The day passed with the agonizing slowness of a torture device designed specifically to test her patience. Taehyung sat through her morning lectures—Contemporary Literature at nine, Art History at eleven—in a fog of arousal and anticipation that made the professors' words blur into meaningless noise. She was acutely aware of her body in a way she had never been before: the ache between her thighs that served as a constant reminder of Jungkook's possession, the sensitivity of her skin where his stubble had burned her, the lingering taste of him in the back of her throat.

She had dressed carefully that morning, following his unspoken expectations even though he wasn't there to enforce them. A black pleated skirt that hit mid-thigh, sheer enough to hint at what lay beneath but opaque enough to be respectable. A white silk blouse, unbuttoned just low enough to show the edge of her lace bra—the same bra he had torn last night, she had discovered with a flutter of dark excitement, finding it discarded and ruined on her bedroom floor. She had replaced it with a new one, black and delicate, imagining his hands ripping this one too.