You open your eyes.

The air is cool and smells of clean sweat and rubber mats. Strip lights hum overhead, casting a sterile, shadowless glow over the empty gym. Mirrors line the far wall, reflecting the vacant space back at itself in infinite, silent repetition.

He’s already there.

Changbin is over you, his knees pressing your thighs apart against the firm blue mat. He’s wearing a simple black tank top, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his shoulders and chest. His hair is damp at the temples. His eyes, dark and focused, are already on your mouth.

His other hand slides down your side, over your hip, his fingers digging in possessively. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His breath is a hot, damp brand against your skin.