Episode 3: Y/N meets more tenants, plenty of flirting and smut, things heat up
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The Morning After
The first light of dawn slipped through the blinds of the fifth‑floor hallway, casting thin bars of gold across the polished wood floor. Inside the cramped communal lounge, the girls were already buzzing like a hive that had just discovered a fresh source of nectar. Their phones lit up in unison, a chorus of vibrations that seemed to echo the lingering hum of the washing machine from the night before.
The conversation spiraled outward, each girl adding her own flavor of excitement, jealousy, and curiosity.
Lily: Okay, okay, let's settle down. Let’s make this interesting. Who thinks they can be the first to actually fuck him?
Haneul: I’m still riding the high from last night, but I’d love a rematch.
Somi: I’m calling dibs on the first blowjob. I’ve been practicing my technique on a banana all week.
Magenta: I’ll take the first anal. I’ve got a new toy that’s supposed to be “mind‑blowing.”
Danielle: I’m not shy about a good old‑fashioned missionary. Let’s see if he can keep up with my stamina.
Jiwoo: I’m down for a threesome—any two of you want to join me?
Hanni: I’ll settle for a good old‑fashioned make‑out session on the couch. No pressure, just… feel him out.
The bets flew back and forth like chips at a high‑stakes poker table.
Magenta: I’ll put $20 on me being the first to ride him.
Somi: $15 on me getting that blowjob before lunch.
Haneul: $25 on me getting a second round—this time with him on his knees.
Lily: I’ll throw in $10 on a spontaneous shower fuck.
Danielle: $20 on me getting him to cum inside me on the washing machine—just for old times’ sake.
The chat continued to erupt, memes, GIFs of trembling tongues, and exaggerated moans flooding the thread. The girls laughed, teased, and dared each other, their voices a mixture of genuine excitement and playful rivalry. Beneath the bravado, there was an undercurrent of something else—a shared anticipation that the new boy on the floor might become the center of their little world for a while, at least until the novelty wore off.
Y/N’s Morning Rush
Y/N stumbled out of bed at 7:15 a.m., the remnants of Haneul’s sweet, musky scent still clinging to his skin like a second layer of sweat. He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—hair mussed, lips slightly swollen from the night’s fervent oral work, eyes bright with a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. He splashed cold water on his face, feeling the shock jolt his system awake.
He threw on a plain white tee, a pair of faded jeans, and his favorite sneakers, then grabbed his backpack and bolted for the door. The hallway was already alive with the soft murmur of girls preparing for their day—some brushing their teeth, others humming while they straightened their hair, a few whispering excitedly about the night’s events.
As he reached the stairwell, he could hear the faint echo of the group chat notifications buzzing from the phones left on the lounge table. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding not just from exertion but from the knowledge that he had become the subject of their fervent speculation.
He burst out onto the street just as the city bus hissed to a stop at the curb. The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, and he lunged inside, barely making it before the driver pulled away. The bus lurched forward, and Y/N grabbed onto the overhead strap, his breath coming in short bursts.
The bus swayed as it merged onto the main avenue, and Y/N let his mind drift back to the basement laundry room—the cool metal of the washing machine against his palms, the way Haneul’s thighs had trembled as he licked her slick folds, the sound of her breathy moans echoing off the tiled walls. He could still feel the heat of her core, the sweet tang of her arousal on his tongue.
A sudden jolt brought him back to reality as the bus hit a pothole. He gripped the strap tighter, his cheeks flushing. He glanced at the clock on the bus’s digital display: 7:45 a.m. He had ten minutes to make it to his first lecture.
First Two Classes were a blur of notes and distractions
The lecture hall was already half‑filled when Y/N slipped into the back row, sliding into a seat that offered a partial view of the professor and a clear line of sight to the door. He pulled out his notebook, flipped to a fresh page, and began to scribble down the professor’s points on introductory psychology—terms like “classical conditioning,” “reinforcement schedules,” and “cognitive dissonance.”
His pen moved mechanically, but his mind kept wandering. Every time the professor clicked to the next slide, Y/N imagined Haneul’s lips parting as she gasped, her hips bucking against the washing machine. He could almost hear the soft slap of her wetness against his chin, the way she had arched her back, offering herself completely.
The second class—Introduction to Theater Arts—was a stark contrast. The room smelled of old wood, paint, and a faint hint of sandalwood from the incense the professor liked to burn during discussions. The professor, a vivacious woman in her late thirties with a mane of curly red hair, paced the stage, gesturing wildly as she talked about Brecht’s alienation effect and the importance of physicality in performance.
Y/N found himself oddly engaged. He remembered Belle’s flamboyant style from the cafeteria encounter the day before—though he hadn’t yet spoken to her, he had noticed her dramatic makeup, the way she seemed to carry a costume wherever she went. The professor’s enthusiasm reminded him of Belle’s theatrical flair, and for a moment, he imagined her standing on a stage, delivering a monologue while draped in a flowing velvet cape.
When the class ended, Y/N packed his belongings quickly and rushed to the cafeteria, his stomach growling in protest of the skipped breakfast.
The cafeteria was a bustling hub of chatter, clattering trays, and the aromatic promise of pizza, stir‑fry, and salad bars. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the sea of students. Y/N grabbed a tray, piled it with a generous serving of spaghetti carbonara, a side of garlic bread, and a tall glass of iced tea. He found a relatively quiet table near the back, tucked behind a potted ficus that offered a semblance of privacy.
As he settled in, he unfolded his notebook again, attempting to review the notes from his morning classes. The carbonara smelled divine—rich cream, crispy pancetta, a hint of nutmeg. He took a bite of the pasta. The flavors exploded on his tongue—salty, creamy, slightly smoky. He savored each mouthful, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.
Just as he was about to take another forkful, a flash of color caught his eye. A girl draped in a half‑finished medieval gown—deep emerald velvet with gold embroidery along the hem—stood at the salad bar, tossing leaves with a pair of tongs. Her hair was a wild cascade of dark curls, dyed a striking shade of midnight blue at the tips, and her face was adorned with dramatic makeup: thick black eyeliner, a bold crimson lip, and a swipe of iridescent glitter across her cheekbones. She wore a pair of combat boots that clashed delightfully with the ethereal gown, giving her an air of rebellious royalty.
Y/N recognized her instantly—Belle, the Theater & Costume Design Major he had glimpsed earlier. She was humming a tune under her breath, a lilting melody that seemed to belong to a forgotten folk song.
She glanced over, her eyes locking onto his for a brief moment before she smiled—a grin that was both mischievous and inviting.
"Hey there! You look like you could use a friend to share that glorious carb load with. Mind if I join?" She said
Y/N swallowed, feeling a sudden dryness in his throat despite the drink beside him. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him.
"Sure, go ahead. I’m Y/N btw."
She slid into the seat, setting her tray down with a soft clatter. Her plate was a colorful mosaic: mixed greens, sliced strawberries, candied walnuts, a scoop of quinoa, and a drizzle of balsamic glaze. She picked up her fork, twirling a strand of spaghetti on her own plate—she had apparently decided to steal a bite of his carbonara as well.
"I’m Belle. Theater and Costume Design. I live in the dorms, but I spend more time in the costume shop than my own room. You’re the new guy on the fifth floor, right?
"Yeah, just moved in yesterday. Met Somi, Hanni, Lily, and Haneul already."
Belle's eyes widening "Haneul? The yoga instructor? No way! I heard she’s… intense."
"You could say that. We… uh, got acquainted doing laundry late last night.
Belle’s eyebrows shot up, her glittering cheek catching the light.
"So, what brings you to the cafeteria today, Y/N? Besides the obvious need for carbs after… vigorous activity?
Y/N was blushing "Just trying to catch up on notes. My brain’s still a little… scattered. I just moved in to a new apartment, it's my first year in college. Lots of things happening at the same time."
"Scattered, huh? I can help you focus. I’m great at… distraction." She winked, and Y/N felt a familiar stir low in his belly.
"I could use some distraction, I guess. What did you have in mind?"
"How about this—after class, I’ll show you around the costume shop. We can brainstorm some ideas for a project. Maybe you can help me with… measurements?"
"Measurements?" Y/N said raising an eyebrow
Belle was already laughing "Yeah, you know, for costumes. I need a live model sometimes."
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"And if you’re good with your hands… maybe you can help me with some… fittings."
Y/N’s pulse quickened. The idea of being close to her, of feeling the fabric of her creations against his skin, of possibly being undressed for a fitting— it sent a thrill through him that was equal parts excitement and nervous anticipation.
"I don't have much modeling experience but i'll give it a shot, i guess. With the right teacher." he smirked
"Great! I’ll text you the details later."
She grabbed his phone, tapped rapidly, and then slid it across the table back to him. The screen lit up with a new contact entry: Belle – Theater & Costume Design.
"There’s my number. Feel free to text me anytime—whether it’s about costumes, a coffee run, or just… to 'chat'."
"Thanks, Belle. I’ll definitely take you up on that."
She stood, gathering her tray with a graceful flourish. As she turned to leave, she glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling.
"Oh, and Y/N? If you ever need a break from all that… studying, you know where to find me. The costume shop’s always open for… creative collaborations."
She winked again, then disappeared into the crowd, her emerald gown swaying with each step, a flash of medieval fantasy amidst the modern cafeteria.
Y/N watched her go, feeling a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. He slipped his phone into his pocket, feeling the weight of the new contact against his thigh. He took another bite of his carbonara, savoring the richness, and let his mind wander to the possibilities that lay ahead—costume fittings, late‑night rehearsals, perhaps even a scene where he would be the one undressed, his body becoming a living canvas for Belle’s artistic vision.
He finished his meal, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and stood up. He slipped his backpack over one shoulder, adjusted his shirt, and headed out of the cafeteria, his mind already racing toward the costume shop, the possibility of Belle’s touch, and the inevitable, delicious chaos that awaited him on the fifth floor.
The elevator dinged softly as Y/N stepped onto the fifth‑floor landing, the faint scent of lavender cleaner mingling with the lingering aroma of dinner from someone’s kitchen. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, the weight of his textbooks a familiar comfort after a day of lectures that had, surprisingly, passed without any further drama. The hallway was quiet, the doors along the corridor mostly closed, save for one that stood ajar near the far end—a thin sliver of light spilling out, accompanied by a muffled, frustrated shout.
“Come on, you fucking noobs! How can you miss that skill shot?!”
Y/N frowned, curiosity tugging at him. He recognized the voice—sharp, edged with the kind of irritation that only came from hours spent glued to a screen. He crept closer, the door revealing a dimly lit room bathed in the glow of multiple monitors. A gaming chair swiveled slightly as its occupant threw her hands up in exasperation.
Jiwoo was a sight to behold: her hair, a messy tumble of dark curls, was pulled into a loose ponytail that strained against the effort of her movements. She wore an oversized graphic tee emblazoned with a retro pixel art sprite, paired with faded tight jean shorts that had seen better days.
Around her neck hung a pair of chunky headphones, the cable coiled like a serpent around her wrist. The room was a organized chaos—stacks of manga, a shelf lined with figurines of various game characters, a half‑empty bowl of instant ramen on the desk, and a keyboard that clacked under the fury of her fingertips.
“Ugh! T1’s bot lane is feeding like crazy. I swear, if they don’t pull it together I’m gonna scream.”
Y/N leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Rough game? Need a backup player?” he said
Jiwoo finally turned, her eyes widening as she took in his presence. A flush crept up her cheeks, half from embarrassment, half from the sudden surge of adrenaline that always accompanied an unexpected social interaction.
“Oh! Hey… you’re the new guy from 501, right? Y/N? I’m Jiwoo—apartment 502. I… I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Just got off the elevator. Heard the shouting and thought I’d see if you needed a teammate. I play Forza and a few FPS games when I need a break from textbooks.”
Jiwoo’s eyes lit up, the competitive spark in them reigniting.
“Forza? Not too bad, rookie! I’ve been meaning to try a racing sim. Mostly I’m stuck in League and Valorant—gotta keep my reflexes sharp for those clutch moments. You actually play? That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a decent rig back in my room. If you ever want to duo queue, I’m down. I’m not half‑bad with a sniper rifle.”
She chuckled, the sound bright and a little breathless.
“You’re making me want to challenge you right now. But first… I need to vent. That game was a disaster. Their bot lane kept overextending, and the great Faker was non-existent It’s so… frustrating.”
“I know the feeling. Sometimes you just want to scream into a pillow after a bad match.”
“Exactly! And speaking of screaming… I heard something… interesting about you last night.”
Y/N’s eyebrows rose, a flicker of curiosity mixed with a hint of wariness.
“Oh? What did you hear?”
Jiwoo leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret, though the apartment was empty aside from the two of them.
“Haneul… she couldn’t stop talking about how you… well, you know. She said you have a tongue that could make a saint sin. I was… honestly a bit jealous. I mean, who gets to have their… ahem… pleasure delivered like that on a washing machine?”
A warm blush spread across Y/N’s face, the memory of Haneul’s trembling thighs and the slick heat of her arousal flashing behind his eyelids. He hadn’t expected the news to travel so fast, especially not to someone as reclusive as Jiwoo.
“Yeah… that was… intense. I didn’t think anyone else would hear about it.”
“Word spreads fast on this floor. Everyone’s talking about the new stud who can make a yoga instructor lose her mind. I have to admit… I’m curious to see if the rumors are true.”
She tilted her head, studying him with a playful glint.
“You know, I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks, translating subtitles and streaming games. I could use a… distraction. Maybe you could show me what all the fuss is about?”
Y/N felt a stir low in his belly, a mixture of excitement and the familiar nervousness that came with being the object of someone’s desire.
“I’m flattered. But I think I should focus on not failing my midterms first. Maybe after exams?”
Jiwoo pouting playfully “Aww, you’re no fun. But I get it. Study first, pleasure later. How about a compromise? You teach me a few Forza tricks, and I’ll show you some hidden League strategies. Deal?”
“Deal. And if you ever need a break from translating, I’m always up for a quick race.”
They laughed, the tension easing into a comfortable camaraderie. Jiwoo stood, stretching her arms above her head, the fabric of her tee pulling tight over her chest.
“Alright, I’m gonna grab a snack. You want anything? I’ve got ramen, chips, or… maybe something stronger if you’re feeling adventurous.”
“Just a water’s fine. Thanks.”
Jiwoo disappeared into her tiny kitchenette, returning moments later with a steaming cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water. She set them on the desk beside her keyboard, the steam curling up like a lazy dragon.
Jiwoo tried to speak with her mouth full “So, tell me about your day. Anything else exciting besides… you know, the basement?”
Y/N shrugged “Just the usual—lectures, trying to keep up with notes, and then I ran into Belle at the cafeteria. She’s the theater and costume design major. Gave me her number, said she’d show me around the costume shop later. She’s… pretty intense in her own way.”
Jiwoo's eyes widening “Belle? The one who’s always wandering the halls in half‑finished gowns and dramatic makeup? Yeah, she’s a firecracker. If she’s interested, you’re definitely on her radar. Just… watch out for her tendency to drag you into improv sessions at 2 a.m.”
“Noted. I’ll keep my improv skills sharp.”
They fell into an easy rhythm, chatting about games, classes, and the quirks of living in a building where the fifth floor was an all‑girls enclave. Jiwoo’s competitive nature shone through as she recounted a recent tournament where she’d clinched a victory with a daring flank maneuver, her voice rising with each exhilarating detail. Y/N listened, genuinely entertained, his mind occasionally drifting back to the sensation of Haneul’s wetness against his tongue, but he kept his focus on the present conversation.
After about twenty minutes, Jiwoo glanced at the clock on her wall—a neon digital display that read 19:47.
“Wow, time flies when you’re trash‑talking noobs. I should probably wrap up this stream before I lose my viewers. Thanks for the chat, Y/N. It was… nice to have someone to vent to.”
“Anytime. Good luck with the next match. And hey—if you ever want to race, just hit me up.”
Jiwoo winked “Will do. See you around, stud.”
She gave him a playful salute before turning back to her screen, the chorus of in-game sound effects flooding the room once more. Y/N stepped back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. He felt a pleasant buzz of social interaction still humming in his chest, the kind that made the mundane feel a little brighter.
The humid evening air of Seoul clung to Y/N as he stepped outside to take out the trash. He was just about to head back inside when a flash of black leather caught his eye. Standing there, leaning against the railing with a playful smirk, was Somi.
She looked absolutely lethal in a pair of skin-tight black leather shorts that hugged her curves and a tiny crop top that struggled to contain her breasts. Her immense cleavage was on full display, the pale skin glistening slightly in the streetlights, teasing him with every breath she took.
"Hey there, handsome," Somi purred, her voice a low, sultry vibration. "Heading to the club to start my shift. You look bored. Why don't you tag along? First drink is on me."
Y/N thought about his evening. Belle was locked away in a theater for her play rehearsal, and Haneul hadn't made it home from her regular late night class yet. He had nothing but free time and a growing attraction to the wild woman standing in front of him. "Sure," he replied, a grin forming. "I could use a drink to cool off."
The club pulsed with life. Itaewon‑ro’s neon signs painted the street in electric pinks and blues, and the entrance thumped with a steady beat of K‑pop‑Japanese EDM. Inside, the space was a maze of dim lighting, glossy black surfaces, and a sea of bodies moving in sync to the music. The crowd was young, energetic, and surprisingly respectful—no drunken brawls, no shouting, just a collective sway that felt almost communal.
Somi gave him a quick, suggestive wink before slipping behind the bar to start her shift. Y/N found a comfortable booth, ordered a strong drink, and let the music wash over him. He felt the vibe of the place instantly. Within twenty minutes, a few girls, drawn by his energy, approached him, asking him to dance.
Y/N didn't hesitate. He spent the next hour on the dance floor, his body moving in sync with the girls, their hips brushing against his, their hands sliding over his shoulders. From the bar, Somi’s eyes never left him. She watched him move, her gaze hungry, her tongue occasionally darting out to lick her lips as she imagined those hands on her.
Girls drifted over, drawn by his relaxed confidence. One with dyed silver hair tapped his shoulder.
“You look like you could use a dance partner,” she said, eyes sparkling.
He laughed, standing, and took her hand. They moved together, bodies brushing, hips rolling to the rhythm. Another girl, tall with a pixie cut, slipped in beside them, her hands finding his waist. The three of them formed a loose triangle, laughing, whispering, the heat between them building with each song.
From the bar, Somi watched. Her eyes lingered on the way his shirt strained across his chest, the way his jaw tightened when he laughed. She could see the desire flickering in his gaze whenever he glanced her way, and it made her own pulse race.
When the rush died down, Somi seized her moment. She walked over to his booth, carrying a fresh drink, her leather shorts riding up high on her thighs. As she leaned over to set the glass down, she deliberately pressed her chest forward, giving Y/N a panoramic view of her deep cleavage.
“You’re having fun, huh?” she purred, her voice low enough that only he could hear over the music, her voice dripping with mischief
Y/N smiled, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the crowd.
“Yeah, this place is amazing. You really know how to pick a spot.”
She slid into the booth beside him, her thigh pressing firmly against his.
“You know, Haneul was kind enough to tell us all about your evening together, in very vivid details.” She let the words hang, a teasing challenge.
Y/N’s eyebrows rose, a mixture of surprise and intrigue crossing his face.
“Oh, yeah? And what did she say?”
Somi’s hand slid under the table, finding the hard length of his thigh. She began to rub, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat radiating through the fabric.
“She said you’re… generous,” she whispered, her thumb pressing just enough to make him gasp. “And that you know how to make a girl scream.”
Y/N felt a surge of heat hit his gut. Before he could respond, Somi’s hand slid down, her palm landing squarely on his crotch. She began to rub his dick through his pants, her grip firm and rhythmic. "I've been thinking about it all night," she moaned softly. "I want my turn. I want to feel exactly what Haneul was talking about."
Y/N didn't need further invitation. He leaned in, capturing her neck with his lips, sucking the sensitive skin while his tongue flicked against her earlobe. Somi let out a sharp, needy gasp, her hips grinding into his hand. She signaled to her colleague with a quick nod and a frantic look, indicating she was taking a break.
She practically dragged him toward the women's bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it behind them. The moment the bolt clicked, Somi was all over him. She crashed her lips against his in a hungry, desperate kiss, her tongue fighting for dominance. Her hands scrambled at his shirt, pulling the fabric taut as she tried to get closer to his skin.
Y/N groaned, his hands diving down to grab her ass, squeezing the firm cheeks through the leather. He slid his hands upward, slipping under the hem of her crop top to find her breasts. He gasped when he realized she wasn't wearing a bra; her nipples were already rock hard, peaking against his palms.
"Fuck, Y/N… I've been wanting this since I saw you downstairs," Somi whimpered, her breath hitching. She dropped to her knees with lightning speed, ripping his pants down and freeing his cock. She stared at it for a second, her eyes wide with desire, before wrapping her lips around the head and sucking deeply.
"Ah… fuck, Somi," Y/N groaned, tilting his head back against the tiled wall.
Somi didn't stop until he was pulsing in her mouth. She stood up, her face flushed, and pushed him back against the wall. She hiked her leather shorts up and slid her panties to the side, exposing her dripping wet pussy. She guided his cock to her entrance and lowered herself slowly, letting out a long, loud moan as he filled her.
"Oh god… yes… fuck me, Y/N! Fuck me hard!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the small room.
Y/N gripped her waist, lifting one of her legs and hooking it around his thigh to open her up completely. He began to drive into her with deep, powerful strokes. The sound of their bodies slapping together—clap, clap, clap—filled the air, mixing with Somi's loud, unrestrained moaning. Y/N reached up, pulling her top higher to expose her breasts, leaning in to suckle her nipples, biting them gently to make her scream louder.
"Nnngh! Ah! Yes! Right there!" Somi wailed, her head tossing back.
Suddenly, Somi’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Despite the intensity of the fucking, she reached down and pulled it out. The fifth-floor group chat was exploding. Danielle, Jiwoo, and Magenta had figured out he was at the club.
Danielle: "Wait, is Y/N actually with Somi right now??"
Jiwoo: "No way… Somi is totally scoring first!"
Magenta: "Somi, you slut! Tell us everything! Is he as good as Haneul said?"
Somi let out a wicked laugh, her body shaking as Y/N slammed into her. She looked at the screen, then at Y/N’s focused, sweating face. "They're so jealous, baby," she gasped, her voice trembling. "They want you so bad… but you're mine right now."
In a fit of exhibitionist thrill, Somi hit the record button on a voice note. She held the phone close to her face and then lowered it toward where they were joined.
"Listen to this, girls," Somi moaned into the mic, her voice breaking as Y/N hit her G-spot. "Ahhh! Fuck! He's… he's so big… nnnngh! He's pounding me into the wall! Listen to how wet I am for him!"
She let the audio capture the wet, slapping sounds of their sex and her loud, guttural moans of pleasure before hitting send. The group chat went absolutely nuclear.
Danielle: "OH MY GOD!"
Jiwoo: "I can hear it! I can literally hear him fucking her!"
Magenta: "SOMI! How big is it?! Give us details NOW!"
Y/N, fueled by the knowledge that the other girls were listening, increased his pace. He hammered into her, his strokes becoming faster and more violent. Somi’s eyes rolled back in her head, her internal muscles clamping down on him in a powerful wave.
"I'm coming! I'm coming! Ahhh! FUCK!" she shrieked, her body shuddering as she hit a massive orgasm.
Y/N didn't stop, continuing to drive into her until she peaked a second time, her walls twitching around him. Finally, with a loud groan, Y/N buried himself deep inside her and released, filling her womb with a hot, thick torrent of seed.
"Oh… god… so much…" Somi whispered, leaning her forehead against his, both of them panting heavily.
After a few minutes of afterglow, Y/N dressed and slipped out of the bathroom to head back to his table. Somi stayed behind, leaning against the sink, her legs shaking. She looked down at herself; a thick stream of Y/N's cum was leaking out of her pussy, dripping down her inner thigh.
She picked up her phone again. The chat was still buzzing. Belle, Hanni, and Lily had joined in, their messages filled with horniness and disbelief.
Somi smirked. She slid two fingers deep into her soaking wet hole, swirling them around to mix the cum with her own juices. She pressed the record button again.
Squelch. Slurp. Squelch.
The sound of her fingers fucking herself, drenched in Y/N's seed, filled the audio clip. "Mmm… he filled me up so much," Somi whispered into the phone, her voice breathy. "I can still feel him inside me… it's so warm… so thick…"
She sent the audio. On the other end, Lily stared at her phone, her face flushing deep red. She remembered the way she had rejected Y/N during the college orientation tour just a few days earlier, thinking she was too good for him. Hearing the wet sounds of another woman enjoying him so thoroughly sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through her.
Lily: "I… I can't believe I said no to him."
Somi smiled, knowing she had just started a war for Y/N's attention on the fifth floor.
You finally reach the wall of the swimming pool, surfacing and gasping as you lean against it.
"Alright! Nice job! You're improving," says Lee Jiwoo, your swimming coach. She whoops and claps for you, which resonates in the indoor pool. Even more so since you've been practicing quite long on this late afternoon session so the pool is devoid of everyone else.
"Yeah! I didn't...I didn't feel like I was gonna sink like a stone there," you exclaim breathlessly, hitting a high-five that she offers. You look around the empty pool, chuckling to yourself. "Damn, but I really took a while though, didn't I?" you ask, embarrassed.
"It's okay! People learn at different paces. This is your pace," Jiwoo assures, tapping your shoulder. "Although, maybe there were some things getting in your way? Some kinda...distraction?" she asks somewhat playfully.
"Uh...distractions?"
"Mhm."
You swallow. It's right in front of me, you want to say, but that wouldn't be appropriate, would it?
"Is it...right in front of you, maybe?" she asks, eyeing you up. Your face stretches. Damn, this girl can not only teach swimming, but read minds as well?
"That's—er..." You silently stutter for a less frontal alternative, but none comes to fruition.
"I take it that's a yes," she chuckles in a low voice, biting her lip and tilting her head. You close your mouth and look down in shame, your skin feeling colder than the pool water. "H–How did you know?" you mumble. Jiwoo chuckles again, absolutely not helping your situation.
"How wouldn't I? I could see you were hard before we even started." Jiwoo takes a step closer to you.
"I'm...sorry, noona." You look up at her face again, your cheeks burning and your cock straining against your swim trunks. "Tsk tsk. You little pervy boy. Does my outfit make you horny?" she asks, voice still playful but a tad lower.
Your lips tremble and your arms shiver, it feels like you're shrinking under her gaze. Well, all except for one part of you downstairs.
"Come on, tell me honestly. Does my outfit make you think dirty things?" Jiwoo's voice is low enough that it can only reach you now. And it oh, so turns you on like a stiff light switch.
"Y–Yes...noona. It—" Your eyes glance to her thighs underwater, sending a jolt through your chest. "It really does." How could it not? You're an early 20s, porn-addicted adolescent who's never had any meaningful interaction with women around your age.
When you stepped out of the locker room and saw Jiwoo in her swimming outfit, your mind went into the gutter faster than you could sink into the deep end of the pool.
The full black bodysuit hugged her slim figure beautifully. The cutouts on the sides teased her smooth waist and the V-shape they created directed your focus down to her forbidden triangle.
Speaking of that, the swimming skirt did not help very much. Its length—or lack thereof—showed off so much of her luscious thighs. The integrated safety shorts almost worsened the problem, molding to her pussy lips like a glove.
"I see. So you were distracted during this session, correct?" Jiwoo's back to her professional tone, but her demeanor otherwise didn't change. You nod slowly in response, your skin feels like it's on fire and freezing cold at the same time.
"Hmm. Well, you still did pretty good despite the fact, so that's that. But..." She hovers over to be right in front of you. You're suddenly aware of how the water makes the outfit cling to Jiwoo like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. "We'll need to include some...focusing exercises in our next sessions."
Your voice catches in your throat. A hint of Jiwoo's body essence is evident even over all the chlorine, so close is she standing. "Focusing...exercises? Like what?"
Jiwoo tilts her head and smirks, then you feel her hand on your bulge. You gasp and buck, whimpering when she fully gropes you underwater and curls her fingers around your covered erection. Jiwoo grins and scoffs at your reaction, shifting her body closer still. Her shapely boobs are just short of pressing against your pecks, her warm breaths tickling your cheek.
"Since this little guy down here's hogging your attention..." Jiwoo snakes her hand underneath your trunks, touching you directly. "We'll get him all drained before we start, deal?"
You should stop her, turn her away, report her or at least cancel all future lessons and change coaches. Instead, you’re shivering and turning to mush, your hips chasing her touch.
"Hey, rookie. You heard what I said?" Jiwoo snaps her fingers. "Y–Yeah! I did," you huff, biting your lip. Jiwoo chuckles, shifting her groping hand slightly. "So, deal?" You clench your jaws and groan, then nod fervently. "Deal! Whatever you say, noona!"
She hums and slips her other hand under your trunks, gripping the waistband. "Good boy." She pulls your trunks down to your thighs, baring your dick under the water.
Now your cock is fully out, Jiwoo gets a good purchase with her hand and begins stroking you, twisting every so often. A pathetic groan escapes your mouth before she cups her other hand around it.
"Hey, hey. Your voice echoes like crazy here. You wanna get caught by the lifeguard?" Jiwoo whispers. You shake your head and squeak. "No..."
Jiwoo releases her hand from your mouth, using it to stroke you now. "Then stay quiet for me, will ya?" You silently nod, putting your own palm around your mouth to muffle your helpless moans.
"I gotta ask, though. If you get horny this easy..." Jiwoo says midway, slowing down. "Why'd you pick a female coach?"
"Mmm. I–I didn't. When I saw the name, I thought—mmh! I thought it was a guy."
Jiwoo chuckles, picking her speed back up. "Sure you didn't just wanna look at girls in swimsuits?" Her other hand does a drive-by squeeze of your balls, letting a yelp slip through your guards.
"No! I–I didn't! I swear!" you whine, writhing under her touch. Jiwoo giggles, suddenly pumping you as fast as she could under the water before stopping abruptly.
You almost sob at the loss, your hips bucking towards her. "J–Jiwoo noona..."
"Be patient. I realized this isn't much different to you just jacking off, is it?"
You hum and shake your head. "It's–it's different when someone else does it." Jiwoo pouts and nods. "Still, I think we need to use a different approach." She shifts backward a few inches. "Approach to what?" you ask.
Jiwoo eyes you up for a couple seconds. "To making sure..." Her arms reach out to grip the pool edge, moving closer again. Under the water, your cock slides in between her meaty thighs, the latter squeezing you. " ...that you get properly drained before we start sessions in the future."
"N–Noona!" you squeak, your teeth chattering. Jiwoo sighs and closes her eyes. "Mm, you feel bigger between my thighs than in my hand. Wonder how you'd feel inside me."
"S–Sorry?"
Jiwoo's eyes open back up, her brows raised. Her mouth hangs a bit, her cheeks gaining some color. She seems equally flustered as you are, like she didn't mean to say it out loud.
"I, uh...never mind that. Just relax, don't be so tense. Can you do that for me?" You nod and breathe, gripping the pool edge hard as Jiwoo starts moving, sliding you between her. Your hand flies to your mouth again. The big, strong heft of her thighs is way more intense than her fingers, pushing you faster towards the peak.
Jiwoo's face is also different. Her cheeky smirk doesn't hold up as well, her eyes not quite focused. Her breaths get louder, even letting a few noises through. She's getting off to this as well.
It's not too long until you're close, quivering and squealing louder into your palm. "Jiw—ahh. Jiwoo noona, I'm close, I'm gonna!"
Jiwoo hums—almost moaning herself–and pulls away, leaving your cock throbbing in the water. You make an unrestrained whine, nearly sobbing. "Please, noona! I can’t hold on, let me cum..."
"I know, I know," she coos, looking around the water. "But we can't contaminate the water." Without further explanation, she takes a breath and goes beneath the surface. Your eyes follow her dark silhouette, moving closer and closer until it's almost right below you. Then you feel something around your tip; tight, warm, and textured. It's Jiwoo's mouth.
You wheeze in disbelief, your eyes locked onto the wavy, refracted image under the surface. Her mouth slides forward, taking more of you into her. Your loins are brought to the edge at lightspeed, and as soon as you hit the back of her mouth, you explode.
You cry out into the vast indoor space, writhing and arching your back as you flood Jiwoo's throat with your cum. She moves a slight bit, drawing out as much of your release as she can.
Now spent, you slide down weakly, likely would've gone underwater if your elbows weren't braced against the edge. Jiwoo pulls off of you and resurfaces, wiping her face down. She smiles with her mouth closed, then opens it to show your white seed sloshing inside. Closing it back up, she swallows everything in one loud gulp.
"Damn, rookie," she pants, wiping her mouth. "You came real fast, huh? So much of it, too."
"I, I, I..." you stutter. "I'm not...g–good with this. No experience."
"Virgin, huh?" Jiwoo raises a brow, biting her lip. "Not too surprised, actually. Hey, you taste pretty good, by the way."
You give a tired smile. "T–Thanks, noona." She nods and pulls herself out of the water, perching beside you. "How you feeling now? You think you could focus better like this?"
You pull yourself up also, though it takes greater effort. "I think...yeah. Probably." Jiwoo scoffs, leaning back. "I expect to see results next week, then. If it's ineffective..." She turns back to you, squinting slightly. " ...we're gonna abandon this exercise."
You straighten up and nod, putting up your fist. "I'll do better. You'll see better results next session, definitely!"
"That's the spirit," she chuckles, bumping your fist with hers. "Oh, by the way..." She glances down. "Your dick's still out."
You snap your head down, realizing you haven't put your trunks back on. You scramble to slide it up, shifting in bizarre ways to do so while sitting down. Jiwoo cackles at the sight, making you laugh along once you're safely covered again.
The digital landscape of a ruined America stretches across your television screen, bleak and beautiful. You are deep in the zone, guiding Sam Porter Bridges across a treacherous scree slope. A perfect weekend, playing Death Stranding 2, how could it be more perfect than this?
But that peace is shattered when your front door flies open with a bang, crashing against the interior wall. Four figures spill into the room in a whirlwind of noise and motion, bringing the chaos of the outside world with them. You don't even flinch anymore.
This is a regular occurrence.
At the front of the pack is Jiwoo, your oldest friend and the formidable heart of the band. She wears a faded, cropped t-shirt and loose-fitting cargo pants. Behind her, Yooyeon, the guitarist, immediately peers at the TV screen with curiosity. Chaeyeon, their keyboardist, makes a beeline for your couch and collapses onto it. And Kotone, the drummer, is already halfway to the kitchen. You're used to the invasions, but it doesn't mean you have to like them.
You sigh, long and put-upon, pausing the game. "A simple knock. It costs literally nothing."
The rustle of plastic packaging comes from the kitchen, followed by a happy munching sound. Kotone is at your stash of fancy chocolates. You make a mental note to hide them better next time. Jiwoo ignores the side conversations, her dark eyes fixed on you. She crosses her arms.
"Much as I cherish these home invasions," you begin, "was there a particular reason you decided to break my door down today?"
"We came to get you," Jiwoo announces, her chin jutting out. "We're going to celebrate."
"Celebrate what? Kotone finally learned a rhythm that isn't 4/4?"
A balled-up candy wrapper flies from the kitchen and bounces harmlessly off your shoulder. You look back at Jiwoo, whose usual defiant expression has a crack in it.
"We got in," Yooyeon says, finally looking away from the game. She's grinning, wide and unrestrained.
You look to Jiwoo for confirmation. She allows a small, tight smile to pull at one corner of her mouth.
"Indie Wave Fest," she states. "They gave us a slot. Main stage."
The controller slips from your grasp and clatters onto the floor. Holy shit. Indie Wave. For two years, that’s all they’ve talked about. Two years of playing to half-empty bars, of hauling their own amps up three flights of stairs for a fifty-dollar payout, of sending countless demos that never got a reply. You were there for most of it, untangling cables and tweaking sound levels in shitty back rooms, an unofficial member of their crew. And now… main stage. It’s fucking insane.
"No way," you breathe, a smile spreading across your face. You push yourself up from the floor. "That's incredible. I mean it, guys. Fucking congratulations."
Jiwoo's smirk widens just a fraction. "Yeah, well, don't get all emotional. Now get your shoes on. We're getting drunk."
Your smile falters. The noisy, packed interior of a bar flashes in your mind. The press of bodies, the shouting over music. It's your personal version of hell. "Ah. You guys go on ahead. I'm not really… you know." You gesture vaguely at the paused screen. "I've got a lot of critical deliveries to make."
Jiwoo scoffs. She stalks over, snatches the controller from the floor, and holds down the power button on the console until the light dies.
"Don't be a fucking hermit. You helped us get here." She jabs a finger into your chest, a sharp poke that's surprisingly forceful. "You lugged our gear, you made us sound good when the venue's system was shit. You're part of this whether you like it or not. You're coming. I'm not asking."
The other girls start chiming in, a chorus of encouragement and light-hearted insults about your social life. You look from Chaeyeon's pleading face to Yooyeon's expectant one, and finally back to Jiwoo. Her expression is locked, determined. You know that look. It's the one she gets before nailing a complex bass line or staring down a hostile crowd. It's unbeatable. You let out a final, defeated sigh.
"Fine. You win. But you're buying."
"Deal. Now hurry up, nerd. The night's not getting any younger.”
—
The bar is a familiar kind of dive, one you've ended up in with them more times than you can count. It's perfect.
For them, anyway. A chaotic collection of empty shot glasses is already accumulating in the center of your booth's table. Kotone is trying to teach Chaeyeon a complicated handshake that seems to involve way too many moving parts, while Yooyeon is detailing, with extravagant hand gestures, how she's going to execute her guitar solo on the main stage. You nurse your first and likely only bottle of beer. Someone has to make sure they all get home without incident. That someone is always you.
"Four more tequilas!" Kotone bellows at the bartender, holding up four fingers.
"Five!" Chaeyeon corrects, her eyes wide. "He needs one too!" She gestures at you with her chin.
You shake your head, holding up your half-full bottle as a shield. "I'm good. Someone has to have their wits about them when you start trying to climb the light fixtures again."
Kotone just laughs, a loud, uninhibited sound. "That was one time!"
"It was twice. And the second time you almost took out the sprinkler system."
The conversation drifts, a rapid-fire exchange of inside jokes and war stories from past gigs. You listen, content to be on the periphery, a satellite in their orbit. Eventually, you steer them back to the reason you're here in the first place.
"So, have you guys actually thought about the setlist? For Indie Wave?"
Yooyeon stops mid-gesture, her expression turning serious. "Oh, absolutely. We're opening with 'Dreams Never End,' hit them hard right out of the gate. Then 'Glass Jaw' to keep the energy up."
"We have to do 'Echo Chamber'," Chaeyeon adds, leaning forward eagerly. "That's the one that got us the spot, I'm sure of it. The blog reviews for that one were insane."
They rattle off the names of their most popular songs, a playlist you know by heart. You've heard these tracks evolve from rough, mumbled ideas in their practice space to polished, powerful anthems. You can already picture the crowd, the sea of faces, the energy they're going to command.
"And we're doing a new one," Jiwoo says.
Her comment is dropped into the conversation so casually it almost gets lost in the noise. She's been quieter than the others, sipping her drink and watching her friends with a guarded sort of pride. You turn your attention to her. The chaos of the bar seems to recede, focusing down to the space she occupies across the table.
"A new one?" you ask. "I haven't heard a new one."
"It's really, really good," Chaeyeon gushes, her eyes sparkling. "Like, maybe her best one yet."
"It's different," Yooyeon clarifies, nodding in agreement. "But yeah. It's the best."
Jiwoo looks away, but a faint blush dusts her cheeks. "They're exaggerating. It's just a song I started writing a few years back. It was never finished, so I dug it up and worked on it."
"She's being modest," Kotone cuts in, leaning her elbows on the table. "We've been woodshedding it for a month. It's going to be the closer. It'll leave them speechless."
Your curiosity is officially piqued. Jiwoo's songwriting is the soul of the band; raw, honest, and often cutting. A song she's been sitting on for years, one her bandmates are this hyped about... it must be something special.
"What's it about?" you ask, looking directly at her.
And that's when she looks at you. It's not just a glance. Her eyes, the ones that usually hold a carefully constructed wall of cool indifference, seem to soften. The loud bar, the chattering of her friends, it all melts away into a muted hum. You see the slight fullness of her cheeks, the precise, doll-like shape of her mouth, the tiny mole just below her chin. You're not seeing the lead singer of a rock band, you're seeing… Lee Jiwoo, your best friend. The girl you’ve known for years, the one who used to borrow your math notes and draw stupid cartoons in the margins. A wave of heat crawls up your neck.
"What?" you manage, a little rougher than you intended. "Why are you looking at me?"
She blinks, the moment breaking. A flicker of her usual defensiveness returns, but the softness lingers around the edges.
"Nothing," she says, looking down at the condensation ring her glass is leaving on the table. "It's just… you were the first person to believe in any of this. The first one who didn't think I was just some loud girl with a stupid hobby." She lifts her gaze again, meeting yours. "You took us seriously when no one else did."
The praise is so direct, so uncharacteristically earnest, it throws you completely off-balance. You feel your face getting hotter and you're grateful for the bar's dim lighting. You shrug, trying to deflect the sudden, intense focus.
"Come on. That's all you guys. You wrote the songs, you played the shows. I just plugged in some cables and made sure the speakers didn't explode."
"That's bullshit," Kotone says immediately. "You're the reason we sounded like a real band and not just garage noise for that first year. You gave up weekends to help us haul gear and run sound for free."
"You are the only person who can figure out my keyboard's MIDI issues without wanting to throw it out a window," Chaeyeon adds.
"You're our unofficial tech, roadie, and therapist," Yooyeon concludes, raising her shot glass. "You're stuck with us."
You can't help but smile, the warmth of their words sinking in and settling the nervous flutter in your chest. You look around the table at them, at this chaotic, talented, loyal found family.
"Okay, okay. Just… when you're playing stadiums and getting interviewed by Zane Lowe, don't forget about the little people."
Jiwoo lets out a short, sharp scoff, but there's no bite to it. It's fond. "Don't be an idiot."
"Dude," Kotone says, slinging a friendly arm around your shoulders. "You're literally the only guy we can collectively stand for more than five minutes who isn't a complete tool. You're not getting rid of us that easily."
You look from her grinning face to Jiwoo, who is watching you again, that same unreadable softness in her eyes.
"The bar is on the floor, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The night deepens around the small bubble of your booth. More rounds appear as if by magic, delivered by a bartender who now recognizes Kotone’s enthusiastic wave from across the room. The girls’ voices get louder, their laughter sharper. You feel a pleasant, warm buzz from the beer, but you’ve consciously kept your pace slow. You've seen them this drunk before, and you know your role.
Kotone and Yooyeon are now locked in a heated debate about which rock drummer from the 70s was the most overrated, while Chaeyeon hums a keyboard melody onto the table, her eyes closed in concentration. Jiwoo has been surprisingly quiet for the past ten minutes, staring into her drink. The flush on her cheeks isn't just from the alcohol; it's from the heat of the packed room.
She pushes her hair back from her forehead, letting out a frustrated sigh. "It's fucking boiling in here."
She slides out of the booth, her movements a little less steady than before.
"I need some air." She looks down at you, her dark eyes pinning you in place. "You coming?"
It's not really a question. You nod, leaving your half-empty beer on the table as a placeholder. "Be right back," you say to the others, though you doubt they hear you over their argument.
The transition from the bar's oppressive warmth and noise to the cool night air is a relief. The street is mostly empty, the earlier traffic having thinned to a few passing cars that paint the wet asphalt with fleeting streaks of red and white light. The distant wail of a siren feels a world away. You two walk in silence for a moment, just letting the relative peace wash over you. You find a low brick wall bordering a closed flower shop and take a seat. The faint, sweet smell of damp earth and roses hangs in the air.
Jiwoo leans back on her hands, tilting her head up at the starless, hazy sky. "So," she begins. "How are you feeling? Setting up sound for us at Indie Wave has to be pretty fucking cool, right?"
You picture the massive stage, the towering speaker arrays, the complex mixing board that looks like the cockpit of a spaceship. It's a professional's dream and your personal nightmare.
"Yeah, about that…" you start, choosing your words carefully. "Jiwoo, this is… this is a different league. There's a huge difference between me tweaking knobs in a bar that fits fifty people and running sound for a festival stage. This is a real production.”
She turns to look at you, her brow furrowed. "What? I thought you'd be helping us. I was counting on you."
The sincerity in her tone makes this even harder. "Of course I'm helping," you reassure her quickly. "Just… not in that way. Look, I know some people. A couple of guys who do professional audio for touring bands. I'm going to call them, get you a real team." You pause, deciding to just lay it all out there. "And after this show, things are going to get serious. You're going to need a manager, a real one, not just me arguing with club owners over an extra fifty bucks. This is your shot. A good set at Indie Wave could get you a record deal."
You see a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "A record deal?"
"I've already been talking to some people," you admit, a little sheepishly. "Quietly. There's this indie label, ‘Analog Theater Records'—"
"—the one that signed the Window of Paradise?" she interrupts.
"The very same. You've played gigs with some of their bands. I know a guy who works A&R there. When I mention that you guys are playing at the festival, it will definitely get their attention. It triples your chances of getting a real contract, Jiwoo. Something with tour support, proper distribution…"
She's staring at you now, her mouth slightly agape. "When have you been doing all this?"
"It was supposed to be a surprise," you mumble, suddenly feeling exposed under her intense gaze. "And nothing's set in stone, which is why I didn't say anything. I didn't want to get your hopes up if it all fell through."
"You're amazing," she breathes out. A beat passes. "But I still want you there. At the soundboard. I only trust you."
You shake your head, a sad smile on your face. "You trust me because I'm free and I don't complain. These guys are a thousand times better than me, Jiwoo. This is a job for a whole crew, not one dude who learned everything from YouTube tutorials." You have to make her understand. "You deserve the best. Your music deserves to sound perfect."
She seems to accept that, though a flicker of disappointment crosses her face. She looks down, picking at a loose thread on her jeans. "So… are you even going to come?"
Damn. This is the part you were dreading. Your throat feels tight. "I've… I've never actually been to a festival, you know? It's just… so many people." You try for a light-hearted tone, but it falls flat. "I'll watch the livestream. Front-row seat from my couch. It'll be great."
"No." Her head snaps up, and in one swift motion, she closes the distance between you on the wall and her hand covers yours. Her fingers are warm, her grip surprisingly strong. "No, you have to be there."
"Jiwoo, I can't," you try to explain, the thought of being lost in a tide of thousands of strangers making your chest constrict. "I'm not good in crowds. It's not my scene."
"I'm serious," she insists, her eyes wide and pleading. This is the most vulnerable you have ever seen her. "I want you there. Please."
She never says please. You feel your resolve starting to crumble under the weight of her sincerity. "What if I have a panic attack or something? I'll just end up ruining it for you."
"You won't," she says, her grip tightening on your hand. "You can stand on the side of the stage. With the crew. Like always. You'll be backstage, away from everyone. You're part of the team, remember?" She leans a little closer, her gaze locked on yours. "It would mean a lot to me. To know you're there."
You look down at your hands, her fingers intertwined with yours. You know you should say no. You know this is a bad idea. But then you look back up at her face, at the desperate hope in her eyes, and you know you can't.
A long, slow breath escapes you. "Okay," you hear yourself say. "Okay. I'll be there."
A brilliant, dazzling smile transforms her face. It's so rare and so genuine that it literally takes your breath away. "Thank you," she whispers. "You won't regret it. I promise."
You both stand up, and before you have time to process it, she's stepping into your space and wrapping her arms around you. It's not a casual, friendly hug. She presses herself against you, her head fitting perfectly into the curve of your neck and shoulder. You stand there for a frozen second, your hands hovering uselessly at your sides, every nerve ending firing at once. You can feel the warmth of her through her thin shirt, smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo mixed with the bar's lingering smoke. Slowly, tentatively, you bring your arms up and hug her back, one hand resting on the small of her back.
"You mean a lot to me," she says, her breath warm against your skin. "I hope you know that."
Your own voice comes out as a nervous croak. "You mean a lot to me, too."
She pulls back just enough to look at you, though she doesn't break the embrace completely. Her hands rest on your shoulders. "Thank you," she says again.
"For what?"
"For being you."
The world narrows to the space between your faces. The city noise, the distant music, it all fades into nothing. It's just you and her, caught in this strange, intense gravity. Her eyes search yours, and you feel completely transparent, as if she can see every stupid, secret crush you've ever had on her. She lifts one hand, her fingers gently brushing near your eyebrow.
"You have something… right here," she murmurs, the warm touch of her skin making your whole body shiver. Her fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary after brushing away the non-existent speck.
Then, she leans in. Her eyes flutter closed, her face tilting up towards yours. This is it. This is happening. The moment you've dreamed of coming true in real time.
"Hey! Are we interrupting something?!"
The voice, loud and cheerful, shatters the moment like a rock through glass. You both spring apart as if electrocuted. Kotone, Chaeyeon, and Yooyeon are standing on the sidewalk a few feet away, holding a fresh tray of wobbling shot glasses.
Jiwoo recovers instantly. Her entire posture shifts. She throws a casual arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a rough side-hug.
"Nope. Nothing," she says. "We were just heading back in. Did you save any for us?"
She starts walking, practically dragging you with her, leaving you stumbling to keep up. Your mind is reeling, your body is still thrumming from her touch, and your heart is caught somewhere between soaring and plummeting.
You stumble back into the wall of heat and noise, your mind still caught in the quiet moment outside, replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop. Her face, the closing of her eyes, the feeling of her breath just inches from yours.
"There they are!" Yooyeon shouts, a little too loudly, as you approach the booth. She shoves a shot glass into your hand. "We were about to send out a search party."
Jiwoo slides into the booth first, pulling you down with her. She doesn't remove her arm, effectively pinning you between her and the worn upholstery. It's a tight fit. You're pressed against her from shoulder to thigh, the warmth of her seeping into your side. Your brain is screaming at you about the lack of personal space, but another, quieter part of you doesn't mind at all. The shot glass feels slick in your suddenly sweaty palm. You look at the clear liquid, then at the expectant faces of the other girls. You knock it back in one go.
The night dissolves from there. The conversations become cyclical, the punchlines repeated to fresh peals of laughter. Kotone retells the story of a disastrous gig in a bowling alley, a story you've heard at least ten times, but she tells it with such gusto that you can't help but smile. Chaeyeon starts trying to harmonize with the terrible jukebox music, her pitch wavering wildly.
Through it all, Jiwoo remains attached to your side. Her initial, performative hold loosens into something more genuine. She leans her head against your shoulder, her hair tickling your neck. Her comments, usually ironic and witty, become more sentimental.
"You're a good friend," she mumbles into your shirt at one point, her words slightly slurred. "The best one."
"You're just drunk," you reply.
"Am not," she protests, lifting her head to glare at you, but the effect is ruined by her unfocused eyes. "You just… you get it. You get us." She gestures vaguely at the other girls. "You're always there. Solid."
She lets her head fall back onto your shoulder, a heavy, trusting weight. Your arm, which has been awkwardly pinned at your side, finds its way around her, resting naturally on her waist. It feels right.
Eventually, the boundless energy of the group begins to wane. Chaeyeon is practically asleep, her cheek squished against the tabletop. Yooyeon is staring blankly at the TV over the bar, which is playing a silent infomercial for a kitchen gadget. Kotone is the last holdout, trying to engage the bartender in a one-sided conversation about the merits of different drumstick brands.
Jiwoo has been quiet for a while. You feel the rhythm of her breathing slow, deepening into a steady, even pace. Her head gets heavier on your shoulder. You risk a glance down and see that her eyes are closed, her long lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Her lips are slightly parted. She’s completely out.
You gently nudge Kotone. "I think that's a wrap for tonight."
Kotone looks from Jiwoo's sleeping form to Chaeyeon's comatose one and lets out a weary sigh. "Yeah, you're probably right."
The familiar ritual begins. You settle the tab, leaving a generous tip for the long-suffering bartender. You carefully extract yourself from under Jiwoo, who barely stirs, her head lolling before Kotone helps prop her up. The four of you maneuver the two sleeping girls out of the bar and onto the curb, a clumsy procession of dead weight and uncoordinated limbs. You pull out your phone, the bright screen hurting your eyes, and order the largest Uber available.
The ride to your house is something between chaos and peace. Chaeyeon wakes up just long enough to demand the driver change the radio station before passing out again. Kotone hums quietly to herself in the front seat. And Jiwoo… Jiwoo is asleep on you again. Her head found your shoulder as soon as she was bundled into the back seat, an instinctual homing beacon. You can feel the soft puffs of her breath against your neck. You look out the window at the blurry city lights, intensely aware of the girl sleeping beside you, her hand resting limply on your thigh.
Getting them out of the car and into your house is another ordeal. You fumble with the keys while Yooyeon holds Jiwoo upright. The moment the door is open, Chaeyeon makes a stumbling, desperate sprint for the bathroom. The sound of violent retching echoes through your quiet house a moment later.
You sigh. "Welcome home, ladies."
While Kotone deals with Chaeyeon, you and a surprisingly coherent Yooyeon begin the process of setting up camp. You pull the spare mattress from the closet and drag it into the living room for Chaeyeon. Yooyeon claims the couch, collapsing onto it face-first. You guide a still-drowsy Jiwoo into the guest room, which is thankfully already made up. She mumbles something incoherent and flops onto the bed, pulling the comforter over her head without even taking off her shoes. You quietly toe them off for her before closing the door.
Kotone finally emerges from the bathroom and declares she's taking the floor on a pile of blankets. Within fifteen minutes, the storm has passed. The house is filled with the sound of soft breathing and the occasional drunken snore.
You stand in the quiet of your kitchen, the sole survivor. You open the fridge, the cool light spilling into the dark room, and pull out a carton of orange juice. You pour yourself a large glass, the sweet, cold liquid a welcome antidote to the night's stale beer and secondhand smoke. You lean against the counter, taking a long, satisfying sip. Everyone is ruined, and you are in perfect shape.
"How do you do that?" a sleepy voice asks from the living room doorway. It's Kotone, wrapped in a blanket. "How are you not completely wrecked like the rest of us?"
You take another deliberate sip of your juice before answering, savoring the moment. "It's a revolutionary technique called 'drinking in moderation'. You should try it sometime."
She groans and shuffles back towards her blanket pile. "Jerk."
A much softer voice comes from the guest room doorway. It's Jiwoo. She’s leaning against the frame, her hair a mess, her eyes still clouded with sleep. "Hey."
"Hey," you reply.
"Thanks," she says. "For… you know. Taking care of us. Always."
"You're welcome." You gesture towards the bathroom with your glass. "Just try not to follow Chaeyeon's example."
She gives you a small, tired smile and disappears back into the room.
You finish your juice, rinse the glass, and place it in the dishwasher. You look around at the bodies strewn across your living room, at the chaos they bring into your orderly life. It's ridiculous. You're a glorified babysitter for a band of grown women who can command a stage but can't handle their tequila. And yet, as you turn off the lights and head to your own room, you can't imagine your life without them.
—
Your garage, once a quiet tomb for lawn equipment and old furniture, now throbs with life. It pulses with the thunder of Kotone’s drumming, the intricate webs of Yooyeon’s guitar riffs, and the vibrant, colorful chords from Chaeyeon’s keyboard. And at the center of it all, holding it all together, is Jiwoo.
You spend countless hours out there with them, coiled cables in hand, tweaking levels on your small mixing board. They are getting so fucking good. Their sound, a raw and energetic fusion of pop-punk immediacy and alt-rock heart, is crystallizing into something truly special. They sound like a modern-day Paramore, full of anthemic choruses and bristling with an emotional honesty that is almost entirely Jiwoo’s doing.
In the weeks that follow, during a break in one rehearsal, while the girls are chugging water and stretching, you decide to push your luck.
"Alright, the festival is just around the corner," you say, leaning against a tower of amps. "I've been patient. Can I please, finally, hear a little piece of this secret masterpiece? Just the opening riff. The first line. Anything."
The other girls suddenly find their shoelaces or water bottles intensely interesting. Jiwoo, who had been laughing at a joke from Chaeyeon, turns to you, and her expression is a closed door.
"No."
"Come on, why not?" you press, a little baffled by the intensity of her refusal. "It's just me. What's the big deal? I hear everything else you write."
"This one's different," she says, crossing her arms. It’s a defensive posture you know all too well. "It's not… it’s not for you to hear yet."
You look over at Yooyeon, who is now pretending to be deeply absorbed in tuning her already perfectly in-tune guitar. "Yooyeon? You can't just hum the melody for me?"
"Don't you dare," Jiwoo warns. Then she looks at all of them. "Nobody shows him the lyrics. Nobody plays him a single note. Got it?"
They all nod in silent, serious agreement. You're completely stumped. You look back at Jiwoo, at her determined, almost fierce expression. This isn't just her being difficult. This is something else.
"Okay, fine. Jesus," you say, holding your hands up in mock surrender. "Top secret government business, I get it."
She doesn't crack a smile. "Stop being so damn curious and just wait for the festival. It'll be better that way. I promise."
Her use of "I promise" echoes the one she gave you that night outside the bar, and it makes you pause. There’s something she’s not telling you, something they all know. You have no choice but to drop it.
"Fine," you sigh, defeated. "You're the boss." You clap your hands together. "Alright, from the top. Let's run 'Echo Chamber' one more time. Make it perfect."
They pick up their instruments, and the familiar, driving opening riff fills the garage. You lean back, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. You know this song inside and out. But now, as you listen, your mind is somewhere else entirely. It’s fixed on the song you haven't heard, the mysterious closer to their set. And you have a strange, growing suspicion that when you finally hear it, it will be something really special.
—
Of course, the ghost of that night outside the bar haunts you. It lives in the quiet moments: when you're waiting for a game to load, when you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling. You replay it over and over. Her face, softened by the light and alcohol, tilting up to yours. The closing of her eyes. Was she going to kiss you? Your gut, your heart, every hopeful, stupid part of you screams yes. But your brain, the cautious, self-protective part, whispers that you’re an idiot. You were creating a narrative. She was probably just going to hug you again, or tell you that you had another imaginary speck on your face. You never found the courage to bring it up, and the frantic pace of the festival prep never offered a moment.
And now, the day is here. Indie Wave. You barely slept, your mind a churning vortex of anxiety. The thought of the sheer number of people, the noise, the crushing density of a festival crowd, makes your skin crawl. Your palms are already slick with sweat. But then you picture them. You picture Jiwoo, her eyes scanning the sea of faces from the stage. You promised you'd be there. So, fuck it. For them, for her, you’ll face the horde.
You pull on a plain black hoodie and grab your keys. You're about to walk out the door when your phone buzzes. Mom. You answer, a sense of dread already creeping in.
"Something's wrong with Mittens!" she says with panic from halfway across the country. "The neighbor just called me. He’s just lying there, he won't eat, and he cried when she tried to pick him up."
Damn it. Mittens, your family's ancient, perpetually grumpy Persian cat. You know his medical chart by heart. "Did she say if he's trying to use the litter box?" you ask, already knowing the answer.
"She said he keeps going in and out of it but nothing's happening! You know his history, honey, the vet said if it happens again…"
A urinary blockage. Not immediately life-threatening if caught early, but incredibly painful and dangerous if left untreated. And you’re the only one nearby who can give the vet his complicated history of kidney issues without having to spend an hour on the phone with your mother. The timing is a cosmic joke. The festival grounds are a two-hour drive in the opposite direction of your parents' house. There is absolutely no way to do both. You close your eyes, the image of Jiwoo’s hopeful face warring with the thought of your mother’s beloved, miserable cat. There’s no choice to make, not really.
"I'm on my way," you sigh. "Tell the neighbor I'll be there in twenty minutes."
—
A few hours later, on the other side of town:
"Has anyone seen him?"
Jiwoo is a storm of nervous energy in the cramped backstage dressing room. She’s already in her stage clothes: ripped black jeans, a cropped band shirt, and a leather jacket; but her face is pale beneath her makeup.
"I've called him like, five times. It goes straight to voicemail," she says, pacing the small space between a clothing rack and a half-eaten catering tray. "He's not here."
Chaeyeon looks up from her phone. "He'll come, Jiwoo. He's probably just stuck in festival traffic."
"He would have texted!" she snaps with stress. "He knows how much I hate being late. What if he bailed? What if he thought about the crowds and just… decided not to come?" The last part is a whisper
"He would not do that," Yooyeon says firmly. "Not to you. He'd walk through fire for you, you know that."
"Thirty minutes to stage!" a crew member yells through the open door.
"Thirty minutes! He was supposed to be here hours ago to check the sound lines with the crew. He promised."
"Okay, look," Kotone says, trying to be the voice of reason. "If he's not here and he's not answering his phone, maybe something happened. An accident, or…"
Yooyeon reaches over and thumps Kotone hard on the shoulder. "Idiot! Don't say that."
"What? I'm just saying!"
"So now I'm supposed to worry that he's dead in a ditch somewhere?" Jiwoo exclaims, her hands flying to her hair. "How is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"No one is dead in a ditch," Yooyeon says, glaring at Kotone before turning back to Jiwoo. "He is fine. And you are fine. You need to focus. You're about to play the biggest show of your life. You can freak out about your weirdly co-dependent boyfriend later."
"He's not my boyfriend!" Jiwoo protests, a faint blush rising on her neck.
"Whatever. Just get your head in the game," Yooyeon says. "He'd want you to kill it."
Jiwoo takes a deep, shaky breath, closing her eyes. She’s a professional. She can do this. But as she opens them, her gaze drifts towards the door, empty and waiting.
—
The vet clinic waiting room carries that agonizing vibe of anxiety and illness. Your phone is a useless brick; there’s zero signal in this concrete box. Hours crawl by. Finally, a receptionist calls out the clinic’s Wi-Fi password. You connect, a few minutes pass and you finally manage to find a decent live stream of the festival.
There they are. On a massive stage, under dazzling lights. They’re halfway through their set. You’ve missed it. You forgot your headphones, so you turn the volume down to a barely audible noise, holding the phone to your ear. They sound incredible. The professional sound crew you hooked them up with is doing an amazing job. Jiwoo is a rock star. She commands the stage, her voice powerful and clear even through your tiny phone speaker. But you see it. Between songs, as the crowd roars, her smile falters. Her eyes scan the wings of the stage, searching. Looking for you. And your heart plummets.
Finally, they launch into their second-to-last song. You know what's next. The secret song. As the song ends, Jiwoo steps forward, the roar of the crowd washing over her.
"Thank you so much for all the love!" she pants into the mic. "You guys have been incredible. We have one more for you. This one is… this one's new. It's really special to me, and…"
"Mittens?" a voice calls out. The vet, a kind-looking woman in blue scrubs, is standing in the doorway. You look from her to your phone screen, where Jiwoo is taking a deep breath, about to speak again. You have to go. You lock your phone, the song unheard.
—
On stage, Jiwoo closes her eyes for a second, picturing your face. "This song is called 'Waiting for Your Love'," she says, suddenly quiet and vulnerable, then she nods to Kotone, who clicks her sticks together four times.
—
"He's going to be just fine," the vet says, handing you a small bag with prescription pills. "Classic UTI flare-up. He's uncomfortable, but the antibiotics will clear it right up."
You thank the vet for her help, pay the bill and carry Mittens, now looking much less miserable in his carrier, out to your car. The moment you're inside, you take out your phone. You snap a quick, apologetic selfie with the cat carrier, Mittens' grumpy face visible through the grate. You send it to Jiwoo:
I am so, so, SO sorry. Had a family pet emergency. I know this is the lamest excuse in history but I promise it's real. I watched what I could on the stream. You guys were fucking incredible. I’m so proud of you. Call me after.
You drive home, the adrenaline of the day leaving you exhausted and hollow. You drop Mittens off, make yourself a quick, sad sandwich, and collapse onto the couch. You open Twitter. Your feed has exploded. The band's name is trending. All you see is praise. "Blew the main stage away." "My new favorite band." "Where can I find their music???"* And then you see it, tweet after tweet. "That last song, OMG." "What was that closer?? I was in tears." "Someone please tell me 'Waiting for Your Love' is on Spotify RIGHT NOW."
You have to hear it. You need to hear it. You scramble for your headphones, and just as your fingers close around them, your doorbell rings.
Holy shit, can I not have one second of peace? you think. You stomp to the door, ready to tell off whoever it is.
You pull the door open, a complaint already on your lips. And you freeze.
Standing on your doorstep, illuminated by the porch light, is Jiwoo. She’s still in her full stage outfit, the ripped jeans, the leather jacket. Her makeup is smudged, her hair is a mess from the show, her chest rises and falls, panting, as if she had run a marathon to get here. She looks like a fallen angel who just fought a war. And she’s staring at you like she’s either going to kiss you or kill you.
For a solid three seconds, you just stare, unable to process the image in front of you. "Jiwoo? What the hell are you doing here?" you finally manage. "Shouldn't you be at an afterparty? Or, you know, still at the festival?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, she just walks past you, brushing your shoulder as she steps into your living room. You close the door, your mind a complete blank, and turn to face her. She stands in the middle of your living room, looking small and somehow out of place without her bandmates flanking her.
"I needed to see you," she says.
"I am so, so sorry about today," you rush to say, the guilt hitting you all over again. "I swear I wasn't bailing. The cat—"
"I know," she cuts you off. "I believe you. I saw your picture." She offers a tiny, tired smile. "How is the furry little asshole?"
"He's better. Medicated and probably plotting my demise, but better."
"Good." She lets out a long breath, her shoulders slumping. "That's good. I'm not angry, you know. It was an emergency. It's just..." She gestures vaguely, her hands fluttering with frustration. "Everything went wrong. I had it all planned out. The whole thing."
"I was just about to listen to the song," you offer, hoping it's the right thing to say. "The new one. Twitter is losing its mind over it. They're all saying how good it is."
Her head snaps up, and she looks at you with genuine surprise. "You haven't heard it yet? At all?"
"No," you shake your head. "I had to leave the stream right when you were about to introduce it. Then the vet, then getting the cat settled... I haven't had a chance."
A strange look passes over her face, it starts with disappointment and then becomes something else.… an idea. "Okay," she says slowly. "Okay, wait right there."
Before you can ask what she's doing, she pivots and heads for the back of your house, disappearing into the hallway that leads to the garage. You hear the door squeak open, followed by the sound of things being moved around, a couple of amps being shifted, the clatter of a cymbal stand. A minute later, she reappears. She's holding her beloved, beat-up acoustic guitar, the one she writes all her songs on, its wooden body covered in stickers and scratches.
"I'll just... I'll play it for you now," she says.
You are completely floored. "Wow. Okay." You feel a giddy, bubbling excitement in your chest. A private, acoustic performance of the secret song. This is infinitely better than hearing it over a livestream.
She sits on the edge of your couch, patting the cushion next to her. You sit, leaving a respectable but suddenly distance between you. She takes a deep, centering breath, her fingers finding their familiar place on the fretboard. She looks at you, one last, long, unreadable look, and then she begins to play.
A few simple, melancholic chords fill the quiet room. It’s softer, more intricate than her usual work. Then, she starts to sing. Her voice is different here, in the stillness of your living room.
And the words… holy shit, the words.
She sings a verse about two kids sharing a single pair of earbuds on a late-night bus, a memory so old you’d almost forgotten it. There’s a line about a stupid cartoon of a rocket ship you drew in the margins of her chemistry homework in tenth grade. She sings about the feeling of the bass vibrating through the floor of your garage, about the night you stayed up until 3 a.m. helping her fix a corrupted demo file. It’s a tapestry woven from the threads of your shared history, a collection of tiny, insignificant moments that you now realize meant everything.
The chorus swells, a heartbreakingly beautiful melody. It’s about a love that acts as a lifeline, a secret source of strength that saves her every single day. But it’s also about the paralyzing fear that giving that love a voice will shatter the perfect, fragile friendship that already exists. The song resonates really strongly with you. Because it’s a feeling you know so well, it’s like she’s singing exactly what goes through your mind every time you’re… well, with her.
When the final, gentle chord fades into silence, you can’t breathe. You’re just staring at her, your mind racing, trying to connect the dots that have been right in front of your face for years.
She looks up at you from under her lashes, her eyes don't hide the terribly vulnerable feeling that vibrates in every fiber of her body right now. "Don't just be silent," she whispers. "Say something. Please."
"It's…" You have to clear your throat to make a sound. "It's amazing, Jiwoo. It's… beautiful. I always knew you were an incredible songwriter, but that's… that's on another level." You have to ask. You have to be sure. "Is that song… is it about us?"
A small, wry smile touches her lips. "Of course it's about us, you idiot. Isn't it obvious?" Her shyness gives way to a flicker of her usual bluntness. "That's why I wanted you there. So you would hear it. So you would finally get it!" She looks down at her guitar. "I've written a lot of songs about you, or with you in mind. But this one… this one was supposed to be the one that made it clear."
"I'm… I'm flattered, Jiwoo. I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," she says, finally putting the guitar aside. She turns to face you fully, her knees tucked under her on the couch. "I'll say it. I've always liked you. No, that's wrong." She shakes her head, taking another deep breath. "I'm in love with you. Everything about you. The way you pretend to be annoyed when we invade your house, the way you get so focused when you're helping with the sound, the way you remember stupid things no one else does. I can't keep pretending I don't feel this way. It's exhausting."
"I feel the same way," you say. "God, Jiwoo, I have for so long. You're the most incredible person I've ever met. You're brilliant and frustrating and so damn talented it makes my head spin. You inspire me. You're… you're everything."
"Then why didn't you ever say anything?"
You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Are you kidding me? Look at you. You're a rock star. You're beautiful and cool and you have this… attitude. This power. And I'm just… me. The nerdy guy who helps with your gear."
She stares at you for a long moment, a dozen emotions warring in her eyes. Then, she closes the small gap between you. "You really are an idiot," she murmurs.
And then she kisses you.
It’s not tentative or shy. It’s a kiss of certainty, of years of pent-up feelings finally breaking free. It's slow and deep and it completely rewires your brain. Your hands come up to cup her face, your thumbs tracing her jawline.
When she breaks the kiss, you’re both breathless. But she doesn't move back. Instead, in one fluid, confident motion, she climbs onto your lap, straddling you, her arms wrapping around your neck. The move is so bold, so her, that all you can do is wrap your own arms around her waist, holding her tight.
"That," she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear. "That right there. The fact that you're 'just you'. That's why I love you.”
You kiss her again, a desperate, affirming gesture to prove that this is real. It’s messy and hungry, a collision of lips and teeth and years of unspoken longing.
"Fucking finally," she breathes against your mouth, her forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how heavy that was. Carrying it around for years."
Your hands are roaming, one tangled in her messy hair, the other spread flat against the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her through her thin shirt. "So," you manage, "what, uh… what do we do now?"
"What do you think we should do?" she asks. Her hands, which were clinging to your shoulders, begin a slow, deliberate exploration down your chest, tracing the outline of your ribs through your hoodie. She shifts her weight on your lap, a subtle, rolling motion of her hips. Your breath hitches.
A low groan escapes you. "You look so pretty like this."
Her hands still on your chest. "On top of you?" she asks, an eyebrow raised in playful challenge.
"That too," you admit, your eyes tracing the curve of her smudged eyeliner, the doll-like shape of her mouth, the fierce intelligence in her dark eyes. "Just… here. With me. Not on a stage, not with everyone else around. Just you."
That seems to be the right answer. Her expression softens. She leans in and kisses you again, slow and languid this time. It’s a promise. Then she pulls back, grabs your hand, and stands, pulling you up from the couch with surprising strength.
"Come on," she says.
She leads you, your fingers intertwined, out of the living room and down the short hallway to your bedroom. Your heart is a fucking jackhammer against your ribs. The whole way, you're just staring at the back of her head, at the way her leather jacket moves with her, your mind a blank slate of awe and disbelief. She doesn't hesitate. She pushes your bedroom door open and pulls you inside, then lets go of your hand only to place both of hers on your chest and shove you backward. You stumble, your legs hit the edge of your bed, and you fall back onto the mattress.
You lie there, propped up on your elbows, watching as she stalks towards you. She reaches up and shrugs off her leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor. But then she stops. She sees the look on your face.
"Hey," she says. "You okay?"
You sit up properly, your entire body is humming with nervous energy. "Yeah, I just… I need to tell you something."
She freezes, her hands halfway to the hem of her shirt. A flash of insecurity, so rare for her, crosses her face. "What is it?" she asks. "Don't tell me you have a secret girlfriend you forgot to mention."
"No! God, no, it's not that." You take a deep breath. Just say it. "It's just… I've never… done this before." The words come out in a quiet rush. "Like, ever. I'm a virgin."
She stares at you. You watch as she processes your confession, her expression unreadable. You feel a hot flush of embarrassment creep up your neck.
You just ruined it.
Then, she lets out a short, breathy sound that might be a laugh. "Okay," she says. Another beat of silence. Then she confesses, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Me neither."
Your brain stalls. You blink, certain you misheard her. "What?"
"I'm a virgin, too," she repeats, a little louder this time, a defensive edge to her tone.
You can't help it. The surprise is too great. "You? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously!" she snaps, glaring at you. "Why would I lie about that? What, you think because I play in a band I'm screwing a different person every night?"
"No, I just… I didn't picture it," you admit honestly.
"Well, shut up," she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're a virgin too, so you don't get to judge."
"I wasn't judging!" You pause, a sudden, practical, and mortifying thought occurring to you. "I don't… I don't have a condom."
For an answer, Jiwoo reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls out a small, square foil packet. She tosses it onto the bed between you. It lands softly on your comforter.
"I do," she says, a defiant blush coloring her cheeks.
You look from the condom to her face and decide it's better not to ask when or why she acquired it. The fact that she came prepared, that she was hoping for this, makes you smile stupidly.
"Well?" she says, breaking the silence. "Don't just sit there smiling like a maniac. Get your clothes off."
It's a command, but her voice wavers just a little. You obey. You kick off your shoes, then pull your hoodie over your head. You stand up and unbutton your jeans, letting them drop to the floor. You step out of them, leaving you in nothing but your black boxer briefs. Your entire skin is buzzing, hyper-aware of her eyes on you.
She watches you for a moment, then takes a steadying breath and does the same. She pulls her cropped t-shirt over her head, her dark hair getting momentarily mussed. Then she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her legs. She's left standing in a simple, matching black bra and panties.
And you forget how to breathe again. You’ve seen her in shorts and tank tops, but this is different. This is her. The dim light from your hallway spills into the room, softening her edges. Her frame is so slender, her collarbones sharp and delicate above the lace of her bra. Her stomach is soft and pale, the gentle slope of her hips flaring out from a narrow waist. She has the lean, toned legs of someone who spends hours on her feet, but there’s a softness to her, a vulnerability that her stage persona completely obscures. She’s not a rock star right now. She’s just Jiwoo, and she’s perfect.
She takes a hesitant step towards you, wrapping her arms around her middle, a sudden gesture of self-consciousness. "This is going to be so embarrassing," she murmurs.
"Okay, well," you say, reaching out and taking her hand, lacing your fingers with hers. "Practice makes perfect, right?"
She looks up at you, a curious glint in her eyes. The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Are you saying you're willing to practice a lot?"
You pull her gently towards you. "With you?" you murmur. "I'm willing to practice until we get it right, and then keep practicing just to be sure."
That earns you a real smile. And then she’s kissing you again. She pushes you back onto the bed, her body following yours down. She lands on top of you, a warm, perfect weight, and the world narrows to just the two of you, fumbling and nervous and completely, utterly in love.
Her hands, which had been clutching your shoulders, begin a slow, deliberate descent. They slide down your arms, over your ribs, her fingertips tracing patterns on your skin that leave trails of fire in their wake. You shiver, a full-body tremor, and you feel her smile against your lips. She’s discovering her power over you in real time, and you can tell she likes it.
Her palms flatten against your stomach, the warmth of her touch seeping through your skin, making the muscles there jump and clench. You are so acutely aware of every point of contact, every subtle shift of her weight. When her hands continue their journey south, hesitating for a fraction of a second at the waistband of your boxer briefs, your breath catches in your throat. This is happening. This is real.
Her fingers curl around you through the thin cotton fabric. A choked sound escapes your lips. She squeezes gently, experimentally, and your hips give an involuntary buck. She feels you, hard and straining against the confinement of your underwear. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever felt, and the most intensely aroused.
She pulls back from the kiss, her eyes dark and wide, her lips slick and slightly swollen. She looks from your face down to where her hand is still tentatively cupping you. Without a word, she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your underwear and slowly, deliberately, pulls them down.
The cool air of the room hits your exposed skin, and you feel ridiculously, thrillingly naked. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed and pointing straight up at her. You can’t stop the flush of heat that rushes to your face.
Jiwoo just stares. She’s never seen one before, not a real one, not like this. Her head tilts, like she’s studying a piece of abstract sculpture.
"Whoa," she breathes out. "So that's… what it looks like." She looks back up at your face. "Is that… good? Like, for you? Does it feel good or bad when it's… like that?"
She has no idea. She's as lost in this as you are.
"It feels good," you manage to say. "Very good."
That seems to be enough for her. She looks back down, her gaze fixed on you. She lifts a hand, hesitating for a moment before extending a single, trembling finger. She gently traces the length of you, from the base to the tip. Your whole body goes rigid. The touch is a thousand times more intense than it was through the fabric. It's so light, so tentative, you can barely feel it, yet it's all you can feel.
"It's so hot," she murmurs.
She leans down, her dark hair falling forward to create a curtain around her face, and her mouth hovers just inches above you. She looks up at you one last time through her lashes, a silent question in her eyes. You can only give a slight, jerky nod.
Her tongue darts out, a wet, pink slash of color, and she licks you. It’s not a sensual, practiced move. It’s a curious, exploratory taste, a single, wet swipe from the base to the sensitive tip. A raw, guttural groan is torn from your throat. You arch into her, your hands fisting in the sheets of your bed. The sensation is overwhelming, alien, and utterly incredible.
She pulls back immediately, her eyes wide with alarm. "Did I hurt you? Was that wrong?"
"No," you gasp out, shaking your head frantically. "No, that was… just keep doing that. Or, whatever you want to do. Please."
Reassured, she leans down again. This time, she takes you into her mouth.
It’s clumsy. Awkward. And it’s the best thing you have ever felt in your entire life.
Her lips are soft, but she’s not sure what to do with them, and you can feel the faint scrape of her teeth. She makes a small, frustrated noise and adjusts, her mouth closing more firmly around you. She begins to move, a hesitant, bobbing motion. She is clearly trying to imitate something she's only seen in movies, her movements unsure and jerky.
This is your first blowjob. And it’s from Jiwoo. The girl you have loved in secret for years. The rock star. The beautiful, prickly, vulnerable girl who is currently trying, with intense, furrowed-brow concentration, to figure out how to please you.
She pulls off for a second, her cheeks flushed, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip of you. "Am I doing it right?" she asks, breathy and full of a desperate need for approval. "Tell me what to do. I don't want to be bad at it."
"You're not bad at it," you say. You reach out, your hand shaking slightly, and gently cup the back of her head, your fingers tangling in her soft hair. "You're perfect. Just… maybe a little slower."
She nods, taking your direction seriously, like you've just given her notes on a new song. She takes you back into her mouth, and this time, her movements are more deliberate. Slower. She creates a gentle suction, her tongue swirling around you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. She’s a fast learner.
She gets into a rhythm, her head moving up and down, her eyes closed in concentration. You watch her, completely mesmerized. This fierce, talented, incredible girl is kneeling on your bed, her hair a mess, her lipstick long gone, completely focused on giving you pleasure. Every so often, she’ll open her eyes and look up at you, checking in, and you just give her a nod or a soft, encouraging sound. The sight of her, so focused and so dedicated to you, is almost more arousing than the physical act itself.
The initial, fumbling uncertainty gives way to a more determined rhythm. She’s still new at this, a musician learning a strange and wonderful new instrument, but her innate musicality, her sense of pace and rhythm, begins to take over. Her movements become smoother, more deliberate. The soft, wet heat of her mouth envelops you, a sensation so intensely focused it threatens to consume your every thought. Your hands, which were just resting in her hair, begin to move, your fingers gently massaging her scalp, your thumbs stroking the soft skin behind her ears.
She gets bolder. Emboldened by your groans and the way your hips are starting to move in time with her mouth, she tries to take you deeper. It’s too much. Her throat constricts, and a sudden, sharp gagging sound breaks the rhythm. She pulls off instantly, coughing, her eyes watering.
"Shit, sorry," she sputters, her face flushed a deep red.
"Don't be," you rasp. "It's okay. Are you okay?"
She just looks at you for a second, catching her breath. A strange, wild look glimmers in her watery eyes. It's not embarrassment. It's excitement. The intensity, the loss of control, didn't scare her; it thrilled her.
"You're just… bigger than I thought," she says, and without another word, she dives back down, her confidence renewed and amplified.
Her technique is transformed. She’s no longer just trying to please you; she’s actively enjoying herself. She’s enjoying the power she has, the way she can make your entire body tense with a single flick of her tongue, the way your breath hitches every time she deepens the suction. You can feel her smiling against you, a secret, triumphant grin. This is a side of Jiwoo you have never seen before, a dominant, sexually confident force of nature that has been lying dormant just beneath the surface. And you, and only you, have woken her up.
It’s been a while. A long, long while since you've had a proper orgasm. The pleasure is building into an almost unbearable pressure at the base of your spine. Every nerve ending is screaming. You're trying to hold on, trying to ride this wave as long as you can. You don’t want this to be over in a few frantic moments. You want to savor every second of your first time with her, to burn this memory into your brain. You focus on your breathing, on the feeling of her hair brushing against your thighs, on the sight of her head moving in the dim light. You are fighting a losing battle against your own body.
Her curiosity, it seems, is insatiable. Her mouth leaves you for a moment, and you let out a small, protesting whine at the loss. But then you feel her wet, hot tongue on a completely new part of you. She’s tracing a path down, over your stomach, her movements slow and deliberate. You are so hard it hurts, glistening in the faint light, and she’s just… leaving you there, exploring the surrounding territory.
Her attention finds your balls. She licks one, a tentative, questioning taste. Your whole body jolts, a surge of pleasure so sharp and unexpected it steals your breath. She seems to like your reaction, because she does it again, more firmly this time. Then, she takes one of them fully into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth, her tongue swirling around it, her lips creating a gentle, pulling suction.
"Fuck," you breathe out. "Jiwoo…"
It’s too much. The combination of that new, mind-melting sensation and the ache in your own cock is pushing you right to the edge. Your control is fraying, the threads snapping one by one. Your hips are bucking off the mattress now, an uncontrollable rhythm, chasing the feeling, chasing her. You know you’re close. Dangerously close.
She feels it. She must. She lifts her head, her dark eyes locking with yours. Her face is flushed, her lips are red and swollen, and she looks absolutely feral. She sees the desperation in your eyes, feels the tremors running through your body. A lesser person, a shyer person, might have stopped, unsure of what to do. But not her.
"You're close, aren't you?" she whispers. You can only manage a frantic nod, your teeth gritted.
She smiles. "Good." She crawls up your body, her mouth hovering over yours again, her hair tickling your chest. "Don't stop," she murmurs, her hot breath ghosting across your lips. "Don't you dare hold back. I want to taste you. Give it all to me."
She slides back down your body, her eyes never leaving yours, and takes you into her mouth one last time. There’s no hesitation now. No awkwardness. She takes all of you, her throat opening to take you deeper than before. She sucks with a fierce, possessive hunger, her hand wrapping around the base of your shaft, her rhythm fast and unrelenting. She’s milking you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure, pushing you over the precipice.
Your vision whites out at the edges. A raw, animalistic groan rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your back arches off the bed, your whole body convulsing as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure floods you. You feel yourself pulsing inside her mouth, pumping your release into her, hot and thick.
She doesn't pull away. She stays with you, taking everything, her throat working as she makes a concerted effort to swallow. It's not a graceful, porn-star swallow; it's a real, slightly difficult one. You feel the muscles in her throat contract, once, twice. She keeps you in her mouth until the last tremor has faded, until you are completely and utterly spent.
She finally pulls away, collapsing onto the mattress beside you. She’s panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She lets out a small cough, her eyes still a little watery from taking you so deep. You lie there, your own body limp and boneless, your mind a blissful, empty void.
She turns her head on the pillow to look at you. A dazed, stunned smile plays on her lips.
"That," she says, "was amazing." She licks her lips, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You taste… salty. And good." She looks at you, a new kind of confidence, a self-satisfied glow, radiating from her. "God," she says, a breathless little laugh escaping her. "I think I really liked that." She grins, a wide, wicked, shameless grin. "I'm getting so slutty for you.”
A low, throaty chuckle escapes you. You feel utterly drained, your muscles like jelly, but a new kind of energy is already starting to build, a warm glow spreading from your core. You roll onto your side to face her, propping your head up on your hand. She looks completely debauched, her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her hair a wild halo around her head. She’s beautiful.
"Well," you say. "I guess it's my turn now."
She smirks, a lazy, self-satisfied expression that is pure Jiwoo. "Good luck topping that," she says with newfound cockiness. "I'm pretty sure I kind of killed it."
You lean in, peppering her face with soft kisses: her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. "Don't get too cocky," you murmur against her skin, your lips trailing down her cheek to her jawline. "You're still a virgin, remember? All that enthusiasm, zero experience."
"Hey!" she protests, but there's no heat in it. She's too blissed out to summon her usual defenses.
Your mouth finds the sensitive spot just below her ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp, involuntary gasp. Your hands, which have been idle, decide to get back to work. You move to her back, your fingers searching for the clasp of her bra. You fumble with it for a moment, the tiny hooks and eyes a surprisingly complex puzzle.
"They make these things complicated on purpose," you grumble against her neck. "It's a conspiracy."
Jiwoo laughs. She reaches behind her back, her movements sure and practiced, and with a flick of her wrist, the clasp is undone. The straps loosen, and you slowly slide the bra down her arms and toss it somewhere in your room.
Her breasts are free. In the dim light, they are pale and perfect. They're not large, but they fit her slender, athletic frame perfectly; high and firm, with small, dusky pink nipples that are already pebbled from the cool air and your attention. She instinctively crosses her arms over her chest.
"It's not much," she says quietly, her eyes darting away from yours. "But… it's the best you're gonna get."
You gently pull her arms away, your gaze soft and sincere. "They're perfect," you say. You cup them in your hands, your thumbs stroking the soft, smooth skin. They fill your palms exactly right. "They're cute. Just like you."
She scoffs, but it's a weak, half-hearted attempt at her usual armor. "I'm not cute."
"Yes," you insist, leaning in to kiss her again, a slow, tender kiss. "You are."
"No," she mumbles against your lips. "I'm a rockstar."
"You can be both," you murmur, before lowering your head.
Your mouth closes over one of her nipples. She moans instantly, a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure shock and pleasure. Her back arches, pressing herself more firmly against your mouth. You suck gently, teasing her with your tongue, and her hands fly up to clutch at your hair, not to push you away, but to hold you there.
You slowly push her onto her back, following her down until you're hovering over her. You move to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention.
She's writhing beneath you, a beautiful, glorious mess. A combination of moans and breathless laughter escapes her lips. "Whoa," she gasps out, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Oh my god. I had no idea… I didn't know it could feel that good. That's… incredible."
You keep going, finding a rhythm, alternating between long, slow sucks and quick, teasing licks. You are learning her body just as she learned yours, discovering what makes her gasp, what makes her bite her lip, what makes her fingers dig into your back.
"What do I taste like?" she asks.
You lift your head for a moment, licking your lips. "Good," you say. "A little salty. Sweet."
"It's probably sweat," she says. "From the show. That's gross."
"No," you say firmly, before dipping down to take her nipple into your mouth again. You speak around it, your words muffled but clear. "It's the taste of a rockstar." You look up at her, a serious expression on your face. "By the way…"
Her eyes are hazy with pleasure, but she looks at you, waiting.
"How was the show, for real?" you ask, shifting into your familiar, professional manager-mode. "Did the crew I sent work out okay? Any sound issues? Did you see anyone from Analog Theater Records there? Did you guys get a chance to network with any of the other artists? That's really important for building—"
"Shut up," she says, but it’s fond, exasperated. She reaches up and grabs your face with both hands, pulling you down for a kiss. "Do not ruin this perfect, sexy moment by talking about band logistics, you absolute nerd."
You laugh against her mouth. "Sorry," you say. "Force of habit."
"Break the habit," she commands, before her mouth finds yours again, effectively ending the conversation.
You go back to your work, your mouth and hands rediscovering her body. You spend a long time just worshipping her, learning the feel and taste of her skin, loving the way she responds to your touch. When you finally pull back, her chest is glistening, her nipples a dark, swollen red from your attention. You look down your own body and see that your cock, which had softened after you came, is now completely, painfully hard again, pressing insistently against her thigh. The sight of her, so thoroughly undone beneath you, has been the most effective aphrodisiac imaginable.
She seems to notice it at the same time. She reaches down, her hand closing around your rigid length, her touch now confident and possessive. She gives you a slow, deliberate squeeze.
"Ready for round two, are we?" she whispers, her eyes locking with yours. "Are you ready?"
You look into her eyes, dark and endless in the dim light. You see the trust, the desire, the love. You see your future.
"I think so," you say, full of a certainty you’ve never felt before. "Yeah. I'm ready.”
The condom, a small square of silver foil, sits on the mattress between you, a tiny, monumental object. You reach for it, your fingers surprisingly steady. You tear it open along the notched edge, your mind flashing back to a late-night internet spiral a few years ago. You’d watched a cringey, overly cheerful health class tutorial on how to put one on, feeling like a complete loser at the time, preparing for a hypothetical situation that felt galaxies away. Now, in the light of your bedroom with Jiwoo watching you, her eyes wide and trusting, you’re glad you did.
You roll it on, the process thankfully as straightforward as the video had promised. The thin layer of latex feels strange, a barrier between you and the raw reality of what’s about to happen, but it’s a necessary one.
"Okay," you say, a little shaky. "What… uh… what position is best? For you?"
"I have no idea," she whispers. "I've only ever seen it in movies. What's the… basic one?"
"Missionary?" you suggest. "Me on top. It’s… I think it’s supposed to be easier for the first time."
She gives a small, relieved nod. "Okay. Yes. That one."
You move over her, supporting your weight on your elbows so you’re not crushing her. Her body is so slender, so delicate beneath you. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, a nervous, grounding gesture. You lean down and kiss her, a soft, reassuring press of lips.
Your hands find the waistband of her black panties. You hesitate for a second, looking into her eyes for permission. She gives you another tiny nod. Slowly, you slide them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help you, and you pull them free, tossing them aside to join the rest of the discarded clothes on your floor.
And now she is completely, utterly bare beneath you.
Her legs are slightly parted, and you see her for the first time. She’s prepared herself for you. The skin is smooth, pale, and perfect, completely hairless. Between her legs, she is glistening, wet and ready. She knew this was going to happen. She wanted this to happen.
You shift, moving between her legs, the tip of your condom-sheathed cock brushing against her wet folds. A sharp hiss of breath escapes her lips, and her eyes flutter closed.
"Just go slow," she whispers. "Please."
"I will," you promise. "I'm going to be as slow as you need. And you tell me if anything hurts, okay? If you want me to stop, even for a second, you just say so."
She opens her eyes and looks at you, her gaze full of a terrifying, beautiful amount of trust. She nods again. "Okay."
You take a deep breath. You position yourself at her entrance, the head of your cock pressing against her. The sensation is insane. She is so wet, so hot, and so incredibly, impossibly tight. You push forward, just a fraction of an inch.
She gasps, her whole body tensing up beneath you. Her fingers dig into your shoulders. "Oh," she breathes out, a sound of pure shock. "That's… whoa."
"Is it pain?" you ask immediately, stopping all movement. "Am I hurting you?"
She shakes her head, her eyes squeezed shut. "It's not… it’s not pain pain. It's just… a lot. It’s so much feeling." She opens her eyes, and they’re shimmering with unshed tears, but it’s not from sadness. It's from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "Keep going," she whispers. "Just… slowly."
You obey. You push forward again, inch by agonizing inch. You feel her body resisting, a tightness that has nothing to do with a lack of arousal and everything to do with the simple, physical reality of her virginity. You're stretching her, filling her for the first time, and you can feel every millimeter of your progress. Her breathing is coming in ragged, shallow gasps. You’re so focused on her, on her face, on her reactions, that it’s all you can do to keep your own body under control.
And then you feel it. A point of firm resistance. A barrier. Her hymen.
You pause, knowing what this is. You lean down and kiss her deeply, trying to distract her, pouring all of your love and reassurance into the gesture. "Just one more push," you murmur against her lips. "It might hurt for a second."
She just nods, clinging to you, her body completely rigid. You brace yourself and push forward, slowly but firmly.
There's a sharp, tearing sensation. It's not a sound, but a feeling that travels up your cock and reverberates through your whole body. She cries out, a short, sharp yelp of pain that cuts right through you, and her whole body convulses. You immediately stop, a wave of guilt washing over you.
"I'm sorry," you breathe, your heart hammering. "I'm so sorry."
She’s panting, a single tear escaping the corner of her eye and tracing a path down her temple. But she’s shaking her head. "No," she gasps. "Don't be sorry. It's… it’s okay." She takes a few more deep breaths, her body slowly, slowly starting to relax around you. The sharp pain is already fading from her face, being replaced by a look of wide-eyed wonder. "You're… you're inside me," she whispers, as if she can’t quite believe it.
You are. You’re fully, completely inside of her. You sink into her until the base of your cock is pressed against her, and just stay there, buried deep within her. The feeling is indescribable. She is so tight, so hot, her inner muscles clenching around you reflexively.
"Are you okay?" you ask again.
"Yeah," she whispers, her hands coming up to cup your face. "I'm okay." She gives you a watery, shaky smile. "Hi."
You chuckle, the sound wet and shaky. "Hi."
You stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together, letting her body adjust to the feeling of you. You kiss her again, and again, long, slow, deep kisses that say everything you can't find the words for. Eventually, the tension bleeds out of her completely, and her hips give a small, tentative tilt upwards. It’s a signal. She’s ready.
You pull back just a little, then slowly push back in. She moans, a low, throaty sound, and this time, it’s pure pleasure. You do it again, establishing a slow, lazy rhythm. It’s clumsy and awkward at first. You’re both virgins, learning the dance together. But you find it. You find a pace that makes her gasp, that makes her bite her lip, that makes her eyes roll back in her head.
The rhythm you fall into is painstaking. It’s a slow, deliberate cadence born of terror and adoration. Every forward press is a question, every retreat a moment to gauge her reaction. Your entire universe has contracted to the space between your bodies, to the look in her eyes, the sound of her breathing. You are so focused on her face, watching for the slightest flicker of pain, that you are barely aware of the incredible friction, the overwhelming tightness of her body sheathing yours.
She is your metronome. Her ragged breaths set your pace. Her small, involuntary winces make you slow down even further. Her hands are gripping your shoulders, her knuckles white, but it’s not to push you away. It’s to hold on, anchoring herself to you as her body is introduced to this entirely new, world-altering sensation.
After a few shallow, cautious thrusts, you pull back almost completely. You need to see, to be sure. As you withdraw, a faint, dark crimson smear comes with you, stark the clear latex of the condom.
Your blood runs cold. You freeze instantly. "Shit. Jiwoo, you're bleeding."
You start to pull out, a wave of guilt and panic crashing over you. You hurt her.
"No," she says, her hands tighten on your shoulders, holding you in place. "Don't stop."
"But you're bleeding," you repeat stupidly, your mind blanking. "I hurt you."
She opens her eyes. They are shimmering with moisture, but they are clear and steady. "I know," she says, impossibly calm. "It's okay. It's supposed to happen. It's just my stupid hymen." She says the clinical word with a flash of her usual cynical annoyance, as if it’s a faulty piece of equipment. "It doesn't even really hurt anymore. It just… stings a little." She looks at you. "Please don't stop. I want you inside me."
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
You begin to move again, even more slowly this time, if that’s even possible. You watch as the initial, sharp tension in her body begins to dissolve. The tight coil of discomfort at her core is slowly, miraculously, starting to unwind. Her breathing, which was shallow and tight in her chest, begins to deepen. The small, pained gasps are gradually being replaced by something else. Something lower, softer. A moan.
It’s quiet at first, a little hum in the back of her throat that she tries to swallow. But you feel it, a vibration that travels through her body and into yours. You chase that sound. You adjust your angle slightly, a fractional shift of your hips, and the hum becomes a genuine, audible moan, low and sweet.
Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flutter open. They’re hazy, unfocused. "Oh," she breathes out. "That's… different."
"Different good?" you ask.
"Yeah," she says, a slow, dazed smile spreading across her face. "Different really, really good."
The fear of hurting her begins to recede, replaced by a new, thrilling objective: finding what feels good for her. It’s a fumbling, awkward process. You have no idea what you’re doing. You’re working on pure instinct and the feedback of her body. You try a slightly deeper thrust, and she gasps, her hips lifting off the bed to meet you. Okay, deeper is good. You change the angle again, pressing against what you hope is the right spot, and she lets out a sharp, surprised cry, her back arching. *
That spot. Definitely that spot.
You fall into a new rhythm, one aimed at that specific place. Every thrust is deliberate, focused. The sound of your bodies meeting is a wet, slick slap that echoes in the room. Her moans are no longer hesitant. They are open and unashamed.
"Oh my god," she pants, her head tossing back and forth on the pillow. "How did I not know? How can… something feel like this?"
Her hands are no longer just gripping you for support. They are exploring. They roam over your back, her nails scraping lightly over your skin. She pulls you down closer, her mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, kissing you with a desperate, frantic energy.
The slickness between her legs increases, her own wetness mixing with the small amount of blood, making every movement smoother, easier. The tightness is still there, an incredible, perfect pressure, but now it feels like an embrace. Her body is welcoming you, yielding to you, rising to meet you. She is no longer a passive recipient of your movements. She’s an active participant, her hips beginning to move in a clumsy but eager rhythm of their own, tilting up to meet each of your thrusts.
"Is this okay?" she asks as she tries to match your pace. "Am I doing it right?"
"You're perfect," you groan, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent. "You're so perfect."
You move inside her for a few more long, luxurious moments, watching her face transform. Her eyes are closed, her brows furrowed, but it’s in concentration now, not pain. You slow to a stop, remaining buried deep inside her. Her eyes flutter open, hazy and questioning.
"Hey," you whisper. "You wanna… try?" You gesture vaguely with your head. "On top? You can control it. The speed, the depth. Everything."
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of her earlier nervousness returning. But it’s quickly replaced by a determined glint. This is Jiwoo, after all. She’s the frontwoman, the leader. The idea of taking control, of being the one to drive the rhythm, clearly appeals to her on a fundamental level.
"Yes," she breathes, full of a sudden, fierce desire. "Okay. Yes."
The transition is a clumsy, beautiful ballet of tangled limbs and breathless laughter. You pull out of her slowly, the sound wet and obscene. She whines at the feeling of emptiness, a sound that makes your cock pulse. You help her sit up, and she swings a leg over you, her movements unsure. She positions herself over you, straddling your hips, looking down at your erection with a renewed sense of awe and a little bit of intimidation.
"Okay," she says, mostly to herself. "Just… guide it in?"
You reach down and take your own cock in your hand, positioning the tip at her entrance, which is now slick with her wetness and the faint trace of her blood. She takes a deep, shaky breath, her hands resting on your chest for balance, and slowly, carefully, lowers herself onto you.
The feeling of her sinking down onto you, inch by agonizing inch, is a completely different kind of pleasure. It’s a slow, deliberate claiming. You watch her face, her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. You feel her stretch around you, feel her body accepting you fully once again. When you are completely seated inside her, she lets out a long, shuddering sigh and collapses forward, her forehead resting on your shoulder.
"Fuck," she whispers. "That feels… so full."
You just hold her for a moment, your hands resting on the soft curve of her hips, letting her get used to the feeling. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she whispers. "Now what?"
You chuckle. "Now you move."
Her first attempts are endearingly awkward. She pushes up with her knees, rising high off you, then dropping back down with a jarring bounce that makes you both grunt. It’s uncoordinated, more like she’s trying to do a squat than have sex.
"Like this?" she asks.
"It’s a start," you say, trying not to laugh. You slide your hands from her hips to her ass, cupping her cheeks. "Try… try rocking. More of a circle. Not just up and down."
You guide her, pushing her hips forward, then pulling them back. A slow, grinding motion. She follows your lead, her body stiff and uncertain at first.
"Oh," she says, as you guide her forward, your cockhead pressing against the front wall of her cunt. "Okay. Oh."
That’s the spot. She feels it too. A switch flips. She stops trying to think her way through it and starts to feel her way through it. Her movements become less mechanical, more fluid. She closes her eyes, a look of intense concentration on her face, like she’s trying to find the pocket of a groove in a new bass line. Her hips begin to roll, a slow, sensual figure-eight. She’s not just moving on you anymore; she’s riding you.
Her hair, a curtain of dark silk, falls around her face as she leans into it. Her hands leave your chest and brace themselves on the mattress on either side of your head. Her back arches, and a low, steady moan begins to build in her throat. She finds her rhythm. It’s slow, deep, and powerful. She is in complete control, and she fucking loves it.
For you, it’s paradise. You are lying back, hands now free to roam her body, and you have a perfect, breathtaking view of her. You watch her breasts sway with her movements, watch the muscles in her flat stomach clench with every rotation of her hips. You watch her face, now completely unguarded, contorted in an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, and it’s you who is doing it to her.
"Right… there," she pants out, her rhythm quickening as she grinds down on you, hitting that spot again and again. "Oh, fuck. Don't stop. Don't… let me stop."
Her awkwardness has been incinerated, her pace quickens, the slow, sensual grind evolving into a hard, desperate pounding. She’s riding you like she’s trying to drive you straight through the mattress, her hips slamming down onto yours with a force that steals your breath. A wild, desperate little laugh bubbles out of her.
"Oh my god," she gasps. "We're actually doing this. We're fucking. It's so good. Fuck, it's so good."
The friction is building, an intense, coiling heat deep inside her. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, clean line from her chin to her collarbones. Her moans are no longer soft or hesitant; they are raw, open-throated cries that she makes no attempt to stifle. She is completely lost to the sensation, her body moving on pure, primal instinct.
"I'm… I think I'm close," she pants, her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh my god, I'm going to… on your cock. I'm going to cum."
"Good," you groan. You reach up, your hands finding her hips, and you begin to buck up into her, meeting her frantic pace with your own, driving her higher, faster. "Let go, Jiwoo. Come for me."
Her whole body seizes. A keening, high-pitched cry is torn from her throat, but it's swallowed by your mouth as she collapses forward, her lips finding yours in a desperate, frantic kiss. It's a kiss of pure release, salty with her tears and sweat, and you drink it all in. You feel her climax wash over you, the powerful, fluttering convulsions of her inner muscles clenching around your cock in a tight, spasming grip that is almost enough to send you over the edge yourself. She shudders in your arms, riding the last waves of her release, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip as little aftershocks ripple through her.
Slowly, so slowly, her convulsions subside. Her body goes limp, and she rests her full weight on you, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Her breathing is a series of long, shuddering gasps. You just hold her, your own body thrumming with a vicarious, overwhelming pleasure. You run your hands up and down her back, a soothing, grounding touch.
"How was that?" you whisper into her hair. "You okay?"
She lifts her head, her face a beautiful, glorious wreck. Her eyes are unfocused, her pupils blown wide, and a dazed, beatific smile is plastered on her face. She looks like she’s just seen God.
"That," she breathes out, "was the best thing in the entire fucking world."
You can't help but laugh. Seeing her like this, so completely and utterly undone by a pleasure you helped give her, is more satisfying than any orgasm you could have imagined. But your own is not far behind. The feeling of her muscles still fluttering around your shaft is an exquisite, unbearable torture.
"I'm almost there," you murmur.
"Good," she says. "Great. Let's make you cum again, too."
Before you can fully process what she means, she pushes herself up and swings her leg off you. The feeling of you pulling out of her slick, hot channel is agonizing. She gets out of bed, and kneels on the floor. You move, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, she reaches down and takes the base of the condom between her thumb and forefinger. With one smooth, deliberate motion, she rolls it off your still-throbbing erection, tossing the used prophylactic onto the floor without a second glance.
"My turn," she says.
She leans forward, her hair brushing against your inner thighs, and takes you into her mouth.
This time, there is no hesitation. No awkwardness. No fumbling uncertainty. She knows what she’s doing now. She knows what you like. She knows how to use her lips, her tongue, her throat. She sucks you with a greedy, practiced confidence that is absolutely staggering, given that she learned how to do this less than an hour ago. The suction is stronger, her movements more assured. She licks and swirls and takes you as deep as she can, her throat muscles working, and the only thing that stops her from gagging is the sheer force of her will.
"Fuck, Jiwoo," you groan, your hands fisting in the sheets again. The feeling of her warm, wet mouth on your bare skin, raw and unprotected, is a thousand times more intense than it was with the condom. Every nerve ending is on fire.
She pulls off you for a second, leaving you slick and glistening in the dim light. Her hand immediately replaces her mouth, wrapping around your shaft in a tight, expert grip. She starts to stroke you, a fast, steady rhythm, her eyes never leaving yours.
"You like that?" she whispers. "You like the way my hand feels?" She quickens the pace, watching your face, her thumb stroking your frenulum with an unnerving accuracy. "You're so close again. I can feel it." Her other hand comes to rest on your thigh, her fingers digging in slightly. "You held back for me before. Don't hold back this time. I want to see you lose control. I want you to come for me. Beg me for it."
You are completely at her mercy, a puppet on her strings. "Please," you gasp out. "Please, Jiwoo. I'm going to cum."
"Not yet," she says. She stops stroking you and her mouth descends again, sucking you hard, pulling the orgasm right to the edge before she pulls away again, leaving you hanging on a precipice of unbearable pleasure. She looks down at her own body, at her breasts, still flushed and sensitive from your earlier attention. "You said they were cute," she murmurs. She looks back up at you. "So why don't you come on them? I want to feel it. I want you to paint me."
"I'm going to," you groan, your hips beginning to buck uncontrollably. "I'm coming."
She sees the change in your eyes. She knows you’re at the point of no return. She leans forward and captures your cock in her mouth one last time, sucking you with a frantic, desperate speed, milking you, pulling the orgasm from the very base of your spine.
It’s even more intense than the first one, a full-body, convulsive release that blanks out your vision. Just before the first pulse, she pulls off you, her hand taking over, aiming you like a weapon.
Your hot, thick seed spurts from you in thick, heavy ropes, splattering across her chest. You keep coming, wave after wave, and she just watches, a look of pure, fascinated awe on her face as you cover her. Your cum paints her, decorating her collarbones, pooling in the valley between her perfect breasts, a single stray shot even landing on the side of her neck.
She moans as she feels the warmth of your release on her skin. She doesn't flinch or try to wipe it away. She revels in it. She is your canvas. You have marked her, claimed her.
When the last tremor has faded and you are completely, utterly spent, you collapse back onto the pillows, your body limp, your mind a blissful, empty void.
Jiwoo doesn't move. She just stays there, kneeling before you, looking at the mess you’ve made of her. Then, she leans forward one last time. Her mouth, soft and warm, closes over the head of your now-softening cock, and she gently, tenderly, licks you clean.
She pulls away, a single drop of your cum glistening on her swollen lower lip. She looks at you, her eyes full of a deep, profound, and slightly terrifying affection. She smiles, a soft, intimate, secret smile that is just for you.
You look at her, enchanted for a moment, before smiling back at your girlfriend.
—
The world comes back into focus slowly. You’re lying on your back on the couch. Jiwoo is curled up beside you, her head resting on your thigh. She’s wearing one of your old band t-shirts - a faded, ridiculously oversized Ramones shirt that swallows her slender frame, the hem brushing her mid-thighs. Her hair is damp from the shower you took together, a messy, tangled affair of silent soaping and soft, lingering touches under the hot spray. She’s scrolling idly through her phone. She looks so soft, so peaceful, it’s hard to reconcile this version of her with the feral goddess from your bedroom or the commanding rockstar from the festival stage. She is all of them. And she is yours.
You’re just starting to drift off, lulled by the quiet intimacy and the rhythmic tap of her thumb on the screen, when the familiar sound of your front door crashing open shatters the peace.
"We come bearing gifts and gossip!" Kotone’s voice bellows through the house, followed by the stomping of multiple pairs of boots.
The usual invasion. You don’t even flinch. A moment later, all three of them (Kotone, Yooyeon, and Chaeyeon) spill into the living room. Chaeyeon is clutching a stack of pizza boxes so large it obscures her face. They are all talking at once, a loud, overlapping cacophony about the festival afterparty, some argument a rival band had backstage, and the quality of the free beer.
They come to an abrupt, simultaneous halt in the middle of your living room. The chatter dies instantly. Three pairs of eyes are fixed on the domestic scene in the living room: you sitting peacefully on the couch and Jiwoo curled up against you in your clothes, looking utterly unbothered.
Jiwoo doesn't even look up from her phone at first. She just lets out a long, put-upon sigh. "What?" she asks with boredom, as if she can’t imagine why they’re all staring.
"Nothing," Yooyeon says, a little too quickly. Her eyes dart between you and Jiwoo. "So… is this, like, official now?"
Jiwoo finally locks her phone and sets it aside. She pushes herself up slightly, leaning back on her elbows, and looks at them, her expression unreadable. Then she looks at you. There’s a silent question in her eyes. You give her a small, almost imperceptible nod. It’s her call. It’s always been her call.
A tiny smirk plays on her lips. She looks back at her bandmates. "Yeah," she says, super casually. "We talked. We're dating now."
A collective, dramatic sigh of relief ripples through the group.
"Fucking finally!" Chaeyeon exclaims, carefully setting the mountain of pizza on your coffee table. "Jesus Christ, it took you long enough. We were about to start a betting pool on which decade it would finally happen."
You sit up, causing Jiwoo to shift into a more upright position beside you, though she doesn’t move away. "Wait, you guys knew?" you ask, genuinely surprised. "You knew she liked me?"
All three of them snort in derisive unison.
"Dude," Kotone says, shaking her head in disbelief as she collapses onto the armchair. "Everyone knew. Stevie Wonder could see it. The way she stared at you when you weren't looking? The way she only let you hug her for more than three seconds?”
"Remember that time at The Gutter?" Yooyeon adds. "When that huge security guard was giving you shit for being backstage without a pass, and Jiwoo looked like she was about to smash her bass over his head?"
"Okay, shut up!" Jiwoo snaps. "He was being an asshole."
"He was," Yooyeon agrees. "But you were ready to commit a felony, and a cardinal sin against instruments, for your 'platonic friend'." She uses air quotes, her grin widening.
"Since you two ditched us to celebrate, we brought the celebration to you," Chaeyeon announces, changing the subject and saving Jiwoo from further embarrassment. She flips open the top pizza box, revealing a glistening, perfect pie. "We even bought."
You raise an eyebrow. "You bought pizza? With money?"
"Don't get used to it," Kotone warns. "This is a one-time-only historic event."
The mood shifts instantly from interrogation to celebration. You get up and grab four beers from the fridge, tossing one to each of them. You crack one open and hand it to Jiwoo, who takes it with a grateful smile. The pizza boxes are open, and everyone is grabbing slices, talking with their mouths full. It feels like home.
"Alright, a toast!" Yooyeon declares, raising her bottle.
"What are we toasting to?" you ask, leaning back against the couch, Jiwoo now nestled comfortably under your arm.
"To a killer set that put us on the map," Yooyeon says.
"To finally getting a record deal!" Chaeyeon adds hopefully.
"And," Kotone says, looking pointedly at you and Jiwoo, "to the official, long-overdue beginning of a beautiful, and probably very dramatic, relationship."
Everyone clinks their bottles together. You look down at Jiwoo, and she looks up at you, her dark eyes shining in the dim light. She gives you a shy smile and you kiss her temple.
There’s a beat of comfortable silence as everyone demolishes their pizza. Then, Chaeyeon, her expression one of pure, shameless curiosity, looks between you. "So… did you guys… you know?" She wiggles her eyebrows.
"That is deeply personal and absolutely none of your business," you start to say, “It's something personal that only concerns me and-”
"Yes," Jiwoo cuts you off, completely devoid of shame. She takes a long sip of her beer, then looks at them with a smug smile. "And it was fucking amazing."
An explosive cheer erupts from the girls. Kotone wolf-whistles, and Yooyeon raises her bottle again. "To that, too!" she shouts, and they all clink their bottles together again, laughing. Jiwoo just leans her head against your shoulder, her body shaking with silent laughter.
Well, from now on, this is gonna be your life, and it's messy and fucking loud. It’s your quiet, orderly world being constantly, joyfully invaded by chaos. It’s late-night rehearsals in your garage, the floor littered with cables and empty takeout containers. It’s the smell of Jiwoo’s shampoo on your pillows, her bass picks left on your nightstand, her ridiculously oversized shirts becoming a staple of your laundry basket. It’s the quiet moments on the couch after the storm of her bandmates has passed, her head on your lap, her hand in yours, your fingers intertwined. It’s Jiwoo, fierce and vulnerable, a rockstar and a shy girl all at once, looking at you with eyes so familiar, eyes that now carry your whole world. It wasn't the love story you ever expected, but standing here, in the middle of the beautiful, glorious noise, you know it’s the only one you'll ever need.
in a rough high school, an introverted student named Y/n accidentally gets entangled with the school's most feared delinquent, Lee Jiwoo, over... a Boys' Love manga?
wc: 8.8k
genre: fluff
___
The reputation of the institution was dirt on everyone's lips , a place polite society would raise a disapproving eyebrow at in hushed tones before hastily dashing past its iron gates. This high school was the lowest of the low in the educational pecking order - the place where test scores went to get lost forever & hope - that tender, naive little thing - seemed to be a distant memory.
In the bleak courtyard, students stood swinging metal pipes in the air like cruel clubs, triumphantly milling about amidst the wreckage of bodies strewn across the cracked concrete - some getting up to swipe at the air, others just lying there & trying to catch their breath. A blonde girl with a recent scrap blooming purple across her pale cheek just strolled through it all like it was nothing but roadkill, casually stepping over still forms that had given up the fight. The place was a hotbed of delinquents, kids who spent every waking moment going toe-to-toe with each other, their knuckles always scabbed and their uniforms always looking like they'd been put through a wringer.
But, of course, delinquents weren't the only kind of person you'd find in this bottom-of-the-barrel school.
Beneath the brutal reality of it all, though, there were occasional glimpses of a world a thousand miles away. A portable game console with a cute charm dangling from its side looked like it belonged in a toy box - all pink and sparkly in the harsh fluorescent lighting. A beautifully crafted figurine sat delicately on a desk, lovingly repainted with intricate details. A glossy magazine with riotous anime characters plastered all over its cover, the colours jarringly bright in a world of drab, grey surroundings. Who were these people...?
They were the Otakus.
Y/n huddled with his like-minded friends in the corner of the classroom, beaming from ear to ear as they pored over anime magazines and handheld games in a tiny little sanctuary of peace they'd managed to carve out for themselves. The violence raging outside their little bubble might have been taking place on a different planet. Since they more or less ignored their homework and devoted their entire lives to their hobbies, they just about had to go to this dump. Their grades had sealed their fate, landing them right in the middle of this hard-bitten, rough-as-nails crew of bottom-of-the-school gangsters and small-time thugs.
Y/n adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with one finger, a gentle and utterly harmless smile spreading across his face as he flipped through the pages of his book. The paper made soft rustling sounds that he found comforting. I myself am one of those otakus, he thought contentedly, savoring the familiar weight of the manga in his hands.
He had a theory of how his survival in this concrete jungle would go to plan. We otakus spend our days stuck in a corner of the class room, Y/n told himself with that quiet confidence that comes from having a strong feeling about things, believing that keeping a low profile was the key to not getting noticed. He'd just stick his head down, keep his mouth shut and let the delinquents walk right over him, hopefully ignore him completely like they normally did. At least that's what I thought I would be doing, to be honest...
But things had got a bit out of hand.
He wasn't invisible, far from it. He was actually trapped.
Y/n found himself squashed onto the floor in the corner of the room, his body all bunched up like a piece of poorly folded origami, knees curled up tight to his chest and him shaking like a leaf. He was clinging to his manga like it was a lifesaver, the thin pages somehow meant to protect him from the chaos that was erupting all around him. The scary blonde delinquent was right there with him, sitting on the floor as if they'd been friends for years. Her body was leaning into his side, sending warm waves through him that made his skin tingle with awareness. The close proximity of her hand to his leg made him feel a shiver run down his spine, even though she wasn't actually touching him.
Y/n's face was burning red, the heat spreading from his cheeks right down to the tips of his ears. His heart was pounding away against his ribs like it was desperate to get out , each beat loud enough to be deafening. He was too scared to look away from the delinquent, but also way too flustered to try and meet her eye.
What. Is. This. situation...? Y/n screamed the question in his head, cold sweat pouring down his face like a tap had been turned on and his glasses were misting up with the sheer panic that was taking over.
To make any sense of this mess, you had to go back in time. Y/n's mind swam with a sense of bewilderment as he tried to recall the events that had led up to this nightmare.
All of this had started a few days prior, now that I think about it...
That day, I was holding this BL book, Y/n recalled, the memory flashing into his brain like a branding iron. The very thought made him want to burrow into the floor. It was an accident, pure bad luck, caused by my sister's mix up at home. It had been stuck between the pages of my perfectly innocent anime mag... - one of her things had somehow got lumped in with my stuff.
The BL manga had been hiding amongst the pages of a book meant to be completely safe, a trap that he'd stepped right into without even realising. He'd pulled it out in class without giving it a second thought, his eyes going wide with shock the instant he worked out what he was holding. The cover picture of two gorgeous guys in a pretty suggestive pose was seared into his brain.
Just as he'd finally registered the mistake and was in the process of shoving the book back into his bag with sweaty palms, a voice from behind him froze my blood in my veins.
"That's Mems x Augy, right?"
Y/n slowly turned, his entire body seizing up with a dread that felt like it was going to suffocate him . his heart just about burst out of his chest, the hammering in his ribcage was so intense it was practically agony. The girl who'd just met his gaze with that low, knowing tone was , one of the delinquents that topped the school's unofficial, and very real hierarchy, Lee Jiwoo.
She towered over Y/n like a monolith, an imposing, intimidating presence that both commanded respect and made your skin crawl. A shaft of grimy sunlight streaming in through the sticky window caught her hair, and for a moment, she almost looked like some kind of otherworldly being, like one of those angelic characters from a fantasy anime. The fresh scrapes on her knuckles told a very different story, however, a grim reminder that Lee Jiwoo had probably been in a fight recently and probably came out on top.
Is she one of those Fujoshi?! Y/n thought in a panic, his brain going a million miles an hour as he frantically tried to read her in. There was this particular type of girl: a Fujoshi who was always going on and on about their favourite BL pairings, decorating them with all sorts of notation and symbols for the sake of it. Like "ΔΔ×□□" - and obsessing over whether the big guy was the attacker or the defender in the relationship. I think I'm starting to get it.
But the realisation brought no comfort at all; it just sent his imagination into overdrive, conjuring up terrible images of her true nature: a violent force of nature who'd probably give him a good thumping if he said the wrong thing. That monster they say she is.
Still, the universe had a wicked sense of humour, his imagination ran wild but she just didn't hit him. No fist flying towards his face, no hard slap across the cheek. Instead, she just spoke up again, her tone almost... almost casual, like she was talking to an old friend?
"I've gotten really interested lately," Jiwoo said, her eyes flickering up to the book he'd still got clutched in his trembling hands.
Y/n was left staring at her, his mouth hanging open in shock. His brain had basically short-circuited on the spot.
After the incident, I was labeled as a 'Mems x Augy companion’
-
The next day, she stumbles across him in the hallway. He was trying to sneak past, his back leaning against the wall, but she stopped him dead in his tracks with her voice.
"Did you wait for me again today?" she asks, suddenly materialising beside him - a bit like a ghost.
Y/n jumped, nearly dropping his bag in the process. "Ah, yes", he stammers. The lie just comes tumbling out because he was too scared to tell the truth; actually, he'd been trying his best to avoid her all day.
"Yeah, right!" she chuckles, a playful smile threatening to emerge - though Y/n is far too spooked to notice she's not even a little bit angry.
And that's when things really start to get weird.
Y/n was scratching his head, sitting on the floor of the classroom, with the school's notorious troublemaker leaning on his shoulder. The delinquent's weight is nowhere near as heavy as you'd think, and her hair smelt vaguely like citrus, a fact that starts to get stuck in his brain whenever he notices it.
"U-um Jiwoo-ssi, you should check out this manga?" Y/n tries to get a word in edgewise, fumbling with the volume in his hands. His voice comes out a lot higher than normal, the pages shaking slightly as he holds the book.
"I've already finished it," she replies, barely glancing at the cover. She moves closer instead, peering over his shoulder at the manga he's reading, her eyes moving swiftly over the panels. "So the attacker vs defender thing is set in stone from the start?"
Her breath tickles his ear, and Y/n feels like he's on the verge of spontaneously catching on fire.
"Yeah, I - I don't know either..." Y/n offers, sweat starting to trickle down his temples. His glasses keep slipping down his nose.
"Really? Okay".
And then , out of nowhere Jiwoo reaches out with a delicate finger and gently takes hold of his chin, lifting his face up to meet hers. The manga slips from his unresisting fingers and falls to the floor, forgotten.
"Eh?" Y/n squeaks, his voice breaking on him in a ridiculously embarrassing way.
She's looking at him with a really intense gaze, her eyes fixed on his with an unnerving level of focus. They're a warm brown close up, flecked with gold. "You've been on my mind ever since I first saw you," she confesses, her voice dropping down to a really low, intimate-sounding tone.
Y/n's breath catches in his throat - and then he just can't breathe. Time seems to slow right down.
"You're going to be responsible then?" she asks, a possessive glint flickering in her eye like a flame.
"My Little Bunny".
"My Little Bunny!?" Y/n cries out, his face blazing with heat and his eyes wide as dinner plates behind his glasses.
–
"U-u-ummm," Y/n stuttered, a cold sweat pouring down his face like a floodgate had opened, leaving him drenched in an icy clamminess as he stared down at the page clutched in his shaking hands. The paper crinkled ominously as he squeezed it for dear life. He'd been railroaded into taking on the role of the 'Attacker' in this utterly bizarre roleplay scenario, & now he had to go through the motions of reciting lines to the terrifying delinquent girl sitting all but defenseless on the floor in front of him.
She looked up at him with an expectant gaze, her usual fierce expression replaced by something almost... tender. It was oddly unnerving.
He forced the words out, his voice trembling so badly he could hardly make out his own words. "I saw you hanging out with another boy, so I got jealous".
What the heck am I even doing here !! Y/n screamed silently to himself, his soul shrinking with every single syllable that came out of his mouth. But he was stuck with this madness now. He'd committed to it, no matter how awful it felt. He read the next line, desperately trying to sound even remotely serious but coming up woefully short. "I tried to pull away from you but I couldn't resist you".
He glanced down to where Jiwoo was sitting, her eyes fixed on him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, and her gaze made his skin crawl with the intensity of it. He sucked in a shaky breath, fumbling to find the last bit of courage he had left, and read out the line that was supposed to seal the deal. "Please be mine...".
Instantly, Jiwoo clapped her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking in a fit of convulsive sobs.
Y/n just froze, his heart plummeting to the floor. Please, please tell me this is actually a huge joke... he thought to himself, willing that his acting was so laughably bad it was actually funny. Is she... actually trying to hold in her giggles to the point of passing out...? Thats what this had to be. She was just going to ride out the rest of the year making fun of him.
But as he looked closer, really studying the way she was shaking and the tension in the air, the vibe between them felt all wrong. It wasn't the sound of stifled laughter he was hearing anymore. The air between them had turned thick and heavy with tension and heat, almost to the point of unbearable.
No. Not a joke... Y/n felt a creeping dawn of understanding slowly spreading through him, his eyes widening as the penny finally dropped.
He kept on reading through the lines from the manga script, his voice shuddering with fear, as he kept on delivering a relentless barrage of sappy "attacks" that battered Jiwoo's defences like a relentless storm against a crumbling sea front.
"I LIKE YOU".
"I won't let anyone take you away from me".
"I need you".
Every cheesy, over-the-top romantic line Y/n battered out in his shuddering voice, like he was trying to break down a steel door, only seemed to make things worse. Jiwoo curled up tighter & tighter, completely overwhelmed, her shoulders hunched, knees drawn up & her whole body seemed to be shrinking. She wasn't laughing. She was on the verge of a meltdown. The school's toughest delinquent, the girl who sent grown men packing with a single unforgiving stare, had been completely caught out by the "attack". Her face remained hidden behind her hands, her face a deep vibrant red, no doubt with a massive blush raging across it.
Y/n, finally realizing the destructive power of the words he was reading, started to panic for an entirely different reason.
"Wait," he thought, watching her reaction intensify with growing alarm. His own face was burning now too.
"Stop...".
"Please... Stop..." Jiwoo whimpered, her voice almost a whisper, really soft and getting more and more pleading with every passing second. Which, you know, was pretty hard to reconcile with all the fear she usually inspired. She folded her arm over her face to hide that flush and clutched her uniform tight in her other hand with white knuckles.
He just stared at her, gobsmacked. The school's baddest delinquent was gasping for breath and her composure was all over the shop. hr chest was rising and falling like a jackrabbit, literally trembling with every breath. She covered her face with her arm to hide her intense blush, her other hand gripping the fabric of her uniform.
I get it now... He went to think as his eyes went huge behind his steamy glasses. That Lee Jiwoo is totally flustered!!
She's not even laughing at his rubbish acting. She was genuinely flustered, genuinely affected by the romantic lines. The school's most feared delinquent is a total softie when it comes to romance.
"Uh" , she mumbled after a good while, finally dropping her arm but still not quite looking at him, her face bright pink.
Its getting really tough to work out what she's even on about... He panicked inside, his mind in complete turmoil. What is this person even?
Just then, she tried to change course, using this really hard-won attempt to sound normal, though her voice still wobbled a bit. "This is your sister's book, right?" she asked, finally meeting his eye again. "How are you two getting along?"
"Ah!" He said, taken aback by the rather personal question. "I think we usually get along pretty well. We're both pretty big otaku fans after all."
Jiwoo nodded thoughtfully, while Y/n was lost in thought. But didn't she say something about my little sister liking Mems x Augy? The other day, he remembered that it was the day they first met and how this whole weird thing had started.
Y/n's memories went back to that day, to the way she just popped up behind him like a wrathful avenging angel.
"Do you get on well with your sister? Good, or not?" he asked, hoping to catch her off guard and get a better read on this weird and wonderful person
Jiwoo's expression transformed suddenly; she looked sad and wistful now, and this whole bad-girl delinquent thing had just melted away. "Thing is... I've got a sister who's my little sister by name only since she's my parents' little one from their second marriage, we're not related by blood".
She looked down at her hands, studying them as if they held answers. Her voice grew quieter, almost fragile. "Even though we're not blood related and she doesn't like me, she's still my little sister," she said with such genuine emotion it made Y/n's chest tighten. "I want to get to know her better".
Y/n's mind flashed back to their first encounter, when she had loomed over him with that intimidating presence and asked about the book in that knowing tone.
‘That's 'Mems x Augy', right?’
I see...
Everything clicked into place like puzzle pieces finally finding their proper spots. The intimidation, the weird requests, the awkward roleplay sessions where she made him read romance lines, it wasn't bullying or a strange whim or some elaborate prank. He looked at her with completely new eyes, seeing her clearly for the first time.
This person was... Always serious about this, he realized, feeling a sharp pang of guilt for judging her so harshly, for assuming the worst. She wasn't a monster. She wasn't even really scary, not in the way he'd thought.
She was just a clumsy big sister, desperate and determined, trying to bridge the gap with a sibling who wouldn't give her the time of day. She was reading BL manga and forcing awkward roleplay scenarios because she wanted something, anything, to talk about with her little sister. She was trying so hard it hurt to watch.
And somehow, Y/n had gotten caught up in her earnest, fumbling attempts at connection.
This is actually kind of... sweet? he thought, his fear finally beginning to melt away, replaced by something warmer and softer. In a really weird way.
The next day arrived with Y/n's stomach twisted in knots.
He stood frozen at the threshold of what should have been a classroom but looked more like the headquarters of an underground syndicate. The air felt heavy, thick with an unspoken threat that made his skin prickle. Delinquents in dark hoodies and intimidating masks lounged across desks like predators at rest, their eyes tracking him with the lazy interest of wolves spotting a lost lamb.
I must be crazy, Y/n thought, his knuckles white as he gripped the straps of his backpack. The weight of the manga volumes inside suddenly felt less like a burden and more like a lifeline.
"U-um, excuse me," he managed to squeak out, his voice barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears. He shuffled forward, carefully weaving between scattered chairs and outstretched legs. "Please let me through."
The crowd parted reluctantly, their glares burning holes through his resolve with every step. He could feel sweat gathering at his collar despite the cool morning air.
Then he saw her. Jiwoo sat by the window, bathed in soft morning light that made her look almost ethereal despite her intimidating reputation. The girls clustered around her turned as one, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright hostility.
"Hmm?" one of them grunted, tilting her head like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. An intruder in their territory.
Y/n's legs trembled as he approached, but he planted his feet firmly in front of her. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape, but he wouldn't let himself run. Not now.
"U-um..." he started, the word catching in his throat. Jiwoo's gaze lifted to meet his, curious and patient. "After listening to your story... I thought about it last night."
He sucked in a deep breath, his lungs expanding until they felt ready to burst. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, threw caution to the wind, and let his inner otaku surge forward like a dam breaking.
"BEFORE TRYING TO UNDERSTAND THINGS LIKE COUPLING," he bellowed, his voice cracking with emotion as heat flooded his face, turning his cheeks bright crimson.
Jiwoo's eyes widened, genuine surprise flickering across her normally stoic features.
"I THINK YOU SHOULD READ THE ORIGINAL MANGA FIRST!!" Y/n declared, thrusting the paper bag forward with both hands as if offering a sacred treasure.
The bag crinkled loudly in the sudden silence. Inside sat carefully wrapped volumes of the original series, each one borrowed from his sister's prized collection. But once the floodgates opened, Y/n found he couldn't stop. His passion overflowed, drowning out every whisper of fear that still clung to his nerves.
"I always wanted to tell you this," he began, words tumbling out faster than he could think them through. His hands moved in animated gestures, painting pictures in the air. "But the title 'Mems x Augy' is the title that has been created by someone else and that title isn't used in the original manga! It is just a different version of the original title and so without the original it wouldn't have been made! I think your little sister has called the manga 'Mems x Augy' after understanding that!"
He gasped for air, barely pausing before diving back in. "For sure, the main reason this manga gained popularity can be attributed to the movie that was made with the two as the main characters, but a movie cannot be made without the original manga! Thankfully, my big sister is obsessed with the 'Pure White' series so most of the books are in my house! So..."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. One of the delinquents behind him cracked her knuckles, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense atmosphere.
"Unnie," she growled, stepping forward with menace radiating from every pore. Her shadow fell over Y/n like an omen. "Should I make that wimp shut up?"
Y/n's rambling stuttered to a halt, his survival instincts finally catching up with his mouth.
"No. Wait," Jiwoo commanded, her voice cutting through the threat with absolute authority.
The room fell silent instantly. Even the dust motes seemed to freeze mid-dance. Y/n stood there trembling, his arms still extended with the heavy paper bag, committed to his mission despite the very real possibility of getting pummeled.
"This is up to Book 67 of the manga, the DVD of its anime adaptation, and its movie version," he explained, his voice steadying as he focused on what mattered. The weight of the bag made his arms ache, but he held firm. "If you'd like them... I'll let you borrow them."
For a long moment, Jiwoo simply stared at the offering. Then her expression transformed. The sharp edges of her delinquent persona melted away like morning frost under sunlight, revealing something softer underneath. Something genuine and vulnerable.
"Okay," she said, the single word carrying more warmth than Y/n had ever heard from her.
She looked directly into his eyes, and a small smile bloomed on her lips like a rare flower. "I'll leave everything to you, Y/n."
Heat rushed to Y/n's face again, but this time it felt different. Not the burning embarrassment of before or the cold sweat of fear. This was something warmer, something that made his chest feel too small for his heart. Jiwoo-ssi is not only a beauty and strong, he thought, completely mesmerized by the transformation. But also stunning when she smiles.
The harsh classroom lighting seemed to soften around her, or maybe that was just his imagination.
"What do I start with?" Jiwoo asked, her eagerness breaking through like sunshine through storm clouds. She leaned forward slightly, ready to dive into this new world right there among the scattered desks and her confused subordinates.
The delinquents behind them exchanged bewildered glances. "Did you actually read all of these?" one whispered, staring at the mountain of manga volumes like they were looking at an impossible puzzle.
–
Minutes later, they had claimed a corner of the room. Jiwoo sat cross-legged with Book 1 spread open in her lap, while Y/n settled nearby with his own volume.
"You can understand the story even if you skip a bit if you get tired so..." Y/n murmured, watching her with gentle concern. The series was notoriously long, sprawling across dozens of volumes. He didn't want her to feel obligated to trudge through every page out of politeness.
"You don't need to hold back for me," he added softly, giving her an out.
But Jiwoo didn't look up. Her eyes moved across the pages with laser focus, absorbing every panel, every speech bubble, every tiny detail the artist had lovingly rendered. The usual hardness in her expression had completely vanished, replaced by pure concentration.
"No," she said firmly, turning a page with careful precision. "I'm going to read all of them fully."
There was something resolute in her voice, something that spoke of deeper motivation. She wasn't just reading a manga to pass time or humor a classmate. She was reading to understand her sister, to bridge the gap between them. And for that, there could be no shortcuts.
Y/n adjusted his glasses, warmth spreading through his chest as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Her determination was contagious, infectious in the best possible way. He picked up his own volume, deciding to re-read alongside her.
"Then please catch up to where I'm reading as quickly as possible," he challenged, a playful note entering his voice.
"I will," she replied without breaking her concentration, already two pages ahead.
Y/n looked at her profile, backlit by the window, and felt his nervous smile grow. Somehow, impossibly, he had transformed the scary delinquent into a reading companion. Now he just had to survive the marathon ahead. I have to keep up!
Time passed in comfortable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages. The afternoon sun had begun its lazy descent, painting the world in shades of amber and gold. They had migrated to the cluttered clubroom. The space was small and cramped, filled with forgotten sports equipment and dusty storage boxes, but somehow it felt cozy. Intimate.
They sat on the worn floor, resting back-to-back like bookends. The afternoon sun streamed through the single window, turning the floating dust motes into tiny stars that danced and swirled in the golden light. The warmth soaked into everything, making the air feel sleepy and sweet.
Jiwoo read peacefully, her shoulders relaxed as she leaned against him. The solid warmth of his back against hers felt grounding, comforting in a way she hadn't experienced before. It was nice. More than nice. She could feel his breathing, the slight shift of his muscles as he turned pages, the way he occasionally adjusted his position.
Y/n, meanwhile, sat rigid as a board. Every nerve in his body was on high alert. He could feel the sudden pressure of her weight leaning into him, the warmth seeping through his shirt, the way her hair occasionally brushed against his neck. His brain short-circuited trying to process the situation.
"Eh, what are you doing!?" he shouted, jerking forward and twisting to look over his shoulder with wide, bewildered eyes.
His expression was priceless, completely and utterly oblivious to the intimate moment she'd been trying to create. The confusion on his face was so genuine, so innocently clueless, that it was almost endearing.
Jiwoo bit back a smile, her blush deepening. This dense, passionate, completely oblivious boy had somehow walked into her world and turned it upside down. And despite his confusion, despite his nervousness, despite everything... she found she didn't mind one bit.
The dust motes continued their lazy dance in the golden afternoon light, bearing silent witness to the beginning of something sweet and wonderfully awkward.
—
And so in the same spot, the duo has found themselves spending their time together over the past few days. This time Y/n arrived to find Jiwoo already there, sitting by the window with Book 12 open in her lap. The sight made him pause in the doorway.
"You're early," he said, surprised. He'd expected to have to seek her out again, to navigate through her intimidating friends and muster up his courage all over again.
Jiwoo glanced up, and for just a moment, something shy flickered across her face. "I wanted to finish this volume before you got here," she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. "So we'd be closer to the same place."
She'd stayed up late reading, though she didn't mention that part. The story had grabbed her in ways she hadn't expected, but more than that, she found herself looking forward to discussing it with him. To sharing this thing that clearly meant so much to him.
Y/n felt his face warm as he made his way over, settling into what was quickly becoming 'his spot' near her. "Oh. That's... that's really dedicated of you," he managed, adjusting his glasses nervously.
They read in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the turning of pages and the distant chatter from other classrooms. Then Jiwoo spoke, her finger marking her place on the page.
"This part here," she said, tilting the book slightly toward him. "Where Augy hesitates before the tournament. Is that why people ship him with Mems? Because he's the one who encourages him?"
Y/n leaned in to see what she was referring to, their shoulders almost touching. The proximity made his heart skip, but he forced himself to focus on the panels. "Partly, yeah. But it goes deeper than that. If you keep reading, you'll see how their dynamic develops. It's really subtle at first."
"Subtle," Jiwoo repeated, her lips quirking into the smallest smile. "I'm not very good with subtle things."
"You're doing fine," Y/n assured her, and meant it. The fact that she was genuinely trying, genuinely engaging with something important to him, made something in his chest feel tight and warm.
Jiwoo looked at him then, really looked at him, and Y/n suddenly became very interested in his own manga. The intensity of her gaze was somehow more nerve-wracking than her delinquent persona had ever been.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For sharing this with me. For helping me understand what my sister loves about it."
"It's nothing," Y/n mumbled, his ears turning red. "I mean, I'm just lending you manga. Anyone could..."
"No," Jiwoo interrupted gently but firmly. "Not anyone would have the courage to walk into that classroom. Not anyone would care enough to bring all of this just to help me connect with my sister."
The sincerity in her voice made Y/n's throat tight. He didn't know how to respond to such direct honesty, so he did what he did best: deflected with enthusiasm.
"Well, if you really want to thank me, just keep reading! There's this amazing arc coming up in volume 20 that completely changes how you see the earlier chapters and..."
Jiwoo watched him ramble, that soft smile returning to her face. His passion was endearing, she found herself wanting to see that expression more often.
"If you finish reading that, we'll be able to watch the movie version together," Y/n said, his tone casual and matter-of-fact as he stared at the manga in his hands.
The words left his mouth without ceremony, without any recognition of their weight. He scratched his cheek absently, already backtracking in his practical way. "You don't have to watch with me, though. Just a thought."
Behind him, Jiwoo's eyes widened slightly. A soft blush crept across her cheeks like watercolor bleeding into paper, delicate and sweet. She stared at his back, at the way his shoulders hunched slightly as he read, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd just asked her on a date. Her heart did a little flip in her chest.
"But still..." she murmured, the words barely a whisper, carried on a breath of contentment. The happiness of simply being included, of sharing this space with him, warmed her from the inside out.
The scene shifted to the exterior of their hideout—a dilapidated school building covered in layers of graffiti and surrounded by rusted barbed wire. It was a rough place, a sanctuary for outcasts, far removed from the gentle domesticity of the previous moment.
Inside a classroom plastered with peeling tape and scribbles, Y/n sat alone on a desk, scrolling through his phone to kill time. He had arrived way too early.
"I ended up coming here early..." he muttered to himself, the silence of the room amplifying his thoughts. He paused, a realization creeping up on him. "It's almost like I'm having fun."
He thought back to the conversation that had led him here. He recalled her bright smile when she had agreed to his earlier suggestion. “I think I’ll be able to finish the manga today,” she had said, “so let’s watch the movie version together.”
Suddenly, the implication of the setup hit him. Panic flared in his chest as he realized how this looked to the outside world. He gripped his phone tightly, his face flushing as he argued with his own thoughts.
"No! I don't mean it like that!" he yelled into the empty room, desperate to convince himself. "I was just talking about rewatching the series on TV! It’s not... it's not a date or anything!"
Trying to shake off his embarrassment, he glanced out the taped-up window waiting for his companion to arrive.
Jiwoo was walking with a light step, her long hair flowing behind her, looking forward to their meeting. But before she could reach the classroom door, a frantic voice shattered the mood.
"Jiwoo Unnie!!"
Jiwoo stopped in her tracks, turning her head as a student from their group came sprinting down the hall, looking beaten and out of breath.
"Yeah, what is it?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave, the softness from before instantly replaced by the sharp authority of a leader.
"Yubin is!" the lackey gasped, his face twisted in distress. "She's getting beaten up by some students from another school!"
Jiwoo’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening into cold steel. The movie date was forgotten; the war was back on.
"Where is this happening?" Jiwoo demanded, her voice cutting through the panic in the hallway.
"An arcade in Minami-guchi..." the messenger gasped, pointing vaguely towards the exit.
Without a moment's hesitation, Jiwoo turned on her heel. "Got it, I'll go immediately..." she said, her figure disappearing swiftly down the corridor.
Left alone in the sudden silence of the graffiti-ridden classroom, Y/n stood by the desk. He didn't chase after her. instead, he looked down at the floor with a calm, almost resigned expression, deciding to wait.
At the arcade, the atmosphere was thick with menace. "Finally here Jiwoo?" a thug sneered as she stepped into their territory, her gang looming behind her. One of them started to give a mocking explanation, "Our friend asked us to—" but Jiwoo cut her off.
"Shut up," she said, her eye cold and focused. "You're a waste of time".
While violence erupted in the arcade, the classroom remained peaceful. The clock on the wall ticked slowly past the hour. Y/n stood by the window, an earbud in one ear, seemingly lost in his own world, patiently killing time, unaware of the war Jiwoo is fighting.
In the arcade, bodies hit the floor. Jiwoo moved with brutal precision, dispatching the delinquents one by one until she was the only one left standing.
"Haa... Haa..." She panted heavily, her chest heaving as the adrenaline began to fade.
She didn't see the movement behind her. A fallen thug, face bloodied and desperate, scrambled up with a metal pipe. "DIE Jiwoo-!" she screamed, swinging the weapon down with all his might. Jiwoo spun around, her eyes widening in shock, but it was too late to fully dodge.
.
.
.
.
-
Time passed. The sun set, and the moon rose high over the derelict school building, casting long shadows over the barbed wire fences.
The door to the clubroom slid open with a rattle. Jiwoo stood in the doorway, her uniform torn and dirtied, bruises marking her face. She looked exhausted, her usual intensity replaced by a fragile weariness.
"Jiwoo-ssi?" Y/n’s voice broke the silence as the door rattled open.
He was standing there, holding a first-aid kit he had prepared. "It's a good thing that I expected that this kind of thing had happened and went and got some medicine," he said, his voice laced with relief but also worry as he looked at her injuries. "But will this be enough...?"
He nervously scratched his cheek, rambling a bit to cover his anxiety. "I couldn't stop myself and watched it three times... Ahhh... while I was watching the TV series," he admitted. Then, he quickly added the most important part, "But I didn't watch the movie version of course".
Jiwoo didn't explain herself or describe the fight. She simply stepped forward and collapsed against him, burying her face into his chest, seeking the comfort she had been fighting to get back to.
"I know," she said softly, her voice muffled against his shirt. She knew he had waited. She knew he was safe. And she knew he had kept his promise.
The sudden impact took Y/n completely by surprise. He stiffened, his eyes going wide behind his glasses as Jiwoo collapsed forward, burying her face into his shoulder. She let out a muffled sound, a string of chaotic, intelligible noises that seemed to be a mix of exhaustion and pent-up emotion. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the warmth of her against him and his own panicked heartbeat.
Slowly, Jiwoo pulled back, though she didn't meet his eyes immediately. She seemed to suddenly become aware of her condition.
"Ah..." she breathed out, looking down. "I'm really dirty right now. I'll go and wash my face."
She stepped away, creating a cool distance between them that Y/n wasn't quite sure how to process. He stood there, awkwardly adjusting his tie, his mind still reeling from the hug.
Jiwoo paused at the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. She didn't leave just yet.
"And also, Y/n," she said, her voice steadying slightly. She kept her back to him. "In terms of the two of us... would Jiwoo and Y/n be..."
She trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the heavy air of the hallway. Then, she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her face was battered, marked with cuts and scrapes from the day's events, but her eyes were clear and piercing.
"Jiwoo x Y/n?" she asked simply.
Y/n stared at her blankly. The meaning of the phrase—the implication of the names paired together like that—didn't land immediately. A visible question mark seemed to float in the silence between them. He just looked at her, mouth slightly open, utterly confused.
Seeing his lack of reaction, or perhaps simply unable to sustain the moment any longer, Jiwoo turned back around.
"Jiwoo... Y/n?" Y/n muttered to himself, watching her retreating back as she walked down the hall.
Unseen by him, as she hurried away, Jiwoo’s face erupted in a deep crimson flush. She covered her mouth with her hand, her heart pounding against her ribs, mortified by her own boldness.
Back in the room, the adrenaline finally crashed. Y/n walked inside and slumped heavily onto the bench. The realization of what she had just asked—and the feeling of her embrace—finally caught up to him. His face burned hot, flushing a deep red as he sat there alone, staring at the floor. He realized, with a sinking, flustered feeling, that he had been caught completely off guard.
