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Chenle pockets her phone. “So,” she says, bouncing her heel against the coffee table, “I borrowed the thing from Jaemin, but I washed it, and I got my own, too. You wanna try?”
Jisung hears herself say, “Yes,” before she’s finished thinking the word. Her knees are bouncing. She’s dizzy and raw, but the idea of refusing, of saying no to Chenle, is unthinkable. She’d let Chenle pick her apart molecule by molecule if it meant Chenle wouldn’t leave.
Chenle grins—so sharp, so bright her eyes crinkle—and stands, pulling Jisung up by both wrists. “C’mon.”