It’s me.
I stare at the charcoal drawing, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
It’s not a quick sketch. It’s detailed. Painstakingly, obsessively detailed.
It’s me, naked. But it’s not... it’s not like the way I look in the mirror at the gym. It’s not the "Oh Sihwan, Campus King" version of me that flexes and postures.
In the drawing, I’m asleep. I’m lying on my stomach, face turned into a pillow, one arm thrown carelessly over my head. The sheet is tangled around my waist, leaving my back and shoulders bare.
I lean in closer, my throat tight.
He drew the scar on my shoulder from his bite. He drew the mole on my lower back that I always forget is there. He drew the way my hair fans out on the pillow when it’s not gelled into submission.
It’s not lewd. There’s nothing sexual about the pose, nothing pornographic about the way the light hits my skin. It’s... soft.
It’s reverent.
The shading on my spine is so tender it looks like a caress. The way he captured the relaxation in my muscles, the unguarded peace on my face—I look vulnerable. I look safe.
I didn't know I could look like that.
I trace the edge of the paper with a trembling finger. He must have drawn this from memory. He must have studied me while I was sleeping in his bed, memorized the curve of my shoulder, the line of my jaw, and then come back here to this empty room and put it on paper.
I swallow hard, feeling a sudden, terrifying rush of heat behind my eyes.
I thought I was just a conquest. Even with the bond, even with the sex, part of me still believed I was just a challenge he enjoyed winning.
"Fuck," I whisper, the word trembling in the quiet room.
I stare at the paper until the lines start to blur, my brain doing frantic, clumsy math.
This isn't new. The charcoal is set, not smudged, and the paper has that slight, settled wave to it that happens when ink or medium has dried into the fiber over time. He didn't draw this today. He didn't draw this last week.
I cast my mind back, trying to pinpoint when Donghwa was last at the estate. He mentioned coming home for a long weekend right after the semester started—right after the incident. Right after he knotted me for the first time and I spent three days avoiding him like he was carrying the plague. Right after we spent my rut together.
My stomach gives a hard, violent lurch.
That means he came here, to this quiet room miles away from the city, miles away fromme, and instead of forgetting about the annoying upperclassman he’d accidentally bonded, he sat down at this desk and spent hours recreating me from memory.
And god, thedetail.
I lean in closer, terrified to touch it but unable to look away. He drew the way the light hits the nape of my neck. He drew the tension in my hand where it’s curled into the pillowcase, softening it until it looks gentle instead of desperate.
I’m used to being looked at. I built my entire personality around it. I wear tight shirts so people look at my chest. I wear expensive watches so people look at my wrist. I dye my hair so people look at my head. I demand attention because if people stop looking, I feel like I disappear.
But nobody has ever looked at me likethis.
This isn't the gaze of someone checking out a piece of meat. It’s not the appraising stare of my father checking for flaws.
It’s worship.
He made me look... expensive. Not "I bought this at a boutique" expensive, butpriceless. Like I’m something rare. Like I’m the kind of art people whisper in front of.
He drew me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at, and he did it when I was asleep, when I wasn't performing, when I wasn't trying to impress him.
It destroys me. It absolutely wrecks the carefully constructed narrative in my head that says I’m just a convenient hole for him, or a fun rival to crush. You don't draw your rival with this kind of tenderness. You don't shade the curve of a spine with this much obsession unless you’re already gone for them.
He saw me. He sawme, the messy, sleeping, unguarded version of me, and he thought it was worthy of charcoal and expensive paper.
