DEAR READER: This is my first time trying to write a story like this. Please read and review. I hope you enjoy!


I disobeyed my number one rule last night.


I didn't make it home that night. Slept on the floor of a samgyupsal restaurant. In the same room as my male coworker. The floor heating hadn't warmed up yet so we were freezing. I only had one thin blanket. He wanted to share.

"Come over here," I said. "I'm not going over there."

"There's not really enough room," he shifted the table in the middle of the room over, "but because I'm cold..." he trailed off.

We lay under the thing blanket. I, on my side, back to him.

"I'm warm now," he said.

"Yeah, unfortunately for me." My words confused him. "I give off so much more body heat than I retain for myself... great for you, sucks for me."

"So... you're cold?"


"Roll over then." He said it in a small voice, non-authoritative. Strange, coming from him. I sprawl across him now. My head in the crook of his shoulder. "He's so broad," I marveled in my head, my hand curled up near my face. But he grabbed my hand and dragged it across his chest. Now my arm drapes across his chest, my right leg already crooked possessively over his. "Well, this is how I sleep," I think, "I hope he can deal." His shirt is rough, textured. My insatiable fingers want to sink into the grooves. I uncurl my hand sneakily, splay my palm on his chest. As the soft center of my palm presses to his chest it heaves upwards with his sudden breath.

"Move up," he demands, no longer coaxing. I rouse energy to drag my body three or four inches up his length. "Bad move!" my mind screams. Far too much friction. His elbow crooks reflexively around my shoulders and then, his other arm is across my face, his left hand is on my head and is he? Yes. He is stroking my hair, several times, passing his fingers deep through my roots on the last two passes. My eyes close unvolitionally.

"You still cold?"

He's found my weakness, as my mind clouds over in the pleasure of light pressure on my scalp.

"Parts of me... parts of me not..." the words manage to ooze out.

"Which parts?"

"My legs... but it's ok... I can sleep..." He chuckles when I say legs but I don't see the humor. He's relaxed though and when I realize this I want to exploit the situation. Interrogate him about office scandals, our coworkers, him. But I hesitate to spoil the mood. In my indecision his breathing deepens. He's asleep. My mind trips over the day's events and finale. I nervously tap out a rhythm on his chest. So tentatively, faltering. So later I can deny the consciousness of the action. His arm, wrapped around my shoulders, tightens convulsively, suddenly and in my surprise I only register his lips as they leave my forehead.


This is why I have rule number one. So things like this don't happen. His breathing is steady. I can only assume he never woke up. Seriously? Who kisses someone in their sleep? Has he just been with so many girls that the action is instinctual? I would believe it of him, but I don't want to. Where is this behavior coming from? Is it the alcohol?

We're coworkers. And... we get along... but my personality never gets along with his type. We manage to be sociable during the day. So why the fuck are we cuddling on the floor of a restaurant. It's my fault. I broke my rule. But it's ok. We'll act cool tomorrow. He probably won't even remember. Or, at least that's what I'm going to choose to believe.

The floor is warming up now. Between him and it my body temperature is high enough for comfortable sleep. But of course sleep won't come. I shift against him sporadically, annoyingly. I try not to wake him. A couple of times my squirming earns me his fingers in my hair again. Another convulsive half-hug. Even a few kisses.

"How long has it been?" I wonder. We only have a few hours here I know before we have to leave the restaurant. Resolute to capture sleep, I finally begin to still. The floor is hot now, somewhat uncomfortable. He twitches once. Then he begins to murmer.

"Only a month." A month? Of what? I'm too stunned to speak, which is good because he's still completely asleep. He mutters something and then again, "only a month."

Suddenly he shoves my arm off his chest, back to my own. There's a pause. He seems to be hot. And then I'm rolling quickly off his side and being layed on my back. His silhouetted upper half is twisted up and hovering over me. Panicking, I close my eyes. I don't know if he could see them open. I can feel him coming closer. His right arm is partially retracted from under me, but I still lay on his forearm. His left hand cups my face. He's muttering something, but I'm not listening, the panic is rising. I can't stand being blind! I open my eyes and I can tell from the silhouette of his eyelashes that his eyes are open, but I can't see them. I don't know if he can see mine. But he's going to kiss me again, I know. And not on the forehead. That crosses another boundary for the night. I shouldn't even be here. And I'm jerking my chin up, exposing my throat, squeezing my eyes shut, and willing him not to kiss me.

There's a rustle of clothing and mats, the scrape of the door sliding open and he's gone. I hear him relieving himself in the bathroom a few rooms away. Then silence. For a few minutes. I finally hear him re-enter the room, sliding shut the door. I'm on my side, my comfort position. "Let's see what he does," I think, focusing on keeping my eyes tightly shut. I can sense him kneeling on the mats. I feel air brush past my chest and vividly imagine his arm caging my torso as he lowers his weight back down to the floor. It should soon be over, but then his palm is on my ribcage, pushing down almost uncomfortably. Unnecessary leverage I think, but his hand has already moved, thick fingertips grazing the side of my breast. Too heavy to be accidental but too fleeting for an accusation. Finally he's settled alongside me. I feel my hair being stroked again, shifted. It makes me relax and I smile lightly. I wonder if he has a hair fetish? Then his arm drapes across my arms and torso. He's heavily muscled, so the arm's dead weight is constricting. My breathing feels hampered. And the floor is hot. I'm suffocating. My hands wriggle up and lever the heavy appendage down to my waist. There it drapes for a few seconds before he twitches violently onto his back. He's hot too. I wait a few minutes until I'm sure his breathing is still steady. Then I roll onto my stomach. Confused but warm and exhausted, I fall into the first sleep of the night.

In the morning, I think, the jock will be the jock and I will be... me. But I know he whispers in his sleep. I know his callous, mocking, daylight mouth chastely presses lips to foreheads. I know his fingers like to wander through a forest of strands, have journeyed my scalp. And so, if I smile at him tomorrow unprompted, he won't know why. But you will.