The next morning my head felt like someone had filled it with wet cotton.
I woke up first. Taejun was still asleep, one arm thrown across my waist, face buried against the side of my neck. His breathing was slow and warm. For a few seconds I just stared at the ceiling and tried to remember exactly how we had ended up like this.
The kiss.
The second kiss.
The way I had climbed on top of him and taken over.
My face burned. I carefully slid out from under his arm. The movement made him frown and mumble something unintelligible, but he didn’t open his eyes. I sat on the edge of the bed in only my underwear, staring at the empty soju bottles on the floor.
I was still dating Yongjun.
That fact hit me like cold water.
I pulled on my jeans and T-shirt as quietly as I could. My phone showed three unread messages from Yongjun asking if I had gotten home safely. I typed a short reply and put the phone face-down.
When I looked back, Taejun’s eyes were open. He was watching me without expression.
“You’re leaving?”
His voice was rough from sleep and alcohol.
“Yeah. I have a morning class.”
He sat up slowly. The sheet slid down to his hips. I forced my gaze to stay on his face.
“About last night—” I started.
“Don’t.”
The single word was soft but final. He ran a hand through his messy hair.
“We were both drunk. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
I should have felt relief. Instead something tight and unpleasant settled under my ribs.
“Right,” I said. “Okay.”
I left without another word.
All day the memory of his mouth kept returning at the worst moments. During lecture. While eating. While talking to Yongjun on the phone that evening and hearing his usual gentle voice. I answered everything normally, but my body remembered the weight of Taejun’s hands on my back and the clumsy, hungry way he had kissed me.
Two days later the club group chat exploded.
Someone had finally posted the formal notice: BLACK ROOM would hold its annual president election next month. Nominations were open. The current president was graduating. Suddenly every conversation in the practice room turned into quiet campaigning or open arguing.
I walked into the club room that afternoon and found Taejun alone at the piano again. He looked up when the door opened.
“Seowon.”
Just my name.
I dropped my bag on the couch.
“Hyung. Are you running?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead he reached out, hooked two fingers in the front pocket of my jeans, and pulled me closer until I was standing between his knees. His other hand slid up the back of my thigh, slow and deliberate.
“You keep looking at my mouth,” he murmured.
I swallowed.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
His thumb traced the seam of my pocket. Heat crawled up my spine. I should have stepped back. I didn’t.
Taejun leaned forward and pressed his lips to the soft spot just under my jaw. Not a real kiss. Just the warm pressure of his mouth and the slight scrape of teeth. My hands landed on his shoulders without permission.
“Hyung…”
“Still dating him?” he asked against my skin.
“…Yes.”
He made a small sound that might have been a laugh or a sigh, then released me.
“Then stop staring. And yes. I’m running for president. Someone has to keep this place from turning into a complete circus.”
I picked up my bag and left the room before I did something irreversible.
That night I lay in my own bed and touched myself thinking about the way Taejun’s fingers had felt through the denim. When I came, it was quiet and almost angry.