Rosebud

You can hear the chaos from the other room. It’s loud. Endearingly loud.

Twelve girls laughing, cracking jokes in front of a phone camera, making so much clamor that can warrant a call from neighbors for a noise complaint.

In a way, it’s not that different from your time in college. Their camaraderie is not far off too.

So, in essence, you’re pretty much home. And it’s as warm and welcoming as it always has.

“Gosh! I don’t! Shut up!” Sakura yells out, much to the amusement of everyone else.

“It’s too obvious, Kkura,” Chaeyeon says, slapping her thigh. “Just tell him. While he’s still there.”

“Yes, Sakura,” Eunbi adds. “Every time he holds your hand, we can see your blush—”

“You don’t have to say it out loud!” Sakura blurts, again, to the laughter of the other girls. “What if he’s listening—”

“He knows. He just doesn’t tell, because—” interrupts Minju, trying to suppress her chuckle to no avail. “He's—”

“Yes, I know! It’s weird. I know it’s weird. I can’t help it though! He’s so cute!”

“Then go on and confess it to him in private,” Eunbi states. “If you don’t, then—you won’t be able to have the closure you need. Even if he says no—”

“Yeah. That’s what I’ve been afraid of.”

“Kkura,” Hyewon sighs. The voices have gone from erratically loud to a modest, somber low. It’s a change so sudden it’s unsettling. “It happens. Nothing personal for him, it’s just a job. He likely doesn’t feel the same way.”

“You don’t have to remind me—”

The room goes eerily silent. The sniffles and sobs begin.

Without drawing attention from any of the twelve, you gently peek through the room next door where they’d been gathered. You see it: Sakura surrounded by her sisters-in-arms, not exactly in one large embrace, but providing comfort all the same. Between the jokes and laughs, they’re standing together through trials and tribulations as a united front.

That’s how they’ve survived. And how they’ll thrive when their time is up.

Four months from now, they won’t share the same dorm. Three of them will have to fly home to Japan. Their fates—uncertain. Some have futures so bright, others not as crystal clear. But one thing is for sure: this was a moment in history, a moment in time that will forever be part of their lives—and also yours.

Because you were there. With them. Through the darkness and the light.

Watching Sakura’s tears fall—you can’t help but quietly sob too. For as much as you respected her, you loved her just as much. The same goes for the others, but knowing how much she admired you and crushed on you in secret, there’s something different.

Suddenly, the door creaks. Everyone’s eyes snap wide, turning in the direction of the noise. You.

Instinctively, you duck away, acting like you hadn’t overheard the last 20 minutes or so of their conversation. Pretending to do your usual: evening checks of their dorm and monitoring their streams from behind the camera to make sure they don’t go overboard, like they typically do.

Eunbi is the first to emerge from the room. “Manager?”

You’re already by the kitchen when she calls out your name. “Yeah?”

“We’re done going live. You may leave whenever you’re done here.”

“Of course, Eunbi.” You’re curt and professional about it, ignoring the elephant in the room. “Still loud as ever.”

She can’t help but shake her head and smile. “You’re gonna miss us, right?”

You pause. Blink a few times, suddenly thrust with the inevitable. “That’s still—four months away.”

“I know.” She’s so casual about it, though it’s clear through her tone that she shouldn’t be speaking of these things, even if it’s on the horizon.

“Well—” you clear your throat. “Then, take it one day at a time.”

“Easier said than done,” she answers. “I wish—I’ve been saying it to the girls too, but—”

Approaching her, you pat her shoulder reassuringly. “Just cause I seem cold and professional around you sometimes doesn’t mean I struggle to not think about it too. You girls somehow made being a manager actually fun.”

Eunbi blushes; her grin reaches from ear to ear. “Aww. That’s a lovely thing to hear from you.”

Even from a distance, you can feel them: the others, quietly observing from behind the other room’s door.

“You can come out. That applies to all of you.”

One by one, the other members file out and bow respectfully as they converge behind their leader. Their smiles range from modest and shy to wide, cheeky. The meaning remains the same however: appreciative and sincere.

“Let’s make these last four months count.”

“Of course!” They all say in unison.

“Well, how about getting yourselves some dinner first,” you say. “Tonight, it’s on the house. I’ll pay for it.”

“Yay!”

While the other eleven girls chow down at a nearby restaurant Yena suggested, you quietly asked Sakura to follow you outside. There were no jokes or little jabs when you took her out; everyone’s assuming—or acting—like this was merely a personal matter between manager and idol.

At the front entrance, close enough to be seen by the other members, Sakura is fidgeting. Anxious. Expectant. Thankfully, they’re too engrossed in conversation to check.

“So—Sakura,” you say, after a deep, heavy sigh. “I have something important to say.”

She gulps her throat. Normally, this should make her feel safe; it’s just instructions or reminders about activities and schedules. “What is it?”

Even through your steely, detached mask, you’re equally, if not more nervous. Because you don’t want to hurt her at her lowest, you might as well drive a stake through her heart with what you’re about to say.

“I—I overheard your conversation with the girls earlier,” you start, unable to look her directly in the eyes. “About— me.”

“What?” Her voice rises in shock. Her cheeks blister a bright red. “Does that mean—”

“I’ve known since—since the beginning, all these feelings you’ve got for me.”

“So—so does it mean—” she can’t believe it, even with all these warnings and signs.

You suck in a deep breath, taking a few more steps back from her, putting distance. This will be much easier if you weren’t so, so attached to her.

“What I have for you is strictly professional and platonic. At the most, I feel like a sibling to you.”

Her mouth closes, followed by a lengthy, sorrowful pause. “Is that how you feel for everyone?”

You nod, confirming. “Not once have I considered or thought of you girls romantically or sexually.”

Another deep pause, like the air was forcefully sucked out of her lungs.

You exhale, adding, “Which is why it’s better that we draw boundaries between work and our real lives. I’m sorry.”

Sakura just stares. Her eyes—blank. As if struggling to register the news. Or refusing.

Your own stare turns apologetic, head-hanging low: “I don’t want it to affect our dynamic. Our work relationship. You know I care about you. It’s not romantic—” You gulp, seeing her expression soften into a sorrowful glower. “—but I care. Just like I care for the other girls.”

She softly nods—understanding, yet so utterly disappointed. Her head hangs, not saying another word.

“I’m sorry, Kkura. I know this is a lot to take in, but—”

She raises a hand. Whether it’s to push you away or not is up for interpretation.

“I—I understand. The feeling is mutual, manager,” she says, unable to contain her sorrow. Without another word, she heads back inside, returning to where her members are, leaving you out in the cold.

From outside, their conversation seems—normal. None of this is ever brought up. The laughs are the usual loud it’s always been.

Sakura tends to be particularly active and boisterous. She doesn’t let on for a minute, or two, or five, or however long. You can’t exactly see them since the glass is frosted and darkened.

Inside, however, her mask is paper-thin.

Later, as the others return to the dorm to call it a night, Sakura is the last to enter, giving herself and you enough personal time to talk.

When she comes out again, you immediately greet: “Did you have a good time, Sakura?”

Her jaw tightens. “With the girls? Always.”

The response is professional; not surprising, but given the context, you have no choice but to reply in a manner fit for your relationship.

“Good. Well,” you turn, hands crossed in front, leading her to her bedroom, the two of you walking in silence. “This is where I go. Goodnight, Sakura.”

“Goodnight, Manager.”

As she turns around to open the door, you call out to her.

“Sakura.”

She looks over her shoulder, puzzled. “Hm?”

“I—” Your words die on your tongue. Her cold, judging gaze renders you speechless. “I hope we can still—”

“Let’s not talk about it right now. See you tomorrow, manager.”

It’s delivered straightforwardly, leaving no room for argument. She slams the door on you before you can even open your mouth.

You never talk about it again.

The phone is overrun with calls from—well, everyone. You can’t handle them all. Not one, not two, not even twelve—dozens, if not hundreds of demands.

Your response is practically automated: ‘Hello? Front desk? How may we help you?’ followed by whatever issue the guest may have, mostly regarding the malfunctioning elevator.

It’s 10 in the morning and both staff and customers are moving in a frenzy. Elevator doors cannot stay close, always springing right back open. People have to hold them shut and others to press the button inside before the other doors could open too.

Since last night, the doors had been broken, and you didn’t even know why. Even the main technician seems clueless, only offering a band-aid solution to the issue, but you can apply them for so long before it ultimately becomes useless and even a detriment.

The phone rings again: the 67th complaint about the malfunctioning elevators. Well, you’ve stopped counting far past at this point.

“Yes, yes. Our maintenance team is sorting it out. We greatly apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you and have a great day.”

As you put the phone down, you’ve got other battles to fight, too. A family of four is asking for a room specifically overlooking the skyline view, but they’re all full, and one won’t be available till later in the afternoon after he has checked out. Someone’s keycard isn’t working. Another guest can’t find their missing phone. And many, many more.

The calls don’t stop for an entire hour. Several, even. The storm only calms at night, when everyone is fast asleep. And even then, there’s the occasional drunk wandering about and crashing out in the lobby, making even graveyard shifts nightmares of their own.

This is the story of your life now: attending to people’s problems on a messianic level. It’s a thankless job. Getting yelled at, regardless of the reason, whether good or bad, is part of the routine.

At least it pays well—well enough to keep you afloat month by month with a fair amount to spare.

By the time midnight arrives, you’re completely spent; both mentally and physically, a consequence of being both receptionist and concierge for 14 hours straight. You could only imagine the scenes upstairs.

It’s a miracle the place hasn’t shut down yet.

Thinking about it gives you anxiety—for your future mostly, but for the people relying on you to keep their jobs. You wish you could run upstairs to make sure everything’s running smoothly but your responsibilities call for you to stay on the front line, in case some random weirdo wanders in.

But that’s not your problem to deal with anymore. You can finally clock out and head home—which is its own war zone. Thank God.

More often than not, you lament the notion of going home, especially when a nagging, demanding woman is waiting for you on the other side of that door. While you’ve been preoccupied attending others, she has been flooding your phone with dozens of missed calls and texts.

You’re wondering why she hasn’t broken up with you by now. Hell, she’s probably cheating on you, which, good for her—at least she’s found someone who can meet her needs. Her demands are becoming harder and harder to deny—your patience withering day by day, your exhaustion overtaking all other logical reasoning.

Closing the door and seeing her just idling around the sofa, staring holes into the floor, waiting expectantly for you to arrive like the gremlin she is—

It’s the final straw.

The world is exploding, the phone is ringing in your ears, people are complaining everywhere around the hotel, yet, none of it matters anymore. In the grand scheme of things, you’re already done here. With life, with work, with humanity.

“Where the fuck have you been—ugh!”

No warm welcome, no ’ how was your day,’ no comfort. Just a frustrated yell because—get this, you’re trying to make ends meet.

“Good evening, how can I help you?” you respond, sarcasm bleeding through your tone. You’ve been together for a year and not once in five months have you uttered a kind, reassuring greeting. The attitude’s expected. “Let me guess: how long is this gonna go?”

“Come home late again?” She spits, disregarding your question. “It’s one in the morning! You should have been here an hour ago!”

“And what about it?” you fire back, teeth grinding, knuckles cracking. You roll your eyes. “Please, let’s not do this right now. I’m tired.”

You wish this conversation would just end already. It’d be much easier that way. Tell her that you’re fed up with her bullshit. If she continues this, you’ll walk out of her life forever and she will never find your face again.

“Tired?” Her voice rises further; loud enough to be its own noise complaint.“Stop! You’ve been using the exact same excuse for three nights in a row now!”

She points an accusatory finger directly in your face, just short of poking your eye out. Actually, she’d love to.

“What’s the fucking difference?!” you bellow. You’re done giving a fuck what happens, who hears; you’re at your wits end because of her. “Either I come home late, you get pissed. I come home early, you’re still gonna throw a hissy fit for not being earlier!”

“Of course, that's—that’s the fucking point! Ugh, why are you so slow? Why don’t you get it? Just tell me what’s keeping you every night.”

“Well, news flash: it’s you, bitch!” you retort, “I’ve got other obligations in life that don’t just involve me doing favors for your ungrateful ass. People I have to help and attend to and shit. I’m doing this for us!”

“Yeah. That’s my point. Are you having an affair?” she fires out without hesitation.

Her accusation sends your frustration into overload; your patience has gone way past its breaking point. If she were any more human, any more decent, she’d have dropped the absurd claim. Yet, here she is, at her very finest, showing her true colors.

It’s true, she knows nothing of the life you lead; your duties, responsibilities. She hasn’t spoken a kind or gentle word for you, ever. All she gives you is—sarcasm, grief, torment and pain. All you are is a disposable ATM who should always be at her beck and call and whenever you’re unavailable—

Well, fuck you. Fuck. Your. Guts.

You slam the door on her. Walk out that apartment, even if it’s yours. You won’t have it. Refuse to. Not tonight.

You end up sleeping at your friend’s apartment that night.

Not a second’s worth of guilt, regret or sorrow.

When morning dawns, you head off for work before you even catch her coming back.

Why would she: to beg for forgiveness?

Fuck no. Hell no. Absolutely not.

You gave that ungrateful bitch your time, your money, and your heart. What else can she possibly extract from your empty, withering heart. You’d rather invest them elsewhere than to the sorry excuse for a woman whom you still live with.

Instead of your usual morning routine where you get yelled at for doing nothing, the drive is refreshingly calm. Maybe that’s your pent-up frustrations talking, but getting to the hotel—away from her—isn’t half-bad. Seeing your phone empty with notifications—no calls, no texts—it’s a refreshing sight.

And mercifully, it’s the start of a new week, when crowd traffic is at its lowest. Less people to deal with, less demands to meet. No irritable, impatient guests yelling at you because of bad weather or the hotel’s no smoking policy, or about the malfunctioning elevator. None. Nada. Zilch.

By mid-afternoon, the lobby is near empty. Majority of the weekend’s guests have already checked out, with hardly anyone to replace them. It’s the duality of this job: at times working a graveyard, sometimes as chaotic as rush hour. You’re gearing up for perhaps the easiest shift in a while, when suddenly—

“Good afternoon. Two luxury suites please.”

He seems like an ordinary man. Another guest with a surprising amount of luggage behind him for just one guy. But his companion—

All it takes is a quick glance, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it look.

Her.

It doesn’t register for a moment. A brief lapse of function. Your brain goes blank. She can’t be—

“Excuse me?” he rings out, snapping you back from your daze.

“O-oh. Apologies. Two luxury suites. And for how long?”

“Three days and two nights.”

The man presents you his credentials and booking information to confirm. It’s a processional ritual done within mere minutes due to how many rooms are available.

“You sure you’re not booking for just one room?”

“No. Miss Miyawaki would prefer to be by herself at night.”

Just one mention of her name, and suddenly, everything comes rushing back. Memories of years ago, long buried in the deepest recesses of your mind, fresh like they’re only yesterday. This is the life you had previous, from when you were young and brimming with blind optimism and hope. Those days are gone, and all you have to show for it are an ungrateful girlfriend, a stagnating career, and a moderately stable credit score.

Meanwhile, here she is, an even bigger star than before. You can recognize that face even from her side profile: it’s sometimes plastered on the ads outside or playing on the TV screens. She’s different now, yet still the same woman you’d been attending to, now carrying a sophisticated, calmer, yet confident air around her, even while she’s waiting on the couch.

“Thank you. Please enjoy your stay,” you say to what you now assume is her new manager, sliding over the keycards and lightly bowing. A porter arrives to assist the pair with their luggage and they’re off to the races.

But not before she takes a glance back. You swear her eyes catch you for a split second, her expression shifting ever so slightly before returning to its natural, perfectionistic form. She doesn’t give a single hint that she knows you, acting like you never existed at all.

The hotline rings on a dead evening shift.

“Front desk. How may I help you?”

“It’s you.”

Your eyes snap wide open. What had been a dull, lethargic few hours of the evening livened up in an instant. Her voice remains the same as you heard it four years ago: cute, shy, sweet.

Looking left and right, seeing the number of guests—or lack thereof around, you finally break composure—and character.

“Sakura.”

“Hey.”

“Can’t believe it,” you chuckle, though it comes out forced, “After so long—”

“I can never forget my first manager in Korea,” she replies cutely, softly laughing. It’s familiar, it’s home. “How have you been?”

Your gaze constantly stays on the move; this is all on the customer hotline, as a reminder. Nothing yet. “Terrible.”

It’s not a quip; it’s straight from the heart.

“Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, genuine in her tone. If there’s anything you’ve learned following Sakura, it’s that she’s always sincere with her feelings. “May I ask what happened?”

A brief, pleasant moment passes; in your mind, she’s smiling and it’s an image you relish in. The last time you saw it, however, it was a messy, tear-jerking goodbye. She was going back to Japan with the other two girls because the contract ended. The other members stayed behind in the cars because they didn’t want to be caught crying too. It took them flying off before you finally broke down in a shitty airport bathroom stall.

Since then, you’ve never looked back. That part of your life was consigned to the history books. Even when she returned and joined Chaewon to redebut, you never gave it a second glance. Sure, you’d hear about their comebacks and stumble upon their music out and about, even at the hotel bar sometimes, but that was that: both feet firmly planted outside the door, with no intention of stepping inside again.

Which makes this conversation all the more confusing, all the more special.

“Hey? You still there?” she asks, pulling you back to reality.

You shake your head. “Just—life happened, you could say.”

There’s a pause. A painfully quiet lull that neither of you want to fill in, and a little more—mourning, regretful even. You know Sakura probably has much more exciting stuff happening in her life, yet still she remains and you don’t know why. Is it because you haven’t seen each other in four years or just you unwilling to share the truth, finding any excuse not to answer her question.

“Why, what brings this call?” you change subject, breaking silence.

“I figured I’d surprise you,” she admits coyly. “Sorta. I was supposed to have a photoshoot but that got cancelled last minute, so—I have a nice black dress that I was supposed to wear, but since that isn’t happening—”

“What’s happening now?”

“Honestly?” she pauses, lets it go blank for a moment. "Nothing.”

The soft purr sends the hair on your neck to raise. Just a little—or a lot, if you’re going to be real. But it’s been a while since you’ve heard a pleasant woman’s voice other than—well, the one you left last night.

“Do you want something to happen, then?”

The question hangs over her head as long as Sakura takes to mull her answer, breathing and contemplating the implications. It’s an impetuous act, a dare, one neither of you should never commit, nor even give her the leeway. Because right here is someone with far more authority and responsibility than you’d ever wish on anyone. She’ll figure out soon enough, or perhaps she’s known you the entire time, that the offer wasn’t empty to begin with.

A double-edged sword. The danger is worth the risk—given what you have left and have given up on.

“When are you available?” she then says. Her tone grows more playful with each word.

The view of the lobby becomes clearer: no manager, guest or staff in sight. Perfect.

“What floor and what name do I put under the room?”

There’s a quick, soft giggle, no doubt of the sultry kind, a prelude to the depravity to follow. “Hey now. What happened to keeping things professional?” she remarks, calling to mind how you kept distance all those years back. “Thought you didn’t want to ruin our group dynamics.”

“Please. That was four years ago,” you say, chuckling for real this time. “And even if Chaewon was with you, it’s way different.”

“Exactly how?”

Truthfully, she catches you red-handed. There is no fucking difference. The silence speaks for itself.

“Yeah. Not much different now, is it?” she teases. The grin is practically seen through the line.

“Room 0339,” you relent, rolling your eyes as you enter the information in your system. “I’ll be there in ten.”

There is no hesitation. “See you then, manager.”

You don’t even bother to change out of your uniform when you wait by the door. It’s the closest you can get to looking remotely good anyways.

Sakura opens the door partially after the first doorbell, her eye peeking from the other side. “I didn’t ask for room service?”

“Please, let’s not—”

She lets out a light, feathery laugh. “I know, I know. Come on in.”

Inside her suite, Sakura lets you drink in the full decor and how elegantly it’s been tailored to her preferences. The lounge and bed are slightly messy; she probably just came from a long flight hours ago and likely took a nap. You feel bad to just disturb her out of nowhere and mess up the bed again, especially when it’d seem you’d be in for a rough, filthy ride.

Sakura’s figure is visibly well defined, her muscles and svelte figure standing out thanks to her tank top and shorts. Her toned legs are shown off as she leads you in, guiding you to the armchair next to the bed. You try not to stare or embarrass yourself, avoiding every opportunity to glance at her fit body—but it keeps drawing you back in. Every. Single. Time.

This isn’t the Sakura you knew four years ago. She’s not that same cutie anymore; she’s a lethal weapon carrying a figure anyone would die for.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” you start. What else was there to discuss in the first place: 'Hey. It’s been a hot minute, we haven’t talked or seen or known each other, and all of a sudden, here we are.’ That was as stupid as getting roped into an ill-conceived plan as reckless as—well, getting the hots for the hot celebrity you once managed.

“Thanks,” she replies, gently pushing you forward and getting close behind you. The feeling is weird.

“For the room or—?”

“Whatever happens next.”

And your back instantly goes rigid, and a quick yelp escapes your lips, stiffening your spine to an absolutely painful degree, from the tips of your fingers to your toes.

“What the fuck,” you almost shriek, flailing around as you whip around to see Sakura’s stupid smirk on her cute, dumb, pretty face.

“A little too fast for our reunion?” she quips, averting her gaze, seemingly searching for something, but can’t find it. “Wait there. I’d like to show you something.”

She disappears behind the living room, giving you enough time to think of what comes next. All it did was lead your imagination elsewhere—even farther than when you were initially. But then it clicks: the danger and its consequences.

You can only imagine the absolute field day the media would have at your expense and hers. Even being in her mere presence is damning in and of itself, to which the optics would most likely destroy your already fleeting chance at a career. She’s got you in her personal room tonight, thank fucking God, but anyone that remotely hears or winds up with what happens tonight, it’s wraps for everyone involved. Especially Sakura.

But then again, this is on you. Accepting the offer with zero hesitation, a deal with the devil himself.

And speaking of—before you know it, she’s back. And by fucking God.

A temptress now in that slim, body fitting black dress she talked about over the call, the one you assume she’d be wearing for that cancelled photoshoot.

Your breath gets caught in the back of your throat, and suddenly, this room isn’t as cold or welcoming as you had thought. In her presence, it’s hot, tight, sweaty. It’s an absurd amount of space, and yet somehow, she has a way of making it seem more cramped and constricting than it normally is.

In simple terms, her figure, stance, and gaze in her revealing outfit makes your blood run south faster and hotter than your phone battery under the sweltering sun.

“So,” Sakura suddenly says, fully aware of how speechless she’s made you, yet still wanting to hear it straight from the source. “What do you think?”

“I—” you pull on your collar, struggling to form words under her penetrating gaze, like her brown orbs are piercing straight through your soul.

“Don’t even deny,” she chides you with her eyes rolling back, waving a hand dismissively. The thought seems too troublesome for her to entertain.

“You’re still a natural, aren’t you?” you remark.

“Of course, I am.” She winks at you. You can never figure her out in the simplest terms: whether she’s flirting or teasing—probably both. “So?”

“What was that question again?”

“You heard me. A few kind words won’t hurt anyone.”

“You’re gorgeous. What else can I say?”

“And that’s how I ended up here,” you say, having shared your side of the story over a couple of drinks. Sakura had taken one of the wine bottles that you’ll pay out of your pocket, even if it’s admittedly a little too pricey for your paycheck. “Or with you again, I guess.”

“It must be—quite a lot,” she quietly remarks, brushing her hand against yours.

“But I can’t imagine it’s as bad as what you’ve been through.”

You’ve heard the tabloids and seen the comments: about that Coachella performance, her openness to show her emotion, that she should quit being an idol if she can’t take the heat. It’s one thing to deal with customers on the daily; how much more anonymous faces online with nothing else to do.

“It—it’s not a big deal,” Sakura says, brushing them off as petty and insignificant, though her expression reads otherwise. “I mean, compared to you, I just can't—”

“Hey. I get only a few dozen complaints if I’m lucky. You, on the other hand, still receive hate for just breathing. And it’s always on the clock.”

“Trust me, if it was too much, I would have quit right then and there. There’s a reason why I came back and still kept going.”

“It’s because—”

Her finger reaches up and covers your mouth, shushing you in your place, gentle yet assertive. “I still have fans who appreciate me for who I am. Those matter the most. That’s all that matters to me, is what I’m trying to say.”

There’s no malice nor anger in her eyes or expression—just calm, collected and a quiet reassurance that, no matter how many people might hate her or call her names online, it will never change her conviction: to be the best at what she does and to enjoy it.

You sigh, finally relenting. “Guess you win in that regard. Even if I was young, dumb and just got out of college, I just felt useless as a manager. A glorified babysitter, really.”

“Hey. You weren’t all that useless,” she quips, laughing at her own joke. “You let us eat and break dietary protocol, took the heat whenever we went overtime during lives, and—”

“And?”

A little drunk or just giddy to share, she answers without hesitating: “Showered me.”

She taps a finger on your knee for emphasis.

“You—uhh—what?” you ask, coughing a bit and steadying yourself.

“Heard that, huh,” she playfully kicks her feet back and forth, acting as if it was the most innocent thing. As if she didn’t have two bandmates at the same time back then, to take care of all of their needs and desires. “Guess I overshot it. What I meant was—you were always such a kind gentleman to each and every one of us.”

“I was only doing my job,” you remark, shaking your head. No fluff; just business. “I mean, it was still a paycheck—”

“—that was spent taking us out to eat,” she reminds, pulling you by the arm.

You stifle your growing chuckle, spinning the conversation in the opposite direction. “Didn’t take you to be the cheeky sort, Sakura. I mean, I spent it because y'all needed food, not because I was obligated to, or whatever it is. It’s just good manners.”

“Still though. It’s nice.”

“Is it? Sorta sounds like a glorified job in my opinion. Taking care of twelve spoiled brats,” you comment dryly, gesturing for more alcohol.

“Well, spoiler alert: four other girls want to hire you again,” she quips, as an embarrassed hue slowly creeps its way up her cheeks, either from the alcohol or her flimsy excuse of an explanation.

You slap the table, laughing and stifling tears. “Seriously? Can’t believe I didn’t even recognize you from the start.”

“But I did,” she answers coyly, “Now don’t keep a woman waiting, manager.”

Her arms snake around your neck. The kiss is light and playful, a test to gauge your reaction as she lightly pulls you in.

“Even after all this time—” she mutters against your lips, brushing little droplets of liquid off, “I still want you. Right now.”

If only that husk of a human you call your girlfriend isn’t plaguing your conscience.

“Kkura, wait—” you say, gently pushing her aside, much to her surprise. Reaching for your phone, you realize you’ve ignored a few dozen messages from her—less than the usual, but it’s there. “I can’t. It’s been fun and all, but I have somewhere to be—a girl I gotta go home to—”

Sakura seizes your phone suddenly, swiping it like a pickpocket and tossing it aside on the couch to be ignored. Pressing her hands on your lap, she says, “Thought you hated her guts.”

It’s impossible to avert your gaze from her deep, intense eyes. This close, they hold a gravitational pull; neither can you escape, nor do you want to escape. “Because I do. Still gotta be the gentleman that I am.”

“You know, a lot of guys would’ve taken up that opportunity and had a nice night,” she states, drawing little circles on your thighs. Your dick twitches in response, getting hard by the second.

“Because that would require some self-respect.”

Sakura has the decency to laugh, mocking you for your poor choice of words, resting one hand against your cheek, while the other is preoccupied near your cock. Then she goes for the killing blow—a tight, pulverizing squeeze that leaves you breathless, renders you frozen.

“Why would you ever go back to someone that doesn’t respect you?” she asks, knowing you don’t have the answer. A little smug smile plays upon her features. “Are you that sorry?”

“No—ugh—”

Another stroke of your cock. Her grasp tightens, slowly becoming painful. It’s impossible not to shift under her devious, trickling grin.

“Good, because I’m not asking. So don’t make a choice, unless the real one is to leave with nothing.”

A sordid smirk, adding insult to injury—the dulcet tones and sweetness of her voice make you sick to the gut, and you’re all the more powerless and unable to resist, let alone fight. And you don’t, when she finally lowers your zipper and begins her work, her hands alternating strokes and moving up to the head, cupping it gently. It feels so fucking good; there isn’t a single inch of resistance.

“Doesn’t that feel better? Leaving her to worry, leaving her to overthink? Make her regret her life decisions?”

Sakura seems to notice; she sees the look in your eyes, the immediate loss of confidence, and grows the self-satisfying smirk. In no way does that make it feel any less amazing. If there’s ever anything that proves how irresistible this woman is, it’d be a few dirty, tingling words and her magical touch.

“Wouldn’t you agree, manager? Wouldn’t it be nice to fuck all your stress out with a beautiful woman, who will also drop everything she’s doing just for you?” she whispers into your ear, the invitation nothing but a mere formality, an offer impossible to decline.

Your thoughts are hazy at the edges, the euphoria getting stronger and the more she touches.

“This—we can’t do this—” you struggle out through gritted teeth.

“Then be honest for one moment: do you like my hands on your cock?” she softly coos, teasingly blowing her breath into your ear. Your groin grows sensitive as your boxers grow wet and damp from your precum. “Admit it. You fucking love this. You wanted this.”

"Yes. Fuck yes,” you answer. “ What does this even have to do with her or that situation?”

Sakura traces a fingertip across the damp spots and snickers, lifting them to inspect. They’re still white and sticky with your precum; some drip onto her fingers, and with one touch and a single swipe, you’re sent back into the abyss, flying high above the clouds, wanting to orgasm so badly. But when her gaze falls upon you again and her hands begin claiming you once more, those efforts are for naught.

“Doesn’t sound like someone who cares about their girlfriend waiting at home, manager,” she teases.

The prickly sensation from the warmth of her fingers, paired with the lingering, dull ache from your shaft carries a spiral, even from any of your brief, whirlwind relationships. You can hardly believe how quickly this escalated and how fast this is all heading south. Or at least—for your poor cock.

“Take it easy—” you mutter, desperate to salvage some form of control back.

“Never. Not when I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

And that’s pretty much the death bell rung.

Taking the lead, Sakura gives one firm, assertive squeeze that makes your dick throb all the more painfully; then her lips finally claim you with a crushing intensity, taking away every trace of sanity, shattering every inhibition that made you turn her down. With one deft pull of her own tongue, you can’t help but kiss her back with the same intensity and unadulterated passion, pulling her close to feel her body underneath.

Your fingertips crawl and claw up the length of her figure, feeling each dip and curve of her lithe muscles—over every patch of warm, smooth skin. And that fucking dress that’s still so easily hindering, with its slits and lacing. Her lips brush against your cheek, before laughing at your struggling effort to shed them off.

“Careful. It’s expensive,” she sighs against your lips, drawing her hands back to unzip it from the top. Gravity does the rest, letting the fabric freely fall down her svelte frame. No bra, no panties; nothing is left to the imagination.

You don’t get any room to breathe. Her breasts are exposed; firm, shapely, handfuls that seemingly fit well when you grab them. Squeezing, eliciting moans from her divine lips that are music to your ears. Her fingers tangle in your hair, bringing you closer, as you dive straight in with a mouth and tongue to play with.

She slips her hand behind your head and pulls it to hers, making good use of that advantage to pepper you with kisses. From your cheek, to the corners of your mouth, and your jaw; slowly, languidly—up to your ear. With each tender press of her mouth, her breaths get warmer, heavier with the intent to ravish you in your entirety.

But when she nips at your ear, your remaining resolve crumbles. Every trace of that remorse disappears, and your instincts naturally take over.

Sakura whines with every lick and grip of her tits, bucking against your hard length, tip dripping precum, pressing against her aching core. Impatient as always, she nearly slides her hips off her seat and lifts them up—and when your mouth is freed, you glance downward and see her legs spread apart, her pussy already glistening wet.

Your eyes meet once more. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” you mutter faintly. “Fuck, it’s already—this fucking tight.”

“Of course,” she cries out softly. “This was always meant for you.”

With a harsh buck of her hips, you’re met with immediate resistance; Sakura locks her legs together and with it, she forces you in deeper.

No respite, no preamble; she takes you in, burying you to the hilt.

She’s so fucking tight, so fucking hot. Her walls pulsate and flex against your cock. Every breath, every motion drives up your arousal further—and to be quite honest, this wasn’t too far off from what you assumed she would do upon seeing you. The anticipation is nothing compared to how you really feel—years of pent-up need and longing you couldn’t get rid of, every thought and wondering for those four years finally exploding right here and now.

Sakura doesn’t seem to be any different, either, when you kiss her again. When her legs lock against your waist, when she grinds and bucks against your cock, desperate to be fucked. But first things first, the important, incessant matter—one that should have been put out of the way when she took the reins:

“Tell me what you want, Sakura.”

The reply comes fast. It’s too good to be true—as is the full length of her body molded to yours in a fierce embrace. A sigh catches in her throat, her brown orbs devouring you with desperation and want.

“Fuck my brains out.”

That’s the only thing you needed to hear.

And God, she’s so goddamn wet. Every plunge is slick and effortless, her walls pulsing, squeezing and dragging you in with each thrust, each stroke, filling her womb to the brim, milking you of your worth.

On the other hand, her movements are eager, bordering animalistic. Tugging, scratching, raking down your back, ripping out some groans that’ll definitely have you sore the next day. As if your cock invading her over and over, hammering in deep and heavy, hitting every spot, aren’t making her even more vocal, less coherent. But that’s where Sakura draws the line: she fights and resists, returning with just as much strength and forcefulness as you do her—locking you in her heated, ravenous, fiery depths.

“It’s just as I fucking imagined—” she grunts through another harsh thrust. Her cheeks are flushed red, beads of sweat trickling down as you lay into her senselessly. “So fucking big—so, so good—”

She wraps her arms around your neck and holds you closer, kissing you hard and ferociously as she writhes against you, squirming and rippling against your cock, greedily stealing you of your breath, your sanity. And it’s impossible not to just crumble from her arms, throw your head back and lose yourself to the pleasure, possessing you and coercing you, stripping you of all your modesty, until your sole desire becomes to see her crying out your name to the heavens and feel her slick all over your shaft.

Your vision is hazy from all this pleasure, her sultry voice like honey stirring you even more—as if you weren’t already long past the breaking point.

“God, you’re so fucking amazing too—” you mutter against her neck, making her shiver uncontrollably, if that’s still even possible with what’s overwhelmed her. “Needed this—needed you—”

It feels too damn good; all you’re hoping for is that she can meet her end soon enough.

Sakura responds with a tightening embrace, pulling you closer, so close her lips are just mere inches from touching your own, and her soft, shuddering, hot breath brushes against your face. With another thrust, a harsher and more impatient one, she clenches and quivers against your cock, her walls choking and straining it, but none of that even matters with the look on her face. Eyes rolling back into the deepest corners, mouth agape with no coherent thought, or else a blabbering mess of incoherency and cries—as much a reflection of her being fucked into blissful ecstasy as it is you finding what you’ve been looking for all your life.

“Say that again,” she half-whispers, half-pleads, nipping and peppering soft kisses across your cheek, tugging on the ear. Her nails claw on your scalp, raking through your hair.

Her mind is drifting back into that haze, any sign of coherent and sensible conversation already forgotten in the most obvious way: a mindless outpouring of swears and praises with your name in mind.

The more she clamps, the more she pulls you in deeper, as if the distance separating you is merely nonexistent. But all this only fuels the inferno raging within. Every buck of her hips demanding more and more as the coils begin building, ready to detonate.

“Feels. Too. Goddamn. Fucking. Good. Don’t stop, don’t stop, just like that—ugh!”

Too good to stop. Too good to end soon—

As you’re about to drown in that bliss, the ringing of your phone snaps your attention back to reality. You still have to return home—not just because she’s still your girlfriend, but simply because it’s the right thing to do. No doubt that she’ll assume the worst, even if she has no clue about what’s happening.

Still, it doesn’t help to pay the person’s concern any mind: her qualms come off as pity, a sort of arbitrary condescending form of empathy, or maybe just mere guilt tripping. And it wouldn’t be too far from the truth, given how much of a bitch she’d be on your conscience lately.

Sakura takes the hint, laughing under her breath. In one movement, her fingers dig and weave through your hair, gripping and tangling tight as the pressure intensifies.

“Keep fucking me and forget all about her.”

If there’s anything the devil made you do, it was to transform into this paragon of virtue and duty, making your best qualities a vilified curse.

“God—I’m so fucking close too—”

“Pick up,” she hisses, smashing your mouth together, locking it into a searing, burning kiss. “Let her hear—”

Any protest comes short of being audible, any ragged breath stifled and barely escaping her throat. Another attempt follows—and this time, you manage, biting her lower lip—

“It's—” you barely manage, your face close to hers, feeling the full extent of her breaths. It’s oddly inviting. “It’s her. She’s gonna—”

Just when the ringing stops and your breath is beginning to return to a normal rhythm, Sakura retaliates with a barrage of her own all over your throat.

The protests are all in vain, unable to overcome the sensations that dominate every fiber of your being. The seizing of your pulse. The rattling of your bones. The lightheadedness. Her lips are moist and hot, leaving no patch of skin unclaimed—when your phone rings again and the screen flashes up. Your brain is melting, utterly beyond control, but not so much that it can’t tell right from wrong. And with an arm’s length away, your hand free, you move and seize the call, hoping the mic doesn’t catch anything.

“H-hello?”

Except the crack in your voice.

“Babe? Where the hell are you?”

No greeting. No apology, not even a 'how’s things,’ just a demand for your presence—and an explanation for your whereabouts.

“Still here—at the hotel—ah”

A sudden squeeze of your cock penetrating her walls makes her break. More than enough. Same for her expression: you swear to God, there’s nothing more satisfying to behold than the look on her face and the wide, splayed gasp she lets out, the perfect sound to deafen every single word the person on the other side could be saying.

“Babe? Who is that? Who are you with? I want answers! Now!”

Not once has this ever been easy: even your briefest interactions have never failed to exhaust every ounce of restraint and patience. Every word is a new strain and stretch to your mind, her harping never failing to exhaust you of every modicum of care.

“You should learn how to wait,” you grit against Sakura’s ear, glancing back at your phone as she throws her head back in frustration and bliss. Her hold doesn’t ease nor relent in the slightest, undoubtedly upset that your attention is directed elsewhere, no matter how brief or urgent

“Sorry, I’ll call back—” you lie with ease. “Sudden meeting with the staff—can’t talk right now—”

No lies and no truths: you’re not doing a single iota of work as far as the company is concerned, just lying and getting lied to. And yet, all those instincts seem to vanish under Sakura’s searing touch: her hold on your cock and her desire and her warmth overshadow every form of common sense and reasoning and the values you’ve strived to maintain and build.

“Are you cheating on me? You fucking b—”

“Gotta go! Explaining when I get home!”

When you hang up, any kind of concern can wait—which leaves a free hand for something more worthwhile. All courtesy goes out the window. And you quickly reach down, seize a handful of Sakura’s shapely ass and give it an apologetic, tight squeeze.

“Does she think of herself as that important?”

Sakura throws her head back as her moans take over. Red marks pepper her throat and neck, contrasting against her ivory-colored flesh. Her entire body’s alight, each inch flushed and gleaming with sweat—her warmth and her scent filling your senses. The longer you watch her writhing, squirming, squalling, the harder it is not to drown in your own pleasure.

“Fucking bastard,” you whine into the crook of her neck, your head resting in the junction of her shoulders. With an open, free mouth, you nibble and bite and suck, using that frustration as fuel. “Thank God—I still fucking have you—”

To make her feel even better. To treat her right and ruin her to oblivion.

Her moans grow louder and more ragged, with your hands constantly playing and toying, grasping and holding her chest. Squeezing her breasts, kneading the nipples and fondling them until they’re taut, aroused to fullness, twisting them between your thumb and index.

“Fuck me faster—please,” she mewls out, her breaths and pulse steadily growing and quickening. The desire and need is reflected on her features: furrowed brows, mouth agape, droplets of sweat dripping down her face. She clutches at your waist tightly, desperate for every second to be fucked and used to the limit. Ripples and vibrations from pounding her wet cunt resonate across her thighs, through the couch, the walls, and up to her tits, swelling from every impact. “I’m almost there—”

Sakura’s walls twist, squeeze and choke tighter. Each flex and throb gets her closer and closer and God, there’s nothing more satisfying than hearing her come undone and watching it happen. You can’t take your gaze off her eyes that stare right back at you. Her lips part into the faintest of grins, that little curl playing along her features. “You’re fucking so good—”

Another deep thrust drives a sharp whimper right out. Every time her back is pressed firmly to the couch and her slender limbs are tightly wrapped around you, her tits against your chest, her hand pressed against your cheek, pulling your faces even closer.

Sakura moves one hand towards the back of your neck and pulls you in for another kiss, even if that takes some willpower and resolve on your end. She reaches up and tilts your head down to face her and sucks the very air right out. A tender, chaste meeting that slowly heats, her tongue moving along yours, sloppily, intimately, while her breasts rub against yours. Her eyes dart toward you; for a while, they’re fully focused on you and you only, never glancing away from their intent.

It’s only her thumb tracing shapes across your nape that alerts you, gives away any semblance of intent and purpose. “Gonna cum—ugh—”

“Inside—want it inside—come on—”

She clutches your nape, driving your faces closer together, not that they weren’t already as you leaned in and held her close, feeling and hearing each hot breath. “God, yes—right there—gonna—!”

Her mouth twists. Every trace of coherence and sense melts, collapses into one enormous, mind-numbing bliss as your mouth lands on hers. But at this point, she’s reduced to moans and screams, muffled by yours, as she holds your face tight to hers and feels your cum completely fill her core. You let your head hang, bury your face in her neck; her legs tighten around you, as your lips play at her pulse, feeling the beating.

The frenzy begins easing out; your pulses begin to subside, albeit slower than before, as do your heavy panting. Everything that wasn’t about her and her alone slowly falls back into place. Her touches, her caress. Even with her lips trembling against your ear. Even with her hot, uneven breaths.

Your foreheads rest together, every haggard, feeble breath; her heat radiating all over, the air growing humid and stifling. Sakura leans in and gently plants one on your lips, holding the same fervor, the same passion, and intensity, before pulling you down for another deep, searing and open kiss.

And you stay there for a while; letting the afterglow of your orgasms pass quietly, solemnly, soaking up all that time. With the two of you spending the most valuable seconds kissing each other, trying to catch a few breathers here and there.

There are so many things she’s making you realize about yourself. For starters: it’s obvious how you want her too.

And when her eyes, dozy, clouded and heavy flutter open, the way they’re narrowed with those lids, framed by those black lashes; the way they gleam, even with their dew, as she lets her fingertips trail up the bare skin of her midriff; it sends a shockwave up your spine.

Her head rises. Her neck stretches. She holds you down on the lips again. Her hands cradle and pull your face to hers.

It’s her that breaks the silence.

“That was—”

“Too good,” you interrupt. Your breaths are slow and relaxed as they leave.

“Shut up.”

She smiles and pushes you away lightly; it’s not enough to tear you off, but just to loosen and create some distance between. But even with that bit of space, it does little to stop that sinking feeling. The implications that are weighing on you.

And maybe it’s for the best if you don’t address them; it’s certainly safer and for the sake of protecting her career.

“I should be getting home,” you state with a certain coldness, the one you’ve left at the front door. The room itself is starting to cool, a slight draft coming from the windows and from behind her, in the dining area.

“Relax, you’re home. Don’t go if you shouldn’t.”

Your gaze lingers on hers. Maybe she’s right. But still: your lives are a whole other universe apart. She’s an idol; you’re a hotel receptionist. She has fans, members, and other men in suits to attend to. Meanwhile, you have an angry girlfriend waiting with what’s certainly the death certificate on the other side.

“If only it were that easy, Kkura—”

“Did I fucking ask? Your girlfriend can kiss my ass,” she fires back. Her brows are knit together and her mouth twists in the frown that could probably level whole civilizations, though it’s not enough to strike fear into your bones. “You shouldn’t put up with that—”

Her lips purse again, looking even more aggravated.

“—shit. Sorry.”

“Is that the usual language?”

She rolls her eyes, letting a smile cut her scowl. The effect is subtle. Subtle, yet great, compared to the weight she carried just a moment ago. “Just seeing you like this—it worries me—”

“Don’t. I wouldn’t have put up with her if I wasn’t able to handle it to start.”

“Still—I just can’t imagine you going back to—” she pauses, “—whatever that is—”

Her hand’s clamped over her mouth, yet none of this is doing a thing to hide that cheeky, smug, sweet grin of hers. It’s more telling that it isn’t just you that she’s ruffling the feathers of.

“So if the alternative is you, then the offer’s tempting.”

It’s hard to not let that affect you: no one, not even your closest friends can evoke anything remotely like this. Sure, she’s got your blood racing; the thrum and pulse is more audible and clearer than ever before. What could it be like if you and her really shared a room—

Her arms wrap tighter, wrapping her leg across your thigh to hinder any sudden motion. “Don’t. Stay here. I will take care of you. Trust me.”