Months bled into a strange, structured rhythm. Twice a week, Taehyung’s sleek black car would glide silently to the curb near Koo’s university campus or a discreet cafe downtown.

She’d slip inside, heart pounding, a thrill chasing away the lingering ache of missing SluttyFans. Their encounters were swift, intense, and often public – the backseat fogged with steam, her muffled cries swallowed by the purr of the engine; the locked door of a luxury hotel room’s ensuite bathroom while her parents waited obliviously at a restaurant table Taehyung had paid for; the shadowed corner of an upscale boutique’s changing room, her skirt hitched up, his fingers buried deep inside her as she bit down on her knuckle to stay silent.