Usually, kissing Sihwan is a contact sport. It’s teeth and tongue and a battle for dominance, him pushing back just as hard as I push in. But tonight, he’s soft. He melts against the plaster, his hands coming up to clutch loosely at the lapels of my coat, his mouth opening for me with a pliability that sets my teeth on edge.
It’s submission, but it’s the wrong kind. It’s not the hot, heavy yield of him wanting me; it’s the slump of a man who’s been told for three hours that he’s not enough.
I deepen the kiss, tasting the lingering bitterness of the espresso he drank in the car and the underlying spice of his scent, muted now by exhaustion. I kiss him until I feel him sigh, a long, shuddering exhale that vibrates against my lips.
When I finally pull back, I don't go far. I stay in his space, my hips pinned against his, trapping him there.
Sihwan blinks his eyes open. He looks wrecked. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s a dullness there, a shadow cast by his father’s voice calling himdeficient, his mother calling himbulky. He’s looking at me, but I can tell he’s waiting for the critique. He’s waiting for me to agree with them.
I hate it.
I lift my hand, sliding my palm up the column of his neck. His pulse is thrumming there, fast and erratic. I hook my thumb under his chin, tilting his head up until he has no choice but to look me dead in the eye.
I brush my thumb over his bottom lip—swollen from how much he’s been chewing on it, and now red from my mouth.
"Stop it," I say quietly.
Sihwan frowns, confusion flickering in his gaze. "Stop what?"
"Stop listening to them. They're still in your head."
He flinches, his gaze darting to the side. "They aren't wrong. You saw it. I just... I sat there and took it. Like a child."
"You sat there and took it because you have respect for hierarchy, even when the people at the top don't deserve it," I correct him. My voice is low, rougher than usual. "That's not weakness. That's discipline."
He starts to shake his head, a self-deprecating scoff building in his throat, but I press my thumb into his lip, silencing him.
"Listen to me."
I wait until his eyes lock back onto mine.
"You know why I picked a fight with you that first week?" I ask.
Sihwan blinks. "Because I was annoying you?"
"Because I was bored," I say bluntly. "I spent my entire life around the upper class like your parents. People who are so obsessed with dignity and image that they forget how to be alive. They're stagnant. Dull."
I lean in closer, letting my forehead rest against his for a second, breathing in his scent.
"But then you basically jumped me in the bathroom on the first day of school, and there was this loud, arrogant, desperate idiot wearing a jacket that cost more than my bike, demanding everyone look at him."
Sihwan winces, but I don't let him look away.
"And for the first time in years, I actually felt something. Irritation? Sure. But interest."
I pull back just enough to see his face, keeping my hand firm on his jaw.
"Before you, I never thought I'd have a worthy rival. I never met anyone who actually made me want to engage. Everyone else just rolls over, Sihwan. They see the name, or the grades, or the face, and they submit. But you?"
I smirk, a small, genuine thing.
"You fought me. You tripped me on a soccer field. You tried to steal my kills. You give me a challenge."
I run my thumb along the line of his jaw, feeling the strong bone structure his mother dismissed so easily.
"That is what I like about you. From the start, you've always been my equal. Not my charity case. Not my fix-it project."
Sihwan’s breath hitches. His eyes are shining, wet with unshed frustration, but the dullness is cracking. He’s listening.
