Despite it being just before noon on a weekday, every love hotel in the city center was fully booked, leaving only an old, run-down hotel on the outskirts of a distant entertainment district available. In one of its cramped rooms, she straddled me, rocking her hips and craving me over and over again. The small space filled with the sound of our sweat and the lewd, seductive friction of mucous membranes. Her soft breasts swayed, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened on her pale neck. What made this sensual scene even more striking was perhaps her profession. Normally, she should be spending her days as a nursery school teacher, singing and drawing with children. Yet here she was, at this time of day, sharing this moment with me. When I asked her at our meeting café, "I work at a kindergarten. I love children," she replied with a gentle smile. Her words somehow felt completely natural. I could vividly picture her wearing a teacher's apron, sitting in a circle with kids, singing along—such a serene, ideal image. Days filled with drawing, singing, laughter—a peaceful life on the surface. But beneath that calm, a deep heat simmered, hiding something secret. It had been nearly a year since she broke up with her boyfriend. What had built up wasn't just loneliness, but something more urgent, more instinctual. She took time off work, chose this day, and made the decision to spend it with me in this room. On the sofa lay a crumpled lace underwear she said she "wears every day." The desire embedded in that piece of fabric was shockingly honest, deeply moving. We kept craving each other, until finally both of us collapsed onto the sheets, breathless. Holding her close for a while, she quietly fell asleep in my arms. 2:30 PM. Glancing at the clock, I suddenly realize—ah, right. At this very moment, she should have been taking her afternoon nap.