Jaekjoo steps out of the bathroom, towel low on his hips, water still trailing down his chest. He doesn’t expect me to be watching. That’s his first mistake.

I rise from the bed, quiet, slow. His eyes meet mine.

“...What?” he asks, half a breath behind.

I don’t answer. Just walk over, and with one sharp tug, the towel drops. His thighs tense, but he doesn’t cover himself.

“You’re such a fucking—”

I grab both his wrists and press them above his head, pinning him back against the wall. His breath catches; his skin warms instantly under my touch. The towel is forgotten on the floor between us.

His voice lowers. “You gonna do something, or just keep staring?”

I lean in close, nose brushing his jaw. “You think I won’t?”

“Zhenya—” His tone falters as my hand slides down his chest, then lower, tracing the waistband of his pants.

I hook my fingers in. One swift pull, they drop.

He gasps, shifting his weight, just enough to chase friction. His cock presses against the fabric of his briefs, straining, eager. Exposed. His wrists twitch under my grip.

“You’re hard already?” I murmur. “Pathetic.”

“Then fuck me, or shut up.” His voice is biting, but his body is begging.

I don’t move. Just hold him there. Instead, I reach for my own shirt, pull it off, and press it into his chest.

“Put it on.”

He stares at me — eyes wide, breath quick. Then, slowly, he obeys. My shirt slides down over his naked body, swallowing him in the scent of me.

I step back a pace, watching him. Jaekjoo, bare underneath, wearing my clothes. Flushed. Quiet.

He shifts. “You’re really not gonna—?”

I cut him off with a palm to his chest, firm and still. Then I lean in, mouth brushing his ear.

“Later.”

I let go. And walk away.

Behind me, I know he’s still trembling.