Tomorrow is a blur for everyone but not for her. She knows too well that her future is just a repeat of her past. Bloody. Cold. Bruised. That will be her. Will she risk to have that tomorrow again just to treasure the blink of happiness before it w...
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He let me feel and be the woman I ought to be even in time when the world was unkind to women.
~ Memory Journal: The healer page 6 ~
• • • ○ ○ ○ ♡ ○ ○ ○ • • •
The web of their desire is wound too tight, straining, trembling, spilling through their pores. At least for her. It hums beneath her skin like a live current, impossible to contain, especially when she's caught between Seokjin and Namjoon.
Breakfast—no, brunch—has turned into a slow torture. The scrape of cutlery, the faint clink of glass, the scent of coffee —they all blur against the heat of being watched. Their gazes follow her every movement, burning trails across her skin. The subtle glances and accidental brushes have long since vanished. Now their touches are deliberate, claiming. Daring. Their fingers glide with purpose, testing the edges of restraint, as if the table itself were the only thing keeping them from losing control.
The last time they were like this, she overheated—Soul Burn. And now they're pulling her back into the same flame, reckless and unrepentant. She thanks God she'd showered before stepping out of Hoseok's room, though it's hardly consolation now. Not when she appeared to them looking like temptation itself—like a delectable free sampler with Hoseok's shirt hanging loose on her shoulders and the choker that screams "take me or watch me choke".
Seokjin's hand rests on her thigh, fingers brushing and squeezing with the slow precision of someone molding clay—expert, deliberate—parting her just enough to unravel her from the inside out. Beside her, Namjoon drags his thumb in lazy circles along her side, tracing invisible poetry on her skin as his arm winds around her lower back, settling at her waist.
Both send tendrils of sensation crawling over her—goosebumps breaking, a delicious chill running down her spine, her stomach fluttering in helpless rhythm. Heat pools low, spilling through her like molten honey, impossible to contain.
Chaos floods her. She doesn't know whether to stop them or let them keep going. Her mind tells her they don't even realize what they're doing—yet their timing feels too perfect, too synced, as if every touch is intentional.
'Or aren't they?' The thought simmers, hot and dangerous.
"Are you listening, love?"
The voice slices through the haze. Yoongi leans forward from where he sits opposite them, elbows on his knees, a glint of mischief tugging at his lips. That half-smile says he knows—he feels everything running beneath her skin.
She flicks a glance toward Hoseok at that thought. Of course, Hoseok would know. The Soul Feel gives her away—his eyes dragging over her like a touch, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, gaze dark and sticky with thought. He doesn't need to speak to her to know he senses it all: the tremor beneath her skin, the heat gathering at her core, the way her breath keeps faltering under their hands.
