Hungry

I was in the middle of butchering the Brazilian funk TikTok challenge for the third time when the bedroom door opened.

The living room lights were dimmed the way I liked them for practice—soft enough that the phone propped against the water bottle didn’t pick up every sweat shine on my forehead. Bare feet sliding across the wooden floor, hips trying to catch that sharp, rolling bounce the tutorial made look effortless. My shirt was already half-stuck to my back. The beat dropped again and I threw my arms out, laughing under my breath at how stupid I probably looked.

“Seojin.”

Yuna’s voice cut through the music. I paused mid-step, heart still jumping with the bass, and turned.

She stood in the doorway wearing one of my old black hoodies and nothing else that I could see from the waist down. The hem hit the tops of her thighs. Long black hair a little messy from the pillow, cheeks still soft with sleep. She blinked at me like she’d just woken up and the world hadn’t fully loaded yet.

“I want to eat something,” she said, voice low and a little rough.

That was all I needed.

“Yeah? Okay. Stay right there. Don’t move.” I was already grabbing my keys off the counter, shoving my feet into the nearest pair of slides. “GS25 is two minutes. I’ll get the honey butter chips and that peach drink you like. Anything else? Just nod if you’re starving.”

She opened her mouth. I was already halfway out the door.

“Be right back!”

The night air hit cooler than I expected. Streetlights painted the sidewalk yellow. I jogged the whole way, bag bouncing against my thigh, replaying the way she’d looked leaning on the doorframe. Established relationship or not, Yuna still managed to scramble my brain on a regular basis. One sleepy sentence and I was sprinting for convenience-store snacks like the world would end if she got hangry.

I loaded up: two bags of honey butter chips, the peach yogurt drink, a banana milk just in case, and a pack of those soft chocolate-filled cookies she pretended not to like but always finished. The ajumma at the counter gave me the usual look—young guy buying late-night snacks, nothing new. I paid and ran back.

By the time I unlocked the apartment door I was out of breath and grinning.

“Got everything—”

Yuna was still standing in the living room. Music off now. Arms crossed under her chest, one eyebrow raised in that quiet way that usually meant I was about to get roasted.

I held up the plastic bag like an offering. “Honey butter. Peach. Cookies. You’re welcome.”

She stared at the bag. Then at me. Then she exhaled through her nose, the smallest almost-laugh.

“Seojin.”

“Yeah?”

“I said I want to eat something.”

“I know. That’s why I—”

“Not food.”

The bag lowered an inch.

She stepped closer, bare feet silent on the wood. The hoodie shifted with the movement and I caught the briefest flash of the soft curve of her hip. No shorts. No underwear line. Just skin and the loose black fabric that suddenly felt like a personal attack.

“I came out here,” she said, voice still low, “because I woke up wanting you. I was going to say I want to eat you. Or sit on your face. Or just get fucked until I stop thinking about that stupid dance video you keep practicing. But you heard ‘eat’ and vanished before I could finish the sentence.”

Silence stretched. The fridge hummed. Somewhere outside a scooter passed.

I set the bag down very carefully on the counter.

“…Oh.”

Yuna’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Oh.”

I dragged a hand through my hair, half-embarrassed, half already hard. “In my defense, you looked hungry.”

“I am hungry.” She closed the last bit of distance and hooked two fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants. “Just not for chips.”

That was all the warning I got before she dropped to her knees.

My back hit the edge of the counter. Yuna tugged the sweatpants and boxers down in one smooth pull, and the cool air of the apartment kissed my cock a second before her hand did. She wrapped her fingers around the base and looked up at me through her lashes—half amused, half already focused.

“Next time,” she murmured, “let me finish talking.”

Then she licked a slow stripe from base to tip and took me into her mouth.

The sound I made was embarrassing. Soft and punched-out. Yuna hummed around me like she approved, the vibration traveling straight up my spine. She didn’t tease for long. She never did when she was actually hungry. Wet heat closed over the head, then more, until her nose almost brushed my stomach and her throat fluttered. One hand stayed wrapped around what she couldn’t take; the other braced on my thigh for balance.

I threaded my fingers into her hair without pulling, just holding. The sight of her like that—my hoodie sliding off one shoulder, lips stretched around me, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check my face—nearly ended me early.

She pulled off with a soft, wet sound and replaced her mouth with her hand, stroking slow and tight.

“You ran out of here like the place was on fire,” she said, voice a little wrecked already. “Didn’t even put on real shoes.”

“You said you wanted to eat,” I managed. “I panicked.”

“Cute.” She kissed the tip, then sucked it back in, cheeks hollowing. Her tongue worked the underside in that specific way she knew scrambled every coherent thought I had left. Spit slicked her fingers. The wet sounds filled the quiet apartment and mixed with my uneven breathing.

I lasted maybe three more minutes before I had to tug gently at her hair.

“Bed,” I rasped. “Or I’m finishing right here and you’ll be annoyed.”

Yuna let me go with one last slow lick and stood up, lips shiny. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and smirked.

“Race you.”

She turned and walked toward the bedroom like she hadn’t just had my cock down her throat. The hoodie swayed with every step. I kicked the sweatpants the rest of the way off, abandoned the convenience-store bag, and followed.

By the time I reached the bed she’d already peeled the hoodie off and tossed it somewhere. Naked in the low light from the hallway, all long lines and soft shadows. She climbed onto the mattress on her hands and knees, looked back over her shoulder, and arched her back just enough to be deliberate.

I didn’t need a second invitation.

I crawled up behind her, hands sliding over the warm skin of her hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of her spine. She was already wet when I reached between her legs—slick and ready, like she’d been thinking about this longer than just the few minutes since she woke up. I dragged two fingers through her folds, slow, collecting the wetness, then pushed them inside. Yuna dropped her head forward and made a soft sound into the sheets.

“Still hungry?” I asked, curling my fingers just to hear her breath hitch.