#gawon

She’d sold most of her clothes in secret to pay for the treatments. The remaining few hung like survivors at a reunion where most are gone. [2]

[2] Like the year-ends of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meetings, the remaining few with hair barely attached to their scalps. Of women and men alike - all red-eyed - sobriety takes a toll as any other substance.

In the kitchen remains her broken plates. She had broken them on the infirm day of “realizing”, “dawning”, that this wasn’t ordinary - her arms just gave way. You kept them the way you kept everything she left: totally indiscriminate. Everything in the same place as she left them; if you begin forgetting, let there be totems.

The tupperware she left in the fridge. Her last meal, the one she couldn’t finish, still inside, and you opened the fridge and looked at it every morning. No mold and no smell. You did not believe in signs but you didn’t throw it out either, and in it lies the difference: a territory of half-belief half-not so all-consuming that entire religions were founded, and you, a man who read the entire discouraging bibliography of Western Thought™ on the subject of death and its aftermath, could not place yourself with any confidence. The tupperware was simply there and that was that - to adjudicate.

Beyond totems, a coworker had recommended Vietnamese coffee on account of your comments on low energy (his recommendation goes: ‘This will fuck you up. Seriously, for cardiac events only.’ And that’s all you needed, really.) 

Of course: it did nothing. You drank the bitter of it at the counter, standing and not sitting at the table for two. The whole emotional calculus of sitting on the table for two was exhausting and destructive so you opted to just stand. It would’ve made her laugh, this blunt solution. She had a laugh that involved her whole body, a laugh that bent her forward at the waist and put her hand on whatever was nearest - your knee, your stomach, your shoulder, your forearm. And because the laugh was like that, it conscripted you - you joined her to laugh at whatever. Her laugh was the last thing you heard in your head at night. It remained itself, unlike the perfect song which eventually dis-morphs and degrades. And this was either a mercy or a cruelty that you couldn’t decide on. Her whisker-touched smile still lives in your mind endlessly. 

You drove across town to see her. It was muscle memory, this track. Like it were on rails or those toy trains that you had to pull off the track just to keep them from moving in that particular way. Past the elementary school where someone had misspelled CONGRATULASHIONS on a banner that no one had removed.

And this was a fact that you and her talked extensively about. Like the ‘wicked bible’, in which the word 'not' was omitted from the seventh commandment: ‘Thou shalt commit adultery.’ The printers were fined and most copies were destroyed. She laughed about this extensively, her hand was on your belly so you laughed about it too.

Past the Presbyterian church whose sign read GOD'S LOVE IS UNCONDITIONAL but whose parking lot was gated and locked on weekdays, a contradiction you had pointed out to her once in the passenger seat and she had laughed, that laugh, bending forward, her hand on your knee, and you would give anything, anything, your hands, your degrees, the entire corpus and every footnote you'd ever written about it, for that laugh, for the fact of her diaphragm contracting, for the air that came out of her and hit the dashboard and fogged it for a half-second in January, proof of breath, proof of life.

The cemetery was simple. It had none of the Baroque funerary elements, the weeping angels and obelisks and mausoleums built on the scale of modern-age buildings, that the Europeans enjoy as architectural entitlement. Someone with a worn-down clipboard sketching his children had designated it (it was a simple flat land) for the storage of the dead, and the dead, being dead, had not objected.

In all honesty, it was a fairyland. The grass moved in a single direction, always shimmering. Just the light, the grass and the quiet.

You brushed the night dust off the stone with your palm. You rearranged some flowers the strong wind had shifted.

‘Hinton,’ you said.

The bird - a handsome blue jay - on the branch above you tweeted. It was probably experiencing zero spiritual continuity with your dead wife. It wanted seeds or it wanted a different branch.

‘He got drunk at his own birthday. Classic. John and I set up this surprise for him, collector’s editions of the board games he plays - you know Hinton, the way he is about board games, the obsessive joy - you would’ve said we spoiled him.’

You pulled up a blade of grass. Split it down the center with your thumbnail.

‘I drove him home and he went into one of his drunk rambles - he was like: “you’re the best friend ever, and I’m sorry for being such an unreliable junior. Please forgive me.” It was a whole thing…’ you showed a grin, ‘I’ll talk to him today. He’ll probably hide from me in the breakroom like last time.’

'Anyway.' You brushed the grass off your palms. 'I'm trying. You told me to move on so I'm - I don't know. I'm moving somewhere. Not sure it's somewhere good, probably more like moving around… but I'm moving.'

You touched the top of the gravestone. 'I'll come back Thursday. Same time.'

You stood, took one look at the grassland - the blades still synchronized, leaning east - and walked back to the car.

-

Work.[1]

[1] Where, among other things, you are technically required to sit in a chair that a facilities team selected from a catalog in that has never been comfortable for anyone, and where the same three people microwave the same fish every Thursday, where your manager sends emails at midnight with the subject line 'Quick thought' that are never quick and never just one thought and are torture-like-borrowed-from-Hubei-province. You survive this, and you survive managers.

After work you made the familiar turn away from home opposite your home. Toward a bar with no legible sign, or a sign so rain-damaged it had become a Rorschach test. You saw Reilly's. Hinton swore it was Kelly's. The barkeep, when asked, said:

It didn't matter. 

You parked a short distance away. There was parking closer, by the trees, but you liked to walk. Taste the town air. Let the breeze move through your hair, down your back.

The bell above the door rung, the barkeep nodded, and a few regulars glanced your way, grinning, throttled by their own worries.

You ordered some beer. Grabbed a napkin to fold into disarray and disfigure.

An unfamiliar face on the stool next to you. A girl. Beautiful, but that's not what you noticed first. What you noticed was that she sat down like someone who'd been walking a long time - this tired huff of a person without energy.

'Vodka with Coke Zero,' she said to the barkeep.

Coke Zero?

Not even a real Coke with vodka? She's cutting sugar on a vodka coke. She wants to get drunk but she doesn't want the calories. Or she wants to get drunk and wants to taste nothing while she does it. Or, and this thought arrived without permission: somebody had trained her, at some point, to read everything that entered her body at the molecular level. Just a hunch.

'It's something I developed early on,' she said. Not to you exactly, to the irreverent watchers in the void.

'People give a side eye - or cant help it - when I order it.' She turned now. 'I just like to explain myself.'

'Right.' You took a sip. 'So what brings you here. This is a mid-career panicked people's gathering zone.' You offer the appeal of a bar in layman's terms.

'My career is over.' She picked up her glass when it arrived. Held it but didn't drink, more like staring into it, just a hint off the color of cola. 'I'm arguably deeper into it than you are.' A slight grin from her.

You offered one back. A smaller, more defiant one.

The ambience filled the space between you: it was quiet for a while, someone fed the jukebox, someone else laughed too loud at nothing.

'I like hearing stories,' she said.

'Hm?'

'Tell me a story. I came to this bar for a reason.'

'For stories.' You reply, unmoved.

'Yeah. You 'mid-career panicked people' (air-quotes) have the best ones.'

'What, you want me to tell you about my office life? My daily wars with the printer?'

'Come on.' She took a sip now. Finally. 'You know what I'm talking about. Drink more beer and talk to me.' She set her glass down. 'You people and your privacy. Hmph.'

You took a longer sip this time. Set the glass down. Looked at the counter, at the grain of the wood.

-

A decade ago and then some, when you were around 17, you were an intern at the local konbini, working the register. It was an old town and you needed cash to see your friends. The town was what it was: old people getting older. The days of today no different from the days of then.

You helped old people, mostly. They couldn't see a meter ahead. They moved as slow as weather.

Your manager worked the back. Drank, smoked, handled storage. He stayed out of everyone's way and everyone stayed out of his. Another clerk worked beside you, a much older man who was, from the outset, cruel. Someone who had hardened into meanness the way a bone sets wrong after a bad fracture.

Once, a boy came into the store. Clothes dirty. Hair past his ears, tangled. He went to the middle aisle, the half-priced day-old section, and picked up some food. His sleight of hand was poor. You could see his wrist dip toward his pocket.

He was stealing.

But it was out of the clerk's line of sight. And you didn't say anything. [1]

[1] You must add that this was a period of great ideological upheaval in your life. You were exposed to a greater array of people, cultures, ideas. And the idea of a small boy fending for himself by stealing out of the day-old section was the just the idea that seemed to be your way of "fighting the system".

He paid for the items outside his pocket and left (a common way of pretending you were there for those specific - barely a dollar in total - items).

This became routine, he showed up regularly, but the cash he carried seemed to thin each time. The bills more run-down. The coins fewer.

By then you'd been dating your wife for about a month. When she heard the story, her heart broke at the possibilities. A world that excluded children in need. And without needing to think much about it, she intervened.

She followed him. Found where he lived: a run-down apartment complex. Other children running in and out through a side entrance. That was all the information she could gather that day.

Then one day, one horrible day, you couldn't block the clerk's view. The boy pocketed something and the clerk saw it happen. He jumped the counter and tackled the boy. Yelling, furious, but not punching - for what it was worth.

The clerk had his arms wrenched behind his back. You don't remember the order of things. Adrenaline had eaten the sequence. Somehow you got the clerk off and took the boy.

And then the boy told you everything.

He was living with his brother and sisters in an apartment with no lighting, no heating, no anything - they weren't old enough to actually pay the utilities. Their mother had been a sex worker who got pregnant one too many times; but had changed her life, yet the reputational damage in patriarchal Japan was too deep. No employer would take the chance, she moved across the country to find work. Labor, service, anything.

For a while she sent money; envelopes, sometimes just bills folded into notebook paper. The boy used it to take care of his family. He told you he'd bought a small piano for his older sister. She'd been saving for one. A really small one.

Then the envelopes stopped coming in and the worst case scenario came to fruition: disappearance.

You thought about jail. Too many things had gone wrong in sequence. Day after day, one thing after another.

You offered help - money, groceries… even adoption - he refused.

The only thing he accepted: you'd leave food at the back door of the konbini. So that's what you did. Every shift, you told the manager you were clearing old inventory. It was almost always perfectly fine food, just a day past its label. You collected a bag and brought it to the back door. He'd be there. You set the bag down. He picked it up. Neither of you said much.

She hadn't interrupted once. Her glass was half-empty. She hadn't touched it since you'd started.

One day their entire family came into the store. You saw them through the automatic doors. A small procession, close together. The boy, his brother, his sisters. And next to him a girl, slightly older, slightly more composed. She didn't look like she lived with the rest. She had jewelry on, a heavy bag that etched its weight on to the shoulders of her clothes.

Only the boy and the girl went into the aisles. A minute later he came to the register carrying at least a dozen boxes of strawberry Pocky. The chocolate-covered kind. He set them on the counter one at a time carefully.

The girl paid. She had the money folded in her palm. She'd been holding it the whole time. You didn't understand yet.

Weeks later you pieced it together. From fragments. From neighbors in the complex. From absence: 

The smallest sister had died. You never learned how. After that it was no longer possible for them to go on as they were. They would all dissolve into the orphanage system they once escaped from. An abandoned family whose only structure was proximity, whose only comfort was staying together, had been broken from the inside.

The Pocky was their final meal together. A dozen boxes of strawberry Pocky, paid for by the older girl who wasn't even in their family. [2]

[2] An artificially produced box of chocolate-covered biscuits that is a snack for most was an unfathomable luxury to them.

And that was the humble goodbye.

The apartment was empty, the nearby vicinity that you and your girlfriend spent hours carefully observing was also empty.

But he left you something. Because he couldn't read, he couldn't write a letter. What he left was a note card. Their family tree, not larger than a few lines. It traced back only to their great-grandfather. It was provided by the government. You could tell by the creases, he'd been carrying it a long time.

-

You looked at her. She hadn't moved, two thin lines ran from her eyes past her jaw, dried partway from not wiping, leaving faint salt tracks on her skin.

'That's… heartbreaking.'

You reached into your coat pocket and fished out your wallet. Some maneuvering later you slid the note card onto the bar, his family lineage in ink, names he couldn't read of people who were permanent. You had laminated it years ago but the edges had gone to that opaque whiteness that laminated things get when the plastic starts to give. Then you pulled out a small box of chocolate-almond Pocky.

'Since you extracted my best material,' you said, tapping the box, 'I'm making you eat this.'

She let out a breathless laugh with closed eyes and more water pushed to her eyelashes. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and dipped the corner to her eyes, makeup still fine, and hitched her stool a little closer and pulled a stick from the foil.

'Not the strawberry?'

'They were out today, I made do.'

You tipped a biscuit into your mouth, she ate hers in two quick bites.

'And no signs?' she asked after a while, looking at the ceiling, blinking too much. 'Nothing from them since?'

'Nothing. They vanished into the system, the place they spent their entire time running from.'

You took another sip from the beer. The chocolate and the almonds mixed with the hops - terrible combination but it grounds you.

You traced the handle of the mug. 'So, your turn, give me something.'

She sat up and started tearing the napkin into strips. 'You know what's embarrassing? You'd think I'd have a vault. I aggressively interrogate every stranger I sit next to. I'm a parasite. But my own life?' She shook her head. 'Barren.'

'I don't believe you.'

'It's true! My little sister can't stand me because I spent my sensitive years scolding her instead of being a human being. And I've been trying to fix it by buying her favorite salt bread every time I see her and she still treats me like I'm collecting a debt, which, okay, fair. I have a degree in media and communications from NYU. I buy hand creams that cost too much. That's it, that's the whole person, fully accounted for.'

'I wholly reject that.'

'Reject away. I'm twenty seven years old and my biography fits on the back of a receipt.' She sighed. 'My life hasn't happened yet.' She tilted her head and squinted at you. 'Yours clearly has. You've already gone grey.'

'I have not gone grey.'

'You have. There.' She pointed at a spot above your ear.

'That is the lighting in this bar, which, as we've established, is terrible.'

'It's not the lighting.' She pulled out her phone and flipped the camera and held it up to your face with the prosecutorial confidence of someone presenting exhibit A. 'Look at that - right there - look at it.'

You looked. There it was.

'Forensic evidence.' She said.

'You're dismantling me.'

'How old are you?'

'Thirty.'

'Thirty… huh.'

'What does huh mean.'

'It's paradoxical. You have grey hair but you're -' She put the phone away and looked at you properly. 'You're conventionally… attractive - which I realize is a weird qualifier.'

'It's a hell of a qualifier. Conventionally attractive. I haven't heard anything like that in years.'

You turned forward and leaned into the bar and took a long sip.

'Don't let that be the case,' she said.

-

'So,' Gawon said.

'So.'

'What about your wife?'

The jukebox switched tracks and the bassline rattled up through the wood of the bar into your forearms.

'She's not around.'

She stopped tracing her glass. 'I pry too much. I'm sorry.'

'She died,' you said. 'Two years ago. She was sick for a long time before that, years, and then the doctors gave her two years and she died in two years. No miraculous survival. A cruel linear fate, if you will.'

She didn't say anything. She picked up one of the napkin strips she'd been tearing and folded it in half, then in half again, pressing the crease with her thumbnail.

'People always want to know about the end,' you said. 'Like if they know how it ended they can file it and move on. But the part that stays with you is the middle. The eighteen months where she was still walking around and eating cereal and making fun of me for how I loaded the dishwasher, except now there was this calendar behind everything.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean she did the same things but they had dates on them now. She'd hold a mug of coffee and I'd think: she's holding a mug of coffee and she has fourteen months left. She'd fall asleep on the couch with the TV on and I'd carry her to bed and I'd think the number; every time, the number was always in the room.'

Gawon had stopped folding, the strip of napkin was between her thumb and finger, half-creased.

'What was her name?' A flash went across her eyes, realizing some etiquette she'd crossed, 'Sorry, it's instinct.'

'Jiwoo. And she was sick.'

'You're very precise about it.'

'I've had practice. People ask, and you develop a version that has the most information density.'

'Is this the optimized version?'

'The long one takes two years. This one, maybe twenty words or so. True distillation.'

She laughed, then didn't, and the not-laughing was louder than the laughing. She set the napkin strips parallel to each other on the bar, a small row of them, evenly spaced.

'I had a tape recorder when I was nine. I walked around recording everything. I thought if I collected enough of the world it'd make sense to me.'

'And it never made sense,' you finish her sentence.

'I'm twenty-seven and I'm still…'

'At least you upgraded to interrogating strangers in person.'

'Lateral move at best.' She bunched up the strips and balled them together neatly.

'You're not a parasite,' you said. Because you could see her thinking it.

She blinked, 'What?'

'The self-loathing. I can smell it in the air. You sit down next to a stranger and call yourself a story vampire and probably a myriad of things less-vocalized. But you're a good listener, among other things.'

'That's -' she started.

'And you're disgustingly educated.' You pause, 'Meant to be a good thing.'

'I know.' She was turning the balled napkin around in her fingers, this tight little sphere.

Then she set the napkin ball on the bar and pushed it a few inches toward you, this little offering, and left her hand there.

You looked at the napkin ball, and then at her hand resting next to it on the wood, and then you put your hand next to hers. Close enough that the sides of your pinkies were almost touching, this near-miss of contact, and neither of you closed the gap. Her fingers were cold from holding her dead vodka for the last hour and yours were warm from the glass and you could feel the difference in temperature without touching.

She closed it - her fingers on the knuckles of your hand.

You looked at her hand on your hand and then up at her face. She had been turning toward you in degrees all evening, a few degrees after the konbini story, a few more after the Pocky, and now the rotation was complete, the full face, and the full face was the one that should've garnered millions of fans, should've been plastered across billboards and the like: the strong jaw and the enormous eyes and the honey skin and it couldn't be undone by a coat collar any more than it could be undone by an ocean.

You looked at her and she looked at you, and whatever was happening in that look went on for a period of time that you would not be able to report accurately to anyone afterward, and you thought about leaning forward, and you could see that she was thinking about the same thing.

She jerked her hand back. Some uncomfortable ring in the air, suddenly exposed.

'I'm -' she cleared her throat, suddenly hyper-aware, the men arguing behind you, the clinks of pints, blush-full. She grabbed her phone on the counter, the screen lighting up in that unforgiving white, her eyes crumpling just a tad. 'It's late. I should go. I have a… thing.'

'Right.' The cold rushed back to fill the space. You slipped your hand back into your coat pocket. 'A thing.'

'It was nice meeting you.' She was already standing, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder, tossing a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. She didn't look you in the eye. Couldn't.

You paid the tab and tipped the barkeep with the $20 she left. You drove back home, never did your steering wheel feel so damn cold.

-

A few days pass in anticlimactic routine: the smudges and scraps left behind by your wife; the boring morning routine, without fail: scrambled eggs more rubbery than anything else, tie that pulls your collar a smudge too tight, a burgeoning rash that becomes the bane of your day; the boring drive there and fro; but there lived a single thought: her. Just her in your mind. A human mind suffering nothing tastes something and it's in a death spiral: her and her and her smudged all over your mind.

By lunch, you catch yourself rewinding a moment: the way her thin fingers held your beer mug, how it slanted just a bit due to the weight of it in her enclosed fist. You shake it off. By dinner, it's back: her big eyes staring right into you, her praline lips slightly coloring the edge of the mug. By the end of the day you're not thinking about her so much as you're failing to think about literally anything else.

A distinction that drives you delirious in-place.

But as things go, she'll become as boring as the rest of your routine - her lip smears, her eyes, her jaws, they'll all be as old as yesteryear's yesterday!

Three weeks pass like this, in this paradoxical anticipatory cluster-fuck that your life's turned into. Your eyes flit towards nooks she may reside in, crannies where she could be wandering. No luck.

The bar's on the radar now, standard Friday protocol, your life's out of balance and yet your routine never flails. You park by the tree, cram your keys in your pockets (this you never used to do, cram everything in anything and find yourself a minute or two earlier than routine.)

The bell rings and the familiar air surrounds you. You pass into the sunken floor, and sit on the cushioned seat that you adjust a few levels lower (even lowering your seat reminds you of her, how she sat a few levels higher on the chair. You sipped beer and looked at the chair for a good half-hour after she left.)

The barkeep set a beer in front of you without asking. You held it and looked at the toothpick cylinder that seemed to never finish (or be used), the steady lines ingrained into the table -

'Hey. Where's the lass?' You look up and the barkeep's looking at you, towel in hand cleaning the inside of a large mug.

'Sorry?'

Where's the lass? He repeated again - a bar's a deceivingly loud place, not a sensory deprivation tank but a sensory deprivation furnace.

'She's gone. I mean - I don't really know.'

'Pity,' he held the mug to the light, squinted, resumed wiping. 'She was a good tipper; we don't get good tippers 'round here.' He looked pointedly at your coat. 'I take a peek of your pockets and it's as if there's nothing there at all.'

You offered a laugh, 'That actually begs the question: have you seen her around here?'

'Sure did -'

'When?' The words come out rushed.

'Two weeks ago. Around that timeframe.' He set the mug down, inverted it on the rubber mat. 'I see too many faces to pin it exactly. She was here -' He pointed at the stool she'd sat on, the one next to yours, and for a second the gesture made the empty seat worse. 'Drank some beer. Left it half-full.' He put his hand on his chest. 'Now that really broke my heart, I'll tell you.'

'She left it half-full?'

'Half a perfectly good pint. Just sitting there. I nearly held a funeral.' He picked up another glass. 'And she left fifty as tip.'

'Fifty?'

'Fifty.' He said it with the quiet satisfaction of a man recounting a religious experience.

'It's what I deserve serving you tight-pocketed bastards.' He belly laughs this time.

You grin back. Then: 'how was she?'

'Looked great. Bloody supermodel, everyone's taking a look at her. Respectfully, of course.' He paused. 'Respectfully-adjacent. This is still a bar.'

'Right.'

'Funny thing.' He leaned on the counter, thick forearms plodding on the table, 'she asked about you.'

Your eyebrows jump, mouth turning into a line. 'She asked about me.'

The barkeep continued, 'I told her your routine, when you come and all the details - probably what you wanted anyway.'

'Yet you haven't seen her since?'

'Nope.' He picked up the towel, folded it - halved, halved again. 'Gone.'

He moved down the bar toward a regular whose glass had been empty long enough to warrant a grievance. You stayed on your stool, traced the mug, let the seat beside you, the one raised a few levels higher, stay in your vision.

It drives you beyond crazy.

--

Saturday. You woke up into the natural circuit: lacquer, closet, plates, then the fridge.

You opened the closet this time. The lavender was almost gone.

Reading. You leaned into the soft leather couch, just worn in enough. You held the spine of a large book, slightly giving way, crusty from the glue that didn't set properly, a certain charm you enjoyed. You flipped pages, the smell of the library through each one.

Laundry. You had a lot of dark clothing that had to be washed. Most of your wardrobe was dark; in hindsight buying clothes that you thought to be mellow has turned into an eye-sore: black on top of black.

Outside, grass, birds. It's all routine, until you heard this pressured howl from the bathroom. The pipe under the sink, the joint where copper met the shut-off valve corroded into a hairline fracture. It was weeping, hissing water. You hadn't bothered to check because the light had given off the same mellow hiss. But it was un-ignorable now, the fracture expanded, the wood of the cabinet floor that received the drippings dark and swollen, a faint mildew marking its presence.

You twisted the rusty valve at the joint until the beading and the hissing stopped. You stood up, the cuffs of your shirt now falling slowly down the length of your arm, beads of water that gave off the scent of rotten wood dripping down your fingers.

You cleaned yourself up and drove to the hardware store. Near the same lot, close to a familiar light and tree that held that nearby lot. You told an employee you recognized, who has this misfortune of prescribing flex tape to any and all complications because the store hadn't bothered to train him. He disappeared into the back to presumably grab flex tape.

You waited in plumbing. An aisle full of copper joints, PVC elbows, rubber gaskets. Another employee came through pushing a tall ladder cart stacked with inventory boxes, the kind that fills an aisle like a wall.

You stepped to give space. You let out a sudden breath before your lips clasped shut.

She was on the other side. She wasn't looking at you, opposite in fact. She was already holding a door knob and tape. She was wearing the same coat, her hair pulled back this time.

The ladder cart passed and took the wall with it and now there was nothing between you and her except eight feet of linoleum and a shelf of reduced-price caulking guns.

The PA system was listing a sale on exterior paint, a child was screaming about something two aisles over, and a rattle of the ventilation unit that been especially worse in these microseconds.

She turned to reach for something in the shelf behind her and her swept across the aisle the way eyes do in a hardware store. [1]

[1] Beyond fathers, the hardware store is a place of mystique and mystery. A place of banality and stale nothingness. You must swipe your eyes across every shelf because some item was misplaced by some bored child that carried the drill to the caulk section.

And in this banality, she met your eyes. The door knob was in her hands, tape in the other.

How to describe the moment a face you've been assembling from fragments, disassembling them all over again - lip-smudge on a glass, knuckles on a counter, the pitch of that deep laugh - suddenly coheres into an actual person. There's no word.

'Hi,' you said. Which wasn't exactly the best thing to say, but what else? You met somebody you thought about 24/7 and she's just there. She was even prettier than before, maybe because everything else was getting fried under 7,000 lumens of commercial lighting and she was just resistant.

'What are you doing here.'

'Pipe broke under the sink, the valve area corroded into some - ' Out of words, you imitate a burst of water with your hands.

She blinked, twice, rapidly. 'Plumbing supplies?'

'I'm waiting for an employee who went into the back fifteen minutes ago and may have died there.'

The ends of her lips tipped upward. She held up the door knob. 'Mine fell off.'

'It just fell off?'

'The whole knob. It's been loose since September. I've been meaning to fix it but one day… well today… it just fell off.'

'Which door.' You ask.

'Bathroom, I've been closing it with a towel wedged under the gap. It works, but I decided that I wanted to be a person who fixes things. The evidence is not compelling, I know.' She said, with tape and a door knob in her hands.

And thus: blissful awareness, you were standing in a hardware store in the clothes you'd been doing laundry in, cuffs damp from the pipe, holding nothing, caught in the wild by the person your mind had been coring itself around for three weeks.

And the setting was PVC elbows and caulk and under square-ceiling'd bright lights that did no good for complexions.

'You - ' her eyes traced over you again, your messy clothes. 'You look like you were in the middle of something.'

'I was in the middle of a Saturday.'

And here is where a different man - a man less soldered into routine, a man whose every gesture hadn't been load-tested against the possibility of feeling something - would have said: have dinner with me, come back to the bar, sit next to me, don't leave this time. [2]

[2]A different man would've at least had dry clothes on, no matter the instance.

Instead you looked at the door knob in her hand, 'That's the wrong size.'

'What?'

'For an interior door. That's exterior hardware. The bore's too wide - it won't seat right.'

She turned it over, 'are you sure?'

'I know a lot of useless things. Knobs happen to be one of them. Well, it depends if the whole thing fell off or just the knob.'

'Just the knob.'

You stepped closer and pointed at the shelf lower than the one she was looking at. 'This one - ' You ended on a note that was higher than how you intended for it to end. Because of the simple fact that you were closer to her. Close enough to smell the citrus in her perfume, the shampoo that smelled just like honey.

She grabbed a knob that was the same color and compared them, and put back the one that was bigger. 'This one.'

And you wanted to say seventeen things and answer in a thousand ways.

She turned to face you fully. Like at the bar (when her salt-tracked eyes stared at you fully - brilliant, brilliant, brilliant…)

'Thank you,' she said. 'For the knob consultation.'

'Any time.'

'I should - '

'Yeah.' [3]

[3] What's different here: there's no alcohol. Let it be clear: the anonymity that you had at the bar was no more. You are two people who shared a beautiful evening, and have been building private mythologies around each other for three weeks… and there you are, both, in-the-flesh. Dry, physically, sure. Internally? Hell no. All of this intensity is funneled into the knob consultation. You teach her about passage sets because you cannot say what you really want to say. She listens with too much seriousness because…

She retreated to the end of the aisle. She left just like the way she did at the bar. But there wasn't a bell above the door this time, no crumpled twenty on the counter.

'Sorry about the wait.' You turned towards the voice, it was the employee. 'We had to dig through overstock.'

Strangely, he got the right item: the valve kit. You went back home and fitted the new valve, tightened it until the beading and hissing stopped. You washed your hands, you ate something you wouldn't remember eating, laid back into the couch to read a book whose spine was giving way.

You read until you were drowsy and headed to bed. But you were woken up by a late message:

-

[number redacted] 1:09 AM:

I keep starting this wrong. I wrote four versions and deleted them, and I'm now writing about deleting them - which is 100% worse. This sort of meta-writing has always been a chore for me - I watch, I am invisible, it's hard to write about myself. But just because I'm invisible doesn't mean I don't exist, but still, there is no valid way to test it. Is there?

Because my life goes like so: I fall asleep on the train home from "work" but I get home anyway. I close my eyes and nothing happens. I close my eyes every now and then, just to test the waters, and find I'm still moving, being moved, walking through the turnstile with my eyes closed, held up and carried along by the routine. Am I invisible? 

The lights flicker and the wheels clack. No one on the train can tell who's driving, so I let go of the imaginary wheel. I lean back in my plastic seat and let my shoulders drop. In the seat across from me, a man is reading something on his phone. His hands look familiar. And the woman standing by the automatic doors - her jaw, the set of her jaw strikes something deep inside me. Look at the grey at the temples of the guy in the coat two seats over! I know that grey! I've seen that grey on somebody else's head! All these parts trying to assemble themselves in front of me, as if to say let me in, I'm still here, hello hello, you know me, you know - I spent my life without making a mark - and then you sat next to me and looked at me, and now i can't ride a train without seeing you everywhere, which means I was seen, which means I exist in someone else's story, which means I'm not invisible anymore.

So here's the deal: I'm not invisible. You are proof of it.

Here I am in my apartment with the blue tape on every wall and nothing painted, waiting for you to find me. I could pretend I'm writing to everyone - assume a middle distance and transcend myself - but I'm writing to you and you know it.

There was one time, we were at the bar then, and you had just gone somewhere inside your head - I could see it happen, the departure, mid-sentence - and I almost said where did you just go? but I didn't because I was already somewhere too. It doesn't always matter where we are but here I am and I say hello, sitting next to you this time, just pretend I'm sitting next to you this time, please. You would like it here. Maybe you would like it here. I think that maybe you would like it here. There's painter's tape on the light switch and the spackle's the wrong grade and… and all these books have been slant-wise because I had been meaning to give you that one book that held the structural stability of an entire shelves worth of books… but you would like it here.

I work my jobs, I take my trains. Button the coat and go to work, unbutton the coat and go to sleep. I sleep. I dream. I wake. I collect. I get out the napkin and start writing down the things that affix the meaning to the evening, the inner life to the barstool, the names to the faces. I float too much to settle in the actual world. I envy your routine but that's the deal - you're a Friday and I'm a bar and when I try to guess your trajectory I end up telling my own story - 

my own story… isn't that crazy?

But you are my stranger and I think about you sideways daily. Sideways because I have to cast it out in all directions, hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you. You and your stool and your lager and your coat pockets that apparently contain nothing, if the bartender is to be believed.

I asked him for your number. I told him not to tell you, which is childish, and I'm sure he hasn't told you. It's been in my phone for eleven days, unsaved, filed under cowardice. (You alone can make eleven days feel like a year or two. I used to sleep eleven days! [1]) I've been rereading the evening. I think it's about me in a way that might not be flattering, but that's okay. We dream and dream of being known and then finally someone sits next to us and listens and we bolt. We leave a twenty on the bar and bolt. Anyway: story received, story kept. You looked at me long enough to see something underneath the prying. Thanks. Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.

[1] subject to hyperbole. i dont sleep that much. im sure you know it's sarcastic but just in case, just in case.

So here we are: me being here and you being off the map and me sending this across the wires and hoping to be received. You're making me work for this and that's okay too. I was pushing too hard, asking too much, and you let me anyway, and yes, this has been the shape of it all along: a place for the story to land, the airport of someone else's listening.

The question I keep asking myself is do you have a real reason to send this and can you prove it? And of course there is no definitive answer. A sensible person would do the math. A sensible person would weigh the facts and arrive at a conclusion. People, they make it up as they go along. They find connections between things where there aren't any. They get strange about it, they refuse to call, they take it deep inside themselves and fold it into something unrecognizable and then they set it down on the table. Or they send it as a text to an unsaved number at one in the morning.

I had a tape recorder when I was nine. I walked around recording everything - the kettle, my sister fighting with the remote, traffic from the window. I thought if I collected enough of the world I could play it back and it would make sense. It never made sense.

That's what I do. I sit next to strangers and I press record and I leave. The leaving is the easy part. The part after the leaving - where the tape keeps playing even though you've pressed stop - I have no practice in.

Of course, I wonder if you think about it too, which is, really, beside the point. I don't do this to be thought about, I do it because the evening keeps getting bigger in my memory - really, unmovable - and that's just what happens.

So here we are again, words on a screen, the voice that wants to be a hand, the bridge with no opposite side. You're the only one. Sure, we invent each other. We agreed to that somewhere between the Pocky and the lager. Stranger and bartender's regular, Friday and the rest of the week. We do what we do and what I do is put the words on the screen and stare at them.

So here you are, reading this, expecting something. A reason perhaps, or an apology for bolting. You're ready and I'm ready too. Have you been waiting long? I've put it together for you, bundled it all up, because it's nice to put yourself inside someone's phone at one in the morning, like origami cranes and family trees and fifty-dollar tips. Here is a place for it to happen. A place where I can say it:

I'm not invisible. You are proof of it.

If you want, we could sit somewhere again. I'm good at sitting somewhere. You seem to be too. [2]

PS: the bartender gave me the exact times you come into the bar. I waited on a Friday where you were supposedly there. I sat in the car for about 20 minutes before bolting back home. Then I did it again. Your routines are rubbing off on me.

-

[2] I really had to add a Richard Siken reference into this fic. I bundled it up and made it specific to this story but I highly recommend reading the original. Here it is[https://web.archive.org/web/20211127225334/http://sporkpress.com/2_1/Pieces/Siken.htm]. Tears and more tears.

-

How many read-throughs did it take? Gawon sent you a thousand-word-and-then-some letter that held everything she ever held in these meek eleven days which held years for her. Years!

You can already imagine Gawon in the kitchen - or her voice ringing from the kitchen, spreading jam on that slighty burnt toast (because of course your charmful toaster is a little old-fashioned and selective with its burning) - and you're in your boxers and a t-shirt that has her perfume all over it. It's a living thing at this hour.

Utterly enthralled. A way to put it.

Then:

[number redacted] 1:21 AM: apt 4F at hannam residences

She sent her address.

You put on pants that were on the couch, your renovation pants. Paint-struck and everything else on it. Who gives a fuck. She's in the kitchen and you're in your boxers.

You picked up your keys and forgot your jacket. The November air hit like feathers. You drove fourteen minutes or a few seconds. You brain had read the letter, processed it and resigned then and there - what remained was a man in a car following the GPS voice. 

It was a gated community. A slight drive up a hill. The gate opened anyway and there was nowhere to scrutinize where you were going with renovation clothes. There was no signage: only sleek limestone and tall windows that somehow had obscured the inside fo the apartments. 

You parked your car in some discrete corner and moved across the units. The inside emanated that same sleek-style. Single orchid on a table that looked more expensive than it should've. You walked past the unmanned concierge desk, into the elevator that moved without a sound. Onto the fourth floor.

The hallway carpet ate your footsteps, must've been deeper than the sole of your shoes. 4A, 4B, 4C, all between large expanses of abstract art - what looked like Egon Schiele dupes but very well might've been the real pieces. You stopped at 4F. The door had a brass knob, just something you noticed. 

You knocked.

There was airtight silence, nothing. It took longer - 

the lock turned and the door swung inward and she was standing there in a t-shirt that ended just above the top of her thighs, barefoot on dark hardwood, hair down, holding her phone in one hand with the screen still lit - your conversation still open, that selection to delete the message still there.

She looked at you. At the jeans with the drywall dust and pain. The absence of a jacket. At the fact of you, standing in her hallway - routine man, never missed an hour out of routine - twenty-two minutes after she'd pressed send, hours after when you usually sleep.

'Hi,' you said. 

'No'

'No?'

'No, you're not - you can't be here. That's not - I just sent that.'

'I know. I read it.'

'You read it and you drove here?'

'You put the address in the text.'

'The address was a - that was decorative! That was for ambiance! You were supposed to save it and think about it for several days and then maybe - we go our separate ways.'

'Your theory of mind needs work,' you joke, 'you sent the message and then the address. How can I not come?'

'Because one in the morning is when coward send things! That's the whole point of one in the morning! You send the thing and you go to sleep and you build your defenses in the daylight like a normal person!'

You looked at her, then to yourself. Pointing with your whole hand at what you're wearing - what pants were available, painted, maybe ripped, everything in between.

She stared at you, bit the inside of her cheek, looked at the ceiling as if there was a teleprompter there.

'Those are…' She stepped into the door, one hand on the frame; pulling your wrist, 'come in before one of my neighbors calls someone.'

You stepped inside. She was right in front of you - undone at one in the morning - and behind her was lengths of painter's tape that had their edges peel off from not being used. And on the bathroom door, the correct knob lay seated - almost flush - a degree or two off, someone watched a tutorial and gotten close enough.

'You installed it,' you said.

She followed your eyes to the bathroom door. 'It took me forty minutes and a youtube video. The man kept referring to the screwdriver with its government name - phillips something something.'

She continued, 'it's crooked but it closes. I don't need it to be level, I need it to not fall off again while I'm in the shower, which is the bare minimum I'm asking of the objects in my life right now.' She walked past you to the kitchen - an open thing, marble island, fridge with its own weather system - and she picked up a glass that had been sitting there, which meant she'd been standing in this kitchen holding water before you knocked.

'Do you want something? I have water. I have some lager - the same lager.'

'The same lager?'

'I believe I made it clear, very clear, in a thousand-word-and-then-some letter at one in the morning, that I collected everything from our evening.' She opened the fridge, reached in. The inside was clean, organized. A whole pack of lager, unopened was the outlier. She'd bought it and never touched it.

She slipped you a bottle and a bottle for herself.

You sipped. It had, somehow, tasted better. Everything tasted better, the air, the beer, the residual citrus. Something more lucid to it, maybe it was the night, maybe it was Gawon.

'Verdict?'

'Better than the bar's.'

She grinned at that.

You looked at the taped wall. 'I was thinking about that door knob. But it seems you resolved that on your own. When did you do all this?' You point.

'July.'

'July.'

'Yes. The manifestation of procrastination. In my defence, though, I bought the tape. I bought the primer, I bought a roller and one of those little trays and I even bought the weird angled brush for the corners, because the woman at the store said corners are where amateurs fail, and I thought, right, I am not going to fail at corners. I was very precise with how I taped and then looked at all the tape and never touched the primer.'

She said this all in one breath.

'Your letter,' you said.

'We could also not.'

'The train part.'

'I described you as a composite corpse assembled from the body parts of subway passengers. I remember. Like organ harvesting. But I think there's relevant context before I -'

'You're not insane. Far from it. It made sense.'

'Made sense how?'

'I'd rather not say.'

'You fragment me into a composite corpse as well?'

'That's one way of putting it.'

'Which parts?' A grin appeared on her. Relieved, perhaps.

'Your fingers on the beer. The glass tilted because your hand's too weak for the mug.'

'That mug could house a family of four. It's a war crime.' Her hair fell forward over one shoulder, this dark curtain.'

'You should know,' she said, 'that I almost didn't send it. I wrote it in the Notes app. Which is where things go to die. I have forty-seven notes in that app and not a single one has become anything; grocery lists that I forget to consult the moment I enter the supermarket; ideas for prose; a pros-and-cons list about cutting my hair that I consulted for three months before making a decision I immediately regretted.'

She picked up the water glass. 'The point is, the app is a graveyard. The letter should've stayed there.'

'It didn't.'

'Because at twelve-fifty in the morning I moved it from the Notes app into the text field and the text field had this energy to it, I felt compelled to press it, it was like a jump pad. Once I pressed it, I tried my damned-est to delete it instantly. I caught my breath by reading it over and over and then you showed up before I went through with it.'

She continued, 'you coming was not part of the decision tree. The branches are: you text back something kind in the morning and we have a polite exchange and then slowly, tastefully, never speak again. And one where you don't reply and I delete everything and learn a valuable lesson about the Notes app being the correct final destination for my feelings.' She paused. 'There was no branch where you show up.'

'And yet.'

'You came.'

'You know why.'

'I want to hear a reason that isn't the letter. The letter is a thousand words of me being -' she waved her hand, 'unwell. Give me a reason that has nothing to do with the letter.'

You looked at the tape on her walls. The edges curling where the adhesive had given way a few months ago.

'The door knob,' you said.

'What?'

'At the hardware store. You were holding the wrong knob and I told you it was exterior hardware and you grabbed the right one and left. And I stood there in an empty aisle holding nothing and I thought: she's going to go home and install that by herself. She's going to watch a tutorial and get it a degree or two off and it's going to close but not perfectly and she's going to decide that's good enough.' You looked at the bathroom door, the knob seated almost flush. 'And I wanted to be there for that. Which is a stupid thing to want.'

She stared at you.

'That's your reason.'

'That's a reason.'

'That's -' she pressed her lips together. Looked at the ceiling. Blinked more than once. 'That's a really good answer and I need a second.'

'Take your time.'

'I'm going to stand here and be furious that you out-answered me in my own apartment after I wrote you the most embarrassing letter in the history of digital communication and you show up and say "door knob" and it's better than everything I wrote. That's -' She came around the island. Stood on your side now. 'That's not fair.'

She was close enough to see the goosebumps on your forearms where the cuffs were rolled. The strand of hair had fallen across her face again, the same one that had been refusing to stay put, and you reached across and pushed it off her face, finally, this stupid strand, and tucked it behind her ear and your thumb stayed on her cheekbone and she closed her eyes.

'You must've been cold,' she said.

'Yes.'

'It's November.'

'I know what month it is.'

She opened her eyes. She was looking at your arms, at the small hairs standing from the cold, and you were looking at her looking at your arms, and neither of you was looking at each other's face.

She kissed you first. The sequence is unreliable because what actually happened was she got closer to touch your arm to measure the frozen of your arm and then the glass of water got knocked by someone's elbow and when you tried to catch it your arm wrapped around her waist and the glass rolled off the counter and hit the floor and didn't break because of course she owned the kind of glasses that don't break, and the water spread across the hardwood.

She tasted like the beer, the faintest trace of toothpaste, that weird all-encompassing perfume that swallows you whole. Your hand went to her jaw - that jaw, the one you've been eyeing at the bar table - it was warm and sharp and -

She pulled back. Enough to speak.

'Your hands are freezing.' She smiled, 'is there anything you did bring?'

'Myself.'

'Insufficient.' She kissed you again. Her fingers in the collar of your t-shirt, grasp-tight, like she'd been thinking about this for years, she pulled back again. 'This is a terrible shirt.'

'Because you sent me a sincere letter that turned my brain into mush; I did not have the mind for a wardrobe. Can we stop reviewing my outfit?'

'It's just cute how you chase my lips.' She blows at your lips, a grin.

You kissed her to shut her up, which didn't work, because she laughed into it - this full sound that vibrated against your lips and accidentally filled both your cheeks with air so you had to let go just a bit.

Your hand went from her jaw to the back of her head, the split between hair and skin in the back.

'Couch,' she said.

'Where.' You make a breathy inquiry into her mouth.

'Behind you. The - just move back a little, just reverse straight.' The geometry of the maneuver was stupid and graceless and at one point your calf hit the coffee table and something on it - book, books, whatever - slid and toppled and then the backs of your knees hit the couch and she was above you, one knee on either side, the oversized shirt tenting around you both.

She looked down at you. You looked up at her. Her hair fell forward and curtained the sides of your face and the whole apartment disappeared. Her face in the frame of dark hair, her moles, her nose, her everything - god, she's just too beautiful. 

'Hi,' she said.

'Hi.'

You put your hands on her waist. The shirt was thin and through it you could feel the heat of her, the ribs, the expansion of her breathing. Just a little shaking.

'Okay,' she said. 'Now take off the pipe pants. They're ruining my couch.'

You did. Standing there, in her apartment, at one-something in the morning, stepping out of painted jeans in front of the woman you mythologized.

Gawon looked at your boxers, looked at them for a long time.

'Plaid boxers,' she said. 'You drove across town, in November, without a jacket, to see a woman who wrote you a love letter, and you're wearing plaid boxers.'

'They were on top of the pile.'

'The audacity.' But she was grinning. She pushed you gently back onto the couch. Knees on either side of your lap, her face level with yours. 'I believe you now - about the rushing.'

Her breathing had changed to a slower register.

'What else do you do,' she said. 'I sent you a thousand-word letter about trains and the interior of my psyche. You know everything about me. Well, except for the fact that I used to be an idol.' She paused, trying to gauge what you were thinking.

'It's a shame you've short-circuited me down to my last two brain cells, otherwise I'd be more interested in that idol story of yours.' Your face got closer, until your noses were touching and you leaned just part-way, this slotting way, to kiss her again. And again. And again.

'Did I tell you that I read?' You add between the kisses.

'What book?'

'It doesn't matter what book. It's a page issue. I'm stuck on a page. Was.'

'Mhm.'

'I'm past that book now.'

She nodded during one of the kisses, 'That's progress.' In this serious, adorable way.

'It was a long book.'

'You're a slow reader.' She put more emphasis into her grasp around your neck. 'I'll wait.'

You kissed her harder. She leaned into it, her weight shifting. You ran your hand along her spine, each vertebra viscerally real under your fingers.

'Bed,' she said.

'The couch.' You insisted back.

'The couch was fine before.' She extended her hand. 'Get up.'

You took her hand. She pulled you up, stronger than she looked, and led you down the hallway past the books and the blue tape.

Every door in her apartment was slightly open, every one. The front door had been open when you arrived. The bathroom a crack open. And the bedroom door at the end of the hallway, not enough to see inside but enough to say I didn't close this, I left it for you, I left every door tonight slightly open. She really put her all into this.

You pushed it open. The bedroom was enormous. More windows, floor-to-ceiling, more city. The bed was wide and low and white and half-unmade, as if she inhabited just a part of it and that was the only unmade part. The way light pooled across made it look like art.

She stood in the doorway behind you.

'I wasn't expecting you to come. By the way.'

'We've done this bit.'

'We'll keep doing it. It's a good bit, it's unbelievable, really.' She replied back with a grin.

She walked past you to the far side of the bed. Her side. Looked up at you across the white expanse of sheets. In the window-light from the city her skin held a blue tint, a coolness, and the shadows found the hollows of her collarbones and the ridges of her shoulders and the way she demurely held her forearm to barely - just barely - cover her nipples and the line where her underwear met her hip and you stood there in plaid boxers at the foot of a stranger's bed in a building you'd never been in, in a neighborhood you'd never visited, and the feeling was vertiginous, the feeling was standing at an altitude you hadn't expected.

You got on the bed. Crossed it on your knees. She just sat there on the edge, and when you reached her you put your hand on the side of her face, thumb on her cheekbone, fingers in her hair, and tilted her face up toward yours. 

You caught her lips gently. 

'I was invisible - ' you kissed her again. Seeing her lips unspooled, accelerating, each clause folding itself into each velvety note - it's unendurable.

She grabbed the back of your neck with both hands and pulled you down and you went. Onto the white sheets, into her side, her body warm and real and breathing hard against your mouth. Legs wrapped around and her heels pressed into the backs of your thighs and it was totality: every square inch that could touch was touching, and through the thin two fabrics that were quickly becoming redundant - touching, rubbing, all-wet. 

'You're a fast reader all of a sudden.'

'I found a good book.'

She laughed into the kiss. Her hands went to the waistband of your bxoers and yours went to her hips and the last of the fabric came off in this artless, graceless way where your boxers got stuck on your thighs and she had to stop kissing to stare down for a visual indicator of how 'off' your boxers were, and you did the same, less gracefully, maybe fully ripping her panties off, it didn't matter: two people are just trying to get to each other and cotton is in the way. That way. It's all-becoming.

It was all skin. On these white sheets, you pressed into the honey of her body, her neck, her wetness gathered the underside of your shaft. You pressed deeper and Gawon groaned with pleasure, she bit the skin of her index finger as you pressed deeper - not yet penetrating; shifting your hips into languid strokes that teetered on her wet folds; this perfect muffled sigh of wet flesh. And her pelvis began moving, just so, just so - her velvety folds molding on the underside of your shaft. 

'Condom.' You groan, you barely get out. Her pussy's choking you - choking every nerve of yours that even a bundle of syllables becomes harder than everything to get out…

' - don't have - ungh.'

And this is where the moral calculus begins: you're inside of her home, you didn't bring anything except yourself - she's partial to how you are you and that got you in her bed, rubbing your cock against her pussy - and now you haven't the grace to even have a condom on you. Shame, shame!

Gawon held the back of your neck again, and whispered, as low as her fucked-up nerves allowed: 'it doesnt matter, it doesnt matter, i dont even care if you come inside.'

And so this is the dilemma: what is the point of this moral calculus if she doesn't care about anything but you? You are you and you can fuck me like that. That you're gonna enter her with no barrier, that you might even come and paint her cervix and she'll allow that? 

The lips of her sex, plump now, parted and glid against the rigid length of you again. Smooth, soft, some silky resistance. with each grind the delicate hood of her clitoris would catch - just a bit - and tug against the base of you, drawing a sharp gasp from that was swallowed by your mouth. [1]

[1] To the unimaginative mind, she's saying every word in the dictionary to deal with her own orgasm on the precipice, you're bringing her over the edge, then pulling her off that cliff and then dropping her lower. Sadistic!

She was so wet, a slick dew that gathered and spread. Your own flesh pressed and straining upward - schlick schlick and some oh fucks - into the slick groove of her. The crown of your shaft, would catch the edge of her opening with each roll, nudging, spreading her apart, breaking her apart - that cliff she's barely an ankle above the falling line. And the only sound is this moist squelch of two sets meeting and parting, meeting and parting, the sticky-softness of condensation building between bodies making parting from skin harder - colder.

Her hands tightened on your shoulders, and she said. 'Fuck me. Please'

'But'

'I don't care, I'll carry your baby.'

You entered her. Her breath caught halfway, the arch of her back that was processing just the tip. You listened to the arch calm down. Pressed forward in increments. Felt her open around you in degrees, accompanied by these desperate mewls against your collarbone. You kissed her ears and entered deeper into her. 

She shook and vibrated and lost her voice when you were fully inside her. You held still, forehead to forehead, and her mouth was slightly open, breathing in - something that had nothing to do with lungs.

'Okay?' you said.

She opened her eyes, they were glassy and enormous and so close you could see yourself in them.

She pulled on your shoulders, and gave a wavering kiss that broke when you pulled out inch-by-inch. You moved and her hips, tilted just a little, meeting you part-way. Her hands slid from your shoulders down to your back, fingernails digging deeper - it was pain for another morning. 

You hit her deeper and faster, into her slick-strung insides that grasped and clung and slid. And she was speechless, she tried - opening her mouth to let out words that didn't form. You repeated these thrusts, her hands went back around her pillow, breasts jumping in-parallel your thrusts, her neck-line taut and catching the blue night.

She got louder, these girlish moans that grew more frequent, closer together, overlapping. But her hips moved faster - and at one point you had to catch up to her! - and the bed frame creaked luxuriously - aristocratically, this creak of expensive joinery under unexpected strain. And she said, of all things, 'the bed's recording this too' and you laughed into her mouth.

You felt her intensify in the particulars - the way her eyebrows strained and the muscle of her arm strained as she grasped the pillow tighter than before, you caught one nipple in your mouth between the thrusts - now obscenely automatic - you kissed the curve of her top breast, the upper-top of it, then even higher, and she giggled: 'you're gross'. So you bit down just a tad, another girlish yelp before you went straight back to her mouth. 

'Don't stop,' she said. Barely audible. 'Don't - '

'I'm - '

The orgasm ripped through her entire body. First at the hips: light spasms that halted the moment the orgasm travelled up her spine, then the reality of it: her mouth let out the syllables 'I'm cumming' as if wasn't the most obvious little thing. And she let out this fractured exhale, all-ragged, breaking, on something - could've been your name.

Her legs shook again. Her folds squeezed and you could feel it around your cock. Her thighs were tight around your waist. 

'Keep going.' She said.

'I should - ' Well you should stop. Anything more and you'll -

Her heels pressed deeper into the small of your back. 

You buried your mouth in hers, tonguing at her before you entered all the way to the hilt, kissing her cervix. Your bodies were damp now, hints of citrus, coffee by the bedside, the smell of sex and orgasms in the air. You moved faster and she was mouthing these fragments - yes and there and I've got you and stay. and that's what you did, thrusting into her, grasping at her breasts, fucking into her pussy, bruising her cervix, crushing her like she wanted you to. 

Then you felt it, the ultimate urge to let loose. You pulled out as quickly as you could, the slick of her pussy connected the head of your cock by a strand and you fisted your cock until you blasted all over her belly. Drops of your cum had landed on her folds, glazed, pink and white and honey. 

It was an emergency obviously, and yet, she pressed her fingers into her pussy, bringing her fingers up, testing the elasticity of the fluid and pressing it on her tongue - tasting it - before pushing the rest into her folds.

for fuck's sake this woman is gonna end you. You fell to her side, breathing hard as she was, ribcages expanding in and out in this atmosphere of heat and sex.

'Still there?' Her fingers traced the area where your heart was.

'Still there.'

'Good. I need you alive.'

'That's the bar? Alive?'

'For you, sure, that's the only requirement - everything else is a bonus.' Her finger traced a circle on your chest. 'Some bonuses are more generous than others.'

'Are you grading right now?'

'It's a… holistic evaluation.'

'And?'

'Above average.'

'Above average. I swear you were crying from pleasure.'

She slapped you lightly on the shoulder, 'Better than average. Statistically anomalous, even. I'd need a larger sample size to confirm but the preliminary data is -' she rolled over to your side, thigh on top of your thigh, a kiss on your shoulder, 'substantial.'

'You're making dick jokes in bed.'

'It was intended to be statistical. The phallic interpretation is entirely yours. I can't control where your mind goes.' She kissed your collarbone. 'But yes.'

You laughed and she turned it into a kiss on your lips. And she settled deeper, burrowing, pressing into you the way she pressed open books into damage.

'I'm not leaving, just so you know,' she said.

'I can tell.' You tried to move a leg and she tightened her grasp.

'I happen to want to be exactly here where I want, so I'm not moving. I'm a barnacle.'

'How romantic.'

'Really, I'm a romantic person. I write letters about imagining a cut-up version of you on trains; that's the Gawon experience, you signed up for this.'

You wrapped your arms around her, the whole ridiculous barnacle arrangement, her legs knotted in yours, her arms cinched around your ribs, her face buried in your chest.

'You're mine,' she said. 'I don't care that it's been an hour and a letter and two beers. You're mine. I'm keeping you.'

'Obviously.' She tightened her grip. A full-body squeeze, every limb. 'And now I'm fused to your chest in my own bed at two in the morning and you're inside me and I'm on earth. I'm on the ground. I'm so on the ground right now.'

'I'm floating. Just a little. Not too much.' You reply.

She held you, her heartbeat on your ribs. Your hand in her hair. Her breath on your skin in a rhythm that was calming. Gentle inhales and exhales.

'For the record,' she murmured, eyes closed now, words going soft, 'the preliminary data really is exceptional. The sample size issue stands. We'll need to replicate. Repeatedly. For scientific integrity.'

'How repeatedly.'

'Extensively.' A pause. Her voice almost gone. 'Longitudinally.'

'That's another -'

'Go to sleep.'

She fell asleep on top of you, on you; the full weight of her, which was not much, which was less than you expected, but which pressed you into the mattress with a force that had nothing to do with mass and everything to do with the fact that she was here and real and breathing gently into your chest. Her cold feet pressed against your shins. Still cold, even now, even after everything, as if her feet existed in a separate climate zone and no amount of anything could fix it.

A/N: So I'm back! I've actually been doing great. I know absence is a bit of a bad sign but honestly this year has been shaping up to be my best ever (my prime!!!). I have a lot of time in my hands and it turns out that the stress (from other factors) was actually fueling my output last year. So this year: low cortisol poasting... thanks to everyone that waited!!

About the work: this is part 1 of a 30k. I decided that the second part needed a lot of work. I might upload it a few weeks later or months later... we'll see.

If you didn't want to upset her, you'd say how much you envy the staff surrounding her for most of the day. They get to be with her longer than a lustful night, attending to her hair, face, and lips. They have the blessing to see her behind the scenes, and not merely on a digital screen, from which she seems so close, but so far away. 

How do you, with your role as her shadow, stray apart from her?

Yeah, that’s right: you're kind of her shadow. No, scratch that—you are her shadow, from head to toe. Usually, with other celebrities of esteemed status like Gawon's, it's the girl who gets coined as male celebrity's tail slash girlfriend. Male wrestler's fuckbuddy. Male idol's rumored fling. Male actor’s femme fatale lead. But with Gawon, the media holds a different kind of respect. If you look past the camera flashes and headlines, you’re almost certain it’s fear. She made sure to instill that through her years in the spotlight.

The press tried to invent Lee Gawon. But she made clear she wasn’t just Chloe Lee the dancer or the lookalike of a boy group member she now overshadows. Gawon is her own person—she's the ambassador, model, actress, founder, and so much more. Any name attached to her is lucky to even be within her proximity.  

Perhaps that is why the press, both local and international, only know you as miss Lee’s boyfriend. You’re her accessory, could be a bracelet with how you hang on her forearm at events. You’re her bodyguard, looming over her when you gather her stuff from her Porsche. Hell, with the way she’s got you wrapped around her finger, you’re her pet. 

It's safe to say that you might like it that way, as humiliating as it sounds. 

That's how you felt when she asked you to call her "Mistress."

You | 9:41 PM, SAT | Gawon

You | 9:41 PM, SAT | where are you

Mistress | 9:43 PM, SAT | Nearly there, babe.

Mistress | 9:49 PM, SAT | I'm here :) 

You practically rush to the door. Your hands trembling, you open the door of the mansion you share with her, and there stands Gawon. 

She's wrapped up in the most expensive furs, dressed from head to toe in the newest line she's representing. Her ruby red lips are painted with Prada lipstick, enough to match the color of blood.

"Mistress." You bow. Fur meets your rough skin as you help Gawon out of the coat. You're always there to help her out. You're hers, aren't you? That's your job.

"Sweetheart," Gawon says back, smiling. She eases herself out of the furs and kisses you on your mouth. "How have you been?"

You can't say anything understandable if she's holding your chin like that, or when her shadowed eyes are coaxing you into a battle of wills. "G-good," you stammer out, nevertheless.

"Just good?" 

"I missed you all day, Mistress. When you came home, it all became perfect."

Gawon nods understandingly. "I thought so," she remarks, with a soft nuzzle of your nose. 

All that's left on Gawon's tall, slender body is her black suit and blazer. The tie looks especially attractive on her, but you have a feeling that it doesn't solely belong to her neckline—it has other unfulfilled purposes. Other plans dreamed up by Gawon in that gorgeous head.

You're correct, for one of those signs is her heels remaining on her feet. Gawon takes good care of her shoes. They’re polished by well-paid maids and kept safely in her closet. So if she keeps them on during the night, it means something. They’re the prophecy foretelling your fate for the night.

"Did you see my pictures, baby boy?" asks Gawon expectantly. She's walking down the carpet to the living room, where soft cushions are prepared for her to rest her busy frame on. 

Seen them? You savored them. Consumed them as a wolf would a lone rabbit. Held onto them like a lifeline, like you were on the edge of a cliff.

As her boyfriend, you got to have a sneak peek of her new covers and pictorials, and the most recent one she came home from is your favorite yet. Probably the best, if you really think about it.

It's the colors differing perfectly together that seal it for you. The red background matches her lips, posed in serious, plump lines before a lipstick curled in her hands. However, there's the ebony darkness of her hair and makeup to take notice of, and the untainted white of her suit. They're all strong colors, portrayed steadily by one of the most learned models in the industry. You're proud of how she posed for it; the result looks beautiful. She is beautiful.

"I… I loved them, Mistress," you admit. Your cheeks fill with colored adoration. "I looked at them all day."

"Thank you. I brought home the lipstick they got me, and I want to try it with you."

"M-Mistress?" 

Gawon chuckles prettily. When she smiles, the intimidating aura of her face dissolves into a fox-like adorableness. Her eyes crinkle and her brows, usually dark and strong, knit together in laughter. She could be adorable, honestly. But of course the departure of the sweet moment is hastened, with only a tiny smile remaining post mortem. 

"Not in that way," she clarifies. "Just… trust me on this, please?"

You're hesitant. What would she do with you? What if you don't like it?

"If you don't want to try it, we won't," says Gawon softly. 

"I want to do it," you say all too quickly. Because there isn’t a thing you won’t do for her. Not one.

"Thank you. Bedroom?"

"Yes, Mistress."

The paced clicks of Gawon's white heels follow you from behind. She strolls through the mansion as if its luxuries hold no extraordinariness that sets it apart from a flea market rag doll. Then you remember: that's Gawon’s reality. The tiger skin carpet and chandeliers are things she's worked hard for and lived with for years only barely longer than the ones she spent climbing up to her status now. She comes from old money but now it overflows in several accounts. She was born rich and will die rich.

Speaking of, climbing all the way upstairs in heels seems tedious. There's a reason why your special bedroom is on the first floor.

There's also a reason why the bedroom is this wide, and has a closet of that size. And it doesn't store just clothes.

"Lie down, honey," coos Gawon. "And take off your clothes."

You obey, and she immediately undoes the knot of her white tie. You shiver, although you've become acquaintances with the centralized wind of your home and Gawon's. Her tie slithers around your joined wrists. It traps them behind one of the decorative bars of the headboard. You don't bother struggling; you know your place well enough to understand it's below her.

"You're okay with your feet being tied, too, I presume?" 

She's done it millions of times: holding your arms and legs back until they're numb under her control, using them to keep you still. But still, Gawon wants to know if you're comfortable. 

"Y-yes, Mistress," you reply.

Gawon smiles appreciatively. The blazer slips off her arms, leaving her in a formal tube top with transparent straps. She cares not for the price of the designer blazer, especially not when she's tying their sleeves around your feet to the footboard. Sometimes her resourcefulness is way off the charts. 

"What are you gonna do to me?" you ask. There's a perfect blend of fear and excitement in your trembling voice. You can see the way it turns Gawon on; she bites her lower lip as if she craved to draw blood as red as her lipstick from it.

Gawon lowers herself beside your ear, her words leaving your hands and spine chilled:

"Remind you who you belong to." 

"Mistress—"

"Shhh." 

The young woman leaves kisses along your naked thighs. There's a trail of red shaped to the form of her heart-resembling lips. It marks the path of her love. 

It makes you shake in anticipation, and she's only building up more of the suspense. As if rehearsed, perfected days prior to this, she parts your legs a little. 

"Such a pretty cock," she says. "It's all mine, no?"

Hard to confirm when she's kissing its underside, but you do it anyway. Whatever circumstance a situation throws at you, you fight it to answer Gawon.

Her pink tongue caresses your sensitive dick. She licks and laps and sucks, and she's not even sucking it yet. It makes you feel weak, but you always are with her. It's nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary, but it still makes your heart burn with lust.

Gawon licks a sharp stripe under your cock, making your breath catch on nothing. Her lipstick decorates your tip as she suckles on it. She remains determined to caress what's beneath your cockhead with gentle laps. 

"So delicious," she murmurs. "Think I want to ride it, baby boy. But I think your cute face will do first."

"Yes please, Mistress."

"Say that you're mine first."

"I'm yours." It's nothing short of the truth. 

Gawon brings out her lipstick. You gasp when the glossy tip glides along your thighs in measured lines. So that's what she was talking about.

You look down. She's written "Mistress' Baby Boy" on your skin. And she's only getting started.

"Say it again," she orders. Her breath is hot; she’s getting off on this as much as you are. There’s a reason she started this gamble. 

"I'm yours, Mistress."

There she goes again, writing on your body another varied form of possession. Soon, she's decorated your legs with several of them: prettiest boy; Mistress' only; most perfect cock. You appreciate the flattery nevertheless.

"Good.” She's done with writing on you. For now. 

Her dress pants slip down her milky legs. You watch with morbid fascination. Watch how the silk drags down paleness that almost matches its color. See how the bareness of her full thighs release themselves from her panties, and close around your head as she sits on your face.

You know what to do, and you know exactly how Gawon likes it. You lift your chin higher to lick at her core, but not quite letting your tongue enter her. She moans instantly, her weight breaking down harder on your face. You're glad to be burdened by it. It's more of a blessing, really, when you consider how much she's dripping, as if she were waiting for this all day.

Maybe she was.

You tease her silken hole and slide the tip of your tongue up her slit until it tickles her clit. Gawon squirms down on you in response. The hold of her thighs around your head becomes stronger, and you take that as an obvious sign that you should obviously go on. Maybe even take it up a notch, which is why you go through with sucking on her bundle of nerves rather than merely considering it.

It's one of Gawon's few weak spots, speaking in both sexual and industrial terms. But of course, you know all about it. How could you not when she pushes her core onto your face harder?

"Oh fuck, baby boy," she moans. "You're so good to me."

When she tastes like heaven, you're bound to be. Her beautiful taste pours into your mouth and has you licking inside her grasping hole for more. There, you lap your tongue against her textured walls to find some of her weak spots. Press against it when you successfully find one, causing Gawon to suffocate you with her creamy thighs and stealing your breath with how she weighs her pussy down on you.

If this is how you die, it's completely fine by you. Having Gawon's glorious ass sitting on your face and her delicious cunt grabbing your tongue for it to stay are all you need to go out happy. Savor it all. Caress her clit with your tongue right before capturing it between your lips and assaulting it with violent suction. Let saliva and juices drip down on you with no care in the world—this, this right here is heaven. Only difference between your mistress and the heaven in the clouds is that here, the pleasure matches one you could go to hell for.

Gawon dizzies you with her swaying hips. "Fuck, baby," she says loudly. Playing with her tits below the white tube top, she gyrates her core on your mouth harder. "I'm so so close, baby boy."

Her folds parted to welcome your eager tongue. They close the entrance to imprison you. It's a trap that you enjoy being tricked into as you draw several forms inside and on her sensitive nub. 

In a way, you've trapped Gawon, too. For once, the tables are turned around and you have her under your control although you're underneath her. Your mouth is a dangerous predicament, and you still knowingly assault her with it. 

Just look at the way she gazes down upon you, with shadowed, hooded eyes, and hear the way she whispers, "Please, baby, that's it—keep fucking my pussy like that, Mistress is so close, she's going to cum all over your pretty little face—"

It only takes one-after-the-other suckling on her clit for Gawon to bite what she barks. Juices no longer drip only into your mouth, but everywhere. Unladylike screams fill the room as she squirts her delicious juices on your face. The pillow suffers some of the damage, but it's your neck and chin that's fully attacked. You have to close your eyes just in case her cum wanders too far.

Nevertheless, you don't stop tonguefucking her. 

"Yes, yes, that's it," Gawon gasps. Her little broken stammers are everything to live for. "Keep doing that, yes… oh shit, you're so good at this—

"Shit, fuck, too much!"

Usually, you'd stop at the time she says that, but there's too many pros to continue. If you just kept sucking at her perfect pussy, you'd garner more of her cum, plus the possibility of her thighs actually crushing your head. So, albeit her cries, you continue.

"Oh god, fuck." Gawon throws her head back. "Alright, I'll let you have this one, baby boy. But if you do, I won't, fuck, get to ride your pretty cock."

That's an insanely clever way to get you to stop. If there's anything you craved more than her juices in your mouth, it's them on your cock instead.

Gawon giggles in satisfaction. She's sliding off your face, graceful even after getting eaten out. She's graceful anyway even in the most odd situations. It's her brand, to be brief: being the closest thing to a goddess arriving in the mortal world, being the democratic Aphrodite. She still carries it in the bedroom.

Her throne is the little space between your thighs and your cock, which allows her to be so close to engulfing you in herself, but not quite. The smile on her face tells you that yes, she does indeed know how it works, which just so happens to leave you both breathless and in awe of the woman in front of you.

"How should I deal with you, sweetheart?" Gawon asks. She wraps her fingers around your rod and jerks it up and down. 

"Please, mistress…" You try to say more, but you end up silent.

"Yes? Oh, I see. You want me to fuck your big cock with my thighs, huh?" 

As if to demonstrate, Gawon presses her beautiful legs around your dick. Her white, soft flesh stimulates you and has you thrusting up into them. The slick from her earlier orgasm helps your pumps smoothen, and coats your shaft with more than just your own precum.

"Yes, mistress," you say. 

Gawon smiles and tightens the hold of her thighs together. She pushes you down on the bed, telling you that this is a job she'll lead by herself, as she does everything, and bounces on your lap. Her perfect ass ripples as she does, and you can feel her slick folds tease your sensitive flesh. If you're not mistaken, that's her clit grinding on your erection while she fucks you with her thighs, too.

"Gawon, fuck."

"You're forgetting who I am here, sweetheart." She says it gently, but her eyes tell a different story. They tell you of a warning. "What do you call me again?"

That slip-up was on you. You were too wrapped in the embrace of her heat along that you dropped the honorifics. "Mistress, I'm sorry."

"Good. I knew you could do it." Gawon kisses you. "I think my baby boy deserves to fill his mistress up now. Make her cum around his big cock.”

No more abstinence. No more holding back. Those are habits whose deaths took a lot of time, but hey, here you are now. You yield to the temptation. You forget about your dignity, your shame, your life. You pour out every dirty little thing you have thought of doing to Gawon while you stared at her pictures, and she takes it gladly. 

Your cock is lodged in her cunt immediately. You could almost scream. She’s completely tense around your girth but oh-so-wet. And oh-so-fucking-tight. Gawon is the definition of sex itself—it's in the way she does everything: the bounce of her thunderous thighs as her legs weaken from the stretch, her quivering yet sinful moan, her hard nipples. Her toned, creamy thighs locking you in for the ride is just a bonus.

You take the labor to pull yourself up and kiss her all around her beautiful face, worshipping her as you would a deity (oh yes, Gawon counts as a deity, with all that shiny long hair, strong brows, and sculpted nose. The only thing anchoring her to this mortal realm is you.) Her sweet lips are addictive, but a close competitor is her collarbone. It’s sharp and deep, looking like it can cut through your mouth if you dared kiss it. That’s a risk you’re willing to take. You can lick and nibble at that and her neck all day. But even feeling it with your thumb feels forbidden—even in sex, in the dark of the night, she holds an aura that prohibits anyone from touching her, and if anyone gets a chance to, they're extremely lucky.

She reminds you of how lucky you are everyday. Not everyone gets to fuck the Lee Gawon.

You live for the sounds she makes as you suck without boundary on her breasts. Your tongue laces her neck and jaw with slick saliva, one of the steps in your desperate plan to get approval from her. Her appreciative moan, although hot, still lacks for you. So, you draw your hips far backwards and drive them deeper. Gawon gasps in surprise, her clit swollen and pulsing against you. 

You can feel her breaths grow shorter, rougher, and you go on with licking and sucking, multitasking with how you're still steadily thrusting into her beautiful cunt. God, she really does need to remind you of your place. You forget yourself when she fucks you like this. She makes you want more.

"S-so down bad for me, huh?" Gawon laughs. The sharp protrusion of her wrist bumps into your temple as she strokes your hair. She does it gracefully, adoringly, as if she were holding a pet. It’s damn close. "Fuck my pussy like that, show me no other boy can fuck me like you can."

She moans at your cock twitching inside her. There’s a glint of amusement in her brown eyes. "Oh, you like that? Being talked to like you're my fucking slave? Is that what you want?"

Your cheeks are red. She's figured you out. She always does. It's her habit to pick you apart and put your pieces together in a picture you never knew you could form.

She starts to move her curved hips in between gasps of gratification. Her hard nipples press against your chest. You groan beneath her and she clings to you harder, rocking your member inside her cunt desperately. The hard shape of her abs shows how much she’s working for it. They’re flexed and drenched in sweat.

“Mistress,” you whisper into her hair. Pepper the white land of her neck with swift kisses, withholding the urge to bite down on it because you remember your place now. You remember what this is for. “You’re so fucking wet.”

The two of you grind and moan against each other, desperate body upon another desperate body. Her strokes rhythmically slam you against the mattress. You would have groaned painfully if her lips weren’t on top of yours. As soon as they mush against them, she devours you. And it feels literal; her teeth sink into your lower tier while her tongue actively laps at your mouth, as if she were trying to collect your complete taste without leaving a drop behind. She’s eating you alive. Each moan mixed with her heavy pants of pleasure gets lost in the eclipse of your lips.You’re starting to get breathless, but you’re not passing up the opportunity to stay inside Gawon, or to hear her beautiful sounds extracted from her pretty mouth and caused by the steady thrusts.

You can feel her pussy shiver around you. She’s so close. You don’t dare fight the restriction on your wrists but it’s in this moment that you desperately wish you could touch her. Your mouth can only do so much. Leaving hickeys all over her skin can’t possibly match the feeling of squeezing her ass, pulling her closer, or holding her miniscule waist.

But you’re hers—you’ll trade your pleasure for Gawon’s even if it’s killing you.

You let her ride you for a few more, desperate moments until she collapses. Her cunt pulses through each heavy wave of her orgasm. She moans loud next to your ear when you chase your own high. The sticky mess of your orgasms stains the expensive threadcount. 

But soon, Gawon’s French tip nails stop digging into your back painfully. Your wrists are free from their fabric prison. Your mistress is finally spent. She rests her cheek on the flat of your shoulder and sighs in satisfaction. 

----------------------------- 9:05 A.M.

You spotted the elevator doors closing from down the hall and hurried in. As you stepped inside, your eyes met those of a woman about your age standing in the corner. She offered a polite smile upon making the eye contact—nothing flirty, just courteous. You arched a brow and forced a half-smile back before turning abruptly to face the closed door.

It wasn't rudeness, what you just did. She was simply too striking to meet head-on—tall, dark-haired, her features soft in a way that drew the eye and refused to let it rest. The kind of beauty that invited a second look, then a third. With a girlfriend you loved waiting elsewhere, drawing distance felt like the safest choice for you at the moment—aloofness over the risk of temptation and endless what-ifs.

Therefore, you stood rigid with your hands clasped in front of you, staring at your faint reflection in the brushed steel as if it might whisper some social advice. Behind you, she remained quiet in her corner, the air between you already thick with unspoken tension.

The silence stretched just long enough for you to sense something was off. Since the doors closed, the elevator hadn’t moved—no rise, no drop—only a faint electrical hum and the weight of stillness.

You glanced at the panel and realized your mistake. You hadn’t pressed a floor at all, too occupied with avoiding the eyes of an attractive stranger to remember where you were actually trying to go.

Feeling all so silly about yourself, you instantly pressed the second-floor button as it glowed red beneath your fingertip. Then, without fully turning, you stole a glance at her from the corner of your eye.

“Which floor?” you asked.

“Same as you,” she said, her voice soft yet assured.

You hit the close button and straightened, folding your hands neatly in front of you as the doors slid shut. Your posture went rigid, deliberate—an attempt at composure that did little to hide the warmth creeping into your face.

Now that you’d settled a bit calmer, it suddenly occur to you; why hadn't she pressed a button either despite getting on first? That seemed kind of silly too, you thought.

Though still, at the end of the day, you were the one who stood closer to the panel, making the shared oversight to weigh a little heavier on you than it did her, no matter how you tried to spin it.

Anyway, the elevator crept past the first floor after what felt like ten endless seconds of awkward silence. It wasn't the fastest lift in the world, but it was decent enough for what it had to offer—smooth, spacious, well-lit, nearly silent—though the air already carried a subtle, trapped warmth. 

Quietly, you found yourself praising the engineering marvel in your head all through the ride, imagining how efficiently it must have been designed—when the panel finally blinked to 2. You straightened your tie, ready to escape the metal box the moment the doors parted.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

You jabbed the open button repeatedly, and yet nothing happened.

You then glanced over your shoulder to check on the woman. She looked just as baffled as you were—not quite panicking yet, just feigning confusion on her face as the door refused to show an exit.

“That’s funny. The door won’t open,” you said, stating the obvious as the silence suddenly felt worse.

She stepped closer, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “Is it a power outage?”

Your eyes swept the small surrounding. “The lights are still on, so that can't be it,” you said, searching for a better theory. “Maybe something got stuck in the way, or poor lubrication… I don’t know.”

Trying to force a way out, you wedged your fingers into the seam and tugged, muscles straining beneath your now-crumpled shirt. However, the door didn’t seem to budge—not even a millimeter of it—leaving you sweating under your arms for nothing.

She, meanwhile, opted for a less physical approach with her phone, simply holding it high and waving it around as if she was trying to conjure something out of the thin, stuffy air.

“Have you got any service on your phone?” she asked, looking more stressed than before.

You fished your phone from your back pocket. As expected, there were no bars at all—just the blank indifference of a dead signal. And instead of answering with words, you tilted the screen for her to see, because somehow saying no out loud felt like you were giving the situation permission to worsen.

She exhaled sharply in response, followed by a graceful swipe of her silky, brown hair. As ill-timed as it was, the way her jaw and neck tensed during that simple gesture ignited a quiet heat in you, almost as though she were deliberately seductive in her distress.

Regardless, you pulled your gaze away from her and continued to look for an alternative— pressing on the emergency bell button twice for about 5 seconds each, hoping that it would be adequate to notify the help that was around, assuming they were available.

Having done all you could in that situation, you both then stood back and waited in silence, ears instinctively sharpened to every sound you could catch coming from either side of the door. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything much to be heard, even after the bell had been pressed. No lingering footsteps, no commotion of voice—just pure silence.

“Well, at least we’re not stuck in between floors, right?” she said, trying to stay on the positive side of things. “It’ll be easy for us to get out once they've opened the door soon.” 

“Yeah, I hope so,” you said, “I tend to build up a lot of gases when I’m nervous, so it’s probably best that we don't get stuck here for too long.”

She chuckled at your random yet very honest confession before stopping abruptly, realizing that it was a point worth considering as much as it was laughable.

And so, the silence stretched on between you, lingering in the small elevator like a third presence. Standing shoulder to shoulder, you both fixed your eyes on the doors, as if watching closely enough might will them open.

But then a sudden noise shattered the silence that alarmed you both instantly. And no, it wasn’t the sound of rushing footsteps, or a mechanical beep, or simply anything coming from the elevator itself.

Instead, it was the sound of her stomach growling—loud and unmistakable against the hushed calm of the box.

Your eyes met as you both fought back laughter, staring in a silent standoff until she blinked first, cheeks flushing in mild embarrassment.

“Sorry, I haven’t had my breakfast yet,’ she said, hiding her rosy cheeks in mild embarrassment.

“That’s fine,” you said. “At least yours doesn’t come with a smell.” 

She laughed at the comment—a bit more genuine this time now that she was a huge part of the joke itself.

Perhaps the growl had been a blessing in disguise after all, injecting a spark of comedy to the tense situation. After ten minutes of trading minor embarrassments, you’d finally reached a draw, and the shared vulnerability left you both a little more at ease.

“I’m X, by the way,” you said, breaking the ice smoothly. “What’s yours?”

“Gawon,” she said, short and sweet, still recovering from the blush.

“Well, nice to meet you, Gawon,” you said. “Sorry that it has to be in this circumstance. Obviously, not the most ideal time for a get-to-know session now, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah, it’s really not,” she said, snickering. “I’m literally sweating all under my clothes right now. Pretty sure my makeup’s about to melt soon too, so be advised.”

“Be advised of what, exactly?”

“Of… seeing the ugly side of me, I guess?”

“Nah, you’re not ugly,” you said, half-sneering. “If anything, it’s actually quite the opposite.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “Guess I’d take that as a compliment then.”

“It is one, so you should. You’ve got a really nice face on you,” you said. “And I don’t mean that in a weird way or anything. Just an observation that I made since I first stepped in here is all.”

She nodded her head slowly, flattered within no doubt, but also unsure of what to do with the series of back-to-back compliments you just gave her unprovoked.

“So… are you going to press the bell again, or you just gonna keep showering me with more compliments?” she said sarcastically, “I don’t mind both, actually.”

Your eyes widened at her cheeky dig over your over-graciousness of giving out compliments, causing a flush of embarrassment to hit your face like a glass of warm water. You then slowly averted your gaze and reached for the emergency bell once again—opting for something useful and practical to the situation over more stumbling compliments and the indirect flirting that had somehow slipped in.

“Now, we wait.”

9:32 A.M.

Nearly thirty minutes had dragged by, and you were both still trapped in the metal box—sitting side by side now, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. A light dizziness hovered in your heads, sweat slicked your skin like honey glaze.

You’d already loosened the top three buttons of your shirt in the last few minutes alone. One more, and it might as well came off completely, you thought. 

Unfortunately, the less could be done for Gawon who was rocking a thick navy blue trench coat and a white one-piece sundress underneath. She'd ditched the outerwear long ago, leaving just the dress to cover her sticky body. To her stylistic mishaps, there was nothing else she could shed without baring far more skin, at this point, especially with your presence next to her.

It was hard for you to miss her discomfort either—the way she kept tugging at the neckline, then fanning it away from her chest to steal a fleeting breeze across her face. The long dress had obviously trapped far more heat than your half-buttoned shirt, so the gesture was more than understandable on her part.

Inevitably, the stifling air had slowly turned your throat into a full-blown desert, craving for a huge wave of water to rain down against it.

“You don’t happen to carry any water in that bag, do you?” you asked, staring at her Prada bag hopefully.

“Nah,” she replied. “If I do, then it would’ve probably been out already. I’m literally dying right now for something to touch the back of my throat.”

Your eyes widened for a split second upon hearing her response. A strange tingle racing down your spine at the unintended edge in her words, heightening all your senses in one dubious direction. It was hard for you to tell if she actually meant it that way since her face gave nothing away.

Though for good measure, you decided to treat it as nothing more than just a stress talking; some people phrase things oddly when they’re in distress. It wouldn’t be fair for you to read more into it just because she was speaking weird and you found her a tad attractive.

“What do you have under that dress?” you asked, the words flew out faster than you could’ve softened it.

Her head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing in judgment and disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“No—trust me, I didn’t mean it like that,” you said quickly. “I was just wondering if you had, like, a singlet or something underneath. ‘Cause if you did, then you could go ahead and wear it. I swear I wouldn’t make it weird or anything."

“And why would I do that?”

“Because it’s sweltering in here, obviously,” you said, “ And I was going to ditch my shirt too, but only if I knew that you’re okay with it because I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable." You paused to clear your throat, then went on, "Trust me—it’s stressful enough for us being stuck here, I don’t want to make your day even worse by having to share the space with a sweaty, half-naked guy.” 

She continued to stare at you in silent judgment, neither smiling or pouting in anger, causing you to feel even more nervous as you waited for the next word to come out of her mouth.

“I am not a creep, if that’s what you’re thinking right now,” you added. “So, if you think there’s anything you want and can do to make yourself feel better but won’t because of me, then I’m just letting you know that you don’t have to worry about it.”

“But I never called you a creep,” she said. “You’re the one who’s doing a fine job of appearing like one with the way you’ve been acting in the last two minutes.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said if,” you muttered, frustration creeping in. “My bad for caring about your comfort, I guess, instead of just stripping myself over here. Should’ve just mind my own business in the first place.”

She continued to stare as you curled your body in the opposite direction, hiding your face away from her to project your irritation with the way that conversation just went.

After a beat, she spoke softly. “You can go ahead and take your shirt off if you want. I really don’t mind it at all.”

You turned your head slightly, catching her in the corner of your eye like an upset kid being persuaded. “Are you sure?”

“Yup,” she nodded. “Unfortunately, I can’t be doing the same right now—just have my bra underneath this, and of course, the rest of it. So… yeah. Give it another hour, and maybe I’ll reconsider it at that point. We’ll see.”

You paused from twisting your neck even more, words caught in your throat. Maybe it was wiser to pull back now, limit the conversation—and everything else—before things got even more complicated between the two of you.

That being said, with her permission, you shifted to the far corner, peeled off your shirt, and settled back against the wall with your bare body. The quiet hush and the cool metal wall against your skin felt like relief. You then stretched out on the floor with your arms over the back of your head, eyes growing heavy, until they drifted shut completely.

10:27 A.M.

You surfaced from sleep drenched in cold sweat, neck damp, head swirling. The harsh fluorescent light stabbed down from the ceiling straight into your eyes, forcing you to squint until the world sharpened to its normal resolution. For a dazed moment, you took a deep breath in—and paused. Somehow, the air carried this luxurious, soapy fragrance now—something clean and expensive, nothing like the stale heat from before— and it almost made you believe that you just woke up in a whole different room.

Still flat on the cool granite, you folded your arm and checked on your watch that said 10:27 on the dial; nearly an hour gone since you fell asleep, two hours since you were trapped. And still, no rescue, no maintenance crew, nothing? Something was definitely off here, you thought, as a prickle of unease crawled up your spine. 

You then rolled your head sideways as you saw Gawon stuffing herself in the opposite corner—eyes shut, knees tucked closed to her chest. She appeared to be sleeping peacefully at the moment, almost too peacefully that it somewhat triggered your worry.

Was she actually sleeping, or had she actually passed out? Was she even breathing right now? Those questions led you to push up onto your elbows, crawling closer towards the corner to run a quick wellness check on her—before you froze mid-way.

She wasn’t fully dressed anymore as you thought she was. The sundress lay draped across her chest and stomach like a shitty makeshift blanket as it barely provided enough cover for her delicate body. One restless shift in sleep had tugged the fabric aside, exposing the smooth, glistening curve of her thigh and the sheer panel at the front of her dainty black lace underwear. Sweat beaded on her tanned skin, catching the light like scattered diamonds.

You could feel your throat tightened by the alluring sight laid upon you—raw, forbidden, intoxicating—before producing an audible gasp, forcing your gaze upward in respect of the gentleman’s code that you made with her and yourself; no creeping, no matter the circumstances.

“Gawon,” you whispered, keeping your eyes strictly on her face as you leaned in. “Hey, wake up.”

Your voice didn’t seem to piece through her at this point. The sundress still draped across her chest, hiding its rise and fall—and somehow, the idea of lifting the fabric up and peeking through it made you feel like you were committing a bigger sin than being a pervert, even when that wasn’t in your intention at all. 

So, carefully, you placed a finger beneath her nose to check on her breathing. Took her a few seconds, but her warm breath eventually brushed against it—shallow, but steady enough to guarantee her still alive. Relief flooded you instantly as you hung your neck down, exhaling in quiet gratitude.

“Gawon, can you hear me?” you tried again, closer to her face this time. “We should wake up, figure something out.”

Still, you received nothing from her. No movement, no sound, not even a flinch of the eyelids—almost like she temporarily went deaf while asleep.

“Hey—”

Her eyes snapped open the moment your fingers nudged her shoulder gently, body jolted upright, hands clutching the dress to her chest while backing up against the corner, clearly terrified by the sight of your face sitting only a few inches away from hers as soon as she woke up.

“Hey—relax,” you said quickly, palms up to plead your innocence. “It’s just me. I was only trying to wake you up.”

She blinked rapidly, heart pounding objectively fast before it gradually slowed down upon recognizing your face. “How long was I out?”

“How the hell would I know?” you said, “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

She then glanced at her wristwatch, though the expression on her face upon checking it didn’t seem to convince you that she was able to give you a straight answer for the duration of her momentary lapse.

“I went to sleep just about after you,” she said, “Didn’t really check the time back then, so… I don’t know, an hour?”

“Yeah, must be somewhere around that,” you said, slightly disappointed. “By the way, in that few minutes gap that you weren’t asleep, did something ever happen around here?”

Her gaze sharpened at you. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like, any movement, any sound, outside or inside the elevator itself?” you said. “Someone’s coming for help, maybe? Nothing?”

“No, nothing like that at all,” she said, causing you to hang your neck in disappointment. “Though… I did remember hearing something right before I nodded off.”

Your head shot up at her with hope. “Really, what was it?”

She turned her face at you, taking her time with the answer as if she was deliberately riling your interest up for climatic purposes. 

“It was your fart,” she said. “You let it out twice actually after you fell asleep. One was longer than the other but softer, so it didn’t really startle me like the first, short one.”

You blinked at her repeatedly, trying to decide if she was actually being serious or just messing with you with that monotonous voice of hers. “Seriously, Gawon?”

“Of course,” she said. “Why would I lie to you about that? It’s not even that funny to begin with.”

You then stared at her in disbelief. “Okay, then… why do you feel that you have to tell me that if it’s not funny to you?”

“Because you specifically asked me about sound, and those are the only sounds that were there at the time,” she said. “Not trying to tease you… much, at least.”

You sighed at her explanation, rubbing your temple in quiet frustration. At least you'd learned she had a functional sense of humor—something that you perceived as rare to be found among women, especially one that looked like her. Though her comedic timing was rather questionable, to say the least, depending on who you asked.

“Well, like I said—I build up a lot of gases when I’m stressed,” you said, getting up from the floor in a defeated manner. “Deal with it.”

“I sure did,” she said, smirking. “Why do you think it smells so good in here right now? I just sprayed, like, half of my cologne around this box before I dozed off.”

You ignored her words, knowing that it was a pointless argument for you to explore anyway. As you strode to the doors, you wedged your fingers right into the seam and pulled it with everything you had—but the metal refused to yield even an inch, just like the previous attempts.

“Damn it!” you yelled. “The thing’s completely fucking busted, I can’t even get it open by an inch. And trust me, it’s not my arm strength that's the issue here.”

She simply nodded while watching your man tantrum unveiling from the corner, eyes tracing the space for options. “What about the ceiling?”

You flicked your gaze upwards. “Well, what about it?”

“I mean… like, in movies, they often manage to just… push through a panel and climb out of it?” she said, still in that signature monotonous voice of hers.

You exhaled sharply at her explanation, arms wrapped around your waist like a disappointed parent staring down at his child. “Yeah—Movies, Gawon. Except that we’re not in one now, aren’t we?”

Your tone came out harsher than intended, causing her face to soften with quick embarrassment—and perhaps a little regret.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just throwing out ideas. Didn’t really think it through, obviously.”

A small guilt tugged at you as you heard the quiet defeat in her voice. It was clear she’d been trying just as hard as you to find a way out, if not more.

You tilted your head back to the ceiling—truly analyzing it this time, not just a fleeting glance. The panels above were a set of smooth, seamless squares of silver metals, edged with thin linings that gleamed faintly around the fluorescent light. No visible screws, no hatch handle, no give at all—just a flush surface that looked as stubborn as the doors trapping you below.

 “Well, the panels do look like they were sealed tightly, probably bolted all around, so we’d definitely need tools to open it, or at least a serious amount of force if we're going to break through it,” you said. “But I guess we’re out of options here, so… it’s worth a try.”

That being said, you kneeled down on one leg as she climbed onto your shoulders, bare thighs settling warm and slick against both sides of your face. Her scent—cologne mixed with sweat and skin—filled your lungs as you lifted her off the floor, hands holding your head firmly for balance.

“Can you reach it?” you asked, voice muffled in between her thighs.

“Barely. Can you go higher?” she replied, one hand brushing the panel; the other tangled in your hair, gripping hard.

“I’m already on my toes here,” you said in painful desperation. “Do you want me to jump or something?”

“No, don’t do that,” she warned quickly. “You’ll make the situation even worse for us.”

“How could it possibly be worse than this? You’re literally crushing my head right now with your thighs,” you said. “Any worse than this, and that would be me passing out while dropping you six-feet off the floor, potentially head first.”

“Whatever, just hold still, please,” she said, tired of your moaning. “I can’t push through it if I’m wobbling.”

“That’s on you to balance yourself, Gawon!” you said, grunting. “I’m already doing the heavy lifting here—literally.”

Despite the constant bickering, she continued to strain herself upward, slender arms pressing against the flat silver panel, but nothing seemed to give at the end.

“Yeah, this isn’t going to work,” she sighed. “My arms are not built for this kind of task.”

You lowered yourself slowly to get her feet touching the ground. The lingering heat of her thighs brushed your shoulders as she crossed it to step on the floor, though the relief of getting the weight off your shoulders was what satisfied you more than any other sensations the situation could offer.

Exhausted, you both sank against the wall—shoulder to bare shoulder, half-naked, slick with sweat, eyes facing the same direction; the door.

“So…” she said quietly, voice hollow, “...what now?”

11:06 A.M

Past the two-hours mark now, and neither of you had a clue of what to do next. No signal on your phones, no food or water to be consume, no window to look out to—just pure isolation. You even thought of going back to sleep, but the adrenaline from the failed ceiling-breaking attempt kept you wired, bodies still slick and pumped.

So you turned to do push-ups, knocking out casual reps to burn time and stay sharp, in case escape wasn't coming anytime soon. Oh—and you'd already shed your pants too, after checking with Gawon if she'd mind, seeing as she was also down to just her underwear. She'd nonchalantly said yes, no complaint about it.

“You know this isn't the time for a workout, right?” she said from the corner, filing her nails. “You're literally just wasting what little water you've got left in your body.”

“I know,” you grunted mid-rep. “But I need the distraction.”

“Distraction from what?” she asked.

You paused in a plank, holding her gaze for a long beat. Then you let your eyes drift deliberately over her body—slow enough for her to notice, to shift just a little under the weight of it—before answering.

“The situation we're in,” you said. “Duh.”

You continued the workout after that subtle tease, satisfied by the faint annoyance flickering across her face. You pushed through the reps despite knowing you'd be parched by the end—boredom was one reason, but part of you also wanted to impress your sole audience in the corner.

“...97…98…99… Woah—Hundred push-ups, baby, done and dusted,” you bragged, “I could crash straight into bed once we're out.”

“Congratulations,” she replied dryly. “Now, if you don't mind telling me on a scale of one to ten, how thirsty are you feeling right now?”

“Probably an eight,” you said, sprawled on the floor, body gleaming with sweat. “It started at nine initially, but some of the sweat just rolled into my mouth mid-workout, so I can say that I’m somewhat hydrated now. You should give it a try.”

She smirked condescendingly. “Try what, push-ups?”

“No—drinking your own sweat,” you said. “It's technically water, right?”

She shook her head subtly, half-contempt, half-entertained. Though the lack of expression on her face gave you the need to clarify anyway so she didn't think that you were that stupid.

“I’m joking, obviously,” you said. “Of course I’m at a freaking ten, I haven’t consumed any liquid for about 2 hours now—and I’ve just completed a whole workout.”

“Yeah, same here,” she said. “I’m so thirsty I’d drink anything that’s not in my mouth already.”

“Huh…” you paused, deliberately. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody say that sentence before. Just goes to show the extent of what we’re in right now, doesn't it?”

She gave a tired half-smirk. “And I’m dead serious too, you know?” she said. “I’m tired of swallowing my own saliva and pretending like it's water when it’s been in my mouth the whole time.”

You frowned an eyebrow to her statement, though she didn’t seem to notice it the way she was minding her own business the whole time with her nails. Something in her casual double-down just sent a weird jolt through your senses—hard to tell if it was intentional from her side.

“Well, if you're that desperate,” you joked, “go ahead and give your cologne a chug. It's still liquid, probably tastes good too since it smells good—bonus if it’s got alcohol, you might get a little buzz from it.”

“Nah, I can't do that,” she said, smirking. “ It's Louis Vuitton.”

Over the series of jokes and banter, constant smirking and snickering to get through the tough times, minutes had passed by with no aid to your rescue.  You could only try to entertain each other for so long before your stress and anxiety started kicking in again, worsened by the lack of hydration that had been actively eating both of you from the inside the more you tried to ignore it.

“Hey, X…” she said, voice fleeting a little bit. “This might be a bit of a crazy ask, but, um… would you be willing to, like, spit into my mouth?”

“What..?” you said, turning your head slowly to face her. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, enthusiastically, you might add. “Just so I could feel something going into my mouth before I drink them.”

You stared at her weirdly. “Are you sure you’re not just… intoxicated, or something? Because I honestly can’t tell if you’re still in your right mind based on the way you talked for the last two hours. Your tone and delivery style are always the same no matter what.”

“Well, I am feeling a little lightheaded by now, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t think straight for myself,” she said. “Why’d you think I even bring that up if I’m not serious about it?”

“Because it’s absurd, Gawon,” you said. “Plus, you literally just said that you’d drink anything EXCEPT something from your own mouth.”

“My mouth, I won’t. Not yours,” she said, defending her statement. “Or anybody, for that matter.”

“But... why?” you questioned, seriously. “What’d be the point of even doing that? It’s not going to hydrate you, the way you think it does—it’s fucking spit.”

“I know that,” she yelled, raising her voice for the first time in the last two hours, albeit slightly. “I’m not that stupid to think that your drool would be able to fix my thirst—”

“So, what is it then?” you pressed.

“It’s about the action, X,” she said, calmly but firmly enough to signify her point—whatever that may be. “Like I hinted at you over and over again, this isn’t just about the thirst anymore, but the sensation of having something flowing into your mouth.”

You frowned at her directly, no more hiding your face or trying to be polite, just purely at a loss of words by the confusing point she was trying to make on top of it being completely bizarre.

“Think of it like this; you gargle on an orange juice for an hour before swallowing it, and then you grab the whole carton and pour it straight into your mouth. Which one do you think would be the better experience for you?” she asked.

You didn’t answer—not that she gave you much time to think anyway—as you were too stunned by her enthusiasm and seriousness while asking that hypothetical question like it was the puzzle of the century. Though you were intrigued to know where exactly she was heading with this idea.

“It’s the latter, isn't it? Always have been,” she said, answering the question for you. “Because a huge part of drinking is not just about the taste, but the whole act of it from start to finish—right from the moment it enters your hole, then your tongue, and then your throat. It must be the full sequence, otherwise it just won’t feel as good.” She paused for a second to catch her breath before adding, “That’s why drinking your own spit doesn’t feel satisfying, but drinking other’s… probably does.”

At this point, you couldn't tell if her reasoning was actually sound or if she simply wove it convincingly enough to pull you in. Still, the prospect of having this attractive woman asking you to transfer your bodily liquid directly into her mouth—regardless of the motive—was the kind of wild scenario beyond anything you'd ever fantasized. It stuck in your head, tempting, overriding the remaining doubts that were nagging at you.

“Fuck, let’s do it.”

11:11 A.M.

You held a plank against the cold floor, just like during your push-ups—only now you had Gawon lying beneath you, caged by your frame, both of you half-naked in your underwear. The closeness of the proximity made the vibe feel electric right from the start between the two of you.

Heat pulsed through your bulge as you looked down at her face, so near. Her hands gripped your triceps, steadying you, aligning your mouths for the drop.

“You ready?” you asked.

“Yup,” she said. “Try to keep your aim straight—I’d rather not wear your drool on my face.”

“Well, I can’t promise perfection, darling,” you replied. “Unlike you, this is my first time, after all, doing anything like this.”

“Excuse me?” She arched her brow. “So, you think I’ve got guys spitting in my mouth before?”

“I don’t know, have you?”

“No!" she argued, "It's the first time for me too.”

“Okay then, let’s lower our expectations a lil’ bit here and do our best to get it right," you said. “Open your mouth.”

She parted her lips wide, gripping your arms tighter. You worked your dry mouth, gathering what saliva you had until a thick rope formed. Then you let it fall—viscous and slow—landing on her tongue.

She waited until the strand broke, drew it back, and swallowed, throat working beneath you. A thin string clung to her chin, but most had made it in safely.

“How was it?” you asked, voice unsteady.

“Not bad,” she murmured, eyes locked on yours. She licked the stray drop from her lips like it was nectar. “Can I have more, please?”

You couldn’t refuse—not with that gaze, that hungry plea. Your arms already trembled from the plank, but you gathered again, longer this time, building a heavier load.

She watched, nails digging into your skin, anticipation bright in her eyes.

When ready, you leaned closer, holding her stare. She opened wide. You released—a thick, clear rope stretching between your tongues.

This time she didn’t wait. She surged upward, tongue slicing the strand, arms wrapping your back. Her body arched off the floor, pressing hard against you—crotch grinding deliberate and slow against your straining bulge—as she claimed the last drop straight from your mouth.

She eased back just enough to swallow, arms still locked around you, satisfaction glowing in her eyes.

“Wanna try?” she whispered.

You exhaled shakily against her lips. “Yeah… sure.”

You rolled to the side as Gawon shifted atop you. She settled on all fours in a close table-top hover, her long hair cascading over your face like a dark veil. You gathered it gently, tucking strands behind her ears and holding it back on both sides until her features came into sharp focus.

“I appreciate that,” she murmured. “You can help steer it for me—just in case I miss.”

“I’m pretty sure you won’t,” you said.

She smirked, then leaned closer, mouth already brimming. She braced her arms beside your head, faces inches apart, ensuring perfect aim.

From below, you took in the sight of her arched over you—the submissive angle sending blood surging southward. Your hands itched to trace the sweat-slick curves of her hips, but you held back. Not until she said yes, you reminded yourself.

She released the drop—less cautious than you had been, yet impossibly precise, making you question her “first-time” claim. Warm, sticky saliva pooled on your tongue: no burst of flavor, but far from unpleasant. It tasted raw, primal—like sex itself—igniting every nerve and flooding your body with heat.

Her tongue followed, brushing yours to guide the strand, flicking and teasing until the careful exchange melted into a deep, urgent French kiss. Before you registered the shift, her hand slid downward, slender fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your Calvin Kleins to wrap firmly around your throbbing cock.

You broke away just long enough to catch her wrist. “You sure this is what you want right now?”

“Uh-huh,” she breathed, eyes flickering between yours and your lips.

“Then I want to hear you say it.”

She tilted her head, playing innocent with a seductive smile. “Say what, exactly?”

You tightened your grip on her hand, halting its slow stroke beneath the fabric.

She leaned in, lips brushing yours, and whispered, “I want you to fuck me in this elevator right now.”

You wrapped one arm around her back, the other gripping her waist, and surged upright. She straddled you seamlessly, mouths locked in a fierce, unbroken kiss.

Both hands dropped to her ass—firm, sweat-slick cheeks filling your palms—as you lifted her clear off the floor like she weighed nothing. She clung wild, legs locked around your hips, arms tight around your neck, a desperate koala on its branch.

You carried her forward until her back met the cold metal wall. The chill drew a sharp gasp from her that you swallowed in the kiss. You shifted one hand to the rail for leverage, propping her ass there while the other yanked your Calvin Kleins down just enough—your cock springing free, hard and aching.

Gawon’s hand found it instantly, fingers wrapping tight, stroking with urgent pulls that coaxed thick beads of precum over her delicate knuckles. You held a wide stance, arms caging her face, letting her work you while your tongues battled.

You nipped her lower lip, pulling back just enough to growl, “So, tell me this... on a scale of one to ten—how hard would you like to be railed right now?”

“Ten,” she panted against your mouth, hot and ragged. “Maybe even an eleven.”

The words hit like a dare. Your eyes narrowed, a wicked half-smile curling as you took it personally.

No more waiting. You hooked her lace panties aside, snapped her stroking hand away, and pinned it to the wall beside her head. Then you drove in—one brutal thrust, burying every inch balls-deep into her soaked heat.

“Oh—fuck!” The cry tore from her throat, raw and involuntary.

You didn’t pause. You fucked her exactly as she’d begged—deep, relentless strokes that bottomed out each time, your heavy, dehydrated balls slapping loud against her ass like wet percussion.

She lost it against the wall, one arm clawing around your neck for anchor while you gave her almost no help staying on the rail—you wanted her to deal with herself while savoring every unstable second of it.

“Fuck—slow down, X,” she gasped.

You smirked, thrusting harder. “What happened to eleven?”

The irony burned in her own words; her arm only yanked you closer, hips tilting greedily to meet you, terrified of slipping off the rail yet chasing more of your length.

Still, you felt the strain in her back after a while of sustaining that position, and you figured it was the perfect time for you to make a switch. You pulled your dick out abruptly before spinning her to face the wall—no breath for her to react—before shoving her forward. Your palm pressed against her nape, arching her roughly as her cheek met cold metal.

Without warning, you stripped her lace panties down her legs, letting them drop to her ankles before kicking them aside. Then you buried your face between her cheeks, nose dragging through her crack as your tongue attacked her swollen clit with hungry, relentless strokes.

“Oh my God, yes…” she moaned, eyes rolling back, body shuddering from the onslaught.

Your mouth explored every inch of her—tongue alternating between her dripping pussy and tight asshole, tracing the slick line between. The raw musk of her sweat-soaked skin mingled with the faint, musty stench of her anus, a combination you hadn’t expected to crave this badly. But it hit you like a drug, unleashing something primal, driving your lust into overdrive.

She squirmed, hips bucking as your tongue probed deeper, merciless. Her arousal leaked freely now, and you lapped it up greedily, swallowing every drop.

“Fuck, Gawon—you taste incredible,” you growled against her. “Give me more, please. I’m still so damn thirsty.”

She took the demand literally, fingers sliding down to rub her clit in frantic circles while your tongue plunged into her pussy like a man starved in the desert. Your own cock throbbed painfully hard; you couldn’t ignore it anymore. One hand gripped her thick, meaty cheek for leverage while the other wrapped around your shaft, stroking roughly in time with your licks.

When you’d drunk enough of her to ease the burn in your throat, you rose. You guided her legs wider, arching her back until she braced fully against the wall. You teased your cockhead along her slick folds, coating yourself in her wetness, then drove in—hands clamping her waist as you buried yourself deep in one smooth thrust, standing half-doggy.

Her lips mashed against the cold metal now, body jolting with every ferocious slam. You railed her without mercy, hips snapping forward, balls slapping wetly against her ass as she fought to stay upright—palms flat on the wall, cheek pressed hard, whole frame rocking.

She cried out with each brutal stroke, sounds turning incoherent, fueling you to pound harder until words failed her completely.

Lost in it, you leaned over her back, one hand sliding up to grip her jaw. You turned her face just enough for her glazed eyes to meet yours while you fucked her relentlessly.

“You like this, Gawon?” you rasped, voice thick with lust. “Want me to go even harder?”

She nodded weakly, expression dazed and heavy-lidded, mouth slack like she was lost in the haze of your cock stretching her walls.

“What’s that— a yes or a no?” you teased, hips never slowing.

“Y-yes…” she managed, voice trembling. “Fuck me harder, please.”

Her words rang in your ears like sweet music. You snatched one of her hands from the wall and pinned it against your side, locking it under your arm. With a sharp yank, you hauled her body back, forcing her into a deeper, near-perfect arch. The sudden pull caught her off guard—her free hand nearly slipped, her face inches from slamming into the metal.

“Careful, X… I almost hit my face there” she gasped, voice trembling as you kept pounding her relentlessly.

You buried yourself to the hilt before acknowledging her. “Oh yeah?” you murmured, condescension dripping.

Then you claimed her other hand, twisting it back and trapping it beside the first. All upper support gone, she let out a sharp cry, bracing for impact—until you jerked her into that flawless arch and slammed into her even harder, the new leverage letting you clap her cheeks with brutal speed.

“Don’t ever tell me what to do again,” you whispered hot against her ear, hips never slowing. “You're the one who begged for this, remember?”

She nodded frantically, mouth open, gulping air as you wrecked her hole and her mind with every thrust.

As if she needed more, you trailed kisses down her neck, one hand snaking around to maul her breast. Her black lace bra still clung on—you pulled the cup down roughly, freeing her stiff nipples and rolling them between your fingers like tiny, perfect stress balls.

“Fuck—don’t be so rough on them, please… it’s painful,” she whimpered, twisting her neck desperately to meet your eyes, pleading for mercy.

“What did I just say about instructions, Gawon?” you growled against her skin, driving deeper. “Want me to repeat myself again, maybe slower?”

Her body quaked under the onslaught, eyes glazed and distant. The wet, echoing slap of your hips against her ass filled the metal box as you ramped up the pace, loud enough to drown almost everything—yet you still caught her broken whisper.

“N-no… I heard you,” she said. “Do anything you want… with my body.”

A wicked grin spread across your face. You leaned close to her ear and breathed, “Good girl.”

The words hit her like a trigger. Her pussy clenched hard, and a fresh gush of cum flooded out as you pulled free—letting it splash down her thighs like she’d lost all control.

While she panted, still reeling from the shattering orgasm, you gave her barely three seconds before yanking her down by the hair to her knees. You shoved your throbbing cock straight into her mouth, hand fisted at the back of her head, thrusting deep until you hit the back of her throat. Your balls slapped her chin with every drive, her gagging loud and wet—the only sound echoing in the metal box.

You pulled out slowly. A thick trail of saliva arched from your tip to her lips, breaking and spilling messily over her chin, chest, and the floor.

Before she could draw a full breath, you hauled her up and wrapped both hands around her throat—not crushing, but firm. Eyes locked on hers, you pushed your tongue into her mouth, kissing her hard and deep while she gripped your forearms, adjusting the pressure.

“You good?” you asked, breaking away.

She nodded fast, eyes bright and wild, sweat-damp hair plastered to her face and neck.

“Want me to keep going?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then keep working my dick off,” you ordered. “Hands stay on it until I say otherwise. Understand?”

“Uh-hm,” she murmured, obedient.

Her fingers found you blindly, stroking hard as you claimed her mouth again—tongue dominating hers, suffocating her with raw, hungry kisses while she pumped you relentlessly.

“Open,” you said, cupping her chin.

She parted her lips. You slapped her cheek—not gentle, sharp enough to bloom red.

“Wider.”

She obeyed instantly, eyes watering slightly.

“You love drinking my spit, right?”

She nodded eagerly, cheek flushed darker.

“Don’t just nod. Say it.”

“I love drinking your spit,” she whispered. “I really do.”

You spat once—thick and direct—then again. Another slap stung her other cheek before you pulled her into a bruising kiss, soothing the sting with your tongue.

Her hand faltered on your cock for a split second, surprised, then resumed faster.

“Am I hurting you, Gawon?”

She shook her head hard. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm-hm,” she breathed, stroking quicker.

“If I'm ever actually hurting you,” you murmured against her lips, “you’d let me know about it… right?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice soft and wrecked. “I will.”

Trusting her own words of consent, you grabbed her stroking hand and slung it around your neck. The other dove between her thighs, and with effortless strength you flipped her upside down—her pussy level with your standing face, your cock dangling over her inverted mouth, her legs draped heavy over your shoulders.

You buried your face in her, devouring her like a feast. Tongue plunging deep into her hole and grinding hard against her clit, you mashed until her juices splashed hot across your cheeks and chin.

Below, Gawon attacked your cock with upside-down hunger. She sucked hard, head swinging in relentless rhythm while your heavy balls slapped her face over and over—wet, rhythmic thuds against the prettiest target imaginable. Her nails dug into your thighs for anchor, keeping her steady as blood rushed to her head.

“Make sure you get the balls too,” you growled from above.

She pulled off instantly to the command, hand pumping your shaft as her mouth engulfed your sack—left, then right, then both swollen balls crammed in, stretching her lips, coating them thick with drool.

Her frantic milking pushed you dangerously close to cum, so you figured it was time for you to make the switch again as you didn't want the act to finish just yet.

“Watch your head, Gawon,” you warned. “I’m setting you down now. Use your hands to soften the landing.”

She obeyed without hesitation, palms planting as you knelt slowly, guiding her legs forward off your shoulders until her back met the floor safely—an acrobatic flip executed with perfect control and right amount of delicateness.

And so, talking about a perfect transition, you found yourself straddled over her again, dropping to all fours in a reverse hover across her body.

Without hesitation, you buried your face between her thighs, devouring her soaked pussy like you hadn’t already drunk her dry—tongue plunging deep, grinding hard against her clit until fresh juices smeared hot across your mouth and chin.

Below, Gawon was just equally possessed as you, if not more.

The horizontal angle had given her a new access than the vertical one couldn’t provide—your ass—and she seized it beautifully, the opportunity, to try something new.

So, instead of entertaining your hanging boner across her face, she decided to lift her head and drag her tongue up your crack in a long, deliberate swipe—nose buried in the sweat-slick skin—before pressing the tip firmly into your asshole, pushing as deep as she could reach, mirroring what you'd done to her.

It didn't blow your mind, honestly. You appreciated her going all-in—matching your freak after acting like strangers just hours ago—but the sensation itself? Mild at best. Novel, sure; the rare thrill of a woman's tongue probing your hole added a dirty edge to everything you were doing, but it wasn't enough to drive you over or even keep you rock-hard on its own.

And so, you pulled away from her cooch and rolled onto your back against the cold granite. “Come here, Gawon,” you said, voice rough. “Sit on my dick.”

She rose eagerly, crawling toward you like a kitten drawn to cream—hungry, playful, irresistible. It had been minutes since she'd felt fullness in her hole, and the anticipation lit her eyes.

No guidance needed; she straddled you upon letting a thick strand of drool fall from her lips onto your cock. A few slow strokes slicked you completely before she aligned the head with her swollen entrance and sank down—warm, tight walls gripping you in a velvet clutch.

She started with eager bounces, then shifted to slow, rolling waves—masterful control that made your breath catch. You folded your arms behind your head, watching her work, admiring every line of her body from below while she gave you the ride of your life.

She was breathtaking to say the least; elegant even in abandon, seductive in the subtlest way—lazy half-lidded eyes, parted lips glistening, damp strands clinging to her temples like she knew exactly how devastating she looked.

“Take the bra off,” you said, voice low. “I want to see all of you.”

She obeyed without breaking rhythm, reaching back to unhook it with practiced grace. The lace fell away, revealing perfect breasts that swayed with each roll of her hips—a vision no man could forget. Her gaze stayed locked on yours, daring, inviting, as if challenging you to interrupt the best ride of your life.

You accepted. Hands left your head and settled on her waist, guiding her to lean forward until her chest hovered over your face.

“Give me your spit,” you murmured. “I miss how you taste already.”

She slowed her grind, gathering saliva until a thick rope spilled from her lips into your waiting mouth—slow, deliberate, endless. You let it pool, savoring, until the last drop stretched between you. Then you claimed her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, drawing more from her tongue.

In the haze of the kiss, you tightened your arms around her back and thrust upward—hard, fast, relentless. Control flipped in an instant; her body shuddered, breath hitching against your lips as you drove deep, reminding her who truly in control here.

"Oh, God—" the words tore out from her mouth and went straight into yours as you continued to steal the living breath out of her while ramming her hole brutally. No plans of slowing down soon, as things stood.

That was until your cock slipped free from the frenzy. “Put it back in,” you ordered, voice deep but gentle.

She reached down blindly, guiding you toward her slick heat.

“No, not that hole,” you said, stopping her. “The other one.”

Her eyes flared at your words—just a flash of hesitation—then she obeyed. She gathered saliva in her palm, slicking your cock before pressing the swollen head against her tight asshole.

The entry was slow and punishing. The glaze of cum and spit helped, but her ring fought every inch of your girth. As the head breached her, a ragged “Fuck—” ripped from her throat. She buried her face in your chest, nails biting into your skin, body trembling around the invasion.

You fed her half your length first, pulling back gently before easing deeper. A few careful strokes, and she began to open—clenching, stretching. Then you let go, ramming her ass until her screams blurred pleasure and pain, echoing sharp in the metal box.

“I’m close now,” you growled as your cock slipped free, swollen in red. “Where do you want me to shoot it?”

“Inside my mouth, please,” she gasped. “I need something to drink.”

Obliging her request, you flipped her onto her back and mounted her in a missionary position. Hooking her legs over your thighs, you slammed home into her pussy—foreheads pressed, mouths fused in a desperate kiss, her hands locked around your neck.

For once, you fucked her with single-minded purpose—deep, relentless strokes filling the elevator with wet claps, groans, and shattered moans.

Her walls spasmed within every thrust, milking you in the direction that you were heading. At the brink of ultimate pleasure, you pulled out, rose to your knees, and straddled her chest. Hand flying over your strained cock, you aimed directly at her face while jerking it off in full aggression.

“Ah—fuck—”

The first thick rope lashed across her face in a wild streak—cheek to forehead, a hot line even catching her eye. The rest you controlled: heavy pulses flooding her waiting tongue, lips, chin. She took it greedily—letting it pool, thick and frothy, before swallowing with a low, satisfied moan. Then she pulled you forward, sucking the last drops clean, tongue swirling until you were spent.

You collapsed beside her on the cold granite, both of you gasping, bodies slick and shaking. The elevator smelled of sweat, sex, and spilled cum. For a long moment, neither of you moved—just series of heavy breaths and the faint hum of the broken box as it floated both of you back into reality; slowly but surely.

Epilogue

“So, what do you think?” she asked, still panting on the floor.

“It’s fine,” you said, arms folded behind your head as you lay beside her. “Probably your best work yet.”

“That’s it?” She frowned. “You literally just railed me like an animal, and that’s all you’ve got to say about it? I’m offended.”

“Well, I did say it’s your best work too so far, didn’t I?” you replied. “But still—doesn’t beat the one I wrote for us last year.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she snapped. “Yours was literally just me in a slutty cop outfit doing all the work while you were cuffed to the bed. How is that better than what I wrote for us here?”

“Well, for starters, we didn’t have to spend two hours doing nothing before getting to the sex part,” you said, teasing.

“It’s called a buildup, babe,” she shot back. “Can’t blame you for not getting it after watching too much porn and always skipping to the good part every time.”

“No, I do get what a buildup is; you knocked on the door, say that I’m in trouble for whatever silly crime I committed, cuffed me to bed, and boom—we fuck. Pretty solid buildup, right?” you argued, more to piss her off than wanting to win the argument. You then went on to add after pausing, “By the way, I spent a lot of money to have that cop outfit customized for you, so please don’t talk shit about it. They’re designers.”

“And how much do you think I spent renting this place for us? It’s literally three grand a night for a triplex with a private lift,” she said, furious. “I bet the cop outfit doesn’t even cost that much.”

“Yeah, but it’s your daddy’s money anyway, so it doesn’t count,” you added quickly, enough to seal the argument on your behalf. "You could've bought this entire place if you want—that I'm sure of."

She didn’t outrightly deny it—she couldn’t because it was true—but rather just gave you that familiar annoyed glare. For a famous celebrity born into serious wealth, three thousand grand was just pocket change for her and her family.

“Anyway,” you said, “will you pass me the water now? I knew you had it stashed in your bag the whole time. Probably been sipping it too while I was asleep.”

She sighed dramatically before rolling over to reach for her Prada bag lying in the corner. As she dug into it, the bottle came out less than half its original volume—proving your assumption to be right.

But instead of handing it over to you, she twisted the cap and poured the rest of the liquid into her mouth while staring down at you, deliberately making the gesture as personal before tossing the empty bottle aside.

“You want water?” she said sweetly. “Well, kitchen’s on the first floor. I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the day.”

She then stood up on her feet, tapped the app on her phone to get the door open and walked out of the elevator without a backward glance, leaving you on the floor on bad terms with no hydration.

“Baby, come on,” you called after her. “I didn’t say it was bad at all—it was great! Long… but great.”

“I—” Sooin answers, or tries to answer, but Gawon presses her harder onto her snatch. Anything else that comes out of her is a muffled, vibrating moan that makes Gawon arch off the couch, hips rolling greedily against her face. Sooin’s lips and chin are already shiny with Gawon’s arousal.

“Perhaps our defendant would like to attempt sign language instead?” you grunt, feeling the long, slick strokes on your thick cock. Sooin’s right hand pumps you all the way from tip to base, drawing out beads upon beads of precum from your slit. “That’s it, you’re doing so well. Why can’t you perform as well as your fellow intern? If you were so obedient, behaving yourself at work, being prim and proper, you could be in Gawon’s position right now, having your wet little snatch eaten out."

...