The week that followed was a study in careful avoidance that neither of us could maintain.
We still saw each other almost every day. BLACK ROOM had practice three times a week, and somehow our schedules kept overlapping. Taejun never mentioned the kiss again. I didn’t either. But the space between us had changed shape. It was no longer empty. It was charged.
And now there was an election.
Taejun’s name was already at the top of the nomination list. A second-year named Minjae was also running, loud and popular and determined to turn the club into something more “fun.” The practice room started splitting into quiet factions. People asked me which side I was on. I said I was on the side of actually practicing music.
One Thursday evening the power in the club room went out for twenty minutes. We were the only two left. The emergency light cast everything in a weak orange glow. Taejun sat on the floor with his back against the wall, long legs stretched out. I sat opposite him, knees drawn up.
“You still like that junior?” I asked into the dark.
He was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “She texted me yesterday. I haven’t answered.”
I felt something unpleasantly like satisfaction.
“Why not?”
“Because I keep thinking about someone else’s mouth.”
The words landed heavy. I stared at the floor between us.
“Hyung.”
“I know. You’re taken. I’m not an idiot.”
Silence stretched. Outside, rain started to hit the windows.
I shifted until I was sitting beside him instead of across. Our shoulders brushed. Neither of us moved away. After a while his hand found mine in the dark. Just fingers linking, nothing more. His palm was warm and slightly rough from guitar strings.
We stayed like that until the lights came back on. Then we both pretended it hadn’t happened.
The next practice was louder than usual. Someone brought soju again. Election talk mixed with the usual chaos. I only drank one glass, determined to stay clear-headed. Taejun drank more. By the time people started filtering out, his eyes had that half-lidded look that meant he was soft around the edges.
I offered to walk him home. He didn’t refuse.
The night air was cold. We walked side by side without talking. When we reached his studio apartment building, he stopped under the streetlight and turned to me.
“Come up.”
It wasn’t a question.
I followed him into the elevator. The doors closed. Taejun stepped closer, caged me against the wall with one arm, and kissed me the way he had that first night—hungry, a little clumsy, completely serious. I made a sound against his mouth and opened for him. His tongue slid against mine. One of his hands found the small of my back and pressed me flush against him. I could feel that he was already hard.
The elevator dinged. We broke apart. My lips felt swollen.
Inside his room he didn’t turn on the main light. Just the small lamp by the bed. He pulled my hoodie off, then his own. When he pushed me down onto the mattress I went willingly. His weight settled over me. We kissed again, slower this time, deeper. His hand slipped under my shirt and mapped the skin of my stomach, then higher, brushing a nipple with the pad of his thumb. I arched.
“Still taken?” he asked against my throat, voice rough.
I didn’t answer. Instead I reached between us and cupped him through his jeans. He hissed and rolled his hips into my palm.
We didn’t go further that night. We made out until our mouths were red and our bodies were aching, until I was grinding up against his thigh and making quiet, desperate noises. Then he pulled back, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against mine.
“Not like this,” he said. “Not while you’re still his.”
I hated him a little for being the responsible one.
I left twenty minutes later with a visible mark on my neck that I would have to hide the next day.