𝒜

MASTERLIST 22 | BTS Yandere | 🍉

[lovelyspring7]

Cede to Madness | Jin x Reader

Preview: You were never supposed to fall apart. The perfect grades. The perfect future. The perfect, empty life. But perfection has a cost. The pills helped, until they didn’t. Your parents had a solution. Dr. Kim. A composed, disciplined psychiatrist. A man who demands obedience. Because in his world, the only choices that matter are his.

Word count: 25k

Genre: Yandere, Psychological Thriller.

Pairing: Psychiatrist Jin x Bratty University Student (F!Reader), Boyfriend Enhypen Sunghoon (Minor Involvement)

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Yandere, smut (forced orgasm, fingering, edging, spanking, daddy kink, power imbalance, overstimulation, praise kink, forced dependency), stalking, obsessive behavior, manipulation, coercion, controlling & emotionally abusive behavior, drugging, substance abuse, forced caretaking, brat-taming, medical control, gaslighting, psychological abuse, unaliveing, blood, panic attacks, 10+ year age gap.

Disclaimer: This type of content is not suitable for all audiences and I do not condone any of the presented behaviour. This is purely for entertainment and fictional purposes and I don’t think any BTS member would act like this.

Author's note: I’m so happy to finally share this!It’s been in my drafts for so long. I’m not completely happy with it and wish I had spent more time on it, but I felt like it was time to let it go. I hope you enjoy it, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts.💜✨

Banner Credit: By the amazing, talented, and incredible! @eerieedits

Your vision blurs, the words on the exam paper twisting out of focus. You blink, hard, but the fog won’t clear. The clock ticks louder, slicing through the silence, drilling into your skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time slipping away.

You’ve prepared for this, nights without sleep, Adderall keeping you sharp when your body begged for rest. Highlighters bled across pages, notes underlined frantically, but now, under fluorescent lights, nothing sticks. The questions you’ve memorized a thousand times slip through your fingers.

Your chest tightens. The air is thick and suffocating. Your hands tremble coated in sweat, as the pen is slipping in your grip, leaving dark smudges on paper. It’s too hot. Too loud. The whispers of scribbling students, the scratch of pens, the relentless ticking, it all crashes into you at once.

Focus. Breathe. Focus. But the air won’t come. Your pulse pounds, erratic, drowning out everything else. The letters blur, ink smearing into shapeless nothing. Have you answered anything? One question? Ten? None?

Nausea twists through you. You grip the desk, but the room tilts. The lights sear into your skull. The roaring in your ears grows louder.

Then, the pen slips from your fingers. A sharp clatter. And just like that, everything goes dark.

————-

Your eyes flutter open, and the world slowly comes into focus. Harsh, sterile lights blind you momentarily, and you squint, trying to make sense of where you are. The last thing you remember is the exam, the words blurring, your heart racing, the pen slipping from your hand. Now, everything feels distant, like you’re waking up from a bad dream.

You hear the faint beeping of a monitor nearby, steady and rhythmic. Voices murmur softly around you, clinical and detached. You blink, forcing your eyes to adjust, and see the nurse standing over you, checking your IV. “You’re awake,” she says, offering a polite, professional smile. “How are you feeling?” You open your mouth to speak, but your throat feels dry. “Where… where am I?” you finally manage to croak out.

“You’re at the hospital,” she replies, her tone gentle, “you had a bit of a scare during your exam, and they brought you in. You’ve been under a lot of stress, haven’t you?”

Your mind spins, trying to piece everything together. The panic, the pressure, the Adderall you took before the exam…gosh the exam. “Where are my parents?” you ask, your voice cracking. The nurse hesitates, and you see it in her eyes before she even speaks. “They were notified,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “But they weren’t able to come. I’m sure they’ll check in with you later.”

You should have expected it, but that doesn’t make the sting any less sharp. Of course, they didn’t come. They probably had meetings, clients, something more important than showing up for you.“I’m fine,” you say, even though your voice is barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to get out of here.”

“We need to make sure you’re stable first,” she replies, still smiling, but it feels forced, like she’s trying to keep you calm. “The doctor will be in soon to talk to you. They just want to make sure everything is okay.” You lie back, staring at the ceiling. A moment later a doctor walks in, flipping through a chart as he approaches your bed. “I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, not looking up at first. “How are you feeling now?” You force a smile, even though it feels like your face might crack. “I’m okay. Can I leave?”

He finally looks up, his expression unreadable. “We need to talk about what happened. Your professors mentioned you’ve been under a lot of pressure, and the initial tests indicate you’ve been using Adderall. Are you prescribed this medication?”

Fuck. “I must've taken it by mistake, I meant to take ibuprofen,” you lied, your voice small. He nods, almost disappointed. “Taking medication without a prescription can be dangerous, especially if you’re using it regularly. We’re concerned about your well-being, and we’d like to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

You feel your heart start to race again, panic bubbling up inside you. “I’m fine. I can handle it,” you insist.“I’m sure you’re trying your best,” he says, his tone soft but firm. “But stress, lack of sleep, and using unprescribed medication can lead to serious health issues. We’re going to keep you here for a little while longer, just to make sure you’re stable.”

“What does that mean? How long?” you ask, panic creeping into your voice. “Just overnight, for observation,” he replies. “And then we’d like to set you up with a psychiatrist who specializes in cases like yours. Dr. Kim is very experienced in treating stress, anxiety, and… substance use. We think he can help you get back on track.” You want to argue, but the words die in your throat. You nod like you're on board. For now that's enough.

————-

Early the next morning, a nurse gently taps on your arm to wake you. Another round of blood pressure checks, a perfunctory nod from the attending physician, then you’re free to go. No fanfare, no concerned parents at your side. You gather your things in a plastic hospital bag, feeling more exhausted than ever.

As you push open the hospital’s double doors, a brisk breeze hits your face, making you shiver. A sleek, black sedan idles at the curb. You ignore your driver, not feeling like having a conversation. Your boyfriend Sunghoon is still busy with lectures or something else he hasn’t bothered explaining. The last text you’d sent him about your meltdown and hospital stay got a half-hearted “Shit babe. You ok?” You scroll past it quickly, having no energy bothering. 

Your home is a grand, meticulously manicured house that stands like a monument to success, a shiny cage that feels emptier with each step you take. A lone housekeeper greets you at the door with a polite nod, then disappears into the kitchen. No one asks how you’re doing. You head straight for your room. It’s neat, borderline sterile, just how your parents like it. The queen-sized bed remains perfectly made, a glossy row of trophies and certificates line one wall, testimonies to past achievements. 

A stack of study notes and textbooks dominates your desk, reminding you of the exam you never finished. A lump forms in your throat, but you choke it down. Focus. You open your notebook, only to find the pages swimming again, the words meaningless. That same rising panic claws at your chest, but you slam the notebook shut. Taking a shaky breath, you tell yourself it’s just the aftershocks from the hospital stay, nothing more.

Later that evening, there's a soft knock at your door. The housekeeper’s voice follows. “Miss? Your mother is on the phone.” You swallow, steadying yourself before responding. “Okay.” The door opens just enough for her to slip the phone into your hand. Your fingers tighten around it as you lift it to your ear, heart already sinking. “Hello?” 

“Finally,” your mother’s cool, precise tone crackles over the line. “I’ve been hearing about your little…outburst.” You flinch at her choice of words. “I’m- I’m fine,” you say, forcing composure. “Where are you?”  

“Tokyo,” she answers briskly, as though one word is enough to explain everything. “Your father and I have important clients to entertain. We’ll return next month, once this expansion deal is finalized.” Your pulse drums in your ears. Next month. Of course. “That’s…good,” you manage, hollow words sticking to your tongue. “But I’m really okay. The hospital just wanted–”

“I spoke with Dr. Lee,” she cuts you off, “and I know they’ve sent you to some psychiatrist, Dr. Kim, is it? If this is what it takes to keep everything under control, fine. But you must understand, this sort of behavior draws attention, the wrong kind of attention. Have you thought about how this might look for our family?” Your heart clenches. Of course. It always comes down to the family name. “Mom, I–”

“We’ve all had rough patches, dear,” she interjects, voice dripping with a thin veneer of sympathy. “But you need to be more discreet. There’s no need to make a spectacle of yourself.”  

Heat floods your cheeks, anger, humiliation, shame all tangling together. “I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you say, biting back the words you really want to hurl at her. A slight pause, then, “Your father doesn’t want this overshadowing our business deals. It’s unacceptable. Do whatever you must, therapy, medication, just keep it under control.” Her tone softens by a fraction. “If you need anything–”

“I’ll ask, thanks” you say flatly, already knowing how this dance goes: polite concern, empty promises, no real action. “Yes, of course dear. Take care.” The line clicks off, leaving you with the echo of her disapproval. You place the phone on your desk, your throat tight with the realization that no one is going to swoop in and fix your life for you, especially not the people who care more about their public image than your well-being.

————-

You walk into Dr. Kim’s office with your arms tightly crossed, half-wishing you’d never woken up this morning. The waiting room was bad enough, some soft instrumental music and a bunch of motivational posters about “hope” and “resilience” that make you want to gag. 

He rises from behind his mahogany desk. He’s tall, with a neat haircut, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and the kind of warm smile you’d personally immediately want to distrust. A crisp white coat drapes over his tailored charcoal suit, making him look more like a sharply dressed businessman than the psychiatrist he is.

“Good morning,” he says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’m Dr. Kim. You must be–”

“Yeah,” you cut him off, collapsing into the chair. “Let’s skip the intros. You already know who I am.” He blinks once, unfazed. “Very well. How are you feeling today?”

“How am I feeling?” You force out a short laugh. “Well, I was doing great until my parents decided I needed to see a shrink.” You toss your hair over your shoulder. “But hey, guess it’s your lucky day. You get me as a client.” Dr. Kim doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply takes a seat across from you, flipping open a sleek notepad. “I understand you had a health scare recently, passing out during an exam?”

“Anxiety, dehydration…whatever.” You wave a dismissive hand. “They’ll call it anything as long as it sounds dramatic.” You roll your eyes. “I’m fine now.” His calm gaze settles on you. “Are you, though?” You shrug. “Does it matter? My parents want me ‘fixed’ so I don’t embarrass them again, so here we are. Let’s get this over with.” You hate that the question pokes a sore spot, but you won’t show it. 

He jots down a note. “That must feel quite pressuring, having to live up to certain expectations,” he says. “Wow, you’re good,” you say sarcastically. “Is that your professional opinion?” He sets the pen down and meets your eyes. “I’m here to help you, not to judge or label you. I’d like to understand what leads you to feel so overwhelmed that you–”

“I told you, I’m not overwhelmed,” you cut in, sinking further into the plush chair. “I just…had a bad day.”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally, flipping to a fresh page on his notepad. “Well, if you’re open to it, I’d like to talk about some strategies that might help with stress, so that these ‘bad days’ don’t catch you off guard again.” You snort. “Strategies? Like what, bubble baths and journaling my feelings?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “There are many approaches. Sometimes it’s breathing techniques or short mindfulness exercises that help you regain control when you feel panic creeping in.”

“Mindfulness, huh? Because the solution to a meltdown is apparently inhaling and exhaling.” You tap your nails on the arm of the chair, letting your sarcasm drip. “Genius.” Dr. Kim doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans forward slightly. “I understand your skepticism. But in my experience, these methods can be surprisingly effective, if you give them a fair shot.”

Your gut reaction is to roll your eyes again, but something in his steady voice makes you hesitate. Instead, you clear your throat. “Yeah, well, I’m only here because I was basically threatened with more hospital visits if I didn’t show. So, sure, let’s hear your miracle cures.”

He nods once. “For starters, I’d like you to try a simple grounding exercise each day. It might feel silly at first, but it’s a way to calm down when stress builds up.”

“Right. Calming down. Cool,” you say flatly, gaze drifting to the office clock. There’s still twenty minutes left of this session, an eternity. “Anything else, Doc?”

“We’ll also discuss your academic load. Dr. Lee mentioned you’re taking advanced courses?” You glare. “Yeah, all the advanced midterms, plus some super-fun extracurriculars I don’t even like. Gotta make Mom and Dad proud.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” he observes, making another note. “How often do you get any time to yourself?” You give a short laugh. “I don’t. My free time is basically caffeine-fueled cram sessions. I’m a well-oiled machine, apparently.” He meets your gaze again. “Until the machine breaks down.”

“Wow, so wise,” you say with a theatrical sigh, though his words strike a nerve. “This session is a blast, Dr. Phil- I mean Dr. Kim. Can I go now?”

He checks the time politely. “We still have a few minutes. Tell me, are there any hobbies or interests you have outside of your studies?” Your nostrils flare in annoyance, you just want to be done. “I like to sleep, which I haven’t done in forever. But sure, maybe I’ll pencil in ‘find a hobby’ between courses.”

He offers a small, understanding smile. “Sleep is important, too. We’ll work on helping you find more balance.” You open your mouth to lob another snarky remark, but he’s already rising from his seat. The session is ending, whether you like it or not.

He hands you a small paper with “Mindfulness Tips” printed on it. “Please consider trying these at least once a day. Even five minutes can make a difference.” You take the paper with exaggerated reluctance. “Thank you,” he says, and he actually seems sincere. “We’ll pick up from here next time. Same day and time next week.” You scoff. Unless you find a way to skip out you thought, heading for the door.

As you head toward the exit, your gaze flicks to the reflection on the glass door behind you. There he is, Dr. Kim, standing in the threshold of his office, one hand lightly resting on the doorframe. He’s watching you leave, his posture poised, his expression unreadable. You jerk your head away, quickening your pace as though that can wipe the image from your mind. You hate it. You hate that he’s so calm. You crumple the mindfulness handout in your grip and toss it into your bag, already planning to ignore it.

Once you’re outside, the late afternoon sun hits you like a spotlight. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. A quick glance reveals a text from Sunghoon:

hey babe, heard ur out of the hospital.

this lecture is boring. kill me now.

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. That’s just so…him, dramatic, offhand, almost clueless. But the fact that he reached out again after you had ignored his previous text sparks a little warmth in your chest, a reassuring reminder that he’s still there. Sure, it’s not the most heartfelt check-in, he’s trying to keep it light in his own way. And right now, you’ll take it.

You clench the phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you contemplate how to respond. You’ve missed a ton of schoolwork in the time you were hospitalized, there’s no way you can let that pile up any further. You text back:

I’m out early. Meet me at your place? Need to catch up on uni stuff. Do you still have some of it?

Sunghoon’s reply is almost instant:

yeah, sure see u soon.

You allow yourself a small smile. You need this. At least, you’ve convinced yourself you do. Between the exam you fainted during and all the lectures you missed, there’s no way you can keep up without a boost. Your driver, stoic as always, hardly says a word when you tell him you’ve got a new destination. In the backseat, you drum your fingers on the armrest. The bag on your lap is heavier than usual, thanks to the textbooks you insisted on taking with you. Each one is a bitter reminder of the time you’ve wasted in therapy and in the hospital.

Sunghoon answers the door in his hoodie and sweats, casual, but you still catch the glint of an expensive watch on his wrist. He’s pacing with a textbook under his arm, hair slightly tousled, giving him that rich-kid-trying-too-hard look you know all too well.

“Hey,” he greets, stepping aside so you can come in. “You okay?” You force a light laugh, shrugging off your bag. “Never better.” You glance at the messy dining table, papers, flashcards, and half-empty coffee cups. “Someone’s been busy.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his textbook onto a chair. “Midterms are coming. My mom’s already breathing down my neck.” You nod grimly. “Yeah.  My parents won’t settle for anything less than perfection, and I’ve already lost too much time.”

Sunghoon grabs a fresh cup of coffee from the counter, still steaming, and hands it to you. “Here. This might help.” You take a sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. But coffee alone isn’t enough anymore, and you both know it.

He clears his throat, glancing at your bag. “So… You asked if I still had some of it?” You hesitate, studying his face. “I didn’t want to assume,” you say quietly, “but I’m behind. Really behind.”

Sunghoon nods. “I’ve got a couple left.” He pulls a small orange bottle from a side table drawer. “We can split them, if that helps you catch up.” Your heart thuds in your ears. You shouldn’t feel relieved, but you do. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I'll just have one for tonight.” He presses a capsule into your hand, and you swallow hard. Guilt churns in your gut, but you can’t deny the spark of hope flickering in your chest. This will get me through.

The two of you collapse onto the couch, textbooks spread across your laps. For half an hour, there’s an almost peaceful silence, broken only by the scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of pages. Sunghoon quizzes you on missed lectures, summarizing bullet points faster than you can jot them down.

Despite the caffeine and the buzz in your bloodstream, your focus wavers. Hospital flashbacks… Dr. Kim’s too-calm voice… your parents’ disapproving silence. You force your eyes back to the text. Eventually, Sunghoon rubs at his eyes. “I’ve still got a paper due tomorrow. You okay if we call it here?”

You glance at the clock on your phone. Hours have passed, and your body vibrates with restless energy. “Sure,” you say. “I’ll keep going at home.” He gives your hand a quick squeeze. “Text me if you need more. Or… y’know, to talk about stuff.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. By the time you trudge through your front door, the pill Sunghoon gave you is coursing through your veins. Your mind feels sharper than it has in days, and you’re determined to make the most of it.

You race up to your room, flick on the desk lamp, and spread out your notes. On the way home, you had already been skimming through your textbooks in the car, mouthing key terms under your breath, flipping through flashcards with shaking fingers. But it wasn’t enough. Sleep can wait. You’ll cram until you’ve made up for every second lost.

Hours blur as you tear through lecture outlines, highlight textbooks, and scribble frenzied notes. Adrenaline and desperation fuel your pen, your pulse pounding in your ears. It’s only when your eyes burn and your fingers cramp that you realize you can’t go any further.

4:42 AM.

Your vision flickers, and your head droops toward the desk. You fight the urge to close your eyes, but exhaustion wins. The last thing you remember is the textbook pages swimming in and out of focus, your pen rolling out of your grip.

————-

Light filters through your curtains, too bright and too soon. You jolt awake at your desk, neck stiff, papers sticking to your cheek. Your phone alarm blares, merciless. A quick glance at your reflection in the mirror reveals dark circles under your eyes. The room tilts for a moment as you stand and your heart hammering. You grit your teeth, ignoring the dull ache in your temples.

You gather the scattered papers into your bag, trying not to notice how many are unfinished. In the back of your mind, you can feel a creeping dread, another day of lectures, another exam you’re not ready for, but you swallow it down. At least I got some work done, you tell yourself. At least I’m not wasting time. And with that, you hurry out, adrenaline spiking at the thought of facing another day of school, alone, exhausted, and no closer to escaping the pressure that put you in the hospital in the first place.

You stare blankly at your phone in the university hallway, the screen lighting up with a calendar notification:

Appointment with Dr. Kim at 4:30 PM.

Just seeing his name makes your stomach twist. You can picture his unwavering, calm smile and feel the weight of his clinical gaze. Not today, you decide, tapping “Dismiss” a little too aggressively.

You shove your laptop into your bag. You tell yourself you can’t waste any more time sitting in an office listening to breathing exercises. You’ve got papers, projects, exams, real problems that won’t wait. You shouldn’t feel guilty for skipping, but part of you can already imagine the look on his face if he finds out.

At last, the car pulls into your driveway. The house looms large and quiet, as it always does. You let yourself in, ignoring the echo of your own footsteps across the polished floors. Your housekeeper is nowhere to be found, probably running errands or lost in some other part of this cavernous place. You hurry up the stairs, heading straight for your room, the only space that feels even halfway yours. 

You shove your bedroom door open. Dr. Kim is there. Perched on the edge of your bed, white coat draped neatly over his lap, like he belongs there. Like this isn’t completely insane. Your breath catches, a sharp, choking gasp that barely makes it out. 

“What the hell are you doing here!?” you demand, your voice cracking as you shout. “This is my room, get out!”

He stands, expression measured and calm in a way that makes your skin crawl. “I was concerned,” he says softly. “You missed your appointment.”

You place both hands on your hips, trying to hide how badly they’re shaking. “Concerned? So you break into my house, in my bedroom!? What’s next, rummaging through my underwear drawer?”

His lips curve in that maddening half-smile. “Your housekeeper allowed me in. I asked to speak with you in private.” He nods toward your desk, cluttered with textbooks and crumpled notes. “It seems you’ve been under significant stress.”

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “No kidding. Now, out. Or should I call the police?” He lifts a small plastic cup from his coat pocket, the kind used in hospitals. “Before I go, we need to address your continued Adderall use.”  

Your heart skips a beat. “Continued? I told you, I’m not taking anything.” A lie that stings on your tongue, but you brazen it out. “You got no proof.” His gaze remains unflinching. “I wanted a urine test before, but considering the circumstances at the clinic, it wasn’t the right time. Now, given your symptoms and previous hospital records, I have to ensure you’re not putting yourself in danger.” 

He holds out the cup as if it’s the most normal request in the world. “Please provide a sample.” You scoff, loud and derisive. “Are you insane? No. Absolutely not.” You swat his hand away, glaring daggers. “I’m not peeing in a cup for you.”

Something dark flickers behind his eyes, but his voice remains eerily calm. “It’s part of your treatment, and you did consent to a full evaluation when you were first admitted. If you have nothing to hide–”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “This is harassment. My parents may have signed some forms, but I sure as hell didn’t.” You cross your arms over your chest, jutting your chin out. “So, do me a favor and get out. Or is this how you run your practice? Trespassing and forcing girls to--”

He sets the cup down on your nightstand, cutting you off with a deceptively gentle tone. “Let’s not be melodramatic. I’m concerned about your health, nothing more.”

Blood roars in your ears. You want to scream, to call the police or your parents, but you know exactly how that would go: they’d side with him. He’s the professional, after all. The mere thought fuels your fury.

“If you’re done creeping around,” you bite out, “leave. Take your stupid cup with you. I’m not doing a drug test like some addict.” He regards you for a moment, as if weighing his response. Then he steps closer, and you instinctively step back, refusing to give him any more ground than necessary.

“Skipping therapy is a mistake,” he says calmly. “You’re on a dangerous path, and I won’t be able to help you if you keep lying about your situation. And I won’t let you end up like the others.” You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. “Who said I want your help?”

For a second, you swear disappointment flits across his face. Then, without another word, he takes the cup from the nightstand, slipping it back into his coat pocket. He heads toward your door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be expecting you at the next session,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. “And if you refuse again, I’ll have to consider more… formal measures.”  

You maintain your scowl. “Is that a threat?” He doesn’t answer. He only pushes open the door and leaves with slow, measured steps, like he has all the time in the world.

The instant he’s gone, you slam the door and throw your bag against it for good measure, your heart banging against your rib cage. You’re furious, humiliated, shaken. Who does he think he is?

You collapse onto your bed, the imprint of his presence lingering. Your breath comes in short, angry bursts. You should study, or do something, anything. But all you can focus on is the empty space where that plastic cup sat, and the lingering echo of his final words. More formal measures. Just how far is he willing to go?

————-

The lecture finally ends, and a wave of relief rushes through you. You just finished the makeup exam that landed you in the hospital. You’re not entirely sure how you did, but at least it’s over. Sunghoon catches you on the campus staircase, a lazy grin on his face. “Hey, how’d it go?” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Fine, I guess. Better than fainting in the middle of it.”

He laughs, though there’s a concerned edge in his eyes. “I bet. Hey, some friends are throwing a thing tonight, just a small get-together.” He tosses the phrase out like it’s no big deal, but you both know what “get-together” means among your crowd, booze, drugs, and the illusion of being invincible for a few hours.

You hesitate. A small voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re due for another session with Dr. Kim today. Last time you skipped, he turned up in your bedroom, insisting on a drug test. But you shove that thought aside. You’ve got a right to celebrate, damn it, especially after everything. “Yeah,” you say finally. “I’m in.”

Your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen to see a new message from an unknown number: 

Don't forget your session at 4:30 PM. It's important for your well-being. - Dr. Kim

You raise an eyebrow, irritation flaring. What’s wrong with him? Is he stalking you now? He needs to back off. He can’t make you come in. The memory of him sitting on your bed, demanding a urine sample, still makes your skin crawl. No. You won’t bend to his rules. You silence your phone entirely, letting Sunghoon drag you toward the parking lot. He’s already texting people, finalizing directions to the lavish penthouse party in the wealthy part of town.

By the time you arrive at the penthouse, the sun is sinking low, painting the skyline in pink and orange. The place is massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture, an expensive sound system blasting music loud enough to rattle your bones. A mix of your peers mingles about, dressed in trendy outfits, downing drinks from crystal cups like they’ve done it for years, probably because they have.

Some people greet you by name, offering half-hugs and cheers.

“Congrats on finishing that exam!”

“You look great!”

“Long time no see, heard you were in the hospital?”

Sunghoon steers you toward a corner sofa, where a makeshift bar is set up on a low table, a lineup of imported liquor bottles, along with an assortment of pills scattered in small dishes. Your stomach flips, but you force a confident smirk. A friend, Yunjin, presses a shot glass into your hand, her eyes glazed with that too-familiar party glimmer. “Drink girly!” she says, tossing her own shot back.

You clink glasses with Sunghoon and knock it back, the burn in your throat strangely exhilarating. Somewhere in your mind, a warning bell rings about mixing substances, but the temptation to let go for once is too strong. If you can handle Adderall, you can handle this…right?

Time slips by in a haze. The music thrums beneath your feet, and you catch fragments of conversation. People bragging about upcoming spring break trips, complaining about private tutors, flaunting expensive new gadgets. It’s the same old scene, entitled kids with too much pressure and too many resources.

At one point, you’re slumped next to Sunghoon on the sofa, a champagne glass in your hand. You don’t even remember what number drink this is. The Adderall in your system sharpens your focus just enough to keep you aware that you’re definitely crossing a line tonight, but your rebellious streak won’t let you slow down.

A girl drops beside you, giggling as she hands you something. “Try this,” she slurs, eyes half-lidded. “Relax… you deserve it.” You peer at the pills in her palm. Not Adderall, something else, stronger. For a moment, logic battles curiosity. The memory of Dr. Kim’s pointed questions, the looming threat of more tests, flickers through your mind like a neon warning sign. Then you down it anyway, chasing it with a sip of champagne.

It’s well after midnight when the party takes a turn. You’re seated on the kitchen floor, of all places, head buzzing, vision swimming. Sunghoon’s leaning against the counter, looking equally out of it, while some guy tries to call for more deliveries of food or drinks.

Then you hear it, a heavy bang on the front door, followed by shouts. For a second, your fuzzy brain thinks it’s the police. That alone makes your heart skip. As the party roars on, the door suddenly swings open without hesitation. Your pulse skyrockets. How did he find me? The rush of fear momentarily drowns out the alcohol coursing through your system.

Dr. Kim strides in effortlessly, exuding an air of authority that commands immediate respect. There’s no building manager or security to impede his entrance, like he owns the place. He spots you, and his face sets into a grim mask. He zeroes in on you, eyes dark with anger or concern? You can’t quite tell. “You missed our session again,” he states, low but audible. “I’m taking you home. Now.”

The next thing you register is being bundled into a car, you don’t recognise it. He gets in and you vaguely sense motion as he pulls away from the curb. “Let me go,” you slur, trying to push yourself up. But your limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. “Fuck…off, you…”

His gaze flicks over you, clinical, detached, yet somehow triumphant. “You’re in no condition to make decisions,” he says quietly. “I’ve already informed your parents. They've already signed.” You don’t fully grasp his words. The world tilts, and your eyelids droop. Signed? Signed what?

————-

The world swims back into focus in slow, disorienting waves. Your head throbs, and your mouth tastes like stale liquor. You blink your eyes open, only to realize you’re in your own bedroom, not the penthouse from last night’s party, and not some hospital ward either.

Sunlight spills through the curtains you forgot to close, forcing you to squint. Gradually, you become aware of a faint beeping sound. You shift your head and see an IV drip on a stand beside your bed, connected to your arm. Panic flutters in your chest. What is this?

A familiar voice speaks up, smooth and controlled. “You’re awake.” You turn, and there he is, Dr. Kim, sitting in a chair by your window, one leg casually crossed over the other. He’s not wearing his usual white coat, but a neatly pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint sheen of a watch on his wrist. He offers a half-smile.

“Wh- what are you doing in my house?” you croak, pushing yourself up against the pillows. Your head spins, stomach lurching. He rises, moving closer with an unhurried grace. “You don’t remember?” He tilts his head as if addressing a difficult child. “You skipped your session. Again. Instead, you ended up at a party, highly intoxicated and… let’s just say other substances were involved.”

Heat floods your cheeks as hazy flashes of the party, loud music, potent drinks, pills, it all stabs through your memory. "I removed you from that environment," He continues, his tone even, matter-of-fact. "Your parents have been fully briefed on the situation, and they have entrusted me with overseeing your care moving forward."

He glances at the IV drip. “That’s just a saline solution to help with your dehydration. Nothing more sinister, I assure you.” You try to tear the IV line from your arm, but he’s at your side instantly, his grip surprisingly firm. “You need fluids,” he says quietly, “so be still. For now.” Anger burns in your chest. “Why are you the one doing this? Where’s my mom and dad?”

“They’re not here,” he says, unbothered by your fury. “Business, as usual. They agreed it’s best if someone… qualified monitors you closely. In fact, they’ve signed all the necessary documents to ensure I can do just that.”

Your heart races. “What the hell does that even mean?” His eyes narrow, but his tone remains frustratingly calm. “It means your parents believe you need a more structured environment for the foreseeable future. You’ve been placed on medical leave from university. All your coursework will be completed at home, under my supervision.”

A suffocating sensation grips your chest. “I’m not… you can’t… it’s my house!”

“Yes,” he concedes, “and I’ll be here, too, for as long as it takes.”

“Excuse me,” you snap, yanking the blanket aside. “I can leave anytime I want.”

“Actually,” he says softly, “until I deem you stable, you won’t be going anywhere. Your parents gave me full discretion over your care.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a document, offering it to you. The official letterhead, your parents’ signatures, the words medical guardianship jump out at you. Your vision blurs, frustration and betrayal tangling in your gut. “They had no right-”

“They had every right,” he cuts in gently. “You’ve been technically hospitalized twice, you’re abusing stimulants, not going to your therapy sessions, and now you’ve added drinking and illicit substances. They’re concerned, and they’re trusting me to help you.”

Swallowing the panic clawing at your throat, you ball your fists. “I’m not letting you control my life. I’ll- I’ll call the cops.”

He arches an eyebrow, nodding toward your bedside table. Your phone is there, sure, but when you grab it, the screen shows no service, it’s been turned off or disabled. He shrugs. “Feel free to contact them if you like. But the minute they see the signed paperwork, they’ll understand I’m acting with their full support. No laws broken.”

Rage sparks hot tears at the corners of your eyes. You grip the sheets in frustration. “You think this is helping me?” He presses his lips together, as though considering. “I think you need structure,' he says smoothly. I’ll make sure you’re safe, well-fed, and keeping up with your coursework. You’ll still follow your curriculum, just here, under my supervision.”

He steps closer, pointing to the desk, where a new folder and some binders sit, neatly labeled with your courses. “You’ll have access to uni work provided by your professors. I’ll monitor your study hours. And if I even suspect you’re using Adderall or any other substance, I’ll administer tests on the spot.” Your stomach lurches at the memory of him demanding a urine sample in your own bedroom. “This is insane,” you say, voice trembling with anger and a flicker of fear.

His response is maddeningly calm. “It’s for your own good. You’ve proven you can’t handle the freedom you’ve had, so we’re stepping in to protect you from yourself.” He adjusts the IV drip, an unsettlingly competent motion for a psychiatrist. “Rest for now. When you feel steadier, we’ll start the new schedule.”

Despite your racing thoughts, your body is worn out from the party’s aftereffects. You slouch back against the pillows. “When I’m better,” you hiss, “I’m leaving.”

He exhales as if slightly disappointed by your rebellion. “You can try,” he says, “but we both know you won’t get very far. Your parents aren’t going to back you on this. The staff here has been instructed to follow my orders.” You stare at him, blood pounding in your ears. “So I’m just… stuck here with you?”

He offers a faint, almost sympathetic smile. “That’s one way to look at it. Another way is that we’re taking a much-needed step toward your recovery. I suggest you see it that way, life will be easier.”

He leaves you alone then, shutting the door softly behind him. A cold knot settles in your stomach as you take in your room, now a twisted parody of the sanctuary it once was. The IV in your arm is a tangible reminder that you’re no longer in control.

Your parents. Your home. This man you barely trust. All working together to keep you under control.

Though your mind screams at you to fight, the weight of your exhaustion presses down. You doze off once more, haunted by the knowledge that when you wake, nothing about your life will be the same for a while.

————-

The room feels colder as he sits beside you, the official documents laid out meticulously on your desk. His calm demeanor contrasts sharply with the storm of emotions brewing inside you. You glare at the papers, your frustration barely contained.

“Sweetheart,” he begins softly, using the nickname that both infuriates and unnerves you, “we need to set some ground rules to ensure your well-being and academic success.”

You scoff, crossing your arms defiantly. “Ground rules? What, are you trying to turn my room into a prison?” He sighs gently, understanding the resistance in your tone. “Not a prison, think of it as a structured environment to help you regain control over your life. Your parents and I agree that these measures are necessary.”

He points to the first document. “First and foremost, phone usage is restricted. Your phone will be under my supervision, and only authorized calls are permitted.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the sting of his control. “So, I can’t even have a simple conversation with my friends unless you say it’s okay? Typical.” He remains unfazed, maintaining steady eye contact. “It’s not about distrust. It’s about creating an environment conducive to your recovery.”

He moves to the next document. “Next, a bedtime routine. Lights out by 10 p.m. This ensures you get adequate rest, which is crucial for both your mental and physical health.” You snort, crossing your arms tighter. “Great, more rules to make my life miserable. What’s next, a curfew?”

He nods thoughtfully. “A curfew isn’t necessary since you’re under supervision here. However, waking up at 7 a.m. sharp is mandatory. Consistency helps regulate your body’s internal clock and improves overall productivity.”

He gestures to the following page. “Your study schedule is designed to balance academic work with necessary breaks. Overworking can lead to burnout, which we want to avoid. Each subject has designated times, and there are built-in breaks to relax and recharge.”

You sigh heavily, feeling the weight of the schedule pressing down on you. “So, you control every minute of my day. What about my friends? My boyfriend?” His expression softens slightly, but his tone remains firm. “Social interactions are important, but they need to be managed to ensure they don’t interfere with your recovery. We can discuss structured social activities that are supportive and healthy.”

He points to another rule. “No unauthorized visitors. If you wish to have someone over, it must be approved by me first.” You bite your lip, the sting of humiliation rising. “So, no more hanging out with my friends unless you say it’s okay? You’re seriously crossing boundaries.” He leans forward, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a temporary measure. Your parents and I believe it’s in your best interest. Trust me, this is for your own good.”

You push the chair back, standing abruptly. “Temporary? How long am I supposed to be your little project? I’m not a lab rat you can experiment on.” He remains calm, his expression composed. “This isn’t about experimentation. It’s about providing the support and structure you need to overcome your challenges. Resistance only prolongs the process.”

You glare at him, feeling a surge of anger and helplessness. “I don’t need your support. I need my freedom back.” He stands quietly, holding the stack of documents in his hands. “You have two choices, comply with these rules and work towards your recovery, or continue down this path of self-destruction, which will result in more severe consequences. Your parents are deeply concerned, and they trust me to guide you.”

You take a step closer, defiance burning in your eyes. “Yeah right. So what, you force me to follow your ridiculous rules? You’re nothing but a controlling freak.”

His expression remains composed, though his eyes reveal a flicker of disappointment. “I understand your frustration, but these measures are non-negotiable. It’s time to prioritize your health and future over immediate rebellion.”

Seeing the resolve in his eyes and the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you let out a bitter laugh. “Fine.” He nods, accepting your compliance without further comment. “That’s all I ask. Let’s start by reviewing your study schedule and setting up a plan for your first week.”

————-

Your door creaks open. You hear it before you see anything, and instinct kicks in. Your eyes snap open, darting to the alarm clock on your nightstand, 7:00 AM on the dot. Your alarm was set for 7:30.

Your brows knit together, confusion laced with irritation, as you bury your face deeper into the pillow. Maybe if you ignore it, it’ll go away. But the presence in the room is impossible to dismiss. You feel it, the weight of his gaze, the silent expectation pressing down on you.

“Time to wake up.” Your eyes barely crack open, a deep frown settling on your face as you roll onto your side. He stands near the doorway, dressed in his usual pressed attire, not a single hair out of place. He doesn’t look like a man who should be in your bedroom first thing in the morning.

Your voice is thick with sleep, irritated. “Do you seriously think this is normal? Waking me up like a damn five-year-old? I have an alarm.”

He doesn’t flinch at your hostility. If anything, he looks vaguely amused, like he expected this exact reaction. “You do,” he agrees. “And yet, I’m here.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, blinking at him. “Why?” His head tilts slightly. “Because I expect you to be dressed and ready for breakfast in thirty minutes.”

You stare at him, lips parting in disbelief. “Are you serious?” His expression doesn’t waver. “Deadly.”

A slow, infuriated breath hisses through your teeth. You look at your alarm clock on the nightstand, your alarm still set for 7:30, right where you left it. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. But of course, that doesn’t matter to him. Your schedule is his now.

“You know, normal people just knock,” you say, voice dripping with annoyance. “Or, here’s a wild idea, let people wake up on their own.”

His lips curve in the faintest, most condescending smile. “We’re not working on your version of normal anymore.” You glare at him, fingers twitching against the sheets. “This is so inappropriate.” He doesn’t bite. “You have twenty-eight minutes.”

And with that, he turns, walking out with the ease of someone completely unbothered by your frustration. The soft click of the door shutting feels like a slap to the face.

You fall back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the reality of it all sinking in deeper. He’s really going to control everything. And this is only the beginning. Your alarm was set for 7:30. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes of peace. Of control. But he took that from you. A slow, deep breath hisses through your teeth as you sit up, kicking the blankets off a little harder than necessary. Fine. If he wants you up, then you’ll get up. But not on his terms.

You move sluggishly, deliberately. Not rushing. Not scrambling to meet his demands. If he wants control, he’ll have to wait. Dragging yourself into the bathroom, you take your time washing your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Tired. Hollow-eyed.

Your hair is a mess, but you don’t bother fixing it quickly. You let the seconds tick by, each movement unhurried. When you finally step into the shower, you turn the water to the hottest setting, standing under the scorching stream until your skin is flushed and your muscles are loose.

You towel off slowly, running your fingers through damp hair. Pulling on the most comfortable clothes you can find, you drag your feet back toward the door, taking another slow breath. The act is small, petty even, but it’s the only thing that feels like yours right now.

When you step into the hallway, you half-expect him to be standing right there, waiting. Ready to scold you. But he’s not. The house is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes downstairs. By the time you reach the dining room, he is already seated at the table, a plate set neatly before him. Another one sits across from him.

He doesn’t glance at the clock. Just gestures toward the seat across from him. “You’re late,” he says casually, sipping his coffee. Your jaw tightens. “By a minute.” His calm gaze lifts, “and yet, you’re still late.”

You sink into the chair, gripping your fork a little too hard. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Breakfast is simple, oatmeal with nuts, fruits and honey, yuck. He eats with quiet precision, every movement deliberate, like even his chewing is something he’s mastered.

You don’t eat right away. Your spoon idly stirs the oatmeal, dragging through the softened fruit, but you don’t take a bite. You’re waiting. Will he say something? Will he push you to eat?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his coffee cup and looks at you, his voice calm. “You’ll have study sessions from eight to twelve,” he begins, as if this is a normal conversation. “Break for lunch. Then another session until four. After that, we’ll go over your progress.”

You scoop up a spoonful of oatmeal and let it plop back into the bowl with a dull splat, unimpressed. “Do I get a say in any of this?” 

His lips curve slightly, not a smile. A reaction just enough to say, you already know the answer to that. “I think we both know your choices haven’t been particularly effective,” he says evenly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You set your fork down with a soft clink, leaning back in your chair. “Right. Because I’m such a disaster that I need a babysitter now.” He exhales slowly, as if he expected this conversation. “Because you need structure.” You scoff. “No. I need freedom.” He tilts his head slightly. “You had that. Look where it got you.” Your fingers tighten around the spoon. “Gosh, you sound like my parents.”

“They entrusted me to make the right decisions for you,” he reminds you, calm and steady. “That includes this schedule.” You glare at him, something hot twisting in your chest. “You think you can just...control me into getting better?” For the first time, something flickers behind his eyes, something deeper, something you can't make out. He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin itch. “You’ll come to understand that this is what’s best for you.”

A shiver down your spine. He doesn’t just believe he’s controlling you. He believes he’s saving you. And that is somehow so much worse.

————-

By the time you reach the designated study room, a sleek, minimalist space that he arranged for you, the clock reads 8:02 AM. You make sure to glance at it, just so you can tell yourself, two minutes late. A tiny, invisible rebellion. 

But he doesn’t react. He’s already seated across from you, a thick leather notebook in front of him, pen poised between his fingers. Like he’s ready to observe. Your textbooks are neatly stacked on the desk. A fresh planner, not yours, is open beside them, a strict hour-by-hour study schedule written in his neat, clinical handwriting.

Revised Schedule

8:00 - 9:30 AM: Microeconomics Review 9:30 - 11:00 AM: Mathematical Economics & Calculus for Business 11:00 - 12:00 PM: Case Study Analysis & Financial Modeling 12:00 - 1:00 PM: Lunch 1:00 - 2:30 PM: Macroeconomics & Global Trade 2:30 - 4:00 PM: Investment Analysis & Risk Management 4:00 PM: Dr. Kim’s “Progress Review” 

No room for distractions. No flexibility. Just rigid, controlled structure. You drop into the chair with pointed sluggishness, flipping open your Microeconomics textbook like it’s a burden. His eyes track your movements, but he says nothing.

Fine. If he’s going to hover like some clinical stalker, you’ll just ignore him. You skim over market elasticity equations, but your brain refuses to cooperate. You’re supposed to be able to focus, but your body feels sluggish. Slower than usual. Too much sleep? No stimulants. His fault.

You frown down at the page, trying to force the numbers into place. The silence is suffocating. Then, his voice. “You keep hesitating.” Your fingers tighten around your pencil. “I’m thinking.” He hums, the sound so calm, so condescending that your jaw clenches. “No,” he says, flipping through his own copy of your textbook, “you’re frustrated.”

You exhale sharply, not looking at him. “Wow, thanks for the deep psychological insight.” He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he reaches across the desk and tilts your notebook toward himself. Before you can react, his fingers ghost over the problem you were stuck on. “You made an error here,” he murmurs, tapping the equation lightly with the tip of his pen. “And here.”

You hate how easily he finds your mistakes. How effortless it is for him to point them out, like he’s proving a point about your incompetence. “I was getting to that,” you mutter. “Of course,” he agrees, voice infuriatingly smooth. “But your frustration gets in the way. It always does.” You snap your notebook back, shooting him a glare. “You don’t have to sit here and babysit me. I can handle it.”

His gaze drags over you, slow and intentionally invasive. He leans back slightly in his chair, tilting his head, studying you with that same unsettling patience. “Can you?” Your breath catches, because that tone, that quiet, knowing taunt, doesn’t sound like he’s just questioning your academics.

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You don’t look at him, forcing your eyes back onto the textbook. Silence settles again, but this time it’s heavier. Like he’s waiting for something, like he’s amused and it makes you itch. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable, but his voice cuts through the quiet before you can settle. “You’re restless.” Your stomach tightens. “Maybe because you’re staring at me.”

A slow, almost lazy blink. He tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate, studying you. Then, with the faintest smirk curving his lips, he asks, “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Yes. You swallow, jaw clenching. “You’re making it impossible to concentrate.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, he exhales, a low chuckle beneath his breath.

Your eyes snap to him in disbelief. He’s full on smirking. A shiver runs down your spine. “What’s so funny?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he taps his fingers idly against the table, gaze never leaving yours. “You keep pushing back,” he muses, “but your body betrays you.”

The words send a sharp pulse through your veins. You freeze. “What the hell does that mean?” you snap. His smirk doesn’t waver. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Every time you resist, I can see it.” His fingers trail the edge of his pen, slow and deliberate. “The tension. The frustration. The way you react to my presence.” Your mouth runs dry. “That’s called annoyance.” His head tilts. “Is it?” There’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now. Less clinical. More intense? And you realize, he enjoys this. The push and pull. The fight. The fact that you’re so easily affected by him.

You push back your chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor as you stand. You need air. “I’m taking a break,” you mutter, already turning for the door. But before you can move, he’s already there. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t block you. He just stands, positioned just close enough to force you to stop. Your breath catches.

“You have another hour,” he reminds you, voice still too calm, too smooth. You swallow hard, looking past him. “Move.” He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne, the smell clean and crisp. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “how long you’ll keep pretending you don’t like this.” Your stomach drops. A sharp pulse shoots down your spine, your fingers twitching at your sides. No. No, he’s wrong. You don’t like this. You hate this. You hate him.

He knows that your pulse is racing. That your breath is shallow. That your body, despite every logical part of your brain, is too aware of him. And somehow, that makes him even more patient. Like he knows he doesn’t have to rush this. Because he’s already winning.

————-

By the time lunch rolls around, the tension from the morning has barely faded. The dining room is just as pristine as before, silent, controlled, suffocating. He is already seated when you walk in, a plate of steamed rice, grilled chicken, and vegetables set neatly at your spot. Boring. Predictable. Just like him.

You drop into the chair without a word, grip tightening around the fork as you push the food around your plate. Your appetite is nonexistent, but you don’t test him by refusing to eat. Not yet. Instead, you let the silence stretch. Let the minutes tick by, waiting. And then, without looking up, you say it. “How did you find me?” He doesn’t react right away. He finishes cutting a piece of chicken, lifting it to his mouth with calm precision, chewing slowly. Then, he finally speaks. “Find you where?”

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork with a little too much force. “At the party,” you clarify. “How did you know where I was?” He tilts his head slightly, wiping his mouth with a napkin before resting his elbows on the table. “You were at a party?”

Your glare sharpens. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.” He exhales, leaning back against his chair. You keep your expression blank. “So what?” you push. “You just magically guessed where I was?” A slow blink. A small, knowing curve of his lips. “Your parents informed me.” Your stomach drops as you stare at him. “What?”

“They were notified that you hadn’t returned home,” he continued smoothly. “Your driver was waiting, but you never showed.” You freeze. Shit. You forgot about the driver. “They assumed you were at a party,” he added. “And given the list of events you and your friends have attended in the past, it wasn’t difficult to find the most likely location.” Your fingers tighten around your fork. “That’s insane.” He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Is it?”

You scoff. “You mean to tell me my parents just, what, handed you a list of places I might be?” A slight smirk plays on his lips. “They’re concerned about you.” You laugh, a dry, bitter sound. “They’re concerned about their image.” He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he sets down his utensils, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Regardless, their concerns led me to you.” Your pulse ticks up. You look away, pushing your food around the plate. “So what?” you mutter. “You tracked me down, dragged me home like some runaway child? You don’t see how creepy that is?”

He leans back slightly, studying you. “Would you rather I hadn’t?” The question is too calm. Too certain. You swallow, your throat suddenly dries. Because he’s waiting for an answer. Waiting for you to admit that maybe, just maybe, he had a point. You hate that you don’t have one. Instead, you exhale sharply, stabbing at a piece of chicken. “Next time, don’t bother.”

He hums. A sound of amusement, not agreement. Then, he gestures toward your plate. “Eat.” You hold his gaze for one more second. One more silent act of defiance. And then, you take a bite. Because, for now, it’s the only battle you can win.

————-

By the time the last study session ends, you’re beyond exhausted. Gosh do you miss taking the pills. Hours of microeconomic theory, financial analysis, and investment modeling have left your brain feeling like mush. You were hoping for a break. Maybe some alone time in your room, text Sunghoon, pretend you still have a life outside of this house. But of course, he has other plans.

“You’ll be spending the next hour engaging in a structured activity,” he informs you, as if he’s handing out some divine decree. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “What kind of activity?” He doesn’t answer right away, just motions for you to follow. He leads you into another empty room in this empty house, a sitting area, pristine and untouched, like it’s only there for decoration. A chessboard sits on the table, the pieces perfectly aligned, as if no one has ever played. 

You stare at it. “You’re kidding.” He takes his seat across from you, cool and collected. “Chess stimulates critical thinking. It will help improve your problem-solving skills.” You blink at him. “I’ve been solving problems all day. I’m not playing chess with you.”

His gaze lifts, slow, steady, unwavering. “I wasn’t asking.” The words sit heavy between you. You cross your arms, glaring at the board. “Fine,” you mutter, sinking into the chair. “But I’m not going to make it easy for you.” His lips curve slightly. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

The first few moves are silent. The sound of pieces clicking against the board fills the air. At first, you play recklessly. Intentionally chaotic. Just to mess with him. He doesn’t react. He simply moves his pieces with calm, practiced efficiency. Every move is calculated and controlled. It’s infuriating.

Finally, after a few minutes of quiet strategy, he speaks. “You haven't texted Sunghoon.” You stiffen.Your hand hesitates over a piece. Slowly, you lift your gaze. “Excuse me?” His expression remains neutral, but there’s something lurking beneath it. Something satisfied?

Your fingers tighten around your knight piece. “Well I don't exactly have my phone, do I? Also, did you check my phone?” You ask accusingly. He tilts his head slightly, the movement as lazy as it is intentional. “I wouldn’t call it checking.” He picks up his queen, placing it in a dominant position on the board. “Your screen lit up. It was hard to miss.”

He hums, not denying it. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping low. “Your move.” You shove your knight forward aggressively, knocking one of his pawns off. He barely spares it a glance before speaking again. “You seem… distracted.”

You scoff. “Yeah, maybe because you’re talking about my boyfriend while playing chess like some psycho in a movie.” A low chuckle. “You’re entertaining when you’re agitated,” he remarks, amused, unbothered. “But I meant what I said.”

You exhale, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What, that I’m distracted?” He leans back, fingers tapping lazily against the table. “Yes. You lose focus easily when your emotions are involved.” You roll your eyes, making another move. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me again?” He moves his queen. Check. He meets your eyes, gaze sharp, assessing. “No,” he says smoothly. “This is the part where I win.” You stare at the board, blood boiling. He’s right. You let yourself get distracted. You push away from the table, standing abruptly. “We’re done.” He watches you, expression unreadable. “You don’t like losing.” 

“No,” you snap. “I don’t like this.” His lips curve slightly. He hands you your phone without a word. The weight of it in your palm is almost unfamiliar after an entire day without it. You unlock the screen immediately, scrolling through your notifications, your heart picking up as you scan for Sunghoon’s name. Nothing. Your breath hitches for just a second, barely noticeable, but the disappointment sinks in faster than you can stop it. You blink, double-checking. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a reaction to the last message you sent him. That’s… weird. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he fell asleep early. Maybe he thinks you’re the one ignoring him. 

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating whether you should send something first. Just a simple hey. A test. But something about it feels off. If you text him now, you’ll be the one reaching out. You’ll be the one who noticed. You’ll be the one who cares. And you do, of course, you do, but letting that show somehow makes it feel worse. You swallow the frustration building in your throat and press the power button, shutting off the screen before you let yourself overthink it any further. You set the phone down and push it back toward him. He watches you, his fingers tapping against the desk, slow and rhythmic. "Nothing?" You shrug, forcing nonchalance. "Guess not."

A beat of silence stretches between you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry, just picks up the phone and slips it back into his pocket like it belongs to him, like it wasn’t even yours to begin with. “You’ll have another ten minutes tomorrow.” You nod, walking out too quickly, eager to get out of this room, away from him, away from the sinking weight in your chest that you refuse to acknowledge as sadness. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just one day. But the quiet part of your mind whispers that Sunghoon always texts you, even if it's half assed. Maybe he feels bad about how things got out of hand at the party? Or maybe he doesn’t? 

————-

The soft glow of the TV screen flickers across the dimly lit living room. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, mindlessly watching something simple, something easy. Something that doesn’t require focus. For the first time today, you’re not thinking about anything. Not his rules. Not the suffocating schedule. Just the low hum of the TV, filling the empty space around you. It almost feels… normal. Until it doesn’t.

The screen suddenly blacks out. Your body tenses, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. You blink at the blank TV, disoriented, before slowly turning your head, and there he is. Dr. Kim stands beside the couch, remote in hand, his expression calm yet expectant. “It’s bedtime.” Your brows knit together, disbelief flickering across your face. “Are you serious?” He doesn’t answer. Just sets the remote down on the coffee table, his gaze never leaving you. A sharp, irritated breath escapes you. “I’m not a child.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small, knowing motion that only makes your frustration grow. “You need proper rest,” he says, voice steady, unshaken by your attitude. “Overworking yourself isn’t productive.” You scoff. “It’s just TV.”

“And now, it’s off.” You stare at him, waiting for him to budge. To roll his eyes, sigh, maybe even let you have this one thing. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, waiting for you to comply. And maybe that’s what’s most frustrating of all, he’s not fighting you. He’s not raising his voice, not snapping back. He’s just waiting. Like he already knows you’ll listen. Your jaw tightens, hands balling into fists against your lap. “This is ridiculous.” 

He hums softly, like he’s considering your words. “You’re free to feel that way. But you still need to sleep.” Your muscles tense, the heat of defiance burning under your skin. You don’t want to listen to him. You want to stay right here, keep the TV on, pretend you still have some control over your own life. 

But another part of you, the one exhausted from today’s battles, the one weighed down by everything you refuse to acknowledge, knows you won’t win this one. Slowly, grudgingly, you push yourself up from the couch. You don’t look at him as you move past him, don’t acknowledge the quiet satisfaction in his posture.

The walk to your room feels heavier than it should. By the time you step inside, you expect him to leave, to disappear behind a closed door like your parents always did, cold, distant, uninterested beyond the rules they set.

But he doesn’t. He follows you in, pauses near the doorway. His hand reaches for the handle, but he doesn’t shut it. Instead, he leaves it slightly open. Ajar.

Your stomach knots. “What, you don’t trust me to stay in bed either?” His gaze meets yours, something softer there, something you can’t place. “It’s not about trust.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then what is it about?” A pause. A beat of silence just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “You’re not used to having someone that makes sure you’re okay.” Your breath catches. It’s such a simple statement. Too simple. Like he’s voicing something obvious, something already known.

But it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against the hollow places you never let yourself acknowledge. You should snap at him. Should tell him he’s wrong, that you’re fine, that you don’t need someone watching over you like this. But the words don’t come. You glance at the open door instead, swallowing down whatever emotion threatens to surface. “I don’t need someone like that.”

His expression remains unreadable. “Goodnight.” The words are final, no space left for argument. He turns and steps out, his presence lingering even after he disappears down the hall. The door stays open. And for reasons you don’t understand, you don’t get up to close it.

————-

Time has started to blur. Days bleed into each other, structured and rigid, each one identical to the last. The housemaid stopped coming, it was just you and him. The rules have become second nature, and the fights you used to put up? Less frequent. Not because you agree, but because resistance became exhausting.

And then there’s Sunghoon. Or rather, the absence of him. No calls. No texts. Nothing. At first, you convinced yourself he was just busy. That he’d reach out eventually. But now, days have passed. You’ve checked your phone during your allotted ten minutes, stared at the empty notifications, felt the quiet, creeping disappointment settle in your chest. You try to ignore it. Try to push it down. Sure, Sunghoon wasn’t head over heels for you. But he was your boyfriend. And somehow, that should mean something.

The only message you’ve gotten, the only thing from the outside world at all, is from your parents. Not a phone call. Not even a voice message. Just a text. "Hope you're adjusting. Listen to Dr. Kim." That was it. Nothing more. No warmth, no real concern, just a reminder. Behave. Follow the rules. Because if you don’t, if you fight, if you refuse to comply, there will be consequences. The implication is clear. If you push too far, you’ll be cut off. Financially. Entirely. Completely.

You read the message twice, let the weight of it settle in. And then, without another thought, you lock your phone and place it back on the table. Because really, what’s the point? You wake up on time. You eat when he tells you to. You study for the exact hours he sets. And every night, your door stays ajar. Somewhere along the way, his presence stopped feeling temporary.

The first time he picked out your outfit, you thought he was joking. “I’ll decide what I wear,” you had snapped, arms crossed as you stared at the neat selection of clothes he’d placed on your bed. He remained unimpressed. “You lost that privilege when you were late.”

“One minute,” you had argued, voice laced with frustration. “I was late by one minute.” He had only hummed, stepping closer, gaze steady as he reached for the blouse he chose. “Then next time, be on time.” It’s a ridiculous rule, but you still wear what he picks out every morning. Because even though you tell yourself you don’t care, it’s easier than starting a battle you already know you’ll lose.

He’s also physically closer to you know. At first, you thought his touches were accidental. A brief hand on your shoulder, a light press against your back when he stood behind you, reading over your notes. Small things. Easy to ignore.

But then it became more frequent. His fingers ghost along the curve of your shoulder when he corrects a mistake in your notes. His palm lingers against the small of your back when he guides you to your desk. When you start to fidget, his hand finds your wrist, pressing down lightly as if to calm you.

It should bother you more than it does. But the worst part? It works. You don’t want to admit it, but there’s something calculated, practiced in the way he touches you. Something designed to soothe. Like he’s figured out exactly how to wear down your resistance.

His nicknames also became frequent. You remember the first time he called you sweetheart when discussing the rules. It had been offhand, casual, like he barely even thought about it. You had bristled, waiting for him to correct himself. But he didn’t. 

The next time, it was darling. Another time, angel. Each one more natural, more seamless than the last. The worst part is how easily it slips into conversation now.

"Focus, sweetheart."

"You’re overthinking again, darling."

"Eat, angel. You’ll need your energy."

And you hate it. You hate that he says it like it’s natural, like it belongs. You hate that no one else has ever called you these things, not your parents, not even Sunghoon. You hate that sometimes, when he says it in just the right tone, it makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.

————-

Dinner is different tonight. It’s not just another scheduled meal, another quiet, structured moment where you eat because it’s expected of you. The table is set more carefully than usual, two polished plates, silverware perfectly aligned, the dim glow of the chandelier casting soft shadows. Everything feels…intentional.

You notice immediately. It unsettles you, but you don’t say anything. Maybe it’s another one of his tests, another way to see if you’ll react. Or maybe it’s a reward? The thought makes something curl in your stomach, something ugly, something you refuse to name.

He sits across from you, perfectly composed. He doesn’t acknowledge the change in atmosphere, doesn’t point out the way you eye the setup with quiet suspicion. Instead, he just lifts his glass, takes a slow sip of water, then nods toward your plate. “Sweetheart, eat.”

You don’t argue, but something about the command grates on you. The food looks better than usual, a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables arranged like something straight out of a five-star restaurant. It’s intentional. All of this is. You cut into the steak carefully, bringing the first bite to your lips. The moment it touches your tongue, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. It’s perfect. Rich, tender, seasoned just right, juices melting over your tongue in a way that has your shoulders instantly relaxing. It’s the best thing you’ve tasted in, God, how long has it been? And then, before you can stop it, a sound slips out. Soft, breathy, a quiet, satisfied moan. Your breath catches. Your spine stiffens immediately. Silence. You realize what you’ve done the same second you feel his eyes on you. Slowly, hesitantly, you look up.

He isn’t eating, he isn’t even moving. His fork rests against his plate, untouched. His fingers tap idly against the stem of his glass. He watches you with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable, except for the smirk. It’s like he’s amused. Pleased. Heat crawls up your neck, mortification seeping into your bones. You clear your throat, forcing past the moment as quickly as possible. “How do you know so much about my coursework?”

His gaze flicks up, calm and unsurprised, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Because I studied the same things.” You frown, swallowing. “You’re a psychiatrist.” His lips twitch slightly, like he finds your skepticism amusing. “And before that, I was exactly where you are now. Economics. Business strategy. Finance.” He pauses, tilting his head just slightly. “I was expected to take over my family’s company. Until I didn’t.”

You go still, your fork pausing midair. Something about the way he says it, smooth but edged with something sharper, makes your stomach tighten. “So, what? You just decided one day that you’d rather screw with people’s minds instead of their money?” He exhales a soft, almost amused breath as he sets down his knife. “Something like that.” You scoff, stabbing at your vegetables. “Sounds like you and my parents would get along.” The amusement in his expression fades. “I think you know that isn’t true.”

Your grip tightens around your fork. There’s something too heavy in his voice, something that makes you feel exposed, in a way you don’t like. “You’re here, aren’t you?” he continues, voice smooth but cutting. “Because you think they don't want to deal with you anymore.” The words land heavier than they should. You force a smirk, pushing through the way they settle in your chest like a stone. “Gee, thanks for the reminder.” He watches you, his gaze steady, patient. Too patient. “Does it bother you?”

You lean back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “Why would it? It’s not like it’s the first time.” He doesn’t respond right away. He simply lifts his glass again, taking another sip, letting the silence stretch.

You look down at your plate, at the steak still waiting. You cut another piece, bring it to your lips and the moment it touches your tongue, everything else fades. He’s just sitting there, watching you, smiling at how you're enjoying the meal he cooked for you.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, forcing yourself to look away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he says. You glare, gripping your fork a little too tightly. “Like you’re enjoying this.” He leans back slightly, tilting his head. “And if I am?” The air feels different now. You can’t place it, can’t explain it, but something has shifted. You force out a scoff, desperate to move past it. “Yepp. You and my parents would get along perfectly. You’re all obsessed with control.” He breathes a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “If I wanted control over you darling, you wouldn’t even realize it.” The way he says it, so soft, so certain, it sends a shiver curling down your spine.

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork against your plate with a clatter. “Well, at least I know you have other skills.” You gesture vaguely toward the food, grasping at anything to redirect the conversation. “Didn’t take you for someone who could cook.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since I learned how to take care of things properly.” The phrasing makes your stomach twist. It shouldn’t sound like a warning but somehow, it does.

You pick at the last remnants of your meal, the conversation still lingering in the air. His words sit heavy in your chest, pressing down, reminding you that you're here because your parents didn’t want to deal with you. You hate how easy it is for him to cut through you like that. How effortlessly he makes you feel exposed. But he’s not gloating. He’s just watching.

That same calm, unreadable expression, the slight tilt of his head as if he’s waiting for something, for you to react. You exhale sharply, tapping your fork against the edge of your plate. “So, what? You’re gonna sit there and psychoanalyze me over steak?” His lips curve, the barest smirk, “Would you prefer I psychoanalyze you over dessert?” You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Still waiting. Still watching over you.

The weight of it makes something hot and frustrated twist in your chest. You want to break the tension, want to push back, want to tip the balance. And then, on impulse, you say it. Not Dr. Kim. Not even Seok-Jin.

Just–

“Jin.”

The shift is instant. His eyes darken. Not in anger, but in something deeper. You shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have. But now you can’t take it back.

A slow, unnerving silence stretches between you. Then, he exhales, the corners of his lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Jin, huh?" His voice is low, amused, but there’s something else beneath it, something heavier. Like he’s tasting the way it sounds, rolling it over in his mind, keeping it. “You’ve never called me that before. You barely address me as Dr. Kim."

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let it show. You force a small smile as you lean back in your chair. “Would you rather I stick with Dr. Kim?” His head tilts slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “No,” he says, soft, certain. Then. "I like the way it sounds when you say my name." Your breath catches. Something shifts between you. Something thick, unspoken, dangerous. Your fingers tighten around the napkin in your lap, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Like the way he’s looking at you right now doesn’t make your heart pound just a little too fast. Jin. You shouldn’t have said it. But now, you think, he won’t let you stop.

Dinner is finished, but the tension lingers. You can still feel the weight of his gaze from across the table, his smirk. So you move. For once, without being told, you reach for the dishes, gathering them in your hands before he can stop you. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the tiniest rebellion, something normal in a situation that’s anything but.

You make it to the sink, rolling up your sleeves, fingers brushing over the faucet. The sound of running water fills the space, grounding you. It’s just a plate, just soap and water, just something to do with your hands. 

Then, heat. A slow, creeping warmth against your waist. Not imagined. Not accidental. His hand. Firm. Steady. Claiming.

A slow inhale gets caught in your throat as you freeze, your fingers gripping the counter, your body locked tight. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. You know who it is. His touch is light, just enough to guide you. A slow, press of fingers against the fabric of your shirt, the warmth of his palm bleeding through as his breath ghosts the back of your neck. Too close, too much.

"Go rest." His voice is low, even. Deceptively soft, but there’s something beneath it, something that doesn’t leave room for argument. Your pulse skips. “I can do the dishes.” A hum. Low, deep, amused. "I know you can," he murmurs, closer now, the warmth of him pressing just slightly more into your back. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

You swallow hard, knuckles going white where they grip the counter. This, this isn’t normal. This isn’t how a psychiatrist handles his patient. But he isn’t moving. And neither are you. His fingers press just slightly, just enough, before the warmth of his touch disappears, leaving your skin too aware of its absence. You force yourself to move, stepping back from the sink, willing your breath to stay even, to pretend like this isn’t affecting you. But the second you turn away, you feel it, the weight of his gaze on your back, tracking your every step as you leave the kitchen. You don’t look back. You can’t.

By the time he comes into your room, you’re already in bed, or at least, you’re pretending to be. A book rests in your hands, your eyes scanning the words without absorbing a single one. It doesn’t help. You still feel it, the warmth of his touch, still imprinted on your waist.

Then, movement. You don’t even have time to react before the book slips from your grasp. Not snatched, not forceful. Just taken. Your breath stutters as he plucks it from your hands, his fingers grazing your own for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make your stomach clench. He doesn’t even glance at the title before setting it on your nightstand, his movements fluid, composed, controlled. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s routine. You don’t know what to do with your hands now that they’re empty.

He stands beside your bed, watching you. The dim glow of the bedside lamp catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He isn’t touching you, isn’t crowding you, but he’s there. He’s always there. Then, a small, quiet smile. "Good night."

Your throat tightens. You don’t respond. He tilts his head slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is even softer. "Sweet dreams." The words slip through the cracks, sinking into your skin before you can stop them. The door stays ajar as he leaves, his shadow shifting, stretching against the hallway light. You don’t move. You barely breathe. Even long after he’s gone, long after the silence swallows the room whole, you still feel him.

————-

The warmth is all-consuming, deep, suffocating in the sweetest way. It stretches through every inch of your body, pulling you under, making you heavy, making you needy. The world around you is blurred, distant, nothing but the press of heat, the slow burn of something thick, inescapable, forbidden.

And he’s here. Jin sits at the edge of your bed, his presence undeniable, the weight of his gaze sinking into your skin like it belongs there. He looks relaxed, knowing, like he’s been watching you for a while. Like he’s been waiting. You should ask him why he’s here. You should move. But you don’t. Because his hand is already on you. It starts at your ankle, the softest graze of fingertips, teasing, testing. Your breath stutters, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Then he drags them up. Slowly, as he’s tracing over your calf, your thigh, higher. Spreading the heat. Spreading the tension. Spreading you. A breathy sigh escapes you, your thighs parting instinctively, your back arching the tiniest bit. He chuckles. Low, pleased and amused. And then he leans in. His breath skims your throat, warm, tantalizing, just close enough to send a shudder rolling through you. "You're so easy to tame, angel."

The words melt into your skin, his voice like something dangerous and possessive and inevitable. Then, his mouth. Soft lips press against your pussy, teasing, trailing, tasting. A slow, lingering drag, a teasing bite, a soothing lap of his tongue.

Your fingers grip the sheets, your body betraying you. A soft, helpless noise escapes, a needy little whimper that only makes him press harder. "That’s it, sweetheart" he hums against your skin, his voice rougher now, heavier. "Let me hear you."

The pleasure spikes, unbearable, unbearable, unbearable.

"Jin–" The name slips from your lips, breathless, pleading.

And then.

Your whole body jerks up. Your chest is heaving, your skin flushed, damp with sweat. Your thighs are pressed together, aching, throbbing. Your hands tremble where they grip the sheets, your breath ragged, desperate. It takes too long for reality to sink in. Everything feels too real. His touch still lingers, his voice still in your ear, still on your skin. And then it hits you. It was a dream. Just a dream.

“Jin.” The name is still on your tongue, breathless, needy. And then your bedroom door creaks open. Your stomach plummets and your breath stills as your entire body locks up. You snap your head toward the doorway. Jin steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you, the way you’re gripping the sheets, the way your chest still rises and falls too fast, the way your skin is flushed from something that has nothing to do with the temperature.

His lips curve. Not a smirk. Something deeper, something too knowing. Your pulse slams against your ribs. "Sweet dreams, princess?" 

Your breath hitches. Your chest is still rising and falling too fast, your skin too warm, too sensitive. But you force yourself to breathe. To calm down. Because it was just a dream. Just a dream. And he doesn’t know. He can’t know.

You force a scoff, tilting your head just enough to feign annoyance. “Seriously?” Your voice is still a little rough from sleep, but you ignore it. Push through. “You wake me up early every day and now you’re asking about my dreams?”

Jin leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes sweep over you once, slow, assessing. And then, he smiles. Not his usual soft smirk. Something mocking, almost like he’s entertained. "Just curious."

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, well, nothing worth remembering.” The lie is smooth, automatic, easy. Too easy. And you swear, just for a second, his smirk deepens. Like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows exactly what you were dreaming about. But no. He doesn’t. He can’t. You won’t let him.

You clear your throat, shifting under the sheets like you’re just stretching. “What do you want?” Jin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps forward, setting a neatly folded outfit at the edge of your bed. “I picked out your clothes for today.” His voice is smooth, composed. Just like always. Just like nothing is different.

Your fingers twitch at the sheets, clutching the fabric a little too tightly. Another test. Another way to remind you, his rules, his control, his world. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, keeping the act together. “Great. Looking forward to it.” Jin watches you for a moment longer. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he steps back toward the door. "Get dressed, sweetheart. I'll see you downstairs."

And then, he’s gone. The second the door clicks shut, your whole body collapses back against the pillows. Your hands shake. Your heart pounds. Because he doesn’t know. You played it off. It’s fine. You push the sheets off your body, exhaling sharply as you force yourself up. 

It was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. But the second you stand, the discomfort between your thighs makes you freeze. You shift your legs slightly, and, oh. It’s wet. Uncomfortably wet. You blink, stomach twisting, pulse spiking with something unfamiliar. What the hell? Are you– is this your period?

You rush to the bathroom, pulling down your underwear frantically. And then, you see. Not your period. Something worse. Your breath catches, mortification crawling up your spine. No, no, no, this has never happened before, at least not while you were asleep. Your body has never reacted like this. You wipe yourself clean, hurried, almost frantic, as if scrubbing the evidence away will erase the shame burning in your chest.

You shove your ruined panties deep into the laundry basket, burying them beneath a pile of clothes. You don’t have time to deal with it. You have to get dressed. You reach for the outfit Jin picked. Of course. A preppy pleated skirt, just long enough to be appropriate but short enough to remind you who chose it. And a soft, knitted sweater that fits too well. It makes you feel smaller. Like a high schooler. Like something he dressed up exactly how he wants. 

You exhale sharply, shaking off the thought, focusing on fixing your hair, making yourself look composed. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just wake up a mess from a dream about him. Because he can’t know. And he never will.

————-

You walk to the kitchen, trying to appear normal. Jin is already there, standing at the counter, his sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast. He moves with his usual calm precision, like nothing is out of place, like he hasn’t been waiting for you. Except he has. The moment your footsteps hit the kitchen floor, he glances over. His gaze drags over you, slow, controlled, too knowing. Something in your chest tightens.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, collected, and almost pleasant. “How do you feel?” Your stomach plummets. There’s something wrong with the way he says it. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but it feels pointed.

Your throat is suddenly dry, but you force yourself to act normal. “Fine,” you say, sitting down carefully. His lips twitch amused. “Fine?” Your pulse jolts. Why does he keep repeating things? Why does it feel like he’s waiting for something? You swallow. “Yeah.”

Jin hums lightly, his fingers tapping against his coffee cup, watching you. You focus on your plate. Just eat. Be normal. But the second you shift, you feel it. The lingering wetness between your thighs, the tension still inside you. The dream never ended properly, you never really came.

The tension is still there. Your body tightens involuntarily. Your thighs press together. You don’t even realize you’re squirming until–

“You’re restless.”

Your breath catches. You snap your head up, but Jin is already looking at you. His gaze is calm, observant. His tone is clinical, detached. Like he’s just making an observation. You try to freeze, try to stay still, but it’s too late. “I’m not,” you mutter, shifting in your seat, willing the discomfort to disappear.

Jin lifts his chin just a little, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You are.” Your jaw clenches. “Maybe I just don’t like sitting still.” Jin doesn’t blink. “Or maybe you’re uncomfortable.” Your stomach twists. “I’m fine.”

A pause. A slow, stretched-out silence. Then–

“Are you on your period?”

Your entire body stiffens. Your fork nearly slips from your fingers as you stare at him, heat crawling up your spine, mortification creeping in. “What?” Jin sets his coffee down, completely unbothered. “You’re shifting in your seat, avoiding pressure on your lower half. It’s common when experiencing cramps.” 

Your heart is pounding. “I–” You shake your head, gripping your fork. “No. That’s not–”

“Urinary tract infection?” He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. You nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?” Jin exhales softly, like he’s being patient. Like he’s dealing with someone being difficult for no reason. “You’re tense. Your thighs are pressed together, and you keep adjusting like there’s discomfort.” His voice is perfectly neutral, but you can hear the amusement lingering beneath it. 

Your hands curl into fists under the table. “I don’t have a UTI.” Jin hums, nodding slightly, tapping his fingers against the table. “Then it must be something else.” Your breath shakes. “It’s nothing.” Jin raises a brow, gaze flicking over you slowly. “You’re sure?” You hate this. You hate the way he’s watching you, pretending like he’s just asking logical questions, like he’s not deliberately making you suffer.

Your thighs clench again, desperate to relieve something, and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick downward for just a second. But when he looks back up, his expression is unreadable. You force yourself to breathe, staring at your plate. “I’m sure.”

Jin watches you for a long moment, too long. Then, finally, he leans back. “Alright, sweetheart.” Jin sips his coffee, watching you from across the table, still too calm. The conversation should be over. His gaze flicks over you once more, slow, assessing, like he’s piecing something together. Like he’s still waiting.

Then, he exhales softly, shaking his head, as if something has just occurred to him. "Darling," he says smoothly, "I think I know what’s wrong."

Your heart skips. You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know. But the way he says it, so certain, so confident, like this is just another problem he’s already solved, makes your skin prickle. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “What?”

Jin taps his fingers against the counter, casual, unbothered. But then he speaks. “You need relief.”

Your entire body locks up. The room shrinks. The air thickens. The fork clatters against your plate, hands going clammy, chest tightening with something visceral. Your voice barely works. “W-what?” Jin leans forward slightly, his tone gentle, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Your body is holding onto tension. It’s normal.” His eyes flick downward, a flicker of amusement, a silent acknowledgment that he knows exactly where the tension is. 

You can’t breathe. Your mind's racing, stumbles, crashes. “I don’t–” He hums softly, cutting you off. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, angel. Persistent arousal without release can cause discomfort, muscle strain, even headaches.” He tilts his head, like he’s being helpful. “And judging by the way you keep squirming, I’d say you’re feeling it already.”

Your thighs clench involuntarily, a reaction you wish you could control. Jin sees it. His eyes darken just slightly. You force yourself to snap out of it. “I’m fine,” you bite out. “And I don’t need ‘relief,’ thank you very much.”

Jin doesn’t blink. “Are you sure?” Your stomach drops once more. Because he’s not letting it go. He’s testing you. Pushing. Waiting for you to admit something, or break first. His voice dips lower, calm but pointed. “You’re struggling to focus, aren’t you?” Your fingers dig into your lap. “No.”

“You’re tense.” His eyes drop to your lap, watching the way your fingers tighten against the fabric of your clothes. “Restless.” His lips press together for a beat, as if weighing his next words. Then, his gaze lifts, locking onto yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Irritable.”

Your pulse jumps. “I am not!” His lips curve slightly. “And yet, you can’t sit still.” You want to scream, to shove your plate away and leave, pretend like this conversation never happened. But he’s got you. He knows it. You know it.

The silence stretches. The air is unbearable. Then, softly, so gentle, so calculated, he speaks again. "Sweetheart, if you keep ignoring it, it’ll only get worse." Your body betrays you again, a sharp little twitch of your thighs, an unconscious clench. What the fuck is wrong with you today?!

Jin sees. He hums like it’s exactly what he expected. “That’s what I thought.” Your throat closes. You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that your body is still aching, still throbbing, still desperate for something it shouldn’t want.

You shake your head, voice weaker. “This is fucked up.” Jin exhales. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice smooth and patient. “Everything feels fucked up when you’re resisting what you need.” His gaze never wavers, it’s steady and sure, like he’s already won. Then, he tilts his head slightly. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches because that’s the trap. If you say yes, you’re giving him permission. If you say no, you’re denying the one person who’s supposedly ‘taking care of you.’ Your lips part, but the words won’t come out. 

Jin leans forward slightly, voice softer, coaxing, careful. "Let me help you, angel." Your entire body burns. You shouldn’t even consider it. But your pulse is pounding, your skin is hot, your body is still aching, needy, desperate. And the worst part? You want to say yes. Jin doesn’t push. He doesn’t move. He just watches you patiently.

The tension in your muscles, the way you can’t keep still, the lingering damp heat between your thighs that refuses to fade. You know he sees it. You know he’s been watching the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers twitch like you don’t know what to do with them.

And worst of all? He’s right. It is getting worse. Jin exhales softly. "You understand what I’m offering, don’t you?" You swallow thickly, you can’t meet his eyes, but you nod, just once, small, barely there. But he doesn’t accept that. His fingers drum lightly against the table, thoughtful. “Use your words, angel.” His voice is calm and coaxing. “Tell me what you need.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, gripping the soft knit like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your throat feels tight, your skin hot. Every part of you is wound so tight it’s painful. You close your eyes, inhale shakily, and finally, finally, mutter the words that seal your fate. "I…need help."

The corner of Jin’s lips twitches, satisfied. He pushes his chair back, rising with the ease of someone who already knew this was inevitable. Then, he extends his hand. "Come here, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightens and your pulse jumps. Your breath shudders as you push your chair back, legs unsteady beneath you. Every step toward him feels heavy, irreversible, like crossing a line you can never uncross. Jin watches you the entire time, his expression is calm, like this is just another routine part of your schedule.

You stop in front of him, pulse thrumming against your ribs. He doesn’t move right away, just takes you in your hesitance. Then, he reaches out, slow and precise. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing lightly against the waistband of your skirt. The touch itself is innocent, barely there, barely anything at all. But the way he does it? It’s not. It’s measured, intentional, possessive in a way.

His voice is low, soothing, but there’s something darker lurking beneath it. "You don’t have to be nervous," he murmurs. "I told you sweetheart, I’ll take care of you." Your stomach flutters. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want to believe him. 

Jin’s hands move slower than necessary, his touch measured, guiding you exactly where he wants. One hand glides up your back, pressing firmly between your shoulder blades. With effortless control, he eases you down until your stomach and chest meet the cold, smooth marble of the counter. The contrast of warmth and chill sends a shiver through you. A flicker of confusion crosses your mind. Here? In the kitchen?

Jin’s hands rest against your hips, firm and steady, like he’s guiding you into place. The warmth of his palms sinks through the fabric of your sweater. “Think of this as purely medical,” he assures, his voice smooth. “A necessary examination. That’s all.”

Your breath catches. Your body is still tight and on edge from the dream, from the restless, unsatisfied heat thrumming beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be considering this, shouldn’t even be standing here, but the words, his words, make it sound so reasonable.

Like this isn’t something twisted or forbidden. Like it’s something you need. You shift slightly, barely perceptible, but Jin notices everything. “You’re still tense,” he notes, almost like he’s diagnosing a symptom. “You understand the risks of prolonged sexual frustration, don’t you, darling?”

Your entire body goes stiff. He hums, interrupting you like he already knows what you were going to say. “Arousal without release can cause discomfort, which affects concentration..." His voice is lower now, softer, as if he’s concerned. “That’s why you were squirming so much earlier, wasn’t it?”

Heat flushes through your body, embarrassment crawling up your throat. “I wasn’t–” 

Jin lets out a small sigh, almost sympathetic. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers pressing just slightly against the waistband of your skirt, a silent reminder of how easily he could fix this. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is simply your body’s natural response to unresolved tension.” Your nails dig into the counter. His touch is so light, barely there, but your body is already betraying you, reacting to him, desperate for anything more. 

He steps closer, his chest nearly flush against your back. His breath brushes against your ear as he speaks. “You need relief.” His voice is smooth and persuasive.“And if you won’t take care of it yourself…” His hands slide a fraction lower. “I will.”

The warmth of his body pressing just close enough to remind you that you have nowhere to go. His hands remain steady on your hips, thumbs brushing slow, measured circles just beneath the waistband of your skirt.

Your breath is shaky, uneven, but he remains perfectly composed, voice low, calm, rational. He waits, to see if you’ll stop him. And when you don’t, he moves. His hands slide lower, his fingers lifting the hem of your skirt, inch by inch. The air hits your exposed thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between them. You shudder and Jin notices. The fabric gathers around your waist, completely out of the way now. 

His fingers drift lower, brushing against the waistband of your panties. A slow, thoughtful hum vibrates in his chest. “You really shouldn't neglect yourself,” he murmurs, mock disappointment laced in his voice. 

His fingers trace over your clothed pussy, gliding over the thin fabric of your panties before pressing lightly against the damp spot. He exhales, pleased. "Sweetheart," he muses, his voice dipping into something indulgent. "You're absolutely soaked."

Your whole body locks up in shame, mortification… something else. His fingers hook around the delicate fabric, giving a slow tug. Like he’s testing you. You don’t know if you’ve passed or failed. But you don’t stop him, so he keeps going. 

The panties slide down, slow and torturous, the damp fabric dragging along your slick folds, clinging for a moment before peeling away. There’s nothing between you now. Nothing stopping him, or you... 

A low gasp escapes you, your body tensing, thighs clenching instinctively, but there’s nothing to hide behind now.

And then, he sees.

A soft, low exhale leaves him, almost thoughtful as he’s fixed between your legs. His hands don’t move, not yet. He just stares. Eyes locked on your bare, swollen pussy, on the way your wetness glistens in the dim light. 

Seconds stretch unbearably long as he simply looks, his thumb lazily stroking your inner thigh, slow, absentminded circles against your heated skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, even, assessing.

Your stomach tightens, your hips shift, just barely, an instinctive, needy movement, but his hands immediately tighten on your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you.

A single finger trails through your folds, parting you, spreading your slick, dragging through the wet heat before he finally pulls away, inspecting the glistening strings of arousal stretching between his fingers.

Your breath hitches, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you can’t look away from him. He hums, as if pleased with the results, voice smooth and measured when he finally speaks.

"All this for me? What a good girl," he murmurs, voice drenched in quiet approval, his eyes still locked on you, watching the way your entrance flutters, clenching desperately around nothing.

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands slide back up, gliding over the curve of your bare thighs. His fingers drift along the soft skin of your inner thighs, teasing. You tremble, breath shaky, hands gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And he notices. “Still so tense,” he murmurs, voice smooth, patient. “I told you, sweetheart, it’s not good to hold this in.” His tone is steady, measured, as if this is nothing but routine. As if he’s simply following medical necessity.

Then, finally, he moves again. His fingers slide between your folds, parting you with effortless precision. You gasp. He exhales softly, almost as if confirming something. “You’re already throbbing,” he hums, his fingers gliding in slow, teasing strokes along your pussy.

“Poor little thing.” Your whole body tenses, your legs threatening to close around his hand, but he doesn’t allow it. His grip tightens, his other hand pressing to your waist, grounding you, controlling you. 

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands hold your hips steady, thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you against the counter. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your shoulder, close, too close. His fingers move slowly, dragging over your drenched pussy just to watch you twitch. “No, sweetheart,” he soothes, voice low, patient. “Let me do this properly.” Then, he starts.

A low, breathy “Fuck” slips from your lips as his fingers slide through your slick folds, spreading you open. He finds your clit with effortless precision, rubbing smooth circles over it. The stimulation makes your legs tremble, and your thighs press together, seeking more.

Your hips shift, instinctively chasing the pressure, but he doesn’t allow it. He pulls back, teasing, withholding.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice like silk, like you’re being difficult, like you need to be corrected. “I need you to be a good girl and stay still. Can you do that for me?”

The cold surface of the kitchen counter presses against your stomach, grounding you, but nothing prepares you for the way he handles you, pinned down, ass on display, legs spread just enough for him to take his time. You nod, breath hitching, thighs trembling as the pleasure builds too fast, too much. 

Then, suddenly, he pushes a finger in slowly, stretching you open as he continues rubbing circles over your clit.

“Ah–” A choked, breathless moan spills from your lips, your body trembling against the counter. It’s too much, too new, stretching, filling, making your thighs tremble as another whimper escapes you.

The intrusion is foreign, unfamiliar, your walls tightening instinctively around him as he pushes deeper. He groans at the way you squeeze his finger, his free hand smoothing over the curve of your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “Fuck,” he mutters, his tone laced with something dark, something possessive. “You’re gripping me so tight, angel.”

A desperate, broken moan escapes you as his finger presses deeper, curling slightly, making your body jolt against the counter. Your breath stutters, high and needy, hips instinctively twitching as another gasp leaves your lips.

“Shh,” he soothes, amusement threading through his voice as his thumb circles your clit, coaxing another helpless moan from you. “I know, sweetheart. It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Your hands clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles white as your breath hitches again, a whimper slipping free when he starts moving, slow, deep, stretching you open with every thrust of his finger.

“Such pretty little sounds,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, without warning, he pushes a second finger in.

"Ahh!" A sharp, helpless moan rips from your lips, your body jerking against the counter at the sudden stretch. It’s too much, deeper, fuller, making your legs almost give up.

Fuck, you’re so soaked, so wet that his fingers sink into you effortlessly, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of the kitchen. His free hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned in place, while the other works you open, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm.

"Messy little thing," he muses, dragging his fingers out just enough to hear the way your arousal slicks against him before pushing them back in, slow and deliberate. "Listen to that, do you hear how wet you are for me?"

Your breath stutters, a choked whimper slipping free as his fingers curl inside you. "Ngh- please." Your voice is barely a whisper, shaky and breathless, your hips instinctively pushing back, desperate for more.

He clicks his tongue, tutting softly, like you’re being difficult. His fingers press deep, the wet squelch of your arousal only growing louder, filthier.

"So impatient," he murmurs, thumb spreading your slick over your swollen clit, circling it slowly. "But since you asked so nicely."

Heat crawls up your spine, shame and desire tangling as your body betrays you, trembling with every slow, devastating thrust of his fingers.

"That’s it, angel" he praises, calm, controlled, like he’s guiding you through it. "Don’t fight it.”

His fingers work you faster now, pushing in deep, rhythmic thrusts, each curl of his fingers perfectly timed with the pressure against your clit. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, sending your body teetering right on the edge.

"I’m gonna-" Your words shatter into a desperate sob as your pussy tightens around him, your entire body locking up as the pressure inside you finally bursts.

A high, broken moan spills from your lips, wrecked and needy, as your walls clench and throb around his fingers, sucking them deeper like you never want to let go.

The wetness gushes between your legs, soaking his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm. The slick, obscene squelch fills the quiet kitchen, the sound of it only making your body jolt harder as the waves of pleasure keep rolling through you.

"Oh?" His voice is low, teasing, fingers still deep inside you, curling lazily as he lets you ride it out. "What was that, angel?"

Your hips jerk, your body betraying you, grinding helplessly against his hand, but it only makes him chuckle.

"You made such a pretty mess for me," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, more indulgent, like he’s savoring every second. "Dripping all over my hand like that."

His fingers slow but never stop, working you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you’re nothing but a panting, overstimulated mess against the counter.

"That’s my good girl," he coaxes, dragging one last teasing stroke inside you, making you whimper, oversensitive and spent. "Didn’t even know you could come this hard, did you?"

His free hand smooths over your back, soothing and grounding you, but his fingers stay buried deep, lingering, possessive, still playing with your soaked, fluttering walls just to feel you shiver.

"Mmm, let’s get you cleaned up," he murmurs, but there’s amusement laced in his tone, like he has no real intention of stopping just yet.

He adjusts his stance, his other hand pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way your walls still flutter weakly around his fingers.

"You’re still so sensitive," he notes, almost to himself, slowly pressing his fingers deeper like he’s checking something. "A little overstimulated… but that’s normal. Everything feels just as it should."

"Nnnh–!" A shaky, broken whimper rips from your throat, your body tensing up immediately as the sudden pressure makes your overworked walls clamp down around him.

"T-too much." Your voice wavers, high and wrecked, but there’s no real resistance, just a helpless, desperate quiver beneath him.

He hums, his free hand smoothing down the curve of your spine in something almost reassuring. Almost.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice a steady, professional calm against your shaking, overstimulated mess of a body. "You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

And then he starts again, curling his fingers, massaging every tender, overstimulated spot inside you, coaxing out more of your release. His movements are measured as he’s stretching you open wider, forcing more slick to spill out onto his knuckles.

The squelch is obscene, loud, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down onto his wrist.

"There we go," he murmurs, his tone calm, clinical, like he’s simply taking notes on your body’s reactions. "Still so sensitive. But I need to know, sweetheart…"

His fingers ease out, dragging slowly, purposefully, letting you feel every inch as he pulls them free. A messy trail of arousal follows, wet and glistening, connecting you to his hand.

"Do you taste as good as you feel?"

You barely get a second to process his words before you feel it, his fingers spreading you open, pressing against your swollen folds, smearing your slick over your aching clit just before his tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe up your drenched pussy.

A high, wrecked cry spills from your lips, body jerking, but he just hums, soft and thoughtful, his tongue flicking lazily over your sensitive entrance, collecting every last drop he worked out of you.

His tongue moves with calculated precision, each slow stroke gathering every trace of slick left behind. He is cleaning you up, just not in the way you expected.

"Mm, there we go," he hums against you, lips brushing over your overworked clit as he speaks. "Can’t leave you like this, sweetheart. Need to make sure you’re taken care of properly."

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as his tongue flicks, lingers, tracing slow, thorough circles around your aching, swollen bud before dipping down again, lapping up every bit of your release.

Your thighs twitch violently, body jerking, but his hands are steady, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding you open effortlessly.

His tongue dragging up your folds, savoring every drop like it’s his duty to leave nothing behind.You whimper, not knowing how long until he’s done. 

"Shh, sweetheart," he soothes, his lips gliding over your sensitive, overspent cunt, punctuating his words with leisurely, unhurried licks. "I know you’re sensitive. But I need to be thorough." His tone remains calm, clinical, as though this is simply a necessary part of your care.

His tongue pushes deeper, parting your folds as he gathers the last remnants of your slick, lapping at you like he’s ensuring nothing is wasted.

A whimpering sob spills from your lips, your breath ragged, body shaking beneath him, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter.

"Almost done," he murmurs, reassuring, as if this is nothing but routine. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, tilting you just enough to clean you properly.

"You’re being such a good girl for me," he praises, punctuating the words with a slow, indulgent lick, collecting what’s left of you.

Then, as if to make absolutely sure, his tongue swipes over your clit, a soft, lingering stroke that makes your body jolt violently.

Your hips buck, another high-pitched gasp slipping free, but he merely hums in satisfaction, his fingers pressing into your hips to steady you.

"There," he exhales finally, pulling back just slightly, though his warm breath still ghosts over your swollen pussy. "All clean."

A moment of silence. A pause that should feel like relief, but it doesn’t.

Because then, with a low, satisfied hum, he licks his lips, drags his thumb over your entrance one last time, and murmurs "Perfect."

Your body stays stilled against the counter, breath still coming in short, uneven pants, your limbs feeling boneless, wrecked, your mind blank with too many emotions to process.

Then, the shift.

He moves with practiced ease, hands smoothing over your bare thighs, his touch calm, routine, like he’s simply adjusting your posture during lessons. The skirt he had bunched up around your waist, the one he moved aside without hesitation, he pulls it back down, smoothing out the fabric like nothing ever happened.

But your panties? The ones ruined, damp, stained with the mess he coaxed from you?

He keeps those. With a quiet, effortless motion, he slips them into his pocket, tucking them away without hesitation, without a word. And then, just as quickly, he’s back to normal.

"You did well," he says smoothly, praising you like it’s just another part of a medical check-up. "Your body’s response was completely natural. Everything’s functioning just as it should." A beat of silence. Then, with the same calm professionalism, he continues, "Our session will start a little later than usual today." 

Like nothing happened. Like this was just another routine assessment. You nod numbly, your head still spinning, your body still trembling, but you don’t say a word. You can’t. Your voice wouldn’t work even if you tried. You adjust your posture, fixing your stance, still feeling unbearably exposed despite your skirt down. 

And then you turn, moving toward the door with shaky, uneven steps, your thighs damp, your heart pounding with a mixture of confusion, shame, and something else you can’t name.

That’s when his voice stops you one last time.

Soft. Amused. Possessive.

"Darling," he calls lightly, making your stomach flip, your breath hitch before you even turn to face him.

You do, barely managing to meet his gaze, your cheeks burning.

His eyes flick down, not at you, but at your trembling legs. At the way you press them together, still sensitive, still wrecked from what he just did.

A smirk tugs at his lips. His tone is softer now, smooth, almost mockingly gentle when he murmurs, "from now on… I’ll be the one to clean you up."

Your stomach drops, something deep inside you twisting at the implication in his voice. Because it’s not just about this moment. It’s about the dream you had. The one where you woke up wet, breathless, shaking, your pussy sticky with evidence of something you didn’t want to name.

He knew all along, fuck he must have heard you.

Your breath stutters, your body flushing with mortification as he walks up to you. You try to avoid his gaze, but his fingers find your chin, tilting it up with gentle insistence until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. Shame burns through you, settling deep in your chest. He hums, voice low and knowing. 'Try to stay focused during our lesson, hmm?'

And just like that, he walks away to do the breakfast dishes. Like you weren’t just panting against the counter, thighs trembling from overstimulation. Like he hadn’t just stripped you bare, licked you clean, and taken your panties as a souvenir.

————-

The day continues as usual, or at least, it’s supposed to. You had quickly changed into white pantyhose. Even though your skirt is long enough to hide your panties, you're not taking any more chances. Lessons start, structured and rigid, the way they always do. But today, you can’t focus. Jin is still the same, still suffocating, still watching, still controlling everything. 

He hovers behind you as you study, correcting the way you hold your pen, smoothing a hand over your shoulder when you hesitate too long on a problem, calling you nicknames like this morning never happened. Like nothing has changed. But for you, everything has. Your thoughts are scattered, disjointed, looping back to the way his voice sounded when he coaxed you through it, the way his fingers and tongue felt, how effortlessly he took control of you, of your body.

And the worst part? You let him. You let him touch you, take care of you, break you apart. And now, you don’t know what that means. Your stomach twists, a slow creeping anxiety settling in your chest, festering, suffocating. You think of Sunghoon. It’s the first time you’ve let yourself think of him, really think of him, since this whole thing started. Since Jin.

You haven’t heard from him. Not in weeks. Not a single call, not a single text. But does that matter? Would it have mattered if he had? Would it have stopped you from gasping Jin’s name this morning? From letting him push you over the edge with nothing but calculated touches and gentle orders?

Your hands tremble slightly as you flip the page of your textbook. You don’t know what this is anymore. Jin isn’t just your psychiatrist, your guardian? You don’t even know what to call him. The thought makes your skin crawl.

You’re grateful when dinner comes around. A distraction. Something else to focus on. But when you sit down at the table, when Jin slides a plate in front of you, when his fingers ghost against your wrist for just a second too long, the anxiety creeps right back in.

Because he still looks the same. Still calm, patient, and so unbearably in control. And you hate that you don’t know if he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it. Or if he already knows you won’t.

Jin has prepared a warm, steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae, paired with fresh rice and a side of vegetables. It’s supposed to be comforting, homey, something you like but do not get to have often. It’s something you should be able to enjoy, but can’t seem to. Not when your body still remembers what he did to you this morning. Not when your mind won’t shut up, won’t stop replaying how it felt, how you let him do it. And worst of all? Not when he’s sitting across from you like nothing happened.

Jin eats with his usual calm, methodical pace. You, however, are restless. You poke at your food, tapping your chopsticks against the bowl, shifting in your seat. Every little thing feels too much. The silence stretches too long. You hate that he’s so at ease. So unaffected. It makes you feel like you’re the only one suffering, the only one drowning in whatever the hell this is. So, naturally, you lash out.

“Dinner was later than usual,” you say suddenly, feigning casualness as you lift a spoonful of the broth to stare at. “That wasn’t very responsible of you, Dr. Kim.”

His gaze flicks up at the name, and for a brief second, something sharp flashes in his eyes, displeasure, kinda like a warning. “I had a call,” he says sternly, “a necessary one. Eat your food, sweetheart.”

You hum, dragging your spoon through the broth, barely acknowledging his words. And then, just to push him further, just to see how far you can go. You sigh dramatically, rolling your eyes. And then, under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Wouldn’t want to disobey, right?” You say it sweetly, batting your lashes mockingly. You don’t even think about it, don’t process what you just said until it’s already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Jin’s chopsticks pause midair. When his expression hardens, that’s when you realize your mistake. A slow, unbearable silence stretches between you. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, folding his hands on the table, his gaze steady as he studies you. 

“What did you say?” he muses, his voice too calm. You swallow as your confidence is already slipping. But you double down. Because you don’t want him to know how much you regret saying it.

You lean back, shrugging, playing with your spoon. “I mean, isn’t that what you want, Daddy?” You drawl, mocking. “Since you’re the one making all the rules.”

His eyes darken. His fingers tap against the table, slow and controlled. 

"Stand up."

Your stomach drops.

"What? No."

His lips curve, but there’s no amusement. Just expectation.

"Now."

You hesitate, but your body betrays you.

Because the weight in his voice, the sheer command of it, leaves no room for argument.

You rise, slowly, warily.

And the second you get closer to him.

He moves.

Jin grabs your wrist, swift and effortless, pulling you toward him with calculated force.

Before you can even process what’s happening, you’re dragged across his lap, pinned down over his thighs, stomach pressed against his legs.

You yelp, hands grabbing at nothing, struggling instinctively, but he’s already got you trapped beneath his grip.

And then, he moves your skirt, gathering the material at your waist. 

"White, hm?" His voice dips into something almost pleased, almost mocking, his palm gliding over your pantyhose-clad ass, the thin, sheer fabric stretched tight over your skin.

His touch is calm, measured, spreading over the delicate material, testing the way it hugs you, the way it clings, the way it does nothing to shield you from him.

His fingertips glide along the soft nylon, barely-there touches that make you shiver. "You want to act like a brat?" he murmurs, voice low, smooth, brushing against the shell of your ear. 

"Then you’ll be treated like one."

And then, the first slap.

Sharp. Sudden. Loud.

The sting cuts through the sheer fabric, making you jolt forward, gasping.

"Count." He orders. 

Your breath stutters. "W-what?"

Another sharp slap. Harder.

Your legs tremble.

"Start counting, sweetheart."

Your fingers curl into fists, your whole body burning.

"T-two."

His hand lands again.

"Louder."

Your thighs clench.

"Three."

"Good girl," he praises, voice dark, smooth. His other hand presses against your lower back, keeping you still.

Another slap.

Your hips buck. Your knees wobble.

"Four."

The pain blends with something else, something worse, something humiliating.

Again. And again.

"Five." 

"Six." 

The heat spreads, sharp at first, then dull and throbbing, radiating through you.

"Seven."

"Eight."

Your voice shakes.

"Nine."

The final slap. Harder than the rest.

"Ten."

You’re panting, your thighs shaking beneath you.

Then, he pauses.

His palm rests against the burning skin, fingers smoothing over the lingering sting like he’s soothing you, but you know better.

Because then, without warning, a sharp squeeze, fingers digging into the tender flesh of your ass, forcing a choked gasp from your lips.

Fuck– it hurts.

"Manners, angel," he murmurs, voice smooth, expectant, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s reminding you who’s in control.

His thumb presses deeper, tracing over the sheer nylon stretched taut over your skin, testing the warmth he left behind, feeling how swollen, how tender you’ve become under his hand.

Your face burns when you realise he’s going to make you thank him. 

“…Thank you,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence.

His thumb presses again, circling the spot where the burn is deepest, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through you.

"Use that pretty little name you called me earlier, angel."

Your stomach twists, heat creeps up your neck, you don’t want to say it. But you know better.

You swallow hard, "Thank you… Daddy."

The approving hum that rumbles from his chest makes your thighs clench together instinctively. It does something to you, something humiliating and hot all at once.

Then, just as you brace yourself for another punishing squeeze, his hand smooths over your ass instead, fingers gliding over the delicate white pantyhose stretched tight against your skin. 

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, voice thick with something dark, something possessive. His palm drags over the fabric slowly, like he’s savoring the way it hugs your curves, the way you tremble beneath his touch. 

Then, without warning, he grips the thin material at the seam and rips it apart. The sharp tear of fabric fills the room, and a shocked gasp escapes you as cool air kisses your newly exposed skin. 

His breath hitches, just slightly, but it’s enough. "Look at that," he groans, spreading the ruined nylon further to admire the soft, pink flesh underneath. His fingers skim over the freshly exposed skin, his touch maddeningly light. 

"Knew you’d be this pretty under all that." You shiver, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over you. But he isn’t done. One firm hand settles on your bare ass, squeezing, massaging, reveling in the way your flesh gives under his grip. 

"Now," he murmurs, voice softer, teasing, but still entirely in control. "Are you done being difficult," he breathes, his lips just near your ear, "and ready to be my good girl again?"

Your stomach flips. Because you don’t know, but you nod, because you don’t think you can handle any more.

Jin’s lips curve, satisfied. He presses a small, fleeting kiss to the nape of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. Then, finally, he pulls back.

With deliberate care, he smooths your skirt down over the mess, covering the evidence of what he’s done to you. The ruined pantyhose still cling to your legs, torn and stretched, a reminder of just how easily he’s unraveled you. He adjusts the fabric gently, as if tucking you back into place, like nothing happened.

His hands slip to your waist, steadying you as he helps you stand. "There you go, angel," he says approvingly, fingers brushing over your trembling thighs. "Such a good girl for me."

Then, as if he hadn’t just wrecked you beyond repair, he straightens, smoothing out his sleeves. His voice is effortless, smooth as silk.

"Finish your dinner, darling."

————-

You sit at the edge of your bed, brushing out your hair, trying to shove down the unease curling in your stomach. The sting from earlier still lingers on your butt, a dull reminder of his discipline. Your thoughts are spiraling until you hear the soft creak of your door. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

"Sweetheart." His voice is smooth, too soft, like he’s being careful with you. Like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. You exhale through your nose, feigning disinterest as you set down your brush. "Yes?"

A small, pleased hum. Then, the rustle of fabric. You glance over just as he pulls a small white pill from a container, holding it out between two fingers. "Here, take this," he says simply.

Your stomach twists as you eye it suspiciously. "What is it?" His gaze is steady. "Something mild. To help you sleep and ease your mind." Your pulse skips. The way he says it, it sounds so reasonable and normal. 

"I don’t need it," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "You do," Jin corrects gently, stepping closer. "You’ve been restless, overthinking and tense." Your fingers tighten in your lap. He’s not wrong, your head has been a mess. Too many conflicting emotions, too much guilt, too much…everything.

You don’t say anything. You just stare at the pill, hesitation thick in your chest. Then, he reaches out. His fingers brush against your chin, tipping your face up. The touch is light, almost affectionate, but his grip is firm. His thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw as he watches you closely.

"It’s mild," he murmurs, repeating himself. "Just enough to help." You know you shouldn’t take it. But…Your body is still weak from earlier, your mind is too clouded, and overwhelmed.

You part your lips. He hums in approval and places the pill on your tongue. His hand lingers, fingertips grazing your bottom lip, watching as you swallow. 

"Good girl." The words make something in your stomach twist. You don’t respond or look at him. Instead you turn over and lie down, pretending not to feel his eyes lingering on you. "Good night, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unwavering. Of course the door doesn’t close. Instead, he leaves it slightly ajar.

Your bedroom is silent, leep should come easily, but it doesn’t. Your body still aches faintly from earlier, from his hand. It lingers, even now. You shove your face into the pillow, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingles where he touched you.

Your mind drifts in and out, floating somewhere between waking and dreaming.

And then–

Tap.

Your brows furrow.

Tap. Tap.

Your breathing evens out, almost dismissing it.

Tap.

Your eyes snap open. For a moment, you just stare at the ceiling, confusion settling in. Then you hear it again. A small sound, a pebble hitting glass. Your window. You sit up, heart pounding as you look toward it, mind still sluggish from whatever Jin gave you. Your limbs feel oddly weighted, but you push the blankets off and stumble toward the window. Your hands tremble slightly as you press your fingers to the glass. And then you see him.

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon.

Standing outside, pebbles in hand, eyes locked on yours. Your breath catches. What the fuck is he doing here? You fumble with the lock, shoving the window open, cold air rushing in. Your heart is still racing, still struggling to keep up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hiss, voice hoarse. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sunghoon looks frantic. His eyes scan over you, taking in the pajamas you’re wearing, the dazed look in your eyes.

"I’ve been trying to reach you!" he whisper-shouts, voice urgent, desperate. "For weeks! What the hell is going on?" Your pulse pounds. Your fingers tighten on the window frame.

Now he’s showing up? After a whole month of silence? "Bullshit," you snap. "You didn’t even try." His face twists in frustration. "Are you serious?" His breath is ragged, his shoulders tense. "I left you over a hundred messages! I even went to your house!"

You blink. "What?"

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "Your parents told me you were fine, that you were focusing on school, that I should stop bothering you." His jaw clenches. "But when you weren’t answering. I knew something was wrong." Your stomach twists, your parents, of course.

"But I kept calling and texting you," he continues. His voice shakes a little, his fists clenching at his sides. "I swear."

The weird gaps in your messages. The way Jin always handed you your phone for only ten minutes at a time. The way Sunghoon’s name never showed up. Your body goes cold. Jin had been deleting his messages and calls. He’d been filtering everything, controlling everything.

Sunghoon sees your expression shift. His face hardens. "Tell me the truth. Are you okay?" No. No, you’re not okay. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight, your fingers gripping the windowsill. "Come down," he pleads, voice softer. "Please."

Your body moves before your mind can stop it. You shove your sneakers on, heart hammering, your hands shaking as you climb out onto the ledge. Your limbs still feel too heavy, too sluggish from the pill, but you push through it. Because for the first time in weeks, you’re making your own choice. You drop down, landing a little too hard on the ground, breath uneven. And then Sunghoon’s arms are around you. He pulls you in, crushing you against his chest, exhaling sharply. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

You feel his warmth. The way he’s solid, real. The way he smells like home. For a second, you want to cry. But you push it down. "Not here," you whisper. "Just, take me to your place." You don’t look back because you know that Jin is probably asleep, or worse, awake and waiting.

————-

The drive to Sunghoon’s place is a blur, your mind is racing. Your heart still pounds from the adrenaline of sneaking out, of running through the cold night air, of stepping into his car and telling yourself you made it. Sunghoon doesn’t speak much during the drive. His grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Concerned or maybe suspicion? But he doesn’t push.

When you step inside the apartment, something inside you loosens. It’s messy and lived-in. His parents are barely around, leaving a university student to manage the chaos on his own. Clothes are draped over a chair, half-empty cups sit forgotten on his desk, and his hoodie is tossed carelessly onto the bed, carrying the familiar scent of him. It feels so painfully normal.

Sunghoon watches you carefully. Then, after a beat, he picks up the hoodie and hands it to you. “Here,” he says simply. “You’re probably freezing.” You take it without thinking, slipping it on, the second his scent surrounds you, you suddenly feel like crying. You missed being yourself. You sink down onto his bed, fingers gripping the sleeves, stomach twisted in knots. Sunghoon sits beside you, watching. And then, finally, he speaks. "What’s happening? You’re scaring me."

Your throat tightens, you want to tell him. You want to spill everything, every twisted, fucked-up thing that has happened since your parents handed you over to him. And so, you do, at least, most of it. You tell him about the rules. The schedules. The punishments. You tell him how Jin has slowly taken every ounce of control away from you, how your parents barely checked in, how you haven’t even been able to contact him. But you don’t tell him about the other things. About Jin’s hands. About his voice in your ear, his breath on your skin. You can’t. The guilt is too thick, the shame crawling under your skin like a parasite. 

Sunghoon listens in horrified silence. And when you finally stop talking, he looks furious. “That’s fucking insane.” His voice is sharp, unsteady. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow. You’re staying here.” But the second he says it, you snap. Because he makes it sound so easy. Like you can just walk away. Like you can undo everything with one night away. Like he understands what you’ve been through.

Your frustration creeps in, clawing up your throat. You shove your hands into your lap, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "I need something," you say suddenly. Sunghoon frowns. "What?" You hesitate. Then, carefully, "The pills. Do you still have them?" His expression darkens immediately. "Babe, no. You don’t need that shit. Not after everything you just told me.”

"Please, Sunghoon." Your voice shakes. “Just this once. I just need to clear my head.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Are you serious right now? After everything he’s done to you, you want to–”

"You don’t understand!" You snap. Sunghoon freezes, blinking at you. "You think this is easy? You think I can just leave and pretend like nothing happened? That I can just go back to normal?" He looks at you, pained. “I’m trying to help you!” 

"No, you’re not! You’re just like everyone else, you don’t get it. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re not even–" You choke on your words. Sunghoon reaches for you, softer now. “Babe, please, just breathe.” But you jerk away. "You’re not listening to me!"

He grabs your wrists, firm but careful. "Stop," he says, voice low, desperate. "I won’t let you do this to yourself." But it’s not the help you need. It’s not what you asked for. Your vision blurs. Your body feels too tight, too hot. You just need something to stop it. You wrench away, voice cracking. "You’re just like him!" The second the words are out, you regret them.

Sunghoon’s entire face changes. Hurt. Shock. Betrayal. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his breath shallow. Then, his expression hardens. "You don’t mean that," he says quietly. But you do. Because he’s keeping you from what you need, just like Jin did. The room feels too hot, the walls closing in.

"Fuck this," you breathe, pushing yourself off the bed. You turn away, stepping out of his bedroom, trying to get air. Sunghoon follows immediately, his footsteps heavy behind you. "Babe, wait! Just stop for a second!" But you don’t stop.

The anger, the frustration, the suffocating weight in your chest, it’s too much. It’s clawing at your ribs, burning at the edges of your vision. You move past the kitchen, your fingers barely grazing the countertop as you steady yourself, your head pounding.

Sunghoon grabs your wrist, desperate. "Listen to me, please, just calm down!" His voice is distant, blurred. Your body feels too hot. Your vision swims, flickering between black and red. Sunghoon’s grip tightens, trying to ground you. "You’re not okay. You need to sit down, babe please."

But you wrench away. And then–

Darkness.

————-

The first thing you register is the cold.

The second is the weight in your hand.

Your fingers are stiff, wrapped around something hard, slick.

A knife?

Your pulse skips. Your breath is ragged, uneven. The world is a blur of dull yellow light and shadows.

And then you see him.

Sunghoon.

Lying on the kitchen floor.

Still. Silent. A pool of red spreading beneath him.

Your stomach lurches violently, nausea slamming into you.

Your grip on the knife tightens, a fresh streak of warmth slipping between your fingers. Your hands, your hands are covered in it.

Blood. His blood.

Your pulse pounds against your skull, your mind fighting against itself, against the scene in front of you.

No. 

No, no, no.

You were arguing. You were angry. And then, darkness.

And now. Sunghoon is dead.

The knife is in your hand. Your vision tunnels, a sharp ringing in your ears as the weight of reality crashes down.

Did you? Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, your body shaking so violently it hurts.

You stare at him, unblinking, willing him to move. To wake up. To breathe. But he doesn’t. He never will again. Sunghoon’s blood is on your hands.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your body is trembling, your heart slamming against your ribs, your vision blurring from the sheer force of your panic. Your mind screams at you to fix this, to undo it but you can’t.

Because it’s real, it’s happening. Because you did this.

Your stomach churns violently. A sob claws up your throat, strangled and sharp, but you clamp your hand over your mouth, suffocating it before it can break free.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, and your entire body is locked in place, frozen, broken, unable to comprehend what you’ve done.

A shuddering breath rips through you, your hands trembling so violently you can’t even lift them properly. What do you do? What the fuck do you do?

This will ruin you. This will destroy your life. Your family’s reputation. Your future. You were already a screw-up. A burden. A disappointment. But this? This is irreversible.

The only person, your boyfriend, the one you had a real relationship with, is dead. Because of you.

Your frantic gaze flickers around the room, searching for anything. And then, your eyes land on Sunghoon’s pocket. His phone. Your throat tightens, and your breath stutters. You reach out, your fingers barely cooperating, slick with blood. You have to force yourself to dig into his pocket, ignoring the way his body feels wrong, lifeless, and unnatural.

You pull out his phone, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Who do you call? Who could possibly–

Your hands shake violently as you swipe at the screen, barely able to focus. You don’t even process the number you’re dialing, your brain malfunctioning, glitching, operating on pure survival instinct.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then–

A click.

A deep, smooth familiar voice. 

"Hello?"

You suck in a sharp breath as your vision is blurring.

Your body breaks. Your lips part, and when you speak, your voice is nothing but shattered glass.

"Jin…"

A sob threatens to swallow you whole.

"I need help."

The words slip out before you can even process them. There’s a long pause.

And then, his voice. 

"Sweetheart where are you?" He calmly asks. 

You choke back another sob, your fingers tightening around the phone.

"S-Sunghoon’s," you whisper. "I- Jin, I think I–"

You can’t say it. You won’t say it. But Jin doesn’t ask. "Stay where you are." The line goes dead. And you do nothing but sink to the floor, your body curling in on itself as the reality claws at your throat. You don’t move for what feels like an eternity, frozen until the door finally creaks open, you already know it’s him.

Jin doesn’t hesitate. Not when he sees the blood, not when he sees Sunghoon’s lifeless body. Not even when he sees you, broken, shaking, drowning in your own guilt. He kneels in front of you, movements measured, deliberate. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp cheek. Gently and carefully. 

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice is so soft. Too soft. Like he’s comforting a child. Your breath shudders, your pulse erratic, your entire body frozen. Your hands stained with blood, Sunghoon’s body cooling beside you. Your mind spins, scrambling for reason, for a single explanation that makes sense but there’s nothing. Just pieces that don’t fit, memories that won’t come together. 

“I, I don’t–”

"Shhh." His hands find your wrists, firm but not forceful, enough to still you, enough to make you look at him. His eyes are steady as he’s pulling you in, swallowing you whole. "Do you trust me?"

The question slams into you. It shouldn’t be hard to answer. You should say no. You should run. You should fight. But you don’t trust yourself. Your gaze drops to your bloodstained hands, to the mess on the floor, to Sunghoon lying still, his face frozen in something between shock and horror.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Your throat tightens, nausea curling in your stomach. Slowly, weakly, you nod. "Yes." Jin exhales, relieved, like he already knew what you’d say. His fingers smooth over your skin, grounding you, coaxing you further into his grip. "Good girl."

He tilts your chin up, his thumbs pressing into your jaw, keeping you still, keeping you his. "Listen to me, sweetheart. He was going to kill you."

Your chest tightens. Your lips part, but you don’t deny it. Because Sunghoon wouldn’t let you leave. Because Sunghoon grabbed your wrists. But Sunghoon wouldn’t have killed you. Would he?

"Say it."

Your voice barely scrapes past your lips. “He was going to kill me.”

Jin nods, pleased.

"He was obsessed with you."

The texts, the calls, the pleading, the way he kept trying to reach you, through your parents, through Jin. You thought it was love. Maybe it wasn’t. But you know it wasn’t like that. But if you don’t say it, if you don’t repeat it, if you don’t let him rewrite it, then you’re left with the truth. And the truth is worse.

“He was obsessed with me.”

Jin leans closer, his voice softer, soothing, the final push.

"It was self-defense, angel."

Your stomach twists. Your body sways, unsteady, unraveling. You know it wasn’t.

"Say it."

The blood on your hands. The fight. The darkness. The emptiness. You don’t remember. You don’t know what’s real anymore. If you don’t say it, then the only truth left is that you killed him. 

“It was self-defense.”

Jin smiles, slow, approving. His hands slide to your shoulders, solid and reassuring.

"You had to do it."

Your pulse pounds.

"I had to do it."

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, a fleeting touch, a reward.

"That’s my good girl."

Something inside you fractures. You should feel horror. You should fight the weight settling over you. But his words sink in too easily. They make sense. They fit.

Because if they don’t, if none of this is true, then you are something so much worse.

And Jin looks proud. Like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted. Like you belong to him, now more than ever. And deep down, in the darkest, most twisted part of you, you know you owe him everything.

————-

Jin’s penthouse is grand, perfectly arranged, the kind of luxury you've always known. Your mother sits across from you, a glass of wine cradled in her manicured fingers. Your father stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, swirling his whiskey, gaze distant, detached. Their presence should be comforting, but it never has been.

Jin sits beside you, silent, composed, present. His warmth is closer than it should be, his leg pressed subtly against yours. His hand rests on your thigh, fingers curling just slightly, a touch you didn’t ask for. A quiet reminder that you belong here, that this moment is already decided.

Your mother exhales, shaking her head, her lips pursed. "How did it come to this?" She’s not talking about you. She’s talking about him. About Sunghoon. "That boy was always…unstable." She tilts her glass, watching the liquid swirl before lifting it to her lips. "But this? This is disgraceful." Your stomach twists. Disgraceful, not tragic, or heartbreaking. Just inconvenient.

Your father sighs, finally turning towards you. His expression is unreadable, cool. "This is why we trusted Dr. Kim." He gestures vaguely in Jin’s direction, as if his presence alone explains everything. "We knew you needed guidance. That boy was a distraction. A liability. You’re lucky we acted when we did."

Lucky. Your fingers clench in your lap. Jin’s grip on your thigh tightens. Just enough to warn. "It’s a shame," your mother continues, voice smooth, apathetic. "But what matters is that it’s handled. Dr. Kim, you’ve been… invaluable."

Jin finally speaks, his tone calm, assured. "I only did what was best for her." His fingers stroke your thigh, slow and possessive, hidden beneath the table. Your mother nods approvingly. "And what’s best for our family." Your father hums in agreement. "We can’t afford another scandal. This was a close call." A close call. Your chest feels tight, your breath shallow.

"We’ll be returning to the city tomorrow," your mother announces, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s no reason for us to linger." No reason to stay. Because they weren’t really here for you. They never have been. 

You swallow, voice hoarse when you finally speak. "And me?"

Jin’s thumb presses on your thigh, just a little, just enough. Your father raises a brow, like the question itself is ridiculous. "You’ll stay here, of course. Under Dr. Kim’s care." Of course. The words sink like a stone in your stomach. "We’ve already made the necessary arrangements," your mother adds, giving you a placating smile. "He has done such a wonderful job, hasn't he? You wouldn’t want to… regress."

Jin hums beside you, low and indulgent, the sound curling around your spine like silk. He slightly smirks at you.“No,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing absent patterns against your thigh, pressing in just slightly. “She wouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens because you understand. This isn’t just an arrangement. It’s a decision that was never yours to make. This is final and there’s no escaping it now.

Your mother stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress. "I trust you’ll be good for Dr. Kim. Don’t cause him any trouble, dear." You nod, a mechanical motion. Jin smiles beside you, fingers trailing just a little higher, a silent promise. 

Your parents leave without a second glance. And then, the door clicks shut. Silence. Jin exhales slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s been waiting for this. "Alone at last." Your breath shudders, because now, there’s nothing left between you and him. No distractions, no witnesses. Just the lie, the truth, and him.

You should run. You should fight. You should do anything other than just stand here as he steps closer, as his warmth sinks into you, as his fingers softly trail up your arm, making your breath catch. "You did so well, darling." His voice is softer than it should be. Gentle. Coaxing. Like he’s rewarding you. His fingers trace higher, brushing over your jaw, tilting your chin up. The movement is slow, deliberate, a reminder that you don’t belong to yourself anymore.

"You’re home now," Jin murmurs, his thumb stroking lightly over your bottom lip. "And you’ll never leave again." The words sink into your skin, into your bones, seeping through every crack until there’s nothing left untouched by him. His touch is so warm, so careful, so unlike anything you’ve ever been given before from anyone.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and there’s something so indulgent in his tone. His fingers tighten, pressing just enough to make you feel small. "You’re already melting for me."

Your breath shudders, your pulse is too fast. Jin hums, pleased. "Good girl." Then, he kisses you. Soft and slow. Like he has all the time in the world to break you apart. His lips against yours, teasing, coaxing, tasting. You shouldn’t let him. You should fight, should push him away, but you don’t. Your fingers twitch against your sides, your body betraying you, wanting something you don’t understand.

Jin feels it. "You’re still tense," he murmurs against your lips, his hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down. "That’s okay, sweetheart." His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. "I’ll take care of it." 

His hands move slower than they should, like he’s savoring every second, every reaction. His fingers dance up your sides, memorizing the way your breath hitches. "Tell me you need me, angel." His voice is a whisper, a command in disguise.

Your throat tightens, you shouldn’t. But the way his fingers curl against your waist, the way his breath skims the shell of your ear, warm and patient and devastating. You break. "I need you."

Jin exhales, satisfied. "That’s my good girl." Then, he pulls you into him completely. His arms wrap around you, firm, trapping you in a cage of warmth and control. His lips press to your temple, then your cheek, then your throat, slow and possessive, like he’s marking you.

"You belong to me now, darling," he murmurs against your skin. "And I’m never letting you go." His hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down, controlling you.

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. He loves this. The way you shudder under his touch. The way your breath catches in your throat, like you already know there’s no escaping him. Like you don’t even want to. "It’s okay sweetheart, I’ll take care of it," he soothes, voice low and indulgent. 

Then, he shifts. Before you can react, Jin moves, smoothly sinking into his office chair. And he takes you with him. His hands find your waist, pulling you back against him, trapping you in his lap. Your body presses against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you right where he wants you. The leather creaks beneath you, a quiet sound swallowed by the weight of his presence. The position is intentional. 

One of his hands drags up your thigh, hooking it over his own, spreading you open. A quiet, helpless sound slips from your lips. He exhales, deep and satisfied, lips brushing against your temple. "There we go." His fingers glide lower. Slow. Teasing. Until he reaches your core. Your breath catches. Your body stiffens. But Jin? He just smirks. Because you’re already soaked. 

His fingers slowly graze over your folds. And when you shudder, thighs trembling against him? He chuckles. A low, pleased sound that sends a sharp pulse of heat curling through you. Jin tilts his head slightly, his lips grazing your ear, his voice dipping into something darker, something cruel. "You’re already so wet, sweetheart."

His lips drag down, pressing slow, possessive kisses along the curve of your jaw, down to your throat. His breath is warm and patient. "Such a needy little girl." Another kiss. Deeper this time. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, branding you.

"Good thing you have daddy here to help you." His free hand tightens around your thigh, spreading you further, ensuring you feel just how helpless you are against him. His lips ghost over your pulse point, feeling how fast, how desperate it beats just for him.

He exhales a quiet "hmm," letting the moment stretch, savoring your helplessness. Then, with a smirk against your skin, his voice dips, soft and devastating.

"How about another medical check-up, my pretty girl?"

[lovelyspring7]

more smut i guess for the cade to madness? geez idk i just want to see seokjin mad or idk since him being so freaking calm yet intimidating as fuck..

Okay gottt uuu! I’m gonna whip something up🙂‍↕️

[lovelyspring7]

Cede to Madness | Jin x Reader

Preview: You were never supposed to fall apart. The perfect grades. The perfect future. The perfect, empty life. But perfection has a cost. The pills helped, until they didn’t. Your parents had a solution. Dr. Kim. A composed, disciplined psychiatrist. A man who demands obedience. Because in his world, the only choices that matter are his.

Word count: 25k

Genre: Yandere, Psychological Thriller.

Pairing: Psychiatrist Jin x Bratty University Student (F!Reader), Boyfriend Enhypen Sunghoon (Minor Involvement)

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Yandere, smut (forced orgasm, fingering, edging, spanking, daddy kink, power imbalance, overstimulation, praise kink, forced dependency), stalking, obsessive behavior, manipulation, coercion, controlling & emotionally abusive behavior, drugging, substance abuse, forced caretaking, brat-taming, medical control, gaslighting, psychological abuse, unaliveing, blood, panic attacks, 10+ year age gap.

Disclaimer: This type of content is not suitable for all audiences and I do not condone any of the presented behaviour. This is purely for entertainment and fictional purposes and I don’t think any BTS member would act like this.

Author's note: I’m so happy to finally share this!It’s been in my drafts for so long. I’m not completely happy with it and wish I had spent more time on it, but I felt like it was time to let it go. I hope you enjoy it, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts.💜✨

Banner Credit: By the amazing, talented, and incredible! @eerieedits

Your vision blurs, the words on the exam paper twisting out of focus. You blink, hard, but the fog won’t clear. The clock ticks louder, slicing through the silence, drilling into your skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time slipping away.

You’ve prepared for this, nights without sleep, Adderall keeping you sharp when your body begged for rest. Highlighters bled across pages, notes underlined frantically, but now, under fluorescent lights, nothing sticks. The questions you’ve memorized a thousand times slip through your fingers.

Your chest tightens. The air is thick and suffocating. Your hands tremble coated in sweat, as the pen is slipping in your grip, leaving dark smudges on paper. It’s too hot. Too loud. The whispers of scribbling students, the scratch of pens, the relentless ticking, it all crashes into you at once.

Focus. Breathe. Focus. But the air won’t come. Your pulse pounds, erratic, drowning out everything else. The letters blur, ink smearing into shapeless nothing. Have you answered anything? One question? Ten? None?

Nausea twists through you. You grip the desk, but the room tilts. The lights sear into your skull. The roaring in your ears grows louder.

Then, the pen slips from your fingers. A sharp clatter. And just like that, everything goes dark.

————-

Your eyes flutter open, and the world slowly comes into focus. Harsh, sterile lights blind you momentarily, and you squint, trying to make sense of where you are. The last thing you remember is the exam, the words blurring, your heart racing, the pen slipping from your hand. Now, everything feels distant, like you’re waking up from a bad dream.

You hear the faint beeping of a monitor nearby, steady and rhythmic. Voices murmur softly around you, clinical and detached. You blink, forcing your eyes to adjust, and see the nurse standing over you, checking your IV. “You’re awake,” she says, offering a polite, professional smile. “How are you feeling?” You open your mouth to speak, but your throat feels dry. “Where… where am I?” you finally manage to croak out.

“You’re at the hospital,” she replies, her tone gentle, “you had a bit of a scare during your exam, and they brought you in. You’ve been under a lot of stress, haven’t you?”

Your mind spins, trying to piece everything together. The panic, the pressure, the Adderall you took before the exam…gosh the exam. “Where are my parents?” you ask, your voice cracking. The nurse hesitates, and you see it in her eyes before she even speaks. “They were notified,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “But they weren’t able to come. I’m sure they’ll check in with you later.”

You should have expected it, but that doesn’t make the sting any less sharp. Of course, they didn’t come. They probably had meetings, clients, something more important than showing up for you.“I’m fine,” you say, even though your voice is barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to get out of here.”

“We need to make sure you’re stable first,” she replies, still smiling, but it feels forced, like she’s trying to keep you calm. “The doctor will be in soon to talk to you. They just want to make sure everything is okay.” You lie back, staring at the ceiling. A moment later a doctor walks in, flipping through a chart as he approaches your bed. “I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, not looking up at first. “How are you feeling now?” You force a smile, even though it feels like your face might crack. “I’m okay. Can I leave?”

He finally looks up, his expression unreadable. “We need to talk about what happened. Your professors mentioned you’ve been under a lot of pressure, and the initial tests indicate you’ve been using Adderall. Are you prescribed this medication?”

Fuck. “I must've taken it by mistake, I meant to take ibuprofen,” you lied, your voice small. He nods, almost disappointed. “Taking medication without a prescription can be dangerous, especially if you’re using it regularly. We’re concerned about your well-being, and we’d like to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

You feel your heart start to race again, panic bubbling up inside you. “I’m fine. I can handle it,” you insist.“I’m sure you’re trying your best,” he says, his tone soft but firm. “But stress, lack of sleep, and using unprescribed medication can lead to serious health issues. We’re going to keep you here for a little while longer, just to make sure you’re stable.”

“What does that mean? How long?” you ask, panic creeping into your voice. “Just overnight, for observation,” he replies. “And then we’d like to set you up with a psychiatrist who specializes in cases like yours. Dr. Kim is very experienced in treating stress, anxiety, and… substance use. We think he can help you get back on track.” You want to argue, but the words die in your throat. You nod like you're on board. For now that's enough.

————-

Early the next morning, a nurse gently taps on your arm to wake you. Another round of blood pressure checks, a perfunctory nod from the attending physician, then you’re free to go. No fanfare, no concerned parents at your side. You gather your things in a plastic hospital bag, feeling more exhausted than ever.

As you push open the hospital’s double doors, a brisk breeze hits your face, making you shiver. A sleek, black sedan idles at the curb. You ignore your driver, not feeling like having a conversation. Your boyfriend Sunghoon is still busy with lectures or something else he hasn’t bothered explaining. The last text you’d sent him about your meltdown and hospital stay got a half-hearted “Shit babe. You ok?” You scroll past it quickly, having no energy bothering. 

Your home is a grand, meticulously manicured house that stands like a monument to success, a shiny cage that feels emptier with each step you take. A lone housekeeper greets you at the door with a polite nod, then disappears into the kitchen. No one asks how you’re doing. You head straight for your room. It’s neat, borderline sterile, just how your parents like it. The queen-sized bed remains perfectly made, a glossy row of trophies and certificates line one wall, testimonies to past achievements. 

A stack of study notes and textbooks dominates your desk, reminding you of the exam you never finished. A lump forms in your throat, but you choke it down. Focus. You open your notebook, only to find the pages swimming again, the words meaningless. That same rising panic claws at your chest, but you slam the notebook shut. Taking a shaky breath, you tell yourself it’s just the aftershocks from the hospital stay, nothing more.

Later that evening, there's a soft knock at your door. The housekeeper’s voice follows. “Miss? Your mother is on the phone.” You swallow, steadying yourself before responding. “Okay.” The door opens just enough for her to slip the phone into your hand. Your fingers tighten around it as you lift it to your ear, heart already sinking. “Hello?” 

“Finally,” your mother’s cool, precise tone crackles over the line. “I’ve been hearing about your little…outburst.” You flinch at her choice of words. “I’m- I’m fine,” you say, forcing composure. “Where are you?”  

“Tokyo,” she answers briskly, as though one word is enough to explain everything. “Your father and I have important clients to entertain. We’ll return next month, once this expansion deal is finalized.” Your pulse drums in your ears. Next month. Of course. “That’s…good,” you manage, hollow words sticking to your tongue. “But I’m really okay. The hospital just wanted–”

“I spoke with Dr. Lee,” she cuts you off, “and I know they’ve sent you to some psychiatrist, Dr. Kim, is it? If this is what it takes to keep everything under control, fine. But you must understand, this sort of behavior draws attention, the wrong kind of attention. Have you thought about how this might look for our family?” Your heart clenches. Of course. It always comes down to the family name. “Mom, I–”

“We’ve all had rough patches, dear,” she interjects, voice dripping with a thin veneer of sympathy. “But you need to be more discreet. There’s no need to make a spectacle of yourself.”  

Heat floods your cheeks, anger, humiliation, shame all tangling together. “I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you say, biting back the words you really want to hurl at her. A slight pause, then, “Your father doesn’t want this overshadowing our business deals. It’s unacceptable. Do whatever you must, therapy, medication, just keep it under control.” Her tone softens by a fraction. “If you need anything–”

“I’ll ask, thanks” you say flatly, already knowing how this dance goes: polite concern, empty promises, no real action. “Yes, of course dear. Take care.” The line clicks off, leaving you with the echo of her disapproval. You place the phone on your desk, your throat tight with the realization that no one is going to swoop in and fix your life for you, especially not the people who care more about their public image than your well-being.

————-

You walk into Dr. Kim’s office with your arms tightly crossed, half-wishing you’d never woken up this morning. The waiting room was bad enough, some soft instrumental music and a bunch of motivational posters about “hope” and “resilience” that make you want to gag. 

He rises from behind his mahogany desk. He’s tall, with a neat haircut, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and the kind of warm smile you’d personally immediately want to distrust. A crisp white coat drapes over his tailored charcoal suit, making him look more like a sharply dressed businessman than the psychiatrist he is.

“Good morning,” he says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’m Dr. Kim. You must be–”

“Yeah,” you cut him off, collapsing into the chair. “Let’s skip the intros. You already know who I am.” He blinks once, unfazed. “Very well. How are you feeling today?”

“How am I feeling?” You force out a short laugh. “Well, I was doing great until my parents decided I needed to see a shrink.” You toss your hair over your shoulder. “But hey, guess it’s your lucky day. You get me as a client.” Dr. Kim doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply takes a seat across from you, flipping open a sleek notepad. “I understand you had a health scare recently, passing out during an exam?”

“Anxiety, dehydration…whatever.” You wave a dismissive hand. “They’ll call it anything as long as it sounds dramatic.” You roll your eyes. “I’m fine now.” His calm gaze settles on you. “Are you, though?” You shrug. “Does it matter? My parents want me ‘fixed’ so I don’t embarrass them again, so here we are. Let’s get this over with.” You hate that the question pokes a sore spot, but you won’t show it. 

He jots down a note. “That must feel quite pressuring, having to live up to certain expectations,” he says. “Wow, you’re good,” you say sarcastically. “Is that your professional opinion?” He sets the pen down and meets your eyes. “I’m here to help you, not to judge or label you. I’d like to understand what leads you to feel so overwhelmed that you–”

“I told you, I’m not overwhelmed,” you cut in, sinking further into the plush chair. “I just…had a bad day.”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally, flipping to a fresh page on his notepad. “Well, if you’re open to it, I’d like to talk about some strategies that might help with stress, so that these ‘bad days’ don’t catch you off guard again.” You snort. “Strategies? Like what, bubble baths and journaling my feelings?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “There are many approaches. Sometimes it’s breathing techniques or short mindfulness exercises that help you regain control when you feel panic creeping in.”

“Mindfulness, huh? Because the solution to a meltdown is apparently inhaling and exhaling.” You tap your nails on the arm of the chair, letting your sarcasm drip. “Genius.” Dr. Kim doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans forward slightly. “I understand your skepticism. But in my experience, these methods can be surprisingly effective, if you give them a fair shot.”

Your gut reaction is to roll your eyes again, but something in his steady voice makes you hesitate. Instead, you clear your throat. “Yeah, well, I’m only here because I was basically threatened with more hospital visits if I didn’t show. So, sure, let’s hear your miracle cures.”

He nods once. “For starters, I’d like you to try a simple grounding exercise each day. It might feel silly at first, but it’s a way to calm down when stress builds up.”

“Right. Calming down. Cool,” you say flatly, gaze drifting to the office clock. There’s still twenty minutes left of this session, an eternity. “Anything else, Doc?”

“We’ll also discuss your academic load. Dr. Lee mentioned you’re taking advanced courses?” You glare. “Yeah, all the advanced midterms, plus some super-fun extracurriculars I don’t even like. Gotta make Mom and Dad proud.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” he observes, making another note. “How often do you get any time to yourself?” You give a short laugh. “I don’t. My free time is basically caffeine-fueled cram sessions. I’m a well-oiled machine, apparently.” He meets your gaze again. “Until the machine breaks down.”

“Wow, so wise,” you say with a theatrical sigh, though his words strike a nerve. “This session is a blast, Dr. Phil- I mean Dr. Kim. Can I go now?”

He checks the time politely. “We still have a few minutes. Tell me, are there any hobbies or interests you have outside of your studies?” Your nostrils flare in annoyance, you just want to be done. “I like to sleep, which I haven’t done in forever. But sure, maybe I’ll pencil in ‘find a hobby’ between courses.”

He offers a small, understanding smile. “Sleep is important, too. We’ll work on helping you find more balance.” You open your mouth to lob another snarky remark, but he’s already rising from his seat. The session is ending, whether you like it or not.

He hands you a small paper with “Mindfulness Tips” printed on it. “Please consider trying these at least once a day. Even five minutes can make a difference.” You take the paper with exaggerated reluctance. “Thank you,” he says, and he actually seems sincere. “We’ll pick up from here next time. Same day and time next week.” You scoff. Unless you find a way to skip out you thought, heading for the door.

As you head toward the exit, your gaze flicks to the reflection on the glass door behind you. There he is, Dr. Kim, standing in the threshold of his office, one hand lightly resting on the doorframe. He’s watching you leave, his posture poised, his expression unreadable. You jerk your head away, quickening your pace as though that can wipe the image from your mind. You hate it. You hate that he’s so calm. You crumple the mindfulness handout in your grip and toss it into your bag, already planning to ignore it.

Once you’re outside, the late afternoon sun hits you like a spotlight. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. A quick glance reveals a text from Sunghoon:

hey babe, heard ur out of the hospital.

this lecture is boring. kill me now.

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. That’s just so…him, dramatic, offhand, almost clueless. But the fact that he reached out again after you had ignored his previous text sparks a little warmth in your chest, a reassuring reminder that he’s still there. Sure, it’s not the most heartfelt check-in, he’s trying to keep it light in his own way. And right now, you’ll take it.

You clench the phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you contemplate how to respond. You’ve missed a ton of schoolwork in the time you were hospitalized, there’s no way you can let that pile up any further. You text back:

I’m out early. Meet me at your place? Need to catch up on uni stuff. Do you still have some of it?

Sunghoon’s reply is almost instant:

yeah, sure see u soon.

You allow yourself a small smile. You need this. At least, you’ve convinced yourself you do. Between the exam you fainted during and all the lectures you missed, there’s no way you can keep up without a boost. Your driver, stoic as always, hardly says a word when you tell him you’ve got a new destination. In the backseat, you drum your fingers on the armrest. The bag on your lap is heavier than usual, thanks to the textbooks you insisted on taking with you. Each one is a bitter reminder of the time you’ve wasted in therapy and in the hospital.

Sunghoon answers the door in his hoodie and sweats, casual, but you still catch the glint of an expensive watch on his wrist. He’s pacing with a textbook under his arm, hair slightly tousled, giving him that rich-kid-trying-too-hard look you know all too well.

“Hey,” he greets, stepping aside so you can come in. “You okay?” You force a light laugh, shrugging off your bag. “Never better.” You glance at the messy dining table, papers, flashcards, and half-empty coffee cups. “Someone’s been busy.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his textbook onto a chair. “Midterms are coming. My mom’s already breathing down my neck.” You nod grimly. “Yeah.  My parents won’t settle for anything less than perfection, and I’ve already lost too much time.”

Sunghoon grabs a fresh cup of coffee from the counter, still steaming, and hands it to you. “Here. This might help.” You take a sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. But coffee alone isn’t enough anymore, and you both know it.

He clears his throat, glancing at your bag. “So… You asked if I still had some of it?” You hesitate, studying his face. “I didn’t want to assume,” you say quietly, “but I’m behind. Really behind.”

Sunghoon nods. “I’ve got a couple left.” He pulls a small orange bottle from a side table drawer. “We can split them, if that helps you catch up.” Your heart thuds in your ears. You shouldn’t feel relieved, but you do. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I'll just have one for tonight.” He presses a capsule into your hand, and you swallow hard. Guilt churns in your gut, but you can’t deny the spark of hope flickering in your chest. This will get me through.

The two of you collapse onto the couch, textbooks spread across your laps. For half an hour, there’s an almost peaceful silence, broken only by the scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of pages. Sunghoon quizzes you on missed lectures, summarizing bullet points faster than you can jot them down.

Despite the caffeine and the buzz in your bloodstream, your focus wavers. Hospital flashbacks… Dr. Kim’s too-calm voice… your parents’ disapproving silence. You force your eyes back to the text. Eventually, Sunghoon rubs at his eyes. “I’ve still got a paper due tomorrow. You okay if we call it here?”

You glance at the clock on your phone. Hours have passed, and your body vibrates with restless energy. “Sure,” you say. “I’ll keep going at home.” He gives your hand a quick squeeze. “Text me if you need more. Or… y’know, to talk about stuff.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. By the time you trudge through your front door, the pill Sunghoon gave you is coursing through your veins. Your mind feels sharper than it has in days, and you’re determined to make the most of it.

You race up to your room, flick on the desk lamp, and spread out your notes. On the way home, you had already been skimming through your textbooks in the car, mouthing key terms under your breath, flipping through flashcards with shaking fingers. But it wasn’t enough. Sleep can wait. You’ll cram until you’ve made up for every second lost.

Hours blur as you tear through lecture outlines, highlight textbooks, and scribble frenzied notes. Adrenaline and desperation fuel your pen, your pulse pounding in your ears. It’s only when your eyes burn and your fingers cramp that you realize you can’t go any further.

4:42 AM.

Your vision flickers, and your head droops toward the desk. You fight the urge to close your eyes, but exhaustion wins. The last thing you remember is the textbook pages swimming in and out of focus, your pen rolling out of your grip.

————-

Light filters through your curtains, too bright and too soon. You jolt awake at your desk, neck stiff, papers sticking to your cheek. Your phone alarm blares, merciless. A quick glance at your reflection in the mirror reveals dark circles under your eyes. The room tilts for a moment as you stand and your heart hammering. You grit your teeth, ignoring the dull ache in your temples.

You gather the scattered papers into your bag, trying not to notice how many are unfinished. In the back of your mind, you can feel a creeping dread, another day of lectures, another exam you’re not ready for, but you swallow it down. At least I got some work done, you tell yourself. At least I’m not wasting time. And with that, you hurry out, adrenaline spiking at the thought of facing another day of school, alone, exhausted, and no closer to escaping the pressure that put you in the hospital in the first place.

You stare blankly at your phone in the university hallway, the screen lighting up with a calendar notification:

Appointment with Dr. Kim at 4:30 PM.

Just seeing his name makes your stomach twist. You can picture his unwavering, calm smile and feel the weight of his clinical gaze. Not today, you decide, tapping “Dismiss” a little too aggressively.

You shove your laptop into your bag. You tell yourself you can’t waste any more time sitting in an office listening to breathing exercises. You’ve got papers, projects, exams, real problems that won’t wait. You shouldn’t feel guilty for skipping, but part of you can already imagine the look on his face if he finds out.

At last, the car pulls into your driveway. The house looms large and quiet, as it always does. You let yourself in, ignoring the echo of your own footsteps across the polished floors. Your housekeeper is nowhere to be found, probably running errands or lost in some other part of this cavernous place. You hurry up the stairs, heading straight for your room, the only space that feels even halfway yours. 

You shove your bedroom door open. Dr. Kim is there. Perched on the edge of your bed, white coat draped neatly over his lap, like he belongs there. Like this isn’t completely insane. Your breath catches, a sharp, choking gasp that barely makes it out. 

“What the hell are you doing here!?” you demand, your voice cracking as you shout. “This is my room, get out!”

He stands, expression measured and calm in a way that makes your skin crawl. “I was concerned,” he says softly. “You missed your appointment.”

You place both hands on your hips, trying to hide how badly they’re shaking. “Concerned? So you break into my house, in my bedroom!? What’s next, rummaging through my underwear drawer?”

His lips curve in that maddening half-smile. “Your housekeeper allowed me in. I asked to speak with you in private.” He nods toward your desk, cluttered with textbooks and crumpled notes. “It seems you’ve been under significant stress.”

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “No kidding. Now, out. Or should I call the police?” He lifts a small plastic cup from his coat pocket, the kind used in hospitals. “Before I go, we need to address your continued Adderall use.”  

Your heart skips a beat. “Continued? I told you, I’m not taking anything.” A lie that stings on your tongue, but you brazen it out. “You got no proof.” His gaze remains unflinching. “I wanted a urine test before, but considering the circumstances at the clinic, it wasn’t the right time. Now, given your symptoms and previous hospital records, I have to ensure you’re not putting yourself in danger.” 

He holds out the cup as if it’s the most normal request in the world. “Please provide a sample.” You scoff, loud and derisive. “Are you insane? No. Absolutely not.” You swat his hand away, glaring daggers. “I’m not peeing in a cup for you.”

Something dark flickers behind his eyes, but his voice remains eerily calm. “It’s part of your treatment, and you did consent to a full evaluation when you were first admitted. If you have nothing to hide–”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “This is harassment. My parents may have signed some forms, but I sure as hell didn’t.” You cross your arms over your chest, jutting your chin out. “So, do me a favor and get out. Or is this how you run your practice? Trespassing and forcing girls to--”

He sets the cup down on your nightstand, cutting you off with a deceptively gentle tone. “Let’s not be melodramatic. I’m concerned about your health, nothing more.”

Blood roars in your ears. You want to scream, to call the police or your parents, but you know exactly how that would go: they’d side with him. He’s the professional, after all. The mere thought fuels your fury.

“If you’re done creeping around,” you bite out, “leave. Take your stupid cup with you. I’m not doing a drug test like some addict.” He regards you for a moment, as if weighing his response. Then he steps closer, and you instinctively step back, refusing to give him any more ground than necessary.

“Skipping therapy is a mistake,” he says calmly. “You’re on a dangerous path, and I won’t be able to help you if you keep lying about your situation. And I won’t let you end up like the others.” You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. “Who said I want your help?”

For a second, you swear disappointment flits across his face. Then, without another word, he takes the cup from the nightstand, slipping it back into his coat pocket. He heads toward your door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be expecting you at the next session,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. “And if you refuse again, I’ll have to consider more… formal measures.”  

You maintain your scowl. “Is that a threat?” He doesn’t answer. He only pushes open the door and leaves with slow, measured steps, like he has all the time in the world.

The instant he’s gone, you slam the door and throw your bag against it for good measure, your heart banging against your rib cage. You’re furious, humiliated, shaken. Who does he think he is?

You collapse onto your bed, the imprint of his presence lingering. Your breath comes in short, angry bursts. You should study, or do something, anything. But all you can focus on is the empty space where that plastic cup sat, and the lingering echo of his final words. More formal measures. Just how far is he willing to go?

————-

The lecture finally ends, and a wave of relief rushes through you. You just finished the makeup exam that landed you in the hospital. You’re not entirely sure how you did, but at least it’s over. Sunghoon catches you on the campus staircase, a lazy grin on his face. “Hey, how’d it go?” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Fine, I guess. Better than fainting in the middle of it.”

He laughs, though there’s a concerned edge in his eyes. “I bet. Hey, some friends are throwing a thing tonight, just a small get-together.” He tosses the phrase out like it’s no big deal, but you both know what “get-together” means among your crowd, booze, drugs, and the illusion of being invincible for a few hours.

You hesitate. A small voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re due for another session with Dr. Kim today. Last time you skipped, he turned up in your bedroom, insisting on a drug test. But you shove that thought aside. You’ve got a right to celebrate, damn it, especially after everything. “Yeah,” you say finally. “I’m in.”

Your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen to see a new message from an unknown number: 

Don't forget your session at 4:30 PM. It's important for your well-being. - Dr. Kim

You raise an eyebrow, irritation flaring. What’s wrong with him? Is he stalking you now? He needs to back off. He can’t make you come in. The memory of him sitting on your bed, demanding a urine sample, still makes your skin crawl. No. You won’t bend to his rules. You silence your phone entirely, letting Sunghoon drag you toward the parking lot. He’s already texting people, finalizing directions to the lavish penthouse party in the wealthy part of town.

By the time you arrive at the penthouse, the sun is sinking low, painting the skyline in pink and orange. The place is massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture, an expensive sound system blasting music loud enough to rattle your bones. A mix of your peers mingles about, dressed in trendy outfits, downing drinks from crystal cups like they’ve done it for years, probably because they have.

Some people greet you by name, offering half-hugs and cheers.

“Congrats on finishing that exam!”

“You look great!”

“Long time no see, heard you were in the hospital?”

Sunghoon steers you toward a corner sofa, where a makeshift bar is set up on a low table, a lineup of imported liquor bottles, along with an assortment of pills scattered in small dishes. Your stomach flips, but you force a confident smirk. A friend, Yunjin, presses a shot glass into your hand, her eyes glazed with that too-familiar party glimmer. “Drink girly!” she says, tossing her own shot back.

You clink glasses with Sunghoon and knock it back, the burn in your throat strangely exhilarating. Somewhere in your mind, a warning bell rings about mixing substances, but the temptation to let go for once is too strong. If you can handle Adderall, you can handle this…right?

Time slips by in a haze. The music thrums beneath your feet, and you catch fragments of conversation. People bragging about upcoming spring break trips, complaining about private tutors, flaunting expensive new gadgets. It’s the same old scene, entitled kids with too much pressure and too many resources.

At one point, you’re slumped next to Sunghoon on the sofa, a champagne glass in your hand. You don’t even remember what number drink this is. The Adderall in your system sharpens your focus just enough to keep you aware that you’re definitely crossing a line tonight, but your rebellious streak won’t let you slow down.

A girl drops beside you, giggling as she hands you something. “Try this,” she slurs, eyes half-lidded. “Relax… you deserve it.” You peer at the pills in her palm. Not Adderall, something else, stronger. For a moment, logic battles curiosity. The memory of Dr. Kim’s pointed questions, the looming threat of more tests, flickers through your mind like a neon warning sign. Then you down it anyway, chasing it with a sip of champagne.

It’s well after midnight when the party takes a turn. You’re seated on the kitchen floor, of all places, head buzzing, vision swimming. Sunghoon’s leaning against the counter, looking equally out of it, while some guy tries to call for more deliveries of food or drinks.

Then you hear it, a heavy bang on the front door, followed by shouts. For a second, your fuzzy brain thinks it’s the police. That alone makes your heart skip. As the party roars on, the door suddenly swings open without hesitation. Your pulse skyrockets. How did he find me? The rush of fear momentarily drowns out the alcohol coursing through your system.

Dr. Kim strides in effortlessly, exuding an air of authority that commands immediate respect. There’s no building manager or security to impede his entrance, like he owns the place. He spots you, and his face sets into a grim mask. He zeroes in on you, eyes dark with anger or concern? You can’t quite tell. “You missed our session again,” he states, low but audible. “I’m taking you home. Now.”

The next thing you register is being bundled into a car, you don’t recognise it. He gets in and you vaguely sense motion as he pulls away from the curb. “Let me go,” you slur, trying to push yourself up. But your limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. “Fuck…off, you…”

His gaze flicks over you, clinical, detached, yet somehow triumphant. “You’re in no condition to make decisions,” he says quietly. “I’ve already informed your parents. They've already signed.” You don’t fully grasp his words. The world tilts, and your eyelids droop. Signed? Signed what?

————-

The world swims back into focus in slow, disorienting waves. Your head throbs, and your mouth tastes like stale liquor. You blink your eyes open, only to realize you’re in your own bedroom, not the penthouse from last night’s party, and not some hospital ward either.

Sunlight spills through the curtains you forgot to close, forcing you to squint. Gradually, you become aware of a faint beeping sound. You shift your head and see an IV drip on a stand beside your bed, connected to your arm. Panic flutters in your chest. What is this?

A familiar voice speaks up, smooth and controlled. “You’re awake.” You turn, and there he is, Dr. Kim, sitting in a chair by your window, one leg casually crossed over the other. He’s not wearing his usual white coat, but a neatly pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint sheen of a watch on his wrist. He offers a half-smile.

“Wh- what are you doing in my house?” you croak, pushing yourself up against the pillows. Your head spins, stomach lurching. He rises, moving closer with an unhurried grace. “You don’t remember?” He tilts his head as if addressing a difficult child. “You skipped your session. Again. Instead, you ended up at a party, highly intoxicated and… let’s just say other substances were involved.”

Heat floods your cheeks as hazy flashes of the party, loud music, potent drinks, pills, it all stabs through your memory. "I removed you from that environment," He continues, his tone even, matter-of-fact. "Your parents have been fully briefed on the situation, and they have entrusted me with overseeing your care moving forward."

He glances at the IV drip. “That’s just a saline solution to help with your dehydration. Nothing more sinister, I assure you.” You try to tear the IV line from your arm, but he’s at your side instantly, his grip surprisingly firm. “You need fluids,” he says quietly, “so be still. For now.” Anger burns in your chest. “Why are you the one doing this? Where’s my mom and dad?”

“They’re not here,” he says, unbothered by your fury. “Business, as usual. They agreed it’s best if someone… qualified monitors you closely. In fact, they’ve signed all the necessary documents to ensure I can do just that.”

Your heart races. “What the hell does that even mean?” His eyes narrow, but his tone remains frustratingly calm. “It means your parents believe you need a more structured environment for the foreseeable future. You’ve been placed on medical leave from university. All your coursework will be completed at home, under my supervision.”

A suffocating sensation grips your chest. “I’m not… you can’t… it’s my house!”

“Yes,” he concedes, “and I’ll be here, too, for as long as it takes.”

“Excuse me,” you snap, yanking the blanket aside. “I can leave anytime I want.”

“Actually,” he says softly, “until I deem you stable, you won’t be going anywhere. Your parents gave me full discretion over your care.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a document, offering it to you. The official letterhead, your parents’ signatures, the words medical guardianship jump out at you. Your vision blurs, frustration and betrayal tangling in your gut. “They had no right-”

“They had every right,” he cuts in gently. “You’ve been technically hospitalized twice, you’re abusing stimulants, not going to your therapy sessions, and now you’ve added drinking and illicit substances. They’re concerned, and they’re trusting me to help you.”

Swallowing the panic clawing at your throat, you ball your fists. “I’m not letting you control my life. I’ll- I’ll call the cops.”

He arches an eyebrow, nodding toward your bedside table. Your phone is there, sure, but when you grab it, the screen shows no service, it’s been turned off or disabled. He shrugs. “Feel free to contact them if you like. But the minute they see the signed paperwork, they’ll understand I’m acting with their full support. No laws broken.”

Rage sparks hot tears at the corners of your eyes. You grip the sheets in frustration. “You think this is helping me?” He presses his lips together, as though considering. “I think you need structure,' he says smoothly. I’ll make sure you’re safe, well-fed, and keeping up with your coursework. You’ll still follow your curriculum, just here, under my supervision.”

He steps closer, pointing to the desk, where a new folder and some binders sit, neatly labeled with your courses. “You’ll have access to uni work provided by your professors. I’ll monitor your study hours. And if I even suspect you’re using Adderall or any other substance, I’ll administer tests on the spot.” Your stomach lurches at the memory of him demanding a urine sample in your own bedroom. “This is insane,” you say, voice trembling with anger and a flicker of fear.

His response is maddeningly calm. “It’s for your own good. You’ve proven you can’t handle the freedom you’ve had, so we’re stepping in to protect you from yourself.” He adjusts the IV drip, an unsettlingly competent motion for a psychiatrist. “Rest for now. When you feel steadier, we’ll start the new schedule.”

Despite your racing thoughts, your body is worn out from the party’s aftereffects. You slouch back against the pillows. “When I’m better,” you hiss, “I’m leaving.”

He exhales as if slightly disappointed by your rebellion. “You can try,” he says, “but we both know you won’t get very far. Your parents aren’t going to back you on this. The staff here has been instructed to follow my orders.” You stare at him, blood pounding in your ears. “So I’m just… stuck here with you?”

He offers a faint, almost sympathetic smile. “That’s one way to look at it. Another way is that we’re taking a much-needed step toward your recovery. I suggest you see it that way, life will be easier.”

He leaves you alone then, shutting the door softly behind him. A cold knot settles in your stomach as you take in your room, now a twisted parody of the sanctuary it once was. The IV in your arm is a tangible reminder that you’re no longer in control.

Your parents. Your home. This man you barely trust. All working together to keep you under control.

Though your mind screams at you to fight, the weight of your exhaustion presses down. You doze off once more, haunted by the knowledge that when you wake, nothing about your life will be the same for a while.

————-

The room feels colder as he sits beside you, the official documents laid out meticulously on your desk. His calm demeanor contrasts sharply with the storm of emotions brewing inside you. You glare at the papers, your frustration barely contained.

“Sweetheart,” he begins softly, using the nickname that both infuriates and unnerves you, “we need to set some ground rules to ensure your well-being and academic success.”

You scoff, crossing your arms defiantly. “Ground rules? What, are you trying to turn my room into a prison?” He sighs gently, understanding the resistance in your tone. “Not a prison, think of it as a structured environment to help you regain control over your life. Your parents and I agree that these measures are necessary.”

He points to the first document. “First and foremost, phone usage is restricted. Your phone will be under my supervision, and only authorized calls are permitted.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the sting of his control. “So, I can’t even have a simple conversation with my friends unless you say it’s okay? Typical.” He remains unfazed, maintaining steady eye contact. “It’s not about distrust. It’s about creating an environment conducive to your recovery.”

He moves to the next document. “Next, a bedtime routine. Lights out by 10 p.m. This ensures you get adequate rest, which is crucial for both your mental and physical health.” You snort, crossing your arms tighter. “Great, more rules to make my life miserable. What’s next, a curfew?”

He nods thoughtfully. “A curfew isn’t necessary since you’re under supervision here. However, waking up at 7 a.m. sharp is mandatory. Consistency helps regulate your body’s internal clock and improves overall productivity.”

He gestures to the following page. “Your study schedule is designed to balance academic work with necessary breaks. Overworking can lead to burnout, which we want to avoid. Each subject has designated times, and there are built-in breaks to relax and recharge.”

You sigh heavily, feeling the weight of the schedule pressing down on you. “So, you control every minute of my day. What about my friends? My boyfriend?” His expression softens slightly, but his tone remains firm. “Social interactions are important, but they need to be managed to ensure they don’t interfere with your recovery. We can discuss structured social activities that are supportive and healthy.”

He points to another rule. “No unauthorized visitors. If you wish to have someone over, it must be approved by me first.” You bite your lip, the sting of humiliation rising. “So, no more hanging out with my friends unless you say it’s okay? You’re seriously crossing boundaries.” He leans forward, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a temporary measure. Your parents and I believe it’s in your best interest. Trust me, this is for your own good.”

You push the chair back, standing abruptly. “Temporary? How long am I supposed to be your little project? I’m not a lab rat you can experiment on.” He remains calm, his expression composed. “This isn’t about experimentation. It’s about providing the support and structure you need to overcome your challenges. Resistance only prolongs the process.”

You glare at him, feeling a surge of anger and helplessness. “I don’t need your support. I need my freedom back.” He stands quietly, holding the stack of documents in his hands. “You have two choices, comply with these rules and work towards your recovery, or continue down this path of self-destruction, which will result in more severe consequences. Your parents are deeply concerned, and they trust me to guide you.”

You take a step closer, defiance burning in your eyes. “Yeah right. So what, you force me to follow your ridiculous rules? You’re nothing but a controlling freak.”

His expression remains composed, though his eyes reveal a flicker of disappointment. “I understand your frustration, but these measures are non-negotiable. It’s time to prioritize your health and future over immediate rebellion.”

Seeing the resolve in his eyes and the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you let out a bitter laugh. “Fine.” He nods, accepting your compliance without further comment. “That’s all I ask. Let’s start by reviewing your study schedule and setting up a plan for your first week.”

————-

Your door creaks open. You hear it before you see anything, and instinct kicks in. Your eyes snap open, darting to the alarm clock on your nightstand, 7:00 AM on the dot. Your alarm was set for 7:30.

Your brows knit together, confusion laced with irritation, as you bury your face deeper into the pillow. Maybe if you ignore it, it’ll go away. But the presence in the room is impossible to dismiss. You feel it, the weight of his gaze, the silent expectation pressing down on you.

“Time to wake up.” Your eyes barely crack open, a deep frown settling on your face as you roll onto your side. He stands near the doorway, dressed in his usual pressed attire, not a single hair out of place. He doesn’t look like a man who should be in your bedroom first thing in the morning.

Your voice is thick with sleep, irritated. “Do you seriously think this is normal? Waking me up like a damn five-year-old? I have an alarm.”

He doesn’t flinch at your hostility. If anything, he looks vaguely amused, like he expected this exact reaction. “You do,” he agrees. “And yet, I’m here.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, blinking at him. “Why?” His head tilts slightly. “Because I expect you to be dressed and ready for breakfast in thirty minutes.”

You stare at him, lips parting in disbelief. “Are you serious?” His expression doesn’t waver. “Deadly.”

A slow, infuriated breath hisses through your teeth. You look at your alarm clock on the nightstand, your alarm still set for 7:30, right where you left it. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. But of course, that doesn’t matter to him. Your schedule is his now.

“You know, normal people just knock,” you say, voice dripping with annoyance. “Or, here’s a wild idea, let people wake up on their own.”

His lips curve in the faintest, most condescending smile. “We’re not working on your version of normal anymore.” You glare at him, fingers twitching against the sheets. “This is so inappropriate.” He doesn’t bite. “You have twenty-eight minutes.”

And with that, he turns, walking out with the ease of someone completely unbothered by your frustration. The soft click of the door shutting feels like a slap to the face.

You fall back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the reality of it all sinking in deeper. He’s really going to control everything. And this is only the beginning. Your alarm was set for 7:30. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes of peace. Of control. But he took that from you. A slow, deep breath hisses through your teeth as you sit up, kicking the blankets off a little harder than necessary. Fine. If he wants you up, then you’ll get up. But not on his terms.

You move sluggishly, deliberately. Not rushing. Not scrambling to meet his demands. If he wants control, he’ll have to wait. Dragging yourself into the bathroom, you take your time washing your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Tired. Hollow-eyed.

Your hair is a mess, but you don’t bother fixing it quickly. You let the seconds tick by, each movement unhurried. When you finally step into the shower, you turn the water to the hottest setting, standing under the scorching stream until your skin is flushed and your muscles are loose.

You towel off slowly, running your fingers through damp hair. Pulling on the most comfortable clothes you can find, you drag your feet back toward the door, taking another slow breath. The act is small, petty even, but it’s the only thing that feels like yours right now.

When you step into the hallway, you half-expect him to be standing right there, waiting. Ready to scold you. But he’s not. The house is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes downstairs. By the time you reach the dining room, he is already seated at the table, a plate set neatly before him. Another one sits across from him.

He doesn’t glance at the clock. Just gestures toward the seat across from him. “You’re late,” he says casually, sipping his coffee. Your jaw tightens. “By a minute.” His calm gaze lifts, “and yet, you’re still late.”

You sink into the chair, gripping your fork a little too hard. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Breakfast is simple, oatmeal with nuts, fruits and honey, yuck. He eats with quiet precision, every movement deliberate, like even his chewing is something he’s mastered.

You don’t eat right away. Your spoon idly stirs the oatmeal, dragging through the softened fruit, but you don’t take a bite. You’re waiting. Will he say something? Will he push you to eat?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his coffee cup and looks at you, his voice calm. “You’ll have study sessions from eight to twelve,” he begins, as if this is a normal conversation. “Break for lunch. Then another session until four. After that, we’ll go over your progress.”

You scoop up a spoonful of oatmeal and let it plop back into the bowl with a dull splat, unimpressed. “Do I get a say in any of this?” 

His lips curve slightly, not a smile. A reaction just enough to say, you already know the answer to that. “I think we both know your choices haven’t been particularly effective,” he says evenly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You set your fork down with a soft clink, leaning back in your chair. “Right. Because I’m such a disaster that I need a babysitter now.” He exhales slowly, as if he expected this conversation. “Because you need structure.” You scoff. “No. I need freedom.” He tilts his head slightly. “You had that. Look where it got you.” Your fingers tighten around the spoon. “Gosh, you sound like my parents.”

“They entrusted me to make the right decisions for you,” he reminds you, calm and steady. “That includes this schedule.” You glare at him, something hot twisting in your chest. “You think you can just...control me into getting better?” For the first time, something flickers behind his eyes, something deeper, something you can't make out. He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin itch. “You’ll come to understand that this is what’s best for you.”

A shiver down your spine. He doesn’t just believe he’s controlling you. He believes he’s saving you. And that is somehow so much worse.

————-

By the time you reach the designated study room, a sleek, minimalist space that he arranged for you, the clock reads 8:02 AM. You make sure to glance at it, just so you can tell yourself, two minutes late. A tiny, invisible rebellion. 

But he doesn’t react. He’s already seated across from you, a thick leather notebook in front of him, pen poised between his fingers. Like he’s ready to observe. Your textbooks are neatly stacked on the desk. A fresh planner, not yours, is open beside them, a strict hour-by-hour study schedule written in his neat, clinical handwriting.

Revised Schedule

8:00 - 9:30 AM: Microeconomics Review 9:30 - 11:00 AM: Mathematical Economics & Calculus for Business 11:00 - 12:00 PM: Case Study Analysis & Financial Modeling 12:00 - 1:00 PM: Lunch 1:00 - 2:30 PM: Macroeconomics & Global Trade 2:30 - 4:00 PM: Investment Analysis & Risk Management 4:00 PM: Dr. Kim’s “Progress Review” 

No room for distractions. No flexibility. Just rigid, controlled structure. You drop into the chair with pointed sluggishness, flipping open your Microeconomics textbook like it’s a burden. His eyes track your movements, but he says nothing.

Fine. If he’s going to hover like some clinical stalker, you’ll just ignore him. You skim over market elasticity equations, but your brain refuses to cooperate. You’re supposed to be able to focus, but your body feels sluggish. Slower than usual. Too much sleep? No stimulants. His fault.

You frown down at the page, trying to force the numbers into place. The silence is suffocating. Then, his voice. “You keep hesitating.” Your fingers tighten around your pencil. “I’m thinking.” He hums, the sound so calm, so condescending that your jaw clenches. “No,” he says, flipping through his own copy of your textbook, “you’re frustrated.”

You exhale sharply, not looking at him. “Wow, thanks for the deep psychological insight.” He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he reaches across the desk and tilts your notebook toward himself. Before you can react, his fingers ghost over the problem you were stuck on. “You made an error here,” he murmurs, tapping the equation lightly with the tip of his pen. “And here.”

You hate how easily he finds your mistakes. How effortless it is for him to point them out, like he’s proving a point about your incompetence. “I was getting to that,” you mutter. “Of course,” he agrees, voice infuriatingly smooth. “But your frustration gets in the way. It always does.” You snap your notebook back, shooting him a glare. “You don’t have to sit here and babysit me. I can handle it.”

His gaze drags over you, slow and intentionally invasive. He leans back slightly in his chair, tilting his head, studying you with that same unsettling patience. “Can you?” Your breath catches, because that tone, that quiet, knowing taunt, doesn’t sound like he’s just questioning your academics.

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You don’t look at him, forcing your eyes back onto the textbook. Silence settles again, but this time it’s heavier. Like he’s waiting for something, like he’s amused and it makes you itch. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable, but his voice cuts through the quiet before you can settle. “You’re restless.” Your stomach tightens. “Maybe because you’re staring at me.”

A slow, almost lazy blink. He tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate, studying you. Then, with the faintest smirk curving his lips, he asks, “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Yes. You swallow, jaw clenching. “You’re making it impossible to concentrate.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, he exhales, a low chuckle beneath his breath.

Your eyes snap to him in disbelief. He’s full on smirking. A shiver runs down your spine. “What’s so funny?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he taps his fingers idly against the table, gaze never leaving yours. “You keep pushing back,” he muses, “but your body betrays you.”

The words send a sharp pulse through your veins. You freeze. “What the hell does that mean?” you snap. His smirk doesn’t waver. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Every time you resist, I can see it.” His fingers trail the edge of his pen, slow and deliberate. “The tension. The frustration. The way you react to my presence.” Your mouth runs dry. “That’s called annoyance.” His head tilts. “Is it?” There’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now. Less clinical. More intense? And you realize, he enjoys this. The push and pull. The fight. The fact that you’re so easily affected by him.

You push back your chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor as you stand. You need air. “I’m taking a break,” you mutter, already turning for the door. But before you can move, he’s already there. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t block you. He just stands, positioned just close enough to force you to stop. Your breath catches.

“You have another hour,” he reminds you, voice still too calm, too smooth. You swallow hard, looking past him. “Move.” He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne, the smell clean and crisp. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “how long you’ll keep pretending you don’t like this.” Your stomach drops. A sharp pulse shoots down your spine, your fingers twitching at your sides. No. No, he’s wrong. You don’t like this. You hate this. You hate him.

He knows that your pulse is racing. That your breath is shallow. That your body, despite every logical part of your brain, is too aware of him. And somehow, that makes him even more patient. Like he knows he doesn’t have to rush this. Because he’s already winning.

————-

By the time lunch rolls around, the tension from the morning has barely faded. The dining room is just as pristine as before, silent, controlled, suffocating. He is already seated when you walk in, a plate of steamed rice, grilled chicken, and vegetables set neatly at your spot. Boring. Predictable. Just like him.

You drop into the chair without a word, grip tightening around the fork as you push the food around your plate. Your appetite is nonexistent, but you don’t test him by refusing to eat. Not yet. Instead, you let the silence stretch. Let the minutes tick by, waiting. And then, without looking up, you say it. “How did you find me?” He doesn’t react right away. He finishes cutting a piece of chicken, lifting it to his mouth with calm precision, chewing slowly. Then, he finally speaks. “Find you where?”

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork with a little too much force. “At the party,” you clarify. “How did you know where I was?” He tilts his head slightly, wiping his mouth with a napkin before resting his elbows on the table. “You were at a party?”

Your glare sharpens. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.” He exhales, leaning back against his chair. You keep your expression blank. “So what?” you push. “You just magically guessed where I was?” A slow blink. A small, knowing curve of his lips. “Your parents informed me.” Your stomach drops as you stare at him. “What?”

“They were notified that you hadn’t returned home,” he continued smoothly. “Your driver was waiting, but you never showed.” You freeze. Shit. You forgot about the driver. “They assumed you were at a party,” he added. “And given the list of events you and your friends have attended in the past, it wasn’t difficult to find the most likely location.” Your fingers tighten around your fork. “That’s insane.” He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Is it?”

You scoff. “You mean to tell me my parents just, what, handed you a list of places I might be?” A slight smirk plays on his lips. “They’re concerned about you.” You laugh, a dry, bitter sound. “They’re concerned about their image.” He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he sets down his utensils, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Regardless, their concerns led me to you.” Your pulse ticks up. You look away, pushing your food around the plate. “So what?” you mutter. “You tracked me down, dragged me home like some runaway child? You don’t see how creepy that is?”

He leans back slightly, studying you. “Would you rather I hadn’t?” The question is too calm. Too certain. You swallow, your throat suddenly dries. Because he’s waiting for an answer. Waiting for you to admit that maybe, just maybe, he had a point. You hate that you don’t have one. Instead, you exhale sharply, stabbing at a piece of chicken. “Next time, don’t bother.”

He hums. A sound of amusement, not agreement. Then, he gestures toward your plate. “Eat.” You hold his gaze for one more second. One more silent act of defiance. And then, you take a bite. Because, for now, it’s the only battle you can win.

————-

By the time the last study session ends, you’re beyond exhausted. Gosh do you miss taking the pills. Hours of microeconomic theory, financial analysis, and investment modeling have left your brain feeling like mush. You were hoping for a break. Maybe some alone time in your room, text Sunghoon, pretend you still have a life outside of this house. But of course, he has other plans.

“You’ll be spending the next hour engaging in a structured activity,” he informs you, as if he’s handing out some divine decree. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “What kind of activity?” He doesn’t answer right away, just motions for you to follow. He leads you into another empty room in this empty house, a sitting area, pristine and untouched, like it’s only there for decoration. A chessboard sits on the table, the pieces perfectly aligned, as if no one has ever played. 

You stare at it. “You’re kidding.” He takes his seat across from you, cool and collected. “Chess stimulates critical thinking. It will help improve your problem-solving skills.” You blink at him. “I’ve been solving problems all day. I’m not playing chess with you.”

His gaze lifts, slow, steady, unwavering. “I wasn’t asking.” The words sit heavy between you. You cross your arms, glaring at the board. “Fine,” you mutter, sinking into the chair. “But I’m not going to make it easy for you.” His lips curve slightly. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

The first few moves are silent. The sound of pieces clicking against the board fills the air. At first, you play recklessly. Intentionally chaotic. Just to mess with him. He doesn’t react. He simply moves his pieces with calm, practiced efficiency. Every move is calculated and controlled. It’s infuriating.

Finally, after a few minutes of quiet strategy, he speaks. “You haven't texted Sunghoon.” You stiffen.Your hand hesitates over a piece. Slowly, you lift your gaze. “Excuse me?” His expression remains neutral, but there’s something lurking beneath it. Something satisfied?

Your fingers tighten around your knight piece. “Well I don't exactly have my phone, do I? Also, did you check my phone?” You ask accusingly. He tilts his head slightly, the movement as lazy as it is intentional. “I wouldn’t call it checking.” He picks up his queen, placing it in a dominant position on the board. “Your screen lit up. It was hard to miss.”

He hums, not denying it. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping low. “Your move.” You shove your knight forward aggressively, knocking one of his pawns off. He barely spares it a glance before speaking again. “You seem… distracted.”

You scoff. “Yeah, maybe because you’re talking about my boyfriend while playing chess like some psycho in a movie.” A low chuckle. “You’re entertaining when you’re agitated,” he remarks, amused, unbothered. “But I meant what I said.”

You exhale, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What, that I’m distracted?” He leans back, fingers tapping lazily against the table. “Yes. You lose focus easily when your emotions are involved.” You roll your eyes, making another move. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me again?” He moves his queen. Check. He meets your eyes, gaze sharp, assessing. “No,” he says smoothly. “This is the part where I win.” You stare at the board, blood boiling. He’s right. You let yourself get distracted. You push away from the table, standing abruptly. “We’re done.” He watches you, expression unreadable. “You don’t like losing.” 

“No,” you snap. “I don’t like this.” His lips curve slightly. He hands you your phone without a word. The weight of it in your palm is almost unfamiliar after an entire day without it. You unlock the screen immediately, scrolling through your notifications, your heart picking up as you scan for Sunghoon’s name. Nothing. Your breath hitches for just a second, barely noticeable, but the disappointment sinks in faster than you can stop it. You blink, double-checking. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a reaction to the last message you sent him. That’s… weird. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he fell asleep early. Maybe he thinks you’re the one ignoring him. 

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating whether you should send something first. Just a simple hey. A test. But something about it feels off. If you text him now, you’ll be the one reaching out. You’ll be the one who noticed. You’ll be the one who cares. And you do, of course, you do, but letting that show somehow makes it feel worse. You swallow the frustration building in your throat and press the power button, shutting off the screen before you let yourself overthink it any further. You set the phone down and push it back toward him. He watches you, his fingers tapping against the desk, slow and rhythmic. "Nothing?" You shrug, forcing nonchalance. "Guess not."

A beat of silence stretches between you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry, just picks up the phone and slips it back into his pocket like it belongs to him, like it wasn’t even yours to begin with. “You’ll have another ten minutes tomorrow.” You nod, walking out too quickly, eager to get out of this room, away from him, away from the sinking weight in your chest that you refuse to acknowledge as sadness. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just one day. But the quiet part of your mind whispers that Sunghoon always texts you, even if it's half assed. Maybe he feels bad about how things got out of hand at the party? Or maybe he doesn’t? 

————-

The soft glow of the TV screen flickers across the dimly lit living room. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, mindlessly watching something simple, something easy. Something that doesn’t require focus. For the first time today, you’re not thinking about anything. Not his rules. Not the suffocating schedule. Just the low hum of the TV, filling the empty space around you. It almost feels… normal. Until it doesn’t.

The screen suddenly blacks out. Your body tenses, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. You blink at the blank TV, disoriented, before slowly turning your head, and there he is. Dr. Kim stands beside the couch, remote in hand, his expression calm yet expectant. “It’s bedtime.” Your brows knit together, disbelief flickering across your face. “Are you serious?” He doesn’t answer. Just sets the remote down on the coffee table, his gaze never leaving you. A sharp, irritated breath escapes you. “I’m not a child.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small, knowing motion that only makes your frustration grow. “You need proper rest,” he says, voice steady, unshaken by your attitude. “Overworking yourself isn’t productive.” You scoff. “It’s just TV.”

“And now, it’s off.” You stare at him, waiting for him to budge. To roll his eyes, sigh, maybe even let you have this one thing. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, waiting for you to comply. And maybe that’s what’s most frustrating of all, he’s not fighting you. He’s not raising his voice, not snapping back. He’s just waiting. Like he already knows you’ll listen. Your jaw tightens, hands balling into fists against your lap. “This is ridiculous.” 

He hums softly, like he’s considering your words. “You’re free to feel that way. But you still need to sleep.” Your muscles tense, the heat of defiance burning under your skin. You don’t want to listen to him. You want to stay right here, keep the TV on, pretend you still have some control over your own life. 

But another part of you, the one exhausted from today’s battles, the one weighed down by everything you refuse to acknowledge, knows you won’t win this one. Slowly, grudgingly, you push yourself up from the couch. You don’t look at him as you move past him, don’t acknowledge the quiet satisfaction in his posture.

The walk to your room feels heavier than it should. By the time you step inside, you expect him to leave, to disappear behind a closed door like your parents always did, cold, distant, uninterested beyond the rules they set.

But he doesn’t. He follows you in, pauses near the doorway. His hand reaches for the handle, but he doesn’t shut it. Instead, he leaves it slightly open. Ajar.

Your stomach knots. “What, you don’t trust me to stay in bed either?” His gaze meets yours, something softer there, something you can’t place. “It’s not about trust.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then what is it about?” A pause. A beat of silence just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “You’re not used to having someone that makes sure you’re okay.” Your breath catches. It’s such a simple statement. Too simple. Like he’s voicing something obvious, something already known.

But it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against the hollow places you never let yourself acknowledge. You should snap at him. Should tell him he’s wrong, that you’re fine, that you don’t need someone watching over you like this. But the words don’t come. You glance at the open door instead, swallowing down whatever emotion threatens to surface. “I don’t need someone like that.”

His expression remains unreadable. “Goodnight.” The words are final, no space left for argument. He turns and steps out, his presence lingering even after he disappears down the hall. The door stays open. And for reasons you don’t understand, you don’t get up to close it.

————-

Time has started to blur. Days bleed into each other, structured and rigid, each one identical to the last. The housemaid stopped coming, it was just you and him. The rules have become second nature, and the fights you used to put up? Less frequent. Not because you agree, but because resistance became exhausting.

And then there’s Sunghoon. Or rather, the absence of him. No calls. No texts. Nothing. At first, you convinced yourself he was just busy. That he’d reach out eventually. But now, days have passed. You’ve checked your phone during your allotted ten minutes, stared at the empty notifications, felt the quiet, creeping disappointment settle in your chest. You try to ignore it. Try to push it down. Sure, Sunghoon wasn’t head over heels for you. But he was your boyfriend. And somehow, that should mean something.

The only message you’ve gotten, the only thing from the outside world at all, is from your parents. Not a phone call. Not even a voice message. Just a text. "Hope you're adjusting. Listen to Dr. Kim." That was it. Nothing more. No warmth, no real concern, just a reminder. Behave. Follow the rules. Because if you don’t, if you fight, if you refuse to comply, there will be consequences. The implication is clear. If you push too far, you’ll be cut off. Financially. Entirely. Completely.

You read the message twice, let the weight of it settle in. And then, without another thought, you lock your phone and place it back on the table. Because really, what’s the point? You wake up on time. You eat when he tells you to. You study for the exact hours he sets. And every night, your door stays ajar. Somewhere along the way, his presence stopped feeling temporary.

The first time he picked out your outfit, you thought he was joking. “I’ll decide what I wear,” you had snapped, arms crossed as you stared at the neat selection of clothes he’d placed on your bed. He remained unimpressed. “You lost that privilege when you were late.”

“One minute,” you had argued, voice laced with frustration. “I was late by one minute.” He had only hummed, stepping closer, gaze steady as he reached for the blouse he chose. “Then next time, be on time.” It’s a ridiculous rule, but you still wear what he picks out every morning. Because even though you tell yourself you don’t care, it’s easier than starting a battle you already know you’ll lose.

He’s also physically closer to you know. At first, you thought his touches were accidental. A brief hand on your shoulder, a light press against your back when he stood behind you, reading over your notes. Small things. Easy to ignore.

But then it became more frequent. His fingers ghost along the curve of your shoulder when he corrects a mistake in your notes. His palm lingers against the small of your back when he guides you to your desk. When you start to fidget, his hand finds your wrist, pressing down lightly as if to calm you.

It should bother you more than it does. But the worst part? It works. You don’t want to admit it, but there’s something calculated, practiced in the way he touches you. Something designed to soothe. Like he’s figured out exactly how to wear down your resistance.

His nicknames also became frequent. You remember the first time he called you sweetheart when discussing the rules. It had been offhand, casual, like he barely even thought about it. You had bristled, waiting for him to correct himself. But he didn’t. 

The next time, it was darling. Another time, angel. Each one more natural, more seamless than the last. The worst part is how easily it slips into conversation now.

"Focus, sweetheart."

"You’re overthinking again, darling."

"Eat, angel. You’ll need your energy."

And you hate it. You hate that he says it like it’s natural, like it belongs. You hate that no one else has ever called you these things, not your parents, not even Sunghoon. You hate that sometimes, when he says it in just the right tone, it makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.

————-

Dinner is different tonight. It’s not just another scheduled meal, another quiet, structured moment where you eat because it’s expected of you. The table is set more carefully than usual, two polished plates, silverware perfectly aligned, the dim glow of the chandelier casting soft shadows. Everything feels…intentional.

You notice immediately. It unsettles you, but you don’t say anything. Maybe it’s another one of his tests, another way to see if you’ll react. Or maybe it’s a reward? The thought makes something curl in your stomach, something ugly, something you refuse to name.

He sits across from you, perfectly composed. He doesn’t acknowledge the change in atmosphere, doesn’t point out the way you eye the setup with quiet suspicion. Instead, he just lifts his glass, takes a slow sip of water, then nods toward your plate. “Sweetheart, eat.”

You don’t argue, but something about the command grates on you. The food looks better than usual, a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables arranged like something straight out of a five-star restaurant. It’s intentional. All of this is. You cut into the steak carefully, bringing the first bite to your lips. The moment it touches your tongue, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. It’s perfect. Rich, tender, seasoned just right, juices melting over your tongue in a way that has your shoulders instantly relaxing. It’s the best thing you’ve tasted in, God, how long has it been? And then, before you can stop it, a sound slips out. Soft, breathy, a quiet, satisfied moan. Your breath catches. Your spine stiffens immediately. Silence. You realize what you’ve done the same second you feel his eyes on you. Slowly, hesitantly, you look up.

He isn’t eating, he isn’t even moving. His fork rests against his plate, untouched. His fingers tap idly against the stem of his glass. He watches you with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable, except for the smirk. It’s like he’s amused. Pleased. Heat crawls up your neck, mortification seeping into your bones. You clear your throat, forcing past the moment as quickly as possible. “How do you know so much about my coursework?”

His gaze flicks up, calm and unsurprised, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Because I studied the same things.” You frown, swallowing. “You’re a psychiatrist.” His lips twitch slightly, like he finds your skepticism amusing. “And before that, I was exactly where you are now. Economics. Business strategy. Finance.” He pauses, tilting his head just slightly. “I was expected to take over my family’s company. Until I didn’t.”

You go still, your fork pausing midair. Something about the way he says it, smooth but edged with something sharper, makes your stomach tighten. “So, what? You just decided one day that you’d rather screw with people’s minds instead of their money?” He exhales a soft, almost amused breath as he sets down his knife. “Something like that.” You scoff, stabbing at your vegetables. “Sounds like you and my parents would get along.” The amusement in his expression fades. “I think you know that isn’t true.”

Your grip tightens around your fork. There’s something too heavy in his voice, something that makes you feel exposed, in a way you don’t like. “You’re here, aren’t you?” he continues, voice smooth but cutting. “Because you think they don't want to deal with you anymore.” The words land heavier than they should. You force a smirk, pushing through the way they settle in your chest like a stone. “Gee, thanks for the reminder.” He watches you, his gaze steady, patient. Too patient. “Does it bother you?”

You lean back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “Why would it? It’s not like it’s the first time.” He doesn’t respond right away. He simply lifts his glass again, taking another sip, letting the silence stretch.

You look down at your plate, at the steak still waiting. You cut another piece, bring it to your lips and the moment it touches your tongue, everything else fades. He’s just sitting there, watching you, smiling at how you're enjoying the meal he cooked for you.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, forcing yourself to look away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he says. You glare, gripping your fork a little too tightly. “Like you’re enjoying this.” He leans back slightly, tilting his head. “And if I am?” The air feels different now. You can’t place it, can’t explain it, but something has shifted. You force out a scoff, desperate to move past it. “Yepp. You and my parents would get along perfectly. You’re all obsessed with control.” He breathes a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “If I wanted control over you darling, you wouldn’t even realize it.” The way he says it, so soft, so certain, it sends a shiver curling down your spine.

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork against your plate with a clatter. “Well, at least I know you have other skills.” You gesture vaguely toward the food, grasping at anything to redirect the conversation. “Didn’t take you for someone who could cook.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since I learned how to take care of things properly.” The phrasing makes your stomach twist. It shouldn’t sound like a warning but somehow, it does.

You pick at the last remnants of your meal, the conversation still lingering in the air. His words sit heavy in your chest, pressing down, reminding you that you're here because your parents didn’t want to deal with you. You hate how easy it is for him to cut through you like that. How effortlessly he makes you feel exposed. But he’s not gloating. He’s just watching.

That same calm, unreadable expression, the slight tilt of his head as if he’s waiting for something, for you to react. You exhale sharply, tapping your fork against the edge of your plate. “So, what? You’re gonna sit there and psychoanalyze me over steak?” His lips curve, the barest smirk, “Would you prefer I psychoanalyze you over dessert?” You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Still waiting. Still watching over you.

The weight of it makes something hot and frustrated twist in your chest. You want to break the tension, want to push back, want to tip the balance. And then, on impulse, you say it. Not Dr. Kim. Not even Seok-Jin.

Just–

“Jin.”

The shift is instant. His eyes darken. Not in anger, but in something deeper. You shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have. But now you can’t take it back.

A slow, unnerving silence stretches between you. Then, he exhales, the corners of his lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Jin, huh?" His voice is low, amused, but there’s something else beneath it, something heavier. Like he’s tasting the way it sounds, rolling it over in his mind, keeping it. “You’ve never called me that before. You barely address me as Dr. Kim."

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let it show. You force a small smile as you lean back in your chair. “Would you rather I stick with Dr. Kim?” His head tilts slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “No,” he says, soft, certain. Then. "I like the way it sounds when you say my name." Your breath catches. Something shifts between you. Something thick, unspoken, dangerous. Your fingers tighten around the napkin in your lap, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Like the way he’s looking at you right now doesn’t make your heart pound just a little too fast. Jin. You shouldn’t have said it. But now, you think, he won’t let you stop.

Dinner is finished, but the tension lingers. You can still feel the weight of his gaze from across the table, his smirk. So you move. For once, without being told, you reach for the dishes, gathering them in your hands before he can stop you. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the tiniest rebellion, something normal in a situation that’s anything but.

You make it to the sink, rolling up your sleeves, fingers brushing over the faucet. The sound of running water fills the space, grounding you. It’s just a plate, just soap and water, just something to do with your hands. 

Then, heat. A slow, creeping warmth against your waist. Not imagined. Not accidental. His hand. Firm. Steady. Claiming.

A slow inhale gets caught in your throat as you freeze, your fingers gripping the counter, your body locked tight. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. You know who it is. His touch is light, just enough to guide you. A slow, press of fingers against the fabric of your shirt, the warmth of his palm bleeding through as his breath ghosts the back of your neck. Too close, too much.

"Go rest." His voice is low, even. Deceptively soft, but there’s something beneath it, something that doesn’t leave room for argument. Your pulse skips. “I can do the dishes.” A hum. Low, deep, amused. "I know you can," he murmurs, closer now, the warmth of him pressing just slightly more into your back. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

You swallow hard, knuckles going white where they grip the counter. This, this isn’t normal. This isn’t how a psychiatrist handles his patient. But he isn’t moving. And neither are you. His fingers press just slightly, just enough, before the warmth of his touch disappears, leaving your skin too aware of its absence. You force yourself to move, stepping back from the sink, willing your breath to stay even, to pretend like this isn’t affecting you. But the second you turn away, you feel it, the weight of his gaze on your back, tracking your every step as you leave the kitchen. You don’t look back. You can’t.

By the time he comes into your room, you’re already in bed, or at least, you’re pretending to be. A book rests in your hands, your eyes scanning the words without absorbing a single one. It doesn’t help. You still feel it, the warmth of his touch, still imprinted on your waist.

Then, movement. You don’t even have time to react before the book slips from your grasp. Not snatched, not forceful. Just taken. Your breath stutters as he plucks it from your hands, his fingers grazing your own for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make your stomach clench. He doesn’t even glance at the title before setting it on your nightstand, his movements fluid, composed, controlled. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s routine. You don’t know what to do with your hands now that they’re empty.

He stands beside your bed, watching you. The dim glow of the bedside lamp catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He isn’t touching you, isn’t crowding you, but he’s there. He’s always there. Then, a small, quiet smile. "Good night."

Your throat tightens. You don’t respond. He tilts his head slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is even softer. "Sweet dreams." The words slip through the cracks, sinking into your skin before you can stop them. The door stays ajar as he leaves, his shadow shifting, stretching against the hallway light. You don’t move. You barely breathe. Even long after he’s gone, long after the silence swallows the room whole, you still feel him.

————-

The warmth is all-consuming, deep, suffocating in the sweetest way. It stretches through every inch of your body, pulling you under, making you heavy, making you needy. The world around you is blurred, distant, nothing but the press of heat, the slow burn of something thick, inescapable, forbidden.

And he’s here. Jin sits at the edge of your bed, his presence undeniable, the weight of his gaze sinking into your skin like it belongs there. He looks relaxed, knowing, like he’s been watching you for a while. Like he’s been waiting. You should ask him why he’s here. You should move. But you don’t. Because his hand is already on you. It starts at your ankle, the softest graze of fingertips, teasing, testing. Your breath stutters, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Then he drags them up. Slowly, as he’s tracing over your calf, your thigh, higher. Spreading the heat. Spreading the tension. Spreading you. A breathy sigh escapes you, your thighs parting instinctively, your back arching the tiniest bit. He chuckles. Low, pleased and amused. And then he leans in. His breath skims your throat, warm, tantalizing, just close enough to send a shudder rolling through you. "You're so easy to tame, angel."

The words melt into your skin, his voice like something dangerous and possessive and inevitable. Then, his mouth. Soft lips press against your pussy, teasing, trailing, tasting. A slow, lingering drag, a teasing bite, a soothing lap of his tongue.

Your fingers grip the sheets, your body betraying you. A soft, helpless noise escapes, a needy little whimper that only makes him press harder. "That’s it, sweetheart" he hums against your skin, his voice rougher now, heavier. "Let me hear you."

The pleasure spikes, unbearable, unbearable, unbearable.

"Jin–" The name slips from your lips, breathless, pleading.

And then.

Your whole body jerks up. Your chest is heaving, your skin flushed, damp with sweat. Your thighs are pressed together, aching, throbbing. Your hands tremble where they grip the sheets, your breath ragged, desperate. It takes too long for reality to sink in. Everything feels too real. His touch still lingers, his voice still in your ear, still on your skin. And then it hits you. It was a dream. Just a dream.

“Jin.” The name is still on your tongue, breathless, needy. And then your bedroom door creaks open. Your stomach plummets and your breath stills as your entire body locks up. You snap your head toward the doorway. Jin steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you, the way you’re gripping the sheets, the way your chest still rises and falls too fast, the way your skin is flushed from something that has nothing to do with the temperature.

His lips curve. Not a smirk. Something deeper, something too knowing. Your pulse slams against your ribs. "Sweet dreams, princess?" 

Your breath hitches. Your chest is still rising and falling too fast, your skin too warm, too sensitive. But you force yourself to breathe. To calm down. Because it was just a dream. Just a dream. And he doesn’t know. He can’t know.

You force a scoff, tilting your head just enough to feign annoyance. “Seriously?” Your voice is still a little rough from sleep, but you ignore it. Push through. “You wake me up early every day and now you’re asking about my dreams?”

Jin leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes sweep over you once, slow, assessing. And then, he smiles. Not his usual soft smirk. Something mocking, almost like he’s entertained. "Just curious."

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, well, nothing worth remembering.” The lie is smooth, automatic, easy. Too easy. And you swear, just for a second, his smirk deepens. Like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows exactly what you were dreaming about. But no. He doesn’t. He can’t. You won’t let him.

You clear your throat, shifting under the sheets like you’re just stretching. “What do you want?” Jin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps forward, setting a neatly folded outfit at the edge of your bed. “I picked out your clothes for today.” His voice is smooth, composed. Just like always. Just like nothing is different.

Your fingers twitch at the sheets, clutching the fabric a little too tightly. Another test. Another way to remind you, his rules, his control, his world. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, keeping the act together. “Great. Looking forward to it.” Jin watches you for a moment longer. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he steps back toward the door. "Get dressed, sweetheart. I'll see you downstairs."

And then, he’s gone. The second the door clicks shut, your whole body collapses back against the pillows. Your hands shake. Your heart pounds. Because he doesn’t know. You played it off. It’s fine. You push the sheets off your body, exhaling sharply as you force yourself up. 

It was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. But the second you stand, the discomfort between your thighs makes you freeze. You shift your legs slightly, and, oh. It’s wet. Uncomfortably wet. You blink, stomach twisting, pulse spiking with something unfamiliar. What the hell? Are you– is this your period?

You rush to the bathroom, pulling down your underwear frantically. And then, you see. Not your period. Something worse. Your breath catches, mortification crawling up your spine. No, no, no, this has never happened before, at least not while you were asleep. Your body has never reacted like this. You wipe yourself clean, hurried, almost frantic, as if scrubbing the evidence away will erase the shame burning in your chest.

You shove your ruined panties deep into the laundry basket, burying them beneath a pile of clothes. You don’t have time to deal with it. You have to get dressed. You reach for the outfit Jin picked. Of course. A preppy pleated skirt, just long enough to be appropriate but short enough to remind you who chose it. And a soft, knitted sweater that fits too well. It makes you feel smaller. Like a high schooler. Like something he dressed up exactly how he wants. 

You exhale sharply, shaking off the thought, focusing on fixing your hair, making yourself look composed. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just wake up a mess from a dream about him. Because he can’t know. And he never will.

————-

You walk to the kitchen, trying to appear normal. Jin is already there, standing at the counter, his sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast. He moves with his usual calm precision, like nothing is out of place, like he hasn’t been waiting for you. Except he has. The moment your footsteps hit the kitchen floor, he glances over. His gaze drags over you, slow, controlled, too knowing. Something in your chest tightens.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, collected, and almost pleasant. “How do you feel?” Your stomach plummets. There’s something wrong with the way he says it. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but it feels pointed.

Your throat is suddenly dry, but you force yourself to act normal. “Fine,” you say, sitting down carefully. His lips twitch amused. “Fine?” Your pulse jolts. Why does he keep repeating things? Why does it feel like he’s waiting for something? You swallow. “Yeah.”

Jin hums lightly, his fingers tapping against his coffee cup, watching you. You focus on your plate. Just eat. Be normal. But the second you shift, you feel it. The lingering wetness between your thighs, the tension still inside you. The dream never ended properly, you never really came.

The tension is still there. Your body tightens involuntarily. Your thighs press together. You don’t even realize you’re squirming until–

“You’re restless.”

Your breath catches. You snap your head up, but Jin is already looking at you. His gaze is calm, observant. His tone is clinical, detached. Like he’s just making an observation. You try to freeze, try to stay still, but it’s too late. “I’m not,” you mutter, shifting in your seat, willing the discomfort to disappear.

Jin lifts his chin just a little, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You are.” Your jaw clenches. “Maybe I just don’t like sitting still.” Jin doesn’t blink. “Or maybe you’re uncomfortable.” Your stomach twists. “I’m fine.”

A pause. A slow, stretched-out silence. Then–

“Are you on your period?”

Your entire body stiffens. Your fork nearly slips from your fingers as you stare at him, heat crawling up your spine, mortification creeping in. “What?” Jin sets his coffee down, completely unbothered. “You’re shifting in your seat, avoiding pressure on your lower half. It’s common when experiencing cramps.” 

Your heart is pounding. “I–” You shake your head, gripping your fork. “No. That’s not–”

“Urinary tract infection?” He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. You nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?” Jin exhales softly, like he’s being patient. Like he’s dealing with someone being difficult for no reason. “You’re tense. Your thighs are pressed together, and you keep adjusting like there’s discomfort.” His voice is perfectly neutral, but you can hear the amusement lingering beneath it. 

Your hands curl into fists under the table. “I don’t have a UTI.” Jin hums, nodding slightly, tapping his fingers against the table. “Then it must be something else.” Your breath shakes. “It’s nothing.” Jin raises a brow, gaze flicking over you slowly. “You’re sure?” You hate this. You hate the way he’s watching you, pretending like he’s just asking logical questions, like he’s not deliberately making you suffer.

Your thighs clench again, desperate to relieve something, and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick downward for just a second. But when he looks back up, his expression is unreadable. You force yourself to breathe, staring at your plate. “I’m sure.”

Jin watches you for a long moment, too long. Then, finally, he leans back. “Alright, sweetheart.” Jin sips his coffee, watching you from across the table, still too calm. The conversation should be over. His gaze flicks over you once more, slow, assessing, like he’s piecing something together. Like he’s still waiting.

Then, he exhales softly, shaking his head, as if something has just occurred to him. "Darling," he says smoothly, "I think I know what’s wrong."

Your heart skips. You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know. But the way he says it, so certain, so confident, like this is just another problem he’s already solved, makes your skin prickle. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “What?”

Jin taps his fingers against the counter, casual, unbothered. But then he speaks. “You need relief.”

Your entire body locks up. The room shrinks. The air thickens. The fork clatters against your plate, hands going clammy, chest tightening with something visceral. Your voice barely works. “W-what?” Jin leans forward slightly, his tone gentle, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Your body is holding onto tension. It’s normal.” His eyes flick downward, a flicker of amusement, a silent acknowledgment that he knows exactly where the tension is. 

You can’t breathe. Your mind's racing, stumbles, crashes. “I don’t–” He hums softly, cutting you off. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, angel. Persistent arousal without release can cause discomfort, muscle strain, even headaches.” He tilts his head, like he’s being helpful. “And judging by the way you keep squirming, I’d say you’re feeling it already.”

Your thighs clench involuntarily, a reaction you wish you could control. Jin sees it. His eyes darken just slightly. You force yourself to snap out of it. “I’m fine,” you bite out. “And I don’t need ‘relief,’ thank you very much.”

Jin doesn’t blink. “Are you sure?” Your stomach drops once more. Because he’s not letting it go. He’s testing you. Pushing. Waiting for you to admit something, or break first. His voice dips lower, calm but pointed. “You’re struggling to focus, aren’t you?” Your fingers dig into your lap. “No.”

“You’re tense.” His eyes drop to your lap, watching the way your fingers tighten against the fabric of your clothes. “Restless.” His lips press together for a beat, as if weighing his next words. Then, his gaze lifts, locking onto yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Irritable.”

Your pulse jumps. “I am not!” His lips curve slightly. “And yet, you can’t sit still.” You want to scream, to shove your plate away and leave, pretend like this conversation never happened. But he’s got you. He knows it. You know it.

The silence stretches. The air is unbearable. Then, softly, so gentle, so calculated, he speaks again. "Sweetheart, if you keep ignoring it, it’ll only get worse." Your body betrays you again, a sharp little twitch of your thighs, an unconscious clench. What the fuck is wrong with you today?!

Jin sees. He hums like it’s exactly what he expected. “That’s what I thought.” Your throat closes. You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that your body is still aching, still throbbing, still desperate for something it shouldn’t want.

You shake your head, voice weaker. “This is fucked up.” Jin exhales. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice smooth and patient. “Everything feels fucked up when you’re resisting what you need.” His gaze never wavers, it’s steady and sure, like he’s already won. Then, he tilts his head slightly. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches because that’s the trap. If you say yes, you’re giving him permission. If you say no, you’re denying the one person who’s supposedly ‘taking care of you.’ Your lips part, but the words won’t come out. 

Jin leans forward slightly, voice softer, coaxing, careful. "Let me help you, angel." Your entire body burns. You shouldn’t even consider it. But your pulse is pounding, your skin is hot, your body is still aching, needy, desperate. And the worst part? You want to say yes. Jin doesn’t push. He doesn’t move. He just watches you patiently.

The tension in your muscles, the way you can’t keep still, the lingering damp heat between your thighs that refuses to fade. You know he sees it. You know he’s been watching the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers twitch like you don’t know what to do with them.

And worst of all? He’s right. It is getting worse. Jin exhales softly. "You understand what I’m offering, don’t you?" You swallow thickly, you can’t meet his eyes, but you nod, just once, small, barely there. But he doesn’t accept that. His fingers drum lightly against the table, thoughtful. “Use your words, angel.” His voice is calm and coaxing. “Tell me what you need.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, gripping the soft knit like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your throat feels tight, your skin hot. Every part of you is wound so tight it’s painful. You close your eyes, inhale shakily, and finally, finally, mutter the words that seal your fate. "I…need help."

The corner of Jin’s lips twitches, satisfied. He pushes his chair back, rising with the ease of someone who already knew this was inevitable. Then, he extends his hand. "Come here, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightens and your pulse jumps. Your breath shudders as you push your chair back, legs unsteady beneath you. Every step toward him feels heavy, irreversible, like crossing a line you can never uncross. Jin watches you the entire time, his expression is calm, like this is just another routine part of your schedule.

You stop in front of him, pulse thrumming against your ribs. He doesn’t move right away, just takes you in your hesitance. Then, he reaches out, slow and precise. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing lightly against the waistband of your skirt. The touch itself is innocent, barely there, barely anything at all. But the way he does it? It’s not. It’s measured, intentional, possessive in a way.

His voice is low, soothing, but there’s something darker lurking beneath it. "You don’t have to be nervous," he murmurs. "I told you sweetheart, I’ll take care of you." Your stomach flutters. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want to believe him. 

Jin’s hands move slower than necessary, his touch measured, guiding you exactly where he wants. One hand glides up your back, pressing firmly between your shoulder blades. With effortless control, he eases you down until your stomach and chest meet the cold, smooth marble of the counter. The contrast of warmth and chill sends a shiver through you. A flicker of confusion crosses your mind. Here? In the kitchen?

Jin’s hands rest against your hips, firm and steady, like he’s guiding you into place. The warmth of his palms sinks through the fabric of your sweater. “Think of this as purely medical,” he assures, his voice smooth. “A necessary examination. That’s all.”

Your breath catches. Your body is still tight and on edge from the dream, from the restless, unsatisfied heat thrumming beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be considering this, shouldn’t even be standing here, but the words, his words, make it sound so reasonable.

Like this isn’t something twisted or forbidden. Like it’s something you need. You shift slightly, barely perceptible, but Jin notices everything. “You’re still tense,” he notes, almost like he’s diagnosing a symptom. “You understand the risks of prolonged sexual frustration, don’t you, darling?”

Your entire body goes stiff. He hums, interrupting you like he already knows what you were going to say. “Arousal without release can cause discomfort, which affects concentration..." His voice is lower now, softer, as if he’s concerned. “That’s why you were squirming so much earlier, wasn’t it?”

Heat flushes through your body, embarrassment crawling up your throat. “I wasn’t–” 

Jin lets out a small sigh, almost sympathetic. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers pressing just slightly against the waistband of your skirt, a silent reminder of how easily he could fix this. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is simply your body’s natural response to unresolved tension.” Your nails dig into the counter. His touch is so light, barely there, but your body is already betraying you, reacting to him, desperate for anything more. 

He steps closer, his chest nearly flush against your back. His breath brushes against your ear as he speaks. “You need relief.” His voice is smooth and persuasive.“And if you won’t take care of it yourself…” His hands slide a fraction lower. “I will.”

The warmth of his body pressing just close enough to remind you that you have nowhere to go. His hands remain steady on your hips, thumbs brushing slow, measured circles just beneath the waistband of your skirt.

Your breath is shaky, uneven, but he remains perfectly composed, voice low, calm, rational. He waits, to see if you’ll stop him. And when you don’t, he moves. His hands slide lower, his fingers lifting the hem of your skirt, inch by inch. The air hits your exposed thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between them. You shudder and Jin notices. The fabric gathers around your waist, completely out of the way now. 

His fingers drift lower, brushing against the waistband of your panties. A slow, thoughtful hum vibrates in his chest. “You really shouldn't neglect yourself,” he murmurs, mock disappointment laced in his voice. 

His fingers trace over your clothed pussy, gliding over the thin fabric of your panties before pressing lightly against the damp spot. He exhales, pleased. "Sweetheart," he muses, his voice dipping into something indulgent. "You're absolutely soaked."

Your whole body locks up in shame, mortification… something else. His fingers hook around the delicate fabric, giving a slow tug. Like he’s testing you. You don’t know if you’ve passed or failed. But you don’t stop him, so he keeps going. 

The panties slide down, slow and torturous, the damp fabric dragging along your slick folds, clinging for a moment before peeling away. There’s nothing between you now. Nothing stopping him, or you... 

A low gasp escapes you, your body tensing, thighs clenching instinctively, but there’s nothing to hide behind now.

And then, he sees.

A soft, low exhale leaves him, almost thoughtful as he’s fixed between your legs. His hands don’t move, not yet. He just stares. Eyes locked on your bare, swollen pussy, on the way your wetness glistens in the dim light. 

Seconds stretch unbearably long as he simply looks, his thumb lazily stroking your inner thigh, slow, absentminded circles against your heated skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, even, assessing.

Your stomach tightens, your hips shift, just barely, an instinctive, needy movement, but his hands immediately tighten on your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you.

A single finger trails through your folds, parting you, spreading your slick, dragging through the wet heat before he finally pulls away, inspecting the glistening strings of arousal stretching between his fingers.

Your breath hitches, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you can’t look away from him. He hums, as if pleased with the results, voice smooth and measured when he finally speaks.

"All this for me? What a good girl," he murmurs, voice drenched in quiet approval, his eyes still locked on you, watching the way your entrance flutters, clenching desperately around nothing.

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands slide back up, gliding over the curve of your bare thighs. His fingers drift along the soft skin of your inner thighs, teasing. You tremble, breath shaky, hands gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And he notices. “Still so tense,” he murmurs, voice smooth, patient. “I told you, sweetheart, it’s not good to hold this in.” His tone is steady, measured, as if this is nothing but routine. As if he’s simply following medical necessity.

Then, finally, he moves again. His fingers slide between your folds, parting you with effortless precision. You gasp. He exhales softly, almost as if confirming something. “You’re already throbbing,” he hums, his fingers gliding in slow, teasing strokes along your pussy.

“Poor little thing.” Your whole body tenses, your legs threatening to close around his hand, but he doesn’t allow it. His grip tightens, his other hand pressing to your waist, grounding you, controlling you. 

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands hold your hips steady, thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you against the counter. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your shoulder, close, too close. His fingers move slowly, dragging over your drenched pussy just to watch you twitch. “No, sweetheart,” he soothes, voice low, patient. “Let me do this properly.” Then, he starts.

A low, breathy “Fuck” slips from your lips as his fingers slide through your slick folds, spreading you open. He finds your clit with effortless precision, rubbing smooth circles over it. The stimulation makes your legs tremble, and your thighs press together, seeking more.

Your hips shift, instinctively chasing the pressure, but he doesn’t allow it. He pulls back, teasing, withholding.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice like silk, like you’re being difficult, like you need to be corrected. “I need you to be a good girl and stay still. Can you do that for me?”

The cold surface of the kitchen counter presses against your stomach, grounding you, but nothing prepares you for the way he handles you, pinned down, ass on display, legs spread just enough for him to take his time. You nod, breath hitching, thighs trembling as the pleasure builds too fast, too much. 

Then, suddenly, he pushes a finger in slowly, stretching you open as he continues rubbing circles over your clit.

“Ah–” A choked, breathless moan spills from your lips, your body trembling against the counter. It’s too much, too new, stretching, filling, making your thighs tremble as another whimper escapes you.

The intrusion is foreign, unfamiliar, your walls tightening instinctively around him as he pushes deeper. He groans at the way you squeeze his finger, his free hand smoothing over the curve of your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “Fuck,” he mutters, his tone laced with something dark, something possessive. “You’re gripping me so tight, angel.”

A desperate, broken moan escapes you as his finger presses deeper, curling slightly, making your body jolt against the counter. Your breath stutters, high and needy, hips instinctively twitching as another gasp leaves your lips.

“Shh,” he soothes, amusement threading through his voice as his thumb circles your clit, coaxing another helpless moan from you. “I know, sweetheart. It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Your hands clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles white as your breath hitches again, a whimper slipping free when he starts moving, slow, deep, stretching you open with every thrust of his finger.

“Such pretty little sounds,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, without warning, he pushes a second finger in.

"Ahh!" A sharp, helpless moan rips from your lips, your body jerking against the counter at the sudden stretch. It’s too much, deeper, fuller, making your legs almost give up.

Fuck, you’re so soaked, so wet that his fingers sink into you effortlessly, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of the kitchen. His free hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned in place, while the other works you open, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm.

"Messy little thing," he muses, dragging his fingers out just enough to hear the way your arousal slicks against him before pushing them back in, slow and deliberate. "Listen to that, do you hear how wet you are for me?"

Your breath stutters, a choked whimper slipping free as his fingers curl inside you. "Ngh- please." Your voice is barely a whisper, shaky and breathless, your hips instinctively pushing back, desperate for more.

He clicks his tongue, tutting softly, like you’re being difficult. His fingers press deep, the wet squelch of your arousal only growing louder, filthier.

"So impatient," he murmurs, thumb spreading your slick over your swollen clit, circling it slowly. "But since you asked so nicely."

Heat crawls up your spine, shame and desire tangling as your body betrays you, trembling with every slow, devastating thrust of his fingers.

"That’s it, angel" he praises, calm, controlled, like he’s guiding you through it. "Don’t fight it.”

His fingers work you faster now, pushing in deep, rhythmic thrusts, each curl of his fingers perfectly timed with the pressure against your clit. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, sending your body teetering right on the edge.

"I’m gonna-" Your words shatter into a desperate sob as your pussy tightens around him, your entire body locking up as the pressure inside you finally bursts.

A high, broken moan spills from your lips, wrecked and needy, as your walls clench and throb around his fingers, sucking them deeper like you never want to let go.

The wetness gushes between your legs, soaking his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm. The slick, obscene squelch fills the quiet kitchen, the sound of it only making your body jolt harder as the waves of pleasure keep rolling through you.

"Oh?" His voice is low, teasing, fingers still deep inside you, curling lazily as he lets you ride it out. "What was that, angel?"

Your hips jerk, your body betraying you, grinding helplessly against his hand, but it only makes him chuckle.

"You made such a pretty mess for me," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, more indulgent, like he’s savoring every second. "Dripping all over my hand like that."

His fingers slow but never stop, working you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you’re nothing but a panting, overstimulated mess against the counter.

"That’s my good girl," he coaxes, dragging one last teasing stroke inside you, making you whimper, oversensitive and spent. "Didn’t even know you could come this hard, did you?"

His free hand smooths over your back, soothing and grounding you, but his fingers stay buried deep, lingering, possessive, still playing with your soaked, fluttering walls just to feel you shiver.

"Mmm, let’s get you cleaned up," he murmurs, but there’s amusement laced in his tone, like he has no real intention of stopping just yet.

He adjusts his stance, his other hand pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way your walls still flutter weakly around his fingers.

"You’re still so sensitive," he notes, almost to himself, slowly pressing his fingers deeper like he’s checking something. "A little overstimulated… but that’s normal. Everything feels just as it should."

"Nnnh–!" A shaky, broken whimper rips from your throat, your body tensing up immediately as the sudden pressure makes your overworked walls clamp down around him.

"T-too much." Your voice wavers, high and wrecked, but there’s no real resistance, just a helpless, desperate quiver beneath him.

He hums, his free hand smoothing down the curve of your spine in something almost reassuring. Almost.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice a steady, professional calm against your shaking, overstimulated mess of a body. "You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

And then he starts again, curling his fingers, massaging every tender, overstimulated spot inside you, coaxing out more of your release. His movements are measured as he’s stretching you open wider, forcing more slick to spill out onto his knuckles.

The squelch is obscene, loud, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down onto his wrist.

"There we go," he murmurs, his tone calm, clinical, like he’s simply taking notes on your body’s reactions. "Still so sensitive. But I need to know, sweetheart…"

His fingers ease out, dragging slowly, purposefully, letting you feel every inch as he pulls them free. A messy trail of arousal follows, wet and glistening, connecting you to his hand.

"Do you taste as good as you feel?"

You barely get a second to process his words before you feel it, his fingers spreading you open, pressing against your swollen folds, smearing your slick over your aching clit just before his tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe up your drenched pussy.

A high, wrecked cry spills from your lips, body jerking, but he just hums, soft and thoughtful, his tongue flicking lazily over your sensitive entrance, collecting every last drop he worked out of you.

His tongue moves with calculated precision, each slow stroke gathering every trace of slick left behind. He is cleaning you up, just not in the way you expected.

"Mm, there we go," he hums against you, lips brushing over your overworked clit as he speaks. "Can’t leave you like this, sweetheart. Need to make sure you’re taken care of properly."

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as his tongue flicks, lingers, tracing slow, thorough circles around your aching, swollen bud before dipping down again, lapping up every bit of your release.

Your thighs twitch violently, body jerking, but his hands are steady, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding you open effortlessly.

His tongue dragging up your folds, savoring every drop like it’s his duty to leave nothing behind.You whimper, not knowing how long until he’s done. 

"Shh, sweetheart," he soothes, his lips gliding over your sensitive, overspent cunt, punctuating his words with leisurely, unhurried licks. "I know you’re sensitive. But I need to be thorough." His tone remains calm, clinical, as though this is simply a necessary part of your care.

His tongue pushes deeper, parting your folds as he gathers the last remnants of your slick, lapping at you like he’s ensuring nothing is wasted.

A whimpering sob spills from your lips, your breath ragged, body shaking beneath him, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter.

"Almost done," he murmurs, reassuring, as if this is nothing but routine. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, tilting you just enough to clean you properly.

"You’re being such a good girl for me," he praises, punctuating the words with a slow, indulgent lick, collecting what’s left of you.

Then, as if to make absolutely sure, his tongue swipes over your clit, a soft, lingering stroke that makes your body jolt violently.

Your hips buck, another high-pitched gasp slipping free, but he merely hums in satisfaction, his fingers pressing into your hips to steady you.

"There," he exhales finally, pulling back just slightly, though his warm breath still ghosts over your swollen pussy. "All clean."

A moment of silence. A pause that should feel like relief, but it doesn’t.

Because then, with a low, satisfied hum, he licks his lips, drags his thumb over your entrance one last time, and murmurs "Perfect."

Your body stays stilled against the counter, breath still coming in short, uneven pants, your limbs feeling boneless, wrecked, your mind blank with too many emotions to process.

Then, the shift.

He moves with practiced ease, hands smoothing over your bare thighs, his touch calm, routine, like he’s simply adjusting your posture during lessons. The skirt he had bunched up around your waist, the one he moved aside without hesitation, he pulls it back down, smoothing out the fabric like nothing ever happened.

But your panties? The ones ruined, damp, stained with the mess he coaxed from you?

He keeps those. With a quiet, effortless motion, he slips them into his pocket, tucking them away without hesitation, without a word. And then, just as quickly, he’s back to normal.

"You did well," he says smoothly, praising you like it’s just another part of a medical check-up. "Your body’s response was completely natural. Everything’s functioning just as it should." A beat of silence. Then, with the same calm professionalism, he continues, "Our session will start a little later than usual today." 

Like nothing happened. Like this was just another routine assessment. You nod numbly, your head still spinning, your body still trembling, but you don’t say a word. You can’t. Your voice wouldn’t work even if you tried. You adjust your posture, fixing your stance, still feeling unbearably exposed despite your skirt down. 

And then you turn, moving toward the door with shaky, uneven steps, your thighs damp, your heart pounding with a mixture of confusion, shame, and something else you can’t name.

That’s when his voice stops you one last time.

Soft. Amused. Possessive.

"Darling," he calls lightly, making your stomach flip, your breath hitch before you even turn to face him.

You do, barely managing to meet his gaze, your cheeks burning.

His eyes flick down, not at you, but at your trembling legs. At the way you press them together, still sensitive, still wrecked from what he just did.

A smirk tugs at his lips. His tone is softer now, smooth, almost mockingly gentle when he murmurs, "from now on… I’ll be the one to clean you up."

Your stomach drops, something deep inside you twisting at the implication in his voice. Because it’s not just about this moment. It’s about the dream you had. The one where you woke up wet, breathless, shaking, your pussy sticky with evidence of something you didn’t want to name.

He knew all along, fuck he must have heard you.

Your breath stutters, your body flushing with mortification as he walks up to you. You try to avoid his gaze, but his fingers find your chin, tilting it up with gentle insistence until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. Shame burns through you, settling deep in your chest. He hums, voice low and knowing. 'Try to stay focused during our lesson, hmm?'

And just like that, he walks away to do the breakfast dishes. Like you weren’t just panting against the counter, thighs trembling from overstimulation. Like he hadn’t just stripped you bare, licked you clean, and taken your panties as a souvenir.

————-

The day continues as usual, or at least, it’s supposed to. You had quickly changed into white pantyhose. Even though your skirt is long enough to hide your panties, you're not taking any more chances. Lessons start, structured and rigid, the way they always do. But today, you can’t focus. Jin is still the same, still suffocating, still watching, still controlling everything. 

He hovers behind you as you study, correcting the way you hold your pen, smoothing a hand over your shoulder when you hesitate too long on a problem, calling you nicknames like this morning never happened. Like nothing has changed. But for you, everything has. Your thoughts are scattered, disjointed, looping back to the way his voice sounded when he coaxed you through it, the way his fingers and tongue felt, how effortlessly he took control of you, of your body.

And the worst part? You let him. You let him touch you, take care of you, break you apart. And now, you don’t know what that means. Your stomach twists, a slow creeping anxiety settling in your chest, festering, suffocating. You think of Sunghoon. It’s the first time you’ve let yourself think of him, really think of him, since this whole thing started. Since Jin.

You haven’t heard from him. Not in weeks. Not a single call, not a single text. But does that matter? Would it have mattered if he had? Would it have stopped you from gasping Jin’s name this morning? From letting him push you over the edge with nothing but calculated touches and gentle orders?

Your hands tremble slightly as you flip the page of your textbook. You don’t know what this is anymore. Jin isn’t just your psychiatrist, your guardian? You don’t even know what to call him. The thought makes your skin crawl.

You’re grateful when dinner comes around. A distraction. Something else to focus on. But when you sit down at the table, when Jin slides a plate in front of you, when his fingers ghost against your wrist for just a second too long, the anxiety creeps right back in.

Because he still looks the same. Still calm, patient, and so unbearably in control. And you hate that you don’t know if he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it. Or if he already knows you won’t.

Jin has prepared a warm, steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae, paired with fresh rice and a side of vegetables. It’s supposed to be comforting, homey, something you like but do not get to have often. It’s something you should be able to enjoy, but can’t seem to. Not when your body still remembers what he did to you this morning. Not when your mind won’t shut up, won’t stop replaying how it felt, how you let him do it. And worst of all? Not when he’s sitting across from you like nothing happened.

Jin eats with his usual calm, methodical pace. You, however, are restless. You poke at your food, tapping your chopsticks against the bowl, shifting in your seat. Every little thing feels too much. The silence stretches too long. You hate that he’s so at ease. So unaffected. It makes you feel like you’re the only one suffering, the only one drowning in whatever the hell this is. So, naturally, you lash out.

“Dinner was later than usual,” you say suddenly, feigning casualness as you lift a spoonful of the broth to stare at. “That wasn’t very responsible of you, Dr. Kim.”

His gaze flicks up at the name, and for a brief second, something sharp flashes in his eyes, displeasure, kinda like a warning. “I had a call,” he says sternly, “a necessary one. Eat your food, sweetheart.”

You hum, dragging your spoon through the broth, barely acknowledging his words. And then, just to push him further, just to see how far you can go. You sigh dramatically, rolling your eyes. And then, under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Wouldn’t want to disobey, right?” You say it sweetly, batting your lashes mockingly. You don’t even think about it, don’t process what you just said until it’s already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Jin’s chopsticks pause midair. When his expression hardens, that’s when you realize your mistake. A slow, unbearable silence stretches between you. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, folding his hands on the table, his gaze steady as he studies you. 

“What did you say?” he muses, his voice too calm. You swallow as your confidence is already slipping. But you double down. Because you don’t want him to know how much you regret saying it.

You lean back, shrugging, playing with your spoon. “I mean, isn’t that what you want, Daddy?” You drawl, mocking. “Since you’re the one making all the rules.”

His eyes darken. His fingers tap against the table, slow and controlled. 

"Stand up."

Your stomach drops.

"What? No."

His lips curve, but there’s no amusement. Just expectation.

"Now."

You hesitate, but your body betrays you.

Because the weight in his voice, the sheer command of it, leaves no room for argument.

You rise, slowly, warily.

And the second you get closer to him.

He moves.

Jin grabs your wrist, swift and effortless, pulling you toward him with calculated force.

Before you can even process what’s happening, you’re dragged across his lap, pinned down over his thighs, stomach pressed against his legs.

You yelp, hands grabbing at nothing, struggling instinctively, but he’s already got you trapped beneath his grip.

And then, he moves your skirt, gathering the material at your waist. 

"White, hm?" His voice dips into something almost pleased, almost mocking, his palm gliding over your pantyhose-clad ass, the thin, sheer fabric stretched tight over your skin.

His touch is calm, measured, spreading over the delicate material, testing the way it hugs you, the way it clings, the way it does nothing to shield you from him.

His fingertips glide along the soft nylon, barely-there touches that make you shiver. "You want to act like a brat?" he murmurs, voice low, smooth, brushing against the shell of your ear. 

"Then you’ll be treated like one."

And then, the first slap.

Sharp. Sudden. Loud.

The sting cuts through the sheer fabric, making you jolt forward, gasping.

"Count." He orders. 

Your breath stutters. "W-what?"

Another sharp slap. Harder.

Your legs tremble.

"Start counting, sweetheart."

Your fingers curl into fists, your whole body burning.

"T-two."

His hand lands again.

"Louder."

Your thighs clench.

"Three."

"Good girl," he praises, voice dark, smooth. His other hand presses against your lower back, keeping you still.

Another slap.

Your hips buck. Your knees wobble.

"Four."

The pain blends with something else, something worse, something humiliating.

Again. And again.

"Five." 

"Six." 

The heat spreads, sharp at first, then dull and throbbing, radiating through you.

"Seven."

"Eight."

Your voice shakes.

"Nine."

The final slap. Harder than the rest.

"Ten."

You’re panting, your thighs shaking beneath you.

Then, he pauses.

His palm rests against the burning skin, fingers smoothing over the lingering sting like he’s soothing you, but you know better.

Because then, without warning, a sharp squeeze, fingers digging into the tender flesh of your ass, forcing a choked gasp from your lips.

Fuck– it hurts.

"Manners, angel," he murmurs, voice smooth, expectant, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s reminding you who’s in control.

His thumb presses deeper, tracing over the sheer nylon stretched taut over your skin, testing the warmth he left behind, feeling how swollen, how tender you’ve become under his hand.

Your face burns when you realise he’s going to make you thank him. 

“…Thank you,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence.

His thumb presses again, circling the spot where the burn is deepest, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through you.

"Use that pretty little name you called me earlier, angel."

Your stomach twists, heat creeps up your neck, you don’t want to say it. But you know better.

You swallow hard, "Thank you… Daddy."

The approving hum that rumbles from his chest makes your thighs clench together instinctively. It does something to you, something humiliating and hot all at once.

Then, just as you brace yourself for another punishing squeeze, his hand smooths over your ass instead, fingers gliding over the delicate white pantyhose stretched tight against your skin. 

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, voice thick with something dark, something possessive. His palm drags over the fabric slowly, like he’s savoring the way it hugs your curves, the way you tremble beneath his touch. 

Then, without warning, he grips the thin material at the seam and rips it apart. The sharp tear of fabric fills the room, and a shocked gasp escapes you as cool air kisses your newly exposed skin. 

His breath hitches, just slightly, but it’s enough. "Look at that," he groans, spreading the ruined nylon further to admire the soft, pink flesh underneath. His fingers skim over the freshly exposed skin, his touch maddeningly light. 

"Knew you’d be this pretty under all that." You shiver, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over you. But he isn’t done. One firm hand settles on your bare ass, squeezing, massaging, reveling in the way your flesh gives under his grip. 

"Now," he murmurs, voice softer, teasing, but still entirely in control. "Are you done being difficult," he breathes, his lips just near your ear, "and ready to be my good girl again?"

Your stomach flips. Because you don’t know, but you nod, because you don’t think you can handle any more.

Jin’s lips curve, satisfied. He presses a small, fleeting kiss to the nape of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. Then, finally, he pulls back.

With deliberate care, he smooths your skirt down over the mess, covering the evidence of what he’s done to you. The ruined pantyhose still cling to your legs, torn and stretched, a reminder of just how easily he’s unraveled you. He adjusts the fabric gently, as if tucking you back into place, like nothing happened.

His hands slip to your waist, steadying you as he helps you stand. "There you go, angel," he says approvingly, fingers brushing over your trembling thighs. "Such a good girl for me."

Then, as if he hadn’t just wrecked you beyond repair, he straightens, smoothing out his sleeves. His voice is effortless, smooth as silk.

"Finish your dinner, darling."

————-

You sit at the edge of your bed, brushing out your hair, trying to shove down the unease curling in your stomach. The sting from earlier still lingers on your butt, a dull reminder of his discipline. Your thoughts are spiraling until you hear the soft creak of your door. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

"Sweetheart." His voice is smooth, too soft, like he’s being careful with you. Like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. You exhale through your nose, feigning disinterest as you set down your brush. "Yes?"

A small, pleased hum. Then, the rustle of fabric. You glance over just as he pulls a small white pill from a container, holding it out between two fingers. "Here, take this," he says simply.

Your stomach twists as you eye it suspiciously. "What is it?" His gaze is steady. "Something mild. To help you sleep and ease your mind." Your pulse skips. The way he says it, it sounds so reasonable and normal. 

"I don’t need it," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "You do," Jin corrects gently, stepping closer. "You’ve been restless, overthinking and tense." Your fingers tighten in your lap. He’s not wrong, your head has been a mess. Too many conflicting emotions, too much guilt, too much…everything.

You don’t say anything. You just stare at the pill, hesitation thick in your chest. Then, he reaches out. His fingers brush against your chin, tipping your face up. The touch is light, almost affectionate, but his grip is firm. His thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw as he watches you closely.

"It’s mild," he murmurs, repeating himself. "Just enough to help." You know you shouldn’t take it. But…Your body is still weak from earlier, your mind is too clouded, and overwhelmed.

You part your lips. He hums in approval and places the pill on your tongue. His hand lingers, fingertips grazing your bottom lip, watching as you swallow. 

"Good girl." The words make something in your stomach twist. You don’t respond or look at him. Instead you turn over and lie down, pretending not to feel his eyes lingering on you. "Good night, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unwavering. Of course the door doesn’t close. Instead, he leaves it slightly ajar.

Your bedroom is silent, leep should come easily, but it doesn’t. Your body still aches faintly from earlier, from his hand. It lingers, even now. You shove your face into the pillow, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingles where he touched you.

Your mind drifts in and out, floating somewhere between waking and dreaming.

And then–

Tap.

Your brows furrow.

Tap. Tap.

Your breathing evens out, almost dismissing it.

Tap.

Your eyes snap open. For a moment, you just stare at the ceiling, confusion settling in. Then you hear it again. A small sound, a pebble hitting glass. Your window. You sit up, heart pounding as you look toward it, mind still sluggish from whatever Jin gave you. Your limbs feel oddly weighted, but you push the blankets off and stumble toward the window. Your hands tremble slightly as you press your fingers to the glass. And then you see him.

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon.

Standing outside, pebbles in hand, eyes locked on yours. Your breath catches. What the fuck is he doing here? You fumble with the lock, shoving the window open, cold air rushing in. Your heart is still racing, still struggling to keep up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hiss, voice hoarse. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sunghoon looks frantic. His eyes scan over you, taking in the pajamas you’re wearing, the dazed look in your eyes.

"I’ve been trying to reach you!" he whisper-shouts, voice urgent, desperate. "For weeks! What the hell is going on?" Your pulse pounds. Your fingers tighten on the window frame.

Now he’s showing up? After a whole month of silence? "Bullshit," you snap. "You didn’t even try." His face twists in frustration. "Are you serious?" His breath is ragged, his shoulders tense. "I left you over a hundred messages! I even went to your house!"

You blink. "What?"

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "Your parents told me you were fine, that you were focusing on school, that I should stop bothering you." His jaw clenches. "But when you weren’t answering. I knew something was wrong." Your stomach twists, your parents, of course.

"But I kept calling and texting you," he continues. His voice shakes a little, his fists clenching at his sides. "I swear."

The weird gaps in your messages. The way Jin always handed you your phone for only ten minutes at a time. The way Sunghoon’s name never showed up. Your body goes cold. Jin had been deleting his messages and calls. He’d been filtering everything, controlling everything.

Sunghoon sees your expression shift. His face hardens. "Tell me the truth. Are you okay?" No. No, you’re not okay. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight, your fingers gripping the windowsill. "Come down," he pleads, voice softer. "Please."

Your body moves before your mind can stop it. You shove your sneakers on, heart hammering, your hands shaking as you climb out onto the ledge. Your limbs still feel too heavy, too sluggish from the pill, but you push through it. Because for the first time in weeks, you’re making your own choice. You drop down, landing a little too hard on the ground, breath uneven. And then Sunghoon’s arms are around you. He pulls you in, crushing you against his chest, exhaling sharply. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

You feel his warmth. The way he’s solid, real. The way he smells like home. For a second, you want to cry. But you push it down. "Not here," you whisper. "Just, take me to your place." You don’t look back because you know that Jin is probably asleep, or worse, awake and waiting.

————-

The drive to Sunghoon’s place is a blur, your mind is racing. Your heart still pounds from the adrenaline of sneaking out, of running through the cold night air, of stepping into his car and telling yourself you made it. Sunghoon doesn’t speak much during the drive. His grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Concerned or maybe suspicion? But he doesn’t push.

When you step inside the apartment, something inside you loosens. It’s messy and lived-in. His parents are barely around, leaving a university student to manage the chaos on his own. Clothes are draped over a chair, half-empty cups sit forgotten on his desk, and his hoodie is tossed carelessly onto the bed, carrying the familiar scent of him. It feels so painfully normal.

Sunghoon watches you carefully. Then, after a beat, he picks up the hoodie and hands it to you. “Here,” he says simply. “You’re probably freezing.” You take it without thinking, slipping it on, the second his scent surrounds you, you suddenly feel like crying. You missed being yourself. You sink down onto his bed, fingers gripping the sleeves, stomach twisted in knots. Sunghoon sits beside you, watching. And then, finally, he speaks. "What’s happening? You’re scaring me."

Your throat tightens, you want to tell him. You want to spill everything, every twisted, fucked-up thing that has happened since your parents handed you over to him. And so, you do, at least, most of it. You tell him about the rules. The schedules. The punishments. You tell him how Jin has slowly taken every ounce of control away from you, how your parents barely checked in, how you haven’t even been able to contact him. But you don’t tell him about the other things. About Jin’s hands. About his voice in your ear, his breath on your skin. You can’t. The guilt is too thick, the shame crawling under your skin like a parasite. 

Sunghoon listens in horrified silence. And when you finally stop talking, he looks furious. “That’s fucking insane.” His voice is sharp, unsteady. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow. You’re staying here.” But the second he says it, you snap. Because he makes it sound so easy. Like you can just walk away. Like you can undo everything with one night away. Like he understands what you’ve been through.

Your frustration creeps in, clawing up your throat. You shove your hands into your lap, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "I need something," you say suddenly. Sunghoon frowns. "What?" You hesitate. Then, carefully, "The pills. Do you still have them?" His expression darkens immediately. "Babe, no. You don’t need that shit. Not after everything you just told me.”

"Please, Sunghoon." Your voice shakes. “Just this once. I just need to clear my head.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Are you serious right now? After everything he’s done to you, you want to–”

"You don’t understand!" You snap. Sunghoon freezes, blinking at you. "You think this is easy? You think I can just leave and pretend like nothing happened? That I can just go back to normal?" He looks at you, pained. “I’m trying to help you!” 

"No, you’re not! You’re just like everyone else, you don’t get it. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re not even–" You choke on your words. Sunghoon reaches for you, softer now. “Babe, please, just breathe.” But you jerk away. "You’re not listening to me!"

He grabs your wrists, firm but careful. "Stop," he says, voice low, desperate. "I won’t let you do this to yourself." But it’s not the help you need. It’s not what you asked for. Your vision blurs. Your body feels too tight, too hot. You just need something to stop it. You wrench away, voice cracking. "You’re just like him!" The second the words are out, you regret them.

Sunghoon’s entire face changes. Hurt. Shock. Betrayal. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his breath shallow. Then, his expression hardens. "You don’t mean that," he says quietly. But you do. Because he’s keeping you from what you need, just like Jin did. The room feels too hot, the walls closing in.

"Fuck this," you breathe, pushing yourself off the bed. You turn away, stepping out of his bedroom, trying to get air. Sunghoon follows immediately, his footsteps heavy behind you. "Babe, wait! Just stop for a second!" But you don’t stop.

The anger, the frustration, the suffocating weight in your chest, it’s too much. It’s clawing at your ribs, burning at the edges of your vision. You move past the kitchen, your fingers barely grazing the countertop as you steady yourself, your head pounding.

Sunghoon grabs your wrist, desperate. "Listen to me, please, just calm down!" His voice is distant, blurred. Your body feels too hot. Your vision swims, flickering between black and red. Sunghoon’s grip tightens, trying to ground you. "You’re not okay. You need to sit down, babe please."

But you wrench away. And then–

Darkness.

————-

The first thing you register is the cold.

The second is the weight in your hand.

Your fingers are stiff, wrapped around something hard, slick.

A knife?

Your pulse skips. Your breath is ragged, uneven. The world is a blur of dull yellow light and shadows.

And then you see him.

Sunghoon.

Lying on the kitchen floor.

Still. Silent. A pool of red spreading beneath him.

Your stomach lurches violently, nausea slamming into you.

Your grip on the knife tightens, a fresh streak of warmth slipping between your fingers. Your hands, your hands are covered in it.

Blood. His blood.

Your pulse pounds against your skull, your mind fighting against itself, against the scene in front of you.

No. 

No, no, no.

You were arguing. You were angry. And then, darkness.

And now. Sunghoon is dead.

The knife is in your hand. Your vision tunnels, a sharp ringing in your ears as the weight of reality crashes down.

Did you? Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, your body shaking so violently it hurts.

You stare at him, unblinking, willing him to move. To wake up. To breathe. But he doesn’t. He never will again. Sunghoon’s blood is on your hands.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your body is trembling, your heart slamming against your ribs, your vision blurring from the sheer force of your panic. Your mind screams at you to fix this, to undo it but you can’t.

Because it’s real, it’s happening. Because you did this.

Your stomach churns violently. A sob claws up your throat, strangled and sharp, but you clamp your hand over your mouth, suffocating it before it can break free.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, and your entire body is locked in place, frozen, broken, unable to comprehend what you’ve done.

A shuddering breath rips through you, your hands trembling so violently you can’t even lift them properly. What do you do? What the fuck do you do?

This will ruin you. This will destroy your life. Your family’s reputation. Your future. You were already a screw-up. A burden. A disappointment. But this? This is irreversible.

The only person, your boyfriend, the one you had a real relationship with, is dead. Because of you.

Your frantic gaze flickers around the room, searching for anything. And then, your eyes land on Sunghoon’s pocket. His phone. Your throat tightens, and your breath stutters. You reach out, your fingers barely cooperating, slick with blood. You have to force yourself to dig into his pocket, ignoring the way his body feels wrong, lifeless, and unnatural.

You pull out his phone, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Who do you call? Who could possibly–

Your hands shake violently as you swipe at the screen, barely able to focus. You don’t even process the number you’re dialing, your brain malfunctioning, glitching, operating on pure survival instinct.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then–

A click.

A deep, smooth familiar voice. 

"Hello?"

You suck in a sharp breath as your vision is blurring.

Your body breaks. Your lips part, and when you speak, your voice is nothing but shattered glass.

"Jin…"

A sob threatens to swallow you whole.

"I need help."

The words slip out before you can even process them. There’s a long pause.

And then, his voice. 

"Sweetheart where are you?" He calmly asks. 

You choke back another sob, your fingers tightening around the phone.

"S-Sunghoon’s," you whisper. "I- Jin, I think I–"

You can’t say it. You won’t say it. But Jin doesn’t ask. "Stay where you are." The line goes dead. And you do nothing but sink to the floor, your body curling in on itself as the reality claws at your throat. You don’t move for what feels like an eternity, frozen until the door finally creaks open, you already know it’s him.

Jin doesn’t hesitate. Not when he sees the blood, not when he sees Sunghoon’s lifeless body. Not even when he sees you, broken, shaking, drowning in your own guilt. He kneels in front of you, movements measured, deliberate. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp cheek. Gently and carefully. 

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice is so soft. Too soft. Like he’s comforting a child. Your breath shudders, your pulse erratic, your entire body frozen. Your hands stained with blood, Sunghoon’s body cooling beside you. Your mind spins, scrambling for reason, for a single explanation that makes sense but there’s nothing. Just pieces that don’t fit, memories that won’t come together. 

“I, I don’t–”

"Shhh." His hands find your wrists, firm but not forceful, enough to still you, enough to make you look at him. His eyes are steady as he’s pulling you in, swallowing you whole. "Do you trust me?"

The question slams into you. It shouldn’t be hard to answer. You should say no. You should run. You should fight. But you don’t trust yourself. Your gaze drops to your bloodstained hands, to the mess on the floor, to Sunghoon lying still, his face frozen in something between shock and horror.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Your throat tightens, nausea curling in your stomach. Slowly, weakly, you nod. "Yes." Jin exhales, relieved, like he already knew what you’d say. His fingers smooth over your skin, grounding you, coaxing you further into his grip. "Good girl."

He tilts your chin up, his thumbs pressing into your jaw, keeping you still, keeping you his. "Listen to me, sweetheart. He was going to kill you."

Your chest tightens. Your lips part, but you don’t deny it. Because Sunghoon wouldn’t let you leave. Because Sunghoon grabbed your wrists. But Sunghoon wouldn’t have killed you. Would he?

"Say it."

Your voice barely scrapes past your lips. “He was going to kill me.”

Jin nods, pleased.

"He was obsessed with you."

The texts, the calls, the pleading, the way he kept trying to reach you, through your parents, through Jin. You thought it was love. Maybe it wasn’t. But you know it wasn’t like that. But if you don’t say it, if you don’t repeat it, if you don’t let him rewrite it, then you’re left with the truth. And the truth is worse.

“He was obsessed with me.”

Jin leans closer, his voice softer, soothing, the final push.

"It was self-defense, angel."

Your stomach twists. Your body sways, unsteady, unraveling. You know it wasn’t.

"Say it."

The blood on your hands. The fight. The darkness. The emptiness. You don’t remember. You don’t know what’s real anymore. If you don’t say it, then the only truth left is that you killed him. 

“It was self-defense.”

Jin smiles, slow, approving. His hands slide to your shoulders, solid and reassuring.

"You had to do it."

Your pulse pounds.

"I had to do it."

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, a fleeting touch, a reward.

"That’s my good girl."

Something inside you fractures. You should feel horror. You should fight the weight settling over you. But his words sink in too easily. They make sense. They fit.

Because if they don’t, if none of this is true, then you are something so much worse.

And Jin looks proud. Like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted. Like you belong to him, now more than ever. And deep down, in the darkest, most twisted part of you, you know you owe him everything.

————-

Jin’s penthouse is grand, perfectly arranged, the kind of luxury you've always known. Your mother sits across from you, a glass of wine cradled in her manicured fingers. Your father stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, swirling his whiskey, gaze distant, detached. Their presence should be comforting, but it never has been.

Jin sits beside you, silent, composed, present. His warmth is closer than it should be, his leg pressed subtly against yours. His hand rests on your thigh, fingers curling just slightly, a touch you didn’t ask for. A quiet reminder that you belong here, that this moment is already decided.

Your mother exhales, shaking her head, her lips pursed. "How did it come to this?" She’s not talking about you. She’s talking about him. About Sunghoon. "That boy was always…unstable." She tilts her glass, watching the liquid swirl before lifting it to her lips. "But this? This is disgraceful." Your stomach twists. Disgraceful, not tragic, or heartbreaking. Just inconvenient.

Your father sighs, finally turning towards you. His expression is unreadable, cool. "This is why we trusted Dr. Kim." He gestures vaguely in Jin’s direction, as if his presence alone explains everything. "We knew you needed guidance. That boy was a distraction. A liability. You’re lucky we acted when we did."

Lucky. Your fingers clench in your lap. Jin’s grip on your thigh tightens. Just enough to warn. "It’s a shame," your mother continues, voice smooth, apathetic. "But what matters is that it’s handled. Dr. Kim, you’ve been… invaluable."

Jin finally speaks, his tone calm, assured. "I only did what was best for her." His fingers stroke your thigh, slow and possessive, hidden beneath the table. Your mother nods approvingly. "And what’s best for our family." Your father hums in agreement. "We can’t afford another scandal. This was a close call." A close call. Your chest feels tight, your breath shallow.

"We’ll be returning to the city tomorrow," your mother announces, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s no reason for us to linger." No reason to stay. Because they weren’t really here for you. They never have been. 

You swallow, voice hoarse when you finally speak. "And me?"

Jin’s thumb presses on your thigh, just a little, just enough. Your father raises a brow, like the question itself is ridiculous. "You’ll stay here, of course. Under Dr. Kim’s care." Of course. The words sink like a stone in your stomach. "We’ve already made the necessary arrangements," your mother adds, giving you a placating smile. "He has done such a wonderful job, hasn't he? You wouldn’t want to… regress."

Jin hums beside you, low and indulgent, the sound curling around your spine like silk. He slightly smirks at you.“No,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing absent patterns against your thigh, pressing in just slightly. “She wouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens because you understand. This isn’t just an arrangement. It’s a decision that was never yours to make. This is final and there’s no escaping it now.

Your mother stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress. "I trust you’ll be good for Dr. Kim. Don’t cause him any trouble, dear." You nod, a mechanical motion. Jin smiles beside you, fingers trailing just a little higher, a silent promise. 

Your parents leave without a second glance. And then, the door clicks shut. Silence. Jin exhales slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s been waiting for this. "Alone at last." Your breath shudders, because now, there’s nothing left between you and him. No distractions, no witnesses. Just the lie, the truth, and him.

You should run. You should fight. You should do anything other than just stand here as he steps closer, as his warmth sinks into you, as his fingers softly trail up your arm, making your breath catch. "You did so well, darling." His voice is softer than it should be. Gentle. Coaxing. Like he’s rewarding you. His fingers trace higher, brushing over your jaw, tilting your chin up. The movement is slow, deliberate, a reminder that you don’t belong to yourself anymore.

"You’re home now," Jin murmurs, his thumb stroking lightly over your bottom lip. "And you’ll never leave again." The words sink into your skin, into your bones, seeping through every crack until there’s nothing left untouched by him. His touch is so warm, so careful, so unlike anything you’ve ever been given before from anyone.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and there’s something so indulgent in his tone. His fingers tighten, pressing just enough to make you feel small. "You’re already melting for me."

Your breath shudders, your pulse is too fast. Jin hums, pleased. "Good girl." Then, he kisses you. Soft and slow. Like he has all the time in the world to break you apart. His lips against yours, teasing, coaxing, tasting. You shouldn’t let him. You should fight, should push him away, but you don’t. Your fingers twitch against your sides, your body betraying you, wanting something you don’t understand.

Jin feels it. "You’re still tense," he murmurs against your lips, his hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down. "That’s okay, sweetheart." His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. "I’ll take care of it." 

His hands move slower than they should, like he’s savoring every second, every reaction. His fingers dance up your sides, memorizing the way your breath hitches. "Tell me you need me, angel." His voice is a whisper, a command in disguise.

Your throat tightens, you shouldn’t. But the way his fingers curl against your waist, the way his breath skims the shell of your ear, warm and patient and devastating. You break. "I need you."

Jin exhales, satisfied. "That’s my good girl." Then, he pulls you into him completely. His arms wrap around you, firm, trapping you in a cage of warmth and control. His lips press to your temple, then your cheek, then your throat, slow and possessive, like he’s marking you.

"You belong to me now, darling," he murmurs against your skin. "And I’m never letting you go." His hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down, controlling you.

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. He loves this. The way you shudder under his touch. The way your breath catches in your throat, like you already know there’s no escaping him. Like you don’t even want to. "It’s okay sweetheart, I’ll take care of it," he soothes, voice low and indulgent. 

Then, he shifts. Before you can react, Jin moves, smoothly sinking into his office chair. And he takes you with him. His hands find your waist, pulling you back against him, trapping you in his lap. Your body presses against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you right where he wants you. The leather creaks beneath you, a quiet sound swallowed by the weight of his presence. The position is intentional. 

One of his hands drags up your thigh, hooking it over his own, spreading you open. A quiet, helpless sound slips from your lips. He exhales, deep and satisfied, lips brushing against your temple. "There we go." His fingers glide lower. Slow. Teasing. Until he reaches your core. Your breath catches. Your body stiffens. But Jin? He just smirks. Because you’re already soaked. 

His fingers slowly graze over your folds. And when you shudder, thighs trembling against him? He chuckles. A low, pleased sound that sends a sharp pulse of heat curling through you. Jin tilts his head slightly, his lips grazing your ear, his voice dipping into something darker, something cruel. "You’re already so wet, sweetheart."

His lips drag down, pressing slow, possessive kisses along the curve of your jaw, down to your throat. His breath is warm and patient. "Such a needy little girl." Another kiss. Deeper this time. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, branding you.

"Good thing you have daddy here to help you." His free hand tightens around your thigh, spreading you further, ensuring you feel just how helpless you are against him. His lips ghost over your pulse point, feeling how fast, how desperate it beats just for him.

He exhales a quiet "hmm," letting the moment stretch, savoring your helplessness. Then, with a smirk against your skin, his voice dips, soft and devastating.

"How about another medical check-up, my pretty girl?"

[lovelyspring7]

sooooooo can we get a sequel for cede to madness this is prolly one of the craizest seokjin reader fics ive read in a long long long while damn woahhh

Ohh for sure👀 I just don’t know what it would be about? More smut? Their day to day life? Helpppp. What would you want to read more about?!

[lovelyspring7]

Coolest most insane writer u are !!!! Love u

Hihi thank youuu love u too!😝🫶

[lovelyspring7]

THE SEOKJIN STORY!?!!!?? gosh that was so good!! the plot twist!!! and how manipulative he is, got me goosebump!!! i really really love it HAHA. wish i got another chapter cause maybe i need another yandere seokjin kkkk. but anw, have a nice day, author!! i’m happy to found your blog and want to read another your story 💜

Omg this made my day!! Thank you soo so soo much! I’m so glad you liked it!!🥹💖🫶

[lovelyspring7]

Cede to Madness | Jin x Reader

Preview: You were never supposed to fall apart. The perfect grades. The perfect future. The perfect, empty life. But perfection has a cost. The pills helped, until they didn’t. Your parents had a solution. Dr. Kim. A composed, disciplined psychiatrist. A man who demands obedience. Because in his world, the only choices that matter are his.

Word count: 25k

Genre: Yandere, Psychological Thriller.

Pairing: Psychiatrist Jin x Bratty University Student (F!Reader), Boyfriend Enhypen Sunghoon (Minor Involvement)

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Yandere, smut (forced orgasm, fingering, edging, spanking, daddy kink, power imbalance, overstimulation, praise kink, forced dependency), stalking, obsessive behavior, manipulation, coercion, controlling & emotionally abusive behavior, drugging, substance abuse, forced caretaking, brat-taming, medical control, gaslighting, psychological abuse, unaliveing, blood, panic attacks, 10+ year age gap.

Disclaimer: This type of content is not suitable for all audiences and I do not condone any of the presented behaviour. This is purely for entertainment and fictional purposes and I don’t think any BTS member would act like this.

Author's note: I’m so happy to finally share this!It’s been in my drafts for so long. I’m not completely happy with it and wish I had spent more time on it, but I felt like it was time to let it go. I hope you enjoy it, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts.💜✨

Banner Credit: By the amazing, talented, and incredible! @eerieedits

Your vision blurs, the words on the exam paper twisting out of focus. You blink, hard, but the fog won’t clear. The clock ticks louder, slicing through the silence, drilling into your skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time slipping away.

You’ve prepared for this, nights without sleep, Adderall keeping you sharp when your body begged for rest. Highlighters bled across pages, notes underlined frantically, but now, under fluorescent lights, nothing sticks. The questions you’ve memorized a thousand times slip through your fingers.

Your chest tightens. The air is thick and suffocating. Your hands tremble coated in sweat, as the pen is slipping in your grip, leaving dark smudges on paper. It’s too hot. Too loud. The whispers of scribbling students, the scratch of pens, the relentless ticking, it all crashes into you at once.

Focus. Breathe. Focus. But the air won’t come. Your pulse pounds, erratic, drowning out everything else. The letters blur, ink smearing into shapeless nothing. Have you answered anything? One question? Ten? None?

Nausea twists through you. You grip the desk, but the room tilts. The lights sear into your skull. The roaring in your ears grows louder.

Then, the pen slips from your fingers. A sharp clatter. And just like that, everything goes dark.

————-

Your eyes flutter open, and the world slowly comes into focus. Harsh, sterile lights blind you momentarily, and you squint, trying to make sense of where you are. The last thing you remember is the exam, the words blurring, your heart racing, the pen slipping from your hand. Now, everything feels distant, like you’re waking up from a bad dream.

You hear the faint beeping of a monitor nearby, steady and rhythmic. Voices murmur softly around you, clinical and detached. You blink, forcing your eyes to adjust, and see the nurse standing over you, checking your IV. “You’re awake,” she says, offering a polite, professional smile. “How are you feeling?” You open your mouth to speak, but your throat feels dry. “Where… where am I?” you finally manage to croak out.

“You’re at the hospital,” she replies, her tone gentle, “you had a bit of a scare during your exam, and they brought you in. You’ve been under a lot of stress, haven’t you?”

Your mind spins, trying to piece everything together. The panic, the pressure, the Adderall you took before the exam…gosh the exam. “Where are my parents?” you ask, your voice cracking. The nurse hesitates, and you see it in her eyes before she even speaks. “They were notified,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “But they weren’t able to come. I’m sure they’ll check in with you later.”

You should have expected it, but that doesn’t make the sting any less sharp. Of course, they didn’t come. They probably had meetings, clients, something more important than showing up for you.“I’m fine,” you say, even though your voice is barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to get out of here.”

“We need to make sure you’re stable first,” she replies, still smiling, but it feels forced, like she’s trying to keep you calm. “The doctor will be in soon to talk to you. They just want to make sure everything is okay.” You lie back, staring at the ceiling. A moment later a doctor walks in, flipping through a chart as he approaches your bed. “I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, not looking up at first. “How are you feeling now?” You force a smile, even though it feels like your face might crack. “I’m okay. Can I leave?”

He finally looks up, his expression unreadable. “We need to talk about what happened. Your professors mentioned you’ve been under a lot of pressure, and the initial tests indicate you’ve been using Adderall. Are you prescribed this medication?”

Fuck. “I must've taken it by mistake, I meant to take ibuprofen,” you lied, your voice small. He nods, almost disappointed. “Taking medication without a prescription can be dangerous, especially if you’re using it regularly. We’re concerned about your well-being, and we’d like to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

You feel your heart start to race again, panic bubbling up inside you. “I’m fine. I can handle it,” you insist.“I’m sure you’re trying your best,” he says, his tone soft but firm. “But stress, lack of sleep, and using unprescribed medication can lead to serious health issues. We’re going to keep you here for a little while longer, just to make sure you’re stable.”

“What does that mean? How long?” you ask, panic creeping into your voice. “Just overnight, for observation,” he replies. “And then we’d like to set you up with a psychiatrist who specializes in cases like yours. Dr. Kim is very experienced in treating stress, anxiety, and… substance use. We think he can help you get back on track.” You want to argue, but the words die in your throat. You nod like you're on board. For now that's enough.

————-

Early the next morning, a nurse gently taps on your arm to wake you. Another round of blood pressure checks, a perfunctory nod from the attending physician, then you’re free to go. No fanfare, no concerned parents at your side. You gather your things in a plastic hospital bag, feeling more exhausted than ever.

As you push open the hospital’s double doors, a brisk breeze hits your face, making you shiver. A sleek, black sedan idles at the curb. You ignore your driver, not feeling like having a conversation. Your boyfriend Sunghoon is still busy with lectures or something else he hasn’t bothered explaining. The last text you’d sent him about your meltdown and hospital stay got a half-hearted “Shit babe. You ok?” You scroll past it quickly, having no energy bothering. 

Your home is a grand, meticulously manicured house that stands like a monument to success, a shiny cage that feels emptier with each step you take. A lone housekeeper greets you at the door with a polite nod, then disappears into the kitchen. No one asks how you’re doing. You head straight for your room. It’s neat, borderline sterile, just how your parents like it. The queen-sized bed remains perfectly made, a glossy row of trophies and certificates line one wall, testimonies to past achievements. 

A stack of study notes and textbooks dominates your desk, reminding you of the exam you never finished. A lump forms in your throat, but you choke it down. Focus. You open your notebook, only to find the pages swimming again, the words meaningless. That same rising panic claws at your chest, but you slam the notebook shut. Taking a shaky breath, you tell yourself it’s just the aftershocks from the hospital stay, nothing more.

Later that evening, there's a soft knock at your door. The housekeeper’s voice follows. “Miss? Your mother is on the phone.” You swallow, steadying yourself before responding. “Okay.” The door opens just enough for her to slip the phone into your hand. Your fingers tighten around it as you lift it to your ear, heart already sinking. “Hello?” 

“Finally,” your mother’s cool, precise tone crackles over the line. “I’ve been hearing about your little…outburst.” You flinch at her choice of words. “I’m- I’m fine,” you say, forcing composure. “Where are you?”  

“Tokyo,” she answers briskly, as though one word is enough to explain everything. “Your father and I have important clients to entertain. We’ll return next month, once this expansion deal is finalized.” Your pulse drums in your ears. Next month. Of course. “That’s…good,” you manage, hollow words sticking to your tongue. “But I’m really okay. The hospital just wanted–”

“I spoke with Dr. Lee,” she cuts you off, “and I know they’ve sent you to some psychiatrist, Dr. Kim, is it? If this is what it takes to keep everything under control, fine. But you must understand, this sort of behavior draws attention, the wrong kind of attention. Have you thought about how this might look for our family?” Your heart clenches. Of course. It always comes down to the family name. “Mom, I–”

“We’ve all had rough patches, dear,” she interjects, voice dripping with a thin veneer of sympathy. “But you need to be more discreet. There’s no need to make a spectacle of yourself.”  

Heat floods your cheeks, anger, humiliation, shame all tangling together. “I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you say, biting back the words you really want to hurl at her. A slight pause, then, “Your father doesn’t want this overshadowing our business deals. It’s unacceptable. Do whatever you must, therapy, medication, just keep it under control.” Her tone softens by a fraction. “If you need anything–”

“I’ll ask, thanks” you say flatly, already knowing how this dance goes: polite concern, empty promises, no real action. “Yes, of course dear. Take care.” The line clicks off, leaving you with the echo of her disapproval. You place the phone on your desk, your throat tight with the realization that no one is going to swoop in and fix your life for you, especially not the people who care more about their public image than your well-being.

————-

You walk into Dr. Kim’s office with your arms tightly crossed, half-wishing you’d never woken up this morning. The waiting room was bad enough, some soft instrumental music and a bunch of motivational posters about “hope” and “resilience” that make you want to gag. 

He rises from behind his mahogany desk. He’s tall, with a neat haircut, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and the kind of warm smile you’d personally immediately want to distrust. A crisp white coat drapes over his tailored charcoal suit, making him look more like a sharply dressed businessman than the psychiatrist he is.

“Good morning,” he says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’m Dr. Kim. You must be–”

“Yeah,” you cut him off, collapsing into the chair. “Let’s skip the intros. You already know who I am.” He blinks once, unfazed. “Very well. How are you feeling today?”

“How am I feeling?” You force out a short laugh. “Well, I was doing great until my parents decided I needed to see a shrink.” You toss your hair over your shoulder. “But hey, guess it’s your lucky day. You get me as a client.” Dr. Kim doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply takes a seat across from you, flipping open a sleek notepad. “I understand you had a health scare recently, passing out during an exam?”

“Anxiety, dehydration…whatever.” You wave a dismissive hand. “They’ll call it anything as long as it sounds dramatic.” You roll your eyes. “I’m fine now.” His calm gaze settles on you. “Are you, though?” You shrug. “Does it matter? My parents want me ‘fixed’ so I don’t embarrass them again, so here we are. Let’s get this over with.” You hate that the question pokes a sore spot, but you won’t show it. 

He jots down a note. “That must feel quite pressuring, having to live up to certain expectations,” he says. “Wow, you’re good,” you say sarcastically. “Is that your professional opinion?” He sets the pen down and meets your eyes. “I’m here to help you, not to judge or label you. I’d like to understand what leads you to feel so overwhelmed that you–”

“I told you, I’m not overwhelmed,” you cut in, sinking further into the plush chair. “I just…had a bad day.”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally, flipping to a fresh page on his notepad. “Well, if you’re open to it, I’d like to talk about some strategies that might help with stress, so that these ‘bad days’ don’t catch you off guard again.” You snort. “Strategies? Like what, bubble baths and journaling my feelings?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “There are many approaches. Sometimes it’s breathing techniques or short mindfulness exercises that help you regain control when you feel panic creeping in.”

“Mindfulness, huh? Because the solution to a meltdown is apparently inhaling and exhaling.” You tap your nails on the arm of the chair, letting your sarcasm drip. “Genius.” Dr. Kim doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans forward slightly. “I understand your skepticism. But in my experience, these methods can be surprisingly effective, if you give them a fair shot.”

Your gut reaction is to roll your eyes again, but something in his steady voice makes you hesitate. Instead, you clear your throat. “Yeah, well, I’m only here because I was basically threatened with more hospital visits if I didn’t show. So, sure, let’s hear your miracle cures.”

He nods once. “For starters, I’d like you to try a simple grounding exercise each day. It might feel silly at first, but it’s a way to calm down when stress builds up.”

“Right. Calming down. Cool,” you say flatly, gaze drifting to the office clock. There’s still twenty minutes left of this session, an eternity. “Anything else, Doc?”

“We’ll also discuss your academic load. Dr. Lee mentioned you’re taking advanced courses?” You glare. “Yeah, all the advanced midterms, plus some super-fun extracurriculars I don’t even like. Gotta make Mom and Dad proud.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” he observes, making another note. “How often do you get any time to yourself?” You give a short laugh. “I don’t. My free time is basically caffeine-fueled cram sessions. I’m a well-oiled machine, apparently.” He meets your gaze again. “Until the machine breaks down.”

“Wow, so wise,” you say with a theatrical sigh, though his words strike a nerve. “This session is a blast, Dr. Phil- I mean Dr. Kim. Can I go now?”

He checks the time politely. “We still have a few minutes. Tell me, are there any hobbies or interests you have outside of your studies?” Your nostrils flare in annoyance, you just want to be done. “I like to sleep, which I haven’t done in forever. But sure, maybe I’ll pencil in ‘find a hobby’ between courses.”

He offers a small, understanding smile. “Sleep is important, too. We’ll work on helping you find more balance.” You open your mouth to lob another snarky remark, but he’s already rising from his seat. The session is ending, whether you like it or not.

He hands you a small paper with “Mindfulness Tips” printed on it. “Please consider trying these at least once a day. Even five minutes can make a difference.” You take the paper with exaggerated reluctance. “Thank you,” he says, and he actually seems sincere. “We’ll pick up from here next time. Same day and time next week.” You scoff. Unless you find a way to skip out you thought, heading for the door.

As you head toward the exit, your gaze flicks to the reflection on the glass door behind you. There he is, Dr. Kim, standing in the threshold of his office, one hand lightly resting on the doorframe. He’s watching you leave, his posture poised, his expression unreadable. You jerk your head away, quickening your pace as though that can wipe the image from your mind. You hate it. You hate that he’s so calm. You crumple the mindfulness handout in your grip and toss it into your bag, already planning to ignore it.

Once you’re outside, the late afternoon sun hits you like a spotlight. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. A quick glance reveals a text from Sunghoon:

hey babe, heard ur out of the hospital.

this lecture is boring. kill me now.

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. That’s just so…him, dramatic, offhand, almost clueless. But the fact that he reached out again after you had ignored his previous text sparks a little warmth in your chest, a reassuring reminder that he’s still there. Sure, it’s not the most heartfelt check-in, he’s trying to keep it light in his own way. And right now, you’ll take it.

You clench the phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you contemplate how to respond. You’ve missed a ton of schoolwork in the time you were hospitalized, there’s no way you can let that pile up any further. You text back:

I’m out early. Meet me at your place? Need to catch up on uni stuff. Do you still have some of it?

Sunghoon’s reply is almost instant:

yeah, sure see u soon.

You allow yourself a small smile. You need this. At least, you’ve convinced yourself you do. Between the exam you fainted during and all the lectures you missed, there’s no way you can keep up without a boost. Your driver, stoic as always, hardly says a word when you tell him you’ve got a new destination. In the backseat, you drum your fingers on the armrest. The bag on your lap is heavier than usual, thanks to the textbooks you insisted on taking with you. Each one is a bitter reminder of the time you’ve wasted in therapy and in the hospital.

Sunghoon answers the door in his hoodie and sweats, casual, but you still catch the glint of an expensive watch on his wrist. He’s pacing with a textbook under his arm, hair slightly tousled, giving him that rich-kid-trying-too-hard look you know all too well.

“Hey,” he greets, stepping aside so you can come in. “You okay?” You force a light laugh, shrugging off your bag. “Never better.” You glance at the messy dining table, papers, flashcards, and half-empty coffee cups. “Someone’s been busy.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his textbook onto a chair. “Midterms are coming. My mom’s already breathing down my neck.” You nod grimly. “Yeah.  My parents won’t settle for anything less than perfection, and I’ve already lost too much time.”

Sunghoon grabs a fresh cup of coffee from the counter, still steaming, and hands it to you. “Here. This might help.” You take a sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. But coffee alone isn’t enough anymore, and you both know it.

He clears his throat, glancing at your bag. “So… You asked if I still had some of it?” You hesitate, studying his face. “I didn’t want to assume,” you say quietly, “but I’m behind. Really behind.”

Sunghoon nods. “I’ve got a couple left.” He pulls a small orange bottle from a side table drawer. “We can split them, if that helps you catch up.” Your heart thuds in your ears. You shouldn’t feel relieved, but you do. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I'll just have one for tonight.” He presses a capsule into your hand, and you swallow hard. Guilt churns in your gut, but you can’t deny the spark of hope flickering in your chest. This will get me through.

The two of you collapse onto the couch, textbooks spread across your laps. For half an hour, there’s an almost peaceful silence, broken only by the scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of pages. Sunghoon quizzes you on missed lectures, summarizing bullet points faster than you can jot them down.

Despite the caffeine and the buzz in your bloodstream, your focus wavers. Hospital flashbacks… Dr. Kim’s too-calm voice… your parents’ disapproving silence. You force your eyes back to the text. Eventually, Sunghoon rubs at his eyes. “I’ve still got a paper due tomorrow. You okay if we call it here?”

You glance at the clock on your phone. Hours have passed, and your body vibrates with restless energy. “Sure,” you say. “I’ll keep going at home.” He gives your hand a quick squeeze. “Text me if you need more. Or… y’know, to talk about stuff.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. By the time you trudge through your front door, the pill Sunghoon gave you is coursing through your veins. Your mind feels sharper than it has in days, and you’re determined to make the most of it.

You race up to your room, flick on the desk lamp, and spread out your notes. On the way home, you had already been skimming through your textbooks in the car, mouthing key terms under your breath, flipping through flashcards with shaking fingers. But it wasn’t enough. Sleep can wait. You’ll cram until you’ve made up for every second lost.

Hours blur as you tear through lecture outlines, highlight textbooks, and scribble frenzied notes. Adrenaline and desperation fuel your pen, your pulse pounding in your ears. It’s only when your eyes burn and your fingers cramp that you realize you can’t go any further.

4:42 AM.

Your vision flickers, and your head droops toward the desk. You fight the urge to close your eyes, but exhaustion wins. The last thing you remember is the textbook pages swimming in and out of focus, your pen rolling out of your grip.

————-

Light filters through your curtains, too bright and too soon. You jolt awake at your desk, neck stiff, papers sticking to your cheek. Your phone alarm blares, merciless. A quick glance at your reflection in the mirror reveals dark circles under your eyes. The room tilts for a moment as you stand and your heart hammering. You grit your teeth, ignoring the dull ache in your temples.

You gather the scattered papers into your bag, trying not to notice how many are unfinished. In the back of your mind, you can feel a creeping dread, another day of lectures, another exam you’re not ready for, but you swallow it down. At least I got some work done, you tell yourself. At least I’m not wasting time. And with that, you hurry out, adrenaline spiking at the thought of facing another day of school, alone, exhausted, and no closer to escaping the pressure that put you in the hospital in the first place.

You stare blankly at your phone in the university hallway, the screen lighting up with a calendar notification:

Appointment with Dr. Kim at 4:30 PM.

Just seeing his name makes your stomach twist. You can picture his unwavering, calm smile and feel the weight of his clinical gaze. Not today, you decide, tapping “Dismiss” a little too aggressively.

You shove your laptop into your bag. You tell yourself you can’t waste any more time sitting in an office listening to breathing exercises. You’ve got papers, projects, exams, real problems that won’t wait. You shouldn’t feel guilty for skipping, but part of you can already imagine the look on his face if he finds out.

At last, the car pulls into your driveway. The house looms large and quiet, as it always does. You let yourself in, ignoring the echo of your own footsteps across the polished floors. Your housekeeper is nowhere to be found, probably running errands or lost in some other part of this cavernous place. You hurry up the stairs, heading straight for your room, the only space that feels even halfway yours. 

You shove your bedroom door open. Dr. Kim is there. Perched on the edge of your bed, white coat draped neatly over his lap, like he belongs there. Like this isn’t completely insane. Your breath catches, a sharp, choking gasp that barely makes it out. 

“What the hell are you doing here!?” you demand, your voice cracking as you shout. “This is my room, get out!”

He stands, expression measured and calm in a way that makes your skin crawl. “I was concerned,” he says softly. “You missed your appointment.”

You place both hands on your hips, trying to hide how badly they’re shaking. “Concerned? So you break into my house, in my bedroom!? What’s next, rummaging through my underwear drawer?”

His lips curve in that maddening half-smile. “Your housekeeper allowed me in. I asked to speak with you in private.” He nods toward your desk, cluttered with textbooks and crumpled notes. “It seems you’ve been under significant stress.”

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “No kidding. Now, out. Or should I call the police?” He lifts a small plastic cup from his coat pocket, the kind used in hospitals. “Before I go, we need to address your continued Adderall use.”  

Your heart skips a beat. “Continued? I told you, I’m not taking anything.” A lie that stings on your tongue, but you brazen it out. “You got no proof.” His gaze remains unflinching. “I wanted a urine test before, but considering the circumstances at the clinic, it wasn’t the right time. Now, given your symptoms and previous hospital records, I have to ensure you’re not putting yourself in danger.” 

He holds out the cup as if it’s the most normal request in the world. “Please provide a sample.” You scoff, loud and derisive. “Are you insane? No. Absolutely not.” You swat his hand away, glaring daggers. “I’m not peeing in a cup for you.”

Something dark flickers behind his eyes, but his voice remains eerily calm. “It’s part of your treatment, and you did consent to a full evaluation when you were first admitted. If you have nothing to hide–”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “This is harassment. My parents may have signed some forms, but I sure as hell didn’t.” You cross your arms over your chest, jutting your chin out. “So, do me a favor and get out. Or is this how you run your practice? Trespassing and forcing girls to--”

He sets the cup down on your nightstand, cutting you off with a deceptively gentle tone. “Let’s not be melodramatic. I’m concerned about your health, nothing more.”

Blood roars in your ears. You want to scream, to call the police or your parents, but you know exactly how that would go: they’d side with him. He’s the professional, after all. The mere thought fuels your fury.

“If you’re done creeping around,” you bite out, “leave. Take your stupid cup with you. I’m not doing a drug test like some addict.” He regards you for a moment, as if weighing his response. Then he steps closer, and you instinctively step back, refusing to give him any more ground than necessary.

“Skipping therapy is a mistake,” he says calmly. “You’re on a dangerous path, and I won’t be able to help you if you keep lying about your situation. And I won’t let you end up like the others.” You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. “Who said I want your help?”

For a second, you swear disappointment flits across his face. Then, without another word, he takes the cup from the nightstand, slipping it back into his coat pocket. He heads toward your door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be expecting you at the next session,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. “And if you refuse again, I’ll have to consider more… formal measures.”  

You maintain your scowl. “Is that a threat?” He doesn’t answer. He only pushes open the door and leaves with slow, measured steps, like he has all the time in the world.

The instant he’s gone, you slam the door and throw your bag against it for good measure, your heart banging against your rib cage. You’re furious, humiliated, shaken. Who does he think he is?

You collapse onto your bed, the imprint of his presence lingering. Your breath comes in short, angry bursts. You should study, or do something, anything. But all you can focus on is the empty space where that plastic cup sat, and the lingering echo of his final words. More formal measures. Just how far is he willing to go?

————-

The lecture finally ends, and a wave of relief rushes through you. You just finished the makeup exam that landed you in the hospital. You’re not entirely sure how you did, but at least it’s over. Sunghoon catches you on the campus staircase, a lazy grin on his face. “Hey, how’d it go?” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Fine, I guess. Better than fainting in the middle of it.”

He laughs, though there’s a concerned edge in his eyes. “I bet. Hey, some friends are throwing a thing tonight, just a small get-together.” He tosses the phrase out like it’s no big deal, but you both know what “get-together” means among your crowd, booze, drugs, and the illusion of being invincible for a few hours.

You hesitate. A small voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re due for another session with Dr. Kim today. Last time you skipped, he turned up in your bedroom, insisting on a drug test. But you shove that thought aside. You’ve got a right to celebrate, damn it, especially after everything. “Yeah,” you say finally. “I’m in.”

Your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen to see a new message from an unknown number: 

Don't forget your session at 4:30 PM. It's important for your well-being. - Dr. Kim

You raise an eyebrow, irritation flaring. What’s wrong with him? Is he stalking you now? He needs to back off. He can’t make you come in. The memory of him sitting on your bed, demanding a urine sample, still makes your skin crawl. No. You won’t bend to his rules. You silence your phone entirely, letting Sunghoon drag you toward the parking lot. He’s already texting people, finalizing directions to the lavish penthouse party in the wealthy part of town.

By the time you arrive at the penthouse, the sun is sinking low, painting the skyline in pink and orange. The place is massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture, an expensive sound system blasting music loud enough to rattle your bones. A mix of your peers mingles about, dressed in trendy outfits, downing drinks from crystal cups like they’ve done it for years, probably because they have.

Some people greet you by name, offering half-hugs and cheers.

“Congrats on finishing that exam!”

“You look great!”

“Long time no see, heard you were in the hospital?”

Sunghoon steers you toward a corner sofa, where a makeshift bar is set up on a low table, a lineup of imported liquor bottles, along with an assortment of pills scattered in small dishes. Your stomach flips, but you force a confident smirk. A friend, Yunjin, presses a shot glass into your hand, her eyes glazed with that too-familiar party glimmer. “Drink girly!” she says, tossing her own shot back.

You clink glasses with Sunghoon and knock it back, the burn in your throat strangely exhilarating. Somewhere in your mind, a warning bell rings about mixing substances, but the temptation to let go for once is too strong. If you can handle Adderall, you can handle this…right?

Time slips by in a haze. The music thrums beneath your feet, and you catch fragments of conversation. People bragging about upcoming spring break trips, complaining about private tutors, flaunting expensive new gadgets. It’s the same old scene, entitled kids with too much pressure and too many resources.

At one point, you’re slumped next to Sunghoon on the sofa, a champagne glass in your hand. You don’t even remember what number drink this is. The Adderall in your system sharpens your focus just enough to keep you aware that you’re definitely crossing a line tonight, but your rebellious streak won’t let you slow down.

A girl drops beside you, giggling as she hands you something. “Try this,” she slurs, eyes half-lidded. “Relax… you deserve it.” You peer at the pills in her palm. Not Adderall, something else, stronger. For a moment, logic battles curiosity. The memory of Dr. Kim’s pointed questions, the looming threat of more tests, flickers through your mind like a neon warning sign. Then you down it anyway, chasing it with a sip of champagne.

It’s well after midnight when the party takes a turn. You’re seated on the kitchen floor, of all places, head buzzing, vision swimming. Sunghoon’s leaning against the counter, looking equally out of it, while some guy tries to call for more deliveries of food or drinks.

Then you hear it, a heavy bang on the front door, followed by shouts. For a second, your fuzzy brain thinks it’s the police. That alone makes your heart skip. As the party roars on, the door suddenly swings open without hesitation. Your pulse skyrockets. How did he find me? The rush of fear momentarily drowns out the alcohol coursing through your system.

Dr. Kim strides in effortlessly, exuding an air of authority that commands immediate respect. There’s no building manager or security to impede his entrance, like he owns the place. He spots you, and his face sets into a grim mask. He zeroes in on you, eyes dark with anger or concern? You can’t quite tell. “You missed our session again,” he states, low but audible. “I’m taking you home. Now.”

The next thing you register is being bundled into a car, you don’t recognise it. He gets in and you vaguely sense motion as he pulls away from the curb. “Let me go,” you slur, trying to push yourself up. But your limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. “Fuck…off, you…”

His gaze flicks over you, clinical, detached, yet somehow triumphant. “You’re in no condition to make decisions,” he says quietly. “I’ve already informed your parents. They've already signed.” You don’t fully grasp his words. The world tilts, and your eyelids droop. Signed? Signed what?

————-

The world swims back into focus in slow, disorienting waves. Your head throbs, and your mouth tastes like stale liquor. You blink your eyes open, only to realize you’re in your own bedroom, not the penthouse from last night’s party, and not some hospital ward either.

Sunlight spills through the curtains you forgot to close, forcing you to squint. Gradually, you become aware of a faint beeping sound. You shift your head and see an IV drip on a stand beside your bed, connected to your arm. Panic flutters in your chest. What is this?

A familiar voice speaks up, smooth and controlled. “You’re awake.” You turn, and there he is, Dr. Kim, sitting in a chair by your window, one leg casually crossed over the other. He’s not wearing his usual white coat, but a neatly pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint sheen of a watch on his wrist. He offers a half-smile.

“Wh- what are you doing in my house?” you croak, pushing yourself up against the pillows. Your head spins, stomach lurching. He rises, moving closer with an unhurried grace. “You don’t remember?” He tilts his head as if addressing a difficult child. “You skipped your session. Again. Instead, you ended up at a party, highly intoxicated and… let’s just say other substances were involved.”

Heat floods your cheeks as hazy flashes of the party, loud music, potent drinks, pills, it all stabs through your memory. "I removed you from that environment," He continues, his tone even, matter-of-fact. "Your parents have been fully briefed on the situation, and they have entrusted me with overseeing your care moving forward."

He glances at the IV drip. “That’s just a saline solution to help with your dehydration. Nothing more sinister, I assure you.” You try to tear the IV line from your arm, but he’s at your side instantly, his grip surprisingly firm. “You need fluids,” he says quietly, “so be still. For now.” Anger burns in your chest. “Why are you the one doing this? Where’s my mom and dad?”

“They’re not here,” he says, unbothered by your fury. “Business, as usual. They agreed it’s best if someone… qualified monitors you closely. In fact, they’ve signed all the necessary documents to ensure I can do just that.”

Your heart races. “What the hell does that even mean?” His eyes narrow, but his tone remains frustratingly calm. “It means your parents believe you need a more structured environment for the foreseeable future. You’ve been placed on medical leave from university. All your coursework will be completed at home, under my supervision.”

A suffocating sensation grips your chest. “I’m not… you can’t… it’s my house!”

“Yes,” he concedes, “and I’ll be here, too, for as long as it takes.”

“Excuse me,” you snap, yanking the blanket aside. “I can leave anytime I want.”

“Actually,” he says softly, “until I deem you stable, you won’t be going anywhere. Your parents gave me full discretion over your care.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a document, offering it to you. The official letterhead, your parents’ signatures, the words medical guardianship jump out at you. Your vision blurs, frustration and betrayal tangling in your gut. “They had no right-”

“They had every right,” he cuts in gently. “You’ve been technically hospitalized twice, you’re abusing stimulants, not going to your therapy sessions, and now you’ve added drinking and illicit substances. They’re concerned, and they’re trusting me to help you.”

Swallowing the panic clawing at your throat, you ball your fists. “I’m not letting you control my life. I’ll- I’ll call the cops.”

He arches an eyebrow, nodding toward your bedside table. Your phone is there, sure, but when you grab it, the screen shows no service, it’s been turned off or disabled. He shrugs. “Feel free to contact them if you like. But the minute they see the signed paperwork, they’ll understand I’m acting with their full support. No laws broken.”

Rage sparks hot tears at the corners of your eyes. You grip the sheets in frustration. “You think this is helping me?” He presses his lips together, as though considering. “I think you need structure,' he says smoothly. I’ll make sure you’re safe, well-fed, and keeping up with your coursework. You’ll still follow your curriculum, just here, under my supervision.”

He steps closer, pointing to the desk, where a new folder and some binders sit, neatly labeled with your courses. “You’ll have access to uni work provided by your professors. I’ll monitor your study hours. And if I even suspect you’re using Adderall or any other substance, I’ll administer tests on the spot.” Your stomach lurches at the memory of him demanding a urine sample in your own bedroom. “This is insane,” you say, voice trembling with anger and a flicker of fear.

His response is maddeningly calm. “It’s for your own good. You’ve proven you can’t handle the freedom you’ve had, so we’re stepping in to protect you from yourself.” He adjusts the IV drip, an unsettlingly competent motion for a psychiatrist. “Rest for now. When you feel steadier, we’ll start the new schedule.”

Despite your racing thoughts, your body is worn out from the party’s aftereffects. You slouch back against the pillows. “When I’m better,” you hiss, “I’m leaving.”

He exhales as if slightly disappointed by your rebellion. “You can try,” he says, “but we both know you won’t get very far. Your parents aren’t going to back you on this. The staff here has been instructed to follow my orders.” You stare at him, blood pounding in your ears. “So I’m just… stuck here with you?”

He offers a faint, almost sympathetic smile. “That’s one way to look at it. Another way is that we’re taking a much-needed step toward your recovery. I suggest you see it that way, life will be easier.”

He leaves you alone then, shutting the door softly behind him. A cold knot settles in your stomach as you take in your room, now a twisted parody of the sanctuary it once was. The IV in your arm is a tangible reminder that you’re no longer in control.

Your parents. Your home. This man you barely trust. All working together to keep you under control.

Though your mind screams at you to fight, the weight of your exhaustion presses down. You doze off once more, haunted by the knowledge that when you wake, nothing about your life will be the same for a while.

————-

The room feels colder as he sits beside you, the official documents laid out meticulously on your desk. His calm demeanor contrasts sharply with the storm of emotions brewing inside you. You glare at the papers, your frustration barely contained.

“Sweetheart,” he begins softly, using the nickname that both infuriates and unnerves you, “we need to set some ground rules to ensure your well-being and academic success.”

You scoff, crossing your arms defiantly. “Ground rules? What, are you trying to turn my room into a prison?” He sighs gently, understanding the resistance in your tone. “Not a prison, think of it as a structured environment to help you regain control over your life. Your parents and I agree that these measures are necessary.”

He points to the first document. “First and foremost, phone usage is restricted. Your phone will be under my supervision, and only authorized calls are permitted.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the sting of his control. “So, I can’t even have a simple conversation with my friends unless you say it’s okay? Typical.” He remains unfazed, maintaining steady eye contact. “It’s not about distrust. It’s about creating an environment conducive to your recovery.”

He moves to the next document. “Next, a bedtime routine. Lights out by 10 p.m. This ensures you get adequate rest, which is crucial for both your mental and physical health.” You snort, crossing your arms tighter. “Great, more rules to make my life miserable. What’s next, a curfew?”

He nods thoughtfully. “A curfew isn’t necessary since you’re under supervision here. However, waking up at 7 a.m. sharp is mandatory. Consistency helps regulate your body’s internal clock and improves overall productivity.”

He gestures to the following page. “Your study schedule is designed to balance academic work with necessary breaks. Overworking can lead to burnout, which we want to avoid. Each subject has designated times, and there are built-in breaks to relax and recharge.”

You sigh heavily, feeling the weight of the schedule pressing down on you. “So, you control every minute of my day. What about my friends? My boyfriend?” His expression softens slightly, but his tone remains firm. “Social interactions are important, but they need to be managed to ensure they don’t interfere with your recovery. We can discuss structured social activities that are supportive and healthy.”

He points to another rule. “No unauthorized visitors. If you wish to have someone over, it must be approved by me first.” You bite your lip, the sting of humiliation rising. “So, no more hanging out with my friends unless you say it’s okay? You’re seriously crossing boundaries.” He leans forward, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a temporary measure. Your parents and I believe it’s in your best interest. Trust me, this is for your own good.”

You push the chair back, standing abruptly. “Temporary? How long am I supposed to be your little project? I’m not a lab rat you can experiment on.” He remains calm, his expression composed. “This isn’t about experimentation. It’s about providing the support and structure you need to overcome your challenges. Resistance only prolongs the process.”

You glare at him, feeling a surge of anger and helplessness. “I don’t need your support. I need my freedom back.” He stands quietly, holding the stack of documents in his hands. “You have two choices, comply with these rules and work towards your recovery, or continue down this path of self-destruction, which will result in more severe consequences. Your parents are deeply concerned, and they trust me to guide you.”

You take a step closer, defiance burning in your eyes. “Yeah right. So what, you force me to follow your ridiculous rules? You’re nothing but a controlling freak.”

His expression remains composed, though his eyes reveal a flicker of disappointment. “I understand your frustration, but these measures are non-negotiable. It’s time to prioritize your health and future over immediate rebellion.”

Seeing the resolve in his eyes and the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you let out a bitter laugh. “Fine.” He nods, accepting your compliance without further comment. “That’s all I ask. Let’s start by reviewing your study schedule and setting up a plan for your first week.”

————-

Your door creaks open. You hear it before you see anything, and instinct kicks in. Your eyes snap open, darting to the alarm clock on your nightstand, 7:00 AM on the dot. Your alarm was set for 7:30.

Your brows knit together, confusion laced with irritation, as you bury your face deeper into the pillow. Maybe if you ignore it, it’ll go away. But the presence in the room is impossible to dismiss. You feel it, the weight of his gaze, the silent expectation pressing down on you.

“Time to wake up.” Your eyes barely crack open, a deep frown settling on your face as you roll onto your side. He stands near the doorway, dressed in his usual pressed attire, not a single hair out of place. He doesn’t look like a man who should be in your bedroom first thing in the morning.

Your voice is thick with sleep, irritated. “Do you seriously think this is normal? Waking me up like a damn five-year-old? I have an alarm.”

He doesn’t flinch at your hostility. If anything, he looks vaguely amused, like he expected this exact reaction. “You do,” he agrees. “And yet, I’m here.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, blinking at him. “Why?” His head tilts slightly. “Because I expect you to be dressed and ready for breakfast in thirty minutes.”

You stare at him, lips parting in disbelief. “Are you serious?” His expression doesn’t waver. “Deadly.”

A slow, infuriated breath hisses through your teeth. You look at your alarm clock on the nightstand, your alarm still set for 7:30, right where you left it. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. But of course, that doesn’t matter to him. Your schedule is his now.

“You know, normal people just knock,” you say, voice dripping with annoyance. “Or, here’s a wild idea, let people wake up on their own.”

His lips curve in the faintest, most condescending smile. “We’re not working on your version of normal anymore.” You glare at him, fingers twitching against the sheets. “This is so inappropriate.” He doesn’t bite. “You have twenty-eight minutes.”

And with that, he turns, walking out with the ease of someone completely unbothered by your frustration. The soft click of the door shutting feels like a slap to the face.

You fall back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the reality of it all sinking in deeper. He’s really going to control everything. And this is only the beginning. Your alarm was set for 7:30. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes of peace. Of control. But he took that from you. A slow, deep breath hisses through your teeth as you sit up, kicking the blankets off a little harder than necessary. Fine. If he wants you up, then you’ll get up. But not on his terms.

You move sluggishly, deliberately. Not rushing. Not scrambling to meet his demands. If he wants control, he’ll have to wait. Dragging yourself into the bathroom, you take your time washing your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Tired. Hollow-eyed.

Your hair is a mess, but you don’t bother fixing it quickly. You let the seconds tick by, each movement unhurried. When you finally step into the shower, you turn the water to the hottest setting, standing under the scorching stream until your skin is flushed and your muscles are loose.

You towel off slowly, running your fingers through damp hair. Pulling on the most comfortable clothes you can find, you drag your feet back toward the door, taking another slow breath. The act is small, petty even, but it’s the only thing that feels like yours right now.

When you step into the hallway, you half-expect him to be standing right there, waiting. Ready to scold you. But he’s not. The house is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes downstairs. By the time you reach the dining room, he is already seated at the table, a plate set neatly before him. Another one sits across from him.

He doesn’t glance at the clock. Just gestures toward the seat across from him. “You’re late,” he says casually, sipping his coffee. Your jaw tightens. “By a minute.” His calm gaze lifts, “and yet, you’re still late.”

You sink into the chair, gripping your fork a little too hard. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Breakfast is simple, oatmeal with nuts, fruits and honey, yuck. He eats with quiet precision, every movement deliberate, like even his chewing is something he’s mastered.

You don’t eat right away. Your spoon idly stirs the oatmeal, dragging through the softened fruit, but you don’t take a bite. You’re waiting. Will he say something? Will he push you to eat?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his coffee cup and looks at you, his voice calm. “You’ll have study sessions from eight to twelve,” he begins, as if this is a normal conversation. “Break for lunch. Then another session until four. After that, we’ll go over your progress.”

You scoop up a spoonful of oatmeal and let it plop back into the bowl with a dull splat, unimpressed. “Do I get a say in any of this?” 

His lips curve slightly, not a smile. A reaction just enough to say, you already know the answer to that. “I think we both know your choices haven’t been particularly effective,” he says evenly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You set your fork down with a soft clink, leaning back in your chair. “Right. Because I’m such a disaster that I need a babysitter now.” He exhales slowly, as if he expected this conversation. “Because you need structure.” You scoff. “No. I need freedom.” He tilts his head slightly. “You had that. Look where it got you.” Your fingers tighten around the spoon. “Gosh, you sound like my parents.”

“They entrusted me to make the right decisions for you,” he reminds you, calm and steady. “That includes this schedule.” You glare at him, something hot twisting in your chest. “You think you can just...control me into getting better?” For the first time, something flickers behind his eyes, something deeper, something you can't make out. He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin itch. “You’ll come to understand that this is what’s best for you.”

A shiver down your spine. He doesn’t just believe he’s controlling you. He believes he’s saving you. And that is somehow so much worse.

————-

By the time you reach the designated study room, a sleek, minimalist space that he arranged for you, the clock reads 8:02 AM. You make sure to glance at it, just so you can tell yourself, two minutes late. A tiny, invisible rebellion. 

But he doesn’t react. He’s already seated across from you, a thick leather notebook in front of him, pen poised between his fingers. Like he’s ready to observe. Your textbooks are neatly stacked on the desk. A fresh planner, not yours, is open beside them, a strict hour-by-hour study schedule written in his neat, clinical handwriting.

Revised Schedule

8:00 - 9:30 AM: Microeconomics Review 9:30 - 11:00 AM: Mathematical Economics & Calculus for Business 11:00 - 12:00 PM: Case Study Analysis & Financial Modeling 12:00 - 1:00 PM: Lunch 1:00 - 2:30 PM: Macroeconomics & Global Trade 2:30 - 4:00 PM: Investment Analysis & Risk Management 4:00 PM: Dr. Kim’s “Progress Review” 

No room for distractions. No flexibility. Just rigid, controlled structure. You drop into the chair with pointed sluggishness, flipping open your Microeconomics textbook like it’s a burden. His eyes track your movements, but he says nothing.

Fine. If he’s going to hover like some clinical stalker, you’ll just ignore him. You skim over market elasticity equations, but your brain refuses to cooperate. You’re supposed to be able to focus, but your body feels sluggish. Slower than usual. Too much sleep? No stimulants. His fault.

You frown down at the page, trying to force the numbers into place. The silence is suffocating. Then, his voice. “You keep hesitating.” Your fingers tighten around your pencil. “I’m thinking.” He hums, the sound so calm, so condescending that your jaw clenches. “No,” he says, flipping through his own copy of your textbook, “you’re frustrated.”

You exhale sharply, not looking at him. “Wow, thanks for the deep psychological insight.” He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he reaches across the desk and tilts your notebook toward himself. Before you can react, his fingers ghost over the problem you were stuck on. “You made an error here,” he murmurs, tapping the equation lightly with the tip of his pen. “And here.”

You hate how easily he finds your mistakes. How effortless it is for him to point them out, like he’s proving a point about your incompetence. “I was getting to that,” you mutter. “Of course,” he agrees, voice infuriatingly smooth. “But your frustration gets in the way. It always does.” You snap your notebook back, shooting him a glare. “You don’t have to sit here and babysit me. I can handle it.”

His gaze drags over you, slow and intentionally invasive. He leans back slightly in his chair, tilting his head, studying you with that same unsettling patience. “Can you?” Your breath catches, because that tone, that quiet, knowing taunt, doesn’t sound like he’s just questioning your academics.

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You don’t look at him, forcing your eyes back onto the textbook. Silence settles again, but this time it’s heavier. Like he’s waiting for something, like he’s amused and it makes you itch. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable, but his voice cuts through the quiet before you can settle. “You’re restless.” Your stomach tightens. “Maybe because you’re staring at me.”

A slow, almost lazy blink. He tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate, studying you. Then, with the faintest smirk curving his lips, he asks, “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Yes. You swallow, jaw clenching. “You’re making it impossible to concentrate.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, he exhales, a low chuckle beneath his breath.

Your eyes snap to him in disbelief. He’s full on smirking. A shiver runs down your spine. “What’s so funny?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he taps his fingers idly against the table, gaze never leaving yours. “You keep pushing back,” he muses, “but your body betrays you.”

The words send a sharp pulse through your veins. You freeze. “What the hell does that mean?” you snap. His smirk doesn’t waver. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Every time you resist, I can see it.” His fingers trail the edge of his pen, slow and deliberate. “The tension. The frustration. The way you react to my presence.” Your mouth runs dry. “That’s called annoyance.” His head tilts. “Is it?” There’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now. Less clinical. More intense? And you realize, he enjoys this. The push and pull. The fight. The fact that you’re so easily affected by him.

You push back your chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor as you stand. You need air. “I’m taking a break,” you mutter, already turning for the door. But before you can move, he’s already there. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t block you. He just stands, positioned just close enough to force you to stop. Your breath catches.

“You have another hour,” he reminds you, voice still too calm, too smooth. You swallow hard, looking past him. “Move.” He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne, the smell clean and crisp. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “how long you’ll keep pretending you don’t like this.” Your stomach drops. A sharp pulse shoots down your spine, your fingers twitching at your sides. No. No, he’s wrong. You don’t like this. You hate this. You hate him.

He knows that your pulse is racing. That your breath is shallow. That your body, despite every logical part of your brain, is too aware of him. And somehow, that makes him even more patient. Like he knows he doesn’t have to rush this. Because he’s already winning.

————-

By the time lunch rolls around, the tension from the morning has barely faded. The dining room is just as pristine as before, silent, controlled, suffocating. He is already seated when you walk in, a plate of steamed rice, grilled chicken, and vegetables set neatly at your spot. Boring. Predictable. Just like him.

You drop into the chair without a word, grip tightening around the fork as you push the food around your plate. Your appetite is nonexistent, but you don’t test him by refusing to eat. Not yet. Instead, you let the silence stretch. Let the minutes tick by, waiting. And then, without looking up, you say it. “How did you find me?” He doesn’t react right away. He finishes cutting a piece of chicken, lifting it to his mouth with calm precision, chewing slowly. Then, he finally speaks. “Find you where?”

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork with a little too much force. “At the party,” you clarify. “How did you know where I was?” He tilts his head slightly, wiping his mouth with a napkin before resting his elbows on the table. “You were at a party?”

Your glare sharpens. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.” He exhales, leaning back against his chair. You keep your expression blank. “So what?” you push. “You just magically guessed where I was?” A slow blink. A small, knowing curve of his lips. “Your parents informed me.” Your stomach drops as you stare at him. “What?”

“They were notified that you hadn’t returned home,” he continued smoothly. “Your driver was waiting, but you never showed.” You freeze. Shit. You forgot about the driver. “They assumed you were at a party,” he added. “And given the list of events you and your friends have attended in the past, it wasn’t difficult to find the most likely location.” Your fingers tighten around your fork. “That’s insane.” He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Is it?”

You scoff. “You mean to tell me my parents just, what, handed you a list of places I might be?” A slight smirk plays on his lips. “They’re concerned about you.” You laugh, a dry, bitter sound. “They’re concerned about their image.” He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he sets down his utensils, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Regardless, their concerns led me to you.” Your pulse ticks up. You look away, pushing your food around the plate. “So what?” you mutter. “You tracked me down, dragged me home like some runaway child? You don’t see how creepy that is?”

He leans back slightly, studying you. “Would you rather I hadn’t?” The question is too calm. Too certain. You swallow, your throat suddenly dries. Because he’s waiting for an answer. Waiting for you to admit that maybe, just maybe, he had a point. You hate that you don’t have one. Instead, you exhale sharply, stabbing at a piece of chicken. “Next time, don’t bother.”

He hums. A sound of amusement, not agreement. Then, he gestures toward your plate. “Eat.” You hold his gaze for one more second. One more silent act of defiance. And then, you take a bite. Because, for now, it’s the only battle you can win.

————-

By the time the last study session ends, you’re beyond exhausted. Gosh do you miss taking the pills. Hours of microeconomic theory, financial analysis, and investment modeling have left your brain feeling like mush. You were hoping for a break. Maybe some alone time in your room, text Sunghoon, pretend you still have a life outside of this house. But of course, he has other plans.

“You’ll be spending the next hour engaging in a structured activity,” he informs you, as if he’s handing out some divine decree. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “What kind of activity?” He doesn’t answer right away, just motions for you to follow. He leads you into another empty room in this empty house, a sitting area, pristine and untouched, like it’s only there for decoration. A chessboard sits on the table, the pieces perfectly aligned, as if no one has ever played. 

You stare at it. “You’re kidding.” He takes his seat across from you, cool and collected. “Chess stimulates critical thinking. It will help improve your problem-solving skills.” You blink at him. “I’ve been solving problems all day. I’m not playing chess with you.”

His gaze lifts, slow, steady, unwavering. “I wasn’t asking.” The words sit heavy between you. You cross your arms, glaring at the board. “Fine,” you mutter, sinking into the chair. “But I’m not going to make it easy for you.” His lips curve slightly. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

The first few moves are silent. The sound of pieces clicking against the board fills the air. At first, you play recklessly. Intentionally chaotic. Just to mess with him. He doesn’t react. He simply moves his pieces with calm, practiced efficiency. Every move is calculated and controlled. It’s infuriating.

Finally, after a few minutes of quiet strategy, he speaks. “You haven't texted Sunghoon.” You stiffen.Your hand hesitates over a piece. Slowly, you lift your gaze. “Excuse me?” His expression remains neutral, but there’s something lurking beneath it. Something satisfied?

Your fingers tighten around your knight piece. “Well I don't exactly have my phone, do I? Also, did you check my phone?” You ask accusingly. He tilts his head slightly, the movement as lazy as it is intentional. “I wouldn’t call it checking.” He picks up his queen, placing it in a dominant position on the board. “Your screen lit up. It was hard to miss.”

He hums, not denying it. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping low. “Your move.” You shove your knight forward aggressively, knocking one of his pawns off. He barely spares it a glance before speaking again. “You seem… distracted.”

You scoff. “Yeah, maybe because you’re talking about my boyfriend while playing chess like some psycho in a movie.” A low chuckle. “You’re entertaining when you’re agitated,” he remarks, amused, unbothered. “But I meant what I said.”

You exhale, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What, that I’m distracted?” He leans back, fingers tapping lazily against the table. “Yes. You lose focus easily when your emotions are involved.” You roll your eyes, making another move. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me again?” He moves his queen. Check. He meets your eyes, gaze sharp, assessing. “No,” he says smoothly. “This is the part where I win.” You stare at the board, blood boiling. He’s right. You let yourself get distracted. You push away from the table, standing abruptly. “We’re done.” He watches you, expression unreadable. “You don’t like losing.” 

“No,” you snap. “I don’t like this.” His lips curve slightly. He hands you your phone without a word. The weight of it in your palm is almost unfamiliar after an entire day without it. You unlock the screen immediately, scrolling through your notifications, your heart picking up as you scan for Sunghoon’s name. Nothing. Your breath hitches for just a second, barely noticeable, but the disappointment sinks in faster than you can stop it. You blink, double-checking. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a reaction to the last message you sent him. That’s… weird. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he fell asleep early. Maybe he thinks you’re the one ignoring him. 

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating whether you should send something first. Just a simple hey. A test. But something about it feels off. If you text him now, you’ll be the one reaching out. You’ll be the one who noticed. You’ll be the one who cares. And you do, of course, you do, but letting that show somehow makes it feel worse. You swallow the frustration building in your throat and press the power button, shutting off the screen before you let yourself overthink it any further. You set the phone down and push it back toward him. He watches you, his fingers tapping against the desk, slow and rhythmic. "Nothing?" You shrug, forcing nonchalance. "Guess not."

A beat of silence stretches between you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry, just picks up the phone and slips it back into his pocket like it belongs to him, like it wasn’t even yours to begin with. “You’ll have another ten minutes tomorrow.” You nod, walking out too quickly, eager to get out of this room, away from him, away from the sinking weight in your chest that you refuse to acknowledge as sadness. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just one day. But the quiet part of your mind whispers that Sunghoon always texts you, even if it's half assed. Maybe he feels bad about how things got out of hand at the party? Or maybe he doesn’t? 

————-

The soft glow of the TV screen flickers across the dimly lit living room. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, mindlessly watching something simple, something easy. Something that doesn’t require focus. For the first time today, you’re not thinking about anything. Not his rules. Not the suffocating schedule. Just the low hum of the TV, filling the empty space around you. It almost feels… normal. Until it doesn’t.

The screen suddenly blacks out. Your body tenses, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. You blink at the blank TV, disoriented, before slowly turning your head, and there he is. Dr. Kim stands beside the couch, remote in hand, his expression calm yet expectant. “It’s bedtime.” Your brows knit together, disbelief flickering across your face. “Are you serious?” He doesn’t answer. Just sets the remote down on the coffee table, his gaze never leaving you. A sharp, irritated breath escapes you. “I’m not a child.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small, knowing motion that only makes your frustration grow. “You need proper rest,” he says, voice steady, unshaken by your attitude. “Overworking yourself isn’t productive.” You scoff. “It’s just TV.”

“And now, it’s off.” You stare at him, waiting for him to budge. To roll his eyes, sigh, maybe even let you have this one thing. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, waiting for you to comply. And maybe that’s what’s most frustrating of all, he’s not fighting you. He’s not raising his voice, not snapping back. He’s just waiting. Like he already knows you’ll listen. Your jaw tightens, hands balling into fists against your lap. “This is ridiculous.” 

He hums softly, like he’s considering your words. “You’re free to feel that way. But you still need to sleep.” Your muscles tense, the heat of defiance burning under your skin. You don’t want to listen to him. You want to stay right here, keep the TV on, pretend you still have some control over your own life. 

But another part of you, the one exhausted from today’s battles, the one weighed down by everything you refuse to acknowledge, knows you won’t win this one. Slowly, grudgingly, you push yourself up from the couch. You don’t look at him as you move past him, don’t acknowledge the quiet satisfaction in his posture.

The walk to your room feels heavier than it should. By the time you step inside, you expect him to leave, to disappear behind a closed door like your parents always did, cold, distant, uninterested beyond the rules they set.

But he doesn’t. He follows you in, pauses near the doorway. His hand reaches for the handle, but he doesn’t shut it. Instead, he leaves it slightly open. Ajar.

Your stomach knots. “What, you don’t trust me to stay in bed either?” His gaze meets yours, something softer there, something you can’t place. “It’s not about trust.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then what is it about?” A pause. A beat of silence just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “You’re not used to having someone that makes sure you’re okay.” Your breath catches. It’s such a simple statement. Too simple. Like he’s voicing something obvious, something already known.

But it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against the hollow places you never let yourself acknowledge. You should snap at him. Should tell him he’s wrong, that you’re fine, that you don’t need someone watching over you like this. But the words don’t come. You glance at the open door instead, swallowing down whatever emotion threatens to surface. “I don’t need someone like that.”

His expression remains unreadable. “Goodnight.” The words are final, no space left for argument. He turns and steps out, his presence lingering even after he disappears down the hall. The door stays open. And for reasons you don’t understand, you don’t get up to close it.

————-

Time has started to blur. Days bleed into each other, structured and rigid, each one identical to the last. The housemaid stopped coming, it was just you and him. The rules have become second nature, and the fights you used to put up? Less frequent. Not because you agree, but because resistance became exhausting.

And then there’s Sunghoon. Or rather, the absence of him. No calls. No texts. Nothing. At first, you convinced yourself he was just busy. That he’d reach out eventually. But now, days have passed. You’ve checked your phone during your allotted ten minutes, stared at the empty notifications, felt the quiet, creeping disappointment settle in your chest. You try to ignore it. Try to push it down. Sure, Sunghoon wasn’t head over heels for you. But he was your boyfriend. And somehow, that should mean something.

The only message you’ve gotten, the only thing from the outside world at all, is from your parents. Not a phone call. Not even a voice message. Just a text. "Hope you're adjusting. Listen to Dr. Kim." That was it. Nothing more. No warmth, no real concern, just a reminder. Behave. Follow the rules. Because if you don’t, if you fight, if you refuse to comply, there will be consequences. The implication is clear. If you push too far, you’ll be cut off. Financially. Entirely. Completely.

You read the message twice, let the weight of it settle in. And then, without another thought, you lock your phone and place it back on the table. Because really, what’s the point? You wake up on time. You eat when he tells you to. You study for the exact hours he sets. And every night, your door stays ajar. Somewhere along the way, his presence stopped feeling temporary.

The first time he picked out your outfit, you thought he was joking. “I’ll decide what I wear,” you had snapped, arms crossed as you stared at the neat selection of clothes he’d placed on your bed. He remained unimpressed. “You lost that privilege when you were late.”

“One minute,” you had argued, voice laced with frustration. “I was late by one minute.” He had only hummed, stepping closer, gaze steady as he reached for the blouse he chose. “Then next time, be on time.” It’s a ridiculous rule, but you still wear what he picks out every morning. Because even though you tell yourself you don’t care, it’s easier than starting a battle you already know you’ll lose.

He’s also physically closer to you know. At first, you thought his touches were accidental. A brief hand on your shoulder, a light press against your back when he stood behind you, reading over your notes. Small things. Easy to ignore.

But then it became more frequent. His fingers ghost along the curve of your shoulder when he corrects a mistake in your notes. His palm lingers against the small of your back when he guides you to your desk. When you start to fidget, his hand finds your wrist, pressing down lightly as if to calm you.

It should bother you more than it does. But the worst part? It works. You don’t want to admit it, but there’s something calculated, practiced in the way he touches you. Something designed to soothe. Like he’s figured out exactly how to wear down your resistance.

His nicknames also became frequent. You remember the first time he called you sweetheart when discussing the rules. It had been offhand, casual, like he barely even thought about it. You had bristled, waiting for him to correct himself. But he didn’t. 

The next time, it was darling. Another time, angel. Each one more natural, more seamless than the last. The worst part is how easily it slips into conversation now.

"Focus, sweetheart."

"You’re overthinking again, darling."

"Eat, angel. You’ll need your energy."

And you hate it. You hate that he says it like it’s natural, like it belongs. You hate that no one else has ever called you these things, not your parents, not even Sunghoon. You hate that sometimes, when he says it in just the right tone, it makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.

————-

Dinner is different tonight. It’s not just another scheduled meal, another quiet, structured moment where you eat because it’s expected of you. The table is set more carefully than usual, two polished plates, silverware perfectly aligned, the dim glow of the chandelier casting soft shadows. Everything feels…intentional.

You notice immediately. It unsettles you, but you don’t say anything. Maybe it’s another one of his tests, another way to see if you’ll react. Or maybe it’s a reward? The thought makes something curl in your stomach, something ugly, something you refuse to name.

He sits across from you, perfectly composed. He doesn’t acknowledge the change in atmosphere, doesn’t point out the way you eye the setup with quiet suspicion. Instead, he just lifts his glass, takes a slow sip of water, then nods toward your plate. “Sweetheart, eat.”

You don’t argue, but something about the command grates on you. The food looks better than usual, a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables arranged like something straight out of a five-star restaurant. It’s intentional. All of this is. You cut into the steak carefully, bringing the first bite to your lips. The moment it touches your tongue, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. It’s perfect. Rich, tender, seasoned just right, juices melting over your tongue in a way that has your shoulders instantly relaxing. It’s the best thing you’ve tasted in, God, how long has it been? And then, before you can stop it, a sound slips out. Soft, breathy, a quiet, satisfied moan. Your breath catches. Your spine stiffens immediately. Silence. You realize what you’ve done the same second you feel his eyes on you. Slowly, hesitantly, you look up.

He isn’t eating, he isn’t even moving. His fork rests against his plate, untouched. His fingers tap idly against the stem of his glass. He watches you with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable, except for the smirk. It’s like he’s amused. Pleased. Heat crawls up your neck, mortification seeping into your bones. You clear your throat, forcing past the moment as quickly as possible. “How do you know so much about my coursework?”

His gaze flicks up, calm and unsurprised, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Because I studied the same things.” You frown, swallowing. “You’re a psychiatrist.” His lips twitch slightly, like he finds your skepticism amusing. “And before that, I was exactly where you are now. Economics. Business strategy. Finance.” He pauses, tilting his head just slightly. “I was expected to take over my family’s company. Until I didn’t.”

You go still, your fork pausing midair. Something about the way he says it, smooth but edged with something sharper, makes your stomach tighten. “So, what? You just decided one day that you’d rather screw with people’s minds instead of their money?” He exhales a soft, almost amused breath as he sets down his knife. “Something like that.” You scoff, stabbing at your vegetables. “Sounds like you and my parents would get along.” The amusement in his expression fades. “I think you know that isn’t true.”

Your grip tightens around your fork. There’s something too heavy in his voice, something that makes you feel exposed, in a way you don’t like. “You’re here, aren’t you?” he continues, voice smooth but cutting. “Because you think they don't want to deal with you anymore.” The words land heavier than they should. You force a smirk, pushing through the way they settle in your chest like a stone. “Gee, thanks for the reminder.” He watches you, his gaze steady, patient. Too patient. “Does it bother you?”

You lean back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “Why would it? It’s not like it’s the first time.” He doesn’t respond right away. He simply lifts his glass again, taking another sip, letting the silence stretch.

You look down at your plate, at the steak still waiting. You cut another piece, bring it to your lips and the moment it touches your tongue, everything else fades. He’s just sitting there, watching you, smiling at how you're enjoying the meal he cooked for you.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, forcing yourself to look away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he says. You glare, gripping your fork a little too tightly. “Like you’re enjoying this.” He leans back slightly, tilting his head. “And if I am?” The air feels different now. You can’t place it, can’t explain it, but something has shifted. You force out a scoff, desperate to move past it. “Yepp. You and my parents would get along perfectly. You’re all obsessed with control.” He breathes a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “If I wanted control over you darling, you wouldn’t even realize it.” The way he says it, so soft, so certain, it sends a shiver curling down your spine.

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork against your plate with a clatter. “Well, at least I know you have other skills.” You gesture vaguely toward the food, grasping at anything to redirect the conversation. “Didn’t take you for someone who could cook.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since I learned how to take care of things properly.” The phrasing makes your stomach twist. It shouldn’t sound like a warning but somehow, it does.

You pick at the last remnants of your meal, the conversation still lingering in the air. His words sit heavy in your chest, pressing down, reminding you that you're here because your parents didn’t want to deal with you. You hate how easy it is for him to cut through you like that. How effortlessly he makes you feel exposed. But he’s not gloating. He’s just watching.

That same calm, unreadable expression, the slight tilt of his head as if he’s waiting for something, for you to react. You exhale sharply, tapping your fork against the edge of your plate. “So, what? You’re gonna sit there and psychoanalyze me over steak?” His lips curve, the barest smirk, “Would you prefer I psychoanalyze you over dessert?” You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Still waiting. Still watching over you.

The weight of it makes something hot and frustrated twist in your chest. You want to break the tension, want to push back, want to tip the balance. And then, on impulse, you say it. Not Dr. Kim. Not even Seok-Jin.

Just–

“Jin.”

The shift is instant. His eyes darken. Not in anger, but in something deeper. You shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have. But now you can’t take it back.

A slow, unnerving silence stretches between you. Then, he exhales, the corners of his lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Jin, huh?" His voice is low, amused, but there’s something else beneath it, something heavier. Like he’s tasting the way it sounds, rolling it over in his mind, keeping it. “You’ve never called me that before. You barely address me as Dr. Kim."

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let it show. You force a small smile as you lean back in your chair. “Would you rather I stick with Dr. Kim?” His head tilts slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “No,” he says, soft, certain. Then. "I like the way it sounds when you say my name." Your breath catches. Something shifts between you. Something thick, unspoken, dangerous. Your fingers tighten around the napkin in your lap, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Like the way he’s looking at you right now doesn’t make your heart pound just a little too fast. Jin. You shouldn’t have said it. But now, you think, he won’t let you stop.

Dinner is finished, but the tension lingers. You can still feel the weight of his gaze from across the table, his smirk. So you move. For once, without being told, you reach for the dishes, gathering them in your hands before he can stop you. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the tiniest rebellion, something normal in a situation that’s anything but.

You make it to the sink, rolling up your sleeves, fingers brushing over the faucet. The sound of running water fills the space, grounding you. It’s just a plate, just soap and water, just something to do with your hands. 

Then, heat. A slow, creeping warmth against your waist. Not imagined. Not accidental. His hand. Firm. Steady. Claiming.

A slow inhale gets caught in your throat as you freeze, your fingers gripping the counter, your body locked tight. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. You know who it is. His touch is light, just enough to guide you. A slow, press of fingers against the fabric of your shirt, the warmth of his palm bleeding through as his breath ghosts the back of your neck. Too close, too much.

"Go rest." His voice is low, even. Deceptively soft, but there’s something beneath it, something that doesn’t leave room for argument. Your pulse skips. “I can do the dishes.” A hum. Low, deep, amused. "I know you can," he murmurs, closer now, the warmth of him pressing just slightly more into your back. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

You swallow hard, knuckles going white where they grip the counter. This, this isn’t normal. This isn’t how a psychiatrist handles his patient. But he isn’t moving. And neither are you. His fingers press just slightly, just enough, before the warmth of his touch disappears, leaving your skin too aware of its absence. You force yourself to move, stepping back from the sink, willing your breath to stay even, to pretend like this isn’t affecting you. But the second you turn away, you feel it, the weight of his gaze on your back, tracking your every step as you leave the kitchen. You don’t look back. You can’t.

By the time he comes into your room, you’re already in bed, or at least, you’re pretending to be. A book rests in your hands, your eyes scanning the words without absorbing a single one. It doesn’t help. You still feel it, the warmth of his touch, still imprinted on your waist.

Then, movement. You don’t even have time to react before the book slips from your grasp. Not snatched, not forceful. Just taken. Your breath stutters as he plucks it from your hands, his fingers grazing your own for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make your stomach clench. He doesn’t even glance at the title before setting it on your nightstand, his movements fluid, composed, controlled. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s routine. You don’t know what to do with your hands now that they’re empty.

He stands beside your bed, watching you. The dim glow of the bedside lamp catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He isn’t touching you, isn’t crowding you, but he’s there. He’s always there. Then, a small, quiet smile. "Good night."

Your throat tightens. You don’t respond. He tilts his head slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is even softer. "Sweet dreams." The words slip through the cracks, sinking into your skin before you can stop them. The door stays ajar as he leaves, his shadow shifting, stretching against the hallway light. You don’t move. You barely breathe. Even long after he’s gone, long after the silence swallows the room whole, you still feel him.

————-

The warmth is all-consuming, deep, suffocating in the sweetest way. It stretches through every inch of your body, pulling you under, making you heavy, making you needy. The world around you is blurred, distant, nothing but the press of heat, the slow burn of something thick, inescapable, forbidden.

And he’s here. Jin sits at the edge of your bed, his presence undeniable, the weight of his gaze sinking into your skin like it belongs there. He looks relaxed, knowing, like he’s been watching you for a while. Like he’s been waiting. You should ask him why he’s here. You should move. But you don’t. Because his hand is already on you. It starts at your ankle, the softest graze of fingertips, teasing, testing. Your breath stutters, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Then he drags them up. Slowly, as he’s tracing over your calf, your thigh, higher. Spreading the heat. Spreading the tension. Spreading you. A breathy sigh escapes you, your thighs parting instinctively, your back arching the tiniest bit. He chuckles. Low, pleased and amused. And then he leans in. His breath skims your throat, warm, tantalizing, just close enough to send a shudder rolling through you. "You're so easy to tame, angel."

The words melt into your skin, his voice like something dangerous and possessive and inevitable. Then, his mouth. Soft lips press against your pussy, teasing, trailing, tasting. A slow, lingering drag, a teasing bite, a soothing lap of his tongue.

Your fingers grip the sheets, your body betraying you. A soft, helpless noise escapes, a needy little whimper that only makes him press harder. "That’s it, sweetheart" he hums against your skin, his voice rougher now, heavier. "Let me hear you."

The pleasure spikes, unbearable, unbearable, unbearable.

"Jin–" The name slips from your lips, breathless, pleading.

And then.

Your whole body jerks up. Your chest is heaving, your skin flushed, damp with sweat. Your thighs are pressed together, aching, throbbing. Your hands tremble where they grip the sheets, your breath ragged, desperate. It takes too long for reality to sink in. Everything feels too real. His touch still lingers, his voice still in your ear, still on your skin. And then it hits you. It was a dream. Just a dream.

“Jin.” The name is still on your tongue, breathless, needy. And then your bedroom door creaks open. Your stomach plummets and your breath stills as your entire body locks up. You snap your head toward the doorway. Jin steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you, the way you’re gripping the sheets, the way your chest still rises and falls too fast, the way your skin is flushed from something that has nothing to do with the temperature.

His lips curve. Not a smirk. Something deeper, something too knowing. Your pulse slams against your ribs. "Sweet dreams, princess?" 

Your breath hitches. Your chest is still rising and falling too fast, your skin too warm, too sensitive. But you force yourself to breathe. To calm down. Because it was just a dream. Just a dream. And he doesn’t know. He can’t know.

You force a scoff, tilting your head just enough to feign annoyance. “Seriously?” Your voice is still a little rough from sleep, but you ignore it. Push through. “You wake me up early every day and now you’re asking about my dreams?”

Jin leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes sweep over you once, slow, assessing. And then, he smiles. Not his usual soft smirk. Something mocking, almost like he’s entertained. "Just curious."

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, well, nothing worth remembering.” The lie is smooth, automatic, easy. Too easy. And you swear, just for a second, his smirk deepens. Like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows exactly what you were dreaming about. But no. He doesn’t. He can’t. You won’t let him.

You clear your throat, shifting under the sheets like you’re just stretching. “What do you want?” Jin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps forward, setting a neatly folded outfit at the edge of your bed. “I picked out your clothes for today.” His voice is smooth, composed. Just like always. Just like nothing is different.

Your fingers twitch at the sheets, clutching the fabric a little too tightly. Another test. Another way to remind you, his rules, his control, his world. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, keeping the act together. “Great. Looking forward to it.” Jin watches you for a moment longer. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he steps back toward the door. "Get dressed, sweetheart. I'll see you downstairs."

And then, he’s gone. The second the door clicks shut, your whole body collapses back against the pillows. Your hands shake. Your heart pounds. Because he doesn’t know. You played it off. It’s fine. You push the sheets off your body, exhaling sharply as you force yourself up. 

It was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. But the second you stand, the discomfort between your thighs makes you freeze. You shift your legs slightly, and, oh. It’s wet. Uncomfortably wet. You blink, stomach twisting, pulse spiking with something unfamiliar. What the hell? Are you– is this your period?

You rush to the bathroom, pulling down your underwear frantically. And then, you see. Not your period. Something worse. Your breath catches, mortification crawling up your spine. No, no, no, this has never happened before, at least not while you were asleep. Your body has never reacted like this. You wipe yourself clean, hurried, almost frantic, as if scrubbing the evidence away will erase the shame burning in your chest.

You shove your ruined panties deep into the laundry basket, burying them beneath a pile of clothes. You don’t have time to deal with it. You have to get dressed. You reach for the outfit Jin picked. Of course. A preppy pleated skirt, just long enough to be appropriate but short enough to remind you who chose it. And a soft, knitted sweater that fits too well. It makes you feel smaller. Like a high schooler. Like something he dressed up exactly how he wants. 

You exhale sharply, shaking off the thought, focusing on fixing your hair, making yourself look composed. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just wake up a mess from a dream about him. Because he can’t know. And he never will.

————-

You walk to the kitchen, trying to appear normal. Jin is already there, standing at the counter, his sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast. He moves with his usual calm precision, like nothing is out of place, like he hasn’t been waiting for you. Except he has. The moment your footsteps hit the kitchen floor, he glances over. His gaze drags over you, slow, controlled, too knowing. Something in your chest tightens.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, collected, and almost pleasant. “How do you feel?” Your stomach plummets. There’s something wrong with the way he says it. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but it feels pointed.

Your throat is suddenly dry, but you force yourself to act normal. “Fine,” you say, sitting down carefully. His lips twitch amused. “Fine?” Your pulse jolts. Why does he keep repeating things? Why does it feel like he’s waiting for something? You swallow. “Yeah.”

Jin hums lightly, his fingers tapping against his coffee cup, watching you. You focus on your plate. Just eat. Be normal. But the second you shift, you feel it. The lingering wetness between your thighs, the tension still inside you. The dream never ended properly, you never really came.

The tension is still there. Your body tightens involuntarily. Your thighs press together. You don’t even realize you’re squirming until–

“You’re restless.”

Your breath catches. You snap your head up, but Jin is already looking at you. His gaze is calm, observant. His tone is clinical, detached. Like he’s just making an observation. You try to freeze, try to stay still, but it’s too late. “I’m not,” you mutter, shifting in your seat, willing the discomfort to disappear.

Jin lifts his chin just a little, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You are.” Your jaw clenches. “Maybe I just don’t like sitting still.” Jin doesn’t blink. “Or maybe you’re uncomfortable.” Your stomach twists. “I’m fine.”

A pause. A slow, stretched-out silence. Then–

“Are you on your period?”

Your entire body stiffens. Your fork nearly slips from your fingers as you stare at him, heat crawling up your spine, mortification creeping in. “What?” Jin sets his coffee down, completely unbothered. “You’re shifting in your seat, avoiding pressure on your lower half. It’s common when experiencing cramps.” 

Your heart is pounding. “I–” You shake your head, gripping your fork. “No. That’s not–”

“Urinary tract infection?” He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. You nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?” Jin exhales softly, like he’s being patient. Like he’s dealing with someone being difficult for no reason. “You’re tense. Your thighs are pressed together, and you keep adjusting like there’s discomfort.” His voice is perfectly neutral, but you can hear the amusement lingering beneath it. 

Your hands curl into fists under the table. “I don’t have a UTI.” Jin hums, nodding slightly, tapping his fingers against the table. “Then it must be something else.” Your breath shakes. “It’s nothing.” Jin raises a brow, gaze flicking over you slowly. “You’re sure?” You hate this. You hate the way he’s watching you, pretending like he’s just asking logical questions, like he’s not deliberately making you suffer.

Your thighs clench again, desperate to relieve something, and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick downward for just a second. But when he looks back up, his expression is unreadable. You force yourself to breathe, staring at your plate. “I’m sure.”

Jin watches you for a long moment, too long. Then, finally, he leans back. “Alright, sweetheart.” Jin sips his coffee, watching you from across the table, still too calm. The conversation should be over. His gaze flicks over you once more, slow, assessing, like he’s piecing something together. Like he’s still waiting.

Then, he exhales softly, shaking his head, as if something has just occurred to him. "Darling," he says smoothly, "I think I know what’s wrong."

Your heart skips. You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know. But the way he says it, so certain, so confident, like this is just another problem he’s already solved, makes your skin prickle. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “What?”

Jin taps his fingers against the counter, casual, unbothered. But then he speaks. “You need relief.”

Your entire body locks up. The room shrinks. The air thickens. The fork clatters against your plate, hands going clammy, chest tightening with something visceral. Your voice barely works. “W-what?” Jin leans forward slightly, his tone gentle, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Your body is holding onto tension. It’s normal.” His eyes flick downward, a flicker of amusement, a silent acknowledgment that he knows exactly where the tension is. 

You can’t breathe. Your mind's racing, stumbles, crashes. “I don’t–” He hums softly, cutting you off. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, angel. Persistent arousal without release can cause discomfort, muscle strain, even headaches.” He tilts his head, like he’s being helpful. “And judging by the way you keep squirming, I’d say you’re feeling it already.”

Your thighs clench involuntarily, a reaction you wish you could control. Jin sees it. His eyes darken just slightly. You force yourself to snap out of it. “I’m fine,” you bite out. “And I don’t need ‘relief,’ thank you very much.”

Jin doesn’t blink. “Are you sure?” Your stomach drops once more. Because he’s not letting it go. He’s testing you. Pushing. Waiting for you to admit something, or break first. His voice dips lower, calm but pointed. “You’re struggling to focus, aren’t you?” Your fingers dig into your lap. “No.”

“You’re tense.” His eyes drop to your lap, watching the way your fingers tighten against the fabric of your clothes. “Restless.” His lips press together for a beat, as if weighing his next words. Then, his gaze lifts, locking onto yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Irritable.”

Your pulse jumps. “I am not!” His lips curve slightly. “And yet, you can’t sit still.” You want to scream, to shove your plate away and leave, pretend like this conversation never happened. But he’s got you. He knows it. You know it.

The silence stretches. The air is unbearable. Then, softly, so gentle, so calculated, he speaks again. "Sweetheart, if you keep ignoring it, it’ll only get worse." Your body betrays you again, a sharp little twitch of your thighs, an unconscious clench. What the fuck is wrong with you today?!

Jin sees. He hums like it’s exactly what he expected. “That’s what I thought.” Your throat closes. You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that your body is still aching, still throbbing, still desperate for something it shouldn’t want.

You shake your head, voice weaker. “This is fucked up.” Jin exhales. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice smooth and patient. “Everything feels fucked up when you’re resisting what you need.” His gaze never wavers, it’s steady and sure, like he’s already won. Then, he tilts his head slightly. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches because that’s the trap. If you say yes, you’re giving him permission. If you say no, you’re denying the one person who’s supposedly ‘taking care of you.’ Your lips part, but the words won’t come out. 

Jin leans forward slightly, voice softer, coaxing, careful. "Let me help you, angel." Your entire body burns. You shouldn’t even consider it. But your pulse is pounding, your skin is hot, your body is still aching, needy, desperate. And the worst part? You want to say yes. Jin doesn’t push. He doesn’t move. He just watches you patiently.

The tension in your muscles, the way you can’t keep still, the lingering damp heat between your thighs that refuses to fade. You know he sees it. You know he’s been watching the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers twitch like you don’t know what to do with them.

And worst of all? He’s right. It is getting worse. Jin exhales softly. "You understand what I’m offering, don’t you?" You swallow thickly, you can’t meet his eyes, but you nod, just once, small, barely there. But he doesn’t accept that. His fingers drum lightly against the table, thoughtful. “Use your words, angel.” His voice is calm and coaxing. “Tell me what you need.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, gripping the soft knit like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your throat feels tight, your skin hot. Every part of you is wound so tight it’s painful. You close your eyes, inhale shakily, and finally, finally, mutter the words that seal your fate. "I…need help."

The corner of Jin’s lips twitches, satisfied. He pushes his chair back, rising with the ease of someone who already knew this was inevitable. Then, he extends his hand. "Come here, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightens and your pulse jumps. Your breath shudders as you push your chair back, legs unsteady beneath you. Every step toward him feels heavy, irreversible, like crossing a line you can never uncross. Jin watches you the entire time, his expression is calm, like this is just another routine part of your schedule.

You stop in front of him, pulse thrumming against your ribs. He doesn’t move right away, just takes you in your hesitance. Then, he reaches out, slow and precise. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing lightly against the waistband of your skirt. The touch itself is innocent, barely there, barely anything at all. But the way he does it? It’s not. It’s measured, intentional, possessive in a way.

His voice is low, soothing, but there’s something darker lurking beneath it. "You don’t have to be nervous," he murmurs. "I told you sweetheart, I’ll take care of you." Your stomach flutters. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want to believe him. 

Jin’s hands move slower than necessary, his touch measured, guiding you exactly where he wants. One hand glides up your back, pressing firmly between your shoulder blades. With effortless control, he eases you down until your stomach and chest meet the cold, smooth marble of the counter. The contrast of warmth and chill sends a shiver through you. A flicker of confusion crosses your mind. Here? In the kitchen?

Jin’s hands rest against your hips, firm and steady, like he’s guiding you into place. The warmth of his palms sinks through the fabric of your sweater. “Think of this as purely medical,” he assures, his voice smooth. “A necessary examination. That’s all.”

Your breath catches. Your body is still tight and on edge from the dream, from the restless, unsatisfied heat thrumming beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be considering this, shouldn’t even be standing here, but the words, his words, make it sound so reasonable.

Like this isn’t something twisted or forbidden. Like it’s something you need. You shift slightly, barely perceptible, but Jin notices everything. “You’re still tense,” he notes, almost like he’s diagnosing a symptom. “You understand the risks of prolonged sexual frustration, don’t you, darling?”

Your entire body goes stiff. He hums, interrupting you like he already knows what you were going to say. “Arousal without release can cause discomfort, which affects concentration..." His voice is lower now, softer, as if he’s concerned. “That’s why you were squirming so much earlier, wasn’t it?”

Heat flushes through your body, embarrassment crawling up your throat. “I wasn’t–” 

Jin lets out a small sigh, almost sympathetic. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers pressing just slightly against the waistband of your skirt, a silent reminder of how easily he could fix this. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is simply your body’s natural response to unresolved tension.” Your nails dig into the counter. His touch is so light, barely there, but your body is already betraying you, reacting to him, desperate for anything more. 

He steps closer, his chest nearly flush against your back. His breath brushes against your ear as he speaks. “You need relief.” His voice is smooth and persuasive.“And if you won’t take care of it yourself…” His hands slide a fraction lower. “I will.”

The warmth of his body pressing just close enough to remind you that you have nowhere to go. His hands remain steady on your hips, thumbs brushing slow, measured circles just beneath the waistband of your skirt.

Your breath is shaky, uneven, but he remains perfectly composed, voice low, calm, rational. He waits, to see if you’ll stop him. And when you don’t, he moves. His hands slide lower, his fingers lifting the hem of your skirt, inch by inch. The air hits your exposed thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between them. You shudder and Jin notices. The fabric gathers around your waist, completely out of the way now. 

His fingers drift lower, brushing against the waistband of your panties. A slow, thoughtful hum vibrates in his chest. “You really shouldn't neglect yourself,” he murmurs, mock disappointment laced in his voice. 

His fingers trace over your clothed pussy, gliding over the thin fabric of your panties before pressing lightly against the damp spot. He exhales, pleased. "Sweetheart," he muses, his voice dipping into something indulgent. "You're absolutely soaked."

Your whole body locks up in shame, mortification… something else. His fingers hook around the delicate fabric, giving a slow tug. Like he’s testing you. You don’t know if you’ve passed or failed. But you don’t stop him, so he keeps going. 

The panties slide down, slow and torturous, the damp fabric dragging along your slick folds, clinging for a moment before peeling away. There’s nothing between you now. Nothing stopping him, or you... 

A low gasp escapes you, your body tensing, thighs clenching instinctively, but there’s nothing to hide behind now.

And then, he sees.

A soft, low exhale leaves him, almost thoughtful as he’s fixed between your legs. His hands don’t move, not yet. He just stares. Eyes locked on your bare, swollen pussy, on the way your wetness glistens in the dim light. 

Seconds stretch unbearably long as he simply looks, his thumb lazily stroking your inner thigh, slow, absentminded circles against your heated skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, even, assessing.

Your stomach tightens, your hips shift, just barely, an instinctive, needy movement, but his hands immediately tighten on your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you.

A single finger trails through your folds, parting you, spreading your slick, dragging through the wet heat before he finally pulls away, inspecting the glistening strings of arousal stretching between his fingers.

Your breath hitches, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you can’t look away from him. He hums, as if pleased with the results, voice smooth and measured when he finally speaks.

"All this for me? What a good girl," he murmurs, voice drenched in quiet approval, his eyes still locked on you, watching the way your entrance flutters, clenching desperately around nothing.

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands slide back up, gliding over the curve of your bare thighs. His fingers drift along the soft skin of your inner thighs, teasing. You tremble, breath shaky, hands gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And he notices. “Still so tense,” he murmurs, voice smooth, patient. “I told you, sweetheart, it’s not good to hold this in.” His tone is steady, measured, as if this is nothing but routine. As if he’s simply following medical necessity.

Then, finally, he moves again. His fingers slide between your folds, parting you with effortless precision. You gasp. He exhales softly, almost as if confirming something. “You’re already throbbing,” he hums, his fingers gliding in slow, teasing strokes along your pussy.

“Poor little thing.” Your whole body tenses, your legs threatening to close around his hand, but he doesn’t allow it. His grip tightens, his other hand pressing to your waist, grounding you, controlling you. 

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands hold your hips steady, thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you against the counter. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your shoulder, close, too close. His fingers move slowly, dragging over your drenched pussy just to watch you twitch. “No, sweetheart,” he soothes, voice low, patient. “Let me do this properly.” Then, he starts.

A low, breathy “Fuck” slips from your lips as his fingers slide through your slick folds, spreading you open. He finds your clit with effortless precision, rubbing smooth circles over it. The stimulation makes your legs tremble, and your thighs press together, seeking more.

Your hips shift, instinctively chasing the pressure, but he doesn’t allow it. He pulls back, teasing, withholding.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice like silk, like you’re being difficult, like you need to be corrected. “I need you to be a good girl and stay still. Can you do that for me?”

The cold surface of the kitchen counter presses against your stomach, grounding you, but nothing prepares you for the way he handles you, pinned down, ass on display, legs spread just enough for him to take his time. You nod, breath hitching, thighs trembling as the pleasure builds too fast, too much. 

Then, suddenly, he pushes a finger in slowly, stretching you open as he continues rubbing circles over your clit.

“Ah–” A choked, breathless moan spills from your lips, your body trembling against the counter. It’s too much, too new, stretching, filling, making your thighs tremble as another whimper escapes you.

The intrusion is foreign, unfamiliar, your walls tightening instinctively around him as he pushes deeper. He groans at the way you squeeze his finger, his free hand smoothing over the curve of your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “Fuck,” he mutters, his tone laced with something dark, something possessive. “You’re gripping me so tight, angel.”

A desperate, broken moan escapes you as his finger presses deeper, curling slightly, making your body jolt against the counter. Your breath stutters, high and needy, hips instinctively twitching as another gasp leaves your lips.

“Shh,” he soothes, amusement threading through his voice as his thumb circles your clit, coaxing another helpless moan from you. “I know, sweetheart. It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Your hands clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles white as your breath hitches again, a whimper slipping free when he starts moving, slow, deep, stretching you open with every thrust of his finger.

“Such pretty little sounds,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, without warning, he pushes a second finger in.

"Ahh!" A sharp, helpless moan rips from your lips, your body jerking against the counter at the sudden stretch. It’s too much, deeper, fuller, making your legs almost give up.

Fuck, you’re so soaked, so wet that his fingers sink into you effortlessly, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of the kitchen. His free hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned in place, while the other works you open, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm.

"Messy little thing," he muses, dragging his fingers out just enough to hear the way your arousal slicks against him before pushing them back in, slow and deliberate. "Listen to that, do you hear how wet you are for me?"

Your breath stutters, a choked whimper slipping free as his fingers curl inside you. "Ngh- please." Your voice is barely a whisper, shaky and breathless, your hips instinctively pushing back, desperate for more.

He clicks his tongue, tutting softly, like you’re being difficult. His fingers press deep, the wet squelch of your arousal only growing louder, filthier.

"So impatient," he murmurs, thumb spreading your slick over your swollen clit, circling it slowly. "But since you asked so nicely."

Heat crawls up your spine, shame and desire tangling as your body betrays you, trembling with every slow, devastating thrust of his fingers.

"That’s it, angel" he praises, calm, controlled, like he’s guiding you through it. "Don’t fight it.”

His fingers work you faster now, pushing in deep, rhythmic thrusts, each curl of his fingers perfectly timed with the pressure against your clit. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, sending your body teetering right on the edge.

"I’m gonna-" Your words shatter into a desperate sob as your pussy tightens around him, your entire body locking up as the pressure inside you finally bursts.

A high, broken moan spills from your lips, wrecked and needy, as your walls clench and throb around his fingers, sucking them deeper like you never want to let go.

The wetness gushes between your legs, soaking his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm. The slick, obscene squelch fills the quiet kitchen, the sound of it only making your body jolt harder as the waves of pleasure keep rolling through you.

"Oh?" His voice is low, teasing, fingers still deep inside you, curling lazily as he lets you ride it out. "What was that, angel?"

Your hips jerk, your body betraying you, grinding helplessly against his hand, but it only makes him chuckle.

"You made such a pretty mess for me," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, more indulgent, like he’s savoring every second. "Dripping all over my hand like that."

His fingers slow but never stop, working you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you’re nothing but a panting, overstimulated mess against the counter.

"That’s my good girl," he coaxes, dragging one last teasing stroke inside you, making you whimper, oversensitive and spent. "Didn’t even know you could come this hard, did you?"

His free hand smooths over your back, soothing and grounding you, but his fingers stay buried deep, lingering, possessive, still playing with your soaked, fluttering walls just to feel you shiver.

"Mmm, let’s get you cleaned up," he murmurs, but there’s amusement laced in his tone, like he has no real intention of stopping just yet.

He adjusts his stance, his other hand pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way your walls still flutter weakly around his fingers.

"You’re still so sensitive," he notes, almost to himself, slowly pressing his fingers deeper like he’s checking something. "A little overstimulated… but that’s normal. Everything feels just as it should."

"Nnnh–!" A shaky, broken whimper rips from your throat, your body tensing up immediately as the sudden pressure makes your overworked walls clamp down around him.

"T-too much." Your voice wavers, high and wrecked, but there’s no real resistance, just a helpless, desperate quiver beneath him.

He hums, his free hand smoothing down the curve of your spine in something almost reassuring. Almost.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice a steady, professional calm against your shaking, overstimulated mess of a body. "You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

And then he starts again, curling his fingers, massaging every tender, overstimulated spot inside you, coaxing out more of your release. His movements are measured as he’s stretching you open wider, forcing more slick to spill out onto his knuckles.

The squelch is obscene, loud, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down onto his wrist.

"There we go," he murmurs, his tone calm, clinical, like he’s simply taking notes on your body’s reactions. "Still so sensitive. But I need to know, sweetheart…"

His fingers ease out, dragging slowly, purposefully, letting you feel every inch as he pulls them free. A messy trail of arousal follows, wet and glistening, connecting you to his hand.

"Do you taste as good as you feel?"

You barely get a second to process his words before you feel it, his fingers spreading you open, pressing against your swollen folds, smearing your slick over your aching clit just before his tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe up your drenched pussy.

A high, wrecked cry spills from your lips, body jerking, but he just hums, soft and thoughtful, his tongue flicking lazily over your sensitive entrance, collecting every last drop he worked out of you.

His tongue moves with calculated precision, each slow stroke gathering every trace of slick left behind. He is cleaning you up, just not in the way you expected.

"Mm, there we go," he hums against you, lips brushing over your overworked clit as he speaks. "Can’t leave you like this, sweetheart. Need to make sure you’re taken care of properly."

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as his tongue flicks, lingers, tracing slow, thorough circles around your aching, swollen bud before dipping down again, lapping up every bit of your release.

Your thighs twitch violently, body jerking, but his hands are steady, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding you open effortlessly.

His tongue dragging up your folds, savoring every drop like it’s his duty to leave nothing behind.You whimper, not knowing how long until he’s done. 

"Shh, sweetheart," he soothes, his lips gliding over your sensitive, overspent cunt, punctuating his words with leisurely, unhurried licks. "I know you’re sensitive. But I need to be thorough." His tone remains calm, clinical, as though this is simply a necessary part of your care.

His tongue pushes deeper, parting your folds as he gathers the last remnants of your slick, lapping at you like he’s ensuring nothing is wasted.

A whimpering sob spills from your lips, your breath ragged, body shaking beneath him, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter.

"Almost done," he murmurs, reassuring, as if this is nothing but routine. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, tilting you just enough to clean you properly.

"You’re being such a good girl for me," he praises, punctuating the words with a slow, indulgent lick, collecting what’s left of you.

Then, as if to make absolutely sure, his tongue swipes over your clit, a soft, lingering stroke that makes your body jolt violently.

Your hips buck, another high-pitched gasp slipping free, but he merely hums in satisfaction, his fingers pressing into your hips to steady you.

"There," he exhales finally, pulling back just slightly, though his warm breath still ghosts over your swollen pussy. "All clean."

A moment of silence. A pause that should feel like relief, but it doesn’t.

Because then, with a low, satisfied hum, he licks his lips, drags his thumb over your entrance one last time, and murmurs "Perfect."

Your body stays stilled against the counter, breath still coming in short, uneven pants, your limbs feeling boneless, wrecked, your mind blank with too many emotions to process.

Then, the shift.

He moves with practiced ease, hands smoothing over your bare thighs, his touch calm, routine, like he’s simply adjusting your posture during lessons. The skirt he had bunched up around your waist, the one he moved aside without hesitation, he pulls it back down, smoothing out the fabric like nothing ever happened.

But your panties? The ones ruined, damp, stained with the mess he coaxed from you?

He keeps those. With a quiet, effortless motion, he slips them into his pocket, tucking them away without hesitation, without a word. And then, just as quickly, he’s back to normal.

"You did well," he says smoothly, praising you like it’s just another part of a medical check-up. "Your body’s response was completely natural. Everything’s functioning just as it should." A beat of silence. Then, with the same calm professionalism, he continues, "Our session will start a little later than usual today." 

Like nothing happened. Like this was just another routine assessment. You nod numbly, your head still spinning, your body still trembling, but you don’t say a word. You can’t. Your voice wouldn’t work even if you tried. You adjust your posture, fixing your stance, still feeling unbearably exposed despite your skirt down. 

And then you turn, moving toward the door with shaky, uneven steps, your thighs damp, your heart pounding with a mixture of confusion, shame, and something else you can’t name.

That’s when his voice stops you one last time.

Soft. Amused. Possessive.

"Darling," he calls lightly, making your stomach flip, your breath hitch before you even turn to face him.

You do, barely managing to meet his gaze, your cheeks burning.

His eyes flick down, not at you, but at your trembling legs. At the way you press them together, still sensitive, still wrecked from what he just did.

A smirk tugs at his lips. His tone is softer now, smooth, almost mockingly gentle when he murmurs, "from now on… I’ll be the one to clean you up."

Your stomach drops, something deep inside you twisting at the implication in his voice. Because it’s not just about this moment. It’s about the dream you had. The one where you woke up wet, breathless, shaking, your pussy sticky with evidence of something you didn’t want to name.

He knew all along, fuck he must have heard you.

Your breath stutters, your body flushing with mortification as he walks up to you. You try to avoid his gaze, but his fingers find your chin, tilting it up with gentle insistence until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. Shame burns through you, settling deep in your chest. He hums, voice low and knowing. 'Try to stay focused during our lesson, hmm?'

And just like that, he walks away to do the breakfast dishes. Like you weren’t just panting against the counter, thighs trembling from overstimulation. Like he hadn’t just stripped you bare, licked you clean, and taken your panties as a souvenir.

————-

The day continues as usual, or at least, it’s supposed to. You had quickly changed into white pantyhose. Even though your skirt is long enough to hide your panties, you're not taking any more chances. Lessons start, structured and rigid, the way they always do. But today, you can’t focus. Jin is still the same, still suffocating, still watching, still controlling everything. 

He hovers behind you as you study, correcting the way you hold your pen, smoothing a hand over your shoulder when you hesitate too long on a problem, calling you nicknames like this morning never happened. Like nothing has changed. But for you, everything has. Your thoughts are scattered, disjointed, looping back to the way his voice sounded when he coaxed you through it, the way his fingers and tongue felt, how effortlessly he took control of you, of your body.

And the worst part? You let him. You let him touch you, take care of you, break you apart. And now, you don’t know what that means. Your stomach twists, a slow creeping anxiety settling in your chest, festering, suffocating. You think of Sunghoon. It’s the first time you’ve let yourself think of him, really think of him, since this whole thing started. Since Jin.

You haven’t heard from him. Not in weeks. Not a single call, not a single text. But does that matter? Would it have mattered if he had? Would it have stopped you from gasping Jin’s name this morning? From letting him push you over the edge with nothing but calculated touches and gentle orders?

Your hands tremble slightly as you flip the page of your textbook. You don’t know what this is anymore. Jin isn’t just your psychiatrist, your guardian? You don’t even know what to call him. The thought makes your skin crawl.

You’re grateful when dinner comes around. A distraction. Something else to focus on. But when you sit down at the table, when Jin slides a plate in front of you, when his fingers ghost against your wrist for just a second too long, the anxiety creeps right back in.

Because he still looks the same. Still calm, patient, and so unbearably in control. And you hate that you don’t know if he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it. Or if he already knows you won’t.

Jin has prepared a warm, steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae, paired with fresh rice and a side of vegetables. It’s supposed to be comforting, homey, something you like but do not get to have often. It’s something you should be able to enjoy, but can’t seem to. Not when your body still remembers what he did to you this morning. Not when your mind won’t shut up, won’t stop replaying how it felt, how you let him do it. And worst of all? Not when he’s sitting across from you like nothing happened.

Jin eats with his usual calm, methodical pace. You, however, are restless. You poke at your food, tapping your chopsticks against the bowl, shifting in your seat. Every little thing feels too much. The silence stretches too long. You hate that he’s so at ease. So unaffected. It makes you feel like you’re the only one suffering, the only one drowning in whatever the hell this is. So, naturally, you lash out.

“Dinner was later than usual,” you say suddenly, feigning casualness as you lift a spoonful of the broth to stare at. “That wasn’t very responsible of you, Dr. Kim.”

His gaze flicks up at the name, and for a brief second, something sharp flashes in his eyes, displeasure, kinda like a warning. “I had a call,” he says sternly, “a necessary one. Eat your food, sweetheart.”

You hum, dragging your spoon through the broth, barely acknowledging his words. And then, just to push him further, just to see how far you can go. You sigh dramatically, rolling your eyes. And then, under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Wouldn’t want to disobey, right?” You say it sweetly, batting your lashes mockingly. You don’t even think about it, don’t process what you just said until it’s already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Jin’s chopsticks pause midair. When his expression hardens, that’s when you realize your mistake. A slow, unbearable silence stretches between you. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, folding his hands on the table, his gaze steady as he studies you. 

“What did you say?” he muses, his voice too calm. You swallow as your confidence is already slipping. But you double down. Because you don’t want him to know how much you regret saying it.

You lean back, shrugging, playing with your spoon. “I mean, isn’t that what you want, Daddy?” You drawl, mocking. “Since you’re the one making all the rules.”

His eyes darken. His fingers tap against the table, slow and controlled. 

"Stand up."

Your stomach drops.

"What? No."

His lips curve, but there’s no amusement. Just expectation.

"Now."

You hesitate, but your body betrays you.

Because the weight in his voice, the sheer command of it, leaves no room for argument.

You rise, slowly, warily.

And the second you get closer to him.

He moves.

Jin grabs your wrist, swift and effortless, pulling you toward him with calculated force.

Before you can even process what’s happening, you’re dragged across his lap, pinned down over his thighs, stomach pressed against his legs.

You yelp, hands grabbing at nothing, struggling instinctively, but he’s already got you trapped beneath his grip.

And then, he moves your skirt, gathering the material at your waist. 

"White, hm?" His voice dips into something almost pleased, almost mocking, his palm gliding over your pantyhose-clad ass, the thin, sheer fabric stretched tight over your skin.

His touch is calm, measured, spreading over the delicate material, testing the way it hugs you, the way it clings, the way it does nothing to shield you from him.

His fingertips glide along the soft nylon, barely-there touches that make you shiver. "You want to act like a brat?" he murmurs, voice low, smooth, brushing against the shell of your ear. 

"Then you’ll be treated like one."

And then, the first slap.

Sharp. Sudden. Loud.

The sting cuts through the sheer fabric, making you jolt forward, gasping.

"Count." He orders. 

Your breath stutters. "W-what?"

Another sharp slap. Harder.

Your legs tremble.

"Start counting, sweetheart."

Your fingers curl into fists, your whole body burning.

"T-two."

His hand lands again.

"Louder."

Your thighs clench.

"Three."

"Good girl," he praises, voice dark, smooth. His other hand presses against your lower back, keeping you still.

Another slap.

Your hips buck. Your knees wobble.

"Four."

The pain blends with something else, something worse, something humiliating.

Again. And again.

"Five." 

"Six." 

The heat spreads, sharp at first, then dull and throbbing, radiating through you.

"Seven."

"Eight."

Your voice shakes.

"Nine."

The final slap. Harder than the rest.

"Ten."

You’re panting, your thighs shaking beneath you.

Then, he pauses.

His palm rests against the burning skin, fingers smoothing over the lingering sting like he’s soothing you, but you know better.

Because then, without warning, a sharp squeeze, fingers digging into the tender flesh of your ass, forcing a choked gasp from your lips.

Fuck– it hurts.

"Manners, angel," he murmurs, voice smooth, expectant, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s reminding you who’s in control.

His thumb presses deeper, tracing over the sheer nylon stretched taut over your skin, testing the warmth he left behind, feeling how swollen, how tender you’ve become under his hand.

Your face burns when you realise he’s going to make you thank him. 

“…Thank you,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence.

His thumb presses again, circling the spot where the burn is deepest, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through you.

"Use that pretty little name you called me earlier, angel."

Your stomach twists, heat creeps up your neck, you don’t want to say it. But you know better.

You swallow hard, "Thank you… Daddy."

The approving hum that rumbles from his chest makes your thighs clench together instinctively. It does something to you, something humiliating and hot all at once.

Then, just as you brace yourself for another punishing squeeze, his hand smooths over your ass instead, fingers gliding over the delicate white pantyhose stretched tight against your skin. 

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, voice thick with something dark, something possessive. His palm drags over the fabric slowly, like he’s savoring the way it hugs your curves, the way you tremble beneath his touch. 

Then, without warning, he grips the thin material at the seam and rips it apart. The sharp tear of fabric fills the room, and a shocked gasp escapes you as cool air kisses your newly exposed skin. 

His breath hitches, just slightly, but it’s enough. "Look at that," he groans, spreading the ruined nylon further to admire the soft, pink flesh underneath. His fingers skim over the freshly exposed skin, his touch maddeningly light. 

"Knew you’d be this pretty under all that." You shiver, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over you. But he isn’t done. One firm hand settles on your bare ass, squeezing, massaging, reveling in the way your flesh gives under his grip. 

"Now," he murmurs, voice softer, teasing, but still entirely in control. "Are you done being difficult," he breathes, his lips just near your ear, "and ready to be my good girl again?"

Your stomach flips. Because you don’t know, but you nod, because you don’t think you can handle any more.

Jin’s lips curve, satisfied. He presses a small, fleeting kiss to the nape of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. Then, finally, he pulls back.

With deliberate care, he smooths your skirt down over the mess, covering the evidence of what he’s done to you. The ruined pantyhose still cling to your legs, torn and stretched, a reminder of just how easily he’s unraveled you. He adjusts the fabric gently, as if tucking you back into place, like nothing happened.

His hands slip to your waist, steadying you as he helps you stand. "There you go, angel," he says approvingly, fingers brushing over your trembling thighs. "Such a good girl for me."

Then, as if he hadn’t just wrecked you beyond repair, he straightens, smoothing out his sleeves. His voice is effortless, smooth as silk.

"Finish your dinner, darling."

————-

You sit at the edge of your bed, brushing out your hair, trying to shove down the unease curling in your stomach. The sting from earlier still lingers on your butt, a dull reminder of his discipline. Your thoughts are spiraling until you hear the soft creak of your door. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

"Sweetheart." His voice is smooth, too soft, like he’s being careful with you. Like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. You exhale through your nose, feigning disinterest as you set down your brush. "Yes?"

A small, pleased hum. Then, the rustle of fabric. You glance over just as he pulls a small white pill from a container, holding it out between two fingers. "Here, take this," he says simply.

Your stomach twists as you eye it suspiciously. "What is it?" His gaze is steady. "Something mild. To help you sleep and ease your mind." Your pulse skips. The way he says it, it sounds so reasonable and normal. 

"I don’t need it," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "You do," Jin corrects gently, stepping closer. "You’ve been restless, overthinking and tense." Your fingers tighten in your lap. He’s not wrong, your head has been a mess. Too many conflicting emotions, too much guilt, too much…everything.

You don’t say anything. You just stare at the pill, hesitation thick in your chest. Then, he reaches out. His fingers brush against your chin, tipping your face up. The touch is light, almost affectionate, but his grip is firm. His thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw as he watches you closely.

"It’s mild," he murmurs, repeating himself. "Just enough to help." You know you shouldn’t take it. But…Your body is still weak from earlier, your mind is too clouded, and overwhelmed.

You part your lips. He hums in approval and places the pill on your tongue. His hand lingers, fingertips grazing your bottom lip, watching as you swallow. 

"Good girl." The words make something in your stomach twist. You don’t respond or look at him. Instead you turn over and lie down, pretending not to feel his eyes lingering on you. "Good night, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unwavering. Of course the door doesn’t close. Instead, he leaves it slightly ajar.

Your bedroom is silent, leep should come easily, but it doesn’t. Your body still aches faintly from earlier, from his hand. It lingers, even now. You shove your face into the pillow, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingles where he touched you.

Your mind drifts in and out, floating somewhere between waking and dreaming.

And then–

Tap.

Your brows furrow.

Tap. Tap.

Your breathing evens out, almost dismissing it.

Tap.

Your eyes snap open. For a moment, you just stare at the ceiling, confusion settling in. Then you hear it again. A small sound, a pebble hitting glass. Your window. You sit up, heart pounding as you look toward it, mind still sluggish from whatever Jin gave you. Your limbs feel oddly weighted, but you push the blankets off and stumble toward the window. Your hands tremble slightly as you press your fingers to the glass. And then you see him.

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon.

Standing outside, pebbles in hand, eyes locked on yours. Your breath catches. What the fuck is he doing here? You fumble with the lock, shoving the window open, cold air rushing in. Your heart is still racing, still struggling to keep up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hiss, voice hoarse. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sunghoon looks frantic. His eyes scan over you, taking in the pajamas you’re wearing, the dazed look in your eyes.

"I’ve been trying to reach you!" he whisper-shouts, voice urgent, desperate. "For weeks! What the hell is going on?" Your pulse pounds. Your fingers tighten on the window frame.

Now he’s showing up? After a whole month of silence? "Bullshit," you snap. "You didn’t even try." His face twists in frustration. "Are you serious?" His breath is ragged, his shoulders tense. "I left you over a hundred messages! I even went to your house!"

You blink. "What?"

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "Your parents told me you were fine, that you were focusing on school, that I should stop bothering you." His jaw clenches. "But when you weren’t answering. I knew something was wrong." Your stomach twists, your parents, of course.

"But I kept calling and texting you," he continues. His voice shakes a little, his fists clenching at his sides. "I swear."

The weird gaps in your messages. The way Jin always handed you your phone for only ten minutes at a time. The way Sunghoon’s name never showed up. Your body goes cold. Jin had been deleting his messages and calls. He’d been filtering everything, controlling everything.

Sunghoon sees your expression shift. His face hardens. "Tell me the truth. Are you okay?" No. No, you’re not okay. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight, your fingers gripping the windowsill. "Come down," he pleads, voice softer. "Please."

Your body moves before your mind can stop it. You shove your sneakers on, heart hammering, your hands shaking as you climb out onto the ledge. Your limbs still feel too heavy, too sluggish from the pill, but you push through it. Because for the first time in weeks, you’re making your own choice. You drop down, landing a little too hard on the ground, breath uneven. And then Sunghoon’s arms are around you. He pulls you in, crushing you against his chest, exhaling sharply. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

You feel his warmth. The way he’s solid, real. The way he smells like home. For a second, you want to cry. But you push it down. "Not here," you whisper. "Just, take me to your place." You don’t look back because you know that Jin is probably asleep, or worse, awake and waiting.

————-

The drive to Sunghoon’s place is a blur, your mind is racing. Your heart still pounds from the adrenaline of sneaking out, of running through the cold night air, of stepping into his car and telling yourself you made it. Sunghoon doesn’t speak much during the drive. His grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Concerned or maybe suspicion? But he doesn’t push.

When you step inside the apartment, something inside you loosens. It’s messy and lived-in. His parents are barely around, leaving a university student to manage the chaos on his own. Clothes are draped over a chair, half-empty cups sit forgotten on his desk, and his hoodie is tossed carelessly onto the bed, carrying the familiar scent of him. It feels so painfully normal.

Sunghoon watches you carefully. Then, after a beat, he picks up the hoodie and hands it to you. “Here,” he says simply. “You’re probably freezing.” You take it without thinking, slipping it on, the second his scent surrounds you, you suddenly feel like crying. You missed being yourself. You sink down onto his bed, fingers gripping the sleeves, stomach twisted in knots. Sunghoon sits beside you, watching. And then, finally, he speaks. "What’s happening? You’re scaring me."

Your throat tightens, you want to tell him. You want to spill everything, every twisted, fucked-up thing that has happened since your parents handed you over to him. And so, you do, at least, most of it. You tell him about the rules. The schedules. The punishments. You tell him how Jin has slowly taken every ounce of control away from you, how your parents barely checked in, how you haven’t even been able to contact him. But you don’t tell him about the other things. About Jin’s hands. About his voice in your ear, his breath on your skin. You can’t. The guilt is too thick, the shame crawling under your skin like a parasite. 

Sunghoon listens in horrified silence. And when you finally stop talking, he looks furious. “That’s fucking insane.” His voice is sharp, unsteady. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow. You’re staying here.” But the second he says it, you snap. Because he makes it sound so easy. Like you can just walk away. Like you can undo everything with one night away. Like he understands what you’ve been through.

Your frustration creeps in, clawing up your throat. You shove your hands into your lap, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "I need something," you say suddenly. Sunghoon frowns. "What?" You hesitate. Then, carefully, "The pills. Do you still have them?" His expression darkens immediately. "Babe, no. You don’t need that shit. Not after everything you just told me.”

"Please, Sunghoon." Your voice shakes. “Just this once. I just need to clear my head.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Are you serious right now? After everything he’s done to you, you want to–”

"You don’t understand!" You snap. Sunghoon freezes, blinking at you. "You think this is easy? You think I can just leave and pretend like nothing happened? That I can just go back to normal?" He looks at you, pained. “I’m trying to help you!” 

"No, you’re not! You’re just like everyone else, you don’t get it. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re not even–" You choke on your words. Sunghoon reaches for you, softer now. “Babe, please, just breathe.” But you jerk away. "You’re not listening to me!"

He grabs your wrists, firm but careful. "Stop," he says, voice low, desperate. "I won’t let you do this to yourself." But it’s not the help you need. It’s not what you asked for. Your vision blurs. Your body feels too tight, too hot. You just need something to stop it. You wrench away, voice cracking. "You’re just like him!" The second the words are out, you regret them.

Sunghoon’s entire face changes. Hurt. Shock. Betrayal. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his breath shallow. Then, his expression hardens. "You don’t mean that," he says quietly. But you do. Because he’s keeping you from what you need, just like Jin did. The room feels too hot, the walls closing in.

"Fuck this," you breathe, pushing yourself off the bed. You turn away, stepping out of his bedroom, trying to get air. Sunghoon follows immediately, his footsteps heavy behind you. "Babe, wait! Just stop for a second!" But you don’t stop.

The anger, the frustration, the suffocating weight in your chest, it’s too much. It’s clawing at your ribs, burning at the edges of your vision. You move past the kitchen, your fingers barely grazing the countertop as you steady yourself, your head pounding.

Sunghoon grabs your wrist, desperate. "Listen to me, please, just calm down!" His voice is distant, blurred. Your body feels too hot. Your vision swims, flickering between black and red. Sunghoon’s grip tightens, trying to ground you. "You’re not okay. You need to sit down, babe please."

But you wrench away. And then–

Darkness.

————-

The first thing you register is the cold.

The second is the weight in your hand.

Your fingers are stiff, wrapped around something hard, slick.

A knife?

Your pulse skips. Your breath is ragged, uneven. The world is a blur of dull yellow light and shadows.

And then you see him.

Sunghoon.

Lying on the kitchen floor.

Still. Silent. A pool of red spreading beneath him.

Your stomach lurches violently, nausea slamming into you.

Your grip on the knife tightens, a fresh streak of warmth slipping between your fingers. Your hands, your hands are covered in it.

Blood. His blood.

Your pulse pounds against your skull, your mind fighting against itself, against the scene in front of you.

No. 

No, no, no.

You were arguing. You were angry. And then, darkness.

And now. Sunghoon is dead.

The knife is in your hand. Your vision tunnels, a sharp ringing in your ears as the weight of reality crashes down.

Did you? Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, your body shaking so violently it hurts.

You stare at him, unblinking, willing him to move. To wake up. To breathe. But he doesn’t. He never will again. Sunghoon’s blood is on your hands.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your body is trembling, your heart slamming against your ribs, your vision blurring from the sheer force of your panic. Your mind screams at you to fix this, to undo it but you can’t.

Because it’s real, it’s happening. Because you did this.

Your stomach churns violently. A sob claws up your throat, strangled and sharp, but you clamp your hand over your mouth, suffocating it before it can break free.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, and your entire body is locked in place, frozen, broken, unable to comprehend what you’ve done.

A shuddering breath rips through you, your hands trembling so violently you can’t even lift them properly. What do you do? What the fuck do you do?

This will ruin you. This will destroy your life. Your family’s reputation. Your future. You were already a screw-up. A burden. A disappointment. But this? This is irreversible.

The only person, your boyfriend, the one you had a real relationship with, is dead. Because of you.

Your frantic gaze flickers around the room, searching for anything. And then, your eyes land on Sunghoon’s pocket. His phone. Your throat tightens, and your breath stutters. You reach out, your fingers barely cooperating, slick with blood. You have to force yourself to dig into his pocket, ignoring the way his body feels wrong, lifeless, and unnatural.

You pull out his phone, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Who do you call? Who could possibly–

Your hands shake violently as you swipe at the screen, barely able to focus. You don’t even process the number you’re dialing, your brain malfunctioning, glitching, operating on pure survival instinct.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then–

A click.

A deep, smooth familiar voice. 

"Hello?"

You suck in a sharp breath as your vision is blurring.

Your body breaks. Your lips part, and when you speak, your voice is nothing but shattered glass.

"Jin…"

A sob threatens to swallow you whole.

"I need help."

The words slip out before you can even process them. There’s a long pause.

And then, his voice. 

"Sweetheart where are you?" He calmly asks. 

You choke back another sob, your fingers tightening around the phone.

"S-Sunghoon’s," you whisper. "I- Jin, I think I–"

You can’t say it. You won’t say it. But Jin doesn’t ask. "Stay where you are." The line goes dead. And you do nothing but sink to the floor, your body curling in on itself as the reality claws at your throat. You don’t move for what feels like an eternity, frozen until the door finally creaks open, you already know it’s him.

Jin doesn’t hesitate. Not when he sees the blood, not when he sees Sunghoon’s lifeless body. Not even when he sees you, broken, shaking, drowning in your own guilt. He kneels in front of you, movements measured, deliberate. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp cheek. Gently and carefully. 

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice is so soft. Too soft. Like he’s comforting a child. Your breath shudders, your pulse erratic, your entire body frozen. Your hands stained with blood, Sunghoon’s body cooling beside you. Your mind spins, scrambling for reason, for a single explanation that makes sense but there’s nothing. Just pieces that don’t fit, memories that won’t come together. 

“I, I don’t–”

"Shhh." His hands find your wrists, firm but not forceful, enough to still you, enough to make you look at him. His eyes are steady as he’s pulling you in, swallowing you whole. "Do you trust me?"

The question slams into you. It shouldn’t be hard to answer. You should say no. You should run. You should fight. But you don’t trust yourself. Your gaze drops to your bloodstained hands, to the mess on the floor, to Sunghoon lying still, his face frozen in something between shock and horror.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Your throat tightens, nausea curling in your stomach. Slowly, weakly, you nod. "Yes." Jin exhales, relieved, like he already knew what you’d say. His fingers smooth over your skin, grounding you, coaxing you further into his grip. "Good girl."

He tilts your chin up, his thumbs pressing into your jaw, keeping you still, keeping you his. "Listen to me, sweetheart. He was going to kill you."

Your chest tightens. Your lips part, but you don’t deny it. Because Sunghoon wouldn’t let you leave. Because Sunghoon grabbed your wrists. But Sunghoon wouldn’t have killed you. Would he?

"Say it."

Your voice barely scrapes past your lips. “He was going to kill me.”

Jin nods, pleased.

"He was obsessed with you."

The texts, the calls, the pleading, the way he kept trying to reach you, through your parents, through Jin. You thought it was love. Maybe it wasn’t. But you know it wasn’t like that. But if you don’t say it, if you don’t repeat it, if you don’t let him rewrite it, then you’re left with the truth. And the truth is worse.

“He was obsessed with me.”

Jin leans closer, his voice softer, soothing, the final push.

"It was self-defense, angel."

Your stomach twists. Your body sways, unsteady, unraveling. You know it wasn’t.

"Say it."

The blood on your hands. The fight. The darkness. The emptiness. You don’t remember. You don’t know what’s real anymore. If you don’t say it, then the only truth left is that you killed him. 

“It was self-defense.”

Jin smiles, slow, approving. His hands slide to your shoulders, solid and reassuring.

"You had to do it."

Your pulse pounds.

"I had to do it."

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, a fleeting touch, a reward.

"That’s my good girl."

Something inside you fractures. You should feel horror. You should fight the weight settling over you. But his words sink in too easily. They make sense. They fit.

Because if they don’t, if none of this is true, then you are something so much worse.

And Jin looks proud. Like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted. Like you belong to him, now more than ever. And deep down, in the darkest, most twisted part of you, you know you owe him everything.

————-

Jin’s penthouse is grand, perfectly arranged, the kind of luxury you've always known. Your mother sits across from you, a glass of wine cradled in her manicured fingers. Your father stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, swirling his whiskey, gaze distant, detached. Their presence should be comforting, but it never has been.

Jin sits beside you, silent, composed, present. His warmth is closer than it should be, his leg pressed subtly against yours. His hand rests on your thigh, fingers curling just slightly, a touch you didn’t ask for. A quiet reminder that you belong here, that this moment is already decided.

Your mother exhales, shaking her head, her lips pursed. "How did it come to this?" She’s not talking about you. She’s talking about him. About Sunghoon. "That boy was always…unstable." She tilts her glass, watching the liquid swirl before lifting it to her lips. "But this? This is disgraceful." Your stomach twists. Disgraceful, not tragic, or heartbreaking. Just inconvenient.

Your father sighs, finally turning towards you. His expression is unreadable, cool. "This is why we trusted Dr. Kim." He gestures vaguely in Jin’s direction, as if his presence alone explains everything. "We knew you needed guidance. That boy was a distraction. A liability. You’re lucky we acted when we did."

Lucky. Your fingers clench in your lap. Jin’s grip on your thigh tightens. Just enough to warn. "It’s a shame," your mother continues, voice smooth, apathetic. "But what matters is that it’s handled. Dr. Kim, you’ve been… invaluable."

Jin finally speaks, his tone calm, assured. "I only did what was best for her." His fingers stroke your thigh, slow and possessive, hidden beneath the table. Your mother nods approvingly. "And what’s best for our family." Your father hums in agreement. "We can’t afford another scandal. This was a close call." A close call. Your chest feels tight, your breath shallow.

"We’ll be returning to the city tomorrow," your mother announces, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s no reason for us to linger." No reason to stay. Because they weren’t really here for you. They never have been. 

You swallow, voice hoarse when you finally speak. "And me?"

Jin’s thumb presses on your thigh, just a little, just enough. Your father raises a brow, like the question itself is ridiculous. "You’ll stay here, of course. Under Dr. Kim’s care." Of course. The words sink like a stone in your stomach. "We’ve already made the necessary arrangements," your mother adds, giving you a placating smile. "He has done such a wonderful job, hasn't he? You wouldn’t want to… regress."

Jin hums beside you, low and indulgent, the sound curling around your spine like silk. He slightly smirks at you.“No,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing absent patterns against your thigh, pressing in just slightly. “She wouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens because you understand. This isn’t just an arrangement. It’s a decision that was never yours to make. This is final and there’s no escaping it now.

Your mother stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress. "I trust you’ll be good for Dr. Kim. Don’t cause him any trouble, dear." You nod, a mechanical motion. Jin smiles beside you, fingers trailing just a little higher, a silent promise. 

Your parents leave without a second glance. And then, the door clicks shut. Silence. Jin exhales slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s been waiting for this. "Alone at last." Your breath shudders, because now, there’s nothing left between you and him. No distractions, no witnesses. Just the lie, the truth, and him.

You should run. You should fight. You should do anything other than just stand here as he steps closer, as his warmth sinks into you, as his fingers softly trail up your arm, making your breath catch. "You did so well, darling." His voice is softer than it should be. Gentle. Coaxing. Like he’s rewarding you. His fingers trace higher, brushing over your jaw, tilting your chin up. The movement is slow, deliberate, a reminder that you don’t belong to yourself anymore.

"You’re home now," Jin murmurs, his thumb stroking lightly over your bottom lip. "And you’ll never leave again." The words sink into your skin, into your bones, seeping through every crack until there’s nothing left untouched by him. His touch is so warm, so careful, so unlike anything you’ve ever been given before from anyone.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and there’s something so indulgent in his tone. His fingers tighten, pressing just enough to make you feel small. "You’re already melting for me."

Your breath shudders, your pulse is too fast. Jin hums, pleased. "Good girl." Then, he kisses you. Soft and slow. Like he has all the time in the world to break you apart. His lips against yours, teasing, coaxing, tasting. You shouldn’t let him. You should fight, should push him away, but you don’t. Your fingers twitch against your sides, your body betraying you, wanting something you don’t understand.

Jin feels it. "You’re still tense," he murmurs against your lips, his hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down. "That’s okay, sweetheart." His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. "I’ll take care of it." 

His hands move slower than they should, like he’s savoring every second, every reaction. His fingers dance up your sides, memorizing the way your breath hitches. "Tell me you need me, angel." His voice is a whisper, a command in disguise.

Your throat tightens, you shouldn’t. But the way his fingers curl against your waist, the way his breath skims the shell of your ear, warm and patient and devastating. You break. "I need you."

Jin exhales, satisfied. "That’s my good girl." Then, he pulls you into him completely. His arms wrap around you, firm, trapping you in a cage of warmth and control. His lips press to your temple, then your cheek, then your throat, slow and possessive, like he’s marking you.

"You belong to me now, darling," he murmurs against your skin. "And I’m never letting you go." His hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down, controlling you.

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. He loves this. The way you shudder under his touch. The way your breath catches in your throat, like you already know there’s no escaping him. Like you don’t even want to. "It’s okay sweetheart, I’ll take care of it," he soothes, voice low and indulgent. 

Then, he shifts. Before you can react, Jin moves, smoothly sinking into his office chair. And he takes you with him. His hands find your waist, pulling you back against him, trapping you in his lap. Your body presses against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you right where he wants you. The leather creaks beneath you, a quiet sound swallowed by the weight of his presence. The position is intentional. 

One of his hands drags up your thigh, hooking it over his own, spreading you open. A quiet, helpless sound slips from your lips. He exhales, deep and satisfied, lips brushing against your temple. "There we go." His fingers glide lower. Slow. Teasing. Until he reaches your core. Your breath catches. Your body stiffens. But Jin? He just smirks. Because you’re already soaked. 

His fingers slowly graze over your folds. And when you shudder, thighs trembling against him? He chuckles. A low, pleased sound that sends a sharp pulse of heat curling through you. Jin tilts his head slightly, his lips grazing your ear, his voice dipping into something darker, something cruel. "You’re already so wet, sweetheart."

His lips drag down, pressing slow, possessive kisses along the curve of your jaw, down to your throat. His breath is warm and patient. "Such a needy little girl." Another kiss. Deeper this time. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, branding you.

"Good thing you have daddy here to help you." His free hand tightens around your thigh, spreading you further, ensuring you feel just how helpless you are against him. His lips ghost over your pulse point, feeling how fast, how desperate it beats just for him.

He exhales a quiet "hmm," letting the moment stretch, savoring your helplessness. Then, with a smirk against your skin, his voice dips, soft and devastating.

"How about another medical check-up, my pretty girl?"

[lovelyspring7]

so excited to read cede to madness!!!! Thanks for posting it!

Ahh I’m so excited to know what you think!!🙂‍↕️💖

[lovelyspring7]

Cede to Madness | Jin x Reader

Preview: You were never supposed to fall apart. The perfect grades. The perfect future. The perfect, empty life. But perfection has a cost. The pills helped, until they didn’t. Your parents had a solution. Dr. Kim. A composed, disciplined psychiatrist. A man who demands obedience. Because in his world, the only choices that matter are his.

Word count: 25k

Genre: Yandere, Psychological Thriller.

Pairing: Psychiatrist Jin x Bratty University Student (F!Reader), Boyfriend Enhypen Sunghoon (Minor Involvement)

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Yandere, smut (forced orgasm, fingering, edging, spanking, daddy kink, power imbalance, overstimulation, praise kink, forced dependency), stalking, obsessive behavior, manipulation, coercion, controlling & emotionally abusive behavior, drugging, substance abuse, forced caretaking, brat-taming, medical control, gaslighting, psychological abuse, unaliveing, blood, panic attacks, 10+ year age gap.

Disclaimer: This type of content is not suitable for all audiences and I do not condone any of the presented behaviour. This is purely for entertainment and fictional purposes and I don’t think any BTS member would act like this.

Author's note: I’m so happy to finally share this!It’s been in my drafts for so long. I’m not completely happy with it and wish I had spent more time on it, but I felt like it was time to let it go. I hope you enjoy it, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts.💜✨

Banner Credit: By the amazing, talented, and incredible! @eerieedits

Your vision blurs, the words on the exam paper twisting out of focus. You blink, hard, but the fog won’t clear. The clock ticks louder, slicing through the silence, drilling into your skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time slipping away.

You’ve prepared for this, nights without sleep, Adderall keeping you sharp when your body begged for rest. Highlighters bled across pages, notes underlined frantically, but now, under fluorescent lights, nothing sticks. The questions you’ve memorized a thousand times slip through your fingers.

Your chest tightens. The air is thick and suffocating. Your hands tremble coated in sweat, as the pen is slipping in your grip, leaving dark smudges on paper. It’s too hot. Too loud. The whispers of scribbling students, the scratch of pens, the relentless ticking, it all crashes into you at once.

Focus. Breathe. Focus. But the air won’t come. Your pulse pounds, erratic, drowning out everything else. The letters blur, ink smearing into shapeless nothing. Have you answered anything? One question? Ten? None?

Nausea twists through you. You grip the desk, but the room tilts. The lights sear into your skull. The roaring in your ears grows louder.

Then, the pen slips from your fingers. A sharp clatter. And just like that, everything goes dark.

————-

Your eyes flutter open, and the world slowly comes into focus. Harsh, sterile lights blind you momentarily, and you squint, trying to make sense of where you are. The last thing you remember is the exam, the words blurring, your heart racing, the pen slipping from your hand. Now, everything feels distant, like you’re waking up from a bad dream.

You hear the faint beeping of a monitor nearby, steady and rhythmic. Voices murmur softly around you, clinical and detached. You blink, forcing your eyes to adjust, and see the nurse standing over you, checking your IV. “You’re awake,” she says, offering a polite, professional smile. “How are you feeling?” You open your mouth to speak, but your throat feels dry. “Where… where am I?” you finally manage to croak out.

“You’re at the hospital,” she replies, her tone gentle, “you had a bit of a scare during your exam, and they brought you in. You’ve been under a lot of stress, haven’t you?”

Your mind spins, trying to piece everything together. The panic, the pressure, the Adderall you took before the exam…gosh the exam. “Where are my parents?” you ask, your voice cracking. The nurse hesitates, and you see it in her eyes before she even speaks. “They were notified,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “But they weren’t able to come. I’m sure they’ll check in with you later.”

You should have expected it, but that doesn’t make the sting any less sharp. Of course, they didn’t come. They probably had meetings, clients, something more important than showing up for you.“I’m fine,” you say, even though your voice is barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to get out of here.”

“We need to make sure you’re stable first,” she replies, still smiling, but it feels forced, like she’s trying to keep you calm. “The doctor will be in soon to talk to you. They just want to make sure everything is okay.” You lie back, staring at the ceiling. A moment later a doctor walks in, flipping through a chart as he approaches your bed. “I’m Dr. Lee,” he says, not looking up at first. “How are you feeling now?” You force a smile, even though it feels like your face might crack. “I’m okay. Can I leave?”

He finally looks up, his expression unreadable. “We need to talk about what happened. Your professors mentioned you’ve been under a lot of pressure, and the initial tests indicate you’ve been using Adderall. Are you prescribed this medication?”

Fuck. “I must've taken it by mistake, I meant to take ibuprofen,” you lied, your voice small. He nods, almost disappointed. “Taking medication without a prescription can be dangerous, especially if you’re using it regularly. We’re concerned about your well-being, and we’d like to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

You feel your heart start to race again, panic bubbling up inside you. “I’m fine. I can handle it,” you insist.“I’m sure you’re trying your best,” he says, his tone soft but firm. “But stress, lack of sleep, and using unprescribed medication can lead to serious health issues. We’re going to keep you here for a little while longer, just to make sure you’re stable.”

“What does that mean? How long?” you ask, panic creeping into your voice. “Just overnight, for observation,” he replies. “And then we’d like to set you up with a psychiatrist who specializes in cases like yours. Dr. Kim is very experienced in treating stress, anxiety, and… substance use. We think he can help you get back on track.” You want to argue, but the words die in your throat. You nod like you're on board. For now that's enough.

————-

Early the next morning, a nurse gently taps on your arm to wake you. Another round of blood pressure checks, a perfunctory nod from the attending physician, then you’re free to go. No fanfare, no concerned parents at your side. You gather your things in a plastic hospital bag, feeling more exhausted than ever.

As you push open the hospital’s double doors, a brisk breeze hits your face, making you shiver. A sleek, black sedan idles at the curb. You ignore your driver, not feeling like having a conversation. Your boyfriend Sunghoon is still busy with lectures or something else he hasn’t bothered explaining. The last text you’d sent him about your meltdown and hospital stay got a half-hearted “Shit babe. You ok?” You scroll past it quickly, having no energy bothering. 

Your home is a grand, meticulously manicured house that stands like a monument to success, a shiny cage that feels emptier with each step you take. A lone housekeeper greets you at the door with a polite nod, then disappears into the kitchen. No one asks how you’re doing. You head straight for your room. It’s neat, borderline sterile, just how your parents like it. The queen-sized bed remains perfectly made, a glossy row of trophies and certificates line one wall, testimonies to past achievements. 

A stack of study notes and textbooks dominates your desk, reminding you of the exam you never finished. A lump forms in your throat, but you choke it down. Focus. You open your notebook, only to find the pages swimming again, the words meaningless. That same rising panic claws at your chest, but you slam the notebook shut. Taking a shaky breath, you tell yourself it’s just the aftershocks from the hospital stay, nothing more.

Later that evening, there's a soft knock at your door. The housekeeper’s voice follows. “Miss? Your mother is on the phone.” You swallow, steadying yourself before responding. “Okay.” The door opens just enough for her to slip the phone into your hand. Your fingers tighten around it as you lift it to your ear, heart already sinking. “Hello?” 

“Finally,” your mother’s cool, precise tone crackles over the line. “I’ve been hearing about your little…outburst.” You flinch at her choice of words. “I’m- I’m fine,” you say, forcing composure. “Where are you?”  

“Tokyo,” she answers briskly, as though one word is enough to explain everything. “Your father and I have important clients to entertain. We’ll return next month, once this expansion deal is finalized.” Your pulse drums in your ears. Next month. Of course. “That’s…good,” you manage, hollow words sticking to your tongue. “But I’m really okay. The hospital just wanted–”

“I spoke with Dr. Lee,” she cuts you off, “and I know they’ve sent you to some psychiatrist, Dr. Kim, is it? If this is what it takes to keep everything under control, fine. But you must understand, this sort of behavior draws attention, the wrong kind of attention. Have you thought about how this might look for our family?” Your heart clenches. Of course. It always comes down to the family name. “Mom, I–”

“We’ve all had rough patches, dear,” she interjects, voice dripping with a thin veneer of sympathy. “But you need to be more discreet. There’s no need to make a spectacle of yourself.”  

Heat floods your cheeks, anger, humiliation, shame all tangling together. “I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you say, biting back the words you really want to hurl at her. A slight pause, then, “Your father doesn’t want this overshadowing our business deals. It’s unacceptable. Do whatever you must, therapy, medication, just keep it under control.” Her tone softens by a fraction. “If you need anything–”

“I’ll ask, thanks” you say flatly, already knowing how this dance goes: polite concern, empty promises, no real action. “Yes, of course dear. Take care.” The line clicks off, leaving you with the echo of her disapproval. You place the phone on your desk, your throat tight with the realization that no one is going to swoop in and fix your life for you, especially not the people who care more about their public image than your well-being.

————-

You walk into Dr. Kim’s office with your arms tightly crossed, half-wishing you’d never woken up this morning. The waiting room was bad enough, some soft instrumental music and a bunch of motivational posters about “hope” and “resilience” that make you want to gag. 

He rises from behind his mahogany desk. He’s tall, with a neat haircut, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and the kind of warm smile you’d personally immediately want to distrust. A crisp white coat drapes over his tailored charcoal suit, making him look more like a sharply dressed businessman than the psychiatrist he is.

“Good morning,” he says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’m Dr. Kim. You must be–”

“Yeah,” you cut him off, collapsing into the chair. “Let’s skip the intros. You already know who I am.” He blinks once, unfazed. “Very well. How are you feeling today?”

“How am I feeling?” You force out a short laugh. “Well, I was doing great until my parents decided I needed to see a shrink.” You toss your hair over your shoulder. “But hey, guess it’s your lucky day. You get me as a client.” Dr. Kim doesn’t rise to the bait. He simply takes a seat across from you, flipping open a sleek notepad. “I understand you had a health scare recently, passing out during an exam?”

“Anxiety, dehydration…whatever.” You wave a dismissive hand. “They’ll call it anything as long as it sounds dramatic.” You roll your eyes. “I’m fine now.” His calm gaze settles on you. “Are you, though?” You shrug. “Does it matter? My parents want me ‘fixed’ so I don’t embarrass them again, so here we are. Let’s get this over with.” You hate that the question pokes a sore spot, but you won’t show it. 

He jots down a note. “That must feel quite pressuring, having to live up to certain expectations,” he says. “Wow, you’re good,” you say sarcastically. “Is that your professional opinion?” He sets the pen down and meets your eyes. “I’m here to help you, not to judge or label you. I’d like to understand what leads you to feel so overwhelmed that you–”

“I told you, I’m not overwhelmed,” you cut in, sinking further into the plush chair. “I just…had a bad day.”

“Mm,” he hums noncommittally, flipping to a fresh page on his notepad. “Well, if you’re open to it, I’d like to talk about some strategies that might help with stress, so that these ‘bad days’ don’t catch you off guard again.” You snort. “Strategies? Like what, bubble baths and journaling my feelings?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “There are many approaches. Sometimes it’s breathing techniques or short mindfulness exercises that help you regain control when you feel panic creeping in.”

“Mindfulness, huh? Because the solution to a meltdown is apparently inhaling and exhaling.” You tap your nails on the arm of the chair, letting your sarcasm drip. “Genius.” Dr. Kim doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans forward slightly. “I understand your skepticism. But in my experience, these methods can be surprisingly effective, if you give them a fair shot.”

Your gut reaction is to roll your eyes again, but something in his steady voice makes you hesitate. Instead, you clear your throat. “Yeah, well, I’m only here because I was basically threatened with more hospital visits if I didn’t show. So, sure, let’s hear your miracle cures.”

He nods once. “For starters, I’d like you to try a simple grounding exercise each day. It might feel silly at first, but it’s a way to calm down when stress builds up.”

“Right. Calming down. Cool,” you say flatly, gaze drifting to the office clock. There’s still twenty minutes left of this session, an eternity. “Anything else, Doc?”

“We’ll also discuss your academic load. Dr. Lee mentioned you’re taking advanced courses?” You glare. “Yeah, all the advanced midterms, plus some super-fun extracurriculars I don’t even like. Gotta make Mom and Dad proud.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility,” he observes, making another note. “How often do you get any time to yourself?” You give a short laugh. “I don’t. My free time is basically caffeine-fueled cram sessions. I’m a well-oiled machine, apparently.” He meets your gaze again. “Until the machine breaks down.”

“Wow, so wise,” you say with a theatrical sigh, though his words strike a nerve. “This session is a blast, Dr. Phil- I mean Dr. Kim. Can I go now?”

He checks the time politely. “We still have a few minutes. Tell me, are there any hobbies or interests you have outside of your studies?” Your nostrils flare in annoyance, you just want to be done. “I like to sleep, which I haven’t done in forever. But sure, maybe I’ll pencil in ‘find a hobby’ between courses.”

He offers a small, understanding smile. “Sleep is important, too. We’ll work on helping you find more balance.” You open your mouth to lob another snarky remark, but he’s already rising from his seat. The session is ending, whether you like it or not.

He hands you a small paper with “Mindfulness Tips” printed on it. “Please consider trying these at least once a day. Even five minutes can make a difference.” You take the paper with exaggerated reluctance. “Thank you,” he says, and he actually seems sincere. “We’ll pick up from here next time. Same day and time next week.” You scoff. Unless you find a way to skip out you thought, heading for the door.

As you head toward the exit, your gaze flicks to the reflection on the glass door behind you. There he is, Dr. Kim, standing in the threshold of his office, one hand lightly resting on the doorframe. He’s watching you leave, his posture poised, his expression unreadable. You jerk your head away, quickening your pace as though that can wipe the image from your mind. You hate it. You hate that he’s so calm. You crumple the mindfulness handout in your grip and toss it into your bag, already planning to ignore it.

Once you’re outside, the late afternoon sun hits you like a spotlight. Your phone vibrates in your pocket. A quick glance reveals a text from Sunghoon:

hey babe, heard ur out of the hospital.

this lecture is boring. kill me now.

A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. That’s just so…him, dramatic, offhand, almost clueless. But the fact that he reached out again after you had ignored his previous text sparks a little warmth in your chest, a reassuring reminder that he’s still there. Sure, it’s not the most heartfelt check-in, he’s trying to keep it light in his own way. And right now, you’ll take it.

You clench the phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you contemplate how to respond. You’ve missed a ton of schoolwork in the time you were hospitalized, there’s no way you can let that pile up any further. You text back:

I’m out early. Meet me at your place? Need to catch up on uni stuff. Do you still have some of it?

Sunghoon’s reply is almost instant:

yeah, sure see u soon.

You allow yourself a small smile. You need this. At least, you’ve convinced yourself you do. Between the exam you fainted during and all the lectures you missed, there’s no way you can keep up without a boost. Your driver, stoic as always, hardly says a word when you tell him you’ve got a new destination. In the backseat, you drum your fingers on the armrest. The bag on your lap is heavier than usual, thanks to the textbooks you insisted on taking with you. Each one is a bitter reminder of the time you’ve wasted in therapy and in the hospital.

Sunghoon answers the door in his hoodie and sweats, casual, but you still catch the glint of an expensive watch on his wrist. He’s pacing with a textbook under his arm, hair slightly tousled, giving him that rich-kid-trying-too-hard look you know all too well.

“Hey,” he greets, stepping aside so you can come in. “You okay?” You force a light laugh, shrugging off your bag. “Never better.” You glance at the messy dining table, papers, flashcards, and half-empty coffee cups. “Someone’s been busy.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping his textbook onto a chair. “Midterms are coming. My mom’s already breathing down my neck.” You nod grimly. “Yeah.  My parents won’t settle for anything less than perfection, and I’ve already lost too much time.”

Sunghoon grabs a fresh cup of coffee from the counter, still steaming, and hands it to you. “Here. This might help.” You take a sip, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. But coffee alone isn’t enough anymore, and you both know it.

He clears his throat, glancing at your bag. “So… You asked if I still had some of it?” You hesitate, studying his face. “I didn’t want to assume,” you say quietly, “but I’m behind. Really behind.”

Sunghoon nods. “I’ve got a couple left.” He pulls a small orange bottle from a side table drawer. “We can split them, if that helps you catch up.” Your heart thuds in your ears. You shouldn’t feel relieved, but you do. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I'll just have one for tonight.” He presses a capsule into your hand, and you swallow hard. Guilt churns in your gut, but you can’t deny the spark of hope flickering in your chest. This will get me through.

The two of you collapse onto the couch, textbooks spread across your laps. For half an hour, there’s an almost peaceful silence, broken only by the scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of pages. Sunghoon quizzes you on missed lectures, summarizing bullet points faster than you can jot them down.

Despite the caffeine and the buzz in your bloodstream, your focus wavers. Hospital flashbacks… Dr. Kim’s too-calm voice… your parents’ disapproving silence. You force your eyes back to the text. Eventually, Sunghoon rubs at his eyes. “I’ve still got a paper due tomorrow. You okay if we call it here?”

You glance at the clock on your phone. Hours have passed, and your body vibrates with restless energy. “Sure,” you say. “I’ll keep going at home.” He gives your hand a quick squeeze. “Text me if you need more. Or… y’know, to talk about stuff.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. By the time you trudge through your front door, the pill Sunghoon gave you is coursing through your veins. Your mind feels sharper than it has in days, and you’re determined to make the most of it.

You race up to your room, flick on the desk lamp, and spread out your notes. On the way home, you had already been skimming through your textbooks in the car, mouthing key terms under your breath, flipping through flashcards with shaking fingers. But it wasn’t enough. Sleep can wait. You’ll cram until you’ve made up for every second lost.

Hours blur as you tear through lecture outlines, highlight textbooks, and scribble frenzied notes. Adrenaline and desperation fuel your pen, your pulse pounding in your ears. It’s only when your eyes burn and your fingers cramp that you realize you can’t go any further.

4:42 AM.

Your vision flickers, and your head droops toward the desk. You fight the urge to close your eyes, but exhaustion wins. The last thing you remember is the textbook pages swimming in and out of focus, your pen rolling out of your grip.

————-

Light filters through your curtains, too bright and too soon. You jolt awake at your desk, neck stiff, papers sticking to your cheek. Your phone alarm blares, merciless. A quick glance at your reflection in the mirror reveals dark circles under your eyes. The room tilts for a moment as you stand and your heart hammering. You grit your teeth, ignoring the dull ache in your temples.

You gather the scattered papers into your bag, trying not to notice how many are unfinished. In the back of your mind, you can feel a creeping dread, another day of lectures, another exam you’re not ready for, but you swallow it down. At least I got some work done, you tell yourself. At least I’m not wasting time. And with that, you hurry out, adrenaline spiking at the thought of facing another day of school, alone, exhausted, and no closer to escaping the pressure that put you in the hospital in the first place.

You stare blankly at your phone in the university hallway, the screen lighting up with a calendar notification:

Appointment with Dr. Kim at 4:30 PM.

Just seeing his name makes your stomach twist. You can picture his unwavering, calm smile and feel the weight of his clinical gaze. Not today, you decide, tapping “Dismiss” a little too aggressively.

You shove your laptop into your bag. You tell yourself you can’t waste any more time sitting in an office listening to breathing exercises. You’ve got papers, projects, exams, real problems that won’t wait. You shouldn’t feel guilty for skipping, but part of you can already imagine the look on his face if he finds out.

At last, the car pulls into your driveway. The house looms large and quiet, as it always does. You let yourself in, ignoring the echo of your own footsteps across the polished floors. Your housekeeper is nowhere to be found, probably running errands or lost in some other part of this cavernous place. You hurry up the stairs, heading straight for your room, the only space that feels even halfway yours. 

You shove your bedroom door open. Dr. Kim is there. Perched on the edge of your bed, white coat draped neatly over his lap, like he belongs there. Like this isn’t completely insane. Your breath catches, a sharp, choking gasp that barely makes it out. 

“What the hell are you doing here!?” you demand, your voice cracking as you shout. “This is my room, get out!”

He stands, expression measured and calm in a way that makes your skin crawl. “I was concerned,” he says softly. “You missed your appointment.”

You place both hands on your hips, trying to hide how badly they’re shaking. “Concerned? So you break into my house, in my bedroom!? What’s next, rummaging through my underwear drawer?”

His lips curve in that maddening half-smile. “Your housekeeper allowed me in. I asked to speak with you in private.” He nods toward your desk, cluttered with textbooks and crumpled notes. “It seems you’ve been under significant stress.”

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “No kidding. Now, out. Or should I call the police?” He lifts a small plastic cup from his coat pocket, the kind used in hospitals. “Before I go, we need to address your continued Adderall use.”  

Your heart skips a beat. “Continued? I told you, I’m not taking anything.” A lie that stings on your tongue, but you brazen it out. “You got no proof.” His gaze remains unflinching. “I wanted a urine test before, but considering the circumstances at the clinic, it wasn’t the right time. Now, given your symptoms and previous hospital records, I have to ensure you’re not putting yourself in danger.” 

He holds out the cup as if it’s the most normal request in the world. “Please provide a sample.” You scoff, loud and derisive. “Are you insane? No. Absolutely not.” You swat his hand away, glaring daggers. “I’m not peeing in a cup for you.”

Something dark flickers behind his eyes, but his voice remains eerily calm. “It’s part of your treatment, and you did consent to a full evaluation when you were first admitted. If you have nothing to hide–”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “This is harassment. My parents may have signed some forms, but I sure as hell didn’t.” You cross your arms over your chest, jutting your chin out. “So, do me a favor and get out. Or is this how you run your practice? Trespassing and forcing girls to--”

He sets the cup down on your nightstand, cutting you off with a deceptively gentle tone. “Let’s not be melodramatic. I’m concerned about your health, nothing more.”

Blood roars in your ears. You want to scream, to call the police or your parents, but you know exactly how that would go: they’d side with him. He’s the professional, after all. The mere thought fuels your fury.

“If you’re done creeping around,” you bite out, “leave. Take your stupid cup with you. I’m not doing a drug test like some addict.” He regards you for a moment, as if weighing his response. Then he steps closer, and you instinctively step back, refusing to give him any more ground than necessary.

“Skipping therapy is a mistake,” he says calmly. “You’re on a dangerous path, and I won’t be able to help you if you keep lying about your situation. And I won’t let you end up like the others.” You fold your arms tighter, nails digging into your skin. “Who said I want your help?”

For a second, you swear disappointment flits across his face. Then, without another word, he takes the cup from the nightstand, slipping it back into his coat pocket. He heads toward your door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be expecting you at the next session,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. “And if you refuse again, I’ll have to consider more… formal measures.”  

You maintain your scowl. “Is that a threat?” He doesn’t answer. He only pushes open the door and leaves with slow, measured steps, like he has all the time in the world.

The instant he’s gone, you slam the door and throw your bag against it for good measure, your heart banging against your rib cage. You’re furious, humiliated, shaken. Who does he think he is?

You collapse onto your bed, the imprint of his presence lingering. Your breath comes in short, angry bursts. You should study, or do something, anything. But all you can focus on is the empty space where that plastic cup sat, and the lingering echo of his final words. More formal measures. Just how far is he willing to go?

————-

The lecture finally ends, and a wave of relief rushes through you. You just finished the makeup exam that landed you in the hospital. You’re not entirely sure how you did, but at least it’s over. Sunghoon catches you on the campus staircase, a lazy grin on his face. “Hey, how’d it go?” You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Fine, I guess. Better than fainting in the middle of it.”

He laughs, though there’s a concerned edge in his eyes. “I bet. Hey, some friends are throwing a thing tonight, just a small get-together.” He tosses the phrase out like it’s no big deal, but you both know what “get-together” means among your crowd, booze, drugs, and the illusion of being invincible for a few hours.

You hesitate. A small voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re due for another session with Dr. Kim today. Last time you skipped, he turned up in your bedroom, insisting on a drug test. But you shove that thought aside. You’ve got a right to celebrate, damn it, especially after everything. “Yeah,” you say finally. “I’m in.”

Your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen to see a new message from an unknown number: 

Don't forget your session at 4:30 PM. It's important for your well-being. - Dr. Kim

You raise an eyebrow, irritation flaring. What’s wrong with him? Is he stalking you now? He needs to back off. He can’t make you come in. The memory of him sitting on your bed, demanding a urine sample, still makes your skin crawl. No. You won’t bend to his rules. You silence your phone entirely, letting Sunghoon drag you toward the parking lot. He’s already texting people, finalizing directions to the lavish penthouse party in the wealthy part of town.

By the time you arrive at the penthouse, the sun is sinking low, painting the skyline in pink and orange. The place is massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture, an expensive sound system blasting music loud enough to rattle your bones. A mix of your peers mingles about, dressed in trendy outfits, downing drinks from crystal cups like they’ve done it for years, probably because they have.

Some people greet you by name, offering half-hugs and cheers.

“Congrats on finishing that exam!”

“You look great!”

“Long time no see, heard you were in the hospital?”

Sunghoon steers you toward a corner sofa, where a makeshift bar is set up on a low table, a lineup of imported liquor bottles, along with an assortment of pills scattered in small dishes. Your stomach flips, but you force a confident smirk. A friend, Yunjin, presses a shot glass into your hand, her eyes glazed with that too-familiar party glimmer. “Drink girly!” she says, tossing her own shot back.

You clink glasses with Sunghoon and knock it back, the burn in your throat strangely exhilarating. Somewhere in your mind, a warning bell rings about mixing substances, but the temptation to let go for once is too strong. If you can handle Adderall, you can handle this…right?

Time slips by in a haze. The music thrums beneath your feet, and you catch fragments of conversation. People bragging about upcoming spring break trips, complaining about private tutors, flaunting expensive new gadgets. It’s the same old scene, entitled kids with too much pressure and too many resources.

At one point, you’re slumped next to Sunghoon on the sofa, a champagne glass in your hand. You don’t even remember what number drink this is. The Adderall in your system sharpens your focus just enough to keep you aware that you’re definitely crossing a line tonight, but your rebellious streak won’t let you slow down.

A girl drops beside you, giggling as she hands you something. “Try this,” she slurs, eyes half-lidded. “Relax… you deserve it.” You peer at the pills in her palm. Not Adderall, something else, stronger. For a moment, logic battles curiosity. The memory of Dr. Kim’s pointed questions, the looming threat of more tests, flickers through your mind like a neon warning sign. Then you down it anyway, chasing it with a sip of champagne.

It’s well after midnight when the party takes a turn. You’re seated on the kitchen floor, of all places, head buzzing, vision swimming. Sunghoon’s leaning against the counter, looking equally out of it, while some guy tries to call for more deliveries of food or drinks.

Then you hear it, a heavy bang on the front door, followed by shouts. For a second, your fuzzy brain thinks it’s the police. That alone makes your heart skip. As the party roars on, the door suddenly swings open without hesitation. Your pulse skyrockets. How did he find me? The rush of fear momentarily drowns out the alcohol coursing through your system.

Dr. Kim strides in effortlessly, exuding an air of authority that commands immediate respect. There’s no building manager or security to impede his entrance, like he owns the place. He spots you, and his face sets into a grim mask. He zeroes in on you, eyes dark with anger or concern? You can’t quite tell. “You missed our session again,” he states, low but audible. “I’m taking you home. Now.”

The next thing you register is being bundled into a car, you don’t recognise it. He gets in and you vaguely sense motion as he pulls away from the curb. “Let me go,” you slur, trying to push yourself up. But your limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. “Fuck…off, you…”

His gaze flicks over you, clinical, detached, yet somehow triumphant. “You’re in no condition to make decisions,” he says quietly. “I’ve already informed your parents. They've already signed.” You don’t fully grasp his words. The world tilts, and your eyelids droop. Signed? Signed what?

————-

The world swims back into focus in slow, disorienting waves. Your head throbs, and your mouth tastes like stale liquor. You blink your eyes open, only to realize you’re in your own bedroom, not the penthouse from last night’s party, and not some hospital ward either.

Sunlight spills through the curtains you forgot to close, forcing you to squint. Gradually, you become aware of a faint beeping sound. You shift your head and see an IV drip on a stand beside your bed, connected to your arm. Panic flutters in your chest. What is this?

A familiar voice speaks up, smooth and controlled. “You’re awake.” You turn, and there he is, Dr. Kim, sitting in a chair by your window, one leg casually crossed over the other. He’s not wearing his usual white coat, but a neatly pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint sheen of a watch on his wrist. He offers a half-smile.

“Wh- what are you doing in my house?” you croak, pushing yourself up against the pillows. Your head spins, stomach lurching. He rises, moving closer with an unhurried grace. “You don’t remember?” He tilts his head as if addressing a difficult child. “You skipped your session. Again. Instead, you ended up at a party, highly intoxicated and… let’s just say other substances were involved.”

Heat floods your cheeks as hazy flashes of the party, loud music, potent drinks, pills, it all stabs through your memory. "I removed you from that environment," He continues, his tone even, matter-of-fact. "Your parents have been fully briefed on the situation, and they have entrusted me with overseeing your care moving forward."

He glances at the IV drip. “That’s just a saline solution to help with your dehydration. Nothing more sinister, I assure you.” You try to tear the IV line from your arm, but he’s at your side instantly, his grip surprisingly firm. “You need fluids,” he says quietly, “so be still. For now.” Anger burns in your chest. “Why are you the one doing this? Where’s my mom and dad?”

“They’re not here,” he says, unbothered by your fury. “Business, as usual. They agreed it’s best if someone… qualified monitors you closely. In fact, they’ve signed all the necessary documents to ensure I can do just that.”

Your heart races. “What the hell does that even mean?” His eyes narrow, but his tone remains frustratingly calm. “It means your parents believe you need a more structured environment for the foreseeable future. You’ve been placed on medical leave from university. All your coursework will be completed at home, under my supervision.”

A suffocating sensation grips your chest. “I’m not… you can’t… it’s my house!”

“Yes,” he concedes, “and I’ll be here, too, for as long as it takes.”

“Excuse me,” you snap, yanking the blanket aside. “I can leave anytime I want.”

“Actually,” he says softly, “until I deem you stable, you won’t be going anywhere. Your parents gave me full discretion over your care.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a document, offering it to you. The official letterhead, your parents’ signatures, the words medical guardianship jump out at you. Your vision blurs, frustration and betrayal tangling in your gut. “They had no right-”

“They had every right,” he cuts in gently. “You’ve been technically hospitalized twice, you’re abusing stimulants, not going to your therapy sessions, and now you’ve added drinking and illicit substances. They’re concerned, and they’re trusting me to help you.”

Swallowing the panic clawing at your throat, you ball your fists. “I’m not letting you control my life. I’ll- I’ll call the cops.”

He arches an eyebrow, nodding toward your bedside table. Your phone is there, sure, but when you grab it, the screen shows no service, it’s been turned off or disabled. He shrugs. “Feel free to contact them if you like. But the minute they see the signed paperwork, they’ll understand I’m acting with their full support. No laws broken.”

Rage sparks hot tears at the corners of your eyes. You grip the sheets in frustration. “You think this is helping me?” He presses his lips together, as though considering. “I think you need structure,' he says smoothly. I’ll make sure you’re safe, well-fed, and keeping up with your coursework. You’ll still follow your curriculum, just here, under my supervision.”

He steps closer, pointing to the desk, where a new folder and some binders sit, neatly labeled with your courses. “You’ll have access to uni work provided by your professors. I’ll monitor your study hours. And if I even suspect you’re using Adderall or any other substance, I’ll administer tests on the spot.” Your stomach lurches at the memory of him demanding a urine sample in your own bedroom. “This is insane,” you say, voice trembling with anger and a flicker of fear.

His response is maddeningly calm. “It’s for your own good. You’ve proven you can’t handle the freedom you’ve had, so we’re stepping in to protect you from yourself.” He adjusts the IV drip, an unsettlingly competent motion for a psychiatrist. “Rest for now. When you feel steadier, we’ll start the new schedule.”

Despite your racing thoughts, your body is worn out from the party’s aftereffects. You slouch back against the pillows. “When I’m better,” you hiss, “I’m leaving.”

He exhales as if slightly disappointed by your rebellion. “You can try,” he says, “but we both know you won’t get very far. Your parents aren’t going to back you on this. The staff here has been instructed to follow my orders.” You stare at him, blood pounding in your ears. “So I’m just… stuck here with you?”

He offers a faint, almost sympathetic smile. “That’s one way to look at it. Another way is that we’re taking a much-needed step toward your recovery. I suggest you see it that way, life will be easier.”

He leaves you alone then, shutting the door softly behind him. A cold knot settles in your stomach as you take in your room, now a twisted parody of the sanctuary it once was. The IV in your arm is a tangible reminder that you’re no longer in control.

Your parents. Your home. This man you barely trust. All working together to keep you under control.

Though your mind screams at you to fight, the weight of your exhaustion presses down. You doze off once more, haunted by the knowledge that when you wake, nothing about your life will be the same for a while.

————-

The room feels colder as he sits beside you, the official documents laid out meticulously on your desk. His calm demeanor contrasts sharply with the storm of emotions brewing inside you. You glare at the papers, your frustration barely contained.

“Sweetheart,” he begins softly, using the nickname that both infuriates and unnerves you, “we need to set some ground rules to ensure your well-being and academic success.”

You scoff, crossing your arms defiantly. “Ground rules? What, are you trying to turn my room into a prison?” He sighs gently, understanding the resistance in your tone. “Not a prison, think of it as a structured environment to help you regain control over your life. Your parents and I agree that these measures are necessary.”

He points to the first document. “First and foremost, phone usage is restricted. Your phone will be under my supervision, and only authorized calls are permitted.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the sting of his control. “So, I can’t even have a simple conversation with my friends unless you say it’s okay? Typical.” He remains unfazed, maintaining steady eye contact. “It’s not about distrust. It’s about creating an environment conducive to your recovery.”

He moves to the next document. “Next, a bedtime routine. Lights out by 10 p.m. This ensures you get adequate rest, which is crucial for both your mental and physical health.” You snort, crossing your arms tighter. “Great, more rules to make my life miserable. What’s next, a curfew?”

He nods thoughtfully. “A curfew isn’t necessary since you’re under supervision here. However, waking up at 7 a.m. sharp is mandatory. Consistency helps regulate your body’s internal clock and improves overall productivity.”

He gestures to the following page. “Your study schedule is designed to balance academic work with necessary breaks. Overworking can lead to burnout, which we want to avoid. Each subject has designated times, and there are built-in breaks to relax and recharge.”

You sigh heavily, feeling the weight of the schedule pressing down on you. “So, you control every minute of my day. What about my friends? My boyfriend?” His expression softens slightly, but his tone remains firm. “Social interactions are important, but they need to be managed to ensure they don’t interfere with your recovery. We can discuss structured social activities that are supportive and healthy.”

He points to another rule. “No unauthorized visitors. If you wish to have someone over, it must be approved by me first.” You bite your lip, the sting of humiliation rising. “So, no more hanging out with my friends unless you say it’s okay? You’re seriously crossing boundaries.” He leans forward, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a temporary measure. Your parents and I believe it’s in your best interest. Trust me, this is for your own good.”

You push the chair back, standing abruptly. “Temporary? How long am I supposed to be your little project? I’m not a lab rat you can experiment on.” He remains calm, his expression composed. “This isn’t about experimentation. It’s about providing the support and structure you need to overcome your challenges. Resistance only prolongs the process.”

You glare at him, feeling a surge of anger and helplessness. “I don’t need your support. I need my freedom back.” He stands quietly, holding the stack of documents in his hands. “You have two choices, comply with these rules and work towards your recovery, or continue down this path of self-destruction, which will result in more severe consequences. Your parents are deeply concerned, and they trust me to guide you.”

You take a step closer, defiance burning in your eyes. “Yeah right. So what, you force me to follow your ridiculous rules? You’re nothing but a controlling freak.”

His expression remains composed, though his eyes reveal a flicker of disappointment. “I understand your frustration, but these measures are non-negotiable. It’s time to prioritize your health and future over immediate rebellion.”

Seeing the resolve in his eyes and the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you let out a bitter laugh. “Fine.” He nods, accepting your compliance without further comment. “That’s all I ask. Let’s start by reviewing your study schedule and setting up a plan for your first week.”

————-

Your door creaks open. You hear it before you see anything, and instinct kicks in. Your eyes snap open, darting to the alarm clock on your nightstand, 7:00 AM on the dot. Your alarm was set for 7:30.

Your brows knit together, confusion laced with irritation, as you bury your face deeper into the pillow. Maybe if you ignore it, it’ll go away. But the presence in the room is impossible to dismiss. You feel it, the weight of his gaze, the silent expectation pressing down on you.

“Time to wake up.” Your eyes barely crack open, a deep frown settling on your face as you roll onto your side. He stands near the doorway, dressed in his usual pressed attire, not a single hair out of place. He doesn’t look like a man who should be in your bedroom first thing in the morning.

Your voice is thick with sleep, irritated. “Do you seriously think this is normal? Waking me up like a damn five-year-old? I have an alarm.”

He doesn’t flinch at your hostility. If anything, he looks vaguely amused, like he expected this exact reaction. “You do,” he agrees. “And yet, I’m here.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, blinking at him. “Why?” His head tilts slightly. “Because I expect you to be dressed and ready for breakfast in thirty minutes.”

You stare at him, lips parting in disbelief. “Are you serious?” His expression doesn’t waver. “Deadly.”

A slow, infuriated breath hisses through your teeth. You look at your alarm clock on the nightstand, your alarm still set for 7:30, right where you left it. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. But of course, that doesn’t matter to him. Your schedule is his now.

“You know, normal people just knock,” you say, voice dripping with annoyance. “Or, here’s a wild idea, let people wake up on their own.”

His lips curve in the faintest, most condescending smile. “We’re not working on your version of normal anymore.” You glare at him, fingers twitching against the sheets. “This is so inappropriate.” He doesn’t bite. “You have twenty-eight minutes.”

And with that, he turns, walking out with the ease of someone completely unbothered by your frustration. The soft click of the door shutting feels like a slap to the face.

You fall back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, the reality of it all sinking in deeper. He’s really going to control everything. And this is only the beginning. Your alarm was set for 7:30. You were supposed to have thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes of peace. Of control. But he took that from you. A slow, deep breath hisses through your teeth as you sit up, kicking the blankets off a little harder than necessary. Fine. If he wants you up, then you’ll get up. But not on his terms.

You move sluggishly, deliberately. Not rushing. Not scrambling to meet his demands. If he wants control, he’ll have to wait. Dragging yourself into the bathroom, you take your time washing your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Tired. Hollow-eyed.

Your hair is a mess, but you don’t bother fixing it quickly. You let the seconds tick by, each movement unhurried. When you finally step into the shower, you turn the water to the hottest setting, standing under the scorching stream until your skin is flushed and your muscles are loose.

You towel off slowly, running your fingers through damp hair. Pulling on the most comfortable clothes you can find, you drag your feet back toward the door, taking another slow breath. The act is small, petty even, but it’s the only thing that feels like yours right now.

When you step into the hallway, you half-expect him to be standing right there, waiting. Ready to scold you. But he’s not. The house is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes downstairs. By the time you reach the dining room, he is already seated at the table, a plate set neatly before him. Another one sits across from him.

He doesn’t glance at the clock. Just gestures toward the seat across from him. “You’re late,” he says casually, sipping his coffee. Your jaw tightens. “By a minute.” His calm gaze lifts, “and yet, you’re still late.”

You sink into the chair, gripping your fork a little too hard. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Breakfast is simple, oatmeal with nuts, fruits and honey, yuck. He eats with quiet precision, every movement deliberate, like even his chewing is something he’s mastered.

You don’t eat right away. Your spoon idly stirs the oatmeal, dragging through the softened fruit, but you don’t take a bite. You’re waiting. Will he say something? Will he push you to eat?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his coffee cup and looks at you, his voice calm. “You’ll have study sessions from eight to twelve,” he begins, as if this is a normal conversation. “Break for lunch. Then another session until four. After that, we’ll go over your progress.”

You scoop up a spoonful of oatmeal and let it plop back into the bowl with a dull splat, unimpressed. “Do I get a say in any of this?” 

His lips curve slightly, not a smile. A reaction just enough to say, you already know the answer to that. “I think we both know your choices haven’t been particularly effective,” he says evenly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You set your fork down with a soft clink, leaning back in your chair. “Right. Because I’m such a disaster that I need a babysitter now.” He exhales slowly, as if he expected this conversation. “Because you need structure.” You scoff. “No. I need freedom.” He tilts his head slightly. “You had that. Look where it got you.” Your fingers tighten around the spoon. “Gosh, you sound like my parents.”

“They entrusted me to make the right decisions for you,” he reminds you, calm and steady. “That includes this schedule.” You glare at him, something hot twisting in your chest. “You think you can just...control me into getting better?” For the first time, something flickers behind his eyes, something deeper, something you can't make out. He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that makes your skin itch. “You’ll come to understand that this is what’s best for you.”

A shiver down your spine. He doesn’t just believe he’s controlling you. He believes he’s saving you. And that is somehow so much worse.

————-

By the time you reach the designated study room, a sleek, minimalist space that he arranged for you, the clock reads 8:02 AM. You make sure to glance at it, just so you can tell yourself, two minutes late. A tiny, invisible rebellion. 

But he doesn’t react. He’s already seated across from you, a thick leather notebook in front of him, pen poised between his fingers. Like he’s ready to observe. Your textbooks are neatly stacked on the desk. A fresh planner, not yours, is open beside them, a strict hour-by-hour study schedule written in his neat, clinical handwriting.

Revised Schedule

8:00 - 9:30 AM: Microeconomics Review 9:30 - 11:00 AM: Mathematical Economics & Calculus for Business 11:00 - 12:00 PM: Case Study Analysis & Financial Modeling 12:00 - 1:00 PM: Lunch 1:00 - 2:30 PM: Macroeconomics & Global Trade 2:30 - 4:00 PM: Investment Analysis & Risk Management 4:00 PM: Dr. Kim’s “Progress Review” 

No room for distractions. No flexibility. Just rigid, controlled structure. You drop into the chair with pointed sluggishness, flipping open your Microeconomics textbook like it’s a burden. His eyes track your movements, but he says nothing.

Fine. If he’s going to hover like some clinical stalker, you’ll just ignore him. You skim over market elasticity equations, but your brain refuses to cooperate. You’re supposed to be able to focus, but your body feels sluggish. Slower than usual. Too much sleep? No stimulants. His fault.

You frown down at the page, trying to force the numbers into place. The silence is suffocating. Then, his voice. “You keep hesitating.” Your fingers tighten around your pencil. “I’m thinking.” He hums, the sound so calm, so condescending that your jaw clenches. “No,” he says, flipping through his own copy of your textbook, “you’re frustrated.”

You exhale sharply, not looking at him. “Wow, thanks for the deep psychological insight.” He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he reaches across the desk and tilts your notebook toward himself. Before you can react, his fingers ghost over the problem you were stuck on. “You made an error here,” he murmurs, tapping the equation lightly with the tip of his pen. “And here.”

You hate how easily he finds your mistakes. How effortless it is for him to point them out, like he’s proving a point about your incompetence. “I was getting to that,” you mutter. “Of course,” he agrees, voice infuriatingly smooth. “But your frustration gets in the way. It always does.” You snap your notebook back, shooting him a glare. “You don’t have to sit here and babysit me. I can handle it.”

His gaze drags over you, slow and intentionally invasive. He leans back slightly in his chair, tilting his head, studying you with that same unsettling patience. “Can you?” Your breath catches, because that tone, that quiet, knowing taunt, doesn’t sound like he’s just questioning your academics.

Your grip on the pencil tightens. You don’t look at him, forcing your eyes back onto the textbook. Silence settles again, but this time it’s heavier. Like he’s waiting for something, like he’s amused and it makes you itch. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable, but his voice cuts through the quiet before you can settle. “You’re restless.” Your stomach tightens. “Maybe because you’re staring at me.”

A slow, almost lazy blink. He tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate, studying you. Then, with the faintest smirk curving his lips, he asks, “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Yes. You swallow, jaw clenching. “You’re making it impossible to concentrate.” There’s a beat of silence. Then, he exhales, a low chuckle beneath his breath.

Your eyes snap to him in disbelief. He’s full on smirking. A shiver runs down your spine. “What’s so funny?” He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he taps his fingers idly against the table, gaze never leaving yours. “You keep pushing back,” he muses, “but your body betrays you.”

The words send a sharp pulse through your veins. You freeze. “What the hell does that mean?” you snap. His smirk doesn’t waver. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Every time you resist, I can see it.” His fingers trail the edge of his pen, slow and deliberate. “The tension. The frustration. The way you react to my presence.” Your mouth runs dry. “That’s called annoyance.” His head tilts. “Is it?” There’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now. Less clinical. More intense? And you realize, he enjoys this. The push and pull. The fight. The fact that you’re so easily affected by him.

You push back your chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor as you stand. You need air. “I’m taking a break,” you mutter, already turning for the door. But before you can move, he’s already there. He doesn’t grab you. Doesn’t block you. He just stands, positioned just close enough to force you to stop. Your breath catches.

“You have another hour,” he reminds you, voice still too calm, too smooth. You swallow hard, looking past him. “Move.” He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in slightly, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne, the smell clean and crisp. “I wonder,” he murmurs, “how long you’ll keep pretending you don’t like this.” Your stomach drops. A sharp pulse shoots down your spine, your fingers twitching at your sides. No. No, he’s wrong. You don’t like this. You hate this. You hate him.

He knows that your pulse is racing. That your breath is shallow. That your body, despite every logical part of your brain, is too aware of him. And somehow, that makes him even more patient. Like he knows he doesn’t have to rush this. Because he’s already winning.

————-

By the time lunch rolls around, the tension from the morning has barely faded. The dining room is just as pristine as before, silent, controlled, suffocating. He is already seated when you walk in, a plate of steamed rice, grilled chicken, and vegetables set neatly at your spot. Boring. Predictable. Just like him.

You drop into the chair without a word, grip tightening around the fork as you push the food around your plate. Your appetite is nonexistent, but you don’t test him by refusing to eat. Not yet. Instead, you let the silence stretch. Let the minutes tick by, waiting. And then, without looking up, you say it. “How did you find me?” He doesn’t react right away. He finishes cutting a piece of chicken, lifting it to his mouth with calm precision, chewing slowly. Then, he finally speaks. “Find you where?”

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork with a little too much force. “At the party,” you clarify. “How did you know where I was?” He tilts his head slightly, wiping his mouth with a napkin before resting his elbows on the table. “You were at a party?”

Your glare sharpens. “Don’t do that. Don’t play dumb.” He exhales, leaning back against his chair. You keep your expression blank. “So what?” you push. “You just magically guessed where I was?” A slow blink. A small, knowing curve of his lips. “Your parents informed me.” Your stomach drops as you stare at him. “What?”

“They were notified that you hadn’t returned home,” he continued smoothly. “Your driver was waiting, but you never showed.” You freeze. Shit. You forgot about the driver. “They assumed you were at a party,” he added. “And given the list of events you and your friends have attended in the past, it wasn’t difficult to find the most likely location.” Your fingers tighten around your fork. “That’s insane.” He tilts his head slightly, as if considering. “Is it?”

You scoff. “You mean to tell me my parents just, what, handed you a list of places I might be?” A slight smirk plays on his lips. “They’re concerned about you.” You laugh, a dry, bitter sound. “They’re concerned about their image.” He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he sets down his utensils, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Regardless, their concerns led me to you.” Your pulse ticks up. You look away, pushing your food around the plate. “So what?” you mutter. “You tracked me down, dragged me home like some runaway child? You don’t see how creepy that is?”

He leans back slightly, studying you. “Would you rather I hadn’t?” The question is too calm. Too certain. You swallow, your throat suddenly dries. Because he’s waiting for an answer. Waiting for you to admit that maybe, just maybe, he had a point. You hate that you don’t have one. Instead, you exhale sharply, stabbing at a piece of chicken. “Next time, don’t bother.”

He hums. A sound of amusement, not agreement. Then, he gestures toward your plate. “Eat.” You hold his gaze for one more second. One more silent act of defiance. And then, you take a bite. Because, for now, it’s the only battle you can win.

————-

By the time the last study session ends, you’re beyond exhausted. Gosh do you miss taking the pills. Hours of microeconomic theory, financial analysis, and investment modeling have left your brain feeling like mush. You were hoping for a break. Maybe some alone time in your room, text Sunghoon, pretend you still have a life outside of this house. But of course, he has other plans.

“You’ll be spending the next hour engaging in a structured activity,” he informs you, as if he’s handing out some divine decree. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “What kind of activity?” He doesn’t answer right away, just motions for you to follow. He leads you into another empty room in this empty house, a sitting area, pristine and untouched, like it’s only there for decoration. A chessboard sits on the table, the pieces perfectly aligned, as if no one has ever played. 

You stare at it. “You’re kidding.” He takes his seat across from you, cool and collected. “Chess stimulates critical thinking. It will help improve your problem-solving skills.” You blink at him. “I’ve been solving problems all day. I’m not playing chess with you.”

His gaze lifts, slow, steady, unwavering. “I wasn’t asking.” The words sit heavy between you. You cross your arms, glaring at the board. “Fine,” you mutter, sinking into the chair. “But I’m not going to make it easy for you.” His lips curve slightly. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”

The first few moves are silent. The sound of pieces clicking against the board fills the air. At first, you play recklessly. Intentionally chaotic. Just to mess with him. He doesn’t react. He simply moves his pieces with calm, practiced efficiency. Every move is calculated and controlled. It’s infuriating.

Finally, after a few minutes of quiet strategy, he speaks. “You haven't texted Sunghoon.” You stiffen.Your hand hesitates over a piece. Slowly, you lift your gaze. “Excuse me?” His expression remains neutral, but there’s something lurking beneath it. Something satisfied?

Your fingers tighten around your knight piece. “Well I don't exactly have my phone, do I? Also, did you check my phone?” You ask accusingly. He tilts his head slightly, the movement as lazy as it is intentional. “I wouldn’t call it checking.” He picks up his queen, placing it in a dominant position on the board. “Your screen lit up. It was hard to miss.”

He hums, not denying it. Instead, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping low. “Your move.” You shove your knight forward aggressively, knocking one of his pawns off. He barely spares it a glance before speaking again. “You seem… distracted.”

You scoff. “Yeah, maybe because you’re talking about my boyfriend while playing chess like some psycho in a movie.” A low chuckle. “You’re entertaining when you’re agitated,” he remarks, amused, unbothered. “But I meant what I said.”

You exhale, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What, that I’m distracted?” He leans back, fingers tapping lazily against the table. “Yes. You lose focus easily when your emotions are involved.” You roll your eyes, making another move. “Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me again?” He moves his queen. Check. He meets your eyes, gaze sharp, assessing. “No,” he says smoothly. “This is the part where I win.” You stare at the board, blood boiling. He’s right. You let yourself get distracted. You push away from the table, standing abruptly. “We’re done.” He watches you, expression unreadable. “You don’t like losing.” 

“No,” you snap. “I don’t like this.” His lips curve slightly. He hands you your phone without a word. The weight of it in your palm is almost unfamiliar after an entire day without it. You unlock the screen immediately, scrolling through your notifications, your heart picking up as you scan for Sunghoon’s name. Nothing. Your breath hitches for just a second, barely noticeable, but the disappointment sinks in faster than you can stop it. You blink, double-checking. No missed calls. No texts. Not even a reaction to the last message you sent him. That’s… weird. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he fell asleep early. Maybe he thinks you’re the one ignoring him. 

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, debating whether you should send something first. Just a simple hey. A test. But something about it feels off. If you text him now, you’ll be the one reaching out. You’ll be the one who noticed. You’ll be the one who cares. And you do, of course, you do, but letting that show somehow makes it feel worse. You swallow the frustration building in your throat and press the power button, shutting off the screen before you let yourself overthink it any further. You set the phone down and push it back toward him. He watches you, his fingers tapping against the desk, slow and rhythmic. "Nothing?" You shrug, forcing nonchalance. "Guess not."

A beat of silence stretches between you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry, just picks up the phone and slips it back into his pocket like it belongs to him, like it wasn’t even yours to begin with. “You’ll have another ten minutes tomorrow.” You nod, walking out too quickly, eager to get out of this room, away from him, away from the sinking weight in your chest that you refuse to acknowledge as sadness. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just one day. But the quiet part of your mind whispers that Sunghoon always texts you, even if it's half assed. Maybe he feels bad about how things got out of hand at the party? Or maybe he doesn’t? 

————-

The soft glow of the TV screen flickers across the dimly lit living room. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, mindlessly watching something simple, something easy. Something that doesn’t require focus. For the first time today, you’re not thinking about anything. Not his rules. Not the suffocating schedule. Just the low hum of the TV, filling the empty space around you. It almost feels… normal. Until it doesn’t.

The screen suddenly blacks out. Your body tenses, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. You blink at the blank TV, disoriented, before slowly turning your head, and there he is. Dr. Kim stands beside the couch, remote in hand, his expression calm yet expectant. “It’s bedtime.” Your brows knit together, disbelief flickering across your face. “Are you serious?” He doesn’t answer. Just sets the remote down on the coffee table, his gaze never leaving you. A sharp, irritated breath escapes you. “I’m not a child.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small, knowing motion that only makes your frustration grow. “You need proper rest,” he says, voice steady, unshaken by your attitude. “Overworking yourself isn’t productive.” You scoff. “It’s just TV.”

“And now, it’s off.” You stare at him, waiting for him to budge. To roll his eyes, sigh, maybe even let you have this one thing. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, waiting for you to comply. And maybe that’s what’s most frustrating of all, he’s not fighting you. He’s not raising his voice, not snapping back. He’s just waiting. Like he already knows you’ll listen. Your jaw tightens, hands balling into fists against your lap. “This is ridiculous.” 

He hums softly, like he’s considering your words. “You’re free to feel that way. But you still need to sleep.” Your muscles tense, the heat of defiance burning under your skin. You don’t want to listen to him. You want to stay right here, keep the TV on, pretend you still have some control over your own life. 

But another part of you, the one exhausted from today’s battles, the one weighed down by everything you refuse to acknowledge, knows you won’t win this one. Slowly, grudgingly, you push yourself up from the couch. You don’t look at him as you move past him, don’t acknowledge the quiet satisfaction in his posture.

The walk to your room feels heavier than it should. By the time you step inside, you expect him to leave, to disappear behind a closed door like your parents always did, cold, distant, uninterested beyond the rules they set.

But he doesn’t. He follows you in, pauses near the doorway. His hand reaches for the handle, but he doesn’t shut it. Instead, he leaves it slightly open. Ajar.

Your stomach knots. “What, you don’t trust me to stay in bed either?” His gaze meets yours, something softer there, something you can’t place. “It’s not about trust.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then what is it about?” A pause. A beat of silence just long enough to make you uncomfortable. “You’re not used to having someone that makes sure you’re okay.” Your breath catches. It’s such a simple statement. Too simple. Like he’s voicing something obvious, something already known.

But it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against the hollow places you never let yourself acknowledge. You should snap at him. Should tell him he’s wrong, that you’re fine, that you don’t need someone watching over you like this. But the words don’t come. You glance at the open door instead, swallowing down whatever emotion threatens to surface. “I don’t need someone like that.”

His expression remains unreadable. “Goodnight.” The words are final, no space left for argument. He turns and steps out, his presence lingering even after he disappears down the hall. The door stays open. And for reasons you don’t understand, you don’t get up to close it.

————-

Time has started to blur. Days bleed into each other, structured and rigid, each one identical to the last. The housemaid stopped coming, it was just you and him. The rules have become second nature, and the fights you used to put up? Less frequent. Not because you agree, but because resistance became exhausting.

And then there’s Sunghoon. Or rather, the absence of him. No calls. No texts. Nothing. At first, you convinced yourself he was just busy. That he’d reach out eventually. But now, days have passed. You’ve checked your phone during your allotted ten minutes, stared at the empty notifications, felt the quiet, creeping disappointment settle in your chest. You try to ignore it. Try to push it down. Sure, Sunghoon wasn’t head over heels for you. But he was your boyfriend. And somehow, that should mean something.

The only message you’ve gotten, the only thing from the outside world at all, is from your parents. Not a phone call. Not even a voice message. Just a text. "Hope you're adjusting. Listen to Dr. Kim." That was it. Nothing more. No warmth, no real concern, just a reminder. Behave. Follow the rules. Because if you don’t, if you fight, if you refuse to comply, there will be consequences. The implication is clear. If you push too far, you’ll be cut off. Financially. Entirely. Completely.

You read the message twice, let the weight of it settle in. And then, without another thought, you lock your phone and place it back on the table. Because really, what’s the point? You wake up on time. You eat when he tells you to. You study for the exact hours he sets. And every night, your door stays ajar. Somewhere along the way, his presence stopped feeling temporary.

The first time he picked out your outfit, you thought he was joking. “I’ll decide what I wear,” you had snapped, arms crossed as you stared at the neat selection of clothes he’d placed on your bed. He remained unimpressed. “You lost that privilege when you were late.”

“One minute,” you had argued, voice laced with frustration. “I was late by one minute.” He had only hummed, stepping closer, gaze steady as he reached for the blouse he chose. “Then next time, be on time.” It’s a ridiculous rule, but you still wear what he picks out every morning. Because even though you tell yourself you don’t care, it’s easier than starting a battle you already know you’ll lose.

He’s also physically closer to you know. At first, you thought his touches were accidental. A brief hand on your shoulder, a light press against your back when he stood behind you, reading over your notes. Small things. Easy to ignore.

But then it became more frequent. His fingers ghost along the curve of your shoulder when he corrects a mistake in your notes. His palm lingers against the small of your back when he guides you to your desk. When you start to fidget, his hand finds your wrist, pressing down lightly as if to calm you.

It should bother you more than it does. But the worst part? It works. You don’t want to admit it, but there’s something calculated, practiced in the way he touches you. Something designed to soothe. Like he’s figured out exactly how to wear down your resistance.

His nicknames also became frequent. You remember the first time he called you sweetheart when discussing the rules. It had been offhand, casual, like he barely even thought about it. You had bristled, waiting for him to correct himself. But he didn’t. 

The next time, it was darling. Another time, angel. Each one more natural, more seamless than the last. The worst part is how easily it slips into conversation now.

"Focus, sweetheart."

"You’re overthinking again, darling."

"Eat, angel. You’ll need your energy."

And you hate it. You hate that he says it like it’s natural, like it belongs. You hate that no one else has ever called you these things, not your parents, not even Sunghoon. You hate that sometimes, when he says it in just the right tone, it makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t understand.

————-

Dinner is different tonight. It’s not just another scheduled meal, another quiet, structured moment where you eat because it’s expected of you. The table is set more carefully than usual, two polished plates, silverware perfectly aligned, the dim glow of the chandelier casting soft shadows. Everything feels…intentional.

You notice immediately. It unsettles you, but you don’t say anything. Maybe it’s another one of his tests, another way to see if you’ll react. Or maybe it’s a reward? The thought makes something curl in your stomach, something ugly, something you refuse to name.

He sits across from you, perfectly composed. He doesn’t acknowledge the change in atmosphere, doesn’t point out the way you eye the setup with quiet suspicion. Instead, he just lifts his glass, takes a slow sip of water, then nods toward your plate. “Sweetheart, eat.”

You don’t argue, but something about the command grates on you. The food looks better than usual, a perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables arranged like something straight out of a five-star restaurant. It’s intentional. All of this is. You cut into the steak carefully, bringing the first bite to your lips. The moment it touches your tongue, your body reacts before your mind can catch up. It’s perfect. Rich, tender, seasoned just right, juices melting over your tongue in a way that has your shoulders instantly relaxing. It’s the best thing you’ve tasted in, God, how long has it been? And then, before you can stop it, a sound slips out. Soft, breathy, a quiet, satisfied moan. Your breath catches. Your spine stiffens immediately. Silence. You realize what you’ve done the same second you feel his eyes on you. Slowly, hesitantly, you look up.

He isn’t eating, he isn’t even moving. His fork rests against his plate, untouched. His fingers tap idly against the stem of his glass. He watches you with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable, except for the smirk. It’s like he’s amused. Pleased. Heat crawls up your neck, mortification seeping into your bones. You clear your throat, forcing past the moment as quickly as possible. “How do you know so much about my coursework?”

His gaze flicks up, calm and unsurprised, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Because I studied the same things.” You frown, swallowing. “You’re a psychiatrist.” His lips twitch slightly, like he finds your skepticism amusing. “And before that, I was exactly where you are now. Economics. Business strategy. Finance.” He pauses, tilting his head just slightly. “I was expected to take over my family’s company. Until I didn’t.”

You go still, your fork pausing midair. Something about the way he says it, smooth but edged with something sharper, makes your stomach tighten. “So, what? You just decided one day that you’d rather screw with people’s minds instead of their money?” He exhales a soft, almost amused breath as he sets down his knife. “Something like that.” You scoff, stabbing at your vegetables. “Sounds like you and my parents would get along.” The amusement in his expression fades. “I think you know that isn’t true.”

Your grip tightens around your fork. There’s something too heavy in his voice, something that makes you feel exposed, in a way you don’t like. “You’re here, aren’t you?” he continues, voice smooth but cutting. “Because you think they don't want to deal with you anymore.” The words land heavier than they should. You force a smirk, pushing through the way they settle in your chest like a stone. “Gee, thanks for the reminder.” He watches you, his gaze steady, patient. Too patient. “Does it bother you?”

You lean back in your chair, feigning nonchalance. “Why would it? It’s not like it’s the first time.” He doesn’t respond right away. He simply lifts his glass again, taking another sip, letting the silence stretch.

You look down at your plate, at the steak still waiting. You cut another piece, bring it to your lips and the moment it touches your tongue, everything else fades. He’s just sitting there, watching you, smiling at how you're enjoying the meal he cooked for you.

You swallow hard, shifting in your seat, forcing yourself to look away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he says. You glare, gripping your fork a little too tightly. “Like you’re enjoying this.” He leans back slightly, tilting his head. “And if I am?” The air feels different now. You can’t place it, can’t explain it, but something has shifted. You force out a scoff, desperate to move past it. “Yepp. You and my parents would get along perfectly. You’re all obsessed with control.” He breathes a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “If I wanted control over you darling, you wouldn’t even realize it.” The way he says it, so soft, so certain, it sends a shiver curling down your spine.

You exhale sharply, dropping your fork against your plate with a clatter. “Well, at least I know you have other skills.” You gesture vaguely toward the food, grasping at anything to redirect the conversation. “Didn’t take you for someone who could cook.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since I learned how to take care of things properly.” The phrasing makes your stomach twist. It shouldn’t sound like a warning but somehow, it does.

You pick at the last remnants of your meal, the conversation still lingering in the air. His words sit heavy in your chest, pressing down, reminding you that you're here because your parents didn’t want to deal with you. You hate how easy it is for him to cut through you like that. How effortlessly he makes you feel exposed. But he’s not gloating. He’s just watching.

That same calm, unreadable expression, the slight tilt of his head as if he’s waiting for something, for you to react. You exhale sharply, tapping your fork against the edge of your plate. “So, what? You’re gonna sit there and psychoanalyze me over steak?” His lips curve, the barest smirk, “Would you prefer I psychoanalyze you over dessert?” You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Still waiting. Still watching over you.

The weight of it makes something hot and frustrated twist in your chest. You want to break the tension, want to push back, want to tip the balance. And then, on impulse, you say it. Not Dr. Kim. Not even Seok-Jin.

Just–

“Jin.”

The shift is instant. His eyes darken. Not in anger, but in something deeper. You shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have. But now you can’t take it back.

A slow, unnerving silence stretches between you. Then, he exhales, the corners of his lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Jin, huh?" His voice is low, amused, but there’s something else beneath it, something heavier. Like he’s tasting the way it sounds, rolling it over in his mind, keeping it. “You’ve never called me that before. You barely address me as Dr. Kim."

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let it show. You force a small smile as you lean back in your chair. “Would you rather I stick with Dr. Kim?” His head tilts slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “No,” he says, soft, certain. Then. "I like the way it sounds when you say my name." Your breath catches. Something shifts between you. Something thick, unspoken, dangerous. Your fingers tighten around the napkin in your lap, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Like the way he’s looking at you right now doesn’t make your heart pound just a little too fast. Jin. You shouldn’t have said it. But now, you think, he won’t let you stop.

Dinner is finished, but the tension lingers. You can still feel the weight of his gaze from across the table, his smirk. So you move. For once, without being told, you reach for the dishes, gathering them in your hands before he can stop you. Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the tiniest rebellion, something normal in a situation that’s anything but.

You make it to the sink, rolling up your sleeves, fingers brushing over the faucet. The sound of running water fills the space, grounding you. It’s just a plate, just soap and water, just something to do with your hands. 

Then, heat. A slow, creeping warmth against your waist. Not imagined. Not accidental. His hand. Firm. Steady. Claiming.

A slow inhale gets caught in your throat as you freeze, your fingers gripping the counter, your body locked tight. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. You know who it is. His touch is light, just enough to guide you. A slow, press of fingers against the fabric of your shirt, the warmth of his palm bleeding through as his breath ghosts the back of your neck. Too close, too much.

"Go rest." His voice is low, even. Deceptively soft, but there’s something beneath it, something that doesn’t leave room for argument. Your pulse skips. “I can do the dishes.” A hum. Low, deep, amused. "I know you can," he murmurs, closer now, the warmth of him pressing just slightly more into your back. “But I’d rather you didn’t.”

You swallow hard, knuckles going white where they grip the counter. This, this isn’t normal. This isn’t how a psychiatrist handles his patient. But he isn’t moving. And neither are you. His fingers press just slightly, just enough, before the warmth of his touch disappears, leaving your skin too aware of its absence. You force yourself to move, stepping back from the sink, willing your breath to stay even, to pretend like this isn’t affecting you. But the second you turn away, you feel it, the weight of his gaze on your back, tracking your every step as you leave the kitchen. You don’t look back. You can’t.

By the time he comes into your room, you’re already in bed, or at least, you’re pretending to be. A book rests in your hands, your eyes scanning the words without absorbing a single one. It doesn’t help. You still feel it, the warmth of his touch, still imprinted on your waist.

Then, movement. You don’t even have time to react before the book slips from your grasp. Not snatched, not forceful. Just taken. Your breath stutters as he plucks it from your hands, his fingers grazing your own for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make your stomach clench. He doesn’t even glance at the title before setting it on your nightstand, his movements fluid, composed, controlled. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s routine. You don’t know what to do with your hands now that they’re empty.

He stands beside your bed, watching you. The dim glow of the bedside lamp catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He isn’t touching you, isn’t crowding you, but he’s there. He’s always there. Then, a small, quiet smile. "Good night."

Your throat tightens. You don’t respond. He tilts his head slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice is even softer. "Sweet dreams." The words slip through the cracks, sinking into your skin before you can stop them. The door stays ajar as he leaves, his shadow shifting, stretching against the hallway light. You don’t move. You barely breathe. Even long after he’s gone, long after the silence swallows the room whole, you still feel him.

————-

The warmth is all-consuming, deep, suffocating in the sweetest way. It stretches through every inch of your body, pulling you under, making you heavy, making you needy. The world around you is blurred, distant, nothing but the press of heat, the slow burn of something thick, inescapable, forbidden.

And he’s here. Jin sits at the edge of your bed, his presence undeniable, the weight of his gaze sinking into your skin like it belongs there. He looks relaxed, knowing, like he’s been watching you for a while. Like he’s been waiting. You should ask him why he’s here. You should move. But you don’t. Because his hand is already on you. It starts at your ankle, the softest graze of fingertips, teasing, testing. Your breath stutters, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Then he drags them up. Slowly, as he’s tracing over your calf, your thigh, higher. Spreading the heat. Spreading the tension. Spreading you. A breathy sigh escapes you, your thighs parting instinctively, your back arching the tiniest bit. He chuckles. Low, pleased and amused. And then he leans in. His breath skims your throat, warm, tantalizing, just close enough to send a shudder rolling through you. "You're so easy to tame, angel."

The words melt into your skin, his voice like something dangerous and possessive and inevitable. Then, his mouth. Soft lips press against your pussy, teasing, trailing, tasting. A slow, lingering drag, a teasing bite, a soothing lap of his tongue.

Your fingers grip the sheets, your body betraying you. A soft, helpless noise escapes, a needy little whimper that only makes him press harder. "That’s it, sweetheart" he hums against your skin, his voice rougher now, heavier. "Let me hear you."

The pleasure spikes, unbearable, unbearable, unbearable.

"Jin–" The name slips from your lips, breathless, pleading.

And then.

Your whole body jerks up. Your chest is heaving, your skin flushed, damp with sweat. Your thighs are pressed together, aching, throbbing. Your hands tremble where they grip the sheets, your breath ragged, desperate. It takes too long for reality to sink in. Everything feels too real. His touch still lingers, his voice still in your ear, still on your skin. And then it hits you. It was a dream. Just a dream.

“Jin.” The name is still on your tongue, breathless, needy. And then your bedroom door creaks open. Your stomach plummets and your breath stills as your entire body locks up. You snap your head toward the doorway. Jin steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you, the way you’re gripping the sheets, the way your chest still rises and falls too fast, the way your skin is flushed from something that has nothing to do with the temperature.

His lips curve. Not a smirk. Something deeper, something too knowing. Your pulse slams against your ribs. "Sweet dreams, princess?" 

Your breath hitches. Your chest is still rising and falling too fast, your skin too warm, too sensitive. But you force yourself to breathe. To calm down. Because it was just a dream. Just a dream. And he doesn’t know. He can’t know.

You force a scoff, tilting your head just enough to feign annoyance. “Seriously?” Your voice is still a little rough from sleep, but you ignore it. Push through. “You wake me up early every day and now you’re asking about my dreams?”

Jin leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. His eyes sweep over you once, slow, assessing. And then, he smiles. Not his usual soft smirk. Something mocking, almost like he’s entertained. "Just curious."

You exhale, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, well, nothing worth remembering.” The lie is smooth, automatic, easy. Too easy. And you swear, just for a second, his smirk deepens. Like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows exactly what you were dreaming about. But no. He doesn’t. He can’t. You won’t let him.

You clear your throat, shifting under the sheets like you’re just stretching. “What do you want?” Jin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps forward, setting a neatly folded outfit at the edge of your bed. “I picked out your clothes for today.” His voice is smooth, composed. Just like always. Just like nothing is different.

Your fingers twitch at the sheets, clutching the fabric a little too tightly. Another test. Another way to remind you, his rules, his control, his world. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, keeping the act together. “Great. Looking forward to it.” Jin watches you for a moment longer. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he steps back toward the door. "Get dressed, sweetheart. I'll see you downstairs."

And then, he’s gone. The second the door clicks shut, your whole body collapses back against the pillows. Your hands shake. Your heart pounds. Because he doesn’t know. You played it off. It’s fine. You push the sheets off your body, exhaling sharply as you force yourself up. 

It was just a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. But the second you stand, the discomfort between your thighs makes you freeze. You shift your legs slightly, and, oh. It’s wet. Uncomfortably wet. You blink, stomach twisting, pulse spiking with something unfamiliar. What the hell? Are you– is this your period?

You rush to the bathroom, pulling down your underwear frantically. And then, you see. Not your period. Something worse. Your breath catches, mortification crawling up your spine. No, no, no, this has never happened before, at least not while you were asleep. Your body has never reacted like this. You wipe yourself clean, hurried, almost frantic, as if scrubbing the evidence away will erase the shame burning in your chest.

You shove your ruined panties deep into the laundry basket, burying them beneath a pile of clothes. You don’t have time to deal with it. You have to get dressed. You reach for the outfit Jin picked. Of course. A preppy pleated skirt, just long enough to be appropriate but short enough to remind you who chose it. And a soft, knitted sweater that fits too well. It makes you feel smaller. Like a high schooler. Like something he dressed up exactly how he wants. 

You exhale sharply, shaking off the thought, focusing on fixing your hair, making yourself look composed. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just wake up a mess from a dream about him. Because he can’t know. And he never will.

————-

You walk to the kitchen, trying to appear normal. Jin is already there, standing at the counter, his sleeves rolled up as he plates breakfast. He moves with his usual calm precision, like nothing is out of place, like he hasn’t been waiting for you. Except he has. The moment your footsteps hit the kitchen floor, he glances over. His gaze drags over you, slow, controlled, too knowing. Something in your chest tightens.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, collected, and almost pleasant. “How do you feel?” Your stomach plummets. There’s something wrong with the way he says it. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, but it feels pointed.

Your throat is suddenly dry, but you force yourself to act normal. “Fine,” you say, sitting down carefully. His lips twitch amused. “Fine?” Your pulse jolts. Why does he keep repeating things? Why does it feel like he’s waiting for something? You swallow. “Yeah.”

Jin hums lightly, his fingers tapping against his coffee cup, watching you. You focus on your plate. Just eat. Be normal. But the second you shift, you feel it. The lingering wetness between your thighs, the tension still inside you. The dream never ended properly, you never really came.

The tension is still there. Your body tightens involuntarily. Your thighs press together. You don’t even realize you’re squirming until–

“You’re restless.”

Your breath catches. You snap your head up, but Jin is already looking at you. His gaze is calm, observant. His tone is clinical, detached. Like he’s just making an observation. You try to freeze, try to stay still, but it’s too late. “I’m not,” you mutter, shifting in your seat, willing the discomfort to disappear.

Jin lifts his chin just a little, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You are.” Your jaw clenches. “Maybe I just don’t like sitting still.” Jin doesn’t blink. “Or maybe you’re uncomfortable.” Your stomach twists. “I’m fine.”

A pause. A slow, stretched-out silence. Then–

“Are you on your period?”

Your entire body stiffens. Your fork nearly slips from your fingers as you stare at him, heat crawling up your spine, mortification creeping in. “What?” Jin sets his coffee down, completely unbothered. “You’re shifting in your seat, avoiding pressure on your lower half. It’s common when experiencing cramps.” 

Your heart is pounding. “I–” You shake your head, gripping your fork. “No. That’s not–”

“Urinary tract infection?” He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. You nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?” Jin exhales softly, like he’s being patient. Like he’s dealing with someone being difficult for no reason. “You’re tense. Your thighs are pressed together, and you keep adjusting like there’s discomfort.” His voice is perfectly neutral, but you can hear the amusement lingering beneath it. 

Your hands curl into fists under the table. “I don’t have a UTI.” Jin hums, nodding slightly, tapping his fingers against the table. “Then it must be something else.” Your breath shakes. “It’s nothing.” Jin raises a brow, gaze flicking over you slowly. “You’re sure?” You hate this. You hate the way he’s watching you, pretending like he’s just asking logical questions, like he’s not deliberately making you suffer.

Your thighs clench again, desperate to relieve something, and you swear, you swear, his eyes flick downward for just a second. But when he looks back up, his expression is unreadable. You force yourself to breathe, staring at your plate. “I’m sure.”

Jin watches you for a long moment, too long. Then, finally, he leans back. “Alright, sweetheart.” Jin sips his coffee, watching you from across the table, still too calm. The conversation should be over. His gaze flicks over you once more, slow, assessing, like he’s piecing something together. Like he’s still waiting.

Then, he exhales softly, shaking his head, as if something has just occurred to him. "Darling," he says smoothly, "I think I know what’s wrong."

Your heart skips. You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know. But the way he says it, so certain, so confident, like this is just another problem he’s already solved, makes your skin prickle. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “What?”

Jin taps his fingers against the counter, casual, unbothered. But then he speaks. “You need relief.”

Your entire body locks up. The room shrinks. The air thickens. The fork clatters against your plate, hands going clammy, chest tightening with something visceral. Your voice barely works. “W-what?” Jin leans forward slightly, his tone gentle, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Your body is holding onto tension. It’s normal.” His eyes flick downward, a flicker of amusement, a silent acknowledgment that he knows exactly where the tension is. 

You can’t breathe. Your mind's racing, stumbles, crashes. “I don’t–” He hums softly, cutting you off. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, angel. Persistent arousal without release can cause discomfort, muscle strain, even headaches.” He tilts his head, like he’s being helpful. “And judging by the way you keep squirming, I’d say you’re feeling it already.”

Your thighs clench involuntarily, a reaction you wish you could control. Jin sees it. His eyes darken just slightly. You force yourself to snap out of it. “I’m fine,” you bite out. “And I don’t need ‘relief,’ thank you very much.”

Jin doesn’t blink. “Are you sure?” Your stomach drops once more. Because he’s not letting it go. He’s testing you. Pushing. Waiting for you to admit something, or break first. His voice dips lower, calm but pointed. “You’re struggling to focus, aren’t you?” Your fingers dig into your lap. “No.”

“You’re tense.” His eyes drop to your lap, watching the way your fingers tighten against the fabric of your clothes. “Restless.” His lips press together for a beat, as if weighing his next words. Then, his gaze lifts, locking onto yours, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Irritable.”

Your pulse jumps. “I am not!” His lips curve slightly. “And yet, you can’t sit still.” You want to scream, to shove your plate away and leave, pretend like this conversation never happened. But he’s got you. He knows it. You know it.

The silence stretches. The air is unbearable. Then, softly, so gentle, so calculated, he speaks again. "Sweetheart, if you keep ignoring it, it’ll only get worse." Your body betrays you again, a sharp little twitch of your thighs, an unconscious clench. What the fuck is wrong with you today?!

Jin sees. He hums like it’s exactly what he expected. “That’s what I thought.” Your throat closes. You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that your body is still aching, still throbbing, still desperate for something it shouldn’t want.

You shake your head, voice weaker. “This is fucked up.” Jin exhales. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice smooth and patient. “Everything feels fucked up when you’re resisting what you need.” His gaze never wavers, it’s steady and sure, like he’s already won. Then, he tilts his head slightly. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches because that’s the trap. If you say yes, you’re giving him permission. If you say no, you’re denying the one person who’s supposedly ‘taking care of you.’ Your lips part, but the words won’t come out. 

Jin leans forward slightly, voice softer, coaxing, careful. "Let me help you, angel." Your entire body burns. You shouldn’t even consider it. But your pulse is pounding, your skin is hot, your body is still aching, needy, desperate. And the worst part? You want to say yes. Jin doesn’t push. He doesn’t move. He just watches you patiently.

The tension in your muscles, the way you can’t keep still, the lingering damp heat between your thighs that refuses to fade. You know he sees it. You know he’s been watching the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers twitch like you don’t know what to do with them.

And worst of all? He’s right. It is getting worse. Jin exhales softly. "You understand what I’m offering, don’t you?" You swallow thickly, you can’t meet his eyes, but you nod, just once, small, barely there. But he doesn’t accept that. His fingers drum lightly against the table, thoughtful. “Use your words, angel.” His voice is calm and coaxing. “Tell me what you need.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, gripping the soft knit like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Your throat feels tight, your skin hot. Every part of you is wound so tight it’s painful. You close your eyes, inhale shakily, and finally, finally, mutter the words that seal your fate. "I…need help."

The corner of Jin’s lips twitches, satisfied. He pushes his chair back, rising with the ease of someone who already knew this was inevitable. Then, he extends his hand. "Come here, sweetheart."

Your stomach tightens and your pulse jumps. Your breath shudders as you push your chair back, legs unsteady beneath you. Every step toward him feels heavy, irreversible, like crossing a line you can never uncross. Jin watches you the entire time, his expression is calm, like this is just another routine part of your schedule.

You stop in front of him, pulse thrumming against your ribs. He doesn’t move right away, just takes you in your hesitance. Then, he reaches out, slow and precise. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing lightly against the waistband of your skirt. The touch itself is innocent, barely there, barely anything at all. But the way he does it? It’s not. It’s measured, intentional, possessive in a way.

His voice is low, soothing, but there’s something darker lurking beneath it. "You don’t have to be nervous," he murmurs. "I told you sweetheart, I’ll take care of you." Your stomach flutters. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You want to believe him. 

Jin’s hands move slower than necessary, his touch measured, guiding you exactly where he wants. One hand glides up your back, pressing firmly between your shoulder blades. With effortless control, he eases you down until your stomach and chest meet the cold, smooth marble of the counter. The contrast of warmth and chill sends a shiver through you. A flicker of confusion crosses your mind. Here? In the kitchen?

Jin’s hands rest against your hips, firm and steady, like he’s guiding you into place. The warmth of his palms sinks through the fabric of your sweater. “Think of this as purely medical,” he assures, his voice smooth. “A necessary examination. That’s all.”

Your breath catches. Your body is still tight and on edge from the dream, from the restless, unsatisfied heat thrumming beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be considering this, shouldn’t even be standing here, but the words, his words, make it sound so reasonable.

Like this isn’t something twisted or forbidden. Like it’s something you need. You shift slightly, barely perceptible, but Jin notices everything. “You’re still tense,” he notes, almost like he’s diagnosing a symptom. “You understand the risks of prolonged sexual frustration, don’t you, darling?”

Your entire body goes stiff. He hums, interrupting you like he already knows what you were going to say. “Arousal without release can cause discomfort, which affects concentration..." His voice is lower now, softer, as if he’s concerned. “That’s why you were squirming so much earlier, wasn’t it?”

Heat flushes through your body, embarrassment crawling up your throat. “I wasn’t–” 

Jin lets out a small sigh, almost sympathetic. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers pressing just slightly against the waistband of your skirt, a silent reminder of how easily he could fix this. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is simply your body’s natural response to unresolved tension.” Your nails dig into the counter. His touch is so light, barely there, but your body is already betraying you, reacting to him, desperate for anything more. 

He steps closer, his chest nearly flush against your back. His breath brushes against your ear as he speaks. “You need relief.” His voice is smooth and persuasive.“And if you won’t take care of it yourself…” His hands slide a fraction lower. “I will.”

The warmth of his body pressing just close enough to remind you that you have nowhere to go. His hands remain steady on your hips, thumbs brushing slow, measured circles just beneath the waistband of your skirt.

Your breath is shaky, uneven, but he remains perfectly composed, voice low, calm, rational. He waits, to see if you’ll stop him. And when you don’t, he moves. His hands slide lower, his fingers lifting the hem of your skirt, inch by inch. The air hits your exposed thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between them. You shudder and Jin notices. The fabric gathers around your waist, completely out of the way now. 

His fingers drift lower, brushing against the waistband of your panties. A slow, thoughtful hum vibrates in his chest. “You really shouldn't neglect yourself,” he murmurs, mock disappointment laced in his voice. 

His fingers trace over your clothed pussy, gliding over the thin fabric of your panties before pressing lightly against the damp spot. He exhales, pleased. "Sweetheart," he muses, his voice dipping into something indulgent. "You're absolutely soaked."

Your whole body locks up in shame, mortification… something else. His fingers hook around the delicate fabric, giving a slow tug. Like he’s testing you. You don’t know if you’ve passed or failed. But you don’t stop him, so he keeps going. 

The panties slide down, slow and torturous, the damp fabric dragging along your slick folds, clinging for a moment before peeling away. There’s nothing between you now. Nothing stopping him, or you... 

A low gasp escapes you, your body tensing, thighs clenching instinctively, but there’s nothing to hide behind now.

And then, he sees.

A soft, low exhale leaves him, almost thoughtful as he’s fixed between your legs. His hands don’t move, not yet. He just stares. Eyes locked on your bare, swollen pussy, on the way your wetness glistens in the dim light. 

Seconds stretch unbearably long as he simply looks, his thumb lazily stroking your inner thigh, slow, absentminded circles against your heated skin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, even, assessing.

Your stomach tightens, your hips shift, just barely, an instinctive, needy movement, but his hands immediately tighten on your thighs, keeping you right where he wants you.

A single finger trails through your folds, parting you, spreading your slick, dragging through the wet heat before he finally pulls away, inspecting the glistening strings of arousal stretching between his fingers.

Your breath hitches, your pulse pounding in your ears, but you can’t look away from him. He hums, as if pleased with the results, voice smooth and measured when he finally speaks.

"All this for me? What a good girl," he murmurs, voice drenched in quiet approval, his eyes still locked on you, watching the way your entrance flutters, clenching desperately around nothing.

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands slide back up, gliding over the curve of your bare thighs. His fingers drift along the soft skin of your inner thighs, teasing. You tremble, breath shaky, hands gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And he notices. “Still so tense,” he murmurs, voice smooth, patient. “I told you, sweetheart, it’s not good to hold this in.” His tone is steady, measured, as if this is nothing but routine. As if he’s simply following medical necessity.

Then, finally, he moves again. His fingers slide between your folds, parting you with effortless precision. You gasp. He exhales softly, almost as if confirming something. “You’re already throbbing,” he hums, his fingers gliding in slow, teasing strokes along your pussy.

“Poor little thing.” Your whole body tenses, your legs threatening to close around his hand, but he doesn’t allow it. His grip tightens, his other hand pressing to your waist, grounding you, controlling you. 

Jin doesn’t rush. His hands hold your hips steady, thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you against the counter. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your shoulder, close, too close. His fingers move slowly, dragging over your drenched pussy just to watch you twitch. “No, sweetheart,” he soothes, voice low, patient. “Let me do this properly.” Then, he starts.

A low, breathy “Fuck” slips from your lips as his fingers slide through your slick folds, spreading you open. He finds your clit with effortless precision, rubbing smooth circles over it. The stimulation makes your legs tremble, and your thighs press together, seeking more.

Your hips shift, instinctively chasing the pressure, but he doesn’t allow it. He pulls back, teasing, withholding.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice like silk, like you’re being difficult, like you need to be corrected. “I need you to be a good girl and stay still. Can you do that for me?”

The cold surface of the kitchen counter presses against your stomach, grounding you, but nothing prepares you for the way he handles you, pinned down, ass on display, legs spread just enough for him to take his time. You nod, breath hitching, thighs trembling as the pleasure builds too fast, too much. 

Then, suddenly, he pushes a finger in slowly, stretching you open as he continues rubbing circles over your clit.

“Ah–” A choked, breathless moan spills from your lips, your body trembling against the counter. It’s too much, too new, stretching, filling, making your thighs tremble as another whimper escapes you.

The intrusion is foreign, unfamiliar, your walls tightening instinctively around him as he pushes deeper. He groans at the way you squeeze his finger, his free hand smoothing over the curve of your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “Fuck,” he mutters, his tone laced with something dark, something possessive. “You’re gripping me so tight, angel.”

A desperate, broken moan escapes you as his finger presses deeper, curling slightly, making your body jolt against the counter. Your breath stutters, high and needy, hips instinctively twitching as another gasp leaves your lips.

“Shh,” he soothes, amusement threading through his voice as his thumb circles your clit, coaxing another helpless moan from you. “I know, sweetheart. It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Your hands clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles white as your breath hitches again, a whimper slipping free when he starts moving, slow, deep, stretching you open with every thrust of his finger.

“Such pretty little sounds,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, without warning, he pushes a second finger in.

"Ahh!" A sharp, helpless moan rips from your lips, your body jerking against the counter at the sudden stretch. It’s too much, deeper, fuller, making your legs almost give up.

Fuck, you’re so soaked, so wet that his fingers sink into you effortlessly, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of the kitchen. His free hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned in place, while the other works you open, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm.

"Messy little thing," he muses, dragging his fingers out just enough to hear the way your arousal slicks against him before pushing them back in, slow and deliberate. "Listen to that, do you hear how wet you are for me?"

Your breath stutters, a choked whimper slipping free as his fingers curl inside you. "Ngh- please." Your voice is barely a whisper, shaky and breathless, your hips instinctively pushing back, desperate for more.

He clicks his tongue, tutting softly, like you’re being difficult. His fingers press deep, the wet squelch of your arousal only growing louder, filthier.

"So impatient," he murmurs, thumb spreading your slick over your swollen clit, circling it slowly. "But since you asked so nicely."

Heat crawls up your spine, shame and desire tangling as your body betrays you, trembling with every slow, devastating thrust of his fingers.

"That’s it, angel" he praises, calm, controlled, like he’s guiding you through it. "Don’t fight it.”

His fingers work you faster now, pushing in deep, rhythmic thrusts, each curl of his fingers perfectly timed with the pressure against your clit. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, sending your body teetering right on the edge.

"I’m gonna-" Your words shatter into a desperate sob as your pussy tightens around him, your entire body locking up as the pressure inside you finally bursts.

A high, broken moan spills from your lips, wrecked and needy, as your walls clench and throb around his fingers, sucking them deeper like you never want to let go.

The wetness gushes between your legs, soaking his fingers, dripping down his knuckles, pooling at the base of his palm. The slick, obscene squelch fills the quiet kitchen, the sound of it only making your body jolt harder as the waves of pleasure keep rolling through you.

"Oh?" His voice is low, teasing, fingers still deep inside you, curling lazily as he lets you ride it out. "What was that, angel?"

Your hips jerk, your body betraying you, grinding helplessly against his hand, but it only makes him chuckle.

"You made such a pretty mess for me," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, more indulgent, like he’s savoring every second. "Dripping all over my hand like that."

His fingers slow but never stop, working you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you’re nothing but a panting, overstimulated mess against the counter.

"That’s my good girl," he coaxes, dragging one last teasing stroke inside you, making you whimper, oversensitive and spent. "Didn’t even know you could come this hard, did you?"

His free hand smooths over your back, soothing and grounding you, but his fingers stay buried deep, lingering, possessive, still playing with your soaked, fluttering walls just to feel you shiver.

"Mmm, let’s get you cleaned up," he murmurs, but there’s amusement laced in his tone, like he has no real intention of stopping just yet.

He adjusts his stance, his other hand pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way your walls still flutter weakly around his fingers.

"You’re still so sensitive," he notes, almost to himself, slowly pressing his fingers deeper like he’s checking something. "A little overstimulated… but that’s normal. Everything feels just as it should."

"Nnnh–!" A shaky, broken whimper rips from your throat, your body tensing up immediately as the sudden pressure makes your overworked walls clamp down around him.

"T-too much." Your voice wavers, high and wrecked, but there’s no real resistance, just a helpless, desperate quiver beneath him.

He hums, his free hand smoothing down the curve of your spine in something almost reassuring. Almost.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice a steady, professional calm against your shaking, overstimulated mess of a body. "You’re alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

And then he starts again, curling his fingers, massaging every tender, overstimulated spot inside you, coaxing out more of your release. His movements are measured as he’s stretching you open wider, forcing more slick to spill out onto his knuckles.

The squelch is obscene, loud, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down onto his wrist.

"There we go," he murmurs, his tone calm, clinical, like he’s simply taking notes on your body’s reactions. "Still so sensitive. But I need to know, sweetheart…"

His fingers ease out, dragging slowly, purposefully, letting you feel every inch as he pulls them free. A messy trail of arousal follows, wet and glistening, connecting you to his hand.

"Do you taste as good as you feel?"

You barely get a second to process his words before you feel it, his fingers spreading you open, pressing against your swollen folds, smearing your slick over your aching clit just before his tongue licks a slow, filthy stripe up your drenched pussy.

A high, wrecked cry spills from your lips, body jerking, but he just hums, soft and thoughtful, his tongue flicking lazily over your sensitive entrance, collecting every last drop he worked out of you.

His tongue moves with calculated precision, each slow stroke gathering every trace of slick left behind. He is cleaning you up, just not in the way you expected.

"Mm, there we go," he hums against you, lips brushing over your overworked clit as he speaks. "Can’t leave you like this, sweetheart. Need to make sure you’re taken care of properly."

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as his tongue flicks, lingers, tracing slow, thorough circles around your aching, swollen bud before dipping down again, lapping up every bit of your release.

Your thighs twitch violently, body jerking, but his hands are steady, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding you open effortlessly.

His tongue dragging up your folds, savoring every drop like it’s his duty to leave nothing behind.You whimper, not knowing how long until he’s done. 

"Shh, sweetheart," he soothes, his lips gliding over your sensitive, overspent cunt, punctuating his words with leisurely, unhurried licks. "I know you’re sensitive. But I need to be thorough." His tone remains calm, clinical, as though this is simply a necessary part of your care.

His tongue pushes deeper, parting your folds as he gathers the last remnants of your slick, lapping at you like he’s ensuring nothing is wasted.

A whimpering sob spills from your lips, your breath ragged, body shaking beneath him, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter.

"Almost done," he murmurs, reassuring, as if this is nothing but routine. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, tilting you just enough to clean you properly.

"You’re being such a good girl for me," he praises, punctuating the words with a slow, indulgent lick, collecting what’s left of you.

Then, as if to make absolutely sure, his tongue swipes over your clit, a soft, lingering stroke that makes your body jolt violently.

Your hips buck, another high-pitched gasp slipping free, but he merely hums in satisfaction, his fingers pressing into your hips to steady you.

"There," he exhales finally, pulling back just slightly, though his warm breath still ghosts over your swollen pussy. "All clean."

A moment of silence. A pause that should feel like relief, but it doesn’t.

Because then, with a low, satisfied hum, he licks his lips, drags his thumb over your entrance one last time, and murmurs "Perfect."

Your body stays stilled against the counter, breath still coming in short, uneven pants, your limbs feeling boneless, wrecked, your mind blank with too many emotions to process.

Then, the shift.

He moves with practiced ease, hands smoothing over your bare thighs, his touch calm, routine, like he’s simply adjusting your posture during lessons. The skirt he had bunched up around your waist, the one he moved aside without hesitation, he pulls it back down, smoothing out the fabric like nothing ever happened.

But your panties? The ones ruined, damp, stained with the mess he coaxed from you?

He keeps those. With a quiet, effortless motion, he slips them into his pocket, tucking them away without hesitation, without a word. And then, just as quickly, he’s back to normal.

"You did well," he says smoothly, praising you like it’s just another part of a medical check-up. "Your body’s response was completely natural. Everything’s functioning just as it should." A beat of silence. Then, with the same calm professionalism, he continues, "Our session will start a little later than usual today." 

Like nothing happened. Like this was just another routine assessment. You nod numbly, your head still spinning, your body still trembling, but you don’t say a word. You can’t. Your voice wouldn’t work even if you tried. You adjust your posture, fixing your stance, still feeling unbearably exposed despite your skirt down. 

And then you turn, moving toward the door with shaky, uneven steps, your thighs damp, your heart pounding with a mixture of confusion, shame, and something else you can’t name.

That’s when his voice stops you one last time.

Soft. Amused. Possessive.

"Darling," he calls lightly, making your stomach flip, your breath hitch before you even turn to face him.

You do, barely managing to meet his gaze, your cheeks burning.

His eyes flick down, not at you, but at your trembling legs. At the way you press them together, still sensitive, still wrecked from what he just did.

A smirk tugs at his lips. His tone is softer now, smooth, almost mockingly gentle when he murmurs, "from now on… I’ll be the one to clean you up."

Your stomach drops, something deep inside you twisting at the implication in his voice. Because it’s not just about this moment. It’s about the dream you had. The one where you woke up wet, breathless, shaking, your pussy sticky with evidence of something you didn’t want to name.

He knew all along, fuck he must have heard you.

Your breath stutters, your body flushing with mortification as he walks up to you. You try to avoid his gaze, but his fingers find your chin, tilting it up with gentle insistence until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. Shame burns through you, settling deep in your chest. He hums, voice low and knowing. 'Try to stay focused during our lesson, hmm?'

And just like that, he walks away to do the breakfast dishes. Like you weren’t just panting against the counter, thighs trembling from overstimulation. Like he hadn’t just stripped you bare, licked you clean, and taken your panties as a souvenir.

————-

The day continues as usual, or at least, it’s supposed to. You had quickly changed into white pantyhose. Even though your skirt is long enough to hide your panties, you're not taking any more chances. Lessons start, structured and rigid, the way they always do. But today, you can’t focus. Jin is still the same, still suffocating, still watching, still controlling everything. 

He hovers behind you as you study, correcting the way you hold your pen, smoothing a hand over your shoulder when you hesitate too long on a problem, calling you nicknames like this morning never happened. Like nothing has changed. But for you, everything has. Your thoughts are scattered, disjointed, looping back to the way his voice sounded when he coaxed you through it, the way his fingers and tongue felt, how effortlessly he took control of you, of your body.

And the worst part? You let him. You let him touch you, take care of you, break you apart. And now, you don’t know what that means. Your stomach twists, a slow creeping anxiety settling in your chest, festering, suffocating. You think of Sunghoon. It’s the first time you’ve let yourself think of him, really think of him, since this whole thing started. Since Jin.

You haven’t heard from him. Not in weeks. Not a single call, not a single text. But does that matter? Would it have mattered if he had? Would it have stopped you from gasping Jin’s name this morning? From letting him push you over the edge with nothing but calculated touches and gentle orders?

Your hands tremble slightly as you flip the page of your textbook. You don’t know what this is anymore. Jin isn’t just your psychiatrist, your guardian? You don’t even know what to call him. The thought makes your skin crawl.

You’re grateful when dinner comes around. A distraction. Something else to focus on. But when you sit down at the table, when Jin slides a plate in front of you, when his fingers ghost against your wrist for just a second too long, the anxiety creeps right back in.

Because he still looks the same. Still calm, patient, and so unbearably in control. And you hate that you don’t know if he’s waiting for you to acknowledge it. Or if he already knows you won’t.

Jin has prepared a warm, steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae, paired with fresh rice and a side of vegetables. It’s supposed to be comforting, homey, something you like but do not get to have often. It’s something you should be able to enjoy, but can’t seem to. Not when your body still remembers what he did to you this morning. Not when your mind won’t shut up, won’t stop replaying how it felt, how you let him do it. And worst of all? Not when he’s sitting across from you like nothing happened.

Jin eats with his usual calm, methodical pace. You, however, are restless. You poke at your food, tapping your chopsticks against the bowl, shifting in your seat. Every little thing feels too much. The silence stretches too long. You hate that he’s so at ease. So unaffected. It makes you feel like you’re the only one suffering, the only one drowning in whatever the hell this is. So, naturally, you lash out.

“Dinner was later than usual,” you say suddenly, feigning casualness as you lift a spoonful of the broth to stare at. “That wasn’t very responsible of you, Dr. Kim.”

His gaze flicks up at the name, and for a brief second, something sharp flashes in his eyes, displeasure, kinda like a warning. “I had a call,” he says sternly, “a necessary one. Eat your food, sweetheart.”

You hum, dragging your spoon through the broth, barely acknowledging his words. And then, just to push him further, just to see how far you can go. You sigh dramatically, rolling your eyes. And then, under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Wouldn’t want to disobey, right?” You say it sweetly, batting your lashes mockingly. You don’t even think about it, don’t process what you just said until it’s already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Jin’s chopsticks pause midair. When his expression hardens, that’s when you realize your mistake. A slow, unbearable silence stretches between you. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, folding his hands on the table, his gaze steady as he studies you. 

“What did you say?” he muses, his voice too calm. You swallow as your confidence is already slipping. But you double down. Because you don’t want him to know how much you regret saying it.

You lean back, shrugging, playing with your spoon. “I mean, isn’t that what you want, Daddy?” You drawl, mocking. “Since you’re the one making all the rules.”

His eyes darken. His fingers tap against the table, slow and controlled. 

"Stand up."

Your stomach drops.

"What? No."

His lips curve, but there’s no amusement. Just expectation.

"Now."

You hesitate, but your body betrays you.

Because the weight in his voice, the sheer command of it, leaves no room for argument.

You rise, slowly, warily.

And the second you get closer to him.

He moves.

Jin grabs your wrist, swift and effortless, pulling you toward him with calculated force.

Before you can even process what’s happening, you’re dragged across his lap, pinned down over his thighs, stomach pressed against his legs.

You yelp, hands grabbing at nothing, struggling instinctively, but he’s already got you trapped beneath his grip.

And then, he moves your skirt, gathering the material at your waist. 

"White, hm?" His voice dips into something almost pleased, almost mocking, his palm gliding over your pantyhose-clad ass, the thin, sheer fabric stretched tight over your skin.

His touch is calm, measured, spreading over the delicate material, testing the way it hugs you, the way it clings, the way it does nothing to shield you from him.

His fingertips glide along the soft nylon, barely-there touches that make you shiver. "You want to act like a brat?" he murmurs, voice low, smooth, brushing against the shell of your ear. 

"Then you’ll be treated like one."

And then, the first slap.

Sharp. Sudden. Loud.

The sting cuts through the sheer fabric, making you jolt forward, gasping.

"Count." He orders. 

Your breath stutters. "W-what?"

Another sharp slap. Harder.

Your legs tremble.

"Start counting, sweetheart."

Your fingers curl into fists, your whole body burning.

"T-two."

His hand lands again.

"Louder."

Your thighs clench.

"Three."

"Good girl," he praises, voice dark, smooth. His other hand presses against your lower back, keeping you still.

Another slap.

Your hips buck. Your knees wobble.

"Four."

The pain blends with something else, something worse, something humiliating.

Again. And again.

"Five." 

"Six." 

The heat spreads, sharp at first, then dull and throbbing, radiating through you.

"Seven."

"Eight."

Your voice shakes.

"Nine."

The final slap. Harder than the rest.

"Ten."

You’re panting, your thighs shaking beneath you.

Then, he pauses.

His palm rests against the burning skin, fingers smoothing over the lingering sting like he’s soothing you, but you know better.

Because then, without warning, a sharp squeeze, fingers digging into the tender flesh of your ass, forcing a choked gasp from your lips.

Fuck– it hurts.

"Manners, angel," he murmurs, voice smooth, expectant, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s reminding you who’s in control.

His thumb presses deeper, tracing over the sheer nylon stretched taut over your skin, testing the warmth he left behind, feeling how swollen, how tender you’ve become under his hand.

Your face burns when you realise he’s going to make you thank him. 

“…Thank you,” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence.

His thumb presses again, circling the spot where the burn is deepest, sending a fresh wave of heat flooding through you.

"Use that pretty little name you called me earlier, angel."

Your stomach twists, heat creeps up your neck, you don’t want to say it. But you know better.

You swallow hard, "Thank you… Daddy."

The approving hum that rumbles from his chest makes your thighs clench together instinctively. It does something to you, something humiliating and hot all at once.

Then, just as you brace yourself for another punishing squeeze, his hand smooths over your ass instead, fingers gliding over the delicate white pantyhose stretched tight against your skin. 

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, voice thick with something dark, something possessive. His palm drags over the fabric slowly, like he’s savoring the way it hugs your curves, the way you tremble beneath his touch. 

Then, without warning, he grips the thin material at the seam and rips it apart. The sharp tear of fabric fills the room, and a shocked gasp escapes you as cool air kisses your newly exposed skin. 

His breath hitches, just slightly, but it’s enough. "Look at that," he groans, spreading the ruined nylon further to admire the soft, pink flesh underneath. His fingers skim over the freshly exposed skin, his touch maddeningly light. 

"Knew you’d be this pretty under all that." You shiver, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over you. But he isn’t done. One firm hand settles on your bare ass, squeezing, massaging, reveling in the way your flesh gives under his grip. 

"Now," he murmurs, voice softer, teasing, but still entirely in control. "Are you done being difficult," he breathes, his lips just near your ear, "and ready to be my good girl again?"

Your stomach flips. Because you don’t know, but you nod, because you don’t think you can handle any more.

Jin’s lips curve, satisfied. He presses a small, fleeting kiss to the nape of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. Then, finally, he pulls back.

With deliberate care, he smooths your skirt down over the mess, covering the evidence of what he’s done to you. The ruined pantyhose still cling to your legs, torn and stretched, a reminder of just how easily he’s unraveled you. He adjusts the fabric gently, as if tucking you back into place, like nothing happened.

His hands slip to your waist, steadying you as he helps you stand. "There you go, angel," he says approvingly, fingers brushing over your trembling thighs. "Such a good girl for me."

Then, as if he hadn’t just wrecked you beyond repair, he straightens, smoothing out his sleeves. His voice is effortless, smooth as silk.

"Finish your dinner, darling."

————-

You sit at the edge of your bed, brushing out your hair, trying to shove down the unease curling in your stomach. The sting from earlier still lingers on your butt, a dull reminder of his discipline. Your thoughts are spiraling until you hear the soft creak of your door. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.

"Sweetheart." His voice is smooth, too soft, like he’s being careful with you. Like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. You exhale through your nose, feigning disinterest as you set down your brush. "Yes?"

A small, pleased hum. Then, the rustle of fabric. You glance over just as he pulls a small white pill from a container, holding it out between two fingers. "Here, take this," he says simply.

Your stomach twists as you eye it suspiciously. "What is it?" His gaze is steady. "Something mild. To help you sleep and ease your mind." Your pulse skips. The way he says it, it sounds so reasonable and normal. 

"I don’t need it," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "You do," Jin corrects gently, stepping closer. "You’ve been restless, overthinking and tense." Your fingers tighten in your lap. He’s not wrong, your head has been a mess. Too many conflicting emotions, too much guilt, too much…everything.

You don’t say anything. You just stare at the pill, hesitation thick in your chest. Then, he reaches out. His fingers brush against your chin, tipping your face up. The touch is light, almost affectionate, but his grip is firm. His thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw as he watches you closely.

"It’s mild," he murmurs, repeating himself. "Just enough to help." You know you shouldn’t take it. But…Your body is still weak from earlier, your mind is too clouded, and overwhelmed.

You part your lips. He hums in approval and places the pill on your tongue. His hand lingers, fingertips grazing your bottom lip, watching as you swallow. 

"Good girl." The words make something in your stomach twist. You don’t respond or look at him. Instead you turn over and lie down, pretending not to feel his eyes lingering on you. "Good night, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unwavering. Of course the door doesn’t close. Instead, he leaves it slightly ajar.

Your bedroom is silent, leep should come easily, but it doesn’t. Your body still aches faintly from earlier, from his hand. It lingers, even now. You shove your face into the pillow, trying to ignore the way your skin still tingles where he touched you.

Your mind drifts in and out, floating somewhere between waking and dreaming.

And then–

Tap.

Your brows furrow.

Tap. Tap.

Your breathing evens out, almost dismissing it.

Tap.

Your eyes snap open. For a moment, you just stare at the ceiling, confusion settling in. Then you hear it again. A small sound, a pebble hitting glass. Your window. You sit up, heart pounding as you look toward it, mind still sluggish from whatever Jin gave you. Your limbs feel oddly weighted, but you push the blankets off and stumble toward the window. Your hands tremble slightly as you press your fingers to the glass. And then you see him.

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon.

Standing outside, pebbles in hand, eyes locked on yours. Your breath catches. What the fuck is he doing here? You fumble with the lock, shoving the window open, cold air rushing in. Your heart is still racing, still struggling to keep up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hiss, voice hoarse. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sunghoon looks frantic. His eyes scan over you, taking in the pajamas you’re wearing, the dazed look in your eyes.

"I’ve been trying to reach you!" he whisper-shouts, voice urgent, desperate. "For weeks! What the hell is going on?" Your pulse pounds. Your fingers tighten on the window frame.

Now he’s showing up? After a whole month of silence? "Bullshit," you snap. "You didn’t even try." His face twists in frustration. "Are you serious?" His breath is ragged, his shoulders tense. "I left you over a hundred messages! I even went to your house!"

You blink. "What?"

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "Your parents told me you were fine, that you were focusing on school, that I should stop bothering you." His jaw clenches. "But when you weren’t answering. I knew something was wrong." Your stomach twists, your parents, of course.

"But I kept calling and texting you," he continues. His voice shakes a little, his fists clenching at his sides. "I swear."

The weird gaps in your messages. The way Jin always handed you your phone for only ten minutes at a time. The way Sunghoon’s name never showed up. Your body goes cold. Jin had been deleting his messages and calls. He’d been filtering everything, controlling everything.

Sunghoon sees your expression shift. His face hardens. "Tell me the truth. Are you okay?" No. No, you’re not okay. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight, your fingers gripping the windowsill. "Come down," he pleads, voice softer. "Please."

Your body moves before your mind can stop it. You shove your sneakers on, heart hammering, your hands shaking as you climb out onto the ledge. Your limbs still feel too heavy, too sluggish from the pill, but you push through it. Because for the first time in weeks, you’re making your own choice. You drop down, landing a little too hard on the ground, breath uneven. And then Sunghoon’s arms are around you. He pulls you in, crushing you against his chest, exhaling sharply. "What the fuck is going on with you?"

You feel his warmth. The way he’s solid, real. The way he smells like home. For a second, you want to cry. But you push it down. "Not here," you whisper. "Just, take me to your place." You don’t look back because you know that Jin is probably asleep, or worse, awake and waiting.

————-

The drive to Sunghoon’s place is a blur, your mind is racing. Your heart still pounds from the adrenaline of sneaking out, of running through the cold night air, of stepping into his car and telling yourself you made it. Sunghoon doesn’t speak much during the drive. His grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw clenched, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Concerned or maybe suspicion? But he doesn’t push.

When you step inside the apartment, something inside you loosens. It’s messy and lived-in. His parents are barely around, leaving a university student to manage the chaos on his own. Clothes are draped over a chair, half-empty cups sit forgotten on his desk, and his hoodie is tossed carelessly onto the bed, carrying the familiar scent of him. It feels so painfully normal.

Sunghoon watches you carefully. Then, after a beat, he picks up the hoodie and hands it to you. “Here,” he says simply. “You’re probably freezing.” You take it without thinking, slipping it on, the second his scent surrounds you, you suddenly feel like crying. You missed being yourself. You sink down onto his bed, fingers gripping the sleeves, stomach twisted in knots. Sunghoon sits beside you, watching. And then, finally, he speaks. "What’s happening? You’re scaring me."

Your throat tightens, you want to tell him. You want to spill everything, every twisted, fucked-up thing that has happened since your parents handed you over to him. And so, you do, at least, most of it. You tell him about the rules. The schedules. The punishments. You tell him how Jin has slowly taken every ounce of control away from you, how your parents barely checked in, how you haven’t even been able to contact him. But you don’t tell him about the other things. About Jin’s hands. About his voice in your ear, his breath on your skin. You can’t. The guilt is too thick, the shame crawling under your skin like a parasite. 

Sunghoon listens in horrified silence. And when you finally stop talking, he looks furious. “That’s fucking insane.” His voice is sharp, unsteady. “You’re leaving. Tomorrow. You’re staying here.” But the second he says it, you snap. Because he makes it sound so easy. Like you can just walk away. Like you can undo everything with one night away. Like he understands what you’ve been through.

Your frustration creeps in, clawing up your throat. You shove your hands into your lap, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "I need something," you say suddenly. Sunghoon frowns. "What?" You hesitate. Then, carefully, "The pills. Do you still have them?" His expression darkens immediately. "Babe, no. You don’t need that shit. Not after everything you just told me.”

"Please, Sunghoon." Your voice shakes. “Just this once. I just need to clear my head.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Are you serious right now? After everything he’s done to you, you want to–”

"You don’t understand!" You snap. Sunghoon freezes, blinking at you. "You think this is easy? You think I can just leave and pretend like nothing happened? That I can just go back to normal?" He looks at you, pained. “I’m trying to help you!” 

"No, you’re not! You’re just like everyone else, you don’t get it. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re not even–" You choke on your words. Sunghoon reaches for you, softer now. “Babe, please, just breathe.” But you jerk away. "You’re not listening to me!"

He grabs your wrists, firm but careful. "Stop," he says, voice low, desperate. "I won’t let you do this to yourself." But it’s not the help you need. It’s not what you asked for. Your vision blurs. Your body feels too tight, too hot. You just need something to stop it. You wrench away, voice cracking. "You’re just like him!" The second the words are out, you regret them.

Sunghoon’s entire face changes. Hurt. Shock. Betrayal. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, his jaw tight, his breath shallow. Then, his expression hardens. "You don’t mean that," he says quietly. But you do. Because he’s keeping you from what you need, just like Jin did. The room feels too hot, the walls closing in.

"Fuck this," you breathe, pushing yourself off the bed. You turn away, stepping out of his bedroom, trying to get air. Sunghoon follows immediately, his footsteps heavy behind you. "Babe, wait! Just stop for a second!" But you don’t stop.

The anger, the frustration, the suffocating weight in your chest, it’s too much. It’s clawing at your ribs, burning at the edges of your vision. You move past the kitchen, your fingers barely grazing the countertop as you steady yourself, your head pounding.

Sunghoon grabs your wrist, desperate. "Listen to me, please, just calm down!" His voice is distant, blurred. Your body feels too hot. Your vision swims, flickering between black and red. Sunghoon’s grip tightens, trying to ground you. "You’re not okay. You need to sit down, babe please."

But you wrench away. And then–

Darkness.

————-

The first thing you register is the cold.

The second is the weight in your hand.

Your fingers are stiff, wrapped around something hard, slick.

A knife?

Your pulse skips. Your breath is ragged, uneven. The world is a blur of dull yellow light and shadows.

And then you see him.

Sunghoon.

Lying on the kitchen floor.

Still. Silent. A pool of red spreading beneath him.

Your stomach lurches violently, nausea slamming into you.

Your grip on the knife tightens, a fresh streak of warmth slipping between your fingers. Your hands, your hands are covered in it.

Blood. His blood.

Your pulse pounds against your skull, your mind fighting against itself, against the scene in front of you.

No. 

No, no, no.

You were arguing. You were angry. And then, darkness.

And now. Sunghoon is dead.

The knife is in your hand. Your vision tunnels, a sharp ringing in your ears as the weight of reality crashes down.

Did you? Your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, your body shaking so violently it hurts.

You stare at him, unblinking, willing him to move. To wake up. To breathe. But he doesn’t. He never will again. Sunghoon’s blood is on your hands.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your body is trembling, your heart slamming against your ribs, your vision blurring from the sheer force of your panic. Your mind screams at you to fix this, to undo it but you can’t.

Because it’s real, it’s happening. Because you did this.

Your stomach churns violently. A sob claws up your throat, strangled and sharp, but you clamp your hand over your mouth, suffocating it before it can break free.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, and your entire body is locked in place, frozen, broken, unable to comprehend what you’ve done.

A shuddering breath rips through you, your hands trembling so violently you can’t even lift them properly. What do you do? What the fuck do you do?

This will ruin you. This will destroy your life. Your family’s reputation. Your future. You were already a screw-up. A burden. A disappointment. But this? This is irreversible.

The only person, your boyfriend, the one you had a real relationship with, is dead. Because of you.

Your frantic gaze flickers around the room, searching for anything. And then, your eyes land on Sunghoon’s pocket. His phone. Your throat tightens, and your breath stutters. You reach out, your fingers barely cooperating, slick with blood. You have to force yourself to dig into his pocket, ignoring the way his body feels wrong, lifeless, and unnatural.

You pull out his phone, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Who do you call? Who could possibly–

Your hands shake violently as you swipe at the screen, barely able to focus. You don’t even process the number you’re dialing, your brain malfunctioning, glitching, operating on pure survival instinct.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then–

A click.

A deep, smooth familiar voice. 

"Hello?"

You suck in a sharp breath as your vision is blurring.

Your body breaks. Your lips part, and when you speak, your voice is nothing but shattered glass.

"Jin…"

A sob threatens to swallow you whole.

"I need help."

The words slip out before you can even process them. There’s a long pause.

And then, his voice. 

"Sweetheart where are you?" He calmly asks. 

You choke back another sob, your fingers tightening around the phone.

"S-Sunghoon’s," you whisper. "I- Jin, I think I–"

You can’t say it. You won’t say it. But Jin doesn’t ask. "Stay where you are." The line goes dead. And you do nothing but sink to the floor, your body curling in on itself as the reality claws at your throat. You don’t move for what feels like an eternity, frozen until the door finally creaks open, you already know it’s him.

Jin doesn’t hesitate. Not when he sees the blood, not when he sees Sunghoon’s lifeless body. Not even when he sees you, broken, shaking, drowning in your own guilt. He kneels in front of you, movements measured, deliberate. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp cheek. Gently and carefully. 

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice is so soft. Too soft. Like he’s comforting a child. Your breath shudders, your pulse erratic, your entire body frozen. Your hands stained with blood, Sunghoon’s body cooling beside you. Your mind spins, scrambling for reason, for a single explanation that makes sense but there’s nothing. Just pieces that don’t fit, memories that won’t come together. 

“I, I don’t–”

"Shhh." His hands find your wrists, firm but not forceful, enough to still you, enough to make you look at him. His eyes are steady as he’s pulling you in, swallowing you whole. "Do you trust me?"

The question slams into you. It shouldn’t be hard to answer. You should say no. You should run. You should fight. But you don’t trust yourself. Your gaze drops to your bloodstained hands, to the mess on the floor, to Sunghoon lying still, his face frozen in something between shock and horror.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Your throat tightens, nausea curling in your stomach. Slowly, weakly, you nod. "Yes." Jin exhales, relieved, like he already knew what you’d say. His fingers smooth over your skin, grounding you, coaxing you further into his grip. "Good girl."

He tilts your chin up, his thumbs pressing into your jaw, keeping you still, keeping you his. "Listen to me, sweetheart. He was going to kill you."

Your chest tightens. Your lips part, but you don’t deny it. Because Sunghoon wouldn’t let you leave. Because Sunghoon grabbed your wrists. But Sunghoon wouldn’t have killed you. Would he?

"Say it."

Your voice barely scrapes past your lips. “He was going to kill me.”

Jin nods, pleased.

"He was obsessed with you."

The texts, the calls, the pleading, the way he kept trying to reach you, through your parents, through Jin. You thought it was love. Maybe it wasn’t. But you know it wasn’t like that. But if you don’t say it, if you don’t repeat it, if you don’t let him rewrite it, then you’re left with the truth. And the truth is worse.

“He was obsessed with me.”

Jin leans closer, his voice softer, soothing, the final push.

"It was self-defense, angel."

Your stomach twists. Your body sways, unsteady, unraveling. You know it wasn’t.

"Say it."

The blood on your hands. The fight. The darkness. The emptiness. You don’t remember. You don’t know what’s real anymore. If you don’t say it, then the only truth left is that you killed him. 

“It was self-defense.”

Jin smiles, slow, approving. His hands slide to your shoulders, solid and reassuring.

"You had to do it."

Your pulse pounds.

"I had to do it."

His thumb grazes your bottom lip, a fleeting touch, a reward.

"That’s my good girl."

Something inside you fractures. You should feel horror. You should fight the weight settling over you. But his words sink in too easily. They make sense. They fit.

Because if they don’t, if none of this is true, then you are something so much worse.

And Jin looks proud. Like you’ve given him exactly what he wanted. Like you belong to him, now more than ever. And deep down, in the darkest, most twisted part of you, you know you owe him everything.

————-

Jin’s penthouse is grand, perfectly arranged, the kind of luxury you've always known. Your mother sits across from you, a glass of wine cradled in her manicured fingers. Your father stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, swirling his whiskey, gaze distant, detached. Their presence should be comforting, but it never has been.

Jin sits beside you, silent, composed, present. His warmth is closer than it should be, his leg pressed subtly against yours. His hand rests on your thigh, fingers curling just slightly, a touch you didn’t ask for. A quiet reminder that you belong here, that this moment is already decided.

Your mother exhales, shaking her head, her lips pursed. "How did it come to this?" She’s not talking about you. She’s talking about him. About Sunghoon. "That boy was always…unstable." She tilts her glass, watching the liquid swirl before lifting it to her lips. "But this? This is disgraceful." Your stomach twists. Disgraceful, not tragic, or heartbreaking. Just inconvenient.

Your father sighs, finally turning towards you. His expression is unreadable, cool. "This is why we trusted Dr. Kim." He gestures vaguely in Jin’s direction, as if his presence alone explains everything. "We knew you needed guidance. That boy was a distraction. A liability. You’re lucky we acted when we did."

Lucky. Your fingers clench in your lap. Jin’s grip on your thigh tightens. Just enough to warn. "It’s a shame," your mother continues, voice smooth, apathetic. "But what matters is that it’s handled. Dr. Kim, you’ve been… invaluable."

Jin finally speaks, his tone calm, assured. "I only did what was best for her." His fingers stroke your thigh, slow and possessive, hidden beneath the table. Your mother nods approvingly. "And what’s best for our family." Your father hums in agreement. "We can’t afford another scandal. This was a close call." A close call. Your chest feels tight, your breath shallow.

"We’ll be returning to the city tomorrow," your mother announces, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s no reason for us to linger." No reason to stay. Because they weren’t really here for you. They never have been. 

You swallow, voice hoarse when you finally speak. "And me?"

Jin’s thumb presses on your thigh, just a little, just enough. Your father raises a brow, like the question itself is ridiculous. "You’ll stay here, of course. Under Dr. Kim’s care." Of course. The words sink like a stone in your stomach. "We’ve already made the necessary arrangements," your mother adds, giving you a placating smile. "He has done such a wonderful job, hasn't he? You wouldn’t want to… regress."

Jin hums beside you, low and indulgent, the sound curling around your spine like silk. He slightly smirks at you.“No,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing absent patterns against your thigh, pressing in just slightly. “She wouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens because you understand. This isn’t just an arrangement. It’s a decision that was never yours to make. This is final and there’s no escaping it now.

Your mother stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress. "I trust you’ll be good for Dr. Kim. Don’t cause him any trouble, dear." You nod, a mechanical motion. Jin smiles beside you, fingers trailing just a little higher, a silent promise. 

Your parents leave without a second glance. And then, the door clicks shut. Silence. Jin exhales slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s been waiting for this. "Alone at last." Your breath shudders, because now, there’s nothing left between you and him. No distractions, no witnesses. Just the lie, the truth, and him.

You should run. You should fight. You should do anything other than just stand here as he steps closer, as his warmth sinks into you, as his fingers softly trail up your arm, making your breath catch. "You did so well, darling." His voice is softer than it should be. Gentle. Coaxing. Like he’s rewarding you. His fingers trace higher, brushing over your jaw, tilting your chin up. The movement is slow, deliberate, a reminder that you don’t belong to yourself anymore.

"You’re home now," Jin murmurs, his thumb stroking lightly over your bottom lip. "And you’ll never leave again." The words sink into your skin, into your bones, seeping through every crack until there’s nothing left untouched by him. His touch is so warm, so careful, so unlike anything you’ve ever been given before from anyone.

"Look at you," he murmurs, and there’s something so indulgent in his tone. His fingers tighten, pressing just enough to make you feel small. "You’re already melting for me."

Your breath shudders, your pulse is too fast. Jin hums, pleased. "Good girl." Then, he kisses you. Soft and slow. Like he has all the time in the world to break you apart. His lips against yours, teasing, coaxing, tasting. You shouldn’t let him. You should fight, should push him away, but you don’t. Your fingers twitch against your sides, your body betraying you, wanting something you don’t understand.

Jin feels it. "You’re still tense," he murmurs against your lips, his hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down. "That’s okay, sweetheart." His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. "I’ll take care of it." 

His hands move slower than they should, like he’s savoring every second, every reaction. His fingers dance up your sides, memorizing the way your breath hitches. "Tell me you need me, angel." His voice is a whisper, a command in disguise.

Your throat tightens, you shouldn’t. But the way his fingers curl against your waist, the way his breath skims the shell of your ear, warm and patient and devastating. You break. "I need you."

Jin exhales, satisfied. "That’s my good girl." Then, he pulls you into him completely. His arms wrap around you, firm, trapping you in a cage of warmth and control. His lips press to your temple, then your cheek, then your throat, slow and possessive, like he’s marking you.

"You belong to me now, darling," he murmurs against your skin. "And I’m never letting you go." His hands gliding down, finding your hips, pressing down, controlling you.

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing over bare skin, smoothing over the small tremble in your body. He loves this. The way you shudder under his touch. The way your breath catches in your throat, like you already know there’s no escaping him. Like you don’t even want to. "It’s okay sweetheart, I’ll take care of it," he soothes, voice low and indulgent. 

Then, he shifts. Before you can react, Jin moves, smoothly sinking into his office chair. And he takes you with him. His hands find your waist, pulling you back against him, trapping you in his lap. Your body presses against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you right where he wants you. The leather creaks beneath you, a quiet sound swallowed by the weight of his presence. The position is intentional. 

One of his hands drags up your thigh, hooking it over his own, spreading you open. A quiet, helpless sound slips from your lips. He exhales, deep and satisfied, lips brushing against your temple. "There we go." His fingers glide lower. Slow. Teasing. Until he reaches your core. Your breath catches. Your body stiffens. But Jin? He just smirks. Because you’re already soaked. 

His fingers slowly graze over your folds. And when you shudder, thighs trembling against him? He chuckles. A low, pleased sound that sends a sharp pulse of heat curling through you. Jin tilts his head slightly, his lips grazing your ear, his voice dipping into something darker, something cruel. "You’re already so wet, sweetheart."

His lips drag down, pressing slow, possessive kisses along the curve of your jaw, down to your throat. His breath is warm and patient. "Such a needy little girl." Another kiss. Deeper this time. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, branding you.

"Good thing you have daddy here to help you." His free hand tightens around your thigh, spreading you further, ensuring you feel just how helpless you are against him. His lips ghost over your pulse point, feeling how fast, how desperate it beats just for him.

He exhales a quiet "hmm," letting the moment stretch, savoring your helplessness. Then, with a smirk against your skin, his voice dips, soft and devastating.

"How about another medical check-up, my pretty girl?"

[lovelyspring7]

Guysssss in less than 6 hours I’ll be posting Cede to madness (Jin fic)!!!😆

[lovelyspring7]

We love UUUU

I love uuu tooo🙂‍↕️🫶

[lovelyspring7]

I guarantee you whatever you put out is gonna be great. I haven’t forgotten about this fic and I’ve been patiently waiting for whenever you want to upload it. I know it’s gonna be awesome but no rush if you decide to post it! 🩵

You’re so sweet🥹💖 You’re totally right, I’m just gonna edit it and not change anything.

[lovelyspring7]

I’m re reading the Jin fic and editing right now…it’s so inappropriate. Like what was I even thinking? There’s so many things I’d like to change about it too. But then I’ll have to change the whole story line. The thing that’s bugging me is the daddy kink, I feel like it ruins the plot. I’m gonna stop overthinking and just post it this weekend. If it’s shit it’s shit🙃🙂‍↕️🙂

[lovelyspring7]

Way I just randomly searched your account just to leave this message but you’re an amazing writer your skills are phenomenal with narratives you come up with at this rate give me a movie

Thank you so much for this, it honestly means more to me than you probably realize🥺. I really appreciate you taking the time to say it, I really needed this💗

[lovelyspring7]

I’m mean the pearl series altogether!

The whole Pearl series? Okay wait… that actually means everything to me. Thank you for loving it like that✨

[lovelyspring7]

Hi,

I never send messages or post on tumblr but I just HAD to say your silver pearl fic. Shook to my core. I’m gonna remember this fic for a long time like it was absolutely wild.

Hi! the fact that you don’t usually send messages but felt like you had to for this??? That means so much to me, you have no idea.

“Shook to my core” is actually the highest compliment for that fic😭 Silver Pearl was such a wild ride to write, so knowing it stayed with you like that makes my heart so full💜✨

[lovelyspring7]

Hello, how you been doing? I've just read the teaser for Cede to madness and I'm shocked. It looks so interesting to me. I was just wondering if you're going to release it. I don't mean to pressure you.

Hi love🥺 Thank you so much for reading the teaser, that makes me so happy!

And don’t worry at all, I don’t feel pressured🫶 I am planning to release it, I’m going to post right after Ramadan ends. I just want to make sure I give it the time and focus it deserves.

Thank you for being patient and for being excited🤍✨