He groans into my mouth, and I use that moment to push back, trying to take control again. But Han is stronger than he looks, and for once, he's not letting me win.
"Frustrated?" he murmurs between kisses, smirking against my lips.
I bite at his jaw...
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I had chosen the perfect time to collect my suitcase and the last of my clothes from my—or now Hwang's—room. The shower was running, his voice humming some soft, meaningless tune, barely audible beneath the rush of water.
Bahng's words had been ricocheting through my fucking skull all day, splitting it open like a fault line, and now the relentless pounding had settled into something unbearable. A migraine so vicious it blurred the edges of my vision, made the air feel too thick in my lungs. I couldn't think straight, couldn't even process what he had said without it spiraling into a disjointed mess of contradictions.
I don't want to believe him. So I won't.
I believe him. I'm disgusted that I do.
The thoughts warred in my mind, gnashing teeth against bone, clawing at the raw edges of eight years of suffering. Eight years of fucking misery, all tangled up in these people, in him. No wonder my head felt like it was splitting apart.
I rubbed my temples, exhaling sharply as I yanked open a drawer and shoved the remaining clothes into my suitcase with reckless indifference. Each item thrown in without care, the edges of shirts crumpling, a lone sock discarded in a corner I didn't bother retrieving. The pounding in my skull blurred the lines of how many shits I gave right now.
The bathroom door swung open.
I turned, sluggish from the pain, vision slightly delayed in catching up to the movement.
The fuck? The water is still running. Why—
A solid force crashed into me, slamming my back against the wall with a brutal shove that knocked the air from my lungs. A knee wedged between my legs, pressing in too fucking close, and before I could even react, my hands flew up instinctively to push away the weight. But they were caught. Seized. Wrists yanked above my head and pinned there, hard enough to make my shoulders strain.
Breath ragged, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic heaves, I barely registered the sting in my scalp where my head had smacked against the wall. My vision swam for a second, disoriented from the impact.
I blink, my vision finally sharpening, adjusting to the image in front of me.
Hwang.
Soaking wet, water clinging to every sharp, graceful line of his face. Droplets slip down his temples, gliding over the smooth expanse of his throat, trailing lower—his collarbones, his chest, his abs—each one carving a slow, deliberate path over sculpted skin. His dark hair, damp and clinging, sticks in messy strands across his forehead and nape, framing his features in a way that makes him look almost ethereal. Almost unreal.
