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'm not saying I'm angry. That would be too dramatic, even for me. I'm not storming off or slamming doors or cursing the world in a theatrical Shakespearean monologue. No. I'm just—how do I put this gently?—mildly, cosmically infuriated. Slightly, devastatingly inconvenienced by the six gremlins who crashed through the front door of our home like a goddamn natural disaster. Within five minutes, they'd shoved moving boxes aside like they were furniture in a fire drill, unloaded their crap in every corner of the living room, and thrown down sleeping bags like they were claiming land in some twisted friendship invasion. They're loud, they're chaotic, and they've ruined everything.
Because tonight? Tonight was supposed to be the night I finally got to fuck Jisung into our overpriced mattress, no interruptions, no calls, no fuckhead invasions. Nothing but sweat and skin and his goddamn mouth whispering my name in that wrecked, ruined way only he can. I could feel it brewing all day—the slow unravel of his defenses, the way his shoulders had started to relax around me, how his lips stopped hesitating and started lingering. I've been patient. Playful, sure. Teasing, always. But patient. Waiting for him to stop overthinking who gets to be on top, who's in control, who's leading and who's letting go. He was right there, loosened up and soft in all the right places, and I was going to worship every inch of him with my tongue until he forgot his own name.
And now? Now we're sitting in a damn circle like we're ten years old at a sleepover, surrounded by crinkled sleeping bags and half-cracked Soju bottles, the floor sticky already with spilled alcohol. The bottles clink together mockingly, like they're laughing at me. I'm not drunk enough for this. Not even close. Jisung's on the opposite side of the circle, which is insult enough, but the real offense is that Lee has his arm slung around him like he's his fucking property. And Jisung is leaning in. Laughing. Comfortable. Like he isn't supposed to be pressed up against me, breathy and begging and half-naked. Like his mouth wasn't just on mine an hour ago, hot and open and desperate. Now it's full of jokes and soju and Lee's fucking charm. I glare at them with the kind of hatred that could burn a city.
And it gets worse. Felix's head is in Yang's lap. His fucking lap. I don't even know when those two got close. Did I miss something? Was there some bonding moment in the group chat I ignored because I was too busy imagining Jisung's thighs around my head? Yang's stroking Felix's hair with the absentminded affection of someone who's done it a hundred times. I don't know why that annoys me. Maybe because they look so content. Comfortable. Like they've known each other since the womb. Meanwhile, I'm here trying to drown my frustration with mouthfuls of alcohol that taste like burning and disappointment.
Kim is drinking like he wants to forget he exists. Seo's flitting around him like a desperate mother hen, trying to slow the destruction, and Bahng is completely useless, doubled over in laughter, eyes glassy, already gone to the other side of drunk where reasoning is a foreign language. Everyone is having a blast. A chaotic, warm, noisy blast.
