It’s D-day.

I’m sweating through my shirt before the car even turns into Jiwon’s street. My mind keeps circling the same question: when was the last time I was alone with someone like this? Without my mother nearby. Not in a therapist’s office. Not in a crowded café with Dae buffering every awkward silence.

Not in a very long time.

My chest tightens. I press my palm against my thigh and regulate my breathing. Inhale four. Hold. Exhale six.

I think about being twelve.

There was a girl in my class who used to sit near me every day. She never forced conversation. Never demanded eye contact. On my birthday, she slipped her hand into mine.

I remember the shock of it. Unexpected. Warm. Damp. Pins and needles — almost painful.

I froze. Counted to ten. Squeezed once before pulling away — because she was safe.

A week later, she moved to the United States.

That was the closest I have ever come to romance.

And now I’m on my way to Jiwon Kim.

Mum smiled when I said I was meeting a friend. The smile faded when she heard his surname. Still, she agreed. The chauffeur drives. A bodyguard rides shotgun. If I’m unreachable on the hour, every hour, someone will knock down a door.

I check my reflection in the tinted window. I look nervous.

Light blue T-shirt. Dark jeans. Loafers. Beige scarf looped twice around my neck so I can twist it around my hands if needed. My Patek catches the light.

“Breathe,” I whisper.

The car stops.

I don’t move.

Ten minutes pass.

I recite lines from a novel under my breath, letting the rhythm steady me. The bodyguard and chauffeur pretend not to notice.

Finally, I call Dae.

“I’m here,” I say.

“Good. Go up.”

“I can’t get out.”

“Why?”

“I’m scared.”

Her voice softens. “You can always go home.”

The permission loosens something inside me.

“What if he touches me?” I ask quietly.

“He won’t without asking. He knows your boundaries.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

I remember breaking Mum’s nose at five. A therapist’s finger at eight. Touch overload. Reflex.

“You won’t,” Dae says. “And if you do, he looks sturdy.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

“Did you just laugh?” she teases.

“Stop.”

“Go get your man, weirdo.”

The call ends.

I groan. Then I open the car door.

Upstairs, the door opens almost instantly.

Jiwon stands there in a grey cashmere sweater and dark slacks. Bleached hair, slightly messy. Sleeves long enough to hide the ink underneath. Impossibly handsome.

He smiles when he sees me.

Not a performance smile. Something softer.

I drop my gaze

“Hello, Jay.”

“Hi.”

“Can I take your scarf?”

“No.” I step inside quickly. “I need it.”

“For your hands?” he asks gently.

I nod.

The apartment smells like lamb galbi. Warm. Savory. Familiar enough to be safe.

A chef moves in the open kitchen.

I exhale. Good. A witness.

“How was the drive?” Jiwon asks.

“Okay.”

Silence stretches.

“It’s twenty-three degrees outside,” I blurt. “Chance of rain.”

He smiles. “I like rain. It slows things down.”

I nod even though I’m not sure what that means.

“Wine?” he asks. “Only if you want.”

“Okay.”

Our fingers brush when I take the glass. I jerk back immediately. The wine tilts but doesn’t spill.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comment.

“Bedroom?” he asks. “We can look at the manhwa. I’ll dim the lights.”

I hesitate.

“Just books,” he adds. “Nothing else.”

I nod.

The room is bright at first. He lowers the main lights and switches on the nebula projector. Purple and blue wash across the ceiling in slow waves.

My shoulders drop half an inch.

He has laid out a pile of manhwa between two armchairs in the corner.

I sit in one. He takes the other, not too close.

“Take your time,” he says.

I pick up the first one. I read. I comment on the panel structure. On the line weight and on pacing.

He listens.

Really listens.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t finish my sentences. When I pause to process, he waits.

The silence becomes comfortable.

Between reviews, he asks small questions. What do I want to do after college? How did I meet Dae and Hoon? What else do I obsess over?

I answer more fluidly than I expect. I notice something else too. He never moves suddenly. Never reaches without warning. When he shifts in his chair, he does it subtly. Protective. Or careful. Maybe both.

I reach the last book.

The cover is explicit. Two male leads glaring at each other, tension obvious.

He stiffens. “Shit! That wasn’t meant to be there.”

“It’s fine,” I say, holding it.

I flip pages.

The art is detailed. Emotional. Intimate.

Heat pools low in my stomach. My palms grow damp. I twist my scarf around my fingers.

“I like the artist’s control of anatomy,” I say evenly. “And the historical setting.”

“You can borrow it.”

I keep turning pages.

Bodies close. Faces close.

My mind scrambles for structure.

“Sex is a reproductive process involving the fusion of gametes,” I begin automatically. “It increases genetic diversity.”

He watches me with open amusement.

“Some people do it for pleasure,” I add.

He leans back. “And do you find sex pleasurable?”

My throat tightens. “I've never had sex.”

I wait for the judgment, mockery. But he just watches me, like I'm the most interesting thing in the room.

“Kissed?”

I think of Mum’s soft kisses on my forehead. Do those count? 

Silence.

He studies me.

“Can I ask you something?”

I nod.

“Can I kiss you?”

I freeze.

Heat pools in my belly. Did he really say that?

“I won’t touch you,” he continues. “And you can stop me anytime.”

Clear terms.

Clear exit.

My heart hammers. Lips are soft. Wet. Unpredictable.

But he has been predictable all evening.

Measured.

Safe.

I trace unsure fingers across my bottom lip, analysing. Calculating the odds of this becoming a disaster.

His eyes follow the motion. His mouth parts slightly. He doesn’t move.

Waiting.

I nod once. My body decides before my mind can catch up.

He stands slowly and kneels in front of me, leaving space between our bodies. He puts his hands behind his back deliberately.

My breathing turns shallow. Heart accelerates.

He leans forward and upward, inch by inch, giving me time to retreat.

I don’t.

Our lips meet.

Soft.

Warm.

My entire body locks. My eyes clamp shut.

Three seconds.

Four.

I pull back abruptly.

He stays where he is. “Okay. We stop.”

I blink.

I wait for disappointment. For pressure.

It doesn’t come.

His gaze is steady. Not demanding.

“Was that bad?” he asks.

I touch my lips lightly. They feel hot. Sensitive. I feel almost dizzy.

“It was… different from what I expected.”

“Different good or different bad?”

I think carefully.

“Different good,” I admit.

His shoulders relax.

“Can we try again?” I ask, surprising myself.

This time, I lean forward first. 

Jiwon lets out a soft, jagged breath as our lips meet. His eyes hold a look of absolute delight, his head tilting back just enough to give me better access.

"God... I missed you!" he moans against my mouth.

My eyes flutter shut. The sheer desperation in his voice sends a fresh wave of static through my nerves. The second kiss lasts longer - still gentle. Still closed-mouth. Still careful.

He smells of expensive tobacco and a sharp, clean soap—a combination that should have been an olfactory overload, but instead, it acts as a catalyst. 

I shift my stance, angling my head the way I’ve seen in a hundred cinematic frames. A soft, guttural moan escapes his throat, and the sound does something terrifying to my anatomy. My stomach clenches so hard that I gasp.

Suddenly, all my control is gone. I realize then that "different good" is an understatement. This was a total system override.

My hands find his jaw, fingers urging him to open for me. When my tongue finally slipped past his teeth, I felt possessed—not by a spirit, but by a sudden, violent need to map every millimeter of him.

He was intoxicating. He tasted of the wine, a hint of spice, and a deep, musky heat I couldn't categorize. I tentatively cupped his face, my thumbs tracing the sharp, clean-shaven line of his jaw. 

For a terrifying moment, I wonder if I'm doing this right, but my insecurity is fleeting, feeding on his subtle moans. They drown out my fears.

True to his word, Jiwon keeps his hands behind his back. I can see the strain in the cords of his neck, the way his shoulders are locked in a battle of willpower. I'm grateful for his restraint; if he reaches out, the tactile input might have caused a total system short-circuit. But because he doesn't, I feel empowered to take more.

My hands snake upward, burying themselves in the soft, bleached strands of his hair. It wasn't just a kiss anymore; it was a revelation. It was wild and untamed, a raw, primal connection that stripped away my carefully constructed barriers like they were nothing but paper. My mind, usually a crowded switchboard of thoughts and calculations, went completely silent. There was only the friction of our lips, the slick slide of our tongues, and a deepening, pulsing heat in my core that I had no name for.

Gently—agonizingly—he pulls back.

He doesn't go far, just enough to break the seal of our mouths. His eyes are dark, pupils so blown out they swallow the iris, heavy with a raw desire that mirrors mine.

“Jay…” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, vibrating with a tremor that feels like a final warning. "If we don't stop now... I don’t think I can keep my hands off you."

I stare at him, my breathing ragged, body trembling, lips tingling with the phantom sensation of his touch. 

I run a quick diagnostic on my racing heart and find no desire for a shutdown; for the first time, I want the system to crash.