Chapter 1
The pale yellow nightlight in Room 510 moved slightly with every quick, annoyed breath Kim Namjoon let out. On the small table, the digital clock jumped to 22:40. Over an hour and a half had passed since that awful 21:10 moment, and the noise coming through the thin wall was finally reaching its final, intense stage.
The loud sounds of skin hitting skin mixed with the creaking of the mattress springs, carrying clearly through the thin concrete wall. The heavy, fast rhythm sounded as if the two people on the other side were using every last bit of their energy to push each other to the limit. Namjoon pulled the blanket completely over his head, his chest moving up and down heavily. He clenched his hands into tight fists, his forehead wet with a thin layer of sweat under the hot air he had created himself. Then came a long, low, rough gasp - a deep groan of complete satisfaction from some man - before everything suddenly fell into a chilling, heavy silence.
Finally. It was finally over.
Namjoon threw the blanket off his face, taking a deep breath like a drowning person coming up for air. The quietness returned to Room 510, but Namjoon’s mind was already completely ruined. He lay flat on the bed, staring up at the moving shadows of light on the ceiling. He could not stop thinking: was 'the girl next door' really that good to make that man groan so wildly without stopping? As a quiet engineering student living a very simple, predictable life, this was the first time he felt a strange, hidden heat running through his veins, all triggered by those uninvited, inappropriate sounds. Annoyed with his own reaction, he turned over angrily, closed his eyes tight, and forced himself to fall into a late, uncomfortable sleep.
During the two weeks since he had moved in, Namjoon had never once met the owner of Room 509. That person seemed to almost never step out of the apartment. The only clue Namjoon had was from a quick glance at the shared balcony: the drying rack of 509 only had oversized white button-down shirts blowing gently in the wind. This combination of a secretive lifestyle and those loose clothes made Namjoon feel sure that his neighbor was probably some unemployed freelance woman living a wild and unusual sex life.
He was full of frustration, but Namjoon was totally stuck and had no idea how to bring it up. He could hardly be bold enough to walk over, knock on the door, and ask: “Excuse me, could you stop having such loud sex every night? Because your boyfriend's groans keep getting me unexpectedly worked up." The mere thought of it sent a wave of mortification through him—someone who prided himself on being a safe, good-natured, and utterly wholesome guy.
Until one Friday night.
Accepting a friendly invitation from his older college friends, Namjoon accidentally drank way too much at a party celebrating their completed project. The alcohol went straight to his head, turning his long legs into two limp strands of noodles. He stumbled out of the 5th-floor elevator, his vision blurred and swimming under the dim fluorescent lights. Bumping his shoulder against the wall with every step, Namjoon staggered toward what he thought was his front door. He raised his hand and began banging his fist impatiently against the metal handle, his fingernails scraping harshly across the cold surface with a series of sharp, irritated clicks.
“Why... why is this lock so impossibly hard tonight...” he muttered under his breath, his feet tangling together as he tried repeatedly to shove his key into the keyhole, only for it to slip off every single time.
Click.
The door suddenly opened from the inside. A warm air carrying the sweet, comforting scent of camellia oil rushed straight into Namjoon’s face. He lost his balance and almost fell forward into the room, barely catching himself by pushing his hand against the doorframe.
“Who is it?”
The voice arrived low, unhurried, and smooth, carrying a subtle, resonant vibration in the back of the throat—a magnetic timbre so inexplicably enchanting that it instantly lulled Namjoon's alcohol-frayed nerves into a sudden halt.
Namjoon slowly lifted his heavy head.
Beneath the dim, yellowish light of the hallway, a man stood leaning casually against the edge of the doorway. One hand held a small plush towel, idly drying his damp black hair. He was wearing an oversized white button-down shirt—the exact same style Namjoon had seen drying out on the balcony—left completely unbuttoned at the top, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. His pale, porcelain skin stood in stark, intoxicating contrast to the faint, flushed red mark still resting softly near his collarbone.
He looked down at the towering, thoroughly intoxicated student swaying before him, his thin lips curving upward into a lazy, slyly mocking smirk. His eyes narrowed into two sharp, captivating crescents, radiating the experienced composure of someone well-versed in the games of temptation, instantly thickening the air between them into something heavy and charged.
"Well now, little guy..." he murmured, his voice dripping with playful amusement. "Are you lost?"
