Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The van hummed beneath them, gliding through Seoul’s early morning traffic like a secret no one was supposed to notice—but always did. Inside, Rumi sat with her back straight, sunglasses in place, every inch of her styled to look effortless. Her hands, however, betrayed her. Her perfectly manicured nail tapped against the armrest frantically.

Across from her, Mira slouched low in her seat, boots propped carelessly on the divider, headphones hanging around her neck. “We just dropped a platinum single and sold out a stadium in three minutes,” she muttered. “And now we’re… enrolling?”

Zoey didn’t look up from her phone. “It’s called longevity. Reputation. Artistic credibility. Celine said—”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Time to invest in yourselves as musicians.’ I read the email.” Mira shot a glare toward the front seat. “Pretty sure it just means ‘lay low and stop setting the internet on fire.’”

“Too late for that,” Zoey chirped, spinning her screen toward them. “The forums are already losing it over our school transfer. #HuntrixInUniform is trending.”

Mira raised a brow. “How many mentions so far?”

Zoey grinned. “Twenty nine paparazzi photos. Five fake dispatch leaks. And twelve over exaggerated news reports.”

Rumi didn’t react, but inside she felt it—the familiar tightening. Their fans were loyal, creative, and utterly relentless. Every move they made was dissected. Every blink. Every breath.

And this wasn’t just a move. This was the kind of choice that could reset an image—or destroy it.

She finally spoke, voice low but steady. “Let them talk.”

Mira smirked. “You say that now. Wait till we’re in matching uniforms doing group warm-ups with B-list trainees.”

Zoey nudged her. “You’re just mad we’re gonna have classes again.”

Outside, the van slowed. Through the window, the gates of Seoul Institute of Performing Arts loomed—sleek glass, gold signage, and just enough exclusivity to make it feel like a kingdom. A few bystanders turned, double-taking when they recognized the silhouettes in the vehicle.

Rumi adjusted her collar and exhaled softly. “This isn’t hiding,” she said to herself. “It’s just a different kind of stage.”

They stepped out together—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira—shoulders squared, camera aware, every move a statement.

The moment their shoes hit the pavement, a hush fell across the small crowd gathered near the entrance. Students in tailored uniforms froze mid-conversation, phones already lifting in shaky hands. A security staff member discreetly stepped in front of them, shielding Huntrix.

Rumi kept her pace steady, eyes forward, until she caught a glimpse of a girl lingering near a bulletin board. The student’s uniform was crisp, her books clutched tightly to her chest, and her phone forgotten in her other hand.

“Excuse me,” Rumi said gently. The girl froze like a deer in headlights.

Rumi offered a small smile, her tone warm and genuine. “Do you know where the opening ceremony is being held?”

The girl blinked twice before finding her voice. “Th-the auditorium. Second floor. Through the east wing, then up the grand stairs.”

“Thank you.” Rumi gave her a slight bow—respectful, practiced, but never insincere.

The girl made a small, squeaky noise in response—somewhere between a thank you and a sob.

As Rumi turned back to Mira and Zoey, she caught the two of them watching with amusement.

“She’s never going to recover from that,” Zoey whispered, nudging Mira.

“She’ll write a fanfic about it by lunch,” Mira replied, smirking. “You’re terrifyingly attractive when you’re polite.”

Rumi blushed but didn’t answer. She just led the way.

The grand stairs swept upward like the entrance to a theatre. A soft orchestral track played overhead, and school staff directed students through gold-trimmed doors into a sweeping, tiered auditorium. Velvet seats. Spotlights asleep above the stage. Prestige in every corner.

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey took seats near the back, their names not announced—just quiet murmurs as students noticed their presence.

The stage lights warmed. The school crest flashed onto the massive projector screen.

A staff member approached the podium, tapping the mic. “Welcome to the 58th academic year at the Seoul Institute of Performing Arts. We’ll begin with a welcome from one of our newest instructors, Professor Kim Jinu from the Department of Music, who will be offering a few words to our first-year cohort.”

From stage left, he walked out.

Rumi leaned slightly forward without meaning to.

Tall, lean, and dressed in a black shirt rolled at the sleeves, collar and tie just rumpled enough to be unbothered. A few sheets of paper in his hand, but no notes. His hair had the kind of tousled look that only happened naturally—or when someone was too focused on music to care how they looked.

He stepped up to the podium, the lights catching the side of his jaw, and glanced out across the room with the sort of calm that didn’t beg for attention—it owned it.

He stepped to the mic, adjusted it slightly, and looked out at the room—not scanning, but seeing. And when he spoke, his voice was quiet but warm, with a smooth cadence that wrapped around the walls like a song humming at its first note.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Kim Jinu. I teach Contemporary Composition. But I won’t spend your time listing credentials or philosophies you’ll forget by next week. I’ll just tell you what I believe.”

The auditorium stilled. Even the low hum of side conversations faded.

“I believe music isn’t about perfection. Or even performance. It’s about resonance.” He paused, just briefly, like he wanted the word to settle. “When someone sings, their voice doesn’t just reach your ears—it reaches your memory. Your heart. Sometimes, your soul. That’s why we cry at songs we haven’t heard in years. Or feel connected to strangers who sing in languages we don’t even understand.”

Rumi’s fingers stilled where they had been lightly fidgeting in her lap.

Jinu continued, “A true voice—whether broken, trained, quiet, raw—it doesn’t ask for permission. It just finds people. And when it does, something opens. Something honest.”

For a split second, his eyes lifted and swept the room again. They didn’t linger on her, not directly. But Rumi felt her chest tighten like he’d just said something meant only for her.

Maybe it was nothing.

But it felt like something.

“You’re here to learn,” he said, his voice dipping gently. “But most of all I hope you all find your true purpose, your true voice.”

A beat of silence followed.

Then, applause. Soft at first, then stronger.

But Rumi barely moved. Her posture still perfect, expression composed—yet her thoughts buzzed in quiet disarray. Something about his words had gotten under her skin, not in a loud, obvious way, but like a lyric that stayed with you long after the music faded.

Mira leaned in. “Why do I feel like I just got spiritually coached?”

Zoey whispered, “Hot and poetic. That’s so unfair.”

But Rumi didn’t respond. Her gaze stayed fixed on the stage even as he walked off it, disappearing the same way he’d come.

She didn’t know what she’d expected from this school.

But him?

She hadn’t expected him at all.

Chapter Text

By midday, Rumi had already lost count of how many people had said her name like it tasted foreign in their mouths.

Not all fans. Not exactly. Just classmates. Future composers, vocalists, dancers—some who stared, some who whispered, most who pretended not to care while very much caring. It was different from a red carpet or a live show, where the attention came with lights and applause.

Here, it came with scrutiny. Quiet. Constant.

And if Rumi was being honest, it was exhausting.

She didn’t show it, of course. Her blazer was still buttoned neatly, her makeup untouched. Every smile measured. Every nod intentional. She knew how to carry herself like a brand, even when no one was filming.

But by the time she reached the corridor outside Room 2C – Advanced Composition, the cracks in her patience were beginning to show.

Mira had texted her a meme about escape plans five minutes into ballet theory. Zoey sent her a blurry photo of her lunch tray captioned: Don’t u think this gimbap lowkey looks like a turtle?

Rumi smiled faintly at the screen, but her fingers hovered before switching it off.

Advanced Composition. Taught by him.

She hadn’t expected him to linger in her head after that speech. Calm. Self-assured. Unapologetic. And somehow unimpressed by the world around him.

Especially her.

It wasn’t arrogance, exactly. Just a kind of… disinterest. And that was new.

Most people wanted something from her. Attention. A photo. A follow. Jinu hadn’t even looked up when she’d walked passed him in the hallway earlier.

Or maybe he had—and just didn’t think much of it.

Rumi didn’t know which was worse.

She exhaled softly, adjusted her collar, and stepped inside.

The classroom was a hybrid of studio and seminar space—rows of digital keyboards, velvet stools, acoustic panels along the walls. Only a handful of students were already seated, scribbling in notebooks or plugging in their headphones. No flash, no drama.

Just sound waiting to happen.

She slid into a seat in the second row. Not too close. Not too distant.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted him—already at the front of the room, skimming over a set of loose sheets with a pencil tucked behind his ear. His sleeves were still rolled up, his posture relaxed. Like he belonged in this world and had nothing to prove.

As if the rules of tension didn’t apply to him.

He glanced up once—just briefly. No double-take. No raised brow. Just one unreadable glance.

And then he looked away.

Rumi sat back in her seat, arms crossed over her notebook, lips pressed together.

The final few students trickled in, their chatter fading the second Professor Jinu moved to the center of the room.

No settling in. No roll call. He didn’t even look up as he began speaking, still flipping through his notes. “Raise your hand if you think your voice is your strongest instrument,” he said casually.

Most hands went up—slowly. Rumi slightly raised hers up as well. Her eyes narrowed just slightly.

Jinu finally glanced up. His gaze swept the room like he was reading something deeper than confidence. Then, without warning, he nodded toward a girl in the front row. “You. Stand up. Sing one phrase. Anything.”

The girl blinked, caught off guard. “What… now?”

“No tomorrow,” he rolled his eyes in sarcasm.

A few chuckles stirred. Rumi watched closely.

The girl sang a shaky, half-whispered line from a ballad. Jinu listened without interrupting, then nodded. “Good. Next time, less breath. More intention.”

He turned again. “You—next. Something raw. Something not rehearsed.”

One by one, he moved through the room like a conductor with no score, pulling students into brief, exposed moments. Some hesitated. Some surprised themselves.

Then his eyes landed on her.

Jinu’s eyes scanned the room, then stopped. “Miss Rumi.”

The air in the classroom shifted—just slightly. Her ears tingled at the sound of her name in his voice.

All eyes turned toward her. Rumi didn’t need time to think. She stood smoothly, her chair barely making a sound. Her expression was unreadable, calm but not passive. She gave a small nod. “Alright.”

And then she began.

Her voice came low at first—gentle, clear, as if brushing the walls of the room. No theatrics. No build-up. Just breath and melody, shaped with effortless control. As she sang, the sound grew—not louder, but deeper, more certain. There was texture in it, warmth. Beauty laced into the tone, into every word, as though her voice knew how to hold back just enough emotion to keep it controlled and commanding.

She didn’t belt. She didn’t flex. She didn’t show off. Yet it was impossible to ignore. Every note was sure. Every word hung in the air long after it passed her lips. The room went still. Even the students who had come in skeptical or disinterested were now fully locked in.

And then, just as naturally, the song slipped into silence. She didn’t bow. She didn’t offer a single glance of self-congratulation.

Rumi simply sat back down, posture straight, gaze fixed ahead like nothing had shifted—even though everyone else in the room had.

The silence lingered until one student finally clapped, then another, hesitant but admiring.

Still, Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He let the noise fade before finally looking up from his notes. His voice was quiet. “Beautiful tone. Excellent control. Resonance. Breathwork.”

Rumi kept her eyes on him, her expression unreadable.

“But it wasn’t honest,” he added.

The room froze again. Rumi’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of her desk. “Wasn’t honest?” she echoed.

Jinu met her gaze fully now. “It was the kind of voice people learn to sing for others. It wasn’t yours. Not really.”

The statement wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t cruel. But it landed with precision—enough to draw breath from more than just Rumi. And though she said nothing, that single sentence stayed with her longer than the silence that followed.

No one spoke. Not even the students who had been whispering behind their hands earlier. The air inside the room felt heavier now, like the sound Rumi had left behind hadn’t quite cleared. It clung to the walls, to the instruments, to their skin. It clung to him, too.

He walked back down to his desk, the steps were unhurried, deliberate, like he was composing his thoughts the same way he would a song—note by note, breath by breath.

“When I asked whether your voice is your strongest instrument,” he said finally, his tone quieter now, less clinical, “I wasn’t asking about range or technique. I wasn’t asking who could hit the high notes or carry a tune with their eyes closed.”

He turned slightly, facing the class but never looking at any one person for too long. His gaze passed over them like a current.

“I was asking who’s brave enough to use it,” he said. “To speak or sing something that costs them something real. Because that’s what makes a voice powerful. Not its tone, but its truth.”

A beat passed.

He didn’t look at Rumi—but he didn’t need to. The weight of his next words hung there for her, whether he said them aloud or not.

“You can be trained to impress. You can even be trained to move people. But you can’t be trained to mean it. That part—you either choose it or you don’t.”

Rumi sat still in her seat, jaw clenched slightly, her notebook open on the desk in front of her but untouched. Her pen lay motionless across the page. The tension she felt wasn’t humiliation. It was something deeper, more dangerous—recognition.

He’d seen through her polish. Not to diminish her, but to demand something more.

Around her, students shifted in their seats, suddenly unsure of their own answers to that earlier question. Was their voice their strongest instrument? Or was it their polish, their hustle, their ability to mimic what had already been proven?

Jinu tapped the whiteboard once, drawing their attention back to the front. “That’s your first assignment,” he said, tone snapping back to sharp clarity. “Compose something that says something real. I don’t care if it’s messy. I don’t care if it breaks theory. But I want to know what your voice sounds like when you stop trying to make it sound good.”

He gave them a look that was part challenge, part warning.

“Because if you’re just here to impress me,” he added, “you’re going to be very bored in this room.”

The bell rang too soon after that. A strange silence followed. No one bolted for the door. A few stayed behind to gather their things slowly, murmuring to one another in hushed voices.

Rumi stood, slipping her notebook into her bag, her face unreadable as always—but inside, her pulse hadn’t slowed. Not since the moment she stood up and sang without knowing what would come out.

As she passed the front of the room, she didn’t expect him to say anything. So when he did, it stopped her short.

“Rumi,” Jinu called out soon as she reached the door, “You sing beautifully.”

She looked back, one hand on the frame.

“But I’d rather hear what it sounds like when you stop trying to.”

Chapter Text

The city glittered far below the penthouse windows, but Rumi wasn’t looking at it.

She stood in the quiet of the hallway just beyond the girls’ shared living room, hoodie zipped halfway, sneakers laced tight. Her mask was pulled low around her chin as she adjusted the drawstrings, fingers tugging with a bit more force than necessary. The clock above the kitchen blinked 11:47 PM, and everyone else was asleep—or close enough.

Mira had passed out on the couch in a hoodie three sizes too big, one sock dangling off her foot. Zoey had disappeared into her room hours ago, the muffled beat of something experimental still pulsing through the walls. No one would notice her missing.

She wasn’t sneaking out for trouble. She wasn’t chasing rebellion or headlines.

She was chasing clarity.

The words had echoed in her head all evening: “Beautiful tone… but it wasn’t honest.” Like an itch she couldn’t reach. Like someone had stripped her down in front of a crowd and handed her back everything she’d practiced, polished, perfected—with a polite suggestion to start over.

Rumi wasn’t used to that.

She wasn’t even sure if she was angry or intrigued. But either way, the only thing louder than the question Jinu had planted in her chest was the need to prove—something. To herself, more than anyone else.

The Seoul Institute campus was locked this late, but she’d already memorized the side access points by the end of the day. She slipped out of the apartment like a ghost, hoodie up, mask back on. A few people glanced her way in the lobby, but no one looked too closely. She moved like someone who belonged everywhere she went—and tonight, she belonged somewhere soundproof and alone.

The wind on her face was sharp as she crossed the school courtyard. Above her, the moon hung low and smeared, caught behind thin clouds. The halls were empty, still humming faintly with the day’s noise now settled into dust.

Her footsteps echoed as she turned the corner toward the music wing, the heels of her shoes clicking with quiet determination. She was trying to find the most secluded of the practice rooms. No windows. No distractions.

But she never made it that far to find one before a soft sound—barely louder than a breath—slipped through the air like silk. The faint strumming of a guitar, followed by a voice she recognized instantly. Not because of fame. But because of the way it made her pause.

Jinu.

The door to the music room was cracked open, just enough for moonlight to spill into the corridor. Rumi slowed, half-expecting her mind to be exaggerating, but no—he was there.

He sat on a stool inside the modest room, guitar resting comfortably against his thigh. His posture was relaxed, but not careless. One foot tapped in rhythm. His sleeves were rolled up again. Always rolled up.

She couldn’t hear every word of the song—it was half-mumbled, half-sung—but it was raw, real, almost too intimate to be overheard. There was no posturing in him. No edges. Just a thread of vulnerability braided into each note.

Rumi remained rooted in the shadows, heart drumming in time with the strums. A dozen reactions tangled in her chest: surprise, curiosity, some stubborn pull she didn’t want to name. She should’ve left. She meant to. But she didn’t.

And then his hand stilled on the strings.

Without turning, he spoke—low, casual, infuriatingly unbothered, “You planning to stand there all night, or are you waiting for an encore?”

Her eyes widened. Caught.

For a beat, Rumi didn’t move. Her limbs caught between retreat and indignation.

“You knew I was here?” she asked, voice hushed but firm, tugging her mask lower to speak properly. The hall still echoed with the whisper of strings, like the music hadn’t quite left.

Jinu didn’t glance over his shoulder. Just kept tuning the last string, slow and deliberate, as if her presence was nothing more than a passing draft. “Hard not to notice when someone’s breathing like they’re about to confess or commit a crime.”

He finally looked up—dark eyes meeting hers. Not in challenge. Not in amusement. Just… seeing her. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, that was somehow worse.

He let out a sigh, “What are you doing here Rumi?” He asked lightly, setting the guitar aside.

She didn’t respond. Not with words. Not yet. The room smelled like cedar and dust, faintly metallic from the old mic stands stacked in one corner. She stood awkwardly near the shelves, unsure whether to offer some excuse or just melt back into the hallway when—

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Both of them turned their heads toward the door at the same time.

The lights in the hallway clicked brighter, heavy boots tapping closer in rhythm. Rumi’s breath caught. Her eyes flicked to Jinu. He was already moving.

Without speaking, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the back corner of the room. She didn’t resist, though her pulse stuttered hard. He yanked open the narrow supply closet door with one hand and guided her inside with the other, stepping in right after. The door clicked shut a second before the outer one creaked open.

Dark. Cramped. Warm.

The air inside the storage closet was thick with silence, the kind that stretched taut between two people caught too close, too unexpectedly. Rumi’s back pressed against a tower of sound blankets and spare cables, the wall behind her cool compared to the heat building in the narrow space. Her breath was shallow, sharp at the edges.

Jinu stood in front of her, close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his coat as it shifted with his breath. One of his hands still loosely circled her wrist—not tight, not insistent, just there. Anchoring her.

She could smell him now. Not the sterile cologne she was used to from stylists and executives, but something more real—faint cedarwood and worn cotton, like guitar cases left in a sunlit room. A whisper of coffee, maybe. There was something undeniably human in it, something warm, masculine, a little wild. It was grounding in the strangest, most distracting way.

Neither of them spoke. The seconds ticked by in silence, but the tension didn’t ease. It shifted—tighter, heavier, humming between them like a low note in her chest she couldn’t quite place. Jinu’s gaze flicked downward once, not to intimidate but to read her, to see if she’d flinch or pull away. She didn’t.

Rumi’s pulse thundered beneath her skin. She didn’t understand what she was doing here, in the dark, two inches from a man who had barely looked at her during class and then somehow said exactly what she hadn’t wanted to hear—but maybe needed to. And now… this.

His breath brushed her cheek, warm and steady, and her skin prickled in response. He didn’t move. But the proximity alone made the moment feel suspended, like a match held just short of striking.

Through the sliver under the door, she could see the glow of flashlight beams sweeping across the studio floor. Heavy footsteps. A cough. Keys jangling.

They were looking for someone. Or something. Maybe a sound report. Maybe just bad luck.

Rumi shifted slightly, her chest brushing his. He flinched slightly but his presence was mostly steady, grounding—infuriatingly calm compared to the thundering pace of her thoughts.

Jinu leaned slightly closer—not to close the space, but to say something just for her. His voice was barely audible. “You really shouldn’t sneak into schools at night.”

She rolled her eyes, lips brushing the inside of her mask. “Kind of bold to say when it was you’re singing that probably got us caught.”

A soft huff of air—half laugh, half exhale. “Touché.”

A light swept past the closet. Rumi froze. Her heart slammed so loud she was sure he could hear it. He shifted his stance slightly, the back of his hand grazing her side. It wasn’t intentional but it sent a ripple through her ribs.

Outside, the guard muttered something under his breath and stepped out. The studio door groaned shut again, followed by the echoing thud of retreating boots.

Silence.

Neither of them moved right away.

Only after a long beat did Jinu’s fingers slide away from her wrist. The heat of the touch lingered.

“Think it’s clear?” she asked, voice lower than before.

He leaned slightly toward the crack in the door. His profile caught in the faint light—jawline sharp, hair slightly mussed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “For now.”

She reached for the handle, but he spoke again, this time without the usual detachment. “You came here to find your voice, didn’t you?”

Rumi stilled. Her fingers curled around the doorknob, but she didn’t turn it. She looked up at him in the dim, the shape of his expression unreadable.

“I wanted to use the studio to find it,” she replied carefully.

He nodded. “It helps to know no one’s watching.”

And for once, there was no teasing in his voice. Just truth, pressed between them like the breath they were still trying to reclaim.

Rumi opened the door slowly. The hallway beyond was empty again—silent, sterile, untouched. She stepped out first, tugging the sleeves of her hoodie back into place, the rush of air against her cheeks making her suddenly aware of how warm it had been inside that closet. Or maybe that was just him.

Jinu followed a step behind, his footsteps softer now, as if the quiet between them had altered something neither could name. He didn’t head back to the bench. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the teacher’s desk, arms folded, watching her without watching her. Casual. Like he hadn’t just spent five minutes with her heart hammering inches from his own.

“You have the kind of voice people don’t expect to question,” he said, voice low. “It’s easy to hide behind something that sounds good. It’s harder to sound real.”

She stared at him, searching his expression for condescension, for arrogance. But there was none. Only curiosity. A challenge without cruelty. And something else—interest, maybe, though he wore it lightly.

“I wasn’t hiding,” she said, voice more defensive than she meant it to be.

“No,” he replied, pushing off the desk. “But you were protecting something. And that’s not the same as being honest.”

Rumi looked away, jaw tightening. She didn’t like being seen that clearly. Not here. Not by him.

He walked over to the guitar and without asking, he plucked the instrument out and sat on a bench.

“What are you doing?” she asked warily.

“Since we’re both already criminals tonight,” he said, strumming a quiet chord, “might as well make some noise.”

She hesitated.

The moonlight filtered in through the tall studio windows, catching in the strands of her hair, glinting off the soft curve of her mask as she slowly pulled it off fully. Her voice had always been a tool, a weapon, a veil—but now, in this room, it felt like it might be something else. Something untested.

Jinu looked up, brows lifted in invitation but not expectation. “You don’t have to sing anything perfect,” he said. “Just something that’s yours.”

She crossed the room slowly. Her feet made no sound against the worn flooring, but her presence filled the space like smoke. She sat down next to him on the bench, close enough that their thighs were touching. Her face warmed, but she chose to ignore it.

She took a breath.

And when she finally began to sing, it wasn’t with the strength of a girl used to sold-out stadiums. It was quieter. Rougher at the edges. But this time, it wasn’t uncertain. It was personal.

Jinu didn’t accompany her right away. He let her voice lead. And when he did follow, it was with a gentleness that surprised her. No show. No flourish. Just enough chords to catch the parts of her melody that wanted to fall.

The song didn’t have words. Not yet. But it didn’t need them. It was made of moments—tight-throated fear, soft defiance, the ache of always being seen but never known.

They played and sang like that for a while—just the two of them in the quiet hum of the studio, where nothing was staged, and no one was watching.

And when the final note faded into silence, neither of them moved. The air between them buzzed with something unsaid but undeniably present. Something that felt a lot like recognition.

Or maybe… resonance.

Chapter Text

By the time Rumi slipped back into the penthouse, it was nearly 1 a.m.—late enough for the city to be hushed but never quite asleep. She eased the door shut behind her, kicked off her shoes, and tiptoed into the entryway like a burglar in her own home. But she barely made it past the kitchen before a light flicked on.

Zoey stood by the fridge in one of Mira’s oversized hoodies which practically drowned her, holding a cup of ramyeon and chopsticks like a weapon. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to sneak back in.”

Rumi groaned. “You scared me.”

Mira’s voice floated in from the couch, muffled and lazy. “She didn’t even flinch. I vote we upgrade to jump-scares next time.”

“I hate you both,” Rumi muttered, tossing her bag onto the counter.

Zoey took a slurp of her ramyeon. “You look like you committed mild arson. Where’d you go?”

“Broke into the studio on campus,” Rumi said simply.

Mira blinked, then grinned. “Rumi. You snuck into a locked building in the middle of the night. That’s the most rebel thing you’ve ever done.”

“It wasn’t locked,” Rumi said. “Just… under-monitored.”

Zoey leaned forward with wide eyes, chopsticks mid-air. “Please tell me you scaled a wall or picked a lock or something dramatic.”

“I used my student keycard and walked in through the back entrance,” Rumi deadpanned.

Mira shrugged. “Still an improvement from your usual uptight self.”

Rumi rolled her eyes and unscrewed the cap of her water. “It wasn’t that deep. I just couldn’t sleep. That lesson today—it got under my skin.”

“Professor Jinu’s assignment?” Zoey asked. “You were great in class, though. I heard people whispering after class. Like, impressed-whispering.”

Rumi took a sip. “He didn’t think so.”

Mira yawned, curling up again. “Artists are never satisfied. Especially the tortured, demon looking ones.”

“Demon looking?” Zoey frowned. “He looks pretty good me. Actually, better than good. Oo maybe he’s actually magician!” she says excitedly while Mira facepalms.

Rumi said nothing, only half-listening now. Her thoughts had drifted again—to the way Jinu had looked when he wasn’t standing at the front of a classroom. Head down, fingers on strings, voice just above a whisper. That quiet kind of beautiful. Like someone who meant every word he didn’t say.

And she still hadn’t told the girls she ran into him.

A small, guilty smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t know why she was keeping it to herself. Maybe because it felt fragile, like the sound that lingers just after a song ends.

Zoey plopped onto the couch beside Mira. “Anyway, you’re not allowed to stress alone. Next time you feel the urge to compose like a brooding drama heroine, text us. We’ll bring snacks and emotional support.”

“Or decoys,” Mira offered. “I’m great at fake crying on the spot.”

Rumi smiled as she backed toward the hallway. “Noted. Emergency snacks. Optional crying. Got it.”

She shut the bedroom door behind her with a soft click. Inside, the room was still, the silence a welcome contrast to the buzz in her mind.

She slipped into her favourite pyjama pants covered in teddy bears and choo choo trains, pulled the covers up to her chest, and let the weight of the day settle in her bones. Memories from tonight resurfaced again, no matter how many times she tried to tune them out.

She ended up sleeping with a smile that night.

The school morning buzzed with the usual rhythm—students spilling through the front gate, voices rising and falling like background static. But Rumi didn’t hear any of it. Her head still echoed with fragments of the night before: his voice on guitar, the sharp quiet of that storage room, the song she sang with him.

She was early, hoping to avoid hallway chatter, but someone was already waiting near the lockers. Joon-ho. She recognized him from one of her classes, always hovering a little too long, always watching.

“Rumi,” he said, stepping forward, nervous energy wrapped tight around his limbs. “Can I talk to you? Please?”

“I’m actually on my way to—” she started.

“Just a minute,” he said quickly, glancing around. “Please. Away from the crowd.”

She hesitated. But eventually agreed just to get it over with.

He led her around the corner, down the side hall toward the storage corridor used mostly for stage props and backdoor loading. Quiet, tucked away, too far from the main entrance.

“This really better be fast,” she said, adjusting her grip on her folder.

He turned toward her, eyes wide with something that looked like desperation. “I mean what I’m gonna say. I’ve admired you forever. You’re… special, Rumi. And I know if you just gave me a chance, you’d see it too.”

Her stomach twisted. “Joon-ho, I’m flattered, really. But I’m not looking for anything right now—”

“No, you don’t get it,” he said, stepping closer. “Everyone only sees the image. But I see you. The real you. That voice, that fire—it’s meant to belong to someone who understands it.”

Her brows furrows as she steps back. “I’m going to class now.”

His hand shot out, catching her wrist. “You didn’t even hear me out—”

“Let go.” Her voice cracked—not loud, but shaking.

He didn’t. His grip tightened. His other hand came up, brushing hair from her face, a touch that made her stomach drop.

“I’m trying,” he whispered, “to show you how much I care.” Anger and annoyance lacing his tone.

And then everything moved at once.

Rumi jerked back, trying to free herself—but he shoved her roughly against the wall, one hand gripping her arm, the other bracing the plaster behind her. The folder dropped to the floor with a soft thud. Her breath caught. “Stop,” she gasped. “Let—go—”

And then he was gone.

Ripped backward in one brutal motion, flung to the ground with a force that echoed through the hallway. Joon-ho hit the floor hard, scrambling up with a dazed expression.

Jinu stood over him, fists clenched, jaw locked. His knuckles white. “You touch her again,” he said, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll break your hand.”

Joon-ho scrambled to his feet, fear finally sinking into his face. “I—I didn’t mean—”

Jinu didn’t move. “Get out of my sight.”

The boy turned and fled down the corridor, limping slightly, disappearing around the corner without looking back.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Rumi slid down the wall as if her legs had given out beneath her. Her knees hit the floor hard, but she barely noticed. Her heart was racing too fast. Her throat felt raw. The boy’s hand—his grip—was still etched into her skin like a phantom bruise.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, like her body had forgotten how to breathe properly. She hated crying. Hated how it cracked the careful control she wore like armour. But the tears were already slipping past her lashes, one by one, hot and humiliating.

Jinu crouched down beside her, his chest rising and falling as if he had ran here. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just waited.

Rumi pushed herself forward with shaking limbs and buried her face in his chest.

She didn’t think. She just moved. Her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt as if grounding herself. Her forehead rested just below his collarbone. Her breath was uneven against him. And Jinu… didn’t flinch. He didn’t stiffen or pull away. He just lowered his arms gently around her, one hand settling lightly between her shoulder blades, the other hovering near her hair but not pressing.

He didn’t try to calm her down. Didn’t offer pity. He just sat there, a quiet anchor, letting her fall apart for a second.

Her voice came muffled against him. “I thought—I could handle it. I always do.”

“I know,” he said softly.

She tightened her grip. “But I couldn’t. They never got this far.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

His words were low, spoken into her hair. And they cracked something deeper open in her. Not fear. Not shame. But release.

For a long moment, they stayed like that. Tucked in the quiet, surrounded by nothing but echoes and flutter of the wind. Her body trembled once more, then slowly began to still. She breathed him in—notes of cedar, old sheet music, and sunlight. Familiar now. Comforting.

“How’d you find me?” she whispered.

“I was looking for you until someone mentioned you went off with a guy.” His voice darkened. “So I ran.”

She tilted her head just enough to look up at him. Her cheeks were damp, lashes clumped together from crying, but her eyes were clear. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” His gaze didn’t waver.

Her arms stayed around him, just a second longer. Then she pulled back just enough to look up at him. His expression was tense, jaw clenched and eyes sharp with an emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

And before she could stop herself, she leaned up to lay a kiss on his cheek, one that lingered even as she pulled back, “Thank you.” She whispered softly as she watched his eyes widen with pink dusting his cheeks.

Jinu stared at her for a long second, as if trying to decode what that meant—whether it was gratitude or something more fragile and blooming. His brows twitched slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to say, but for once, he didn’t hide behind sarcasm or distance. He just looked at her. Really looked. And for a moment, that was enough.

Rumi let out a shaky breath and wiped her face with her sleeve, fingers still trembling slightly. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it felt suspended, like a note left hanging too long in a quiet room. Her heartbeat was slowing now, but the ghost of Joon-ho’s touch still lingered like a bruise beneath her skin.

Jinu rose to his feet, then extended a hand. His palm was open, steady. No pressure. No urgency. Just quiet assurance.

She took it.

Her fingers slid into his, and he helped her up gently, as if worried she might shatter if he wasn’t careful. She didn’t. She was still Rumi—but softer around the edges now, cracked open in a way she hadn’t been before.

Neither of them spoke as they left the hallway. The sun filtered faintly through the windows, catching on the dust in the air, painting gold across the floor. The world felt strangely distant—like it was still spinning but just slightly out of sync.

As they turned a corner, Jinu broke the silence. “You don’t have to report it if you’re not ready,” he said. “But if you are… I’ll back you. Whatever you decide.”

“I don’t want to be seen as a problem,” Rumi said quietly, her voice raw, barely more than a whisper. “Or worse—weak.”

“You’re not,” Jinu said without hesitation. “You were alone. Now you’re not.”

His words weren’t embellished, but they carried weight, settling into her like warmth beneath the skin. Rumi nodded once, lips pressed together, and walked beside him, their hands still quietly entwined.

They rounded the corner just as the second bell rang—and that’s when she saw them.

Zoey and Mira stood by the courtyard entrance, half-laughing, mid-complaint about something that had gone wrong in their homeroom, but their conversation died the moment their eyes landed on her.

Rumi knew she must’ve looked a mess—puffy eyes, fingers laced with Jinu’s, posture not quite recovered. Mira’s grin slipped off her face in an instant. Zoey’s ramble stopped mid-word.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice broke first, laced with worry.

Zoey stepped forward. “What happened—are you okay?”

Before Rumi could speak, Mira had already reached for her other hand, pulling it gently away from her side. “You’ve been crying,” she said softly, her eyes darting between Rumi’s face and the tension still clinging to her body.

Rumi swallowed, trying to speak, but nothing came out at first. Jinu’s hand remained firm in hers, grounding her like an anchor in shallow waters. When her voice returned, it was hoarse. “I… I’m okay now.”

Zoey glanced at Jinu, then at their joined hands, her eyes narrowing slightly with concern sharpened to a point. “What do you mean now?”

But Mira wasn’t interested in his presence. She was focused entirely on Rumi. “Did someone hurt you?” she asked, gently but insistently.

Rumi’s eyes shimmered again, and for a second, the words nearly broke her. She nodded, barely.

Mira’s expression darkened instantly. “Who?”

Rumi shook her head. “It’s… handled,” she said. “He’s gone. I just need a second. Please.”

That plea—that softness from someone who never asked—made both girls fall silent. Mira gave her hand a small squeeze. Zoey stepped aside, suddenly much gentler in her posture.

“Okay,” Mira said. “Whatever you need.”

Rumi managed a faint smile, grateful and tired all at once. “Can we… just walk together to class?”

“Of course,” Zoey said instantly.

Jinu finally released her hand, the warmth of his palm lingering even as he stepped back. His gaze lingered on her for a beat longer, unreadable again, but softer than she’d ever seen it.

“I’ll see you in Composition,” he said softly.

Rumi nodded. “Yeah.”

As he turned and walked away,  Zoey waited until he was out of earshot before nudging Rumi with her elbow. “Okay but, can we talk about the fact that Demon Professor just escorted you in like a secret bodyguard boyfriend?”

Rumi gave a breathless, tear-smudged laugh. “Zoey—”

“I’m just saying,” she said, eyes wide, “he looked like he would set the whole building on fire if someone so much as sneezed in your direction.”

“Yeah,” Mira muttered, “and I swear, his fists were clenched like he just walked out of a fight scene.”

Rumi looked between them, a soft smile curling at her lips despite the aching weight in her chest. “You two are unbelievable.”

Zoey shrugged. “We’re not wrong.”

Mira grinned. “But you’re okay. That’s what matters.”

And for the first time in what felt like hours, Rumi actually believed that might be true.

Chapter Text

Jinu had been watching the clock for the last ten minutes, though no one would have guessed. His voice stayed steady, his instructions clipped and clean as he moved around the classroom. But his eyes—those kept flicking towards the second row. Towards her.

Rumi sat with her usual composure, head down, pencil dancing between her fingers as she took notes like everything was normal. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t glance up. But there was something different about her today. She was quieter—not in the deliberate, guarded way he’d come to expect, but in a way that felt… brittle. Like if he spoke too loudly, she might crack.

The bruise on her wrist was just visible beneath her cuff when she reached to pick up her pencil she dropped.

That alone made his jaw clench.

The final bell rang, the classroom buzzing to life with the scraping of chairs and scattered conversation. Students filed out with a lazy kind of urgency, half-buzzed from the end-of-day energy. Jinu stayed behind his desk, waiting—not looking at her directly, not until the door clicked shut behind the last student.

“Rumi.”

She paused in the aisle, mid-pack, and turned slowly. Her expression gave nothing away. “Yes, Professor?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked over to the drawer behind his desk and pulled out a small tube of healing ointment and a roll of gauze he’d stolen from the nurse earlier that afternoon. He held them up wordlessly.

Her brows lifted. “You’re… going to play nurse?”

“You can walk around like it doesn’t hurt, but it does,” he said quietly, tone flat but not unkind. “You don’t have to prove you’re fine.”

She hesitated—just for a second—before nodding.

He gestured to his chair behind the desk. She sat carefully, rolling her sleeve back with that same unflinching grace. But when the bruise came into view, angry and purple-blue against her skin, Jinu swore under his breath and crouched in front of her.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. He unscrewed the lid of the tube and squeezed out some of the cream onto two fingers before carefully pressing it to her wrist.

Her breath hitched.

It was soft—barely more than a whisper—but unmistakable. A delicate, involuntary sound that escaped her throat the moment his fingers grazed over the bruise. Not pain, not quite. More like surprise. Vulnerability. A sound suspended between a sigh and a shiver, the kind that curled into the air and lingered too long.

And it hit him square in the chest.

Jinu felt his fingers pause, just slightly. That single breath of hers sent a strange warmth coursing up his spine—quiet and dangerous. Like stepping too close to a flame you thought you could handle. The room felt warmer somehow, though the windows were cracked open and the balm in his hand was cool against her skin.

Still, he didn’t let himself look up. A slow, crooked smile pulled at the edge of his mouth as he kept his gaze locked on the delicate curve of her shoulder. “You alright Rumi? You’re sounding a little breathless there,” he teased.

Red bloomed on her cheeks, her voice a soft murmur, urgent but edged with something unguarded. “Just shut up and finish this up already.”

He hummed in mock sympathy, spreading the balm in small, slow circles with the pads of his fingers, careful not to press too hard. “I‘m almost done. You’re the one who’s being… distracting.”

She bit her bottom lip but said nothing.

He bandaged it next—slowly, methodically—like he was afraid of wrapping it too tight. His fingertips grazed her pulse once and lingered a fraction longer than necessary. When he finally tied off the bandage, he stayed kneeling in front of her, just inches away, eyes level with hers now.

Neither of them moved.

Her knees were so close to his chest he could feel the warmth through the fabric of his shirt. A strand of her hair had fallen forward with her eyes, wide and slightly glassy, locked onto his like she wasn’t sure what to do next.

“You didn’t have to,” she said softly.

“Yes, I did,” he replied, voice low with something she couldn’t really figure out.

The air between them hummed with something heavy. Not sharp. Not volatile. Just close. Unspoken. Unresolved.

Her voice broke the silence, softer now. “You keep surprising me.”

Jinu tilted his head. “Because I’m not a complete asshole?”

“Because I think… you care more than you let people believe.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he reached forward and gently brushed that stray lock of hair behind her ear—more deliberate than it needed to be. His thumb ghosted against her cheekbone before falling away.

“Class is over,” he murmured.

“Yeah.” But she didn’t stand.

And he didn’t move.

The room was still, faintly golden from the sunlight bleeding through the windows. Somewhere beneath that quiet, Jinu could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, the creak of pipes in the ceiling—but it all felt muted, distant.

All he could hear was her breathing. Slow. Uneven.

Rumi didn’t say a word. Her eyes searched his face like she was trying to read something he hadn’t written. And Jinu—he just stayed there, crouched in front of her as if she break with the slightest of movement.

Then, her fingers moved.

Tentatively, they grazed his jaw—light as breath. Just the tips of her fingers tracing the line from his cheek to where his neck met the collar of his shirt. His eyes widened as his pulse leapt beneath her touch, and he hated how easily she could unravel the calm he wore like a second skin.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said, her voice low but steady, eyes locked on his. But beneath her words he heard what she truly meant, what she was asking for.

Jinu’s chest tightened. Something about the way she said it—so certain, so bare—tugged at the part of him he’d spent years trying to quiet. He let out a slow breath. “That makes one of us.”

Her lips quirked faintly. “You don’t seem the type to scare easy.”

“I’m not,” he murmured, his gaze dipping to where their hands nearly touched. “That’s the problem.”

Her fingers grazed his. “Then maybe you should stop pretending I’m made of glass.”

Jinu’s restraint faltered for just a second—just long enough to reach for her hand. He didn’t grip it. Just… held it, his thumb sweeping lightly across her skin like the sound of a note held too long. And as the silence curled between them, he leaned in.

Her breath stilled. His lips hovered just beside hers—not touching, not yet, just feeling the heat that pulsed in the narrow space between them. He could smell the faint sweetness of whatever lip balm she wore.

Jinu’s hand slid up her arm, over the sleeve of her blazer, to rest just beneath her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered half-closed. For a second, he let himself believe he could stay here. That maybe in this sliver of silence, the rest of the world could be suspended. That this was possible.

But then she whispered his name. “Jinu…”

And everything rushed back.

Her tear-streaked face in the hallway. Her voice shaking. The bruise he had just bandaged. Her arms clinging to him, not for romance, not for flirtation—but for safety. For grounding.

He pulled back like something burned him.

Not abruptly. Not cruelly. But firmly. Like returning from a dream.

Her brows furrowed slightly, confusion rising in her eyes, but she didn’t move.

“I can’t,” he said, voice low. “Not like this.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he was already rising to his feet, pacing away just far enough to breathe. His back was to her now, but he could still feel the weight of her gaze against his spine.

“You’re my student,” he said quietly. “And more importantly after today… you’re not okay yet. Even if you pretend to be.”

The silence stretched.

“I don’t want to be another thing you have to recover from,” he added.

Behind him, he heard her shift—not abruptly, but slowly. Like someone peeling herself away from a place she didn’t want to leave. The scrape of her chair against the floor was quiet, deliberate, as if she were trying not to break whatever fragile thread still lingered between them.

When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, but it held a sadness that made something in him twist.

“You’re not only scared of yourself,” she murmured, “you’re scared of this.” She gestured between them.

Jinu froze.

She didn’t wait for a response. Maybe she already knew he didn’t have one. Her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her bag, knuckles pale, before she let her arm fall to her side again.

“I understand,” she said, more softly now.

He turned to face her then—but not fast enough to miss the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. It wasn’t anger. It was quieter than that. Sadder.

“I shouldn’t have stayed,” she continued, a breath catching behind the words. “But I thought—for a second—you might.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t really a smile. Just something shaped like one.

“It’s okay,” she added. “Let’s just forget it. You’re my teacher. I’m your student. That’s the line. We both know it.”

Those last few words struck deeper than they should have. Because they were right.

They were right, and they were unbearable.

Jinu watched her tuck her hair behind her ear—a small, habitual motion he was beginning to recognize not as vanity, but armour. A way to hide the tremble she refused to show in her voice.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor,” she said, and this time, the title wasn’t playful.

It was a wall.

And then she left—quiet and self-possessed, as always—but her presence lingered like the aftermath of music: the silence somehow heavier than the sound itself.

Jinu exhaled harshly. His hands braced against the edge of the desk like they were the only things keeping him grounded.

What was he doing?

He didn’t move for a long time after the door closed.

The classroom was quiet now, save for the hum of the ceiling lights and the low creak of the stool beneath him. Her scent still lingered faintly in the room—vanilla, and something uniquely hers, like tension and longing disguised as perfume. Jinu sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped like he was praying for an answer that wouldn’t come.

What the hell are you doing?

He’d asked himself the same thing a hundred times this semester. Since the first day she stepped into his class, chin held high, eyes sharp with something unspoken. He thought he knew how to handle students like her—poised, talented, carefully packaged in performance. But Rumi wasn’t like the others.

She never tried to impress. Not really. Her brilliance was quiet. Raw. Like the edge of a song that hadn’t been polished yet. And that made her more dangerous than any show-off ever could.

He tried not to notice. But he did.

And worse—he remembered.

Not from class. Not from campus. From before.

It came to him now, sharp and sudden—the first time he met her.

He’d been in his final year at university, spiraling. He had the grades, the praise, the awards—but none of it felt like a path. Just noise. Everyone expected him to become a composer, join an elite production team, maybe score dramas or tour with idols.

But none of it felt right.

One rainy evening, he’d ducked through the hallway of an Entertainment building, a favor to a friend who’d asked him to drop off some session notes to a company coach. He wasn’t supposed to linger. But he had. There’d been a group of trainees gathered, exhausted and worn down after vocal drills, walking past with sweat-slick hair and drained expressions.

And in the corner—her.

Rumi had been younger then. Maybe sixteen. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, her jacket half off her shoulders, and she was pacing furiously while ranting to no one in particular.

“All he ever says is ‘project more.’ Project what? My voice? My soul? My trauma?” She threw up her hands, pacing a loop. “I hit every note. I enunciated. What more do they want, a damn blood sacrifice?”

He remembered stifling a laugh, leaning on the wall, unnoticed. She kept going, muttering with theatrical outrage. “And what’s the point of singing perfectly if it doesn’t feel like anything? If they only care about how high or how loud or how easy it is to fake tears?”

Something about that had lodged itself deep in him.

He left that night with the session notes still in his hand—and a new kind of question in his chest.

What if someone taught differently? What if someone asked them to mean it?

He never forgot that night.

He immediately realised the girl from the corner was the same Rumi that he later saw on billboards and then walked into his classroom two years later, a little taller, sharper, more guarded—but with the same fire in her voice when she sang. And just like that, the memory fell back into place.

And now, here they were.

She’d thanked him with a kiss on the cheek today. Pressed her hands to his skin like she trusted him with something fragile. She’d made that soft, involuntary sound when he touched her—barely more than a breath, but it undid him in ways he couldn’t admit.

He’d almost kissed her.

Almost let go of every rule he had wrapped around himself.

Because despite everything—despite the titles and lines and years between them—Rumi was the only person who’d ever made him feel like more than what he was trained to be.

Not a prodigy. Not a professor.

Just a man. A man who wanted to reach for something he was never supposed to touch.

He sighed, dropping his head into his hands again.

He wasn’t reckless enough to ignore the rules. And not foolish enough to think crossing that line wouldn’t cost them both everything.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting.

And tonight—tonight, when her voice cracked, when she trembled and folded into him like he was safety—he wanted so badly to deserve her trust. To be what she needed, not what she wanted.

So he let her go.

Because even though she’d been the reason he became a teacher…

She was now also the reason he was dreading being one.

She was the one thing he hadn’t prepared for. The one piece of music he hadn’t written a score for. And it terrified him. Because she made him want things he was never allowed to want. Things he wasn’t supposed to feel.

But wanting didn’t care about rules. And as much as he tried to silence it, her name still hummed quietly in the space where his thoughts should’ve been.

Rumi.

Just Rumi.

And for the first time in years, Jinu—prodigy, perfectionist, professor—had no idea what to do next.

Chapter Text

The sky was a muted blue above the campus, clouds heavy and slow, like they too were struggling to hold something in. Rumi didn’t flinch as the wind tugged strands of her hair loose from its braid. She welcomed the cold. Let it bite. Let it sting.

At least it was honest.

She sat at the edge of the raised garden wall outside the east wing, where ivy crept along stone and leaves gathered in soft piles around her boots. A place just out of sight from the main path. Where no one could see the expression on her face. The one she couldn’t smooth over, no matter how many times she told herself to let it go.

She’d cried enough.

Now, all she felt was heat. Not from shame. Not even heartbreak. From rage.

Because he had touched her like she mattered. Held her like she was glass and the world was fire. And then, just when she let herself want something—for once, want someone—he stepped back with guilt in his eyes and her name on his lips like it was something forbidden.

You’re my student.

I don’t want to be another thing you have to recover from.

She scoffed, the sound sharp against the quiet courtyard. Jinu hadn’t pushed her away because of ethics. Not really. He had done it because what was blossoming between them scared him.

Rumi’s jaw tightened as she leaned back on her palms, letting the marble chill seep into her fingers. She had spent most of her life not wanting anything too loudly. She was trained for that. As an idol, your desire didn’t matter. Your tears were edited. Your anger polished down to softness.

But she wasn’t just an idol anymore.

And if he thought she was going to slip back into some fragile silence just because he was too scared to feel something real—

He didn’t know her at all.

Fine, she thought. If you want distance, Jinu, I’ll close it. Every inch of it. Until you can’t breathe without thinking about me.

He wanted to act like a professor? Let him. Let him grit his jaw and pretend she didn’t make his pulse stutter when she looked at him like she knew. Let him stand there, so self-righteous, while she made sure that every line between them blurred until it snapped.

She wouldn’t chase him. No.

She would haunt him.

Every smile. Every touch. Every half-accidental graze of her fingers as she passed his desk. Every sweet, innocent tilt of her head when she sang something just a little too sultry in class. She’d make him feel the weight of what he wanted. She’d make him remember how close they came—and hate himself for still craving more.

This time, he wouldn’t get to leave her behind with some gentle excuse and a guilty look. This time, she was going to break him.

She rose from the ledge slowly, brushing imaginary dirt from her skirt. Her spine straightened. Her chin lifted. By the time she stepped onto the walkway, there was no trace of heartbreak in her expression—only purpose.

She had a song to rewrite.

And a man to undo.

The second Rumi stepped into the classroom the next day, Jinu knew he was in trouble.

She was late by exactly six minutes—a rare offense for someone who usually claimed her seat with militant punctuality. And yet, she didn’t look flustered or rushed. She walked in like she owned the air. Like the room had waited for her to arrive before daring to exhale.

And her hair—

It wasn’t in its usual neat braid, but down. Loose. Unfurling in soft, effortless waves that framed her face and past her collarbones with a kind of calculated grace. It hit him harder than he expected.

The chalk in his hand paused mid-stroke.

It was the kind of detail no one else would think twice about. Just hair. Just a girl deciding to let it down. But to him, it felt like the universe had tilted slightly on its axis. A quiet rebellion wrapped in silk.

She didn’t make a show of it. Her uniform was regulation. Shirt tucked in. Tie crisp. But something was different.

Maybe it was the gloss on her lips—not the soft rose-petal shade she usually wore, but something deeper. Bolder. Or the way her gaze found his the moment she walked in. Direct. Steady. No smile. Just heat.

She didn’t look away. Neither did he, staring a second too long.

“Take your seat, Rumi,” he said finally, tone even.

She did, this time in the front row. Right where he had no chance of escaping her gaze.

He turned back to the board like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t aware of every move she made now. Like his skin didn’t still remember the ghost of her fingers on his jaw the day before.

She’s your student.

He repeated it in his head like a litany. A tether.

But then—she crossed her legs beneath the desk, slowly. Deliberately. The rustle of fabric seemed louder than it should’ve been. He didn’t have to look to know her skirt shifted just enough to tease, not reveal. Not inappropriate. Not punishable.

Just distracting.

Rumi didn’t blink as she scribbled notes. When he walked past, she tapped her pencil against her lips in thought—then glanced up at him from under her lashes, her expression unreadable but charged.

He kept walking. Gripped his pen a little tighter than necessary.

This is fine.

This is just Rumi being—

“Professor?” Her voice rang out, sweet as a bell. “Can you repeat that last part about harmonic inversion? I was… a little distracted.”

His head snapped up. A few students chuckled softly. Jinu schooled his features.

“Distracted,” he echoed.

She tilted her head. “Mm.” Her gaze flicked to his mouth. “Momentarily.”

He stared at her for a long beat, trying to decide whether to call her bluff. But her face remained composed. Innocent. The perfect student.

Except for her eyes. Those eyes that clearly felt like she was undressing him with every flutter of her eyelashes.

He cleared his throat. “Then try harder not to be.” He turned back to the board, chalk clicking harder than before. His hand betraying him as they trembled down, ruining his usually elegant handwriting.

Rumi didn’t smile. But he could feel her watching. And for the first time since he started teaching, Jinu realized he wasn’t the one in control of the classroom anymore. She was.

He shook his head before sitting down by his desk after giving them a task to complete within the lesson. The students began scribbling away, off in their own world as he finally took the time to sigh and a drag a hand down his unusually warm face.

She’s definitely doing this on purpose, he groaned internally. But speaking of the devil, he heard the sound of heels clicking towards his desk, only to look up to find her annoyingly smug face. He couldn’t let it be seen that he was actually affected by her little tricks.

“Do you have another question Rumi?” he asked with the most neutral expression he could muster, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants that were suspiciously tight at the moment. God what was wrong with him today?

His situation only took a turn for the worse as Rumi leaned down, teasing her ample chest right infront of his face, “Well, I'm having trouble understanding the structure section,” her breath warm against his cheek, “Perhaps you could explain it... more thoroughly?" She practically purred.

Jinu cleared his throat, a quiet attempt to steady the storm rising beneath his skin. “Of course,” he said, keeping his tone even as Rumi leaned in beside him, far too close for a student-teacher interaction. “Let’s walk through the examples together.”

He gestured toward the notations on the page, his pen tapping against it with deliberate control. But it was hard to focus when she was right there—hand resting on his desk, her perfume curling in the air like a whispered dare.

And then her hand shifted—just slightly, just enough—fingertips caressing his thigh as if by mistake. He froze. Not visibly. Not entirely. Like something in him faltered, like a chord struck wrong and left unresolved.

The tension between them wasn’t subtle. It throbbed just beneath the surface—quiet but undeniable. Dangerous.

And she knew it, too.

Jinu struggled to maintain his composure as Rumi's delicate fingers continued to brush against his thigh, sending a jolt straight to his core. A shiver ran through his body as his pen slipped from his hand, rolling far underneath the desk.

But, before he could bend to retrieve it, a flash of Rumi's purple hair appeared in his vision as she gracefully sank down to the ground in front of him, her chest grazing against his knee in the process. Jinu clenched his jaw, trying to pretend as if his blood wasn’t rushing downwards.

"Looks like it rolled away pretty far underneath the desk Professor," Rumi spoke, her voice husky. She deliberately got on all fours as she reached for the pen, her back curving as she bent out right in front of him. The display sent a bolt of desire straight to Jinu's groin.

He quickly shut his eyes, but the image was already burned into his mind. Black lace and the round curve of ass gently peaking out behind her skirt.

Damn It.

Rumi slowly straightened up, making sure to brush against his thigh as she rose. She held out the pen with a coy smile. "Here you go, sir."

Jinu took it from her with a trembling hand, hyperaware of her close proximity and the tent that was fully formed and aching in his pants. And before he could say anything the bell rang signalling the end of the day as Jinu let out a deep breath in relief.

He looked up to see Rumi smirking at him with eyes dark and hungry, like a hunter looking at its prey, before turning with a sway of her hips as she gathered her stuff and left amongst the rest of the students.

She walked out slowly, deliberately, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. The victory wasn’t big—not yet—but it was hers.

She stepped into the corridor where Zoey and Mira were already waiting, perched against the lockers like fashion-forward sentinels. Zoey was mid-sip of an iced latte, Mira scrolling absently through her phone.

“You’re smiling,” Zoey said, one brow arched with interest. “That dangerous kind of smile. Like someone just got away with murder or flirted with someone they absolutely shouldn’t.”

Rumi shrugged, lips twitching. “Maybe I just had a good class.”

Mira smirked with a teasing glint lighting up in her eyes, “You just had Advanced Comp didn’t you?”

Zoey gasped as if it all made sense now, “OMG! You totally flirted with the Demon Professor didn’t you!?” She gushed with excitement.

But before Rumi could answer she heard the soft click of a classroom door opening again—heard the familiar rhythm of footsteps.

Jinu emerged, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, his expression unreadable as he walked briskly toward the faculty wing. He carried his bag awkwardly infront and a stack of sheet music—nothing out of the ordinary. Yet every step felt urgent, like he was escaping.

Rumi smirked to herself before turning back to her friends while handing them her bag, “Sorry guys, just realised I left something in class. You guys go ahead without me!” Ignoring the smirks the two gave her.

Rumi watched him without hesitation, her stride smooth and steady as she fell into step a few feet behind him. He frantically entered through the door to what seemed to be his office, forgetting to shut it fully behind him.

Rumi walked to the door sneakily, already devising a plan on how she’d tease him next before she stopped in her tracks as she heard the rustle of what sounded like a belt unbuckling. Her eyes widened as she carefully looked through the small open crack by the door, her heart stopping as she took in the intimate scene before her.

Jinu stood by his desk, his tall, muscular yet lean frame illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp. The dim light cast shadows across his chiseled features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the intensity in his hazel eyes, making them seem golden in the light.

While unbuckling his belt Jinu quickly undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing skin and muscle inch by inch. Rumi held her breath, anticipation building within her as she bit her lip. She watched as he slid his trousers and boxers down just enough for his thick and fully erect cock to spring free, bobbing slightly in the cool office air.

She could see every vein, every throbbing inch of him, and she felt her own arousal mounting with each passing second.

Jinu hissed as he wrapped a hand around his shaft, stroking it slowly at first, as if savouring the sensation. Rumi's eyes widened as she watched him, captivated by the sight of his long fingers working up and down his impressive length.

His breathing grew heavier, ragged pants filling the otherwise silent room. Rumi pressed herself against the doorframe, her body tense with desire as she watched him lose himself in the moment. His hand moved faster now, pumping furiously as he threw his head back, “Fuck, Rumi,” he moaned, his voice ragged with pleasure, “Fuck, you're so hot."

Her breath hitched at the sound of her name whispered out like that. She continued watching in a trance as he angled his hips forward, thrusting into his own hand as if he were buried deep inside her. The sight was incredibly erotic, and Rumi found herself unconsciously pressing her thighs together, desperate for some kind of relief.

But distracted by the sight and in her haste to get a better look, she stumbled forward, causing the door to creak open slightly.

Jinu's eyes snapped open, his head whipping towards the sound. For a moment, they locked eyes, Rumi's wide with surprise and Jinu's dark with shock and embarrassment.

"Shit.”

Chapter Text

“Shit.”

The word fell from Jinu’s lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He stood in the low golden wash of his office lamp, shirt undone, belt forgotten across the floor, his fingers still wrapped around the base of himself. His breath hitched. Time seemed to warp the moment her silhouette filled the doorway. Her presence didn’t just interrupt the air — it claimed it.

The door closed behind her with a soft, decisive click. He flinched at the sound.

Rumi didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

Her eyes told the story — half amusement, half hunger, all fire. She moved like silk poured into the shape of a woman, her strides confident, deliberate. The soft tap of her heels echoed against the hardwood like a countdown.

Jinu’s mouth went dry. He wanted to speak — to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, to tell her this was crazy — but all he could do was watch as if hypnotized.

When she reached him, her expression didn’t waver. With a smooth, controlled grace, she sank to her knees in front of him, never breaking eye contact. The motion alone knocked the wind from his lungs.

His pulse thudded violently in his neck, behind his ears, in the tips of his trembling fingers.

She reached for him, not with urgency, but with reverence — fingertips trailing along the inside of his thighs, nails grazing the tight cords of muscle like she was mapping fault lines waiting to erupt. He shivered. His legs were tense, nearly buckling.

Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the very tip of him — featherlight, maddeningly soft — and the air punched out of him in a single, helpless gasp.

“Rumi…Stop…” His voice was raw, shaky, torn between desperation and restraint. She ignored it.

Her tongue followed, slow and languid, tasting him like something rare and indulgent. She made a low, approving sound deep in her throat, and Jinu had to brace himself against the shelf behind him, his other hand clenching the wood like a man trying not to drown.

And then, her mouth was on him — hot, wet, deliberate — and he nearly lost his footing. Her lips parted with precision, stretching around his girth in a way that made his pulse stutter. There was nothing timid in the way she took him — her mouth sealed over the tip with a sinful kind of confidence as she hollowed out her cheeks, pulling a guttural sound straight from his chest.

Her tongue was maddening — swirling slow, deliberate circles around the most sensitive part of him, as if memorizing every ridge, every twitch, every weakness. The first drag of her mouth was deep, velvety, and dangerously unhurried. She pulled back just enough to let the cool air kiss where her mouth had been, then dipped forward again, letting her lips slide down with a slick, obscene sound that made his knees nearly give out.

The pressure, the heat, the rhythm — it was exquisite torment, each motion expertly calculated to unravel him thread by thread.

She reached up, her fingers skimming the edge of his thighs, tracing invisible patterns across tense skin. He shuddered beneath her touch. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged her nails along the edge of his hipbones, up the carved lines of his abs — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a trail of fire in her wake. Jinu’s stomach clenched as he whimpered — actually whimpered — the sound humiliatingly soft, and she smirked like she owned it.

She pulled back, her lips hovering just above him, her breath hot and slow. “Still pretending you don’t want this?”

Jinu swallowed, hard. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to push her away or pull her in. “You’re gonna… ruin me,” he whispered, dazed.

She arched a brow, leaning in and gave a teasing lick on his throbbing head, soft and torturously restrained. “That’s the idea.”

When her mouth finally closed around him again, he nearly buckled.

His fingers dove into her hair, not pulling, just anchoring. He needed something to hold onto. Her lips moved over him with unbearable finesse, taking him deeper inch by inch. He could feel her throat tighten as she pushed herself farther, and his legs shook at the restraint she showed — not rushing, not stopping, just… owning him.

She hummed again, the vibrations ricocheting up his spine like a spark on bare wire. Her hands slid up, one wrapping firmly around the base of him, the other pressing against his abdomen, raking her nails up slowly — not to hurt, but to remind him of where she was and who was in control.

He felt his body begin to unravel.

He tried to pull back. Reflex. Panic. Desire wound too tightly. His grip on her hair shifted as he tried to warn her, “Wait— No, I’m about to—”

But Rumi didn’t move.

She planted herself deeper, lips sealing around the base of his cock with stubborn insistence. Jinu’s knees buckled, a strangled moan torn from his throat as his body arched and gave in, sharp and involuntary. She took it all, and when he spilled over the edge, trembling and wrecked, she stayed with him — firm, steady, like she wasn’t going anywhere.

He collapsed against the shelf, head tipped back, chest heaving. The sound of his breathing filled the space, broken only by the quiet drag of her lips as she finally pulled back.

She rose to her feet with slow, devastating poise. Her hair was slightly tousled, her lips parted, cheeks flushed — and yet her expression was smugly composed, like this had played out exactly as she’d planned.

Jinu opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked up at her like she was some kind of storm that had torn through him, left him hollowed out and breathless. And maybe that’s exactly what she was.

Rumi smoothed her skirt with the back of her hand, licked her lips once — languidly — then glanced down at him, her voice velvet and dangerous.

“Next time,” she murmured, leaning in close enough for her breath to ghost against his jaw, warm and electric, “don’t act like you’re in control… when you clearly never were.”

Her words sank into him like silk-wrapped steel — soft in tone, but merciless in weight.

Then she straightened, slow and unapologetic, the scent of her sweet perfume trailing after her like a spell he’ll never learn how to break. Without another glance, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

Jinu didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His legs were trembling, chest rising in uneven pulls of air, the ghost of her touch still smoldering along his skin. His shirt hung open, pants undone, and yet he felt more stripped than he actually was, like she’d peeled away something deeper than fabric.

He glanced down at his hands, still braced on the shelf behind him, and exhaled shakily — jaw slack, lips parted, mind blank.

She hadn’t just left.

She’d claimed him and exited on her terms, leaving him behind in a silence thick with heat, tension, and the unmistakable knowledge that he had never stood a chance.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t wait for what else she had planned for him.

Chapter Text

Rumi had always considered herself pretty unshakable. Composed. Unbreakable. The kind of girl who could throw a verbal punch, walk away with clean hands, and never once trip over her own heels.

But even she had to admit—what happened last night had her… a little rattled.

Not that she regretted it. Not exactly. What she’d done had been deliberate, confident, almost cruel in its precision. She could still see the way Jinu’s breath had hitched when she took him into her mouth.

His hands had clutched the edge of the shelf behind him in a white-knuckled grip, fingers digging into her hair like it was the only anchor keeping him tethered to the moment. His head had tipped back ever so slightly, eyes fluttering shut, then rolling back beneath his lashes as though he were surrendering to a wave he couldn’t fight.

There had even been a trace of drool down the corner of his mouth, as he was lost in ecstasy. And when he finally looked at her, teary-eyed and undone, it wasn’t just lust she saw — it was something more, something deeper.

She wanted to pull that look out of him over and over again.

And yet—she hadn’t even had her first kiss yet.

She had managed to ruin a man with just her mouth and not in the conventional way. And the realization that she’d skipped right over tender first-kiss territory into “blow his soul into another dimension” was… well, it was something.

She wasn’t ashamed, per se.

But a small part of her — the part that still liked daydreaming under fairy lights and listened to ballads unironically — felt a little ridiculous. Embarrassed, even. That she’d done that before so much as brushing her lips against his.

But she shook it off as she always did — with a swish of her hair, a flick of her eyelashes, and the armour of a well-placed smirk.

The hallway was alive with the usual buzz of energy — sneakers squeaking against tile, lockers clanging open, voices bouncing off the walls in overlapping waves. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching in glints on phone screens and casting soft golden beams across the polished floor.

Rumi strolled down the centre of it all like she owned the oxygen in the building — books tucked under one arm, hair loose around her shoulders, a headband keeping it in place, and lips glossed to perfection. On either side of her were Mira and Zoey, the trio moving as a unit of synchronized side-eyes and commentary.

“Okay, but I still think it’s suspicious,” Mira was saying, her voice pitched just above the ambient noise. “You sounded weird at the end of rehearsal last night. Not bad, just… strained.”

“Strained?” Rumi echoed, arching a brow.

“Yeah. Like—like you were winded or something. You missed your cue during the second run of the chorus, and you took an hour long ‘5-minute break’.”

“Mmhm,” Zoey said, scrolling down her phone. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you came back in wearing your jacket inside out.”

Rumi let out a long, languid sigh, her lips curling into a slow smile. They were nearing the intersection of the upper hall where classrooms split off — and up ahead, he appeared.

Jinu.

Walking alone, his bag slung over one shoulder, eyes trained straight ahead. Sharp-featured, impeccably dressed as usual, but with just enough dishevelment to look sinful. He hadn’t seen them yet.

Perfect.

“Oh, that?” Rumi said airily, loud enough for her voice to carry down the hall. She flicked a glance toward her friends and gave them the kind of smirk that should’ve come with a warning label. “I was just stuffing a roll of gimbap down my throat. Like usual.”

Zoey blinked. “That’s what messed your throat up? But, this never happened to you before.”

Rumi’s smile widened like a knife in velvet. Her gaze flicked forward—locked with Jinu’s.

She didn’t look away.

“But the one I had yesterday…” she paused just long enough to watch his steps falter, “was significantly bigger and…tastier.”

Jinu audibly choked, stopping in his tracks mid-stride, shoulders jerking as a cough escaped him—more like a sputter, honestly—and his free hand flew to his mouth in a frantic attempt to recover. His ears went red first, then the colour crept across his face like wildfire. He turned away sharply, ducking his head, trying and failing to pretend it hadn’t happened.

As they turned the corner, Jinu finally disappeared from view — presumably to go find the nearest quiet room in which to panic with whatever remaining dignity he had left. Rumi didn’t glance back. She didn’t need to.

Mira still looked slightly concerned. “Okay, but seriously, your voice did sound kind of raspy last night. I thought it was just fatigue, but if you’re still feeling weird—”

“I’m fine,” Rumi replied smoothly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I over-rehearsed.”

Zoey perked up instantly, her phone nearly falling out of her hands as she spun toward them with wide eyes. “Wait—I got an idea!”

Zoey practically bounced on her feet. “It’s totally legit. He’s got this special tonic. Purple. Smells a little like old grapes, but everyone swears by it.”

Mira frowned. “You mean that guy who shows up in your weird idol forums? The one with the photoshop and handwritten reviews?”

“Yes! Well, no but—” Zoey gestured vigorously, “apparently, it can heal anything from sore throats to relationship problems. Like, one girl wrote that she drank it and suddenly her ex texted her a five-paragraph apology.”

“Maybe her ex drank it too,” Mira muttered under her breath.

But Zoey was on a roll now, eyes shining, “Rumi, this is perfect! You’re clearly still recovering from that gimbap and rehearsal probably just made it worse.”

Rumi coughed delicately into her hand to cover her laugh. “I’m fine, Zoey.”

“Are you sure? He does private consultations,” Zoey said, tapping her phone. “By appointment only. Through Kakao. He sends you the coordinates after you answer three riddles.”

Mira shook her head, “Nope. Nope. That’s definitely a scam, not a doctor.”

“I just need rest,” Rumi cut in smoothly, adjusting her bag strap. “Seriously. A good night’s sleep, some tea, and I’ll be good as new. No riddles. No potions.”

Zoey looked vaguely heartbroken. “But you haven’t even tried the tonic.”

Mira sighed. “She doesn’t need the tonic. She needs less chaos in her bloodstream.”

Rumi gave them both an easy smile, masking the hum still coiled in her chest — the electric memory of heat, breath, and the way Jinu’s eyes had gone wide just before he choked, as if remembering everything that went down that evening.

“I promise,” she said, voice silk-smooth, “I’m perfectly fine.”

Jinu had taught this class so many times, he could recite the syllabus in his sleep. The rhythm of it — chalk to board, eyes sweeping the room, answering questions with practiced ease — usually grounded him. Predictable. Steady.

But today, nothing felt steady.

Because Rumi was once again sitting in the front row.

And every carefully honed piece of control he had was disintegrating beneath the quiet power of her presence.

She wasn’t doing anything obvious. Not by classroom standards. She simply sat there — posture relaxed, elbow propped on the desk, her chin delicately balanced on her knuckles. A strand of hair had fallen loose near her cheek, and she didn’t bother tucking it back. Her other hand tapped the eraser end of a pencil against her lower lip with idle, rhythmic softness.

And before he could stop himself, his mind betrayed him—dragging him back to the memory of her, lips glistening with his cum, eyes half-lidded, the faintest curve of satisfaction on her mouth as if she’d just tasted something decadent, something meant only for her.

His face burned as he turned back to the board, trying to clear his head out.

Cleared his throat. “Right… if we look at the arrangement here, you’ll see the bridge modulation in bar thirty-five. It shifts into E major, which is unusual, but it allows the—”

His sentence faded as movement caught the corner of his eye.

Slow. Intentional.

Rumi reached up, fingers brushing the base of her throat as she toyed with the collar of her shirt. She undid one button. Then another. Her fingers moved slowly — deliberately — as if she were only trying to cool off. As if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

“It’s warm in here today, right?” she said to the girl beside her, her voice light but perfectly timed. The girl merely blushed and vigorously nodded her head as if under a spell.

Jinu gripped the edge of the podium. Hard.

Her eyes were on him. Open. Unflinching. A slight, almost imperceptible smirk toyed with the edge of her mouth as her gaze fell downwards, stopping right at his pelvis. His breath hitched. The glint in her gaze was cool and dangerous, like she knew exactly what he’d been remembering. What they’d both been remembering.

He lost the sentence completely.

“—uh, it allows the… uh…”

Someone coughed. Pages rustled. His throat tightened.

He looked down at the sheet music in his hands, but the notes blurred, the staves swimming together like ink dropped in water. His pulse was far too loud in his ears for something as mundane as harmony analysis.

Rumi tilted her head just slightly, one brow lifting — curious, playful, cruel. She didn’t have to say a word.

He inhaled, refocused. “Sorry. The bridge modulates into E major to create a moment of lift before resolving back into the primary key. It’s subtle, but effective — especially when paired with the layered harmony in the final chorus.”

And all he could do was keep talking.

By the time the bell rang, his voice was hoarse, his palms damp, and he felt like he’d run a marathon in formalwear.

He was erasing the board — more to keep his hands busy than anything else — when he heard her voice behind him. Low. Silken.

“Professor?”

He turned too quickly.

Rumi stood near his desk, notebook in hand, one finger lazily tracing the edge of the cover. Her head was tilted again, but this time it felt less playful and more deliberate — like she was framing herself in the moment.

“I had a question about the assignment you set the first day of class,” she said, her voice light as a breeze. “Do you… have a second? Maybe over lunch right now?”

The words were simple. Harmless. But the look in her eyes told a different story.

Jinu tried to keep his voice neutral. “If it’s about the assignment, then… sure.”

She smiled, the corners of her mouth curling with faux-innocence.

“Oh, definitely about the assignment.”

The door clicked softly shut behind them, muffling the hallway noise until the silence in the office felt padded and thick, charged with a humming electricity that seemed to emanate directly from her.

Jinu moved first—not because he was calm, but because sitting down was the only thing keeping his knees from liquefying. He dropped into his executive chair with a little too much stiffness, his body rigid with a memory less than an hour old: the feeling of her throat around his cock, her nails on his thighs. He tugged at the sleeves of his crisp black shirt, a useless, jerky motion. Anything to look busy. Anything to stop the high-definition replay of her swallowing him down from cycling through his brain.

But when he risked a glance up, she was already in motion.

Rumi didn't ask where she should sit. She didn't even give a passing glance to the plush visitor's chair opposite him.

No. She walked—a slow, deliberate glide that made the fabric of her pleated skirt whisper with each sway of her hips—straight to his desk. She placed her books onto its polished surface with a soft, definitive thud. Then, without breaking the fluid grace of her movement, she used her hands to brace herself and slid up onto the edge of the desk right in front of him.

Before he could say anything, she moved again.

She didn’t cross her legs. Instead, she slipped out of one of her black heels with a quiet, intimate shuffle of leather against the polished floor. Jinu’s eyes, still dazed, caught the motion too late.

Her foot, now clad only in a sheer black stocking that ended mid-thigh, made her skin look like smoked glass, snaked through between them. It came to rest with impossible gentleness against the padded leather armrest of his chair. It was so close. So close that his arm, resting just an inch away, prickled with a thousand points of awareness. He could feel the phantom heat of her, the subtle pressure she wasn't even applying yet.

He stared at her foot, at the perfect arch visible through the dark nylon, as if it had delivered a high-voltage shock that short-circuited his brain. He was paralyzed, his entire body a single, taut nerve.

The motion was so confident, so brazenly comfortable, it was like she owned the very space he occupied. Owned him.

He looked back up as she settled, the hem of her black skirt, which had been resting demurely at her knees, rode up. Just for a second. Just for a flash. But it was enough.

Jinu’s breath caught in his throat, a sharp, stolen intake of air that was painfully loud in the quiet room. His eyes, which had been tracking her every move, snagged on the sight. It wasn't just the pale, smooth skin of her upper thigh that was suddenly, shockingly on display. It was also the sliver of damp white lace, intricate and web-like, teasing bits of glistening pink. Like a secret promise against her skin. It was a colour of innocence, completely at odds with her sinful tricks.

The skirt settled back into place a moment later, concealing the evidence, but the image was seared onto the back of his retinas. His mouth went bone-dry. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

Rumi let out a soft, almost bored sigh, tilting her head to the side. She began to examine her perfectly manicured nails, a picture of casual indifference. But Jinu saw it—a tiny, almost imperceptible upturn at the corner of her lips. A flicker of triumph in her eyes before she veiled them. She knew exactly what she was doing to him, and she was savouring every second of his unraveling.

“It really is hot today, isn’t it?” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, sweet and unassuming on the surface — but Jinu knew better. That voice had already unraveled him once. That voice, paired with the smirk playing lazily at the corner of her mouth, was a trap he kept walking into with his eyes wide open.

And he was already in too deep.

His heart was beating far too loudly in his chest for something as simple as air conditioning problems. He nodded automatically, his gaze dropping to the stack of her books at the corner of his desk almost forgetting why they were here in the first place. But he ignored it. His mind, usually so disciplined, so obsessively organized, was a scattered blur — all because she was in his space again, looking at him like that.

He barely registered her next words until they landed like a pebble tossed into still water.

“Actually… would you mind helping me with something?”

Jinu looked up too quickly, eyes wide, nerves flaring beneath the collar of his shirt. She was watching him with the same quiet, deliberate poise she’d held during class — head tilted slightly, a soft curiosity playing in her expression that he no longer believed was ever innocent.

“What is it?” he asked, voice too tight, too dry.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her gaze flicked down toward her legs — long and slender, still clad in dark, thigh-high stockings.

“My stockings,” she said lightly. “They’re sticking. Probably from the heat.” Her tone remained casual, as if she were commenting on the weather, but her eyes never left him. “Mind helping me take them off?”

The silence that followed rang like a dropped note in an otherwise quiet song. He didn’t know what to say. She didn’t press. She didn’t tease, at least not with words. She just watched him — unblinking, waiting — like she already knew the answer.

And the thing was… he didn’t want to say no.

Because some reckless, aching part of him needed this moment — this impossible intimacy she kept offering.

His hands moved before his brain could stop them. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned forward, reaching toward her extended foot like he might scare it away. The nylon was soft beneath his fingertips, still warm from her body heat. He held her ankle gently in one hand, as the other brushed over the seam of her stocking as he began to peel it down — careful, reverent.

The motion was small, but to Jinu, it felt monumental. Every inch he rolled the fabric down revealed more of her skin — the delicate arch of her foot, the subtle shift of her muscles as she held still beneath his touch. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She just watched him, quiet and composed, her breathing steady.

But his? His breathing was a disaster. His chest rose in short, uneven pulls, like he couldn’t get enough air in the room. His palms were damp. His pulse thundered in his ears. And yet, he kept going — stocking sliding off, knuckles brushing the curve of her calf, until it came free and rested like silk in his hand.

He placed it carefully on the desk beside her hip, before moving onto the other leg she readily offered to him.

He looked up to find her gaze in him. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just… there. Present. Like she’d been waiting to see if he could handle it. If he could hold that moment — hold her — without retreating.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

His voice, if it still existed, had buried itself somewhere under the weight of this impossible tension.

But Rumi didn’t break it.

He finally finished as she leaned back slightly, bracing her hands behind her on the desk, showcasing her body in a way he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

And then, softly:

“See?” she murmured, the edges of her lips curling. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Jinu couldn’t answer.

Because it was hard.

It was one of the hardest thing he’d ever done — to sit there, shaking with the echo of restraint, trying not to remember the taste of her name on his tongue, the way she’d looked at him that night like she could unmake him just by breathing.

He was too aware of everything. The scent of her perfume rising like a memory from her neck. The way her eyes softened just slightly when she saw how flustered he was, like part of her hadn’t expected him to be this wrecked.

Rumi tilted her head, studying him the way someone might study a half-finished painting — something compelling, beautiful even, but clearly coming undone at the edges.

Then, with a smirk and a voice like honey she teases, “Why are you acting like a high school boy who hasn’t even had his first kiss yet?”

The words were playful and lightly delivered, a little joke to tease him with wrapped in a smile. Her eyes glittered as she leaned in just slightly, her weight shifting on the desk, as if she were waiting for him to flinch or fire back.

But Jinu didn’t.

His lips parted, then closed again, and for a moment he looked like he might dodge it entirely — deflect, redirect, retreat. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he exhaled. His gaze dropped to her foot still resting near him, then climbed up the length of her leg, across the line of her shoulders, and finally met her eyes with something unguarded.

“…Because I haven’t,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. Soft. Vulnerable. Utterly sincere.

Rumi stared at him for a long moment, her playful expression wiped clean as the weight of his admission settled between them like dust in sunlight.

“You haven’t?” she asked, quieter now — not mocking, not even teasing. Just… genuinely surprised. Her brow furrowed the faintest bit, like she was trying to square what she knew of him — the cool, put-together professor who made complex chords look effortless — with the shy, almost uncertain man in front of her.

Jinu gave a dry, almost self-deprecating laugh and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. His gaze fell to the floor. “Yeah. I know. It’s… pathetic.”

“It’s not,” Rumi said instantly, her voice sharper than she intended. She blinked, softer now. “Just unexpected.”

His lips quirked, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess I never really had the urge. I was always too focused on music. Always trying to prove something.”

Rumi tilted her head, sensing the edge in his tone. “Prove what?”

He hesitated — and then, something shifted in his face. Like he was standing on the edge of a truth he rarely, if ever, allowed himself to speak.

“My family was poor,” he said quietly. “Like… really poor. I don’t talk about it. No one knows about that part of my life. But growing up, we barely had enough to eat most months. I had my mother to take care of and a younger sister to send to a school we couldn’t afford. I had two part-time jobs by the time I was thirteen.”

Rumi’s lips parted slightly, her heart catching at the rawness in his voice. He wasn’t saying this for sympathy. He was just… telling her.

“I didn’t become a ‘prodigy’ because I was gifted,” Jinu continued, eyes still lowered. “I practiced like my life depended on it — because it kind of did. Winning competitions meant scholarships. Scholarships meant money. And money meant I could help my family survive. There wasn’t space for anything else. Not dating. Not friends. Definitely not kisses.”

When he finally lifted his eyes to hers, there was no trace of the flustered, distracted professor from earlier. Just a young man who had worked his entire life to stand on solid ground — only to find himself unraveling under the gaze of a girl who could see through all of it.

Rumi felt something in her shift — a quiet awe, threaded with something she didn’t want to name just yet. Respect. Sadness. Maybe even guilt for teasing him like she had, for assuming he’d always had the upper hand.

“…I’ve never had mine either.”

Jinu blinked.

For a second, he thought he misheard her. His gaze darted up, searching her face for any sign she was joking. But there was no glint of mischief, no sly smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. She was serious.

“What?” he breathed, incredulous. “You’re—wait. You’ve never—?”

Rumi gave a small, almost sheepish shrug. “Nope.”

He just stared at her. “But… you—last night—you seemed like—” he stopped himself, face flushing at how that sentence might end.

Her lips twitched, amused despite herself. “Skilled?”

He ran a hand down his face, a groan caught somewhere in his throat. “God, don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” she said, the teasing back in her tone—but this time softer, tempered by honesty.

“I thought you were going to kill me,” he muttered, half under his breath. “With your mouth.”

She laughed — really laughed — and the sound of it washed over him like sunlight after a storm. Then, more gently, she added, “I just… I don’t know. I never cared much, but I did want something I wouldn’t regret.”

He looked at her like she was an unsolvable equation — someone who had undone him completely and yet somehow shared the same fracture.

“So why me?” he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Why do all that… with me?”

Rumi didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head, thoughtful, and studied him like she was still figuring that out herself.

“Maybe because you’re the only one I’ve ever looked at and wanted to do something that reckless with,” she said with heartfelt honesty.

And before she could say anything, Jinu stood up and moved between her legs, only to lean in close enough to feel her breath against his lips.

Rumi blinked up at him, startled but not moving back.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Can I—?”

Her gaze flicked down to his mouth, just for a second. Barely a breath. And then she nodded.

Jinu leaned in, slowly, like she might vanish if he rushed it. His hand hovered near her jaw, fingers trembling with the instinct to anchor himself. Their noses almost brushed. Her breath fanned across his lips — warm, unsteady.

And when their mouths finally met, it wasn’t polished or perfect.

It was a little tentative. A little uneven.

But it was theirs.

Jinu felt the world tilt. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way — but in the quiet way that makes you realize you’ve been standing off balance your entire life and didn’t know it until someone helped you find steady ground.

Her lips were incredibly soft. Warmer than he expected. She kissed him back without hesitation, without teasing, just this gentle press of closeness that spoke louder than words. Like they’d both spent years waiting for this and neither of them knew it until now.

He deepened it just slightly — the kind of deepening that felt like surrender rather than demand. His hand found her cheek, his thumb brushing just under her eye, and her fingers curled into the edge of his shirt like she needed something to hold onto too.

When they finally broke apart, breath mingling between them, Jinu pulled back only far enough to look at her.

His voice came out hoarse. “That… was my first kiss.”

Rumi smiled, eyes moist.

“Mine too.”

Chapter Text

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The air between them buzzed with a crackling tension, heavy and heady, like the heat after lightning. Their breaths mingled, shallow and uneven. Jinu’s hand still hovered near her jaw, and Rumi’s fingers curled in the front of his shirt like she’d forgotten how to let go.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Then, without a word, she reached up—fisting the front of his loosened tie—and yanked. Hard.

Jinu stumbled forward, a gasp caught in his throat as his body collided with hers. And before he could form a single thought, Rumi closed the distance.

She kissed him.

Not soft and sweet like the one they shared just a few minutes ago.

It was a rush—hot, messy, and full of something that had been pent up between them for far too long. There was no hesitation in her mouth now, no room for uncertainty. It was the kind of kiss that made thoughts short-circuit and logic collapse. Her lips slanted over his with purpose, her hand still gripping his tie like she might use it to keep him exactly where she wanted.

Jinu made a sound—something surprised and wrecked—and responded instinctively. His hands shot to her waist, dragging her impossibly closer as he kissed her back just as fiercely.

When her tongue slid past his lips, his breath caught completely.

It was a sharp jolt to the system, like diving into cold water and finding it boiling instead. She tasted like vanilla and something warmer—like want, like trouble. She didn’t shy away, didn’t soften it. And neither did he.

Her tongue swept along his, tasting him with a kind of confidence that made his knees weaken. There was no hesitation, just the slick slide of heat and pressure, the subtle flick as she deepened the kiss, pulling him further under with every pass. She explored him like she wanted something—his breath, his balance, his sanity.

And the moment he responded she let out the faintest hum against his mouth, like satisfaction. That sound alone made him want to chase it, to drag more of it from her, to pull her closer and keep her there.

His fingers clenched at her hips, grounding himself while everything else tilted.

Rumi nipped at his bottom lip, just enough to make him groan, and that was when she finally slowed—just barely. The kiss lingered, deep and breathless, like a secret they couldn’t stop telling with their mouths. Every second stretched longer, every brush of lips and tongue blurring into something that made the rest of the world irrelevant.

They only broke apart when breathing became absolutely necessary.

Jinu pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, their breaths shallow and fast between them. He was flushed and wide-eyed, his tie askew, collar wrinkled, and lips tingling.

The kiss alone had been enough to send blood rushing south, and the thick, rigid length of him was already straining uncomfortably against the front of his trousers.

“Rumi…” His voice came out low, wrecked. “It’s lunch.”

She blinked, dazed. “Your point being?”

“My point,” he hissed, his eyes darting nervously towards the door, “is that someone could walk in.”

Rumi’s smirk was pure, unadulterated wickedness. She didn't reassure him. Instead, she pressed her body flush against his, earning a gasp from him. There was no hiding his state from her now. The hard ridge of his cock met the soft swell of her pelvis, and a triumphant little hum vibrated in her chest.

She began to move, a slow, deliberate rotation of her hips. The thin lace of her panties and the cotton of his trousers created an incinerating friction. He hissed, his hands gripping her waist, knuckles white. He should push her away. He absolutely should.

But then she shattered his resolve completely. She lifted one leg, hooking her calf around the back of his thigh, then did the same with the other, crossing her ankles and locking him to her.

 The move pulled their lower bodies impossibly closer, aligning him perfectly with the cradle of her hips. Now, every subtle shift she made was a direct, targeted assault on his senses.

“Rumi, stop,” he pleaded, the words sounding weak even to his own ears. He was a prisoner to her rhythm.

She ground down, dragging the seam of her panties over his insistent bulge. “Why? Don't pretend you want me to stop, because I can feel just how much you want this.” She rocked against him again, a slow, torturous circle.

He let out a strangled groan as his hips gave a pathetic, involuntary buck, chasing the friction. From the hallway, he could hear the distant sound of laughter and lockers slamming shut. They were so exposed.

“Someone’s going to hear us,” he moaned, his eyes squeezed shut, his hips following her rhythm.

Rumi’s smirk brushed against his earlobe. “Shhh,” she murmured, her hips not ceasing their maddening dance. “Then you’d better be quiet, alright?”

She captured his lips again, a brief, hard kiss meant to steal his breath and any further protest. Before he could recover, she moved, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, mapping its sharp line with her tongue. Jinu shivered, his head tipping back to grant her better access, a silent, instinctual surrender.

Her lips found the sensitive, pulse-point hollow where his neck met his shoulder. His mind was a haze of friction and fear, every nerve ending screaming from the hard, relentless grind of her hips against his erection. He was so distracted by the intoxicating pressure at his groin that he barely registered the specific change in her kiss.

But Rumi knew exactly what she was doing.

She sucked hard at the spot, her tongue swirling against his skin, claiming a small patch of it as her own, branding him with a dark, secret promise that would blossom into a bruise.

The act of marking him, combined with the unyielding hardness pressed against her, began to unravel her own composure. The thick ridge of his cock was a perfect, pressing torment against the bundle of nerves hidden beneath her panties. A damp heat bloomed between her legs, soaking the thin garment. Her own breath began to hitch, becoming as shallow and ragged as his persistent moans.

“I thought I told you to keep quiet?” she murmured against his neck, her voice now husky with her own burgeoning need.

Her husky words were the final push over a cliff he was already tumbling from. The combination of her teasing voice, the torturous grind of her hips, and the fresh sting on his neck was a sensory overload his body couldn't fight.

A strangled, guttural cry was torn from his throat, muffled against her shoulder as his entire body went rigid. His hips gave one final, violent buck, a desperate, helpless chase for friction that sent him spilling over the edge. A hot, thick wave of release pulsed from him, soaking the front of his pants in a spreading, shameful stain.

He shuddered uncontrollably, his body collapsing against hers as the last aftershocks wracked his frame. Panting, he pushed away from her, his face flushed a deep crimson. Tears of pure humiliation and overstimulation pricked at the corners of his hazel eyes, and he glared at her, his jaw clenched tight.

Just then, the jarring ring of the school bell echoed through the hallway, signalling the end of lunch break.

Rumi, looking entirely too pleased with herself, gazing over the damp spot on his trousers with a smug smirk. "Oops," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Well will you look at that, I have a class to get to." She turned to go, a victorious smirk playing on her lips.

But as she tried to move off the table, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with a strength that made her gasp. "Oh no, you don't," he snarled, his voice low and breathless. In one swift, fluid motion, he slammed her back against the cool, solid wood of the desk, pinning her there with his body.

"What the hell?" she hissed, her eyes wide with surprise. "Let go of me."

"Our lesson isn't over," he bit out, his glare burning into her. His free hand went to the front of her crisp, white school blouse. He didn't bother with finesse; he popped the first button, then the second, his fingers working with a furious, determined speed.

He wrenched the fabric of her shirt open, exposing the matching lacy white bra beneath. Before she could protest further, he hooked his finger under the strap and yanked it down, freeing her breasts. She gasped as her nipples, already hard pebbles from her own arousal, puckered in the cool air. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over her skin as he lowered his head.

"You seem to enjoy making a mess," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her chest. He captured one peak between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make her cry out. He laved the tender flesh with his tongue, sucking hard. His hand cupped her other breast, squeezing possessively, his thumb rubbing circles over the sensitive peak until she was squirming against him.

Her hands came up to push at his shoulders, but her efforts were weak, her body already betraying her with shivers of pleasure. "Stop... someone will walk in..."

"Oh look who’s worried now," he laughed, moving from her chest down to the waistband of her skirt. He hooked his fingers into the thin edge of her panties, which were already damp against his knuckles. "You started this. Now I'm going to finish it." He pulled them down her thighs and then off her legs before stuffing them in his pocket.

There, exposed to the dim light, was her smooth, pink flesh. Her folds were slick and glistening, a testament to how much his own predicament had turned her on. He leaned back slightly to admire the view, as he bit his lips feeling his member harden again.

Her eyes were wide with shock, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. She looked utterly adorable in her stunned vulnerability, her plump lips parted in surprise. The sight of her there, clothed yet exposed of her most intimate parts, was both innocent and tantalizingly sinful.

Jinu, his gaze locked on her, felt a surge of power course through him. He’d been a mess under her control just moments ago, but now, fuelled by a desire he’d never known, he felt a raw, untamed confidence. He leaned in, his breath hot against her inner thigh, just above the edge of her throbbing centre. He felt her tense, a small whimper escaping her lips.

He didn't hesitate. He opened his mouth, his teeth gently grazing her delicate skin. He nipped, a playful bite that drew a gasp from her, and then he began to lick. His tongue, hesitant at first, grew bolder, exploring the soft flesh, tasting the sweetness of her skin. He worked his way down, his tongue dancing along the inner curve of her thigh, savouring every inch.

He heard her moan, a sound of surprise and growing pleasure. He saw her body arch, her hands clenching the edge of the desk. Emboldened, he moved lower, his head dipping between her legs. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her arousal filling his senses.

He started with a light, teasing touch. His tongue flicked at the folds of her, then retreated. God, she tasted so sweet. He repeated the action, building anticipation. He watched her reaction, delighting in the way her hips began to writhe, the way her fingers dug into his shoulders. He could see that she was not protesting anymore, but her moans were growing into a symphony of pleasure.

Then, he dove in, his tongue plunging deep, mimicking the movements he longed to experience. He tasted her, he savoured her, and he drove her wild. He lapped at her clit, arousing her with every touch, every lick, his tongue dancing over the sensitive flesh.

He heard her cry out, her voice cracking with a mix of pleasure and shock. Her body was vibrating; her legs were trembling. He was lost in the moment, focused only on her.

He pulled back, his gaze meeting hers. Her eyes were glazed over, her lips parted in a silent plea. He knew what she wanted. He knew what he wanted.

He reached down, his fingers finding her slick entrance. He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of his old hesitation returning. But then, he pushed past it, his thumb gently probing, his fingers exploring.

He entered her slowly, carefully, feeling her walls tighten around him. She gasped, her body tensing, but he held his position, letting her adjust. Then, he began to move, slowly at first, then with more confidence.

He was rough, yes, a little clumsy, but the rawness of his touch only added to the intensity. He was lost in the rhythm of his fingers, the feel of her slick heat, the sounds of her moans.

He felt her clench around him, a series of involuntary spasms that sent shivers through him. He increased the pace, his fingers moving faster, deeper, until she was writhing beneath him, a moaning mess. He stared at his plunging fingers disappearing into her tight hole only to return back out, pulling more of her wetness along with his movements.

He couldn’t help himself before he leaned back in, his eyes locked on hers, a predatory glint in their depths. He lowered his head, his tongue finding its target, swirling over her engorged bud with a confident precision. She screamed out as her hands shot up, fingers digging into his hair, urging him closer, deeper.

His fingers, now slick with her essence, found new purchase, and he plunged them back in, matching the rhythm of his tongue. He increased the pace, his touch becoming more demanding, more insistent. He felt her body react, her hips lifting off the desk, her moans escalating into a series of desperate, breathless pleas.

He watched her face contort with pleasure, her cheeks flushed, her eyes squeezed shut. He saw the wetness glistening between her legs, a testament to her unbridled arousal. He was lost in the moment, caught in the vortex of her pleasure.

His own control was slipping, the primal urge within him surging. He needed to feel her, to possess her, to own every inch of her. His idle fingers dug into her thighs, not gently this time, but with a possessive grip, hard enough to leave a mark.

He saw her head throw back, her back arched, her eyes closed. He felt the tremors start, building in intensity, until her entire body was convulsing.

She cried out, a long, drawn-out sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He watched her, mesmerized, as she reached her climax, her body shuddering uncontrollably.

As her body stilled, trembling in the aftermath of her climax, Jinu pulled back with a smug smile as he licked his slick lips. "Good girl," he breathed, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her damp, flushed cheek. "You're so beautiful Rumi."

He revelled in the way her breath hitched, the way her eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a mixture of shock and dawning realization. Her gaze dropped to her thighs, where his fingers had left angry red marks. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, but he wasn't deterred. He found her vulnerability incredibly attractive.

He stood up straight, his eyes never leaving hers. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for the button of his own trousers and shirt. He tossed his shirt and tie off to the ground as he finally unzipped his pants and pushed down his boxers, revealing the evidence of his own arousal, his throbbing erection still slick from his release before.

Rumi's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. The tears streamed down her cheeks, but they were no longer tears of shock or fear, but of a different kind of surrender.

"W-wait, no..." she whispered, her voice trembling.

But he ignored her, his gaze locked on hers, his voice a low, confident growl, "You asked for this Rumi. You wanted this, and I'm going to give it to you."

He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her, radiating pure dominance. He knew he was pushing the boundaries, but he couldn't stop himself. He reached out, his hand closing over her neck applying just enough pressure to make her breath hitch.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice firm. "Tell me what you want."

Her eyes, still wet with tears, met his. Her lips trembled as she whispered, "I... I don't know..."

"Yes, you do," he pressed, his hold tightening. "Tell me."

A sigh escaped her lips, a sound of surrender. "I... I want you..."

He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Good."

He moved between her legs, positioning himself. He lowered himself, his erection pressing against her slick, open folds. He paused for a moment, relishing the anticipation, the power he held over her.

He pushed forward, slowly, deliberately. The wetness of her entrance was no match for the size of his erection, and he felt a slight resistance, a sharp intake of her breath.

"Agh..." she gasped, her eyes squeezing shut, a fresh wave of tears cascading down her cheeks.

"Open your eyes, Rumi," he commanded, his voice firm. "Look at me."

She did as he said, her eyes meeting his, a mixture of pain and burgeoning pleasure in their depths. He pushed further, deeper, feeling her walls tighten around him. He filled her completely, his own breath catching in his throat.

“Oh fuck…” he moaned as she watched his eyes roll back with a flutter of his lashes.

He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm. He watched her face, her body reacting to his every thrust. He saw the pain give way to pleasure, the tears replaced by moans.

He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more intense. He felt her body arch, her hips meeting his with each movement. He lost himself in the rhythm, the feel of her around him, the sound of her moans filling the air. A melody he knew would forever haunt him.

"Yes... yes..." she cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "More...”

He complied, driving into her with a reckless abandon. He felt her body convulse around him, her pleasure building with each thrust. He watched her face, her eyes glazed over with pleasure, her mouth parted in a silent scream.

Jinu’s thrusts were deep and powerful, each one a declaration of his dominance, each one a promise of exquisite pleasure. Rumi’s breasts, unrestrained by her ruined blouse, bounced with a tantalizing rhythm, mirroring the relentless tempo of his hips. They swayed and quivered with every plunge, their soft flesh brushing against his chest, the movement a hypnotic dance of arousal.

He watched her, mesmerized, as her body became a canvas of pure sensation. Her skin flushed a deep crimson, her neck arched, and her fingers clawed at his shoulders, leaving angry red marks that would undoubtedly be visible later. Her moans, once hesitant, were now a raw, accompanying the unabashed squelching sounds they made in an uninhibited symphony of pleasure, echoing off the cold, sterile walls of his office.

He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. He felt her grip tighten around him, her inner muscles clenching and releasing with each powerful stroke. He knew she was close, on the precipice of a release that would leave her trembling and spent. He was teetering on the edge himself, his own body screaming for release.

“Say it,” he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly growl. He paused his thrusts, letting the anticipation build, savoring the moment. “Say my name.”

Her eyes, glazed over with a mixture of pleasure and surrender, met his. Her lips trembled as she fought for breath, her voice a ragged whisper.

“J… J…”

He thrust again, deep and hard, forcing her to submit.

“Say it!” he demanded, his voice laced with a possessive hunger.

She gasped, her body arching, her head slamming against the cold wood of the desk. The pressure, the intensity, was almost unbearable. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the sweat on her brow.

“J… Jinu…” she finally gasped, the word a desperate plea torn from her throat.

He thrust again, again, and again, each thrust a declaration of his power, each thrust a testament to her surrender. He felt her body convulse, her muscles clenching around him in a series of involuntary spasms.

“Yes…” she moaned, her voice lost in the maelstrom of pleasure. “Oh, yes…”

He saw the telltale signs of her climax—her face contorted in a rictus of ecstasy, her eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling uncontrollably. He watched her, his own control slipping, his own release building to a fever pitch.

He continued to thrust, driving into her with a primal urgency, until he felt the familiar tremors begin to build within him. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the moment, allowing the wave of pleasure to crash over him.

"Argh Jinu!" she cried his name again, lost in the throes of her own orgasm.

With one final, earth-shattering thrust, he spilled his seed deep within her, his body convulsing with a release that left him weak and breathless. He collapsed against her, his chest heaving, his heart pounding. They were both spent, their bodies intertwined, their breaths mingling in the silence of his office, their secret now a shared experience.

He pulled back enough to look into her eyes he didn’t try to hide the way he looked at her. Like he was still catching up to the fact that she was real, that this was real. That the girl who had once unraveled him with a single smirk was now close enough to count the flecks of colour in his eyes.

And then, as if pulled by gravity, he leaned in again—this time slower. There was no rush, no heat-driven urgency. Just a quiet want. A need to feel her in the simplest, most honest way.

Their lips met—soft, unhurried, and impossibly tender.

When he pulled away, barely an inch, his forehead rested lightly against hers. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to—almost like a confession meant only for the space between them.

“I love you.”

Rumi blinked, her breath catching slightly. The words seemed to hang in the air, suspended in the hush that followed, as if they needed a moment to fully settle between them.

Then, slowly, a smile bloomed across her lips—not her usual smirk, not her guarded charm—but something soft. Earnest. Almost shy.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Jinu exhaled a laugh—more like a release of tension that had lived in his chest for too long. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering just a moment too long at her jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of her lips as if memorizing the curve of her smile.

“I don’t know how we got here,” he murmured.

Rumi leaned in again with a smirk, letting her lips hover near his. “You fell apart.”

He chuckled, low and breathless. “Then you have to put me back together now.”