He doesn’t run when you find him. Just leans back against the studio wall, arms folded like you’re both just here to chat. The faint hum of the city outside filters through the cracked window, but inside, it’s just you two and the stale air heavy with unspoken history.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” Jinu says, voice dry, like he’s been waiting, and not exactly thrilled about it.

You pull your blade slowly, feeling the weight settle in your hand. The cold steel gleams under the dim light.

He lifts both hands. “Easy. You cut me, I’ll bleed all over your shoes. Expensive-looking ones, too.”

You lunge.

He dodges, barely. You catch his shoulder with the edge. Not deep, but enough to make him wince.

“Rumi send you?” he grunts, backing up, his eyes sharp, calculating.

“She didn’t have to.” You swing again. “I volunteered.”

He catches your wrist, twists it, flips you hard into the padded floor. You groan. He grins, teeth flashing. “That enthusiastic, huh?”

You roll to your feet, hair stuck to your face. “You ever stop talking?”

“Wouldn’t know,” he says, dodging another strike. “You keep coming at me like I’m a piñata.”

“I don’t have time for your smartass jokes.”

He shrugs. “Too bad. They’re free.”

⸻

You get him pinned. Blade to his throat. Breathing ragged. The faint scent of sweat and something else—something raw and familiar—fills your nose.

“Still smiling?” you hiss.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you. Really looks.

And says, low: “She left me because I’m too much.”

You freeze.

“Too obsessive,” he murmurs. “Too intense. Too fucking needy. Rumi wanted peace. I wanted… her. Constantly.”

His voice cuts like smoke, thin and choking.

“And now I’m here, under you, bleeding, and I still want. Everything. You.”

The silence stretches.

Your blade lowers—half an inch.

He notices. Of course he does.

And then, because he never shuts the fuck up: “You’re not wearing a bra, are you?”

You jab him with the hilt.

“Worth it,” he wheezes.

You drop the knife.

He kisses you like it’s the last time anyone ever will. Clothes scatter. Floor cold. His hands shaky, fingers tracing a trembling path down your spine.

“You sure?” he asks, breathless, lips swollen, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read every secret you hide.

You straddle him and nod once. He exhales hard, resting back. “Okay. Okay, then.”

You guide him in slow—slipped in slowly, his cock twitching against your soaked folds. He chokes on a breath.

“F-fuck…”

His hands grip your thighs, nails digging deep. Your hips grind, wet plaps echoing in the quiet studio.

You move slow, then faster. His moans come broken, quiet—almost whimpering.

“Shit—Zoey—너무 좋아…” (It’s too good…) His voice breaks when you clench around him.

His eyes roll back. You lean closer, murmuring, “You like that? Huh?”

He nods hard, head falling against the floor. “Please—keep going—don’t stop—”

You kiss his throat. He gasps.

You’re close. He’s closer.

When he cums, it’s with a soft, desperate groan—arms wrapped around your waist, holding on like the world’s ending.

Later, lying tangled together, sweat-damp and quiet, he whispers: “She never let me be this soft.”

You brush his hair from his face. “I’m not her.”

He nods. “I know. That’s why I’m fucked.”

⸻

The next morning, 7am

You wake up to the sound of humming. Soft. Low. Familiar.

Jinu’s sitting on the studio floor, shirtless, bruised, scrolling through your phone like he pays rent.

“Excuse me?” you croak.

He doesn’t look up. “Your lock screen is a selfie with Rumi. That’s… bold.” Pause. “Also kind of gay.”

You snatch the phone. “It’s not gay.”

He finally glances over, lips curving. “You let me hit but you got my whole ass ex on your screen?” Then, under his breath: “Damn, I must’ve sucked, no?”

You blink. “You sobbed.”

“I whimpered. Calm down.”

You throw your shirt at him.

He ducks, grinning.

“Round two, or are you gonna pretend last night didn’t rearrange your whole spine?”

You don’t answer. You’re already crawling back on top of him.