lawly

by footfungus

lawly

63. Chapter 63

INTRO – help me act out a few scenes

She stared at the blinking cursor on her screen like it had personally offended her.

Another line. Another cringey, soulless attempt at a steamy scene that read more like awkward stage directions than anything remotely sexy. With a frustrated groan, she flopped back on her chair, dragging both hands down her face.

"How the hell do people write smut?" she muttered to herself, then immediately recoiled. "No, don't say that out loud. That's cursed."

But it was true. She had the plot. The characters. The build-up. But when it came to getting them horizontal, her brain turned into static. Her male lead kissed like a cardboard cutout. Her female lead moaned like she'd stubbed her toe. It was bad.

She needed... data.

The front door clicked open, and right on cue, Yu Hamin stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he kind of did, considering how often he was here. His black hair was still tousled from the wind, a few strands falling into his eyes, and his usual broody aura filled the room like a warm shadow.

"Hey," he said casually, kicking off his shoes. "You look like you lost a fight with your laptop."

"I did," she groaned. "And I'm losing the war."

He walked over and leaned down to peek at her screen. His dark eyes scanned a sentence or two before he smirked. "Wow. That bad, huh?"

"Shut up," she huffed, shoving his face away. "It's not that bad. I'm just... stuck."

"Writer's block?"

"Worse. Writer's cock block."

He choked on a laugh. "Please never say that again."

She swiveled in her chair to face him, eyes deadly serious behind her glasses. "I need help."

"With what, exactly?"

"With... research."

Hamin raised an eyebrow. "What kind of research?"

There was a pause. Then—

"Sex scenes."

He blinked.

She barrelled on before he could react. "I just need to get a feel for how things work! Like physicality, logistics, vibes. I'm not asking for anything crazy. Just like... help me act out a few scenes."

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, c'mon!"

"Nope," he said firmly, already backing up like she was about to lunge at him with a script and a blindfold. "You're insane."

"Okay, fine." She turned back to her screen with an exaggerated sigh. "I'll ask Eunho, then."

The air changed.

"What?"

She smirked. Didn't look at him. "I mean, he's got that whole... tall, mysterious, fangs thing going on. He's probably got way more experience anyway—"

"No."

Her head snapped back around. "No?"

"I'll do it."

She blinked at him. "Wait—what? You just said—"

"Don't ask him," Hamin said, arms crossed, jaw tense.

There was a beat of silence. Then:

"...Are you jealous?" she asked, voice climbing in delighted disbelief.

"No," he said flatly. "I just think you'll get better results with me. For research."

Her grin was nothing short of evil.

END

The cursor blinked at her like it was mocking her.

She glared back, arms crossed, tapping her pen against her thigh. One hundred and forty-seven words into the steamiest scene of her entire manuscript, and it read like a poorly translated instruction manual. Her characters had the emotional chemistry of soggy bread and the sexual tension of two mannequins in a Walmart display.

With a dramatic groan, she collapsed into the back of her chair, muttering to no one, "Why is writing sex so hard?"

The universe, cruel and ironic as always, chose that exact moment for Yu Hamin to walk in.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked dryly, eyebrows lifting.

She cracked an eye open to find him standing in the doorway, dark hair tousled from the wind, his black hoodie hanging loose on his broad shoulders. His bangs half-covered his eyes in that annoyingly attractive way that always made her think of a sad anime boy—but, like, the hot kind.

"You have no idea," she sighed.

He walked in with the kind of quiet confidence he always had, the type that made it hard to tell what he was thinking unless you knew him well. (She did. Sort of.) He looked over her shoulder at the glowing screen.

Hamin leaned down, squinting. "'She gasped as he pressed her against the—'" He stopped mid-sentence, blinked, and straightened. "Wow."

"Don't say it," she warned.

His mouth twitched, but he kept his voice neutral. "You're... going for something here."

"Helpful," she deadpanned, then dragged both hands down her face. "It's bad, right?"

"It's not bad," he said slowly. "It's... not believable."

"Which is why I need help!" she said, suddenly sitting up with wide eyes like she'd just discovered fire. "Actually—wait. You can help me!"

Hamin tilted his head, instantly suspicious. "Help you... how?"

"Okay, hear me out." She stood now, pacing. The words poured out fast, like they usually did when her brain latched onto something impulsively idiotic. "I'm writing this big scene, but I've never actually—y'know, done it—so I figured maybe the best way to make it feel real is to act it out. Like theater. For research purposes."

She turned toward him, beaming.

His soul left his body.

There was a pause. Then—

"No."

Her smile dropped. "Why not?"

He blinked hard, like he couldn't believe she'd actually said that. His arms folded across his chest, jaw tight. "You want me to help you act out a sex scene."

"Well, not like sex sex. Just, like... physical stuff! Kissing! Touching! Blocking out how bodies move in a scene! I'm not asking for penetration, Hamin, calm down."

"Do not say 'penetration' while looking me in the eyes."

She burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you're so dramatic."

He wasn't being dramatic. He was being held together by three brain cells and the power of sheer will.

In truth, his entire body had tensed the moment she said "act it out." His heartbeat stuttered. Heat crawled up the back of his neck and settled annoyingly in his ears. She was standing there, talking about touching and research with the same energy she used when asking him to carry groceries or kill a spider, and it was slowly unraveling him.

She was too close.

Too casual.

Too unaware of what that offer actually meant to him.

"I'm not doing that," he said firmly, taking a careful step back.

She rolled her eyes, like he was the unreasonable one. "Okay, okay, relax. I'll just ask Eunho."

That stopped him cold.

There was a beat.

His eyes flicked to her, sharp and unreadable. "What?"

"I mean, he's tall, hot, and has fangs—he'd probably be way more convincing as the male lead anyway—"

"No."

Her head snapped up. "Huh?"

"I'll do it," Hamin said.

Her brow furrowed. "Wait—what? You just said—"

"Don't ask him," he cut in, voice lower now. Not a request. A statement.

She blinked, then grinned. "...Are you jealous?"

She said it like a joke.

He did not laugh.

His expression didn't change, but his throat bobbed with a quiet swallow. The skin under his ears was still flushed. He held her gaze a second too long before glancing away, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair like it could hide the war waging in his head.

"No," he muttered.

She just laughed again, utterly oblivious.

"Great!" she chirped, already turning to grab her notebook. "You won't regret this, I swear. Oh! I have dialogue too!"

He exhaled slowly through his nose, more to himself than anything. His jaw clenched.

Oh, he was going to regret this. In every way that mattered.

END

SCENE TWO – "Just Follow the Script"

"I want to try the scene where the guy pushes the girl against the wall," she said casually, flipping through her notes like she was picking out a salad recipe.

Hamin sat on the edge of her bed, looking very much like a man who had made a series of poor decisions leading to this moment.

"You know," she continued, digging around for a pen, "to simulate how bodies naturally respond to proximity. Like, the whole alpha male thing. Chemistry. Sexual tension. That stuff."

His jaw twitched. "You're really not helping."

"Helping what?" she asked without looking at him, completely oblivious.

"My self-control," he mumbled.

She turned back with her notebook, dressed in an oversized hoodie and those godforsaken soft shorts she always wore around the house. The ones that barely qualified as fabric. The ones he'd definitely stared at too long more than once.

He forced his gaze up—above her knees, past the ridiculous curve of her hips, to the notebook in her hands. Words. Focus on the words.

"Okay," she said brightly. "We'll do a dry run first. No touching."

Thank god.

"Then we'll do the real version."

Never mind. God had left the chat.

She moved toward the center of the room, gesturing to the blank wall. "This is the scene. The guy has the girl cornered, and he leans in real close, and—oh, wait, wait, let me read the line!"

Hamin stayed seated, watching as she flipped dramatically to the right page. Her glasses slipped down her nose and she shoved them back up, tongue poking out in concentration. A mole on her collarbone peeked out from her hoodie. He looked away.

She cleared her throat. "Okay. Line is: 'You don't even realize how badly I want you.' Oof. That's hot, right?"

He blinked slowly. "Is that rhetorical?"

"Oh, come on, it's good!" She laughed, holding the notebook up like a shield. "I think it just needs the right delivery."

She turned to him with a mischievous grin. "Get up. You're gonna be my scene partner."

"Right," he said, standing slowly. "Because this won't end badly."

"Pessimist," she said, grabbing his hand and tugging him into place like a very cheerful director with no idea she was playing with fire. She moved his shoulder, turned his hips, adjusted his stance. Casual touches. Innocent. Unthinking.

To her.

Hamin, meanwhile, was acutely aware of everything—the way her fingers brushed over his chest, the light floral scent of her shampoo, the slight curve of her lips when she was focused. She was radiant in motion. Loud. Chaotic. Beautiful.

And she was completely, terrifyingly unaware of what she was doing to him.

"Okay!" she clapped. "Now pretend I'm the girl—well, I am the girl, but like, the girl girl—ugh, you know what I mean. Just... push me against the wall."

He stared at her.

She blinked up at him, glasses slipping again. "What?"

"You want me to push you."

"For the scene!" she said, exasperated. "Lightly! Like, sensually. Don't look at me like that."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "this is how men die."

Still, he moved forward, slow and careful, until she was backed up against the wall. His hands hovered at her waist, inches from her hoodie, unsure where to land.

She frowned. "You're being weird. Just put your hands on me."

His fingers twitched. "You sure?"

"Obviously! How else am I gonna write it if you don't actually commit?"

He swallowed hard. Then, with painstaking restraint, he placed his hands on her waist.

Her hoodie rode up a bit.

He felt her skin. Warm. Soft. Real.

He was in hell.

"There," she said, satisfied. "See? This isn't so bad."

She looked up to continue giving notes—but she faltered.

Hamin was close. Closer than he'd ever been. His face was unreadable, but his eyes... darker now. Focused. His grip on her waist firm. His expression not teasing, not playful. Something else.

Something serious.

"Hamin?" she asked, suddenly unsure. "You okay?"

He didn't move.

Then:
"You said to take it seriously."

And then he leaned in.

END

"I want to try the scene where the guy corners the girl against the wall," she said, flipping through her notes like she was casually scrolling a menu. "You know, like to get a feel for... proximity. Power dynamics. Vibes."

Yu Hamin was sitting on the edge of her bed, and if he clenched his jaw any tighter, his teeth were going to crack.

"You mean physical tension," he said flatly.

"Exactly! Physical tension!" she beamed, like she'd just nailed a pop quiz. "I need to know how to describe the closeness. What it actually feels like. Otherwise the scene falls flat."

She paused, then added, way too brightly, "You'll be great. You're always so broody and mysterious. Like my male lead."

His brain stopped working.

Broody and mysterious? Male lead?

She was complimenting him. Casually comparing him to the romantic hero of her book. The one who got to kiss the girl, touch her like she meant something, confess his feelings in a perfectly-timed whisper.

Hamin stared at her.

She, in return, smiled at him like this was all perfectly normal. Like this wasn't slowly shredding his sanity.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "This is insane."

"You agreed to help!"

"No, I agreed to stop you from asking Eunho."

At that, she snorted. "Please. Like he wouldn't be good at this? Tall, fangs, total heartthrob? I bet he has girls lining up for research sessions."

Hamin's entire body tensed.

He didn't say anything at first, just stood up slowly—deliberately—like something in him had just clicked out of place. His dark eyes fixed on her, unreadable.

"Don't ask him," he said.

She blinked. "What, are you jealous?"

The teasing lilt in her voice was so painfully obvious, it nearly knocked the wind out of him. She was joking.

She didn't know.

She had no idea how long he'd been in love with her. How many nights he'd spent biting down groans into his pillow, hating himself for the way he wanted her—desperately, shamelessly. How many times he'd imagined her in scenes like this, but never, never thought he'd actually get to touch her.

And now she was offering it to him.

For research.

He could taste the irony. It burned on his tongue.

"No," he said softly. "I'm just... better suited."

She grinned, oblivious. "Perfect! Let's set the scene!"

A few minutes later, she stood in front of the wall, tapping a pen against her notebook. Her glasses had slid down again and she kept pushing them back up, her lips pursed in exaggerated concentration. She was wearing one of those oversized hoodies that slouched off her shoulder—Hamin caught a glimpse of the curve of her neck, a small mole just above her collarbone. He looked away quickly.

She was radiant in the worst possible way: barefoot, casual, soft. Unfiltered and completely unaware of the storm she was brewing.

"Okay, we'll just... block it out first," she said. "We don't have to go full method actor right away. Baby steps."

"Baby steps," he echoed, even as his heart thundered like it was trying to break through his ribcage.

She looked up at him and tilted her head. "Ready?"

He didn't trust his voice, so he nodded.

She moved to stand in front of the wall, gesturing for him to follow. "So, the guy's supposed to corner her—like this—and put his hands here." She took his hands without hesitation, warm and soft in his, and placed them on her hips.

Time froze.

Her hoodie bunched up slightly, and his thumbs brushed against the bare skin of her waist. His fingers spread wider than he meant them to—memorizing. The heat of her was dizzying. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, the way her stomach tensed just slightly at his touch.

She didn't even notice.

"There," she said. "You're still being kind of stiff though."

He choked on a laugh. "You have no idea."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She huffed and looked up at him, cheeks puffed in mock annoyance. Her glasses were slipping again. "You're supposed to want her, remember? The character. Like—look at me."

He did. God help him, he did.

Her lips were pink, slightly parted. She smelled like vanilla and something floral. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, right there under his hands.

"See?" she said, clearly not seeing anything. "You're not being serious enough."

His eyes darkened.

"You want serious?" His voice dropped half an octave, low and quiet and dangerous.

She blinked. "Um—yes?"

The tension snapped taut between them like a wire pulled too tight.

Then, before she could say anything else, he stepped in closer. Just a breath away now. His hands curled tighter on her waist. His head dipped, his mouth brushing just beside her ear.

"You told me to act like I wanted you."

She froze.

"And you told me to take it seriously."

His breath was warm against her skin. Her notebook slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

And for the first time in their entire friendship—she didn't know what to say.

END

SCENE THREE – "Do You Want Real?"

"You told me to act like I wanted you."

The words wrapped around her like silk and smoke, curling low in her stomach and making her nerves short out.

She didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Because suddenly, the weight of his hands on her waist didn't feel like research anymore. It felt like gravity. Like he was anchoring her in place, and at the same time, making it very hard to breathe.

And then he leaned in, just slightly—close enough for her to feel the warmth of him, but not enough to touch.

He wasn't moving.

He was waiting.

Watching.

Letting her sit in the mess she created.

Her heart was hammering, loud in her ears, and for the first time since she started this whole chaotic plan, she was no longer in control of the scene. The words she'd prepared—the clever lines, the flirty quips—all turned to static.

This wasn't funny anymore.

This wasn't pretend.

"Y-You're really committing to the bit," she said, her voice higher than usual, trying (and failing) to sound unfazed. "I—I mean, method acting, right?"

Hamin didn't smile. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Almost...hungry.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes drifting to her mouth for half a second too long.

Her breath caught.

"I thought that's what you wanted," he said, voice low and maddeningly even.

"I—" She blinked. "Yeah, I mean, yes. Of course. For the scene. Definitely. Totally. For the book."

He moved his hands slightly, his thumbs brushing along the bare skin just above her waistband.

Her knees nearly gave out.

"Still not convincing," he murmured. "Feels like you're holding back."

Her throat worked around a swallow. "I am not holding back."

He stepped in closer—just half an inch, but it was everything.

His voice was quieter now. "Then prove it."

Her brain fully short-circuited.

There was a moment—long, drawn-out, breathless—where neither of them said anything. Her hands were still at her sides, twitching with uncertainty, but she didn't pull away. Didn't shove him or laugh it off or retreat behind another sarcastic line.

She just stood there.

Trapped. Flushed. Wide-eyed.
And for the first time, Hamin saw it—the flicker of realization behind her eyes.

Not full comprehension.

Not yet.

But the crack had formed.

Something inside her was shifting. And god help him, he wanted to watch it all fall apart.

But not yet.

"Okay," she said suddenly, voice a little breathless, a little forced. "Okay! Break time."

Hamin arched an eyebrow, lazy and amused. "Break time?"

"Yeah! I need water. Hydration. Very important for writing smut. I read that somewhere."

She turned and practically launched herself toward the kitchen, mumbling to herself the whole way.

Hamin stayed where he was, hands in his pockets now, lips curling into a crooked, knowing smile.

Her flustered footsteps echoed down the hall.

And all he could think was:

Finally.

END

VIGNETTE – "What She Doesn't Know" (Hamin's POV)

He shouldn't have said yes.

The moment the words left his mouth—"I'll do it"—he knew he was fucked. Not in the fun way.

She hadn't even blinked. Just lit up, all bright eyes and impulsive joy, completely unaware of what she'd just handed him.

Because what she didn't know—what she couldn't know—is that he'd thought about her. A lot.

Not once or twice in a fleeting, oops-she's-hot way. But deeply. Shamelessly. Over and over, with her laugh still echoing in his ears and her scent still clinging to his hoodie.

Hands wrapped around himself in the dead of night, eyes shut tight, whispering her name into the pillow like a sin.

It was always her.

The way she pushed her glasses up her nose without thinking. The curve of her thighs when she sat cross-legged. The way her voice dipped when she got too focused, the breathless excitement when she talked about her writing.

Every little detail had been filed away, dissected, memorized.

He'd kissed every inch of her in his imagination. Pulled her hair. Bitten her shoulder. Made her cry out his name. Then hated himself for it afterward.

Because she was his friend.

Because she trusted him.

And now she wanted to act out sex scenes with him like it was no big deal.

As if his hands hadn't already mapped her body a hundred times in the dark—without ever touching her.

As if this was just another favor.

"Don't ask Eunho," he'd said.

Not because he wanted to help.

But because the thought of her doing this with someone else made something savage coil low in his gut.

He pressed his thumb against his temple, tried to exhale the heat out of his chest.

He could handle this. He had to.

He just had to pretend he hadn't come thinking about her moaning his name less than a week ago.

Professional. Platonic. For research.

Right.

END

SCENE – "Only Hers" (Hamin's Fantasy / Solo Scene)

Set a few nights before the "research" conversation…

The room was dark, the only light coming from the pale glow of the streetlamp outside. The shadows cast soft gold lines across his ceiling as he lay sprawled on his bed, chest bare, sheets tangled around his hips.

He stared up, jaw tight, his hand already curled low beneath the hem of his sweatpants.

He wasn't thinking about anyone else.

He never did.

It was always her.

Her laugh, echoing in his ears from earlier that day when she'd teased him about something stupid. Her voice, soft and unguarded when she read him lines from her book, not realizing how close she'd leaned in. Her body, always tucked into oversized hoodies and soft cotton shorts that rode too high on her thighs when she got comfortable.

He could see it so clearly behind closed eyes.
The way her glasses slipped down her nose when she got excited.
The soft dip of her waist when she stretched.
The moles scattered along her skin—perfect places to kiss, to mark.

His breath hitched as his fingers curled tighter around himself.

She'd never looked at him like that. Not once.

But in his head, she did.

"Hamin," she whispered, her voice low and needy in his ears, breathless. "Touch me."

He let out a shuddered breath, stroking slow, his grip firm, practiced. He didn't go fast. Not yet. Not when the version of her in his mind was so close—kneeling in front of him, biting her lip, her fingers tugging at the waistband of his pants like she couldn't wait another second.

"Fuck," he hissed, eyes squeezing shut.

He imagined her climbing into his lap, straddling him with that confident little grin she wore when she got her way. He'd grip her hips, guide her down onto him, hear that first broken gasp from her lips as she sank onto his cock—tight, warm, perfect.

She'd wrap her arms around his shoulders, mouth hot against his throat, hips rocking against his—

His hips jerked up involuntarily.

The fantasy deepened. He saw her flushed and wrecked, nails clawing down his back, whispering things she'd never say when the sun was up.

"I've wanted this for so long."
"Only you, Hamin."
"Make me yours."

His rhythm faltered, thighs tensing.

He wasn't even sure he was breathing anymore.

The version of her in his head cupped his face, looked into his eyes, and smiled like she belonged to him.

Like she knew he loved her.

Like she loved him back.

He came hard—groaning low, biting down on his own wrist to muffle the sound. Hot, fast, dizzying. Her name was caught on his tongue and he didn't stop it this time.

It spilled out, soft and ruined.

"[Name]..."

He lay there after, chest heaving, wrist still pressed to his lips, eyes wide and dark.

Shame settled over him like a second skin.

It was always like this.

Wanting her. Loving her. Hating himself for it.

Because in the morning, she'd call him to hang out.

Maybe crash at his place again, curled up on his couch with her glasses askew, laughing at dumb movies like nothing was wrong.

Like he hadn't just fantasized about burying himself inside her.

He dragged a hand down his face and sighed, bitter and tired.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could take it.

END SCENE.

EXTENDED SCENE – "Only Hers" (Hamin's Fantasy / Solo Scene, Full Detail)

It always started the same way.

Late at night. Lights off. Silence thick. Sheets tangled around his legs like restraints.

He lay there, heart pounding in the stillness of his bedroom, the air heavy with heat and guilt. His hand already under the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers slow and familiar around his hard length, pulsing with need.

And it was always her.

[Name].

Always her.

The soft, unguarded sound of her laugh echoing in his ears. The subtle bounce of her breasts beneath her hoodie when she flopped next to him on the couch. Her bare thighs pressed against his when she sat too close. The way her fingers curled around his wrist when she tugged him toward something she wanted to show him, her touch innocent—unaware of how it scorched him every time.

She haunted him. In the cruelest, most beautiful ways.

Tonight, the image in his mind was sharp. Too vivid. Too real. It had only been a few hours since she'd sprawled across his bed, reading her goddamn smutty draft out loud, laughing at her own awkward lines while he sat there pretending his cock wasn't twitching beneath his jeans.

Now, she was there again—but not awkward this time. Not joking. Not oblivious.

No, this version of her straddled his hips, lips slightly parted, eyes lidded and hazy with want.

She was confident. Hungry. Herself—but with the brakes cut.

His fingers curled tighter around his cock. He stroked slow, dragging his hand up the length of it, thumbing over the tip where he was already leaking, slick and warm.

He imagined her watching. Always watching.

Sitting between his legs, glasses sliding down her nose, tongue wetting her lips as she tilted her head and asked in that breathless, curious tone,
"Can I touch you, Hamin?"

His hips bucked. He hissed through his teeth.

She'd lean in, careful at first. Her palm resting on his bare stomach, sliding downward with a trail of heat. Her fingers wrapping around him, delicate and shy and greedy all at once.

He groaned, deeper now, rhythm picking up as the image bled into sound—soft whimpers in her voice, the way she might gasp when he bucked into her hand, the breathless little moan she'd make when he guided her hips onto him and sank inside.

God.

He imagined her riding him—hair messy, thighs trembling, eyes locked with his as her body took him inch by inch.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising fast. His stomach tightened.

In his head, she whimpered his name, nails digging into his chest as she moved faster. He could almost feel it—the grip of her heat, the way she might fall forward and bury her face in his neck, crying out for him, only him.

No one else had ever seen her like this. No one else had touched her, made her come undone. She was his.

In fantasy, if nowhere else.

"You feel so good, Hamin..." she moaned in his head.

That did it.

His breath caught as his thighs locked, spine arching from the bed. His climax hit sharp and sudden, burning behind his eyes as he spilled over his hand with a low, wrecked sound—her name tangled in his throat, groaned through clenched teeth.

"[Name]... fuck..."

It came out desperate. Soft. Ruined.

He stayed there, chest heaving, skin damp, hand still wrapped loosely around himself.

Guilt flooded in slow, heavy and familiar.

He looked down at the mess on his stomach, then to the dark ceiling overhead.

And all he could think was—

She'll never know.

END SCENE.

SCENE – "She Doesn't Know" (Hamin's POV, Full Detail)

She was lying on his couch like she lived there.

Oversized hoodie, glasses slipping down her nose, one bare leg thrown over the backrest like she didn't have a single thought about modesty—or how it might kill him.

Her notebook was in her lap, her pen tapping against her chin as she rambled about plot holes and character motivation and something about a forest makeout scene. He wasn't really listening.

He was watching.

She stretched suddenly, arms over her head, hoodie riding up just enough to expose the soft, tempting curve of her waist. Skin he'd never touched. Skin he'd kissed in his dreams more times than he could count.

His throat tightened. He looked away.

Too late.

His mind had already gone there.

The first time he'd imagined her like this, she'd been wearing one of his t-shirts—accidentally, of course. She'd crashed at his place after a movie night, changed into something from his drawer, and padded around barefoot like it meant nothing.

It had wrecked him.

That night, he'd jerked off in the shower with her laugh still echoing in his ears. Imagined peeling that shirt off slowly, kissing the bare skin beneath it inch by inch. Her thighs wrapped around his waist, head tilted back, moaning his name like a prayer.

Since then? It had been... constant.

Whenever she touched his arm.
Laughed too hard and leaned into his shoulder.
Fell asleep on his bed, curled into his pillow like she belonged there.

The fantasies had only gotten worse.

Darker.

Needier.

He'd imagined her climbing into his lap, breathing heavily, flushed with desire. Her glasses fogging up as she whispered things she'd never say sober. Her voice breaking as she begged him to go deeper, rougher, faster—

"Are you even listening to me?" she whined, flopping dramatically onto her side.

He blinked, pulled from the spiral like someone had dunked his head in ice water.

"Huh?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I said, would a guy ever push a girl up against a tree and say something like 'I've been dying to touch you'? Or is that too dramatic?"

His jaw clenched. He could practically hear himself saying that to her—low, breathless, desperate.

"I guess it depends," he said evenly, forcing the words out past the dryness in his mouth. "On the guy."

She perked up, oblivious. "You'd say it, right? You have the whole mysterious dark vibe."

He stared at her.

She was smiling. Bright. Bubbly. Completely unaware of the fact that he'd jacked off thinking about her mouth. Her thighs. Her voice moaning that same line into his ear.

His voice came out lower than he meant. "I think you should stop saying things like that."

"Huh? Why?"

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Because if he opened his mouth again, he might say something like:

"Because I've wanted to touch you for years. Because I know exactly how you'd sound if I did. Because the things I've done while thinking about you would probably make you blush for days."

Instead, he stood abruptly. "I'm getting water."

"Can you get me some too?" she called after him, already flipping to another page in her notebook. "I'm thirsty."

He laughed under his breath, bitter and breathless.

You have no fucking idea.

SCENE – "He's Always Been Like This..." (Her POV)

Hamin was acting weird again.

Not in a huge way—he wasn't stomping around or glaring like an anime villain. No, it was subtler. Quieter. The kind of weird that made her tilt her head and narrow her eyes like something was slightly out of place.

He'd been quiet all afternoon. More than usual. And when she'd stretched on the couch, he hadn't made a snarky comment like he always did. He'd just... looked at her. And then looked away. Fast.

Suspicious.

She'd filed it away, but now that she thought about it... he'd been like that for a while lately. Less teasing. Less playful arguing. More staring. And every now and then, when she said something dumb or dramatic, he'd go all still—like he was holding his breath.

Weird.

Her eyes flicked to the kitchen, where he'd vanished after she asked him if her tree-sex line was too much.

Maybe I embarrassed him?

She shook her head.

Still, her gaze lingered on the doorway. And that's when she really thought about him. Like, looked at him.

He was tall. She always knew that. It wasn't fair. He'd been tall since they were kids, and he'd only gotten taller. Broader. Shoulders built like a fridge, arms that stretched the sleeves of his t-shirts—not that he ever showed them off. He was always in hoodies or long sleeves, acting like he wasn't secretly built like a man.

And he was—a man.

That thought made her frown.

Because it was weird, right? Hamin wasn't just some random attractive guy. He was Hamin. Her childhood friend. The guy who once tripped into a fountain trying to impress her. The guy who helped her dye her hair in eighth grade and ended up with pink fingers for a week.

But now?

Now he went to the gym. He had veins in his forearms. His jawline could cut glass. His hair fell into his eyes like a K-drama lead, and his voice did that stupid low thing when he was annoyed—gravelly and rough and unfair.

She huffed.

"He's kind of hot," she mumbled to herself.

Then blinked.

Wait.

Her eyes widened. "No, no. That's not—I mean. Obviously. Objectively. He's attractive. To other people."

She pressed her notebook to her face.

"I'm not into Hamin," she said into the paper. "I just appreciate his... structure. And symmetry."

The words felt stupid the second they left her mouth.

But still... that didn't explain why her heart had started acting up earlier. When he'd looked at her with that unreadable expression. Or when his hands had lingered a little too long on her waist during their scene test.

Or the way she'd felt flushed when his breath had brushed against her ear.

Her legs shifted. Her face burned.

Oh god.

Was she... was she noticing him?

Like that?

Nope.

No. Absolutely not. That was dangerous. That was forbidden territory. Hamin was her best friend. Her partner in chaos. Her favorite verbal punching bag. She couldn't ruin that just because he'd decided to go and get sexy one day without telling her.

She let out a dramatic sigh and flopped face-down onto the couch.

"I hate men," she mumbled into the cushion.

From the kitchen, his voice floated back.

"What?"

"Nothing!"

She peeked over the arm of the couch and caught sight of him leaning against the counter, drinking from a glass of water. His forearm flexed with the movement. Veins. Again.

She groaned softly and rolled back into the cushions.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

She definitely, definitely wasn't catching feelings.

Or worse—

Noticing the man Hamin had become.

END SCENE.

SCENE – "For Reference Purposes Only"

"I think I need to feel it," she said, tapping her pen against her lips.

Hamin blinked slowly. "...Feel what exactly?"

"Your abs."

He choked on his water.

She tilted her head like she didn't just casually ask to put her hands on his naked torso. "You know, for accuracy! I'm writing this scene where the female lead runs her hands down the guy's stomach and—don't look at me like that—it's for the book!"

"I'm not letting you touch my abs," he said immediately.

"Oh c'mon," she groaned. "You literally let me shove you against a wall last week."

"That was different."

"How?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, "Because I wasn't shirtless."

She grinned. "So you're saying you do have abs."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

She scooted closer on the couch, eyes glinting with mischief. She was having fun. Way too much fun. Meanwhile, Hamin's brain was short-circuiting. She was in one of those moods—playful, relentless, and physically unaware of how dangerous it was to be this close to him while talking about her hands on his body.

She leaned forward, hand hovering dramatically near the hem of his hoodie.

"Just a quick feel," she said innocently. "I won't make it weird."

"You asking to feel me up is already weird," he muttered.

But he didn't move.

Didn't stop her.

And god help him, that was worse.

She reached for the edge of his hoodie, and with no sense of self-preservation, flipped it up just enough to reveal the sliver of skin beneath—warm, golden-brown, smooth and taut over lean muscle.

Her hand hesitated for a beat. "Whoa. You actually—dude. You're ripped."

His jaw flexed.

She placed her palm flat against his stomach.

He stopped breathing.

Her fingers slid lightly along the grooves of his abs—slow, curious, unaware of what she was doing to him.

"I knew you went to the gym but I didn't think you were this built," she mused, thumb brushing just above his waistband. "You're hiding under all those layers, you sneaky little—"

"[Name," he said sharply.

She looked up, surprised.

That was the voice he used when he was trying not to snap.

His ears were red. His whole face was tense, controlled—but barely.

Her hand froze. "Too much?"

His voice came out hoarse. "Yes."

She pulled back instantly, flustered. "Shit, sorry—I didn't mean to make it weird."

He exhaled hard through his nose, ran a hand through his hair like he needed to physically cool down.

"I-it's fine," he said. "Just... maybe don't touch me like that unless you're ready for consequences."

Her brows shot up. "What does that mean?"

He didn't answer.

He stood abruptly, hoodie dropping back over his skin, and grabbed his phone like it might save his life.

"I'm going for a walk," he muttered, already halfway to the door.

END

"Do You Even Lift, Hamin?" (Set before the smut request arc)

It started innocently.

Too innocently.

She was stretched across his bed, laptop open, toes wiggling in the air behind her as she scrolled through Pinterest boards titled things like "abs reference for artists" and "hot poses for male characters."

He was sitting on the floor next to the bed, back leaned against it, hoodie sleeves pushed up, nursing a bottle of water after a long gym session. Sweat still clung to the nape of his neck. His hair was slightly damp, bangs falling into his eyes.

"You've been working out more lately, huh?" she said casually.

He glanced up. "Yeah. Why?"

She squinted at her screen, then glanced back at him. "Just wondering."

That should've been his first warning.

Because ten seconds later, she closed the laptop, rolled over, chin now propped on her folded arms at the edge of the bed—directly over his shoulder.

"Can I touch your abs?"

He froze.

"...What?"

She grinned, teeth flashing. "It's for research."

"You're not even writing a book right now."

"Future research," she said confidently. "And also, I've never touched abs before. Like real ones. Not sculpted marble or Instagram filters. You're my best friend—it's basically your duty."

Hamin blinked at her. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Do you hear yourself."

"I do," she said brightly. "And I sound curious and brave."

His jaw clenched.

"Just one poke," she added, already sitting up. "Okay, maybe a pat. Or a sweep."

"A sweep?"

"C'mon, Hamin," she huffed. "Don't be stingy with the gains."

He stared at her.

And then, like a man walking toward his own doom, he exhaled and said, "Fine."

She lit up like a Christmas tree. "YES. Take your hoodie off."

He should have said no.

But he didn't.

Instead, he grabbed the hem and tugged the hoodie up and over his head in one fluid motion—revealing the plain black tank top underneath, sweat still clinging to his collarbone, fabric stretched tight across his chest.

Her mouth popped open slightly.

"Damn."

"Shut up," he muttered, eyes narrowed.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just... you really do have abs."

He rolled his eyes. "What did you think I was doing at the gym? Knitting?"

She slid down from the bed and knelt in front of him, grinning like a kid in a candy store.

"Okay. Hold still."

She reached out, slow but excited, fingers splayed as her hand hovered just above his stomach.

Hamin held his breath.

Then—

Contact.

Her palm pressed against the flat, firm planes of his stomach, fingers drifting lightly down the line between his abs. She gave him a slow, deliberate pat. Then another. Then—

A sweep.

She dragged her hand from his ribs to just above his waistband, eyes wide with fascination.

"Whoa," she whispered. "It's like... smooth but hard. Like a sexy countertop."

He made a strangled noise in his throat. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I don't know," she giggled. "But it fits."

Her hand lingered for a second longer, thumb tracing the faint dip near his hipbone.

His breathing was uneven now, lashes lowered, jaw locked.

She didn't notice.

Because of course she didn't.

She sat back on her heels with a satisfied sigh. "Welp. Curiosity satisfied. You're ripped. Ten out of ten."

And just like that, she got up and crawled back onto the bed, already flipping open her laptop like nothing had happened.

Hamin stayed where he was.

Still shirtless. Still hard.

Ears blazing red.

She didn't even realize what she'd done.

Didn't notice the way he was staring at the floor like it had personally wronged him.

Didn't know that he would spend the rest of the night picturing her hand on his skin. Slipping lower. Holding him while saying his name with something softer than teasing in her voice.

She didn't know.

But he did.

And now he'd never forget.

SCENE – "You've Been Working Out?" (Abs Moment, Natural Build-Up, Maximum Destruction)

She didn't even mean to stare at first.

They were in her living room—well, technically Hamin's too now, considering how much time he spent here—and she was halfway through outlining a scene when she glanced up from her notebook and saw him pulling off his hoodie.

Just that.

Simple.

Normal.

Except his t-shirt clung to him in a way it didn't used to. The fabric stretched across his chest, sleeves hugging biceps that she was pretty sure hadn't always been that defined. And when he lifted his arms to toss the hoodie on the back of the chair, the hem of his shirt rose with it.

She caught a glimpse.

Just a sliver.

But her brain—traitorous, curious—paused.

Toned skin. Defined lines. A shallow V that disappeared into his sweatpants. Her eyes lingered for half a second too long.

Hamin flopped onto the couch with a grunt, stretching his arms out across the backrest. "You good?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

"You were staring."

"No I wasn't."

"You were."

"I wasn't!" she insisted, heart thumping. "I was just... surprised."

He raised an eyebrow. "Surprised?"

"That you have muscles now."

He snorted. "I've always had muscles."

"You've always had skinny boy with big hands muscles," she corrected, scribbling a line in her notebook to distract herself. "Not... gym guy muscles."

He rolled his eyes. "Rude."

She glanced up again, then hesitated.

She could see it now—how his chest rose and fell beneath the thin cotton, how the outline of his abs just barely showed through the shirt when he leaned forward.

The part of her brain that had been crafting intimate scenes for her book for days was way too tuned in to detail now.

And suddenly, before she could overthink it, she blurted—

"Can I touch?"

He froze.

His hand stopped mid-reach for his phone, and slowly—so slowly—he turned to look at her. "Touch what."

"Your abs," she said, as if it were obvious. "I'm curious. They're right there."

He stared at her.

She shrugged. "It's for educational purposes."

He didn't say anything for a moment.

Then: "You're unbelievable."

But he didn't say no.

And when she reached over from her spot on the other side of the couch, she was careful at first—like she expected him to swat her away. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing against warm, taut skin.

He inhaled sharply through his nose.

Her fingers flexed slightly, pressing gently against the ridges of his abdomen. Solid. Hot. She ran her hand lower, slow, feeling the dip of muscle near his hips. Her thumb followed the faint line of definition.

"Whoa," she breathed. "This is, like... really impressive."

He was not okay.

His back was stiff against the couch, hands gripping his knees, eyes staring hard at the TV that wasn't even on.

And her hand was still there.

Still exploring. Still innocent.

Still killing him.

"You can stop now," he said, voice slightly strained.

She blinked up at him. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

She withdrew her hand and sat back, casually brushing her hair over her shoulder like she hadn't just triggered every single one of his late-night fantasies.

Hamin exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding his breath.

She smiled. "You've come a long way from scrawny high school Hamin."

"Thanks," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll be sure to remember that while I cry in the shower."

She laughed, completely unbothered. "I'm being nice!"

"You're being dangerous," he muttered under his breath.

She didn't catch it.

But he meant it.

Because her fingers were still ghosting across his skin, even now—in his mind.

And when he went home later that night, he knew exactly which moment would play on a loop when he closed his eyes.

END SCENE.

SCENE – "You're Still a Boy" (Present Day – Callback)

"Okay, but you have to admit," she said, pointing at the screen. "This scene is the exact moment the guy realizes he's into her."

Hamin didn't respond.

He was trying to focus on the movie. Not on how close she was. Not on how her thigh was once again flush against his. Not on how she smelled like citrus and sugar and everything he'd ever wanted to taste.

She looked over at him.

He stared straight ahead.

"You're so bad at pretending you're not a romantic," she teased.

"Am not."

"Oh please. You literally got hard during a rom-com once."

His heart stopped.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "Are you seriously bringing that up right now?"

She was grinning, evil incarnate. "Why wouldn't I? It's a core memory."

"I was seventeen."

"You were so red."

"I'm gonna walk into traffic."

She laughed, nudging him with her elbow. "You were cute. I didn't even think of you as a guy back then."

He flinched.

Just slightly.

But she noticed.

The words hung there. Stupidly loud. I didn't even think of you as a guy back then.

She didn't mean it cruelly. He knew that. But it hit anyway—like it always did. She'd always been so casual. So comfortable. So unaware of how badly he burned for her.

Still laughing softly to herself, she leaned into him again, stealing warmth like she always did.

"Hey," she said suddenly, poking his side. "You're quiet. You're not mad, are you?"

"No," he said. But it came out tight. Dry.

She tilted her head. "...Are you embarrassed again?"

"No."

Then, after a beat—

"You're not still that guy, you know," she said softly.

He looked at her.

"You're... different now." Her voice faltered a little. "You've changed."

His throat tightened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes scanning his face now. Slower. Uncertain. "You're still Hamin, but... sometimes you look at me like…"

She trailed off.

His pulse roared in his ears.

She blinked. "Never mind."

"No," he said quickly. "Finish that sentence."

But she didn't.

And suddenly the air between them felt hot again. Tight. Like that memory wasn't funny anymore.

Like it had teeth.

Like it was still happening.

SCENE – "Hopeless" (Downbad Hamin POV)

She was curled up on his bed, hoodie too big, glasses sliding down her nose, typing something furiously into her laptop.

Probably some spicy scene she wouldn't let him read yet.

Hamin sat at his desk, pretending to be focused on whatever video was playing—but he hadn't absorbed a single thing in ten minutes.

His gaze drifted back to her.

She had one knee tucked under her, the other bouncing slightly as she typed. The soft stretch of her thigh peeked out from under the hem of her shorts. She shifted again, absentmindedly tugging the hoodie down—and flashing more of her bare leg in the process.

He exhaled through his nose and looked away.

Too late.

The image was already burned into his skull. Like all the others he didn't ask for. Didn't mean to collect.

Like the way she laughed when she was half-asleep. Or the way her breath hitched just a little when she yawned. Or the faint scent of her shampoo on his pillow after she crashed here.

She didn't mean to kill him.

But she did. Every day.

He snuck another glance.

She was chewing on her pen now. Brows furrowed. Lips parted.

He wondered if she knew she did that when she wrote smut. Probably not.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his thigh, just to ground himself. He couldn't afford to be hard right now. Not while she was right there, completely unaware of the storm she'd dropped him into.

"Hey," she said suddenly, looking up. "Can I borrow your charger?"

"Y-Yeah," he said, voice rough. He reached down, grabbed it from the floor, and stood to hand it to her.

When he leaned over to plug it into her laptop, her hand brushed his forearm.

He froze.

Her fingers were warm.

Soft.

She didn't even notice.

"Thanks, babe," she mumbled, already back to typing.

His heart stuttered. His entire chest felt too tight. His skin buzzed where she'd touched him.

Babe.

He sat back down, legs crossed hard, fists clenched in his lap.

He wanted to kiss her.

No—he wanted to touch her. Feel her breath on his skin. Press his mouth to that mole under her collarbone. Slide his fingers beneath the hem of her hoodie, just to feel if she was warm everywhere else.

He shut his eyes.

Swallowed hard.

She'd never know what she did to him.

And he'd never tell her.

Because being near her like this—hurting like this—was still better than being without her.

SCENE – "Just to Practice" (First Kiss Flashback)

High school. Senior year. One month before graduation.

They were lying side-by-side on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the room dim and warm with late-night stillness.

Her window was cracked open. Crickets outside. A fan turning lazily overhead.

Hamin's arm brushed hers. She didn't move.

"Do you think it's weird," she said suddenly, "that I've never kissed anyone?"

He blinked. "...No?"

She huffed. "C'mon. Be honest."

He glanced over. She was staring up at the ceiling, glasses off, lips pursed thoughtfully. The curve of her jaw caught the moonlight filtering through the blinds.

"I mean," she went on, "we're graduating in a month. And I've never kissed a guy. What if I completely suck at it?"

Hamin's throat went dry. "I'm sure you won't."

"You don't know that."

"You'll figure it out."

"When? During my first date? Awkward."

He was silent.

Then—

"What about you?" she asked, turning her head. "You've kissed someone, right?"

He hesitated. "...No."

Her eyes widened. "Wait, seriously?"

"Why is that so shocking?"

"I just figured—y'know, you've got the whole mysterious quiet guy thing. Girls like that."

He rolled his eyes. "Maybe. But I like you."

She froze.

He froze.

"I mean—" he blurted, sitting up too fast, "—not like that. I meant you, like... you, generally. You're cool. I like hanging out with you. Not that I don't also—"

"Relax," she laughed, pushing his shoulder. "You're cute when you panic."

He groaned into his hands.

Then, casually—too casually—she said:
"We should just kiss."

His heart stopped.

"...What?"

"Y'know. Just to try it."

He stared at her. "You're not serious."

"Why not?" she shrugged. "We're both inexperienced. It's not like we'd tell anyone. It's just practice."

Hamin was very still.

She sat up now, legs crossed, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. "Unless you don't want to?"

He could barely speak.

"I—" he swallowed. "I want to. I just... are you sure?"

She smiled. "Yeah. I trust you."

That did him in.

She leaned forward.

He followed.

Their lips met—soft, hesitant, lingering. Her hand found his knee. His fingers twitched on the blanket. Their noses bumped awkwardly, and she giggled against his mouth, but didn't pull away.

When she did, it was slow.

Measured.

She leaned back with a soft smile and said, "Okay. That wasn't bad."

He couldn't speak.

She grinned, brushing her fingers over her lips. "Now I won't embarrass myself when I get a boyfriend."

He still couldn't speak.

"Night, Hamin," she said, flopping back down and curling under the blanket like nothing had happened.

He stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night.

And replayed the kiss a thousand times.

SCENE – "It Was Just Practice" (Hamin's Thoughts)

She probably doesn't even remember it the way he does.

To her, it was a sleepover. A laugh. A curiosity to check off her list before she started dating boys who actually had the guts to kiss her for real.

To him, it was everything.

That kiss.

The one she called practice.

He still remembered the way her breath hitched—soft and shaky—just before her lips met his. The way her fingers curled into the blanket between them. The way her mouth tasted faintly like strawberry lip balm and something uniquely hers.

She'd smiled afterward. Said "not bad."

And he'd nodded like his heart wasn't trying to claw its way out of his chest.

It had been three years.

Three years since that night.

Since the kiss he'd played back in his mind over and over again, dissecting every second, every blink, every breath—searching for meaning in a moment she'd tossed into the vault of "just a funny thing we did once."

He wasn't mad about it.

How could he be?

She'd always been like that—bright, curious, impulsive. She said what she felt in the moment, never thinking about how her words might echo in someone else's head for years.

He never told her it was his first kiss.

He didn't want her to regret it.

He didn't want her to pity him.

Because while she'd kissed him just to "be ready," he'd kissed her like he already belonged to her.

And he hadn't stopped since.

Not really.

Not in the way he looked at her. Not in the way he followed her around campus like a tether. Not in the way he let her crawl into his bed in the middle of the night and never touched her, even though he ached to.

Not in the way he imagined her lips on his again—different now. Slower. Real.

She had no idea what she'd done to him that night.

And he had no idea if he'd ever be brave enough to tell her.

SCENE – "Take It Seriously, Hamin" (The Breaking Point)

"It's not working."

Hamin looked up from where he was slumped on her floor, back against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "What isn't?"

"This scene," she groaned, tossing her notebook onto the mattress beside him. "It feels... stiff. Boring. Too mechanical."

She dropped onto her knees in front of him, eyes shining with that familiar mix of frustration and determination. Dangerous.

"I need to feel the chemistry," she said. "The tension."

"That sounds like a you problem," he muttered.

She ignored him. "You know that one scene? Where the male lead pins the girl to the wall, but like... not aggressively? Just—firmly. And they're breathing each other's air and pretending they don't want to kiss?"

He swallowed. "Yeah."

"Cool. We're doing that."

He blinked. "We're what?"

She was already pulling him up by the arm. "Get off the floor."

"This is a bad idea," he said, even as she dragged him toward the wall near her desk.

She turned to face him, standing barely inches away, eyes scanning his face. "I need you to take it seriously, okay?"

"I am taking it seriously."

"You look like you're about to burst into flames."

"That's because I'm in hell."

She laughed. He didn't.

"Okay," she said, breathing out. "So you're supposed to corner me."

"I'm not cornering you."

"It's not you, it's the character. God, relax."

He stepped closer. "Like this?"

"Closer."

He obeyed.

"Now put your hand here," she said, guiding his fingers to her waist. The thin fabric of her shirt did nothing to dull the heat of her skin. His hand twitched.

She looked up at him. Her voice softened. "Now just... say the line."

He blinked. "What line?"

"The one where he tells her he's been trying not to touch her all night."

His heart skipped a beat.

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me get Eunho—"

"I've been trying not to touch you all night," he said, low and fast, before she could finish.

Her breath hitched.

There it was.

The shift.

Her smile faltered, just slightly. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back up—quick, unsure, like she hadn't meant to look. Like she felt it now.

He swallowed. His hand was still on her waist. Her fingers were still resting lightly on his chest.

The silence stretched.

She licked her lips.

"That's... good," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "You're good at this."

"I'm not acting."

Her eyes shot up.

He didn't move.

Neither did she.

The tension between them was thick enough to drown in. His breath was shaky now, shallow. Hers wasn't much better.

She opened her mouth.

And then his hand slid from her waist to her back—pulling her in, slow but sure, until their bodies were flush, her hands trapped between them, pressed against his chest.

"You said to take it seriously," he murmured.

"I—"

"Don't stop me now."

He leaned in.

SCENE – "Just Her" (Hamin's Solo Scene, Fully Descriptive)

The room was quiet except for the low hum of his fan—and the sound of his own breath, shallow and ragged.

Hamin sat back against his headboard, sheets kicked down around his hips, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his chest. His hoodie was bunched up under his arms, forgotten. His hand moved slow, steady around his cock—already flushed and leaking at the tip, aching.

His other hand gripped the edge of the blanket like a lifeline.

His eyes were shut.

Because when they were shut, he could see her.

On her knees.

Between his legs.

Looking up at him with those wide, curious eyes—so fucking innocent—as her fingers toyed with the waistband of his sweatpants. Teasing. Testing. Her voice low and soft as she asked, "Can I see you, Hamin?"

God.

He groaned under his breath, hips twitching into his palm.

He imagined her tugging his pants down slow, licking her lips when he sprang free, heavy and hard for her. Imagined her hands—so small around him—stroking gently at first, then tighter, bolder, as her mouth parted and she leaned in.

He bit his lip.

His pace quickened.

She'd kiss the tip, whisper something flirty just to watch him shudder, then take him in—slowly. Sinking down inch by inch, her lips stretched around him, gagging softly, her eyes watering as she looked up at him like she wanted to ruin him.

And she would.

She always did.

His thighs tensed. His abs flexed with every motion.

His mind jumped.

Now she was on top of him—straddling him, grinding down slow, her hands braced on his chest as she took him in all the way, crying out from how deep he reached.

"Fuck," he whispered, head falling back.

He imagined her bouncing—moaning his name, back arching, tits bouncing with every thrust as he gripped her hips and pulled her down harder, chasing every sound she made like a man starved.

Her voice in his head was breathy, messy, his—

"Hamin—God, you feel so good—"

His hand moved faster, slick with precome, pumping over the thick length of him with reckless rhythm. His breath hitched.

He was so close.

He imagined her bent over now, face pressed to the mattress, gasping as he fucked into her from behind, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip like he might break.

She'd look back at him—lips parted, eyes glazed—and say it.

"I'm yours, Hamin."

That was it.

His whole body seized, thighs locking, stomach tightening as pleasure ripped through him—hot and fast and overwhelming. His cock pulsed in his hand as he came, hard, groaning her name under his breath like a prayer. Like a sin.

"[Name]... f-fuck—"

It spilled over his fingers, over his stomach, messy and hot. His body trembled as he came down, breath shaky, hand loosening its grip.

He blinked up at the ceiling, sweat cooling on his skin.

Silence settled again.

But the ache didn't fade.

Because no matter how hard he came, how vivid the fantasy—she still wasn't his.

And God, he needed her.

SCENE – "Not Like Before" (Part I: The Limit)
Hamin's Room. Midnight.

He should've just gone to sleep.

The sheets were cool, the lights off, and the fan hummed in that soft way that usually lulled him out of his thoughts. But not tonight.

Not this time.

His chest felt tight.

Hot.

Every part of him was tense, restless—like his skin didn't quite fit anymore. Like something inside him was pressing hard against the edges of him, begging to be let out.

He'd tried distracting himself. Scrolled through his phone. Watched a dumb video. Got halfway through responding to a message before he realized he'd just typed her name instead of a word.

Her.

God.

Everything came back to her.

The way she curled up on his bed with no regard for personal space. The way her laugh made his stomach flip. The way she'd thrown her legs across his lap last night while talking about some stupid scene in her book like it didn't mean anything.

But the worst part?

The way she touched him.

Carelessly.

Softly.

Like he was safe.

Like she had no fucking clue how close he was to losing it every time she leaned over him, grabbed his wrist, touched the side of his face like it was normal.

It used to be easier.

He used to be able to get off thinking about her and then move on—breathless and a little guilty, but fine. Okay.

But not anymore.

Not tonight.

Tonight, it wasn't about getting it out of his system.

Tonight, he wanted to ruin himself.

Because it wasn't enough to just remember her smile or her voice.

He wanted her on top of him, her thighs squeezing around his hips, her mouth on his throat, saying his name like it belonged to her.

He was done pretending.

He let out a sharp breath, rolled onto his back, and shoved his sweats down past his hips. His cock was already hard—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around the base and closed his eyes.

And then?

He pictured her.

SCENE – "Not Like Before" (Part II: Her on Her Knees)

His hand wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, thumb brushing over the slick head. He hissed through his teeth, already too sensitive—already aching.

He pictured her on the floor in front of him.

Kneeling.

Looking up at him through her lashes like she always did when she asked for help with something—except this time, there was a wicked little smile tugging at her lips.

She leaned in close.

Toyed with the waistband of his sweatpants.

Her fingers gentle. Teasing.

Like she knew what she was doing to him.

Like she liked it.

His grip tightened. He pumped slowly—long, heavy strokes, base to tip—as he imagined the way her eyes would widen when she pulled his pants down and saw just how hard he was for her. How she'd pause, bottom lip caught between her teeth, then look up and say—

"You're big, Hamin."

He groaned. Low. Desperate.

His hips lifted off the mattress just a little.

She'd wrap her fingers around him, small and delicate, her thumb pressing under the head where he was most sensitive. She'd stroke him like she was curious. Like she wanted to learn him.

Her lips would part.

She'd lean in and lick—

Just once. Just the tip.

And he'd twitch.

Maybe moan.

She'd giggle. Whisper something like "So responsive..." before taking him into her mouth.

He wouldn't survive it.

Not the warmth of her tongue.

Not the soft, wet heat of her mouth slowly sinking down on him, inch by inch, like she wanted to worship him.

He imagined his hand sliding into her hair—gently at first, then gripping tighter when she moaned around him. When her eyes fluttered. When she looked up at him and let him watch her take it, messy and needy and all his.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice barely a sound.

His thighs tensed. His cock throbbed in his grip.

She'd let him fuck her mouth, slow and shallow, drool slipping from the corners of her lips as she took it, obedient and flushed and falling apart from the sounds he made.

And then she'd pull off—strings of spit catching on her lips—wipe her mouth and climb into his lap with shaking legs.

"Want you inside me," she'd whisper.

"I want to ride you."

He lost his rhythm.

His chest was rising fast now, sweat beading along his collarbone.

He spread his legs wider, arm tense as he stroked faster, slick sounds filling the room as the image of her—naked, glowing, panting—straddling his lap consumed him.

SCENE – "Not Like Before" (Part III: The Ride)

His hand was moving faster now—wet and slick, the grip just tight enough to make his stomach tense with every upward stroke.

But in his mind, it wasn't his hand at all.

It was her.

Straddling him.

Nails digging into his chest as she sank down onto him, mouth falling open in a breathless moan. Her legs shaking from how deep he reached. Her head tilted back, throat exposed, as she took him inch by inch.

He gasped—his toes curling against the sheets.

In his fantasy, she whimpered when he bottomed out.

She was hot. Tight. So wet.

She rocked her hips slowly at first, testing the stretch, eyes fluttering every time his cock dragged along the most sensitive spot inside her. Her hands gripped his shoulders, grounding herself as she moved—

Up. Down. Up. Down.

And Hamin couldn't stop watching her.

Her flushed skin. Her bouncing tits. The way her mouth dropped open every time she slid down and moaned his name like she needed him.

"Hamin... f-fuck—you're so deep—"

He bit his lip hard, stifling a real sound from escaping his throat.

God, he could feel it.

The drag. The pressure. The way her cunt clenched around him when he reached up and grabbed her hips, slamming her down harder, groaning as her walls fluttered around him.

His pace matched his fantasy.

Faster. Harder.

She started to lose her rhythm—hips jerking, cries spilling from her lips, her body trembling as she leaned forward and buried her face in his neck, whispering—

"I'm close, I'm gonna—"

He was too.

His abs flexed. His head tipped back.

"Hamin—"

She said his name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like it belonged to her.

He snapped.

His whole body tensed, muscles locking as pleasure tore through him like fire. His cock jerked in his hand—hot ropes of cum spilling across his stomach as he came, hard, breath punched out of his lungs in a desperate groan.

"F-Fuck—[Name]—"

Her name broke out of him as he shuddered, hips twitching through the aftershocks, his hand slowing, squeezing out the last of it until he collapsed back against the pillow, dazed and trembling.

Silence.

His chest heaved.

His hand was still sticky. His skin was flushed, shining with sweat. His thighs were sore. His lips were parted.

He blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, wrecked.

It hadn't helped.

It never helped.

Because no matter how good it felt, how vivid the fantasy—he still woke up alone.

And she still didn't know.

SCENE 1 – "The Proposal"

It started the way all her bad ideas did—too casually.

They were lounging in her living room, soft lighting, half-empty mugs of tea on the table, her laptop open on the couch between them. Hamin was slouched back against the cushions, legs spread like he owned the place—which, at this point, he kind of did.

She was sitting sideways beside him, in her favorite worn pajama shorts and an oversized tee that slipped off one shoulder. Bare legs tucked up, hair loose, glasses slightly crooked. The picture of comfort.

He was trying not to look at her thighs.

She was trying to fix a sex scene.

"Well," she said, closing the laptop with a sigh, "that sucked."

"Dialogue?"

"No. Sex." She pouted. "It reads like two cardboard cutouts humping."

He snorted. "So, porn."

"Exactly!" she groaned. "I want it to feel… intense. Like, breathless. Hot. Real." She paused, then tilted her head at him with a grin that never meant anything good. "Maybe I need more hands-on research."

"Absolutely not."

She laughed. "I didn't even say anything yet!"

"You were going to. I saw it on your face."

She grinned wider. "Okay, but hear me out…"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say!"

"I don't need to. You've got that 'I'm about to ruin your life for science' look."

She rolled her eyes, leaned in a little too close. "What if…" she said slowly, drawing out each word, "…you let me go down on you?"

Hamin blinked.

Silence.

Actual, soul-crushing silence.

"What," he said flatly.

"Y'know. For research."

"Research."

She nodded. "I've never written a blowjob scene before. Not a good one, anyway. And I figured, hey—we're best friends. You trust me. I'm curious. You have a dick."

Hamin choked on absolutely nothing.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," he muttered, turning red immediately.

"Oh my god, are you blushing?" she laughed, poking his arm.

"I'm dying, actually."

"It's not a big deal! Come on, it's for the greater good."

He stared at her, jaw clenched, chest tight. "You are not blowing me for the sake of your writing."

She raised a brow. "Why not? You'd be doing the world a favor."

"Because it's insane."

"I mean, I could ask Eunho instead—"

"Absolutely not."

She blinked. "So you're saying you'll do it?"

"I'm saying don't involve Eunho in this."

She smirked, like she'd already won. "So… that's a maybe?"

Hamin rubbed his face. "You're unbelievable."

"You've said that before."

"And yet I keep showing up."

She slid off the couch before he could say anything else, settling onto the floor between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her knees pressed into the carpet. Her fingers tapped his thigh lightly.

"I'm serious, Hamin," she said, eyes bright, voice sweet. "Let me do this. It's just for fun. For writing."

He stared down at her.

At her wide eyes, her bare thighs, her soft smile.

His heart was pounding.

"…Are you really gonna do this?" he asked, voice low. Tense.

"Only if you say yes."

She touched his leg again.

He let out a slow breath. His hands clenched the cushions on either side of him.

"Okay," he said. "But you'd better know what you're doing."

SCENE 1 – "The Proposal" (Enhanced with FULL Body Language & Reactions)

It started how most dangerous things did—with her, in tiny shorts, saying something insane.

The living room was quiet, bathed in the warm amber glow of a single floor lamp. Her laptop sat open between them, half a paragraph of abandoned smut blinking back from the screen. Hamin was slouched deep into the couch, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, head tilted back, trying to focus on anything other than the bare length of her thigh pressed against the cushion beside him.

She was on her stomach now, legs kicked up behind her, swinging idly in the air as she groaned.

"Ugh, this scene sucks."

"Sex still not sexing?"

"Mmhm. It's stiff."

"That's what she said."

She snorted. "Shut up."

He smirked, but didn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. Not when she was dressed like that. Not when her voice was doing that low, pouty thing. He could already feel the slow, terrible bloom of heat pooling in his gut—and she hadn't even started yet.

"I just…" she said, rolling onto her back now, one leg flopping against his thigh without a single shred of awareness. "I don't wanna write something lame. I want it to feel real. You know? Like, good sex. Desperate, hot, can't-think-straight sex."

Hamin swallowed. Hard. His thigh tensed under her.

She didn't notice.

She never noticed.

"Maybe I need more research," she muttered, almost to herself.

He glanced at her. "You're not googling more positions, are you?"

"No," she said slowly, turning her head to grin up at him. That grin always meant danger. "I was thinking hands-on."

His brow furrowed, mouth opening slightly. "What does that mean?"

She sat up suddenly, folding her legs beneath her, facing him with her elbows on her knees and her oversized tee slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes sparkled.

"You should let me blow you."

Dead silence.

Hamin stared at her.

She blinked.

He blinked back.

"What," he said, voice flat but already breaking.

"You know," she said, as if she'd just asked him to pass the remote. "For writing accuracy."

"…Are you serious?"

She tilted her head. "Totally. I've never written a blowjob scene before and like—if I'm gonna do it, I should do it right."

Hamin's throat bobbed. His heart pounded once, hard enough to shake his ribs.

She smiled wider, oblivious. "And I mean, we're best friends. What's the big deal?"

He was frozen.

Completely still.

Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, hands slowly curling into the fabric of his sweatpants like he needed something to ground himself.

"You—" he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "You want to… go down on me?"

"Just once. For research."

"You've lost your mind."

She laughed, bright and teasing. "C'mon, Hamin. It's science."

He was spiraling. His knees shifted closer together. His arms crossed tight over his chest like he could hold himself in.

Then she added, with a casual little shrug:
"Or I could always ask Eunho."

His head snapped toward her so fast she startled.

"No." His voice dropped, sharp and low, panic underneath.

She blinked, confused. "What?"

"You're not—no. Absolutely not."

She raised an eyebrow, grinning again. "So you do want me to?"

"I—" He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. His bangs stuck to his forehead, skin flushed with heat. "That's not what I said."

"But you didn't say no."

"Because you're insane and I can't even process what you just—"

"Oh my god," she gasped, sitting up straighter on her knees. "You're blushing."

"I'm not—!"

"Your ears are red."

"I hate you."

She crawled forward slowly, like a cat with a kill in sight, settling between his legs on the carpet like it was the most natural place in the world. Her fingers brushed against his shin. Light. Innocent.

Too much.

He stared down at her, jaw clenched, pulse thundering.

She looked up at him with that smile. That sweet, maddening smile.

"Come on," she whispered. "Do it for the story."

His breath caught. She leaned forward just a little, her hand settling lightly on his knee.

"Are you really gonna do this?" he asked, voice wrecked. Eyes dark. Knees tense under her hands.

She grinned.

"You tell me."

SCENE 2 – "The Touch"

She sat between his knees like she belonged there.

The carpet was soft beneath her, warm from where her legs folded beneath her body. Her palms rested lightly on his thighs, thumbs brushing over the fabric of his sweatpants, casual, like she was adjusting for comfort—not preparing to blow her best friend.

Hamin couldn't breathe.

His hands were fists on either side of him, digging into the couch cushions. His back pressed hard against the frame, shoulders stiff, legs spread but tense like he was bracing for impact.

Because he was.

She looked up at him with those soft, curious eyes, as if this was some normal thing—like helping a friend with homework or sharing a drink. Her lips curled into a small, crooked smile.

"Don't look at me like that," he muttered, voice hoarse.

"Like what?"

"Like this is normal."

Her smile widened. She leaned forward just slightly, fingers dancing higher on his thighs. "It is. It's just research, remember?"

"You're on your knees in front of me."

"Observing."

"[Name]—"

"Shhh," she said, tapping his thigh. "You agreed. Be good."

That nearly broke him.

She reached up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his hoodie, the elastic waistband of his sweats. Her hands were warm—soft, gentle as she slipped them under the hem.

His stomach tightened instantly.

The brush of her knuckles against his lower abdomen made his breath catch in his throat. He forced his eyes shut, head falling back against the couch.

Don't moan. Don't flinch. Don't—

Her fingers wrapped around the shape of him over his briefs.

He twitched in her hand.

She went still.

Then: "...Oh."

He cracked his eyes open, looked down—and saw her blinking at his lap, her bottom lip caught lightly between her teeth.

And just like that, the air between them shifted.

Thicker. Hotter.

"I didn't think you'd be… hard already," she said, voice breathy.

Hamin let out a low, ragged sound. "You're on your knees touching my dick. What did you expect?"

She didn't answer.

Her hands moved again—slipping under the waistband of both his sweats and boxers, tugging them down slowly, deliberately, until he sprang free.

She gasped.

Actually, physically gasped.

He was thick. Long. Already flushed dark red and slick at the tip, curved slightly toward his stomach. Veined. Heavy.

Beautiful.

Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.

She didn't say anything at first.

Didn't have to.

She was staring like she'd never seen anything like him before—and maybe she hadn't. Not like this. Not this big. Not this real.

"Jesus, Hamin…"

He groaned, dropping one hand over his eyes.

She didn't stop looking.

Her hand wrapped around him slowly, fingers curling over the base—except they didn't meet. Not fully.

He was too thick.

Too much.

And her brain short-circuited.

In her mind: How would that even fit? Could I take all of him? Could I—

She shook the thought off, cheeks burning.

Focus. It's for research. You're not fantasizing. You're documenting.

Still, her hand moved again. Testing.

He throbbed in her grip.

His thighs tensed under her. A deep groan rolled from his chest, low and raw, as his hips gave a slight involuntary jerk into her fist.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word punched out of him like he hadn't meant to say it.

She bit back a smile.

She liked this.

She liked that she could make him come undone like this—shaky and red-faced and panting with nothing but a slow stroke.

Her fingers explored the length of him, thumb teasing across the slick head. He hissed, hips twitching.

His voice cracked again, softer this time. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

She didn't answer.

Not out loud.

Her hand tightened just a little.

And she stroked again.

Slow.

Measured.

Intent.

SCENE 3 – "Losing It" (The Full Ride)

Her strokes were slow at first.

Deliberate.

Like she was still figuring it out, watching the way his cock pulsed in her hand, her thumb brushing over the tip to spread the slick already beading there.

Hamin was trying to breathe.

Trying—and failing.

He sat there, barely upright, slouched low on the couch like his spine had given out. One arm flung over the backrest, the other clenched at his side in a white-knuckle grip. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat starting to bead at his temples, his chest rising in sharp, stuttered breaths.

"Shit," he hissed, voice raw.

She looked up.

His head was tilted back, mouth parted, throat flexing every time she twisted her wrist at the top of each stroke.

"Too much?" she asked softly.

He shook his head, breathless. "No—no, just… don't stop."

She didn't.

She adjusted her grip, both hands now—one at the base, one working his length, slow and tight and perfect. She could feel every twitch, every pulse, the way his thighs trembled under her knees.

He looked wrecked.

And she… was blushing.

Heart pounding.

Because this didn't feel like an experiment anymore.

It felt intimate.

The way he groaned when she stroked up faster. The way his abs tightened. The way he whispered her name under his breath like it was a sin.

She didn't even realize she'd leaned closer until her mouth was just inches from the flushed, glistening head of his cock—until she felt his body jerk up slightly at the proximity.

He looked down at her, eyes half-lidded and dark. Pupils blown wide. Cheeks flushed deep pink.

"[Name]…" he said, voice breaking.

She blinked up at him, lips parted. "Yeah?"

"You're gonna kill me."

She smiled—small, shy, proud.

Then she picked up the pace.

Wet, slick strokes.

Faster.

She felt his cock twitch harder in her grip. Heard the way he gasped—sharp, sudden, like he'd just lost control of his lungs.

His hand moved without thinking—fingers tangling in her hair, not pushing, just holding, grounding, like he needed something to keep from unraveling.

"F-Fuck, I'm—"

His hips jerked once, hard. His breath hitched.

Then he moaned.

Loud.

Desperate.

"[Name]—fuck, I'm coming—"

His head dropped back, mouth falling open as his entire body tensed. Hot spurts of cum spilled over her fist, streaking his abs, dripping down her hand, warm and messy and so much.

She kept stroking through it, gentler now, letting him ride it out as he gasped for air, thighs trembling beneath her.

When it was over, he collapsed fully against the couch, chest heaving, eyes shut tight.

His hand slipped from her hair, falling limp at his side.

The silence after was thick. Heavy. Full of something neither of them could name.

She blinked at her slick hand.

Swallowed.

"...That was," she started, voice small, "very informative."

Hamin huffed a broken laugh.

Then covered his face with both hands and groaned like a man on the verge of death.

PART 1 – "I'm So Fucked" (Hamin's POV, Bathroom)

The door clicked shut behind him, and Hamin leaned hard against it, eyes wide, chest still heaving.

His legs were shaking.

His palms were sticky with sweat. His mouth dry. His pulse still pounding like he'd just run a mile.

He moved on autopilot—sweatpants yanked back up, hoodie half-zipped, bare feet dragging against the tile as he stumbled toward the sink.

Cool porcelain. Cold water. A grip on the counter like his life depended on it.

He splashed his face.

Once. Twice. It didn't help.

He could still feel her hand.

Wrapped around him.

Gentle. Curious. A little shaky at first. Then confident.

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and dropped his forehead to his arm, bracing himself against the edge of the sink.

What the fuck just happened.

She'd touched him. Stroking. Testing. Watching the way his body responded to her with this stunned little awe in her voice like she wasn't aware of what she was doing to him.

And he'd just… let her.

No—he'd begged her not to stop.

He'd moaned her name.

"I'm so fucked," he whispered against his skin, voice low and hoarse.

His thighs were still tense. His fingers twitched. His cock ached, even soft now—sensitive and raw.

He rinsed his hands. Watched the water swirl pink-red from his flushed skin.

And still, still, he could see her on her knees.

Looking up at him.

Smiling.

"God," he muttered, shaking his head. "She has no idea."

He stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Red cheeks. Mussed hair. Glassy eyes.

She'd think this was normal.
She'd probably laugh about it. Shrug it off. Joke about how "hey, now the blowjob scene will be so realistic."

And he?

He was going to go home and dream about her touching him again—every night for the rest of his miserable life.

PART 2 – "So That Happened" (MC's POV, Washing Up)

She stood at the kitchen sink, staring at the warm water as it poured over her fingers, the faint scent of soap drifting up with every slow movement of her hands.

She was still washing them.

Still.

Long after they were clean.

Her fingers kept slipping through each other, slow and methodical, like she was hypnotized by the sensation. The water felt too hot. Her palms were pink. But she didn't stop.

Because if she stopped, she'd have to feel it.

The way he moaned her name.
The way his thighs tensed under her.
The way his cock twitched—pulsed—in her hand as he came.

"Oh my god," she whispered to no one, cheeks heating up all over again.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to mentally delete the way his voice cracked when he said her name. The way his stomach flexed. The way his hand gripped the couch cushion like he was losing his goddamn mind.

He was beautiful.

That thought? Unhelpful. Inappropriate. Definitely not "for research."

She let out a breathy laugh—light, nervous. The kind of laugh that bubbled up when you were two seconds away from spiraling.

"It's fine," she muttered. "It's fine. Totally normal. Just helping a friend."

Except it didn't feel normal.

Not the way her chest was still tight. Not the way her thighs had pressed together the moment he groaned. Not the way her hand still tingled from how hot and heavy he felt in her grip.

She turned the water off.

Dried her hands.

Paused.

Her fingers still smelled faintly like him.

She blinked. Her knees felt weirdly unsteady. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

Do not think about what it would feel like inside you. Don't do it.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Shook it off.

Then smiled—bright, fake, deflecting. Time to be normal again.

She walked back toward the living room like she hadn't just mentally undressed him twice.

PART 3 – "Back in the Room" (Mutual Delusion, Heavy Breathing)

When she walked back into the living room, the tension hit her like a wave.

Hamin was already seated on the couch again, arms folded tightly across his chest, one leg bouncing restlessly. His hoodie was zipped all the way up now, hood half-up, bangs damp and clinging to his forehead. His ears were still red.

He looked like he'd just survived a war.

She cleared her throat and sat back down beside him—not too close, but not far either. Her leg brushed his.

His whole body tensed.

"...So," she said, far too brightly. "That was... productive."

He stared at the coffee table like it had offended him personally. "Mm."

She crossed her arms, rocking slightly on her hip. "You're really quiet. Was it that bad?"

Hamin let out a tiny exhale. "You're not seriously asking me that."

She smiled. She couldn't help it.

"I mean, you came so fast. I expected a little more stamina from my research subject."

His head dropped forward with a low groan. "Please shut up."

"Just saying," she grinned, nudging him with her elbow. "You're lucky I didn't bring a notepad."

"I hate you."

She turned to him, laughing softly—but when he glanced her way, the look on his face made her breath catch.

His eyes were still glassy, still dark. His lips slightly parted, still red from where he'd bit down trying not to moan. His jaw tense. His gaze lingering just a second too long on her mouth.

Her smile faltered.

Just a little.

She looked away, heart skipping. "Well," she said quickly, "it was very helpful. Very inspiring. Five stars, would recommend."

Hamin didn't respond.

His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve.

She risked another glance. His gaze was on her again.

Hot. Heavy.

She blinked.

Suddenly too warm.

"...Anyway!" she chirped, springing up to her feet. "I should write that scene down before I forget any details."

"You're gonna write about that?"

She turned toward him, arms behind her back, rocking on her heels. "What else would I do with that material?"

He stared at her. "You're going to write about my dick."

She shrugged. "It's for the story."

"You're insane."

She smiled wide and walked toward her desk.

Behind her, she didn't hear him move. But she felt it. That stillness. That charge.

He was still watching her.

And later, when she was alone, lying in bed, hand pressed to her own thigh and chest rising fast?

She'd remember every sound. Every twitch. Every helpless, beautiful moan.

And she'd think,
Just research, right?

Hamin POV – "She Really Doesn't See Me"

She was humming again.

Sitting at her desk in the corner of the room, tapping away at her laptop like she hadn't just been on her knees for him thirty minutes ago.

Like she hadn't touched him with soft, curious fingers and made him come so hard he forgot how to speak.

Hamin sat still on the couch, staring blankly at the floor, heart still thudding dully in his chest.

She was fine.

He was not.

She cracked a joke earlier. Something about his stamina. About writing the scene. About his dick.

And she'd said it with a straight face. Smiling. Playful.

Like it hadn't meant anything.

Like it hadn't wrecked him.

He didn't understand her.

He'd known her since they were kids. Watched her scrape her knees and jump into rivers and shout her every thought like it was gospel. He knew her moods, her habits, her stupid coffee order and the way her voice got soft when she read quietly to herself.

But this?

This version of her?

He couldn't read her at all.

She touched him like it was nothing. Laughed like it was normal. Smiled like they were still just best friends, like her hand hadn't been wrapped around his cock twenty minutes ago.

How?

How could she be so fine?

Did she really not feel anything?

Did she still not see him as a man?

His chest ached.

He shifted, trying to ignore the phantom sensation of her hand on his skin. The memory of her kneeling between his legs, eyes wide and so fucking pretty, fingers shaky at first, then confident. Curious.

Was it really all curiosity?

Did it not turn her on?

Did she not hear the way his voice broke when he said her name?

He pressed his hand to the back of his neck, tried to steady his breathing.

She looked over her shoulder then, grinning like they were mid-conversation.

"Hey," she said, bright as ever. "Do you think the guy in my story should, like, kiss her thighs first? Or just go straight for it?"

Hamin blinked.

She was… still talking about her story.

Still working.

Still untouched by what they'd done.

And all he could do was stare at her and think:
I don't know how to stop loving you.
But you really might not love me back.