My lips pressed into a thin line. I tapped on Chan’s name instead and sent a quick text:

[01:14 AM] Y/N → Chan: Is Seungmin still at the company?

The reply came almost instantly.

[01:14 AM] Chan: Yup. Still in the recording booth.

[01:15 AM] Chan: He’s arguing with himself about how his vocals suck.

[01:15 AM] Chan: You should probably come take him home before he erases the whole track.

My jaw tightened, fingers clenching around the phone. This wasn’t the first time. I tossed a hoodie over my tank top, grabbed my keys, and headed out.

The city passed like a blur outside the window as I drove, hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw clenched. Maybe this was insane. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe I was overreacting. But I knew him. And if there was one thing Seungmin was good at, it was pretending he was fine when he wasn’t.

The building was mostly empty at that hour, the distant hum of ventilation systems the only sound as I made my way through the halls. When I reached the studio, the door was slightly ajar, a soft trail of Seungmin’s voice leaking through.

Chan was in the producer’s chair, arms folded, head leaning back like he was halfway to sleep. He turned when he heard the door creak. His eyebrows rose. “Wow. He really pushed you, huh?”

I dropped my bag onto the couch with more force than necessary. “He’s not answering me. Again.”

Chan shrugged with a tired smile. “He’s locked in perfectionist mode. Keeps saying his tone sounds wrong. I’ve told him to stop at least four times. He argued. I gave up.”

I crossed my arms. “Is he eating?”

“No. He’s eating self-hatred and... vocal fry.” That earned a half-smirk from me.

Chan stood, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “He might listen to you, though. I mean... if the pissed-off girlfriend look doesn’t make him flinch, I don’t know what will.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Coward.”

“Correct.” he said, grinning as he walked to the door. “Good luck. Don’t destroy any equipment.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, I finally turned to the booth. Seungmin was inside, headphones on, replaying the same take, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the mic. He hadn’t noticed me yet. I moved closer to the glass, arms folded.

Eventually, he turned and froze. Our eyes locked. He blinked, surprised, pulling off his headphones. I didn’t wait for an invitation, I opened the booth door and stepped in.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice rough. Seungmin blinked, pulling the headphones off. “It’s late.”

“Yeah. No shit.” I stepped further in. “Did you plan on ignoring me until morning or…?”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve just been working—”

“You always say that.” My voice cracked, just barely. “I get it, Min. You love what you do. But I’m not just some… background character in your day.”

A beat passed.

“I just... needed to get this right.” he muttered.

“You’ve been doing this for days. Skipping meals. Coming home after I’ve fallen asleep. Acting like I don’t exist.” His jaw clenched. “You think I’m mad because you’re working? I’m mad because you won’t let me in.” He didn’t answer. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Seungmin. Not when I’m right here.”

He exhaled slowly, voice strained. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Yeah well, too late for that.”

He looked at me, finally meeting my eyes. And for a second, he looked smaller. Tired. Vulnerable. “I’m sorry.” he said. “For shutting you out. For making you feel like you don’t matter. You do. More than anything.”

I softened, stepping closer. “I’m sorry too. For making you think you can’t fall apart in front of me.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more, but the words didn’t come.

“Let me hear it.” I said. He hesitated, then pressed play. The recording played softly in the background. His voice filled the booth — raw, imperfect, and beautiful. I didn’t look at the monitor. I watched him. When it ended, silence hung between us.

“You sound like you mean every word.” I said. “It's good. Better even.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “You always say that.”

I reached up, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “Because it's always true. That’s the curse of caring too much.”

He leaned into my touch without thinking.

“I missed you.” I whispered.

“I’ve been here.”

“Not really.”

He looked at me again — really looked this time — and everything about him softened.

“I’m sorry.” he said quietly. “For not replying. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t listening.”

I stepped forward, my voice lower now. “Sorry if I made you feel like you’re never doing enough. That’s not what I think. That’s never what I think.” The tension in his shoulders. The tired edge in his voice. I leaned in, closing the space between us slowly, giving him time to stop me. He didn’t.

Our lips met, slow and deliberate, like we were savoring something we weren’t sure we’d be allowed to taste again. There was nothing rushed about it. It was all breath and longing and the echo of weeks spent in silence. His mouth moved against mine like a silent apology, and I kissed him back like I wanted to undo every minute of distance with nothing but my lips.

The way he touched me wasn’t hungry at first —it was careful. Like I was glass. Like he was afraid I’d shatter and disappear. His hands rested at my waist before sliding up, tentative, brushing under the hem of my hoodie. The heat of his palms made my skin jump, and I gasped into his mouth when his thumbs grazed my ribs.

I pulled him closer, fingers threading into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. His soft groan vibrated through me. It was the kind of sound you only make when something feels too good to be real.

And it did feel unreal.

The studio was quiet, lit only by the soft glow from the control board. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just me, him, and the months of tension unraveling with every brush of skin.

He broke the kiss first, breathing hard. “You should go home.” he whispered, but his arms tightened around me like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

“Not happening.” I murmured, my lips ghosting across his jaw. “You don’t get to shut down and pretend I don’t exist just because you’re scared.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like he was fighting something heavy inside him. “I’ve been so fucking lost lately.”

“Then let me find you.” I pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it somewhere behind us. My hands moved automatically, relearning him — his collarbones, the heat of his chest, the slight tremble in his stomach when my fingers dragged down his abs. His breathing hitched.

“You’re shaking.” I said quietly.

“I haven’t touched you in weeks.” he replied, voice wrecked. “I’ve been thinking about this every damn night.”

My hoodie was next. He peeled it off slowly, reverently, like each inch of skin he uncovered was sacred. When he kissed my shoulder, just below my collarbone, I felt my knees weaken. Then he looked up, eyes dark, lips parted. “I don’t remember how to take it slow.”

“You don’t have to.”

I pressed my body to his, grinding slowly against the bulge in his jeans. He cursed under his breath, gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. When he kissed me again, it was messy and breathless. No more restraint, just weeks of built-up tension crashing into us like a wave.

He backed me toward the padded bench, lips never leaving mine, hands everywhere, waist, hips, the underside of my breasts. He pushed me down gently, then stood between my legs, looking down at me like I was some beautiful secret he didn’t know how to deserve.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, almost angry with himself for not saying it sooner.

He kissed his way down my body — hot, open-mouthed kisses on my chest, my stomach, the insides of my thighs. When he pulled my underwear down with his teeth, I thought I might combust right there.

He looked up at me from between my legs, eyes smoldering. “Let me taste you.”

I barely had time to nod before his tongue slid over me, slow, firm, deliberate. My hips bucked involuntarily, and he moaned into me like the taste alone was enough to undo him.

His tongue worked me open with practiced ease, lapping, teasing, circling my clit just right before sliding two fingers inside me. I gripped the edge of the bench, gasping, back arching as he pushed deeper, curling his fingers until I saw stars.

“Seungmin— fuck— don’t stop—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” he growled against me. “You’re shaking so pretty for me.”

And I was, legs trembling, breath ragged, vision blurring. He kept going, steady and relentless, until my orgasm hit me hard. I cried out, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs clamping around him as I came with a force that made the world tilt sideways.

He didn’t stop until I was panting, sensitive, trying to push him away with shaky hands.

Then he stood, wiping his mouth, looking thoroughly wrecked and incredibly proud.

“My turn.” I said, breathless.

I pulled him down by the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with slow, teasing fingers. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, and when I wrapped my hand around him, he hissed through his teeth.

“You’re killing me.”

“You like it.”

“Too much.”

I stroked him slowly, dragging my thumb over the head, watching his jaw clench and his eyes flutter shut. When he looked down at me, his control was visibly cracking. “Turn around.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Bench.” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Hands on the bench. I need you.”

The words made heat pool in my stomach. I did as he said. Bent over the bench, back arched, looking over my shoulder at him.

He lined himself up behind me, running the head of his cock through my folds. “You’re dripping,” he muttered. “Fuck. You feel ready?”

“Don’t make me beg.”

He slid in slowly, inch by inch until he was fully seated inside me. We both groaned. My hands clenched the edge of the bench as he pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, making the whole booth shake.

“I missed you.” he rasped against my ear.

“Shut up and keep fucking me.”

He obeyed, thrusts hard and deep, filling me completely. The sound of skin on skin, his breath in my ear, the ragged moans he tried to hold back, it was too much. And not enough.

I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, panting his name between gasps. One of his hands slid under me, fingers finding my clit again. I jolted. “Oh my god— Seungmin— ”

“Come again for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And I did. Harder than before. My vision went white, body clenching around him, drawing him deeper. He cursed loudly, fucking me through it, and moments later, he stilled, burying himself deep as he came with a broken gasp, his chest pressed to my back.

We stayed like that for a long time, breathing in sync, sweat cooling on our skin. He kissed my shoulder again, softer this time. More tender than desperate.

“You okay?” he whispered.

I nodded, twisting just enough to see him. “That was... good.”

He pulled me into his arms, tucking me against his chest like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. We stayed like that, still tangled, breathing each other in.

Eventually, I smiled. “I guess I really did have to come get you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Please keep doing that.”

The worst part? It wasn’t just rage pooling low in my stomach.

It pissed me off how he could make me hate him and want him at the same time.

Fucking disgusting.

When Professor Lee handed back our essays and Seungmin’s stupid name was sitting pretty at the top with a shiny gold “A+”, I didn’t even think.

I whipped my head around, caught his eyes across the lecture hall, and mouthed: “Rigged.”

His mouth curved into that slow, infuriating smirk, the kind that crawled under my skin and set it on fire.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head like he owned the goddamn place, and mouthed back, exaggerated and slow: “Don't be mad just because you’re second best, sweetheart.”

Complete with a wink.

A goddamn wink.

I could feel the heat rising from my chest to my ears. Rage. Or something dangerously close to it.

Seungmin tilted his head, still watching me like I was a particularly amusing science experiment. His eyes glinted, and I knew — I knew — he wasn’t going to let this go.

When class ended, I shoved my notebook into my bag and bolted for the door, hoping he’d get the hint. Of course he didn’t.

He caught up easily, his steps lazy, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets like he hadn’t just declared academic war ten minutes ago.

“Rough day, princess?” he asked, voice dripping mock-sympathy.

I didn’t even look at him. “Bite me, Seungmin.”

“Careful,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “Might take that as an invitation.”

I stopped walking and turned to him so fast he almost collided with me. He did collide, his chest bumping into mine with a low thud that made both of us stiffen on reflex.

For a second — a stupid, reckless second — we just stood there. Breathing the same air. Close enough that I could see the tiny mole in the middle of the bridge of his nose. Close enough that I could smell the faint hint of mint gum and something warm and boyish underneath.

His eyes flickered down to my mouth — fast, involuntary. My heart hammered against my ribs. Not from fear. From something far worse. He caught himself a beat too late and pulled back a step, but it was already too late.

I smirked.

“Problem?” he asked, trying to sound bored, but his voice was rougher now. Edgier.

“You wish.” I snapped, shoving his chest lightly with my hand.

It wasn’t enough to move him, but it made him smile — that crooked, infuriating, I-know-you-want-me smile. I wanted to punch him. Or grab him by the hoodie strings and crash our mouths together. Maybe both.

“Tell you what,” he said, hands sliding casually into his pockets, pretending like his pulse wasn’t visible on his throat. “Winner of the next project challenge picks a punishment for the loser. No rules.”

I raised an eyebrow, chest still rising and falling too fast. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, slow, like daring me to back down. “Afraid to lose?” he teased, voice pure poison wrapped in honey.

I narrowed my eyes. “You're on.”

His smirk stretched wider — a flash of sharp teeth and gleaming mischief. “Try not to cry when you lose, princess.”

“Worry about your own dignity first, loser.”

He stepped closer again — not touching, but close enough that my body registered the heat pouring off him. “Oh, princess…” he murmured, low and deliberate. “You’ll be begging me for mercy by the end of it.”

Then, without waiting for my reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling some stupid upbeat tune like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb between us.

I stood there, heart pounding, palms sweating, fists clenched at my sides. Already plotting how I was going to destroy him.

Or how I was going to let him destroy me. Maybe both.

If working in the same room as Seungmin was supposed to be a punishment from hell, it was starting to feel a lot more like slow torture.

The worst kind. The kind where you like it.

We weren’t even officially working together — our articles were separate — but somehow, like roaches or debt collectors, he always managed to appear wherever I was: library, café, empty classrooms.

And every time, the same thing: Provocations. Smirks. Stupid bets.

We sat across from each other now, laptops open, papers strewn everywhere. My screen glowed under the cheap library lights, reflecting the blank document I hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

Because Seungmin was there. Existing. Breathing. Tapping his stupid pen against his stupid mouth like he had no idea how distracting he was.

I chewed the end of my pencil, glaring at my thesis statement like it was all its fault.

“Need help, princess?” he drawled, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I'd rather set myself on fire.” I muttered, not looking up.

He chuckled under his breath — that soft, infuriating laugh that always made my skin prickle.

I refused to glance at him. Refused to notice the way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, veins visible on his forearms. Refused to notice how he tapped his pen in an unconscious rhythm that somehow matched the way my heart stuttered when he leaned back and stretched like a smug little shit.

Focus. Focus.

I bent lower over my keyboard, typing harder than necessary.

He reached across the table to steal my highlighter, and his fingers brushed mine — quick, electric. My body jolted before my brain could catch up.

He smirked. Saw it. Filed it away for later.

I hated him. Absolutely hated.

If hating him included wondering what his hands would feel like pressed somewhere else, well — that was between me and my rapidly deteriorating sanity.

Three hours, five insults, and two coffee runs later, we submitted our articles

I stood stiffly at the front of the lecture hall, arms crossed, waiting for the verdict. Seungmin stood next to me, too close. His shoulder brushed mine once. I moved. He moved closer again.

Asshole.

Professor Lee shuffled through the papers, humming thoughtfully.

Finally, he smiled — a slow, proud smile. “Excellent work from both of you.”

I exhaled. Barely.

“But…” He held up one article.

And I saw it. My name. Bold. Clear. Victorious. I blinked. Once. Twice. I won.

The shock punched through me, followed by something molten and dizzying: triumph. I turned slowly to Seungmin, ready to gloat.

His face was unreadable — that blank, impassive mask he wore when he didn’t want anyone to know he was losing his shit inside. Which meant he was furious.

I smiled sweetly. Sickeningly. “Aw. Better luck next time, loser.”

He tilted his head, mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk.

“Don’t get too cocky. One win doesn’t make you better.”

“No, but it makes you worse.”

He stepped closer, enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin again.

His eyes dropped to my mouth — quick, instinctive — and I hated how it made my pulse jump.

Before either of us could say something, even dumber, Professor Lee cleared his throat. “Both of you. A word, please.”

We turned, startled, as if remembering there was a whole room watching.

He led us to his desk, his expression serious.

“You two have been selected to represent our department at the International Academic Congress next weekend.” He paused for effect. “An honor. Only given to our best.”

My brain blanked.

Congress? An entire weekend?

With Seungmin?

I felt my stomach flip in the worst way.

Beside me, Seungmin shoved his hands in his pockets, feigning boredom, but I caught the twitch of his jaw. He hated surprises. Almost as much as I hated liking the idea of being trapped with him somewhere far from rules and reputations.

“You’ll be presenting your articles separately, of course,” Professor Lee continued. “But you’ll be traveling together. Hotel accommodations are arranged.”

I nodded, tight, pretending not to panic.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seungmin turn his head, studying me carefully. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Like he was already plotting how to use this against me.

I gritted my teeth and forced a tight smile. Seungmin smirked, slow and lethal.

The conference was supposed to be an exciting opportunity. At least, that’s what I told myself when I boarded the plane. A few days away from the usual routine, presenting my research for relevant people, making connections — sounds like a dream, right? In theory. The reality? Well, the idea of spending two days in close proximity to Seungmin was a little less appealing. But hey, I was here for the experience. And because I didn’t have much of a choice.

The flight was long, and Seungmin had already made himself an expert at finding ways to annoy me.

He sat one row behind me, but naturally, he ended up next to me when the seatbelt sign was switched off. Classic Seungmin move. “Mind if I join you?” he asked as if I had a say in the matter.

I didn’t even bother to look at him. “Please, make yourself at home.” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

Seungmin didn’t waste any time. He slid into the seat beside me like we’d been lifelong friends, his shoulder brushing mine in the process. "You know,” he said, stretching his legs out a little too far into my space, “I actually enjoy these long flights. So much time to read, think, or just bother you.”

I pretended to focus on the screen in front of me, but it was hard to ignore him when he practically moved in. “Lucky me.” I muttered, trying my best to be invisible.

He grinned, clearly unfazed. “You could at least pretend to enjoy my company. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” I said dryly.

Seungmin leaned in closer, like he was about to share a deeply profound thought. “I think you’re just afraid of my charm.”

“I’m not afraid of your charm,” I said flatly. “I’m just trying to survive the flight without having to throw you out of the window.”

“You'd kill all of these people if you opened that window, you know that, right?”

Of course I knew, who whe thought I was?

I could practically hear him smirking, even though I refused to look at him. He was annoyingly good at finding ways to make my blood pressure rise with minimal effort.

By the time we landed, I was exhausted—not from the flight, but from keeping my cool around him. The conference itself? That was going to be cakewalk compared to this.

We finally made it through the airport and to the hotel. The city was exactly what I expected: bigger, louder, and more chaotic than I needed. Then, with that, all my excitement died, and I was so ready to be done with everything.

The lobby was eerily quiet, the kind of place where every sound felt exaggerated. When we approached the reception desk, the receptionist greeted us with a smile so practiced it almost looked fake. I wasn’t in the mood for polite exchanges.

She typed something on her keyboard while keeping her eyes on the screen, then lifted her gaze to us with that same, professional smile. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

I stepped up first, handing over my conference credential with a formality I didn’t really feel but was trying to project. It made me look like I had my life together, something that wasn’t going to be ruined by an unexpected trip with my academic rival.

“Hi, we’re from the Department of Social Sciences at National University. We're here for the research congress.”

She glanced at the screen for a moment longer, tapping away before meeting our eyes again. “Ah, of course. Everything’s set for you.” She grabbed a key from behind the desk, placing it on the counter with that same pleasant smile. “Here’s your key. You’ll be in room 325.”

I grabbed the key, but something felt off. The way she handed it to us made me stop, the words almost caught in my throat.

“Just one key?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping the confusion I was feeling didn’t show too obviously. It didn’t make sense that she was giving us a single key for both of us, especially since I knew the rooms were supposed to be separate.

The receptionist looked at me like my question was perfectly normal. “Yes, one key for each couple of participants.”

I blinked, mouth slightly open. A couple? Did she just assume…? I glanced over at Seungmin, who was casually leaning against the counter, an eyebrow raised.

He caught my look and immediately let out a low chuckle. Of course, he found this funny. “What? You didn’t think we were a couple?” He gave me a wink, his voice dripping with that infuriating confidence.

I felt my face flush with a mix of annoyance and… something else. I wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand, but honestly, why was the receptionist so sure of that? Was I really giving off those kinds of vibes?

I couldn’t suppress my irritation.

“We’re not a couple,” I snapped, a little too harshly. “We’re just… two students who happened to be presenting at the same event.”

The receptionist merely nodded, completely unfazed. She didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary about the situation. “Oh, I see. Well, the rooms are all prepared. Would you like me to change the key?”

Before I could open my mouth to say anything, Seungmin was quicker. He grabbed the key off the counter with an air of ease that only made me more frustrated. He was enjoying this, I could tell.

“No, it's okay,” he said smoothly, his eyes flicking to me with that self-satisfied gleam. “We’re fine with it.”

He turned to me, the smugness on his face practically radiating. Of course, this would be his idea of a good time.

I shot him a death glare but said nothing. He was always so quick to take charge of situations that were inconvenient for me. It annoyed the hell out of me.

The receptionist, apparently oblivious to the tension, gave us a polite nod. “Enjoy your stay!”

I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I grabbed my bag and turned away, trying my hardest to ignore Seungmin’s amused expression as I walked to the elevator.

“I can’t believe you’re okay with this,” I muttered under my breath, trying to sound angry, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Seungmin followed behind me, taking his time.

The elevator ride up to the third floor was a quiet one, and as we stepped out into the hallway, I could already feel the weight of the situation sinking in. The reality of having to share a room with Seungmin was a lot less fun when you were actually facing it.

Seungmin, still as calm as ever, walked ahead of me toward room 325. His hand was already on the doorknob when I caught up.

I hesitated, then turned to him. “I seriously don’t think this is a good idea.”

Seungmin paused, his back to me, then slowly glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. For a second, there was no hint of a smirk. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked quietly.

I wanted to answer — everything — but he was already opening the door.

The door swung open, and I stepped inside, Seungmin trailing right behind me. The room was… fine. Clean, neat — boring in the way all conference hotels were. But then my gaze hit the bed.

One. Single. Bed.

A king-size, sure. But still — one bed. No second mattress tucked in a corner. No pull-out couch. Just that massive betrayal sitting right in the middle of the room like it knew exactly what it was doing.

I froze, dread pooling in my stomach.

Seungmin bumped into me from behind and cursed under his breath. “Wait. Are you fucking serious?” His voice was low, disbelieving.

I didn’t even look at him. I just stared at the bed like it had personally betrayed me.

I turned to him slowly, my face blank with disbelief. “Well, unless you’re planning on summoning another bed out of thin air, yeah, we’re serious.” I waved my hand dramatically toward the offending mattress.

Seungmin stepped around me, eyeing the bed like it had personally insulted his family. “They expect us to sleep in the same bed?” he asked, incredulous.

“Apparently ‘academic excellence’ comes with complimentary sexual tension. Maybe they'll even throw in some rose petals and a bottle of champagne while we're at it too.” I muttered, folding my arms.

He snorted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“No shit. You think I did?” I snapped. The sarcasm was practically a second language between us at this point.

The room already felt too small, the air too charged.

He looked at me, his expression sharpening into something defensive. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I’d rather cuddle a cactus.”

I gave him a slow, sarcastic smile. “Cute. I was about to say you could sleep outside with the stray dogs. You’d fit right in.”

He threw me a sideways look, half a smirk playing on his lips. “If it’s that unbearable, I can sleep on the floor. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep over me.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my brain. “The floor’s probably cleaner than whatever germs you’re carrying anyway.”

The tension crackled between us — electric, unbearable. We both stood there, stubbornly glaring at the bed, as if sheer willpower would make it disappear.

Seungmin shook his head, glancing once more at the cursed bed like it might suddenly sprout another mattress. “This is unbelievable. Who the hell organizes a conference like this?”

“Maybe it's a new academic technique.” I deadpanned. “See who survives forced proximity without committing murder.”

He actually snorted at that, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He shook his head, still clearly pissed off. “This is ridiculous. What’s next, sharing a toothbrush?”

I snapped back, my sarcasm sharp as a knife. “Oh, I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going to happen. They’ll give us matching PJs next, too.”

We stood there for another long, heavy beat, neither of us moving.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Seungmin exhaled sharply and said: “We’re not gonna survive this if we keep acting like kids.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Screw it. We'll put a damn pillow wall in the middle. Switzerland rules: you stay on your side, I stay on mine.”

“Fine. But if you snore, I’m suffocating you with a pillow.”

“If you steal the covers, I’m kicking you onto the floor.” I shot back.

He met my glare with one of his own, but there was something else beneath it now.

Something heavier. Thicker. Neither of us said it, but we both felt it. The heat. The pull.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, already moving toward the door. “Let's just get through the conference first. We'll deal with... this trainwreck later.”

Seungmin didn’t argue this time. He just muttered under his breath, low enough that I almost missed it: “Yeah... easier said than done.”

We step off the elevator and into a wide, polished corridor leading to the conference rooms. The air smells faintly of burnt coffee, new carpet, and desperation. The walls are covered in generic modern art — squares inside of other squares — like they were trying very hard to seem sophisticated without actually having a soul. I already feel the weight of expectation pressing down on me like a headache.

Seungmin walks beside me, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking unimpressed with life itself. His hair falls messily into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. Typical.

His eyes dart around the hallway, scanning faces like he’s already categorizing who’s worth ignoring. “Ready to pretend we care?” he mutters, voice pitched low enough just for me.

“Thrilled,” I deadpan, not even glancing at him. “Can’t wait to have my brain melted by endless talks about sustainable quinoa farming.”

He snorts, biting back a laugh. “Sounds like your dream date.”

“Yup. Right up there with tax seminars and dental surgery.”

We keep walking, moving with the flow of the crowd. I can see the bright lights of the conference rooms ahead, and it's all I can do to not roll my eyes at the sheer formality of it all. The event feels more like a display of ‘look how important we are’ than anything else.

He grins — a real one, small and crooked — before drifting off toward a group near the front, already blending in like a professional social chameleon. I roll my eyes and slink toward the back, sinking into an empty chair, pulling out my phone just to avoid making small talk with strangers who all think they’re smarter than everyone else.

The speaker drones on about something to do with regenerative soil or whatever. I zone out, letting the words wash over me like white noise.

That’s when I notice him — a guy standing near the refreshment table, dressed casually enough to look out of place among all the tight blazers and forced smiles. He’s got a lazy grin, a coffee cup in one hand, and the vibe of someone who definitely isn’t taking this seriously.

Our eyes meet by accident. I immediately look away, pretending to be fascinated by my own shoes.

Too late.

Footsteps approach, and a moment later, he’s there, leaning on the back of the chair next to mine like he owns the place, like he’s got nothing better to do.

“Hey.” he says when he’s standing in front of me, offering a slight, disarming grin. “I don’t know if you’re as bored as I am, but I swear this place feels like a corporate zombie apocalypse.”

I glance up at him. His voice is light, teasing, and there's a mischievous glint in his eye that reminds me — alarmingly — of someone else I know. He's charming, but not in the typical, obnoxious way.

I can’t help a small smirk. “I’m pretty sure zombies would be more interesting. At least they’d be honest about their intentions.”

“You look about as thrilled as I feel.” he says with a grin.

“Is it that obvious?” I say, tilting my head. “I thought I was hiding it so well.”

“Subtle as a brick to the face,” he deadpans, smiling wider.

I snort before I can stop myself. Okay, he's funny. Dangerous.

“Chan.” he says, holding out a hand like we’re not at the most painfully formal event on earth.

“Y/N.” I reply, shaking his hand briefly before pulling back.

Chan smirks. “So, Y/N... what's your poison? Boring keynote speeches or awkward networking attempts?”

I fake think about it. “Mmm... death by boredom sounds slightly less painful.”

He chuckles. “Agreed. I’m just here for the free coffee and questionable snack trays.”

“You’re brave. I think those pastries have been alive longer than some of the speakers.”

He laughs, a real, full laugh, and leans closer like we’re already conspirators. “Survival of the fittest. Or the most caffeinated.”

I smirk, feeling a little lighter despite myself.

“Guess I’ll see you at the coffee table battlefield later, then.”

“Only if you’re prepared to fight dirty.” He winks. “I swear, if they put any more bland hors d'oeuvres out there, I might start questioning why I even left my house for this.”

I can’t help it — I actually laugh at that. “Yeah, I’d rather be at home, in my pajamas, eating cereal. At least I know it’s not going to taste like cardboard.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, so you're one of those people. Respect.”

There's a beat of silence, and for a moment, we just stand there, awkward in the best way. But I don’t mind it. It's kind of refreshing to talk to someone who isn’t immediately making small talk about "networking."

Chan shrugs, his eyes glinting with a bit of humor. “So, what’s your take on all of this? The conference, I mean. I’m assuming you’re not here for the food production knowledge either.”

I think about it for a moment before responding. “Honestly? It’s not exactly what I expected. I thought it’d be more... engaging, that I'd have a great opportunity to talk about my research, but it’s mostly just people trying to sound important.”

Chan nods knowingly, looking amused. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the vibe I’m getting too.”

I’m about to fire back something sarcastic when the temperature of the room shifts. I feel it before I see him — that tightening sensation in the air.

I turn slightly, and there he is.

Seungmin.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders rigid. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but it’s his eyes — sharp, dark — that give him away.

He's staring at Chan like he’s a mosquito buzzing too close.

Chan notices too, casting a casual glance over his shoulder. “Didn’t realize you had company.” Chan says easily, raising an eyebrow at Seungmin.

Seungmin’s smile is a weapon — all teeth, no warmth. “Yeah. She’s with me.”

She’s with me.

My eyebrows shoot up, but I say nothing.

Seungmin’s jaw clenches, and he steps forward, his gaze still fixed on me, but the edge to his voice has softened slightly as he addresses me. “Y/N, we should go.”

Chan shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “Right. I’ll catch you later, Y/N.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, feeling the weight of Seungmin’s presence beside me. “Later.”

He flashes me one last grin before wandering off, utterly unbothered.

The second he’s gone, Seungmin steps closer, his body language screaming tension. His glare burns into me, his jaw flexing as if he’s chewing on all the words he can’t say out loud.

The air between us is thick, but I can’t help it. I need to poke at him, need to let him know that I see right through his little act.

I cross my arms, matching his posture. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to start a bar fight?” I ask sweetly.

He huffs through his nose, looking anywhere but at me.

We head back toward the front, the noise of the conference around us feeling a hundred times louder. The tension doesn’t seem to let up, and I know this is just the beginning of whatever this is between us, the silence between us thick enough to choke on.

I can’t help myself.

“You know,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “you’re acting like I committed a crime by talking to someone with a better haircut than you.” I lied, Chan's haircut isn't better than his long bangs that fall onto his eyes.

Seungmin’s jaw tightens, his eyes flickering toward me, but he says nothing. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, and the way his fingers flex against his crossed arms doesn’t escape me. He’s annoyed.

I grin to myself, enjoying this just a little too much. “I mean, it’s not like I invited him to a romantic dinner or anything,” I continue, my tone teasing. “But I did notice your death stare. If looks could kill, I think I’d be six feet under right now.”

Seungmin's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” I tease. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked a lot like jealousy. Like… borderline ‘punch a guy over a coffee joke’ levels of jealousy.”

He stops walking abruptly, forcing me to stop too. He steps closer — too close — and lowers his voice so only I can hear.

“I’m not jealous.”

I tilt my head, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really? Because it kind of seemed like you were about to challenge him to a duel or something.”

Seungmin glances at me, his expression unreadable, but I can tell he’s getting more irritated by the second. He stops walking again, and his eyes narrow in that way he does when he’s not sure whether to get sarcastic or serious. “I don’t care, okay?” he finally says, voice sharp. “But you could’ve at least told me you were, whatever, you know, talking to him.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, so I’m supposed to run my social interactions past you now? Got it, boss.”

Seungmin’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about, exactly?” I prod, stepping closer to him. “You sure you’re not feeling a little... territorial?”

“Territorial?” He glares at me, clearly trying to keep his cool. “What, like some caveman marking his territory?”

I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “More like a chihuahua, actually.”

Seungmin glares, his ears pinking. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable when you’re angry.” I shoot back, my grin widening.

He lets out a short, frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Keep pushing, princess. See what happens.”

I arch an eyebrow, leaning closer, letting my shoulder brush his for just a second longer than necessary. “Maybe I’m counting on it.”

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other — the conference noise fading into the background — locked in this stupid, electric standoff.

Then he huffs, muttering under his breath as he turns to walk ahead of me: “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

I smile, slow and wicked, before following him back into the crowd.

The second the door to the hotel room clicked shut behind us, the weight of reality hit again — one bed.

Still just one.

I sighed loudly, dropping my bag near the dresser.

Seungmin tossed his hoodie onto a chair and stretched his arms above his head, way too nonchalant for someone about to sleep three inches away from their mortal enemy.

“Guess we’re really doing this,” I muttered, staring at the bed like it was a battlefield.

“What’s wrong, princess? Afraid you won’t survive one night without jumping me?” he teased, kicking off his shoes.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

“Please. I’m more worried about you crying because I stole all the covers.”

He laughed, short and sharp. “In your dreams.”

We stood there for a second, facing the bed like it killed someone of our family.

“Truce?” I offered reluctantly, lifting a pillow.

“Temporary ceasefire.” He smirked. “Until you start snoring and ruin my life.”

I flipped him off without ceremony and started building a pathetic little wall of pillows down the middle of the mattress.

He watched, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “Very professional. I feel safer already.”

“Good. Now if you so much as breathe on my side, I’m kicking you out.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I grabbed my pajamas and locked myself in the bathroom before I could throw something at his smug face. Changing into my satin slip felt almost ridiculous. It wasn’t even that revealing — thin straps, low neckline, cut just short enough to be a problem if you looked too long — but somehow, the second I caught my reflection, I hesitated.

Why the hell did it feel like I was getting ready for something? I shook off the thought and stepped out.

Seungmin was sprawled across his side of the bed, now wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants, no shirt. His skin caught the soft hotel lighting, warm and distracting. He was tapping away at his phone, pretending not to notice me.

He looked up when he heard the door click.

And froze.

Just for a second.

Eyes raking over me in one quick, betraying sweep before he schooled his face back into something vaguely unimpressed. “Nice pajamas,” he said casually. “Planning to seduce the minibar?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Planning to murder you in your sleep, actually.”

He grinned — wide, wolfish. “Kinky.”

I gave him my middle finger again and climbed into my side of the bed, tugging the covers up to my chest like armor.

Seungmin tossed his phone onto the nightstand and settled against the pillows, arms behind his head. The faint glow of the bedside lamp carved shadows down his chest, and I hated — hated — that my eyes kept betraying me, sliding over the lines of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach.

I turned off the light with an aggressive click. The darkness didn’t help.

We lay there, stiff, silent, breathing the same charged air. The pillow barrier might as well have been made of tissue paper.

Minutes stretched. The kind of minutes where you feel everything — the brush of fabric, the shift of weight, the tiny creaks of the bed under him.

I couldn’t sleep.

Neither could he.

I could hear his breathing, shallow and uneven. The bed felt too big and too small all at once.

The shitty pillow wall between us was a joke now — some flimsy excuse to pretend there was still a line we hadn’t crossed.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. The air was thick. Every shallow breath I took, I swore I could taste him on my tongue. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was tense. Ticking. Waiting.

I couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, but I could feel him — every shift of weight on the mattress, every small movement that jolted straight through my body like static.

Finally, Seungmin’s voice broke the stillness — low, rough around the edges: “You keep fidgeting.”

I scoffed quietly, turning onto my side to face the vague outline of his body. “Maybe because I’m stuck sharing a bed with my worst enemy.”

“You flatter yourself,” he muttered, and even in the dark, I could imagine that insufferable smirk of his. “You’re the one who built a wall of pillows like I’m going to jump on you or something.”

He shifted closer, just enough that the mattress dipped between us, erasing another inch of space.

“Well, I've heard of your uncontrollable violent behavior, Kim Seungmin.” I lied, I heard nothing, but anything, now I might just witness it.

He laughed under his breath, sharp and derisive. “You're so full of yourself, it’s a miracle your head fits in this room.”

He didn’t say anything else immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch — heavy, charged — until I was practically vibrating from it.

Then, almost too casually: “Bet you think about it though.”

I blinked, my heart stuttering. “Think about what?” I asked, my voice coming out sharper than I meant.

“This,” he said simply. “Us. Fighting, fucking... whatever.”

I opened my mouth to snap back — some scathing insult on the tip of my tongue — but nothing came out.

Because the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

The silence between us roared.

Seungmin shifted again, close enough now that the heat of his body seeped through the covers. “What’s the matter, princess?” he teased, voice dangerously low. “Cat got your tongue?”

I hated him. I hated how my skin burned under his words. I hated how badly I wanted to wipe that smug tone off his mouth — preferably with my own.

I swallowed thickly. “You’re delusional.” I said, but it lacked bite.

He laughed quietly, a deep, rumbling sound that curled low in my stomach. “Am I?” he challenged, voice pure sin.

Then, the tension snapped.

I pushed the stupid pillow barrier away with one aggressive swipe, grabbed a fistful of his face and yanked him toward me.

Our mouths crashed together like a fucking car wreck — brutal, messy, unstoppable. We kissed like we were trying to prove something. Or maybe like we were trying to forget something.

He groaned into the kiss, grabbing my waist like he’d been waiting for permission he was never going to ask for.

I gasped when he rolled over me, pinning me down into the mattress, his hips pressing between my thighs with a hunger that sent a shudder straight through me.

His mouth was everywhere — jaw, neck, collarbone — as if kissing me could somehow make up for all the weeks of tension we’d spent pretending we didn’t want this. His hands gripped my thighs, my waist, like he couldn’t decide where he needed me most.

His hips pressed down, slow and firm, and I felt the friction hit just right — enough to make me gasp into his mouth. He did it again. Purposefully this time. Pressing against me like he wanted me to feel just how hard he was. Like he needed me to know what I was doing to him.

Then he started grinding.

Desperately.

There was nothing careful about it. It was all friction and hunger, his sweatpants dragging against my panties, the pressure building every time our hips met. He was breathing heavily now, panting into my neck, his hands gripping my waist like he was trying to keep himself from losing it completely.

I arched against him instinctively, my hands sliding up his back, nails digging in just a little when our hips met again. The fabric between us was too much and not enough at the same time — the pressure maddening, delicious, torturous. Heat pooled low in my stomach, and I hated how easily he made me feel like I was unraveling — so I did what I always did when I felt too much.

I smirked. “Wow.” I whispered, my voice low and venomous as my lips brushed his ear. “I couldn’t imagine grinding was your way of begging.”

He groaned — like the sound had been ripped out of him — and ground harder, sharper, until I could feel all of him pressing against me.

Hard. So fucking hard.

And that’s when I laughed — breathless and wicked — dragging my nails down his back just enough to make him hiss. His breath was shaky against my collarbone, his lips dragging a trail of heat along my skin. He was already panting, his hips grinding into mine like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed the friction just to stay sane. I felt him — hard, throbbing against my center — and it only made the smirk on my lips grow sharper.

“You’re really down bad, huh?” I murmured against his ear, dragging my nails slowly up his back. “You barely touched me and you're already losing it.”

He groaned, a sound that came from deep in his chest, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. “You’re not helping.” he muttered, grinding against me again, slower now, desperate.

“Then beg better.” I whispered, my voice deliberately calm, teasing. “Maybe I’ll take pity on you.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at me, eyes wild, jaw tight, completely wrecked.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, his voice a growl now. “You think I can fucking control myself when you're like this?”

“No.” I whispered, rolling my hips up slowly, deliberately. “That’s the fun part.”

Something snapped in him after that. He thrust against me again, this time rougher, more desperate, and I swallowed a moan as his mouth found mine once more. I felt him everywhere — in the way his body moved, in the way his hands clutched at me like I was something he couldn’t hold onto fast enough, in the way our hips met again and again, friction making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but feel.

My fingers slipped into his hair, yanking just enough to make him hiss, and I couldn’t help the smug little grin that curled at my lips. He pulled back just enough to look at me, flushed and breathless, pupils blown wide.

“You're dangerous.” he whispered, his voice low and reverent.

“You love it.” I shot back.

He crushed his mouth back onto mine, swallowing my gasp, and his hand slipped down between us to pull at my panties like he couldn’t stand one more second without being inside me. The kiss deepened, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, hands roaming recklessly.

Seungmin kissed like he fought — relentless, stubborn, like he had something to prove.

And fuck, I loved it.

His hands slid under my nightgown, fingertips dragging up my sides, rough and needy. I arched into him, desperate for more contact, for anything to ground me against the chaos exploding under my skin.

He pulled back just enough to mutter, breathless: “Still think I'm delusional?”

“Shut up.” I gasped, dragging him back down to me.

He grinned against my mouth — cocky, victorious — and then kissed me even harder.

“This is purely academic.” I said, smirking into the dark. “Data collection. Stress relief. Killing time.”

“What, like a science experiment?”

“Exactly.”

“Uh-hum, of course.” he agreed mock-seriously.

Clothes became obstacles. His hands found the hem of my slip, pushing it up, bunching the silky fabric at my waist.

He kissed down my neck, slower this time, like he was trying to savor every inch of skin. My shame was long gone, and so were the layers of sarcasm I wore like armor. His mouth trailed lower, over my chest, down my stomach — and when he reached the waistband of my panties, he paused. Looked up. Eyes dark. Lips swollen. Breath unsteady. Like he was about to kneel at an altar. And I was the altar.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I muttered, trying to hold onto some control.

“Like what?” he said, voice low, his fingers already sliding down my panties.

“Like I’m the answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.”

He smirked — not his usual cocky kind, but softer, full of want.

He kissed down my stomach slowly, like he wanted to memorize every inch of skin. There was something almost reverent in the way he did it — not rushed, not greedy — just hungry, in a quiet, desperate kind of way.

When his fingers hooked under my panties and slid them down, he didn’t say a word. But his eyes — God, his eyes were wrecked. Like he’d been waiting for this since the day we met and couldn't believe it was finally happening.

I let my head fall back against the pillows, biting my lip, trying to stay composed. But the second I felt his breath on my inner thigh, I knew I was in trouble.

And then his mouth found me.

The first lick was slow. Soft. Testing.

He groaned like he was the one being touched, and the vibration made me shiver.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair on instinct, trying to ground myself. He didn’t stop.

His tongue moved in careful, messy circles, as if he was learning me — like every stroke was a question and every moan was an answer. He sucked gently, then harder, switching rhythms like he wanted to see what would make me break first.

I hated how good it felt. Hated how easy it was to melt under his mouth.

So I did the only thing I could do — I mocked him. “You’re really putting your whole heart into this, huh?” I breathed, voice shaky but laced with sarcasm.

He pulled back just enough to look up at me, lips already wet, face flushed. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the first time you yelled at me in chem lab.” he said, voice rough. “So yeah. I’m not fucking around.”

Then he went back in, hungrier than before. His hands slid under my thighs, pushing them further apart. He moaned into me like I was something he couldn’t get enough of — and maybe he couldn’t.

I gasped without thinking, barely able to form the words. He looked up at me with a crooked grin and shook his head before diving back in. And I couldn’t stop myself anymore. My hips rocked against his face. My hands tangled in his hair. My breath stuttered and caught.

My body arched. My breath stuttered. My control cracked. “Fuck—” I gasped, rolling my hips into his face. “You’re gonna make me—”

He sucked harder. His tongue flicked just right. And I did. I came with a whimper I tried to swallow, thighs trembling around his head.

Still, he didn’t move — didn’t stop — not until I was squirming away from the overstimulation, dragging him up by the hair and breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He looked wrecked. And so fucking proud of himself. “You should’ve insulted me earlier.” he whispered, kissing the inside of my knee. “I think I’m kinda into it.”

“Shut up.” I said, pulling him into a kiss.

I pulled him up by the hair, still panting, and crashed my mouth into his. Tasting myself on his lips only made it worse.

My hands roamed his bare back — warm, solid, lean muscles flexing under my touch — and I scratched lightly down his spine, earning a low, broken noise from deep in his throat.

He retaliated by sucking a bruise into the hollow of my throat, making me gasp and tangle my fingers in his hair, yanking just hard enough to hear him groan again.

Somehow, he managed to shove his sweatpants down just enough, the condom appearing – from God knows where – clumsily between kisses, torn open with shaky fingers. Even stoned on adrenaline and lust, we managed — barely.

When he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Raw.

We both gasped — harsh, ragged — the sudden connection knocking the breath out of our lungs. Seungmin pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard.

“Fuck.” he whispered. “You're gonna be the death of me.”

I laughed — sharp and breathless — grabbing his hips and rolling mine up to meet him, forcing a groan from his mouth.

He moved inside me — slow at first, testing, then harder, deeper, each thrust sending little shocks of pleasure ripping through me. I clutched at him, nails digging into his shoulders, my body meeting his rhythm without hesitation.

The world blurred around the edges, just his breath against my neck, the creak of the mattress, the wet, filthy sound of skin on skin.

The tension in my stomach coiled tighter with every rough drag of his hips, every filthy word he muttered against my skin when he thought I couldn’t hear.

“So fucking tight.”

“So good like this.”

“Mine tonight.”

I whimpered, burying my face against his shoulder, biting down just enough to make him hiss and drive into me harder. The buildup was brutal, slow and fast at the same time, until I was clinging to him, gasping his name like a curse.

He felt it too, I could tell — the way his thrusts became uneven, ragged, the way he cursed under his breath when my nails raked down his back.

I shoved him away, straddling him. “Lie down.” I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, letting my thighs press against his bare skin.

He looked wrecked — eyes glazed, mouth parted, like he couldn’t believe this was real. He obeyed instantly. Hair a mess, chest heaving, lips red. Completely at my mercy. He lifted his head, eyes wild, pupils blown, lips parted. He looked at me like he didn’t know whether to kiss me or cry.

“Please.” he said, barely a breath. “I need you." He whimpered. “You're so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, almost like he hated himself for saying it. “Like a dream I shouldn’t be allowed to have.” His fingers brushing my hair.

The words made something flutter in my chest, but I ignored it. Instead, I pushed him down by the shoulders, forcing him to lie back on the mattress. He obeyed instantly.

“That's right, pretty boy.” I said, straddling his hips slowly, my fingers dragging over his chest.

His breath hitched at the praise.

I leaned down, lips brushing over his ear. “You’re gonna keep your hands to yourself.” I said softly. “Just for a while. Got it?”

He nodded quickly. Too quickly. His restraint was paper thin.

I rolled my hips down against his again, this time without any barrier. His sweatpants were already low on his hips, and I could feel how badly he wanted it, the way his whole body arched up, chasing friction, chasing me.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, trying so hard not to move.

I shifted down slowly, kissing along his stomach, watching the muscles tense under my lips. When I reached the waistband of his boxers, I heard him whisper my name again, like a prayer. Desperate. Soft. Shaky.

But instead of going lower, I came back up, hovering over him again. His hands clenched at his sides. He was trembling. He looked like he was losing his mind.

And I loved it.

“You want me to fuck you?” I asked, voice still soft, like I was offering something sacred. He nodded again, eyes locked on mine. “No, Seungmin.” I said, smile sharp. “I want to hear it.”

He swallowed hard. “I want you.” he said. “Please. I want you so fucking bad.”

Only then did I slide down onto him — slow, torturously slow. We both gasped. His hands flew to my hips on instinct, gripping tight, but he didn’t move, like he remembered my words. His head fell back. A sound tore from his throat — low, desperate, guttural. “Fucking hell…”

I started moving, hips rolling in deep, slow circles. He looked drunk — eyes fluttering, head tilted back, mouth open. “Shit.” he choked out. “You’re gonna kill me.”

I leaned down, brushing my lips over his. “You’re lucky I like you needy.”

He grabbed my wrist, eyes locking with mine again, glassy, overwhelmed. “You’re in fact a dream.” he whispered. “You’re a fucking dream, I don’t wanna wake up.”

He was completely under me, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, needy. I rode him slow and deep. He reached up, fingers trembling as they gripped my thighs. “Fuck… you’re unreal.”

I leaned forward, dragging my lips down his jaw. And I kept going. Until he couldn’t speak. Until he was all moans and gasps and praise whispered into my skin. Until the only thing either of us knew was this — us — messy, out of control, too much and never enough.

And this time, I didn’t tease. I kissed him, slow and deep, as I kept moving, feeling him tremble beneath me, completely undone

It hit me like a wave — hot, violent, overwhelming.

I came with a cry I couldn't bite back, my body clenching around him so hard it ripped a guttural moan from his mouth. A few more frantic, desperate grinds and he followed, coming with a rough, broken sound against my ear.

We collapsed together, sweaty, shaking, our bodies tangled messily in the sheets and in each other.

For a long moment, we just lay there — breathing hard, the air heavy with sex and everything we weren't saying.

He didn't move away.

Neither did I.

I woke up tangled in the sheets, the faint light from the window cutting through the darkness of the room.

The room was cold, but the heat of his body next to mine made it almost unbearable.

I shifted under the covers, blinking against the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains.

Seungmin was lying on his side, facing me. His hair a mess, his mouth slightly open, his arm carelessly thrown over the invisible line that we had so dramatically ignored the night before. He looked criminally good for someone who had completely ruined my ability to think straight.

For a second, I just stared at him. At the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. At the faint scratch marks I’d left on his skin.

It should’ve made me feel guilty.

It didn’t. It made my stomach flip in a way I refused to name.

I shifted under the covers, careful not to wake him. Not because I cared. Because I didn’t feel like dealing with the smugness that would explode across his stupidly handsome face when he realized he had officially broken my sanity.

But of course, the bed creaked, and his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked slowly at me, his mouth curling into a lazy, dangerous smirk. “Good morning, sunshine.”

I rolled my eyes hard enough to sprain something. “You drooled on my pillow.”

“You moaned on my neck.” He said it so casually I almost threw the remaining pillow at his face.

I rolled over with an exaggerated huff, pulling the blanket up to my neck.

The bed shifted a second later, and a raspy voice muttered: “You're staring. Creepy.”

I snorted without turning. “Dreaming. About how much I regret this.”

“Sure.” He stretched, the covers sliding lower on his body, revealing way too much bare skin for a casual glance.

I refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I tossed a pillow at his head.

It hit him square in the face. He grunted. “Assault. That's how you say good morning?”

“You should thank me. I could’ve done worse.”

He laughed, low and rough. God, that laugh should be illegal before 9 a.m.

“You already did worse last night.” he teased, flashing that stupid grin that made my chest tight for no good reason.

“Delusional much?” I snapped, pushing the blankets away and standing up, my satin slip sticking to my thighs.

His eyes dropped — quickly, involuntarily — and when he realized, he immediately smirked wider.

“If I'm delusional, at least it's a nice view.”

I threw another pillow at his face and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door harder than necessary.

Behind me, his laugh chased me like smoke under the door.

The last day of the conference loomed over me like a thundercloud. People buzzed around the lobby and corridors, all polished shoes and stiff blazers, pretending not to be nervous while clutching folders a little too tightly.

I sat at the back of the auditorium, my hands cold and clammy around my notes. My stomach twisted itself into knots. My brain, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish and heavy.

What if I mess up?

What if they laugh at me?

What if I open my mouth and nothing comes out?

A quiet nudge at my side snapped me out of my spiral. I turned sharply — already defensive — only to find Seungmin sliding into the seat next to mine, a crooked grin on his face. “You look like you're about to pass out” he said under his breath, eyes glinting with amusement.

I scowled. “Thanks for the support, Seungmin.”

He smirked, unbothered. His arm brushed mine as he leaned back casually, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Meanwhile, I was over here two seconds away from vomiting.

He studied my face for a moment, his smile fading slightly. “You’re gonna kill it.” he said, voice lower, more serious.

I blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Wow. High praise coming from my archnemesis.” I said, raising an eyebrow.

Seungmin snorted. “Don’t get used to it.” He tapped my folder with the back of his hand. “But seriously. You’re smarter than half the people in this room. Probably smarter than me, too. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.”

My chest tightened strangely at that. I tried to cover it with sarcasm. “Aw, how cute. If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually cared.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Don't flatter yourself. I just don't want to be associated with someone who faints mid-presentation.”

I let out a shaky laugh despite myself, some of the weight on my chest easing. I glanced at him sideways, heart hammering for a different reason now. “You think I can really do it?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

Seungmin’s gaze softened. He didn’t tease this time. He didn’t smirk.

He just nodded once, firm and certain. “I know you can.”

Something in me cracked a little at that. Before I could embarrass myself further by actually tearing up or something equally pathetic, the coordinator called my name.

I stood up too fast, my knees almost buckling. Seungmin reached out instinctively, grabbing my wrist lightly to steady me. His touch was brief, casual — but it set my skin on fire.

“Go show them why you scare the shit out of me.” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

I managed a breathless laugh, clutching my notes like a shield as I walked toward the stage.

His gaze followed me the whole way. I could feel it — hot and unwavering, like a tether pulling at me even across the room.

And somehow, because of him, my hands steadied. My voice, when I finally spoke, didn’t shake.

When I finished my presentation and stepped off the stage, heart still hammering, my eyes found his immediately.

Seungmin sat casually slouched in his seat, arms crossed, looking every bit the cocky bastard he always was. But when he caught my gaze, he gave me the smallest nod. Barely there. But it hit harder than a standing ovation.

I looked away quickly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. I shouldn’t have cared. But fuck — I did. More than I wanted to admit.

By the end of the last presentation, I was vibrating with tension from the happenings of today and yesterday. I couldn't help myself but let my eyes wander to him every second.

Then suddenly, Chan — the guy from the day before — found me again, appearing with a crooked smile and two cups of coffee. “We really survived it, huh?” he said, handing me a cup. "Yeah..." I took it automatically, forcing a smile.

But my eyes weren’t on him. They were locked across the crowd, watching Seungmin sling his backpack over one shoulder, heading toward the exit without even glancing back.

Something inside me twisted violently.

I barely heard Chan say something else. I just shoved the coffee back at him with a muttered excuse and slipped into the crowd, my body moving on instinct.

I followed Seungmin. Out of the conference center. Down the hall. Toward the elevators.

He didn’t turn when he heard my footsteps. He just stepped inside the elevator. Waited.

When I caught up, panting slightly, I saw the look in his eyes. Tense. Dark. Dangerous.

He hit the button for our floor, and the doors slid closed with a soft ding. The elevator was filled with nothing but heavy breathing and electricity.

Neither of us spoke. Neither of us had to. As soon as the room door closed, I acted on pure instinct. I shoved him. Hard.

Seungmin stumbled back against the wall, his eyes widening in shock — and something hotter — before narrowing with a slow, dangerous smile.

I didn't wait. I closed the distance, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and yanked him into a kiss.

This wasn’t soft. It was furious, messy, teeth and tongue clashing as I pressed him back harder against the wall, claiming him. He grabbed my hips, hauling me closer, but I was faster — shoving him backward until he hit the bed.

I pushed him down, climbing on top of him with a wicked grin.

He stared up at me, breathless, pupils blown wide.

“You like being bossed around, huh?” I teased, grinding down on him mercilessly.

“Only when it’s you.” he rasped, his hands gripping my thighs like he was seconds from losing it completely.

Fury and need and regret crashing together in a way that didn’t make sense but at the same time felt like the only thing that did.

Campus looked the same. Gray, busy, loud.

But everything felt different.

We didn’t talk about what happened. We didn’t even look at each other.

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend we weren’t carrying around the memory of each other’s bodies burned into our skin

In class, he sat two rows behind me. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back, searing a path down my spine. Every. Single. Second. By the end of the lecture, I was practically shaking with frustration.

I grabbed my notebook, marched out into the hallway — and waited.

When he passed, I grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the nearest empty classroom, slamming the door shut.

For a second, we just stood there, staring at each other, the tension so thick it felt like drowning.

“Problem, princess?” he asked, mock-innocent.

I shoved him lightly. “Yeah. You're breathing again. What the hell is your problem?” I hissed, arms crossed.

Seungmin leaned against the wall, lazy, unbothered, like this was amusing. “Problem? I don't have a problem.”

I stepped closer, glaring. “You stare at me like you want to burn me alive and then act like nothing happened.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I do want to burn you alive.”

I shoved him hard. He didn’t even flinch.

Just smiled — slow, infuriating — and let his eyes drag down to my mouth.

My chest heaved with fury. “Stop looking at me like that!” I snapped.

“Like what?” he said innocently, gaze dropping to my lips again.

I groaned and rolled my eyes before grabbing the front of his hoodie and kissed him.

Hard.

He responded immediately, hands sliding to my hips, slamming me back against the door.

The kiss was brutal, messy, full of months — maybe years — of frustration detonating all at once. Starved. Wild.

We stumbled back against the teacher’s desk, knocking over papers and god-knows-what, neither of us caring.

When we finally broke apart, panting, he whispered against my mouth: “You’re fucking annoying.”

“Takes one to know one.” I whispered back, yanking him down for another kiss.

And somehow...

It became a habit.

It wasn’t supposed to become a habit. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But suddenly, he was everywhere. In my bed. On his bed. In the backseat of his shitty old car, the windows fogged, the gearshift digging into my thigh as he moved inside me, rough and desperate. In the abandoned book storage, under a dusty skylight, where he bent me over an old desk and muffled my moans with his mouth. And now, in the farthest corner of the library.

He had me pinned against a bookshelf, one hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair as he fucked me from behind. The worn wooden shelf rattled with every thrust, the sound obscene in the silent library.

My skirt was bunched up around my waist, panties forgotten somewhere on the floor. His jeans pooled around his ankles.

I couldn’t hold back a shaky moan when he lifted my leg higher, the new angle making me see stars.

His mouth was pressed to my shoulder, muffling his moans against my skin, teeth grazing whenever I clenched around him. He grabbed my wrist, guiding it to his mouth, biting the heel of my palm, making me gasp, as he fucked me harder.

Seungmin growled low in his throat, and I smirked wickedly, whispering breathless: “Can't handle it, can you, baby?”

He growled low in response, fucking into me harder, faster, more desperate, making it clear who was really in control.

And it wasn’t him.

The orgasm hit so fast it almost knocked the breath out of me, my forehead pressed against the dusty shelf to stay standing.

He followed a second later, groaning my name like a curse, collapsing against my back for a few shuddering breaths before pulling out, carefully, his hands trembling slightly as he tucked himself back into his jeans.

We straightened ourselves quickly — or as quickly as two wrecked, sweaty people could in the middle of a goddamn library.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder like nothing had happened. I smoothed my skirt down, pretending my legs weren’t shaking.

As we walked out of the library, Seungmin shoved his hands into his pockets and said, almost casually: “I... bought that soju you said you liked once.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Was thinking... maybe you could come over. Study. Drink a little. Then…” He shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “You know.”

I blinked at him, caught off-guard.

“Wait. That soju? How the hell did you even find it?”

He scowled, defensive. “I just found it, alright?” he muttered, like he hadn’t spent two hours scouring online stores for it.

I raised an eyebrow. “You scoured the internet for it, didn’t you?”

He rolled his eyes, ears pink. “Whatever. Just... if you want to come over later. Study. Drink. Maybe…” He shrugged.

I grinned wickedly. “I'd love to drink myself into a coma with you.”

He grumbled something under his breath but didn’t hide the way the corner of his mouth tilted up.

And maybe...

Maybe I was already too far gone to care

When I stepped into Seungmin’s apartment, a gust of cold air followed me inside, swirling around my ankles and raising goosebumps along my arms. The windows rattled faintly, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the low rumble of thunder, soft but persistent, like a warning. The faint smell of clean laundry and takeout lingering in the air.

It was neat, tidy — almost aggressively so, like he had scrubbed it just to have something to do with his hands.

Seungmin closed the door behind me a little too quickly, shutting out the cold — but not the tension that immediately filled the room.

He didn’t even bother with his usual sarcasm. He just moved toward the kitchen, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders stiff. In that brief moment, I could tell something was off.

I kicked off my shoes and shook the chill off my skin, frowning slightly as I watched him.

Something was wrong. Something more than the storm brewing outside.

“Hey.” I said, having him help me take off my coat and eyeing him suspiciously.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgment and motioned toward the living room, where the bottle of soju sat already open on the coffee table.

We moved to the couch, cracking open our notebooks, pretending we were actually there to study. At first, we did — sort of.

I read over a few pages. He pretended to make notes. We sipped soju in between, the alcohol smoothing the edges of the tension, but not erasing it.

It only grew heavier, thicker. He barely looked at me. His jaw clenched every time I shifted closer.

After nearly half an hour of fake studying and awkward silences, I slammed my pen down dramatically.

“Okay.” I said, turning fully to face him. “Spill it. What the hell is going on with you?”

He didn't answer immediately. Just scribbled something meaningless in his notebook, avoiding my eyes like they were lethal weapons.

“Nothing” he muttered.

I snorted. “Bullshit. Come on, Min. You’re a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them.”

I reached across, closed his notebook slowly, deliberately, and stared him down.

“You’re acting like someone kicked your puppy. You’re moody. You’re stiff. And not even in the good way.”

His lips twitched slightly at that, but he still didn’t meet my gaze. “I said it's nothing.” he repeated stubbornly, but his tone cracked halfway through.

It was almost adorable.

Almost.

I leaned in closer, so close that our knees bumped. “You’re not getting away with it.” I said in a mock-sweet voice. “Not tonight.”

I let my hand trail up his thigh slowly, watching the way his breath hitched. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t move.

“If you're not going to talk…” I murmured, holding his gaze, sliding off the couch and kneeling between his legs, “then I'll just have to loosen you up another way.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he still didn’t say a word — stubborn even now.

I tugged the drawstring of his sweatpants loose, my fingers moving with slow, calculated intent. He was already half-hard — a clear sign that no matter how much he was pretending to be unaffected, his body wasn’t lying.

I freed him with a slow, deliberate motion, my hand wrapping around him. He groaned, low and desperate, his head falling back against the couch.

I leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the sensitive tip, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. He shuddered, his hand immediately sliding into my hair, not pushing, just... anchoring.

When I took him into my mouth, slow and deep, his head fell back against the couch with a broken groan.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, voice already wrecked.

I set a slow, torturous rhythm, hollowing my cheeks, dragging my tongue along every inch of him, savoring every helpless sound he made. His thighs trembled under my palms, and the way his hand tightened in my hair made me smirk against his skin.

His free hand came up, brushing the hair gently away from my face so he could see me — see everything. And then, in the middle of a particularly deep stroke, he whispered it — raw, desperate.

“I saw you…” he rasped, pushing the hair gently away from my face, his thumb brushing my temple tenderly. “At the library... talking with that asshole… laughing… looking so fucking pretty”

I hummed around him, and he let out a strangled sound, his hips bucking slightly.

“Fuck, Y/N... I hated it, it made me crazy.” he admitted, his voice cracking as he stroked my cheek. “Wanted to punch him.” he gasped. “Wanted to drag you away... claim you…”

The words sent a sharp pulse of heat through me. I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my hand stroking him lazily. My heart pounded at his raw honesty, but I didn’t let up. If anything, I doubled down — moving faster, stroking the base with one hand while my mouth worked him expertly.

He was unraveling. Completely. And he didn't even try to hide it anymore.

“Fucking jealous.” he muttered, his head tipping back, exposing the long line of his throat.

I felt him tense, his thighs trembling slightly. Before he could lose it completely, he tugged me up by the shoulders, pulling me into his lap with a growl.

“Get up here” he ordered, voice rough, desperate.

Without another word, he pulled me up by the arms, yanking me onto his lap. I straddled him, sliding my body against his, feeling the heat of his skin under my fingers. Our faces inches apart, both breathing hard.

The soju had given him a slight flush — his cheeks pink, his chest heaving — and it made him look almost innocent. Almost. He wasn't.

I could feel his eyes on me, his gaze dark and filled with something I wasn’t sure I was ready to acknowledge. His hands were on my hips, gripping me so tightly it almost hurt, and for a moment, I let myself savor that — the way he was barely holding on, like if he let go, I might slip away from him.

I pulled my sweater off slowly, teasing him with every inch of skin that was exposed, the fabric sliding over my shoulders and down my arms, before I tossed it carelessly aside. His breath caught when my bra followed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes devoured me, like he was trying to memorize it, the hunger in them making my pulse race.

I stood up, feeling his gaze track every movement as I slowly unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my lace panties. Seungmin was breathless now, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as he reached out to touch me, his fingers brushing against my bare thighs, reverent, sending a wave of shivers through me.

“Fuck, you're killing me…” he whispered, voice hoarse.

I leaned in, kissing him slow and deep, feeling the desperation vibrating through him. Without breaking the kiss I slid my hand between us, guiding him to my entrance, and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I sank down onto him.

The feeling of him inside me was overwhelming — I could feel every inch of him, stretching me, filling me completely. Both of us gasped at the same time, my body shaking slightly from the intensity of it.

I stayed still for a moment, letting the sensation settle, trying to focus on the way his hands gripped my waist, his fingers digging into my skin as if he was trying to keep me grounded.

“You feel so fucking good.” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “I can’t even…”

His hands moved from my waist to my hips, his thumbs pressing against the sides of my ribs, and then he helped me move, his body matching the rhythm I set. I leaned back slightly, letting him fill me deeper with every movement, my hands resting on his chest for balance as I rocked against him. He reached up, running his hands over my waist, my stomach, my breasts, like he couldn't get enough.

His eyes never left me, watching the way my body moved over his, the way I controlled the pace, the way I made him feel like he was losing his mind. I leaned down, kissing him hard, desperate, letting him taste the hunger that had been building between us.

His hands slid up my back, pushing my hair away from my neck, and he kissed me there — soft at first, then with more urgency. The contrast between his gentleness and the rawness of our bodies crashing together made my breath catch.

“You’re fucking perfect.” he muttered, his lips against my skin. “God, you feel so perfect.”

I increased the pace, rolling my hips faster, harder, the friction between us driving both of us to the edge. He was moaning now, his hands moving to my breasts, squeezing and massaging them as I continued to ride him.

I could feel him getting closer — his movements more frantic, more desperate — and I loved the way he was losing himself in me.

“Y/N... Fuck, you’re incredible…” he groaned, his hands slid under my ass, guiding me, helping me move faster, deeper.

I felt my own orgasm building — the pressure, the heat, the way our bodies were in perfect sync, like we were both caught in the same storm.

I leaned down, kissing him again, this time slower, more tender, as I continued to move on top of him. He pulled me closer, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me into him as if he couldn’t get close enough.

“God, you’re beautiful.” he praised me again, his voice cracking. “You're a fucking dream, Y/N.”

That broke me. The words, the way he said them with such vulnerability, the way he couldn’t hide how much he cared — it was too much.

I came first, my body shaking as the pleasure coursed through me, and Seungmin followed right after, his whole body tensing beneath me as he groaned my name.

We collapsed together, both of us gasping for air, trembling from the intensity of it all.

Seungmin’s hand found my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he pulled me into a slow kiss, still out of breath but somehow still wanting more. He pulled back after a moment, his forehead resting against mine as we both tried to catch our breath.

I smiled, my fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as I looked down at him.

The slow kiss between us deepened, his forehead pressed against mine, so close I could feel the soft flutter of his eyelashes against my skin, his arms still cradling my waist, his body still warm and heavy inside me. Seungmin's hand traced slow, lazy circles along my spine, as if he had no intention of letting me go.

As if I belonged there.

With him.

The world outside blurred into nothing — just the soft rumble of thunder far away and the faint tremble of Seungmin's breath against my lips.

And somewhere, in the middle of all that… my heart stuttered violently. But it wasn’t like before — not the rush of lust, not the usual reckless thrill.

It hurt.

A sharp, aching kind of pain that made my chest tighten and my lungs forget how to breathe.

And that was when it hit me.

I loved him.

The realization knocked the air out of me, heavier than the storm clouds gathering outside the window. Panic flared instantly in my chest, hotter than anything I had felt that night. The thought sliced through me with terrifying clarity.

I tried to breathe, tried to ground myself, but my mind betrayed me — flooding with every moment, every memory that led me here.

The way he encouraged me before the presentation and said — in the most nonchalant way possible — “You’re gonna kill it.” and “You’re smarter than half the people in this room.” Like it was the most normal thing to say to the girl you're supposed to hate.

The way he used to sit across from me in the library for hours, flicking tiny crumpled paper balls at my forehead every time I started to lose focus, pretending it was just to annoy me — but never leaving until I finished every last page.

The way, after the first time at his house we crossed the line, he wordlessly pulled me up from the messy bed, his arms steady and sure, carrying me straight to the bathroom. No teasing, no smirking — just warm hands steadying me under the shower spray, his fingers gently untangling my hair like I was something precious.

The way he disappeared into the kitchen afterward, reappearing fifteen minutes later with a grilled cheese — tragically burnt, awful grilled cheese — because he thought I might be hungry.

The way he always had some sarcastic comment ready to throw at me — just to see me roll my eyes and smile.

The way that when we were alone his fingers always found my wrist, my waist, the small of my back — little touches so casual they could have been accidental, but they never were. Like he needed the reassurance that I was real and still there.

The way he never once made me feel like I owed him anything in return.

The way he just... stayed.

All of it crashed into me at once, a kaleidoscope of moments that I hadn't realized mattered so much until now.

I opened my eyes, searching his face. He looked so peaceful. So real. His hair messy from my fingers, lips swollen from my kisses, a faint pinkness staining his cheeks from the soju we’d shared earlier. He looked like something I could never deserve but stupidly still wanted. No — needed.

The love sat heavy in my chest, raw and suffocating.

I love him.

I loved his stupid sarcasm. I loved his soft touches hidden behind gruff words. I loved his messy hair, his crooked smile, his smartass mouth. I love his little mole on the bridge of his nose. I loved the way he fought me, pushed me, infuriated me — and still made me feel seen in ways no one else ever had.

Panic clawed at my throat. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

No.

No, no, no.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this. I wasn’t supposed to love Seungmin.

Reality slammed back into me.

I shifted slightly, pulling away just enough for the space between us to feel vast again. Seungmin's brows furrowed, his hand tightening instinctively on my waist.

Leaning away from him, my body trembling as I scrambled off his lap. I could feel the sudden chill on my bare skin as I grabbed my discarded clothes, pulling my sweater over my head with frantic, clumsy hands, avoiding his confused, sleepy gaze.

“Y/N?” he called softly, his voice was thick, confused, still hoarse from our kisses. “Where are you–”

I didn't answer. I grabbed my skirt, slipping it back on quickly, reaching for my bag like the room was on fire.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing up, his brows furrowing.

I didn’t even look at him. I needed to get out. Out of that room, out of the weight pressing down on my chest. I needed to breathe.

Before I did something irreversible. Before I begged him to love me back.

He moved toward the window and then froze. Outside, it had started to pour — sheets of rain hammering against the glass, the sky flashing briefly with distant lightning.

“It’s's raining.” he said, voice cautious. “Why don't you just... stay tonight?”

I shook my head frantically, shoving my feet into my shoes, my fingers trembling. “I can't.” I choked out, barely able to breathe, my throat closing.

He reached for me but I bolted, slamming the door behind me, running down the hallway, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the walls, my heart breaking with every step.

I ran down the stairwell, skipping steps as I sprinted downward, my heart racing, my vision blurring. The sound of rain getting louder, closer, until I burst through the front doors into the storm.

The moment I pushed the exit door open, the cold rain hit me like a wall, instantly soaking me to the bone — I had forgotten my coat —. I stumbled forward blindly, tears and raindrops blurring together on my face.

I barely made it a few steps before I heard him.

“Y/N!”

His voice, sharp, desperate, cutting through the downpour.

I ignored it. Kept walking. And then suddenly —A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me back, spinning me around.

Seungmin stood there, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he had just run a marathon, anger and hurt twisting his face into something almost unrecognizable.

His other hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back slightly so I had to look at him. We were soaked, trembling, our breaths steaming in the cold night air.

His face was wild with frustration, with something deeper, something raw and terrified. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, his voice cracking with anger and something else — fear.

I shoved him. Hard.

My hands slamming against his chest, tears spilling from my eyes. “This is your fault!” I screamed, my voice raw, breaking. “Your stupid hair– your fucking smile– your goddamn eyes–”

I shoved him again, sobbing now, my fists hitting his chest uselessly. “I wasn't supposed to feel this! I wasn’t supposed to love you!”

Seungmin grabbed my wrists, holding them tightly, forcing me to stop hitting him. His hands were rough but not cruel — desperate. “You think this was easy for me?!” he shouted back, his voice cracking. “You think it didn’t fucking kill me to see you every day and pretend you weren't everything I wanted?!”

I struggled against him, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the rain.

“You think I didn’t want to scream every time someone else looked at you like you weren't mine?!” he gasped, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he had been holding back. “I wanted to tell everyone. I wanted to grab you and say— she’s fucking mine.”

The rain pounded harder, soaking through our clothes, making our bodies slick against each other.

I tried to pull away again, but he gripped my shoulders tighter, pulling me closer, locking his burning eyes to mine. “You felt it too.” he whispered fiercely. “Tell me you felt it too, Y/N.”

I shook my head weakly, trying to pull away from him, the rain blinding me, my heart pounding so loud I couldn’t think. “I can't–” I gasped, my voice barely audible.

But he didn’t let me go. He stepped closer, almost shaking with the effort of keeping himself together. “Look at me.” he demanded. “Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me it wasn’t real. Tell me you don’t feel anything. Tell me you don’t love me.”

I opened my mouth. Tried to speak. Tried to lie.

Nothing came out, not a single curse or remark. Nothing except a broken sob.

“Tell me you don't feel it, Y/N.”he shouted. “Tell me you don't love me.” His voice broke on the last word, and for a second, the world around us went silent except for the rain pounding against the pavement.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat closed up, the words stuck somewhere between terror and heartbreak. “I don't– I–” I tried, but I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t lie.

The pain on his face when I faltered nearly broke me in half. He saw the truth in my eyes before I could even say it.

We crashed into each other. The kiss was brutal, angry, full of tears and frustration and all the love we were too scared to admit. Full of every unspoken word, every feeling we were too terrified to say out loud.

His hands tangled in my hair, yanking me closer, desperate, like he needed me to breathe. My fists clutched his soaked shirt, pulling him down to me as if I could tear him apart and rebuild him at the same time.

Tears mixed with the rain on both of our faces, the salty taste of heartbreak on our lips as we clung to each other in the storm, drowning in everything we had tried so hard to deny.

We kissed like we were drowning. Because maybe we were.

We were soaked. We were shaking. We were real. And for the first time, we weren't hiding anymore.

He pressed his forehead against mine, rain soaking us, his hand trembling on my waist, his breath was shaky against my lips.

Back then, I was considered perfect. Perfect daughter. Perfect student. Perfect girlfriend. But I wasn’t. Or at least, I didn’t feel that way. The pressure they put on me constantly made me question whether all that perfection was real or just a well-constructed mask. Perfection was suffocating. And while I was trying to escape this, I ended up getting close to him.

I was leaning against the wall outside the biology classroom, waiting for the bell to ring. I wanted to find a discreet way to approach Jisung without anyone noticing. When the bell rang, he walked out – eyes down, headphones on, as always. I deliberately bumped into his shoulder, slipping a folded note into his hand, and kept walking as if nothing had happened.

As I walked away, face blank like a well-rehearsed mask, he, on the other hand, took one second too long staring at the crumpled paper in his hand, frowning with that confused expression he always made when something didn’t go as planned. The note said something simple, direct, but impossible to ignore:

"Behind the school. Today. No questions."

And he showed up.

When the final bell rang, I was already behind the school – that hidden corner everyone avoided. The wait felt like forever. It was only when you heard the familiar, off-key roar of his van that your body, against your will, reacted with a jolt of anxiety. I bit my lip, annoyed at myself. He stopped the vehicle and rolled down the window with lazy slowness. His eyes scanned me with an expression that mixed curiosity and disbelief.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked, like it was the most unlikely thing in the world, ‘cause it was.

I crossed my arms, keeping my posture firm, even though my heart was racing.

“I hope you can keep this between us.” I walked around, sliding into the passenger seat without waiting for an invitation.

Jisung turned in his seat to face me, one eyebrow raised.

“Okay… that was intense.” He smirked, a little surprised, a little amused. “Planning a kidnapping?”

I let out a short, dry laugh. “If I wanted to kidnap someone, it’d be someone more useful.”

He genuinely laughed this time. A light sound, like he didn’t care about the provocation. I hated that about him. The way he seemed immune to my acidity.

“Touché. So, Ice Queen, what do you want?”

“Drugs.” I said it bluntly, keeping my gaze on the window as if that way would make it all less ridiculous.

“What?” He coughed slightly. “You want… drugs?”

I sighed, turning my face to look at him.

“What did I write in the note? No questions, Jisung. Just drive.”

He let out a muffled laugh when he noticed me glancing around nervously.

“No one saw you, relax. If they had, I think they’d be at the gates with torches and pitchforks by now.”

The drive was quiet, except for some punk band playing softly on the van's radio. In the passenger seat, I tried to pretend I was in control. Jisung, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease — one of those qualities that irritated and intrigued me in equal measure.

The van rumbled on for a few more minutes until he said:

“Huh. Funny. I always thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you. I just avoid socializing. Especially with people who are better at it than I am.” My voice came out more honest than I meant it to.

He shot me a quick glance.

“Was that… almost a compliment?”

“More like a ‘don’t piss me off.’”

“Fair enough.” He smiled, eyes back on the road.

Arriving at his place, I walked in without hesitation, my eyes scanning the chaos. Nothing really surprised me: mess, the smell of old wood, cheap incense, weed, and forgotten microwave pizza created a weirdly cozy atmosphere.

“Make yourself at home… or stand there judging my lifestyle, if you prefer,” he said, walking to his room with his hands in his pockets. “though I should warn you, standing’s way less comfortable.”

I scoffed but sat on the edge of the couch, fingers tapping your leg.

“What is it you actually want?”

“Something to make me stop thinking so much, to turn my brain off. A sedative, a downer… anything to shut my mind up.”

He hesitated. For the first time, he seemed to really see me. Not just with his eyes, but with actual attention.

“...You okay?” he asked.

“No. But I didn’t come here to talk about that.” I answered, cutting it short.

Jisung disappeared down the hallway, and I followed him into the room, watching as he pulled out a kid’s lunch box full of pills, baggies, and lighters. I walked closer, glancing around. His room was the perfect reflection of him: cozy chaos. Posters of indie bands, old video games, a guitar in the corner, and… handcuffs hanging from the closet door.

Seriously?

I approached, twirling the cuffs on my forefinger.

“Do you like being tied up or tying others up?” I asked, laughing, but he turned serious.

“Wanna find out?” he replied with a crooked smile, making me freeze for a second.

I hadn’t expected him to fire back. I put the cuffs down, pretending to be indifferent.

He stood up, showing me two bags of pills.

“Let’s see… I have diazepam… lorazepam…” He slowly looked at me. “... Do you even know what these are?”

I didn’t answer right away, but the silence spoke for itself.

“You’ve never used anything, have you, sweetheart?” He said in a tone that was almost… gentle.

I crossed my arms. “What if I have?” I tried to sound confident.

“You’d be asking differently.” He smiled, not mockingly, almost kindly. Almost.

There was a pause where he just watched me. His dark eyes scanned me like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Want to try something lighter?” he asked, picking a smaller bag. “Weed. Natural. No mixing. I promise you won’t be seeing unicorns… unless you want to.”

I rolled my eyes.

“How much?”

“On the house, princess. Just this time.”

“Can you roll one?”

“Of course.” He pointed to himself. “Full service. I accept silent gratitude.”

I sat beside him, watching as he ground the weed and rolled with practiced ease. It was ridiculous how even this he did so calmly, like he had all the time in the world. I noticed his fingers, his rings, the way he bit his bottom lip while licking the paper to seal the joint.

“Are you gonna just watch or want to learn?” He asked, handing me the joint. I tried, failed and coughed. He laughed.

“Breathe in slowly. Like this.” He was surprisingly patient.

After a few hits, I started to feel lighter, my thoughts quieter. We stayed silent, passing the joint between us, sitting side by side. As the high settled in, the silence between you two shifted — lighter. I looked at the ceiling, then at him.

“Are you always like this?” I asked without thinking, my voice low, a little slurred from the joint still burning between my fingers.

“Like what?” He didn’t look at me right away — just stared at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

“I don’t know… comfortable with everything. Like nothing affects you.”

He gave a soft chuckle, lips curling around the smoke before exhaling it toward the fan in the corner that barely moved.

“Honestly? I just look like it. I adapted.” He paused, eyes drifting lazily toward mine. “It’s easier to laugh at the mess than get stuck in it.”

I turned my head to look at him, eyes half-lidded. “That's… deep. Wow.” I said, mockingly impressed, taking the joint from his fingers.

He smiled, already expecting the sarcasm.

“Trust me, I hate myself when I say shit like that too.”

We both laughed, and this time the sound didn’t feel so strange coming from me. It cracked something in the air — something that had been stiff and loaded a few minutes ago.

I looked back at the ceiling. The shadows danced there, soft and slow, as if the room had its own heartbeat.

“I think I’m the opposite,” I murmured. “Everyone thinks I’m holding it all together. But really, I’m just duct-taped perfection over a panic attack.”

He glanced at me again, a little longer this time. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” I paused. “But it keeps people off my back.”

“You ever think about letting it fall apart? Just once?”

I let the smoke sit in my lungs a second too long.

“Yeah. I just never thought I’d do it in your bed.”

That made him laugh — loud, genuine, surprised.

“Well,” he said, voice rough from both the weed and the honesty, “if you’re gonna fall apart, might as well do it somewhere already messy.”

I looked at him. Not the stoner loser everyone avoided. Not the cocky idiot who flirted like a dare. Just… him. A little ruined. A little sharp around the edges. Real.

And weirdly, I liked that.

“Why do you sell this stuff?” I asked suddenly, not really expecting an answer — just trying to keep the silence from swallowing me whole.

He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the ceiling like it was a question too.

“Because it pays the bills. Because it’s easier than getting a real job. Because it gives me an excuse to meet people who’d never talk to me otherwise.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Like me?”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Exactly.”

I smiled back — barely — and passed the joint back to him.

“Why did you want to stop thinking?” he asked, voice gentler now. “Too much in your head?”

I hesitated. He wasn’t pushing. Just waiting. His eyes didn’t feel demanding. They felt… safe. Still stupidly high, but safe.

“I don’t know,” I said eventually. “I just... thought it could help. Everything’s always too loud. Like I have to be perfect. For everyone. All the time.”

He was looking at me now. Really looking. His gaze steady, focused, like I was saying something worth hearing.

And maybe for the first time in a while… I felt heard. I felt seen.

I sighed, the words spilling before I could stop them.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been a natural. At anything. I just try, try and try. And fake it. And force it. I don’t even remember what it feels like to be myself. Whoever that is. I change everything about me — the way I speak, the way I look, the way I breathe — just to fit into places I don’t even like. Just to make people think I’m what they want me to be. And in the end… I’m not anyone.”

The silence that followed stretched a little too long. Long enough for me to regret saying it. I opened my mouth, already preparing to brush it off, to laugh it away like everything else.

But he beat me to it.

“Damn. That was deep.” He blinked, his voice low. “How does your brain sound so poetic and miserable at the same time?”

I laughed — mostly out of relief. “It’s a Taylor Swift lyric, actually.”

“Oh fuck me,” he groaned. “you do look like the type.”

“Uhm? Thank you?” I narrowed my eyes.

“It wasn’t a compliment.

“Go fuck yourself, then.

“I could never fuck myself after talking about Taylor Swift. That’s irreversible damage.”

“You’re ridiculous. I hope you know that.”

He laughed, of course. Like he was proud of annoying me. “I know, I know. We all have our flaws, right?”

“Is yours being insufferable?” I muttered, annoyed but not moving away.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

His voice was softer now. His eyelids heavy. Those stupid round brown eyes blinking slowly like the universe had finally stopped spinning.

I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the ceiling and let the silence settle over us again.

But this time… it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like a pause between two people who finally dropped the act. Like the kind of silence you don’t want to fill — because for once, it’s enough.

The high still lingered. Everything felt slower, softer, louder. My body was still buzzing in places I hadn’t known could buzz. And then reality crept in.

“Fuck, I don’t think that was as pure as you said,” I muttered, half-laughing, half-panicking, my head sinking deeper into the pillow. My heart was still beating like it hadn’t gotten the memo we were done.

He laughed too, breathless, his chest rising slowly next to mine. “I did warn you. You were just too busy being terrifying to listen.”

I closed my eyes, let the afterglow mix with the haze still hanging in my bloodstream. Everything felt soft around the edges — too warm, too quiet, too... peaceful.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, not turning to look at me.

“Good,” I said before I could second-guess it. And then quieter: “For the first time in a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “You should smile like that more. Without thinking.”

I turned my head toward him, surprised. There was no sarcasm in his voice. Just that calm, low softness he rarely used — like he was saying something real and didn’t want to scare it off.

“You’re not what I thought,” I said, honestly, before I could stop myself.

He finally looked at me. Eyes heavy, but sharp. “What did you think I was?”

“Just another weirdo with no sense,” I smirked.

“Fair.”

“And now?” He asked, still watching me like I might disappear.

I rolled onto my side, propped my head on my arm. “Still a weirdo. But… a cool one.”

He smiled — lopsided and slow — and looked back at the ceiling like it had something to say about us.

“You’re pretty different from what I imagined too,” he said. “Always thought you were boring. Uptight. The perfect girl with the perfect answers.” He paused, eyes still on the ceiling. “But now I know you were just acting the part. For everyone else.”

I didn’t respond right away. Because he wasn’t wrong. And because hearing someone see you like that — so simply — was more intimate than anything.

“Maybe,” I murmured, voice low. “Maybe I was just waiting for a reason to stop.”

He turned to face me again. Not smiling now. Just looking.

“And was I a good enough reason?”

I didn’t answer. Just reached out, pulled the blanket up around us both, and settled back into the silence. Not because I didn’t have anything to say. But because for once, I didn’t need to explain myself. And he didn’t ask again.

The room felt slower now. The smoke had faded, the high turning to a thick, sleepy calm. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything still hovering between us.

Just before drifting off, I heard him whisper, like a secret he hadn’t decided to keep or not: “If you ever want to stop pretending again… come back.”

I didn’t move. Just let the words settle somewhere inside me, warm and dangerous. “I might,” I murmured, barely audible. “If you promise not to fall in love with me.”

He huffed a laugh, sleepy and soft. “Too late.”

I covered my eyes with my arm, still too high to function properly. Everything felt like it was floating — the walls, the sheets, even the weight in my chest.

“I don’t think I can go home tonight.” My voice came out hoarse, like I had borrowed someone else’s mouth. I didn’t mean it as a plea. It was just the truth.

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s okay. You can sleep here. I’ll take the couch.”

That made me lift my arm and look at him. His face was flushed from the heat, the high, the... everything. His hair was messy, the way it always looked better after being ruined.

“You can sleep here,” I said, more tired than bold. “I don’t take up much space.”

He laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. Then he looked at me — actually looked. Not with lust. With something warmer. Softer. “Don’t know if I’ll survive being next to you all night.”

I frowned, confused. “What?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “You get incredibly dumb when you’re high,” He said through a laugh, laying back on the bed.

I blinked at him, trying to process whether I was offended or amused.

Probably both.

I sat up slowly, the blanket I forgot it was around me slipping off my shoulder. The cold air hit my skin, and I shivered without meaning to. “You didn’t seem to mind earlier.”

He looked away for a second, almost shy, which was ridiculous coming from a guy who had just heard me yapping about my life problems.

“I didn’t mind. Still don’t.” Then, quieter: “That’s the problem.”

We fell into silence again. But it wasn’t awkward. It sat between us like a third body — warm, sleepy, honest.

The mattress dipped slightly as I leaned back beside him. My shoulder brushed his. Neither of us moved. He tilted his head toward me. “Do you always let people get this close?”

I shrugged. “I don’t let people do anything. They just don’t try.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. Maybe, at that moment, it did. “Well… I’m here. Not going anywhere. At least not tonight.”

I looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to push back.

We lay down, not touching, but close enough to feel each other’s heat. The ceiling stared back at us. The fan clicked in the corner. The air was thick with silence — the kind that meant something had shifted.

And it had.

That’s when he leaned in, face close to mine. Close enough to piss me off, but not enough to do anything about it. Typical.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was low, slow — like asking was just part of the performance. Like he didn’t already know I’d let him. He didn’t move. Just stayed there, torturing me with his breath and that look, like he was waiting for me to cave.

“You planning on kissing me, or just starting a staring contest?” The taste of the joint still clung to my tongue — bitter and sweet. Just like him.

He gave me that infuriating little smirk — the kind only people annoyingly sure of themselves wear. “You’re surprisingly composed for someone who almost fainted from coughing up a lung ten minutes ago.”

“I can still faint.” I run my finger through his hair. “Just not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

He swallowed — and yeah, I saw that. Saw him trying to play it cool.

“What’s the hold-up? Need a signed permission slip from God or something?”

He laughed, short and smug. “Didn’t think golden girls kissed before marriage.”

“Guess I’m overdue for a little sin.”

The kiss came fast, no warning. It was messy, off-balance, hot — everything a kiss should be when you’re too high and too pissed off to care. His mouth tasted like weed and disaster, and I held onto that.

He bit my lip, deliberately, and when a moan slipped out of me, he pulled back just to gloat.

“Ms. Perfect moans? Didn't have that on my bingo card.”

“If you're done being proud of yourself, you could try using your hands.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hands went straight to my waist, gripping like he meant it — rough, grounded, like he wanted to leave proof I’d been there. No gentleness. No question marks. Just skin and pressure and ownership without the label.

Everything slowed. His breath on my neck. The scratch of fabric. The way the mattress dipped under us. I felt all of it. Every tiny fucking thing. He pulled back just a bit, eyes half-lidded, mouth flushed.

“You kiss like someone who skips church and lies about it.”

“I kiss like someone who’s been pretending to be okay her whole life.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Aww. Miss Perfection’s cracking?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just the nearest distraction.”

“Right. Because clearly I’m a huge threat to your emotional repression.”

I sighed, tired of performing even when I was pissed.

“Tired of your perfect life, huh?” He muttered, in that voice that drips sarcasm like venom.

“Perfect for who? My mom, who thinks good grades equal happiness? The teachers who treat me like a walking GPA? The ex who thought he had me figured out because he bought me coffee and pretended to like indie rock?” I stared at him, deadpan. “I fake it. That’s all I do. Because that’s what they expect. But inside, I’m always one second away from setting everything on fire. They just don’t see it — because I smile pretty.” I gave him a skeptical face.

He didn’t say anything. But the look in his eyes changed. Less mockery. More weight. Like he’d finally caught on.

But I didn’t let the silence turn into something dramatic.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered. “You’re not special. You were just nobody — in a good way — and that’s exactly why I picked you.”

He smiled. This time, not smug. Just… understanding. Like he saw the mess and didn’t mind sitting in it with me.

I rolled my eyes, exhaling like the weight in my chest didn’t just get louder.

“God, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” My tone was dry, flat, like armor. "You almost look like you give a shit.”

He raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

“You say that like you didn’t just pour your trauma out on my face five minutes after sucking it.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then added, quieter — but not soft: “Maybe I do give a shit. So what? You gonna run or insult me again?”

I leaned in slightly, eyes locked on his like I was about to expose another one of his carefully hidden flaws.

“Run? Please.” I smirked. “Why would I run from a guy who probably gets emotionally attached after one blowjob?”

His mouth opened like he had something to say — but nothing came out. I watched the hesitation flicker behind his eyes. It only made my grin sharper.

“Relax. I won’t ruin your reputation. Your secret's safe with me, Romeo.”

He blinked, half offended, half aroused. And for a second, he looked like he might kiss me just to shut me up. Which, honestly, would only make things worse for him — and for me.

I tilted my head.

“Unless you want me to be gentle now. Is that it?”

He let out a dry laugh, no real humor in it — just teeth. “You really don’t know how to shut up, do you?”

I raised an eyebrow, daring him to keep going. He leaned closer, too close, eyes dark and sharp. “You talk like you’re untouchable. Like none of this means anything.” He scoffed.

“But if I kissed you right now, you’d fall apart in my hands again, and we both know it.”

My breath caught, just for a second — and he saw it. Of course he did.

“Go ahead. Prove me wrong,” He added, voice low, taunting. “But you won’t. Because you liked it. You liked not pretending for once.

He was close enough now that I could feel the tension between us crackling — not soft, not romantic. Charged. Dangerous. “So go on, princess. Say something clever.”

I kissed him like I was trying to silence everything. My doubts. My anger. The noise in my head that never shut up.

His mouth was warm and reckless, matching mine. It wasn’t about sweetness — it was need.

"You really have no idea what you're asking for," I whispered against his lips, already breathless.

"Oh. I do." His hands slid to my back, and I hated how easily he made me forget myself.

For a second, I pulled away, just enough to look at him. “What exactly makes you think I'm worth your time?” I asked, my voice laced with sarcasm.

He smirked, clearly amused. “Because, unlike you, I don’t overthink everything.”

That answer shouldn’t have worked. But it did. Because deep down, I was tired of being the girl people expected — and he wasn’t expecting anything. He was just there, wild and flawed and irritatingly real.

I took a deep breath and let it all go. The fear, the rules, the performance.

And then I kissed him again — not for escape this time, but to finally feel something that was mine.

I grabbed the collar of his shirt and crashed my mouth against his, hard. No hesitation, no softness. I kissed him like I wanted to hurt him. Like I wanted to erase every version of myself that had played by the rules. My teeth caught his bottom lip, and I didn’t care when I tasted blood — or maybe it was mine.

He let out a surprised sound, something between a groan and a laugh, but I didn’t give him room to speak. My hands tangled in his hair, yanking just enough to make his breath hitch. His fingers had started to slide to my hips, but I pinned them down against the bed cushion.

“Not yet” I whispered, hovering over his lips, breathless.

His eyes widened slightly, dark and glazed, the kind of look that begged. But I wasn’t here to beg.

I kissed him again, slower this time, dragging it out. My tongue moved against his like I was learning him, claiming him. Every touch was deliberate. Every second, I felt more alive — like my skin was buzzing under the weight of control. The power shift was electric. He melted into it, into me, and I loved that. Loved the way he stopped trying to take over. Loved that he let me burn.

When I finally pulled back, his lips were red, slightly swollen, his breath uneven.

“Holy shit,” He muttered, dazed.

“What is it? You like being bossed around or something?” I said, voice low and steady.

He smiled, something lazy and reverent in it. “Ah yes, ma’am.”

He said “Yes, ma’am”, and that should’ve broken the tension — turned it into a joke. But it didn’t. It just made something snap inside me.

My fingers gripped his jaw. “You talk too much.”

His breath hitched, eyes flicking down to my mouth again. “And yet, you’re still here.”

I kissed him again, rougher this time. My hand slid under his shirt, nails scraping skin, earning a sharp gasp. I smiled against his lips — a wicked smile, one that tasted like control.

“You’re kind of terrifying when you’re like this.” He said panting.

“Don't act like you don't like it.”

I pulled his shirt over his head in one move, not caring when it caught on his elbow again. He laughed, stupid and breathless. I saw the skinny body, the chest marked by old acne scars and a poorly done tattoo that looked like an alien holding a guitar.

I shoved him backward until he fell onto the bed with a soft thud. I stood over him for a second, breathing heavily, eyes dragging down his chest, down to that ridiculous tattoo.

“Is that an alien tattoo?” I asked, staring at the deformed figure on his shoulder.

“It's a rocker alien. Done by a drunk friend.”

“That’s even worse up close” I said, smirking.

“I was drunk. And fifteen.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

“You're terrible at foreplay.”

“And you're terrible at tattoo choices.”

“And yet you're on top of me in my bed. Paradoxical. And you’re still fully dressed. Which seems unfair, considering how bossy you are.” He emphasizes.

“You don’t get to make demands. Just lay there and shut up.”

And he did.

I was still on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, hands pressed flat against his chest. He looked like he was about to say something, then hesitated. I raised an eyebrow.

"Gonna speak, or just keep drooling?"

He laughed, breathless, that dazed look still in his eyes.

"It’s just... I didn’t expect this from you."

"Didn’t expect what?" I leaned in closer, my hair falling to one side, my lips almost brushing his. "That I’m more than a perfect little checklist?"

"I expected you to be perfect. Untouchable. Annoying." He smiled, but there was something honest behind it. "Now I just think you’re dangerous. In the best possible way."

I let out a low laugh and bit the corner of his mouth, just enough to make him flinch.

"So you’ve got taste after all." My hand slid down to the waistband of his jeans, slow and deliberate. "And what if I really am dangerous?"

"You are." He closed his eyes for a second, inhaling sharply. "But I’ve never wanted to get hurt this badly."

I paused, watching him — vulnerable, breathless, completely mine, and not because I forced it.

He laid back, watching me with that maddening mix of curiosity and anticipation. I could feel his breath catching even though he tried to look relaxed.

He wasn’t.

Not anymore.

I slid my sweater uniform off in one slow movement, not to tease — not exactly — but to make sure he saw me. Not just my body, but the choice. That I was there because I wanted to be.

His gaze darkened the second my shirt hit the floor. I watched him watching me. His chest rising a little too fast, lips slightly parted. I didn’t rush. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my skirt and let it slide down my legs.

“Holy shit,” He muttered, leaning back on his elbows and straing, like the words escaped without permission.

“Don’t talk,” I warned. “Just watch.”

I stepped out of the skirt and unclasped my bra, tossing it carelessly at his face. He caught it with one hand but didn’t dare break eye contact. Not once.

“You still hide all this under that ridiculous uniform?” He asked, voice low, rough.

“Guess I like zero expectations.”

He grinned, but it was shaky — off balance.

Good. I wanted him undone. I wanted him unprepared.

I straddled him slowly, letting my thighs press against his semi hard erection, my hands on his chest. I felt his heart beating wild under my palms.

“Still think you’re in control?” I whispered.

“I surrender,” He breathed, eyes locked on mine. “Completely.”

I leaned down, letting my lips brush his, but not giving him the kiss. Not yet. “You should.”

Then I kissed him again — deeper this time. Slower. And everything else fell away. The noise. The rules. The fear. There was only heat, skin, and the sound of him falling apart under me.

But then his grip on my hips tightened—no hesitation this time. In one swift motion, he rolled us over, his body pressing me down into the mattress. His thigh slid between mine, grinding up deliberately, and the friction pulled a soft gasp from my throat. I arched instinctively, and he caught my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The other traced down my side, painfully slow.

“You were saying something about control?” he murmured against my neck, lips brushing skin already too warm.

I let out a low breath, the air suddenly heavier.

“Too much for surrender,” I muttered.

He smiled, dark and slow. “Changed my mind.”

I smirked, my chest rising and falling with quick breaths. His lips were just a breath away, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a kiss — not yet. His gaze was so intense, like he was lost in me, unsure whether to give in or keep fighting.

I let out a low chuckle, voice sharp with irony. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m indulging you.”

The air thickened between us, charged with frustration and desire. His eyes flickered, losing some of that confident control he’d tried to hold onto, his body betraying him as he hovered, waiting.

“Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to do something useful with your mouth?”

He didn’t answer. He just went down, using tongue and teeth. Not subtle at all. Every lick was a challenge, every bite a warning. And I felt alive. Burning. His hands and lips explored me with almost frantic curiosity, as if he couldn't believe the realness of the moment. Each touch felt like an electric current, sending shocks of pleasure through me.

He slid my panties off slowly, his finger brushing up my leg, tracing the length of my thigh before finally reaching the place he knew would make me tremble. He paused there, his face hovering between my legs, just looking. For far too long. His gaze was like fire, but he didn’t move, didn’t touch.

“Are you going to pray or...?” I teased, voice barely a whisper, the air thick with anticipation.

“I’m just admiring the miracle,” he replied, his voice husky, barely controlled. “Trying to understand how the straight-A student turned into this apocalyptic vision of desire in my bed.”

“The weed is hitting hard, isn’t it?” I smirked, my body humming with the need for more, but I wanted him to keep looking, to stay in this moment of uncertainty.

“It’s hitting everything,” he muttered, his eyes never leaving me. There was a hunger in them now, darker than before.

I let out a cynical sigh, rolling my hips slightly in impatience. And then, finally, he moved. His tongue touched me, tentative at first, exploring, but it didn’t take long for his curiosity to turn into something deeper. The strokes were slow but purposeful, the heat of his breath mingling with mine. His tongue found my spot, and though there was no finesse, no delicate dance — it was enough. The rawness of it, the hunger in his touch, was almost overwhelming.

I moaned loudly, a mix of pleasure and disbelief. And then, somehow, I couldn’t help but laugh. The absurdity of it all, the way he looked so lost, so desperate, trying to keep his composure while devouring me like a man starved for far too long.

“Don’t laugh, damn it.” He groaned, frustration making his grip on my hips tighten. His fingers dug into my skin as he held me still, keeping me exactly where he wanted me.

“It’s just that you look like a hungry dog discovering that food exists,” I teased, my voice barely a whisper between the breaths. I could see the shift in his eyes, a mix of irritation and amusement. But his mouth didn’t stop moving.

He raised his face from between my legs, lips glistening, and his eyes were darker now, a challenge in them, but there was something more — almost as if he didn’t know how far he could push before I broke.

He hesitated, his breath ragged, but I didn’t give him time to recover. I grabbed his hair, tugging hard, pulling him back to me, needing more, feeling the fire between us burn too hot to ignore.

“Ah… damn, Jisung…” My voice cracked with the intensity, my body arching up, unable to stay still any longer.

“Now we’re talking,” He grinned against my heat, his voice thick with satisfaction, but there was a warning in it too. “The saint knows how to curse.”

He didn't stop. His hands moved to my hips, holding me firmly as he kissed his way back down, his mouth now more determined, more insistent. Every movement was calculated, controlled, but the hunger behind it was undeniable. His grip tightened on my hips, pulling me harder against him, each stroke of his tongue sending shocks of pleasure through me, igniting every nerve.

His free hand slid down, fingers dragging over the curve of my ass like he was memorizing the shape, before gripping my hips harder — tight enough to bruise. He pulled me even closer, like the space between us was unacceptable. His mouth stayed locked on me, relentless, like he had no intention of letting me breathe, let alone think.

His pace quickened, tongue moving with a hunger that felt personal, almost angry. I could barely keep up. My legs trembled, my entire body shaking with a need that felt like it might rip me apart from the inside.

I fisted his hair tighter, yanking him closer with no shame, my voice coming out in a raw, broken whisper. “Don’t stop…”

It was more of a threat than a plea.

I arched off the bed, hips grinding into his face, needing more friction, more pressure — more. His tongue worked in rhythm with the movements I forced on him, each glide of his nose and teeth sending shocks straight through me. I whimpered, the sound helpless and filthy, echoing through the room like something sacred being ruined.

“Fuck, please, Ji…”

The moment his name slipped out like that — cracked and needy — he moaned into me. The vibration made me jerk, thighs snapping around his head like a vice, trapping him there. I didn’t care. He didn’t complain.

His tongue slid in and out, slower now, teasing, dragging me along the edge on purpose. He knew exactly what he was doing — and he liked that I was unraveling for it.

My hands were tangled in his hair, pulling, clutching — like if I let go, I’d fall apart completely.

Then suddenly, he stopped. Just pulled away.

“No—” I groaned, frustrated, chasing his mouth with my hips. But he was already rising, his face slick, flushed, lips swollen. His eyes caught mine.

They were wild. Dark. And annoyingly satisfied. Like he’d just won something.

His mouth glistened, and there was that damn look again — not just lust, but pride. Like he liked seeing me like this: desperate, wrecked, and still trying to act like I wasn’t.

And the worst part?

He was right.

“Want to continue?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer. Like he wasn’t reading it right off my face.

“If you stop now, I’ll kill you.”

He practically tripped over himself getting his pants off, stumbling like a drunk idiot, nearly face-planting off the bed. I couldn’t help it — I laughed.

“Sexy. Super sexy.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, crawling back up and pinning me down with his full weight, his hands braced on either side of my head. “You talk too much.”

“And you take too long.”

Our bodies moved like they’d had this conversation before — long before we ever did. Like this rhythm had always been waiting, just under the surface. We didn’t need to find it. We were already in it.

The condom appeared, wrinkled and half-lost in the mess of clothes and blankets. Even stoned, with our fingers barely cooperating, we managed. Barely.

“You took so long I thought you were impotent.”

“I just didn’t want to scare the princess with the size.”

“Hmm. More like the economy version.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He bit down on my shoulder with a laugh — muffled, breathy — and then he pushed in all at once, not gentle, not slow. Just full contact. No hesitation.

I gasped — loud, sharp — and gripped the sheets like they might keep me grounded. But they didn’t. Nothing did.

The weed made everything stretch. Every sensation melted into the next — the drag of skin, the burn of stretch, the electric crackle in my stomach. Every second felt soaked in heat. My brain couldn’t keep up with my body. I didn’t care.

He started slow, almost hesitant, like he was still mapping out how we fit. But his eyes didn’t leave mine — wide, dark, blown-out with something between awe and disbelief.

Like he couldn’t figure out how we got here.

Each thrust landed heavier than the last, turning pain into pleasure fast — too fast — and I welcomed the burn. It made everything else shut up.

“You’re looking at me again.”

“It’s just that… you’re fucking beautiful.”

He panted.

“Even with that face like you’re gonna kill me after.”

“I probably will.”

His rhythm picked up — sloppy, intense, all heat and friction. Our skin stuck together with sweat, the sound of it obscene in the room. Every push sent a wave up my spine. Every time he bottomed out, I felt a piece of me melt into his.

It wasn’t tender. It was needy. Like we were using each other to survive something neither of us could name.

My nails raked down his back. I didn’t hold back. I wanted him to feel it tomorrow.

He laughed, shaky, breath hot against my cheek.

“Marking territory?”

“Trying to erase your questionable past.”

He thrust harder after that, like he took it personally. Good. I wanted him to.

We moved without coordination — a mess of hips and mouths and limbs. High. Sticky. Laughing between moans. No elegance, just raw want. The kind of sex that’s louder than it should be and too much and still never enough.

“This is so wrong,” I whispered, almost laughing.

“So right,” he replied, panting against my lips, his breath unsteady. “You should’ve come after me earlier.”

“I would’ve… if you weren’t so you.”

He laughed — then choked on it when I clawed down his back again.

He pushed deeper, harder, every thrust punching the air out of my lungs, driving me deeper into the mattress. My body locked around him, tight and slick and restless. I couldn’t find my voice anymore — just gasps, broken syllables, half-formed curses.

He groaned into my neck, his mouth sliding down, trailing heat, teeth scraping over my skin. Then he found my breast, and sucked hard, messy, desperate — like he was trying to brand me with his mouth. I arched, sharp and instinctive, grinding against him, my hips searching for more, even when there was nothing left to take.

Our rhythm had collapsed into chaos — not smooth, not perfect. But real.

It was a high all on its own.

We changed positions amidst laughter and stumbles, nearly falling off the bed in the process. Our limbs tangled, breathless and high, like we were trying to outrun gravity. He pulled me from behind, hands gripping my waist tight — too tight — like he was afraid I’d slip away if he didn’t hold on with everything he had.

Our hips collided with that same obscene rhythm — raw, wet, uncoordinated, but so good. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t about beauty. It was about need.

“You moan so beautifully I should record this,” he said, voice thick with ego and breath.

“You should shut up before I kick you out of your own bed.”

His breath hit the back of my neck, hot and sticky. Then one of his hands slid between my thighs — fingers bold, confident, slipping between folds slick with everything we were. He found my spot like he’d been there before in a dream, pressing just right, just enough to steal my balance.

“Fuck, just like that…” I gasped, breath hitching hard. My body lurched forward as he worked me with his fingers, the rhythm between us turning rougher, messier.

“The saint is becoming a heretic.”

“Shut up and make me come.”

I barely recognized my own voice. It was too raw, too exposed.

“This is good, right?”

He was panting now, voice hoarse, hands gripping my hips tighter, dragging me back into him harder, faster.

“Of course. I’m just waiting for you to put in a little more effort.”

That did it. His grip shifted, and suddenly he pulled me upright, his arm tight around my torso, forcing me to sit on top of him. It wasn’t gentle. It was possessive. Fast. Almost clumsy in his rush to feel me again in a different way.

I settled on him easily, like I belonged there. Our bodies aligned in seconds, and he slipped back inside — hot, hard, perfect. My hips rolled instinctively, slow at first, dragging over him with measured pressure.

He looked stunned — wide-eyed, flushed, lips parted — like he didn’t expect it to feel this good. That made me smile. I leaned in, letting my breath graze his ear.

“At this point, just admit you like me being in control.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared — glassy-eyed, helpless under me.

“I like how you feel in charge,” he muttered.

“It’s like… you actually know what you're doing.”

I started to move faster, testing the rhythm, building it with each roll of my hips. I felt every twitch of him inside me, every sound he tried to swallow but couldn’t. His eyes never left my body — fixed, entranced, like watching me fall apart while holding the leash.

His thrusts were softer now, less certain, as if he was waiting — giving me room, letting me take. His hands hovered at my hips again, then clamped down, trying to slow me.

I didn’t let him.

I pressed down harder, grinding against him with more intent, chasing the friction, chasing that point where the line between pain and pleasure disappears. I was burning — thighs shaking, nerves screaming. The high made it feel like I was moving underwater, slow but unstoppable.

He tried to meet my rhythm, tried to guide it — but I wasn’t giving that up.

“What’s wrong?” I said, between breaths. “Not enjoying?”

“Of course I am,” he muttered, voice strained. “You just don’t know what you’re doing.”

I leaned forward, close enough to brush my mouth over his ear.

“You just hate that you like this,” I whispered, almost cruel. “I can feel you throbbing inside me.”

He groaned, broken and loud. His hands slid lower, gripping my ass, pulling me down harder. His hips began to buck up with more urgency — not enough to take over, but enough to fight back. Just barely.

The tension between us snapped taut — the balance of power shifting and pulling with every movement. Control. Surrender. Want. Pride. Everything colliding in our bodies like it had nowhere else to go.

He pushed me back onto the bed, fast and rough, like he couldn't take the lack of control anymore. My body arched with the impact, the movement pushing him deeper inside me — sharp, sudden, right. The stretch of him hit just the right spot, and I gasped, my breath catching on the way out.

He slid back in easily, as if my body had molded itself around him, the fit seamless, filthy, perfect. His hands clamped around my waist like he owned it — like he needed to hold me down just to stay grounded.

He picked up the pace. No more teasing. The thrusts were quick, relentless, each one sending shockwaves through me, making my breath come out in broken moans I couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered, voice shredded, thick with need.

“Deeper.” I pull his hair again.

His gaze darkened, and the smile that curved his mouth was wicked — not playful anymore, but almost dangerous.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

And then he gave it to me.

His pace turned brutal — fast, deep, every thrust pushing the air out of me like a punch to the lungs. I could feel his muscles flex with every movement, his body grinding into mine like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to disappear inside me.

I couldn’t hold myself together. Couldn’t even pretend. The pressure inside me was twisting tight, coiling with every snap of his hips, building into something that felt like it might burn me alive from the inside out.

He leaned down, his weight pressing me into the mattress, one hand gripping my hip to hold me still, the other sliding up to my chest — fingers spreading, squeezing, grounding me in the chaos.

Then, like he sensed I was right on the edge, he changed the rhythm — deeper, slower, crueler. The drag of him inside me made my eyes roll back, and I whimpered, head falling to the side, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard.

“That’s it…” I breathed, barely able to form the words. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughed, but it cracked halfway through — a broken sound, desperate, strained. His rhythm faltered for a second, like he was trying to hang on, but failing beautifully.

He grabbed my thigh suddenly, pulling it up, pushing it higher until my leg was draped over his shoulder. The new angle made everything sharper, fuller, deeper. He fucked into me like the world had disappeared — like nothing existed beyond the heat of our bodies crashing, the friction, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Just moved with him, wild and instinctive, chasing that edge like I’d die if I didn’t reach it. My hands clawed at his back, his arms, whatever I could find. My mouth was open, breath shallow, moans spilling out uncontrollably.

The sound of it all — my voice breaking, his low groans, the obscene slap of our bodies — was overwhelming. And perfect. It felt like this was what my body was made for. To be here. With him. Like this.

And then he slowed.

I didn’t expect it. One moment he was pounding into me like a fucking storm, and the next — he was moving slower, deeper, every thrust long and punishing, dragging pleasure from the pit of my stomach until I couldn’t breathe. But there was nothing gentle about it.

It was control. Intensity. The kind of fucking that says I want to ruin you.

And he did.

When I came, it was with a choked, guttural moan that ripped straight from my chest — no filter, no control. My whole body convulsed, shaking underneath him as the pressure finally shattered. My nails dug into his skin, holding on for dear life.

He came right after — buried deep, panting against my neck, body twitching as he spilled inside the condom. His breath was hot against my skin, and he was smiling. That lazy, fucked-out smile that made him look half-gone, half-proud of himself.

The world was quiet after. Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels earned. Heavy with sweat, breath, and something neither of us could name.

When I turned to face him again, still dizzy, still buzzing, he was a wreck — sweat dripping down his temples, hair sticking to his forehead, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. He looked at me like I was a mistake he wanted to make again and again, until it didn’t feel like one anymore.

Then he collapsed onto me — heavy, warm, skin still damp, the full weight of him pressing our chests together. His breath ghosted over my collarbone, shaky and hot.

“That was…”

“…amazing.”

“Horrible.” I said at the same time as him.

“I want to do it again.”

“Me too.”

We shifted to the side, limbs tangled, our bodies still slick and stupidly close. The sheets stuck to our skin, the air smelled like weed and sex. And we laughed.

Not because anything was funny. But because we were high, and spent, and had no idea what the hell just happened.

The sex felt like a slow-motion crash — chaotic, messy, half-graceful in that stoned, instinctive way. Our bodies had found each other like magnets with no real aim, just urgency. Every movement had been clumsy and loud and so real. There were teeth, gasps, stupid moans, out-of-sync kisses, sweat dripping into places it didn’t belong — and none of it was perfect.

That’s what made it work. That’s what made it feel like we weren’t pretending anymore.

“I should regret this.”

“But you won’t.”

“Not today. Today I just want to forget that tomorrow I'll be succumbed to the same chaotic mediocrity.”

He rolled onto his back, one arm lazily reaching for me.

“With me, you can just be… chaotic. And naked.”

“Ideal combination.”

He pulled me closer until my cheek met his chest. His skin was still too warm, still pulsing from what we’d done. His heartbeat thumped against my ear — uneven and fast. I let myself rest there. Just for a second.

The silence between us was thick, but not awkward. More like… surrender.

“You're going to hate me tomorrow, right?” he mumbled into my hair, voice quieter now, stripped of its usual sarcasm.

“If you tell anyone, for sure.”

“Who would I tell? The tattooed alien?”

“He seems more reliable than you.”

“You’re not reliable either. You’re here. Naked. Screwing the weird kid from school.”

“Because the weird kid from school is the only one who seems real enough to really screw me.”

That shut him up for a second.

When he turned to look at me again, his eyes were red-rimmed, half-lidded from the high, and his mouth was still swollen — bitten and bruised from too much kissing. Or maybe not enough.

“If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.”

“This is a collective delusion caused by drugs and accumulated frustration.”

He smirked, but didn’t deny it. We lay there in the aftermath — sweaty, naked, exhausted — and yet completely still. No rush. No talking. Just breathing the same air like it wasn’t borrowed time.

His voice broke the quiet one last time.

“Let’s use the handcuffs next time?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just turned my face toward him slowly, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching with the threat of a smirk.