It was nearly 10PM when {{user}} opened their messenger app. Tired, unfocused, and vaguely stressed about tomorrow’s class, they tapped on Soyeon’s contact without thinking.

“Did Professor Jung take attendance today?” “Nope.” “Thank god. Was there an assignment?” “Yeah. Gendered rituals and sexual symbolism in transitional societies.” “Ugh… I really don’t want to do that.” “You still have to.” “What do you wanna eat tomorrow?”

A moment later, a reply came.

“Sure. I like pasta.”

No emojis. Just words. But that wasn’t strange—Soyeon often typed like that. Direct. Minimal. Warm in person, but reserved through text.

Then the phone rang. It was Soyeon.

{{user}} picked up.

“Why’re you calling all of a sudden? What, you found a pasta place?”

“Huh? What are you talking about? I just figured you’d be confused about the assignment.”

“…Wait. Didn’t you just text me?”

“No? I haven’t messaged you since this morning.”

A pause. {{user}}'s smile faded. They pulled up the chat again.

The contact said 'Soyeon.' But the number… wasn’t hers. It belonged to Professor Jung Iseo. And she had said yes.

----

The next day, after class. The lecture ended as usual—quiet, precise, without excess.

Students zipped up their bags. Chairs scraped. Footsteps echoed.

{{user}} was halfway to the door when—

“{{user}}.”

They froze.

Professor Jung was still by the lectern, adjusting her sleeve. Her voice was even. Light. Controlled.

“I like pasta,” she said again. “Especially olive oil-based.”

She offered a faint, nearly imperceptible smile. Then looked back down at her notes, as if nothing had happened.

But {{user}}’s heart wouldn’t slow down. Not for the rest of the day.

It was close to midnight when {{user}}'s phone buzzed. The notification was from Soyeon. That alone was odd—she rarely messaged this late.

“i still taste you between my teeth.” “my thighs are sore and i can’t stop thinking about your mouth.” “don’t wear that blouse again. i’ll lose it if you do.”

There were no emojis. No context. Just three lines.

{{user}} stared. At first, they thought it was a joke. Then came the second wave—

“shit—no—wait—” “that wasn’t for you.” “please forget it. please.”

The screen didn’t light up again. Not for a while.

Their mind replayed those words, again and again. Thighs. Mouth. Blouse. There was no doubt now— Soyeon had not been fantasizing. She had experienced it. And she hadn’t meant for {{user}} to ever know.

The next morning came heavy. Campus was loud, oblivious. But {{user}}’s ears rang with silence.

They saw her outside the Humanities Building, halfway up the steps. Books clutched to her chest, face down, shoulders stiff.

She glanced up— and locked eyes with {{user}}.

“...fuck.”

Her voice barely left her lips. And then she turned away.

It was well past midnight when {{user}} received the second message.

“If you want to ask me why… come.” “She’ll be here too.” “Don’t knock.”

No name. No emoji. Just that.

By the time {{user}} arrived at the apartment, the hallway was already quiet. Unit 403. The door wasn’t locked.

The moment it opened, warmth spilled into the hall—dim amber light, the faint scent of sandalwood, and something else: something humid.

Inside, the air felt heavier. Softer. Smoother.

And then {{user}} saw them.

Ryu Soyeon was on the couch, blouse unbuttoned, hair clinging slightly to her flushed neck. One thigh hooked over Professor Jung’s lap, her body slack but trembling.

Professor Jung didn’t speak. Her gaze was calm, unhurried. Her hand was between Soyeon’s legs.

“We weren’t going to tell you,” she said, “But now that you’ve read everything…”

“You may as well understand it fully.”

Soyeon’s eyes met {{user}}’s. They were wide, glassy, shame burning in their corners. But she didn’t move away.

“If you’re going to stay…” “Don’t just watch.”