Chapter Text
The air inside Iron Peak Gym was a dense cocktail of chalk dust, citrus disinfectant, and the humid heat of bodies in constant exertion. The metallic clang of weight plates colliding and the muffled thrum of techno music pulsing from the speakers formed the backdrop to Go Hyuntak’s routine. Or at least, they should have.
Hyuntak adjusted the timer on his wrist, but his eyes — sharp as a hawk’s — locked onto a very specific point in the weight section. The sigh that escaped his lips was heavy, laced with a weariness that didn’t come from iron, but from patience wearing thin.
There he was. Again.
Geum Seongje.
Seongje didn’t look like someone who had just finished an intense set. On the contrary, he sat there in immaculate designer gym wear that probably cost more than the gym’s rent, perched with irritating elegance right on the pec deck machine Hyuntak had mentally reserved for his next circuit.
“Are you serious?” Hyuntak’s voice cut through the air, dry and sharp. He crossed his arms over his chest, his trainer uniform stretching over rigid muscle. “You’re not even using the machine properly, Seongje.”
Seongje didn’t even look up from his phone. The blue glow reflected off his sculpted features and the lazy half-smile that had become his trademark.
“I am too,” he replied smoothly, his voice soft but edged with vibrant irony. He didn’t move an inch, solemnly ignoring the 80 kilos set on the machine he hadn’t even considered lifting. “I’m training… my patience. It’s a complex mental exercise, Hyuntak-ah.”
A few meters away, Kang Wooyoung wiped the sweat from his neck with a grimy towel. The MMA fighter, used to facing formidable opponents in the ring, felt strangely intimidated by the static electricity crackling between his trainer and that eccentric gym-goer.
“Hyung…” Wooyoung muttered, approaching with the caution of someone stepping into a minefield. “Does this guy come here just to mess with you? Is this some kind of guerrilla tactic?”
“He has nothing better to do with his life than be a professional nuisance,” Hyuntak shot back, not taking his eyes off the target.
He marched toward the machine. Every step was deliberate, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the rubber floor. When he stopped in front of Seongje, Hyuntak’s shadow completely eclipsed him.
“Get up. Now. Wooyoung has a schedule to keep, and you’re in the way of people who actually need to work.”
At last, Seongje slipped his phone into his pocket. He lifted his gaze slowly, unfolding himself with the languid grace of a cat waking from a sunlit nap. That provocative half-smile widened, radiating a confidence that bordered on insolence.
“And what if I don’t?” Seongje asked, dropping his voice an octave, turning it into something more intimate — almost like a shared secret.
Hyuntak stepped forward, invading Seongje’s personal space without hesitation. He braced one hand against the metal frame of the machine, leaning in until they were nearly face to face. Seongje’s scent — a maddening blend of cologne and something warm, purely human — flooded Hyuntak’s senses, making his guard falter for a fraction of a second.
“Then I’ll move you myself,” Hyuntak hissed, his eyes gleaming with a promise that wasn’t strictly professional.
Seongje didn’t hesitate. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying Hyuntak’s expression with predatory curiosity.
“Do you talk to everyone like that… or is this some kind of special treatment for VIP clients?” he asked, his voice laced with a subtext that made the hairs at the back of Hyuntak’s neck rise.
The trainer froze. Just half a second — a lapse imperceptible to anyone except Seongje.
“It’s because you deserve… a different kind of treatment,” Hyuntak recovered, though his vocal cords were tighter than boxing ring ropes.
“Interesting…” Seongje rose slowly, brushing deliberately against Hyuntak as he stepped off the machine. Their shoulders grazed — brief, but leaving a trail of heat. “In that case, I’ll keep coming back. I want to see how far your dedication goes.”
“Don’t,” Hyuntak ordered, turning on his heel to face him as he walked away.
“I’m coming.”
“Don’t even think about it, Seongje!”
“Then come and stop me, Coach Go.” Seongje shot him a glance over his shoulder, flashing a quick wink.
Wooyoung, watching it all while clutching his towel like a shield, took two steps back. He had the distinct feeling that if he stayed there one minute longer, he’d spontaneously combust by association.
“You know what, Hyung?” Wooyoung said, already heading toward the track upstairs. “I’m gonna… run… very far away. I think my conditioning needs another ten miles today.”
Hyuntak didn’t even respond. He just stood there, staring at the empty machine while the echo of Seongje’s footsteps faded through the gym.
Hyuntak climbed the stairs to the second floor, shoulders tense, hands shoved into his sweatpants pockets, trying to erase the image of Seongje’s mocking smile. The upper level, dedicated to cardio, thrummed with the constant mechanical hum of treadmills.
He stopped beside Wooyoung, who had already settled into a steady running pace. The fighter’s face was flushed, sweat soaking his tank top, but his eyes gleamed with a curiosity Hyuntak immediately despised.
“Watch your posture, Wooyoung. Chest up, eyes forward,” Hyuntak ordered, his voice rougher than necessary. “If you hunch now, you’ll be out of breath in five minutes.”
Wooyoung nodded, but the corner of his mouth curled into a knowing smirk. He recognized that excessive rigidity in his trainer — it was the shield Hyuntak raised whenever something threw him off balance.
“Got it, coach,” Wooyoung said between rhythmic breaths. He waited a few seconds, letting the sound of footsteps on the treadmill fill the silence before casting the bait. “But tell me something… who was that guy downstairs? The ‘VIP’?”
Hyuntak didn’t take his eyes off the treadmill display. His fingers tapped against the plastic panel.
“No one relevant. Just an idiot with too much money and nothing to do. Focus on your breathing.”
“Right… ‘no one important,’” Wooyoung teased, letting out a short laugh that broke his rhythm. “Never seen you get that close to a ‘no one.’ Thought you two were about to fight… or kiss.”
The snap was instant. Hyuntak didn’t say a word. He simply reached out and, with a swift, precise motion, repeatedly pressed the speed button on the panel.
The treadmill motor let out a sharp whine, instantly jumping from 10 km/h to 18 km/h.
“Hey! Hyung!” Wooyoung’s shout was swallowed by the frantic pounding of his feet trying to keep up with the belt.
“Less talking, more cardio,” Hyuntak declared, arms crossed, watching his student with implacable coldness. “Endurance is the goal, isn’t it? Let’s see yours.”
Wooyoung tried to hold on, his legs pumping like desperate pistons, but the distraction from his own teasing threw off his balance. One second, his right foot missed; the next, he was flung backward. The sound of the 90-kilo fighter slamming against the rubber belt and being spat onto the floor cracked like a small thunderclap through the cardio area.
“Damn it!” Wooyoung groaned, sprawled on the ground.
The noise was loud enough to immediately draw the attention of two women on nearby ellipticals. They stopped mid-motion, startled — and curious.
“Oh my God, is he okay?” one asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the fallen giant.
“Do you need help?” the other added, her gaze flicking between the downed fighter and the trainer, who looked like an ice sculpture.
Hyuntak finally lowered his gaze, meeting Wooyoung’s indignant glare. He didn’t offer a hand. He simply adjusted the timer on his wrist with unnerving calm.
“He’s fine. Just a minor slip,” Hyuntak told the women with a polite, professional nod before turning back to Wooyoung. “Five seconds to get up and move to free weights. If I have to count to six, you’re doing double burpees tomorrow.”
Wooyoung scrambled up, muttering curses and brushing dust off his knee while the women whispered about “the handsome but sadistic trainer.”
Hyuntak turned on his heel and headed downstairs. He was being professional. He was being disciplined. But internally, he wanted to punch Seongje in the face and wipe that smug smile clean off.
The free weights area carried an almost religious intensity of focus. Go Hyuntak moved through it with the precision of a well-oiled machine. To him, the gym wasn’t a place to socialize — it was a sanctuary of biomechanics.
“Chest up, Wooyoung. Lock your scapulae,” Hyuntak’s voice was a clipped command, cutting through the steady clatter of plates. “If that shoulder rolls forward one more inch, I’m ending the set.”
Wooyoung, gripping 35-kilo dumbbells, let out a sharp breath through his teeth. He was at his limit, but Hyuntak’s presence behind him — watching every muscle fiber contract — left no room to slack.
“Seven… eight…” Hyuntak counted with relentless cadence. “Control the descent. Don’t use momentum. Three seconds down. One, two, three. Drive up.”
Hyuntak was discipline embodied. No phone, no chatter with other trainers, clipboard tucked under his arm like a badge of authority. His aura was faintly intimidating; even veteran gym-goers avoided crossing his line of sight when he was correcting someone.
“Nine… last one. Make it count,” Hyuntak ordered, eyes locked on the weights’ trajectory.
Wooyoung finished the set and dropped the dumbbells onto the rubber floor with a dull thud. He bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping.
“Man… you never give me a break, do you?” Wooyoung flashed a crooked grin, wiping sweat from his chin. “Sometimes I forget you’re human and not some artillery sergeant in disguise.”
“Humans fail. Technique doesn’t.” Hyuntak jotted something down on his clipboard without looking at him. “Drink water. Thirty seconds. Next is the leg press.”
Everything was under control. Routine was Hyuntak’s shield — a sequence of numbers and corrections that kept him steady.
Thirty minutes later.
Normalcy lasted exactly until they turned the corner toward the leg press.
Geum Seongje was there.
He wasn’t just using the machine; he was sprawled across it, long legs draped over the platform, occupying it like a resort lounger. He held a pair of high-end headphones, idly spinning them between his fingers while staring at the ceiling with utter boredom.
Hyuntak didn’t pause, didn’t ask, didn’t change his tone. He stopped in front of the machine and gave the frame a light kick to get his attention.
“Off. Now.” It was the first thing out of his mouth — no preamble, as if continuing an argument from ten years ago.
Seongje didn’t move. He lowered his gaze slowly, a crooked smile forming.
“But I just got here, Hyuntak-ah. The seat’s still warm.”
“I don’t care if you just got here or if you’re planning to move in.” Hyuntak stepped closer, entering Seongje’s range with aggressive familiarity. “You know Wooyoung’s training is timed. Stop getting in my way and go sit on a bench that doesn’t have 200 kilos of plates on it.”
“An inconvenience? Such an ugly word…” Seongje yawned, stretching his arms, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal his waist. “I thought you liked my company. You get so… expressive when I’m around.”
“I’m counting to three,” Hyuntak cut in, his voice vibrating with irritation already at a seven. “If you don’t get your ass up, I’ll put you on this machine and Wooyoung can warm up using your dead weight.”
Wooyoung, standing right behind them, widened his eyes. That wasn’t the tone of a trainer dealing with a difficult client. That was someone with far too much familiarity — and far too little patience.
“One…” Hyuntak began, eyes locked on Seongje.
Seongje let out a short laugh, pleased with the trainer’s barely restrained fury. He didn’t move, just tilted his head, daring Hyuntak to follow through.
“Two…”
The tension in the air was so tangible Wooyoung felt like he could touch it. For Hyuntak, professionalism was everything — but Geum Seongje seemed to be the one person in the world who could shatter that armor in seconds.
“Hyung, let it go…” Wooyoung said, stepping forward and placing his large hands on Hyuntak’s shoulders. The gesture was natural camaraderie between athletes — but it made Seongje’s smile falter instantly. “We can use the incline leg press or the squat rack. It’s not a big deal.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Seongje, who moments ago radiated unshakable confidence, felt the air leave his lungs in a heavy exhale. He looked away toward the neatly lined dumbbells, and that sarcastic smile — worn like a defensive mask— vanished.
There was something about that word —Hyung — coming from Wooyoung that sent a shockwave through his mind.
Hyuntak, however, didn’t react to the touch. His feet felt rooted to the rubber floor. He glanced at Wooyoung’s hand on his shoulder, then returned his furious gaze to Seongje.
“We’re not going anywhere, Wooyoung. Take your hand off.” His tone was glacial, driven by unyielding professional stubbornness. “This isn’t a playground. You’re an MMA fighter; you have a weigh-in and a contract. Changing the exercise angle now will interfere with the muscle fiber recruitment I planned for today.”
He stepped closer again, forcing Seongje to hold eye contact.
“I follow programs, not whims. Training is strictly by the book, because his body is a professional tool — not a toy.” He pointed at the machine. “So for the last time: get up. Every minute you spend playing these mind games is a minute of performance he loses in the octagon.”
Seongje felt a sharp pang of something he refused to call jealousy — but it burned the same. He hated how devoted Hyuntak was to that fighter, as if every detail of Wooyoung’s body were a puzzle only Hyuntak had the right to solve.
The seriousness on the trainer’s face —that absolute focus that left no room for Seongje’s provocations — was exactly what attracted him most, and at the same time, what infuriated him.
“Everything by the book, huh?” Seongje finally said, his voice stripped of humor. He rose slowly, matching Hyuntak’s height, dark eyes locked onto his. “You’re so dedicated to your job, Hyuntak… it’s almost admirable.”
He stepped aside, freeing the seat — but not before deliberately brushing his arm against Hyuntak’s, whispering low enough for only him to hear:
“I hope he’s worth all that effort. Because I’m certainly worth a lot more.”
Wooyoung, sensing the atmosphere turning heavy in a way he couldn’t quite understand, hurried to adjust the weights, trying to ignore the fact that his trainer looked like he was about to explode — or do something worse.
Hyuntak squeezed his eyes shut, lashes trembling as he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, massaging with near-painful force. A vein pulsed at his temple — a clear sign he was counting to ten, or maybe a thousand, to hold onto what little self-control he had left.
Seongje’s whispered provocation still lingered in the air, but Hyuntak shoved it into a dark drawer in his mind. He couldn’t afford to crack — not with the clock running.
When he opened his eyes, the haze of personal fury had been replaced by the cold gleam of technical authority. Coach Go was back — and he wasn’t here to play.
“Three seconds of rest was already two too many,” Hyuntak said, voice dry and cutting, without a trace of hesitation.
Wooyoung, still trying to process the charged exchange, opened his mouth to speak—
“Hyung, I just—”
“Sit. Now.” Hyuntak cut him off, pointing to the leg press with military rigidity. “Feet shoulder-width apart, toes slightly out. I want twelve perfect reps. If the platform locks before the last one, you’re doing a hundred squats down the main corridor.”
Wooyoung swallowed the protest. He knew that look — arguing now would be a death sentence. Without another word, he settled into the machine, feeling the weight press down on his legs.
“Push. One…” Hyuntak began counting, eyes fixed on Wooyoung’s knee extension, completely ignoring Seongje, who still lingered a few meters away. “Two… control the return, don’t let the plates slam. Three…”
Hyuntak moved around the machine, correcting angles with millimetric precision, as if Geum Seongje were just another piece of equipment in the background. He channeled all his irritation into absolute technical demand, turning the workout into a force field where only physical effort existed.
Outside that force field, Seongje crossed his arms, watching Hyuntak’s profile. The way the trainer deliberately ignored him was, in its own way, the most definitive answer he could have received.
“More power, Wooyoung!” Hyuntak raised his voice, authority echoing across the weight floor. “The octagon doesn’t forgive weak legs. Again!”
The fighter, now fully focused on the burn spreading through his thighs, had already forgotten the strangeness from minutes ago. Hyuntak kept him under such an efficient regime of pressure that there was no room left for curiosity.
Everything seemed to have returned to order.
The "peace" lasted exactly as long as a round timer. As soon as Wooyoung finished his last set, the tension in the room seemed to deflate. The fighter’s father, a man radiating pride, approached to greet the coach.
"Good work today, Mr. Go. This boy is getting as strong as an ox," the man commented with a wide grin.
Hyuntak returned the gesture with a respectful bow and a rare smile — one of those that actually reached his eyes and softened his severe features.
"He has a good example at home, sir. See you tomorrow."
"Thanks for today, Hyung!" Wooyoung waved, still catching his breath as the two headed for the exit.
Hyuntak watched them leave, finally feeling his shoulders drop. But the relief was short-lived. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a shadow leaning against a pillar: Seongje was there, his face partially hidden by the fabric of his workout hoodie, but his eyes... his eyes gave away that he was laughing behind the cloth.
Ignoring the unsettling presence, Hyuntak headed toward the showers. He needed cold water. He needed to wash off the smell of sweat and the irritation Geum Seongje exuded.
The steam and the sound of the shower were his only refuge for ten minutes. When he emerged, wearing only a gym robe and with his black hair dripping onto his shoulders, Hyuntak felt almost human again.
He walked over to the marble counter in front of the large mirrors, reaching out to grab his facial moisturizer. In the reflection, however, his wasn't the only image.
"Shit!" Hyuntak jolted, the bottle of cream nearly slipping from his hand.
Seongje was standing there, leaning against the sink next to him, as if he had been materialized by the steam itself. He wasn’t changing, he wasn’t using the restroom; he was just... waiting.
"Don't you ever get tired?" Hyuntak asked, his voice husky with fatigue. He turned back to the mirror and began applying the moisturizer with mechanical movements, trying to ignore the figure beside him.
Seongje didn't answer immediately. He leaned in, sliding his hip onto the edge of the sink with feline grace, that "creepy" and magnetic smile growing on his face. He stared with an intensity that would make anyone else run for the exit or call security.
"What?" Hyuntak pressed, snapping the jar of cream shut and meeting Seongje’s reflection. "Are you just going to stand there watching me put on moisturizer now? Is that your new hobby?"
Seongje tilted his head, watching a drop of water trail down from Hyuntak’s hair and vanish beneath the collar of his robe.
"You smile in a very different way for that kid and his father," Seongje commented, his voice low, the teasing tone giving way to an almost childish, dangerous curiosity. "It’s a beautiful smile, Hyuntak-ah. It almost makes me forget you tried to kill me with a leg press."
Hyuntak sighed, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink and hanging his head.
"Seongje... it’s 9:00 PM. I’ve worked a ten-hour shift. My patience is buried somewhere under that treadmill Wooyoung fell off of. What do you want? Money? Attention? A medical report proving you’re insane?"
Seongje let out a soft huff of a laugh, moving a step closer until Hyuntak could feel the heat radiating from him.
"I want to see how long that 'perfect professional' act of yours lasts before you decide I’m much more interesting than a stopwatch."
Hyuntak just kept staring at the sink drain, silent. He knew that if he responded, he’d be giving the man exactly what he wanted. But the silence in the empty locker room was becoming dangerously thick.
Hyuntak remained motionless, his eyes fixed on his own reflection as he felt Seongje’s presence expand in the silent locker room. The sound of water droplets hitting the ceramic floor seemed deafening.
"You talk too much," Hyuntak murmured, finally breaking the silence, yet making no move to pull away.
Seongje let out a low sound, almost a purr of satisfaction, noticing that Hyuntak hadn't recoiled. He reached out, his long, cool fingers lightly grazing the trainer's forearm where the robe left his skin exposed.
"And you think too much," Seongje countered, his voice now a whisper that vibrated against the nape of Hyuntak’s neck. "Are you calculating the risk right now? Checking to see if this is on your 'spreadsheet' for today?"
Hyuntak let out a bitter laugh, his chest rising and falling with a breath that was no longer quite so controlled. He turned his head just enough to catch Seongje’s predatory gaze from the corner of his eye.
"My schedule for today ended the moment Wooyoung walked through that door. What happens now..." Hyuntak paused, his hand gripping the marble edge of the sink with force, "...has nothing to do with my job."
Seongje smiled, but it wasn't the sarcastic smirk from before. It was something hungrier, more honest.
"Good. Because I’d hate to have to pay overtime for what I plan to do with you."
The trainer finally turned fully around, the front of his robe brushing against Seongje’s abdomen. The contrast in their posture was stark: where Seongje was fluid and provocative, Hyuntak was a mass of tension and restraint.
"You’re a problem, Geum Seongje. An expensive, irritating, and persistent problem."
"And you love solving difficult problems, Coach Go." Seongje closed the final distance, his hands sliding up to Hyuntak’s shoulders, pulling him closer. "Admit it. Today’s workout only got interesting when I showed up."
Hyuntak didn't admit it out loud. He didn't need to. The way he grabbed the back of Seongje’s neck and pulled him into a kiss —half desire, half retaliation — said everything the silence had been guarding since the start of his shift.
There was no stopwatch, there was no technique, and Kang Wooyoung was miles away. In that locker room, the only exercise that mattered was the pressure of one body against the other under the fluorescent light.
The air in the locker room, once stagnant with steam, suddenly became heavy and scarce. The sound of the kiss was the only noise besides their erratic breathing, until Hyuntak slid his hand down with possessive firmness, molding his fingers around Seongje’s erection through the fabric of his training sweats.
"Fuck..." Seongje let out a sharp gasp, his head snapping back as his nails dug into Hyuntak’s shoulders, finding the heat of bare skin beneath the half-open robe.
Hyuntak wasn't gentle. There was no room for delicacy after hours of being provoked in the middle of the weight room. He squeezed with a calculated intensity, feeling Seongje’s rigidity beneath the cloth, while his lips worked urgently along the curve of the other man’s neck. Every kiss was marked by a firm suction, a short bite, leaving a trail of ownership that Seongje wouldn't be able to hide with any turtleneck the next day.
"Weren't you..." Seongje tried to speak, his voice failing as he felt Hyuntak’s hips press against his own, pinning him against the cold edge of the marble sink. "Weren't you going to remove me from the machine by force, Coach?"
Hyuntak paused for a second, his lips brushing against Seongje’s earlobe. The contrast between his hot breath and Seongje’s goosebumps was almost unbearable.
"I changed the exercise," Hyuntak hissed, his voice vibrating in a way that made Seongje’s legs falter. "Now we're going to see how long you can last under pressure."
Seongje let out a jagged laugh, his hands sliding from Hyuntak’s back to the front of the robe, tugging at the terrycloth lapels to clear the way. He wanted direct contact — the heat of Hyuntak’s chest against his own, without professional or textile barriers.
"Then stop talking..." Seongje whispered, seeking Hyuntak’s mouth again with desperate hunger. "And show me what your schedule has in store for the rest of the night."
Hyuntak responded by spinning Seongje around to face the mirror, making the marble groan under their combined weight. The reflection showed the perfect contrast: the personal trainer, always so controlled, now with disheveled hair and eyes locked on his prey; and the heir, always so haughty, now surrendered, eyes clouded with desire and skin beginning to mark.
The tension in the locker room had reached a saturation point where the oxygen seemed replaced by pure electricity. Hyuntak continued the stimulation, his firm hand dictating a rhythm that ignored any attempt at civility. Seongje was utterly surrendered; his head hung low, strands of hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and steam, while his clenched fists hammered against the edge of the sink.
Low whimpers — a mix of disjointed curses and muffled pleas — escaped his lips. When Seongje’s body went rigid, his feet searching for traction on the damp floor, he reached for his hip, desperately trying to rid himself of the fabric of his pants, which felt like an unbearable barrier. He was on the edge, seconds away from collapsing.
And then, a void.
Hyuntak stopped. Suddenly. The hand that had been pure fire withdrew, and he took two steps back with an icy calm, as if he were simply stopping a set timer.
"What the fuck!?" Seongje’s shout echoed off the tiled walls, sounding almost like a snarl. He spun around, stumbling over his own feet from the disorientation of the interrupted peak. Seeing Hyuntak adjusting the lapels of his robe with surgical precision was the final straw. "Are you shitting me, Go Hyuntak? Is this a joke?"
Hyuntak raised his head slowly. The look he cast didn't hold the glow of desire from seconds ago; it was the look of a trainer reclaiming the reins of the situation.
"So now I’m 'Go Hyuntak'?" His tone was dry, devoid of any urgency. "You’ve already had much more than you deserved for one day, Seongje. Don't you think?"
Seongje let out a heavy sigh, a gust of hot air carrying all his frustration. He wouldn't accept this dismissal. In one swift motion, he lunged forward, pinning Hyuntak against the cold tile of the wall. The impact was sharp, and Seongje kept his arms locked around the trainer, gritting his teeth. He didn't care if a janitor walked in or if Wooyoung’s father had forgotten his keys; the only thing that mattered was the tremor of fury and lust racing down his spine.
"Are you playing games with me?" Seongje hissed, his face inches from Hyuntak’s, his eyes bloodshot.
"No, Seongje." Hyuntak didn't flinch. He bore the other man’s weight with the same stability he used to hold a bench press bar. His expression suddenly turned serious, stripped of sarcasm, before one of his eyebrows arched defiantly. "You’re the one playing with me."
The final whisper was so low it seemed to vibrate directly inside Seongje’s chest. Before the other could process the weight of those words, Hyuntak used the technical strength of his shoulders to break free from the grip with humiliating ease.
He walked toward the lockers, the sound of his rubber flip-flops slapping against the floor serving as the only verdict of the confrontation.
Seongje stood there. Alone. His body still screaming for a relief that wouldn't come, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He pressed his thumb against his lower lip, pushing so hard against his teeth that he felt the skin break. The hot, metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth.
"Tomorrow..." Seongje murmured to the empty walls, a slow and genuinely predatory smile spreading across his face. "Tomorrow I'll make you lose control, Gotak."