds the door open for you, and you step inside.

The interior is breathtaking. Dark wood, soft lighting, a single long counter made of polished hinoki cypress. 

The air smells of soy and sake and something else—something rich and savory. A chef stands behind the counter, bowing as you enter.

But the room is empty.

There are no other customers. Not a single table is occupied. The only sound is the soft hum of the ventilation and the distant clink of a knife from the kitchen.

You look around, confused. "Is it... always this quiet?"

Nanami smiles, guiding you to a seat at the counter. "I reserved the entire place. I wanted us to have privacy."

You blink. Of course he did. Of course.

You sit down, and he takes the seat beside you. 

But you can't stop thinking about the sign. 

Something about the empty restaurant, the exclusive atmosphere, the way everyone seems to know exactly who Nanami is—it makes you wonder.

You push the thought away. You take a bite of the sushi, and it melts on your tongue, and you let yourself enjoy it.

—

Dinner passes easily between the two of you.

The conversation drifts from one topic to another until, somewhere between courses, Nanami looks at you with a small smile.

"Do you know the first time I saw you?"

"You were walking down the street," he says. "Looking completely lost."

A quiet laugh escapes you.

"I remember thinking..." His eyes drift over your clothes before settling back on your face. "...I mistook you for one of us.”

“...What do you mean?”

“Nothing serious.”

You aren't sure how to respond, so you simply smile and ask him another question. He answers without hesitation, and you listen, nodding along, letting him feel heard as the evening slips by.

—

Dinner comes to an end sooner than you expected. As the last dishes are cleared away, you and Nanami step out of the private dining room together.

You tighten your grip on your purse. It has been resting against your shoulder the entire evening, its familiar weight grounding you. 

Your passport. Your flight ticket. Every important document. You'd slipped them inside before leaving the apartment that morning, telling yourself it was only a precaution. 

If an opportunity ever presented itself, you'd have minutes—nothing more.

You glance down the hallway before looking back at him.

"Um... where's the restroom?”

Nanami follows your gaze. "Just down the hall." He gestures toward the corridor.

"I got a little turned around," you admit with an awkward laugh.

His expression softens. "Take your time. I'll wait here."

You smile. "Thanks."

As you start down the corridor, one of the restaurant staff quietly approaches Nanami and begins speaking to him in Japanese. 

He turns his attention to the conversation without another glance your way.

Only then do you keep going.

You pass the restroom without slowing, your heartbeat beginning to pound harder with every step. Another corner. A narrow hallway leading toward the entrance. The heavy wooden doors come into view.

Don't look back.

You push through them and the cool evening air rushes over your face.

Then you run.

You don't stop until you're at the curb, frantically waving down the first taxi you see. The driver barely has time to unlock the doors before you climb into the back seat.

"The airport, please."

The taxi pulls away from the restaurant, merging into the evening traffic. Only then do you dare glance through the rear window.

Nothing.

No one is chasing after you.

Your lungs finally release the breath you'd been holding as the city slips past outside the glass.

Please...

Please let this work.

By the time the taxi reaches the airport, your hands are trembling so badly you nearly fumble your wallet. You pay the driver, clutch your purse tightly against your side, and hurry inside.

The terminal is crowded. Travelers weave past one another with rolling suitcases, families gather around departure boards, and announcements echo overhead.

Then you notice him.

A man in a dark suit standing near one of the entrances.

You barely think anything of it until you notice another leaning against a pillar farther ahead, an earpiece tucked discreetly beneath his hair.

You turn toward another check-in counter.

One of them moves too.

Your stomach knots.

You keep walking, pretending not to notice, but another suited man comes into view near the security line. None of them approach you. None of them say a word. 

Every now and then one tilts his head slightly, his lips moving as though speaking quietly into his earpiece.

Why are they following me?

The question loops through your head as you force yourself toward security.

Don't panic.

Just keep walking.

The officer takes your passport and boarding pass before glancing past your shoulder.

"Where's your luggage?"

Your heart lurches, but you manage a small smile.

"It's... an emergency. I'm flying home alone. My family's staying here for a little while longer, so the luggage is with them."

He studies your face for a brief moment before giving a small nod.

"I understand."

He stamps your documents, hands them back, and smiles politely. "Have a safe flight."

"Thank you."

You murmur the words before continuing through security. Only after you've crossed to the other side do you finally look back.

The men haven't followed you.

They're still standing exactly where they were, watching from beyond the checkpoint.

Relief washes over you so suddenly your knees nearly give out.

By the time your boarding group is called, your breathing has finally settled. You join the line with the other passengers, your passport already in hand.

Just as you're about to step onto the jet bridge, a familiar voice speaks behind you.

"Miss [Name]."

Your entire body goes rigid.

You turn slowly.

One of the suited men stands several feet away. He doesn't come any closer. Instead, he gives a polite bow before setting down your carry-on that you'd left behind.

"I believe these belong to you."

You stare at him, unable to speak.

"...How?"

The man simply reaches into his jacket and produces a slim envelope.

Inside are the remaining documents you'd thought were gone.

He closes it again and offers another respectful bow.

"Mr. Nanami wishes for you to have a safe flight."

Before you can ask another question, he turns and walks away without another word, disappearing into the crowd as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened.

You remain frozen where you stand, staring after him.

A flight attendant gently smiles.

"Ma'am?"

You blink, forcing your legs to move. 

When you finally land, exhaustion settles deep into your bones. Carrying your purse and your carry-on, you pass the baggage carousel without a second thought—until something familiar catches your eye.

Your suitcase slowly rolls into view, a fresh baggage tag fastened neatly around the handle. You stop in your tracks. You never checked it in. You never even touched it after leaving. 

Yet somehow... it had made the journey home with you.

—

Two months.

Two whole months had passed since you'd stepped off that plane, and yet Japan still found its way back into your thoughts when you least expected it.

You let out a quiet sigh, leaning back against the couch as your phone rested loosely in your hand.

You'd tried to move on.

You'd thrown yourself back into work, answered every worried question from your family with carefully edited half-truths, and convinced yourself that leaving had been the right decision.

It was the right decision.

...Wasn't it?

Sometimes, usually late at night when the house had gone quiet, you couldn't help wondering what would have happened if you'd stayed. If you hadn't run from that restaurant. If you'd gone back to the apartment with him instead…

The thought never lasted long.

Because no matter how gentle he'd been the next morning, no matter how normal that day had felt, there had been something deeply wrong about him.

Something you still couldn't put into words.

You rubbed your temples with a frustrated groan. "Ugh..."

Enough.

There was no point thinking about him anymore.

Unlocking your phone again, you opened the delivery app instead. Your new pair of shoes was supposed to arrive today.

Out for delivery.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

Right on cue, the doorbell rang.

"Perfect timing."

You set your phone aside and walked toward the front door without a second thought. The delivery drivers usually left as soon as the package was handed over anyway.

You unlocked the door, pulled it open and the smile disappeared.

"...”

A tailored black suit.

Blond hair.

Tired eyes behind familiar glasses.

The same calm expression that had haunted your dreams for the past two months.

Nanami.

Your eyes widened.

Before your mind could catch up, your body reacted. You shoved the door with both hands, trying to slam it shut.

It didn't move.

A bandaged hand had already wedged itself against the edge. The muscles in his forearm tightened as he pushed forward with terrifying ease.

"No—"

You threw your weight against the door, both hands straining, your shoulder pressing into the wood with everything you had.

It didn't matter.

The door inched open anyway. Another inch. Then another. Your strength meant nothing against his.

The gap widened just enough for him to step forward.

And once he was inside—

Nanami’s bandaged hand clamped down on your scalp, fingers twisting deep into the roots until the burn spread across your head like fire. 

He yanked you backward without a word, dragging your stumbling body across the floor as your screams tore through the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a final click.

He hauled you straight into the bathroom. The tub was already full. Before you could twist away, he shoved your face under the surface. Cold water rushed up your nose and into your mouth. 

Your lungs seized. You thrashed, hands slapping the porcelain, legs kicking uselessly. He held you there, unmoving, until your chest started to convulse from lack of air.

He pulled you up. You gasped once—then he forced you back down again. Water flooded your throat. Your ears filled. Your eyes stung red and raw. Up. Down. Again. 

Each time longer. Each time your panic spiked harder. You choked, coughed, sobbed between every brutal dunk. Snot and tears mixed with the bathwater running down your chin.

After the fourth time he twisted your hair sharply, forcing your face upward to meet his. His tired eyes stared down through the glasses, calm as ever.

"Do you know how much trouble I’ve faced to get here?"

You couldn’t answer. 

“Uhck…!” You could only wheeze, lungs burning, water still dripping from your lips. And, he shoved you under again without waiting.

Your hands clawed at the air. Your body bucked and twisted in his grip. He kept you pinned until your vision spotted, then yanked you out once more. 

The moment he released your hair you collapsed forward, sucking in ragged breaths, chest heaving.

Nanami stepped back. You heard the shower handle turn. A hard spray of cold water hit your back, then your shoulders, soaking straight through your clothes. 

He moved the stream methodically—over your spine, down your legs—until every inch of you was drenched and shivering. Only when you were completely soaked did he grab you again.

His left hand slammed you against the tiled wall, pinning you there with effortless strength. The shower head came up, blasting your face first, then lower. 

Water hammered across your breasts, your stomach, then straight between your thighs. You tried to turn your head away. He brought the spray back to your face.

"Hold still."

He yanked your soaked pants down in one rough motion. The shower head pressed directly against your exposed pussy, the stream forcing its way between your folds. 

His fingers followed—two of them slapping your clit sharply, then spreading your lips wider so the water could hit deeper. 

Nanami’s fingers shoved straight into your soaked pussy, two at once, curling deep without warning. He pumped them hard and fast, the wet sounds filling the bathroom as he worked you open. 

Every few thrusts he pulled his hand back just to slap your cheek—sharp, stinging little hits that snapped your head to the side and kept your eyes from rolling back.

Your body jerked when the orgasm crashed through you. Your thighs shook, pussy clenching around his fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat. 

He didn’t let you ride it. The second your knees buckled he yanked you by the arm, dragging you out of the bathroom and across the room. 

You hit the bed face-down, the mattress bouncing under your weight.

“Women like you don’t deserve a gentleman,” he said, voice low and flat. The metallic clink of his belt buckle echoed behind you. 

One hand stroked your ass once, almost gentle, before the first sharp smack landed. Then another. He yanked your pants the rest of the way down and off.

He peeled off his own soaked suit jacket next, then tugged his shirt over his head, tossing both aside.

With your face pinned down, you could only glimpse part of it.

Ink spread across his left shoulder in bold blacks and muted reds. A dragon wound through dark waves and cherry blossoms, stretching across his chest and down his arm.

It was the kind of full-body piece you'd only ever heard whispered about.

Then the belt came next. The first strike cracked across your both asscheeks, heat blooming instantly. 

“AHH..!!!”

Each hit made you cry out, hips twisting, but he held you down with one hand on your lower back.

“I’ve held back myself for this? I did all those things… tried to hide… tried to change for you… just for you to run away!?”

The belt landed again, harder.

“If only I could’ve stopped you at the airport…”

“But that would’ve gotten me in trouble. You knew that, right? That’s why you lied. You never took me for granted.”

Another lash. Your cries grew louder, skin already bruising.

“As if I meant nothing to you. You only used me like a whore. Do you think I’d let it slide!?”

He dropped the belt. You felt the thick, hot length of his cock rub slowly over your burning ass, letting you feel every inch of his hardness against the welts. 

He slapped it against your cheeks a few times, the wet sound mixing with your ragged breathing, then lined up and shoved inside in one brutal THRUST.

He fucked you hard from behind—deep, punishing strokes that rocked the bed. 

He had already taken you once, twice, four times, thirteen times—each thrust a brutal claim that left your insides raw and overflowing. 

His cum leaked from your stretched pussy in thick, messy trails, yet his cock stayed rock-hard, veins pulsing as he fought the urge to unload again.

The restraint showed in every flex of his muscles, every sharp breath he held back while his hips snapped forward with punishing force.

Your breasts twisted under his grip, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, pinching and rolling your nipples until they throbbed. 

You lolled your head, mouth open in a constant stream of broken moans, cumming nonstop around his driving shaft. 

Each slam pushed you over the edge again, your walls clenching and fluttering as fresh waves of slick and his seed gushed out.

“N-Namami—S… stop—”

But, he kissed you hard, tongue forcing deep while his free hand cracked across your cheek in a stinging slap. 

The impact jolted through you, mixing pain with another helpless orgasm that made your thighs shake. 

You were beyond sense, vision swimming, ears filling with a long, piercing beep that drowned out everything else.

His hips stuttered to a stop mid-thrust, cock buried to the hilt. Your eyes turned hazy, head pounding so fiercely you could barely turn toward his gaze. 

Slowly he withdrew, the thick length dragging along your sensitive walls until it slipped free with a wet sound, leaving you empty, aching, and dripping.

Through blurry sight you watched him peel the bandage from his left hand—the one he always kept covered. 

The cloth fell across your stomach as he revealed the missing pinky, the stump raw and healed over. 

Then the bedroom door swung open, silent on its hinges. A man in a black suit stepped in, his face impassive, carrying something massive in his arms. 

It took you a second to register the shape—a giant teddy bear, cream-colored fur matted in places, a faded red bow tied crookedly around its neck. 

The exact same teddy you’d lost in Japan months ago. The one you’d mentioned in passing, the one Nanami had looked at with empty eyes and said, There’s none.

But here it was.

The suited man crossed the room without a word. He halted beside the bed, held the teddy out toward Nanami. 

Nanami took it without looking, his gaze fixed on you the whole time, that raw stump now resting on his thigh. 

He cradled the bear against his chest for a moment, stroking its matted fur with his four-fingered hand, then leaned over and placed it gently beside your head on the pillow.

“.....?” Your pulse hammered. You couldn't speak.

Without ceremony, Nanami hooked his arms under yours and repositioned you flat on the bed, your back sinking into the mattress, your head lolling to the side where the teddy’s button eyes stared back at you. 

He didn't ask. He just put you there, like arranging a doll he’d been waiting to pose. Then he climbed onto the bed again, knees bracketing your hips, his weight settling over you.

His cock was still hard, he wrapped his hand around it—the missing pinky making his grip look asymmetrical, incomplete, yet practiced. 

He pumped slowly at first, watching your face, the teddy, your face again. A bead of precum glistened at the tip.

He sped up, breath hitching, muscles in his stomach tensing. You could only lie there, the giant teddy’s fur brushing your cheek, as Nanami’s strokes grew frantic. His jaw tightened, a low grunt escaping his throat. 

Then his cock jerked, and thick ropes of cum splashed across your face—warm, sticky, landing on your lips, your eyelids, trailing down your cheek. 

He shifted his aim and painted the teddy’s snout as well, white streaks mingling with the bear’s cream fur.

A long, shuddering exhale. He stayed there, hovering, admiring his work. A satisfied smile crept across his face, slow and deliberate, as he studied the details—the way the cum clung to your lashes.

「その姿は、少し可愛すぎますね。」

He traced a fingertip through the mess on your cheek, smearing it, then brought that finger to his own mouth and licked.

He simply pulled back, off the bed, trousers still undone. He turned to the man in the black suit—who had remained motionless, witness to everything—and spoke. 

The words came in quiet Japanese, too fast for you to follow.

The ringing in your ears grew louder, your headache splitting so fiercely you could barely keep your eyes open, barely even register what was happening around you anymore.

But somewhere in the back of your mind...

It all made sense.

These men always around. Even at the airport. The effortless way your luggage had found its way onto the same flight. 

His promises spoken with absolute certainty.

The private restaurants. The empty streets. The places where no one would interrupt. No one would question.

It had never been confidence.

It had been power all along.

“I really appreciate you Dana…” I say sleepily, my body engulfed in the soft blanket Dana prepared for me as she sits by my side.

“You do my lady?”, I nod.

“I don’t have many people I’m close with, but you’ve been so nice to me for the past 3 months…”

“I’m your handmaid, my lady. That much is to be expected.”

“But you’re so much more attentive than any of my other maids. It has barely been 3 months but I don’t know what I would do without you…”

“…I’m glad to hear that my lady.” She stops for a second as if to think. “Don’t worry I will always be by your side…” Dana answers me gently. My tired eyes fail to read her face in the dimly moonlit room, but I go to sleep with a smile on my face, imagining her doing the same.

.

.

.

.

I look down at her, watching her slowly breathe in and out with that foolishly innocent expression on her face. The suffocating uniform I had to wear to hide my adam’s apple and chest is unbuttoned to let me breathe. A sharp knife shines in my hand, reflecting the moonlight decorating her fancy room.

516 times. I’ve tried to kill this woman exactly 516 times. I raise my knife. “This time I will do it” I think to myself. You shift in your sleep, probably deep in your happy dreams. You don’t sense anything, unaware of the danger I hold.

“I will do it… I will…” I repeat in my head yet my hand won’t stop shaking.

“Damn it…”

.

.

.

.

“She has so many openings, does she have no survival instinct? It feels like she could die if she fell down tad too hard” I think to myself as I pick up her dinner. A small bottle of poison I’ve failed to use so far and my knife are tucked deep in my apron. There are a few servants around chatting but no one seems to suspect anything from the lady’s personal handmaid.

“Hey did you see what Lady y/n was wearing today? Haha is she trying to catch someone’s attention going out like that?”

“Right? If she bent down a bit we could even see her cleavage!”

Huh?

Those two… are they new recruits? I did hear that despicable man hired a new batch. What do they think they are doing spouting such nonsense?

“She already looks so naive, I bet she wouldn’t be able to do anything if I just cornered her right?”

…

“Dana, did you get some of the tomato sauce on your sleeve?” you ask innocently, happily enjoying your lavish dinner.

“It seems so my lady. I will clean it tonight don’t worry.” I quickly answer with my usual smile.

“Haha don’t tell me you wanted to try some! You could’ve just asked me, here.”

“I-I couldn’t possibly my lady-“

“My arm will get tired if you don’t take it~”

I sigh and lean down to eat the bite you so graciously offered, it doesn’t have poison anyway…

It truly is delicious, enough to drive a commoner to tears, but this quality is just the norm for you.

.

.

.

.

I once again stand above you. “This time… this time for sure…” repeats in my head as I raise my knife. This is the 520th attempt.

You sleep peacefully under me as I clench my teeth, my hand refusing to go down.

It’s always the same thing. I stay by your side until you fall asleep, I get up and raise my knife, I watch you sleep without a worry in the world and go back to my room after another failure.

I sigh and prepare to get up, I’ve despised you for longer than you know for making me feel this way.

“Dana…?”

“!?” You’re awake? Why are you awake!? You never wake up at this hour!

…What are you looking at?

My eyes follow your gaze and land on the knife I’m holding up.

“W-what are you doing Dana!? N-no someone help-!”

My free hand quickly covers your mouth as I whisper yell “Be quiet!”. You continue flailing your arms and legs, trying to push me off. Since my other hand is still up I can’t hold you down properly.

“Stop fighting me! You don’t have the right to-!”

You manage to push my hand off your mouth but your nails catch my open collar, accidentally ripping a button. For a second your eyes widen and before I can register what’s going on you grab my clothes.

“!!”

In a moment of panic I throw the knife and pull away to cover myself.

“D-Don’t look!”

If you do they’ll take you away from me.

“Y-you are a man?” You ask while sitting up, clearly on guard but you make no motion to run away. Maybe seeing my panicked state made you feel less scared.

I don’t answer and just stare at you. I wonder what my expression looks like? My panic and anger must reflect on my eyes as I cover my chest. My knife… is at the other side of the room, tsk.

“B-But why…? A-and that knife… were you trying to…? I… D-did I do something to offend you…?”

Your voice is shaking as you ask questions after questions, tears slowly spilling out. I’m sure you must feel so scared and betrayed. Good, that’s what I wanted.

Yes, what I wanted…

What I wanted?

Anger boils inside me. A part of me feels satisfied for making you experience such betrayal, but the other half feels anger. A privileged person like you who lives life without a single worry doesn’t deserve to cry like a victim.

“Stop crying!” I lunge forward to grab your neck and push you down. You look up to me, clearly scared but my hand doesn’t squeeze your neck.

“You don’t know anything!” I bite my lip, wanting to scream but also not. I hate this, once again my body refuses to listen to me.

“You don’t know anything about me! You don’t know what your family has done! You don’t know what you have done to me!!”

My hand presses down harder.

“I already had nothing but you ruined me beyond repair!” I try to keep my voice low to not alert the other servants yet I can’t prevent it from shaking as I let my anger out.

“You don’t know anything…”

.

.

.

.

“Dana”

A name unfit for a boy, and this disgustingly beautiful face that resembles hers were the only things that wench left behind with me.

I didn’t know anything about her. All I knew was that she treated me like the girl she always wanted to give birth to and that I must never leave the wooden box she called “home”.

She hated me, it was only obvious. Even when I was barely able to speak it wasn’t hard to understand she actually wished for a girl. Although, maybe thanks to this face of mine, she enjoyed putting me in dresses and forcing me into the life she dreamed of.

“Dana, mommy has to deal with some surprise visitors so stay in this closet and don’t make a noise just like how I taught you before alright?”

Those were the last words she uttered before kissing my forehead and closing the rusty closet doors. Then it was arguing, screams, red and silence.

The fact that she used to work in your estate because she was in debt to your father, that she ran away pregnant without actually paying it back and was being hunted down were things I only got to know later in life.

It seems they were unaware she was even pregnant and didn’t notice the child she so hurriedly tucked inside the old compact closet.

Such sad excuse of a life, at the end she wasn’t able to accomplish anything. All she had was a son who believed she hated him and thus hated her back. A son who didn’t even care about the effort she put into keeping him hidden and safe.

A son who returned to the estate she once escaped from.

It wasn’t too hard to get registered as a maid with such face and height. My plan originally was to slowly go up in ranks until I reached that filthy man and stab his chest the same way his henchmen stabbed that wench’s.

But then I met you.

The precious young lady of the estate, loved by all the workers and her parents. A lovely person who was sailing through life with no hardships, a being sure to be missed if lost.

I thought if I killed you the same way they killed that wench, that filthy man would experience so much pain he wouldn’t be able to forget about it for an entire lifetime.

So I started working to be your handmaid instead, and you quickly inflicted another type of anger into me.

I hated that you were oblivious to the pain others felt, I hated that all you knew was comfort and love, I hated that you never experienced what a broken heart felt like.

I hated how you smiled at me like you couldn’t do without me, I hated how your hair felt so soft in my hands as I brushed it, I hated how you happily ate the sweets I secretly took from the kitchen just so you could have some more, I hated how good you smelt right after I washed you, I hated how soft your skin felt against my fingertips as I helped you dress up-

“UGH!”

I gasp, sitting on the bathroom floor. Looking at the toilet seat filled with my insides and wiping my mouth with a shaky hand before flushing it down.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this…

.

.

.

.

You look up to me with shaky eyes, body barely moving.

“I-I’m sorry-“

“Don’t pity me! I’m not someone who needs your pity!”

You flinch as I raise my voice. I feel so disgusted, my voice shaking with anger.

“At least I still had control over myself when all I had was hate… At least I was somewhat “normal”…”

My eyes never leave yours, your gaze only making me feel more agitated.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel like this… why did you have to wake up now…”

A tear threatens to fall from my eye.

“If only you just continued sleeping… then I could’ve continued staying next to you… I could’ve continued being good for you…”

“Dana I’m sorry-“

“I said I don’t want to hear it!”

I lower my head, not wanting to see the face you’re making.

Then an idea comes to my mind.

“Are you really sorry? Do you want to make up for it?”

I grab your face before you can answer.

“!?”

I slowly pull away to speak, your taste lingering in my lips.

“Then don’t report what happened today and let me continue staying by your side.

I lean in closer and look into your eyes.

You stood in front of the mirror near your apartment entrance, adjusting your earrings absentmindedly while shrugging on your coat.

Behind you, the apartment remained quiet. Until—

“When will you come back?”

You glanced toward the doorway.

Choso stood there leaning lightly against the frame, arms folded loosely over his chest. His eyes stayed turned away from you, fixed somewhere near the floor instead.

Like he was trying very hard not to sound clingy. And failing miserably.

You suppressed a sigh. “I don’t really know yet.” You reached for your bag near the counter. “I’ll try to head back quickly.”

“But…” His brows pulled together slightly. “It’s your day off.”

“It’s not my off day, Choso.” Your tone softened despite yourself. “Some of my colleagues arranged a meetup. Since I’m part of the department, I kinda have to attend.”

His jaw tightened faintly. “…But, You never told me…”

“I did.” You laughed lightly. “Twice.”

Choso stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “You’ll be gone for hours.”

“......."

You turned toward him fully this time. There it was again. That barely concealed disappointment. Just this strange, wounded sadness every time your attention shifted somewhere else.

You walked closer with a soft exhale. “Choso.”

“……” His eyes flickered up briefly before dropping again.

“You know I have a life outside of you, right?”

The moment the words left your mouth, regret flickered through you. Because his expression immediately fell. Yet, he was trying not to let it show.

“…I know but—” A pause. Then briefly— “I just like when you’re here.”

Sighhh…

You reached up suddenly, fingers hooking lightly into the collar of his hoodie before pulling him down just enough to kiss him.

His breath caught sharply against your lips before all the tension in him melted at once. Every bit of whining. Every sulky complaint. Gone instantly.

When you pulled away, he stared at you silently for a second before quickly looking off to the side.

Flustered. Embarrassed. A faint flush spread visibly across his cheeks. It was honestly unfair how easy he was to read.

You smiled despite yourself before patting his chest lightly. “I’ll be back soon.”

This time, he moved away from the doorway without protest. Still refusing to meet your eyes.

“…Okay. I… I wait.”

—

The restaurant was louder than you expected.

Warm lights glowed overhead while overlapping conversations filled nearly every corner of the place. Plates clinked together constantly. Someone across the room burst into laughter loud enough to turn heads.

Around ten people from your department had shown up. Enough to crowd two tables together near the back.

You sat wedged between two coworkers while absentmindedly stirring the ice in your drink, half-listening to whatever argument was currently happening about hospital scheduling.

“…I’m serious,” one of the residents groaned dramatically. “If they put me on another double shift this month I’m actually quitting.”

“You say that every week,” another snorted.

“Because every week I mean it!”

Laughter erupted around the table. You found yourself relaxing little by little. It felt… nice somehow. Then your phone buzzed beside your hand.

Your eyes flickered downward immediately.

Choso…

A small sigh escaped you before you quickly pressed the phone face-down onto the table and switched it to silent. Unfortunately, the movement didn’t go unnoticed.

“Oho?” One of the nurses across from you leaned forward instantly with a grin.

“Boyfriend?”

Another immediately gasped dramatically. “I KNEW IT.”

“Oh my god, finally—”

“Who is it!?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “No— no one.” You waved a hand quickly. “It’s literally just spam calls.”

The entire table stared at you. Unconvinced. Then one of the older doctors snorted. “We’re not stupid.”

Another pointed a fry at you accusingly. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks.”

“Weird…?” you repeated.

“Yes, weird,” she laughed. “Smiling at your phone. Leaving work with someone. Looking distracted all the time—”

Your stomach tightened slightly…

Someone else suddenly leaned forward with narrowed teasing eyes. “…Wait.”

“Is it that patient of yours?”

You nearly inhaled wrong. “What?”

“The tall one,” another coworker chimed in immediately. “Always wearing black.”

“The one who only comes to your office!”

“The one who stares at you like a kicked puppy—”

“Oh my god it IS him!!!”

Heat crawled rapidly up your neck. “I said it’s spam,” you muttered weakly.

“Liar,” someone laughed immediately.

The serious one among the group rested their chin against their hand before saying flatly: “We already know.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass.

“We just wanna hear it from you,” they added.

Another nurse nudged your shoulder teasingly. “C’mon, don’t be shy now.”

You laughed nervously under your breath, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across your face.

The table immediately erupted again.

“How did you two even happen?”

“Did he confess first?”

“WAIT—did YOU confess?”

You opened your mouth automatically—And stopped. Your smile faltered slightly. Confusion flickered quietly across your face. Because suddenly—You genuinely couldn’t remember.

How did it even happen?

—

You remembered the first time he showed up because of how badly you wanted to leave that night.

The entire shift had been miserable from beginning to end. Too many patients. Too many emergency cases shoved into an already overflowing schedule.

Your head hurt, your shoulders were stiff, and by the time you finally finished signing the last report, you were seconds away from grabbing your bag and walking straight out without another thought.

Then came the knock. One of the nurses leaned into your office looking apologetic already. “Sorry, doctor… but—”

You nearly laughed from exhaustion. “Oh, please don't tell me…”

“One more walk-in emergency,” the nurse informed you. “Name’s Choso. Laceration on the forearm.”

You closed your eyes for a second. Ah fuck. Are you fucking serious right now?

With a quiet sigh, you dropped back into your chair and waved a tired hand. “Fine. Send him in.”

At that point, you barely cared who the patient even was. You only remembered fragments from that first visit. Dark clothes. Broad shoulders. Blood staining the sleeve of his coat.

You didn’t properly look at his face the entire time, only brief glances while checking for additional injuries. Your body was too exhausted to focus on anything else.

“Hold still,” you muttered while cleaning the cut across his forearm. The man flinched slightly but stayed quiet.

You worked mostly on autopilot after that. Clean the wound. Disinfect. Bandage. Check movement. Prescribe pain medication. Your voice sounded flat even to yourself while explaining dosage instructions.

“Take these twice a day for the pain. Don’t strain the arm for at least a week or you’ll reopen it again.”

A quiet voice answered after a pause. “…Okay.” That was it.

You dismissed him, grabbed your things, and went home without thinking about him again. At least, not until the next night.

You were preparing to leave at almost the exact same time when another emergency case came in. Again.

You remembered getting annoyed immediately. Because seriously—why always right before you clocked out?

You had already stepped into the hallway, ready to ask another doctor to handle it instead, when you heard someone quietly whining in pain from one of the chairs near the wall.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this soft, strained sound like someone trying very hard not to make a scene. It made you stop to look over.

A black coat, head lowered, one hand gripping his injured arm tightly. The same man from yesterday.

For a second, you genuinely considered walking away anyway. You were exhausted. Someone else could handle it. But guilt settled unpleasantly in your chest almost immediately.

You sighed under your breath before turning around. “…Come on,” you muttered. “Let me look at it.”

The man lifted his head slightly at your voice before quietly following you back inside.

You sat down across from him and carefully unwrapped the bandages from the previous night, only for your brows to pull together immediately.

The wound looked freshly aggravated. You frowned. “This injury looks new. Did you hurt yourself again?”

The man blinked slowly at you. “…You treated it yesterday.”

“……”

For a moment, your exhausted brain genuinely tried piecing things together before you finally looked at him properly for the first time.

Heavy dark circles sat beneath his eyes, deep enough to make him look permanently exhausted. There was a dark mark stretching across the bridge of his nose too—almost like a tattoo maybe?

You couldn’t really tell from this close. His hair looked messy, unevenly tied back like he either forgot to fix it or just didn’t care enough to bother anymore.

And more than anything—He looked tired. The kind of tired that sat inside a person for months. Maybe years.

Something in your expression softened without meaning to. “…Right,” you murmured quietly. “Sorry. Long shift.”

He immediately shook his head. “No, it’s okay...”

You cleaned the injury again more carefully this time, noticing the way he kept watching your hands in silence.

“You need to be more careful,” you told him while wrapping fresh bandages around his arm. “These wounds aren’t going to heal properly if you keep doing this.”

“…Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me.” You glanced up briefly. “Just take care of yourself, alright?”

His eyes widened slightly at that. Like nobody had said something like that to him in a long time.

But that was only the second visit.

After that, he just… kept appearing. Third time. Fourth. Fifth. Always late. Always near the end of your shift.

At first it was bruised knuckles. Then cuts along his shoulder. Split skin over his ribs. Sometimes injuries that clearly should’ve been treated immediately but somehow weren’t.

And every single time, he looked worse. Paler. More exhausted. Like something was slowly wearing him down from the inside.

Eventually, you started recognizing him the second he walked through the clinic doors.

You remembered which medications you’d prescribed him already. Which arm had been injured first. Which painkillers upset his stomach. Which bandages irritated his skin.

And after a while, irritation started mixing with concern. Because none of it was improving.

One night, after seeing fresh bruising spread along his forearm again, you finally lost your patience a little.

“Are you even taking the medicine I gave you?” Your voice came out sharper than intended.

Immediately, his shoulders drew inward slightly. Like he’d physically recoiled from the tone. Guilt hit you almost instantly.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax while setting the ointment aside. “…Look,” you said more quietly, “I’m serious. This isn’t normal.”

You hesitated before finally saying the thing you’d been thinking for weeks. “Maybe you should try therapy.”

His head lifted slightly.

“We can arrange counseling for you,” you continued carefully. “Different department. Professional help would probably—”

“No.”

The answer came so fast it caught you off guard. “What?”

His fingers curled tightly against the sleeve of his coat. “I don’t…” He swallowed hard without looking at you. “I don’t want anyone else.”

Your brows pulled together. “That’s not really an excuse.”

“I don’t like talking to them.”

“You haven’t even met them yet…”

“.......”

Instead of answering, he suddenly started fumbling nervously through his coat pocket.

You stared at him in confusion while he searched for something with shaking fingers before finally pulling out a small pack of bubblegum.

“…What?”

Without speaking, he held it out toward you.

You pointed at yourself instinctively. “For me?”

He nodded once. Still holding it there. Still refusing to look directly at you. You hesitated before slowly taking it from his hand.

“…Ah. Thanks.”

The room fell quiet after that.

When you glanced back up, you noticed him staring at you strangely. His brows were drawn together slightly, sadness sitting visibly across his face. Like he was waiting for something.

You awkwardly turned the gum over in your fingers. “I’ll eat it later,” you said. “It’s kinda late and I still have—”

You stopped. Because he wasn’t reacting at all. Wasn’t listening. Your jaw tightened slightly.

Where the hell were the nurses?

You glanced toward the doorway irritably before slipping the gum into your pocket and trying to end the appointment.

“Just take your medicine properly this time,” you said while standing. “And come back after a week so I can check the—”

He had suddenly bent forward in his seat, both hands gripping his head tightly while staring down toward the floor.

You froze. “…What’s wrong?”

No answer.

You looked toward the hallway again. “Nurse?” you called out.

Nothing…the silence pressing against the room suddenly felt strange.

Part of you still considered leaving. But then your eyes dropped back toward him again, shoulders shaking faintly beneath his coat, and guilt twisted uncomfortably in your stomach.

With a quiet sigh, you pulled the gum back out. “…Oh,” you muttered awkwardly while unwrapping it. “It actually smells pretty nice.”

That finally got his attention.

You noticed the gum was striped red and white before tossing it into your mouth without thinking much about it.

And honestly—It tasted ridiculously good. Sweet at first, then softer somehow, calming in a way you couldn’t explain. Some of the tension sitting behind your eyes eased before you even realized it.

You almost forgot why you’d taken it out in the first place.

Then Choso suddenly looked up at you again. Carefully. Quietly.

“Do you like it?”

The question caught you off guard mostly because of how intently he was staring at you now. Waiting.

You chewed once before nodding slightly. “…Yeah,” you admitted. “It’s good.”

And looking back now—you think that was the exact moment everything started changing.

—

Somewhere along the way, you stopped getting annoyed when he showed up. Honestly, that was probably the strangest part.

At first, you used to dread those late-night visits because all you wanted after work was to go home and collapse into bed. But eventually, without really noticing when it happened, your eyes started drifting toward the clock near the end of every shift. You’d catch yourself listening for footsteps outside your office. Waiting for the familiar knock.

And Choso always came. Sometimes with bruised knuckles. Sometimes with another split cut across his arm. Sometimes with nothing serious at all, just enough to justify seeing you for ten extra minutes.

It became routine so naturally that neither of you questioned it anymore.

He’d sit quietly on the examination bed while you cleaned his injuries, and you’d ask the same tired questions every time. “Does this hurt?”

“A little...”

“You should’ve come earlier.”

“…Sorry…”

At that, he’d usually go quiet and lower his eyes like he genuinely didn’t know what else to say.

You learned quickly that Choso wasn’t good at conversations. At least not normal ones. Most of the time he answered carefully, like he was worried about saying the wrong thing and making you upset enough to send him away.

But little by little, he started talking more. Just scraps of information here and there.

One night while wrapping fresh bandages around his wrist, you asked absentmindedly, “Where do you even live?”

You expected a simple answer. Instead, he hesitated. “…Nowhere permanent.”

You looked up briefly. “What…?”

“I’m still looking.” His voice stayed quiet. “I’m new here.”

Your hands slowed slightly. “You moved recently?”

He nodded once.

“From where?”

“A smaller town.” He shrugged faintly. “There wasn’t really anything there anymore.”

You listened while finishing the bandages around his wrist, occasionally humming so he knew you were paying attention.

Apparently, he still hadn’t found steady work yet. He’d been staying in cheap places whenever he had enough money, sometimes sleeping wherever he could when he didn’t.

Every answer came out awkward and reluctant, like he hated admitting any of it out loud.

You should’ve ended the conversation there. Instead, your stupid mouth moved before your brain caught up.

“Well…” You cleared your throat awkwardly. “You could stay with me for a while.”

You blinked. Then immediately regretted everything. “…Until you find somewhere else,” you added quickly. “I mean...”

“…….” Choso stared at you like he’d stopped breathing.

You awkwardly avoided eye contact while putting the medical tape away. “I have a spare room,” you muttered. “It’s not a big deal.”

You finally glanced back at him—only to nearly pause at the expression on his face. Overwhelmed… completely overwhelmed.

“......” His lips parted slightly like he wanted to speak, but no words came out at first.

“…Really?” he asked eventually, so quietly you almost missed it.

You shrugged, suddenly embarrassed yourself. “I mean, yeah. It’s temporary anyway…”

That was how it started. At first, it felt strange. Suspicious, almost.

Having another person inside your apartment after spending so long alone. Hearing movement in the kitchen while getting ready for work. Seeing someone sitting on your couch when you came home exhausted at midnight.

But after a while, the awkwardness blurred into routine. And somehow, he slipped into your space so naturally that it stopped feeling strange at all.

—

You sat cross-legged near the end of the couch scrolling through next week’s duty schedule on your phone with a tired frown.

“Why the hell am I on morning shifts three days in a row…” you muttered under your breath.

From the kitchen, you heard quiet movement followed by Choso’s voice. “Is it bad?”

“Terrible,” you answered immediately. “I’m being punished for something, probably.”

A soft sound that almost resembled a laugh came from the kitchen.

You glanced over automatically. Choso stood near the stove wearing one of your oversized shirts with the sleeves pushed messily to his elbows.

His hair was tied back loosely today, though several strands had already fallen free around his face while he cooked.

For the past few weeks, he’d somehow taken over almost everything around the apartment. Cooking, cleaning, laundry.

At first you tried stopping him because it felt unfair, but Choso always looked genuinely distressed whenever you told him not to help.

So eventually you gave up. And honestly? Coming home no longer felt exhausting the way it used to.

Before he moved in, most nights ended with you barely having enough energy to change clothes before collapsing into bed. Half your meals came from convenience stores or whatever packaged food was easiest to microwave after a shift.

Now, every time you walked through the apartment door, there was actual food waiting. Warm food. The kind that smelled homemade.

Choso carefully placed another dish onto the table before glancing toward you hesitantly. “…I wasn’t sure what you wanted tonight.”

You stood and wandered toward the kitchen, peeking over his shoulder. Brows lifted immediately. “Seriously?” you laughed softly. “You made all this?”

His ears turned pink almost instantly. “It’s not much.”

“There’s enough food here to feed five people.” You looked down at the table again before shaking your head with disbelief.

“Choso, if you keep cooking like this, I’m genuinely gonna get spoiled.”

“I—” He nearly choked at that.

“Well, I mean…” You grinned while leaning against the counter. “What happens after you move out? I’ll probably die eating instant noodles again.”

Immediately, he looked away. Flustered. “…You won’t.”

“Oh?” You smirked slightly. “You planning to cook forever?”

That only made him worse. His grip tightened around the spoon in his hand while he stared stubbornly at the counter instead of you.

“If…” He swallowed nervously. “If you wanted me to.”

Your smile faltered for half a second. There it was again. Those tiny hints he kept giving you. Quiet enough to ignore. Obvious enough that you understood exactly what they meant.

You’d noticed them weeks ago already. The way his face softened whenever you entered a room. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. How absurdly happy he became over the smallest praise.

Choso liked you. Maybe more than liked. And honestly, he was terrible at hiding it. But you always pretended not to notice. Because this was temporary. That was what you kept telling yourself.

Eventually he’d find work. Find a place of his own. Move on with his life. And when that happened, whatever this strange little routine between you two had become would disappear with it.

So it was better not to think too deeply about it… right?

—

The noise around the table slowly returned to focus, overlapping conversations crashing back into your head all at once.

Someone snapped their fingers lightly in front of your face, making you blink. “…Hello? Earth to doctor?”

You looked up to find half the table staring at you expectantly. “What?”

One of the nurses narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You completely zoned out.” Another immediately smirked. “Thinking about your boyfriend?”

Heat crawled up your neck again. “He’s not—” You stopped yourself halfway with a tired sigh before pushing your glass aside. “Actually… I think I’m gonna head home.”

Almost instantly, protests erupted around the table.

“What? Already?”

“It’s not even that late!”

“We literally just ordered another round!”

You forced out a small laugh while reaching for your coat hanging behind your chair. “I’ve got morning shift tomorrow,” you explained. “If I stay any longer, I’m actually gonna die at work.”

One of the older doctors leaned back in her seat, studying you carefully for a moment before speaking.

“…Didn’t like the food?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“You barely touched anything all night.”

Your eyes instinctively dropped toward your plate. The food sat mostly untouched aside from a few absentminded bites near the edge. Your drinks, however, were nearly empty..

“…Oh.” You stared at the plate for another second before shaking your head lightly. “I’m just not feeling great tonight, I think.”

Concern flickered briefly across a few faces around the table. “You okay?”

“You look kinda pale actually.”

“Did you catch something from work?”

You waved a hand quickly before they could start spiraling into medical interrogation.

“I’m fine,” you assured them. “Just tired.”

After another few minutes of everyone complaining about you leaving early, you finally managed to escape the restaurant.

You shoved your hands into your pockets while walking down the dim sidewalk, exhaustion settling heavier into your limbs now that the noise and distractions were gone.

You exhaled quietly through your nose and shook the thought away before climbing the apartment stairs.

By the time you reached your floor, your body already ached with exhaustion again. You pulled your keys from your pocket while approaching the apartment door, unlocking it automatically out of habit.

Usually by this hour, the lights inside would already be on. You’d hear movement from the kitchen. Maybe quiet music playing from Choso’s phone while he cooked. But tonight, there was nothing…

You paused slightly after stepping inside. “…Choso?”

Your brows pulled together. Did he go out somewhere?

That alone felt strange enough to make unease creep subtly into your stomach. Choso rarely left the apartment unless absolutely necessary, especially this late at night.

You shut the door behind yourself before slipping your shoes off near the entrance.

A strange tension slowly crawled up the back of your neck. You reached toward the wall and flicked the lights on.

The living room came into view first. Empty. Then your eyes shifted further inside the apartment—And your breath caught instantly.

The kitchen looked destroyed. A shattered plate lay across the floor near the counter. One of the chairs had been knocked onto its side. Glass glittered beneath the overhead light in scattered pieces across the tiles.

And in the middle of it—Choso.

He sat collapsed against the lower kitchen cabinets with his head lowered forward, one hand weakly braced against the floor while blood dripped slowly down the side of his face.

For half a second, your brain stopped working entirely. Then your bag hit the floor.

“Choso—?!”

You rushed toward him so fast you nearly slipped on broken glass yourself, dropping to your knees beside him.

“Hey—hey, look at me!!” Your hands grabbed his shoulders carefully, panic rising fast in your chest the moment you saw how much blood stained his shirt and sleeve. His breathing came in uneven shakes that immediately made your stomach drop.

“Choso—what happened?” Panic rose so fast your voice barely sounded steady anymore. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding so much—”

Your eyes darted frantically over him, trying to figure out where to even start first. Blood stained the side of his face, smeared across his trembling fingers, soaked into the sleeve of his shirt.

There was broken glass everywhere around him, one shattered plate near his knee stained red enough to make your chest tighten violently.

“Why didn’t you call—” you blurted out desperately before the words caught in your throat. Because he did… the missed calls, the phone buzzing beside your drink. Face-down on the restaurant table while everyone laughed around you.

You ignored him… a horrible feeling crawled up your spine so suddenly it almost made you nauseous.

“…Oh…”

You quickly reached for the emergency kit you always kept near the living room cabinet, nearly fumbling the zipper in your rush before dropping back onto your knees beside him again.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, though the panic cracking through your voice ruined the reassurance completely. “It’s okay, I’m here now.”

Were you really? Because somewhere along the way, you had stopped seeing him as a patient. Stopped treating him like someone fragile. You got comfortable. Too comfortable.

And now he was sitting on your kitchen floor covered in blood while guilt clawed viciously at your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you heard yourself mumble shakily while grabbing gauze with unsteady hands. “I… I shouldn’t have left you alone for this long.”Your words kept stumbling over themselves. “I shouldn’t have ignored the calls, I—”

You gently wiped the blood from the side of his face, your fingers shaking badly enough that you had to steady your wrist against his cheek. Choso barely reacted beyond another weak shudder passing through him.

“Look at me,” you whispered desperately. “Please look at me.” Slowly, you pushed damp strands of dark hair back from his forehead so you could properly check the injury—And froze.

There were tear tracks dried along his face. Old enough to have dried there long before you came home. Something inside your chest twisted so sharply it almost hurt.

God… why did this hurt so much?

You were trained for situations like this. So why did seeing him like this make your hands feel numb?

The moment your fingers brushed carefully against his hair again, Choso suddenly folded toward you without warning.

A broken sound escaped him. Before you fully realized what was happening, he was crying quietly against your palms, shoulders shaking hard enough to make his breathing stutter.

“Lock me up,” he choked out weakly. “P-please…”

His fingers curled weakly into your sleeve like he was terrified you’d disappear if he let go. “Lock me up,” he repeated through uneven sobs. “But don’t leave me…”

“Please don’t leave me alone…”

“……” Your mouth parted slightly, but nothing came out.

“I’m sorry,” he kept mumbling desperately, words falling apart between shaky breaths. “I’ll be good… I won’t upset you anymore… please don’t abandon me… don’t forget me… I'm sorry…”

Every sentence sounded more frantic than the last.

You had no idea what to say. No idea what to do. You’d met patients who were grieving. Patients who were unstable. Patients who needed saving in ways medicine alone couldn’t fix.

But this? This felt different. And you realized you had absolutely no idea how to help him.

Then suddenly—Choso leaned forward. Just enough that you felt the movement before understanding it.

His hand tightened weakly around your sleeve as his face tilted instinctively toward yours, breath uneven and warm against your skin.

For one brief second, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth—And he froze. Like reality crashed back into him all at once.

His eyes widened immediately. “No—”

He jerked back so fast he nearly lost balance against the cabinet behind him. Panic flooded his face instantly, horror twisting through his expression as his breathing turned sharp and uneven again.

“I—No—I’m sorry—”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—” His hands immediately came up to cover part of his face, fingers trembling badly enough you could see it.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated again, voice cracking this time. “I know you don’t—I know you probably don’t want—”

The words kept tangling over themselves. He looked terrified of himself. Like he genuinely believed he’d ruined everything in a single second.

“Choso—”

“I’m sorry,” he choked out again, shoulders shaking harder now. “Please don’t look at me like that…”

Your chest tightened painfully. Because you weren’t even looking at him badly. You were just shocked.

But somehow he’d already convinced himself he crossed a line unforgivable enough to make you leave him.

At this point, you weren’t even sure what line existed between the two of you anymore. Your eyes flickered toward his trembling hands before slowly lifting back to his face.

Still avoiding you. Still panicking. Still mumbling broken apologies under his breath like he couldn’t stop.

A quiet sigh escaped you before you moved without thinking too deeply about it. Your fingers curled lightly around his wrist. “Hey.”

Choso flinched. “No—I…”

You gently pulled one of his hands away from his face before leaning forward and kissing him.

He went completely still beneath your hand, like his entire body forgot how to function. For a second, he didn’t even kiss back. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

Then you felt the sharp tremble that ran through him. A broken sound caught somewhere in his throat as his fingers suddenly tightened around your sleeve again, desperate and shaky all at once.

You could feel how badly he was trying not to overwhelm you. Trying not to move too much. Trying not to ruin this somehow.

When you pulled back slightly, Choso just stared at you. Wide-eyed. Breathing uneven.

His lips parted faintly like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

With a sigh you carefully wiped the remaining blood from his face before pulling back slightly, forcing yourself to think clearly again despite the panic still pounding inside your chest.

“Listen to me...” you said softly, trying to sound calmer than you felt. “Don’t move for now, alright? You need to rest while I clean this up.”

Choso stayed quiet for a moment, head lowered while his breathing steadied unevenly.

“No.”

Before you could react, he pushed weakly against the cabinet behind him and started trying to stand.

Your eyes widened immediately. “Choso—what are you doing?”

“I have to…” His voice came out rough from crying. “I have to cook.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “What…?”

“You’re hungry.”

The words hit so unexpectedly that you froze for a second. Because—How did he know that?

And despite everything that had just happened—Despite the blood. The panic attack. The tears still clinging faintly to his lashes—He was still thinking about whether you’d eaten dinner.

“Choso…” you said carefully, standing quickly to steady him before he lost balance again. “You do not need to cook right now.”

But he shook his head immediately. “I can.” He swallowed hard, avoiding your eyes while trying to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I’m okay now.”

“You are literally bleeding...”

“I’m okay,” he repeated stubbornly, though his voice still trembled slightly. “You came back, so I… I'm okay now…”

You watched him quietly for a moment while he stood there looking exhausted beyond belief, fingers still shaky as he pushed his loose hair back from his face.

There was something deeply wrong here and no matter how much you kept trying to treat him normally—Choso wasn’t normal. You knew that already. You just didn’t know what to do about it.

“…At least sit down while I clean the cuts properly first,” you murmured.

This time, he didn’t argue. “Fine…”

You guided him carefully toward one of the chairs that hadn’t been knocked over before quickly cleaning the remaining blood near his hairline and wrapping fresh bandages around his arm again.

The entire time, Choso stayed unusually quiet, eyes lowered while you worked. Only when you finally pulled away did he speak again. “You should go shower.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“There’s blood on your hands.” He glanced briefly toward your sleeve. “And your clothes.”

You looked down automatically. “Oh.”

“I’ll make food while you wash up,” he said softly. “Okay?”

Part of you wanted to refuse again. Wanted to make him lie down. Wanted to force him to rest properly after everything that happened tonight.

But another part of you already knew arguing would only upset him further. And honestly?

Cooking was probably calming him down more than sitting still ever would. So eventually, after a long pause, you gave a reluctant nod.

“…Fine,” you muttered quietly. “But call me if you feel dizzy or anything.”

The tension in his shoulders eased almost immediately. “…Okay.”

You hesitated for another second before finally heading toward your room.

—

By the time you stepped back out wearing fresh clothes, the apartment smelled like food again. Like nothing terrible had happened less than an hour ago.

You found Choso standing quietly near the stove again, movements slower than usual but steady enough that your chest loosened slightly with relief.

“You should be resting now,” you muttered automatically while approaching the kitchen.

“I’m almost done.”

“You always say that. Do you have some beef with sleeping or what?”

A faint flush spread across his cheeks at the mild scolding. “…Sorry.”

You sighed softly before sitting down at the table. A few minutes later, Choso carefully placed a bowl in front of you before watching nervously while you took the first bite.

The moment the taste hit your tongue, your shoulders relaxed without meaning to. It was really good as always.

You looked up slightly. “…This is amazing.”

The relief on his face appeared instantly. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” You shook your head lightly. “How are you this good at cooking?”

His ears turned pink again almost immediately. “I just…” He looked away awkwardly. “I wanted you to like it.”

Something about the sincerity in his voice made your chest ache again. You focused back on eating before the feeling could settle too deeply.

Across the table, Choso watched quietly the entire time. Every now and then asking small things under his breath.

By the end of the meal, you were already full enough to stop, but Choso immediately noticed when you lowered your chopsticks. “…There’s still some left.”

You blinked at him. “…Were you seriously thinking about that this whole time?”

His gaze dropped instantly. “…Maybe.”

A quiet laugh escaped you before you rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “Unbelievable.”

Still—you found yourself taking another bite anyway. And the way his entire expression softened afterward made it painfully obvious he’d been waiting for it.

Later, while you started cleaning the shattered glass from earlier, Choso immediately tried helping despite the fresh bandages wrapped around his arm.

You frowned the second you noticed him reaching for broken pieces near the counter.

“Choso. Stop.”

But he ignored you anyway, stubbornly continuing to gather the smaller glass shards before you could stop him.

Eventually, you gave up trying to argue. Not because he won. But because somewhere deep down, you understood this was another way of calming himself too.

—

The apartment finally grew quiet sometime past midnight. You barely remembered pulling the blanket over yourself before sleep dragged you under.

At least—until something pulled you back out of it again. Your eyes snapped open suddenly.

A strange unease crawled uncomfortably beneath your skin, sharp enough to leave your chest tight as you pushed yourself up halfway against the pillows.

Your throat felt dry. You reached automatically for the water bottle sitting beside the bed, twisting the cap open with shaky fingers before taking a quick drink.

The water nearly went down the wrong way the moment your eyes caught something sitting in the corner of the room.

At first, your half-awake brain genuinely thought—Ghost.

Wait, ghost? What the fuck? Who is that sitting over there!? Someone broke in?

Your grip tightened around the bottle as you stared into the darkness properly this time, trying to force your eyes to adjust.

A figure sat near the wall beside the bedroom window. Still, motionless, curled inward strangely.

For one horrible second, panic surged through you so fast you almost reached for your phone. Then the moonlight shifted faintly across the room.

“…Choso?”

“What are you doing over there?” Your brows slowly pulled together as you pushed the blanket aside and carefully stepped closer.

He was sitting on the floor hugging his knees tightly against himself, forehead pressed down against his arms. His shoulders trembled faintly every few seconds.

Then you heard it. Soft sniffling. Your chest tightened immediately at the sight.

Oh… maybe he couldn’t sleep again.

You crouched carefully beside him, voice still rough from sleep. “Choso…”

Nothing.

“Choso?” Concern crept deeper into your stomach. You reached out hesitantly before gently touching his shoulder.

He flinched violently before lifting his head too fast, panic flooding his expression the second he looked at you.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sorry for what I did…” His breathing turned uneven again almost immediately. “I know you hate me now—I know I made you uncomfortable—I really didn’t mean to—I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“Choso—”

You paused, for a second, you could’ve sworn the dark line stretching across the bridge of his nose shifted slightly against his skin. Like something twitching beneath the surface.

You blinked hard. ‘Did it just move…?’

“I—I’m sorry,” he repeated shakily, tears already gathering again. “I just—I couldn’t stop thinking about it—I know I shouldn’t have done that—”

Your chest twisted painfully at the sight of him trying so hard not to completely fall apart in front of you.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching toward him again. “Calm down first—”

The second your hand touched him, Choso suddenly grabbed onto you so painfully.

His fingers clenched desperately into the fabric of your shirt as he leaned forward against you almost instinctively, shaking badly enough that you could feel it through your arms.

“I can’t sleep,” he admitted weakly against your shoulder. “I tried to but I can’t stop thinking…”

His voice cracked apart quietly. “Thinking you’ll get tired of me.”

“I know I’m too much,” he kept mumbling unevenly. “I know I keep bothering you and showing up and ruining things and—”

“You’re not ruining anything…”

“But I am!” His grip tightened again. “You looked shocked earlier… I made you uncomfortable… I know you did it just to calm me down…”

You exhaled shakily before carefully pulling back just enough to look at him properly. His face looked exhausted.

“Choso, listen to me?” you murmured gently. “You really think I hate you?”

“I don’t,” you said quietly. “I could never hate you.”

He stared at you silently like he genuinely couldn’t process the words. Your hand lifted slowly toward his face, brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead before pressing a soft kiss there. Then another against his temple.

His breathing caught sharply. You could actually feel him freezing beneath your hands. A faint flush spread across his cheeks almost instantly as you kissed the corner of his cheek gently afterward.

“See?” you whispered softly. “I’m still here.”

The kiss lingered just long enough for Choso’s lips to tremble against yours before you pulled back.

His eyes stayed wide, unfocused, the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his loose shirt. He looked like he’d short-circuited completely.

You opened your mouth to say something soft, to ease the tension—but then your gaze dropped. Involuntarily.

The thin fabric of his sweatpants betrayed him instantly. A tight, obvious bulge pressed against the material, twitching as if it had a mind of its own. Your words died in your throat.

Oh…

Heat rushed to your own cheeks before you could stop it. You felt your pulse jump, suddenly hyperaware of the way your own body responded—a warm, insistent throb between your legs that made your thighs press together without thinking.

Choso noticed your stare. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face as he scrambled to cover himself with both hands.

“S-sorry!” His voice cracked again. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I can’t help it, you kissed me and I—Uh, I’m so sorry, I’ll just leave—”

He tried to stand, but his legs were shaky, and you caught his wrist before he could stumble away. The touch made him freeze.

“Choso,” you said, your own voice coming out lower, breathier than you intended. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” He was already shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. “You don’t have to—I know you’re just being nice, I know you don’t actually want—I’m disgusting, I’m sorry, I’ll—”

You pulled him back down gently, guiding him until he sat on the edge of the bed. He went without resistance, like he trusted you more than himself.

You knelt between his legs, and the sight of you there made his breath hitch audibly. “Look at me,” you murmured.

He did, reluctantly, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “.......”

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” you said softly. “Not because I felt sorry for you. Not because I’m being nice. I wanted to.”

His lips parted, a small, broken sound escaping him. “But I… I don’t deserve…”

You silenced him by leaning forward and pressing your palms flat against his thighs. The contact made his whole body jolt.

You felt the heat radiating off him even through the thin fabric, and the way his cock strained against his pants seemed almost painful.

“Let me show you what you deserve,” you whispered.

His breath stuttered. “I—I don’t know if I can—if I’ll embarrass myself—”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged down slowly. He lifted his hips instinctively, letting you slide the fabric past his thighs.

His cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark, already slick at the tip with a bead of precum.

Choso watched you with desperate, uncertain eyes, his hands fisting in the sheets. “Please... don’t hate me,” he whispered.

Instead of answering, you pressed your knees together, then wrapped your chest around him, the plush weight of your tits sandwiching his cock from both sides.

The head peeked out just above the valley between them, glistening. You held his gaze as you leaned down and ran your tongue along the tip in one long, deliberate stripe.

A strangled moan tore from his throat. His head fell back, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “That feels—ah—that feels so—”

You did it again, slower this time, circling the head before dipping down to suck the tip into your mouth.

The taste of him hit your tongue—salt and heat and something utterly him. Your tits slid up and down his shaft with every movement, the slick friction making his cock pulse against your skin.

Choso’s hands hovered near your shoulders, trembling, not quite daring to touch. “Can I—please—can I hold you?”

You nodded, and his fingers buried themselves in your hair, not pulling, just gripping like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

You took him deeper between your lips, letting his cock slide past your tongue while your breasts kept working the base in slow, wet strokes.

His moans grew higher, needier, every exhale a shaky curse or an apology. “I’m sorry—sorry for being so loud—fuck—it just feels—you’re so warm—”

You kept the pace unhurried, drawing out every sound he made, every desperate twitch of his hips. Pre-cum smeared across your chest, making everything smoother, sloppier.

His breathing turned ragged, his grip in your hair tightening. “I—I’m close,” he warned, voice cracking. “Please—I’m sorry—I can’t hold it—”

“Mmh…” You sucked harder, tongue flicking against the underside of the head, your breasts pressing tighter around him as you moved faster.

His hips stuttered, a broken cry ripping from his throat as hot cum spurted across your face—thick ropes painting your cheek, your lips, your chin. Some landed on your chest, mixing with the slick there.

He kept coming, his whole body trembling through the aftershocks, little apologies spilling out with every pulse. “Sorry—sorry—I got it on your face—I’m sorry—”

You pulled off slowly, licking your lips, tasting him. Then you lifted a hand and wiped a drop from the corner of your mouth with your finger, bringing it to your tongue deliberately. The taste was strangely familiar.

Choso stared at you, his face burning crimson, his chest heaving. He looked like he was about to apologize again, so you leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Don’t say sorry now,” you murmured against his skin.

“.......” He blinked, dazed, and slowly, hesitantly, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. His grip tightened whenever you shifted.

"Choso," you murmured, stroking the back of his head. "We should probably get cleaned up."

He shook his head against your shoulder, voice muffled. "Don't want to move… Don't want… this to end."

A small smile touched your lips. But beneath the tenderness, a different heat was coiling low in your belly. You shifted your hips deliberately, pressing your thigh against his half-hard length.

He gasped, jerking back slightly, eyes snapping up to meet yours. "You—" He swallowed hard, his blush deepening. "You... you want more too?"

Instead of answering with words, you pushed him gently onto his back. He went easily, staring up at you with wide, vulnerable eyes as you straddled his waist.

The position pressed your bare cunt against the base of his cock, and the contact made both of you inhale sharply.

He was already hardening again, the stimulation too much to ignore. You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his shaft, stroking slowly. His hips bucked instinctively, a broken moan spilling from his lips.

"Wait," he panted, hands flying to your hips. "Wait—I don't—I've never—"

You paused. "Never what?"

His face turned impossibly red. "I've never... done this. All the way." His voice dropped to a whisper, ashamed.

The admission hit you somewhere deep. It made the heat inside you burn hotter, made your grip on his cock tighten just slightly. He whimpered.

"That's okay," you breathed, leaning down to press a kiss to his chest. "We'll go slow."

You guided his tip to your entrance, the head nudging against your slick folds. Choso's breath caught, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

You pressed down gently, just the tip beginning to stretch you open—he gasped, his whole body seizing. A hot burst of cum splashed against your inner thigh, sticky and sudden. He'd come again. Just from the touch of you.

"No—no, no, I'm sorry—" His voice cracked, panic rising. "I—I couldn't—couldn't hold it—please—"

He looked wrecked. Humiliated. Tears welled in his eyes as he tried to cover his face with his hands.

The sight of him so undone, so helpless under you, made your clit throb. You gently pulled his hands away, leaning down to kiss his lips, soft and reassuring.

“It's okay," you whispered. "That just means you get to go again."

You slid off him, settling beside him as you wrapped your hand around his still-twitching cock.

He was oversensitive, flinching at every touch, but you stroked him slowly, firmly, watching his face contort with pleasure and embarrassment.

Within minutes, he was hard again, painfully hard, precum beading at the slit. This time you didn't hesitate. You positioned yourself over him, sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

The feeling of him filling you made your eyes roll back. He was thick, and the stretch was perfect. Choso let out a strangled cry, his hands flying to your hips, gripping so tight his knuckles went white.

"Ahh—is that—" he gasped, as if he couldn't believe it. "I'm—I'm inside you!—"

"Yes," you moaned, starting to move. Up, down, a slow, rolling rhythm that had both of you groaning. "You feel so good, Choso."

His head thrashed against the pillow, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. "Don't let go—please—don't let go of me—"

He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around your back, pulling you flush against his chest.

His face buried in your neck, and his hips started moving on their own—thrusting up into you desperately, frantically, no rhythm, just pure need. "Yes—yes—" he sobbed against your skin. "Don't let go—don't ever let go—"

You clung to him just as tightly, riding him hard, feeling his cock hit deep inside you with every buck of his hips. "Ngh… I'm close…" you gasped. "Choso—"

"Cum with me—please—cum with me—" His voice was wrecked, desperate. "I love you—I love you so much—"

The words crashed into you just as your orgasm did. You clenched around him, crying out, and that was all it took.

He buried himself as deep as he could, a choked sob ripping from his throat as hot cum burst inside you—pulse after pulse, flooding your walls.

But he didn't stop. He kept thrusting, shallow and frantic, his body shaking with overstimulation. Tears soaked your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Don't stop—don't stop holding me—" he begged, his voice barely a whisper now. "Please—please—"

You held him tighter, stroking his hair, whispering soothing nonsense against his ear as his movements finally slowed.

His cock stayed buried inside you, softening, but he didn't pull out. He just clung to you, trembling, crying softly into your neck.

—

The next morning, everything was supposed to continue normally.

Your alarm went off before sunrise like always, vibrating somewhere beneath your pillow. For a few seconds, you simply lay there staring blankly at the ceiling, still half-asleep and aching from the exhaustion of the night before.

Then the nausea hit. Hard enough that you immediately pressed a hand over your mouth.

Your stomach twisted violently while a sharp throb pulsed behind your eyes, spreading steadily toward the back of your head.

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass, but the moment you tried sitting up, another wave of nausea rolled through you so badly you nearly collapsed back against the mattress.

“…Ow—Fuck.” Your voice came out weak and rough.

Beside the bed, Choso stirred almost instantly. You hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep there sometime during the night, curled awkwardly near the edge of the mattress with one arm resting beside your blanket like he’d wanted to stay close in case something happened.

The second he lifted his head and saw your face, whatever sleep remained in his expression disappeared completely. “What’s wrong?”

You rubbed weakly at your forehead. “Nothing, I just…” Another pulse of pain made your stomach turn again.

Immediately, Choso pushed himself upright. His movements still looked tired from the previous night, but none of that seemed to matter the moment his attention settled fully on you.

“You don't have to go today,” he said quietly.

“But…” You tried getting up again anyway. The second your feet touched the floor, dizziness crashed over you hard enough to blur your vision for a moment.

Choso caught your arm almost immediately before you could properly lose balance. “Don’t go.”

Normally, you would’ve argued. Normally, you would’ve forced yourself through it anyway. But the pounding in your skull had already become unbearable, every movement making it worse.

Your body felt strangely heavy beneath the blankets again once Choso carefully helped you lay back down.

Eventually, after another miserable attempt at convincing yourself you could still make it to work, you gave up and called in sick instead.

The guilt settled in immediately after hanging up. You almost never took leave. Especially not this suddenly.

But by noon, the headache had turned into a fever strong enough that even thinking became exhausting.

Heat burned beneath your skin while chills still crawled across your arms underneath the blankets. Your body ached everywhere, the kind of deep weakness that made lifting your head feel like too much effort.

And through all of it—Choso stayed beside you. The entire day. Every time you drifted half-conscious from fever and exhaustion, he was still there when you opened your eyes again.

Sitting beside the bed. Adjusting the blanket when it slipped down your shoulder. Pressing cold cloths against your forehead with careful hands. Watching you with quiet panic he clearly wasn’t managing to hide very well.

You found yourself mumbling instructions between bouts of dizziness because honestly, he looked terrified every time your fever spiked again.

“There’s medicine in the second drawer,” you whispered weakly at one point. “White bottle… not the blue one…”

Choso nodded immediately like the instructions were life-or-death.

Later, when the fever made your stomach too nauseous to handle proper food, he cooked soup instead. Simple things.

He listened to every single thing you said with frightening seriousness. By evening, he’d practically memorized your medicine schedule better than you had. Still, nothing helped.

You told yourself it was probably just some mild infection at first. Something annoying but manageable. Maybe exhaustion finally catching up after too many long shifts back-to-back.

But one day turned into two. Then three. And instead of improving, your body only felt heavier. Weaker.

Sometimes when you woke in the middle of the night, you’d find him sitting on the floor beside the bed with his head resting quietly against the mattress near your arm.

Other times he’d be leaning forward in the chair beside you, watching your face so intensely it almost startled you. Like he was checking every breath. Making sure you were still there.

You noticed the fear in him more clearly as the days passed. The way his fingers twitched anxiously whenever your fever climbed too high again. The way he called your name softly whenever you stayed asleep too long.

This shouldn’t be lasting this long…

You were a doctor. You knew how ordinary infections behaved. Even exhaustion-induced fevers usually eased after proper rest and medication. But this… this felt wrong.

Slowly, sometime that afternoon, you finally made up your mind. Maybe you should call someone from the hospital or at least ask another doctor what they thought.

You shifted weakly beneath the blanket before blinking toward the bedroom doorway. Quiet. Usually Choso stayed close enough that you could hear him moving around the apartment constantly.

Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Sometimes just pacing softly between rooms whenever your fever got too high. But now there was nothing.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat before trying to sit up properly. Immediately, pain exploded through your skull. “Ah—!”

Your hand flew instinctively toward your forehead as dizziness crashed into you hard enough to blur your vision for a second. It genuinely felt like someone was driving nails behind your eyes.

You stayed frozen there breathing slowly through it, waiting for the pounding to ease enough to move again. Maybe he was busy.

Eventually, after another long minute, you forced yourself upright anyway. Your legs nearly buckled the moment they touched the floor. Your body felt awful.

You steadied yourself against the wall before dragging your feet slowly toward the living room, every step making your head pound harder.

Your phone rested abandoned near the couch cushions where you’d apparently left it days ago. You grabbed it weakly before dropping down onto the couch with a shaky exhale.

The screen lit up immediately.

So many missed calls. Your coworkers. The hospital. Several personal messages stacked one after another across the screen.

Where are you?

Why aren’t you answering?

Are you okay??

Even the department group chat had exploded with notifications.

Your brows pulled together weakly. ‘How long had your phone been on silent?’

You stared at the screen through blurry vision for another second before unlocking it shakily. Honestly, you only meant to check one message quickly before calling someone back.

But your thumb slipped lower accidentally. The official hospital notice opened instead. At first, the words barely registered properly through the headache pounding behind your eyes.

You squinted harder at the screen. The letters blurred together once. Twice. Then slowly sharpened.

NOTICE TO ALL STAFF MEMBERS:—

‘Patient identified as Choso Kamo has escaped from XX Long-Term Psychiatric and Containment Facility following a violent incident involving multiple injured staff members.

Patient is considered medically hazardous. Avoid direct contact with bodily fluids.

Subject displays severe emotional dependency, unstable attachment behavior, and unpredictable violent responses.

If seen, contact hospital security immediately. Do not approach alone!’

Below the notice sat a photograph:

Dark hair tied messily back. Heavy eyes. That same exhausted expression you’d memorized over months.

Choso…

Your body trembled suddenly, though whether from fever or shock you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

From the kitchen, something clattered softly against the counter. You flinched.

For a second, you simply sat there staring blankly at the screen while your pulse hammered painfully against your throat.

Then slowly—very slowly—you pushed yourself back onto your feet. Your legs felt weak underneath you as you moved toward the hallway.

Every step made the notice replay louder inside your head: Do not approach alone.

You reached the kitchen entrance quietly enough that he hadn’t noticed you yet. And then you saw him—

In front of the hot cooking pot on the stove, steam rising from whatever was bubbling inside. His pants were unzipped, hanging loose around his hips.

One hand wrapped around his cock—hard, flushed, glistening with precum—stroking in fast, desperate pulls. The other hand gripped a kitchen knife, blade slick with red. His wrist was bleeding, a thin stream running down his forearm, dripping onto the floor.

He was fucking his own fist, hips jerking forward, breath coming in ragged pants, and as you watched, his body tensed—a low, guttural moan escaping his throat as thick ropes of cum shot into the pot, mixing with the food.

He didn't stop until he'd emptied himself completely, his cock twitching, a final drop falling.

Then he turned. His eyes found yours instantly. No surprise, shame or flustered apology.

Instead, a slow, wide grin spread across his face—stretching until it seemed to reach his ears, splitting his cheeks. His head tilted to the side, almost mechanically, like a doll's.

“I was just… waiting until you loved me enough.”

Chapter 5

Y/n lays in the guest bed unsure what to do, having trouble sleeping. She’s been moved there from the med bay and told that either Felix or Minho as well as one of the omegas will be in the next room during the night if she needs anything. She’s not sure who’s on the rotation tonight as she turns in the bed once again not feeling tired. All the sleep she had been getting from healing has caused her to feel restless now. 

Deciding on laying on her back the girl strains her ears to hear purring from the room next door. She doesn’t recognize the loud purrs coming from the other side of the wall meaning it must be Minho’s night instead of Felix’s and she’s either hearing Hyunjin or Jisung. Biting her lip she considers if she should go bother one of them.

“Are you in pain?” She hears, causing her to sit up quickly and looks at Minho standing in the doorway.

Y/n stares at the beta in shock for a second before shaking her head no.

“I’ve been listening to you toss and turn for the last hour.” He steps into the room watching her closely. “Are you sure you’re not hurting?” 

She takes a second, moving her leg as if she has to make sure herself that she isn’t in pain before shaking her head again. 

“I can practically hear your brain working overtime. Wanna talk about what’s got your mind so occupied this late at night?” He looks her over for a moment as if contemplating what he should say next as she just stares at him. “I could also always go get one of the omegas for you if you would prefer? Jisung is asleep in the next room, but I can also wake Felix or Hyunjin. I’m sure Seungmin wouldn’t hate me too much either if I told him you were wanting him.” 

When she still doesn’t speak to him he sighs looking around for a moment before deciding to just take matters into his own hands and turns towards the door. “I’ll go wake Ji for you.” 

“Don’t.” She finally says and he turns to look at her. “Don’t bother Jisung.” 

“So she speaks.” Minho smiles, taking note this is the first time she hasn’t stuttered. “Please let me get one of the omegas for you, it’s clear you’re needing some comfort or something.” 

She shakes her head no, looking away while chewing on her bottom lip. 

The beta sighs while rubbing his face a little. “At least let me take you to one of them then? I can tuck you in with Ji and go to my own room if you’d like. Or Felix is in Hyunjin’s room, let me put you in their bed. I just don’t like that you’re awake and alone in here.” 

Y/n considers the options while looking up at him seeing he seems desperate. “J-Jisung.” 

Minho lets out a sigh and gestures for her to follow him. She walks so quietly behind him that he has to crane his head back to make sure she was following. She looks towards the living room and pauses when she notices the youngest alpha sleeping on the couch. 

“Innie fell asleep during the movie he and Hyunjin were watching.” Minho explains having realized she had stopped. “He doesn’t like to be picked up saying that just because he’s the youngest he shouldn’t be treated like the baby of the pack, so we usually just leave him when he falls asleep early.” 

The omega gives one last glance at Jeongin, her heart fluttering a little at the sight of the sleeping male before going into the room Jisung is currently sound asleep in. Minho moves to the side he had been sleeping on and pulls the covers back for her to slide into the bed. It doesn’t take long for the male omega to wrap his arms around her the second she is next to him causing her to tense up for a second before melting into his scent. 

“Is there anything you need before I go upstairs?” The older male watches her as he places the covers around the two. 

She looks at him for a second before looking over Jisung a little seeing how there is so much room as the younger male doesn’t know the concept of personal space. This makes Minho wonder if he should make Jisung move so Y/n has room.

“W-will you s-stay?” She speaks so low that he almost doesn’t hear it as his eyes flicker to hers seeing the slight plead in her eyes. 

“Are you sure?” 

Y/n nods her head. Minho looks at her for a moment to make sure she isn’t going to change her mind before climbing into the bed on Jisung's other side, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“Try and sleep Y/n.” He mutters listening to her breathing for a little bit. After a while he thinks she’s still awake but when he sits up to look at her he realizes her breathing had even out as much as it is able to with her ribs. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 

“Channie, Min!” Felix yells from the doorway of the empty guest room before running back to the kitchen where the two oldest are cooking breakfast. “Y/n, she’s gone.” 

The pack alpha drops the spatula he was using to flip pancakes on a griddle and turns to the younger male. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

“She’s not in the guest room.” The male omega looks ready to cry.

“WHAT?” 

Jeongin sits up on the couch from where he was still laying from falling asleep the night before. 

“Guys, relax.” Minho speaks while still turned to the stove making bacon and eggs. “She’s with Jisung.”

Felix doesn’t even wait for an explanation, he just runs back down the hall to the other guest room opening the door to find Y/n curled up in Jisungs arms. He lets out a sigh, visibly relaxing at seeing that she didn’t run away in the night. Without thinking, he goes and joins them, curling up next to the other male.

Meanwhile in the kitchen Chan calms down after seeing the youngest omega go into the guest room to join the other two. He flips the pancakes he had going on the griddle before they burn then turns to Minho. Jeongin is still staring at the open bedroom door. 

“Were there any problems last night?” 

“No, not really.” He shakes his head. “I heard her tossing and turning and offered to wake one of the omegas for her. Eventually convinced her to lay with Sungie where she fell asleep pretty easily after that.”

“And you stayed too?” Chan just wants to know how trusting the girl is becoming of the betas. 

“She asked me to.” 

“Good.” Chan whispers as he focuses on what he’s doing. 

“Where is she?” Hyunjin walks down the stairs looking around, seeing only the three of them.

“Laying in bed with Jisungie.” Jeongin points to the guest room, his chin resting on the back of the couch to watch the hallway. “And probably now Felix.” 

“There is omega cuddling going on and no one invited me?” The male pouts as he heads to the room. 

“Tell them breakfast is almost ready while you’re in there.” Minho calls out as he places the last of the bacon on one of the plates laid out on the counter. “Innie, can you get the other two please?”

Jeongin groans as he gets up to search for the last two pack members who aren’t downstairs yet. 

Meanwhile Hyunjin walks into the guest room seeing Jisung holding Y/n close to him and Felix holding onto the other male. Hyunjin quietly takes a picture of the three of them before moving to the bed and lays on top of Felix. 

“Hyun.” He whines at the weight of the older male on top of him. 

“It’s what you get for not inviting me to omega cuddles.” 

“You were still asleep upstairs.” Felix pushes him off of him which the older obliges not wanting to hurt his back as the older wiggles between him and the other male omega. 

“Will you two shut up.” Jisung throws an arm behind him to hit the two. “We’re trying to sleep.”

“Too bad.” Hyunjin leans over him to see the girl still sleeping. “It’s time for breakfast so you need to get up.” 

Jisung whines as he untangles himself from Y/n, she not even flinching. 

Hyunjin frowns seeing the girl not moving. “She is alive, right?” 

Felix shoots up out of the bed and moves around so he can kneel on the floor next to her. He moves the hair out of her face to see her cheeks are pale and her breathing is shallow. “Go get Minho.” 

He presses two fingers over the pulse point on her neck just above her mating gland as Hyunjin and Jisung leave to go get the oldest beta. He feels her heartbeat is fast just as her eyes flutter open and it takes her a second before she pulls away from Felix, freaking out, looking around confused as she sits up. 

“Hey.” The male omega holds his hands up to show he isn’t a threat. “It’s okay Y/n. You just weren’t waking up, was just checking you over.” 

Minho rushes in before she can even gather her thoughts, his hand going to her head to check for a fever. She flinches away at first before actually letting him feel her head then cheek. 

He sighs in relief feeling that her temperature is normal, holding her cheek for a second having noticed a bit of sweat around her hairline. “Thought maybe your leg might be infected, making you sick.” He lifts the hem of Hyunjin's shirt she’s wearing just enough to see the bandage. “Can I look at it?” 

Y/n watches his every move but lets him unwrap her thigh to look at the stitches. As he does that Felix is still kneeling next to the bed looking at her making her turn to him. 

“Was it a nightmare?” He finally asks, not able to come up with any other reason as to what happened. 

The omega hesitates before nodding her head yes, hoping he won’t try and pry. 

“You’re okay.” Felix whispers as he pushes some hair behind her ear understanding what she’s feeling. Suddenly she whimpers, turning back to Minho. 

“Sorry.” He whispers, having pulled the skin of her thigh taut to check on how well the stitches has let her wound heal. “You’ve healed pretty well. It’s still gonna be sore for a bit but we should be able to take the stitches out in a day or two.” 

Y/n nods knowing she’ll have to make her decision whether she’ll stay with the pack or go back to her family. 

“Are you hungry for breakfast?” Minho brings the girl out of her thoughts having seen she was overthinking. 

Felix notices what the beta is trying to do and smiles. “Why don’t you join us in the dining room today?” He pulls her up out of the bed, excited, as she hasn’t exactly left the guest room since the day she was placed in it. 

They’ve been bringing food to her in the other guest room every meal, usually one or two of them staying so she wasn’t alone. Her joining Jisung in bed the night before was the first time she left the guest room in days.

Deciding to not really give her a choice as she’ll just overthink it, Minho points to the wooden piece of furniture against the far wall. “There’s some clothes in the dresser if you want to change. Meet us in the dining room.”

The two walk out to find the rest of the pack setting the dining table with all the food the two oldest had been cooking all morning, Seungmin and Changbin having joined them now with a few bottles of juice.

“They actually stopped you guys to do a vehicle check?” Chan asked. 

“What’s going on?” Felix raises his brows seeing Changbin a bit pissed off. 

“We went to the corner store to get some juice this morning since I noticed Y/n’s been liking the orange juice when we give it to her.” Seungmin explains. “We got stopped on the way back by police.”

“They said it was just a routine check for unregistered omegas so when they saw just us in the car they let us go.” Changbin sighs, rubbing his head. “They’ve never done this before.” 

“They’ve never had an omega escape an arena before.” Chan looks around concerned. “The only times we’ve ever been approached by authorities is when we have Felix with us and they wanted to see our registration papers showing that we own him.” 

“Stupid, bullshit papers.” Felix grumbles as he takes the plates from the counter to set around the table. 

Hyunjin rubs the omega’s back as he hates only being allowed to leave with Chan since as the pack alpha, he “owns” him, so it's his name on Felix’s papers. But he can’t complain too much as he’s actually able to leave because of it, unlike Hyunjin and Jisung who have never been registered and can’t actually go out in public. 

“Do you think they’ll start doing house searches of the ones surrounding the arena?” Jisung worries, his lip bleeding a little as he’s been biting it since the two had gotten home explaining what happened. 

“They have no reason to unless someone accuses us of hiding an unregistered omega.” Minho explains. “And the only ones who know we do also have unregistered omegas.”

“Plus we have Felix listed as a bought omega with the city.” Chan reminds them. “If someone tries to accuse us that we are, they'll see the paperwork and not believe the accusation.” 

“But they have an escaped omega on the loose.” Jeongin speaks up from where he’s been quietly listening. “That’s reason enough to search the surrounding homes.”

Hyunjin lets out a snort. “That would mean they’d have to admit to losing an omega to the public and I can promise you that’s the last thing they wanna do.” 

“Hyunjin’s right.” Changbin agrees. “They don’t want this to be public knowledge otherwise it would be on the news about an escaped omega and they’d be searching all the houses in a mile radius looking for Y/n.” 

“They’re keeping it on the downlow which is good for us.” Chan nods before looking at all three omegas. “But to be on the safe side, rules are gonna be stricter on you guys.” 

“We don’t mind.” Jisung sits down. “I think we can all agree we would rather be stuck in the house 24/7 than going out and possibly getting caught. I think Jinnie and I will be fine not even  going and staying in the car on short runs to the grocery stores.” 

“It’s getting to be winter anyways.” Hyunjin also sits. “Would much rather be here with the heat on or by the fire than out in the snow.” 

“I think it would be best for you guys to not even go out on the property.” Minho tells them and all three alphas agree. “Just until things calm down.”

“Well let’s change the subject for now.” Seungmin interrupts having been making a plate. “I’ll go take Y/n her breakfast, who wants to join?”

“She’s actually going to join us today.” Felix stops him. “She’s just changing right now.”

“Really?” Jeongin gets excited as he hasn’t gotten to interact or be around the girl as much as he wishes to be. 

“How’d you guys convince her to join us?” Changbin sits down next to Jisung. “She hasn’t been wanting to leave the guest room.”

Just as the oldest beta goes to speak a door opening is heard and small footsteps patter towards them as Y/n appears wearing a pair of Jisung’s sweatpants and one of Felix’s shirts. She stops when all eyes turn to her and she gets embarrassed refusing to make eye contact with anyone. 

“Good morning Y/n.” Seungmin walks up to her and gives her the plate he was originally going to take to her. “Sit wherever you want pup.” 

She hesitates looking around the table as the pack moves around her trying to act normal so as to not make her uncomfortable. After a second she moves to take the seat next to Hyunjin who smiles at her and pours her a cup of orange juice. 

Seungmin takes the seat on her other side so she would have two people she was comfortable with on both sides of her. Everyone started having their own conversations, Hyunjin and Seungmin talking with her. Well more like they’re talking while she listens to them both. Occasionally Felix would add in and even Jeongin at one point. 

“Y/n?” Jisung gets her attention from across the table and she looks up a bit shocked. “Do you wanna join us for a movie day? It’s kind of a tradition we have. We all lounge around and watch movies during the first snow of winter.” 

This shocks the girl as she turns to look out the window seeing it is indeed starting to snow. 

“You don’t have to.” Minho reminds her, he feels a bit bad that he and Felix already didn’t give her an option about breakfast and doesn’t want to push her further. “If you want to do something else you’re more than welcome to.” 

“We just wanted to give you the option to join us.” Jeongin speaks up. “In case you didn’t want to be alone, you’d know where to find us.”

She nods in understanding not sure what to decide just yet but will let the day play out and figure it out. 

______________________________________________________________

Taglist

@nojerama-writes @imagine-all-the-imagines @galaxy4489 @cliosunshine @rougegenshin @krssliu @bookswillfindyouaway @teffyx @idiotmaterial @thatgirlangelb @kurafairy @comicnerd557 @eyes-ofhell @dynamicreader @parkthothwa8 @raineandcl0uds @arishoriasims @vampkittenb82 @ailiseu-qin @furfoxsake22 @unenthusiasticmigraine @locknocker3000 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @oddinarythoughts @staytinyluv @btsgangleader @stellasays45 @appleschloss @b-r-stark @alex--awesome--22 @urmomsfavlesb @maddy24207 @nightmarenyxx @femaholicc @human169 @ateez-atiny380 @no1likeneo @freedeluluskzgifs @sang-09 @minniesverse @buffyspice @freedeluluskzgifs @whoreforeverythingspice @mintchip17 @living-tornado @linospetsitter @deerieme @forgetfulsmols @rayraymylove @wut5000 

m a s t e r l i s t ⋆ i n b o x

“Open your mouth.”

The command is low, a dark murmur that goes straight through you, vibrating in your stomach. Hyunjin’s thumb is on your bottom lip, pressing insistently. You can see the intensity in his dark eyes from where you’re kneeling between his spread thighs on the floor. Across the room, the TV casts a blue glow over Minho, Seungmin, and Jisung’s focused gaze.

“You heard him,” Minho says, voice flat. “You wanted to know what it felt like. So fucking take it.”

Your heart is a frantic bird in your chest. You part your lips.

Hyunjin’s thumb slips inside, pads pressing down on your tongue. It’s an intrusion, simple and profound. “Good,” he praises, his other hand coming up to cradle your jaw. His touch is warm, almost tender, a stark contrast to the crude command. “Now, stay just like that for me.”

It wasn’t supposed to go here. You were just hanging out.

The night had been normal. Comfortably numb. A Friday with the usual suspects—Jisung, Minho, Seungmin, Hyunjin—crowded into Minho’s apartment. You were all in your twenties, adults with shared history and easy camaraderie. A superhero movie you’d all seen before played on the TV, providing a wash of noise and color more than a focal point. You were tucked into the corner of the large sectional, a bowl of chips balanced on your stomach, laughing at something stupid Jisung had said.

And then somehow the topic of orgies came up.

Seungmin, stretched out on the floor, took a long pull from his beer. “It’s just biology,” he said, using the tone he used when he was about to be a shit-stirrer. “The whole monogamy construct. Historically speaking, sharing partners wasn’t exactly taboo.”

“Oh, here we go,” Minho groaned from the armchair, though a glint in his eye said he was engaged. “Professor Kim is in session.”

“I’m just saying,” Seungmin continued, ignoring him. “The idea of an orgy, a group thing–it’s about trust and greed. You want one experience, but why not have four? Or five?”

Jisung, sitting cross-legged next to you, nudged your foot with his. “You ever think about that stuff?”

You snorted, grabbing a chip. “What, orgies? My brain’s usually occupied with more important things. Like why my left boob is bigger than my right.”

Jisung glanced down at your chest and you smacked him with a pillow.

“Bullshit,” Minho said lightly. “Everyone thinks about it. The logistics. The sensations.” He let the word hang, his gaze flicking to you, then away to the TV where two characters were punching each other silently.

“Logistics are a nightmare,” Hyunjin mused from the other end of the sofa. “You’d need space. Rules. A lot of towels.” He said it so practically, as if discussing a home renovation, that you laughed.

“See? Hyunjin gets it. It’s a towel-based operation. Not sexy.”

“Everything can be sexy with the right mindset,” Seungmin countered, sitting up. “Imagine it. No jealousy. Just a group of people who trust each other, exploring. Giving. Taking.” He looked right at you. “You’ve never been curious?”

The room felt a degree warmer. You shifted, the chips suddenly too salty. “I mean, in theory, maybe. As a sociological experiment.”

“A fucking experiment,” Jisung corrected, grinning. His biceps flexed as he reached for his own drink. “Come on, you’ve never seen a movie scene or read something and wondered, just for a second, what it would actually feel like?”

You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “My imagination is pretty vivid. I don’t need a field trip.”

“But a field trip is more fun,” Minho said. He’d gone quiet, watching the exchange like a chess match. His quiet intensity was always more potent than Jisung’s loud energy. “Admit it. The idea of being the center of attention for more than one person. Of having hands on you from all sides, not knowing who’s touching you where next…it has to do something to you.”

Your face heated. He was too close to a nerve you didn’t acknowledge. “You’re projecting, Minho.”

“Am I?” He said with a wink.

Hyunjin swirled the liquid in his glass. “I think it could be beautiful. If it was about connection. Not just bodies, but appreciating someone fully. Letting others appreciate them, too.”

“Romanticizing an orgy, classic Hyunjin,” Seungmin chuckled, but it wasn’t unkind.

“I’m just saying the idea of sharing someone you care about,” Hyunjin continued, his gaze soft yet unwavering as it landed on you, “seeing them come apart because of you, and because of your friends. There’s a generosity in that. A kind of love.”

The word ‘love’ in the same conversation as ‘orgy’ sent a bizarre, electric jolt through you.

“Okay, but have any of you actually done anything like that?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation back to hypotheticals, to them.

A heavy silence.

Jisung scratched the back of his neck. Minho took a slow drink. Seungmin’s lips quirked. Hyunjin just looked at you.

“Asking for a friend?” Seungmin finally said, his voice dropping.

“No! I’m just…you’re all talking like experts.”

“We’re observant,” Minho stated. “And we’re honest about what we want.”

“And what do you want?” The question left you before you could stop it.

The air left the room. Four pairs of eyes, all shades of dark, fixed on you. The blue light from the screen played over their faces, highlighting the sharp line of Minho’s jaw, the slope of Jisung’s nose, the fullness of Hyunjin’s lips, the gleam in Seungmin’s gaze.

It was Jisung who broke the silence, his goofiness replaced by a startling seriousness. “Right now?” He leaned forward, his voice a low rumble. “I want to know what you taste like.”

You started coughing, tossing the bowl of chips to the side as Jisung handed you his glass of water. You took a drink before choking out, “What?”

“You asked,” Seungmin said. “We’re telling you. Me personally? I want to hear the sounds you make when you’re overwhelmed. I want to find the words that make you blush and squirm.”

Minho stayed in his seat, watching you as Hyunjin uncoiled himself from his end of the couch. He didn’t crowd you; he simply came closer and knelt on the floor in front of your feet. He looked up at you, and his expression was indeed gentle, but beneath it burned a raw hunger that made your stomach flip. “I want to worship you,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it over the movie’s explosions. “And I want to watch them worship you, too.”

Your mind blanked, then flooded with a thousand panicked, thrilling thoughts. This was crazy. These were your friends. But the look in their eyes—it wasn’t friendly. It was hungry, possessive, curious, consuming.

“This is–we can’t” you stammered.

“We can,” Minho said, standing and walking around the couch. His hands came to rest on your shoulders. Not forcing, just there. Heavy. Real. “Say no. Right now. Tell us to stop, and we drop it. We’ll watch the rest of this shitty movie and never speak of this again.”

You opened your mouth.

No was the safe word, the sane word.

A beat passed and you didn’t say it. Your silence was the loudest thing in the room.

Minho’s fingers flexed on your shoulders. “Okay then,” he murmured, and the two words were a verdict.

Things happened quickly then, a blur of decisive movement. Jisung took your hands and gently pulled you to your feet, legs unsteady. He guided you to the open space of the rug in front of the sofa. The movie played on, a silent, irrelevant witness.

“On your knees,” Seungmin instructed, his voice assuming a natural authority. You sank down, the plush rug soft beneath your shins.

Hyunjin moved in front of you again, settling on the couch in front of you. He spread his legs, making space for you between them. That’s when he’d issued the first command. Open your mouth.

And you had.

Now, with his thumb still resting on your tongue, he uses his grip on your jaw to guide you forward. His other hand goes to the button of his jeans. The sound of the zipper coming down is obscenely loud. He shifts, pushing the fabric down his hips just enough. And then he’s there, springing free, thick and already fully hard, the long, heavy length of him curving up towards his stomach.

A stunned sound vibrates in your throat.

“Eyes on me,” Hyunjin orders softly. You drag your gaze from his cock to his face. His eyes are black with want. “This is for you. This is because of you.” He guides your head forward. “Now, get my cock nice and wet for me, honey. Use that pretty mouth.”

The first touch of the velvety, hot crown against your lips makes you flinch. He’s big, thicker than you’d imagined, and the musky, clean scent of him fills your nose. You open wider, letting him slide past your lips. The weight of him on your tongue is immense, a solid, living heat. You close your lips around the shaft, and a deep, gratified groan spills from Hyunjin’s throat.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes, his head falling back against the back of the couch. His hands come up to cradle your head, not forcing, just holding. “Just like that. So good.”

You begin to move, tentatively, learning the shape of him with your mouth. Saliva pooling, making the glide easier. You’re suddenly lost in the sensation of him filling your mouth, the sound of his ragged breathing, the sight of his abdomen clenching.

You’re so focused you don’t notice the others moving until hands are on your body.

From behind, Minho’s fingers find the hem of your shirt. You briefly pull away from Hyunjin’s cock as Minho tugs your shirt up and over your head in one swift motion, leaving you in just your bra. You immediately wrap your lips back around Hyunjin, making him groan and tangle his hand in your hair.

The cool air touches your skin, raising goosebumps. “Don’t stop,” Minho murmurs, his mouth close to your ear. His hands slide down to your ribs, his palms rough and warm. He finds the front clasp of your bra and flicks it open. The fabric loosens, and he peels it away, tossing it aside. His hands come back immediately, cupping your bare breasts, weighing them, his thumbs circling your nipples with a deliberate, rough pressure that makes you jerk and moan around Hyunjin’s cock.

“Sensitive,” Minho notes, a hint of a smile in his voice. He pinches one peak, rolling it tightly, and a sharp bolt of pleasure-pain shoots straight to your core, making your hips buck against nothing.

To your right, Jisung slides underneath you. “My turn,” he says, his voice husky. He leans in and simply replaces Minho’s hand on your other breast with his mouth. He doesn’t tease. He takes the stiffened peak between his lips and suckles hard, his tongue lashing the tip. The dual sensation—Minho’s cruel pinches, Jisung’s wet, ardent sucking—unravels you. Your moans are constant now, muffled by the cock in your mouth, your body trembling between the three points of contact.

Hyunjin’s grip in your hair tightens, watching you with rapt, dark eyes. “You feel so good. So soft and hot.”

Seungmin appears on your left. He doesn’t touch you at first. He just watches, his eyes tracking every reaction. And then he reaches out and trails a single finger down your spine. You arch into the touch. “I want to hear you,” he says directly to you. “I want to hear you gag on him.”

As if on cue, Hyunjin gently pushes your head down, feeding you more of his length. The head bumps the back of your throat, making you cough and choke on him. Four pairs of groans are released. You relax, letting him slide deeper, until your nose is meeting the base of him. Tears spring to your eyes. You are held there, full to the brim, as Jisung sucks and Minho pinches and Seungmin’s fingers trace your vertebrae.

Hyunjin pulls you back, letting you gasp for air, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening shaft. “Incredible,” he whispers.

Before you could catch your breath, Minho’s hands leave your breasts and hook into the waistband of your leggings and underwear. “Lift up,” he commands. You raise your hips, and he strips the last of your clothing down your thighs, leaving you completely bare, kneeling and exposed before all of them. The vulnerability is a total, dizzying rush.

Jisung abandons your breast with a pop. “Fuck, look at you, baby,” he growls, his gaze raking over your naked form.

You’re maneuvered around and pushed onto your back, Jisung now in front of your splayed thighs. He grips your hips, his thumbs digging into the crease of your groin and leans in, his breath fanning over your wet, aching folds. “You’re soaked. Absolutely dripping for us.”

He doesn’t wait, pressing his mouth to you, a flat, open-mouthed kiss over your entire center. The contact is electric, a shock of pure sensation that rips a raw cry from your throat. His tongue is broad and insistent, licking a firm stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, where he circles once, twice, before diving back down.

“Jisung, fuck,” you pants, your hands finding his hair. Your hips try to roll into Jisung’s face, but Minho’s hands clamp down on your waist, holding you still.

“Stay put,” Minho says. “Let him work.”

And Jisung works. He eats you with messy, enthusiastic greed. His tongue spears inside you, fucking you with shallow, rapid thrusts before returning to lap at your clit. He sucks the sensitive bud into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that has your thighs shaking. The sounds are obscene—wet, sloppy, desperate.

Seungmin finally joins the physical fray. Minho moves, letting him kneel beside you. He reaches down to touch you, one hand sliding over your stomach, pressing down. The other dips between your legs, his fingers finding the slick, swollen flesh alongside Jisung’s feasting mouth. He rubs slow, teasing circles around your entrance, not penetrating, just feeling the wetness, the heat.

“You gonna come from just his mouth?” Seungmin asks you, his voice thick with lust. “Look at her stomach trembling. Listen to those little fucking whimpers.”

“Make her come,” Hyunjin urges, his fist moving up and down his length, smearing pre-come and along his flushed cock. “I want to see it.”

Jisung doubles his efforts. He slides two fingers inside you, curling them up, and his mouth locks onto your clit, sucking hard. The dual assault—the penetrating fullness, the relentless suction—builds the coil in your belly to a breaking point. The pleasure is a white-hot wire, pulled taut. You’re babbling, nonsense words and their names, your body straining against the hands holding you.

It crests without warning, a seismic release that tears through you. Your back arches violently, a broken, screaming sob rips from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of convulsing pleasure that leaves you blind and shuddering. Jisung rides it out, his tongue gently lapping at you as you pulse around his fingers.

As the last tremors subside, you slump, boneless. You’re gasping, sweat-slicked, and utterly spent. But they aren’t done. Not even close.

You hear the sound of a belt, then a zipper. “You got the first one,” Minho says, his voice tight. “My turn.” He kisses your forehead. “You okay?” He asks you, pushing the hair back from your slick forehead. You nod, holding your thumbs up, making him chuckle.

And then he’s lifting you and bending you over between Hyunjin’s spread legs before positioning himself behind you on his knees. His hands grip your hips, pulling you back until your ass meets the hard, hot length of his cock. He rubs the head through your drenched folds, gathering your wetness, then notches it at your entrance.

“Look at Hyunjin,” Minho orders, his mouth at your ear.

Dazed, you lift your head. Hyunjin is watching, his expression one of awed, fervent lust. He strokes his cock slowly, his hooded gaze fixed on you.

Minho pushes forward. He’s thick, stretching you beautifully, brutally. The penetration is slow and inexorable, filling you up in a whole new way after the sensitivity of your climax. A low, guttural moan punches from your lungs. He seats himself fully, his hips flush against your ass, and holds there, letting you feel every inch.

“Fucking hell, you’re so tight,” Minho grits out, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Even after coming.”

He begins to move, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. His pace is punishing from the start, no warm-up, just deep, driving strokes that jolt you forward with each thrust. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, harmonizing with the movie’s forgotten score.

Hyunjin brings the head of his cock back to your lips. “Suck me,” he demands, his gentleness fraying into raw need. “Suck me while he fucks you.”

You open your mouth, taking him in again. This time, you have no rhythm. You’re just a vessel, your mouth being used as Minho’s thrusts rock you back and forth on Hyunjin’s length. Drool drips down your chin. You gag on Hyunjin whenever Minho hammers particularly deep.

It’s filthy, debasing, and impossibly hot.

Jisung, having moved aside, watches with a blown-out expression, stroking himself roughly. Seungmin is standing, also working his own cock, his eyes hungry.

“You like that?” Minho grunts, his pace never faltering. “You like being our little fuck toy? Filled at both ends?”

You can’t answer. You can only moan around Hyunjin’s cock, your eyes rolling back.

“She loves it,” Seungmin answers for you, his voice strained. “Look at her. She’s in heaven.”

Hyunjin’s breathing grows ragged. His thrusts into your mouth become shallow, frantic. “I’m gonna come,” he warns, his voice strangled. “Swallow it. Swallow every fucking drop.”

His release hits suddenly. A hot, bitter flood spilling over your tongue, pulsing down your throat. You swallow convulsively, some of it escaping past your lips. He keeps pumping into your mouth until he’s spent, then gently pulls out, his cock glistening and softening.

Minho doesn’t stop. He fucks you through Hyunjin’s orgasm, his own rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Gonna come inside this tight little cunt,” he snarls, his composure shattering. “Mark you. So they all know who fucked you deepest.”

With a final, savage thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and goes rigid. You feel the hot jet of his cum flooding you, a startling, intimate heat that triggers another, smaller, internal clench around his still-throbbing cock. He stays there, panting against your back, his weight heavy on you.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel the immediate, messy trickle of his spend down your inner thighs.

You collapse forward, caught by Hyunjin, who gathers you against his chest. You’re a wreck—breathless, used, dripping, and utterly fucked out.

Jisung and Seungmin are still hard, still stroking themselves, watching you with feral intent.

Seungmin’s dry voice cuts through the heavy silence. “My turn,” he says, his gaze fixed on your spent, glistening body. “Want that pretty pussy.”

Hyunjin kisses the side of your head before laying you down on the couch, getting up to let Seungmin sit beside you.

Seungmin’s shadow falls over you before the cushions dip with the weight of him, his arms reaching out to lift you onto his lap. Your thighs bracket his, his cock a rigid, dark line against the low light, jutting out with an impatient promise. You can see the fine sheen of pre-come glistening at the tip.

“I want that pretty little pussy. Can you ride me, baby?” He asks, framing your face with his large palms. You nod pathetically, eager to please him.

Hyunjin’s fingers stroke through your hair, a soothing gesture that feels miles away from the demand in front of you. “Be good for him,” Hyunjin murmurs into your ear, his own voice rough with spent satisfaction. “Let him have what he wants.”

Jisung is already moving, his energy a buzzing, restless thing. He scrambles around behind you, his hands landing on your bare hips. “I’m not done tasting her either,” he announces, his words a hot puff against the small of your back. “If Seungmin gets her mouth, I get this.” His palm slaps down on your ass cheek, the sound sharp in the quiet room. The sting blooms, mixing with the deep, sore fullness Minho left behind.

“Fine,” Seungmin says, his gaze cataloging your reactions. “But you follow my lead, Jisung. I set the pace.”

“Yeah, yeah, professor,” Jisung grins, but he nods.

Seungmin lifts you and then settles your dripping core against his twitching cock. “Clean yourself up first,” he instructs. “Use your fingers. Then lick them clean. I want to watch you taste both of them before you take me.”

A fresh wave of heat, shameful and intense, floods your system. Your eyes dart to Hyunjin, then to Minho who is now leaning against the armchair, watching with a lazy, satisfied smirk as he fastens his jeans. There’s no judgment, only avid curiosity.

Your hand trembles as you lift it to your chin. You gather the sticky, pearly strands of Hyunjin’s release mixed with your own saliva. You hold your glistening fingertips in front of your face for a suspended second, seeing the way Seungmin’s eyes narrow with focus. Then you push two fingers into your mouth.

The taste is musky, salty, distinctly male. You suck your fingers clean, hollowing your cheeks, a lewd, deliberate show you didn’t know you had in you. A low noise comes from Jisung behind you. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he breathes.

“Good,” Seungmin approves. “Now, the other.” He gestures to the trickle of Minho’s spend that had leaked down your inner thigh.

You bend forward, your body protesting, and run your fingers through the wetness there. This is warmer, slicker. You bring your fingers to your mouth again, maintaining eye contact with Seungmin as you lick them slowly, thoroughly. The taste is different, but the act of consuming them, of having their essence on your tongue, is what matters. It’s a claiming in reverse.

“Perfect,” Seungmin whispers. He finally wraps a hand around the base of his cock, giving it a few slow, deliberate strokes. He’s long, like Hyunjin, the veins standing in stark relief under his tight skin.

And then he’s lifting you, guiding himself to your slick entrance and letting you sink down onto him, both of you groaning in relief and pleasure.

He lets you adjust for only a second before he starts bouncing you slowly, sliding deeper and deeper with each thrust upward. You relax against him, pressing your face to his neck as he wraps his arms around your waist and does most of the work.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice slightly strained.

You force yourself to sit up, your watery eyes focusing on his face. His expression is one of intense concentration, his free hand coming up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin beside your mouth. “You take me so well,” he pants out, almost to himself. “Your pussy’s fluttering, trying to swallow me whole.” He lifts you slowly, until just the tip is left, before slamming you back down. “Fuck.”

He fucks into your cunt with that same measured, relentless pace. In, out. Deep, then shallow. Each thrust is controlled, a precise piston. The slapping of skin becomes rhythmic, a wet accompaniment to the slick sounds of your pussy taking him. Tears stream freely down your face now, but a strange, submissive pride blooms in your chest. You’re doing it. You’re taking all of them.

That’s when Jisung makes his move. His hands spread your ass cheeks wide. The cool air hits you, making you jolt. You feel his mouth first, not on your cunt, but higher. His tongue, hot and pointed, licks a firm stripe right over your other hole.

Your body seizes, a shock of pure, unexpected sensation bolting up your spine. You scream around collapsing onto Seungmin, the sound muffled into a guttural vibrato.

“What—” you try to gasp as Seungmin rams back in, cutting off your air.

“I said I wanted a taste,” Jisung mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin. “I didn’t specify where.” His tongue circles the tight, forbidden pucker, lapping at the mixed wetness gathered there. It’s filthy, degrading, and it sends a torrent of fresh arousal gushing from your already sensitive cunt.

Seungmin watches your reaction, his thrusts never faltering. “Shit, you’re clenching around me, tight little cunt milking my dick. She likes that. You like that don’t you? Ji’s tongue on your ass.” He snaps his hips forward, and you cry out, body convulsing. “Don’t you? You love being this dirty. Being used in every possible way.”

You can’t nod. You can only moan, a continuous, broken sound.

Jisung’s tongue presses inward, just a little, a teasing, invasive probe. At the same time, his hand slides around your thigh. Two of his fingers, find your swollen, throbbing clit. He rubs tight, fast circles directly on the oversensitive bud as Seungmin continues to bounce you on his cock.

The dual assault is unbearable. The deep, fullness in your pussy. The wicked, licking pressure at your back entrance. The ruthless stimulation on your clit. Your body is a live wire, strung between three points of overwhelming sensation. Pleasure coils, tight and vicious, deep in your gut, but it’s tangled with a raw, borderline-painful overstimulation.

“She’s close again,” Jisung announces, his voice thick with lust. “Her whole body is shaking.”

Seungmin’s control finally shows a crack. His hips stutter, his rhythm losing its perfect metronome beat. “Not yet,” he grits out. He grips your hips tighter, fingers digging into your flesh as he fucks you faster. “I want to come inside you, but I want you to come at the same time. I want to feel you lose it when I fill you up.” He grits out, hooded eyes on you. “Keep licking her ass, Ji,” he pants out, fucking up into you so hard the couch creaks beneath your shared weight.

Jisung doesn’t need telling twice. He flicks the tip of his tongue against your tight hole, both hands back to spreading your cheeks apart, his breath hot and ragged against your wet skin.

Stars explode behind your eyes, squeezed shut in blinding pleasure. Your hands come up to grip Seungmin’s shoulders, using them as leverage to ride him hard, pushing your ass back into Jising’s mouth.

The orgasm doesn’t build. It detonates.

It tears through you with violent, unhinged force. Your back arches impossibly, your body rigid between the two of them. A scream bursts out of you as you clench around Seungmin’s cock, milking him in rapid, pulsing waves. Your inner muscles flutter and spasm, a continuous, electric current of release that seems to have no end.

Seungmin feels it all, balls tightening as he feels the tell-tale sign of his orgasm starting. He lets out a sharp, shattered groan. “Fuck, yes, that’s it. I’m coming!”

His hips piston upward one last, brutal time before he stills, buried deep inside you. You feel the hot, urgent pulse of his release jetting directly into your cunt. It’s copious, wave after wave, as your own climax continues to rack your body.

Jisung works you through it, his mouth relentless, tongue painting wet, filthy circles, prolonging the shocks until you’re a trembling, sobbing wreck.

Finally, it’s too much. You go limp, a dead weight against Seungmin as slides out from your hole with a wet pop, his cock glistening and spent. Jisung slowly withdraws, giving your asshole one last, gentle swipe that makes you jerk. He then presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to the small of your back.

For a long moment, the only sounds are the forgotten movie and everyone’s ragged breathing. You’re utterly destroyed, hollowed out, filled up, and emptied again.

“Well,” Minho says, his voice slicing through the haze. “That was thorough.” He crouches down in front of you, his sharp eyes assessing your wrecked figure. “You still with us?”

You manage a weak nod, a tear tracking through the mess on your cheek.

“Good.” He reaches out and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is tender, but his eyes are already alight with a new, predatory idea. “Because you’ve had three of us. You’ve come—what, three times? Four?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “But you haven’t had all of us at once. Not really.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You want to feel what it’s like to be completely surrounded, don’t you? To have no escape. To be the absolute center of our world.”

Your breath catches. The thought is exhilarating.

Seungmin places you on the couch beside him and sits back. “Logistically challenging,” he says, but he’s looking at you with renewed interest. “But not impossible.”

Jisung scrambles to his feet, his excitement palpable. “All of us? On her? At the same time? Fuck yes. How? Like, spit-roast? Or…”

“More,” Minho says, standing up.

A feverish anticipation crackles between the four of them, a circuit closing with you at its center. You close your eyes. Your body is a map of aches and tremors, of spent nerves and throbbing, sensitive flesh. You are a mess of their making. And you have never felt more alive, more seen, more worshipped.

You open your eyes and look at Minho. You just whisper, your voice shredded and raw, “Show me.”

Minho’s grin is a flash of white in the dim room.

After a quick water break and a complete shedding of clothes on the boys’ behalf, Minho goes to his room to retrieve a small bottle of lube, making your pulse race.

Now you’re perched above Hyunjin on the floor, your knees spread wide on either side of his lean torso. Hyunjin lies flat on his back beneath you, a canvas of taut muscle and simmering intensity. His cock is already fully hard, a ruddy, hot point of pressure against your lower belly as you settle into position. You can feel the tremor in his thighs, the coiled readiness.

“Look at you,” he breathes, his voice cutting through your racing thoughts. “Fucking perfect.” His hands come up to grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh, anchoring you. His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s a challenge, a promise. “Let me feel you, baby.”

You don’t need instruction. You lower yourself, a slow, deliberate descent. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, a blunt, demanding pressure. You exhale, a shaky sigh, and let your weight sink down. It’s a slow, burning stretch, a delicious fullness that blossoms from your core outward. Oh god. The sensation is immediate, overwhelming. He’s big, and the fit is tight, a perfect, agonizing friction. You feel every ridge, every pulse of him as he slides deeper, until your bodies are flush, his pelvis pressed firmly against yours.

A groan escapes him, raw and unfiltered. “Fuck yeah. That’s it. So deep.” His grip on your hips tightens, urging you to move.

You start to rock. A tentative, shallow grind. The motion sends sparks up your spine. Your inner walls clench around him instinctively, squeezing, and his eyes glaze with pleasure.

“More,” he grits out.

You comply, lifting yourself up just enough to feel the delicious drag of his cock almost leaving you, then sinking back down with more force. A wet, solid sound punctuates the impact. Your own moan mingles with his. The rhythm starts to build, a primal piston motion. Up and down. Your thighs begin to burn, but the pleasure eclipses the strain. Each descent is a jolt of pure, electric satisfaction. Each ascent is a breathless anticipation.

Then, another presence.

You feel hands on your back. Large, warm palms smoothing over your spine. Jisung. You hadn’t seen him move, but he’s here now, kneeling behind you. His breath is hot on your neck.

“Don’t stop,” Jisung murmurs, his voice playful but edged with his own need. “Just keep taking him. I’m gonna join the party.”

One of his hands leaves your back and you hear the slick sound of lube, a quick, practical squirt. His fingers, cool and slippery, find the cleft of your ass. He circles your other entrance, a teasing, preparatory touch. You gasp, your rhythm faltering for a second.

Hyunjin notices. His eyes flash. “Stay with me,” he orders, bucking his hips up to meet your next downstroke, driving himself even deeper. “Focus on me.”

You do. You lock your gaze back with Hyunjin, your hips working steadily, establishing a steady, pounding tempo. Jisung’s finger presses inward. It’s a slow, insistent penetration, a foreign pressure alongside the familiar one. Your body stiffens momentarily, a reflexive resistance, but then relaxes, accepting the new invasion. The finger works in and out, a gentle preparation.

The next few minutes are filled with the claps of your ass against Hyunjin’s thighs, his grunts and your high-pitched moans as Jisung adds a second finger, scissoring, stretching you for his cock.

“Good,” Jisung praises, his voice closer now, his lips brushing your shoulder. “So good for us. Ready?”

You can’t speak. You nod, your head dropping forward, your forehead nearly touching Hyunjin’s chest. Your rhythm on Hyunjin becomes more frantic, almost desperate, as if you’re trying to anchor yourself in the known pleasure before the unknown arrives.

Jisung removes his fingers. You feel the blunt, broader head of his cock replace it, nudging against you. There’s a pause, a collective held breath in the room.

Then he pushes.

It’s a different kind of stretch. A sharper, more concentrated fullness that blooms deep in your core, a pressure that converges with the pressure from Hyunjin’s cock in your pussy. It’s overwhelming. A dual invasion that floods your senses. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound that’s swallowed by the music.

“Shit, so tight,” Jisung grunts, his voice strained with effort and delight.

He works himself in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s seated fully, his body pressed against your back. You’re now a bridge between them, filled to an impossible degree. The sensation is indescribable. A crushing, perfect fullness. Every nerve feels lit. You’re trembling.

Hyunjin’s hands move from your hips to your ass, feeling the new join, the presence of Jisung behind you. “Fucking incredible,” he rasps. “Now move. Both of you. Move.”

The command sets the new rhythm. You begin to rock again on Hyunjin, but now the motion is amplified, complicated by Jisung’s presence. As you rise up on Hyunjin, you feel Jisung’s cock slide partially out of your ass, a slick, pulling sensation. As you sink back down onto Hyunjin, Jisung drives forward, re-claiming his depth. It creates a double-punch of pleasure, a synchronized pounding that rattles your very bones.

The sounds are filthy. The wet slap of your pussy taking Hyunjin. The softer, deeper squelch of your ass accommodating Jisung. The mingled grunts and moans from all three of you. It’s a symphony of unrestrained sex.

Your head lolls forward, your vision blurring with pleasure. Then another hand touches your cheek, guiding your face to the side.

Seungmin.

He’s lying next to Hyunjin, propped up on one elbow. His cock is in his hand, already hard and gleaming. His expression is calm, observant, but his eyes are dark with want. “Don’t forget me,” he says softly, but the command is clear.

You twist your body to the side, your mouth opening automatically. He guides himself to your lips. The taste is salty, musky, familiar. You take the head into your mouth, sucking gently, your tongue circling the tip.

“Yeah,” Seungmin encourages, a sigh of contentment. “Just like that. Keep sucking.”

So you do. You establish a third rhythm. As your hips work between Hyunjin and Jisung in a relentless, pounding dance, your mouth works on Seungmin. You suck, you lick, you take him deeper when he pushes forward. It’s a chaotic, all-consuming multitasking of pleasure. Your mind fractures, focusing on one sensation, then another, then all three simultaneously. The deep thrusts in your pussy. The insistent fills in your ass. The soft, wet pressure in your mouth. You are utterly used. Utterly claimed.

From the couch, Minho watches. You catch his reflection in the now dark TV screen. He’s sitting back, one hand slowly stroking his own cock, his eyes fixed on the scene on the floor. On you. His gaze is intense, possessive, approving. A lazy smirk plays on his lips. He’s getting himself off to the sight, to the sounds. To you being the center of this frenzy.

The knowledge adds another layer to your pleasure. You’re not just satisfying these three; you’re performing for a fourth. Your movements become more theatrical, more exaggerated. You arch your back, presenting yourself better to Jisung behind you. You grind down harder on Hyunjin, making him groan loudly. You suck Seungmin with louder, slurping sounds.

“Fuck, look at her,” Hyunjin groans, his thrusts becoming more urgent, less controlled. “Taking all of us. So greedy.”

“She loves it,” Jisung pants behind you, his hands now gripping your waist, helping to drive you down onto Hyunjin while he pushes forward. His palm lifts and comes down on your ass cheek, groaning at the loud clap and jiggle of your flesh. “Can feel her shaking. She’s gonna break.”

Seungmin just moans, his hand tightening on your hair, guiding your head as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth. “Perfect mouth,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. The pleasure is building to a terrifying peak. The dual penetration is creating a friction that’s igniting every nerve ending. You feel a climax approaching, not from one source, but from the convergence of all three. Your pussy is clenching wildly around Hyunjin’s cock. Your ass is spasming around Jisung’s. Your throat is working around Seungmin’s.

The dirty talk escalates, fueling the fire.

“You want this, don’t you?” Hyunjin challenges, his voice ragged. “You wanted to be our little fuck toy tonight. To be filled.”

“Yes,” you manage to gasp around Seungmin’s cock.

“Tell him,” Jisung growls, slamming into you particularly deep, making you cry out. “Tell him how full you are.”

“So full,” you moan, the words distorted. “I-I’m so full.”

“You’re gonna take our cum,” Seungmin states calmly, his thrusts into your mouth becoming a little faster, a little harder. “Everywhere. You’re gonna swallow mine while they fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

The explicit promise sends a shockwave through you. Your body convulses, a prelude to the end.

Minho’s voice cuts through from the couch, low and commanding. “Let her come. I want to see her break.”

It’s the final permission.

Hyunjin’s movements become frenzied, brutal. He’s pounding up into you, no rhythm, just pure driving force. “Come on, baby. Come.”

Jisung matches him, his hips slamming against your ass, each impact jolting you forward onto Hyunjin. “Do it. Now.”

Seungmin holds your head still and thrusts deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You gag, but the sensation mixes with the others, pushing you over the edge.

It hits you like a tsunami.

A white-hot explosion of pleasure that originates from your core and radiates outward, blinding you. Your pussy clenches and spasms violently around Hyunjin’s cock, a series of tight, pulsating grips. Your ass does the same around Jisung, milking him deeply. Your entire body shakes, uncontrollable tremors wracking your frame. A silent scream is trapped in your throat, blocked by Seungmin’s cock. Tears spring to your eyes.

Through the haze, you feel Hyunjin’s release. A hot, sudden flood inside you as he grunts, “Fuck! Oh my God!” His hips stutter, pumping his cum deep into your convulsing channel.

Jisung follows almost immediately. His groan is long and strained as he pushes impossibly deep and lets go. Another wave of heat fills your ass, a distinct, separate spill joining the one in your pussy. “God…yes…fuck…”

Seungmin pulls himself from your mouth with a slick pop. You gasp for air, your mouth hanging open, dripping. He doesn’t waste time. He shifts, kneeling up, and guides his cock back to your lips. “Swallow,” he orders, and as you open your mouth, he strokes himself quickly, his release hitting your tongue in hot, salty spurts. You swallow obediently, the act feeling lewd and final. He tosses his head back before looking back down, still pumping his dick as he watches you. “Oh fuuuck, so pretty, baby.”

Minho stands from the couch and walks the few steps before kneeling at your other side, stroking his own cock. You turn and offer your mouth to him, which he takes, sliding his tip past your lips, stroking furiously with a deep groan. “I’m coming,” he grunts out, before a stream of his hot cum shoots out into your waiting mouth. “God, fuck yes,” he moans, jaw dropping as your swallow it all down.

For a moment, everything is still. A frozen tableau of completion. You’re still perched on Hyunjin, both him and Jisung still buried inside you, pulsing with their final throbs. Seungmin falls back onto the carpet, bracing himself on his palms, breathing heavily. Your own body is quivering with aftershocks.

but you're already leaning into him, your hand finding his knee through the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants.

"i'm serious! think about it, babe."

your voice is that special kind of excited, the one soobin usually hears when you're explaining a new game you're completely obsessed with or suggesting a takeout place you've been dying to try.

"we've never done it like that. it's always, you know... we're both already hard, and it's kind of rushed and intense. but this..." you squeeze his knee, your thumb tracing a small circle. "this would be different. slower. we could just... be together. and feel everything."

soobin's heart is doing something erratic in his chest.

he's still holding his pen, still surrounded by highlighters and flashcards, and his ridiculously attractive boyfriend is sitting on his bed, talking about his dick like it's the most natural thing in the world. which, okay, it is, they've been together for eight months, they're past the awkward stage. but this is... new.

"you want to..." soobin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. he glances down at his own lap, then back at you, his cheeks impossibly pinker. "you want to sit on it? while it's... you know?"

"soft, yeah."

you nod enthusiastically, scooting closer, and your thigh presses against his.

"i just keep thinking about what it would feel like. the sensation of it... waking up inside me. getting harder because of me, because of us," your voice drops a little, losing some of its excited energy and gaining something warmer, something more intimate. "i think it would feel really good, babe. really close."

and that's the thing.

soobin has never been able to deny you anything when you look at him like that, when your voice goes soft and you say his name like it means something more than just letters strung together. he's completely, utterly gone for you, and you know it. you use that power sometimes, but never cruelly. always like this — to pull him closer, to bring him into a moment with you.

he sets his pen down carefully, marking his place in the textbook with a sticky note; a small, practical gesture that's so distinctly him that it makes your heart clench.

"you really want to?" soobin asks softly, his voice quieter now, a little shy.

"yeah, more than anything right now," you admit, and it's the truth.

the textbook, the phone, the outside world — it's all completely faded away. there is just soobin, in his ridiculously soft-looking oversized white t-shirt and those grey sweatpants that you've told him a hundred times should be illegal, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his glasses framing those warm, curious eyes that are currently fixed entirely on you.

soobin bites his lower lip, a telltale sign that he's thinking, he's considering. then, slowly, he shifts on the bed, putting his textbook on the nightstand. he leans back against the headboard, the wood creaking softly, and his long legs stretch out, then bend slightly, creating a space for you, an invitation.

"okay," he breathes out, the word carrying a mix of nervousness and genuine curiosity. "let's... let's try."

and oh, you don't need to be told twice.

you're moving immediately, crawling over the messy comforter to settle between your boyfriend’s legs. soobin watches you, his hands coming up to softly rest on your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs.

you're face to face now, close enough to see the tiny mole under his eye, the way his eyelashes flutter.

"hi," you whisper, a stupid, giddy smile spreading across your face.

a matching smile tugs at soobin's lips, despite his obvious embarrassment.

"hi," he whispers back. his hands are warm through the thin fabric of your pajama pants. "this is so weird."

"good weird or bad weird?"

"just... weird. different."

soobin ducks his head slightly, looking at where your bodies meet, at the tentatively interested bulge in his own pants that's nowhere near full attention.

"are you sure you're gonna be comfortable? what if—"

you cut him off with a kiss; it's soft, just a brush of lips, simply meant to soothe.

"we'll go slow. if it's weird or uncomfortable, we can just stop. okay?"

soobin nods against your mouth. "okay."

you kiss him again, deeper this time, and you feel his huge hands tighten on your hips. you rock forward experimentally, just a small shift of weight, and soobin makes a tiny sound against your lips.

you break the kiss to sit back slightly, your hands finding the hem of his oversized t-shirt. "can i?"

soobin lifts his arms without a word, and you pull the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind you, and your breath catches, like it always does.

you've already seen him naked countless times, but the sight of his pretty bare chest, the smooth expanse of pale skin, the subtle definition of muscle from carrying heavy books and the occasional gym session with his friends — it never gets old. he's beautiful in a way that feels accidental, unassuming.

soobin doesn't seem to fully realize how hot he is, and that, somehow, makes him even hotter.

your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants, and you look at him for permission. once again, soobin gives a small, shy nod. you tug them down, along with his boxers, just enough. his cock lies soft against his thigh, and you feel a fresh wave of heat pool in your stomach. it's still him, still soobin, still the part of him that makes you feel so incredibly full and complete.

it's just... resting.

you shimmy out of your own pajama pants and boxers quickly, not wanting to break the moment. when you settle back on his lap, it's skin-to-skin, his soft length pressed against the curve of your ass. soobin hisses in a breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

you position yourself carefully, one hand on soobin’s shoulder for balance, the other reaching down to guide him. your eyes meet his.

"ready?"

he looks terrified and thrilled in equal measure.

"ready."

you shift your weight, lowering yourself slowly. the head of soobin’s soft cock presses against your entrance, and for a moment, it just... sits there. it's an odd sensation, really — the familiar pressure, but without the familiar hardness. it feels almost impossibly soft, pliable.

you take a breath and push down gently.

the slide is different; way slower. there is no resistance in the same way, because he's soft, but your body still has to accommodate his size. even soft, soobin is... well, considerable. you feel yourself stretching around him, taking him in inch by inch, and the sensation is so unique, so new, that a shaky moan escapes your lips.

soobin's eyes are wide.

"oh," he breathes. "oh, wow."

"you okay?" you manage to ask, pausing when you're about halfway seated.

soobin nods frantically, his hands softly stroking up and down your sides.

"y-yeah. it's just... it feels so warm, and so tight. but it's also different. it's like... i can feel everything. i can feel every part of you."

you lower yourself the rest of the way, and then you're fully seated, his soft cock buried completely inside you. you sit there for a moment, just breathing, just feeling; the weight of him, the fullness, the strange, intimate knowledge that he's inside you but not hard inside you.

it's like a secret, a moment stolen from time.

you're both still for a long, breathless moment. soobin's hands are splayed across your lower back, warm and grounding, and you can feel his heartbeat, or maybe it's yours — it's hard to tell anymore when you're this close.

"how does it feel?" you whisper, your forehead resting against his.

"warm," he repeats, his voice soft with wonder. "and... tight. but it's like..." he struggles for words, his brow furrowing adorably. "it's like i can feel you holding me. not like... fucking. just holding."

you smile, pressing a gentle kiss to soobin’s lips.

"yeah. that's what i wanted."

you start to move, but not in any real rhythm.

just small, subtle shifts of your hips. you were rocking, more than anything, simply testing the sensation. with each tiny movement, you feel him, soft and pliant, moving inside you, and it's incredibly intimate in a way you hadn't tully anticipated.

soobin's hands roam your back, your sides, his touch full of reverence. your boyfriend is looking at you like you're something so precious, something he can't quite believe is real. his cheeks are still flushed that pretty pink you love so much, his lips slightly parted.

"you're so beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

you feel a flutter of warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with where you're connected.

"so are you."

you kiss him again, deeper this time. your tongue slides against his, slow and exploratory, and soobin’s hands come up to cup your face, holding you close. the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, more hungry. you feel his hips twitch beneath you, a small, unconscious thrust.

and then, finally, you feel it — the slightest change; a thickening, a growing weight inside you. you gasp against his mouth at the very new sensation, pulling back just enough to look at him.

soobin’s eyes are hazy, his pupils blown wide.

"soobin," you breathe. "i can feel you."

he looks down, as if he could see through both your bodies to where they're joined.

"it's you," soobin whispers, his voice wrecked. "it's because of you. you feel so good."

another small, unconscious thrust. another surge of growth. soobin’s cock is filling out inside you, pressing against your walls in a way it couldn't when it was soft. the sensation is really overwhelming — the gradual stretch, the increasing fullness… you can feel every ridge, every vein as they become more pronounced.

you can feel soobin getting harder because of you, because of the way your body is wrapped around him, because of the kisses, because of the closeness.

"oh—my god," soobin pathetically whimpers, his head falling back against the headboard. his hands grip your hips tighter, his knuckles white. "oh my god, that feels... that feels so..."

"i know," you groan, and you start to move with more purpose now, rolling your hips in a slow circle. each movement seems to encourage him, to draw more blood, more hardness. "i can feel every second of it. you're getting so hard inside me, babe."

soobin makes a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a whine, high-pitched and desperate.

"d-don't stop. please don't stop."

you don't. you keep moving, keep kissing him, keep whispering praise against his lips.

"feel how good you feel. feel how perfectly you fit."

"i can't—" soobin cuts himself off with another whine, his hips starting to thrust up in small, jerky movements that meet your rolls. "it's too much. it feels too good."

"it's not too much," you assure him, your hand coming up to card through his soft hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "you're doing so well. just feel it. feel me."

soobin is fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, and the transition from soft to hard has left you both breathless and shaking. you've never experienced anything like it — the gradual, inexorable filling, the knowledge that his arousal is a direct response to you, to this moment. it's really intoxicating.

"i wanna move," soobin begs, his voice cracking. "please, baby, please can i move? i need—i need to—"

you simply nod, unable to form words properly. you lift yourself slightly, and soobin thrusts up, a real thrust this time, deep and sure. you both moan, the sound mingling in the small space between you.

"y-yeah," you gasp. "like that. just like that—"

soobin sets a rhythm, slow at first, still overwhelmed by the newness of it all. his thrusts are deep, deliberate, each one punching a soft sound from your lips, and his hands are everywhere — your hips, your back, your face.

he can't stop touching you, can't stop looking at you.

"you're so perfect," soobin babbles, his words tumbling out between kisses and pretty moans. "so perfect for me. i love you so much. i love being inside you. i love—ah!—i love feeling you."

you capture his mouth with yours, swallowing his words, his every sounds. you simply love him like this — open, vulnerable, completely undone by you. the pretty nerd who annotates his textbooks and makes color-coded study guides, reduced to a whining, desperate mess because of how you feel around him.

you start to meet his thrusts, matching his rhythm, making it deeper and harder. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound joining the wet, obscene noises of your bodies coming together.

"i'm close," soobin warns, his voice tight.

he's gripping you so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow, and you can't bring yourself to care.

"i'm so close, baby, where do you want—"

"inside," you moans. "stay inside—wanna feel you come inside me."

soobin’s eyes roll back slightly at your words, and his thrusts become erratic, losing their rhythm. he's chasing his release, but he's also watching you, making sure you're with him. your boyfriend’s hand snakes down between your bodies, finding your cock, stroking you in time with his thrusts.

it only takes a few more strokes; you come with a broken cry of his name, your body clenching around him, and that's all it takes to push soobin over the edge. he follows with a desperate, high-pitched moan, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, hot and deep.

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same humid air. soobin's hands are still on you, but they've gone soft, just resting.

right now, you can feel him softening inside you, the reverse of the sensation from before, and it's just as incredible in its own way.

finally, you shift, wincing slightly at the oversensitivity, and soobin's hands immediately try to hold you still.

"wait," he murmurs. "just... wait a second. i'm not ready to not be inside you yet."

you smile, pressing a kiss to his nose.

"okay."

you simply stay like that for a long time, connected, breathing together. soobin’s thumbs trace absent patterns on your skin, and your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

the room slowly cools around you, but you're both warm, wrapped up in each other.

"that was..." he trails off, searching for the right word.

"incredible?" you offer.

"yeah," soobin laughs softly, a little puff of air against your lips. "incredible. you always have the best ideas."

"i know," you tease, but you're smiling too.

eventually, you have to move.

the practicalities of cleanup, of bodily functions, of reality intruding on the perfect bubble you've created. but even as you disentangle yourselves, even as soobin disappears into his attached bathroom and returns with a warm, damp washcloth to clean you both with gentle, careful hands, the intimacy doesn't break.

when you finally settle back into bed, both of you having pulled on fresh boxers, soobin immediately pulls you against his chest. he's warm and solid, and you can feel his heartbeat, still slightly elevated, against your cheek.

"so," you mumble against his skin. "worth interrupting your study session?"

soobin laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest.

"my biology textbook can wait. this was..." he pauses, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "this was the best kind of practical application."

you snort, elbowing him gently. "such a nerd."

the room falls into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after moments of profound intimacy.

outside, the city continues its endless hum.

inside, in soobin's small, cluttered bedroom, there's just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, sated and sleepy and utterly, completely in love.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, like that explained everything. “It’s called ‘Fantasy Express.’ Kind of a vibe, right?”

“…Doesn’t that sound like a porn parody of the Shinkansen?”

Sunghoon gave you a blank look. “You said budget. I delivered. Be grateful.”

You snorted and took a sip of your drink. “Right. This better not end with me cuddling you for warmth in a windowless shoebox.”

He grinned. “Is that a threat or a promise, bestie?”

You flipped him off, laughing. But deep down, you were buzzing with excitement — not just because of the trip, but because it had been years since you and Sunghoon got away together.

After college, everything changed. Jobs, time zones, relationships that fizzled out before they even began. But Sunghoon was constant. He was the one person who could make you laugh even when you were crying into your broken laptop at 2 a.m. He was the voice note at midnight, the “I made too much ramen, come over,” the comfort in chaos.

So when the two of you finally managed to book this long-overdue trip to Japan, it felt like pressing pause on real life. No deadlines. No drama. Just the two of you, trains, street food, and maybe — if the stars aligned — a little karaoke.

You’d been talking about it since your second year in college. A pinky promise made over shared takoyaki from a food stall on your campus lawn.

“One day, we’ll go. Just you and me. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. A no-plan plan.”

You remembered that promise because Sunghoon never broke his.

Which is why you didn’t question it when he said he’d handle the hotel. And flights. And a few “must-see” locations, because even though you called it a “no-plan plan,” you both knew you were the chaotic one.

The night before your flight, Sunghoon came over to help you pack. In reality, he just sat on your bed, eating your snacks and judging your underwear choices.

“Why do you need seven pairs for five days?” he asked, mouth full of chips.

“In case I fall into a river. Or sweat. Or get possessed and pee myself. I don’t know, leave me alone.”

He laughed and reached over to zip your suitcase, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The flight was smooth. You watched a rom-com, he watched anime. You fell asleep on his shoulder. He didn’t move.

When you landed in Tokyo, everything felt surreal — the bright signs, the clean air, the sense that something new was about to happen.

The train ride to the hotel was quiet. You scrolled through Instagram while Sunghoon triple-checked the hotel address on Google Maps.

“We’re almost there,” he said, pointing to a small tucked-away building near the corner of a quiet street.

It looked decent. Small. Cozy. A glowing pink sign above the entrance read:

“Welcome to FANTASY EXPRESS — All Aboard the Love Line!”

You stared at it. Then at him.

“Hoon.”

“Yeah?”

“…Did you just book us into a love hotel?”

Sunghoon blinked. Looked back up at the sign. Back at you. “…No?” he tried, voice cracking halfway through. You deadpanned. “This is literally vibrating with sex energy.”

“I thought it was themed!”

“It is. The theme is fucking.”

He dropped his suitcase. “I swear on everything holy, I didn’t know. I just thought it was quirky. It said ‘train carriage rooms’ and had cute colors!”

You stared at him, unblinking. “You booked us into a love hotel. For five nights.”

A silence.

And then, slowly, the two of you burst into uncontrollable laughter — loud, ugly, bent-over laughter as passersby gave you weird looks.

Sunghoon wiped a tear from his eye. “Guess we’re really going on a ride.”

You shoved his shoulder, still laughing. “Idiot.”

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the room Sunghoon had confidently reserved for five full nights.

You took one look inside and immediately stopped.

“…You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Sunghoon said in a flat voice, already sounding like he regretted every choice he’d ever made.

There were train handles hanging from the ceiling.

The walls had digital screens showing looped footage of Japanese countryside rolling past at high speed.

A faux train announcement played in the background every few minutes: “Next stop… pleasure.”

You turned slowly toward him. “Sunghoon.”

“Okay, wait—just hear me out.”

You stepped in and did a slow, horrified turn.

There was a chrome pole right in the middle of the room.

The bed looked like it was upholstered with actual train seats, complete with seat belts and tray tables. And worst of all, the mirrored ceiling had a blinking LED banner that read:

🚨 “ALL ABOARD — NONSTOP EXPRESS” 🚨

You gaped. “So its really is a love hotel.”

“No it’s not! …Okay maybe. Technically. But—look, I didn’t know! I thought it was just themed!”

“You thought this was a railway-themed budget capsule, and not a sex train hotel?!”

“I didn’t read that far down the listing, okay?! It was cheap and looked… clean! Plus the review said ‘lots of amenities!’”

“Sunghoon. There’s a vending machine for underwear's and condoms next to the door.”

He paused. Looked. “…Okay, I’ll give you that one. You sighed, dragging your suitcase in anyway. “We are going to get diseases just by existing here.”

Sunghoon followed behind sheepishly, dragging his bag. “You know, in a different light, this place is kind of hilarious.”

You turned to him and blinked. “We’re literally sleeping in a porn set.” “A very affordable porn set.”

You flopped dramatically onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling mirror.

He was right. It was funny. And the more you looked at the blinking lights, the mood lighting, and the suggestively placed towel basket beside the bed, the harder it was to stop laughing.

You both ended up bent over, wheezing from laughter as the fake train announcement repeated:

“Passengers, please hold on… for your own safety.”

Ten Minutes Later

“…Wait,” you muttered from the bathroom doorway. “Is that a jacuzzi?”

Sunghoon looked up from his phone. “A what?”

You pointed. “There’s a jacuzzi in here. And… no way. Is that a sauna?” He came over and peeked in. Sure enough, tucked behind the ridiculously clean glass partition was a legit two-person jacuzzi tub with sleek jets, LED lighting, and a discreet shelf of complimentary scented oils. And beside it? A cramped but actual mini sauna, already set to a cozy 45°C.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “They really want people to… marinate before they—”

“Okay! I’m not letting this place win,” Sunghoon cut in. “We are taking full advantage. This shit is expensive in normal hotels.”

You looked at him in disbelief. “You want to use the sex jacuzzi?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a tub. The jets don’t know what’s going on. You want to spend the night pouting, or do you want a hot bath with free tea tree oil?”

You groaned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

Twenty Minutes Later

You were in the tub first — submerged in warm water, hair tied up, sighing as the jets eased the travel ache out of your spine.

“I feel gross about how good this is,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon was sitting just outside the sauna, half-wrapped in a towel, drinking water. “Don’t get used to it. This is our peak. We’re about to suffer in a train-themed sex chamber for five nights.”

“You say that like it’s not your fault.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fair.” You watched as steam curled off his shoulders, his skin flushed slightly pink from the sauna. He looked good. A little too good.

You quickly looked away and sank deeper into the water. Nope. Not thinking that.

You were best friends. The kind who shared hoodies and bitched about exes and had matching pajamas from a failed couples Halloween sale. You weren’t supposed to be noticing how broad his chest was, or how low his towel sat on his hips.

He caught you looking. You snapped your head the other way.

A pause. “You okay?” he asked, voice lower.

“Yup,” you replied, too fast. “Just tired.”

You heard him chuckle under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You splashed water at him. “Go back to your sauna.”

But the heat in your chest had nothing to do with steam.

You both climbed into the ridiculous velvet-upholstered bed and laid side by side, limbs awkwardly angled to avoid touching too much.

The train screen looped soft countryside visuals.

The LED sign above the mirror blinked softly:

“Don’t miss your stop…”

You stared at the ceiling. “Why does this feel like the foreplay part of a drama?”

Sunghoon’s voice was low. “Because everything here is designed for people to fuck.”

You both went quiet. Too quiet.

Then he added, a little too casually. “If you get cold tonight, just say something.”

You turned your head slightly. His profile glowed in the soft red light. “I won’t.”

“I know.” But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You woke up to the smell of grilled fish and miso soup.

Blinking groggily, you turned your head to find Sunghoon already sitting up in bed, hair messy, skin flushed from sleep, and a gleam of childlike wonder in his eyes.

“Room service,” he said simply, holding up a laminated card with neat checkboxes. “And it’s actually good. Like. Too good for this place.”

You sat up, blinking blearily at the silver-domed trays on the fold-out tray table. “Wait—this place has room service?”

“Apparently. I checked last night before sleeping. They serve breakfast to the room for ‘maximum comfort and pleasure.’” He did finger quotes around that last part. “Very suggestive. But also… delicious.”

He peeled the lid off one tray, and the smell immediately hit you: steaming rice, grilled salmon, soft tamagoyaki, pickled vegetables, and even a little matcha jelly cube for dessert.

Your stomach growled audibly.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, crawling across the bed like a zombie. “I’m never leaving.”

He passed you chopsticks. “See? You talk a big game, but deep down, you’re just here for the perks.”

You dug in. “Mmf—if you booked this place on purpose for this breakfast alone, I forgive you.”

“I’ll take that as my official pardon,” he said, chewing on a piece of miso-glazed eggplant.

For a moment, the room was quiet — just soft clinks of chopsticks, muffled chewing, and the fake train sounds looping in the background.

And then, as always, came the banter.

“So,” you said, mid-bite, “you gonna keep walking around in that towel all morning or…?”

Sunghoon glanced down at himself — still shirtless, his towel hanging loose around his hips as if he were starring in a shampoo commercial. He smirked. “Jealous?”

You scoffed. “Of what? Your man boobs?”

“First of all,” he said, popping a grape into his mouth, “these are pecs. Try not to cry when you see me in real lighting.”

“I’ve seen you in fluorescent kitchen lights eating ramen at 2 a.m. I’ve survived worse.”

“I’ve also seen you drunk with a sheet mask on and mismatched socks, so don’t act superior.”

“Those socks were a fashion statement.”

He snorted. “A cry for help.”

After breakfast and a little too much matcha jelly, the two of you finally started getting dressed.

Or trying to, anyway.

You were standing at the small mirror near the door, brushing your teeth and fussing with your hair when you heard Sunghoon behind you, grunting in frustration.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, spitting out toothpaste.

“Where the hell is the other sock I packed?”

You glanced over and nearly choked — he was half-dressed, hair still wet from the shower, towel hanging on the rack, shirt hanging off one shoulder like a K-drama lead in distress.

You raised a brow. “Check your suitcase. Or maybe the laundry bag?”

He groaned dramatically and flopped onto the bed. “Why does this always happen to me?”

“Because your packing skills are trash.”

“You packed seven pairs of underwear for five nights!”

“Prepared. Not chaotic.”

“Psychotic.”

You tossed a sock at his face. “Shut up and wear this.”

He caught it, looked at the pattern — pastel pink with tiny peaches on them — and grinned.

“Wait… these are your socks.”

“They’re clean. Be grateful.”

He gave you a playful look. “If my feet feel too soft and feminine later, it’s your fault.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could use a little softness.” There was a beat of quiet as you both finished dressing.

And then, almost too casually, Sunghoon asked, “You good with the plan today? Shibuya, food, maybe teamLab Planets?”

You smiled. “Hell yeah. Let’s go get blinded by LED art and overpay for strawberry mochi.”

You grabbed your tote bag, he slung his camera over his shoulder, and together you stepped out into the Tokyo sunlight — blinking against the sudden warmth, the city buzzing with life all around you.

The love hotel’s sliding door closed behind you with a soft mechanical hiss.

“God, being outside feels illegal after that room,” you muttered, stretching.

Sunghoon yawned beside you. “We need to get out as much as possible. If we spend too long in there…”

“…we’ll end up using that pole, and not ironically.”

You said it jokingly, but the second it left your lips, you realized you were both thinking it.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

You both looked away.

Sunghoon cleared his throat and started walking. “Right. Food. Vibes. Let’s pretend we’re not staying in horny train hell.”

You followed, heart doing weird things.

By 10:30 a.m., you were already on your second iced drink and your fifth photo taken by Sunghoon.

"This one’s blurry,” you said, looking over his shoulder as he flipped through the camera roll.

“You moved,” he replied, flicking to the next one.

“I was mid-chew.”

“Exactly. Candid.”

“You got my molar in HD.”

He laughed, slinging the camera back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome. That’s raw content.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and tugged him toward the next street corner, where a little taiyaki cart was steaming golden fish-shaped cakes onto paper trays.

He bought one with custard and one with sweet potato, handing you the first without asking — he always remembered your favorite.

The day passed in a colorful, unfiltered blur.

From Asakusa’s temple streets to Ueno Park’s shaded paths, you strolled through the buzzing city under soft summer clouds, sharing bites of grilled yakitori, stopping at claw machines, and laughing until your stomach hurt every time Sunghoon got scammed by a vending machine.

“Bro,” he groaned as his Pocari Sweat got stuck halfway. “I just wanted electrolytes.”

“That’s what you get for bullying me about my socks.”

“They are ridiculous.”

“And now they’re your lucky socks, so shut up and suffer.”

He grinned, defeated, as you shook the machine for him until the drink finally dropped.

He brought the good camera — the one he only took out during special trips or when he really wanted to remember something.

At first, it was just the usual:

Colorful alleyways, Vintage signs, Cats in front of bookstores and Neon billboards starting to glow as dusk rolled in

But then the lens kept shifting toward you.

He’d tilt the viewfinder just slightly to the left whenever you were sipping your drink, or smiling up at a paper lantern, or holding up a peace sign in front of a giant tanuki statue.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

He never did.

Just snapped quietly, a small smile on his face, pretending to be adjusting settings every time you caught him in the act.

“Stop taking pictures of me looking ugly,” you said as you leaned against a vending machine at golden hour.

“You never look ugly,” he replied without thinking.

You blinked. He clicked his shutter.

You smacked his arm. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Park.”

“I was talking about the vending machine, actually.”

“Oh, screw you—”

By late afternoon, the two of you were barefoot, wading through glowing water and walking across mirrored floors.

The floating flowers, the endless lights, the reflection of stars above and below you — it all felt surreal.

Sunghoon was quiet most of the time, too busy adjusting focus, waiting for the exact second a projection shifted, or the water stilled, or your silhouette lined up against the light.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, crouching low.

You stood still, bathed in blue and purple.

A single glowing lily floated past your ankles.

Click.

When he finally looked up from the lens, his expression was soft, like he’d forgotten where you were — like the whole room was quiet just for a second.

You waved your arms. “Earth to perv?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, standing up and brushing dust off his knees. “Just… this lighting’s good.”

“Mm-hmm. You’re not slick.”

Dinner was ramen from a tiny shop hidden in an alley where no one spoke English and the broth was so rich it felt illegal.

You walked off the food through quiet backstreets, with neon signs humming above your heads and laundry flapping on upper balconies.

Sunghoon carried your bag without saying anything.

You bought him an ice cream without asking.

It was so easy. The kind of night you wanted to fold up and keep in your pocket forever.

At one point, you stopped to take a photo of your own — just a snapshot of him in the warm city light, licking ice cream and grinning.

“Got you,” you said, triumphant.

He raised a brow. “You finally captured my beauty?”

“No. I finally got proof you like vanilla.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge.”

“Too late.”

The fake train ambiance greeted you again as you entered the room — soft station chimes, muffled track sounds looping on the hidden speakers. You kicked off your shoes with a groan and threw your bag down like it betrayed you.

Sunghoon collapsed face-first on the bed. “We’ve walked 23,000 steps. I checked.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“My knees are 47 years old now.”

You laughed as you peeled off your socks. “Okay, Grandpa. Want me to book us an onsen for tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the frosted-glass door in the corner.

“…wait. We still haven’t used the sauna together.”

You followed his gaze.

The in-room sauna and jacuzzi setup was tucked into the corner like an afterthought — sleek, surprisingly clean, and wildly over-the-top for the price. You hadn’t dared touch it yet.

You raised a brow. “You serious?”

He was already standing.

“I’m not walking like a gremlin tomorrow. Sauna it is.”

The small wooden sauna heated up quickly — enough for the two of you to sit side by side, towels wrapped around your waists, foreheads already glistening.

It smelled like cedar and something citrusy.

“I feel like we’re in a rich person’s armpit,” you muttered.

Sunghoon cracked up, head tilted back, eyes closed. “I feel like we’re about to get a motivational TED Talk from a man named Daisuke about financial freedom.”

You snorted. “We are literally boiling ourselves in a love hotel sauna. What freedom?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“This is nice though,” he admitted. “Like… surprisingly.”

You hummed, wiping sweat from your brow. “We deserve it. That yakitori hunt was a whole workout.”

A beat passed.

“Also, you were sweating this much at the gacha machine, so I feel like this is just your brand.”

“Don’t come for my capsule toys. They bring me joy.”

“Your suitcase is full of tiny plastic sushi. Let that sink in.”

After the sauna, you both flopped into the jacuzzi — towels still on, bubbles swirling lazily, the overhead lighting dimmed to a soft purple glow.

You leaned back against the edge and sighed so dramatically that Sunghoon mimicked it seconds later.

“Haaaaa~”

“Haaaaa.”

“…Why do you sound like a dying anime girl?”

“Why do you sound like a wounded elk?”

You flicked a handful of bubbles at him, and he retaliated by splashing water into your face.

By the time you both settled down, your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He nudged your foot underwater. “Hey. For real.”

You looked over.

“This whole day was perfect. Thanks for not letting me book some sad capsule hotel instead.”

You smiled softly. “Thanks for accidentally giving us the weirdest five days of our lives.”

A pause.

You both sank a little deeper into the water, the bubbles rising quietly between you.

Nothing else needed to be said.

Not yet.

After the sauna and jacuzzi, everything felt heavier — your limbs loose, your muscles relaxed, your brain pleasantly fuzzy in the best way.

Sunghoon handed you your toothbrush like always. Same side of the sink. Same rhythm. You brushed shoulder to shoulder, bumping elbows whenever one of you leaned over to spit.

You wore your oversized shirt — the one with faded cartoon prints and sleeves too long for your arms.

He wore a black tank top and gray sweats, his hair still damp and curling a bit at the nape.

It looked domestic.

Dangerously so.

You didn’t comment on it.

The sheets were still warm when you both flopped down again — you on your side of the bed, Sunghoon sprawled diagonally, legs halfway off the edge like a kid after a sugar crash.

"What do we watch?” you mumbled, tugging the blanket over your legs.

“I found a channel earlier that only plays weird food documentaries,” he said. “One of them was about a guy in Osaka who makes noodles with his feet.”

You blinked.

“That sounds unappetizing.”

“And yet I couldn’t look away.”

He flipped on the TV, and soon enough, soft narration in Japanese filled the room. Onscreen, a slow montage showed close-ups of dough, broth, and a man lovingly caressing noodles like they were his own children.

You both stared.

Then:

“His foot game’s strong,” Sunghoon muttered.

You snorted, smacking his arm. “Stop.”

A second later, he tilted the screen toward you and snapped a photo of your mid-laugh face.

“Delete it,” you said.

“Nope.”

“Sunghoon—”

“That’s a top-tier smile. Archive-worthy.”

You reached for the camera.

He held it just out of reach, laughing as you tried to climb over him, only to lose your balance and flop onto his side of the bed.

He oofed softly as your elbow landed against his stomach.

And then…

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You were both breathing, barely, quiet again except for the soft murmur of the food show and the faint rumble of train sounds from the wall speaker — still looping, still somehow comforting.

Your head rested near his shoulder. His arm lay beside you, palm up.

You didn’t think about how easy it would be to lace your fingers through it.

Because that wasn’t the point.

Not tonight.

Eventually, you mumbled, “I’ll fall asleep right here.”

“Good.”

“Then you’ll complain that I drool.”

“I always do. Doesn’t stop you.”

“…True.”

A beat passed.

Then Sunghoon shifted slightly, pulled the blanket over you too, and said, soft as a sigh:

“Night, dummy.”

You smiled into the pillow.

“Night, Hoon.”

You both woke up later than planned.

To no one’s surprise, the blackout curtains plus the post-sauna coma plus the gentle train track sounds had knocked you both out cold.

When you opened your eyes, Sunghoon was already awake beside you, scrolling on his phone with bedhead and one eye squinting at the light.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted without looking.

You groaned and threw the blanket over your face. “Why are you always so chipper in the morning?”

“I already ordered breakfast. It’ll be here in ten.”

That made you peek out

“Pretty good options. Surprisingly tasty too.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you ate already?”

“I may have had a mini croissant. For science.”

The tray rolled in like a hotel drama — miso soup, boiled eggs, tamagoyaki, rice, fruit, juice, and coffee, all neatly arranged in little porcelain dishes.

“This is way too fancy for a place with a pole in the corner,” you whispered.

Sunghoon burst out laughing. “We should eat on the pole.”

“Try it. Break your back.”

You sat cross-legged on the bed, carefully pouring soy sauce into the tiny saucer while Sunghoon buttered his toast like an old man at a countryside inn.

It was… cozy. Stupidly cozy.

He took a photo of the spread — and then one of you holding a strawberry between your lips.

“You’re so annoying,” you said.

“Smile,” he replied.

And you did.

You both dressed quickly — jeans and sneakers, matching windbreakers by accident (he insisted you copied him), camera packed again.

The plan today was Shimokitazawa, the artsy thrift-store-filled neighborhood that smelled like espresso, vinyl records, and dreams of quitting your job.

You wandered between secondhand shops and cafés, trying on sunglasses, picking up ugly mugs, posing in front of graffiti.

Sunghoon’s camera was out the entire time — and even though he pretended he was just testing settings, you saw how he always pointed it at you when you weren’t looking.

You caught him once.

He didn’t deny it.

“I like how you look when you’re not trying.”

You blinked.

He looked away, adjusting the lens. “Lighting’s better.”

“…Right.”

It was small.

You reached for a cold canned drink at the exact same moment.

Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Briefly.

But it lingered — just a half-second too long.

You felt it. So did he.

Neither of you said a thing.

You were sitting on a bench outside a vintage bookstore, sipping soda while he reviewed the photos on his camera.

“What are you deleting?”

“Blurry ones.”

“Let me see.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because some are mine.”

“…Some?”

He paused.

Then smiled a little — not in a teasing way this time.

“Some are just for me.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

You just let it sit there between you.

Warm. Quiet. Weightless.

But not really.

You returned to the hotel a little earlier than Day 1, shoes dusty, legs tired, hands full of little finds — enamel pins, a thrifted shirt, a random keychain he insisted matched your vibe.

In the jacuzzi again. This time quieter. You both leaned back and let the water do the talking.

Later, you brushed your teeth side by side again, yawning into your sleeves, shoulders bumping gently.

You climbed into bed first. This time, when he laid beside you, you noticed how close your hands were on the blanket.

Not touching.

Just… close enough. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he. It started small.

Just a joke, really. After another long day out — this time at the Shibuya Sky deck and walking through Harajuku — you’d peeled off your jacket and complained about how sweaty you were.

“You’re melting,” Sunghoon commented, flopping dramatically onto the bed while you stood near the mirror, tying your hair up.

“You’d melt too if you had boobs trapping heat.”

He snorted. “Do you want me to confirm that or—” You threw a pillow at him.

“Okay, but real talk,” Sunghoon said as the door hissed shut behind him. “This sauna is saving my life. I’m starting a petition to install one back home.”

You chuckled, stepping inside after him in your towel, feeling the warm steam immediately cling to your skin.

Tonight felt hotter somehow — and not just because of the temperature.

Maybe it was how Sunghoon looked right now. Hair swept back slightly damp, skin already glowing, the soft edge of his collarbone visible. His towel was secure but low, and he sat with one arm resting over the wooden bench behind you, casual, almost… cocky.

“So,” he started, turning slightly toward you. “You gonna keep avoiding the fact that you made a noise when you sat down yesterday?”

“I did not.”

"You groaned like you were starring in a drama.”

You blinked at him. “Are you being flirty right now?”

He smirked. “Would it work?”

You gave him a look.

He laughed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Relax. I flirt with everyone.”

“…No, you don’t.”

He looked at you again, slower this time.

You felt it — that shift.

The quiet drawl in his tone when he said, “Right. I don’t.”

Ten minutes in, the steam got thicker.

You leaned forward to reach for your water bottle, not realizing your towel had come a little… loose.

You tugged it quickly and pressed it tighter to your chest, but the damage was done.

Sunghoon’s eyes had flicked down.

And then—back up.

He cleared his throat and smirked. “…Nice catch.”

You threw him a glare, cheeks hot, but not from the heat.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not being gross,” he said, tilting his head lazily. “I’m just observant. It’s part of my charm.”

“Your charm is a menace.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. “Still keeping me around, though.”

Later, while drying off, you were both laughing over a dumb quiz show playing on the love hotel TV, towels replaced with your usual comfy clothes. But the air still hadn’t gone back to normal.

You sat on the bed, brushing your hair.

He sat behind you, watching something on his phone, absently letting his fingers toy with the end of your shirt hem.

You didn’t realize he was doing it until he stilled.

Then—

“You always wear this one,” he said softly. “It’s got a little hole in the back.”

You turned to look at him.

“You’re really paying attention, huh?”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I always do.”

There was no laugh this time. No grin. Just the warm glow from the room lamp and the way his eyes dropped for a second — from your face, to your lips, to your collarbone — before he looked back up.

You swallowed.

He looked way too close all of a sudden.

And yet, not close enough.

You stood up.

Quickly. Casually.

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

“Okay,” he said behind you, quiet… amused. “Run away, then.”The night settled in earlier than usual — maybe because you both agreed your legs needed a break, maybe because the city lights felt better admired from the bed with snacks and cold drinks.

You kicked your feet up, pulling the blanket over your lap while Sunghoon scrolled through the hotel TV’s library.

"We’re not watching something sad,” you warned.

“Why not?”

“Because every time we do, you start doing that emotional whisper voice after.”

He raised a brow, amused. “‘If I die, tell my cat I loved her’ isn’t emotional. It’s factual.”

You snorted and popped a grape into your mouth.

He settled on a coming-of-age romance film — something soft, slow, with golden lighting and friends-to-lovers tension that hit a little too close.

You didn’t comment.

Thirty minutes in, the movie faded into the background. You were half-focused, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sunghoon beneath the same blanket, a bowl of chips between you.

He reached over to grab one, and his fingers brushed yours again.

This time, you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

You felt him glance at you — not a quick flick, but a lingering stare.

“…What?” you asked, not looking at him.

"Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

Your heart thudded once.

“…What?”

He smiled slowly, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I said nothing.”

Somewhere between the third snack break and the movie credits, Sunghoon nudged your leg.

“Truth or dare?”

You looked at him sideways. “What are we, twelve?”

“Pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Truth.”

He leaned back against the headboard, one arm behind his head.

“Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Your breath caught

He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t smirk.

He just watched you — calm, unreadable.

You stared at him, pulse ticking louder.

“…Is that a real question?”

His voice dropped lower. “You chose ‘truth.’”

The silence stretched. You felt it thick in your throat, in the space between your knees touching beneath the blanket.

Then, softly—

“Once or twice,” you admitted.

His lips curved, slow and smug.

You shoved his shoulder, embarrassed. “Okay, your turn.”

“Dare,” he said immediately.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lie.”

You stared at him.

“…Fine. I dare you to—”

“Kiss me.”

Your breath stalled.

“What?”

“I dare you to kiss me.”

He said it casually, but you saw the way his hand gripped the blanket — the slight twitch in his jaw, the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

You licked your lips slowly.

“Sunghoon—”

"It’s just a game, right?” he said, voice velvet-soft.

You looked at him.

At his eyes. His mouth. His flushed cheeks and the way he was so close but not making a move.

Like he was giving you control.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because suddenly, the game didn’t feel like a game anymore.

You leaned in.

Just a little.

Just enough that he felt your breath.

But before your lips touched, you pulled back and whispered, “Next round.”

He exhaled sharply, a chuckle slipping out — part relief, part frustration.

“You’re evil.”

You smiled.

“Just playing the game.”

“I’m sleepy,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The tension from the game still clung to your skin, warm and heavy. Your heart was doing too much—pounding like you just ran up a hill instead of almost-kissing your best friend.

You tugged the blanket up and turned on your side, facing away from him.

Or so you thought.

Because as you lay back on the pillows, eyes half-lidded and breath evening out, your gaze landed somewhere else.

Above you.

The mirror on the ceiling.

You blinked.

It was such a stupid, love-hotel thing to have, and you hadn’t even paid attention to it since the first day. But now?

Now you saw everything.

You.

Sunghoon.

Lying side by side, under the same blanket, bodies close enough to share heat.

His head tilted toward you slightly, lips parted like he was going to say something—but didn’t.

Your breath caught.

The image in the mirror wasn’t what friends looked like.

It wasn’t casual. It was intimate.

Too much.

Not enough.

You shifted, just barely.

And in the reflection, you watched Sunghoon do the same.

His hand moved above the blanket.

Closer.

Not touching you—but hovering near your waist.

You felt his knuckles brush the hem of your shirt, barely there.

Goosebumps rose instantly.

Your eyes flicked up again—to the mirror.

He was watching it too.

Watching you.

“…Sunghoon,” you said, barely audible.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t blink.

“I know,” he said softly, like he already knew what was in your chest. “You’re sleepy.”

But he still didn’t pull away.

Instead, he let his fingers rest lightly against your side—just enough pressure to make you feel it.

His voice dropped, rougher now.

“But if you weren’t…”

Your stomach twisted.

“If I wasn’t?” you asked.

He met your eyes in the mirror.

“I’d kiss you,” he murmured. “And this time, you wouldn’t stop me.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

The air between you was thick. You felt the heat from his body, the blanket suddenly too warm. His words echoed, burning a hole into your chest.

Still, you didn’t move.

Not away.

Not toward him.

Just… there. Caught.

Heart racing.

Eyes locked in the reflection.

And then—

He pulled his hand away slowly.

A soft breath left your lips.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

But you didn’t sleep for a long, long time.

Not with his voice still in your ear.

Not with his hand still ghosting your skin.

And not with that mirror burning above you, showing you something you couldn’t unsee.

“C’mon,” Sunghoon said, tugging your wrist gently as you both stepped out of the taxi and into the Tokyo night. “We’re not leaving Japan without at least one club night. Live a little.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one who googled ‘clubs that don’t have a cover fee’ and filtered by ‘low noise.’”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “I’m a responsible party animal.”

You snorted, but let him guide you in.

The club was tucked away under a neon sign and a set of stairs, with a cozy, crowded feel—dark corners, glowing drinks, and music that thudded deep in your chest.

He ordered you both something sweet and sparkling. The kind of drink that made your lips sticky and your smile looser.

It was supposed to be harmless.

Just a night out.

You wore a black dress—Sunghoon’s pick, actually, from earlier that day.

“I’m not letting you pack a bunch of oversized hoodies for a night out,” he said back in the hotel. “Show some skin. It’s Japan. Everyone’s hot.”

So you did.

And now?

Now you were paying for it.

Two drinks in, you danced near the edge of the floor, swaying with the beat, laughing with Sunghoon beside you. His hand hovered low on your back—not touching, but close enough to be there if you stumbled.

Until he stepped away for a second to use the bathroom.

And they showed up.

Two guys—tall, confident, clearly a little tipsy.

“Hey, you alone?” one of them asked, smiling too much, eyes dipping low.

You smiled politely, shaking your head. “I’m with someone.”

“Oh?” The second guy grinned. “Boyfriend?”

Before you could answer, you felt it—a hand on your waist. Warm. Familiar.

Sunghoon.

“No,” he said smoothly, his voice sharp behind you. “She’s with me.”

You blinked, surprised by the edge in his tone.

Sunghoon wasn’t the jealous type. Or at least, he’d never acted like it before. Not when guys checked you out. Not when they flirted harmlessly.

But tonight?

He wasn’t joking.

One look at his face and you knew.

The guys backed off, muttering something in Japanese you didn’t catch. But you didn’t care. Not when Sunghoon’s fingers stayed on your hip even after they were gone.

You turned to him.

“…You okay?”

He stared at you for a second.

Then he laughed—short, breathless.

“You have any idea how you look tonight?”

You blinked. “Sunghoon—”

“No,” he said, pulling you gently toward a quieter corner of the club. “I let you out in that dress and thought, yeah, sure, I’ll be normal about it. But then I see guys eyeing you like they have a shot and suddenly I’m—”

He cut himself off.

You stared.

“Suddenly you’re what?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And for the first time tonight, there was no filter.

“I’m not normal about you,” he said simply. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

Your heart stuttered.

The music faded into nothing.

“…Sunghoon.”

“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “We’re best friends. This whole trip’s been fun. Flirty. Safe. But tonight?”

He leaned in.

“Tonight, I want to make it clear.”

Your back hit the wall, gently.

Not rough.

Not rushed.

Just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re with me,” he whispered, lips barely brushing your jaw.

And you didn’t move.

Not away.

Not at all.

The cab ride back to the hotel was dead silent.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because everything had already been said — in the way Sunghoon looked at you when those guys tried flirting at the club, in the way his hand gripped your waist like it belonged there.

And in the way he whispered, low and rough:

“You’re with me.”

The words looped in your head the whole ride. And when you stepped into your room — the one with the ridiculous train-themed decor, mood lighting, and giant mirror above the bed — it was over.

The second the door clicked shut—

He kissed you.

Not like a friend.

Not like someone testing the waters.

Like he knew what you tasted like.

Like he needed it.

His hands were everywhere — cupping your face, sliding down your waist, pressing into your lower back until your bodies were flush. You were barely able to keep up with his mouth — all tongue, teeth, urgency.

You gasped when his lips left yours to nip your jaw.

“Sunghoon—”

“I told you,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

He walked you backward toward the bed, kissing you between every step.

You fell onto the mattress, breathless, heart racing. The mirror above showed your reflection — the two of you tangled in shadows and heat, your thighs parting instinctively as Sunghoon leaned over you.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, nose brushing yours, “how many nights I’ve watched you sleep in this bed.”

His hand slid under your dress, fingertips grazing your thighs.

“Thinking about this.”

You gasped when he squeezed your leg, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re soaked through,” he murmured.

“I’ve been—thinking about it too,” you admitted, cheeks warm.

That was all he needed.

Sunghoon yanked off his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the trail of muscle down his abs — you stared shamelessly.

He noticed.

“Like what you see?”

You nodded.

“Use your words, baby.”

“I like it,” you whispered, eyes blown wide. “I want all of you.”

He groaned. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he was kissing down your neck, tugging your dress off slowly, his mouth dragging over every new inch of skin.

“No bra?” he murmured against your chest.

“You told me to wear something easy to take off,” you whispered.

His eyes burned.

“I was joking,” he growled, “but fuck, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”

His tongue circled your nipple before sucking hard, making your hips buck.

“Sunghoon—”

“Be patient,” he said, sliding your panties off. “I’m going to make you cum on my tongue first.”

Then he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, pulling your legs over his shoulders, and diving in.

You cried out.

He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’d just tasted heaven.

Then again. Slower.

His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you open as he licked you deep — tongue teasing your folds, swirling around your clit, then flattening with just enough pressure to make your legs shake.

You tangled your fingers in his hair. “Sunghoon, please—please—”

He paused, pulled back just enough to speak.

“Say it again.”

You moaned. “Please, Sunghoon—make me cum—please—”

“Good girl.”

He dove back in, and you were gone.

Your orgasm ripped through you, thighs clenching around his head as you came with a broken moan of his name.

He didn’t stop — he kept licking, slow and lazy now, lapping up everything you gave him until you were panting, trembling.

He crawled back up your body and kissed you — letting you taste yourself on his lips.

Then you felt him.

Hard. Heavy. Pressing against your thigh.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “If you touch me like that, I’m gonna lose it.”

You smirked, kissing his jaw. “Then lose it.”

He laughed — low and rough — then pulled back to line himself up.

You were still soaked. Still twitching from your first orgasm.

He met your eyes, voice hoarse.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He slid in with one deep thrust.

His hips rolled into you, slow and deep.

One thrust — thick, stretching, deliberate.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders as he filled you to the hilt.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

“I know,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this.”

He stilled inside you, chest heaving. You could feel how hard he was — how much restraint he was using just to not lose control.

Then he pulled back.

And pushed in again.

Deeper.

Your breath hitched.

Above you, the mirror reflected everything — the way your body arched into him, how your mouth parted when he bottomed out, the tension in his jaw as he watched you take him like you were made for it.

You whimpered.

“Look up,” he said softly.

You did.

And your entire body shivered.

The sight was unreal.

His body between your legs.

The way your back curved.

The way your nails pressed into his skin.

Sunghoon leaned in close, lips dragging across your jaw.

“Now imagine if you could see this again.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He reached for his phone.

Tossed a look toward the dresser, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

“I brought the tripod.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re joking—”

“Nope.” He was already sliding the legs out, adjusting the angle toward the bed. “Consent. One hundred percent. Just for us. Just for tonight. I want to remember everything.”

Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist.

He placed the phone on the stand, hit record, and returned to you.

Settled between your legs again.

Caged you in with his arms.

Kissed you like it would never be enough.

“This okay?” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, eyes wide, chest rising.

“Say it, baby.”

You swallowed. “Yes. I want it. I want you.”

He groaned — guttural, raw.

Then he started moving.

Long, slow strokes at first.

His hips grinding into yours, dragging over every sensitive spot with maddening precision.

His hand slid under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly — angling you better, deeper — until you were gasping his name.

“God—Hoon—”

“You hear that?” he rasped, breathless. “That sound you make when I hit here—”

Thrust.

You cried out.

“—that’s going to ruin me.”

His thumb brushed your clit in tight circles while he fucked you, rhythm getting messier — your thighs slick, sheets twisted, the air thick with skin and heat and moans.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at how fucking pretty you are when I’m inside you.”

You forced yourself to glance up at the mirror again—

And it was filthy.

Your eyes glassy.

Your body bouncing gently with every stroke.

Sunghoon — hair messy, jaw clenched, sweat slicking his chest — completely lost in you.

His thrusts got faster.

Your fingers clawed at his back.

You were getting close again. Too close.

“Sunghoon—Hoon—I’m—”

“Let go,” he growled. “I want to see it. Want to see you cum all over me.”

His hand gripped your thigh tighter, holding you in place as he slammed into you, dragging your orgasm out until you were moaning shamelessly, your body shaking under him.

You came hard.

Eyes rolling.

Toes curling.

He groaned loudly, head dropping to your shoulder.

Then he pulled out suddenly — tugged his cock in his fist once, twice—

“Where?” he panted.

“Stomach,” you gasped. “Please—”

And he spilled with a sharp grunt, hot ropes across your skin, your belly, his hips still twitching from the force.

The room was silent except for your panting.

You both stared at the mirror.

Then each other.

Sunghoon let out a soft, broken laugh.

“...We’re fucked.”

The room was still warm.

The soft buzz of fake train sounds from the speaker had long since faded into the background, replaced by only your uneven breathing and the low whirr of the air conditioner above the bed.

Your body was still tingling.

Muscles relaxed, core aching in the best way, thighs sticky with the aftermath of everything you just shared.

Sunghoon was lying beside you — one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily across your bare stomach. His fingers traced little, absent-minded shapes there, gliding through the mess he’d left on your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch you.

He looked wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes soft. Lips red from kissing too hard.

But the way he was looking at you now?

Completely different.

Like the teasing and jokes were stripped away.

Like he was finally seeing you.

And maybe for the first time—you were really letting him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

His voice was soft, a little hoarse.

You turned your head slowly, looking at him. “Yeah. More than okay.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Good.”

Then, quieter, “Because that... wasn’t just for fun.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking up at the ceiling. “I know we’ve been friends forever. I know this trip was supposed to be, like, low-budget ramen and chaotic sightseeing and those vending machines you’re obsessed with, and I definitely didn’t mean to—book a fucking love hotel—but—”

You cut him off with a quiet laugh, rolling over to face him. “Hoon.”

He looked at you, eyes wide.

Your fingers reached up, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“I know it wasn’t just for fun.”

You paused.

“...Did you really mean everything you said tonight? At the club? Back here?”

His gaze didn’t flinch.

“Every word.”

Your breath caught.

“You’ve... thought about this?” you asked, almost shy. “Us?”

He nodded slowly, like he was afraid he’d scare you off. “For longer than I should have.”

You swallowed, heart thudding.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He smiled, soft and bittersweet. “Because I didn’t think I had a chance. You’re...you. You flirt with ramen vending machines.”

You laughed, burying your face in the pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” he teased. “You called that one in Shibuya a good boy.”

You giggled.

Then his fingers stilled on your stomach.

“But the second I saw that guy at the club looking at you like you weren’t the most precious thing in the room... I snapped. I couldn’t keep pretending.”

You looked up at him. “And now?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours.

“Now I want to be the only one who gets to touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“I want to take you on real dates. Hold your hand in public. Make you breakfast. Wake up beside you without wondering if I crossed a line the night before.”

Your chest ached — in the best way.

You wrapped your arm around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Then let’s do that.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Yeah?” You nodded. “You idiot. I’ve wanted this too.”

He smiled — slow and real, the kind that reached his eyes.

And then? He kissed you again.

Gentle this time. Lingering. No rush.

Just the start of something real.

When you finally broke apart, curled in the sheets, your limbs tangled—

Sunghoon rested his cheek on your chest, humming softly.

“We’re kind of gross,” he mumbled sleepily.

You blinked. “What?”

He pointed up lazily.

You looked. And laughed. The mirror.

Still foggy. Still showing your bodies — flushed and messy and completely tangled up in each other.

“Let’s clean up,” you whispered.

Sunghoon groaned dramatically. “Can’t move. Dead. Died from your pussy.”

You smacked his arm with a pillow. “Romantic.”

He grinned.

Then he sat up—still shirtless, still glowing—and stretched.

As you slipped off the bed to grab your robe, something caught your eye.

That little panel near the bathroom. The one that looked just a little too clean. Too new.

You padded over, curiosity tugging.

Pushed it open— And found the train.

“Sunghoon…”

Your voice was breathless, laced with awe and disbelief as you stared into the hidden room tucked behind the bathroom mirror.

He came up behind you, still shirtless, eyes scanning the strange, atmospheric glow pouring out of the secret space.

“…What the hell?” he murmured, stepping in beside you. The small room looked exactly like the interior of a luxury train car.

Gold-trimmed velvet seats lined both sides.

The projected windows showed nighttime scenery rushing past, as if the whole place were actually moving.

And above it all? Mirrors. Full-length. Perfect angles.

“Did you book this on purpose?” you whispered.

Sunghoon laughed quietly, slipping his arm around your waist. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

You turned to look at him, still flushed, still warm and full from earlier.

He stared back at you—his gaze darker now, hungrier.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “we can’t just find a secret room like this and not do something stupid.”

You shivered.

“Define stupid.” His lips ghosted your neck.

“Take off your robe,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Here?”

“Here,” he said, nodding toward one of the seats. “There.”

Then he tilted your chin toward the mirror above.

“So you can watch.” Your stomach flipped.

He pulled you inside gently, guiding you toward the plush velvet seat like it was a throne.

“Sit,” he said, voice deeper now. “Right here. Legs open.”

You did. Robe sliding down your arms, bare underneath.

The second you sat, the coolness of the velvet against your thighs made you gasp.

Sunghoon dropped to his knees between your legs, spreading them wider, mouth just hovering over your center.

He looked up at you once—dark eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair. Yours.

“I didn’t get enough of you earlier,” he murmured. “Wanna taste you right. Wanna take my time.”

You whimpered.

Then his tongue was on you. Sunghoon devoured you.

Tongue slow and firm, licking up every drop, nose pressed into your folds, mouth working you open until your head fell back and your hips jerked against his mouth.

You glanced up, dazed—and moaned when you caught the mirror reflection.

Everything. Your legs trembling. Your hands gripping the seat. His messy hair buried between your thighs.

He glanced up mid-lick, locking eyes with you through the mirror.

“Keep looking,” he said, mouth shiny. “I want you to see what you do to me.”

He sucked your clit into his mouth then—hard. You gasped, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Oh my god—Sunghoon—!”

“You gonna cum again, baby?” he whispered, licking slow circles again. “Right here, in this fucked-up train fantasy room?”

You moaned—loud, desperate.

“Say it.”

“Yes—please—yes, I’m gonna—fuck—”

He flicked his tongue in a perfect rhythm, and when his fingers slid inside you—two, slow, deep—you shattered.

You came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, crying out as he licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him.

When you finally stopped shaking, he kissed the inside of your thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up.

Still on his knees. Still hard.

But now? Smiling. Smug. Possessive.

“Still alive?” he teased. You gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.” He pulled you up to your feet and spun you to face the mirror.

Your reflection was glowing—lips parted, chest heaving, legs weak.

Sunghoon pressed up behind you, cock dragging along your ass as he leaned in to whisper:

“Bend over the seat.”

You obeyed—bare hands gripping the backrest, legs shaking as he kicked your feet further apart.

He stroked himself behind you, tip brushing your folds.

“Look how ready you are,” he murmured. “Already dripping again.”

He slid in with one thrust. You both moaned. You watched in the mirror as he grabbed your hips and began to move—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch inside.

Then harder. Faster. Filthy.

The sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans, his rough grunts—it was insane. His hand slid around to grip your throat gently, tipping your face toward the mirror again.

“Watch, baby. Watch me fuck you.” You did.

And it was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen.You—bent over, mouth open in shock. Him—behind you, wrecked, hips snapping, muscles straining.

And you couldn’t last. You were already so full. So overstimulated. So his. “I’m—gonna—again—”

“Do it,” he panted. “Cum for me. Make a mess. I’m right behind you.” You came again—harder this time, louder, a cry ripped from your throat as your body clenched around him.

And with a final groan—“Fuck, yes”—he came too, spilling deep inside you, his hips twitching, hands gripping your waist tight as he gave you everything. You collapsed onto the velvet seat, breathless, shaking.

Sunghoon leaned over you, arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

You both stared into the mirror. Sweaty. Marked. Ruined.

“…Best love hotel ever,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon laughed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Welcome to the last stops, baby.”

The water steamed around you, warm and humming, tiny waves lapping at your sides as you sank back into the love hotel’s private jacuzzi.

The bathroom light was dim, glowing low and amber, reflecting off the tiled walls like candlelight.

You barely had time to close your eyes before a pair of arms slipped around your waist from behind.

“Round three,” Sunghoon murmured into your shoulder.

“Already?” you whispered, dazed. “You’re serious?”

“You’re mine now,” he said simply. “I’m never gonna be done.”

You moaned as he pulled you back into his chest, your legs floating around his hips, his hands sliding across your stomach beneath the water.

Then higher.

Until he had your breasts cupped in both palms.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m obsessed.”

You bit your lip, gasping as he started to play with them — thumbs brushing your nipples, squeezing gently like he’d been waiting to get his hands on them all night.

“I always noticed,” he confessed, pressing kisses to the back of your neck. “Every time you stretched in front of me, every time your shirt clung to them when it rained—"

“Sunghoon—”

“—and now they’re mine,” he said, voice rough with need. “So I’m gonna touch them whenever I want.”

His mouth trailed down your neck, then he reached around, shifting you to straddle his lap in the water.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to your chest.

Then he kissed your breasts—slow, wet kisses, tongue flicking across your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

You let out a soft moan, your hands burying in his wet hair. He groaned into your skin, pulling your body even closer until your tits were pressed to his face. His voice was muffled. “I could live right here.” You giggled breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed,” he corrected, licking again. “Let me worship you.” You felt his cock harden again beneath you, hot and heavy in the water.

“Sunghoon…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, mouth brushing your chest. “One more. Just one more.”

He reached under the water, lining himself up, and slowly eased you down onto him — warm water swirling around your waists as you sank onto his cock, inch by thick inch.

You both groaned. It felt so full like this. So warm. Slippery. Intimate. His forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your waist.

“Move for me, baby,” he whispered. “Nice and slow.”

You rolled your hips, riding him gently in the water, the movement easy and fluid with the water supporting your weight. And he couldn’t stop watching your chest.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “Bounce for me, just like that. Look at them—"

Your tits bounced with every movement, droplets clinging to your nipples, glistening under the soft light. His hands returned to them again and again — massaging, squeezing, sucking one into his mouth as you moved on him.

You whined. “You’re too into this—”

“I warned you,” he growled. “They’re mine now.”

Then he grabbed your hips, took over the pace, thrusting up into you as the water splashed gently around you. Slow, deep strokes. His cock dragging against your sensitive walls, your body already so used to him but still twitching at the stretch. You clung to him, lips brushing his. “You feel so good.”

“I want you to cum on my cock like this,” he breathed. “Wanna feel you clench around me again.”

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb brushing over your clit under the water — slow, tight circles until you were gasping again.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “While I’m buried inside you. I want to feel it.”

You did. With a broken gasp, body trembling in the bubbling heat, your walls tightened around him, clenching so hard he swore under his breath—

“Fuck—yes—fuck, you’re perfect—”

And then he came too, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you again, his arms tightening around you as if he couldn’t let you go. You stayed there, clinging to him, your body spent and warm, water lapping gently against your skin.

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your boob. Again.

“Seriously?” “What?” he said innocently. “They’re the love of my life now.”

The water steamed around you, warm bubbles churning against your skin as Sunghoon's hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you flush against his hard body. His lips trailed hot kisses down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to send shivers racing through you despite the heat. "Mine" he growled low, voice rough with need, his cock already throbbing against your thigh, slick with the jacuzzi's warmth and his own arousal.

You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders as he lifted you slightly, the water sloshing around your waists. His mouth captured yours in a fierce kiss, tongue plunging deep, claiming every inch while one hand slid between your legs. Fingers parted your folds, stroking your clit with firm circles that made you gasp into his mouth. He didn't tease for long—Sunghoon never did when possession burned this hot. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling to hit that spot that had your walls clenching around him.

"Fuck, you're still so wet for me," he murmured against your lips, pumping his fingers faster, thumb grinding your clit. The water made everything slicker, hotter, your body responding with desperate bucks against his hand. But he wasn't done worshipping yet. Withdrawing his fingers, he brought them to your mouth, pressing them past your lips. "Taste yourself. Taste how much you want this." You sucked eagerly, tongue swirling around his digits, eyes locked on his darkened gaze.

Satisfaction flashed in his eyes as he pulled his hand away, replacing it with the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. But instead of thrusting in right there, he stood fully, water cascading off his toned chest and abs, muscles flexing as he hauled you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the jacuzzi's edge pressing into your back for leverage. "Not like this," he said, voice husky. "I want to fuck you standing, feel every inch of you gripping me while I hold you open."

He shifted, one arm banding around your back to support you, the other guiding his cock. The tip breached you slowly at first, stretching your pussy with that delicious burn as he sank in inch by inch. You moaned, head falling back, the steam-filled air thick with the scent of sex and chlorine. Water lapped at your joined bodies, but it was nothing compared to the heat building where he filled you completely, balls pressing against your ass.

Sunghoon groaned, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that buried him to the hilt. "God, yes—tight like this, just for me." He started a rhythm, powerful and unrelenting, each drive lifting you slightly against him, your breasts bouncing with the force. His free hand roamed, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, then soothing it with his mouth, sucking the peak between his teeth. You clung to him, nails raking down his back, urging him deeper.

The standing position let him angle just right, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting your g-spot with every plunge. Water splashed around you as he fucked harder, possessive grunts escaping him. "No one else gets this. No one else fucks you like I do." His pace quickened, hips pistoning, the slap of wet skin echoing in the steamy enclosure. Your pussy fluttered around him, building toward that edge, clit grinding against his pelvis with each thrust.

He sensed it, shifting his hold to free a hand, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed in tight, fast circles, matching his brutal rhythm. "Cum for me. Milk my cock while I fill you up." The command pushed you over, orgasm crashing through you like a wave, walls spasming as you screamed his name. Sunghoon followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, hot cum flooding your pussy in thick spurts. He held you there, both panting, his forehead pressed to yours as the aftershocks rippled through.

But even spent, his grip didn't loosen. "We're not done" he whispered, already hardening inside you again. "I want more".

Sunghoon's cock twitched inside your still-pulsing pussy, the mix of his cum and your juices leaking down your thighs into the bubbling water. He didn't pull out yet, instead rocking his hips in slow, deliberate grinds that kept the friction alive, his mouth crashing back onto yours. The kiss was messy, tongues tangling with renewed hunger, his teeth nipping at your lower lip as he swallowed your whimpers. "You feel that?" he rasped between breaths, one hand cupping your ass to tilt you higher on his shaft. "I'm gonna fuck you until you're ruined for anyone else."

He thrust up again, harder this time, the water churning wildly as he bounced you on his length. Your oversensitive walls clenched around him, every slide sending sparks of pleasure-pain through your core. You gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss to beg, but he silenced you with another deep plunge, his free hand tangling in your wet hair to yank your head back. His lips attacked your throat, sucking marks into the skin—dark bruises that would linger as proof of his claim.

The rhythm built fast, his hips snapping with possessive force, cock stretching you wide with each entry. Your clit rubbed against his base, the pressure coiling tight despite the fresh ache from your first climax. "That's it, take it all," he growled, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise. You shattered again sooner than expected, body trembling as another orgasm ripped through you, but he didn't stop. Sunghoon kept pounding, chasing his own release while your pussy fluttered helplessly around him, overstimulated nerves firing wildly.

"Fuck, yes—squeeze me like that," he grunted, finally spilling inside you with a guttural moan, hot ropes of cum painting your walls anew. He held you impaled, panting against your shoulder, but his cock stayed buried deep, semi-hard and insistent. Slowly, he lowered you both back into the jacuzzi, the warm jets massaging your joined bodies as he pulled you onto his lap facing him.

His hands roamed your back, tracing the scratches you'd left earlier, before cupping your face for a slower makeout. Lips brushed softly at first, then deeper, his tongue exploring lazily while his hips shifted beneath you. You felt him thickening again, the third round stirring as he broke the kiss to murmur, "On your knees. Show me how much you need my cock."

You slid down eagerly, the water lapping at your chest as you positioned yourself between his spread thighs. His erection stood proud, veined and glistening with your combined fluids. Wrapping your hand around the base, you leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the salty mix of cum and arousal. Sunghoon's fingers threaded through your hair, guiding you gently at first. "Suck it. Take me deep."

Your lips parted, sliding over the head, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed down, taking more with each pass. The jacuzzi's bubbles tickled your skin, adding to the sensory overload as you worked him with your mouth—tongue swirling along the underside, hand stroking what you couldn't fit. He groaned, hips bucking slightly, fucking your face with controlled thrusts. "God, your mouth... so fucking good. Look at me while you do it."

Eyes locked on his, darkened with lust, you hummed around his length, the vibration drawing a hiss from him. Saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with the water, as you deepthroated him, throat relaxing to accommodate his girth. His grip tightened, possessive, holding you there for a moment before letting you pull back for air. "Enough." he said hoarsely, hauling you up for another searing kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

He spun you around then, pressing your back to his chest, legs draped over his as he positioned you. One arm locked around your waist, the other parting your thighs wide. "Spread for me," he commanded, fingers dipping into your soaked pussy, scooping out some of his cum before rubbing it over your clit. You moaned too cock drunk to speak, arching into his touch, but he was already lining up his cock, slamming home in one fluid motion.

This angle let him go deeper, the head of his dick battering your cervix with every upward thrust. Water splashed over the jacuzzi's edge as he fucked you relentlessly, his mouth on your neck, biting and licking. "You're mine to use"he whispered hotly, fingers returning to your clit, pinching and rolling it until you were sobbing with overstimulation. Your body betrayed you, hips grinding back despite the intensity, chasing the building pressure. "Yours only-fuck— yours." You managed to replied back.

He didn't let up, pace brutal, cock dragging against your g-spot with precision. The coil snapped violently—your pussy gushed around him, squirting in forceful arcs that mixed with the jacuzzi water, soaking his thighs. "Fuck, yes—squirt for me, baby," he praised, thrusting through it, prolonging the waves until you were a trembling mess.

Sunghoon came with a roar, flooding you once more, his body shuddering against yours. He held you close through the aftershocks, kisses turning tender, lips brushing your temple, your jaw. "All mine,"he murmured, finally softening and slipping out, cum trickling from your abused pussy.

Exhausted, he lifted you effortlessly, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you to the nearby lounge chair. The steam still hung in the air as he settled beside you, pulling you into his chest. His arms encircled you possessively, one hand stroking your hair as your eyelids grew heavy. "Sleep now" he whispered, voice soft and kissing the top of your head. You drifted off to the rhythm of his heartbeat, safe and claimed in his embrace.

The scent of miso soup and freshly baked melonpan woke you before sunlight did.

You blinked against the soft morning glow spilling in through the patterned blinds.

The mirror above the bed was foggy now from the jacuzzi steam the night before — a quiet, ghostly reminder of everything you’d done in this ridiculous love hotel.

The sheets were wrapped around you like a cocoon, and when you turned over, the space beside you was empty. But only for a second. Because then Sunghoon walked in, shirtless, hair a mess, tray in hand. Room service.

“Good morning, superstar,” he grinned. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “You ordered food?”

“I ordered everything.”

He plopped the tray down on the bed — steaming rice bowls, tamagoyaki, cut fruit in flower shapes, and melonpan fresh enough that you could smell the butter. Two iced coffees sat sweating in the corner. You blinked. “You remembered melonpan?”

“You moaned about it in your sleep,” he teased, climbing back into bed. You slapped his chest lightly. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he grinned. “Maybe I just like hearing you moan.”

You groaned, flopping face-first into a pillow. “Stop talking.”

He chuckled. “That’s rich, coming from someone who begged me in a fake train room last night.”

You threw the other pillow at him.

He caught it mid-air. “I’m keeping this one. Smells like your shampoo.”

You peeked out from under the sheets, still flushed.

“Are you… always like this in the morning?”

“Only when I wake up with my favorite person naked beside me.”

He leaned over to kiss your cheek.

Then your shoulder. Then your chest.

You shoved him back with a laugh. “Eat your breakfast.” “I’m trying, but my meal’s hiding under all those blankets—ow, okay, I’m done—!”

He handed you a cup of coffee like it was the holy grail. You drank. Grateful. Warm in more ways than one. After a moment of silence, your voice dropped.

“So… this isn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

“Babe. I came like a dozen times and cried into your neck. You’re not getting rid of me.” You snorted into your cup. He reached across the tray, brushing your fingers with his.

“I mean it. I want you. All the time. After we go home. Even when you’re being annoying.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When am I annoying?”

“Specially when your annoying,” he smiled. He reached for his phone and, without asking, snapped a picture of you wrapped in blankets, coffee cup in hand, cheeks flushed from laughter.

You groaned. “No—delete that—!”

“Nope,” he grinned, adding it to an album. “This is my favorite version of you. Hair messy, barely alive, and mine.”

You went still. Then softly, “Yours?”

He looked up. “Of course.” Then quieter.

“...Always hoped you’d be.” You leaned in and kissed him slow. Sleepy. Full of a new kind of sweetness.

“Okay,” you whispered. “So what now?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the headboard, arm around you.

“We’ll finish the trip,” he said. “Take more pictures. Eat ridiculous food.”

Then, with a cheeky grin:

“See if the other rooms here have different themes. Maybe one with clouds? A plane? Hospital bed—?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, but hear me out—”

You shoved a piece of fruit into his mouth.

He chewed, smug.

Then he laced his fingers through yours.

“I want to do this every year,” he said seriously. “Travel. Get lost. End up somewhere weird.”

“With me?” you whispered.

“With you,” he said. “Always.”

@ tobiosbbyghorl 2026

series taglist: @vissnipherwifeey @jnsknls @tessa365 @acute4angel @seranghaesvt @blueluvies @missoxy @pastahoon @renatojr @katishot147 @nimeah @je-tsime @hyyhwriter @satorus-slut @simjakeyjake @choke-on-flowerz @enaesthetix @ynzyy @chromeheartsquartz @hoonsucker @bkatarina @zsrcx @rikidaze @f-nari @tia-08 @paleunhee @lisie-loves-u @nikidikiy @shadesodc00l @heehee67 @shaiimuraaa @la-choiblog @babbatt @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght @defnoterda @devilish-meangadh

He brings you water. He reminds you to eat. He puts the TV on something harmless—cooking shows, a mindless sitcom—like he can wallpaper over your thoughts with noise. He touches you a lot: your shoulder when he walks past, your knee when you sit on the couch, your hand when you start to drift too far inward.

Every gesture is gentle.

Every gesture is also a tether.

You try to be normal back. You try to laugh in the right places. You try to let your body respond to him like it always has, because the alternative—pulling away—feels like stepping off a cliff.

Somewhere around two, you find yourself standing at the sink again, rinsing a mug you don’t remember using, staring at the way the water beads and runs and thinking: this is what people do when their lives aren’t splitting in half.

Seungmin’s behind you, leaning in the doorway. Watching.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah.”

He hums.

Then—sharp and sudden—the knock comes.

Three firm raps that don’t belong to a neighbor.

Your whole body tightens on instinct.

Seungmin straightens from the doorway. 

Another knock, a fraction more insistent.

You wipe your hands on a towel because your fingers are wet and you need something to do with them. Your heart is beating too hard, too loud.

Seungmin opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something—don’t, wait, let me—but you’re already moving. Because you can’t stand still. Because standing still makes you think.

You walk to the door.

The peephole shows two figures in the hallway, both in plain clothes but with that posture that screams professional. Purposeful. A man and a woman. Clipboards? No—one of them is holding a folder. Both of them have badges clipped where you can see them.

Your stomach drops.

You turn the lock anyway.

The door swings open, and the cooler hallway air slides into your apartment like a breath you didn’t ask for.

“Hi,” the woman says first. She’s mid-thirties maybe, hair pulled back, expression neutral in a way that’s meant to be kind. “Are you—” she checks something, eyes flicking to the folder, and then says your name.

You manage a nod. “Yes.”

The man beside her holds up a badge. “Detective Park. This is Detective Morris.” His tone is polite, practiced. “Sorry to bother you. Do you have a moment?”

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

You force it to move. “Uh—yeah. What… what is this about?”

Their expressions don’t change, but something in the air does. The woman’s gaze sweeps you once—quick, professional—taking in the robe, the bare feet, the slight tremor in your hands.

“We’re following up on a missing persons report,” Detective Morris says gently. “A woman named—” she glances down, “—Hana Lee.”

The name punches the breath out of you.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your face arranged into something normal. “Okay.”

Detective Park’s eyes flick past you, into the apartment—just a glance, quick and casual, but you feel it like fingers brushing your spine.

“We’re talking to people who might’ve seen her two days ago,” he continues. “She was reported missing yesterday. We understand she may have been in this neighborhood.”

You grip the edge of the door with one hand to keep yourself steady.

“I… I don’t know,” you say, and you hate how thin it comes out.

“That’s okay,” Detective Morris says immediately, softening. “We just have a few questions. Would it be alright if we came in?”

The question is phrased like it’s optional.

It isn’t, not really.

Your brain stalls out in that awful in-between where you can see both roads at once: say yes and invite them into your space, where everything is too close and too sharp; say no and look guilty; say nothing and let them decide for you.

"Do you have a warrant?"

Seungmin’s voice comes from behind you—close enough that you feel the air shift when he speaks. You hadn’t heard him move, but suddenly he’s there, filling the space the way he always does when something tries to press in.

His arm stretches past you, hand landing on the inside edge of the door like he’s bracing it open with casual authority. Claiming the threshold.

The detectives’ eyes flick to him.

Detective Park takes him in—messy hair, hoodie, bare feet. He keeps his face neutral, but there’s a tiny recalibration in his posture, shifting from polite-visit mode to noted.

“No,” Park says. “We’re not here with a warrant.”

Seungmin nods once, slow. The movement is almost courteous.

“Then you can’t come in.”

Detective Morris’s expression stays kind on purpose. “Mr. Kim—”

“Seungmin,” he corrects, still calm. 

Morris gives a small, patient smile. “Seungmin. We’re not accusing anyone of anything. We just have questions. A missing person. We’d prefer to speak somewhere private.”

Seungmin’s hand tightens on the door edge. Not enough to shake it. Just enough to make the wood creak faintly under his grip.

“This is private,” he says. “You can talk here.”

Park’s gaze slides to you again—your robe, your bare feet, the way your fingers are curled around the doorframe like you’re holding yourself upright.

“Ma’am,” Park says, gentle. “We can also speak with you separately, if you’d prefer.”

Seungmin answers before you can.

“She doesn’t prefer,” he says, and the softness in his voice is the most dangerous part of it. “Whatever you need to ask, you can ask in front of me.”

A silence opens, thin as glass.

Detective Morris keeps her tone even. “That’s not always what’s best for a witness.”

Seungmin’s jaw shifts once. A small click of muscle. He doesn’t look at Morris; he looks at you.

You feel your chest tightening, the room suddenly too small behind you—your couch, your kitchen, the hallway leading back to your bedroom. Everything you own sitting there—evidence waiting to be misunderstood.

Your throat works around a swallow.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say, and it comes out steadier than you feel. “It’s fine.”

Seungmin’s attention snaps to you.

You keep going anyway, because the longer you stand in this doorway with everyone watching, the more your skin feels like it’s buzzing.

“I’ll talk to you,” you say to the detectives. “Outside. If that’s easier.”

Seungmin’s fingers flex against the door. “Baby—”

The word is quiet, automatic. It carries a warning wrapped in tenderness.

You don’t look at him. If you look at him, you might fold. You might let him decide the shape of this, the way he always tries to.

Detective Park nods once, accepting. “Thank you. We have an unmarked car downstairs. We can talk there. Just a few minutes.”

Seungmin’s voice stays level, but something in it goes taut. “She’s not getting in your car.”

Morris raises her brows slightly, still calm. “It’s just to speak privately.”

“She can speak privately in the hallway,” Seungmin says.

Park’s patience shifts into something firmer—still polite, but no longer gentle. “Mr. Kim, we’re not asking for your permission to speak to her.”

Seungmin’s eyes harden. “And I’m telling you she can talk in front of me.”

You finally turn your head.

He’s behind you, half-shadowed by the apartment’s dimmer light, arm still extended like a barrier you can’t see but can feel. His expression is composed—too composed—and his gaze holds yours like it’s trying to pull you back into him through sheer will.

For a second, your breath catches.

Then you make yourself step forward.

Just one step—out of the doorframe, into the hall’s cooler air.

Seungmin’s arm remains stretched across the door, but now it’s behind you.

Now you’re the one between him and them.

“Seungmin,” you say quietly. “I’ll be right downstairs. It’s okay.”

It isn’t okay. You can hear it in your own voice. The lie, thin and careful.

He stares at you.

Then, softer—so only you can hear—he says, “Don’t say anything you’re not sure about.”

Detective Park starts toward the stairwell. “This way.”

You follow.

Behind you, you feel Seungmin move—close enough that you can hear the quiet drag of his bare feet on the hallway carpet, the soft click as he pulls the door almost shut but not fully, as if he can’t stand to close you out.

You descend the stairs with your heart banging against your ribs.

At the building entrance, morning has fully burned off into a pale afternoon. The street is louder now—cars, voices, a dog barking somewhere. Too much normal noise for what’s happening in your head.

A plain, dark sedan idles at the curb. Nothing official about it except the way the detectives move toward it like it.

Detective Morris opens the rear door with a practiced ease. “You can sit here.”

Your feet hesitate on the sidewalk.

Across the street, someone carries groceries. A kid in a puffy jacket drags a backpack. Life keeps happening like your world hasn’t tilted.

You climb into the back seat.

Detective Park takes the front passenger seat. Morris sits besides you, turning slightly so she can look at you.

They both keep their hands visible. Both keep their voices calm.

But the doors close with a sound that makes your stomach drop anyway.

Morris gives you a small, reassuring nod. “Thank you. Like we said—this is just questions.”

Park glances down at his folder. “We understand you were at the wine bar two nights ago.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Up on the sidewalk, through the windshield, you can see the building entrance.

You can’t see Seungmin from here.

But you can feel him anyway—like a hand at the back of your neck, like a presence you left behind that might not let you come back in the same way.

Detective Park doesn’t look up when he says it.

“You were at the wine bar on Friday night.”

It’s not a question. 

You swallow, fingers twisting together in your lap. The fabric of your robe bunches under your knuckles. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

Morris nods slowly, patient. Her voice is softer than Park’s, the kind of gentle that makes it feel worse when the words turn sharp. “Who were you with?”

“My friends.” You list names automatically, because names are safe. Names are facts. “We got there around… seven? Maybe.”

Park flips a page. Paper makes a loud sound in the small car. “Did you meet Hana Lee there?”

You blink once. Twice. “I… I saw her.”

“Did you speak to her?” Morris asks.

Your pulse stutters. The phone call from this morning flashes—your friend’s voice, careless and certain, you left with her. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch it.

“I—maybe. I don’t really remember.”

Park finally looks back at you.

“You don’t remember leaving with her?” he asks.

Heat crawls up your neck. “I don’t remember leaving at all. Not clearly.”

Morris shifts in her seat. “Do you have memory issues often?”

You hesitate. You feel the shame like a weight, sticky and immediate. “Sometimes.”

“How often is ‘sometimes’?” Park asks.

You try to anchor yourself in something solid—dates, routines, the shape of your week—but your mind keeps slipping like your hands are wet.

“More lately,” you admit. Quietly. “I have a condition. I’m on medication.”

Morris’s expression stays warm, but her eyes sharpen. “What medication?”

You tell her the name you’ve said out loud so many times it’s almost a lullaby. Park writes it down. The pen scratches, relentless.

“And Seungmin,” Morris says, gentle. “He knows about this? Your memory gaps?”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “He—he helps me with it. He reminds me. He—”

Park interrupts, polite but firm. “We spoke to people at his work today.”

Your stomach turns.

“We spoke to multiple coworkers,” Park continues, voice even. “They described an ongoing conflict between Mr. Kim and Ms. Lee.”

Morris adds. “They said it wasn’t subtle.”

You blink. “They didn’t— Seungmin just… complained. Like anyone complains. It was—”

Park flips another page. “We were told they had an explosive argument on Friday.”

The word explosive makes your skin prickle.

Morris watches your face carefully. “They said voices were raised.”

Park’s gaze stays on you as he speaks. “They said threats were made.”

Your mouth goes dry. “What threats?”

Park lifts his shoulders in a small shrug that isn’t casual at all. “We have statements that he said he would ‘make her regret’ what she’d done.”

A cold wash rolls over you.

“That—” you start, then stop. Your brain tries to picture Seungmin in his office, jaw tight, eyes dark, voice sharp. It’s not hard. You’ve seen him angry. You’ve heard him call her names in your kitchen like it was nothing. You’ve laughed along sometimes, because it felt harmless in the moment.

It doesn’t feel harmless now.

“He was venting,” you say, and the words sound thin as soon as they leave you. “He doesn’t—he wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Park asks.

Morris’s voice is quieter. “Wouldn’t hurt her?”

Your chest tightens. The car feels too small. The air smells too clean.

“She’s missing,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t mean she’s dead,” Morris agrees immediately, gentle as a hand on your shoulder. “You’re right.”

Then she lets the silence sit just long enough for your mind to fill it anyway.

Park reaches into the folder and pulls out a photo. A still from security footage. Hana by a door, shoulder turned, her face half-caught in grainy light.

He holds it where you can see.

“We’re trying to establish her last confirmed movements,” Park says. “We have video of her at the bar. We have her leaving the bar area. And then we lose her.”

Your throat works. “Okay.”

Morris leans back slightly, still watching you. “Your friend group—did anyone leave with her besides you?”

“I—” Your tongue feels too big for your mouth. “My friend said I left with her. But she was drunk. I don’t… I don’t know if she—”

Park’s pen taps once against the folder, a small, impatient click. “Do you think you left with her?”

Your nails dig into your palm. “I don’t know.”

Morris’s tone stays calm, but it tightens around the edges. “When you don’t remember, what happens? Do you lose hours? Minutes?”

“Hours,” you whisper, and the confession makes your eyes sting.

Park nods, like that’s exactly what he expected. “And during those hours, are you aware? Are you functioning?”

“I don’t know,” you repeat, helpless. “I wake up and—sometimes things are… done. Like I showered. Like I changed. Like—”

“Like someone took care of you,” Morris supplies softly.

Your breath catches.

Because the truth is: yes.

Because the truth is: you wake up clean and tucked in and you don’t remember doing any of it.

Park closes the folder with a quiet thud. “You live with Mr. Kim.”

“Yes.”

“And he helps manage your medication,” Park says.

Your stomach flips. “He reminds me. He doesn’t—he doesn’t control it.”

Morris’s gaze doesn’t leave your face. “Do you keep your medication secured?”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “It’s in an organizer. On the counter.”

Park’s eyes flicker, a quick note made in his head. “And you’re sure only you access it?”

Your voice wavers. “Yes.”

Another lie you don’t mean to tell. 

Morris’s voice softens further, which somehow makes your chest ache. “Can I ask you something personal?”

You nod because you don’t know how to refuse.

“Last night,” she says, careful, “did you argue with Mr. Kim?”

Your eyes burn. The image of Seungmin’s face—tight, controlled—flickers. Your own voice, sharp and accusing. Your phone in your hand. His palm over it.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Park’s tone turns clinical. “About Ms. Lee.”

“Yes.”

Morris tilts her head, gentle. “And what did you argue about?”

You swallow hard. “He…  didn’t want me to call you.” You admit. “He stopped me.”

“How?” Park asks.

“He put his hand over mine,” you say, and it comes out like an answer and an indictment all at once. “He told me not to. He said I was upset.”

Morris’s voice stays even. “Did that feel controlling to you?”

Your chest tightens. Your eyes spill before you can stop them—hot, humiliating tears that blur the dashboard.

“No,” you say quickly, then falter. “I don’t— I don’t know. He was—he was trying to—”

“To protect you?” Morris offers.

You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your robe, mortified. “Yes. He—he always does that. He always tries to calm me down.”

Park watches you cry without moving. Without softening. “Or he tries to manage what you tell people,” he says.

The sentence slices clean through you.

Your breath breaks. A quiet, ugly sound you can’t swallow back.

Morris’s tone shifts—still gentle, but purposeful now, guiding you somewhere you don’t want to go. “You said you don’t remember leaving the bar. You said you don’t remember the conversation with Hana Lee. But you do remember your boyfriend preventing you from calling the police.”

You shake your head, tears slipping anyway. “That’s not— I didn’t—”

“Can you see why that concerns us?” Park asks.

Your throat hurts. Your chest hurts. Everything in you feels like it’s being turned inside out in slow motion.

“I love him,” you say, and it comes out desperate, like love should be evidence. Like it should count as an alibi. “He’s—he’s good to me.”

Morris’s eyes soften just a fraction. “I believe that you love him.”

That doesn’t reassure you. 

Park’s voice is steady. “Love doesn’t prevent violence.”

You flinch.

Morris leans a little closer, lowering her voice. “We’re not asking you to condemn him. We’re asking you to be honest with yourself.”

You shake your head, helpless. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

The admission comes out raw, and once it’s out, it opens the floodgates. Tears you can’t stop. Your breathing goes uneven. Your hands shake in your lap.

Morris waits a beat, lets you struggle, then asks it—quietly, almost kindly, like it’s a question she’s asked too many times.

“Do you feel safe at home?”

You stare at her through tears.

Your mind flashes the shape of a hand against black plastic. The click of the trunk. The way Seungmin’s face smoothed into normal like it was nothing. The warmth of his thumb on your knuckles. The softness of baby.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out at first.

Then, finally—honest, small, terrifying—

“I don’t know.”

Morris’s expression doesn’t change.

“Okay,” she says gently, and then, without giving you time to breathe, she pivots. “When did you last see her?”

“I–”

“What time did you arrive at the bar?” Park cuts in.

“Eight–I mean seven–”

“Who drove?” Morris.

“We walked—”

“Did you drink?” Park.

“Yes, but—”

“How many?” Morris.

“I don’t know, I—”

“Do you remember speaking to anyone besides your friends?” Park.

You blink, trying to grab one question and answer it properly, but they keep stacking on top of each other like they’re building a wall and you’re on the wrong side of it.

“Did Hana Lee say anything to you?” Morris asks.

“Did she mention going somewhere?” Park asks over her.

“Did you argue?” Morris.

“Did she look scared?” Park.

“Did she get into a car?” Morris.

“Did you?” Park.

Your breath turns shallow. Your mouth opens and closes like you’re trying to drink air. Every time you start a sentence, another question cuts it off mid-thought, redirecting you, cornering you, forcing your answers into smaller and smaller shapes.

“I don’t remember,” you manage, voice cracking.

Park’s pen scratches. “You don’t remember leaving the bar.”

Morris doesn’t let the silence settle. “Do you blackout often?”

“I—”

“Do you have a history of sleepwalking?” Park.

“No.”

“Do you dissociate?” Morris.

“I don’t— I don’t know.”

“Have you ever harmed yourself during these episodes?” Park.

Your eyes burn again. “No.”

Park’s gaze pins you. “Why are your pills missing?”

Your stomach drops so hard it feels physical.

“My—” You choke on the word. “How do you—”

“We’re asking you,” Park says, not unkind. Not patient. “Why are three days missing from your organizer?”

You can’t hold your face together anymore. The tears come hot and humiliating, spilling down before you can stop them. Your voice turns ragged.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I didn’t— I don’t—”

Morris’s tone softens again, almost coaxing. “We heard your boyfriend mention your medication was being adjusted.”

You flinch. “He—he talked to my doctor.”

Park immediately: “Without you present?”

Morris immediately: “Did you ask him to?”

Park immediately: “Does he manage your prescriptions?”

Morris immediately: “Does he ever keep them from you?”

It’s too much. It’s all too much—your thoughts scattering, your body vibrating with panic, the car too small, the questions too sharp, the way every answer you give seems to open three more doors you don’t want opened.

“Stop,” you say, voice thin.

Park keeps going anyway. “Do you feel safe at home?”

“I said—” Your breath breaks. “I said I don’t know.”

Morris leans in just slightly, voice quiet like she’s talking to a child on the edge of a cliff. “If you don’t know, that’s an answer.”

Your hands tremble in your lap. You stare at your own knuckles like they might tell you what to do.

Park’s next question lands like a hammer. “Do you think your boyfriend is capable of hurting someone?”

Your vision whites at the edges.

“Stop,” you say again, louder this time. Your throat burns. “Stop— I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Morris’s mouth presses into a sympathetic line. “We’re not trying to hurt you.”

“You are,” you say, and you hate how broken it sounds. “I can’t— I can’t do this. I want to go home.”

Park studies you for a beat, then shuts the folder with a clean, final sound.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll stop.”

Morris nods, careful. “We’ll be in touch, okay? If anything comes back to you—anything at all—call us.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice.

They open the door for you. Cold air hits your wet cheeks. Your legs feel unsteady when you step out.

Park’s voice follows you, polite as a receipt. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Morris adds, softer, “Take care of yourself.”

You manage a brittle nod and walk away before you can fall apart in front of them again.

The hallway up to your apartment feels longer than it ever has. The building smells like someone’s laundry detergent and someone else’s burnt toast. The normalness of it makes your stomach twist. Your keys shake in your hand. You fumble them twice before the lock finally turns.

You push the door open.

The apartment is dimmer than it should be for afternoon, curtains half-drawn. The TV is off. The air feels… still. Expectant. 

You take a step inside, then another, letting the door swing almost shut behind you.

The smell of bleach is heavy in the air, along with the sound of water gushing into the tub.

In the bathroom doorway, a strip of light spills onto the hall tile and you see the heels of Seungmin’s feet poking out.

You move toward it without thinking, like your body is obeying curiosity before your mind can protect you from what you’re about to learn.

Seungmin is kneeling on the tile.

The tub is half-full, water running hot enough that steam fogs the mirror and curls along the ceiling. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His hands are red with rawness, skin scrubbed too hard, too long.

There’s a  shirt submerged in the bath. Dark fabric—one you recognize instantly. The one he wore the night you went to the wine bar. The one you remember tugging at when he kissed you goodbye.

He’s gripping the fabric in both fists, forcing it under the water, twisting it until his knuckles go white. When he lifts it, the water runs dark off the cotton in ugly rivulets, blooming red-brown before thinning to pink. He presses it back down immediately.

The shirt is ruined.

There’s no mistaking that.

It isn’t a smear or a spot or something you could explain away as a cut or a spill. The front is saturated—dark, uneven stains spreading from the chest and sleeves, soaked so deep into the fibers that even now, under scalding water and bleach, they refuse to lift completely.

It’s covered in blood.

For a second, your brain tries to insist it’s paint. A spill. Something explainable.

Then Seungmin looks up.

His eyes meet yours.

And the softness he’s been wearing all day—every gentle touch, every careful word—falls away so fast it’s like you’re watching a mask drop.

His face goes utterly still.

He hadn’t expected you back so soon.

Neither of you moves. The bathroom hums with silence, loud as a scream.

“Seung…min?” you manage, and your voice is barely a sound.

His gaze flicks once—fast—to the hallway,  calculating distance. The door. The time it would take you to run. The neighbors. The thin walls.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Baby,” he says, and the word is wrong in his mouth now. Not comforting. Not sweet.

Your body finally finds fear. It pours through you, ice-cold. You take a step back, heel catching the edge of the rug.

Seungmin rises in one smooth motion—too smooth, too practiced. The shirt drops from his hand onto the floor with a wet thud.

“No,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re saying no to. “No, no—”

“Hey—” he says, and it’s too gentle for what’s on the floor, too soft for the way your whole body has locked into flight. His hands lift slightly, palms open, the universal gesture for don’t panic—and the fact that he’s trying it at all makes your stomach twist.

You stumble backward again, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the front door suddenly too far.

Seungmin moves after you.

“I didn’t want you to see this part,” he says, frantic. “Everything’s happening so fast, I didn’t expect—”

Your eyes burn. Your breath comes in sharp little pulls. “What—what is this—”

“I know,” he cuts in, like he’s answering a question you haven’t managed to ask yet. Like he’s trying to put the words down before you can. “I know what it looks like. I—”

He swallows, adam's apple bobbing. For a second his face actually cracks—something raw flashes through, a brief, ugly flicker of stress that doesn’t know how to be gentle.

“I thought you’d talk to them longer,” he admits, voice tight. “I thought I had more time.”

“You—” Your voice breaks. You try again. “You thought—”

Seungmin takes another step, and you jerk back instinctively, bumping the wall. His gaze darts to the front door, then back to you. 

“Baby,” he says again, and it’s worse now because it still carries the old warmth even as everything inside you goes cold. “Please. Please—don’t do that.”

“Don’t—don’t what?” you spit, hysterical around the edges. “Don’t—look at you? Don’t—”

Your eyes flick, helplessly, to the bathroom tile.

The bloodied shirt on the floor. The dark smear. The metallic scent you can’t un-smell.

Seungmin follows your gaze and winces like he’s in physical pain. He shuts his eyes for half a beat, breath hitching.

“I didn’t want you to come home like this,” he whispers. “I didn’t want it to be you seeing—”

You shake your head so hard it makes you dizzy. “Move.”

His eyes snap open.

For one suspended second, he hesitates—like he’s actually considering letting you run. Letting you get the door. Letting you make it to the hallway.