you make stray kids STAY

You never made it to the bedroom — but eventually, the couch wasn’t enough.

He carried you, half-dressed and kiss-drunk, through the apartment, one hand under your thigh, the other fisted in your hair as you kissed like you’d never stop. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and suddenly the room was quiet. Too quiet.

Because Jeongin was just standing there.

Naked. Staring at you like you were something holy.

"Lie back," he said, voice like gravel, rough and wrecked. "Let me look at you."

You obeyed — flushed, bare, legs parted. You watched as his gaze swept over you like he was trying to memorize every inch. His hand moved to his cock, slow and deliberate, stroking himself as he stared at the mess he’d already made of you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice low and tight. “You’re dripping.”

You were. Your thighs were slick, your skin flushed, your whole body wound tight like a wire ready to snap.

He crawled over you, but didn’t kiss you yet. Just hovered. Breath brushing your lips. Eyes locked on yours.

“Tell me what you want.”

Your voice broke. “You. Everything.”

His lips quirked up. But not smug — something darker. Possessive.

“You’ll get it.”

And then his mouth was everywhere.

He kissed your throat, your chest, took one nipple between his lips and sucked slow and mean while his fingers teased the other — and when you arched, moaning, begging, he laughed softly against your skin.

“You waited so long for this, baby. Let me make it worth it.”

He kissed down your stomach, dragging his tongue along every sensitive spot, until he was between your thighs — and then he looked up at you. Smirk gone. Eyes dark.

"You’re not allowed to hold back. Got it?"

You nodded, breath catching.

He licked a stripe up your center — slow, flat-tongued, filthy — and you cried out. Your hips jerked, but he pinned you down with one arm across your waist and buried his mouth in you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t patient.

It was devastation.

He ate you like he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. Sucked your clit with lips and tongue that worked in rhythm, fingers sliding inside you with the kind of precision that had your back arching and your hands flying to his hair, tugging hard.

“That’s it,” he growled against you. “Give it to me. Let go.”

And you did.

You came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, hips grinding into his mouth like your body was chasing the high on its own.

But he didn’t stop.

He just moaned, low and desperate, like he liked the way you fell apart on his tongue. Like he needed to feel it.

When he finally came up for air, chin slick, eyes wild, you were still gasping, barely able to think — but he didn’t give you a second.

He flipped you onto your stomach.

“On your knees,” he ordered, already lining himself up behind you. “I’m not done ruining you.”

You braced yourself on trembling arms, body still twitching from the orgasm he just pulled out of you — and then he pushed in from behind, slow at first, then all the way to the hilt in one hard thrust that knocked the air out of your lungs.

"Shit," he gritted out. “You’re so tight.”

You whined, trying to push back, but his hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you up against his chest.

“You like this, don’t you?” he whispered against your ear. “Being fucked like you’re mine.”

You couldn’t speak. Only moaned, nodding, as his hips snapped into you, deep and punishing. His other hand slid down your body and found your clit again, fingers working you in perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s—fuck—it’s yours, it’s yours,” you gasped, trembling.

“Damn right it is.”

You came again like that — back arched, head thrown back against his shoulder, screaming his name.

And when he finally followed, groaning into your neck, holding you so tight it was like he was afraid you’d vanish — you didn’t think anything had ever felt that good.

Not the kiss.

Not the anticipation.

Not even Day 90.

This?

This was everything after.

-next day at work

The office was quiet.

Too quiet.

Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you leaned over your desk, pretending to finish up reports. But your hands were shaking slightly — because you weren’t alone.

Jeongin had been watching you from across the room for twenty minutes.

He hadn’t said a word.

Just sat at his chair, elbows on the desk, jaw resting on his hand like he was studying a piece of art.

You felt the heat of his gaze every time you shifted. Crossed your legs. Tucked your hair behind your ear.

Finally, you glanced up. "Something on your mind?"

He stood slowly. Deliberate. The sound of his footsteps across the carpet made your breath catch.

When he reached your desk, he didn’t stop on the other side. He walked around. Came up behind your chair. His hands slid down your arms, mouth brushing your ear.

“You wore this skirt on purpose.”

You smirked. “Maybe.”

Jeongin leaned down until his lips touched your neck, voice low, dangerous.

"You know how long I’ve wanted to bend you over this desk?"

You swallowed hard.

"Say the word," he murmured, "and I’ll have your legs shaking in less than five minutes."

You didn’t say anything.

You just stood.

Slowly.

And placed both palms flat on your desk — hips jutting back, skirt riding high.

"Door’s locked," you whispered. "So what are you waiting for?"

That was all he needed.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers sliding under your skirt and dragging it up to your waist. He groaned low when he saw what you were wearing.

“Fuck. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He didn’t waste time — yanked your panties down, baring you completely, and dropped to his knees behind you like a man starved.

You gasped when you felt his tongue — hot, slow, filthy. Licking up your folds like he wanted to memorize the taste of you bent over an office desk.

“You’re already wet,” he breathed. “Just from me looking at you?”

You moaned something that wasn’t quite words, gripping the edge of the desk like a lifeline as he sucked your clit into his mouth, licked it slow and mean while two fingers slid inside you.

“You’re making a mess on company property,” he whispered against you, breath warm. “You should be ashamed.”

“Fuck you,” you gasped, voice breaking.

He laughed. “Gladly.”

He stood again, undoing his belt with one hand, keeping the other on your hip. You heard the soft clink of metal, then the low groan as he slid into you — slow, stretching you inch by inch until he bottomed out.

You both froze.

You were so full.

So completely his.

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling gently so he could kiss the back of your neck.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Bent over your little desk, taking me so well.”

He started to move — deep, rough thrusts that made your knees tremble and your eyes roll back. Your cheek pressed against a spreadsheet you were definitely never going to finish.

Jeongin gripped your throat from behind, not tight — just enough to make you shiver.

"You’re dripping all over the floor, baby. You wanted someone to catch us, didn’t you?"

“No—fuck—Jeongin—”

He snapped his hips faster, angling deeper, hitting that spot that made you cry out his name like it was a prayer.

“Can’t be quiet, huh?” he whispered. “Guess I’ll have to fuck you harder then.”

And he did.

The desk creaked under the rhythm of his thrusts, your moans echoing softly in the empty office. Somewhere in the distance, a copier beeped.

You laughed, breathless, delirious. “I hate this place.”

He grinned into your neck. “Shut up and come for me.”

His fingers found your clit again, rubbing tight circles as he pounded into you from behind, panting, eyes fixed on the way your body took him over and over.

You shattered around him, thighs shaking, hands clawing at the desk, choking on his name. Jeongin came seconds after — groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering, spilling inside you with a grip on your waist so tight it bordered on desperate.

The only sound afterward was heavy breathing and the faint hum of the printer across the room.

He stayed there, chest pressed to your back, lips on your shoulder blade.

Then he pulled out slowly, hands smoothing down your sides like he didn’t want to let go.

"Hope HR’s not working overtime," he murmured, pulling your skirt back down.

You turned to him, cheeks flushed, heart still racing.

"Guess we should file this under ‘team-building.’"

He grinned.

Bang Chan should’ve known better.

He should’ve known your performance wouldn’t be... tame. You were known for pushing limits — bold concepts, stage presence that could crush egos, and eyes that burned like fire.

But nothing prepared him for what you did tonight.

He watched from the crowd, surrounded by other idols, all supposedly focused on their own comebacks or nominations. But every single eye had locked onto you the second your music hit.

And Chan’s stomach twisted.

You came out in all black — leather, lace, skin. Your hair done just right, body moving like you owned the stage. The choreography was sensual. Intense. Every move deliberate. Every hip roll, every body wave, every touch to your own neck or thighs — it screamed look at me.

And everyone was looking. Including the guy two rows in front of Chan who audibly said “holy shit.”

That was the moment Chan saw red.

He clenched his fists in his lap, jaw tight, heart pounding with something that was not just jealousy — it was possessive, dangerous. Because that was his girl out there. His girlfriend. The same one who wore his hoodies after practice and curled into his side after long schedules. The same one who’d whispered I’m yours into his ear more times than he could count.

And now?

Now everyone was seeing her like this.

When the performance ended — final pose, lights dimming, the crowd roaring — Chan didn’t cheer.

He stood up.

You were still buzzing with adrenaline as you headed backstage. That performance had been everything you wanted — powerful, sexy, commanding. You knew it’d stir things up. That was the whole point.

But you didn’t expect to find Chan already waiting for you the second you turned the corner, blocking your path.

He wasn’t smiling.

“Chan—?”

“Don’t,” he said lowly. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you just did out there.”

You blinked, breath still uneven. “What are you talking about?”

“That performance,” he said through gritted teeth. “Was that for the crowd... or for me?”

Your stomach flipped.

“Oh, come on—”

“Do you even know what it was like watching that?” he cut in, stepping closer. “Watching you dance like that — touch yourself like that — while guys around me were drooling over you?”

Your pulse spiked. “It was just a concept—”

“Just a concept?” he scoffed. “You were on your knees at one point. And when you ran your hands down your body—” he cut himself off, jaw flexing.

You gave him a sly smile. “So you were watching closely.”

“I always watch you closely,” he said, voice rough. “But tonight? Tonight I almost lost it.”

Your back hit the wall behind you as he closed the distance, hand bracing beside your head.

“You wanna be sexy on stage?” he murmured. “Fine. You are. But don’t forget who you belong to when those lights go off.”

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

“I’m serious.” His voice dropped. “You don’t get to walk off stage like that and act like everything’s normal. Not when I’ve been sitting out there thinking about every move you made. Every time you touched your thighs. Every time you looked into the camera like you wanted someone to take you backstage and ruin you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I wanted to walk up there in the middle of your set and remind everyone watching—” he leaned in, nose brushing yours, “—that only I get to see you like that.”

A beat of silence.

And then you smirked. “Sounds like you’re jealous.”

“Damn right I am,” he muttered. “And you love it.”

You bit your lip.

He tilted his head. “Was it for them… or for me?”

Your fingers reached up, smoothing his shirt collar. “It was for you.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Every step. Every look. Every time I touched myself?” You smiled sweetly. “I was thinking of you.”

Chan exhaled slowly, like he was holding back the kind of thoughts that would get both of you in trouble.

“Then you better come over tonight,” he said, backing up just enough to let you breathe. “Because if you’re gonna tease me like that on stage…”

His eyes flicked down your body and back up again, dark and hungry.

“…you’d better let me return the favor.”

_

The ride to his place was quiet — but not peaceful.

You could feel the tension radiating off him like static, like he was trying to be civil but barely holding himself together. His hand gripped the wheel tight, veins flexing, jaw clenched so hard it might crack. You tried to make light conversation. He didn’t answer.

He was way too calm. And that was worse.

Because Chan only got like this when he was planning to ruin you.

_

The second you stepped into his apartment, the door clicked shut behind you — and then everything happened at once.

His hands were on you. Your jacket was ripped off, your back against the wall, and Chan's mouth was crashing into yours like he needed you. Like he had been thinking about this for hours — because he had.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he muttered against your lips. “Wanna act like that on stage? Wanna get on your knees and grind like you’re begging for it?”

His hand slid down, cupping your ass — hard.

“Then act like it now.”

You gasped when he lifted you, strong arms wrapping under your thighs as he carried you to the bedroom. You didn’t even touch the ground. You barely had time to breathe.

He dropped you onto the mattress and stood back, chest rising with every breath as he looked at you like he was about to devour you whole.

“Strip.” You blinked. “What—?” “I said strip. Like you did on stage. Slowly.”

Your throat went dry.

He stepped back, folding his arms — watching.

So you obeyed.

You stood and began peeling off the layers, slower than you needed to. Slower than you ever had. Letting each piece drop to the floor, teasing him like you were still performing. You let your hands trail over your body — like during the choreo — and met his eyes when you reached the hem of your shirt.

That was all it took.

“Fuck it.” He crossed the room in two strides.

You yelped when he grabbed your waist and flipped you onto the bed, crawling over you like a man possessed. “You want to play sexy?” he growled, lips dragging down your neck. “You want to tease everyone?”

“I wasn’t teasing—” you gasped as his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers stroking over your panties — already soaked.

“You were teasing me.” His fingers rubbed harder. “And now I’m gonna make sure the only sounds coming out of that mouth are for me.”

Your panties were gone in a second — literally. He didn’t even pull them off. He ripped them.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“Chan—!”

His tongue was already on you — hot, fast, no mercy. You barely had time to react before he flattened his tongue and licked up your entire slit, groaning like you were his last meal. He pulled your legs over his shoulders and buried his face between your thighs.

You moaned, fingers tangling in his curls.

He sucked on your clit, relentless, holding your hips down when you squirmed.

“Already shaking, baby?” he said, lips slick. “Didn’t even make you cum yet.”

You whimpered. “Channie—”

“That’s right. Say my name.” He sucked harder. “Only mine.”

Your thighs were trembling, breath hitching — and then he slid two fingers inside, curling them just right, and your back arched.

“I-I’m gonna—”

“Good.” He pumped faster. “You deserve it. You put on a show for the world, now give me the encore.”

You came hard — legs shaking, breath punched out of you, fingers grabbing at the sheets like a lifeline. But Chan didn’t stop.

He kept going.

You whined. “Too much—”

“You can take it,” he said darkly. “You’ve got one more for me.”

Your eyes were glassy. “Chan—”

He moved up, kissed your mouth — letting you taste yourself on his lips. “You wanted to look like a fantasy on stage?” he whispered. “Now I’m giving you one.”

He pulled off his shirt, then undid his jeans. His cock sprang free — thick, hard, leaking. Your breath caught.

Without another word, he turned you to face the mirror beside the bed.

“Look.”

You blinked.

He pressed up behind you, one hand gripping your jaw to hold your gaze forward.

“Look at yourself,” he growled. “This is what you really look like. Ruined. Dripping. My good girl.”

You whimpered as he pushed in — slowly, deeply — stretching you open inch by inch.

“Fuck—” he grunted. “Still so tight.”

You could barely hold yourself up, but he held your hips steady and started thrusting — hard, deep, controlled.

“See what you do to me?” he growled. “One performance and I’m fucking obsessed.”

His thrusts got rougher, faster. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. You were moaning uncontrollably, nails digging into the sheets, watching yourself bounce in the mirror.

“Let them stare,” he growled. “Let them drool. Just means they’ll never know what it’s really like.”

He wrapped a hand around your throat and pulled you upright, still pounding into you from behind.

“They’ll never know how you moan my name. How you beg for it. How you cry when I don’t let you cum.”

You whimpered again, hips trembling.

“You are mine. Say it.”

“M-yours,” you gasped.

“Say it louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He groaned, hips stuttering.

You felt your second orgasm rising — your whole body tightening, burning, needing—

“Cum for me,” he growled. “Come on, baby. I wanna see you fall apart.”

That was all it took.

You came with a loud cry, body shaking, Chan holding you through it — and seconds later, he followed with a deep groan, spilling inside you as he bit down softly on your shoulder.

Silence followed. Just heavy breathing. Tangled limbs. Heartbeats racing.

Then:

“...So,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “You liked the performance?”

He laughed hoarsely, chest still rising. “Don’t ever do it again.”

You smirked.

The pottery studio smelled like damp earth and something faintly citrusy—maybe the soap they used to clean the tools. It was cozy inside, warm light reflecting off the shelves of half-finished bowls, mugs, and... vaguely unidentifiable blobs.

You tugged on your apron nervously, fingers already speckled with clay. “I’ve never done this before.”

Hyunjin smiled at you across the wheel. His hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands falling into his eyes—ridiculously pretty, even with smudges of gray clay on his cheekbone.

“That’s the fun part,” he said, voice soft, “neither of us knows what we’re doing.”

You both laughed, but the tension underneath it was there—undeniable. A crush that had been brewing for months. This was technically “just friends hanging out,” but the way he looked at you?

Friends don’t look like that.

“Okay,” you said, sitting down at the wheel. “Teach me, Professor Hyunjin.”

He moved around behind you, his hands lightly brushing your waist as he guided your fingers to the spinning clay.

“Gentle pressure,” he said near your ear. His breath sent a shiver up your spine. “Not too much or it’ll collapse.”

“Like me when you talk like that,” you mumbled, eyes wide as soon as it slipped out.

Silence.

Then a deep chuckle rumbled behind you. “Didn’t realize I had that effect on you,” he teased, his hands still guiding yours.

You turned slightly—his chest was right there. Close. Too close. Your hands stopped moving, and the clay wheel spun lazily on without purpose.

Hyunjin’s hands didn’t leave yours.

“Wait—don’t move,” he whispered suddenly.

“What? Why?”

He dipped his thumb into the gray clay and smeared it across your nose, grinning. “You looked too clean. Had to fix it.”

You gasped. “Oh, you’re dead—”

In a flash, you dipped your own fingers in the slip and dragged it across his jaw, giggling.

It escalated fast—laughter, clay smudges, his hand catching your wrist mid-swipe, fingers curling around yours.

And then—you were breathless. Standing chest-to-chest, both of you a mess, and somehow… still not kissing.

His smile faded into something softer. “You’re really beautiful when you’re messy,” he murmured, thumb brushing a speck of clay from your cheek.

You swallowed. “I could say the same about you.”

The wheel slowed to a stop. Neither of you moved.

“Can I kiss you?” The words were barely a whisper. Just warm air between the two of you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your first instinct was to say yes. To just melt into it, like you'd imagined a hundred times. But something about the way he asked—so softly, like he was giving you the chance to back out—made you hesitate.

Not because you didn’t want it. Because you wanted it too much.

You looked up at him, clay smudged across his jaw, fingertips stained gray, hair loose and curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His eyes were searching yours—nervous, vulnerable, waiting.

“I…” you breathed, lips parting just slightly. “You really want to?”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Have you not noticed the way I look at you?”

You froze. “I thought maybe you were just—like that.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Not with everyone. Only with you.”

Your heart stuttered.

He didn’t move in right away. He let the moment stretch, hands still curled lightly around your hips, body close but not touching—like he was giving you space to choose him.

You could feel the tension buzzing between you, electric. His lips were inches away. The wheel had long since stopped spinning. The studio felt too quiet now, too small. Every sound felt loud—the rustle of your apron, the shift of his breath, the faint thud of your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

But you didn’t answer him right away, either. You raised one clay-slicked hand and gently touched his neck, right beneath his jaw.

“You make it hard to breathe when you look at me like that,” you whispered.

His exhale was sharp, chest rising just a little faster.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time we sat on that rooftop and talked about constellations,” he said quietly, eyes still locked on yours. “But I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted to wait until you were ready.”

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

But still, he didn’t move.

Instead, he leaned his forehead against yours, lips ghosting over your mouth, almost touching. You could taste his breath. He was right there. So close it was cruel.

You whimpered. “Hyunjin…”

His lips brushed the corner of your mouth.

Not a kiss. Just a tease.

Your knees buckled a little, and his grip on your waist tightened—subtle, steady, reassuring.

“Tell me again,” he murmured. “I want to hear it.”

You met his gaze, heart racing.

“I want you to kiss me,” you said. “So bad it hurts.”

He smiled.

And this time, he finally did.

But even the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow and deep, his lips moving over yours like a secret he’d been dying to tell. One hand slid into your hair. The other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you. The kind of kiss that pulled the breath from your lungs, but gave you something better in return.

And when he finally pulled back, he was breathless.

“God,” he whispered. “You taste like every poem I’ve ever wanted to write.”

_

His breath was ragged now.

Your mouths had parted, but neither of you moved away. The air between you felt thick—wet clay, lingering heat, tension like a wire pulled tight and humming.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you reached for the hem of his shirt with trembling fingers and tugged it upward. He let you. Silent. Watching. Like he was trying to memorize every breath you took.

His shirt came off with a soft rustle, and your hands slid over his bare chest, skin warm and golden in the low light. You could feel his heart, thudding like yours—fast, unsteady, real.

The clay-slick mess on your fingers left streaks on him, but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, he liked it. His hands found your waist, pushing your apron aside, untying it with aching slowness. The tie slipped loose. The fabric hit the floor.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost to himself.

You leaned in and kissed him again—this time not soft.

This time, it was need.

He groaned into your mouth, hands pulling you closer until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you. You could feel everything—his body, his heat, his want. Your hips met his. He guided you back against the pottery table, lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

Then lower.

Wet, open-mouthed kisses painted across your skin, slow and reverent, like he was worshiping. His hands slid under your shirt and pulled it up. You let him. You were trembling—but not from nerves.

From anticipation.

He looked up at you, eyes dark now. Lustful. But still soft. Still him.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” you whispered.

It came out desperate.

The studio was dim except for the warm glow of the overhead light. The wheel was still in the corner, abandoned—clay drying where you'd left it. But neither of you cared now. The room smelled like earth and glaze and want.

Your pants were the next to go. Then his.

And then you were bare.

Against the cool surface of the table, his body between your legs, his mouth on your throat again. Hands everywhere. Exploring. Worshiping. Claiming.

When he entered you, it was slow. Like a promise. Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

You gasped—head falling back, lips parted. He stilled, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

He began to move.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate. Deep. Like he wanted to be inside you in more ways than one. Like he was trying to carve his name into your bones.

Your hands tangled in his hair. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your moans, whispering your name like a prayer.

The table creaked.

Somewhere, clay fell from the shelf.

You didn’t care.

You wrapped your legs around him and let go.

It was slow-burning, breathless, mind-numbing pleasure. He brought you to the edge and held you there, again and again, until you couldn’t remember your name—only his.

And when you finally shattered, you did it in his arms, with his lips pressed to your shoulder and his voice in your ear, saying—

“That’s it, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name like it meant something.

The bathroom smelled like cedarwood and faint lavender, steam still curling around the mirror from your shower. You padded out in just a towel, humming softly—until you noticed the silence.

Too quiet.

And then you saw it: your black lace panties, draped over the side of the sink like a smug little flag.

Your heart dropped. You’d meant to grab them. You really had. But you’d gotten distracted, and now—

“Looking for something?” a voice cut in, low, close.

You turned, towel tightening instinctively, only to find Lee Know leaning against the kitchen doorframe, your lace dangling from one finger.

Oh, shit.

His gaze raked over you, slow and sharp. Smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “This the third time I’ve found your pretty little things lying around,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Is this some kind of game, sweetheart?”

“I—forgot,” you lied, chin tilted up, bratty reflex in full force.

He chuckled darkly. “You forgot. Sure.”

And then suddenly—he’s right in front of you, crowding you back against the fridge. The towel slips a little.

His voice drops an octave. “See, I think you want me to find them. You want my attention. You’ve been such a bad little thing lately…”

Your breath hitched. “So what, you’re gonna punish me?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Oh no, baby. This isn’t a punishment.” His hand wrapped around your waist, firm. “This is a lesson.”

You whimpered.

He smirked. “Now. Bend over the counter.”

You swallowed hard, heart thumping like a war drum. Lee Know’s gaze was all teeth and fire—hungry, smug, dangerous. His grip tightened on your waist as he spun you around, palms flat against the counter.

“Count for me,” he said, voice silk over steel. “And if you forget? We start over.”

You opened your mouth to sass him—of course you did—but the sharp crack of his palm across your ass stole the air right from your lungs.

“One,” you gasped.

“Mmm.” He smoothed his hand over the sting, then leaned down, lips grazing your ear. “Such a pretty sound. Almost makes me forget how fucking disrespectful you’ve been.”

Crack.

“Two,” you whimpered, thighs clenching.

“Panties in my bathroom. Again. Are you stupid, or just desperate for my attention?”

You moaned at the heat of his words, breath shuddering. “T-three.”

He chuckled, low and cruel. “That’s what I thought. A little brat who wants to be put in her place.”

The next spank came harder—deliciously sharp. You arched back, trembling.

“Four,” you whispered.

“Say it louder.”

“Four!”

“That’s better.” He slid his hand between your thighs, grinning when he found you soaked. “Goddamn, you're so wet. You like being used, huh? Like being a bad girl so I’ll fuck the attitude out of you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please, Minho…”

“Sir.” He growled it against your neck. “When I’m disciplining you, you call me Sir.”

You whimpered. “Please, Sir.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said, mock-sweet. “Begging so sweetly. What should I do with you now, hm?”

You felt his fingers curl around your panties still in his hand, and then he tied them around your wrists behind your back—delicate lace, turned into restraint.

“Since you love leaving these around…” he whispered, “let’s put them to use.”

The lace around your wrists wasn’t tight—but the message was. You were his now, and he didn’t need rope to prove it.

Lee Know stepped back to admire you—bent over the counter, wrists tied, cheeks flushed, thighs trembling. His girl. His brat. And now, his plaything.

“You know what the best part is?” he murmured, undoing his belt with that slow, cocky grin. Click. Slide. “No matter how much you act out…” he leaned in, dragging his lips down your spine, “you always end up here. Dripping. Waiting for me.”

You whimpered, needy. “Please—”

“Uh-uh.” He dropped to his knees behind you. “Brats don’t get to beg for cock yet.”

Then—his tongue.

Hot. Wet. Devastating.

He licked you like a man starved, hands gripping your thighs to keep you from buckling. His tongue flicked, circled, dove—and when your moans hit a pitch he liked, he growled into you.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he muttered, licking you again. “But you don’t get to cum yet. Not until I say.”

You sobbed out a frustrated moan. “Minho—”

Smack.

“What did I say about that?” he said, standing. “It’s Sir, brat.”

“S-Sir,” you gasped.

“Good girl.”

Then he was behind you, lining himself up—thick, hot, aching for you. He pushed in slow, one inch at a time, savoring your gasp.

“Fucking tight,” he hissed. “Like you’ve been waiting for me all damn day.”

He set a punishing pace, snapping his hips against yours, one hand gripping your tied wrists, the other tangled in your hair.

“Whose pussy is this?” he growled.

“Yours, Sir—fuck, it’s yours!”

“That’s right.” He leaned in, chest against your back. “You act like a brat, I fuck you like one. But you take it so well…”

You were a mess beneath him—moaning, begging, back arched, clenching around him like you never wanted him to stop.

“Sir—please—can I cum?”

He smirked. “Beg for it. Show me you’ve learned.”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll be good—I’ll clean up, I’ll do anything, please let me cum—”

He kissed your neck, almost gentle now.

“Good girl.”

And he didn’t hold back—his fingers rubbed your clit in tight, cruel circles as he pounded you deeper, harder, until your body shattered around him.

You screamed his name as pleasure cracked through you, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He groaned low, burying himself deep one final time as he spilled into you, hand tightening on your waist.

Silence. Heavy breaths. Sweat. Skin on skin.

After a moment, he untied your wrists and kissed the red marks gently.

“Such a mess,” he whispered, stroking your hair. “Guess I’ll have to keep punishing you until you learn.”

You grinned, dazed.

Or maybe you’d never learn.

Your knees gave out the second he pulled out of you.

Minho caught you with one arm around your waist, the other sliding beneath your thighs. “Tch. Can’t even stand, huh?” he muttered, lifting you like you weighed nothing. “Didn’t even go that hard.”

You tried to glare at him, but your eyelids were heavy, lashes sticky with sweat and tears. Your legs were jelly. Your throat dry. Your brain, totally scrambled.

“Y-You…” you whispered hoarsely. “You broke me.”

He chuckled as he carried you to the couch, lowering you gently onto the cushions. “Dramatic and disobedient. You really are the full package.”

You pouted up at him, eyes glassy. “M’not dramatic… You said it wasn’t a punishment.”

“And it wasn’t.” He crouched in front of you, brushing your hair from your face with surprising tenderness. “That? Was me being nice.”

You blinked. “That was nice?”

“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice velvet-wicked. “You don’t want to see what a real punishment looks like.”

You whimpered.

He grinned, smug as ever.

Then, quieter, more sincere—“Color?”

You blinked slowly. “Green.”

He nodded, proud. “Good girl.”

He disappeared for a second, came back with a damp towel and a bottle of water. He gently wiped between your legs, the inside of your thighs—soft, but firm enough to make you flinch.

“Sensitive?” he said, way too amused.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Hmm. Maybe you should think about that next time you leave your slutty little panties in my bathroom.” He kissed your inner thigh, slow. “But I guess you like limping around all day after I ruin you, huh?”

You whined, covering your face.

He pulled your hands away.

“Let me see that pretty fucked-out face. I earned it.”

You rolled your eyes—weakly. “You’re so cocky.”

“I just know what’s mine,” he said, deadly soft, tilting your chin up. “And that includes your attitude, your moans… and this tight little body.”

His thumb traced your lower lip. “Rest now. But just know—next time?”

He leaned close, voice low and lethal.

The screen lit up, bathing your face in a soft glow as your call finally connected. There he was — Felix — sitting in his gaming chair, hair tousled from his long day, his blue headphones wrapped snugly over his ears. The sight of him made your heart ache a little. You missed him. More than you could say.

"Turn your camera on, baby… I need to see you," he murmured, voice raspier than usual, already thick with longing.

You hesitated, fingers lingering near the camera icon. "I don’t really feel pretty today…" you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Felix's brows knit together gently. "Babe. You’re always pretty. Don't say that."

You hesitated for a second longer, then finally tapped the button. The camera flipped, revealing you sprawled on your bed in nothing but a pair of panties and one of Felix’s oversized shirts, the fabric slipping casually off your shoulder.

He let out a soft exhale — somewhere between awe and hunger. "God, you're beautiful… What are you wearing?"

You smirked, shifting your laptop just enough so he could see. “You tell me.”

Felix’s eyes darkened as he bit his bottom lip, his gaze roaming over every inch of you through the screen. "That’s my shirt, isn’t it?"

"Maybe." You giggled, cheeks flushing as you pulled the fabric up slightly, teasing him.

The sound of your laugh made his chest tighten. He couldn’t reach you — not physically — but the desire was clawing at his throat. You always did this to him. So effortlessly.

"You’re killing me, love," he murmured, shifting in his seat. "I miss you so much it hurts."

"I miss you too," you said softly, your voice dipping into something more sultry. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and looked into the camera, head tilted slightly, eyes full of want. It was your way of telling him I’m yours, even from here.

A tense beat passed. Then, he asked, voice lower now, rawer: "Can we try something tonight?"

You raised a brow. "Try what?"

His answer was a breath, laced with desperation. "Take off your clothes."

You sat up slowly, legs folded beneath you as your fingers toyed with the edge of the shirt. Felix’s eyes followed the motion, his breath caught in his throat. The air between you, even through the screen, was heavy with want.

"You sure you want this?" you teased, voice honey-sweet, but your gaze burned into him.

"Babe..." he growled, shifting in his chair. One hand already pressed against the strain in his pants. "Don’t tease unless you're ready to be ruined."

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You peeled the oversized shirt over your head slowly, deliberately, revealing bare skin inch by inch. Felix's jaw clenched, eyes flicking over your exposed chest. He looked like he could devour you through the screen. His hand moved with a new urgency, unzipping his pants to free his cock, already thick and leaking with anticipation.

"Fuck… you're unreal," he muttered, wrapping his hand around himself, letting out a shaky breath.

Your fingers drifted over your breasts, toying with your nipples as you lay back against the pillows. You arched your back just enough so he could see how your body moved for him, how much you were aching. Your thighs parted instinctively.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he said, voice darker now. “Nice and slow. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

Your hand slid down your stomach, slipping into your panties. You were soaking — embarrassingly so — and when your fingers brushed your clit, you let out a soft moan that made Felix's cock twitch.

“Mmh—feels good already,” you whispered, fingers circling your clit in slow, sensual motions.

“Let me see,” he breathed.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs, tossing your panties aside. You spread your legs for him, positioning the camera so he could see everything — the glisten between your thighs, the way your fingers dipped into your soaked folds and came back shiny with arousal.

Felix groaned, his hand stroking himself steadily now. “God, you’re so fucking wet… All for me?”

“All for you,” you whispered, slipping a finger inside and gasping softly. You imagined it was him — his fingers, his mouth, his voice in your ear instead of through a screen.

“Add another,” he commanded.

You obeyed, sliding a second finger in with ease, your back arching from the stretch. Your other hand continued to tease your clit, rubbing slow circles. Felix was moaning now too, soft and low, his fist moving faster over his cock. You could see the red flush in his cheeks, the tension in his thighs, the veins standing out in his forearms.

“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he groaned. “Pump those fingers, baby. I wanna hear how wet you are.”

You didn’t hold back. The sound of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, mixed with your breathy whimpers and the wet slick echoing through the speaker. Felix was visibly trembling now, his cock swollen and angry-red, precum dripping down the shaft.

“Felix,” you moaned, your voice cracking with need. “I want you so bad…”

His hips bucked into his hand. “You have no idea what I’d do to you if I was there.”

“Tell me.”

“I’d spread you open on that bed,” he growled, eyes locked on the screen. “Face buried between your thighs, tongue fucking you until you scream my name. Then I’d flip you over and pound you until you couldn't walk straight.”

The words made you whimper, your fingers working faster now. The pressure in your belly coiled tighter.

“You’re gonna cum for me, yeah?” he asked, stroking himself harder now. His whole body tensed with the need to release. “Look at me when you do. I wanna see your face when you fall apart.”

You opened your eyes, locking your gaze with his as the orgasm crashed over you — hot, intense, all-consuming. Your thighs trembled, your moans broken and desperate, your cunt clenching tightly around your fingers.

Felix lost it.

“F-Fuck, Y/N!” he groaned, jerking his cock in rough strokes as ropes of cum spilled over his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his stomach. The way his brows furrowed and his mouth fell open in ecstasy — it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

You both collapsed — him sinking into his chair, you flopping back against your pillows, panting, bodies spent.

“Jesus…” he chuckled breathlessly, dragging a hand down his face. “You just ruined me.”

You giggled softly, heart still racing. “You deserved it.”

You hated him.

You hated how he always caught the elevator just as the doors were closing. You hated how he wore wireless headphones and still somehow knew exactly when to talk shit. You hated how your balconies were on the same floor—direct line of sight, one stupid pane of glass wall between them—and how he always had the nerve to glance your way with that smug, know-it-all smirk. Seungmin wasn’t loud. Or messy. Or the type to throw parties at 2 a.m.

No, he was worse.

He was the kind of irritating that snuck in quietly—sarcastic jabs in the lobby, passive-aggressive nods when passing each other in the hallway, and the occasional "Nice robe, neighbor." comment that made your blood boil. You both shared the top floor of the apartment complex. He lived on the opposite end. And somehow, even across that distance, you could feel his energy.

And tonight… you really, really felt it.

It was late. Too late. The kind of hour when the building was silent, and the city lights painted gold on every reflective surface. You weren’t even supposed to be awake. Just a glass of water. Maybe some doomscrolling. But when you passed your floor-to-ceiling window, you paused.

His blinds were open.

His lights were on. And Seungmin—quiet, smug, sarcastic Seungmin—was standing in front of his window.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants riding low on his hips. One hand on the glass wall. The other wrapped around his cock.

You froze. He saw you.

He knew you saw him but he didn’t stop. Instead, he locked eyes with you through the glass. Your breath caught in your throat. The hand on the glass flexed slightly. The one on himself moved slowly, deliberately. A performance—but not for just anyone.

For you.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your kitchen counter. You should’ve looked away.

Closed the blinds. Left. But you didn’t.

Something hot twisted in your stomach. The Seungmin who annoyed you in elevators—the one who made your mornings hell—was touching himself with your eyes on him. You could see the way his chest rose and fell. The muscle in his jaw that tensed when you tilted your head and didn’t flinch. You didn’t smile. Neither did he. This wasn’t playful. This wasn’t a joke. This was daring. When his pace picked up, your pulse did too. And for a second, a long, silent, breathless second—you wondered what it would feel like to press your palm to that same glass wall..

from your side.

You should've pulled the curtain but your hands where frozen—heart hammering. Eyes wide and locked on his. Seungmin wasn’t stopping. He wasn’t even blinking. Your mind shouted shut it down—but your body? Your body was hot. Breath shallow. A pulse thudding between your legs. And maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the months of biting sarcasm, traded jabs, all the times he smirked like he knew something you didn’t... Or maybe it was just the way he watched you now.

Like you were part of it.

You stepped closer to your window. The coolness of the glass met your bare thigh. You didn’t even notice when your hand slid under the waistband of your shorts. But you noticed when his rhythm changed.

He saw. He knew. And fuck—he liked it.

A soft exhale left your lips as your fingers found that sensitive spot—already slick, already aching. Seungmin leaned slightly closer to the glass, resting his forehead on it. His chest heaved. His jaw clenched. You’d never seen him like this. No sharp words. No smug comebacks. Just raw need. And the way he watched you touch yourself for him—his mouth parted, hand stroking harder now—made you feel like something dangerous. The moan that slipped past your lips wasn’t loud. But it echoed anyway in your too-quiet apartment. You dragged your fingers in slow, teasing circles—hypnotized by the way his hips jerked, like he could feel it. Your other hand lifted. Pressed flat to the glass. He did the same. Two hands. Same spot. One inch apart. The heat, the tension, the silent connection between you—it was unbearable. You wanted to tear down the wall.

You wanted to know how he’d sound. How he’d feel. How long he could keep that composure with you wrapped around him. And judging by the twitch of his jaw, the tremble in his abs, the way his gaze dropped to your thighs and then snapped back up to your eyes—he was close.

So were you."Fuck," you whispered, barely audible. You bit your lip, tried not to arch too hard against the window. His eyes narrowed slightly at that. And then—He came. Back arched, chest taut, lips parted in a breathless gasp.

Still facing you. Still watching.

You weren’t far behind—with a soft cry and a final desperate circle of your fingers, you fell apart too—shaking, glass cool against your skin, body on fire.

You didn’t look away. Neither did he.

The elevator jerks to a halt.

First, silence.

Then: click—total darkness.

You freeze, breath caught, still gripping your phone from a scroll you weren’t even paying attention to. Across from you, the guy in the black hoodie looks up from his own phone. For a moment, you just stare at each other, both blinking like owls in the dark.

"Uh," you say. "Did we just…?"

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That wasn’t normal.”

A beat of silence. Then a mechanical voice crackles from the speaker above: “System error. Emergency power offline. Please wait.”

You both look up.

“Oh, that’s not comforting at all,” you murmur, your voice just a touch higher than usual.

The guy chuckles. It’s a low, rich sound that cuts through the pitch black. “No kidding.”

You slide down the wall, sitting on the elevator floor. “This day has sucked,” you sigh. “And now I get to die in an elevator. Amazing.”

“Hey.” His voice is closer now—he’s sitting down too. “We’re not dying. Worst case, we get rescued with mild trauma and maybe dehydration.”

You snort. “Comforting and realistic. You should do public service announcements.”

“I’m Changbin,” he says, offering a hand you can’t see. You take it anyway. His hand is warm. Strong. Solid.

“[Your Name],” you reply. “You always this calm during disasters?”

“Nah. I just fake it really well.”

A pause. Then, unexpectedly, you both laugh. The kind of laugh that bubbles up from shared absurdity. It feels... good.

Over the next hour—or maybe it’s less, or more, time is weird in the dark—you talk. He tells you about producing music, about how he likes lifting weights because it clears his head. You tell him about your nightmare shift, and how you didn’t expect your night to end stuck in a metal box with a stranger who sounds like a radio DJ and laughs like it’s second nature.

At one point, your knees bump. You go to move, but he doesn’t.

You don’t either.

It starts with your knees touching.

Then his hand brushes yours on the floor—accidentally, at first. But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

You can’t see much in the dark, just the faint glow of the emergency light above. But you feel him. The heat of him. The sound of his breath, just a little heavier than before. It hits you both at once.

The shift.

The awareness.

You’re not just stuck with a stranger anymore. You’re stuck with a man who smells like leather and cologne, who laughs with his whole chest, whose voice drips confidence and warmth. A man who’s looking at you like he wants to devour you, even in the pitch black.

“Is it just me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “or is it getting really fucking hot in here?”

Your heart skips. “It’s not just you.”

And then he’s moving.

Fast.

You’re against the mirrored wall before you can take another breath, Changbin’s chest flush against yours, his hand cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His mouth crashes onto yours—hot, hungry, desperate.

You moan into him, fingers clutching his hoodie as he deepens the kiss. His other hand grips your waist like he needs to anchor himself. He breaks away for half a second, breath ragged.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You grab his hoodie tighter and pull him back in.

That’s all the permission he needs.

His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, dragging up your shirt, tracing your spine through your bra like he wants to memorize you by touch alone.

“You’re so soft,” he breathes against your neck. “So fucking perfect. You feel that?”

He grinds into you, and you feel the thick press of him through his sweats. You gasp—he’s already hard. And he’s big.

“Shit,” you whisper. “Changbin—”

“I know, baby,” he groans. “I know. Been trying to be good, but fuck—you're driving me crazy.”

He grabs your thighs suddenly and lifts you like it’s nothing, pinning your back against the cool elevator wall. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, hips rolling without thought.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growls. “The second you smiled at me, I was done for. You’re so pretty. So fucking sweet.”

His praise melts into your skin like fire.

He reaches between you, tugging down your waistband with one hand, fingers fumbling but determined. When his hand slips beneath your panties, he groans—low, filthy, reverent.

“Already wet for me?”

You whimper. “Changbin—please—”

“You like being touched like this?” he murmurs, stroking you slowly, firmly, his forehead resting against yours. “Like knowing someone could come rescue us any second? Hear what I’m doing to you?”

“God—yes.”

He kisses you again—sloppier now, desperate—and then he’s pulling himself free from his pants with one hand, the other still holding you steady.

“Tell me you want this,” he pants. “Tell me you want me to fuck you right here.”

“Please,” you whisper. “I want it—I need you.”

He lines up, and with one thrust, he’s inside you—thick, deep, stretching you open in one dizzying stroke.

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. He groans like he’s been starving.

“Fuck, you feel unreal,” he growls. “So tight—shit—how are you this perfect?”

He starts to move—hard and deep, but careful at first, like he’s testing your limits. Your moans echo off the elevator walls, each thrust driving you higher.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, voice hoarse. “Doing so good for me—so fucking good.”

He thrusts harder, faster, and you cry out—your body bouncing in his arms as he fucks you against the wall, his grip tightening with every thrust.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” he pants. “Let go for me—wanna feel you fall apart.”

You nod helplessly, mouth open, moans spilling out as your orgasm builds fast—hot, tight, overwhelming.

“I’m gonna—fuck—Changbin—”

“That’s it,” he groans. “Cum for me. Make a mess. Let them fucking hear how good I make you feel.”

You shatter.

Body shaking, vision white, thighs clenching around him as you cum hard—soaking him, gasping his name like a prayer.

And then he’s right behind you—thrusting erratically, moaning into your shoulder as he spills inside you with a deep, broken growl.

You both go still.

Panting.

Sticky. Sweaty. Legs trembling.

Somewhere above, the emergency light flickers. The elevator lurches.

Power’s back.

You both freeze.

“…Do we, uh. Clean up fast or embrace the felony?” you whisper.

He grins.

friends don’t say your name like that… do they?

It’s late when it happens. You’re curled up in bed, wrapped in your hoodie — his hoodie — scrolling like your life depends on it, desperately avoiding the 1 a.m. loneliness creeping into your bones.

Then your phone buzzes.

Jisung 🐹: voice memo 1:13

You frown. He never voice memos this late. Usually, he’s the “send you a cursed meme and vanish” type. Maybe it’s one of his dumb fake freestyles again. You hesitate — just for a second — then press play.

And then.

Then.

You hear it.

Soft panting. A low, guttural groan. The kind of sound you’re not supposed to hear outside someone’s bedroom. The kind of sound that should be locked away, buried, never sent by mistake.

Your name spills from his mouth — broken, reverent, desperate. “Fuck—[your name]—just need you, please, please—”

Sheets rustle. There’s the wet sound of skin on skin. Moaning. It’s not fake. You’d know if it were. You’ve heard him joke. Tease. Be crude. But this? This is raw. Real. Ruined.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until the audio ends and silence drops like a bomb.

What. The. Fuck.

You stare at the screen, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Do you text him? Say what, exactly? “Hey bestie just heard you absolutely down bad moaning my name like I’m your religion ❤️”?

No. You lock your phone and throw it across the bed like it’s cursed.

_

You don’t speak to him for two days.

Correction: you try not to. He texts. Calls. Sends Reels. Tries to FaceTime you from the cereal aisle.

You leave him on read like a coward.

Because how do you face him? How do you look at his stupid perfect face and not hear the way he said your name? How do you ignore the way your body reacted — the heat that curled low, traitorous and hungry?

You tell yourself it was a mistake. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe it was for someone else. Maybe this is just one of his messed-up jokes taken way too far.

But then comes Day Three. You think you’re safe — headphones in, hoodie up, pretending to do your readings at the library.

Until he slides into the seat beside you like he owns the damn table.

“Yo.”

You don’t look at him. He pokes your arm. “Still mad at me?”

You take a slow, deep breath. “Not mad. Just—busy.”

He leans in. You can feel him smirking. “You listened to it.”

You freeze.

Your spine goes straight. He says it like a fact. Like a challenge. Like a sin he’s proud of.

You finally glance at him — and you wish you hadn’t.

His eyes are locked on you, dark and unreadable. That cocky tilt to his mouth is there, sure, but under it? There’s heat. Intent. A promise.

He leans closer. You can smell his cologne — subtle, warm, him.

“I know what you heard,” he murmurs, voice low, intimate. “And I meant every second of it.”

Your throat dries up. You blink — once, twice — trying to form words, but none come. Because what the hell do you say to that?

You’re in the library, for god’s sake. His breath is warm. His tone? Dangerous. The kind that wraps around your spine and pulls.

“I…” you start, weakly. “Jisung, I don’t think—”

“You think about me like that?” he interrupts. Still calm. Still smiling. But there’s fire behind his eyes now. His leg brushes yours under the table. On purpose.

You swallow. “No.”

He leans back. Raises an eyebrow. “Liar.”

Your face heats. “I’m not—”

“You haven’t looked me in the eye in three days,” he says, inching closer again. “You blushed when I said your name just now. And you’re squeezing your thighs together.”

You are. You didn’t even notice until he said it. And now you feel hot all over, like you’re caught in a spotlight with no escape.

“You’re imagining it.”

He chuckles — low and knowing. “Then look at me and tell me you didn’t listen to the whole thing.”

You do look at him, but it backfires. Because his gaze is dark. Smoldering. Fixed right on your lips. And in that second, everything breaks.

You don’t answer. You stand.

He watches you. Silent. Alert.

You don’t even know where you’re going, but you walk fast — out of the reading room, down the back hallway near the archives. Somewhere quiet.

You don’t hear him follow — but he does. Of course he does.

You’re rounding the corner when you feel his hand wrap gently around your wrist.

“Hey.” You turn, breath shallow. He’s close. Closer than he’s ever dared.

Your back hits the wall. And suddenly, you’re in that cliché — back pressed against cool stone, heart pounding, best friend inches from your mouth.

“You gonna keep pretending?” he asks softly.

You stare at him. His cheeks are a little flushed. His chest rises and falls — too fast. He’s nervous. Excited. Something feral behind his restraint.

“I didn’t mean to send it,” he says, finally. “But once I did? I didn’t regret it.”

Your lips part.

“I’ve wanted you. For months. Every time you say my name, laugh at my jokes, wear my clothes…” He leans in. “It drives me fucking insane.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You—jerked off—thinking about me?” you whisper, like you can’t believe it.

He laughs — breathless. “Babe. I do not stop.” Then, quieter: “Especially after that time you came over in those little shorts. Sat on my bed. Bent over to plug your charger in. You knew what you were doing.”

You didn’t.

But now?

Now you do.

“Jisung—”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks suddenly.

The question knocks the air out of your lungs. You weren’t expecting it. You were expecting him to take, to push. But he waits.

You nod. Barely. But it’s enough.

He kisses you like he’s starved. Like he’s been waiting forever.

And fuck — he’s a good kisser. Confident. Deep. He licks into your mouth like he owns it. Like he’s memorized it. Your hands fist in his hoodie (his own hoodie, technically — poetic), and his arms cage you in like you’re something precious.

His thigh slides between your legs. You gasp.

“You were gonna ignore that memo?” he murmurs into your mouth. “Pretend I don’t moan your name when I come?”

“Shut up—”

“You gonna ignore this too?” His hand slides under your hoodie. Finds skin. Trails upward.

You groan. “Jisung—”

He kisses you again — longer this time. Slower. More patient.

“You ever think about me?” he asks, voice rough. “When you touch yourself?”

You should say no. But the way he says it? The way he knows?

You nod again.

His eyes darken. “Say it.”

“I think about you,” you whisper. “I think about your mouth. Your hands. Your voice. The way you say my name like—like it belongs to you.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I want you to send me one,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“A voice memo.” He’s serious. His lips are barely brushing yours. “I want to hear you beg. Just once. Just for me.”

_

You’d spent all day thinking about it. About him. The kiss. The confession. The way his voice dipped when he asked for your voice in return.

You’d pretended to brush it off — made a joke, changed the subject. But the second you got home, locked your door, laid back on your bed with your phone in hand…

You hit record.

Your voice is soft at first. Barely a whisper.

“Is this what you wanted, Sungie?” “Me thinking about you? About your hands on me? Your mouth?”

You let your breath hitch — just a little.

“I’ve been wet since the library.” “You kissed me like you’d already fucked me a hundred times.” “But you haven’t. Not yet. And I’m losing my mind.”

You slide your hand lower, already aching, already needing. It’s not about teasing now. It’s about destroying him the way he did you.

You keep going.

“You wanna know what I think about when I touch myself?” “I think about your voice in my ear, whispering filthy things while you fuck me slow.” “I imagine you holding my hips down, telling me to stay still.” “Calling me your good girl.”

Your breath quickens.

“Mmm—Jisung…” “Wish it was your fingers.” “Wish it was your cock.”

You let out a soft moan. Then another. Higher. Whinier. Just like he did.

The way he moaned your name.

You let one slip — soft, ruined, needy.

“Sungie, please…”

And then you end it. Right there.

No release. No climax. Just need — hanging in the air like smoke.

You hit send.

And wait.

Fifteen minutes later.

Your phone buzzes once. A reply.

Jisung 🐹: [voice memo] 0:09 You press play with shaking hands.

“You’re evil.” His voice is wrecked. “You better be ready when I get there. Because I’m not stopping ‘til you scream my name.”

Then another text:

Jisung 🐹:

Be a good girl and leave the door unlocked.

You barely had time to breathe after sending the memo.

You’d expected him to tease you. To draw it out. Maybe send something smug and snarky. Instead — that voice. Wrecked. Raw. Promising things your body wasn’t ready for but aching to find out.

be a good girl and leave the door unlocked.. that's what he said.

So you did.

And now?

You hear him.

A knock. Not even really a knock — more like the door swinging open with zero hesitation. You sit up, heart hammering. You’re still in your bed, wearing nothing but one of his oversized tees and barely-there underwear. You look like you planned this. Because you did.

Footsteps. He doesn’t call your name.

He doesn’t have to.

He finds you fast, eyes burning the second they land on you.

You can barely whisper it. “Hey—”

He shuts the door behind him. Locks it. And stares.

Then?

He laughs once — breathless, disbelieving — like he’s watching a fantasy walk off the screen and crawl into his lap.

“You really fucking did it,” he says. “You actually sent it.”

You tilt your head, pretending to play innocent. “You asked for it.”

He’s already crossing the room.

“You moaned my name.” His voice is tight now. “Whined for me. Called me Sungie like you knew exactly what it would do to me.”

He’s at the edge of your bed now. You’re still sitting, legs slightly parted.

He leans down. Puts one hand next to your thigh, the other under your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

“Tell me something.” His lips are a breath from yours. “Did you finish?”

You don’t answer.

“You didn’t, did you?” His eyes darken. “You left yourself desperate.”

You whisper, “Maybe I wanted you to finish it.”

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you like it’s a promise and a punishment. His tongue slides into your mouth like he’s reclaiming it. You gasp, and he groans — like the sound alone undoes him.

Hands everywhere. Hot. Hungry. No hesitation.

He breaks the kiss to pull his shirt off. You barely get a second to look before his hands are under your shirt — his shirt — pushing it up, dragging it over your head with a growl.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he murmurs. “You knew I’d come.”

You nod. “I hoped.”

His fingers skim down your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your panties.

“You gonna moan for me like that again?” You whimper. “If you make me.”

“Oh,” he says, low and dangerous, “I’m gonna make you.”

The office was colder than it had any right to be at 9:04 in the morning.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you stood by the front desk, trying to figure out if the receptionist had given you the wrong floor. Your ID badge hung awkwardly from your neck, and you were already regretting taking this 90-day temp assignment.

Paper-pusher. Data entry. Eight hours a day in a room with no windows and coffee that tasted like burnt regret.

Someone coughed behind you.

"New temp?" came a voice, amused.

You turned — and immediately felt your gut twist.

He was tall, all lean lines and a devil-may-care slouch. His black button-down was rolled to his elbows, revealing veins and slim wrists, and his lanyard was tucked into his pocket like he didn’t give a shit about protocol. He had the kind of face that didn’t belong in a place like this. Sharp jaw. Full lips. Dark, knowing eyes that flicked over you like he was trying to place a bet.

"I’m Jeongin," he said, offering you a lazy, one-handed wave. "Also a temp. Also trapped in this soulless office graveyard. You’ll love it."

You blinked. "You’re way too cheerful for someone on a contract job."

He smirked. "What can I say? I like to suffer with a little flair."

Your eyes narrowed slightly — not out of annoyance, exactly. He had that thing. That careless, insufferably attractive thing. The kind of guy who knew he was hot and witty and liked to poke at people just to see how long it would take to get under their skin.

You didn’t shake his hand. Just turned back toward the elevator, muttering, "Ninety days. That’s all I have to survive."

From behind you, you heard a low whistle.

"Counting down already? Damn. You’re colder than the printer room."

You ignored him.

But you also didn’t miss the way his eyes followed you as you walked away.

The office was worse than you expected.

Gray carpet. Beige walls. Monitors the size of microwaves. And the people? Mostly lifeless, polite smiles and flat laughter. You tried to focus on your spreadsheet training — but it was hard to concentrate when he was seated two desks away, spinning in his chair and humming quietly to himself.

By lunch, he’d already made himself known.

You were eating in the breakroom when he appeared beside you, biting into a granola bar and flopping into the chair across from you with no invitation.

“So,” he said. “Where’d they drag you in from?”

You chewed slowly. "...Temp agency. You?"

He leaned back, arms stretched behind his head. "Freelancer. Usually graphic stuff. This is my ‘I need rent money’ gig."

His shirt lifted slightly with the stretch. You tried not to look. Failed. Looked back at your sad pasta salad.

“Anyway,” he said, licking peanut butter off his thumb. “I like you. You’re mean.”

"I’m not mean."

"You haven’t smiled once."

"Maybe you’re not funny."

He grinned. “See? Mean. I’m keeping you.”

You stared at him.

"Jeongin, this is a 90-day contract. Not The Bachelor."

He leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes dancing.

"Exactly. Ninety days. Let’s make it interesting."

It didn’t take long for him to become the most tolerable part of your day.

Not that you’d admit it out loud.

He was constantly showing up at your desk — under the pretense of “asking for a stapler” or “needing backup” when talking to clients. But he never stayed on topic. It was always jokes, quips, a constant stream of banter laced with something… warmer.

Something that made your stomach turn in the best possible way.

You caught yourself laughing more than usual. Blushing when he looked at you a second too long. You told yourself it was just boredom — office life was so dull that any distraction would feel like a spark.

But the truth was, Jeongin wasn’t just charming. He was thoughtful in subtle ways. He memorized your coffee order. He slid your favorite pens onto your desk without a word. He’d whisper stupid things during team meetings just to make you smile behind your hand.

And he was always watching you.

Quietly. Casually. Like he already knew exactly what kind of thoughts were starting to creep into your head every time he leaned a little too close.

You hated how much you noticed him.

The smooth stretch of his throat when he laughed. The way his fingers drummed rhythmically when he was focused. How his voice dipped when he got serious.

God. You were in trouble.

It came to a head in the stockroom.

Week three. You were reaching for toner. He was there — again — pretending to “supervise,” because apparently flirting counted as a workplace hobby.

Your fingers brushed as you reached for the same box.

You froze.

He didn’t.

Jeongin leaned in, so close you could smell him — that warm scent of cedar and citrus and something subtle that had become your new favorite weakness.

"You always get this breathless when I’m around?" he asked, voice low.

Your hand tightened around the box. "You’re in my space."

His lips quirked. “You’re in mine.”

You turned — and suddenly, the shelf was at your back, and his body was in front of you, close enough to feel heat in every inch of air between you.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

"You gonna stop me if I kiss you?" he asked.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t say anything.

So he did.

It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and want and frustration all tangled in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting for weeks. His hands found your waist, yours curled into his shirt, and you gasped when his tongue slid against yours, slow and teasing.

You were halfway to climbing him when he pulled back.

His breathing was rough. So was yours.

But he only smiled.

"Not yet," he said softly. “That’d be too easy.”

And just like that, he left you in the stockroom, heart pounding, lips tingling, thighs pressed tight.

You could still feel the ghost of Jeongin’s lips on yours hours later.

It was ridiculous. You had a job to do, spreadsheets to finish, and yet every time you looked at your computer screen, your mind rewound to that stupid, reckless kiss in the stockroom. The way his hands had settled on your waist, firm but not too tight — the way his breath had caught when you’d pressed closer.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But you’d been lying to yourself since Day One.

Jeongin didn’t make things easier.

If anything, he made them worse.

He was suddenly everywhere.

Leaning into your personal space during meetings. Whispering dirty jokes that made your cheeks burn. Sliding his fingers dangerously close to yours under the table, his touch a mere brush — enough to electrify, not quite enough to break the fragile boundary.

That morning, he sauntered into the break room, wearing a grin so crooked you suspected it was a challenge.

“Got a minute?” he asked, voice low, sliding onto the chair beside you.

You glanced around. “Shouldn’t we be working?”

He shook his head. “Nah. We have time. And I have an idea.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s make a deal.”

Your interest piqued, despite yourself.

He pulled a pen from his pocket and clicked it thoughtfully.

“I propose a bet. We’re stuck here, counting down these miserable days, right?”

You nodded.

“So,” he said, leaning closer until you could see the shimmer in his eyes, “no sex until Day 90.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Think about it.” He smiled wickedly. “If we make it without breaking the rules, on the last day — I get to ruin you.”

You laughed — nervous, breathless, because you knew he wasn’t joking. “Ruin me?”

He brushed your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering too long. “I want you so desperate by then you won’t know your own name.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m good at winning.”

The days that followed were torture.

Jeongin’s touches became teasing — light grazes on your arm, fingers tracing patterns on your back when he passed by. His whispers were promises and threats woven together.

“Bet you’re thinking about me right now.” “Don’t even pretend you didn’t want me to kiss you again.” “You look like you need a release, and I’m the only one who can give it.”

You tried to focus on work. You really did.

But the ache between your thighs was becoming impossible to ignore.

Every glance, every brush of his hand set your skin on fire. You caught him watching you, hunger smoldering in his eyes, and you had to bite your lip to keep from falling apart right there.

One night, two weeks before Day 90, you found yourself texting him.

This is torture.

His reply came almost instantly.

You love it.

You hated him.

You loved him.

And then finally...

Day 90 arrived.

You clocked out.

Jeongin’s hand found yours in the parking lot.

His eyes were dark, full of that same reckless promise.

“Ready to be ruined?”

You smiled, breathless.

Every session blurred the line between professional and something else entirely. He was hands-on, but not too hands-on. Just enough to make your brain short-circuit. His fingers grazed your skin when he adjusted your form. His breath ghosted against your cheek when he spoke close. His laugh—God, that laugh—echoed in your chest hours after you left.

He called you champ sometimes. Other times, he called you by your name, voice low and rough in a way that made it sound like a sin.

You started to perform for him. Pushed harder. Wore tighter tops. Leggings that hugged just right. You weren’t sure if he noticed... until one day, you caught him staring. Just for a second. But it was there—the flicker of heat, of restraint unraveling at the edges.

You started craving the tension. The tease. The brush of his hands, the way his gaze would drop to your lips when you were panting from exertion. How he lingered a little too long when helping you stretch.

Weeks passed like that. Sweat, breath, glances. Nothing crossing the line, but always dancing right on top of it.

Until tonight.

The gym was quiet. Late. Just you and him, bathed in low lights and soft music. Your final set done, you collapsed on the mat, muscles aching.

Chan knelt beside you, towel slung around his neck. His eyes were darker now. Less coach, more man. “Let’s stretch you out,” he said, voice low. “Can’t have you walking out stiff.”

He guided you onto your back. His hands on your thigh, lifting your leg to rest over his shoulder as he leaned in, stretching your hamstring. It should’ve been innocent. Professional.

But nothing about it felt that way.

Not with his hands gripping your calf, not with his face so close you could feel his breath on your skin. His hips brushed against you with every subtle shift. His eyes flicked to your mouth, your chest rising and falling beneath him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, but your voice betrayed you. Just the tiniest sound.

A whimper.

His gaze snapped to yours.

The air changed.

Thicker. Hotter.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

“This isn’t professional,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours, voice thick with restraint.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“…Did I say that?”

And that’s all it takes.

Chan doesn’t hesitate.

One hand moves behind your neck, lifting you into his kiss as his mouth claims yours—hot, hungry, devouring. His lips are soft but insistent, tongue sliding past yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this moment.

Because he has.

You feel it in the way he groans low in his throat when your hands fist in his shirt. In the way his body presses into yours—hard muscle, impossible warmth, and the solid, undeniable weight of his desire grinding subtly into your hip. He kisses like he trains: focused, relentless, and in complete control.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes against your mouth, voice hoarse.

“I think I have an idea,” you murmur, arching into him.

His hands are suddenly everywhere—gripping your waist, your thighs, sliding beneath your top to stroke the heated skin of your stomach. You feel his fingers twitch at the soft moan that escapes you when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast.

He breaks the kiss just enough to yank your top off, eyes roaming over you like you’re the only thing he's ever wanted. “So fucking perfect,” he growls.

You tug his shirt over his head, and your mouth goes dry.

Pictures didn’t do him justice. He’s sculpted. Shoulders broad, chest taut and golden under the gym lights, abs rippling with every breath. You reach up, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach, and the sharp inhale he lets out makes you throb.

He leans down again, this time trailing kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He takes his time—kissing, licking, gently sucking until your back arches off the mat.

Then he slides down your body, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“You know,” he says, voice like sin, “when I said I’d help you stretch, this wasn’t what I meant.”

You smirk, breathless. “I’m flexible.”

That earns a dark chuckle.

“Good. Because I’m not stopping.”

He hooks his fingers into your leggings, pulling them down slow—so. fucking. slow.—eyes drinking in every inch of bare skin. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your hipbones, your inner thighs, teasing you until you’re writhing.

Then finally—finally—he slides his tongue over you.

Your head drops back with a gasp. He doesn’t hold back. His mouth is hot, wet, devastatingly skilled, tongue flicking and curling and dragging in maddening patterns. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you spread and trembling as he devours you like a man starving.

You can’t think. You can’t speak. You’re so close, pulsing, teetering—

And then he stops.

Your eyes snap open. “Chan—”

He’s already kneeling between your legs, undoing his joggers with a look that should be illegal.

“Patience, baby,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m not just gonna make you come with my mouth.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on top of you again, lining himself up, dragging the thick, velvety head of his cock through your slick folds with a hiss between his teeth.

Then—he pushes in.

Slowly. Deeply.

You swear the air gets knocked out of your lungs. He’s big, and every inch stretches you in the most addictive way. Your fingers dig into his back as he bottoms out, chest pressed to yours, groaning against your neck.

“Fuck… You feel even better than I imagined.”

He starts to move, and it’s over for you.

Every thrust is deep and deliberate. He rolls his hips like he knows how to ruin you—grinding just right, tilting your hips to meet him again and again until your body is shaking beneath him. His mouth is on yours, then your neck, then your chest, as he takes you apart piece by piece.

“You’re mine,” he growls, snapping his hips harder. “You understand that?”

You whimper, clinging to him. “Yes—Chan—yes, yours—”

He hooks one hand under your knee, pushing it up as he drives in deeper, and the new angle has you seeing stars.

The coil inside you tightens, your moans climbing with each stroke, your nails raking down his back.

“Come for me,” he grits out. “I wanna feel you lose it.”

You do.

With a cry muffled against his shoulder, your body convulses around him, heat flooding you as pleasure crashes like a tidal wave. Your orgasm rips through you, intense and unstoppable, and he groans at the feel of it, thrusts becoming erratic.

“Fuck—gonna come—where do you want it—”

You can barely breathe, can barely speak, but the only word that comes out is: “Inside.”

That’s it.

He growls your name like a prayer and a curse, hips jerking as he spills into you, pulsing hot and deep, his body shuddering above you. For a long moment, you’re both still—heaving, trembling, pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat slamming against yours.

Then he kisses your forehead.

Soft. Sweet.

“Definitely not professional,” he says with a crooked smile.

You laugh weakly, stroking his hair. “Guess you’ll have to book me in for another… private session.”

He leans in again, voice warm and low in your ear.

It started on a Sunday, quiet and golden. He was in the kitchen humming lowly, sleeves pushed up, trying to make banana bread from scratch (“It’s therapeutic, don’t laugh,” he’d said).

“Can you grab my sketchbook?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward his room. “Black cover, thick one. It’s on the shelf.”

You knew the one. Everyone did. It was his favorite—his private one. The one no one dared to touch. He carried it everywhere, but never let anyone peek. It was sacred.

So when you slid it off the shelf, it felt... wrong. But he’d asked. So you did.

The book flopped open in your hands, the pages spreading gently.

You froze.

It was your face. Your expressions. Your hands mid-gesture, eyes half-lit by sun, mouth caught in a soft laugh. Dozens of portraits, all you, sketched in graphite and watercolor, each one more intimate than the last.

But they weren’t just portraits. They were pieces of you that only someone who truly saw you could capture. The way your fingers curled when you were nervous. The tilt of your head when you listened closely. The way your gaze drifted to the left when you were deep in thought.

Then you noticed the writing.

Tucked along the edges of the pages, between sketches and shadows—tiny, handwritten notes.

You smiled today and I forgot how to breathe for a second.

The light caught her face like she was made of something softer than this world.

If I believed in soulmates, I’d think she was mine.

You turned the page too fast. Your hands were trembling.

I think I’m falling in love with her. Quietly. Permanently. And I can’t tell a soul.

Each one felt like a thread pulling at your chest. You didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

You had no idea he felt this way. He was your best friend, yes—warm, quiet, steady. He brought you coffee without asking, played you songs he thought you'd like, stayed up to listen when your anxiety kept you up. But he’d never said it. Never even hinted.

Or maybe he had. Maybe the drawings were the hints.

The sound of footsteps snapped you out of your daze.

“Hey, did you—” Hyunjin stopped in the doorway.

He saw the sketchbook in your hands, open to a page with a half-finished drawing of you sleeping on the couch, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The note on that one read:

I wonder what she dreams about. I hope it's something kind. She deserves kind.

Silence stretched like a wire between you.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It opened. I—I didn’t know.”

He didn’t move. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were soft. Not angry. Just… exposed.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “I gave it to you. Maybe part of me wanted you to see it.”

You looked down at the book again, at the tender lines and unread letters.

“I don’t know what to say,” you murmured.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I want to,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “I just didn’t realize... all this time, you were telling me in ways I wasn’t paying attention to.”

He swallowed, then nodded once.

“I didn't want to make it weird,” he admitted. “You’re... important to me. I didn’t want to risk that.”

You let out a breath, still holding the sketchbook close.

“I’m glad you told me this way,” you said gently. “Because now I can tell you something, too.”

Hyunjin looked at you, silent.

“I don’t know if I have the right words like you do. Or the right drawings. But I’ve felt something too, for a while. I just... didn’t know you did.”

Something softened in his expression. Like relief.

You closed the sketchbook and placed it carefully on the bed beside you.

Then, without overthinking it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. He stiffened—only for a second—before pulling you in, his hands resting lightly on your back, like he didn’t want to wake from something he’d only ever dreamed.

The smell of cinnamon lingered on him. His heartbeat was quick beneath your ear.

“Next time you write something about me,” you said softly, “let me read it before it ends up in a sketchbook.”

He chuckled under his breath.

“No promises. Some things are still easier to draw.”

You smiled against his chest. “Then draw me again. But this time, with you in the picture too.”

You always joked that Minho was a cat in a man's body. Aloof, picky, fond of sunlight but only if it wasn’t too warm. He could spend an entire day curled up in bed and then complain about being restless. And of course, he'd swat at your affection like it was some offense to his dignity.

But he never actually asked you to stop.

“You’re too cheerful,” he muttered that morning, as you danced into the kitchen humming a summer pop song, barefoot and in your oversized shirt. His hair was a mess, eyes puffy from sleep.

“Good morning to you too, Grumpasaurus,” you chirped, sliding a mug of coffee toward him.

His fingers brushed yours as he took it. He didn’t look up. “What did I say about nicknames?”

“You hate them. So I use them to test your patience. You’re welcome.”

That earned you a twitch of a smirk — the closest you usually got to a real smile before noon.

You'd been living with Minho for over a year. It started as a convenience thing. Two dancers in the same company, both single, both used to erratic schedules. You weren’t best friends, but he let you in more than most — in his own quiet, snarky way.

Still, lately, the air between you had started to change.

Like last week when you came home tipsy, collapsing onto the couch in a giggly heap. You asked him to dance with you, and he’d said no — then surprised you by actually grabbing your waist and moving with you. Not teasing. Not joking. Just eyes locked with yours in the low light, chest brushing yours, and his grip firm.

He didn’t say anything after that night.

But he also didn’t avoid you.

_

It was a rainy Friday when everything finally snapped.

You were both off that night. You’d ordered takeout, queued up a rom-com, and were currently poking Minho with your toes on the couch, trying to get him to laugh.

He grumbled, shifting. “If you keep touching me, you’ll regret it.”

“Oh no,” you gasped in mock terror, scooting closer, “is the grump going to unleash his wrath?”

“Try me.”

You paused. The tone was different.

So was the look in his eyes — darker, unreadable.

And when you leaned forward to press your forehead against his, expecting a playful shove, he didn’t move.

Instead, his voice dropped. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t want you.”

The words froze you.

He licked his lips, jaw tight. “You flirt. You tease. You climb into my space and act like you don’t know what it does to me.”

“…Minho…”

He surged forward and kissed you. Hard.

It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t testing the waters. It was weeks — months — of tension breaking like a wave. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head just right, mouth moving with heat and need. You gasped, and he took the opening, tongue slipping against yours, slow and hungry.

When you finally broke for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

You swallowed. “Then stop pretending.”

He pulled you into his lap, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. You could feel him — already hard, straining against his sweats. Your shirt rode up as his hands explored your thighs, slow and possessive.

“You always wear this shirt around me,” he murmured, tugging at the hem. “Do you know what that does to me?”

You rolled your hips, grinding against him. “Show me.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He lifted your shirt, baring your skin inch by inch. His eyes devoured you, pupils blown wide, hands reverent as they cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned.

“Lie back,” he growled.

You slid down onto the couch, legs parted, breath quick. He kissed down your stomach, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he was drinking you in.

Then he peeled off your panties and buried his face between your thighs.

The first lick was slow — deliberate — tasting you with the patience of a man who’d thought about this too many times to rush. Then another, firmer, tongue pressing flat against your clit. You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and licked, building you up with maddening precision.

“You’re so wet,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak. “All that sunshine. All mine.”

You barely had time to beg before he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right as his mouth returned to your clit. You came with a shudder, thighs clenching around his head, voice breaking on his name.

He didn’t stop. Not until you were gasping, trembling.

Then he kissed you — open-mouthed, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

“Your turn,” you whispered.

But he was already undoing his pants, and your eyes widened.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” he said, voice rough. “I’m not gonna last if you do that.”

“Then don’t hold back.”

He slid inside you slowly, inch by inch, both of you groaning at the stretch. He filled you completely — the kind of full that made your head spin. He held still, trembling with restraint.

You cupped his cheek. “Minho. Move.”

He did. Hard and deep.

He set a rhythm that was all-consuming — slow enough to feel every thrust, fast enough to make you dizzy. His mouth found yours between gasps, hips snapping, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the quiet room.

When you clenched around him, his breath caught.

“You close again?”

You nodded, barely coherent.

He reached down, thumb circling your clit just as he thrust deep one last time. You shattered beneath him, and he followed with a hoarse cry, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you.

You lay tangled together, the room filled with the soft patter of rain.

Minho brushed your hair from your face. His usual scowl was softened — unreadable in a new way.

“You’re still a grump,” you whispered.

The party was still echoing in your ears, even as you half-carried Felix through the quiet dorm hallways.

He was warm and heavy against your side, one arm slung around your shoulder, head lolling just slightly as he muttered nonsense under his breath. Every few steps, he giggled — at nothing in particular, just the kind of laughter that only came from a few too many drinks and a head full of stars.

"You good?" you asked, adjusting his arm as you passed the stairwell.

"Mhm," he hummed. "You're warm."

"You’re wasted," you replied, trying not to laugh, even as your heart did a weird little flutter thing. He always did that to you — without even trying.

Felix and you had been best friends for what felt like forever. He was the kind of constant in your life that never needed defining. Always there. Always close. Maybe too close, according to everyone else. “You guys are basically married,” Chan had said once. You'd laughed. Felix hadn’t.

You reached his door, fishing for his keys in his hoodie pocket. He rested his chin on your shoulder, exhaling softly.

"You smell good," he murmured.

"Felix—"

"I love you, you know... so much."

You froze.

His voice was suddenly quiet, too clear. Too real.

When you turned, he was already staring at you. His smile had faded, replaced by something softer, deeper. Glassy eyes. Barely-there breath. The air between you shifted — like the moment before a storm or a kiss.

"Felix, you're drunk," you said, but it came out like a whisper. Like a lie.

Then he kissed you.

Messy. Sweet. Desperate.

His hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting his whole life to do this. And you—God—you kissed him back.

Because maybe you’d been waiting too.

The keys slipped from your hand, clinking to the floor unnoticed. You barely made it inside the dorm before he was pressing you against the door, lips hot and searching, breath shaky like he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands wandered — greedy and clumsy — under your shirt, along your waist, up your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his forehead pressed against yours, voice wrecked.

You didn’t.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulled it over his head, kissed him like you needed him to understand something words couldn’t say.

He made this sound — low and raw in the back of his throat — and then he was everywhere. Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing skin, tongue warm as he kissed down to your collarbone. His hands slipped under the waistband of your jeans like he couldn’t wait another second, and you let him.

You wanted him.

You always had.

His room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp outside. Clothes hit the floor in between kisses and gasps and stumbling laughter, the kind that only came when you wanted someone so badly it scared you.

When your back hit the mattress, he paused — just long enough to look at you. Really look at you.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself.

And then his mouth was on your chest, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open with a reverence that didn’t match how drunk he was. Like his body remembered even if his mind was foggy. Like he knew exactly what you needed.

“Felix—” you moaned, hands threading through his hair.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled against your skin, lips moving lower, slower, dragging heat with them.

“You.”

That was all it took.

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, lined himself up with shaking hands. Pressed in slow. Inch by inch. His head dropped to your shoulder, a shudder rolling through him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and you felt it too — the stretch, the fullness, the way he held you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

And then he moved.

Sloppy at first. Like he couldn’t control himself. Deep, slow thrusts, building into something frantic. His name fell from your lips over and over. And he just kept saying yours — like a prayer, like a secret, like he was scared to forget it.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and breathless and urgent.

But it felt like everything.

And when he came — face buried in your neck, body trembling, voice breaking — it sounded like love.

_

The sunlight was soft when you woke up — too soft. It filtered through the half-open blinds in stripes across the sheets, warm against your bare skin. The room smelled like Felix’s cologne and sweat and sleep. Familiar, but changed.

You didn’t open your eyes at first. You just… lay there. Listening to the quiet. The ache between your legs a dull reminder that it hadn’t been a dream.

Last night happened.

The kisses, the way he said I love you, the way he held you — like he needed you, like he meant every desperate whisper. The way your name spilled from his lips when he came, like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You’d never felt so wanted.

You’d never wanted anything more.

And then— A rustle. The creak of the bed. Movement.

Your eyes blinked open, slow, adjusting to the light.

Felix was sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling a shirt over his head, back turned to you. His hair was still a little messy. There were faint red marks on his neck — from you. You traced one with your gaze and your chest squeezed.

He didn’t look back.

“You’re up,” you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

You glanced at your phone on the floor. “Almost nine.”

He turned around then — halfway — and gave you a crooked smile. “Damn. I drank way too much last night.”

You waited. Just waited.

“Did I… do anything stupid?” he asked, tone light, almost teasing.

And just like that — You felt it. The shift. The drop.

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “No.”

He didn’t notice. Just let out a breath of relief. “Good. I blacked out a little, I think. Last thing I remember is you helping me get my keys.”

Your whole body stilled.

That was hours before he kissed you. Before he said I love you. Before he pulled you into his bed and whispered your name like it was a confession.

He didn’t remember.

He didn’t remember any of it.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Yeah. You were pretty out of it.”

Felix stood up, stretching with a groan. “Ugh. I need water. And maybe to never drink again.”

You nodded. Watched him walk to the kitchen area in his boxers, humming a song like the floor hadn’t just dropped out from under you.

It was stupid to expect more. He was drunk. He didn’t mean it. He forgot.

But you didn’t.

You remembered everything.

The way he kissed you like you were more than just a friend. The way he touched you like he knew your body already. The way he held you afterward — tight, gentle, lips at your temple.

It wasn’t just sex. Not to you.

And now, you were stuck.

You could tell him. Admit it meant something. That it meant everything to you.

Or—

You could pretend it never happened.

Pretend you didn’t feel all the things he doesn’t even remember.

You pulled the blanket around yourself and stared at the ceiling.

Your heart whispered one thing. Your pride whispered another.

And Felix? He was laughing softly to himself in the kitchen, pouring cereal. Still yours. Still not yours.

_

You didn’t mean to avoid him. Not really.

It just… happened.

At first, it was small stuff. Delayed texts. One-word replies. Saying you were “busy” when you weren’t. You skipped lunch. Left a group hang early. And every time he asked what was up, you dodged it with a joke or a shrug or nothing at all.

You didn’t know what to say. Hey, remember when we had drunk sex and you told me you loved me, and then woke up with zero memory of it? Yeah, that kinda messed me up lol.

It was easier to act normal. Even when normal didn’t feel normal anymore.

Even when you kept thinking about the way he touched you that night — like it wasn’t his first time doing it in his head.

Even when you still remembered the exact way he whispered “I love you,” like it was a truth trying to claw its way out of his chest.

And now?

Now you couldn’t look at him without wondering how much of that was real.

It had been almost a week.

You were curled up in your hoodie on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone lit up.

felix [10:04pm] hey. can we talk? i’ll come to you. just tell me if you’re home.

You stared at the screen for a while. Thumb hovering. Considering.

Then: you [10:06pm] sure.. i’m home.

You didn’t expect him to show up so fast.

A knock on your door barely five minutes later. You opened it mid-sigh, like you were bracing for something bigger than it was — and there he was. Felix. Hoodie, beanie, nervous hands in his pockets. Cheeks a little pink from the cold.

He gave you a small, awkward smile.

“Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in.

He stood in your living room like it was unfamiliar, even though he’d crashed here a hundred times before. Slept on your couch. Hogged your blankets. Used your charger like it was his.

Now? He looked like he didn’t know where to stand.

You watched him scratch the back of his neck. “I know you’ve been weird with me all week.”

You gave him a look. “Wow. Subtle.”

He laughed — soft, sheepish. “Okay, yeah, I mean. It’s kinda obvious.”

You sat on the edge of the couch, pulling your knees up under you. “So what are you here for?”

“I… don’t really know.” He looked at you, then down at his shoes. “I’ve just been thinking. A lot. About that night.”

Your heart did a weird skip thing.

He wasn’t drunk now. His voice was steady. Careful. Which somehow made it worse.

“What about it?” you asked.

He sat down — not next to you, but across from you, on the armchair. Like there was some unspoken rule now. A line he wasn’t sure he could cross again.

“I didn’t remember anything the next morning,” he said slowly. “And I didn’t wanna make it worse by guessing. I didn’t wanna be that guy who’s like, ‘Did we…?’ you know?”

You just nodded.

“So I played it off like I didn’t know anything,” he said. “Because I was scared. And I thought maybe you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t,” you said quickly. “Well—I didn’t know what you wanted. And I wasn’t gonna be the idiot who brings it up just to be like, ‘Hey, by the way, I think I caught feelings while you were blackout making out with me.’”

He let out a breath. Something between a laugh and a sigh.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said. “And I definitely didn’t mean to make you feel forgotten.”

You glanced at him. “But you do remember now?”

He nodded. “Bits and pieces. Enough. You in my lap. Your shirt coming off. You looking at me like…”

“Like what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Like I wasn’t just your best friend anymore.”

That shut you up for a second.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Was I wrong?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. Because no, he wasn’t wrong. But this wasn’t exactly how you imagined this moment would go. You weren’t supposed to be in your oldest sweatpants with a bag of chips between you and zero clue what to say.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I don’t know what it was supposed to mean.”

He tilted his head. “What did it mean to you?”

You hesitated. “That I trust you. That I care about you. And that maybe I was hoping you meant what you said.”

“I did,” he said quickly. “I just… said it at the worst possible time.”

You gave him a look. “You think?”

He smiled, almost shy. “I’m serious. I’ve probably been in love with you longer than I’ve realized. That night just ripped the bandaid off.”

There was a long, awkward beat.

Then he added, “You know, in a very sexy, very emotionally chaotic way.”

You snorted — actual laughter slipping out. The first real one all week.

He grinned. “There she is.”

You sighed, burying your face in your hands for a second. “This is so dumb.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’d still rather be dumb with you.”

You peeked up at him. “So what now?”

He shrugged. “We could stop avoiding each other. Maybe hang out again. Maybe kiss when I’m not drunk this time?”

You raised a brow. “You sure you can handle that?”

He smirked. “You’re the one who jumped me last time.”

“I did not—” you started, throwing a pillow at him, and he caught it, laughing.

And just like that, the air shifted.

Still uncertain. Still complicated.

But not broken.

You weren’t even nervous when you walked into 'Black In' — the private tattoo studio hidden in a converted loft space downtown. You had done your research. You’d seen his work on Instagram: precise, flowing, artistic. What you weren’t prepared for was him.

Jeon Jungkook stood behind the counter, arms crossed, tattoos peeking from beneath a sleeveless black tank, a silver ring glinting from his lip, and his dark eyes swept over you like he already had plans.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and low, “you’re here for the back piece?”

You nodded, heart stammering as you handed over your design idea — a cool, sharp-looking design that goes across the back from one side to the other. His fingers brushed yours when he took the sketch. You felt that spark in your spine before the ink even touched skin.

He had you take off your shirt and bra in the private back room, handing you a towel to wrap around your front. The leather tattoo bed was cool against your skin, and the soft buzz of the machine started low, almost like anticipation humming in the air.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured near your ear, gloves snapping on. “I’ll take care of you.”

Your breath caught at the way he said it.

The first sting of the needle was sharp, but manageable. Jungkook’s hand was steady, his free palm sometimes resting at your hip or spine to keep you grounded. You weren’t sure what turned you on more — the pain-pleasure of the ink, or the soft praise he murmured every time you twitched.

“You’re doing so well,” he said once, breath hot against your bare shoulder. “So fucking beautiful like this.”

You whimpered, pressing your cheek into the padded table.

Halfway through, he paused. “Need a break?”

You nodded. He helped you sit up, towel slipping slightly. His gaze dropped, darkening — then met your eyes like he’d been waiting for a green light.

“You keep squirming like that, baby, and I’m gonna think you want more than a tattoo.”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering as his words settled over you like smoke. The towel clung to your front, barely covering anything. You felt his gaze drag across your skin — hungry, unhurried.

“And if I do?” you whispered.

Silence crackled between you. His gloves were off in seconds.

Jungkook stepped closer, one tattooed hand trailing up your spine, stopping just below the fresh ink. His touch didn’t press — just hovered, close enough to raise goosebumps. His other hand gently tilted your chin until your eyes met his.

“Then I need you to tell me right now,” he said, low and firm. “Do you want me to touch you, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathed, already arching toward him. “Please.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you — slow, claiming, tongue sliding into your mouth like he had all the time in the world. You whimpered against his lips as the towel slipped from your chest. His hands roamed, calloused fingers cupping your breasts, teasing the nipples until they peaked and a needy moan spilled from your throat.

“You sound so fucking sweet,” he groaned, biting down gently on your lower lip before kissing down your neck.

He guided you back onto the leather table, flat on your stomach. His lips trailed from the nape of your neck down your spine, careful to avoid the fresh lines of your tattoo. When he reached your lower back, he paused, large hands spreading your thighs open.

"Keep still for me," he murmured. "You said you trusted me to take care of you."

You nodded, trembling, already soaked.

Jungkook sank to his knees behind the table and pulled your hips to the edge. You gasped when his tongue touched you — soft, teasing strokes that turned quickly into firm, wet licks against your clit. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open as he feasted on you like he’d been starving for days.

You moaned his name, hands gripping the table, your hips rocking against his face. He sucked your clit just right — a filthy, perfect rhythm — then pulled back only to slap it gently, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“You taste so good,” he muttered against your folds. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this since you booked the appointment.”

You barely had time to answer before two of his fingers slid inside you, curling upward. You cried out, back arching, careful not to shift too much near the tattoo. Jungkook noticed, kissing your neck.

“I’ll be gentle with the ink, baby,” he said. “But the rest of you? Mine.”

He stood, undoing his jeans one-handed as he looked down at you, all flushed and panting on the table. You turned your head, watching the way he stroked himself — slow and thick, precum glistening at the tip.

He lined himself up behind you and leaned over your back, lips brushing your ear.

“Tell me you want it.”

“Jungkook,” you gasped, “please—fuck me.”

That was it.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open. The burn was delicious. He groaned deep in his chest when he bottomed out, hands gripping your waist.

“So fucking tight,” he growled.

He set a rhythm — slow at first, deep and deliberate, every thrust rocking the table under you. You whimpered, your body already close from his mouth alone. He wrapped a hand around to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, voice hot against your shoulder.

“Let me hear you come,” he said. “Want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You did — gasping his name like a prayer, your thighs shaking, cunt clenching around him as your orgasm tore through you. Jungkook swore under his breath, fucking you through it until he was right there with you — pulsing hot and thick inside you with a low, satisfied groan.

He stayed there for a moment, breath heavy, hands stroking your hips like you were something precious.

Eventually, he pulled out gently, grabbing a clean towel and wiping you down. He was tender, even reverent, making sure not to touch the fresh tattoo. When he helped you sit up, he wrapped your towel back around you, then offered you a water bottle from the mini fridge nearby.

You blinked at him, dazed and blissed out.

“That a standard part of the aftercare routine?” you teased, voice hoarse.

He grinned — smug and gorgeous.

You only agreed to room with Seungmin because he was “safe.”

Smart, sarcastic, emotionally unavailable—your mutual friend described him as a “walking beige wall with a killer jawline.”

“Don’t worry,” she had said, half-drunk off margaritas. “He’s not a flirter. He’s annoyingly responsible. You’ll forget he’s even a guy.”

Lies. All of them.

Because three weeks into living with him, you knew exactly what kind of danger you’d signed up for.

The annoyingly responsible part? Sure. Seungmin was neat, polite, cooked his own meals, paid rent on time.

But the rest? Not so much.

He walked around shirtless in the mornings, hair messy, coffee mug in hand, muttering sleepy curses under his breath. He had a laugh that made your stomach flutter, and an ability to make you feel seen in moments that had no business feeling intimate.

Worst of all?

The rules.

“We don’t hook up with roommates. Ever.” That was the first thing he said the day you moved in.

You’d nodded like it was no big deal.

But then he smiled at you—half-smirk, half-dare—and you felt something twist inside you.

And now? Now it’s month two, and you’re biting your lip every time he leans over the couch, every time he lets out a breathy laugh too close to your ear, every time he says your name like it means something.

You haven’t touched. Haven’t flirted. Haven’t even looked at each other for too long.

But every day, the air between you grows heavier.

And you don’t know how much longer either of you can pretend.

_

Game night was supposed to be a distraction.

Jisung brought beer, Minho brought snacks, and you brought your best attempt at pretending your very hot, very frustrating roommate didn’t make your pulse race every time he walked past you shirtless.

Which, tonight, he did. Twice. With zero shame.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, oversized hoodie covering your legs, pretending not to watch him stretch as he grabbed a drink from the fridge. You weren’t even into him, but the way that hoodie lifted just enough to show the waistband of his sweats?

Criminal.

“Truth or dare,” Jisung says, snapping you back. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t be lame.”

You glance around. The circle’s cozy—dim lights, soft music in the background, snacks half-eaten, everyone tipsy enough to let their guards down. Seungmin’s sitting on the floor, right across from you, one arm lazily thrown over the back of the couch, eyes on you like he already knows what you’ll choose.

“Truth,” you say.

“Lame,” Jisung groans. “Okay. Who in this room would you sleep with?”

The question hits like a slap. You freeze. The room goes still, laughter dying down like someone turned the volume off.

You could lie. Make a joke. Say Minho and watch him roll his eyes.

But you look at Seungmin—just for a second too long. He blinks, then looks away, jaw tense.

You clear your throat. “Pass.”

“Pass?” Minho snorts. “Weak.”

“Fine,” you say, grabbing a beer. “Dare next round.”

Jisung grins. “Say less.”

Thirty minutes later, the mood is looser again. Someone dared Minho to do a sexy dance, which traumatized everyone in the best way. Seungmin’s been suspiciously quiet, but you chalk it up to competitiveness—he always got weird when he wasn’t winning.

“Your turn,” Jisung says, pointing to you. “Truth or dare.”

You hesitate. Seungmin’s still watching you, beer in hand, eyes a little darker now. There’s a glint in them—sharp and unreadable.

You want to flinch away from it. But you don’t.

“Dare.”

Minho smirks. “I dare you… to sit on Seungmin’s lap for a full minute.”

The room hollers.

You freeze.

Seungmin doesn’t move. He raises an eyebrow at you, calm as ever, but there’s tension in the way his hand curls around his bottle. He’s daring you to say no. To back down.

So you don’t.

“Fine,” you say. You get up slowly, your heartbeat louder than the music now. Cross the floor. Sit.

His thighs are warm, solid beneath you. Your hands rest on your knees, trying to be casual, but he’s not making it easy. One of his hands settles on your waist—just to steady you, you tell yourself—but it lingers.

You feel every breath he takes. His voice is low when he leans in.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he murmurs.

“I’m not.”

His hand flexes slightly. “You sure?”

You nod.

He laughs, soft and breathy, like he’s losing patience. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He doesn’t answer. The minute ends.

You stand. The game moves on. But when you sit back down, you can still feel the heat of him on your skin.

Later that night, you pass each other in the hallway. Your fingers brush. You both pause.

Neither of you says a word.

But the rule you swore you’d follow? It’s already starting to break.

_

It starts with rain.

Not the romantic, slow kind—but loud, unrelenting thunder that shakes the windows. You’re curled up on the couch with a blanket and some half-forgotten show playing in the background. You don’t even remember how long Seungmin’s been sitting beside you.

Close, but not too close. As usual.

You’re both quiet. Like something might break if either of you speaks.

"Storm’s bad tonight," you say softly.

He hums in agreement, eyes on the screen—but not watching.

You should move. Say goodnight. Go to your room and sleep off the weird energy that’s been building since lap-gate at game night.

But you don’t.

Instead, you risk it.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

Seungmin glances over, cautious. “Yeah.”

“That night,” you start. Your voice dips. “You looked at me like… like you wanted something.”

His throat bobs with a swallow. He shifts slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “You were on my lap,” he says, tone flat—but his eyes? Not cold at all. “Hard not to look.”

You bite your lip. “You know what I mean.”

He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he admits. “I know.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and loaded.

“Did you want to kiss me?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His eyes snap to yours.

He looks at you—really looks—and something in him cracks.

“I always want to kiss you.”

Your breath catches. He leans forward, slowly, cautiously, like he's giving you every chance to run.

You don’t.

His face is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath, see the flicker of hesitation behind his gaze.

But then—right when your lips are about to touch—he stops.

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling back like it hurts. “We can’t.”

You blink, dazed. “Why not?”

“Because the second I kiss you,” he says quietly, “I won’t stop.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because you’re my roommate. And I’m not stupid enough to think this wouldn’t ruin everything.”

You want to argue. Scream. Ask why he didn’t stop looking at you like that every time you walked into a room. But instead, you nod.

Because you get it.

Because you feel it too.

You stand, the blanket falling from your shoulders. “Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He watches you walk away—but doesn’t say anything.

Behind your closed door, you lean against the wall and exhale, chest tight, lips aching with the ghost of a kiss that never happened.

But the rule?

It’s not just bending anymore. It’s fracturing.

_

You weren’t trying to make a statement.

You’d just forgotten to grab your clothes before showering. A simple mistake. One that shouldn’t mean anything.

But now you’re standing in the hallway in a towel—damp skin, flushed cheeks, hair dripping—and of course, he’s there.

Seungmin looks up from the fridge like someone just punched him in the chest.

You freeze.

So does he.

It’s the kind of silence that hums—too loud, too charged, too full of everything you’ve both been refusing to say.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“You—uh—forgot your clothes?” he asks, voice slightly rougher than usual.

You nod. “Didn’t think you’d be out here.”

“Right.”

His eyes trail down your body before he can stop himself. He catches it. Forces his gaze back to the orange juice like it’s the most fascinating thing in the universe.

But it’s too late. You saw it—the flicker of raw want.

And maybe you’re not entirely innocent either. Maybe you stand a little straighter. Tilt your head. Say:

“You walked around shirtless for two months and expected me to not return the favor?”

His eyes cut to you—sharper now. Darker.

“You walked around like that on purpose?” he says quietly.

You cross your arms, your towel tightening with the movement. “And what if I did?”

A pause.

He shuts the fridge without looking. Sets the juice down too hard. Walks toward you slowly, like he’s crossing a line he already knows he won’t come back from.

He stops in front of you, close enough that the heat of his body fogs up your already-overheated skin.

“Then I guess I have to show you what that does to me.”

Your breath catches.

And he does—slowly.

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. His touch drifts down your throat, then pauses at the knot of your towel, like he’s giving you time to stop him.

You don’t.

“Do you want me to?” he asks. Voice low. Dead serious.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

The towel’s gone in seconds. You gasp—more from the rush of finally than from the chill. His hands are everywhere at once—hot, hungry, controlled but barely. One at your waist, the other gripping your hip like he needs the anchor or he’ll lose it.

He crowds you against the hallway wall. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear. “Every night, I hear you moving around. Smell your perfume. Watch you steal my hoodies and pretend it’s innocent.”

You gasp as his mouth brushes your neck. He bites down—light, teasing—and your knees go weak.

“Been walking around this apartment like a test I wasn’t supposed to pass,” he growls.

“Then fail,” you whisper. “Go ahead.”

He does.

His hand slips between your legs. No teasing this time. Just purpose. Pressure. And oh god—

You moan his name without thinking. He hisses. “Say that again.”

“Seungmin,” you gasp.

“Fuck,” he growls, dragging his mouth down your collarbone, your chest. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

But you do. Because your head is spinning, your body is buzzing, and the rule?

It’s not just broken.

It’s obliterated.

His hand slides between your thighs—warm, confident, maddeningly slow.

You gasp, body already hypersensitive from the way he pinned you against the wall like you belonged there. And maybe, tonight, you do.

“Still acting like this is innocent?” he mutters, voice rough against your neck as his fingers trace a line up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of where you need him.

You whimper. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He leans in, mouth brushing yours—but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He’s torturing you, hovering so close you can feel every word against your lips.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers slowly through your folds now—just enough to make you gasp, not enough to give relief. “Wearing those little sleep shorts. Moaning through the walls when you’re dreaming. Or pretending to sleep.”

You open your mouth to speak—to deny it maybe—but his thumb circles your clit and your brain goes static.

“Oh—fuck, Seungmin.”

He hums, pleased. “There’s my name again.”

He presses his fingers in—slow, deliberate. Two, deep, filling. Your back arches against the wall, and he uses his free hand to steady your hips as he curls just right.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. His hoodie still clings to him, and you realize—he’s fully dressed. You’re bare. Exposed. Completely his.

And he knows it.

“You’re shaking,” he says lowly, eyes devouring you.

“I’m—” You suck in a breath. “Not used to this.”

He stills. His voice softens just a little. “You want me to stop?”

Your hand grabs his wrist. “Don’t you dare.”

That earns a wicked grin. “Good.”

His mouth finally crashes into yours.

It’s not sweet. It’s not patient.

It’s weeks of tension, jealousy, frustration, late-night fantasizing finally breaking loose all at once.

You moan into him and he groans low in his throat, fingers thrusting faster now, hips pressing you harder into the wall like he needs to keep you pinned there or you’ll both fly apart.

He pulls back, lips kiss-swollen. “Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Like you said it before.”

“Seungmin,” you whisper, breathless.

He growls—and you swear you feel him tremble at the sound.

Then his fingers curl just right, and the pleasure builds so fast your knees give out, body shuddering as you come undone in his hands, against his chest, with his name on your lips and his breath hot against your skin.

He catches you when you sag, presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“Still think the rule was a good idea?” he mutters.

You laugh, dazed. “Fuck the rule.”