our encounter was like a painting ᝰ✍︎

As all orientation groups are, this one is, predictably, a disaster.

Seungmin’s eyes flicker around the lopsided shape formed by his peers from his partially tree-shaded spot in the grass, his legs stretched out before him. He appreciates the mild temperature, listening to the end of summer whispering enjoy it while it lasts with a lovely (and ominous) breeze. For a bunch of students allegedly pursuing an arts degree, they sure do struggle to form a basic geometric shape. The supposed circle bumps out on one side, becomes a straight line on another, and another student dots the outer edge, completely disconnected from the wonky shape altogether.

Whatever. No one is being graded on their spatial awareness, and this group does not form the school marching band, so oh well. Seungmin is only here to fulfill one of a never-ending slog of orientation requirements on the seemingly endless list and then forget this afternoon ever happened.

The orientation leader— a senior with seemingly wise eyes and the relaxed posture of someone who never cared about impressing or establishing dominance over underclassmen— makes no attempt to correct the poorly-formed blob. She just settles into the grass the way a retired person who is successful enough to own a lawn would, and delivers her instructions with the energy of someone reading a grocery list.

“Name, major, fun fact, high school. Go whenever.”

No obnoxious icebreakers. No forced enthusiasm. Toxic positivity is obviously not one of her presets, but she’s not a fun sponge either. She doesn’t do that stupid name-repeating game around the circle either. Not even a cringy group chant. Seungmin immediately respects her.

Once again, his eyes drift around the circle as he attempts to guess which average college kid will volunteer to go first. A girl with an aggressively high ponytail is typing rapidly on her phone. A guy in slides— slides, to an outdoor event in a patch of grass, because apparently he’s committed to the bit— leans back on his palms. Another guy with vibrant nacho cheese and cool ranch Dorito socks peeking out from his jeans sits criss-cross applesauce directly in front of Seungmin.

So, nothing he hasn’t seen before. He isn’t trying to be uninterested in other people; it’s just that Seungmin has already found his friend group in his club (if you can even call it that). Not to mention, he’s well aware that his default expression doesn’t exactly read befriendable, with the seam of his mouth spelling out ‘unimpressed’ even when he’s content.

It isn’t his fault. It’s just his face.

Either way: his home is with the athletic tragedies who recognize that the path to maximum scholarship money with minimum effort is through a sport that no one cares about. So what if they’re losers? So is he. But Seungmin doesn’t need to expand his social circle. He just needs to survive this one. Nevertheless, he does the polite thing and pays attention to each person and attempts to commit their faces to memory just in case he ends up sharing a class with them. He really doubts it, though.

The introductions begin with high ponytail girl starting them off— Interior Design and Architecture major, recovering student athlete, a pet iguana, local high school. Then, a nervous theatre kid follows, who chooses to describe a “fear of mayonnaise” as his fun fact. A creative writing major from a different country follows up, and it’s obvious from his exhausted, narrowed eyes that it is bedtime back home for him. Poor guy.

The sculpture student goes next, and it turns out that they’re a year older than everyone because they were held back. Another guy in the group nicely interjects that being held back isn’t a big deal, that everyone has a timeline that’s right for them. The sculpture student responds with, “right on,” and then explains that they were held back for installing a protest monument at the front entrance of their high school depicting the soccer coach (who had been busted for taking pictures of students changing in the locker room multiple times) being protected by the administration board like they were Secret Service members.

Damn. Okay, Banksy.

“Thank you for your service.” The orientation leader nods to the sculpture student, and the introductions keep coming. Admittedly, Seungmin’s attention wanes. To be fair, it’s hard to top the sculpture student in terms of being interesting. And he’s been sitting still for too long, and he wants to get up and wander a bit, stretch his legs, and give his ears a break from the constant talking.

But then you start talking, voice light and honeyed.

“I’m a bio physics major.”

Everyone’s expressions all display subtitles at the information. Seungmin’s eyes are wide in disbelief, his lips puckered and his head snapping back to you a bit too fast for his neck’s liking. High ponytail girl blinks rapidly. Theatre kid is openly gawking like he’s never seen a hard science major before. Even the orientation leader, whom Seungmin thought was unshakable, tilts her head in interest.

You chose to attend an arts college only to decide to major in STEM? A little odd, but okay, he guesses. Bio physics sounds made up, but what does he know? You sit across from him diagonally, your hands resting in your lap, your posture perfect, yet somehow seeming comfortable.

“And my fun fact,” you smile sweetly, then continue— and it’s so asinine that Seungmin isn’t sure he’s even heard you properly. “I hold the world record for Club Penguin’s Cart Surfer.”

The silence that follows is deafening. The gears in everyone’s bewildered brains crunch together as they attempt to process each bit of progressively more insane lore you shared so casually.

Seungmin fights with the muscles in his face to keep a neutral expression at the declaration. That’s ridiculous. But it’s a dead website, so it’s not like the statement can be proved either way. You’re just saying it for the gag probably, just to be silly, light-hearted, and see who here has a sense of humor. He’ll look like an ass if he tries to fight you on it (he would later learn, as he loses the battle with his own will to refrain from taking the bait and looking this shit up, that there are records of the highest scores and account holders for all the Club Penguin mini games, and your name is, in fact, at the top of the Cart Surfer list).

Someone else in the group has no qualms about looking like an ass, though.

“Bro, no way.” Slides Guy obnoxiously drawls the last syllable out, voice low because he’s trying too hard to project a chill concept that doesn’t suit him, based on how easily he is rage-baited. The tone is the worst part— like he’s above it all. He’s smiling, but it’s obviously mean-spirited and condescending like he’s somehow earning aura points for belittling you. Seungmin just thinks he’s irritating and immature. He clocks him immediately. There is a specific energy to the ones who will absolutely join a religious club on campus within the first month, and this guy has more than enough of that energy to spare. Seungmin knows his eyes are narrowed, unfiltered, and annoyed, and it makes him look unapproachable, but he can’t find it within himself to care. This guy is one of those people who mistakes being an asshole for having a personality, who prefers being known over being liked, and Seungmin does not have the patience for him.

Grow up, he snarls internally, sharp. Grow up, and—

“Grow up, and don’t interrupt her.” Everyone’s eyes snap to the orientation group leader, who is evidently not paid enough (do they even get compensation?) to entertain petty high school level power dynamics or to allow them to contaminate a simple round of introductions. She isn’t loud, and there’s no aggression, but her voice is final— flat in a way that says she’s seen this rancid behavior before and has no intention of letting it slide.

Slides Guy shuts his silly mouth.

And this is how everyone will remember you, buddy. Hope it was worth it.

The orientation leader turns her attention back to you, expression genuinely interested. “That’s sick! I miss my puffles every day. Where’d you go to high school?”

You smile gratefully, a little bashful about the previous scene (despite the fact that it wasn’t even your fault), and answer.

And Seungmin’s brain does an entire shutdown, check for updates, and system reboot.

He’s never seen you in his life, he’s sure. He’s positive he would remember you, because your face is the kind of face people remember. You have soft features, gentle eyes, and a warm, magnetic smile that is nothing short of captivating. He’s never passed you in the hallways, never seen you in the cafeteria, never caught a glimpse of you in class.

But apparently, you had gone to the same high school as him? It just doesn’t add up.

And as Seungmin really looks at you and digs deep into the completely forgettable blur that is the four years of life wasted in high school, a distant, hazy memory surfaces.

Seungmin had been waiting at the bus stop, headphones on for both entertainment purposes and to provide his ears with a thin layer of warmth—a vain attempt to guard them from the biting morning chill. What was actually helping though, was his overgrown, thick, ruffled hair that had grown out enough to form a dark, impenetrable barrier blocking half of his vision; he really needed to get it cut, but it just hadn’t been a priority for him. His uniform was officially too short for his gangly limbs thanks to the growth spurt he’d had over the three-week holiday break. Unfortunately, sizing up would highlight his lanky frame. Oh well. He’d just have to pick a struggle.

A businessman was sitting next to him on the bench, utterly unenthused about his early morning start. Pedestrians briskly walked by, preoccupied with their own destinations and side quests. The bitter air nipped at his unshielded nose, a deep, rosy hue blooming on the tip, and his knuckles ache on his pitching hand. Everything was in post-winter recovery mode— holiday decorations removed, people returning to the everyday grind, and nature just beginning to maybe consider resprouting. All of it cued the start of spring and new beginnings, but the world around him seemed to be dragging its feet this year.

Or maybe he was just impatient.

The bus was late, like always. His foot bounced incessantly.

There was a pause in between songs, a moment close to total silence, and the timing was just right so that Seungmin could hear a soft gasp from somewhere behind him. It wasn’t distressed, closer to a sound of unfiltered delight. Curious (and also phenomenally bored out of his mind), he twisted backwards and lifted one side of his headphones off his ear in search of what the early morning disturbance was about. Not that he was bothered by it or anything— he’d take entertainment in any form he could find to save him from zoning out at the dull, cracked concrete between his sneakers.

At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, but then Seungmin spotted another student in front of the pet shop display window. She was wearing a school uniform that matched his, her back to the bus stop and her knees tucked up to her chest in a crouch that would have done irreversible damage to his joints. A backpack hung from her shoulders, a keychain dangling from the zipper that winked in the early sunlight. Even with her back to him, he could still clearly hear everything she prattled to a medium cantaloupe-sized puppy peering out the glass at her.

Its fur was the color of golden honey, and it had the kind of face that made people say ‘oh my goooood! It’s so cuteeeeee’ instinctively. Its tail was going absolutely crazy, just a blur of excited motion.

“Oh my gosh! Hi—” The girl leaned in impossibly closer to the window, nose nearly smearing against the glass, and Seungmin thought she must be squinting to read the nametag on display. Her gushing abruptly morphed into mild distaste, bordering on disgust, as she read the assigned name aloud. “Harold?”

The puppy stared at her, head tilted, not a fragment of a thought behind those glassy eyes.

“Hmm,” she thought aloud, head tilting to the side, voice pleasantly sweet as she pondered the undeniably horrific title. “That’s not really giving.”

Seungmin paused his music, abandoning his previous source of entertainment. For some inexplicable reason, he was decidedly invested in the renaming of Harold the puppy (yikes) by a person who didn’t even own him. Despite the fact that this didn’t impact his life in the slightest, he couldn’t look away.

“I think your vibe is more…” She paused, trailing off as she mulled the possibilities over carefully before finally landing on something fitting. She must have stared into the puppy’s little face like she could find all the answers to her questions there (doggie face reading?). The puppy sneezed, the force of it knocking him off balance as he toppled over, but he recovered quickly, bouncing back up to resume staring at her with his tongue lolling out all lopsided and clumsy.

“Clover!” The girl exclaimed, and Seungmin tested the name a few times, sniffling a bit as his nose ran from the cold. It was unquestionably better than Harold. It fit the color of the fur, the sweet, smiley eyes, goofy personality, and the unfiltered joy of a puppy who didn’t know or worry about his name anyway.

“Thoughts, Clover?” The girl asked, and the puppy scooted closer to the window, little tail slinging behind him even faster somehow, like he had abruptly developed comprehension skills and could put in his two cents.

She gasped again, enthralled. “Okay! Hi, Clover!”

The fawning resumed, and his classmate tugged her cellphone out of her backpack's side pocket, which was intended to store a water bottle (a jailable offense, Seungmin thought). She tapped the screen a few times, then raised it to her ear. The keychain attached to her bag swung with the motion.

Seungmin decided to mind his business at this point, given that the new name was appropriate and he didn’t want to be that guy who listens in on a stranger’s conversation (you know, with another human— it’s socially acceptable if the other party is an animal, right?). He didn’t need to know anything else about this girl who renames puppies that aren’t hers. He tuned out the chatter— probably just asking a parent for permission anyway— and shifted to turn back around and reposition his headphones when—

“But Daddy—”

His apparent classmate whined, the drawn-out syllables triggering his fingers to curl and eyes to round in uncontained horror. Surely she wouldn’t. He tried to convince himself he had misheard, but her enunciation was as clear as the shot of soju he wished he could knock back in hopes of blocking this from his memory. Seungmin couldn’t believe she was about to drop this cliche line in public over a dog. With complete sincerity, at that.

“—I love him.”

And with that, Seungmin’s soul was evicted from his body. His shoulders were frozen stiff from the shock, joints on lockdown as he recovered. His jaw dropped, his mouth forming a little triangle of disbelief. By the time he had gathered enough of his mind to watch the rest of this soap play out, the call was already over. But her hope was far from it.

“Fret not, Clover.” She flung her hair behind her shoulder while she addressed the puppy like they were co-conspirators. His glassy, thoughtless eyes twinkled at her, and his head tilted to one side as if he could fathom her plan. “I’ll have him worn down in two to three business days.”

The declaration was delivered as fact, like the outcome was already set in stone. And even Seungmin believed it. There wasn’t a whisper of doubt in her voice, just the serene confidence of someone who does not fail to get what she wants.

For a moment, Seungmin just barely caught a glimpse of her profile from behind as she brushed her hair away. The angle was brief, but he saw the curve of her smile and the way her eyes glittered with either mischief or terrifying determination (or both). She looked like an ‘obstacles are opportunities’ kind of girl, like someone who would look at a wrench in a plan and decide that ‘it just isn’t a big deal.’

She continued her one-sided conversation, pointing an index finger at Clover (formerly Harold) through the window. “Until then, don’t even look at another human.”

Seungmin’s brows furrowed, and he didn’t know what to think of the odd exchange. The girl pressed her fingers to her lips— a bubbly, affectionate ‘muah’ spoken into the skin— and then pressed that hand to the glass. The puppy bounded to his paws, romped up to the window, and smeared his little, black nose (and the cold nose juice that accompanied it) on the other side, where her palm met the pane.

Like sealing a deal. A promise.

What the fuck?

Seungmin didn’t think to de-contort his body to pretend like he’d been minding his business. He didn’t budge, just sat there frozen in concerned fascination, until the girl straightened from her crouched position and turned on her heel to face the bus stop.

The action fully exposed the bright, youthful, entirely unfamiliar face of his classmate, as he saw her for the first time.

He never learned her name. Never saw her face again.

Or so he thought.

Because give or take three years later, sitting in the wonkiest excuse of a circle, Seungmin introduces himself, unable to tear his eyes away from that same face.

Yes, it’s been a few years, but even now, you’re cute. Animated and soft in a therapeutic kind of way that seems trustworthy. You don’t have any panicked misery weighing your bones down into an exhausted droop like most hard science students do once they realize they have made an awful mistake. Instead, you sit straight, airy and light, unburdened and natural in the way plants grow toward sunlight.

Seungmin runs through his introduction, keeping it brief and sincere as he addresses the group. At the end, as he shares which high school he attended, he can’t help but glance your way. You’re using your hand to block the sun rays shining in between the tree leaves from your face, but even still, your eyes twinkle as you respectfully listen. There is no indication of recognition in them, and he is relieved that you probably never officially crossed paths, and he’s not an inattentive asshole.

The introductions continue, and surprise, surprise, Slides Asshole is exactly who Seungmin had expected.

Graphic design, I play guitar for my church. Local.

Fascinating. Original. Super chill of him. He can’t fight the unimpressed, downward quirk of his lips or the narrowed, uninterested heat of his dark eyes. He only realizes he’s crossed his arms across his chest during his introduction once the next person begins.

Nothing else of substance results from the remainder of the introductions.

But what Seungmin is unaware of is that you do recognize him.

Not from high school. Because three days before Seungmin ever plopped down in that grass to overshare against his will, you were already taking note of his goofy photo provided by your new art club president and dear friend, partially as a gift and mostly as required study material.

You recall the previous interaction when the goddess-level beauty approached you for the first time with fondness and the excitement that arrives with a new friendship.

You had just been wandering, exploring the campus with no real destination in mind and taking in the scenery. There’s a small strip of campus where a library, a snack cafe, and an actual cafe all nestle together in a row. That was where the girl struck, introducing herself with an easy smile and an invitation for a drink at the real cafe. You didn’t have anything pressing to do, so you accepted her warm welcome without much thought.

As you sat down across from each other with your drinks, you noted that she was the kind of gorgeous that fell into the drop-dead category. The usual getting-to-know-you questions were exchanged, and you matched each other’s energy delightfully, giggling over matcha and honey tea at the silly stories shared.

Then, the topic shifted as your new friend braced her elbows on the table and subtly mentioned that she was the president of the art club. There was less subtlety when she all but begged you to join the club, regaling you with a sob story about everyone’s preference to join clubs specific to their study rather than experimenting with a bit of everything in the general art club. The thickest layer was frosted liberally with woeful, glassy eyes and all as she played the damsel in distress. Essentially, if she didn’t get another person to join, the club would be short of the required people to remain active.

You liked her. You could tell she’s a schemer, and she wasn’t afraid to go for the Oscar; you saw a bright, lucrative friendship ahead. Plus, this was an easy problem for you to solve. Eyes glistening with empathy, you reached across the table to rest your hand atop hers. “I want to help,” you said sincerely, and her hand flipped palm up to squeeze your fingers. You sighed, a little dejected, and hit her back with big, sad eyes of your own. “But I just don’t know if I’ll be able to balance the responsibilities with my major and my part-time.”

She swore up and down that the art club was not a swamp of responsibilities and huge time commitments, and that was the magic promise you needed. From her description, the art club sounded intentionally low-key and small— which just so happened to be your preferred dynamic for social interactions.

You agreed to join with a sweet smile, and your club president stared at you with the level of adoration usually reserved for whoever invented pouch applesauce. She stood and rounded the table, tugging you into her arms like the two of you were starring in the thirteenth episode of a drama. Long, nimble fingers brushed the back of your head, threading gently through your hair as she simpered, “You precious, precious soul,” so her breath grazed the tip of your ear.

You elected to return the hug, loosely threading your arms around her waist and patting her back a couple of times in an attempt to return the energy.

Your new club president pulled back after a beat, giving your cheek an adoring pat before sliding back into her chair. Then, she dug into a specific pocket in her bag, flicking what appeared to be a sketchbook based on the wire rings over to the side, and slipped her cellphone out.

“You’re the sweetest.” She declared while swiping into her phone, and you were expecting it to be passed to you so you could enter your contact information. Such was orientation week. Instead, she continued, peering at you meaningfully and all-knowingly, “I couldn’t live with it if your beautiful, sensitive heart got trampled on by these horrific, ugly art school boys.”

You nodded, a well-mannered, closed-lipped smile on your face as you allowed her to take you on this unexpected journey, unsure of the destination. “I’m letting you in on this secret.” She flipped her phone around to display a photo of… like, eight random guys, all frozen in poses ranging from suspicious to ridiculous. One of them had a giant, goofy grin only outdone in size by his incredible biceps. He was giving you unrealistic expectations for the silhouettes created by sorority squats, and you needed to look away. You blinked at the picture, connecting absolutely zero dots, then stared back at her for context.

“Honestly, quality of life advice: boys are a curse, a total net negative on the whole.” She sighed heavily and tucked her hair behind her ear. “But, if you’re going to be involved with any of them on this godforsaken campus crawling with narcissistic love-bombers, then these losers are vetted.”

Oh! Okay, that makes… no sense.

You tilted your head, still staring blankly with a small pout on your lips. Your gracious new friend clocked the lack of understanding and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in distress. “Oh, my dear,” she fussed. “I won’t let them eat you alive.”

She leaned closer, and zoomed in on the regular-looking college guys in the picture to give you a brief overview (“This silly is mine, these two goofs are taken, this one would be taken if he pulled his head out of his ass—”). You weren’t particularly… interested, but you listened and filed the information away nonetheless. You unironically hoped you would run into Sorority Squat Bicep Guy, though— you had a sneaking suspicion that conversation would be comedic gold.

“Anyway, I’m not saying date them.” She clarified, fanning her hand like she can banish the thought. “I’m just telling you that they’re decent people to hang around who probably won’t send you running to therapy.” She paused then, seemingly considering. “Well, they’re still boys, so there’s always a chance, but I trust that you’ll be able to send them first.”

It’s this advice and counsel that encourages you to chat with Seungmin once the orientation group has dispersed. You catch his eye and wave with a familiar wiggle of your fingers before approaching him, making light commentary on how funny it is that your paths never crossed until now.

Hilarious, Seungmin wants to say.

“We should grab go grab coffee and catch up!” You say like this is a natural thing to do with someone you kinda know but not really.

“Catch up?” Seungmin questions with a slight raise of his brows. You don’t know anything about each other, other than superficial orientation information (and the fact that you said ‘daddy’ in public, but Seungmin really doesn’t want to talk about it).

“Yeah!“ You beam. “It’ll be fun!” Seungmin finds himself agreeing before he really thinks about it, and the two of you amble along the path to the shops on main campus, chatting easily, bouncing from topic to topic. You sit across from each other at a table in the cafe, exchanging stories about the previous places you frequented back in high school and oddly specific shared experiences. (”You took Advanced Calc with Lee? That’s rough, buddy. My deepest condolences to your GPA.”) You like honey in your green tea. He takes in the simple, delicate jewelry dangling from your ears and neck that appear to be a set. Nothing flashy, but nice and cohesive. You remind him of pretty, puffy clouds— the kind you always want to stop and appreciate— delicate and dreamy, soft and patient.

The entire time he sits before you, he wants to ask if you were successful. If you managed to grind your dad’s willpower into dust to get Clover. If the puppy with fur the color of the honey in your tea and the glassy, thoughtless eyes ever learned his new name.

Seungmin isn’t brave enough to ask, so he simply allows his foot to bounce perpetually in an attempt to expel his curiosity.

You have no idea that he was an unwilling witness to that interaction, and he can’t think of a way to bring it up without seeming like a creep. Oh, by the way, I saw you at a bus stop like, three years ago renaming a dog and saying ‘daddy’ public. Did you ever get him?

Ha. Nope.

So he doesn’t ask. He sits there, sipping his coffee that isn’t burnt but was definitely made in the same container as a batch that was. He watches you talk and he just wonders, the sole of his sneaker bouncing the whole time. He contributes as best he can to the conversation, flashes small, controlled smiles that accentuate the apples of his cheeks, and quietly chuckles when it’s acceptable. He doesn’t realize he’s been tapping his fingers against his thigh— a habit born from his baseball days, the rhythm he drummed into the handle of his bat while waiting for a pitch— until you glance down at his hand with a smile.

Numbers are exchanged, and Seungmin expects that to be the end of that. He genuinely enjoys your company— you’re bright like soft, yellow light, you’re hilarious, you’re the type of person who names dogs on a whim and treats authority like it’s negotiable. But you’re a bio physics major. Surely, all of your time will be monopolized by lab hours and breaking your neck over coursework in the part of the library that’s actually quiet. You will undoubtedly suffer the kind of academic grind that leaves no room for casual cafe hangouts with actual art majors who spend their oodles of free time sucking hard at table tennis.

But Seungmin is wrong.

You are either incredibly efficient, or bio physics isn’t as strenuous as it sounds, because he runs into you all the time— and not even at the library.

To be fair, it makes perfect sense to see you around campus, and you frequently pass each other on your way to your classes. He sees you every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, walking across the quad with your tote bag slung over one shoulder and rhythmically bumping against your hip. He expects to see you in that context now and every so often; he catches himself glancing around the student body wandering about to see if he can spot you. He doesn’t understand why he does it. Are you even considered good enough friends for him to say anything to you when he does see you?

But Seungmin even encounters you off campus, usually at different restaurants. He finds you on a Saturday at a local comfort spot, a family-owned hole-in-the-wall furnished with natural wood and warm lighting. You sit alone at a table, entertaining yourself by peering out the window, seemingly taking in the view. There isn’t anything particularly riveting about a mostly empty sidewalk and a few trees, but you seem at peace. Just as he remembered, your posture is straight and somehow relaxed, subtly confident in the way you hold yourself.

Then, Seungmin is pulled out of his unintentional staring as you happen to glance at the door and see him standing at the entrance with the awkward energy of an NPC, arms dangling weirdly at his sides. You flash him a kind smile and wiggle your fingers at him in a greeting. Seungmin’s lips twitch into a close-lipped smile and he gives you a faint nod of acknowledgment. He keeps his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, not trusting himself to wave back in a way that seems normal. He fully expects for this to be the extent of your interaction, but then you gesture to the seat across from you, and before Seungmin even processes your invitation, his feet are moving to your command.

From there, the simple pattern establishes itself quickly. Your paths cross. This turns into an unplanned shared meal, which more often than not turns into a leisurely walk back to campus. Then, sometimes that walk turns into a quick detour, which more often than not leads to an hour of just hanging out at either of your apartments. That hour becomes an evening of homework, movies, or venturing back out to explore the town and its dessert options. At some point, it stops being coincidental, and instead becomes scheduled, intentional.

And it’s comfortable. Hanging out with you feels like holding a warm mug in his palms, the pleasant heat soothing and comforting without being overbearing.

Seungmin doesn’t even question it, and just lets it happen. You become a constant presence in his day-to-day, and the weeks blur together until he isn’t sure when he started looking forward to spending time with you. When exactly did he start to feel something tight in his chest when his phone chimed and it wasn’t your name that lit up his screen? At what point did he begin stocking his apartment with your favorite tea and keeping a few of those milky candies you like in his backpack just in case you got a craving for something sweet?

It’s a study night when he finally figures it out. He’s cozy in an old hoodie, the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. His forearms are lean, bound with an unsuspecting strength that only enters the chat when needed. Just the other night, you witnessed his reflexes and coordination in action when he caught a toppling mug with one hand… without glancing away from his laptop. Your legs are resting across his as you both lounge on the couch in your apartment, laptops perched on your laps, the fans protesting the massive file sizes of your pirated textbook PDFs, when Seungmin finally has the thought (no, not about his assignment).

Wait. Are you two… dating?

Seungmin’s fingers twitch over his trackpad as his blood buffers in place. His blue light-exhausted eyes dart up from his laptop screen to stare at nothing as the record scratch only he can hear tears right through the center of the slice of life romance montage he wasn’t aware he was starring in.

He has no idea. Like, he genuinely has no idea. It never came up in conversation.

And how is he even supposed to tactfully ask that question? What if you aren’t dating, and he’s and idiot for not realizing that he unintentionally latched onto something that doesn’t exist? What if he asks and upsets you because it comes off as him only wanting you romantically and not valuing your friendship? What if you ditch—

Or what if you are dating? What if he’s in a relationship and he’s been too oblivious to notice, and he upsets you because he obviously isn’t romantically invested enough, and you think he doesn’t care, but you’ve been waiting for him to say something, to take that step, to—?

Wait, fuck.

Seungmin pales, every nerve and blood cell in his body reconsidering existence, because he realizes something so much bigger. So much worse.

He doesn’t know your anniversary.

He’s either the worst boyfriend on the planet, or he isn’t a boyfriend at all, and both options make his throat itch to start the midnight scream of finals week a whole month and a half early. And at whatever time is right now.

“Chapter not sticking?”

Your honeyed voice interrupts his sparking, spiraling brain attempting to do mental gymnastics to figure out at what point in the last six weeks is most likely the day you (maybe) started dating. His droopy, vaguely haunted eyes snap to your face as he makes his best attempt to conceal the guilt from his expression while he internally puzzles out Schrodinger’s relationship.

“Yeah,” Seungmin agrees, his voice uncharacteristically wobbly before he clears his throat and asks hopefully, “Need a break?”

You giggle in that trouble-making kind of way, and Seungmin already knows what you’re going to confess before your lips even part, because it’s always the same thing every study night. He narrows his eyes and purses his lips, then pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue in mock irritation, completely unaware of how horrendously hot it kind of is of him.

“You’ve been done for over an hour,” he states flatly, and you nod your head, still laughing quietly with the prettiest smile Seungmin’s ever seen. He’s not upset, but he is absolutely baffled as to how you manage to find the time in between your classes, art club, and your part-time job at the screen printing store in town to complete your coursework, study, and spend time with him (he feels like the most expendable part of that equation, but he doesn’t really want to unpack that thought further). You do the impossible— juggling classes, homework, real work, sleep, and a social life on top of it all like it’s not even that hard.

And maybe for you, it isn’t.

“How do you do it?” He asks instead of voicing the other atomic bomb of a question that’s been tormenting him over the past five minutes and will haunt him for the foreseeable future.

You continue laughing, bright and unburdened, the light from your laptop screen gleaming in your eyes. “Do what?”

“Like, literally everything.” Seungmin blinks as he tries to comprehend it. He’s squinting at you like if he focuses hard enough, he can trade what remains of his eye sight in exchange for your secrets. Did you sell your soul or something? “Bio physics, art club, work, sleep, this, me. How?”

You go quiet as you consider his question for a bit, head tilting as you gather your explanation. Then, your lips curve into a smile, softer than usual, honest, and you lean in closer to him like you’re about to share private information, like the fact that you two are the only inhabitants of the apartment isn’t enough privacy for your classified ways of time management (or witchcraft). Seungmin does not stand a chance, and is drawn in to your domain like you have him tethered by a string.

“I don’t waste my energy,” you say with a breezy shrug, because to you, it’s just that straightforward. “There are a lot of things that demand your attention. It’s up to you to decide what’s worth it.” Seungmin’s chest aches like its reached capacity because he’s been holding his breath without realizing it. Delicate, slender fingers peek out from the sleeves of your oversized cardigan to pluck the string on his hoodie from where it rests against his front to absently twirl the textured, off-white string a bit, and his chest overreacts to the action like you’ve punched him in the sternum instead.

“Personally, I don’t like to fixate on minor inconveniences. I, like, choose peace, you know?” You allow the string to slip from your fingers, then tuck your hair behind your ear with a sweet smile that keeps him trapped in place like always.

Genuinely, Seungmin can’t pull himself out of your sparkly, clever eyes as he allows your words to really sink in. He processes carefully, trying to understand your philosophy at the same time as your movements (he needs to pick a struggle). It sounds so simple, but you must have the most rock-solid, resilient psyche in existence for your plan to be ‘protect my peace.’ He believes that fact wholeheartedly, but Seungmin knows you’re more complex than this. His lips purse a bit, bottom lip pouting. “That sounds like an incomplete answer.”

You laugh again like you were wondering if he was going to catch onto you, then shift a bit to settle more comfortably on the perpetually uncomfortable couch, the movement of your legs in his lap tilting his laptop to the side. He catches it before it can perform a final acrobatic act and shatter on the cheap, fake wooden floor.

“I know what I want.” You say with yet another unbothered bounce of your shoulders. Seungmin tracks every change in the lines of your form as you do. “Everything falls into two categories: things I want, and things that are whatever.”

Seungmin’s throat goes dry. He doesn’t think he could even participate in the midnight scream of finals week right now. What does he do with the implication of his categorization in your world, that he’s been chosen?

The contours of his eyes shift into something tighter, something vaguely concerned as his lips twitch. “You…” He trails off, unsure which of his many questions to ask. His dark brows pinch together, a crease forming between them.

You help him out.

“I’m, like, really smart.” You say, glowing with the warmth of your genuine self-praise, voice light and as sweet as ever. Seungmin knows this as a fact already too, he’s just seeing your genius in a different context now.

“I’m efficient and good at optimization,” You list, twisting and twirling a few strands of your hair around your fingers, almost hypnotic in rhythm, as you explain. “Once you understand and establish a pattern, everything else is just… execution.”

Seungmin’s jaw drops at this. He doesn’t say anything, just stares, mouth hanging open in endearingly triangular shaped shock. This little peek into your brain is not what he expected in the least from his nearly syrupy sweet maybe girlfriend. You continue, not addressing his state of disorientation.

“My classes, job, and extracurriculars are all just patterns.” You lightly touch the pads of your fingertips to your thumb as you list each item off. “The path of least resistance. I chose this school because I knew I could be at the top without competition. I chose bio physics because— peace and love— no one here is smart. I have a perfect GPA with minimal effort. I work at the print shop because the money is easy. I joined the art club because—” You pause, not long, but just enough to signal that it might be a deviation from your usual (and somewhat horrifying) decision-making. “Because someone asked me to,” you conclude.

Slowly, Seungmin nods his head a few times, his dark fringe sweeping just below his brows. “That’s terrifying.” He says honestly, and a little bit intrigued at the same time.

The only reply is your soft giggles as you close your laptop with the finality of someone who would not be doing any more work that night, and despite himself, Seungmin can’t help but grin lopsidedly back at the sound.

His grin fades later though, once he’s alone, and he fixates on this conversation for a long while, rolls it around in his head where it has no means of escape. Because the thing about Seungmin is that he is a D1 hater. If hating was a sport, he would have a full ride scholarship for it. Sure, he ignores nonsense to a certain degree, but his threshold is located several kilometers below yours.

It’s an interesting contrast. Where your personality is all pleasant vibes and softness that people (gravely and very stupidly) mistake as air-headedness, Seungmin festers.

Tragically, he is cursed and shares a class with fucking Slides Guy. Who, by the way, was so irrelevant in your life that you don’t even remember him being in your orientation group when Seungmin brings him up. So there. The asshat continues to be the least interesting and least chill person Seungmin has ever had the immense misfortune of sharing oxygen with. Seungmin spends every class restraining himself from hole-punching that idiot’s throat with a pogo stick every time he speaks.

“Your poor molars,” you pout one evening, resting your head on the edge of the seat of the couch. You’re in his apartment this time, taking up residence on the floor in front of his couch for ‘a change in scenery.’ Seungmin had stared at you for a few extended seconds, expression unreadable as you settled on the ground, then joined you without a word.

“They’re fine.” He responds without looking up from his laptop. Why he was bothering to glower at it, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t retained any of the text he’s been flicking through, and all he’s doing is guaranteeing himself a blue light-induced headache later.

“You’ve been clenching your jaw for like, two hours.”

With that, Seungmin registers the tension and accompanying ache in his face because he has, in fact, been clenching his jaw for, like, two hours straight. He sighs, throwing his head back to glare at the ceiling like it’s responsible for the discomfort of his gums and high cheekbones.

“It’s that motherfucker from orientation,” he admits, voice unmistakably bitter and venomous. His arms are crossed defensively across his stomach, the subtle strength from years of baseball evident in the toned lines of his forearms. “The one in those dumbass Slides.”

You only blink at him, puzzled, not a trace of recognition in your face. “Slides?”

Seungmin straightens up and faces you fully at that, brows furrowed in disbelief. “The guy who interrupted you.” When that doesn’t ring a bell, he tries, “The guy who gave extra in High School Musical.”

You process, eyes fluttering closed while you sit silent for a long while as you try to recall this guy you allegedly crossed paths with. Then, you give up with a bouncy, unruffled shrug. “Nope, I’ve got nothing.”

“Literally how? Bro is insufferable,” he groans with a roll of his droopy eyes.

“Sounds like a waste of energy.” You say simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world to ignore people who drain your will to live like a Pokemon attack. Slides, use Giga Drain on Seungmin’s will to live!

Seungmin blinks a few times, considering. Right. He can just… ignore the guy’s existence. Choose peace, as you say.

Huh.

He files that information away as you return to your laptop, maybe scrolling through another PDF the size of the sun like you didn’t take shears to his entire mental framework. Once again, he is internally musing about how c’est la vie your personality is, and that’s when it clicks— not instantly, but like gradually, like how fog fades from a window pane.

It all makes total sense.

It isn’t that you’re sweet because you’re simple. You’re more strategic than that. You are sweet because you choose to be. You assessed the world and all its obstacles, and arrived at the conclusion that most of them just aren’t worth your time.

And people— complete fucking morons, all of them— fall into the trap of looking at you and seeing someone gentle, someone unassuming, someone who would alter her path to avoid stepping on an ant. You’re undeniably lovely, and you glide through life with a seemingly impossible ease. But many people misinterpret that as you not having much going on upstairs.

You are so far from it, it’s not even funny.

The discovery happens slowly and all at once for Seungmin (although he’d always had his suspicions). It started small— your admission that you schemed to pave a flawless, uncracked path for yourself in STEM functioned like a microfiber cloth does to the lenses of Seungmin’s glasses. It’s easy to see that you operate on minimal effort and input to maximize your results, always efficient. After that, Seungmin notices how you always seem to know exactly what to say to get what you want, how you navigate social interactions with a delicate precision, and the way you never, ever let an opportunity go to waste.

Seungmin watches, silent as you approach Chan with miraculous solutions to all his fundraiser merch problems (you know, other than the obvious one that the merch exists in the first place). Your pitch is empathetic— getting custom merch can be so expensive, after all. But don’t fret! The table tennis team can print through the screen printing shop you work at for better rates, higher quality, faster turnaround, and no shipping costs. You negotiate that deal like a pro, presenting it to Chan like you’re doing him a favor out of the kindness overflowing from your precious little heart, and you walk away with an arrangement that benefits everyone, a twinkling, little keychain swinging from your tote as you go.

He’s confident he’s seen this episode before.

Seungmin keeps his mouth shut.

“You’re so sweet,” he compliments once it’s just the two of you, but his eyes are narrowed because the bigger picture is visible to him. He, of course, sees the heartwarming camaraderie of your actions, but he sees the other, more subtle nuances too. “But you’re also a diabolical opportunivore.”

Your laugh is delighted and bright as you flash him a cheeky smile, your hand reaching up to rest against the side of your glowing, flattered face. “Thank you!”

“It’s not a compliment.” He says, eyes thickly glazed with his affection.

“I’m receiving it as one.”

He scoffs, but he’s fighting off the upward quirk of the corners of his mouth. Seungmin doesn’t think you can surprise him after this. He’s seen your schemes, catalogued your chilling efficiency, witnessed you charm a screen printing deal out of his teammate like you were offering community service. You’re a genius. What more could you possibly do that would shake him further?

He is proven wrong with the arrival of Parents Weekend and with it, the administration scrambling to throw together a (phony, bogus, fraudulent) presentation of what everyday life is like for the parents paying out the ass for an undergrad degree. (”We don’t see your children as money, we care about their well being!”) Events emphasizing the importance of mental health, physical activity, and community spawn out of nowhere (meaning, directly out of the administration’s ass). The free sunset yoga classes are too obvious, the Positive Affirmations and Pancakes gathering is ridiculous, and the therapeutic petting zoo is just insulting.

They’re blatantly lying, but that doesn’t mean the student body isn’t going to take advantage and then some of the rare, week-long amenities, though. Something cracked inside Seungmin becomes whole again after petting that baby goat for half and hour. You, on the other hand, walk into the library, look the school counselor dead in the eyes, recite, “I am so powerful” like you’re recalling a significant date for a history class, then walk out with double the amount of pancakes they were handing out to each student. To be fair, the cost of tuition more than covered a plate stacked high with flapjacks.

Campus is overrun with families. Students do their damndest to deter their parents from spending a fortune in the name of school spirit in the overpriced campus bookstore for the same cheap, itchy garbage you can find in a middle schooler’s closet. Unfortunately, there isn’t much excitement looking at school buildings and cheaply constructed dorms, so the few on campus stores and cafes are packed. Parking is a nightmare to say the very least, meaning it isn’t worth it to escape campus to try and find a quieter place to ride it out in town. Even the concept of squeezing onto a bus shuttling families back and forth between campus and town is laughable.

As such, Seungmin is holed up in his apartment avoiding the infiltration to the best of his ability when his phone buzzes.

My dad’s here. Your message lights up the screen. Come say hi?

Without a second thought about his incomplete assignment due on Monday or the midterm he hasn’t really studied for— also on Monday, because his professor is an asshole who doesn’t care that his students are going to spend forty-eight hours playing entertainer in a town with nothing to do— he texts back.

On my way.

Which isn’t entirely true. Seungmin is observant enough to note the discreetly elegant way you carry yourself, your taste in accessories, your choice of premium tea blends, and your preference for the more expensive milk candies and reads the subtle indicators that you come from, at the minimum, a decently well-off upbringing. Meaning: Seungmin is not foolish enough to rock up in a hoodie and sweatpants (even if they’re fresh out of the laundry) to meet your father. This is a first impression he is not willing to fumble, so he opts to switch into something with cleaner, more put together lines. He can’t give slob, but he also doesn’t want to present way above his tax bracket, like a liar. Time is limited, and the best he can do is a striped navy blue and dark green collared shirt paired with a light, tan pair of pants. He runs a comb through his dark hair, and then he’s out the door.

Main campus is overflowing with too many families. Some are hugging, others are taking pictures in front of insignificant buildings and landmarks they won’t remember the names of, and there are a few tense families that just hover awkwardly around each other on the edge of the scene like they were never handed a script. Seungmin scans the crowd, looking for your face, your smile, the way you tilt your head when you’re really listening to someone or pondering something, and the way you twirl your hair around your fingers when you’re plotting.

He eventually finds you at the bottom of a set of stairs, in a kind of private stretch of grass a little secluded from everyone else. You’re with a man who shares a sharper, more severe version of your bone structure. He’s tall, posture straight and distinguished, some silver sprinkling his temples, and there’s an unmistakable air about him that suggests he’s used to commanding rooms. His attire is casual— the typical dad wardrobe of a quarter-zip pullover and trousers— but a closer looks reveals the personally tailored fit of the pants and the logo of one of the most exclusive country clubs in the world.

Okay, so you’re a little more well-off than Seungmin originally assumed.

The man’s eyes are kind as he speaks to you, voice low enough to keep the conversation just between the two of you, although Seungmin thinks he can make out the word, “overwork” or something along those lines. You’re laughing joyfully, eyes crinkling as you playfully flick your hair over your shoulders with both hands and respond, “Me? Never!”

Seungmin withholds a huff, because you and overwork are two things that definitely do not go together, but then a swish of movement monopolizes his attention. His feet adhere to the ground like he trampled into cement instead of grass, and he’s sure he’s openly gawking in front of you yet again.

Beside you, sitting loyally at your feet with the patient stillness of a very well-trained animal, is a dog.

A big dog.

The golden fur reflects the afternoon sunlight like sweet, gooey honey. A proud, broad chest, strong legs that suggest many hours spent romping around multiple acres, and a large tail— a weapon of mass affection— that sweeps happily across the grass. The dog’s head is angled to stare straight at your face, it’s big, glassy eyes fixed on you with an undeniable expression of unfiltered, devoted love (he ignores the feeling of kinship— it’s something to unpack at a later date).

Holy shit. Seungmin is seeing a celebrity.

It has to be Clover; he knows it’s true even before he watches the giant dog’s reaction to your voice.

“Clover!” You sing, and the dog’s floppy ears perk up at the very first syllable out of your lips like he was waiting for you to say it all along. His tail could cause significant property damage with how it whips even faster, its happiness a constant pattern whooshing through the air. His big paws twitch in a little dance like they want to launch off of the ground to throw himself into your body and smear his cold, wet nose liquid all over you, but he’s fighting his intrusive thoughts like a champ because he knows better. Your fingers scratch into his honey colored fur, rubbing at the specific spots he likes for a few moments as a reward for being a very good boy until you decide to squish his cheeks. Clover is still smiling at the attention, his tongue lolling out of his mouth exactly the way it did when he was a puppy chilling in the display window and making pacts with high school girls who were already prepared to take the corporate world by storm.

Dog senses must be powerful, because abruptly, Clover looks to Seungmin, who is still standing an awkward distance away from the unit. Your gaze follows his, and Seungmin swears the dog winks at him. It’s quick, nearly imperceptible, but surely it was just a blink with one eye (he’s aware that’s what a wink is, but he means without the loaded implication behind it). Clover wiggles with excitement.

“You got him.” Seungmin says, blinking and glancing between the two of you with rounded eyes, unsure why he’s even surprised anymore.

Your smile widens and you chirp, “Seungmin, this is my dad.” Your hands are full of a very happy dog, so you gesture to the man with a tilt of your head. “Dad, this is Seungmin. I’ve told you about him.”

Your father offers a firm handshake (not crushing, not limp, but the exact amount of pressure that communicates that he’s done this for decades and has never been caught off guard), a thin smile, and steely, appraising eyes. He isn’t cold, but he has the cautious air of man who sees through bullshit and flimsy characters at first glance. Seungmin is kissing his sensible past self from twelve minutes prior on the forehead for changing clothes and kneeling in gratitude to his well-meaning, still mean-spirited older sister for buying him this preppy ass shirt in the first place. Had Seungmin arrived in anything else, he thinks your father would have dismissed him immediately, and what’s more soul-crushing than a middle-aged man wordlessly calling you irrelevant?

“Have you?” He asks, tone still assessing, and Seungmin recognizes that familiar scheming spark in his eyes instantly. Of course it runs in the family. Also, ouch, a middle-aged man verbally calling you irrelevant burns just as hot, Seungmin discovers. “You’ve told me about a lot of things.”

Seungmin, to his credit, doesn’t wilt under the intense heat of your father’s psychological warfare, instead shaking his hand with the appropriate amount of pressure, a smile that leaks a tiny bit of his little shit energy, and a contrastingly polite, “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Your father immediately turns his attention back to you and Clover, where you are still showering the dog with affection like you’re making up for all the lost scritches. Seungmin watches his eyes soften in real time even though his voice maintains the same edge as he asks, “You know Clover?”

You glance over at Seungmin as if you are wondering the same thing, the question obvious in the slight furrow of your brows. You have never brought up Clover in conversation with him. Seungmin swallows thickly, very much caught. There goes taking that whole flashback episode to the grave. And what an incredibly inopportune time for this story to surface at that, right in front of your father who is his judge, jury, and executioner for the afternoon.

“I saw her name him.” Seungmin confesses, a bashful heat settling across his cheeks as he cracks a wobbly, sheepish smile and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants to prevent him from nervously cracking his knuckles. Both you and your father stare at him, your expression unsettlingly unreadable while your father’s brows are raised.

“At the bus stop.” He adds, and uselessly shifts his weight from foot to foot as the silence stretches on. It would be kind of funny had this not come out in front of your very intimidating father he thinks, because for the first time, he’s managed to turn the tables and surprise you. There’s no radiant smile or girlish gesture; you’re looking at him with something more emotionally anchored to the surface than he used to.

Clover however, does not give a fuck about the clumsy energy suffocating the otherwise fresh air— the dog has either never formed a single thought in his life, or is yet another diabolical mastermind produced by your clan, but Seungmin can’t tell which. The only thing the handsome gent cares about is the fact that there aren’t as many hands giving him his well-deserved pampering as there should be. His big, shiny eyes squint shut for a moment as he ducks his fluffy head closer to you. Instantly, you sit with your legs folded on the grass, unconcerned about your clothing, showering Clover in love and more while he absorbs it all like a big, smiley, fuzzy, golden sponge.

“Say hi!” You say, but to who, Seungmin isn’t sure, because you’re using an exaggerated, excited voice you’ve never used to address him before…

He glances to your father to try and phone a friend, but the man simply observes the scene like he’s watching a social experiment, blank and detached as he stares Seungmin down and waits for his next move.

It feels like a test. He knows it’s a test.

Seungmin wanders over to join you in the grass and is immediately greeted by Clover’s cold nose nudging at his hand, insisting attention. Who is Seungmin to deny him his rights?

“He grew.” He says as he glides his fingers through Clover’s sun warmed fur, mostly to fill the silence because of course he did, but what else is he supposed to say?

“Yeah!” You agree blissfully, rubbing a specific spot behind Clover’s ears that has him melting fully into both of your laps like gooey honey slowly oozing from a tipped jar. “He’s a good boy. The best!”

“The best.” Your father agrees. Seungmin’s eyes dart to his face, and there’s something warm in his voice as he watches you draw patterns into the fur between his eyes, almost proud. “She wore me down. Took her three days.”

Seungmin’s gaze returns to you. At the puddle of dog invading both of your legs, at your intimidating (soft-hearted maybe?) father standing beside you, and the uncomplicated joy glowing on your face.

“You always get what you want.” He murmurs, not accusatory or judgmental, but in acceptance and a little bit in inspiration.

Your peer directly into his soul with an easy grin, your eyes twinkling in the sunlight, in unfiltered happiness, before you break the connection to smack a loud kiss directly onto Clover’s nose (who, comedic genius that he is, goes cross eyed at the contact and topples off your knees into the lush grass— what a ham).

His heart does something it shouldn’t.

Clover barks, pulling Seungmin back into the moment. Your father chuckles at the goof’s theatrics, and it’s quiet but sincere. The older man slips his cell out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and then asks which overpriced coffee shop is worth waiting in a line out the door for, which is a hilarious joke.

Based on your giggles, you seem to think so too. With a grimace that speaks to your past encounters with the cafes on campus, you warn him that it’s best to lower his expectations, that all the employees are underpaid college kids and will burn the coffee without fail. (”I see. The reasoning behind your request for tea replenishment six weeks in, I assume?” “Precisely.”)

“Oh! The girl with the blue underlayers at the cafe next to the bookstore actually knows how to make decent tea. Don’t stray from black tea blends, though,” you tack on helpfully. With a solemn nod, he accepts this information and then turns his attention to Seungmin, evidently wanting his take on the matter as well.

“Seriously, don’t order anything with coffee,” is all he can advise, a haunted, hollow look in his eyes from the residual trauma of his own experience. The stomach issues he suffered through after drinking half of his order had nearly landed him in the clinic during syllabus week.

“Noted.” Your father ventures off with the promise that his expectations have found residence in hell, and you and Seungmin decide to relocate from the grass and settle on a nearby bench shaded by the trees. Clover is dozing off in a patch of sun, his tail still swishing even in his sleep. It’s quieter, more peaceful now that most of the families have migrated off of main campus.

“So,” you begin, and Seungmin turns to face you, which is a mistake because you have that tiny, smug smile curving your lips. “You knew me.”

His ears go warm as the heat returns to his cheeks with a vengeance. The rest of him is pale, his lips twisted in a betrayed half-frown, half-pout. He thought he’d managed to skirt by the subject, but he should have known you would never let it go so easily.

“I wouldn’t say that.” He denies with a swift shake of his head that flings his fringe across his forehead.

You lightly nudge him in the arm with your shoulder, teasing him with a grin as mischievous as it is pretty. How unfortunate for him. “You witnessed a formative moment!”

He stares you dead in the eyes then, brows knit together like he’s looking at a problem he knows he will never be able to solve. “I witnessed you saying ‘daddy’ in public.”

And of course you don’t fluster at that like all normal people would. Instead, you throw your head back and laugh, the force of your amusement tilting you further into Seungmin for support. Clover sniffles a little from his napping place, sleepy eyes blinking halfway open a few times before deciding to return to his dream. “It’s called being committed to the bit!” You defend, and Seungmin is evicted out of his right mind by your proximity, so he can’t even find the braincells to argue. His limbs are frozen along with the rest of his nervous system. “And now he’s mine. So it worked.”

You’re right, and Seungmin knows it. That fact doesn’t stop him from shaking his head, a bemused, lopsided smile quirking a corner of his mouth as you catch your breath and sit up straight again.

“I’m glad you got him.” He says, and you let the silence linger for a few moments before agreeing.

“Me too.”

Something has shifted here. Seungmin can feel it, a new awareness between you, a weight to the silence that hadn’t been there before. His courage finally arrives with it. He watches Clover roll onto his back in his sleep, his paws twitching in the air, and ponders how to approach the subject.

Are we dating?

That doesn’t feel right.

What are we?

What is he, a middle schooler?

I think I’m in love with you.

Scratch that one out too. Maybe it’s true, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to say it out loud so you can hear it.

“Think quieter.” You burst him out of his internal think tank session. “You’re going to wake Clover.”

“I’m not— it’s—” He flounders, heart pumping his blood in what feels like the wrong direction.

“Yes you are. Your eyes are all intense. Just ask.”

He wants to deny the accusation, but it feels not important compared to the subject he actually needs to address, the one he’s put off for far too long. Seungmin takes a breath, and he can taste the freshly cut grass and the warmth of the sun. When he looks at you, you’re already watching him, not a hint of tension in the lines of your shoulders or the contours of your face. Unlike him, you’re at peace.

“Are we dating?” He’s going to be sick.

“I don’t know,” you reply with a bouncy shrug, not mean, but honest. It rattles his chest and shrivels his lungs all the same, but mercifully, you don’t allow him to tailspin for long, batting your lashes at him innocently. “I don’t recall being asked.”

Oh, easy fix. His lungs re-inflate. Before Seungmin can really think it over, the words leave his mouth, more impulsive than he would have liked, but they’re still exactly what he feels, direct. “I really want to date you. Do you want to?”

Your immediate smile tells him everything he needs to know before you even respond. You always get what you want.

“Yes.” You say, simple, like it’s all easy for you. And maybe it is, because you’ve categorized him in your life as someone important, someone you want.

Still, Seungmin’s eyes are rounded in disbelief as he stares. “Yes?” He double-checks like he could have possibly misheard you, hopeful brown eyes searching your face for any tell that you’re screwing with him.

You giggle at his skepticism, sliding even closer to him on the bench, where you hadn’t left much room between you in the first place. “Yes,” You confirm, then to seal the deal, you press a quick kiss to his cheek that nearly turns his limbs to a gel consistency. It was barely a peck, quick, not even an entire second long, but he almost oozes into the ground. His knuckles are blanched white from their stiff grip on the edge of the bench to support the weight his spine gave up on. “Congratulations. You have me as your girlfriend. What are you going to do now?”

You hold your fist up just below his mouth like you’re holding a microphone to interview him. You’re being silly, lightening the mood, giving him an opportunity to play off his severe nerves after weeks of spiraling over the state of your relationship (and kind of more importantly, your anniversary date, which he is noting in his calendar the second he has an opportunity). He could respond with a sarcastic joke, but it doesn’t feel right. Besides, you’ve opened the door by asking him what he’s going to do, and maybe it’s time he takes another page out of your book and be more of an opportunivore…

Seungmin lightly knocks your imaginary microphone out of the way, pushing your hand until you lower it. Carefully, he cradles your cheek in his palm and angles his head the slightest bit to the side. The dark of his eyes dilate as they flick down to your lips, taking in your slight, sharp inhale.

He’s thinking about the fact that you’re a bio physics major at an arts college, that you hold a world record in a dead children’s game, that you named a dog that wasn’t even yours and then negotiated for it like you were presenting to a boardroom. He’s thinking about the fact that you’re the most competent, intentional, sweet, diabolical, cute mastermind he’s ever met, and you chose to spend your precious time on him.

The press of his lips on yours is gentle and intense all at once. Your lips are soft; he thinks he can taste the milk candy you like on them. Seungmin adjusts his angle a bit and the slope of his nose brushes slightly against yours. Your hands steady yourself, flattening at the sides of his neck where his pulse is somersaulting. He detects the curve of your lips against his as you feel his blood rush below the heat of your palms. He truly believes he’s putty beneath them. It’s impossible to think about anything that isn’t you right now— his head is fuzzy, and so is whatever is nudging persistently in his lap— huh?

Reluctantly, Seungmin pulls back and glances down, where a very much awake and animated Clover is shoving his very cold, very wet, very insistent snoot into his thigh. His eyes are still loving and vacant, but there’s something almost smug about the way he wiggles himself between you, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. Hater. Seungmin thinks bitterly, but he can’t really be mad, because unfortunately, the dog really is cute.

You giggle, and he looks back to you, taking in the way your cheeks are flushed so prettily and your breath is a little uneven, but you fawn over the intruding doggy, detaching your hands from Seungmin’s neck to scratch at the top of Clover’s head like you’re thanking him for the interruption.

Good thing too.

Because not even a full five seconds later, your father reappears with a to-go cup in hand, and he realizes Clover may have just saved his life. Instantly, Seungmin takes back what he thought about Clover being a hater— the guy is a hero, possibly his patron deity, and Seungmin needs to bring him a generous offering of dog treats so that he continues to look over him. Once again, he swears the dog winks at him, but Clover just looks so head empty with his tongue lolling carefree out the side of his mouth.

“What’d you get?” You ask, breath completely composed. Seungmin’s is lodged in his throat.

“Tea.” He responds, but it sounds like a threat. He does not loom, because he does not have to.

Your father’s keen eyes flicker between you and Seungmin, assessing yet again. There’s something harder there, steely as he peers down his nose at Seungmin, who can only do his best to not fidget in place. He towers at a height that signals to Seungmin that he is being measured for something—either a suit or a coffin, but he isn’t sure which. Wordlessly, he hands his phone out to Seungmin, who uneasily takes the device, his wide, terrified eyes never straying from his face.

“Give me your number.” He demands and Seungmin does not waste time, hurrying to find the contacts icon (which he conveniently forgot the appearance of) on the newest, most expensive model while you interject with a pout he can hear in your voice.

“I can send you his contact.” But Seungmin has already entered his full government name and punched in his cell, school email, personal email, his hometown, and is debating adding his next of kin and maybe his social security number with vibrating hands.

“No need.” Your father takes a long sip of his tea (which definitely does not deserve to be savored), letting the silence wiggle under Seungmin’s skin for what feels like twelve excruciatingly long seconds. “He can at least do this much.”

The social security number is added at that. Seungmin fumbles to return the phone exactly as it was presented to him, frantically swiping back to the original screen. Before he hands it back though, the background image registers fully in his brain.

It’s a picture of you and Clover, both passed out and cuddled up together in what looks to be a large dog bed in front of a fireplace. You’re wearing your school uniform from high school, so it must have been taken a while back. Clover rests his fuzzy head against yours, paw resting on your arm, and it seems like his tail is swishing in his sleep based on the blur of motion. Seungmin can imagine you coming home in the afternoon, discarding your backpack and shedding your shoes in the entryway, and immediately curling up with Clover for a nap. It’s cozy, warm, affectionate. He wonders if your dad is as doting as this background suggests, wonders if he wandered out of his office around the time he expected you home, only to stumble upon this scene and pad closer to capture it. The man who took this photo— because someone definitely took this photo— must have been standing very still, very quietly, trying not to wake them.

Judging by this overt, nearly wordless shovel talk of a first meeting, Seungmin thinks he has his answer.

With a thick swallow and a melted heart, Seungmin passes the phone back to your father, who efficiently navigates to Seungmin’s contact and scans it with a critical eye. He nods once in approval before slipping the device into his pocket. It doesn’t have a case.

“A pleasure to meet you, Seungmin,” He says with finality, and Seungmin isn’t quite sure he means it, based on the frosty bite to his tone. “We have to be on our way now. Some of our father-daughter weekend activities have reservations.”

He nods immediately in understanding, rushing out his goodbye. “Of course! Enjoy your weekend. It was nice to meet you, sir. And Clover.” Seungmin gives the happy, golden-furred dog a few good scritches exactly where he saw you administer them earlier.

You push yourself up off the bench and to your feet, and Seungmin thinks this is it. He’ll see you later, once Parents Weekend is over and everything goes back to normal, but different this time. You begin to approach your father where he waits a few paces away, but then, shit stirrer that you are, you abruptly twirl back around to face him.

Seungmin has no time to process you rushing back to him before you sandwich his cheeks between your palms and drop a quick farewell kiss right on his lips, right in front of your very scary father. He stares at you like you’ve completely lost your mind, like you’ve betrayed him, like you’ve just sentenced him to death, but you only flash him a sweet, teasing grin, your lips a little pinker than usual from your earlier escapades, before you continue on your way.

“Let’s go, Clover!” You call, honey in your voice and your loyal doggy companion trotting alongside you, happy and stupid, tail waving enthusiastically. Seungmin loves him. “See you later, Seungmin.”

It’s pathetic, but he misses you already. He thinks if you turn around to face him, you’ll see his sad, wet dog eyes pining after you.

“Yes. See you later, Seungmin.” Your father echoes, words metallic, and he knows what was actually said was, “Do you have a burial spot in mind? You’re done for, kid.” But Seungmin doesn’t have it in him to be concerned with the thinly-veiled threat loaded into the words like ammunition in the chamber of a gun.

He’s too busy thinking about what later entails, what he’s going to plan for your first official date. How he is going to make sure you know you made the right choice.

Because you are selective with your time and priorities, of what you choose to let be important. You don’t waste energy on things that aren’t worth it. And Kim Seungmin will be damned to hell and back before he squanders the privilege of being categorized, chosen.

He intends to be worth it.

He gives himself two to three business days to prove it.

When Seungmin returns to his blessedly empty apartment, he immediately rouses his laptop from its slumber to begin planning your first date. He clicks on the search bar and moves to type. However, his fingers stall, hovering above the keyboard as something else pops into his mind.

He types, the dull click of the keys filling the otherwise silent room, and hits enter.

Then, he clicks on the archives.

And he looks it up— the Cart Surfer world record.

The site lags a bit as it loads, but after a few seconds of delay, the page fills his screen.

There, at the very top of the list, is your name.

He stares at it for a while, almost daring the letters to rearrange before his eyes. Then Seungmin laughs, long and hard enough that his hands eventually have to wipe at the tears distorting his vision.

Of course it is.

You always get what you want.

౨ৎTurned Tables Masterlist

౨ৎMasterlist

The thing about being an artist is that you spend the majority of your time looking. Not seeing. Observing. Understanding the way light hits a subject, the construction of bone structure, the exact shade of that blueish green that is the devil’s work to mix, but still the correct color that veins make under translucent skin.

Hyunjin has spent his entire life looking at things, but it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything like you.

You walk into the advanced painting class on the first day like it’s yours— and not in a haughty, arrogant kind of way, but in the way that someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and what they’re worth moves and commands space. His professor welcomes you with a warm smile and guides you to the platform at the front of the room. You settle into the seat like you always belonged there, and it’s then that he gets the privilege to get a complete, long look at you.

Hyunjin’s pupils try to swipe right.

He isn’t your sole appreciator— there are, like, thirty other students in the room, all of whom are about to spend the next two hours painting you. But in Hyunjin’s defense, he’s appreciating appreciatively in a way that common gawkers can’t conceive of appreciating. If that makes sense.

Your skin is nothing short of flawless, and not in an airbrushed-in-Photoshop, artificial way. No, your skin looks like some higher power sat down with a set of detail fine brushes and said “Let me cook.” The bone structure? Criminal. Your cheekbones are a danger to society, transitioning down to a jawline that is soft and sharp in all the right places. Even your nose is a reference photo for elegance. Hyunjin has no doubt in his mind that Renaissance painters would have fought wars and sacrificed themselves to have you for reference.

All you’re doing is sitting with one arm draped elegantly over the back of the chair, your chin tilted ever-so-slightly upward, gaze directed somewhere past the class and out the window. The warm sunlight catches the column of your throat, and Hyunjin forgets how his own throat is supposed to work for a good six seconds. As far as he’s concerned, you invented sitting.

“Did you know that the purpose of a visual study is to practice stroke accuracy and improve complex details, and not just to gawk at the model for two hours?” The art club president’s voice startles him out of his internal monologuing, and his wrist nearly jolts his water bucket off of his tray.

She takes up residence at the easel beside him, a knowing smirk curling a corner of her lips that notifies him that knows that Hyunjin is running telenovelas of you in his head and finds it deeply amusing. She terrifies him for reasons he can’t articulate.

“I’m studying,” Hyunjin lies immediately, quick to try and save himself. He gestures to the immaculate, untouched canvas in front of him with the same dry paintbrush he’s held in his hands for the last fifteen minutes. “Compositional planning.”

“Mm-hm.” She focuses on her own work, already switching between two well-used brushes as she layers paint on the surface, but her grin widens. “Maybe give studying with your brush a try. See how it goes.”

Hyunjin accepts his fate by the second week of class. He cannot be saved. He’s officially become a wistful, tragic artist because of you. Every Monday and Thursday, he arrives twenty minutes early to stake his claim at the easel with the best angle so he can see you properly in all your glory. The early morning light always filters in through the windows in soft, warm patches that catch the curve of your cheek. Your chest slowly rises as falls with each controlled breath in such a way that doesn’t jostle your position too much. Then, there’s your pretty eyes, which Hyunjin swears occasionally drift to his direction and a silent, intimate conversation passes between just the two of you.

Again, there are thirty other people in this classroom. Thirty other artists, who all capture you from different angles, adhered to their canvases as they render your stunning bone structure, skin tone, and expression as they interpret it. However, Hyunjin can’t resist pretending it’s just you and him as he paints. Just a private, soul-bonding session between an artist and his dreams in human form.

Even he knows that he has taken up residence on Delulu Island, population: Hwang Hyunjin.

He starts construction on an expansion to his island home when you wander between easels during the breaks. You’re just taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch your legs, but you still stop to offer polite comments and encouragement on students’ progress. Mistakenly, he thinks he mentally prepared himself enough to not humiliate himself when you grace him with your presence. But then you’re standing right beside him and wow, you smell so good in the least creepy way possible, and you look even more like a daydream this close, and Hyunjin’s brain is going, going, gone.

“What a lovely use of shadow,” you compliment, appraising his canvas with a kind smile and a gleam in your eye. “Very dramatic.”

Hyunjin’s body apparently forgets that it has already gone through puberty, because his voice cracks— squeaks more accurately— as he babbles out a response.

“It’s um. Caravaggio. He’s my study— influence. I mean— he’s my— sorry.” He eventually gives up trying to speak, instead choosing to pack it up.

Then, you smile and it reaches your eyes, and Hyunjin forgets words on the whole.

“The tenebrism fits.” You continue kindly. “It’s mysterious.”

“You aren’t mysterious.” Hyunjin, for some god-forsaken reason, blurts, and really wishes he hadn’t. “What I mean— you’re— you’re very— the light on your skin” He flounders spectacularly, gesturing feebly at your face. “It’s like Rococo. Fragonard. He painted skin— like it’s lit from within. Glowing. It glows. Your skin. I mean.”

You blink at him, expression unreadable.

Hyunjin closes his eyes and wishes for death.

When death doesn’t answer his plea, he opens them again. You’re still standing there, grinning and somehow flattered by that incoherent nonsense.

“That’s the most elaborate compliment I’ve ever received.” You say warmly, just like the light that bathes your features every day that he paints you like you’re a celestial favorite. To his luck, you seem amused and genuine, not a hint of mockery poisoning your tone or features. “Thank you.”

“Oh, um. I— you’re welcome?” Hyunjin’s ears must have boiled off the side of his head from the extreme heat. “It’s just— your skin. Do you have a skincare routine?”

He hears the art club president snort and snicker from her position next to him.

He’s banning himself from mentioning your skin from now on. He’s doing too much.

You, unlike some people, don’t laugh at him. What you do instead is just as bad, if not worse, for his mental health though. You lean in just a bit and conspiratorially say, “I just invest a lot in myself. You have to be high-maintenance to be low-maintenance, you know?”

Hyunjin can only nod like this makes perfect sense to him even though he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. His brain is running hex codes and using its built-in color dropper feature to catalogue the exact shade of your lip tint (it’s somewhere between a romantic rose and a natural blush, he’ll mix it later) and the way your lashes cast little shadows on your cheekbones when you glance downward.

He swallows thickly, horrifically audibly, and says, “I’m Hyunjin.” He guesses his brain just went ahead and pulled the plug on itself. That’s cool.

“I know.” Your smile curves further. “You’re in table tennis, right?”

And it’s complicated, what his heart does. Because on one hand, you know about him. But on the other hand, you know about him.

Oh well, what’s done is done. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m on the team.”

“I’ve seen your fundraiser before.” There’s something flickering in your eyes— possibly amusement or recognition. “Very… creative merch.”

Hyunjin internally fights to live. The merch. The merch. The endless catalogue of humiliation that Jisung curates year-round like a psycho and sells to the student body like his eligibility to graduate depends on it. “Ah, yeah. That— uh. It’s for a good cause?”

The laugh you reward him with is bright and joyful. Hyunjin would become a full-time clown (more that he already is) so you could laugh forever if it sounded like that.

“I’m sure it is.” You wink, and then break is over, and you glide back to the platform at the front of the room like you didn’t just alter Hyunjin’s brain chemistry.

He watches you go.

“Down bad,” The art club president sing-songs from her front row seat to his disaster.

Hyunjin does not defend himself. He can’t.

Not when he spends his free time outside of class painting you from memory.

Is it obsessive? Oh, absolutely. Unhinged even. And usually, Hyunjin’s memory is just for decoration, not functionality. But your face is screen-printed onto the backs of his eyelids, haunting his every waking moment. The only way he can get you out of his head is by putting you on canvas, so he emulates Le Brun’s loose brush style, all delicate colors and whimsical lighting. He paints you as you are, precise and elegant, capturing your aura as he interprets it.

What is objectively worse, is the poetry Hyunjin writes. It’s humiliating and terrible and something he will never, for as long as his spirit exists, allow another soul to see. His metaphors are cringy, but true, so that has to count for something.

You see the results of his recreational painting, though. It’s during a break when he foolishly left his sketchbook balanced on the small work table that it happens. The art club president slips out of her chair and turns. And Hyunjin swears that he’s never witnessed her make a clumsy, uncoordinated movement in all the time he’s known her, but she knocks into the corner of the pad, and Hyunjin watches as it clatters to the ground in slow motion. Somehow, it bounces off the spine and tips open to land on a spread of you, right in front of a pair of shoes that (he knows without glancing up) belong to you.

You move before he unfreezes out of his imitation of a Munch piece, scooping up the sketchbook with delicate fingers. Each study, sketch, and finished piece is awarded your genuine interest. You ask about his process and choices, and Hyunjin has no idea what he babbles out in response— probably for the better, honestly.

“You’re really serious about this.” You say, pausing on a series of lighting studies he did of your profile. He had managed to finally mix the perfect shade of your lips on that one. It took far too much paint than he needed.

“I’m serious about you.” Hyunjin hides the knee-jerk (and true) response in his unsent drafts.

“Art is everything.” He says instead, his long, paint stained fingers sweeping his bangs out of his face. “I can’t not make it.”

Something in your eyes shifts then, cushions into something like understanding. “I know what you mean.”

He feels truly connected to you in a way he’s never felt with anyone else.

The age old problem with being a serious artist is that serious artists need serious money.

Not like, compensation for the art— Hyunjin creates whether or not he’s being paid to do so— but things like rent, meals, and art supplies, which actually cost real-person currency. His scholarship sort of covers his tuition, but not much else, and a part-time job with his class schedule is a logistical nightmare.

But Hyunjin is not screwed, because he is resourceful and has a very specific skill set, so he put that shit to work and got creative.

And thus, his My Little Pony commission art account was born freshman year.

The Instagram account is, objectively, fucking hilarious. Hyunjin and his incredible attention to detail made it look like it was the creation of a very enthusiastic horse girl— the profile picture is an actual pony and the posts are captioned with things like, “Fluttershy says good morning Everypony!!!!!” The art, however, is deadass. Detailed and rendered with the same care he pours into his academic work.

And Hyunjin hates to brag, but he’s made quite the killing. The money is really good. He can afford nice brushes, quality canvas, and occasionally, a nice dinner without feeling guilty. The account was genius, not a downside in existence.

You know, with the exception that it nearly got him killed freshman year by Jisung, who (suspiciously) discovered the account and proceeded to have the crashout of a lifetime. The boy had been in over-dramatic hysterics, wailing about betrayal and treachery and how Hyunjin was “a flat-assed bastard.” Which was just untrue. Jisung, in a fit of violence and incredible athletic ability no one knew he possessed, had leaped over a table and attempted to tear out Hyunjin’s curtain bangs, screaming the entire time that Hyunjin had “no fucking idea what he had on the line” as Changbin and Chan attempted to separate them while Seungmin had not.

“You named it Horse_Girl_Han!” Jisung had screeched, eyes ferociously wide, limbs flailing so ridiculously the back of his hand accidentally whapped Changbin in the nose. “People are going to think that I’m the one painting— painting—”

“Ponies?” Hyunjin had supplied, finger-combing his bangs back into place, unsympathetic.

Everyone in earshot nearly had their eardrums sacrificed as Jisung had matched the decibel level of a small aircraft taking off. “This isn’t funny!”

He and Jisung were at each other’s throats for the majority of freshman year over that account. It took weeks for Jisung to find his peace. And then months for them to return to being able to stand being in the same room together. Even now, Jisung glares at him with the intensity of a preheating oven whenever horses are mentioned.

And sure, Hyunjin will admit that it’s wildly uncool to make an account like that appear to belong to one of his teammates, but Hyunjin’s artistry is easily distinguishable, so he needed to throw people off his trail. And, come on, what could Jisung possibly have to lose? He’d eventually gotten over it, and everything is fine.

The account persists, as does the money. And Hyunjin’s reputation as a serious artist remains intact. Because literally no one will ever connect Horse_Girl_Han with the refined Hwang Hyunjin who paints dreams and carries himself like he stepped through the frame of a classical portrait and onto a college campus.

It’s the perfect setup, and Hyunjin can ask you out with peace of mind that he is not on the ‘Absolutely Not’ potential boyfriend list.

He used to think he was the boyfriend type, appearance-wise at least. Not to list the bare minimum, but he’s tall, relatively speaking. He dresses casually— but well— in clean and simple clothing that accentuates his frame and features. He takes the time to blow-dry his black hair so it feathers out against his neck and outlines his face in a sleek swoop. Usually, he ties half of it back, leaving his curtain bangs out to soften the edges of his otherwise sharp features. He even goes as far as wearing thin, wire glasses to really enhance the soft, artsy boyfriend vibes.

So yeah, in his opinion, he’s totally datable. But then, he saw you and realized that he didn’t even begin to understand the basic concept of the term. You’re like, oh my god.

And Hyunjin decides to make his move.

But things keep going wrong.

The first time, he approaches you after class with a bouquet of precisely wrapped baby pink and butter yellow tulips, all tied together with a perfect, voluminous bow. He feels confident.

“These are for you,” He says, and internally celebrates his first non-fragmented sentence he speaks in your presence.

Hyunjin holds out the bouquet for an extended beat while you look at the tulips, and then look at him. Your expression is something complicated— flattered, but also somehow conflicted.

“Hyunjin,” You start, voice hushed in a way that only makes him listen closer. “These are… beautiful. But I’m…”

You’re what? In a relationship? Not interested in him? Interested in him but cursed by the narrative? Transferring tomorrow to a university on a different continent with a brutal time difference and no desire to do long distance? Oh hell, it’s episode fourteen of True Beauty where Suho has to move to the United States to take care of his sick dad and he and Jukyeong break up and only get back together after a two year timeskip. How is Hyunjin supposed to handle a two year timeskip when he does not possess the ability to skip time?

“You’re…?” He forces his brain to shut up before it begins rambling about how you’re definitely sculpted by the powers above enough to play a Cha Eunwoo character.

“Mildly allergic to tulips.”

His mind stops, his extended hand holding the tulips trembles. “Allergic?”

“Yeah.” You confirm gently, not at all angry. “My eyes swell up and it’s super ugly.”

He yanks the flowers away from you like they’ll end your life on the spot. He has to fight off the intrusive thought to launch them out the window so they’ll be further away from you. “I-I’m so sorry. I had no idea—” He stammers, eyes wide and regretful.

“It’s okay.” You reassure him, a pretty smile curving your perfect lips that, for once, does not make him feel euphoria. “You couldn’t have known.”

Hyunjin disagrees. He should have known. He’s been subtly, artistically gathering intel (in a not obsessed weirdo kind of way): your order from the campus cafe (earl grey matcha with unsweetened oat milk), the books you carry and how quickly you finish them (you’ve been steadily making your way through The Sorrows of a Young Werther, then started more slowly progressing through both Attached and Great Expectations), your preference for horizontally oriented sketchbooks… How has his research, his attention to detail— to you, failed him so abysmally that he just handed the girl of his daydreams a bouquet of allergens.

“I’ll—” Hyunjin staggers back a few steps, the wrapping paper of the bouquet crinkling as he crushes the stems in his tight fist. “I’ll throw theses way. Immediately. And then— if you don’t— if you’re still willing to talk to me after this—”

“Hyunjin.” You interrupt, gentle. “Really, it’s okay.”

But he is already retreating, steps quick as he digs his phone out of his pocket with vibrating hands to shakily add allergic to tulips to his list of you in his notes.

It isn’t over.

Hyunjin tries again the following week. This time, without the damn tulips. He knows what he’s doing this time, has committed your preferences and dislikes to memory like he has a final exam he needs to ace.

“Are you up for dinner?” He asks, catching you after class again. “There’s a really fresh sushi place in town and—”

“Um.” Your brows tug together, another apologetic wince deflating his confidence like a blow dart does a latex balloon. “I can’t really do seafood. It’s like, the one food I just can’t stomach.”

Hyunjin’s brain reboots after downloading the system update that is that new information. “Seafood. You can’t do seafood.”

You affirm with a sad nod, lips pouty in a way that Hyunjin immediately captures in his memory to try and recreate in his sketchbook later as he laments this utter failure. “I think it’s a texture thing. And also the taste. And probably the everything about it.”

“But didn’t you—” Hyunjin cuts himself off. He could have sworn he watched you walk out of the classroom, arms linked with the art club president and making plans to get ‘seafood— your favorite!’ But maybe he misheard, or manufactured the interaction entirely.

Instead, he nods, expression blank. “No seafood,” He repeats, yet again slipping his phone out of his pocket and typing furiously with his long, paint-stained fingers. “Understood. Adding it to the list.”

Your eyes flicker down to his screen as if you’d be able to see it at this angle or read the words upside down. But you know what? Maybe you can read upside down. Hyunjin wouldn’t know since he obviously doesn’t know anything about you! “You have a list?” You ask, voice lilting up in curiousity.

“I have a super organized system for noting important information about people I—” He seams his lips shut before the traitors can betray him and allow the words am stupidly in love with past them. “About friends.” He rushes to correct. “People who are my friends.” Then, he nods his head a few times as if he can positively peer review his own work to establish its credibility, the ends of his hair whipping against his jaw.

“Ah.” You slowly nod your head as well, but your tone folds Hyunjin’s stomach lining into an origami crane. “Friends. Right.”

“Friends.” He repeats, the retreats before he can take the situation from worse to yikes.

He does sketch your pouty lips over and over again that night until he’s satisfied that he has recreated their perfect shape, and plots his next attempt. Which fails. As does the next. And so does the one after that.

And now, there is a slight possibility that Hyunjin is descending into madness, but he will leave that train of thought alone. His note for you on his phone now has the page count of a young adult trilogy with how much it has grown along with his failed date plans. It’s like Hyunjin’s never exchanged a word with you with how much he flops when it comes to knowing your tastes.

Is it bad luck? He’s starting to believe he’s cursed. Because it can’t be you. You aren’t avoiding him— you still stop by to chat in class and discuss his work. You’re kind, and funny, and drop dead stunning, and everything Hyunjin wants. It has to be that he’s cursed.

And it’s that line of thought (and a concerning amount of desperation he discovered underneath a hatch at rock bottom) that convinces Hyunjin that this next attempt is a good idea.

Rock bottom is personified by the art club president, who sips at her matcha latte— no sweetener added, just the grass and oat milk— while staring at him from her perch at the easel beside him. Why she chooses to sit beside him every class, Hyunjin has no idea. They don’t have assigned seating, it’s all fair game, and despite having shared a few art classes over the years, they aren’t exactly friends.

“Thinking about our lovely model?” She asks innocently, eyes dancing mirthfully as she glances down to his sketchbook open on a page of your face. “It must be weird getting ‘not yet’ **as a response to every date.”

Hyunjin slams his pencil down with more force than necessary and narrows his eyes into furious glare, snapping, “What’s weird is you not minding your own business.”

She doesn’t take the bait, instead flicking a few strands of her hair over her shoulder with an offhanded shrug. “It is my business, Hwang.” Her tone just barely grazes the line of condescending. “She’s a dear friend and she deserves effort, something personal, not an artist and his meaningless interest, but care.”

Hyunjin’s jaw is locked, his teeth squeak with how tensely they’re grit together. He doesn’t understand. Is she helping him, or dragging him by his half-up ponytail for filth? Maybe she’s multitasking?

She evidently reads his confusion. Dramatically, she presses the back of her hand to her forehead and sighs like she’s moments away from collapsing out of her chair. “Gosh,” her eyes flicker heavenward, as if something up there could rescue her, and she slings her bag over her shoulder to evacuate Hyunjin’s pathetic presence. “Change your damn approach.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him to stare blankly at his full sketchbook, with nothing but two months worth of failed date invites and bad ideas to keep him company.

The plan is either brilliant or fucking insane. It can’t be both. Oh well. The table tennis retreat is a week away, so at least if he fails again, he has a weekend off campus to be a sad lover boy about it in private.

Hyunjin finds you outside of class this time, with a bouquet of daisies clutched in his hand. You’re lying in the grass in one of the quads, a book resting in front of you for entertainment (oh, you’ve moved onto Gone Girl—). You look like movie propaganda of what the college experience is like— all days spent reaching intellectualism by reading in the lovely outdoor weather, not an assignment due date looming above your head in sight. It’s unheard of to get a quad to yourself, but today is your lucky day. No athletes squawk as they kick a ball around in the grass, a portable speaker blaring something bass heavy a little too early in the day. Anyone who walks by minds their business and continues walking.

Except Hyunjin.

He gathers what little remains of his wits and approaches you, sitting before you with his legs crossed on the grass. You blink a few times as you’re pulled out of your book from the faint rustling, and your sparkly eyes dart up to his face.

“Hi, Hyunjin.” You bless him with a little smile, and brace your upper body on your elbows. A pleasant breeze pushes from behind him and directly into you, gently fluttering your hair away from your face. Wow, he wants to paint this moment.

He kills that thought— sprays it with long-distance wasp killer. Focus. Care.

“Hi.” Hyunjin carefully holds out the daisies— nothing like the elaborate arrangements he’s tried before. They’re simple, cheerful, hopeful. “These are for you. Not tulips.”

You giggle, and it’s brighter than the sun heating his back through the material of his black sweater. This time, thankfully, you take the flowers, your fingers brushing his during the transfer. His breath evacuates his lungs at the faint contact. “I see that! Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

You’re beautiful. Hyunjin wrangles his intrusive thought by its neck and slam dunks it into the trash can in the corner of his brain. He forces the fresh, outside air into his lungs and then shoots his shot.

“I’m not asking you on a date,” He begins, and then flounders to explain as your eyebrows raise. “Like, it could be if you wanted it to— you probably don’t? It’s just— ugh.” Hyunjin’s eyes squeeze shut, random squiggles of color popping behind his eyelids, as he attempts to wrangle his brain-to-mouth filter and reinstall it back into its rightful place.

“I’m here to ask--” No going back. Commit. “I’m here to ask if you’d like to review next years’ table tennis fundraiser merch with me.” He finally blurts.

You blink.

“Again, not as a date.” He quickly reiterates, extending a hand out as if he could pause your train of thought. “But also, if you want it to be?” His voice lifts at the end in question. Man, is he bad at this.

“It’s just—” Hyunjin’s shoulder bounces in a shrug and he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I thought you might be interested in seeing it— what I’m a part of? And maybe after, I mean, only if you want—”

“Hyunjin.”

Oh, thank god. You give him a reason to stop rambling right out of his ass.

You look at him with a brand new expression, one he’s never catalogued in his mind as a reference or recorded in his sketchbook. It’s unreadable— soft, surprised, and something else he doesn’t know how to name.

“You want me to come to a mock up session?” You repeat slowly, the wrapping paper delicately folded around the flower stems crinkling as you adjust your delicate grip on them. “With all the… merch?”

“Yep. With all the merch.” Hyunjin nods in confirmation. “Heads up— it’s all awful. Jisung designs most of it, and I have no say over what ends up on pillows. I am not responsible for any trauma you incur. Actually, any chance I can get you to sign a waiver?”

It’s odd, being the one who is studied this time. You’re silent as you stare at him, almost looking through him. He feels exposed, too vulnerable when you haven’t even seen the horrors yet. Finally, you ask quietly, “You aren’t worried about me seeing… that?”

Hyunjin wouldn’t say that. He considers your words anyway. It’s going to be humiliating— his face plastered and warped onto random items in unflattering poses and expressions for everyone to eventually see is honestly the work of the devil. He really cannot think of anything that would paint a less flattering picture of him. It doesn’t matter. He’s in love, and so…

“I have nothing to hide.” Hyunjin speaks, fingers fumbling with a loose thread on the bottom hem of his sweater. “I’m a serious artist, and I’m also on the table tennis team with my dumbass friends who make stupid merch, and I let them put my face on it. If you aren’t busy after class on Thursday…” Your expression falls at that, and the rest of the words catch in his throat, stinging.

“I have critique with the art club then.” You inform, just as apologetic as every other time. The stinging sensation sharpens as Hyunjin swallows thickly and nods, doing his best to not look crushed.

“What does your Friday afternoon look like?”

Hyunjin’s head whips back to your face, eyes wide with disbelief. His lips part, but nothing comes out, so he closes them again.

“Maybe it can be a date.” Precisely, you pluck a daisy out of the bouquet and twirl it between the pads of your fingers.

“Really?” Hyunjin whispers, why, he doesn’t know. Maybe if he’s too loud, he’ll burst himself out of this alternate reality he’s made up.

“Really.” You smile at him and slide the single daisy into the seam of your book as a placeholder.

The gasp escapes him before he realizes it does. His hand clutches at his chest, fingers snagging the front of his sweater as if pearls should be there.

I can’t let our first date just be staring at my laptop screen. Is his immediate reaction.

“Okay, how about a rooftop picnic?” Hyunjin suggests. “No seafood, no Transformers movie, no folk music, no cricket game, no shoe-making workshop, no author’s panel for their autobiography, and definitely no documentary on the canning process.” He’s huffing for air by the end, and remembers to cut himself off before he adds, “because contrary to what I've heard, you don’t enjoy any of these things.”

Relieved and giggling, you agree to the plan. “That sounds nice.”

He can’t contain his elated grin, despite the fact that he’s still about to display the most godless pictures of him in existence on a first date with you, his romantic heart’s fantasies come to life. But that’s okay, because he can’t wait to learn more about you.

For the first time in weeks, he feels like it might be in the realm of possibilities that this might work out between you, like maybe he isn’t doomed in love after all.

What Hyunjin doesn’t know, is that he is, in fact, cursed.

The art club president her-gorgeous-diabolically-scheming-self has it out for him, and has been poisoning Hyunjin’s pathetic, love-stricken well since the first class— mentioning little, false bits of information about you in passing, and watching him ever-so-slightly miss the mark for weeks.

What? She’s not the type to let opportunities pass her by. And you, her lovely, single, golden opportunity, walked into class that day and effortlessly set up the perfect scenario for revenge.

The scenario insidious enough to punish the wretched account-holder of Horse_Girl_Han for destroying her precious sleep schedule.

Jisung had been inconsolable freshman year— barely two weeks in, and the boy had rushed to her dorm at ass-o-clock at night, a wreck of tears and snot streaking his face in every direction. One moment, she was opening the door, and the next, she’d had Jisung clinging to her, obviously distraught. She hadn’t been able to understand him at first through all his blubbering— something along the lines of “swear on my life the account isn’t mine” or something.

Talking him down from his nuclear meltdown had taken forever. He had choked out his explanation through hiccups and painful-sounding sobs, and then clutched her tighter as he begged her over and over again to not dump him (”Please, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” “Jisung, I don’t care if you love Princess Celestia—”).

This was very much early in their relationship.

And very much late at night.

Bottom line: she had lost sleep. Therefore, Hyunjin had to pay.

Even if he never figured it out.

౨ৎTurned Tables Masterlist

౨ৎMasterlist

The thing about being an artist is that you spend the majority of your time looking. Not seeing. Observing. Understanding the way light hits a subject, the construction of bone structure, the exact shade of that blueish green that is the devil’s work to mix, but still the correct color that veins make under translucent skin.

Hyunjin has spent his entire life looking at things, but it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything like you.

You walk into the advanced painting class on the first day like it’s yours— and not in a haughty, arrogant kind of way, but in the way that someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and what they’re worth moves and commands space. His professor welcomes you with a warm smile and guides you to the platform at the front of the room. You settle into the seat like you always belonged there, and it’s then that he gets the privilege to get a complete, long look at you.

Hyunjin’s pupils try to swipe right.

He isn’t your sole appreciator— there are, like, thirty other students in the room, all of whom are about to spend the next two hours painting you. But in Hyunjin’s defense, he’s appreciating appreciatively in a way that common gawkers can’t conceive of appreciating. If that makes sense.

Your skin is nothing short of flawless, and not in an airbrushed-in-Photoshop, artificial way. No, your skin looks like some higher power sat down with a set of detail fine brushes and said “Let me cook.” The bone structure? Criminal. Your cheekbones are a danger to society, transitioning down to a jawline that is soft and sharp in all the right places. Even your nose is a reference photo for elegance. Hyunjin has no doubt in his mind that Renaissance painters would have fought wars and sacrificed themselves to have you for reference.

All you’re doing is sitting with one arm draped elegantly over the back of the chair, your chin tilted ever-so-slightly upward, gaze directed somewhere past the class and out the window. The warm sunlight catches the column of your throat, and Hyunjin forgets how his own throat is supposed to work for a good six seconds. As far as he’s concerned, you invented sitting.

“Did you know that the purpose of a visual study is to practice stroke accuracy and improve complex details, and not just to gawk at the model for two hours?” The art club president’s voice startles him out of his internal monologuing, and his wrist nearly jolts his water bucket off of his tray.

She takes up residence at the easel beside him, a knowing smirk curling a corner of her lips that notifies him that knows that Hyunjin is running telenovelas of you in his head and finds it deeply amusing. She terrifies him for reasons he can’t articulate.

“I’m studying,” Hyunjin lies immediately, quick to try and save himself. He gestures to the immaculate, untouched canvas in front of him with the same dry paintbrush he’s held in his hands for the last fifteen minutes. “Compositional planning.”

“Mm-hm.” She focuses on her own work, already switching between two well-used brushes as she layers paint on the surface, but her grin widens. “Maybe give studying with your brush a try. See how it goes.”

Hyunjin accepts his fate by the second week of class. He cannot be saved. He’s officially become a wistful, tragic artist because of you. Every Monday and Thursday, he arrives twenty minutes early to stake his claim at the easel with the best angle so he can see you properly in all your glory. The early morning light always filters in through the windows in soft, warm patches that catch the curve of your cheek. Your chest slowly rises as falls with each controlled breath in such a way that doesn’t jostle your position too much. Then, there’s your pretty eyes, which Hyunjin swears occasionally drift to his direction and a silent, intimate conversation passes between just the two of you.

Again, there are thirty other people in this classroom. Thirty other artists, who all capture you from different angles, adhered to their canvases as they render your stunning bone structure, skin tone, and expression as they interpret it. However, Hyunjin can’t resist pretending it’s just you and him as he paints. Just a private, soul-bonding session between an artist and his dreams in human form.

Even he knows that he has taken up residence on Delulu Island, population: Hwang Hyunjin.

He starts construction on an expansion to his island home when you wander between easels during the breaks. You’re just taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch your legs, but you still stop to offer polite comments and encouragement on students’ progress. Mistakenly, he thinks he mentally prepared himself enough to not humiliate himself when you grace him with your presence. But then you’re standing right beside him and wow, you smell so good in the least creepy way possible, and you look even more like a daydream this close, and Hyunjin’s brain is going, going, gone.

“What a lovely use of shadow,” you compliment, appraising his canvas with a kind smile and a gleam in your eye. “Very dramatic.”

Hyunjin’s body apparently forgets that it has already gone through puberty, because his voice cracks— squeaks more accurately— as he babbles out a response.

“It’s um. Caravaggio. He’s my study— influence. I mean— he’s my— sorry.” He eventually gives up trying to speak, instead choosing to pack it up.

Then, you smile and it reaches your eyes, and Hyunjin forgets words on the whole.

“The tenebrism fits.” You continue kindly. “It’s mysterious.”

“You aren’t mysterious.” Hyunjin, for some god-forsaken reason, blurts, and really wishes he hadn’t. “What I mean— you’re— you’re very— the light on your skin” He flounders spectacularly, gesturing feebly at your face. “It’s like Rococo. Fragonard. He painted skin— like it’s lit from within. Glowing. It glows. Your skin. I mean.”

You blink at him, expression unreadable.

Hyunjin closes his eyes and wishes for death.

When death doesn’t answer his plea, he opens them again. You’re still standing there, grinning and somehow flattered by that incoherent nonsense.

“That’s the most elaborate compliment I’ve ever received.” You say warmly, just like the light that bathes your features every day that he paints you like you’re a celestial favorite. To his luck, you seem amused and genuine, not a hint of mockery poisoning your tone or features. “Thank you.”

“Oh, um. I— you’re welcome?” Hyunjin’s ears must have boiled off the side of his head from the extreme heat. “It’s just— your skin. Do you have a skincare routine?”

He hears the art club president snort and snicker from her position next to him.

He’s banning himself from mentioning your skin from now on. He’s doing too much.

You, unlike some people, don’t laugh at him. What you do instead is just as bad, if not worse, for his mental health though. You lean in just a bit and conspiratorially say, “I just invest a lot in myself. You have to be high-maintenance to be low-maintenance, you know?”

Hyunjin can only nod like this makes perfect sense to him even though he has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. His brain is running hex codes and using its built-in color dropper feature to catalogue the exact shade of your lip tint (it’s somewhere between a romantic rose and a natural blush, he’ll mix it later) and the way your lashes cast little shadows on your cheekbones when you glance downward.

He swallows thickly, horrifically audibly, and says, “I’m Hyunjin.” He guesses his brain just went ahead and pulled the plug on itself. That’s cool.

“I know.” Your smile curves further. “You’re in table tennis, right?”

And it’s complicated, what his heart does. Because on one hand, you know about him. But on the other hand, you know about him.

Oh well, what’s done is done. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m on the team.”

“I’ve seen your fundraiser before.” There’s something flickering in your eyes— possibly amusement or recognition. “Very… creative merch.”

Hyunjin internally fights to live. The merch. The merch. The endless catalogue of humiliation that Jisung curates year-round like a psycho and sells to the student body like his eligibility to graduate depends on it. “Ah, yeah. That— uh. It’s for a good cause?”

The laugh you reward him with is bright and joyful. Hyunjin would become a full-time clown (more that he already is) so you could laugh forever if it sounded like that.

“I’m sure it is.” You wink, and then break is over, and you glide back to the platform at the front of the room like you didn’t just alter Hyunjin’s brain chemistry.

He watches you go.

“Down bad,” The art club president sing-songs from her front row seat to his disaster.

Hyunjin does not defend himself. He can’t.

Not when he spends his free time outside of class painting you from memory.

Is it obsessive? Oh, absolutely. Unhinged even. And usually, Hyunjin’s memory is just for decoration, not functionality. But your face is screen-printed onto the backs of his eyelids, haunting his every waking moment. The only way he can get you out of his head is by putting you on canvas, so he emulates Le Brun’s loose brush style, all delicate colors and whimsical lighting. He paints you as you are, precise and elegant, capturing your aura as he interprets it.

What is objectively worse, is the poetry Hyunjin writes. It’s humiliating and terrible and something he will never, for as long as his spirit exists, allow another soul to see. His metaphors are cringy, but true, so that has to count for something.

You see the results of his recreational painting, though. It’s during a break when he foolishly left his sketchbook balanced on the small work table that it happens. The art club president slips out of her chair and turns. And Hyunjin swears that he’s never witnessed her make a clumsy, uncoordinated movement in all the time he’s known her, but she knocks into the corner of the pad, and Hyunjin watches as it clatters to the ground in slow motion. Somehow, it bounces off the spine and tips open to land on a spread of you, right in front of a pair of shoes that (he knows without glancing up) belong to you.

You move before he unfreezes out of his imitation of a Munch piece, scooping up the sketchbook with delicate fingers. Each study, sketch, and finished piece is awarded your genuine interest. You ask about his process and choices, and Hyunjin has no idea what he babbles out in response— probably for the better, honestly.

“You’re really serious about this.” You say, pausing on a series of lighting studies he did of your profile. He had managed to finally mix the perfect shade of your lips on that one. It took far too much paint than he needed.

“I’m serious about you.” Hyunjin hides the knee-jerk (and true) response in his unsent drafts.

“Art is everything.” He says instead, his long, paint stained fingers sweeping his bangs out of his face. “I can’t not make it.”

Something in your eyes shifts then, cushions into something like understanding. “I know what you mean.”

He feels truly connected to you in a way he’s never felt with anyone else.

The age old problem with being a serious artist is that serious artists need serious money.

Not like, compensation for the art— Hyunjin creates whether or not he’s being paid to do so— but things like rent, meals, and art supplies, which actually cost real-person currency. His scholarship sort of covers his tuition, but not much else, and a part-time job with his class schedule is a logistical nightmare.

But Hyunjin is not screwed, because he is resourceful and has a very specific skill set, so he put that shit to work and got creative.

And thus, his My Little Pony commission art account was born freshman year.

The Instagram account is, objectively, fucking hilarious. Hyunjin and his incredible attention to detail made it look like it was the creation of a very enthusiastic horse girl— the profile picture is an actual pony and the posts are captioned with things like, “Fluttershy says good morning Everypony!!!!!” The art, however, is deadass. Detailed and rendered with the same care he pours into his academic work.

And Hyunjin hates to brag, but he’s made quite the killing. The money is really good. He can afford nice brushes, quality canvas, and occasionally, a nice dinner without feeling guilty. The account was genius, not a downside in existence.

You know, with the exception that it nearly got him killed freshman year by Jisung, who (suspiciously) discovered the account and proceeded to have the crashout of a lifetime. The boy had been in over-dramatic hysterics, wailing about betrayal and treachery and how Hyunjin was “a flat-assed bastard.” Which was just untrue. Jisung, in a fit of violence and incredible athletic ability no one knew he possessed, had leaped over a table and attempted to tear out Hyunjin’s curtain bangs, screaming the entire time that Hyunjin had “no fucking idea what he had on the line” as Changbin and Chan attempted to separate them while Seungmin had not.

“You named it Horse_Girl_Han!” Jisung had screeched, eyes ferociously wide, limbs flailing so ridiculously the back of his hand accidentally whapped Changbin in the nose. “People are going to think that I’m the one painting— painting—”

“Ponies?” Hyunjin had supplied, finger-combing his bangs back into place, unsympathetic.

Everyone in earshot nearly had their eardrums sacrificed as Jisung had matched the decibel level of a small aircraft taking off. “This isn’t funny!”

He and Jisung were at each other’s throats for the majority of freshman year over that account. It took weeks for Jisung to find his peace. And then months for them to return to being able to stand being in the same room together. Even now, Jisung glares at him with the intensity of a preheating oven whenever horses are mentioned.

And sure, Hyunjin will admit that it’s wildly uncool to make an account like that appear to belong to one of his teammates, but Hyunjin’s artistry is easily distinguishable, so he needed to throw people off his trail. And, come on, what could Jisung possibly have to lose? He’d eventually gotten over it, and everything is fine.

The account persists, as does the money. And Hyunjin’s reputation as a serious artist remains intact. Because literally no one will ever connect Horse_Girl_Han with the refined Hwang Hyunjin who paints dreams and carries himself like he stepped through the frame of a classical portrait and onto a college campus.

It’s the perfect setup, and Hyunjin can ask you out with peace of mind that he is not on the ‘Absolutely Not’ potential boyfriend list.

He used to think he was the boyfriend type, appearance-wise at least. Not to list the bare minimum, but he’s tall, relatively speaking. He dresses casually— but well— in clean and simple clothing that accentuates his frame and features. He takes the time to blow-dry his black hair so it feathers out against his neck and outlines his face in a sleek swoop. Usually, he ties half of it back, leaving his curtain bangs out to soften the edges of his otherwise sharp features. He even goes as far as wearing thin, wire glasses to really enhance the soft, artsy boyfriend vibes.

So yeah, in his opinion, he’s totally datable. But then, he saw you and realized that he didn’t even begin to understand the basic concept of the term. You’re like, oh my god.

And Hyunjin decides to make his move.

But things keep going wrong.

The first time, he approaches you after class with a bouquet of precisely wrapped baby pink and butter yellow tulips, all tied together with a perfect, voluminous bow. He feels confident.

“These are for you,” He says, and internally celebrates his first non-fragmented sentence he speaks in your presence.

Hyunjin holds out the bouquet for an extended beat while you look at the tulips, and then look at him. Your expression is something complicated— flattered, but also somehow conflicted.

“Hyunjin,” You start, voice hushed in a way that only makes him listen closer. “These are… beautiful. But I’m…”

You’re what? In a relationship? Not interested in him? Interested in him but cursed by the narrative? Transferring tomorrow to a university on a different continent with a brutal time difference and no desire to do long distance? Oh hell, it’s episode fourteen of True Beauty where Suho has to move to the United States to take care of his sick dad and he and Jukyeong break up and only get back together after a two year timeskip. How is Hyunjin supposed to handle a two year timeskip when he does not possess the ability to skip time?

“You’re…?” He forces his brain to shut up before it begins rambling about how you’re definitely sculpted by the powers above enough to play a Cha Eunwoo character.

“Mildly allergic to tulips.”

His mind stops, his extended hand holding the tulips trembles. “Allergic?”

“Yeah.” You confirm gently, not at all angry. “My eyes swell up and it’s super ugly.”

He yanks the flowers away from you like they’ll end your life on the spot. He has to fight off the intrusive thought to launch them out the window so they’ll be further away from you. “I-I’m so sorry. I had no idea—” He stammers, eyes wide and regretful.

“It’s okay.” You reassure him, a pretty smile curving your perfect lips that, for once, does not make him feel euphoria. “You couldn’t have known.”

Hyunjin disagrees. He should have known. He’s been subtly, artistically gathering intel (in a not obsessed weirdo kind of way): your order from the campus cafe (earl grey matcha with unsweetened oat milk), the books you carry and how quickly you finish them (you’ve been steadily making your way through The Sorrows of a Young Werther, then started more slowly progressing through both Attached and Great Expectations), your preference for horizontally oriented sketchbooks… How has his research, his attention to detail— to you, failed him so abysmally that he just handed the girl of his daydreams a bouquet of allergens.

“I’ll—” Hyunjin staggers back a few steps, the wrapping paper of the bouquet crinkling as he crushes the stems in his tight fist. “I’ll throw theses way. Immediately. And then— if you don’t— if you’re still willing to talk to me after this—”

“Hyunjin.” You interrupt, gentle. “Really, it’s okay.”

But he is already retreating, steps quick as he digs his phone out of his pocket with vibrating hands to shakily add allergic to tulips to his list of you in his notes.

It isn’t over.

Hyunjin tries again the following week. This time, without the damn tulips. He knows what he’s doing this time, has committed your preferences and dislikes to memory like he has a final exam he needs to ace.

“Are you up for dinner?” He asks, catching you after class again. “There’s a really fresh sushi place in town and—”

“Um.” Your brows tug together, another apologetic wince deflating his confidence like a blow dart does a latex balloon. “I can’t really do seafood. It’s like, the one food I just can’t stomach.”

Hyunjin’s brain reboots after downloading the system update that is that new information. “Seafood. You can’t do seafood.”

You affirm with a sad nod, lips pouty in a way that Hyunjin immediately captures in his memory to try and recreate in his sketchbook later as he laments this utter failure. “I think it’s a texture thing. And also the taste. And probably the everything about it.”

“But didn’t you—” Hyunjin cuts himself off. He could have sworn he watched you walk out of the classroom, arms linked with the art club president and making plans to get ‘seafood— your favorite!’ But maybe he misheard, or manufactured the interaction entirely.

Instead, he nods, expression blank. “No seafood,” He repeats, yet again slipping his phone out of his pocket and typing furiously with his long, paint-stained fingers. “Understood. Adding it to the list.”

Your eyes flicker down to his screen as if you’d be able to see it at this angle or read the words upside down. But you know what? Maybe you can read upside down. Hyunjin wouldn’t know since he obviously doesn’t know anything about you! “You have a list?” You ask, voice lilting up in curiousity.

“I have a super organized system for noting important information about people I—” He seams his lips shut before the traitors can betray him and allow the words am stupidly in love with past them. “About friends.” He rushes to correct. “People who are my friends.” Then, he nods his head a few times as if he can positively peer review his own work to establish its credibility, the ends of his hair whipping against his jaw.

“Ah.” You slowly nod your head as well, but your tone folds Hyunjin’s stomach lining into an origami crane. “Friends. Right.”

“Friends.” He repeats, the retreats before he can take the situation from worse to yikes.

He does sketch your pouty lips over and over again that night until he’s satisfied that he has recreated their perfect shape, and plots his next attempt. Which fails. As does the next. And so does the one after that.

And now, there is a slight possibility that Hyunjin is descending into madness, but he will leave that train of thought alone. His note for you on his phone now has the page count of a young adult trilogy with how much it has grown along with his failed date plans. It’s like Hyunjin’s never exchanged a word with you with how much he flops when it comes to knowing your tastes.

Is it bad luck? He’s starting to believe he’s cursed. Because it can’t be you. You aren’t avoiding him— you still stop by to chat in class and discuss his work. You’re kind, and funny, and drop dead stunning, and everything Hyunjin wants. It has to be that he’s cursed.

And it’s that line of thought (and a concerning amount of desperation he discovered underneath a hatch at rock bottom) that convinces Hyunjin that this next attempt is a good idea.

Rock bottom is personified by the art club president, who sips at her matcha latte— no sweetener added, just the grass and oat milk— while staring at him from her perch at the easel beside him. Why she chooses to sit beside him every class, Hyunjin has no idea. They don’t have assigned seating, it’s all fair game, and despite having shared a few art classes over the years, they aren’t exactly friends.

“Thinking about our lovely model?” She asks innocently, eyes dancing mirthfully as she glances down to his sketchbook open on a page of your face. “It must be weird getting ‘not yet’ **as a response to every date.”

Hyunjin slams his pencil down with more force than necessary and narrows his eyes into furious glare, snapping, “What’s weird is you not minding your own business.”

She doesn’t take the bait, instead flicking a few strands of her hair over her shoulder with an offhanded shrug. “It is my business, Hwang.” Her tone just barely grazes the line of condescending. “She’s a dear friend and she deserves effort, something personal, not an artist and his meaningless interest, but care.”

Hyunjin’s jaw is locked, his teeth squeak with how tensely they’re grit together. He doesn’t understand. Is she helping him, or dragging him by his half-up ponytail for filth? Maybe she’s multitasking?

She evidently reads his confusion. Dramatically, she presses the back of her hand to her forehead and sighs like she’s moments away from collapsing out of her chair. “Gosh,” her eyes flicker heavenward, as if something up there could rescue her, and she slings her bag over her shoulder to evacuate Hyunjin’s pathetic presence. “Change your damn approach.”

And then she’s gone, leaving him to stare blankly at his full sketchbook, with nothing but two months worth of failed date invites and bad ideas to keep him company.

The plan is either brilliant or fucking insane. It can’t be both. Oh well. The table tennis retreat is a week away, so at least if he fails again, he has a weekend off campus to be a sad lover boy about it in private.

Hyunjin finds you outside of class this time, with a bouquet of daisies clutched in his hand. You’re lying in the grass in one of the quads, a book resting in front of you for entertainment (oh, you’ve moved onto Gone Girl—). You look like movie propaganda of what the college experience is like— all days spent reaching intellectualism by reading in the lovely outdoor weather, not an assignment due date looming above your head in sight. It’s unheard of to get a quad to yourself, but today is your lucky day. No athletes squawk as they kick a ball around in the grass, a portable speaker blaring something bass heavy a little too early in the day. Anyone who walks by minds their business and continues walking.

Except Hyunjin.

He gathers what little remains of his wits and approaches you, sitting before you with his legs crossed on the grass. You blink a few times as you’re pulled out of your book from the faint rustling, and your sparkly eyes dart up to his face.

“Hi, Hyunjin.” You bless him with a little smile, and brace your upper body on your elbows. A pleasant breeze pushes from behind him and directly into you, gently fluttering your hair away from your face. Wow, he wants to paint this moment.

He kills that thought— sprays it with long-distance wasp killer. Focus. Care.

“Hi.” Hyunjin carefully holds out the daisies— nothing like the elaborate arrangements he’s tried before. They’re simple, cheerful, hopeful. “These are for you. Not tulips.”

You giggle, and it’s brighter than the sun heating his back through the material of his black sweater. This time, thankfully, you take the flowers, your fingers brushing his during the transfer. His breath evacuates his lungs at the faint contact. “I see that! Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

You’re beautiful. Hyunjin wrangles his intrusive thought by its neck and slam dunks it into the trash can in the corner of his brain. He forces the fresh, outside air into his lungs and then shoots his shot.

“I’m not asking you on a date,” He begins, and then flounders to explain as your eyebrows raise. “Like, it could be if you wanted it to— you probably don’t? It’s just— ugh.” Hyunjin’s eyes squeeze shut, random squiggles of color popping behind his eyelids, as he attempts to wrangle his brain-to-mouth filter and reinstall it back into its rightful place.

“I’m here to ask--” No going back. Commit. “I’m here to ask if you’d like to review next years’ table tennis fundraiser merch with me.” He finally blurts.

You blink.

“Again, not as a date.” He quickly reiterates, extending a hand out as if he could pause your train of thought. “But also, if you want it to be?” His voice lifts at the end in question. Man, is he bad at this.

“It’s just—” Hyunjin’s shoulder bounces in a shrug and he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I thought you might be interested in seeing it— what I’m a part of? And maybe after, I mean, only if you want—”

“Hyunjin.”

Oh, thank god. You give him a reason to stop rambling right out of his ass.

You look at him with a brand new expression, one he’s never catalogued in his mind as a reference or recorded in his sketchbook. It’s unreadable— soft, surprised, and something else he doesn’t know how to name.

“You want me to come to a mock up session?” You repeat slowly, the wrapping paper delicately folded around the flower stems crinkling as you adjust your delicate grip on them. “With all the… merch?”

“Yep. With all the merch.” Hyunjin nods in confirmation. “Heads up— it’s all awful. Jisung designs most of it, and I have no say over what ends up on pillows. I am not responsible for any trauma you incur. Actually, any chance I can get you to sign a waiver?”

It’s odd, being the one who is studied this time. You’re silent as you stare at him, almost looking through him. He feels exposed, too vulnerable when you haven’t even seen the horrors yet. Finally, you ask quietly, “You aren’t worried about me seeing… that?”

Hyunjin wouldn’t say that. He considers your words anyway. It’s going to be humiliating— his face plastered and warped onto random items in unflattering poses and expressions for everyone to eventually see is honestly the work of the devil. He really cannot think of anything that would paint a less flattering picture of him. It doesn’t matter. He’s in love, and so…

“I have nothing to hide.” Hyunjin speaks, fingers fumbling with a loose thread on the bottom hem of his sweater. “I’m a serious artist, and I’m also on the table tennis team with my dumbass friends who make stupid merch, and I let them put my face on it. If you aren’t busy after class on Thursday…” Your expression falls at that, and the rest of the words catch in his throat, stinging.

“I have critique with the art club then.” You inform, just as apologetic as every other time. The stinging sensation sharpens as Hyunjin swallows thickly and nods, doing his best to not look crushed.

“What does your Friday afternoon look like?”

Hyunjin’s head whips back to your face, eyes wide with disbelief. His lips part, but nothing comes out, so he closes them again.

“Maybe it can be a date.” Precisely, you pluck a daisy out of the bouquet and twirl it between the pads of your fingers.

“Really?” Hyunjin whispers, why, he doesn’t know. Maybe if he’s too loud, he’ll burst himself out of this alternate reality he’s made up.

“Really.” You smile at him and slide the single daisy into the seam of your book as a placeholder.

The gasp escapes him before he realizes it does. His hand clutches at his chest, fingers snagging the front of his sweater as if pearls should be there.

I can’t let our first date just be staring at my laptop screen. Is his immediate reaction.

“Okay, how about a rooftop picnic?” Hyunjin suggests. “No seafood, no Transformers movie, no folk music, no cricket game, no shoe-making workshop, no author’s panel for their autobiography, and definitely no documentary on the canning process.” He’s huffing for air by the end, and remembers to cut himself off before he adds, “because contrary to what I've heard, you don’t enjoy any of these things.”

Relieved and giggling, you agree to the plan. “That sounds nice.”

He can’t contain his elated grin, despite the fact that he’s still about to display the most godless pictures of him in existence on a first date with you, his romantic heart’s fantasies come to life. But that’s okay, because he can’t wait to learn more about you.

For the first time in weeks, he feels like it might be in the realm of possibilities that this might work out between you, like maybe he isn’t doomed in love after all.

What Hyunjin doesn’t know, is that he is, in fact, cursed.

The art club president her-gorgeous-diabolically-scheming-self has it out for him, and has been poisoning Hyunjin’s pathetic, love-stricken well since the first class— mentioning little, false bits of information about you in passing, and watching him ever-so-slightly miss the mark for weeks.

What? She’s not the type to let opportunities pass her by. And you, her lovely, single, golden opportunity, walked into class that day and effortlessly set up the perfect scenario for revenge.

The scenario insidious enough to punish the wretched account-holder of Horse_Girl_Han for destroying her precious sleep schedule.

Jisung had been inconsolable freshman year— barely two weeks in, and the boy had rushed to her dorm at ass-o-clock at night, a wreck of tears and snot streaking his face in every direction. One moment, she was opening the door, and the next, she’d had Jisung clinging to her, obviously distraught. She hadn’t been able to understand him at first through all his blubbering— something along the lines of “swear on my life the account isn’t mine” or something.

Talking him down from his nuclear meltdown had taken forever. He had choked out his explanation through hiccups and painful-sounding sobs, and then clutched her tighter as he begged her over and over again to not dump him (”Please, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” “Jisung, I don’t care if you love Princess Celestia—”).

This was very much early in their relationship.

And very much late at night.

Bottom line: she had lost sleep. Therefore, Hyunjin had to pay.

Even if he never figured it out.

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