The restaurant had been his idea — some place downtown with white tablecloths and a menu that didn't list prices, and she'd spent the first ten minutes of dinner pretending she wasn't doing the math in her head. Then the duck came out, and the conversation turned, and somewhere between the appetizers and the second glass of wine she forgot to be nervous. He'd explained the science of the sear — Maillard reaction, he'd said, the amino acids and sugars tangling at high heat until they browned into something new — and she'd watched his hands move while he talked, the same hands that dissected everything in class, and thought, he's showing off for me. By the time the check came she'd stopped counting the cost of anything. The elevator ride up was eleven floors of his mouth on her neck, her back against the mirrored wall, her heel hooked around his calf. She'd worn the black dress — the one with the slit that stopped just short of decent — and he'd spent the whole ride home from the restaurant with his hand on the bare skin above her knee, thumb tracing a circle that got smaller and smaller until it wasn't a circle at all, just pressure, just heat, just the promise of what came after the goodnight.

"Your neighbors are going to file a complaint," she said into his jaw, and he laughed, low, his breath hot against her ear.

"Let them."

The hallway was empty, thank God, because the kiss that started at the elevator wasn't a goodnight kiss at all. It was a we're-not-done kiss. His hands found her waist and pulled her flush against him, and she felt the hard line of him through both their clothes, and the polite version of her — the one who'd sat across the table at the restaurant, laughing at his dry jokes, eating the duck he'd ordered for her because he'd said trust me, arguing with him about whether a steak could ever be as good as the duck — that version of her dissolved like sugar in water.

"Keys," she said against his mouth.

"In my—" He dug in his pocket without breaking the kiss. "Left. My left."

"You're the class president. Get it together."

He got the door open on the third try. She pushed him through it, and the apartment swallowed them — dark, then the desk lamp clicked on when his elbow caught the switch, and the whole room jumped into that harsh white light, clean linen and warm skin, polished hardwood throwing back the shine of it.

She didn't give him a chance to be polite about it. She put both hands flat on his chest and pushed, and he let her — more than let her, he went down onto the bed with a sound in his throat like she'd knocked the air out of him, and she stood over him in the lamplight with her pulse going in her throat.

"You've been looking at me all night," she said.

"You wore that dress."

"I know what I wore." She found the zipper at her side and pulled it down, slow, watching his face. "I'm asking what you're going to do about it."

The dress came off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. Underneath was a black bra and a scrap of lace that had cost her more than she'd admit to her mother, and his eyes went down her body and back up with a slowness that made her feel like the lamp had been put there for exactly this.

"C'mere," he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges.

She climbed onto the bed, onto him, her knees bracketing his hips, and the moment her weight settled over the hard line of him she felt how badly he wanted her — through the dress pants he hadn't bothered to change out of, thick and insistent against the thin lace. She rolled her hips once, deliberate, and his hands snapped to her waist.

"Aliyah."

"What?"

"You're going to kill me."

She laughed — and then his thumb found the lace between her legs and pressed, and the laugh turned into something with no shape to it. He worked the fabric aside and slid two fingers through her, and she was so wet already that the sound of it filled the quiet room, obscene and honest, and she heard herself make a noise she would have been embarrassed by in any other bed.

"That's from dinner?" he said, dry, but his fingers were curling inside her and his voice wasn't dry at all. "The duck?"

"Shut up."

"You've been like this since the car."

"Since the elevator," she corrected, and then he crooked his fingers and her hips jerked and whatever else she'd been about to say went out of her head entirely.

She got his belt open. It took her two tries because her hands weren't cooperating, and he watched her do it with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and when she got his cock free — thick, hot, the head of it already slick — she wrapped her hand around him and stroked once, root to tip, and he made a low sound that she felt in her own chest.

"Where's the—" He was already reaching for the nightstand, for the drawer, and she caught his wrist.

"Wait."

He went still. "What?"

"I want it raw."

The words hung there in the white lamplight. His eyes came back to her face, sharp, searching — the same look he got in class when someone said something wrong and he was deciding whether to correct them. She held it. She held him, too, her hand still wrapped around his cock, and she felt it twitch against her palm.

"Aliyah." Not a warning. A question.

"I'm on the pill." She said it plainly, because it was true, because she'd thought about this on the ride home with his hand on her knee, because she was tired of there being a layer between them. "I want to feel you. All of you."

His jaw worked. "You're sure."

"I'm sure."

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, or almost a groan, and his hands came back to her hips, and he pulled her down onto him.

The first push of him bare was nothing like the condom. Nothing like it. She felt every inch — the stretch of it, the heat, the way her body had to open for him and then did, slick and yielding, and she heard herself gasp like she'd been holding her breath since the elevator. He went in slow, all the way to the root, and stopped there with his hips flush against hers and his eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck," he said, quiet, wrecked. "Fuck, Aliyah."

"Yeah." Her voice came out thin. "Yeah."

He didn't move for a second. Just stayed buried in her, his hips pressed flush to hers, and she could feel him — every pulse of him inside her, the way his cock twitched when she clenched around him. His hands were hard on her hips, holding her still like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

"You feel that?" he said, and his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and low. "That's what you do to me."

"Move," she said, and it came out like a demand, like she wasn't the one who'd just asked to be taken bare. "Jaehyun, move."

He pulled back — slow, so slow, dragging himself out of her until just the head of him was still inside, and she felt the emptiness of it, the ache that came with losing him for even a second. Then he drove back in. One stroke, hard and deep, and the sound she made wasn't a moan — it was a gasp, sharp and surprised, like he'd knocked the air out of her lungs.

"Again," she said.

He gave it to her. Again and again, a rhythm that started slow and built, his hips snapping into hers with a force that pushed her up on the bed, made the headboard knock against the wall. Her fingers found his shoulders, then his back, nails digging into the muscle there, and she felt him shudder under her hands.

"You're so fucking wet," he said, and he wasn't being crude for the sake of it — he said it like he was telling her something true, something he couldn't keep to himself. "Listen to it."

She could. The wet sound of him sliding into her, the slap of his hips against her thighs, the slick of it — it filled the room, louder than her breathing, louder than the bedframe. She felt herself clench around him, tight, and he groaned like she'd hurt him.

"Don't do that," he said. "Not yet. I'm not—"

"Then don't stop." She reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulled his face down to hers. "I want it. All of it. Don't you dare stop."

Something changed in his face. The careful version of him — the one that had been holding back, measuring himself, staying in control — that version cracked, and underneath it was something rawer. Hungrier. His eyes went dark and flat, and he pulled out of her completely and flipped her onto her stomach before she could say a word.

"Up," he said. "On your knees."

She got up. Her knees were shaking, her thighs still slick with the wetness that had dripped down from between her legs, and she felt exposed in a way that made her face hot. But he was behind her, his hands on her hips, and then he was pushing back inside her and the angle was different — deeper, hitting something that made her whole body jerk.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, God—"

"That's it." His voice was right against her ear, his chest against her back. "Right there?"

"Yes—"

He pulled her back onto him, hard, and she cried out. He did it again. Again. The sound of it was obscene — skin on skin, the wet slide of him moving inside her, her own voice breaking apart into pieces she didn't recognize. His hand came around and found her clit, his fingers slick with her, and he rubbed tight circles that made her whole body tighten.

"I'm gonna—" She couldn't finish it. Her hips were moving on their own now, pushing back to meet him, and she felt the pressure building low in her belly, sharp and bright and unbearable.

"Say it," he said. "Tell me what you want."

"I want—" She gasped, her hands fisting in the sheets. "I want your nut. Jaehyun, please—"

He went still behind her. Not completely — his hips stuttered, like he'd lost the rhythm for a second, like she'd said something that got under his skin.

"What?" His voice was rough.

She turned her head, looked back at him over her shoulder. His hair was falling into his eyes, his jaw tight, and he was looking at her like he'd never seen her before.

"I want it," she said. "Inside me. All of it. I want you to—" She swallowed. "I want your kids, Jaehyun. I want you to put them in me."

The sound he made wasn't a word. It was something lower, something that came from his chest, and his hand tightened on her hip hard enough to bruise. He pulled out — fast, rough, and she felt the loss of him like a punch — and then he was turning her over, pushing her onto her back, and his face was right above hers.

"Say it again," he said. "Look at me and say it again."

"I want your kids." Her voice was shaking but she didn't look away. "I want you to cum inside me. Please, Jaehyun—"

He kissed her. Hard, messy, his tongue in her mouth like he was trying to crawl inside her, and then he was pushing back into her and the angle was different again — her legs over his shoulders, folded nearly in half, and he was so deep she could feel him in her stomach. The first thrust made her scream. The second made her see white.

"You want it?" He was fucking her hard now, no rhythm, just raw force, his hips slamming into her. "You want me to give you my kids?"

"Yes—"

"Say it."

"I want your kids!" The words came out broken, half-sob, and she didn't care. "Please, please, please—"

He came with a sound like he was being torn apart. His hips jerked, stuttered, and she felt it — the hot pulse of him inside her, thick and sudden, filling her up. His face was buried in her neck, his teeth against her skin, and he was shaking, his whole body trembling like he'd run a marathon.

She came with him. Not because she'd been close — she had been, so close it hurt — but because the feeling of him finishing inside her, the heat of it, the way he groaned her name into her throat, pushed her over the edge. Her cunt clenched around him, tight and rhythmic, and she felt herself gush — wet, sudden, soaking the sheets beneath her.

"Fuck," he said, muffled against her neck. "Fuck, fuck—"

He stayed inside her. Even after his hips stopped moving, even after his breathing started to slow, he stayed buried in her, like he couldn't bring himself to pull out. She could feel him softening, could feel the slow leak of his cum starting to seep out around where they were joined.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were glassy, his face flushed. He looked wrecked. He looked at her like she'd done something to him that he hadn't expected.

"You—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You meant that?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat was raw, her body was still trembling, and she felt like she'd been turned inside out.

He pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him, the sudden emptiness, and then the wet rush of his cum sliding out of her, pooling on the sheets. He watched it happen. His eyes went down her body, to where she was open and dripping, and something crossed his face that she couldn't read.

"Don't move," he said, and his voice was rough. "Don't you dare move."

He got off the bed. She heard his footsteps, the sound of a drawer opening, and then he was back, kneeling on the bed beside her. His cock was still hard — half-hard, at least, still slick with her and with his own cum, and he wrapped his hand around it and stroked once, slow.

"Open your mouth," he said.

She did. Without thinking, without hesitating, she opened her mouth and he fed her his cock — the head of it against her tongue, the taste of him and her mixed together, salt and musk and something that was just him. She closed her lips around him and sucked.

"That's it." His hand found the back of her head, not pushing, just resting there. "Take it. Take all of it."

She took him deeper. Her jaw ached, her throat worked, and she felt him hit the back of her throat and had to breathe through her nose to keep from gagging. He groaned above her, his hips twitching, and she looked up at him — his face, the way his mouth was open, the way his eyes were fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world.

"You look so good like this," he said. "My cock in your mouth. You have no idea."

She pulled off him, gasping, a string of spit connecting her lips to the head of his cock. "Then show me," she said. "Cum on my face. On my tits. I want it."

His jaw tightened. "Aliyah—"

"Please." She stroked him, fast, her hand slick with spit and his own wetness. "I want it all over me. Please, Jaehyun, please—"

He came with a groan that sounded like it was pulled out of him. Hot, thick ropes of it — across her cheek, her lips, her chin, and then he was moving, stroking himself over her chest, and she felt it land on her tits, warm and wet, dripping down between them.

She stayed still. Her eyes closed, her mouth open, and she felt the last pulses of him land on her skin. When she opened her eyes, he was looking down at her, his chest heaving, his cock still in his hand.

"Fuck," he said, quiet. "Fuck, Aliyah."

She smiled. She couldn't help it. She felt marked, claimed, and she didn't want to wipe it off.

"Told you," she said. "I wanted it."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he leaned down and kissed her — soft, gentle, his lips barely brushing hers, and she felt something in her chest turn over.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he said against her mouth. "You know that?"

"Maybe." She reached up and touched his face, her fingers light on his jaw. "But what a way to go."

He laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of him — and then he was reaching for the nightstand, pulling tissues from the box, cleaning her face with a care that didn't match the way he'd just fucked her. He wiped her cheek, her chin, her lips. He wiped her chest, gentle, and then he leaned down and kissed her collarbone.

"I meant it," he said, quiet. "What I said before. About being focused on you."

"I know."

"I'm not—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "I've never done that before. Any of that. The—" He gestured vaguely at the mess on the sheets, at her. "I didn't know I could want something that much."

She reached for him, pulled him down onto the bed beside her. He went willingly, his body curling around hers, his arm across her waist. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, still fast, still slowing.

"Good," she said. "Because I'm not done wanting it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then his hand found hers in the dark and held on.

His palm was warm and dry against hers, and she lay there listening to the apartment settle — a pipe knocking somewhere behind the wall, a car passing below, the low hum of the fridge through the open bedroom door. His thumb moved once across her knuckles and stopped.

"You're not sleeping," he said.

"Neither are you."

"I'm thinking."

She turned her head on the pillow. In the dark she could just make out the shape of him — the ridge of his nose, his hair a mess against the white of the case, the sheet pulled up to his hip. "About what?"

"About the fact that I just—" He stopped. She heard him breathe out through his nose. "I've never lost control like that. Not once. Not in anything."

"And?"

"And I liked it." The words came out flat, like a confession dragged out of him. "That's the part I'm sitting with."

She rolled onto her side to face him fully, the sheet dragging with her. The mess on her chest had dried tacky in places, and she could still feel the wetness between her thighs, cooling, his cum seeping out of her every time she shifted. She didn't want to clean it. She wanted to lie in it.

"You think I didn't?" she said. "I've never said anything like that out loud. Not to anybody. Not even in my head, really."

He was quiet. Then his hand came up and his fingers found the edge of her jaw, tilted her face toward him. "You said you wanted my kids."

Her stomach dropped. Not with shame — with something hotter and more frightening. "I know what I said."

"Did you mean it?"

"I don't know." She said it honestly, because the dark made it possible. "In the moment I meant it. I meant it more than I've meant anything. But I'm nineteen and I'm failing chemistry, so maybe don't take it as a five-year plan."

He laughed — that quiet, surprised laugh again, the one that made her want to keep saying things just to hear it. "Fair."

"What about you?" She poked his chest. "You came inside me. You didn't even hesitate."

His hand stilled on her jaw. "No. I didn't."

"Was that smart?"

"No." He said it without flinching. "I know better. I've always known better. But you were—" He stopped, started again. "You looked at me and said it and I couldn't think. I couldn't think past wanting to give you exactly what you asked for."

She reached down between her legs, slid her fingers through the wet mess there, and brought them up where he could see them in the dim. "It's still coming out of me," she said. "Every time I move."

He caught her wrist. Brought her fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, slow, his eyes on hers the whole time. She felt it all the way down to her toes.

"We should talk about that," he said. "What happens next time. Because there's going to be a next time."

"You're sure about that."

"Aliyah." He said her name like it was the answer to a question she hadn't asked. "I'm not going anywhere."

She believed him. That was the terrifying part — she believed him completely, and she was lying in his bed with his cum drying on her skin and his hand in hers, and she couldn't stop thinking about the bet. About Dae and Marcus and a plate of wings. About the fact that this had started as a competition he refused to lose, and she didn't know how much of what came after was real and how much was him being the kind of person who never came in last.

"I need to ask you something," she said.

"Ask."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. The question sat there, heavy, and she heard herself say instead: "What's your mom like?"

He blinked. "My mom?"

"You've never mentioned her. You've mentioned your brother, you've mentioned Soo-Min's mom calling yours. But not your own."

He let go of her hand and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "She's a professor. Biochem. She's the reason I'm good at this stuff — she had me doing flashcards before I could read." A pause. "She's also the reason I'm like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I can't do anything halfway." His jaw moved. "She doesn't do half-measures. If you're going to do something, you do it properly or you don't do it at all. I got a B-plus in sixth grade and she didn't speak to me for three days."

Aliyah pushed herself up on one elbow. "Three days? For a B-plus?"

"It was a B-plus in math. I was good at math." He shrugged. "I don't think she was trying to be cruel. She just — that's how she loves people. She makes them better. And if you're not getting better, she doesn't know what to do with you."

Something in her chest ached for him. "That sounds lonely."

"It was." He turned his head, looked at her. "It is. Until recently."

She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't have to. She leaned down and kissed him, soft, and he kissed her back with a gentleness that made the ache worse.

"My mom's a nurse," she said against his mouth. "She works nights. She's scared all the time and she covers it with being mad. She thinks if she's strict enough, nothing bad will happen to me."

"Is that why you were grounded?"

"That's why I'm always grounded." She settled back against his shoulder. "She lost her sister. My aunt. And my cousin — he was nineteen, same as me, and he got sick and he died in a hospital and she was there for all of it. So when I don't come home, she doesn't see a teenager being dumb. She sees the worst night of her life happening again."

Jaehyun was silent for a long time. Then his arm came around her, pulled her in tight. "That's why you called her. From the car. That night."

"That's why."

"And Sunday dinner." His voice was careful. "She's going to look at me and see a boy who's going to hurt her daughter."

"Probably." Aliyah tucked her face into his neck. "But she's also going to see that I came home. That I told her the truth instead of lying. She'll notice that."

"Will you be there?"

"At dinner?" She laughed against his skin. "It's my house. Yeah, I'll be there."

"Good." His hand moved up her back, slow, tracing the line of her spine. "Because I don't think I can do it without you."

She lifted her head. Looked at him. The class president, the boy who ignored her for weeks, the one who'd fucked her like he was trying to prove something and then held her like she was the something he was trying to prove. His hair was still a mess. There was a faint mark on his shoulder where her nails had dug in.

"You're going to be fine," she said. "Just — don't be weird. Don't be the guy who puts his headphones in. Be the one who's here right now."

"I don't know how to be that guy on command."

"You don't have to do it on command. Just do it." She touched his face. "You've been doing it all night. Keep doing it."

He caught her hand, pressed it flat against his cheek, and closed his eyes. She watched his breathing slow, felt the tension drain out of him inch by inch. The pipe knocked again behind the wall. A siren rose somewhere downtown and faded.

"Aliyah," he said, without opening his eyes.

"Yeah."

"Whatever you were going to ask me before. The thing you changed your mind about." His eyes opened. "Ask it."

Her heart kicked. She lay very still, and she felt the question sitting there between them, and she knew — she knew — that if she asked it now, in this bed, with his cum still inside her and his hand in hers, she would get a true answer. And she wasn't sure she was ready for it.

"Not tonight," she said. "Sunday. After dinner. Ask me again Sunday."

He studied her face for a long moment. Then he nodded, slow, and pulled her back down against his chest. "Sunday," he said. "Fine. But I'm holding you to it."

She closed her eyes. His heartbeat was steady under her ear now, a slow drum, and she counted it without meaning to — one, two, three, four — and somewhere around sixty her body finally gave up and let her go.