[EDITING]
When Jeon Jeongguk's sister gets engaged to his friend's brother, almost everything changes.
Desperate to hold onto a fragile friendship, Jeongguk is willing to get himself into sticky situations--even to the point of ruining his sister's...
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Chapter Forty: Daydreaming
The next morning, Jeongguk jolted awake, out of breath and his heart hammering in his chest. The sun was breaking in through his window, soft strings of light brushing against him like a cat. His covers were on the floor, he had kicked them off in his sleep, and his entire body felt clammy––his sheets were damp with sweat. He raised himself up onto his elbows and looked at the wall in front of him, took in as much air as possible to steady himself, and focused on the warm light, how it hit the wall, the slight buttery yellow livening up the blank white. It was incredibly hot, and the remnants of the dream were still clouding his mind.
For a moment, he was unsure what was real, the gold hues of light dancing in front of him, or the shadowed room within his mind: the open window, the night sky flooding in like a wave, while he was buried under the covers, underneath him. His legs on either side of his hips, his lips everywhere, on his mouth, his neck, his chest, leaving small burns all over. He could still feel it, his hand curling underneath his shirt, touching his back, hugging his waist, as he buried his head in the small space where his neck and shoulder met; could hear his heavy breaths, feel the warmth on his skin.
The darkness, that felt almost tangible, sheltering them from prying eyes; outside, a flutter of wings taking flight, the cool air flowing in through the window, contrasting the heat of their bodies, their mouths, their eyes, which seemed pitch black, either from desire, or lack of light. The taste of salt and sweat, and also, his peached lips; the smell of his hair and the dabble of perfume on his neck, wood, bergamot, and oranges. His hand slowly trailing downward.
And now, just like in the dream, he grabbed at the bed sheets and squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat at the slightest of touch. He had woken up stiff, every single nerve in his body alight, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake away the images of him, nor the sensations that followed. He could only lie there, defeated, as his body took over, did what had to be done. Which was getting out of bed, listening at the door, discreetly shooting across the hallway into the bathroom––and the kisses followed him all the way into the shower, tormented him as he got rid of the tension, and he had to bite down on his jaw to keep himself from making any noise.
When he got out of the shower, he let out a shaky breath, placed his palms on the sink and hung his head. "Fuck," he whispered. He pressed his palms against his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair and folded them behind his neck. Then, he released and let his arms hang limp. "Fuck," he said again. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment. He splashed his face with cold water, brushed his teeth and put on his shorts, not bothering with a shirt, and went downstairs.
As usual, in the mornings, the house was quiet. A soft slumber hung over it, tranquillity in the air; there were no clinks of cutlery being moved in the kitchen, as someone washed the dishes or made a cup of coffee. The echoes of laughter and rustles of steps came much later, Jeongyeon's heavy pace as she slumped down the stairs, slouching as she tended to do in the mornings. Not the flicker of a page as Namjoon read in the sunroom, nor the barks of Yeontan wanting to be let outside. It was quiet, except for the slight wind stirring.
