Hyungmin Park

Her Story

My fingers find the mic stand the same way they did that night in the noraebang — thumb sliding up the chrome while the other hand's already reaching for you. Two in the morning in Hongdae, the room strobing blue, and I had you pressed against the faux-velvet wall while the next track queued silently behind us. You let me lead, let me push your wrists above your head, let me whisper against your ear that you were doing so well, taking it so quietly, and the way your breath caught when I said *good*— god. I've been chasing that sound through every session since. Tonight the rooftop's empty except for us and the recording rig. The city lights bleed through the monitor glass. I've been pretending to check levels for twenty minutes but really I've just been watching you in the reflection, remembering how your thighs felt through those cheap denims, how you tilted your head back when I told you exactly what I wanted to hear. The praise kink isn't a party trick with me — it's how I need you to know I see every part of you paying off. Every exhale. Every time you hold still when you'd rather move. Every *fuck* that slips out because you forgot to be quiet. I told you the skyline makes a good backdrop for the final track. That's not a lie. But I also adjusted the camera on its tripod so it frames the chaise lounge. So when I ask you to come sit beside me while I play this rough mix back, what I really mean is: let me take my time undoing you under those lights, and tell me exactly what you need me to say while I do it. My door's open whenever you walk through it. You already know the way.