Brand new person, same old mistakes

“Can’t believe it’s you of all people getting married first!” Eric yells out, raising his champagne glass in celebration. The other boys from your batch follow along. You included.

“Man, we were busting ass in Warzone and running up squads in Fortnite,” says Howard, patting his shoulder on the soon to be groom. “Now one of us is getting married and having a kid! Crazy.”

“Says the guy who’s still taking 2K seriously in the big year of 2025,” you joke.

“And what happened to you?” he then fires back, turning his attention to you. “Weren’t you engaged to someone? You were always the first of us to reach every milestone! What happened to her?”

“We —called it off. Wasn’t meant to be,” you say, casual, though inside, it bothers you a little.

“Damn dude,” Woojin interjects. He’s the lucky man waiting at the altar tomorrow. “We were all pulling for you. Mostly,” he quips.

“What do you mean, mostly?” Howard adds. “Is it cause he finally wasn’t first for once?”

To the collective laughter of the men’s table, funny he says that because you see her there too. Your lover. Right across the room.

Former love, actually.

Fate has its way of bringing people back into your life.

Tonight is as much of a class reunion as it is a wedding rehearsal. You’re all from the same batch that graduated during an uncertain time. Naturally, your journeys had diverging paths: some went far, countries and continents apart, others stayed close to home. Only now has the first of your bunch finally begun to settle down with marriage and plans to start a family soon. The nature of the world doesn’t lend itself to raising kids right now, yet the cycle continues, one way or another.

Tomorrow, Woojin’s exchanging vows with Hyeri and taking her hand in marriage. One of the boys, he was the guy who brought the guys together for night-long gaming sessions during lockdown. Somehow he locked in and graduated with everyone else when you all thought he couldn’t do it. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s found his partner for life online too. That lucky son-of-a-bitch somehow has more game than you, and kept his relationship through thick and thin—something you couldn’t accomplish.

All credit to him; he’s turned his life around and is prospering.

So this wedding is kind of your last hurrah as a group; one final sendoff to being young and reckless. It’d been years since you last saw each other, let alone did things like game and hang out. Each one is living his own life, and you’re all the better for it. Most of your conversations revolve around that early 2020s nostalgia, talking about current predicaments over copious amounts of alcohol, about finding employment in a time period where unemployed is at an all-time high, some contemplating moving back with their parents because living costs are that expensive, and others being unsatisfied or frustrated with their current occupation but powering through because Lord knows when they’ll get the opportunity to jump ship without sinking to the bottom like a majority of the population.

Ah, to be young and innocent again. Good times. Damn good times.

Life has treated you kindly for the most part; you’ve got your dream job across the country, working under a team you admire and respect, and are able to support yourself comfortably. Sure, it’s lonely sometimes, but you’ve got your own space, are financially stable, and can do whatever you want. It’s not a bad thing. Never is.

Except, you didn’t think the loneliness would catch up to you. The last time you felt truly connected was the last time you were with her.

You’re not sure how the topic came up, but you’re reminiscing about the old times, and the boys are asking you why you called it off with her.

“We just weren’t meant to be,” you remark, deep in thought. “She deserved someone better.”

“Better than you, man?” says Eric. “I think you’re selling yourself short. I remember when we were doing the whole Zoom dating thing. You were a mess.”

“A hot mess,” Howard chimes in.

“You were the first one of us to find someone. How the hell did you manage to call it off with her and not screw it up?"Jann adds.

"How the fuck should I know,” you reply, exasperated. “I guess—it just stopped clicking. Or I did something wrong and I never noticed.”

It’s a dour question to be asking especially when one of the guys is gonna tie the knot with a woman the next day. So you brush it aside and excuse yourself from the conversation.

“Hey, you mind if I—”

“Go ahead. We’ll probably hit the club later,” Jann tells you.

“Good luck, bro,” Woojin calls out. “Don’t go falling for any of the bridesmaids, okay?”

“Ha. Funny.” You shoot him a mocking scowl.

As you leave the table, you’re scanning the venue, searching for her. It’s an open bar, and there are plenty of places to hide away and have a quiet drink. Or going outside for a smoke break. Either option works. Hell, calling it early might be your best way out.

You’re not the same outgoing man you were in your youth years ago.

Just as you sit up and ask the bartender for a drink, she comes in, unassuming: taking the seat right beside yours, telling the waiter she’ll have the same thing.

You don’t bother turning your head to recognize her presence.

“Minju.”

“Hey, darling.”

It’s been over two years since you called it quits in pursuit of this dream job; a long-distance relationship was too impractical given the nature of your livelihoods, even more so when there’s a 12 hour timezone gap separating you. In reality, it was never meant to last; she was an exchange student who you miraculously kept close contact with after graduating. She was never meant to stay on your side of the world.

But you still met. Still held each other. Felt genuine warmth in each other’s arms. The time was short, but meaningful.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” you say, remarking at her unexpected presence at this rehearsal dinner. Most of her schedules never made it outside of Asia; her foreign trips were brief excursions, for magazine shoots and commercial ads. Nothing more.

“It’s only for Suzette,” she tells you, adjusting a small strand of hair tucked close to her ear. “I couldn’t turn down being a bridesmaid for a childhood friend. How’ve you been?” she asks, casual, like friends catching up and not former lovers.

“Same shit, different day,” you respond. “Work, sleep, repeat. Same goes for you, I’d imagine.”

“Somewhat,” she answers, tilting her head. “My agency has me doing a lot of gigs overseas recently. So, not much difference.”

“You’re not based in Korea anymore?”

“Still am.”

“Then, why are you here?”

“Like I said, it’s only for the wedding,” she replies, resting her head on her palm, waiting for her drink. “And—there’s been talks.”

“About?”

“About Hollywood. Trying to get me in. Nothing’s been finalized, though.”

If only this were two years ago instead of now. Considering your social circles overlapped, seeing her at one of your friend’s weddings was inevitable, but you’d be talking about your own plans to get married rather than talking about the fumbled bag, the one that got away, that could haves, the should haves, the what ifs. That’s the most bittersweet feeling.

“Congratulations in advance,” you genuinely tell her.

“Thanks,” says Minju, smiling, but you can tell there’s a tinge of weariness and doubt behind her expression. “And how about you? What’s been happening?”

“The usual,” you reply. “Working, sleeping. Not much else. Sometimes I go out, have a few drinks, meet a couple girls, but nothing serious.”

“Sounds like you,” she says, smirking.

“Yeah, well. I’m not the same person I was before.”

“I can tell,” she remarks.

“Really, now?”

“Not in a bad way, silly,” she says, letting out a light, feathery laugh. “You’re calmer, less flustered. More relaxed.”

“You should see me at work then,” you suggest, half-jokingly, half-serious.

She didn’t see what transpired at the boys’ table five minutes ago, because you just know she would have made a comment about you staying the same after all this time.

The waiter returns with your ordered drinks, and you both take it at the same time in equal increments. That part of your relationship being in sync never died. You’ve spent the better part of that time since breaking up with Minju basically living your life, focusing on your career, acting like she doesn’t exist at all. All that to look like a deer caught in the headlights the moment she reemerges from the depths of your memories.

And you’re not sure where that comes from, because you can name a laundry list of charms Minju has: her gorgeous face, her pristine, gleaming skin, her elegant smile—she’s just meant for the spotlight, for the cameras. Her looks are her bread and butter. That’s the reason you fell in love with her.

In the present, her beauty hasn’t waned a single bit; in fact, she looks better than ever. Probably a product of that post-breakup afterglow.

“I can’t believe the two of them are getting married,” she remarks, placing her empty glass on the counter.

“You and me both,” you tell her, swirling the remaining liquid in your drink. Turning to face her, you continue, “You know, people actually thought we’d be the first.”

“So I have heard.”

It shouldn’t be surprising, really; the boys are the loudest group in the room, after all. She probably heard you talking about how your relationship didn’t work out, she just doesn’t wanna admit it.

“The girls said the same thing about us too,” she adds, turning to the waiter, asking for another round. “And like—how did we get to that point?”

“Beats me,” you say, staring down at the bottom of your empty glass. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“For how long?”

“About five minutes,” you quip.

“I’m not kidding,” she says, facing you, the dim lights reflecting against her eyes, almost glowing.

“Neither was I,” you insist.

“Come on,” she continues. “Tell me. What’s the real reason you called it off? I’d love to hear the truth.”

“It’s like what I told you back then: I wasn’t ready to commit,” you say, meeting her gaze. “I mean—you’re in Korea, and I’m in the US. How was I supposed to talk to you with a 12 hour timezone difference?”

Her brows furrow; her lips shift downward. “Oh, so you’re blaming me, is that it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re saying that the reason our relationship didn’t work out was because of the 12 hour timezone difference,” she clarifies, tone sharp, yet composed. “I’m saying that’s bullshit. There’s always a way. You could have talked to me whenever. But no. You didn’t. You gave up.”

“It’s not just that, Minju,” you answer, not backing down. “You’re not the only one who had a life. I was busy too. And the distance was killing me.”

“So, is it my fault?”

“No, it’s not. Never was. It’s a me thing.”

“Thanks for letting me know what I already knew from the start,” she says, sarcasm dripping in her voice.

“Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Because,” she starts, and the tone of her voice changes. Softer, more somber. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“That’s a coincidence. I’ve been thinking about you too.”

“No, not that. About the past. What could have been. Where we would be now. I wonder if I would be happier.”

And here. We. Go.

“You can’t change the past. It’s over.”

“I know. I know.” Minju shakes her head gently. “But sometimes, I can’t help but think: what if.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I know,” she admits, sighing, and her chest deflates. “It’s just—seeing you—and then my friend getting married tomorrow—I just—"

She takes a lengthy swig of her second glass, letting the taste consume her for a moment and allowing it to go down her throat. "I don’t know. Honestly, I can’t think straight right now.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you say, blunt, sliding away the mostly empty glass from her grasp. Then with a curt nod, you get up and walk away. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right.” Minju doesn’t try to pull you back in. Thank heavens. “See ya.”

Your head is all over place, and you’re not entirely sure what the fuck just happened. Well, you know what happened, but the emotions, her words, the whole sequence of it all—are difficult to process.

Fuck, you’ve had a rough night. And you’re not even in the top five drunkest people in the gathering.

Outside, you find that fresh air isn’t enough to relieve you even a little bit. The faint scent of nicotine wafts through the area, and it’s not doing you any favors either.

They’re practically just conversing inside anyway; you may as well take your leave.

But instead of going home and getting ready for tomorrow, you head to a bar downtown to get your head loosened up. Nothing better than another drink to numb the pain.

So, you’re not surprised when the object of your troubles, the source of your headaches, the cause of your misfortune, sits next to you.

"Fancy running into you again,” she remarks, her lips curling upward upon catching your glance. “Guess my GPS has its tracker set to you.”

This cannot be a fucking coincidence.

Turning away on instinct, you raise a hand, defensive. “Don’t do this, Minju.”

“Do what?”

“This,” you reply, gesturing toward her. Her presence. It’s a sin in and of itself. “Talking to me. Looking like that.”

“Looking like what?”

“You know exactly what,” you shoot back, irate. She’s so fucking pretty it actually pains your eyes being graced by this ethereal beng in an otherwise grungy room.

“Ah,” she sighs. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Minju,” you say, voice low. “Please. Not tonight.”

“Fine. Fine,” she relents, holding her hands up. “I’ll have my drink then leave you on your own.”

No, because, you know her exact game plan: she’s gonna wait till you make your order, give it five minutes, and have what you’re having too. She’ll go on this yap about missing you, among other things, constantly reminding you of what could have been, how you could be the next couple after Woojin and Suzette to get married, if only this or that, and so on.

It drives you crazy. It makes you sick. Irrationally sick.

So you sit there, hoping she’ll lose interest and walk away. Except she won’t; she’ll be there the whole night if it gets to that point.

“Gotta make a quick call,” she suddenly says, pulling her phone out and walking away.

Or maybe not.

Just as you think she’s gone, and you’re free to enjoy the rest of the night in peace, she returns, sitting beside you again.

“Sorry, was that important?”

“Nah,” she answers, shaking her head. “I was checking up on my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Mmhm,” she nods passively. “Met him a few weeks ago.”

Oh, you know exactly where she’s going. Two words: Rage. Bait.

Not like you’ve been quietly lurking on her new man’s Instagram page, posting the occasional dinner pic with Minju’s chin reflected, but not her full face. Anyone with a brain cell can tell it’s her. Or the date pic with her silhouette or her back. It’s too obvious. Anything to get a reaction from you.

“Good for you,” you casually remark, keeping it together. “Hope he treats you like the angel you are.”

It isn’t sarcastic, not at all; it’s as genuine as you can get without sounding like jealousy incarnate.

“Sure he is,” she says, messaging someone on her phone. “How about you? Anyone special?”

“If there were, I’d have posted pictures,” you tell her.

Minju puts her phone down, as if you’re implying something deeper there. “Funny.”

The waiter comes back with your ordered drinks, and she gobbles down hers right away. You hardly touch yours.

Before she asks for more, you swallow up the whole thing in a single gulp. You’re not taking any chances.

“So—not seeing anyone, are we?” she suddenly asks, tilting her head close to the bar, smiling cartoonishly and slyly.

“No.” The delivery is quick and blunt, intending to cut off any spark of conversation before it burns.

“Here’s the thing though,” she goes on, unfazed and unbothered, though the drinks certainly help in ignoring common sense: “We’re only just—seeing each other. Just dates here and there. He really loves me, but I haven’t really thought of—you know—”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because—” she inhales deeply, “I just think you oughta know what I’ve been up to.”

“And?”

“That’s all there is to it,” she follows, casual and to the point. “Just in case.”

Minju refuses to leave you alone. She absolutely won’t. Over her dead body, in fact. Now it’s all the more clear that she’s under the influence. The whiplash in her tone, the way she sways back and forth in her chair, how your surroundings smell of lipstick and alcohol—it’s a dangerous game you’re playing, and it’s best to abort while you’re ahead.

But you don’t.

“Maybe I have learned a thing or two from you,” she suggests.

“About what?”

“About not committing,” Minju answers, and it’s like a revelation. A twisted mirror of how things ended with her back then. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

She says it the exact same way you did. Only this time, there’s no sign of guilt or remorse, just a callous, apathetic undertone. It’s fucked in all the wrong ways. Yet you’re still not aborting.

“So call it off then,” you suggest, knowing full well she isn’t listening.

“Wouldn’t wanna leave him out in the cold,” she remarks, getting up and pulling you suddenly into an embrace. “C'mere—”

“Hold on,” you brush her away gently, trying not to cause a scene. “Minmin—it’s over between us.”

“Who decided that?”

“Me!”

“No you didn’t,” she protests, tone sarcastic, hands on her waist. “You still fucking miss me. I just know.”

Pretty sure that’s a given, with how conversational you’ve been with her throughout the entire night, but hearing the truth straight from her lips just strikes you at a whole other level.

“Come on,” Minju continues, grabbing your arm, and you’re both standing, facing each other. “Tell me. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I said yes, didn’t I?”

“Say it. Say you miss me.”

“I fucking miss you, okay?!” you finally admit, exasperated, and the words come out loud.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “That wasn’t hard, was it?”

“Now what?”

“A kiss,” she answers, arms wrapped around your neck. “I’ve missed your kisses.”

“Stop,” you tell her, stern. This time you’re pulling the plug for good (you don’t). “You’re clearly not thinking straight.”

“Sure I am,” she replies, smiling. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Look, I’ll call you a cab. Let’s just go our separate ways. Please.”

“No, no,” she says defiantly, unwilling to surrender. “Hear me out. I’m serious.”

“Go on.”

But that ends up being your biggest mistake.

Minju doesn’t say a word. Instead, she pulls you forward and passionately kisses you on the lips.

It’s sinful, it’s sweet. It’s everything you’ve wanted.

The taste of lipstick and wine on her tongue sends electricity down your spine as your hands instinctively find her waist, pulling her flush against you. Her fingers tangle in your hair, nails lightly scraping your scalp in that way she knows drives you wild. Your bodies melt into each other like no time has passed, like you haven’t spent the last two years building walls around your heart that she’s now effortlessly demolishing with her mouth. When she deepens the kiss, you respond without hesitation, all resolve crumbling as years of suppressed longing surface with overwhelming force.

This isn’t just a kiss; it’s an admission, a surrender, a dangerous relapse into an addiction you thought you’d overcome. Gone in an instant.

Her teeth sink into your lower lip and a breathless moan slips past your lips, making her grin. You’re falling apart at the seams, and she’s reveling in the power she holds over you.

“Place,” is all you can manage to gasp, and she’s already nodding, tugging you along, not breaking contact for a moment.

“God, I’ve missed this,” Minju whispers, and her hot breath against your skin sends a shiver down your spine.

As soon as the door to her hotel room swings open and shut, you’re back in each other’s arms again, tangled up in kisses and hands all over. The click of the lock barely registers before she’s pressing against you, her body soft yet urgent beneath the thin fabric of her dress. Your hands roam desperately, mapping familiar curves, rediscovering the dip of her waist, the smooth expanse of her back. Her fingers dig into your shoulders, nails crescents against your shirt as she pulls you closer, deeper.

She spins around in a dizzying blur, her dress swirling around her thighs like dark water, and you set her in front, your fingers trembling slightly as they find the zipper. The sound of the metal sliding down seems impossibly loud in the quiet room: a slow, deliberate rasp that echoes the acceleration of your heart. As the fabric parts, you catch glimpses of her smooth, creamy skin in the orange light, the familiar landscape of her back making your breath catch. Her dress pools at her feet in a soft whisper of silk, leaving her standing before you in nothing but her black lace bra and panties, highlighting the svelte curves you’d memorized with your touch but forgotten the precise shape of.

Next thing you know, she’s already unhooked her bra, joining the dress on the floor before turning around and facing you, breasts on full display, nipples already taut.

It’s the least of your priorities right now when Minju’s back to kissing you again passionately, her mouth claiming yours with a hunger that feels both familiar and terrifyingly new. Her hands slide up your chest, curling into the fabric of your shirt as if trying to anchor herself to you, to this moment, to whatever dangerous territory you’ve both willingly and drunkenly wandered into. This is wrong—so fucking wrong—your mind screams, but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming need to taste more, feel more, have more of her after half a year of carefully constructed distance.

Her tongue explores your mouth with practiced intimacy, rediscovering every curve and hollow, and you return with equal fervor. All rational thought, dissolving into pure sensation so effortlessly. When she pulls back just enough to breathe, her eyes are dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with desire and something else you can’t quite name: longing, perhaps, or the reckless abandon that comes from too much alcohol and too many suppressed feelings.

Tomorrow be damned, consequences be damned. Right now, there’s only the two of you, the dim orange light of her hotel room, and the desperate, undeniable attraction that’s brought you back together against all better judgment.

“I’ve missed this,” Minju whispers against your lips once more, and it never gets old. At all.

You don’t answer, just pull her closer, your hands taking lease of the smooth expanse of her back, memorizing all over again the way her skin responds to your touch, the little shivers that trace the path of your fingers. She whines, her lips parting with an airy gasp before suddenly shifting into a yelp as you take hold of her ass, squeezing through her panties with an ironclad grip that makes her scream.

Kissing into her mouth, trying to take absolute control. Except she’s defiant, pulling on you in equal measure. She takes hold of your back, forcing the shirt over your head and tossing it aside before you’re back to claiming each other’s lips again and again. This back and forth extends to the bedroom, by that point she’s got your belt and zipper done, sliding your pants down to the floor. In return, you grip her ass tight again, forcing her to break the kiss and cling to you as you slip her panties down her slender, lush legs. Your boxers come off right after, leaving nothing separating your hot, wanton bodies.

And God—you just can’t stop kissing her.

The bed protests under your combined weight with a weary groan as you tumble onto it together, a tangle of limbs and desperation. The hotel sheets feel rough against your skin, an utter contrast to Minju’s smooth, yielding body beneath you. Her legs wrap around your waist instinctively, pulling you deeper into the embrace you’ve both been craving for two years. You can feel the heat radiating from her core, a desperate warmth that promises to consume you entirely if you let it.

Your hands explore her body with renewed urgency, rediscovering every curve and hollow you thought you’d forgotten but somehow still knew by heart. Her fingers trace patterns across your shoulders, nails leaving faint trails that burn with pain and pleasure.

“Is this a reminder of what I threw away?” you grit out, forcefully kissing Minju, her head buried deep in the sheets. “Of what we were?”

“Now you finally fucking get it,” she says, before rolling over you and pinning you down on the bed instead.

For a moment, the world goes still. There’s no noise, no movement, no sense of time passing. Just the two of you, joined in a single, perfect moment. Then, suddenly, you break loose, and the spell is broken.

You’re both wrestling for control, for claim over the other. Taking turns rolling the other onto the mattress, refusing to give in, refusing to be the loser. When you’re on top of her again, her hands grip your shoulders, nails digging into your skin as she tries to flip you over, but you resist, straining your muscles. Her breath comes in ragged gasps against your ear, each exhale a challenge you can’t ignore.

It’s not about pleasure anymore; it’s about winning, about proving who’s in the right.

Without hesitating, you slip inside her, no preamble, no teasing. Just a slick, deep thrust into her tight, suffocating cunt.

Minju’s face immediately shifts, reacting to the sudden sensation filling her womb. She cries out in pleasure, screaming a breathy ‘fuck’ from the top of her lungs, as if you’re piercing her through the heart. Never this loud, until now.

“Fuck—didn’t even say a damn thing—” she mutters out, sighing and gasping for air.

And you just go hard into her. Without remorse, without mercy. No preamble, no tease, just hammer into her cunt and break her.

Every thrust is a reminder of what you two once were, what you lost when you walked away. Every exit is another stab to the gut, tearing at a wound that never fully healed. Your hips crash against hers with bruising force, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the room like dropping one accusation after another. Minju arches beneath you, her back bowing off the mattress as you drive into her again and again, each stroke deliberate, punishing. This is what Minju misses the most: the feeling of being used, of being taken and fucked into oblivion, of surrendering control to someone who knows exactly how to break her apart and put her back together again.

Her nails rake down your back, leaving burning trails that will surely mark you tomorrow and beyond, but you don’t care. You welcome the pain, knowing every scratch is a reminder for leaving her behind. The air inside this bedroom grows thick with sweat and sex, of wine and regret, as you both chase a release that feels more like revenge than pleasure. Her moans transform into something more primal, as she meets your intensity with her own—legs wrapping tighter around your waist, heels digging into your lower back, pulling you deeper even as tears stream down her temples, melding with the sweat on her face. You’re destroying each other, and neither of you have any intention to stop.

“Is that it?” She challenges you, through heavy breaths and deep groans, each pump, each smack of flesh making the bed buckwild. “Is that all you can do? I thought you missed me?”

Your response: to clamp down on her neck, leaving an unforgiving bruise that thunders in your ear, deafening.

"Then fuck me,” she pleads, her voice cracking. “Fucking do it.”

“Do what, Minmin? What is it that you want?” you grit out, briefly releasing your grip before biting down again.

“Fuck me,” Minju repeats, tears escaping her eyes.

“Say please.”

“Please, God—” she stammers, her whole body shaking, quivering uncontrollably, “—just fuck me. Fuck me, please.”

“You want it rough, don’t you?”

“Yes! Take me like you used to!”

And with a single devastating thrust, you quickly pull out and turn Minju over, face down, ass up. The smack that follows hits like lightning: fast, unexpected, thunderous. Her yelp is stifled through the sheets, rippling and reverberating.

“On your fours, Minmin,” you command, hoisting her up before she can even react so she’s bent forward on the mattress, giving her no respite with a series of handfuls to her ass. Each broken, cracked cry is music to your ears.

You see how obnoxiously, alarmingly wet she is: her aching core, splayed and throbbing, leaking with your precum and her arousal. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

“Put it back in—” she pleads, her voice low, needy, desperate. “Please—”

The sound is triggering; the way she tries to act all cute pisses you off. Her whimpers remind you of all the times you’ve heard them before: when things were simpler, when you weren’t two years and a few continents apart. Minju has set you down this dangerous path you swore you’d never touch again. And yet here you are: back at square one. That calculated pout she’s perfected, the slight tilt of her head that makes her look innocent despite everything—you know it’s a performance, a manipulation she wielded like a weapon even when you were together. And God help you, it’s working.

Your body responds before your brain can catch up, muscles tensing with arousal and frustration. The rational part of you—the part that moved on, that built a new life—is screaming that this is a mistake, that you’re both just using each other to scratch an itch that’s been festering for too long. But the primitive part, the part that remembers every curve of her body, every secret she ever whispered in the dark, is already surrendering.

It shows in the way you fill up her ass: firing an endless stream of forceful palms till they’re beet red, only arousing you further. This is no longer love: this is unbridled lust.

Brushing your slick cock against her aching folds, you relish the way Minju’s entire body trembles beneath your touch. Her wetness coats you completely, making each deliberate slide against her entrance an exercise in self-control that you’re rapidly losing. Your fingers tighten in her dark strands, tilting her head back at an angle that exposes the elegant line of her throat, making her whine in anticipation. You can see the reflection of your own face in the polished headboard—eyes dark with hunger, jaw clenched with restraint—and that makes it worse, makes it more real.

Her hips push backward, trying to capture what you’re withholding, but you hold firm, maintaining just enough distance to keep her on edge. Each time the head of your cock catches against her swollen clit, she gasps, the sound muffled by the sheets her face is pressed into. It’s a power play, pure and simple. A reminder that even after all this time, you still know exactly how to make her desperate, how to unravel her piece by piece.

“Shit—that fucking hurts—” she whines, elicting another spank in retaliation. You have her hair pulled like a dog on a leash, and she fucking loves it. Loves how toxic this can really get, and you’ve only just begun.

“Isn’t this what you fucking wanted?” you grit out.

“Of course!” she screams out, threatening to draw attention from the surrounding area, her defiance rearing its ugly head once more. “Fuck me! Come on!”

You forcefully bury her head deep in the mattress so that no one can hear, and you just— drive into her.

To her credit, Minju takes your whole length effortlessly, without complaint, without resistance, her body accommodating you with an ease that feels like coming home. Her cries are muffled by the sheets, creating a sound that’s part pleasure, part surrender, part agony as you drive into her with reckless abandon, each thrust going deeper than the last. You feel her inner walls clench around you, a desperate grip that mirrors the way her fingers clutch the bedding beneath. Her back arches at an impossible angle, the muscles in her shoulders and spine standing out in sharp relief. Every time you bottom out, she makes this small, choked sound that goes straight to your cock, a reminder that even after all this time, no one else has ever fit her the way you do.

She’s soaked, dripping, her arousal coating the tops of her thighs, her inner thighs, dripping onto the sheets below. It’s obscene, the way her body folds in response, the way her pussy stretches to accommodate your girth. It’s a sight you’ve missed, a sight you’ve been craving since the day you walked out.

You take her from behind, relentless and unyielding. With every plunge, you feel her insides quiver, her cunt gripping you tight, unwilling to let go. It’s a struggle to maintain the pace you’ve set, to not lose yourself in the familiar rhythm of her body, the way her breathing quickens when you hit a certain spot, the soft sighs that escape her lips when you slow down.

“Harder,” she demands, and you oblige, your strokes becoming rougher, faster, more erratic.

She’s demanding, greedy, and you’re giving her exactly what she wants. And you fucking hate yourself for it.

“I fucking hate you, Minju,” you grit out, still pumping into her needy cunt. “So fucking much. I wish we never met. Wish we never became friends. Became this—”

“The feeling is mutual,” she sighs out, tilting her head ever so slightly to make sure you hear her, loud and clear. “Now shut the fuck up and fuck me.”

You’re not gentle. In fact, the opposite: you’re brutal.

“You miss fucking this cunt?” she taunts, looking slightly over her shoulder, half her profile eying you. Hard at work, losing yourself to the pleasure of fucking her senseless. “None of the girls ever made you feel this way like I did?”

“No,” you admit, because why lie, really. You’re both past the point of lying. It’s useless.

“Good,” she says, sounding almost pleased—mostly with herself.

“God—you’re so fucking insufferable,” you groan, thrusting into her, bottoming out and not letting her breathe. You reach for her head and bury it deep in the sheets, and she screams her heart out in response. “Fuck—fuck you, Kim Minju.”

“I’m waiting.”

And as if you weren’t already boiling over, this finally sets you off.

You can feel it building—a pressure in your gut that’s been accumulating for two years, for every night you spent alone thinking about her. The heat coils in the pit of your stomach, white-hot and demanding release. Minju’s breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts against the mattress, each exhale a wordless plea for more even as she continues to fight you with every fiber of her being. Her body is a battlefield of contradictions, pushing back against you one moment, then arching into you the next, desperate for the relief only you can provide.

Your hips move with a mind of their own, pistoning into her with a rhythm that’s more primal than conscious thought. The sound of your bodies meeting—flesh against flesh, slick with sweat and desire—fills the room, punctuated by her choked cries and your own guttural grunts. You’re both teetering on the edge, balanced precariously between pleasure and pain, between love and hate, between the past you can’t escape and the future you’ve built without each other.

“So close—” Minju whines, sighing deeply, “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

You don’t. Can’t. Won’t. Not now. Not ever.

Your pace becomes more erratic, more desperate, as you chase the release that’s been just out of reach for far too long. Her inner walls clench around you, fluttering, milking, refusing to let go. It’s all in the details: her face a mess of sweat and tears, her eyes dark, her body gleaming except for her swollen ass. In that moment, as you look upon your twisted handiwork, you see everything you’ve lost and everything you’ve gained, all in the same person who’s currently taking your cock like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

“Fuck—Minju,” you breathe out. A prayer or a curse, you can’t tell.

You can’t help yourself, not anymore. You’re a slave to her body, a prisoner to her desires. Your hands move of their own accord, one sliding beneath her to cup her breast, the other slipping between her legs to rub her clit. She’s drenched, her arousal coating your fingers, easing the movement as you circle the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Please,” she begs, her voice breaking in shreds. “Please, please, please—”

“Quiet,” you hush, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss on her nape. For a fleeting moment, the turbulent fire between you extinguishes, replaced by an unexpected, unusual tenderness. Minju’s body shivers beneath you, not from cold but from the sudden shift in intensity, the gentleness cutting through the roughness like a knife through butter. Her muscles, which had been coiled tight with resistance and desire, relax almost imperceptibly, and you feel it in the way her breathing changes, becoming less ragged, more measured. This brief calm feels more intimate than all the brutal coupling that came before it, more dangerous because it reminds you of what you once had—what you might still have, if either of you were brave enough to admit it.

“Just fucking let me—” she pleads, her coil close to snapping, grasping at straws. “I’m so fucking close—”

“Beg,” you say, simply.

“Fucking beg,” she challenges, her tone seething, her pride and ego bruised.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and the words are out of your mouth before you can think twice.

“What?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she mutters, shaking her head. “That’s not—”

“I’m sorry, Minmin,” you repeat, a little louder this time. “For leaving. For walking away. For not fighting harder.”

“Then prove it,” she says.

You press another soft kiss to her neck, this time lingering a second longer. But you slam into her deep, remembering where you are.

“Oh, God—oh, fuck—please,” she pleads, her words broken, her mind shattering.

“Please, what, Minmin? What do you want?”

“Make me cum,” she begs. “Make me yours. Please.”

Her entire body shakes violently, muscles spasming uncontrollably as waves of pleasure crash through her, her inner walls clenching around your cock like a vise, tightening with each pulse until you can barely move. She’s screaming, crying, begging, pleading, but the only sound that escapes her lips is a broken sob, a single syllable that carries the weight of two years’ worth of yearning and longing, a guttural 'please’ that’s both a surrender and a demand. You feel the tremors starting deep within her core, radiating outward through her limbs until her entire frame is quivering against yours, her back arching so sharply you’re afraid she might break. Her fingers are white-knuckled where they clutch the sheets, tearing at the fabric with desperate strength as her orgasm overtakes her completely.

She moans out your name as she finally collapses, and her orgasm is its own reward: the sound of your name rolling off her tongue effortlessly, carrying with it everything left unsaid, every thought that has been buried beneath years of resentment and regret. Her body goes limp beneath you, boneless, as if every ounce of strength has been drained away, leaving only the trembling aftermath of pleasure that still courses through her veins. You can feel the last few spasms of her cunt around your cock, each one weaker than the last, like aftershocks following an earthquake, each one a reminder of the power you once held over her—and perhaps still do.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps, rippling against the sheets, her shoulders rising and falling with each inhale, each exhale a release. You’re still buried deep inside her, and it doesn’t take long for you to follow right after.

With a deep guttural grunt that rumbles from your chest, you spill into her, filling her to the hilt in one final, punishing stroke. Minju’s groan as she takes it all is heavenly, a familiar melody that resonates deep within your bones, like she’s always been yours to claim. You hold her tight while her upper half remains bent forward and folded down, depleted and discharged, her body limp beneath yours. Shot after shot of hot cum paints her warm walls in your signature, a fresh coat that won’t disappear easily, marking her once more as your own.

And you stay embedded there, unwilling to let this go easily, your cock still pulsing with aftershocks as you spill the last remnants of yourself into her. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, each exhale shaking your entire frame, the sound blending naturally with the soft hitching of Minju’s gentle sobs against the mattress. Her body feels impossibly warm around you, still quivering with the aftermath of her orgasm. Your fingers, which had been gripping her hips with bruising force, now relax their hold, and you’re brushing her hair to catch a glimpse of her flawless profile and features.

Even like this, she looks divine.

Minju tilts her head slightly, your eyes meeting. For a moment, the fire isn’t banked; if anything, it’s burning brighter than ever. Her gaze tells you that this isn’t enough—that she can go on for hours and hours, that you have two years of pent-up frustration and hankering to let out.

But the alcohol finally seeps into your tired, overwhelmed bodies, and the last thing you see is yourself crashing onto her before the world goes completely dark.

You almost forget someone’s getting married today.

A pair of sharp nails wake you up as dawn arrives, the midnight blackness of the outside world turning a gradual royal blue. So you did call an early night off.

But then you remember where you are: in someone else’s bed, smelling of sex and alcohol, sticky with the combined stains of your sweat and arousal.

And the worst part is: you can’t move. Every muscle protests in agony, every nerve feels like moving a boulder. Even breathing feels like its own trial, like you’ve spent your entire life smoking a pack a day.

Minju’s deeply clinging to you; her arm wraps around your body in a tight embrace, her head buried on your chest, seemingly sound asleep. It would feel like hell to wake her up, telling her you have to be at your place to get ready.

But as you try to squirm your way out of her grasp without properly disturbing her, the grip seemingly tightens on its own accord.

When you manage to tilt your head to find her resting on your chest, she’s shaking still, gentle, almost feathery. She’s sniffling, sobbing on your skin, marked by a stream of tears washing down her eyes. You want to ask her what’s wrong, what’s been bothering her, but you and her know exactly the answer—you just can’t bear to say it. Not right now. Not after what you both did.

“Hey,” you whisper, softly, trying not to startle her. “We need to get up."

She mumbles quietly, "Don’t wanna.”

“Minmin—”

“Can we just— pretend,” she pleads, near inaudible, “Just a little longer.”

“Pretend?”

“Pretend this is our life,” she says.

“Our—life?"

"Our apartment. Our bed. Our clothes,” she lists, “Just for a little bit. Let’s pretend.”

“That’s not fair,” you tell her, sighing.

“Why not?”

“You’re seeing someone,” you say, flatly. The alcohol hasn’t fully blanked out everything from last night, thank God.

For a moment, the silence feels intense. Like you’re just waiting for the inevitable. The screaming. The shouting. The crash outs that ultimately contributed to your falling apart.

Instead, she buries her face further into the crook of your neck, and the sobbing intensifies.

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” you soothe, patting her head. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she cries, the tears soaking your collar. “He’s not you,” she admits, her voice cracking. “He’s never gonna be you. And aren’t you seeing someone too?”

“Not a serious one,” you say, frowning, brushing a tear away from her now reddened eye.

“I miss us,” she whispers.

“Me too,” you admit, softly.

“Do you think, maybe, after this weekend, we can—we can talk,” she says, slowly. “See how things go. See if maybe—”

“Maybe,” you repeat, cutting her off.

And there are a few lines that can be crossed—have been crossed, actually, as late as last night—but this is one of those that you simply don’t. There are boundaries, invisible threads that bind the chaos of human relationships together, and to tamper with them is to invite disaster. You’ve already stumbled past so many of them in the past 12 hours, each step forward a careful negotiation with your own conscience. But this—this is different. This is the line that, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed. It’s going back to your old ways, to your old self, returning to a place you’ve left out to die, and for good reason.

Your fingers trace the curve of her shoulder, the skin still warm from sleep and the lingering heat of your bodies intertwined. She shifts slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she unconsciously presses closer to you, seeking comfort even in her sleep. New morning light filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow on her face, illuminating the tear tracks that have dried on her cheeks. In this moment, she looks so vulnerable, so fragile, and it takes every ounce of your self-control not to promise her the world, not to say yes, not to cross that final, unforgivable line.

“Maybe I don’t know.”