My anger flares, but I remain silent, lost in the depths of his mesmerizing eyes. "You have a knack for getting on my nerves," he says, chuckling softly.
"And you have a knack for making everything infinitely more complicated," I retort, though my v...
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Fuck.
The word rolls through my mind, echoing off every nerve like a warning alarm, ricocheting from guilt to lust and back again. There's a blaze in my chest I can't extinguish, an embarrassing surge of raw adrenaline still pulsing in my veins. I can't believe I did that. Hell, what did I just do?
It's insane—the way his scent is still clinging to me, sweet, maddening. My shirt's a mess, practically painted with him, and my fingers twitch with the memory of his skin, his breath shuddering against my neck. Absolutely insane. Was that all just pent-up hatred, or something else? Something darker? I'm laughing at myself even as the sensation lingers, a relentless, burning reminder of what I shouldn't have done.
I should be disgusted. Or at least detached, back in control. That's what I usually am: calculating, cold. Not this... whatever this is. But there's an ache that refuses to go away, a quiet satisfaction that simmers beneath my skin despite everything screaming at me to deny it.
The worst part? It was almost thrilling, the look on his face. The utter surprise, the vulnerability he couldn't hide. That was me pulling those strings, pushing him to that edge. And damn if I don't want to do it again.
Am I insane? Absolutely.
My lungs are burning, my legs feel like lead, and I'm panting like I've just run a marathon. It's laughable, honestly—when did I get so weak? I barely made it down the hall. Each breath rasps through my chest, but somewhere in the back of my mind, there's an odd clarity I haven't felt in...forever, really. It's like a fog's been lifted, leaving my mind sharp and painfully aware of just how reckless I've been. All those wild, unhinged emotions that had me hurling glasses across my apartment, every frenzied impulse that left me on the brink—they're gone, washed away in one reckless act.
And the kicker? They were there, gnawing at me with ruthless ferocity, until the second I had my mouth on Hwang.
"Are you fucking crazy?" Hwang's voice breaks through the quiet of the hallway, and I almost laugh. Of course, he already knows the answer to that question; he's seen it firsthand. But the irritation in his tone, the way he storms toward me, dripping with equal parts anger and...something else, feels strangely grounding.
I can barely catch my breath, slouched against the wall, still disheveled, still raw from everything that just happened. He scowls at me as he pulls my arm over his shoulder with more force than is necessary, practically dragging me down the hall. It's funny, really, how even after our argument—and everything else—he's here, pissed off but still supporting me like he can't help himself.
The sterile walls of the hospital are a blur as we stumble along, Hwang cursing under his breath every time I falter. Nurses and doctors scurry by, consumed in their own worlds, barely sparing a glance at the two of us. I catch sight of a nurse who's a little too close, her gaze flickering over my disheveled form, her eyebrows twitching upward ever so slightly at the sight of my shirt—a shirt still covered in Hwang's cum.
