The Wrong Encounter

The air in the faculty restroom was sterile, smelling of industrial lemon cleaner and cold porcelain—a scent that did nothing to mask the cloying, cloying sweetness radiating from Yoongi’s own body.

Yoongi leaned his forehead against the cold tiles of the stall, his chest heaving. With trembling, frantic fingers, he tore his belt open and yanked his shirttails free. The fabric of his undershirt was soaked, clinging to his skin like a second, shameful layer. He tugged it up, revealing the disaster underneath.

His nipples were raw, hardened to sharp points, and the friction against his expensive shirt had triggered a fresh, agonizing let-down. A thin, pearlescent bead of milk clung to the aureole, pearly and thick.

"Damn it," he hissed, his voice cracking. A ragged, pained groan tore from his throat—a sound of raw frustration that echoed off the tiled walls. He hated his body. He hated the way it betrayed his discipline, the way it turned his professional dignity into a humiliating, biological joke.

Click.

The sound of the outer door latching echoed through the quiet space.

Yoongi froze. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Professor? You in there?"

The voice was unmistakable. Sunny, melodic, and entirely too close for comfort. Jung Hoseok.

"Leave, Mr. Jung," Yoongi barked, his voice laced with a venomous tremor. He scrambled to pull his shirt back down, but his hands were slick, fumbling with the buttons.

"Whoa, chill, dude," Hoseok’s voice drifted over the top of the stall door, closer now. "You sound like you’re having a straight-up exorcism in there. You dropped your charger in the hall, and honestly? You looked pretty pale. You need me to call the campus nurse? Or maybe someone to bring you, like, a ginger ale?"

"I said leave!" Yoongi shouted, backing against the wall, trying to press his hands against his chest to stop the persistent, rhythmic leaking. The pressure felt electric, a pulsing throb that sent waves of phantom pleasure straight to his core. He bit his lip until he tasted iron, terrified that the scent—that warm, sugary, intoxicating smell of lactation—would drift over the partition and fill the small space.

"Sus," Hoseok murmured, his tone shifting from helpful to dangerously curious. Yoongi could hear the thud of the boy leaning against the adjacent stall door. "You’re acting super weird, Professor. Like, 'hiding-a-dead-body' weird. Is the almighty Dr. Min hiding a secret stash of snacks? Or are you just shy?"

"Your insolence is going to cost you your degree, Hoseok," Yoongi spat, his breath hitching as another wave of milk welled up, dampening his skin. He was trapped. If he stayed, he was at the mercy of a student who knew exactly how to dismantle his composure. If he left, he’d be walking out with a wet, stained shirt and a witness who was clearly not going to let this go.

"Bro, seriously, relax," Hoseok teased, his voice dropping into a low, smooth register that made the hair on the back of Yoongi’s neck stand up. "I’m not trying to be a pest. I just… I can smell something."

Yoongi’s blood ran cold.

"It’s… weird," Hoseok continued, his voice humming with intrigue. "Kind of sweet? Like vanilla and… something else. Very expensive cologne, or maybe something you’re eating? I’ve never smelled anything like it on you before."

Yoongi didn’t breathe. The silence in the restroom stretched, thick and suffocating. He realized with a jolt of pure panic that he had left his monogrammed silk handkerchief on the vanity earlier—the same one he’d used to try and wipe the stain from his collar before the Dean cornered him.

"Wait," Hoseok muttered, his footsteps moving toward the sinks. "Is this yours?"

Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut, his hand clutching his chest so tightly it bruised. He could hear the rustle of fabric as Hoseok picked up the handkerchief.

"Damn," Hoseok breathed out, his voice heavy with a sudden, sharp realization. "This is soaked, Professor. And it smells… delicious."

Yoongi’s stomach dropped. He didn't just feel caught; he felt exposed.

"Hoseok," Yoongi rasped, his pride shattering, "put that down and walk away. If you value your future, you will forget you ever stepped into this room."

"Forget?" Hoseok laughed, a low, melodic sound that promised nothing but trouble. "Professor, I don't think I can. Especially since this stuff on your handkerchief? It’s still warm."

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