Your back hit the wall.

Not hard. Not rough. But purposeful.

Jeongin’s hands were already on your waist — warm, firm, holding you in place like he’d been waiting to do it forever.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

The room was quiet except for your breathing, and his, and the sound of your heartbeat thrumming like a drumline in your ears.

His eyes never left yours.

“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he whispered, his voice like smoke against your skin. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

He leaned in closer. His nose brushed yours. Lips barely apart.

“You walk around like you don’t know what you’re doing. Touching me. Testing me.”

His fingers dug just a little deeper into your hips. His thigh slid between yours, pinning you there — close, pressed against every inch of him.

“I’ve been patient,” he breathed, his mouth brushing the edge of your jaw now, open and hot. “So f*cking patient.”

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. He let you pull him closer.

But didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

His mouth hovered, lips just shy of yours, his voice lowering to something that made your legs tremble.

“If you want me,” he murmured, “you’re going to have to ask.”

A beat.

Then his hand slid lower. Slow. Intentional. Fingers skimming just under the hem of your shirt.

“I want to hear you say it.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He chuckled — quiet, low, absolutely sure of himself now.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” he said, voice right against your lips. “Not after the way you look at me when you think I don’t see.”

Another pause.

Then, finally—

“Say it. Or I stop.”